Cardinal Bishop Casado was signing papers at his desk when Bishop Basquez swept in unannounced through the open door, the only sound coming from the swish of his cape as he approached the table.
“Cardinal Adansoni is guiltless then?” Casado asked not looking up, knowing his visitor to be the serpentine man who seemed to be everywhere in the Vatican. He knew of no one else who would enter his room without first declaring his arrival.
“Monsignor Benigni and the Sodalitium Pianum found newspaper cuttings in his residence,” the Bishop countered, leaning forward on the desk with a gloved hand, “regarding this Mass for Peace.”
“And?” replied Casado, his eyes still fixed to the papers he was signing. He waved with his left hand, like a king might do to a favoured subject, in the direction of a tall pile of paper where the cuttings now sat.
“This material is dangerous,” Basquez insisted, his eyes turning from the papers to the Cardinal Bishop.
But Casado showed little in the way of agreement. He scratched angrily with his pen across several documents without reply, only eventually looking up to skewer the scowling man with a stare of his own to match. “Don’t be ridiculous!” he spat. At once Basquez drew his hand away from the desk, as if burned. “This material is available in every home in Europe! Indeed, it seems that everyone within the Church is talking about this event, some even with both great hope and admiration for those with the gumption to attempt to forge peace through the power of prayer!”
“But –” Basquez tried to protest.
“This is nothing which requires further investigation!” Casado roared, picking up the sheets of newspaper and tossing them forcefully to floor of his office. With that, his anger seemed to evaporate, the heat within him cooling to something which resembled shame. “And I feel foolish for agreeing to the Sodalitium Pianum’s involvement. Cardinal Adansoni is many things, but he’s not a traitor or heretic.”
“As you wish,” replied Basquez cautiously, bowing with his head subserviently and stepping back from the desk. He put his hand to his chin, in a way which suggested he was concocting some new evidence to use, walking a tight circle in the carpet in front of Casado’s desk. “May I ask a question, Cardinal Bishop?” Casado sighed. By now he had gathered his pen into his fingers with the intention of showing that Basquez’s time with him was at an end. “Just as we’re talking about Adansoni,” Basquez continued, “knowing how much he was against the assessment of Inquisitor Tacit.”
“Is it important?”
“Probably not. But may I ask it anyway?”
“Very well. As long as it’s your final question.” The old man behind the desk cast one eye onto the clock on the far wall. “I am busy.”
“Why was Tacit sent for assessment in Arras? I mean, there are far more appropriate, one could say challenging, places to test an Inquisitor than somewhere, dare I say it, mundane like Arras. What was the Holy See’s thinking?”
“It was not of their choosing,” Casado replied, his pen beginning to scratch across the coarse surface of parchment in front of him. “So who’sedecision was it?”
“Pope Pius X. He requested it, in a final letter to me shortly before he died.”