Chapter 1
Gregorio
May 1635
Roma
The Vatican
Brother Gregorio Agricola, monk in the Augustinian order and clerk in the Vatican library, raised his aching head from his cot in the infirmary. He could hear shouting, and was that the sound of gunshots? He started to shake his head, but the ache from the hard knock he’d gotten when he fell against the fountain and the dizziness he was suffering from the marsh fever which had caused him to fall combined to stop that after one abortive movement. He lay back on the cot and raised his hands to his temples.
“Holy Mother of God,” Gregorio murmured, “what is going on?”
At that moment, Brother Vittorio, the assistant infirmarer, dashed into his room. “Good, you’re awake,” he said, panting before and after the words. “We need to get you out of here.”
“Why?” Gregorio asked, wincing as he tried to raise up.
Vittorio came and slipped an arm around Gregorio’s shoulders to help him rise. “Borja has loosed the Spaniards on the Vatican.” Even in his daze, Gregorio noted the lack of the respectful addresses of “Eminence” or “Cardinal.” Since Vittorio was one of the most punctilious people he knew, even among the very correct Vatican staff, that told him just how serious things were at the moment. “They are running rampant, shooting at everything that moves and some things that don’t.”
“But why?” Gregorio managed to say after stifling a groan.
“Who knows?” Vittorio muttered. “It’s not the first time princes of the church have done such, even without the stimulus of such as Grantville in the world. Given Borja’s nature, it was probably only a matter of time.” He helped Gregorio turn on the cot and put his feet on the floor. “Can you stand? We have to get you someplace safer than here.” He bent over, draped one of Gregorio’s arms around his neck, wrapped an arm around Gregorio’s waist, and straightened. Gregorio perforce rose with him, his head swimming. “Come with me, Gregorio. We’ve got to get you out of the palace.”
Gregorio bit his lip and took slow wobbly steps alongside the infirmarer as they left the cubicle and moved through the main room of the infirmary. Vittorio muttered something Gregorio didn’t understand and kept looking over his shoulder.
“Faster, Brother Gregorio,” Vittorio said once they reached the hallway. “We need to move faster.”
Gregorio grunted, but tried to move his feet quicker. The funny thing was, the more he did it, the more his head seemed to clear up. By the time they reached the cross corridor that led to the other side of the palace, he was carrying most of his own weight, and despite being somewhat wobbly on his feet, was moving at a good pace. Vittorio kept a hand on his upper arm to support and guide him, but didn’t say anything more as they moved down the corridor. A couple of clerics ran by them, followed a few moments later by another who pushed by Gregorio with an oath and almost knocked him off his feet.
Vittorio steadied him, muttering a vile Italian epithet that Gregorio had only heard in the gutters of the slums before. He gave a strained laugh, and kept moving.
As they turned into a smaller hallway, Gregorio heard the sound of Spaniard voices behind them. Vittorio cursed. “Hurry!” he urged, pulling on Gregorio’s arm. “We’ve got to find you a hiding place now!” They slipped down the hall until Vittorio pulled Gregorio into a small chapel and over to a confessional at the back. He pushed Gregorio through the curtain into the confessional. “Stay here,” he hissed. “I’ll try to come for you later. Don’t make any noise, and maybe no one will notice.”
Gregorio dropped onto the priest’s seat and leaned back against the wall. “All right,” he whispered. Vittorio traced the sign of the cross over him, then whirled and disappeared.
Taking deep breaths, Gregorio closed his eyes. After a time, his breathing eased and his head stopped spinning. He slumped over against the side wall of the confessional, and before long had slipped into slumber…or even deeper, into unconsciousness.
***
“Boy.”
Gregorio swam up out of the darkness. He thought he opened his eyes…at least, he perceived a light, and after a moment the face of an elderly man came into view bending over him.
“Boy. Gregorio,” the old man said.
“Yes, Maestro,” Gregorio said, straightening up. “Father,” he amended his address when he saw the old-fashioned cassock the older man was wearing. “Your Excellency,” he concluded, deciding to take no chances.
The old man smiled slightly. “Father is sufficient, Brother Gregorio. Now that I have your attention, that is. I need you to do something for me, and for the Lord.”
“Me?” Gregorio stiffened.
“You.” The old man’s smile broadened. “Just you.”
“Umm…” Gregorio muttered. “Who are you? Are…are you an angel?”
Still smiling, the old man shook his head. “No, not I. Not even close to one. My name is Jerome.”
“S-Saint Je-Jerome?” Gregorio stuttered. “P-patron saint of translators and librarians?”
The old man’s smile faded, and he shrugged. “I’ve been called that. But simple Father is enough for me.”
It dawned on Gregorio that this wasn’t normal. “Umm, is this a vision? I mean…” he waved a hand toward the old man and then back toward himself.”
“Of course it is.” Jerome smiled again. “After all, I’ve been dead and buried for over a thousand years. While all things are possible to the Lord, I doubt that he would spend a resurrection miracle of that magnitude to simply deliver a message to a humble assistant librarian. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Gregorio nodded his head rapidly up and down several times. Then he stopped, realizing that his head didn’t hurt. That was even stronger proof to him that this was a vision.
After a moment, Gregorio tilted his head and looked at Jerome with narrowed eyes. “You don’t look much like your pictures,” he said.
Jerome’s smile broadened. “And is that remarkable at all, since as I said, I’ve been dead now for a millennium or more? Not that I would have minded looking as noble as some of those pictures. Truth to tell, I was a rather plain fellow, with a nose that was large even for a Roman, although in truth, I was a Dalmatian by birth.” He laid a finger alongside that protuberance and gave a nod. “Nay, lad, all those pictures that you’ve seen of all the saints are based only on the purest imagination of the painters and artists.”
“Oh, well,” Gregorio said, straightening a little, “I was afraid it was naught but a fever dream.”
“Well, as to that,” Jerome said, “doubtless ’tis true that the fever may have opened the door for the vision, but when you wake I think you’ll find that the fever is gone—for now, at any rate. This is a vision, and you should be honored by it, for although I received a vision while I was alive, this is the first time God has sent me in a vision. Come to think of it, I’m not sure who should be more honored, you or me.”
“Oh.” Gregorio thought about that, and shrugged. He looked up at the saint. “A message, you said?”
Jerome’s smile disappeared again. “Aye, lad, a message to you, and a charge as well.”
Gregorio felt his eyes widen. “A charge?”
“Yes.” Jerome gave a solemn nod. “Can you take it on?”
After a moment, Gregorio crossed himself, clasped his hands before his chest, and whispered, “Adsum, Domine. Here am I, Lord,” he repeated in Tuscan dialect Italian.
“Good lad,” Jerome said, that small smile reappearing on his lips. “Stout lad.” After a moment of silence, he said, “There is a manuscript in the library, one of the great codex volumes. It is the very Word of God, albeit in Greek and not Hebrew. Do you know the one I mean?”
Gregorio thought for a moment. “I think so. Is that the one that is number MCCIX on the inventory?”
Jerome’s smile broadened again. “Yes, lad, that’s the one.”
“I know it, and I know where it is…or rather, where it should be.”
“Good. That volume needs to be removed from the library tonight and taken to safety. It cannot be left to fall into the hands of the Spanish apostate.”
“You want me to steal the great Bible?” Gregorio was horrified.
Jerome drew himself up, face stern. “No!” His voice thundered in Gregorio’s head, and he winced. The face seemed to fade away, and the room started to go dark. “No,” the face said in a weak tone. “No, it is to be taken to safety to prevent it being profaned.” The tone seemed stronger and the face came back. “The Lord himself has ruled that the apostate should have no chance to even look at it, much less touch it. And He has chosen you for this holy work.”
“Oh.” Gregorio swallowed. “Where…where does it need to go?”
“North,” Jerome pronounced. “The Lord will tell you when you have arrived at its new home.”
“North,” Gregorio repeated. “Firenze? Milan? Venezia?”
“Farther,” Jerome pronounced.
Gregorio quailed for a moment at the thought of going north of the Alps. But then his resolve stiffened. “I’ll try.”
“Brave lad,” Jerome said. “You need to be about it now. Your time is short before the apostate comes to the palace. Be about your task, my boy, and trust that the Lord will be with you.”
With that, Jerome began to fade—not like dissipating smoke, but more like he was being suddenly withdrawn in the distance. In but a few moments, he had dwindled away, and the darkness had come upon Gregorio again.