Eric Flint - 1635 - The Papal Stakes

Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, Miro noticed that they had come back in sight of the shore; the dark gray coastline swept up higher to the north. The Atropos ’ course would parallel those peaks-the barren Tramuntana mountains that marched across the top of his home island like a wall-all the way until they reached the dramatic northeast promontory known as the Cap de Formentor. From there, the Atropos would maneuver to rendezvous with the Guerra Cagna and the Minnow, and let off a quick series of radio squelches that would signify “all well, hostages rescued, team returning.” But even then, Miro would not presume they were safe-not until they reached the Ligurian coast, just north of the Golfo de Spezio, from whence they would relaunch the dirigible toward Brescia, one hundred and five miles inland and safe behind the Venetian border.

However, Miro conceded, leaning back against the taffrail and enjoying a sudden dappling of sunlight through the light overcast, it was reasonable to indulge in at least a small amount of satisfaction, even before they arrived in Italy. After all, the rescue plan that Harry and he cobbled together had worked. Miro smiled. In fact, it had worked quite acceptably.

Quite acceptably, indeed.

Larry was standing alongside Urban, looking out the rear window of the Garden Room, one of the few that had not been severely damaged during the prior night’s combat. Out upon the villa’s rear grounds-arrayed in rows between the herb and vegetable gardens-were all the dead. Mazzare swallowed, not having seen so many bodies since the Croat cavalry rode into Grantville in an attempt to slaughter all of the recently arrived up-timers.

“How many?” murmured Urban.

“Us or them?” asked Mazzare.

Urban closed his eyes. “How many of God’s children, Cardinal Mazzare?”

Larry felt a pang of shame-not the first one he’d felt in the past day. “Er…eighty-four in all, Your Holiness.”

Urban nodded, and after a time, opened his eyes. “There on the end, is that the boy who ran messages-Carlo? And is that the cook, the one with the lovely voice, beside him?”

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

“I could not tell. They are almost completely covered.”

“Their wounds-and dignity-demanded no less.”

Somewhere, out near the small barn, a hoarse cry rose up and dwindled back down with a whimper. Larry closed his eyes. Even with Sharon here, there had been wounds too grievous to treat-and in the borderline cases, the preference had been routinely given to the staff and defenders of the embassy, rather than the attackers. Those whose wounds would ultimately prove mortal-and there had been many-had been moved to the barn, from whence screams and cries had emerged all night long. Shortly before dawn, the frequency and volume of the agonized screams had begun to taper off. Now, they were rare. If Sharon’s triage assessments were correct, there would be final silence shortly past noon. And he, Cardinal Larry Mazzare, champion of peace, declaimer of war, had put at least four into that death house, himself. He felt a quiver start deep inside his body Urban put his hand on Larry’s shoulder. For the first time in Mazzare’s memory, the pope’s grip felt almost frail, but it drove off whatever demon of guilt and remorse had been rising up in him. “This has been a hard night, Lawrence. How many assassins attacked us?”

“We’re not sure, Your Holiness. There are fifty-one of their bodies out there. Some escaped, but not many.”

“And how many of our own friends have gone to be with their Maker?”

“Twenty-one of the embassy workers, nine of the Marines, one of the Hibernians, and Fleming. And-” Mazzare paused.

“-and George Sutherland. Yes, I know. I think I will see his face for the rest of my days.”

Someone cleared a throat behind them; they turned.

Sharon and Ruy stood just within the doorway. “Holy Father,” she said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we need a moment of your time.”

Urban sighed but put on a smile; it was arguably the saddest expression that Larry Mazzare had ever seen. “Of course, Ambassadora Nichols.”

“I know it seems that, after last night, we should all have time to rest and recover, but we don’t. We’ve got to move you again, Holy Father. We can’t be sure that there is only one group of assassins.

“Tom Stone in Venice, and the USE leadership, both know our situation here. We just got a message from Venice that they are preparing our back-up site, have sent half of the embassy Marines-cavalrymen, every one of them-to reinforce us up here until we can move. They’ll ride through the night and pick up an additional twenty troops along the way, mostly trusted retainers of four different nobles known to support you, and who are said to be incorruptible.”

Personally, Larry wondered if there were really four such paragons of aristocratic virtue to be found in the entirety of this most materialistic of republics.

“I see,” Urban said as the other clerics entered. “When will we be leaving?”

“That’s just it, Your Holiness. We have to leave the second the cavalry comes over the hill.”

Urban stood particularly straight. “So it must be. Can you tell me where we are going?”

Sharon sighed. “Actually, Your Holiness, that’s the exact question I was coming to ask you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Sharon put out her hands helplessly. “We got a signal just a few minutes ago that Frank and Giovanna are safe and on the way back to Italy. So we have to make travel and security arrangements for all our ‘at risk’ persons as soon as possible. We don’t want to give Borja another crack at you or them. But we’ve got one problem: we still don’t know where you want to go.”

Urban stared at the ground a moment. “I see your quandary. And I owe you that answer-now. Particularly after all of this. So, I assume we have some hours, yet?”

“At least a day, Your Holiness. And if there is another group of assassins who are able to reach us in that time, I’m not sure how much we could do to stop them-not if they are as large as this bunch was.”

“Very well. Then here is what we shall do.” He turned toward Antonio. “Cardinal Barberini, you will need your pen, ink, and parchment. I will give my judgment on what I have heard in the debates.”

Vitelleschi raised on eyebrow. “Indeed? How soon?”

“In five minutes, my friend.” He turned to a speechless Sharon. “Would you be so kind as to announce to those who can, and wish, to attend that they are welcome to do so?”

Wadding frowned. “Holy Father, is that wise?”

“I do not know, Cardinal Wadding, but I know this: no person who was in this house last night, sharing our peril, shall be kept away from our deliberations today. Now, Lawrence, let us go fetch a pitcher of cold water.” Urban smiled crookedly. “Pontificating is thirsty work.”

The audience in the Garden Room was less than a dozen persons. After fetching water with the pope, Larry had sidled off to buttonhole Ruy and point out that it was defensive suicide to allow the security forces to attend. Ruy politely declined to undermine the pope’s offer, but pointed out that all the security personnel were so deeply engaged in their duties, and so far away from the villa itself, that they could not possibly be summoned in time. Then, as three of the Hibernians walked by, not ten yards away, Ruy smiled at Larry.

Larry stared at the nearby soldiers, then at the ironic smile on Ruy’s face, and said, “Oh.”

If Urban detected, or was upset by the suspiciously limited audience for his pronouncements, he gave no sign of it. He simply stood and began.

“Time is short, so I shall not indulge in either a preamble or words of gratitude. Indeed, no words of gratitude could begin to express our deep debt to our hosts for what they have done, and what they have sacrificed.”