They were running, a whole pack of boys and young men, drawn from the different years and classes of the Vatican, stripped to their shorts and vests, hair clamped tight to sweat drenched foreheads, racing from the Lourdes Gardens, through the New Gardens and on to the monument of Saint Peter. Ahead of them waited a huddle of Fathers and Priests, recording their achievements within their books, noting those showing prowess of strength and stamina.
At the head of the pack ran Tacit, a lead of ten yards, now twelve, now fifteen, his head down, his arms pumping, his legs like pistons working against the gravel of the path. Unlike the other boys, his face wasn’t snarled in a knot of determination and hurt, but beamed with joy, cracking with laughter as he tore up to the monument for the second and final lap, his energy seemingly boundless, his speed unmatched.
“That’s Poldek Tacit,” muttered a Father to another as the boy flew past.
“He’s quick!”
“The fastest of any of the ages.” another added.
“They must have plans for him?”
“They are saying he’s a prime candidate for joining the Inquisition.”
“I’m not surprised. Look at him go. He’s strong. He has spirit.”
“His master, Father Adansoni, seems less enamoured with the idea.”
“Well, Adansoni has never been an advocate of the Inquisition. Felt it should have been closed in its entirety sixty years ago. Not allowed to … how does he say? Fester?”
A studious looking Father with thick rimmed glasses tutted and shook his head. “But he never was a soldier was he, Adansoni?”
“He spent the first twenty five years of his Catholic service as a missionary!” a Father with a hood drawn up over his head added, cheering on the following pack now passing them.
“Strange then that he has stayed so close to the Vatican since Tacit was brought here.”
“They say he thinks of him as his son.”
“A foolish thing to think. Once a child is brought into the Church, the Lord is his father.”
“Seems to me the boy has too much spirit to be tied to anyone. Goodness me, look at him go!” the bespectacled Father cried, as Tacit sped across the lawns. “He’s, what, a hundred yards ahead of the others now?”
“Of course. I hear they’re saying things about him,” a Priest with a daring shock of brown hair revealed.
“Who, Adansoni?”
“Tacit.”
“Go on,” the Father replied, clapping the remaining stragglers past them and the monument.
The brown haired Priest lowered his voice and lent closer to his colleagues. “They say there’s something about him. Whispers amongst the record holders and the keepers of the ancient writings. Whispers that he is the one.”
“They say a lot of things,” the hooded Father replied, blowing through his lips. “One of what, exactly? A good athlete?”
“A popular child?” suggested a Priest.
“He certainly has a cheerfulness many of the Cardinals could learn from, that much is true!” another of the group blurted, and some of the others laughed.
“Pope Leo XIII claims to have seen visions,” the brown haired Priest continued.
The Father’s face next to him dropped his head and his eyes widened in his skull. “Go on,” he said, intrigued.
“Visions that a young boy will come from the east. The preordained one. That he’ll be found abandoned on high and will be rescued from the clutches of death. That he’ll display incredible and deft skills of hand and eye. That he’ll master languages. That warmth will follow him and emanate from him. That death will follow in his wake.”
With that, another in the group said, “I have heard similar things spoken in the Holy See. That the one will come, and that the fate of all nations will be decided by him and him alone.”
“Well, if that’s true, unless he becomes Pope himself, it sounds like the Inquisition is the only path for him.”
“Adansoni won’t be pleased.”
“Maybe not,” muttered the brown haired Priest, dragging a hand across his head, “but Tacit’ll never change anything as a Father inside the Vatican.”
“Unless he runs for Vatican City at the Olympic Games in three years’ time,” the Father with the hood suggested and they cheered as one as the runner sped over the line.