Page 29

Beyond Vatican Walls

Marco

I stare at the theological papers Archbishop Chen brought me, the words blurring together after hours of reading.

The perspectives from Asian and African theologians offer powerful support for my proposed reforms, but my mind keeps drifting to other concerns.

The Cardinals’ opposition has grown more vehement since I announced the synod, and it’s been three days since I’ve spoken to Matteo beyond brief, encrypted messages confirming our continued safety.

A soft knock at my door interrupts my thoughts. Captain Lombardi enters, his posture rigid but his eyes kind.

“Your Holiness, a moment?”

“Of course, Captain.” I set aside the papers. “What is it?”

He glances at the door before closing it completely. “I’ve received a communication from Prime Minister Valentini’s security detail.” His voice drops. “The Prime Minister requests a meeting… off-site.”

“Off-site? Where?”

“A private property on the coast, Your Holiness. About an hour from Rome.” Lombardi hesitates. “His message indicated concern for your well-being given recent… tensions within the Curia.”

I rise from my chair and walk to the window. Cardinal Antonelli had been particularly vicious at yesterday’s meeting, all but accusing me of heresy for suggesting reforms to the Church’s teaching on homosexuality. The strain is showing—I’ve barely slept in days.

“The Prime Minister believes you need space to breathe, Your Holiness.” Lombardi’s voice is gentle. “Away from Vatican walls.”

I turn to face him. “And how would I leave without the entire Curia knowing?”

A slight smile touches his lips. “I’ve given this considerable thought, Your Holiness. There are ways. If you trust me.”

I study his face—this young Swiss Guard captain who has gradually become one of my few true allies within the city walls. “I do trust you, Lorenzo.”

He nods, clearly moved by my use of his first name. “Tomorrow evening then. I’ll arrange everything.”

“The Cardinals—”

“Will be told you’re on spiritual retreat in your private chapel and not to be disturbed.” His confidence reassures me. “I’ve selected a small team of Swiss Guards whose loyalty is beyond question.”

“And you believe this is… wise?” I ask, though I already know my answer.

Lorenzo meets my gaze directly. “Your Holiness, I believe it’s necessary. For your safety, yes, but also for your spirit. Even the Pope needs sanctuary sometimes.”

I feel a weight lifting at just the thought of escaping these walls, of seeing Matteo without the constant fear of discovery.

“Tomorrow evening then,” I agree.

* * *

The following night, I find myself wrapped in a plain black coat, a cap pulled low over my eyes, following Lorenzo through a series of maintenance tunnels beneath the Vatican. Two trusted guards walk ahead and behind us, their vigilance creating a small bubble of safety.

“These passages were used during World War II,” Lorenzo explains quietly. “To smuggle refugees and Jews to safety.”

“And now to smuggle out a Pope,” I murmur.

“To protect him,” Lorenzo corrects firmly.

We emerge through an unmarked door into a quiet alleyway where a nondescript Fiat waits. No papal flags, no insignia—just an ordinary car that blends into Rome’s evening traffic.

As we drive through the city and then along the coastal highway, I feel a strange lightening of my spirit. For these few hours, I am not Pope Pius XIV but simply Marco again—a man with hopes and fears and a heart that beats faster at the thought of seeing someone he cares for.

The property sits on a secluded stretch of coastline, a modest villa nestled among pines that slope down to a private beach. Security lights illuminate the perimeter, but the house itself appears warmly lit and welcoming.

“The Prime Minister’s family has owned this for generations,” Lorenzo explains as we approach. “It’s been secured and swept for surveillance. You’ll be safe here, Your Holiness.”

The car stops, and I see a figure standing in the doorway—Matteo, dressed casually in a simple shirt and trousers, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.

Lorenzo turns to me. “We’ll maintain a perimeter, Your Holiness. Complete privacy, but absolute security.”

“Thank you, Lorenzo.” I squeeze his shoulder. “For everything.”

Lorenzo turns to me, his eyes meeting mine with unwavering conviction. “The oath I took was to protect the Pope, Your Holiness,” he says quietly. “But my loyalty is to you—Marco Ricci—the man who has shown me what true faith looks like. I would follow you beyond these walls and any others.”

I step from the car, and Matteo comes forward to greet me. No cameras, no aides, no protocols—just two men meeting under a star-filled sky.

“Marco.” He says my name like a prayer.

“Matteo.” My voice catches.

He leads me inside, closing the door on the world outside. The villa is simple but beautiful—terracotta floors, whitewashed walls, windows that frame the moonlit Mediterranean.

“You look exhausted,” he says, studying my face.

“It’s been… challenging.” I manage a smile. “But I’m here now.”

He takes my hand, a gesture that still thrills me with its simplicity and daring. “Are you hungry? I’ve prepared something simple.”

The kitchen opens onto a terrace overlooking the sea. A small table is set with candles, wine, and plates of antipasti. It’s so ordinary, so domestic that I feel tears pricking my eyes.

“What is it?” Matteo asks, concerned.

“This.” I gesture at the table, the room, everything. “It’s so normal. I’d forgotten what normal feels like.”

He pours wine into two glasses. “That’s why I wanted you here. Away from the Vatican, from the constant scrutiny. Just for one night.”

We eat, talk, laugh—about ordinary things at first, then gradually about the investigation, the reforms I’m planning, the resistance we’re both facing. The wine loosens my tongue, or perhaps it’s just the freedom of being away from listening ears.

“I’ve been thinking about the synod,” I tell him. “Not just as a discussion of homosexuality and marriage, but as a fundamental reexamination of how the Church understands love itself.”

Matteo listens intently as I share my vision—a Church that embraces all forms of authentic love as expressions of the divine, that recognizes the sacred in human connection regardless of gender or orientation .

“It’s revolutionary,” he says softly.

“It’s returning to the essence,” I counter. “Before centuries of human interpretation buried the simple truth that love—all love—comes from God.”

* * *

Later, we walk along the beach, shoes discarded, feeling the cool sand between our toes. The moon hangs full and luminous above us, casting a silver path across the water that seems to lead to infinity.

“I used to come here as a child,” Matteo says, his voice soft against the rhythmic percussion of waves. “When things were difficult at home.”

“Were they often difficult?” I ask, watching how the moonlight catches in his dark hair, silvering the edges.

He nods, looking out at the horizon. “My father drank. He had… expectations for his only son that I could never meet. Too sensitive, too bookish.” His laugh is hollow. “Too gay, though neither of us had words for that then.”

I take his hand, encouraging him to continue, savouring the warmth of his skin against mine.

“The sea became my sanctuary,” he continues, squeezing my fingers. “Out here, watching the waves, I could imagine another life. One where I wasn’t constantly disappointing him.”

The moon casts a silver path across the water, illuminating Matteo’s face as he turns to me with unguarded emotion. The usual sharp lines of his expression have softened, revealing the vulnerability he shows to so few.

“Out here, I feel like we’re the only two people in the world,” he says, his voice barely audible above the gentle rhythm of the waves.

I feel it too—this sense of timelessness, of boundaries dissolving. The Vatican seems a world away, its walls and protocols meaningless under this vast sky.

“No one watching,” I murmur. “No one judging.”

His hand finds my cheek, warm against the cooling night air. “Just us.”

The kiss begins tentatively, but quickly deepens with a hunger we’ve both been suppressing. The taste of salt on his lips mingles with the sweetness of the wine we shared earlier. His body presses against mine, solid and insistent, awakening sensations that still feel new and wondrous to me.

My back meets the soft sand as Matteo leans over me, his silhouette outlined against the star-filled sky. The weight of him above me sends heat coursing through my veins, a counterpoint to the cool night air on my skin.

“Here?” I whisper, both thrilled and terrified by the thought.

His smile is visible even in the darkness, a flash of white teeth and mischievous intent. “Who’s to stop us? The sea? The stars?”

There’s something primal and sacred about the prospect of making love under the open sky—as if we’re participating in something as ancient and natural as the tides themselves. Matteo spreads his jacket on the sand, creating a small island for us in this vast expanse.

His fingers work at the buttons of my shirt, exposing my skin inch by inch to the night air. I shiver, not from cold but from the intensity of his gaze as he looks down at me. The moonlight bathes my chest in silver, and Matteo traces the contours with reverent fingertips.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, trailing his fingers down my chest, circling my nipples until they harden under his touch, leaving goosebumps in his wake. The contrast between his warm hands and the cool sea breeze heightens every sensation.

I reach up to pull him down to me, suddenly desperate for his warmth, for the weight of his body against mine. Our kisses grow more urgent, teeth grazing lips, tongues exploring with increasing boldness. The sound of waves crashing nearby seems to echo the rushing of blood in my ears.