AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Michener had noticed, as they'd inched through the piazza, television crews installing cameras on the balustrades, the choicest spots among the 162 statues surely being claimed fast. The Vatican press office was by now under siege. He'd assisted during the last papal funeral and could envision the thousands of calls that would come in the days ahead. Statesmen from around the world would soon be arriving, and legates would have to be assigned to assist them. The Holy See prided itself on strict adherence to protocol, even in the face of indescribable grief, the task of ensuring success resting with the soft-spoken cardinal sitting beside him.
The cars stopped and cardinals began to congregate near the hearse. Priests shielded each of the princes with an umbrella. The cardinals wore their black cassocks adorned with a red sash, as required. A Swiss honor guard in ceremonial dress stood at the entrance to the basilica. Clement would not be without them in the days ahead. Four of the guards cradled a bier on their shoulders and paraded toward the hearse. The papal master of ceremonies stood nearby. He was a Dutch priest with a bearded face and a rotund body. He stepped forward and said, "The catafalque is ready."
Ngovi nodded.
The master of ceremonies moved toward the hearse and assisted the technicians with the removal of Clement's body. Once the corpse was centered on the bier and the miter positioned, the Dutchman motioned the technicians away. He then carefully arranged the vestments, slowly creasing each fold. Two priests held umbrellas over the body. Another young priest stepped forward, holding the pallium. The narrow band of white wool marked with six purple crosses signified the plenitude of the pontifical office. The master of ceremonies draped the two-inch band around Clement's neck, then arranged the crosses above the chest, shoulders, and abdomen. He made a few adjustments to the shoulder blocks and finally straightened the head. He then knelt, signaling that he was finished.
A slight nod of Ngovi's head caused the Swiss guard to raise the bier. The priests with umbrellas withdrew. The cardinals fell into line behind.
Michener did not join the procession. He was not a prince of the Church, and what lay ahead was only for them. He would be expected to empty his apartment in the palace by tomorrow. It, too, would be sealed awaiting the conclave. His office must likewise be cleared. His patronage ended with Clement's last breath. Those once in favor departed to make room for those soon-to-be-in-favor.
Ngovi waited until the end to join the line into the basilica. Before he marched off, the cardinal turned and whispered, "I want you to inventory the papal apartment and remove his belongings. Clement would have wanted no other to tend to his possessions. I have left word with the guards that you are to be allowed entrance. Do it now."
The guard opened the papal apartment for Michener. The door closed behind him and he was left alone with an odd feeling. Where once he'd relished his time here, he now felt like an intruder.
The rooms were exactly as Clement had left them Saturday morning. The bed was made, the curtains parted, the pope's spare reading glasses still lying on the nightstand. The leather-bound Bible that usually lay there, too, was at Castle Gandolfo, on the desk beside Clement's laptop, both to be returned to Rome shortly.
A few papers remained on the desk beside the silent desktop computer. He thought it best to start there, so he booted the machine and checked the folders. He knew Clement e-mailed a few distant family members and some cardinals on a regular basis, but he apparently hadn't saved any of those transmissions--there were no files recorded. The address book contained about two dozen names. He scanned all of the folders on the hard drive. Most were reports from curial departments, the written word now replaced by ones and zeros on a video screen. He deleted all the folders, using a special program that removed all traces of the files from the hard drive, then switched off the machine. The terminal would stay and be used by the next pope.
He glanced around. He would have to find boxes for Clement's possessions, but for now he stacked everything in the center of the room. There wasn't much. Clement had led a simple life. A bit of furniture, a few books, and some assorted family items were all that he owned.
The scrape of a key in the lock caught his attention.
The door opened and Paolo Ambrosi entered.
"Wait outside," Ambrosi said to the guard as he came in and closed the door.
Michener faced him. "What are you doing here?"
The thin priest stepped forward. "The same as you, clearing out the apartment."
"Cardinal Ngovi delegated the task to me."
"Cardinal Valendrea said you might need help."
Apparently the secretary of state thought a babysitter in order, but he was not in the mood. "Get out of here."
The priest did not move. Michener was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier, but Ambrosi seemed unintimidated. "Your time has passed, Michener."
"Maybe so. But where I come from there's a saying. A hen doesn't cackle before she lays the egg."
Ambrosi chuckled. "I will miss your American humor."
He noticed Ambrosi's reptilian eyes take in the scene.
"I told you to get out. I may be nothing, but Ngovi is camerlengo. Valendrea can't override him."
"Not yet."
"Leave, or I'll interrupt the Mass for further instructions from Ngovi."
He realized the last thing Valendrea would want was an embarrassing scene before the cardinals. Supporters might wonder why he'd ordered an associate to the papal apartments when that duty clearly fell on the papal secretary.
But Ambrosi did not move.
So he stepped around his visitor and headed for the door. "As you say, Ambrosi, my time's passed. I've got nothing to lose."
He grasped the door handles.
"Stop," Ambrosi said. "I'll leave you to your task." The voice was barely a whisper, the look on Ambrosi's face devoid of feeling. He wondered how such a man could ever have become a priest.
Michener opened the door. The guards were just on the other side and he knew his visitor would say nothing to stimulate their interest. He let a smile form and said, "Have a nice evening, Father."
Ambrosi brushed past and Michener slammed the door, but only after ordering the guards not to admit another soul.
He returned to the desk. He needed to finish what he'd started. His sadness in leaving the Vatican was tempered by a relief in knowing that he would no longer have to deal with the likes of Paolo Ambrosi.
He searched through the desk drawers. Most contained stationery, pens, some books, and a few computer disks. Nothing important until the bottom right drawer, where he found Clement's will. The pope traditionally drafted his will himself, expressing in his own hand his final requests and hopes for the future. Michener unfolded the single sheet and noticed immediately the date, October 10, a little more than thirty days ago:
I, Jakob Volkner, presently possessed of all my faculties and desirous of expressing my last will and testament, do hereby bequeath all that I may possess at the time of my death to Colin Michener. My parents died long ago and my siblings followed in the years after. Colin served me long and well. He is the closest I have left in this world to family. I ask that he do with my belongings as he deems appropriate, using the wisdom and judgment I came to trust during my life. I would request that my funeral be simple and if possible that I be buried in Bamberg, in the cathedral of my youth, though I understand if the church deems otherwise. When I accep
ted the mantle of St. Peter I likewise accepted the responsibilities, including a duty to rest beneath the basilica with my brethren. I further ask forgiveness from all those I may have offended in words or deeds, and I especially ask forgiveness of our Lord and Savior for the shortcomings I have shown. May He have mercy on my soul.
Tears welled in Michener's eyes. He, too, hoped God would have mercy on his dear friend's soul. Catholic teachings were clear. Human beings were obliged to preserve the honor of life as stewards, not owners, of what the Almighty had entrusted. Suicide was contrary to the love of oneself, and to the love of a living God. It broke the ties of solidarity with family and nation. In short, it was a sin. But the eternal salvation of those who took their own lives was not lost completely. The Church taught that, by ways known only to God, an opportunity for repentance would be provided.
And he hoped that was the case.
If indeed heaven existed, Jakob Volkner deserved admission. Whatever had compelled him to do the unspeakable should not consign his soul to eternal damnation.
He laid the will down and tried not to think about eternity.
He'd found himself of late contemplating his own mortality. He was nearing fifty, not all that old, but life no longer seemed infinite. He could envision a time when his body or mind might not allow him the opportunity to enjoy what he'd come to expect. How much longer would he live? Twenty years? Thirty? Forty? Clement had still been vibrant approaching eighty, working sixteen-hour days with regularity. He could only hope he retained half that stamina. Still, his life would eventually end. And he wondered if the deprivations and sacrifices demanded by his Church, and his God, were worth it. Would there be a reward in the afterlife? Or simply nothing?
Dust to dust.
His mind snapped back to his duty.
The will lying before him would have to be given to the Vatican press office. It was traditional to release the text, but first the camerlengo would have to approve, so he slid the page into his cassock.
