7:29 p.m.
Once the gunfire had subsided and Caterina’s men had clearly gained the upper hand, a new silence fell over the shattered scene. Particles of wood frame littered the floor; plaster from ancient wall moldings crumbled on all sides; Persian rugs were shredded. And on top of it all were bodies, a few of hers but mostly those of the outgunned Swiss Guard, bleeding a crimson paint on to the abject disarray.
Caterina’s remaining men—nine of them—swooped swiftly into the room as the dust began to clear, taking up strategic positions around the space. Their threats were few: two remaining guards at the back of the room and their commander. A small huddle. Three guns. Absolutely no chance of overwhelming them with an attack. If any should be so foolish as to fire, they would all be dead in under a second.
For an instant, time seemed to linger rather than advance. The dust in the air caught the soft light that streamed through the antique glass of the study’s high windows, almost dancing in the oddly serene moment. All that could be heard was the heavy breathing of the men and the occasional metallic jostling of their weapons.
Finally, another man entered.
Cardinal Secretary of State Donato Viteri stepped into the papal office with an oddly casual demeanor. He was dressed in his customary finery: crimson-piped simar with red zucchetto, a large gold cross at his neck, a scarlet sash around his waist. The tufts of hair peeking out from the edge of his skullcap looked a little out of place, much as they did on every other day. The only thing that distinguished him from his usual appearance was the unconcealed hardness in his eyes.
“Donato, how dare you!” the Pope exclaimed, stepping out from the bulky wooden furniture behind which he’d been thrust. Raber’s frame tightened, but the Pope wasn’t being stopped. “You of all people. A leader of the Church!”
“This isn’t the time to pontificate with me, Gregory,” Viteri answered. There was venom in his voice. “And you, you’re not a man to talk about leading anybody.”
The Pope was genuinely stunned. “What’s come over you? You’ve always been a loyal son of the Church. How can you betray her in this . . . this vile manner?” He motioned to the bodies littering the floor.
“I’m more loyal to the Church than you’ve ever been,” Viteri answered. “A son protects the legacy of his fathers, he doesn’t try to destroy it.”
A flash of realization crossed the Pope’s features. “All this is because you’re upset with my reforms? Donato, I’m only trying to clean up the mess that our curia has become. To free us of scandal!”
Viteri spat on the floor, his face contorted in disgust. “Always so fond of platitudes, Gregory. But you’ve never understood what you were dealing with. Some things can’t be changed. Shouldn’t be changed. There are ways things have always been done. Some of us hold those sacred.”
The Pope’s tone was now indignant. “Your hands are stained with blood and you dare speak to me of the sacred! Your only desire is to protect your territory, Donato. Your influence and power. You’re a betrayal to everything the Church has called you to!”
“Junior bishops shouldn’t lecture their seniors, whatever color hat they wear.” Viteri hissed out his words. “You’ve been pope less than a year, a cardinal less than ten. I was a prince of the Church when you were still an assistant priest figuring out which end of the chalice was up. And you presume to tell me what needs preserving and what needs changing!”
Gregory suddenly sighed. Through Viteri’s angry tirade a new realization had hit him. “The Fraternity. The group mentioned in whispers. It’s you. You’ve been behind this all along. Plotting against me.”
“Don’t be arrogant. It’s never just been about you. We work against anyone who threatens what the centuries have created. If it takes a brotherhood of a few dedicated clerics to ensure that the Church’s ancient traditions are preserved, then so be it. We’re willing to do what needs to be done.”
Their exchange might have gone on, but behind Cardinal Viteri a bold feminine cough cut through the volley of words. A woman, middle-aged but bearing a regal composure, stepped through the chaos. She was tall, her height enhanced by heels, and in her suit she was a commanding presence. Her blue-green eyes were filled with disdain.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Caterina Amato said, taking another step forward, “but as touching as this is, I haven’t come here to listen to the two of you dispute competing ideologies of the Church.” She smiled wryly for only a second, then forcibly shoved Cardinal Viteri out of her way. She stood face to face with the Pope.
“Mr. Antonio Pavesi,” she said spitefully, using the pontiff’s secular name without any religious titles, “a man of many offices. Of new roles. Even a new name.” She eyed him up and down. He was a man who bore the kind of power in his world that she seemed determined to bear in her own, and the resentment on her features was plain.
“There is a difference between your Secretary of State and me,” she finally said. “In some twisted way, he actually cares for your church.” Caterina leaned in until her face was only centimeters from the pontiff’s. Their breath flowed into each other’s nostrils.
“I, I can assure you, do not.”