1636_The Vatican Sanction

by Eric Flint

  “A priority with which Philip might contend,” Urban quipped with a smile. “Albeit silently.”

  “Silently before his courtiers and ambassadors, perhaps, Your Holiness. But not in privy council. From my own days at the Escorial, I may assure you of that.”

  Urban’s smile dimmed somewhat. “With so many of your brothers here, it is also my intention to address urgent matters touching on the future of Mother Church, once the colloquium has ended and its other attendees have departed.”

  Bedmar’s own smile actually widened. “Holy Father, it would be strange indeed if you did not also take this opportunity to hold a Council of the consistory. Given last year’s events in Rome, it seems essential.”

  Urban’s smile matched Bedmar’s as he turned to glance at Vitelleschi. “As I predicted, even without the faintest intimation of our intent, Cardinal Bedmar would know we planned a Council.”

  Vitelleschi nodded.

  “However,” Bedmar added, “what I do not know—indeed, what none of us know—is how many cardinals have escaped Borja’s agents and survived to attend?”

  “And why is that important?” Vitelleschi asked archly.

  Bedmar smiled patiently. “Father, the Jesuits have been an eminently practical order since their founding. Indeed, had they not been, they would not have had one tenth the success they have enjoyed around the globe. And so, I press the practicality of my question to His Holiness: how many of us are there? Enough to make a stand—or just enough to make for a memorable collection of martyrs?”

  Chapter 12

  Larry Mazzare managed not to flinch at the directness of Bedmar’s question. He saw Urban’s smile become melancholy. “It is a fair question,” the pope mused, “but these days, I find that I dwell more upon the faces we shall never see again, rather than the ones who shall join us here.”

  “Perhaps,” his nephew Antonio suggested, “I should begin with those we have lost? To put that unpleasantness out of the way first?”

  Urban nodded, eyes downcast. Bedmar frowned; his associates shifted their feet. If Larry read Achille’s expression correctly, he was less than pleased with the cardinal-protector’s brusqueness, seeing how it had affected the pope.

  Antonio’s voice lowered. “We know that Borja attempted to assassinate twenty-one members of the consistory, most of whom were located in the Lazio. About eight weeks ago, we finally confirmed that he succeeded in killing sixteen.”

  Bedmar waited for a moment, then prompted quietly. “Who?”

  Vitelleschi’s voice was rough with what sounded like a witch’s brew of quiet fury, bitterness, and raw grief. “Santacroce, Carpegna, Crescenzi, Savelli, Roma—even though he was Milanese—Scaglia, Biscia, Oreggi, and Rocci. The blackguards found Cesarini visiting his soon-to-be diocesan neighbor Muti in Viterbo, where they presented themselves as papal messengers. They cut their hosts’ throats after being allowed to join them for a glass of wine on the veranda.” Vitelleschi seemed about to resume the list, then faltered, looked down.

  Achille waited, frowned. “That’s only eleven,” he murmured cautiously.

  Vitelleschi looked away.

  Urban raised his head. “The father general understandably elects not to name the last five, out of consideration for Antonio and me. You see, they were family. Lorenzo Magalotti, my secretary, was also my brother-in-law. Girolamo Colonna, who I understand died after hours on an impaler’s stake, was Antonio’s brother-in-law. And my brother Antonio, for whom my nephew was named, also fell that day, along with my nephew’s brother Francesco. Borja was so very thorough that he even hunted down a more distant nephew of mine, Francesco Boncompagni, and killed him like a feral dog in the street. So you see,” finished the pope with wet eyes, “these are the wages of nepotism: that in raising all my loved ones up, I only ensured that they would be struck down. Instead of myself.”

  Larry had a sudden impulse to push forward, to offer an arm to keep Urban upright; it seemed impossible that a man who sounded so hollow and wretched could remain standing on his own. But the pope who had been born Maffeo Barberini, one of a long line of forceful aristocrats, straightened. “Four escaped, besides my nephew and myself. Gessi was lucky; he was traveling and heard the news before they could catch him. Brancaccio was canny: he had packed by the time Borja was sending out his assassins and was long gone from his villa by the time they arrived. Marzio Ginnetti was returning from his legational duties in Austria, and would not have left the Alps alive were it not for the intervention of the ambassadora’s countrymen, including her own father, at Chiavenna. And it is now common knowledge that were it not for the most resourceful Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz and still more up-timers, I would have been buried beneath Hadrian’s Tomb as it came crashing down.”

  Ruy bowed, eyes half lidded. “His Holiness does not lie, but he wildly exaggerates my humble assistance that night.”

  Urban smiled. “Yes. Of course I do. That is why I made you my chief of security: to give substance to my groundless opinions of your ability.”

  “And what of those cardinals who were further removed?” Achille often sounded more like a general than a cardinal, and he certainly did so now. “How many have come? How loyal can we expect them to be?”

  Antonio rubbed a finger at his eyes. “Well, any who have come as cardinals have put their titles and fortunes at stake. Many, particularly those from Italy, cannot safely return to their dioceses, and the rest must be wary. So their loyalty is assured by vested self-interest. Of course, not all of them sped to join us. Some came later.”

  “Measuring their options?”

  “In some cases. But for others, it was a matter of difficult travel and confused news of just what transpired in Rome.”

  Giancarlo stroked his beard. “And in the case of some, they could not move until they were certain they were unwatched. Such was the case with my uncle, Carlo.”

  “As well as Ubaldi, Lante, and di Bagno,” Vitelleschi added. “And even though Franciotti is still in pectore tacite, he had to exercise the same care. The pope’s high regard for him was well known, and his status as in pectore was obviously suspected. Those who were at greater distance from Rome journeyed more readily. Pázmány of Hungary came quickly enough, as did almost all of the French: de la Valette, La Rochefoucauld, Le Clerc, and Richelieu’s older brother, Alphonse-Louis.”

  Bedmar frowned. “And Mazarin and Richelieu himself?”

  Larry folded his arms, inserting each hand in the opposite sleeve. “They will not be present for the colloquium, but have signaled their intent to attend the Council that follows.”

  Noting the raised eyebrows in Bedmar’s group, Achille added, “You may have heard that political matters in France are…at a delicate point, just now. If they do not attend personally, they have arranged for radio updates and already have proxies in place.” He nodded somberly. “They have made their support of the pope manifestly clear.”

  “Well,” temporized Urban, “that may be too strong a statement. But they have certainly signaled their opinion of Borja.”

  Achille nodded slowly but the expression on his face was that of a concerned bulldog. “Your Holiness, I would know the names of those that were not as swift in flocking to your standard. So that I may better protect you.”

  Urban smiled again. “Truly, my good de Valençay, you must practice thinking like a cardinal. Before this day is out, you will be a cardinal in fact.”

  “May it please the Holy Father, I have been a soldier my whole life, and while I love the cross, I will yet trust the sword as the best service I may offer you.”

  “Very well, my son. And I will share the names of those who came or replied later, but you must bear this in mind: in only a few cases might it indicate a reluctance to commit to me. The distances were great and communication frequently difficult. Any delay is more likely to be attributable to those causes.”

  “I shall listen with the ear of charity that the Holy Father commands.”

  “V
ery well. So: Aldobrandini, Bichi, Sachetti, and Spada came later, as did Caetani, who narrowly escaped the destruction of St. Angelo. His tale of flight and arrival here would be worthy of an epic poem.”

  Antonio looked up. “To be honest, several of those who came later have little love for my uncle but detest what Borja has done and become. Cornaro and Durazzo are both sons of Venetian doges, so it is not surprising that they were in no great haste to support any pope. Similarly, von Harrach of Bohemia may be an old friend of some of the Spanish cardinals and the Borghese, but he has denounced Borja as a monster. The same is true of von Dietrichstein of Austria.”

  “It was the same with Luigi Capponi,” Larry added. “A friend of Tuscany, he’s borne a grudge against the Barberinis ever since the Duchy of Urbino defaulted into papal control. But he cannot accept Borja’s actions. Besides, he’s friendly with Father Luke Wadding, another of the new cardinals. They share bibliophilic interests, and Wadding’s support for His Holiness apparently decided him.”

  Bedmar was nodding, eyes narrowed. Larry had watched him through the recitation of the attending cardinals and could imagine him putting mental checkmarks next to the names on the roster of the consistory. “Evidently some of our brothers remain undecided.”

  Vitelleschi nodded crisply. “Ginnasi is no longer in Rome: I can hardly blame him for going back to visit, or shelter, with his family in Bologna. He’s eighty-six, after all. Pio is epileptic, so travel is always difficult for him. At this point, he may consider his affliction a godsend. Monit is a Milanese, and so should be in Borja’s camp, but I suspect he disapproves. I also suspect he would not survive travel beyond his borders without openly declaring for the would-be usurper in Rome.”

  Giancarlo almost sounded amused. “And how many of us are scheduled to make the transition from cardinals in pectore to actual, this day?”

  “No small number,” Mazzare answered. “In addition to Father Wadding, and of course you and the lords de Valençay, there were a number of new in pectore notifications which had to be handled carefully since they were located in areas that Borja could reach quite easily. The cases of Filomarino and Giustiniani were particularly delicate, since their bishoprics were in Naples—and having come here, they can’t return. It was easier to extract Sforza from Tuscany, and Grimaldi-Cavalleroni from Perugia, but their absences have already been noticed.

  “Bragadin came from his bishopric in Venetian territory—Vicenza—and so was in no immediate danger, but we had to presume that Borja might be watching him, with an intent to intercept.” Larry smiled. “And of course, as Cardinal Bedmar is aware, Falconieri, the nuncio to Flanders, was notified in just the past few months.”

  “And that is why I officially sent him south to consult with Cardinal Borja.” Bedmar smiled back “Strange how he decided to stop over here for these many weeks.”

  Mazzare nodded, smiled, thought, Yes, and so convenient having your second-in-command here ahead of you, sniffing around to ensure that it wasn’t a trap. “There are a number of others that we would have asked, had their situations not been too precarious or sensitive.”

  Bedmar nodded. “Most prudent. However, I have it on good authority—Lelio Falconieri, to be precise—that there are more gathered here than that. Mostly Romans, I am told.” He tilted his head toward Urban, his smile congenial but his eyes alert.

  Mazzare had known this moment would come. Bedmar would of course be this well-informed, and would also want to know precisely with whom he was walking this risky path. But before Larry could begin a tactfully oblique approach to the issue, Urban raised a hand in his direction.

  “Lawrence, I shall speak to this. After all, it is my affair. I will not put you in the position of making excuses for me.” He drew himself straighter and looked directly into Bedmar’s eyes. “Over the years, I have identified men I trust, and whose faith and character commend them to the scarlet biretta far more than those who are senior to them in the Church. Some have been in pectore for years; more were made so within the last nine months. However, according to the up-time documents, all eventually did become cardinals. So although I chose men I knew, I also chose men who had been the beneficiaries of such a choice in that other world. I used those documents as a constraint upon my actions, and reasoned that if they were worthy there, they should be no less worthy here.”

  He folded his hands. “They are not all the most learned of our brothers. They have been my aids and assistants in the Pontifical Household: prefects, secretaries, superintendents, treasurers. One was even the tutor of my nephews. But at this point, I deem it more important that they are all clerics of conscience and character.”

  “And that they are of proven loyalty,” added Bedmar.

  Mazzare was ready to take offense—suddenly realizing how protective he’d become of Urban—but paused; Bedmar’s tone had not been ironic or critical. No, Mazzare realized as he forced himself to lean back yet again, Bedmar the old general was acknowledging Urban’s choices as prudent, appropriate to the dangerous reality that lay ahead.

  Urban smiled faintly as he echoed Bedmar. “Yes. And that they are of proven loyalty. You may have met some of them on your visits to Rome: Poli, Cesi, Panciroli, Ceva, Giori, and my nephew Antonio’s cousin, Francesco Macchiavelli.” Seeing Bedmar’s look, Urban waved a negation. “Please spare me the clever quips; I assure you I have heard them all. And we are nearly out of time, so I shall speak bluntly. Were I in your shoes—or old war boots—my brother, I would be concerned about sharing so crucial an enterprise as this with men I had never met. So I have arranged for you to dine with them—privately—this evening.”

  Although Mazzare was sure that Bedmar would have made a fearsome poker player, Urban’s comment caused his eyes to widen slightly. “I am honored, Your Holiness, but have the other cardinals had the same benefit of making their acquaintance?”

  Urban shrugged. “Some have. I brought these six out of Rome as soon as possible, both for their safety and so that they would have the opportunity to meet the rest of our consistory as they arrived here in Besançon. But it would be disingenuous to keep playing at a charade which presumes that your presence here is no more significant than any other cardinal’s.” Urban stepped closer. “Your presence is the harbinger and proof of the coming schism in the Hapsburg line, and so, the next set of battlelines that shall be drawn in Europe. Yes, we are here to do God’s work, to attempt to heal the wounds that have split the family of Christ into bitterly warring camps. But that same split threatens the world itself. It must be repaired or at least bridged before sectarian and secular strifes multiply each other and become so legion that they may consume the entirety of our species.” Urban’s voice was tense as he finished, his eyes searching Bedmar’s urgently.

  The cardinal-protector of the Spanish Lowlands actually took a slight step backward. “Your Holiness, I am—am struck by the singular compassion of your concern.” His voice became careful. “But you have ever been a defender of the faith, and in that role, accepted that there was no way to achieve God’s will without prevailing over those who no longer recognized His authority in the form of Mother Church. Yet now, your urgency suggests that this colloquium is more than mere political expedience—”

  “It is. Much more,” Urban interrupted, stepping into the space that Bedmar had vacated. “I know you have seen war, Cardinal Bedmar, have been on battlefields, but tell me this: have you ever been trapped in a house of desperate men and women, with ravaged bodies falling about you like red leaves in autumn? Where the only way to escape is to kill your attackers? And the only reason the attackers are present—and the men, and women, and children are dying—is because the killers are after you? You, personally?”

  Urban blinked, collected himself, stepped back. “I am not a good man, Cardinal Bedmar. Few of us are. But last year showed me my failings—and their costs to others. Others who died for me, Protestants who died so that Mother Church would not fall into the hands of a butcher who would like not
hing better than to have the scarlet of his robes come from the spattered blood of those he deems heretics, whoever and wherever they might be.” Urban drew up his cassock tightly, as if recoiling from that future path. “Our Father in Heaven knows that I am anything but Christlike, but at this late hour, I have finally heard His Son’s words. And among them were these: ‘If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray? And if he finds it, truly, I say to you, he rejoices over it more than over the ninety-nine that never went astray.’”

  Urban’s eyes had wandered slightly, as if, looking inward, they had become momentarily blind to the world around him. Now their focus returned with sudden force. “Are we to slay the lost sheep? Or are we to accept Christ’s teaching: that it is greater to love the wayward of the flock, and to preserve them? And their children, in all their multitudes. This, this, is why we are gathered here in the name of ecumenicism: to stop the slaughter of the sheep. To call them back, that they might come as close as they can.”

  Bedmar glanced at Vitelleschi, who would not meet his eyes. “Your Holiness”—and he emphasized the title with a tone of surprised reverence—“I hear and attend your wisdom, but—can a shepherd remain a shepherd if he does not insist upon obedience?”