Chapter Text
“Ah, Cardinal Sabbadin, was it? Please, come in.” Benítez opens the door wider, his expression friendly and entirely unsurprised. Sabbadin shuts his mouth around the spiel he's prepared, following the new cardinal’s invitation a beat too late as he steps into the room. He glances around the room to see if he can glean anything that he doesn’t know already; Lawrence had been entirely useless earlier, providing little more than “he really is a kind fellow.” If Benítez had brought anything of his own beyond the messenger bag and jacket hanging off the back of his desk chair, he couldn’t immediately see it. Bed neatly made, a rosary on top of a worn leather Bible on the nightstand. Aldo had mentioned something about him coming with practically nothing, but he had thought his friend was simply exaggerating.
“You have come on behalf of Cardinal Bellini, I assume.” Benítez interrupted Sabbadin’s visual snooping, gesturing for them to sit in the armchairs.
“Yes.” He does not bother denying it—it is a rarity to be able to speak absent of the mealy-mouthed double entendres of Vatican politics.
“Dean Lawrence has already tried to dissuade me from voting for him in favor of Cardinal Bellini. I will tell you the same thing I told him—I will vote for the man I deem most worthy to be pope.” Benítez’s voice is soft, but firm.
“And that is the decano.” Sabbadin fills in, tapping his pockets. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Are we allowed to?” Benítez raises an eyebrow.
Sabbadin’s lips tilt up.
“No.”
Benítez regards him for a moment, then nods. Sabbadin pulls out his pack from inside the folds of his habit, tapping one out of the box and offering it to Benítez. To Sabbadin’s surprise, he takes one and picks up the matchbook near an already-lit candle on the side table between them, striking one and holding the flame out. He slides his own cigarette out, leaning down to light it. Benítez has already has his lit by the time Sabbadin can find the lighter in his other pocket, and he watches as he closes his eyes against the first inhale. He isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it was not this.
“It’s a rarity.” Benítez offers, as though he can read Sabbadin’s mind. “But it reminds me of home.”
Sabbadin isn’t sure what home means for him—Mexico? Baghdad? He admittedly was not listening too closely to Bellini’s diatribe the other night about meeting the mysterious new Cardinal that was bound and determined to return to his archdiocese after the conclave, regardless of the heightened danger. It had impressed Sabbadin, though he had kept that bit wisely to himself. Here he was, still feeling mildly slighted by the late Holy Father for placing him in Milan—he could have been called somewhere with risks far more dangerous than the backhanded compliments the nonnas in his congregation loved to dole out after Mass. This man surely had far greater reason to smoke in peace than most.
“I have to apologize, but I think you will find this trip disappointing.” Benítez says after a few moments of silence, using his glass of water as an ash tray. He watches the ash as it swirls to the bottom to the glass before turning to Sabbadin. “I listen to the voice of God, not men.”
Despite his usual pessimism of the motives of man, Sabbadin believes him.
“Dean Lawrence and Cardinal Bellini have very similar views. Lawrence doesn’t have the votes, but if all of his supporters vote for Bellini…” He waves the cigarette. “The end result would be much the same.” The main difference being, he thinks, that Aldo would not look like he was being held at gunpoint while in front of the faithful.
“But they are not the same man.” Benítez says simply. “I do not dislike Cardinal Bellini, but I do not think he is the right man for the job.”
“Do you think that, or does God?” Sabbadin ashes his cigarette out into the glass between them. Under normal circumstances, he is not usually so brash around others; around Benítez, though, there’s something in him that wants to push the envelope.
Benítez smiles placidly. “Why did you become a priest and not a politician?”
And, oh, Sabbadin thinks he’s starting to like this one.
“Who says I am not both?”
Benítez raises an eyebrow, something unreadable in his expression—a flicker of recognition, perhaps.
“Why join an order, then? Plenty of politicians claim to be men of God.” He asks, nodding towards Sabbadin’s habit.
“My earliest memories are of watching men worship money.” He ashes his cigarette out, his lips twisting. “It never made them better people, and it never ended well. I longed for something completely different.”
“Do you miss it?” Sabbadin is surprised by the frankness of the question—no one but Aldo had bothered to ask him about the sudden shift in the way he operated his life. He had swapped the friary for a quiet rectory, Latin rites for Ambrosian, simple living for a congregation whose combined net worth would easily be able to feed everyone on the continent. He had always considered it a backhanded promotion from the late Holy Father after positioning Aldo as the only sane option for Secretary of State after the last conclave. It was a brilliant move that paid dividends, but Clement had never appreciated when someone was a step ahead of him. His congregation was self-assured about the draw of Milan and the Duomo, viewing it as a clear improvement in both his career and his daily life.
“I do.” He answers. “This feels similar, though.” He waves his cigarette in a vague circle around himself to refer to their sequestration. “Eating together, praying together, living together.” It was a simulacrum, but he selfishly held to the familiarity all the same.
Benítez nods, and Sabbadin does not wonder why this man became a priest—he is unfailingly attentive, good at asking the right questions, and knows how to put someone at ease. He was either truly pious or a fantastic manipulator. He certainly knew far more of the latter, though he is not so cynical to forget a few of his brothers from the friary, good men whose ambitions truly did start and stop at serving God through serving others.
That, however, does not mean that he trusts Vincent Benítez. At least not yet.
“Then I suppose I should continue to vote my way, no? A more divided vote means a longer conclave, and therefore more time spent among our brothers.” Benítez smiles as he lifts the cigarette to his lips, a lopsided sly thing that makes Sabbadin’s stomach swoop like he’s hit plane turbulence.
He ignores it steadfastly.. “You are not afraid of what they think of us out there?” He tilts his head to the window. “If we take much longer, they will begin to say the church is fracturing.”
“Their voices do not reach me in the Sistine.” Benítez shrugs.
And God’s does? He wants to ask, though he does not know the man well enough for that.
“So you are not afraid of a schism.”
“No.” Benítez replies, and Sabbadin almost believes him. “What I fear is what happens if we do not listen to God because we are more concerned with our position.”
Sabbadin cannot imagine a world in which a prolonged conclave ending in Thomas Lawrence as pope to lead a fractured, burning church would be God’s will. But he has been Benítez’s shepherd thus far through the conclave, and he cannot fault the man for mistaking Lawrence’s kindness as competence. It not as though Aldo has been a warm presence, distrustful of him from the very beginning.
“So you will not change your mind.”
“Like I said in the beginning. Though I have thoroughly enjoyed our conversation.” Benítez smiles, dropping his spent cigarette into the glass. It is a natural conclusion to their conversation and Sabbadin’s mission, but he thinks he sees a hint of disappointment in Benítez’s eyes.
“In that case, may God continue to grant you clarity.” Sabbadin says, dropping his cigarette into the water.
When the College elects Benítez as the next Supreme Pontiff, Sabbadin rises to his feet to applaud him like the rest. He feels something shift shift in his chest as Benítez’s eyes find his in the crowd, holding his gaze for a moment before it slides back to Lawrence to proclaim–
“Innocentius.”
Sabbadin cups his hand around his lighter, inhaling the nicotine and fresh garden air. He’s left his phone in his room, still sealed inside of its plastic that reminded him more like a crime scene than a conclave. He has no pressing desire to look at press requests and baffled emails from his parishioners and staff demanding answers to the same questions he had. Aldo had disappeared the moment Pope Innocent XIV was done with his statements, and Giulio was not in the mood to chase after him.
He tips his head back til it rests against the wall and exhales, closing his eyes around the sounds of the Vatican coming back to life. It’s about 30 seconds of blessed peace before he hears shoes against the stone, someone coming to stand next to him. He assumes it’s Aldo, come to propose a lengthy debrief over several bottles of Barbera, but the resulting silence piques his interest—he’s never known Aldo to be quiet, even in the face of defeat. He cracks an eye open and sees white instead of red.
His heart stutters in his chest at the surprise, but he manages to react little beyond arching an eyebrow. He holds out the cigarette in offering, but Innocent shakes his head with an almost apologetic smile.
The pope does not speak, and Sabbadin has long since learned that the best way to get someone to talk is to not fill the silence. He knows he should be genuflecting and congratulating his new Holy Father, almost tripping over himself to ingratiate himself in the key early moments of the papacy. But there is still dust on the shoulders of his mozzetta from an attempted assassination and he does not think the pope came here to be applauded again.
Whether his intention was to catch a quiet moment alone or find Giulio specifically, he does dare explore.
The pope does not speak, seemingly content on watching the birds alight on the branches in the garden.
“I didn’t vote for you, that last ballot.” Sabbadin breaks the silence and his modus operandi, flicking ash from his cigarette.
Innocent turns towards him, an eyebrow raised. “There’s no need to confess, your votes are not sins.”
“I know.” Sabbadin brings the cigarette to his lips, staring out at the courtyard.
“Why tell me, then?” Innocent asks, eyes dancing with amusement.
The Archbishop of Milan shrugs, blowing a steady stream of smoke to the side. “Call it delayed divine inspiration.”
Innocent presses his lips together around a small smile, turning back to follow Sabbadin’s gaze. Interesting fellow.
He does not expect the sealed letter handed to him the night of Innocent’s inauguration, his name in neat cursive inked across the front.
Please join me in the Papal Private Library tomorrow at 11:00.
- Innocentius PP. XIV
He had planned on returning to Milan in the morning, seeing no reason in staying longer than what was expected of him for the inauguration. He had hoped to spend a few days with Aldo in Rome, but Aldo was as unaccounted for as he had been since the last day of the conclave. In truth, would have thought he had left Rome altogether until he saw him at morning mass earlier, dark bags under his eyes and glancing at Thomas what felt like every other second.
He turns over the thick cardstock, running through the reasons why the pope would request an audience with him so soon. Conventional wisdom would be to spend the most time with the Cardinals that lived furthest before they returned to their dioceses. The Duomo was, hypothetically, three hours from Rome. Practically speaking, the Archbishop of Milan should be near the bottom of his priorities, both for his proximity and Sabbadin’s tacit support of any papacy that was not a Tedesco one. He has never worked in the Vatican, has no particular knowledge that Aldo wouldn’t already know, and their new pope had spoken to him a grand total of twice. He still cannot quite make him out, wholly unused to his brand of frank honesty that feels impossible in a castle full of veiled words.
He exchanges his train ticket and heads to the Apostolic Palace.
“Cardinal Sabbadin, how good it is to see you again.” Pope Innocent greets him with genuine warmth, sweeping out from behind the desk to meet him. Sabbadin, not shell-shocked into forgetting his place this time, drops to a knee and grasps Innocent’s hand between his to press his lips against the Fisherman’s Ring.
“Thank you for the invitation, Holy Father.”
The pope urges him up as though uncomfortable with the gesture and guides them back to the desk. “I apologize for the odd meeting place—they are still readying my office.” He folds his hands neatly over the desk, and Sabbadin uses the movement as an excuse to glance over the contents on the table. A closed laptop, several manilla folders, a thin leather-bound book, and an open sketchbook.
“How did you find yesterday’s service?” Innocent’s voice pulls his eyes back up.
“It was bold.” Sabbadin answers honestly, running his hands over the armrests of his chair. All of the readings had been carried out by sisters in Arabic and Pashto before their repetition in Italian. His homily, focused on peace and care for creation, was at least delivered in slow but clear Italian, but the Words of Institution were delivered in Spanish. The media highlighted his inclusivity and clear shift towards a more global Pope. Tedesco had nearly broken a blood vessel during the service, much to Sabbadin’s delight. He’s sure there will be some interview in La Stampa in the morning with his comments, though the media has been paying far less attention to him in the wake of the wildly interesting new pope.
“I liked it.” He concedes, and feels as though he’s won something when Innocent smiles at him.
“I’m afraid you may be in the minority among the Cardinals.”
Sabbadin shrugs. “It would do them good to remember that you serve God, not them.”
Innocent raises an eyebrow, but the smile stays. “We all serve God, Archbishop. But I did not ask you here only for your opinion.” He pauses, a hand resting over one of the folders on his desk. “I would like you to be my camerlengo.”
Sabbadin starts; another unexpected move from the Pope—he has to hand it to Innocent, there was little that could surprise him anymore.
“Your Holiness–” He starts, but Innocent holds up a hand.
“Please, let me finish. As you know, I know very few of our brothers. Cardinal Bellini speaks very highly of you.” Sabbadin frowns—the unanswered string of texts had not given him the impression that Aldo was thinking of him at all. “To be blunt, I need people around me that I can trust, both on a personal and professional level. I do not think I need to elaborate on why my camerlengo in particular must be correct for the job.”
Sabbadin blinks, for once at a loss for words. Innocent seizes the rare moment of silence and opens the manila folder in front of him. “You have never been disciplined or been involved in any scandal. In fact, you uncovered mismanagement of funds by one of your auxiliary bishops.” Another paper slides to the other side of the folder. “You took vows of poverty—ones that have been followed perfectly, if my predecessor’s reports are to be believed.” Innocent does believe them: his bank account had been neatly accounted for, nearly down to the cent. “In addition, your father retired as one of the most successful senators of the last century. Your sister is a sitting deputy. You were an admirable campaign manager for your friend. Finances and governance are two skills this position desperately needs, and I happen to know an honest Cardinal that has successfully demonstrated both. In truth, it was a very simple decision.”
Sabbadin’s head swims in stunned silence. His history is hardly a secret, but very rarely has anyone gone looking hard enough to untangle what he has done. He prefers to move in the background—some might say the shadows, though his detractors have always had a flair for the dramatics. Even as Archbishop, he tried his best to stay out of the eye of the media unlike his ostentatious Venetian neighbor to the east. It’s now the second time that a sitting pope had probed into his life and offered him a promotion at the end, though he does not detect the same kind of paranoia or bitterness from Innocent. The pope seems genuine in his offer, though Sabbadin would be foolish to drop his guard just because the Successor to St. Peter was looking at him with large, expectant eyes.
Public sentiment was split: the people loved Pope Innocent XIV, but they did not know what to do with the dual announcement of Tremblay’s simony. The trial was set to begin after inauguration, and he would be thrust even further into the public spotlight. He can see the headlines now, the stilted soundbytes from his sister who would prefer he fade back into obscurity and horrible seminary pictures dug up from dusty archives. But it would be largely temporary, his intrigue dying down as the years waned. And ultimately, his life was not up to what he wanted, but what the Church needed of him.
“How do you know I am honest?” He means to say ‘Yes, your Holiness, I would be honored,’ but something about their new pope makes it difficult to blunt himself.
Innocent smiles, a reward for his impudence. “The first thing you said to me after I had been elected was ‘I didn’t vote for you.’”
Sabbadin huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You are the only man in this city that could take that positively.”
“Did you mean it negatively?”
“No.” He answers truthfully. “As you said, our votes are not sins.”
It was starting to feel treacherously close to one, however. So many of his brothers could not stop breathlessly recounting to each other and the press how they felt the Holy Spirit descend on the College like it was the Baptism of the Lord. Giulio had not felt any stirrings, no divine intervention that took his hand and wrote Benítez instead of Bellini one last futile time. Perhaps his heart had been too hard, focused entirely on his own failure as a de facto campaign manager. Perhaps this, too, was another double-edged offer—he would have unfettered access to the pope, yes, but he would also have a front row seat to confronting his own hubris in choosing wrong.
“My opinion has not changed.” The pope’s lips quirk up into a smile. “After all, I did not vote for myself either.”
Sabbadin is not shocked by the act, but he is surprised by the confession. He wonders for a moment if Innocent had felt the Holy Spirit during the vote, or if both of them were alike in that regard too. He wisely holds back from voicing his curiosity, though it’s a near thing.
“Pray on it.” Innocent speaks before Sabbadin is able to formulate an appropriate response, folding his hands on the desk. “I know you must be eager to return to your Archdiocese after being away for so long.” There’s a hint of longing on his face, and Sabbadin remembers Aldo’s indignation over the new cardinal’s insistence that he would return to Kabul. He’s seized with an urge to lean over and rest his hands over the pope’ in some futile attempt to make him feel seen in that grief.
But, of course, the pope does not need his comfort. He needs his unflappable nerves and vows of poverty and political savviness.
“I would be honored to accept, Holy Father.” He says, because in his heart he knows that there is no other choice. If he leaves now, he knows he will be useless to his archdiocese as he tries to puzzle together the mystery that is Pope Innocent XIV.
Besides, he does not think Milan will miss him very much.
Innocent blinks in surprise but recovers his composure quickly. He smiles, but it’s not the same one he’s given the faithful since his election; instead, Sabbadin sees more of the relaxed, almost playful one he saw during their first meeting. Less Pope Innocent, more Cardinal Benítez.
“Cardinal Bellini and the director for the Press Office have taken the liberty of drafting an announcement and press release in the event you accepted.” Sabbadin scoffs, running a hand over his face. Perhaps this is why Aldo had been ignoring him: not because he was more concerned with Lawrence, but because he could not chance giving anything away.
Sabbadin scoffs, running a hand over his face and feeling—of all things—mildly embarrassed. “I’m sure he has.” Perhaps this is why Aldo had been ignoring him: not because he was more concerned with Lawrence, but because he could not chance giving anything away. It soothes a bit of his smarting pride.
“I would like to announce it by the end of the week,” Innocent says, glancing at the small calendar leaning on his desk. “You can return to Milan to finish any outstanding business and leave well. I will have my staff arrange transporting your things here, when you are ready.”
He does not tell Innocent that he has few goodbyes to say and even fewer things to move, nodding graciously instead.
“You, of course, are welcome to stay at Santa Marta until you find suitable lodging. Although…” Here he hesitates. “I have made a proposal to our construction staff, and they have not yet given me an outright no.”
Sabbadin realizes the hesitation is more apprehension, and he tilts his head in interest. Even during his election, Innocent had not looked nervous—Sabbadin wonders what in the world would make him nervous now.
“I aim to turn more of these rooms into apartments. I plan on inviting some in the Curia and beyond to live here, at least part-time.” He gauges Sabbadin’s reaction, though for his part Giulio can only blink and wait for him to continue. “I was thinking about our conversation, where you said the conclave felt like the friary. I have always lived in close quarters with others my whole life, though very rarely have they all consisted of clergy. And while I’m not as tempted to spend the rest of my life in the Casa Marta as my predecessor,” A wry smile. “I do think Christ calls us to live in community. I intend to preserve as much of that for myself in the papacy, not only for my own selfish convenience, but because I believe it will make me a better pope. I do not intend on locking myself up in an ivory tower and becoming disconnected from the Church, from the recently baptized to the senior Curia staff.”
Sabbadin sits back in his chair, stunned into silence again. It would be another departure from custom, though not as severe as the late Holy Father’s choice to live in the guest house. The prospect of it unfurls itself in his mind—falling asleep with more than just the sounds of old floorboards settling, bringing Aldo another cup of coffee at breakfast, prayers where his was not the only voice in a cavernous duomo. Hope curls in his chest, whatever remaining hesitations he had about camerlengo falling temporarily aside for this way back into a life he thought lost forever.
Innocent mistakes his quiet revelation for unease. “It would be entirely voluntary, of course. I understand that you sharing that with me during the conclave does not mean an automatic agreement. It would not impact your work or my opinion of you in any way, I can promise you. No one will be favored or punished either way for their choice. Cardinals Bellini and Lawrence have not decided, if that helps one way or another. And, of course, it would be months before the apartments were ready.”
“Will Tedesco have a room?” He asks, and the Pope raises an eyebrow in surprise.
“Perdón?”
“You said you wanted to invite ‘some in the Curia and beyond.’ I just want to know if that includes Tedesco.” Giulio realizes a beat too late; he should have just said yes. “Your Holiness.” He adds belatedly, as though that will paper over his stupidity.
Innocent presses his lips together to suppress a smile—really, he should not be encouraging the petty divisions that he aims to address among the College. But it’s so unexpected, and the boldness that edges on impertinence is exactly why he has been unable to get the Archbishop of Milan out of his mind since their brief encounter in the garden. “I have invited the Dean, the Secretary of State, and now my camerlengo.”
Sabbadin does not think about the way his stomach feels when Innocent says that.
“We would all do well to remember that we are all the Body of Christ.” Innocent says, and Giulio feels a flush creep up his neck at the rebuke. “However,” He pauses and sighs, though Sabbadin thinks he sees a glint of playfulness in his eyes. “I doubt the Patriarch of Venice could be persuaded to be far from his beloved city.” Nor stand to live in the Apostolic Palace walls without being in the Papal Chamber, Innocent thinks, though he knows it is a charitable thought. He is also sure that his Secretary of State would not abide by it, and he needs Aldo close if he is to determine whether or not to formalize his temporary appointment.
Giulio resists the urge to smirk, though the corner of his lips twitch for a moment in threat.
“Then I suppose I must go tell the Daughters of Charity that they must tolerate my presence for a while longer.”
He is rewarded with another one of Innocent’s rare smiles, this time tinged with relief. “I suppose you must. I will have my staff deliver your onboarding schedule tomorrow.” He rises and Sabbadin scrambles to rise first. “I look forward to working with you.” He moves from behind his desk and walks Sabbadin to the door, his hands already reaching for the doorknob and leaving no chance for Sabbadin to kiss the ring again in parting. He wonders if it is intentional or it has simply slipped his mind, though from what he knows so far of the pope, everything he does is intentional.
“You as well, Your Holiness.” Sabbadin says, dipping his head in what he hopes is an acceptable show of respect. He does not want another repeat of Innocent urging him up by his elbows, and makes a mental note to ask Aldo about the pope’s supposed reluctance.
Innocent opens the door for him, and though Sabbadin is exiting, he feels as though he is stepping into something new and entirely unexpected.