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Written by Jay Robison

Rome, Italy, August, 1632

An apprentice escorted Artemisia Gentileschi into the stifling studio. She was expected.

"Maestra Gentileschi, my dear, how pleasant to see you!" Gian Lorenzo Bernini stood in the middle of his studio. The young sculptor's handsomeness was barely diminished by a layer of rock dust. Apprentices and journeymen worked busily on busts and other statuary.

"It is good to see you, Cavaliere," Artemisia Gentileschi said.

"Enough of this 'cavaliere' nonsense, Artemisia. We've known each other too long for such formalities."

"And we've known each other too long for me to believe you didn't know I was in Rome, Gian Lorenzo."

Bernini laughed. "You always did have the measure of me. You are correct of course; I knew of your arrival almost instantly. Come, let's sit on the balcony and talk. It will be more pleasant there."

Bernini motioned to the apprentice who'd shown Artemisia into the studio. "You! Bring wine for Maestra Gentileschi and myself." The young man scrambled to obey.

The two artists spent some time catching up. Gian Lorenzo Bernini was far more adept at making enemies than friends, but Artemisia Gentileschi was a friend. Though Bernini painted a little, it was working the stone that he loved, and Artemisia supposed that the main reason they got along was because the sculptor didn't view her as a rival for commissions. They were also both second-generation artists, a relative rarity. When small talk and nostalgia had run its course, Bernini decided to get to the heart of the matter.

"What is it that brings you to me, Artemisia? Surely not merely to pass an afternoon in conversation, pleasant though that may be."

Artemisia sipped her wine before answering. "I have come to seek your assistance in a matter, Gian Lorenzo."

"Is it money? I keep telling you that miser Philip doesn't pay you what you're worth."

"Money isn't everything," said Artemisia. This was an old argument between them. "There is no small amount of prestige to be had painting for His Most Christian Majesty. And he's not nearly so jealous a patron as His Holiness."

"Jealous Pope Urban may be, but he is generous. Extremely generous. If it is not money, then, what is it you need? And what makes you think I can help you and King Philip cannot?"

"You have heard of this new town in the Germanies? Grantville, I believe it is called."

"It is called Grantville," Bernini confirmed. "And it has been the subject of much talk in the papal court. Mostly rumors, and wild ones at that. Its inhabitants are proving most puzzling. They are allied with the Swede, yet by all accounts, there is a Catholic church in Grantville that flourishes alongside Protestant churches and even a synagogue. Its leaders have made no attempt to suppress the Church and even seem to tolerate the open presence of the Jesuits."

"The father-general must be pleased," Artemisia said. "However, it confirms what I have heard, that Grantville is a place of freedom and possibilities."

"You seek to go there?"

"No. I want to send Prudentia there. Facts about Grantville are hard to come by, but it seems that women are not barred from advancement merely because they are women. It will be good for her development as a painter and as a person."

"This, from the only female member of the Florentine Academy of Design?" Bernini's feigned shock was intentionally theatrical.

Artemisia was not in a joking mood, not about this. "You know as well as I what I've had to go through. And you also know that Rome is a snake pit for an artist."

"True enough," said Bernini in a more serious tone. The sculptor didn't even try to deny Artemisia's statement. How could he deny it when he was the snake pit's most poisonous viper?

"I believe I can do as you ask. In fact, there is a most suitable traveling companion for young Prudentia with plans to depart for Grantville very soon."

"Thank you, Gian Lorenzo. I am in your debt."

"Yes, you are. And don't think I will let you forget it."

Grantville, October 7, 1633

James Byron "Jabe" McDougal was having a hard time concentrating on this week's selection for the Grantville "Dinner and a Movie" club. It wasn't because of the selection. Doctor Strangelove was one of his favorites. No, it was Prudentia Gentileschi that was the distraction. From Jabe's point of view, practically everything about the fifteen-year-old shrieked: "out of your league!" She was beautiful—Jabe thought she was, anyway—she was smart, she was funny . . .

She was even famous. At least, her mother was famous, if you knew anything about art. Artemisia Gentileschi painted for cardinals, dukes, even kings.

Tonight's meeting was at Stephanie Turski's house. The group had grown out of an informal advisory committee brought together by Janice Ambler when Janice found herself programming director of the one and only working television station in the seventeenth century. The group still served an advisory function, but had evolved. As Janice firmed up programming hours and policies of the station—it had been christened WVOA-TV and the name had stuck—Dinner and a Movie became more of a group to watch and discuss films that didn't have broad enough appeal to merit a showing on WVOA.

Membership was fluid but there was a steady core of regulars in addition to Janice and Stephanie: Amber Higham, Eric Hudson, Ev Beasley, and Lorelei Rawls were all film buffs, and Father Mazzare and Reverend Jones came when they had the time. Balthazar Abrabanel, fascinated by the medium, also came when his health permitted and his medical duties didn't interfere; and Prudentia Gentileschi. Prudentia had been schooled in painting since she was old enough to hold a brush, and if her mother knew how well Prudentia could hold forth on the use of light and shadow in composing film shots, Artemisia would have been proud indeed. Her perspectives on this uniquely up-time art form were always surprising.

The discussion of Dr. Strangelove was winding down when the phone rang. Stephanie answered and handed the phone to Jabe. It was the duty officer at the barracks. Jabe was ordered to return as quickly as his feet could get him there.

"Sorry, everybody," Jabe said. "I need to go."

"I need to go as well," said Prudentia, in her heavily accented English. "Signor Nobili does not like me to be out late."

"I'll take you there," said Jabe. "You shouldn't walk alone."

Prudentia's responding smile had an undertone that embarrassed Jabe a little. Mostly because he was quite sure she wasn't fooled at all. In point of fact, Grantville's streets were quite safe, even at night—and Prudentia knew it just as well as he did.

However . . . She didn't seem to mind.

Prudentia's arrival in Grantville had been overshadowed, first by Mazarini's visit and then by the Croat raid and its aftermath. Artemisia Gentileschi wasn't a household name in a town like Grantville, certainly, but Father Mazzare had known who she was. So had Balthazar Abrabanel. He had recalled some rumors that Prudentia's grandfather Orazio had relocated to England from his native Rome, but if that was true Balthazar had never crossed paths with the man.

Before long, Prudentia Gentileschi was a minor celebrity—much to her embarrassment. Living arrangements were soon made, with Tino Nobili agreeing to provide lodging. Though Artemisia had wanted her daughter to be educated in Grantville, it was soon determined she already had an education which surpassed almost all Grantville's down-time citizens, and more than a few up-timers as well. In the end, Prudentia became a part-time student, mostly taking courses she chose for herself, and assisted the art and art history teachers in Grantville. In return for the latter, she was given a modest stipend to supplement the money her mother had sent with her.

Jabe and Prudentia spent most of the walk to the Nobili home in awkward silence, or even more awkward small talk. Jabe knew he was caught in the painful limbo between friendship and romance. The worst of that limbo, of course, being the fact that he had no idea if Prudentia felt the same way—and had no better idea how he might try to find out.

Even with an up-time girl, Jabe would have been too shy to try for a goodnight kiss, unless the girl was practically waving flags at him. With a down-timer like Prudentia, he didn't have a clue how he'd recognize a waving flag even if he saw one.

At the Nobilis' door, they bid each other good night. Jabe spent the walk to the barracks alternately cursing himself for blowing his chance with Prudentia—if there'd been one at all—and wondering what was going on.

At the barracks, Jabe had to fight his way through a gaggle of reporters surrounding Captain Henderson Coonce. Coonce looked more than a little resentful and Jabe didn't suppose he could blame him. The captain was in charge of basic training. No one had said anything to him about being a press liaison as well.

Normally Frank Jackson would be doing this, but Frank was in Magdeburg. The army had no officers above the rank of captain currently stationed in Grantville. That meant Henderson Coonce was the ranking army officer in town. That meant he had to deal with the press. Rank may have its privileges, but at the moment Captain Coonce was obviously thinking only of its curses.

"I'll tell you one last time," Coonce growled. "You'll have a brief statement after I tell my men what's going on. Anyone doesn't like that can leave right now, before you get an MP escort. And I ain't answering questions after the statement. We'll have more for you, soon as we get it."

Coonce meant to be intimidating and it mostly worked. It did not, however, work on Joe Buckley, who had the well-deserved reputation of being the most aggressive—some would say obnoxious—reporter in Grantville.

"Don't you think the public has a right to the news, Captain?"

Coonce looked like he wanted to use Buckley's guts for garters. "You think you're more important than the families, Buckley? They get told first."

Buckley, for a wonder, gave up pressing for answers. After the reporters started leaving, Jabe walked up to Coonce and came to attention.

"Took you long enough, Private," Coonce grumbled.

"Sir. I had to escort Miss Gentileschi back to the Nobilis' house, sir." Jabe stared straight ahead, still at ramrod attention. Someone other than Jabe could have seen the girl home, of course, if it had to be done at all, which it didn't. Fortunately, Coonce didn't pursue the matter.

"At ease, Private McDougal. You're not too late."

They went inside and Jabe found a seat in back with the other enlisted personnel. Officers and noncoms sat up front.

"This is gonna be short and sweet, people," Captain Coonce said. "Earlier today, the Danes tried to take Wismar. We turned 'em back and they took heavy losses. They cut and ran."

He let the cheers die down, then continued: "We took our own casualties, however. I can't tell you who yet, and that comes straight from the top. Things are dicey right now, but General Jackson will be flown back to Grantville, hopefully in the next couple of days. I imagine we'll all know more then. Dismissed."

With that, Henderson Coonce strode out to face the press once again. From what Jabe could catch from his muttered grumbles, the captain was expressing severe reservations concerning the wisdom of the Founding Fathers when it came to the much-overrated value of freedom of the press.

Magdeburg, October 8, 1633

Mike Stearns imagined that he looked like hell. He felt even worse. He hadn't gotten any sleep the night before and wasn't counting on getting much tonight. Mike had walked from the radio shack to his rooms so many times the last few days he could have made the trip in his sleep.

It may yet come to that, Mike thought. He stood up and stretched, stepping away from the radio. The radio window for the evening was now closed, and Mike could do no more here tonight.

He called for his escort for the evening. "Pete! I'm ready to head back."

Pete McDougal opened the door. "If you don't mind me saying so, you look like nine kinds of rough," he said.

"Ten kinds, Pete."

For the first few moments, they walked in comfortable silence. The two had been fellow UMWA officials in their local before the Ring of Fire and had known each other a long time.

Mike shook his head. "Medals don't seem like enough, Pete. I wish I could do more. If we were up-time these kids would have been all over TV. Dateline NBC, Sixty Minutes, the whole works."

After hearing Pete's response, Mike abruptly changed course, leaving Pete scrambling to keep up. "What a great idea! Let's go get Frank out of bed."

Grantville, October 10, 1633

Mike had hoped to have Jesse Wood fly Frank Jackson back to Grantville the day before, but things hadn't worked out quite that neatly. As Frank and Jesse touched down, the American general found himself, for once, a little grateful he was in the early modern world. At least, Frank thought, the thirty-minute news cycle was a thing of the past. Or future, depending on how you looked at it.

By now, it had been officially acknowledged that Eddie, Larry, Hans, and Swedish sailor Bjorn Svedberg had been killed in action at Wismar, but the situation in Magdeburg had not left time for the release of a detailed statement. Until now.

Frank found Henderson Coonce waiting for him at the airstrip, truck engine running. Coonce saluted, and they drove to the high school. Even if Frank had been vain enough to think his rank entitled him to a chauffeur with captain's bars, Henderson put paid to that notion by complaining the whole way. By the time they pulled up to the high school, Frank was ready to recruit an entire regiment's worth of press officers, just to shut Coonce up.

"If you don't want to wait, Captain, I'll ring when I'm done," said Frank.

"I can wait," said Coonce.

"I said you'd get your press officer."

Coonce smiled. "I heard you, Frank. Why do you think your ass ain't walking back?"

Military protocol in the new little United States still had a long way to go. Frank just shook his head and went into the school.

He found Janice Ambler and Jabe McDougal waiting for him. Jabe sprang to attention. Prudentia Gentileschi sat quietly in a corner, sketching something off of a television screen.

"At ease, Jabe. We're not in the barracks."

He went straight to the subject. "You still have all that video stuff you were doing after the Ring of Fire? That oral history project you were working on?"

"Sure, sir," replied Jabe. My tape's almost gone, though."

"Have you got footage of Eddie and Larry? Hans?"

Jabe nodded.

"Good. Can you put something together? By noon tomorrow?"

Jabe hesitated. He was only a self-taught video documentarian and even before the Ring of Fire he was far from certain he'd wanted to make a living making movies of any kind. Jabe had thought of his video projects as little more than a hobby.

But it was a serious hobby, so Jabe knew that the rule of thumb for editing footage was that one hour's work yielded one minute of usable footage. Cutting hours of footage down to sixty minutes in less than a day?

Insane.

For this, though, Jabe couldn't say no. "You'll have it, sir, Ms. Ambler. It'll be ready."

"Would you mind if I observe you?" Prudentia had been so quiet her presence had been forgotten.

Jabe crimsoned. "Sure, Prudentia. I wouldn't mind."

Frank told Jabe he would clear the young man's absence from the barracks. All of Jabe's video gear was at his house, in his old basement room. Frank continued to talk to Janice; his statement would be simulcast on VOA radio. Jabe and Prudentia left.

Jabe was preoccupied enough not to be nervous around Prudentia—at least not nearly as nervous as he usually was. Without even thinking, he broke the ice.

"What were you sketching, Prudentia?" he asked.

"A scene from Dr. Strangelove. General Ripper sitting at his desk, looking at his cigar. A lot of interesting play with light and shadow. It would, I think, make a good painting."

Without wanting to, Jabe blurted out the question that had really been bothering him. "Why did you want to come with me?"

"I grew up around artists, you know. I love to watch them work. I find it very inspirational for my own art."

"I'm not an artist."

"It may be so, but from my understanding of this Orbis Incindiae it is unlikely I shall ever see an artist in this medium of film, not anytime soon. Besides," she added, "you have a good eye and good sense of the beautiful."

Jabe flushed. Hastily, he decided the best course of action would be to shift the conversation away from himself. "How have you liked Grantville? It must be a lot different than the places you've lived."

"It is. I miss Napoli and Roma, but Grantville is a fascinating place. And the things I've learned, especially about the science of optics and behavior of light, have been magnificent. It's been most useful to me. But your beliefs and customs are rather shocking. Mother would not approve of me walking home with you."

"Why not? It's ...