William Kienzle - Shadow of Death

“Want me to go ask him? ‘Excuse-a me, sir, but are you somebody important?’”

“Joe!”

“He’s probably a humble Italian parish priest, just come in to join the crowd. In a little while, we’ll know.”

“How?”

“If I’m right, he’ll take up a collection.”

The unimposing clergyman in the plain black cassock stood, hands locked behind his back, before the Rosselli panel, Moses Receives the Tables of the Law. Cardinal Giulanio Gattari visited the Sistine Chapel each Thursday morning as faithfully as possible. He knew the Sistine as a lover knows his beloved. At each visit, the Cardinal, wearing a simple black cassock for anonymity’s sake, would select an appropriate painting as a source for meditation. It was a tribute to his power of concentration as well as to his familiarity with the chapel that he was capable of meditating amid its constant turmoil and hubbub.

The painting before which he now stood was a montage of Moses receiving the Law, descending from the mountain, and breaking the tablets, as well as a depiction of the unfaithful Israelites worshiping their golden calf.

Everyone breaking the law, Gattari mused. The Israelites breaking the First Commandment. Moses breaking all ten.

Ah, Moses, he thought; what a thankless task was yours! You wanted no part of the whole thing. But you were called to confront the Pharaoh and announce God’s message to let His people go. Then you led them through the desert. Never did they have faith in you. They argued with you and questioned you at every turn. They treated their God no better. Even you were led to call them a stiff-necked people.

And what of me? Gattari continued in reverie. What if Providence does, indeed, place me in the Chair of Peter? It would be no accident. It would be a combination of a smiling fate and my own ambition. But there is no doubt: I am in the favored position. No one stands between me and the Papacy but Leo XIV. And he is an old man. No matter how carefully they guard him, he cannot live forever. He cannot live much longer. Then nothing will stand between me and my destiny but a sacred consistory.

Now, I must torture myself with the unending question: What am I to do with it once I gain it? Why do I want it? Why should anyone? Like Moses, I would gain leadership over a stiff-necked people. Some demand more progress. Others insist on a return to a day that can never be recaptured. I can anticipate no more respect, obedience, or fealty than has been accorded Leo. Why do I want it? At this point, what could I do to avoid it? Must I pray ad multos annos for Leo, that doddering old fool!

“In the Last Judgment, on the altar wall,” the guide intoned, “the central figure is Christ as Judge, right hand raised in a violent gesture of condemnation. At his right, in the shadow of his uplifted arm, is the Blessed Mother. To his left is St. Peter, holding the Keys to the Kingdom, one in each hand.”

Koesler was grateful for no longer having his attention called to the ceiling. He studied the wall. It was a terrifying vision of Judgment. As usual, going to heaven seemed relatively uninteresting compared with the terror of being dragged into hell.

“Down below,” the guide continued, “is the entrance to hell, with the boat of Charon, in accordance with Dante’s description, overflowing with the souls of the damned, and Minos, king of the nether world, whom Michelangelo—adding the ears of an ass—characterized as Monsignor Biagio Martinelli, Pope Paul II’s master of ceremonies, who had criticized Michelangelo’s work.”

Koesler was staring at what appeared to be an enormous patch of black paint. He wondered why Michelangelo would simply waste so much valuable space. Then he saw it. Just the hint of a contorted face, six white teeth in a shrieking mouth, and eyes that long for what they can never possess. It was the head of a damned soul in the cave of hell. Terrifying!

His sense of horror was amplified and intensified at that instant as a scream came from the rear of the chapel.

“Oh! No! No!” It was a scream as much of dread as of surprise.

“Joe! Joe! Look!” Pat Lennon pointed.

Cox, following her gesture, saw the black-cassocked priest they had previously noted crumble to the floor. A knife was buried in his chest. His blood was flowing freely.

A large black man bent over the writhing figure. In an instant, he straightened, turned, and ran from the chapel. Cox dashed after him. Screams and shouts filled the chapel as tourists shrank from the wounded cleric. The first to move to him were Pat Lennon and Father Koesler.

Cox pursued the younger, stronger, faster man down library corridors, through museum settings, past coin collections. Whereinhell was the Swiss Guard now that he needed them! Added to Cox’s handicaps was the fact that the assailant had a knack of running through and over people and obstacles, while Cox had to go around them. Although, truth to tell, in a straightaway race, Cox would never have been able to catch up with, let alone head the man.

At long last—although it really hadn’t been that long—Cox gave up—or rather gave out. Chest heaving, he stood in the middle of a long corridor, as a group of tourists stared wide-eyed at him.

Slowly, gasping and panting, he made his way back to the chapel. Most of the people who had been there were still there. A small group was clustered around the victim. In that group were Lennon and Koesler. Several of what seemed to be paramedics had placed the victim on a stretcher and were taking him away.

Cox noticed that the sheet covering the cleric had not been pulled over his face. Cox hoped that signified in Italy what it did in the United States, that the victim was still alive.

Cox then noted an evergrowing number of carabinieri spreading through the chapel. They were questioning everyone, searching for eyewitnesses. One was interviewing Lennon, another was questioning Koesler. Since it would inevitably become Cox’s turn, he decided to join Lennon.

“Oh, here he is,” said Lennon as Cox came to her side. “This is the man I told you about . . . the one who chased the assailant.”

The Italian officer got Cox’s full identification. “So,” he said in barely accented English, “it was very brave of you, signore. But you could not catch him?”

“No. As a matter of fact, about halfway through the chase, it occurred to me that I wouldn’t know what to do with him if I did catch him.”

“Please?”

“He was almost twice my size!”

“Doubly brave of you.”

“Who was the victim, anyway?” Cox’s question was directed to the officer, but Lennon answered.

“You know, I said I thought he was important, Joe. Well, I was right. I realized who he was when I saw him on the floor. It’s Cardinal Giulanio Gattari!”

Cox whistled softly, then caught himself. He felt as if he might be the only person ever to whistle in the Sistine Chapel. “The Secretary of State! We should have recognized him!”

“I think we were thrown off by the simple black cassock. You just don’t expect to see a Cardinal dressed so plainly.”

Koesler, who had finished his interview, was now listening in.

“The Cardinal,” commented the officer, “was in the habit of walking about Vatican City dressed without ostentation. But, tell me, Signore Cox, since you chased the assailant, can you describe him for me?” The officer’s pen was poised over his pad.

“Well, he was maybe six-foot-two or three; he wasn’t wearing a suit . . . let’s see, it was an unmatched jacket and pants and a blue shirt open at the neck; no tie. He weighed maybe 240–250. Black, very dark complexion. And there was something funny about his hair . . . it was in a natural.” He thought a minute. “No . . .no, I’ll take that back. It was done up in those—oh, you know—like long wriggly corn rows.”