Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [126]
“I am the confessor,” Dave said, “of Father Adrian Shelborne, who I believe to be a visitor here.”
The guard was barely nineteen. “Have you been sent for, Father?”
His manner implied that if Dave didn’t have an invitation, he would not be admitted. And his instincts told him that, despite Shel’s assurances, a bribe would not work. Not with this boy. He was too new. “Yes,” he said. “The Administrator asked me to come.” He was trying to remember influential names in this Vatican, but his mind had gone blank.
“Ah.” He nodded. Smiled. Thought about it. “Good. Please come with me, Father.”
They entered the Tower. He led Dave into an anteroom, asked him to wait, and disappeared through a side door. The anteroom was decorated with a Domenico Ghirlandaio painting. It was a scene from the Last Judgment. A God who looked much like Jupiter approached his throne in a sun-bright chariot, while angels sang and humans cringed or celebrated, according to their consciences. Dave was tempted to make off with it and come back later for Shel.
The sentry reappeared, trailing a sergeant. “You wish to see Cardinal Borgia?” he asked.
“No,” he said quickly. That depraved monster was the last person Dave wanted to see. “No, I wish to visit Father Shelborne. To hear his confession.”
“Ah.” The sergeant nodded. It was a noncommittal nod, putting Dave in a holding pattern. He had cold, flat eyes, too close together. His teeth were snagged and broken. He had a broad nose, and a long scar ran from his right ear across the jaw to his lip, where it caused a kind of permanent sneer. Not his fault, Dave thought, but the man could not have managed a smile without scaring the kids. “Father, surely you realize where you are. Father Shelborne would not be denied the sacraments here.”
Dave pressed a gold coin into his hand. “If you could see your way clear, signore.”
The sergeant slipped it deftly into a pocket without changing expression. “He must have very heavy sins, Father.”
“I would like only a few minutes, if you please.”
“Very well.” He straightened his uniform. “Let me see what I can do.” He led the way deep into the building. Walls were lined with fres coes and paintings, likenesses of figures from both classical and Christian mythology, renderings of Church Fathers and philosophers and of the holy saints.
They mounted four flights of stairs and passed into chambers even more ornately decorated than those on the lower floors. Then the sergeant deposited him in a room with an exquisite statue of St. Michael, wings spread and sword drawn. Not a good omen.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he said. He went back out into the corridor. But Dave had plenty of time to admire St. Michael, and he was beginning to think about looking for assistance when the sergeant returned. “Sorry you were kept waiting, Father,” he said. “Please follow me.” And they were on their way again, down a long corridor, up another flight of stairs, and through a chapel. Finally, they paused outside a paneled door. He knocked, and the door opened into a well appointed study.
A young man sat behind a large, ornate desk, making notes on a sheet of paper. A muscular priest stood on either side of him. He was about Michelangelo’s age. But this youth wore a Cardinal’s red garments. And that revealed who he was.
“Thank you, John,” he said to the escort. The sergeant withdrew, closing the door softly. The wall behind the Cardinal was dominated by a variant of the papal