by Ada Palmer
Bending to swab up my vomit let me avoid seeing Carlyle’s desperate eyes. “And some of the Gag-gene files were there too, and have fallen into public hands, including … well, actually, the only one they have made public is…” I did not have to finish.
“Here’s a true boon, Sister Carlyle!” Dominic cried. “Now our whole race knows thy guilt from beginning to end. There’ll be plenty of help to remind thee of it now. How generous He is, this Local God, to send thee such a scourge.”
I realized now that Dominic must already have seen what happened through our Master’s tracker, or the news, or been informed by Mitsubishi agents. His questions were a performance, for Carlyle, a stroke of the flail of which I was one more knotted cord.
“So, are we at war now?” Dominic asked, stroking his scalp, whose newly replanted hair was barely long enough to show his tonsure. “If so, thou must help me dress at once.”
“We are not yet at war.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because Caesar has agreed to wait until Ἄναξ … until we … finish at the Vatican.”
For that Dominic set down Pascal. “Then I must dress the sooner. Fetch my clothes at once.”
“Yes, Brother.” I nodded my obedience. “Ἄναξ Jehovah asked for Carlyle, too.”
Everything changed, Dominic’s posture, breath, as if an adversary familiar from the circumscribed play-wars of backyard football had stepped suddenly into adulthood. “Did He say why?”
“No, Brother. Nothing.”
“Better ‘Father’ now, I think,” Dominic corrected, “since I seem to be an abbot suddenly.”
I winced at that, had guessed it from the empty habit on the floor beside the bed. Dominic liked my wince, I think, and studied anew his prisoner. “Release her, errant,” he ordered.
“Yes, Father.”
I freed Carlyle’s right hand first, and she herself assisted with the other bonds, though sluggishly. I handed her her Dominican habit, rude white cloth with the black overlayer. I caught a lightness on her cheeks, almost a smile, as I handed up her nun’s headdress, welcome concealment for the partly golden hair which reminds every gazer of Carlyle’s partly golden ancestry.
“No. Court-wear, fool!” Dominic snapped, too far away to kick me. “In the wardrobe. We can’t wear our habits at the Vatican, it makes the King of Spain uncomfortable.”
“Yes, Father. Apologies.” I helped Dominic change, his reconstructed fingers not yet quite equal to waistcoat buttons, or to easing his taut stockings over the calf. He wore his Master’s black still, trimmed with black lace which lapped at black gloves and black boots, so the scarlet Mitsubishi crests on his haori jacket stood out like gore.
A garment bag held Carlyle’s costume, virgin from the tailors. Its blackness almost matched her abbot’s. Not even the Chevalier, Dominic’s second in Madame’s halls, may wear so much pure black as this. The coal-black satin had no colored trim nor lining, just embroidery along its seams in royal blue, which woke the blue diamond sparkle in Carlyle’s eyes, dimmer than her uncle Ganymede’s, but still as deadly as the glittering bait of old Versailles. It was a gown. I saw relief in Carlyle’s eyes when she saw that, and I thanked Dominic in my heart for this kindness, which cannot have been an easy one; even the bloodhound pays a price for so opposing dread Madame.
“Thou’dst best shower before dressing, Sister Carlyle, thou’rt filthy.” Dominic made for the door, his stiff hands struggling with the iron latch. “You may both catch up with notre Maître and myself when you’re presentable.”
Getting Carlyle into the shower was easy, but getting her into the gown and corset, whose workings were as alien as Sanskrit to both of us (I am no maidservant) required asking help from the nearest ladies. They were eager, but twittered throughout, over the gown at first, then over the beauties of the Prince-héréditaire herself, when they found their subtler flirtations went unscolded. Carlyle had no spirit to chastise them, just a compliant limpness as her silent inner self remained in someone’s thrall (Dominic’s? Pascal’s? Julia’s? Thisbe’s? Perry-Kraye’s?). I tried to defend her when, the gown complete, the ladies lingered to keep flirting, but they called me ‘bad’ and shut me in the bathroom, chiding my ‘barking,’ and in my office as ‘that weird stray dog the Young Master brought home,’ I could only let their game play out. I thought of calling Sister Heloïse, but she was at Casablanca. The Cousins’ election the previous Tuesday had granted Minister Cookie and several of her Nurturist followers seats on the Cousins’ Transitional Congress, though, to their credit, the Cousins also elected Bryar Kosala and many of her allies, and, strangely, rashly, inevitably, Heloïse. Heloïse had been much in the public eye: her speech to the Senate, her blood-smeared ministration to the victims in Odessa, and her spitfire remonstrations of the guilty in the riots’ wake. The public, and the Cousins in particular, demanded more from this font of goodness, more than a Minor and outsider could provide. Heloïse had chosen the European Union to administer her Adulthood Competency Exam (the best option available in French), and applied to the Cousins the next day. She was no sooner Cousined than elected, and sat with the Transitional Congress at that very moment, presenting her latest studies of the violence.
Dominic returned to find out what kept us, and the fussing ladies scattered like maple seeds in wind before his glare. Their work was worthy. Carlyle was stunning, regal like an elm among willows, her height exaggerated by the curved black hat which mostly veiled her golden curls, while her blue eyes’ lack of focus suddenly seemed more faerielike than dead. Dominic’s smile approved the transformation, and he drew from another bag a new sensayer’s scarf, double-sided, Dominican white and black, which he draped across Carlyle’s shoulders. Last, Dominic produced a Blacklaw Hiveless sash and bound it around Carlyle’s corseted waist. It is as easy to leave the Cousins, reader, as to join them. I did not have to look at the sash to know Dominic’s crest would be embroidered there, a sleek little hunting hound with black and white patched fur, bared fangs, and the motto Canis Domini—Dominic’s warning to any other Blacklaw who might dare touch what was his.
When we were ready, Dominic followed me out into the hall with Carlyle on his arm, a picturesque but also practical arrangement, since Carlyle’s steps were so hobbled by stupor and strange shoes that she genuinely needed to be led. Sunlight awoke a midnight-blue tint in some petals of Carlyle’s skirts, further accenting the eyes that marked her noble lineage. How the ladies cooed over her when we reached the central courtyard. How ladies and gentlemen alike hungered to flirt, but Dominic’s warning glare kept all well back. Madame’s gentlemen were superfluous today anyway, gathered merely to flatter the beauties who would form the matron’s train. Sensayers, not they, would accompany these ladies today, some domestic sensayers reared by Madame, some outsiders, mainly Cousins and Blacklaws, who mingled over a buffet of fruit and breakfast pastries. Three Masonic sensayers and one Graylaw had appeared to accompany Jehovah’s Masonic guards, and there were Utopian sensayers too to guide His Delians, their Griffincloth sensayer’s scarves matching their coats: a draping vine, a band of cloud, a snake. Spain stood with Madame, his three sensayers around him, for, determined to keep mind and soul fit for his offices, the king follows Conclave founder Mertice McKay’s prescription to the letter, and sees three sensayers of different secret faiths. The Sensayers’ Faith Registry, that too was kept for safety in MASON’s Sanctum Sanctorum, or used to be.
You have not seen Dominic in our Master’s presence before now, have you, reader? See how he stumbles, tramples flowers, feet, forgets the path, the ledge, the spectators, the world, staggering through all as if it were vacuum until he reaches Him. I believe Dominic goes blind in those seconds, that the world does actually melt away from his fixed vision. He forgets to breathe too, or rather he takes one breath, one fast awe-startled gasp when his eyes first lock on the black Figure, but he does not afterwards release that breath, as if he fears with exhalation he might lose the vision, too. I, who w
oke gradually from boyhood to love, do not know, but if love can come at first sight, as romance claims, and if it can erase the world, leaving nothing but the vision of the beloved, and if love is, as poets claim, a kind of Death, and burns away the past self so the lover’s soul arises like a newborn phoenix to Love’s promise, then I believe that Eros’s arrow slays Dominic anew every single time he lays eyes on the One Who is so absolute his Lord and Master.
Inertia kept Carlyle on Dominic’s arm as the human seas between them and Jehovah parted. I pulled her off just in time, fearing stunned Carlyle would topple as a far-more-stunned Dominic fell to his knees before his God. He always kneels. When he has approached his Maître several times within as many minutes he sometimes gains steadiness enough to only drop to one knee, or to bob and catch himself as they remeet, as you may have seen Catholics do before the altar. But the first time he draws near Him—indeed, the first few times in every encounter—he falls to both knees, stunned to that abject and awestruck helplessness that kneeling was supposed to imitate when some honest sycophant invented it in the primordial court of Gilgamesh, or earlier.
If the hand Jehovah extended to Dominic had held a knife to slit his throat, the bloodhound never would have noticed. Instead He laid it gently on his head. « I need thee more than usual today, My Dominic. I am glad thou’rt Mine. »
Tears leaked from the monster trembling on his knees. Do you find it strange? Object that this cannot be that same beast which plotted to spill its Master’s tears with such frenzied malevolence. I say it is. Could a less beloved Master inspire such frenzy? I wonder sometimes how I react when I enter Ἄναξ Jehovah’s presence. No one has told me.
“Carlyle Foster.” Jehovah turned to her slowly, His black eyes stirring a shudder in Carlyle’s half-bare shoulders. “If it were true,” the Addressee began, “that you were created only to catalyze this crisis, then, that work done, you would not continue to exist. Therefore either you continue to exist only to suffer, and we learn from this that My Peer equates justice with pain, or else Providence plans more for you.”
“I don’t want it!” Most of the company was polite enough pretend they did not watch as Carlyle sobbed. “I don’t want to be part of the Plan anymore!”
“You intend to follow Dominic in serving Me?”
“Y-y-e-es.” Carlyle sobbed again, tears blinding her to Dominic’s embarrassed glare as his still-standing protégé twice failed to use any title when addressing our Lord God. “The Plan is too callous; I can’t respect its Author anymore.”
Jehovah labored to condense his answer into English. “I shall never recommend the path of absolute filial impiety which turns a human away from its Creator toward Me, but if you do choose Me, I shall not reject you. In this universe I cannot rescript Fate, nor hear unspoken prayers, nor grant prayers beyond what My human powers can work, nor can I guard nor reach you after death. All I can offer is My Empathy, and the knowledge that I, Who Am Eternal and Infinite, though distant and here impotent, Love you.”
Carlyle shuddered; sometimes we humans struggle just as much as our Maker’s Interlocutor to force thoughts into words.
“But before you make this irrevocable choice,” the Stranger God continued, “I will have you try every means to reconcile with your Maker and Natural Lord. Therefore you will come to Rome today.”
“Ready at last, then? Good!” Madame cut in, her voice too cheerful; she knew how easily her Son’s Mind might be turned off of her business. She must be queen. “Come, ladies! Escorts! To your cars!”
Last croissants were snatched and flatteries traded as the party scattered. Dominic rode with our Master and His guards. I found shivering Carlyle a seat in another car, with the king’s three sensayers and none of Madame’s creatures; well, none excepting Carlyle herself. As I watched her alabaster hands smooth the skirts about her, it was hard to remember she was born outside. No, wait, Carlyle was born inside after all, and has come home. I myself rode with some of the ladies’ Blacklaw sensayers. It is illegal for a Servicer to leave Alliance territory, and illegal for any but a Blacklaw to knowingly enable it.
“The Six-Hive Transit System welcomes you to the Vatican Reservation. This territory is not governed by the Universal Free Alliance, and here the Universal Laws are not interpreted or enforced by Alliance standards. If within this territory you witness intolerable crimes as outlined by the Universal Laws, you may not interfere with local practice, but may report your concerns to the Alliance Ambassador to this Reservation, or to the office of the Minister of Reservations. This is a Theological Reservation. It is strongly recommended that Alliance Members who intend to participate in theological discourse be accompanied by a licensed sensayer; your own law may require this. For a list of the Reservation’s laws, select ‘laws of the Vatican City State.’ For a reminder of your own laws regarding Reservation visits, select ‘list.’”
I will not transcribe the whole Great Debate, though I did serve as a translator throughout. A recording remains in the Vatican Secret Archive, and will be made available to researchers after the customary seventy-five years. For now, let the Powers have their privacy. I shall instead show the periphery, those strange encounters possible in lands where men speak freely of such deadly things as God.
Our car touched down on the edge of the grand square before New New St. Peter’s. Here, a threshold of ash black stone warned all comers that these grand columns and fountains were never really touched by Bernini’s hand, that Maderno never sighed at this façade, nor was this central obelisk, with its time-worn hieroglyphs, worn by real time, nor touched by any real blood of a man called Peter. All was Blackframe. Shards of the real obelisk are kept inside the reconstructed basilica, among whatever other relics were hardy enough to have survived the bomb. All else, from the carved saints boasting their arms of martyrdom upon the rooftop to the graceful paving stones, is replica. There was much indecision among the Blackframe Project leaders about how to mark the Vatican, and other places where the building itself was art. Most of the official Blackframe substitutes made after the Church War are literally framed in black, the sculptures set on black bases, to remind the viewer that the originals were consumed by mankind’s collective sin. But even a mourning generation hesitated to stripe the new Sistine Chapel or the new St. Peters’s nave in black. The fixed boundaries of the Vatican Reservation provided a solution: a black stripe around the border warning not only that a different Law reigns here, but that, across this threshold, all the art is new, replacements, computer-planned and painstakingly crafted, standing in for the charred and mangled wreckage of lost Rome. Rome’s other palace-galleries use the black stripe too: the Capitoline, the Borghese, the Palazzo Doria-Pamphili where Julia’s cousins still dwell in their replacement palace and lord over their replacement masterpieces. All false. Our race cannot afford such losses again. What will this next war claim: Athens? On the Acropolis at least the tears we shed are still tears of connection: where I stand Socrates stood. In the Blackframe Roman Forum, by the Blackframe Coliseum or the Blackframe Pantheon, they are regret tears. Replicas cannot touch. That is what we all want, to touch what someone touched, a special someone, different for each of us, whose story reached forward through history and touched us. We want to reciprocate that touch as friends do. Who touches you, reader? Whose touch do you want to reciprocate, thwarting the walls of time? Raphael? Socrates? Machiavelli? Caesar? Homer? Hobbes?
“Jehovah! Welcome!”
“Good to see you.”
“Welcome!”
“Glad you’ve come!”
“I thank you for your welcome, Monsignor Colonna,” the Visitor answered, “Father Kaluza, Father Moye, Father Pillion. I come gladly.”
It was not yet seven by the local clock, and the dawn-touched square stood empty except for the clutch of priests and Swiss Guards gathered to receive us. Oh, there were a few odd pilgrims and trainee sensayers here for their exchange year, but the crowds that flock to art were at the second reconstructi
on twenty miles eastward, which now serves as the museum, leaving the site of old Rome for the surviving Romans, and the site of the old Vatican for its old Church. The car that carried the king and would-be queen had touched down in the inner gardens, but Jehovah always insists on using the main entrance, out of respect for the architect, and for the Architect.
“Good, good.” Monsignor Aurelio Colonna serves the Papal See as dozens of Colonna princes and cardinals have before him. He is a healthy man, an athlete in no small way, with some squash trophies, but paranoia poisons my memory. In my mind he is too pale, a touch of blue about his cheeks, his hair too thin. However safe science may claim Rome is now, radiation is our boogeyman. Just as ships claimed by cruelly placed but senseless rocks led man to name Charybdis, so every time some Roman leaves this world, even for the most natural reason, we blame the bomb. Just as well. They may blame me on the bomb too if they want to, if it would stop us using it again. “Their Majesty the King and their party,” Colonna continued, “are joining Their Holiness for morning mass in the Sistine, and any here who wish to are welcome to join them.”
Some did so wish; I did not. It was hard enough seeing in my mind’s eye Isabel Carlos kneeling before the pope, genuflection before the altar, the whole medieval ritual, and poisonous Madame beside the king. To see it face-to-face—too much.
As one of the priests led Madame’s ladies and their companions off to chapel, Monsignor Colonna turned to Jehovah. “Imperator Destinatus.” The deep sympathy in his tone and wrinkles proved he had thought much about our Guest’s new plight. “Dark days. How are you holding up?”
Jehovah’s gaze lingered on the great basilica, built of nostalgia for its predecessor built of hope. “I have many questions.”
“So do we all.”
“Have any of My guests arrived?”
