Тим Пауэрс - Free Stories 2018

Early morning sunlight streamed into the medium-sized chapel at a sharp angle, gemmed by the brilliant colors on the ancient stained glass. I stood near the Camerlengo, stained by a puddle of red-tinted light, cast by the image of the Sacred Heart.

The Guard, and perforce myself were on station, just as the Cardinal Camerlengo had carefully outlined following Dutto’s interrogation.

We were sworn to obey His Holiness or his successor.

By Cardinal Crivetto’s firm, standing suggestion, all of the Curia had made a habit of attending the daily seven a.m. service. Upon their entry this morning, they discovered a rather different setting. The altar furnishings were moved, and last night’s table, complete to crucifix and lawbook, was present. Something else had changed as well.

Aspiring bishops and archbishops dreamed of the day when they could don the crimson mantle of a cardinal, to become a Prince of the Church. Once they won that distinction, they rarely were seen in public without it. However, this morning Cardinal Crivetto wore a different garment, matching that of the other brown-clad Cistercian who flanked him on the dais.

As prelates arrived, they were conducted to their seats by a line of Guardsmen. By prior arrangement, we packed them into the pews closest to the front. The buzz of questions grew, but the Camerlengo sat unmoved until the entry of the last bishop occasioned the closing of the iron bound doors. Then he stood, displaying the broad red sash that belted his cassock and signaled his status as the last cardinal in Rome.

As he rose, the Swiss Guard came to attention, their cuirasses gleaming.

“My fellow Brothers in Christ, this morning we cannot celebrate Mass.” Cardinal Crivetto said, his voice soaring above the chatter courtesy of the small microphone clipped to his robe. “This morning, I was summoned to find that one of our own had interfered with a refugee, a small child. During the questioning, I learned that the death of His Holiness was not random chance, but the culmination of a careful plot. Therefore, we are met to hear the evidence against members of our congregation who conspired to murder His Holiness. Further, in the course of this conspiracy, the innocence of refugees sheltering within our walls was bartered away in exchange for silence from those complicit in terrible crimes.”

Even the threat of our halberds and my sidearm could not contain the murmurs.

“Crivetto, are you mad!” one voice rose above the rest. Atherton-Clive stood, his face white with fury. “What is this? On what authority do you begin any proceeding? This is an outrageous overstepping of your limited authority! Only the Congregation of the Faithful may call a full trial, and the Congregation-”

“ The Congregation of the Faithful is dead! ” thundered the Cardinal Camerlengo, still standing, his fists clenched in the air at chest height.

Startled, I stared at him, with the rest of the gathered Curia. This had not been any part of our plan.

“Archbishop Atherton-Clive. Sit. Down,” the Camerlengo said, his amplified voice over riding the archbishop and forestalling any reply. “Or I will have you bound to that pew.”

Atherton-Clive sat, his bloodless face a sharp contrast to his red-trimmed midnight stole.

After a moment, the Camerlengo sat as well. My Guard returned to parade-rest.

“As you well know, I alone remain among the cardinale who led the Congregation of the Faithful,” Crivetto went on in a slightly more normal tone of voice. “We find ourselves in a dark time and at a moment when we must work in concert, we instead confront evil inside our own ranks—inside the very walls of the Holy City. Therefore, we will return to the harshest of God’s law. I invoke the Supreme Sacred Congregation of the Roman and Universal Inquisition.”

Gasps of understanding were suddenly audible.

“And as to my limited authority-”

He let his eyes rove around the mostly silent room, passing over the hand-picked Guardsmen that I led.

The faintest rattle of armor came from one side of the nave. I glanced over at the offending guardsman. It was Taliaferro, from the previous night. He stilled under my look.

“Crivetto, you’re a power mad fool!” Atherton-Clive snarled. He stayed seated. “What evil do you speak of, then?”

“Ironic, that you label me power mad, Your Grace,” the Camerlengo replied. “I speak of your plan to succeed His Holiness, after he died of the disease which he contracted due to your careful preparation. I speak of your plot to kill the College of Cardinals. I speak of your web of collaborators whom you compensated with promises of power and the corruption of the flesh.”

“Absurd!” Atherton-Clive answered, and then twisted in his seat to address the remains of the Curia. “Crivetto’s cracking under the strain of his office. Where’s any proof of any of this madness, I ask you!”

“I have the proof here,” answered Cardinal Crivetto, tapping a clipped sheaf of notes. “Carefully transcribed from the questioning of Bishop Dutto which I personally attended this very morning. And I have Bishop Dutto to certify this testimony.”

He rang a small bell. The door to the sacristy opened and the remaining Cistercian monk pushed a wheelchair ahead of him. Bishop Dutto’s ashen face was beaded with sweat, despite the cool temperature. His hands were covered in white bandages, and his feet were splinted into place on the chair’s footrests. His wide eyes took in the entire room, like a sacrifice wondering which hand held the knife.

A widespread gasp spread across the gathered prelates, and the group swayed as though a strong wind had buffeted the room.

“What happened to you?” Atherton-Clive’s voice rang to the rafters, but Dutto was silent. “This man has been tortured! Who’s responsible for this outrage!”

I’d anticipated this question. We were back on script now. I ordered my Guard to attention and back to rest.

“Attenzione!” And the four-meter ashwood-hafted polearms snapped to the vertical.

“Riposo!” And the gleaming bills and spikes of the halberds were shoved a meter closer to the pews.

Two dozen halberds suddenly thrust towards the congregation had the intended salubrious effect.

The space was once again quiet, except for the rasping inhalations of the vice-regent.

“ I put Bishop Dutto to the question,” the Camerlengo replied. His voice filled the still room. “And Bishop Dutto himself will explain why.”

He turned to the seated bishop.

“Your Excellency?”

Dutto stirred, and leaned to the opposite side of his wheelchair before he spoke.

I stared at him, at the man whose fellow plotters had placed me in the impossible position of having to shoot the man that I had sworn my life to protect. My hands quivered at my sides as he stuttered through the details of entire repugnant affair, occasionally lapsing into long pauses only to be gently encouraged by the Camerlengo.

The infection of the pope. The brokering of counterfeit vaccine to several of the cardinals who were terrified of H7D3 and prepared to accept the medicine after the death of His Holiness. The attempt to block the return of the true vaccine to the Vatican. Lastly, trading access to minors in exchange for the continued alliance with Atherton-Clive.

The restless Curia had stilled as soon as Dutto mentioned infecting the pope with the virus. The tale of the mass murder of the College of Cardinals drew mutters and a few of the Curia edged away from the vice-regent. By the time that Crivetto prompted Dutto to speak up as he recounted his personal crime against the child there was an armspan of open space around Atherton-Clive and a few of his closest supporters.