The Private Casefiles of Archie Gottesfreund
 
David Carrico

The Private Casefiles of Archie Gottesfreund
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
 
Copyright © 2022 by David Carrico
 
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
 
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
 
eISBN: 978-1-964856-08-7
 
Cover by Laura Givens
 
Revised from the original publication, July 2022, 1632, Inc.
An earlier version of “A Pilum for Your Sternum” was published in The Grantville Gazette Issue 85, September 2019.

 

To those of the original 1632 writers group that coalesced around 
Eric Flint in the early 2000s who are no longer with us:
 
Cheryl Detwiler
 
Eva Musch
 
John Zeek
 
John Johnson
 
Pam Poggiani
 
Karen Bergstralh
 
Leonard Hollar
 
Nick Lorrance
 
Kevin H. Evans
 
Karen C. Evans
 
Rick Boatright
 
All fine people, all fine writers, all greatly missed.
 
We may not see their like again.

Contents

Praeludium
 
A Pilum for Your Sternum
 
Interludium

The Codex Caper
 
Part One
 
Chapter 1
 
Chapter 2
 
Chapter 3
 
Chapter 4
 
Chapter 5
 
Chapter 6
 
Chapter 7
 
Chapter 8

Part Two
 
Chapter 9
 
Chapter 10
 
Chapter 11
 
Chapter 12
 
Chapter 13
 
Chapter 14
 
Chapter 15
 
Chapter 16
 
Chapter 17
 
Chapter 18
 
Chapter 19
 
Chapter 20
 
Chapter 21
 
Chapter 22
 
Chapter 23
 
Chapter 24
 
Chapter 25
 
Chapter 26
 
Chapter 27
 
Chapter 28
 
Chapter 29
 
Chapter 30

Postludium
 
Dramatis Personae

Praeludium
 
	Master Tiberius Titus Wulff. The world will not see his like again, I fear. I spent the best years of my life working for and with the man. Och, he paid me well, and he fed me well, and it’s many the fine adventure I had while taking his coin; some in his company, some alone but on his behalf, and even the odd occasional bit of a job just for myself, you see. For an ex-mercenary soldier like me, it was a fine life, a braw life, and I drank it to the lees, I did.
	Most folk, even those who might have been his equals in public, few though they were, knew him as Master Tiberius, but I was allowed to call him Master Titus from the first day we met. We became friends early on, even before I joined his establishment, and he called me Master Archie to my face and in public until the day that he left us.
	Master Titus was a man of wit, knowledge, courtesy, and style enough to grace the finest courts and salons in Europe. And he had wisdom enough to rival any sage you can name. I was blessed by his company and his friendship for most of a generation. It is my hope that you will see somewhat of the man in these stories that I now feel free to share, now that he’s gone.

A Pilum for Your Sternum
 
	They say that Scots are crazy. Now, many folk say that, but I have that on the best authority—my own mother. She would say it often, with a laugh or a grin, even though she herself was a Scot, from the Isle of Skye.
	Caitrion MacDonald—Ma—had the red hair and blue eyes of the MacDonald clan. “Not just any MacDonald clan, Archie,” she would say, “but the Clan Donald of Sleat. None of your MacDonnells of Glengarry or Clanranald were we. Aye, and even the Irish gallowglasses would walk wary of us in our day!” Oh, she was proud of that heritage, Ma was, and she tried to instill it in me, naming me Archibald, a well-respected name in the clan. And how she ended up marrying a stocky merchant named Gottesfreund from Hamburg was more than ever I understood. But love him she did, and since I came from their union, I’m glad of it.
	Ma was upon occasion accused of being a shrew by those who had been on the sharp end of her temper. Now, I wouldn’t go that far myself, but I would allow that when she’d a mind to, she had a well-honed tongue keen enough to be a flensing knife. Even Father would find business elsewhere when that black mood settled on her. But he always returned, and to the end of his days he was faithful to her. Aye, even later in years she was a handsome woman, so I well knew what had drawn Father to her.
	To hear Father tell it, his family was barely over the scandal of him marrying a Scot, a Highlander, to boot, and a Papist on top of all of it, when I was born and started the whole fracas over again because I appeared with red hair to match Ma’s. It wasn’t until she converted to Lutheranism after I was born that they mostly calmed down.
	Once she transferred her allegiance, Ma was faithful to the Lutheran church and saw to it that I was raised in it. I knew all the catechisms, sang in the boys’ choir, and spent my time assisting the pastors in service. This at times made life interesting for me, as when she would upon occasion pack me off to visit my cousins on the Isle of Skye for a few months during the summer. A braw pack of lads we were, running wild over the hillsides during the long summer days. Being Scots or half-Scots—I wasn’t the only half-breed in the pack—why, it was nothing that we would be testing our strength against each other, and the defending of the true faith amongst that rowdy pack of Papists fell to my lot frequently. So it’s many the black eye and busted lip and bruised knuckle I had from it, but I learned to give as well as I got, I learned to stand up and defend what I thought was right, and I learned how to earn the respect of men who might have differences of opinion with me. I took no great harm from it, and indeed, those lessons have stood me well most of my life.
	My father saw to it that I had some education beyond that of the grammar school in Hamburg. I can read and write Latin as well as any prosperous merchant, if not so well as a university docent. Never could grasp Greek, though, so Homer is beyond me, although I quite like Vergil. I can do most arithmetic and calculations well enough to keep a merchant’s books and maybe to build a building, provided it wasn’t a cathedral. I can fumble along on a lute—or I could before I lost the top finger joint of the middle two fingers of my left hand. Like most of Ma’s kin, I can render a tune well enough, although I’d not want to be trying to write one. Most of that I had by my seventeenth year, the year I became a man.
	The winter was cold that year. Not that Hamburg wasn’t usually cold in the winter, but it was especially cold that year. Ma was usually the healthiest person in the house, but she caught a croup that year that she just never got over. She would get a bit better, and then would get worse again. Each time she got better, she never got quite as well as the time before, and each time she got worse, she dipped lower. She grew pale as a ghost, she who already had the milk-white skin of the pure Scots, and she lost weight until she seemed naught but satin skin laying atop her bones. Never gaunt, but thin, so thin, and so almost a wisp.
	It was the night of Epiphany that Ma died. We were all in the room with her, watching—Father, me, and my younger brothers and sister. Her breath had been rasping in and out for the whole day, faltering every now and then. We knew her time was close, but we all hoped and prayed it would not be yet. But near to the midnight, she opened her eyes to look up at Father. She raised her hand and laid it alongside his cheek, said something soft, then laid it down, closed her eyes, and breathed out. It took us all a moment to realize that she didn’t breathe in afterward, that she was done.
	We all wept, including me, I’m not ashamed to admit. We all felt lost, as Ma had been the fire and the light in our lives forever, and now that hearth was dark. However, we muddled through, as the English might say. But that was the first changing of my life, for a day or two after the funeral when Father said we needed to send word to her family, I said I would do that thing.
	Now understand I have no idea to this day why I took that upon myself. I had no real reason to. But I could not face the rooms of the house with Ma gone. I just had the wild urge to be going somewhere else and be doing something else. So I threw a few things in a bag, strapped on my short sword, collected my younger brother Andrew, and went down to the stable to saddle a couple of horses and take the road toward the west.
	Now it might be that you know that Hamburg is a port, which might cause the thought to cross your mind to wonder why I just didn’t take passage on a ship and ride the waves at ease rather than ride the back of a horse uphill and downhill along some very nasty roads. To which I reply that if you do think that, you’ve obviously not sailed in the Baltic Sea or the North Sea in January, where winter storms are both frequent and awful, in every sense of that last word.
	Rather than face the wind and waves, we rode across Denmark to the village of Ribe, where some of my father’s silver convinced a fisherman to transport me to the Isle of Skye. It took a couple of days waiting for a storm to blow itself out before I could board his leaky tub of a boat and Andrew could take my horse on lead and go home to report to Father that I was on my way.
	That old gap-toothed fisherman could give lessons in dourness to any Scot I’ve ever met, and he could bargain well enough to leave even the proverbial Midas feeling skint. I ended up having to not only pay for my ride, but help with the nets as well. And as young and as braw as I was, the old man and his brother and cousin could throw and haul nets until the moon set and leave me lying gasping in the scuppers. Thankfully, I don’t get seasick.
	So it was several days later that I arrived in Skye, thankful that we’d not encountered another storm, weary to the bone, stinking of fish. My aunt Margaret sent me to wash before I was allowed to meet with my uncle and cousins. Honestly, I think the meeting would have been shorter if I had been let to speak with them whilst still adorned by fish scales, but then again, my aunt had a sometimes unhealthy obsession with cleanliness. She seemed to consider it to be almost divine in nature.
	At any rate, washed from cap-à-piè, adorned in fresh borrowed clothing, and still somewhat damp around the edges, I was finally allowed to enter the family hall where I was able to share the sad message with which I had been sent. There were moans and groans and more than a few tears from the older members of the clan present, and I confess that I shed a few more of my own in company with them. But that experience was cleansing for me, and not because of Aunt Margaret’s bath. By sharing, I was able to discharge my own grief, and while sadness remained, the burden of the grief was done.
	I was in no hurry to return home, however, and I knew full well that my father had no expectation of my speedy return, so I entered into the life of the clan. They had a private memorial mass for Ma, but other than that life went on. We did some hunting, and more than a little drinking, but a lot of our days were spent on preparing my cousin Rory for his journey to Europe. He had joined one of the Scottish cavalry regiments serving the French king, so there was more than a bit of stir about as he selected horses and weapons and tried to convince a servant or two to go along with him.
	The second changing of my life occurred but a few days before Rory left. The ship he was to sail on was due to arrive any day, and we were standing in the stable as he tried to make his final choice of a battle steed. I was somewhat loath to see him go, and I said something about I wished I was going with him. He slapped me on the shoulder and said, “Then come along. I’m sure and certain that Captain Farquhar would take another braw trooper such as yourself.”
	And so I found myself back on a ship, this time a proper Dutch one, headed south to France two days later, having been provided with mount and kit and a fine long rifle by the clan. Perhaps not the wisest decision I could have made at that age, but not one that I regret.
	***
	Now, I told you that tale to tell you this one.
	It was some fourteen years and a few odd days later that the third changing of my life came to me. It was May of the year 1631, as I recall, with spring well ensconced on the earth south of Antwerp. Rory and I were part of a company patrol south of the Spanish lines when we ran across a group of brigands that were assaulting a merchant and his wagons. It was in a defile in a stretch of woods, and we swept down the road toward them. Most of the brigands had the wisdom to break and run for it. The truly smart ones ran into the trees with the hope of getting lost therein. Some of them went down the road ahead of us, which was folly, as our horses were fresh and would run them down ere long. And, as usual, there were a few that were simple fools and stood their ground.
	It was there I lost Rory. One of the fools had an old pistol that oath to God he shouldn’t have been able to hit the side of a fortress with, but on that day he fired at Rory and the shot struck Rory’s gorget and ricocheted up to his neck, where it blew a great hole. He was dead before he started to fall out of his saddle.
	I returned the favor, of course, shooting the brigand down with the pistol in my left hand, just before his mate swung a great rusty sword at me. He was on my left and was left-handed as well, so his attack came from an awkward angle. I tried to move my mount out of his reach, but the tip of his blade caught my left hand, sending my empty pistol spinning through the air and incidentally almost severing the tips of the middle fingers of that hand. I cursed at that, dropped my own sword in the dirt and pulled my second pistol from its saddle holster to put a ball in his forehead, sending him to join his mate.
	The company chirurgeon finished slicing the finger tips off, which was a fitting ending for the day. I was fortunate to not catch any wound fevers, which may have been due to my bathing them in whisky regularly. A waste of good uisge-beatha, perhaps, but before long my hand had healed…all except that the two fingertips I no longer had would itch from time to time.
	The wound from losing Rory was much greater. Oh, I was in no danger of dying from excessive grief, mind you, or even feeling as stricken as when Ma died. I had seen too much death in the intervening years. But we had been together for fourteen years, constant companions. And the losing of him brought me to a place where I was suddenly weary with the life of a soldier. So I sold all of his equipment: horses, weapons (except for his sword), and what armor and harness he had. There was none of it that had value to his family or me but his sword. Everything else he had brought with him from Skye had either worn out or broken and been replaced. And truth to tell, I’m not certain why I kept his sword, other than a thought of perhaps returning it to his family one day. It was no Excalibur, after all. Just a serviceable cavalryman’s blade that had seen hard use over the years.
	I also sold my rifle and one pair of my horse pistols, using the moneys received to acquire a smaller pair of pistols that would be easier to carry in a town or city. Walking down a street with two feet of horse pistol thrust through your belt or falling out of your boottops can be a bit awkward if you’re not a member of the local garrison.
	So it was about two weeks later I collected the last of my pay from Colonel Farquhar, who tried one last time to talk me into staying, offering me a lieutenantship if I would. He bore me no ill will for all that I turned him down and wished me good fortune. So I mounted up after strapping my packs on the back of my second horse, and rode out of camp.
	I was not of a mind to return to either Skye or Hamburg—not yet, at any rate. For all that I had fond memories of both places, and for all that I still felt I had roots in both, neither was home any longer. Home had been a saddle and a bedroll for so long that I couldn’t feature any other life. And truth to tell, I had no desire to be a merchant. Father had turned the merchanting over to my next oldest brother Andrew not long before he died, after the sending back and forth of several letters where he tried to convince me to come home and take it up. I’d had the wisdom to turn it down at the time—I could have done the work, but I wouldn’t have enjoyed it nor done it so well as my brother, and that was still truth, so I would not inflict myself upon him.
	Instead, I rode vaguely east for some days, not pushing the pace, staying at moderately good inns when I could find them, and sleeping in farmers’ hay barns or out under a tree as the occasion required. The weather was mild…or mild in comparison to the previous winter, anyway.
	Traveling by myself turned out to be a good thing for me. The first few days it was borne in to me just how weary I had become of soldiering. Fourteen years of camp life, patrols, skirmishes, and the occasional battle had worn on me. Fourteen years of watching fellows in the troop die from wounds and camp diseases, or perhaps even worse, be invalided out and sent off somewhere, maybe home and maybe not, with fewer limbs than they had arrived with. Fourteen years of riding out with Rory, knowing that that might be the day when one or the both of us might not return. Fourteen years, until the day when it happened, and I rode back to camp without him.
	The time alone gave me time to grieve for the cousin who had become closer than a brother, the companion that was closer to me than a wife would have been. It gave me time to gradually loosen the hard-edged bands of duty and brotherhood that had bound me for so long. It gave me time to learn to greet the dawn with joy again rather than resolution and resignation. I took my time in the riding, avoiding the larger towns because I needed the time.
	The roads eventually led to Jena. As I recall, it was sometime in early July when I approached the city. It was late in the day. Jena is small, as cities go, but I was surprised to find it had no gates on the road I was travelling, and what I could see of the walls were not much more than mounds. But the city watch had set up a turnpike on the main road near where the gate should have been. I don’t know why they bothered…about the only person I ever saw them stop was me. That pike spent more time in the air than a doxie’s legs. But stop me they did, and a watchman with gray in his beard and more creases on his face than my boots had walked up to me. He had wisdom enough to approach from the left, the weak side, so I gave him credit for that and touched a finger to my hat brim in greeting.
	“Where you from, soldier?” His accent was thick, but I’d heard worse.
	“The Low Countries and France most recently.”
	“You in service?”
	“Nein. Took a wound, and mustered out.” I held my left hand up to display my shorter fingers.
	The old man grinned a gap-toothed grin and held his own left hand up, middle finger mostly not there. He dropped the hand, and the grin along with it. “Jena don’t want no trouble, soldier.”
	“I’m not looking for trouble,” I said, leaning forward a bit. “I’m looking for a few days of a bed that don’t rock, food that won’t break my teeth, wine that won’t rot my gut, and some rest and grain for my horses. That said, if trouble comes looking for me, I can deal with it.”
	He looked me in the eye. “Aye, I expect you can. Just remember, Tilly has been about lately, so folks are a bit skittish, and the magistrates are not in a forgiving mood.”
	I tucked that information away. “I will. Thanks for that advice, old man. Now, where’s a reasonable inn?”
	He flashed a grin at me again. “Straight down this street, third cross-street, on the north side of the corner, place called The Gray Goose. Tell them Heinrich sent you.”
	“Let me guess…your brother-in-law?”
	His grin grew wider. “Wife’s cousin.” I laughed back at him, and he waved at the men tending the pike. It rose, I touched my hat brim again, and tapped my mount’s flank with my heel to urge him into motion.
	I found The Gray Goose Inn where the watchman said it was. It was clean enough, stable and inn alike. I left the horses with the stableman to tend, made my way into the inn, where I indeed mentioned Heinrich by name to make sure he got his cut. I chaffered with the host long enough to make him aware that I wasn’t born at the last new moon, told him I had my own lock for the door when I wasn’t there, then took myself and my bags up the stairs to my room, where I dropped them to the floor and me on the bed, and proceeded to sleep the night through and a good part of the following morning.
	Over the next few days, I had my clothes laundered and my cloak fullered. The stable man pointed out that Cortana, my gray gelding, needed his shoes replaced, which I agreed to after looking at them myself. Add to that that the girth straps of both my saddles needed some attention, and my days turned out to be pretty full.
	In the evenings, I would wander the streets, finding the local taverns and such. Jena was like every other city of any size I’d been to. There were a couple of places who thought they were God’s gift to the local populace whose prices reflected that belief but whose drinks were certainly, shall we say, earthly. There was one place whose beer tasted as if it was fermented from stable straw, and none too clean straw at that. Most of the rest were between those two posts, with beers accordingly, but one place stood out: Karl’s Martel. Their sign was a hammer, and their beer was good. Their wine was better. Once I found them, I quit looking and spent my nights there.
	So it was one evening not long afterward that I was sitting at a table in a very crowded Karl’s Martel, sipping at my second round of beer for the evening, and giving some thought to what I was going to do for the future. I was rested, my gear was refreshed, and Cortana and Maus, my mounts, were getting restless. Unless I wanted to look for enlistment or employment here, I needed to be moving on soon. The question was where?
	While I was ruminating on those thoughts, something caught at my attention. My hand was moving and had snared a man by the wrist before I truly recognized that what I had seen from the corner of my eye was a knife drop from his sleeve into the palm of his hand. Stopped before he could take another step, he turned with a snarl on his face and a rising fist from his other side. He was short enough that I yanked him off balance, reached up and grabbed the back of his neck to pull his head down close to my ear.
	“Friend,” I whispered, “I don’t know what you’re about, but I don’t especially want to be caught up in a brawl tonight, so I would appreciate it if you would take your problem and your spleen someplace else.” I squeezed his wrist harder, and he went rigid. “Because if you don’t, the brawl is going to start right here and right now, and I promise you you’ll be picking your nose and scratching your wedding tackle left-handed for quite a while. Now, do we have an understanding?”
	That got a definite couple of nods from him. I gave his wrist an extra squeeze, which brought a hiss, then said, “Good, friend. That’s real good. Now, make the knife disappear, and then you disappear with it.”
	A moment later there was no one beside me, and he was vanishing through the door. I moved my chair around the table a bit so that I could keep an eye on the door. I wasn’t especially afraid of the runt, but one doesn’t survive fourteen years as a soldier without learning some common sense.
	I resumed sipping at both my beer and my thoughts about what to do next. By the time I reached the bottom of the mug again, I still hadn’t decided on what direction to ride. After a moment’s additional thought, I shrugged and stood up. I didn’t have to decide tonight. I still had more than a bit of silver, so another night or two at the inn was not to be a hardship. I nodded to the tavern’s host behind the bar and walked out into the night.
	There was a nearly full moon riding high in the night sky. I didn’t have far to walk to The Gray Goose, but I kept my eyes and ears open. Again, fourteen years as a soldier will make you do that. So it was that I saw some shadows merge into an alleyway ahead of me. My sense of warning grew stronger, but so did my sense of curiosity. Curiosity has gotten me into trouble before, I might add, more than once, especially when running with the pack of MacDonald boys during my visits. But it’s also proven to be a good companion to warning at times, especially during my soldiering, so I follow it most of the time. I did that night, slipping over to the building wall that led to the alley. I paused at the corner, listening. I could hear some noises, but they seemed to be a bit removed, so I stuck my head around the corner for a quick glimpse. What I saw made me straighten and step into the mouth of the alley, for four different men were attempting to attack a fifth. I say “attempting” because he was doing a good job of holding them off with what appeared to be a cudgel or stout walking stick from where he had backed into a corner formed by a chimney and the side wall of the building. They weren’t able to get behind him, and so far he’d been able to keep them from swarming him and pulling him down.
	The stick man landed a crack on the head of one of his attackers. That was good. Unfortunately, his target fell forward and knocked him back against the walls of his corner. That moment of imbalance was enough to let the other three surge forward and pin him.
	“Get ’im!”
	“Give it to ’im, Georg!”
	“Hold him down, let me at him!”
	“Get the bag!”
	They were shouting at one another, and more getting in each other’s way than actually accomplishing anything. I started to step forward, but then a raised knife blade caught the light of the moon. That put an urgency in my next step, but before I could intervene the blade fell, and I heard a shout of pain.
	When the knife raised again, I caught the wrist below it and heaved, sending a squalling ruffian into the wall across the alleyway. I caught a collar and sent another after the first, which allowed the object of their ire to regain his balance and belabor the other two with his stick. A stream of invective flew from his lips. I did not recognize the words, but the tone was unmistakable.
	The four gathered against the other wall, a step or two farther down the alley. I turned to face them. “You!” one of them snarled. I didn’t recognize the voice, but the glimpse of face I saw was familiar. “I’ll…” he took a step forward, knife leading the way, but stopped when I drew my sword.
	“Who’s first?” I said softly, holding the blade in the moonlight.
	“Come on, man,” one of the others hissed. “We’ve got it.” They all broke and ran down the alley.
	Their victim moved to follow, only to run into my outstretched hand. “Friend,” I said, looking down at him, “let it go. Following them will just get you killed.”
	“They took my bag!” he snarled.
	“And what was in it that is worth risking your life for?”
	After a moment, he muttered, “A book.”
	That startled a laugh out of me. “A book?”
	“A book that cost me two hundred guilders.” His tone was resigned now, and he quit pushing against my hand.
	I whistled. “Two hundred guilders? Seriously?” He nodded, and I whistled again. “I see why you want it back. But that’s still less than your life would be worth to you, I’d wager. Either give it up as a bad wager, or figure out a way to get it back. Besides…” He shifted position and I got a good look at him. “You’re wounded.”
	He touched his hand to his upper left arm, where a blotch stained the sleeve of his coat. “Scratch, I think. Nothing serious. You think you could find the book?”
	I chuckled. “Give me ten percent of that two hundred guilders, and I’d make a good try at it.”
	“So where would I find you if I want to take you up on that?”
	“Tomorrow morning at The Gray Goose.” I realized I was still holding my sword, so I put it back in its sheath. “Are you good to get home, or should I accompany you?”
	He hefted his stick. “I don’t live far from here. I’ll make it home.”
	“Good night, then.”
	“Good night.”
	The next morning I was munching on a rye roll and washing it down with beer, considering what had happened the night before. I know that rye bread is considered cheap peasant food, but I like the taste, and I don’t mind saving a coin or three along the way. Save enough of them, it pays for the beer.
	So I was thinking about the altercation in the previous night and wondering if the other fellow would present himself, when he walked in the door. Mind you, I hadn’t seen him clearly even in the moonlight, but this fellow was about the right height, broad-shouldered to match what I remembered, and carried a stout walking stick. I figured it was him. I didn’t wave at him or anything, just popped the last of my roll into my mouth and chewed it while I looked at him.
	I hadn’t been able to judge clothing last night. I don’t care what you say, even the brightest moonlight gives you no details about weave or texture or color other than dark or light. So other than male and dark I couldn’t have judged much from the experience. The following day, what I saw was a man dressed in sober dark clothing—culottes and frock coat in dark blue, and a waistcoat in a rich plum color. His shoes were well-made, clean, and freshly blacked, and his low-crowned hat was likewise clean and fitted him well. He looked like what he probably was, a prosperous burgher, verging on or even part of the patricians of Jena.
	He looked around the room once, then walked directly to my table.
	“You’re the only man here of a size to be the man who gave me assistance last night. I was remiss in not getting your name. You are…?” He arched an eyebrow under the brim of his hat.
	“Well, as to that,” I said, “when a man’s been holding off four-to-one odds, he can be excused for not remembering some of the social niceties. I am Archibald Gottesfreund, from Hamburg originally but until late of Colonel Farquhar’s regiment in the service of King Louis.” I said nothing more, but arched an eyebrow of my own and tilted my head slightly.
	“Titus Wulff,” he said with a slight bow, “merchant of Jena.” He gestured at the chair across from me. “May I?”
	I waved my free hand at it as I lifted my mug with the other. After taking a gulp, I looked over the lip. “Want some?”
	Wulff’s lip quirked. “No. I had a dram of wine when I broke my own fast, and that will carry me until the nooning.” He rested both his hands on the head of his walking stick and leaned forward slightly. “You said last night that you thought you could recover my book.”
	“I said I’d give it a good try.” I shrugged. “I can’t guarantee anything, of course. If they threw it in the fire or in the river, then no, I can’t do you any good. But if they still have it, then yes, I might well be able to retrieve it.”
	“How? You don’t even know who they were.”
	I chuckled. “Men are alike all over the land, Master Wulff. Oh, they like to think they’re all different, but in truth, there are only a handful of types of men, and within a type, they tend to be very much alike. I’ve been soldiering since not long after I started shaving, and I well know what type of men these men are. I have a name, I have a description of at least one of them. There won’t be that many fellows of that type in Jena, and Jena isn’t large enough for them to hide for long, so I’ll wager I can find them. Now, whether they will still have your book when I do find them remains to be seen. But I do know the type.”
	“You said ten percent of the price of the book?” He sounded skeptical.
	I chuckled again. “Just because I’m a soldier, Master Wulff, doesn’t mean I’m either stupid or a brute. My family are noted merchants in Hamburg. So, aye, I know numbers and I knew what I was saying.”
	His mouth quirked again. “Sorry,” he said. I waved a hand in dismissal again. He stuck a hand in his pocket, and tossed a purse on the table. It landed with a thump. “Twenty guilders. It’s worth it to me to try to get the book back. There’s as much again if you manage it.”
	I let the purse sit. “I haven’t said I’ll take the job, now have I? I might have been just spinning a tale.”
	Wulff leaned forward again. “I doubt that, Master Gottesfreund. I’m not so ill a judge of a man as that. You wouldn’t have said anything if you weren’t willing to back your words up. You’re not that kind of man.”
	I grinned. “Guilty as charged, for all that I’m no master. I’ll see what I can do. And just for the sake of my curiosity, what were you cursing those fellows with last night? I’m sure you were cursing, for I recognized the tone for all that I didn’t know the words.”
	Wulff snorted. “A mixture of Greek and Gypsy. I wasn’t going to use good German on them.”
	That got a chuckle out of me, before a thought crossed my mind. “Where do I find you if I need to talk to you?”
	“My house is the third north of the Rathaus. I’m there most days.”
	“Let me follow my nose around for a day or three, and see what I can find.” I took another swallow of my beer. “Oh, I guess it would be good to know what book I’m looking for.”
	Wulff had an expression of chagrin cross his face. “That probably would be helpful, wouldn’t it?”
	“Ja. Title? Author? Printer?”
	“Oh, it’s not a printed book. It’s a bound codex manuscript of Xenophon’s Hipparchikos. In the original Greek, of course. Bound in golden leather.”
	“Xenophon? Greek? Is that the one that translates as De Equitum Magistro?”
	Wulff’s eyebrows rose. “To the Cavalry Commander, yes. Have you read it?”
	“Colonel Farquhar had a Latin copy printed in Amsterdam. Cost him a pretty sum, but he was willing to let us read it. I can read the Latin, but I wouldn’t know your Greek manuscript from fish wrappings, I’m afraid.”
	A smile played on his lips. “So you know the difference between a pilum and a sternum?”
	“Aye, and I know which end of the one to jab into the other.” After a chuckle, I said, “The book’s valuable, then?”
	“Oh, to me, if not to anyone else. I’ve had a few questions about it for some time, especially about the word proginosko, and when I heard that an unusual variant of the manuscript had been found in a closet in a ruined monastery in Persepolis a few years ago, I bought it for one hundred guilders. It cost me another hundred to get it here. And no sooner do I have it in my hands, but those fools stole it from me.”
	Wulff’s face was iron-hard, and he looked like he could have bitten through nails. He took a deep breath and relaxed. “It’s not that I mind the money, although that is more than I would want to throw away. But to be that near to my goal and lose it does stir my ire.”
	“Understandable,” I replied. “Now, I don’t read Greek, so could you be writing something down to use to make sure I’ve got the right book?”
	Wulff pulled a small notebook from inside his jacket, then pulled a small pencil out of the notebook and carefully wrote on one of the pages. He tore the page out of the book and handed it to me. “That’s the title—pronounced Hipparchikos. It should be at the top of the first page.”
	What I saw was Ἱππαρχικός. I shook my head. “Might as well be Chaldean. I can’t read that either.”
	Wulff laughed out loud at that, and shook his head. “You have a wit, Master Gottesfreund. You do, indeed.”
	I tucked the page inside my jacket. “Give me two or three days, as I said, and I’ll see what I can do.”
	Wulff nodded over his clasped hands. “As you say.” He stood and gave a nod of his head. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
	After Wulff left, I emptied my mug and tucked the purse into my coat pocket. It was a nice day for a walk, so I wandered down to Karl’s Martel. I hadn’t been there this early in the day, so it was pleased I was to see their door open. I ducked through the doorway, then walked over to the bar rather than taking a stool at a table. “Beer,” I said to Johann Bayer, the host. He turned and filled a mug from the cask behind the bar. I took a swig after he handed it to me, then said, “Mind if I ask you somewhat?”
	He wiped the top of the counter with a rag, and shrugged. “Ask. Answers might cost you, though.” He grinned, showing snaggled brown teeth.
	I chuckled, then let the grin slip from my face. “There was a fellow in here last night. Lean and hungry look, not very tall, face like a rat, a mite free with a knife. Might be named Georg or run with one with that name.” I cocked an eyebrow at him.
	Johann’s face had clouded over by the time I was done speaking, and his mouth worked as if he wanted to spit. “Not Georg. There is one named Georg that does run with him, though. That be Thomas of Aschenhausen. He be not welcome here, and if you see him again, do me the kindness to point him out to me.”
	“That I will. Can you tell me where I might find word of him?”
	Johann’s eyebrows lowered even further. “Why would you want that?” Suspicion clouded his voice.
	“It may be that he or one he knows has somehow, ah, come into possession of something that belongs to someone else. I’ve been asked to help, ah, find it.”
	The host’s face cleared. “Oh, aye, I’d believe that right enough. But no, I’ve no idea where he might be found.”
	I spun a guilder from the purse on the bar. “For the beer, and for letting me know if you see or hear aught of him.” With that, I drained the mug and left it on the bar as I headed out the door.
	I spent the remainder of the day revisiting all the taverns I knew in Jena, and two or three more that I hadn’t found before. In each I asked of this Thomas of Aschenhausen. In a few of the better-class places, they professed not to know him. The places that were lower on the scale, most of those hosts admitted to at least knowing of Thomas, but none would admit to having seen him recently or knowing anything about where he might be.
	This did not surprise me, much. When a largish man wearing a buff coat and a broad-brimmed hat that you’ve never seen before and doesn’t talk with the local accent begins asking questions about one of the locals, even upright citizens will mostly likely not speak out. Those who have something to hide will be even more close-mouthed, for if you’re seeking one like Thomas, you might be after them next. As I’d told Master Wulff, I know this type of people.
	So I took myself back to The Gray Goose and spent most of the rest of the evening first filling myself with stew and rye bread before I settled myself down to some serious thinking, beer in hand. It wasn’t at all a surprise to me what I had encountered that day. It just meant that I needed to be wilier and tougher and smarter than all of them. Which shouldn’t have been a problem, right? After all, I was a Scot—according to my mother, anyway.
	I set down my empty mug just as someone settled into the chair across the table from me. I looked up to see Master Wulff with two mugs of beer, one of which he set in front of me. “You look like you could use this,” he said before lifting his own to his lips and giving it a long pull.
	I snorted and nodded my head, taking a swallow of my own.
	“How went the hunt today?”
	“I did find a name for the one I would recognize,” I said. “I also found a great number of people who either denied knowing the man or said they didn’t know how to find him.” I took another swallow. “A few of them I even believed.” Master Wulff chuckled at that. “I’m thinking my problem may be that while I know the type, I don’t know the town.”
	“Jena is not that large,” Master Wulff murmured.
	“Aye, I can see that. But it’s too large to learn in a few days all the nooks and crannies that folk of Thomas of Aschenhausen’s ilk would pass through or lair in.”
	“Is that his name?”
	“Aye.”
	“I’ve not heard of him before.”
	“That surprises me not. These fellows are rats in the gutter, not wolves or jackals. You step on or over them, not face them down.” I took another pull at my mug’s beer, sucking it up slowly. I looked at Master Wulff. “Are the city watch here in Jena knowledgeable? Do they really know the city and its quarters, or do they just watch the missing gates and wear fancy uniforms on feast days?”
	Master Wulff ran his finger around the rim of his mug. “They try, for the most part. Some of the older men, anyway.”
	I nodded, a thought having come to me. “Then I know what my afternoon tomorrow will be spent doing.” I finished my beer, gave a nod of thanks to Master Wulff, and headed out the door.
	It wasn’t long before noon on the next day that I was back out at the gateless gate by which I had entered Jena on that first day. The city watch were still manning the turnpike, and I was glad to see Heinrich among them. I had hopes that he would be at least part of the solution to my problems. They turned to watch me as I walked up.
	“Heinrich.” I nodded at him.
	“Soldier.” I got a nod in return.
	“Got time for a beer? I’m buying.”
	A broad grin crossed his face. “Well, now, as I haven’t had my lunch yet, I believe I’ll take you up on that. Got a place in mind?”
	“Lead the way,” I said.
	“Take over, Hermann.” Heinrich waved at one of the other watchmen, who extended a fist with his fingers in the fig, which caused an uproar of laughter from the others.
	For all that Heinrich looked old enough to be my grandfather Angus, he set a brisk pace down the street before he turned in at The Golden Dove. That was one of the “proud of themselves” places that I’d tried a few days ago, but their beer was better than drinkable, for all that they wanted too much coin for it.
	“Two of the fish stew and two of the good stuff, Simon,” Heinrich called out as we entered. The man behind the bar waved a hand, and Heinrich led the way to a corner table.
	“Another of your wife’s cousins?” I asked as we settled into our chairs.
	“Nein. My nephew,” he said with another grin.
	I just shook my head.
	The beer showed up in a moment. It was as good as I remembered, if not the equal of what I had been getting at Karl’s Martel.
	“So what’s your name, soldier?” Heinrich asked after emptying half the beer in his mug and setting it down. “If you’re going to be buying me beer, I feel like I should at least know what to call you?”
	“My name’s Archibald,” I said.
	“Outlandish name,” he said. “You from the Low Countries? I can’t place your accent.”
	“Good guess, but no. Name’s from Scotland, but I was born and raised in Hamburg. Spent the last fourteen years riding in a company of Scot horse troopers, though, and I doubt not that I’ve picked up a bit of their way of speaking.”
	“That would explain it.” He nodded. “I thought you might have come out of Grantville.”
	“Grantville?” I tilted my head at that. “Who or what is that?”
	“You haven’t heard about the doings in Thuringia?”
	“No, I rode in from France and the Low Countries, remember?”
	“Ah. Well, then…” and he proceeded to share some outlandish stories with me about some people supposedly arriving from the future. I wasn’t sure I believed any of it, and said as much. He laughed.
	The fish stew arrived, and we pulled our spoons out and set to it. After a couple of mouthfuls, I nodded at Heinrich. “Good,” was all I said.
	He shrugged. “Not the best beer, but it’s close, and the food is good.”
	After a couple more spoon trips from the bowl to the mouth, Heinrich paused. “So, while I appreciate the opportunity to make a new friend, especially one as will buy my lunch and beer, I suspect you are in need of something from me.”
	“That would be because you are a man of wisdom and perception. And I do indeed need some help from you.”
	“Say on,” he said between gulps of stew.
	“In your role as a member of the watch, have you had the dubious pleasure of meeting a man named Thomas of Aschenhausen?” I gave him the short description, ending with, “…and he’s handy with a knife.”
	He frowned. “Is he dangerous?”
	“I suspect he thinks he is. But he’s a rat or a ferret, so if you’ve your wits about you, then most likely not.” I spooned up some more of the soup. Heinrich was right—it was good.
	“Ah, one of the lower-class rodents,” Heinrich said. “Aye, I think I know the man you mean. You looking for him?”
	“Aye, and three of his friends. They, ah, seem to have acquired something that belongs to Master Wulff. I’m working to get it back.”
	Heinrich whistled. “Master Wulff, is it? You are marching in high ranks, soldier. Master Wulff is about as high as it gets in Jena. So, do I want to know what you’re looking for?”
	“Probably not. It’s Master Wulff’s personal business.”
	“Right. If Master Wulff wants me to know, he’ll tell me.”
	We finished scooping the fish stew out of our bowls, licked our spoons clean, and put them back in our pockets.
	“So what are you really looking for?”
	“Where do the rats and mice and voles and weasels of Jena gather? Where can I find this Thomas fellow?”
	“Ah.” Heinrich nodded, took a pull at his mug, and set it down. “Right. Well, there are two places they mostly frequent. Most of the whores and their men, and what beggars we have that manage to evade the watch, gather at The Broken Spike, in the northeast quadrant.”
	“I’ve not heard of that one,” I said.
	Heinrich shook his head. “You shouldn’t. But have you heard of The Upright Pig?”
	“Can’t say as I have.”
	“It’s over in the southeast quadrant, near the edge of the city. It’s run by a one-armed one-eyed Swede named Lars, and is patronized by the south-side doxies and those who would think of themselves as hard men. Don’t tell him I sent you, but if anyone can tell you of Thomas or help you find him, it would be Lars.”
	I looked at the sunlight coming in the door. “Would he be open now?”
	“Oh, aye, by now he’s lifted the night’s earnings from the south-side doxies to help their morning headaches and those with the light fingers have come and gone. Best take your silver with you, but keep a hand on your purse.”
	“A broker, is he?”
	“Oh, aye. Offer Lars a few pfennigs, and he’ll likely sell you his own mother. He would be willing to be a middle-man, but for a price.”
	“I know the type.” I took a final pull at my own mug, draining the last drops.
	“I’m sure you do, soldier.”
	“Call me Archie.”
	“Archie. Just don’t drink that horse piss he calls beer.”
	“I am duly warned.” And with that and a tip of my finger to my hat brim, I took my leave.
	For all that it was high summer, the day was cool, and I was glad to be wearing my buff coat. The weight of it was familiar and warming, and the fact that its pockets were great enough to be holding my new pistols was comforting as well, given where I seemed to be headed. With my sword on its baldric, I was well and fully dressed for the day and any happenstance.
	It was a market day in Jena, and the squares had their ranks of merchants and farmers from the nearby region surrounded by a throng of customers. Wading through the crowds was much like wading through thick mud, but the streets, though busy, weren’t so bad.
	As I neared the edge of the city, drawing near to the riverside, I beckoned to a lad who’d been sweeping the cobblestones before a matron. Her servant girl passed him a coin as they left the square. He caught my sign and scurried to bob up and down before me.
	“What can I do for you, master? Need your path swept? Keep the dung off your fine boots?”
	“Nah, lad. I’m not afraid of honest dung.” He looked disappointed at that, but brightened when I said, “Can you lead me to The Upright Pig?”
	“That I can, master, but…” he looked me up and down, “begging your pardon, are you sure as that’s where you want to be?”
	I flipped him a pfennig. “You let me worry about that, lad. You just lead me there.”
	He snatched the pfennig out of the air and it disappeared into his clothes. “Right you are, master. This way, then.” He shouldered his broom like a musket and led off.
	A few minutes of a brisk walk around two corners and into the last alley before the river brought us to a very low door with a signboard hanging over it and swinging in the slight breeze. I didn’t have to read the scrawled words on the sign to see that this was The Upright Pig. It wasn’t a half-bad representation of a boar standing rampant on his hind trotters. But that wasn’t the only reason for the name. Whoever had cut and carved the sign had given the boar a phallic member almost as big as the rest of the boar himself, thereby giving two meanings to the upright part of the name. A visual joke in very low humor. I grinned in spite of myself, for I knew that Ma would have laughed until she couldn’t breathe if she had seen it. Ma’s humor was more than a bit on the earthy side of things.
	My guide was grinning at me openly, obviously enjoying my take on the sign. I shook my head. “Glad I am that you led me, lad, for I doubtless would not have found this fine establishment without your guiding of me.” He giggled at the sarcasm in my voice. I flipped him another pfennig for the luck of it. “My thanks, lad. Off with you, now. I believe I can handle things here and now.”
	I ducked my head low and pushed the door open. The lintel still scraped my head when I stepped through, but fortunately did naught more than loosen my hat on my head. Being familiar with taverns like this, I straightened with some care, as I suspected the ceiling would be a bit lower than I was used to at Karl’s Martel. It turned out I was right.
	I looked around. Heinrich was right. The only customers I could see were a few very bedraggled women that had to be doxies. I hurt just looking at their hangovers as their shaking hands lifted mugs of beer or stronger spirits.
	“Need something?”
	That came from the man behind the bar. He was pushing a rag around with his right hand, his left sleeve stopped short with no hand coming out of the end of it, and a black cloth was strapped across his left eye.
	“You Lars?” I asked back, using hints of Skye in my tone.
	“Who’s asking?”
	I snorted at that before stepping closer to the bar and leaning toward him. “Someone as who needs some information and is willing to pay for it,” I muttered low enough that the doxies drinking at the back tables wouldn’t hear me.
	That caught his attention. “If you got the silver, I’m your man.” He cocked an eyebrow with a knowing grin, and waited.
	I slipped a guilder out of my pocket and put it on the bar, keeping a finger firmly planted on top of it. I could almost see his mouth watering at the sight of it.
	“What do you want to know?”
	“I’m told you know Thomas of Aschenhausen.”
	I paused there, and after a moment he responded with, “Might.”
	“Well, Thomas and his friend Georg and a couple of others probably ‘found’ a book two nights ago. I’m acting on behalf of the fellow who lost the book. He’d be willing to pay a finder’s fee to get the book back, assuming that it’s not been damaged or lost again.”
	“A…finder’s fee.” Lars wiped his hand across a mouth. I think he really was drooling at that thought. “And how much of a fee would that be?”
	“Oh, mayhap as much as two guilders for the book. And mayhap another guilder to one who might make the news known to them and bring about the meet.”
	Lars’ mouth was standing open. I had to fight to hold my mouth firm and not grin at the sight of him with drool running from the corner of his mouth. He wiped his face again, and said with some eagerness, “I…uh…I think I might be able to get word to one of them. But I want three guilders for myself.” I frowned and started to slide the guilder on the bar back toward me. “Wait, wait,” he lifted his hand up in a calming gesture. “Two guilders, then.” He was on the verge of pleading.
	I slid the guilder back out. “This for getting me a meet with this Thomas fellow. Another if he shows up and we reach an agreement. A third if the deal happens.”
	“Done!” he said, staring at the guilder under my finger.
	“Can you get him here soon, or do I need to return?”
	Lars looked out the door, and thumbed his chin. “Two guilders for the book?” I nodded. “Let me send a couple of runners. Might be able to get him here before long, if he’s where he usually dosses down.”
	“I’ll wait an hour, else it will have to happen tomorrow.” I took myself to a nearby table and settled down.
	“Wait,” Lars said. “Who are you? Who do I tell him you are?”
	“Just tell them I have silver. That will be enough for them, and for you as well.”
	***
	Lars called a couple of the doxies up to the bar, gave both of them a small dose of genever, and sent them packing out the door. Not who I would have chosen for messengers, but then, he knew his town and its people better than I did.
	In some little while, the bells of St. Michael’s Church tolled the first hour after the noon. I stirred, considering calling an end to the effort and starting over again tomorrow. Lars rushed over, hand upraised, fingers splayed. “Wait, wait. He should be here soon, if he was where I think he was.”
	I settled back down. “Well enough. I’ll give him another quarter hour, and then I’m leaving.”
	At that moment the door opened again and one of the doxies stepped through, followed by the rat I was seeking.
	“See?” Lars said. “See? Here he is. Thomas,”—Lars grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to my table—”you need to talk to this man.” He pushed him down in the chair across the table from me and hovered behind him.
	Thomas peered at me, bleary-eyed. “Do I know you?”
	“No,” I chuckled, “although we did meet two nights ago.”
	He leaned forward, then jolted back. “Scheisse! You’re that swine’s arse that about broke my hand two nights ago in the…where was it…”
	“Karl’s Martel,” I said dryly. “And afterward as well.”
	He tried to push back from the table. “I’m not talking to you!”
	“Wait a minute,” Lars began, leaning his weight against the back of the chair to keep Thomas from moving.
	I pulled my hand out of my pocket with two guilders in it and dropped them on the table. The ring of the silver got Thomas’ attention and he froze, watching the coins spin on the tabletop. His eyes almost seemed to be moving in circles to match those of the coins. Once they settled and were motionless, he licked his lips and looked up at me.
	I set my hand over the coins. “Two nights ago you and Georg and your other two friends lifted a satchel bag from a merchant.”
	“Not admitting nothing,” he muttered, eyes focused on my hand covering the guilders.
	“You don’t have to. I know you did it. You know you did it. Master Wulff knows you did it.”
	Thomas’ eyes widened and he looked up at me. He licked his lips again, but didn’t say anything.
	“The satchel doesn’t have anything in it except a book. Now it happens that it’s a book that Master Wulff wants back, and I told him I’d try to find it for him. Here’s the deal…if you can convince whoever has the book to bring it to me here tonight, I’ll give you two guilders for it.” I lifted my hand to show him the coins, then lowered it again. “No mention to the city watch, no mention to the magistrates. Just a little side deal between some folk. What do you say, Thomas? Interested?”
	“Not admitting nothing,” he repeated, “but I might know somewhat about where that book might be. Might be I can talk the folk who has it into bringing it to you. But not for no two guilders.”
	“What do you think it will take to get them in the game, then?”
	Thomas’ eyes slitted, and you could almost see the millwheel of his mind turning, slow as it was, trying to figure numbers. “Might be…eight guilders would do it.” He smiled in triumph, only to lose the smile when I shook my head.
	“Don’t get too greedy, Thomas.” I slid the two coins back across the table to me, and tapped on the tabletop with the forefinger of my left hand. “That’s enough coin to make the master decide to talk to the watch and the magistrates after all. Better to take a slice of a smaller pie than to see the whole pie end up on someone else’s table, wouldn’t it be?”
	Thomas frowned. “Then what would you offer?”
	I pursed my lips, thinking about the whole affair and what I thought would be enough to get them to move. “Umm…how about…four guilders.”
	Thomas licked his lips, and I knew I had him, but he surprised me. “I need something for me. Four guilders for the book, and one for me making it happen.”
	I frowned at him, which made him sit back in the chair, clasping the edge of the table in his hands. I let the moment draw on, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at him. Finally I nodded. “Done. Four for the book, one for you, but only if the book is here and is intact and not damaged. Clear?”
	The light in Thomas’ eyes almost lit the room, and his lips skinned back to show badly-stained snaggled teeth that made him look even more rat-like. He shoved a hand across the table, palm up.
	I did laugh at that. “Nay, that’s not how that works. Cash on the barrelhead when the book’s in front of me, but naught until then. Now, how soon can you deliver?”
	The half hour after the first afternoon hour sounded from the church. “Eight of the clock tonight,” Thomas said, “no, make that nine of the clock tonight.”
	“Done,” I said. “Ninth hour tonight, here. Agreed?”
	“Agreed,” he nodded several times rapidly.
	“Good. Be off with you, then.”
	And with that, Thomas disappeared. Lars, on the other hand, was moving toward the table, grinning and holding out his solitary hand. I pitched one of the guilders to him, and he caught it neatly in mid-air.
	“Ninth hour tonight,” I said. “If you want your third guilder, make sure they’re here.”
	***
	The ninth hour was ringing from St. Michael’s Church when I stopped down the street from The Upright Pig. I pulled one of the new pistols from one of the patch pockets I had added to my buff coat during that time several of the troop had ended up walking patrols around our bivouac, and wound that wheellock, then the other. Once they were back in the pockets and the spanner key was in my waistcoat pocket, I moved around the corner into the alley and stepped into the den of iniquity. At that hour, it was full of the lowest of low life, fully as bad as any I had seen in Antwerp or northern France. As I had told Master Wulff, men of a type are very similar. This lot proved it.
	I strode through the room, jostling a back or an elbow here and there. I heard a mutter or two behind me, but nothing more. Lars looked up as I arrived at the bar and pointed at a table at the end of it. “They said they’d be here, but them boys don’t have the best sense of time. Probably didn’t start on their way until they heard the hour sound from the steeple. Sit there. You want wine or beer?”
	“Wine.” I took the warning about Lars’ beer seriously. I expected the wine to be bad as well, and it was, but bad wine is a bit easier to deal with than really bad beer. In this case, it was a cheap red that was well on its way to becoming a cheap vinegar, sour and acidic. But I’d had as bad if not worse in northern France, and the mug was small, so if I drank it at all there would be little harm from it except maybe a sour stomach.
	When Lars brought the wine to me, I looked up at him from under my hat. “You ever have any trouble with the city watch?”
	He snickered, then said, “They don’t come in unless someone’s been killed. Last time was last month.” I nodded, and Lars returned to the bar.
	So I sat there holding my mug of cheap wine, every once in a while touching it to my lips but not drinking any of it. People came and went, but no one that Lars pointed my way. It was perhaps half past the hour when the door opened, and my quarry finally stepped into the net, so to speak. Four of the scruffiest, dirtiest, lowest of the low types, one of whom was the knife-happy fool I’d been close to two nights ago. Two of them were holding a smallish leather satchel between them. They moved as a group, almost like one body with eight legs, and approached the bar. When Lars saw them, he threw his rag at the other man behind the bar and stepped out to lead the lumpish misbegotten beast toward my table. They arrived together, Lars standing to one side.
	“Here they be, master,” Lars said, holding his hand cupped up at waist level, not quite brash enough to extend it out yet.
	“Thomas.” I nodded at the rat-faced one I’d already had my hands on. He looked at me, frowned, but said nothing. His grip on the satchel tightened, however. “Which of you is Georg?” The other one sharing the hold on the satchel raised his free hand about chest high, then dropped it. I pointed at the one to my left. “You are?”
	“Johann,” he muttered, wiping his sleeve across his face.
	“And you?” I pointed at the last of the four.
	“Simon.” That one stood still.
	“You can call me Master Silver,” I said. “Now, I believe you have something that belongs to my friend. Put it on the table.”
	After a moment, Thomas and Georg put the satchel on the table, and pushed it into the middle. I noted that the strap of the satchel had been cut and then tied in a knot. Well, that explained how they had acquired the satchel two nights ago. I reached to pull it toward me, but Thomas leaned over and put his hand on top of the satchel. “Not until we see some silver.”
	I smiled and pulled my purse from my pocket, took out five guilders, and put them on the table. Thomas reached for that, only to see my fist gather them up. “Not until I see the book,” I said. I pointed at Thomas. “You. Back up a step or two.” I pointed at Georg. “You. Take it out of the bag and put it on the table.” After a moment, Thomas took a slow step back, and Georg carefully opened the satchel and took the book out with both hands and gently laid it on the table.
	I looked at it. A thinnish book, bound in golden leather, a bit larger than I’d expected. Almost I reached for my purse again, but something didn’t look right. I reached out and opened the book. The cover flapped open and lay flat on the table, and I could see that it didn’t bind the book any longer. I could see cut parchment and threads. I could see the title at the top of the first page as Master Wulff had said: Ἱππαρχικός. It was the right book. I could also see the four idiots swallow.
	Lars looked surprised, then angry as he could see the deal disappearing before his eyes. Before he could say anything, I closed the cover and pointed at Georg again. “Put it back in the bag.” Moving even slower than before, Georg did so. I picked up the satchel, and draped the strap over my head as I stood.
	I started to turn. “Wait!” Thomas said. “The deal was four guilders for the book and one guilder for me. Now pay up!”
	I focused my gaze on him. “No, the deal was for the book to be returned whole and undamaged. This,” I tapped the satchel, “is damaged goods, so the original deal is dead. Here’s the new deal.” I held out my fist and pushed one, two guilders out to ring on the table. “You boys figure out how you’re going to split that.”
	“You son of a whore!” Thomas snarled, his knife dropping into his hand as he started to lunge for me, only to lurch to a stop on the tips of his toes as his nose stopped just short of the barrel of the pistol I had pulled out of my pocket as I dropped the coins, and his eyes crossed looking at the bore of it.
	“Saw you do that two nights ago, remember?” I grinned a nasty grin at him. “Then I would have just broken your wrist. Mess with me tonight, we’ll see how well you handle a lead pill. Want to try your luck?”
	Thomas had gone very pale. He shook his head violently, starting to shake as the acrid smell of piss filled the air.
	“Hmm. You may have the sense God gave a sheep after all. Put your knife on the table.” He edged forward and did so. “Back up.” He did that as well, foot splashing in the puddle of piss. I put the last guilder in my pocket, then reached out and took the knife, jamming the point of it into the wood of the tabletop, twisting my wrist to break the knife blade just below the hilt.
	“You’re alive. Count that as a blessing.” I took my other pistol out of its pocket as I looked at Lars, who was backed against the bar with face pale, not moving. “If you want to stay alive, I suggest you all just stay where you are and not try to follow me.”
	And with that, I walked through the room to the door, pistols held one before and one behind me. A moment later, I was outside in the dark of the night, moving at a fast jog to get out of the alleyway and around a couple of corners before any of that lot mustered enough courage to follow me.
	***
	It was after the noon hour had sounded the next day when I finally approached Master Wulff’s door. I knocked on it firmly, and after a moment it opened to reveal a servant wearing better clothes than me.
	“Yes?”
	I dusted off my manners. “Archibald Gottesfreund, to see Master Wulff. I’ve concluded the business we spoke of and need to advise him of the result.”
	“Of course, Master Gottesfreund. Master Tiberius did say you would be coming by. If you would come this way, I will let him know you have arrived.”
	I was ushered to a small room with a table and a few chairs and left there as the servant went up the main stairs to the upper floors. I looked around. There were a couple of paintings on the wall and a small secretary desk in one corner, but otherwise the room was simply furnished. Nonetheless, it had the air of quality, and it reminded me of home before Ma died. I was glad I’d left my buff coat back at the inn and worn my better clothing.
	Feet were on the treads of the stairway, and I turned to face the door. Master Wulff appeared in it a moment later with a smile on his face. “My dear Master Gottesfreund, I hope you have good news for me.”
	“I’m no master, Master Wulff,” I said, not wanting to claim what wasn’t mine.
	He waved a hand. “Nonsense. You are what I say you are.” His head tilted to one side a bit, and one of his eyebrows rose in an unspoken query.
	I took the satchel strap off my shoulder, and offered the bag to him. “The luck was with us. I was able to regain it before they had disposed of it. I have to warn you that it’s a bit worse for its experiences, but I think it is complete.”
	Wulff took the satchel to the table, where he opened it and withdrew the book. He tsked at the sight of it, laid it down on the table and opened it. He tsked again, and picked up the pages, leafing through them with care before setting them down again.
	He looked at me. I shrugged. “That’s how it was when I got it back. I’d guess they stripped the binding off to try and sell the leather before they got the word I was looking for it.”
	“The book appears to be whole, and the pages don’t appear to be much more worn than before. My bookbinder can most likely restore it to its original condition. Neither of those would be true if you had not found and retrieved it, Master Gottesfreund.”
	“Archibald, or even Archie, if you please. And it’s glad I am to have been of some help in the matter.”
	“Even so, my thanks. And you even managed to retrieve my bag. This was my school bag at university. It has no value to speak of, but it was mine, and I’m glad to see it back as well.” He looked toward the door. “Ephraim!” The servant appeared in the doorway. “Some brandy, Ephraim, to celebrate the rescue of my newest acquisition.”
	The servant smiled. “At once, Master Tiberius.”
	Wulff turned back to me, and I said, “Tiberius? I thought you said your name is Titus.”
	He sighed. “My full name is Tiberius Claudius Titus Wulff. I prefer Titus, but Ephraim insists on using Tiberius.” He shook his head.
	“Umm…” I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.
	“My father was an antiquarian who was enamored of the Roman emperors,” Wulff continued. “My brother’s name is Augustus Nero Domitian Wulff. I’m not sure which of us got the better. And we won’t even discuss what he named my poor sister.”
	“Suddenly my mother’s naming me Archibald doesn’t seem extreme,” I replied. “At least it is Scottish and was a family name for her clan.”
	“There is always someone whose lot is worse than yours,” Wulff said with a smile.
	Just then Ephraim returned with a tray with two glasses of brandy, which he served to the two of us. I took mine very carefully. It was blown Venetian glass of a striking green color, and may well have been worth more than everything I owned at that moment. Wulff took a sip of his, and I followed his lead.
	“Mmm. I’m not an experienced brandy drinker, Master Wulff, but this is smooth.” I took another sip. He lifted his glass in acknowledgment. “So, are you an antiquarian as well? Is that why you bought this old book?
	Wulff tilted his head and looked at me for a moment, then said, “Come with me, Archie.” He led the way out of the room and up the stairway, looping around the second floor and led me to the third floor. Once there, he walked down a short hallway to a narrow door.
	I followed him into the room and stopped dead. The room was not small, and shelves wrapped all the way around the room. The shelves were filled with books, except for the one area where instead of shelves there were pigeonhole-style openings, some of which had round things sticking out of them.
	There was very little space on the shelves. I had never seen so many books in my life.
	Wulff walked over to a desk that was in the center of the room and leaned back against it. “This,” he said, “is what I do. I am a merchant, the son of a merchant and brother to an attorney, but this is what I do and who I am. I read Latin and Greek, and Ephraim is teaching me Hebrew. I collect old books and read them, especially old Scriptures and church father writings. The Xenophon was more a bit of a lark.”
	“Two hundred guilders for a lark?” I couldn’t help responding.
	Wulff shrugged. “I’m a very good merchant, as was my father before me. I can afford things like that when I want them.”
	“But…why?” I looked around, surprised. “Do you serve the university in some way?” I had learned somewhat of Jena’s university in the last few days.
	“No, this is mine, just for me. I spend several hours a day here, reading, comparing books, making notes. Just for my own pleasure.” He sipped his brandy, then set the glass on the desk and walked around behind it and sat in the chair. “That reminds me, I still owe you for recovering the Hipparchikos for me.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a purse. “I told you twenty more guilders upon delivery.” He started counting out coins.
	“That’s not necessary, Master Wulff.”
	“Call me Titus, and I think it is. You did me a great service, one I couldn’t have done for myself, or at least not in time.” He looked up at me. “And how much did you spend to accomplish that? I doubt they released it for the fineness of your visage and the pleasure of your company? Ah-ah,” he pointed his finger at me as I opened my mouth. “Honesty, Archie. Be honest.”
	I sighed. “All right then, three guilders for information and two more to buy the release of the book. But I was just going to consider that the cost of doing business.”
	“And so it is,” Wulff said as he counted out a few more coins. “The cost of doing my business.” He dumped the coins into a small bag and brought it around the table. “Here you are,” he said, firmly placing it in my free hand and closing my fingers over it. “Twenty-five guilders, and my thanks for a job most well done.”
	I looked down at it, then tucked it inside my doublet with a nod. “As you say, then.”
	Wulff returned the nod, picked up his glass and took another sip of the brandy. “So what are you going to do now that this little job is finished?”
	I shrugged. “Probably ride on tomorrow or the next day. I’ll find something to do, maybe head for Leipzig and see if the elector needs a soldier or a guard.”
	Wulff looked down and pursed his lips for a moment. When he looked back up, he had a bit of a smile on his face. “Archie, I think I could use a man of your unique knowledge, skills, and deportment as part of my household. This is not the first time I have ever needed someone like you, but it’s the first time I’ve been served by someone as accomplished as you. Room, board, and twenty guilders a month. The rooms are clean, the beds are soft, I have an excellent cook, and the coins will be regular, sound, and unclipped.”
	I looked around the room. “Let me have reading privileges, and I think you have yourself a man.”
	His smile grew wider. “Ephraim!” he called out again. Ephraim appeared in the doorway almost instantly. “More brandy, Ephraim, and one for yourself as well. Master Gottesfreund here has agreed to join our establishment.”
	Ephraim’s face creased in a smile. “Very good news, sir. I shall return in a moment with the brandy.”
	He was as good as his word, showing up with a third glass and a mostly full decanter of the brandy in not much more than a couple of breaths.
	Once the glasses were filled, Titus lifted his. “To Archie Gottesfreund, our newest friend and companion. May we live in interesting times.” And we all took a healthy drink of that fine brandy.

Interludium
 
	And that, my friend, is how I came to meet Master Tiberius Claudius Titus Wulff. Oh, the memories brought back to me by the recalling of that tale, seeing us both so young and so hale. It’s almost enough to make a man weep, if one were the weeping sort. It was our first adventure together. It wasn’t our last.
	More than a few of the chronicles I could relate started off that way—some odd thing happening, or Master Titus having a yen for a bit of something that one would mostly pass up as not worthy of a first glance, much less a second, yet his, “Archie, would you mind…” would send me out to the lanes and streets of Jena, and occasionally farther afield. Aye, and bring me home safe enough, as well, with that something in hand.
	Perhaps the best of those stories is this one. Fair warning, fill your cup now, as this is a bit of a long tale, and your mouth will be dry long before the end if you don’t.

The Codex Caper

Part One
 
Nota Bene:
 
	If you are reading this, then enough time must have passed or enough people must have died for secrets to no longer be necessary. Enjoy.
 
	Archibald Gottesfreund

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.

Chapter 2
 
	Gregorio sat up with a jerk. He shook his head and looked around frantically, at a loss for where he was. Just as he opened his mouth to blurt something out, he remembered what had happened. He settled back on the confessional’s seat in relief, panting. After a long moment, his breathing slowed down and he sat up again, this time to gently pull the curtain to one side and listen.
	Nothing. No sounds. No voices, no footsteps, nothing close by at all. No faces or saints either. He shook his head slowly and with care. A saint? Talking to him? How could that be? Only saints had visions, and Gregorio knew he was a long way from a saint. He was a long way from being even a venerable. He was no virgin girl, he was no ascetic ancient monk, he was no martyr. It must have been a fever dream, or maybe something from the medicine they were giving him for the marsh fever.
	But if it was real—could he disobey God? He pondered that while his head slowly swam in circles. He still wasn’t convinced that he’d had a vision, but what he’d been told to do—that was something God would want, he decided. So true vision or fever or medicine dream, he’d try it.
	It took a while to muster the strength to rise, but eventually Gregorio stood and slipped out of the confessional, only to stand still and listen again. Still nothing.
	He stepped to the side wall and slipped along it until he was beside the doorway to the corridor. Again he stopped, back against the wall, head turned so that his right ear was aimed out. Once more he listened, straining to hear anything. Nothing.
	Mustering his courage, Gregorio stuck his head into the corridor to give a quick look each direction, then stepped out when nothing was seen.
	Gregorio knew where he was. He knew where he needed to go. The question was, could he get there without running into any of the Spaniard troops? His vision indicated he could, but he felt the doubt in his heart nonetheless. He sighed, and murmured, “Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief.”
	Lifting the crucifix on his rosary beads, Gregorio kissed it, then made the sign of the cross. He sighed again before whispering, “In manus tuas commendo spiritum meum,” then squared his shoulders and headed back down the corridor toward the cross-corridor Brother Vittorio had brought him down earlier in the day. He needed to retrace some of their steps to get to where he needed to go. As he moved, he prayed a prayer that Vittorio was still among the living. From what the other monk had said about what had been happening, though, that wasn’t necessarily assured.
	Gregorio made his way down the corridor, trailing one hand along the plastered wall, partly to remind himself that this was real. His mind was still very occupied with the memories of the vision of Saint Jerome. He believed it had indeed been a vision, but since he’d never had a vision before, nor had he known anyone who had had a vision, there was a little bit of uncertainty. Certainly, he was no saint, or even a venerable. He was a simple monk, who loved books and loved working in the papal library.
	There was an outburst of yelling from a cross-corridor ahead, and Gregorio immediately turned into a small hallway that he knew headed toward other hallways that he could use to get to the library. The noise faded away as he continued his way, still trailing a hand on the walls as he turned corner after corner. Once or twice he cut through offices or suites of offices, all empty, most showing some disarray.
	As he passed windows, Gregorio noticed the outside light was failing. That worried him. He needed light to be able to do what he needed to do. He hastened his steps, yet still by the time he arrived in the library chambers it was very dim inside.
	The fire was out, so obviously it had been some while since the palace servants had come this way. There were no candles lit, so it appeared that no one was in the first chamber. Gregorio listened carefully, but couldn’t hear anything.
	Could he run to another room, another suite, and find coals? Did he dare waste the time, run the risk? Gregorio stood there, indecisive, wishing for a miracle of light. And that thought led to another thought—actually to a memory—and he moved his way, step by hesitant step in the by now almost fully gathered darkness, moving toward one particular desk in the room. He kept his hands before him to warn him of desks and furniture and corners and such, but he knew generally where the chief custodian’s desk was in the room, and made his way toward it.
	He arrived at what he thought was the desk of the assistant librarian, the actual custodian of the library, Orazio Giustiniani, a lay brother in the Congregation of the Oratory of Saint Philip Neri. He was responsible for the operation of the library and its collection under the named librarian, Cardinal Antonio Marcello Barberini, called The Elder, because his nephew was also Cardinal Antonio Barberini. The elder Cardinal Antonio was also the younger brother of Pope Urban VIII. Given what Brother Vittorio had told Gregorio earlier, he had to wonder if any of the Barberini family was still alive.
	Gregorio’s hands felt across the top of the desk, finding first the stub of a candle, and second a small wooden box. He sighed in relief, then fumbled with the box, eventually raising the lid and removing one of the slim sticks from inside it. Trying to remember what he had seen before, Gregorio closed the lid of the box, then brought the bulbous end of the stick to rest on the bottom of the box, and scraped it across the bottom. There was a rasping sound, then a flame flared up at the end of the stick, biting at his fingers. He edged his fingers farther back on the stick, then held the flame to the wick of the candle stub. In a moment, it caught, and the flame from the wick outshone the light from the guttering match. Gregorio held the match until the flame burned down to the very end of it, then he blew it out, dropped it on the floor, and stepped on it to crush the coal. He lifted the candle, and froze.
	There on the floor, on the other side of the desk, Gregorio could see two feet sticking out into aisle between the other nearby desks. He crossed himself, and swallowed. He steeled himself, then edged around the corner of the desk and into the aisle, slowly stepping forward until he could see that yes, there was indeed a man lying alongside the front of the desk. Gregorio nudged one of the feet with his own foot. Nothing. No response. No movement. No noise. He bent forward and raised the candle a little higher. The light showed that the head was turned so that the face wasn’t visible, but that wasn’t necessary. He recognized the clothes.
	Gregorio crossed himself again, murmuring, “Mater Dei,” as he did so. Before him lay the body of Orazio Giustiniani himself, the custodian of the library, second only to Cardinal Barberini in its order and business. He knelt alongside the body, and moved the arm that hid the face. He felt himself pale when Messer Giustiniani’s face was revealed. There was an expression of outrage on it, frozen in place no doubt by the bullet which had passed through the hole now in the middle of the forehead and lodged somewhere in the brain. Even as he swallowed compulsively, trying to keep his stomach from emptying itself, he noted in his shock that the hole was not much wider than the knuckle of his index finger, so it must have been made by a small pistol rather than one of the great muskets.
	He tore his gaze from the custodian’s face and looked down toward the belt. The messer’s keys were missing from their hook on the belt, and he found where someone had cut the thongs of a purse and pulled it away from the body. It was too much to hope for that either would have been left by the Spanish murderers. However, Gregorio was not dismayed by the discovery. He knew something the Spaniards did not.
	Gregorio straightened and retraced his steps to the other side of Messer Giustiniani’s desk. Sitting in the chair, he pushed back from the desk, then lowered the candle so he could clearly see the carvings all across the front edge. It was a chain of fishes, each of which contained a Greek letter within its outline.
	He ran his finger slowly across the center part of the carving, reading the letters as he did so. His finger stopped on the I fish, then he pushed it, murmuring “Iota” under his breath. Next he tracked three fish to the right, where the letter was X, murmuring “Chi” as he pressed it. Seven fish to the left brought him to Θ. “Theta.” Eleven fish to the right brought him to Y “Upsilon.” Thirteen fish to the left brought him to the final fish, Σ “Sigma.”
	Gregorio sighed in relief as he pushed the final button, there was a click, and a small drawer popped open at the left corner of the desk. The seeming random arrangement of letters and buttons had preserved the custodian’s secret from the Spaniards. He reached over to pull it out, then removed the extra set of library keys from the drawer.
	He didn’t know who the craftsman was who had built the desk and used the Ichthys word for the code to open the secret drawer, but he was thankful for that man’s skill and sneakiness, and for Messer Giustiniani trusting him enough to show him the secret one afternoon when they were alone in the library. Because of that, he had a chance to fulfill his mission after all.
	Gregorio stood again, looked around, then shook his head. Of course he wouldn’t see anything. The room was dark, and the light of a single candle didn’t illuminate much. He moved out from behind the desk, carefully stepped over Messer Giustiniani’s legs, and made his way between the other desks until he reached the other side of the room and passed through an archway into another room, this one with cabinets around the perimeter with several windows separating them, and a couple of large tables in the center. He moved to the right, shielding the small candle flame to keep the wind of his passage from blowing it out, and also to try and keep the light from being obvious to anyone outside the windows.
	As he turned the corner of the table to move in front of the cabinets, Gregorio felt his foot catch, and looked down to see another body. He stopped, sighed, crossed himself, and murmured, “Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine.” Rest eternal grant unto him, O Lord.
	Gregorio bent forward. The light of the candle revealed a young man not much younger than he himself was, dressed in plain clothing. The side of his head was crushed in the temple area, probably from a stroke from a musket butt, with some trickles of blood dried on his face. A poor unfortunate, most probably a servant, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He shook his head, stepped over him, and moved on to the cabinet he was seeking.
	It took several tries with the keys on the ring to find the right one, but in a matter of moments the cabinet was unlocked. Gregorio set the candle inside the cabinet, rubbed his hands on the front of his cassock, then reached out and picked up manuscript MCCIX from its place on the shelf.
	He held in his hands the oldest copy of the Word that he had ever seen, or knew of. He trembled at the antiquity of the codex, a thousand years or more old. Gregorio felt sinful at daring to even touch it, much less take it in his hands. It was as if he were profaning it. Almost he put it back, but then the memory of his vision flared up, and he recalled Saint Jerome’s voice telling him, “And He has chosen you for this holy work.” His spine stiffened. He stood straighter, and his grasp firmed. What he had been called to do, he would do.
	Gregorio turned to place the manuscript on the table behind him. He needed something to carry it in. He started to head back toward the other room, when he noticed that the body of the servant had a bag over one shoulder. He knelt and pulled the strap of the bag over the body’s head and down the arm. A moment later, it was in his hand. He stood and laid it on the table next to the bible manuscript. It was more than big enough to hold it.
	From the weight of the bag, there was something in it. He undid the tie on the flap and folded it back, then reached in to pull out two medium sized codices. Gregorio glanced at them—Latin, not Greek, but possibly something that was either being sent to another office or returned to the library. With everyone else either dead or fled, he had no way of knowing. With a bit of a mischievous grin, he placed them on the shelf where the great codex had been, picking up the inventory card that had laid beside it. If that caused a bit of confusion for the apostate cardinal and his minions in days to come, Gregorio could live with that.
	Gregorio took the candle out of the cabinet, closed its door panels, and locked them. Setting the candle on the table, he looked around again. He needed something to wrap the codex in, to cushion it in the bag. He looked down at the servant’s body again. It occurred to him that not only were they of an age, they were also of a size. He ran his hand across his chest, and took off his cassock to wrap it around the codex and stuff it with some care into the bag. Then he turned to the body again.
	It took some time to strip the clothes off the servant. Gregorio was thankful the man’s bladder and bowels hadn’t released. The culottes and hose came off easily enough, but getting the shirt and jacket off was more difficult because he was starting to stiffen in rigor mortis. “Sorry,” he muttered to the body as he wrestled with it. “I need these more than you do, my friend.”
	Eventually Gregorio had the clothing removed. It didn’t take long to don it himself, despite the odd feeling of putting on a dead man’s clothing. He crossed himself again, picked up the bag and candle, and returned to Messer Giustiniani’s desk in the other room.
	Gregorio stared down at the custodian’s body for a long moment. He was extremely saddened by both Messer Giustiniani’s death and by the manner of it. He had enjoyed working with and for the learned master, and to see him so brutally and casually slain made him sick. He knelt beside the body and reached out and traced a cross on the forehead. “Requiescat in pace,” Gregorio said, crossing himself as he did so. “Rest in peace, my friend,” he said in common language.
	As he started to straighten, Gregorio noticed the cut purse thongs again, and a thought occurred to him. He knew that Messer Giustiniani carried his money in two purses—an outer one hanging from his belt, and an inner one that he kept in an inside pocket of his jackets and coats. Obviously whoever had shot him had taken the outer purse, but the messere’s clothes were not overly disarrayed. Could the inner purse…
	Gregorio steeled himself and thrust his hand under the left side of the jacket. His stomach lurched as he felt around, his hand sliding over the stomach and chest of the messere. After moments of searching, his hand came in contact with the pocket he knew was there, and yes, the purse was in it. A moment later, the purse was inside his own jacket, and Gregorio looked down at the body again. “I’m sorry, Messer Orazo, I am on a work for God, and I need this far more than the wretched Spaniards do.”
	At that moment, Gregorio heard the sound of many booted feet coming down the hallway. He started to panic, but felt a moment of coolness cross his forehead. In that moment, he licked his fingers and quenched the candle, then slipped around behind the desk and crawled into the kneehole of it, taking the candle with him. He crouched there, face turned away from the opening, barely breathing.
	“This is the place,” a male voice said in polished Roman dialect Italian. “This is where the light was.”
	Gregorio shrank in upon himself, trying to be as small as possible as heavy booted feet tromped through the room, knocking against the other desks and podiums. A wisp of smoke from the candle rose up and tickled his nose. He was horrified as the urge to sneeze built up. He reached up and pinched his nostrils shut, opening his mouth wide to breathe as noiselessly as possible. After a moment, the sneeze died away, and he slumped in relief,
	“Are you sure this is the right place?” a harsh voice demanded in a heavy Spanish accent.
	“Yes, Capitano Alfredo. This is the only room with windows that could be seen from that portico.”
	“Huh.”
	Before the captain could say anything else, there was the sound of footsteps. “Capitano, there is a naked dead man in the next room over.”
	“A-hah,” the captain said. “Someone has started looting already. There are rats in the walls, Father Esteban.”
	“Perhaps so,” the cultured voice replied. “Regardless, there is no one here now. We can see to cleaning up in the morning.”
	“Indeed. Back to the courtyard, all of you.”
	The feet withdrew, the sound of tromping boots fading away.
	Gregorio waited until his heartbeat had stopped thundering and his breath was under control again before he crawled out from under the desk. He set the candle down on a nearby desk, and crept to the doorway, where he listened for a long moment before sticking his head around the corner to make sure no one was near. The emptiness of the hall triggered a big sigh, and then he edged out into the hall and began to move down it in the opposite direction from which he and the Spaniards had come. One slow step at a time, he headed toward freedom.
	***
	The next morning, just after dawn broke, no one paid any notice to a slumping figure in a tattered cloak with a hood as it moved through the gate of the Porta Pia and made its way down the Via Nomentana.

Chapter 3
 
June 1635
Firenze
 
	“Are you awake, my friend?”
	Gregorio roused to find someone gently patting the side of his face. He opened his eyes, finding them bleary, and blinked several times to try and clear them before focusing on the gray-bearded face that hung before him. “I…think so,” he said.
	“Good.” The face retreated a little, and Gregorio could now see that it was attached to a body that wore nice clothes, including a hat in the Tuscan style. “Do you know where you are?” The man’s voice was pleasant and sounded native to Tuscany, albeit with a hint of a different tone.
	Gregorio closed his eyes and thought. He remembered leaving Roma and going north between the Apennine Mountains and the west coast. He was headed for…He opened his eyes. “Firenze?”
	“Ah, you know that much.” The other man smiled. “But do you know where you are in Firenze?”
	Gregorio looked around. He was in a very small, very spare room with no furniture but the cot on which he lay and the stool on which the man sat. “Not really. A hospice?”
	“Close, my friend. You are in the Ospedale di Santa Maria Nuova. You were found sprawled on the Via del Servi across from the cathedral, so since the ospedale is near there, you were brought here. The concern, of course, is that you might have plague.” The man shrugged. “There is no evidence of plague, but you are not a well man. Do you know from what you suffer?”
	“Are you a dottore?”
	The man smiled. “Ah, I see I have not introduced myself. Dottore Giuda Loria, graduate of the University of Padua, at your service.” He placed a hand on his chest and gave a slight bow from where he was seated on the stool. “And you are?”
	“Gregorio Agricola…” a chill shook him for a moment, “…and I have marsh fever.”
	The doctor pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “A relapse?”
	“Yes.”
	“Yes, that would match my observations. You sound sort of like a Tuscan, but you are not dressed like one. Traveling?”
	“Yes,” Gregorio admitted with reluctance. “North.”
	“Well, you are going to have to break your travels for a least a few days while we feed you up and rebuild your strength somewhat. As fevers go, this is not the worst I’ve seen, but it has obviously taken a toll on you.”
	“I cannot afford…”
	“This is a community ospedale, friend Gregorio. You will stay here until I release you, and Firenze will provide for you. Understood?”
	After a moment, Gregorio nodded. “Yes, Dottore. Understood.”
	“Good. Now get some rest.”
	As the doctor rose from the stool, Gregorio suddenly remembered why he was traveling. He jerked upright and looked around with panic, even though his head was spinning.
	“What?” the doctor said. “What is wrong?”
	“My pack!” Gregorio said. “My bag! Where is it?”
	The doctor pointed to the head of the cot. “There, serving as your pillow.”
	Gregorio slumped in relief. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
	The doctor shrugged. “It was nothing. Now, get some rest.” He paused in the doorway. “Since you are not suspected now of having plague, the staff will move you to the men’s ward later today. Rest,” he repeated, “and I or another doctor will check on you tomorrow.”
	With that, the doctor was gone, and Gregorio lay back on his bag with a sigh, wrapping his cloak around himself.
	***
	It was the middle of the next morning when Doctor Loria appeared again. By then, Gregorio had been in the men’s ward since just before the serving of supper the night before. A small bowl of chicken soup with a few scraps of real chicken in it, but mostly root vegetables. There was enough of it in which to dip the piece of very stale barley bread he’d been given to soften it enough to chew without breaking his teeth. Not as good a meal as he would have gotten at his chapterhouse, but he’d certainly had worse in his life.
	The men’s ward had a dozen cots, most of which were occupied. The patients were mostly elderly men ill with one thing or another, although one man had apparently been on the losing side of a knife fight at a tavern the night before. Between his moans and the wheezy snores of several of the elder patients, Gregorio hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.
	Attendants walked through periodically, mostly to check on the knifing target and help him get to the chamberpot. Everyone else was apparently expected to get themselves to it, or be assisted to it by the more able of the patients. Gregorio helped with that a couple of times.
	Midway through the morning, the attendants came and chivvied or helped all of the patients to go through a door to a small garden just outside the ward. Most of them clustered in a group of seats near the door, but Gregorio made his way farther out on a bit of lawn to sit on a bench in the sun. This was where the doctor found him, sitting quietly with his bag on his lap.
	Gregorio looked up as the doctor settled beside him, saying, “So, my friend, how are you today?”
	“Still somewhat shaky, I fear,” Gregorio said, “but better than yesterday. I was able to eat last night, anyway, for all that the soup was not as good as my mother’s.”
	Doctor Loria chuckled. “If you can complain about the food, you are getting better. It wouldn’t be served at the Grand Duke’s table, but it is healthful enough to keep you alive.”
	Gregorio shared the chuckle, looking over at the doctor as he did so. He studied his beard for a moment. “Are you a Jew?”
	The doctor’s mouth quirked. “I am,” he responded quietly. “And no, I am not wearing the badge or the hat. Grand Duke Ferdinand does not often enforce that rule, especially with doctors. So,” he brushed his hand down his luxurious beard, “I am as you see me. Does that bother you or frighten you?”
	“No,” Gregorio said after a moment. “Jews are good doctors. Everyone knows that.” He mustered a small smile.
	Doctor Loria beckoned with two of his fingers and leaned toward Gregorio. “I know your secret, my friend. For all that you tried to disguise it by hacking your hair off with your knife blade, the hair growing in your tonsure is not hidden. So, given the news of the past days, you are running from Roma, yes?” He put his hand on Gregorio’s arm as he started. “Calm, my friend. Calm. I have no desire to reveal you to anyone. I am not, after all, a Christian, so your disputes are not mine. And even if they were, if you are fleeing Borja, my sympathies are with you. So, yes? No? What are you about?”
	“Yes, I’m fleeing Roma.” Gregorio hung his head. “I’m not brave. I’m not a fighter. I saw too many people die the day the Spaniards assaulted. I didn’t want to be one of them.”
	“I do not blame you, my friend. I, too, have seen too many things like that.” The doctor patted his arm. “Having listened to more of your manner of speech and by your name, I would say you are not from Tuscany. Am I right?
	“Yes,” Gregorio nodded. “From a little village not far outside of Innsbruck, in Tyrol.”
	“So are you going home?”
	“No. I need to get farther away from Roma than that. And…”
	“And?” the doctor prompted after a moment.
	“I promised to deliver a message.”
	“Ah.” Doctor Loria leaned back a bit, and nodded his head. “So you would keep a promise. Admirable. How much farther do you have to travel beyond Innsbruck?”
	“A long way. Much farther.” Gregorio was trying to keep his answers short. He didn’t want to give anything away.
	“Ah.” The doctor said nothing more, which gladdened Gregorio.
	After a moment, Doctor Loria stood and placed a hand on Gregorio’s shoulder. “We’ll see how you’re doing tomorrow. Rest.”
	The evening and the following morning happened much as the previous times had, but that Doctor Loria arrived somewhat later in the day. Gregorio was standing near a small oleander tree, cupping one of its blossoms in his hand, when he heard someone move up behind him.
	“A lovely fragrance, is it not?”
	Gregorio looked over his shoulder to see the doctor standing there with a smile on his face, looking at the oleander. “It is,” he agreed. “The smell reminds me of some of the Vatican gardens.”
	“Ah.” Loria nodded. “They are common in the grand duke’s gardens as well. My wife has two not much bigger than this one in her garden. We often sit by them in the evening, as the stars come out. How are you doing today?” The doctor changed topics without a break or hesitation, but kept looking at the oleander.
	“Better than yesterday,” Gregorio said as he turned his own gaze back to the tree. “Strong enough to stand and walk about, but not enough to go back on the road, I suspect.”
	Loria pursed his lips and nodded twice. “Actually, that’s good progress. Marsh fever is nothing to take lightly. Mal aria we call it now, based on the description by the esteemed historian Leonardo Bruni in his famed Historiarum Florentini Populi. Have you read it?”
	Gregorio shook his head. “No. I can’t say that I’ve even heard of it.”
	“I have,” the doctor said. “All twelve volumes of it. An interesting work in some respects, albeit a bit pretentious in others. But in one chapter he describes the fever as being due to bad air, hence, mal aria. And of all the things that he wrote in that work, that has become almost commonplace.” He shook his head. “One cannot account for tastes, I suppose.”
	Gregorio released the blossom to bob at the end of its branch, and clasped his hands on his bag. “No, I dare say one cannot. I hope to gain strength soon,” he said with a sigh. “I dare not stay here much longer. It’s too close to Roma.”
	“The message that you bear,” Loria murmured, “does it have aught to do with the book in your bag? Gently,” the doctor said as Gregorio stiffened and his hands clutched the bag, “gently. No one knows but me. I checked the bag for identifying marks when you were brought in. I read Greek—I know what you carry—but it is none of my concern. I only ask because I may be able to help.”
	Gregorio took a deep breath, then let it out as he consciously relaxed his shoulders and loosened his hands’ grip on the bag. He took another deep breath and released it as well before replying.
	“Yes,” he murmured.
	“Then I may be able to help,” Loria murmured as he turned to look behind them at where the attendants were beginning to gather the other patients and lead them inside again.
	“How so?”
	“I have friends who are in Firenze right now who will be leaving for Venezia very soon. They may be willing to let you ride with them. Even if that’s not your destination, it would get you farther on your journey.”
	“Jews?”
	Loria’s mouth quirked under his moustache. “Of course, Jews,” the doctor said. “Come, we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
	Gregorio held his hand up, then touched his hair. “Is there a barber…”
	Loria nodded. “Tomorrow.”
	***
	Gregorio was allowed a chance to bathe that afternoon, although he wasn’t able to launder his clothing. He looked forward to the arrival of night, but unfortunately for him he didn’t sleep well after the attendants turned out the lamps in the ward. He kept waking from nightmares of Jesuits and musketeers beating in his door and dragging him out to face…he didn’t know what. He kept waking up before that point. The last time he just sat up in bed and put his feet on the floor, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders. He hugged his bag to his chest, and tried to take slow deep breaths. After a time, he was calmer, and he looked around the ward.
	There was a bit of moonlight coming in a window. He could kind of see his fellow patients. The old man named Giuseppe was talking in his sleep, asking for wine. Gregorio chuckled a little at that. The slightly younger man named Enrico, the one with the broken arm, was snoring. That got a head shake. Most of the others were curled up on their cots, motionless but for their breathing, although it did appear that Pietro had his thumb in his mouth. Gregorio shook his head at that, too.
	Gregorio stared at the beam of moonlight coming through the window for what felt like a long time. It gave him a sense of serenity to see the white light, a sense of God’s design still being in place. He felt his tension and fear drain away, leaving him in peace. “Saint Jerome,” he murmured, “I am still trying to fulfill my charge.” His calmness and peace increased, and a feeling of approval washed over him. He rolled back onto his cot, pillowing his head on his right arm and wrapping his left arm around his bag. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, and knew nothing more until the morning.
	***
	The barley rolls the men were given the next morning were fresh, and still slightly warm from the baker. They were also given a small pot of slushy drippings, with bits of suet and lard floating in it, to share and spread upon the bread. Gregorio let the others go first, so there wasn’t much left when he got to the pot. He tore his roll into pieces and wiped the inside of the pot, popping the greasy bits of bread into his mouth and enjoying the savory-sweet flavor of the drippings and fat. That was good eating, as far as Gregorio was concerned. It reminded him of when he was a small child in his mother’s kitchen, and the little scraps she would feed him while she was cooking.
	After the meal, they were led to the chapel to hear a short mass led by the neighborhood priest. Gregorio participated gladly. He had missed that so very much while on the road. He walked back to the ward afterward, smiling.
	Dr. Loria came early that morning, arriving at the ward not long after the patients had returned from the mass. He had another man with him that he brought to Gregorio first. “Tomas, this is Gregorio. Shave him, please, head and beard.”
	“What…” Gregorio began.
	“Delousing, or to cool you from the fevers,” the doctor said with a bit of a grin. “Take your pick. But it will…” he waved his hand at Gregorio’s hair. Gregorio grimaced, but nodded In acceptance.
	While the barber worked, Loria made the rounds of the patients, talking to them, feeling foreheads, taking pulses at the wrist. He came to Gregorio just as Tomas was wiping the remains of the oil from Gregorio’s face and scalp.
	“And how are you today, my friend?” Loria winked as he followed the same routine of forehead and wrist.
	Gregorio waited until the doctor had finished before he said, “A bit cooler.” He ran his hand over his naked scalp. “Also tired. I had some trouble sleeping last night. But I feel stronger.”
	“Good,” Doctor Loria nodded. “Good. You look steadier, as well. Come with me.”
	The doctor stood and began walking, beckoning to Gregorio to keep up with him. Gregorio followed, and found the doctor’s pace easy enough to match. They walked around a couple of corners and out the main door of the ospedale to find themselves walking across a small piazza to the Via Sant’ Egidio The doctor turned west, and Gregorio perforce followed him.
	“A beautiful day, is it not?” Loria said with a smile.
	Gregorio looked around at the bustling traffic on the street. “It is,” he agreed.
	The doctor kept up a running commentary on the various imposing buildings they passed, including when they turned into the piazza surrounding the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Flore. Gregorio took in the sight of that imposing edifice, and made a swift sign of the cross as they passed the western end of it.
	Not long after that, they turned into a smaller side street, passing through a set of large gates as they did so. Gregorio looked at Doctor Loria and raised his eyebrows.
	“Yes, we are now in the ghetto,” the doctor said quietly. “From here to the gate at the other end is owned by the Medici family, who collect rents from all of the Jewish residents and tradesmen who live and work here.”
	Gregorio said nothing. He’d heard of the ghettos in the cities of Italy, but had never seen one before. Looking around, it didn’t look much different from other somewhat rundown neighborhoods he had seen in Roma. The people were different, in clothing and hair and beard styles. They looked a little poorer than he had expected, but he knew that life in the ghetto, even though it provided some protections, was still not exactly easy.
	He glanced over at Loria, who was staring straight ahead with a set expression on his face. Ahead was a small wagon with two horses, with two large men standing behind it. As Gregorio and Loria neared, a third man stepped out of a door and stood watching them approach.
	“Davit,” the doctor said, stopping at the heads of the horses.
	“Giuda,” was the reply.
	“This is the man I told you about.” The doctor’s voice was calm, measured. Gregorio looked over at him, to see that same set expression in place. “Gregorio Agricola.” Davit nodded, but said nothing more.
	Loria turned to Gregorio. “Gregorio, this is my friend Davit ben Jachobe. He is the son of Jachobe ben Israel, a moneylender in Bologna, who travels often on his father’s business.”
	From the looks of the gray threads scattered through Davit’s short beard and the gray stripes in his chin whiskers, Davit was probably older that Doctor Loria, Gregorio decided. He certainly wasn’t any younger.
	Davit looked Gregorio up and down, and pursed his lips for a moment. “Giuda tells me you have reason to travel north and to remain out of official eyesight.”
	Gregorio swallowed. “Not so much official eyesight,’ he murmured. “More out of ecclesiastical eyesight.”
	“Are you a heretic?” Davit demanded. “Will the Inquisition be coming after you?”
	“I’m not a heretic,” Gregorio said in an even lower tone. “As to the other…I…don’t think so. With all the turmoil in Roma, I doubt that anyone knows of me or has missed me. And I also doubt that anyone suspects what I have done. But I cannot take the chance of anyone in Roma finding me.”
	“Well, if the current authorities in Roma might be displeased with you,” Davit said with a bit of a smile, “that speaks well of you. And just what is it that you have done?”
	“I have promised to deliver a message…and a gift.” Gregorio closed his mouth, resolved to say no more.
	Davit looked him over again, taking his time. At length, he gave a single sharp nod. “These are Sansone Cintoia and Bartolomeo Lenzi, my drivers and companions. When you travel with us, you will obey orders from any of us, understand?”
	“Yes, messere,” Gregorio said.
	“Good. Get in the wagon.”
	Davit turned to the others. Loria stepped up to Gregorio and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Go with blessings of the Most High, my friend.”
	“Thank you.” Gregorio ducked his head, unsure of what else he should say.
	Loria smiled, clapped his shoulder again, and walked away.
	“In the wagon, now.” Davit was standing with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face. Gregorio scrambled into the back of the wagon, and when he looked up, Doctor Loria was out of sight.
	Davit vaulted onto the front seat of the wagon, and Sansone and Bartolomeo took the horses’ bridles in hand. With a tug, the horses leaned into their collars and the wagon started moving down the street, away from the gate through which Gregorio had entered the ghetto. A handful of minutes later they passed through the gate at the other end of the ghetto and entered back into the main streets of Firenze.
	Gregorio took a deep breath. He was on his way again. A sense of relief eased into his mind, and he relaxed, leaning back against a barrel. He looked up at the sun, and smiled.

Chapter 4
 
	Sansone and Bartolomeo guided the horses along the Via San Gallo, one of Firenze’s major streets, until they reached the Porta de San Gallo, Firenze’s northernmost gate. One they were outside the city walls, Sansone sat beside Davit on the wagon seat and took the reins, and Bartolomeo climbed into the back where he found a clear spot to sit down and seemed to fall asleep. Gregorio at first was envious of that ability, but soon his own eyelids were drooping shut in the warm sun, and the gentle movement of the wagon lulled him to sleep.
	Gregorio jerked awake as the wagon came to an abrupt stop. He sat upright with a gasp, confused for a moment as to where he was, and looked around frantically. After a moment, he sagged back against the barrel, relieved that he knew where he was.
	“Sorry to disturb your slumbers, friend Gregorio,” Davit said as he climbed down from the wagon, “but we need to rest the horses for a bit, and give them a chance to drink and feed a little as well. You might want to stretch your legs and take a piss yourself.”
	“Where are we?”
	“We passed through Fiesole while you were resting your eyes,” Davit said with a smile, “and are well on our way to Bologna. It will take us two and a half or three days to get there, and we’ll spend probably a couple of days there. That’s home for us, and I’ll need to talk to my father and get at least one good meal before we continue on our way.”
	“Where do we go after that?”
	“Probably Ferrara, but we’ll have to see.”
	Gregorio nodded. He’d come down through this part of the countryside when he’d traveled from Innsbruck to Roma a few years ago. He knew where most of the major towns and cities were, and they seemed to be going in the right direction.
	Davit turned away to talk to Sansone while he was checking the horses’ hooves. Gregorio wandered off and looked back down the road. He could see Fiesole in the far distance, visible as a mound below him. He could see hints of Firenze beyond that.
	He turned and looked the other way. The road continued to climb gradually as far as he could see. The pass through the Apennine Mountains to Bologna was rather low, he knew, especially in comparison to the Alps, but it was still a fair distance between the two cities, and the terrain was hilly.
	They had stopped in a bit of a wide spot in the road where the trees did not press up against it. There was a bit of a spring to the south of the road, and Bartolomeo had led the horses there to drink after Sansone had finished the hoof checks.
	A sense of fullness reminded Gregorio of a pressing matter, and he strode over to an old half-dead malshapen wild olive tree and proceeded to water its trunk. Feeling rather lighter at the conclusion, he stepped back and buttoned his culottes. Order restored to his clothing, he wandered back to the wagon in time to be offered a pull at a wineskin. The wine was dark and a bit sweet, but rather better than he usually got.
	“Thank you,” he said as he handed the skin back to Davit. “That’s good.”
	Davit shrugged. “Kosher wine,” he said. “It keeps fairly well.”
	Sansone and Bartolomeo had left to perform their own tree-watering rituals. Davit looked at Gregorio.
	“Will the Romans miss you? Will they know they should have reason to look for you?”
	Gregorio had thought about that more than a little over the last few days. He shook his head. “I just worked in the library. I’m nobody special. The Spaniards wouldn’t know me from Julius Caesar. They killed the library’s custodian, and I don’t know what happened to the cardinal. They killed a lot of people in the Vatican. So really, I don’t think…I don’t think they will be looking for me.”
	“So why are you so afraid of being followed, of members of the church clergy knowing about you?”
	Gregorio said nothing, just hugged his bag to his chest.
	Davit shrugged. “You said you carry a message and a gift? Is that it? Is that what you are so concerned about?”
	Gregorio hesitated, then finally nodded almost convulsively.
	“Ah. You know I am Jewish.” Davit crossed his arms. “The things of your church mean very little to me. I will help you because Giuda asked me to. But I do need to know what you are carrying to know what risks we are running and know what plans to make.” There was a long moment of silence, before Davit murmured, “Just me. Sansone and Bartolomeo will not approach until I beckon them to.” He lowered the tailgate of the wagon. “Here. Just for a few moments.” He stepped back, leaving the way clear for Gregorio to approach.
	It took a deep breath on Gregorio’s part to break him free from where he stood to step to the tailgate and set his bag on it. After another deep breath, he opened the bag and laid bare what was contained in it, turning to his left and facing Davit along the length of the tailgate. Davit pursed his lips and nodded slowly twice.
	“A book.”
	Gregorio said nothing. Davit took a step up to the tailgate, gently touched the cover of the codex with his hand, and opened the cover. He leaned forward and examined the first page, index finger moving above it but not touching. Perhaps a minute or so later he straightened.
	“So, I assume it is a Bible, based on the first page and the binding.”
	Gregorio nodded, “Yes. The greatest and oldest of Bibles. It has been in the Holy Father’s library for close to two hundred years, but It is much older than that.”
	“I can tell,” Davit said dryly. “Very old material, very old hand that wrote it. Is this the message or the gift?”
	“The gift.”
	“And who do you take it to?”
	Gregorio shook his head.
	“And who told you to take it?” Davit’s eyebrows arched.
	Gregorio looked down. “Saint Jerome.”
	Davit’s eyebrows arched even higher. “A…saint.” Gregorio nodded. “One of the dead saints, I presume?”
	“I had a…dream,” Gregorio said, not looking up as he changed the word from “vision” at the last moment.
	After a moment, there was a sound almost like a chuckle. “Well,” Davit said, “I can’t argue with that. We Jews have our own mystics, after all.” There was another chuckle-like sound. “So, this is why you think someone might try to find you?”
	“Yes.” Gregorio looked up. “This is very important. Sooner or later it will be missed, and they will start searching for it.”
	“I can see that.” Davit looked at the codex again, turned the first page and looked at the next. “A fine rendering of the Septuagint, I would say.”
	“You read Greek?” Gregorio asked.
	Davit shrugged, still looking at the page. “I read Greek, Latin, German, Spanish, French, Turkish, Russian, and can make my way through Dutch and English. And Hebrew, of course. I speak Greek, Latin, northern Italian, Spanish, Turkish, and French fluently, I can make myself understood in Russian, Dutch, and Plattdeutsch. Ladino is my birth tongue.” Gregorio stared at Davit in awe. “I’m the son of a Jewish master merchant and money lender,” Davit concluded with a twisted smile. “Of course I’m a polyglot.”
	“I speak Hochdeutsch, Latin, and Roma Italian,” Gregorio said, feeling abashed, “and read only Latin well.”
	“That still puts you ahead of most of the world,” Davit said. “And you can learn more if you need to.” He closed the cover of the codex. “Here, wrap it up, and don’t talk about it to anyone. And try not to treat it like you’re carrying a gold bar. If you constantly try to hide it or clutch it to your bosom for protection, you’ll attract attention, which is the last thing you want to do. Right?”
	Gregorio stared at him for a moment, then said, “Right.” He busied himself with wrapping the codex in the robe again and closing up the bag, then slung it to hang behind him. “Ready.”
	Davit beckoned to his companions, who joined them at the wagon. Moments later they were in motion again.
	***
	Gregorio spent much of the afternoon worrying about what he was doing. He shifted around in the back of the wagon, staring first to one side, then to the other, then out the back. He wasn’t sure why he had agreed to travel with Davit and his companions. He didn’t think they would hurt him or rob him, but he was concerned that they would just leave him somewhere by himself. And since he was still a little weak from the fever attack, that scared him in his weaker moments. He chewed on his lip, and muttered to himself more than a little bit as the ride progressed.
	By the end of the day, he was worn out. They pulled in to a little inn in a very small village. The inn was full, but the innkeeper fed them well and let them sleep in the stable. The pile of hay that Gregorio slept on was dry and smelled sweet, and he immediately fell into a deep slumber.
	Sometime in the middle of the night, Gregorio roused. He was lost for a moment, but then he remembered where he was. He pulled his crucifix out from under his shirt, kissed it, whispered an Ave Maria and a Pater Noster, then turned over. As he dropped back to sleep, he thought he had a brief glimpse of a smiling Saint Jerome. Whether it was real or not, it soothed him. He slept without dreams the rest of the night.
	***
	Gregorio grew tired of riding in the wagon over the next few days. The traces of the road they traveled were probably better than no road, but nonetheless were not comfortable in a wooden wagon with no springs.
	At one point, during one of their frequent stops to rest and water the horses, Gregorio approached Davit. “Is this a Roman road?” he asked.
	“Not one of the main consular roads, like the Via Appia or the Via Salaria,” Davit said as he pulled out the wine sack. He took a drink and passed it to Gregorio. “But yes, it was an auxiliary road that the legions built, supposedly during the time of the Flavian emperors. After the empire fell, it was never maintained. It is surprising it is as good as it is, a thousand years later.”
	“Huh,” Gregorio said. He took a pull at the wine sack and handed it back. “I guess it could be worse.”
	“Oh, yes,” Davit said. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to take a wagon up some of the tracks in the hills of Dacia.”
	“If they’re anything like the hills of Tyrol, then I understand.”
	“Worse, my friend,” Davit said as he drove the stopper back into the wine sack. “Worse. Sansone!” He waved a hand at the driver. “Back on the road.”
	Gregorio hopped into the back of the wagon and settled on the wagon bed with a stifled groan. His buttocks were getting very tired of the hard wood.
	***
	Late on the third day they rolled through the gates into Bologna. Gregorio looked around with interest as they entered the city. He had never been to Bologna before. When he had come down from Innsbruck a few years before, he had traveled by way of Mantova to Parma then through a different pass to La Spezia and Porto Venere, where he had caught a ship to Ostia, the port city of Roma. So Bologna was new territory to him.
	He rode in the back of the wagon down several streets and around several corners until it pulled to a stop in front of a small shop front. Davit dismounted from the wagon and looked up at Gregorio. “Come,” was all he said.
	Gregorio hopped down, only to have the wagon roll on as soon as he let go of the side. Davit beckoned to him, so Gregorio followed him through the shop door.
	There was a small room just inside the door, with a desk set before another door to what appeared to be the rear of the shop. A man who appeared to be somewhat older than Gregorio but definitely younger than Davit sat behind the desk.
	Davit stopped before the desk. “Itzak,” he said.
	“Davit,” the man behind the desk responded.
	“Is Father here today?”
	Receiving a nod from the other man, Davit beckoned to Gregorio again, and led the way around the desk to the other door. Gregorio followed him into a short hallway, with a door on each side and a door at the end.
	Gregorio glanced in the door to the right as he passed by, and saw three men perched at tall desks, pens in motion. It looked so familiar, so much like the work he had done in the library, that for a moment he felt a rush of nostalgia.
	A moment later he was following Davit through the door on the left. He paused just inside the door to see a much older man with a full bushy white beard look up from a desk where he was holding a page of writing to capture the light of a lamp.
	The older man set the page down and said something to Davit in a language Gregorio didn’t recognize. It sounded something like Spanish, but he didn’t recognize any of the Spanish words he knew.
	“Yes, Father, I am home,” Davit said. “And this is Gregorio Agricola, who Dottore Giuda Loria in Firenze asked me to help. He is, as you can see, a goy. Gregorio,” Davit turned to him, “this is my father, Jachobe ben Israel.”
	“Ah,” the older man said in a reedy tenor. “It is good to meet you, Messer Agricola.”
	“And to meet you, Messer,” Gregorio said in reply, “although I myself am no messere, but a humble scriptorian on a journey.” He nodded, then continued, “May I ask…what is a goy?”
	Jachobe’s lips quirked in the foliage of his beard. “It is a Hebrew word that simply means one who is not a Jew. The plural is goyim. It is not, perhaps, the most polite of terms.” He lowered his eyebrows at his son, who simply spread his hands but looked unrepentant.
	“I am not offended,” Gregorio murmured. “It is, after all, the truth.”
	“It is good to understand and accept truth,” Jachobe said with a slight smile. “So, a scriptorian, are you? And by your accent, not from Italy.” He looked at Gregorio with an expectant air.
	“From Innsbruck originally,” Gregorio said. “The last three years I worked in the Vatican’s library.”
	“He survived the Spaniards’ attack,” Davit added, “and is trying to get back to the north.”
	“Ah, the Spanish,” Jachobe said with a sigh. “It is tragic that a people that produces such superb scholars and translators is so violent. They drove us out of Spain, you know, and now they attack their own religion.” He shook his head, then looked at Gregorio. “I understand your need.” He looked at Davit and back again. “We will take the risk to help you, if only to hinder the Spaniards. We have no love for them.”
	“Thank you,” Gregorio said.
	Davit moved to the door, only to close it and turn back to the others. “Show it to him,” he said to Gregorio. Gregorio stiffened and his hands tightened on the bag. “Please,” Davit said. “He will know more than you or I about it. And it will bring him pleasure to see it.”
	Gregorio hesitated. He didn’t want to reveal what he carried, but Davit knew, and they were going to help him, so at length he nodded and carried the bag over to the desk, where he unwrapped the codex and laid it before Jachobe.
	The old man looked at the book for some time before reaching out his age-gaunted hand to turn the cover and reveal the stack of pages. He turned the pages with care, slowly, pausing between each turn to peer at them. After several turns, he stopped and looked up.
	“Amazing,” he said to Gregorio. His expression was solemn, yet his voice was light-hearted. “A fine copy of the Septuagint, what you would call the Greek Old Testament. This,” he lightly rested his left hand on the pages he had turned to the left, “this is old, but not ancient. Perhaps two hundred years old. However, this,” he touched the pages on the right with just the tips of his right-hand fingers, “this is indeed ancient. Very old indeed. I cannot tell how old—maybe a thousand years. The texture and quality of the vellum…the hand…the ink…this is the oldest I have ever seen.” He turned another page, and another. “This…is a blessing. Thank you.”
	“It has the New Testament as well,” Gregorio offered.
	“I am certain that it does, but that does not speak to me like the Septuagint does. I am a Jew, after all.” He stepped with care to a bookshelf to one side of the desk. “Do you know of the Complutensian Polyglot Bible?” He rested his hand on a shelf in front of six fat volumes in uniform binding.
	Gregorio’s jaw dropped for a moment. “Ye…yes! The Vatican Library has a copy. How…”
	“How do I, a Jew, have one of the six hundred copies that were printed a hundred years ago?” Jachobe shrugged. “My grandfather entrusted enough money to someone who could subscribe to the publication. It contains the first printed copy of the Septuagint. So to a Jew, it is important, but not as important as this.” He rested his fingertips on a single volume on the same shelf. “This is a copy of the first printed edition of The Torah, what your church scholars call the Pentateuch. It was printed in 1482 here in Bologna. My great-grandfather subscribed to that.”
	Jachobe shrugged again. “Neither is as important or as holy as the scrolls in the synagogue, but they are easier to produce than the scrolls, easier to carry than the scrolls, easier to read from than the scrolls, and at need, easier to hide than the scrolls.”
	He turned back to the desk, and carefully closed the codex. “Thank you for allowing me to see this. I won’t ask why you have it. Keep it safe, young man.”
	“I will,” Gregorio said as he began swaddling the codex in his robe again.

Chapter 5
 
June 1635
Bologna
 
	The next day, after being fed by Clara the cook and then being provided with a bath and fresh clothing, Gregorio found himself back in Jachobe’s office with Davit and his father.
	“Where do you wish to go?” Jachobe asked.
	“North,” Gregorio said.
	“Modena? Parma? Mantova? Milano?”
	“Farther.” Gregorio’s mouth quirked a little as he recalled his conversation with Saint Jerome in the vision.
	“Innsbruck? Salzburg? Vienna? Leipzig?”
	“Father,” Davit interjected, “he follows a dream.”
	Jachobe sat back in his chair. “Ah. Why did you not say so earlier, Davit? A vision. A dream he is, then.” The old man nodded his head. “Of course, a dream. So, you will know your destination when you get there.” That last statement wasn’t a question.
	“I hope so,” Gregorio murmured. “If it is a dream indeed, and not just the wanderings of a fevered mind.” At the moment, he was none too certain of that.
	Jachobe looked to Davit. “So, if you are going to aid our mystic, here, what are your plans?”
	Davit’s forehead furrowed. “I thought to take him to Verona by way of Modena and Mantova. From there, he can follow the Adige River road up to the Brenner Pass and on to Innsbruck. After that,” Davit shrugged, “his dream would have to tell him.”
	Jachobe pursed his lips and closed his eyes for a long moment. “Recall,” he said, eyes still closed, “that Mantova has twice been devastated in the last few years: once by the plague, and once by the sack of Ferdinand II’s landsknecht army that laid siege to the city and eventually sacked it. Yes, there was a treaty, but a treaty and peace are only as strong as the lords who sign it. The Gonzagas have wasted away and their Gonzaga-Nevers successors are weak.” He opened his eyes. “I suggest you go northeast to Ferrara and from there to Rovigno near where the Adige River reaches the sea. Follow the river road from there to Verona, and then as you say. It’s a bit longer journey, but safer in more than one respect. You will take him to Innsbruck.”
	“What?” Davit demanded. “Father, I must take that one package to Venezia. We cannot delay that.”
	“Davit, you will do this,” Jachobe pronounced. “Take Gregorio to Innsbruck, then go to Vienna. We have somewhat that must go to Shlomo Marburger there, and this will be a good time to accomplish that. You can return by way of Trieste and Venezia to deliver the other. I will send a missive to our Venetian brother. He will understand.”
	Davit shook his head, and sighed. “As you will have it, Father.” He looked to Gregorio. “So, I had hoped to leave tomorrow. Now it will more likely be in two days, on Mercoledi—Wednesday, you would call it in Innsbruck.”
	Gregorio nodded. “I will be ready. And thank you,” he said with bows to both men, “thanks to both of you.”
	“Bear your charge safely until your vision reveals your destiny,” Jachobe said. “That is thanks enough.” He waved a hand loosely before him, and Davit gave a slight bow to his father before turning to urge Gregorio out the door.
	***
	Gregorio spent the rest of Monday and most of Tuesday resting in the small room he had been given. He wasn’t exhausted by any means, but he also hadn’t fully regained his strength from his recent bout of marsh fever—mal aria, Doctor Loria had called it.
	Tuesday morning a servant brought his original clothing to him, freshly laundered, and late that afternoon Bartolomeo brought him a capacious oiled leather knapsack. “Here,” he said, thrusting it into Gregorio’s hands. “Davit says to put your package in the bottom, and put your clothes and other stuff on top. Be ready to leave in the morning.”
	He didn’t sleep well that night. He kept waking it seemed like every few minutes, and harsh dreams punctuated the waking episodes, including several that showed him the bodies he’d seen in the Vatican—Messer Giustiniani and the unknown messenger in the library, and those he had seen as he skulked along the outer halls and through the palace grounds until he was able to escape into the city of Roma proper—victims of the Spaniards’ murderous ferocity, all.
	At some point, battered by exhaustion and the dreams, Gregorio felt that he cried out, after which he had a brief glimpse of the face of Saint Jerome as he had seen it so many weeks ago. At that, his mind calmed, and he dropped into a deep slumber, only to be awoken what seemed like bare moments later by Bartolomeo knocking on the door of the chamber.
	“Rise, friend Gregorio, if you want anything to eat before we leave.”
	With that warning ringing in his ears, Gregorio rolled from his cot, grabbed the knapsack from where it had served as his pillow, and stumbled down the hallway after the other man. He emerged in the kitchen, where he found Davit and Sansone munching on rolls. Two more waited on the table. Bartolomeo took one, so Gregorio took the last and sank his teeth into it. It was still warm from baking, and he was surprised to find that it was a wheaten roll rather than the cheaper barley. He savored the taste and the softness as he chewed his first bite.
	Clara the cook appeared with four flagons in hand, which she thumped on the table. Gregorio waited on the others to take their choices, and again appropriated the last one for himself. Taking a swig of the liquid it contained, he found it to be a somewhat better than passable beer.
	The others were almost done, so Gregorio took huge bites of his roll, washing them down with large drafts of the beer. He managed to swallow his last bite and set his empty flagon on the table just at the same time as Bartolomeo, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and looked at Davit.
	The merchant quirked his mouth for a moment, nodded at Gregorio, and said, “Time to mount up and roll. We don’t want to waste daylight.”
	Gregorio trailed after the others as they headed toward the door.

Chapter 6
 
	“Hsst!” Gregorio was roused by Davit’s hand shaking his shoulder. He sat up and turned to face Davit. “We’re near to Ferrara. Sit up and look happy and healthy. This is one of the Papal States, their Jewish rules are pretty strict, and after the plague a few years ago they will bar anyone they suspect of ill-health from entry. So smile, look alert, and don’t say anything if you can help it.”
	Gregorio nodded, and scrubbed his face with his hands. Davit looked at him, gave a sharp nod, then turned back forward.
	The back of the wagon was basically empty. Bartolomeo was driving at the moment, so Sansone was in the back with Gregorio, but other than the packs that they each had, nothing was there. No barrels, no crates, no bundles of cloth or staves or anything like that, no lumps of pig iron. Looking around, Gregorio wondered if that might not look suspicious to any gate guards there might be. He hoped not.
	He needed to wake up, Gregorio thought. They’d been on the road for two days. This was the evening of the second day, and he’d slept most of the way—well, dozed anyway. Sleep in a lurching wagon wasn’t necessarily a thing that happened with any regularity.
	Bartolomeo drew the horses to a halt when a guard stepped out with a raised hand. Davit dismounted from the wagon and walked over to speak with him. Gregorio tried not to look at them, but did strain to hear their conversation. They were speaking quietly, though, so all he could hear was the rising and falling of the tones of their voices, with but an occasional word coming through.
	After a couple of minutes of talking, Davit waved the guard over to the wagon. “See, we have no merchandise or goods, only our own bags. There is nothing to charge the excise tax on.”
	“I don’t know,” the guard said. “You say you are merchants, yet you carry no goods. Looks like you might be spies to me.”
	“Merda!” Davit exclaimed. “We dropped a load of cloth off in Bologna, and we’re on our way to Verona to pick up a load of books and haul it to Innsbruck. We’re supposed to get a load there to bring back to Trieste. The wagon belongs to my family, and these are Bartolomeo and Sansone, my drovers.” He gestured at them. “I’ll pay you the admittance fee, and a trifle more for your time, but not the excise tax, and I’ll appeal that to the city council if I must. Messer Marzarius will hear me, if no one else will.”
	“Who is that, then?” The guard pointed to Gregorio.
	“Gregorio, a friend of a friend, who is returning to his family in Innsbruck.”
	The guard made a face, then said, “All right. But the next time you come through, you’d best have something in that wagon or we’ll tax you on the wagon itself.”
	Davit pulled a purse out of his jacket, and proceeded to count coins into the guard’s hand. “And a bit more for your time,” he said at the end, placing a large coin on top of the stack.
	The guard smiled, closed his fist around the coins, and gave a short bow to Davit. “Grazie, messer.” He stepped back and waved the wagon on through the gate after Davit clambered back on board.
	After they were through the gate, Gregorio heaved a sigh of relief. Sansone looked at him and grinned. “The master can hold his own with any of the gate guards,” he said.
	“So I see,” Gregorio replied, “and I’m glad. So where are we going from here?”
	“We’ll spend the night at a small inn,” Davit said over his shoulder, “and be back on the road to Rovigno tomorrow. We’ll talk about that more later.”
	Gregorio nodded, and leaned back against his knapsack. He watched the people in the streets of Ferrara. It was his first time to the town, and he looked at the clothing they wore with interest. Different from the clothes in Roma where he’d been the last three years; different from the clothes in Innsbruck where he’d been born and raised; different even from the clothes in Firenze and Bologna. It just amused him to see how the clothes were different from place to place, yet they all served the same purpose.
	It wasn’t long—less than a quarter of an hour, perhaps—before the wagon turned into a gate that led to a stable yard behind a small inn. Bartolomeo pulled the wagon to a halt in front of a stable. Gregorio gathered his knapsack, and followed the others in dismounting from the wagon.
	Davit beckoned to him. “You, with me.”
	Gregorio followed Davit into the inn.
	The innkeeper came out of a door at the back of the common room. He looked at Davit, and began shouting, “You! You dare to come back here! You thief, Donato, you son of a sow! You still owe me a soldi from the last time you were here!”
	Donato? Gregorio looked around. He didn’t see anyone else. Who was Donato?
	“Emilio, you cur’s get,” Davit said, spreading his arms. “I gave that soldi to your wife, the lovely Madelena. Did she not give it to you?”
	Well, that answered that. Davit was Donato…or Donato was Davit. Gregorio gave his head a shake. He was confused.
	“You gave the soldi to Madelena?”
	“I swear it on my mother’s grave.” Davit still had his arms outstretched, but now he bent forward a little.
	Both men burst out laughing, and embraced. “You’re still a son of a sow,” Emilio said, pushing Davit back with his hands on his shoulders, “but it’s good to see you. Are you staying long?”
	“Just the one night,” Davit said. “I need to be in Verona as soon as possible.”
	“Ah,” Emilio said. “Business is good, then?”
	“I cannot complain…” Davit shrugged, “…much.”
	“That good, eh? Good.” Emilio dropped his hands. “So, what’ll you have?”
	“A bottle of Falerno, if you have one, and four cups. And my usual room.”
	“Done, and done.”
	Davit led Gregorio to a small round table in the back corner of the common room as Emilio bustled off. Sansone and Bartolomeo came in and took seats at the table just as Emilio came up with a bottle in one hand and a tray with four cups in the other. He set the bottle and the cups on the table before them. “Enjoy, my friends. And if you’re hungry, there is still some capon soup and a half loaf of barley bread left from dinner earlier.”
	Davit looked at Gregorio, who nodded. “Bring it on,” Davit said as he reached for the bottle.
	“I suspect you have questions,” Davit murmured as he filled the cups. “I’ll answer them in the room, all right?” He pushed a cup toward Gregorio.
	Gregorio nodded, and took a sip of the wine. It was rich and full of flavor. “Mmm,” was all he said.
	Emilio reappeared with a larger tray, from which he set four bowls of soup in front of the four men, and plopped the half loaf of bread in the midst of them. Gregorio looked at the bowl in front of him. He could see actual pieces of chicken floating in the liquid among slices of onion and what appeared to be slices of turnips, with little shreds of green scallions floating amongst them, all exuding a distinct odor of garlic. His mouth watered.
	The others pulled spoons from their belt pouches. Davit paused and looked at Gregorio with a raised eyebrow. Gregorio turned his palms up, empty, and Davit’s mouth quirked.
	“Hey, Emilio,” Davit called out. “Gregorio’s forgot his spoon. Loan him yours, will you?”
	A moment later Emilio appeared at Gregorio’s side and offered him a carved wooden spoon with a deep bowl to it.
	“Thank you,” Gregorio said as he took it.
	“It’s nothing,” Emilio said with a smile. “You’re a friend of Donato’s, you can use it. Just don’t chew on it, eh? Teeth marks are so hard to smooth out of the wood.” And with a laugh, he turned to greet someone who had come in the door.
	Gregorio watched as the others each tore a chunk out of the bread. He took the last piece. It was a bit stale, so he imitated the others by dipping it in the soup as he ate it to soften it up. It didn’t take long for them to finish the soup and the bread, and then to top off their cups and finish the wine. Sansone and Bartolomeo rose without a word when done and left through the door. Davit drained the last of his wine, and said, “Come on.” Gregorio finished his cup, left the spoon on the table amid the empty bowls, and followed Davit up the stairs to the second level.
	Davit walked down the short hall to a door at the end, pushed it open, and stepped inside. Gregorio followed, and looked around as Davit closed the door and placed a bar across it. The room was small, with a single bed along one side and a small table with a wash basin and pitcher standing under a very small window that admitted little of the evening light. Davit sat on a short stool in one corner and waved at the bed, so Gregorio settled there.
	“Ask your questions,” Davit said in a low voice, “but be quiet. I take this room because there is a noisy board in the hallway that will announce if someone is treading near the door to listen in, but no sense in taking chances.”
	It took a moment for that to sink in, but Gregorio finally nodded in understanding. “Donato?” was his first question.
	Davit shrugged. “There is disagreement among the various authorities and leaders as to whether a Jew must dress as a Jew or wear the sign when traveling. So I don’t. I travel under a different name, especially in the Papal States like Ferrara, or in the towns of prominent clergy.” He shrugged again. “Many of the rabbis say that it is permitted to tell a lie to save a life. This is but an extension of that.”
	“Does not the command to not bear false witness address that?” Gregorio asked, brow furrowed.
	“Not specifically,” Davit said with a bit of a smile. “In point of fact, that command actually is addressing perjury, not lying in and of itself.” His smile broadened. “You can check with your own learned men, of course. But scripture does say that truthfulness is to be desired, of course.”
	Gregorio mulled that over, then put it in the back of his mind with the thought that he should indeed consult with a church scholar about it. “Sansone and Bartolomeo?”
	“They will sleep in the stable tonight, to keep watch on the wagon and horses. Not that we expect problems—it is merely a precaution.”
	“Ah. So where are we going, and how long do you think it will take?”
	“That will all depend on the fairness of the weather, the soundness of the wagon, and the health of the horses. But if all goes well, we will follow the advice of my father. Probably a day’s travel from here to Rovigno. Then we follow the river Adige to Verona, hopefully no more than another two days. Then continue to follow the Adige up the mountain valley toward the Brenner Pass to Innsbruck.”
	“That’s the way I came down when I came to Roma three years ago.”
	“Well, since it will be an uphill climb this trip, it will probably take a little longer than when you came down. Again, if all goes well, two days to Trento, another two days to Bolzen, two days to the pass, and a day or so beyond the pass to Innsbruck. So, a week and a half from tomorrow if all goes well, more if it doesn’t.”
	The thought of being out of Italy and north of the Alps in so short a time made Gregorio happy. The thought of still being in Italy for that long made his stomach clench into a knot. “I wish we could do it faster,” he said. “I wish we were driving into Innsbruck tomorrow. But hopefully God will preserve me until then.”
	“From your mouth to His ear,” Davit said. “So, odds or evens to take the bed?” He held out a fist.
	“No, you take it,” Gregorio said. “I would as soon have the floor.” He stood and pulled a blanket out of his knapsack.
	“All right,” Davit said. “Sleep well.”
	Davit lay down on the bed and turned toward the wall. Gregorio stretched out on the floor and rolled up in his blanket. He then pulled his crucifix out from under his shirt to kiss it, mentally recited a Pater Noster, and settled in to sleep. That night, the sleep came easily, and before long he was snoring softly.

Chapter 7
 
	Davit’s prediction of their route proved accurate. The weather was mild, with no torrential rain storms to turn the roads to bogs. Other than morning dew and an occasional mild mist, the conditions were good. The wagon didn’t break, and neither did the horses, so they made their travel marks as Davit had laid them out: three days to Verona, another two long days to Trento, and another two days to Bolzen.
	It was in Bolzen when their plans went awry. The day had gone well: they had traveled with no problems, made their way into the city with no problems, and had settled into the inn that night with no problems. Gregorio was glad to hear the familiar sound of German language in his ears again.
	Gregorio went to sleep early that night. Sometime in the night, a seemingly dreamless night, Gregorio became aware that someone was looking at him. He seemed to open his eyes, to find Saint Jerome once more smiling at him, floating in a field of dark.
	“There you are, my boy.”
	“Saint…Saint Jerome? Is it you?”
	“Of course it’s me, boy. Who else would be visiting your visions, now?”
	“I…I don’t know. I mean, no one. I mean…oh, I don’t know what I mean. But is it really you?”
	There was the sound of a chuckle. “Yes, O doubting Gregorio, it is me.”
	Gregorio felt a tear on his cheek, and it made him wonder if this was a vision or reality. “I…I am so glad you’re here. I am so afraid I have made a mess of things…that I’ve made wrong decisions and choices…that the Spaniard’s minions will hunt me down and take the Great Book back.” He thought about the book that way, he realized—a singular special book, cherished by God himself.
	The vision of Saint Jerome shook its head. “No, my boy. You have done nothing wrong, and the false pope’s minions have not yet discovered that the Great Book, as you call it, is missing. Although I think they are about to. You’ve done well.”
	“Even though I consort with Jews?”
	Gregorio almost laughed when the saint snorted in the vision. “I knew a number of Jews when I walked on the earth and worked on my great translation. Most of them were good men—brave, ethical, and filled with wisdom. And I knew of a few rogues as well. They were men just like other men. Their rejection of the Gospel lies between them and God. I sorrow for it, yet despite the teachings of Father Augustine, I also believe that God is not done with the Jews yet.”
	Gregorio felt his mouth drop open, then closed it again. This was the weirdest vision he’d ever had—not that he had that much experience with visions, he admitted.
	“So if I’m doing all right,” Gregorio said with a bit of temper, “why are you just now telling me that? It would have helped if you could have given me that assurance earlier.”
	The image of the saint frowned. “Do not be presumptuous, boy. I am not your father, to paddle your rump when you need it—as it seems you might need it now—nor am I your mother to cosset you. You have already had one vision, which puts you one step above most of the world. Why do you think you are entitled to more than that? God is not your servant, boy. You would do well to remember that.”
	Gregorio shrank back, and bowed his head. He could feel the saint’s gaze almost like the burning of the sun’s rays. At length, he heard the saint sigh. “Look up, Gregorio.” He raised his eyes slowly, and saw the saint looking at him with a hint of sadness on his face. “You are a good boy, and you love God. Sometimes I forget that God’s servants come in all shapes and sizes and talents. You are young, but not everyone can be a Samuel or a David. Just be faithful. That will be enough.”
	Another moment went by, and Gregorio nodded diffidently.
	“Good!” the saint’s image said. “Now, for what I am sent to actually tell you. Your plans are, for the most part, acceptable to God. But you will not be going to Innsbruck.”
	“Not Innsbruck?”
	“No.”
	“Then where…”
	“Patience, my boy.” Gregorio could hear a hint of humor in the saint’s voice. “Patience. Instead of following the valley north to the Brenner Pass, you will instead follow the Adige River northwest to Meran, and from there you will go to the Reschen Pass. After that, you will go to Füssen. There you will wait for God to provide. You will know the time and the person.”
	“I…don’t understand.”
	“You don’t need to understand,” the saint said. “Only obey, and be faithful.”
	With that, the image of the saint began to shrink, quickly reducing to a single point of light, which after a moment winked out.
	Gregorio descended to deep slumber, and knew nothing more until the light of dawn flooded through the small window in the wall above him.
	***
	Gregorio awoke to the sound and odor of piss splashing in the chamberpot. He groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Davit looked over at him after buttoning up his culottes. “Good morning to you. Are you ready for the ride to Brenner Pass?”
	“Ummm…” Gregorio slowly rose, joints stiff. He shook his head. “Umm, I don’t know about that.”
	Davit turned and looked at him full on. “What do you mean?”
	“About that…I may have had a vision last night.”
	Davit’s eyebrows rose and he put his hands on his hips. “Truly? You may have had a vision? You aren’t sure?”
	Gregorio stepped over to the chamberpot as Davit moved out of his way. He unbuttoned his culottes and proceeded to empty his own bladder into the chamberpot. The pungent odor of fresh piss increased. He finished, buttoned his culottes, straightened his shirt and jacket, and turned to face Davit, who hadn’t moved.
	“What I saw…it wasn’t like the visions described in the stories of the saints. It might have been a vision…it might have been a dream…I don’t know.”
	“Are you sure it wasn’t the garlic from last night’s sausage?” Davit sounded skeptical.
	“Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t remember my dreams, much. It was Saint Jerome again, and I remember most of it. I think. I don’t think it was a dream.”
	“You sure it wasn’t a fever? Your marsh fever coming back?”
	“No.” Gregorio frowned, as he pushed away the thought that it might have been a fever. “I think it was a vision.” He wished he sounded surer of it to himself.
	“Fine,” Davit said. “So since you’re telling me about it, does it change our plans?”
	Gregorio nodded. “The saint told me that I’m not to go to Innsbruck.”
	After a moment, Davit simply responded with, “And?”
	“I’m supposed to go north to Meran, and then more north to go through and over the Reschen Pass and keep going until I get to Füssen.”
	Davit tilted his head. “Hmm. All right, I didn’t expect that, but actually, that’s not a bad idea. Since you’re from the Innsbruck area originally, if they came looking for you, they would probably come to Innsbruck first. To avoid that, the Reschen route would be the one to take, and it would certainly get you into the Protestant territories faster.”
	Gregorio rocked back on his heels. “Protestant territories? I wasn’t thinking about…” His voice faded away as Davit shook his head.
	“As long as you’re carrying what you’re carrying, and as long as you are afraid of the Spaniard, you need to get north of the Alps and out of Catholic dominated Austria or Tyrol. Füssen is in Bavaria, which is also Catholic, but that land is in such turmoil right now you can probably sneak through with little trouble.” He nodded. “That should work, but it does mean we won’t be able to take you any farther than Meran. You will be on your own after that.”
	Gregorio swallowed at the thought of traveling alone again, but he nodded his head. “I understand. You’ve done more for me than I had any right to expect.”
	Davit’s mouth quirked, and he shrugged. “Eh, when Father says do something I’ve learned to do it, even if I don’t think it’s a good idea. He’s almost always right. Besides, as he said, if we can put a stick in Borja’s eye without causing ourselves trouble, it’s worth doing. Now,” he clapped Gregorio on the shoulder, “let’s go find some food and figure out how to get to Meran.”
	***
	In the end, it took most of the day to make the trip to Meran. The road was no worse than the roads they had driven from Verona to Bolzen, and it was only about twenty miles distance between the two cities. If the way had been on flat ground, they would have been there in early afternoon. But there was enough of an uphill grade to the road to cause the horses to have to work harder, so the drovers had to stop more frequently to water the horses and allow them to rest. So the sun was close to the western horizon when they entered Meran.
	It was a smaller city than most that Gregorio had gone through on this trip. It looked a bit shabbier, as well.
	“Have you been to Meran before?” Gregorio asked Sansone, who was riding in the back of the wagon with him.
	“I haven’t. Bartolomeo hasn’t. I don’t know about Messer Davit.”
	“Nor have I,” Davit said over his shoulder. “But my father has, so I know a few names and places to try.” Gregorio drew some comfort from that as they approached the city gates.
	The first inn they tried had room for them, which was a relief for Gregorio. He was tired of riding in the wagon.
	Dinner was cheap barley bread and cheap red wine. Gregorio didn’t mind. His chapterhouse in Roma hadn’t done much better many nights.
	Gregorio ended up sharing a room with Davit, while Sansone and Bartolomeo shared another. He was a little nervous about falling asleep after the events of the previous night, but once his eyes closed he remembered nothing until they opened the next morning.
	Breakfast the next morning was more barley bread and cheap wine. Davit had a word with the host before he sat down, and immediately afterward the host sent his son running out the door. About the time they finished their bread, the boy was back leading an older man with a short grizzled beard. The host brought him to their table. “This is Rudolph, the guide I mentioned to you.”
	Davit hooked a stool over from another table with his foot. “Please, sit down. Have some wine.” The host put another cup on the table and Davit proceeded to pour wine into it and push it to Rudolph.
	“Grazie,” Rudolph pronounced before lifting the cup, guzzling the wine, and thumping the empty cup back on the table with an “Ah,” of satisfaction. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then looked over at Davit. “Joseph says you need a guide. Where to and for how long?”
	Davit pointed a finger at Gregorio. “My friend here needs to go to Füssen, so he needs someone to take him over Reschen Pass. I can’t take him. I need to be in Innsbruck in a couple of days. Joseph says you know the pass, and that you have riding mules. Are you available?” Gregorio noticed that Davit’s Hochdeutsch was as good as his own, even to having the same Tyrolean accent.
	“Hmm…” Rudolph hummed as he scratched his beard. “Two days to get to the other side of the pass. I have a job next week that will take several days. Nothing right now, though.”
	“How about leaving today?” Davit asked, refilling Rudolph’s cup.
	Rudolph lifted the cup and took a gulp, wiped his mouth and mustache again, and shrugged. “I can go today if all I have to do is take him over the pass. I need to be back to Meran in four days, though, so that’s all I can do.”
	Davit looked at Gregorio and raised an eyebrow. Gregorio took a deep breath, and nodded. The thought of being left on his own made him nervous, but he’d have to do it sooner or later anyway. He couldn’t expect Davit and Sansone and Bartolomeo to support him for much longer.
	“How soon can you be ready?” Davit looked back at Rudolph.
	“I’ll be outside the front door in an hour.”
	“How much?”
	They dickered on the price for a short time, but it wasn’t long before Rudolph announced, “Done,” and they shook hands.
	“Half when Gregorio is on the mule, and half on the other side of the pass.”
	“Done and done,” Rudolph stated. He grabbed his cup, gulped down the rest of his wine, let out an amazing belch, and stood. “I’ll be back by an hour’s time,” he said, then stumped out the door.
	Davit looked over at Gregorio and switched to Italian. “I didn’t ask if you can ride. Can you?”
	Gregorio shrugged. “I rode a horse all the way from Innsbruck to Roma three years ago. The first few days were hard, though. This shouldn’t be too bad, should it? Just a few hours to the other side of the pass?”
	“You’ll be sore tomorrow,” Davit replied, “but it shouldn’t be too bad the day after.”
	Gregorio shrugged again. “As God wills it.” The others nodded.
	The host brought a sack over and set it and a small waterskin on the table. Gregorio looked up, puzzled. “Bread and water. You’ll need those in the next few days,” Davit said.
	They spent the next little while talking about all the places that Davit had been to, working for his father. The list surprised Gregorio, both in its length and in its breadth, with stops from Spain to Turkey.
	“Where have you not been that you would like to go to?” Gregorio asked.
	Davit shrugged. “The Holy Land first, and then maybe Egypt. Other than that, maybe Grantville. I’d really like to see the things they say came back from the future.”
	Gregorio thought about that. “I’d go with you to all three places,” he said. “But I doubt I’ll ever be able to.”
	“Likewise,” Davit said, pouring the last drops of the wine into Gregorio’s cup as Rudolph entered the room. “Drink up. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”
	Gregorio stood, drained his cup, and shook hands with his three traveling companions. “Thank you for all your help. Go with God, all of you.”
	Davit handed him three large silver coins. “This is for Rudolph once you get to the other side.”
	“I can’t take this,” Gregorio protested.
	“You will,” Davit said, his eyebrows lowering. “I’m going to tell my Father that you did, so don’t make a liar out of me.” He cracked a smile, clapped a hand on Gregorio’s shoulder, and said, “Now go on, get on that mule and up the mountain.”
	Gregorio stuffed the coins in his jacket pocket, picked up his knapsack, and followed Rudolph out the door. Two large black and brown mules stood outside the door, both wearing saddles. Both turned their heads to look at him.
	“Give me your bags.” Rudolph held out his hands, and Gregorio passed over the bread sack and the waterskin. Rudolph continued to hold out one hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Gregorio handed him the knapsack. The guide stepped over to the second mule, hung the bread sack and waterskin from hooks on each side of the front of the saddle, then tied the knapsack to a crupper ring on the back of the saddle. Then he beckoned to Gregorio, and he followed Rudolph around to the left side of the second mule. “Can you ride?”
	“Yes,” Gregorio replied, “but it’s been a while.”
	“Can you mount?”
	Gregorio looked at the side of the mule. It was tall. He wasn’t sure he could get up on it by himself. “I…I’m not sure.”
	Rudolph turned to face him, bent down a little, and laced his fingers together. “Grab the front of the saddle, put your left foot in my hands, and jump up with your right foot.”
	It took two tries, but before long Gregorio was seated on the saddle, fumbling to put his feet in the stirrups. Rudolph checked the stirrup lengths and adjusted them, then looked over at Davit and held out his hand. Davit dropped coins in it, which Rudolph shoved in his pocked.
	Rudolph looked up at Gregorio. “Since you haven’t ridden in a while, I’m going to tie your reins to my saddle on Lightning there.” He proceeded to do that. “Thunder—that’s your mule—will just follow Lightning up the trail to the pass. You just hold on to the saddle and lean forward a little bit. We’ve made this trip so often they could walk it in their sleep. You’ll be fine.” Gregorio gulped, nodded, and grabbed the front of the saddle as Rudolph stepped up to the lead mule and swung lithely into his saddle. He looked back over his shoulder. “You ready?”
	Gregorio nodded, loosed one hand to give a quick wave to Davit and the others, then grabbed the saddle again as Rudolph gave a click with his tongue and nudged Lightning with his heels to get him into motion. Thunder belied his name, and followed after tamely.
	***
	The sun was past its zenith on the second day when Rudolph brought Lightning to a halt and Thunder stopped obligingly with his nose almost touching Lightning’s tail. The guide dismounted and walked back to look up at Gregorio.
	“This is where I leave you, my friend.”
	Gregorio looked back over his shoulder. They were about a quarter-mile or so past the north opening of the pass, so this was about what Davit had bargained for. He nodded, grabbed the front of the saddle, and tried to swing his right leg back over the mule’s rump to dismount. Thunder shifted position a bit just as Gregorio’s foot hit the ground, and he lost his balance and started to fall, only to stop as Rudolph grabbed his arm.
	“Steady, there.” Rudolph supported Gregorio until he disengaged his left foot from its stirrup and placed it on the ground alongside the right.
	Gregorio sighed. “Thank you. I guess I’m not a very good rider.”
	“Oh, you did better than most,” Rudolph said with a grin. “Now wait just a moment while I gather your bags.” A moment later the bread sack, water skin, and knapsack were resting on the ground by his feet, and Rudolph was holding out his hand. “My pay, if you would.”
	Gregorio pulled the coins out of his jacket pocket and dropped them in the guide’s palm. Rudolph closed his fingers over them and grinned before he shoved them into his own pocket. He gave a nod of his own, gathered Lightning’s reins in his hand, and swung up onto the mule’s saddle.
	“How far to Füssen from here?” Gregorio asked, using his hand to shade his eyes as he looked up at Rudolph.
	“You are basically in Bavaria now,” Rudolph replied. “If you follow this main road, Füssen will be about three day’s walk. There are villages every few miles, and you can make sure you’re on the right road by asking.” He looked up at the sky. “You may not make it to the first village by nightfall. Once you get to the bottom of the slope, about two or three hours along the road there’s a large copse of willow trees near the east side of the road by a stream. There’s a small shelter in the copse. You could sleep there tonight if you need to. Watch your step going down the slope, mind you. That would be a nasty fall. God go with you, my friend.”
	“And with you,” Gregorio replied.
	Rudolph reined Lightning around to face back up toward the pass, and nudged him in the flanks with his heels. The mule started moving, and his fellow followed along behind. Rudolph didn’t look back, but after a few steps he waved a hand up by his shoulder.
	Gregorio waved back. He watched the guide and the mules until they entered the pass, then turned and faced down the mountain slope. The slope wasn’t horribly steep, but the road wavered back and forth across the face of it. “That’s got to be easier to walk, or to take wagons up,” he muttered. “And as stiff as my legs are from the riding, I’m not going to take the hard way. A mile or so to the bottom, maybe.” He sighed. “Ah, well, the sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll get to the bottom.”
	He put his arms through the knapsack straps and hefted it up on his back, slung the bread sack from one shoulder and the waterskin from the other, thinking of Davit’s provision of both with thankfulness, and started walking.

Chapter 8
 
Füssen
 
	Four days later Gregorio stood in the evening twilight looking at the Abbey of St. Mang in Füssen. There were several buildings, including a basilica. It was smaller than St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, of course, and the remaining complex was smaller than the Vatican Palace, but it was still large enough to be impressive. And it frightened him. It was a Benedictine abbey, while he belonged to an Augustinian order, but the presence of a large religious community in the town he was supposed to find a residence in worried him. He had no idea who they aligned with—Pope Urban or Cardinal Borja—but he couldn’t take any chances. He couldn’t approach them. He would have to find some other place to reside, to hide himself and his precious burden.
	“Impressive, is it not?”
	Gregorio jumped a bit when someone spoke right beside him. He looked over to see a smallish man in a Franciscan’s gray robe smiling at him.
	“Yes, I suppose it is.”
	“One has to wonder what could have been done for the poor with all the gold it took to build it, though.”
	Gregorio nodded. The Franciscan pursed his lips and shook his head, then continued on down the street.
	As Gregorio turned to walk away, a wave of dizziness fell over him, and he staggered. He prevented a fall only by putting a hand on the wall of the building he was standing in front of. His bread sack was empty—he’d eaten the last of it the previous morning. And getting caught in a rainstorm the day before that had left him chilled. His burden hadn’t been harmed…Gregorio had checked that. Fortunately, the oiled leather of the knapsack had shed the water rather well, and he’d slung the knapsack across his chest and hunched over it to shelter it as he’d walked and looked for shelter of his own, so the great book was dry. Too bad the same couldn’t have been said for him. He was thoroughly wet and cold by the time he’d found shelter, and two days later he was still feeling the effects. He hadn’t felt warm in that whole time.
	When he straightened, Gregorio could still see the Franciscan, so he started following him. He didn’t know why…it just seemed right.
	The twilight started to deepen, and Gregorio found himself shivering, first as he moved through dark patches of shade, and then more so as the evening breezes blew across him. He was dry, but he wasn’t warm, even with his jacket buttoned to the top. The shivering became continuous, and the sense of being chilled grew stronger and more painful.
	He managed to keep his eyes on the Franciscan, who was still ahead of him but not walking particularly fast. They were in fact approaching the outer edge of the city. The street they were on led to one of the city gates, but the Franciscan turned left into a small street, not much better than an alleyway. Gregorio tried to hurry his steps, which wasn’t easy with the constant shivering, but he made it to the corner in time to see the monk pause in front of a door set into the front of a small building, cross himself, and then step inside.
	Gregorio made his way down the side street to the building the Franciscan had entered. Both the building and the door were plain and unornamented, much like the buildings to either side of them. Plain but for the carved wooden crucifix that was mounted on the door. Gregorio gazed at that, wondering at its presence. After another shiver, he signed himself with the cross much as the Franciscan had done, then mustered the courage to step forward and knock on the door.
	Just as the door opened, another wave of dizziness fell on Gregorio, this time of such speed and strength that he fell forward into the arms of the very surprised Franciscan.
	“Wha…” the monk exclaimed as he managed to catch Gregorio before he fell to the floor. Gregorio was surprised at the strength of the smaller man, but was grateful for it as well.
	“Sorry,” Gregorio slurred. “Dizzy.”
	“Come this way, then,” the Franciscan said, guiding Gregorio to a nearby chair and helping him slide his knapsack off and settle into it. He stepped away to close the door, then returned to bend over Gregorio. “Are you all right, my friend?”
	The dizziness was beginning to ebb, but Gregorio didn’t shake his head. “Maybe.”
	“Would some wine help?”
	“Not now,” Gregorio mumbled. “Haven’t eaten since yesterday sunrise.”
	“Ah. Well, we can do something about that.”
	There was a table beside Gregorio. The monk stepped away for a moment, then returned with two bowls, a roll of bread, and an open wine bottle. He tore the bread into small pieces into one of the bowls which he set beside Gregorio, then poured some of the wine into the other bowl. He drew a stool up before Gregorio, took the bowl of wine in one hand and took a piece of bread from the first bowl. Dipping it in the wine, he held it to Gregorio’s lips.
	“Eat, my friend.”
	Gregorio opened his mouth and allowed the Franciscan to place the bread in it. He chewed and swallowed, only to find the next piece waiting before him. Piece followed piece, until the monk said, “That’s enough for now,” setting the wine bowl in the other.
	Looking back at Gregorio, the Franciscan said, “I am Brother Wilhelm, from Munich originally, of the order of St. Francis.” From the look of him, he was older than Gregorio, at least thirty, maybe older. “And you are?”
	“I am Brother Gregorio, born in Innsbruck originally, but most recently from Rome. Of an Augustinian order.”
	Brother Wilhelm’s eyebrows rose. “Rome? Were you…”
	Gregorio looked down. “I was in the Vatican infirmary the day the Spaniards attacked. I fled the city the next day. So many dead.”
	The Franciscan looked sad, brought the crucifix that hung around his neck to his lips, then said, “Requiescat in pace.”
	Gregorio brought out his own crucifix, kissed it, and repeated the other monk’s words.
	“So do you know anything of the Pope?” Wilhelm asked.
	“No. I’ve been trying to get out of Italy since then, and have had no contact with any clergy or others. I didn’t dare.”
	“Ah. So you are here now, though, north of the Alps. Can you make contact now?”
	“I’m afraid to,” Gregorio said. “I didn’t go to the abbey because I’m afraid someone would send word to the Spaniards.”
	The Franciscan’s mouth twisted. “I don’t know that they would…but I don’t know that they wouldn’t, either. So I guess I understand. What did you do?”
	“I was a scriptorian in the library. They killed the library curator and a messenger in the library. I’m afraid they might want me.” Gregorio forbore mentioning the great book. He didn’t want to trust anyone about that.
	“So why are you here?” Wilhelm waved a hand. “Not Füssen—here—with me?”
	“I need to wait for someone here in Füssen—someone not Spanish—who will come looking for me.” Gregorio shivered. “And I am ill, I am afraid. Not plague,” he said, as the Franciscan straightened in alarm. “Marsh fever. I caught it in Roma. That’s why I was in the infirmary when…And it came back while I was in Florence.” He shivered again.
	Wilhelm leaned forward and rested a hand on Gregorio’s forehead. “You do feel a bit feverish. You should go to the hospital at the abbey.”
	“No!” Gregorio said, jerking upright. “No. I cannot go there. Let me stay here, please.”
	“All right,” Wilhelm said. “I will make you a pallet by the fireplace and let you rest there with hot stones for your stomach and feet. Maybe that will help.”
	“Thank you,” Gregorio said, slumping against the back of the chair and dropping a hand down to touch the knapsack.
	It was only a few moments later when Gregorio found himself on that pallet, with his knapsack under his head and hot stones wrapped in scraps of toweling against his belly and feet. He looked up as Wilhelm laid a blanket over him. “Thank you, Brother,” he murmured as his eyes closed themselves despite his intention to look Wilhelm in the face.
	“Rest, Brother,” he heard as if from far away. “We’ll talk more later.”

Part Two

Chapter 9
Archie
 
July 1635
Jena
 
	It was the nicest day we’d had yet in the year 1635. The sun was shining, there were only a very few wispy clouds in the sky, and it was warm enough that a man could walk around in the weather with naught on but a heavy shirt if he was of such a mind. Me, I was wearing a light jacket, stout enough to cut the breeze that was already hinting at the evening chill, and full enough to cover the Suhl revolver that had recently replaced my wheellock pistols. And it was light on my feet I felt without having to traipse the weight of the pair of them around.
	I was peregrinating down the road from Master Wulff’s house toward one of my favorite taverns, The Gray Goose, about to put myself outside of something the tavern called “Swedish meatballs.” I had my doubts if the meatballs or the recipe for the making of them had ever seen Sweden, but stranger things had come out of Grantville, and I confess that I had developed a taste for them.
	A block or so before I reached the tavern a burly brindled tomcat swaggered out from between two buildings and proceeded down the street before me. He was missing the top half of his left ear, there were a few fearsome scars visible on his coat, and his tail had a kink in it, so he was obviously a man of parts, moving with confidence about his business. I admired him as he swaggered, tail at a jaunty angle. He reminded me of my cousin Rory MacDonald—on my mother’s side of the family, obviously. We had companioned each other for fourteen years in Captain—later Colonel—Farquhar’s company. He was dead these four years gone, which still left some grief in my heart over that big bold braw bonny man, but enough time had flowed under the bridge of life that I could remember now the good times we’d had with a smile.
	At the next cross-street, the cat turned left, and I touched two fingers to the brim of my hat in respect of his élan.
	“Archie!”
	I stopped in place and turned to see who was calling me. It had to be me that was being called, because even in the year 1635 I was the only Archibald in Jena. There were a mort of Scotsmen in the Germanies right then, but even among them the name is uncommon, and among the native Germans it’s even rarer, so a Scot-German half-breed like myself carrying a name from Clan MacDonald finds himself standing out at even the best of times.
	I didn’t see anyone in particular, so I turned back and continued on my way.
	“Archie, you son of a sow, wait!”
	Now whoever it was that was bellowing my name was getting personal, so I stopped and turned again, this time with my hands on my hips and my hat pulled low over my eyes. Sometimes a man needs to have a bit of an edge to his stance to keep others respectful. And being half descended from Clan MacDonald seems to bring that need forward more often than one might think.
	Looking back up the street, I finally sighted my friend Heinrich limping along on a crutch. I chuckled rather much as I waited for him to reach me. When he stopped before me, puffing like a wind-blown horse, I shook my head. “Look at you now,” I said, spreading my hands before me, “if you’re not just the Sphinx’s Riddle In the very flesh.”
	“And what foolishness are you spouting now, you crazed Scot, you?” Heinrich managed to huff out.
	“Why, the oldest question of the ages, my friend: What goes about on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?”
	“What? What are you maundering about now?”
	“Play the game, Heinrich. And where did you hear such a word as maunder?”
	“From you, the last time you were telling me lies about your soldier days.”
	“Ah.” I nodded. “That would do it. Talking about the past always enriches my wordcraft.”
	“Especially when well lubricated with beer, I’ve noticed.” Heinrich let loose with a loud “haw-haw” laugh after that.
	“Enough of the small talk,” I said, putting my hands back on my hips. “Play the game, Heinrich, or pay the forfeit.”
	“All right, all right,” he said, “keep your trousers on. What was it you said again?”
	“What goes about on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?”
	“Are you sure that’s what you meant? That makes no sense, soldier.”
	I put my hands back on my hips. “That’s a classic riddle from the ancient Greeks, old man. I had it straight from Colonel Farquhar his own self, and him a learned man taught by Jesuits and all. You cannot blame that one on me for the telling of it or for you not knowing the answer of it.”
	“Ancient Greeks, my left hand,” he muttered, waving that hand with its missing middle finger between us. “It sounds like ancient drunkards to me.”
	“I might say that it takes one to know one, friend Heinrich,” I said with a laugh, “but that might come too close to proving you right. For the last time, play the game or pay the forfeit.”
	“All right, all right. Who put fleas in your crotch, anyway?” Heinrich muttered a bit as he shifted his weight on the crutch. “Um, well…I’d say the answer is one of those little dogs the gypsies use in some of their shows.”
	“What?” I was not believing what I was hearing.
	“You know, the ones they sometimes put little costumes on. They come prancing out on all fours, just wiggling like they’ve got Hell’s own fleas on them, and they run around and jump over stuff and each other and through stuff and all, and then there’s always at least a couple of them that pop up on their back legs and walk and dance around for a while, and you know there’s always one of them that pulls a leg up and gimps around on three legs to make the trainer look stupid. So four legs, two legs, three legs, it’s a gypsy dog.”
	I pushed my hat back on my head and stared at him in surprise. “I’m amazed, I am.”
	“What?” It was his turn with the bewildered expression.
	“That is an answer. It is indeed an answer. And by your lights, it is a good answer. It’s not the right answer, mind you,” I grinned at him, “but it is an answer. And I’m tickled enough by it that I’ll not enforce all the forfeit. You buy the Swedish Meatballs.”
	“Only if you buy the beer,” he shot back.
	“Fair enough,” I said. “But I’ve seen you drink, so you’ll get either one of the good stuff or two of the cheap stuff.”
	“Two it is,” Heinrich said with a grin as he turned and started stumping toward the tavern with his crutch leading the way. “Come on, Archie, keep up, lad.”
	A few minutes later we were seated in The Gray Goose, beers at hand, watching as Heinrich’s nephew—his wife’s nephew, actually—put bowls of meatballs before us. We already had our spoons out, and wasted no time in wielding them.
	I finished first, licking my spoon off and burnishing it on my sleeve before returning it to my pocket. I picked up my mug and grinned at Heinrich. “Thanks for the repast, old man. I enjoyed it—and I finished first.”
	Heinrich swallowed a huge bite, and licked the gravy off his lips before he said, “Of course you got done eating first. You have more teeth than I do.”
	I spent the next few minutes chuckling to myself. Mind you, it was true…poor Heinrich was missing half the teeth that used to fill the space behind his lips and I have somewhat more than that. It was still funny, however. But ere long he finished the last of what was in his bowl and had cleaned and stowed his own spoon away. His nephew placed his second mug of cheap beer before him and carried off the empty bowls.
	“So,” I said, setting my own mug down and licking the beer from my mustache, “what was it that you wanted from me so badly that you needs must bellow after me in the street like a love-lorn aurochs?”
	“What?” Heinrich frowned and placed a hand on his chest. “Can a man not greet his greatest friend whom he hasn’t seen in donkey’s years without being lambasted with such calumny?” I stared at him in wonder. “What?” he repeated.
	I shook my head. “That is perhaps the finest string of words I’ve heard you utter, my friend. Even the clan bard would be admiring of it. I doff my hat to you.”
	And I did. I stood up, lifted my hat from my head and gave a short bow to him.
	“Sit down, you great fool,” he said with a laugh.
	I settled my hat on my head with care, resumed my rightful place, and lifted my mug for a long swallow, which left little indeed inside it. I cradled the mug in both hands, and looked at Heinrich. “So, what do you have to tell me of the doings of the civic watch? Any good stories? Anything I can use to earn a groschen or three?”
	“I’m afraid not much, Archie. A few pick-pockets caught, a pimp arrested for abusing his only girl, a couple of lads caught truant from their grammar school.”
	“That’s just pathetic,” I muttered.
	Heinrich nodded. “It is. Nothing like the old days. I never thought I’d say this, Archie, but I miss the old Upright Pig. Between the up-timers burning it down and all the up-timers that came for the university, well, Jena is getting almost civilized. They’re even talking about fixing the places where the city wall collapsed.”
	The Upright Pig was burned to the ground in October of 1631. I remembered the event well, as I hadn’t been long in the city at the time. Some of the more important patrons of that worst of the worst of taverns had taken it into their heads to object to Gretchen Richter’s doings, particularly after she shot one of them—the details were never very clear to most of the townspeople as to why, but knowing the sort of folk he favored, most of them thought he probably deserved it. The New United States Army was in the neighborhood at the time, and took objections of their own, and when they were done making their objections, the Upright Pig was a pile of smoldering coals and ashes. Of course, the bulk of the army officers were up-timers, so Heinrich was right in a way. Twice in an hour’s span. That almost had me looking around for a unicorn, it did.
	No one had rebuilt the place, oddly enough. In fact, I don’t think anyone had done anything with the land. Some kind of legal issue among various parties with various claims to it, I’d heard. I shrugged. Such happens more than one might imagine. It’s why Master Titus’ brother Augustus Nero Domitian Wulff made a fine living as an attorney both in Grantville and in Magdeburg.
	If I was of a mind to run a tavern, I might explore that situation. But alas, I’ve seen from my side of the bar too much of what too many tavern keepers have to deal with to even consider such a nonsense.
	“You see anything interesting out at the turnpike gate to the city?”
	Heinrich started to shake his head, then stopped and narrowed his eyes. “In truth, perhaps. I doubt me if you can make anything of it, but we have seen more clergy riding to and through Jena the last week or so than we’ve ever seen. Foreigners from the south, mostly.”
	“Clergy?” This was a bit intriguing. “What type?”
	“Romans, I think. Some in formal cassocks. Some few in regular clothes, but you can tell. They have that air about them—Jesuits, I’d wager.”
	“Hmm.” I combed my fingers through my beard while I thought. “Do you know where they’ve gone or who they’ve talked to?”
	“A couple of them asked how to find some of the university professors, but other than that, no.”
	“Hmm,” I repeated, switching hands on my beard. “Perhaps Master Titus will be interested in the hearing of this.”
	Heinrich shrugged his shoulder. “Stranger things have happened, I’d wager.” He took another long pull at his mug.
	“Aye, and if you did, you’d likely win the wager this time.” I picked up my mug and finished the last few drops in it. Setting it down, I wiped my mustache on my sleeve and stood. “So I’ll be taking myself off to Master Titus and see if I can be enlivening his day. Enjoy your beer, old man.”
	Heinrich grinned at me. “I’ll be doing that, Archie, and all the more so since it was your coin that paid for it.” We both laughed at that, I clapped him on the shoulder, and out the door I went.

Chapter 10
 
	For all that I had a purpose now, I was in no great hurry to be about it. The sun was shining and the day was neighboring on to warm, I’d just eaten a flavorful and filling lunch, and had a mug of what was, if not the best beer in Jena, certainly one of the better ones. I stuffed my hands in my belt, and walked broadly down the street, smiling at all I passed and exchanging nods of greeting with those I knew and some as I didn’t.
	I kept an eye out for the tomcat, but didn’t see him on the walk back. I always liked animals like that, full of the joy of life and taking it as it came to them. That’s one of the reasons I liked my warhorse Cortana, which I still had at that time. On the field, he was as fierce as a mount could be, and I was alive today because more than once he’d had the saving of my life in battle. But away from the field, he was a lively mount that enjoyed being ridden and enjoyed a manger of sweet hay and a good roll in the grass.
	I arrived back at the front door to Master Titus’ dwelling. For Jena, it qualified as a mansion, being three stories tall and having more rooms in it than my mother’s clan could fill. Yet the outside of it was…ordinary, I’d say was the best word. It was nowhere nearly as elaborate as houses and manors I had seen in France that were owned by families who were not of a place to even hold the head of Master Titus’ horse, much less speak to him as an equal. But it fit where it was placed on the broadest street in town, and no one seemed to look at it as overdone or overweening. In fact, more than one of the passersby on the street before it seemed to look at it with a quiet pride, which I could understand.
	I waited for a matron and her maids to pass before I stepped up and entered the house. I took my hat off, but before I could do anything with it Ephraim plucked it from my hands, gave it a quick dust-off with a small brush he plucked from his belt, and placed it atop the knob of the hallway coat stand. “Good afternoon, Master Archie,” he said as he stepped back to view his handiwork, to which he bestowed a nod.
	I sighed. I did. “How many times must I tell you, Ephraim, that I’m not a master? Calling me just plain ordinary Archie is good enough for the likes of me.” We had this discussion at least once a week, we did.
	Ephraim smiled and nodded. “I understand, Master Archie, but the master of the house…” that would be one Tiberius Claudius Titus Wulff, my current employer, “…feels otherwise, and as long as that is his practice, it shall be mine as well. It makes him happy, which makes me happy, and it does, despite your feelings, in fact accord you your due. Now if you ever manage to convince Master Tiberius to change his practice, then I shall consider changing mine.” He took his brush and flicked it across the shoulder of my jacket, undoubtedly consigning some speck of detritus visible only to his butler’s vision to the floor where it would be swept up by his broom at a later time. He leaned forward a little and said in a confiding voice, “Good luck with that.” And at that, he tucked his brush back in his belt and resumed his rounds.
	I sighed again. Once again I had lost the volley. I should be used to it by now. “And where is the master of the house?” I called out.
	“Where he always is at one of the clock in an afternoon,” Ephraim’s voice floated back down the hallway.
	“In his library,” we finished together.
	Before I began the trek to the library lair of my friend and employer whom I knew as Titus rather than the more pompous Tiberius that Ephraim foisted on him, I looked at my hat, and mused on the fact that I can almost always tell if a man has served on the field of battle simply by the style of hat he wears. If he wears a narrow-brimmed high-crowned hat, he is a city creature, or even worse, an inhabitant of one of the courts of the nobles and high-ranked clergy. But if he wears a wide-brimmed hat, one made to shade the eyes in sun and rain, he has almost undoubtedly been a man who followed orders or gave orders in the field. I’ve met a few exceptions in my years, but not many. So my hat suits me, and it pleases me that Titus allows it pride of place in his entryway.
	It also pleased me to find that I could still walk the two flights of stairs up to the library on the second floor without sounding like a wheezing bagpipe.
	The door to the library was standing open, and I peered in to see Master Titus intently examining a page in a codex with a magnifying glass. A moment later, a very broad grin spread across his face. “Hah! I was right. It is a chi and not a gamma. That makes so much more sense.”
	Since my employer seemed to be in a good mood, I tapped on the doorframe. He looked up. “Oh, hello, Archie. Come in and be seated.”
	I followed his directions, placing my nether regions in the very fancy but surprisingly comfortable chair placed directly before his desk. He never seemed to be concerned about the possibility of dirt being deposited on the magnificent embroidery of the chair by the seat of my so-common trouser-clad self. “And what has you so happy on this fine afternoon?” I asked.
	“My new magnifying glass is just the thing I needed.” Titus brandished it in my direction. “I was so confused by what appeared to be a random word in this codex,” he laid his hand upon it, “because argo was the name of Jason’s ship in the Argonauts legend, but it made no sense in this text. But with this,” he held up the magnifying glass, “I can see that what I thought was a gamma letter was really a bit of sloppy scribe work. It’s actually a chi letter, only one of the pen strokes of the chi is rather faint—the scribe’s pen was probably running dry and he was too lazy to stop and dip it, and the other penstroke is misplaced a little too far down. Both errors worked together to make it look like a wobbly gamma, but it’s actually a chi. That means the word is actually arxo, which means “I rule,” more or less. That makes much more sense.” He placed a marker in the codex and closed it, then laid the magnifying glass atop it. “And on that note,” he said, “I believe I shall take some wine.”
	He stood and moved to a small side table against the wall between two bookcases. He picked up a decanter, poured two small blown Venetian glasses of very dark wine, and returned to his desk where he set one before me. “Celebrate with me, Archie.
	I picked up the glass, lifted it in his direction, and took a sip. I was sure it was good wine—it had to be, to be in Master Titus’ house—but it was beyond my ability to appreciate it. I drank it with respect, nonetheless, and smiled at Master Titus over the glass. I had finally moved beyond the point of being nervous when holding a glass that was worth more than my horse and my pistols put together. But every time he handed me one of those glasses, I was reminded just how different the very rich were. Even my father in his prime years, or my younger brother now that he had reached his own, would never have used glassware that was actually high art for such casual purposes. I did not even try to guess how much wealth the man had amassed. But I was certain it was more than I could imagine; aye, and more than I could understand, as well.
	For all that, the man had a modest demeanor. Not particularly humble, mind you, but sober in appearance and not a braggart, which I appreciated. God knows that riding in a company of Scots horsemen for fourteen years had brought me up against more than a single braggart. I had been convinced a time or thrice to reason enough with such so as to convince them that humility was indeed a blessed virtue—particularly if it spared them bruises and kept their teeth guarding their tongues.
	“So, Archie,” Titus said as he set his empty glass on his desk, “what news from the city of Jena? Does Satan yet walk to and fro in its streets, and walk up and down in them?”
	That spurred a laugh from my lips, indeed it did. “Reading Job, are we?” I replied. He smiled and spread his hands a bit. “Nay, as to that, I’ll not deny his presence, but at the moment I’d have to say he’s either bored or distracted, for he seems to have left his work to the apprentice demons, who are all thumbs. Other than a stupider than usual pimp beating his only girl and a few older lads sneaking out of grammar school, there’s not much to be had. I may have to take up a trade to keep my horses in hay.”
	“Surely things are not that dire?” Titus said with a smile.
	“Perhaps not,” I said. “But if Satan is not getting bored, I am.” I finished my own wine and placed my glass next to his on his desktop. “I need something to do. It’s been two months since we dealt with the tinker and his debased coinage.”
	Titus sobered and looked at me. “Hmm. On that thought, would you be willing to travel for me?”
	I looked at him, and he appeared to be serious. “I could do that. Mind you, I wouldn’t want it to be for too long or too far. I’m getting old enough I’m afraid that I’d rather not be wearing out my trousers on a saddle.”
	He laughed at that, then sobered again and pulled a page out of a drawer. “I received this yesterday. Honor me with your thoughts about it.”
	I took the page, and immediately recognized it was written in Master Titus’ hand. I raised my eyebrows, turned the page to face him, and looked at him. He chuckled, then said, “I spoke poorly. I should have said I received the original message yesterday. When I decoded it, it yielded what you have in your hand.”
	“Ah,” I replied. “Thank you. That is rather more sensible than my first thought that you had a simulacrum somewhere sending you letters. Titus chuckled again as I began reading the page.
 
THE GREAT BOOK FROM THE EAST HAS LEFT V. THEY ARE CERTAIN IT DID NOT GO SOUTH, OR TO THE SEA. THEY FEAR IT HAS GONE NORTH. SO MANY ARE DEAD GONE. THEY DO NOT KNOW FOR CERTAIN, BUT THEY ARE LOOKING.
 
	“I know not what to make of it, to be truthful.” I held the page up. “Even in plain language, it still seems to read much like a code.”
	“Yes, well, my correspondent is a fearful man,” Titus said. “And that might be understandable, since he lives in the shadow of the Vatican in Rome.”
	“Ah. Now that,” I said, “makes things a mort clearer. Something has left the Vatican?”
	“The current lords of the Vatican,” Master Titus said dryly, “have apparently discovered that they have lost a great treasure. It has been well known among certain select bibliophiles that the Vatican possessed a great codex of the entire Bible. It has been in their library for nigh on to two hundred years, but is certainly much older than that. The most educated guess that it came to Italy from Constantinople just before the Turks took that great city, and it found its way to the Vatican. It was the pearl of the Vatican’s library. But now, after the Spaniards’ assault and the death and disappearance of so many, it appears that they cannot find it.”
	“And the Jesuits are searching for it, thinking that it is going or has already gone over the Alps?” I said, jumping after my own conclusion.
	He pursed his lips. “At least some Jesuits are probably looking for it. Keep in mind that Pope Urban and Father General Vitelleschi appear to have escaped. The Father General will certainly have his own concerns, but I also doubt that he would approve of any of his order delivering such a prize to Cardinal Borja.”
	I nodded. “If they can get word out.”
	Titus quirked his mouth for a moment. “They are Jesuits. Do not doubt their competence and adaptability.”
	“True.” A thought came to me. “And that may actually have a bearing on the one piece of interesting news I gathered this morning.” And so I related to him Heinrich’s observations about the insurge of clergy in Jena.
	Titus leaned back in his chair and placed his fingers together before his chin. “He was certain that those not in cassocks were Jesuits?”
	I grinned at him. “Yes. He said they had that ‘certain air’ about them.”
	Titus snorted. “I dare say. Most likely Spanish or Poles, then. Those would be the ones who would chance to follow Borja rather than Urban and Vitelleschi. Possibly some French or a few renegade Walloons. But even if these aren’t, some of them will be, and soon. So, to reconsider my original question, would you be willing to travel for me?”
	I looked around the office. “The problem with peace is that it’s boring. No one has assaulted me for months. No one has tried to swindle you in ages. And I cannot remember the last time someone fired a pistol at me. I have barely been earning my princely stipend. So a good long ride may be the best thing for me. When, where, and for how long?”
	“I have agents in Vienna, Innsbruck, Munich, and Nürnberg.” Titus made a face, pressing his lips together. “But the man I had in Füssen watching the Reschen Pass had the temerity and ill fortune to die.”
	“How dare he?” I exclaimed. “No Epiphany gift for him.”
	Titus chuckled for a moment, then sighed. “All levity aside, he was a good dependable man, and I haven’t found another to replace him.”
	“So you want me to go south?”
	He nodded. “If you would.”
	“Now?”
	Titus tilted his head to one side. “I think the day after tomorrow will be soon enough. That will give you time to prepare, and enjoy at least a couple of Estéban’s dinners before you leave.”
	“Indeed.” Titus’ cook was a wiry little Catalan who had followed him home from a merchant trip years ago—long before I arrived. The man was a wizard among his pots and pans. He could make even turnips taste good. Being away from his kitchen would be one of the great hardships of the journey, without a doubt.
	“So what is my charge? Besides looking for this wandering book, that is?”
	Titus shrugged. “Certainly keep eyes and ears open for the codex, but don’t let that be your sole focus. Keep your eyes open. Make note of who you see traveling. Make note of any interesting stories or rumors. Feel free to spend money on messengers. Turmoil in Italy could be bad news in more than one way.”
	“It’s your silver I’ll be spending,” I said. “Finding messengers most likely won’t be too hard. Finding reliable messengers, now…” I let my voice die away.
	His mouth quirked. “Granted. I’ll see what I can do about that.”
	“Well,” I said as I rose to my feet, “if I’m going to be riding toward Füssen in two days, I have some work to do. I’d best be after that.”
	“Well enough,” Titus said. “I’ll have traveling funds for you tomorrow.” I turned toward the door. “And Archie?” I looked back at him. “Buy an additional pistol. I insist.”

Chapter 11
The J-Team
 
Grantville
 
	Father Augustus Heinzerling, SJ, opened the front door to the clergy house associated with St. Mary’s Church in Grantville. He smiled at the seemingly young man waiting on the porch, although he noted that the increasing wrinkles around his eyes definitely belied his apparent youth. Of course, Augustus thought, his own appearance gave no longer gave any hint of youth: broad-shouldered, craggy face, and an increasing amount of silver in his own beard and long hair. He held open the screen door.
	“Come in, Nick, come in.” Nicholas Smithson, SJ—for at least a little while longer—stepped into the house and waited for Augustus to close the door. “This way,” the older man said, leading the way to the residence’s parlor, where they joined their third companion in the comfortable chairs, each with a mug of beer at hand.
	“Nick,” Father Athanasius Kircher, SJ, said with a nod. “Good to see you. It’s been a little while.”
	Nick pulled his mug away from his lips long enough to nod back and say, “Sorry, the Society of St. Philip of the Screwdriver business has gotten a little busier a little faster than I expected.”
	Athanasius nodded back. He was midway between the other two, with a close-cut beard just beginning to be touched by gray, but for all that there was a light in his eyes that spoke of youthful energy. “Have you received a response yet to your request?”
	“No. Actually, I would expect that response to come to one of you. A petition to leave the Society and to transfer to secular clergy has to be just a bit out of the ordinary, I would think.”
	“Just remember,” Athanasius said, “a priest ordained is a priest forever.”
	“Yes, Father.” Nick ducked his head in mock humility.
	Augustus snorted and set his mug down. “I suspect that letter is chasing Father-General Vitelleschi in his travels. As I once heard Father Larry—the Cardinal, that is—once tell Reverend Simon, don’t hold your breath until that happens.” Father Lawrence Mazzare, the up-timer priest who was now the Cardinal Protector of the USE, was noted for a quirky sense of humor. “I suspect the Father-General will be loath to lose your skills.”
	“Sooner or later it will happen,” Nick said with a beatific smile. “Meanwhile, the Society of St. Philip the Screwdriver will carry on with whatever time I can give it.” The existence and purpose of the new quasi-religious order founded in Grantville and chartered to counter the perversity of the universe was causing eyebrows to be raised in ripples as the news of it spread across Europe.
	“Heh,” Augustus said. “I can’t wait to hear how many shades of puce Borja’s complexion turns when he hears of it.”
	“Speaking of the Cardinal who should not be named, are you certain of the veracity of that message, Gus?” Athanasius asked. His face had sobered, and the others did likewise as they got down to the reason for their conclave.
	The eldest pursed his lips and nodded. “Yes. It’s on the right paper, written with the right ink and the right hand, in the right code, and was delivered by one I know to be a regular courier on the Jesuit message chain. If it’s false, then we can rely on nothing but ourselves.”
	“I don’t like it, Gus,” Nick said. “They’ve lost a holy treasure, and they expect us to help them find it? After what they’ve done?” The news about the recent assault by Spanish troops on the Vatican being authorized and countenanced by Cardinal Gaspar de Borja y Velasco still rankled in all their minds.
	Gus nodded again. Before he could speak, Athanasius spoke again. “Nick, I think there’s more to be considered than that. Yes, what they did was horrific, but this tells us there’s something else involved. Borja and his clique would never admit to something like this. They must have been very shocked to discover this. They must have been counting on the book for something, and to have it disappear like that has blown something up for them. This is a panic reaction. It has to be.”
	After a moment, Athanasius added, “I’ve met Borja. I believe you have, too.” He looked at Gus for a confirming nod. “The man has no self-doubt. He believes he is right on everything on which he has an opinion, and he has an opinion on everything. And he is arrogant enough to believe that anyone with as much sense as God gave a mignon duck will agree with and support him. I’m sure he honestly thinks that most of the clergy will follow him because of the fineness of his character.” There was a pause as Gus choked on an inhale and coughed strenuously for several moments.
	At length Athanasius continued, “So of course they sent their notes far and wide. The Poles may well follow him. They are such odd people. But the rest of the Hapsburg realms? The core empire? Not a chance. Bavaria? Who knows? Maximilian was a devout man early in the war and was one of the strongest Catholic princes around for several years, but who knows what he will do now that he’s faced with two popes. The Low Countries? Borja may pick up a few renegade Walloons, but no one of any usefulness will dare cross the Cardinal-Infante or Cardinal Bedmar. France? Neither Richelieu nor Mazarini will respond. And the Protestants?” He shook his head with pursed lips. “No, Borja will get no guaranteed support from anyone north of the Alps except the Poles.”
	“So why are we having this conversation?” Nick asked. “Grantville certainly isn’t going to help him, and if no one else is, why do we care?”
	“There is a difference between not helping a fool,” Gus said, “and stopping his foolishness.”
	Nick’s eyes widened. His mouth formed an O shape for a moment, then shaped into a wicked smile as his eyes narrowed in turn. “Tell me more,” he said. They all leaned closer together, looking for all the world like a group of conspirators.
	“If the codex comes north,” Gus began, “which it certainly will…”
	“Why?” interrupted Athanasius.
	“Because every other direction leads to the sea, soon or late,” Gus responded.
	“Which is a Spanish lake right now,” Nick contributed. “So, yes, north it must come, but through which pass to get through the Alps?”
	“Not to the west,” Gus said. “Not to France. The Huguenots are thick on the ground in the south of France.”
	“And therefore not to northwest to the Swiss either,” Nick replied, “for they are even stronger Protestants than the Huguenots.”
	“Agreed.” Athanasius nodded. “So that leaves more or less due north through Reschen Pass, or northeast through Brenner Pass and almost immediately into Innsbruck. Bavaria or the Tyrol.”
	“Maximilian or Claudia and Ferdinand,” Gus said. “Not quite Scylla and Charybdis, but a challenging choice to our unknown thief or rescuer.”
	“Must it be one or the other?” Athanasius said with a slight smile. “Must it be so black or white?”
	“What?” Gus’ eyebrows lowered. “A rescuing thief? A thieving rescuer? What do you think of, Athos?”
	Athanasius’ mouth twisted. He knew his given name was long and cumbersome, but he was getting a bit tired of Gus using that particular diminutive of his name—although he had to admit that it was a better choice than “Thanos.” Being named after one of the Greek avatars of death was less than desirable. He still wished Gus had not read a certain uptime novel. “Why could not Dumas have been left up-time?” he muttered. Gus’ answering grin didn’t help matters any.
	“Thief, rescuer, or unlikely opportunist,” Nick interjected, “it doesn’t matter. Assuming he is not a Protestant, those are the likely paths. So do we do anything? If so, what?”
	“”Duchess Claudia will have Innsbruck and the Tyrol under watch,” Gus said.
	“And if she doesn’t, Emperor Ferdinand most certainly will.” Athanasius gave a firm nod. After a moment, he added, “Of course, if either one of them claims the codex, the Church will never see it again.”
	“But isn’t that a risk no matter where it eventually lands?” Nick asked.
	Both of the older men nodded. “It in fact is,” Athanasius replied. “I shouldn’t say it, but there are a few Protestants I would trust with it more than many of the princes of the church or the princes of Germany.”
	“Indeed,” Gus said. “For that matter, I’m not too sure that I wouldn’t prefer Ferdinand to Maximilian of Bavaria. Maximilian seems to have become something of a ‘loose cannon,’ to use the up-time phrase.”
	“Maximilian may or may not have his eyes looking for the codex,” Athanasius said, “assuming someone has told him about it. But his focus appears to be more on statecraft in this season than on the faith.”
	“Unfortunately true,” Gus muttered. “Alas, either way it makes it chancy to tread his ground.”
	“Coming out of Reschen Pass the carrier could turn right into Austria,” Athanasius gestured with his hands, “could turn left and go to ground in central Bavaria, or head north to first Füssen and then to Augsburg, Ulm, Munich, or even Ingolstadt.”
	“Ah, Füssen,” Gus drawled. “Just over the border into Bavaria. Fastness of musicians and luthiers, but also home to the Benedictine monastery of St. Mang’s. They are no friends of the Society. And if they were to lay hands on the codex, it would take an army to liberate it from that monastery.”
	“But in the same regard, by their very independence they might not be friends of Maximilian,” Athanasius replied.
	“So we send to Ingolstadt and Munich, and if it hasn’t been seen, move on to Füssen,” Nick said. “If we find it, maybe we can influence the carrier to bring it to us. Cardinal Mazzare would be the most suitable protector of the codex, would he not?”
	“Indeed he would,” Athanasius said brightly. Gus snorted, but nodded in agreement.
	“So, you up for a brisk ride, old man?” Nick grinned at Gus. “Can Hannelore and the boys spare you for a season?”
	“I’ll ride you into the ground, you English wastrel,” Gus growled. “And yes, they can. Karl is eleven now, and big enough to keep his two brothers in line.” His marriage to Hannelore, while somewhat against tradition, had been ordered by Father Mazzare not long after the Heinzerlings had arrived in Grantville, and sanctioned by Father-General Vitelleschi himself.
	“You and what troop of cavalry?” Nick was still grinning.
	“Me and my good right arm.” Gus brandished his fist at Nick, but a hint of a grin kept lifting the corners of his mouth and ruining the stern effect.
	“That sounds like the nucleus of a plan,” Athanasius said leaning forward a bit. “How deep are your funds? I still have somewhat of the purse Cardinal Barberini gave me when he pointed me this direction.”
	“I have much of the funds Father General Vitelleschi sent me,” Gus said.
	Nick shrugged. “I, as well.”
	“Good. We won’t need to tap into the funds of St. Mary’s. So, when can you leave?”
	Gus and Nick looked at each other. “Tomorrow?” Nick asked.
	Gus shook his head. “Day after,” he said. “It will take a little time to gather things together.”
	“Good,” Athanasius said. “I’ll get our brothers Southwell and Bissel to assist at St. Mary’s while you’re gone. It will do them good.”
	“So, day after tomorrow,” Nick said. Gus nodded. “Good,” the younger man said. “I’ll let the Society of the Screwdriver know about this. Let’s be about it. Soonest done, soonest I can get back.”

Chapter 12
Archie
 
Jena
 
	As it chanced, it was the third day after our talk that I rode out of Jena. First, after looking at Cortana’s shoes I decided to have him reshod before we left. One of those “pay the piper now or later” things, and finding blacksmiths and farriers while one is traveling can produce dyspepsia, as Colonel Farquhar had been known to observe from time to time. That ended up consuming most of a day. It was a decidedly good thing that Maus, my other horse, proved to be well-shod. The farrier’s price for shoeing Cortana was, shall we say, rather elevated. We had a short conversation between the two of us that featured words like “brigandage on the highway” and “miser and cheapskate” before we settled on terms that left both of us dissatisfied but got the job done. My father would have called it a perfect compromise, master merchant that he was. Myself, if I’d had a pot of beer at hand I’d have been muttering into it.
	Second, I took to heart Master Titus’ direction to acquire not another pistol, but an additional pistol. So my viewing of the wares presented by Jena’s two reputable gun vendors took most of the second day, but I entered the evening the proud possessor of another fine pistol—not that my first pistol, a five-shot H&K .38 caliber revolver wasn’t a fine pistol. But this one, a six-shot .40 caliber revolver from Struve-Reardon fit my hand like it was made for it, and it shot very true. Made this old cavalry trooper’s heart glad, it did. So between the two of them, if matters should go down the way of my old line of business, I could fire eleven shots without having to reload. Even more, if I preloaded a couple of extra cylinders and kept them handy. Which, as an old prudent trooper—and prudence being why I was old—I planned on doing. Always assuming there were no misfires, of course. But misfires do keep life interesting in so many ways.
	Master Titus had left on the second day, off to the grand city of Magdeburg to pursue some business affair or other, and to have a consult with his brother the attorney, A. N. D. Wulff. I’d not met the man yet, but his renown had stretched as far as Jena, and the university masters were of mixed opinions of him, which spoke well of him to me. The majority seemed inclined to believe that he was well-named as a member of the Wulff family. A few others had a much lower opinion of him than that, while a very few held that he was perhaps the best practicing lawyer in this part of Europe. Certainly none of them, friend or foe, volunteered to face him in court. All things said, he was an appropriate brother for Master Titus, from what I could tell.
	So it was that there were none but Ephraim the butler and Estéban the cook to bid farewell as I mounted and rode out. The one was gracious and the other was surly. It warmed my heart, it did, it was so familiar and homey.
	One other saluted me as I rode out the main gate—such as it was—of Jena. Heinrich looked up from where he was sitting on a block of wall stone, crutch at hand, watching over the city watchmen on duty. “Where you bound, Soldier?” he shouted.
	I touched my right hand to the brim of my hat, and declared loudly and manfully, “That’s for me to know and for you to weasel out of me when I get back. You’re buying.”
	I rode away from the city with the watchmen’s laughter ringing in my ears. Almost music, it was, made even sweeter by the knowledge that Heinrich was grinding what teeth he had left at my victorious sally of words. I still smile when I think of it.
	I hummed a not too scandalous drinking song as I rode. I could sing well enough if I chose to…my mother’s Scottish blood saw to that. But I had other things in my mind, so I gave off the singing to think of the riding I’d be doing.
	I knew some parts of the world rather well. Hamburg and the Isle of Skye I knew, for all that it had been eighteen years since I had last seen either of them. And parts of northern France were like the scars on the backs of my hands. I knew everything there was to know about them, having ridden through and around them for nigh on to a decade and a half. I even knew the warrens of Jena right well after four years there, for all that it wasn’t that large a place. But set me out of eyesight of the walls of Jena, and I could be as lost as a babe.
	So, not being from around these parts, I’d had the wisdom to spend an hour of the last night studying a map that Master Titus had of the environs nearby, and to trace out a portion of it that would give me some idea of what was between me and Füssen.
	Jena to Bayreuth was a reasonably straight path, it looked to be. No sense in even considering any other route. But from there to Füssen—ah, I’d have a decision to make there. Should I take the east road and go through München, or take the slightly longer west road and go through Augsburg? Ah, well, if I hadn’t decided by the time I was leaving Bayreuth, I’d toss a pfennig in the air.
	And so I began to muse…if I was on the run with a large bulky codex under my arm, just where would I be going, and how would I be getting there? Cortana moved easily under me as I rode, all the while considering that, while Maus followed agreeably behind. The sun shone on us all as they clopped along on the road, heading south. It was a good day.

Chapter 13
The J-Team
 
Grantville
 
	Nick Smithson glowered at the predawn light just glimmering in the eastern sky from where he stood in the front yard of Mestermann’s Stable. He stared up to where the sign on the roof of the stable could be made out. It read in both English and German:
 
		MESTERMANN’S STABLE
 
		HORSES FOR RENT OR LEASE
 
	In smaller print it said:
 
		REASONABLE FEES FOR PRIVATE STABLING
 
		STUD BOOK AVAILABLE
 
	He looked down and shivered. For all that it was July and the height of summer, the early morning breeze blowing over the flag-stone paved yard had more of a bite than a nip to it. He hunched his shoulders and thrust his hands deeper into his coat pockets.
	“Cheer up, Nick,” Gus Heinzerling said as he clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “At least you’re not leading Matins this morning.”
	“And whose fault is it that I’m not in a nice warm church building doing exactly that?” Nick observed in a biting tone. “Just who insisted on leading off on this quest before the birds have even woken up yet?”
	Gus was still chuckling when Mestermann walked out of the stable leading a couple of saddled horses. The stableman handed Gus one set of reins. “You’ve ridden Magnus before, so you get him again. Remember he likes to puff his belly up when he’s being saddled, so put a knee in it before you tighten the cinch straps if you don’t want to slide off. And if a stableman saddles him, you’d best double-check it before you mount up.”
	“Good old Magnus,” Gus said as he ran his hand down the horse’s muzzle. “I’ve always liked a horse with a sense of humor nastier than my own.”
	Nick shook his head as one of Mestermann’s stable boys ran up to help Gus get his bags and water bottles tied on to the saddle. Mestermann turned to him and handed him the other set of reins. “And you, Father Nicholas, get Maximus. He responds well to Max. He’s new to your church’s pool of horses, and he’s a bit young, but he’s very even-tempered, and for all he’s strong enough to outlast you, he has a very tender mouth, so don’t be treating him like some hard-mouthed mule, all right?”
	“A gelding?” Nick asked, looking the horse over.
	“I only buy geldings,” Mestermann answered with a grin. “Mares have this unfortunate habit of going into heat on a somewhat regular basis, you see, and no one with any sense wants to ride a mare in heat if they can help it. Riding a stallion around a mare in heat is even worse. Besides, with the constant demand for horses for cavalry, the mares are all busy breeding and the stallions not being bred are in highest demand for higher ranking cavalry troopers. Even good geldings can be hard to find.” He shrugged. “Fortunately, I have my sources.”
	“And it’s good for us that you do,” Nick said. He wasn’t an equestrian by down-timer standards, but he’d ridden more than a few miles on horseback. He ran his eyes over the horse and equipage. “Unusual saddle, that.”
	Mestermann nodded. “Ja. Based on a Polish dragoon saddle, but with a few ideas from Grantville added to it. This one’s new. There’s an old saddler named Samuel Flinder who’s settled nearby. He and his son and grandson had been taken up by Hofmann’s mercenaries before the Battle of the Crapper. His son was killed before the battle, but he and his grandson, Pieter, were set free and settled just a ways down the road in the Porter Avenue area. His rheumatism is getting worse, and he’s trying hard to get the boy up to at least journeyman-level work before his hands give out. They won’t have to deal with a saddler’s guild here in Grantville, so if he can get the boy that far, he’ll be able to support himself. They’re producing these for me as my older saddles wear out. This is only the third one I’ve bought, but so far my regular clients like them.”
	“I think I can see why,” Nick said with a nod.
	The stable boy trotted over and picked Nick’s bag up from the ground and tied it on to the crupper ring at the rear of the saddle, then grabbed his water bottle holder and strapped it to an oblong ring mounted on the right front of the saddle. He looked around, and Nick chuckled. “That’s all I’m carrying this trip. But thank you for doing that for me.”
	The boy bobbed his head with a grin, and headed back for the stable.
	Mestermann placed his hand on the front part of the saddle. “Flinder didn’t put a full horn on the saddle like the American western saddles have, but he did build it up more here than the original dragoon saddle had. If you grab here, you’ll find it easier to help pull yourself up and into the saddle.’ He grabbed Maximus’ bridle. “Go ahead, give it a try.”
	Nick shifted his reins to his right hand, then reached up to the saddle with his left. He could feel what Mestermann was talking about.
	He lifted his left foot to the stirrup, placed his right hand on top of his left, gave a hop and pulled. He dropped into the saddle faster and easier than he ever had from a ground mount before.
	“I like that,” he said. “I like that a lot.”
	Mestermann grinned and released the bridle. “Let me check the stirrup straps for length.” He had to lengthen the left one by one notch. Stepping back, he said, “That should fit right. Have a good trip, and try to find some grain for these boys while you’re on the road.” He waved a hand and turned back to the stable.
	Nick looked over to Gus was already mounted and looking at him with his eyebrows raised. “Can we begin now?”
	The younger priest snorted and nudged Maximus with his heels. “Lead on, O senior prelate.”
	They rode out onto the road side by side.
	“Where to first?” Nick asked.
	“ Bamberg, then Bayreuth, then Ingolstadt,” Gus replied. “After that, we’ll have to see. Maybe Augsburg.”
	“Ah, that’s why we’re not in cassocks, then.” Nick looked at the older priest.
	“Ja,” Gus replied. “Bayreuth is in Protestant territory, and for all that Augsburg seem to be peaceful at the moment, it still has a heavy Protestant presence. We’re investigating, not evangelizing, so best to be prudent, don’t you think?”
	“I do, indeed,” Nick said. “Let prudence be our watchword.”
	They rode in silence and made their way down Route 250, headed east rather than south because it was the fastest way out of town from where they were. It was still very early. The sun was barely peeping over the eastern horizon, shining in their faces intermittently as they passed by trees and buildings.
	It wasn’t long before they reached the Ring Wall, where they passed through the railroad cut alongside the tracks. Once on the outside of the Wall, Gus gestured to the right, and they rode around the Ring Wall until they could see what passed for a southern road out of the Grantville area. The sun was a little higher now, and there were a few people and vehicles on the road.
	There was a school bus trundling along headed toward some of the outlying residential districts. They paused for a moment to let it pass. Maximus snorted and shook his head at the noise and smell. Nick leaned forward and patted Maximus on the neck. “Max, my friend, I hope you like to travel and see new places and new things, because you’re going to be doing a lot of it.”

Chapter 14
Archie
 
Bayreuth
 
	I was sitting in a tavern that was so mediocre I can’t even recall the name of it, drinking a mug of less-than-mediocre beer that the only reason I was drinking it was because I had paid good coin for it. I’ve had worse, mind you, but I cannot recall any since the burning of The Upright Pig in Jena several years ago. If the tavern keeper’s beer was this bad, I was not about to try his other offerings. I prefer my vinegar to be honest about itself, not to be masquerading as wine.
	It was the fourth day of the travel. I had not pushed either my mounts or myself, and had even stopped early in the day to give the three of us a bit of extra rest. I estimated I had traveled maybe seventy miles in the four days, perhaps a bit more. Not as much as I had covered in forced marches as a cavalry trooper, aye, but enough to put some stiffness in the back and legs and remind me that I was a former cavalry trooper now.
	On the other hand, I was also my own commander these days, my own captain, no longer reporting to the likes of Colonel Farquhar, fine man that he was. And so I called my own marches, and if I wanted to curtail a ride, why, it was my own business, now was it not?
	I looked down at the beer, took another pull at it, and muttered that my captain should have picked a better tavern.
	“Your first time in Bayreuth?” A body settled onto the stool across the table from me. I looked up to see a younger-than-me man smiling at me as he set his own mug on the table. A soldier, I gathered from the buff coat he wore and the pistol that hung on one side of his belt and the cavalry saber that hung on the other.
	“Ja,” I responded. “Why do you ask?”
	“Well, in my experience, there are three types of folks who drink beer in this place: those who have no nose for beer, those who are so dirt poor they can afford nothing better, and those poor souls who have arrived in Bayreuth for the first time and have no idea what sort of place they have walked into.” He tilted his head down a bit and looked at me from beneath bushy eyebrows.
	I chuckled. “A fair hit in the ring, I confess it.”
	He looked me over. “A soldier? Between companies, maybe?”
	“Ex-soldier. Retired now.” I held up my left hand with its less-than-complete rank of fingers, and he nodded.
	“I’ve seen that before,” he said. “Makes it a bit hard to hold onto things with the tips of your strong fingers gone like that.”
	“It does that.” I gave him a nod, and followed it with, “You look like you’re still serving. Who with, if you don’t mind my asking?”
	“Bretagne’s Company, originally recruited out of Savoy, and still mostly Savoyards on the roll, for all that we’ve been serving in and around Grantville and Thuringia-Franconia the last few years.” He reached up and touched the brim of his hat near where two feathers—one white and one red—rose out of the hatband.
	“Battles?” I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t heard of anything near Grantville in quite some time. If there had been recent fighting, it was news to me, and I wanted to hear of it.
	“Nein.” He waved a hand to one side. “We do mostly security work.”
	“Bodyguarding?”
	“Some of that, yes, but mostly guarding locations or shipments of valuable cargo, particularly of up-time tools or materials that can’t be easily replaced.”
	“Ah, getting paid for helping rich merchants sleep well at night. Pays well, does it?”
	“Well enough that we’re expanding the company by a squad.” He gave me a sly grin. “You interested? My captain would love to have an experienced man like you in the ranks.”
	I chuckled and shook my head. “I’ve spent my time on the back of a horse riding patrols. I work for one of those rich merchants now. The pay’s better, the food’s a long sight better, and I get to sleep indoors in my own bed most nights.”
	He shared my chuckle. “And who are you and who do you work for, then?”
	“I am Archibald Gottesfreund, assistant and companion to Master Titus Wulff, of Jena,” I responded. “Call me Archie. You know of him?” I continued as his eyebrows climbed.
	“I’ve heard of him,” he replied. “Captain Bretagne has note files on most of the influential people in the Grantville to Magdeburg corridor, and some from outside it. Master Wulff’s name was prominent, and his file was thick. The man seems to have fingers in every pie worth tasting, and people lining up to sell him more.”
	I shook my head with a smile. “No, if Master Titus is in his usual practice, they give him the pie and walk away feeling good that they did it.”
	The expression on my face after I took another pull at my beer must have been tragic, for the soldier gave a laugh before taking a swig from his own drink. I raised my eyebrows at him, and he laughed again.
	“I wouldn’t drink Schlottmann’s beer if you paid me,” he said. “Well, I might if you put enough guilders on the table, but not otherwise. But his winter wine is drinkable, and has a kick to it.”
	“A man of discernment, I gather. What’s your name and rank, soldier?”
	“Wolfe. Sergeant Hans Wolfe.” At that moment, another figure loomed up behind him dressed similarly. “And this man-mountain is Origgi, my squad’s leading private. We’re doing courier duty for the captain back to the Savoy, for Origgi’s sins. Sit, Origgi.”
	I got a better look at the man as he settled with care onto a stool, as if to test if it would hold his weight before he committed to it. He wasn’t a giant, but he was the largest piece of manflesh I had seen in quite some time. His buff coat did not come from a single ox, I can testify to that.
	“What was it this last time, Origgi? Filthy weapon again?”
	“No, Sarn’t. Drunk and disrespecting the guard, Sarn’t.”
	“Oh, that’s right. Time before that was the filthy weapon, wasn’t it?”
	“Yes, Sarn’t.”
	Wolfe looked at me. “And since he’s my man…”
	“You have to ride along to keep him under orders.”
	“I see you know the type.”
	I snorted. “Sergeant, for more than a few years, I was the type. I’m a half-Scot and I rode with Colonel Farquhar’s Scots horse company in northern France for fourteen years.”
	Wolfe shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to think about what riding with an entire company of Scots would be like.”
	“Interesting, Sergeant. Very interesting. But in my salad days, riding independent courier duty wasn’t considered a punishment.”
	“It is if your pay has been stopped, you’re not with your buddies to borrow from, and the only mount that can bear your weight is a Belgian breed that you have to climb like a high pass arete to get into the saddle.”
	I winced at that. “My sympathy for you, Origgi. And not to change the subject, but I need a meal, and after tasting the beer here, I’m not sure I want to try their food.”
	Wolfe shuddered. “Wise man.” He drained his cup, and pushed my mug over to his man. “Here, Origgi, finish that and follow me.” He rose to his feet and turned to me. “Allow me to show you to a better establishment than this, Archie.” I stood as well and readily followed him from the mediocre tavern whose name I still can’t remember, followed by the thump of Origgi’s boots hitting the floor behind me.
	We ended up at a tavern called The Golden Cockerel. And yes, I’ve heard every form of vulgar joke that can be made out of that name, and probably some you haven’t thought of, so don’t bother trying. It wasn’t as good as the best in Jena, but it was good for all that. The two soldiers shared a goose pie, more of which went to Origgi than to his sergeant, I had slices cut off a mutton roast, the bread was fresh for all that it was barley, and the beer was rather better than just drinkable. We started talking about their courier runs and where all the couriers ran and how often, including Munich, Augsburg, and Ulm. By the time the food was gone and we were into the second round of beer, the evening became filled with the type of stories that begin with “No shit, there I was…” They started it, but I held up my side of the conversation and gave as good as I got.
	The tavern keeper pushed us out the door as the last patrons of the evening. My new friends escorted me back to my inn, for which I was thankful. I’d had enough beer that navigating a strange town might have proven to be, shall we say, tricksy? We may have serenaded the night watchmen as we traversed our way. I don’t remember anything between closing the door of my room behind me and the wretched roosters’ crowing the next morn.
	***
	I awoke the next morning feeling as if a mouse had died in my mouth—or worse. The innkeeper took one look at me as I stumbled out of my room dragging my bags behind me, and offered me a small cup of Brandtwein—for a price. I paid it.
	By the time I finished strapping my bags on Maus—my second horse, not whatever it was that died in my mouth—I was starting to feel a bit better. I led them out of the stable, swung up on Cortana’s saddle, and nudged him forward, muffling a groan as the footsteps resonated in my still aching head.
	It did me a bit of good when I turned the corner toward the gate and met Sergeant Wolfe and his hapless companion Origgi coming down the main road. Wolfe looked worse than I felt, which I wasn’t sure how that was possible, but it still comforted me. Origgi, however, looked no worse for the night’s wear, which I at first considered to be a sign of the unjustness of life…until I got a look at the horse he was riding. The animal was the largest mount I’d ever seen a saddle on. My hips ached just watching Origgi having to straddle the beast. I rode on the other side of the sergeant and maintained my distance from the hulking brutes, mount and rider alike. Looking at the strain on Origgi’s legs, I decided there may be justice in the world after all.
	The sergeant and I exchanged small nods. It looked like that hurt him more than it hurt me, which was little comfort. We moved as little as possible and said less as we made our way to the gate. Some ways down the road on the other side, Wolfe held out a hand and pulled up. Origgi brought his mount to a standstill as well. Curious, I stopped and looked over at the sergeant.
	“Remind me never to get in a drinking contest with you, Archie.” His voice was rough, and up close his eyes were more red than white. Somehow I doubted mine were any better. “Keeping up with you last night has well-nigh slayed me.”
	“And here it was I thought I was doing the keeping up with you,” I replied, “the doing of which has left me closer to death than to life on this very morning. I’ll not be so fast to lift mugs with you in the future my own self.” For some reason the Isle of Skye was coming out in my speech that morning. Must have been the hangover.
	A small smile crossed his lips. “You’re a good man, Archie.” He stuck out his hand.
	“You’re a braw man yourself, Hans.” I clasped his hand, and we wrung as hard as we could for a long moment, before we both gave it up as a bad business.
	“Where’s your next ride taking you, Archie?”
	“Augsberg, and then on south from there.”
	“Ah. Well, we’ve company business to see to in Munich, and then it’s southwest to Savoy from there for us. So perhaps we’ll meet again along the road. But, in case we don’t, take this.”
	He handed me what I thought at first was a coin. Right size and shape to be a guilder, but made out of brass and it had a square hole in the middle of it, so it obviously wasn’t money. I looked at it, then back at him.
	“Captain Bretagne had these made up. He calls them medallions, but most of the troops call them tokens, or marks of favor, or something like that. If you’ve got one, it gets you discounts on services, and gets you recognition with our troops at any place or any time. It’s got our name scrolled around the rim, with our motto on one side and our address on the other. Keep it in your pocket for now, and give it to Master Wulff when you get home. Who knows, it might be of use to you on this ride.”
	I looked at it. I could see there were marks on it, but my eyes were so bleary I couldn’t make them out. I took his word for it, and thrust the token deep in the pocket of my buff coat.
	“My thanks to you, Sergeant, and I’ll indeed pass this to the master when I return. Safe travels to you both, and I look forward to our next meeting.”
	“God’s hand on you as well, Archie.”
	We all three touched hands to hat brims as an informal salute, and they urged their mounts into motion. I watched that horse move, and my sympathy for Origgi grew. I shook my head, then said, “Come on, lads. We’ve a distance to travel of our own,” and nudged Cortana into motion.

Chapter 15
The J-Team
 
	Nick pulled Maximus to a halt in the shadow of the gate in the city wall as Gus laid a hand on his arm. Gus was pulling Magnus to a halt at the same time. “What…” Nick began, only to silence himself as Gus made an urgent downward shushing motion with his hand. He followed Gus’ gaze down the road to see three men, two on regular horses and one on the largest mount Nick had ever seen, shaking hands and then splitting and heading in two different directions.
	The tension left Gus’ body, and Nick looked over at him. “What was that about? And who were those men that they caught your attention so hard?”
	“The two going eastish I’ve seen around Grantville. They’re part of Bretagne’s Company. A lot of the men are Catholic Savoyards, so we see them at the churches occasionally. If these two are this far south, they’re on business. But the other man…if that’s who I think it is, that’s the right hand of Master Tiberius Claudius Titus Wulff of Jena. He seems to fit the description, anyway.”
	“Are you sure?”
	“No, I’m not sure. I’ve never met the man before. But he’s the right size, wearing the right coat and hat, and on a distinctive horse that could be a twin of the mount this man Gottesfreund favors. I wouldn’t wager on it, but I wouldn’t wager against it, either. And that concerns me.”
	Nick frowned. “Why?”
	“Because Master Wulff is a bibliophile of more than a bit of renown, he’s a Protestant, and he’s also known to have agents everywhere. He never seems to do politics directly, but he’s proven a few times recently to know things that he shouldn’t have known, and known them before people who should have known them found out about them.”
	Nick followed Gus’ apparent train of thought to its station. “The codex?”
	“If there is anyone else in this part of the world that would both know of it and be interested in it, it would be Master Wulff. And if that’s Gottesfreund,” Gus nodded toward the back of the vanishing rider, “that man is most certainly who he would send to hunt it down.” He frowned. “But we need to go to Munich, and it looks like he’s not headed that direction.”
	“Is that a problem?”
	“If he knows something we don’t, almost certainly.”
	“But if that’s not him, then it’s not a problem. Or if it is him, but he or Master Wulff don’t know anything, then it’s still not a problem.”
	They continued to watch the rider put distance between them. After a few more minutes, Nick said, “I could always follow him.”
	Gus didn’t respond for a long moment, then he sighed. “No, if that’s not Gottesfreund, then it would be a waste of time, and if it is Gottesfreund, he’s not a man that we need to face alone. And headed that direction, he’s almost certainly headed for Augsburg, which is not the best place for a Jesuit to be alone. And dividing forces is bad strategy, anyway.”
	“Strategy? Are we at war then? If so, who with?”
	Gus looked over at him. “Consider it a skirmish. And who else but Borja?” He gathered his reins up. “No, we’ll go on to Munich as planned. If we find no word or evidence between here and there, we’ll then consider what to do next. Come on.” He nudged Magnus with his heel and started down the road toward Munich. Nick followed and urged Maximus alongside his friend.
	“So, what are we doing?”
	“What we talked about,” Gus replied. “Keeping an ear out for rumors, looking for things or people that look out of place, picking up the odd fact here and there. We’re Jesuits. It’s what we do. Munich is the first Catholic stronghold north of the Alps that’s not Austrian. If I were bringing the codex north, that’s where I’d head for.”
	“Personally, I would have run for the Jesuit Collegium in Ingolstadt, myself.” Nick gave a firm nod.
	“That’s because you’re a Jesuit yourself and you’ve been trained to think beyond the moment,” Gus said with a grin, which faded after a moment. “Not all our brothers in the church would do likewise. That’s why I hope to find more in Munich.” After a moment, he added, “We will confer with our brothers in Ingolstadt, of course. Even though I doubt the codex will be there, they may have information for us.”
	“Let us pray so, anyway.”
	“Indeed.”

Ingolstadt
 
	Nick followed Gus into the tavern. It wasn’t large—at least, not by Thuringian Garden standards, but it was over half-full and there was a buzz of conversation in the room. The only empty tables were around the outer edge of the room, farthest away from the bar counter. Gus began moving through the crowd, sliding between backs with remarkable ease, considering he was one of the larger people in the room, albeit not the tallest. Nick trailed along like a minnow behind a trout.
	Midway toward their goal, Gus was accosted.
	“Father? Father Heinzerling? Is that you?” The largest man Nick could ever remember seeing stood from a table and bobbed his head.
	Gus stopped. “Private Origgi? What are you doing in Ingolstadt?”
	“Making a courier run to Savoy by way of Munich, Father,” the big man said, taking his hat off his head and turning it around and around in his hands.
	“I haven’t seen you in church lately, son.” Gus’ voice wasn’t accusatory, but Origgi looked down.
	“He’s been on extra duty,” the other man at the table spoke up.
	“Ah, I see. Then I suggest you go soon, and make your confessions.” He leaned forward a bit and said in a lower tone, “It sounds as if you need it.”
	Origgi nodded his head strongly.
	“Tell me, Private, who was that man I saw you with in Bayreuth the other day?”
	The other man at the table coughed, but Origgi brightened up and said, “That was Archie Gottesfreund. He’s a good man, a friend. He used to be a soldier like us.”
	“Ah. I’ve heard of Master Gottesfreund. A good man, as you say.” Gus drew the sign of the cross between them. “Go with God, Private.” He nodded at the man at the table. “Sergeant.”
	Gus resumed his progress, and a couple of moments later settled onto a stool by a table in the farthest corner of the room. Nick settled opposite him.
	“I assume you planned that,” Nick murmured. “That’s why you had us change to our habits before we came here.” Gus said nothing, but a fleeting smile crossed his face. “But how did you know where to come?”
	Gus looked at him and replied in a similar tone. “Oh, come now, Nick. We’re staying at a Jesuit collegium in a Catholic town. I simply asked the Rector’s secretary where the Bretagne Company couriers usually spent their time. He didn’t even have to look it up. Gave me an inn and two taverns. This was the first one. Jesuits know everything there is worth knowing.” He grinned as a waitress approached to take their orders.
	Once she left, Nick said, “Do you have what you wanted?”
	“What I wanted? No. I would much rather not have that knowledge. But what I needed to know? Yes.”
	“So now what do we do?”
	“Worry. And pray.”
	***
	“Origgi?”
	“Yes, Sarn’t?”
	“Finish your beer. We’re done here.”
	“But, Sarn’t…”
	“Done, Origgi.”
	“Yes, Sarn’t.”
	Moments later the two of them were outside, moving toward their inn.
	“God knows we don’t encourage you to think, Origgi, because when you try to think you get into trouble, so let me make this simple. Do not talk about anything involving the company or our clients to outsiders. At all. Ever. Understood?”
	“Yes, Sarn’t. But Archie is our friend, not a client.”
	Sigh. “Origgi – you saw me give a medallion to Archie. That makes him a client. That means you don’t talk about his business to anyone.”
	“Oh.”
	Wolfe looked at Origgi to see his forehead furrowed.
	Sigh. “Origgi, would you like to be around Archie if he got angry?”
	“No, Sarn’t.”
	“Do you think Archie would be happy to know you had been talking to outsiders about him?”
	The furrows deepened. “No, Sarn’t.”
	“Would you like Archie to be angry with you?”
	The furrows deepened even more. Wolfe let it ride for a moment, then said, “Well?”
	“No, Sarn’t.”
	“Remember that.”

Chapter 16
Archie
 
August
Augsburg
 
	There are villages aplenty between Bayreuth and Augsburg, so I was never much at risk for having to spend a night in a field or wood for the days I traveled. But I breathed a bit of a sigh of relief that final day when the road passed through a bit of a wood and opened up to let me see the walls of Augsburg not far away.
	It’s not that I mind villages, you understand. I’ve spent many a fine hour in village taverns. Indeed, some of the best beer to ever pass my lips was found in small taverns in small villages not on the road to anywhere in particular. But at the end of a long day’s ride, a man of experience wants an inn, he does—a place that offers a bed for sleeping and not just a spot on a tavern floor where you can roll up in your blanket. And it’s not so many villages that boast inns like that. So it’s glad I was to be seeing Augsburg not far down the road as the sun westered and dusk began to haze the air.
	I was riding Maus that day, and I was even gladder for the nearness of the city when he started limping on his left foreleg when we were but a quarter of a mile or so from the gate. I dismounted immediately. He let me pick up his foot, and sure as the devil, there was a stone wedged in his hoof, and firmly wedged it seemed to be. I gave my vocabulary free exercise for a moment or three, then sighed and rubbed Maus’ muzzle to let him know I wasn’t angry at him. I gathered his reins in my hand, and led the way as we walked that last quarter mile to the gate, arriving not long before the sun was fully set.
	There were four guards at the gate, wearing uniforms. Something didn’t seem right, but I had more on my mind than that. “You a soldier?” one of them barked as I neared the gate.
	“Ex-soldier,” I said. “traveling on behalf of my employer, Master Titus Wulff of Jena.”
	“Moving in or moving on?”
	I had to think that one through. That almost sounded like an up-timer.
	“I had planned to rest a day or two and then continue on south, but I’m afraid Maus here may have changed my plans. He’s picked up a stone in his hoof, and if his foot’s bruised, I’ll have to wait until it heals.”
	“Probably picked it up in that stream you crossed a couple of miles back,” one of them volunteered. “It’s been known for doing that.”
	“I can live with that,” I said, patting Maus on the neck. “Round river rock will do less damage than a sharp piece of stone from the mountains or hillsides. Which inn has the best stableman?”
	They looked at each other. “You Protestant or Catholic?” a second man asked.
	“I was raised Lutheran, but my mother’s clan were all Catholic, and I rode fourteen years with a troop of Scottish horse in northern France, so I can talk peaceably with anyone who’ll talk peaceably with me. I’ve seen enough of the world to know that there are honorable men who say the Pater Noster and more than a few of the devil’s brood who sing in German.”
	“We don’t want trouble, soldier.”
	“Ex-soldier.” I let my voice grow a little harder. “And I won’t start trouble, but if trouble finds me, I’ll end it.”
	They looked at each other, then back at me.
	“Any weapons?” the man to my right asked.
	“A couple of pistols and my sword.”
	One of them walked around Maus and Cortana. “No musket or rifle?”
	I shook my head. “I don’t hunt, and I’m not headed for a battle, so no, no long gun. What you see is all there is.”
	They looked at each other again, and the one who hadn’t spoken yet nodded and said, “Keep the peace, and you can stay for a week. If you need longer than that for your horse to heal, you may need to speak to a magistrate, but it shouldn’t be a problem. And old Otto at the Brass Kestrel Inn is the best stableman in town.”
	“My first time here,” I said. “Can you direct me to him?”
	A moment later, directions firmly in my mind, I thanked them for their courtesy and made my way through the gateway. Behind me, I heard the gates start to close.
	The sky was still a bit light to the west when I arrived at the Brass Kestrel Inn, which had a remarkably good picture of a kestrel in flight on its signboard—or at least it looked good in that light. Broad daylight in the morning might reveal a different picture altogether. I threw my reins to the ostler’s boy who appeared at that moment. “Hold them there,” I said. “I’ll be back in a moment. I want to lead them to the stable myself.”
	Ducking in the front door, which was a bit low for one like myself, I nearly ran down the proprietor. He was almost as solid as I am, but I still staggered him and grabbed his arm to keep him on his feet.
	“Sorry,” I said. “Are you the keeper?”
	“I am that,” he replied, straightening to his full height. “Tobias Graumann. What can I do for you?” His name was appropriate, as he boasted a full head of iron-gray hair, albeit a bit disheveled.
	“I need a room for a week.”
	“Shared or not shared?”
	“Not shared.”
	“I have one I can let you have, but it won’t be cheap.”
	I pulled a guilder out of my pocket. “Here, a deposit on it. I’ll be back in as soon as I get my horses taken care of.”
	I left him standing there open-mouthed as I ducked back out the door and took the reins from the boy. “Lead the way, lad. I need to talk to the head man of the stable.”
	“Right this way, master.” He turned and moved briskly around the corner of the inn through an alley of sorts to a spacious stable yard between the inn and the stable. We followed in time to hear him calling, “Otto! Otto!. There’s a man here to see you about his horses.”
	I handed Maus’ reins to the boy. “Hold this.” Then I moved back and unfasted Cortana’s lead rein from the crupper ring of Maus’ saddle, and pulled him forward to stand alongside his mate, taking the reins back from the boy.
	By that time Otto had appeared. There were two torches in brackets on either side of the main stable door, plus he carried a lantern, so I was able to get a good survey of the man. Middling height, so thin he was almost gaunt, large knobby-knuckled hands hanging out of his sleeves. He paused for a moment, looking me and mine over with some care, then came forward
	“Cavalry horses?” His voice matched his face—rough, worn, plain. Cortana stretched his head out some, sniffing to catch his scent. His ears pricked forward, always a good sign. I decided I liked the man.
	“After a fashion. A Scots horse troop in France. About half cavalry and about half dragoons. Not charge across a battlefield cavalry—more like skirmishers. But these lads know the sound of guns and the smell of powder, right enough, for all that it’s been four years since we left it behind us.”
	“I could tell by the way they looked at me.” He gave a rusty chuckle, then pointed at Maus. “He’s not standing straight. What’s the problem?”
	I like Otto even more. “Stone in his left fore-hoof. Just picked it up right before we approached the city.”
	“You crossed that stream to the north, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and he shook his head. “I have to wonder if some of the farriers in town aren’t seeding stones in that stream. We get at least one horse a week in with this.” The boy had slipped away a moment ago, and now returned and handed a hoof pick to Otto. “Good lad. Now you take the gray, and lead him a bit away. Master, if you’ll hold yon head, and lift this lantern high,” he handed it to me, “we’ll see if we can ease this poor lad’s foot.”
	I had one hand on Mouse’s bridle and the other hoisting the lantern as high as I could reach. Mouse lifted his foot easily enough when Otto reached for it. I couldn’t see his hands, but his shoulders moved a couple of times, and then he straightened and turned to show me the stone after he set the hoof down. “Smallish, smooth, round,” he said. “Felt hard wedged at first, but once I poked at it, it was barely wedged in at all. I’ll have to check tomorrow for bruising, but he doesn’t seem to be very tender, so it might be just a couple of days of rest and he could be able to carry on, especially if you ride ’tother one the first day.”
	“I’ll be doing that,” I said. “The gray is Cortana, and this one,” I nodded toward Maus, “is Maus. They’re not flighty or temperamental boys. Give them a good rubdown tonight, if you would, and a bit of grain if you’ve got it.”
	“We’ve got it, but it’ll be costing a bit more.”
	I waved a hand. “The boys deserve it.”
	“I’ll see to it myself, master.”
	He took Maus’ reins and led him into the stable, followed by the boy with Cortana. They were placed in side-by-side stalls, and I watched as their tack was removed. I stepped forward to take my bags, and the saddles and blankets were placed on racks over the mangers to air out and dry. Otto had good hands, and Maus was enjoying the rub, so I left them to his care and returned to the inn.
	The inn’s central room was lightly populated that night. There were three folks gathered at a table, and one old man off by himself, but other than that the only other person in the room was the proprietor, Master Tobias, who stood behind the counter wiping it with a rag.
	“Light custom tonight, is it?” I asked
	He quirked his mouth. “You might say that. A couple of the taverns are offering half-price mugs of beer tonight in honor of some obscure saint—Saint Mary the Candlemaker, or something like that.”
	“Let me guess…the first mug is regular beer and after that it’s watered down?”
	The proprietor leaned on his elbows. “I see you’ve seen that trick before.”
	“Oh, ja…in Hamburg years ago, in Scotland, and every other tavern I tried in France. You spend enough times in taverns, you see all the tricks.”
	“God’s truth to that.”
	“You don’t match their throw?”
	“Nein. Custom as follows that play is not such custom as I’d want.” He straightened and placed my guilder on top of the counter. “Now, you were saying something about needing a room? And a week was it?”
	“That I was, and I said a week, but that will depend on my horse.” Master Tobias’ eyebrows rose. “A stone in his hoof,” I explained.
	“Soldier or former soldier, I take it?” he said with a small smile.
	“Former,” I said, showing my left hand to him.
	“And a good one you were, I’d wager.”
	My turn to raise my eyebrows. “And how do you reach that conclusion?”
	His smile grew a bit. “It’s been my experience over the last twenty years that the best soldiers always take care of their mounts first. And how did you first greet me?” We both laughed. “So you tend to your mounts. I respect that. And I’ll be pleased to accept your custom for as long as you want to stay.” He paused a moment. “For a price, of course.” His smile turned to a grin.
	We talked back and forth, with the end of it being that a few more of my silver pieces landed on the counter, after which we shook hands. I followed him to my room up the stairs from the common room, dropped my bags on the bed and locked the door before heading back downstairs. Master Tobias looked up from the counter as I stepped off the last step.
	“Let me guess: you would like some food?”
	“Ja. It’s been a long day, and I came straight here from the gate. I’m hoping you have something.”
	“The cheap stuff is gone,” Tobias said, “but I can give you a cut off a saddle of mutton and some wheat bread, if that would suit you.”
	“I’m hungry enough to eat the soles off my boots if that was all that was available, friend.” I rubbed my stomach to indicate its parlous state of condition.
	“I’ve known that feeling in my own life a time or so,” he said. “Let me see what I can do for you. Take a table.” He disappeared through a door into what was probably a kitchen. I turned and studied the room a bit before selecting a table. The table of three folks had reduced to two, and the old man was still by himself, but there was another table occupied by a man and woman, so there were more people than when I had come in originally. That was not a problem, as that still left a few tables open. I picked one close to the counter, and sat with my back to it.
	A moment later, Tobias slid a trencher of bread in front of me with a slab of mutton on it as thick as my finger. “Wine or beer?” he asked.
	“Beer,” I said, pulling my eating knife and spoon out of my pocket. By the time I had my first bite cut and on its way to my mouth, a tankard of beer sat beside my plate. Tobias didn’t hover over me, allowing me to eat in peace. I appreciated that.
	The food was good. I even ate the trencher, I was so hungry. I took my time about it, though, chewing slowly as I thought about what Maus coming up lame might do to my plans.
	By the time I finished eating and set down the empty tankard, the old man off by himself was the only one left in the room. Tobias came by and collected the mug and ran a towel over the tabletop.
	“Do you want more?” His eyebrows were raised and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
	“I might be able to put something in my mouth, but I’m not sure I could swallow,” I replied. “I am done for the day. Tell Otto I’ll check on the horses in the morning.”
	Tobias chuckled. “I am sure and certain that you will, and I doubt that Otto expects anything less, but I’ll pass the word.”
	“A good even to you, my friend.”
	I stood and headed toward the stairs, hearing a “Good even,” from behind me.

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.

Chapter 18
Archie
 
Augsburg
 
	I stepped out the door of the Brass Kestrel Inn on the fourth day of our stay to find the sun shining and the wind still, which gave some warmth to the air. A broad smile appeared on my face, I confess it. The unseasonably cool rain had lingered for three days, and not wanting to deal with it I had huddled in the inn, keeping myself dry and moderately warm but for those moments early and late when I went to the stable to check on the boys.
	Moderately warm I said and moderately warm I meant. Master Tobias, for all that he was a good man, was also an innkeeper, and like most of that ilk he was a bit penurious with the firewood. I was glad of a heavy wool sweater beneath my buff coat at night even when sitting near the fireplace.
	This morning the sunlight and the still air was like a balm. I opened my coat, pushed my hat to the back of my head, and stood looking up at it with closed eyes for I know not how long just welcoming the gift of it all. There are times when God’s creation seems to be more beautiful than others, you see, and this was one of them.
	So after that bit of sunning, I shook myself much like an old ram waking from his rest and proceeded on my way to the stable, where I found Otto waiting for me. “Am I that predictable, then?” I asked.
	He gave a rusty chuckle and pointed at where the shadow of the outer door frame rested on the front of a stall. “I’d not go so far as to say that, Master Gottesfreund,” he said, “but the previous mornings you appeared within a minute or so of the shadow reaching that knothole.” The shadow line that appeared to be perfectly dividing the knothole at that very moment. “And here you are again.” His chuckle sounded again. “You might call it predictable. Myself, I’d say you’re a man of even habits.”
	I laughed. “A man of even habits, is it? I like the sound of that. You give me more grace than I am due.”
	“Nein,” Otto replied. “I can only say what I see.”
	I shook my head, then walked over to Maus’ stall. “And how’s the lad today?”
	“Right well, Master Gottesfreund.” Otto moved over to stand beside me with his arms atop the stall door. “Right well. I’d like to give him at least one more day of rest, maybe two, but you could travel today if he was on a lead rein and not carrying a load.”
	“That’s good to hear,” I said. “He’ll probably get his two days. I think I’ll wait for the roads to dry up a bit before I leave. Not fond of mud, am I, after fourteen years in the fields of France.”
	“I can see that.” Otto nodded. “I can see that.” He looked down for a moment. When his head raised again his face had a most sober expression on it. “Master Gottesfreund, I can tell you be a good man from the way you treat your horses. I’ll make bold enough to say this to you: you be careful. There are those in Augsburg who may not wish you well.”
	The man was serious, I decided. “I cannot say that that would be a surprise to me, friend Otto. I am, after all, a former soldier who has been shot at more than a few times. Shot at and missed, I might add.” I waved the truncated fingers of my left hand at him. “This was due to a sword, and the fool swinging it had the very luck of the devil to catch me as he did. His luck was shorter-lived than he was, as it chanced, as my pistol bullet put an end to the two of them alike.” I offered him a grin, but his face did not change. “That said, I find it a bit odd that I have only been in Augsburg for four days, all of which were spent in Master Tobias’ fine inn, yet now you tell me that somehow the fine folk of Augsburg have taken a dislike of me…me, whom they’ve never met.” I let my smile fade and showed him something of the trooper I used to be on my own face. He bore it well before he replied.
	“Ah, Master Gottesfreund, you misunderstand me. I said they were in Augsburg, not that they were of Augsburg.”
	I thought through those words, and again, before I responded. “Ah, I think I understand the truth you would serve to me, but can you speak somewhat plainer? It is an old soldier I am, after all.”
	Otto’s mouth quirked a bit at my last words. “As you will, Master Gottesfreund. I should let it be known to you that while my father was a good Lutheran, and raised me to follow in the true faith, his brother, my uncle Georg, married a Catholic girl and took her faith in the doing of it, so that we have kinfolk in the Catholic ranks in the city, for all that we are somewhat embarrassed to speak of it. My cousin, him as used to be called Young Georg to be kept separate from his father, but now is just Georg as his father died a few years back, is the stableman over at the Crossed Keys Inn, the best of the Catholic inns in Augsburg. He tells me that two men arrived yesterday to stay at that inn, who began asking after a man with your name, wanting to know if he was in Augsburg, and where, and what his business is here?”
	All the humor drained from me like the flushing of one of the new-fangled toilets the up-timers had brought back from the future. This was serious.
	I pursed my lips and nodded my head. “Well,” I said, “I did have some wondering as to when these folk would show up, and how many of them there might be if they did. At least I now know.” And that was the biggest load of manure I had spread since my days in the French taverns with Colonel Farquhar’s troopers. But I had learned long ago that when you’re alone and in strange territory, it’s best if you sound confident, unsurprised, and in control.
	Coming in to Augsburg and going to a Catholic inn to start their questioning almost certainly made them agents of the church. And while I had not been expecting such as them at that moment, after a moment’s thought I wasn’t surprised, either, so maybe my load of manure wasn’t all that great after all.
	“So, Otto,” I said briskly, “would it be that these redoubtable fellows seeking after me might belong to a certain brotherhood of very educated men?”
	The corners of Otto’s mouth turned down in that way that happens when people are trying to suppress a smile. But the wrinkles around his eyes gave it away as them moved in the other direction. “Ah, Master Gottesfreund, I couldn’t say of my own knowledge, but Georg, he did say that they looked like the sort of fellows who felt their chamber pots didn’t stink in the morning.”
	I chuckled. “I believe that may answer my question.” I thought for a moment. “If, I say, if I wanted a message to be passed to those fellows, could your cousin Georg be doing that? If I put a bit of silver with it, I mean?”
	Otto’s smile broke free. “Ja, Master Gottesfreund. For a pfennig or two, Georg would come at your beck and call and thank you for the privilege of licking your boots clean with his own tongue.”
	The harshness of that statement caused me to give Otto a hard glance. “It sounds like Georg is not your favorite person, it does.”
	“I said he was my cousin, Master Gottesfreund,” Otto’s smile broadened a little bit. “I did not say I like him.”
	A laugh broke from my lips at that, and not a short one. It trailed off into a chuckle before I said, “That is God’s truth, you did not say you like him. But he’s kin, so you have to deal with him, eh?”
	“I see you know the way of the world, Master Gottesfreund.”
	“Someday I may tell you of my cousin Jacob. He might could make Georg look good.”
	“Surely not!” A look of horror crossed his face as I turned and walked away.
	***
	My chuckle had faded away by the time I sat down at a table in the inn’s common room. It was the middle of the morning, and the only other patron was the old man who seemed to be an almost permanent piece of furniture or statuary, albeit a somewhat ugly one.
	Master Tobias was behind the counter, and he held a mug up as he titled his head in question. I gave him the nod, and in a few moments a mug of beer sat before me on the table. I jerked my thumb at the other man. “Who is the old one in the corner?”
	Tobias leaned forward. “My wife’s uncle. He comes in every morning, gets one mug of beer, and sits until the noon bells ring, then goes home. He says it helps the inn look busier, and it gets him away from his wife while she’s cleaning.”
	I nodded after taking a sip. “That makes some sense, I’d say.”
	Tobias shook his head. “Aunt Marta has been dead for five years.”
	“Ah. One of those.”
	“Ja.”
	“My condolences to all involved.”
	Tobias went back behind the counter. I settled in to do some serious thinking, forearms on the table, weight on my elbows, hat placed on the tabletop on the other side of my mug.
	Why would the Jesuits be looking for me? And how would they know to look for me in Augsburg? This was the first time I had ever been this far south. It made no sense.
	As the level in my mug dropped, the level in my thoughts rose. Jesuits had no reason to know me from Adam. Less, really. The only connection there could be would be the manuscript, which was ridiculous. Master Titus and I had not talked to anyone about it—or at least, I’d not blabbed my mouth to anyone about it, and the good master was even closer mouthed than an Aberdeen graveyard statue. So how would anyone think that I…
	Weesht, and ochone, and other such Scottish utterings. This wasn’t about my own self. This was about Master Titus. He did have some slight reputation, after all, as a collector of unusual books, especially for someone who wasn’t attached to a university. And didn’t the university folks in Jena know him, then? I had seen more visitations by learned folk in the last four years than I had fingers and toes on my own feet and hands, even including the two that had been shortened. And hadn’t Heinrich told me his own self that there had been a surplusage of clergy in Jena in the last few weeks, especially from the south? And didn’t those university fellows just like to talk, then? Mark me, never trust a man who likes the sound of his own voice, not with anything, but most especially with anything that should be held private and confidential. Such a man has no keeping of anything under the rose.
	And if ever there was a man who those men from the south would suspect of being involved somehow with the theft of the manuscript, that would be Master Titus. Lutheran, free-thinker, and not only richer than Midas but possibly rich enough to make the Pope nervous. And who would be well-known in Jena as Master Titus’ companion, agent, and general fixer of problems of all sorts? Why, that would be none other than Caitrion MacDonald’s eldest son, rascal and rogue that he is, one Archibald Gottesfreund—in a word, my own self—a man I had until a few minutes ago considered to be an experienced man of the world and well-nigh as shrewd as they come. At this very moment, I’d not recommend this fellow to sire mules, given how stupid he obviously was. He would throw stupid colts, he would, dragging the breed down.
	My face burned with the heat of embarrassment. The sole consolation available to me was that if I had not considered the possibility that someone might be watching and following one or both of us, neither had Master Titus. And it wouldn’t take a close follower. Just a man or two in the right place at the right time could apply common sense and guess where I was bound next. A man on the walls at Bayreuth, for example, would almost certainly guess from my exit from the city that I would end up at Augsburg.
	Enough with the how and why. What should I do next, besides pray that God should give me a mind equal to at least that of a large squirrel. It would be too much to hope to match an apprentice night-soil man.
	My mug was empty. I waved it in the air to catch Tobias’ eye. He retrieved it, refilled it, returned it to the table, and I resumed considering what artifices of strategy I might ploy or deploy.
	It was obvious I needed to leave Augsburg very soon—later today, if possible, but certainly no later than tomorrow morning. I needed to have a word or three with Otto—who struck me as both a wise and a practical man— about what options might be available to me. But I also needed to do something to throw the Jesuits off the hunt, if I could. But what? Killing them was not just wrong, but very bad for my future prospects. Likewise, I didn’t dare do them serious damage. Even Lutheran clergy would most likely frown at such actions, and to be known for such would limit my usefulness for Master Titus in the future.
	A thought occurred to me—a wonderful, sneaky thought, fully worthy of my MacDonald kindred. A glorious thought, it was. I could feel my eyes light up and the corners of my mouth curl in sneaky delight.
	Draining the remnants of my second mug of beer in a single gulp, I pushed to my feet and crossed to the counter. “Tobias,” I said quietly, beckoning him to approach. He did so, and leaned closer with his eyebrows raised. “Tobias, good host,” I rubbed my palm across my bristly jowl, “I feel a need for a shave. Is there a good barber in all of Augsburg, and can he come here to shave me?”
	“Certainly. I’ll send a runner to him now.”
	He started to turn from the counter, but I grasped his arm and held him close. “And a second, even more important question: is there a good pawn shop nearby?”
	His eyebrows, which had started to lower, resumed their elevation. “Of course there is. Augsburg opened the first pawnshop in the Germanies in 1591. There are several to choose from, but the closest one is Heinrich Dopslauf’s. Go out the door, turn left, go past the corner and halfway to the next corner there is an alley on the other side of the street. His is the shop facing the street on the north side of the alley. You’ll see sign with the three-lobed symbol above the door. Tell Arndt I sent you.”
	“Arndt? I thought you said it was Heinrich’s shop.”
	“Heinrich’s dead. Arndt is his son, but he kept his father’s name on the shop, for some reason. Go do your business. I’ll send for Moses the barber.”
	“Do. I’ll return soon.”
	And out the door I went and briskly down the street, turning the corner as Tobias had instructed and making my way to the shop with the tri-lobed sign above the door. I entered, looking up in startlement as a bell rang above my head. Looking around, there were several large items set on tables or occupying shelves in cases around the room.
	An older merchant dressed in good but sober clothing stepped through curtains hanging in a doorway at the back of the front room. “May I be of some assistance? Do you need a small loan?” His voice was low and cultured, far better than my own.
	“Yes, and no,” I responded. “If you are Arndt, Master Tobias Graumann sent me. I am of the hope that you may have certain items for sale or for acquisition with the owner’s permission.”
	He eyebrows furrowed for a moment, then lifted as he nodded. “I do have certain items, yes. What exactly are you looking for?”
	“Do know what an English Punch is?”
	His lips curled up slightly. “I do. Is that what you are seeking?”
	“Yes. I find I left mine at home, and that lack leaves me underprepared for a situation I must address soon.”
	The lips curled up a bit more. “I see. If you will step over here, please.”
	He led the way across the room to a large cabinet with multiple drawers in it. He took a small key out of a pocket and unlocked it, then pulled a wide but shallow drawer out from the middle of the cabinet. Set out in the drawer were a number of small items of the sorts devoted to mayhem, including several of the exact item I was looking for.
	“All of these are for sale. The owners have either defaulted on their loans or are otherwise no longer able to contest a sale.” From somewhere—maybe out of a sleeve, for all I know—he produced a stylus and touched items in turn. “Solid lead, cast iron, brass, and perhaps my favorite, bronze. Please, make your selection.”
	I looked at them, following his stylus. Each had the four loops in a curve made to slide over fingers, each had an additional weight below the curve to nestle in the palm of the hand.
	“The English Punch—so discreet,” Arndt murmured, “yet so devastating in the hands of one who knows how to use it.”
	“Pure lead is too soft,” I said. “It should be alloyed with tin to stiffen it. Cast iron will rust. Brass is best. Did you say this is bronze?”
	“Indeed,” Arndt said. “Note the loops are a bit wider and thicker on the outside edge to give more support to the fingers and more impact surface. That pair was taken in from a company of mercenaries marching to Prague. A Hibernian fellow was on the wrong side in a bar fight some time ago, and ended up being buried in a pauper’s grave here in Augsburg. His fellows sold his equipage, and some of it made its way here. This is the last of it.”
	“An Irisher, eh?” I picked them up and slid them over my fingers. They fit well, which was a relief, given that my hands are a bit larger than most men’s—not in length or breadth, mind you, but in thickness. My cousin Rory would from time to time remark on the fact that being slapped by one of my hands was rather like being kissed by a large smoked ham swung by a headsman. They also nestled well in my palms, as if they had been designed and cast for me.
	“Yes. They are large enough to be almost worthy of the old Roman name caestus.”
	“Maybe so,” I said flexing my fingers. “But I rather like the Grantville name for them—brass knuckles.” He did smile at that, but it faded away when I said, “How much?”
	With that, the bargaining began. For all that his dress said quiet wealth, and for all that his speech and tone were polished and bespoke a place of worth and culture, Arndt would have held his own against Jena fishwives, aye, and likely would have bested most of them at least two times out of three. In the end, he pocketed more of my silver than I wished, but I walked away with my pockets weighted with the best brass knuckles I’d ever seen.
	Returning to the inn, I found a wizened little old man waiting.
	“Master Gottesfreund,” Tobias said, “this is Moses Rauch, the best barber in Augsburg. Fortunately, he was able to come when I sent a message to him. Moses, this is your customer.”
	When Moses smiled, it was evident he had not much more than six teeth in his mouth, and they weren’t exactly white. He bowed, and bowed again. “Please, master, take your coat off and be seated. This won’t take long, no, it won’t.” A moment later I was coatless and seated in a chair with the barber draping a large cloth over my chest.
	“Master Tobias, I need that hot water, please.” A moment later, there was a bowl of steaming water on the counter. He took a small wide-mouthed pottery jar out of his bag and placed it in the bowl. “We’ll wait for the heat to soften the grease a bit.” He saw my narrowed eyes and rushed to explain. “Some barbers use soap to shave, master. I use goose grease, infused with a bit of lavender scent. It shaves very well, leaves the skin smooth and soft, and smells rather nice afterward. Trust me, it will be the best shave you’ve ever had.”
	A quarter-hour later by the church bells, he was wiping my face with a hot towel. “There, master, all done.” He held a hand mirror up so I could see my face. It looked good, and when I ran a hand along my jaw, it felt good. He swept the cloth away, and I climbed to my feet.
	“How much?”
	“Five pfennigs, master.” He looked me in the eye when he said that. I shrugged, dug the coins out of my pocket, and paid him, with a bit extra for good measure. He rolled up his kit in its bag, and bustled out the door with a wave behind to Tobias.
	I shrugged back into my buff coat, and leaned over the bar to Tobias. When he bent close, I said, “I know we talked about my staying a week, but with the presence of people looking for me when they have no reason to, with Otto’s aid I’ll be leaving tonight or early in the morning, but I’ll leave my horse Maus here for Otto to continue to tend and heal. Here are twenty guilders to see to his keep. If I’m not back in thirty days, send a message to Master Titus Wulff in Jena. He will redeem him. And I may need another favor in the near future. If I appear betimes unexpected, do not be surprised.” I slid the stack of coins across the counter, and Tobias made them disappear with speed and silence. He gave a solemn nod, I put my hat back on my head, and headed out the door.
	It was a short journey, I admit. “Otto!” I called out as I entered the stable.
	“Here, Master Gottesfreund.” He stepped out of Cortana’s stall.
	“Otto, my friend, I need a bit of help.”
	“In what way, Master Gottesfreund?”
	“Would you think that your cousin Georg would take a message to the strangers at his inn who are looking for me? Especially if it meant those two might come into harm’s way because of it? Nothing fatal, mind you.”
	“Knowing Georg as I do,” Otto said with a smirk, “I suspect that will depend entirely on how much coin will cross his palm.”
	“Oh, a few guilders,” I said lightly. “Perhaps as many as ten.”
	Otto snorted. “For five guilders, Georg would sell his mother and wife as a matched set and throw in his first-born son to sweeten the deal.”
	“That good?” I murmured. “Well, let us proceed to sweeten the man’s life. Will you be my messenger? I’ll pay you the same.”
	“For this, I would do it for the joy of knowing what was coming to him,” Otto said, his face breaking into a grin.
	I pulled a small purse with ten guilders in it out of my pocket. “Here’s ten—five for you and five for him. Give him one when you meet him, he gets the second after delivering the message, and the last three after the meeting.”
	“What’s the message, then?”
	“He’s to say to them that someone as is willing to tell them much about me will meet them near the southwest corner of the Dom Maria after the ninth bell tonight. If the last two nights are any measure, it will be full dark then, right?”
	“Ja.” Otto pulled a guilder out of the purse and stuck it in a pocket, then tucked the purse itself inside his jacket. “Meet the sneaking Judas at the southwest corner of the Dom after the ninth bell.” His grin broadened as he headed out the door of the stable.
	I watched him walk out of the stable yard and around the corner of the inn. Once he was out of sight, I closed the door to the stable. It was but the work of a few minutes to retrieve my bag from my room, so it wasn’t long before I was saddling Cortana. I was just strapping my bag to the breech ring of my saddle when Otto returned, chuckling as he came through the door.
	“Done?” I asked.
	“Ja, indeed.” Otto placed a hand to his chest and half-bowed. “Done and done. He asked no questions, simply took the silver and was off like a hound after a rabbit. I expect he’s given them the word by now.”
	“Good, good.” I rubbed my hands together. “Now, Otto, if you will, when you hear the ninth bell start tonight, tighten the cinches of this saddle and put the bridle on Cortana. I doubt not I’ll be along not long thereafter, anxious to leave town. And speaking of leaving, I expect you, knowledgeable horse-master that you are, to know just which gate I would best be able to leave your fine city by with a minimum of bother and ceremony?”
	“Ach, nothing is easier. The north gate, ask for Justus, tell him I sent you, and offer him two of those big silvers. It will be like you were never here.”
	“Only two?”
	“The tariff to exit is low. The tariff to enter is much higher.” His grin reappeared.
	“Smuggling is that profitable?”
	Otto’s face turned sober. “I wouldn’t know, Master Gottesfreund, being a lawful sort of man myself. But I know a man who knows a man, you might say.” He lifted a hand and rubbed the thumb and fingertips together.
	“I always admire a man who knows what’s what,” I said. “North, eh? Will friend Justus keep silent about my passing?”
	Otto shook his head, lips pursed. “The exit tariff is low. To buy silence might take more than you carry.”
	“Then north it is.”
	At Otto’s quizzical look, I smiled, and after a moment he pointed a long boney finger at me and said, “You are an evil man, Master Gottesfreund.”
	“You flatter me,” I said. “Now, one last question—do you have an old cloak and hat I can borrow tonight?”

Chapter 19
Archie
 
	The eighth hour of the night sounded, and I roused from where I had rolled up in Otto’s old cloak to sleep in the straw of Cortana’s stall. I lay there for a moment, gathering my thoughts, until I heard Otto’s soft steps moving toward me.
	“That’s eight of the clock, Master Gottesfreund.” His voice was low, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear him. I agreed with that—I did not particularly want anyone else hearing us as well.
	I rolled to one knee, then rose, pushing on Cortana’s hindquarters to shift him out of my way. He swatted me with his tail in response. I straightened my clothes and the cloak, and stepped out of the stall, smacking my lips. “Got anything to drink out here, Otto?”
	He waved at a couple of buckets. “Some water for the horses.” I tilted my head down a bit and stared out at him from under lowered eyebrows, saying nothing. The smile playing around the corners of his mouth wriggled free and creased his face. “Or I have a half bottle of red wine well on its way to becoming vinegar and I have a small bottle of genever I was just about to open.”
	“I’ll take a sip or two of the genever, if I may,” I responded. “Just enough to fuel the fire and clear the thoughts, mind you.”
	He stepped over to a small cabinet and pulled a small ceramic bottle from the top shelf from behind some other stuff. “I keep it hidden,” he said, “to keep the boys from finding it.” He twisted the cap from the bottle, took a swig of his own genever, and then passed me the bottle.
	I took one small sip, just to try it. It was strong, but not as raw as I’d been afraid it would be. Genever can be as smooth as silk, or it can be so harsh that it claws its way down your throat. This was somewhere around the median of the two. I took a larger sip and held it in my mouth as I passed the bottle back to Otto. He took another sip, said, “Smooth, isn’t it?” before he turned to put the bottle back in the cabinet. I swallowed and decided that my understanding of smoothness differed somewhat from Otto’s.
	I reached over and took from the peg on the outside wall of the stall the narrow-brimmed tall-crowned hat that Otto had loaned me along with the cloak, and settled it on my head. It was just enough too small that I had to force the band down and around my skull, leaving a feeling as if a giant had his hands wrapped around my head and was squeezing. I was thankful he wasn’t squeezing with all his strength, and I had a feeling I would be glad enough for that taste of genever before I got back to the stable.
	Otto raised his eyebrows in the lantern light, and I nodded. “Time to be about it,” I said.
	“I’ll have this fine fellow ready for you when you return,” Otto said.
	“Thanks. Bear in mind I may be in a bit of a hurry when I do.” With that, I slipped out the door of the stable, closing it behind me, then moved around the side of the inn and out into the street.
	One of the reasons I had left so much before the time I had set for the meeting was to give my eyes time to readjust to the dark. Oh, there were occasional torches flickering in the night breeze, but not many, and the moon hadn’t risen above the city walls yet, so it was almost as dark as the inside of a miner’s heart. The light of the stable lantern had fair dazzled my sight, and I needed time to get my night vision back. Colonel Farquhar’s company had never really done night maneuvers, but sneaking back into camp after hours when I’d had a bit too much to drink, or even worse, not enough, had given me more experience in the art of stealth than riding a braw great horse ever would have.
	‘Twasn’t long before I was nestled among three elm trees standing cheek by jowl perhaps three or four rods from the corner of the Dom. With no moon I was just another trunk standing under leaf and dark in the shadows. I heard the clock strike the half hour and leaned back against the trunk of the tree I stood before. It might be a half hour before my guests arrived, but I’d have wagered even Master Titus’ silver on them arriving some time before that. I would have, in their place. I suppressed a snort when it dawned on me that I had already done exactly that.
	I had learned the knack of standing watch silently and still among the Scots. Not that they were masters of it, mind you—perish that thought, unruly lot that they are, my own kin included. But there was an old sergeant among Colonel Farquhar’s men that took a shine to me for some mysterious reason who explained to me in the pithiest of terms that sentries in the field who made noise tended to not come back to camp, or at least not in one piece. After seeing the truth of that one night in Flanders and having to help bury the result, I took his lessons to my bosom. It’s not all that difficult once you learn the tricks of tensing alternate muscles between legs and arms to keep loose and warm, and learn to breath slowly through your nose.
	As the quarter-hour sounded, I saw two shadows round the corner of the Dom and stand facing generally south. I heard murmurs of conversation, but very low, so that I heard naught of what was said. After a moment, they separated. One remained where he was, standing out from the building, and the other faded around the corner to stand with his back against the Dom’s western wall.
	Some few minutes passed, and the visible man began to slowly pace one direction then back again, three paces to a length. I suppressed the head shake I wanted to give. No patience, this lad. A surprising flaw in a Jesuit priest.
	I slowly slipped my hands into my jerkin pockets and slid my fingers into the brass knuckles, pulling them out to hang at the end of my arms weighting them down straight. A moment later, the hour struck. At the ninth peal, I straightened. Right. Time to do this.
	As soon as I stepped out of the shadow of the trees, the fellow stopped his pacing and turned to face me. Four rods is thirty paces, or near enough. I stopped about eight paces away and put my fists on my hips under the cloak.
	“You the fellows looking for word about Archie Gottesfreund?” I pitched my voice to the sound of Jena, mocking the tone of Heinrich as I did so.
	“Who’s asking?” The fellow facing me had a smooth tenor voice, much like I would expect a priest to have.
	“The fellow who sent word to the two men asking about Archie, is who. Now, are you them, or aren’t you?” After a beat, before he could respond, I added, “And tell your friend to come out from behind the corner. He’s not fooling anyone playing the lurker.”
	He looked back over his shoulder, and after a moment the other fellow came around the corner and joined his friend. They were pretty much of a size, largish, thick bodies from the look of it, and standing square on their feet. The thought crossed my mind these might not be priests.
	“So, you them or not?” I said, dropping my hands and moving a step or so closer1.
	“Well, if you’re the man with the word, then, ja, we’re the fellows looking for the word.” That was the second man. His voice was likewise a tenor, but it had a sound of a wood rasp running across a knot on a beam—coarse and annoying, it was. Made me want to shake my head, it did.
	“Oh, I have more than one word,” I said with a chuckle following. “Which one is it you want, and what’s in it for me?” I leaned forward a bit and slid another step closer.
	“A simple word, actually,” the first fellow replied, “with perhaps a couple of good silver guilders to buy your beer with tomorrow night.”
	I gave a big snort. “Friend, two guilders wouldn’t buy the name of my horse, much less a good word about Gottesfreund.” I started to turn away.
	“Wait!” That was the second fellow. I paused, then turned back, advancing another step as I did so. “Two guilders to start, and six if the word is good.”
	I shook my head. “You lot are worse than the usurious Jews. I expected better out of Jesuits.”
	They looked at each other. “Who…” the second began, only to stop when the other put a hand on his arm.
	“What do you want?” the smooth tenor said.
	“Five now, ten more when you see the worth of my word.” I let a bit of avarice bleed into my voice.
	They looked at each other, then back to me. “Done.”
	“Show me the coin.”
	The first one pulled a purse from his belt and counted out coin slowly into his friend’s hand. “One…two…three…four…five.” I edged forward another step and a half as he did so. He closed the purse and tucked it back inside his belt. “See, we’re dealing honest with you. Five you said, five you’ll have.”
	I took one more step and stood easily. “That’s good, lads. That’s right good. But you made one mistake.”
	They both tensed, and the smooth-voiced one tilted his head. “Mistake? In what way?”
	My brass-knuckled hands burst up in short hard punches that took them both just below the breastbone. The smooth one’s mouth locked open but no sound came forth before he dropped to his knees, hands going to his chest as if his heart had stopped.
	The other fellow wasn’t hit as solidly, and he wobbled back a step trying to raise his hands. I followed and buried my right hand in his belly. He gave an agonized grunt as he dropped to his knees. I brought the ham of my fist down on the back of his neck, and he sprawled on the paving stones.
	Turning back to the first one, I pulled him to his feet and pushed his left side against the wall, after which I hammered him half-a-dozen times in that big muscle at the top of the arm. I knew from experience just how much deep bruising the brass knuckles could give. My goal was to punish, not severely injure. Enough to keep them in town for at least a couple of days was what I wanted.
	A quick glance over my shoulder to make sure the other one wasn’t up yet—he wasn’t—and I spun the first man to face the wall and then hammered his left arse with another half-a-dozen blows. With a sore shoulder and an aching hip, he’d not be riding anywhere for a while, and he’d doubtless have colorful skin for some time after.
	I let him slide down the wall while I stepped over to collect the harsh-voiced one who was trying to regain his feet. He’d almost accomplished that feat—attaining his feet, that is—when I grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the wall, where I proceeded to give him the same deserts that his friend and brother had taken.
	At the end, I crouched on my hams before where they lay crumpled, forearms resting on my knees. I could tell from the occasional moan and their breathing that they were aware.
	“Sorry, lads, but I couldn’t have you traipsing along after me. A mite inconvenient that would be.” I was back to my normal voice. “You’ll be sore for a few days, and doubtless you won’t be sitting a saddle with comfort for a while, but take some heart…if I’d been seriously irked at the two of you, you’d both be dead at this moment.”
	“You’re…Gottesfreund?” That was from the harsh-voiced fellow. He lay slumped against the wall, breathing hard, but I could tell his eyes were fixed on me.
	“Aye, I am God’s friend, and while I may not be a friend to Jesuits, I have no great enmity for them—or you in particular—either. I suggest you lot—all of you—not make me rethink that.” A thought recurred to me. “Hang on—you lads aren’t priests, are you? Lay brothers, the two of you?”
	Neither spoke, but I could see them glance at each other. I chuckled, then said, “You might ask your superiors for more training in spy craft. A bit clumsy about it, you were.”
	I stood and turned to go.
	“What…” husked the smooth voiced one, “what mistake?”
	I turned back to face them. “A simple one, one that a very child would know better than to make.”
	“What?” His voice almost broke.
	“Lad,” I said gently, “you let me get too close.”
	And with that, I was gone.
	***
	I slipped into the stable, but the door hinge squeaked a bit and Otto roused from where he was drowsing atop a barrel that I had seen contained grain for the stable’s inhabitants. I tossed the cloak and hat at him, pulled my buff coat from the peg in the wall where it hung and pulled it on, letting its weight settle on my shoulders like the arms of a familiar old friend, then took my wide-brimmed hat from the adjacent peg and donned it as well.
	By then Otto was leading Cortana out of his erstwhile stall. He turned his head and nosed my hat as I checked his girths. Unless you’re fleeing for your life—and maybe especially then—always check your girths. It’s a sickening feeling to have your saddle start shifting under you.
	I took another purse from my belt. “I’ve paid Master Tobias for Maus’ upkeep, but for your help tonight, and for the promise of caring for Maus until I either return or send for him, this is yours. Another ten guilders. Oh, and be sure Georg gets the last of his payment.”
	Otto said nothing, just nodded and took the purse and made it disappear into his jerkin. I led Cortana out into the stable court and mounted, then looked down at Otto and touched my hand to the brim of my hat before nudging Cortana with my heels.
	There were two guards at the north gate that night. Justus was true to Otto’s word. When I asked for him, he stepped forward. When I held up two guilders, he grinned and opened the small gate-within-the gate. I had to dismount to lead Cortana through, dropping the coins in Justus’ hand as I did so. Once outside the closed gate, I mounted again, looked up to where the partial moon was starting to rise, and nudged Cortana into motion. He wasn’t happy at walking in the dark, and neither was I, but I didn’t plan to ride far—just enough to get beyond sight of the walls and leave a bit of a quandary for those who might take it in their heads to try and follow me on the morrow. Bad cess to them as might try it.

Chapter 20
The J-Team
 
	Father Nicholas was strapping his bag shut when Father Johannes Khün, Rector Wangnereck’s secretary, appeared in the doorway of their room. “Preparing to leave?” that worthy asked.
	“Ja,” Gus replied from where he was donning his coat. “It’s warm, the roads are dry again, the horses are rested and restive, according to the lads working in the stables. Time to be back in the saddle and riding on.”
	“The rector would like to speak with you both before you leave,” Father Johannes said. “At your convenience, of course.”
	Gus looked at Nick and quirked his mouth. “Our day is his, I would say. Come, Nick, let us go see what the rector has to say.”
	Nick waved a hand at the door. “After you.”
	***
	They returned to the rector’s office, following Father Johannes in silence, through the halls and doorways into his presence. The secretary closed the door and stood before it. Rector Wangnereck waved his hand at the chairs, and Gus and Nick resumed their places as if only a few moments had passed since they were last there.
	“I have some news for you about the subject of our last conversation,” the rector began. Nicholas settled in his chair, hands folded in his lap. Somehow he doubted that this would be welcome news, based on the frown lines showing on Wangnereck’s face.
	“I sent Jakob Gretsner and Friederich Schott, two of our rising lay brothers, to Augsburg a couple of days ago to try and gather intelligence about your man Gottesfreund.”
	“He’s not our man,” Gus muttered.
	“Indeed,” the rector said dryly. “That became very clear over the course of an evening. They were only supposed to gather information already collected, but on their second day, after making a few inquiries, they were sent a message saying someone who knew of Gottesfreund was willing to meet with them at night near the cathedral.”
	“Oh, that won’t end well,” Nick muttered to himself, apparently not as quietly as he’d thought, for Wangnereck pointed a finger at him.
	“Indeed,” the older man repeated.
	“Let me guess,” Gus said. “They were met by Gottesfreund.” Wangnereck nodded. “Are they still alive?”
	“Ja, albeit a bit roughly handled. They’re not sure what he hit them with, but they are both severely bruised, to the point that they will not be able to sit in saddles for some time.”
	“Just bruised?” Nick asked.
	“That’s the report. No broken bones, and no cuts or gashes.”
	“Admirable restraint, one would think.” That from Gus in a sour tone.
	“Not just restraint,” Nick said. “Intent.”
	The rector nodded. “One of the things they sent in their report,” he picked up a piece of paper from his desk, “was that Gottesfreund said he ‘had no great enmity for Jesuits, and that we should not make him rethink that.’” He put the paper down. “Odd way of showing ‘no great enmity.’”
	Gus sat up straight in his chair. “Restraint I said, and restraint I meant. That, my dear Rector, was a message that we would do well to not ignore. The man is a seasoned trooper and campaigner. Do not take him lightly. Our foolish brothers are only alive because he chose not to do something more lasting.”
	“One would do well to not carry owls to Athens,” Wangnereck murmured.
	Gus sat back. “Apologies.” The rector waved a hand in dismissal.
	Nick bit back a smile for a moment, then asked, “Is Gottesfreund still in Augsburg?”
	“Not according to this,” the rector tapped the report page again. “He apparently left that night, and was last seen headed north.”
	“Which means he’s most likely well south of Augsburg by now.” Gus rejoined the conversation.
	“Agreed.”
	“So what do we do now?” Nick asked. “Our goal hasn’t changed. We can’t start chasing him. We have to remain focused on our task.”
	Father Johannes cleared his throat slightly from behind them. The rector nodded at him.
	“If he was coming here, he’d already be here,” the secretary said. “Otherwise, from Augsburg, his most likely destinations are either Ulm or Füssen,” the secretary said. “So, two days to Ulm, or three days to Füssen if the weather’s good and the roads are dry.”
	“If he’s looking for the codex, he’ll be on the way to Füssen,” Gus said. “No reason to go out of his way to Ulm.” Nick watched his partner tap his lips with a finger. “I was of a mind to go to Innsbruck next, but now I think we need to go to Füssen. If that man is chasing the codex, and if he knows something we don’t know, we need to be there to watch him. If he doesn’t know something we don’t know, it’s still a high probability locus. But I dislike leaving Innsbruck uncovered.” Gus bent his gaze on the rector, who sighed.
	“Father Johannes,” the rector said.
	“Yes, Very Reverend Father Heinrich.” Nick saw the secretary give a slight bow out of the corner of his eye as he responded with a bit of humor in his voice.
	“Since you are privy to everything involved in this matter, please make the trip to Innsbruck to consult with our brothers there and determine if there has been any sign or hint of the codex either being there or being on the way there. Take a couple of the lay brothers with you. We obviously need to be giving our lay brothers more experience.” He tapped the report on his desk. “One of the critiques Gottesfreund made was that we did not teach our lay brothers enough spycraft.”
	Nick winced at that one, but still chuckled a bit. There was some obvious truth to that.
	“Four days there,” Father Johannes said, “four days back, plus however long it takes to consult with the senior brothers there.”
	“See to it,” Wangnereck said. He then looked to Gus and Nick. “And you’re off to Füssen?”
	“We’re already packed,” Gus said, “and the stables are supposed to have our horses ready. We can leave in the quarter hour for Füssen rather than Innsbruck. Do we have any contacts at all in Füssen?”
	“Nothing official, and next to nothing that’s not,” the rector said with a twist to his mouth. “The Monastery of St. Mang dominates that town, and Jesuits are not at all welcome. Very few clerics of any other order have a presence there.”
	“Well, it’s still the best option we have. By your leave, Rector?” Gus stood, and Nick followed suit.
	“Go with God,” Wangnereck said, folding his hands on his desk.
	Gus made the sign of the cross, Nick followed suit, and they turned and left. And true to Gus’ word, in a quarter hour they were mounted. In another quarter hour they were riding through a city gate, after which they broke into a trot. There was time and distance to be made up.

Chapter 21
Archie
 
Füssen
 
	I reached down and gave Cortana a couple of solid pats on his shoulder. I’d pushed him harder the last couple of days than I had earlier in the trip, but he’d done well, and we were now just outside the walls of Füssen. “Good lad,” I murmured. “Some extra grain for you tonight, I believe, yes.” His right ear swiveled back to catch my voice. “Smart lad, braw lad.”
	After a moment, he looked back at me, as if wondering when I would produce that grain. I chuckled and nudged him with my heels. He moved into a brisk walk, and so we approached the city.
	Füssen was higher up than I had expected. Not so high as to make it hard to breathe, but high enough that even in full summer sun it was definitely cool.
	The city was dominated first by the Hohes Schloss, the high castle that had at one time been the summer residence of the prince-bishops of Augsburg. From the sight of the banner waving from the pinnacle of the gate tower, they still possessed, although they no longer ruled over Augsburg.
	Slightly below that was the complex of the Benedictine Monastery of St. Mang, also known as St. Magnus of Füssen. The walled city itself was on high ground near the River Lech. Even I, Philistine as I am often accused of being, could appreciate the beauty of the setting and wish for an artist to capture it.
	I had no issues entering the city. I had bought a cloak in one of the towns along the way, paying more than I should have, but it was good wool and well-made for all that it was not new and a rather plebeian grayish color. That allowed me to roll up my buff coat and strap it on behind my saddle so that I looked less like a soldier and more like a slightly scruffy man of business, of which there were more than a few about.
	I found a room at an inn with the elegant name of Caesar’s Cup. I’m sure there was a story behind it, and perhaps I’d find out what it was some time during my stay. Alas, the establishment was not the equal of the name, but it was fairly clean and had a drinkable beer, so it fit my needs at that moment. I wanted to be a mouse now and not a tom-cat. It was quiet, low to the ground, not noticed that I needed to be as I looked for Master Titus’ prize, if it was here at all, and the inn was part of that design.
	The next few days I wandered around the city. It wasn’t a lot larger than Jena, perhaps as large as the Old City of Magdeburg. So by the evening of the second day I had learned the major streets, where the inns and taverns were, the market and the main buildings of the monastery and the basilica, and had ideas as to the worth of the city watch—not very, as one would have it. Jena’s watch was better, and Magdeburg’s Polizei would have them for breakfast without salt.
	That was the easy part of the load. Now came the part that would challenge the wisest of men—learning the people.
	The next day was a market day. I parked myself on a bench outside a tavern called The Spotted Hound, and gave myself up to watching the people.
	If you want to know the state of a town or city, watch the market. Not just what is being marketed, or the prices, but the people. How they act, and just as importantly, how they bargain will tell you more about the health and well-being of the city than any amount of discussions with the burghers ever will. Smiles, jokes, spirited bargaining, all is well. Lack of foodstuffs, panicked buying, or frequent fights, time to leave town.
	The sun was shining, there was a very light breeze off the river, and all the wives and their eldest daughters were out picking over the fruits and vegetables, chaffering with one another and with the farmers’ wives and daughters who were doing the selling. The farmers and their sons were all busy with the wheat harvest that week, trying to get it in before the fall storms started.
	The women wandered and mingled, most of them sooner or later stopping by a peddler who had bright ribbons and threads for sale, along with pins. Bright colors always attracted women’s eyes, it seemed.
	Nothing caught my eye. People—mostly women—came, mingled, left. The flow was fairly constant. When the sun reached its zenith, I betook myself to another tavern not far away, that had proved to have an edible lunch, where I had a bowl of fairly fresh fish soup and some warm barley bread. Afterward, still watching the market, I wandered through it myself. I paused at a table where an older woman had some hats. Not new, of course, but in good condition. She had a dark green hat that I liked, and miracle of miracles, when I tried it on my head, it fit! So we bargained back and forth, finally agreeing on a sum that wasn’t an outrage to the soul of my sainted mother Caitriona MacDonald.
	I passed her the coins, she gave me a few back in exchange, and I placed the hat on my head, grinning in my most fetching way. “Tell me, Mistress Gruber, do I look distinguished?”
	She cackled a bit, then said, “Like a very rogue, you look. I need to tell the wives to watch their daughters with you around.” That was followed by a bawdy wink.
	I looked around, and asked her the question that had been preying on my mind since before my nooning, “I’ve not seen any of the monks today. Do they not frequent the market?”
	“Them?” She spat to one side, missing my boots but not by much. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
	I smiled at her and said in my broadest Scots voice, “And what would be telling you that, now, mistress?”
	She barked a laugh, then sobered and said, “They’ve no use for the likes of us. They have their own farms where they raise their own food which they share not, and those few things they need they summon the makers or merchants to their halls. We get more custom from the caretakers of the prince-bishop’s schloss than we do from the monks.” She spat again.
	A robed figure caught my eye. “What about him, then?”
	She followed my nod. “Brother Wilhelm Schneider? He’s not one of them Benedictine fellows. He’s a Franciscan who ministers to the poor in the town. Has a small house—not much more than a hut, really. He’s usually got a sick one there being tended to. Got one now, for that matter. A good man, Brother Wilhelm is.”
	I followed the monk with my eyes for a short while as he traveled through the crowd, stopping often to exchange a few words with people. After he passed out of sight, I looked around some more, surveying everything in sight, then came back to Mistress Gruber. “Do you get many strangers in Füssen?”
	‘You mean besides yourself?” Another bark of a laugh. “We get more than you might think. The monastery draws some, the luthiers’ guild draws more than a few, especially now that the up-timers have started buying violins here, and anyone coming from or going to the pass almost has to pass by here. So, ja, there’s new folk in or going through town every week, even in winter. Unless there’s a blizzard, mind you. Then things get quiet.”
	“I’d wager on that,” I murmured.
	So, lots of strangers…enough that one more might not be so noticed. How to find that one, though?
	A woman walked up to Mistress Gruber and started talking, so I wandered on, holding my old hat behind my back. I went back to The Spotted Hound, bought another mug of beer, and resumed my place on the bench, watching the day pass and the folk move. Sometimes life is good to an old soldier.
	***
	The next morn, after breaking my fast with some broth and rye bread—despite its poor man’s reputation, I like the flavor of rye—I put my new hat on my head and wandered out into the city again. Market was over, but there were still enough people on the streets the town felt comfortable—like the world was there, and they had their share of it. More men than women today. It being Friday in a predominantly Catholic city might have had something to do with it.
	I saw the monk again, the Franciscan, Brother Wilhelm it was. Unlike yesterday when he strolled through the market greeting everyone and being stopped by all and sundry for loose conversation, today he strode down the street like a man with a charge from a superior officer and an understanding of what would happen if he failed. Eyes straight ahead, mouth in a tight line, arms swinging like swift pendulums, he was the very picture of duty, he was. Intrigued, I followed him just to see what could draw him so strongly.
	After down the street and around two corners he ducked into the low doorway of a very narrow little shop that according to its sign was an apothecary’s shop. I eased up to the doorway and leaned back against the side of the building. The door wasn’t a good fit in the frame, and I could actually hear most of the conversation because whoever Brother Wilhelm was talking to wasn’t keeping his voice down, so neither was the monk.
	“The willow bark tea isn’t working,” I assumed that was Brother Wilhelm. “I need those blue pills, Master Besler. They’re the best febrifuge I have found.”
	“You know the price,” the other voice said. That had to be the apothecary, and he had an amazingly deep voice. “Ten pfennigs apiece for a Sal Vin Betula pill, or a hundred pfennigs for a box of twelve.”
	“That’s over half a gulden,” the monk protested.
	“I am sorry,” the apothecary said. “The city regulates what we have to charge for these imported medicines.”
	“Can I go to another apothecarist?”
	“There’s only one other approved apothecary in Füssen, and he has to follow the same rules.” The apothecary paused a moment, then said, “Even if I wanted to charge less, the city tariffs them such that I would lose money if I did.”
	“Fine. I will take two of the blue pills, please.”
	I decided it was time for me to move, and when Brother Wilhelm threw open the door of the little shop and emerged from under the low door frame I was back toward the corner from which he had come. A moment later he was past me, moving even quicker than he had been when he came down. I watched him until he had turned the corner and was out of sight, then turned back and made my way to the apothecary shop myself.
	The light in the shop was dim, despite the sun shining outside. The small panes of glass in the front window were made of glass that was a bit cloudy, in addition to being just a bit on the grimy side. The store keeper had been heading through a door into a back room, but he turned and retraced his steps to the counter.
	“Yes? Do you need something? Nostrums, pills, poultices, tonics? I have some of everything, and all warranted to be of the finest quality.” He was a short older man who was lean as a walking stick, and that voice was even more remarkable given his size, or lack thereof.
	I laid three groschen and a ten pfennig coin on the counter. “Sell me the rest of that box of Sal Vin Betula that you took those two pills from for the Franciscan for eighty pfennigs. And there had best be ten of those pills in that box when you hand it to me.”
	His hand paused for just a short moment as it reached to a stack of small boxes on a shelf behind him, before it settled on one box and brought it forward to the counter. He set it down, then held it with both hands.
	“I’m only supposed to sell a full box of twelve pills for a hundred pfennigs. Once a box is broken, it’s supposed to be ten pfennigs a pill.”
	“Well, friend,” I said as I leaned forward on the counter, “my aim is to take that box along and give it to Brother Wilhelm as an offering, a donation to his work. So in just a few minutes one person will have all twelve of the pills that were in that box. And you can write it down in your account book as a single sale of a full box for one hundred pfennigs, and no one will know differently, now will they? I won’t tell anyone, and I’m certain that Brother Wilhelm will not be shouting it in the streets. So unless you open your mouth to someone else, no one will know.”
	I moved the silver a little farther across the counter, but still kept my fingers on the coins while I stared the old man in the eyes. I saw his jaw clench and his eyes narrow a bit, saw his nostrils flare, but then his shoulders sagged and he sighed.
	“Well enough,” he said. “Your word that it goes to Brother Wilhelm, and I’ll do it. But mind you both keep this behind your teeth! I do not need the city bookkeepers to start inquisiting me about my practices!”
	“Show me what’s in the box, and you have my word on it.”
	He slid the small box open. Inside were ten small blue pills. He closed it again and pushed it toward me. I pushed the silver coins toward him. He opened a drawer and took out two single pfennig coins which he pushed across the counter to me.
	“You could have kept that,” I said, not taking the coins. “I’d not have complained.”
	“Another time I might have,” he said as he put the silver I had given him in the drawer, “but not in a deal for Brother Wilhelm. He does good work among the poor, and I’ll not cheat him or those who help him.”
	I took the single pfennigs and put them in one pocket, put the pills in another, touched the brim of my hat with a couple of fingers, and walked out of the shop.
	It wasn’t long and I was standing before The Spotted Hound again, facing the door, trying to figure out what I wanted to do next—or rather, what I needed to do next. Want and need aren’t the same thing, I knew well, having learned that the hard way in the horse troop more than a few years ago.
	As I was continuing to ponder on what to do, I saw a couple of riders approaching out of the corner of my right eye. They were riding nice horses, but there wasn’t anything to really catch my attention about them—until they were a step past me, and I heard this from their conversation: “…find Gottesfreund…”
	I froze for an instant, then slowly turned my head to the left to get a view of them…or their backsides, anyway. A couple of solidly built men, no obvious arms about them. Competent riders, from the way they sat their saddles. Not wearing fancy dress, from what I could see, but good quality clothing and not noticeably worn. They both wore wide-brimmed hats not too different from what I normally wore. Again, nothing unusual, but nonetheless what Ma called my Scots blood ran cold and the hair on my neck started standing up. They were trouble. I’d wager every guilder I still had in my pockets and purse on it, and give odds for it as well.

Chapter 22
The J-team
 
Füssen
 
	“So do you think we’ll find Gottesfreund here?” Nick asked as they rode down a wide street in Füssen.
	“I wish I could say yes,” his partner said. “Alas, now that he knows he is being watched for, I’ll be very surprised if we catch a glimpse of him. That’s assuming he’s here, rather than someplace like Innsbruck or Nürnberg. That’s also assuming he’s looking for the codex but hasn’t found it. If he’s not here or not looking for the codex, then we’ve wasted a lot of time and concern but the hunt is still on. On another hand, if he’s found it already and is headed home, then our queen has left the board and we are about to be cornered. So if we see him on the streets, at least the game is still in procession. He may know where it is, but not be able to get to it.”
	“Indeed,” Nick responded. “So what is our stratagem now?”
	Gus blew air through his lips, producing the flapping sound that children loved so much. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
	Nick shook his head. “All I know to do is to believe that the codex is here and try to find it. Füssen doesn’t seem large enough that a stranger to town could hide for very long, especially one from Rome or the Tuscany area. His clothing and speech would catch attention.”
	“Not the greatest of plans,” Gus observed.
	Nick made a sour face. “I know. But do you have any better?”
	Gus likewise looked like he’d bitten into a sour fruit. “No, sadly, I do not. And if this is the best idea that the two of us together can produce, then we should turn in our crucifixes to the Father-General and go become anchorites in the Judean desert. At least there we would not be displaying our fecklessness to all those around us, and we might even serve as moderately useful good examples, with hopes of hearing something like ‘Fairly well done, thou mostly faithful servant’ when our time of judgment comes.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
	“Oh, come now,” Nick said, trying not to laugh. “It’s not going to be that bad.”
	Gus grunted, then said, “Perhaps not, but if we died right now, it wouldn’t be much better than that, either. And this,” he said, pulling Magnus to a halt in the middle of the street, “is our inn, I believe.”
	Nick looked up at the signboard swinging in the slight breeze. “All I see is a red blob that looks vaguely like a bird. Is it a robin?”
	“No,” Gus said with a chuckle. “The innkeeper’s wife apparently thinks the place should be called The Scarlet Cockerel, but everyone else just calls it The Red Rooster. But I agree, regardless of which name is used, that is a pathetic picture on the sign.” He spat to the side away from Nick, for which Nick was truly thankful. “Let’s get our room, and then begin our work.”
	“Lead the way,” Nick said.

Chapter 23
Archie
 
	I kept my new cloak and hat on the rest of the day, and as much as possible stuck to shadows as I quartered the town below the monastery looking for the two who had mentioned my name. They were almost certainly Jesuits. I obviously didn’t know if they were part of a concerted effort to track me, which thought caused me no lack of dyspepsia and strain, or if they were here by the whims of Fortuna and chance. I wasn’t sure I liked that thought any better than the first—perhaps less, for plans and schemes can be defensed and misled, whereas what counter is there for the roll of the dice?
	It was late afternoon when I finally saw them walking along the road before the monastery. They were together, which had made it easier to see them. One was stocky and thick-set, one was not exactly slender, but was slimmer than the other. I could see fringes of long light-colored hair trailing out from beneath the first man’s hat. Silver or gray, from what I could tell. The other one’s hair was too short to see under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.
	I trailed some distance behind them, at least a block at all times, if not two. They would pause and go into different shops, following a pattern for that movement that did not make my perception of their purposes any clearer. I did, however, decide they were indeed Jesuits, after watching them walk around the town for the best part of an hour. As my friend Heinrich in Jena had said, even dressed in plain clothing, there was still something about how they carried themselves that just rang of Jesuits. They must have to take classes or instructions in how to walk like a Jesuit.
	I didn’t walk into any of the stores and ask what they were asking about. If they were looking for me, I didn’t want word of such conversations getting back to them. If they weren’t looking for me, then it didn’t matter.
	There was a nice shadowed nook by the front door of The Spotted Hound where I stood for several moments watching their backs as they walked down the street. Until, that is, I was distracted by Brother Wilhelm walking around the corner and by me without a glance my way before he ducked into the tavern’s door. I was of a mind to follow him into the tavern and try to have a word with the man when he walked out again carrying a bucket with a lid on it. He carried it like it had some weight to it, by which I guessed that it was full of beer. Water is heavy stuff, mind you, and beer, being mostly water, is likewise heavy. My guess was that the bucket contained two gallons, and maybe as much as another half a gallon more, which would have put the weight of it at least twenty English pounds, plus the weight of the bucket itself. Not a load I would have wanted to carry far my own self, especially if I didn’t want to slop the beer.
	I watched the monk, and once he was a half block away I followed. I did want to know where the man lived, after all. Plus I had most of a box of Sal Vin Betula to gift to him.
	I doubt that it surprises you that I had more than one eye paying attention to the streets around me, not wanting to be caught unawares by the Jesuits, or by anyone who might be their friend. Yet nonetheless I managed to keep Brother Wilhelm in sight as he led the way into a less than impressive neighborhood. The houses were smaller, or even just small. Some were in such ill repair that if they had not leaned upon each other, they might have fallen down. He walked to one of the smallest and most colorless and most undistinctive of the houses near the city wall, paused in front of the door to cross himself, and then entered.
	Twilight had advanced as we walked our way here from The Spotted Hound. Shadows abounded now, and few were the lanterns and torches to be seen in this part of Füssen. I stood before the house, undecided. I needed to talk to Brother Wilhelm, but I didn’t want to attract attention. Yet night was approaching, and no one in this part of the city knew who I was. Of course,, that was equally true of everyone else in the city, with the possible exception of the two Jesuits. There might be no better time than this. The cathedral clock struck the hour, and that decided me. I walked up to the door, bowed slightly to the crucifix—I may not be Catholic, but I am respectful of the Lord, as hard as that might be to believe—and knocked three times on the door.
	After a moment, the door opened somewhat and Brother Wilhelm stood in the opening, with dim light from the room behind him leaving his front in shadow. There was enough light to show the habit he was wearing. “Yes?”
	I brought out the box of Sal Vin Betula and held it up before him. “I brought you the rest of the box of blue pills you wanted to buy.” I turned my hand over and held it out to him. It took him a moment to decide to take it. I held it steady until he reached out to lift it from my hand. “Go ahead, open it.”
	He took his left hand off the door and opened the box. A brief look down was followed by the closing of the box and enfolding it in his right hand. The left hand returned to the door and drew it open wider. “Please, come in.”
	I nodded my thanks, and entered.
	The Franciscan looked at me, and said, “Is this a gift, an offering, or is there somewhat I can do for you to balance the favor?”
	“It is a gift, a free offering,” I said, “with no return gift necessary or required. But…”
	His mouth twisted a bit. “That ‘But’ tells me that you do want something.”
	“All men want something,” I replied. “I want a bit of information. If you have it and will share it with me, well enough. If not, I’ll leave you in peace.”
	“Ask, then.”
	I took a deep breath. “Do you know of a man—or a person—who has come to Füssen from the south, from Reschen Pass, perhaps from Tuscany, perhaps from Rome itself?”
	His eyes widened momentarily, and his mouth seemed to tighten. “Why do you ask?”
	“I seek a man from Rome with a package—a small package perhaps about this size.” I held my hands out.
	“That’s not that small,” he observed.
	“Small enough for one man to carry, provided it’s not filled with gold, iron, or lead.” I smiled at him to try and lighten the moment.
	“Why do you seek it?”
	“It’s of value to the right people, and it deserves to be removed far away from the grasp of Cardinal Borja.”
	“Ah.”
	Before the monk could say more, a hoarse voice came from behind him.
	“Please bring him here, Brother Wilhelm.”
	Wilhelm looked back over his shoulder. “Are you sure?”
	“Please…” the other man’s voice said before it broke into coughing.
	The monk turned and moved to a pallet on the floor that had been hidden behind him in the dim light. He helped the man on the pallet to sit up and take a sip of something from a cup. Once the coughing stopped, he moved a small chest to place behind the invalid so that he could sit back against it and look at me.
	It was a young man, for all that he looked to be somewhat gaunt. He peered at me intently, then raised a somewhat shaky hand and beckoned me forward. I lingered, not wanting to risk who knew what kind of illness. He beckoned again. “Marsh fever,” he husked. “You’ll take no illness from me.” I looked to the monk, who nodded. I took my cloak off and dropped it on table, then stepped forward into the light from the fireplace and dropped to one knee, to put us more on the same level and to allow me to look at him closer.
	The light of fever was indeed in his eyes. They almost glittered in the flickering firelight. His cheeks were sunken, his very short hair was matted, and his bristly cheeks were sunken. Yet his face held a good-natured smile as he tilted his head to one side and looked at me from where he reclined a bit with one hand resting on a knapsack.
	“Are you…the friend I wait for?” His voice wavered a bit, but his smile didn’t dim. “I think…you are. You must be. You even…look like him. You have…the nose.”
	I felt my face frown. “Look like him? Look like who?”
	His smile broadened a bit. “St. Jerome.” It broadened more at the look of astonishment I knew was on my visage.
	“I don’t know the man,” I muttered.
	“Of course you don’t,” the invalid said. “He’s been dead for hundreds of years. But you look very like him, trust me.”
	“So you have seen him?”
	“Yes.” The young man’s smile became beatific for a moment, then faded as he looked at me intently again. “What is your name?”
	I looked back over my shoulder at Brother Wilhelm, who correctly interpreted my frown and stepped back a couple of paces. I faced forward and leaned closer to the invalid. “Archie Gottesfreund.”
	His smile returned and clapped his hands. “Wonderful! You are God’s friend indeed, and are the one I have been waiting for.”
	He started coughing again, and Brother Wilhelm approached to help him drink from his cup. Not all the liquid went into his mouth, and the smell of beer wafted my direction. The monk took a scrap of toweling and wiped sputum and drops of beer from his chin.
	Brother Wilhelm stepped back again, and the invalid sat and breathed for several moments, then looked up at me again. His hand patted the knapsack a couple of times. “Do you know what I have here, friend?”
	I nodded. “I suspect I do.”
	“Are you Catholic?”
	“I was raised Lutheran, but I have kin who are Catholic. I and my master respect and honor what is under your hand, we would treat it with reverence, and we believe it must not fall into the hands of the Spanish.”
	His eyes closed for a moment, he sighed, and a small smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Then you are the one who was promised to take this. Take it to hiding, my friend, and preserve it for a time of greater peace and reverence and scholarship than the one we are now in.”
	He reached to lift the knapsack, but was barely able to stir it. I will tell you my heart was in my mouth as I reached to take it from his hands. It is one thing to believe in God, it is another thing altogether to receive one of the greatest relics of God that was in existence.
	The invalid sat back, obviously exhausted, and whispered, “Go with God, my friend.” He raised his eyes to the monk. “I would rest now, Brother Wilhelm.” I moved out of the way while Wilhelm helped his patient lie back on his pallet and smoothed his blankets for him.
	After a moment, the monk stood and drew me back toward the door. By that time I had re-donned my cloak.
	“Who is he?” I muttered.
	“Gregorio, an Augustinian monk originally from Innsbruck. He says he was in the Vatican on the day of the Spaniards’ assault?”
	“Do you know how he got here?”
	“Only hints from his fever mutterings. He caught rides with merchants for part of the way, and walked the rest. He was struck down by the fever while in Florence, as well, which is probably where his head was shaved. He’s been here for several days, and has been in a fever the whole time. Tonight is the first time he has been rational.”
	“Do you know what this is?” I hissed at him, hefting the knapsack.
	His face showed weariness. “I could guess, based on a few things he muttered in his fevers, but no, I have not looked in that bag, so I do not know what is in it. And I suspect that it will be better for my own peace of mind and spirit if I do not know.”
	“St. Jerome,” I whispered. “Did he really have visions of St. Jerome?”
	“I’m a cleric,” he whispered back. “I’m inclined to believe in such things. But at the same time, it doesn’t match the stories of saints’ visions the church tells, and I have tended too many folk with fevers, and have heard and witnessed the most outlandish ravings, things you would never believe, so I am very doubtful of it. I certainly would not attempt to defend him before an Advocatus Diaboli. But really, at the end of all things, it doesn’t matter what you or I believe about it, does it?” He nodded toward the pallet. “He believes it.”
	I looked back toward the young man—Gregorio—and nodded myself. He did seem to believe it.
	I hooked the knapsack strap over one shoulder, then pulled one of my purses out and started counting coins into Brother Wilhelm’s palm. “…seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. That’s twenty guilders. You give young Gregorio the best care you can give him, all right? He deserves it. And if worse comes to worst, you see to it that he has a good funeral and a good mass. All right?”
	Brother Wilhelm had a bit of a stunned look on his face, then stuffed the coins into his cassock and grasped my upper arm. “You know the Benedictines will not look kindly on this.”
	I snorted. “I am less concerned about them and their monastery than I am the two Jesuits that rode into town this afternoon.”
	His jaw dropped for a moment, then firmed up. He opened the door, and pushed me forward. “Get out of town as soon as you can, and…go with God.”

Chapter 24
Gregorio
 
	Gregorio’s eyes closed as Brother Wilhelm pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. The warmth of the fire bathed his front as he faced the fireplace. It felt so good.
	He was filled with peace and joy. His mission was accomplished. At the same time, he was very weary. He dropped into slumber as that last thought completed.
	“Boy. Gregorio.”
	Gregorio was roused by a familiar voice. He seemed to open his eyes, to see Jerome’s face floating in front of him once again.
	“Ah, good, you’re awake.”
	Gregorio tried to look around, but all he could see was blackness with Jerome’s face floating in it with a bright light behind it. “Am I? Really awake, I mean.”
	“Oh, your body sleeps. And a well-deserved slumber it is, too. But the part of you that is really you is awake enough for us to talk. Well done, my boy. Well done, indeed.”
	Gregorio felt a flood of joy and relief pour through him. “Th…thank you. I tried to do what you wanted. But it’s good to know that I did.”
	“Oh, you did more than I wanted, young man. You did what the Father wanted. And it will prove to be of immeasurable worth in the world, and will certainly cause a number of overly complacent and undeservedly self-confident personages in the world more than a small amount of disquiet, which, between you and me, will be a good thing.”
	The smile on Jerome’s face broadened.
	“Gregorio, my son, well done, you good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Master.”
	The light behind Jerome began to waver, and the saint’s visage dissolved into particles of dimming light that swirled and faded, until Gregorio lost himself in it all and knew nothing more.

Chapter 25
Archie
 
	I made my way back to my inn, keeping to the shadows all the way. My years of skulking through towns after curfews and into camps after final posts were standing me in good stead. There’s naught harder to slip by than an angry Scottish soldier who’s been denied a chance to go drink with his mates because some hard-shelled sergeant decided he needed to stand gate sentry that night, but it’s more than once I had the doing of it. I’m told that the sergeants would oft wager on if I’d be caught. Which may explain why Sergeant Mackie would oft turn his clan symbol raven gaze on me with no favor. The man had the worst luck in the world, but would oft blame me for it.
	I paused in one dark pool of shadow and shifted the knapsack so that it hung from my left shoulder under my left arm with my cloak over all. It wasn’t the best disguise in the world, but barring an encounter with an over-zealous town watch, it should provide the necessary coverage. And so it proved.
	I paused in the main room long enough to grab a barley roll and a mug of beer and let the inn keeper know that I’d be leaving at first light and to have the stable man have Cortana ready then. Then I was up the stairs and into my room where I locked and blocked the door, at which point I heaved a sigh of relief, flung my cloak away and placed the knapsack on the bed with some care. I stared at it. I knew I should open it and verify that what was in it at least looked like it might be Master Titus’ prize, but I, I was that uncertain as to whether my hands should touch what Master Titus had indicated might well be one of the oldest Bibles in the world.
	In the end, I undid the fastening of the knapsack, and eased out the cloth-wrapped contents. Unfolding what proved to be a faded black monk’s habit, I did in fact uncover a largish book. It was in Greek, of course, which I did not at that time read, but I was impressed by the neatness and organization of the writing in its three columns per page. After turning a few of the pages, I sighed, closed it with care, and gently wrapped it back in the habit and restored it to the knapsack. I placed it on the bed against the wall, placed my small pistol under the pillow and hung my belt with the large pistol from the bedpost before blowing out the candle.
	For all that I was delighted to have the codex in my hands, I slept ill that night. I knew that no one should know I had it, but my mind would not settle, and every noise in the night caused me to rouse with my hand on my pistol.
	Tired though I was, I was glad to see the dawn light creeping under the shutter.
	Minutes later, I was on Cortana’s back nearing the northern gate of Füssen. It’s glad I was that Cortana had had some rest, as I figured it was three days to Ulm ordinarily, and I was going to try to make it in two and a half. The knapsack once again rode under my left arm, where it would likely stay until I got it to safety.
	Once we were through the gate, I nudged Cortana up to a canter. I wanted to put many miles behind us that day.

Chapter 26
The J-Team
 
	Nick walked back out into the sunlight from the Benedictine monastery alongside Gus. “Well, that was a waste of time,” he muttered.
	“I warned you, did I not?” Gus’ tone was dry, but not displeased.
	“You did, but we needed to check just in case they had seen or heard something.”
	“Jah. So we’ve done the needful, and now we can continue on with our work.” Gus squinted up at the sun. “Which at this very moment, should encompass finding a meal and a flagon of beer or two—perhaps three.”
	“Let’s try that Spotted Hound place,” Nick said.
	“Why not? I like the name, and their sign makes me laugh.” Gus said. “It’s not far.”
	So they wended their way toward the tavern, exchanging observations about the conversation they’d had with the monastery’s leaders until Gus elbowed Nick in the ribs and stopped with a “Hist! Now that’s something you don’t see every day.” He nodded toward something that was approaching them in the street.
	It was a bier being carried by four brawny men, upon which lay a shroud covered corpse. It was trailed by a couple of older women, who were sniffling and dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs. But what stood out from what was obviously a pauper’s funeral procession was that it was led by two monks; one Benedictine, which was no great surprise in Füssen, and one Franciscan, which was.
	Gus pulled his crucifix out from under his shirt and let it display on his chest. “Come on. My neck is bristling. I’ve got to find out what this is about.” Nick pulled his own crucifix out and paced alongside his partner as he approached the procession.
	“Ave, Brothers,” Gus said in Latin as he made a sign of the cross, followed by Nick. “Who is this poor soul?”
	The monks stopped, which perforce brought the whole procession to a halt. The two monks looked at each other, and the Benedictine nodded to the Franciscan. “This is—was—Brother Gregorio, an Augustinian monk originally from Innsbruck who was fleeing from Rome. He was burning with marsh fever when he fell across my doorsill a few days ago. I tended him as best I could, but he died sometime in the night. When I discovered that, Mistress Agata and her sister Berenice,” he waved a hand back at the two women, “were kind enough to prepare the body. I contacted Brother Andreas, here, who is in charge of the Potter’s Field, and he brought the bearers and the bier. We are on the way to bury Brother Gregorio now.”
	“And you are?” Gus asked.
	“Brother Wilhelm, of the Franciscan order.”
	Gus walked around the monks and stood beside the bier. “May we see the face of the brother?”
	The two monks looked at each other again, and Brother Andreas shrugged. Wilhelm stepped around to face Gus. The shroud turned out to have been nothing more than a blanket draped over the corpse. Wilhelm flipped the top edge of it down a couple of feet, revealing the face and naked shoulders of the corpse.
	“Not him,” Gus muttered as Nick stepped beside him to view the visage of the corpse. Slender, gaunt, extremely short hair and bristled beard.
	“Are you sure he was a monk?” Nick asked. “He has no tonsure.”
	The Franciscan reached inside his cassock and brought out a sizable crucifix. He held it out before them both, letting the crucifix swing from its chain. “This was his. Observe the back.”
	Nick reached out and caught the crucifix, turning it so they could observe the back. The letters stamped down the back of the vertical component of the crucifix spelled out FRATER GREGORIO. He let go of it after a moment, leaving it swinging from Brother Wilhelm’s fist.
	The two Jesuits looked at each other, and Gus shook his head. Nick agreed. Although neither of them had ever seen Gottesfreund’s face before, there was no way this could be him. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have been the carrier of the codex.
	“Did this man—Brother Gregorio, that is—have anything with him when he came your way?” Nick asked. “A box, or a bag, or a sack?” He felt Gus joining him in staring intently at the Franciscan monk.
	Brother Wilhelm pursed his lips with lowered eyebrows, then nodded slowly. “He had a knapsack with him when he stumbled in my door.”
	Gus grunted, and a thrill ran through Nick, body and mind and soul all at once. “Where is it now?” He gave the bier a quick glance. “Back at your house?”
	Brother Wilhelm shook his head. “No, his friend came and gathered it up last night and left with it.”
	Nick froze, but Gus picked up the questioning. “His friend—does he have a name?”
	“I didn’t hear one,” the Franciscan replied. “But Gregorio did call him God’s Friend.”
	Nick and Gus stared at each other, and Gus’ jaw tightened. „Gottesfreund!“ Gus spat in German. They turned back to Brother Wilhelm and resumed their Latin conversation. “Did you look in the knapsack? Do you know what was in it?”
	The Franciscan shook his head again. “No, I didn’t look in it, and no, I don’t know what was in it.” He made shapes in the air with his hands. “It was about this big, and weighed a few pounds, judging by how Gregorio hefted it.”
	“So his friend took it last night? Was it someone of Füssen?” Nick had shaken off the shock and was back to the inquisiting.
	“No,” Brother Wilhelm said, shaking his head a third time. “Definitely not a Füssen native.”
	“How do you know that?”
	Wilhelm’s mouth quirked. “I am the son of a tailor and a weaver. I grew up seeing cloth and clothing all around me. I can tell you that his clothing was not sewn using the styles of clothing made in Füssen. They didn’t look Bavarian in general, for that matter. I’d say it was from the north, but I couldn’t tell you more than that. Not too different from yours, actually.”
	“I’m starting to hate Gottesfreund, and I’m never met him,” Gus muttered through clenched teeth.
	Nick sympathized. He dug in his purse, and pulled out two groschen, which he handed to the Benedictine. “Here, Brother Andreas. Please have your brothers at the monastery offer a week’s worth of Requiem masses for the sake of Brother Gregorio’s soul.” He faced the corpse, crossed himself, then traced a cross in the air above the corpse while he recited, “Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine.” He was echoed by everyone else there, clerics and lay folk alike.
	A moment later, he and Gus were striding swiftly up the street, leaving the funeral procession to carry on behind them.
	“Twelve hours!” Gus lamented. “We missed him by only twelve hours! If I thought God would hear my prayers after missing the mark so badly I would be casting every imprecation I know on the head of Archibald Gottesfreund.”
	“Do we want to search for him in town now?” Nick asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer.
	“No,” Gus said. “If he didn’t sneak out of town last night, he left first thing in the morning, so he’s at least six hours ahead of us on the road to Augsburg, and he’s got a good horse.”
	“Are you sure he’s going to Augsburg?”
	“Yes. He’s got to be headed back to Jena as quickly as he can get there, and that means Augsburg. If we can make up at least some of the time, we can hopefully catch him before he leaves Augsburg.” He looked over at Nick. “Are you hungry?”
	“No.”
	“I’m not, either. Not now. Let’s ride.”
	Minutes later they applied heels to their horses’ flanks and galloped away from the north gate of Füssen.

Chapter 27
Archie
 
Ulm
 
	I rode into Ulm late in the evening of the second day since I had left Füssen. I was a tired man riding a very tired horse, but Cortana had held up well and we had made my goal. I didn’t think anyone would be following me on this road, but if they were, I had at least a day’s lead on them. For the moment, that was enough.
	As with most of this ride, I was arriving in towns and cities where I’d not been before. Ulm was no exception there. However, that did not mean that I knew nothing about it, for Sergeant Wolfe and I had talked about Ulm and other places in that memorable night in Bayreuth. Although in all truth, it was the hangover the next morning that mostly stuck in the memory. I decided that anyplace good enough for the likes of Bretagne’s troopers would probably be good enough for the likes of me. Truthfully, that night anyplace with a roof that didn’t leak and a barrel of beer that wasn’t floating mold or stable hay on top of it would have done, I was that tired.
	It wasn’t long before I dismounted before the stable of an inn called The Royal Cauldron, staggering for a step or so before my knees decided to bear my weight. Stiff and aching, aye, I was that. The stable man came out and reached for Cortana’s reins, and I let him take them before turning to take my bags from the back of the saddle.
	“He’s had two hard days,” I said over my shoulder. “Give him a good rubdown, and two full measures of good grain, mind you, not a scoop of nothing but husks.” I pulled a pfennig from my pocket and flipped it to him. “That’s for now, and there will be more tomorrow if you care for him well.”
	“That I can do, Master,” the man said with a bob of his head. As he tugged Cortana toward the stable, I turned and limped toward the inn.
	By the time I made it inside, I was moving a bit easier, which wasn’t necessarily much of an improvement.
	“Welcome, my friend, to the Royal Cauldron.” That came from a stocky man with a fringe of hair around a very bald scalp and a bushy beard. “What do you need this fine evening?”
	“A clean room for myself alone, something to eat, and a large mug of your best beer,” I responded. “Maybe two mugs.”
	The inn keeper smiled, exposing a gap in the upper teeth to the left where one of his canine teeth no longer was in its place. “Well enough, then. Take a seat wherever you wish. We’ve mutton stew and bread tonight. It will be before you shortly.” He turned and went through a door behind his counter, doubtless headed toward whatever passed for a kitchen.
	When I turned, I saw the main room was not especially large, with a few tables of various sizes arranged in no particular order. The room was mostly empty, but there were three men seated at one of the larger tables, all with mugs before them. They were all wearing the same uniform that Wolfe and Origgi had been wearing in Bayreuth, including the hats with both red and white feathers. I walked over to them, dropping my bags on a nearby table.
	“Hello, lads. I see you’re part of Bretagne’s Company. Mind if I join you?”
	I displayed the medallion Wolfe had given me in the palm of my hand. The younger of the two unranked men looked at the older man who sat between them. He glanced at my hand, and nodded. “Take a stool, friend,” he said.
	“My thanks,” I said as I did exactly that thing, flipping the right side of my cloak up and around to hang behind me, leaving my right hand free to move while the knapsack remained under cover of my left arm and the cloak on that side.
	I had no sooner settled in my seat than a wooden bowl filled with thick stew and a piece of barley bread appeared before me, followed a moment later by a large mug of beer. “Enjoy, my friend,” the host said. I pulled my spoon from my pocket and proceeded to do just that. The others watched me spoon the stew into my mouth in quick order. It wasn’t the best food I’d had that trip, but it was by no means the worst, and it wasn’t long before I licked my spoon clean and returned it to my pocket.
	After taking a pull at my mug, I looked around the table. “Good to meet you lads. It’s always good not to drink alone. I met up with your Sergeant Wolfe and Private Origgi in Bayreuth several days ago, and had a good evening with them. That sergeant can certainly drink.” I shook my head in pretended admiration, for all that my statement was truth.
	“And how is that dwarf Origgi doing?” the older man asked.
	I snorted. “You must know a different Origgi than I met. The one with Wolfe was a hulk of a man that I would swear could lift a horse off the ground by himself.”
	The older man lifted one corner of his mouth. “Yes, that’s Origgi, all right. I’m Bavarello, Corporal. These are Privates Girot and Grondin.”
	“All from the Savoy?” I asked.
	Bavarello chuckled. “We are,” he jerked a thumb at Girot and himself. “He was born on the other side of the border with France,” he said, pointing a finger at Grondin. “But given how things seem to keep changing, who knows where he’s from right now? But he’s a passable private, so we’ll keep him either way.”
	I nodded at them, took another pull of beer from my mug, and said, “So, you lads on your way to somewhere, or on your way back?”
	“We made a courier run to Strasbourg,” Bavarello said. “A merchant had a small parcel that he wanted delivered quickly and under strong security. He contracted with us to make the run rather than one of the other security companies.” I noticed the other two weren’t saying much. They weren’t saying anything, as it happened, letting their senior do the talking to a stranger. Good disciplined lads. The more I saw of Bretagne’s men, the more I liked their captain, for all that I’d never met the man. “We’re on our way back to Grantville now.”
	“There you go, helping rich merchants sleep well at night again.” I grinned at them, they all grinned back. “You going by way of Jena?”
	Bavarello pursed his lips. “We had not planned on it, but we could. Do you have a commission for us?”
	I nodded. “Aye. I need to send a message to Master Titus Wulff, in Jena. My employer,” I added as Bavarello’s eyebrows raised. He obviously recognized the name.
	“And you are?”
	“Archie Gottesfreund, Master Wulff’s agent and occasional companion.” He nodded at that, apparently impressed. “When do you leave?” I asked
	“First light in the morning is the plan.”
	I nodded. “I’ll be leaving then as well heading east. I’ll have the message ready for you in the stable at first light.” I half-rose and stretched my hand across the table. Bavarello raised off his stool far enough to grasp my hand and shake it. Upon releasing his hand, I stood and said, “I’ve had a long day, friends, so I’m heading toward a room and some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
	They all nodded, and Bavarello lifted a hand in farewell.
	I gathered my bags and stopped at the counter long enough to pay the host, gather the key, and purchase a few supplies, not least of which was a small skein of twine. He provided me with a tallow candle, and I made my way up the stairs to the room.
	I had a small bottle of ink with a short pen and a few pieces of paper in my traveling supplies. This is not the first occasion where I needed to send a message to Master Titus. Preparing the message didn’t take long. When I was done, I put my supplies away and made sure everything was ready for in the morning. Then I blew the candle out and threw myself on the bed, where slumber claimed me.
	***
	I pried my eyes open when the rooster crowed in the early dawn light, and soundly cursed the foul fowl. I sat up, put my boots on, and proceeded to add my morning piss to what I had put in the chamber pot the night before. There was a small basin and pitcher of water on a small table. I hadn’t even looked at it before I went to bed, but I poured some of the water into the basin and proceeded to splash my face and clear my eyes. It was cool, and I did feel somewhat refreshed after wiping my face on my sleeves.
	I donned my cloak and hat, gathered my bags and supplies, and trundled down the stairs, stopping at the counter long enough to drink a small cup of beer before bidding the host farewell and hustling out the door to the stable.
	I found the Bretagne boys already there when I arrived. As it happened, Corporal Bavarello’s horse was in the stall next to Cortana. That made it convenient. I placed everything on the stable floor, reached inside my jacket, and pulled out the message to Master Titus, which I placed on a box outside his stall.
	“There’s the message,” I said, tapping the top of the box. “And here’s a guilder for the fee. If more is needed, Master Titus will be happy to pay it.” I placed a coin on top of the message, and turned to saddling Cortana. For all that I was the last one to the stable, I must have had a stronger urge to be gone, as I had Cortana saddled, bridled, and all the bags and the knapsack strapped on to the back of the saddle and him backing out of the stall before the rest of them even looked up. Bavarello was just getting around to picking up the guilder as I got out into the passageway.
	“Good to meet you lads,” I said. “Look forward to another time, especially if you come through Jena. Meanwhile, I’ve got miles to go today before I can sleep.”
	“Go with God,” Bavarello said as I tugged Cortana out into the courtyard.
	“And you as well,” I called back.
	Moments later I was in the saddle and on my way to Augsburg. I had a fine horse to reclaim.

Chapter 28
Archie
 
Augsburg
 
	The trip from Ulm to Augsburg is less than half the distance from Ulm to Füssen, so it might surprise you that it took almost as long for Cortana and I to traverse that journey. It wasn’t that the country was hard or rugged, although it had many more hills than I was used to riding through. No, it was that after pushing Cortana so hard the first two days out of Füssen, I determined to take a slower pace in order to give the lad some rest. So we entered Augsburg through that familiar north gate a bit after the sun had passed its zenith that afternoon.
	Dismounting before the gate, I led Cortana through it. I was stiff enough after that much time in the saddle that I welcomed the opportunity to move on my own two feet as opposed to his four. We emerged from the gatehouse into the bright afternoon sun. After the moments of dimness in the gatehouse, the sun caused me to blink.
	I expected the normal questions city guards ask strangers in every town. What occurred next did surprise me, though.
	“You!” barked a burly guard in a uniform coat and an ill-fitting helmet who was holding a halberd as if he knew what to do with it. That concerned me, as such a weapon in the hands of a man who knew it could be dangerous indeed. “Are you that man known as Archibald Gottesfreund, from Jena?”
	I looked around the group of guards, six of them this time, all the while keeping at least one eye on the halberdier. As luck, or chance, or Fortuna, or even God would have it, one of them was Justus, the guard who had let me out this very gate the night I left Augsburg. To him I gave a nod and half a smile. He returned the smile, but remained in his place, eyes fixed on me.
	I turned to face the halberdier full on. “And if I am that man, what matters that to you?”
	He hefted his halberd, holding it across his body. “Why, only that we have orders to arrest you, if you are that man.”
	“On what charges?” I spread my feet a bit and squared my shoulders.
	“On charges of theft and possessing stolen property.”
	Ah, well, that was an unpleasant word. I had hoped that my followers would not find my traces so quickly, or decide to try and follow me so soon if they did. And that my extra time in going to Ulm would somehow throw them off my track if they did find out. Alas, herewith was the reason why my old father cautioned me about trusting luck or chance—it isn’t reliable. Of course, he also had much the same to say about plans and being overly fond of them as well. “Far better to rely on the strength of your arm, your own wits, and your honor,” he told me over and over again. It was a lesson that it took me some time to learn, but it was one that I knew well. Settled deep in my bones, it was.
	Looking behind, perhaps I should have ridden for Jena from Ulm, but I hadn’t wanted to leave Maus unclaimed for very long. He was a good horse, and I wanted him back under my hands and my seat as soon as possible. Ah, well, no use mooning over spilled beer.
	I looked around the group again, and shook my head slowly. “A base falsehood, that is. I stole nothing.”
	“We have our orders.” He took a step toward me.
	I dropped Cortana’s reins and threw my cloak back over my shoulders to free my arms, resting my hands on the butts of my pistols where they rose from the holsters that rode my hips. That brought everyone to a sudden halt.
	“I am a peaceful law-abiding fellow, I am.” The Scots lilt was strong in my voice at that moment. “But I’ll not be taken for a crime I did not commit. And before you think to rush me, use the eyes and the discernment that God gave you, and be wise enough to realize that these are up-time model pistols, and I have enough shots under my hands to take all of you to the paving. And it’s a good shot I am—with either hand, mind you.”
	There was quiet for a moment. Then the halberdier said, “We won’t let you leave.”
	“Fine. I don’t want to leave.” I could see that took them all aback. Meanwhile, my mind had raced ahead. Perhaps I could beat them on their own playing board. “Let us instead end this now. Send for your officers—both Catholic and Protestant. I insist on both. Send for my accusers. Bring them here—I insist. If you want to bring a magistrate as well, I won’t object. But get them all here shortly, and let’s deal with this.”
	That shook them, it did. They stared at each other, before the rest of them turned to look at the halberdier, who was obviously the sergeant of the group. After a moment, he grounded the shaft of his halberd and pointed at Justus and another guard. “You two, go find the officers and the accusers and tell them they are needed here at the north gate.”
	Well, so far my gambit had thrown them off their own balance and forced them to call for reinforcements. Well, and enough. It would be interesting to see what came of it. I smiled a bit at that.
	Justus took off at a dead run, whereas the other fellow didn’t move at much more than a trot. From that it was likely that it would take some while for these personages to assemble. And so it proved.
	I moved to stand in front of where Cortana’s reins lay on the ground. He stood stock-still, in accordance with his training, but reached out his muzzle and snuffled the back of my neck. After a moment, he lifted his head and looked at the halberdier. Cortana had enough experience as a war horse to recognize a foe, so I smiled a bit at that thought, wondering if the sergeant would be complimented by the thought that my horse thought he was dangerous. If he wasn’t, the more fool he.
	I shifted my hands off the butts of my pistols, and placed my thumbs behind my belt. I didn’t fool anyone, of course. It was obvious that I could pull them in an instant. But even so, the guards relaxed a tiny bit. And so we stood: them watching me, me watching them, and Cortana standing like a statue. I could have used the old soldiers’ trick of dozing with my eyes open, but I spend my time thinking about what likely words would be passed soon, and what openings it might give me to keep myself out of the Augsburg gaol and freely on the road.
	As the peals of the bells sounding the second hour of the afternoon faded away, we could hear men approaching up the main street to the gate. In a moment they all moved into view, apparently having met up before they reached us. Justus was companioned by three men wearing broad sashes, two men older than me and one slightly younger who had to be the guard officers. Trailing slightly behind them were the other watchman with a richly dressed burgher on one side of him. On the other were two men in sober clothing, who, although I had not seen their faces in Füssen, were of a size to match the two men who had ridden horses into Füssen that day looking for me.
	As this group arrived and spread into an arc facing me, I spoke up before anyone could open their mouth, placing my first card on the table. After all, when one is alone and facing multiple enemies, sometimes aggression is your best tactic.
	“My name is Archibald Gottesfreund.” I spoke in a firm voice using the same tone that my old sergeant used with me in years past. “I am the agent and companion of Master Tiberius Claudius Titus Wulff of Jena. I am traveling to handle some small works of business for him. I arrived at this gate not even an hour ago, whereupon I was informed I was to be arrested and charged with theft. I object to the base and false accusation and slander that such represents. I do not have time to subject myself to an inquiry or an extended court hearing, although I am certain that Master Tiberius’ brother, the noted attorney Augustus Nero Domitian Wulff of Grantville and Magdeburg will be more than happy to participate in such a hearing.” I left a sound of satisfaction in my voice, and I saw the burgher swallow. It pleased me to have evidence of Master Andy’s reputation having reached so far south.
	“So, I offer this proposal. I propose to prove my innocence by allowing a search of my bags and belongings. If the object in question is in my bags, then I will not resist the arrest. If it is not in my bags or property, then I will be free to proceed about my business. Agreed?”
	While notables were looking at one another, after a moment, I continued with, “And oh, by the way, just what is it that I have supposedly stolen?”
	The two accusers looked at each other, and the older one answered in something like the Bavarian dialect. “A large, very old, very rare, and very valuable Greek codex of the Bible. It was stolen from the Vatican. It may be the oldest Bible in existence.” His face wore a very grim expression as he realized that, having chosen this stratagem, I certainly would not have the codex in my possession. Too late too wise, my friend. I suppressed the smile that threatened to break out. Time enough to smile when I have taken the winnings.
	“Ah, a Bible. And you are?”
	They looked at each other. The older man responded with, “Augustus Heinzerling.”
	The younger man added, “Nicholas Smithson.”
	I smiled now, about to deliver another blow in the game. “To be completely accurate, that should be Father Augustus Heinzerling and Father Nicholas Smithson, of the Society of Jesus I would think. Are you here from Munich or from Grantville?”
	The city watch officers and the burgher had stiffened at the revelation that the accusers were Jesuits. That probably caused them some problems, given the nature of relationships between the Catholics and Protestants in Augsburg, especially.
	Before the priests could respond, I turned toward the others, pushing the pace. Sometimes keeping an opponent off-balance will create an opening for a thrust, after all.
	“And you are?”
	The burgher spoke first, shifting to put a bit of space between himself and the priests. “I am Hieronymus Imhof, city councilman and magistrate.”
	I nodded in respect. This could be a good man to have here. I turned to the second man and raised one eyebrow.
	“Philipp Jacob Imhof, captain of the militia.” There was a definite resemblance between him and the burgher as I looked back and forth between them.
	“My son,” the burgher said in response to both raised eyebrows and the obvious question. A perceptive man, the magistrate. That also impressed me.
	Before I could even turn to them and say a word, the older of the two remaining officers spoke.
	“Captain Paulus Stetten, and my lieutenant Christoph Stetten, also my son. Protestant,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
	I had to suppress another smile. “You seem to be such that can make a decision about my very reasonable proposal.” I said nothing more, just stood there with my hands in my belt and an easy expression on my face, all the while watching them with care and assessing the odds every few seconds.
	At last, with visible reluctance, Magistrate Imhof nodded. The circle of releasing tension in the space was almost like watching ripples float across a pond from a stone plunging into it. Gazes shifted around the circle.
	I cleared my throat, bringing all eyes back to me. “Are you in agreement on what needs to be done?
	“Our men search your bags and belongings,” said Captain Imhof. “If they find the codex, we arrest you.”
	“If they don’t find the codex, you’re set free,” from Captain Stetten.
	The Jesuits were stone-faced. They were certain now that the codex would not be found, but having entered the game they had to play it out. I was going to insist that we search everything, just to prove my point and to make the Jesuits look unreasonable. I’m sure they were good men, but the theft accusation was a low blow, and I wasn’t averse to getting a bit of my own back. I am a Scot, after all.
	I turned and took Cortana’s reins in hand to keep him still while these others were moving around him. “All right lads, time to have at it. Unpack everything on that stone bench over there. I don’t want to have to pick my things up out of the dirt.” They unstrapped the baggage from the back of Cortana’s saddle. I even took off my cloak and jacket and passed them along.
	I watched Heinzerling’s face grow increasingly sour as each bag was emptied, while Smithson simply stood and watched alertly. There was a brief moment of hope when one of the watchmen began by picking up the knapsack and started unstrapping it, by which I knew that the Franciscan monk must have mentioned the knapsack. Their faces fell again when he opened the knapsack and pulled out a large bundle that was about the size of the codex but turned out to be my buff coat rolled and folded small enough to fill the knapsack.
	By the second bag the watchmen were having a good time of it, cracking jokes, some of them at my expense. After young Justus finished picking through my wadded-up clothing, he looked at me and said, “What, they didn’t have laundries where you’ve been?”
	“No time, lad,” I called back over the chuckles from his mates.
	After that moment, it was all over with. No trace of the codex. No one moved to search my person, but it was obvious from the fit of my shirt and trousers I was not hiding it.
	Both captains frowned at the Jesuits, who nodded in acknowledgment and walked away. The magistrate nodded as well, a definite magistrate’s nod. Then he and his son followed behind the Jesuits, while making no evidence of a desire to catch up to them. I at last let that smile cross my face, just for a moment.
	I looked at the remaining two officers.
	“We’re done, and you’re free to go,” Captain Stetten said. “But I suggest you don’t stay in Augsburg long.”
	“I’ll be leaving tomorrow, Captain.”
	“Good. See that you do.” Left unsaid was the thought that I’d best not have any more trouble in Augsburg, but the message was received. The good captain didn’t desire that any more than I did. I’d already had more adventures this trip than I’d ever wanted.

The J-Team
 
	Nick had to almost break into a trot to keep up with Gus, who was striding along at almost breakneck speed while muttering to himself in dark tones so rapidly that Nick couldn’t understand him. He put up with it until after a couple of blocks they were hailed from behind and they both had to stop and turn to face who had called out to them. It turned out to be son of the magistrate, Captain Imhof.
	“Yes, Captain?” Nick responded for them both.
	“No disrespect intended, Father—Fathers—but my father sent me to advise you that Master Gottesfreund will be given a written judgment as a result of this…investigation. He also requests that you do not linger in Augsburg, as your presence as not officially recognized Jesuits could cause some…difficulties.”
	“Thank you for that notice,” Nick said. “You may advise your father that we will be leaving your city tomorrow morning.”
	Captain Imhof nodded, then leaned forward slightly. “For myself, I would say you should avoid Master Gottesfreund for the next little while.” He gave another nod, pivoted on his heel, and walked away.
	Nick could hear Gus’ teeth grinding. He grabbed his friend’s arm and pulled him over to over to the side of the street against a building wall. Shaking Gus by the arm, he said, “Okay, Gus, it’s over. Done. He’s proven that he doesn’t have the codex, and we can’t take it any farther.”
	Gus stood rigid for a long moment, then sighed and his shoulders slumped. “You’re right. I’m still more than half-convinced he had it. If he did, the reason why he was so late in getting here was because he stopped somewhere and hid it or passed it on to someone else to carry for him. But there’s no way to prove that, now is there? And once he got here, my foolish decision to ask for his arrest before he arrived meant that we had no choice but to play his game. And he played it well, didn’t he? Outplayed us—me—at every turn. I don’t think he’d have caught Mazarini or Athanasius in that game, but then, they’re better players at any kind of game than I am, aren’t they?” There was a bitter tone to the older man’s voice, but also a tone of resignation that Nick was rather glad to hear. It meant that Gus wouldn’t continue to pursue the matter any longer, which, in the current circumstances, was the best response.
	Nick wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s go find a mug of beer, Gus. Maybe you can find some tobacco for your pipe here in Augsburg. We’ll have a good dinner tonight, and begin the ride home tomorrow.”
	They started walking down the street at a more normal rate. After a moment, Gus chuckled. “Heh. At least we won’t have to ride so hard on the way back.”
	“Amen to that,” Nick said. “If my buttocks don’t contact a saddle for a year it will be entirely too soon.”
	More chuckles trailed behind them as they moved down the street.

Archie
 
	After all the notables left, the city watchmen went back to doing their city watchmen business. Justus did help me gather my things back into my bags. It wasn’t long before everything was strapped back to Cortana’s saddle, except for my cloak and my buff coat, which I laid across my saddle. He grinned at me and moved to join his mates. I looked to where the sergeant was hefting his halberdier, to see him looking at me.
	I touched my right hand to the brim of my hat, and he nodded in response. And with that, I led Cortana out of the space by the gate and headed toward The Brass Kestrel.
	It wasn’t long before we arrived at the inn, and I led Cortana back to the stable. “Otto!” I called out as I neared the stable. That worthy fellow almost popped out of the doorway. After a moment of surprise, he grinned in delight.
	“Master Archie! It’s good to see you.”
	“Good to see you, too, Otto. How’s Maus doing?”
	“Right as right can be, Master Archie. Foot’s all healed and he’s wanting to get back on the road, I can tell you.”
	“Good. Very good to hear.” I passed Cortana’s reins to him and unstrapped all my baggage from the back of the saddle. “And here’s a new cloak and hat for you,” passing the cloak from the saddle and the hat from the top of my head. I slapped Cortana on the shoulder. “This lad and I have had a rather tough few days, and he’s in need of a good rubdown and a lot of grain and rest. Check his feet and shoes, too. Tomorrow, put the saddle on Maus and we’ll give this one a light road for a day or two.”
	“That I can do, Master Archie. That I can do.”
	“I know you can, Otto. And I’ll see you in the morning.”
	Inside the inn, after renewing acquaintances with Master Tobias, I had one of the local messenger boys lead me to the nearest laundry and bath, where I soaked and cleaned my outside while getting my clothes cleaned. Somewhat damp around the edges, I returned to the inn, where Master Tobias had Moses the barber ready to shave me. A short while later, clean from top to bottom, I had an early supper, and retired to my room.
	I looked forward to seeing Master Titus’ reaction to his new treasure. That thought was on my mind as I fell asleep.

Chapter 29
Archie
 
September
Jena
 
	And so it was a late afternoon early in September when I rode back through the gates of Jena. The autumnal equinox was obviously approaching, as the days were growing shorter, the nights were growing longer, and the weather was growing cooler, especially at night. As it was, I was not unhappy to be wearing my buff coat. The weight of it provided a shield from the breeze and a bit of warmth.
	I nodded and called back to some of the city watch on the gate duty that day. Heinrich wasn’t there, but I knew he’d hear soon enough that I was back and he’d hunt me down to claim his beer and his stories of what adventures I had had. He might be disappointed this trip, however. I doubted I’d be able to tell him much—not and keep the secret of the codex truly secret.
	As it chanced, I was mounted on Cortana that day, and there was something fitting about that, given that it was on his back I had begun this adventure. He knew we were nearing home, and he was prancing a bit, proud to be under me and proud to be who he was. He was sold to me as being a fully mature five-year-old when I bought him seven years ago, so he was fully twelve years old now and in his prime. I could look forward to riding him for at least another six or eight years, and I looked forward to that. I smiled at the forward set of his ears, and patted him on his shoulder.
	It wasn’t long before we turned into the alley that led to the small stable yard behind Master Titus’ house. The stable was small as well, with only four stalls. We didn’t keep horses there full time—only for a few hours, or overnight at most. Master Titus had arrangements with a large stable operation near the train station, and that’s where my lads would be returning before too long. But for now, they’d be fine here.
	I drew Cortana to a halt, with Maus stopping a step behind as always, and swung down from the saddle. Stiff, that I was, reminding me why I no longer rode with Colonel Farquhar’s company. I put my hands in the small of my back and pushed. There was a snunck sound, and things felt easier.
	I sighed in pleasure, dropped my hands, and turned to see Ephraim crossing the small yard. “Master Archie!” he called out. “We didn’t know you were coming today. You should have sent a message.”
	“Nein, old friend,” I said. “Without the telegraph, the message wouldn’t have gotten here before my own self, so a waste of money that would have been, and this trip has already cost the master a pretty pile of silver.” I held my hand out, and he gave it a good clasp. For all that he called me ‘Master,’ he treated me as a friend, and I valued that.
	I noticed what appeared to be a lanky gawky youth several steps away, standing with some uncertainty. Eyes wide, he was obviously waiting for instruction.
	“And who is this?” I nodded my head at the lad.
	Ephraim looked over his shoulder. “Ah, that’s right, the master didn’t take him on until after you left. This is Veit Faber, come to be our boy of all purpose around the house. He has some knowledge of horses, so let him tend them in the stable and then he can bring your bags to your room.”
	I looked at the lad. He met my gaze directly. I nodded at him, and beckoned.
	“Come, lad, and meet my mounts.”
	He stepped forward and approached Cortana, who snuffled him and flipped his ears forward. He passed that test, and I smiled at him. “The gray is Cortana, the bay is Maus. Take them in, take off the saddle and pack mounts and bridles, give them a quick rubdown and some fresh water and a little hay. I’ll be taking them to the stable later, or possibly tomorrow.”
	He ducked his head without saying anything, and tugged on the reins. Cortana followed him willingly, and Maus trailed along behind.
	I turned to Ephraim and said, “And where is Master Titus?”
	“In the library. While you are conversing with him, I will go advise Estéban that you have arrived for dinner.”
	I winced. “I hope two floors away will be far enough.”
	Ephraim’s smile was small, while another man would have guffawed, but it had the same effect. I grinned at him as we turned for the door.
	Once in the front hall, I placed my hat in its accustomed place atop the hall’s coat tree, and hung my buff coat with care, making sure that the weight of it didn’t topple the tree. Then I waved at Ephraim and moved to the stairs.
	Two flights later, I paused at the doorway to the library to smooth my hair and straighten my jacket. It’s funny how the man, for all that he treats me as a close friend, still makes me feel as if I am facing the rector of the Latin school I once attended. I quirked my mouth at that and knocked on the door.
	“Come in.”
	I opened the door and stepped in to stand before the library’s desk. Master Titus was head down, peering at a codex with a magnifying glass. It wasn’t the codex, of course. It wasn’t nearly that large, and I certainly didn’t expect him to have it out where just anyone might observe its presence, but it still gave me a start.
	He was writing a note of some kind on one of the up-time style paper pads they call “yellow legal pads” for some reason. “Just a moment, Ephraim,” he said without looking up.
	“Take your time, Master.”
	His pen froze and his head jerked up. A moment later, his pen had dropped to the pad, his chair was knocked over backward on the rug, and he was around the desk and crushing me with a surprisingly strong hug, given that he was not the largest fellow in town.
	“Archie, Archie, Archie!” he said at last, stepping back and putting his hands on my shoulders. “Do you know what you have done?”
	“Well, besides spending a mort of your money, and being charged with theft and almost getting arrested for it, I think I found you that book you wanted.”
	“Oh, you did that. For sure and certain you did that. Come in, man, close the door and tell me all about it.”
	I closed the door while he picked up his chair, then moved to the side table and poured two glasses of brandy. While he was doing that, I said, “I can take it, then, that the Bretagne Company boys delivered the box?”
	“Oh, that they did, quietly and with no fuss, to the back door, even. They asked for a second guilder, I gave them two. Once I saw what was in the box, I wanted to chase them down in the streets and give them more. If I could have done it discreetly, I would have given them more—ten times, a hundred times more!”
	The passion in Master Titus’ voice was like a thing of fire, crackling as it roared up a chimney, for all that he was speaking in his normal tones. I dug in my pocket and passed him the medallion that Sergeant Wolfe had given me. “They know who you are, you see. They do all kinds of secure courier work and provide security for goods shipments out of Grantville and elsewhere.”
	He took the medallion and looked at it with some interest, then set it on the desk. “I will have to reward them with some contracts.” He sat down. “Sit down, Archie, and tell me what happened. Tell it all to me. I want to know every detail.”
	I sat at the same time and began the story. I don’t know how long it took, but he had refilled our brandy at least once by the time I finished. He set his empty glass down and set his fingers together before his lips for a moment.
	“You say the Jesuits were involved. Can they trace it here?”
	“They may suspect, but they have no proof. And they were all German Jesuits. Two of them were just lay brothers, I suspect from Munich or Ingolstadt. The two full priests I suspect were from elsewhere.”
	“What were their names again?”
	“Augustus Heinzerling and Nicholas Smithson.”
	He pulled a folder from one of his desk drawer and leaved through some pages. “Ah, yes, here we are.” He rapidly scanned the page. “Ha. They were sent to Grantville originally to spy on the up-timer priest, Father Mazzare, the one who is now the Cardinal Protector of the Empire. They seem to have become part of his senior staff while he is with the Pope. Along with one Father Athanasius Kircher.” He looked at the page. “A good thing he wasn’t with them, because you most likely would not have outwitted that man.”
	“They aren’t what the Grantvillers call the A team?”
	“No. Heinzerling has a reputation of being a wild boar set loose in the sanctuary, and Smithson is more of a scientist than anything. Some training for diplomacy and spy craft, of course. Every senior Jesuit has had some, regardless of what they do for their order. Kircher, however…that man is formidable. We will need to be cautious in the future.”
	There was a knock on the door.
	“Come in.”
	Ephraim opened the door and looked in.
	“Estéban has pronounced that dinner will be served in a quarter hour, and if you don’t want it thrown to the hogs you should be in your places at that time.”
	Master Titus laughed, and stood to his feet.
	“Come, Archie. To the hero’s feast!”
	I had too much of Master Titus’ fine wine to remember all that we ate that night, but I do recall that it was good—very good. And I do recall that somewhere around the third glass of that wine I told Ephraim to have Veit give the horses a full rubdown and a full load of hay in their mangers, as I would not be tending to them that evening. But the rest of the night is a blur.

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.

Postludium
 
	I am sure and certain that if you’ve a wit about you, you will realize that I did not know all this story while I was living it. In fact, it took me some years to run down much of it from those who helped Brother Gregorio in his travels. But it is all true—all right, mostly true—from what I have been able to verify.
	There are so many adventures and stories in my head, all as fresh in my mind as when I lived them—many of them humorous, almost as many serious, and more than a few involving tragedies enough to break the heart of a stone. And all of them involving my very good friend, Master Tiberius Claudius Titus Wulff.
	Master Titus died last year, in the Year of Our Lord 1669, in his sleep and in his bed, and not of illness. Hale and hearty he was, upright beyond the three score and ten that Scripture says is man’s proper allotment. He simply went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up the next morning.
	How I miss the man.
	There are so many stories that could be told, like the one about the honest pawnbroker. Or maybe the story of the blind preacher, or the tale of the miller’s son and the tailor’s daughter, although that last one really needs a bard to make a ballad out of it. Or one of my favorites, the account of the apothecarist who had one potion that really worked.
	Ah, well, another time, another time. Until then, and in the meanwhile, lift a glass of wine in memory of Master Tiberius Claudius Titus Wulff, and drink a mug of beer to my own health.
	Archibald Gottesfreund

Dramatis Personae
 
Agricola, Gregorio – Augustinian monk, scriptorian in the Vatican library, originally from Innsbruck
Allemann, Justus – city guard in Augsburg
Andreas – monk in charge of the Potter’s Field at the monastery of St. Mang in Füssen.
Barfuss, Bernard – novice at the Munich Collegium
Bavarello, Francesco – corporal in Bretagne’s Company
Bayer, Johann – tavern keeper at Karl’s Martel tavern
ben Israel, Jachobe – Jewish merchant, father of Davit ben Jachobe
ben Jachobe, Davit – Jewish merchant from Bologna, son of Jachobe ben Israel. Also known as Donato.
Cintoia, Sansone – drover/guard for Davit ben Jachobe
Dopslauf, Arndt – pawnbroker and shop owner in Augsburg
Durs, Andrew – novice at the Munich Collegium
Emilio – innkeeper in Ferrara
Esteban – Spanish priest, involved in the assault on the Vatican
Faber, Veit – servant in Master Titus’ household
Georg of Jena – another thief
Girot, Pierre – private in Bretagne’s Company
Giustiniani, Orazio – assistant librarian of the Vatican library, killed in the Spanish assault on the Vatican
Goldberg, Ephraim – Master Titus’ major domo
Gottesfreund, Andrew – younger brother of Archie
Gottesfreund, Archibald “Archie” – German-Scottish half-breed born in Hamburg, former mercenary soldier
Gottesfreund, Friederich – Archie’s father, a prosperous Hamburg merchant
Graumann, Tobias – innkeeper at The Brass Kestrel in Augsburg
Gretsner, Jakob – Jesuit lay brother from the Munich Collegium
Grondin, Jean – private in Bretagne’s Company
Gröning, Heinrich – city watchman in Jena
Gröning, Simon – Heinrich’s nephew, tavern keeper at The Gray Goose
Gruber, Agata – used clothing vendor in Füssen’s market
Gruber, Berenice – sister of Agata Gruber
Heinzerling, Augustus “Gus” – priest in the Society of Jesus, sent to Grantville by Mazarini as a spy
Imhof, Hieronymus – magistrate and Catholic city councilman in Augsburg, father of Captain Philipp Imhof
Imhof, Philipp – captain in the Augsburg city watch, son of Hieronymus Imhof, Catholic
Itzak – attendant in the business of Jachobe ben Israel
Johann of Jena – another thief
Kircher, Athanasius “Athos” – priest in the Society of Jesus, sent to Grantville by Cardinal Barberini
Khün, Johannes – Jesuit priest, secretary to Rector of the Munich Collegium
Lars – one-armed one-eyed Swedish bartender at the Upright Pig tavern
Lenzi, Bartolomeo – drover/guard for Davit ben Jachobe
Loria, Giuda – Jewish physician in Firenze/Florence
MacDonald, Caitrion – Archie’s mother
MacDonald, Margaret – Archie’s aunt
MacDonald, Rory – Archie’s cousin and fellow soldier
Masen, Christopher – Jesuit lay brother at the Munich Collegium, assistant to the Collegium’s chamberlain
Mestermann, Johann – stable owner and operator in Grantville
Morales, Alfredo de – Spanish captain, involved in the assault on the Vatican
Oldenburg, Gerhard – novice at the Munich Collegium
Origgi, Paolo – private in Bretagne’s Company
Parera, Estéban – Master Titus’ Catalan cook
Rauch, Moses – barber in Augsburg
Rudolph – a guide in Meran that took Gregorio over Reschen Pass
Schneider, Wilhelm – Franciscan monk in Füssen who tended to Gregorio
Schlottmann, Hermann – tavern keeper of some unknown mediocre tavern in Bayreuth
Schönberg, Ambrose – Jesuit priest at the Munich Collegium
Schott, Friederich – Jesuit lay brother from the Munich Collegium
Simon of Jena – another thief
Smithson, Nicholas “Nick” – English Jesuit, sent to Grantville as another spy
Stahlnecker, Otto – ostler and stableman at The Brass Kestrel
Stetten, Christoph – lieutenant in the Augsburg city watch, Protestant
Stetten, Paulus – captain in the Augsburg city watch, Protestant, father of Christoph Stetten
Thomas of Aschenhausen – thief and bravo who robs Master Titus
Tomas – barber in Firenze/Florence
Vittorio – monk, assistant infirmarer in the Vatican infirmary
Wangnereck, Heinrich – Jesuit priest, rector at the Munich Collegium, old acquaintance of Augustus Heinzerling
Wolfe, Hans – squad sergeant in Bretagne’s Company
Wulff, Tiberius Claudius Titus – prominent merchant, noted bibliophile, Archie’s employer and friend