Grantville Gazette - Volume XVII, page 16
part #17 of Grantville Gazette Series
The sitting room buzzed with murmured conversation as Constantia decoded. She finished quickly and handed the decoded message to Jabe. He read it aloud.
"Fled to Florence with Belzoni, made it safely to B. the Y.'s house. He's a great host. The Dubious Diplomat's secretary is with us, as is my new wife Lucia. Love, Giulio."
Even to Jabe, the message was enigmatic. He knew "B. the Y." referred to Michaelangelo Buonarrotti the Younger, namesake and grandnephew of the Sistine Chapel artist and a leading arts patron in Florence. He'd given Artemisia her first important commissions. But who was the Dubious Diplomat, never mind his secretary?
"So . . . he has Cassiano dal Pozzo with him," Artemisia mused out loud.
"He was secretary to the Dubious Diplomat?" Jabe asked.
"That refers to His Eminence Francesco Cardinal Barberini, the Pope's brother. No one would call him that to his face, but Francesco was sent to treat with Richelieu, oh, about ten years ago, and the mission ended up being something of a disaster. Dal Pozzo was his personal secretary at the time. Apparently Richelieu played Francesco like a lute."
"That doesn't sound like Richelieu at all," said Jabe sarcastically. More out of a need to say something than anything else. "And who's Lucia?"
"If it's who I think it is, she's an old model of mine. Giulio's lucky our father's dead—he wouldn't have approved."
"What are we going to do, Mama?" Prudentia asked, wiping away tears. "We must bring them here."
"They may not be able to come," said Vlad. "Granted, I'm no expert on the Italies, but I know something of how difficult politics may tie a ruler's hands. The grand duke may not be able to let them leave their hiding place. Perhaps if someone were to parlay for their safe passage?"
All eyes turned to Jabe. As head of the household, at least technically, he was the logical choice for the mission.
"I'm not saying no, but how can I miss the baby being born? My first? Can it wait till September?"
Artemisia, wisely, tabled the discussion. "We don't have to decide anything tonight. Good decisions are best made on rested wits and full stomachs. Tomorrow night at dinner."
The discussion went on for a week. Irrationally, Jabe dug in his heels and refused to consider any other option. As they got ready for bed one night, Prudentia sat down and looked at Jabe with a very serious expression.
"Uh-oh. I know that look."
"I know being here when the baby is born is very important to you—even if wanting to be in the room with me during the birth is . . . unusual. But is it so important? I wouldn't hold it against you if you weren't here. Not for this."
Jabe fought down a momentary flare of anger. How many times had he been through this in the last week?
"Pru, it's not that I don't want to go. But travel isn't exactly safe, not to Italy anyway, with the war still alive and well to the south of us. And if I make it to Florence safely, what then? I may be stuck there with your uncle and dal Pozzo. Hell, the Inquisition could toss me in a dungeon next to Frank and Giovanna Stone. And I'd never get to meet my child."
"Jabe, beloved," Prudentia said, taking his hands in hers, "my mother's life has been defined by loss. Loss of her honor, thanks to Tassi; loss of her reputation in Florence, thanks to my father's drinking and gambling. Uncle Giulio is the last piece of her family left alive, and Cassiano dal Pozzo helped Mama get back on her feet and re-establish herself in Rome when she had to leave Florence a step ahead of Papa's creditors. She would go herself if she could. If you went, it would mean more than the world to her."
Jabe considered this. It seemed incredible to him that he'd actually known Artemisia Gentileschi personally for less than a year. He'd grown to love and respect her a great deal, and it seemed almost impossible that there was ever a time when he didn't know her. In the world Jabe had grown up in, living into old age was something he took for granted. Tragedies happened, sure, but always to other people. Even after the Ring of Fire, he could maintain the illusion that that was still true.
The death of Daisy Matheny shattered that illusion for him. He hadn't known the Mathenys, or little Daisy, until after her death from tetanus. Prudentia had accepted a commission to paint a portrait of the little girl, and they'd gotten to know the family. Tetanus was one of those things Jabe never thought about, something cured by a shot and then you were fine. Seeing what happened when there were no more shots was a wrench.
Still, within the USE Jabe felt safe. Under different circumstances he would have gone to Florence without a second thought. But the prospect of leaving behind a child he would never meet . . . could he risk that?
* * *
Jabe was still debating the timing of his departure when a second radiogram came from Italy, this one from Leopoldo de' Medici, inviting him on behalf of both the Accademia del Cimento and the Accademia del Desegno to lecture on the art and science of television. There was now no question of waiting until September before leaving.
This time, the deliveryman was not an IRMS employee but a moon-faced, bearded man who bore a vague resemblance to Balthazar Abrabanel. Simon Abrabanel was a Florentine and represented the interests of the Tuscan branch of the far-ranging Sephardic family. He was also Grand Duke Ferdinand's residente in Magdeburg.
"I'm not an ambassador, not as you up-timers reckon such things," said Simon. "I mostly keep His Grace apprised of the latest news and intelligence, and deliver messages, such as this one. His Grace's grandfather was friends with my great-grandparents, Samuel and Bienvenida, so when I moved up here he asked me to be his residente. Your country's rather unusual policies toward Jews also played a role in the choice, I think." By "unusual," Jabe knew, Simon meant religious toleration and equal rights and treatment under the law, something not afforded Jews anywhere else.
Simon politely declined offers of food and drink when Artemisia and Prudentia joined them in the sitting room. Jabe explained about wanting to be present for his child's birth and his misgivings about traveling with the situation in Italy being what it was.
"A noble sentiment, Signore McDougal. Indeed, I believe the commitment to family you Americans hold so dear to be your best quality. However, His Grace is most eager for this demonstration of television, especially after Signore Bartolli told him of the contributions of Italians to this art form."
There was more. Jabe was still very inexperienced in diplomacy, but it was impossible to move in the circles he now moved in as Artemisia Gentileschi's representative and not learn something of court politics. He knew Simon was holding back. In such cases, Jabe knew, the best course was silence.
The silence stretched. No doubt Simon knew the same rule, and he was much more experienced. Jabe spoke first.
"But the invitation didn't come from Grand Duke Ferdinand. It came from Leopoldo de' Medici."
"Such a student you'd be, young Signore. I must teach you something of the art of diplomacy; you seem to have an instinct for it. You must understand that what I say is my own speculation, and that I am not betraying any confidences. Though the invitation came through his younger brother, I believe Ferdinand or a close adviser either directed it to be transmitted, or at the very least decided not to oppose it. His Grace finds himself in that most unenviable position for a man eager to please—he must make a difficult decision. With the coup in the Papal States Ferdinand finds himself caught between his cousin King Philip's forces in Rome and Milan like a mouse between a cat's paws. Even were that not so, his Habsburg blood pulls his loyalties in that direction. However, he also sees the promise and profit in relations with the USE and the benefits of up-timer learning, and what that might hold for the true independence of Tuscany—something most dear to the Grand Duke's heart.
"What's more, Signore Bartolli helped him out of a difficult situation with the Curzio Inghirami business last year, and I think he is hoping you will do the same with this problem. His Grace would protect Cassiano dal Pozzo as he has done with Galileo, but he fears he will not be able to. He hopes, perhaps, that you will be able to work your 'up-timer magic' and achieve the nigh impossible."
"Who does he think I am, Harry Lefferts?" Jabe said, more to himself than to Simon. In a more conversational tone, Jabe said "There's nothing for it, I guess. I don't see how I'd be able to return before next spring."
"As to that, Signore McDougal, I may be able to offer a more pleasant and speedy solution. You are familiar with the Jupiter I?"
"The aircraft known as 'The Monster'?" asked Prudentia.
"The very one, Signora McDougal. His Grace's aunt Claudia is a principle investor in Trans European Airways, and she is currently visiting Magdeburg with her eldest daughter, Vittoria. Who happens to be the Grand Duke's betrothed. They will be returning to Venice in two weeks and there is room for additional passengers and cargo."
"But the expense!" said Jabe.
Simon raised his hand. "As to that, I've taken the liberty of arranging for a modest line of credit to fund the trip, should you accept."
"We'll take it," said Artemisia.
"But Mama," Jabe objected. "I don't want to get us into debt. I know how you feel about that."
"We'll take the line of credit," Artemisia repeated. "I will do the calendar to raise additional funds."
Prudentia laughed, delighted. "But Mama, you said just last week it was common and beneath you."
"That was before I heard Rubens was doing one." Artemisia rose, and everyone else did as well. "Signore Abrabanel, I am personally indebted to you. If you would like a portrait or a canvas, please send word here, and it will be arranged."
Simon inclined his head to Artemisia and shook hands with Jabe, accepting his thanks with a dismissive gesture. Once Simon left, it began to sink in. Not only was he expected to give a series of lectures on television to the leading artists and intellectuals in Florence. And while he was at it, arrange a jailbreak.
And he had two weeks to prepare.
Epilogue—Florence, July 1635
Fra Andres would have preferred a simple cell in a quiet cloister. There was a Franciscan monastery in Florence that would have suited him nicely. His mission demanded he take rooms at the residence of King Philip's ambassador to the Tuscan court, Don Antonio de la Mer, a wine merchant. Andres was as meticulous in gathering information on allies and superiors as he was heretics and enemies, and everything he uncovered said that it was the ambassador's wife, Doña Esperanza, who was the smart one in the household.
He sighed, and sat down. It was then that he noticed the book. It was a new book, hidden in an old binding. He opened it. There was no frontispiece, only a plain title page which translated as "Homage to Catalonia." A note in a tidy hand read "Read. Then we'll talk."
Fra Andres turned the page. He was up most of the night reading.
* * *
(To be continued . . .)
Sonata, Part Three
Written by David Carrico
Movement III - Adagio Sostenuto
Grantville - March, 1634
". . . and after seeing and hearing Master Ingram's uncle's violin, the masters were eager to get the new 'merino' designs. They agreed to make us thirty master grade violins for 20 guilders apiece."
Johannes Fichtold was positively beaming, Franz thought. Then something in Johannes' report registered.
"Merino? Did you tell them these were merino designs?"
The other young man's face fell. "Aye. It was a slip of the tongue while I was making the initial proposal to them." His face brightened. "But, it's all right—they think the designs were made by an Italian named Merino. You should have seen the looks they gave each other."
Marla burst out laughing. Everyone, Franz included, looked at her wide-eyed as she positively howled, drumming her feet on the floor and pounding her fist on the table. No one spoke—they were all somewhat shocked—Marla just didn't act like this. Finally, she subsided into gasping, "Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh, that is absolutely hilarious, totally priceless." She laughed a little more, giggled actually, brushing her hair back and wiping her eyes.
"Uh . . . Marla," Franz ventured, "I grant you that the masters of Füssen thinking the up-time designs were stolen from an Italian master is somewhat humorous, but . . ."
"Oh, come on, guys . . . can't you just see the passage in some future twentieth century music history textbook?" Marla's voice took on a dry, lecturing tone. "' In the middle of the seventeenth century arose the so-called 'Merino' refinements to the basic string orchestra instruments. It is commonly accepted that, as with so many other technological advances, this was due to the advent of Grantville in the Western European scene in the 1630's. The earliest documentation of the term is found in the guild records of Füssen in southern Germany, but by 1650 both the designs and the term were in common use throughout continental Europe, with England lagging somewhat behind. A number of very interesting rumors and theories exist as to the origin of the 'Merino' term, but it is generally accepted that it was the name of an Italian master who either initially produced the designs or from whom the designs were stolen. Periodically, an old theory is resurrected that the name has some connection to the merino breed of sheep, but no proof has ever been found, so it always retires back into the category of interesting fables.'"
Everyone in the room laughed, even Lady Beth Haygood, with Marla's voice skirling over them all. At length—a very long length—order was restored. "Yes, I think we can all take some pleasure on having played a joke on posterity," Franz said, his voice a little uneven as he tried to keep from laughing again. "But, for Johannes' sake and the sake of the joke, we must keep the secret to ourselves. No more slips of the tongue. Maestro Merino must be accorded his appropriate due." Chuckles sounded all around the conference table.
"So." Lady Beth looked up from where she was sitting beside Amber Higham, who was making notes. "Thirty master class violins at 20 guilders apiece, three guilders in advance, the balance on delivery in Magdeburg by 1 April. You did specify 1 April by the Gregorian calendar, I hope?"
"Yes, FrauHaygood. But that was really not such an issue since they use that calendar every day. It was just to make sure they did not try to claim we had expected delivery by the old calendar's date, ten days later." She nodded. Johannes continued, "All instruments produced from the merino designs by December 31, 1637, will be delivered to the Royal and Imperial Arts Council."
"You got over three years out of them!" Friedrich exclaimed. "I do not believe it! Master Hans knows some of those men, and he was skeptical that they would allow even one year."
"Yes." Johannes grinned. "Well, they quickly saw that having these designs would give them . . . what did Master Girolamo call it . . . ah, yes, a 'competitive advantage.' They might not know those words, but they know the concept. I could tell they were positively slavering to get their hands on the designs, so I held my ground. It took over a week. In the process they slandered me greatly and profanely more than once. If my brother was not one of them, I am sure they would have had things to say about my ancestry. In fact, Master Eichelberger as much as said that I was an altar boy when my parents were married." Johannes laughed. "But he took it back after the others remonstrated with him."
"A good job of negotiating," Lady Beth said. Johannes sat back, beaming. Lady Beth looked at Franz and raised her eyebrows.
"The initial part of our recruiting trip was very slow, but we had three musicians who traveled with us back from Mainz. Several more from Stuttgart, Frankfurt and Schweinfurt caught up with us on the way back. So, at the moment, we have twelve. If Josef and Rudolf have any luck, and if any numbers at all respond to the broadsides and letters sent out, we should have our minimum of forty-five players by the first week of April."
Lady Beth nodded. She waited for Amber to finish taking notes, then said, "Okay, folks. Like I told you at the beginning of the meeting, I'm leaving for Magdeburg tomorrow to stay. Amber here . . ." The pleasant woman with the gray-streaked hair smiled at them all. ". . . will be taking over the job of representing the Imperial Arts Council here in Grantville. I'll do the same in Magdeburg, in addition to my other work with the new school." She stood and signaled that the meeting was over. "I'll see most of you in Magdeburg in a few days."
They all stood as Lady Beth and Amber left. Friedrich looked at Franz. "The Gardens?"
"By all means."
* * *
They were all seated around a table in the Gardens: Franz and Marla, Friedrich and Anna, Isaac, Thomas and Leopold; all the initial group from Mainz that had gathered around Marla last year to learn about up-time music. Franz had just finished describing his final encounter with Rupert Heydrich. The revelation of Heydrich's death and the manner of it greatly shocked those who hadn't been there. Anna was absolutely ashen-faced. Friedrich, Thomas and Leopold were studies in various shades of incredulity and aghast-ness.
