He nodded to Nichols' stare. "Yeah. That was the story, anyway. A lot of folks around here know it. When the Portuguese hit Angola, and started shipping people to Brazil, English privateers hit them along the way. Captured some slavers and took them into the Virginia colony to sell off."
"To sell," said Nichols flatly. "Not just the ships, then. The people got sold too."
"Into indentured labor, just like everyone else without money, white or black. But, James-after a few years, they were free. And no Jim Crow laws yet, no real racism until the eighteenth century. They bought land, married whomever they liked-they settled."
"Do you think it's true?"
"Maybe." Piazza shrugged. "Bob Gowen used to claim he was part Turk, for God's sake. We'll never know. Still… I think it was 1620," he added thoughtfully. "Ought to be raising the next generation about now. Sure sounds like African-Americans to me. If not them, it'll be someone else; even oceans don't hold out forever. Maybe some of those kids hear about a famous foreign 'Moorish physician' now and then, hey?"
"Well. That's… something." Nichols stared back toward Grantville's steam plumes. Seeds, across oceans.
Piazza shivered, stamped his feet. "C'mon, malungu, let's go home. We've got work to do."
Trials
Jay Robison
The young woman put her hands together in front of her chest, as if praying. The stone-faced prison guard wove the cords of the sibille around the thumbs of her joined hands. The guard held onto the whipcords, ready to tighten them.
She looked at the man who had caused her so much pain, both physical and emotional. He looked back. Was the sneer on his face real or imagined? She looked down again at her hands; it would be a small thing to endure if she could inflict pain in equal measure on the man whom she now confronted.
The judge asked her, "Is what you have said in your prior examination true?"
The cord tightened. Pain.
"It is true."
"Is the confirmation you have given here today the truth?"
Tighter now. More pain. The young woman steeled herself. She would be damned if she would cry out.
"It is true!"
The cord tightened yet again. The pain was nearly unbearable.
"It is true, it is true, it is true, everything I said!"
Artemisia Gentileschi awoke, sweating, to daylight and a concerned servant. She rubbed her thumbs, massaging away phantom pain and pushing the memory back down inside her mind. It took her a moment to realize where she was: in Rome, staying in the palazzo of Cassiano dal Pozzo, a friend and patron. She was sweating and didn't know if it was the June heat.
"Are you all right, Maestra Gentileschi?" the young woman asked. She held a bowl of water.
"I am fine. I will have breakfast after I get dressed."
The servant curtsied and left the water on a table. Artemisia rose from bed to wash her face. Her eyes fell on the letter lying on her bedside table and the news it contained. Her father, Orazio, was dead.
It had taken six months for the letter to come via agents of her patron, King Philip IV of Spain. His Most Catholic Majesty was currently an ally of England in the League of Ostend. Due to the war threatening to engulf half of Europe, communication with England was anything but quick. Six months for Artemisia to find out that her father had succumbed to plague.
Artemisia splashed cool water on her face, hoping to wash away her grief with the sweat. The sweat, at least, was cleansed. The grief remained, as well as the old memories it dredged up. She finished dressing, had breakfast, and a carriage took her to the Church of San Matteo, where Galileo's hearing was to be held.
Galileo was the reason she was even in Rome in the summer. He was an old friend, and it had pained her deeply that she had been unable to do anything for him. She was living in Naples, far from where he was being held; she had no money she could give him and no influence she could exert on his behalf. She had written him a few letters but wasn't sure if he'd ever gotten them; she'd had no response.
When Artemisia heard that Galileo was being brought to Rome to stand before the Holy Office-a de facto trial if not an official one-she decided the least she could do was to come to Rome and, if possible, be present in the church where the hearing would be held. She didn't know if Galileo would even know she was there, but at least there would be one friendly face among the spectators.
At least, she reflected as she stood in line with other noble parties, she would be able to sit in a pew rather than stand. Gian Lorenzo Bernini, the Holy Father's favorite sculptor, had made the arrangements. Artemisia couldn't help thinking, somewhat sourly, that it was another favor she owed the man. Almost two years before, he had made arrangements for her oldest daughter, Prudentia, to travel to Grantville in the company of Giulio Mazzarini. Gian Lorenzo would, Artemisia knew, collect on his favors in due time.
As the English might say, "In for a penny, in for a pound." For Artemisia, the benefits received from a favor had to outweigh the inevitable obligations to be incurred in asking for the favor. In this case the benefits were worth it. Because supporting Galileo was not the only reason Artemisia had for wanting to be present at the hearing. She wanted to see Father Lawrence Mazzare for herself. Prudentia had written many times of his kindness; the Grantville priest had helped make satisfactory living arrangements for her daughter, and he had never asked for anything in return. Artemisia hoped to meet the American priest and thank him personally if possible.
Finally, she was let into the church. Crowded as San Matteo's was, it was cooler than standing in the street. She looked around; everyone seemed to be whispering and pointing at a nobleman in very fancy cavaliere dress and the stout priest seated with him. They were sitting not far away. The whisperers were saying something about them being Polish, but to Artemisia-who'd dealt with several agents of King Charles of England-the cavaliere had the look of a Scotsman. Still, with as many mercenaries as were on the loose these days, who could tell? Artemisia was tempted to ask them herself, but they looked distracted.
Then the hearing started. Like every one else around her, Artemisia was completely unprepared for what happened next.
She came out of San Matteo's in shock, along with most of the other bystanders. The strange cavaliere, it turned out, was not Polish but (as she had suspected) a Scotsman in the service of the United States of Europe. Artemisia, being long familiar with the politics of Rome, had no doubt that the implications of a Scots Calvinist being willing to exchange his life for the pope's would be a topic of endless conversation for the foreseeable future. The cavaliere-Lennox, his name was; he was an officer rather than a knight-had not, in fact, been killed. His cuirass had stopped the ball from the pistol of the holy father's would-be assassin. The truth was spectacular enough, but Artemisia had no doubt that before long, half of Rome would be claiming to have personally witnessed a legion of angels defending the pope against the demon servants of Lucifer (in human guise as heretical fanatics) while the holy father miraculously brought Captain Lennox back from the dead and made him see the folly of his Calvinist ways.
Artemisia herself could hardly get back to her rooms at dal Pozzo's quickly enough. The first order of business was to send a letter to Father Mazzare. She knew from what friends had told her where the American was staying; she wrote a brief note expressing to Father Mazzare her desire to meet him, in order to thank him personally for his kindness to Prudentia. As soon as a servant was dispatched to deliver the letter, Artemisia hurried to a room that had been set aside for her to work. She had to sketch.
She knew there would be hundreds, thousands, of depictions of what had just transpired at the Church of San Matteo. Works would be commissioned, and many more artists would complete works in hopes of selling them and getting noticed by the pope himself, other members of the Barberini family, or someone hoping to ingratiate himself with them.