After his acceptance, the person elected was immediately Bishop of the Church of Rome, true Pope and head of the College of Bishops. He thus acquired and could exercise full and supreme power over the Universal Church.
One word of assent, one name provided, one signature appended, and it was done: in its simplicity was its glory.
The new Pope would then retire to the sacristy known as the Room of Tears to be robed. Meanwhile, the papal throne would be set up in the Sistine. Upon his re-emergence, the cardinal-electors would queue up ‘in the prescribed manner, in order to make an act of homage and obedience’. White smoke would be sent up the chimney. From the balcony overlooking St Peter’s Square, Santini, Prefect of the Congregation for Catholic Education and also the Senior Cardinal-Deacon, would make the announcement, ‘Habemus papam’ – ‘We have a Pope’ – and shortly afterwards the new pontiff would appear before the world.
And if, thought Lomeli – it was almost too momentous a possibility for him to allow his mind to encompass it, but it would be irresponsible for him not to do so – if Bellini’s prediction proved to be correct, and the chalice passed to him, what would happen then?
In that event, it would fall to Bellini, as the next most senior member of the Conclave, to ask him by what name he wished to be known as Pope.
The idea was dizzying.
At the start of the Conclave, when Bellini had accused him of ambition and insisted that every cardinal secretly knew the name they would choose if they were elected, Lomeli had denied it. But now – God forgive him for his dissimulation – he acknowledged to himself that he had always had a name in mind, although he had consciously avoided giving voice to it, even in his head.
He had known what he would be for years.
He would be John.
John in honour of the blessed disciple, and of Pope John XXIII under whose revolutionary pontificate he had grown to manhood; John because it would signal his intention to be a reformer; and John because it was traditionally a name associated with Popes whose reigns were short, as he was certain his was bound to be.
He would be Pope John XXIV.
It had a weight to it. It sounded real.
When he stepped out on to the balcony, his first act would be to give the Apostolic Blessing, Urbi et Orbi – ‘to the City and the World’ – but then he would have to say something more personal, to calm and inspire the watching billions who would be yearning for his lead. He would have to be their shepherd. To his amazement, he realised the prospect did not terrify him. There had come into his head, unbidden, the words of our Saviour Jesus Christ: Do not be anxious how you are to speak or what you are to say; for what you are to say will be given you in that hour. Even so, he thought (the bureaucrat in him being never far away), it would be best to make at least some sort of preparation, and so for the final twenty minutes of the balloting, casting his eyes occasionally to the Sistine’s ceiling for inspiration, Lomeli sketched out what he might say as Pope to reassure his Church.
The bell of St Peter’s tolled three times.
The voting was over.
Cardinal Lukša lifted the urn full of ballots from the altar and showed it to both sides of the chapel, then shook it firmly enough for Lomeli to hear the papers inside it stir.
The air had become chilly. Through the broken windows came a strange, soft, immense sound – a murmur, a sigh. The cardinals looked at one another. They couldn’t comprehend it at first. But Lomeli recognised it immediately. It was the noise of tens of thousands assembling in St Peter’s Square.
Lukša held out the urn to Cardinal Newby. The Archbishop of Westminster thrust his hand into it, pulled out a ballot paper, and said loudly, ‘One…’ He turned to the altar and dropped it into the second urn, then swung back to Lukša and repeated the process. ‘Two…’
Cardinal Mercurio, his hands clasped to his chest in prayer, moved his head slightly as he watched each movement.
‘Three…’
Until that moment, Lomeli had felt detached – serene, even. Now each counted ballot seemed to tighten an invisible band strapped around his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. Even when he tried to fill his head with prayer, all he could hear was the steady, inescapable intonation of the numbers. It went on like a water torture until at last Newby plucked out the last ballot paper.
‘One hundred and eighteen.’
In the silence, rising and falling like a giant wave in the distance, came again the low, faint cry of the faithful.
Newby and Mercurio left the altar and went into the Room of Tears. Lukša waited, holding the white cloth. They returned carrying the table. He covered it carefully, caressing the fabric, smoothing it flat, and then from the altar he lifted the urn full of votes and placed it reverentially in the centre. Newby and Mercurio set out the three chairs. Newby collected the microphone from its stand. The trio of scrutineers sat.
Across the Sistine Chapel, the cardinals shifted in their seats and reached for their lists of candidates. Lomeli opened his folder. Without noticing it, he held the tip of his pen poised above his own name.
‘The first ballot is cast for Cardinal Benítez.’
His pen travelled up the column and made a mark against Benítez’s name, then returned to his own. He waited, not looking up.
‘Cardinal Benítez.’
Again his pen traversed the list, made a mark, and returned to its default position.
‘Cardinal Benítez.’
This time, after he had awarded the tick, he looked up. Lukša was feeling for the next ballot paper from deep inside the urn. He pulled it out, unfolded it, noted the name, and passed the paper to Mercurio. The Italian also wrote the name down carefully, then gave the ballot to Newby. Newby read it and leaned across the table to speak into the microphone.
‘Cardinal Benítez.’
The first seven votes were all for Benítez. The eighth was for Lomeli, and when the ninth was as well, he thought that perhaps the early run for Benítez had been one of those flukes of distribution they had seen throughout the Conclave. But then came another spell of Benítez, Benítez, Benítez, and he felt God’s grace draining from him. After a few minutes he started counting up the Filipino’s votes, putting a line through each group of five. Ten lots of five. He had fifty-one… fifty-two… fifty-three…
After that, he no longer bothered with his own tally.
Seventy-five… seventy-six… seventy-seven…
As Benítez approached the threshold that would make him Pope, the air in the Sistine seemed to tauten, as if its molecules were being stretched by some magnetic force. Dozens of other cardinals had their heads bent over their desks and were making the same calculation.
Seventy-eight… seventy-nine… eighty!
There was a great collective exhalation of breath, a half-ovation of hands being tapped on desktops. The scrutineers paused in their counting and looked up to see what was happening. Lomeli leaned out of his seat to peer along the aisle at Benítez. His chin was on his chest. He appeared to be praying.
The counting of the ballot resumed.
‘Cardinal Benítez…’
Lomeli took up the sheet of paper on which he had roughed out the notes for his speech and tore it into tiny fragments.