AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The cardinals stood and erupted in applause.
The grief for a dead pope was now replaced by the elation for a new pontiff. Outside the chapel doors Valendrea imagined the scene as observers heard the commotion, the first signal that something might have been decided. He watched as one of the scrutineers carried the ballots toward the stove. In a few moments white smoke would fill the morning sky and the piazza would erupt in cheers.
The ovation subsided. One more question was required.
"By what name will you be known?" Ngovi asked in Latin.
The chapel went silent.
The choosing of a name signaled much of what may be coming. John Paul I proclaimed his legacy by selecting the names of his two immediate predecessors, a message that he hoped to emulate the goodness of John and sternness of Paul. John Paul II conveyed a similar message when he chose his predecessor's dual label. For many years Valendrea had considered what name he would select, debating among the more popular choices--Innocent, Benedict, Gregory, Julius, Sixtus. Jakob Volkner had gravitated to Clement because of his German ancestry. Valendrea, though, wanted his name to send an unambiguous message that the imperial papacy had returned.
"Peter II."
Gasps pierced the chapel. Ngovi's expression never broke. Of the 267 pontiffs, there'd been twenty-three Johns, six Pauls, thirteen Leos, twelve named Pius, eight Alexanders, and a variety of other labels.
But only one Peter.
The first pope.
Thou art Peter and on this rock I will build my Church.
His bones lay only meters away, beneath the largest house of worship in Christendom. He was the first saint of the Catholic Church and the most revered. Over two millennia, no man had chosen his name.
He stood from his chair.
The time for pretense was over. All of the rituals had been dutifully performed. His election was certified, he'd formally accepted, and he'd announced his name. He was now Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Prince of the Apostles, Pontifex Maximus charged with primacy of jurisdiction over the Universal Church, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Primate of Italy, Patriarch of the West.
Servant of the Servants of God.
He faced the cardinals and made sure no one misunderstood. "I choose to be known as Peter II," he said in Italian.
No one said a word.
Then one of the three cardinals from last night started to clap. A few others slowly joined in. Soon the chapel reverberated with thunderous applause. Valendrea savored the absolute joy of victory that no man could take away. Yet his ecstacy was tempered by two things.
A smile that slowly crept onto Maurice Ngovi's lips, and the camerlengo's joining in the applause.
FIFTY
MEDJUGORJE, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA
11:00 A.M.
Katerina sat beside the bed and kept watch over Michener. The vision of him being carried into the hospital unconscious was still fresh in her mind, and she now knew what the loss of this man would mean.
She hated herself even more for deceiving him. She was going to tell Michener the truth. Hopefully, he'd forgive her. She hated herself for agreeing to Valendrea's requests. But maybe she'd needed prodding since her pride and anger could have otherwise prevented her from ever rediscovering Michener. Their first encounter in the piazza three weeks ago had been a disaster. Valendrea's overtures had clearly made things easier, but it didn't make it right.
Michener's eyes blinked open.
"Colin."
"Kate?" He was trying to focus.
"I'm here."
"I hear you, but I can't see you. It's like looking underwater. What happened?"
"Lightning. It struck the cross on the mountain. You and Jasna were too close."
He reached up and rubbed his brow. His fingers gently probed the scrapes and cuts. "She okay?"
"Seems to be. She was out, like you. What were you doing there?"
"Later."
"Sure. Here, take some water. The doctor said you need to drink." She brought a cup to his lips and he sucked a few sips.
"Where am I?"
"A local infirmary the government operates for the pilgrims."
"They say what's wrong with me?"
"No concussion. Just too close to a lot of voltage. Any closer and you'd both be dead. Nothing's broken, but you've got a nasty lump and a gash on the back of your head."
The door opened and a middle-aged, bearded man entered. "How's the patient doing?" he asked in English. "I'm the doctor who treated you, Father. How do you feel?"
"Like an avalanche rolled over me," Michener said.
"Understandable. But you'll be okay. A small cut, but no skull cracks. I'd recommend a complete exam when you get back home. Actually, considering what happened, you were pretty lucky."
After a quick look and a little more advice the doctor left.
"How'd he know I was a priest?"
"I had to identify you. You scared the hell out of me."
"What about the conclave?" he asked. "Have you heard anything?"
"Why am I not surprised that's the first thing on your mind."
"You're not interested?"
Actually she was curious. "There was no news an hour ago."
She reached out and clasped his hand. He turned his head toward her and said, "I wish I could see you."
"I love you, Colin." She felt better having said it.
"And I love you, Kate. I should have told you that years ago."
"Yes, you should."
"I should have done a lot of things differently. I only know that I want my future to include you."
"And what of Rome?"
"I've done all that I said I would. I'm through with that. I want to go to Romania, with you."
Her eyes watered. She was glad he couldn't see her crying. She swiped away the tears. "We'll do good there," she said, trying to keep her voice from quivering.
He tightened his grip on her hand.
And she cherished the feeling.
FIFTY-ONE
VATICAN CITY, 11:45 P.M.
Valendrea accepted congratulations from the cardinals, then made his way out of the Sistine to a whitewashed space known as the Room of Tears. There, the vestments from the House of Gammarelli hung in neat rows. Gammarelli himself stood at ready.
"Where is Father Ambrosi?" he asked one of the priests in attendance.
"Here, Holy Father," Ambrosi said, entering the room. He liked the sound of those words from his acolyte's lips.
The secrecy of the conclave had ended as he left the chapel. The main doors had been flung open while white smoke spewed from the rooftop. By now, the name Peter II was being repeated throughout the palace. People would be marveling at his choice, and the pundits would be startled by his audacity. Maybe for once they'd be speechless.
"You are now my papal secretary," he said, as he lifted his scarlet robe up over his head. "My first command." A smile came to his lips as the private promise between them was fulfilled.
Ambrosi bowed his head in acceptance.
He motioned to the vestments he'd spied yesterday. "That set should do fine."
The tailor grabbed the selected garments and presented them saying, "Santissimo Padre."
He accepted the greeting reserved only for a pope and watched as his cardinal robes were folded. He knew they would be cleaned and boxed, custom requiring that they be provided at his death to the then-senior member of the Valendrea clan.
He donned a white linen cassock and fastened the buttons. Gammarelli knelt and began nipping the seam with a threaded needle. The stitching would not be perfect, but adequate enough for the next couple of hours. By then a precise set of vestments, tailored to his measurements, would be ready.
He tested the fit. "A bit tight. Get it right."
Gammarelli ripped the seam and tried again.
"Make sure the thread is secure." The last thing he wanted was for something to fall apart.
When the tailor finished,
he sat in a chair. One of the priests knelt before him and began removing his shoes and socks. He already liked the fact that little would ever be done by him anymore. A pair of white stockings and red leather shoes were brought forward. He checked the size. Perfect. He motioned that they should be slipped on his feet.
He stood.
A white zucchetto was handed to him. Back during the days when prelates shaved their scalps, the caps protected the bare skin during winter. Now they were an essential part of any high cleric's attire. Ever since the eighteenth century the pope's had been formed from eight triangular-shaped pieces of white silk, joined together. He clasped his hands at the edges and, like an emperor accepting his crown, nestled the cap on his head.
Ambrosi smiled in approval.
Time for the world to meet him.
But first, one last duty.
He left the dressing room and reentered the Sistine Chapel. The cardinals were standing at their assigned stations. A throne had been placed before the altar. He paraded straight to it and sat, waiting a full ten seconds before saying, "Be seated."
The ritual about to occur was a necessary element of the canonical election process. Each cardinal was expected to come forward, genuflect, and embrace the new pontiff.
