A Canticle for Leibowitz - Walter M. Miller [50]
“Quite incidentally, the letter will be safeguarded. We shall affix to it the Noli molestare, excommunicating anyone who waylays the bearer.”
Brother Francis murmured his thanks for such insurance against highwaymanship; he did not deem it fitting to add that the robber would be unable to read the warning or understand the penalty. “I shall do my best to deliver it, Holy Father.”
Again, Leo leaned close to whisper: “And to you, we shall give a special token of our affection. Before you leave, see Monsignor Aguerra. We would prefer to give it to you by our own hand, but this is not the proper moment. The monsignor will present it for us. Do with it what you will.”
“Thank you very much indeed, Holy Father.”
“And now good-bye, beloved son.”
The Pontiff moved on, speaking to each pilgrim in the line, and when it was over: the solemn benediction. The audience had ended.
Monsignor Aguerra touched Brother Francis’ arm as the pilgrim group passed out the portals. He embraced the monk warmly. The postulator of the Saint’s cause had aged so greatly that Francis recognized him only with difficulty at close range. But Francis, too, was gray at the temples, and had grown wrinkled about the eyes from squinting over the copy-table. The monsignor handed him a package and a letter as they descended the scala caelestis.
Francis glanced at the letter’s address and nodded. His own name was written on the package, which bore a diplomatic seal. “For me, Messér?”
“Yes, a personal token from the Holy Father. Better not open it here. Now, can I do anything for you before you leave New Rome? I’d be glad to show you anything you’ve missed.”
Brother Francis thought briefly. There had already been an exhaustive tour. “I would like to see the basilica just once again, Messér,” he said at last.
“Why, of course. But is that all?”
Brother Francis paused again. They had fallen behind the other departing pilgrims. “I would like to confess,” he added softly.
“Nothing easier than that,” said Aguerra, adding with a chuckle: “You’re in the right town, you know. Here, you can get anything absolved that you’re worried about. Is it something deadly enough to require the attention of the Pope?”
Francis reddened and shook his head.
“How about the Grand Penitentiary, then? He’ll not only absolve you if you’re repentant, he’ll even hit you over the head with a rod in the bargain.”
“I meant-I was asking you, Messér,” the monk stammered.
“Me? Why me? I’m nobody fancy. Here you are in a whole town full of red hats, and you want to confess to Malfreddo Aguerra.”
“Because-because you were our Patron’s advocate,” the monk explained.
“Oh, I see. Why of course I’ll hear your confession. But I can’t absolve you in the name of your Patron, you know. It’ll have to be the Holy Trinity as usual. Will that do?”
Francis had little to confess, but his heart had long been troubled-at the prompting of Dom Arkos-by the fear that his discovery of the shelter might have hindered the case for the Saint. Leibowitz’ postulator heard him counseled him, and absolved him in the basilica, then led him around that ancient church. During the ceremony of canonization and the Mass that followed, Brother Francis had noticed only the majestic splendor of the building. Now the aged monsignor pointed to crumbling masonry, places in need of repair, and the shameful condition of some of the older frescoes. Again he caught a glimpse of a poverty which dignity veiled. The Church was not wealthy in this age.
At last, Francis was free to open the package. The package contained a purse. In the purse were two heklos of gold. He glanced at Malfreddo Aguerra. The monsignor smiled.
“You did say that the robber won the commemoration from you in a wrestling match, didn’t you?” Aguerra asked.
“Yes, Messér.”
“Well then, even if you were forced into it, you made the choice to wrestle him for it yourself, didn’t you? You accepted his