Ring of Fire III

by Eric Flint

  “You are a coward, Milton. More of a coward than I thought. Disgusting.” Wentworth turned to the door and raised his hand to knock.

  “What do you mean, a coward? I am not a—”

  “But you are, Milton. Why did you think I gave you all of your works to read?”

  John stopped for a moment to think. He shook his head as if to clear a fog. “I thought it a mistake on your part; you were being over generous to me for some reason.”

  Wentworth’s mask broke slightly and he looked exasperated. “You must give me more credit than that, Milton. Really.”

  “Then why?”

  “If you just refuted this book...” He picked up the first volume of the arguments and waved. “...then what would have happened when you were allowed out into the world, and discovered the presence of all of this writing?” He swept his hand around the small cell. “It is simple, Milton. You would have failed me. Publicly.” His tone changed from that of a chastising father, to a seemingly loving one. “I need all of you, John, not just part of you. I need a tower of literary strength.” He shrugged and continued. “I am not that sort of a man. I am efficient, I serve my king well, I have my mind—a political mind, that keeps me in power. But I lack—what do the Americans call it? Ah, yes. P.R. I lack P.R., Public Relations. Good press.”

  John looked at the older man incredulously. “I will not do it. I cannot do it.”

  “You disappoint me with your cowardice.”

  “Cowardice! How can you call me a coward, I have just walked into certain death in an act of defiance. How can that be cowardice? You are a fool, old man.”

  “No, John Milton. You are fleeing from your future. You think you cannot match these works. So you choose to become a martyr. A coward. You cannot face what you might become. A mediocre poet.”

  There was a pause as John stared. Wentworth met his gaze with unfathomable confidence.

  John’s eyes wavered under the fierce stare, hesitated, and finally looked at the ground. “Get out,” he whispered. “Just get out.”

  Wentworth changed to a softer tone. “You have three days until the deadline, John. Use your time wisely. You have a choice. What will it be? Cowardice?” Wentworth gestured with the original volume towards the bookcase. “Or will you be a Milton who achieves more than this one dreamed of?” He paused a moment then spoke softly. “The Puritans tend to look at the world in two colors, John, like their clothing. Black and white. Right and wrong. Our earthly existence is not that simple. The world has many shades and colors to it. Messy. Unpredictable. Marvelous.” He turned and rapped on the cell door, and then looked back. “I hope you do not choose to be a coward, John. It would sadden me.” Wentworth tossed the volume onto the end of the pallet. The door creaked open, Wilson ushered Wentworth into the passage, and the cell door closed.

  * * *

  John slept little that night. He finally nodded off for what seemed like a short blink of the eyes, before waking again. Faint light streamed into the slit near the stone ceiling. He lay on his pallet and looked around, staring at the volumes on the makeshift bookcases. The work in the volumes was impressive. The poetry soaring. His pride at what he had done filled him with tears in the semi-darkness. The books around him told of a life, a life of unhappiness, pain, self satisfaction, insight, brilliant radical thought, deep religious beliefs, blindness, and marriages. What a life it was—would have been—might have been—could have been—should have been. He buried his face in his hands and mumbled to himself.

  “The question is: can you do better, John?”

  He rolled over and sat up, feet on the floor. The dry straw rustled beneath him. “This man was a giant,” he whispered. “Do you really believe you could do better? Is it possible?” He spent the next hours praying, hoping that God would give him some sign. Point him in a direction.

  But God was silent that morning, as He had been since the Ring of Fire. There was no message from Him, other than the miracle itself. The miracle that put a young man in this place, with this knowledge. He looked at the books again, and felt empty inside. Blank, like an unwritten story.

  His eyes then fell on the book from Wentworth. Impulsively, he picked it up. He held it closed, between the palms of his hands, as if praying. He set it down on the floor in front of him, stood, and walked away from it, nervously. He turned toward it, took a step, and then stopped. “You are a man whose heart Anubis is weighing, only you are alive,” he whispered. “What an amazing thing.” He crouched down closer to the book. “Alive. There is the heart of the matter. Refute this, and you live. Live to become...someone.” John continued to look at the book.

  “Are you afraid of death, John Milton? Are you as afraid as poor Sir Gregory? Is that why you are even considering writing for Wentworth?” He slowly eased his hand forward, as if the thin book were a poisonous snake. He snatched it up suddenly. Standing, he opened it to he first page, started to read, and then quickly slammed it shut. “Damn that man!

  “That John Milton will never live! No matter what I choose, he is dead!” He used the book in his hands to point to others in succession. “I am a different person than this one. Different from this one too. At each age, I wrote in a different tone, a different timbre, with a different mind.”

  He sat heavily onto the pallet. “The second question is: can you live with who you may become? Who you will become. What you will become.” Bile rose in his throat. “Traitor.” He coughed the word, and his throat burned. He swallowed and cursed silently to himself for a while.

  He then stood and looked defiantly at the bookshelf, as if it were another man in the room. “Will I be a traitor to you? To me?” He paused as if listening to the answer from the shelves. “You cannot judge me, old man. Not now, not ever. Great works. Epic works. Can I do it again?”

  He stopped, puzzled. “What was it that Wentworth said? Shades. Colors. A man who can see different colors?” He noticed he was still holding the book and had an impulse to throw the cheaply bound folio against the wall with all his might. He could almost see it splashing against the stone, pages flying.

  But something held him back, stayed his arm.

  His frustration flowed out of him like a river, leaving him dry.

  He eased himself to a seat on his pallet.

  Perhaps, one day he would be able to define what it was that stayed his hand. Define the moment when he decided he should live. Perhaps he could write a great work, discussing the nuances of human thought and rationality, fear of death. Yes. He would do that, some day, when he was older.

  But for now, with his quill in hand, John Milton began to write.

  To End the Evening

  Bradley H. Sinor

  Barnabas Marcoli gingerly ran his fingers up along the side of his head. Dried blood had already matted his hair into clumps, around a lump half the size of a small goose egg.

  This was definitely not the way he had planned to end his first evening free in nearly two weeks.

  Barnabas sagged back against the wall of the tavern and closed his eyes. From the far end of the room he could hear voices speaking a variety of languages—Italian, mixed in with a flurry of German and something that sounded vaguely eastern European—the sort of mixture that could be found in most places like this in Venice.

  Someone pressed a mug into Barnabas’s left hand; his fingers closed around the pewter surface automatically. He hesitated for a moment, and then downed the contents in two quick swallows. The wine was sharp and bitter, not the kind that he normally preferred to drink, but at that moment he didn’t care.

  “Easy lad; take a few deep breaths and see if you can get your wits about you before you tear into any more of this miserable excuse for wine.”

  Barnabas found himself looking at a tall, lanky man, several years his elder, dressed in plain, slightly worn clothing with a sword hanging at his waist. The stranger had a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair. From his accent there was no doubt that he was French; his Italian was good but not qu
ite good enough to hide his origins.

  “Can I ask a stupid question?” said Barnabas. “What in the hell happened to me?”

  “Oh, that.” His companion chuckled. “Seems a pair of ruffians wanted to relieve you of your purse and weren’t too picky in the way they did it. I’m glad I happened along at the right time.”

  Barnabas nodded. He remembered how he had been cutting through a narrow alley just east of the American embassy when a man had appeared in front of him and demanded money. Before Barnabas could react, someone else struck him from behind. Everything after that, until this stranger had guided him into the tavern, remained something of a blur.

  “Damn,” Barnabas muttered as he reached inside of his shirt but found nothing there.

  “Would this be what you might be looking for?” A small burgundy coin bag slid across the table.

  Barnabas let out a long sigh. It was true that there wasn’t much money in it, apprentice metal workers weren’t rich, but it was his money. Not to mention the fact that Barnabas knew full well that his cousins would not let him forget it if they discovered that he had been robbed.

  “I thank you, sir. My name is Marcoli, Barnabas Marcoli. I owe you not only my life, but my dignity. I will pray for you at mass,” he said. “And who might I name as my Good Samaritan?”

  “D’Artagnan, Charles D’Artagnan.”

  Barnabas stared at the man for a time.

  “I have the feeling that I know of you, sir.” Something about that name was familiar, but the throbbing in Barnabas’s head didn’t help his concentration. He repeated it over and over in his mind; the memory was there, and close, infuriatingly close, but he could not bring it to the surface.

  “I think not. I am new come to Venice. Before the little altercation with those ruffians, had you dined?” When Barnabas shook his head, D’Artagnan smiled and motioned for the tavern girl. “Good. Neither have I.”

  A few minutes later they had plates of chicken, cheese and bread set in front of them.

  “I hope you ordered enough for three.”

  Barnabas turned with a start and found a small man dressed in brown sitting next to him. The newcomer looked like he could only be five foot one or two. He had an ordinary looking face with nothing on it that would have distinguished him from anyone else on the streets of Venice.

  “I wondered when you were going to show up,” said D’Artagnan.

  The small man shrugged, motioning for the serving girl to bring him something to drink. “I was working. After all, we do have a reason for being here besides wenching and drinking.”

  “Pity,” laughed D’Artagnan. “Barnabas, let me introduce you to my traveling companion, Aramis.”

  “Aramis? D’Artagnan?” Barnabas cocked his head at both men; suddenly feeling very pleased with himself. “So where are the other two?”

  “Other two?” said D’Artagnan.

  “Obviously, he’s read the book,” said the small man called Aramis, switching from Italian to English.

  “Indeed I have,” Barnabas responded, somewhat unsure of his English, but wanting to use it now, nonetheless. “The Three Musketeers was only one of several novels that Frank Stone, that young man my cousin Giovanna has been making eyes at, lent me. He said they would help me learn American faster. So are you really the one in the book?”

  “I suppose I really should to get a copy of that book sometime,” muttered D’Artagnan. “Yes, I am the one that book was about.”

  It occurred to Barnabas that there were several things that might be interesting to ask the Frenchman about concerning the events in that book, but the look on the man’s face suggested that this might be a good time to let those questions lie.

  “I obviously owe you my life, Monsieur D’Artagnan. If there is any way in which I can repay you, do not hesitate to say so. Had you not come along I suspect I would have ended up face down in the canal,” Barnabas said.

  “Think nothing of it,” said D’Artagnan.

  “Actually,” said Aramis, a thin smile on his face, “I think that you can help us.”

  * * *

  “I take it you have a plan?” D’Artagnan said in a whisper to Aramis.

  In the time that D’Artagnan had known Aramis, he had learned that the small man had a sharp sense of strategy and planning, not to mention the ability to think on his feet. That skill alone had saved both of their lives on more than one occasion.

  They spoke quietly because while their newly acquired Italian companion was most probably Catholic, they definitely did not know his political bent. So the fact that the two Frenchmen were in the service of Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu, Cardinal Richelieu, the first minister of France, was a piece of information best kept to themselves.

  “It isn’t a plan, exactly, just a way that young Marcoli can be of assistance,” he said. “Most of it we will have to make up as we go along.”

  The two Frenchmen had been in Venice for just over a week. In that time D’Artagnan had begun to feel somewhat frustrated. He preferred direct action; give him a sword in his hand and an enemy to face, and that was the best of all possible worlds. Aramis, on the other hand, preferred to wait in the shadows unseen, until he was ready to act.

  Three months before, D’Artagnan had been summoned, late one evening, to the Louvre by the cardinal. Once there he found himself waiting near the door, while at the far end of the gallery that served Richelieu as an office; the churchman spoke at length with a woman in dark colors who had a Spanish look about her. D’Artagnan presumed that, given the circumstances, she was another one of Richelieu’s agents rather than a supplicant come to beg some favor from the most powerful man in France.

  When she departed the woman smiled briefly at D’Artagnan, but had not spoken. As she passed him, D’Artagnan had inclined his head toward her and said simply, “Good evening, milady.”

  “When necessary, that woman can be quite as dangerous as you, my young friend,” said Richelieu.

  “I shouldn’t doubt it,” D’Artagnan said. “If there is one thing besides the use of the blade that my uncle taught me, it was to be wary of certain women and I think her one of them.”

  “Indeed. He sounds like a most wise and practical man. I think you may take after him in some ways,” said the cardinal. Richelieu had made use of the young swordsman several times since, on impulse, taking him into his personal guard. While the results had not always been what he would have preferred, D’Artagnan’s performance had been enough to keep him keenly aware of the young swordsman.

  “That is why I am going to trust you with a most delicate mission, one that I think will fit your skills quite well.”

  “I am at your disposal, Your Excellency.”

  From a drawer in his desk the cardinal pulled out several sheets of paper and passed them to D’Artagnan. One of them was a travel warrant, giving the bearer priority access to transport anywhere within the boundaries of France. The other bore a highly detailed sketch of a face. This was followed by two small bags of gold; expense money no doubt, speculated D’Artagnan. There was one thing that came with working for Richelieu; he was definitely not ungenerous with the state’s money.

  “You are to go to Italy. Venice, to be exact. I need you to locate the man whose face is on that paper. His name is Ramsey Culhane. He is the nephew and principal heir of one Jameson Culhane, an Irish Catholic gentleman whom I would appreciate having in my debt,” said Richelieu.

  “I take it he is not in Venice of his own accord.”

  “Indeed not. There is a matter of a rather large sum of money owed to one of the trading houses in the form of a gambling debt; I don’t have the specifics as of yet. They’ve demanded payment from his uncle or they will kill the wastrel. Under other circumstances I would just pay the ransom myself; however, there are certain alliances that might be put in jeopardy if that were discovered. So we must resort to your unique skills, Lieutenant.”

  “It shall be done, Your Eminence. If you have no objection, I
will take Aramis with me.”

  “Take him. He is useful but at times gives me a headache,” said Richelieu. As D’Artagnan left he saw the churchman spreading several maps of the French-Spanish border areas across his desk.

  * * *

  A goodly portion of the far western districts in Venice were devoted to docks and warehouses. In the time since he had come to the city to apprentice as a metal worker with his uncle, Antonio Marcoli, Barnabas had become quite familiar with the area.

  From the shadowed corner where the three men had stopped, Barnabas could see lights from a few torches and lanterns that marked where some people worked, even now.

  The streets were never completely empty, even at nearly midnight. It was just quieter as businesses awaited the coming of the tide to bring more cargo in, and daylight to guide transports that would carry the contents of the warehouses away.

  The urge to repay his guardian angel had faded in Barnabas the farther they had traveled from the center of the city. Now a small portion of his mind wondered if the two Frenchmen would turn around and help themselves to his purse and pick up a few extra coins selling his body to a medical school.

  “I have a feeling that my uncle may not be all that pleased at my involvement with whatever you have in mind,” Barnabas said. “Tell me truthfully, is this thing you want me to do legal?”

  “Truthfully, no,” said D’Artagnan. “It is also more than likely going to be dangerous. But I say this without a doubt; should we succeed it will not cause any harm to the reputation of the Marcoli family.”