by Eric Flint
She frowned. “Not much. I can tell you that the man who attacked from the front was strong, but probably not much taller than the victim, judging from the angle of the wounds. There were a few kerf marks on the ribs of the deceased: definitely a dagger but much heavier than the one which struck him from behind. I would tentatively say it was double-edged, but I’m basing that on observations that could have other explanations. However, I believe the frontal attacker was right-handed.”
Ruy’s left eyebrow quirked upward. “Indeed? Why?”
“Well, let’s recreate the moment of the attack.” Sharon began using her hands to depict the scenario in midair. “There’s one man behind the victim, the one who actually kills him. This means that what we are presuming to be frontally inflicted wounds are, in fact, just that. Under certain circumstances, they could actually be inflicted by unusual attacks from the side or even behind; believe me, such weird things do happen. But in this case, there’s already an attacker behind him who’s using an entirely different weapon.
“So the shorter man in front with the bigger knife starts slashing at the victim. And the angle at which his blade pierced the skin pretty conclusively suggests that the two were at roughly the same height. This wasn’t a case where a standing attacker was striking down at a sitting man.”
“Now this is the point where I make a logical, but admittedly large, conjecture: that when the frontal attacker struck, the victim is dying or already dead on his feet, due to the wound inflicted to the base of his skull. So he’s starting to fall. That means that the first front laceration is likely to occur higher on his torso, because the second slash would be made when the victim was falling back.”
She pointed at the body. “The higher, and deeper slash is the one that runs from his upper left clavicle all the way down to his right abdomen, where it really does a lot of exit damage. Because the laceration is deeper, it suggests that this is a stronger, overhand strike. It also left very strong kerf marks; the blade ran powerfully, and very directly, against his collarbone and several ribs. So, since the two men are facing each other, a slash that starts high on the victim’s left side, suggests an overhand attack by the attacker’s right arm.”
“Now look at the other slash. It starts much lower on the right-hand side of the victim’s torso, at the nipple line. It is markedly less deep and the kerf marks are not only more faint, but at more of an angle, as if the knife was glancing over them. And since this slash starts on the right side of the victim’s torso, it makes sense that the attack came from the left side of the attacker.
“So if we add all that up, the higher strike is the one that was stronger, more effective, and was apparently conducted when the men were both fully upright while facing each other; that’s why the blade dug so deep and left such strong kerf marks. The second slash was more glancing—which would suggest it was a backhand cut, made while the victim was falling away from the attacker and his knife.”
Ruy nodded. “So, yes: apparently a right-handed attacker.” He smiled ruefully. “That, unfortunately, does not narrow the list of potential suspects very much.”
“No,” Sharon allowed, “but he’s probably no more than an inch taller than the victim. If that. And he may be working with a much taller and fairly strong person: the one who attacked from the rear. And they used two very different knives to make their attack.” She yawned, glad she hadn’t had any coffee available; if she’d had a cup she wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep before this morning’s gathering at the Palais Granvelle. As it was, she knew she’d still be tired and probably look like hell. And this on the long-awaited day when Catholics and Protestants would finally come together, with her on hand as the benign, if silent, representative of their sponsor: the USE. She began repacking her bag. “Ruy, gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get right back to the cloister. I need to get a few more hours of sleep before I have to be present for the convening of the colloquium.” When no one answered, she looked up.
Ruy and Owen were exchanging baleful glances.
She looked from one face to the other. “What?”
Ruy’s face almost drooped along with his sympathetic tone. “Wonderful wife, I believe you have lost track of time. You have little more than two hours left.”
Two hours. Just about enough time to wash off the various corpse smells, re-dress, choke down a small meal, and play her part at what might prove to be the most important interfaith meeting this world had ever known. Sure, Sharon, you’ve got this: no pressure.
She doubled the speed with which she was repacking her medical bag.
Chapter 18
Sharon wondered if her eyes were as bloodshot as they felt—itchy and rough—during the walk from Palais Granvelle’s great salon to its even larger great hall. Fortunately, her modest role in the proceedings, to offer a brief word of welcome along with Besançon’s mayor, was over, and she only had to stay long enough to hear Urban declare that the colloquium had begun. Then she could surreptitiously flee back to the shelter of the cloister and the comfort of her bed.
Wild Geese lined the final approach to the chamber, and what they lacked in parade finery they made up for in daunting readiness. Unlike typical honor guards, their hands were on their weapons, their eyes alert and always cycling from one doorway or window to the next.
Beside her, Larry Mazzare winked as they passed into the long high chamber, banked with seats on crude risers for the occasion. “Show time,” he murmured.
Sharon smiled, despite herself.
As they were shown to their seats by a priest operating under the watchful eye of von Spee, she took a quick count: seating for just about one hundred and twenty persons. Close to the room’s limit, from the look of it.
Situated several places to the left of the pope’s slightly larger chair, she and Larry had the equivalent of box seats. Which was appropriate and flattering, of course, but that was not uppermost in her thoughts. Wishing they didn’t have to stand until the pope entered and seated himself, she leaned sideways toward Larry, whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “So how long is this supposed to take?”
Mazzare shrugged. “You mean the official opening of the colloquium? Maybe five minutes. It’s just a formality, really. The rest of the day is pretty much a bull session with catered meals. The real work begins tomorrow. Why?” he asked with an impish grin. “You in a hurry to go somewhere?”
“Yes,” she muttered back at him.
“Where?”
“Anyplace but here. I mean, look at these guys”—she used her eyes to indicate the solemn-faced procession of middle aged to ancient clerics filing into the room—“They look like they’re going to a funeral. Their own, some of them.”
Larry nodded. “Can’t really blame them. The two sides have been at each other’s throats for more than a century. Plenty from both sides would probably rather stick a knife in each other than be in the same room. The last time something like this was tried, that pope had to issue promises of safe passages to those few Protestants who were willing to attend. And even that wasn’t enough to reassure the few who were invited.”
“So how do I know when it’s time to leave?”
“You’ll know. Von Spee will thank the lay persons in the room on behalf of the pope, with an assurance that the colloquium’s collective gratitude will remain undiminished in their absence. That’s the cue for von Spee’s platoon of priests to usher you out.”
Sharon wondered how much longer she was going to have to stand shifting her weight from one weary foot to the other when Urban entered, went directly to his seat, and before he had fully sunk into it, waved the gathering down with a casual smile.
Sharon saw surprised glances exchanged around the room. She surmised that popes, or at least this one, were not known for such informality.
As soon as everyone in the room had seated themselves, Urban rose, his downward gesturing palm keeping them in their seats. Several of the more conservative cardinals, who were seated i
n the gallery to his right, started. Dietrichstein looked like he might be on the verge of apoplexy.
If Urban noticed, he paid no mind to their reactions. He looked around the chamber, took his time doing so. “At long last,” he said with a smile, “over many months and across many miles, we meet together. I thank all of you, both personally and on behalf of Mother Church, for undertaking the arduous, and in many cases dangerous, journeys that have brought you here, so that we might join in the name of the One God in Heaven.”
The room remained silent. Tough crowd, thought Sharon.
“I have had the chance to meet with most of you individually, and in the case of those whose acquaintance I have not yet had the pleasure of making, I look forward to correcting that this day and those that shall follow. And so, in the name of our Heavenly Father above and the ties of faith that we all share in common—”
One of the figures seated to the left rose to his feet. “Before this colloquium is declared open, and therefore before any of us may be counted as party to it, I must ask this question: how do you define ‘ties of faith that we all share in common?’ Because truly, I cannot in conscience remain in this chamber or as a participant in this colloquium, until I know whether or not the Romish conception of these ‘ties of faith’ precludes my own perception of them.”
Sharon sighed: well, so much for the pro forma five minute opening. She leaned toward Mazzare, who seemed every bit as surprised as the rest of the cardinals in the room, including the Orthodox contingent that was seated farther down from the cardinals on the right side. “So who’s this guy?”
“Jiří Třanovský,” Larry muttered. “Hungarian.”
“Hussite?”
“No, Lutheran, but he’s lost a lot of family to the Catholic armies. Grew up watching Hussites persecuted, too.”
Sharon opened her mouth to ask if what Třanovský was doing was permitted when Urban, whose only response so far had been a slow, sage nodding, straightened. “Your question is prudent, Reverend Třanovský.” The mischievous smile that was Urban’s trademark flickered at the corners of his mouth. “And even fortuitous. If there are such questions to be asked, indeed, they should be answered before we gather together. So here is my answer: I have my own definitions for ‘ties of faith.’ I presume that you, and everyone else in this room, has their own conception, as well. I presume that, were we able to read what is in the hearts of men, just as we read what is written in a book, we would find that no two of us would define ‘ties of faith’ in exactly the same fashion.”
Třanovský’s chin came up. “That could have been said a year ago, or a century ago, and it would have made no difference to the atrocities perpetrated in the name of the ‘true faith.’ And yet here we are, the hopeful, lured by promises of tolerance for us poor heretics.”
Vitelleschi, sitting to Urban’s immediate right, came forward, his whiskers bristling like a hedgehog’s. But Urban gestured him to remain calm as he replied. “Regarding this word, ‘heretic’: here is a promise to which you may bear witness, and of which I encourage you to make wide report. You will not hear that word emerge from my mouth this day, or any following, for as long as I shall live. And as regards the ‘ties of faith’ we share: I not only presume that they are different; I presume that we are entitled to those differences. They are the manifestations of the free will with which our Creator has endued us, and it is no man’s place to compel another to change what is in another’s heart. For Christ told us, ‘judge not, lest ye be judged.’”
Třanovský’s brow lowered in what appeared to be a mix of caution and suspicion. “It is said that Urban VIII is a most politic pontiff. It is also widely held that he is most patient in the pursuit of his true agendas. So a cautious man might wonder, ‘perhaps Urban VIII will not speak the word heretic aloud, but might still have it in his heart, as he deals with us.’”
Urban smiled again. “If I could open my heart to you as we open the pages of a book, I would, Reverend Třanovský. I have given my word in lieu of that, and I can understand if you cannot bring yourself to trust it. So that is why this is merely an ecumenical colloquium, not an ecumenical council: that you—all of you—may take the measure of me, of us, freely.” Urban’s gaze moved slowly around the room. “We are here to converse, to consider, to break bread together: nothing more. There are no resolutions to be passed or commitments to be made, except those we might make in our hearts. There is but one objective: that we may spend time with and listen to each other, so that, should you be willing to meet us again, you may be certain of our intents and our commitment to this ecumenical initiative.” His eyes came to rest once more on Třanovský, who had resumed his seat. “Does this answer your question, Reverend?”
The Hungarian’s voice was less challenging, this time. “It answers my question, but does not settle the matter.”
“Of course not,” Urban said, smiling. “That is why we have these days together. It is in the knowing of each other that the matter will be settled, whatever the outcome.”
Sharon was just starting to relax, to ready herself to acknowledge the anticipated words of both thanks and dismissal, and to walk out with a gait more composed and steady than her aching feet really wanted to effect, when a figure rose far down the right-hand bank of seats. Oh, for the love of—
Cyril Lucaris, the leader of the Greek Orthodox delegation, spread wide his arms to take in the whole of the chamber. “The Prelate of Rome speaks the wisdom of Christ with the Savior’s mildness. Indeed, let us know each other as persons before we come together as representatives of our respective branches of the Christian family. However”—Sharon could have groaned: when a cleric said “however” it usually meant another ten-minute debate or discourse—“this wisdom, in addition to being welcome, is also in sharp contrast with much of what has gone before. So, in the interest of better understanding our hosts’ new words and attitudes, I would like to ask: from whence comes this change?”
Urban nodded. “A question that may be asked quickly but would be long in the answering, and I have no wish to encumber this gathering with a recitation of my own recent journey to cleave closer to the Grace that is Christ’s True Word. But if I were to put a metaphor upon it, let us say that about a year ago, I began realizing that my life was beginning to parallel Jonah’s. But whereas Jonah’s faith was tested and trued by being swallowed by a whale, mine was tried by being spat out of the Leviathan that is the mundane apparatus of Holy Mother Church. For the first time in long, long years, I was not buried deep within the belly of the Holy See’s immense body of officials, administrators, scribes, and guards. I was about in the world, with little between me and my Maker but a handful of unlikely Good Samaritans”—he glanced at Sharon and Larry—“and in such times, a man has both the freedom and the need to reflect on what he has said and done.” He raised his palms, as if invoking the assembly. “And here we are, gathered in the name of shared theological roots and a shared hope that this colloquium may pave the way to peace after each of you have consulted with others in your respective communities of faith. Only then might a later meeting be convened, by which I time I hope that my own situation is somewhat more—settled.”
A new voice arose from the left. Sharon recognized the speaker: Johann Gerhard, one of the two Protestants who had arrived on the same day as Bedmar and the aspiring Swiss Guards. She settled back in her chair, wondered how long this unexpected question and answer session was going to go on, and doubted she’d stay awake for all of it.
Gerhard folded his hands. “I would touch upon the matter of, as you put it, your situation as the Prelate of Rome. Now, I know something of the number of cardinals in the Romish Church, and even many of their names.” He scanned the faces on the opposite side of the chamber and seemed to count the red birettas as he did. “However, I now see many faces, and have heard many names, which do not match the roster with which I am familiar.”
“Because they were made, and held, in pectore. Until yesterday.”
Gerhard nodded. “So I conjectured. And it is reassuring to see so many replacements of the recent, tragic losses. However, that raises a ticklish matter: how is it that Europe’s various Catholic monarchs stood by and watched so many cardinals be slaughtered? Why do those monarchs not right the many wrongs that have been done, most particularly in Italy itself? Most pertinently, if Philip of Spain were to declare Borja’s seizure of the Vatican an abomination and a personal affront against God, the usurper could not last a day.”
Next to Sharon, Larry was frowning: in the discussions leading up to this week, he and Urban had both presumed that Gerhard would be one of the more supportive Lutherans. They had also anticipated that he might begin with a harder line so that he could be seen as “coming around” to a true ecumenical relationship, rather than having been too cooperative too early and so, seem servile or even a prearranged collaborator. But this obliquely confrontational rhetoric sounded like the real thing, not a sham.
Vitelleschi was stirring in his chair, apparently readying himself for battle should Urban give the sign. But into the silence rose a calm, almost dispassionate voice from a most unexpected quarter: another member of the Lutheran group. Namely, Georg Calixtus, about whom Sharon knew very little. “To restore the proper Prelate of Rome to his seat in the Vatican is, unfortunately, a thornier matter than might at first be supposed.”
Gerhard seemed surprised. “How so, learned friend? Spanish orders sent Spanish troops to put Borja on the cathedra. It was the doing of a Romish monarch; it should be theirs to undo, as well.”
Calixtus nodded as his fellow Lutheran spoke, but Sharon could tell it was merely patient acknowledgement, not agreement. She learned toward Larry. “Okay, I’m in the dark here. Why is a Lutheran debating a Lutheran?”
One half of Larry’s mouth bent upward. “Because they are more likely to listen to, and believe, each other than a Catholic.”