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Vincent Benítez is an enigma.
Sabbadin can’t say that the mysterious newcomer’s ascension to the Throne of Saint Peter was an outcome he was particularly pleased about. Certainly, he has seen the press statements, has heard of the rescue missions, the hospital for female victims of genocidal sexual violence, the ministry in Kabul. And he was also witness to Benítez’s little speech in the auditorium, and the energy that had filled the Sistine Chapel as the Conclave conducted their final vote.
Yet, though he is willing enough to believe that their newly revealed brother cardinal is a truer man of God than most, Benítez is a stranger, an unknown wildcard whose actions Sabbadin cannot anticipate. That the Conclave would discount the lack of knowledge regarding Benítez’s political and ideological positions to so completely throw their support behind him speaks to an idealistic naivete that Sabbadin would scoff at, if not for the fact that, even at the end, the name that Sabbadin scrawled on his last ballot had been “Aldo Bellini”.
Still, as the events of the Conclave fade into memory, Sabbadin feels a certain satisfaction at seeing those who had rejoiced so quickly at Benítez’s elevation start to nervously whisper about the potential trajectories of the new Holy Father’s pontificate.
On behalf of the urging from several members of the liberal faction, Sabbadin makes excuses to delay his return to Milan in favor of observing His Holiness for a while longer. It’s dangerously easy for Sabbadin to maneuver his way into Pope Innocent’s inner circle. In trying to adjust to the Vatican and his new role, Benítez appears to have grown close to Lawrence, who has always been close with Bellini, and though things between he and Bellini have been a little tense since the Conclave, it doesn’t take much for Sabbadin to persuade Bellini into extending him an invite to various meetings, formal and informal alike.
Watching Benítez, he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or irritated to find that the man seems completely guileless. The cynic in him can’t help but worry that Benítez’s straightforward nature will make it impossible for him to effectively navigate the often-treacherous political relationships of the Curia. Yet, despite his misgivings, there is a part of him that is inexplicably drawn to how earnest Benítez appears to be, in his concern for the marginalized, in his desire for change within the Church, and above all, his faith in God. They are qualities that practically shine from his every word and action, quickly winning him favor with the laity, but even as Sabbadin overhears more and more hushed words of admiration for the new Holy Father spreading among the clergy, he can’t shake the growing feeling that Benítez is in over his head.
That said, whatever personal issues Benítez may be having are none of Sabbadin’s business, and with his reconnaissance hitting diminishing returns, he soon finds himself struggling to justify putting off his return to Milan for much longer.
It is under these circumstances that one evening, just past sunset, Sabbadin is wandering through the Vatican gardens in an attempt to escape from his ever-growing pile of emails on diocesan affairs and to find a good spot for a smoke when he comes across the Holy Father standing by a bush, looking a little lost, and also very much alone.
He is staring at something, his gaze focused on a point somewhere beyond the bush, and Sabbadin quietly changes position to see what has so captured his attention.
In the dimming twilight, Sabbadin can just make out two familiar figures walking along one of the paved paths, one taller and one shorter—Lawrence and Bellini, probably on one of their brief strolls before dinner, arm in arm just the way Sabbadin has seen them be so many times over the years. Coming closer, Sabbadin looks from the distant pair back to the Holy Father, and takes in the tense line of his shoulders, the way he clutches his hands together like he’s trying to comfort himself.
Not just alone—lonely, Sabbadin realizes, amending his previous observation. And perhaps it is this, the reminder that underneath all his virtue and authority, Benítez is still just another man, that compels him to come out of the shadows and walk up to Benítez’s side.
“Your Holiness.”
Benítez startles as Sabbadin greets him, nearly tripping over the hem of his white cassock as he whirls around. “Cardinal Sabbadin,” he says, his voice still steady and soft despite the slight shock written across his face. “Forgive me, I didn’t see you there.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean to intrude or startle you,” Sabbadin says, making a dismissive motion with his hand as he racks his brain for an excuse for his unsolicited presence. “I simply saw you and was wondering if anyone had given you a tour of the gardens yet.”
“Oh, no,” Benítez says, starting to look a little chagrined. “There were offers, but with everything that has been happening, I simply haven’t been able to find the time.”
“That’s a shame. Well, if you have time now, I would be delighted if you would let me do the honors,” Sabbadin says, and he’s surprised to find how much he means it.
Benítez stares at him, eyes wide. “Oh—well, I don’t want to impose, but if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother,” he says.
“Of course not, I would be glad for the company,” Sabbadin replies. He’s about to turn and walk on ahead, when a sudden impulse seizes him and he offers Benítez his hand, palm turned up and fingers outstretched. “Shall we?”
Benítez’s gaze drops, and for a second, Sabbadin thinks he has overstepped, that he’s misread—but then he sees how Benítez’s eyes have fixed on his hand like a man starved, and he feels a satisfied thrill at the little exhalation of breath he hears as Benítez reaches for him and slides a warm hand into his.
His fingers are slim, almost delicate, but his grip is firm and his skin is marked with calluses in a way that speaks of endurance through hardship, a paradoxical combination of fragility and strength that could also describe the man himself.
Benítez smiles at him, a small, tender thing that should alarm him with its emotional openness, and Sabbadin can’t stop the growing hope that, however puzzling he may still find Benítez to be, perhaps they picked the right man for the papacy after all.
And, well, if it seems like Sabbadin’s personal understanding of His Holiness Pope Innocent XIV might benefit from observing the man a little more, then Milan will just have to wait a little longer.