The Lost Apostles (30 page)

Chapter 38

The Sword of She-God is said to impart superhuman strength to its user.

—Davida Lewis,
Legends of the UWW

Following a meeting with her council, Dixie Lou Jackson hurried off, to inspect construction work in the papal offices, which she was impatient to see completed. Under constant pressure from her, Vatican work crews were laboring like ants energized by caffeine, running back and forth with building materials, hammering, drilling, sawing. They were going around the clock, in twelve-hour shifts.

During the afternoon session, members of her council had asked her to accept an offer General Selkirk of NATO had made to them that day, but she told them she was going to refuse it. In the offer, NATO gave them seventy-two hours to accept amnesty for Dixie Lou and the rest of the Holy She leadership, in exchange for the release of Pope Rodrigo, Martha of Galilee, and the return of the Vatican. NATO also offered to establish a new world headquarters for the women, and to assist them in providing security for it. If Dixie Lou didn’t accept what he called a “generous offer,” the General threatened unspecified “dire consequences.”

“He’s bluffing,” Dixie Lou had said, as she tore his letter to pieces and scattered it around the chamber.

“But what if he isn’t?” Deborah Marvel asked.

“I was wondering about that, too,” Nancy Winters said.

“Just leave the important decisions to me,” Dixie Lou snapped. And then she called the meeting to a close. . . .

Now, with great satisfaction, she watched two men installing green-and-orange wallpaper inside her large new office, as yet unoccupied. Artisans had erected a splendid work of art behind the location for her desk, a pair of sculpted female hands with their palms upturned, where she would place the sacred Sword of She-God . . . the legendary weapon that she intended to employ any time she found it necessary.

When the men glanced at her nervously, the Grand Messenger smiled inwardly. Undoubtedly, their extra effort had something to do with the gleaming sword, which she brandished whenever she gave them orders.

And when they were finished with all of the offices, she had other work for them to do, a number of remodeling projects to the Vatican City buildings.

But little did she know that the ongoing noises would soon muffle subterranean activities under the streets near Vatican City . . . the approach of an army.

* * *

Two days passed, and it was Palm Sunday. . . .

“You are more comfortable here?” Dixie Lou inquired, in the most polished tone she could muster. Holding the Sword of She God, she stood in an apartment of the Vatican Palace looking down at the angular, elderly man who had not risen to greet her. A hall guard closed the door and remained out in the corridor. It was more than a week since she’d had the Pope moved out of the Pauline Chapel into this heavily guarded apartment, which had previously been servant’s quarters.

Substantially better than the earlier, rudimentary quarters she had provided for him, this was still far beneath the style in which he was accustomed to living. But it was as good as he was going to get, since she wanted him to remind on a daily basis that he now occupied a station subordinate to her own, because she had vanquished him.

I could make this ‘Servant of Christ’ my own attendant if I wished to do so
, she thought.
He might even make a suitable butler, with his snooty ways.

Dressed in a simple white robe, Pope Rodrigo sat at a
vargueño
—a seventeenth century Spanish writing cabinet—that had been brought from his former office, which Dixie Lou was remodeling for her own use. The mahogany cabinet, containing numerous interior drawers and compartments and (known only to its owner) a hidden storage drawer for an old family crucifix, was decorated with geometrical pieces of ivory and mother-of-pearl. With the drop-down lid open, the Pope had been writing something.

Barely looking at her, he continued scribbling with a black-and-gold pen, which he occasionally dipped into an ink well. He had a fresh piece of palm frond pinned to one lapel of his white robe, in honor of Palm Sunday. With only a week until Easter, the pontiff felt empty inside, and frustrated at the course of events. Why did all of this have to occur right before the holiest of all Christian holidays, the celebration of the resurrection and eternal life of Jesus Christ? Pope Rodrigo sighed in reluctant acceptance. The ways of God were not always clear, not even to him.

“It is customary to show respect for one’s superior,” Dixie Lou said.

“
Es verdad
,” he replied.
It is true.
But still he did not rise.

Dixie Lou felt her face heat up. “I am the Grand Messenger of the Holy She! You don’t consider me your superior?” With great fanfare, she flourished the magnificent sword, and examined the hilt with the priceless Vatican jewels embedded in it.

“You are carrying on a conversation with yourself, making your own assumptions.”

“I will excuse your impertinence this time, Pope Rodrigo. What are you writing?”

His gaze slid casually to the sword, then away. “A letter to my mother in Segovia. She turns ninety-nine next week.”

“You’ll be that old one day, too, but only if you cooperate with me.”

With a disdainful expression he continued writing, making broad pen strokes on the heavy parchment paper. Despite his own age, his black hair remained thick, with only a few streaks of silver.

“Don’t try to sneak any code phrases into that. We’ll catch you if you do.”

“Did you come here to tell me that?”

“A couple of days ago we received an ‘offer’ from NATO.”

“I am aware of it,” he said. “Amnesty for you and your fellow criminals if you relinquish control of the Vatican and release the hostages. They are also offering to help you establish a new headquarters. Perhaps Monte Konos can be restored.”

“How did you—”

“God and I have long conversations,” the Pope interjected. “I am praying for your soul, but I must inform you, your activities are interfering with the sacred duties of the Roman Catholic Church.”

“Such as?” She swished the sword through the air to within a meter of him, but the irritatingly brave Pope seemed unconcerned by it.

“Oh, many things. I should be delivering a sermon today, in honor of Palm Sunday. Tomorrow I was scheduled to perform a sainthood ceremony for Benito Sanchez, the brave South American priest who was murdered by a police death squad. This is Holy Week, and next Sunday is Easter. You profess to believe in our savior Jesus Christ, so you should understand.”

With a scowl, Dixie Lou said, “Jesus existed, but he was not
my
savior. I’m a
woman
, pledged to She-God Almighty.” Although Dixie Lou believed in Jesus Christ as a historical figure, she didn’t believe in God or even She-God; she was just playing a part, a much more complicated one than her thespian-like son had ever attempted. Unlike him, Dixie Lou vowed, she would succeed in concealing her true self from others. A tributary of this thought jarred her, an awareness of something else in her past that she could not quite remember, but which clung to her nonetheless, like the stench of death. What was her true self?

“This should be a festival week for Catholicism,” Pope Rodrigo said, “and instead you have turned it into sadness. But our faith is strong, and this is but another travail.”

“How about me?” Dixie Lou said. “When are you going to make me a saint? Has a nice sound, doesn’t it?—Saint Dixie Lou.”

Pope Rodrigo set down his pen and folded the letter carefully. “You are
not
Catholic, madam, not even close.”

“You would prevent me from converting?”

His face was parched, wrinkled. It revealed little emotion, not even in the dark-green eyes, which now gazed up at her dispassionately. “I didn’t say that.”

“You’re a tricky one, aren’t you? Popes must be trained that way, or born that way. I read about some of your predecessors, the double lives they led, the sexual liaisons, the intrigues, the political murders. One of them may even have secretly been a woman, Pope Joan.”

He didn’t respond.

She glared at him. “The Pope Joan story might just be a legend, but I bet you have the records around here somewhere to prove it one way or the other, don’t you?”

Again, no response.

“As for the Vatican,” she said. “I feel secure here, much more than at Monte Konos.” She scratched her chin. “I know what! You and I can share Vatican City, under my jurisdiction, of course. I’ll permit you to perform occasional ceremonies here. We’ll coordinate our schedules. You can either do that, or become my personal manservant.”

“Preposterous.” His face reddened. “I am the Pope of more than a billion Roman Catholics!”

“And I’m Dixie Lou Jackson, the most important woman on earth.” She paused, and smiled tightly. “Come to think of it, there are billions and billions of women on this planet, so my influence is greater than yours. In fact, women form a large share of your membership, and they’re already flocking to my cause.”

“Earth is but a way station,” the old man said, “an inglorious realm of pain and suffering.”

“God told you that, did He? Well, tell Him this for me. Tell Him I don’t accept NATO’s offer.”

* * *

In the deepest darkness of night, a squadron of stealth bombers took off from a US Navy aircraft carrier in the eastern Mediterranean. The electronically invisible aircraft took separate courses, each with an assignment from NATO.

Within an hour seven direct hits were reported, three against underground bases operated by the Holy She . . . in Sicily, southern Albania, and Greece. Additional strikes took out Bureau of Ideology assets: a communication station in Germany, a paramilitary training facility in Morocco, and a satellite launch pad in Spain.