Magnificat (2 page)

There were a few words of agreement at Cardinal Fiorivi’s proposals, but Cardinal Tayibha could not go along with the others.

“Eminences,” he said, his voice cracking, “we are here to invite the Holy Spirit to make itself known to us. We have all written a name, the same name. Might not this be a manifestation of the Holy Spirit? It is said that the Holy Spirit could inspire us to elect any living soul on the earth to occupy the Throne of Saint Peter. Dare we presume to declare ourselves above the visitation of the Holy Spirit, and the true Will of God if that is what has actually occurred?”

“The Holy Spirit would not be recommending a Chinese to be Pope,” announced Cardinal Folgar. “It’s absurd to think otherwise. We know the dogma, but we know the Church, as well.” His smile was condescending as he went on to the soft-spoken Cardinal from Madras. “It is your first time in conclave, and you are still learning your way. Your piety does you credit, of course, but in circumstances like this, it is essential that we do not permit ourselves to be deceived. So many Catholics are gullible and can be taken in by any number of ruses, and never more so than when we are in conclave.” He looked around and saw favorable responses in the eyes of many of the Cardinals. “We have been the victims of a clever, evil joke, and we must be at pains to guard against similar incidents.”

Again there were gestures of support, a few quite emphatic.

But Hunfredo, Cardinal Montebranco was not convinced. “How can you assume that we have been deceived? Is it impossible that the Holy Spirit would touch each of us, if God wished it?”

“We pray that we will receive the gifts of the Holy Spirit,” said Cardinal Jung at once, “but Folgar is right; it is not credible that the Holy Spirit would offer the name of a Chinese.” He had a deep, plumy laugh. “How could such a thing happen?”

“If it is the Will of God,” said the venerable Cardinal Montebranco, “it would require only to exist; credibility is for fallible humans.” He crossed himself. “I pray that we are not like Peter, to deny Our Lord when He is present.”

“Do you seriously suppose that the Holy Spirit would offer the name of a Chinese? A non-Catholic? A Communist?” demanded Cardinal Jung, his voice rising in pitch with each question.

“No,” said Cardinal O’Higgins in a thoughtful voice. “No, but that does not mean anything when dealing with matters of God. What we suppose is as nothing.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “It would be easier to turn away if only a few had written the name, but as we all did, it is.…”

“Proof that the saboteurs have agents in the Vatican, as we have long suspected,” said Cardinal Folgar promptly. “This is the result of careful planning, that may have taken years to put into action. Whatever their goals and whoever they are, they have overstepped themselves here. That shows pride, and their error. Had they given the…vision to half our number, it would appear odd but reasonable, but they become greedy, and that was the source of their failure.” He motioned to Father McEllton. “You have done well by coming to us in this way. If you had spoken officially we would have had to make a statement and we can say nothing official about this. When we reveal tomorrow that we have not yet reached a decision, we will know our enemies by their responses.” He crossed himself and folded his hands, looking very placid. “It might be best if we retire at once, so that we can explore our thoughts in privacy; we will give nothing away to our enemies if we are silent.”

Cardinal Shumwoe nodded gravely, his densely black skin making him look like a walking shadow. “In the morning we must discuss our experiences. Until then, I am convinced Cardinal Folgar is right—the less we are together the less chance there is that we will weaken our position.” To provide an example he turned away and started toward his temporary cell.

“It is well-advised,” said Cardinal Hetre, indicating the other Canadian Cardinal, Victor, Cardinal Mnientek. “Come, Eminence.”

“For Canada?” asked Cardinal Mnientek with a lift to his brows; the mischief in his eyes was at odds with his angular Polish features.

“For the memory of Urban IX, and for the benefit of the Church,” said Cardinal Hetre. “We owe that much to his reign, surely; we all do,” he added pointedly.

Several Cardinals agreed, a few of them moving away with the two Canadians; others were confused by this failure of protocol and uncertain of what was best to do.

Charles, Cardinal Mendosa took up the case, standing as if he were about to get on a half-broke horse. “The less we say about this, the better. I’m not suggesting we should ignore it—nothing like that. But we need to have our priorities straight. After we have a Pope, then we can set about finding out what this thing was and who was behind it. In the meantime, I thought we better get a new kitchen staff while we’re in here. Something got hold of us, and if it wasn’t the Holy Spirit, it was probably in the air or the food. Those are the two things we all share. So we’ll start with the food: it’s easier.” He had one hand on his hip as if there might be a phantom six-gun under his fingers. “And when we find out who’s doing this, we’d best deal with them quickly and quietly. We don’t want any publicity getting out about this. You know the press would be all over us, and they’re bad enough as it is with every Bible-thumping preacher from one end of the world to the other talking about the Second Coming and the Antichrist.” He crossed himself. “God is better served without a lot of glitz and glamour.”

It galled Cardinal Folgar to agree with the tall, rangy Texan from Houston, but he knew it was the wisest course. “We are all aware it would be ill-advised for the world to learn of this.”

“Might give them ideas,” added Cardinal Mendosa. “They could take a notion to question everything, to think it’s all conspiracies. It’s bad enough watching the loonies on TV talking about the Second Coming as if it were a rock concert. I see a lot of that back home.”

Cardinal Folgar stifled the retort he longed to give about Americans in general and Texans in particular; instead he said, “We must think of the Church, how it is to endure the next three years, until we are safely launched on the new millennium.”

Cardinal van Hooven peered out through the pebble-thick lenses of his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Silence, Eminences. Silence first. Leave a little time for the soul to speak. We’ve already said too much, and confounded our minds. We must quiet the disorder within ourselves and turn our thoughts to the inner light where God is found.” He leaned on his cane as he made his way toward his temporary cell, saying as he went, “I will retire for the evening. You may concoct whatever tale you wish to placate the press.”

“He has the right idea,” said Cardinal Mendosa. “Let’s just make sure that Father McEllton doesn’t end up with egg on his face, all right?” He looked around. “Okay. You: Gemme. You’re the one the press likes best. You can work out the right way to explain what’s going on in here, without telling them much. Make sure the reporters don’t spook you.” He touched his pectoral crucifix and his weathered face softened. “We owe it to the Church, Gemme.”

“Of course,” said Cardinal Gemme harshly.

“We’re depending on you.” Cardinal Mendosa grinned at Cardinal Gemme. “I’ll make special mention of you in my prayers, Eminence.”

Cardinal Gemme swung around and stalked away from the small remaining knot of Cardinals.

* * *

It was well into the night when Jivin, Cardinal Tayibha finally ceased his meditations. For the last two hours he had permitted himself to hope that the disastrous ballots were an isolated incident, something they had faced and defeated; now he wanted a little rest before the Cardinals met again. He thought of God, the mystery of Him, and for once was chilled instead of comforted. He rose from his knees and prepared himself for bed, hoping that the fragile serenity he had found for himself would sustain him into the morning when he would need it most.

As he slipped between the sheets, he had one last frisson of doubt: what if they were opposing the Will of God? What if that Chinese name was truly the mandate of the Holy Spirit, and not some clever psychological manipulation on the part of those seeking to sabotage the conclave and the Church? He recalled that anyone elected twice by the College of Cardinals could not refuse the Papacy; the Cardinals could not elect another Pope until the one elected twice had served. He shuddered as he closed his eyes.

With an effort he forced these unwelcome thoughts from his mind, unwilling to sleep with such questions for company, for he knew it led to the turbulence of the soul which the Cardinal could not endure.

* * *

From time to time Cardinal Hetre was plagued with nightmares, and never more than on this night. He tossed on his narrow bed, wishing he were back in Quebec instead of trapped here in Rome, a prisoner of the conclave. Sweat stood out on his brow; his arms thrashed against the sheets as if they were the most formidable bonds. In his dream he screamed and howled, but all that escaped his lips was a soft, pitiful moan.

Something pursued him, something he could not bring himself to face, something that had long ago sent him into the Church for safety, a personal Nemesis more terrible than the promise of Hell for those who sinned. He did not know why he was sought, and had no desire to find out. He wanted only to get away from the terrible thing, and that was the one wish he seemed destined not to be granted.

He sat up in bed and started to pray, quiet, personal petitions to the Virgin and to God for the peace that is not of this world, which had eluded him for so long.

* * *

Before the first bells of morning, Charles, Cardinal Mendosa awoke. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, wanting to be back in Houston: he hated Rome. Horrible thing for a Catholic to feel, let alone a Cardinal. Rome brought out the worst in him. It was nothing but a monument to its own swollen self-importance, and it colored the Church with grandiose traditions that still made him squirm. He was never more Texan than when he was in Rome.

A month before the conclave, he had received a delegation from the followers of the Reverend Robert Williamson, the most popular of the Fundamentalists preaching the Second Coming on television. The six men were successful and confident, trying to sway the Cardinal to their position in anticipation of the death of Pope Urban IX, who was lying in a coma at the Vatican. They presented their statistics and quoted Scripture, making it apparent they expected his cooperation. At the time he had been polite to mask his ire; now he was afraid that those followers of Reverend Williamson might have more strength than he first supposed. They had been so polished. They had told him—very discreetly, of course—that the Church was falling apart and that Reverend Williamson was looking to save the souls of all Christians.

These were not the Protestants Cardinal Mendosa was used to. These men were there to deliver a threat, to put him on notice that they were going to damage him and the Church as much and whenever possible. Never before had Cardinal Mendosa experienced such subtle malice from any Protestants, no matter how angry some of them might have been. Until that interview he had assumed that difficult though it occasionally was, Catholics and Protestants would find some way to rattle along together, their Christianity giving them common ground. After the Reverend Williamson’s men visited him, he was no longer certain of it.

Every day the conclave continued gave those slick, dangerous men—and those like them—more power and credibility. Cardinal Mendosa could feel it in the air, even here in Rome. And the dreams had come back. For the first time in almost a decade, he was having those eerie dreams that had brought him into the Church so long ago.

“We’re going to have to agree today,” he said softly to the darkness. “We don’t agree today and this thing’s gonna bust wide open.” He was not sure he was speaking to anyone other than himself. “If it busts wide open, then it’s all over. We’ll never get another Pope that everyone can accept.” Saying it aloud made him more convinced he was right, casting his thoughts back more than forty years, to the first dreams he had had that had disturbed Father Aloysius, the dearly flawed Irishman who had been his parish priest.

Cardinal Mendosa turned on his side and determinedly closed his eyes, wanting to be rid of the memory. “This is different,” he whispered, and saw the dreams again as clearly as he had at nine when he had been examined by Father Aloysius and then Bishop Parker, both men questioning him for hours about what he had seen in his dreams. They had finally dismissed them as the result of the boy’s vivid imagination, his vision of a Catholic President shot in Texas while riding in an open car surrounded by police.

And eight years later it happened, exactly as he had dreamed it. Cardinal Mendosa put his hand to his eyes as if that would block what he remembered. The new dreams were as unsettling and as unanswerable, and he found them as hard to turn from now as he had when he was a boy.

“We have to agree. Today,” he muttered, shivering in the bed. The new vision dismayed him, and he wanted to be free of it: a Pope who was not Catholic was unthinkable, no matter how theoretically and theologically possible. The Cardinals would have to agree today, or it would be too late.

The first deep bell of Saint Peter’s began to toll, a low E that shuddered on the pre-dawn air. Cardinal Mendosa heard it with relief as he threw back the covers and began his first prayers of the morning.

Chapter 2

“Habemus Papam!”
came the glorious announcement to the assembled faithful in the oval-shaped plaza below. An answering cheer went up, and the thousands flocked more tightly toward the balcony where the news was given.

In the splendid Latin phrases—one of the few remaining rituals in the ancient tongue—it was proclaimed to the world that Ottone, Cardinal Folgar of Verona would reign as Celestine VI.

Again there were cheers, interspersed with a few derisive whistles, for Cardinal Folgar was an outspoken and staunch conservative who was not as popular as some of the Cardinals. In general the new Pope was greeted enthusiastically, for he had always stood firm against the radical elements in the Church, and for the traditional values of family and Catholicism.

“I sure hope we know what we’re doing,” Cardinal Mendosa whispered as the international press closed in for the story. He had dreamed again that night and what he had seen still troubled him.

“What do you think about the new Pope, Eminence?” asked a reporter with a strong Midwestern accent. “You being from Texas and all, does this Folgar seem like a good choice to you? Good for Americans as well as Italians, I mean?”

Cardinal Mendosa looked at the brash young man. “The word Catholic means universal. The election of the Pope is not the same popularity contest that most elections are. It is the Will of the Holy Spirit that determines who will wear the tiara.” He knew he sounded inexcusably stuffy, but he was in no mood to accommodate the newspeople who flocked around; the bargain the Cardinals had struck continued to rankle with him.

“Aw, come on, Cardinal,” the young man persisted. “You can’t tell me that popularity doesn’t enter into the Papacy. Everyone know that the Popes are as much political as religious. You said that yourself last year in Chicago. I can quote the lecture, if you like.” His smile was two notches off being a smirk.

“All right, I concede there is a political component to the Papal elections, as there are to all elections, I suspect. But we are subject to the rule of the Holy Spirit, and that must be the central concern of every conclave, to strive for the presence and to act on the Will of the Holy Spirit.” He thought of the identical Chinese name on all their ballots, ballots which they had destroyed.

“Is that what happened?” the reporter asked, and without waiting for an answer, continued. “What about what Reverend Williamson said last night? Do you want to comment about that?”

It took all of Cardinal Mendosa’s self-discipline not to give a sharp retort. He drew a deep breath. “Since I don’t know what Reverend Williamson said last night, I’m in no position to comment, and since Reverend Williamson is not Catholic, it would not be appropriate in any case.” He saw that his answer had not deterred the young reporter. On impulse he tried a new ploy. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me. I have said I will give an interview to Mister Foot, and I notice he’s waiting for me. You might try Cardinal Walgren.”

“Going with the big shots?” the young reporter demanded, unimpressed by the suggestion to speak with the charismatic Cardinal from Los Angeles. “Too bad I’m not the anchorman for INS or one of the other satellite networks; I might have a little pull. All Walgren ever talks about is Hispanic gangs and drug dealers.”

Cardinal Mendosa moved away from the young man, making his way along the velvet rope separating the Cardinals from the press toward the tall, lanky Brit in the silk sportcoat. As he went he comforted himself with the thought that he had not lied to the impertinent young reporter—he had a standing agreement with Fitzwilliam Foot to give him an interview any time it was requested, with the understanding that he would not be asked any seriously embarrassing questions. At a time like this, he thought, that was a rare consolation.

* * *

Marc-Luc, Cardinal Gemme faced the bright studio lights with the aplomb of experience. He was dressed in an expensive business suit, in keeping with the reforms of Urban IX, who had encouraged the adoption of secular dress; only the three pins on his lapel revealed his position and title in the Church.

“They’re saying that Celestine is another compromise, essentially another Urban.” The interviewer was smiling, feeding the Cardinal the arranged text. He nodded once, prepared to listen to what Cardinal Gemme had to say. The program, originating in Paris, was being sent all over the world via the INS satellite network. The Cardinal’s appearance on the program was his fifth in three years.

Cardinal Gemme lowered his handsome head, his features serious. “As I am sure everyone is aware, the obligations of the conclave are such that all we do there is, and must remain, secret. If the deliberations were not kept absolutely private, there would be opportunity for influence and manipulation from…oh, many groups, and that would impugn the credibility of the election, which is the manifestation of the Holy Spirit. That is the basis for belief in the Apostolic Succession. However, we are accountable to the Church and to God for the Pope we elect, and it is only fitting that we offer some observations on the new Pontiff. I think that most Catholics know something of Cardinal Folgar’s record, and are waiting to see how he will deal with the more pressing problems that confront the Church, given his previous position on such issues as women priests and family planning.” He folded his hands in his lap. “It is of paramount importance for Catholics the world over to support the Pope, for he is our intermediary to God on earth. We cannot limit our vision to Catholics alone if we are to do the work God has set for us in the world: it is also necessary for people of good will, Catholics or any other faith, to concern themselves with the welfare of their fellow-human beings. Charity is listed as the greatest virtue, no matter in what religious context it is offered. Jesus commanded us to love one another, for if we cannot do that, we cannot love God. He also said that what we do for the least of His people we do for Him as well.”

The interviewer cocked his head, as if the notion were brand new instead of part of their agreed-upon script. “You are known as a liberal, Your Eminence. The general consensus is that with a conservative in charge, Catholicism will continue to lag behind in necessary reforms, which you appear to advocate.”

This was the part that Gemme had been waiting for, his chance to begin to build his own support-base with the public. “I pray every morning that the Church will open her heart to the plight of the poor throughout the world and modify her stances on many social issues. I am a true son of the Church, but I am also a citizen of the world, at the end of the twentieth century. In good conscience, I can do no less than support changes, though some of my fellow-Cardinals do not agree with me. There are those who say that it is for the Church to look after the spiritual needs of Catholics before all other issues. Yet for many Catholics, the spiritual and the mundane are one in the same. A poor mother in Guatemala or Rome or Java faces the same problems, and the Church has failed to address them realistically, though we have sufficient evidence to indicate that if such genuine grievances are neglected, it leads to a loss of faith and social upheaval, sometimes to violent revolution.” He looked directly into the lens of the camera, his dark-blue eyes so fixed that it seemed he was truly looking at all those watching the interview instead of the camera. “Catholics have a right to expect their Church to aid them in need, to give them hope and comfort, and to show them the glory that God has prepared for all of us.”

The interviewer ran his finger under his neat moustache. “Strong sentiments, Cardinal Gemme.”

“Yes,” he said, as modestly as possible.

* * *

“Did you see that idiot Gemme on television last night?” demanded Cardinal Jung as he stormed into the small reception room where the Pope had requested an informal discussion with his Cardinals that evening, to be followed by a dinner. He signaled for a servant and ordered a brandy, then went on. “He wasn’t content to wait! Celestine has been Pope for less than a week, and already Gemme is sniping at him! I’m only sorry we cannot try him for heresy, given what he has done. There is no telling what he will do next.” He stared hard at Cardinal Tayibha. “I wonder what they thought of him in India?”

“I have heard nothing yet; it is too soon to tell.” The Indian Cardinal shrugged, wanting desperately to avoid the whole issue. He wished Cardinal Cadini had come early, for the benign Genoese had no difficulty in handling Cardinal Jung, or anyone else, for that matter.

Cardinal Pingari looked up from the magazine he had been reading. “In Manila they liked what he said but not how he said it. My secretary called an hour ago to tell me.”

“The coronation is barely over, and Gemme is trying to worm his way into the position of heir apparent,” said Cardinal Jung with abhorrence. “He is blatant in his plan.”

“Meaning he stole the march on you?” suggested Cardinal Belleau.

“‘He who enters the conclave a Pope comes out a Cardinal,’” quoted Cardinal van Hooven, his smile behind his thick lenses making him look more like an owl than he usually did.

“There is no saying what he might arrange,” said Cardinal Jung, but with less bluster. “He knows that we cannot afford to ignore public sentiment. He is exploiting our weakness, hoping to use this millennial hysteria to sway Catholics to his support. And we may have to answer him with the same techniques. May God forgive us, but if that were not the case, if the laity were not so torn, we might not have had to destroy those ballots, but could have revealed them for the fraud they were.” He looked around as the servant brought his brandy on a silver tray. Cardinal Jung took the crystal snifter and dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand.

“Where is Celestine?” asked Cardinal Montebranco, who looked as if he had just awakened from a nap. “An odd choice in names, Celestine. We haven’t had a Celestine in centuries.”

“We hadn’t had an Urban, either,” Cardinal Tayibha pointed out. “It is a worthy name, with a good heritage. Neither Urban nor Celestine are tainted by recent events, as some others are.”

“His Holiness will be here shortly, I trust. It is almost the hour he designated,” said Cardinal O’Higgins, setting aside the Spanish-language newspaper he had been skimming. “I don’t like the way the European banks have been reacting to our new Pope. They seem to think the Church and Vatican bank will withdraw its support of European currency.” He stood up; unlike most of the others he was in a suit and tie instead of red or black cassocks. “I spoke with him this afternoon. He called to ask about the rumors of a coup in Honduras.”

Cardinal Jung put his snifter down. “Is Gemme going to be here this evening? Will we have to see him?”

“I think he is still in Paris,” said Cardinal Montebranco. “There’s no reason for him to be here in any case. In fact, it would be tactless, given his recent remarks.”

There were fourteen Cardinals to dine that night, all those remaining in Rome after the coronation of Celestine VI, with the exception of Rafaele, Cardinal Tondocello of Palermo, who was confined to his bed at the Vatican with kidney trouble. Within half an hour of the stated time, all fourteen were gathered in the reception room awaiting the arrival of Celestine VI. Conversation remained desultory; no one wanted to appear inattentive when the Pope joined them.

At last Father McEllton opened the door and bowed to the assembled Cardinals. “If you will be good enough to accompany me, Eminences?” He indicated the hallway. “His Holiness is ready to receive you.”

An unpromising sign, thought Cardinal Tayibha. Ottone Folgar had been Pope less than a week and already he was putting distance between himself and the Cardinals. He feared that Celestine had forgot how vulnerable he could be as Pope. The Indian Cardinal rose with the others and permitted himself to be led to the private dining room, knowing that it was a show of favor to dine there and knowing also that he felt slighted by the honor.

Celestine VI was wearing a white satin cassock and an antique pectoral crucifix glittering with gold and gems. His smile was as reserved and self-satisfied as a cat's. He blessed his Cardinals as they came into the room and gave a formal opening prayer before he indicated where his guests should sit at table. “Come. It is fitting that we dine together, as Our Lord did with His disciples.”

The service, Cardinal Tayibha noticed, was fine, gold-trimmed porcelain, the utensils heavy baroque silver, the napery damask linen, the complement of four wine-glasses, per setting, of delicate crystal. He doubted that Jesus would recognize such luxury as being in keeping with His standard of entertainment, and quashed the thought even as it formed in his mind. He took his place between Cardinal Pingari and Cardinal Fiorivi, and was momentarily sorry that Cardinal Mendosa had already left for the United States, along with the other six U.S. Cardinals. He bowed his head before Celestine spoke the blessing of their meal.

The trout had been removed and replaced with collops of spring lamb cooked with a puree of pomegranate and garlic, when Pope Celestine finally began to address the Cardinals. “I have been informed that there is a movement in Latin America to add new Voodoo-like elements to the Mass, as a means of bringing more of the people back to the Church. Now, that smacks of heresy to me. Oh, I know we’re not to use so unpopular a word as heresy in these times, but we must not flinch from our duty. I have informed the Cardinals, Archbishops, and Bishops of Latin America that any such additions or interpolations can be grounds for excommunication.”

Cardinal O’Higgins made a respectful gesture toward the Pope. “Your Holiness, I believe that you would lose a quarter of the priests in Latin America if you require such restrictions. They are trying to work with the people, in ways the people can understand. This is a difficult time for Latin America, and it will not get easier, not for some years, possibly decades, to come. It was not so long ago that the people of Latin America were little more than slaves to European masters and the Church. It is fitting that we show our—”

“Are you telling me that there is no way to bring them into the Church except to permit them to pervert their worship with worship of Satan?” Celestine asked, his voice dangerously low. “Can it be that you sympathize with these elements in the Church, my son?”