Conclave (31 page)

Even Krasinski tried to reach up a restraining hand, but Tedesco brushed him aside.

‘No, there are things that have needed saying in this Conclave, and now they must be said. My brothers, each time we file into the Sistine Chapel to vote, we pass, in the Sala Regia, a fresco of the Battle of Lepanto – I looked at it this morning – where the naval forces of Christendom, drawn together by the diplomacy of His Holiness Pope Pius V, and blessed by the intercession of Our Lady of the Rosary, defeated the galleys of the Ottoman Empire and saved the Mediterranean from slavery at the hands of the forces of Islam.

‘We need some fraction of that leadership today. We need to hold fast to our values as the Islamists hold fast to theirs. We need to put a stop to the drift that has gone on almost ceaselessly for the past fifty years, ever since the Second Vatican Council, and that has rendered us weak in the face of evil. Cardinal Benítez speaks of the
millions beyond the walls looking to us in these terrible hours for guidance. I agree with him. The most sacred task that ever arises within our Mother Church – the bestowing of the Keys of St Peter – has been disrupted by violence in Rome itself. The moment of supreme crisis has come upon us, as foretold by our Lord Jesus Christ, and we must at long last find the strength to rise to meet it:
And there will be signs in sun and moon and stars, and upon the earth distress of nations in great perplexity at the roaring of the sea and the waves, men fainting with fear and with foreboding of what is coming on the world; for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. And then they will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, look up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near
.’

When he had finished, he crossed himself and bowed his head, then sat down quickly. He was breathing heavily. The ensuing silence seemed to Lomeli to go on for a very long time and was only broken by the gentle voice of Benítez. ‘But my dear Patriarch of Venice, you forget I am the Archbishop of Baghdad. There were one and a half million Christians in Iraq before the Americans attacked, and now there are one hundred and fifty thousand. My own diocese is almost empty. So much for the power of the sword! I have seen our holy places bombed and our brothers and sisters laid out dead in lines – in the Middle East and in Africa. I have comforted them in their distress and I have buried them, and I can tell you that not one of them – not one – would have wished to see violence met by violence. They died in the love of, and for the love of, our Lord Jesus Christ.’

A group of cardinals – Ramos, Martinez and Xalxo among them – clapped loudly in agreement. Gradually the applause spread across the room, from Asia through Africa and the Americas to Italy itself. Tedesco glanced around him in surprise and shook his head
sorrowfully – whether in regret at their folly, or realisation of his own, or both, it was impossible to tell.

Bellini stood. ‘My brothers, the Patriarch of Venice is right in one aspect, at least. We are no longer meeting as a congregation. We were sent here to choose a Pope, and that is what we should do – in strict accordance with the Apostolic Constitution, so there can be no doubt of the legitimacy of the man we elect, but also as a matter of urgency, and in the hope that the Holy Spirit will manifest itself in our hour of need. I propose therefore that we abandon lunch – I’m sure none of us has much appetite in any case – and return at once to the Sistine Chapel and resume voting. I don’t believe that is in violation of the sacred statutes, is it, Dean?’

‘No, not at all.’ Lomeli seized the lifeline his old colleague had thrown him. ‘The rules merely specify that two ballots must be held this afternoon if necessary, and that if we fail to reach a decision, tomorrow must be set aside for meditation.’ He scanned the room. ‘Is Cardinal Bellini’s proposal, that we should return to the Sistine immediately, acceptable to a majority of the Conclave? Will all those in favour please show?’ A scarlet forest of arms sprang up. ‘And those against?’ Only Tedesco raised his hand, although he looked in the other direction as he did it, as if to dissociate himself from the whole business. ‘The will of the Conclave is clear. Monsignor O’Malley, will you make sure the drivers are ready? And Father Zanetti, will you please inform the press office that the Conclave is about to hold its eighth ballot?’

As the meeting dispersed, Bellini whispered in Lomeli’s ear, ‘Prepare yourself, my friend. By the end of this afternoon, you will be Pope.’

IN THE EVENT
, most of the buses were not needed. Some spontaneous, collective impulse seized the Conclave, and those cardinals who were sufficiently able-bodied to walk elected to travel on foot from the Casa Santa Marta to the Sistine Chapel. They marched in a phalanx, some linking arms, as if they were staging a demonstration, which in a sense they were.

And by a stroke of providence – or divine intervention – a helicopter hired on a pooled basis by several television news companies was at that moment hovering above the Piazza del Risorgimento, filming the blast damage. The airspace of the Vatican City was closed, but the cameraman, using a long lens, was able to film the cardinals as they processed across the Piazza Santa Marta, past the Palazzo San Carlo and the Palazzo del Tribunale, past the church of Santo Stefano and along the edge of the Vatican Gardens before they disappeared into the courtyards within the complex of the Apostolic Palace.

The shaky images of the scarlet-clad figures, broadcast live around the world and repeated endlessly throughout the day, put a little heart back into the Catholic faithful. The pictures conveyed a
sense of purpose, of unity and defiance. Subliminally they also suggested that very soon there would be a new Pope. From all over Rome, pilgrims began to make their way to St Peter’s Square in anticipation of an announcement. Within an hour, a hundred thousand had gathered.

All this, of course, Lomeli only discovered afterwards. For now, he walked in the centre of the group, one hand clasping that of the Archbishop of Genoa, De Luca, the other holding on to Löwenstein. His face was raised to the pale light of the sky. Behind him, faintly at first, Adeyemi began singing the Veni Creator in his magnificent voice, and soon it was taken up by them all:

As Lomeli sang, he gave thanks to God. In this hour of deadly trial, in the unlikely setting of this cobbled courtyard, with nothing more elevating for the Conclave to contemplate than bare brick, he could at last sense the Holy Spirit moving among them. For the first time, he felt at peace with the outcome. Should the lot fall to him, so be it.
Father, if thou art willing, remove this cup from me; nevertheless, not my will, but Thine, be done.

Still singing, they climbed the steps to the Sala Regia. As they crossed the marble floor, Lomeli glanced up at Vasari’s vast fresco of the Battle of Lepanto. As ever, his attention was drawn to the lower right-hand corner, where a crudely grotesque representation of Death as a skeleton wielded a scythe. Behind Death, the rival fleets of Christendom and Islam were drawn up for battle. He wondered if
Tedesco would ever again be able to bear to look at it. The waters of Lepanto had surely swallowed his hopes of the papacy as completely as they had the galleys of the Ottoman Empire.

In the vestibule of the Sistine, the broken glass had been removed. Sheets of timber were stacked ready to board up the windows. The cardinals filed in pairs up the ramp, through the screen, along the carpeted aisle, and then dispersed to find their places behind the desks. Lomeli walked to where the microphone was set up beside the altar and waited until the Conclave was assembled. His mind was entirely clear and receptive to God’s presence.
The seed of eternity is within me. With its aid I can step out of the endless chase; I can dismiss everything that does not belong here in God’s house; I can grow still and whole so that I can honestly reply to His summons: ‘Here I am, Lord.’

When the cardinals were all in position, he nodded to Mandorff, who was standing at the back of the chapel. The archbishop’s bald dome dipped in return, and he and O’Malley, followed by the masters of ceremonies, left the chapel. The key turned in the lock.

Lomeli began the roll call. ‘Cardinal Adeyemi?’

‘Present.’

‘Cardinal Alatas?’

‘Present . . .’

He did not hurry. The recital of the names was an incantation, each one a step closer to God. As he finished, he bowed his head. The Conclave stood.

‘O Father, so that we may guide and watch over Your Church, give to us, Your servants, the blessings of intelligence, truth and peace, so that we may strive to know Your will, and serve You with total dedication. For Christ our Lord . . .’

‘Amen.’

The rituals of the Conclave, which three days earlier had felt so
strange, were now as familiar to the cardinals as a morning Mass. The scrutineers came forward unbidden and set up the urn and chalice on the altar, while Lomeli stepped down to his desk. He opened his folder, took out his ballot paper, uncapped his pen and stared into the middle distance. For whom should he vote? Not himself – not again; not after what had happened last time. That left only one viable candidate. For a second he held his pen poised above the paper. If he had been told four days ago that on the eighth ballot he would vote for a man whom he had never met, whom he was not then even aware was a cardinal, and who even now was largely a mystery to him, he would have dismissed the notion as a fantasy. But he did it even so. In a firm hand, in capital letters, he wrote: BENÍTEZ, and when he looked at it again, it felt strangely right, so that when he stood and flourished his folded ballot paper for all to see, he was able to make his oath with a clean heart.

‘I call as my witness Christ the Lord, who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected.’

He placed it on the chalice and tipped it into the urn.

While the rest of the Conclave voted, Lomeli occupied himself by reading the Apostolic Constitution. It was among the printed material issued to each cardinal. He wanted to make sure he had the procedure for what was to happen next straight in his head.

Chapter 7, paragraph 87: once a candidate had achieved a two-thirds majority, the Junior Cardinal-Deacon was required to ask for the doors to be unlocked, and Mandorff and O’Malley would come in with the necessary documents. Lomeli, as dean, would ask the victorious candidate, ‘Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff?’ As soon as the winner had consented, he was
required to ask him, ‘By what name do you wish to be called?’ Then Mandorff, acting as notary, would fill out the certificate of acceptance with the chosen name, and two of the masters of ceremonies would be brought in to act as witnesses.

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.