He accepted the envelope. "I understand, Holy Father."
"The good Cardinal Bartolo is quite accommodating, isn't he?" A smile accompanied the pope's question.
"I doubt he accrued the three hundred indulgences granted for kissing the papal ring."
It had long been tradition that all who devoutly kissed the pope's ring would receive a gift of indulgences. Michener often wondered if the medieval popes who created the reward were concerned about forgiving sin or just making sure they were venerated with the appropriate zeal.
Clement chuckled. "I imagine the cardinal needs more than three hundred sins forgiven. He's one of Valendrea's closest allies. Bartolo might even replace Valendrea in the Secretariat of State, once the Tuscan secures the papacy. But the thought of that is frightening. Bartolo is barely qualified to be bishop of this cathedral."
This was apparently going to be a frank conversation, so Michener felt at ease to say, "You'll need all the friends you can get in the next conclave to ensure that doesn't happen."
Clement seemed to instantly understand. "You want that scarlet biretta, don't you?"
"You know I do."
The pope motioned to the envelope. "Handle this for me."
He wondered if his errand to Romania was somehow tied to a cardinal appointment, but quickly dismissed the thought. That was not Jakob Volkner's way. Nonetheless, the pope had been evasive, and it wasn't the first time. "You still won't tell me what troubles you?"
Clement moved toward the vestments. "Believe me, Colin, you don't want to know."
"Perhaps I can help."
"You never did tell me about your conversation with Katerina Lew. How was she after all those years?"
Another change of subject. "We spoke little. And what we did say was strained."
Clement's brow curled in curiosity. "Why did you allow that to happen?"
"She's headstrong. Her opinions of the Church are uncompromising."
"But who could blame her, Colin. She probably loved you, yet could do nothing about it. Losing to another woman is one thing, but to God . . . that can be hard to accept. Restrained love is not a pleasant matter."
He again wondered about Clement's interest in his personal life. "It doesn't make any difference anymore. She has her life and I have mine."
"But that doesn't mean you can't be friends. Share your lives in words and feelings. Experience the closeness that someone who genuinely cares can provide. Surely the Church doesn't forbid us that pleasure."
Loneliness was an occupational hazard for any priest. Michener had been lucky--when he'd faltered with Katerina, he'd had Volkner, who'd listened and granted him absolution. Ironically, that was the same thing Tom Kealy had done, for which he was to be excommunicated. Perhaps that was what drew Clement to Kealy?
The pope stepped to one of the racks and fingered the colorful vestments. "As a child in Bamberg, I served as altar boy. I remember that time fondly. It was after the war and we were rebuilding. Luckily, the cathedral survived. No bombs. I always thought that an appropriate metaphor. Even in the face of all that man can work, our town church survived."
Michener said nothing. Surely there was a point to all this. Why else would Clement delay everyone for this conversation, which could have waited?
"I loved that cathedral," Clement said. "It was a part of my youth. I can still hear the choir singing. Truly inspiring. I wish I could be buried there. But that's not possible, is it? Popes have to lie in St. Peter's. I wonder who fashioned that rule?"
Clement's voice was distant. Michener wondered who he was really talking to. He stepped close. "Jakob, tell me what's wrong."
Clement released his grip on the cloth and clenched his trembling hands before him. "You're very naIve, Colin. You simply do not understand. Nor can you." He talked through his teeth, hardly moving his mouth. The voice stayed flat, stripped of emotion. "Do you think for one moment we enjoy any measure of privacy? Don't you understand the depth of Valendrea's ambition? The Tuscan knows everything we do, everything we say. You want to be a cardinal? To achieve that you must grasp the measure of that responsibility. How can you expect me to elevate you when you fail to see what is so clear?"
Rarely in their association had they spoken cross words, but the pope was chastising him. And for what?
"We are merely men, Colin. Nothing more. I'm no more infallible than you. Yet we proclaim ourselves princes of the Church. Devout clerics concerned only with pleasing God, while we simply please ourselves. That fool, Bartolo, waiting outside, is a good example. His only concern is when I am going to die. His fortunes will surely shift then. As will yours."
"I hope you don't speak like this with anyone else."
Clement gently clasped the pectoral cross that hung before his chest. The gesture seemed to calm his tremors. "I worry about you, Colin. You're like a dolphin confined to an aquarium. All your life keepers made sure the water was clean, the food plentiful. Now they're about to return you to the ocean. Will you be able to survive?"
He resented Clement's talking down to him. "I know more than you might think."
"You have no idea the depth of a person like Alberto Valendrea. He is no man of God. There hav
e been many popes like him--greedy and conceited, foolish men who think power is the answer to everything. I thought them part of our past. But I was wrong. You think you can do battle with Valendrea?" Clement shook his head. "No, Colin. You're no match for him. You're too decent. Too trusting."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"It needs to be said." Clement stepped close. They were now only inches apart, toe-to-toe. "Alberto Valendrea will be the ruin of this Church--if I and my predecessors have not already been. You ask me constantly what is wrong. You should not be as concerned with what troubles me as with doing what I ask. Is that clear?"
He was taken aback by Clement's bluntness. He was a forty-seven-year-old monsignor. The papal secretary. A devoted servant. Why was his old friend questioning both his loyalty and his ability? But he decided to argue no further. "It is perfectly clear, Holy Father."
"Maurice Ngovi is the closest thing to me you will ever have. Remember that in the days ahead." Clement stepped back and his mood seemed to shift. "When do you leave for Romania?"
"In the morning."
Clement nodded, then reached back into his cassock and withdrew another powder-blue envelope. "Excellent. Now, would you mail this for me, please?"
He accepted the packet and noticed it was addressed to Irma Rahn. She and Clement were childhood friends. She still lived in Bamberg, and they'd maintained a steady correspondence for years. "I'll take care of it."
"From here."
"Excuse me?"
"Mail the letter from here. In Turin. You personally, please. No delegation to others."
He always mailed the pope's letters personally, and had never needed a reminder before. But again he decided not to question.
"Of course, Holy Father. I'll mail it from here. Personally."
ELEVEN
VATICAN CITY, 1:15 P.M.
Valendrea stepped directly toward the office of the archivist for the Holy Roman Church. The cardinal in charge of L'Archivio Segreto Vaticano was not one of his allies, but he hoped the man was perceptive enough not to cross someone who might soon be pope. All appointments ended at a papal death. Continued service was dependent solely on what the next Vicar of Christ decided, and Valendrea well knew that the present archivist wanted to keep his position.