"Your Eminence..." the monsignor began.
"Yes, I see it, Henri," the cardinal replied. "Rather pretty, isn't it?"
"Uh, yes, I suppose, Your Eminence, but what...?" Henri's voice trailed off.
Richelieu snorted impatiently. "I would have thought it was obvious, Henri. The Americans have come to visit."
He watched as the machine circled and then flew off to the east. It seemed to be climbing and Richelieu idly wondered what sort of weapons would be dropped. Some form of Greek fire or explosives, he assumed. His spies told him the Americans had both. Noting the numeral "1" on the tail, Richelieu likewise assumed the machine was being flown by Colonel Wood. "Der Adler." He was suddenly glad that the king and queen were at one of their country estates.
Turning to the monsignor, Richelieu inquired politely, "Henri, would you be so kind as to bring me a glass of wine?"
* * *
"Pre-Attack Checklist complete," Emil reported.
"Roger," Jesse replied. They'd drop on the Bastille and climb straight ahead for an attack on the Louvre. The wind didn't matter much with this bombload. He pulled the nose up, slowing the aircraft, and gave the order.
"Speedbrake out!"
Emil flipped the catch and cranked the deployed wheel furiously. Jesse felt the large metal device extend and Emil confirmed what he knew.
"Speedbrake out!"
Stooping like an eagle, the Gustav dove. As they passed forty-five degrees of dive, the siren on the left gear flipped open and, as the airflow hit it, began an unearthly howl, dopplering higher as their speed increased. At something over sixty degrees of dive, Jesse caught his target and stabilized the aircraft. Through his sight, Jesse noticed something hard up against the front of the Bastille. Small wooden structures, people, horses and cattle, many tendrils of smoke. Suddenly, it came to him.
"Christ, it's a market!" he said aloud. He saw the people beginning to scatter, probably due to primordial fear inspired by the siren. Horses bolted everywhere, running through the press, knocking over stalls and people. It was too late to change their target, since their fuel situation was getting fairly critical. He did what he could and tucked further under, centering the castle in his sight. The thought passed through his head. Collateral damage.
"Bomb away!" he ordered and Emil obeyed immediately.
"Bomb's away!"
Jesse began his recovery, pulling hard. The siren stopped its wail and, judging the moment, Jesse grunted, "Retract speedbrake!"
Emil released the lock and, aided by the airflow, quickly cranked the device closed and latched it in place. "Speedbrake retracted and locked."
Climbing straight ahead at full power, Jesse tried to look over his shoulder at the target, only to stop when his neck complained, giving a sharp warning pain. He stopped trying to look behind him, though he imagined he'd heard the screams of people as they roared past. He zoom climbed, already thinking of their second target.
* * *
Richelieu had clearly heard the siren and then spotted the attacker. Trees and buildings obscured his vision, but he thought he could see smoke rising from the direction of the Bastille.
Odd choice of target, he thought. Why kill common criminals?
Craning his head, he spotted the flyer high above, a glint of sunlight off the wings, and took a sip of wine. Where now, Colonel?
The siren began its hideous scream again and the cardinal calmly watched the machine dive. The silly women below began screaming in counterpoint and Richelieu wished they'd go away. He finally noted the direction of the descent and the thought came again. It's fortunate that the king and queen are not at home. They might have been affrighted. These Americans have poor intelligence; they should pay their spies more.
Henri was plucking at his arm. "Your Eminence, please come inside!"
"Shoo!" the cardinal said. "I must see this. We should be perfectly safe here." He looked at the Louvre and saw no one outside. "Unlike those poor devils over there, I should think. If they are wise, they are already in the cellars."
He followed the... Aircraft, that's the word... and saw it release something, while still at a great height. The aircraft immediately ceased its wail and he followed the thing it had dropped, eager to see the result. Halfway to its target, the object burst apart and Richelieu suddenly knew the type of munitions the Americans had chosen.
Diabolical, he thought. I wouldn't have credited them with such subtlety.
With desperation giving him strength, Monsignor Henri grabbed the cardinal and pulled him back into the study, away from the windows. Placing his own body between his master and danger, Father Henri ignored his superior's protestations.
* * *
"Maybe it's just as well," Jesse mused. In the long seconds he had spent staring at the Louvre through his sight, it had become clear to him that nobody was home. There was no crowd of guards, no carriages, nothing to suggest a busy court, but the Louvre had looked much as he remembered it, or thought he remembered it.
He continued their climbout and turned to the south. His neck hurt like blazes, likewise, his back. He didn't bother looking back at the target. As he climbed, he looked to his left and saw the graced curves of Notre Dame's flying buttresses. He remembered walking past them long ago with a young woman with whom he had been much in love. Suddenly, he was very tired. He wanted to go home, but he had two bombs, two rockets, and a most unambiguous target left. He'd snuck a peek after bomb release and was certain he'd caught a glimpse of a man in red on a balcony of his last intended target. Richelieu, at least, was home.
"Emil, we'll drop both of the remaining bombs on this pass," he said quietly. "Forget, the Left Bank, wherever it is. We haven't enough fuel to screw around."
"Understood, sir," Emil said and suddenly added, "It's a beautiful city, isn't it, sir?"
Unaccountably, a vision of ruined Magdeburg flashed through Jesse's mind. Leveling off, he looked down at the roofs and streets of Paris.
Yes, it is, Emil," he replied. He performed a turn back north, judged the moment and slowed, once again.
"Speedbrake out!"
* * *
Cardinal Richelieu had endured enough foolishness.
"Henri, remove your hands and step aside," he commanded. "We are in God's hands, are we not?"
His secretary lowered his head and moved aside and the cardinal stepped back outside onto the balcony just in time to hear the siren begin its scream. He peered into the sky and shivered a bit, despite himself. The aircraft was pointed directly at him. At last, the silly people in his garden realized the immediate danger and began to scatter, though Richelieu barely noticed. He kept his eyes on the aircraft.
He realized the aircraft was still diving, long past the point of its other dives. Colonel Wood wants to be certain, this time.
The sound of the siren became impossibly loud and he wondered if his attackers meant to strike him with the machine itself. He knew he should run. Instead, he gripped the balustrade, murmured a prayer, and waited. He caught two objects falling free and the aircraft shifted aspect, flashing low over him with a roar. Richelieu flinched as, with a tremendous crash, the objects struck the ground before him and burst, showering the garden with paper. The cardinal exhaled slowly and noticed his hands were shaking. He'd seen paper scatter from the bomb over the royal palace and assumed those intended for him held the same, though he'd had his doubts at the end. He didn't know yet what was printed on them, but he could guess. Given the unexpected ingenuity the Americans were displaying in this raid, he suspected the leaflets contained excerpts from French revolutionary proclamations of the future. He idly wondered what sort of complications would arise from their message. In the meantime, it appeared God intended for him to remain alive, in service to his country.
Hearing aircraft sounds again grow louder, he looked up and saw the machine pass directly over him towards the Seine. It dipped a little and two flaming rockets soared off the wings and exploded in the river, making Richelieu blink. T
he aircraft climbed and headed eastward.
Yes, I got your message, Prime Minister Stearns, he thought with admiration. Very neatly done.
* * *
Despite his weariness and aching back, Jesse felt just fine. It was as if a weight had fallen from his shoulders with his ordnance. In the dive, he had fixated on the motionless red figure in his aiming sight and, for a split second, had considered following Hans' example. His finger had tickled the rocket firing switches and he'd suddenly jerked his hand away. Instead, in the end his delayed drop had failed to deliver the leaflets as intended and he'd wasted the rockets in the river.
Stearns was right, he thought. I'm not God or an avenging angel. I'm only a man, commanding other men. A victim of collateral damage. Which reminds me... He clicked the intercom.
"So, Emil, you and Henni are going flying tomorrow. Why don't you tell me what kind of flight profile you have in mind."
He began a cruise climb into the afternoon sun and listened with a smile as the young man spoke with growing enthusiasm.
Euterpe (Episode 1)
By Enrico M. Toro
Editor's note: Giacomo Carissimi and Girolamo Zenti are historical characters. They both gave an important contribution to classic music. The first is considered the most important composer of the Roman baroque movement, an innovator of the era; the second was a well-traveled harpsichord maker, renown for the invention of the bentside spinet. Some of his instruments are still used and copied today.
In 1631 they are both in their prime and at the beginning of bright and important careers.
Then the Ring of Fire came. Its effects slowly but inexorably spread all over Europe, changing the lives of millions of people. This story, the first of several episodes, tells the beginnings of their new lives.
Maestro Giacomo Carissimi to Father Thomas Fitzherbert SJ of the Illustrissimus Collegium Anglicanum in Rome
June 1633,
Very Reverend Father Fitzherbert,
How are you?
I only now have time to write you this letter before leaving tomorrow morning headed for the Holy Roman Empire first and then to Thuringia, in Germany. My final destination is the town of Grantville where I am going to learn and study.
I hope this letter will find you once back from Amalfi as I hope your residence in the costiera gave you some relief from the sickness that affects your lungs. You know I have always preferred to sharpen my quills to write music and not words, but I feel the need to share with you all the events that brought me to leave Rome.
I'm writing you in English to show you how the months you spent trying to hammer this language into my hard head have not gone wasted.
This letter and the ones that will follow are maybe another way to make my English fluent, especially if you will feel free to correct any mistakes you will find in my prose with your usual and blessed Jesuitical iron discipline.
I have been told that many inhabitants of Grantville are Germans and, grazie alla Divina Provvidenza, the four years I spent as Master of Chapel at the Collegium Germanicum made my German more than passable and I can always use some French and some Latin. If I am lucky some of them will speak Italian, too!
Anyway, with the prices of parchment these times, I better stop rambling and go to the point. Sometimes it seems there isn't enough paper in the whole world to write all the thoughts and feelings, the joy and the turmoil, that are nowadays in my mind.
It's strange to think how a single evening can change a man's approach to life and how an encounter made a man who felt uncomfortable leaving the Aurelian's walls (you know how much I hated my position in Assisi) travel hundreds of miles to reach a far, almost mythical town. But if there is a man who can make a lazy, contemplative man leave all behind for adventure this is Messer Giulio Mazarini.
I had never met the man before. I only knew him for his fame of being one of the finest diplomats in Europe, a man with a golden tongue and of sharp wits. I have been told that he had just arrived from a mission in Germany. So I wasn't at all surprised once I came to know he would have lectured the students of our seminary in the latest developments in the Holy Roman Empire.
After all, the Collegium Germanicum, where I have the honor to teach sacred music and to direct the choir has been created to prepare the German clergy to better deal with the dangers of the Reformation.
I wasn't surprised when he attended a concert we gave in his honor in Saint Apollinare, as I wasn't surprised when he visited me in my studio after the cantate and motets were over. Paying compliments to the author is customary and polite behavior, after all. But it was what he brought with him that shocked me.
He handed me a parchment of paper and let me unroll it. While my hands and eyes were busy opening it, he asked: "Many say you are the brightest musician here in Rome, maestro. Can you tell me what is this?"
I stared at it for a while before answering. "It's part of a music composition, it seems. But the writing it is slightly different; some of the symbols are more complex than the ones I use, more structured, more evoluted. The printing quality is awesome. Where did you get this, if I may ask?"
"Grantville. You did hear about it didn't you?" Mazarini walked closer to the fireplace where I keep some comfortable armchairs.
"Of course I did. Everybody is talking about it. Yet I think most of what I heard are rumors, like the one that says they are a bunch of demons or warlocks riding monsters who spit flames." Then I added, shaking my head, "Are they really from the future?"
"Yes, they are, and the music you hold is from a piece called the Goldberg Variations, a series of sonatas composed by an artist who will live more than fifty years from now. I think his name is Bach."
I was completely amazed by his words. I confess that I don't know what was shaking more, my hands or my voice.
"Can I borrow it? I want to copy it and try to play it."
"Unfortunately, I am not sure you will be able to do it. The American lady who gave it to me described it as a transcription for pianoforte. It will need another adaptation to be played on an harpsichord or an organ."
"A pianoforte? What is that?"
"A musical instrument from the future I listened to while in the American town. It looks like an harpsichord or a spinet but it sounds quite different: richer, more full, less metallic. They told me it will be invented by an Italian at the beginning of the next century. But that's not the only amazing mechanical thing these people have. You should hear their music recordings, too; it's like... Well it's hard to explain. The sound of a whole orchestra coming out loudly from a box. They call it a 'CD player.' It can play music and sounds over and over again."
"What?"
"I'm not sure how it works, but it's as if you play something on the organ and somebody captures this sound and writes it down on a machine like printing does with words. Then, then to listen again what you played, they only have to use again the machine."
"It's hard to believe. A machine that captures sounds?"
"Hard to believe, but nonetheless perfectly real. One of them told me they had been a good help in beating the Spanish army last year."
"A music that defeats an army! Sounds like some kind of joke. That's something I'd like to hear!"
I think he realized how much he had succeeded in capturing my interest and offered to stay longer to talk about that strange place if I had more of my questions. I couldn't quiet my curiosity, so I went to one of the drawers and took a bottle of that smooth muscat from Montefiascone called "Est Est Est" you know I love so much. I poured the wine into two pewter cups I keep at hand and lighted a series of candles to have more light in the room.
At the moment I didn't realize it, but we must have been talking for hours. He got my complete attention and I learned many more things about that remote place, all uncanny and extraordinary.
I learned how the people of Grantville allied themselves with the Swedish and the German Protestant princedoms. I learned of their skill in manufacturing things, of their re
ligious tolerance, of their fantastic knowledge of many new subjects in matter of science and medicine and, at the end, Mazarini, suddenly reluctant, told me a few things of their strange and almost utopian ideas about the government of a state.
Only when the night was beginning to turn into a new morning, did our meeting come to an end. Mazarini, smiling, made his offer.
"It would be a fine thing if one of our most talented young musicians traveled there to learn more about music, and maybe get familiar with these up-timers, as they call themselves. There is a lot to gain from an unofficial exchange of knowledge."
Some way I knew it was coming, but I wasn't the more prepared for it.
"But, Messer Mazarini, I have my job here and I'm not accustomed to travel for such a long distance."
"I know, I know, but think about how much your natural talent can gain from such an experience. You don't have to make any decision now, of course. Nevertheless should you agree with me, contact me at the Basilica of San Giovanni and maybe I will be able to help you with your travel."
He is pretty important now but I feel like that man will make an even better career! He knew how to cast the hook, how to make the bait irresistible and in what exact moment I did bite. A master in human behavior.
Indeed I don't know if it was my curiosity or my love for music, but I suddenly realized that if music from the future, strange new musical instrument and music in boxes existed. I had to see it in person no matter how much I had to travel.
The weeks that followed have been full of frantic activity and preparations for this trip. I live a simple life and I earn well, but my savings were not enough to sustain myself for a long time. So the first thing was to find funds.