Eric Flint - 1634 - The Galileo Affair

371 Pages·2016·1.57 MB·English

by  Flint Eric

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1634 - The Galileo Affair
Table of Contents
Prologue:
Spring, 1633
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part I:
September, 1633
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part II:
February, 1634
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part III:
March, 1634
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part IV:
April, 1634
Chapter 29
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Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Part V:
May, 1634
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Part VI:
June, 1634
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Epilogue:
July, 1634
Afterword
1634: The Galileo Affair
Eric Flint and
Andrew Dennis
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any
resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Eric Flint and Andrew Dennis
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
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A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 0-7434-8815-6
Cover art by Tom Kidd
First hardcover printing, April 2004
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Flint, Eric.
1634 : the Galileo affair / Eric Flint, Andrew Dennis.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-7434-8815-6
1. Galilei, Galileo, 1564-1642—Fiction. 2. Italy—History—17th century—Fiction. 3.
Americans—Italy—Fiction. 4. Astronomers—Fiction. 5. Time travel—Fiction. I. Dennis, Andrew. II.
Title.
PS3556.L548A618 2004
813'.54--dc22
2003027413
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH
Printed in the United States of America
To the memory of Johnny Cash, 1932–2003.
I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher
In this series:
1632by Eric Flint
1633by Eric Flint & David Weber
Ring of Fireedited by Eric Flint
1634: The Galileo Affairby Eric Flint & Andrew Dennis
BAEN BOOKS by Eric Flint
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Joe's World series:
The Philosophical Strangler
Forward the Mage(with Richard Roach)
Mother of Demons
The Shadow of the Lion
(with Mercedes Lackey & Dave Freer)
This Rough Magic
(with Mercedes Lackey & Dave Freer)
Rats, Bats & Vats(with Dave Freer)
Pyramid Scheme(with Dave Freer)
The Course of Empire(with K.D. Wentworth)
Crown of Slaves(with David Weber)
The Warmasters(with David Weber & David Drake)
The Bellisarius series, with David Drake:
An Oblique Approach
In the Heart of Darkness
Destiny's Shield
Fortune's Stroke
The Tide of Victory
The General series, with David Drake:
The Tyrant
Prologue:
Spring, 1633
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
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Chapter 1
The palace was over-heated, Mazarini thought. That came of Cardinal Richelieu being a man who had
more than his share of ailments, despite being only in middle age. Richelieu felt the cold as an old man
did. He had his servants build fires if there was even the slightest chill in the air—and early spring in Paris
was considerably more than slightly chilly. Fortunately, the cardinal was a polite man. The wait in the
anteroom was brief enough that Mazarini was able to fight off drowsiness.
Now Mazarini was in the presence of Richelieu himself, trying to achieve—in spite of the heat—that
chilly sharpness a diplomat needed. The cardinal's hard face, now that the pleasantries had been dealt
with, indicated that the real negotiation was about to begin.
After only four weeks in Paris, at that; Richelieu must, Mazarini thought, have something in mind. The
protocol of his nunciature had been brief. Mazarini had arrived from Rome with a retinue provided by
Cardinal Barberini and augmented it from the permanent nunciature in Paris. His American companion,
Harry Lefferts, had tried to pretend that he saw the likes of the procession through Paris every day back
in Grantville, but Mazarini could see him frankly staring at everything. Pressed afterward, Harry had
admitted that the twentieth century had not wanted for spectacle, but that it never came to country towns
like Grantville. As it was, Harry had gotten only these few short weeks of mayhem, debauchery and
drunkenness in Paris before a message that had missed him narrowly in Rome had called him home to
Grantville; he was due to leave in the morning.
As much as he would miss Harry, Mazarini would be relieved to see him go. The flamboyant young
American made friends everywhere he went. Unfortunately, the friends were concentrated in two classes
of people:
Flamboyant Italian and French young men, who found the exciting and exotic American something of a
role model—to the perhaps everlasting ruin of proper attire for proper young men. (Their habits had
already included brawling and drunkenness, so those sins could hardly be laid at Harry's feet.)
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Shortly after they'd arrived in Rome a few months earlier, Harry had gotten a formal suit done to his own
specifications by a tailor who'd done it purely for the chance to take Harry's old rented tux apart to see
how to make the style of trousers his customers were demanding. This time around, Harry had reasoned,
men's formal wear would be done right. Pockets ranked high in Harry's scheme to anticipate the mistakes
of fashion. The gentleman of this future would not be stuck for somewhere to put a wallet, cigarettes, a
few items for personal defense and his companion's spare lipstick. Jackets were replaced with tailcoats,
as Harry had seen enough performances by someone called Lee Van Cleef to appreciate the practicality
of the style for a man who wanted to wear a gun-belt. The swordsmen about town in Rome were glad of
it, too.
The city's authorities were not.
The second category of people who made friends with Harry almost instantaneously were Italian and
French young women. Alas. That characteristic had produced even more in the way of excitement than
the first.
Mazarini was still a bit astonished that only two duels had resulted. That was probably because of the
outcome of the duels themselves. As the challenged party, Harry had been able to choose the weapons.
The first duel having been a very informal affair—a tavern brawl which escalated rapidly—he'd naturally
chosen pistols, that being the nature of the weapon carried under his coat. Harry had had the mercy and
the good sense not to actually kill his opponents—but it had been blindingly obvious to all who witnessed
the affair that he could have easily done so instead of inflicting minor flesh wounds.
The second duel, a more formal affair, was worse. Having been accused of cowardice by relying on
unfairly superior American firearms, Harry had chosen a different weapon. Another American one, true,
but hardly something that could be labeled unfair—a very large knife which he called a "Bowie knife." He
had even grandly allowed his opponent to retain his rapier.
The choice had obviated his opponent's greater skill with swordsmanship. Harry had had no intention of
trying to match him. He'd simply managed to avoid the first lunge and grappled with his opponent, Bowie
knife against main gauche. Thereafter, fighting with knives at close quarters, those qualities which Harry
possessed in abundance—great athletic ability and an outlook sanguine enough to be the envy of any
Mongol khan—had come to the fore. The end result had been thoroughly fatal and incredibly messy.
Now that he was in the presence of the cardinal, Mazarini suppressed his sigh. Hopefully, Harry Lefferts
would be gone from Paris and on his way back to Grantville before the very wealthy and very belligerent
Fasciotti brothers—all five of them—discovered that their sister had been dishonored and came to Paris
from Rome to seek satisfaction. There would be no duels, dealing with the Fasciotti. Hiring assassins
came as naturally to them as hiring servants. All the more so since the sister in question was not
complaining about the episode herself. Awkward, that.
But Richelieu was finally speaking. Mazarini pushed aside thoughts of his rambunctious American
companion. There were many dangers in the world, after all. Compared to Richelieu, Harry Lefferts was
a minor problem.

"Monsignor," said Richelieu, "You have visited Grantville, perhaps?"
"I have, Your Eminence."
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Mazarini responded politely, despite the fact that the question was moot. It did not do for one
gentiluomo to admit to another that he had had him spied on—or, in his response, for the one spied
upon to draw attention to the fact. Mazarini's trip to Grantville had neither gone unnoticed nor
unremarked. The resulting icy blast of Cardinal Richelieu's displeasure had been directed straight at
Cardinal Barberini, who had in his turn deposited the whole lot on Mazarini once he'd arrived in Rome.
Richelieu had a long reach; his eyes were everywhere and there were few within Europe who could not
at least be apprised of his opinions if not made to suffer for his displeasure. He had latterly come to have
most of the resources of France at his disposal; in a sense, hewas France.
"Perhaps," Richelieu went on, "some things passed between the monsignor and—"
Mazarini interrupted him silently, staring with a carefully blank expression and placing his hand on his
heart, before casting his eyes down. The gesture of one who, for ritual reasons, could not speak. If ritual
had an advantage, it was the language of subtlety it allowed the cognoscenti to converse in.
Richelieu sighed. Ritual could also be a shield for those who chose to dissemble. He chose not to look
upon the dissimulation. "Monsignor," he said after a little time, "you are aware, perhaps, of the news of
the future brought by the Americans?" Richelieu rose and took the two steps that carried him to the
window. "I ask in a spirit of genuine enquiry; you need not vouchsafe how much you know or where you
have it from."
And such a freight of meaning in that! Mazarini found himself cold despite the heat, his palms sweating.
He had never underestimated an opponent in his career to date, but he wondered whether it was possible
to do anythingelse with the cardinal who ruled France.
For a wonder, his voice remained under control. "I am aware, yes." He thanked God silently for the
calm; it was his best weapon at the card table and in negotiations.
He had already heard enough to deduce what was coming next. More than a few men had emerged,
shocked and grinning, from the Palais in the last few weeks. The cardinal was promoting men, young and
unknown men, and it was—well, not the talk of all Paris, but certainly noticed.
Richelieu remained at the window, looking out over the garden he had torn down the adjoining buildings
to create. He could surely see little, Mazarini reflected. Paris in the spring meant mist and soft, clinging
rain as much as fresh air and balmy breezes. The sky was the gray of over-washed linen and the streets a
mire, clinging and glutinous. Everywhere was the stink of wet wool.
Richelieu let out a long breath. Not quite—but almost—another sigh. He half-turned, and addressed
Mazarini over his shoulder. "It is more difficult, if you will say nothing?"
Mazarini frowned.
Richelieu clasped his hands behind his back and turned further. A long blink, then, both eyes closed for a
whole breath before they opened, and he leaned forward a little. Earnestly: "I beg of you, Monsignor, not
to take what I said as a suggestion that you might betray a confidence. I fancy we are both"—a little
quirk of a smile to underline it—"professionals. Not so?"
Mazarini nodded. Richelieu had used the English word—a word that the seventeenth-century English
almost certainly did not have and certainly would not understand the way that up-time Americans did.
Mazarini felt his very frame lighten in his chair with the speed of his thoughts. The sheer celerity that came
when one matched wits with a master—there was no thrill like it. To gamble all-or-nothing on one's own
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genius—and with a man who might say so much with the mere choice of a synonym! The mere turn of a
clever phrase, a well-parsed statement, these were the common coin of diplomacy. Richelieu was one of
a select few in another league altogether.
Richelieu closed his eyes again for another breath. "But I must broach a sensitive subject," he said, and
turned back to look out at the dishwater sky.
Richelieu said nothing for some time, and it was Mazarini who broke the silence. He knew it was a trap,
a trick he used himself. To break a silence without disadvantage was a delicate business.
"Sensitive?" he asked.
Richelieu, turning, saw Mazarini's raised eyebrow and smiled. "Monsignor, you are the man I crossed
wits with at Lyons three years ago, not so? Perhaps I might be candid.Sub rosa , and the understanding
between us that neither shall bear rancor for what passes here today?"
"Oh, surely." Mazarini permitted himself a broad smile. "Do any of those who were present at Lyon bear
rancor?"
Richelieu's face missed not a beat, segueing into a worldly, knowing chuckle. "Ah, yes. Two of my
dupes. I am sure that neither bear any rancor, where they are now. I feel sure they have more burning
concerns."
Mazarini was impressed by that. Discussing the execution of two men who had been to all appearances
his faithful allies, Richelieu actually twinkled. "Perhaps, Cardinal. But you were mentioning candor?"
Rubbing it in to begin with would not hurt. After all, the cardinal had asked specifically that neither party
take offense. Mazarini harked back to what Cardinal Maurice of Savoy had told him about Richelieu:He
must be made to feel that the decision depends on him alone . And there was little to achieve that
better than an initial resistance.
"Candor, yes." Richelieu's eyes grew hooded. "I have something quite outlandish to suggest."
"I am sure, Your Eminence, that this room—" Mazarini waved at a wall at random "—and Servien back
there has heard more outlandish propositions these last few weeks. And will again. Does not the
delegation from Grantville arrive here in a few weeks?"
Richelieu smiled thinly. "Etienne is behind there," he said, pointing at the wall opposite that at which
Mazarini had waved. "He and his clerk take notes. So much more discreet a man than his cousin at the
Ministry of War."
Mazarini noted that Richelieu had neither confirmed nor denied what the Holy See's spies claimed to
have discovered. "And Your Eminence's proposition?"
"Do you read English?"
"Very well, of late."
"Perhaps I might trouble you—" Richelieu opened a cabinet and took out a thick volume fringed with
ribbon bookmarks, "—to read the passage I have marked."