Chapter Text
The night after the conclave, Giulio Sabbadin stood outside the door to Aldo Bellini’s suite as he had so many times before over the few days he had called the Casa Santa Marta home. This time however he was nervous: the previous night’s chess game seemed a lifetime ago. Before dinner he and Bellini had played, Bellini had lost and in that moment he had decided to switch his allegiance to Tremblay. They had gone to see Lawrence, who had been horrified by the idea, but Sabbadin had held firm, had choked down his pride to fetch coffee for the man who would be Pope, while his friend, his mentor, his sometimes lover had debated theology with the other no-hopers, studiously avoiding his eye. As Senator Sabbadin’s son, he deserved to be Secretary of State, even if that meant betraying Bellini.
Now, following Thomas’ squandering of a valuable asset and Tedesco’s predictable violent implosion, they had an unknown as Pope, and Sabbadin for the first time in his life felt uncertain of his destiny. He knocked on the door.
After a few minutes and some hasty rustling, Bellini opened the door just enough to look round it. He was wearing trousers and a hastily buttoned shirt without the collar, the normally immaculate cardinal in an unusual state of disarray.
‘Giulio.’ He stated, like the name was a heavy weight ripping the bottom out of a wet paper bag. ‘You’d better come in.’ He stepped aside and ushered the younger man into the suite. An open suitcase was in the middle of the floor; the desk had been cleared of books and papers, once again shoved into the worn leather briefcase although with slightly more care than when Bellini had arrived. Bellini gestured to the armchair by the little table. The chess board and ash tray were still in position. Giulio took up his place as if nothing had changed.
‘So.’ He said after a long moment. ‘What’s next for you, do you think, Eminence?’
Bellini sighed and collapsed into the other armchair, head in his hands. ‘Giulio, I honestly don’t know. Benitez - Innocent - said that none of us would lose our positions if we want to continue. But the thought of carrying on…I don’t know if I can.’
‘Then leave it to someone who can. Someone who really wants it. Go back to the Gregorian University, go back to research…’
Bellini looked at his face with mounting sorrow. He realised he had spoken too sharply, too heatedly.
‘I am sorry, Giulio. I know how much you wanted - want - the position. I will make what recommendations I can on your behalf. And you’ll always have Milan.’
‘Aldo. It’s not just that I wanted to be Secretary of State. I wanted to be your Secretary of State, your right hand man…we could have been a team.’ We could have been us, he almost says. ‘Look here,’ he says, pulling out his notebook, ‘I voted for you five times, until it became clear the Holy Spirit lay elsewhere. Many of our brothers did the same or more. You may not be Pope, but the Lord clearly still has work for you to do. You matter, Aldo.’
And yet three times you denied me, Bellini thought but did not say. He sighed. ‘Giulio, I can’t tell you how much your devotion means to me. Has always meant to me. But it’s over, you must see that. Honestly I’m surprised you’re here not seeking an audience with Innocent.’ Bellini reached for the chess set, reset the plastic pieces and put the lid back on. He got up and tossed it into his suitcase.
‘Aldo, Io ti seguiterò dovunque tu andra i. How do you not see that, after all these years?’
‘Last night it looked like you’d make that same promise to Joe Tremblay, Guilio’
‘All’s fair in war and politics, Aldo, it doesn’t change - shouldn’t change us.’
‘Guilio, mio fratello, you must believe me when I say that I value your friendship and devotion most highly but there has never been and can never be an us.’
‘Then what about this?’ Giulio flipped to another list in his little black notebook, ‘all the times you called me in the middle of the night and I talked you down from the height of panic or the depth of self loathing? All the times you came to me in Milan or slipped into my room when we were both in Rome? Does that not count for anything with you?’
The bedroom door suddenly opened an ld both cardinals whipped their heads round to look. In the doorframe stood Goffredo Tedesco, patriarch of Venice, clad only in a short scarlet dressing gown. Guilio noticed that it revealed more of the Patriarch’s chest hair than he ever wanted to think about. He looked from Tedesco to Bellini, horrible realisation suddenly dawning on his face.
‘I should…I see…good night Aldo, Patriarch.’ He picked up his notebook and bolted for the door.
‘Giulio…’ Bellini started to say.
But it was too late.