Mario continued to read, his eyes darting across the screen, absorbing the information while listening to Roberto’s commentary.
Mario’s voice dropped to a disheartened whisper. “The journal had entries about how the Black Nobility orchestrated missions to ensure the Vatican’s financial stability. To bolster its financial reserves, they chose Eugenio Pacelli to become pope and execute the master plan They never elaborate on this master plan though.”
Engrossed in the damning revelations, Mario felt a wave of despair washing over him. The faith that had been his guiding light, the sacred institution to which he had pledged his life—was it all just an elaborate facade of deception and corruption? His entire belief system was being shaken to its core, leaving him to grapple with a harsh reality. What was the truth? His mind raced to the countless faithful around the world, blindly pledging their allegiance to an institution steeped in lies and treachery. The thought of how they would react upon learning this horrifying truth about the Vatican sent shivers down his spine.
“Yeah. Marcantonio, the family patriarch, was the mastermind behind it all. Look at this: Francesco was the pope’s canon lawyer and confidant. He was the one who brokered the Lateran Treaty of 1929 with Mussolini.” Roberto paused, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “Mussolini compensated the Church handsomely for the loss of the Papal States. He essentially paid for the Vatican’s independence, and gave them a ton of money on top of that.”
Mario’s eyes widened. “There was a journal entry where Francesco conspired with Mussolini, aiding his ascent to power. It was a power play between Eugenio and Francesco, each vying to shape the next leader.”
“Are you serious? It really said that?” Roberto’s eyes mirrored the shock in his voice.
“Yes. Eugenio was grooming Hitler, and Francesco was grooming Mussolini.”
Roberto’s fingers danced across the keyboard, pulling up images of Hitler and Mussolini. The image of Mussolini in his military uniform being saluted by an Italian officer with a Heil Hitler sent a chill down his spine. “The Italians adopted the Nazi salute rather quickly, it seems. Look at that picture.” He jabbed his finger at the screen.
Both men stared at the images scrolling down the monitor, a grim tableau of history unfolding before them. “They joined forces in October 1936 as the Rome-Berlin Axis,” Roberto murmured. An image showed Hitler and Mussolini marching together in their infamous “goose step” march, a stark reminder of the past.
Mario glanced at the clock in the corner of the monitor. “I have to get ready for work.”
“Shouldn’t you call in sick?” Roberto asked, concern etched on his face.
“I have to go in,” Mario replied, his voice firm. Despite the shocking revelations, he remained a loyal servant of the Church.
“Do you think you could get a copy of that journal for me?” Roberto asked, his eyes eager. The prospect of seeing Pope Pius XII’s actual notes with his own eyes was just too enticing.
“Really? You want me to steal from the Vatican, Roberto?” Mario asked, incredulous.
“You’re right, bro. I’m sorry,” Roberto said, his voice softening.
“I’m staying at home tonight. I need some time alone to pray about this.” Mario’s voice was heavy with the weight of their discovery, the implications of their findings still sinking in.
Chapter 27
March 9, 2000
8:08 a.m.
Vatican Secret Archives
Mario trod down the aisle towards his worktable, a sense of urgency to his stride. He set down his backpack and reached up for the books concealing the journal. As he pulled down one of the books, Cardinal Borelli appeared at the end of the aisle, catching Mario just as he was about to commit the clandestine act.
“Father Marino. Are you feeling better today?” the cardinal said, maintaining a safe distance, his fear of contracting an illness from the young priest evident.
His fixation on maintaining an environment devoid of germs had been the cardinal’s primary concern throughout his ascension within the Vatican’s hierarchy. The cardinal’s well-known distaste for socializing with the masses, a potential breeding ground for a plethora of diseases, was as notorious as his rank. The confessional, a veritable hotbed of microbial combat, was his personal hell. The mere thought of physical contact—handshakes, embraces, or even proximity to others—was abhorrent to him. The confessional was perceived as an adversary, a potential assault on his immune system. He was not about to jeopardize his well-being by interacting with this priest, who had likely been exposed to a myriad of illnesses during his commute that morning.
“Thank you, Cardinal. I’m feeling much better today. I believe the extra rest last night worked wonders,” Mario responded, taken aback by the unexpected encounter so early in the morning. He resolved to be more aware of his surroundings from now on—he couldn’t afford to let his superiors catch on that he knew about the sinister journal.
“I was discussing that journal you were reading yesterday with another cardinal. Do you have it on you?”
“Oh, uh, I guess I . . .” Mario turned back to the worktable, his hands clumsily shuffling through various books and papers. “I must have put it away. Could I get it to you later today?”
“Where is it?” The cardinal’s suspicion rose in tandem with Mario’s hesitation.
Mario’s pulse began to race, sweat beading on his temples. “I’ll have to locate it.”
The cardinal’s gaze bore into the young priest. “I’m beginning to question if we’ve chosen the right person for this task, Father Marino. Do you have the journal or not?”
Recalling the cardinal’s germaphobia, Mario coughed into his hand a few times, feigning the remnants of his “illness” while wiping the sweat from his forehead.
The cardinal recoiled, hastily putting distance between himself and Mario—the threat of germ warfare swiftly overpowered his suspicions. “Very well. Later today.” His gaze lingered on the sweat glistening off the priest’s forehead. Borelli turned around and exited the aisle, leaving Mario to his tasks. “If you feel the need to go home, do so,” he called beyond the bookshelves.
Mario’s heart pounded like a drum. The early-morning encounter with the cardinal had left him breathless. Dang it! I can’t let him see this journal.
He darted to the end of the aisle, his eyes tracking the cardinal as he strode briskly towards the exit. He needed to devise a plan to delay handing over the journal to the cardinal—but the question was, how?
He retraced his steps back to the worktable. Peeking down the aisle to ensure no one was watching, he reached up and removed the quartet of books that continued to serve as makeshift camouflage for the journal. He took down the journal and carefully placed it on the table to unwrap it. His mind raced with a single desperate thought: How do I prevent them from laying hands on this?
His own hands trembled slightly as he began to unwrap the sinister journal. The warning on the wrapping paper, penned by Father Benedetti, leapt out at him once more:
Beware!
Do not read!
Your life will be in danger!
GAB
The words echoed ominously in his mind, a chilling prophecy that sent shudders down his spine. Was it truly an embolism that had claimed Father Benedetti’s life, or was there a more sinister truth lurking beneath the surface? Was it possible this journal’s discovery had resulted in his untimely demise?
The influence of Roberto’s conspiracy-driven mindset began to make Mario’s head whirl. Except this was different—Mario had truly stumbled onto something substantial. The evidence was right there, glaring at him in black and white. In this new light, Roberto’s outlandish theories, once dismissed as crazy ideas, suddenly didn’t seem so far-fetched.
Mario had been too naive, too trusting in his belief that the Catholic Church was a haven of peace and tranquility. The proof was undeniable—those in power had hidden their corruption behind the glory and honor of basilicas, cathedrals, and churches.
The word ‘basilica’ echoed in Mario’s mind. An honored title, bestowed upon a church of special spiritual, historical, or architectural significance. Now the term dripped with hypocrisy. The pope himself granted this title, a mark of honor that remained with the church in perpetuity. Could this too be a cunning ploy by the Vatican, a means of concealing something within these specially titled churches scattered across the globe? Nothing seemed too far-fetched now.
Mario’s unwavering faith in the Catholic Church had been shattered and replaced by a newfound skepticism. He was seeing the Church with new eyes. Critical eyes. Roberto’s eyes.
With a newfound determination, he opened the journal. He was no longer a mere pawn in a grand chess game orchestrated by an institution claiming to be his protector; he was now a player in a game of subterfuge and deceit that had far-reaching implications, affecting billions of unsuspecting souls across the globe. The magnitude of the deception was staggering. How many years, decades, or even centuries had this charade been going on? Was it still happening today?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Mario prepared himself for the revelations that lay ahead. He began to read where he’d left off the previous day, his eyes scanning the pages with a newfound intensity.
14 September 1924
The Art of War
#23 Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance.
The seed has been sown. Hitler’s obsession with the Führermuseum shall be the catalyst that propels the Council’s mission.
