Upon arriving at the airport, Pantera and his entourage were met by two TSA agents who hustled them through security to the gate for their flight. Passengers in the terminal concourse could not help but do a double-take, giving Pantera a number of “isn’t that him” looks and thumbs-up signs as he and his entourage strolled to their gate. Some passengers who had time on their hands followed after him, and soon enough, a crowd had gathered at the gate where Pantera, his mother, and his twelve disciples, themselves now minor celebrities, waited to board their flight.
After a time, Pantera got up and, as the growing number of passengers stretching out some distance down the concourse attempted to crowd around him, he did what he did best—gave an impromptu sermon. Constantine wondered how the crowd of fellow travelers would react if they knew Pantera was on his way to the Vatican for an audience with none other than Pope Pius XIII.
Pantera hadn’t been speaking for long before airport security was tasked with breaking up the logjam of passengers who were blocking the concourse in their effort to see and hear him preach. A guard approached and politely asked him to stop just as the Alitalia flight started boarding. After a wave to his fans and admirers, Pantera smiled at the guards and led his disciples and mother down the jetway to the first-class section of the Airbus.
Thanks to Spartacus Rex, the press was soon all over the trip. Using Pantera’s Twitter account, he’d gotten the ball rolling with a simple tweet: “Going to meet the Pope. Wants to chat. Maybe he’ll join us in changing the world? We’ll see. #enlighten.”
Halfway down page 1, the New York Times ran a brief story on the meeting under the staid headline, “Pontiff To Meet Pantera.” The New York Post, however, put it as: “Papal Pandering or Pope Rope-a-Dope?” The photographs accompanying the article depicted the diminutive, eighty-three-year-old Pope Pius XIII flashing his ever-mischievous grin and peace sign next to the now-iconic image of Pantera in his pristine white robe, his arms raised to the heavens and long brown hair flowing behind him.
By that afternoon, every major newspaper in every major city in the world was reporting the curious news that the Pope and Pantera were meeting. About what, and what would come of it, was the subject of much speculation.
Immediate opposition to the meeting arose among certain factions of the Catholic clergy and other Christian denominations. While Pantera’s transatlantic flight was only three hours out and still over the ocean, French Cardinal Jacob Mallard issued a statement decrying the meeting as profoundly unwise. This meeting, he claimed, would serve only to legitimize and enhance the message of a “false prophet” that essentially called for the destruction of the Catholic Church by challenging the basic tenet of Christianity—that Jesus was the divine Son of God who died on the cross and was resurrected. Unless the Pope convinced this man to renounce this message, he added, the meeting would serve no valid purpose and only heighten the heretic’s popularity, thus negatively affecting the Church and the faithful.
The Vatican’s response was immediate. Within half an hour of the issuance of Cardinal Mallard’s diatribe, a statement was issued by Pope Pius XIII’s press secretary, Enrico Ginelli: “In answer to certain remarks critical of the meeting between the Holy Father and Cristos Pantera, whose recent series of sermons has reached the ears of millions around the world, the Holy Father thought it wise, in service to the Lord Jesus Christ, to meet and reason with this man for the good of the Church and all mankind. Such a meeting is no different than the Pontiff’s recent discussions with leaders of Islam and other major faiths in seeking to achieve a better understanding among theologies in the interest of promoting cooperation in our mutual service to God.”
About halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, Amato unlatched his seatbelt, got out of his seat and approached Pantera in the aisle seat in the first row of the first-class section. By then, the cabin had darkened and most of the other disciples had leaned back and drifted off to sleep while listening to music through earphones or the soundtrack of the movie playing on a small screen on the backs of the seats in front of them.
“Nick,” Pantera whispered as Amato knelt in the aisle at his side. “What’s up?”
Amato leaned toward Pantera and whispered, “I think this is a mistake. I think this meeting is a set-up to make you look bad, like a chump.” He sighed as he adjusted himself on his haunches. “Or worse.”
“Or worse what?” Renata asked from the seat next to Pantera.
“As in much worse, like an assassination attempt.”
Pantera thought a moment, then frowned dubiously.
“Why not?” Amato asked. “You’re a threat, right? To the ruling order, to the Church. What you say, who you are. Popes have done worse things.”
“So, while in Papal custody, I am to be murdered,” Pantera said and smiled. He reached out and patted Amato on his graying head. “I appreciate you watching over me, always mindful of my security, but I think you’re overreacting here.”
Amato glanced back, then leaned closer to Pantera and whispered, “To be honest, I don’t feel so safe on this plane. With one rocket, they could take out the entire ministry.”
Pantera shook his head and said, “My friend, you’ve been reading too many Dan Brown novels. Something happens to me, to us, in the bosom of the Pope, and it would confirm everything I’ve been saying. No, this is no set-up.
“This meeting will serve the Ministry well,” he went on. “Spartacus Rex is right. The Pope will make an offer, try to bribe us, or somehow, in his presence, try to dim our star. But that will backfire on him. And it’ll backfire because of one reason—our message is stronger, truer, than the one he represents. Truth will always trump faith based on nothing.”
“And,” Renata added, smiling at Pantera, “that frail man is no match for you.”
Pantera frowned, nodded briefly, then added, “This meeting propels our Ministry onto the world stage like nothing else could. Beyond even the tour. It makes us equal to the Catholic Church. And better yet, the Pope, and whomever he represents, has woefully underestimated us. After this meeting, we will be a giant step closer to our ultimate goal.”
“Yes, our goal,” Amato agreed, then he stood, his legs aching. He nodded.
Pantera reached out and grasped Amato’s left arm. “Get some sleep, my friend,” he whispered. “Ease your mind awhile.” Amato nodded and, after a moment, walked back to his seat.
Feigning sleep, Constantine had heard the entire exchange from his seat on the aisle directly behind Pantera. He was fully aware of Pantera’s ultimate goal—to overthrow the Supremacy. He also agreed with Pantera. It was highly unlikely that the Supremacy Council or Network would so brazenly—and recklessly, he thought—eliminate Pantera either by shooting down this plane or while a guest of the Pontiff. That might come later, however, when he was back in the United States, giving yet another sermon beseeching the masses to renounce the status quo and embrace his new way of life into the Kingdom of God.
After a brief layover at Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris early the following morning, Pantera and the others boarded a smaller jet for the short hop to Rome’s Fiumicino-Aeroporto Internazionale Leonardo da Vinci. They arrived at 12:01 p.m., a mere six minutes behind schedule. Two young priests wearing long black cassocks met them at the gate and, after surprisingly quick processing through customs, no doubt aided by Vatican influence, the priests hustled Pantera’s party through a series of concourses, down elevators, and outside the baggage claim area to two waiting black limousines.
Forty-five minutes later, they were driving down Via di Porta Angelica just outside the walls of Vatican City. The limos finally slowed and turned left into a narrow alleyway alongside one wall of St. Peter’s Square, which served as a private entrance into the City. After a brief stop at a security gate, they were ushered inside. After passing the barracks of the Swiss Guard, the limos stopped at an entrance to the Apostolic Palace, an ornate structure in the Renaissance style that, most significantly, housed the Papal apartm
ents on the third floor. On the second floor were countless suites, offices, and reception rooms including, down a long, dark corridor, a spacious private library. For centuries, Roman Catholic Popes had received kings and queens, prime ministers and presidents and other significant dignitaries, in this library for both mere show and, on occasion, to discuss and advance policies important to the Church and the Holy See—and, since the Dark Ages, the Supremacy. And it was there, in this private library, that Pope Pius XIII would receive Cristos Pantera.
But first, Pantera and the others were escorted by two different priests to the Domus Sanctae Marthae of Casa Santa Marta, a squat, rectangular five-story guest house and hotel located at the edge of Vatican City, just south of the Apostolic Palace. It had been constructed in 1996 by Pope John Paul II, ostensibly to accommodate aged cardinals and other clergy called to the Vatican for official conclaves or to elect a new Pope. Sometimes it hosted important dignitaries, such as Henry Kissinger years ago, and now, Cristos Pantera and his closest disciples.
Each disciple and Mother Jane had been assigned their own room, essentially an ordinary hotel room with a queen-sized bed, wooden dresser, and short, squat desk. A large bathroom occupied the front corner of the guest rooms, and each room had its own wet bar with several small bottles of wines and liquors, small microwave oven, and portable coffee brewer.
Pantera was assigned a spacious and luxuriously furnished suite, and he informed the priest escorting him that Renata would stay with him. The priest frowned and seemed about to issue a protest, but thought better of it. Instead, he told Pantera that he had about an hour to freshen up, take a short nap, perhaps, before his scheduled meeting with the Pope at three that afternoon.
Exactly one hour later, another emissary, this one a heavy-set bishop in his early sixties, came for him.
The bishop introduced himself as Francis Gabriela, and asked, “You are ready, Señor?”
He was wearing the official pian dress for the occasion: a black cassock trimmed in amaranth red silk, a purple silk rabat, purple stockings, black shoes without buckles, a purple silk sash with fringes, a purple silk ferraiolone, and purple silk skullcap. A pectoral cross was suspended from a chain across his chest, and on his right ring finger, he wore a gold ring.
“Yes, I’m ready,” Pantera told the bishop. In truth, he was exhausted and could have used a few hours of sleep.
“Please come with me,” Bishop Gabriela said. “The Holy Father awaits.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Pope Pius XIII
Pantera followed Bishop Gabriela into the hallway outside his room to a bank of elevators. After taking one down to the lobby of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, they walked across the quad to the Apostolic Palace. The bishop led the way to a back entrance. The dark space gave Pantera momentary pause as he suddenly remembered Nick Amato’s concern over his well-being, then he was offered an open door into the palace by the mirthless Bishop.
They took a winding marble staircase up to the second floor, then traversed a long, wide hall to the private library where His Holiness, Pope Pius XIII, was waiting. Bishop Gabriela opened the door, carved from Sicilian mahogany, and strode in ahead of Pantera to properly announce the Pope’s guest.
Pope Pius XIII was standing at the head of a long conference table at the other side of the spacious room. He was a diminutive, unimposing man and watched with a kindly smile as Pantera entered behind Bishop Gabriela. As he stepped forward, Pantera looked up momentarily at the rows of ancient books adorning the high walls.
The Pope wore his “ordinary dress,” a white cassock with attached Pellegrino girded with a fringed white fascia embroidered with the papal coat of arms. A pectoral cross suspended from a gold cord draped across his chest, and his outfit was completed by red papal shoes and a white zucchetto. Standing next to the Pope was a priest in a plain, unadorned black cassock—some kind of clerk or aide, thought Pantera. Next to him stood a Vatican photographer, yet another priest in a black cassock.
Within a couple of feet of the Pope, Bishop Gabriela stopped and nodded to Pantera to stop as well. He then turned, offered a hand toward the Pontiff, and said, “Your Holiness, may I introduce Cristos Pantera.”
With a smile, Pius said, “Welcome.”
Pantera had used the Internet to research the protocol for meeting the Pope. All sources agreed that upon presentation to the Pope, you should genuflect. If the Pope offered his hand and you were Catholic, you should kiss his ring; if not, you could merely shake his hand, as President George Bush II had done when greeting Pope Benedict XVI upon his landing at Andrews Air Force Base. Finally, the Pope should be addressed as “His Holiness” or “Holy Father.”
But Pantera had decided to do none of these things. He offered no deference to papal power or influence except to shake the man’s hand, despite the fact that he had been born, though not raised, as a Catholic.
“Hello,” Pantera said as he firmly shook Pope Pius XIII’s right hand. “Thank you for seeing me. I am Cristos Pantera, a descendent of Jesus the Nazarene, upon whose life your Church is based.”
In his first dress rehearsal for this meeting with Renata, Pantera had said, “falsely based,” but decided against such a bold insult. It would start the meeting on a sour note.
Forty-five minutes later, Pantera was back in his room at the Domus Sanctae Marthae.
“So?” Amato asked and smiled. “Did you tell His Holiness to go to hell?”
Pantera smiled, then shook his head and said, “No, but as Mister Rex predicted, he made me an offer. I refused.”
“You mean a bribe.” Amato snorted.
“The offer? What was it, Cristos?” Mother Jane asked.
“To join forces,” Pantera said. “He would acknowledge that I am Jesus’ descendant. Issue a Papal Bull proclaiming that before his crucifixion, Jesus produced a child, an heir, and that his line has survived to today. That I am evidence of it. In some perverse way, I think he and the Congregation of the Faithful saw a great advantage in doing this. It would result in a sort of revival, something like, but not quite, a Second Coming. He tried to sell me on the point that by joining forces, both the Church and my ministry would benefit. My message of entering the Kingdom of God would become the Church’s message. Or the Church’s message would become somehow more closely aligned with ours. That could be worked out, he said. It was a mere detail.
“But ultimately, he saw our joining together as a means of reinvigorating his Church. Rekindling the faithful.”
“What did you tell him?” Mother Jane asked.
“I told him I saw no benefit in joining forces,” Pantera said. “Strengthening a false religion does nothing to advance our mission. Joining with them would be the end of my ministry. It’s defeat. That was what he was truly offering. Not rapprochement, but defeat. A corporate takeover that would transform our message into something perverse. Like Christianity ultimately perverted Jesus’ message.”
Everyone was silent for a time as they considered Pantera’s report. Constantine hid his brief moment of inward satisfaction thinking of this man refusing the Pope.
“How did he take your answer?” Mother Jane asked.
“He remained serene,” Pantera said. “Held that impish grin. But behind his eyes, I saw…” And now Pantera sighed.
“Saw what?” Renata asked.
He turned to her.
“Murder.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Zandoria
The tiny Republic of Zandoria, a landlocked rectangular chunk of jungle and plateaus in central Africa with a population of just over 5 million, had since the spring been the focus of international concern as a civil war raged between the forces of Islam and Christianity. Anak Shelom, a fanatical cleric who was the leader of the vicious Islamist group, Addini Daya, meaning “One True Religion,” had proclaimed the goal of the radical group to kill all non-believers of the Quran and to impose Sharia law upon the nation.
Over several months, Shelom had asse
mbled a sizeable army of militants who were now engaged in attacks upon the civilians and the Zandorian army across the impoverished country and organizing murderous suicide bombings in Zandoria’s capital, Zandor City. Following five months of murderous conflict, the Red Cross and Amnesty International estimated that over two hundred thousand Zandorians had been massacred.
The Supremacy desired the defeat of the Addini Daya uprising. Before the civil war, it had exercised considerable control over Zandoria. That control had increased following the election, with their help, of George LaPierre—an American-born, Christian academic—as Zandoria’s new president. But the onset of civil war had dramatically limited LaPierre’s influence over Zandorian affairs.
As the carnage increased and surprising gains were made by the Addini Daya, due in no small part to their savagery and assistance from other radical groups outside the country, a team of Network assassins were dispatched to eliminate Anak Shelom and his captains. But by August, it was clear that the effort had failed miserably, resulting in the deaths of seventeen top-notch Network operatives. Those not killed outright and instead captured, were either burned alive or beheaded.
Immediately upon his return to the Grassy Creek compound from the Vatican, Pantera called a meeting of the inner circle in the living room of the farmhouse. He held up that day’s edition of USA Today and sighed.
“I need to do something about this,” he said, waving the paper at his disciples. “Show the world how one’s beliefs, especially religious beliefs, can cause such abject cruelty and meaningless bloodshed as has been exhibited here. I must show the world that what I am about is not just talk, but action.”
“What kind of action, Master?” Amato asked.
The Messiah Page 13