“Personally, I agree with you. But I think the Curia would take a different view.”
Clement shifted his weight forward as he pushed his empty soup bowl aside. “And that’s the problem. The Curia will always object to anything that threatens its survival. Do you know what one of them said to me a few weeks ago?”
Michener shook his head.
“He said that celibacy must be maintained because the cost of paying priests would skyrocket. We would have to channel tens of millions to payroll for increased salaries because priests would now have wives and children to support. Can you imagine? That is the logic this Church uses.”
He agreed, but felt compelled to say, “If you even hinted at a change, you’d be providing Valendrea a ready-made issue to use with the cardinals. You could have open revolt.”
“But that’s the benefit of being pope. I speak infallibly on matters of doctrine. My word is the last word. I don’t need permission, and I can’t be voted from office.”
“Infallibility was created by the Church, too,” he reminded. “It can be changed, along with whatever you do, by the next pope.”
The pope was pinching the fleshy part of his hand, a nervous habit Michener had seen before. “I’ve had a vision, Colin.”
The words, barely a whisper, took a moment to sink in. “A what?”
“The Virgin spoke to me.”
“When?”
“Many weeks ago, just after Father Tibor’s first communication. That is why I went to the Riserva. She told me to go.”
First the pope was talking about junking dogma that had stood for five centuries. Now he was proclaiming Marian apparitions. Michener realized this conversation must stay here, only the plants privy, but he heard again what Clement had said in Turin. Do you think for one moment we enjoy any measure of privacy when at the Vatican?
“Is it wise to speak of this?” He hoped his tone conveyed a warning. But Clement seemed not to hear.
“Yesterday, She appeared in my chapel. I looked up and She was floating before me, surrounded by a blue and gold light, a halo encircling Her radiance.” The pope paused. “She told me that Her heart was encircled with thorns with which men pierce Her by their blasphemies and ingratitude.”
“Are you sure of those statements?” he asked.
Clement nodded. “She said them clearly.” Clement clinched his fingers together. “I’m not senile, Colin. It was a vision, of that I’m sure.” The pope paused. “John Paul II experienced the same.”
He knew that, but said nothing.
“We are foolish men,” Clement said.
He was becoming agitated with riddles.
“The Virgin said to go to Medjugorje.”
“And that’s why I’m being sent?”
Clement nodded. “All would be clear then, she said.”
A few moments of silence passed. He didn’t know what to say. It was hard to argue with heaven.
“I allowed Valendrea to read what is in the Fatima box,” Clement whispered.
He was confused. “What’s there?”
“Part of what Father Tibor sent me.”
“You going to tell me what that is?”
“I can’t.”
“Why did you allow Valendrea to read it?”
“To see his reaction. He’d even tried to browbeat the archivist to allow a look. Now he knows exactly what I know.”
He was about to ask once again what that might be when a light rap on the solarium’s door interrupted their conversation. One of the stewards entered, carrying a folded sheet of paper. “This came over the fax machine from Rome a few moments ago, Monsignor Michener. The cover said to give it to you immediately.”
He took the sheet and thanked the steward, who promptly left. He unfolded and read the message. He then looked at Clement and said, “A call was received a short while ago from the nuncio in Bucharest. Father Tibor is dead. His body was found this morning, washed ashore from a river north of town. His throat had been cut and he apparently was tossed from one of the cliffs. His car was found near an old church he frequented. The police suspect thieves. That area is riddled with them. I was notified, since one of the nuns at the orphanage told the nuncio about my visit. He’s wondering why I was there unannounced.”
Color drained from Clement’s face. The pope made the sign of the cross and folded his hands in prayer. Michener watched as Clement’s eyelids clinched tight and the old man mumbled to himself.
Then tears streaked down the German’s face.
TWENTY-SEVEN
4:00 P.M.
Michener had thought about Father Tibor all afternoon. He’d walked the villa’s gardens and tried to rid from his mind an image of the old Bulgarian’s bloodied body being fished from a river. Finally he made his way to the chapel where popes and cardinals had for centuries stood before the altar. It had been more than a decade since he’d last said Mass. He’d been far too busy serving the secular needs of others, but now he felt the urge to celebrate a funeral Mass in honor of the old priest.
In silence, he donned vestments. He then chose a black stole, draped it around his neck, and walked to the altar. Usually the deceased would be laid before the altar, the pews filled with friends and relatives. The point was to stress a union with Christ, a communion with the saints that the departed was now enjoying. Eventually, on Judgment Day, everyone would be reunited and they would all dwell forever in the house of the Lord.
Or so the Church proclaimed.
But as he mouthed the required prayers he couldn’t help wondering if it was all for naught. Was there really some supreme being waiting to offer eternal salvation? And could that reward be earned simply by doing what the Church said? Was a lifetime of misdeeds forgiven by a few moments of repentance? Would not God want more? Would He not want a lifetime of sacrifice? No one was perfect, there’d always be lapses, but the measure of salvation must surely be greater than a few repentant acts.
He wasn’t sure when he’d started doubting. Maybe it was all those years ago with Katerina. Perhaps being surrounded by ambitious prelates, who openly proclaimed a love for God but were privately consumed by greed and ambition, had affected him. What was the point of falling to your knees and kissing a papal ring? Christ never sanctioned such displays. So why were His children allowed the privilege?
Could his doubts be simply a sign of the times?
The world was different from a hundred years ago. Everyone seemed linked. Communications were instant. Information had reached a gluttony stage. God just didn’t seem to fit. Maybe you were simply born, then you lived, and then you died, your body decomposing back into the earth. Dust to dust, as the Bible proclaimed. Nothing more. But if that were true, then what you made of your life could well be all the reward ever received—the memory of your existence your salvation.
He’d studied the Roman Catholic Church enough to understand that the majority of its teachings were directly related to its own interests, rather than those of its members. Time had certainly blurred all lines between practicality and divinity. What were once the creations of man had evolved into the laws of heaven. Priests were celibate because God ordained it. Priests were men because Christ was male. Adam and Eve were a man and woman, so love could only exist between the sexes. Where did these dogmas come from? Why did they persist?
Why was he questioning them?
He tried to switch off his brain and concentrate, but it was impossible. Maybe it was being with Katerina that had started him doubting again. Perhaps it was the senseless death of an old man in Romania that brought into focus that he was forty-seven years old and had done little with his life beyond riding the coattails of a German bishop to the Apostolic Palace.