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Chapter 30

Archie


October

Jena


It was mid-October. The weather had certainly progressed toward the cold part of the autumnal season, with both strength and authority. It did not bode well for the forthcoming winter, and most folk with any sense at all under their hats did not venture forth willingly, and only the hardiest would spend any time out of doors at any time but the nooning for any but the most pressing of needs. Mind you, having spent a winter or three on the Isle of Skye, I was given an experience of winter that these folk in southern inland Germany have no understanding of at all, at all. There is nothing like a fierce winter storm come howling out of the Skagerrak Strait and around the northern cape of Scotland carrying with it icy cold north winds laden with sea-breath moisture to freeze your bones to their marrow and drive you in to a snug turf fire and a large cup of whisky.

This day was the worst we’d seen yet when a knock came on the front door of Master Titus’ mansion. I happened to be passing through the front hall when it came, so I veered my steps toward the door, wondering who might be calling. I knew Master Titus’ schedule had no planned callers today.

I opened the door to a blast of coldish air, and said, “Come in, come in straightway! We’ll sort out names and such-like after we get the door closed again!”

Two figures bundled in heavy dark coats and woolen scarves stepped inside as if they’d been standing on ice, and I closed the door firmly behind them. By that moment Ephraim had arrived, so I stepped around the group of them to allow him room to take their coats and such. Once divested of those outer layers, and once straightened with clothing adjusted and hair pushed back, I was struck dumb. Oh, I know how hard that may be to believe, but it is God’s honest truth, for before us were two men in the formal cassocks of Catholic priests, and I knew one of them!

Before me stood Father Nicholas Smithson, last seen in Augsburg almost two months ago, and certainly not expected to be seen at all anywhere since then, especially here in the master’s front hall. He had a slight smile on his face, of the type that I knew all too well when someone was finding a bit of humor in my circumstances.

He nodded his head toward me, and said, “Greetings to you, Master Gottesfreund. God’s peace on you.”

I nodded but said nothing in response as my mind raced to try and take in everything at that moment. One priest—a Jesuit, at that—companioned by another priest, who almost certainly had to be another Jesuit. I took him in, surveying him from cap-à-pie. Oh, now this man was a Jesuit, with no doubt at all, at all. It almost beamed from him like light from the sun. The smile on his face said nothing of what was behind it, and his hands clasped before him were so innocuous, yet there was that about his eyes that said one underestimated this man at one’s gravest peril.

I thought to myself this was not a man I would want as an enemy. My mind responded by throwing forward the description Master Titus had used the day I had come home, talking of a different Jesuit in Grantville—”that man is formidable.”

I nodded to the second priest, and said, “Have I the honor of addressing Father Athanasius Kircher?”

His smile broadened, and he looked to his companion. “See, Nick, I told you a man of Master Wulff’s repute would not be surprised by our arrival.” He looked back at me, and said, “Yes, Master Gottesfreund, I am Father Athanasius Kircher, currently serving as assistant to and administrator under Cardinal Protector Lawrence Mazzare, whose seat is in Magdeburg. Father Nicholas and I have come to request the favor of a small conversation with Master Wulff, and to beg to be allowed to observe the master’s renowned library.”

Oh, this man was so good at the words, and so smooth, that even the clan bards would be taken in by him. I stopped myself from shaking my head, but from the slight lift of one corner of his mouth I knew he knew what I was thinking, and knew as well that he wanted me to know that. Ma would have loved him, while at the same time calling him a rogue.

“Ephraim,” I said over my shoulder, “these men are Master Titus’ guests for the next little while. Please see to their comfort—some wine, perhaps—while I go advise the master they are here.” All formal and strait laced I sounded…I almost didn’t recognize my own self.

I stepped over to the stairway smartly and made my way upstairs, where I found Master Titus stepping out of his business office across from the library. In response to his raised eyebrows, I said, “Two esteemed visitors from Grantville, Master Titus: Father Athanasius Kircher, and Father Nicholas Smithson, both of the Society of Jesus and approaching you openly as such. They…” I paused to recall the exact words, “…they ‘request the favor of a small conversation with Master Wulff, and to beg to be allowed to observe the master’s renowned library.’”

I saw the light brighten in the master’s eyes and the corner of his mouth quirk. I knew he was amused, and knew he would be on his guard as well.

“Well, by all means, Archie, bring them up.” He waved a hand at the stairs as he opened the door to the library. I heard the sound of a match being struck behind me, which meant he would be lighting the lamps.

Stepping off the stairs, I turned into the small sitting room, where I found Ephraim had seated the priests and had indeed provided glasses of wine. I allowed them their first sips, then said, “Fathers, Master Titus will see you in the library. If you will follow me?

Father Smithson rose with some alacrity, while the older Father Athanasius was not far behind him. I heard their cassocks rustle as they followed me up the stairs and into the library, where they found Master Titus standing behind his desk. The three of us lined up before the desk, and I pronounced, “Master Titus, may I introduce to you Father Athanasius Kircher and Father Nicholas Smithson, of the Society of Jesus. Fathers, this is Master Tiberius Claudius Titus Wulff.” With that, I stepped back beside the door, wanting to only be an observer of what was about to come.

“Greetings, Fathers,” Master Titus began the conversation, rather than forcing them to approach him.

“God’s peace on you and yours, Master Wulff,” Father Athanasius said with a smile and a brief sign of the cross. “Before we get to the official reason of our visit, may we take a few minutes just to view your excellent library?”

Master Titus extended his hand, palm up. “Take as long as you need.”

The two Jesuits turned and went in opposite directions around the room, looking at the codices and printed books on the shelves and peering closely at the small group of scrolls on their racks. They moved slowly, lips moving silently, occasionally muttering a comment as they touched a book or codex with gentle fingertips. Father Athanasius at length paused by one particular codex displayed on a stand set near the desk. He shook his head and sighed, then looked up.

“I congratulate you on this, Master Wulff. This collection is most excellent. Oh, there are larger collections under the bishops and archbishops, and the Vatican itself, but this,” he spread his hands, “this is choice. This is superlative. Your selection, the quality, the presentation is simply superb. You have at least two works that the Vatican itself does not possess. But this,” he laid a single fingertip on the codes on the stand, “this is my favorite, and perhaps the very cream of it all. Such a fine codex of The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis. I envy you its possession,” he looked up with a smile, “I really do. I shall have to include that in my next confession. Do you know its provenance?”

Master Titus cleared his throat. For a moment, I thought he might be a mite embarrassed, but I gave that over. “From Zwolle, in the Netherlands. It was reputed to have been written by his own hand.”

Father Athanasius touched the book again. “It may well be. I have seen letters written by the man. It may well be. If it’s true, my envy deepens, as does my need to confess.” After a moment he turned and returned to face the desk, joined by Father Nicholas, who had so far said nothing.

“Be seated, if you will,” Master Titus said. I noted that without seeming to, he timed it so that he and Father Athanasius sat at the same moment, with Father Nicholas settling a moment later.

Master Titus said nothing, simply raised one eyebrow as both an invitation and a goad. I slipped sidewise so that I could see something of the priests’ faces, and could see that Father Athanasius smiled for a moment, then went serious again.

Cradling his wine glass in his hands, he settled back in his chair and began, “Master Wulff, we know that you appreciate fine books. It is obvious from this room. It is obvious that you appreciate books about the faith and about the mysteries of God. That is also obvious from this room. You likewise have the reputation of being a man of insight, perspicacity, wisdom, and much more knowledge than most men of this day and age. So we more than suspect that you are aware that the Vatican suffered a grievous loss of a very treasured volume from its own library several months ago.”

“The great codex from the East,” Master Titus said quietly. I was surprised that he mentioned it so easily, but he had his own reasons, I was sure.

“So you did hear of it.”

Master Titus’ mouth quirked. “As did a number of other bibliophiles.”

“As you say. But they are not of concern. You, I’m afraid, are.”

Both of Master Titus’ eyebrows went up at that. It occurred to me that the master might use his eyebrows for signaling or messaging. They were certainly mobile enough.

“To abandon the subtlety that Jesuits are famed for, and to be both undiplomatic and distressingly blunt, we—my brothers here and in Grantville—” Father Athanasius gestured to Father Nicholas, “have come to believe that you may well have that codex in your possession, and if not, you almost certainly know where it is. Now,” he hastened to add, “as you most certainly should know, we have no proof—only assumptions with some, alas, inferior logic behind them. You need not deny, and we certainly do not expect you to confirm. But after Father Nicholas and Father Augustus’ adventures in trailing Master Gottesfreund in July and August, and their final encounter with him in Augsburg—for which let me compliment you on a well-played game, Master Gottesfreund—we are very certain there is a connection between you and the codex, wherever it is currently resting.”

Master Titus’ face had gone to the smooth, calm, placid face I had seen him wear so many times when negotiations had reached the point where the folk on the other side of the table were about to discover that they had him right where he wanted them. I squared my shoulders, and watched on.

“We have communicated with Cardinal Protector Mazzare. He is aware of our belief, and he has approved this proposal.” For the first time, Father Athanasius looked a bit uncertain. “We, on behalf of the Cardinal Protector, propose that you continue to hold and protect the great codex, for your lifetime and perhaps for the lifetime of your brother Augustus Nero Domitian Wulff. At the end of that time, if the politics and the religious currents are calm enough, it can be placed in the custody of the Cardinal Protector’s office, with the specific understanding that it will be available to scholars of all faiths.”

Master Titus didn’t move, didn’t change, didn’t turn a hair or blink an eye or flare a nostril. It was as if he was a carved statue.

Father Athanasius seemed to settle a bit, as if tension had been released. “We do not expect a response from you. Just that you listen, and hopefully will agree.” He bowed his head for a moment, then looked back up. “I am assisting a small group of young believers in Grantville—the Bibelgesellschaft—up-timers and down-timers both, men and women who are pursuing a mutual goal of understanding and determining what the original texts of scripture really say. For myself, I would ask that you consider doing something revolutionary, something only possible because Grantville has come back to us. You may be the only man in the world who will have the time and the resources to do it. Please consider having photographs taken of each page of the codex, of good enough quality that the texts can be clearly read, and either distribute them or even have them published.”

There was a long moment of silence after that, before Master Titus said in a level tone, “I have heard you. I will not respond.” After another long moment of silence, Master Titus stood. “Thank you for coming to see my library, Fathers. You are welcome any time to come read in it.”

The others stood as well. “Alas, it will not be this trip,” Father Athanasius said. “We need to catch the next train back to Grantville. But another time—perhaps next summer,” he concluded with what was definitely a grin.

“Father Nicholas,” Master Titus said, “would you excuse us for a moment, please, and make your way downstairs alone? I need a private moment with Father Athanasius.”

The younger priest looked a bit surprised but covered it well, bowed slightly, and made his way through the door. I could hear his steps on the stairs.

Father Athanasius turned to face Master Titus with a hint of curiosity on his face.

“This is for you and the Cardinal Protector alone—not your brothers, not your superiors, not the Pope. I want your word, your solemn vow, and under the seal of the confessional.”

Father Athanasius hesitated, but at length said, “I vow to reveal this to only Cardinal Mazzare and no other by the name of Jesus and by the hope of my salvation.”

“Under the seal of the confessional.”

“Agreed.”

Master Titus pulled something out of his waistcoat pocket, cupped it in the palm of his hand, and showed it to the priest. I couldn’t see what it was—it obviously wasn’t very large—but whatever it was had an effect on the priest, for after a moment his eyes widened and he looked up from it to lock gazes with the master. Nothing was said, no sign was given, but something passed between them, and Father Athanasius took a deep breath and whispered, “Thank you.”

The master restored whatever it was to his waistcoat pocket, and said, “Archie, lead the way downstairs, and let’s see our guests off.”

So we all tromped down the stairs, me wondering all the while what I’d just seen. Father Nicholas was wrapped in his scarf and nearly had his coat buttons finished. Ephraim turned to help Father Athanasius into his coat. As he thrust first one arm and then the other into their respective sleeves, the older priest said, “You may be interested to know, Master Gottesfreund, that Father Smithson was recently released from his vows. This is his last venture as a member of the Society of Jesus.”

I was taken aback. “Is it so, then? And for what reason?”

Smithson looked almost beatific as Father Athanasius said, “He is the co-founder and co-leader of a new secular order called the The Order of St. Philip of the Screwdriver. It is chartered to recognize and oppose the perversity of the world.”

I shook my head at that, but before I could say aught, Father Smithson said, “And it was a fair amount of practice I had in that craft while following you across Bavaria.” His smile turned a bit wicked at that, but all I could do raise a hand in acknowledgment of the fair hit, and chuckle at the man.

Father Athanasius’ toggle buttons were set, and Ephraim handed him his scarf. In but a moment more he was bundled up to match his companion.

“Go with God,” Master Titus said to them.

“God’s blessing on this house and upon its master,” Father Athanasius said, tracing a large cross in the air. “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.

To which everyone else responded “Amen.” A moment later, the door had opened and closed and they were gone. Ephraim sniffed, and headed toward the back of the floor.

The house seemed a smaller place just then.

Master Titus looked at me with a smile on his face and a light in his eyes. “Well, Archie, does that bring your adventures to an end?”

“Maybe it does, and maybe it doesn’t,” I said back to him. “But what was it you showed Father Athanasius there at the end?”

The master chuckled and reached into that selfsame waistcoat pocket and pulled something out which he placed in my hand. “You mean this?”

I started down at a small card that simply said this:


MCCIX


I’m sure that confusion was writ on my homely face in large letters, for no sense could I make of it.

Master Titus chuckled as he plucked the card from my hand and put it back in his waistcoat pocket. “That was the number of the codex in the Vatican inventory. The card was in the book when I took it out of the box the day it arrived.”

Understanding arrived with a rush, following by more confusion and a bit of dismay. “But you told him you have it after they said they didn’t want to know.”

He dropped an arm around my shoulders. “Archie, you heard the man. He works with people who want to know what the text actually says, not what some interpreter told them it said. They seek absolute truth. How can I not respond to that?”

And so Master Titus not only acquired his greatest prize, he became embroiled with perhaps the greatest literary conspiracy of the age, one that would in years to come rock the halls of cathedrals and humble churches across the world.

How like the man.



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