Vatican City
Pope Pius XI was slumped over, unconscious and bound to a Victorian spoon-back chair, his body leaning precariously over the ropes tied around his navel. His limbs had been securely fastened to the chair’s armrests and legs. Across the room, the Vatican assassin, Dante, sat in anticipation, waiting for the pope to stir after rousing from the effects of the chloroform that had plunged the pope into unconsciousness.
Dante held no admiration for Pius XI. The recent revelation of the pope’s covert distribution of his papal letter Mit brennender Sorge in churches across Germany was a blatant act of rebellion against the Council. In his decree, the pope had accused the Nazi government of breaching the 1933 Reichskonkordat, a treaty designed to shield the priests and clergy in Germany from persecution by the Nazi regime. This treaty, negotiated by Archbishop Eugenio Pacelli between the Vatican and the rising Nazi regime, had been directed into existence by the Council of Black Nobility itself. Defiance against the Council was not without severe repercussions.
Slowly, Pope Pius XI began to stir, his head lifting from the stupor induced by the injection. Upon realizing he’d been confined within his own quarters, the pope strained against the ropes holding him captive to the sturdy Victorian chair. His gaze fell upon his left arm, which was bound to the armrest—an IV tube was taped to the back of his hand where a needle had clearly fed him a dose of intravenous fluids.
“Your struggle is futile, Your Holiness,” came the assassin’s chilling voice.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Pope Pius XI yelled. He hadn’t noticed the figure cloaked in darkness sitting across the room.
“I am an envoy of the Council, here to discuss your recent transgressions, your Holiness.” A sinister anticipation laced Dante’s words.
The pope was no stranger to these confrontations; he refused to be cowed by the Council’s henchman. He knew this man was part of the elite force cherry-picked from the Vatican’s Swiss Guard. These were the Council’s go-to men for matters requiring a more . . . delicate touch.
Only those popes who remained loyal to the Council of Black Nobility were spared these private “discussions”. Pope Pius XI had forfeited this privilege with his recent defiance.
“You can’t intimidate me. I’m the pope, the Vicar of Christ, for God’s sake!”
“I was counting on such a response, your Holiness,” Dante said, moving towards a table near the pope. He opened a black suitcase, revealing an array of tools that would not be out of place in a surgical theatre. He turned the suitcase towards the pope, revealing vials, syringes, scalpels, forceps, surgical tape, a stethoscope, and a thermometer. All the tools necessary for a thorough interrogation that was designed to extract the desired outcome from a victim.
The pope remained silent, refusing to give to this Black Nobility enforcer the satisfaction of his fear.
Dante selected a syringe and a vial from the case. Inverting the vial, he plunged the syringe into it, drawing out a small amount of fluid. “This should suffice for the next round, Your Holiness.” He placed the loaded syringe on the table, a grim promise of the ordeal to come.
“What is that concoction?” Pope Pius XI was already suffering from a throbbing headache brought on by the initial injection. Was it a truth serum? He was prepared to confess his actions openly. He harbored no shame for his defiance against the Council. The anti-Semites populating Hitler’s Nazi regime deserved exposure.
“That injection will help you gather your wits enough to change your mind.”
A malevolent grin spread across Dante’s face. The assassin reached for another syringe and vial. Holding the vial aloft, he pierced it with the needle, drawing up two-tenths of a milliliter of the ominous fluid.
“And this one will end your life. The decision lies with you, Your Holiness.”
“What is it you want, assassin?”
Dante found himself satisfied by the pope’s directness. No groveling or pleading like his usual victims at this stage. Pope Pius XI was renowned for his straightforward, no-nonsense demeanor. He was also infamous for his fiery temper. Dante was eager to see if Ambrogio Damiano Achille Ratti, the man beneath the papal vestments, would unleash his fury at any point during their confrontation.
“Firstly, you must withdraw your papal letter from every church in Germany.”
“Never!”
“Wrong response, Your Holiness,” Dante smirked, relishing the pope’s growing anger. He was eager to put his tools of persuasion to work. Towering over the pope, he plunged the second syringe into the IV tube attached to the pope’s hand.
A wave of agony surged up the pope’s left arm. He tensed as the burning pain reached his heart, triggering a heart attack. After the pope endured five long seconds of unbearable pain, the assassin injected the first syringe into the IV tube, releasing adrenaline that halted the heart attack. The pope collapsed, unconscious.
Dante prepared two more syringes with the same amount of fluid for the next round of torture. Seeing the octogenarian pope was in no rush to wake up, Dante retreated, settling into the Victorian chair on the other side of the room.
After half an hour, the pope began to stir, this time remaining hunched over in his chair. “You are an evil man,” he rasped in a hushed tone.
Dante crossed the room and loomed over the pope. Aware that the pope was already thoroughly sapped of his energy, the assassin hoisted the pope’s head and rested it against the chair’s backrest. The pope’s visage was one of sheer exhaustion following the artificial heart attack. This was proving too effortless. Having heard tales of Ambrogio Ratti’s resilience, Dante had anticipated more defiance.
Continuing where he left off, Dante said, “Secondly, you will halt your radio broadcasts denouncing the Nazi government’s actions in Germany.”
“Have you . . . no soul?” Pope Pius XI’s voice was now barely a whisper.
“That question does not really matter, Your Holiness. I am merely here to fulfill my orders.”
“The Nazis . . . are fostering animosity towards . . . Christ and His Church. . . .” The pope’s voice was so faint that the assassin had to lean in to catch his words.
“Once again, that’s not my place to judge, Your Holiness. Will you adhere to the Council’s directives?”
“I will not.” Pope Pius XI let his head droop forward, his eyes shut, unwavering in his mission to expose the Nazi government.
Dante seized the second syringe and plunged it into the IV tube. The pope remained hunched over as he convulsed in agony. After a mere three seconds, Dante administered the first syringe to prevent the man from succumbing to his heart attack. His objective was the pope’s compliance, not a pointless lethal confrontation.
The pope remained hunched over, once more unconscious. Dante prepared two more syringes for the third round of persuasion. He then retreated to his chair to scrutinize the pope from a distance. He was taken aback by the pope’s staunch resistance to his torture regimen. Most of his victims capitulated after the first dose, but this one was living up to his reputation. The pope’s unwavering dedication to his ideals was commendable. Dante hadn’t anticipated he would harbor respect for this pope.
An hour had passed when the pope began to rouse, emerging from the clutches of his second heart-stopping ordeal. His breaths came shallow and weak. “ His lips cracked open and out came the ghost of a sound, the words barely reaching the assassin’s ears from across the room.
“It . . . it shall be done.”
Dante rose from his chair, satisfied. The clomp of his black polished leather shoes reverberated ominously as he crossed the room and stood before the old man. He meticulously untied the frail pontiff from the imprisoning Victorian chair, his actions calculated and devoid of warmth. With an unyielding grip, he hoisted the pope to his feet and steered him towards his bed—a sanctuary of respite following the harrowing sessions of torture.
The pope, his body wracked with exhaustion, curled up in a fetal position. He surrendered to sleep almost instantly.
Dante draped a blanket over the pope, a chilling contrast to the cruelty he had just inflicted. He then turned his attention to his instruments of persuasion, methodically placing them back into his suitcase.
With one last glance at the sleeping pope, the assassin exited the sleeping quarters, leaving behind a silence that was as ominous as the promise he had exacted.
Chapter 46
9 February 1939
The Art of War
#21 When he concentrates, prepare against him.
Pope Pius XI has summoned all of Italy’s clergy to Rome to deliver a speech he has been relentlessly toiling over the past few months.
The two heart attacks he had in November ultimately only instilled in him a spirit of vengeance. His discussion with the Vatican assassin did not sway him—he has broken his promise to follow the Council’s directives.
I fear this will not end well for the pontiff.
Secretary of State,
Archbishop Eugenio Pacelli
Chapter 47
