Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests (37 page)

“I beg your pardon, Father,” he said softly as the priest, with care, turned his head. “You have a visitor. Father Sinceri
begs to speak with you.”

“Sinceri!” Maculano drew a breath as he pushed himself up from his chair. “Show him in, Umberto. Then bring us some wine and
a pair of the silver cups.”

The attendant bowed and left, returning almost immediately, leading a man who, by his gait and vapid grin, gave every appearance
of being a portly, balding, and awkward fool.

“Carlo. Greetings. Come in. Come in,” Maculano invited. “I offer you welcome to my small foreshadowing of Purgatory.” He spoke
aside. “Umberto, please, as I ordered.”

The servant departed, taking with him the remains of Maculano’s meal.

“Good evening, Father,” Sinceri began. “Are you certain I do not disturb the studies of the Commissary General? If another
time would be more convenient…” And with the measure and tone of those words, all the visitor’s awkwardness and foolishness
disappeared.

A highly reputed classical scholar in his own right, Lord Carlo Sinceri, like Maculano, had only his wit and practical experience
to guide him in the intricacies of canon law. Even so, it had been Sinceri, in his role as Prosecutor for the Holy Office,
who had taken the lead in formulating the questions that had been put to the accused during the day’s session. And although
the testimony had produced an unanticipated contradiction in the evidence, Sinceri’s seemingly endless litany of boring interrogatories
had had the effect of placing in order the chronology and details of the case in a manner more efficient and damning than
any the commissary general could have devised.

“Not at all, my Lord Prosecutor,” Maculano replied. “In truth, the moment of your arrival could not be more propitious. I’ve
called for wine. Please. Use the chair with the padded stool. Put your feet up, if you like. We’ve both had a long and taxing
day.”

“Thank you for your consideration, Reverend Father.” Sinceri let himself sink into the chair and, with some effort, lifted
his legs onto the stool. “Mmm,” he sighed as his muscles relaxed. “The onset of blessed relief.” He allowed himself a moment
of contentment, then a moment more to give the mood the chance to dissipate. Then he wasted no more time.

“This trial is a hazardous business, Father, as you, above all, understand. Full of pitfalls and villainies at every turn.
Too many masters, too many personalities. For every foreseeable outcome, the consequences are profound.”

Maculano nodded.

“I’m informed you were successful in obtaining an audience with His Holiness this afternoon.”

Resettling his feet, Sinceri left the statement to stand unamplified as Umberto arrived and poured the wine. The attendant
began to return the decanter to Maculano, but Maculano directed that it remain beside his guest.

“I was able to do so,” Maculano answered when the two were again alone. He added nothing except for a shake of his head.

“Well, we knew as much,” Sinceri acknowledged. “We had no hope the inclinations of that master would change.”

“Before we speak more, Father…” Maculano paused, deliberately giving weight to that which would follow. “Before we speak
more of this, it is essential we are agreed between ourselves. You speak of masters. You are right to do so. It is said truly
no man can serve two.”

“Or three. A trinity of sorts.” Holding up three fingers, Sinceri permitted himself a show of pleasure at the aptness of his
analogy. “We’ve already named His Holiness. There remains Holy Mother, the Church, along with that more intangible master,
the Truth.”

“If the master that you and I serve is different…”

“For reasons of both duty and my personal respect for you, Father Commissary, I could not have come here this evening believing
that were so.”

“Nor, for the same reasons, could I have received you, Father.” Maculano held out his open palms in token of the confidence
shared between them. “As for me, my first duty cannot be to any man, even though that man be the Bishop of Rome. As for the
Truth? I’m a man bred to the application of science and equations. I do not pretend to know what ‘the Truth’ of either is.”

“Nor do I,” Sinceri agreed. “Nor how the birds are able to fly, nor which orb circles which. Like you, I have my hierarchy
of loyalties. The one I place highest, next to God alone, is my duty to His Church.”

“By ‘Church,’ you mean… ?”

“Oh, not the Church in the present.” With a motion of his hand, Sinceri waved that concern aside. “The Church as it stands
today will care for itself. Whatever the outcome of our undertaking, we may find relief in that. In the pond of the present,
we’ll make scarcely a ripple. No, Fra Vincenzo, not the present. It’s more the Church of the future I fear for.”

“If, in our findings, we ratify a determination that was someday proven wrong…”

“Then we—you and I—the Court of Inquiry, and the Pope himself—shall all become the burdens of the future Church’s history.
As you, yourself, have implied.”

Maculano contemplated Sinceri’s appraisal before offering his reply.

“It will be a delicate affair, Father Prosecutor. Do you have some thought as to how we might proceed?”

“How, but with all our honor, Father? We shall build a lie.” Sinceri raised an eyebrow as he vainly searched Maculano’s face
for a reaction. “We delay. We deceive. Where the protocols of the trial do not allow for it, we bring forth the accused’s
defense, while all the time not appearing to do so. We extend the duration of the proceedings to provide the occasion. We
ask our questions in such a way as to elicit his most exculpatory replies. In the end, we can only hope that he will make
the best of the opportunity and that those who will render the final judgment will still have ears to hear.”

“We are not without allies,” Maculano observed.

Sinceri smiled thinly. “We may hope so, Father Commissary. But neither are we without adversaries.”

____

A
STEADY RAIN
of the kind that farmers venerate had spattered the city’s cobbles since before daylight. Maculano murmured a
Deo Gratia
for those among the workers of the fields who might forget to do so, despite the fact that it was he who was getting wet.
He kept his cowl about his head and a thin blanket over that as he hurried along at a pace rapid enough to belie the grievances
of his years.

Events surrounding the trial were cooking at a boil, with some unseen hand adding the wood and stoking the fire. Maculano
had more than his own suspicions as to the identity of the cook who was urging on the temperature. He, along with Sinceri,
had tried to bring about the opposite result. No matter. He might as well, he realized, have tried to work his will upon the
tides.

Even through the beat of the rain, he heard the splashes of footsteps approaching from behind him, and then the strained rasping
of someone out of breath.

“Reverend Father… good morning. May I be permitted… the privilege… of walking with you for a short distance?”

The robed figure now beside him was a much younger man. So much younger that, already, his normal rate of respiration was
returning.

“We’ve not met before, Father Commissary. So I take upon myself a great presumption. I am Wilhelm, nephew to the late Adolf
and cousin to Adam, Counts von Schwarzenberg. I believe you knew my uncle and have spoken often with my cousin.”

“Yes. Most certainly. The Lord’s blessing upon you, Wilhelm.” Maculano could see the evidence now. The fairness of the Austrian’s
complexion gave the clue to the man’s heritage in his face. “Your uncle was a wise and Godly man, and your cousin remains,
as always, an ardent protector of the Faith. You may take honor in having such a family as an ornament to hold before you.”
Maculano kept up his stride not out of impoliteness as much as to avoid any more of a soaking than was necessary. “I see you’ve
taken vows, Wilhelm.”

“Not my final ones, Father. I’m yet a novice. Under the tutelage of another I think you know, Father Melchior Inchofer.”

So the warning bells sounded.

“Yes, Father Inchofer. He and I, too, have had occasion to work together. He is, like so many of the Jesuit order, not only
a pillar of the Faith but also a gifted master of logic and language.”

“I’m pleased to hear you consider him so, Father Commissary.”

“Tell me, Wilhelm, does Father Inchofer know that you’ve taken this opportunity to speak with me?”

“Why? Why do you ask, Father?” Wilhelm nearly stopped in mid-step, but recovered when he realized that Maculano’s tread hadn’t
altered. “Have I done something wrong?”

“That depends, does it not? On the matter of intention. You’ve presented yourself as a novice, Wilhelm. That your training,
as yet, remains incomplete doesn’t give you license to portray yourself a fool.”

“I… Father, I don’t…”

“But I fear you do. And therein lies the problem, my son. You approach me being fully aware that your master and I are at
work on what, in essence, is the same adjudication.”

“Father, I didn’t…”

“I caution you, Wilhelm.” Maculano stopped, even as the rain collected and dripped from the fabric covering his head. “It’s
not my place to be your confessor. Nevertheless, I advise you out of our common knowledge of our Faith not to increase further
your need to find the one whose place it is.”

“Father!”

“You’ve sought unwarranted advantage, Wilhelm. I shall choose to believe you did so on your own initiative rather than at
the bidding of your mentor. It was your hope that I’d be unaware that Father Inchofer—along with two other examiners—has been
charged by His Holiness with the task of reading and criticizing the accused’s
Dialogue,
and that each is to offer his independent evaluation of the volume’s content.”

“Father… my hope was no such thing.”

“Oh? Was it not? Alternatively, then, did you suspect I could be flattered into relating my own conclusions and recommendations
prior to the time and outside the proper circumstances for their revelation?”

“Fra Maculano, I’ve told you who I am and of my family.”

“So how dare I suggest such things? Yes, Wilhelm. I’m sorry I have to. Because all that I said of your uncle and cousin was
honestly spoken. It is, however, more than a personal matter between you and me. It is, instead, an issue of justice, a cause
to which I’m sworn. The procedures we follow are intended to produce balance. If the elements are compromised, the result
is imbalance, and through that imbalance, justice is compromised.”

“Justice compromised or heresy protected? Which is it you mean to say, Father Maculano? Do not presume to lecture me on justice.
I, myself, have studied the accused’s
Dialogue
down to its most trivial detail. I have reviewed what there is of the heretic’s defense. To call it a ‘mockery’ is to ridicule
the word. His current playacting is nothing more than a pretense to gain him indulgence. Do you think it’s lost that he wrote
in Italian, so that any peasant can read and be deceived by his infamies? Or that he puts His Holiness’s arguments in the
mouth of an idiot, whom—should anyone miss the point—he names ‘Simplicio.’ Is this attribution, too, to be taken as unintentional?”

“
Quod erat demonstrandum
.” Maculano folded his hands, assuming a pose of modest satisfaction. “Go back to Father Inchofer, Wilhelm. Report to him
what has taken place between us. The undisputed renown of his orthodoxy in defense against the errors to which these times
are inclined has never deafened him to the requirements of protocol. He will realize, if nothing else, that he has a very
great deal more in which to instruct you.”

In the rain, Father Maculano turned and continued at his previous pace toward his destination.

____

“T
HE
C
OMMISSARY
G
ENERAL
to see the Florentine prisoner.”

“Yes. At once, Reverend Father,” the guard responded.

The Vatican was a small and self-contained city. As the chief magistrate of the Holy Inquisition, Maculano was well recognized
by the attendants who maintained the cells beneath the Dominican Convent at the Church of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva. At the
sentry’s entreaty, Maculano followed him through the maze of stone-lined corridors.

The quarters at which he arrived were not a confinement where the inmate lay in chains, but rather were among the more tolerable
that, given its purpose, the jail had to offer. Behind the massive wooden door were two rooms that shared a high, barred window,
a plank cot with a straw mattress, and even the additions of a desk, candle, and chair.

Its solitary resident rose from the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes as the lock snapped back and Maculano entered.

The Commissary General dismissed the guard and ordered that he close the door behind him as he left.

The prisoner’s shoulders were stooped. His neck was bent. His age, Maculano knew, had already reached seventy years, but he
looked more frail in his present surroundings than even the accumulation of the decades could account for.

“Holy Father.” The figure bowed.

“Sit down, my son.”

The prisoner kept to his feet. “Have you news?”

“Not of the kind I know you hope to hear,” Maculano answered.

“Oh. What, then?” The old man sank slowly back onto the side of his bed.

“I’ve just finished lunch with the Lord Prosecutor.” The priest reached inside the folds of his robe and produced half a roasted
chicken. “Not the most appetizing or sanitary, I know.”

Setting the gift of the fowl on the desk, the prisoner began to tear off a portion, then stopped himself and returned to kiss
the priest’s hand.

“Please. That’s not needed,” Maculano commanded. “The pittance is only because I know how far these conditions fall short
of those to which you’re accustomed.”

“Bless you, Father.”

“Enough.” For a moment, Maculano felt compelled to look away. “Regarding your case, I regret that I cannot bring better news.
I’ve met, as I said, with the Lord Prosecutor. For what it may be worth, we find ourselves in agreement as to the disposition
of your interrogation. To begin, there will be a second interview, to be held this coming Saturday. I must tell you, the likelihood
is that there will be at least another after that.”