Shadow of Death

Ceremony completed, the exit recessional had begun. Now each Cardinal wore his new biretta. Again the applause. Again the cordon of Swiss Guards surrounding the Pope. Anyone determined to make the pontiff shed blood would have to smash his way through a phalanx of tall stalwart young men.

Koesler made his way out of the hall and down the seemingly infinite steps. Clearly, it was lots easier going down than coming up. He continued across St. Peter’s Square to the far section where the buses huddled like a herd of elephants.

As he was walking along the row of vehicles, Koesler heard his name called. Turning quickly, he struck his head against an outside rearview mirror on one of the buses. Feeling blood running down his face, he quickly put a handkerchief to the wound.

“Hey, Bob; sorry!” It was Father Brandon. “I wouldn’t have called to you if I had thought this would happen.”

“That’s all right; my own stupid fault . . . how bad is it?”

Brandon examined the wound in the bright glow of the bus’ headlight. “Not bad. Little more than a scratch. But you know how head wounds bleed.”

“Lucky I didn’t break my glasses.” Koesler applied as much pressure as he could to the cut. If it was as small as Brandon had described, it should clot in a matter of minutes. Meanwhile, with the blood that had already splotched the right side of his face, he looked as if he had been in a street fight.

“Just like a Cardinal,” Brandon commented.

“How’s that?”

“They get a commission to go out and shed their blood and they send some poor priest to do it for them.”

3.

“‘Venus of Cnidus—Roman Copy after Praxiteles.’ Hmmm.”

They walked on.

“‘Sleeping Ariadne—Imperial Roman Art.’ Hmmm.”

And on.

“‘Bathing Venus—Roman Copy after a Bronze Original by the Bithynian Artist Doidalses.’ Hmmm.” Joe Cox turned to his companion. “So what do you think it is; do you suppose women were built differently back then?”

Pat Lennon smiled. “Large ladies, aren’t they?”

Lennon and Cox were in the middle of the Pio-Clementino Museum on a route they hoped would lead them to the famed Sistine Chapel. There were no affiliated ceremonies scheduled for today, so, as was the case with most of the entourage associated with the new Cardinals, they had gone sightseeing.

“It’s not just that they’re large,” said Cox, “it’s that each and every one of these statues depicts a very zaftig lady. And I’ve got to assume the artists were not doing posters for Weight Watchers.”

“You’ve got to admit they’re shapely.”

“Oh, yes. Hourglass figures. Except that their hours look more like days.”

“This is a good lesson for you, Joe. It’s all relative. Until comparatively recently, only large, fleshy females were considered beautiful. Today’s slender models would have been considered unattractive. Men wanted their women amply endowed all over. Today, ‘amply endowed’ is Jayne Mansfield or Dolly Parton. It’s all a matter of taste . . .and tastes change.”

“The more there is of you, the more there is for me to love, eh?”

Lennon smiled again. “Feel cheated?”

Cox moved close and slid an arm around her waist. Far from feeling cheated, he was always proud to be in her company. She resembled a slightly taller, younger Brenda Vaccaro with that actress’ husky, sexy voice. And she was a first-class journalist to boot.

“Watch it, Cox!” She laughed. “This is the Vatican. You want to create bad thoughts for some Swiss Guard?”

They wandered on through the museums, gazing at figures of statuesque women and superbly muscled men.

“Hey,” Cox called from several feet away, reading from a small sign attached to a windowsill, “there’s hope. Here’s a sign that gives directions for the Sistine Chapel.”

“Really? Which way is it?”

“These are not directions for finding it. They are directions on the decorum expected in it if you find it.”

“Oh . . . and what do they suggest?”

“These are not suggestions. They read more like instructions.”

“Like what?”

“Well, it points out that the Sistine Chapel is a sacred place. You’ve got to wear modest clothing, and you’re expected to observe a reverential silence.”

“That makes sense, I guess.”

It was not long afterward that they found the steps leading to that structure distinct in so many ways from all others.

“Modest clothing!” warned Cox.

“Reverential silence!” affirmed Lennon.

Actually, they heard the Sistine Chapel before they saw it. And when they did see it, the scene brought to mind the Tower of Babel. Throughout the chapel, clusters of tourists gathered about their guides. That which differentiated one group from another was language. Here a German bunch, there a French, here a Polish, there an English, and so on. Many members of each group, in the age-old tourist custom, were chatting with their fellows. Thus the guides had to deliver their spiels at nearly peak volume.

It took Cox and Lennon several minutes to adjust their hearing as well as their psychological sensitivities to this cacophony. Once adjusted, they decided to explore together the marvels of Michelangelo and friends.

Father Koesler had found the chapel about half an hour earlier and had attached himself to the fringe of a tour being conducted in English. From a distance of only a few feet, he found it a definite challenge to hear and understand the guide, who was speaking very loudly, if not distinctly.

“This building,” the guide was saying, “is a bit more than five hundred years old. It was built in the reign of Pope Sixtus IV by Giovannino de’ Dolci, based on plans by Baccio Pontelli. The Sistine is the Pope’s official private chapel. In addition to many liturgical functions, the conclaves for the papal elections are held here.”

Koesler’s gaze was fixed on the famed ceiling. Michelangelo’s ceiling art was so busy the priest couldn’t decide what to focus on first. There was the renowned creation of man wherein God reaches out to touch the finger of a flaccid Adam. Human life is about to begin.

“The pavement is a prominent example of fifteenth century Roman mosaic artistry,” the guide went on. “The two groups of six frescoes each on the main walls depict events in the life of Moses, the ‘liberator of Israel,’ over there,” she pointed to the left, “and events in the life of Christ, the ‘liberator of all mankind,’ over there,” she indicated the group to the right.

Or, thought Koesler, still examining the ceiling, there is the scene of the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise. How many times had he seen these celebrated paintings reproduced in framed prints, in textbooks, magazines, seemingly everywhere. He was deeply moved that he was actually in the presence of Michelangelo’s original work.

“After discarding his initial design,” the guide had now caught up to Koesler and was explaining the ceiling, “which involved the depiction of the twelve Apostles, Michelangelo decided to relate his work to that already existing on the walls, where the history of mankind is depicted. His subjects were the Biblical stories of the Creation, Adam and Eve, the Flood, and the resumption of life on dry land by Noah and his family.”

Ah, yes, there was the drunken Noah and his naughty children over in the corner of the ceiling, near the top of the entrance to the chapel. Head tilted back, Koesler had been looking at the ceiling so long he was finding it difficult to breathe. He dropped his gaze to the crowd and massaged his neck. One problem with looking at the ceiling for an extended period was that it hurt.