Dominus

by Tom Fox

  “I’m assured that the transfers have been managed in the manner that will have the most effect, once further discoveries are made.”

  This was positive. Nothing spelled out conspiracy and fraud like cash. It often only took a few surreptitious transactions to make the innocent appear guilty. Caterina had destroyed enough of her competitors in the past in this manner.

  Though some enemies she kept close. She’d never exposed Viteri, because she had realized early on that he was much better used than eliminated. His Fraternity in particular gave her opportunities for control within the Church. Bishops, priests and cardinals its membership might be, but these men were just as power-hungry as Caterina and just as little interested in the behavioral confines of an imposed morality. Get behind their white collars and they smoked and swore and dealt under the table with the best of them. They did whatever they perceived they had to do to get what they wanted. And as she’d used Viteri to find dirt on each of them, so she had gained what only the risk of damning exposure could ever truly ensure: their absolute obedience. It had developed into a working relationship that functioned well, and that she was happy to use until the moment came when she would destroy them all.

  But at this moment they remained useful, though they’d provided only scant details about the newly announced press conference. Caterina felt confident in the knowledge that the pontiff wouldn’t be appearing to speak out against the miracles of the day—not after he’d been affected himself. The healed don’t usually lambast their healing. That meant there was a more limited number of potential avenues his messages might take.

  Yet there were still reasons for concern. They needed time—time for the world to grow in its belief that the pontiff was standing in solid adoration of his guest, in affirmation of the miracles. It needed to be clear to everyone that he was a believer. That he had something at stake in what was disclosed. Only then could the culminating phases of their plan be unleashed.

  But the Pope was planning to speak. To this degree, at least, the timing was out of their hands.

  Caterina nearly smirked at the irony that, just at this moment, what was required of her was faith.

  38

  Central Rome: 10:42 a.m.

  The dead man on Alexander’s mobile screen was identical to the man who had arrived at the Vatican the morning before. He had the same captivating eyes, the same wavy hair—though this latter was matted and compressed through the body’s submersion in the Tiber. The skin had a gray taint, the mournful color reserved for death, but there was no mistaking the similarity.

  No, not similarity, Alexander thought, identity. As far as he could perceive from the small screen, the dead man looked exactly like the stranger.

  “I don’t understand. The man who walked into the Vatican’s been found dead?” There’d been no coverage of such a discovery on the radio, and news this big would be headlining everywhere.

  Gabriella took back the phone and stared at the photograph again.

  “This body was discovered in the river this morning. So far, it seems to have been kept quiet—in the knowledge only of the force. No idea why, but Tonti sounded like he was taking a risk sharing it even with me.” She scanned a few notes the junior officer had texted after the photo. “The precise cause of death is still unknown, but murder is the running theory. There were chains around his ankles. It looks like someone hadn’t wanted him to be found, but they were too amateur for the chore.”

  Alexander raced through the possibilities. “There have been no announcements of the stranger leaving the Vatican.” A memory reaffirmed the point. “I spoke with my uncle only an hour ago. I think he’d have mentioned something if the stranger had gone.”

  “So this can’t be him. Every entrance and exit to Vatican City has been surrounded by reporters since yesterday morning. And there’s no access to the river from within its walls.”

  “But it’s . . . it’s him,” Alexander persisted.

  Gabriella fidgeted with his phone, scrolling beneath the photo and typing a reply to its sender: Explain. Is this the man from St. Peter’s?

  She clicked send and simply stared at the screen, waiting for a response. To her relief, the bubble indicating that the recipient was typing immediately came to life, and a few seconds later the phone chimed as the reply came in.

  “No,” she read aloud. “We’ve phoned the Apostolic Palace and they’ve confirmed he’s still with them.”

  Then who is this? Gabriella typed back.

  A pause, then, Identity unknown.

  Gabriella peered up at Alexander.

  “If it’s not him,” Alexander said, “that leaves only one possibility.” He waited for Gabriella to nod in agreement. When she didn’t, he continued. “These similarities of features can’t be coincidence. Not to this degree. Not to this extent of likeness.”

  Gabriella turned her eyes back to the photo. The image of the stranger glowed there. Slowly her expression changed as she came to the same realization as Alexander.

  “It’s a twin,” she whispered.

  “It has to be. It’s the only explanation. Identical twins,” Alexander confirmed.

  Gabriella’s white face went whiter. Suddenly the man who had appeared in the Vatican, whom so many were calling divine, was looking eminently human. Angels weren’t known to have twins, and every Catholic child knew Christ didn’t have a brother.

  “And if this is the man’s brother,” Alexander added, “then it’s clear that no one was supposed to know about his existence. Murder a man and dispose of his body . . . it’s a pretty good way to conceal an identity.”

  Gabriella blanched. “But why?” She reflected during the silence that followed her question. “Could this be a red herring? A trap to throw us off?”

  “Do you think your junior admirer would be up to that?” Alexander asked back. “Does this photo look faked to you?”

  Gabriella shook her head. She didn’t know Tonti well enough to answer the first question, but the photo looked genuine.

  “I still don’t understand why anyone would do this. If it’s real. If it is his brother.”

  “Because Crossler was right,” Alexander answered, “and so was Tosi. What’s happening at the Vatican is a fraud. Someone desperately doesn’t want the world to know the identity of the man who’s gained the Pope’s ear. And they’re willing to go to whatever lengths are required to keep it a secret.”

  The Apostolic Palace: 10:45 a.m.

  At precisely 10:45 a.m., Pope Gregory XVII made his entrance into the Sala di Constantino, dressed in his customary white attire and walking without aid. The chatter of the reporters and their cameramen halted instantly as the pontiff moved into the room followed by the Cardinal Secretary of State and two priests of the curia.

  The Sala di Constantino, one of the four Raphael rooms, so-called because of their frescos by the great master and his students, was a space often used for public receptions within the papal apartments. This morning it had been converted to a press room, filled with traditional umbrella lighting and sound equipment. Two television cameras had been permitted, both positioned carefully. Space for the twelve invited reporters had been cordoned off with red velvet rope. As was traditional, the Pope would not speak from a podium but from his seat, ex cathedra, where a microphone had been hinged to a wing mount and made ready.

  A few seconds later he was in position. Cardinal Viteri stood to his right, piped in crimson, the two priests in their black cassocks to his left. Behind him was the monumental depiction of St. Constantine’s vision of the cross in the skies above the Milvian Bridge, painted by the hand of Raphael himself. It was artwork to rival Michelangelo’s adornment of the nearby Sistine Chapel.

  “I thank you for coming,” the Pope said calmly to the reporters. Then, turning toward the cameras, “and I greet all of you who are watching this broadcast with the peace and the love of God.”

  He paused for what seemed an eternity, his eyes closed, before finally opening them aga
in toward the cameras.

  ‘In the past hours and days, my beloved brothers and sisters, our world has been given new signs of hope. We who are men and women of faith call them miracles. Others may call them merely inexplicable phenomena. But whatever title one gives them, in these days we are witnessing events to stir us all with wonder.

  ‘The world now knows of the precious children born without sight like the man born blind in the gospels, who yesterday awoke to something that medical science had long deemed impossible: vision. I have spoken today by phone with the doctor who oversees their care, and even to one of the girls who, for the first time in her life, could see the ward around her. And as I heard the wonder in her voice, my heart rejoiced.

  “The world has now also heard of the men and women here in Rome suffering such terrible sorrows from cancer who today were discovered to be free from that plague of a disease. Again, I have spoken with their chief physician and with a few of his patients. Can I ever express to you the awe one feels at hearing the hope in the voice of a woman who knew as an absolute fact that death was only weeks away, and who suddenly finds herself restored to health?”

  The Pope paused. Every reporter noted the glassy wetness to his eyes. None doubted the sincerity of his emotions.

  “And then there is my own condition,” he continued a moment later. “You are all well aware of the effects I’ve borne my whole life, carrying a childhood condition into middle age. It’s a reality that has kept me bent over and in constant pain. So many of you have written to me over the years with your words of encouragement and I have felt the prayers that millions have offered, especially since I was charged to wear the ring of the fisherman.”

  Suddenly the Pope stood upright.

  “And today I stand before you. Stand before you. I bear witness to a miracle that can only have its source in God.” He allowed the cameras a moment to take in his fully upright form before again sitting in the red-cushioned chair.

  “We have been visited,” the Pope said, and instantly the ears of every reporter perked forward. Was this it? Was this the moment he would mention the stranger?

  “We have been visited,” Pope Gregory continued, “by the unexpected mercy and grace of God. Of this there can be no doubt. And in this visitation we see the signs of hope for a world that needs it so desperately. And so I exhort you, my beloved flock, who struggle with so much confusion and fear: do not be afraid. Press forward in faith, never forgetting that the Lord stands in our midst. Allow the miracles of God to fill your hearts with the fervor of virtue, and do good.”

  He gazed into the blank stare of the cameras, as if willing the peace and consolation of his heart to be transmitted through them with his image.

  “Finally,” he continued, “I would leave you this morning with one further thought. It is a line that was brought to my attention earlier today, and one that I would share with you all.”

  He reached into his cassock pocket and extracted a small slip of paper, folded once down the middle. He opened the page, smiled gently, and read aloud.

  “The lost child returns, and the dead are restored to life.”

  Pope Gregory looked back to the camera. ‘Is not this image a fitting metaphor for the spiritual condition of our fallen world—a child that is lost? But that precious child, our hope for good, returns to us; and the peace that was dead in us, by God’s power, returns to life.

  “May this promise of resurrection fill your hearts with the same hope that stirs anew in mine. May God bless you.”

  Invoking the apostolic blessing with the sign of the cross, the Pope rose once more and walked silently from the room.

  Piombino, Italy: 10:59 a.m.

  Two hundred and fifty kilometers north of Rome, the expansive, luxurious mansion of one of Italy’s most renowned film directors, Gianni Zola, clung to its hillside outside Piombino. Its interior was as quiet and mournful as its exterior was beautiful. To the famed celebrity, perhaps the most famous director in all of Italy, the Pope’s words sounded shallow as they beamed live on to his oversized plasma-screen television. He was tired of hearing promises he knew would never be fulfilled.

  The mahogany coffin in the center of his sitting room was proof, final and terrible, of that.

  “Resurrection.” He said the word with distaste in his mouth, as if it were poisonous and sour. “Not likely, my dear Holy Father.”

  Before him, the coffin of his daughter lay open on the funeral home’s portable bier. It was surrounded by lilies and yellow orchids. Her favorite flowers. She had finally been pronounced dead at eight minutes past midnight the night before. The moment hope had died, along with Gianni’s precious girl.

  He pulled a set of old beads through his fingers. Saying of the traditional rosary, with family and close friends gathered together around her at home, would begin soon. For now he needed his moment alone with . . . with what was left of Abigaille.

  Gianni didn’t attempt to hold back the tears. His daughter had been his deepest, purest joy. She was beautiful, talented, filled with life. She’d starred in two of his films and developed a celebrity all her own. It wasn’t yet of the caliber of his, of course, but Zola’s daughter had only been nineteen years old. Just starting out.

  Nineteen years old.

  He downed a mouthful from an overly full glass of imported cask-aged Tennessee whiskey that sat next to him on the sofa. The wooden beads of his rosary clanked against the crystal. He willed the liquor to deaden the pain, knowing it wouldn’t.

  Abigaille had been surfing with her friends on a small beach near the Località Falcone eight days ago, as she’d done almost every weekend since she was old enough to carry a board. She knew that beach from edge to edge. She knew the water of the temperamental Ligure Sea. She knew the rocks.

  But it was the rocks that had taken her from him. She had caught a wave “of unexpected trajectory”; that was how the investigators had described it. It had taken her at an angle toward an outcropping that lay just below the tidal surface, smashing her fragile body against it with overwhelming force.

  She had been rushed to hospital as soon as her friends had brought her body to shore, but she was unconscious in the ambulance and pronounced comatose shortly after arrival. Zola had visited her every day since. Indeed, he’d spent nearly every moment of the past week at her bedside. Outside the hospital, the public outpouring of grief had been immediate and tremendous—a nation of fans in shock, expressing their sorrow, sharing their love. There had been candlelight vigils each night. Flowers flooded the walls of the hospital complex. Masses were said in churches and fans stood outside, waiting and hoping for the best. But none of it helped.

  Zola swallowed another long dram of his drink. It seared this throat, and somehow that pain was a comfort. He cast aside his rosary beads. In this moment, there was no consolation there.

  It had been last night, in the darkest hours when his body had demanded that he depart from the hospital to take some rest, that she had died. Alone.

  Ten hours ago. That was all. That was how recently his world had ended.

  The hospital and funeral home staff had worked gently and efficiently to have her body moved into the Zola mansion for the traditional rosary service prior to the funeral. The crowd of fans had moved too: from the hospital to the outskirts of his property, now keeping vigil of a different kind.

  Zola peered up. The coffin looked so cold and final. He took another drink, his eyes blurry with tears, then abruptly stood and walked to the open head of the casket. His daughter’s eyes were closed, her face slightly bruised from the accident that had claimed her life. On his instructions she’d been brought directly to the house. No embalming, no make-up or decoration. Not yet. There would be time for that before the funeral. In this moment he needed just to be alone with her, as she was. Untouched. His little girl.

  The Pope’s message continued to broadcast on the screen at the side of the room. He’d kept the set live to watch the coverage the press was giving to his d
aughter. It was touching to see how she’d impacted on those around her, even in her short life. A few minutes ago the feed had cut to the pontiff—a special broadcast from the Vatican. Perhaps that was fitting. Abigaille had never really been religious, but the Zola family were dedicated Catholics through and through.

  Gianni closed his eyes. Suddenly it was all too much. He could feel his heart, his hope, failing him. Everything, everything was gone. Emotion came in throbbing, violent surges from deep in his belly. He wasn’t sure he would be able to remain standing.

  And it was then, in that moment, that he heard it.

  With agony clouding his senses, he didn’t at first trust his ears. He froze his sobs and stood still.

  It came again. He could make it out clearly now: a distinct creaking of wood. A strange sound, in this place.

  He opened his eyes, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. He looked around him, seeking the source, but he was alone in the room. He brought a sleeve to his eyes to wipe away the tears, clearing his blurred vision—but no one was there.

  He sighed, chided himself. Hope: it had the power to make liars of even the senses.

  But then the sound came again, and this time there was no doubt of its reality. Wood creaked. Fabric rustled. And there was only one direction that it was coming from.

  Gianni spun back toward his daughter’s casket, and beheld the impossible.

  In a singular heave of motion, Abigaille Zola’s chest swelled. Her muscles tensed, and her eyes snapped open.

  An instant later, Gianni Zola’s dead daughter sat up in her coffin.

  The world seemed to halt. Gianni struggled for breath, afraid for an instant that he was himself dead, or asleep, and this was just a vision. But Abigaille turned to face her father. Her eyes blinked. Her face was confused and endearingly childlike. And then he could not contain himself: he lunged at her, wrapped his arms around her. It was not a dream. It was not a vision. Abigaille was beautiful, radiant, alive, and he pulled her as deeply into his breast as he could.