Conclave

16 The Seventh Ballot

THE HISS OF a hundred cardinals conferring sotto voce with their neighbours, amplified by the echo from the frescoed walls of the Sistine, evoked in Lomeli a memory that at first he could not place but then realised was of the sea at Genoa – to be exact, of a long withdrawing tide over shingle on a beach he used to swim off as a child with his mother. It persisted for several minutes until at last, after conferring with the three cardinal-revisers, Newby stood to read the official result. At that point the electoral college briefly fell quiet. But the Archbishop of Westminster only confirmed what they already knew, and after he had finished, while the scrutineers’ table and chairs were being cleared away and the counted ballots placed in the sacristy, the calculating hiss resumed.

Throughout all this, Lomeli sat, outwardly impassive. He spoke to no one, although both Bellini and the Patriarch of Alexandria tried to catch his eye. When the urn and chalice had been replaced on the altar and the scrutineers were in position, he walked to the microphone.

‘My brothers, no candidate having achieved the necessary two-thirds majority, we shall now proceed immediately to a seventh ballot.’

Beneath the flat surface of his manner, his mind was looping endlessly around and around the same circuit. Who? Who? In barely a minute he would have to cast his ballot – but who? Even as he returned to his seat, he was still trying to decide what he should do.

He did not wish to be Pope – of that much he was certain. He prayed with all his heart to be spared that Calvary. My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me. And should his prayer go unheeded and the cup be offered? In that event he was resolved to refuse it, just as poor Luciani had tried to do at the end of the first Conclave of ’78. Refusal to take one’s place upon the cross was regarded as a grievous sin of selfishness and cowardice, which was why Luciani had yielded in the end to the pleading of his colleagues. But Lomeli was determined to stand firm. If God had granted one the gift of self-knowledge, then surely one had an obligation to use it? The loneliness, the isolation, the agony of the papacy he was willing to endure. What was unconscionable was to have a Pope who was insufficiently holy. That would be the sin.

Equally, though, he had to accept responsibility for the fact that Tedesco had taken command of the Conclave. It was he, as dean, who had connived in the destruction of one front-runner and brought about the ruin of the other. He had removed the impediments to the Patriarch of Venice’s advance, even though he was unwavering in his belief that Tedesco had to be stopped. Clearly Bellini couldn’t do it: to continue voting for him would be an act of pure self-indulgence.

He sat at his desk, opened his folder and took out his ballot paper.

Benítez, then? The man undoubtedly possessed some quality of spirituality and empathy that marked him out from the rest of the College. His election would have a galvanising effect on the Church’s ministry in Asia, and probably in Africa, too. The media would adore him. His appearance on the balcony overlooking St Peter’s Square would be a sensation. But who was he? What were his doctrinal beliefs? He looked so slight. Did he even have the physical stamina to be Pope?

Lomeli’s bureaucratic mind was nothing if not logical. Once one eliminated Bellini and Benítez as contenders, only one candidate was left who could prevent what otherwise might become a stampede towards Tedesco – and that candidate was himself. He needed to hang on to his forty votes and prolong the Conclave until such time as the Holy Spirit guided them to a worthy heir to the Throne of St Peter. No one else could do it.

It was inescapable.

He took up his pen. Briefly he closed his eyes. And then on his ballot paper he wrote: LOMELI.

Very slowly he got to his feet. He folded the ballot paper and raised it for all to see.

‘I call as my witness Christ the Lord, who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected.’

The full extent of his perjury did not strike him until he stood before the altar to place his ballot paper on the chalice. At that instant he found himself eye to eye with Michelangelo’s depiction of the damned being turfed out of their barque and dragged down to hell. Dear Lord, forgive my sin. But he could not stop now.

As he tipped his vote into the urn, there was a terrific bang, the floor quivered, and from behind him came the sound of panes of glass shattering and crashing on to stone. For a long moment Lomeli was sure he must be dead, and in those few seconds, when time seemed suspended, he discovered that thought is not always sequential – that ideas and impressions can arrive piled on top of one another, like photographic transparencies. Thus he was at once terrified that he had brought God’s judgement down upon his own head and yet simultaneously elated to be given proof of His existence. His life had not been lived in vain! In his fear and joy he imagined that he must have passed on to another plane of existence. But when he looked at his hands, they still seemed solid enough, and suddenly time snapped back to its normal speed, as if a hypnotist had clicked his fingers. Lomeli registered the shocked expressions of the scrutineers, who were staring past him. Turning, he saw that the Sistine Chapel was still intact. Some of the cardinals were rising to find out what had happened.

He stepped down from the altar and strode along the beige carpet towards the back of the chapel. He gestured to the cardinals on either side of him, waving them back into their seats. ‘Be calm, my brothers. Let us be calm. Remain where you are.’ No one seemed to be hurt. He saw Benítez just in front of him and called out, ‘What was it, do you think? A missile?’

‘I would say a car bomb, Your Eminence.’

From far in the distance came the sound of a second explosion, fainter than the first. Several cardinals gasped.

‘Brothers, please stay where you are.’

He went through the screen into the vestibule. The marble floor was covered in broken glass. He descended the wooden ramp, hoisted the skirts of his cassock and moved forward carefully. Looking up, he saw that on the side where the flue from the stoves protruded into the sky, the two windows had both been blown in. They had been big – three or four metres high, made up of hundreds of panes – and their debris was like a drift of crystallised snow. From beyond the door he heard male voices – panicking, arguing – and then the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door was flung open to reveal two black-suited security men with their guns drawn, O’Malley and Mandorff behind them, protesting.

Appalled, Lomeli stepped over the shattered glass with his arms wide to block their entry.

‘No! Out!’ He shooed them away with his hands as if they were crows. ‘Go away! This is a sacrilege. Nobody is injured.’

One of them said, ‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence, we need to move everyone to a safe location.’

‘We are as safe in the Sistine Chapel, under the protection of God, as anywhere on earth. Now I must insist you leave at once.’ The men hesitated. Lomeli raised his voice. ‘This is a sacred Conclave, my children – you are imperilling your immortal souls!’

The security men looked at one another, then reluctantly stepped back over the threshold.

‘Lock us in, Monsignor O’Malley. We shall summon you when we are ready.’

O’Malley’s normally ruddy complexion was a blotchy grey. He bowed his head. His voice was shaky. ‘Yes, Your Eminence.’

He pulled the door shut. The key turned.

As Lomeli returned to the main body of the chapel, the centuries-old glass crunched and snapped beneath his feet. He gave thanks to God: it was a miracle that none of the windows closer to the altar had imploded above their heads. If they had, those beneath could have been sliced to pieces. As it was, several of them were looking up uneasily. Lomeli went directly to the microphone. Tedesco, he noticed, seemed entirely unconcerned.

‘My brothers, obviously something serious has happened – the Archbishop of Baghdad suspects a car bomb, and he has had experience of this evil. Personally, I believe we ought to put our faith in God, who has thus far spared us, and continue with the ballot, but others may think differently. I am your servant. What is the will of the Conclave?’

Tedesco stood at once. ‘We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves, Your Eminence. It may not actually be a bomb. It may just be a gas main, or some such thing. We’d look absurd if we fled because of an accident! Or perhaps it is terrorism – very well then: we shall best show the world the unshakeable strength of our faith if we refuse to be intimidated and continue with our holy task.’

Lomeli thought it well said. Even so, he could not suppress the unworthy suspicion that Tedesco had only spoken at all in order to remind the Conclave of his authority as front-runner. He said, ‘Does anyone else wish to say anything?’ Several cardinals were still looking up uneasily at the rows of windows fifteen metres above their heads. None indicated a desire to speak. ‘No? Very well. However, before we continue, I suggest we take a moment to pray.’ The Conclave stood. Lomeli bowed his head. ‘Dear Lord, we offer up our prayers for those who may have suffered, or may be suffering at this moment, as a result of the violent detonation we have just heard. For the conversion of sinners, for the forgiveness of sins, in reparation of sins, and for the salvation of souls…’

‘Amen.’

He allowed another half-minute for reflection before announcing, ‘The voting will now resume.’

Very faintly through the broken windows came the sound of sirens, and then a helicopter.

The voting carried on from where it had been interrupted. First the patriarchs of Lebanon, of Antioch and of Alexandria, then Bellini, followed by the cardinal-priests. It was noticeable how much more quickly they strode up to the altar this time. Some appeared so anxious to get the ballot over with and return to the sealed warmth of the Casa Santa Marta, they almost gabbled their way through their sacred oaths.

Lomeli had placed his hands palm-down on the desk to stop them shaking. When he had been dealing with the security men, he had felt completely calm, but the moment he resumed his seat, the shock had hit him. He was not so solipsistic as to believe that a bomb had gone off merely because he had written his own name on a piece of paper. But he was not so prosaic that he did not believe in the interconnectedness of things. How else to interpret the timing of the blast, which had struck with the precision of a thunderbolt, except as a sign that God was displeased with these machinations?

You set me a task and I have failed You.

The wailing of the sirens was rising to a crescendo like a chorus of the damned: some ululated, some whooped, some emitted a single scream. To the drone of the first helicopter had been added the noise of a second. It made a mockery of the Conclave’s supposed seclusion. They might as well have been meeting in the middle of the Piazza Navona.

Still, if one could not find the peace to meditate, one could at least beseech God for help – here the sirens only served to help focus one’s mind – and as each of the cardinals passed him, Lomeli prayed for his soul. He prayed for Bellini, who reluctantly had been prepared to accept the chalice, only to have it dashed from his lips so humiliatingly. He prayed for Adeyemi in all his ponderous dignity, who had possessed the capacity to become one of the great figures of history but had been ruined by a squalid impulse of more than thirty years before. He prayed for Tremblay, who slunk past him with a furtive sidelong glance and whose wretchedness would be on Lomeli’s conscience for the rest of his life. He prayed for Tedesco, who trudged implacably up to the altar, his stout frame swaying above his short legs, like a battered old tugboat breasting a heavy sea. He prayed for Benítez, whose expression was more serious and purposeful than he had seen it up till now, as if the explosion had reminded him of sights he would prefer to forget. And lastly he prayed for himself, that he might be forgiven for breaking his oath, and that in his hopelessness he might yet be sent a sign telling him what he should do to save the Conclave.

It was 12.42, according to Lomeli’s watch, when the final ballot was cast and the scrutineers began counting the votes. By then the sirens had become less frequent, and for a few minutes there was a lull. A strained and self-conscious silence settled over the chapel. This time Lomeli left his list of cardinals untouched in its folder. He could not bear again to experience the long-drawn-out torture of following the results one by one. If he hadn’t thought it would render him ridiculous, he would have put his fingers in his ears.

O Lord, let this cup pass from me!

Lukša pulled the first vote from the urn and gave it to Mercurio, who gave it to Newby, who stitched it on to his thread. They too seemed to be fumbling in their haste to complete their task. For the seventh time, the Archbishop of Westminster began his recital.

‘Cardinal Lomeli…’

Lomeli shut his eyes. The seventh ballot ought to be propitious. In the Holy Scriptures, seven was the number of fulfilment and achievement: the day on which God rested after the creation of the world. Did not the seven Churches of Asia represent the completeness of the body of Christ?

‘Cardinal Lomeli…’

‘Cardinal Tedesco…’

Seven stars in Christ’s right hand, seven seals of God’s judgement, seven angels with seven trumpets, seven spirits before God’s throne…

‘Cardinal Lomeli…’

‘Cardinal Benítez…’

… seven circuits of the city of Jericho, seven immersions in the River Jordan…

He went on for as long as he could, but he was unable to shut out Newby’s fruity voice entirely. Eventually he surrendered and listened to it. But by then it was impossible for him to gauge who might be ahead.

‘And that completes the voting in the seventh ballot.’

He opened his eyes. The three cardinal-revisers were rising in their places and walking to the altar to check the tallies. He looked across the aisle at Tedesco, who was tapping his list with his pen as he counted his votes. ‘Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…’ His lips were moving but his expression was impossible to read. This time there was no general murmur of conversation. Lomeli folded his arms and focused on his desk as he waited for Newby to announce his fate.

‘My brothers, the result of the seventh ballot is as follows…’

Lomeli hesitated, then picked up his pen.

Lomeli 52

Tedesco 42

Benítez 24

He was in front. He could not have been more dumbfounded if the numbers had been written in fire. But there they were, inescapably: they would not change no matter how long he stared at them. The laws of psephology, if not of God, were propelling him remorselessly towards the edge of the precipice.

He was aware of every face being turned towards him. He had to grip the sides of his chair to summon the necessary effort to launch himself to his feet. He didn’t bother this time walking to the microphone. ‘My brothers,’ he said, raising his voice to address the cardinals from where he stood, ‘yet again no candidate has achieved the necessary majority. Therefore we shall proceed to an eighth ballot this afternoon. Will you be so good as to remain in your places until the masters of ceremonies have collected your notes. We shall leave as quickly as possible. Cardinal Rudgard, would you please ask for the doors to be unlocked?’

He remained standing while the Junior Cardinal-Deacon performed his duty. Each step of the American’s cautious progress across the glass-strewn marble floor of the vestibule was clearly audible. When he hammered on the door and cried, ‘Aprite le porte! Aprite le porte!’ he sounded almost desperate. As soon as he came back into the body of the chapel, Lomeli left his place and made his own way down the aisle. He passed Rudgard, who was on his way back to his seat, and tried to give him an encouraging smile, but the American looked away. Nor did any of the seated cardinals meet his eye. At first he thought it was hostility, then he realised it was the first manifestation of a new and terrifying deference: they were beginning to think he might be Pope.

He passed through the screen just as Mandorff and O’Malley were coming into the chapel, followed by the two priests and two friars who served as their assistants. Behind them, loitering in the Sala Regia, Lomeli could see a line of security men and two officers of the Swiss Guard.

Mandorff picked his way gingerly through the glass towards him, his hands outstretched. ‘Your Eminence, are you all right?’

‘Nobody’s hurt, Willi, thank God, but we should clear up this glass before the cardinals come out, in case someone cuts his feet.’

‘With your permission, Eminence?’

Mandorff beckoned to the men beyond the door. Four entered, carrying brooms, bowed to Lomeli and immediately started clearing a path, working fast, heedless of the noise they made. At the same time, the masters of ceremonies hurried up the ramp and into the chapel to begin collecting the cardinals’ notes. From their haste it was clear that a decision had been taken to evacuate the Conclave as quickly as possible. Lomeli put his arms around the shoulders of Mandorff and O’Malley and drew them in close. He was glad of the physical contact. They did not yet know of the vote; they did not flinch or try to keep a respectful distance.

‘How serious is it?’

O’Malley said, ‘It is grave, Your Eminence.’

‘Do we know yet what happened?’

‘It appears to have been a suicide bomber and also a car bomb. In the Piazza del Risorgimento. They seem to have chosen a place packed with pilgrims.’

Lomeli released the two prelates and stood silent for a few seconds, absorbing this horror. The Piazza del Risorgimento was about four hundred metres away, just outside the walls of the Vatican City. It was the closest public place to the Sistine Chapel. ‘How many killed?’

‘At least thirty. There was also a shooting at the church of San Marco Evangelista during a Mass.’

‘Dear God!’

Mandorff said, ‘And a gun attack in Munich, Eminence, at the Frauenkirche, as well as an explosion at the university in Louvain.’

O’Malley said, ‘We are under attack all across Europe.’

Lomeli remembered his meeting with the Minister of Security. The young man had spoken of ‘multiple co-ordinated target opportunities’. So this must be what he meant. To a layman, the euphemisms of terror were as universal and baffling as the Tridentine Mass. He made the sign of the cross. ‘May God have mercy on their souls. Has anyone claimed responsibility?’

Mandorff said, ‘Not yet.’

‘But it will be Islamists, presumably?’

‘I’m afraid that several eyewitnesses in the Piazza del Risorgimento report that the suicide bomber shouted “Allahu Akbar”, so there cannot be much doubt.’

‘“God is great”. ’ O’Malley shook his head in disgust. ‘How these people slander the Almighty!’

‘No emotion, Ray,’ warned Lomeli. ‘We need to think very clearly. An armed attack in Rome is appalling in itself. But a deliberate attack on the Universal Church in three different countries at the very moment when we are choosing a new Pope? If we are not careful, the world will see it as the start of a religious war.’

‘It is the start of a religious war, Eminence.’

Mandorff said, ‘And they have struck us deliberately when we have no commander-in-chief.’

Lomeli wiped his hand across his face. Although he had prepared for most contingencies, this was one he had never envisaged. ‘Dear God,’ he muttered, ‘what a picture of impotence we must be showing to the world! Black smoke rising from the Roman piazza where the bombs exploded, and black smoke issuing from the Sistine chimney, beside a pair of shattered windows! Yet what are we supposed to do? To suspend the Conclave would certainly show our respect for the victims, but it would hardly solve the leadership vacuum – in fact it would prolong it. And yet to accelerate the voting process would break the Apostolic Constitution…’

‘Break it, Eminence,’ urged O’Malley. ‘The Church would understand.’

‘But then we would be in danger of electing a Pope without proper legitimacy, which would be a disaster. If there was the slightest doubt about the legality of the process, his edicts would be challenged from the first day of his pontificate.’

‘There is another problem to consider, Your Eminence,’ Mandorff said. ‘The Conclave is supposed to be sequestered, and to have no knowledge of events in the outside world. The cardinal-electors really should not know the details of any of this in case it interferes with their decision.’

O’Malley burst out, ‘Well surely to God, Archbishop, they must have heard what happened!’

‘Yes, Monsignor,’ replied Mandorff stiffly, ‘but they are not aware of the specific nature of the attack on the Church. One could argue that these outrages actually were intended to communicate a message directly to the Conclave. If that is the case, the cardinal-electors must be shielded from news of what has happened in case it influences their judgement.’ His pale eyes blinked at Lomeli through his spectacles. ‘What are your instructions, Your Eminence?’

The security men had finished sweeping a path through the shattered windows and were now using shovels to transfer the fragments to wheelbarrows. The Sistine echoed like a war zone to the sound of glass on stone – an infernal sacrilegious racket to hear in such a place! Through the screen Lomeli could see the red-robed cardinals rising from their desks and beginning to file towards the vestibule.

‘Tell them nothing for now,’ he said. ‘If anyone presses you, say that you are obeying my instructions, but not a word about what has happened. Is that understood?’

Both men nodded.

‘And what about the Conclave, Eminence?’ O’Malley said. ‘Does it simply continue as before?’

Lomeli did not know what to reply.

He hurried out of the Sistine Chapel, past the phalanx of guards who thronged the Sala Regia, and into the Pauline Chapel. The gloomy cavernous room was deserted. He closed the door behind him. This was the place where O’Malley and Mandorff and the masters of ceremonies waited while the Conclave was in session. The chairs by the entrance had been rearranged to form a circle. He wondered how they passed the time during the long hours of voting. Did they speculate about what was happening? Did they read? It almost looked as if they had been playing cards – but that was absurd; of course they hadn’t. Beside one of the chairs was a bottle of water. It made him realise how thirsty he was. He took a long drink, then walked down the aisle towards the altar, trying to order his thoughts.

As ever, the reproachful eyes of St Peter, about to be crucified upside down, stared out at him from Michelangelo’s fresco. He pressed on up to the altar, genuflected, then on impulse turned, and walked back halfway down the aisle to contemplate the painting. There were perhaps fifty figures depicted, most of them staring at the well-muscled, near-naked saint on the cross, which was in the process of being hauled upright. Only St Peter himself gazed out of the frame and into the living world, and not quite directly at the observer, either – that was the genius of it – but out of the corner of his eye, as if he had just spotted you passing and was daring you to walk on by. Never had Lomeli felt such an overwhelming connection with a work of art. He took off his biretta and knelt before it.

O blessed St Peter, head and chief of the Apostles, you are the guardian of the keys of the heavenly kingdom, and against you the powers of hell do not prevail. You are the rock of the Church and the shepherd of Christ’s flock. Lift me from the ocean of my sins and free me from the hand of all my adversaries. Help me, O good shepherd, show me what I should do…

He must have spent at least ten minutes praying to St Peter, sunk so deep in thought that he never heard the cardinals being ushered across the Sala Regia and down the staircase to the minibuses. Nor did he hear the door open and O’Malley come up behind him. A wonderful feeling of peace and certainty had stolen upon him. He knew what he should do.

May I serve Jesus Christ and you, and with your help, after the close of a good life, may I deserve to attain the reward of eternal happiness in heaven where you are forever the guardian of the gates and the shepherd of the flock. Amen.

Only when O’Malley said politely, and with a hint of concern, ‘Eminence?’ did Lomeli surface from his reverie.

He said, without looking round, ‘Are the ballots burning?’

‘Yes, Dean. Black smoke, yet again.’

He returned to his meditation. Half a minute passed. O’Malley said, ‘How are you feeling, Eminence?’

Reluctantly Lomeli dragged his eyes away from the painting and glanced up at the Irishman. Now he detected something different in his attitude as well – uncertainty, anxiousness, timidity. That would be because O’Malley had seen the results of the seventh ballot and realised the danger the dean was in. Lomeli held up his hand and O’Malley helped him to his feet. He straightened his cassock and rochet.

‘Fortify yourself, Ray. Look at this extraordinary work, as I have been doing, and consider how prophetic it is. Do you see, at the top of the painting, the shrouds of darkness? I used to think they were merely clouds, but now I’m sure it is smoke. There is a fire somewhere, beyond our field of vision, that Michelangelo chooses not to show us – a symbol of violence, of battle, strife. And do you see the way Peter is straining to keep his head upright and level, even as he is being hauled up feet-first? Why is he doing that? Surely because he is determined not to surrender to the violence being done to him. He is using his last reserves of strength to demonstrate his faith and his humanity. He wishes to maintain his equilibrium in defiance of a world that, for him, is literally turning upside down.

‘Isn’t this a sign for us today, from the founder of the Church? Evil is seeking to turn the world on its head, but even as we suffer, the Blessed Apostle Peter instructs us to maintain our reason and our belief in Christ the Risen Saviour. We shall complete the work that God expects of us, Ray. The Conclave will go on.’