Armande stood silent, impassive, black cassock hanging down to his feet, motionless. The opulence of the Vatican, its soaring vaulted ceilings designed to make man feel small and penitent as he entered the house of God had been his home for far too long for it to intimidate him. It was a distant memory, that first time he visited. When he was in seminary training as a Jesuit.
There was a tinge of pain that he carefully folded away. Gregorio and his dazzling smile below eyes that danced with life. His bloated blackened face, smile twisted into a rictus below eyes that bulged with death. Yes, fold it away. Because the throughline would take him to Jova...and from there- green eyes flashed before him and he quivered. The walls thickened, the light hidden away as he sought the Chong Rann, finding himself in the middle of the desert, a sea of dunes surrounding him, scouring wind scourging him of emotion until quiet suffused him once more.
He let the meditation drift away and came to himself, standing before the ornate guarded doors. Behind them, he could imagine, was Patricus I. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Prophetia Sancti Malachiae Archiepiscopi, de Summis Pontificibus- The Prophecy of the Popes- spoke of the the final Pope before the destruction of Rome. Petrus Romanus- Peter the Roman. Patricus. Not exactly the same. Still, curious.
It didn't matter. Armande knew why he had pushed for this man. The fact that he was an American was certainly part of it, given their attitude to the CCD. This man would not naturally want to cede any power to that all engulfing body. But there were other things Armande had noted. There was an arrogance- not in itself a bad trait. The man would have to be to stand firm against the pack of weaklings ready to lick Brandon's feet.
He detected a sense of the firebrand, an iconoclast, in him. His people had watched him and reported. Armande had observed him. There were threads Armande had already tied to him, levers to pull and push. Arrogance and strength of will did not mean you were uncontrollable. Only that you had to think the decisions you made were of your own volition.
Satisfied, he spoke to the Secretary of State his decision. The man's face had quailed in shock. Such a young inexperienced man? A man who did not know the game, the players? A man he would have to chafe under every single day?
It took no little reminding before the man acquiesced. He knew the role of the Regus of the Atharim in selecting the pope, that ancient tradition and pact going back centuries. Just as the Pope had a hand in selecting the next Regus.
It was time for the man to meet his benefactor. And to learn of the compact of so long ago.
The brotherhood of the Vicar of Christ with the Vicar of Iscariot.
There was a tinge of pain that he carefully folded away. Gregorio and his dazzling smile below eyes that danced with life. His bloated blackened face, smile twisted into a rictus below eyes that bulged with death. Yes, fold it away. Because the throughline would take him to Jova...and from there- green eyes flashed before him and he quivered. The walls thickened, the light hidden away as he sought the Chong Rann, finding himself in the middle of the desert, a sea of dunes surrounding him, scouring wind scourging him of emotion until quiet suffused him once more.
He let the meditation drift away and came to himself, standing before the ornate guarded doors. Behind them, he could imagine, was Patricus I. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Prophetia Sancti Malachiae Archiepiscopi, de Summis Pontificibus- The Prophecy of the Popes- spoke of the the final Pope before the destruction of Rome. Petrus Romanus- Peter the Roman. Patricus. Not exactly the same. Still, curious.
It didn't matter. Armande knew why he had pushed for this man. The fact that he was an American was certainly part of it, given their attitude to the CCD. This man would not naturally want to cede any power to that all engulfing body. But there were other things Armande had noted. There was an arrogance- not in itself a bad trait. The man would have to be to stand firm against the pack of weaklings ready to lick Brandon's feet.
He detected a sense of the firebrand, an iconoclast, in him. His people had watched him and reported. Armande had observed him. There were threads Armande had already tied to him, levers to pull and push. Arrogance and strength of will did not mean you were uncontrollable. Only that you had to think the decisions you made were of your own volition.
Satisfied, he spoke to the Secretary of State his decision. The man's face had quailed in shock. Such a young inexperienced man? A man who did not know the game, the players? A man he would have to chafe under every single day?
It took no little reminding before the man acquiesced. He knew the role of the Regus of the Atharim in selecting the pope, that ancient tradition and pact going back centuries. Just as the Pope had a hand in selecting the next Regus.
It was time for the man to meet his benefactor. And to learn of the compact of so long ago.
The brotherhood of the Vicar of Christ with the Vicar of Iscariot.