Chapter 17
The J-Team
Munich
Nick followed Gus through the streets of Munich. They’d been riding in the rain for over an hour. Despite the fact that it was August, he was cold and wet and bordering on miserable. He could tell by the set of Maximus’ ears that he wasn’t any happier about being out in the rain than Nick was.
The day had started well, moderately warm and the sun shining. By noon however, clouds had rolled in from the southeast attended by cool breezes. They were only about five miles from Munich when the rain began late in the afternoon, a cold steady rain that wasn’t a downpour, but still poured enough water on them that within a quarter hour they were wet to the skin, and despite their woolen clothing, were cold.
Now they were hopefully near the Jesuit collegium in Munich. He had no way of knowing since this was his first time to the city. Water dripped from the brim of his hat, landing on his gloved hands. He was afraid his leather gloves were going to be ruined.
They rode along the front of a long building, and Gus turned into a gateway. Nick sighed in relief. They must be there. He turned Maximus into the gateway, and smiled as the rain and wind ceased battering on him.
Gus pulled to a halt just before exiting the gatehouse on the other side. Nick caught a glimpse of a large quadrangle enclosed on all sides by the wings of the building before he followed Gus’ lead in dismounting.
“May I be of service?” A man slightly older than Nick had appeared from what was probably a guard room. He was dressed in a priestly cassock, and a prominent crucifix hung from a chain around his neck, both wrought in silver.
Gus placed his hand on his own chest. “I am Father Augustus Heinzerling from Grantville.” He gestured at Nick. “And this is Father Nicholas Smithson, likewise from Grantville. As you can see, we are in desperate need of a place to dry off, even if it means hanging from the rafters.”
A faint smile crossed the other man’s face. “I am Father Ambrose Schönberg, and we have been expecting you—although in truth we expected something that looked a little less like drowned rats.”
“A drowned rat could not be as wet as I am,” Nick muttered.
Father Ambrose’s smile reappeared for a moment. “I can see how you might feel that way. But come this way and stand by the fire while your mounts are taken to the stable and I send word to the Rector that you have arrived. And of your…condition.” He beckoned a couple of lay brothers from the guardroom to come take their horses, then said, “Come.”
Ushered into the guardroom, Nick headed right for the fire and dropped his gloves on the hearth to stand with his bare hands as close to the flames as he could get them. He didn’t turn when the door was closed. The breezes that had been chilling them for the last hour were at last held at bay, and Nick was ecstatic.
Ambrose said nothing to them for a few minutes, just let them absorb the warmth from the fire. Gus seemed to be as glad of that as Nick was, given that he was standing beside the Englishman in front of the fire. But at length, Gus hawked and spat into the fire, then unbuttoned his coat and turned to put his back to the heat.
“I would apologize for the unseasonal weather,” Ambrose said, “if I thought it would help any.” Nick turned around at that point to let some of the heat warm his backside. “As it is,” Ambrose continued, “let us mark it up to the whims of Fortuna or the machinations of Satan, whichever you prefer, and move on to things we can affect. Let us get you to your room and provide you with warm and dry clothing. That will most likely do you both a mort of good.”
“Amen to that!” Nick said with some passion, and Gus nodded.
There was a knock at a small door on the other side of the room from their entrance. “Come,” Ambrose said. The door opened and a slight novice stood there. “Ah, young Gerhard. Did the Hosteller tell you where our brothers are to be taken?” The boy nodded. “Good. See to it, then.” He turned to Gus and Nick. “Gerhard will lead you to your chamber. I’ll have your bags brought there as soon as they come from the stables.”
“Our thanks,” Gus said, and this time Nick nodded in agreement.
So, boots squelching on the stone of the hallway floor, they followed the novice down the hall, up two flights of stairs and a short distance down another hall. He stopped at a door, and said, “The Hosteller said this room is yours for as long as you need it, Fathers. There are smallclothes and cassocks on the beds for you to change into and…” Gerhard looked around with a worried expression on his face, but when he looked back the way he came a relieved smile broke out on his face. “And here comes Andrew with the baskets.”
A somewhat stockier novice walked toward them with a couple of largish wicker baskets. “Fathers,” Andrew said, “the Hosteller said you were to put all your wet things, including your boots, into these baskets and we’ll take them to the kitchens where they’ll all be dried and your boots will be oiled.
Nick brushed past Gus and took one of the baskets as he did so. As he entered the room, he heard Gus say, “I’ll take that, and you lads bide here for just a few moments.”
By the time Gus had closed the door and turned around, Nick’s coat, hat, gloves and shirt were already in his basket, and he was standing on his right foot trying to pull the boot off his left and was finding it heavy going. That caused the older priest to chuckle as he began working the toggle buttons of his own coat.
“Laugh all you like,” Nick muttered, starting on the right boot next. “I can stand being wet, and I can stand being cold, but I cannot handle both at the same time.” The right boot came off, and he unbuckled his belt and began peeling his soggy trousers off. “A weakness, I know. And it is why I have no trouble believing in the Ninth Circle of Hell.” Nick ignored the smallclothes for the moment and went directly for the woolen cassock on the bed he had chosen, flicking it open and wrapping it around his body before he sat on the bed, a beatific smile on his face.
“Blessed are the sheep that grew the wool for this cassock,” Nick intoned. “Blessed are the shepherds who herded and protected the sheep who grew the wool. Blessed are the shearers who sheared the sheep who grew the wool. Blessed are the weavers who wove the wool into this fine woolen cloth. Blessed are the tailors who made the cloth into this beautiful warm cassock.” He raised his right hand and traced a cross in the air as he concluded with, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” His following sigh was filled with comfort.
***
When Nick opened the door to the room, they found Gerhard and Andrew waiting patiently. “Here you are lads,” he said. “Two baskets of wet and dirty clothing and boots. Given how strongly they smell of wet horse, I might skip the kitchen if I were you and head for the laundry instead.” The two novices said nothing, ducked their heads, and in a moment were toting the heavy dripping redolent baskets down the hall, passing a man in a cassock going the other direction.
Nick was about to ask Gus what they should do next when the man the novices had passed stopped. “Excuse me, Fathers. I am Father Johannes Khün, secretary and assistant to Rector Heinrich Wangnereck. The Rector would appreciate it if you would spend an hour or so with him.”
Gus looked at Nick with a raised eyebrow. Nick shrugged one shoulder and nodded. Gus looked back at Khün. “Now?”
“Now would be acceptable, yes.”
“We’re at his service. Please, lead on.”
“With me, then,” Khün waved them up to walk abreast of him. “How have your travels been, other than today?” The secretary’s voice was a pleasant tenor, light and high. Nick wondered if he was a singer.
“A bit cool,” Gus replied, “but not bad until today.”
“Yes,” Nick said. “A rather unscriptural rain, that.” Khün peered around Gus at him with his eyebrows raised in obvious invitation to continue. “Rains are supposed to be refreshing. ‘Rain from Heaven and fruitful seasons, filling our hearts with food and gladness.’ Or so the writer of Acts says.”
“And yet in Noah’s time, did it not rain forty days and forty nights?” Khün’s tone was a bit dry, which evoked a chuckle from Nick.
“And I should be glad that I am not living in that time?” Nick chuckled again. “Oh, I am, Father Johannes, I am. And I am exceedingly grateful for this ark of yours during this rain.” He reached out and tapped a wall as they passed.
“According to the Hosteller’s rants about the northwestern roof, this ark is not as watertight as Noah’s was.”
By that point they had gone back down a stairway and were approaching a double door set nest to an outside corner. The doors were open, and the secretary led them into a small outer office crowded with two writing tables and four cabinets. Each table was laden with stacks of paper, pens and quills, and at least two inkwells. One was chaired by an obvious novice who looked to be only a few months older, if that, than Gerhard and Andrew whom they had already met. The novice shot to his feet as Khün appeared in the doorway and scooted out from behind the table.
“Thank you, Bernard,” the secretary said as he moved past the tables to the door behind them. “Of to your next class with you. Greek, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Mind your uncials, then.”
Nick almost laughed at the wince on the boy’s face as he ducked out of the office.
“And this is Brother Christopher,” Khün said, “our most capable assistant to Father Nathaniel, our Chamberlain.” He gestured at a man whom God had provided such a natural tonsure that his head was mostly scalp with but a thin fringe of brown-shot gray. “He does most of the accounting, which, with the collegium running to a thousand, as you might imagine is quite a chore.”
“A thousand and two as of last Thursday,” the accountant said without looking up, “not counting these two.” He jerked his quill toward Gus and Nick.”
Khün spread his hands with a smile, then gestured toward the inner door. A moment later they were ushered into the inner office, which was somewhat larger than the outer, but still not of the magnitude to glorify its occupant.
The man sitting behind the table at the end of the room looked up as they entered. He was older than Nick by several years, maybe about the age of Athanasius Kircher, which would make him a similar number of years younger than Father Gus. His beard was close-trimmed, his hair was shortish, although not as short as the typical up-timer man wore his hair. He wasn’t especially tall, but he was stocky enough that he was physically imposing. Nick waited for Gus’ lead.
“Very Reverend Father Wangnereck,” Gus said with a slight bow. Nick echoed the bow, understanding that this must be the rector of the collegium.
“Father Heinzerling,” Father Wangnereck said. He looked to Nick. “And you must be Father Smithson. I’ve heard good things of you.”
“Thank you, Father,” Nick murmured with another bow. The fact that Father Wangnereck was the Rector for the Munich Collegium came as a surprise, as Nick had thought the Rector was one Michael Voelkel, a Jesuit educator of some slight repute. The Munich collegium was somewhat overshadowed by the school at Ingolstadt, so while their teachers were good, they tended to not be the brightest stars in the Jesuit firmament.
Wangnereck looked at them both soberly for a long moment, then his face broke out in a warm smile. “Augustus, you old reprobate!” He quickly moved around his table and enfolded Gus in a bear-hug. Nick watched on, bemused, as Gus returned the hug and there was mutual slapping of backs. The rector finally stepped back with his hands on Gus’ shoulders. “How long has it been? Five years? Six?”
Gus shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s been every bit of eight, Heinrich.” Nick made note of the Rector’s first name. “That small matter of the deacon whose arithmetic was even more imaginary than the origin of Grantville.”
The rector pursed his lips and nodded. “You’re right. Eight years. But sit, sit, both of you.” He waved a hand at two chairs as he moved back around the table to his own. As he settled into his chair, his face turned serious again. “How are you, Augustus? I’ve heard some stories.”
Nick darted a glance at his partner, only to see a very serene expression on his face. “Whatever you’ve heard, believe the worst of it. I am what I am, a less than model Jesuit, a mediocre priest, and the Father General’s odd jobs man.”
“I had heard you were with the Cardinal Protector,” Wangnereck said.
Gus’ mouth shaped a small smile. “That, at least, is true. And God and the Father General and the Holy Father willing, I have found the place where I will spend the last of my days.”
The rector’s eyebrows rose. “Truly?”
“Truly. Cardinal Mazzare is a very fine man, and more than that, he is also a very fine priest.”
The rector studied Gus in return, and finally nodded. “Then I’m glad for you, old friend. How are Hannelore and the boys? Well, I trust?”
Nick saw Gus’ smile broaden a bit. “Well and well. She has settled in Grantville such that I may never get her to leave—not that I want to. We’re married, you know.”
Wangnereck’s eyebrows rose. “I hadn’t heard, but I’m not surprised she finally brought you around.”
“’Twasn’t her,” Gus said with what almost passed for serenity. Nick was actually a bit surprised. Maybe there were depths to his friend he hadn’t suspect. “It was the Cardinal—or Father Mazzare, as he was then. When I first met him, he winkled that out of me and insisted we be married. Such is the man that I couldn’t say no. And then he went so far as to request an official exemption from the Father-General.”
Gus’ smile remained in place, to be matched after a moment by one from the Rector, who Nick had gathered by now was an old acquaintance and friend of his partner. “Good, and good. And the boys—how old are they now?”
“Karl is eleven, Aloysius reached his ninth year not long before we started this trip, and Matthias is rising toward six. He’ll attain that rank in November.”
“And are they cast in the same mold as their father?”
Gus shook his head. “Karl is his mother’s get. He keeps the other two on short leads. Aloysius is a japester, fun loving, but good hearted. It’s too soon to tell about Matthias, albeit I have some hope for him.”
“Ha! If there is any justice in the world, he will be another you, so that you will reap what you have sown. I still remember that trick with the honey in the inkwell, you know. If Father Carolus had not been a wise and perceptive and understanding man, I would have failed that exam.” The Rector’s voice was stern, but Nick could see the smile lurking around the corners of his mouth.
Gus waved a hand to one side. “A venial sin only. A mere footnote to my record in Purgatory, I’m sure.”
Wangnereck snorted, then leaned forward and clasped his hands before him on the table top. “So, seriously, old friend, what is it that has brought you this direction? The message we received was remarkably terse, even for we Jesuits.”
Gus reached inside his cassock and brought out a small, folded piece of paper. As he placed it on the table, he said, “Did you get this message?”
Wangnereck reached out, picked the paper up deliberately, and unfolded it with care. Nick watched as he read it, twice. He could tell by the movement of the rector’s eyes when he started over. When he finished the second reading, he refolded the paper and placed it back on the same spot on the table, then looked back at Gus.
“Are you involved in this?”
“Involved in it? No. Looking for it? Yes.”
The rector’s eyebrows rose again. After a moment, he said, “And you think it’s coming here? To Munich?”
“We think it’s coming north.”
“We?”
“Nick and I,” Gus gestured with his head toward his partner. After a moment, he added, “And Athanasius Kircher.”
Wangnereck’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Really.” Nick was amazed at how much freight the rector’s tone could carry. That wasn’t a question—more a demand for confirmation, underlaid by a certain sense of steel.
Nick decided it was his turn to speak. “We don’t know what the theft’s long-term purpose is. The obvious short-term purpose is to deny the book to Borja and his camarilla. But surely there is a long-term purpose as well. Unfortunately, we have yet to fathom it. Regardless, they have to get out of Rome—out of Italy altogether—if they want to survive Borja’s attentions.”
“Astute, if somewhat predictable,” Wangnereck said with a nod. “Surely you have considered more than that.”
Nick looked at Gus, who nodded at him to continue. “Taking it to the sea is too risky. The western Mediterranean is a Spanish lake, where the Barbary Pirates don’t exercise suzerainty.”
“The Knights of Malta might disagree with that statement.” The rector’s tone was dry.
“If the good Knights kept more of their cruisers at sea, I would agree,” Nick said. “As it is…” He shrugged, then continued. “The Adriatic is a trap, with either Turkish raiders or Barbary pirate cruisers lurking at the mouth.”
“So going overland is safer,” interjected the rector.
“Depending on how you define ‘safe,’ yes. But risks still abound. If they go east through Trieste, they’re putting themselves into the Viennese Hapsburgs’ hands. If they go west, through Savoy, they will find themselves dealing with Richelieu, or the Huguenots, or both. I’m not sure which would be worse.” Nick shook his head.
“If they go through the Alps via the Brenner Pass to Innsbruck, they’re back in the Viennese Hapsburgs’ hands again. No, their safest course is through the Reschen Pass, and to either turn themselves over to Maximilian, or sneak through Bavaria and go into hiding in Gustav Adolf’s territories.” Nick gave a definite nod and sat back in his chair, his piece said.
“And which do you favor?”
Nick looked to Gus, who simply smiled at him. He looked back at the rector. “My partner here,” he pointed his thumb at Gus, “is confident they will come to Bavaria. Myself, I think someone bold enough to steal that book, of all the books in the Vatican library, would also be bold enough to find a lair in the Swede’s lands.”
Wangnereck was nodding. “A cogent analysis, Father Nicholas. Cogent, indeed. Does Father Athanasius agree?”
“To the extent we discussed it before we left, yes,” Gus said.
“I see.” The room was quiet for a long moment. “And why are you here, then? If you honestly thought that it would come to Maximilian, would you be here before me, in Munich, of all places?”
“The fact that it is what I expect to happen does not blind me to other possible outcomes,” Gus said, “particularly since there may be others actively working against us.”
This time the rector’s eyebrows drew down, to Nick giving his thin features the cast of a wolf. “And are you aware of such others?”
“I know of one who may have already taken the field against us.” The rector raised a hand palm-up in obvious invitation to continue. “Are you aware of a master merchant from Jena named Wulff?”
Wangnereck raised his eyes to where Father Johannes Khün stood against the wall near the door. “Johannes?”
“Tiberius Claudius Titus Wulff, merchant, Lutheran of a mildly Flacian position, unmarried, no known children, very wealthy. He collects information like most men collect dirt. He never seems to do much with it, though, at least not directly. Slightly older brother to the famous—and perhaps infamous—attorney Augustus Nero Domitian Wulff, currently residing in Magdeburg.”
“Add to your files that he’s also a noted bibliophile.” Gus’ voice was dry as he looked over his shoulder at Khün.
“Ah,” the secretary said. “We had not confirmed that yet.”
“It’s confirmed.” Gus looked back at the rector. “And he’s sent a man south.”
Wangnereck leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers before him. “Has he, now? And who might this man be?”
“One Archibald Gottesfreund.”
The rector’s mouth quirked. “A bit of an outlandish name, that, although the last of it is well-enough omened.”
Gus chuckled. “About what you could expect when a Scottish girl marries a Hamburg merchant. He’s the eldest son of that union, born and raised in Hamburg, which means raised Lutheran. He went for a soldier, though, and rode with his mother’s people in a Scottish horse company in France for a fair number of years. His cousin was killed and his own hand was maimed in a skirmish about four years ago, and he left the life. Against all expectation, he rode east rather than north or west, ending up in Jena, of all places. Somehow he encountered Master Wulff, who decided that Gottesfreund would be a good addition to his staff.”
“And was he?”
“Let’s just say that Gottesfreund, while having little to do with Master Wulff’s ordinary business affairs, serves as the master’s sword hand in things that are less bound by contract and more by wit and strength and nerve.”
“Ah, one of those.”
“Indeed.”
Wangnereck pursed his lips for a moment. “Do you think he is searching for the codex?”
“If he worked for anyone other than Wulff, I’d certainly say no.” Gus shook his head. “And in truth, I have nothing to base a suspicion on other than my gut crawls when I think of him riding south at this moment in time and history.”
“Your gut, is it?”
“Ja.”
The corner of the rector’s mouth lifted a bit. “I recall a time more than a few years ago when your crawling gut kept us out of a mort of trouble. I’m inclined to listen to it again.” His expression sobered. “Do you know where he is? Either of you?”
Gus waved a hand toward Nick, obviously passing the speaker’s wand back to him. “We last saw him leaving Bayreuth,” Nick said. “He was heading generally southwest. We didn’t see traces of him in Ingolstadt, so if he’s not here in Munich, he’s most likely in Augsburg, or nearing there, at least.”
“Augsburg.” The rector’s voice had turned cold. “Do you think that is his destination, or merely a way station on his journey?”
Nick shrugged. “To be honest, we don’t know. We didn’t realize he’d be on the road with us at all until we got to Bayreuth.”
“We’ve limited resources in Augsburg,” obviously referring to the Jesuits rather than some other association the three men might share. “I’m sure you’re aware that the political situation there is very tense, and fraught with some degree of difficulty. I can get a message there within a day—two, if it keeps raining like this, and if he’s made a public appearance there we can find out. But we most likely cannot make any kind of move against him there. There are too many eyes watching, both Protestant and non-sympathetic Catholic.”
“If he’s not after the book, there is no problem,” Gus said. “But we don’t know that that is the case. And more importantly, we don’t know if he knows something we don’t. I wouldn’t ordinarily place a wager on it, but my gut keeps crawling and the hair on my neck keeps trying to stand up when I think about it.”
Nick wasn’t going to argue with Gus. He’d learned not to do that when Gus had a strong feeling about something. From the look on the rector’s face, he was of the same opinion.