by Baen Books
There was a low rumble of displeased conversation around the table.
Our ammunition stockpile had never really been worthy of the name, even prior to the advent of H7D3. Despite the more aggressive role assigned to the Guard after the assassination attempt on His Holiness John Paul II, the impact was principally on our protective role, not sustainment. In fact, during my vacation to the United States, I'd seen medium sized gunstores with several times the amount of ammunition that we kept on hand for range training.
"Can we not persuade them to relinquish some of our ammunition?" asked the Camerlengo. "Perhaps, Archbishop Atherton-Clive, you might lend us the support of the Diocese of Rome and persuade the police to yield back to the Vatican that ammunition so critical to our protection?"
Atherton-Clive tapped a gold pen on the table top before replying.
"Prior to the ill-advised raid on the Salvator Mundi that might've been possible," he said, holding the gleaming pen upright like a stylized exclamation point. "But now, our contacts in the Municipali are most upset and our relations are tenuous."
The police force was rapidly crumbling. We'd received a pro-forma request for extradition for unnamed Swiss Guard personnel who'd participated in the purchase of vaccine and subsequent gunfight outside our walls. The extradition order lacked any of the signatures which would make it genuine—understandable since many of the senior bureaucrats were dead or had fled the city.
Before I could argue, a browned-cassocked monk glided forward to hand Crivetto some papers.
I hadn't realized that at least one of the Camerlengo's aides was a Cistercian as well.
Huh.
Cardinal Crivetto read for a moment and then rebutted his colleague.
"I ordered the operation and so their anger should be laid at my feet," he said, consulting notes now laid at his side. "But a business transaction is hardly a raid. As if they dare to add me to the extradition order. Yet everyone in this room has already benefited from the initial injections, including you, Your Grace."
"Respectfully, Your Eminence, one doesn't bring machine guns to a business meeting," Atherton-Clive said, reminding everyone about my security precautions. He might have continued with that logic because the Curia wasn't comfortable with the twin concepts of force and violence. Instead, he made a significant error.
"But quite apart from the provocation that Gagliardi offered the authorities, you may recall that I did not request to be vaccinated with medicine made from the bodies of the dead. If I accepted your order, it was because of your temporary authority and my calling to serve the Church takes precedence, even if I must endanger my immortal soul upon your order to do so."
More than one prelate inhaled sharply, both at the gall of the vice-regent as well as the impact of his words. It wasn't the first time that they'd thought about it, but it was the first time it had been spoken aloud since the vaccinations had started.
As Americans like to say, shit just got real.
As much as the assembled survivors were wary of the Camerlengo, they were creatures of habit. They were accustomed to the certainty of rote ceremony and hierarchy. Even if the Camerlengo was slightly alarming, his authority flowed from centuries of tradition.
To a significant majority, as it turned out, internal revolt was a more terrifying possibility than either zombies or Crivetto with indefinitely extended authority.
"You could've tended your business from S'ant Angelo," the Camerlengo replied, smiling towards the archbishop. "You still could, if you feel the moral hazard is too severe to allow you to remain here."
Precious few of the staff inside Vatican City had declined the vaccine. Even though it was made with attenuated virus, it wasn't uncommon to experience mild discomfort for a few days as one's immune system adjusted to the deliberately weakened disease. We had been administering it weekly to the Guard and rotating by section, largely out of an abundance of caution to ensure that we had enough hale Guardsmen every day. Second section had just received their last shot. In another month, all of us would be fully protected.
There weren't enough Guard to protect S'ant Angelo, though. It was far less secure, and certainly more austere. And of course, to be outside Vatican City meant to be excluded from influencing the selection of the next pope.
That last made this mildly voiced rebuttal equal parts reminder and threat. Atherton-Clive briefly clawed his fingers before hiding them in his lap. He glanced at Dutto, who dutifully noted his cue.
"Your Eminence, how are we to protect ourselves without arms?" he asked.
I took up the thread of my initial briefing again.
"We have some ammunition, sufficient to defend against limited criminal behavior by uninfected persons." I said. "However, other than in a complete security failure, all future defense against infected humans will be effected by Swiss Guard in full armor and equipped with hand weapons. Our polearms are well suited to this role. The Armeria has dozens of historical armors with provide full coverage, and even the modern issue of armor includes a curraiss and morion," I added, referring to our individually fitted back and breast plates as well as helmets.
"Then we'll be trapped inside, with no way out!" Dutto bleated.
"Calmi, Bishop Dutto," the Camerlengo said, motioning with both hands palm down, over the table. "Our place is here. We'll accept as many more refugees as we can inoculate, we'll provide guidance for the global church and we will seek to gather the College of Cardinals as soon as is practical."
"And when will that be, Your Eminence?" asked Atherton-Clive. "The Faithful need their pope."
I didn't like our vice-regent, but we agreed on his last point.
###
As the ranking surviving officer of the Swiss Guard, I'd taken to sleeping in my office, only a few steps from the guardroom. It was no surprise when I was woken in the middle of the night only a few days after announcing our switch in primary fighting weapons. Full armor was now the required uniform for all internal posts, while Kevlar-clad Guardsmen and Gendarmerie discreetly patrolled our walls the better to avoid attracting the attention of infected below.
"Feildwebel, rouse the Hauptmann, already!" a voice said beyond my door. I didn't recognize the speaker. "We must advise him on the incident and it can't wait."
It was the work of a moment to pull on boots and don a cap before striding out to find Muller stolidly arguing in a low voice that I wasn't to be disturbed. Boivin's instruction, presumably.
"What's the matter?" I said, breaking up their argument.
The newly-arrived guard turned to me with relief visible on his weathered face. It was Wachmeister—literally watch-master—Lecuyer, a ten-year man. He held his partisan at the trail and saluted.
"Herr Hauptman, there has been an incident," Lecuyer said. "One of the refugees was screaming and one of my section found a prelate—ah—interfering with a small child."
Well, fuck. There wasn't time to do anything but confront the situation. The last thing we could afford was an open confrontation between clergy and our refugees, and with a dependent involved, the potential for conflagration was, you'll pardon the expression, alles abgefuckt.
"Muller, boots and saddles," I bit out. "Turn out the reaction team and send a private message to His Eminence that we will need his guidance very shortly." I turned back to the Wachmeister.
"Take me there, immediately."
It was a few hundred yards to the wing of the Palazzo which we had converted to a sleeping area but I didn't tarry, and only a few minutes elapsed before I strode into the office indicated by Lecuyer.
Another guardsman, this one a newly minted hallebardier in Fourth Section named Taliaferro, held his halberd at the low ready. His breath rasped audibly in the stone room, even though we were the ones who had just finished running. The needle-sharp spike that projected past the bill of his weapon hovered only a handspan from his prisoner's throat.
The man looked up, his terrified expression seeking delivery as our boots scuffed to a hal
t.
It was Dutto.
###
Cardinal Crivetto didn't wait for morning to conduct a quick inquiry. After receiving my succinct verbal report, he ordered that the enhanced guard force remain in position and very politely requisitioned the office of the late commander of the Pontifical Guard.
Under his instruction, we quietly orchestrated the meeting well before daylight. Six of my best, including the ogrelike Muller, were present. Three lined one wall and the others formed a shield around the mother of the child that Dutto had . . . well, molested is too light a term, but it will do. It had taken some persuasion to part the mother from her child, but after seeing her offspring safely ensconced in the Guard-only infirmary with one of the brown robed Cistercians and hatchet-faced Boivin for company, she reluctantly agreed to participate.
A fire danced in the grate, providing much of the light in the room. The large legal desk was overlaid with a plain white cloth, where a plain wooden crucifix was paired with a thick leather bound tome. A brazier stood in one corner, small blue flames occasionally darting above the grill and the objects laid there.
The entire scene was outside my experience.
However, we are sworn to obey His Holiness or His successor.
I stood by the door and when the seated Camerlengo gave a nod, I knocked against the door frame. A few moments later, a group approached, heralded by heavy footsteps and querulous pleading.
A Cistercian monk in a traditional brown robe, belted with a heavy beaded rosary, strode through tightly gripping the arm of Bishop Dutto. The prelate had been held under guard, and his black cassock appeared to be newly torn at the neckline and down one sleeve. He entered, visibly reluctant, and was trailed by a second monk. That man mirrored the first, firmly holding the accused's second arm.
Both brothers carried small wooden cudgels, wrapped with thin pieces of iron.
Those were also new in my experience.
All present remained silent as the trio halted in front of the desk.
Dutto's eyes darted around the office, searching for any anchor or familiarity to orient himself.
"Bishop Dutto, we are met to conduct an ecclesiastical inquiry into the incident reported by," Crivetto said, consulting a notepad. "Mrs. Angelina Tranquilo, widow of Gendarme Detective Tranquilo. Specifically, that you sexually assaulted a minor, her child, this very night inside the walls of Vatican City."
"I, uh, I mean, Your Eminence," Dutto said, stuttering.
"It is only meet and proper that you are advised of the complaint of Mrs. Tranquilo, the report of the pontifical surgeon and the report of Guardsmen Lecuyer and Taliaferro."
I flicked my eyes over to the young guardsman. He stared at Dutto, eyes slitted and sweat beading his forehead. Anger comes in many flavors, and Taliaferro was possessed of an indignant fury.
"The statements are quite comprehensive and leave no room for doubt as to what occurred," the Camerlengo said, implacably. "This inquiry is to give you an opportunity to confirm these reports and explain your actions."
"This isn't proper, Your Eminence," Dutto replied unevenly. "I reject these accusations. Any inquiry must occur in due course, Archbishop Atherton-Clive was quite clear, this was perfectly arranged, I—"
"It was arranged, then?" Crivetto said, sitting back and seeming to relax. He smiled pleasantly.
"Yes, yes Your Eminence, the vice-regent told me himself, it was perfectly fine. He made the preparations for . . ." And then Dutto stopped, doubtlessly skipping ahead to the logic which would imperil not just himself but his master. He attempted to backtrack.
"I mean no, no indeed, I mean . . ."
"Well?" the Camerlengo cut off what would have been a long lists of protests, raising a single hand across his chest, fingers bladed together. "Which is it? There's no room for denial. Are you suggesting that a senior prelate, the vice-regent for the Vicar of Rome himself was procurer for this vile act?"
The accused shut his mouth, which previously had been open in mid-expostulation. The clopping sound would have been amusing under other circumstances.
"Tell me Bishop Dutto," Cardinal Crivetto said, giving the prelate another chance. "Tell me now of your arrangement with the vice regent. For the sake of your immortal soul, tell me all."
Dutto stood mute, slowly straightening his spine, building his defiance.
"The evidence is overwhelming, Your Excellency. I give you one more opportunity to speak of your own free will, before God." the Camerlengo said. His words were absorbed by the old stone that walled us in.
Silence.
“Please!” Crivetto said, his tone suddenly changed. Pleading. “I implore you. Speak fully, spare yourself pain. There's not time enough for me to persuade you to return to God. Please do not compel me to put you to the question!”
“You cannot!” Dutto replied, his voice firmer than it had been a moment before. “The Cardinal Camerlengo no longer has that authority. Only the Doctrine of the Faith applies.”
Dutto thought himself safe. The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith is—rather—was a sort of supreme court for senior members of the church who were accused of serious crimes. Only a few years before I was born, it was known by a different name, an ancient name.
The Inquisition.
There was a long pause.
Then the Camerlengo pounded his fist into the table top three times. By the third stroke, his face had transformed. His eyes were cold.
“The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith died inside the Sistine Chapel,” Crivetto said, slamming his fist into the table top yet again, making the crucifix jump. “I alone survive.”
Crivetto eyed his subject a moment longer and then nodded to Muller, who strode two steps to the brazier and selected a heated pair of insulated pliers. He brandished them with a grin, clacking the jaws in an obscene parody of castanets.
"What . . . ?" Dutto stammered, eyes wide now. "What are you doing?"
"As the scholar that you seem to be it should interest you, Bishop Dutto, that prior to the Lateran Treaty the Mother Church retained the option of physical persuasion in matters of ecclesiastical courts," Crivetto said, opening the book before him to a marked page. "As Camerlengo and sole remaining member of the Congregation that you correctly reference, I am the supreme ecclesiastical authority until the election of a new pontiff. In this matter, I have elected to return to the guidance of laws written when crimes such as yours were addressed more . . . robustly. It has been nearly a hundred years since then. Of course I have taken due care to consult with authoritative references. You will be reassured that we will strictly conform to prior ecclesiastical precedent, you see."
He consulted the book while Dutto looked wildly around the room. I gave him a bored glance, but most the others ignored him, save the widow Tranquilo, who met his frantic looks with truculence. Muller, who stood just to one side, snapped the pliers again.
"Ah, yes." Crivetto ran a finger down the page as he continued. "Here we are. Of course, physical, ah, intercession, was limited only to serious charges. Heresy. Apostasy."
He lifted his eyes again to meet Dutto's unbelieving gaze.
"Pederasty."
Dutto swallowed, and watched Muller advance. The steel of the pliers had discolored in the flames and the air stirred above them, heated by the burning hot metal.
"You wouldn't dare!" the prelate said. "You wouldn't!"
The monks to either side of Dutto gripped his arms firmly.
If I had been my normal self, the screaming would have bothered me a lot more.
###
Morning mass was still a fixture of Vatican City.
Early morning sunlight streamed into the medium-sized chapel at a sharp angle, gemmed by the brilliant colors on the ancient stained glass. I stood near the Camerlengo, stained by a puddle of red-tinted light, cast by the image of the Sacred Heart.
The Guard, and perforce myself were on station, just as the Cardinal Camerlengo had carefully outlined foll
owing Dutto's interrogation.
We were sworn to obey His Holiness or his successor.
By Cardinal Crivetto's firm, standing suggestion, all of the Curia had made a habit of attending the daily seven a.m. service. Upon their entry this morning, they discovered a rather different setting. The altar furnishings were moved, and last night's table, complete to crucifix and lawbook, was present. Something else had changed as well.
Aspiring bishops and archbishops dreamed of the day when they could don the crimson mantle of a cardinal, to become a Prince of the Church. Once they won that distinction, they rarely were seen in public without it. However, this morning Cardinal Crivetto wore a different garment, matching that of the other brown-clad Cistercian who flanked him on the dais.
As prelates arrived, they were conducted to their seats by a line of Guardsmen. By prior arrangement, we packed them into the pews closest to the front. The buzz of questions grew, but the Camerlengo sat unmoved until the entry of the last bishop occasioned the closing of the iron bound doors. Then he stood, displaying the broad red sash that belted his cassock and signaled his status as the last cardinal in Rome.
As he rose, the Swiss Guard came to attention, their cuirasses gleaming.
“My fellow Brothers in Christ, this morning we cannot celebrate Mass.” Cardinal Crivetto said, his voice soaring above the chatter courtesy of the small microphone clipped to his robe. “This morning, I was summoned to find that one of our own had interfered with a refugee, a small child. During the questioning, I learned that the death of His Holiness was not random chance, but the culmination of a careful plot. Therefore, we are met to hear the evidence against members of our congregation who conspired to murder His Holiness. Further, in the course of this conspiracy, the innocence of refugees sheltering within our walls was bartered away in exchange for silence from those complicit in terrible crimes.”