Page 36

Trapped

Marco

The heavy oak door closes behind Cardinal Antonelli with a sound that feels more final than it should.

I stand motionless in the centre of my papal apartment as the distinct click of a key turning in the lock echoes through the room.

Not a request, not a suggestion—a imprisonment disguised as protection.

“For your own safety, Your Holiness,” Antonelli had said mere moments ago, his voice a masterpiece of false concern. “The situation outside is volatile. Protesters, journalists, the faithful in turmoil—we cannot guarantee your security if you insist on moving freely.”

I cross to the door and test the handle. Locked, as I suspected. I press my ear against the polished wood and hear the murmur of unfamiliar voices—not my usual Swiss Guard detail, but men I don’t recognize, speaking in hushed tones.

My apartments, once a sanctuary, have become a prison overnight.

I move to the heavy curtains and pull them back slightly.

The windows that normally offer sweeping views of St. Peter’s Square have been sealed shut—another “security measure” implemented while I slept.

Through a narrow gap in the fabric, I can see the square below teeming with people.

Signs wave in the air, though I’m too far away to read their messages.

Are they calling for my resignation? My defence? Both, perhaps.

Three attempts to use my phone this morning revealed the service disconnected. My computer has been removed “for maintenance.” Even the television has been disabled—its screen black and unresponsive when I press the power button.

I pace the confines of my gilded cage, which no longer feels like a sanctuary but a prison. The heavy curtains remain drawn across the windows that normally offer views of St. Peter’s Square. I’ve been told it’s for my “protection” following the media explosion over the photographs.

“Your Holiness, we’re simply taking precautions,” Cardinal Antonelli had explained yesterday, his voice dripping with false concern. “The threats against you have increased tenfold since the… unfortunate revelations.”

The click of the lock after he left told me everything I needed to know.

This morning, breakfast arrived on a tray carried by a young priest I’d never seen before—not the usual attendant who has served me since my election. The newcomer avoided my eyes, placing the tray on the table with trembling hands before hurrying out. The door locked again behind him.

Even the food feels like a message—simple bread and water, a stark contrast to the usual morning offerings. Penitent’s fare. Prisoner’s rations.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window and peer through a small gap in the curtains.

The Swiss Guard presence has tripled around the perimeter of Vatican City—a show of force that seems excessive even under the circumstances.

But they’re all stationed outward, as if the threat comes from beyond our walls.

Not from within .

I try the phone on my desk again, though I know it’s futile.

Dead silence. Not even a dial tone. My isolation is complete—no communication with the outside world, no way to reach Cardinal Sullivan, Sister Lucia, or Father Domenico.

And certainly no way to contact Matteo, who must be fighting his own battles beyond these walls.

The paintings of my predecessors stare down at me from gilded frames—stern faces that seem to judge my predicament. How many of them faced conspiracies from within? How many found themselves prisoners of the very institution they were meant to lead?

A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Captain Lombardi enters, his young face tight with barely concealed anxiety.

“Your Holiness,” he says, bowing slightly. His eyes dart to the corners of the room.

I understand immediately. “Let’s speak in my adjoining chapel,” I suggest, knowing it’s one of the few rooms regularly swept for listening devices.

Once inside the chapel, Lombardi’s posture changes. He stands closer, voice dropping to a whisper.

“They’ve dispersed the Guard, Holy Father. Colonel Reichlin received intelligence reports about foreign agents planning to infiltrate the Vatican. He’s pulled nearly everyone to reinforce the outer perimeter and investigate these supposed threats.”

“And you doubt these reports?”

“I’ve seen them. They’re convincing—professional work—but something felt off. The intelligence came through channels controlled by the Secretary of State’s office, not our usual sources.”

I sit heavily in the front pew. “They’ve outmanoeuvred us.”

“Yes, Your Holiness. I believe Cardinal Antonelli and his allies are using the scandal as cover to isolate you. They’ve effectively neutralized your Swiss Guard protection by convincing Colonel Reichlin of external threats.”

“While the real threat lurks in the corridors of power,” I finish.

Lombardi nods grimly. “I tried speaking with Colonel Reichlin, but he dismissed my concerns. He’s convinced the intelligence is genuine with all of the other threats that have happened recently. He’s chasing shadows.”

“How many guards remain inside the Apostolic Palace?”

“Just four of us, Your Holiness. And I’m the only captain. The others are stationed at entry points, not near your apartments.”

I rub my temples, feeling the weight of my isolation. “And Cardinal Sullivan?”

“They’ve restricted his access to you, claiming security protocols. But I’ve managed to establish a channel. He can get messages to you through me.”

“Thank God for small mercies.” I stand and approach the altar, gazing up at the crucifix. “Captain, am I a prisoner in my own home?”

“Not officially, Your Holiness. They’re calling it ‘protective custody.’”

I laugh bitterly. “How convenient.”

“There’s something else.” Lombardi hesitates. “Cardinal Visconti has called an emergency meeting of the College of Cardinals for tomorrow. They’re discussing… procedures for when a Pope becomes ‘incapacitated.’”

The words hit me like a physical blow. They’re moving to declare me unfit. To force my resignation or worse.

“Thank you for your loyalty, Captain.”

“I serve God and His Church, Your Holiness. Not political agendas.”

After Lombardi leaves, I remain in the chapel alone, kneeling before the altar. The silence wraps around me like a shroud.

“Is this Your will?” I whisper to the crucifix. “To elevate me only to watch me fall?”

No answer comes. Only the echo of my own doubts.

* * *

Night falls, and with it comes a deeper sense of isolation.

I’ve been denied access to phones, computers, even newspapers—all under the guise of “security protocols.” My only contact with the outside world comes through carefully curated updates from Cardinals Antonelli and Lombardi, each painting a dire picture of public outrage and calls for my resignation.

A soft knock at my door breaks the silence. It’s Captain Lombardi again, this time with a folded note.

“From Cardinal Sullivan,” he whispers, glancing nervously down the hall.

I unfold the paper once Lombardi leaves:

M—

They’ve moved faster than anticipated. Visconti claims you’ve violated canon law and the papal oath.

Antonelli has convinced half the College that your relationship with the PM constitutes “grave scandal” warranting immediate action.

They’re invoking a centuries-old procedure for declaring the Holy See vacant due to heresy.

But not all is lost. Archbishop Chen has rallied support among Asian and African cardinals. Sister Lucia’s theological arguments are gaining traction with moderates. And most importantly, the people are divided—not universally against you as A claims.

Stay strong. God is with you, even in this darkness.

—J

I press the note to my chest, a lifeline in my isolation. Not all have abandoned me. Not all believe love is incompatible with faith.

Matteo. My heart aches thinking of him facing his own political crucible. Is he standing firm? Has he heard anything about my situation? Does he regret our love now that it’s exposed us both to such danger ?

I sink to my knees beside my bed, not in prayer but in exhaustion. For the first time since my election, I question whether God truly called me to this office. Perhaps this was all a terrible mistake—my elevation, my reforms, my love for Matteo.

“No,” I whisper fiercely to myself. “I will not doubt that.”

Whatever else may be uncertain, the love I feel for Matteo is real. Pure. True. If such love exists within me—a man devoted to God’s service—how can it be sinful?

I think of Father Domenico’s words: “God’s love is boundless, and authentic love, in all its forms, comes from the divine.”

This gives me strength to face what comes next.

* * *

Dawn breaks after a sleepless night with another note from Cardinal Sullivan, delivered by a trembling Captain Lombardi.

M—

Visconti has called for a vote tomorrow on whether to declare you in violation of your oath. If successful, they’ll demand your resignation. If you refuse, they’ll declare the See vacant and convene a new conclave to select your replacement.

Reichlin remains convinced of external threats. I’ve tried reaching him, but A’s people control his information channels.

I’m working on a way to reach you in person. Trust only Lombardi and Lucia. They’ve compromised others.

—J

I fold the note carefully and burn it in the small fireplace. The ashes float upward, like prayers seeking heaven.

A sharp knock at my door. Not Lombardi’s gentle tap, but something more authoritative.

“Enter,” I call, straightening my cassock .

Cardinal Antonelli strides in, flanked by two guards I don’t recognize. His face wears a mask of pious concern that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Your Holiness, I’ve come to brief you on developments.”

“How thoughtful,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral. “I’ve been feeling rather… isolated.”