by Eric Flint
"Monsignor Mazarini. I wish you to undertake an investigation of this entire bizarre affair. Find out the truth, and then report to me. Alone."
"Yes, Your Holiness."
* * *
The pope spoke loudly enough for Mazzare and Jones to hear him, where they knelt beside Lennox. The Scot cavalryman was doing much better, now that Heinzerling had removed the cuirass. The Jesuit, who was something of jack-of-all-trades, included a certain degree of medical knowledge in his repertoire. He told Lennox he was pretty sure he'd suffered nothing worse than a couple of broken ribs.
"In short, less in the way of damage than I inflicted upon you myself, that time of our theological dispute."
"Ha!" snorted Lennox. "And I won that fight, too."
Heinzerling was on the verge of issuing a retort, when he heard the pope's informal proclamation. He twisted his head around.
"Ah. What is that handy American expression of yours?"
Mazzare and Jones considered. " 'The fix is in,' " suggested Jones.
"Yes. That one."
Chapter 51
In his private apartments, Urban VIII wore clothing that was far more comfortable than his formal robes. Considerably lighter, too, in the summertime. That was fortunate, he reflected—or he might well have broken his shoulders heaving them up under that weight of office.
"Youthful high spirits?" He managed to choke that much out before bursting into another round of laughter. The pope wondered if he might die from the strain of trying to remain reasonably pontifical when his boyish instincts were straining to slap a knee.
Possible, possible, indeed possible—seeing as God was clearly in a whimsical mood these past few years. First, the miracle of the Ring of Fire. Then, the miracle of a pope saved by a Calvinist. Third . . .
Why not? In private, Urban had studied a copy of one of the astronomy texts purloined from the Congden Library. Popes had died of apoplexy in the past. To have one die of sheer amusement in this day and age would be a fitting reminder by the God who created the improbable moons of Jupiter that men risked His irony when they mimicked His grandeur with mortal . . .
Call it pomposity, he decided. He even considered for a moment whether he should rescind his decree that cardinals be titled "Your Eminence" and be given diplomatic precedence over all but crowned monarchs.
It was not a long moment. Was there anything in the world as pompous as a secular prince? Do them good to be humbled a bit.
Urban VIII wiped the tears from his eyes. When he could look through them again, he saw that Monsignor Mazarini seemed to be enjoying this as well.
"So. 'Youthful high spirits.' Out of idle curiosity, Monsignor, I wonder what label you would apply to Alaric's sack of Rome? 'Gothic exuberance'?"
Mazarini smiled, but shook his head. "Oh, no. A most barbarous deed, that. Surely not equivalent to this." For a moment, the legate was unwontedly serious. "In truth, Your Holiness, the boys may not be precisely innocent. But I have interviewed them all at great length, these past few days, and I can assure you they are quite the innocents."
Urban did not doubt it himself, actually. With his own eyes, he had seen the youngest of them burst into tears after killing—with no intent to do so, Urban was quite certain—the simpleton who had made the first attempt on his life. And seen his older brother's attempt to comfort him. Neither, the impulse of an assassin. The pope did not think that even his dullest inquisitor would think so.
Hard to be sure, of course. There were some very dull men employed by the Holy Office.
Be that as it may, Urban had chosen another sort of man to investigate this matter. And was pleased enough at the result. "Basta," he said softly. "There is sufficient wickedness in the world that we do not have to invent it."
Mazarini's nod was more in the way of a bow. "My thoughts exactly, Your Holiness."
"Ha!" This time, the pope did slap his knee, since he felt himself under sufficient control to make it simply the gesture of a decisive man. "Monsignor, I don't doubt that was one of your thoughts. Among perhaps . . . a hundred?"
He moved on, not really sure he wanted to hear the answer. Mazarini was a bit frightening, in some respects. "Obviously you do not propose that explanation for the public. Please explain, then, how you do propose to handle the matter."
Mazarini explained. At length. To his surety, the pope counted at least thirty-eight distinct thoughts. And was just as sure he'd missed as many more.
A bit frightening, yes. On the other hand, so was the father-general of the Jesuits. Loyalty was the key. Vitelleschi's loyalties were simple, fixed by an oath; Mazarini's, more complex, and not yet fixed at all. But what mattered, in the end, was that both were men capable of great loyalties. For the moment, with Mazarini, the depth was what counted. The direction of the current could be ascertained—perhaps channeled; perhaps not—at a later time.
"Very well. We will do it as you propose. Is everyone assembled?"
"Yes, Your Holiness."
"A moment then—well, a bit more than that, I'm afraid—while I assume my robes and regalia. Await me with the others, Monsignor."
Mazarini bowed and left.
Urban spent more time than usual having himself pontificated, as he always privately thought of the lengthy process his servants went through to prepare him properly for public occasions. He needed that time, to be sure he had his amusement under control.
* * *
Heinzerling was having a very hard time himself, some time later, keeping that control. Mostly, because he was so vastly entertained by Mazarini's uncanny ability to utter the most preposterous statements with a perfectly straight face. Mazarini was the best card player Heinzerling had ever met.
"—clearly did not intend any misprision, whatever delusions they might have been under." Mazarini clasped his hands behind his back and rocked up on his toes. "They had no fixed plan of rescue, their preparations for flight were evidently hopeless even to the meanest wit—their means of escape left in the hands of a young girl, the betrothed of one of them and sister to two others, hardly a worthy hand in any desperate business—and they had taken almost no account of the fact that the Swiss guard was out in force and that Your Holiness disposes of sufficient cavalry to run them to ground within a day, if not mere hours."
"And the fact that I was shot at?"
"Entirely the work of a French agent, Your Holiness. A man named Michel Ducos, known to me as an agent of the comte d'Avaux. Although I hasten to add that the man was not operating within his orders. First, because I know Seigneur le Comte to be a pious man most unlikely to order Your Holiness harmed. Second, because the one confederate of his we captured—primarily due to the quick actions of Ron Stone, I might point out—has confessed that both he and Ducos were members of a secret organization of Protestant assassins. Ducos' plans were not known to any of the persons now present."
The last was said very firmly. So firmly, indeed, that not a one of the sceptical faces observing the proceedings was moved to speak. Perhaps, Heinzerling admitted, because they thought the sceptical expressions spoke well enough for themselves.
But Mazarini was unfazed, as throughout. "The proof of it was evident to any who witnessed the events." The monsignor waved in the direction of the Stone and Marcoli youngsters, standing to one side under the close watch of the Swiss guards. "I commend to Your Holiness the quick action of young Frank Stone, which undoubtedly prevented any real harm. Indeed, even before then, Signor Stone expressly drew the priming from the first weapon to fire at Your Holiness, little suspecting that he was thereby disarming an assassin. He simply wished to avoid any possible accident."
That drew a little round of choking noises—one of them coming from Heinzerling himself. Mazarini had neatly glided over the issue of why anyone had brought a pistol to the church which needed to be disarmed in the first place. But, again, no voice was raised in open opposition. None of the clerics in that room except Mazarini, Mazarre, and Heinzerling had ever seen an actual s
teamroller, but they understood the basic principle. They certainly understood the likely fate of anyone who thought to oppose it directly.
The pope nodded. "So it was this Ducos who was plotting against me?"
"Indeed, Your Holiness. He was last seen escaping by boat down the Tiber. I understand that fast horses have been dispatched to carry warning of him to any ship that might take him from Ostia, but I have no great hope of his capture. He is a cunning and resourceful devil, Your Holiness."
"Then there is no case to answer in their complicity in attempting to murder me?"
"None whatsoever."
"And the charge of attempting misprision of an Inquisition prisoner?" The pope had an eyebrow raised, and almost, to Heinzerling, seemed to be stifling a grin.
"I am ahead of Your Holiness," Mazarini said, with a most respectful nod. "I am given to understand that Dottor Galileo was never actually a prisoner, and furthermore today's proceedings were not, lawfully, those of the Holy Office?"
"Indeed, both matters are the case, yes." The pope's face was that of a superb card player himself.
Mazarini spread his hands wide. "Then there is no need for diplomatic upset, Your Holiness. No need at all! What we have here is a case of disrespectful behavior in church. Scandalous, it is true, but not calling for the condign punishments of a misprision or of an assassination. After all, these poor duped boys could hardly have known of the plottings of a skilled secret agent and assassin. And at considerable personal risk they aided in foiling him."
His Holiness frowned. "Doubtless there will be fines to pay?"
"Most condign fines, Your Holiness," Mazarini confirmed.
"And damages?"
"Damages. Some statuary was destroyed, and there are bullet holes, Your Holiness." Mazarini's moustaches twitched.
"Aye, an' near wan in ma ain hide," Lennox muttered from the seat he had been permitted to take on account of his injuries. He had his chest strapped up under his uniform tunic and was wearing a sling, and a bandage around his head. Rather more than his injuries merited, in Heinzerling's opinion, but it wasn't for him to speak out about how the miserable old Protestant cavalryman was hamming it up.
Heinzerling looked across at the audience for this particular play. A perfect picture: Hope of Survival, Fear of Ruin.
"Hmm. I think," said the pope, "in the interests of diplomatic peace and quiet we should simply leave it at that. However, the subject of damages remains open."
"If Your Holiness will indulge me," said Mazzare, speaking for the first time at this meeting, "a consular loan from the USE embassy will be available to the boys to pay the fines."
"Ah, most generous, Monsignor," said the pope. "I might have thought you would be more inclined to allow them to reap the fruits of their foolish behavior? Not, I might add, that the full story will go beyond these four walls."
There was a euphemism, thought Heinzerling. Whatever official story went out, the real version was probably already spreading as rumor, although the fanciful embroiderings would cloud the issue somewhat. Indeed, Cardinal Borja, the most ardent member of the Spanish party at Rome present at this meeting, looked like the story he was having to listen to tasted so bad that he wanted to leave and spit it out.
Mazzare heaved a sigh. "Your Holiness, I would be entirely inclined to leave them to just and deserved punishment"—here, to Heinzerling's glee, a little shudder ran through the little group of would-be commandos—"but there is the small matter that two of them are about to begin married life together. I should not like to see them begin it in debtors' jail while they await funds."
"A marriage? Splendid. Nothing better to bridle too-high spirits." The pope fairly beamed. "And that is of course a matter we can readily attend to. Cardinal Barberini?"
Three men said, "Yes, Your Holiness?"
"Ah. Young Antonio, I meant. See that the young lovers are married. We cannot have them tempted to fornication on top of all their other follies, can we?"
Cardinal Antonio Barberini the Younger frowned. "But, Your Holiness? The banns? And one of them is not Catholic."
The pope waved his hand. "We dispense with the banns. And, young lady?"
Giovanna Marcoli nodded. "Yes, Your Holiness?" Her voice was small and frightened-sounding, and Heinzerling could see a flutter in her skirts where her knees were trembling.
"Do you promise to raise any children of your union as Catholics? And never to stint in your efforts to convert this young man?"
Her eyes went big and round. She simply nodded.
"Well, then!" The pope turned to his nephew. "See to it by no later than tomorrow, Antonio."
The youngest of the cardinals Barberini nodded. "Yes, Your Holiness." And then a slight grin. "May we use the Sistine Chapel?"
"In the circumstances, I can hardly refuse." His uncle's grin was starting to creep through the card player's face.
"Can he do that?" Jones asked, clearly less sotto voce than he'd intended. A slight titter went around the room.
"He's the pope, Simon," Mazzare said gently. "Yes. He can do that."
"Ah."
"Your Holiness, both for myself and for the United States of Europe, I should like to thank you—oh." Mazzare had been brought to a halt by Frank crumpling to the floor in what looked like a dead faint.
Disdaining the halberds and sabers around her, Giovanna leapt to Frank's side, with a wordless cry of alarm.
"Felt the same way the night before my own nuptials, as it happens," Jones drawled. "And I wasn't facing the Sistine Chapel."
The fuss and confusion ended with Frank revived amid protestations that he was okay, really, I'm fine, and his being promptly shut up with a kiss from Giovanna that provoked a round of ironic cheers from the soldiers present and not a few of the priests. The Stones and Marcolis were ushered out of the room.
"Now," the pope said. "Monsignor Mazzare, I think you were about to offer protestations of a most commendable gratitude. I suggest, however, you await Our next command to you, for We have decided you are fit for a particular task We have in mind."
Heinzerling caught his breath. This would surely be it! A bishopric, at last—and rightly so. Had not the good Father Mazzare been doing the work of a bishop these three years' past? Far better—Heinzerling had good cause to know—than most of the—
The pope snapped his fingers and someone stepped forward with . . .
It was Heinzerling's turn to feel faint. For what was being brought forward, with all due ceremony, was a broad-brimmed red hat, adorned with long tassels to either side. Only one rank of churchman wore that kind of hat.
Somehow, he was aware that the pope was speaking to the man who had been his master these past two, nearly three years. A man who was to be his master in yet another sense from now on. He caught a few phrases. "Common father of all Catholics," was one of them. "Entirely separate from all secular jurisdictions," was another. "Recognition of the new shape of the politics of Christendom," was still a third.
The one that truly beggared belief, however, was the one that clearly left Mazzare staggering as well as it did Heinzerling and Jones. As well it should. A theological and political earthquake had just shaken Europe.
"Lawrence Mazzare, Cardinal-Protector of the United States of Europe."
Dead silence.
"Gus, can he do that?" Jones again. A beat. "No, don't tell me. He's the pope."
* * *
Urban enjoyed his little games. But, ever mindful of the need for mercy, he waved Mazzare forward, that he might lean over and speak to him privately.
"There was a trial, you see. A very real one, whose result—unlike Galileo's—was not predetermined."
Mazzare's face was very pale, but the pope was pleased to see that the man was still able to think clearly when under great stress. He was not surprised, of course. That had been part of the trial also.
"Mine."
Urban nodded. "Trial is perhaps not the right term. 'Test,' perhaps. Or . . . no, a trial, yes. May w
e think of it as an intellectual trial by combat?"
He spoke very softly now. "I needed to know something, Lawrence Mazzare. One thing, before all else. Had that Church of yours, in that other universe, become transformed into something I could no longer recognize at all? But, when the time came, you argued like a priest. Not a natural philosopher wearing a mask. In the end, that is all that matters. The rest is disputation. I will say I found your theological argument itself quite compelling. But—"
Here he smiled a bit slyly. "I have no doubt my horde of theologians will soon be at their disputation again."
Mazzare even managed a little chuckle. Indeed, from the hooded look in his eyes, Urban could see that he was already considering the future.
Splendid. The pope had enough cardinals who spent their time considering only the past.
"One thing, Your Holiness."
"Yes?"
"Might I request the services of Father Christopher Scheiner? The truth is, Your Holiness, we have books on astronomy in Grantville, and are creating a great university nearby at Jena—but we have no astronomers. And he is a superb one. In that other universe, quite unfairly, he would only be remembered as Galileo's accuser. I think it would be well to rectify that small injustice as well as the larger one."
Urban considered the idea, for a moment, liking it the more he thought about it. Another subtle but excellent gesture, in a world too dangerous for him to consider anything else. The pope, raising up Galileo's defender; the defender, then doing the same for his opponent.
Let the Austrian and Spanish Habsburgs choke on it; Richelieu, perhaps, learn from it. Perhaps—who can tell?—even that half-barbarous heretic Swede.
Yes, splendid.
"Scheiner is a Jesuit, Father Mazzare, so I will need to speak to the father-general. But I foresee no difficulty."
He managed to say it without so much as cracking a smile.
Chapter 52
Tom and Madga Stone arrived in Rome that evening. When they were ushered into the room in the Vatican where their sons were being held in what amounted to house arrest, Stoner gazed upon them like an pigeon might gaze upon his ostrich offspring.
