Prior to the election of the new Pope, two kinds of congregations would assist Donoher in his duties as Camerlengo. The particular congregation consisted of Donoher and three cardinals, one drawn from each of the cardinal orders of deacon, priest, and Bishop. The trio of cardinal-assistants were drawn by lot and served for three days, after which three new assistants would be selected. The particular congregation would deal with only minor questions, reporting their actions to the general congregation consisting of the entire College of Cardinals.
‘My Eminent Lord Cardinals,’ Donoher called out, ‘it is time for us to begin this preparatory general congregation. I believe you all have received a packet containing a copy of Universi Dominici Gregis, which describes our duties and responsibilities during the interregnum. As required by article twelve of this Apostolic Constitution, I shall now read aloud the portion regarding the vacancy of the Apostolic See.’
As Donoher recited from the constitution penned by the late Pope, he recalled the words of Cardinal Antonelli, a layman who served during the nineteenth-century reign of Pope Pius IX and was the last lay cardinal, regarding a conclave:
Nothing, for that moment, nothing stands between us and the Lord Jesus. All our lives we have someone above us — our parents, the priest, the superior, the cardinal, the Pope. But now, nobody. Until we have a Pope, this is it. And we are it. An appeal from us for help can reach no higher authority. We stand at the brink of the chasm between what is human and what is divine.
Donoher then answered a few questions regarding specific clauses in the constitution and how they would be implemented. The questions were thoughtful and reflected the seriousness with which these men regarded the impending conclave. When all questions were answered, Donoher turned the floor over to Cardinal Scheuermann for the swearing-in.
Scheuermann was a lanky German whose salt-and-pepper hair had naturally receded into a medieval tonsure. In addition to his elected position as Dean of the College of Cardinals, Scheuermann also served as cardinal-Bishop of Ostia and Vellitri-Segni and prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith — an office known in earlier times as the Inquisition.
‘We, the cardinals of the Holy Roman Church,’ intoned the seventy-six-year-old Scheuermann, ‘of the order of Bishops, of priests and of deacons, promise, pledge, and swear, as a body and individually, to observe exactly and faithfully all the norms contained in the Apostolic Constitution Universi Dominici Gregis of the Supreme Pontiff Pope Leo XIV, and to maintain rigorous secrecy with regard to all matters in any way related to the election of the Roman pontiff or those which, by their very nature, during the vacancy of the Apostolic See, call for the same secrecy.’
One by one, the cardinals approached Scheuermann.
‘I, Norbert Cardinal Clements, so promise, pledge, and swear,’ the Archbishop of Toronto vowed. Placing his hand on the Gospels, he added, ‘So help me God and these Holy Gospels which I now touch with my hand.’
After the entire congregation was sworn in, Donoher returned to the lectern and reported on a list of business items as required by the Apostolic Constitution, including the schedule for the funeral rites and the status of preparations for the conclave. He also announced the schedule for the requiem masses to be offered by the cardinals at the titular churches in Rome during the novemdiales — the nine days of official mourning that would follow the Pope’s funeral.
As he neared the end of his list, Donoher motioned to an aide who brought forward a small wooden box. He placed the box on the lectern and opened it.
‘On the night of the Pope’s death, I took possession of the fisherman’s ring and the leaden bull of the Pope’s holy office. These items have been continuously in my possession, and I report to you now that they have been destroyed.’
In his right hand, Donoher held the broken fragments of the golden signet ring. A chisel had cleanly halved the image of Saint Peter as a fisherman. Similarly, the leaden bull used to seal all the Pope’s public pronouncements lay in pieces. Donoher returned the remnants of papal authority to the box and locked it.
‘Last, as there are no extraordinary circumstances known at this time that may delay the start of the election, the conclave to name the successor of Pope Leo XIV will commence in twelve days’ time.’
16
A breeze rustled through the tall golden stalks of grass that grew in thick clumps across the vast Mongolian steppe. The air was cool and dry, rushing down from the mountains north and west of the plains that covered the eastern province.
Kilkenny sat in a low-slung folding chair supported by carbon-fiber struts reading The Travels of Marco Polo. Halfway through the Italian adventurer’s travelogue, Kilkenny was convinced the man had been obsessed with prostitution. Fall was in the air and Kilkenny was dressed in jeans, Oakley assault boots, and a sweatshirt bearing the embroidered logo of bd’s mongolian barbeque — Ulaanbaatar restaurant.
He sat amid four traditional Mongolian yurts — circular dwellings with conical roofs framed with wooden poles and covered with sheets of thick felt. The yurts were arranged in a semicircle with their flapped entries facing south. A wispy trail of smoke curled out of an opening in the roof of the yurt closest to Kilkenny.
Max Gates emerged from the steppe on a Mongolian horse, the animal and rider moving as one through the clumps of long grass. He stopped where several other horses were grazing, dismounted, and gave his mount a friendly rub on the nose.
‘Any beer left?’ Gates called out as he worked his way toward the encampment.
‘See for yourself.’
Gates ambled over and peeked into the cooler beside Kilkenny’s chair. All twelve bottles Gates had placed inside remained unopened.
‘Wuss,’ Gates said with a sneer.
He pulled out two bottles, handed one to Kilkenny, and wiped the other across his brow. His face was flushed and sweaty with exertion.
‘How was the ride?’ Kilkenny asked.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Gates replied in his thick drawl, ‘they got some fine horses here. You should’ve come with me.’
‘My rear end is still sore from the trek out here.’
‘I stand corrected — you are a turbo wuss.’
Gates dropped into the chair beside Kilkenny, popped off the beer cap, and drained two inches from the long-neck bottle. The beer was dark and carried a strong, hoppy flavor. Gates smacked his lips and bayed like a wolf at the moon.
‘Baadog!’ Kilkenny said in what had become a running joke between the two old friends.
When provisioning for the trek in Ulaanbaatar, they had a choice of three domestically brewed beers: Chinggis, Khan Brau, and Baadog. Neither was sure what the name meant, but for guys who enjoyed beers named Pete’s Wicked Ale and Magic Hat #9, Baadog seemed the right choice.
‘That solar-powered cooler sure put a nice chill on these longnecks,’ Gates opined.
‘It definitely beats lugging bags of ice all the way out here.’
‘Or drinking lukewarm beer.’ Gates took another swig. ‘As far as bivouacs go, this is definitely one of our better ones, though a bit of a hike on such short notice.’
‘Chief, I know for a fact you and I have gone farther faster than what it took to get here.’
‘True, but Uncle Sam wasn’t paying us to pussyfoot around on those ops.’ Gates held up his beer. ‘When someone absolutely, positively — ’