have been critical if the fight had continued.”
The rising pitch of the old man’s voice seemed to sap the strength from the words, gestating them into a plea. Valendrea decided to get to the point. “Gustavo, you are too old to be secretary. It is a demanding post. Much travel is required.”
Bartolo glared at him. This man was going to be a difficult ally to placate. The cardinal had indeed delivered a number of votes, confirmed by the listening devices, and had been his champion from the beginning. But Bartolo’s reputation was one of a slacker with a mediocre education and no diplomatic experience. His selection for any post would not be popular, especially one as critical as secretary of state. There were three other cardinals who’d worked equally hard, with exemplary backgrounds and greater standing within the Sacred College. Still, Bartolo offered one thing they did not. Unremitting obedience. And there was something to be said for that.
“Gustavo, if I considered appointing you, there would be conditions.” He was testing the waters, seeing how inviting they might be.
“I’m listening.”
“I intend to personally direct foreign policy. Any decisions will be mine, not yours. You would have to do exactly as I say.”
“You are pope.”
The response came quick, signaling desire.
“I would not tolerate dissension or maverick actions.”
“Alberto, I have been a priest nearly fifty years and have always done as popes said. I even knelt and kissed the ring of Jakob Volkner, a man I despised. I cannot see how you would question my loyalty.”
He allowed his face to melt into a grin. “I’m not questioning anything. I just want you to know the rules.”
He eased a bit down the path and Bartolo followed. He motioned upward and said, “Popes once fled the Vatican through that passageway. Hiding like children, afraid of the dark. The thought makes me sick.”
“Armies no longer invade the Vatican.”
“Not troops, but armies do still invade. Today’s infidels come in the form of reporters and writers. They bring their cameras and notebooks and try to destroy the Church’s foundation, aided by liberals and dissidents. Sometimes, Gustavo, even the pope himself is their ally, as with Clement.”
“It was a blessing he died.”
He liked what he was hearing, and he knew it wasn’t platitudes. “I intend to restore glory to the papacy. The pope commands a million or more when he appears anywhere in the world. Governments should fear that potential. I intend to be the most traveled pope in history.”
“And you would need the constant assistance of the secretary of state to achieve all that.”
They walked a bit farther. “My thoughts exactly, Gustavo.”
Valendrea glanced again at the brick passageway and imagined the last pope who’d fled the Vatican as German mercenaries stormed through Rome. He knew the exact date—May 6, 1527. One hundred and forty-seven Swiss guards died that day defending their pontiff. The pope barely escaped through the brick-enclosed corridor rising above him, tossing off his white garments so no one would recognize him.
“I will never flee the Vatican,” he made clear to not only Bartolo, but also the walls themselves. He was suddenly overcome with the moment and decided to disregard what Ambrosi had counseled. “All right, Gustavo, I’ll make the announcement Monday. You will be my secretary of state. Serve me well.”
The old man’s face beamed. “In me you will have total dedication.”
Which made him think of his most loyal ally.
Ambrosi had phoned two hours ago and told him that Father Tibor’s reproduced translation should be his at seven P.M. So far, there was no indication that anyone had read it, and that report pleased him.
He glanced at his watch. Six fifty P.M.
“Must you be somewhere, Holy Father?”
“No, Eminence, I was only considering another matter that is, at this moment, being resolved.”
SIXTY-EIGHT
BAMBERG, 6:50 P.M.
Michener climbed a steep path toward the Cathedral of St. Peter and St. George and entered a sloping, oblong piazza. Below, a landscape of terra-cotta roofs and stone towers rose from the town proper, illuminated by pools of light that dotted the city. The dark sky yielded a steady fall of spiraling snow, but did not deter the crowds already making their way toward the church, its four spires splashed in a blue-white glow.
The churches and squares of Bamberg had celebrated Advent for more than four hundred years by displaying decorative nativity scenes. He’d learned from Irma Rahn that the circuit always started in the cathedral and, after the bishop’s blessing, everyone would fan out through the city to view the year’s offerings. Many came from all over Bavaria to take part, and Irma had warned that the streets would be crowded and noisy.
He glanced at his watch. Not quite seven.
He glanced around him and studied the families parading toward the cathedral’s entrance, many of the children chatting incessantly about snow, Christmas, and St. Nicholas. Off to the right, a group was huddled around a woman wrapped in a heavy wool coat. She was perched on a knee-high wall, talking about the cathedral and Bamberg. Some kind of tour.
He wondered what people would think if they knew what he now knew. That man had not created God. Instead, just as theologians and holy men had counseled since the beginning of time, God was there, watching, many times surely pleased, other times frustrated, sometimes angry. The best advice seemed the oldest advice. Serve Him well and faithfully.
He was still fearful of the atonement that would be required for his own sins. Maybe this task was part of his penance. But he was relieved to know that his love for Katerina had never, at least in heaven’s view, been a sin. How many priests had left the Church after similar failures? How many good men died thinking they’d fallen?
He was about to edge past the tour group when something the woman said caught his attention.
“—the seven hilled city.”
He froze.
“That’s what the ancients called Bamberg. It refers to the seven mounds that surround the river. Hard to see now, but there are seven distinct hills, each one in centuries past occupied by a prince or a bishop or a church. In the time of Henry II, when this was the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, the analogy brought this political center closer to the religious center of Rome, which was another city referred to as
He closed his eyes and prayed again. Was this another insight? Something vital to what was about to happen?
He glanced up at the funnel-shaped entrance to the cathedral. The tympanum, bathed in light, depicted Christ at the Last Judgment. Mary and John, at his feet, were pleading for souls arising from their coffins, the blessed pushing forward behind Mary toward heaven, the damned being dragged to hell by a grinning devil. Had two thousand years of Christian arrogance come down to this night—to a place where nearly a thousand years ago a sainted Irish priest had predicted humanity would come?
He sucked in a breath of frigid air, steeled himself, then elbowed his way into the nave. Inside, the sandstone walls were bathed in a soft hue. He took in the details of the heavily ribbed vaulting, stout piers, statuary, and tall windows. A choir perch soared on one end. The altar filled the other. Beyond the altar was the tomb of Clement II, the only pope ever buried in German soil, and Jakob Volkner’s namesake.
He stopped at a marble font and dabbed his finger into the holy water. He crossed himself and said another prayer for what he was about to do. An organ poured out a soft melody.
