by Dan Brown
‘A vile liar,’ the camerlengo said.
Mortati looked shattered. ‘What do you mean? He was honest! He . . . loved you.’
‘And I him.’ Oh, how I loved him! But the deceit! The broken vows to God!
The camerlengo knew they did not understand right now, but they would. When he told them, they would see! His Holiness was the most nefarious deceiver the church had ever seen. The camerlengo still remembered that terrible night. He had returned from his trip to CERN with news of Vetra’s Genesis and of antimatter’s horrific power. The camerlengo was certain the Pope would see the perils, but the Holy Father saw only hope in Vetra’s breakthrough. He even suggested the Vatican fund Vetra’s work as a gesture of goodwill toward spiritually based scientific research.
Madness! The church investing in research that threatened to make the church obsolete? Work that spawned weapons of mass destruction? The bomb that had killed his mother . . .
‘But . . . you can’t!’ the camerlengo had exclaimed.
‘I owe a deep debt to science,’ the Pope had replied. ‘Something I have hidden my entire life. Science gave me a gift when I was a young man. A gift I have never forgotten.’
‘I don’t understand. What does science have to offer a man of God?’
‘It is complicated,’ the Pope had said. ‘I will need time to make you understand. But first, there is a simple fact about me that you must know. I have kept it hidden all these years. I believe it is time I told you.’
Then the Pope had told him the astonishing truth.
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The camerlengo lay curled in a ball on the dirt floor in front of St Peter’s tomb. The Necropolis was cold, but it helped clot the blood flowing from the wounds he had torn at his own flesh. His Holiness would not find him here. Nobody would find him here . . .
‘It is complicated,’ the Pope’s voice echoed in his mind. ‘I will need time to make you understand . . .’
But the camerlengo knew no amount of time could make him understand.
Liar! I believed in you! GOD believed in you!
With a single sentence, the Pope had brought the camerlengo’s world crashing down around him. Everything the camerlengo had ever believed about his mentor was shattered before his eyes. The truth drilled into the camerlengo’s heart with such force that he staggered backward out of the Pope’s office and vomited in the hallway.
‘Wait!’ the Pope had cried, chasing after him. ‘Please let me explain!’
But the camerlengo ran off. How could His Holiness expect him to endure any more? Oh, the wretched depravity of it! What if someone else found out? Imagine the desecration to the church! Did the Pope’s holy vows mean nothing?
The madness came quickly, screaming in his ears, until he awoke before St Peter’s tomb. It was then that God came to him with an awesome fierceness.
YOURS IS A VENGEFUL GOD!
Together, they made their plans. Together they would protect the church. Together they would restore faith to this faithless world. Evil was everywhere. And yet the world had become immune! Together they would unveil the darkness for the world to see . . . and God would overcome! Horror and Hope. Then the world would believe!
God’s first test had been less horrible than the camerlengo imagined. Sneaking into the Papal bed chambers . . . filling his syringe . . . covering the deceiver’s mouth as his body spasmed into death. In the moonlight, the camerlengo could see in the Pope’s wild eyes there was something he wanted to say.
But it was too late.
The Pope had said enough.
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‘The Pope fathered a child.’
Inside the Sistine Chapel, the camerlengo stood unwavering as he spoke. Five solitary words of astonishing disclosure. The entire assembly seemed to recoil in unison. The cardinals’ accusing miens evaporated into aghast stares, as if every soul in the room were praying the camerlengo was wrong.
The Pope fathered a child.
Langdon felt the shock wave hit him too. Vittoria’s hand, tight in his, jolted, while Langdon’s mind, already numb with unanswered questions, wrestled to find a center of gravity.
The camerlengo’s utterance seemed like it would hang forever in the air above them. Even in the camerlengo’s frenzied eyes, Langdon could see pure conviction. Langdon wanted to disengage, tell himself he was lost in some grotesque nightmare, soon to wake up in a world that made sense.
‘This must be a lie!’ one of the cardinals yelled.
‘I will not believe it!’ another protested. ‘His Holiness was as devout a man as ever lived!’
It was Mortati who spoke next, his voice thin with devastation. ‘My friends. What the camerlengo says is true.’ Every cardinal in the chapel spun as though Mortati had just shouted an obscenity. ‘The Pope indeed fathered a child.’
The cardinals blanched with dread.
The camerlengo looked stunned. ‘You knew? But . . . how could you possibly know this?’
Mortati sighed. ‘When His Holiness was elected . . . I was the Devil’s Advocate.’
There was a communal gasp.
Langdon understood. This meant the information was probably true. The infamous ‘Devil’s Advocate’ was the authority when it came to scandalous information inside the Vatican. Skeletons in a Pope’s closet were dangerous, and prior to elections, secret inquiries into a candidate’s background were carried out by a lone cardinal who served as the ‘Devil’s Advocate’ – that individual responsible for unearthing reasons why the eligible cardinals should not become Pope. The Devil’s Advocate was appointed in advance by the reigning Pope in preparation for his own death. The Devil’s Advocate was never supposed to reveal his identity. Ever.
‘I was the Devil’s Advocate,’ Mortati repeated. ‘That is how I found out.’
Mouths dropped. Apparently tonight was a night when all the rules were going out the window.
The camerlengo felt his heart filling with rage. ‘And you . . . told no one?’
‘I confronted His Holiness,’ Mortati said. ‘And he confessed. He explained the entire story and asked only that I let my heart guide my decision as to whether or not to reveal his secret.’
‘And your heart told you to bury the information?’
‘He was the runaway favorite for the papacy. People loved him. The scandal would have hurt the church deeply.’
‘But he fathered a child! He broke his sacred vow of celibacy!’ The camerlengo was screaming now. He could hear his mother’s voice. A promise to God is the most important promise of all. Never break a promise to God. ‘The Pope broke his vow!’
Mortati looked delirious with angst. ‘Carlo, his love . . . was chaste. He had broken no vow. He didn’t explain it to you?’
‘Explain what?’ The camerlengo remembered running out of the Pope’s office while the Pope was calling to him. Let me explain!
Slowly, sadly, Mortati let the tale unfold. Many years ago, the Pope, when he was still just a priest, had fallen in love with a young nun. Both of them had taken vows of celibacy and never even considered breaking their covenant with God. Still, as they fell deeper in love, although they could resist the temptations of the flesh, they both found themselves longing for something they never expected – to participate in God’s ultimate miracle of creation – a child. Their child. The yearning, especially in her, became overwhelming. Still, God came first. A year later, when the frustration had reached almost unbearable proportions, she came to him in a whirl of excitement. She had just read an article about a new miracle of science – a process by which two people, without ever having sexual relations, could have a child. She sensed this was a sign from God. The priest could see the happiness in her eyes and agreed. A year later she had a child through the miracle of artificial insemination . . .
‘This cannot . . . be true,’ the camerlengo said, panicked, hoping it was the morphine washing over his senses. Certainly he was hearing things.
Mortati now had tears in his eyes. ‘Carlo, this is why H
is Holiness has always had an affection for the sciences. He felt he owed a debt to science. Science let him experience the joys of fatherhood without breaking his vow of celibacy. His Holiness told me he had no regrets except one – that his advancing stature in the church prohibited him from being with the woman he loved and seeing his infant grow up.’
Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca felt the madness setting in again. He wanted to claw at his flesh. How could I have known?
‘The Pope committed no sin, Carlo. He was chaste.’
‘But . . .’ The camerlengo searched his anguished mind for any kind of rationale. ‘Think of the jeopardy . . . of his deeds.’ His voice felt weak. ‘What if this whore of his came forward? Or, heaven forbid, his child? Imagine the shame the church would endure.’
Mortati’s voice was tremulous. ‘The child has already come forward.’
Everything stopped.
‘Carlo . . . ?’ Mortati crumbled. ‘His Holiness’s child . . . is you.’
At that moment, the camerlengo could feel the fire of faith dim in his heart. He stood trembling on the altar, framed by Michelangelo’s towering Last Judgment. He knew he had just glimpsed hell itself. He opened his mouth to speak, but his lips wavered, soundless.
‘Don’t you see?’ Mortati choked. ‘That is why His Holiness came to you in the hospital in Palermo when you were a boy. That is why he took you in and raised you. The nun he loved was Maria . . . your mother. She left the nunnery to raise you, but she never abandoned her strict devotion to God. When the Pope heard she had died in an explosion and that you, his son, had miraculously survived . . . he swore to God he would never leave you alone again. Carlo, your parents were both virgins. They kept their vows to God. And still they found a way to bring you into the world. You were their miraculous child.’
The camerlengo covered his ears, trying to block out the words. He stood paralyzed on the altar. Then, with his world yanked from beneath him, he fell violently to his knees and let out a wail of anguish.
Seconds. Minutes. Hours.
Time seemed to have lost all meaning inside the four walls of the chapel. Vittoria felt herself slowly breaking free of the paralysis that seemed to have gripped them all. She let go of Langdon’s hand and began moving through the crowd of cardinals. The chapel door seemed miles away and she felt like she was moving underwater . . . slow motion.
As she maneuvered through the robes, her motion seemed to pull others from their trance. Some of the cardinals began to pray. Others wept. Some turned to watch her go, their blank expressions turning slowly to a foreboding cognition as she moved toward the door. She had almost reached the back of the crowd when a hand caught her arm. The touch was frail but resolute. She turned, face to face with a wizened cardinal. His visage was clouded by fear.
‘No,’ the man whispered. ‘You cannot.’
Vittoria stared, incredulous.
Another cardinal was at her side now. ‘We must think before we act.’
And another. ‘The pain this could cause . . .’
Vittoria was surrounded. She looked at them all, stunned. ‘But these deeds here today, tonight . . . certainly the world should know the truth.’
‘My heart agrees,’ the wizened cardinal said, still holding her arm, ‘and yet it is a path from which there is no return. We must consider the shattered hopes. The cynicism. How could the people ever trust again?’
Suddenly, more cardinals seemed to be blocking her way. There was a wall of black robes before her. ‘Listen to the people in the square,’ one said. ‘What will this do to their hearts? We must exercise prudence.’
‘We need time to think and pray,’ another said. ‘We must act with foresight. The repercussions of this . . .’
‘He killed my father!’ Vittoria said. ‘He killed his own father!’
‘I’m certain he will pay for his sins,’ the cardinal holding her arm said sadly.
Vittoria was certain too, and she intended to ensure he paid. She tried to push toward the door again, but the cardinals huddled closer, their faces frightened.
‘What are you going to do?’ she exclaimed. ‘Kill me?’
The old men blanched, and Vittoria immediately regretted her words. She could see these men were gentle souls. They had seen enough violence tonight. They meant no threat. They were simply trapped. Scared. Trying to get their bearings.
‘I want . . .’ the wizened cardinal said, ‘. . . to do what is right.’
‘Then you will let her out,’ a deep voice declared behind her. The words were calm but absolute. Robert Langdon arrived at her side, and she felt his hand take hers. ‘Ms Vetra and I are leaving this chapel. Right now.’
Faltering, hesitant, the cardinals began to step aside.
‘Wait!’ It was Mortati. He moved toward them now, down the center aisle, leaving the camerlengo alone and defeated on the altar. Mortati looked older all of a sudden, wearied beyond his years. His motion was burdened with shame. He arrived, putting a hand on Langdon’s shoulder and one on Vittoria’s as well. Vittoria felt sincerity in his touch. The man’s eyes were more tearful now.
‘Of course you are free to go,’ Mortati said. ‘Of course.’ The man paused, his grief almost tangible. ‘I ask only this . . .’ He stared down at his feet a long moment then back up at Vittoria and Langdon. ‘Let me do it. I will go into the square right now and find a way. I will tell them. I don’t know how . . . but I will find a way. The church’s confession should come from within. Our failures should be our own to expose.’
Mortati turned sadly back toward the altar. ‘Carlo, you have brought this church to a disastrous juncture.’ He paused, looking around. The altar was bare.
There was a rustle of cloth down the side aisle, and the door clicked shut.
The camerlengo was gone.
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Camerlengo Ventresca’s white robe billowed as he moved down the hallway away from the Sistine Chapel. The Swiss Guards had seemed perplexed when he emerged all alone from the chapel and told them he needed a moment of solitude. But they had obeyed, letting him go.
Now as he rounded the corner and left their sight, the camerlengo felt a maelstrom of emotions like nothing he thought possible in human experience. He had poisoned the man he called ‘Holy Father,’ the man who addressed him as ‘my son.’ The camerlengo had always believed the words ‘father’ and ‘son’ were religious tradition, but now he knew the diabolical truth – the words had been literal.
Like that fateful night weeks ago, the camerlengo now felt himself reeling madly through the darkness.
It was raining the morning the Vatican staff banged on the camerlengo’s door, awakening him from a fitful sleep. The Pope, they said, was not answering his door or his phone. The clergy were frightened. The camerlengo was the only one who could enter the Pope’s chambers unannounced.
The camerlengo entered alone to find the Pope, as he was the night before, twisted and dead in his bed. His Holiness’s face looked like that of Satan. His tongue black like death. The Devil himself had been sleeping in the Pope’s bed.
The camerlengo felt no remorse. God had spoken.
Nobody would see the treachery . . . not yet. That would come later.
He announced the terrible news – His Holiness was dead of a stroke. Then the camerlengo prepared for conclave.
Mother Maria’s voice was whispering in his ear. ‘Never break a promise to God.’
‘I hear you, Mother,’ he replied. ‘It is a faithless world. They need to be brought back to the path of righteousness. Horror and Hope. It is the only way.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If not you . . . then who? Who will lead the church out of darkness?’
Certainly not one of the preferiti. They were old . . . walking death . . . liberals who would follow the Pope, endorsing science in his memory, seeking modern followers by abandoning the ancient ways. Old men desperately behind the times, pathetically pretending they were not. They would fail, of course. The church’s strength was its
tradition, not its transience. The whole world was transitory. The church did not need to change, it simply needed to remind the world it was relevant! Evil lives! God will overcome!
The church needed a leader. Old men do not inspire! Jesus inspired! Young, vibrant, powerful . . . MIRACULOUS.
‘Enjoy your tea,’ the camerlengo told the four preferiti, leaving them in the Pope’s private library before conclave. ‘Your guide will be here soon.’
The preferiti thanked him, all abuzz that they had been offered a chance to enter the famed Passetto. Most uncommon! The camerlengo, before leaving them, had unlocked the door to the Passetto, and exactly on schedule, the door had opened, and a foreign-looking priest with a torch had ushered the excited preferiti in.
The men had never come out.
They will be the Horror. I will be the Hope.
No . . . I am the horror.
The camerlengo staggered now through the darkness of St Peter’s Basilica. Somehow, through the insanity and guilt, through the images of his father, through the pain and revelation, even through the pull of the morphine . . . he had found a brilliant clarity. A sense of destiny. I know my purpose, he thought, awed by the lucidity of it.
From the beginning, nothing tonight had gone exactly as he had planned. Unforeseen obstacles had presented themselves, but the camerlengo had adapted, making bold adjustments. Still, he had never imagined tonight would end this way, and yet now he saw the preordained majesty of it.
It could end no other way.
Oh, what terror he had felt in the Sistine Chapel, wondering if God had forsaken him! Oh, what deeds He had ordained! He had fallen to his knees, awash with doubt, his ears straining for the voice of God but hearing only silence. He had begged for a sign. Guidance. Direction. Was this God’s will? The church destroyed by scandal and abomination? No! God was the one who had willed the camerlengo to act! Hadn’t He?
Then he had seen it. Sitting on the altar. A sign. Divine communication – something ordinary seen in an extraordinary light. The crucifix. Humble, wooden. Jesus on the cross. In that moment, it had all come clear . . . the camerlengo was not alone. He would never be alone.
