Lomeli studied the frescos and the ceiling, flicked through the New Testament, observed the candidates as they paraded past him to vote, closed his eyes, prayed. In the end, according to his wristwatch, it took sixty-eight minutes for all the votes to be cast. Shortly before 10.45 a.m., Cardinal Rudgard, the last man to vote, returned to his seat at the back of the chapel and Cardinal Lukša lifted the filled urn of ballots and showed it to the Conclave. Then the scrutineers followed the same ritual as before. Cardinal Newby transferred the folded ballot papers to the second urn, counting each one out loud until he reached 118. After that, he and Cardinal Mercurio set up the table and three chairs in front of the altar. Lukša covered it in a cloth and placed upon it the urn. The three men sat. Lukša thrust his hand into the ornate silver vessel, as if drawing a raffle ticket for some diocesan fund-raiser, and pulled out the first ballot paper. He unfolded it, read it, made a note, and handed it on to Mercurio.
Lomeli took up his pen. Newby pierced the ballot with his needle and thread and ducked his head to the microphone. His atrocious Italian filled the Sistine: ‘The first vote cast in the second ballot is for Cardinal Lomeli.’
For an appalling few seconds Lomeli had a vision of his colleagues secretly colluding behind his back overnight to draft him, and of his being borne to the papacy on a tide of compromise votes before he had time to gather his wits to prevent it. But the next name read out was Adeyemi’s, then Tedesco’s, then Adeyemi’s again, and there followed a blessedly long period when Lomeli wasn’t mentioned at all. His hand moved up and down the list of cardinals, adding a tick each time a vote was declared, and soon he could see that he was trailing in fifth place. By the time Newby read out the final name – ‘Cardinal Tremblay’ – Lomeli had gathered a total of nine votes, almost double what he had received in the first ballot, which was not at all what he had hoped for but was still enough to keep him safe. It was Adeyemi who had come storming through to take first place:
Adeyemi 35
Tedesco 29
Bellini 19
Tremblay 18
Lomeli 9
Others 8
Thus, out of the fog of human ambition, did the will of God begin to emerge. As always in the second ballot, the no-hopers had fallen away, and the Nigerian had picked up sixteen of their votes: a phenomenal endorsement. And Tedesco would be pleased, Lomeli thought, to have added a further seven to his first-ballot total. Meanwhile Bellini and Tremblay had hardly moved: not a bad result for the Canadian, perhaps, but a disaster surely for the former Secretary of State, who probably would have needed to poll in the high twenties to keep his candidacy alive.
It was only as he checked his calculations for a second time that Lomeli noticed another small surprise – a footnote, as it were – that he had missed in his concentration on the main story. Benítez had also increased his support, from one vote to two.
10 The Third Ballot
AFTER NEWBY HAD read out the results, and the three cardinal-revisers had checked them, Lomeli rose and approached the altar. He took the microphone from Newby. The Sistine seemed to be emitting a low-level hum. Along all four rows of desks the cardinals were comparing lists and whispering to their neighbours.
From the altar step he could see the four main contenders. Bellini, as a cardinal-bishop, was closest to him, on the right-hand side of the chapel as Lomeli looked at it: he was studying the figures and tapping his forefinger against his lips, an isolated figure. A little further down, on the other side of the aisle, Tedesco was tilting back in his chair to listen to the Archbishop Emeritus of Palermo, Scozzazi, who was in the row behind him and was leaning over his desk to tell him something. A few places further on from Tedesco, Tremblay was twisting his torso from side to side to stretch his muscles, like a sportsman between rounds. Opposite him, Adeyemi was staring straight ahead, so utterly immobile he might have been a figure carved in ebony, oblivious to the glances he was attracting from all sides of the Sistine.
Lomeli tapped the microphone. It echoed off the frescos like a drumbeat. At once the murmuring ceased. ‘My brothers, in accordance with the Apostolic Constitution, we will not stop to burn the ballot papers at this point, but instead proceed immediately to the next vote. Let us pray.’
For the third time, Lomeli voted for Bellini. He was settled in his own mind that he would not desert him, even though one could see – almost literally physically see – the authority draining from the former favourite as he walked stiffly up to the altar, recited the oath in a flat voice and cast his ballot. He turned to go back to his seat, a husk. It was one thing to dread becoming Pope; it was another altogether to confront the sudden reality that it was never going to happen – that after years of being regarded as the heir apparent, your peers had looked you over and God had guided their choice elsewhere. Lomeli wondered if he would ever recover. As Bellini passed behind him to get to his seat, he gave him a consoling pat on the back, but the former Secretary of State seemed not to notice.
While the cardinals voted, Lomeli passed his time in contemplation of the ceiling panels nearest to him. The prophet Jeremiah lost in misery. The anti-Semite Haman denounced and slain. The prophet Jonah about to be swallowed by a giant eel. The turmoil of it struck him for the first time; the violence; the force. He craned his neck to examine God separating light and darkness. The creation of the sun and planets. God dividing water from the earth. Without noticing, he allowed himself to become lost in the painting. And there will be signs in sun and moon and stars, and upon the earth distress of nations in great perplexity at the roaring of the sea and the waves, men fainting with fear and with foreboding of what is coming on the world; for the powers of the heavens will be shaken… He felt a sudden intimation of disaster, so profound that he shuddered, and when he looked around he realised that an hour had passed and the scrutineers were preparing to count the ballots.
‘Adeyemi… Adeyemi… Adeyemi…’
Every second vote seemed to be for the cardinal from Nigeria, and as the last few ballots were read out, Lomeli said a prayer for him.
‘Adeyemi…’ Newby threaded the paper on to his scarlet ribbon. ‘My brothers, that concludes the voting in the third ballot.’
There was a collective exhalation around the chapel. Quickly Lomeli counted the forest of ticks he had placed against Adeyemi’s name. He made it fifty-seven. Fifty-seven! He couldn’t resist leaning forward and peering down the row of desks to where Adeyemi was sitting. Almost half the Conclave was doing the same. Another three votes and he would have a straight majority; another twenty-one and he would be Pope.
The first black Pope.
Adeyemi’s massive head was bent forward on to his chest. In his right hand he was grasping his pectoral cross. He was praying.
In the first ballot, thirty-four cardinals had received at least one vote. Now there were only six who registered support:
Adeyemi 57
Tedesco 32
Tremblay 12
Bellini 10
Lomeli 5
Benítez 2
Adeyemi would be elected pontiff before the day was out. Lomeli was sure of it. The prophecy was written in the numbers. Even if Tedesco somehow managed to reach forty on the next ballot and deny him a two-thirds majority, the blocking minority would crumble quickly in the following round. Few cardinals would wish to risk a schism in the Church by obstructing such a dramatic manifestation of the Divine Will. Nor, to be practical about it, would they wish to make an enemy of the incoming Pope, especially one with as powerful a personality as Joshua Adeyemi.