by Eric Flint
Urban bowed his head. “It is not a simple thing, to throw off long-held distrusts and animosities. I am honored and humbled that you are willing to entertain the possibility that, despite my many flaws, I am honestly and earnestly attempting to fashion my deeds and words according to my best, if imperfect, understanding of Christ’s will and vision for us all.”
Gerhard smiled. “I will promise not to convey that confession of imperfection to the others.”
Urban waved his hand. “As a man, I am far more imperfect than most. And as for speaking ex cathedra—well, I think I shall do so as sparingly as I might, henceforth. It is hard to believe I could truly be a vessel for His Voice and Wisdom. But subtle pride can hide within the guise of humility. It is upon me to remain the pontifex, so I must accept that I am unworthy of my position even as I carry out its responsibilities.”
Gerhard leaned back as if to get a better look at the pope seated before him. “It is strange, is it not, how our Lord ensures that even the agents of Satan ultimately become the means whereby His Will is realized?”
Urban frowned. “I am not sure I take your meaning, Reverend Gerhard.”
“I simply mean that, if there was any uncertainty among the colloquists when we ended our proceedings just before lunch, today’s events have eliminated that.”
Urban shook his head. “I still do not understand.”
Dury threw out an impatient hand. “You were almost martyred. But perhaps more importantly, we all know who paid those assassins their thirty pieces of silver: Borja. And if we must deal with the Roman Church, and we must, then the choice between the two of you became not merely conceptually, but viscerally, clear today.
“Do not look so surprised. You know the weakness of all men: that we are quick to forget, both what we have seen before, and the resolutions made because of what we saw. Specifically, who could be surprised that Borja would attempt to assassinate you again? But today, it was not some distant event. It happened right before our eyes. And we can hardly doubt that Borja would have been happiest if no small number of us might have been within the reach of the bombs and grenades.”
Urban’s reply was quiet, almost a whisper. “If the fine soldiers who gave their lives protecting me thereby ensured that we—all of you and I—might truly put an end to sectarian strife, then they should indeed be memorialized as martyrs, as men who fought and died so that untold millions would not have to do so in the future.”
Lucaris and Gerhard made a chorus with Larry, murmuring, “Amen.”
After a moment of silence, a small grin grew on Gerhard’s face. “I hoped, as the colloquium went on, that you might indulge me by answering a question before we departed.” His smile became wider. “It is not theologically significant.”
Urban shrugged. “Ask.”
—a response which, Larry noted, invited the inquiry but offered no promises about making an answer to it.
Gerhard nodded, no doubt having decoded the same subtext. “You know, of course, the kinds of questions we will face upon returning to our homes, to the rulers who will look to our report of the events here as a guide and barometer for how to deal with the Roman Church in the coming months, even years.”
Urban smiled. “They are as predictable as a miser’s grab after a falling coin.”
“Just so. But there is a question I am sure we will be asked for which we have no answer. Specifically, you have spoken much about your change of heart, and determination to chart a course back toward grace. But what prompted it, finally? What passage from scripture, or writing by John Paul II, was the fulcrum point for you?” Gerhard reacted to Urban’s quizzical expression by explaining in greater detail. “What you describe is, for all intents and purposes, an epiphany. But you have spoken of it in generalities. The more exact and concrete its description, the more likely that the secular leaders of our nations and cities will believe it.”
Urban nodded. “It is a prudent question. I wish I had a more illuminating and intellectual answer for you. But, if we are fortunate enough to get a fleeting glimpse of the face of God, it usually comes suddenly, unbidden, from places and events where we were least likely to look for it. So it was with me.
“Over the winter, as we remained in hiding here in Besançon, Ambassadora Nichols became concerned for everyone’s mental and emotional well-being. She was fearful that we would all—staff, soldiers, clerics—contract a malady she called ‘cabin-fever.’ This, I later learned, was a euphemism for the increasing boredom and impatience that comes along with snow, cold, and shorter days which commend us to our hearths. So, determined to raise our spirits, Donna Sharon sent to Grantville for what they call a film projector and several films, both from the high school library and private collections.”
Urban grinned at Larry. “Cardinal Mazzare owned one such film. It was the first one we ‘screened,’ just two nights before Christmas, after completing our devotions. It is called It’s a Wonderful Life. I do not wish to detain you with a synopsis of it. Suffice it to say that it is a morality play, set in their miraculous and confusing future world. Neither the discourse nor the circumstances are lofty or particularly inventive. Indeed, I suppose some would consider the main character’s dilemmas to be trite and contrived. But somehow, that only adds to its charm and to its Everyman applicability to all persons, regardless of their social station.”
Urban either did not notice or was not concerned with the increasingly surprised expressions on the faces of his three visitors. “Ultimately, the protagonist—a rather Job-like character—contemplates suicide, but before he can plunge into an icy river, he sees and rescues a man in the current beneath him. This fellow turns out, most improbably, to be an angel in disguise, who becomes his guide through the world as changed by the protagonist’s despair: the world as it would have been had he never lived.
“Predictably, in the course of his travels, he rediscovers his love of his actual life, which kindles renewed hope and a repudiation of the suicide he was considering. And then, again reprising Job, he is rewarded by having his ills removed by the same Divine Providence which originally inflicted them. A predictable, even childish, tale, I know.
“And yet, in its simplicity, it spoke to me more eloquently than any learned treatise about how we choose the future we come to inhabit, and what occurs when we become too bitter—or jaded—to be guided to it by hope and grace.” Urban looked down, rubbing his hands together slowly, meditatively. “I had abandoned that long ago. Maybe before I had to shave. It was all I was taught; it was all I knew. This simple film brought me face to face with the fact that although I preached poverty and grace, I had never repudiated my materialism, my hoarding of the appurtenances of secular power.
“So yes, Urban VIII, or better, Maffeo Barberini speaks of greed. And who better? For the up-time books showed me what my intimates would not, and which I refused to see in my own mirror: they depict my vanity and selfishness. And they do so in such matter-of-fact terms—so dispassionately, and at such a great remove from the years of my papacy—that it is clear that this is not the voice of partisanship. This is the long-settled judgment of history upon the kind of pope, and man, I was.
“So it was ultimately not the theological treatises of the up-time world that saved me: it was Grantville’s films and history books. And now I must act in accordance with what they revealed to me.”
He stood. “Your concern and solicitude leaves me in your debt, gentlemen. Now, I do not mean to appear rude, but the events of the past hours have been somewhat fatiguing and I have my sermon to deliver tomorrow in St. John’s.”
Dury actually wrung his long, pale, hands. “Might it not be more advisable to…well, continue to minimize your exposure, Your Eminence?”
Larry wanted to nod vigorously; no one had been able to talk Urban out of officiating at the cathedral’s Pentecost Sunday service.
Urban’s smile was almost sly. “Firstly, I think that we have now exhausted Besançon’s surprising supply of assassins,
and I refuse to be cowed by the fear of them anymore. But secondly, did I hear you correctly?” His left eyebrow rose: “‘Your Eminence?’” he repeated quizzically.
Dury stiffened slightly. “We all use terrestrial titles without suggesting that their holders have precedence over us in the eyes of our one true Lord. It is no different in this case. I simply used the title for the archbishop of Rome.”
Urban’s smile broadened as Gerhard rolled his eyes at Dury’s lack of humor. “I understand, Reverend Dury. I had thought a moment of levity might be yet another step forward.”
Dury blushed. “I am…not accustomed to levity in matters of faith and God. But as you say…well, it is another change to which I must become accustomed.” His smile looked more like a brief spasm of indigestion. “Better smiles than swords, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Lucaris murmured with a nod, “I think we can all agree with that. And upon the lateness of the hour.” The three stood along with him. “Thank you for receiving us.”
“Truly, it was my pleasure. And yes, Cardinal Mazzare, you may go with them. And do send word on Father General Vitelleschi’s condition.”
* * *
Larry Mazzare found Sharon sitting with a cup of black tea in the bedroom adjoining the prioress’s, which had become both the operating theater and recovery room for Muzio Vitelleschi. “How are you doing?” he asked, entering with as soft a tread as he could muster.
Sharon looked up. Her eyes were so bloodshot, it looked like an overdone special effect rather than reality. “Nothing that a few hours of sleep couldn’t fix.”
Larry nodded and glanced toward the door that communicated between her bedroom and Vitelleschi’s.
Sharon saw the look. “Connal is in with him. That guy is becoming a damned good surgeon. Did a tricky removal; could’ve easily nicked an artery but didn’t. He’s on watch for another forty minutes. Then I go back in. It’s nip and tuck.”
“So, if you’re on duty again in forty minutes, why aren’t you asleep?”
Sharon looked up at him. “Ever been so exhausted by a nonstop crisis that it takes you hours just to relax enough to go to sleep?”
“Once or twice.”
“Well, this is one of those times.”
“Should I have them send you more tea?”
“Nah. The next guard rota has promised to bring me a pot of honest-to-God coffee.” Seeing Larry’s eyes drifting back toward the leader of the Jesuit order, she sighed, “Don’t ask, because I don’t know. If he makes the night, I give him fifty-fifty odds for tomorrow. If he makes that, and no sepsis sets in, I think he’ll make it. But he lost a lot of blood.”
“Thanks. I’ll send word back to Urban.”
“Well,” sighed Sharon as she leaned back in her chair, “the pope probably has more power over the outcome now than I do.”
“How so?”
“Because if the stories and claims are right, he’s got a hotline to the Big Guy upstairs. And from here on in, Vitelleschi’s life is truly in God’s hands.”
Part Seven
Sunday
May 11, 1636
The basic slate, the universal hue
Chapter 45
Owen Roe O’Neill glanced behind to check the carriage that had moved the consistory’s scribes and lesser assistants from their gathering point at the steps of the Palais Granvelle to St. John’s, and now back. And somewhere, mixed in among them, was a scribe as old as any other there, and a Franciscan monk, judging by his simple, hooded habit.
Except that the scribe was in fact Urban VIII who had not, contrary to appearances, returned from St. John’s to the abbey and cloister by one of the three, predictably shrouded sedan chairs. Instead, he had once again blended in with the lowest members of the consistory’s support staff. A handful of out-of-uniform Wild Geese accompanied the carriage. It was all they could muster, with their numbers temporarily reduced. The Hibernians had taken over all the security at the cloister, and, unbeknownst to anyone else, a good deal of the hallway watchpoints in the Carmelite priory, where the majority of the combat-ready Wild Geese remained, making sure that the pope was safe.
Despite the prudent shifting of their forces—half of the snipers and overwatch teams in belltowers had been redeployed—it hadn’t made Owen or Ruy much happier with the day’s military state of affairs. They knew, as few others did, just how understaffed they now were, and would not rest easy until the next detachment of Hibernians arrived by balloon, sometime later this day, or the next if the weather failed to hold.
Ruy Sanchez had been uncustomarily grim-lipped as they had watched two columns of the dour Hibernians walking on either flank of the sedan chairs, rifles at the ready. If that hadn’t been enough to deter any possible assassins, half of Joasaphus’ Russian guards were riding at the front and the back of the formation, faces wearing fierce, suspicious scowls for anyone who had the temerity to meet their eyes. The same parade had made its way back to the convent, without Urban in any of the chairs, and without Ruy there to watch the charade: the long wound on his arm been swelling and was now warm enough to the touch that Sharon hustled him out of the cathedral as soon as the service was concluded.
So now it was Owen and two of his men, Tone Grogan and Dermot Carty, who walked back to the priory alone, catching up with the carriage just as it drew up in front of the Neptune fountain. O’Neill scanned for Urban, caught sight of his habit still in one of the seats, then spotted the man he’d hoped to find: “Turlough Eubank!”
The tall sergeant turned, possibly with a hitch in his step as he did. “Colonel?”
O’Neill drew up to him; Grogan and Carty hung back. “Turlough, has Connal released anyone from the infirmary yet?”
“Sorry, sir, but it’s gone the other way, I’m afraid: Dunnigan near fell over with fever just forty minutes ago. He’ll not be able to stand the next watch in the pope’s chambers.”
O’Neill shook his head. “I was afraid of that. So I’ve sent the only man I’ve got free to replace him: Danny O’Dee. He’s with the pope now.”
Turlough balked. “Sir? Danny?”
Owen frowned. “There’s a problem with Danny?”
“Well…nothing other than he’s not likely to stand up to a priest, let alone a pope. You know ’im, sir: good lad, but just that: still a lad. Like as not to genuflect every time he comes within spittin’ distance of a church.”
O’Neill nodded, but had no alternatives. “As you say, Danny’s a good lad. Which means he’ll follow orders. Better than having him sitting by McCarew’s sickbed, wringing his hands. I’ve got to have two men on that detail. So you can do the bossing and Danny can do the shooting, if it comes to it.” He glanced more closely at his senior sergeant. “You seem awfully pale, Turlough.”
Eubank grunted through a lopsided grin. “You’ve got no rosy bloom in your own cheek, Owen O’Neill.”
Owen shrugged. “Well, I can’t argue that. When did you last sleep? Twenty-four hours ago?”
“Erm, don’t know exactly, sir. Been a while, though.”
Owen clapped a hand down on his sergeant’s shoulder. “Damn, but it’s been a hard day for all of us. Now best you catch up.”
“Catch up?”
“Aye. Just saw the pope get down from the carriage and head into the priory. Danny’s already in his chambers. So get stepping, Sergeant.”
Turlough may have winced as he nodded and turned away. Owen frowned. Eubank was usually among the more stoic of his men. But long days and aches and pains could overcome all of them, like as not. Besides, there was more duty shuffling to do, if he was to make sure that there would be adequate security for all the attendees, as well as Urban.
* * *
Turlough Eubank kept himself from stumbling as he reached the stairs leading up to the pope’s rooms. It was urgent that he get there—not so much for the pope’s safety, but Danny’s sanity. The lad would likely wet himself if the pope so much as frowned at him.
As Eubank thought about
Danny wetting himself, he realized he’d better pay attention to the same need. At least. And he couldn’t very well ask to borrow the pope’s own chamberpot. Seemed vaguely like he’d be defiling something. Nonsense, of course. But he admitted there was probably a little bit of Danny O’Dee in every man who’d ever been brought up in an Irish parish, no matter how old and grizzled he became.
Turlough swung away from the stairs, bracing himself before walking through two rooms of what his men had dubbed “nun-country:” the part of the priory that the mother superior had set aside for her convent’s exclusive use during the pope’s stay. He sped through the two chambers: a sitting room and the kitchen itself, where two of the Carmelites were working and did their best not to notice the large, rough, armed man who stalked around them and out toward the privy.
Eubank almost missed the first step down from the kitchen, barely caught himself. Yes, it had been a long time since he had gotten any sleep. And while he hadn’t technically lied to O’Neill—he couldn’t say exactly how long it had been—he knew that it was before breakfast yesterday. So, coming up on thirty hours without a wink. Almost half that time since he’d even sat down: with so many wounded, he’d had to oversee the guard shifts in the priory all night long.
He reached the jakes, closed the door behind him, turned, undid his buff-coat, his belt, sat, stared down at his hands—
—and felt his hair stand up. He was covered in blood down to his knees. Most of it was dried, but Jayzus—
He put his hand under his shirt, felt for the source, found two small punctures just above his belt—or, just under it, when standing. So he’d been bleeding, steady and slow for half a day or more. The belt must have held back the flow, but then, as it just shifted, the wounds had opened.
He probed each one with a tentative finger: they were sore and hot. Why hadn’t he felt that before now? Maybe he had, he realized in the next second, but had just dismissed it along with the other aches and pains and agonies of being on duty, hand perpetually on hilt, for the last day and a half.
