1635: The Papal Stakes

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Frank Stone looked out the window and down into the smallish courtyard below. Fairly new in construction, it was well maintained, with deep, porticoed balconies at the back. At the front, a modest gate led to the streets, which, if he craned his neck, Frank could see disappear into Rome’s Jewish Ghetto.

“It’s nice having a view,” he commented.

“It would be nicer if the view was nicer,” Giovanna retorted, but, smiling, came over and put her arms around him. Her growing bump now made itself felt whenever she hugged him. “Nicer still if I was tall enough to see it.” Then, distracted, she turned back toward their bedroom. They had two rooms now, a fine bed, windows, and meals fit for nobility. Well, minor nobility, at least. Indeed, Frank could still smell the remains of lunch: a light stew, mixed greens, and “I wonder if there’s any vinegar left?” said Giovanna in a suddenly distracted voice.

Frank relaxed his arms, let her move out of his hug and into the other room, her fine nose almost twitching in search of piquant delights. Frank smiled; then, remembering her latest pregnancy cravings, almost retched: the vinegar on the potatoes had been quite reasonable-but mixed straight into the pear preserves?

From the next room, he heard the irregular clatter of his wife rooting through the crockery, a pause and then a satisfied, “There you are. Now, where is the cheese?”

Frank felt his stomach spasm, and he looked out the window again. Not much to see, down in the courtyard. And then he noticed: not only were there no servants running about, and no porters lugging their various burdens, there weren’t even any guards. “Hey, Giovanna, have you seen any guards today?”

“No, Frank,” came the response, muffled by what was obviously a very full mouth. “I didn’t see any yesterday, either. At least, not in the courtyard.”

“Maybe it’s a sign that there are negotiations under way for our release. You know, make us happier campers before they return us?”

“Perhaps.”

“And maybe that’s why we’ve got the view. Maybe it’s not just so we can see out, but so some of our folks can see us. See that we’re healthy, happy: all that good stuff that my dad would want assurances about. And I don’t think he’d trust their say-so. He’d want our representatives to see it with their own eyes.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, whatever the reason, it sure is a dramatic change from our prior circumstances. And as changes go, it sure is nice.”

“Hmm,” was Giovanna’s subvocal response, which terminated in a gulp. “Too nice, maybe.” A pause, then an almost comically diminutive belch. “I do not trust it.”

Frank smiled. “Honey, you don’t trust anything.”

“And you, my love, trust too many things, too much.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Speaking of which-” Giovanna let her voice trail off.

“Signor Stone?” called a voice from the hall. “Are you still interested in the walk I have arranged?”

“Yes, I am. Just a moment.” Leaning heavily on his cane, Frank poled over to the iron-bound door and tugged it open. Captain Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas was ready with a bow and flourish that was actually fairly understated, considering some of the extravagant courtly salutes that Frank had witnessed among Spanish officers.

Frank looked behind the captain. “No Sergeant Ezquerra?”

“Ah, it pains me to report that the lout is up to his excessive eyebrows in paperwork.”

“Why does it pain you?”

“Because Ezquerra cannot read.”

Frank guffawed once. “Damn. I sure walked into that one.”

“Pardon?”

“Uh…I stepped right into your joke-trap.”

“Ah, yes. You are kind to pretend amusement at my so-called witticisms. And to inquire after the sergeant.”

“As men go, my Frank is the model of kindness,” Giovanna said from the other room. “Indeed, he is too kind. I, however, am not.”

The captain looked at Frank cautiously. “I will presume, then, that Signora Stone still does not wish to accompany us on our stroll?”

Giovanna had appeared, hands on hips. “You presume correctly, Captain. Now go. The longer you wait here, the longer it is until I get my husband back.”

“I assure you, I will return him back here quickly, and certainly at the first sign of fatigue.”

Giovanna retreated into the other room. “What a charming lie, Captain. Enjoy your stroll.” The sounds of eating resumed.

As the door closed behind them, the captain observed, “The signora has an excellent appetite.”

“I heard that!” came her voice from the other side of the door.

Castro y Papas’ eyebrows raised.

Frank smiled. “Her appetite is pretty good, but her hearing is amazing.”

The larger, central courtyard of the main Palazzo Mattei-the Palazzo Giove-was imposing, with serried ranks of flowers bisecting the quadrangles fitted between the various buildings. They walked in silence for many minutes, the faint hum of bees and flies stilling and then resuming as they passed each of the garden’s colorful, and carefully tended, beds.

“Vincente-may I call you that?”

“Yes, or course. And shall I call you Frank?”

Stone nodded. “Thanks for suggesting this walk.”

“It is my pleasure.”

“Is it? I mean, don’t get me wrong; it’s nice, but it’s not exactly regular duty for Spanish officers, is it?”

Vincente smiled. “No. It is not. But it is pleasant. And you may be sure of this, Frank: I will not lie. Not even in little things.”

“Then just why is it that we two are taking a stroll in the garden?”

Vincente sighed. “Because, as your lovely and very intelligent wife has already surmised, I am to encourage you to trust me.”

“Can you really tell me that?”

Vincente raised an eyebrow. “I just did, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes, but-”

The captain snickered. “Ah, Frank, you are so earnest. It is a charming trait, really. Indeed, I think if we share too many such walks, the machinations of my superiors may reverse themselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, that I will come to like and trust you, Frank. Which it is never wise for a captor to do. He who imposes his will must never feel empathy or sympathy for those upon whom that will is imposed.”

“That sounds more like training for a slaveholder, than a soldier.”

Vincente nodded. “That is because, in our service, it is often the same thing, particularly in the New World. If it is true that the Spanish Empire is the largest the globe has ever seen-and that is true-it is also true that we are the least welcome in more of the places that our flag flies than any empire before us.”

“Which bothers you.”

Vincente shrugged. “Somewhat. Conquest is our way of life. It may not have always been thus, but it is now. And it is the way of the world, as well: the law of nature. The strong always dominate the weak. But I wonder about-well, the limits of imposing dominion.”

Frank paused to admire a bush filled with bright vermillion flowers. “Actually, in our up-time world, I think we pretty much learned that it’s a slippery slope. Once you get started-once you say to yourself, ‘I’m stronger, so it’s my right to take what I want’-there’s really no stopping yourself. Before long, you’re taking everything that isn’t nailed down. And then, even the things that are. Because where do you stop? Once you have dominion over other peoples who never wanted you on their land in the first place, you’ve got to be ready to kill to keep what you’ve taken. Which means killing people who just want to stay in their own homes, keep their own goods, speak their own languages, and live their own lives without answering to a conqueror. Oppression is an all-or-nothing deal, when you get right down to it, because soon enough, even mercy becomes a luxury a conqueror can’t afford. Mercy only enables further rebellion, defiance, hope. And so there you are: master of the world, but the price you have to pay for it is every bit of mercy, justice, and honor that was ever in your soul.”

It looked like Vincente had flinched at each of the three words Frank had stressed: mercy, justice, and honor. After five more steps the Spanish captain commented, “I think this walk has become a bit less nice.”

Frank shrugged. “Sorry, but that’s the truth as I see it.”

The captain shook his head. “I was not complaining. ‘Nice’ walks are pleasant, but they are-well, eminently forgettable, no? One looks at the flowers, listens to the birds, blinks up at the sun, and says, ‘ah! How pretty!’ Fine enough, and wonderful for children. But I would have my walks be times for thinking, for speaking frankly, for exploring the ground that lies between us-both the similarities and the differences. A ‘nice’ walk I would enjoy and forget. I will not forget this walk.”

Frank smiled. “You know, you’re a pretty okay guy, Vincente-for a domineering creep, that is.”

“‘Creep’?”

“Uh…a creep is a jerk.”

“‘Jerk’? I thought this word described a motion.”

“Oh. Yeah. Uh…oaf.”

“Ah! Heh. Heh heh. I am not so okay as you think. You should pay more heed to your clever wife.”

“Oh, I pay plenty of attention to her. But my dad taught me something long ago that I’ve found is usually true-true almost as often as anything is, when it comes to human nature.”

“So? And what is this paternal wisdom?”

“That people live down to, or up to, your expectations of them. If you believe people are fundamentally good, many, even most, of them strive to be so. And if you think everyone’s a, a-”

“-a creep?” supplied Vincente.

“Yeah-a creep-then they tend in that direction.”

“That sounds very idealistic.”

“Well, that’s my dad for you. And here’s the realism part, I guess. His caveat to this was that it’s always a lot harder-a lot harder-to believe the best of people. After all, we’re constantly hurting each other, being selfish, being-well, creeps. But if you persist in believing that people are better than that, a lot of them turn out to be. And they remember your faith in them, and repay it. Many times over.”

Vincente was very silent for a long time. “That,” he said slowly, “is either the most foolish philosophy I have ever heard, or the most dangerous.”

Frank stopped. “Dangerous?”

“Yes, of course it is dangerous. Is it not obvious? Kings, captains, and domineering creeps like myself rule through fear. We compel obedience through fear of our reprisals, fear of our discipline, fear of our disapproval. Your philosophy would undermine the instigation of such fear. Oh, there will always be plenty of brutes willing to resort to the lash and the oubliette, but one cannot run an empire with brutes. They lack the brains and the nuance for command. Higher faculties are required among the cadre, who must have a more evolved understanding of, and instinct for, the nature of the human heart. And that would be the hole in the dike of the dominators, no? For happily, persons gifted in human perception also tend to have souls that possess the same weaknesses they perceive and exploit in others. How would such domineering souls fare, faced with masses of the oppressed who still insist upon appealing to their best natures?”

“Dude, you are so channeling Gandhi, now.”

“I do not understand what those words mean, and your smile is worrisome of itself, Frank. But, I must ask: if this philosophy is so powerful in your world, then why was your time wracked by wars that make ours look like mere squabbles?”

“That,” Frank admitted, “is truly the bitch of the situation.”

“Eh…you are allowing that yours is a flawed philosophy?”

“Let’s say I’m admitting that we were still working on it.” They’d neared the end of their circuit of the gardens and were angling toward the door that led back to Frank’s room.

Castro y Papas was clearly trying to find a tactful way to carry forward the discussion. “I mean no offense, but if in your world you were still working on achieving a society based on this philosophy, after centuries of effort, might that not indicate that its goal is illusory, is impossible?”

Frank shrugged. “Maybe. So does that mean you are saying that Christ was a liar?”

Castro y Papas missed a step, stood straight, offended. “What?”

“You heard me. What about turn the other cheek, only throwing the first stone if you’re without sin, the last being first and vice versa, rich men having to wiggle through the eye of a needle to reach the pearly gates? Is that all just so much crap? Because that’s pretty much the same message as the one my dad drummed into us, when you get right down to it.”

The captain did not move. Then he opened the door out of the garden, and stared at Frank. “This was not a nice walk,” he mumbled, “not a nice walk at all. Shall we do it again, same time tomorrow?”

When Dolor entered, Borja greeted him familiarly, offering him a seat. Dolor simply shook his head, and stood, hands clasped behind his back. And Borja felt the anxiety that this apparently emotionless man always aroused in him. In a world where men were influenced by their wants or fears, how do you influence a man who has none of either?

“Our plans for the hostages are now complete, Your Eminence. All is in readiness.”

“Yes, yes, but my concern is not over the hostages. They are a minor detail. I must have a resolution in the matter of Urban; I need action, if action is required.”

“So. You are now satisfied that there is no body in the ruins?”

Borja looked away. “Not yet.”

“Really? My sources tell me you have finished your search. Indeed, they tell me that you ended the search just before the last rubble from the explosion was to be removed.

“And of course, there is another piece of interesting circumstantial evidence: The body of Quevedo.”

“And how does Quevedo’s miserable corpse bear upon the matter of whether Urban was rescued or remains within the rubble?”

“The manner of his death strongly suggests the former.”

“What do you mean, ‘the manner of his death’?”

“Your Eminence, I took the liberty of examining the body. Whoever killed him bested him in a sword fight.”

“So you are implying-”

“Who but the Ambassadora’s husband would have had the weapon and the skill and the proximity to inflict such a mortal wound?”

“But,” protested Borja, “but he is old.”

“If it is the Catalan we suspect, then I would not presume that age predicts infirmity. And there is corroborating evidence.”

Dolor reached out his hand and placed several spent shotgun shells on the table. “I had two of my men carefully continue the excavation of the general area where Quevedo’s body was discovered. These small objects had, of course, been ignored during the main excavations, lost in mounds of small stone and debris. But this leaves little doubt: Urban was rescued. Successfully. And Quevedo evidently died trying to prevent it. What I am less than certain about is why, just when the dig seemed on the verge of providing concrete evidence, you elected not to complete it.”

Borja said nothing. How much had Dolor guessed? “You have your own conjectures on the matter, naturally.”

“Only one, Your Eminence. Not that it would apply to you. And it is purely hypothetical, of course.”

“Of course. Pray share it.”

“It seems to me that if one were to consider the current mood among the remaining cardinals of the Church with a jaded eye, their desire to see Urban stripped of his pontifical robes is less ardent than one might have hoped.”

Borja said nothing. He also carefully controlled his impulse to fold his fingers into white-knuckled fists of rage. The cowards! Who would have thought that half the Consistory would fail to follow his lead in calling Urban to account for his malfeasance and his willing collaboration with the enemies of the church? Their indifference was tantamount to treason.

But Dolor had not even paused. “In such a political climate, where strong action against Urban is far less certain to be supported, it is perhaps increasingly desirable that the pope not be discovered. Not alive, that is. Better for the Church and its true servitors that he should remain missing, or be discovered after his demise. This would be most helpful in quelling any uncertainties about succession. And it would help the Church to rebuild its unity without any lingering-impediments.”

Borja swallowed. “An interesting theory. Complete fantasy, of course.”

“Of course. But at any rate, it also shows how the apparent rescue plans being crafted by agents of the USE to retrieve Senor Stone and his wife do, ultimately, connect back to the search for Urban.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Let me show you.” Dolor reached out his hand again. More spent shotgun casings clattered down on the table. Mixed in with them were almost a dozen smaller, and precisely machined, cartridges. Just looking at them, Borja could feel the encroachment of the up-time Earth: it was there in the eerie, perfect symmetry of their shapes.

Borja nodded. “From St. Isidore’s, I presume.”

“Precisely.”

“But I do not understand. The USE agents must have known that the hostages were not there. Why would they take such a risk, and reveal themselves as they have, at St. Isidore’s?” He gestured toward the latest crop of casings.

“I have been wondering the same thing. I have concluded that they were not alone at St. Isidore’s, and that whatever other group they met-either by design or chance, either beforehand or at the Church itself-were the ones who actually commenced the attack.”

“Why do you think there was another group involved?”

“Several reasons, again deduced from a close study of the bodies. Several of our guards were killed by sword wounds. Very heavy rapiers, or possibly sabers. This is not consistent with the USE raiders known as the Wrecking Crew; they vastly prefer up-time firearms. It is where their primary advantage and expertise lies. So did matters become so dire that they had to resort to swords, or did the swords belong to someone else?

“Additionally, almost half of our troops who apparently tried rushing the antechamber by way of the corridor from St. Isidore’s apse were killed by these.” Dolor dumped another load of metal on the table, but this was a collection of very contemporary, albeit very deformed, bullets.

“This is, once again, definitely not consistent with the weapons the Wrecking Crew uses. And since they had little to gain by absconding with the two priests, Wadding and Hickey, I must conclude that the Wrecking Crew were not the catalyst for what occurred at St. Isidore’s. They were merely facilitators.”

“But for whom? And why?”

“I have no basis for conjecture; there are too many unknowns. But there is one last, tantalizing fact: the entirety of the combat was conducted within the street-side buildings, or in the interior grounds. How did the attackers get there, then? No guards were killed at the gate, or even in the portico; indeed, it seems as if those guard posts were abandoned. Yet it makes absolutely no sense that the members of the Wrecking Crew would have been allowed past the guard at the gate, or admitted beyond the portico at the top of the main stairs. It is as if the enemy forces were first detected when they had already gotten inside the rectory. Then, all the guards contracted on that point and were defeated in detail.”

Borja waved his hand in irritated disgust. “Senor Dolor, I cannot begin to tell you how very tired I am of these up-time-led brigands slaughtering our men and suffering no losses in return.”

“I quite sympathize, Your Eminence. But strangely, I believe this may now be working to our advantage.”

“What? How?”

“Overconfidence, Your Eminence. If the Wrecking Crew was involved in the events outside Chiavenna, and has now stormed a church in the middle of a Spanish-held city, I suspect they are quite pleased with themselves. So pleased that perhaps they will begin to assume that they are undefeatable. If so, that is exactly the species of pride that goeth before a fall.”

Borja smiled. “Yes, so it is written. And your new plan for securing the hostages-?”

“-is crafted to take advantage of that first deadly sin, Your Eminence: pride.”

“Very good. But I still do not see how knowing that the Wrecking Crew is tasked to effect the rescue of the hostages helps us in our attempt to-‘locate’ Urban.”

“Your Eminence, if we can trick the Wrecking Crew into making a mistake, we might be able to take prisoners who know where Urban has been sequestered.”

Borja spread his hands out on his desk, unconsciously mimicking a gesture he had seen cats indulge in when crippled prey lay between their paws. “Then the sooner they make their attempt, the better. For all our plans.”