“Actually, yes,” was what Vincente wanted to say, but didn’t. “These are effective training methods for the tercios, Governor Morales y Llaguno. I presume they will work here as well.”
“Well, I am nowhere near so sure as you. In fact, I have a mind to-”
“To what?” inquired a voice from the doorway. Pedro Dolor’s silhouette stood framed against the backdrop of white-pink groined vaults and delicate arches of the second interior story of Castell de Bellver.
The governor swallowed. “I–I was just saying. That…that we are unaccustomed to the style of training that Captain Vincente has instituted here. My men find it-”
“-what? Too strenuous? Then perhaps they should not be members of this garrison. Captain Castro y Papas is carrying out my directives, Governor, for we are all answerable to Madrid for the continued security of these prisoners. That requires constant vigilance and full readiness. Your garrison was deficient in both regards. I see improvement, thanks to the captain. And if I were to learn that he was encountering resistance in his attempt to meet those objectives-”
“There shall be no resistance,” the governor said through a loud swallow. “I was simply explaining why my men might not be improving as swiftly as desired.”
“Yes,” said Dolor after a moment, “of course you were.” He turned to Castro y Papas. “Are you done here?”
The captain sent a polite glance at the governor, who nodded vigorously. Vincente made a short bow and followed Dolor out into the pleasant airs of the second story arcade. They walked slowly toward the stairs leading down to the ground level.
“I am returning to Palma this afternoon,” Dolor commented.
Thank God! “So soon, Senor Dolor?”
“Yes. I have business there. Captain, you are not to allow the governor to obstruct you in the attainment of your objectives. The safety of the prisoners is ultimately in your hands.”
Don Vincente raised an eyebrow. “After your own, of course.”
“Only for now. Within the next two weeks, maybe three, I will return to Rome. Pope Urban has not yet been located. Until that task is completed, the Church cannot move beyond its current stalemate, which is in danger of becoming a true interregnum.”
What a nice term for that period of time after which an anti-pope will longer benefit from hunting down and killing the legitimate pontiff like a rabbit in a garden maze. “I realize the urgency of that situation, Senor Dolor, but if left on my own here, I do not have enough legal authority to prevent the governor from-”
“Captain,” Dolor turned at the head of the stairway; the eyes looking up at Don Vincente were as dead as a statue’s. “I cannot confer more rank upon you, yet you must be firmly in charge here. You must accomplish this by the force of your personality and resolve. Do not fail me in this. I cannot tarry here; being in Palma does not move me closer to achieving my objectives.”
And for the last time that day, Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas suppressed a facial reflex, in this case, a surprised blink. Dolor’s words were innocuous on the surface, but his tone hinted at ambitions and desires that went far further, and were far more personal, than whatever skullduggery he had to settle for Borja in Italy. “I see,” Don Vincente answered simply.
Dolor nodded. “I hope you do.” Then he started down the stairs alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Just inside the entrance of the upstairs parlor that was rapidly becoming known as the Garden Room (the reference was to Gethsemane, not the barely visible vegetable plots behind the villa), Sharon put a hand on Larry Mazzare’s arm as he passed.
The village priest-turned-cardinal started, noticing the ambassadora and her husband for the first time. “Oh. Hello, Sharon. Ruy.” Antonio Barberini the Younger, with whom he had been talking, went on into the Garden Room.
Sharon kept her voice low. “Before you put on the gloves for round two, Larry, I just wanted to congratulate you on winning that all-important first battle. I’d have said so sooner, but we haven’t seen much of you for the past week.”
Larry smiled crookedly. “Trying to write a defense of up-time canonical doctrines from memory is pretty time-consuming, Sharon. Sorry I haven’t been around too much.”
“Not to worry, Larry; I’m just grateful that you proved we’re not demonspawn. Of course, you put us all at risk of auto-da-fe in the process.”
Larry’s smile faded a bit. “Okay, now; let’s not overstate the case, Sharon. Debating in every era, and particularly this one, recognizes a tendency to paint in broad strokes when making a big point. But yeah, I’m glad that one is over; it’s tough walking the rhetorical line between this century’s presumed fire-and-brimstone literalities of Satan, and my own more symbolic beliefs.”
Ruy nodded somberly. “I understand, but you are doing what you have to, Cardinal Mazzare. And that first victory was necessary for you to be able to continue this decisive war of words.”
Larry nodded in return. “I grant you, I felt I was pretty much the favorite for winning round one. The judgment of the common people, and Urban’s own actions, all point to an unspoken judgment that, whatever else we are, we are not infernal agents. But up until now, he’s never proclaimed anything about our origins ex cathedra. If he does so, Urban will be committing the Church to a position that’s going to earn him some real enemies.”
“Yes, but most of those will be in Spain. Where he already has few enough friends, I think,” appended Ruy with a smile.
Mazzare shrugged. “I suspect that’s one of the reasons he’s willing to let all this issue come to a head, now: all the people who will hate that pronouncement are already on Borja’s side. But I think Urban’s consciousness has become less political and more spiritual since the massacres in Rome. I think he wants to be sure-absolutely sure-that in trusting us, he’s doing the right thing for the Church.”
“Which makes him a good pope,” averred Ruy.
“Yeah,” interjected Sharon, “but like one up-time songster said, ‘only the good die young.’ And Borja certainly seems determined to use Urban to prove the truth of those lyrics.”
“Ambassadora!” cried the delighted voice of Urban from the doorway. “I only heard the very end of your exchange-I can discern that I missed the best parts of it, alas-but I am still vain enough to relish the thought of one so vibrant as yourself considering me ‘young.’” He beamed and winked. “I am in desperately short supply of such flattering opinions, so I am doubly glad that I did not have to declare you a devil. Now, let us take our places.”
Vitelleschi began with his signature abruptness. “Today we resolve two issues. The first, that of the correctness of the up-time doctrine of papal infallibility. This has been conceded nolo contendere by Cardinal Wadding.” The father-general’s eyes sparked with what looked like amusement. “Of course, as he is a good Franciscan, I expected no different.”
Sharon whispered to Ruy. “Huh?”
“He is referring to the dispute between Pope John XXII and the Franciscans that gave rise to the entire notion of papal infallibility.”
Sharon, no more edified than before, simply said, “Oh.”
Vitelleschi had not even stopped to breathe. “Cardinal Wadding has also inspected Cardinal Mazzare’s documentation on the principle of the dogmatic infallibility of papal councils as articulated under the convention of the Sacred Magisterium. He also accepts this nolo contendere, conceding that it has been recognized, albeit less formally, since the time of Justinian.
“However, since Cardinal Wadding has already conceded this day’s points of debate involving infallibility, he wishes to use his time to discuss whether the up-time ecumenical council known as Vatican II, or the papal decrees which emerged from it, can be presumed to enjoy such absolute authoritativeness. He has asked to be the first speaker. Cardinal Mazzare, will you consent to giving him the first word?”