by Eric Flint
Sharon glanced away from where the three sedan chairs, porters, mules, and several unusually strapping attendants, were making their way across the Pont Battant with the rest of the traffic. She looked over her shoulder at Mazzare. “To be honest, sometimes I tell myself I’m a self-indulgent wimp to complain at all, since I’m mostly just the figurehead of the USE’s involvement here. It’s other people who’ve done the really heavy lifting.”
Larry shrugged, understanding what she meant even if he didn’t agree with her self-dismissive summation. Financial arrangements for the colloquium had been handled through banks and money trading channels in Magdeburg, with some transfers taking place through the Jewish shadow-network overseen by relatives of Mike Stearns’ wife, the Abrabanels. Arranging for airship transport for various dignitaries who had to travel long distances—often over forbidding or unsecure territory—was handled by the burgeoning air service company known as Upward Mobility LLC, which was owned by recent émigré Estuban Miro. Ruy had arranged for all the security, its provisioning, its billets, its standing orders and duty rosters. Communications—both radio operation and messenger contracts—had been overseen by Odo, the radioman who’d been with her from her first days in Rome and Captain Taggart of the embassy’s Marine Guard who’d been with her since she left Grantville.
But there had been a less obvious—albeit desperately important—element to the USE’s support of this meeting of Europe’s various religious leaders: coordinating the preparatory intelligence. The Roman Catholic cardinals who were attending did so at the risk of their lives. Any of Borja’s agents who detected their travel were certain to have orders to eliminate them, garnished with the promise of a substantial reward. Word had it that this bounty now included any cardinals who could not be found in their villas and palaces in the Lazio, the broad environs around Rome. It was further rumored that even distant cardinals whom Borja’s messengers failed to find ensconced in their dioceses were, by process of bloodthirsty deduction, also presumed to be Urban’s creatures. Many considered this report to be a sensationalistic invention, but from what Mazzare knew of the papal usurper, it was entirely within his character and the scope of his well-manicured barbarity to make just such rash presumptions and issue correspondingly ruthless orders.
The identity of the intelligence chief responsible for contacting those many prelates and arranging for their travel and security was only known to Larry himself, Sharon, Ruy, and a handful of others: Estuban (but really, Ezekiel) Miro, the same fellow who had arrived in Grantville less than two years ago, and had made his fortune through the development of air travel. He had succeeded handsomely, and the magnitude of that success was increasing weekly, it seemed. Also, that role gave him the perfect cover to handle matters of confidential travel. Although he was Europe’s primary provider of dirigible services, it was also within the scope of his activities to arrange for air travelers’ connections to carriages, mounts, and other means whereby they would journey onward from the aerodrome where they disembarked. Consequently, Miro was able to track and subtly shift schedules as needed, all within the scope of his routine operations. It also afforded him the opportunity to ensure that certain unremarkable (yet discreetly well-armed) “fellow travelers” were present at every departure, at every arrival, on every flight that carried carefully nondescript travelers who just happened to be hiding red birettas in their luggage, which was carried by unusually muscular valets.
It was little different when it came to arranging for the travel of the non-Catholic religious figures, although they had been easier to contact. Unlike the understandably reclusive cardinals, very few of the Protestants were trying to remain hidden. However, Miro had been at considerable pains to select and prepare messengers who would not only exercise great discretion when bringing the various theologians a carefully worded invitation to Urban’s ecumenical colloquium in Besançon, but who could tactfully allay their suspicions even while pressing them to appreciate the dire importance of their attendance. That several of the Protestant luminaries had stonily refused to conduct any of their travel by dirigible had not made the security arrangements any easier.
But within the minute, the most worrisome of all those arrangements would be behind them: the sedan chairs bearing Bedmar’s entourage had swung around the far end of the uneven line that stretched halfway back to the bridge.
But they were not alone. A distinctly alien group came along directly behind them on horseback. Large burly men with sabers, long curved axes, and strangely peaked helmets surrounded a thin, gold-clad figure kept carefully, protectively, in their midst.
Owen Roe O’Neill, emerging from the toll-house, stopped, stared. “What in the name of all that’s holy—?”
Larry answered. “Russian Orthodox.” He turned to Sharon. “I thought they were coming by dirigible.”
“They did, at least as far as Basel,” she answered, then caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Damn, we’re going to need a bigger escort. That’s two big holy rollers at the same time.” Her eyes opened wider as she evidently reconsidered her use of the colloquialism, “holy roller.” She turned toward Larry. “Larry, uh, Father Mazzare, I—I’m—”
“I find a little irreverence refreshing. Although, you probably don’t want to repeat that phrase in their presence.”
Ruy’s eyes, which were watching the Burgundian soldiery and the Wild Geese reposition themselves with the smooth ease of a much-rehearsed change of formation, may have twinkled. “I agree with Cardinal Mazzare—but I would enjoy seeing you call Bedmar a ‘holy roller’ to his face, even so.”
Sharon smirked. “I bet you would. You’d probably—”
From just behind the Russians, a sudden commotion fumed and frothed along a short section of the line of regular entrants. Launching outward were almost a dozen thin figures, most clad in fragments of armor. Several carried short swords; one had a halberd. Their clothing was even more irregular, but almost all had wide knee-length breeches or a hip-length doublet. One or two had shirts with striped sleeves, or short-capes of either black or gray. Or maybe the gray ones were simply very worn versions of the black.
The besontsin militia, which had not yet reached this part of the line, recoiled, crying out for aid and weapons. The Burgundians collapsed inward toward the disturbance, swords clearing sheathes with ringing hisses.
And, despite a lifetime in priestly vestments and striving to be Christlike in thought and deed, the first words that flitted through Larry Mazzare’s mind were:
Oh, shit.
Chapter 3
Ruy’s alacrity never failed to startle Mazzare, though he had seen it in action several times. Before the American priest could have formed the thoughts necessary to give orders, the hidalgo was shouting abbreviated commands, racing forward. The Wild Geese suddenly became an outer security cordon, with several of its senior members trying to rein in the Burgundians.
But if the militia or regular soldiers had heard Ruy—or Owen Roe O’Neill, whose long-legged sprint carried him toward the unresponsive sergeant of the Burgundians—they gave no sign of it. They closed in on the strange group that had emerged from the line and seemed to be striving to reach Bedmar.
“Damn it,” Sharon hissed. She turned toward the young Hibernian who both carried a portable radio, and was detailed as her assistant. “Are your snipers ready?”
“Ready, ma’am,” he said, glancing up at the various vantage points where the elite troops were already sighting along the barrels of their large-bore Winchesters down toward the ragged pack that was approaching the three sedan chairs.
However, to get to Bedmar, the unruly ragtag group had to brush alongside the Russian horsemen. Who, seeing the trajectory of these unlikely threats, drew weapons and, with admirable swiftness, reformed so that three of their number were countercharging while the remainder closed ranks around their glittering patriarch, faces and blades affirming a fell readiness to take on the entirety of Besançon.
Bedmar�
�s own group had halted. In the next instant, the veiled sedan chairs each emitted a ready warrior in a most nonclerical rush of plate-armored limbs and readied swords. Which meant one of three things: that Bedmar was not traveling with his entourage, that he was disguised as one of its lesser members, or that he was one of the redoubtable combatants now positioning themselves behind the charging Russian horsemen.
Larry Mazzare had proven his mettle and resourcefulness defending Pope Urban in Italy, but the suddenness with which the open space before the toll-house was turning into a battlefield caught him so off-guard that all he could do was accept the certainty that a bloodbath was imminent. Ruy, despite his speed and agility, was not going to be able to reach the point of contact in time, not before the Russians had charged headlong into the slowing, and possibly startled, group that had emerged from the line. He glanced over the stunned faces of tradesmen and fishmongers toward Owen Roe O’Neill.
Who turned, nodded at an adjutant, then pulled a weapon from where it was slung across his back: a Russian SKS. The adjutant raised what looked like a cumbersome trumpet and blew a shrill, sustained peal on the instrument.
The tatterdemalion detachment from the line halted; the Russians drew up their protesting horses; Bedmar’s troops looked over, uncertain what this clarion call might signify. And in the moment of silence that followed:
“Halt! Arrêt! Detener!” Ruy’s sword came out along with this high, clear shout, and if his French accent wasn’t much better than his German, it did not seem to impede anyone’s understanding of his command or the presumption of authority in his voice.
The drawn weapons lowered slightly, and if the faces of the various groups were still fierce and furrowed in wariness, the expressions were now more defensive than aggressive. The voice of the trumpet—a call to attention recognized by fighting men of every nation—had paused them, reflex keeping them momentarily poised and expectant for a signal to further action.
By the time the first of them were recalling that, because they recognized none of the local authorities, they had no reason to heed this foreign trumpet, Ruy had managed to work his way between the brooding Russian cavalry and the bewildered ragtag collection of what appeared to be commoners playing at soldier. Raising a hand to hold back the Russians, the hidalgo half raised his sword in the direction of the ragged group who were clutching their weapons. “What is the meaning of this display?” He scrutinized them; even at his greater distance, Larry could now discern that many of them were quite young.
Their apparent leader—a good-looking young man with golden hair and a nose like a perfect right triangle—bowed. “If it please the captain, I am Ignaz von Meggen, the great-great-grandson of Jost von Meggen.” He said it with studied humility.
Ruy, who had been admirably prepared for every eventuality that had presented itself so far, suddenly seemed at a loss. “I see,” he said frowning.
Larry started moving forward, Sharon trailing a step behind him. Ruy was still struggling to find an adequate response. Clearly, the young man presumed that his family name would make his presence and intent clear. It was equally clear that he was coming to realize that this could not be further from the case.
More earnest than before, he attempted to provide greater clarity. “I refer to Jost von Meggen of Luzern.”
Larry spread his arms as he approached: a gesture someplace between a greeting and a blessing. “Young Herr von Meggen, I am not familiar with the families of the Swiss cantons. Perhaps you would be so kind as to acquaint me with the details of your own.”
Ignaz made another slight bow—both a polite response to the introduction and a signal of his intent to comply with the request—and then stopped, glancing more closely at Mazzare. “Your accent is peculiar, Father—er, pardon, Your Eminence. Might I ask where you call your home?”
Well, now was as good a time as ever. “Perhaps you have heard of the town of Grantville?”
Young von Meggen was suddenly very straight. “You are an up-timer.” Larry could see the deductive dominoes falling behind the young fellow’s eyes: he might be ingenuous, but he was not slow-witted. “You are the cardinal-protector of the United States of Europe!” And he was on one knee with remarkable speed. His younger companions followed his lead promptly; the older ones in the rear seemed less enthusiastic doing so. “Your Eminence, I apologize for having had no means of identifying you from the outset.”
Larry stepped forward, took the young man by the shoulders, and raised him up. “Well, that makes us equal, then. So tell me of the family von Meggen of Luzern.”
Ignaz complied quickly. And loquaciously. However, although it was long in the telling, it also had the effect of boring, and thereby calming, the various armed men who had been ready to commit mayhem only scant minutes earlier.
“So,” Larry said, in an attempt to summarize, “your great-great-grandfather was the first Swiss commander of the Papal Guard after the Sack of Rome in 1527.”
Ignaz nodded; his hair bobbed and shone. Well back in the crowd, some young female voices murmured appreciatively. Whatever else you might say about Ignaz von Meggen, he was a handsome fellow. Ignaz, oblivious to the signs of attention from the opposite sex, stared expectantly at Larry. “So, clearly, you know why we are here.”
Suddenly, Larry found himself in the same situation as had Ruy. He put on his best smile and shook his head.
Ignaz von Meggen’s face grew very pale, then very red. “Is it possible?” he said loudly, staring back at the crowd as if seeking their sympathy. “Can it be that the sacrifice of so many fine men is so quickly forgotten?” As his volume built, so did his passion; as surprise became bitter disappointment, a measure of anger crept in as well. The militia’s and Burgundians’ stances began a subtle shift back into combative readiness; just behind, Larry could hear the Russians shifting in their saddles, the horses moving restlessly in anticipation of renewed action. Mazzare swallowed, decided to risk stepping closer in an attempt to calm the charming young hothead…
A stooped, almost hunchbacked, figure stepped sideways out of the line. “If it please Your Eminence, Your Lordships, I think I can explain.”
Ruy’s sword came up slightly. “And who are you?”
“A fellow traveler with the lad and his companions.”
Larry stared at the man’s rough clothes; the mule-drawn cart and large, sleepy-eyed assistant he had been standing with; and his own unfortunate facial features. They might have been at least plain, once, but now they were dominated by a nose that resembled a squashed turnip and an uneven jaw that worked with a sideways motion and occasionally revealed an uneven row of mostly shattered teeth.
Ruy’s tone was dubious. “You are part of his company, then?”
“Sorry, no, my lord, I am not. I started out closer to Zug, heading to Zurich, then the Bozen pass to Basel and so to here. Same route the young freiherr was on, if’t please you.”
“I see,” Ruy muttered. “You mentioned an explanation?”
Young von Meggen’s chin came up with his obvious intent to try again, but he accepted a deferential stilling gesture from the turnip-nosed man. “Yes, lord. It’s a matter of the date, you see. May 6. Tomorrow.” Even he seemed a bit surprised when this did not kindle any discernible flickers of understanding in the eyes around him. “No doubt it’s more significant to us in the cantons—the Catholic ones, that is—than elsewhere. That’s the day that almost all of the first Pontifical Swiss Guards were slain defending Pope Clement VII during the Sack of Rome. Since then, it’s been the day that new members of the Guard are sworn in.”
Ruy did not manage to keep all the incredulity out of his voice. “And these…young men…intend to present themselves here, to Pope Urban, for that purpose? To take service with him?”
This time, Ignaz would not be stilled. “As did our fathers before us, sir! And having word that the Holy Father is here, and of the new massacre that befell our countrymen in his service last year, we felt it our duty—both to
our families and our faith—to offer our swords and our blood to him and to Mother Church.”
Ruy swallowed, looked helplessly back at Larry, who managed not to shrug.
Turnip-Nose took a shuffling step closer. “My Lord, Your Eminence, a word, if I might.”
Ruy nodded, waved him forward with the hand that he had been using to hold the Russian cavalry motionless. A stern look kept the militia and Burgundians back…but Ruy pointedly did not glance at Larry’s two Wild Geese guards, who drifted slowly, unobtrusively, closer. “Be quick,” the Catalan murmured when the fellow had approached.
“Yes, lord. There’s more at work here than youthful impetuosity. Service to the pope runs long in some of our families, particularly the ones who’ve shed blood as pikemen. But the wealthiest families…well, they often secure a place in Rome at the expense of the lesser ones.”
Larry frowned. “How does that impact Ignaz? He claims his family was one of the first to serve in the Papal Guard.”
The tradesman bobbed once. “Yes, Your Eminence. That is true. But it is also the last time they served. Other, more influential families shoved this lad’s aside. At least that’s how we heard it in the towns outside Luzerne itself.”
Mazzare crossed his hands. “And now, in the wake of the destruction of the Swiss Guard at the Castel St. Angelo last year, he hopes that the von Meggen family might once again have the opportunity to serve?”
“That’s the gist of it, sir. Don’t know much beyond what he shared over campfires on the trail, Your Eminence. Can’t say I know much about his family, either, except to say that none of it is bad. Can’t say the same for some of the others who’ve always had sons carrying halberds and wearing papal colors south of the Alps.”
