Montini had to raise his voice to be heard over the tolling of the basilica’s bells. “Good evening, Excellency. I’ve been instructed to bring you upstairs.” He looked at Gabriel. “But I’m afraid your friend Signore Allon will have to remain here.”

“Why?”

Montini’s eyes widened. “The conclave, Excellency.”

“It’s over, is it not?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Please, Excellency. The cardinals are waiting.”

Donati gestured toward Gabriel. “Either he comes with me or I’m not going in.”

“Yes, of course, Excellency. If that is what you wish.”

Donati exchanged an apprehensive glance with Gabriel. Together they climbed a flight of narrow stairs to the Sala Regia, the glorious fresco-covered antechamber of the Sistine Chapel. A pair of Swiss Guards stood like bookends outside the entrance. Gabriel hesitated, then followed Donati inside.

THE CARDINALS WAITED AT THE base of the altar, dwarfed by Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. After passing through the doorway of the transenna, Donati stopped abruptly and turned.

“Don’t you see what’s happening?”

“Yes,” answered Gabriel. “I believe I do.”

“No one in their right mind would want this. I’ve seen with my own eyes the toll it takes.” Donati stretched out his hand. “Please grab hold of it. Drag me out of here before it’s too late.”

“It already is too late, Luigi. Rome has spoken.”

Donati’s hand was still suspended between them. He placed it on Gabriel’s shoulder and squeezed with surprising force. “Try to remember me the way I was, old friend. Because in a moment, that person won’t exist.”

“Hurry, Luigi. You mustn’t keep them waiting.”

Donati glanced at the 116 men waiting at the altar.

“Not them, Luigi. The people in the square.”

“What will I say to them? My God, I don’t even have a name.” Donati threw his arms around Gabriel’s neck and clung to him as though he were drowning. “Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I never meant for this to happen.”

Donati drew away and squared his shoulders. Suddenly composed, he marched the length of the chapel and stopped directly in front of Cardinal Francona.

“I believe you have something you wish to ask me, Eminence.”

Francona posed the question in Latin. “Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontificem?” Do you accept your canonical election as supreme pontiff?

“I accept,” answered Donati without hesitation.

“Quo nomine vis vocari?” By what name do you wish to be called?

Donati stared at Michelangelo’s ceiling, as if searching for inspiration. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t a clue.”

Laughter filled the Sistine Chapel. It was a good beginning.

60

SISTINE CHAPEL

IT WAS FITTING THAT DONATI’S first official act as pope was to affix his signature to a document that would reside permanently in the silence of the Vatican Secret Archives. Hastily prepared by Monsignor Montini, it formally recorded Donati’s new name and his acceptance of the position of supreme pontiff. He signed the document at the table where the Scrutineers and Revisers had tabulated the votes. Eighty had gone to Donati on the first ballot, a shocking result. Not since the days of election by acclamation had a pope been elected so swiftly and by such an overwhelming margin.

Donati next withdrew to the Room of Tears, where a representative of the Gammarelli family, papal tailors since 1798, waited with three white linen cassocks and a selection of rochets, mozettas, stoles, and red silk slippers. Pietro Lucchesi had famously chosen the smallest of the three cassocks. Donati required the largest. He dispensed with the rochet, mozetta, and stole, and chose to wear his old silver-plated pectoral cross rather than the heavy gold cross offered to him. Nor did he select a pair of red slippers. His Italian loafers, which he had shined himself for his appearance before the cardinals at the Casa Santa Marta, were good enough.

Gabriel was not permitted to witness Donati’s ritual rerobing. He remained in the Sistine Chapel, where the cardinals waited to greet the man to whom they had just handed the keys to the kingdom. The mood was electric but uncertain. The room’s acoustics allowed Gabriel to eavesdrop on a few of the conversations. It was obvious that many of the cardinals had cast so-called complimentary votes for Donati, not realizing that an overwhelming majority of their colleagues intended to do the same. The general consensus was that the Holy Spirit, not Bishop Richter and the Order of St. Helena, had intervened.

Not everyone in the room was pleased by the outcome, especially Cardinals Albanese and Tardini. Only thirty-six had voted for another candidate, which meant a significant number of the forty-two conspirators had supported Donati’s candidacy, perhaps with the misplaced hope he might overlook their financial transgressions and allow them to remain in their current jobs. Gabriel reckoned the College of Cardinals would soon see a rash of quiet resignations and reassignments. Long-overdue change was coming to the Catholic Church. No one knew how to operate the levers of Vatican power better than Luigi Donati. More important, he knew where the bodies were buried and where the dirty laundry was hidden. The Roman Curia, guardian of the status quo, had finally met its match.

At last, Donati emerged from the Room of Tears in his snow-white garment, a zucchetto upon his head. He was aglow, as though caught by his own private spotlight. So remarkable was the change in his appearance that even Gabriel scarcely recognized him. He was no longer Luigi Donati, he thought. He was the successor of St. Peter, Christ’s representative on earth.

He was His Holiness.

In a few minutes he would be the most famous and recognizable man in the world. But first there was a last ritual, as old as the Church itself. One by one, in order of precedence, the cardinals filed forward to offer their congratulations and pledge their obedience, a reminder that the pope was not only a spiritual leader of a billion Catholics but one of the world’s last remaining absolute monarchs as well. He chose to receive the cardinals while standing rather than seated on his throne. Most of the exchanges were warm, even boisterous. Several were frigid and tense. Tardini, defiant to the end, wagged his finger at the new pope, who wagged his finger in return. Domenico Albanese fell to his knees and begged for absolution. Donati told him to rise and then waved him away with the stain of a pontiff’s murder still on his soul. There was a monastery in Albanese’s future, thought Gabriel. Somewhere cold and isolated, with bad food. Poland, perhaps. Or better yet, Kansas.

There was one last precedent to be broken that evening. It came at 7:34 p.m., when Donati summoned Gabriel with a joyous wave of his long arm. The new pope seized him by the shoulders. Gabriel had never felt smaller.

“Congratulations, Holiness.”

“Condolences, you mean.” His confident smile made it clear he was already becoming comfortable in the role. “You’ve just seen something only a handful of people have ever witnessed.”

“I’m not sure I’ll remember much of it.”

“Nor will I.” He lowered his voice. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”