She nodded. “The last of the rescuers break through the final barrier and find us held by the Spanish, with cocked guns at our heads.”
“Exactly. A hopeless standoff. The rescuers can’t move without destroying the very people they came to rescue. And by that time, other Spanish forces will be inbound, cutting off any chance of retreat.” He shook his head. “There may be no getting out of here, Gia.” He took her hands. “I’m sorry I got you into all this. I never expected-”
“You will be silent, Frank Stone, before you say anything more profoundly stupid than you already have. I am here because I love you, and if asked to choose my future a thousand times over, each time, I would choose this one I share with you. So, that is settled. All that remains is for you to get to work.”
“To work?”
“On your book, Frank. Just because you are imprisoned does not mean you cannot fight back; indeed, this is when it is most important to do so. And in you, beloved husband, I have seen the promise that indeed, the pen will be far mightier than the sword. Have you made any progress with the book?”
“Well, some.”
“Must I guess, or will you deign to tell me?”
“Sure. It’s just that I’m-well, I’m kind of embarrassed. I’m not really a writer, you know-”
“Frank, any one is a writer who chooses to be. To be a good writer, well, that is a different matter. But if you can simply write as you speak, you will be a good writer. Possibly much more than merely good. But tell me: what idea has been emerging?”
“Well, its kind of a parody and an homage all in one.”
“Good, good: a work with many layers, with allusion to other masterpieces.”
“Uh…yeah. And it’s set in a time of warfare and struggle between good and evil.”
“Excellent. It is a heroic tale, borrowing its scope from the Greeks and Romans. And the main characters? Who are they?”
“Well…they’re hobbits.”
Gia blinked, then frowned. “They are who?”
“Not who: what. They’re hobbits. They’re kind of little people with hairy feet who live in holes in the ground and…” He saw her look. “You don’t like it.”
Gia floundered for a reply. “Well…it is not Homer or Virgil,” she stuttered lamely.
“No. But, well, now that I think of it, yeah, it is. Kind of. See, these hobbits are part of a long saga called The Lord of the Rings. It’s filled with noble lords and ancient demons and all that kind of stuff, but the real heroes are the hobbits because-well, because they’re just the little people who live through war. Like all us little people who have to figure out ways to survive, but also keep goodness alive in our hearts, while the world around us is plunged into war, and dominated by evil.”
Gia’s smile had returned; it was now wider than ever. “My genius Frank; a book for the working classes. And one which will brighten the eyes of children, even as it calls forth tears of sorrow and fellow-feeling from strong men with great hearts.” She flung her arms around his neck. “My genius. And look what you have for your daily inspiration: look!” She pointed out over the eastern ramparts where they had come to stand.
For a moment, they forgot the perils and uncertainties of their existence as prisoners. Gulls wheeled about the blue dome of the sky; upon the glimmering bay, lateen-rigged boats-tiny at this distance-scudded to and from, milling about the skirts of the ochre-stoned edifices with which Palma faced the sea. From this height, and distance, any blemishes were invisible: the world was a panorama of story-book perfection.
“Wow,” said Frank after a full minute.
“ Bella, ” breathed Giovanna.
“Come,” said Sergeant Rock, behind them.
They turned; he pointed over a walled walkway to the northernmost tower, a thinner spire that rose up three stories above the roof, two above the tops of the other towers. “Your room is there, in the lazarette. You will be pleased to know that it was once the bedchamber of the kings of Mallorca.”
“And what became of the kings of Mallorca?” asked Frank.
“They resisted the dominion of Madrid; they are no more.”
“Sounds like a warning, not a history lesson.”
The sergeant shrugged. “You may consider it to be both. You will come. Now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Vitelleschi rose, standing before the hearth. “The issue before us tonight is that of Grantville’s origins: are they satanic or natural? It is crucial that we have high confidence in our answer to this question. The documents of Grantville, and what they claim about both the physical and theological realities of our own world, must have their provenance established. Collectively, they are either the most cunning of all lies, or the most revolutionary of all truths. If true, they may contain inspirations from a loving god, who is reaching a hand from the up-time world into this one.”
“And if they are satanic lies,” added Wadding, “then they are invitations to oblivion.”
“Yes,” Vitelleschi agreed with a nod, “it is one or the other, it seems. For if the up-time corpus is one immense conceit, then to give it credence is to eat the fruit of saplings grown from the seeds of Eden’s forbidden tree. Cardinal Wadding, you will begin our proceedings.”
Wadding nodded, stood-and surprised Sharon by looking at her directly. “I begin with an apology to our host, Ambassador Nichols. Ambassador, my task puts me in a bitter position. I must now repay your protection and hospitality by calling into question the godliness of your very origins and existence. This is not the way Irish guests are taught to honor their hosts.” His smile was genuinely regretful, but brief; he turned to face the other clerics. “And in fact, my apology to the ambassadora leads to my first task: to correct the wild arguments of those who claim that Grantville’s citizens are merely a cohort of duplicitous demons which might at any moment cast off their fleshy disguises and reveal their true, infernal natures. This laughably simplistic perception indicates a dangerously insufficient conception of infernal genius. Consider: is it likely that so juvenile a deception would be the best that the Prince of Lies could craft? Has Satan not been the author of mischief so subtle that even God’s own angelic servants were corrupted by his poisonous fabulations?”
“I presume you perceive a more suitably insidious plot, Cardinal Wadding?” Vitelleschi inquired.
“Yes. If the Prince of Lies has the power and freedom to construct a town and its inhabitants out of the formless elements, he would populate it with creatures that genuinely believed the memories he breathed into them along with the spark of apparent life. For it is truly said that the most convincing purveyors of lies are those who do not know that they are, indeed, lies.
“Pertinently, I call your attention to Cardinal Mazzare’s own radical embrace of toleration for all religions, and his denunciation of war, particularly those waged to combat heresy. I do not doubt Cardinal Mazzare’s sincerity when he attests that these were also the teachings of his future Church. But, if he is an unwitting satanic construct, he would naturally believe in these tenets no less intensely than he would believe that his life in the twentieth century was actual, rather than a fabulation implanted in his mind.
“Surely the danger latent in following the doctrinal laxities of Cardinal Mazzare’s supposed future are clear to all. The presumption that warfare is an intolerable and that life is sacred above all other things not only places excessive value on our terrestrial existence, but might also be the telltale clue that these tenets are a Trojan horse, not a holy gift. Certainly, the promise of peace would be eagerly embraced by the war-plagued multitudes of this century-but for precisely that reason, we must study this apparent gift most carefully before we take it within the walls of our faith.”
Wadding raised a cautionary index finger. “Is there not the brimstone scent of perfidious elegance about this ‘gift’? Imagine what it could engender: toleration so great that it becomes indiscriminate; sympathy so profound that it overrides moral judgment. In the name of peace, we might succumb to requests to relax our vigilance, might fail to teach subsequent generations to strictly observe the sacraments and proclaim their faith in the One True Church. If, then, our faith decays into pallid passivity, we would be responsible for the damnation of untold millions, now and in future generations. For upon those multitudes-all unbaptized, unblessed by the grace of the holy sacraments they have forgotten-Satan would smile benignly from behind a hundred facades of serene peace, reveling in how our lack of moral courage today provided him with the opportunity to devour the souls of all the children of men, for all time.