High above, the camerlegno made the smallest of gestures. He folded his hands before him. Then he bowed his head in silent prayer. One by one, then dozens by dozens, then hundreds by hundreds, the people bowed their heads along with him.

The square fell silent… as if a spell had been cast.

In his mind, swirling and distant now, the camerlegno’s prayers were a torrent of hopes and sorrows… forgive me, Father… Mother… full of grace… you are the church… may you understand this sacrifice of your only begotten son.

Oh, my Jesus… save us from the fires of hell… take all souls to heaven, especially, those most in need of thy mercy…

The camerlegno did not open his eyes to see the throngs below him, the television cameras, the whole world watching. He could feel it in his soul. Even in his anguish, the unity of the moment was intoxicating. It was as if a connective web had shot out in all directions around the globe. In front of televisions, at home, and in cars, the world prayed as one. Like synapses of a giant heart all firing in tandem, the people reached for God, in dozens of languages, in hundreds of countries. The words they whispered were newborn and yet as familiar to them as their own voices… ancient truths… imprinted on the soul.

The consonance felt eternal.

As the silence lifted, the joyous strains of singing began to rise again.

He knew the moment had come.

Most Holy Trinity, I offer Thee the most precious Body, Blood, Soul… in reparation for the outrages, sacrileges, and indifferences…

The camerlegno already felt the physical pain setting in. It was spreading across his skin like a plague, making him want to claw at his flesh like he had weeks ago when God had first come to him. Do not forget what pain Jesus endured. He could taste the fumes now in his throat. Not even the morphine could dull the bite.

My work here is done.

The Horror was his. The Hope was theirs.

In the Niche of the Palliums, the camerlegno had followed God’s will and anointed his body. His hair. His face. His linen robe. His flesh. He was soaking now with the sacred, vitreous oils from the lamps. They smelled sweet like his mother, but they burned. His would be a merciful ascension. Miraculous and swift. And he would leave behind not scandal… but a new strength and wonder.

He slipped his hand into the pocket of his robe and fingered the small, golden lighter he had brought with him from the Pallium incendiario.

He whispered a verse from Judgments. And when the flame went up toward heaven, the angel of the Lord ascended in the flame.

He positioned his thumb.

They were singing in St. Peter’s Square…

The vision the world witnessed no one would ever forget.

High above on the balcony, like a soul tearing free of its corporeal restrains, a luminous pyre of flame erupted from the camerlegno’s center. The fire shot upward, engulfing his entire body instantly. He did not scream. He raised his arms over his head and looked toward heaven. The conflagration roared around him, entirely shrouding his body in a column of light. It raged for what seemed like an eternity, the whole world bearing witness. The light flared brighter and brighter. Then, gradually, the flames dissipated. The camerlegno was gone. Whether he had collapsed behind the balustrade or evaporated into thin air was impossible to tell. All that was left was a cloud of smoke spiraling skyward over Vatican City.

135

Dawn came late to Rome.

An early rainstorm had washed the crowds from St. Peter’s Square. The media stayed on, huddling under umbrellas and in vans, commentating on the evening’s events. Across the world, churches overflowed. It was a time of reflection and discussion… in all religions. Questions abounded, and yet the answers seemed only to bring deeper questions. Thus far, the Vatican had remained silent, issuing no statement whatsoever.

Deep in the Vatican Grottoes, Cardinal Mortati knelt alone before the open sarcophagus. He reached in and closed the old man’s blackened mouth. His Holiness looked peaceful now. In quiet repose for eternity.