He tightened his grip on her hand.
And she cherished the feeling.
FIFTY-ONE
VATICAN CITY, 11:45 P.M.
Valendrea accepted congratulations from the cardinals, then made his way out of the Sistine to a whitewashed space known as the Room of Tears. There, the vestments from the House of Gammarelli hung in neat rows. Gammarelli himself stood at ready.
“Where is Father Ambrosi?” he asked one of the priests in attendance.
“Here, Holy Father,” Ambrosi said, entering the room. He liked the sound of those words from his acolyte’s lips.
The secrecy of the conclave had ended as he left the chapel. The main doors had been flung open while white smoke spewed from the rooftop. By now, the name Peter II was being repeated throughout the palace. People would be marveling at his choice, and the pundits would be startled by his audacity. Maybe for once they’d be speechless.
“You are now my papal secretary,” he said, as he lifted his scarlet robe up over his head. “My first command.” A smile came to his lips as the private promise between them was fulfilled.
Ambrosi bowed his head in acceptance.
He motioned to the vestments he’d spied yesterday. “That set should do fine.”
The tailor grabbed the selected garments and presented them saying, “Santissimo Padre.”
He accepted the greeting reserved only for a pope and watched as his cardinal robes were folded. He knew they would be cleaned and boxed, custom requiring that they be provided at his death to the then-senior member of the Valendrea clan.
He donned a white linen cassock and fastened the buttons. Gammarelli knelt and began nipping the seam with a threaded needle. The stitching would not be perfect, but adequate enough for the next couple of hours. By then a precise set of vestments, tailored to his measurements, would be ready.
He tested the fit. “A bit tight. Get it right.”
Gammarelli ripped the seam and tried again.
“Make sure the thread is secure.” The last thing he wanted was for something to fall apart.
When the tailor finished, he sat in a chair. One of the priests knelt before him and began removing his shoes and socks. He already liked the fact that little would ever be done by him anymore. A pair of white stockings and red leather shoes were brought forward. He checked the size. Perfect. He motioned that they should be slipped on his feet.
He stood.
A white zucchetto was handed to him. Back during the days when prelates shaved their scalps, the caps protected the bare skin during winter. Now they were an essential part of any high cleric’s attire. Ever since the eighteenth century the pope’s had been formed from eight triangular-shaped pieces of white silk, joined together. He clasped his hands at the edges and, like an emperor accepting his crown, nestled the cap on his head.
Ambrosi smiled in approval.
Time for the world to meet him.
But first, one last duty.
He left the dressing room and reentered the Sistine Chapel. The cardinals were standing at their assigned stations. A throne had been placed before the altar. He paraded straight to it and sat, waiting a full ten seconds before saying, “Be seated.”
The ritual about to occur was a necessary element of the canonical election process. Each cardinal was expected to come forward, genuflect, and embrace the new pontiff.
He motioned to the senior cardinal-bishop, a supporter, who rose and started the process. John Paul II had broken a long-standing practice of popes sitting before the princes by greeting the college standing, but this was a new day and everyone might as well start adjusting. Actually, they should be glad—in centuries past, kissing the papal shoe had been a part of the ritual.
He stayed seated and offered his ring for a dutiful kiss.
Ngovi approached about halfway through the procession. The African knelt and reached for the offered ring. Valendrea noticed that lips did not actually touch gold. Ngovi then stood and walked away.
“No congratulations?” Valendrea asked.
Ngovi stopped and turned back. “May your reign be all that you deserve.”
He wanted to teach the smug son of a bitch a lesson, but this was not the time or place. Maybe that was Ngovi’s intent, a provocation to spark an early show of arrogance. So he calmed his emotions and simply said, “I take that to mean good wishes.”
“Nothing but.”
When the last cardinal departed the altar, he stood. “I thank you all. I will do my best for the mother Church. Now I believe it’s time to face the world.”
He stomped down the center aisle, through the marble gate, and out the chapel’s main entrance. He strode into the basilica and crossed the Regal and Ducal Halls. He liked the chosen route, the massive paintings on the walls making clear the superiority of the papacy over temporal power clear.
He entered the central loggia.
About an hour had passed since his election and the rumors were, by now, at an epidemic stage. Enough conflicting information had surely seeped from the Sistine that no one could, as yet, know anything for sure. And that was the way he was going to keep it. Confusion could be an effective weapon, provided the source of that confusion was him. His choice of name alone should be generating a fair amount of speculation. Not even the great warrior-popes, or the sanctified diplomats who’d managed election over the past hundred years, had dared that move.
He reached the alcove that led out to the balcony. But he would not exit just yet. Instead, the cardinal-archivist, as senior cardinal-deacon, would appear, then the pope, followed by the president of the Sacred College and the camerlengo.
He stepped close to the cardinal-archivist, just inside the doorway, and whispered, “I told you, Eminence, that I would be patient. Now do your last duty.”
The old man’s eyes betrayed nothing. Surely he already knew his fate.
Without saying a word, the archivist stepped onto the balcony.
Five hundred thousand people roared.
A microphone stood before the balustrade and the archivist stepped to it and said, “Annuntio vobis gauduium magnum.” Latin was required for this announcement, but Valendrea knew the translation well.
We have a pope.
The crowd exploded in raucous joy. He could not see the people, but their presence could be felt. The cardinal-archivist spoke again into the microphone, “Cardinalem Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae . . . Valendrea.”
The cheers were deafening. An Italian had regained the throne of St. Peter. Shouts of “Viva, Viva” grew in intensity.
The archivist paused to glance back and Valendrea caught the wintry expression. The old man clearly did not approve of what he was about to say. The cardinal-archivist turned back to the microphone, “Qui Sibi Imposuit Nomen—”
The words came back in an echo. The name that has been chosen is—
“Petrus II.”
The echo bounced across the massive piazza, as if the statues topping the colonnade were talking to one another, each asking the other in wonderment if they’d heard correctly. The people, for an instant, considered the name, then understood.
The cheers amplified.
Valendrea started for the doorway, but noticed only one cardinal following. He turned. Ngovi had not moved.
“Are you coming?”
“I am not.”
“It is your duty as camerlengo.”
“It is my shame.”
Valendrea took a step back into the alcove. “I let your insolence go in the chapel. Don’t try me again.”