Grantville Gazette, Volume I

by Eric Flint

  They parted with many expressions of good wishes. Out went the earnest questioner, and the bookseller watched him walk off.

  Turning back into the store, he caught sight of us, and looked at us quizzically. No doubt he wondered what particular Anglic madness we were afflicted with.

  "Whales!" I gasped, and started laughing. The others quickly joined in.

  "So tell me, my good man, does the 'good doctor' exist?"

  "No, sir."

  "Aren't you worried that fellow will come back, and complain?"

  "No, sir. The fountain is many blocks away. When he reaches it, he must decide which right to make, because there are several. Once he turns, he must decide what counts as a left. Only a true street, or does an alley signify? He will wander harmlessly through the streets of Florence. Perhaps he will even find a whale market."

  * * *

  At the inn that night, William had a bit of a surprise. You will understand, after I tell you about the incident, that I did not observe it, nor did I hear about it from William directly.

  William had gone up the stairs, guided by the chambermaid. He had left his own journal—free of any notes on whales, may I add—at the table, and I sent Geoffrey up with it, to return it to him.

  When Geoffrey was nearly at his room, he distinctly heard the chambermaid tell William, "I can give you a kiss, to help you sleep better."

  Instead of interrupting this tête-à-tête, as would have been proper, Geoffrey stopped in his tracks to eavesdrop.

  The wench continued, "Or I can give you something more, so you don't sleep much at all."

  William fled back to the common room, and I can vouch for the fact that there was plenty of color in his cheeks. When I asked him about it, he just mumbled.

  An hour later, I personally escorted William up to his bedchamber, still wondering what exactly had happened. The room was empty by then, that I know.

  I pried the story out of Geoffrey, eventually, but decided not to castigate William about it since, after all, no harm was done.

  * * *

  The village of Arcetri lay less than half an hour's walk from the walls of Florence. Of course, it would have been beneath William's dignity as an English peer to arrive at Galileo's doors with Tuscan mud on his shoes. So we rode over.

  Galileo's villa was known locally as Il Gioiello, "the jewel." The scientist's housekeeper, La Piera, met us at the door and explained that Galileo was napping. She offered to give us a tour of the property; we gladly accepted. The high point was when we stood in the garden to the south of the house. We admired Galileo's fruit trees, and the views of the Tuscan hills in the distance, but all too soon the fierce tramontana, the north wind, forced us indoors. I tipped La Piera, and she went off to look for her master.

  By this point Galileo was up and about, and we were ushered into his bedroom-cum-study. Galileo was seated at his desk. On his right, there was an armillary sphere, and his bed. Two maps hung on the wall. His desk faced the window, whose shutters were open to allow the winter sun to warm the room as best it could. To the left of the window was a bust of Cosimo the Second, and below it, on a stand, one of his famous telescopes.

  Galileo looked up. "I write small, to avoid wasting paper, and then I have trouble reading my own notes. My eyesight seems to be getting worse and worse as the years go on." He picked up a letter.

  "You are Mister Hobbes? I read here that you are acquainted with the Reverend Father Marin Marsenne, of the Order of the Minims."

  "Yes," I said. "Dottore, may I present to you William Cavendish, the Earl of Devonshire, my pupil." William inclined his head. "Perhaps you know his uncle, Sir Charles Cavendish, the mathematician." It was Galileo's turn to nod.

  "Please, be seated, both of you. You are too tall to remain standing, Mister Hobbes. It strains my neck for me to look up at you." I am about six feet tall.

  "So, Mister Hobbes, what is your interest in my work?" Galileo asked.

  "A philosophical interest, in your theories of motion. I believe that if nothing is added to an entity, and nothing is taken, it remains in the same state. Hence, all change is the result of motion, of the effect of some agent upon the subject."

  "Indeed," said Galileo. "And once an object is in motion, it will tend to remain in motion, until halted by some other agent. Thus, objects tend to resist a change in motion."

  Galileo turned to William. "Young man, have you studied natural philosophy?"

  "Most illustrious sir, I have studied Latin, Italian, French, history, rhetoric, logic, astronomy and geometry with Mister Hobbes."

  "Astronomy, you say? Well, when the wind settles down, we can go out in the courtyard and see what we can spy with my telescope. Would that appeal to you, young lord?" William thanked him profusely.

  "Is Mister Hobbes your only teacher?"

  "In Paris I attended an Academy in the basement of the Louvre. I took lessons in riding, fencing, dancing, singing, drawing, tennis, and playing the lute."

  "The lute!" exclaimed Galileo. "That is my instrument, too." He raised his voice. "Giuseppe, fetch my lute. And Michelangelo's old one." This was a reference to Michelangelo Galilei, Galileo's brother.

  "What about you, Mister Hobbes, are you a musician?"

  "I play viol and flute, Dottore. But only for my own amusement."

  "I am sorry I cannot provide those instruments." Galileo spread his hands in apology.

  The servant boy appeared a few minutes later, with two lutes. "Thank you, Geppo. That will be all." Galileo handed one lute to William. Following Galileo's example, William tuned his instrument.

  Galileo invited him to play first. William played an English tune, one popular at court. Galileo complimented him. "Now it is my turn."

  It was clear from the first few bars that Galileo was a skilled musician, although his fingers were slowed by age. After he finished the piece, he set the lute down, and sighed.

  "That was my baby brother Michelangelo's 'Toccata.' He composed it for the Archduke Maximilian. Michelangelo died in 1631, of the plague. May his soul rest in peace."

  "Amen," we replied.

  Galileo rose, and took William's arm. I picked up the telescope, and we all went out onto the veranda.

  It was, of course, still daylight. With Galileo's guidance, we set up the telescope in such a manner that it would project an image on a white board. "In this way," Galileo said, "I can observe the sun even when it is too bright to look upon—which is most of the time."

  After pointing the telescope in the correct direction, William held the board behind the eyepiece.

  "About a foot away is best. Mind you don't tilt the board away from the axis of the scope—the image should be circular. Yes, that's it." We could see the projected disk of the sun. Magnificent!

  "Now, look for sunspots." We had no trouble finding them.

  "How wonderful!" William said. "Is this system of projection another of your inventions?"

  "Oh, no. This was conceived by my beloved pupil, Benedetto Castelli."

  I thought it best to demonstrate that I was not ignorant of Galileo's writings on this subject. "I have read of this device in your History and Demonstrations Concerning Sunspots and their Phenomena."

  "Then you know that its importance is not just that it protects my eyesight, but also that it allows me to record, on this very paper, the exact locations of the spots. And I can make such records every day that the clouds permit me to see the sun.

  "It was in this way that I determined that it took the sunspots a little more than fourteen days to traverse the entire solar disk. It follows that the sun revolves, and that the sunspots are on its surface."

  We then turned the telescope toward terrestrial targets; the Convent of San Matteo where Galileo's daughter was a nun; the River Arno, and the great city of Florence. All too soon, it was time to retire inside.

  "So, Mister Hobbes, we didn't really finish our discussion of motion. How do you intend to develop your thesis?"

  "First, to s
how that sensation is the result of motion. The clapper has no sound in it, just motion, and it makes motion in the bell. The air has motion, but not sound. And the air causes motion in the brain, and it is that motion which we call hearing.

  "In like manner, I will explain sight, and touch, and the feeling of the heat of a fire."

  "Interesting," Galileo said. "You will, of course, want to devise experiments to prove your point."

  Experiments, bah. But one must be polite, so I didn't pick a fight. "Ultimately, my goal is to extend the theory of motion to the actions of men upon each other, that which we call politics."

  "Ah, politics. I have gotten into enough trouble discussing religion, I cannot afford to talk about politics as well."

  At that point, La Piera came into the salon. "Dottore, why aren't you in bed?"

  "I feel fine."

  "Have you forgotten? The duke's physicians are supposed to be here within the hour. So that they can examine you, and attest that you are too sick to travel to Rome to appear before the Inquisition."

  Galileo winced. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I must bury myself under the covers, and you had best be going. The duke is on my side, but appearances must be maintained." Galileo disappeared into his bedchamber, and let off a trial moan or two.

  As we filed out the door, we could hear Galileo calling, "Where is my hot water bottle?"

  * * *

  We rode back to Florence, and decided to have our supper out on the veranda.

  "So, Mister Hobbes, are you going to do those experiments? Can I help?"

  "William, William," I said. "There is more than one path to knowledge. Experimentation is a last resort, to be adopted when one cannot reach a conclusion by pure reason. It is better to proceed, wherever possible, by geometrical constructions.

  "Have I told you about poor Francis Bacon?"

  "No, Mister Hobbes."

  "I was his private secretary before I joined the Cavendish household. I took dictation, helped him translate his vernacular writings into Latin, and so forth. Besides being Chancellor, he was a great experimenter.

  "Well, in 1626, I think it was in March, he was riding in a coach, and suddenly he decided that it was a good time, the weather being so cold, to test his theory that cold would delay the decomposition of flesh. 'Stop the coach,' cried he, when it entered one of the market squares. Out he hopped, and bought a chicken. Then, still a-shiver, he cut it open and stuffed it with snow. And do you know what happened?"

  I didn't wait for William to answer. "He developed a bad cough, took to his bed, and died."

  William sat in silence for a moment. "Whether Bacon had died or not, his experiment still settled the issue, didn't it? And would Galileo have discovered the moons of Jupiter, or the phases of Venus, by pure reason?" He looked at me expectantly.

  "And look where Galileo is now—hiding under his covers, in the hope that the Inquisition will relent and leave him in peace," I replied.

  "Would you like some more chicken?"

  * * *

  William went up to his room to do his lessons, and Geoffrey sat down beside me.

  "English fellow was talking to us. Us servants, I mean."

  "Are you sure he was English?"

  "Spoke like a native, sir."

  "And what did we want to know?"

  "Who the young lord was, and why was he in Florence, and where else was he going. And 'may I buy you fine lads a drink?'"

  It was customary for the British consuls in foreign cities to keep tabs on the movements of English nobleman. Not as much as it had been in the days of Queen Elizabeth, but not unheard of even today. And I had reason to think that King Charles might have sent instructions to step up such surveillance.

  "And what did you fine lads tell him?"

  "Oh, it's just a sightseeing trip, entertainment for the idle rich, under the guise of education."

  "And that was all?"

  "No. When we said that we were going to Germany, he asked if we had ever heard of a place called Grantville. In Thuringia. No, I said, we were going to Germany, all right, but just to visit a few towns and then come home by way of Hamburg."

  "And do you think he believed you?"

  "Well, I did let on that I thought that you, begging your pardon, Mister Hobbes, had a sweetie in Nürnberg, and that we were swinging through the Germanies so that you could have a rendezvous at your employer's expense."

  "Is that so?" I didn't know whether to be aghast at his presumption or delighted by his ingenuity.

  "I kinda thought that if they were looking for a baser motive than education, it was best to volunteer one that wasn't, uh, political. There's all sorts of talk about Grantville, y'know."

  "All sorts. Thank you, Geoffrey." And I tipped him heavily, of course.

  Papal States border post

  January, 1633

  Although the marriage of King Charles to the Catholic Henrietta Maria in 1625 had considerably eased relations between England and the Vatican, the inquisitors were still capricious in their examination of Englishmen.

  Consequently, I gave William and the servants a severe lecture before we saddled up for the ride to Rome. "Don't argue about religion; in particular, do not defend the Church of England, the Lutherans, or the Calvinists."

  As I said this, I kept my eye on Samuel. Back home, he was always railing about papist this and papist that. Right on cue, he protested my instruction.

  "But sir, it is one thing not to start an argument about religion, but must I feign allegiance to the Harlot of Rome?"

  I put him in his place, of course. "I expect you to protect the interests of your master, the earl. Don't pretend to be a Roman Catholic unless it is absolutely necessary to avoid arrest, but don't say anything in favor of the Anglican Church. Or any other faith.

  "Oh, and don't give scandal in their churches. If you cannot bear the idolatry, remain outside."

  Of course, it was easy for me to give such advice. My views of God and religion would give offense to everyone.

  * * *

  Despite my little precaution, I couldn't help but be nervous when, at the border, we were summoned before the local office of the Inquisition. After all, we were Protestants in the heartland of Catholicism.

  "Next!" said the sergeant.

  The Dominican friar, the representative of the Inquisition at this border post, closely examined us. Dressed in black, he looked like a large crow. One with a case of dyspepsia.

  "What is your country?"

  I answered for the entire party. "England."

  "What are the names and stations of all of the members of your party?"

  "This is William Cavendish, Earl of Devonshire and Baron of Hardwicke." Always good to let the inquisitors know that they are dealing with someone of high rank. "I am his tutor, Mister Thomas Hobbes, a graduate of Oxford. We are accompanied by his servants, Patrick McDonnell, Samuel Brown, and Geoffrey Watson."

  "Are you all Christians?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you all Catholics?"

  "Yes." It was an honest answer, since we Anglicans considered ourselves to be the true Catholics. I had warned our little company to expect this question, and my stock reply. I warned Samuel twice.

  "What is your business in Rome?"

  "To see the sights."

  "Where are you going after you are finished in Rome?"

  "Naples, to see Mount Vesuvius."

  "Are you carrying any books which are on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum?"

  "No, Holy Father."

  The inquisitor conferred with the sergeant. "You are free to go."

  Rome

  February, 1633

  William lunged, delivering the coup de grace to a phantom opponent.

  I shook my head. "Lord Devonshire. Have you been keeping your journal up-to-date?"

  William shook his head like a man trying to rouse himself from sleep. "My journal?"

  "You heard me, Milord. Your lady mother expects to see proof that you have been obs
ervant. As I have told you before, you must record the history, geography, climate, wildlife, trade, agriculture, minerals, food, clothing, customs, art, laws, politics, and fortifications of each land we pass through."

  William gave me a sheepish look. "Not since we left Florence."

  "I have to go out and run some errands. This would be a good time to set down in your journal a description of what you have seen in Rome so far. You may go outside once you are done, but don't go alone."

  * * *

  I returned to our apartment and found classical bric-a-brac all over the place. Vases, bronzes, tablets, and busts galore. There was barely room to walk without tripping over an ancient Roman or two.

  "Look what I bought!" William chortled.

  "I am looking."

  "I went off to the old Forum. It's market day there, and as I was walking about, I ran into this Englishman. We got to talking, I told him who I was, and he said that he had been a friend of my father, God rest his soul.

  "Well, it turned out that his guide, this Italian fellow, was from this old family, that could trace its descent all the way back to old Julius Caesar, and they had all this old Roman stuff that had been in their family for generations. And because I was a fellow Englishman, and because he knew my father, they were willing to let me in on the chance to buy it!"

  "How extraordinarily generous of them," I said. I wondered whether any of the sculptures were more than a year old; they had been somewhat indifferently "aged."

  "Patrick, Geoffrey, you were supposed to keep his lordship out of trouble."

  "There was no trouble, sir, no trouble at all. Lord's expected to shop when he's in foreign parts."

  "What's wrong?" William said.

  "Lord Devonshire, how many splinters of the True Cross are there?"

  William blinked. "I don't know. A hundred?"

  "Judging from the number which have been sold, enough for a thousand crosses!" I shook my head. "Lord Devonshire, you have great wealth and people will try to take advantage of you. Here in Rome, they have been manufacturing fakes for over a thousand years."