“I misdoubt you do, Monsignor,” Urban chided him gently. He was nobody’s idea of a young man, well into his sixties, but with the wiry frame of an old man who was active. The cares of office had used him reasonably well, but he still gave the impression of greater age than his sixty-six years would account for. Add to that the white soutane of his office and there was a real force to his admonishment. For a moment, Mazarini felt himself back at school. “You wonder, perhaps, why I have digressed on the subject of Galileo Galilei?”
Mazarini nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness,” he said, remembering his manners enough to speak. The first meeting between himself and the pontiff, the day before, had been one of excruciatingly correct etiquette and protocol, and therefore easy. To be informal with the head of the church was hard. How far to go, what to leave out of the full panoply of formal address?
“Please, be at ease. I approach this matter in a roundabout way because I wish to have you in my confidence. I wrote, when Galileo was first coming to trouble the counsels of the Church, of the understanding of a cicada, the ability of a naturalist to understand it, and the ability of a cicada itself to understand its world. You understand how we are as insects in our understanding before God, yes?”
“His folly is as the wisdom of the wisest men, Your Holiness,” Mazarini quoted, almost certain he had mangled the Scripture.
“Yes, yes, most apropos, my young monsignor,” Urban beamed widely. “And I in my turn, learned myself and surrounded by the learned all eager to advise me as best they may, am as nothing before the wisdom of God, would you agree?”
“Your Holiness is most modest.” Mazarini was unsure where this was leading at all. Could it be that the pope was going to ask him what to do about a question of dogma?
“Not modest at all, Mazarini. Or should I say Mazarin?” Urban’s tone was quiet, now, and in Mazarini’s ears the soft breeze and the singing of birds became as thunderous gales and wild screeching.
He stood, straight and barely able to control his shaking. How much of this was genuine intelligence from Paris, and how much from reading of future history? Was he here to be accused of disloyalty, in person, by the pope? He looked across to Vitelleschi, the emaciated and closed-faced head of the Jesuits, and saw no clue. Cardinal Barberini’s face was serene and pudgy as ever, and no more than mildly intrigued. “Your Holiness,” he said when he felt certain of his voice, “I am aware of the future that might have been, and indeed His Eminence the cardinal-protector of France has—”
Urban waved it aside. His smile remained absent, his eyes a little narrowed like a schoolmaster about to chastise. “I know, Monsignor. I know. The important point for me is the welfare of the Church, not the jostles and stratagems of those seeking authority within it. I pray God that the results of such are guided by the Holy Spirit, but I know enough of my own poor dealings to be cynical about these things. No, I am not concerned that you might take yourself to the party of France in the fullness of time. I also saw in those histories, if it is permissible to call them that, that you retained your loyalty to the Barberini throughout, and sheltered my people at some political cost to yourself after my own play was done.”
Mazarini relaxed. Either this was a side issue leading to something else, or there was nothing he could do to escape what was about to pass.
Urban went on. “I have a greater concern than that other Urban did, do I not?”
Mazarini decided to forego subtlety and nuance. “Which greater concern does Your Holiness refer to?” There were, after all, several possibilities.
“In particular, the United States of Europe, Monsignor. A terrible problem, and if this priest from our future has the right of it, a great and terrible opportunity. For both good and ill, depending on the choices I must make.”