The Hammer of God v-2 Page 13

  “We’re being followed,” said Thorne, turning at the first corner she came to, gunning the engine.

  Robert pulled his gun. “Let them catch up,” he said. “Slow down enough for me to hop out.”

  Thorne took the next left, increased her speed, then abruptly slowed down. The car behind them jammed on the brakes. Robert rolled out low to the ground and came up pointing his gun at the driver’s head. Father Kong.

  Robert holstered his weapon. The priest jumped out and ran over.

  Thorne got out and joined them.

  “Sorry I startled you,” said Father Kong. “Cardinal Maximilian wants you to come to the airport immediately. You leave for Rome, tonight.”

  27

  F ather Tolbert rolled a standard gray, two-tier cart, down a long, cold hallway in the Vatican Library, under the effervescent glow of ultra-soft fluorescent lights. The cart didn’t carry nineteen-inch televisions, DVD players, videotape players or overhead projectors that the children pushed at several middle schools he headed in Boston and Cleveland.

  The cart he pushed contained soft brushes, opaline powder for cleaning delicate paintings, a low suction water vacuum for drawing mold out of the air, and a broad array of additional tools of the trade for cleaning precious Vatican treasures, including cotton gloves, acid-free, lignin-free folders and tissue, buffered boxes and folders that contained alkaline reserves for storage of severely degraded manuscripts and Mylar envelopes.

  His assignment, one he found especially gratifying, was to help prepare rare manuscripts, Vatican heirlooms, artifacts, and selected frescoes and artwork from the Renaissance, for a Library of Congress exhibit in Washington D.C. He’d been charged with cleaning picture frames, vacuum containers, and packing crates which would house delicate antique pieces worth hundreds of millions of dollars, including an exquisite print of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, Henry VIII’s love letters to Anne Boleyn, Latin and Greek copies of Homer’s Iliad, the first Latin translation of the complete corpus of treatise ascribed to Hippocrates, and so many more he could barely contain himself.

  Father Tolbert opened the door to a living room sized, dust-free storage closet, and parked the cart in a reserved space near the back wall.

  He’d been working since five a.m., and eagerly completed his six hour stint. Monsignor Roberto Baggio, overseeing the exhibit, didn’t allow shifts of more than six hours, with ten minute breaks per hour, to ensure that mistakes were kept to a minimum.

  Father Tolbert changed clothes in a basement locker room, dropped off his overalls and smock for laundering, spent thirty minutes in prayer in a small chamber for that purpose, and headed outside to take in the splendor and opulence of Vatican City, and look for a place to take his life.

  Working in the Vatican Library, a dream Father Tolbert never thought he’d realize, even with a Master’s Degree in Library Science from Northwestern University, gave him a temporary sense of ease and comfort that dissipated the moment he left the building. He counted it as a small victory to be so close to the historic remnants of the Renaissance, and the voluminous records of church progression and history. His past applications for a menial clerk position hadn’t amounted to so much as an honorable mention to the highbrow intellectuals who seemed to cherish the priceless treasures of the Vatican Archives more than the saints. For five years, steadfast and determined, he had applied for a foot in the door, and each time the rejection slips arrived in record time, as if they knew his application were coming and their response, sealed and stamped, had only needed to be dropped in the mail.

  Standing outside the library, Father Tolbert closed his eyes and momentarily soaked up the warmth of the noonday sun. The controlled environment inside the library, with its low humidity and dim lighting, was like working in a tomb, and the first moments outside a rebirth.

  He mounted the bicycle loaned to him by Father Marcus Johns, now away on an extended assignment in Kenya, and headed toward his first and favorite stop, Giardina del Vaticano, The Vatican Gardens.

  Father Tolbert absorbed the power and majesty that penetrated everything in Vatican City, from the architecture to the art, an intriguing mix of modern and Renaissance flavors that toyed with his senses, catapulting his to a bygone era, but constantly reminding him of the present, and more importantly, his task at hand, death.

  He guided his bike down Via Centrale del Bosco to the Vatican Radio Administration building, parked his bike and walked across the street to the Old Gardens. Nestled behind the spectacular landmark dome of San Pietro in Montorio, St. Peter’s Basilica, the garden grounds were once the location of Nero’s circus, where early Christians were martyred and St. Peter was crucified, upside down.

  Of all the gardens, which covered forty acres, including a formal Italian garden, a French garden filled with the most stunning flowers in the world, and a romantic replica of English landscape, Father Tolbert’s favorite was Campo Santo Teutonico, a walled enclosure just south of St.

  Peter’s Basilica. The garden, enclosed by a two-story, cantaloupe colored stucco wall, boasted a phenomenal horticultural delight of Canary Island palms, cedar of Lebanon, blooming oleander, and bay laurel.

  Throngs of tourists poured into the Vatican each year to take in the Holy See’s majesty, including the Vatican Gardens, but only dignitaries and VIPs were allowed into Campo Santo Teutonico. Father Tolbert knelt down under a sign that read, Teutons in pace, Germans in peace, and said a brief prayer. Inside, he found a spot on the ground and sat where earth, believed to be brought from Golgotha by St. Helena, was spread to unite the blood of Jesus with that which was shed by thousands of proto-martyrs, the first to die during the persecutions of Nero.

  Sitting there, on holy ground, Father Tolbert fought the contradicting forces that tortured in his soul. Being in the holy city energized his spirit, but the yearning of his flesh suppressed his attempts to rebound from the carnal degradation that enticed him to desire young boys.

  Alone in the garden, Father Tolbert begged God for relief. Instead, his mind wandered as it often did, to thoughts of Samuel. He remembered how comforting it felt to love the boy. How he connected with his own lost childhood by blending himself with a child. Decadent nourishment he craved and needed to stay alive. Something the world would never accept.

  Father Tolbert collapsed face first in the dirt, clawing the earth.

  “Lord, please, forgive me! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He cried and begged like an injured child for almost thirty minutes.

  “Father, are you okay?” asked Geert Bauer, a small framed German gardener, one of thirty who tended to the gardens. He hurried over and helped the priest to his feet.

  Father Tolbert leaned on the gardener for balance, head and heart pounding hard. “I’m fine, Heir Bauer. Just a little overwhelmed in prayer.”

  Geert led Father Tolbert to a beige stone bench, eased him down and gazed upon the priest with compassionate eyes. “That must be some burden, Father. If you need an extra set of knees to help shoulder the burden, I’m here for you.”

  Father Tolbert took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his face, eyes puffy, nose running. “I’ll be fine. I just need a minute to gather myself.”

  Geert offered to fetch a glass of cold water, and a car to take Father Tolbert back to his quarters, but the priest declined, gave his thanks, and minutes later, sat alone once again. He looked around the garden and took in the serene quiet. He pictured himself hanging dead from one of the trees. A fitting end. But the thought of taking his life on ground sanctified by the same earth on which Christ died made him feel even more ashamed. He walked out of the garden, left the bicycle, and lumbered, head down, hands in his pockets, toward the most likely place on his list of choices to end his miserable life, the Sistine Chapel.

  Father Tolbert dragged himself past tourists, Vatican staff, and fellow clergy, barely acknowledging those who spoke, not making eye contact with anyone. He looked up and took in the omnipresent dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, whi
ch hovered over the entire city like a holy sentry standing guard over all of Christendom. When he reached the Monument to St. Peter, northeast of the Sistine Chapel, he saw a sight that caused his palms to dampen, and his heart to lust. He saw twin boys, South American, age eight or nine he guessed, fidgeting uncomfortably while their father tried unsuccessfully to get them to stand still long enough to take a picture in front of the monument. Both boys shared the handsome features of their father. Ruddy, sun ripened skin, thick black hair and wide smiles. The scene coaxed a smile from the priest and raised his spirits. Watching the father and sons, playful and full of life, made him long for a family he never knew.

  “I wish that were me,” he whispered, jealous, envious of the innocent. He walked over to the trio. “Maybe I can be of some assistance,” he said, smiling broadly.

  “Oh, thank you, padre,” gushed the boys’ father, bowing as though he were meeting the Holy Father himself.

  “I’m Father Tolbert,” he said, gazing down at the twins, both now standing at attention. “You have two fine boys.”

  “Thank you, Father. My name’s Carlos Mercado, and these are my sons, Joseph and Raphael. We’re visiting from Brazil.” The boys beamed at the priest as he mussed up their hair. “Welcome to Vatican City, and they’re strong looking lads, handsome, and they look alike.”

  Both boys burst into laughter. “We’re twins, padre.”

  “Well, what’d you know, you are. I must need glasses.” The boys continued to laugh as their father beamed, chest out.

  “Here, let me take a picture of the three of you,” said Father Tolbert, grabbing the camera from Carlos’ hand, who bowed his head in effusive thanks, almost knocking over Raphael as he backed up.

  Carlos positioned Joseph and Raphael on each side of him, and the three smiled wide and bright. Father Tolbert counted three and snapped two shots. Carlos told the boys to stay in their places, and begged Father Tolbert to take a picture with the boys. The priest told them no, that he had to move along, but Carlos insisted, and the boys begged in unison.

  “Pleeeease!”

  Father Tolbert walked in between the boys, struggling to suppress the surge now bolting through his body. Joseph and Raphael each clung to a leg, and their touch, soft and gentle, made the priest tingle with lust.

  He looked down at the twins.

  “Now, let’s have a big smile,”

  Both boys smiled wider then they had standing next to their father, who was now fighting back tears. He snapped several shots, then ran forward and shook Father Tolbert’s hand profusely.

  “Thank you, padre, thank you. You’re truly a blessing. Since their mother passed away six months ago, we haven’t had many happy days, but today you’ve blessed us,” said Carlos.

  A knife couldn’t have cut through Father Tolbert any cleaner or deeper. He thanked Carlos and the boys, and abruptly walked away. He looked back at the three, who waived enthusiastically, bidding him well.

  He was more determined to end the life he knew he didn’t deserve.

  Built during the time of Pope Sixtus IV, between 1475 and 1483, the Sistine Chapel stood effulgent as the Vatican’s crowning glory.

  Approaching the ordinary looking, rectangular brown stone chapel gave Father Tolbert a rush, each step an inch closer to the gallows, he, the self-executioner.

  Inside, he immediately fell into a trance. The sight of exquisite and overwhelming splendor set a charge in his bosom, and confirmed his choice. He fought to control his breathing and dabbed his forehead dry, not wanting to attract attention, or somehow give away the cesspool of emotions swirling inside.

  Although the outside held no serious architectural distinction, except that the building was constructed in the exact dimensions of the Temple of Solomon as described in the Old Testament, the interior could make a blind man weep, and the power of the artists who gave birth to the frescoes, tapestries and paintings swelled inside the chamber, pulsating, rich in the Holy Spirit.

  The chapel, closed to all except private tours for the day, was empty except for another priest and two gentlemen, who Father Tolbert guessed from the way they were dressed, hailed from India. He ignored them and honed his attention on the painter Botticelli’s fresco that adorned the wall to his left, depicting the Life of Moses. On the wall to his right the Life of Christ.

  Father Tolbert marveled at the mastery of the paintings on each wall, not only for their artistic value, but for their political statement of the times. Sixtus IV, desiring not only to show the correspondence between the Old and New Testaments, employed a precisely conceived program to illustrate through the entire cycle, the legitimacy of his papal authority, running from Moses via Christ, to Peter, whose ultimate authority, conferred by Christ, finds its continuation in the Popes. The perfect blend of creative and political genius.

  The Indians and their guide nodded to Father Tolbert on their way out. He acknowledged them with a slight tilt of his head, and continued on to the back wall where the altar fresco, painted by Pietro Perugino, depicted the Virgin of the Assumption, to whom the chapel was dedicated. Father Tolbert stood, hands behind his back, tears welled-up in his eyes, and silently begged that the cup of his destruction pass. He stood ramrod still, waiting for the answer. Did God not say of His children, whosoever shall harm one of His little ones, that it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and be drowned in the depths of the sea? Silence echoed through the chapel of Father Tolbert’s mind. Yes, I’ve hurt children. I deserve to drown, but I want to live. But I can’t stop myself. I’ve tried, Lord, You know I have.

  Tears streamed down the priest’s cheeks. His knees went weak and he struggled to keep his balance. He looked up at Michelangelo’s three year odyssey on the ceiling, barely able to make out the jaw dropping frescoes that seemed suspended from heaven. Father Tolbert’s vision cleared. He took in the beauty of Isaiah, David and Goliath, Zechariah, the power of The Separation of Light and Darkness, the Creation of the Sun, Moon and Plants, and the centerpiece of the artist’s grand inspiration, the Creation of Adam.

  Father Tolbert dropped to his knees. If I could just have forgiveness, I might be able to get through this. He felt a sudden, renewed vigor and surge of strength course through his bones, and for the first time in years, felt something he could build on. Small as it was, it was there. He stood with a sense of determination. I can beat this, I know I can.

  He strode toward the exit, but with each step, his resolve seeped away. Thoughts of Samuel crowded his head. He felt unsteady. Images of the South American twin boys and their gentle touch squirmed and worked its way into his psyche. He labored to breath and burst from the building, sucking in air by the bucket. He quickly put distance between himself and the chapel, and didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He’d decided.

  Loneliness crept in. Father Tolbert needed the closeness, the innocence only a child could give him. Something he never had as a young boy. He went to his room and changed pants, having soiled himself with urine.

  He then hit the door, flagged down a taxi, and headed out on the hunt for a new love in Rome.

  28

  F ather Tolbert exited the taxi on Via Condotti, and joined the mix of tourists and locals taking in the Roman favorite pastime of passagiatta, strolling along the streets people watching and window shopping.

  Via Condotti, busy, but not too crowded, boasted many of the city’s most fashionable shops and boutiques. Father Tolbert checked his watch.

  It was just after lunch, the most important meal in Rome. Most of the shops were closed, and locals who still followed Roman lore, were deep into siesta.

  Father Tolbert, hands in his pockets, fingered the rubber ball and hard candy he’d brought with him as bait. He scanned the crowd, nodding with feigned benevolence to each passerby who acknowledged his black suit and white collar, paying particular attention to each adult accompanied by children. Most of the kids he saw were far too young for his taste, although the bright faces an
d big smiles of even the little ones increased his desire and anticipation. He’d been without a lover longer than he thought he could handle, due mostly to Samuel’s abduction, but mostly because of his trip to Rome. He had no real connections in the city, at least not on its darker side, a disadvantage he planned to change soon.

  An hour into his search, with no opportunities at hand, Father Tolbert caught another taxi to the open air market near the center of town. Filled with fresh fruit and flower stands, butchers and fresh fish, the market was fairly busy for a Roman afternoon. The priest stopped at a fruit stand and picked out a large red apple. The owner, a short, stout woman with large forearms, refused to let him pay.

  “Grazie, grazie,” said Father Tolbert, thanking her. “Bless you.” The woman, near toothless, smiled and offered him more fruit, but he graciously declined and continued his search, taking note of each young boy as he strolled through the food-filled menagerie eating the apple.

  Father Tolbert knew he could easily meet his needs in the red light district, but young male prostitutes provided only temporary satisfaction, and couldn’t give him the closeness, the tenderness of a child turned his way.

  He dropped his half eaten apple on the ground. His jaw fell, his eyes widened. My God, it’s him! Samuel! Standing fifty feet from him, dressed in a soiled white apron and black cap was Samuel. The priest’s legs went weak, but he managed to take a few steps toward the fish stand where Samuel was working. He tried to get the boy’s attention, but each time he made eye contact, Samuel turned away and continued to help a dark-skinned man with serious eyes and no nonsense jaw at the fish stand.

  “Eduardo,” the man called, without looking at the boy.

  “Si, Papa?” the boy answered.

  “Get Signore Ugo ten fresh eel, rapidamente!”

  “Si, Papa, rapidamente!”

  “Eduardo?” Father Tolbert whispered. It’s not him. It’s not my Samuel.