by David Perry
“I am sorry,” was all Don Bello said. “I am so very, very sorry.”
“I know you are,” said Lee, looking deep into Don Bello’s eyes and squeezing tight his hands. “I know. I know.”
The three men sat, crying, and holding one another in their tears.
Suddenly, the door to the sacristy swung open and Marco strode in, complete with caftan, crown, and gold cup filled with myrrh.
“Welcome, my Lord Balthasar of Arabia,” said Don Bello with waving hands of saalam, all of them grateful for Marco’s tension-slicing entrance. Lee and Adriano pulled themselves up and joined the priest in faux enthusiasm. “I assume the trio is complete? Their majesties Gaspar of India and Melchior of Persia await outside on their steads, yes?”
“Si, Don Bello. Ciao, Adriano. Ciao, Lee,” said Marco, kissing them all in turn. “But there are three other visitors here that want to see you. Three other wise men.”
Marco stepped aside to reveal the Magi: Reverend Vicky, Archbishop Arnaud, eye patch in place, and someone who Adriano and Lee had never before met, someone who had not set foot in Orvieto for over a year. Lee looked deep into the kindly eyes of the man in front of him, and before Don Bello spoke his name, Lee knew who he was.
“Bishop Sancarlo. Welcome home.”
CHAPTER LXIII
Upon This Rock
Wednesday, January 8, 2014, 12:00 noon, Rome
The last few days of their sojourn in Orvieto were surreal for Adriano and Lee. As if a terrorist cell coordinated out of the Vatican Press Office, being kidnapped by an unhinged cardinal, and breaking open a sex trafficking ring with clues hidden on a medieval purgatory prayer board, not to mention the revelation of barely scabbed fascist-era wounds, a Nazi war criminal, rogue bishops, and forbidden Catholic women priests ordained on water were not enough, what was truly strange about their ultimate week in Orvieto was how all of the preceding had suddenly receded into the background as if nothing had happened. La Donna Volsini provided Lee with a fresh cannoli and a folded crossword puzzle every day (although she did smile more). Marco would sneak Adriano cigarettes and Lee would pretend not to notice. The Tower of the Moor rang out the hours. The sun set over San Giovanale and rose over the Duomo. Clemente the cat ruled over all, although Lee thought he detected an even greater sense of feline superiority. The only subtle nod to the capture and death of the greatest mass murderer since WWII was at St. Patrick’s Well, where a handwritten sign was hastily hung: “Chiuso per pulizia.”
“Well, of course,” Adriano had observed two nights ago as they were getting ready for a farewell dinner at the home of La Donna Volsini following the Living Nativity. “Everyone we know in Orvieto was in on the plot, and they ain’t talking.”
Their last evening in Orvieto had been quite jovial, in a strained sort of way. La Donna Volsini had cooked every Umbrian specialty in her repertoire, ably assisted by her grandson Marco. The youngest Orvietani, newborn Luca—“named for the man who saved our lives,” according to his mother, Maryam—had pride of place in a bassinette in the corner, doted over by everyone, especially his namesake. It was pretty obvious that Maryam and her German savior were fast becoming an item. Hmmmm, Lee thought, would that make Magda a grandmother? He shuddered at the potential conversation: I’m not going to die in that ditch.
Don Bello sat quietly in the corner, stroking Clemente the cat and chatting with Dawud. Grigori and Clarissa Bernardone, Andrea’s mother, seemed lost in thought, a melancholy pair, obviously with their thoughts on the absent Andrea. They left together, earlier than the rest, but not unusually so. Reverend Vicky, Bishop Sancarlo, and Arnaud were not in attendance, evidently having gone on a retreat somewhere north to contemplate the events of the last year and rekindle their friendship. The dinner was heavy on pasta but light on painful topics.
“Clearly Lady Peg has been kept in the dark,” said Lee. “I’m quite sure she wasn’t invited, and no one is granting interviews to her.”
In point of fact, Lady Peg had made herself scarce since Three Kings Day. She had walked, no, rather slalomed into the garden at San Giovanale in an even-for-her over-the-top ensemble, including a hat decked with holly and reindeer motif. She looked like a sleigh ready for flight.
“She left pretty quick,” Adriano had said and laughed. “As soon as she saw the reunited Holy Trinity—or should I say, the Magi—of Vicar Vicky, Bishop Sancarlo, and her beloved Archbishop Arnaud standing at the manger, she knew the gig was up. All of her bitchy and pithy blog posts would certainly come back to haunt her.”
“Don Bello told me she had decamped to Sicily for a bit,” said Lee. “She had seen Arnaud’s eye patch and wanted the full 411 and to write about his convalescence. I gather that Don Bello finally told her what he really felt, and she hightailed it to the slopes of Etna.”
The morning after the dinner, they awoke early, leaving their bags just inside the door for pickup later. Marco would drive them to the train station. As they exited, they were met outside by an escort.
“Clemente,” Lee crooned, reaching down to pick up the cat in a hug. The furry-eyebrowed feline gave a look making clear such intentions were unwelcome. However, he did tag along.
“OK,” said Lee. “There’s one last thing to do.”
“Actually, two things,” Adriano reminded, and off they went, including Clemente.
First, they walked to the British War Cemetery, a pristine quadrangle of perfectly manicured grass with 188 gravestones from the delayed battle of Orvieto manipulated by the fathers of Magda and Reverend Vicky.
“Truly, life is stranger than fiction,” Adriano said.
“If he hadn’t been wounded at Monte Cassino, Brian might have ended up here,” Lee said.
“In a way, he did,” said Adriano. “He did.”
Afterward, their final stop in Orvieto was obvious. The grave of Andrea Bernadone. It took them a while to find it, but, as usual, Clemente did the honors.
“There’s something strange about that cat,” said Lee, as Clemente lay down at the foot of a marble wall of shining funerary drawers. It was on the third and top tier:
Diacono Andrea Bernadone
30 Novembre 1983–30 Novembre 2012
Figlio di Dio
Amato da Orvieto
“Child of God,” said Lee, no translation needed.
“Beloved of Orvieto,” Adriano added.
A vase of fresh flowers stood on the small ledge in front of the crypt, next to a long-burning votive candle. On the face of the tomb, a photo of Andrea’s smiling face. It was a well- and oft-tended grave.
“It’s the picture we found in Bagnoregio,” said Adriano.
“Yes,” said Lee. “He looks happy. In that photo, I think he was.”
Now, having said their goodbyes, and tearful ones at that, Adriano and Lee found themselves in Rome for two all-expenses-paid nights at the Exedra, a ridiculously lavish hotel not far—but otherwise quite a world away—from the Hotel Byron.
“Oh, shoot,” Lee teased. “Poor Cedric will be devaste not to see you again.”
“I kinda like that you’re jealous,” Adriano said, pinching his husband’s butt as they sat sipping midmorning martinis on the Exedra’s pricey piazza, all courtesy of the Italian Ambassador’s Office.
“Which means, of course,” said Lee, polishing off his drink, “courtesy of Magda.”
“Are there strings in any country she can’t pull?”
“Probably not,” And they raised their glasses to Magda.
“We’re just down the street from St. Paul’s Outside the Walls,” said Adriano. “Should we stop in and say goodbye to Vicky?”
“She’s not there, remember? Evidently, she, Bishop Sancarlo, and Arnaud are on some sort of spiritual getaway,” said Lee, popping an olive into his mouth. “Poor one-eyed Arnaud. It’s a miracle he didn’t die in St. Patrick’s Well.”
“Maltoni’s body beneath him helped break the fall. Of course, he’s quite blind in one eye.”
Lee shud
dered at the memory of Maltoni’s cigarette piercing Arnaud’s face and the threat, unrealized, that Adriano would be next.
“Actually,” Adriano continued, “he probably wasn’t looking forward to a meal cooked by La Donna Volsini. Likely afraid that she was going to poison him again.”
“Not poison,” Lee corrected. “Remember, Marco told us all about it. She just wanted to pay him back a little for all the hurt he had caused in years past.”
“Even if for the last year, secretly, he had been on their covert team.”
“Exactly,” nodded Lee. “Don Bello may have absolved Cardinal Maltoni of his crimes, but La Donna….”
“A Volsini never forgets.”
“Hmmm,” Lee muttered to himself, as his lips started to twitch, a sure sign of his brain at work. To his mind, everything had been wrapped up just a bit too tightly for comfort. And, there was the one final question he wanted to ask. However, now, there was no one around to receive the query.
“Scusa, Signori.” An impeccably dressed and persistently perky Italian steward presented himself at their table, a gold-embossed envelope on a silver tray at the ready. “This has just been hand-delivered for you. I am to wait for a reply.”
Adriano reached for the envelope, took one glance, then whistled. “I think you should open this,” he said, passing it to his husband.
The gilt-embossed stationary was impossible to mistake, the Latin inscription unique to one person on earth.
“Miserando atque eligendo,” Lee read, translating from the Latin. “Choose mercy.” Carefully opening the document, Lee silently read, then turned to the messenger. “We accept.” Then to a nonplussed Adriano he said, “Upon this rock.”
The Swiss Guard standing at languid parade rest at St. Anne’s Gate wasn’t quite up to the pulchritudinous standards set by Grigori, but not by much.
“Damn,” Lee whispered as they waited for admittance to the normally off-limits sections of the Vatican crypt. As a parting gift, Magda had arranged for a private tour of St. Peter’s Tomb, something most decidedly not on the regular tourist rota. “Where do they recruit these guys?”
“Swiss gyms,” Adriano smirked, eyeing the pouty Teutonic hunk stationed at the most prestigious of Vatican City’s private entrances. “They all look like they should be shooting a Bel Ami video.”
“Knowing Grigori, it’s entirely possible,” Lee said, wondering what had become of their studly rescuer. Don Bello had said something about maneuvers with a special private security firm that recruited former Switzers and members of the Italian armed forces, but had been rather vague—intentionally, Lee thought—about his specific whereabouts.
“Bitte! Folge mi!” A member of the Pope’s elite guard, equally hard-bodied and purposefully petulant, presented himself, saluted his posted comrade, and motioned for Adriano and Lee to follow.
Even Lee had understood that command.
Then, switching into heavily accented English. “From here on, there is no talking, and no photos. Verstanden?”
“Jawohl,” Adriano answered for them both with a naughty grin. “We understand.”
It was a Bel Ami movie, Lee thought, giggling inwardly. This was the intro before the good stuff. A few minutes later, and after more than a few marbled turns and stony descents, they stopped before a simple but impregnable steel door. Their Swiss German escort knocked firmly on the metal portal, six sharp evenly spaced raps on the frame and three staccato taps on the door itself.
With a slight hiss of escaping air and the squeak of long-closed hinges, the gate to the Vatican underworld swung open, pushed by a white cas-socked arm. The guard snapped to attention.
“Welcome, my children,” the old man said in smiling, albeit halting, English before switching to his native Spanish. “Hola, mis hijos. Bienvenido al Vaticano.”
To Lee’s disbelief, Adriano beat him to a ring-kissing genuflection.
“Pope Francis!”
Jorge Mario Bergoglio, now the 266th Bishop of Rome (give or take a few) led Adriano and Lee deep into the bowels of the Vatican necropolis. They were quite alone, the Swiss Guard having saluted rigidly and left them at the door. For about ten minutes, they walked in silence. I mean, please, Lee thought, how does one make small talk with the Pontifus Maximus in the St. Peter’s basement?
“Thank you for coming,” Pope Francis finally said, grinning, looking over his shoulder. He led them deeper into the crypt, with every step the path growing skinnier and the ceiling growing shorter. “I understand that I have much to thank you for.” He giggled slightly.
“I, ah, we…” Lee started to answer.
Pope Francis stopped and turned to the couple, coquettishly putting his fingers to his lips. “Shhhh. Now is not the time to talk. God gave you two ears and one mouth, so he meant for you to listen twice as much as he meant for you to talk, sí?” He turned to Adriano and smiled. “Es un placer conocerte, ambos. Y, muy agradable hablar en mi lengua materna. Estos italianos, ¿qué puedo decir, bárbaros, no?”
Adriano laughed out loud, his voice echoing off the thousand-year-old stones. “Sí, sí, Santo Padre, sí.”
“What did he say,” Lee whispered as the Supreme Head of the Roman Catholic Church turned back to continue his guided tour.
“He said it was nice to meet us and to speak his native tongue, Spanish, and that the Italians are barbarians.”
“Is-a true,” the Pope said over his shoulder in heavily accented English. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not infallible, but I do have very good hearing for an old man. Ah, here we are.”
The strange trinity had reached their destination, a blank stone wall with a small window.
“Take a look,” said the Pope with a smile. “Here. Here is what you have saved. Not many people get this close.”
Adriano and Lee squeezed past, unable to avoid touching in such tight quarters the world’s last true absolute monarch, and peered in.
“Super hanc petram ædificabo Ecclesiam meam,” said Lee in a whisper.
“Et portae inferi non praevalebunt adversus eam,” Pope Francisco answered back, also in Latin, and then translated immediately, “Upon this rock I shall build my church.”
“And the gates of hell shall not prevail against it,” replied Lee.
“The bones of Peter,” gasped Adriano.
“Si, claro,” said the Pope, once more slipping into Spanish. “Well, as close as we can ascertain. Of course, nothing is certain. But teams of archaeologists have assured us of the probability. The age of the bones is correct. The legendary placement under the high altar of St. Peter’s, although, that’s several basilicas ago. It all matches. Personally, I believe it, but it’s not important what I believe. What’s important is what it represents.”
“The Church,” said Adriano, without irony.
“No, mi hijo.” The Pope wagged his finger at Adriano. “Not the Church. The idea on which the Church was founded. Love. Love and the continuity of love. The bones,” the Pope shrugged, “I find them interesting in an academic sort of way. But the message of the bones, and the one who gave authority to these bones, that is the reason for my life, my vocation.”
“These were the final coordinates sewn into Maryam’s blouse,” Lee said with sudden illumination. “Maltoni was going to plant a bomb at the heart of St. Peter’s. Here, next to the bones of Peter.”
“Sí, that is what I’ve been told,” said the Pope with a sad sigh. “And, evidently his connections had secured, how do you say, a dirty bomb. Very strong, but also full of radioactive waste, taken from the illegal dumps in Southern Italy managed by the mafia.”
“He wanted to bring down St. Peter’s Basillica,” said Lee.
“He wanted to do much more than that,” added Adriano, again without any edge. He turned to Pope Francis. “He wanted to bring down the Church. He wanted to start a holy war. Imagine the outcry if the Vatican had been destroyed and Rome rendered radioactive by terrorists with ties, no matter how peripheral, to the Muslim world.�
��
“Yes.” Pope Francis shrugged in sad resignation. “Had that happened, I could only pray that I, too, would be dead under the rubble. The Sack of Rome would have been but a Renaissance footnote to such horrors. It is enough that I must live with the shame of a young deacon throwing himself from the cliffs of Orvieto because the Pope, albeit a different one,” he added with a sly smile, “deemed him unworthy. It is more than enough that a cardinal of the Church, no matter how perverted, has been responsible for the death of thousands. It is too much for any man, but I am not any man, I am pope. And so, I must live with the lies forced upon me”
Lee looked directly into the eyes of Pope Francis. The Vicar of Christ. God’s representative on earth and, once upon a time, the man to whom he would have sworn eternal fidelity. But, now, Lee saw just a man. A man overcome by the acts of other men—and by his own.
“The lies you choose to tell,” Lee said not breaking his gaze.
“Yes, if you like.” The Pope nodded wearily, and he looked to Adriano.
“So then, the truth about Maltoni will never be known,” said Adriano with a sad shake of his head.
“No,” said the Pope with pursed lips. “No. The secret stays here. Upon this rock. My new head of the Vatican Press Office, better than most, understands the need for this story to be buried as surely as are these bones.”
“Archbishop Arnaud,” said Lee in revelation.
“Sí, certo,” said the Pope, switching briefly to Italian. “Who better? In Arnaud’s mind, he has many sins for which to repent. Handling public relations for the creaking edifice of a medieval monarchy will not be the easiest client in the world. It is a fitting penance. Take a final look. It’s not good to spend too much time down here in the land of the dead. Our place is outside, in the air, with the living. There are too many people focused on the dead.”