“People with hate in their hearts
may sound pleasant enough,
but don’t believe them.
Though they pretend to be kind,
their hearts are full of all kinds of evil.
While their hatred may be concealed by trickery,
it will finally come to light for all to see.”
Proverbs 26: 24 - 26
The Vatican Dictator © Copyright <<2024>> Alan Bayer
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While this fictional book is based on actual events, some of the facts have been changed for dramatic effect.
Certain characters, characterizations, incidents, locations, and dialogue were fictionalized or created for the purpose of dramatization.
ISBN: 979-8-89316-036-9 - paperback
ISBN: 979-8-89316-037-6 - ebook
To my wife, Melanie
PART I
Chapter 1
February 1, 2000
Tuesday
Rome, Italy
On that sorrowful morning, the Italian heavens were a canvas of brooding clouds as if the very sky was a mournful participant in the funeral procession below. Eight papal guardsmen, resplendent in their vibrant Renaissance-era uniforms, stood like statues at the rear of the hearse, awaiting their solemn duty to unload the casket. The towering clock, a sentinel of time, struck ten a.m. Its chimes reverberated through the air, stirring the eight men to life. With a reverence befitting the occasion, they carried the casket through the grand entrance of the historic Basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere before disappearing inside its hallowed depths.
The church, a testament to the twelfth century with intricate mosaics and frescoes adorning its domed ceiling, echoed with the muffled weeping of mourners. The church pews, nestled between twenty-two imposing granite columns, were half-filled with a sea of grieving faces.
Sister Carlotta, a dear friend of the departed, wept openly as the eight guardsmen of the Vatican military solemnly carried the exquisite mahogany casket past her. “Ah, Giuseppe,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion, “you would have loved this.”
Monsignor Giordano took his place at the altar and lit the incense burner, and its familiar scent wafted through the air. Carlotta managed a small smile through her tears, remembering her departed friend’s peculiar quirks. Here comes that smell you never liked, she thought, recalling his aversion to the ever-present aroma one couldn’t help but associate with the Church.
Upon reaching Monsignor Giordano, who stood like a beacon of faith in front of the altar, the eight papal guardsmen pivoted in perfect unison, moving to the front pew to take their seats. As the choir’s ethereal melody faded into silence, Giordano swung the incense burner over the altar then turned to wave it over the casket.
Handing the incense burner to the altar boy, Giordano initiated the Mass with the traditional invocation.
“Peace be with you,” he intoned, his voice resonating through the church.
“And also with you,” the congregation echoed back.
As the Gospel reading and homily reached their conclusion, Monsignor Giordano positioned himself behind the casket to deliver his eulogy. “Dear brothers and sisters,” he began, his voice heavy with sorrow, “we gather here today, our hearts burdened with grief, to bid our final farewell to our dear brother, Father Giuseppe Benedetti. A man of immense potential, his life tragically cut short at the pinnacle of his service.”
Taking three measured steps forward, he stood beside the casket, his gaze falling on its polished mahogany. “I recall the day Giuseppe first set foot in our orphanage. He was a quiet child, brimming with life and wonder, often lost in his own world. I cannot say for certain if it was our shared moments together as I guided him towards the path of priesthood, but the joy I felt the day he expressed his desire to take his vows was unparalleled.” A faint smile touched the monsignor’s lips. “Throughout his time in seminary, Giuseppe displayed an unwavering dedication to his biblical studies. His innate aptitude for technology and computers earned him a coveted position at the Vatican’s Secret Archive Library—” His voice straining, Giordano paused abruptly, his gaze drifting upwards as if seeking solace in the ancient frescoes above.
The mourners sat in rapt attention, their sorrow intermingling with a sense of pride for the departed young priest’s achievements. The monsignor regained his composure and continued. “The day he came to us, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he announced his appointment at the Vatican, was a day of immense joy. We were all so incredibly proud of him. But, a frail heart and the divine timing of God claimed him far too soon.” He bowed his head in a silent tribute to the departed. “I firmly believe, Giuseppe, you departed this world content and fulfilled, having realized your dream of serving at the Vatican.”
His words once more choked with emotion, Giordano turned to face the casket, his eulogy drawing to a close. “At just twenty-six years of age, you have been called to Heaven far too soon,” he murmured, leaning over to plant a tender kiss on the closed casket. “I will miss you, my friend.”
As the traditional Catholic rites ended, the Vatican Guard rose in perfect synchrony. They moved to their designated positions beside the casket and, as one, lifted it. Their movements were slow and deliberate as they began their solemn procession down the aisle. The mourners trailed behind, a somber parade of grief making its way towards the waiting hearse that would transport Father Giuseppe Alphonso Benedetti to his final earthly abode.
Once the Mass was concluded, Sister Carlotta, a figure of quiet sorrow, approached the altar. There, she found Cardinal Rosetti and Monsignor Giordano engaged in intense hushed conversation. “Cardinal Rosetti?” she ventured timidly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m Sister Carlotta. I appreciate your presence at the service. Father Benedetti would have been deeply honored.”
Cardinal Rosetti, visibly irked by the interruption, turned to face the nun. His words were curt, his tone devoid of warmth. “I’m sorry for your loss.” With a perfunctory bow, he turned back to Monsignor Giordano.
Undeterred, Sister Carlotta pressed on, her voice trembling with emotion. “I understand that everything happens according to God’s plan,” she said, oblivious to the cardinal’s thinly veiled impatience. “But it’s hard for me to accept his time has come so soon.”
Rosetti turned to face her once more, his face a mask of forced tolerance. “Were you two close?” he asked, his tone bordering on dismissive.
“He was my friend,” she replied, her eyes welling up with fresh tears. “He’d just had a full physical a couple of months ago. The doctor said he was in perfect health. I don’t understand how he could die of a heart attack so soon after. How could this be?” She wrapped her arms around herself seeking comfort in her own embrace.
“We cannot comprehend God’s timing, my child,” Rosetti replied, his words devoid of the solace she sought. “Just know that God’s timing is always perfect.” His words hung in the air, a cold consolation to the grieving nun. As her tears flowed freely, she looked up at the cardinal, her eyes pleading for a different answer.
Seeing this conversation wasn’t going to end, he cut straight to the point. “The pope’s personal physician informed me that he conducted the autopsy on Father Benedetti himself. He discovered an embolism, a lethal blood clot that obstructed a vital vessel, leading to heart failure.” His blunt voice echoed ominously in the hallowed space.
Sister Carlotta, however, was far from convinced. A nagging suspicion gnawed at her, refusing to be silenced.
“The physician also emphasized that an embolism could remain hidden, striking down even the healthiest individual at any age,” Rosetti added, his gaze piercing through the nun. He could sense her growing doubts—a potential threat in the days to come.
“Go in peace, Sister, and remember, everything is under God’s watchful eye.” The cardinal extended his hand, tracing the sign of the cross on her forehead with a solemnity that belied his underlying contempt.
“Amen,” Carlotta whispered, yet her doubts persisted. Beneath her outward sorrow, a troubling suspicion that something was amiss continued to fester.
As Sister Carlotta withdrew from their presence, Cardinal Rosetti nodded at Monsignor Giordano, commanding him towards the tabernacle for a private discussion. He couldn’t afford the slightest risk of their conversation being overheard. Only the towering crucifix of Jesus bore silent witness to the cardinal’s ominous words.
“Sister Carlotta will be a problem,” he seethed, his voice laced with an icy determination as he turned to face the monsignor. “Reassign her to the church in Harare, Zimbabwe.”
The monsignor was taken aback by the harsh directive from his superior. Without uttering another word, the livid cardinal abruptly spun around and stormed away in a fury, leaving Giordano to execute the damning order. Monsignor Giordano, ever loyal to the cardinal, would fulfill this command without question.
Turning to gaze out over the sanctuary, he watched as Rosetti made his way down the central aisle. The cardinal roughly brushed past Sister Carlotta, who was kneeling in the first pew, her prayers fervent and earnest. The monsignor looked upon her with a heavy heart, knowing her fate was sealed.
