1635 The Cannon Law: Chapter Twenty Three

Rome

    It had been an evening for everyone to go out and hear some music. One of the minor Colonnas was hosting an evening of string recitals by someone who, as far as anyone could remember, was destined to be thoroughly forgotten by history.

    A hired carriage had been booked and Sharon was busy getting ready. She’d been uncomfortable at first with the idea of having a maid to help, but Greta and Maria, whom Adolf Kohl had hired as part of the housekeeping staff for the embassy, had gotten to be friends and insisted on helping her get ready for the various functions she held and got invited to as ambassador. And, truth be told, it was kind of fun to have a bit of a girls’ pre-party, especially given the fussiness of some of the dresses that were fashionable hereabouts. A girl needed help. Not that they weren’t, sometimes, gorgeous, and Sharon had enjoyed playing dress-up as a kid as much as anyone.

    And, of course, now that Rita and Melissa were here, there was every possibility of their being ever-so-slightly late. Not least because Melissa was approaching the whole thing with a determination to have fun that bordered on the grim. “Sharon,” she’d said, “I spent all those months shut up in the Tower. You think I’m not going to make the most of every opportunity to go out, think again.”

    She, too, had been a bit chary of having maids to help. She hadn’t said anything, but there was a faint aura of disapproval until she got into the spirit of the thing. It wasn’t really part of either girl’s job, just a bit of after-hours fun with the boss. Sometimes, Sharon wondered what the shock would be like for them if they went back to working for the usual run of Roman gentlefolk. Since Greta was engaged to be married, her prospects for remaining in work were pretty limited anyway. The USE might not follow the usual practice of not keeping any but the more senior servants on if they married, but her husband-to-be would have to be something out of the common run if he was going to tolerate having a working wife. Sharon had wondered how to approach the question of getting the guy—he did something with horses, she wasn’t sure what—to take a job at the embassy in the hopes that with the pair of them sharing servants’ quarters he’d not feel so publicly humiliated and just take the extra income. Greta was really good, and great fun to have around.

    Still, it wasn’t the evening to be fretting over the problems of being a boss. They were getting ready to go show the assembled minor nobility of Rome how three American gals could knock ‘em dead, even if they did have to make do with downtime makeup these days. Thank god for Stoner, was all she could say. His dyes and pigments might not have been up to making lipstick to Revlon’s standards, but compared with the poisons they used down-time, they were a godsend.

    The clothes made up for it, though. Rita was quite vocal about dressing up as a fairy princess, and she wasn’t far off the mark. Melissa might not be saying anything, but Sharon could tell she wasn’t exactly protesting at the confections of, well, pretty much everything that the local seamstresses had turned out for them.

    So was that when Captain Taggart knocked and Sharon shouted out “Come in! We’re decent—”

    —and Rita had shouted “Speak for yourself, girl”—

    He put his head round the door to see a scene that looked like aftermath of a twister in a cosmetics-and-lingerie warehouse. To his credit, other than his eyes widening briefly, he didn’t seem fazed. “Mistress Nichols, you should see this, out the front.”

    Sharon’s suite of rooms was at the back of the building. As they followed the Captain of Marine Horse toward the front of the building, she heard the commotion before they saw it. The ballroom-cum-exercise-hall had the best view of the street and it was there that he led them. Ruy and Tom and her dad were there, already ready to go out. In Dad’s case, he’d probably been ready for a while and was ready to complain loudly and bitterly about female tardiness—not that that wouldn’t stop him strutting once he had the results on his arm. The three men were peering out the window looking out at whatever was making the racket in the street below, along with one of the marines.

    Sharon went over and joined them. The twilit street outside was hardly crowded with the group who were doing all the shouting. They stood back a little from the entrance, no doubt because there was a constant two-marine guard there with rifle, bayonet and saber. Other than that, they were gathered around the entrance, reached back maybe halfway across the street and a few yards either side. As mob protests went, pretty feeble stuff. At a rough guess, between the staff and the marines, the crowd was outnumbered by the embassy they were picketing. Or, if Ruy was making the estimate, by him alone.

    “They arrived all together a few minutes ago,” Captain Taggart said.

    “All together?” Sharon asked.

    “Not even the pretence of spontaneous action,” Ruy said, sounding amused.

    “This one of the rent-a-crowds you’ve been telling us about?” Her father addressed his question to no-one in particular.

    Melissa sniffed. “I should go out and give them some pointers. In my day, we knew how to protest. I could start evening classes, I’d clean up.”

    Ruy chuckled. “Dona Melissa, it is certain that your skills in these matters would command a higher price than was spent on all of these poltroons together. I have made enquiries. This is work for those lacking the skill to shovel dung from the streets. I have spoken with some of the people who have been to such things, and wit was not much in evidence. I have not spoken to the teams of men Quevedo has organizing these little parties, but the practice seems to be that any warm body will do.”

    “Ha!” Melissa’s laugh didn’t have much humor in it. “Astroturf. Still, on the bright side, it’ll be the first time the official estimate of the crowd will be more accurate than the protestors’ one.”

    “Really?” Sharon’s dad asked.

    “Sure. We’d get a couple of hundred thousand marching through Washington. Next day, you’d read in the paper that ‘official estimates’”—she pronounced the words the same way most people would damned lies—”would say that the demonstration consisted of a couple of thousand, most of who had been paid to be there. I wish we had been paid, I’d have had some money back in those days. Now here, we really have got, what, fifty? Sixty? And all paid to be here.”

    “Less than usual,” Ruy said. “Perhaps they grow short of funds?” He didn’t sound like he believed that.

    “I’ve had’t lads stand to wi’ billets, Cap’n, Mistress,” Corporal Ritson said, in his broad Cumberland accent, “behind’t door, like as we won’t provoke yon shites, beggin’ y’presence, Mistresses.”

    “Thank you, and well done,” Sharon said, absently, as she tried to figure out what to do next. Having the Marines pick a fight would probably be quite fun to watch, since they could probably clear the street without administering more than a few bruises and broken teeth. Brawling was second nature to most of them and they were a disciplined lot who’d follow orders. Trouble was, if there was the slightest accident, the propaganda value for someone would be very high indeed. No sort of official protest would do a blind bit of good, either.

    “Has anyone called the militia?” she asked.

    “No, Mistress,” Captain Taggart replied. “Yon’s no job for halberdiers or horse. Shall I send a man anyway?”

    “No, no,” she said, taking the hint. “I can’t say I was impressed last time.”

    “And some of them are suborned, I am certain of it,” Ruy growled. There had been reports of militia turning out to demonstrations and overreacting, although it tended to be a bit murky who exactly had managed to call them in time to react so quickly. It was pretty much standard for seventeenth century policing that when it went beyond local watch or constabulary—who pretty much couldn’t handle riots worth a damn—then heads got broken, because the militias weren’t cops as such but trained bands of men maintained by the gentry for local defense. Mostly, they were the military hobby of rich men who occasionally got used to preserve disorder, to borrow the old Mayor Daley line. Turning them out took time, though, because most of them had day jobs and didn’t keep their equipment handy. Most of them mustered once a year, if that. That first militia squadron Sharon had seen had been, by a very unfortunate coincidence, preparing for its annual muster and close enough to get to the scene of the disturbance within half an hour.

    “I think we’re going to be late to the Colonna place,” Rita said, into the slightly amused silence.

    “Reckon so,” said Sharon, following her gaze up the street and seeing what she’d seen. “If we get there at all.”

    “We will let this rabble get in our way?” Ruy said, incredulous. “If you do not desire blood on the street, Dona Ambassadora, bid the carriage come to another entrance.”

    “Maybe we can, Ruy, but it looks like they had enough money after all,” Sharon said, pointing. A little way up the street, just about visible from where they stood, was another crowd. This one was quiet, and looked like it numbered a couple of hundred. They were gathered around someone who was talking to them. “Captain,” Sharon said, “have you got a spyglass?”

    “Aye, Mistress,” he said, handing it over.

    She was about to open the window and lean out for a better view, but then realized there was a better way, one that wouldn’t draw the earlier crowd’s attention to the newcomers. She had a sneaking suspicion she knew who it was, and she didn’t want to do anything that altered the situation until she was sure. “Upstairs,” she said. “There’s a balcony up there, right?”

    One short climb later—more of an effort in one of these skirts than is quite reasonable, she thought—and a quick look through the good Captain’s spyglass confirmed it. “It’s Frank,” she said.

    “Frank Stone?” Melissa’s eyes widened. “He’s got that many people following him? Tell me it’s out of morbid curiosity, please.”

    “Not fair, Melissa. I don’t know what he was like at school, although I can guess if last year was anything to go by. He’s really steadied down since he got married and moved to Rome, though.”

    “Frank’s married?” Melissa said. Then, pursing her lips a little: “Good for him. Those boys, frankly, needed some security in their lives and I’d been afraid they’d go off the rails completely.”

    Sharon’s dad snorted. “Why, you, you … bluenose. Melissa Mailey, if I didn’t know you better I’d swear that those were the words of a gen-you-wine conservative.”

    “Well, Tom Stone’s a good man, but hardly what you’d call—”

    “A good role model? Caring? Someone who’d put a roof over their heads and food on their table? Reckon I probably know Stoner a sight better than you do, Melissa. I figure those boys have had their fill of commune life, but I’m not even a little bit surprised they turned out to be decent young men. Now, me being such a pillar of the community, given where I grew up, that’s a surprise.”

    “Well. Um. What I meant…”

    “Leave it, Melissa,” her dad said. “There’s a difference between the wrong side of the tracks and wrong side of the law.”

    “It seems the young Senor has marshaled his forces,” Ruy said. “I have to agree here with Signor Nichols. There is a young man with a head on his shoulders.”

    The crowd Frank was leading had spread out to cover the street, and was walking slowly forward. The group at the front of the Embassy hadn’t noticed yet, being still too intent on their catcalls and jeering. Plus, Frank’s people had been out of their sight from ground level, what with there still being a fair amount of traffic in the early evening. It was starting to clear, and carriage-drivers and pedestrians and riders could see what was about to happen and turned down sidestreets and alleys and got into doorways.

    “He’s got them moving kind of slow,” Rita remarked.

    “Keeping them fresh if there is a fight,” Ruy said.

    “Or giving the other guys time to run away without one,” Dr. Nichols said. “Given how Frank was raised, I’d put my money on that. And he’ll not have guys with knives or swords in front, either. It’ll be sticks and clubs.”

    Ruy nodded. “Also sensible decisions. Well, perhaps not the clubs. I might have counseled the use of blades, the better to encourage the enemy to run.”

    James Nichols shook his head. “I don’t think Frank thinks that way. He might not object to handing out a few lumps, but he’s going to draw the line at killing.”

    Sharon couldn't tell who was right from the second floor, with the dusk gathering, but the folks out front were starting to spot the oncoming crowd. And the ones who saw what was coming were peeling off from the bunch they were with and getting away. None too slowly, either. In fact, as Frank's impromptu army got closer, the rest realized they were outnumbered and began to run. Some of the front rank from Frank's people dashed after them, but Sharon suspected they wouldn't chase far. Down in the street, lit by the light from the embassy's windows, Frank waved up at what, to him, must have been just silhouettes. Everyone else with him had stopped to shout insults and jeers after the running rentacrowd.

    When Sharon went down, followed by Tom, Rita, Ruy and her dad, Frank was grinning. "Not bad, for my first night as a rabble-rouser," he said, once greetings had gone around. "Problem taken care of, and nobody hurt."

    "You've come a long way since last we met," Dr. Nichols said. "You were having a beer in the Gardens, as I recall. What happened to that soldier you were with?"

    "Aidan? He made sergeant, he's still posted in Venice, I think," Frank said.

    Sharon remembered the serious-faced Englishman. He'd joined the USE forces after being taken captive at the Wartburg, learned to read and joined the marines. Since the Venice embassy was on pretty much friendly territory now, the guard there had been reduced and Sergeant Aidan Southworth was second-in-command after Lieutenant Trumble. Which was, unless Sharon missed her guess, doing a world of good for his career.

    "So you're doing what Cardinal Barberini wants?" Sharon asked.

    "Not from my point of view, no," Frank said, shaking his head. "Although I guess you could argue the matter either way. Somebody tried to organize a massacre at my place last night, and nearly did a real number on us. Four dead, maybe ten badly hurt but they'll make it. That kind of got me mad. So we figured we'd completely cover everywhere they were hiring rentacrowds, get someone on the inside, and pass the word that they were setting people up for militia massacres, which put a few people off. And I've got the word that those guys are working for Spain around most of Rome's worst gossips."

    "Good work, Senor," Ruy commented.

    "Yeah, good. What're you planning from here on in?" Sharon asked. "If you can tell me, that is."

    We'll keep spoiling this rentacrowd crap, where we can. Can't do much about the fake propaganda for the time being, although between the fifty or so people who nearly got killed last night, we've now got a cousin's wife's brother or something like that in every printing shop in town. We'll find out what's going down there, too. I, uh, got a lot of new friends last night."

    "Sounds like it," Sharon said. "Come by in the morning and tell us the whole story. Right now I've got to go and be an ambassador, but this has to be worth hearing."

    "Sure is," Frank said. "Gist of it is that they got someone to start a bar fight in my place, and had militia ready to 'suppress the riot' when it spilled in to the street. We got lucky, to be honest, their timing was a bit off. We saw it coming in time to get a lot of people inside and safe. Turns out they had some other guys on the street as a backstop. We'd have lost a lot more people if they'd been able to stop up all the little alleys and such."

    "Why?" Rita asked.

    "Disorder and riot, Dona Rita," Ruy said. "A pretext for political action against His Holiness. Senor Stone, ensure you have scouts to warn of militia movements. I would wager that Quevedo has suborned militia whom he positions to be ready. Many of their officers truly believe they are suppressing genuine insurrection, and harsh measures are required. They will not readily see the difference between your people and Quevedo's hirelings."

    "I figured as much," Frank said. "I'm not going to do much beyond spoil this kind of crap. I saw how trigger-happy they were last night."

    "Is there likely to be real rioting?" Dr. Nichols asked. "Way I heard it, it was just stuff like tonight. But from what you're saying, people are getting pretty pissed."

    Frank rocked a hand. "Maybe. There's usually some, this time of year. But like you say, people are getting pissed. Now that we've got people finally listening to what we're saying about it being the Spanish, that's really got 'em going. What can I say? They don't cotton to foreigners much, when they look like they might invade. And, uh, no disrespect, Senor Sanchez, some of the older folks remember what you did in Venice and are saying something like it's going to happen here."

    Ruy chuckled. "A shame, really, that the elder Osuna was executed. It would be such a pleasure for him to know that that scheme was still biting Spain in the ass fifteen years later. I shall tell Alfonso when I see him, he will be ecstatic. At the time, he truly believed it was a good plan."

    Rita spoke up. "Sharon, can you explain all this on the way? We really should be going."

    "Right," Sharon said. "Frank, can you be here at, say, ten tomorrow? We need to talk. I need to make a report back to Magdeburg about tonight, if nothing else, and your part of the story needs to go in it."

    "Sure thing, Ms. Nichols," Frank said. "Meantime, I've got a bar to run."

    The evening at the palazzo Colonna was quite refreshingly dull.