1635 The Cannon Law: Chapter Thirteen

Part Three

Late Spring 1635, Rome

    The midmorning sun was making the paperwork on Sharon’s desk glow in a way that was getting close to inducing eyestrain. Most of it was tedious stuff, but while she would have been happy to delegate, Adolf was not very good at accepting delegation. Preparing drafts for her approval or signature was as close as he was prepared to get. She wondered whether she should just start signing things without reading them—approvals of accounts, bread-and-butter correspondence with the embassy’s suppliers and responses to invitations. Nothing earth-shattering. That gave her a slightly guilty start, though, and to be fair to her chief of staff he did manage to whittle the admin down to, on the worst days, about an hour. She sighed, and reflected that if she'd ever actually qualified as a nurse back up-time she'd have had more paperwork than this to reckon with.

    The state papers, the copies of the intelligence briefings that had come in via radio over night and from the few USE agents in Rome who actually reported direct to the embassy via various channels, had been brief today, and the twenty minutes of interest they generated hadn’t been enough to sustain Sharon through an uncommonly large stack of, well, crap, frankly.

    There had been a couple more near-riots, and nasty things were being said in Rome's tavernas about the way that second one—or as near as anyone could tell it had been the second one, there were the usual incidents and accidents of life in a large city—had been handled. More than one informant had heard rumors that the slaughter had been deliberate, rather than the result of outrageous stupidity.

    And rent-a-mobs were turning up elsewhere as well. Information on those was starting to trickle in as well, and whoever was organizing them—three different descriptions so far—was claiming to be either with the Committee of Correspondence or the Sons of Joe Buckley, a group apparently devoted to avenging Buckley's death at the hands of the Inquisition. That had caused Sharon a moment of grim amusement. The man who had almost certainly murdered poor Joe had, at the time, been a member in good standing of the Venice Committee of Correspondence. If they were a real group—and so far no-one could say for certain that there wasn't a genuine protest or two happening among the hired demonstrations—then they were wildly misguided.

    And, of course, the references to the committee were bringing exasperated notes from Magdeburg, notes that had Don Francisco's style all over them. Sharon had sent back that she had Frank's personal assurance that he had nothing to do with the disturbances. Even if Frank had wanted to engage in that kind of shenanigans, he didn't have the cash, with his restaurant-cum-social club not yet breaking even, let alone turning a profit. Whoever was running these sideshows was spending money like water to get groups of several dozen out to each event, gathered in knots of half a dozen or so from across Rome. That suggested that there were whole teams of agitators at work, although there would be bound to be a few genuinely aggrieved folks joining in the fun by now.

    She realised with a guilty start that she was woolgathering, and not getting through the day's paperwork. Still, she thought, only a few to go.

    She was just signing the last letter when Ruy came in, not bothering to knock and grinning with his usual swagger. He was, of course, indecently cheerful in the mornings, alert before his first coffee and usually up an hour before Sharon to perform a vigorous workout with the Marines in the embassy's ballroom. He was more-or-less fully recovered from the surgery Sharon had performed on him the year before, and determined to get, and stay, in shape. As his doctor, Sharon wholeheartedly approved, of course. And as an unexpected benefit, he was taking the embassy's Marine guard in sword drill, being as proficient with the sabre as he was with his usual rapier. The sight of fit soldiers in their twenties emerging red-faced and blowing from a training session with a man old enough to be their father was entertainment all by itself, and apparently Ruy relished it.

    "Good training session, you old goat?"

    Ruy stroked his moustachios. "Excellent. The woeful lack of stamina of the youth of today was once again made manifest to my entire satisfaction. Although I will say that one or two of them show promising signs of future accomplishment in la destreza, Sharon. The Scots and Germans are hardy and courageous breeds both, and schooled in finesse and good footwork they have every promise of being fine swordsmen. I declare myself pleased with my new pupils."

    "Well, try not to break any of them while you do it. I have enough paperwork as it is," she said, ringing the bell on her desk. Adolf came in and took the finished work away for despatch to its various destinations, and reminded her she had a luncheon appointment with representatives of Rome's College of Physicians.

    "Anything in particular you wanted to talk about, Ruy?" she said, stretching in her chair now that Adolf had gone.

    "Indeed, Dona Ambassadora." Ruy's face was still cheerful, but he had assumed a position of attention by her desk. She noticed he had a letter in his hand.

    She sat up straight. "In my official capacity? And you're carrying a letter? May I presume you've heard from Alfonso?"

    "I have, indeed. His response was as we both predicted, once one disregards the feeble attempts at wit and pallid attempts at invective and sarcasm."

    Sharon raised an eyebrow. Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz had served many years as first retainer to the Marquis of Bedmar, and later as gentiluomo to the Cardinal Bedmar. She'd seen the close relationship the two had had, marked as it was by constant mockery and barbed insults, while Ruy had first been convalescing under her care in Venice. "I seem to recall a certain short fat cardinal who gave as good as he got from a certain uppity Catalan ruffian," she said.

    "Faugh," Ruy waved the criticism away. "What can a woman know of such manly pursuits as persiflage and insult? Besides, the man is Andalucian, what can he possibly know of proper wordplay? Besides, the import of his message is that he bids me remain in touch, but recognises that a man should be with his wife and being there, make himself useful. Once we disregard the vile calumny that I never made myself useful in his service, it seems uncommonly gracious for the canting little bullfrog."

    "Miss him, don't you?" Sharon realised she was getting quite good at seeing through the front Ruy kept up.

    He sighed. "Indeed I do. It takes years of friendship to learn what an insufferable, gluttonous prick Alfonso can be. But the winds of war and the tides of politics mean we must needs insult each other at one remove for the nonce. Somehow, it is not the same." Another sigh.

    "You think he'll be able to come to the wedding? Only we're going to need a -"

    "No!" Ruy roared, clapping a hand to his forehead and crumpling the letter in his hand, "A thousand times no! I, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz, would sooner slit my own throat than hand Alfonso that much ammunition. Not all the torments of all the sinners in Hell would match the insufferability of that pompous buffoon if I once let him perform the sacrament of marriage over me. I say again, No! And thrice! No!"

    "So that's settled, then," Sharon said. "I'll write and ask him if he can attend and officiate."

    Ruy collapsed in to a chair. "Doomed! I am doomed! Twenty years and more I have had the upper hand! Undone by a woman! It is to weep for the glory that will be lost!" He made as if to rend his clothes.

    Sharon lost it, badly. It was five minutes or more before she stopped laughing. Not helped, in any way, by Ruy reinforcing success with yet more weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth.

    When she'd got control, she asked, "So, did you make a head start on your new job?" This, she thought, would be interesting. Europe in the seventeenth century was full of spymasters and intelligence chiefs, most of them very, very good at their jobs. One of the things the modern age had got in hand very early on was skullduggery.

    It was like flipping a switch. Ruy was suddenly all business. "Alas, Your Excellency Dona Ambassadora -" he clearly had the thing neatly compartmentalized in his mind—"I have little progress to report. I beg your forgiveness in this matter, and would say that it is as yet early and my ability to pass for an Italian is not great. I inevitably hear the story that the people tell a man from out of town. Thus far, my reasoning is that we are dealing with someone who is trying to provoke civil disorder. Rome is not entirely ripe for such, but there are always a few layabouts who can be paid to make small mischiefs. Whoever is doing this declares his allegiance openly, at least, by masquerading as the Committee of Correspondence. All I know of them is that there are at least four men involved, and that they recruit their idlers and vagabonds around the borgo and other low neighborhoods, such as the Ripetto. I mean to go there on the morrow, and see for myself."

    "Won't you be recognised?" Sharon asked.

    "Almost certainly," Ruy said, smiling. "And if I am recognized by the perpetrators, it is the most certain proof that Borja is responsible."

    "You suspect Borja?"

    "Naturally. He has motive and is close by Rome. Don Francisco's analysis was most cogent, Dona. I would also add that the most recent disturbance was outside the premises of the Lyncaean Institute, which also tends to suggest Borja. He was, after all, most embarrassed by the Galileo affair, and as such would want to see everything associated with the man harmed by this trouble he is causing. The only such target within reach is the college of natural philosophers that Galileo helped found. The evidence is most compelling, and I expect to find only confirmation tomorrow, not surprises."

    "Well, don't provoke anything worse than what's happening. I want to get approval from Magdeburg before we act, if it turns out we can do anything."

    Ruy frowned. "If we are not directly at risk—and I think Borja is not so great a fool as to attack an embassy directly—what ought we to do? My humble understanding is that His Holiness is not directly an ally of the United States of Europe. Meddling in his affairs might be counted an affront."

    "Maybe, but he's done us at least two big favours so far," said Sharon. "I'll find out what the administration thinks about doing him one in return if we can. It isn't like we could piss off the Spanish government any more than we already have."

    "There is truth in that last. Castilians and Aragonese," Ruy said, with a slight sneer. "Even when offered no offense, they are a sour and crabbed lot at the best of times."

    Sharon chuckled. "Tell me, Ruy, is there anyone in Spain other than the Catalans you have time for?"

    Ruy shrugged. "On their better days, the Andalucians. Not that I would not swear on Holy Writ to Alfonso that I never said any such thing, of course."

    "Of course. Well, I'm about done here, and I've a couple of hours to kill. Suggestions?"

    "Luncheon," Ruy said, with a definite air. "I must fortify myself. I am forced, once again, unwontedly, to work for a living. I, Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz, am driven under the lash of a hard taskmistress."

    So to lunch they went.