“But then I saw that there was another, subtler lesson to be found in the parable, a lesson about the extraordinary grace of God himself. For it was by God’s will that the beaten Jew came to be lying on the road in the path of the Samaritan, who then had a choice: to act in a Christ-like manner or not. If it were not for God placing that beaten enemy in the Samaritan’s path, he would have had no chance to tangibly overcome the pettinesses, the selfishnesses, the fears that reside in all of us. Because of God, the Samaritan had the opportunity to exercise and embody the grace to which we followers of Christ aspire.”

  Mazzare paused, looked at all of his auditors. “So tell me: is it not hubris-the sin of pride-to declare that a Catholic priest, a church, even a pontiff may only play the part of the Good Samaritan, but never the beaten Jew? If we refuse to acknowledge that, just like the beaten Jew and the scourged Christ, we might benefit from the charity of others, we are refusing to embrace the humility that Christ himself displayed. And in so doing, we deprive other men of the possibility of demonstrating their grace, by refusing to let them help us even as the Good Samaritan helped the Jew who despised him.”

  Mazzare paused. The Garden Room was utterly silent until he resumed. “The parallels to what we debate today are startling: the Church is in dire need of a Good Samaritan, but recoils when that assistance arrives in the person of Gustav Vasa, an enemy. Who, at this moment, could not only make us the beneficiaries of his kindness, but in so doing, perform a Christ-like act that would forever change the assumptions of antagonism that have existed between the two of us. God is providing both parties with a unique opportunity to grow in grace; all that remains to be seen is if we will embrace it.”

  If, as Sharon thought, Wadding was formulating an objection, Mazzare was too quick for him. “Our first response to this perspective is doubt and skepticism: we are ready to think, ‘Gustav would only help us out of his own pride, only to indebt us.’ But that suspicion flies in the face of logic. If it wanted to, the USE could undo the Roman Church this very moment, simply by giving the forces in this villa the same orders that Borja has given to his assassins. Or, even simpler, Gustav could have ordered the ambassadora to turn the pope and his party over to the nearest noble family that was willing to have them.” Mazzare paused and looked around the room. “Of course, one wonders if the lords and ladies of this Serene Republic might fail the pope, just as the priest and the temple official failed their fellow Jew in the parable. Or, to put it another way, would the local aristocracy take the risks and be as steadfast as have the members of this USE embassy? With Borja’s power growing in Italy, and noble houses unwilling to displease the new order in Rome, I am not not at all sure they would.

  “And let us not forget that without the help of this Good-and yes, Protestant-Samaritan, the Church’s present wounds could well prove mortal to not only its pope and its flock, but to the very basis of its authority. I do not exaggerate: consider the assured sequence of events if the rightful pope is lost. Borja refills the Consistory and forces it to name him the successor. He will be called pope, and believed to be so by the flock-which does not know that their good and true shepherd was murdered in a hidden place. And so they shall follow Borja-but to what end and what outcome? Will God provide an unlawful pope with infallibility in matters of faith and morals? Can he declare things bound, or loosed, in both Heaven and on Earth? And if not, then what power do the sacraments have? Are the new priests he illicitly ordains-and sends to preach bloody intolerance across Christendom-truly priests? And how is such damage to be undone, particularly when the Inquisition becomes the new model and modus operandi of the Roman Church?”

  Mazzare looked up from under dark brows. “If the Church rejects the help of the USE, it must anticipate a future in which its name becomes an object of acrid hate upon every tongue. All Christendom will know and remember that, at this pivotal moment, our Church became an abattoir, that under Borja, it savagely corrupted the Gospels of love and hope to serve as twisted vindications for untold massacres, persecutions, and pogroms.”

  Sharon now understood why Mazzare had not spoken during Wadding’s presentation: his sole objective had been to assure an uninterrupted space in which to summon forth this tidal wave of teetering cause-and-effect dominoes that were poised to fall one after the other in a tumbling chaos of culture-crushing consequences.

  “Can we, in good conscience, refuse our non-Catholic brothers the opportunity to become our Good Samaritans, to reach out to us in this dark and dangerous hour? And if they do so, does it not signify that they deserve our love for all the days to come? For, in addition to being our rescuers, they will have shown that they, too, truly aspire to be Christ-like. And once joined by the undeniable proof of our common aspiration, by what reason would we resist the notion that the time is ripe for greater toleration among all Christ’s children?

  “But these Good Samaritans cannot help us unless we are strong enough to admit our weakness and need, cannot save us unless we give them the chance to embody the very grace we are trying to preserve.”

  Wadding stood without waiting for Vitelleschi to recognize him. “If you give the Protestants that chance, I say they will fail. And unless you are privy to God’s Will yourself, Cardinal Mazzare, you must at least admit that the Protestants may fail. That is the nature of free will: no true test of virtue can have a guaranteed outcome. And if they fail, they will bring about not only their own spiritual downfall, but our terrestrial destruction.”

  Mazzare nodded. “That is true. And if they do fail and thus bring down the pillars of the temple, then let us trust that the Lord Our God will raise up His Church once again, just as He did His Son. But if they do not fail-tell me, Cardinal Wadding: how many millions, possibly billions, of lives might our act of hope save, on this and all future days? To risk such a choice is also to keep faith with what Christ tells us: that hope is second only to love-and so, to lose hope, is the greatest sin of all.”

  Mazzare waited for Wadding to respond, but the Irishman said nothing. Mazzare turned toward Vitelleschi. “In my century, it was said that people tend to live up to-or down to-your expectations of them. If you expect them to transcend temptations and adversities, they tend to do so. If you presume they will fail, likewise, they will not disappoint your sad prediction.”

  Vitelleschi’s eyes were like chips of obsidian. “So to summarize your closing remarks, Cardinal Mazzare, you would have us put our hope in the ‘good nature’ of Protestants? Of those who ‘protested’ and separated themselves from God’s Church?”

  “No: I would have us put our hope in God. Because it is still He who moves within the good men who raise up their voices to Him in churches other than ours. They, too, have taken the indelible impress of their Creator’s grace, so strong is its power. And so I say, yes, have faith that they will show us the grace they have learned from Him, just as the Good Samaritan showed grace to the beaten Jew. In doing so, we are not putting our faith in any mortal man, but in the power and love of God to touch all those who honor him, regardless of the different ways in which that honor is shown.” Mazzare folded his hands and sat.

  Vitelleschi rose slowly, staring back and forth between Mazzare and Wadding with an almost haunted look on his face. Then he swallowed, raised his chin, and declared: “These proceedings are concluded. Beginning tomorrow, I will consult with our Holy Father to determine how the Church will proceed in relation to the recommendations and counsel offered by the advocates. It is our intent to deliver a statement of-”

  A ragged roar of muskets, coming mostly from the southern side of the villa, shocked Vitelleschi to silence-and Ruy into motion. “Gather the priests into our chambers,” he ordered Sharon, “and keep them together. Your Eminences, it is well you finished your debate this evening.”

  “Why?” croaked Cardinal Barberini out of a dry throat.

  “Because,” answered Ruy as he raced from the room and toward the nearest duty station of the villa’s security detachment, “it is unclear how many of us will be left alive in the morning.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  As the dirigible came within thirty feet of the water, the surface breezes started playing with its trim. Virgilio, peering out over the front of the gondola, gauged the range, the rate of descent, and the distance to the water itself. He gave a thumb’s-up.

  Standing at the taffrail, Miro returned the sign, turned and announced, “Prepare to board the airship.”

  Standing alongside the Atropos’ mizzen mast-its yard lowered to the deck to provide clear space abaft-Harry Lefferts moved forward to the boarding lines and the primitive bosun’s chair they had rigged on them. Although the only gear he was wearing was his combat load and simple, black clothes, the lines still sagged significantly when he put his weight into the chair, which was also part climbing harness. Virgilio responded by juicing the airship’s burner a little bit more.

  That tiny increase in lift minimized the slack in the line, and Harry drew himself arm-over-arm to the dirigible, now thirty feet astern of the Atropos and only twenty feet above the gentle, lightless swells of the Mediterranean.

  The rest of the team went up similarly: Sean Connal, then Turlough Eubank, then one of Thomas North’s Hibernians-the only one that had been left behind with the boats.

  Miro watched the chair come down for him. He glanced around the deck; Aurelio was beside him, the same worried look on his face that he had been wearing since they left the Illa dels Conill.

  “Don Estuban, did you have to board the airship in such a-a complicated fashion?”

  Miro smiled. Aurelio had tactfully used the word “complicated” but had really meant “hazardous.” “Yes,” he assured the Piombinese captain, “we had to do it this way. Inflating the balloon fully at sea is not easily or quickly done at night, so it was safer and faster to have it minimally inflated while we were still moored near land. But then, while we towed her, we had to keep as much weight-meaning us-out of the gondola to save fuel.”

  Aurelio looked at the airship with trepidation. “If you say so, Don Estuban.”

  Miro smiled at him as he belted himself into the bosun’s chair. “I will see you at the Dragon before dawn.”

  “I will not be late, Don Estuban, if I have to row the Atropos there myself.”

  “Your dedication is worthy of legend, Aurelio.”

  “Dedication? Fah! I just want to be running well ahead of those Spanish bastards.” He waved as the bosun’s chair started up, drawn by hands already in the gondola.

  Miro felt himself ascend. He looked down at the lights of the other ships in the tiny flotilla, and then up at the skies overhead: scattered bits of star-specked black peeked through gaps in the light clouds. It was a good night for a raid, although not a perfect night.

  Either way, it would have to do.

  The fellow who, until today, captained Miguel Tarongi’s shipments out to Cala Pi, appeared in the doorway of the storm-savaged windmill that had been abandoned almost a year earlier. “It is time,” he said.

  Thomas North rose up out of the shadows and nodded for one of his Hibernians to check the surrounding area before they deployed. The Englishman trusted the xueta, but also trusted that fate would play a trick on his unit at some point during this operation: that was what happened when plans came into contact with reality. “Men,” he said, “it’s been a privilege working with you in preparation for this rescue operation, and I have the utmost confidence in you-mostly, because I prepared you myself.”

  A few grins rose up. The Hibernian came back in, nodded at North.

  “Very well; our path out of Cala Pedrera is clear. We will travel in double column up the narrow valley that skirts the south slopes of the Puig de Sa Mesquida, the hill upon which Bellver is built. The ground near the coast is level, but starts rising after two hundred yards. That is also the end of any appreciable habitation; the next closest community is a hamlet of scattered farm cottages and goat-herders’ huts called Bona Nova, less than a mile west of the Castell itself.

  “If it becomes necessary to withdraw, and you are not in touch with command elements, you are to retrace your path here, and follow on down to the shore, where you’ll find the black llaut that brought us over yesterday. That boat has a running crew waiting on board. Any questions? Very well. Mr. Ohde, if you would officer the men from the front, I will shepherd from the rear until we reach waypoint one.”

  Donald Ohde stood, moved to the door and waited for the fourteen other men to form in a column and hunch down. “Remember now; complete silence. We follow our guide precisely. No wandering off. The path has been checked and is clear-or was, thirty minutes ago. You do not engage any chance-met enemy until you are told to do so. Besides, we shouldn’t see any Spanish before reaching our first waypoint-unless you consider occasional wayward goats to be subjects of Philip’s. Now, double-check: gear secured with wrapping to muffle sound? All reflective surfaces dulled? Good. Follow me.” Donald Ohde drifted out into the darkness.

  North watched them go: three Wild Geese, two of the Wrecking Crew (besides Ohde), and nine of his own Hibernians. Two officers, fourteen men. Against a fortress as renowned and redoubtable as Bellver. Thomas smiled. The poor Spanish bastards will never know what hit them.

  He followed the last man out.

  The Catalan corporal sighed wearily as the two donkey carts struggled up to the gatehouse of the Castell de Bellver, having ascended the track that followed the slopes of the rocky spur upon which the fortification was built. The corporal squinted into the almost moonless dark and determined that yes, it was that Jew doctor Asher, finally arriving in the middle of the goddamned night-hopefully to settle that Italian bitch’s screaming.

  From atop the gatehouse, one of his comrades from Fort San Carlos called down: “Hey, Enrique, watch out for the latest invasion of Jews!”

  Enrique sent a gesture over his shoulder that would have made even his harridan wife blanch and walked flatfooted and bored down toward the two creaking carts, each of which carried an immense barrel in their cargo bed. Either one was easily capable of holding more than a tun of wine.

  “And what the hell are these?” the Catalan corporal asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Senor Corporal.”

  Enrique narrowed his eyes at the cart driver, Roberto, second son of one of Bellver’s chief sutlers. All of whom were Jews, of course. All of whom claimed to be xuetas, conversos. All of whom were affixed like leeches to the public teat, and all probably still practicing their Christ-murdering practices covertly. And always trying to get away with some new, money-grubbing chicanery. Well, not on his watch. “So, tell me, Roberto the Jew, why would you be bringing a shipment to Bellver of which you have no knowledge? Didn’t your father sell it to us?”

  “No, Senor Corporal. These are not provisions, but the doctor’s supplies. We are simply transporting it for him. He said the need for it was urgent.”

  “And what is it?”

  “Spirits,” replied Asher from the side of the cart. “Which I’ve been bringing up several times a week, if you recall.”

  Enrique glared at Asher’s acerbic tone. “Oh, I recall, Jew-all too well.” He swiveled his eyes back toward Roberto, “I presume, though, that you’ve checked the contents of these tuns? And these smaller boxes along the sides?”

  “Checked them? No, senor, we loaded all the goods and brought them here, for a fee. We are just teamsters, not sutlers, tonight.”

  Enrique rolled his eyes. “How wonderful. So now I have to soil my hands handling Jew freight.” He called two of the local guards over. He pointed at the shorter one: “You, take the Jew’s two assistants to the gatehouse and check them as usual. And you, open these boxes. One at a time.”

  The boxes held various implements that looked, in the lantern light, vaguely like a cross between medical implements and torture devices. “For aid in delivering infants,” Asher supplied.

  Enrique held up a long, wicked looking knife. “And what’s this for? Slicing off their tails? Oh wait, that’s right: these infants aren’t of your breed, are they?”

  Asher closed his eyes. “What other questions may I answer for you, Corporal?”

  Enrique went to the rear of the wagon, looked at the sealed bunghole at the head of each tun and pointed to one. “Tap it,” he ordered.

  Asher looked alarmed. “Corporal, I do not know how much of the spirits I will need, so I must not have you spilling it all out upon the-”

  “Shut up, Jew. I am simply going to confirm it is what you say it is.” He got a cup from the waiting guard. “Now, tap it.”

  Asher, the folds of his thin arms quivering as he wrestled to unseat the bung, angled it so that he could swap in the tap before the out-gushing stream became unmanageable. Wet and reeking of ethanol, Asher stood back.

  Enrique tapped a finger’s width of the fluid, sipped it, smelling the sharp odor of strong liquor as he did so. He swigged it, gagged, spat out the mouthful. “What shit is that?” he shouted, wiping his lips with his sleeve.

  Asher shrugged. “That one is spirits infused with witch-hazel.”

  “Do you use it to heal your patients or torture them, Jew?”

  Asher’s face was set rigidly. “May I go now?”

  “Yes. We’ll join your assistants.” Enrique moved toward the gatehouse; Asher poled after him feebly with the aid of his cane. “So you’re expecting to deliver demon children, then-washing them with poison like that. And after all, anything but a demon child would die in minutes, if it was whelped this early in a pregnancy.”

  “We are here trying to prevent birth, Corporal. To delay it until-”

  “God’s balls, you think I’m interested in your sorcerous blatherings, Jew? Here, get in the watch room.”

  As the guards began stripping Asher unceremoniously and searching both his body and garments, he asked. “Corporal, about my spirits. I expect to have immediate need of-”

  “They’ll be in with the ready stores, as always. We’ll have to move some crates to the long-term storeroom to make enough space, though.” Spitting again, Enrique scowled. “You need all that? For one woman?”