Sunday morning in Paris was usually loud. Bells ringing. Choirs singing. The pious shuffling to Mass.
Today, it was silent.
I sat in my office at the Tuileries, the window open. I listened for the bells of Notre Dame.
Nothing.
"It's the Interdict," Talleyrand said, pouring himself a glass of wine. He looked pale. "The Pope has played his ace."
"He shut down the churches?" I asked.
"Worse. He opened them, but he closed Heaven."
Talleyrand tossed a parchment onto my desk. It was heavy, sealed with the Keys of St. Peter.
Papal Bull: De Mercede Diaboli (Of the Devil's Wages).
I read the Latin. It was blunt.
The government of the 'Administrator' is anathema. The Bank of France is a temple of usury. Any soul who pays taxes to this regime, or accepts its currency, is excommunicated.
"He excommunicated the Franc," I said, rubbing my temples.
"He excommunicated the tax base," Talleyrand corrected. "If the peasants think paying taxes sends them to Hell, they won't pay. The revenue stream dries up by Tuesday."
I looked at the map of Europe.
I had beaten the Austrians. I had beaten the British. I had beaten the inflation.
But I couldn't beat God.
"Where is Danton?" I asked.
"At Notre Dame. Trying to take communion."
"And?"
"The Priest refused him. Spat on his shoes. Called him a whore of Babylon."
I stood up. My chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"This isn't theology," I said. "This is politics. The Pope is trying to bankrupt us because we seized the Church lands to back the currency."
"It's effective politics," Talleyrand noted. "Fear of Hell is a powerful motivator. Stronger than greed."
"Is it?" I walked to the fireplace. "We'll see."
Rome. The Vatican.
The office of Cardinal Fabrizio Ruffo was not a place of prayer. It was a place of war.
Maps covered the walls. Not dioceses, but supply lines.
Ruffo stood by the window, looking out at St. Peter's Square. He wore the red robes of a Prince of the Church, but beneath them, the glint of chainmail was visible at his collar.
He was the Warrior Cardinal. The man who had led the Sanfedisti peasant army to retake Naples from the French. He didn't preach; he conquered.
"The Bull is read in Paris," a voice said from the shadows.
Ruffo didn't turn. "And the reaction?"
"Silence. The Accountant is calculating his next move."
"He thinks in numbers," Ruffo said, his voice deep and rough like grinding stones. "He thinks he can buy God with efficiency. He forgets that the Church thinks in centuries."
He turned.
In the corner sat a man. Or a shape. He was wrapped in a cloak, his face hidden. On the table next to him sat a small, intricate device. A pocket watch.
But the gears were on the outside. Exposed. Turning backwards.
"The Accountant moves too fast," the Watchmaker said. "He introduces steam before the world is ready. He disrupts the Order."
"We will cut the thread," Ruffo agreed. "I have dispatched the Holy Cleaner."
"Good. If the machine breaks, the man breaks."
The Watchmaker picked up his device. Click. Click.
"His heart is failing," the Watchmaker whispered. "The timeline is rejecting him. We just need to give it a push."
The Tuileries Chapel was cold.
I knelt in the pew, staring at the altar. I wasn't praying. I didn't believe in a God who intervened in tax policy.
I was thinking.
How do you fight a ghost? How do you fight an idea?
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
I heard the whisper from the confessional booth nearby. Someone was in there.
But the church was empty. I had ordered it cleared.
My neck prickled. The instinct of a prey animal sensing a predator.
I stood up slowly.
"Who is there?"
The curtain of the confessional swept back.
A monk stepped out. He wore a rough brown habit, the hood pulled low. His hands were tucked into his sleeves.
"Peace be with you, my son," the monk said.
"The chapel is closed," I said. "Go home."
"I have a message from Rome," the monk said. He took a step forward.
"I read the Bull," I said, backing away. "I'm not impressed."
"Not the Bull," the monk smiled. It was a beatific, terrifying smile.
"The deliverance."
His hand flashed from his sleeve.
Steel glinted in the candlelight. A dagger. Long, thin, designed to slip between ribs.
He lunged.
He was fast. Too fast.
I tried to dodge, but my legs were heavy. My heart stuttered. I stumbled backward, tripping over a kneeler.
I fell hard. The stone floor knocked the wind out of me.
The monk loomed over me, the knife raised high.
"For the Vicar of Christ!" he screamed.
BANG.
The sound was deafening in the small stone space.
The monk's head snapped back. A spray of red mist painted the altar cloth.
He crumpled. The knife clattered to the floor inches from my hand.
I gasped for air, clutching my chest.
From the shadows of the choir loft, a figure emerged. He was holding a smoking pistol.
Robespierre.
He walked down the aisle, calm as a clerk filing a report. He adjusted his spectacles.
"That was close," Robespierre noted.
He walked over to the dead monk. He kicked the body over.
"Jesuit trained," Robespierre said, examining the monk's boots. "Silence soles. Professional."
He reached into the monk's bloody robe and pulled out a heavy purse.
He tossed it to me.
I caught it. It jingled.
"Vatican gold," Robespierre said. "The Pope is paying top dollar for assassination."
I struggled to my feet. My hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"You were following me," I accused.
"I was auditing your security," Robespierre corrected. "It was insufficient. You have been walking around without a guard, Citizen. That is a liability."
I looked at the dead man. I looked at the gold.
"They tried to kill me in a church," I whispered.
"They declared war," Robespierre said. "How do you wish to respond? I can arrest every priest in Paris by midnight."
"No," I said. My fear was turning into something else. Something cold and hard.
"That makes them martyrs."
I walked to the door.
"Get Napoleon. Get Talleyrand. Meet me in the Council Chamber."
"What are we going to do?"
"We're going to nationalize God."
The Council Chamber. Midnight.
Napoleon was pacing. Talleyrand was drinking. Robespierre was cleaning his gun.
"We cannot fight the Pope!" Talleyrand insisted again. "He has a billion followers. You have a printing press."
"The Pope is a foreign prince," I said. "He is interfering in domestic policy. That is a violation of sovereignty."
I slammed the Vatican gold onto the table.
"He sent an assassin. The diplomatic immunity is revoked."
"You want to invade Rome?" Napoleon asked, eyes lighting up. "I can be there in three weeks."
"No," I said. "Invading Rome makes him a victim. I want to make him irrelevant."
I grabbed a quill. I pulled a fresh sheet of parchment.
"Talleyrand, take a letter."
"To whom?"
"To the French Bishops."
I started dictating.
" Draft Decree: The Civil Constitution of the Clergy. "
Talleyrand went pale. "Alex... you can't."
"Write it!" I snapped.
"Article One: The Church of France is independent of Rome."
"Article Two: All Bishops and Priests shall be elected by the people of their parish."
"Article Three: All Clergy are employees of the State. They will receive a salary from the Treasury. They will swear an oath of loyalty to the Constitution."
Silence in the room.
"You are turning priests into bureaucrats," Danton whispered in awe.
"I'm turning them into citizens," I said. "If they take the oath, they get a paycheck. If they refuse, they are fired. No pension. No church. No pulpit."
"And the Pope?" Talleyrand asked. "He will excommunicate the entire nation."
"Let him," I said. "Let's see who the priests listen to. The man in Rome who sends prayers, or the man in Paris who signs the checks."
I looked at Napoleon.
"General, mobilize the Army of Italy. Move them to the border of the Papal States."
"To invade?"
"To intimidate. Remind His Holiness that while he holds the Keys to Heaven, I hold the keys to his grain supply."
I stood up. My heart was pounding, but steady. The anger fueled me.
"He tried to kill the CEO," I said.
I looked at the map of Rome.
"We are going to evict the landlord."