by Eric Flint
Von Spee provided the answer almost sheepishly. “We know quite a number of our own priests who still do hold the belief that Grantville is an Infernal intrusion unto our world, Your Eminence. And if that opinion is held by some of the sons of Mother Church, we must conjecture that it will be present to some degree in all the sects with whom we will converse tomorrow. However, I suspect we may be able to curtail any significant disturbance over this question.”
Urban leaned out to look at von Spee. “Please share it.”
Von Spee shrugged. “Well, Your Holiness, as Cardinal La Rochefoucauld points out, it would be consistent with Reformationist doctrine to assert that the age of miracles is over, and that such a flagrant violation of that principle would be contrary to their teachings.”
Vitelleschi stared down at his assistant. “Yes. And so?”
“And so, we introduce the topic by simply remarking that our determination on the matter of Grantville matches with what we presume to be their own: that to characterize such a phenomenon to be an act of either God or Satan is also inconsistent with Mother Church’s position regarding the post-Apostolic diminishment of miracles. We may not wholly deny the possibility of smaller, individual miracles such as stigmata, but, in the matter of Grantville, given the size and global impact of its appearance, we may honestly point to how our deliberations followed the same theological paths articulated by their own doctrine.”
Vitelleschi looked at Bedmar. Who looked at Mazzare. Who looked at La Rochefoucauld. Who looked at Urban.
Who leaned back with a smile. “I think we may safely call that matter resolved, and this council in recess until after the colloquium. Thanks to you, Father von Spee.” Whose eyes were now as round as saucers.
Mazzare suppressed a smile as he rose with the rest to honor the departure of the pope. Well, von Spee, you just came to Urban’s attention by solving a problem for him. Congratulations and commiserations; you’re in the big leagues, now.
Chapter 15
Larry stopped along the side of the dusk-dim street and held up a hand to pause Urban.
The pope tried peering over his shoulder. “What is…?”
“Silence, please, Your Holiness.”
Up ahead, the three sedan chairs entered the gate of the cloister slightly north of St. John’s cathedral. As soon as the third had entered, a tall figure at the gate—Turlough Eubank of the Wild Geese—waved them forward. Those following on foot forced themselves to stroll toward the same entrance.
In front of Larry, Anthony Grogan, one of the older members of the Wild Geese, set the pace, his posture relaxed. But he always kept his cloak spread wide with his elbows, thereby ensuring swift access to both his sword and pepperbox revolver.
On either side of the pope, two tall, heavily cloaked cardinals walked with heads bowed—mostly to reduce profiling just how tall they really were. But that was difficult for the fully armored Achille d’Estampes de Valençay and Giancarlo Medici. Then came Cardinals Mattei and Sforza, who were younger and still fit enough to run quickly if required. Two more Wild Geese and Léonore d’Estampes de Valençay brought up the rear.
Larry could sense the anxiety building in all of them as they neared the gates. Even the cardinals understood that if there was going to be another assassination attempt during the short walk from the Palais Granvelle to the cloister, the odds that it would commence at any particular second were growing…simply because there weren’t that many more seconds left.
A window shutter creaked on the second floor of a nearby house—
Giancarlo swiftly hustled the pope behind Achille. The disguised papal escort started drawing their weapons—
A pair of hands emerged from the window in question, upending a bucket of washwater.
As it splashed down onto the cobbles of the street, a few muttered curses combined relief with sharp annoyance as everyone resumed the correct, apparently casual formation.
Twelve more paces—Larry was counting—brought them through the gate and into the grassy courtyard that fronted the cloister’s garden. He realized that his armpits were very wet and that he could smell his own sweat, not something he had experienced since his twenties, even when exerting himself. But this was the sharp, sour stink of fear. And it wasn’t just coming off him. Unless he was much mistaken, most of his companions were exuding a similar odor, especially Urban himself.
Granted, the vestments were hot, and the cloaks long enough to completely obscure both the person and equipment that were beneath it. The earlier midday showers had left behind a haze of mild humidity. In addition, the cardinals had all just come from the close seating in the unventilated grand salon, so it was probable that their sweat had been accruing for the last several hours. But the tension of walking exposed, surrounded by two- and even three-story buildings had activated the accumulated scents in a pungent mix.
Sforza and Mattei were called over to the group that had gathered on the diagonal path bisecting the garden. Matching “Tone” Grogan’s brisk pace, the rest turned to walk beneath the covered walkway. As they did, they passed Ruy Sanchez and Owen Roe O’Neill, the two of whom were pressing an urgent point upon Dorfmann, one of the junior radio operators for the Hibernians.
“We realize,” Ruy was muttering, “that it is difficult to maintain all the general overwatch posts while drawing enough for a covering force, but there was no other choice this evening.”
Dorfmann started to make some reply, but O’Neill cut him off, annoyed, and pointing a long finger at the mercenary’s chest. “And I don’t give a tinker’s damn what Lieutenant Hastings advised, but using the tunnel from the Palais Granvelle to the Carmelite Monastery is out of the question. Use of that is being reserved for a crisis situation, one where we can’t safely evacuate the pope—”
Which was the last Mazzare heard of the Irish colonel’s annoyed explanation; the sound of boots on wet flagstones drowned out his voice and whatever reply Dorfmann attempted next.
Urban leaned over toward Larry. “What was that all about?”
Larry shrugged. “Difference of opinion about the route we took back. Seems like the CO—uh, commander—of the Hibernians wanted us to take the secret tunnel from the palace to the monastery.”
“Was the danger so great?”
“No. Sounds more like he’s worried about adding irregular route security to his unit’s responsibility, that it’s stretching his men too thin. But Ruy and Owen are right: we’ve got to save the tunnel for emergencies. If other assassins are watching, and not enough of us come out the regular entrances of the Palais Granvelle, they’re going to put two and two together and figure we have another way out.”
As they reached the end of that arm of the cloister and the collonade angled off to the left, Giancarlo and Achille both murmured their respects and followed the walkway. The remaining Wild Geese closed around Larry and Urban as, ahead, two more of the Irish soldiers opened the door into the monastery itself.
As they passed within and handed their cloaks to a mix of monks and junior clerics, Urban asked, “And still nothing about the five assassins killed this morning?”
“Nothing, Your Holiness.”
“Is that not…unusual?”
“Somewhat.” Larry Mazzare wondered if downplaying the moribund state of the investigation qualified as wishful thinking or a minor lie. Well, if on reflection it turned out to be the latter, there was always the confessional.
Grogan led the two of them into a room where large wine casks lined the walls. He approached one on the far wall, grabbed the spigot on either side, and turned the whole assembly counter clockwise. A muted thump punctuated the end of his effort. He swung open the cask’s false front and waved them both into the musty wooden tunnel that was revealed, murmuring his respects as they passed.
They emerged into a subterranean passage, where three more Wild Geese were waiting to escort them: two fell in behind them, one to the front, but all at a respectful distance.
Urban leaned in
toward Larry. “Tell me: how do you think the presentation to the Council went?”
“Quite well,” Larry replied. Hmm…was that more optimism or more prevarication? At this rate, he was going to spend a long time in that confessional…
Urban smiled as the long thin tunnel pushed their shoulders together. “You are too politic—and too fretful, Lawrence. I think it was a great success, and I should know: I have seen some very lively ones in my day. The inevitable niggling over details and procedures was brief, the serious obstacles to advancing a genuine ecumenical agenda small, and, for the first time I was able to plausibly report that the Holy See has no hidden agenda.” He smiled. “You know, I almost believed it myself.”
Larry grinned. “So did I. Do you think they did?”
“Lawrence, despite your cleverness, you retain a peculiarly naive optimism. No, no, do not pout: I mean no insult. I just find it refreshing—maybe reassuring—that you can remain so comparatively innocent, given how full of power and portents of doom your own world was. Indeed, you are living proof that the Church can persevere without holding the reins of that power. She did not contaminate you with the stain of bloody wars and deceitful statecraft. Would I could say the same for our Church here.
“But because the agenda will not be a surprise to them, they will not be angered, Lawrence. They will balk and quibble a bit when I reveal the specific resolutions that I shall make canonical, but they have all seen the general outlines of my thought. Had most of them found any of it intolerable, we would have encountered a groundswell of that resistance today.”
“You anticipate no resistance at all?”
Urban shrugged as they ducked under a low roman archway and entered a more finished tunnel; they were now in the stretch that led from the cloister to the secret chambers that had been built under St. John’s. “Oh, there must always be some resistance, even though the resolutions I put forward will be few in number and reassuringly simple in their wording.”
“Could their resistance become sharp enough to push any of them into Borja’s camp?”
Urban frowned. “The great majority of them: no. They are either loyal to me, petrified of him, or both. Any others will follow the lead of the strongest who resists.”
“Dietrichstein?”
Urban smiled and shook his head. “The one to watch is Pázmány. He is more respected, and has been a true son of the Church.” The lead guard stood aside as they entered a small room furnished with what looked like a small portcullis. Addressing them by their titles, he gestured to several chairs. “Do you know,” Urban continued as soon as he was seated, “that less than half a year after you arrived, Pázmány marched to Rome with a military procession in an attempt to convince me to initiate a crusade against the Ottomans?”
The guard pulled a handle next to the portcullis. Far away, through the thick timbers of the door, a dull bell rung.
Mazzare frowned and leaned against the backrest. “Great. So Pázmány wanted to start another war. As if there weren’t enough of them going on in the world, just then.”
Urban shook his head and his finger. “Now, now, Lawrence. Understand what lies behind that action: he has long been concerned with conditions in what you call Transylvania. Ottoman attacks have been a blight there for centuries. And, more to the point, he saw the signs of another of their campaigns mounting even then. You might call him a student of the ebbs and flows that mark the change in Turkish political and military tides, and he saw a wave rising beyond the Balkans. And, so far as we may see now, he was correct.”
“Then what made you turn him away?”
“The papacy is hardly in any condition to lead a crusade to Constantinople. Until your arrival essentially ended the major religious wars in Germany, each half of Christendom was thoroughly obsessed with exterminating the other half. And besides, even if we had been unified, with fresh armies, history has proven that our numbers are insufficient for a durable victory. We may win early battles, take key objectives, but if we cannot occupy Ottoman lands and undo what their conquest has done, we effect no lasting change.” He frowned. “And now—is such a change truly worth the tides of blood that would have to be shed beneath banners of both the cross and the crescent?” Urban shook his head; he seemed to be shaking off foul memories and bad dreams. “No: there must be another way. And we start it here, by unifying. Once Christendom stands together, genuinely and vigorously, the Turk will not ever make it out of the Balkans. And I can hope, eventually, that he will no longer wish to.”
“A further agenda?”
Urban smiled as the portcullis began cranking and creaking open. “You know me too well. Yes, but peace with Islam remains the furthest objective of that agenda. Indeed, you had not yet accomplished it in your time, if I recall correctly.”
Mazzare nodded sadly. “No, although we had thought so, for a time. Secularization of Islam arrived late, very unevenly, and finally began to weaken. What happened after we departed in the year 2000—who can tell?”
Urban shrugged. “And so I know I will not see such a modus vivendi achieved in my lifetime. Perhaps not in the lifetime of any babe yet born, but one day. One day. However, significant progress might be made on other objectives: an end to the persecution of the Jews, for instance.” The portcullis was locked open with a sharp clack. The lead guard moved through, then asked them to follow.
Mazzare frowned. “It is hard to envision the current population of any European nation according equal status to the Jewish community.”
Urban wagged a finger. “I did not say that, Lawrence. I simply wish to ensure that they may expect to live safely, and with tolerance—even if grudging—for their right to practice their rites without fear of violence. I am far too much a realist to believe that any one colloquium could cause a full reversal of more than a dozen centuries of arch prejudice. Simply influencing the religious leadership in Europe to take a consistent stand against their persecution would be a major victory. And it will take time for that opinion to wear down the ingrained prejudices of the monarchs whose ears they have.
“I suspect that further, more distant faiths, will actually be easier to reconcile with than Islam. But frankly, I do not spend much time considering the likelihood, or methods, of achieving such ends. One must begin with a small set of more readily attainable goals. Then, we shall expand from what we have learned, and achieved, in that process.”
Mazzare did his best not to sound incredulous. “That is certainly quite an ambitious agenda, Your Holiness. Several lifetimes’ worth, I suspect.”
“I freely allow that, Lawrence. And my hopes for this colloquium are modest. I will be happy—elated, even—if, by the end, the Protestants and Orthodox merely believe that we are genuinely changing our position regarding other faiths. They will naturally be uncertain as long as the change remains a broad concept rather than a specific policy, and will still have reservations until we take action that is suited to those words.”
As the corridor widened and doors became visible ahead, Mazzare raised an eyebrow. “I suspect that will be easier for them to believe than the further consequence of the Church turning its back upon the influence and tithes it enjoyed when it was the sole seat of global Christianity.”
Urban squinted: far ahead the hallway was lit by lanterns, not torches in cressets. Urban headed toward those lights. “Before you arrived, we in Rome ardently believed two things: that we could still regather the entirety of Christianity to the Papal Rood, and that if we failed to do so, Mother Church would perish. But your history showed me that those absolute outcomes were both folly. No amount of killing or leverage will cause the Reformationists to renounce their beliefs. And we only make ourselves more hateful by continuing on such a course. So it is not merely idealism that moves me to this decision; it is pragmatism.” The guard stopped in front of the pope’s door and opened it with an ancient, rusty key.
Larry smiled. “I think you just might get the cooperation you want with that sales pitch, Your
Holiness. And you just might become the most famous pope who ever lived. Even though you won’t live to see all you set in motion.”
Urban’s quick sideways smile was histrionic. “Well, I may be remembered as the most infamous, at least. But I have reconciled myself to initiating changes and legacies that shall not only outlive me, but be only tangentially, if at all, associated with my name.” He smiled. “That prideful concern, of being a figure whose fame lives on in posterity, was one of the sins of Maffeo Barberini.” Urban’s smile became impish as he glanced into his chambers. “I am Urban VIII now. And accordingly, I have new sins, new vices. Such as one last glass of wine, this night. Would you care to join me, Lawrence?”
Larry thought about the softness of his pillows, then about the unsolved problems of the day, and so, settled on a compromise between the contending possibilities of weariness or trouble-fueled insomnia.
A single glass of wine might be a good idea, after all.
* * *
Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz waited until the men who had escorted Urban from the palace to the cloister dispersed to their various quarters, and the first night watch had replaced the troops standing the last shift of the day. That job was actually his lieutenants’, but he had learned a long time ago that the most ready and attentive troops are those who know their commander will occasionally watch them perform even their most mundane duties. Such as this one.
Satisfied that the guards and their officers were at their posts and adequately attentive, Ruy began walking toward the monastery—and saw, coming his way, the faint outline of a woman. A most dramatically proportioned woman. “Even in this light, I know when you approach, my love.”