I pace the confines of my gilded cage, which no longer feels like a sanctuary but a prison. The heavy curtains remain drawn across the windows that normally offer views of St. Peter’s Square. I’ve been told it’s for my “protection” following the media explosion over the photographs.
“Your Holiness, we’re simply taking precautions,” Cardinal Antonelli had explained yesterday, his voice dripping with false concern. “The threats against you have increased tenfold since the… unfortunate revelations.”
The click of the lock after he left told me everything I needed to know.
This morning, breakfast arrived on a tray carried by a young priest I’d never seen before—not the usual attendant who has served me since my election. The newcomer avoided my eyes, placing the tray on the table with trembling hands before hurrying out. The door locked again behind him.
Even the food feels like a message—simple bread and water, a stark contrast to the usual morning offerings. Penitent’s fare. Prisoner’s rations.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window and peer through a small gap in the curtains. The Swiss Guard presence has tripled around the perimeter of Vatican City—a show of force that seems excessive even under the circumstances. But they’re all stationed outward, as if the threat comes from beyond our walls.
Not from within.
I try the phone on my desk again, though I know it’s futile. Dead silence. Not even a dial tone. My isolation is complete—no communication with the outside world, no way to reach Cardinal Sullivan, Sister Lucia, or Father Domenico. And certainly no way to contact Matteo, who must be fighting his own battles beyond these walls.
The paintings of my predecessors stare down at me from gilded frames—stern faces that seem to judge my predicament. How many of them faced conspiracies from within? How many found themselves prisoners of the very institution they were meant to lead?
A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Captain Lombardi enters, his young face tight with barely concealed anxiety.
“Your Holiness,” he says, bowing slightly. His eyes dart to the corners of the room.
I understand immediately. “Let’s speak in my adjoining chapel,” I suggest, knowing it’s one of the few rooms regularly swept for listening devices.
Once inside the chapel, Lombardi’s posture changes. He stands closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
“They’ve dispersed the Guard, Holy Father. Colonel Reichlin received intelligence reports about foreign agents planning to infiltrate the Vatican. He’s pulled nearly everyone to reinforce the outer perimeter and investigate these supposed threats.”
“And you doubt these reports?”
“I’ve seen them. They’re convincing—professional work—but something felt off. The intelligence came through channels controlled by the Secretary of State’s office, not our usual sources.”
I sit heavily in the front pew. “They’ve outmanoeuvred us.”
“Yes, Your Holiness. I believe Cardinal Antonelli and his allies are using the scandal as cover to isolate you. They’ve effectively neutralized your Swiss Guard protection by convincing ColonelReichlin of external threats.”
“While the real threat lurks in the corridors of power,” I finish.
Lombardi nods grimly. “I tried speaking with Colonel Reichlin, but he dismissed my concerns. He’s convinced the intelligence is genuine with all of the other threats that have happened recently. He’s chasing shadows.”
“How many guards remain inside the Apostolic Palace?”
“Just four of us, Your Holiness. And I’m the only captain. The others are stationed at entry points, not near your apartments.”
I rub my temples, feeling the weight of my isolation. “And Cardinal Sullivan?”
“They’ve restricted his access to you, claiming security protocols. But I’ve managed to establish a channel. He can get messages to you through me.”
“Thank God for small mercies.” I stand and approach the altar, gazing up at the crucifix. “Captain, am I a prisoner in my own home?”
“Not officially, Your Holiness. They’re calling it ‘protective custody.’”
I laugh bitterly. “How convenient.”
“There’s something else.” Lombardi hesitates. “Cardinal Visconti has called an emergency meeting of the College of Cardinals for tomorrow. They’re discussing… procedures for when a Pope becomes ‘incapacitated.’”
The words hit me like a physical blow. They’re moving to declare me unfit. To force my resignation or worse.
“Thank you for your loyalty, Captain.”
