Chapter Text
It started like these things so often did - with a trivial and almost random event, small and unimportant in itself, and yet as momentous as the fluttering of a butterfly's wings that unleashes a hurricane a thousand miles away.
The setting was equally unspectacular. Pope Innocent XIV had been paying a visit to the Vatican Library, as part of his efforts to get to know his new realm, to discover all the many different things that went on within the square mile of the Vatican City every day, and to meet the people who made them happen. He had been given a tour of the place. He had spent quite some time in silent contemplation of the Codex Borgia, a Mesoamerican pictorial manuscript from pre-Colombian times, showing a calendar and the rituals associated with each season. And he had spoken with the nervous students of the School of Library Science attached to the institution.
"We should talk more about this," he had commented on the ancient American treasure, and it was perfectly clear to his audience that he didn't mean the historical value or the artistic quality of the piece, but the fact that the Church considered herself its rightful owner and had monopolised access to it for five hundred years.
To conclude, he had also asked the young students very earnestly whether there was anything that they would like to see changed and improved about the place. But he was assured that except for the elevator's unfortunate tendency to get stuck, they were very content. That was how the Pontiff's private secretary related the matter to Thomas afterwards, at any rate. The Holy Father, some of the eyewitnesses later claimed, had even joked about the unreliability of the elevator when he got into it himself to make his way back up from the temperature-controlled basement that housed the Library's most precious volumes. When the doors had slid open, an aproned woman tasked with cleaning the floors had been in there already, her cart with the cleaning utensils filling half the limited space. But instead of accepting her mortified offer to remove herself and the cart immediately, the Holy Father had simply waved her back inside and joined her, together with the Chief Librarian, whom he had been engaged in conversation with at the time, and three of the students. His entourage had taken the stairs or waited for the next ride.
The next ride had never happened.
Thomas, on returning to his own office in the Apostolic Palace after lunch with Aldo Bellini at one of those hidden trattorias of the Borgo that only locals ever set foot in, was greeted by the news that His Holiness had managed to get himself stuck in an elevator.
"Fifteen minutes, twenty at most, and they'll be out, according to the technicians," Raymond O'Malley, the new Prefect of the Papal Household, informed Thomas on the phone. "Don't worry, Your Eminence. It's all under control, just a nuisance."
Twenty minutes became thirty, then forty. When they got to fifty, Thomas rang O'Malley back. The Monsignor didn't pick up until the seventh or eighth ring. Thomas could instantly tell from the hullabaloo in the background that there was something much more serious going on than a mere nuisance.
"I'm sorry," Ray apologised breathlessly. "I'd have updated you sooner, but we had to get a hold of Doctor Baldinotti first. We've requested a neurosurgeon from the Gemelli Hospital as backup just in case, too, and he's on his way, but - "
Thomas was already at the door by then, restraining himself from shouting down the phone. He had hardly ever heard Ray O'Malley make so little sense before, not even on the final day of the Conclave when the Church had been literally under fire. Or was that only the overwhelming dread clouding his own brain? How had they gone from elevator technology to neurosurgery in less than an hour?
"It's not a matter of life and death, Eminence, or nowhere near," Ray reassured him after some hastily exchanged words with another person at his end of the line. "Let me give you the facts, I'll be as quick as I can."
They met, like in one of those silly scenes in a movie, while still talking to each other on the phone. Thomas came struggling up the stairs to the third floor of the east wing of the Apostolic Palace that contained the Pope's private quarters, the skirts of his cassock clutched far too tightly in his hand, while Ray strode down the loggia overlooking the inner courtyard to meet him.
The dratted elevator had put up a big fight when the technicians had tried to wind the car back down manually. The metal box had jammed several times, and then submitted to the forces of gravity when the spring that was supposed to stop its supporting cables from uncoiling had broken outright. The result had been a sudden drop of the car of four feet or so to the bottom of the elevator shaft. When the doors were finally prised open, there had been a shocking amount of carnage. The cleaning lady, Ray reported, had been in a concussed daze, clutching a very bloody laceration on the side of her face. The Librarian had had his toes crushed when the cleaning cart became a loose canon. One of the students, who suffered from claustrophobia, had been in abject hysterics.
"Poor girl," Thomas commented distractedly. "That's not great, to lose it in front of the Pope."
"Well, better than the Pope losing it in front of a bunch of students. His Holiness got out last, one arm around the cleaning lady but the other dangling at a very weird angle. They asked him was he hurt, and he said 'I'm afraid I may be,' turned as white as his robes and all but threw up right on their shoes."
"Good God."
"He's dislocated his shoulder. But Baldinotti also suspects a neural component. He says it would explain the unusual intensity of the pain."
Thomas ran a hand over his face. A dislocation was, emphatically, not a life-threatening diagnosis, but that was also the only good thing that could be said about it. His own sheltered life had never so much as given him a broken bone, but he knew from other people's accounts that this type of injury was exquisitely painful.
"The students say that the spring snapped with a bang like a gunshot. The Holy Father brought up his arm and ducked, and just then whole structure tilted sideways and the cleaning cart careened into him and knocked him into the wall." Ray grimaced. The good man was clearly regretting piling more distress onto Thomas with each piece of information he revealed.
They passed the saluting Swiss Guards and arrived in the vestibule of the papal apartments, the anteroom of what used to be the inner sanctum reserved only for the most senior and deserving members of a pope's entourage, oppressive with splendour and quiet as the grave. It hadn't been like that again for a single day since Vincent Benítez had taken the place over. In the one short month since the beginning of his pontificate, the papal apartments had become the strangest combination of political incident room and spiritual commune that Thomas had ever heard of. People had quickly stopped talking in there only in whispers and came and went as they deemed necessary, without waiting for a summons or invitation. And there was always a place at the dining table for whoever had worked late at night, or just happened to be around and hungry.
This open doors policy had raised eyebrows among the traditionalists but earned applause from other quarters, not least from the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul at the Casa Santa Marta. They had loved the late Holy Father dearly, but they were also not all terribly sorry to no longer have to constantly adjust the running of their guesthouse to the needs and requirements of their most famous resident. Moving the papal household back into the papal apartments had of course raised a separate set of eyebrows among the liberals. But Vincent had explained patiently to anyone who asked that - quite apart from giving the Daughters of Charity at the Casa Santa Marta their breathing space back - sometimes it wasn't enough to just break with tradition and say no to the old ways. When one man had already done that, it fell to the next man to go beyond, and build something new. The argument had sufficed to convince even the most devoted defenders of the late Holy Father in the end. Vincent hadn't even had to threaten to use the place to house refugee families instead, as it had been whispered he was going to do if opposition continued. And it was a blessing now that they hadn't had to rush a badly damaged Pope all the way across the gardens and past the staring eyes of hundreds of Vatican staff and visitors to get him home. For the same reason, in contrast to the usual open doors, the suite of rooms had now been cleared of all its regular occupants who had no medical reason to be there. So the vestibule was filled with people united both by their inability to do anything useful and by their reluctance to leave and occupy themselves elsewhere until the crisis was resolved.
Vincent's private secretary was the first to spot Thomas and Ray when they entered. She came walking over to them, her steps firm as usual but her face clouded over with concern. Her shoes clicked against the marble floor. It would be a while yet until Thomas learned to no longer marvel at a woman in a business suit now filling the position usually held by middle-aged cassocked men. Marisol Yupanqui Garcia, a Peruvian sister from the Congregation of Jesus with a PhD in psychology, had been working in the Dicastery of Communications and had been part of an early meeting with the new Pope to discuss the future public relations strategies of the Holy See. Vincent had been so impressed with her efficiency and her quickness of mind, and had been so eager in his praise of her to Thomas at dinner that day, that Thomas had jokingly called her an ideal candidate for the then still vacant position of papal private secretary. Vincent had become very quiet, looked into the middle distance for a moment, and then smiled in a way that told Thomas that the Church was in for yet another upheaval that would be anathema to the traditionalists but greeted with jubilation by the progressives. There was, in fact, no law that said that the Pope's private secretary had to be a priest or even a man, so Sister Marisol transferred to the papal household within a week, and here she was.
"I've cancelled all of today's appointments," she informed Thomas and Ray. "The neurosurgeon is here now, too, and we're waiting for the doctors' word on what to do with tomorrow's and the rest of the week's."
Doctor Baldinotti, a cardiologist, had made for a good private physician to the previous two popes, both very old men who had needed to watch their cholesterol and their blood pressure. But Vincent would hopefully still have years before anything like that became an issue. That was one of the reasons why they should have started looking for a replacement by now. Preferably someone a little less timid in emergencies.
Sister Marisol glanced at Thomas and read his mind. "Yes, I know, Your Eminence. I voted for an immediate airlift to the Gemelli Hospital, too, but Baldinotti didn't want to risk moving him all that way." She lowered her voice. "I can't speak to the medical wisdom of that decision, but from a PR point of view, I see where he's coming from. We probably shouldn't allow more people than absolutely necessary to hear the Pope howl with pain."
Thomas winced. "That bad?" Why was it so bad? Was that normal?
The secretary shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid he was barely keeping it together by the time they got him here. I tried to talk to him, but he wasn't making sense. Baldinotti explained that he'll be much better soon, though, once they've done some kind of manoeuvre that made me feel rather queasy to hear described. They've kicked us all out for that. Said we'd only be in the way."
"Popping the bone back into the socket, basically," Ray explained helpfully. A keen player of Gaelic football in his youth, he had seen his share of sports injuries.
Sister Marisol pulled a face. "Thank you, Ray. I really didn't need to hear that again."
These two had taken to each other immediately, very much like an older sister and a younger brother, never mind that Ray was actually Marisol's senior by more than ten years. But Thomas had no patience for their friendly bickering today. His own thoughts had already carried him into a different and very worrying direction. There was, after all, another reason why they should have replaced the grey-haired long-serving cardiologist by now, and brought in a private physician from a younger generation instead. Could that be the true cause of Vincent's extreme distress? Any medical emergency could be a threat to his secret - the secret that, as far as Thomas was aware, still only he himself and Ray were privy to in the whole wide Vatican. Had Vincent been trying to communicate anything about that to his confidants? Why hadn't they made the Holy Father's healthcare arrangements a top priority? Vincent hadn't mentioned it yet, and Thomas hadn't wanted to be pushy, but there was every chance that they were going to regret it bitterly now.
"What did he say that made no sense?" he asked Marisol.
"He said we should call the Pentagon."
Thomas gaped at the papal secretary. "The Pentagon?" he repeated stupidly.
"He also said we needed to talk to Martin. And then something about a French philosopher."
"Who is Martin?"
"I have no idea. There is no Martin in the papal household, that much I know."
"There's a Martin in the Swiss Guards, a corporal," Ray pointed out. "But I doubt His Holiness knows him by name yet. I only do because he narrowly beat me in the finals of the Pontifical Darts Championship last winter, the lucky sod. Begging your pardon."
In the what? Thomas was seized by a strange sense of utter detachment from reality for a moment. "That exists?"
Ray blushed rather endearingly. "Certainly, Your Eminence."
Thomas shook his head. "Better try and get a hold of him, just in case we're missing something here." He turned back to Sister Marisol. "And what French philosopher?"
"I can't even be sure of that part, Your Eminence. But I thought I heard the name 'Bergson'. Like Henri Bergson, you know. The Nobel Laureate we put on the Index for pantheism back in the 1930s."
"That doesn't seem very relevant."
"No, it doesn't," Marisol agreed with a sigh.
Maybe Aldo Bellini would have been able to see the connection between pantheism and a faulty elevator, but of course Aldo Bellini wasn't around. Thomas became aware again how much the rollercoaster of the Conclave had made him appreciate his old friend, and how much he had come to rely on him in times of crisis. But Monday afternoons were now reserved for the Secretary of State's weekly lecture at the Gregorian University on the biblical hermeneutics of Origen. This had been one of his conditions for resuming his Curial post after the Conclave, and Thomas did not have the heart to rob his friend of that pleasure just to swell the numbers of helpless onlookers on the Holy Father's plight.
Thomas put a hand in his pocket, clutched the bag of fabric that formed it and twisted it tight around his fingers. Just a few doors down the corridor, the Holy Father was in agony for all they knew, and they were just standing here, his closest friends and assistants, utterly useless.
Doctor Baldinotti reappeared just then, saving Thomas from voicing his frustration aloud. But the doctor did not have the air of a messenger bearing good news. His eyes searched for the most senior person present in the anteroom to report to, and Thomas realised only when the crowd parted to make a lane for him that he himself answered to that description. He went to join the doctor. Sister Marisol followed. Ray, as instructed, had turned away, busy on his phone, trying to contact the Swiss corporal for whatever it would be worth.
"I would like your advice, Your Eminence," the doctor muttered when Thomas reached him, careful not to make it a public announcement. He eyed even the private secretary suspiciously. "In a spiritual matter."
Which of course a woman was not allowed to be privy to, and certainly not capable of handling, in his eyes. The man was definitely getting replaced after this, Thomas resolved. "Then should we retire to the chapel?" he proposed. He had to make an effort to keep his tone civil. "We can talk in private there." He tried to signal to Sister Marisol with his eyes that he was not approving, just acquiescing for the sake of a quick result. She let him go without protest, acknowledging that this was not the time to put up a fight.
The Holy Father's private chapel with its stunning stained glass ceiling was empty and quiet. The rug and matching hassock that had been put down in its centre in place of the former cushioned chair drew Thomas's eye, as always when he walked in here now. They were embroidered with long-beaked tropical birds in a burst of colour. Thomas assumed the style was Mexican. They made for a pleasant counterpoint to how full of discomfort and pain the place was otherwise. From the ancient crucifix above the altar to the modern frescoes on the walls depicting the fate of Christian martyrs, the room brimmed with suffering.
"I'm worried," the doctor began, stating the obvious. "Doctor Ariyaratna and I need to attempt reduction as soon as possible, but it's a delicate manoeuvre, and His Holiness just… can't keep still. And Doctor Ariyaratna is extremely concerned that we will do more damage than good if we employ force. Besides, it hardly seems… dignified."
"Isn't there medication to make that easier?" Thomas suggested. "Numb the pain, make him relax?"
"Of course. A sedative and a strong analgesic would be best practice in the situation. With that, the procedure would be routine. But he's refusing. We've explained it to him several times, that it's an established treatment, it's safe… but he's still signalling no. Oxygen and fluids are all we've been able to give him. And that is not much."
Thomas nodded.
"I'm not an expert in trauma care, as you know," the cardiologist continued. "But the prolonged experience of acute pain on this scale puts strain on the whole body, especially the heart. Eventually the body may even go into shock, as an effort at self-protection. We're already seeing the first signs. Elevated heart rate, irregular breathing, excessive sweating… And there's also a real danger of necrosis or permanent nerve damage if the injury is left untreated. But we're at the end of our usefulness as medical men at this point, unless the Curia were to authorise compulsory treatment. Which, as you also know, is a lengthy and complicated process, not to mention the reputational damage."
"What do you want me to do?"
The doctor glanced at the crucifix above the altar and cleared his throat awkwardly. "I don't want to trespass on your territory, Your Eminence. But is it possible that His Holiness is taking his devotion to Our Lord and Saviour a little too far, and is trying to emulate Him to a degree that is not advisable for a man of his responsibilities?"
Nor was it likely for a man of Vincent Benítez's genuine love for life to put spiritual self-perfection before the needs of his Church and his flock. But then again, the history of the Church was full of people attaining sainthood through self-inflicted suffering and, ultimately, self-destruction. And even today's Church, as Thomas knew from his own lifelong struggles, was not great at promoting a healthier approach. He felt anger rise inside him. If this wasn't a case for expert input from a trained psychologist, then what was? And yet Thomas was as guilty of leaving Sister Marisol out of this conversation as the dratted doctor was. "You want me to talk him out of it?" he asked aloud.
"I would not like to fail my patient, that's all. Or lose him, God forbid."
Thomas's grief for his friend's pain notwithstanding, that last comment seemed like a gross exaggeration – but only until there was a knock on the door, and one of the Vatican's paramedics looked in, gesturing urgently to the doctor.
By the time they entered the sickroom, it was too late for any kind of rational discussion about the reasonable limits of self-mortification.
"He tried to speak again," Thomas heard the paramedic explain to Baldinotti in an undertone. "But the effort brought on another bout of sickness, and now he's barely responsive."
The neurosurgeon, Dr Ariyaratna, turned back from the bed, where another paramedic was fiddling with the infusion bags, and beckoned Baldinotti closer. Thomas got a fleeting impression of a man much more modest both in terms of stature and of self-importance than the papal physician, but he noticed little more about the neurosurgeon than that. His eyes were fixed in too great dismay on the sight that had opened up before him.
Thomas had imagined that 'barely responsive' would mean calm and still, but he was wrong. What he was seeing was a beautiful mind losing the battle against the tyranny of matter, and it was more painful to watch than he could have imagined. They had unbuttoned both the white cassock and the white shirt underneath, then cut through both layers from shoulder to wrist for a quick access to the damaged joint. The cuffs of the sleeves were spattered with blood, which had to be that of the poor cleaning woman Vincent had been trying to comfort in spite of his own injury. His chest, dotted with the electrodes of an ECG machine, rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths. His face was ashen grey. Were those traces of vomit on the sweat-soaked pillow, imperfectly wiped away? What are you doing, my friend, Thomas wondered desperately, to put yourself through this when relief is just the prick of a needle away?
Thomas felt the urge to pray, to ask both his friend and God for forgiveness for overruling them both, as he acknowledged he would have to do. But there was no time for such self-indulgence. The doctors had consulted together in an undertone, and now they turned to Thomas, waiting for a quick decision. The paramedic stood ready, too, holding another infusion bag.
"Please, go ahead," Thomas said to the doctors. "Do whatever is necessary."
He caught sight of the label on the bag as it was added to the drip. Oxycodone, an opioid, the strongest of the strong as painkillers went. They were not doing things by halves, now that they were finally allowed to do anything at all. Then Dr Ariyaratna stepped back and, with a gesture of his hand, invited Thomas to approach the patient. Was there a spark of recognition in Vincent's half-closed eyes beneath their heavy lids when Thomas went on his knees by the bedside? It was wishful thinking, nothing more. There was no response when Thomas said his name, either. Thomas took hold of Vincent's good hand as the medication began to flood his friend's bloodstream. As his breathing stabilised and the doctors started nodding in satisfaction at whatever exactly they could see on the monitor of the ECG, Thomas felt a tiny response from the limp, cold fingers. They were curling almost imperceptibly around his own. But Thomas would have been wrong to read that as approval. Doctor Ariyaratna broke the silence in the room to request the sedative from the paramedic next, and at the sound of his voice, Vincent's eyelids fluttered and then opened for just one moment. But there was no relief or gratitude in his dark eyes. There was only the deep sadness of defeat, and even - Thomas felt it like a stab - of reproach.
Forgive me, he wanted to say. I did what I had to do.
Instead, it was Vincent who moved his dry lips. No sound came out, but they formed a single word that Thomas was able to read only because he must have, subconsciously, expected it.
Martin.
His fingers twitched in Thomas's hand one last time, and then the chemicals nudged him over the threshold and even their feeble grip was gone.
Thomas needed to be reminded that the doctors' real work was only just beginning. He should not have been grateful when Dr Ariyaratna suggested that he might prefer to wait outside now, but he was. Besides, they hardly needed the distraction of a weak-stomached elderly cardinal fainting at the sight of a perfectly routine medical procedure.
When he turned the corner of the corridor, heading back to the vestibule, he heard raised voices from the chapel, or rather one single raised voice. It was Ray O'Malley's. What on earth was the Monsignor doing, making a racket in a house of God?
"Thank you, sir," Ray was saying. "I'll let them know at once. Please tell him to call back as soon as it's convenient." The door of the chapel was pulled open from the inside just as Thomas reached for the knob. Ray O'Malley stood there, phone in hand, and seemed as startled to come so suddenly face to face with Thomas as Thomas was by the Monsignor's strange behaviour.
"Where are the doctors?" Ray demanded, even forgetting to add an honorific. "They need to know right now."
"Need to know what?"
"Martin. I've found Martin. And - " Ray looked up and down the corridor to make sure they were alone, then dropped a bombshell. "And Martin says, 'Whatever you do, don't give him opiates.'"