Koesler glanced at his watch. 8:15. Theoretically, fifteen minutes into the ceremony. How long was one expected to stand in one place and study a Swiss Guard? It’s 8:15; do you know where your Swiss Guard is?
Then, something out of the ordinary took place. Joe Cox and Pat Lennon coolly stepped out from behind the barrier, walked purposefully to the guardsman, spoke to him briefly, displayed something in their wallets and walked past him into the ceremonial room.
Koesler pondered their maneuver a moment and decided, why not? It was unlikely the guardsman would run a poor priest through with his halberd.
He stepped into the aisle, walked up to the guard, opened his wallet, and displayed his supermarket check-cashing card, pointed toward the ceremonial room and said, “I’m with them.”
The guardsman, who seemed to neither recognize the card, nor understand English, simply shrugged.
Koesler, bracing himself, despite his earlier mental bravado, for a poke from the halberd, walked past him through the doorway. When nothing happened, he relaxed.
An opulent kaleidoscope unfurled before him.
Heads of state were glowing in their resplendent uniforms and brilliant sashes. The hierarchical vestments were, as always, magnificently impressive. And withal, there was that distinctive color known as cardinal red. The vivid meld of vermilion and orange was perhaps the most eye-boggling shade in the spectrum.
Even so, it was not as sumptuous as it had been before Pope Paul VI had simplified the Cardinal’s garb in 1969. Gone were the voluminous capa magna, the train of scarlet moire, the ermine cape, the golden tassels, the red leather slippers with gold or silver buckles.
But most of all, gone was The Red Hat.
It had been a purely ceremonial galero. With a normal crown but an overlarge brim and two strings of fifteen tassels each hanging from it. Of course, it was never actually worn. But heretofore, in the installation of a Cardinal, the hat, borne by two monsignors, had been touched symbolically to his head. It was then shipped home with the Cardinal and held in limbo until, at his death, it was hung from the ceiling of his cathedral.
Till recent years, it had been so distinctive a symbol that being named a Cardinal was more popularly referred to as receiving the red hat.
It was at this ceremony that the new Cardinals would have received the red hat. But now, the Pope would merely place on each Cardinal’s head a simple scarlet biretta.
The Pope had been speaking for a very long time. Every three or four paragraphs, he would switch to a different language. Koesler had lost count of the number of languages in which the Pope was proving himself fluent.
The time had come. As each Cardinal knelt before him, the Pope placed a biretta on the head of the new Prince of the Church, intoning, ‘For the praise of the omnipotent God and for the honor of the Apostolic See, receive the red hat, symbol of the great dignity of the Cardinalate, which means that you must show yourself to be fearless even to the shedding of blood for the exaltation of the Holy Faith, for the peace and tranquility of the Christian people, and for the liberty and expansion of the Holy Roman Church.”
At the words, “the shedding of blood,” Koesler was arrested by the memory of the slain Cardinal Claret and the airport attack on Cardinal Boyle. Clearly, the Pope’s words were not empty ones. For whatever reason, the Cardinal Archbishop of Toronto had shed his blood in violent death. And, if not for the alertness and swift action of Inspector Koznicki just a few days ago, Cardinal Boyle might not have lived to hear those words. Koesler wondered what thoughts were going through Boyle’s mind at this minute.
The attacks were incomprehensible to Koesler. The phenomenon of a deeply insecure person seeking instant fame by assaulting someone famous was, as Koznicki had sadly noted, becoming all too increasingly common. But Koesler, while accepting the explanation, could not understand it. And Cardinal Claret? Was his murder the same manifestation of a modern phenomenon, or was there something deeper, more sinister involved?
Ceremony completed, the exit recessional had begun. Now each Cardinal wore his new biretta. Again the applause. Again the cordon of Swiss Guards surrounding the Pope. Anyone determined to make the pontiff shed blood would have to smash his way through a phalanx of tall stalwart young men.
Koesler made his way out of the hall and down the seemingly infinite steps. Clearly, it was lots easier going down than coming up. He continued across St. Peter’s Square to the far section where the buses huddled like a herd of elephants.
As he was walking along the row of vehicles, Koesler heard his name called. Turning quickly, he struck his head against an outside rearview mirror on one of the buses. Feeling blood running down his face, he quickly put a handkerchief to the wound.
“Hey, Bob; sorry!” It was Father Brandon. “I wouldn’t have called to you if I had thought this would happen.”
“That’s all right; my own stupid fault . . . how bad is it?”
Brandon examined the wound in the bright glow of the bus’ headlight. “Not bad. Little more than a scratch. But you know how head wounds bleed.”
“Lucky I didn’t break my glasses.” Koesler applied as much pressure as he could to the cut. If it was as small as Brandon had described, it should clot in a matter of minutes. Meanwhile, with the blood that had already splotched the right side of his face, he looked as if he had been in a street fight.
“Just like a Cardinal,” Brandon commented.
“How’s that?”
“They get a commission to go out and shed their blood and they send some poor priest to do it for them.”
3.
“‘Venus of Cnidus—Roman Copy after Praxiteles.’ Hmmm.”
They walked on.
“‘Sleeping Ariadne—Imperial Roman Art.’ Hmmm.”
And on.
“‘Bathing Venus—Roman Copy after a Bronze Original by the Bithynian Artist Doidalses.’ Hmmm.” Joe Cox turned to his companion. “So what do you think it is; do you suppose women were built differently back then?”
Pat Lennon smiled. “Large ladies, aren’t they?”
Lennon and Cox were in the middle of the Pio-Clementino Museum on a route they hoped would lead them to the famed Sistine Chapel. There were no affiliated ceremonies scheduled for today, so, as was the case with most of the entourage associated with the new Cardinals, they had gone sightseeing.
“It’s not just that they’re large,” said Cox, “it’s that each and every one of these statues depicts a very zaftig lady. And I’ve got to assume the artists were not doing posters for Weight Watchers.”
“You’ve got to admit they’re shapely.”
“Oh, yes. Hourglass figures. Except that their hours look more like days.”
“This is a good lesson for you, Joe. It’s all relative. Until comparatively recently, only large, fleshy females were considered beautiful. Today’s slender models would have been considered unattractive. Men wanted their women amply endowed all over. Today, ‘amply endowed’ is Jayne Mansfield or Dolly Parton. It’s all a matter of taste . . .and tastes change.”
“The more there is of you, the more there is for me to love, eh?”
Lennon smiled again. “Feel cheated?”
Cox moved close and slid an arm around her waist. Far from feeling cheated, he was always proud to be in her company. She resembled a slightly taller, younger Brenda Vaccaro with that actress’ husky, sexy voice. And she was a first-class journalist to boot.
“Watch it, Cox!” She laughed. “This is the Vatican. You want to create bad thoughts for some Swiss Guard?”
They wandered on through the museums, gazing at figures of statuesque women and superbly muscled men.
“Hey,” Cox called from several feet away, reading from a small sign attached to a windowsill, “there’s hope. Here’s a sign that gives directions for the Sistine Chapel.”
“Really? Which way is it?”
“These are not directions for finding it. They are directions on the decorum expected in it if you fi
nd it.”
“Oh . . . and what do they suggest?”
“These are not suggestions. They read more like instructions.”
“Like what?”
“Well, it points out that the Sistine Chapel is a sacred place. You’ve got to wear modest clothing, and you’re expected to observe a reverential silence.”
“That makes sense, I guess.”
It was not long afterward that they found the steps leading to that structure distinct in so many ways from all others.
“Modest clothing!” warned Cox.
“Reverential silence!” affirmed Lennon.
Actually, they heard the Sistine Chapel before they saw it. And when they did see it, the scene brought to mind the Tower of Babel. Throughout the chapel, clusters of tourists gathered about their guides. That which differentiated one group from another was language. Here a German bunch, there a French, here a Polish, there an English, and so on. Many members of each group, in the age-old tourist custom, were chatting with their fellows. Thus the guides had to deliver their spiels at nearly peak volume.
It took Cox and Lennon several minutes to adjust their hearing as well as their psychological sensitivities to this cacophony. Once adjusted, they decided to explore together the marvels of Michelangelo and friends.
Father Koesler had found the chapel about half an hour earlier and had attached himself to the fringe of a tour being conducted in English. From a distance of only a few feet, he found it a definite challenge to hear and understand the guide, who was speaking very loudly, if not distinctly.
“This building,” the guide was saying, “is a bit more than five hundred years old. It was built in the reign of Pope Sixtus IV by Giovannino de’ Dolci, based on plans by Baccio Pontelli. The Sistine is the Pope’s official private chapel. In addition to many liturgical functions, the conclaves for the papal elections are held here.”
Koesler’s gaze was fixed on the famed ceiling. Michelangelo’s ceiling art was so busy the priest couldn’t decide what to focus on first. There was the renowned creation of man wherein God reaches out to touch the finger of a flaccid Adam. Human life is about to begin.
“The pavement is a prominent example of fifteenth century Roman mosaic artistry,” the guide went on. “The two groups of six frescoes each on the main walls depict events in the life of Moses, the ‘liberator of Israel,’ over there,” she pointed to the left, “and events in the life of Christ, the ‘liberator of all mankind,’ over there,” she indicated the group to the right.
Or, thought Koesler, still examining the ceiling, there is the scene of the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise. How many times had he seen these celebrated paintings reproduced in framed prints, in textbooks, magazines, seemingly everywhere. He was deeply moved that he was actually in the presence of Michelangelo’s original work.
“After discarding his initial design,” the guide had now caught up to Koesler and was explaining the ceiling, “which involved the depiction of the twelve Apostles, Michelangelo decided to relate his work to that already existing on the walls, where the history of mankind is depicted. His subjects were the Biblical stories of the Creation, Adam and Eve, the Flood, and the resumption of life on dry land by Noah and his family.”
Ah, yes, there was the drunken Noah and his naughty children over in the corner of the ceiling, near the top of the entrance to the chapel. Head tilted back, Koesler had been looking at the ceiling so long he was finding it difficult to breathe. He dropped his gaze to the crowd and massaged his neck. One problem with looking at the ceiling for an extended period was that it hurt.
There was something different about that man. What was he doing? He seemed to be contemplating his hand, which he held at belt level, palm upright. Curious. He just stood there, studying his palm. Then Koesler was able to see that the man was holding a thin, flat object in his open hand. It was a mirror. The clever fellow was looking at the Sistine ceiling as reflected in the mirror he was holding! Koesler marveled at the simplicity of it. There was one person who would suffer no crick in his neck. It was too late for Koesler, but he would be telling others of this marvelous discovery.
“That is Somebody,” said Pat Lennon.
“Undoubtedly,” Joe Cox acknowledged.
“No, not him. Him. . . the guy in the simple black cassock. He just came into the chapel. I caught a glimpse of him as he entered. I thought I recognized him, but I wasn’t sure. I can’t place him, but I think he’s somebody important.”
“Want me to go ask him? ‘Excuse-a me, sir, but are you somebody important?’”
“Joe!”
“He’s probably a humble Italian parish priest, just come in to join the crowd. In a little while, we’ll know.”
“How?”
“If I’m right, he’ll take up a collection.”
The unimposing clergyman in the plain black cassock stood, hands locked behind his back, before the Rosselli panel, Moses Receives the Tables of the Law. Cardinal Giulanio Gattari visited the Sistine Chapel each Thursday morning as faithfully as possible. He knew the Sistine as a lover knows his beloved. At each visit, the Cardinal, wearing a simple black cassock for anonymity’s sake, would select an appropriate painting as a source for meditation. It was a tribute to his power of concentration as well as to his familiarity with the chapel that he was capable of meditating amid its constant turmoil and hubbub.
The painting before which he now stood was a montage of Moses receiving the Law, descending from the mountain, and breaking the tablets, as well as a depiction of the unfaithful Israelites worshiping their golden calf.
Everyone breaking the law, Gattari mused. The Israelites breaking the First Commandment. Moses breaking all ten.
Ah, Moses, he thought; what a thankless task was yours! You wanted no part of the whole thing. But you were called to confront the Pharaoh and announce God’s message to let His people go. Then you led them through the desert. Never did they have faith in you. They argued with you and questioned you at every turn. They treated their God no better. Even you were led to call them a stiff-necked people.
And what of me? Gattari continued in reverie. What if Providence does, indeed, place me in the Chair of Peter? It would be no accident. It would be a combination of a smiling fate and my own ambition. But there is no doubt: I am in the favored position. No one stands between me and the Papacy but Leo XIV. And he is an old man. No matter how carefully they guard him, he cannot live forever. He cannot live much longer. Then nothing will stand between me and my destiny but a sacred consistory.
Now, I must torture myself with the unending question: What am I to do with it once I gain it? Why do I want it? Why should anyone? Like Moses, I would gain leadership over a stiff-necked people. Some demand more progress. Others insist on a return to a day that can never be recaptured. I can anticipate no more respect, obedience, or fealty than has been accorded Leo. Why do I want it? At this point, what could I do to avoid it? Must I pray ad multos annos for Leo, that doddering old fool!
“In the Last Judgment, on the altar wall,” the guide intoned, “the central figure is Christ as Judge, right hand raised in a violent gesture of condemnation. At his right, in the shadow of his uplifted arm, is the Blessed Mother. To his left is St. Peter, holding the Keys to the Kingdom, one in each hand.”
Koesler was grateful for no longer having his attention called to the ceiling. He studied the wall. It was a terrifying vision of Judgment. As usual, going to heaven seemed relatively uninteresting compared with the terror of being dragged into hell.
“Down below,” the guide continued, “is the entrance to hell, with the boat of Charon, in accordance with Dante’s description, overflowing with the souls of the damned, and Minos, king of the nether world, whom Michelangelo—adding the ears of an ass—characterized as Monsignor Biagio Martinelli, Pope Paul II’s master of ceremonies, who had criticized Michelangelo’s work.”
Koesler was staring at what appeared to be an enormous patch of black paint. He wondered
why Michelangelo would simply waste so much valuable space. Then he saw it. Just the hint of a contorted face, six white teeth in a shrieking mouth, and eyes that long for what they can never possess. It was the head of a damned soul in the cave of hell. Terrifying!
His sense of horror was amplified and intensified at that instant as a scream came from the rear of the chapel.
“Oh! No! No!” It was a scream as much of dread as of surprise.
“Joe! Joe! Look!” Pat Lennon pointed.
Cox, following her gesture, saw the black-cassocked priest they had previously noted crumble to the floor. A knife was buried in his chest. His blood was flowing freely.
A large black man bent over the writhing figure. In an instant, he straightened, turned, and ran from the chapel. Cox dashed after him. Screams and shouts filled the chapel as tourists shrank from the wounded cleric. The first to move to him were Pat Lennon and Father Koesler.
Cox pursued the younger, stronger, faster man down library corridors, through museum settings, past coin collections. Whereinhell was the Swiss Guard now that he needed them! Added to Cox’s handicaps was the fact that the assailant had a knack of running through and over people and obstacles, while Cox had to go around them. Although, truth to tell, in a straightaway race, Cox would never have been able to catch up with, let alone head the man.
At long last—although it really hadn’t been that long—Cox gave up—or rather gave out. Chest heaving, he stood in the middle of a long corridor, as a group of tourists stared wide-eyed at him.
Slowly, gasping and panting, he made his way back to the chapel. Most of the people who had been there were still there. A small group was clustered around the victim. In that group were Lennon and Koesler. Several of what seemed to be paramedics had placed the victim on a stretcher and were taking him away.
Cox noticed that the sheet covering the cleric had not been pulled over his face. Cox hoped that signified in Italy what it did in the United States, that the victim was still alive.
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