1635 The Papal Stakes (37 page)

Borja swallowed. “An interesting theory. Complete fantasy, of course.”

“Of course. But at any rate, it also shows how the apparent rescue plans being crafted by agents of the USE to retrieve Señor Stone and his wife do, ultimately, connect back to the search for Urban.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Let me show you.” Dolor reached out his hand again. More spent shotgun casings clattered down on the table. Mixed in with them were almost a dozen smaller, and precisely machined, cartridges. Just looking at them, Borja could feel the encroachment of the up-time Earth: it was there in the eerie, perfect symmetry of their shapes.

Borja nodded. “From St. Isidore’s, I presume.”

“Precisely.”

“But I do not understand. The USE agents must have known that the hostages were not there. Why would they take such a risk, and reveal themselves as they have, at St. Isidore’s?” He gestured toward the latest crop of casings.

“I have been wondering the same thing. I have concluded that they were not alone at St. Isidore’s, and that whatever other group they met—either by design or chance, either beforehand or at the Church itself—were the ones who actually commenced the attack.”

“Why do you think there was another group involved?”

“Several reasons, again deduced from a close study of the bodies. Several of our guards were killed by sword wounds. Very heavy rapiers, or possibly sabers. This is not consistent with the USE raiders known as the Wrecking Crew; they vastly prefer up-time firearms. It is where their primary advantage and expertise lies. So did matters become so dire that they had to resort to swords, or did the swords belong to someone else?

“Additionally, almost half of our troops who apparently tried rushing the antechamber by way of the corridor from St. Isidore’s apse were killed by these.” Dolor dumped another load of metal on the table, but this was a collection of very contemporary, albeit very deformed, bullets.

“This is, once again, definitely not consistent with the weapons the Wrecking Crew uses. And since they had little to gain by absconding with the two priests, Wadding and Hickey, I must conclude that the Wrecking Crew were not the catalyst for what occurred at St. Isidore’s. They were merely facilitators.”

“But for whom? And why?”

“I have no basis for conjecture; there are too many unknowns. But there is one last, tantalizing fact: the entirety of the combat was conducted within the street-side buildings, or in the interior grounds. How did the attackers get there, then? No guards were killed at the gate, or even in the portico; indeed, it seems as if those guard posts were abandoned. Yet it makes absolutely no sense that the members of the Wrecking Crew would have been allowed past the guard at the gate, or admitted beyond the portico at the top of the main stairs. It is as if the enemy forces were first detected when they had already gotten inside the rectory. Then, all the guards contracted on that point and were defeated in detail.”

Borja waved his hand in irritated disgust. “Señor Dolor, I cannot begin to tell you how very tired I am of these up-time-led brigands slaughtering our men and suffering no losses in return.”

“I quite sympathize, Your Eminence. But strangely, I believe this may now be working to our advantage.”

“What? How?”

“Overconfidence, Your Eminence. If the Wrecking Crew was involved in the events outside Chiavenna, and has now stormed a church in the middle of a Spanish-held city, I suspect they are quite pleased with themselves. So pleased that perhaps they will begin to assume that they are undefeatable. If so, that is exactly the species of pride that goeth before a fall.”

Borja smiled. “Yes, so it is written. And your new plan for securing the hostages—?”

“—is crafted to take advantage of that first deadly sin, Your Eminence: pride.”

“Very good. But I still do not see how knowing that the Wrecking Crew is tasked to effect the rescue of the hostages helps us in our attempt to—‘locate’ Urban.”

“Your Eminence, if we can trick the Wrecking Crew into making a mistake, we might be able to take prisoners who know where Urban has been sequestered.”

Borja spread his hands out on his desk, unconsciously mimicking a gesture he had seen cats indulge in when crippled prey lay between their paws. “Then the sooner they make their attempt, the better. For all our plans.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Old Mazarini brought out Antonio Barberini’s bags as he joined the group gathered in the courtyard. There was an ironic appropriateness to the timing of their departure, thought the young cardinal.
It is just as we are leaving that the late-spring flowers are finally coming into full bloom, that the first berries are ripening enough for the table. A table which will be empty once again tonight and who knows for how many weeks, months, years to come.

It was a melancholy thought, young Cardinal Barberini conceded, one he would not have had two months ago. Two months before this day, Antonio Barberini was fussing over the arrangement of newly acquired paintings in his family’s grand palazzo, just south of the Pincio. Now—

He looked around the courtyard. The Marines and Hibernians were checking the belly-straps on the pack-mules, ensuring the right marching order for optimal security, awaiting final orders. The children, families, scattered menials who had made the journey with them were waiting in preassigned groups, somewhat anxious but not nervous or terrified: not like those first, terrible days fleeing from Rome.

Antonio turned back to look down the inviting paths of the country arbor. No overly precise cutting and trimming, here. This was a working garden, a place that fed people, sheltered them, gave them a place for quiet conversation, reflection, repose—all while providing scents that lulled one into a doze as surely as the warm sun that shot through the filigree of leaves and vines.

Barberini smiled. Who would have thought it—least of all him!—that worldly, cosmopolitan, refined, even effeminate and spoiled (it was said by some) Antonio Barberini would come to so love a country garden? So love it that what he imagined he would miss most about Rome—the luxury of his apartments and salons and life in Palazzo Barberini—never troubled him once. Instead, he felt strangely, even gladly, distant from that life of opulence and glory—or more accurately, vainglory. His existence there had been aesthetically refined, very pleasing to the senses—but could one call an environment filled solely with inanimate objects truly beautiful? Were paintings and poses in marble greater than the things they represented?

Two months ago, he might have assayed an argument in support of that claim, suggesting that art was not merely the preservation, but the amplification, of the perfection of form. But now he knew differently. This place—the children playing foolish games that parents did not notice, the bees buzzing in the arbor, the strong flanks of loyal horses, and the faces of stern men sworn to protect lives they had come to know and value—this was beauty. And there was no way to freeze or capture it, let alone amplify it; it was as great a beauty as life itself—and just as inevitably fleeting. And if it was to endure at all, it would not do so as frozen physical forms, but in the memory of a human heart.

In this case, in the awakening heart of Cardinal Antonio Barberini.

“So you will miss it, too, Nephew?”

Antonio started, found his uncle the pope standing behind him, dressed in clothes that marked him as nothing more than a moderately well-to-do townsman.

Urban gestured behind them. “This farmhouse, I mean.”

“Yes, Uncle, I will miss it. Very much.”

Urban VIII stared around with the same wistful look on his face that Antonio imagined was on his own. “It is strange, is it not, how we humans strive to refine ourselves, to build new achievements upon those past, to accrue piles of ducats, attain fame, create a powerful family, even build an empire—only to find our true happiness in the quiet of a shady garden and solid peasant food?”

Antonio, listening to the tone, detected reverie, not discovery. “So this has happened to you before, Uncle. This kind of rustic self-discovery.”

Urban smiled, nodded. “Oh, yes, my boy. Often. But it changes every time. The first time, I was not much older than you are now. It came as a great surprise. And it taught me much. Now, it comes as a reminder. A blessed reminder of what really matters. Of our place in the universe. For very soon, I will need to make decisions that touch upon the difference between the world we encounter with our head, and the world we touch with our heart. And I must seek a way to reconcile the two.” He turned to Antonio and smiled. “With your help, of course.”

“Of course, Your Holiness. But I doubt that I alone will be able to—”

“Oh, it will not be you alone, Antonio. We will have many friends to help us, including some who will meet us upon the road to our new home.”

“Which is where, Uncle?”

A new voice intruded: “In an area called Molini. It’s a small mountain valley northwest of Laghi, up in the hills between the Treno-Adige river valley on the west and the Asiago plateau to the east.”

The Barberinis turned to look at Larry Mazzare. “It sounds remote,” commented the pope.

“That is a profound understatement, Your Holiness.”

“Ah. Excellent for our purposes, then. And I suppose it has been the subject of your occasional private discussions with the ambassadora and her husband?” Urban’s eyes twinkled, but Antonio heard the probe, and the implicit remonstrance:
You wouldn’t keep secrets from your pope, now, would you, Lawrence?

Cardinal Mazzare did not exactly look sheepish, but he no longer looked as relaxed as he had a second ago. He had his mouth open to make what promised to be one of his carefully measured replies—

—when another voice came from out of the arbor. “No, Your Holiness. I would not ask Father Mazzare to withhold information from you.” It was the ambassadora, who was—herself, no less!—carrying a sizable traveling bag in either hand. “But I did ask him to delay doing so until we were under way. I would appreciate it if you did not share the information with anyone else. Anyone. I repeat: I would really appreciate it.” The extraordinary emphasis that the ambassadora put on the word
appreciate
made it sound like something just shy of an order, the violation of which would entail dire consequences.

“Of course, Ambassadora Nichols. We do not wish to jeopardize anyone’s safety.”

The ambassadora smiled; it was genuine, if a bit rueful. “I am very glad to hear that, Your Holiness, because it is your safety that we are ensuring with the secrecy. I doubt very much Cardinal Borja would be quite so interested in the rest of us.”

It wasn’t exactly a remonstration, but it was as pointed a reminder as Antonio had ever heard uttered to his uncle.

Urban only smiled. “The ambassadora’s candor is refreshing. And apt. I do understand the situation. Quite well. Tell me: is there any further word on the saboteurs of the airplane in Venice?”

Emerging from the arbor behind the ambassadora, and carrying enough personal weaponry to equip at least two squads of soldiers, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz dusted pollen off the shoulders of his buff coat. “No word, Your Holiness. Not that we expected it. Borja’s dogs are well-trained. And after Quevedo, it seems he has chosen a far more capable kennel-master. This one is dangerous, Your Eminences; he strikes seldom, but carefully. And now he is waiting, no doubt, for some clue that will reveal our location.”

“But this has been prevented by your prudence.”

“As much as possible, Your Holiness.”

Urban raised an eyebrow. “And what measure has remained beyond your remarkable abilities at ensuring Our security?”

The Ambassadora stood very straight. “Unfortunately, your own request, Your Holiness. Specifically, that Father Wadding be sent to join us. I understand that it is an urgent matter for the good of the Church, but from a security standpoint, it is a bad move. I will freely admit that I was against it. I mean no disrespect to the well-being of the Church or to Your Holiness’ wishes, but quite frankly, it risks both of those things.”

Urban nodded. “And who prevailed upon you to permit it, then?”

The Ambassadora smiled at the two men—Ruy and Mazzare—who stood flanking her. “These two idealists. They both seem to understand the necessity of Father Wadding’s presence more than I do.”

Urban’s eyebrows raised. “Indeed? I am not surprised that Lawrence did; it is simply a logical extension of the same wisdom and love of Mother Church that brought him down here despite the perils of the journey and the destination. But you,” he said, turning his attention upon Ruy, “Señor Casador y Ortiz, I was not aware that the intricacies of theology and canon law were among your very many wonderful talents.”

The Spaniard inclined his head. “Your Holiness, I fear I would find myself well schooled by the average cockroach in such lofty matters. But the Irish priest is well known in Spain. He studied at Salamanca, and went on to a lofty position there before being a presence in Philip’s own court. He is known for his wit, his kindness, but above all, his piety and integrity. And he is among the most respected of his order. Should you therefore intend to hear counsel from the many voices and perspectives of the Church, he would seem a likely choice: a respected and famous Franciscan known for his long and warm relationship with Spain’s clergy and court. With Father Wadding as part of your deliberative council, no man may say that you surrounded yourself only with voices that echoed your own thoughts and preferences.”

The young fellow named Carlo came running up. “Ambassadora, the master of horse, he tells me we are ready to leave. We only wait upon you and the blessed fathers.”

“We are coming, Carlo. Go run through the houses now; bring anything you find that has been left behind. Then come back to me.”

“Yes, Ambassadora Nichols.” And Carlo was off as if shot from a cannon.

But the ambassadora was looking at her husband, who was staring at the line of horses, mules, and carts. “What is it, Ruy? Something wrong?”