1635 The Papal Stakes (24 page)

“Oh, we can ask for more; we just don’t get it, usually. So what do these balloons cost to build? About a hundred thousand USE dollars?”

“Yes, but if you’re proposing a partnership—”

“I am.”

“—then I would rather we do not use your money to build more of the hot-airships.”

“No?”

“No. In the next few years, I will make enough of those to meet the first wave of demand. Which will be brisk, but moderate; it takes people time to get used to new ideas.”

“And then what?”

“And then we will unveil the next generation of airship, the one which we will finance with your investment.” Miro smiled, looked into the sky, and imagined it filling with traffic and commerce in the decades to come. “Because that model will get its lift from hydrogen, not hot air. And that, Tom,
that
will truly change the world.”

“This changes everything.” Rombaldo de Gonzaga tapped his spotless fingernail upon the worn wooden tabletop like a slow, soft metronome.

Giulio, who was still out of breath from running to their rented house with the news, expelled words between his gasps: “How…so…Rombaldo?”

Rombaldo de Gonzaga suppressed a sigh. It was trying, working with amateurs, but the job in Venice was a large one, needing many hands and feet and eyes. Fortunately, his master back in Rome—a displaced Cypriot named Dakis—had no shortage of
scudare
and
reales
to pass around. “With the USE’s plane damaged, they cannot remove Urban anytime soon. Nor will the aircraft be a part of any plans to rescue Stone’s son in Rome. That gives us more time. That, in turn, makes our job easier. And Cesare, be sure this news is passed along to the dovecote for immediate relay. They will want this report in Rome as soon as possible.”

Cesare Linguanti, a small man who rarely spoke, rose and left, making the smallest of nods toward the largest man at the table.

That man, Valentino—who denied having any other name than that—took a small sip of his wine. Valentino always had a glass of wine in hand: the one glass that he nursed all day long. “The Americans, they will repair the flying machine, if they can. And if Giulio is right, it does not sound as though the failure was catastrophic.”

“Yes,” nodded Rombaldo. “We will need to mount a watch on the plane, as well as the embassy and the USE’s known agents. Indeed, we will need to hire many more men to watch and search. And others to wield weapons, when the target is located and the time comes.”

“They will need to be special men,” commented Valentino. “Not many Italians are ready to kill a pope.”

“There may not be many,” answered Rombaldo, “but when the pay is high enough, you’ll find men enough.” He leaned back with a satisfied smile. “More than enough.”

Sharon found Mazzare sitting quietly with Urban. They did that a lot, these days. They didn’t seem to say a lot. It was like watching dogs or cats who are new to the same house; as if they know their lives are now entwined, they start spending time together. It was both acclimation and the growth of a new camaraderie, all rolled into one.

They looked up as Sharon entered the trellised shade of the courtyard’s arbor. She set her shoulders squarely. “It seems like we’re going to be staying a little bit longer, after all. The Monster has crashed.”

Mazzare looked up, startled. “Was anyone—?”

“No. They brought it down safely. But they’re going to have to replace the landing gear.”

“And that will take how long?” asked Urban.

“I’m not exactly sure, Your Holiness. I know a lot more about fixing people than I do about fixing machines. But given the parts and getting the plane out of the water and all the rest—well, I’d be surprised if we were ready any sooner than six or eight weeks.”

Urban leaned back and placed his palms firmly on his knees. “Well, that settles the matter.”

“What matter?”

“The matter of whether or not I should leave Italy just yet. In my pride, I failed to leave this matter in God’s hands. But it seems our Savior has decided to take the decision from me—perhaps to remind me I always had the option of relinquishing it into his care.”

Sharon blinked. “Your Holiness, I don’t understand.”

“I should not leave Italy, at least not yet. Not even if your plane was ready to fly tomorrow. Not until I know where I should go.”

“And what will determine where you should go?”

“Why, by learning what I am supposed to do next.”

Sharon shook her head. “But how many choices do you really have?”

“That,” said Urban with a sly smile, “is what I will learn in the coming weeks—and why I am so glad you came, Lawrence.” Urban smiled, rose, and headed back in the direction of the kitchen.

Sharon looked at Larry Mazzare. “What does he mean, that this is ‘why he’s so glad you came’?”

Mazzare shrugged. “It means—well, it means I’m just glad that Thomas North left his his Hibernians behind in Venice, because we’re going to need all of them to secure the new safe house that Miro set up for us through the Cavrianis.”

Sharon nodded, but pressed the point. “You still haven’t answered me: what can Urban do here that he can’t do back in the USE?”

Mazzare looked at Sharon. “He can decide whether he should go there at all.”

“What? Why?” Sharon was becoming annoyed. Not only did she still not understand what was going on, but her ignorance had her repeating herself.

“Sharon, Urban was driven out of Rome, fled for his life. Everyone in Italy can understand why he’s no longer sitting in the Holy See. But if he leaves the country now, that will be his
choice
. And he’s worried—rightly—that some people may feel he’d be turning his back on both his duty and the Church.”

“But he can’t achieve anything here except waiting around for assassins.”

“We know that, he knows that, maybe even this whole country knows that. But knowing that a course of action is wise doesn’t necessarily make it acceptable. And a pope is both a symbol and a representative of God. Now hear me out: I’m not requiring you to believe that yourself, just to accept that many, many others do believe it. You’ve heard the expression ‘trust in God,’ right?”

Sharon put her hands on her generous hips. “Yes. Of course I’ve heard it. As you know.”

“Yes, I do. But you’ve never heard it the way people here, of this time, hear it. For most of them, that saying isn’t a euphemism, isn’t simply an exhortation to believe that somewhere, somehow, there might be some divine providence that will make everything all right. Here—in this time—there is nothing vague or ambiguous about trust in God. It’s presumed that there is a personal God who sees and judges all actions. And for Roman Catholics, it furthermore means that the pope is God’s divinely inspired voice and representative on Earth, and is therefore symbolic of the dignity and righteousness of that godhead.”

“So you’re saying that if Urban runs, he’s indicating that he doesn’t have faith that ‘God will provide.’”

“That, and he will be doing a great indignity to his holy office.”

“Which will make Borja look strong and resolute?”

“Well, he’ll still be seen as a monster, and mistaken in his methods, but unimpeachable in his dedication to the primacy of the Church and the dignity of the papal tiara. And in these times, that means a lot. Quite a lot, actually.”

“So either Urban stays and gets martyred for no real purpose, since no one has the power to unseat Borja. Or Urban leaves and gets—what? Relieved of his popish duties?”

“Something like that. But I think there’s a third choice, and I think that’s what Urban is focused on.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“Knowing he has to leave eventually, I think Urban is determined to make his ultimate destination a statement of resolve that outshines the fact of his departure. Urban cannot be seen as retreating; he has to attack Borja, albeit on a different front.”

Sharon felt her thoughts twirl helplessly. “Attack Borja? Where? How?”

Larry Mazzare smiled his lip-crinkling smile. “That,” he said with a long exhale, “is probably exactly what Urban wants to determine before he leaves Italy.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

They pulled beyond the ramshackle piers and neglected sidings of Porto before the captain of the Savoyard
barque-longue
brought his long, low ship over to the right bank of the Tiber where barges were clustered. His mixed crew of French, Corsicans, and Savoyards jumped over to the makeshift wharf when they were within four feet, counter-pushed with poles, and dropped hawsers into the narrowing gap between the hull and the siding.

The final payment for passage had been handled when Ostia came into view, with John O’Neill counting out the silvers with the regretful intensity of a miser. So now, gear and pack in hand, Owen Roe O’Neill and his fellow Wild Geese departed the boat with a few halfhearted waves; they got few enough in return. The crew hadn’t been unfriendly, but the language overlap had been sketchy. Owen knew enough French to get by, as did Sean Connal. The doctor had quickly become the ship’s favorite, mostly because of his craft and his willingness to tend to the small crews’ minor ailments.

The crew’s standoffishness had no doubt been reinforced by John O’Neill’s loud and resentful commentary upon the doctor’s plying of his art: not in terms of his efficacy, but generosity. Specifically, the earl of Tyrone made it known that Connal’s services should rightly have been offered in trade, to offset the cost of their passage. In fact, that was a fairly customary exchange, but the doctor had provided his services without striking such a bargain. He maintained that it was better to earn a little genuine good will than the price of half a fare. For his part, Owen agreed with the young doctor, but Johnnie O’Neill had made some sharp comments about Connal’s undue presumptions of independence, and that the group’s current circumstances did not allow them “the largesse of such gestures of
noblesse d’oblige
.” That imperious pronouncement also seemed to exhaust the earl’s supply of French phrases.

Connal had merely remained silent, as had the watching crew, who thereafter kept their affairs well separate from those of their Irish passengers. They weren’t unfriendly, but distant. Particularly when interacting with John.

Owen hefted his pack higher; well, that was the nature of the man. Certainly not the easiest to serve under, but by no means the worst, either. And now they had to set about finding a barge to take them the rest of the way upriver to Rome.

There was a fair amount of Spanish soldiery about, but their loose ranks were already loading on the gathered barges. Seeing the gear and pennant of the Wild Geese, a few of the Spaniards hailed the Irish, curious as to their land of origin. The answers got a few cheers, a few strange looks, one or two shrugs, but nothing negative, since the Irish mercenaries of the Spanish Low Countries were a well-known military fixture. And after all, they had returned the hails in Spanish. Had the answers been in English, or had their names been of the Anglo-Irish variety, Owen wondered what their reception would have been. Cool, at best, he conjectured.

As the barges carrying the Spaniards pulled slowly away from the wharf, Turlough Eubank returned from the cluster of Italian barges.

“What luck?” asked John.

“None, m’lord. Seems the barge master I spoke to is already waiting on a shipment of grain.”

“They could have a long wait.”

“No, sir. It’s a Tuscan ship, due here any hour.”

“And this barge master won’t take a few extra coin from us to change his plans?”

“He’s under Spanish contract, sir. Provisions for Rome, y’see.”

“Hell and be damned, is every bloody ship here under Spanish contract?”

Owen toed a bit of stray oakum with his boot. “Could well be, Johnnie. And if the rumors on our ship had even a passing acquaintance with the truth, Florence is sending down as much grain as the Spanish will buy. At regular rates.”

“So now Tuscany is Spain’s lap-dog, as well?”

“Maybe. Or maybe cheap Tuscan millet is the price the Spanish are demanding in exchange for another de Medici redcap.”

“So Borja’s selling cardinalships, now?”

“Ah, Johnnie, it would be strange if he didn’t. That’s how the game is played down here.”

“Well, the game stinks like a steaming melder, it does. Eubank, go check with the last barge. Maybe the Good Lord will smile on some
honest
Catholics, for a change.”

“As you say, m’lord. Oh, and Dr. Connal sent word: now that we’re on land again, he’ll be demonstrating the new pepperbox revolver while we wait.”

“Oh, he will, will he?” muttered John, who rose and stalked inland, where half of the men had gathered near a vacant farmhouse set back from the banks of the river. Suppressing a sigh, Owen followed along.

Five red roof tiles were propped up on a chest-high wall that paralleled the derelict farmhouse. Sean leveled the nose-heavy pistol and started firing. The reports were sharp and barely a second between each one. On all but the fourth shot, one of the tiles exploded into a shower of dust and fragments.

Although the range was only ten paces, Owen silently conceded that this was some pretty fair marksmanship. Particularly for a physician.

Apparently, John was not disposed to make the same concession. “I think you missed one, Doctor.” John had probably intended his tone to be droll, but it had verged over into smug.

Connal did not turn. Instead, his hands moved quickly, unseating the currently loaded cylinder, swapping in a fresh one from a leather chest-pouch of sorts. He locked it in place with a quick twist of a frontal knob, and expertly popped five percussion caps onto the cylinder’s five ignition ports (which, Owen had learned, the up-timers rather provocatively called “nipples”). The doctor thumbed back the hammer even as he raised the weapon, aimed, and fired.

The last tile vanished in a spray of pieces.

“My apologies about that straggler,” he said as he turned to face the earl of Tyrone. “I’ll be tidier next time.”

One or two grunts of amusement from the watching Wild Geese faded quickly enough when John sent an annoyed glance in their direction. “Not so fast reloading as you made it sound, Doctor.”