On the opposing shore of the Adriatic, Pope Sylvester rushed through the halls of the Papal Palace. His weighty white robes billowed behind him. His erratic eyes turned to the marvels of the Sistine Chapel and its pristine beauty consoled him. He reminded himself that as a descendant of the Medici family, Sylvester’s ancestors had graced upon Italy and the world the likes of Raphael, Grannaci, Michelangelo, Monaco, da Vinci, Toscanelli, the writings of Machiavelli, the heresies and triumphs of Galileo, surely these historic contributions would not go unrewarded.
The holy residence of the Vicarius Christi rang with hollow footsteps that afternoon. Earlier that day, agents of the Vatican informed Sylvester that worldwide communications had been severed. Their contact with the far reaches of the Holy Alliance and its Entities had gone dark. At first, Sylvester thought perhaps this was some sort of cyber attack, an advanced denial of service strike by a committed group of atheists or a heretical foreign adversary, perhaps an incendiary message from the Near East who had long wished to supplant Christian dominance with their feckless Eastern beliefs. With the greatest precaution, Sylvester ordered that the papal residencies be vacated and for the most important members of the church to converge on the Bunker.
But runners from Rome and Paris soon informed him that the Italian and French governments had been similarly crippled. Like some kind of nonsense apocalypse movie, Morse Code was now the default mode of short burst communication between world governments. The possibility remained that Europe was under siege, but Sylvester now understood that the Vatican was clearly not the only target. Sylvester asked that the cardinals remain calm.
Shortly after, soldiers from an observation deck carried delusional tidings of mythical creatures pouring from the clouds on the other side of the sea. They also witnessed a wintry fortress emerging from underground. Croatia was besieged by the soldiers and winged horses, led by a woman donning red and purple ornaments. At that moment, the cardinals lost their minds and began a medieval chant. One of them recited the verse from Revelation about the Whore of Babylon. After all, what follower of Christ would not be both elated and anxious at these developments?
That was the moment Sylvester fled the underground bunker and began to race down the halls of the Apostolic Palace with a vigor he had not felt in decades. The irregular behavior of his cardinals suggested all kinds of foul play by the enemy. A bioweapon, maybe, some kind of new contagion that drove those of the faith to the brink of insanity? If so, Sylvester had walked right into their hands.
The pope prayed for the safe passage of the Catholic hierarchy into the mountain of Purgatory, but there remained matters on Earth that Sylvester needed to attend to. He fumbled around in his robes for a ring of golden keys and inserted one of them into the doors of his private office. Surrounded by books he had retrieved from the library, the hourglass standing on his ornate desk, the adorned picture of Christ behind his antique mahogany chair, the fine quilts resting on the floor, it was the second time that morning that Sylvester felt a true sense of calm.
That was when Sylvester noticed the person appearing from behind the suede velvet curtains draped over the windows. Sylvester found it hard to describe who he was seeing. Under certain lighting, the man adopted the babied features of a proud noble youth. Yet like a mirage, when gazed from a different angle, Sylvester would only see the wrinkled textures of an elderly gentleman. Even the colors and fabrics of his clothes seemed to refract under the light, and Sylvester realized that he was no longer even certain of the person’s gender.
“How long have you been hiding here?” Sylvester asked, “I’ll call the guards.”
“I apologize, His Holiness,” the intruder bowed, their voice a reverberating medley of sonorous voices, all of them beautiful, “It was not my intention to surprise you. We had an appointment today, don’t you remember? I saw that your door was open earlier and was looking out the window while waiting for you. The view is…beautiful today.”
“Don’t think I don’t know how to spot a bold faced lie,” Sylvester said, “The door was locked when I came in. Did you come in through the window?”
“My apologies, His Holiness,” the intruder bowed again, “It seems we’re talking a little bit past each other. You should probably have a seat.”
A powerful gravity gripped Sylvester by his arms and legs. It dragged the pope out of his office, his red leather shoes scraping the marble tiles until the floor bled crimson. The corridors of the papal residency disintegrated into a blur of prismatic colors, and the pope felt the tug of his collar choking him to death. Sylvester tried to scream, but he could hardly summon the effort to even breathe. In this secluded space, hurtling towards his doom, Sylvester forgot to even pray.
Then the kaleidoscope of ancient colors disappeared, and Sylvester’s view was replaced with a haze of rich verdant green. He felt his frail back slam into a wooden rocking chair in the middle of the Vatican gardens. Sylvester tasted rusty copper in his throat, and his feet burned with such deafening intensity he dared not to look at them. Instead, his eyes shifted left and right, taking in trimmed hedges and a stone fountain. The garden was empty save for the intruder, who sat in his seat across from the pope while stirring a cup of tea in his lap. Sylvester tried to lift himself from his chair, but his back stayed glued to the chair.
“There, we’re in the gardens,” the person said, “Isn’t it so soft and serene out here? Much easier to understand one another when we’re out here, in nature.”
“W-what kind of devilry is this?” Sylvester stammered, “Have you drugged me? Is this some kind of dream? Hallucination? Stay away from me!”
“There, there, His Holiness,” the person sighed, “I thought this chance of place would have calmed your nerves. Maybe we really do need a different place where we can discuss our arrangement.”
“No, no, no,” Sylvester cried, “It’s quite alright. I’ll pay attention. Just don’t do that again.”
“Excellent,” the person clapped their hands, “I’m so glad we could reach a mutual understanding. Now, let us begin! Right, I’ve almost forgotten to introduce myself.”
The intruder took a sip of tea and set it aside. They folded their legs, then, visibly unsatisfied, folded it the other way. They leaned forward with a smile, but the refractive nature of their expression made it impossible to tell whether its nature was evil or benign.
“My name is Florence,” said the intruder, “I’m the ruling Archbishop for the Archdiocese of Mars.”
“Mars?” Sylvester shook his head, “We don’t have a bishop for any extraterrestrial bodies save for the moon. Who are you trying to fool?”
“Of course, of course, His Holiness,” the Archbishop Florence bowed, “It’s understandable that you would have these misconceptions. That’s why we’re here, to correct your misunderstandings of the world at present, the Church, and of God.”
“This is heresy!”
“I would never dare!” Florence said, “I am merely stating my rank and position, His Holiness. And the mere truth is that there is a flourishing religious community both on the surface of Mars as well as a growing episcopal community on Deimos, both of which have come to a broader understanding of our Catholic doctrine. That is why I’m here, to rectify the misunderstandings of our faith that have occurred in our brief separation of spacetime.”
“If it’s not heresy, you’re insane,” Sylvester murmured. He tried, and failed again, to rise from his seat.
“There’s more to the Bible once you’ve ventured into space,” Florence ignored him, “It’s similar to an object transcending two dimensions and arriving in a three dimensional space. We get a clearer picture of God’s machinations when we’re on Mars, you see. We also see with painful resignation how little it is our cardinal brothers and sisters know about him when they remain on Earth.”
“Nonsense,” Sylvester said, “Even if what you say is true, you haven’t escaped to some higher plane, you’ve simply traveled to Mars. Congratulations, the atmosphere and harsh winds and solar flares have inspired a kind of novel madness in you people.”
“The same madness that you attribute to your cardinal bishops howling in the underground bunker?” Florence asked.
Sylvester stayed silent.
“Yes, the Archdiocese of Mars knows many things,” Florence said, “Like the nature of the invaders on the other side of the Adriatic, whether they are harbingers of the end times that you suspect they are, and the real nature of God.”
“Are they the harbingers of the end times?”
“Of course not,” Florence laughed, “If you merely visited us on Mars, you would have known this. They’re mere interlocutors. When I assume authority here, I will be uniting the forces of Europe to drive them from our lands.”
“Assume authority? How do you suppose you intend to do that?”
“Will your god help you escape the chair that God has placed you in?” Florence asked, “Would you like to meet our community on Mars, His Holiness?”
“False prophet, playful tricks to fool the masses,” Sylvester cursed.
“No, no, no, you don’t understand,” Florence sighed, “It is the Catholic Church here, on Earth, that has fooled the masses. Why can I send you flying out of the Vatican while you are powerless against me? Is that not a definitive sign that I am backed by a higher power while you, His Holiness, with all due respect, are the most ordained among us?”
“Tricks! He shall reward the faithful! I, of the Medici family, shall never yield to the likes of you,” Sylvester shrieked and wrangled his hands stuck against the arms of the chair, “Sorcerer of the Devil!”
“I’m sorry, but it’s you that commits the work of the Devil,” Florence said, “The real God is in fact here, trapped beneath the Vatican. The Index Librorum Prohibitorum tells us of the many faces of God. I am here to free Him and this Church from your grasp. It has become clear that we won’t be able to reach any kind of amicable arrangement. I shall take you to Mars, now.”
That gravity, that overwhelming force, lifted Sylvester from his seat once again. He found himself soaring into the skies until he could see the height of Queen Memoria’s castles, the architecture of the Vatican below him, the clouds swirling among bell towers and snowy ramparts, legions of valkyries descending to the earth. He felt like, as he gazed at the papal residencies, he could still see the demonic Archbishop Florence of the Archdiocese of Mars smiling faintly at him. His body grew colder and colder, and Sylvester closed his eyes to pray.
The silence, the vacuum of space and his body’s obliteration, was his god’s answer.
What could be more immortal than an idea, an idea that festers deeper than any wound?
The Archbishop Florence of the Archdiocese of Mars will appear neither as man nor woman, but rather as a sort of amalgam of contradictions and untenable juxtapositions. Those who see them will see the rotting wounds festering at the core of the Earth. Every heretic burned at the stake, every schoolboy seeking falsehoods during Sunday school, they all empower the Archbishop’s divine mission to unify the unsavory theories of our Lord deemed as blasphemy and save the Church from itself.
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