1634- the Galileo Affair

by Eric Flint

  "You think it a cheat?" If Mazzare did not know better, he would swear that the poker face of His Holiness Urban VIII, Vicar of Christ and head of the Roman Catholic Church, concealed a broad grin.

  Somehow that was comforting. "Perhaps I would not use that word," said Mazzare, feeling the tension drain out of him. "But perhaps this has more of the character of the commedia than the congregation think?"

  "A dumb-show?" Now the pope was definitely grinning. "Not without purpose, though."

  "Does His Holiness care to make that purpose known?"

  "Ah, perhaps later. For now, my blessing, my son." Urban raised his hand, and spoke the Latin words of benediction.

  Mazzare crossed himself in response, and his ultimate superior—realizing that he genuinely thought of him that way was a great comfort—left the room. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Jones had his arm partly raised. Had he been about to forget and cross himself as well? Somehow Mazzare found the idea hilarious.

  "I think your nerves just went away," muttered Jones, with an expression that said his were still out in force.

  Mazzare just grinned.

  "Come on, Larry, you know more than you're letting on." Jones's face was a study. Preacher, growing tetchy.

  "I know exactly what you do. I may reach different conclusions from it than you do, but I'm reasoning from the same premises." Mazzare hummed softly beneath his breath. Listening to himself, he realized it was the theme from, of all things, The Magnificent Seven. What that had to do with orbital mechanics or theology—or the price of fish, for that matter—he had no idea.

  * * *

  "Is this going to go on much longer?" Gerry hissed in Frank's ear.

  Frank tried telepathy. Shutupshutupshutupshutup. We'rerightdownfrontyoumoron. Shutupshutupshutup.

  It didn't work. "Only we need to do something or get off the pot, you know?"

  Frank half turned and whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "Let's just wait, okay? We already agreed we can't make our break until the end of the trial, when there's a crowd leaving anyway. We get in there, drag him back, and use the cover of the crowd to get out. If they can't shoot and they can't shut the doors, we got a much better chance."

  "Yeah, but I don't understand a word and he could be reading out a death sentence for all I know." Frank caught the undertone in Gerry's voice that said he was right on the edge.

  Of course, there was an undertone from Marius that said he was well and truly over that edge, but it wasn't a voice undertone. More of a warm, ripe, smell. He hadn't just had one bodily accident—now he was farting loudly every thirty seconds or so as well. Frank could see where Gerry's patience might be wearing a little thin. The smell of gunpowder spilt down the inside of Marius' tabard wasn't helping matters any. If anyone caught on to that, they were really in the soup. In a way, it was a mercy he'd wet himself; it kept the smell of gunpowder faint and disguised, which Frank thought only someone standing right next to Marius could detect.

  Frank considered that for a few seconds, and had a moment of utter horror. How have I gotten myself into a situation where I'm glad I'm standing in a puddle of piss?

  "Frank," Gerry hissed again, and then: "Knock it off, Ron!"

  At least one other person back there was thinking straight, Frank realized with relief. From the sound of things, Ron had elbowed his brother in the ribs. He couldn't follow the hissing whispers behind him, but from the sound of things it was pretty intense and Ron was getting the upper hand in the game of Shut Gerry Up Right Now.

  And then the priest who was droning on came to a halt. There was a little polite applause, mostly from the old guys who were sitting up by the altar, and everything went silent.

  The short fat young guy who'd kicked things off got up again. Before he spoke, he glared to his right where Lennox and Heinzerling were sitting. Then he paused and began to speak in the unmistakable manner of a man announcing the next act. And Frank realized he recognized two names in all that Latin:

  One, the name of the town he had grown up in, and the other . . .

  Surely not! Here?

  * * *

  Heinzerling wondered what to do now. There was a definite French agent with the Stone boys, and the big Jesuit needed no reminding that the phrase agent provocateur was seldom translated from its original language whenever it was used. Heinzerling's own parish priest was about to speak at the trial that that agent had come to, probably with the American boys as his unwitting dupes. What had seemed to be nothing worse than adolescent idiot enthusiasm now had a far more sinister flavor. Whatever the role of Ducos, the fact remained that everything was happening in the presence of Grantville's Catholic priest; an accredited ambassador of the United States of Europe; a commissioned officer of the same nation—and any outrage would be committed by three of its citizens.

  Right in the home church of the Roman Inquisition, just to make it all perfect.

  After chewing on the situation, Heinzerling decided it was comforting. From the absolute bottom of the Pit, after all, the only way is up.

  * * *

  Mazzare found his nerves returning as he mounted the steps to the pulpit. The congregation was enormous; he had never seen St. Mary's so packed, other than on Christmas Eve at midnight mass. He took a moment to arrange his notes on the lectern, and without thinking, crossed himself. On a whim, he decided to pretend he meant to do that, and folded his hands and bowed his head. He couldn't think of any prayer that suited, other than Please, Lord, don't let me mess this up, which at least had the virtues of simplicity and sincerity.

  As he stood, he took in the congregation, and immediately wished he hadn't. In front of the pulpit, ranged on either side of the nave, were the choirstall-seats for the quality. And right at the front of those seats were Heinzerling and Lennox. Which meant—

  Yes, there they were. The Stone boys had reached Rome and clearly had plans in relation to Galileo that . . . Mazzare shuddered, and realized that he didn't want to think about that. Please, let it be harmless. Let them be discouraged.

  Could he draw attention to—? No, he looked down at Heinzerling. His curate was making motions with his hands that said go on, go on.

  Mazzare realized his knees were trembling, but his hands and face felt perfectly steady. He took a deep breath.

  "Brethren in Christ, most learned fathers of the Holy Office," he began.

  Chapter 49

  Mazzare stepped down from the pulpit, on unsteady legs. Somewhere, behind him, he could hear a murmur. Some of the crowd must have understood some of what he'd said, but he couldn't read their reaction from the murmurs. Throughout there had been virtually no reaction from anyone, except Galileo, who had hunched in on himself more and more as Mazzare had spoken, and then toward the end sat up straighter, as if remembering where he was and trying to show—what, exactly? Had it been a response to something Mazzare had been saying?

  He couldn't remember much of it. Virtually nothing, in fact. How different from an ordinary sermon! When the audience was familiar, the material well tried, the consequences only a little more of Scripture explained to a congregation who had just heard it, speaking to a crowd was easy. When the audience included princes of his Church, the material in a language not his own and the consequences—

  He balked from the thought. What if the gap in his memory covered a string of incoherent babble? He looked down at the notes in his hand. He hadn't turned more than the first page, which was purely introductory material. From then on he'd been extemporizing; expounding on the spot based on nothing more, really, than an epiphany that had come to him only that very morning.

  A friendly face. "Simon—how?" He couldn't get more control than that of his mouth.

  "You killed 'em, Larry." Jones's voice was deadpan, but his face was grinning from ear to ear. "Couldn't follow but one word in three, but after the first couple of minutes, you really seemed to get hold of it and made 'em listen, by God!" He reached round to slap Mazzare on the back.

>   Mazzare felt a cold shiver run down his back. Still no idea what he'd really said. He looked across to the sanctuary. No movement there, except for cardinals leaning over to mutter things to each other and to dart glances in his direction. What are they thinking? Cardinal Barberini, the younger one, wasn't moving yet.

  "Please, do you speak German?" Mazzare felt dizzy as he whipped his head around. It was Scheiner.

  "Yes, of course, can I help you?" Mazzare mouthed the pleasantry, but he couldn't imagine what to say of any substance.

  "I simply wish to say that that was very well said. My own efforts will be in the shade now, I think." The Jesuit smiled thinly, and with a little sadness as well. "Your exegesis on the subject of humility was, I think, very well taken."

  "On the what?" The words didn't seem to register.

  "On humility, Father Mazzare. You were aware that His Holiness was present?" The smile was still there, still a little sad; but now, Mazzare realized, with a little warmth as well.

  "Ah, yes. He spoke to me while you were at the podium."

  Scheiner nodded. "It always pays to use arguments that you know will go over well, yes?"

  "I'm sorry, I don't follow you." Mazzare felt like his skull was stuffed with cotton, his mouth dry and leathery. "Please, forgive me, I need to sit down."

  "No, I understand," Scheiner said. "His Holiness grounded much of his opposition to the Copernican hypothesis on the principle of humility, that we should not pretend to know all that God has wrought in the world and in the heavens. To turn that around to show that we must therefore not presume that we have any perfect understanding of what is in Scripture, that any word is the final word, was excellent. I suspect that will be a point of quite vital dispute for some years to come."

  "Dispute which I shall be glad to hear before making my final pronouncement." Again, the pope surprised Mazzare with his presence. Distantly, Mazzare could hear Barberini addressing the congregation. "Most eloquent, Padre. I must speak with you later; my secretary"—he gestured to a youngish priest at his elbow—"will make the arrangements. We have much to discuss, little of it to do with natural philosophy. My purpose today was to hear you defend Galileo and take your measure."

  Urban smiled, a bit slyly. "Galileo would approve. I made an experiment. I am pleased with the results, and there is therefore a service which you may perform for me. I shall tell you later. For now, I will address this Commission, and the congregation present."

  With that, he mounted the steps to the side of the sacristy, and walked across to his nephew, the cardinal.

  "Can he do that?" It was Jones.

  "Do what, Simon?"

  "Just order you about like that?" Jones was scowling.

  "Well, he is the pope." Mazzare smiled. "And I am a Catholic priest."

  "Yes, but—"

  "He can," said Scheiner, in German. "And after today, I think he must."

  "Thought you didn't speak English?" Jones shot back.

  "Not well, and I prefer German or Latin. Herr Mazzare," he said, turning to his fellow Catholic, "I think perhaps you may find yourself advanced in the Church. Or I miss my surmise—but His Holiness is about to speak."

  * * *

  Heinzerling sat, stunned. He knew Mazzare could talk, had lived with him for nearly two years now. He knew that, impassioned as he so rarely was, he could speak with fire and power. That had been something else again. To imagine that the truth of the Heavens as it may be seen, and the truth of Scripture as it may be understood, should contradict each other . . . Where Mazzare had acquired the knack of such excellent epigrams was beyond Heinzerling. It made him regret abandoning his studies after he left the seminary.

  And yet, there remained Galileo. The speech had seemed to put some spirit back into the old man, but he remained amid his inquisitors, still a prisoner, nothing yet resolved. After a short time, Barberini rose again, and began to speak further.

  Inconsequential. Heinzerling ignored it. If proceedings were about to end, now would be the time for the Stone boys to do something stupid. No, he corrected himself, something even stupider.

  He watched them carefully. They looked alert. They looked ready. They looked—eager. Some of them must have realized that the quality in the seats where he and Lennox had gotten themselves put would be leaving first, and so they would have a clear run. Would they realize that that would leave the two adults with the initiative to act first? Would they try and pre-empt the final go in peace?

  There was a stir in the congregation. Heinzerling looked around.

  "Who's yon laddie?" Lennox murmured.

  Heinzerling recognized him only by his white soutane. Only one cleric wore that . . .

  "The pope," he said.

  A sharp intake of breath from Lennox. The principal fiend in the demonology of his own religion. "Aye? He's a man for a' that, is he not?"

  "Ja." There really was no other answer Heinzerling could give. He knew how it was with some of these Calvinists. They heard that the pope was the Antichrist from the day they were born. Most of them, naturally, would little expect ever to be in Rome, let alone in the same room as the Beast of Revelation.

  Heinzerling sighed. "Please do not call him any bad names, Captain Lennox."

  "Wouldnae dream o' it," said Lennox. "E'en the de'il gets his due, and I'll be polite, richt enough."

  Heinzerling realized he'd been had. He didn't have to turn around. Lennox's grin over his shoulder could be felt.

  The congregation fell silent as the pope raised his arms for silence.

  * * *

  "Who's that?" whispered Gerry.

  "Dunno," said Frank.

  "Il Papa," breathed Marius.

  Up on what Frank kept thinking of as the stage, the guy in white . . .

  "Hold on. Did you say that was the pope?"

  "Yes," said Marius, his eyes bright and intent.

  "The actual pope? Here?" Frank couldn't believe it. He'd only ever seen one pope, and that was on TV. This was the actual pope, right here in the room with him! "Cool."

  "Yes," said Marius. Something about his tone worried Frank for a reason he couldn't quite put his finger on.

  But the pope—the actual pope! right here!—was raising his hands like he was a rock star or something, and people were going quiet.

  "Urbi et orbi," he said, and Frank lost him right there. Another speech in Latin. Couldn't these guys do something in one of the three languages he did know? There was a long pause.

  "Eppur se muove." That got a big reaction, but Frank couldn't understand why.

  And then Marius drew out his pistol, shoved his way through the row of people in front of him, leveled the pistol at the pope, screamed, "Information wants to be liberated!" and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Heinzerling never saw how Lennox managed it, but he seemed to spring out of his seat like a child's toy and bounce out of the pew and into the aisle. The pistol that the man standing beside Frank Stone had produced was a flintlock of some sort, which meant it was manufactured in the USE. While Heinzerling's brain was still wincing from that and searching for the logic of the bizarre battle-cry, Lennox was leaping into the line of—

  —nothing. The man with the pistol looked down at it, then more closely at his lock, and then colored bright red. Heinzerling noticed, in the clarity that such moments produce, that he seemed to have wet himself.

  Lennox landed on his side. He'd loosened the strap of the fancy helmet earlier, once they'd taken their seats in the church. The helmet fell off, bounced oddly because of its shape, and rolled right in front of Frank. The reason it could do that was because the row of people who'd been standing in front of the Stone and Marcoli boys had frantically parted to the side.

  The young idiots were now the center of attention of—

  The whole world, it seemed.

  Heinzerling's eyes quickly ranged about. Not counting Lennox, who was now scrambling back onto his feet, there were expressions of horror on every face he
could see.

  Including, thank God, the Stone and Marcoli boys themselves.

  So, they couldn't have known—but would it save them?

  * * *

  Silence. Frank felt freezing cold all over, as the sweat started from his skin. Never had he felt so thankful for doing anything as for shaking the primer out of Marius' gun. What to say? What to do now?

  Gerry supplied the lack. "You jackass!" he hollered, charging forward and drawing his own pistol. "You just fucking shot at the POPE!" By the time Marius looked up from his own gun, Gerry was standing in front of him and had the barrel of his pistol pressed into Marius' throat.

  Everyone else in the church still seemed frozen. Frank hoped that the pause was because no one believed what they were seeing, and not because a horde of hidden marksmen were taking careful aim.

  And then Frank saw two other guns, sliding forward between Ron and the two Marcoli brothers standing at his side. Looking up, he saw the faces of Ducos and his Roman Committee member.

  It all came to him, then, in a flash of understanding. Not any of the details, just the essence of the matter.

  He suckered us.

  There was no way Frank could get his pistol out in time, he realized. "Ron! Heads up!" Frank flipped the helmet with his foot, just enough to catch it on his instep—if he tried actually kicking the damn thing he'd break his bones—and flung it at the pistols. Ron looked up just in time to duck.

  The helmet missed everybody, but it came close enough to Ducos' Roman confederate to throw off his aim. His pistol fired high, the bullet whanging somewhere above.

  Ducos, alas, never even flinched. He took a step forward, thrusting Fabrizio aside, and drew a bead on the pope. With a feeling of complete dismay, Frank was sure that Ducos was a crack shot on top of everything else.

  Marius grappled with Gerry. Gerry's gun went off, still stuck into Marius' throat. It looked like he'd almost been decapitated. The blood sprayed everywhere, some of it splattering into Frank's face.