Bipolar WINTER. Samuel David Steiner

him, then he would accept, if for no other reason than to extend the Mother Church's illusion of control for a little bit longer.

       Vatican City, Italy

       February 1524

      Pope Clement VII eyed the other men seated around the large oval table. Newly elected to the papacy, he was by no means unfamiliar with workings within the Apostolic Palace. He had, after all, been the principal confidant of his cousin, Pope Leo X. Some of the faces that stared back at him were ones he knew well, yet this was his first time hearing of the Septem Montes.

      Martin Luther had been a thorn in his cousin's side for most of his papacy and, now, Clement understood the truth. While Luther appeared to be in opposition to the Church, the unfolding of the Reformation was strictly controlled from behind the scenes of the Church. Until recently. Clement, however, preferred not to be involved. His hands were full with the Italian War.

      "Holy Father?" one of his cardinals asked, as the assembled clergy waited for his response.

      Clement sighed. "So, you do not believe he can be persuaded back onto the path?"

      "We have little doubt, Your Holiness," another cardinal answered. "Let us just say, his tutors were quite…thorough in instilling hatred for the Church when he was a boy."

      Cardinal Angelo, from the Kingdom of Castille, raised his hand and the pope nodded for him to speak.

      "We have a saying in my country, Holy Father, that if a bull leaves the pasture, you do not let it trample your garden. If this Martin Luther will not return to the flock, then he should be put down."

      "And lose half a century's worth of work?" a cardinal across the table bellowed. "What if the same thing happens again?"

      "Calm yourselves," Cardinal Nicholas said. The oldest and shrewdest of his cardinals had served the Apostolic Palace longer than anyone, having ascended from the position of a humble friar. "Luther is simply the first step of seven. I have no doubt the others will branch off much more smoothly."

      "Yes, but the first step is also the most important," another cardinal said. "The church Luther creates will have innumerable followers when the time comes to bring them back under our control. If we do not subjugate his church soon, we will have no guarantee of success."

      Nicholas smiled and leaned forward, resting his chin on his laced fingers. "Angelo, did you not just tell me of a promising young priest from your country?"

      "Sí, he has plans to attend the University of Alcalá within the year. But what―"

      Nicholas held up his hand, cutting the cardinal off. "Holy Father, may I suggest a different course of action?" At the pope's nod, Nicholas continued, a sly smile on his wrinkled face.

      "Since starting anew is not an option, and it seems Luther is unwilling to continue the work as outlined in Septem Montes, perhaps we should establish a new order, one that will…persuade Luther's church to fulfill its role when the time comes. This order could shepherd the other six branches as well, once they have been formed, should other unforeseen challenges arise. A society of soldiers, if you will. Christ's soldiers."

      “Definitely the shrewdest,” Clement thought, and the plan had merit. If anything, it would take the whole matter off his hands.

      "And who do you propose we get to institute such an order?" one of the cardinals asked.

      Nicholas's smile widened. "I believe Angelo's man will be just what we need."

      Chapter One|Septem MONTES

       Rome, Italy

       February 2013

      Aldo Lombardi nervously paced the large antechamber outside the pope’s private quarters within the Apostolic Palace.

       What on earth is going on? Am I really about to meet the pope?

      Just six hours earlier, he was skiing with his parents at Speikboden on the Austrian-Italian border. Coming off a particularly challenging downhill run, he had plopped in the snow to unhook his skis when two stone-faced men in black suits approached and brusquely ordered him to come with them.

      Definitely suspicious. Aldo decided it was best to ignore them. No one in their right mind would happily follow complete strangers, especially ones so impractically dressed for a day on the slopes. He scooped up his skis and turned to head back to the hotel when they blocked his path. After shoving their Pontifical Swiss Guard identification cards in his face, he quickly realized he had no choice but to comply.

      Twenty minutes later, the men ushered Aldo and his hastily packed suitcase to their car. He didn’t even have the chance to change out of his snow pants, let alone tell his parents he was leaving, and just like that, their surprise of a graduation trip to the Zillertal Alps ended as abruptly as it had begun. Also tried repeatedly to text his parents during the four-hour drive to Valerio Catullo Airport in Verona, but his cell reception was terrible anywhere outside Rome. For the duration of the drive, he sat crammed in the backseat of the guards’ rented Fiat, feeling the most uncomfortable he’d been in his entire life.

       Where are they taking me?

      His anxiety increased as the guards maintained their stubborn silence, despite his demanding an explanation in both English and Italian. The hour flight from Verona to Rome was no better than the car ride. Realizing their destination was the Apostolic Palace brought only a brief moment of solace as Aldo’s anxiety intensified for a whole different reason.

       Did I do something wrong?

      He chewed on the end of his index finger and gazed once again at the elegant interior of the antechamber. No one was escorted by the Pontifical Swiss Guard to the pope’s private quarters without good reason. But only one thing came to Aldo’s mind.

      He continued to pace, the movement the only thing keeping his knees from trembling. Please, Lord, don’t let me throw up. Aldo’s stomach churned again violently.

      Aldo barely managed to receive his Ph.D. in theological history from the Pontifical Gregorian University the previous week; his thesis and last two years of research were nearly refused by the graduation board. He couldn’t fault them though. He’d known from the beginning that his topic was controversial, to say the least, but something in him refused to give up on it. And that stubbornness had nearly cost him his degree. Aldo sighed. His parents had surprised him with the ski trip to Speikboden without knowing how precariously close their son had come to not graduating.

      He pulled out his iPhone to try texting them again when the door to the pope’s chambers opened. Taking a deep breath, Aldo turned to see an older gentleman in the formal red robes of a cardinal, and his heart dropped into the roiling acid of his stomach.

      “Buonasera, Signore,” Cardinal Sebastiano Bastianelli, incumbent of the Holy See said with a slight bow. The cardinal was highly admired in the Catholic world and was something of a hero to Aldo. But under these circumstances, Aldo remained cautious.

      Aldo swallowed hard, trying to collect himself. Bowing, he said, “Uh, Your Eminence…um, am I…”

      “Not to worry,” the cardinal chuckled, “I’m not here to pass judgment.” He then gestured Aldo into the pope’s chambers. Aldo forced his legs to move, and as he entered the large room, his trembling stopped and his nervousness subsided. Famous works of art adorned the walls, and the ceiling was covered with frescoes he thought he’d only ever see in textbooks. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the marble floor, his eyes glued overhead. During his time in graduate school, Aldo visited the four Raphael rooms in the Vatican Museum multiple times, but these rivaled their splendor.

      “Beautiful, aren’t they?” Cardinal Bastianelli commented, as if reading his mind.

      “Yes.” Aldo longed to study them in detail, but reluctantly dragged his gaze away and looked around. Several seating areas, with plush armchairs surrounding low tables, were spaced about