by Eric Flint
“And what, exactly, is it?”
Larry was trying to find the words when Wadding raised his chin and let flow his particularly Irish eloquence. “It is the essence of the grace and charity that God granted the fathers of the up-time church, tried and then titrated through the contemporary alembic that was Pope Urban VIII’s fine mind, and reformed into a tonic suitable for this day and age. It is neither too ambitious in its directives, nor so general that it can be avoided, forgotten, or reinterpreted into meaninglessness. It is an ecumenical elixir, one which we may all sip, and which we shall all survive.” He glanced, maybe glared, at Larry. “However, it was to be an encyclical, a matter for discussion not a fait accompli.”
Larry shrugged. “In the last few days, Urban decided otherwise. After the ambush at St. John’s, well, I think he realized he might not be around for the discussion. So he made it a straight up legacy: a circular.”
Sharon nodded. “I’ve seen it.” She returned Bedmar’s surprised stare. “If the consistory confirms it as canon, I think the majority of the other churches will go for it. And equipped with those radios, I think they’ll want to start discussing it, and comparing their experiences trying to put it into practice.”
“Which could be quite difficult. Even bloody,” Bedmar observed.
Larry nodded. “Yes, it probably will be. But they won’t be experiencing that alone; they’ll be trying it together, suffering together, persevering together. They’ll share strategies for introducing it at every social level, from a prince’s court to a peasant’s hovel. And wherever the USE’s Committees of Correspondence have a toehold, there’s ready-made support for the basic proposition that is its foundation: freedom of religion.”
Bedmar folded his arms and looked down; it was clearly a posture he had learned as an officer, not a cleric. “This is all well thought out. However, although I do not anticipate a challenge from Madrid regarding my election, I am quite certain that when I publicly aver that Urban is a martyr of the Church and that his ecumenical directives should become dogma, Philip and his cardinals will charge me with the same deviation from faith that led them to supporting Borja’s rape of Rome.”
Wadding nodded. “Just as occurred when Urban exonerated Galileo. The door was opened to considering the matter of the up-timers as something other than the agents or creations of Satan, a proposition that many cannot renounce.”
“Precisely,” agreed Bedmar. “And I will be tarred with the same brush.” He turned to Mazzare. “I have read the arguments you advanced in Molino against the proposition that Grantville is the work of the devil. They are compelling, but there is one problem with them.”
Larry raised an eyebrow. “And what is that?”
Bedmar sighed. “None of them are mine. If I simply repeat your arguments, it will be easy—indeed, natural—for the clergy of my country to accuse me of following the Satanic up-timer path as blithely as did Urban. I need additional arguments, arguments I may represent as my own, which shall preempt that accusation.” He smiled. “In short, I am asking you to be the theologian that I most certainly am not. But that I shall take the credit for being.”
Well, at least he’s honest about it. “Very well, Your Eminence. There is a line of reasoning which I did not use at Molino, in part because I did not have the time, and in part because it was so provocative. You might say it follows the reasoning that the best defense is a strong offense.”
“Excellent. I welcome such an approach.”
I expected no less. “So, let us project the inevitable. They will make their argument not against the particulars of any one doctrine, or even the religious documents which came from the future; they will attempt to attack the problem at its root. In short, they will assert the Satanic nature of Grantville itself.”
“Without doubt,” Bedmar agreed. “Despite the level of superstition required to maintain such a belief in the face of all evidence to the contrary, you might be surprised—or more likely, alarmed—how many otherwise learned men in the Escorial and in the churches of Spain are able to remain steadfastly behind such a conclusion.”
Alarmed yes, surprised no. “My arguments in Molino were made before more reasonable men. So I refrained from the most aggressive riposte I could make, which points to how such a belief actually contradicts long-standing Church positions. It forces them to either overturn those time-honored beliefs or accept that Grantville’s identity and appearance are both natural, rather than supernatural, in origin.”
Bedmar nodded vigorously and lowered his head, as if prepared to butt his way through a dense web of theological sophistries.
Larry managed not to smile. “If it is argued that the creation of Grantville, its inhabitants, and the profound and even prophetic accuracy of the information it brought into the world are all within the scope of Satan’s power, which he has only now fully shown, we must then ask: why is it that Satan was so tardy exploiting these powers, unless God was restraining them? But then why would He restrain them no longer? Perhaps He has grown so weak or inattentive that Satan was able to overpower His protection?”
The stiffened spines among the clerics in the room demonstrated just how the mere suggestion of God’s infirmity or forgetfulness prompted a fiercely oppositional reaction.
“Of course,” continued Mazzare, “Spain’s theologians will insist, loudly, that such a proposition is absurd. And once they do so, Cardinal Bedmar, they have handed you your victory. For then they must answer why Satan has not attempted this ploy until now, and also why God would permit it—and that therefore, the revered exegetes of the past several centuries have evidently been uniformly wrong in their explanations of why the age of great miracles is past. Because clearly, it isn’t.”
Bedmar was nodding fiercely, smiling at the end. “The most ardent among them will, of course, attempt to concoct rebuttals. But they will be at considerable pains to do so convincingly, and shall no doubt become entangled in their own theological bickering as they attempt to finalize their counterposition. Which shall buy us the time we need. As you no doubt foresaw.”
Larry smiled. “In the up-time game of football, this is known as running out the clock. We don’t have to score again; we just have to keep them from doing anything useful until it’s too late.”
Bedmar smiled back and put out his hand. “I will hope to have your counsel, Cardinal Mazzare, should the conclave decide as you suspect.”
“As I suspect and as Mother Church must hope.” Larry bowed slightly. “And as for my counsel, you have it now as my brother in Christ, and later, as the Prelate of Rome.”
Bedmar nodded, then frowned. “I must confess I do have a worry about this strategy, though.” He looked down.
Larry had never seen Bedmar do such a thing. “You have a reservation regarding the efficacy of this argument?”
Bedmar shook his head. “Not the argument, but where its success might lead us.”
“And where is that?”
Bedmar looked up. “To a godless world. After all, is that not where yours was headed?”
Before Mazzare could answer, Wadding swept in: strange to think that the man who had made precisely this argument was now ready to inveigh against it. “Your fear today was mine last year in Molino, my brother. After all, we find in Grantville’s collected volumes explanations for the majority of natural phenomena which we attributed to the God’s touch upon the firmament of His creation. Thus, the mysteries of the universe shrink so profoundly that, to the layman, it will seem as though they have disappeared, even though philosophers of science ensure me that the remaining miracles, while more subtle, are also more profound.”
Mazzare smiled faintly. “I seem to recall that you spent some time grappling with the concepts of relativity, special relativity, and quantum mechanics.”
“And I can still feel the vestiges of the headache they inflicted upon me, Lawrence. But as I spent more time contemplating these wonders, I came to see that perhaps they are an incomparable gift. C
onsider: we have them and a world based on faith at the same time. Perhaps here, in this reality which Grantville forever changed, if we are bold enough, we may seize upon these without the controversies of your world, Cardinal Mazzare. Perhaps, we will not see these revelations as evidence that God need not exist, but rather, that His Creation is woven from such fine and elegant forces that they themselves are the enduring proof that what surrounds us cannot be without an architect, cannot be happenstance. We and the entirety of the material universe were made with purpose, and it is His Words which shall guide us to the point where worldly mysteries meet and fuse with divine miracles that, together, make up the very face of God Himself.”
The passion in Wadding’s voice and eyes made Mazzare wonder if, had the old Irishman been around up-time, he would have become the lead spokesperson for the concept of intelligent design.
Bedmar glanced up. “Cardinal Wadding, your optimism can almost sway a cynical old warhorse like me, but really: do you think it shall work the way you hope? These mean profound changes to the Church and the faith of its flock. Consider how these shall sound: that most natural phenomena are scientific in nature, but do not diminish the centrality of godhead; that it is consistent with God’s will that we beat our Counter-Reformational swords into the ploughshares whereby we shall raise up a new crop of truly ecumenical attitudes.”
Larry leaned back. “I grant you, it won’t be quick and it won’t be easy. But on the other hand, Urban VIII died for his beliefs and for the hope and promise of ecumenicism, of peace. That makes him a martyr of the first order. We can’t underestimate the power of that. In my world, an American president by the name of Kennedy set our nation the challenge of boldly exploring outer space, shortly before he was assassinated.” Larry folded his hands. “And so, we went to the moon in record time, carrying Kennedy’s memory with us all the way. So, will the pope’s martyrdom create an analogous, extra measure of passion for and curiosity about the ideas for which he died? For finally putting aside the grudges that have divided Christendom?”
Although the question had been rhetorical, Sharon took it at face value. “My guess? You’ll find all the people with common sense, or reason, or just plain open-mindedness on one side.”
Bedmar frowned. “And on the other?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “All the reactionaries, fanatics, and hatemongers. In a word: all the assholes.”
Bedmar blinked and then beamed. “Ambassadora Nichols, if I am selected in the conclave, I wonder; would you agree to remain as the ambassador to the legitimate papacy?”
“And work with my husband’s former boss and fellow troublemaker?” She smiled back. “I’ll have to think about that.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Larry very much doubted that that was all that Bedmar would ask for.
But it was as good a start as any.
Epilogue
Monday
May 12, 1636
There is a substance in us that prevails
Standing on the front steps of the Palais Granvelle with Bedmar, Larry Mazzare waved his solemn farewells to the slow but persistent trickle of colloquists who passed, making their way to the Pont Battant and, ultimately, to their respective homes.
Bedmar leaned slightly toward Larry. “Lawrence, do you think they know? They appear…concerned.”
Larry shook his head. “No. But we told them that the pope required rest and also wished to remain at Father Vitelleschi’s bedside, whose condition is very grave.”
Bedmar sighed. “I wish no ill upon the father general, but I must say, I wish the roles you have assigned them were reversed.”
Larry resisted the urge to glance at Bedmar’s mournful tone. “I wasn’t aware you were so fond of the pope.” He couldn’t yet bring himself to say “the late pope.”
Bedmar shrugged. “He changed greatly in the last two years. In some ways, I thought it was for the worse…until I came here and realized that he had not grown irresolute or weak, but had acquired the strength of the convictions that define our faith. And in so doing, he has left us an example we must emulate. For if Maffeo Barberini can reject the allure of earthly power and riches, then surely it is within the scope of us all.”
Several of the colloquists parted from the main stream and made toward the stairs: Komensky, Lucaris, and Manasseh ben Israel. The latter was the first to speak. “I wish to extend my particular thanks and gratitude for the invitation to participate in the colloquium.” A smile quirked the left side of his mouth. “In the past, those of my faith have typically received a different kind of summons from Church authorities. Far more insistent…and pointed.” He glanced at a Burgundian guard’s halberd.
Larry allowed himself the luxury of a small, rueful smile. “Yes, well, changing the nature of, and reason for, those invitations is a large part of what we’re trying to achieve. I hope you’ll consider returning.”
Manasseh bowed very deeply, placing his hand upon his heart. “If I am invited, I shall be honored to attend.” He straightened. “Might I—we—leave a message of special gratitude for the pope, as well as our wishes for his continued good health?”
“We would be happy to convey both those sentiments,” Bedmar replied with a nod of his head.
Komensky gestured backward toward his small entourage. “I wished to add a special thanks for the radio. A most generous, and useful, gift. I wonder, though: if we should have problems with it, or, for some other reason, we fall silent, is it possible that you shall know in an, er, timely fashion?”
Larry smiled at his carefully indirect words: the radio was an important, but frail and vulnerable, lifeline for any of the colloquists who had reason to fear the disapproval of their home authorities. “The first thing that shall be established with each of you is what is called a ‘radio check schedule.’ We will agree upon a reasonable interval in which we expect to hear from you. If you should go silent, we will know to mount inquiries, either to discover the nature of repairs your radio might require, or any other impediments that you might be experiencing.”
Komensky smiled and bowed himself away as Lucaris stepped forward. His tone was as brusque as his words: “In the first blush of enthusiasm for this new ecumenicism, no one has yet bluntly spoken these crucial words: we may fail. Some of us may die.”
Larry nodded, thought, If only you knew how powerfully we experienced that truth just yesterday.
However, before Larry could reply, Bedmar folded his hands and said, “Theophilestatos Lucaris, as you certainly know, I am what is called a ‘political cardinal.’ My command of theology, or even a modest degree of religious eloquence, is woefully wanting.
“However, I commanded men on battlefields, so I understand wars: not just wars involving swords and cannon, but those involving ideas and beliefs. And that is the experience I draw upon when I tell you: yes, we will have casualties. Yes, we will lose some battles. But we are no longer merely individuals, hoping for change. We are the leaders of a new army. An army not just of hope, but survival. Certainly, the carrot of peace and brotherhood is a strong incentive, but the stick—the threat of being defeated in detail by the resurgent Turk—that will serve to marry the idealism of this colloquium with the practicalities of survival. Yes, similar things have been said before, both by prior idealists and prior pragmatists. But never before have these things been spoken so frankly, never before has the need to accept them been so great, and never before have they had a handmaiden as powerful as the radio. This is a war we shall win.” He smiled. “That is the opinion of a general, not a cardinal, but I hope it counts for something.”
Lucaris’ dark eyes were unblinking, their focus upon Bedmar almost alarmingly intense. “It counts for a great deal, Cardinal Bedmar. A great deal indeed. I hope we shall meet soon again.”
Larry smiled, put out his hand. “That’s the plan. Safe travels.”
Lucaris took it in a firm shake, his gaze softening. “And safety to you as well. Cardinal Borja will
no doubt try once again to remove this growing thorn from his paw. I pray that your lion-slayers shall do no less than they did this time.”
Larry smiled, waved farewell, and felt like his heart had turned to stone.
“That,” Bedmar said in a thick voice, “was difficult to hear.”
Larry stared after Lucaris. “Tell me about it.”
* * *
Estuban Miro shooed the radio operator out of his office, sending him on an errand that would take him to the other side of Grantville. “I’m alone now, Mike.”
Michael Stearns sounded distracted. “Yeah, okay. I don’t have a lot of time here. Got some uncooperative southern neighbors to set straight. So what’s up?”
“Me. Literally. I’m taking a balloon to Besançon within the hour.”
One of the unnerving features of voice-grade communications—and the radios capable of it were few and far between—was that one had to endure what the up-timers dubbed “pregnant pauses.” During telegraph style signaling, a long silence could mean so many different things: a distracted operator on the other end, the other sender’s need to phrase his reply so that it was as succinct and complete as possible, or even a brief equipment failure. But with voice transmissions, the circuit remained open, the constant crackle a reminder that the other party was there, had heard, and could reply whenever they chose. Except they hadn’t yet chosen to do so. Which often signified a potential dispute in the offing.
When Mike Stearns’ voice finally emerged from the speaker, his tone had become more measured, even determined, in its patience: not a good sign. “Estuban, I thought we went over this. The first rule of running any organization is that you have to be able to delegate, to trust the people who are carrying out your orders. It ruins their morale, and costs you time you can’t afford, if you go flying off to fix a problem whenever one of your plans goes wrong.”
Miro cleared his throat. “I’m not going because of what went wrong in Besançon.”
