The Mithras Conspiracy by M.J. Polelle

Author:M.J. Polelle [Polelle, M.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lido Press
Published: 2019-03-28T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Nine

At 3:30 a.m. on Good Friday morning, not far from the Corso Italia in the town of Sorrento, Cardinal Gustavo Furbone, the local boy made good, sat alone on a purple-cushioned cathedral chair. Fighting sleep, he waited by the curb in the reserved area cordoned off with velvet ropes and stanchions from the press of common people. Chopin’s Funeral March op. 35, rose dirgelike in the distance as the White Procession began its journey on its way past the area reserved for dignitaries. Nodding off and then snorting himself awake, the cardinal heard the slow and steady beat of the lugubrious rhythm come closer. They would meet soon.

Brandishing torches, the devotees in white-hooded robes with eye slits turned the corner at the far end of the street and stepped like zombies toward him in slow-motion cadence.

“What’s this?” asked a pink-haired punk teen in a USA tank top up against the velvet ropes of the reserved area. “The Ku Klux Klan?”

The ring in her navel was too much for the cardinal. “Be quiet,” he ordered. “Have you no shame?”

The procession leader carried a wooden cross over his shoulder past the reserved area. He stopped to welcome the town’s guest of honor in a voice muffled by his hooded face. It had taken far longer than he deserved, but at last the town recognized the cardinal’s importance, even if only the trivial title of honorary chairperson for Holy Week activities.

The procession leader was not the one he had come to meet. They had been young men when they left Sorrento to make their fortunes. What did he look like now? He was somewhere in the long procession.

Down the street came a marcher with the hammer and nails commemorating the Crucifixion. He walked past the cardinal. Then came another with the water bowl and towel recalling the washing of hands by Pontius Pilate. Neither was the awaited one.

Had he taken fright and not come as agreed?

The next bearer of a Passion symbol had the appearance of a diminutive ghost swathed in a white-hooded robe with eye slits. Could it be? This bantam ghost jangled a sack representing the thirty pieces of silver paid to Judas for his betrayal. The Jesus betrayer incognito walked over to the reserved area. Beating his chest with his fist in simulated atonement, the Judas figure fell to his knees before the cardinal’s chair for a blessing.

That action signaled he had arrived.

“Why, Riccardo, did you insist on meeting at this ungodly hour?” The cardinal lowered his head and voice. “Still playing games of cloak-and-dagger, just like when we were boys in Sorrento.”

“I fear for my life.” Riccardo Renaldi looked up and down the street. “If Piso finds out.”

“Come, come. He’s simply a wealthy bureaucrat now. Not an executioner.”

“That’s what you think. He represents forces.”

The cardinal sighed. “Let’s get to the point.” He leaned forward in his cathedral chair over Renaldi’s bowed head as though hearing a confession. “I agree to retain you on your terms. Can you do

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