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The evening service in the Basilica of St. Peter had concluded, and the grandeur of the Vatican chapel left the stranger breathless. The marble pillars, each uniquely carved and supporting a mosaic-covered roof, created a dazzling spectacle. Soft lights emanated from chapels, casting an ethereal glow amidst the shadows. The high altar, adorned with gold lamps and white lilies, stood like a radiant jewel.
Leaning against a smooth column, the stranger took in the splendor with a mixture of awe and inspiration. The play of light and shadow, the sea-green hues of distant columns, and the rich colors of the surroundings enveloped him in a world of mystical beauty.
As the novices extinguished candles and the church dimmed, the stranger moved towards the door. The bronze gates had closed, leaving only the entrance to the Vatican and a side street open. Monks departed through the side street, but the stranger lingered.
Approaching one of the novices near a dazzling shrine, the stranger spoke in Latin with the air of a scholar.
“Sir,” he said softly, “may I speak to you?”
The novice studied him, taking in the splendor of the stranger’s appearance. Tall and imposing, adorned with exquisite garments and jewelry, the stranger’s sun-kissed complexion and Western eyes contrasted with his Eastern attire.
The novice observed the stranger’s face, nearly as perfect as a deity’s mask, though marked by an air of indifference and troubled weakness. Despite this, the stranger’s beauty was undeniable.
“I am a stranger,” the man continued. “I want to ask you about Cardinal Caprarola. Did he officiate here today?”
The novice responded, “Well, I can tell you plenty about him. He’s the top man in Rome—especially now that His Holiness is on his deathbed.”
The stranger nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of him, even back in Constantinople. I believe I saw him many years ago, before my travels in the East.”
As the novice continued to extinguish candles, he shared, “He might have been in Nola, but he’s most known for being a follower of Saint Ambrose of Menthon from a young age. After the saint’s passing, he joined the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Paris. Have you heard about that?”
The stranger, in his magnificent attire, listened intently. “I’ve been away for many years and heard nothing. This Cardinal Caprarola—is he considered a saint as well? Tell me more.”
The youth paused, leaving some candles flickering, casting a mysterious glow over the stranger. “He was born in Dendermonde as Louis, but took the name Blaise in the convent. He rose to prominence in Rome, becoming Bishop of Ostia and then of Caprarola, and now he’s a Cardinal. He’s highly revered here.”
The stranger’s eyes gleamed with wistful curiosity. “Is he truly a saint?”
“He was known for his holy life in his youth, but now he lives in grandeur. Still, many consider him very holy,” the novice replied, finishing extinguishing the candles.
The stranger sighed deeply. “There was a grand service today?”
“Yes, many pilgrims were here,” confirmed the novice.
The stranger’s voice held a note of desperation. “I seek peace. Will Cardinal Caprarola help heal my soul?”
“If your need is genuine, I believe he would,” the youth assured him.
As they walked towards the exit, the stranger seemed to shake off dark thoughts, asking, “Where can I find the Cardinal?”
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“He resides in the Via di San Giovanni in Laterano. Any local can direct you,” the novice informed him, opening the door.
“God be with you,” the stranger said, stepping into the night as the church door closed behind him.
The twilight over Rome painted a purple hue, adding to the mystique of the ancient city. The stranger crossed the Piazza of St. Peter, feeling the gentle breeze and observing the bustling streets filled with monks and locals.
Navigating through the vibrant crowds, he reached Via Sacra, where revelers and penitents mingled. His presence drew attention, especially from women, one of whom tossed a flower his way, eliciting a mixture of discomfort and flattery. Memories of past encounters with admirers stirred within him.
Continuing his journey through the remnants of ancient Rome, he finally arrived at Via di San Giovanni in Laterano, on his quest to find Cardinal Caprarola.
The stranger stood apart from the bustling crowd, casting his eyes over the darkening city. The Vatican and Castel San Angelo loomed in the distance against the Apennines, banners fluttering lazily in the warm air. St. Peter’s glowed with soft lights, a beacon in the encroaching dusk.
Turning to the throng, a mix of faces and languages, he tapped a young German on the shoulder. “Which way to Cardinal Caprarola’s palace?”
The German pointed uphill to a magnificent building half-hidden by foliage. “That one, sir.”
“Thank you,” the stranger nodded, heading towards the Palatine.
Soon, he arrived at Villa Caprarola’s gates, opened onto a garden bathed in twilight hues. The white walls of the palace shimmered through the trees, captivating the stranger’s gaze. Cardinal Caprarola, the greatest man in Rome, had intrigued him—a man of humble beginnings now towering over an empire.
With a heavy heart and hopes for redemption, the stranger approached the palace, envisioning the Cardinal as a beacon of purity and power. He yearned for absolution, for someone untouched by evil to hear his tale of sin and sorrow.
Entering the marble vestibule, he encountered two imposing guards. One struck a silver bell, summoning a striking youth in black, identified as Messer Paolo Orsini, the Cardinal’s secretary.
“Do I stand at Cardinal Caprarola’s abode?” the stranger asked, his voice betraying a hint of unease.
“Yes, and I am his secretary,” Paolo replied with a bow. “What brings you here?”
“I seek confession, not of political or worldly matters, but of my soul’s burdens,” the stranger confessed.
Paolo’s eyes appraised him. “The Cardinal hears confessions in the Basilica,” he informed courteously.
The stranger, known as Thomas, awaited his audience with Cardinal Caprarola in the opulent vestibule. The marble walls, adorned with gold-encrusted Byzantine columns and violet glass mosaic ceilings, reflected the flickering light of gilt lamps. The air was heavy with the scent of aromatic incense, and a soothing melody trickled from the alabaster fountain.
As Thomas paced the lavish space, he pondered the Cardinal’s lifestyle. Could a man of such worldly splendor truly embody holiness? Yet, amidst the grandeur, Thomas sensed a divine presence, a promise of redemption that had eluded him in his worldly travels.
When Paolo Orsini returned, Thomas was ushered up the grand staircase. The scarlet-hung landing, illuminated by crystal lamps, led to a hall adorned with bronze statues and fragrant flora. The rose-hued marble walls and intricate mosaic floor spoke of untold wealth and luxury.
As Paolo guided Thomas into the Cardinal’s chamber, he left with a bow, promising the Cardinal’s imminent arrival.
Thomas found himself in a chamber of dark ebony and shimmering mother-of-pearl. The walls were adorned with Ovid’s tales embroidered in silken threads, casting eerie shadows in the dim light. A Persian carpet in muted shades of mauve and pink lay on the floor, while jasper and silver lamps hung overhead, casting a ghostly moonlight glow.
In one corner, an ivory chair and table stood on an ebony step, adorned with peculiar items—a blood-red glass of lilies, a sand clock, and a gold book with turkis-encrusted covers. A purple velvet cushion adorned the chair. Across from this setup, a crucifix hung with a scarlet light beneath it, the only holy presence in the otherwise unsettling room.
Incense wafted from a gold brazier, its heavy scent filling the confined space and adding to the surreal atmosphere. A silver footstool and a low ebony chair completed the sparse furniture. Against the opposite wall stood a gilt shrine with closed, glittering wings.
Thomas felt a strange excitement mingled with discomfort. This chamber, meant for sacred solace, seemed to stir up memories long buried. Scenes from his past flashed before his mind—a room in Antwerp bathed in August sunlight, a witch’s fire in Basle, and haunting visions from Frankfort’s rose garden.
As he murmured a prayer, a sense of giddiness overcame him. The blue light danced before his eyes, and he paced the carpeted floor in agitation. Suddenly, he stopped as the door creaked open, and Cardinal Caprarola entered, a storm brewing outside echoing the turmoil within.