1635: The Papal Stakes

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Captain Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas drew up to his full height and stared down at the other man. “This is unconscionable. I will not do it.”

“You will, Captain, and you will do it personally. There can be no delay; it must be done before we set sail this afternoon.”

Castro y Papas stopped himself from refusing directly. The man he knew only as Dolor had no official place in the military command structure, but, as had Quevedo, enjoyed broad authority. Borja had even instructed all but three of his generals to obey this joyless, black-cloaked reaper without hesitation. So, disobeying Dolor would simply be a way to end his career, and maybe life, given Borja’s taste for vigorous punishment of any infractions that could be interpreted as treasonous.

Castro y Papas tried a different tack. “This punishment is not merely pointless; it will further harden them against us.”

Dolor shook his fine, close-cropped head. “It will remind them that we are to be feared, and will prevent them from aiding our enemies ever again. And besides, it is Cardinal Borja’s explicit order.” He stared up at Castro y Papas with calm disinterest, as if the outcome of their conversation was already obvious, and he was simply listening to the other out of courtesy.

His final impulse-to ask, “And why have I been selected to inflict the punishment?”-the captain successfully stifled. The question would not change anything, and besides, it was more his responsibility than anyone else’s. But more importantly, if he asked that question, there was the chance that the duty would indeed pass to someone else, someone who had neither the skill nor the interest in restricting the severity of damage inflicted.

Without responding to Dolor, Castro y Papas turned on his heel and harshly ordered one of his own guards-who were now outnumbered by Dolor’s retainers-to open the door to the prisoner’s room.

He walked in quickly, careful not to make eye contact. “You,” he spoke toward the window where he had seen the prisoner brooding a few minutes earlier. “You should not have involved yourself when the rescuers came, and certainly not by attacking the soldiers of His Imperial Majesty King Philip IV’s with an incendiary device. Now stand up.”

Frank Stone did, frowning. “Hey, if anyone’s going to be testy around here, I think I’m the one who has the best reason to-”

“Frank!” warned Giovanna sharply.

Castro y Papas grimaced. Damn it, but that one can read me like a book. Well, there’s no point in waiting- He looked up long enough to firmly fix Frank Stone’s position, and then threw the first punch.

It landed as Castro y Papas had intended: squarely on the surprised up-timer’s chin. As Frank fell backward and his wife emitted a shriek, the Spaniard saw Stone’s eyes get wobbly. Perfect; he was dazed, but not unconscious. This way, he’d feel less pain, but still be awake, which meant that Dolor and his dogs couldn’t force Castro y Papas to inflict a second, more complete beating at some later date.

But no, Dolor and his men were not dogs; judging from the barking laughs from behind, they were hyenas. Castro y Papas turned, saw Dolor’s little Cretan adjutant, Dakis, leaning against the doorjamb, settled in to enjoy the spectacle. With him and the others watching, there would be no way to end this quickly, so Castro y Papas would have to be very careful.

As he turned back to his loathsome task, he discovered Giovanna Stone staring at him, her eyes as murderous as any he had ever seen in almost fifteen years of soldiering. And he did not blame her in the least. He held her eyes one second longer as he reached down for her swooning husband with his left hand-and carefully shook the signet ring on his right hand so that it rotated on his finger, the immense imprinting head swiveling safely back inside his readying fist.

Her eyes darted to that fist, noting the change. Then she looked at him again, her mouth closed and her chin elevated. She understood, seemed all but ready to nod at him-and not to give the leering animals near the door the pleasure of her further screams.

Castro y Papas closed his eyes, threw his next punch obliquely into Frank’s belly, and began calculating the minimum number of face or bone blows that would be required to make look the beating look convincing to his savagely eager audience.

The country house that was the only large building of the sprawling farming establishment called Molini was emerging from beneath the soot and dust of long neglect. The Cavrianis’ report to Sharon indicated that the last residents had been the elderly remnants of a cantankerous clan that had not repopulated itself very vigorously, and drove off those few offspring that might have one day inherited the remote, self-styled “commune.” Some said the last of Molini’s antediluvian inhabitants had abandoned it voluntarily; others said they were carted away in their senescent (if combative) infirmity. However, this much was clear: it had stood empty for the preceding nine months, and had fallen into disrepair over the preceding decade.

With the nearest neighbors almost four miles away, no one had any business coming to visit Molini. But if anyone had, they would have noticed dramatic changes. The gardens were being tended once again, walkways were repaired and swept, and what had appeared to be an angular compost heap against the back wall had been replaced with a new pile of kitchen firewood.

After finishing the first full meal cooked in that refurbished kitchen-wild boar stuffed with turnips, wild carrots, and chives-Sharon and Ruy sought the comfort of the smaller, more intimate hearth of the master suite’s sitting room. It was not their private retreat, however, despite the fact that their bedroom was contiguous with it. Although the house was quite large, it was still small for their entire contingent: all the rooms fit for sleeping were accommodating at least six people. The only exceptions were the rooms reserved for the Ruy and Sharon, Vitelleschi and Antonio Barberini, and Wadding and Larry Mazzare, the last eliciting no small number of muttered comments about strange bedfellows, indeed. Only the pope had a private room. Or did in theory, anyway: of the two Wild Geese-Patrick Fleming and Anthony McEgan-one always kept watch over Urban at all times.

So Sharon and Ruy were not surprised when the entirety of the clerical contingent filed into the sitting room adjoining their quarters. But Sharon quickly understood that this was not to be simply another session of the post-prandial companionship that was rapidly becoming a tradition in this space: Urban and Wadding compelled the two Wild Geese to remain outside the room. Then Urban moved over to take the chair closest to the fire; even with summer coming on, the nighttime temperatures of the Italian PreAlps were still bracing. The others found seats and looked at Vitelleschi expectantly.

Ruy glanced at Sharon and then, together, they faced the newcomers. “Your Eminences,” Ruy began, “do you require the private use of this chamber for-?”

Urban shook his head. “No, my son, you and your charming bride are welcome to remain here as long as you wish. Although our discourse might bore you.”

From the mischievous twinkle in the pope’s eye, Sharon seriously doubted that would be the case.

As he often did, Vitelleschi began addressing his fellow clerics without preamble. “As per His Holiness’ instructions, I shall preside over the debates between Cardinals Mazzare and Wadding. Cardinal Barberini shall serve as recording secretary. And I reiterate his Holiness’ strict instructions that the discussants are not to address arguments to him during our sessions, nor are they to present him with appeals outside of them. He is an observer only.

“The first item to be addressed is whether it can reasonably be asserted that Grantville is an infernal construct. If it is deemed possible, then logically, our discussions will end there.”

Ruy poked Sharon’s arm gently. “You do not seem demonic to me, my heart. At least, not when we are in public…”

Sharon poked Ruy far more energetically in the ribs. “Stop it, Ruy. You’ll get us in trouble.” They both turned and saw Vitelleschi glowering at them with a face as pinched and disapproving as a stereotypical spinster schoolmarm.

“However,” he resumed archly, “if it is decided that Grantville’s appearance cannot be reasonably ascribed to satanic machinations, then we must consider how up-time papal opinions, councils, and decrees bear upon our own Church. In particular, we must establish the theological and canonical provenance of the up-time papal council most frequently referred to as Vatican II.”

“Damn,” breathed Sharon, “this sure beats tuning in to the late, late show.”

“Eh?” whispered Ruy.

“Shhh. I’ll explain later.”

“If you are suggesting that we have box seats for the greatest religious drama of the age, I quite agree.”

Vitelleschi had not paused. “Finally, we will use the collective outcome of these discussions to inform our final, crucial consideration: whether or not His Holiness should seek shelter and aid from the United States of Europe. In short, we must discover whether that act of mundane prudence is also an act that follows the Will of God.

“We have few documents at our disposal from which to draw citations, so we cannot observe the procedures and protocols of a court of canon law. However, that may prove a blessing in disguise; we have need of swift decisions. Picking at the fine construances of words-half of which come to us through translations of dubious accuracy-would be no ally to our need for alacrity.

“Instead, Cardinals Mazzare and Wadding will write-as briefs-their best recollections of the relevant facts or citations upon which they will base their remarks in each session. But there will be no prepared statements. This must be a living discussion among men, not a paper duel between lawyers.”

Wadding leaned forward toward Urban. “And when we have finished all our discussions, and you, Your Holiness, have concluded your deliberations, shall the right or wrong of these matters be asserted ex cathedra?”

“I certainly hope to do so,” answered Urban.

“Your Holiness,” pressed Wadding, “whatever we might say, your final statements remain the sine qua non that give this entire discursive process meaning. Mother Church has only one pope, one voice, that speaks God’s Will to us. And we must hear that Will clearly.”

Ruy leaned and murmured toward his wife, “The Irish priest is a most relentless advocate of traditionalism, I suspect.”

“Sure sounds like it,” Sharon muttered.

Urban considered Wadding’s eager face. “My dear brother in Christ,” the pope said with a small smile, “how can I know the answer to your question before we hear and compare the wisdom you and Cardinal Mazzare may bring us? Only then can I responsibly decide how, and when, and with what finality, I shall speak upon the matters we will discuss here. And so I may not answer your question as you wish, Cardinal Wadding-at least, not yet. And now,” he said turning to face Ruy and Sharon, “what questions do you two have?”

“Us?” Sharon hated it when her voice came out like a squeak.

“Of course. This is your parlor we are commandeering, after all.”

“Holy Father,” said Ruy, who somehow rose into a bow, “ mi casa, su casa, so you are not commandeering this room: it is already yours. I am quite sure I speak for Ambassadora Nichols as well, in this regard.”

Urban laughed. “Noble Ruy, I see why you would have had no success in Madrid; you are far too earnest and gracious to be a true courtier. But allow me to speak with greater specificity: do you and the ambassadora have any questions regarding your role in our deliberations?”

Ruy was speechless. Sharon mastered her voice into a husky alto before she asked, “We have a role?”

Urban nodded. “Most assuredly.”

“This is-most irregular,” Ruy murmured.

Wadding made a sound of gruff affirmation.

Urban elected not to notice it. “Yes, it is irregular. As is this entire messy process. So who will notice a little more mud mixed into the mud, eh? But in all seriousness, my children, I wish you to be present, to hear what transpires in this room as we decide the course of Mother Church. And, at the end of each discourse, I encourage you to ask questions.”

Sharon could hardly believe her ears, but managed to maintain a curious caution. “Why? Why would you want us to ask questions, Your Holiness?”

He smiled. “For the reason you just did, my dear: you up-timers hold very little sacred, I’ve noted. Many say this marks you as heretics and demons. But I believe it is the inevitable cost of holding truth sacred above all other things-in which your values recall those in Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians.”

“You Holiness,” objected Wadding, “while the up-timers might revere ‘truth,’ that is not quite synonymous with Paul’s injunction to embrace ‘faith, hope and love.’ None of those are ‘truth.’”

“No, but truth is often the wellspring of each of those graces, even of faith,” replied Urban. “Consider: faith is not the fundamental human virtue whereby unbelievers may come to salvation, Cardinal Wadding, for if it was, the kingdom of God would have no way to grow, to admit new converts. A man or a woman born outside of faith cannot conjure it from a void: for faith to take root and grow in them, it must fall upon a mind fertile with a love of truth, of hungering after the answers of the universe, and hope for a better world. Which, those same minds will later come to realize, are all manifest in His Word.”

Urban had never taken his eyes from Sharon and Ruy. “In you,” he resumed, “I see many symbols of this. I see in you symbols of our two worlds. Of an aging man whose origins are associated with the slaveholders’ whip. Of a young woman associated with slavery’s shackles. Of different times and cultures and continents. But all, somehow, joined together in bliss and balance.” Urban leaned back and folded his hands. “I came to manhood hearing many men whisper-even in the hallways of the Curia-that the age of miracles was at least fifteen centuries past. But now, toward the close of my life, a town has arrived from what it claims to be the future, challenging everything we know and believe about our world. So I must ask myself: what of the two of you? You might just be a pair of unusual newlyweds, chance-met on a shared road of desperation. But I cannot in good conscience discount the possibility that He has set you here as a symbol of how peoples in contention may ultimately become partners in contentment-despite their apparent differences. You give me much to think about. And I would be a fool to forbid you to ask questions. Who knows?” He smiled mischievously. “You may be the Savior’s own mouthpieces.”

Sharon thought about her capacity for colorful profanity and felt an invisible blush rise up through her cheeks.

Urban patted her on the knee, rose and turned to his informal canon court. “In the meantime, Cardinals Wadding and Mazzare will prepare to address us on the probability that Grantville was sent here by Satan-a most stimulating conjecture!”

Motioning for the others to follow, he strode from the room. Larry Mazzare was the last to leave; he turned and smiled faintly. “I’ll try to fend off the exorcists, Sharon,” he said.

“You do that,” she breathed fervently.

He waved and left. Sharon and Ruy sat. They did not speak for almost a full minute. It was Ruy who broke the silence with a hushed observation. “Sharon, my love, I believe we have just witnessed the beginning of a new era.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the head of the Roman Church is, at this most dark and crucial moment, not only allowing but soliciting the input of laypersons. In your books, I have encountered a word-transparency. Originally it was strictly a physical noun, meaning a clear plate or sheet. But in the last documents of your era, it also emerged as a concept, was even used as an adjective. Indeed, among some of your governments and corporations, it became a, a-how do you say it? A ‘boss-word?’”

“A buzz word.”

“Yes. A buzz word. And that word-transparency-does, I believe, describe how Urban means to change the Church’s culture: he is trying to make its processes more open. Oh, of course he has other, pragmatic reasons for having us at these discussions: we can verify, for posterity, the things they will say and decide, here. But if that was his only motivation, he could find other alternatives-or simply do what most popes have done: ignored the opinions and questions of the laity. But not this time, apparently.”

Sharon stared into the hearth. “So maybe something good will come out of this papal mess: a more honest, open Church.”

Ruy shrugged. “It is rightly said that every disaster that lays a temple low is also an opportunity to build a better, sturdier, loftier one. It may be such here. And Urban-unless I very much misread my popes-is just the pontiff to lay those new cornerstones.”

Sherrilyn stepped out from the small upland copse when the dirigible came into view, flying only one hundred feet over the slopes that sheltered the hamlet of Campofontana, just four miles to the south. She waved slowly, holding a bright white bandana in one hand, a bright red one in the other.

Even at this distance, she heard the dull buzz of the motors modulate into a lower pitch, and watched as the dirigible came around, nosing down in her direction. Sherrilyn heard her escorts back in the wood, two of Tom Stone’s embassy Marines, exchange mutters in Amideutsch. She motioned for them to stay back; it was unlikely that anyone else was nearby, but just in case one of Borja’s operatives had trailed them up here-well, wasn’t it Napoleon who had said that Providence was always on the side of the last reserve?

The dirigible was nearly at ground level now, and she could see that it was almost filled with crates, a few more Hibernians, and duffles full of what was probably their gear and spare ammo.

At the front of the blimp, next to the pilot, a very tall, broad-shouldered man with sandy blond hair and gray eyes was looking down at her calmly. “Ms. Maddox?”

“Yes; is that you, Hastings?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’re secure here?”

“Best I can tell. I got here two days early, then set some hidden observation posts to watch for anyone who might have been tailing us. Nada. ”

“Very well, I’ll have my men and gear unloaded in a trice.”

Sherrilyn nodded her approval. “Good. And did you bring your most comfortable boots?”

“Er…yes. Why?”

“Because, Lieutenant Hastings, we’ve got some heavy hiking ahead of us.”