Grantville Gazette, Volume X Page 20

  "To see the sights."

  "Where are you going after you are finished in Rome?"

  "Naples, to see Mount Vesuvius."

  "Are you carrying any books which are on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum?"

  "No, Holy Father."

  The inquisitor conferred with the sergeant. "You are free to go."

  Rome

  February, 1633

  William lunged, delivering the coup de grace to a phantom opponent.

  I shook my head. "Lord Devonshire. Have you been keeping your journal up-to-date?"

  William shook his head like a man trying to rouse himself from sleep. "My journal?"

  "You heard me, Milord. Your lady mother expects to see proof that you have been observant. As I have told you before, you must record the history, geography, climate, wildlife, trade, agriculture, minerals, food, clothing, customs, art, laws, politics, and fortifications of each land we pass through."

  William gave me a sheepish look. "Not since we left Florence."

  "I have to go out and run some errands. This would be a good time to set down in your journal a description of what you have seen in Rome so far. You may go outside once you are done, but don't go alone."

  * * *

  I returned to our apartment and found classical bric-a-brac all over the place. Vases, bronzes, tablets, and busts galore. There was barely room to walk without tripping over an ancient Roman or two.

  "Look what I bought!" William chortled.

  "I am looking."

  "I went off to the old Forum. It's market day there, and as I was walking about, I ran into this Englishman. We got to talking, I told him who I was, and he said that he had been a friend of my father, God rest his soul.

  "Well, it turned out that his guide, this Italian fellow, was from this old family, that could trace its descent all the way back to old Julius Caesar, and they had all this old Roman stuff that had been in their family for generations. And because I was a fellow Englishman, and because he knew my father, they were willing to let me in on the chance to buy it!"

  "How extraordinarily generous of them," I said. I wondered whether any of the sculptures were more than a year old; they had been somewhat indifferently "aged."

  "Patrick, Geoffrey, you were supposed to keep his lordship out of trouble."

  "There was no trouble, sir, no trouble at all. Lord's expected to shop when he's in foreign parts."

  "What's wrong?" William said.

  "Lord Devonshire, how many splinters of the True Cross are there?"

  William blinked. "I don't know. A hundred?"

  "Judging from the number which have been sold, enough for a thousand crosses!" I shook my head. "Lord Devonshire, you have great wealth and people will try to take advantage of you. Here in Rome, they have been manufacturing fakes for over a thousand years."

  "So these aren't real?" William's lips quivered.

  I took pity on him. A little bit. "Well, some may be good copies of the real thing. I would have to look at them more closely."

  "But I was going to ship them home, as presents."

  "You can still do that. Just give them to relatives you detest."

  William directed the servants to start putting the classical menagerie in some kind of order. By the time he was done, I had remembered the question I had meant to ask him. "What progress did you make on your journal entries?"

  William proudly presented his work. "The River Tiber runs through the town," I read. And, a bit later, "Here, also is the great amphitheater, which they call the Coliseum because of its size." Clearly, William was not destined for a literary career.

  Naples

  March, 1633

  For our excursion to Naples, I hired a vetturino. The man had been recommended to me by the Tuscan ambassador to Rome, Francesco Niccolini. I paid him a fee, in return for which he arranged the coach, our lodging, and one meal a day, for a fifteen-day round trip.

  "Not all vetturini are as honest as this fellow," I warned William. "You will expect a private room and then find other guests in the same chamber, or even the same bed. Complain to the innkeeper, and he says that it was all that the vetturino had contracted for. Complain to the vetturino and he insists that the innkeeper is responsible, and you must take the matter up with him. Round and round you go, and are never satisfied."

  We went inside the coach; the other servants had to ride on the outside. Our fellow passengers looked up and then ignored us.

  To pass the time, I told William a bit about what we expected to cover in Naples: Virgil's Tomb, the House of Cicero, and the many volcanic sites. The latter included the Phlegraean Fields, whose fumaroles led many a visitor to think of Hell; the Grotto of the Dog, whose vapors brought death; and of course Mount Vesuvius itself.

  After a while, I urged William to poke his head out the window. The road here was paved with smooth stone, and, in the distance, it gleamed like a thread of silver. "The Queen of Roads, the Via Appia," I explained. "This is where six thousand of Spartacus' followers were crucified by Marcus Licinius Crassus."

  William noticed that there were many crosses alongside the road, and asked me about them. "Surely those aren't the ones erected by the legionaires?"

  "No, those are modern. Each cross marks the place where a traveler was murdered," I explained.

  "Now, look there." I pointed to a skull on a post. "That marks where a bandit was executed."

  William thought about this. "The crosses greatly outnumber the skulls."

  * * *

  The most important of our Neapolitan excursions was to Mount Vesuvius. We intended, like many tourists before us, to climb to the rim of the great crater, but this was not without risk. Only a little more than a year before, Vesuvius erupted with great force, killing over three thousand people.

  Naples was ruled, through a viceroy, by the king of Spain. After the recent devastation, the viceroy had posted a warning to tourists and residents alike.

  "Let's see how dutifully you have been studying your Italian, William. Read the sign aloud for me."

  "'As soon as an eruption begins, you must escape as quickly as you can,'" William recited. "'If you worry about your property, your greed and folly will be punished. Listen to the voice of this marble; flee without hesitation.'"

  I clapped my hands. "Bravo!"

  The volcano was still active; smoke rose from the crater high above us. Since Vesuvius was not presently spewing out ashes and lava, we nonetheless began our climb. It was difficult going in places; we occasionally had to walk through ash, which sometimes reached almost up to our knees.

  At first William walked side-by-side with me. This gave me the opportunity to explain the theories concerning volcanic eruption. Strabo said that the rock was ignited by friction with compressed air, while Seneca urged that the heat came from the combustion of sulfur.

  Now, I am usually a great walker. Still, I am almost forty-five years old, and I tired more quickly than William. I gradually slowed my pace. William, on the other hand, seemed more and more anxious to reach the top the closer we got. He would edge ahead of me, first by feet, then by yards. He would start running; I would call him back.

  After a while, we reached a modus vivendi. William would run to the next turning, and then wait for me to catch up. I found walking in the ash very awkward, I fear. The servants stayed behind to help me, two in front, whom I held on to, and the third pushing me from behind. In this manner we progressed perhaps three-quarters of the way up.

  Then I noticed a gleam to one side of the path. "Come, William!" I cried, and went off to have a look.

  It was, as I thought, a little pocket of crystals. "Lord Devonshire, get out your magnifying lens," I said, without looking up. "William?"

  "He went up, Mister Hobbes," said Samuel.

  "What! After him, Samuel! You, too, Patrick! Find him, and then don't let him out of your sight. Geoffrey, assist me."

  Samuel and Patrick ran up the trail, with Geoffrey and me following. Patrick, being
a trained footman, quickly took the lead and was soon out of sight himself. Samuel followed, running steadily.

  I was pleased when I finally caught up and saw William standing by the lip of the famous crater, flanked by Samuel and Patrick. I was less pleased when I saw what William held in his hand. A rope.

  "Where did that rope come from? And what is it for?" I demanded.

  William clearly didn't think he had done anything amiss. "I bought it from an Italian. I was thinking about Galileo, sir. About what he said about the importance of observation. I thought I could see how the volcano is formed better, if Samuel and Patrick lower me in with this rope. I could become famous, sir."

  "It would be simpler just to hang me with the rope," I said. "Because your family would see me hung if I even thought about letting you do such a thing."

  Central Italy

  Spring, 1633

  We returned to Rome by vetturino, and then left the Holy City almost immediately afterward. I was anxious to be outside the Papal States before Holy Week, when the Inquisition was at its most zealous.

  We returned to Florence, then crossed the Appennines, the mountain chain which formed the spine of Italy. The mountain road was poorly maintained and we had to choose our way carefully, lest a horse break a leg. When we camped, the wind howled all night.

  After a brief stop in Bologna we pressed on, following the trade road to Padua. This highway crossed the Po, the longest river in Italy, about thirty miles downstream from Mantua. The Po was the border between the Papal States and the Venetian Republic.

  Unfortunately, we couldn't cross it at first. Our first warning of trouble was the ringing of the church bells of Ferrara.

  "What does that mean, Mister Hobbes?"

  "It could be anything, Milord. Plague. Fire. Invasion. Rioting. Flood."

  As we came closer to the city, the problem became apparent—the Po had flooded.

  Ferrara had grown up beside an ancient ford of the Po. Once, it lay above the Po Delta. However, in the twelfth century the Po had broken its left bank, near Ficarolo, carving out a new channel. Thus, Ferrara was now cradled between two distributaries, the Sa Roma to the north and the Po de Ferrara to the south.

  The Po de Ferrara blocked our progress and, at the moment, it looked more like a lake than a river.

  "Why do you suppose it flooded?"

  I had no idea. But you do not get a degree from Oxford if you cannot come up with an explanation extempore. "Rivers usually run high in the spring, when the snow melts. But it seems a little early still for that. Perhaps there was a spell of unseasonably warm weather up in the mountains. Or there was a lot of rain."

  "But it hasn't been raining that hard."

  "What matters isn't necessarily how much it rains here, but how much it rains at the river's source," I explained.

  "So what do we do now?"

  "We had best retrace our steps, find higher ground."

  "And where will we spend the night?"

  "If we are fortunate, in a barn."

  We found one. After an uncomfortable night spent listening to the farm animals complain about their visitors, we made another attempt to cross the Po, this time by boat. It took some doing to find a native who was willing to chance the waters, which were still high. It didn't help matters that we needed to transport the horses, not just the people. That meant several trips back and forth, but at last we all stood on the far bank of the Po de Ferrara.

  We continued north, reaching the ford of the Sa Roma.

  "Do we find another ferryman, or do we chance a crossing?" William asked.

  I would have preferred to wait. But there were no boats within sight and no shelter, either. And what if the waters rose again? We could be trapped.

  At least the extensive traveling I had done—this was my third trip in Europe—had taught me all the tricks of fording a river. I threw a twig in the water, and watched it move downstream.

  "The water isn't moving fast here; that's good. Walk the horses and mules across. Keep them on the upstream side; they'll break the current. We'll cross in line abreast. Samuel on the upstream side. Then myself, Lord Devonshire, Patrick, and Geoffrey. Face upstream, and crabwalk across. Keep one hand on your mount. Carry a walking stick in your free hand."

  "Shouldn't we rope ourselves together?" William asked.

  "No. If you slip, you can get entangled and drowned."

  We started across. Geoffrey, of course, had only listened to half of what I said. "Geoffrey, you fool! Shuffle your feet along the bottom. Leave the capering to the Morris dancers!"

  We made it to the halfway mark. The water was now at hip level. Samuel yelled "Halt!"

  "What's the matter, Samuel?"

  "Don't like the way the water be swirling ahead of us." He poked ahead with his walking stick. "I think there is some sort of hole there."

  "All right. We'll edge a bit upstream. Samuel will tell us when he thinks we're past the bad spot." We followed this instruction. Soon, the water was just at our knees. At last we clambered up the far bank, and collapsed.

  After resting a bit I shook myself, and stood up. "Let's get some distance between us and the water, just in case."

  William was shivering. I pondered what could be done to help him. "My Lord, bide a moment. We will get your pack off the horse, hopefully the clothes in there are dry." They weren't, not exactly, but at least they weren't soggy wet.

  "I'd rather wait until we've got a fire, Mister Hobbes."

  "On your head be it, William. That's the best we can do for now. I have my tinder box, but it doesn't do us any good without something dry to burn." We rode on, and eventually found enough good wood to build a fire.

  By this point, William was sneezing violently. We got him changed and situated close to the fire.

  "Thang you very much, Mister Ha-a-a-shoo! Hobbes."

  Venice

  April, 1633

  I was delighted. As I expected, this Venetian bookseller had a copy of Galileo's Dialogo Sopra i Due Massimi Sistemi del Mondo. William's Uncle Charles had been most anxious to read it, and it wasn't available in London.

  It wasn't surprising that the Dialogue Concerning Two New World Systems was available in Venice, even though the Catholic Church had banned it. The Venetian Republic had a long history of ignoring papal pronouncements—the Interdict of 1606–7, for example. The Venetians were hardly going to be fazed by the Librorum Prohibitorum. If anything, the Venetian printers probably thought of it as a marketing device.

  Of course, I wasn't going to risk carrying the book through, say, Milanese territory. I would find an English merchant to ship it back to London. Together with William's Italian souvenirs.

  Then I noticed that William, too, had found something of interest to read. A history of Venice, perhaps? I walked up, softly, and looked over his shoulder.

  The book William was so engrossed in was The Catalogue of the Chief and Most Renowned Courtesans of Venice, complete with over two hundred miniature portraits. And rates of hire. Presumably a later edition than the one presented to Henry III of Valois in 1574.

  I was painfully reminded that William would be sixteen years old in October. Clearly, Cupid was getting ready to tyrannize, right on schedule.

  Venice

  Ascension Day (Thursday, May 5, 1633, Gregorian)

  Venice. The Most Serene One. The Queen of the Adriatic. The Bride of the Sea. The last epithet was particularly apt today, because it was Ascension Day, the day that Venice, with great pomp and circumstance, renewed its marriage to the sea.

  The Grand Canal was filled with thousands of boats: private gondolas like our own; fantastically decorated barges hired by the guilds of the city; war galleys from the famous Arsenal of Venice. So many boats were present, and so closely were they packed together, that you could walk from one to the other.

  Some of the gondolas carried families; others, loud parties of young blades from the noble houses, and here and there one could see an especially ornate one. These usu
ally carried one of the great courtesans of Venice, dressed to the hilt. The infamous wantons knew that the young noblemen, as well as distinguished foreigners, would be attracted by these displays, like moths to a flame. I think the up-time term is "advertising."

  Like many of the people of Venice, we wore carnival dress. In William's case, it was a bauta, a white mask and a black cape. His blond curls stubbornly thrust out beyond the mask, like flowers seeking the sunlight.

  "Ah, we are ready to get underway," I said. The doge's ceremonial galley, the bucintoro, had taken its place at the head of the aquatic parade. "Study the bucintoro; there is much symbolism in its construction." I passed the telescope to William.