At the door, a bowing gendarme offers to help Lucio to his table. My uncle refuses. He refuses Archbishop Nowak, too, who offers him the arm that supports the pope. I am awed to see that he glowers at Nowak, evincing a fearsome superiority. Gone is any sign of Lucio’s physical weakness. He moves with old-fashioned dignity, erect and chin cocked, with eyes peering downward. It steals my breath because this tall, gaunt specter resembles no one so much as Simon.
Lucio lowers himself into his chair. But everyone else remains standing.
“You may be seated,” Lucio says.
The presiding judge says, “Your Eminence, according to the law, your right is to be deposed at a place of your choosing. If you prefer a place other than this aula, tell us your wishes.”
My uncle waves his hand. “You may begin,” he says.
The judge clears his throat. “You’re aware, Eminence, that you may decline our questions? If you fear your testimony might cause harm to you or your family, you have the right to refuse to answer.”
“I have no fear,” Lucio says.
“Then we ask you to submit to two oaths. One of truthfulness and one of secrecy.”
“I will take the first oath,” Lucio says. “But not the second.”
I glance at Mignatto, wondering what this means. But the monsignor is watching Lucio with dire attention.
“As the law requires, we will hear your testimony anyway,” the presiding judge says, sounding concerned. “And since you requested this deposition yourself, Eminence, would you please tell the tribunal the subject you intend to discuss?”
“Am I correct,” Lucio asks, “that witnesses have been forbidden to mention my nephew’s travels this summer?”
“Correct, Eminence.”
“That is the subject I will be discussing.”
I’m tense in my seat. The judges glance at each other.
“Eminence . . .” the lead judge says.
“In particular,” Lucio says, “I will be discussing how ungrateful my nephew’s incarceration seems to me, when he has placed his own career and priesthood in jeopardy, and even refuses to speak in his own defense, all in order to serve the Holy Father, who in return treats him as a criminal.”
I’m frozen. Mignatto stares at the table, unable to watch. This is suicide. Lucio came here to wage war on the pope.
In a quiet but firm voice, Nowak says, “Eminence, please reconsider your words.”
Lucio responds with a stunning insult: keeping his back turned to Archbishop Nowak, he addresses him.
“You deny it?” he says.
“Eminence,” Nowak replies, “we would not be here if your nephew would tell us the truth.”
Finally Lucio turns. They sit almost face-to-face, cardinal at the witness table, archbishop in the first seat. In his princely scarlet, sitting at his full height, Lucio leaves no doubt who is the cock and who is the hen.
“You made him a papal emissary,” my uncle says. “You consecrated him a bishop in secret. And this is how you allow him to be treated? You abandon him to this?”
A knot forms in my throat. A bishop. In secret. My brother: a bishop.
“My nephew, by himself,” Lucio continues, “accomplished what your entire Secretariat couldn’t. And for that you prosecute him?”
Archbishop Nowak’s voice never changes. Never rises in pitch or volume. He has navigated the shoals with every cardinal on earth. His answer is only five words: “Did your nephew kill Nogara?”