TRILOGY: Bk I, Ch 35 (Jackass for the Hour)

“Takbīr!” … “Allāhu akbar!”

“She’s gorgeous!”, exclaimed Eliyahu, gaping. “Who is she?” he asked, pointing, as if everyone had to know everyone for his benefit. His commander watched with him as she nimbly worked her way through those in the crowd who were leaving the Paul VI Audience Hall, almost dancing though them, though with a marked sorrow. She was quickly going to the gate next to the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. The reporters and most of the crowd had remained inside, hoping to see the Pope return to answer their questions. Eliyahu himself could not ask her who she was since he was again under discretionary custody of his commander. They, with another soldier, remained off to the side.

“I’m not sure,” his Commander finally replied. “Probably a refugee turned prostitute from the looks of her,” he lied, wanting Eliyahu to be shaken from a moment of romance that was surreal, given the circumstances. But it was all too real for Eliyahu, who was busy watching her until she finally disappeared in the crowd. “What I do know is that I’ve seen her showing up at important events, again and again.” Feeling guilty for his remark, he glanced over to Eliyahu and said, “I’ll find out.” With that he turned to one of the soldiers accompanying him, whispering to him that he was to follow her and find out everything about her, but without making himself known. Eliyahu didn’t hear this. The soldier, who had purposely been out of uniform, immediately went in the opposite direction, leaving Vatican City behind Santa Marta, putting some tactical distance between himself and his prey. As he did so, the Commander phoned the Swiss Guard at the gate next to the Holy Office, telling them to delay her for no more than three minutes.

•••—•••—•••

Pope Tsur-Ēzer, Cardinal Elzevir, Monsignor Sens and the usual assistants came out onto the central loggia of the façade of the Basilica. The piazza was already filled to overflowing, even without the reporters and most of the crowd in the Audience Hall, who were only now figuring out that the Pope was not going to return to answer their questions. Some of the crowd in the piazza had gathered for the Pontiff’s special catechesis which he had been giving nightly from the first day of the trial. But the crowd was becoming dangeorusly large as people poured into the piazza, having just heard the stunning verdict and sentencing concluding the trial. No one clapped when they saw the Holy Father. They were stunned at what had just happened, and were looking for an explanation. In order to encourage the crowd to calm down, the Holy Father began singing a hymn typically sung during candlelight processions at the larger Marian shrines. Many in the crowd joined in the refrain, at first weakly, but then with growing strength: “Ave, ave, ave Maria. Ave, ave, ave Maria.” The Sun was just going down behind the Basilica, looking as if it was setting the thin clouds overhead on fire, the flames of which seemed to fill the windows inside the dome high above the Pontiff. Most of the piazza, in stark contrast, was in bathed in the shadows of dusk.

Ermenagildo and Ernesto were standing on their gray, plastic seats, only three rows from the first row of seats that faced the barricaded security zone, which was itself in front of the shell-like, stepped ramp immediately below the Basilica. Ernesto was next to another wooden barricade to his right, part of a security path that divided sections of the crowd to the left and right of the centre of the piazza. Two security guards flanked the first row of seats, only a metre away from Ernesto. The guards could hardly be blamed for having their backs to the crowd, looking to the new Pope. This inadvertance would give Ernesto the chance to race past them, giving him a head start.

Ermenagildo whispered, “Takbīr!” to which Ernesto quietly replied: “Allāhu akbar!” The head of the terrorist cell calmly unzipped what looked like a leather case attached to his belt. It contained two epipens, which had been allowed into the piazza after he showed the security guards a letter from his ‘doctor’. The security people were now on their highest alert, and they did not want to take any chances. Ermenagildo took one and jammed it into a tennis ball Ernesto had been able to bring into the piazza, for they had decorated the ball to look like a toy bearing the face of the newly elected Pope. They had also cut the ball in such a way that, if any pressure were to put on the ball, the air inside it would be forced out. Ermenagildo quickly repeated the injection with the other epipen, though only a few micrograms were needed. He gave the ball to his convert.

Ernesto, receiving the tennis ball, took a deep breath and went into action. Since everyone was standing on their seats, all he had to do was put his foot up on the waist high wooden barricade and bound over the heads of the security guards in the open space in front of the stepped ramp leading up to the Basilica. He did this, yelling “Allāhu akbar!” and continued yelling as he vaulted himself over the second barricade and started up the stepped ramp before the guards could react. He had practised what he had done thousands of times outside of Rome. He knew he was being pursued and would just be able to throw the ball before being tackled by the guards. To practise, other cell members pretended to be guards, tackling him if they caught him before he threw the ball, or threw it unsuccessfully. Now, on the top of the stepped ramp, still running toward the Basilica, Ernesto threw the ball, perfectly.

No one in the loggia noticed what was happening below. The Pope was looking to the heavens. He alone saw, and would continue to see for the following days, what padre Emet had painted so many weeks before: Saint Michael was wielding his sword toward Vatican City, toward the loggia of the Basilica, toward an exemplar of all that was wrong among some members of the Church, toward Monsignor Sens, who was next to the Pope. The transparent sword of God’s fire went right through him. Monsignor Sens was no better or worse than so many others, making him an especially appropriate example of what can happen to those who are neither hot nor cold. Saint Michael then held the sword up to the heavens.

Monsignor Sens, content with himself, as if the heavens owed him everything, as if he himself had just acquired the world – like so many others – had thrown back his head, looking to the heavens, opening his mouth to join in the refrain of the hymn. It was one of the last moments he would spend on earth. Ernesto now saw that he had incorrectly gauged the strength of the breeze and the tennis ball hit Monsignor Sens in the face. This pressure on the ball caused its cargo of deadly liquid to be forced onto his face and cassock. Monsignor Sens fell back, not because of the force of the throw, but because of the surprise. Just as he fell, Ernesto himself was tackled by the security guards. The Pope disappeared behind the balustrade, wanting to see what had happened to Monsignor Sens. Many in the piazza screamed, thinking that they had witnessed an attack on the Holy Father.

“Disgusting!” the Holy Father said out loud.

The fumes from the bit of liquid on Monsignor Sens made him cough. He looked at the tennis ball, decorated to look like the Pope, and knew it was some sort of bioterrorist attack. He grabbed the ball and ran from the loggia. He did something for others in his last hours of life.

The Holy Father added another verse to the hymn, calming the crowd down. They joined more vigorously in the refrain while they applauded with relief: “Ave, ave, ave Maria…” While the singing continued, the Pontiff was considering giving a different catechesis from the one he had prepared. Then, from the loggia, the Pontiff could see a commotion slowly moving through the crowd from the Bronze Doors over to the obelisk at the centre of the piazza, and knew this was Monsignor Sens. The Pope silently recited the exorcism written on the obelisk on behalf of the whole Church, “Ecce crux Domini. Fugite partes adversæ. Vicit Leo de tribu Iuda.”

Monsignor Sens had forgotten about the tennis ball in his hand as he arrived at the obelisk. The only thing he wanted to do was get a drink at one of the fountains there. His coughing was intensifying. He was almost knocked over, however, by a large group of police who were dragging Ernesto out of the piazza. Ernesto saw him with the tennis ball and laughed hysterically, shouting, “See you at the judgment. Allāhu akbar!” The police confiscated the ball.

By now, the American government knew what had been taken from Plum Island, but told no one. There was no antidote and, for all they knew, what was taken had been destroyed with the barge. Even Ermenegildo did not know what the substance was, except that it was deadly. The scientists at the bioterrorism research facility had been experimenting with smallpox, exponentially cutting the incubation time by forcing the virus to melt through its own protective membrane upon contact with human mucous membranes, which would themselves be instanteously destroyed as if with an acid, regardless of outside temperature. Experimentation with the activity of polymers came from their work with avian influenza. They had intended to make progress in finding a true immunization, but, to this point, only succeeded in creating what would be a hyperbolic progress of disease in some individuals, depending on, of all things, how their diet that day changed the quality of the mucous membranes themselves. Some would die, some would not.

Monsignor Sens tried to drink from the southeast water fountain next to the obelisk – one of the four fountains representing the four rivers of the Garden of Eden – but he could not. He was coughing too much. He leaned against one of the small stone pylons circling the obelisk and fountains at the point of sud sud est, where what he considered to be the Australian winds blow hardest, the austro scirocco mapped out on the piazza. He looked up at the statue of Saint Michael on top of Castel Sant’Angelo and prayed a Hail Mary for Father Alexámenos, who, he thought, would soon be dead. But even while Christ’s mercy had touched Monsignor Sens as he himself started to die, the words of the Holy Father about the vengeance of the heavens were coming true, for mercy and justice could not but coexist.

Monsignor Sens tried to drink again, only to spit the water out, noting, to his horror, the blood in his spittle. “These aren’t the symptoms of bird flu,” he reckoned out loud, completely oblivious to the spectacle he was making of himself. He was madly trying to control his coughing.

The Holy Father had begun to give his catechesis. Monsignor Sens tried to listen, though, at the beginning, he only half heard what was said through the cloud of fear enveloping him. The Holy Father’s catechesis that evening was broadcast all over the world on account of the coverage that was being given to the trial. He began his talk by recounting the epidemic which hit Lisbon in the year 1432. People tried to run away, but only succeeding in spreading the virus as fast as they or their donkeys or horses could go. They only had a few hours before they would drop down wherever they happened to be, too sick to move. They soon died, only to be left unburied by anyone still alive. Those dead in the streets and fields and byways and shops included priests and nuns, doctors and nurses, rich and poor, those in the city and those in the country. Some of the corpses were eaten by dogs, which also died. The bishop, Andre Dias, was fearless, going among the people, encouraging them to call on the Holy Name of Jesus. When the people took his advice, the epidemic stopped, and those who were sick and dying recovered.

The Pontiff explained the humility which was to accompany the usage of the Holy Name of Jesus, for it was not a superstition, but a prayer humbly asking for salvation. He explained that Jesus, in Hebrew, means Saviour, and that Jesus first of all saves us from sin. He then spoke of the Sacrament of Confession, explaining the act of contrition, being sorry for one’s sins, and then that it was necessary, for a good Confession, to mention all grave sins and the number of times committed. He then spoke of the act of perfect contrition to be made especially when one was dying and there was no priest available for Confession. It involved being sorry for one’s sins for love of God, not just because one risked the loss of heaven to be left with the pains of hell.

After this, Pope Tsur-Ēzer gave a line by line explanation of Psalms 51(50) and 130(129), infuriating many ‘theologians’ and ‘exegetes’. This went on for almost an hour. Everyone was patiently waiting for the Pontiff to say something about the trial, but he said not a word.

By the end of the catechesis, Monsignor Sens had begun to listen intently, and had lost track of time, and even of the fact that he was sitting on the cobblestones below the fountain. He looked at his watch and shook his head. He knew he was already late to meet a friend visiting Rome for the first time at Stazione Termini. The afternoon session of the trial had thrown his schedule out for the day, he reasoned, trying not to think of his coughing fit, which was still continuing. He rose to his feet and tried to look down Via della Conciliazione, but could not. He could not see over the crowd. He thought there still might be a chance to get the 64 Bus, which was closer than the subway. He started to make his way through the crowd to the colonnade near the Holy Office.

The crowd was so heavy that it took Monsignor Sens a full ten minutes to make his way from the obelisk to the colonnade. As he arrived, all the reporters and others who had been in the Paul VI Audience Hall were starting to pour through the colonnade into the piazza just where he was, thousands upon thousands. The police did not let them come onto the piazza until the Pope had finished, for there was not room for the extra crush of people. The reporters knew that the Pope had not mentioned the trial, but were hoping that he would soon return and address the topic. Monsignor Sens was swept back into the piazza. Many of the reporters wanted to speak with him, for they recognised him – despite his now dishevelled look – as the member of the Secretariat of State who had sat at the table for the defence, but had nonetheless condemned Father Alexámenos. Monsignor Sens eventually made his way again to the colonnade, hoping to go on to the front of the Holy Office and then to the 64 Bus. He never stopped coughing. Many of those who had been near Ermenagildo, Ernesto and Monsignor Sens also started to cough. Their breath, carried on the breeze, infected those around them.

Monsignor Sens passed many soldiers near the Holy Office who watched him closely. They were under strict orders – since governments were now treating bird flu as a serious threat – to ‘remove’ anyone who was demonstrating signs of illness. The measures were to be applied to everyone but diplomats. They saw that he was sick, but they could not act. They could not have cared less. They were convinced that the bird flu hysteria over the past years was driven by pharmaceutical companies. The disease had fits and starts of person-to-person contact, all of which had been put down with swift violence, the reality of the ‘quarantines’ established by the governments involved. Many people were dying, however, just because of close contact with birds right around the world. Monsignor Sens finally entered the bus, which was, as usual, tightly packed.

•••—•••—•••

The Swiss Guards had already brought Father Alexámenos to Castel Sant’Angelo along the normal route inside of the passetto high above the city streets. Don Hash had reached the fortress a quarter of an hour before their arrival. He waited in vain in the newly renovated Papal Apartment at the top of Hadrian’s funerary monument. Father Alexámenos would never arrive. Instead, after locking the massive doors to the passetto, they brought Father Alexámenos up the circular staircase leading up to the top of the exterior wall of the fortress, bringing him to the left all the way to the river side of the monument, just past Bastione Giovanni, where a small metal bridge for the tourists brought them into the fortress itself. However, instead of heading straight up the internal staircase, or going to the left down the interior, circular ramp, one of the guards, their Captain, unexpectedly took out a gun and shot the padlock on the interior door of the Swiss Guards’ room, which was part of the museum exhibit, dating back to the sixteenth century. The unexpected noise of the gun made the other guards take cover, only to be reprimanded by their Captain as he shoved Father Alexámenos into the tiny room and locked the exterior, wooden doors by sliding its metal bar into place. The other guards just stared at the Captain. “Look,” he explained to them, “he’s a dead man. If people want to kill him this Friday, that’s up to them. We’ve done our job if we hide him out of the way for the next few days. There’s no use putting him in the Papal Apartment, where we might have to defend him with our own lives…” They again stared at him blankly. “He’s already dead,” the Captain insisted.

Before an hour went by, don Hash started to look for Father Alexámenos. Not finding him anywhere, and thinking that he had been detained for some reason, don Hash tried to leave the fortress, only to find it locked tight with no guards on duty. Without knowing it, he had walked right past Father Alexámenos. He bounded up the steps of the external wall to try to find a way out. This he found immediately at Bastione Giovanni, a small rampart to the right-front side of the Monument, if one looked at it from the river. He jumped onto the top of its wall from between the battlemented parapets above. From there, he climbed down to the ground using the lightning rod grounding cable.

•••—•••—•••

Monsignor Sens infected many on the bus between the Vatican and the main train station, Stazione Termini, for, as it was often necessary to do, he had entered the bus through the exit door in the middle of the bus. By the time they finished their journey almost thirty minutes later, Monsignor Sens was sweating heavily, feeling vertiginous. He made his way into the station, walking through its length and breadth on both upper and lower levels, looking for his friend, but could not find him anywhere. He walked all the way down along the right side of the tracks until he came to the Airport Shuttle Train, which was just pulling in. He walked up and down through the arriving and departing passengers. He still couldn’t find his friend. Anyone who came near his respiration, even after it had completely evaporated, was being infected. The only places he had not been were the upper decks of the book store and a hamburger restaurant in the station, where, finally, he found his friend finishing the last of his meal.

Though he was not feeling well, Monsignor Sens thought eating might help, forgetting that he had been unsuccessful even in drinking water. He asked his friend to get him a hamburger while he rested, and continued to cough. By the time his friend returned it had been more than three hours since he was first infected. He tried to eat, but then started to cough up blood, and convulse. He fell to his knees, vomiting blood under the table, in which he fell, exhausted. His friend, not knowing any better, screamed, “He’s got bird flu!” His friend abandoned him, only to meet the same fate some hours later. His name was… never to be known… since, by the next day, many were dead in the streets and parks. At daybreak, the emergency sirens of the city began a continuous warning that would not stop for days. The mayor of Rome requested that the military pick up the corpses and secure the city perimeter, using the ring road, the Grande Raccordo Anulare. Entering or leaving the city was declared a capital crime to be punished by summary execution according to the exigencies of martial law.

•••—•••—•••

Father Alexámenos had fallen asleep after the departure of the Swiss Guards. When he woke early the next day, he thought he had already been praying, not with words, but by having been at the gates of eternity. He thanked the Lord. He had no idea what was taking place outside his prison.

Father Alexámenos was sitting against the wooden doors with his knees drawn up to his chest, trying to conserve his body heat, this time successfully. He let his mind drift over the prayers of the Mass, and did his best to make a spiritual communion. While this prayer in Charity with the Most Holy Trinity continued, Father Alexámenos heard feathers and wings beating the air just outside the tiny window of his new cell. He looked up to see a large raven now busy trying to break the thin glass with its heavy beak.

•••—•••—•••

It was early on Tuesday morning, before sunrise, when Pope Tsur-Ēzer left the Vatican and walked along the river until he came to Tiber Island. He crossed Ponte Castio to reach the island, and was passing by the image of Saint John of God. Rabbi Shelomoh, who was also a medical doctor, was crossing Ponte Fabricio on the far side of the river, having the same idea as the Pontiff. The Rabbi, having seen the Holy Father as he himself passed by Madonna della lampada al Tevere, spoke his greetings without raising his voice – for that was not needed, as it was so deathly quiet – saying, “Peace to you, my brother!” to which greeting the response of the Holy Father was, “Also to you, my brother, forever and ever!”

The Pope wore a black cassock and a hat pulled down low over his head so that he wouldn’t be a distraction to anyone on the streets, but could, instead, be of real service. He thought Tiber Island might be more in need of volunteers than the other hospitals, including those surrounding the Vatican, surmising that the religious institutions surrounding the Vatican would take care of any patients there. Pope Tsur-Ēzer returned to the Vatican only for the Chrism Mass and the Mass of the Lord’s Supper, In Cena Domini, otherwise offering Mass in the church of the “new martyrs,” Saint Bartholomew, on Tiber Island. The Pontiff worked with Rabbi Shelomoh for the next three days for all the sick on the island, with the Pope taking direction from the Rabbi, deferring to his medical expertise. Both wore surgical masks, which were useless against the virus because of what they had been eating or, more precisely, not eating; they could not be infected.

•••—•••—•••

The quarantine had already been abandoned by the second day. It was discovered that the disease had already spread throughout the world through the airports. People were dying within a day of having contracted it, though some died within a number of hours. Early on, reports of people being shot for having escaped quarantine only made people afraid to report that they were sick. Most people in Rome, as elsewhere, were cowering in their buildings, hoping they had enough food and water to last out the crisis. The hysteria was such that corpses were thrown out from the windows and left in the street for the soldiers to pick up. This threatened to bring on a wake of other diseases. Not all of the ‘corpses’ were dead, however, as people were more afraid of those who were living and sick than those who had already died. Fear unveiled the ruthlessness of some people. Those responsible for civil protection, energy, water and communications, were almost as vulnerable as everyone else, as was immedately made obvious by sudden cuts in essential services. The only difference was their recent training in how to avoid contact with the general population and with each other during a pandemic. Medical personnel, however, remained particularly susceptible.

The corpses of priests and religious were also thrown from the windows of their institutions, which were on almost every street in Rome. Some, however, had not died inside their buildings. Some met their end heroically, trying to do something for the sick and dying, giving them the Last Rites, or helping them prepare for the next life. Stoles were still around the necks of the dead priests. They were the best of the lot, and, now, most of them were dead as well.

The disease was, in each person, the same and different, not so much that it was a different disease, but always diverse enough that the malady ripping through each person was relative only to itself, seeking to conform other victims to itself, but succeeding only in changing in others… being similar in the death that it would bring. It acted like sin.

Both the good and the evil died, without distinction, though not as blind fate. Death was an occasion for the good to become better, as well as for the evil to manifest who they were. It was also a merciful occasion for conversion, without which many would not make it to heaven, which should have been, for each person, of sole importance.

•••—•••—•••

For three days, don Hash had been helping the sick along Via della Conciliazione and Piazza San Pietro, into which so many had come, looking for the Sacraments and wanting to storm heaven with prayer. He couldn’t find anyone who knew the whereabouts of Father Alexámenos. Padre Emet wasn’t to be found, and, for the first days, there had been talk that the Holy Father had succumbed to the disease. At the beginning of the crisis, the Pope had directed that the little food in Vatican City was to be distributed to those who were in the piazza without making them wait in line, simply giving it to them as they sat in groups. The sound system in the piazza was powered by generators, and was broadcasting prayers and hymns. There was plenty of fuel in Vatican City itself.

Don Hash had not given up on finding Father Alexámenos. The few Swiss Guards that he had been able to question during these days either didn’t know his whereabouts or, it seemed to him, were being evasive. If they had failed to protect him until the day of his execution, they could have made the excuse that he had died from the disease and had already been tossed into the river just outside the main doors of Castel Sant’Angelo. But they didn’t. If he was still imprisoned, he thought, it might be his third day without food or water, depending on where they had him. It finally struck don Hash to go to Porta Sant’Anna of Vatican City and enter the first door on the left, the barracks of the Swiss Guard, thinking he would find a guard there who would know Father Alexámenos’ whereabouts. The first guard he met was in the very modern chapel. He was the Captain. “Where’s Father Alexámenos?” asked don Hash.

“Why worry about him with the crisis we have going on now?” asked the Captain, aggravated, busy zipping shut a body bag enclosing one of his dead guards.

“Why can’t you answer?” pressed don Hash.

The Captain turned to him and, not wanting to be tricked out of any information, said: “It seems to me that you were due to meet him soon enough, friend. If he is still alive, you will.”

Don Hash asked: “What do you mean if he is still alive? Don’t you know?”

The Captain, knowing he said too much, repeated himself as if to say that nothing should be implied from his words: “You seem too eager to know where he is, either to kill him ahead of time – if he is still alive – or to hide him away. Don’t tell me we need to detain you too, Father.”

With that, don Hash turned to leave, followed by the laughter of the Captain, who then turned to finish his task of closing the body bag, sighing. Don Hash realized the Captain was right, and that he had been a fool to ask him. He left the barracks and went from Porta Sant’Anna to the passetto, along which he walked until he came to Castel Sant’Angelo. He made his way to the river and walked over to Ponte Sant’Angelo, half expecting to see the body of Father Alexámenos tossed over the flood walls next to the bridge.

A street beggar was sitting on the footpath just to the right side of the bridge, facing Castel Sant’Angelo. He had his back against the pedestal of the statue of the angel who was carrying a depiction of the spear which was used to pierce Christ’s Heart just after He died on the Cross. The inscription read: VVLNERASTI COR MEVM – “You have peirced my heart.” Don Hash did not know that the street beggar was Signor Kondrat, a friend of Father Alexámenos, though he remembered having given him some food in piazza San Pietro that morning. The amputated hand and foot were unmistakable. The man started to sing, as he always did, choosing his words according to the type of person with whom he was dealing. “When you, at last, feel tired, and it seems useless to go on…” he began, completely out of tune. He was not getting any reaction from don Hash as he looked over the flood wall at the banks of the river far below. It was already dusk, but among the dozens of corpses which don Hash could see had been tossed over the wall, none was Father Alexámenos. As don Hash passed near Signor Kondrat to look down on the other side of the bridge, the singing continued: “You go, tracing a path; another will follow you…” Since he was not getting any reaction out of don Hash, Signor Kondrat raised his voice with the refrain: “While life marches on, you are never alone: Holy Mary of the Way will always be with you.” Seeing don Hash distraught at seeing so many corpses – though none were Father Alexámenos – Signor Kondrat spoke the last words with a tone of encouragement: “Will always be with you.”

Don Hash was passing directly in front of Signor Kondrat, fully intending to cross to the other side of the river to check the corpses he saw were there, but stopped and raised his eyes to heaven, repeating the last words of the first prayer he knew as a child as a response to the singing: “In the hour of our death. Amen.”

“Amen!” exclaimed Signor Kondrat, ‘seeing’, in his near deafness, that don Hash’s words were a prayer. His enthusiasm shattered don Hash’s stupor. Beggars usually remained invisible to those around them, but don Hash now looked at him. The beggar, instead, was holding the end of his crutch up to his eye with his one hand, resting the far side of the crutch on the knee of his good leg. He seemed to be pretending that the crutch was a telescope, and that he was intently looking at Castel Sant’Angelo, directly opposite him on the other side of the street. Don Hash was sorry that he had no more food to give to him, and started to move on when Signor Kondrat, without moving the ‘telescope’ from his eye, insisted with a sharp tone of voice: “You go, tracing a path; another will follow you…” Don Hash did not stop, but wondered what the beggar was trying to communicate to him. Signor Kondrat, never lowering his crutch from his eye, said with anger: “If only you were a jackass! But you’re acting like Balaam. You have to know that I’m tracing your path.”

Don Hash stopped dead, finally recognizing that if Signor Kondrat wasn’t an angel of God, he was surely speaking for a heavenly messenger. Don Hash confessed his blindness according to the words of the beggar: “If only I were a jackass, but I’m nothing other than the false prophet, Balaam, refusing to go on the path indicated to me by the Lord.”

Signor Kondrat, with the wisdom only street beggars have, knew that he could not simply tell don Hash where Father Alexámenos was. He was, after all, ‘only’ a beggar.

Don Hash sat down next to Signor Kondrat, who was looking along his ‘telescope’ stubbornly. Don Hash put his face close to that of the beggar, and peered along the length of the crutch. Don Hash instantly jumped to his feet and would have run toward Castle Sant’Angelo, but before he could take a step, Signor Kondrat had tripped him with his crutch with swift violence. Don Hash looked at him from the pavement, bewildered, but saw that the beggar was already looking down his crutch at Castel Sant’Angelo. Don Hash sat down again – despite the stench emanating from the beggar – and peered along the crutch, this time seeing nothing more than a nondescript section of the external wall. Don Hash looked at him, searching for an explanation. The beggar, instead, continued to look at that patch of the wall, deadly serious. Don Hash looked along the length of the crutch again, and understood. He rose to his feet, this time backing away from Signor Kondrat. After a few seconds, he turned around to run to the fortress. When he had crossed the road, he turned to thank the beggar, who was, however, already half-way across the bridge. He had done his work. “Thank you, Lord,” don Hash said quietly, struck by the Lord’s providence. He did not know that many of the poor, who were humble, knew this providence on a daily basis.

Don Hash walked to the corner of Bastione Giovanni, looking up at what the beggar had aimed his crutch. He could see the end of the sash of the cassock that Father Alexámenos was in the habit of wearing. It was unique, having a fleur-de-lys emblem on one end and the Cœur Sacré on the other, in honour of the Acadian heritage of his adoptive family.

Don Hash quickly climbed up the lightning rod cable, down though the inner garden of the Bastione, and then up to the top of the battlemented parapet closest to the corner tower. There was, then, just a short jump down to the walkway on the other side of the exterior wall. Grabbing the sash lying across one of the openings between the parapets, he made his way to the metal bridge and into the Fortress. He was sure Father Alexámenos had left it there as a sign of where he was while being brought by the Swiss Guards to his final imprisonment. Don Hash crossed the bridge and saw what he was fully expecting to see, a room at which the beggar seemed to have aimed his crutch, though it could not be seen from street level because of the exterior wall. It was the room of the Swiss Guard. Don Hash kicked the door three times and twice again, exclaiming, “Ils l’ont…” There was no response. “Ils l’ont…” he repeated. Nothing. Don Hash felt certain Father Alexámenos was alive after the experience he had with the beggar, and didn’t feel sorry for him in the least. He was, after all, alive, unlike so many people outside. He unbolted the doors and shoved them open. Father Alexámenos was on the floor, looking as dead as the corpses along the river. Undeterred, and forgetting that the ribs of Father Alexámenos had not yet healed, he lightly kicked him.

Father Alexámenos, reaching for his ribs, weakly responded, “…découronné. But Satan’s crime, wrought through his earthly minions, wasn’t stripping Christ of a crown of divine rule, but of attempting to remove the crown from the Lord’s princes, the crown of thorns that should spiritually be worn by all those who are to fulfil what lacks to the sufferings of Christ.

“Sorry about the ribs,” said don Hash. “I forgot.” Don Hash couldn’t offer his hand to Father Alexámenos to help him up since Father Alexámenos’ hands were not healed either, so he sat down and waited, dropping the fleur-de-lys/Cœur Sacré sash on him and saying, “You must be hungry.”

“Thirsty,” he replied. “Except for today, I have been feasting on Panis angelorum.”

“The Bread of the Angels awaits us now,” replied don Hash, puzzled as to his reference to the Holy Eucharist, and wanting to offer the Mass for Holy Thursday evening, In cena Domini. It was now night, and the Mass would be nearing completion elsewhere.

Father Alexámenos did not recount the visit of the raven. After it had broken the little window two days before, cawing loudly with its accomplishment, it flew off, only to return within minutes. Father Alexámenos was sitting with his back against the door, knees drawn close. The raven flew into the tiny room, landing on his knees, holding something in its mouth. Father Alexámenos knew that it could only be one thing, a Communion Host dropped by a thoughtless tourist at the Palm Sunday Mass in Piazza San Pietro. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed. Just as he said “God”, the raven deposited the Host in his mouth and flew away. The same thing happened the next morning. Father Alexámenos called to mind the ravens which fed the prophet Elijah before he was to slaughter the eight hundred and fifty prophets of Baal and Asherah on Mount Carmel.

“Did you renew the promises of your ordination at the Chrism Mass this morning?” asked Father Alexámenos, still unaware of what was happening in the whole world with the pandemic. “I did my best from here,” he added.

“I did the best I could in the circumstances,” don Hash replied.

“Arise, let us be going,” said Father Alexámenos, getting up at last.

These words cut into don Hash’s heart. He continued a paraphrase of Christ’s words in Gethsemane, “Behold, the betrayer has arrived.” Father Alexámenos looked at him curiously.

“It’s so easy to get in and out of here now that the Italians have made this into a museum,” said don Hash. “I have to wonder why you were put here. You were an easy target.”

They walked directly up the steps outside the Swiss Guards’ room until they came to the top of Castel Sant’Angelo, where they stopped in the abandoned restaurant to get some water for Father Alexámenos. As he was drinking, don Hash said, “It was a bit mindless for them to leave you without any food or water.”

“If it’s the Swiss Guard you are talking about, don’t worry about them,” said Father Alexámenos. “They will die without hesitation if the cause is right. Many of them gave their lives in the past to protect the Holy Father. They’re great.”

“I know, I know…” said don Hash, regretting his words. “They’ve been giving the best example of anyone these past few days.”

“How’s that?” asked Father Alexámenos.

Don Hash brought Father Alexámenos up to date on the mysterious pandemic and how the Swiss Guard had selflessly put themselves in harm’s way to be of service. Word of mouth made it seem like half the city had died, and that there would most likely never be an official count, not with the numbers who had died, and not with the way the military would be disposing of the corpses. The stench of death was everywhere in the world. The spread of the disease had been almost instantaneous. By the third day, there was nowhere that it had not reached.

They then went to the chapel that had been prepared for the use of Father Alexámenos’ earlier imprisonment, and don Hash helped Father Alexámenos to vest for the Mass. “You are due to be executed tomorrow,” said don Hash, uselessly.

“Maybe. If so, know that I don’t hold you responsible. I know you’re up to something… but I will just watch it unfold. It is the Lord Who knows all things, sees all things, provides or permits all things, all for our own good. I don’t even want to know what it is you are up to.”

Don Hash did not respond to this except to swallow hard.

After the Gospel, Father Alexámenos spoke briefly, knowing that it might well be the last time he would offer the Holy Sacrifice. He knew don Hash would understand if he used these words as a kind of Last Will and Testament. He spoke with fire about the priesthood, the Eucharist, the Sacrifice of the Mass as the Marriage of Christ with the Church… what he had been praying about during these three days. He then explained the washing of the feet as he had heard it from Eliyahu some weeks before, and then set about washing the feet of don Hash, as is the custom on Holy Thursday evening in imitation of Christ at the Last Supper. Don Hash getting his feet washed was especially poignant, for he seemed to be taking the place of Judas, not of Peter or the other Apostles.

After the Mass, don Hash took the box of large wooden matches next to the altar and shoved it into his back pocket. Father Alexámenos saw this, but didn’t say anything.

Don Hash turned on a minuscule digital radio which he had on his key chain. There was only one station broadcasting in the Rome area, a special military frequency activated only in emergencies. There was only one story: “This will be the fourth night of the pandemic. The military has mandated a shoot-to-kill curfew for the night-time hours, tomorrow and at the weekend.”

“Never mind that,” said don Hash. “That can’t stop us from doing something for people who are being thrown out onto the street to die. We should be there to provide them with the Sacraments. I know just what to do. Follow me.” He tossed a violet stole to Father Alexámenos, taking one for himself. “Don’t take it off,” he said. “It may stop you from getting shot.”

Don Hash went into the Museum of the Swiss Guard and took the Papal Flag on its short pole and tossed it to Father Alexámenos, keeping the flag of the Swiss Guard for himself. They then returned to the restaurant, but they only found some prepackaged snacks, which Father Alexámenos, nevertheless, ate in an attempt to regain some energy, drinking much more water. Don Hash ripped a white towel in half lengthwise and then tied these to the tops of the flag poles.

They made their way down through the fortress, went past the Swiss Guards’ room, over the bridge and across to Bastione Giovanni. Before they arrived, don Hash, leading the way, turned around and took the flag carried by Father Alexámenos and then tossed both flags over the wall to the street far below. He then went a few more paces, looked over the wall and said, “After you!” He was cupping his hands together in front of his waist, ready to boost Father Alexámenos up between the battlemented parapets just above the lower wall of the Bastione. In an instant Father Alexámenos was up and over the wall, sliding down to the top of the lower, metre-wide wall a few metres below, judging, as he was falling, that there was no room for error. Falling the rest of the way to the street below would risk broken bones or death. He landed on his feet, bounding ahead and turning around just in time to see don Hash landing on the top of this lower wall, only to fall over the side to the street. Father Alexámenos gasped, not seeing him, but neither did he hear a body hitting the pavement below. He walked along the top of the wall, knelt down and peered over. “Do you have a ticket?” asked don Hash. “Your hands aren’t healed enough for you to go on your own.” He was hanging on to the thick cable of the lighting rod.

“What a jackass!” exclaimed Father Alexámenos, laughing. “You are such a jackass!”

Descending only took some seconds. When they were two thirds of the way down, Father Alexámenos jumped the rest of the way, followed immediately by don Hash. They grabbed the flags and went through the streets of Rome, looking for someone still alive.

It wasn’t reckless abandon for them to go among the sick, though such Charity was often described like that by all of those who, ironically, ideologically insisted that religion, in having people look to the heavens, was the opiate of the people. Instead, the priests knew that the more one looked to the heavens, and the more one saw the face of Christ in one’s neighbour – along with any need that neighbour might have – that was how much more one simply had to fulfill such a need as if it were one’s own, for, in some real way, in Christ’s Mystical Body, that need was one’s own need.

Just before they went across the river over Ponte Sant’Angelo, don Hash stopped at the statue of the angel with the spear and looked at the place where Signor Kondrat had been sitting with his crutch. Father Alexámenos asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing… Well…” began don Hash. “It just seems to me the good angels, real angels of light, do appear once in a while in all their glory, as I suppose Gabriel did to Daniel or, later, to the Virgin Mary, but I think that, most of the time, they appear in a most desperate form.”

“You learn quickly,” said Father Alexámenos. “God is good.”

“God is so, so very good,” said don Hash.

==================

Chapter 36 coming soon…

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© 2007-2008 Renzo di Lorenzo — All rights reserved

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