CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Ambassadora Nichols!” The embassy runner, Carlo, sprinted inside the house’s courtyard from his customary position at the front gate. Sharon Nichols turned, alarmed at Carlo’s volume. The modest compound they’d established outside Padua was too small to require that much vocal energy—unless it was to announce trouble. Her concern faded as she noticed Ruy’s unruffled calm; he indicated the relaxed postures of the Marine guards standing within the shadow of the main gate’s archway. Two of them leaned out a bit, the tilt of their heads suggesting modest interest in some exterior object.
Ruy began striding toward the arch. “It seems we have visitors, my love.”
“Seems so.” Which could only mean one thing, given her renegade embassy’s incognito location in the Paduan countryside—
Harry Lefferts breezed past the Marines and then planted himself at the entry to the courtyard, thumbs in his belt. “Damn,” he said, looking around. “This place sucks.”
Sharon smiled. “It’s good to see you too, Harry.” She walked into Lefferts’ brief hug as Ruy’s left eyebrow rose slightly. She turned, gestured to her husband with almost courtly grace, “Harry, this is my husband, Señor Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz.”
Harry cocked a grin and stuck out a hand. “Heard a lot about you.”
“And I about you.” Ruy’s hand was in the American’s with an extra measure of speed and sureness.
“And so our two legendary warriors meet at last. Now, who’ve you brought with you, Harry?”
“The whole damned Crew.” He grinned. “And more than a dozen of the Hibernian Mercenary Battalion.”
Sharon craned her neck. “I don’t see them.”
Ruy put a hand on her arm. “And, for now, you will not, my dear. During the last radio exchange with Señor Lefferts’ group, I instructed that they bivouac in the copse by the stream, about two miles west. We do not want to attract more attention than we must.”
Harry snorted as he looked at Nichols’ husband. “Y’know, you should just call me Harry, because there’s no way I’m going to remember that long moniker of yours—Ruy.”
Ruy smiled. “As you suggest, ‘Harry.’ Since your name was appellation enough for one of the most gallant kings of England, then I presume it is sufficient for you.”
“Well—just barely.” Harry’s smile matched Ruy’s.
In the meantime, another traveler appeared in the archway. His greeting was in sharp contrast to the casual up-time reunion: the man gave a small bow.
Harry hooked a thumb as the newcomer approached. “This is Don Estuban Miro.”
Sharon extended her ample hand and found it being shaken by a longer, fine-boned one which was closer to the color of her own than it was to Harry’s. Miro was a man of slightly more than medium height, well-formed and fit but without the aura of “soldier” about him. But as he said, “Pleased to meet you, Ambassador,” Sharon was struck by how, upon looking at his face, she spontaneously recalled the bookish phrase “intelligent eyes.” Because Miro’s certainly were. It was hard to say what made eyes look “intelligent” exactly, and because of that, it was sometimes tempting to think that it was just a literary convention. And it was certainly true that there were some folks who were quite intelligent, but whose eyes gave no clue of it.
But nevertheless, Estuban Miro had intelligent—remarkably intelligent—eyes. She could tell that these were eyes that missed nothing, and yet revealed even less of what went on behind them. Sharon was fairly sure that she, Ruy, and the surroundings, were all being swiftly examined, but she couldn’t see him doing it.
Ruy’s reaction to Miro was quite novel. His own assessing gaze evolved into a sly smile as he extended his hand. “Viaje largo?
There might have been a momentary flash of surprise in Miro’s eyes. If so, it was there and gone so quickly that Sharon could not be sure. The smile on the newcomer’s face was a match to Ruy’s as he responded, “Com ho saps?”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “Okay, guys, if you’re gonna start in with the Spanish, can you at least translate for those of us who almost flunked it in ninth grade?”
“That is not Spanish.” The voice from behind was mellifluous, yet firm. Sharon turned. Three figures in cowled friar’s habits had emerged from the small cottage in the courtyard.
“No, not Spanish,” Harry agreed with a nod. “But I can’t place it. How about you, Father?”
Sharon couldn’t resist a half-smile. “Harry, I believe the proper form of address is ‘Holy Father.’”
“Holy Father?” Harry gawked. “As in, the pope?”
The hooded figure so labeled nodded and drew back his cowl. “The language your friends are speaking is Catalan. I am not well versed in it, but Ruy asked our newcomer if he had had a long journey. And our newcomer asked in return ‘How did you know?’—meaning I presume, ‘How did you know I was Catalan?’” The face that had been concealed by the hood was well-advanced in years, worldly, patrician, and subtly aristocratic. It was not, in any way, a face that blended well with the garb of a rustic friar. Nor did the gesture of the slightly raised hand and proffered ring.
Miro bowed very low. “Your Holiness,” he said.
Urban VIII’s brow rose slightly.
Miro provided the explanation with yet another small bow. “Your Eminence, kneeling and kissing your ring would be inappropriate in my case.”
Urban’s brow became level again and he nodded.
Ruy exclaimed, as if suddenly solving a puzzle. “Ah! So, that’s the accent! You are Mallorquin, and a xueta.”
Miro nodded.
One of Harry’s eyebrows climbed. “My-orkeen? A zhoo-wayta? Now does some one what to fill me in?” And then, remembering the pope, he removed his hat. “Pleased to meet you, Your Holiness.”
Urban’s smile was benign and a bit bemused.
Ruy was providing explanations. “Señor Lefferts, in your many travels, I am sure you have heard of Mallorca, the main island of the Balearics. It is several days’ sail due east of Barcelona. Their language is mostly Catalan, but a distinct dialect. And the xuetas—” Ruy’s brow dipped slightly “—are its Jewish population, who were compelled to profess themselves as Catholics. It is awkward to say more about their circumstances in—in the present company.”
Urban’s smile dimmed, but he nodded. “A tactful close to that unfortunate topic, Señor Casador y Ortiz.” He shifted his eyes back to Miro. “And is this all your party that will be staying with us here?” Sharon frowned, wondering. Urban sounded oddly expectant, and a bit wistful, too. What or who was he expecting? This was the full complement that had been approved for—
But a third figure—lean in a dusty habit—advanced through the shadows of the archway. Sharon realized the cleric’s gait was familiar a split second before she saw the face. “Larry—Cardinal—Mazzare! What the hell are you doing in Italy?”
“Collecting dust from every road from here to Bergamo, I think.” Larry Mazzare, the American village priest that Urban VIII had appointed the cardinal-protector of the United States of Europe, closed the remaining distance with a smile, arms out for the slightly distant embrace that was his wont.
Sharon held him back after a moment, staring at him. “Damn it, Larry. Does Mike know you came down here? No? Oh, hell, Larry. When Stearns hears about this, he’s going to have your—”
“Melissa already warned me about my impending castration. But I suspect His Holiness might be willing to intercede on my behalf and explain to Mike that my travel here was necessary. More necessary than a layperson might readily imagine.”
Urban VIII came forward. “That is so very true. Lawrence, it is wonderful to see you here. Quite wonderful indeed.”
Mazzare kissed the proffered papal ring while the pontiff seemed to restrain himself from putting an approving—and relieved?—hand upon the up-timer’s head. As Mazzare straightened, the smile returned to Urban’s face—the slightly mischievous version the pontiff reserved for conversations with his intimates. “Evidently, Cardinal Mazzare, my connections to the Heavens rival those of your marvelous radios.”
“Unquestionably true, Your Eminence, but why do you remark upon it at this particular moment?”
“Because in my recent devotions, for every one prayer I offered in the hope that you would be prevented from shouldering the perils of journeying to Italy in such troubled times, I confess that I uttered two far more emphatic appeals that you would be able—and blessedly foolish enough—to do so.” He took both of Larry’s hands in a surge of gladness and what looked very much like profound gratitude.
Sharon suddenly felt as clueless as both Harry Lefferts and Estuban Miro looked. “I’m sorry, Your Eminences, but I’m not sure I’m reading between all the lines here.”
Mazzare turned solemn eyes upon her. “Sharon, a pope who sits in the Holy See has the power to control the rate of change within the Church. A pope who has been driven from his seat upon the cathedra has no such luxury. He may have to act swiftly, without enough time to deliberate upon the full consequence of every decision. But Mother Church is eternal, so no choice is a simple one. And if the pope’s utterances are explicitly ex cathedra—are canonical proclamations, despite the physical absence of the throne for which they are named—then they are as eternal as the Church itself.”
Mazzare turned a gaze that was part searching and part sympathetic upon a nodding Urban. “And, unless I am much mistaken, His Eminence must now make a fateful choice on how to proceed from this point. Specifically, who he now embraces as allies, who he does not, and why, may dramatically and forever change the Church.”
One of the other figures that had emerged from the cottage came closer; it was Muzio Vitelleschi, father-general of the Jesuit order. His thin lips quirked in his tightly trimmed gray-silver beard. “Such insight would have made you a worthy member of the Society of Jesus,” he observed in a crisp, clear voice. “But you will help no one if you starve to death, Cardinal Mazzare. Unless I am mistaken, supper is almost ready.”
“It is?” asked Sharon of Carlo and two of the embassy’s domestic staff who were hovering nearby.
“It most surely is,” assured Ruy with a faint wink. “Even if it is not.”
“Oh,” said Sharon. “Yes. It is. How forgetful of me. Gentlemen, Eminences, please allow me to show you to our dining room. Such as it is.”
“And excuse me while I ensure that we are not troubled by any unexpected guests.” Ruy was gone with a flourish and a tight about-face toward the gate-guards; the move had the grace and ease of an athlete in his prime. Sharon watched her husband walking for another moment and decided that he was one fine figure of a man. Even from behind. Maybe particularly from behind. Yes, he was one fine—
“Ambassador?” Miro’s voice was a gentle reminder, rather than an inquiry.
“Right. Allow me to show you the way…”
Harry ladled what he called “gravy” on top of his second helping of millet polenta and resumed his seat at the kitchen table beside Sherrilyn, who asked, “So what have you learned from the Marines?”
“Not much,” he admitted sourly. “Their captain—Taggart—gave me a good run-down on the parts of Rome that visitors don’t see.”
“Which are the parts where we’ll spend most of our time, right up until we rescue Frank and Giovanna.”
“Yeah. Particularly Juliet.”
Sherrilyn rubbed her knee absently. “Why her?”
“Because if I’m right, we’re going to need a lot of local help and intel to make any plan work. And the rest of us shouldn’t just sit around nearby, trying to hide, while Juliet’s working her magic on the locals. So we’ll stay somewhere outside the city.”
“Is Juliet really up for this? Is her Italian that good?”
Lefferts stared at his former teacher and short-duration lover—both a long time ago: “You heard her bartering in the market at Brescia. And she can out-Italian the Italians when it comes to volume, plate-throwing rages, and merry-making. They all spend about five minutes arguing with her and then they all love her. What’s to worry?”
“That’s fine when we’re in friendly territory, but in Rome—well, that’s enemy territory.” Sherrilyn rubbed her knee more assiduously. “They might be a little more suspicious there.”
“Suspicious? Of what?”
“Well, Juliet doesn’t look very Italian, you know.”
“Yeah, having functioning eyes, I noticed that right away. But I don’t think that matters so much here. Italy’s got lots of folks from all over. And Rome is more of a hodge-podge than anyplace else. Besides, you just know that Juliet will concoct a cock-and-bull cover story that will, as always, amaze the natives.” He scraped at his plate. “I’m gonna finish up here and compare the domestics’ assessments of Rome with Taggart’s.”
“The workers here are still the same bunch that came with Sharon from the embassy?”
“Yep. She and Ruy kept the whole gang together.”
“Why?”
“Security. By the time they got to the first place where they really stopped running,—an inn right outside Padua—all the folks still with Sharon knew, one way or the other, that they had the pope, the father-general of the Jesuits, and the younger Cardinal Barberini traveling with them. Couldn’t exactly let that kind of information go wandering off, could you?”
“No, I guess not.” Sherrilyn shifted her knee fretfully; the hike down from the Val Bregaglia had played havoc with her old sports injury. “So what, specifically, are you hoping the workers can tell you that Taggart couldn’t?”
Harry grinned. “They can fill me in on the lefferti—my adoring public.”
“Your misguided adolescent Harry-wanna-bes, more like. What are you looking to do, boost your ego?”
“I wouldn’t have to if you’d help me reclaim my sense of masculine prowess, Sherrilyn.”
“Ah, give it a rest, Harry.”
“‘It’s’ been doing nothing but resting since we left Grantville.” Harry saw her look. “Okay, since Biberach, then. But I only had one night with the burgermeister’s daughter. Whereas with you, I could look forward to many—”
“Cut it out, Harry. I’m serious. What are you trying to find about the lefferti?”
“Okay, just deflate my ego—and everything else. Look: we’re going to need to have the latest word on the street when we get to Rome. The lefferti were pretty much poor teenagers who wanted to be toughs, get a little respect, acquire that kind of rogue-do-gooder sexiness that you’ve always found so appealing in me—”
“Down, dog. You’re humping the wrong tree. For real now, Harry; you think the lefferti can help?”
Unfazed, Harry started scraping together the last of his polenta while eying the still-steaming pot. “Yeah, for real. The city is occupied right? It’s going to have Spanish patrols, command posts, strong points, weak spots, black-market connections with anyone handling provisioning for the invaders: the whole nine yards. We’re going to need all that information. And we might need the lefferti’s hands and bodies, too.”
“What? Harry, the lefferti are really just kids—”
“Pretty old kids; some of them are in their twenties. And they’re not shrinking violets, either. But I’d only use a few of the older ones in any actual attack. I’m thinking most of the lefferti would be far more useful providing us with a diversion.” He stood up, stretched, scratched his back. “Well, it’s time to debrief the staff.”
“And to see if there are any comely wenches among them?”
Harry affected deep emotional injury. “If I do so, it is only because you reject me so continually and completely.”
Sherrilyn smiled. “Oh, get the hell out of here,” she said to his receding back.