‘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.’
17 Universi Dominici Gregis
LOMELI WAS RETURNED at speed to the Casa Santa Marta in the back of a police car, accompanied by two security men. One sat next to the driver, the other in the passenger seat beside him. The car accelerated out of the Cortile del Maresciallo and took the corner sharply. Its tyres shrieked against the cobbles and then the vehicle shot forward again through the next three courtyards. The light on its roof flashed lightning against the shadowed walls of the Apostolic Palace. Lomeli glimpsed the startled blue-lit faces of the Swiss Guard turned to stare at him. He clutched his pectoral cross and ran his thumb along the sharp edges. He was remembering the words of an American cardinal, the late Francis George: I expect to die in my bed, my successor will die in prison, and his successor will die a martyr in the public square. He had always considered them hysterical. Now, as they pulled into the square in front of the Casa Santa Marta, where he counted another six police cars with their lights flashing, he felt they had the ring of prophecy.
A Swiss Guard stepped forward to open the car door. Fresh air fanned his face. Hauling himself out, he glanced up at the sky. Grey massy clouds; a couple of helicopters buzzing in the distance with missiles protruding from their underbellies, like angry black insects ready to sting; sirens, of course; and then the massive imperturbable dome of St Peter’s. The familiar sight of the cupola strengthened his resolve. He swept past the crowd of policemen and Swiss Guards without acknowledging their salutes and bows, and marched straight into the lobby of the hostel.