by Ian Caldwell
Even as Bachmeier speaks, Nowak steps forward and makes a signal with his hands. The Swiss Guards at the door part. As if by magic, the Sistine Chapel opens.
A shiver goes through the crowd. Because past this threshold, the Vatican Museums end. The chapel of the pope begins. And on its ceiling is the crowning miracle of art.
As we filter in, however, not a single eye peers upward. My heart pounds. The blood drums in my ears. Because inside this chapel, Michelangelo is not alone. Beside the altar stands a tall golden chair. And in that chair, alone, sits the small, stooped figure of Pope John Paul.
CHAPTER 37
SUDDENLY THERE ARE Swiss Guards swarming around us, finding the Orthodox bishops and leading them to the front. The bishops show no surprise, no confusion, as if they know why they’re here.
There’s a logjam at the door, a hundred cassocks and tuxedos trying to push forward and see inside, a hundred more stopped dead in the doorway. The guards show the rest of us to red-cushioned chairs on the chapel floor, facing the steps where John Paul sits beside the altar. Already the air feels hot and thin. All around me, cardinals and dignitaries are trying to understand what’s happening. Distinguished-looking women fan papers in their laps, craning elegant necks.
In front of us, however, John Paul never moves. I’m startled to see that he looks more decrepit and pained than ever. He wears a permanent frown over the thick mask of his face. Years of illness have transformed his body into something wrenched and misshapen, his torso wide and flat and hunched, the white wings of his simar hanging awkwardly off his shoulders like a tablecloth draped on a stump. He slumps in his specially built chair, the one that his attendants carry everywhere now, designed to prevent him from slipping out of it. A low grinding hum comes from behind the chair. A mechanical motor. All eyes are on the throne, everyone wondering what it will do.
But it’s something behind the Holy Father that starts to move: a glass frame, mounted on steel tracks behind the altar. It climbs slowly against the altar wall until it hovers twenty feet over John Paul’s head, almost blocking the colossal Christ of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment.
A gasp comes from the crowd as people see what the frame contains. Catholics in the chapel begin genuflecting, some on their right knees, some on their left, unsure of the protocol for this unprecedented sight. The Orthodox make metanias, Russians and Slavs crossing themselves before bowing, Greeks and Arabs bowing before crossing. But it’s the Orthodox bishops who do something all their own. In unison, as if they’ve been prepared for this moment, they lower themselves to the floor, in full prostration, to venerate God’s highest icon.
Never have I felt anything like the hush of this room. The air is so tight that every sound squeezes upward into the outer darkness, like a conclave’s smoke. On the wall behind the Shroud, Michelangelo’s Jesus lifts his hand in the air, as if commanding time to stop. On the ceiling, electricity gathers in the sliver of nothingness between the outstretched fingers of God and Adam. All of creation, blanketed in the night outside, seems to press its ear against the chapel wall to listen.
I wish desperately that Simon could be here. I wish he could see whatever I’m about to see. Lucio gambled everything on tonight as if it were Simon’s only hope. Now it hums all around me: that hope was not misplaced.
A voice speaks up. Archbishop Nowak, standing near the front of the chapel, talking for our poor mute pope.
“Tonight,” he says, “we have witnessed the remarkable texts that document the history of the Holy Shroud. And we return, as always, to one text above all. The sacred cloth bears a profound resemblance to the gospel accounts of our Lord’s passion and death. The Holy Father has said Christianity must breathe again with two lungs—East and West, Orthodox and Catholic—and here lies Christ before us, wounded by a spear between the ribs. This spear wound was caused by a Roman soldier, as if in anticipation of those Catholic knights who would one day steal this Shroud from Constantinople.
“The Fourth Crusade is a stain on the Christian Church. The Holy Father has apologized for it, and has expressed the everlasting shame of Catholics for our role in it. Yet tonight he has asked me to read aloud to everyone present in this chapel—especially his fellow patriarchs, first among them His All Holiness, Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew—
a new and special message.”
In amazement I stand on my toes and try to see the men he’s referring to. The words are almost impossible to believe.
His fellow patriarchs.
First among them His All Holiness.
I knew Simon had invited the Patriarch of Romania here. But far above him in the ancient hierarchy of patriarchs is His All Holiness, the Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople, who ranks second only to the pope. This is beyond what I thought even Simon was capable of.
Nowak opens a formidable-looking document. It appears to be sealed in red wax. He reads: “Dear brothers and sisters, as you know, the Holy Shroud has been venerated in Catholic churches for many centuries. Yet until two decades ago, it was owned by the Italian royal family. Only upon the death of the former king, early in my pontificate, was the Holy Shroud bequeathed to the Holy See. I do not mention this to lessen the complicity of the Catholic Church in the sins of 1204. I mention it because of a particular detail in the last testament of King Umberto. That document, rather than bequeathing the Shroud to the archdiocese of Turin or to the Catholic Church, bequeaths it to the person of the Supreme Pontiff. Which is to say, His Royal Highness gave the Holy Shroud to me.
“As pope, I have full, supreme, and universal power over all parts of our Church, so my fellow Catholics may see no need for the distinction I have just made. Yet one of the differences separating us from our treasured Orthodox guests is that the Orthodox Church does not accept the jurisdiction of the pope over his brother-bishops. So I wish to make it clear that, in saying what I am about to say, I am not forcing my will upon other bishops who must obey what I demand.
“Tonight’s exhibit has established that the relic known in the West as the Shroud of Turin was in fact stolen by Latin crusaders in 1204. Therefore tonight, in the year of the eight-hundredth anniversary of that trespass, I acknowledge this theft, and hereby restore the Holy Shroud to its rightful caretaker, the Orthodox Church.”
There is dead silence in the chapel. Cardinal Boia, in the second row of chairs, shifts in his seat. But it’s another cardinal who stands. The eyes of Christendom fall on Cardinal Poletto, Archbishop of Turin.
Soundlessly, Poletto turns toward the Orthodox. He raises his hands in the air. Then he begins to clap.
Everyone stares in disbelief. But I understand what he’s doing. I stand and begin clapping, too. I am followed by a Turkish bishop. And finally the dam breaks. Laymen begin clapping. Archbishops. The sound reverberates off the walls. John Paul lifts a trembling hand to cover his ear.
“Please,” Nowak says, raising his hands to quiet the crowd. “The Holy Father has asked me to read you one last message.”
For once, his voice is heavy with emotion.
“My dear brother patriarchs, please forgive me that I cannot stand to greet you, and that I cannot speak these words in my own voice. As you know, I am approaching the end of my pontificate. The Holy Shroud encourages us to meditate on our mortality, and I am humbled that our Lord has allowed me a pontificate of twenty-six years, when he allowed himself a ministry of only three. Yet Christ’s example reminds me how much can be accomplished in a very short time. This is what our predecessors proved by standing together against Iconoclasm. It is what I hope we will do together tonight.
“Since I am no longer able to travel, tonight will be my last visit with you. Therefore it is fitting that I take this opportunity to express the following hope. Never in my twenty-six years have I been permitted to stand together with all of you. And so I ask: will you come forward, in brotherhood, and stand with me?”
Archbishop
Nowak stops reading and looks up. Every layman in the chapel bears an expectant look. No one could refuse a pope. No one could refuse this pope.
But on the faces of the clergy, I see a different expression. We’ve spent our lives protecting this man, supporting him as he shouldered the burden of his office. To erase a thousand years of hatred in one gesture is asking too much, even for John Paul. None of us can bear to watch him fail.
And yet, it happens. Not a single patriarch walks up to join him. The only one who even rises to his feet in respect is Bartholomew, His All Holiness.
It strikes John Paul like a blow. When he sees they aren’t moving, his one good hand clamps down on his chair. His body hunches forward as if it might fall. From nowhere, two helpers materialize at his sides. They place hands on him and whisper in his ear, trying to finesse him back into the chair, but John Paul pushes them off. They look to Archbishop Nowak for support, but he sends them away.
Now it’s just the two of them up there, Nowak and John Paul. They trade looks, debating something invisible, speaking the language of forty years spent together. Maybe Nowak is begging him to save face, but if that’s it, then John Paul ignores him. He begins pushing himself out of the chair again, trying vainly to get up. So, like a good son, Archbishop Nowak helps him.
More than a year has passed since John Paul took a step under his own power. People say he can’t even stand. Yet he stares down the assembled patriarchs of the Orthodox Church across a marble staircase, as if he will climb down these steps if he has to.
All at once, I understand what he’s doing. What problem he’s trying to solve. In ancient times there was only one man allowed to sit in a gold chair, and that was the emperor. No matter how many reasons the Orthodox have for not joining him on that platform, the most obvious is that no Orthodox will honor a pope on a throne. Not even if that throne is a gilded wheelchair.
With his good arm, John Paul grabs Nowak’s cassock and pulls on it for balance. He flexes every muscle that still answers to his mind. And though they are one hundred and fifty years old together, these two men somehow bring each other safely down the stairs to the chair of the Ecumenical Patriarch.
Bartholomew is visibly worried. He steps forward to keep John Paul steady. But John Paul is already bending his knees and folding his legs under himself. With Archbishop Nowak’s help, he lowers himself into a painful kneel.
His All Holiness reaches over and grabs John Paul’s hands, trying to keep him up. “Please, Holy Father,” I hear him say in a surprised voice. “No.” But John Paul clasps the patriarch’s right hand, bows his head, and lowers his lips to kiss it.
That is when it happens.
To Bartholomew’s left are the other patriarchs of the ancient tetrarchy: Ignatius of Antioch, Theodore of Alexandria, Irenaios of Jerusalem. All are white-bearded and black-robed. All have hard, unflinching faces, like saints in holy icons. But they’re also younger than John Paul. And when they see him stooping at their feet, the oldest patriarch from the most honored See, they don’t know what to do.
On Bartholomew’s left, across the aisle, are the patriarchs of the younger Orthodox capitals: Maxim of Bulgaria, Ilia of Georgia, Pavle of Serbia. Alexy of Moscow has sent his second-in-command. But on his far side, at the very end of the row, is the man who will change everything. Patriarch Teoctist of Romania.
He is almost ninety years old. Five years older than John Paul. Not long ago he became the first Orthodox patriarch in a millennium to invite a pope to visit his country, an offer John Paul gladly accepted. Now Teoctist is prepared to make an even bigger gesture.
The ancient patriarch pushes himself up from his chair on two shaking legs. Then he stands beside John Paul.
John Paul’s eyes follow him. When Teoctist reaches out a hand to help the Holy Father, the mask of John Paul’s face crumbles. His eyes fill with tears.
Now the true whitebeards come: Maxim and Pavle, old as the dust. They rise from their seats as if something is at stake here, something beyond protocol and history. The Christian principle of love. Respect for the See of Saint Peter. They, too, stand. Between them sits Ilia of Georgia, barely more than seventy years old, a mere schoolboy. To honor his elders, he stands up as well.
Now it’s all momentum. One by one, to Bartholomew’s left, the other patriarchs rise. The crowd in the chapel roars. Each time a new bishop comes to his feet, the ocean of black thunders its approval.
Silently Nowak inches back. He makes himself almost invisible, disappearing by half steps, acknowledging that the men at the front of this chapel belong to a world that the rest of us—even Archbishop Nowak—do not inhabit. They are the giants we pray to meet in heaven. I pull the cross out of my collar and squeeze it, wanting to send up this moment to my parents in heaven. To send out this moment to Simon in his cell.
The patriarchs huddle and bow their heads together. And in the whole thousand-year history of our divided religion, there is no precedent for what happens next.
A voice rises from their midst. I can’t tell whose it is. But the voice begins a chant. Not in Italian, or in Latin, but in Greek. One by one, the other patriarchs join it. In unison, they deliver the profession of faith made official seventeen centuries ago, at the very first council of all Christian bishops.
Πιστεύομεν εἰς ἕνα Θεόν, Πατέρα, Παντοκράτορα, ποιητὴν οὐρανοῦ καὶ γῆς, ὁρατῶν τε πάντων καὶ ἀοράτων . . .
We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible . . .
I shiver. It is happening. Before my eyes, in my own lifetime, it is happening. And my brother isn’t here to see it.
But someone else is: one of the Swiss Guards has left his post at the door to find me in the crowd. Leo doesn’t say a word, but he puts a hand on my arm. He knows what this moment means to me.
When the profession of faith ends, an unsteady hush follows. The crowd is waiting, wondering what will happen next. In the huddle of patriarchs there are searching looks. Even these ancient men—nearly old enough, together, to reach back to the Fourth Crusade—don’t know the answer. But they’re wordlessly negotiating something. Not what they will do next, but who will do it. Which leader will speak for them all.
There’s no question who it should be. The Orthodox know it, too. Saint Peter was the leader of the apostles, so the highest honor must go to Peter’s successor. The pope. They are waiting for John Paul to speak.
But John Paul didn’t bring these men here to trump them. Instead he turns to the Ecumenical Patriarch and whispers in his ear.
The patriarch’s pale eyes flash. He smiles. Turning back to John Paul, he whispers his agreement. Then, to everyone in the chapel, the patriarch says, “In honor of this moment, let us pray in silence.”
No sooner has he spoken the words than I feel Leo’s hand on my arm again. This time it’s more insistent. He’s been biding his time to tell me something. I quickly follow him to the exit.
“We have Father Black in custody,” Leo says. “He says he needs to talk to you.”
EVEN AS I FOLLOW him, I’m in a dream. I feel myself moving, but my heart remains back there in the chapel. One thousand years: we are coming together again after one thousand years. Tonight, in heaven, there is a ticker-tape parade. Old popes lift their hands in blessing. Saints smile. Angels beat their wings. From now on, when people talk about the chapel that Michelangelo painted, they will remember John Paul in it, and the place where he rebuilt our Church.
Even if Mignatto’s right—even if Simon’s trial isn’t over yet—tonight my brother had a hand in history.
* * *
MICHAEL IS UNDER LOCKDOWN in the barracks.
“Why does he want to talk to me?” I ask.
“He says it’s about Simon.” Leo puts out a hand in warning. “But Alex, there’s somet
hing not right about that man. We brought him in earlier this week for starting a fight over a parking ticket. Be careful.”
A parking ticket. Probably the same one I found at the Casa alongside the books stolen from my apartment.
Leo leads me down a dank hallway. Toward the end, we stop. “Do you want me in there?” he asks.
I tell him I need to do this alone.
He unlocks the door, then pushes it slightly open.
The cell is the size of a closet. Michael sits on a bare mattress. I keep my distance.
“So,” he says, without looking up. “Are congratulations in order?”
I say nothing.
“This is wrong for our Church,” he continues. “You’ll see. Reunion is a mistake.”
“Did you kill him, Michael?”
He snorts.
I want to grab him by the cassock and shake him. Simon was right about him all along.
“Who were you sharing that room at the Casa with?” I say.
He ignores me. “You know, Nogara told me you abandoned him, the same way Simon did. You brothers are exactly the same. Agenda as long as my arm, and no loyalty to anyone but each other.”
I turn and start to leave.
“You two wouldn’t answer his phone calls,” Michael says quickly, “so he settled for me. That’s who I shared the room with.”
The bottle of Grappa Julia in the trash can. The calls to my apartment from a Casa phone number. The person who slept on the floor of Michael’s room that night was Ugo.
He pulls a cigarette from a pack, then realizes he has no lighter. He tears it in half and hurls it across the room. “Damn it!”
A cold sensation crawls up my spine. So Michael had no partner in this. He did everything alone.
“Why did you break into my apartment?” I say.
