“We all have to face our own demons,” Father Adansoni insisted, before the prying eyes and questions of the Holy See. “This boy here is no different.” he said, indicating the cowed figure of Tacit next to him.
It was the first time Adansoni had been called to the Inquisitional Chamber. It was the first time he’d brought a child, found during one of his missions, with him back to the Vatican. He felt dwarfed by the size of the chamber and the council that circled before him. But he also found that the command in his voice had not failed him. “Demons he may have,” he called, “but he has taken such giant steps since I found him. His progress has been remarkable!”
He took a step forward and thrust his hands before him, clenched, as if in chains. “When I found him he was malnourished. He could not speak. Now, he is stronger and has refound his tongue. He speaks Polish, his native tongue, but already he has a grasp of many languages. Italian. French. German. This he does but a month since I began to work with him. His capacity for learning is incredible. Physically he is like no twelve year old I have known. He is strong, like an ox.”
Adansoni let his hands drop to his side. “I feel he is also my responsibility,” he continued, his voice now plaintive, “and I must do the best for him. I found him. I rescued him from that place. I have brought him into the Church.”
“No, you have not brought him into the Church,” croaked an ancient white haired Cardinal from beneath a skull cap of scarlet, seemingly too big for his shrunken head. “You have brought him into the Vatican. You had no right to do so.”
“But there is something about the boy,” Adansoni replied firmly, “something I cannot define.”
“If you expect him to stay, Father Adansoni,” spat another from the council gathering, “which undoubtedly you do, for why else would you have brought him here, you must explain your actions to us.”
“We do not take in waifs and strays on the whim of travelling missionaries,” the decrepit white haired Cardinal continued, only his mouth moving so the rest of him appeared to be made of stone.
“There is a strength within him, a strength about him, an almost tangible feeling of power. I have never felt anything like it before from one I have met. One can almost feel it emanate from within him.”
“You use bold words,” a voice from the right of the watching council called. “What exactly are you trying to suggest?”
Adansoni paused and gathered his breath. His heart beat hard in his chest. He steeled his resolve and turned to face the Cardinal. “I’m not trying to suggest anything,” he lied. “I merely feel he would be an excellent addition to the ranks of young acolytes in the Catholic Church, here, in the Vatican.”
“If you bring young ones to the Vatican, it is usually a sign that you think them of the calibre to join the Inquisition. Is that what you are suggesting?”
“No!” answered the Father firmly, feeling a heat rise within him. “Absolutely not. Not all who come before the Holy See are bound to that path. I see this boy achieving much within the office of the Vatican. I do not see him joining the ranks of Inquisitors.”
“It is most unusual,” a voice to the left of the white haired Cardinal called, “to take in acolytes from unrecognised sources. We have standards. We only pick from the very finest families and recognised seeds.”
“Then perhaps we should change?” Adansoni retorted, to which there was a sharp intake of breath from the congregation. The Father felt foolish at his hot-headedness and quickly moved to soothe the pricked emotions. “Forgive me, Cardinals. I say only that I feel … no, I know he will be a good addition to our Catholic family and faith. Do not ask me how I know, but I do.”
“And what do you say, boy?” the white haired Cardinal asked, putting his eyes onto Tacit. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
Tacit raised his head and stared vacantly around the room. His impression was that the place smelt wrong. There was no warm odour or earthy richness in the bewildering dark of the chamber, no comforting fragrance of the mountainsides that he knew so well, no stench of freshly-cut goat leathers hardening in the autumn sun, no heady nourishing bouquet of succulent soups and freshly baked bread. Cold stone and metal, along with the hint of wood smoke and pork flesh now long gone, were all Tacit could detect, as he stood bowed in fear close to Father Adansoni in the centre of the room.
And then in a voice and a language Tacit never realised he possessed, words formed on his tongue. “In Deo speramus,” he spoke, lifting his head to face his questioners – “In God we trust.”