with us and oversee our safe arrival. Merely to provide assistance in the event of alpine mishaps and to show the flag to the Graubunders, as it were.”
Yeah, and to amaze and awe the natives. One of whom, come to think of it, was none other than- “That guy that Miro met with-Jenatsch-wouldn’t be so stupid as to think that he could deal a bigger hand for himself, what with a pope ripe for the plucking in his own back yard-would he?”
Ruy frowned. “He is too clever for that, I think-but, on the other hand, why trust to fate, or to the prudence of a man who left his mark on your history by employing a battle axe as readily as diplomatic nuance?”
“Exactly. So, the way I see it-”
Larry Mazzare rose. “Well, since good-byes don’t seem to be necessary any more, I’ll leave you two to your favorite pastime.”
“Our pastime?” wondered Ruy.
“What are you talking about, Larry?” said Sharon.
But with an impish smile, the cardinal had started strolling down toward the small garden.
Larry Mazzare turned into the garden’s largest, bee-busy arbor-and was almost run down by the big hidalgo whose sense of honor had overcome his oath of fealty to Philip and who had accompanied the rescuers back to Italy. And whose name he was always forgetting “Don Vincente,” Larry said, relieved that the name had come to him at the last second, “I did not see you.”
“A hundred pardons, Your Eminence. The fault was mine. I am-I am somewhat overwhelmed, I fear.”
“Overwhelmed?”
“What he means to say,” said Luke Wadding, coming up behind, “is that he just met the pope.”
“I did, yes!” gushed Don Vincente, who looked as star-struck as a schoolboy and as harmless as a restless tiger. “It was-oh, if only I could tell my family. But alas, they believe I am-”
Mazzare stretched out a hand and touched Castro y Papas on the arm. “Don Vincente, I know you worry that the news of your death may be too hard for them to bear, particularly as they are older parents. But they believe your departure was with honor; they will endure.”
He nodded. “True. And perhaps it is better that they do not know the truth: that in order to live, I forsook honor-”
“No,” Mazzare’s voice became firm. “You did not. You swore an oath to a ‘noble and holy crown’ did you not?”
“I did.”
“And so tell me, were you not compelled by the duly appointed representatives of that crown to repeatedly act in ways that were the very antithesis of holiness or nobility?”
His head hung. “I was.”
“Then, my son, it is not you who broke faith with them: it is our representatives of the crown who broke faith with you.” Don Vincente looked sideways; Larry saw-as was to be expected in a man of his age and experience-that this had already occurred to him. But as a devout Catholic, he would not presume the authority to absolve himself; that had to come from a priest-as it had now. “I can well imagine your doubts, Don Vincente; the first tenet of chivalry is that one’s virtue and honor is not contingent upon the virtue and honor of others. Just so. But your duty here was not just to yourself, but to the innocent. It may well be that we might have to pay a heavy-even an ultimate-price to abide by the oaths we swear. But should others-particularly an innocent mother and her unborn child-be compelled to pay for the keeping of our oaths, as well? The answer to that is ‘No’-and you found that answer with great speed and clarity.”
Don Vincente looked up. “Thank you, Your Eminence. This has troubled me-among other things.”
“Oh, what other things?”
Wadding commented from over the big Spaniard’s shoulder. “He’s very much looking forward to meeting Ruy-a ‘whispered legend’ he calls him. But he is, let us say ‘reluctant,’ to share what he knows about Borja, and particularly, this Pedro Dolor fellow who has been his spymaster ever since Quevedo was-er, removed.”
Don Vincente looked up quickly. “Is it true that Don Ruy slew Quevedo in single combat?”
Mazzare saw the gleam in the young man’s eye, saw the opening there that Ruy would use to get him to share his precious insider knowledge of Borja’s command structure, and simply said, “Why not go ask him yourself? He is just there, at the head of the garden.”
Mazzare returned Don Vincente’s brief nod, Wadding’s knowing smile, and walked on to where he knew the pope had retired to meditate for a while.
But turning into the next long arbor, Larry saw Urban in solemn conversation with two of the Wild Geese- Owen and Sean, from the shape of the silhouettes. Rather than turn into that shaded tunnel of bright flowers and wafting lilac, Mazzare kept walking straight on. He considered returning to his own room to pack, but decided against it; as he had left, late-sleeping Frank and Giovanna had just begun stirring in the adjacent room. And if this day was like every other thus far, Mazzare would gladly miss their loud-and vigorous-celebration of the morning and each other.
Owen had not expected that Urban would bow his head in such an extended gesture of memorial respect, but he did, staring down at the small, flat stone under which they had buried those few personal effects of John O’Neill that had been carried back from Rome. All in all, they weighed only ten pounds, but they had to remain here: Franchetti had made it very clear that any balloon of his that got tasked with carrying the pope was going to have plenty of extra fuel, a spare engine, and no unnecessary weight.
The pope murmured something short and Latin, which puzzled O’Neill, because it wasn’t any of he benedictions he was familiar with. As it was, Urban had already said a full mass for the fallen earl in Vicenza, for which Father Hickey had made the journey, looking so old and drawn that Owen wondered if he might not soon follow his dear Johnnie into the grave out of sheer grief. And here, Urban had murmured a familiar blessing and benediction when they first bowed their heads.
When the pope finally raised his chin, Owen asked, “Your Holiness, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what prayer you said there at the end.”
“Oh,” explained Urban, “that was no prayer. It was a line from a story-a story, and a line, which reminded me of your courageous-and I have heard it whispered, occasionally impetuous-cousin.”
“Ah, he’d appreciate the truth of your words, Holy Father, and I doubt he’d dispute ’em. But what were they?”
Urban put his chin up slightly. “‘But his strength and valor availed naught.’”
Sean Connal frowned. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that passage.”
Urban smiled. “It would be truly miraculous if you were, Doctor. It is from a narrative called The Romance of the Three Kingdoms, a rather ancient work from China. Father-General Vitelleschi’s missionaries in that land just sent back a translation in April. I had thought it lost-but it turns out the father-general had it all the time. He is a most resourceful man.”
“As is His Holiness,” replied Sean, “I understand that you have prevailed upon the ambassador-now, doctor, now, I suppose-to accept me as a medical trainee under her guidance. I am most grateful for this kindness, Holy Father.”
Urban laughed. “Oh, it is no kindness, Doctor. It is pure, unadulterated selfishness. It is in my own interest to ensure that I have a doctor trained to up-time standards in my retinue.”
Owen frowned. “What do you mean, ‘in your retinue,’ Your Holiness?”
Urban turned towards him with a look of such singular gravity that, for the most fleeting of moments, Owen was scared. “Colonel O’Neill,” said Urban, “you are the Pope’s Own Men.”
Still frowning, unsure at the strange nature of the compliment, Owen bowed. “We thank you humbly, Holy Father.”
Urban shook his head. “I doubt you understand what I mean…because I’m not sure you would thank me.”
Connal was the first to understood the implication. “Your Holiness, are we to understand that your comment on our being ‘your men’ was not merely a personal observation?”
Urban smiled. “You are correct. My comment was official. I will not command this, but I will ask it, for my welfare and that of this troubled Church. Will you be known as the Pope’s Own?”
“You wish us to become papal troops?” Although Owen tried to keep the tone of his inquiry deeply respectful, even in his own ears, he sounded as though he was choking on a chicken bone.
