by Eric Flint
“Furthermore, though the Church’s resolutions in this matter may be articulated by me today, they do not end with me. If they did, I would not have put you to the inconvenience of joining us here. As was observed at the outset, mine is a large consistory, and if I fall, one of my brothers will replace me.” Urban smiled. “Indeed, I think there are far more of us to eliminate than there are bands of assassins willing to engage in that risky task.”
“Lastly, I suspect that, before long, our exodus will at last become stationary enough to be relabeled an exile. And by that time, I suspect things may have changed in the Catholic country most likely to be instrumental in restoring me to the cathedra.”
Mêtrophanês Kritopoulos’ next question was his own, and his voice betrayed genuine perplexity. “Which country is that?”
“Why, Italy, of course. Borja’s rule is hard and not yet two years old. And I will tell you this about my countrymen: they are plotting. Of this you may be certain.” He shrugged. “It is in our blood, even in the best of times.” Smiles answered Urban’s own. “But in times such as these, the oldest rivals find common cause in the losses they have shared, in the memory of sons and fathers and brothers slain by Borja’s men, and of the daughters and sisters and mothers who have been—”
He stopped, his face suddenly red. “You understand my meaning. Sometimes, Italy’s many polities can barely agree upon the spelling of Caesar’s name, let alone settle their long-standing feuds. But after what has happened in Rome, they will agree on one thing: a resolve to throw off Borja’s yoke. That will also embolden the rebels who have suffered under Oruna in Naples. Soon enough, they will all make their displeasure known.”
“In short,” John Dury concluded, “all you have are hopes built upon low-comic stereotypes of your countrymen.”
The room hushed. Even in a room full of anti-papists, those were harsh words when used against a man now as patient and mild as the much-changed Urban.
The pope was slow to respond; Larry could not tell if he was having to control his temper or was simply choosing his words carefully. “I understand how it might seem that way. But I know my people, Reverend Dury, and I maintain that there is much more substance to these projections than you might expect. However, if my hopes prove bootless, it does not change the conviction and faith which prompted me to gather you here.”
Urban folded his hands. “I come before you having completed a long journey, one which began when I received the up-time documents which detailed not merely what lay before our Roman Church, but we individuals who serve it.” He paused. “I saw history’s judgment of me. It was as unequivocal as it was awful. Worse yet, it was accurate. No amount of denying and rationalizing the reasons for which I had done things in my life changed the truth behind the deeds: that I had allowed the exigencies of this world—of material power—to completely push the hunger for His Grace from my soul. How was I to pass through the eye of the needle, when my every waking thought was upon ensuring success against rivals, rather than attaining worthiness in the eyes of God?
“I did not accept this judgment upon myself immediately. The habits of a lifetime are not easily or swiftly overcome. But the more I read, the more inescapable my new self-judgment became, and so, the more inevitable that I either fully and consciously turn my back upon God or turn back toward him, arms outstretched and on my knees. And in seeking for a way to do so, I discovered that the answer was there in front of me, every day, all the time. In fact, it resided in one of my titles: Pontifex—the builder of bridges.
“What the up-time documents not only reminded me, but showed by example, was that the responsibility to commence building those bridges is upon our Roman Church—and specifically, upon the Pontifex. The significance and onus of that title is not simply an historical inheritance from those ancient pontiffs who spread Christ’s Word far and wide in the world. The meaning, and the duty it imposes, lives on today, perhaps more urgently than ever. For just as the early popes were often martyrs who had to surrender life itself to build a bridge, then today, it may be that a pope must sacrifice his pride. And what the up-time Church taught us—reminded us—was that this pride was one and the same with the sin of that name. Humility is easily lost in the Holy See, where unceasing efforts to build power and project doctrine with silver and swords pushes it to the side, causes it to wither.
“But the acts of the up-time popes, who steadily divested the Church of such power, showed me another way. It is not just a path to greater Grace, and it exists not just to save lives in these days. It is an inoculation against the opiating impulse to presume and claim that God is on our side, and that a war becomes just when we invoke His name.”
Urban paused, looked around the room. “It was the up-timer who stands beside me now”—Larry felt a flush run from his head all the way down to his thighs—“who kept asking this simple question of me, and in doing so, was the voice of those popes who shall never be: ‘when did God ever command us to kill for him?’ And Cardinal Mazzare was not distracted or deterred from that inquiry when he encountered the sophistries which his down-time brothers attempted to offer as exceptions or caveats. He stuck to that simple question—and so, reopened my heart and eyes to God’s Word: not a mystery, but simple exhortations, without need of explication or exegesis.”
Urban moved his eyes across the audience. “Instead of instructing us to kill, or persecute, or torture, what did Our Savior teach us? To turn the other cheek. To wash the feet of those society deems our inferiors. To love others as ourselves. To bear in mind that the last shall be first and the first shall be last. And to love one another in honor and imitation of the way God loves us. How can even the most tortuous of exegeses of those teachings extract any validation for an exhortation to kill our neighbor, to persecute him in the name of righteousness, and to torture—torture!—his body so that a recantation of heresy might be extracted by pain?”
Urban lowered and shook his head. “No. These things—these earthly horrors—we must reject.” He raised his head; if the liquid shine of his eyes was the result of stagecraft, Mazzare felt himself wholly taken in. He discovered that, once again, he was holding his breath.
Urban’s voice may have quavered for one thin moment. “You may doubt my sincerity. I might do no differently in your place. My mortal failings are well enough known to all. But despite that, God chose me to bear the title of Pontifex, of bridge-builder. It has fallen upon me to take up that role meaningfully, to set aside my prior life and embrace this new one, however humbling or terrifying it might be. Because now I perceive the greater terror before us all: that if I cannot convince you to help me build this bridge, then nothing I say will have the power to change the distrust and destruction that has obtained between our communities for over a century.
“Yet, I am only a renegade pope, with nothing more than legitimacy and these friends to help me on this new path. And I understand that you can hardly convince your followers that the Roman Church has truly changed, because so long as it remains under Borja’s command, it will become more imperious and inhumane than ever. Until I, or some other who follows me in spirit and conviction, sits upon the cathedra once more, how can we spread and enforce the Word, the new canon law, we shall decree here in Besançon?”
It was Menasseh ben Israel who broke the long silence that followed Urban’s words. “So, if and when you return to power, you will disband your Inquisitions and your armies?”
Urban sighed. “Those are two very different questions, Rabbi ben Israel. Insofar as the armies are concerned, I would wish that Mother Church need never defend herself from aggression ever again. I also wish that the lion shall one day lie down with the lamb. But this day is not that day, as the growing threat in the Balkans reminds us.
“However, as concerns the Inquisitions”—Larry could not tell whether Urban had shaken his head vigorously or shuddered—“their license to exact confession or recantation through torment shall not stand. Their continuing existence as pure
ly investigatory bodies is likely, for there will always be questions of whether given actions are consistent with, or contrary to, a life in the Church. But torture? Threats? Torch-carrying thugs pulling mothers and fathers from their homes in the night, their children screaming after them?” Urban closed his eyes. “No. That is at an end the moment I am seated in the cathedra again. And thanks to the up-time invention of the radio, I may send that word around the globe faster than the winds which gust along its equator.”
Cyril Lucaris stood; he glanced shrewdly down the line of cardinals who sat on his side of the great hall. “And if your consistory here does not agree?”
Urban closed his eyes, and a faint smile bent his lips. “Theophilestatos Lucaris, do you honestly believe me so unskilled and naive that I would gather a consistory about which I had doctrinal doubts?”
There were smiles among the cardinals facing Lucaris. A few of the smiles were smug, several were downright wolfish.
And checkmate, thought Larry, who made sure his expression did not change as a visibly surprised Lucaris reseated himself. Urban had indeed left nothing to chance. He had met with each cardinal individually, shortly after they arrived, to impress upon them the need for the council to work toward a definitively ecumenical proclamation, no matter how vague its wording might be. Anything less would probably mean that Borja and his brutality would define the work and perception of the Church for decades to come. And this was the moment where all that preparation finally paid off: the moment he revealed that his consistory had already accepted the broad outlines he had put before them.
Georg Calixtus rose, a smile on his face. “You see? As I said, this is indeed a new day. Let us greet it and resolve to sow seeds of peace we shall harvest later.” He looked around the chamber. “Has everyone asked all the questions in their hearts? May we at last proceed to become acquainted with each other, and even our Catholic peers?”
The murmured assent was not particularly enthusiastic, but it was nearly unanimous.
Von Spee rose as Urban sat, and began presenting the rather formulaic list of thanks that would end with the official opening of the colloquium.
Sharon Nichols leaned over, clearly more than ready to leave. “So, after all that, do you guys have anything left to talk about?”
Larry smiled ruefully. “We haven’t even scratched the surface.” But, he added silently, at least we are going to talk—and that’s half the battle.
Chapter 20
Although the tunnel was no longer as musty as when they had first uncovered it weeks ago, it was still unpleasantly cramped: two men could barely walk abreast and had to duck their heads while doing so.
Ruy, however, found it less constraining than Owen Roe O’Neill, whose height topped his by almost three inches. Behind them, Finan and three of the Wild Geese followed at a distance. Farther back, the door connecting the tunnel to the Carmelite convent creaked shut. The dim light decreased further, eliciting grumbles.
Ruy smiled. “Your men do not seem to be enjoying the tour, Owen.”
“Can’t say I blame them. Or feel differently.”
Ruy nodded. “Such close quarters do take some getting used to.”
“Oh, we’re used to them. My lads and I have fought sappers in more than one hole such as this. Not a pleasant experience. Disinclines a man to similar surroundings, you might say.”
Ruy, who held the lantern, raised it a bit higher. “I am not unfamiliar with such engagements. But I am glad to learn that your men have fought in such conditions. They will be more prepared, should the need arise here.”
Owen ducked his head beneath a support beam. “Not likely to come to that. Assassins would have to know about this tunnel. Then they’d have to take the convent without our knowing and locate the entrance on that side. And, at exactly that same time, we’d have to be entering the tunnel from the palace end, evacuating the pope.” He clucked his tongue. “Hard to see all those events lining up, Ruy.”
The Catalan smiled. “I allow it is unlikely. But in war, unlikely events become almost routine, no?”
O’Neill’s single chuckle came out closer to a grunt. “Now there’s truth, plain and simple.” He eyed the close walls. “Unless they’re armed with pistols similar to our pepperboxes, I think we’d clear a pretty fair path through any assassins who tried to engage us down here. But it would still make for rough footing, having to step over bodies in this tight space.”
“Begging the Colonel’s pardon, but for us to have a set-to with assassins here would require that someone forgets to lock one of the tunnel’s doors, don’ it, sir?”
Owen shook his head. “No, McGillicuddy. The tunnel’s got to be kept unlatched if we’re to be sure to have the use of it in an emergency. Of course, none of the sisters other than the prioress know of it, and so, won’t lock it by mistake. And the prioress checks it every morning to make sure that it’s still open.”
The door on the Palais Granvelle end of the tunnel loomed out of the darkness before them. O’Neill went forward and rapped the simple code.
The door opened, revealing the muzzles of two pepperbox revolvers.
“Fitzgerald, Jeffrey, swing away those pistols; y’can see it’s us, right enough,” complained Finan from over Ruy’s shoulder.
“Can barely make you out at all, Finan. Maybe if you’d be standing on your toes—”
“You’ve had your foolish fun,” Owen muttered gruffly as he exited the tunnel, stifling another round of jibes at the Hibernian radio operator’s size. “Seems you eejits have forgotten how handy a smaller man can be in tunnels. And how they usually make better soldiers.”
By the time O’Neill had finished chastening his men, Ruy and Finan had emerged into the small cellar just a half flight of stairs down from the palace’s music room: one of the areas that they’d closed off in order to restrict the square footage that had to be patrolled by the Wild Geese. Ruy’s steady gaze had the desired effect: the men exiting the tunnel stayed close and quiet. “Now that you have seen the passage, you will show it to the others in your units. In small groups. You will do the same when it comes to the evacuation routes we have established from all points where the pope might tarry for any amount of time.”
Owen looked up, surprised, but said nothing.
Tone Grogan did, however. “Sir, with all this perambulation yer assignin’, well, that’s a great deal of time during which our posts will be understaffed.”
Ruy nodded. “Quite true. But it is preferable to the alternative: that you walk all the routes in groups of ten or twenty, during which time our defenses would be critically understrength. And in the process, you give our enemies far too much information.”
Owen raised his chin. “Colonel Sanchez is right. A few of you out for a stroll won’t cause a stir. If the lot of you go out on what looks like a treasure hunt, anyone watching will know it’s training, for sure. They’d be fools not to follow you and deduce that we mean these as escape and redeployment routes. And they will plan accordingly. We can’t have that. We have to keep them in the dark as much as we can.”
Turlough Eubank nodded. “Understood, sirs. We’ll keep our pace and behavior as casual as we might.”
Owen nodded his appreciation, but added a cautionary note. “That’s a fine plan as long as you don’t take it too far.”
“Sir?”
“Turlough, just let the men be casual; don’t tell them to act as though they are. The balance of them are not great thespians, if you take my meaning.”
Turlough smiled. “Taken to heart, sir.”
“That’s a good lad.” O’Neill started to mount the stairs to the palace’s main level. “Now get on with the lot of you, and start the next group on the circuit.”
Ruy let the group exit, before he brought up the rear slowly. “My apologies, Colonel. I had meant to brief you on the orders for our men to walk the various tactical routes earlier this morning, but last night’s activities have disrupted what we planned today. Such as our
ten o’clock meeting…which neither of us was able to attend.”
Owen nodded as they mounted the stairs. “Damned if I don’t share some of my men’s concerns, though. I’m not keen on walking the routes in broad daylight. Why not wait for dark, send larger groups, get it done while the pope is in his hermit’s cell, behind a triple layer of guards?”
Ruy shrugged. “Because, ultimately, we would draw even more attention at night. As it is, our men are already moving from one post to another throughout the day, as they relieve each other and relay messages. They have become part of the daily traffic upon the streets of Besançon. A small increase in activity has an excellent chance of going unnoticed.
“But at night? They might not be detected immediately, true, but once they are, they will stand out like bulls in an empty paddock.” They had exited the music room and were now in the broad corridor that ran like an artery through the part of the palace designed for public functions: the great hall (which also served as the ballroom), the grand salon, the immense entry hall, and the kitchen and storage areas from which the staff mounted each event. “And if our men become conspicuous, then so will the route they walk. And so our adversary will be able to reason out our contingencies.”
Owen was nodding, but his chin was still thrust forward a bit: an expression Ruy had come to identify as signifying a measure of intractability. “Well, that’s well-reasoned, but then I wonder: might it be better still if we just have the officers and the sergeants walk it? They’ll be the ones seeing to the execution of the different contingencies.”
As they descended a short flight of stairs into the entry hall, they looked left to return the salutes of the guards at either side of the wide staircase. Ruy replied once they had turned right to pass through the kitchens. “I deem it insufficient that we only acquaint the commanders with the various routes. For, if we have need of any of the escape routes it means that our primary defenses have been breached and we may have already lost officers. Our units may be disrupted. Under such conditions, there will be no time to organize unrehearsed contingencies.” He stopped in front of the door to the servant’s section. “So, as the pope’s chief of security, I am afraid I must insist upon having all our men walk the routes themselves.”
