“I know that!” grumbled Pierre. “Still . . .”
Diego laughed. “Leave off trying to teach this stubborn Savoyard the fine points of theology, Eneko. He knows what he knows, and there’s an end to it.”
Eneko chuckled; and so, after a moment, did Pierre himself. “I suppose I still retain the prejudices of my little village in the Alps,” he said grudgingly. “But I still don’t understand why the Holy Father is making such an issue out of it.”
“Pierre,” sighed Diego, “we are not talking about some obscure witch-doctor. Dottore Marina was considered by every theologian in the world, Christian or not—especially those versed in the use of magic—to be the most knowledgeable Strega scholar in centuries. He was not simply a Magus, you know. He was a Grimas, a master of all three of the stregheria canons: Fanarra, Janarra and Tanarra. The first Grimas since Vitold, in fact.”
“And we all know how that Lithuanian swine wound up,” growled Pierre. His Savoyard accent was even heavier than usual.
Eneko’s eyebrows, a solid bar across his forehead, lowered. “Pierre! I remind you—again—that the Church does not extend its condemnation of the Grand Dukes of Lithuania onto their subjects.”
The Savoyard priest looked away. Then, nodded acknowledgement of the justice of the reproof.
“Besides,” continued the Basque, “the criticism is unfair in any event. Vitold’s fate derived from his boldness, not from sin. Rashness, if you prefer. But I remind you—”
Eneko’s stern gaze swept back and forth between his two companions. “I remind you, brothers, that we have set ourselves the same purpose as that of doomed Vitold—to stand firmly against Chernobog and all manner of evil.”
For a moment, his eyes roamed the austere interior of the chapel. Finding comfort there, perhaps, but not forgetting how long it had taken them to find such a chapel in Rome.
“To challenge it on the field of holy battle,” he continued softly, “instead of lolling in comfort while our Pauline brethren wage the struggle alone.”
Hearing the Paulines referred to as “brethren” brought a momentary tightness to Pierre’s lips, but the Savoyard did not challenge the term. As often as Eneko Lopez’s odd views grated on the Savoyard’s upbringing and attitudes, he had long since made the decision to follow the man anywhere he chose to lead them.
As had Diego. “Well enough, Eneko. Venice it is. And we should send for Francis in Toulouse as well. He would be invaluable in Venice, dealing with Strega.”
Lopez shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “I want Francis to go to Mainz and try to get an audience, if he can, with the Emperor. I’m not certain yet, but I think he will be far more useful there than he would be in Venice with us.”
The Basque priest’s words caused his two companions to stiffen. Again, Diego made that cocked-head quizzical gesture. “Am I to take it that the Grand Metropolitan is looking more favorably on our proposal?”
Lopez shrugged. “He keeps his own counsel. And he is a cautious man, as you know. But . . . yes, I think so. I suspect he views this expedition to Venice as something in the way of a test. So do I, brothers. And if I’m right as to what we will find there, we will need a private conduit with Charles Fredrik.”
Those words cheered Pierre immediately. “Well, then! By all means, let’s to Venice!”
* * *
The next morning, as they led their mules through the streets of Rome, the Savoyard finally unbent enough to ask the question again. This time, seeking an answer rather than registering a protest.
He did it a bit pugnaciously, of course.
“I still don’t understand why we’re looking for a Strega scholar.”
“We are not,” came Eneko’s firm reply. “We are soldiers of God, Pierre, not students. Battle is looming, with Venice as the cockpit—on that every holy scryer in the Vatican is agreed. We are not looking for what the scholar can explain, we are looking for what the mage can summon. Perhaps.”
Pierre’s eyes widened. Even as a boy in a small village in the Alps, he had heard that legend.