by David Perry
“They only know that it happened.” His companion, an older—much older—Italian monsignor spat sotto voce.
“Everyone knows that.”
“Yes. But they want to know more. That could be a problem.”
“Yes.”
The two informants looked out over Vatican Square from the promenade of the papal residence. Workmen were busily putting up banners and barricades for the Pope’s birthday in ten days. He had mingled with prostitutes, visited a homeless shelter, and washed the feet of a Muslim woman in jail. He had been pope for less than a year and already people were ready to make him a saint. He was a finalist—and shoo-in—for Time Magazine’s Person of the Year. The power of public relations.
“Does he know?” The novice indicated with a nod of his head. To their left, a rigidly handsome Swiss Guard stood outside the new pope’s quarters. Three hundred meters away, down several corridors and behind four more doors, another Switzer guarded the new Pontiff’s predecessor, the first Pope Emeritus in history. Francis and Benedict: the Roman Odd Couple.
The senior prelate answered the question with a question. “The Holy Father?”
His co-conspirator nodded in the affirmative.
The elderly cleric arched his eyebrow. “Which one?”
Just then, the young man’s vestments started to vibrate. He took the phone out of his pocket and turned the screen to his companion. They both crossed themselves.
“Magda.”
CHAPTER XXX
Papal Audience
Saturday, December 7, 2013, midday, Rome
“Remember, just dial 39 08 243-3746, by phone or fax! Easy to remember the number! That’s country code Italy, city code Rome, and the numbers spell cheerio!”
Cedric was finishing up a call but put down the phone and positively twinkled as Lee and Adriano made their way to the counter with their luggage.
“Oh,” he said with a faux pout of his seductive lips. “Checking out so soon, Adriano and, and…?”
“Lee.”
“Yes.” Cedric turned back to Adriano. “Lee, of course, like Bruce Lee.”
“Like Robert E.” Lee glared, with a smile. “May we leave our luggage here while we do some last-day sightseeing?”
“Well of course.” And Cedric dashed from behind the counter and grabbed Adriano’s luggage with a wink. “I’ll put it right here behind the counter until you’re ready to head back to, where was it?”
“Orvieto,” said Lee, tossing his overnight bag to Cedric, who caught it nimbly against his chest.
“Of course. Lovely town. I have, ah, friends there myself! What a small world! We’ll have to get together for drinks…or something when I’m next up there.”
Adriano felt like a play toy caught between dueling puppies. “Yes, that would be great.”
“Yes,” Lee interjected. “Something. We’ll be back for our bags around seven p.m. Our train is at 8:15 p.m. We’re going to play tourists until then.”
“Oh, my goodness, I almost forgot!” Cedric started shuffling papers on his desk. “That lovely lady priest from next door dropped this envelope off for the both of you. Said to make sure you got it before you left for the day. I almost forgot. I’m just so distracted this morning. I don’t know what has gotten into me!”
I know what you’d like to get into you, Adriano thought, opening the envelope and pulling out two gold-embossed pieces of paper that looked for all the world like the golden tickets from Willie Wonka & the Chocolate Factory.
“Sweet Jesus. We’re going to see the Pope!”
“Yowza. You’d think it was a Madonna concert.”
“With this many people, you’d think it was the Madonna.”
Adriano and Lee hopped out of the cab a block away from the Basilica of St. Paul’s Outside the Walls. The crowd was already immense, and the service wasn’t supposed to start for an hour.
“Jesus Christ,” sighed Adriano.
“Not quite,” said Lee in a hope for humor to ward off the duel promise of Adriano’s Pope-o-phobia and dislike of crowds. “But, close enough.”
“Tell me again why we’re here,” said Adriano through pursed lips. Lee could sense his husband’s religious antipathy rising with every breath.
“It’s an ecumenical prayer service with the various leaders of Rome’s other churches and synagogues. I think there’s even a few imams here,” Lee said. “Every church in Rome got six tickets. At the last minute, two of Reverend Vicky’s congregation said they couldn’t go.”
“There must be over 5,000 people here!”
Lee shrugged. “Yes, well, do the math. There are more than nine hundred churches in Rome.”
Adriano gritted his teeth.
Lee offered his most charming “Sorry, I love you” face and hoped for the best. It was a Hail Mary, he knew.
“Well, at least we have tickets.” Adriano sighed in resignation and Lee relaxed a bit. That was what ten years of a happy marriage would do for you. One partner dragged his atheist husband to see the Pope and the godless heathen pretended not to mind. Ain’t love grand.
“I know you hate this,” said Lee.
“Actually, not,” said Adriano. “I mean, it’s the Pope. I’m curious. Plus, think how much fun Don Bello will have teasing me about this when we get back to Orvieto.”
“He’s a good priest.”
“He’s a good person,” corrected Adriano. “I’m turning the other cheek when it comes to his perverse religious affiliations.”
Lee rolled his eyes. “Come along, muffin. The line is over there.”
In point of fact, the line was everywhere and nowhere. As Adriano and Lee drew closer to the front of the cathedral, they had their first experience of Roman police efficiency. There was none.
“Magda would be horrified,” said Lee as he and Adriano pushed their way through the sea of nuns, monks, cardinals, and carabinieri. “This is a security nightmare! She’d never allow this. Thank God we have tickets!”
“Lee, honey.” Adriano tapped his husband on the shoulder and pointed to a gaggle of Filipino nuns elbowing their way through a phalanx of Nigerian divinity students. “They all have tickets.”
Lee looked up in despair. Adriano was right. Everyone was waving their Willie Wonkas. Priests, rabbis, and a smattering of orthodox-ordained were all pushing like a football scrum toward the line of Italian police whose perimeter seemed to consist of nothing but a sultry queue of lit cigarettes. Ineffective as a security detail, Italian police were nonetheless hard to top in the looks department. It was like a gay gear party on Halloween in San Francisco. So much for VIP access. This wasn’t reserved seating. It was ticketed chaos.
“Quick, over there. Follow that nun!”
Adriano grabbed Lee by the arm and kept pace with a portly Carmelite who would have put an Irish rugby squad to shame. Back and forth she tacked and veered like a galleon under sail, her habit billowing and rosary jingling as she pushed forward through the crowd of papalophiles.
“How are you doing?” Lee yelled to be heard over the cicada-like buzz of singing sisters, chanting monks, and hawking street vendors yelling, “Papa Francesco! Papa Francesco!”
“I’m fine.” Adriano smiled wanly, following in the Carmelite’s wake. “Just keep moving. Oh, excuse me, Sister.”
Finally, they were at the front of the crowd. The congregational mass was getting squeezed two-by-two into a tiny entry funnel guarded by a muscular carabinieri frisking everyone before they entered the sanctuary.
“You touch mi private parts and I’ll smack yi all the way to Kilarny,” Adriano’s nun escort hissed at the handsome policeman reaching for her wimple.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Adriano offered in Italian with a smile to the youthful cop. In a tactical retreat, he let the nun slip through but gave Adriano a not-so-swift once-over.
“Grazie,” he said as he leered with a tip of his hat, giving Lee a cursory pat-down and then pushing them both through.
“You get all
the luck,” Lee said.
Adriano just smiled. “It’s a gift.”
Once through the security cordon, the crowd took off in a run toward the basilica’s massively carved bronze doors. A fleet of selfie sticks were navigating through the mass of religious orders all vying for the best seating. The tickets get you in, but then you are on your own, Lee thought.
“Over here,” Adriano motioned. “There are some empty seats near the back and all the ones up front are already taken. The altar’s too far away to see the Pope anyway, unless you have binoculars.”
Lee frowned, but knew his husband was right. The vast interior of the basilica was quickly filling up. There was no way they’d be close enough to actually share face time with the Pontiff. Also, Lee knew that the closer to the exit—and to air—the better for Adriano. “These are great, honey. Next to the door.”
Adriano exhaled in relief and they slipped into a pew two back from the rear and picked up two glossy programs filled with details about tonight’s services and various historical factoids. You had to give it to Gorgeous George and the Vatican PR team. They knew how to market. The not-inexpensive book was embossed with the Vatican crest.
“Fancy,” Adriano said, flipping through the booklet, always the designer. “They didn’t get this printed in China.”
For the next few minutes, seminarians and the occasional monsignori squeezed by to get to their seats in the middle. Adriano and Lee held firm to their positions.
“Thank you,” Adriano said once they were settled.
“For what?”
“For letting me sit near the exit. I know you wanted to see the Pope, but I can’t stand crowds. I’ll hyperventilate.”
“I know,” Lee said, squeezing his husband’s thigh. “It’s fine. I’m here and that’s more than most homosexuals from San Francisco can say. Plus, it will be easier to get out when it’s over.”
“Wow, check out the ceiling!”
Lee followed Adriano’s gaze upward. There ringing the entire perimeter of the vast nave were immense, glittering portraits of the popes in oval frames.
“That’s right. I’d forgotten about that,” said Lee. “They’re all there, all the popes from St. Peter all the way to Benedict. Pope Francis’s mosaic is being completed this week, just in time for his birthday. See, there’s a blank space for Francis just to the left of Benedict.”
“They’re running out of room,” Adriano said, holding up his iPhone to get a photo. “There’s only four spaces left after Francis.”
“And when they do, that’s it. According to legend, the final spot filled indicates the last pope. The Antichrist will be unleashed on earth and the end of the world will commence.”
“As I recall,” said Adriano, pocketing his phone, “there are some prophecies that say that the final pope will be the Antichrist.”
“I’m sure you think they’re all the Antichrist.”
“You said it, not me. Besides the rogues’ gallery, what’s so special about this church? Except that it’s enormous.”
“This is St. Paul’s Outside the Walls, meaning outside the ancient walls of Rome.”
“And Reverend Vicky’s church is St. Paul’s inside the walls?”
“Exactly. This church”—Lee motioned around him—“is one of Rome’s four papal basilicas, along with St. Peter’s, St. John Lateran, and St. Mary Maggiorre. St. Paul’s is the only one not within the actual city limits of Rome and is second in size only to St. Peter’s. According to tradition, this church is built on the exact site where St. Paul was beheaded and buried.”
“The most homophobic of saints,” Adriano said, almost spitting. “I suppose his head is here somewhere in a golden urn.”
“No,” Lee deadpanned. “Just his body. His head’s in St. John Lateran.”
Adriano just threw up his hands. “Okay, so officially we’re not within Rome at the moment.”
“Technically, we’re not even in Italy. We’re on the land of another sovereign country, Vatican City. That’s why you don’t see any Italian or Roman police inside the courtyard. They control security, as it were, outside, but inside those guys are in charge. The Swiss Guard. Here, there’s a photo in tonight’s program. I’ve seen it before online, bunches of times. Google ‘Swiss Guard images’ and this is what pops up.”
Lee found the page and read the caption under a lineup of Switzers, clearly at Mass.
6 May 2006: His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI offers the Body of Christ to new recruits of the Swiss Guard during a Papal Mass in St. Peter’s Basilica to mark the 500th Anniversary of the Swiss Guard. The Pontiff expressed his gratitude to the legion for their service to the Papacy over the centuries.
Adriano and Lee looked around. Sure enough, at every door and in every niche were members of one of the world’s most famous military units.
“Go on, I know you’re dying to tell me. What’s special about the Swiss Guard?”
Lee perked up. “Well, since the late 1400s, the Swiss provided the best and most talented mercenaries in the world. A lot of European royal families used them for security. Switzerland used to be quite a poor county, and of course, geographically because of the mountains, is quite cut off from the rest of Europe. Certainly it was five hundred years ago. Anyway, it was very common for young Swiss boys to hire themselves out as professional soldiers and they gained quite a reputation for bravery. So much so that the Popes started using them for personal security, starting with Julius the Second.”
Adriano shook his head. “How do you remember this stuff?”
“I read a lot, and I saw the Agony and Ecstasy nine times.”
“Continue.”
“They were actually just one of several military groups protecting the Papal States until May of 1527. That’s when your guy, Charles the Fifth of Spain—”
“Holy Roman Emperor. Yes, we Spaniards know that.”
“Well, Charles the Fifth and the Pope ended up on opposite sides of the Italian wars. Pope Clement was hedging his bets, trying to see who would be the most supportive of keeping the Papal States independent. Clement threw in his lot with King Francis of France. Charles got annoyed and his troops sacked Rome, forcing Clement to flee to Orvieto.”
“So, the Swiss Guard fought against Charles.”
“Kind of. They held back Charles’s army until the last moment to give Clement time to escape. Over a hundred Swiss Guards were killed, right on the steps of St. Peter’s Rome. Look, here’s another picture from that same day. Benedict swearing in the fresh recruits.”
They both read from the program.
Thirty-three new members of “The Pope’s Army”—The Swiss Guard—take their vows on the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica, the same spot where 147 out of 180 Swiss Guards were killed defending Pope Clement VII during the Sack of Rome on 6 May 1527.
“So, what about now? They don’t look like an elite fighting force. Those outfits look more like jesters’ costumes.”
“It’s tradition,” said Lee. “Although it’s probably apocryphal, Michelangelo was supposed to have designed their uniforms. The colors are purposeful too. The blue is from the family crest of Pope Julius’s family. The red was chosen by Leo the Tenth, the gay Medici pope, from his coat of arms.”
“They’re the froofiest uniforms I’ve ever seen.”
“Don’t be fooled,” said Lee. “Underneath those poofy pants and Renaissance helmets are some of the hardest bodies and best-trained killing machines around. And, you can’t volunteer. To this day, to even be considered for membership in the Swiss Guard, you have to be a male Swiss citizen between the ages of nineteen and thirty, have attended a Swiss military school, be at least five feet seven inches tall, and hold a professional degree or high school diploma. Oh, and you have to be single.”
“Bet they have fun in the barracks.”
“Well, yes, that’s the point. The final requirement is that all members of the Swiss Guard possess the highest ethics and impeccable morals.”
“I
’d never have made it.”
“No,” Lee said, “citizenship aside. But you do look hot dressed up in a uniform.”
“Pervert.”
Lee smiled. “Actually, the reputation of the Swiss Guards has suffered a good deal over the last few years. Back in the late nineties, there was a gay love triangle and murder. Quite the scandal. One of the guards shot his commander, supposedly his lover, then the commander’s wife, and then turned the gun on himself. Since then, there have been a lot of rumors that there was a gay cabal within the walls of Vatican City. Cardinals and priests setting up sex parties and members of the Swiss Guard hiring themselves out as prostitutes. Actually, the rumor is that Pope Benedict resigned because of the gay Vatileaks revelations.”
“Vatileaks… Oh yes. I remember reading about that online. A few months before Pope Benedict resigned his private butler sold a bunch of the Pope’s private papers to the press. The stories read like a trashy novel, as I recall.”
“Some people think it’s ultimately what led to Benedict’s unprecedented abdication. Popes have been murdered, but never resigned—well, at least not for over six hundred years. Pope Gregory resigned in the 1400s.”
“What flaming hypocrites, all of them,” Adriano harrumphed. “I bet you with a little work I could hack into Grindr and find a passel of Vatican sodomites. Now that would be worthy use of my technical skills. The Church has done more to perpetrate hatred and violence against gay men and women than any institution in the world, and I do mean any.”
“Well, yes,” said Lee. “I remember when I was thinking about the priesthood, I discovered just how gay was my church. I read a story once that over sixty percent of priests are gay.”
“Amazing,” said Adriano flatly. “And me from two Catholic countries and somehow I never managed to have sex with a priest.”
“I’ll wear a collar and you can seduce me sometime.” Lee winked.
“Bless me, Father, for I will sin.” Adriano leered, reaching his hand under Lee’s thigh.
“Be careful,” Lee said, letting his husband’s hand slip farther under his rump. “The popes are watching.”