The Fifth Gospel

by Ian Caldwell

  After dinner comes a lull. Peter watches the evening news with Diego. I find the Vatican yearbook. Almost thirteen hundred pages go by before I find a page titled VICARIATE OF THE VATICAN CITY-STATE—the special administrative unit devoted to our tiny country. The name of the judicial vicar will be here.

  To my surprise, the post is empty. All decisions are made by our vicar general, a cardinal named Galuppo. And the first words of Cardinal Galuppo’s profile ring alarm bells.

  Born in the archdiocese of Turin.

  The man controlling Ugo’s trial is from the Shroud’s city. I wonder if this can possibly be a coincidence. The other Turin cardinal I know of is Simon’s boss, the Cardinal Secretary of State, and he, too, is touched by the shadow of Ugo’s death: the phone number on the back of the photo I was sent at the Casa rings a Secretariat phone, and Michael said he suspected Secretariat priests beat him up.

  Hometown networks are important in this city, and cardinals are their hubs. John Paul couldn’t have removed the Shroud from its chapel without the knowledge of Cardinal Poletto, the archbishop of Turin, and I imagine the first men Poletto might’ve contacted were his fellow cardinals from the archdiocese.

  I wonder if Ugo’s death can really boil down to something so petty. The feelings of a few powerful men about the transfer of a relic from their birth city. As the sun sets, the trees below are black with roosting birds and loud with their evening chatter. At half past seven the telephone rings. I hear Diego say, “Send him up.”

  Lucio emerges from his bedroom looking grim. He shuffles forward on his four-legged cane as the nuns bring a pitcher of iced water to a table in the next room, then make themselves scarce.

  A sharp knock comes at the door. Diego steps forward to answer it, and I see Simon close his eyes and breathe.

  The man who enters is an old Roman priest I don’t recognize.

  “Monsignor,” Diego says, “please come in.”

  The old man greets Simon by name, then turns to me and says, “Are you Father Alexander Andreou? Your brother mentioned you would be here.”

  He offers a handshake, then spots Lucio down the hall and begins to plod toward him. I glance at Simon, wondering if the monsignor is a Secretariat friend, but he gives no sign.

  Lucio sits in his private library, at a long table with a red felt top and a red silk skirt. A poor man’s version of the furnishings in the papal palace. At Lucio’s invitation, the monsignor takes a chair and puts his briefcase on the table. Simon and I follow him in.

  “Diego,” my uncle says, “that will be all. Hold my calls.”

  Without a word from me, Diego brings Peter out with him. Now the four of us are alone.

  “Alexander,” Lucio says, “this is Monsignor Mignatto, an old friend of mine from seminary. He works at the Rota now. Last night we received some important news, and I’ve asked him to advise the family about what happens next.”

  Mignatto bows his head slightly. My uncle is constantly surrounded by old priests trying to make themselves useful to our family in the hope that Lucio will be their meal ticket. Already I wonder about this man’s motives. The title monsignor is an honorary promotion only halfway up from priest. In most dioceses it’s a badge of pride, but around here, for a man of Mignatto’s age, it’s a sign of not really having made it. A consolation prize for not having reached bishop. Simon will make monsignor next year, the standard promotion after five years of Secretariat work.

  With a hint of lawyerly self-importance, Mignatto places three sheets of paper on the table, one at a time. Then he clicks the briefcase shut. A Rotal advocate ranks far below a cardinal, but Mignatto’s cassock is still expensive-looking and tailored, nothing like the ones in the clerical supply catalogs I shop from. Monsignors of his grade have the honor of wearing purple buttons and sashes instead of black, to set them apart from ordinary priests. Though Eastern Catholics consider this finicky—there’s no biblical basis for the title of monsignor, let alone for the color of their buttons—it’s still daunting to be the only Greek priest in a room of successful Romans.

  “Father Andreou,” he says, turning to me, “let’s begin with your situation.”

  I stare at him. “What situation?”

  “Don Diego says you lost your police escort today. Would you like to know why?”

  He has my full attention.

  Mignatto slides a sheet toward me. It looks like a police report.

  “They examined your apartment twice,” he says. “And they found no signs of forced entry.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They think your housekeeper lied. They think the break-in never happened.”

  “What? ”

  Mignatto’s eyes never leave mine. “They believe the damage to your apartment was staged.”

  I turn to Simon, but he’s wearing his diplomat face, trained to register no surprise. Uncle Lucio lifts a finger in the air, asking me to contain my disbelief.

  “This,” Mignatto says, “is important in Nogara’s murder trial because the prosecution pivots on what happened at your apartment. If there was a break-in, then you and your brother are victims, and we have more than one crime. Without the break-in, we have only what happened at Castel Gandolfo.”

  “Why,” I say, trying to sound calm, “would they think she lied about something like this?”

  “Because your brother told her to do it.”

  I swallow back my incredulity. “I’m sorry?”

  “They think she staged the break-in to distract attention from what happened at Castel Gandolfo.”

  I glance at Simon again. He’s staring at his hands. For the first time, I sense that this is not the meeting I thought it was.

  “Simon,” I say, “what do they think happened at Castel Gandolfo?”

  He drags a knuckle across his lips. “Alli,” he says, “I wanted to tell you at the museums. But Peter was there.”

  “You wanted to tell me what?”

  He straightens himself up. At his full height, even seated in a chair, he seems majestic. This majesty is only deepened by the sadness in his eyes.

  “The trial,” he says, “is mine. They’re accusing me of killing Ugo.”

  CHAPTER 14

  I AM COLD. GUTTED. It feels as if there’s an opening at the bottom of me into which everything else is sliding. Into which I can’t stop myself from falling, too.

  They’re staring at me. Waiting for me to say something. But I look to Simon. My hands are flat on the tabletop. I feel my weight pressing on them, needing to be steadied.

  Simon doesn’t speak. Instead, Mignatto says, “I’m sure this comes as a shock.”

  Everything moves more slowly. My vision flexes, making them all seem more distant. Mignatto is looking at me with a polite, muted pity that belongs to some other situation, some alien world. I feel myself scrabbling for traction, like a rat trying to escape a trap. All three of them knew. All three of them have accepted this.

  “No,” I murmur. “Uncle, you’ve got to stop them.”

  The first clear thoughts penetrate the fog of shock. The people who attacked Michael, who killed Ugo, who threatened me: this must be their way of reaching Simon.

  “Cardinal Galuppo,” I blurt. “He did this.”

  Mignatto squints at me.

  “Galuppo,” I repeat. “From Turin.”

  “Alexander,” Lucio says, “just listen.”

  Mignatto removes another document from his briefcase. “Father Andreou,” he says to Simon, “this is the libellus. A copy of it was sent to your Ankara address before the court messenger confirmed your whereabouts last night. To prepare you to read this document, I need to make sure you remember your rights in this process.”

  “I don’t need a reminder,” Simon says.

  So that’s what this is: a strategy session. An acceptance of the inevitability
of a trial.

  “Father,” Mignatto says gently, “everyone in your position needs a reminder.” He checks his shirt cuffs, then says, “These proceedings won’t resemble an Italian trial. The Church follows the older, inquisitorial system.”

  Now I see Mignatto for what he really is. Not the bearer of bad news, but the family attorney. The Rotal messenger who came to Lucio’s apartment last night must’ve notified Simon he was being charged. Now my uncle has hired Mignatto to be Simon’s defense lawyer.

  I stare at Lucio. His otherworldly calm begins to seem comforting. A reassurance that we can prepare ourselves for whatever Simon is about to endure.

  “In our system,” Mignatto says, “a trial does not consist of the prosecution and defense offering competing views of what took place. It is the judges who call the witnesses, ask the questions, and decide which experts will testify. The defense and prosecution may make suggestions, but the judges are empowered to decline them. This means we will not be able to pose questions in court. We will not be able to force the tribunal to consider a particular line of inquiry. We will only be able help the judges seek the truth on their own. As a result, you won’t have some of the rights you may be expecting.”

  “I understand,” my brother says.

  “I must also warn you that a guilty verdict in this canonical trial would result, to a moral certainty, in your being handed over to the civil authorities for a state homicide trial.”

  No change registers in Simon’s face. Here are the reserves of strength our parents could never fathom. He is even more placid than Lucio. And yet his peace seems anchored in sadness. I want to comfort him. But if I reach out, I know my hand will shake.

  Mignatto slides the libellus toward him. When Simon picks it up, though, he only taps the pages on the table to level them, then returns them.

  “Please,” Mignatto clarifies. “You can examine it now.”

  But when he offers the document again, Simon says, with a serene look on his face, “Monsignor, I appreciate your help. But I don’t need to see the libellus.”

  There’s a short silence before he speaks again. And in that pause, a pang of fear sinks through me like a depth charge. I feel an old, familiar undertow. I pray that I’m wrong, that my brother is no longer the man he once was. And yet I have a clear premonition of what he’s about to say.

  Simon stands. “I’ve decided that I won’t defend myself against the murder charge.”

  “Simon!” I cry.

  An awful expression crawls across Mignatto’s face. A strange, disbelieving smile. My heart feels cavernous, echoing with a pain I prayed I would never feel again.

  “What are you saying?” the monsignor asks. “You confess to the murder of Ugolino Nogara?”

  Simon answers emphatically: “No.”

  “Then explain yourself, please.”

  “I won’t mount a defense.”

  “Simon,” I urge him, “please don’t do this.”

  “Under canon law,” Mignatto says gravely, “you’re required to mount a defense.”

  The words of a reasonable man. An ordinary, reasonable man. Who doesn’t understand my brother at all. I grab Simon’s arm and try to make him meet my eyes.

  Lucio hisses, “Simon, what is this nonsense?”

  But my brother ignores him and turns to me. His stare is almost vacant. He has prepared himself for this moment. I know, already, that nothing I say will be able to reach him.

  “I shouldn’t have involved you in this, Alex,” he says. “I’m sorry. From this point forward, please stay out of it.”

  “Simon, you can’t do th—”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Lucio barks. “You’ll lose everything!”

  But before he can say more, Diego appears in the doorway. In a tense voice he says, “Eminence, there’s a visitor waiting outside.”

  Simon glances at his watch. He steps away from the table, in the direction of the door Diego has opened, and trades a look with the stranger in the entryway.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  “Sit down!” Lucio barks. Hysteria circles in his voice.

  But Simon tucks in his chair and bows slightly.

  My body is numb with grief. With mourning. Here he is again, returned from the dead. The Simon no one has ever been able to change, who can still shed the world in a heartbeat.

  “Uncle,” he says, “I’ve been asked to accept house arrest. And I’ve agreed.”

  “That’s absurd!” My uncle points at the stranger just visible through the doorway. “Who is that man? Send him away!”

  But there’s a grandeur to Simon’s deafness. He turns and begins to walk away. Nothing can reach him now.

  Almost nothing. From beside Diego’s desk, Peter comes running up. “Is your meeting done now?”

  Simon, nearly at the door now, stops.

  My son’s expression is angelic. “Can you read me a story?”

  His eyes are so innocent, so hopeful. He is standing before his hero, the world-record holder in his life for always saying yes.

  “I’m sorry,” Simon whispers. “I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  My brother kneels. His arms, as endless as albatross wings, enfold Peter. He says, “Don’t worry about that. Will you do something for me?”

  Peter nods.

  “No matter what you hear people say, believe in me. All right?” He presses his face against Peter’s, so that my son can’t see the emotion in his eyes. “And remember. I love you.”

  THE MAN IN THE doorway says nothing. Does not shake Simon’s hand. Does not acknowledge the rest of us. Just waits for a signal from my brother, then leads him away.

  Lucio has risen to his feet. “Come back!” he wheezes.

  His breathing is shallow. Diego tries to ease him back into his seat, but Lucio stumbles toward the entryway and throws open the door.

  The elevator in the distance is closing.

  “Eminence,” Diego says, “I can call down and have the guards stop them.”

  But Lucio only leans on the wall and croaks, “What is this? What does he think he’s doing?”

  I hurry toward him and say, “Uncle, I think I might know what’s happening.”

  I begin to explain about Ugo’s exhibit, about Turin and the threats. But Lucio only stares at the door my brother left by.

  “That man who came for Simon,” I continue, “may have been sent by Cardinal Galuppo. He’s John Paul’s vicar. And he’s from Turin.”

  But from the other room, Mignatto says, “No. The vicar would’ve issued a written order. There was no order. That man was probably a plainclothes gendarme.”

  “If Cardinal Galuppo is trying to threaten Simon,” I continue, “he wouldn’t leave a paper trail.”

  Lucio is still breathing hard. “If someone were trying to threaten your brother,” he says, “then Simon wouldn’t have gone willingly.”

  Mignatto approaches us. “I can resolve this very quickly,” he says. Producing a phone from his briefcase, he dials a number and says, “Ciao, Eminence. Sorry to interrupt your dinner. Did you just send a man to pick up Andreou?” He waits. Then: “Thank you much.”

  After hanging up, he turns back to us. “Cardinal Galuppo has no idea who that man was. And I should add that His Eminence has been my friend for twenty years, so I find your accusation absurd.”

  I turn to him. “Monsignor, a Secretariat priest was attacked. My apartment was broken into. Someone sent me a threat this afternoon at my hotel room. They’re going after everyone who knew about the exhibit.”

  Lucio’s breathing has grown even shallower. “No,” he pants. “This has nothing to do with Galuppo.”

  “How do you know?”

  He has just enough strength to give me a withering look. “The people of Turin didn’t go murdering each other
after the radiocarbon tests, so they’re not doing it now.” He takes a gasping breath. “Find your brother. I want answers.”

  He gestures at Diego for help, then hobbles into the darkness of his bedroom. The door closes after him.

  Diego murmurs to me, “What the hell is this about?”

  I whisper, “They think Simon killed Ugo.”

  “I know that. Where were they taking him?”

  “Into house arrest.”

  “In whose house?”

  I hadn’t even registered this point. Simon has no house, no home. He lives in a Muslim country a thousand miles away.

  “I don’t know,” I begin to say. But Diego has already followed my uncle into the darkness.

  * * *

  “COME,” MIGNATTO SAYS TO me, stepping back toward the negotiating table and closing the door. He lifts the libellus and says, in a low voice, “You really think this is another threat?”

  “Yes.”

  He clears his throat. “Then I’m willing to discuss it. But to do that, there’s a bit of procedure we need to get out of the way. Will you agree to be your brother’s procurator?”

  “His what?”

  “The procurator receives court documents and acts in the defendant’s interest.” Mignatto gestures at the papers on the table. “It entitles you to see the libellus, which I otherwise can’t show you.”

  How strange the world of canon law is. Procurator is the title Pontius Pilate had in the gospels. The title of the man who signed Jesus’ death warrant. Only lawyers would resurrect a word like that.

  “My brother should make those decisions,” I say.

  “To judge from what we just heard, your brother isn’t interested in making decisions.”

  Mignatto rummages in his briefcase and finds a pack of cigarettes. Here, in the home of the Cardinal President, in the world’s first country to outlaw smoking, he lights up. “What’s your answer, Father?” he says.

  I lift the page. “I’ll do it.”