ITS MEDIEVAL AND renaissance boundary walls basked beneath a February sky that was blue unlike its northern counterpart that was still in a deep depression. Within this enclave of Rome, situated on the west bank of the Tiber River, the self-satisfied inhabitants of the ecclesiastical State went about their work as usual, be it secular or sacred. This miniature nation had every reason to be smug about their city within a city. After all, it contained within its walls its own telephone system, post office, radio station, an army of more than one hundred Swiss Guards, its own banking system and coinage, and a pharmacy to mention just a few. It detractors might argue that it still had to import such things as food and supplies, water, electricity, and gas, but so what. Where else would one find a State with no income tax, and no restriction on the import and export of funds?
The wealth within to any observer was self evident and undeniable. Although its cultural life had declined since the Renaissance when the Popes had been among the foremost patrons of the arts, it could still boast some of the world's greatest works of art. Why else would critics, artists, and countless tourist flock to its museums, or come to see the frescoes by Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel, the frescoes by Pinturicchio in the Borgia Apartment or Raphael's rooms.
If all this grandiloquence seemed at odds with its spiritual aspirations, its supporters would argue that the Holy Father could hardly be expected to live in a hovel. Like most societies, few, if any, could see the dissipation that was slowly but surely eating away at the very core of Peter's rock.
Within this bastion of the Church the pall of gloom that had settled of late was slowly but surely lifting as one Pope was laid to rest and another accepted in his place. In his private chambers the newly elected pontiff, Pope Symeon the First, was about to hold a private audience for those that had orchestrated his election, namely the Cardinals that were part of his inner clique.
“Good afternoon, your Holiness!” Cardinal Andretti said as he greeted the Pope and the others followed suit.
“Please Gentlemen, relax!” Pope Symeon replied laughingly. “We can cut the formalities among ourselves! Now, to things that matter!” He paused before continuing, “All in all, gentlemen, I think things have worked out very well”
Very well indeed!” Cardinal Fitz agreed rubbing his hands together in his customary way when he was pleased with himself. Only Cardinal Andretti, the one true priest among them, felt troubled. Despite his longing for the good life and all it entailed, the conspiracy they had entered into in order to elect Pope Symeon, formerly Cardinal Tsana, who was, in reality, Wolfgang Steiner, seemed to be mocking God somehow. Cardinal Andretti could not put out of his mind that some dreadful divine retribution was about to befall them for this affront.
“Cheer up, Andretti!” Pope Symeon said as he saw the gloom on the man’s face. “You should be elated. This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for! Nothing and nobody can stop us now!”
Cardinal Andretti was still not convinced. The morning had started badly for him when his closest companion, Obadiah, had suddenly gone berserk and attacked him. The cat’s claw marks on his face and arms were ample proof of the animal’s aggression. It had then taken off and couldn’t be found anywhere.
As if he needed reminding, Cardinal Fitz chose that moment to ask, “What happened to your face?”
Cardinal Fitz had been late for their meeting and therefore missed Andretti’s earlier explanation for his appearance. It now appeared that he would have to explain it all again.
“His cat decided that he didn’t like his master!” Cardinal Desmond chuckled as he interposed on Andretti’s behalf.
“My cat attacked me!” Cardinal Andretti elaborated in an aggrieved tone. “I don’t know what came over it!”
“It seems to be a day for odd happenings!” Cardinal Simons said.
“How so?” Cardinal Fitz asked.
“Walking across St. Peter’s Square this morning, I noticed something very strange!”
“And what was that?” Pope Symeon enquired, his curiosity aroused with the rest.
“There were no pigeons about!” Cardinal Simons replied.
“Impossible!” Cardinal Desmond retorted.
“No! He’s right, now I come to think about it!” Andretti exclaimed. “I too walked across the square and I saw none either.”
“Enough of this!” Pope Symeon said. “We have far more important matters to discuss!”
He looked around at his colleagues as he continued. “Monsignor Cronin has surfaced at last! Apparently, he’s returned to Ireland.”
“Ireland?” Cardinal Andretti exclaimed.
“No Matter!” Pope Symeon explained. “He can’t touch us now and he knows it. We have the power, he is nothing! His report is in our hands and it has been destroyed.” Pope Symeon smiled as he recalled how easy it had been to extract the document from the firm of solicitors entrusted with it once he, the Pope, had explained that the Monsignor was not of sound mind. After all, who were they to doubt a Pope or deny his request for them to hand over the package the Monsignor had left in their care?
“One curious thing though!” Pope Symeon added. “It seems that my predecessor on his deathbed made the Monsignor a Cardinal!”
“Ridiculous!” Father Fitz explained. “There’s no precedent!”
“A Pope makes his own precedents!” Cardinal Andretti remarked.
“Andretti’s right!” Pope Symeon said. “That is why I cannot rescind it.” Seeing the concern on their faces, he sought to reassure them.
“Have no fear, gentlemen, Michael Cronin will be taken care of once and for all, and this time there will be no Captain Lewis around to protect him."
“Ah! Captain Lewis!” Cardinal Desmod sighed. “What a man! Are you certain he’s dead?”
“He was last seen entering the premises of Barr Industries in Austria. No one came out of there alive!” Pope Symeon responded.
“Remember!” Andretti interjected. “The man has nine lives!”
“Had nine lives!” Pope Symeon reminded him.
Still, Andretti was right enough about the Captain’s durability, Pope Symeon thought. The man had proved impossible to kill and it finally took a mountain of snow to do the job for them. He had never been able to understand why Doctor Nieuwhof’s poison hadn’t killed him. The fact that he had been sighted in Austria and had been positively identified by the taxi driver that had driven him to Bar Industries was proof enough that he had been in the complex when the avalanche hit. However, no one, not even Captain Lewis, could possibly survive the avalanche that wiped out Oscar Barr and all that worked in his valley complex. No, undoubtedly the Captain was dead, the Pope decided, buried under the snow in Austria. As for the loss of Oscar Barr and his organization, what at first had seemed a major setback had been offset by his election as Pope. Now, he had unlimited scope and power and the wealth of the Church at his disposal to rebuild. The organization would be re-established, bigger and stronger than before, and he, Pope Symeon, would be its new leader. How apt, he thought to choose to be called Pope Symeon. The Church’s first disciple had been a man named Simon and now he, Pope Symeon would complete the cycle.
“Can we turn the lights on please?” Cardinal Simons asked making everyone suddenly aware of how dark it had become outside.
“Certainly! Please do!” Pope Symeon said.
“It’s black as night out there!” Cardinal Simons remarked, somewhat exaggeratingly, as he got to his feet and went over to switch on the lights.
“That’s better!” he said as the lights came on.
“Must be a storm on the way!” Cardinal Andretti muttered as Cardinal Simons rejoined the others at the long table in the middle of the room.
“Anyone for a drink?” Cardinal Desmond asked.
“Good idea!” Pope Symeon agreed. “Andretti! Could you phone for some drinks please!”
Cardinal Andretti got up and went over to the wall phone.
“Dead!” he exclaimed after trying vainly to get a response.
Cardinal Simons had a try. “He’s right! The phone’s not working! I’ll go and see what the problem is!”
While the others chatted among themselves, Cardinal Simons made his way to the large wooden double doors at the entrance to the room and tried them.
“They’re locked!” he said in surprise as he turned to the others.
“Bang on them!” Pope Symeon suggested. “Some fool outside has inadvertently locked us in!”
Cardinal Simon’s knocking was to no avail, however, and he soon began calling to attract someone’s attention.
“Where are the guards?” Cardinal Fitz wanted to know.
Where indeed, Pope Symeon wondered. The Swiss guards never left their post when they were on duty. Why, therefore, didn’t they respond?
“Christ!” Cardinal Simons exclaimed as the room was suddenly plunged into darkness. “That’s all we need, a power blackout!”
His blasphemy was lost on his colleagues who were uttering curses of their own as they sat at the conference table in the gloom. The room lit up as lightning flashed outside followed moments later by the crash of thunder which reverberated through the seven hills of Rome like the hammer of Thor. The rain, not to be outdone, started to beat a steady ratta-tat-tat against the window panes, then it increased its tempo to a crescendo.
Cardinal Andretti rose from his seat at the table and went over to the window where he stood looking out at the driving rain and dark angry sky, the storm making him feel uneasy. In the Bible, it mentioned that a storm such as this had developed at the moment Christ was crucified. Was this sudden tempest, he wondered, a sign of God’s anger? After all he, along with the others, had committed the worst sin of all by conniving to have Pope Symeon, formerly Cardinal Tsana, elected to the highest office in the Church. The other men in the room, he knew, were Godless so the elements outside held no fears for them, but he, despite his sins, was a believer, and felt certain that there was a price to pay for their rapacity.
The other men in the room decided to follow Andretti’s lead by joining him at the window, where they collectively stared in awe at the pyrotechnics that exploded above their heads. The angry dark sky lit up intermittently as streaks of lightning flashed now and then in the distance. As they stood watching, the rain ceased its assault and the sun broke through the overcast casting a strange and unusual light over the city.
They gazed for some time, transfixed like moths around a flame, at the yellowish aura that seemed to permeate everywhere giving the buildings an errie foreboding look.
“That’s strange!” Cardinal Desmond suddenly exclaimed. “Look at the sun! It appears to be dancing!”
“An illusion!” Pope Symeon said.
“I think not!” Cardinal Andretti interjected as the sun began to dart in and out of the cloud cover.
“Most curious!” Cardinal Desmond said.
The sun’s dance continued for some time before it finally disappeared and they and the city were left in complete darkness for any semblance of daylight had departed with the sun.
It was Cardinal Desmond who first noticed it. “Look! There’s not a single light anywhere!” he remarked.
“Queer!” Cardinal Simons remarked. “You would think someone somewhere would have lit candles or something! Isn’t that what people do when there’s a power blackout?”
“Speaking of candles!” Pope Symeon said. “There are some in the cabinet!”
He left them for a moment and they heard him rummaging somewhere in the room.
“Ah! Here they are!” his voice came from the darkness and then he was back with them.
Cardinal Simons, the smoker among them, took out his lighter and lit the two long tapering candles set in candle holders that the pope held in his hands. Cardinals, Simons, and Fitz took one each and they tried the doors once again. To their astonishment, they opened easily.
“Guards! Guards! Pope Symeon yelled along the passage but the place was deserted and only his voice echoed back. The light from their candles flickered on the walls casting sinister shapes and all at once the passage seemed threatening and full of danger.
“I don’t like this!” Cardinal Andretti exclaimed in a frightened voice. They were all nervous now and the tension among them was marked.
“I’ll see if I can find someone!” Cardinal Simons said, somewhat boldly the others thought, and with that he went off, candle in hand down the corridor, before they thought to stop him. The others weren’t certain whether they should follow until the Cardinal had disappeared down the stairs that lay at the other end of the corridor.
“We’ll all go!” Pope Symeon quickly decided and they started after Cardinal Simons.
“Cardinal Simons! Wait!” Andretti cried out as they hurried their steps but there was only silence.
“Cardinal Simons!” Pope Symeon called out in support of Andretti but only his voice echoed back.
“Where is he?” Cardinal Desmond asked when they reached the bottom of the stairs.
They froze in their tracks as a piercing scream echoed through the shrouded building followed by a more stifled one. They all bunched together, their adrenalins pumping as they weighed the perils of going further.
“Quickly,!” Pope Symeon gasped as he started back up the stairs. They followed him in a scrambling fashion up the stairs and along the passage until they reached the sanctuary of the room they had recently left. Coughing, wheezing, panting, they locked themselves inside by swinging over the long iron bolts on the doors. That’s when they noticed that someone was missing. “Where’s Cardinal Desmond?”, Pope Symeon asked.
“I thought he was with us!” Cardinal Fitz managed to squeeze out of his laboured lungs.
“This isn’t happening!” Andretti cried.
“Shut up!” Pope Symeon ordered. “I need time to think!”
“Think about what?” Andretti shrieked. “We’re dead men!”
Cardinal Fitz stepped forward, took the candlestick from Andretti’s hand, set the flickering tallow on the table, and then slapped Andretti hard across the face. The Cardinal went over backward and lay on the floor whimpering.
“You miserable weakling, Andretti! Get some balls!”
The others were surprised by Cardinal Fitz’s brutality. Whilst he could be brusque in manner, he was normally a placid man and nothing seemed to faze him. Certainly, they had never seen him lose his temper before and his language had always been temperate until now.
However, they had little time to consider Cardinal Fitz’s behaviour as someone or something began pounding on the doors they had just locked.
The men in the room without exception were afraid now but they had nowhere to run. The pounding stopped as quickly as it had begun and there was silence broken only by their heavy breathing.
“Who there?” the Pope cried through the wood. “Who’s there, I say!”
“Who were you expecting?” a voice somewhere in the blackness behind them asked and they all spun around.
Someone was sitting at the far end of the table.
“It can’t be!” the Pope gasped. “You were killed!“
The man ignored him but instead addressed himself to someone else.
“So we meet again!”
“It seems so!” Cardinal Fitz said.
“You’ve been busy!”
“Time waits for no man!”
“Man? I think not!”
“What is this foolishness?” Pope Symeon asked now that he had recovered his poise. He was still trying to fathom out how the Captain had survived the avalanche and further how he had entered the room without them seeing him. He was also puzzled by Cardinal Fitz’s familiarity with the Captain. Turning to Cardinal Fitz, he enquired sharply, “You know this man?”
Before Cardinal Fitz could reply, the man answered for him.
“Of course, he knows me. We are old adversaries.” He paused for a moment. “Your colleague here is known by many names! He has many aliases. You’re familiar with one, of course, that of Cardinal Fitz. He is indeed, ageless.
Cardinal Fitz did not respond but his eyes glinted and a smile played around his lips.
“Don’t you see, gentlemen! You have all been played like puppets. But then that’s your strong point, isn’t it?” he said, addressing himself to Cardinal Fitz again.
The voice that answered was guttural, harsh, and unyielding. “So it has come at last! But this time I will prevail for my power is strong. Man has made it so!”
“Yes, you are powerful now but are you powerful enough?”
“We shall see! We shall see!” he snarled back. “The plain of Esdraelon it will be then?”
The man sitting at the table answered, “Yes, the plain of Esdraelon it will be!”
Cardinal Fitz then turned on his heels and walked over to the doors, which swung open of their own accord, and then he was gone.
The Pope and Cardinal Andretti, the only ones left stared after him in disbelief. When they turned back to the man at the table they found the room empty.
Their hearts were pounding as they looked at one another with haunted eyes. It was certain now they were going to die. The only question remaining was when and how?
“What’s that?” Andretti cried out as he snatched the candle from the table, held it up, and pointed it down the corridor.
In the semi-darkness, they could make out a vapour-like mist eddying across the floor as it made its approach.
“The doors!” Pope Symeon exclaimed. “Shut the doors!”
Andretti dropped the candle in his haste to comply, both men slamming the doors and sliding over the bolts.
“Listen!” Andretti gasped as they became aware of a drumming noise outside the doors, soft at first, but becoming more insistent. “It sounds like..”
“Like a horse!” Pope Symeon said.
“Yes! That’s it, like a horse!” Cardinal Andretti agreed.
The sound stopped suddenly and there was complete silence, both men alone now with only their fear for company.
The pain started to tear at Andretti’s lower body and the smell of burning flesh assailed his nostrils. Looking down he saw that his cassock was on fire and the flesh he could smell was his. The candle he had dropped in his haste to close the doors had set his clothes alight. He tried to douse the flames with his hands but it was no use, and he started running around and around, screaming, his body stiffening, his skin turning to leather, and then peeling as the flames sought uncooked meat. The pain was unbearable and seemingly never-ending, the flames reaching his face, burning the flesh from his ears, his nose, his lips, and then his head. His hair ignited into a ball of flame and his eyes roasted in their sockets; the brain melting in his skull as he burned alive. Death finally provided the release the blackened carcass craved.
After what had seemed an eternity to the man watching, the fireball that was once Andretti became silent, the flames crackling and spluttering as they devoured him until there was no flesh left to burn. Strangely enough, nothing around the body caught fire, its sole intent seeming to be with Cardinal Andretti or what remained of the smoking heap in the middle of the floor.
In the minutes that it took Andretti to die, Pope Symeon found himself unable to move or act. Fear can do that to a man. He had seen people burn before and it had not troubled him then but this was something different, because this was, he knew, a foretaste of the fate that awaited him. He found that he could not control the trembling in his limbs as fear coursed through his body. Petrified, he stood there, his faculties paralyzed by the events that he was witnessing. The light from Andretti’s body eventually faded as the flames flickered out and the room became dark again.
That was when the cries began. From the shadows, he heard these echoes of a time long past, in an inhospitable place deep in the snow-filled steppes of Russia. The cries he heard were of the people he had burned alive in that church all those years ago. Putting his hands to his ears, he shouted out, “Go away! Go away! You’re not real! You’re not real!”
A reddish light started to pour in through the windows and he made his way unsteadily to one of them and peered out. Then he felt a small hand grasp his but no one was there and he let out a startled cry and tried to pull away. It was no use, however, because the grip, was vice-like. The girl’s voice that started whispering in his ear was very young, yet her words were unwavering,
“A man has been born that is marked with the 'Word of God’. The Church being corrupted, this man has united with Michael to do battle with the forces of darkness for the future of mankind. If good triumphs then the Church will rise again stronger than before, and peace will reign upon the earth. But if evil succeeds, the world will lapse into a new and terrible dark age. Satan will lead millions of souls to damnation and the whole world to eternal ruin.”
Then he felt the hand no more and she was gone.
Wolfgang Steiner, stripped of any pretense now, stood rooted to the ground, his chest tight, his breathing restricted, waiting as all men must who are about to be executed. At the far end of the room, something was happening. The wall there appeared to be shimmering like a mirage and numbers started forming on it. Blurred at first, they gradually became more distinct until he could read them clearly. The numbers were 6724 78 374, but even as he watched, they changed their shape again, forming into words that read, 'WORD OF GOD'.”
“Steiner!” a guttural voice uttered demandingly somewhere in the darkness.
Steiner screamed out as he backed away, “What do you want?”
“I want you!”
“Who are you?” Steiner rasped.
“I am Death!” was the harsh reply.
The sound of laughter came from a corner of the room behind him and he spun around. His eyes strained as he strove to see what confronted him. The gloom lifted and he saw at once what it was. The thing, for it, could only be called that, was surrounded by a purple aura, its eyes blood red, its claws extended. As he stared at it in terror and disbelief, it began to move towards him clicking its talons as it did so.
The sky outside seemed to be on fire now and despite his fear, he turned to look out. For a fleeting moment, he was young again. The Polish countryside outside the concentration camp lay before his eyes, his vision of the future assured.