1635 The Papal Stakes (58 page)

Larry Mazzare nodded soberly. “I could not agree with you more, Cardinal Wadding. But science, and the technology that arises from it, is neither good nor evil. It is a lens, whereby the intents and hopes—both noble and petty—of its human wielders are magnified. Therefore, atomic weaponry also poses humankind the ultimate test of self-control, of the triumph of peace and grace over wrath and sin.”

Ruy’s eyes did not leave Mazzare. “As you yourselves successfully demonstrated toward the end of your twentieth century.”

Wadding frowned. “Don Ruy, that was but one crisis averted. The problem with such power, such weapons, is that one mistake is a final mistake. They are like the apple in Eden; they wait, eternally, for human frailty to induce a momentary lapse of reason or resolve—for that is all it takes to undo eternity: a momentary lapse.”

“True, Your Eminence,” nodded Ruy. “But I learned in my catechisms—and again, reading the resolutions that arose out of the Council of Trent—that the Lord our God never permits Satan to tempt or deceive us past our individual capacity to resist. It is a central tenet of the concept of free will, is it not?”

Larry Mazzare could not keep the sudden, bright smile off his face. “Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz, I think it is you who should be doing my job. What do you think, Cardinal Wadding?”

Who was, strangely enough, smiling also. “I think an old soldier has just reminded an old priest how important the simplest truths of our faith are. I am in your debt, Don Ruy.”

Vitelleschi nodded primly. “Are the arguments and questions concluded? Very well. My recommendation to His Holiness are as follow: Cardinal Wadding’s warning that the Devil might have transported the town of Grantville to our time cannot be wholly discounted. However, I find that the arguments supporting the assertion that the whole town is a satanic creation to be well beyond the bounds of credibility. As Cardinal Mazzare points out, the magnitude of such a manifestation as Grantville, both physical and intellectual, far exceed those limits that we understand God to place upon satanic action. Cardinal Mazzare also argues—convincingly—that the arch-fiend stands to lose more from such a florid display of his power than he stands to gain. This does not constitute proof positive, but it does answer all reasonable doubts. Consequently, I hereby inform our Holy Father, Pope Urban VIII, that I can find no valid grounds for declaring Grantville a satanic construct.”

Urban nodded once. “I humbly thank both advocates for their spirited and learned address of the issue.” He raised his chin. “Father-General Vitelleschi, we shall proceed with the further inquiries as soon as it is convenient for you and our esteemed advocates. And I hope that our lay auditors”—he shot an impish glance in the direction of Ruy and Sharon—“shall be able to attend all our sessions, since it seems that, as ever, God sends his most important reminders through the most unexpected messengers.”

Ruy bowed deep thanks and sat.

When Urban looked away, Sharon grabbed his arm and kissed the side of Ruy’s still-serious face.

“To what do I owe the ambrosial drop of Heaven upon my cheek?” he asked.

“Well, why do you think, you wonderful fool?” Sharon hugged his arm. “Because you done good, honey; you done good.”

Giulio burst into the room loudly, as was his wont. “Rombaldo!”

“Yes, Giulio?”

“Valentino’s group—they have found our agents. Or rather, their bodies.”

Unfortunate that they were dead, but the two had been missing for too long for any other outcome to be probable. “Where did Valentino find them?”

Giulio rushed over to the map on the table; the pins denoting search teams were scattered across Venice and Lombardy. He stared intently for a moment and then jabbed a finger: “Here, in this town just south of Vicenza.”

“How were they killed?”

“By sword or knife.”

“How long ago?”

“At least a week, maybe more. The town fathers were keeping the whole affair quiet until they could figure out how to proceed.”

Meaning that the town fathers had prudently held off reporting a killing that did not seem random, and yet had unclear motivations. In their experience, that would signify a covert conflict between greater powers, a conflict in which they did not want to become involved.

“Very well. Have the other nearby teams converge upon this spot. Send word by our fastest riders: they have ten days to rendezvous with Valentino at this site.”

“And after that?”

“After that, Giulio, we let slip the leash and let our hounds run a pope to ground.”

“
Under
ground, that is,” quipped Giulio broadly, “six feet under ground, to be exact.”

Rombaldo forced himself to smile. “Yes. Now, send the word; every minute we lose increases the chance that he will escape.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Estuban Miro turned and saw that the xebec had closed to within three hundred fifty yards. “Soon now,” he said loudly, over the chop of the oars and the rush of the
scialuppa
’s bow-wake.

In the stern, Harry Lefferts nodded. “It’s going to be close,” he shouted back, squinting into the sun.

Miro followed his gaze. They were drawing close to the island of Monte Cristo, which, according to Harry, was completely different from the one made famous by the book of some up-time French author. The real Monte Cristo rose out of the Tyrrhenian Sea like a rough pyramid of scrub-covered granite. He saw no dramatic castles in sight; the only structures on the island were the ruins of the monastery of San Mamilliano, in which they had established their base-camp two days ago.

Some of the Piombinesi, who were now adjusting the
scialuppa
’s battered lateen sail, had been somewhat familiar with the island. It was technically part of the extended principality of Piombino, although it remained abandoned and almost entirely unvisited, except by ships in such desperate need of fresh water that their captains were willing to brave chance encounters with pirates who frequented it for the same reason. Two of the Piombinesi had been fairly well-acquainted with its small inlets, particularly the one toward which they were heading now: Cala Maestra.

“The fun is going to start soon,” drawled Harry who had turned to inspect the xebec.

Miro nodded. Masses of pirates swarmed on her deck; threats and curses in half a dozen languages reached hoarsely over the waves. They shook cutlasses, scimitars, and a remarkably diverse assortment of firearms in the direction of the small fishing boat, and several of their number were busily setting swivel guns into pintel mounts on the port-side rail. “How many do you estimate, Harry?”

Lefferts, blessed with 20/15 vision, squinted again. “They’re milling around so much it’s hard to be tell, but I think our first estimate through the binoculars was pretty accurate. There are about twenty manning the sails and lines, about three times that number ready and eager to dig out our hearts with the points of their swords.”

One of the Piombinese rowers obviously understood enough English to get the gist of Harry’s remark; he retched, and then leaned more urgently to his oar. The man beside him on the bench—one of the four crewmen they’d taken on from the
barca-longa
—poked him with an elbow and motioned for him to maintain a steady stroke.

Harry came forward, leaned closer to Miro so he did not have to raise his voice above the wind and water. “Good thing you brought some of the other crew with us.”

Miro shrugged. “It is common practice in convoys, particularly when some ships have crew that have never faced pirates before. You mix some men with experience in with those; the example of the veterans steadies the beginners. Or so one hopes.” He smiled at Harry.

Harry was staring at his oilcloth-wrapped SKS, stowed out of sight beneath the stern-most thwart. “Well, so far, your voice of Mediterranean experience has been pretty much on target, Estuban.” He jutted a chin at the xebec. “You called their course to within a few degrees, once we picked up their trail at Elba.”

Miro shrugged again. “No profound foresight was required. The wild tales we heard in the wharf-side taverna at Marciano Marina had one element in common: when the two Spanish
galliots
met the Algerine off Elba, the pirate did not run, but gave them a brief fight. There are only two reasons pirates fight: because their prey is very weak, or because they want—or need—something very badly. Between them, the
galliots
were probably carrying at least one hundred twenty Spanish soldiers, yet not an ounce of treasure. And Elba has been so frequently raided by Algerines these past five years, that it doesn’t have anything left that’s worth taking.”

Harry nodded. “Except fresh water. And when the Spanish drove them farther west into the Tuscan archipelago, they had to head to the last watering hole at Isola Pianosa. Where they got chased away again, just like our Piombinesi guessed.”

Miro shrugged. “Chased away—or interrupted. There’s enough of a garrison on Pianosa that a quick run to shore to fill a few dozen skins was probably all the pirates could risk. Which meant that they needed to head somewhere else to really fill their water barrels.”

“And there we are off Pianosa, waiting for them to do just that.” Harry nodded appreciatively. “Estuban, I think your plan will work out fine if we manage to do just one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

Lefferts grinned. “Survive.” He returned to the stern, running his hand along a tarp-shrouded bulk covering the aft port quarter of the small fishing boat.

Miro nodded to himself. So far, so good. The pirates, unable to fully replenish their water casks at Pianosa, had done what they often did: they set out to follow the prevailing wind twenty miles southeast to Monte Cristo. But even as they rounded Pianosa’s westernmost headland, Punta Libeccio, to begin their journey, they discovered that Dame Fortune was finally smiling upon them; just five miles out, and lying directly along their intended course to the springs on Monte Cristo, was a fishing boat.

Miro had thought he might have to brisk the
scialuppa
’s sails about on the horizon, just to be sure of getting their attention. But the pirates had needed no such enticements; the Algerine had come on with a will, all three lateen sails swelling out, as if straining to reach the little fishing boat ahead of the rest of the xebec.

To whet their appetite for the kill, and to make their speedy closing of the ship-to-ship gap seem natural, Miro had instructed his crew to undo two sets of the lacings that held the
scialuppa
’s own lateen-rigged sail to its gaff. That modification nicely mimicked the look and effect of damage to the triangular sail, which even now flapped fitfully up near the gaff tip, spilling wind.

The Algerine had maneuvered as anticipated. Enjoying the windward position, she used some of her superior speed to move out from a stern chase and set herself up on the fishing boat’s starboard aft quarter. This allowed the Algerine to shepherd the
scialuppa
closer against Monte Cristo, on their port side. And if the fishing boat now tried fleeing into the open water to starboard, she’d be putting herself directly in the path of the faster xebec, which would be sure to cut her off.

Miro watched the range close, reassessed their course, and said, as Harry came back from peering under the tarp at the rear of the boat, “They mean to chase us into Cala Maestra. I’m sure of it, given the way they’re starting to crowd us now.”

“Well, sure, Estuban; they know these waters, too.”

Miro smiled. “If they didn’t, I’m not sure how well this plan would work.” He noticed that the Piombinesi amongst the rowers were starting to push the pace against the resistance of the crew from the
barca-longa
. “Steady pace, not too hard,” Miro ordered calmly. “You’ll have need of your strength in a bit.”

Harry, distracted by a rough mechanical sputter from beneath the tarp hanging over the aft port quarter, now looked back up the mast to where the halyard attached to the boom. “So is our rigged rigging ready?”

“Indeed it is,” answered Miro, who, making sure his back was completely to the Algerine, slipped his binoculars out of their case and focused on where the inlet’s high, hump-backed southern headland—Punta Maestra—rose up out of the water. The naked weather-worn rocks at its lower fringe quickly disappeared beneath the scrub growth that steadily increased in density up the slope. He tracked the lenses farther up the side of the headland, carefully studying every shrub and rock-cast shadow until he found what he was looking for at its crest: a pair of binocular lenses looking back at him.

“Does Don Estuban see us, Colonel?” asked Orazio Porfino, a young relative of the Piombinese captain Aurelio. In this case, a relative from a very distant branch of their tortuously intertwined family trees.

“I imagine so,” responded Thomas North, “since he’s smiling, now. Are we ready, Mr. Porfino?”

“Yes sir, all ready.”

Thomas grunted. Perhaps they were ready. And perhaps, if he looked up, he’d see a winged pig fly past. But scanning down the slope, he could see nothing amiss—which meant that he saw nothing other than shrubs, rocks, and shadows. He raised his binoculars to quickly scan the lesser slope on the opposite, northern side of the Cala Maestra inlet. Nothing to be seen there, either. Hmm. Well, so far, no one had cocked up the plan. But then again, the day was young.

North leaned backward carefully, staying well within the shadow of the long pillow of rock which crested the signal point of the headland and which he had made his command post. Thomas’ slight change in position afforded him a view into the much smaller inlet that flanked the Punta Maestra on its south side, the Cala Santa Maria inlet. The water was a lighter blue, since the inlet was shallower and narrower—but was still large enough to conceal the crowded
barca-longa
, and the more normally crewed
gajeta
just behind her.

Looking up at him from the
barca-longa
was a very white face with very red hair and beard: Owen Roe O’Neill, watching for the next signal. Around Owen were all the present members of the Wrecking Crew—save Harry—and Owen’s own Wild Geese. The running crew were well supplemented with Piombinese fishermen, all gesticulating, talking—but, with a look from Dr. Connal, they fell silent, shushing each other fiercely. All of which North saw as a mime-show; from this distance, the only sounds were the waves and the wind moaning softly through the scrub.