Page 106 of Skotos
We passed through halls I’d never seen, not the public corridors where tourists and dignitaries were received, but the private arteries of Vatican power. Frescoed ceilings soared overhead, their painted saints and angels watching our passage with eyes that seemed to follow our movement.Tapestries older than most nations hung from the walls, their rich colors muted by age but still magnificent in the soft light of crystal chandeliers.
“This way,” the Pope said, turning down a narrow passage that felt more intimate than the grand thoroughfares we left behind. “We will speak in my private library. It is one of the few rooms in the Vatican I can guarantee has not been compromised.”
The door he led us to was modest, with dark oak panels set with iron fittings that looked medieval in their simplicity. When it swung open, I felt my breath catch.
The Pope’s private library wasn’t an anteroom filled with books, a cathedral of knowledge. The chamber rose three stories above us, its walls lined floor-to-ceiling with tomes whose leather spines glowed like jewels in the warm light of reading lamps scattered throughout the space. Rolling ladders on brass tracks provided access to the highest shelves, where volumes bound in red Morocco leather and gold leaf stood like soldiers in perfect formation. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and vellum, that distinctive perfume of centuries-old knowledge that made my scholar’s heart race despite everything else happening around us.
Ancient globes stood sentinel in the corners. They were not painted with the familiar maps of our modern world, rather representations of howmedieval cartographers had imagined the Earth, complete with sea monsters and uncharted territories. One unusual sphere’s stylized script read, “Here Be Dragons,” on a landmass I felt certain was either Iceland or Greenland. Given the poor representation versus modern knowledge, it was hard to tell.
Between each towering bookcase, marble busts of long-dead popes gazed down with expressions of marble serenity, their stone eyes holding secrets that would never be spoken aloud.
At the heart of the room sat a massive mahogany desk that looked like it had been carved from a single enormous tree. Its surface was polished to a mirror shine, covered with neat stacks of correspondence, official documents bearing papal seals, and what appeared to be intelligence reports marked with the distinctive stamps of various European agencies. Behind the desk, tall windows draped in crimson velvet looked out over the Vatican gardens.
“Please, sit,” the Pope said, gesturing toward a cluster of leather armchairs arranged near a marble fireplace where logs lay unlit. “We have much to discuss, and very little time to discuss it.”
Will and I settled into chairs that were probably worth more than most people’s houses, while Rinaldi moved to close and lock the library door behind us. The Pope took the chair across from us,and we watched as the weight of his office seemed to settle around him like a mantle.
“First,” he said, “let me apologize for the drama at the police station. Under normal circumstances, I would have worked through diplomatic channels and never left the safety of these walls, but these are far from normal circumstances.”
“Thank you for coming to get me,” Will said, his Midwestern humility oozing through his words.
“It is my purpose to serve.” Pius smiled as though blessing a small child.
“Whatexactlyhappened on that balcony?” I asked, unable to wait for permission to speak.
The Pope’s face darkened, and he was quiet for a long moment. “Cardinal Francesco Torretti was shot and killed. He stood to my left on the balcony,” he said, his voice heavy with grief. “My medical team claims he died instantly. I pray it was so.”
“And Severan?” Will asked.
“As I told you at the police station, Cardinal Severan was wounded in the shoulder.” The Pope’s eyes met mine, and I saw something there that chilled me. It wasn’t simply sorrow, but a deep suspicion that spoke of betrayals discovered—and others still hidden. “The question is whether that was intentional or merely unfortunate timing.”
“I don’t follow,” Will said.
Rinaldi spoke from his position near the door, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. “CardinalSeveran was standing directly beside His Holiness when the shooting began. He was struck by what we believe was the second shot. The first killed Cardinal Torretti.”
“You think the shooter was aiming for the you, Your Holiness?” I asked.
“We believe the first shot was meant for me,” the Pope said. “But the second . . . we believe that may have been a decoy, an attempt to throw us off any investigation that would surely follow. The knife Cardinal Severan dropped when he was wounded lends credibility to this theory.”
The Pope reached into his cassock and withdrew a cloth-wrapped object, setting it carefully on the small table between our chairs. He opened the wrapping to reveal the dagger Severan had dropped.
“The Order of Longinus,” Will breathed.
“Yes.” The Pope’s voice was flat, emotionless. “Cardinal Severan was carrying this when he was shot. In the confusion of the moment, and likely the pain of taking a bullet to the shoulder, he dropped it. The medical and security teams whisked us from the balcony, so he never had time to retrieve it.”
The implications hit me like a physical blow. “He was going to kill you himself?”
“As a backup plan, the Swiss Guard believes. If the sniper missed or if the shot wasn’t immediately fatal, Severan was positioned to finish the task.” ThePope’s hands clenched into fists on the arms of his chair. “Standing close enough to embrace me in my final moments, to offer last rites while driving a blade into my heart.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “He would never be able to escape if he murdered you. The guards would be all over him. If he really is the leader of the Order . . .”
The Pope shrugged and splayed his hands. “I only know what I saw . . . and what was left behind.”
“But the shooter hit him instead,” Will said, pieces clicking together. “Was that by accident or—”
“We do not know,” Rinaldi interrupted. “But the wound forced him to reveal himself. He could not complete his mission, and he could not maintain his cover.”
“Where is he now?” Will asked.
