The Secret Cardinal

14

At one o’clock in the morning, Cardinal Donoher led Kilkenny and Grin out of the catacombs and through a side entrance into Saint Peter’s Basilica. Their footsteps echoed off the marble floors and blended like drops of water into the dull hum of reverberant energy that filled the majestic space. Scores of sampietrini — the faithful men of Saint Peter’s — labored to clean the basilica and prepare it for the third day of public veneration for the beloved Pope. The sampietrini carefully removed traces left behind by the thousands who paid their respects. When the doors reopened at dawn — already thousands were holding vigil in Saint Peter’s Square — the basilica would again be immaculate.

As they approached the center of the basilica, Kilkenny found his eyes drawn to the towering structure that soared almost ninety feet above the papal altar. Four ornate tortile columns spiraled upward from marble bases to carry an intricately detailed canopy embellished with a host of angels. With the blessing of Pope Urban VIII, Bernini recast a host of bronze statues taken from the pagan Roman Pantheon into this triumphant baldacchino.

The volume of space above the baldacchino curved inward, the walls warping into mosaic-clad pendentives that supported Michelangelo’s soaring dome. As its creators intended, the volume and embellishment of the basilica evoked both awe and majesty. Kilkenny read the gilt band of Latin that circumscribed the circular base of the dome and recognized the phrase as the opening line of the song the Beijing martyrs had sung.

Donoher guided them around a low, U-shaped balustrade that defined the edge of an opening in the basilica floor immediately in front of the papal altar. A pair of bronze gates at the bottom of the U provided access to a double ramp of stairs that led down into the confessio — the true heart of Saint Peter’s Basilica.

Kilkenny gazed down into the exedra beneath the papal altar and saw an exquisite room clad in multihued marbles. A pair of sampietrini carefully tended to the bronze lanterns of the ninety-five eternal flames that illuminated the confessio. At the far end of the space, behind a niche decorated with ninth-century mosaics and flanked by the statues of Peter and Paul, lay the tomb of Saint Peter. During an earlier visit to Rome, Kilkenny had learned from Donoher that the confessio derived its name from the confession of faith given by Saint Peter that led to his execution by Nero. What had started as a simple tomb on a hill outside the city of Rome became a shrine, then a church, and finally the Renaissance glory of the present basilica.

Christ had been right, Donoher told him then, Peter was the rock on which the Church was built.

In the center of the nave, on a crimson-trimmed bier and surrounded by Swiss Guards in full regalia, lay the body of the deceased pontiff. Donoher greeted the officer in charge of the night watch and was permitted to escort his guests to the bier. The three men bowed their heads as Donoher offered a brief prayer.

The pontiff’s body had been carefully prepared for burial, dressed in formal papal robes and the head crowned with a golden miter. The body of Pope Leo XIV was first displayed in the Clementine Room of the Apostolic Palace for a period of private veneration by the cardinals and the papal household before being moved to the patriarchal basilica, where it would lie in state until the funeral.

To Kilkenny, the late pontiff’s face held an expression of peaceful repose that transcended any mortician’s artifice. The sense of loss he felt as he stood at the bier surprised him. He had met only briefly with the Pope twice, but it had been enough to leave an indelible mark. Kilkenny tried to offer a silent prayer, but the sense of a connectedness with God eluded him. Since the deaths of his wife and child, he could mouth the words of a rote formula but summon nothing more substantial.

‘Pope Leo was quite something in person,’ Grin said.

‘That he was,’ Donoher concurred. ‘I am certain historians will recognize him as one of the great Popes.’

‘I don’t need a historian to justify my opinion,’ Kilkenny said.

‘Nor do I,’ Donoher agreed. ‘But above all things he was a good friend, and I will miss him.’

‘Thank you for arranging this visitation,’ Kilkenny said, still unable to take his eyes from the Pope’s face.

‘It was the least I could do given that you two are trying to fulfill his final wish. A shame you won’t be here for the funeral, Nolan — it promises to be a most stirring event.’

‘Grin can fill me in on what I miss,’ Kilkenny replied, feigning disappointment. In truth, he didn’t think he could stomach another funeral, the bitterness of his own loss still too fresh. ‘I do plan to be back in time for the installation of the new Pope.’

Donoher looked at Kilkenny wryly and smiled, pleased with the young man’s confidence. ‘By the grace of God, you’ll be here with Bishop Yin, and I’ll save you both good seats.’

Just before dawn, amid frescos by Fra Angelico that depicted the lives of Saint Stephen and Saint Lawrence, the first Christian martyrs of Jerusalem and Rome, Donoher said a private mass for Kilkenny and Grin in the restored Chapel of Nicholas V. The cardinal’s homily was brief, his prayers not only for the Pope’s soul but also for the Holy Spirit’s guidance of each man’s efforts during the difficult days ahead. The Amen he received from his tiny congregation was both earnest and heartfelt.

Following the mass, Donoher and Grin saw Kilkenny off for Berlin, his departure setting in motion the first active steps of Operation Rolling Stone. Grin returned to the catacombs to continue what he called the practice of his dark technological arts, and Donoher left for the Apostolic Palace to convene a meeting of all the cardinals now present in Rome.