“We heard,” Sharon said, smiling.
Jones looked downright smug. The strip he’d torn off Buckley had been country-wide.
After Mazzare showed him the note from the doge, Benjamin nodded. “I will make enquiries. Although I think you might do better to inquire of Don Francisco. Any intelligence from the City will reach him directly, and he has the advantage of knowing most of the principals personally.”
Mazzare chided himself, briefly, for the relief he felt at dumping the problem of the Turks in someone else’s lap. He’d still have to act here on the ground, after all. He nodded agreement to Benjamin. “You’re right about that last, Benjamin. The radio’s going to be busy tonight, I fear.”
He took the invitation back from Benjamin. “Now,” he said, “about this reception. Magda?”
“Yes, Monsignor?” she said.
“Will your husband be back from Padua by the day after tomorrow?”
“No, Monsignor, unless we send for him.”
“Invite didn’t mention him, Larry,” Jones pointed out.
“You’re right, Simon, of course. They knew he was out of town for the moment. Wouldn’t want to embarrass us, or inconvenience the professors at Padua.” Mazzare tapped the invitation onto his palm once, twice, three times. “Can’t be helped,” he said. “Sharon, can I prevail on you to come back to your attaché role tomorrow morning, and get with Gus to organize our turnout?”
“Sure.”
Sharon’s elaborate costume finally registered on him. “Sharon? Are you going out, tonight?”
“To the opera,” she said cheerfully, rising to her feet. “With Feelthy Sanchez. In fact, he should be here any moment. Ta-ta.”
Waving a casual hand, she breezed through the door. Mazzare stared after her for perhaps half a minute.
“Oh,” he said.
Chapter 26
Castel Gandolfo, Mazarini decided, would be a beautiful place when it was finished. The villa was perfectly sited, the gardens perfectly laid out, and the prospects magnificent. The gardens themselves were fit to walk in, and His Holiness was wont to do so when he was at his new summer retreat.
Mazarini was not a man to be awed by authority, but there was nevertheless something nerve-wracking about being invited to go for a walk in the pontiff’s own rus in urbe, particularly in such august company. Not, he reflected, that there was much urbe around for this to be rus in—Castel Gandolfo was well away from the stern and stony majesty of Rome. He quelled the thought. His Holiness Pope Urban VIII had confined himself to inconsequentialities thus far in the day, but there was certain to be a shift in the conversation at any moment. It was perhaps ordinary for the pope to summon his nephew the cardinal Barberini into his presence. Not an everyday occurrence to bring the father-general of the Society of Jesus into his counsel, but certainly nothing to remark upon. What was unusual was to invite a junior legate to his summer retreat to discuss business, without at any time mentioning what that business might be. France? Grantville? Venice? Mazarini admonished himself. Patience, or your nerve will betray you.
“Young man,” Urban said, rising from a minute inspection of something green that was growing by the path. “How much do you know of the keeping of gardens?”
“Almost nothing, Your Holiness,” Mazarini said, his mental thread snapping.
“Then I shall explain something I have learned in gardens, Monsignor. Look here—” Urban pointed into the foliage. “There is an insect, if you look closely.”
Mazarini bent low. Sure enough, there was something like a grasshopper, big and ugly, though. A cicada, perhaps? “I see him, Your Holiness.”
“Some years ago, I essayed a short monograph on the subject of natural philosophy. Part of a small debate I had with a man more famous in that field.”
“Ah, I understand, Your Holiness. I had the pleasure of reading that same monograph. Most interesting, and insightful, if I may say so.” Mazarini couldn’t see where this was leading, and uttered the compliment to cover his confusion. Surely the business with Galileo, however it shook out, was a matter for the Holy Office and, insofar as the pope took part, a matter of political wrangling between His Holiness and the Spanish party? Galileo’s patronage made him a target for Spain, and his writing made him a target for accusations of heresy. Mazarini’s own concerns were all with the troubles in northern Europe, how did this connect?