His enemies could assassinate him tomorrow, and it wouldn't matter. The deadliest blows had already been delivered. Alexander died in Babylon at the age of thirty-three-but the Persian world was already gone, swept aside by the Greek torrent brought by its conqueror. Just as surely as the world Rubens and Don Fernando had been born in was already gone.
So be it. Rubens had made the father's decision, the husband's decision. In the end, dynasties were a small thing.
He decided he would leave the face till the last. True, he could request a portrait of some sort-they might have one of those "photographs" in their possession, in Amsterdam-but why bother? That would require awkward explanations, and he would have several days to study the titan himself after he arrived, with no one being the wiser.
He came. He went. For days, that fair but plain face fascinated Rubens. He'd thought he would have to idealize it-or demonize it, perhaps-but in the end decided the face was perfect as it was. Inscrutable in its simplicity, just as were the titan's deeds themselves.
A week later, the painting was done. It was the best work Rubens had done in years. A pity it would have to remain hidden, of course. But whatever else, the work had shattered the artist's paralysis. Everything he'd done since the Ring of Fire, except this, had been a copy of something, in one way or another. If not a copy of his own works, those of another-like that portrait he'd done of the Gretchen woman and her magnificent bosom, mimicking an artist of the future named Delacroix.
Well, not some of the Jefferson portraits, perhaps. But those had been so closely tied to a public purpose that he'd felt tightly constrained.
He thought he probably still only had seven years left, himself, regardless of what happened. He'd died of gout, in that world that would have been. From what Anne had told him, there didn't seem to be any magical medical cure for that condition, not even for the up-timers. Only a dreary list of things he shouldn't eat, and a still drearier list of things he shouldn't do. It hardly seemed worth it, just to gain a few extra years. Sixty-three wasn't so bad, better than most.
He didn't care much, really. They would be seven productive years, perhaps the most productive of his life. And he always had the consolation-given to precious few men since Adam-of knowing that almost the last act of his life would be to impregnate a wife whom he would leave behind in comfort and good health.
Still, as weeks passed, he felt increasingly dissatisfied. He hadn't even dared show the painting to Helena. Somebody should see it, before his death.
Finally, he realized that there was one witness possible. Who better, really? And she could certainly be relied upon to hold the confidence, for a multitude of reasons.
So, in one of the many visits across the lines into Amsterdam-those had practically become a regular traffic, by then-he passed the word along. And, two days later, his witness arrived at his home.
He ushered her into the small room where he kept the painting tucked away in a closet. He'd chosen that room because, small and awkwardly designed as it was, it had the only closet in the house that was big enough. It was a very large painting.
After setting it up on an easel for viewing, he unwrapped the cloth that hid it. Then, waited while she studied his work.
By the time she was done, Rebecca Abrabanel's brown eyes were watery. "Oh, Pieter," she whispered. "It's magnificent. But it's so… wrong."
She turned the eyes to him, her gaze almost-not quite-an accusing one. "He is not a cruel man. I can assure you of that. Very kind and gentle, actually, most of the time."
So, Rubens knew he had succeeded.
"Of course not. I never imagined he was cruel." Finally satisfied, and in full, he gazed upon his work. "Nothing but grace can wreak such havoc and destruction, Rebecca. Nothing else can even come close. Had Lucifer understood that, we would never have needed for the Christ to be sent at all." Part Two Frenzies bewilder, reveries perturb the mind
Chapter 11
The Tower of London January 1634
"I think I'm going to tear my hair out," Melissa Mailey announced, to no one in particular. She was looking through one of the windows in St. Thomas' Tower that overlooked the Water Lane that separated it from the Inner Ward and the rest of the Tower of London. Glaring through it, more precisely.
Sitting next to each other on an ornate divan, not far away in the big central room of their quarters, Tom and Rita Simpson looked at each other. Then, back at Melissa.
Tom cleared his throat. "I think it's an attractive shade of gray, myself." His wife winced.
Melissa swiveled her head, bringing the glare onto Tom. "I am not that vain, thank you."
She was fudging a bit. Outside of being clean, well-groomed and reasonably well-dressed, in a schoolteacher's sort of way, one of the few things about her appearance that Melissa was sensitive about was her hair color. Perhaps it was because she was a natural dark-blonde who'd spent too many years being belligerent about blonde jokes. Whatever the reason, as she'd gotten into middle age she'd found herself dismayed by the gray creeping into her hair, where the wrinkles creeping into her face and the various little sags in her body hadn't bothered her in the least.
So, for years, she'd dyed her hair. Subtly, of course. Melissa Mailey would just as soon commit hara-kiri as become a peroxide blonde. In her lexicon of personal sins, being garish ranked just barely below being reactionary or bigoted.
Alas, while the seventeenth century had plenty of methods for coloring hair, "garish" pretty well defined the end result for any of them. So, since the Ring of Fire, Melissa had rationed the supply of up-time hair-coloring that existed in Grantville which suited her needs. But she'd only brought a small amount when they came to England on a diplomatic mission, the past summer. That had long since vanished in the months since they'd found themselves imprisoned in the Tower of London.
She looked back out the window. "I propose to tear my hair out not because of its coloring-which suits me well, enough, I assure you-but because of the activities and behavior of a certain Darryl McCarthy. One of your soldiers, let me remind you, Captain Simpson."
Tom settled his massive frame a bit further into the divan. "Oh. That."
"Yes. Oh. That. If he gets that girl pregnant…"
Tom cleared his throat again. "That'd be a neat trick, Melissa. Seeing as how-being crude about it-he hasn't managed to get into her pants yet. Well, not pants, ladies' garments being what they are in this day and age. Lift her skirts and undo… whatever she's got on underneath."
Rita Simpson winced again.
So did Melissa. "The operative phrase being 'yet,' I take it. You admit he's trying."
"Well, yeah, sure. Of course he is. He's a dyed-in-the-wool hillbilly, Melissa. Might as well ask him to give up his pickup and Cat cap for a VW and a beret, as ask him not to put the make on a girl. He's got his self-respect, y'know. On the other hand, he's not being crude about it and he's not even really pushing all that hard. Just enough for form's sake. Being as how-miracles do happen, from time to time-he's actually got the serious hots for the girl, he's not just trying to get laid."
Melissa looked back at him, squinting a little. "And exactly how do you know all this?"
"He talks to me about it, how else?" Tom spread his huge hands. "Who else would he talk to, concerning this subject? He's a hillbilly, Melissa. He certainly isn't going to discuss something like this with-you know-"
His wife chuckled. "A girl. And he defines anything female as a 'girl.' "
"Well, not Melissa. He pretty much still defines her as the Schoolmarm From Hell. Her gender comes a long way second to her innately demonic essence. But, yeah, a girl. It wouldn't even occur to Darryl to talk to anyone except a guy about it."