1635: The Papal Stakes

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Old Mazarini brought out Antonio Barberini’s bags as he joined the group gathered in the courtyard. There was an ironic appropriateness to the timing of their departure, thought the young cardinal. It is just as we are leaving that the late-spring flowers are finally coming into full bloom, that the first berries are ripening enough for the table. A table which will be empty once again tonight and who knows for how many weeks, months, years to come.

It was a melancholy thought, young Cardinal Barberini conceded, one he would not have had two months ago. Two months before this day, Antonio Barberini was fussing over the arrangement of newly acquired paintings in his family’s grand palazzo, just south of the Pincio. Now He looked around the courtyard. The Marines and Hibernians were checking the belly-straps on the pack-mules, ensuring the right marching order for optimal security, awaiting final orders. The children, families, scattered menials who had made the journey with them were waiting in preassigned groups, somewhat anxious but not nervous or terrified: not like those first, terrible days fleeing from Rome.

Antonio turned back to look down the inviting paths of the country arbor. No overly precise cutting and trimming, here. This was a working garden, a place that fed people, sheltered them, gave them a place for quiet conversation, reflection, repose-all while providing scents that lulled one into a doze as surely as the warm sun that shot through the filigree of leaves and vines.

Barberini smiled. Who would have thought it-least of all him! — that worldly, cosmopolitan, refined, even effeminate and spoiled (it was said by some) Antonio Barberini would come to so love a country garden? So love it that what he imagined he would miss most about Rome-the luxury of his apartments and salons and life in Palazzo Barberini-never troubled him once. Instead, he felt strangely, even gladly, distant from that life of opulence and glory-or more accurately, vainglory. His existence there had been aesthetically refined, very pleasing to the senses-but could one call an environment filled solely with inanimate objects truly beautiful? Were paintings and poses in marble greater than the things they represented?

Two months ago, he might have assayed an argument in support of that claim, suggesting that art was not merely the preservation, but the amplification, of the perfection of form. But now he knew differently. This place-the children playing foolish games that parents did not notice, the bees buzzing in the arbor, the strong flanks of loyal horses, and the faces of stern men sworn to protect lives they had come to know and value-this was beauty. And there was no way to freeze or capture it, let alone amplify it; it was as great a beauty as life itself-and just as inevitably fleeting. And if it was to endure at all, it would not do so as frozen physical forms, but in the memory of a human heart.

In this case, in the awakening heart of Cardinal Antonio Barberini.

“So you will miss it, too, Nephew?”

Antonio started, found his uncle the pope standing behind him, dressed in clothes that marked him as nothing more than a moderately well-to-do townsman.

Urban gestured behind them. “This farmhouse, I mean.”

“Yes, Uncle, I will miss it. Very much.”

Urban VIII stared around with the same wistful look on his face that Antonio imagined was on his own. “It is strange, is it not, how we humans strive to refine ourselves, to build new achievements upon those past, to accrue piles of ducats, attain fame, create a powerful family, even build an empire-only to find our true happiness in the quiet of a shady garden and solid peasant food?”

Antonio, listening to the tone, detected reverie, not discovery. “So this has happened to you before, Uncle. This kind of rustic self-discovery.”

Urban smiled, nodded. “Oh, yes, my boy. Often. But it changes every time. The first time, I was not much older than you are now. It came as a great surprise. And it taught me much. Now, it comes as a reminder. A blessed reminder of what really matters. Of our place in the universe. For very soon, I will need to make decisions that touch upon the difference between the world we encounter with our head, and the world we touch with our heart. And I must seek a way to reconcile the two.” He turned to Antonio and smiled. “With your help, of course.”

“Of course, Your Holiness. But I doubt that I alone will be able to-”

“Oh, it will not be you alone, Antonio. We will have many friends to help us, including some who will meet us upon the road to our new home.”

“Which is where, Uncle?”

A new voice intruded: “In an area called Molini. It’s a small mountain valley northwest of Laghi, up in the hills between the Treno-Adige river valley on the west and the Asiago plateau to the east.”

The Barberinis turned to look at Larry Mazzare. “It sounds remote,” commented the pope.

“That is a profound understatement, Your Holiness.”

“Ah. Excellent for our purposes, then. And I suppose it has been the subject of your occasional private discussions with the ambassadora and her husband?” Urban’s eyes twinkled, but Antonio heard the probe, and the implicit remonstrance: You wouldn’t keep secrets from your pope, now, would you, Lawrence?

Cardinal Mazzare did not exactly look sheepish, but he no longer looked as relaxed as he had a second ago. He had his mouth open to make what promised to be one of his carefully measured replies — when another voice came from out of the arbor. “No, Your Holiness. I would not ask Father Mazzare to withhold information from you.” It was the ambassadora, who was-herself, no less! — carrying a sizable traveling bag in either hand. “But I did ask him to delay doing so until we were under way. I would appreciate it if you did not share the information with anyone else. Anyone. I repeat: I would really appreciate it.” The extraordinary emphasis that the ambassadora put on the word appreciate made it sound like something just shy of an order, the violation of which would entail dire consequences.

“Of course, Ambassadora Nichols. We do not wish to jeopardize anyone’s safety.”

The ambassadora smiled; it was genuine, if a bit rueful. “I am very glad to hear that, Your Holiness, because it is your safety that we are ensuring with the secrecy. I doubt very much Cardinal Borja would be quite so interested in the rest of us.”

It wasn’t exactly a remonstration, but it was as pointed a reminder as Antonio had ever heard uttered to his uncle.

Urban only smiled. “The ambassadora’s candor is refreshing. And apt. I do understand the situation. Quite well. Tell me: is there any further word on the saboteurs of the airplane in Venice?”

Emerging from the arbor behind the ambassadora, and carrying enough personal weaponry to equip at least two squads of soldiers, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz dusted pollen off the shoulders of his buff coat. “No word, Your Holiness. Not that we expected it. Borja’s dogs are well-trained. And after Quevedo, it seems he has chosen a far more capable kennel-master. This one is dangerous, Your Eminences; he strikes seldom, but carefully. And now he is waiting, no doubt, for some clue that will reveal our location.”

“But this has been prevented by your prudence.”

“As much as possible, Your Holiness.”

Urban raised an eyebrow. “And what measure has remained beyond your remarkable abilities at ensuring Our security?”

The Ambassadora stood very straight. “Unfortunately, your own request, Your Holiness. Specifically, that Father Wadding be sent to join us. I understand that it is an urgent matter for the good of the Church, but from a security standpoint, it is a bad move. I will freely admit that I was against it. I mean no disrespect to the well-being of the Church or to Your Holiness’ wishes, but quite frankly, it risks both of those things.”

Urban nodded. “And who prevailed upon you to permit it, then?”

The Ambassadora smiled at the two men-Ruy and Mazzare-who stood flanking her. “These two idealists. They both seem to understand the necessity of Father Wadding’s presence more than I do.”

Urban’s eyebrows raised. “Indeed? I am not surprised that Lawrence did; it is simply a logical extension of the same wisdom and love of Mother Church that brought him down here despite the perils of the journey and the destination. But you,” he said, turning his attention upon Ruy, “Senor Casador y Ortiz, I was not aware that the intricacies of theology and canon law were among your very many wonderful talents.”

The Spaniard inclined his head. “Your Holiness, I fear I would find myself well schooled by the average cockroach in such lofty matters. But the Irish priest is well known in Spain. He studied at Salamanca, and went on to a lofty position there before being a presence in Philip’s own court. He is known for his wit, his kindness, but above all, his piety and integrity. And he is among the most respected of his order. Should you therefore intend to hear counsel from the many voices and perspectives of the Church, he would seem a likely choice: a respected and famous Franciscan known for his long and warm relationship with Spain’s clergy and court. With Father Wadding as part of your deliberative council, no man may say that you surrounded yourself only with voices that echoed your own thoughts and preferences.”

The young fellow named Carlo came running up. “Ambassadora, the master of horse, he tells me we are ready to leave. We only wait upon you and the blessed fathers.”

“We are coming, Carlo. Go run through the houses now; bring anything you find that has been left behind. Then come back to me.”

“Yes, Ambassadora Nichols.” And Carlo was off as if shot from a cannon.

But the ambassadora was looking at her husband, who was staring at the line of horses, mules, and carts. “What is it, Ruy? Something wrong?”

“Something we cannot fix. Not yet.”

The ambassadora shrugged. “We only have the soldiers we have. Don Estuban radioed that more are on the way.”

Ruy sighed. “I hope they will be enough.”

Antonio looked between the frowning faces around him. “Well, what of the Marines from the embassy? If more soldiers are needed, cannot they-?”

But the Spaniard was shaking his head. “It would not be advisable, Your Eminence.”

“Are they not loyal?”

“Indeed. Almost to a fault. But they are most certainly under observation. If any number of them were to depart the embassy, they would be followed. Discreetly. Perhaps at the distance of a day’s journey.”

“Then they could lose those who are trailing them, no?”

Ruy sighed again. “I wish it were so simple, Your Eminence, but no, not if the men following are capable. Four mounted Marines must camp, must cook, must get provisions, and may need to seek lodgings; they will be seen. And the embassy’s Marines are almost all men of Scotland or the Germanies. In dress and appearance alone, they attract notice, but when they open their mouths to speak Italian-” Ruy’s summation was an expressive roll of his eyes.

“Then how will Father Wadding be brought to us at all?”

“First, he has not visited the embassy, and so can not be followed from there. Second, just this morning, I believe, he has commenced the first leg of his journey: westward via boat, up the Po River. Neither he nor his companions will leave that boat, nor moor it at a pier or dock, until they are at least fifty miles west of Venice. Upon coming ashore, they will immediately travel northward, overland. When they have made rendezvous with us, Father Wadding’s escorts shall return by horseback. With any luck at all, this will put them well outside the observation of Borja’s Venetian agents.”

Antonio clapped his hands. “So there is nothing to lead them to us. Indeed, your precautions are so complete that it seems impossible that they shall ever find us!”

But the Spaniard was shaking his head. “No, Your Eminence; we are merely ensuring that Borja’s agents will be much delayed in finding us. But they will not fail to ultimately learn our location. Our objective is to make it so difficult that, by the time they do locate us, we shall have departed our new safe house for a place of permanent safety, far beyond their reach. But determined assassins such as Borja’s will not rest. If led by a patient, thorough man, they know that it is only a matter of time before some clue falls into their ever-watchful, waiting hands.”

Antonio, cursed with a vivid imagination and visual inventiveness, could suddenly see outlines of those waiting assassin-hands flexing fitfully, impatiently, within the shadows of the farmhouse’s familiar doorways, arbor, sheds. “Perhaps we should repair to our mounts now,” he suggested, licking his suddenly dry lips.

Rombaldo de Gonzaga almost spilled his very expensive coffee when Giulio came sprinting into his private chambers, as flushed and excited as ever. “The fisherman reports movement near the island monastery, Rombaldo.”

Hmm. Sooner than he had expected. The up-time commandos and their allies had only arrived in Venice-well, at San Francesco del Deserto-a few days ago. And now they were already on the move again. “What movement?”

“The fisherman we have watching the island says that early this morning, the Dalmatian gajeta that brought them here set out to the south. I do not know more than that. But the fisherman sent his assistant to follow that boat, thinking its departure might have been meant to draw him away.”

“And?”

“And he was evidently correct. Only two hours later, a rowboat was brought out from the cover of bushes and several persons left the island.”

“Where did they go?”

“They met and transferred to a ketch of shallow draft in open water of the lagoon. The ketch made for the west; the rowboat returned to the island.”

Rombaldo thought carefully. The gajeta was probably not merely a decoy; the smart move would be to give it a legitimate task, as well. But it was also harder to follow. He didn’t have enough boats at his disposal to track multiple targets. So there was probably little he could accomplish other than sending a prompt report back to Dakis that the Wrecking Crew was apparently on the move again.

“The gajeta was heading south, you said?”

“Yes, Rombaldo.”

So. South. Well, that didn’t reveal much. Except that it seemed unlikely that the Wrecking Crew was going to reinforce whatever security was safeguarding Urban. So, as expected, they were probably returning to Rome. But why not go directly out of the lagoon into the Adriatic? It would have been harder to follow them, then…

Unless, of course, they intended to change boats before they got to Rome. A prudent step, but difficult to arrange on such short notice. Unless, that is, the change was going to take place fairly close to Venice, someplace the USE planners could inform quickly by sending a mounted messenger or a fast boat ahead, farther down the coast. Hmmm-farther down the coast…“Giulio, first message. To all our agents farther down the coast, particularly in Ravenna and Rimini. They should be watching for this gajeta. It might rendezvous with another boat. Probably a slightly larger one. There’s a bonus for any report that reaches me within twelve hours of the sighting.”

“Yes, Rombaldo. Anything else?”

Well, of course there was something else; they had to determine what the second boat, the ketch, was up to. A rowboat leaves the island of the Franciscans and transfers its passengers to the small, shallow-hulled ketch. Which heads due west. Now that, Rombaldo reasoned, might have something to do with his target, the pope.

Might he be stashed someplace on the west shore of the lagoon? No. Too close. Although very unexpected, it was also too bold a move; a little bit of bad luck and the pope’s life would be forfeit. No matter how much security Urban had, it was better for him to be well-hidden, than well-defended. That meant he’d be found in a modest compound, not a bristling fortress. And anything less than a fortress was something that Rombaldo could overwhelm with sheer numbers, if it was close to Venice. But the farther away the pope’s sanctuary was from Venice, the more ground Rombaldo’s men had to search and the more scattered they became while doing so. That, in turn, made it increasingly unlikely that whatever band of searching assassins found Urban would also be large enough to overcome his current protection.

So, by process of elimination, the enemy’s smart move was not to gamble on sequestering the pope close to Venice, because he would not only be easier to find, but because Borja’s hired men could be more easily and swiftly summoned to converge upon, and overwhelm, such a target.

Meaning that Urban was out in the countryside. Maybe up in the mountains, by now. Logically they would want a remote area; a city is full of eyes, and you have no way of knowing which pair is looking for you. On the other hand, an isolated farm or villa-probably one abandoned or infrequently visited-would be perfect. No one had business going to such a place, which meant that any approach would be immediately noticed and engaged. So, if the boat was carrying someone or something to the pope, then its westward course across the lagoon should logically be bringing it closer to that kind of remote sanctuary.

So they were making for the Po. It was the only logical answer. The boat moving westward-small, with a shallow draft-would be ideal for a long upriver journey, eliminating much of the need to fret over navigating shallows. And it would, of course, be hard to follow. Particularly if they had set in enough provisions for their entire journey, thereby obviating the need to put in at any of the towns along the banks of the Po.

But logically, once they left the boat, whoever was on it would wish to move quickly. Meaning they would need to either purchase mounts, or, more likely, have them already waiting in a prearranged point. And from there, they would almost certainly head farther north. Farther west was pointless; it put them even deeper into the much-trafficked east-west agricultural and commercial belt that followed the Po River valley all the way out to Lombardy. Farther south put them beyond the protection of Venice’s borders and just that much closer to Rome’s reach. On the other hand, Venice had some truly remote areas in its northern territories, where the land rose up-first as hills and then small mountains-to meet the Alps.

So: “Next message, Giulio. We need our agents in Mestre and Vincenza to spread out along the Po. We need at least one in each of the towns on the north shore that have stables of reasonable size. They are to seek the ketch and watch for its passengers to transfer to mounts. They will do so quickly; they will not spend a night in the town.”

“Rombaldo, this will take some time to arrange. By the time the messages are sent, received, and the agents change position-”

“Yes, Giulio, I’m well aware of this. Which means, unfortunately, that our agents might arrive after the boat for which they are searching. So they cannot simply go to the villages and sit by the side of the Po, staring, hoping to see a ketch. They will need to make surreptitious inquiries about recent arrivals, mounts that were recently purchased or stabled there, strangers passing through-some of whom will certainly not be Italians. And yes, it will take time, but we are not in a hurry. Thoroughness, not hastiness, is our best ally right now.”

“It shall be as you say, Rombaldo. And if the ketch’s passengers are located, should our men ambush th-?”

“Absolutely not. They are to follow, observe, and report. That is all. These travelers are not our targets; they are our guides. We would be fools to slay them before they lead us to our ultimate objective.” He waved Giulio out. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Also, be sure to give the fisherman three extra lire. He showed cleverness and initiative.”

Giulio stopped and cocked his head. Rombaldo almost laughed; the scrawny Paduan looked like a quizzical spaniel. He asked, “A bonus for the fisherman, Rombaldo?”

“Yes. Why? What were you expecting?”

“Well, that we’d cover our tracks like always. That we’d kill him.”

Rombaldo frowned. “Kill him? Good grief, no.” Then he shrugged, “Well, at least not yet.”

It was not at all fair, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz decided. Not fair at all.

He looked over the ears of his horse and saw his beautiful wife reach down to give yet another child a turn riding behind her. In the time that he had known her, Sharon had become only a passably capable equestrienne. But otherwise, each passing day seemed a divine ordination upon the further growth of her other, peerless gifts. For Ruy, every moment of existence also allowed him to see more clearly how she was the very acme of charm, wit, kindness, beauty, and-and — yes. And. That. Ruy sighed. Three days upon the road and two evenings spent in the even less comfortable fields had taken their toll on Ruy’s naturally ebullient spirit. Not because of the onset of saddle sores, or the monotonous food, or the omnipresent dust that coated body, mouth, and nostrils. Being a veteran of innumerable campaigns, he no longer noticed such discomforts. No, Ruy resented the absence of a bed. And privacy. Specifically, the bed and privacy that he and his bride of less than two months had enjoyed at the farmhouse.

It had not been a wonderful bed; it was cranky and had needed a thorough dosing of DDT before it was vermin-free. And it creaked. A great deal. But that was part of what he missed. Say what one might, a creaking bed was rather like an orchestral accompaniment, and Sharon Nichols had shown, in the past weeks, that she was a virtuoso performer.

It just wasn’t fair, Ruy concluded.

“A real for your thoughts?”

Ruy looked up from his funk, smiling, simply because the sound of Sharon’s voice always made him happy. “You might not approve,” Ruy warned her.

“Try me,” she said with a smile that was more than half-leer.

Ruy glanced behind. The pope sat his horse comfortably and loose-limbed; Vitelleschi sat his like a long-necked scarecrow without joints.

“You might approve, my heart, but I sincerely doubt that the pope would.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think Urban VIII is a prude. But Vitelleschi-brrrr. I suspect he thinks holding hands is the equivalent of fornication.”

“Hmf,” moped Ruy. “Well, I certainly don’t.”

“No,” she agreed with a smile, “you certainly don’t.”

“Heart of my heart, it is more than a man should be asked to bear, this abstinence. To touch your beauty, to experience your vigor, it brands a man’s soul. It creates a hunger that knows no surfeit. It afflicts me with fantasies and daydreams of delights that are bestowed by an angel with the impulses of a demon.”

“In short, you miss the bed.”

“Ah, the bed,” Ruy sighed, shaking his head. “I remember it almost as if it were yesterday.”

“It was. Well, the day before yesterday.”

“Is it so? Then why does it already feel like a century of centuries?”

“Ruy, don’t herniate your flattery muscles, now. And besides, being on the road is a source of adventure, of new opportunities, new places-new beds. “She poked him, her lips curving slighly.

His eyes widened, then narrowed to match the salacious smile that he could feel growing on his face. “It may be true that variety is the spice of life, but I was not done savoring all the many flavors of the farmhouse. And its bed. Which lifted you just high enough, when you lay full upon it, that I was perfectly positioned to-”

“Ruy. You are not going to talk about that here.”

“Ah, so now you fear that Urban will overhear?”

“That. And I need to keep my head on my business.”

Ruy effected an epic sulk. “I am your business.”

“You most certainly are, you old goat. You are the business I want to get down to. Which is precisely why I’m going to ride ahead of you now.”

“To separate yourself from me? I am wounded, wounded unto death.”

“Really? Wounded to death? You? All of you?” Her challenging gaze drifted south of his belt for just a second; he quite literally rose to the challenge.

As she turned away, Ruy protested to the listening skies. “I am lost, utterly lost. My heart is owned by a cruel temptress who has no pity upon my desperate condition.”

Looking back, Sharon smiled. The sensuous curve of her lips seemed reprised in her shoulders, her arms, her hips, her bust. “So your condition is desperate?”

“Despite enduring a thousand battles and a hundred wounds, never have I been in more pain. I, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz, swear that it is true.”

She raised her chin in a histrionic huff. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” And with a twitch of her tail that matched her spurred mare’s, she moved farther ahead.

Smiling more broadly, Ruy spurred his own charger, keeping up with her. But he was careful not to draw abreast of, or pass, her. No, he must not pass her.

Because he liked the view from back here. Very, very much.