Pandora's Ark

CHAPTER THREE

Pope Gregory XVII thought he had seen a fleeting shadow dart across the Papal Chamber from the corner of his eye.

The room was dark, the corners and recesses even darker with scant lighting from the moon coming in through the open doors that led to the balcony. A marginal breeze blew in from the west, causing the hemlines of the scalloped drapery to wave in poetic motion that was slow and balanced, as if the entire moment was caught up in a surreal dream. And though he could feel a cool and gentle breeze sweeping into the room and touch his flesh, his mind remained fevered and hot, perhaps the illness drawing the illusion that somebody else was in the room with him.

Nevertheless, the pontiff called out, his voice cracked and feeble: “Is somebody there?”

Silence.

Pope Gregory tossed the cover of the comforter back and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge until the soles of his feet touched down against marble flooring.

With the passing of Pope Pius XIII, Gregory had succeeded him, serving six months at the Papal Throne. Under his leadership conservatism reigned, pulling away from Pius’s more liberal stance to bend to the will of the masses for reform in a world that was ever-changing. But Gregory believed that the people should bend to the will of God rather than God bending to the will of men. So the pendulum began to swing back to a more conservative position, once again raising the ire within the Catholic citizenry.

Although he had drawn criticism from within the ranks, he was also lauded by those within the College as one not to back away from adversity, no matter how loud the voices may cry.

Getting to his feet, Pope Gregory’s world shifted, the shadows elongating and coming alive, reaching out and then pulling back, the products of a sick mind. At first he wobbled, took time to correct himself, then made his way toward the veranda with a buffeting wind blowing the hairs back from his scalp like the whipping mane of a horse.

A few hours ago he was as robust as Atlas who carried the religious world upon his squared shoulders. But now he was amazingly weak with barely enough strength to lift a hand.

His stomach also burned like magma moving in slow passage. And then his entire body became a tabernacle of pain as he hitched in his stride and tumbled toward a column by the veranda door, using it as a crutch, and looked out into the night.

Beneath the light of the gibbous moon with the obelisk and the Colonade standing sentinel beneath its gaze, with nothing but cold, blue shadows stretching out across the bricks of the plaza below, Pope Gregory marveled at the beauty of the country he had come to reign.

As he stood there his pain intensified as if something serpentine wended its way through his guts the moment he started toward the edge of the veranda in a stumbling gait with a hand across his abdomen, and the other stretched out for the guardrail.

With breaths coming in short gasps and his lungs laboring to pull in enough oxygen to keep him conscious, Gregory continued to admire the land that his papalship brought him. For six months he ruled as best he could under the servitude of God. And for six months he believed that such servitude should have been rewarded with an exceptionally long time to rule the Papal Throne. Six months was not even a blink of time within the cosmic eye, he considered.

“I know you’re there,” he said, his breaths coming with far greater difficulty.

But there was neither answer nor moving shadows. Nor was there the sound of a pin dropping or the hint of a possible footfall.

“In the eyes of God, do you truly believe that He will condone what you are about to do?”

The slight rush of a breeze passed through his ears, a sweet melody to calm and soothe. And he closed his eyes, waiting.

“God will not favor you,” he said. “No matter what you do as a member of the Church, He will only favor you in the end with the fiery lakes of Hell.”

The pontiff stood at the edge of the veranda with a hand against the rail and a forearm across his stomach, and then he began to teeter back and forth threatening to spill over to the pavement below.

“With the fiery lakes of Hell,” he whispered. And then his eyes flared the moment he felt a hand on his back and a push hard enough to send him over the edge. The old man began to pinwheel his arms while turning to face his executor, his feet losing purchase and going airborne as he slipped over the railing, the pavement hurling up at him at an impossible speed, the edge of the veranda dwindling away and becoming smaller. The moon was spinning, its face becoming a sad memorial denoting the end of the old man’s life.

And then he struck the bricks, hard, the impact sounding like a melon striking the pavement during a moment of dead silence.

Yet the pontiff survived with the smell of copper permeating the air and blood fanning out in all directions.

Coughing, with blood spraying out from broken lungs, with his eyes skyward, he thought he saw the shadow of someone staring down at him from the veranda. He was unmoving and still, and seemed to be wearing vestments. And then he pulled away, gone, leaving as silently as he entered.

As the pontiff focused on the point of the veranda, as his life slowly leeched away from his body, his vision began to implode at the edges with his sight turning black, then purple, and then the subsequent flashes of sunburst light leading to Ethereal Illumination.

With a broken hand twisted by the impact, the pontiff raised it to the Glory of the Light only he could see, smiled, and allowed himself to pass.

For the past six months Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci served the Diocese of Boston after his loss for the papal selection, having been criticized, then subsequently ostracized, for sitting in as lead counsel of a clandestine group of cardinal’s known as the Society of Seven. They, along with Pope Pius, recognized the fact that times had become volatile and the Church, having diplomatic ties with ninety percent of the countries worldwide, had become a viable target. In order to protect its sovereignty, its interest, and the welfare of its citizenry, Cardinal Vessucci spearheaded a covert group of elite commandos known as the Vatican Knights.

Their missions were normally in hotspots around the world, using tactics and methods to achieve the means — techniques that were often brutal when there were no other options available. In the course of their duties people died, but many more lived, usually the innocent or those who could not protect themselves.

But Pope Gregory refused to see their necessity in a world growing cancerous every day and quickly disbanded the Knights. His subsequent move was to scatter the members of the Society of Seven to every corner of the globe with Vessucci ending up in the United States.

And though he loved the Church, he missed his soldiers just as much, knowing everyday for the past six months that the Church had been left open and naked. How many people lost their lives when they could have been saved? he wondered. And he asked himself this question just before he recited his ritual prayers to start the day, wondering if the Knights had been forced to leave their calling.

Just as he was about to get into bed there was a knock on his door, a soft tapping.

“Just a moment.”

When he opened the door a bishop was standing there, his face grim.

“Yes, Bishop.”

“I’m afraid I’ve received some rather terrible news that I must pass on to you.”

The cardinal opened the door wider as a gesture to allow the bishop to enter, but the man remained standing at the threshold. “We’ve just received word that the pope has passed.”

Vessucci’s jaw dropped.

“It appears that he met with a horrible accident and fell off the balcony. He was pronounced dead prior to being sent to Gemelli.”

Vessucci was genuinely stunned. The pontiff had only been in office for six months. More so, he was so physically fit that he was set to rule for at least two more decades, perhaps longer. “When?”

“About two hours ago,” he said. “It’s about to be announced to the world. But before it is,” he handed Vessucci a piece of paper, “your presence is required at the Vatican.”

Vessucci stared at the paper for a long moment, before lifting his hand to receive it. “Thank you,” he whispered, then closed the door softly. Without looking at the paper he knew what it was: a request to band with the College of Cardinals and prepare for another Conclave. He didn’t even look at the writing. He gingerly placed the paper on the nightstand and stared out into space.

He had come close to winning the seat six months ago, having a strong camp but not enough to defeat the two camps that joined together to trump his. This time around, however, his chance for the Papal Throne was well within his reach.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, gathered his wits, and began to pack his bags for Vatican City.