Hounds of Rome

by Tom Clancy

  By the time Steve was taken down from the cross, he was unconscious. He woke up hours later in his cell. This had been no dream—he knew it because his pillow was covered with blood.

  Later that night Elmer came into the dark cell. He brought a glass of water and a wet towel. He gently wrapped it around Steve’s head.

  “Elmer, is that you?”

  “Yes. I brought some water.”

  Steve tried to sit up to drink but couldn’t. Elmer dripped the water into his mouth. Then Elmer tried to lightly rub an anesthetic into the thorn words on Steve’s head, but the pain was so great, Steve pushed his hand away.

  “Did you know about this?” asked Steve.

  “I knew someone was going to be grabbed for the ceremony but I didn’t know they’d pick you. You’ll be excused from your duties for a few days while you recover. In the refectory, they’ll expect you to wear the cowl over your head. Everyone knows about these passion plays of course, but the brothers don’t want to go overboard advertising them.”

  Elmer lit a cigarette and put it between Steve’s lips. Steve took a deep pull then slowly blew the smoke up into the darkness.

  “This grisly ritual should be banned,” Steve groaned in disgust.

  “Yeah, but who’ll come from the outside to this isolated outpost to abolish it? And remember, my friend, when you play the Passion reenactment against the long history of the church, it’s not terribly unusual. Canon Law never said the saints shouldn’t suffer; you know many were canonized after they allowed themselves to be tortured to death.”

  “I didn’t see Brother Berard there. Is he part of this ritual?”

  “No. My understanding is that Berard doesn’t approve of this.”

  “Then why in hell doesn’t he put a stop to it?”

  “Remember Steve, Brother Berard is elected to be abbot; as such, his power is limited. He could be voted out at any one of the monthly meetings the brothers hold in the chapter house.”

  Reluctantly, Elmer left Steve’s cell and returned to his own. There was nothing more he could do for his friend.

  *****

  At about three in the morning of Steve’s crucifixion, Steve was roughly shaken by the shoulders and when he sat up was slapped in the face. In the darkness, he couldn’t see who it was but it was very likely one of the brothers. He was confused, angry. Was this another part of the ritual?

  “Look here, priest,” the brother said, “you were yelling and screaming in your sleep. You were waking up half the monastery. If you keep this up we’re gonna move you to a solitary cell way out behind the church cemetery. Out there you can scream all you want and nobody will hear you. If I were you, I ‘d try to think of nice stuff before you go to sleep.”

  “You mean nice stuff like the crucifixion,” Steve said disgustedly.

  “No I was thinking more along the lines of some teenagers you probably screwed before they sent you here, or maybe some dough you stole from the church that you have hidden somewhere. Think of how you’re gonna be able to live it up after you get out of here… if you get out of here.”

  The next day, although still wobbly, Steve hobbled to the clinic because the nurse told him that the priest, Bill, was dying.

  *****

  Steve showed up in the refectory for dinner two days later. He sat at the picnic table in his accustomed place. He did not wear the cowl over his head. He wanted everyone to see his thorn wounds. But before he could lift the first forkful to his mouth, a hand reached from behind and took away his plate. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the surly face of Brother Michael. “No cowl, no food,” was all the brother said.

  *****

  As the days of Lent proceeded, the fasting began to take its toll on brothers and priests, but mostly on the priests, all of whom were middle-aged or older and not in very good health. And even though everyone was served only one meal a day, the meal served to the brothers was decidedly more substantial than that received by the priests. In the shower room, Steve saw that some of the thinner priests began to look like prisoners in a Russian gulag. His nocturnal visitor, Elmer, who was a head shorter than he and lightly built, had grown shockingly thin. His clean shaven, sunken-cheeked face had a cadaverous look. Steve knew he was losing weight as well. At first he wasn’t too concerned at slimming down, but after a time, he knew he was losing muscle. As he stood in the shower—warmer now that spring had come, he entertained his first real thoughts of making an escape from the monastery. Not quitting the priesthood—he would never do that, but just leaving and taking his chances outside. It would make him a renegade since he would be leaving a formal assignment of his archdiocese. Bishop Rhinehart would be furious and would certainly label it gross insubordination. There might be a move to defrock him. But there was always a chance of appeal to higher authority, perhaps even to the Vatican through a few friends he had made when he studied in Rome.

  *****

  The Lenten season was over. It was now after Easter and Steve had still not been assigned to a therapy group. His assignment sheet only specified work on the farm. A therapy assignment could have been an advantage because at the very least, he would have learned the type of transgression he had been accused of.

  He found work in the field, new to him, exhausting, but it could have been much worse—it could have been hot. It was still spring and many days were warm but pleasant. He worked in cutoff jeans and the boots Brother Berard had given him. He wondered whether the gift of the boots stemmed from a weak moment of kindness or could it have been that Berard recognized that he was a strong worker who could produce twice as much if his feet were protected. As he picked tomatoes and other vegetables, he managed to eat when no one was looking. “One for them, one for me,” he said chuckling.

  As the long strenuous days of field work dragged on with clearing brush, digging up roots and hand plowing, his hands, once soft and white, unused to physical labor—delicate instruments preordained to hold the host and chalice, became hard, browned and callused. In his first week working on the farm, his hands had blistered and bled from scrapes and tiny cuts. He had asked for gloves but none were available. As he worked, he had tried hard to spare the tips of his thumbs and index fingers—so important for holding the sacred host reverently in these fingertips during the Consecration of the Mass. For a few weeks he said Mass with bandaged hands. Eventually, the problem resolved itself as he became hardened to the work. The outdoor work, the sun, marvelously fragrant pure desert air and improved nutrition in the meals—augmented by produce from the farm, all produced a feeling of well-being in him. His love of God was as deep as ever but doubts kept surfacing about the hierarchy of the church. Since he had no recollection of any wrongdoing, inevitably, resentment set in. He struggled to conceal a deep-seated bitterness towards the Passion Brothers. Their medieval cruelty was allowed to flourish without diocesan supervision.

  As the days in the sun wore on, Steve began feeling trim and strong as he dried his tanned body after his daily shower. He had given up smoking once again, partly because of the risk and inconvenience of smoking only in secret in his room at night. There was another reason he was just beginning to be conscious of: a feeling that he must stay as fit and strong as possible for whatever lay ahead. He gave the rest of his hidden cigarette packs to Elmer. He also removed the money and his stole that had been hidden in the false bottom of his chalice case. He hid them in the folds of his robe. He was taking no chances. He had an idea that a day might come when his chalice case would be removed.

  During morning Mass, and during the readings of his Holy Office, followed by the remainder of the day working in the fields, Steve almost thought he could adjust to living a long full life at a monastery, but then at night in bed, it would all fall apart again. Anxiety would creep up on him and submerge him in doubt and unresolved questions. He was determined to find out what had gone wrong in his former life as pastor. Then, lying on his cot in the dark cell, after giving vent to his worries, he was always able to calm
himself down with thoughts of Janet. When he thought long and hard about his days with Janet, he found that his dreams were not penetrated with violence. He would drift off to sleep with prayers and an image of Janet leaning over to kiss him goodnight.

  *****

  Steve sat up in bed. It was the middle of the night. He had been dreaming of men involved in a fistfight. But as he sat listening in the dark, he knew the thuds and groans of pain that were coming from outside behind the building were no dream. It sounded like someone getting a beating. He quickly slipped on his work clothes and hurried over to tap on Elmer’s door. He could hear Elmer getting out of the creaky cot and shuffling to the door. “What’s going on back there?” Steve asked in a whisper.

  “What else?” Elmer replied softly. “Some poor priest is getting the stuffing kicked out of him by a couple of Brother Berard’s thugs.”

  “Let’s go help him out. Come on,” Steve said as he ran back to his cell and slipped on his work boots.

  “Sorry,” Elmer replied. “I’m no good at that. I’d just get in the way.” He stepped back into his cell, and slumped on his cot, burying his face in his hands.

  Steve dashed around to the rear of the building and came face to face with two brothers standing over a priest. The priest was lying in a fetal position, bleeding from nose and mouth. In an instant, catching them by surprise, Steve lunged at the brothers. He felt an adrenalin rush, followed by almost superhuman strength as he angrily grabbed one brother and swung him around ramming him full against the other. Two heads cracked together. While Steve had full mobility in shorts and a T-shirt, the brothers were hampered by long gray robes twisted heavily about their arms. After the head butt, the brothers dizzily wavered trying to regain their footing as Steve followed through with lightning body punches that doubled both of them over gasping. As he kicked one of them under the chin with his work boot, the brother’s head snapped back. His body rose in the air then fell flat backwards winding up trapped in the folds of a tangled robe that looked like a pile of dirty laundry lying on the ground. The other brother, on his knees, raised a hand in a kind of surrender. In the dim light, Steve recognized the face of Brother Michael. He assumed the one on the ground was Brother John.

  Elmer arrived as Steve was helping the beaten priest to his feet. Ignoring the defeated brothers, Steve and Elmer half-dragged, half-carried the limp priest back to his cell in the same compound as theirs. Elmer ran to the shower room for wet towels and then to the clinic for bandages. The two priests then spent the better part of the remainder of the night cleaning and dressing the man’s wounds and trying to comfort him. When Steve asked the priest what had happened, he received no answer. The man just turned his head away. As they left him resting on his cot, he gave them a barely audible thanks. On the way back to their cells, they realized they didn’t even know the priest’s name.

  “What do you think happened?” Steve asked.

  “Who the hell knows? Around here, it could be anything. He probably made a remark the brothers didn’t like and they decided to give him a bit of religious suffering—something he could offer up for his sins.”

  “Do you think they recognized us? After all, it was pretty dark.”

  “Me, no,” Elmer replied. “You, yes, and if I were you, I’d watch my step around here. Berard’s thugs have long memories.”

  *****

  A few days later, as he returned to his cell, Steve was startled to see that his chalice case was gone. He was happy that he had emptied the money and cigarettes from the false bottom. If the case had been taken by a thief why didn’t he take the silver crucifix lying on the table? How could it have been overlooked? Recalling the beating incident, he wondered if the brothers were trying to even the score. He went immediately to see Brother Berard to report the theft. Brother Berard seemed unperturbed. “Father Murphy,” he said, “there has been no theft. I had your chalice removed. It has been stored with your personal effects.”

  “But how am I to say Mass without it?” Steve demanded. “Does this have anything to do with the beating I gave two of your brothers the other night? Don’t you realize what they were doing to that priest?”

  “No, that’s not the reason. Let me explain. We have received correspondence from your bishop to the effect that you are no longer required to say Mass, nor do you need to carry out any of the normal priestly duties like hearing confessions, conducting other services, and so forth. Since you are still a Catholic, you are free of course, to attend Mass, receive the Eucharist and attend the services, but that’s all.”

  Steve was outraged. “I’m a priest,” he roared, pounding on Brother Berard’s desk. “It is my duty to say daily Mass. It is a sacred obligation. No one can take this from me. I refuse to believe it until I see the letter you speak of from my bishop.”

  “No, I am not permitted to show it to you. You simply have to take my word for it. The letter also states that Bishop Rhinehart wants you to return to the Archdiocese of Washington where you will be asked to sign papers resigning from the priesthood.”

  “That’s absurd. That’s one thing I will not do.”

  “Don’t you realize this is an order from your bishop?”

  “Yes, I do. But I don’t follow orders like that without knowing why and without being allowed to file an appeal.”

  “Then, if you refuse, and apparently your refusal is definite, your bishop goes on to say that you will then consider yourself transferred to the authority of the Bishop of Tucson. Our bishop has concurred in this matter, and now on the local level, you are again asked to resign. Remember, you will remain a Catholic. Our bishop will give you a dispensation to receive the sacraments. Think of it, you can find someone, get married, have children, raise a family. Is that so terrible?”

  “It is for a priest who has given his whole life to the church. I would like to have a hearing before your bishop. I need to know what’s really going on here. Why is the church doing this to me?”

  “Father Murphy, you’ve asked me that before and I really do not know. All I can tell you is that Bishop Rhinehart’s latest letter speaks to some serious problems in your past—not necessarily transgressions, mind you, but things that make you unfit to remain a priest. I have been in touch with our Bishop Hernandez of Tucson. He says that if you do not resign, the process will begin to have you defrocked. Do you still refuse? Yes? Then, please excuse me, I have a number of things to attend to.”

  With that, Brother Berard stood up, and holding Steve’s arm at the elbow, escorted him to the door.

  Steve left Brother Berard’s office and went to his cell where he spent a full hour pacing the floor. “This is preposterous,” he said aloud, as he paced. “I have been threatened with defrocking, unless I cooperate and resign. And again, it seems Bishop Rhinehart is behind it all. And to top it off, no reason has been given. They speak of serious problems in my past. Am I an amnesia victim? What could I have forgotten? Could there have been a deluge of false accusations?” At that point, he was so confused and angry that if a scorpion had appeared in his cell, he would have crushed it without hesitation. Finally, after much thought and indecision, he came to the conclusion that he had to get into Brother Berard’s files. He simply had to know whether he had been told the truth. And if so, he might find clues in his file that would help him better understand his so-called past problems. He was aware of the embarrassing risk of getting caught breaking into Berard’s office, but since he was about to be defrocked anyway, he had nothing to lose.

  That night he said his prayers kneeling by his bedside for the first time since he had come to the monastery. The thought of a possible sting from a scorpion hidden in the dark under his cot, did not bother him in the least. In his depression, he felt so miserably helpless, he almost wished it would happen. After his prayers, he threw himself onto the cot and lay on his back with arms folded behind his head. It was the posture he always took when he thought of Janet while falling asleep. In his mind he brought to life and caressed h
is memories and fantasies of Janet. After what had happened that day, he realized that the love of God and his relationship with Janet were all he really had left— because everything else had been taken away from him.

  15

  Steve slowly opened the door to his cell. It was a moonless night. He glanced carefully down the length of the open passageway. He thought it was about two in the morning. They were all asleep. The only sound came from a mournful coyote somewhere outside of the monastery wall. He slipped noiselessly across the compound to Brother Berard’s office. Although the door to the office was locked, he was able to slip the tongue of the lock with a plastic knife he had taken from the dining hall. Inside the office, he found the rickety old file cabinet unlocked. Not very tight security he thought, wondering whether the gate to the walled compound around the monastery was really locked and barred as he had been told.

  He fished through Brother Berard’s desk looking for his file with his small flashlight. He wondered whether his file would be listed under his name or his assigned number. Finally, under the ‘M’, in the file cabinet, he found the file labeled: Murphy, Stephen, Archdiocese of Washington. He saw that a line had been drawn through the word ‘Washington’ and ‘Tucson’ had been added in pencil. He read Rhinehart’s letters addressed to Bishop Hernandez of the Tucson diocese. They were copies forwarded to the monastery from the diocese. The contents were exactly as described by Brother Berard. And, as Berard had said, in the final letter there was no explanation other than the statement about Murphy’s not being fit for the priesthood ‘because of serious past problems’. At least Berard had been telling him the truth. Looking further, he came across photocopies of his birth and baptismal certificates from Wayland, Mass, plus photocopies of his diplomas, a copy of the certificate from the Pontifical Academy in Rome and a resume of his years in the priesthood including comments about his performance. He was heartened to read the comments, all of which were favorable. There were no notes or annotations containing accusations against him. Then he saw a copy of the letter he knew by heart— the one he had received from Bishop Rhinehart abruptly transferring him to Catholic University. Next, a letter dated some months later transferring him to the monastery. None of the letters contained any explanations. Then, a recent letter contained the order that he should be returned to Washington to resign. And, presumably after he refused, next came the handoff to the Tucson diocese. Rhinehart, he thought, as he read the letters must be trying to drive me crazy. In going through his file he also found a terse note from Bishop Hernandez of Tucson to Brother Berard saying that Father Murphy must be convinced he should resign the priesthood; failing that, pressured to resign. Ultimately, if all else failed he would be defrocked.