Reginald Cook - The Hammer of God

“I’m afraid I’m out of the loop where that’s concerned,” Cardinal Polletto said, smooth and easy. “That’s a question best left to law enforcement, and I fail to see its relevance here.” Cardinal Maximilian took a few more blind stabs, then turned the meeting back over to Cardinal Ottaviani, who said a brief prayer then dismissed the meeting. Cardinal Maximilian made a quick exit. Cardinal Polletto lingered amongst the others making small talk, not wanting to further telegraph that something was askew.

Later, sitting back in the peanut butter leather of his black Mercedes, on loan from the Vatican carpool, Cardinal Polletto continued to simmer on a slow burn. His driver, Joseph, loyal to The Order, snaked the car out of Rome down Cassia Veientana Road toward Viterbo Road, and headed straight for Bracciano, thirty-three kilometers from Rome.

Cardinal Polletto leered out at the passing countryside, a testament to the serene, beautiful Italy so few were privileged to witness. He rolled down his window. A burst of earthen air, cultured and clean, filled his nostrils, soothing his emotions. It wasn’t the exposure of Father Tolbert’s sexual proclivities that vexed him, he had gladly watched more than a few of the holy drown. But the cardinal needed Father Tolbert, needed his blood and soul, and wouldn’t allow anybody, especially Cardinal Maximilian, to cause a delay or derail his plans.

I understand there’s been an incident. Cardinal Maximilian’s words hung in the air like an ominous cloud. Cardinal Polletto long suspected Cardinal Maximilian of being more than a suffocating ecumenical asshole. He long suspected, but had never been able to confirm that Cardinal Maximilian worked for Il Martello di Dio. If his suspicions were true, then things had just gotten much worse, and The Order’s time to act short.

He picked up the phone and dialed Father Ortega. “Have you learned anything more about our target?” he asked.

“Not yet, Your Excellency, but we’re close,” said Father Ortega.

“Stay on him, he could be the key we need to close the Hammer of God down. I’ll be at the castle in a moment.” Cardinal Polletto hung up, hoping the lead Father Ortega was investigating panned out. If so, their hand would become stronger overnight.

Night fell and blanketed the countryside as the Mercedes powered towards the small fishing village, Bracciano, its namesake castle towering magnificent in the distance, majestic royalty in a land of kingly monuments. As the car sped closer, the medieval majesty and architectural grandeur of the stunning feudal residence cast the perfect commanding aura of military and civilian design, one of the most beautiful castles in Europe, powerful, yet enchanting.

In 1290, Bracciano Castle, along with other castles and villages in the area, became possessions of the Holy Spirit of Rome. Later, Bracciano was conquered by the Brenton clan, and became their general headquarters at the time of the struggle between Pope Urbano and the Anti-Pope, Clemente VII.

Around 1470, the old fortified building, which was the prefect seat, was enlarged on orders from Baron Napoleone Orsini, who at the time was one of the most powerful figures in Roman nobility. Under the patronage of the Orsini clan, the castle became a renaissance court, a haven for artists, as well as an envied venue for sumptuous parties and galas, phenomenal fireworks displays, and private receptions.

In 1696, the last of the Orsini’s of Bracciano sold the castle to Livio Odescalchi, whose family still retained ownership, and were more than happy to shut it down for Bracciano’s favorite son, Cardinal Polletto, one of their own. The cardinal promised that he would return it in the same condition. It’s the world that will be different, he thought at the time.

Cardinal Polletto’s driver wound the car along the dark snake-like road, Via Claudia, stopping at the castle entrance, at the base of the eastern tower. The entire building was under-lit with high watt lights from the ground up, and the four massive towers at each corner, along with the windows and ledges of the rooftops, were accented with white Christmas lights, giving the medieval colossus a festive, dominate air.

Up close, the years of wear, battles fought, and the elements of time, were much more evident on the castle’s outer wall. Like many of Rome’s ruins, the castle wore chips and cracks in its brick and stone with a historical pride that emanated culture and conquest. Cardinal Polletto stepped out of the car and took in the familiar surroundings, remembering the stories his parents shared with him about the battles fought at the castle, and its secrets passed down through generations, known only to those who grew up in the small village.

One of The Order’s faithful, Bishop Giordano, met him as he walked up the long, steep walkway to the front door. “Good evening, Your Excellency,” he gushed. “Things are proceeding as planned, and all preparations will be finished in less than a few weeks.”

“We no longer have a few weeks,” shot Cardinal Polletto, continuing on through the front door.

“How much time do we have?” asked the bishop, following so close, he almost crashed into Cardinal Polletto when he made a sudden stop.

“Five days,” the cardinal answered. “Everyone will be here, so we can proceed at that time.”

“But why? We still need to gather up the children.” Cardinal Polletto leaned close to the cleric. “The Hammer of God is on to us,” he whispered.

Bishop Giordano took a step back and covered his mouth. “Il Martello di Dio. But how do you know? How can you be sure?” Cardinal Polletto stepped back. “Trust me, my friend, I’m very sure.”

“Then we must inform the others,” said Bishop Giordano, panic in his voice.

“We’ll do no such thing,” barked Cardinal Polletto, catching himself, looking around. “There’s no need to tell anyone,” he continued, in a much softer, more controlled tone. “I have it well under control. Have I ever failed?”

Bishop Giordano took a deep breath. “No, Your Excellency. The Order has prospered well under your leadership.” He eased closer to the cardinal. “But let’s hope your certainty is one hundred percent, or we’ll all pay a price I dare not contemplate.” Cardinal Polletto smiled. “Where is our guest?”

“Father Ortega placed Father Tolbert in the room next to the Hall of Arms. We’ve kept him under as ordered, but he should be coming out of it soon.”

“Excellent,” beamed the cardinal. “I’ll look in on him myself. You may continue with your task.”

Cardinal Polletto didn’t wait around for a response. He climbed the wide circular stairway in the entry hall to the study and library known as Pope’s Hall, named after Pope Sixtus IV, who was a guest at the castle in 1481.

The third room Cardinal Polletto passed also took its name from an illustrious guest who lingered in Bracciano’s fortress for a time in 1900, King Umberto I.

After strolling past the Triptych Room and Pisanella’s Hall, two of the most opulent of the castle’s reception halls, Cardinal Polletto stopped at his favorite, the Hall of the Caesars.

Hands behind his back, the cardinal strolled past the white marble busts of each of the twelve Caesars, lined up along the wall like a jury of his peers, the power and energy of each surging through the room. He closed his eyes. This is where I belong, a part of history. Cardinal Polletto allowed himself a moment to admire the stunning frescoes suspended beautifully on the walls, painted by Antoniazza Romana, one of his favorites.

After the Hall of Isabella, the cardinal finally reached the Hall of Arms. It was well stocked with a vast collection of medieval arms, swords, sabers, medieval shields, helmets worn in battles to defend the castle, and full suits of armor donned by warriors of times past. The room wore the shroud of death with unimpeachable strength and honor.