Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  "Oh, yeah, for sure," said Sandman. "Somebody out there would like to do him in, no doubt. He's lucky he ever made it out of the desert to begin with." He hesitated, looking around the table. "Do ya'll know what any of us used to do?"

  “I do," said Sarah.

  "Yeah, I figure you do," Sandman replied with a short laugh. "I know about you. He's told me. I know he would a' told you even if he never told nobody else."

  Sarah smiled slightly, leaning back.

  Sandman gestured with his hand. "You guys know?"

  Malachi nodded, "I know a little."

  "I'm catching on quick," offered Barto eagerly.

  Sandman seemed to contemplate, silent for almost the first time. "Where's the priest?" he asked suddenly. "That old man who saved Gage in the desert?"

  Sarah and Barto said nothing. Malachi's face tightened for a quiet moment before he replied, "He is dead. He was murdered by the same people who are hunting us now."

  Sandman leaned back in his chair, face slightly shocked. His large black hands rested on the table and he gazed about. "So ya'll are holed up here," he said. He glanced toward the room where Gage lay. "Boy, I'll bet you somebody pays for that!"

  A moment passed and Sandman nodded. "OK," he said slowly, studying the tabletop. "I got it. There's a whole lot more to come." He nodded again, looked up. "Well, one of ya'll are goin' have to catch me up to speed. Then I'll brief Chavez. We've probably got a few minutes before he comes out."

  Sarah rose. "I'll check on them."

  Sandman's hand instantly gripped her hand, lightly but firmly. "Please, ma'am, don't do that. Chavez, when he's a mind to, he can be meaner 'an 'a snake an' all but Gage has done a whole lot for him and his family and he loves Gage more 'an his own brother. It's best to leave 'em alone for a minute."

  Sandman leaned closer to her, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Chavez, you see, he's real religious an' all. An' he's probably sayin' some kind 'a prayer over Gage or somethin'. One of them Mexican Catholic things. He might even be sheddin' a tear an' he sure don't want you to see him doin' that. Just give him a second. Then he'll be comin' on out like nuthin's happened."

  Sarah sat down, nodding compassionately, understanding.

  "Now ya'll tell ol' Sandman what's been goin' on!" Sandman said expansively, leaning back, nodding.

  Malachi said, "It is not pleasant. Many people have died. And there is the danger that even more will die before this is through."

  Sandman nodded again, solemnly serious though still smiling. "That's alright, professor. Ain't nobody gonna live forever."

  *

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Immense and opulent and lonely, the Throne Room of the Vatican was quietly lit by subdued golden lamps, creating a distinctly somber atmosphere, a darkened atmosphere to match the darkened mood of the regal figure who sat silently, clothed formally in white on the white Papal Throne.

  By order, the cavernous chamber was deserted, leaving only the throned figure, Pope Clement XV, and the black-robed priest who approached him with steady, faithful strides. A thoughtful frown deepened the lines in Clement's aged face as the younger priest, 30 years younger but still in his fifth decade, knelt before the throne.

  "Forgive me, Eminence." Father Stanford Aquanine D'Oncetta bent to kiss the Fisherman's Ring worn habitually upon the Pontiff's right hand. "I realize that it has been three days. But I was overseeing affairs in America."

  Clement nodded, "Yes, the responsibilities of an internuncio are vast, are they not, Father?"

  "Yes, Holiness, vast and complex," D'Oncetta replied with only the faintest, suppressed tone of suspicion in his words. Then he bowed, stepping back. "An ambassador of the Throne must be ceaselessly at work."

  Clement leaned forward, resting his elbows on the gold-colored wooden arms of the throne. For a long moment he said nothing but studied the dignified and cultured man before him.

  "I live to serve, Holiness," Father D'Oncetta said finally. "How may I assist you?"

  Clement's gaze was unpleasant. "I would be your confessor, Father," he intoned. "I would hear your sins."

  D'Oncetta's eyes narrowed. "That would be a lengthy ordeal, Holiness," he replied without hesitation, glancing casually about the chamber.

  "There is no need," observed the old man. "We are quite alone. It is only you and I, as it should be. Only one aged priest discussing the sins of his life with another. Except that you are not so old as I, though your sins may be far greater."

  D'Oncetta held the Archbishop's concentrated aspect. "Sin is a matter of perspective, Holiness," he replied, an edged chill to the subtle tone. "There are not two within the Palace who will agree upon a single thought or action, regardless of how good or evil it may be."

  "I have not received you for a lesson in semantics, Father," said Clement suddenly. "I am here to advise you of what you must do to serve me."

  D'Oncetta's face brightened. "And what shall I do for you, Eminence?"

  "Return the manuscript."

  D'Oncetta stood in silence. "What you ask is difficult. The manuscript is not mine to return."

  Clement laughed without humor. "It was not yours to remove, Father, so surely it is not yours to return. But return it you must. Or you will understand, for perhaps the first time in your life, the true meaning of power."

  "To be more clear, Holiness," replied D'Oncetta, unfazed, "I cannot return the manuscript because it is not in my possession as you presume. Nor is it in the possession of Augustus, who you once taught and loved, and who sends most sincere condolences for Simon's unfortunate death."

  In solemn concentration the Pontiff's lips drew together in a grim line, the dark eyes hardening as the head bent slightly forward.

  "It would go well with you not to mention the name of Augustus again within these walls,," Clement said slowly. "Long ago your master chose a different path. And it shall consume him, in the end, though the end may be long in coming. God knows. We can only pray that his terror will soon be finished."

  Silence was tense between them.

  "Despite the bitterness you feel in your heart, Augustus holds only the warmest regard for you," replied D'Oncetta after a moment. "He regrets that Father Simon has died ..."

  "Simon did not die," said Clement. "He was murdered."

  "No," D'Oncetta disagreed, shaking his head solemnly. "That is not true, Holiness. It was not the hand of man but the excitation of events that precipitated Simon's collapse. The autopsy reports will confirm that his death was wholly natural. It is regrettable, but blame cannot be placed on any but age."

  Clement sighed, shook his head. "Do you take me for a fool, Father?"

  "No, Holiness."

  "Then you are wise. Yes, wise indeed. Remember, D'Oncetta, that I still hold the Keys of this Blood. Even Augustus is not outside my reach. And my sins are not so great that I will not add one more."

  D'Oncetta seemed unsettled. "And what, specifically, shall I tell him, Holiness?"

  "Advise him to return the manuscript," replied Clement. "Then tell him that he must remove his residence from the coast of my country. He may reside no longer on my shores. That is something I should have ordained long ago. Tell him that those Cardinals who are in allegiance with his evil designs will have no further communication with him. And if I discover a violation of my commands, they will be harshly treated."

  He stared at the priest a moment, as if debating within himself. "Finally, advise him to remove his hand from the lives of Malachi Halder, his daughter, and the translator. If any of the Americans are injured, Augustus will feel the full power of my wrath."

  D'Oncetta seemed to ponder the implications of the words.

  "And if Augustus does not comply?"

  "All of his hidden gold will be seized," answered Clement. "His concealed ownerships of banking empires will come under investigation. Communications with his multitude of intelligence and military officials will be exposed as counterintelligence activities that supposedly threaten the welfa
re of their respective nations. And the coalitions which he is building will be laid bare to the canyons of their bones for all the world to see.

  “There will be no more secrets, D'Oncetta. Deliver that message to your master. Tell him that if he does not submit to all that I have said, and if he does not withdraw his hand from the lives of the Americans, there will be no more secrets."

  D'Oncetta was steady. "Such an action would also expose the Church of Rome to scorn, Holiness. In the state of things, with the challenge to infallibility, the challenge, even, of authority on government affairs of the church, moral decay within and without, and other, more embarrassing moral dilemmas that we need not mention, such an action as this might well be the final blow to—"

  "All things have a price, Father," said Clement wearily. "Your veiled threats do not frighten me. The Church will endure. It has endured far worse and is beyond even our foolishness to destroy."

  D'Oncetta nodded. "Perhaps, Holiness. But perhaps, also, you might grant consideration to the wisdom of others of eminence who live beneath the Dome of Michelangelo. Perhaps you might learn from the errors of those who have come before you."

  Clement laughed. "How so, Father?"

  "What I mean, Holiness, is that you might consider whether Augustus and many of those within your Palace might be wise and right in what they say. Perhaps what Augustus says might indeed be best, even for yourself. As you know, he only wishes to forge an alliance between the Church and the emerging powers. In the opinion of many, such an alliance would not be an evil thing. It might even allow the Church to accomplish more good than it could, otherwise, without such a unity of forces."

  "You speak as a priest, Father."

  "I am a priest," said D'Oncetta, undisturbed by the veiled sarcasm. "And I ask that you hear me out completely before you exercise your wrath. Give me some of your time, Holiness. I ask that you base your final judgment upon what you hear."

  Nothing could be discerned from Clement's lowered gaze. But he nodded, solemn. "Then speak, Father, and I will listen. Persuade me if you can. Convince me that your views are correct and that mine are wrong. Demonstrate that I am only an old and foolish man. I have always said that every man has something he might teach me." The Archbishop of Rome smiled beneath narrowed eyes. "Yes, speak with me."

  Father Stanford Aquanine D'Oncetta moved closer. "Let me begin, Holiness, by saying that those who are well-suited for the task, including many of your own Bishops, those who have aligned themselves with Augustus, are convinced beyond doubt that their sage views are correct. They are confident that their actions will be for the benefit of all."

  "A snake may be right in action and in what he believes, but that does not make it right for his prey," replied Clement. "And we are not created to be predators. Not even those who claim to be ... well suited for the task."

  D'Oncetta hesitated. "Yes, but with all respect, Holiness, your words do not change the opinion of many within your own fold. The events that are unfolding are beyond that logic. We have entered a new age, seen new forces ..."

  "There is no such thing," broke in Clement simply, frowning.

  D'Oncetta waited a moment, concentrating, before continuing. "There are ... forces ... among us which are at work, forces destined to claim dominion on the Earth. This kingdom is already here, Holiness. Even if I were to agree with you and submit humbly to your designs, I could not stop the coalition of powers outside this Palace that are already melded together, concentrating wealth and dominion in the hands of those who are, by natural selection, destined to rule."

  Clement XV was silent a moment. "And who might these men be, Father?" he asked abruptly. "Who are these men who are born to rule?"

  "Some men are born to serve, Holiness," said D'Oncetta, lifting his hands emptily. "And some are born to rule. A man's nature is as unchanging as his flesh. He cannot make one hair black or white, cannot raise himself an inch in stature, as the Scriptures say. And neither can a slave make himself a king, Holiness. It is an abomination.

  "Some are born to power, and are endowed with the intelligence, the wisdom, culture, and superiority of mind to wield that power. The rest are simply there to tend and keep, to insure that those things which must be done are done. They fulfill their stations in life. And, as cruel as it may sound, Holiness, ninety-nine percent of those who are living exist to serve the other one percent. Even now, the minions, if I may use that word without offending your sensibilities, have no idea how empty and hopeless are their lives. They live to work, endlessly, like dogs, and to desperately support their families however they can. They do not understand the secrets of power. They have no superiority of intellect or birth that would qualify them for a ruling status. They survive. They work and insure that things are completed. And in this their position is important. But they are not capable of true decisions, decisions of power. They do not understand international finance, or the future, the Cosmos, or even their own state of being. They do not understand sacrifice or tolerance or unity. They understand only what they need for their day-to-day lives. For how often have their lives hovered one inch from annihilation while they have slept blissfully on? They slept while men such as you and I, or Augustus, bore the burden of decisions that would set the course for their lives and their children's lives. Even now, upon every hour of every day decisions are made by men of wealth and position that decide the most private aspects of their existence. And yet they are rarely aware of it, or, even, at times, complaining about it."

  D'Oncetta stepped forward.

  "I know what you are thinking, Holiness. You are thinking that all men are dust and must return to dust. And that there is no man innately greater than the rest. You are pondering the thought that it must be the greatest and crudest arrogance that the few would presume to decide the fate of the many. But in this, Holy Father, you are wrong."

  Clement's face was unreadable, the lowered eyes hidden in shadow.

  "I will not burden you by sharing knowledge that you already possess," continued D'Oncetta, raising a hand solemnly for indulgence. "Nor would I be so ambitious as to presume that I might persuade you of my philosophical views. I only say this to humbly prove a single premise. And that is, that this union between the gathering powers and the Church would be a good thing. A fruitful thing. Many who hold power within the Church itself are convinced that it is the only wise course of action."

  D'Oncetta stepped forward as he spoke again. "Clearly, Holy Father, you simply cannot expect those who are born to a superior status to leave their fate in the hands of those who have little. That would be unwise in the extreme, and would lead to the disintegration of society. Why should the Church of Rome not join hands with the elect in hopes that we might also be in league with forces of power and affect the world for good?" He paused, stressed, "This is wisdom, Holiness. If we stand against these forces we may be stagnated in our efforts, or even crushed. But if we work with them, we will share in the power. We will be able to continue our measure of influence in the world. Sleeping with the devil is not as evil as it may sound, if the end purposes are our own.

  "And it is no true loss, Holiness. For society itself will never allow the poor to control the reins of power. There is nothing that you or I can do to alter it. So why not use the situation for good? Why not join hands with the rich so that we might do whatever good we can for the poor and the downtrodden?"

  Clement raised his face slightly. "And what do these poor do for the world, Father?"

  D'Oncetta motioned dismissively. "They labor in their employment. They live, they sleep. They make decisions that affect the smaller aspects of their lives. They are public servants, teachers ..."

  "Carpenters?" Clement asked in a curious tone.

  D'Oncetta gazed narrowly upon the old man. "Yes, and they are carpenters." D'Oncetta leaned closer, speaking clearly. "Please hear me, Holiness. It is something that not even you can change. The poor and the ignorant will always be with us. Christ himself said this. So it is both n
ecessary and altruistic that we take care of them. But the best manner of taking care of them is not to let them make their own decisions. We will help them by managing their lives. And if we are truly benevolent, then both the rich and the poor will enter a new kingdom of earthly prosperity."

  Clement slowly nodded. "Yes, I see, Father. So these are inferior beings that Augustus assists? These are men of a lesser birthright?"

  Cautious, D'Oncetta spoke. "Holiness, I know better than to match words with you. You are far, far too wise." He bent slightly forward. "Destroy my argument, Holiness, if you wish. But this is what I see. And what I believe."

  "So," intoned Clement, as if he had not heard, "then poor Simon, born to an illiterate sheep farmer and raised without the benefit of classical education was, by recognition of his downtrodden beginning, also an inferior being?"

  D'Oncetta steeled himself before he spoke. "There are some who would profess this, yes."

  Clement nodded, seemingly distracted. Then, absently, he raised an old and wrinkled hand, as if hearing a faint and ghostly voice, or as if remembering. He waited a long time with the curious tension of listening, staring vacantly into the black space beside D'Oncetta.

  "Strange," Clement began in awe, "how, with age, one's mind can turn suddenly and morosely maudlin with memories." He paused. "Strange how the soul can quickly leave the place it inhabits, as my mind does now, to dwell again in distant days."

  Clement focused again upon D'Oncetta. "Tell me, Father D'Oncetta, would you mind quoting me some of De laudibus Dei, written by Darcontius of Carthage? Any of the poem's two thousand hexameter verses will suffice for my pleasure."

  D'Oncetta's face was confused and he opened his mouth, as if to apologize, before he realized. Then his distinguished features froze, hardening, his eyes glinting like polished obsidian orbs.

  Clement laughed as if reminiscing, "Yes, I remember how Simon would sometimes sit for hours and quote the beatific Latin of that great epic. Or how he would sometimes, for my sheer amusement, orally translate Milton's Paradise Lost into Latin, rewriting the text in his mind, improving as he saw fit upon the dull English." He laughed again. "Yes. The memory warms an aging heart."