by Eric Flint
"Unless there's some reason why the Committee can't help the USE's intelligence network, go right ahead, Ruy."
"The first thing," Ruy said, refilling his wineglass, "is that I will warn you to be circumspect. It may be that this warning is not needed, for you have already been the victim of an agent provocateur and seen the chicanery of a true master of the art of deception. But I will repeat it: spycraft is not a trade easily or quickly learnt and you should not attempt more than you are confident is within your skills."
"I'd figured as much," Frank said. "So far it's just been listening to gossip and making sure folks know there's a drink on the house if they've got news for us. Nothing much, really."
"Most wise, if I may make so bold. However, you will not have heard that Cardinal Borja has returned to Rome?"
"I hadn't," said Frank, puzzling for a moment to remember who that one was, and then-"Spanish cardinal, right? He was at Galileo's trial. He's an Inquisitor, no?"
"He is indeed. And he was ordered out of Rome last year but came back. Your local gossip will not have heard that he is in his villa outside Rome receiving a great many visitors, including many high-ranking priests, bishops and cardinals."
"You got a handle on what he's up to?" Frank asked.
"Not as yet," Ruy said, gesturing with his wineglass. "It may be that the worst he can do is to frustrate and thwart His Holiness in revenge for the slights he suffered and the See of Rome's refusal to obstruct Don Fernando's marriage. That is, as you may imagine, causing consternation among the Catholic powers."
"I can see that. But why would he be hiring mobs to cause trouble in the street?"
"I'm guessing," Sharon said, "because someone didn't want to play ball with him. So he organized that little party just to let 'em know what's what-and if you guys get blamed after last year's fiasco, so much the better."
"Just so," said Ruy. "I have agreed, if permission may be obtained from my former master, to look in to the matter as it appears on the streets, as all our existing sources and spies are concentrated among the notables and prelates of Rome. So if there is anything you might hear, Frank, about who is hiring mobs, and on behalf of whom they might be doing it, that information would be most welcome. For our part, it may well be that we will hear sooner than you might if the Inquisition is in danger of growing a pair of cojones. You might need warning to leave town in a hurry, eh?"
Frank nodded. "I'll keep an ear out. Just don't expect anything spectacular, okay? I get what comes in the door and what Giovanna picks up when she's out buying groceries and such. We're not really professional spies, you know?"
"True," Ruy nodded. "But on occasion the kind of thing you hear will be of more use than what the professionals gather. Do not underestimate your worth, Senor Stone."
Frank grinned. He could recognize flattery when it came his way, but since he figured he was getting the better end of this deal, in the shape of a possible warning if things were going to go horribly wrong, he didn't mind. A warning, he realized, he might well need quicker than he would otherwise. Sharon and Ruy coming in all bloody had clean driven it out of his mind, but now was as good a moment as any to crack the good news.
"Well, thanks for the compliments, Senor Sanchez," he said, "but there's something else involved, another reason why I can't exactly go haring off being a spy and all, and why I've really, really got to be careful about staying out of trouble. You see, I'm going to be a daddy."
"Bravo!" Ruy beamed, leaning over to clap him on the shoulder. "Let me be the first, Senor Stone, to wish you every joy of this happy event. But where is your beautiful wife? I, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz, must not be found wanting when there is a lady to be congratulated!"
Sharon was slower off the mark. "Frank… I mean, when? How soon? Where's Giovanna?"
"Here, Dottoressa Nichols," Giovanna said, coming over with a plate of pastries. "I see my husband has finally remembered that we have some slight news to tell." She gave Frank a friendly poke in the ribs. "I think perhaps three months? So six to go."
"You're looking well on it," Sharon said. "Any sickness? You don't seem to be starting to show yet."
"No, I seem to be lucky with the sickness. I felt a little ill in the mornings at first, but not recently. And it is showing, a little, but not in this dress. My tits, though!"
If there was one truly disconcerting thing about having married a working-class Italian girl, it was the utterly straightforward way she spoke about "-and when Frank tried to squeeze them, I nearly punched him. I think I did deafen him, I screamed. So tender."
"Well, that's normal," said Sharon.
Frank almost cringed. Across the table, Ruy shrugged and gave him a look that, in international cross-time Guy Code said, women, eh?
Giovanna nodded. "I thought so, I spoke to some of the other ladies around here. But I would know one thing, Dottoressa." A note of suspicion crept into her voice. "Frank tells me that the up-time doctors say that a pregnant woman must have no wine. Is this true?" She made it sound like they'd recommended she stop breathing.
"Well…" Frank guessed immediately that Sharon had run in to this particular piece of stunned disbelief before. "Strong drink isn't good for your baby, no. On the other hand, there's not much else that's safe to drink, and a dose of flux will be worse. How much do you drink, normally?"
"Normally? Watered wine when I eat. From time to time, beer."
"You shouldn't be doing too much harm, then. Try drinking cool boiled water instead, though, when you can have that in place of wine." Sharon pursed her lips a moment, then went on. "If we were somewhere with a good, clean, water supply, I'd say leave the wine out altogether, but around here you're probably better off with wine in your water if you can't get boiled. But definitely stay off the grappa, you hear?"
"Yes, Dottoressa," Giovanna said.
"When you've got a moment, drop by the embassy and I'll give you a checkup. I've usually got some spare time in the mornings. Shall we say Friday, about nine? We can arrange regular checkups after that. Make sure you're coming along well, and all."
"I could not impose, Dottoressa."
Sharon held up a hand. "No, Giovanna, it's not an imposition. I've been meaning to hold some free clinics anyway, build up some good will. You can be my first patient."
"If you're sure…" Frank said, although it was purely for form's sake. Despite Giovanna's insistence that she was from tough stock and wouldn't "faint like some useless noblewoman," he got the cold sweats sometimes, watching her carry on working. And proper up-time medical care was beyond price, as far as he was concerned. He'd had to live without medical insurance for most of his life, and had discreetly found out what doctors in seventeenth-century Rome charged. The prospect of getting an up-time trained nurse for free was too good to pass up. And it meant they had a regular contact with the embassy as well.
"I'm sure," said Sharon, in a tone that permitted no further protests.
Just then Benito came in, breathless. It looked like he'd run all the way to the other side of town and back. "Hi Frank, Giovanna, Dottoressa, Senor Sanchez," he said, trotting up to their table with a parcel done up in muslin under his arm. "I got the signora's fresh clothes."
"Thanks, Benito," said Sharon. "Frank, if I can have the use of somewhere to change?"
"Sure. Go out back of the bar and pick a room. Giovanna'll give you a hand if you need it."
"Thanks." Sharon got up and left for the back rooms.
"The dress was not all I got," Benito said. "See!"
He held out a piece of paper. "Someone gave me a flyer. I couldn't read all of it, but it looks like someone else is starting a Committee."
"Thanks, Benito," Frank said, taking the paper. "Where'd you get it?"
"Some kid was handing them out on the Via Crescenzio. I took one as I went past." Benito shrugged. "I didn't recognize the guy, though. Just some kid, probably handing them out for a mouthful of bread." A year ago, Benito had been that kid, or very much like him.
Frank nodded. "Thanks again. Go get yourself a cold drink, you look like you could use it." As Benito excused himself, Frank turned the paper over a couple of times-cheap rag paper, smeary printing-looked at the text and whistled. Then, grimaced.
This had the authentic smell of Problem. "Well, here's your first piece of intelligence from the Committee, Senor Sanchez," he said, handing the handbill over.
Ruy looked at it, holding the paper at arm's length. "I take it you did not print this?"
"Nope. Although some of the quotes on there are from Massimo's early stuff. Back before we persuaded him to tone it down a little."
Ruy chuckled, but there wasn't much humor in the sound. "Tell me, Frank, how would you go about proving you did not print this?"
Frank had been annoyed. Edging toward angry, even. Ruy's question made him realize that he might have, all unknowing, ended up in serious trouble. "My word of honor?" he tried.
Ruy had the grace not to laugh out loud. "That might actually work, you know. The standards of proof before the Inquisition are quite high, and they have strong rules of evidence. One of which, alas, is putting you to the question to see if you stick to your story under threat of torture."
"Can we complain that someone's passing themselves off as us? Protest now that that stuff-" Frank waved his hand at the leaflet, which had taken all of Massimo's more inflammatory stuff and combined them into one absolute scorcher of a broadside "-is nothing to do with us?" A thought came to him. "Maybe if we demand they do something about these frauds?"
Ruy threw back his head and laughed. "Truly, that would be a rare jest! Who knows? It might even work."
Frank grinned back. "Hey, don't knock it. If it's dumb but it works, it ain't dumb." Then he pulled his face straight. "Seriously, Senor Sanchez, I think the main thing in our favor at the moment is that we don't have a printing press yet. It's due to arrive soon, I'm told, but for the time being all the propaganda we've got is what we brought with us, and we've had to pay printers to get flyers done for this place."
"I hope for your sake you are right, Frank. For now, perhaps you might try an indignant protest to the authorities. If nothing else, they will not be expecting that. Although whoever produced this also knows about the efforts of Messer Marcoli in Venice, and can readily send in a few samples for them to compare with." Ruy's tone was serious, too. It looked like he had recognized some of Massimo's choicer phrases right off the bat, which left Frank with the uneasy feeling that some bright guy at the Inquisition could easily do the same thing.
Frank nodded, and picked the leaflet back up. "Well, maybe I can talk us out of that situation. After all, this stuff is mixed and matched from a lot of different broadsides and pamphlets, you know. If I point out that whoever prepared this edited it to distort our message, we might be able to get away with it. I dunno, though. Massimo's pretty fiery in the original Venetian as well."
Sharon came back just then. "Ruy, if you guys are finished, I'd like to get back to the embassy. I've got some meetings in the later part of this afternoon, and I'd like to see what we've got on file that we might have missed about what happened today."
"The most pleasurable of duties calls me away, Senor Stone," Ruy said, rising to his feet. "Perhaps I might visit you again in a few days and we can compare notes over a convivial glass of wine?"
"Sure thing, Senor Sanchez. Don't be a stranger, by any means."
"Thanks for lunch, Frank," Sharon said. "Come on, Ruy."
After they had gone, Frank rounded up the others from their various chores. "Guys," he said, "Committee meeting. We have a problem
…"
Chapter 11
Rome
"The immediate problem is Quevedo," Vitelleschi said.
That, thought Barberini, was the father-general of the Society of Jesus to the life. Straight to the point, not a word wasted. Still, there were drawbacks.
"How is he the problem?" Barberini asked. He'd heard of Quevedo, of course. The man's poetry was well worth the reading, if one took the trouble to learn Spanish. And he had a history that was equal parts pure romance and pure picaresque. The man's capacity for getting involved in the hairiest and most alarming scrapes Europe had had to offer for the last twenty years was, to say the least, prodigious.
"Ha." Vitelleschi came as close to laughing as the man ever did. One short, sharp, bark, accompanied by the flash of a smile breaking through the icy clerical reserve that was the man's defining demeanor. "My agents have nothing but contempt for the man. Flashy, spectacular, prone to overcomplication, and bent on intrigue for intrigue's sake."
"Well," Barberini said, deciding to offer at least some apologia for the man, "He is a poet and philosopher by trade."
"Philosopher?" His Holiness interjected, turning away from a shrub just beginning to put forth the first buds of spring flower. This audience was taking place, as Barberini's uncle, His Holiness Pope Urban VIII, was wont to have them lately, in the newly laid gardens of Castel Gandolfo. They were looking a lot less rough-and-ready than they had the year before, that was for certain.
"Oh, yes," Barberini said. "His latest work is on the proper conduct of Christian monarchs, and most interesting. If Your Holiness takes a fancy to Spanish poetry I can recommend his work in that line as well."
"Christian monarchs, you say?" Vitelleschi said, in a musing tone.
"Indeed." Barberini wondered what train of thought he had sparked.
"Perhaps, Father-General," His Holiness said, "you would venture to define exactly what the problem with Quevedo might actually be?"
Vitelleschi coughed, returning from whatever realm of pure reason he had set out to conquer. "My apologies, Your Holiness. I became momentarily absorbed in a line of reasoning I might develop further directly. Quevedo has been retained by Borja in furtherance of whatever scheme he is currently engaged in. Quevedo has a reputation, well deserved, for at once being effective in such schemes and also being prone to provoke absolute chaos. Until today, I considered the most probable aim in Borja's schemes to be to provoke such chaos in Rome in order to prevent any interference by Your Holiness in His Most Catholic Majesty's schemes for Europe. There is also the interesting datum that Quevedo joined Borja's service immediately after Borja bought off Osuna earlier this year. There is no discernible connection between the two events, but the possibility that whatever price Osuna received included the requirement that he assist in Borja's scheme is one that deserves consideration. There was some suggestion that after Quevedo fled Madrid in disgrace some months ago he took service with Osuna, much as he had with Osuna's father."
Barberini felt his eyebrows raising. Vitelleschi appeared to be actually growing loquacious. Clearly, he was utterly entranced by the problem presenting itself to him. Still, the man was staying somewhat in character; he had fallen silent again. His Holiness appeared content to wait for the next communication from the deeps that were the leader of the Jesuits, but Barberini could not resist the urge to prod. "And the Father-General has changed his mind because?"
"Your Eminence reminded me of Quevedo's philosophical treatise. And, necessarily, his other works. I am reminded that the man focuses in no small measure on Brutus as a means of examining the proper duties of ruler and subject."
His Holiness' eyebrows shot up. "Surely he cannot have been ordered to-"
"I would counsel Your Holiness to at least consider the possibility." Even by his usual standards, Vitelleschi had turned grave.
That earned a papal snort. "I doubt it. We are still receiving protests from Naples over Brancaccio, and over Naples from Madrid, but no sign of the military action they threatened, for all the movement of troops to Naples. And, further, if the man was recommended to Borja by Osuna, we need worry less, not more. It was to Osuna's advantage that we refused the requests of his Most Catholic Majesty last year."
"Brancaccio is still in Rome?" Barberini asked. Brancaccio had been a Neapolitan cardinal, and in one of the more delicious scandals of the
last few years had had to flee across the border to the Papal States to escape the displeasure of the Viceroy of Naples. They had loudly and blusteringly demanded his extradition, but the See of Rome had flatly refused. So far, nothing had come of it.
"Indeed he is," said Urban, "and mildly embarrassing it is, too. However, handing over cardinals to secular princes for judgment is a precedent I do not wish to set. For now, at least, they do no more than bluster. Reasonably politely, as these things go. However, Father-General, you were suggesting that Borja might have turned Brutus?"
"I speculate only, Your Holiness. The most likely course of events remains that Borja seeks to disrupt the business of the See of Rome. Your Holiness will recall that Spain was most displeased that you stated that you were to take no further part in secular disputes in the Germanies. Since Olivares is sufficiently simpleminded to reason that he who is not with his king is against him, disruption of anything you might do in support of Protestant arms in those wars will be an obvious maneuver for him."
"But you still think there is a risk to Our person?"
"Inevitably. Your Holiness would not be the first pope to be arrested or even assassinated."
Barberini coughed politely. "If I might suggest that there is no need to plan against one eventuality exclusively? Your Holiness has guards, after all."
"Indeed," said Urban, beaming at Barberini as at a bright schoolboy who had mastered a basic point. "Not all assassination plots are as feeble-witted as Camillo's."
"Indeed not," Barberini agreed. Camillo had tried to kill the pope with sympathetic magic, sticking pins into a doll. He had been tried and found guilty and thoroughly laughed at.
"There is more, however," Vitelleschi said. "The Committee of Correspondence has become active in Rome. Quevedo is using them."
Barberini had heard about that, and could not suppress a chuckle. "So that was Quevedo?" Barberini was, technically, an Inquisition cardinal these days, and so received reports. "That young revolutionary whom Your Holiness ordered me to marry off to his inamorata was most incensed about the false broadsides that have begun to circulate in Rome. He had to be escorted out of San Mateo, I understand. He demanded an investigation and the perpetrators be punished. It, ah, was what brought those broadsides to the Holy Office's attention in the first place. There is some confusion as a result."