There was a slight knocking on the door. “Come in.”
Bonasero Vessucci entered the pope’s chamber, softly closed the door behind him, and stood next to his friend’s bed. “Are you comfortable, Amerigo?”
The pope removed the glasses and held the stem between his thumb and forefinger. “As good as expected,” he answered. “No matter how much I sleep, I’m always tired.” He quickly noted the concern on the cardinal’s face. “What is it, Bonasero?”
The cardinal sighed. “It appears someone at Gemelli leaked the fact to Il Messagero that you have cancer.” Il Messagero was the leading newspaper in Rome. “The conservatives in the College of the Cardinals are already gathering.”
“It’s nothing personal, my dear friend, you know that. It’s politics.”
“Right now, Giuseppe Angullo is politicking his way to be the next server of the pulpit.”
Pius waived a hand dismissively. “He won’t have the votes from the consensus party no matter how hard he tries to promote his platform. He is too much of a conservative not only to the constituency of the Church, but also to the citizenry of its followers. A good man he is, but if he refuses to bend, even if bending is a necessity with a changing world, then he chances the risk of losing the faith of a constituency. Even the Curia will recognize that.”
“True. But he has many supporters and is an ally to Cardinal Marcello, who also has a strong camp of followers. Together, Amerigo, they may conform into a single, large camp that would endorse Marcello to take over the post as the next pontiff. Il Messagero is reporting this to the people in the columns of the front page.”
Pius chewed on his lower lip, realizing where Vessucci was going. Marcello was a powerful cardinal with conservative constituents inside the Church that would never allow the right for the Vatican Knights to exist, deeming them too militant a faction even though there was a need for them. The Society of Seven would disband.
“If his following becomes too strong,” said the cardinal, “then the Knights will not have a following. I will not keep them active behind Marcello’s back, should he be elected.”
“And you shouldn’t,” he returned. “But you have a strong backing. But more importantly, you have my support. I will counter Marcello’s followers by calling them to counsel in solitary, if necessary, and garner their favor on your behalf. I will have them commit, as a favor to me.”
“It seems so political.”
“It’s been the way of the Church since its conception,” he said. “It’s what has kept Catholicism afloat for all these centuries. And right now it needs strong leadership. And I believe, Bonasero, with all my heart that you can take the Church on the right path in a world growing morally corrupt every day in a time when it needs us most. The Vatican Knights must be a staple to this Church until all men can lay down their swords and live in peace. But until that time we need people like Kimball and Leviticus to man the front lines when peace is no longer forethought in the minds of men.”
The cardinal leaned over and patted a pillow, an attempt to fluff it.
“We knew this day was coming,” the pope stated, smiling lightly. “Nobody lives forever, Bonasero, we know that. So the mantle will be passed to you. All I ask is that you hold it high and make God proud with the way you serve Him.”
Bonasero Vessucci nodded and smiled back, but the smile was weak and feigned.
“Now, about the Knights,” said the pontiff.
Vessucci nodded. “Leviticus and Isaiah are still tied up with their missions. So far, there are no casualties or collateral damage. They’ve also managed to pull innocents out of harm’s way, and are taking them to debarkation points where allied support will take them to safe zones.”
“That’s good,” said the pontiff. “Very good. And what about Kimball? Have we heard from him yet?”
“No. Not since the SIV aided him to get to his New Mexico contact.”
“Victor Hawk?”
“Yes. But Kimball hasn’t contacted us yet.”
“You look concerned.”
The cardinal nodded. “Kimball was supposed to contact me over an hour ago… But he hasn’t.”
The pope sighed, and then looked out the window — a beautiful day, sunny, birds taking flight against a perfect canvas of blue sky. The man had every right to be concerned, he thought, since it wasn’t like Kimball not to keep his contact times; unless, of course, he was unable to.
The pontiff closed his eyes. “Dear Lord,” he said.
It was all he could whisper.
“Again!”
The wavering light of the torches cast awkward shadows against the surrounding stone walls of the chamber that held no windows. The room was circular with a domed ceiling and a wraparound second tier that overlooked the area. In the center of the room Kimball was mentoring three of the youngest knights: Ezekiel, Job and Joshua, with Ezekiel being the eldest at thirteen and Job and Joshua twelve.
Kimball was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his hands behind the small of his back as he watched the boys with strict examination, looking for minute imperfections in style as they went through the motions and techniques of aikido, a Japanese art form of self-defense.
While Joshua and Job employed locks and holds against each other by utilizing the principle of nonresistance to cause an opponent's momentum to work against them, aikido also emphasized the importance of achieving complete mental calm and control of one's own body to master an opponent's attack. There are no offensive moves. Yet while they seemed to be grasping the techniques with fluidity, Ezekiel floundered, the moves and locks mere puzzles to him as he looked awkward in his performances.
When Job attacked Joshua, Joshua grabbed Job by the hand, bent his wrist away from his body, and sent Job into a perfect somersault with the twelve-year-old landing hard on his side on the mat.
“Very good, Joshua. And you too, Job. Both of you did a nice job. Now hit the showers. The two of you are done for the day.”
Joshua and Job pumped their fists high into the air and headed off down the stone-walled corridor.
Ezekiel watched them go with hangdog eyes.
And Kimball took a knee beside him so that they were of equal height. “You want to be the best, don’t you?”
The boy remained silent. He had been training for years, but seen others progress faster — those who were younger and greener; those with the affinity to do what came to them naturally, whereas he struggled mightily.
And then: “I’ll never be as good as them,” he finally said. “I can barely tie my shoes.”
Kimball smiled. “You’ll do fine, Ezekiel. I have faith in you. Sometimes you have to work harder than others in order to achieve greatness.”
“I don’t want to work harder. I just want to be good.”
“Look, Ezekiel, I will work with you until you get it right. And before too long you will be better than Job and Joshua combined.”
“I doubt that. They’re really good.”
“You doubt it? Well, let me tell you something. Remember a few years back you could barely hold a sword?”
He nodded.