“There’s something I need to do.”
They entered the church. The nave was ablaze with candlelight and filled with perhaps a hundred more young Catholics, most of whom were engaged in animated discussions. Two folk singers were strumming guitars at the foot of the altar, and in the side aisles a half-dozen priests were sitting on folding chairs, offering spiritual guidance and hearing confessions.
Donati surveyed the scene with obvious approval. “It’s a program Lucchesi and I created a few years ago. Once or twice a week, we open one of the historic churches and offer young people a place to spend an hour or two free from the distractions of the outside world. As you can see, there aren’t a lot of rules. Light a candle, say a prayer, find a new friend. Someone who’s interested in more than posting pictures of themselves on social media. That said, we don’t discourage them from sharing their experiences online if the spirit moves them.” He lowered his voice. “Even the Church has to adapt.”
“It’s extraordinary.”
“We’re not quite as dead as our critics like to think. This is my Church in action. This is the Church of the future.” Donati gestured toward an empty pew. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long.”
“Where are you going?”
“When I lost Lucchesi, I lost my confessor.”
Donati went to the side aisle and sat down before a startled young priest. Once the initial awkwardness of the encounter faded, the young priest adopted a serious expression as he listened to the former papal private secretary unburdening his soul. Gabriel could only wonder what transgressions his old friend might have committed while cloistered in the Apostolic Palace. He had always been somewhat envious of the Catholic sacrament of confession. It was far less cumbersome than the daylong ordeal of hunger and atonement that the Jews had inflicted upon themselves.
Donati was leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Gabriel gazed straight ahead, toward the small golden cross, the instrument of Roman brutality, atop the baldachin. The emperor Constantine claimed to have seen it in the sky above the Milvian Bridge, and he had made it the symbol of the new faith. For the Jews of medieval Europe, however, the cross had been something to fear. It had been emblazoned in red on the tunics of the Crusaders who massacred Gabriel’s ancestors in the Rhineland on their way to Jerusalem. And it had hung round the necks of many of the murderers who fed millions into the flames at Treblinka, Sobibor, Chelmno, Belzec, Majdanek, and Birkenau, actions for which they received not a single word of rebuke from their spiritual leader in Rome.
His blood shall be on us and our children...
After accepting the young priest’s absolution, Donati crossed the nave and knelt at Gabriel’s side, head bowed in prayer. Eventually, he made the sign of the cross and, rising from his knees, sat down on the pew.
“I said one for you as well. I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
“It’s good to know you still have a sense of humor.”
“Trust me, it’s hanging by a thread.” Donati looked at the two folk singers. “Whatisthat song they’re playing?”
“You’re asking me?”
Donati laughed quietly.
“You know,” said Gabriel, “I’m supposed to be on holiday with my wife and children.”
“You can always take a holiday.”
“I can’t, actually.”
Donati made no reply.
“Thereisa relatively easy way out of this,” said Gabriel. “Be the second source for Ricci’s article. Tell him everything. Let it blow up in the press. There’s no way the Order will go forward under those circumstances.”
“You underestimate Bishop Richter.” Donati cast his eyes around the nave. “And what about this? How will these young people feel about their Church then?”
“Better a temporary scandal than His Holiness Pope Emmerich.”
“Perhaps. But it would deprive us of a valuable opportunity to make sure the next pope finishes the job my master started.” Donati gave Gabriel a sideways glance. “You don’t really believe that nonsense about the Holy Spirit choosing the pope, do you?”
“I don’t even know what the Holy Spirit is.”
“Don’t worry, you’re not alone.”
“Do you have a candidate in mind?” asked Gabriel.
“My master and I gave red hats to several men who would make fine popes. All I need is access to the cardinal-electors before they enter the Sistine Chapel to cast their first vote.”
“On Friday afternoon?”
Donati shook his head. “Friday is too late. It would have to be Thursday evening at the latest. That’s when the cardinals are locked into the Casa Santa Marta.”
