The ecclesiastic was an aged old man with deeply wizened crow’s feet who hunched inwardly at the shoulders, his gray eyes held innumerable intelligence, and the tone of his voice remained honey smooth as he spoke words learned verbatim from script.
As he spoke Cardinal Angullo decided that he had all the qualities and tools required, had all the solutions to the problems plaguing the Church, ticking them off in his mind as the Vatican’s new savior. Cardinal Vessucci, on the other hand, appeared studious and rapt, hinging on the ecclesiastic’s every word, imbibing everything he said.
When the ecclesiastic finished, he moved with a shuffling gait beyond the Chapel doors, leaving behind the Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations to stand sentinel. Once the cardinals of the conclave were ready to proceed, the Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations closed the door before them and wrapped a chain with a papal seal on its lock around the door handles from the opposite side, locking the cardinals within the Sistine Chapel.
The click of the lock resonated throughout the chapel in echoing cadence, like the gunshot sound of finality, the galvanizing shot marking the start of the procedure of electing a new pope.
In voting, the cardinals use simple note cards for ballots with the words "I elect as Supreme Pontiff ___" printed on them, the open space to be filled in with the name of the elector’s choosing.
By afternoon the first ballot was held. However, no one garnered enough votes to win the pontifical seat, including Angullo or Vessucci, neither one getting the required two-thirds of the assembly’s vote to win the papal throne. How much was received by Angullo, Vessucci or the other two cardinals of the Preferiti remained unknown.
It was also the only ballot of the day.
On the subsequent morning, as a battleship-gray sky threatened to open with torrential rain, the conclave continued with two additional votes, both failing to come to a clear and decisive decision as to who should lead the Church.
As each day passed, Bonasero Vessucci was beginning to lose hope. Whereas Cardinal Angullo smiled with all the pompous glory of a victor by the way the edges of his lips curled with the smug and anticipatory grin of someone who believed that the throne was well within his grasp. With every passing ballot things were beginning to look very bleak, whereas things were starting to look golden for Cardinal Angullo.
During the day’s recess between the second ballot and the beginning of the third ballot, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stood alone, musing, his eyes obviously detached from the moment until Cardinal Angullo invaded his space.
“Bonasero,” he said.
Vessucci’s eyes settled on the cardinal who held a smile. “It’s becoming quite obvious that the throne is under the strong union of those who wish to see the most qualified to receive the papal station.”
“Isn’t that always the way?”
Angullo leaned forward, his smile widening, but marginally — more of a vindictive smirk than a gentle grin of congeniality. “Yes,” he finally said. “But it appears that your camp has weakened significantly over the past few days. Since you were the alleged lead in the Preferiti, then the casted votes should have marked you as the pontiff within the first three ballots. That means, my Dear Cardinal, that something else is in the wind, wouldn’t you agree? People are perhaps considering other factors.”
“Like you perhaps?”
Angullo closed his eyes and gave a small tilt of his chin in acknowledgement. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I am the Vatican secretary of state, which would serve others well if they should cast their votes on my behalf.”
“So you offered favors to those in order to bolster your camp?”
“No. Never. People see that I am a man of position. And who does not want to be in the same circle as a man of position? No, Bonasero. People by nature are self-centered, even if it’s to the smallest degree. They’re ambitious and they have the need, and the right, to excel to the next level. People, Bonasero, like to be in a circle with those in power, those within position, those who can help promote.” And then: “Whose circle are you in?”
Bonasero Vessucci simply stared at him. Not a glare, just a studious look in which he was seeing Angullo as a man of true Machiavellian conviction.
“I see,” he finally answered. “But keep in mind, Giuseppe, that it takes two-thirds of the votes to secure the position. There are others in the Preferiti whose votes may be diluting the overall percentage. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you, I, or anyone else in the Preferiti has an advantage over the other. It simply means patience should be an exhibited virtue.”
“An exhibited virtue,” he repeated. His smile broadened. “Yes, Bonasero, exhibit your virtue should it give you comfort.” He then stood back and smiled in a way that was truly Machiavellian in nature by the simple curvature of his lips.
“Don’t cast your shadow upon the papal throne yet, Giuseppe. The votes may not be in your favor.”
“Perhaps not,” he said. He then backed off, turned, and began to walk away. “But then again,” he added over his shoulder, “perhaps they are.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The night before Kimball Hayden fought at another venue, his third fight in ten days. His second bout was all about a quick execution of his skills with a flurry of blows and a roundhouse kick to the jaw, leaving his opponent on the mat as a complex heap in less than two minutes. After two fights the crowd loved him. By the third fight they hailed him as the Second Coming.
But it was Louie who told him to slow down the pace and make the fights last longer, draw them in and “Make them love you more than they already do. And then give them what they want, a total annihilation of your opponent.”
Kimball sat in the quasi-darkness of his apartment drinking straight from a bottle of Jack. Behind him the drapes were closed with marginal light slipping in through the seams where they met, and the air was hot and humid and stale with the smell of dirty laundry hanging in the air.
Make them love you more than they already do. And then give them what they want, a total annihilation of your opponent.
Is that what people want, Louie? A total annihilation of somebody else?
That’s the bottom line, buddy. That and the money, of course. But when you think about it, it all comes down to human nature. It’s what they want, J.J. And you’re the machine that drives them. Louie then turned toward the crazed and applauding crowd like an emcee and opened his arms, the downed opponent at his feet beginning to come to. Look at what you brought, J.J. Take a good look around and see what you’ve done.
A day later, the words continued to echo throughout his mind as if they were spoken from the end of a long and hollow tunnel.
Look at what you brought, J.J. Take a good look around and see what you’ve done.
Kimball took another swig, a long pull until a bubble surfaced inside the bottle, and then laid it on the armchair of the seat and stared straight ahead into darkness.
Last night was his third fight with the promise of more to come. His opponent was short and stocky with a bull-like neck and blunt limbs with tree-trunk thickness. It was obvious to Kimball that he fought his battles up close and personal due to his strike range being limited. So he thought that this was going to be a quick and clean kill like the other two. But his opponent was tough and mean and could take mind-numbing punches as if they were glancing blows. His lips were split and parted, a cut slashed over his eye, bleeding profusely. But he kept coming, defying Kimball’s well placed jabs, his punches, and his many scored kicks to the facial and chest regions.