VIII

VIII

 

"It's been a long, steep road," said Alfonso. Surveying the cheering people from the unvarnished Pope's bier beside the altar, the former Archbishop Alfonso d'Este—actually, the first Pope of Neue Vatican, Alfonso I—nodded in satisfaction. Packed into the cramped hall were the common lords, church workers, and soldiers who'd rebelled against Rome's tyranny.

The long road to the Pope's throne had been a succession of difficulties, beginning with the previous Pope's death and Alfonso's failure at the conclave, after which he'd remained in obscurity in Cologne for five years. Then, there was the failure of the Silent Noise operation in Rome, and now this uprising. It was time he was compensated for the tribulations he'd endured, but because he knew he couldn't yet relax, Alfonso stifled his smile.

Alfonso had been a little irritated the previous night because he'd never imagined that a Vatican agent would infiltrate that far. If they would've made trying to assassinate Alfonso or steal back Alessandro second priority to focus their strength on disposing of the missile, Neue Vatican's strategy would've failed by now. Without their trump card for negotiation, the invading church army would've reduced the city of Brno to ashes. Actually, it had been a close call.

It was all because of Havel's ineptitude when he took charge of the defenses within the castle. Although he was a former agent, at the end of the day, he really was a priest. It had been a mistake to entrust the duty of defense to him in the first place, when he was no more than an amateur. Today, Alfonso had left the defenses of Saint Peter and Paul Cathedral entirely to Captain Barbarigo in order to avoid repeating that failure. Barbarigo and his subordinates, who were professional soldiers, had checked nearly the entire expanse of the city last night and were still on guard inside the cathedral. Perhaps because of their heroism, they hadn't yet found any indication of an attack by the Bureau of Inquisition or agents hiding within the city.

"When this ceremony ends without incident, the lords who continue to see which way the wind blows also will make their intentions clear," Alfonso muttered quietly as he bestowed a benevolent smile upon the hundreds of cheering lords and church workers, and the guards under Barbarigo's command who stood around them with their weapons raised attentively. "When that happens, even damned Francesco will have to make his army retreat. You see, Alessandro — in the end, it was meaningless to bring you to this city."

The boy standing behind Alfonso and barricaded by soldiers didn't reply. The white robe he wore closely resembled the one Alfonso was wearing, but Alessandro had chains bound over the top of his.

Seeing that his nephews face was as pale as if the boy were being taken to the gallows, Alfonso nodded in satisfaction. His nephew certainly meant little as a hostage, but he was plenty useful as an ornament added to the coronation ceremony. The plan, called "the real Pope has captured the false Pope," would prove to be an ideal stage effect when Alfonso announced his own victory to Rome.

"Papum habemus!" a voice cried out to declare the advent of a pope.

Startled by the shrill cry, Alfonso returned his attention to the ceremony, which already was underway. Bishop Dopchek, who served as Chief of the Cardinals of Neue Vatican, reverently walked toward Alfonso, holding the white crown. The triple tiara, which sparkled with hundreds of gems and gold and silver threads, was the crown that Alfonso had believed was intended for his own head for the five years since his brother's death—even long before that. Havel had tried to complain about the huge expense required to create the crown, but Alfonso didn't care. It cost money in order to visually assert the Pope's authority and make the lords prostrate themselves. Havel, a man of lower-class birth, didn't seem to understand that.

Crown in hand, the bishop said, "Your Holiness, please accept this crown upon your head as evidence of your authority. When you do—"

"You are God's representative on Earth—one who fishes for people—as God's foremost servant and the person who leads us," chanted the crowd.

Alfonso slowly stood up amid the attendants chanting in chorus over Dopchek s voice. As he curved his shaking fingers into hooked talons, he seized the crown the old bishop offered him. "Ahh!" A hoarse scream slipped from the new Pope's lips, which were dried from stress, and the triple tiara fell to the podium with a light sound. Excessive excitement seemed to cause the strength to leave his fingers. A second later, the cone-shaped gem-work rolled around on the dais, falling between the attendants, before the disconcerted new Pope's eyes.

All of a sudden, a pure white flash virtually scorched the retinas of everybody within the hall. It was hard to discern whether the unfortunate onlookers had realized that the crown had exploded following the ferocious wind and roar that accompanied the flash.

"What? An explosion! What happened?" Alfonso howled amid the hard-to-endure ringing in his ears.

The inside of the hall, where the solemn ceremony had proceeded until this point, now was taken over by the stench of gunpowder and blood, screams of agony, and angry, confused bellows. However, it wasn't the voices of his retainers asking about his safety that reached the confused new Pope's ears.

"Mwah-hah-hah! Yes, yes—unlucky!" Philippo jeered. Amid the rising smoke, a round object falling from the ceiling and trailing laughter landed boisterously before Alfonso's eyes; it peered at the astonished new Pope with an extremely vulgar smile. "Or is it lucky? Whichever it is, you'll die by my lovely hand, won't you?" Alfonso's eyes bugged out. "Inquisitor?" The short monk thrust out his beer-belly-like stomach and warped his face into a broad grin that resembled a catfish. The Vineam Domini—the symbol of the Bureau of Inquisition—was embroidered onto the sleeve of the monk's robe. But how in the world he had snuck past the guards? "K-kill him!" Alfonso ordered in a shrill voice. "C-captain Barbarigo, shoot this man! He's an inquisitor—an enemy of God!"

"Prepare to fire!" Barbarigo yelled. The old captain's reaction was swift. At their commander's order, the guards stationed by the walls simultaneously raised their guns as the commander lifted his. "Fire!"

Multiple gunshots overlapped, as did multiple screams a beat later—but they weren't the screams Alfonso wanted to hear.

"Wh-what?" Alfonso exclaimed, contorting his face.

The instant the gunfire began, the church workers, nobles, and important retainers who supported Neue Vatican fell as they tried to rush the exits, resulting in blood-curdling screams and a shower of blood.

"Wh-where are you aiming?" Alfonso roared at the guards, who were aiming at the surviving attendants as if they were hunting animals. "B-Barbarigo, what are your subordinates doing? Stop firing at once! You should kill the enemy of God over here!"

"We are killing the enemies of God," the middle-aged captain said, drawing the handgun at this hip.

Seeing the handgun's barrel pointed at his own forehead, Alfonso's eyes revealed that he finally had started to comprehend what was going on. "I-impossible, Barbarigo. You've betrayed me?" "Isn't it you who turned traitor, Your Holiness?" asked Barbarigo snidely. "I'm still a loyal soldier of the Vatican. It's unthinkable that I would be convinced to side with these country nobles who stink of horse shit. Of course, there also is the fact that Cardinal Medici promised to promote me to Major General."

"Y-you're forgetting your old debt!" Putting the gun that was aimed at him out of his mind, Alfonso allowed venom to spew from his mouth. "You murderer! Who do you think saved you from being tried?"

"You're the same kind of murderer, Your Holiness. So, what shall we do with this person, Philippo?" asked Barbarigo.

"Hmm?" the inquisitor asked, screwing up his face. "Kill him, because he's tiresome. I don't have time to bother with this old man!"

"Very good, sir," Barbarigo replied. After he skillfully put on his beret with one hand, he twisted his lips into a grin. "This is goodbye, Your Holiness. It was a short acquaintance, wasn't it?" "Sh-shit!" Alfonso exclaimed.

Since ancient times, a hero was considered an individual who remained staunch when confronting adversity. If the definition were limited to that point, Alfonso d'Este was worthy of the being called a hero—but immediately before the trigger was pulled, Alfonso jumped sideways and clung to the body of his nephew, who had fainted. With a swiftness that belied his age, he set up Alessandro as a shield, thrust his handgun at the boy's temple, and growled, "D-don't move—any of you!" Hiding in the shadow of the boy Pope's limp body, the former archbishop angrily raised his voice. "If you move, I'll shoot Alessandro!"

Hardly startled by Alfonso's desperate threat, Barbarigo gazed back rather gloomily at the inquisitor. "What should I do, Philippe?"

"It's simple," Philippo replied, moving his thick, slimy lips smarmily." Finish them both. All the people in this town are going to die, anyway."

"True." Barbarigo extended his arm toward Alfonso, whose eyes widened enough to fall out. Barbarigo carefully fixed the aim of his large-caliber military handgun on Alfonso's heart. It would be simple for the gun to pierce Alfonso's "shield" and instantly kill him. "Uncle and nephew, let's make you good friends at last as you die!"

The sound of the trigger and the roar of gunfire overlapped — but it was Barbarigo who bent backward, screaming in pain. A bright red stream of blood flowed from his hand, and the gun he'd dropped immediately after firing sat smoking on the floor.

"Ha ha! They came after all?" Philippo asked, although he didn't appear to be that surprised. He crooked his short neck toward the stained glass window, where there was a tall shadow hefting a percussion revolver still trailing smoke. Gazing at the silver hair glistening under setting sun's rays, the small man grimaced. "Sforza's dog — the agent!"