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Grand Tour

Written by Iver P. Cooper

My name is Mister Thomas Hobbes. If you are one of the Americans from the future, you know me as a political philosopher, the praised and reviled author of Leviathan. If you are a fellow down-timer, in this Year of Our Lord 1633, then you probably don't know me yet at all. Unless you have read my translation of Thucydides.

I was, until recently, the governor of young William Cavendish, the Earl of Devonshire. That means that I watched over him during his travels abroad, and tutored him as needed. Just as I did for his father, some score of years before.

The rude name for governor is "bearleader." People fancy that our charges are so unruly that they are like dancing bears, whom we must lead on a leash. But William wasn't like that. Usually.

We left England in the spring of 1632. Christian, the dowager countess of Devonshire, had been uncertain that her son would benefit from a grand tour of Europe which began when he was not even fifteen. I assured her that "the only time of learning is from nine to sixteen; after that, Cupid begins to tyrannize."

Calais

Spring, 1632

We crossed the Channel and made landfall in Calais. There, I had the luxury of a room to myself, and I decided to take advantage of it. No, not to enjoy the questionable charms of some scullery maid. I closed the door, and started singing: "Phyllis! Why should we delay?"

You don't know it? It's one of Edmund Waller's poems, set to music by Henry Lawes.

"Can we (which we never can)

Stretch our lives beyond their span,

Beauty like a shadow flies,

And our youth before us dies.

Or, would youth and beauty stay,

Love has wings, and will away."

It's my belief that singing is good for the lungs.

"Love has swifter wings than Time;

Change in love to heaven doth climb.

Gods, that never change their state,

Vary oft their love and hate."

Someone was banging on the wall for some reason. I hoped he would go away.

Paris

Mid-1632

Our next destination was the great city of Paris, of course. At the iron gates, the customs officials searched everything. Young men pled to serve as William's valet, and thrust their letters of reference through the windows of our carriage. Fortunately, we did not need their dubious services, as William had brought his own servants.

Geoffrey Watson was an under-butler, and also served as William's valet. He had some letters, so Lady Cavendish had given him charge of her library and study. Geoffrey was to make sure William did his lessons if I was off on other business. He was always polite to me. Sometimes I thought him a shade too polite.

Samuel Brown was our coachman, but he had spent more years riding the deck of a ship than the driver's seat of a coach. He had sailed the Mediterranean with the Levant Company, and he was, what's your American term, "our muscle." Samuel certainly had plenty of those. He was quick to make friends wherever we traveled. Except that one could never be sure what he would say to a Catholic priest.

Then there was Patrick McDonnell. You may be surprised that we would have an Irishman among us. Clearly, you are not aware that the Irish make excellent running footmen. Patrick was of a wiry build, and his calves were considered first-rate. Unfortunately, he had come into a growth spurt, and hence was no longer of a height with his fellows. Otherwise I am not sure that Her Ladyship would have parted with him. He could run ahead of our coach, or ride postilion, as needed.

While I could tutor William in the academic subjects, there were some he would learn better from others. Fencing, horsemanship, and dancing, to name a few. Hence, I enrolled him in a French academy. It was held in the basement of a French palace, the Louvre.

This gave me some leisure time, and leisure, as you know, is the mother of philosophy. I attended many soirees, and heard much praise of the ancient Greek and Roman philosophers. This did not surprise me, as intellectuals find it easier to reverence the dead than to applaud their living competitors.

Paris is a great city, which would achieve perfection if only one were to do away with the Parisians. If something foreign arrives in Paris, they either think that they invented it or that it has always been there.

French cookery was forced upon us by necessity, as we had not thought to bring a British chef with us. We were almost poisoned by what the French presume to call food. If only the French had some interest in the culinary arts, a stay in France would be much more pleasant. Unfortunately, the French innkeepers are as pleased to see their dishes go untouched as their English counterparts are displeased if the food is disliked. The French don't hesitate to serve stale mackerel, or raddled eggs, or beef roast to a crisp.

At least the French wine is passable.

The Riviera, between Marseille and Genoa

November, 1632

In November, 1632, we boarded a Provencal felucca, which would take us from Marseille to Genoa. We had suffered several delays on the road south from Paris, thanks to outbreaks of contagion and banditry, and had arrived too late in the season to obtain passage on a larger vessel At least, too late to do so without enduring further delays.

We were only four days into our voyage when William twitched his nose and said, "I smell smoke, Mister Hobbes."

I wasn't especially worried, at that point. The sailors were well aware of the danger of fire at sea. There was no hubbub, yet, to alarm me. But it was still conceivable that William's nose was just keener than theirs.

"Coming from someplace on board?" I asked.

"No . . . I don't think so. Look, on the shore! There's a fire!"

Before we could say anything further, each of us was gripped, painfully, by a meaty and indelicate hand. "Shut your mouths, both of you," the sailor behind us whispered urgently. "Barbary pirates raiding yonder village." He let go of our shoulders, and we turned to look at him. "Sound carries far too well over water. If they hear us, snick. . . ." He drew his finger cross his throat. "Or if you are spared, the exciting life of a galley slave."

Poor William shuddered. He had turned fifteen only the month before, and had led a rather sheltered life in central England. Still, he had recently been exposed to certain harsh realities. In Marseille, he and I had toured one of the French Navy's war galleys—it was Marseille's principal tourist attraction. He had seen the conditions under which the galley slaves labored, little dreaming that he might be in danger of being forced into such a life himself.

Nonetheless, he was a nobleman, a member of Britain's warrior aristocracy. "Can't we do something?"

I was pleased that he asked, although I would not encourage any reckless conduct.

Of course, the captain wouldn't consider any martial exploit. "This isn't a warship," he said. "Count yourself lucky it's night."

The sailor who had confronted us, and the other common seaman, were rowing now. Feluccas mostly travel under sail, but they carry oars for emergency use.

"Why don't you raise your sail?" William asked the captain. "You could take advantage of the land breeze to move you away from shore."

The captain shook his head. "The sail is white. If it were a moonless light, we might chance it, but we are better off moving slowly and remaining hard to see."

He smirked. "That reminds me. I have something better for you to do than ask questions. Get your servants on deck; I can use three more oarsmen. For that matter, you look healthy enough to pull an oar yourself." I protested his highhandedness, but William assured me that he had no objection, and I was thus quelled.

Genoa

November, 1632

"Your bolletino di sanita, signore."

I presented the health certificates I had received from the French authorities, hoping for fair treatment.

Hoping in vain. "La buona mancia per il signor ufficiale," the inspector suggested, holding out his hand.

"He wants something to eat?" asked William.

"He wants a bribe," I whispered. I decided to just ignore the suggestion, and hope the man wouldn't press the issue. "Our papers are in order."

The official didn't back down. "The ink here is smudged, I am not sure these papers are genuine."

It was just too much. "We were just in a small boat for eight days. Of course the ink is a little smudged!"

"I will have to put you in quarantine."

I bowed to the inevitable, and met his demand. Some pirates have no need for warships.

***

We dined that night with Lewes Roberts, one of the English merchants resident in Genoa. I let William tell him about our close encounter with the pirates.

Roberts didn't seem surprised. "The corsairs aren't really under the sultan's control, anymore; the pasha in Algiers does whatever he damn pleases. The French only have ten galleys on patrol in the summer, and six or eight in the winter. As to England, we simply encourage our privateers to harass the Moors in turn. Which, in my opinion, has made matters worse, not better."

Roberts was avid for news from home, which we gave to him. Naturally, we asked him about the war in Germany.

"The Swedish king marches from victory to victory," he told us. "Aided now, I understand, by people from a strange place called Grantville."

That was the very topic I was hoping he would bring up. "Grantville?" says I, widening my eyes in feigned surprise.

"Supposedly it is a town of the far future, transported by God's will from someplace called 'West Virginia,' in the Americas, into Thuringia in 1631."

"Remarkable," I said. "Why would anyone believe such an absurd story? Next, they will speak of Prester John." I had heard of Grantville already, from my friend Doctor William Harvey, the king's physician. Harvey had confirmed that Grantville existed, and that its residents were masters of the mechanical arts. Moreover, that they had knowledge of the future, through history books and not by witchcraft.

You understand that, as a youngster, William had only inherited his father's title, not his property. I was employed by William's mother, Christian. She managed the Cavendish estates with a wise and firm hand. Which they needed, William's father having been a spendthrift.

After I told her of Harvey's confidences—which he seemed, after the fact, to have regretted making—I had been instructed to go to Grantville and determine what those history books had to say about the Cavendish family, our country, and the countries in which the family had investments.

Perhaps you know this already, but the Cavendishes are one of the wealthiest families in the kingdom. Thanks, in large part, to Christian's Scottish canniness. They own perhaps one hundred thousand acres, almost all of them in Derbyshire. And they hold significant interests in many merchant ventures, including the East India Company and the Muscovy Company.

Christian directed me to conceal the family's interest in the time travelers. She thought it might be imprudent to show too particular an interest in Grantville. But it was customary for the sprigs of the English nobility, some even younger than William, to tour France, Italy and, if conditions permitted, Germany. So William was my excuse to be on the Continent.

Christian hadn't intended him to go on his grand tour until he was two years older. But he must needs go, that the devil drives.

Even William didn't know of our secret mission to Grantville. It was all in keeping with the Cavendish family motto: Cavendo tutus, "safe by being cautious." The motto, as I hope you noticed, is a play on the family name.

Anyway, Roberts had more to say about Grantville.

"The West Virginians are real, all right. Real enough to smash six Spanish tercios. Real enough for their townspeople to chew up several squadrons of Croat cavalry." William looked fascinated. Typical teenage boy. His academy got the young gentlemen interested in art by having them sketch fortifications.

"I understand that Grantville is now the center of some sort of confederation. They control much of Thuringia and Franconia, under Swedish protection of course."

"What has been the effect on trade? Are the Germanies safer now?" I meant safer for Protestants, of course.

"The trade through Milan, over the Saint Gotthard Pass, has picked up." This ancient trade route led through Lucerne and Zurich, to the Rhine.

"What about the Brenner Pass?" That connected northeastern Italy to Tyrolia and Bavaria.

"I couldn't say. You will have to ask about that in Venice."

I decided it was time to steer the conversation away from the Germanies. I asked about Venice, and was told that the new doge, this past November, had proclaimed Venice free of contagion. Then we spoke about doings in Rome, and so forth.

***

The next day, it was time to head on, to the port of Leghorn, and, ultimately, to Florence. There was no reason to linger in Genoa; it does not have the antiquities of Rome, the natural wonders of Naples, or the bustle of Venice.

Florence

December, 1632

When we were in Paris, we visited Mersenne, the French mathematician, with whom William's Uncle Charles corresponded regularly. Mersenne, in turn, gave us a letter of introduction to Galileo. After checking into our hotel in Florence, I sent Samuel and the precious letter on to Galileo's villa in Arcetri, with a request for an audience.

Uncle Charles had agreed with Christian that I should go to Germany by way of France and Italy. "You should visit Galileo at the earliest opportunity," Charles told me. "He is, what, sixty-eight, now? Who knows how much longer he will live? Or, for that matter, how long the Inquisition will permit him to receive foreign visitors."

While we waited to hear from the great man, we toured the city, beginning with the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. Upon arrival, we paid for the privilege of climbing to the cathedral's octagonal cupola, perched on the famous Duomo of Brunelleschi, the largest dome in the world.

We went back down, then strolled back toward our lodgings, stopping in whichever shops caught our fancy. Mostly bookstores, I must admit. Often, we heard English, as Florence was a popular stop on the English Giro d'Italia.

We were in a bookstore, browsing, when we heard the bookseller addressed in English. Naturally, we looked up. The new arrival held a journal of some kind in his hand.

"Yes, what may I show you?" said the eager storekeeper.

"What are the favorite herbs of the sheep of this country?" the Englishman read aloud. There was a silence.

"I am sorry, signore," said the Florentine. "I don't know the answer."

This didn't faze his visitor. "In your market, what are the values of whales of different sizes?"

"Signore, we are far from the sea. May I show you a book on whales and other marvelous fish?"

William leaned closer to me. "Why is he asking these questions?"

It was then the custom for parents to insist that their children, touring the continent, keep detailed journals. William, indeed, had one. This fellow obviously had created a questionnaire for use in every city he visited.

The whale fancier didn't take the bookseller's hint that he should start looking at books. "Are there many instances of people having been bitten by mad animals?"

The Italian smacked his forehead. "Signore, I am so pleased that I can tell you where to find out the answer. Turn left as you leave my humble store. When you reach the fountain, turn right. Take your sixth left, and then go to the building which has a sign of a bleeding arm. The good doctor there is an expert on the subject in question. But you must hurry, because he will soon close his office for the day."

They parted with many expressions of good wishes. Out went the earnest questioner, and the bookseller watched him walk off.

Turning back into the store, he caught sight of us, and looked at us quizzically. No doubt he wondered what particular Anglic madness we were afflicted with.

"Whales!" I gasped, and started laughing. The others quickly joined in.

"So tell me, my good man, does the 'good doctor' exist?"

"No, sir."

"Aren't you worried that fellow will come back, and complain?"

"No, sir. The fountain is many blocks away. When he reaches it, he must decide which right to make, because there are several. Once he turns, he must decide what counts as a left. Only a true street, or does an alley signify? He will wander harmlessly through the streets of Florence. Perhaps he will even find a whale market."

***

At the inn that night, William had a bit of a surprise. You will understand, after I tell you about the incident, that I did not observe it, nor did I hear about it from William directly.

William had gone up the stairs, guided by the chambermaid. He had left his own journal—free of any notes on whales, may I add—at the table, and I sent Geoffrey up with it, to return it to him.

When Geoffrey was nearly at his room, he distinctly heard the chambermaid tell William, "I can give you a kiss, to help you sleep better."

Instead of interrupting this tête-à-tête, as would have been proper, Geoffrey stopped in his tracks to eavesdrop.

The wench continued, "Or I can give you something more, so you don't sleep much at all."

William fled back to the common room, and I can vouch for the fact that there was plenty of color in his cheeks. When I asked him about it, he just mumbled.

An hour later, I personally escorted William up to his bedchamber, still wondering what exactly had happened. The room was empty by then, that I know.

I pried the story out of Geoffrey, eventually, but decided not to castigate William about it since, after all, no harm was done.

***

The village of Arcetri lay less than half an hour's walk from the walls of Florence. Of course, it would have been beneath William's dignity as an English peer to arrive at Galileo's doors with Tuscan mud on his shoes. So we rode over.

Galileo's villa was known locally as Il Gioiello, "the jewel." The scientist's housekeeper, La Piera, met us at the door and explained that Galileo was napping. She offered to give us a tour of the property; we gladly accepted. The high point was when we stood in the garden to the south of the house. We admired Galileo's fruit trees, and the views of the Tuscan hills in the distance, but all too soon the fierce tramontana, the north wind, forced us indoors. I tipped La Piera, and she went off to look for her master.

By this point Galileo was up and about, and we were ushered into his bedroom-cum-study. Galileo was seated at his desk. On his right, there was an armillary sphere, and his bed. Two maps hung on the wall. His desk faced the window, whose shutters were open to allow the winter sun to warm the room as best it could. To the left of the window was a bust of Cosimo the Second, and below it, on a stand, one of his famous telescopes.

Galileo looked up. "I write small, to avoid wasting paper, and then I have trouble reading my own notes. My eyesight seems to be getting worse and worse as the years go on." He picked up a letter.

"You are Mister Hobbes? I read here that you are acquainted with the Reverend Father Marin Marsenne, of the Order of the Minims."

"Yes," I said. "Dottore, may I present to you William Cavendish, the Earl of Devonshire, my pupil." William inclined his head. "Perhaps you know his uncle, Sir Charles Cavendish, the mathematician." It was Galileo's turn to nod.

"Please, be seated, both of you. You are too tall to remain standing, Mister Hobbes. It strains my neck for me to look up at you." I am about six feet tall.

"So, Mister Hobbes, what is your interest in my work?" Galileo asked.

"A philosophical interest, in your theories of motion. I believe that if nothing is added to an entity, and nothing is taken, it remains in the same state. Hence, all change is the result of motion, of the effect of some agent upon the subject."

"Indeed," said Galileo. "And once an object is in motion, it will tend to remain in motion, until halted by some other agent. Thus, objects tend to resist a change in motion."

Galileo turned to William. "Young man, have you studied natural philosophy?"

"Most illustrious sir, I have studied Latin, Italian, French, history, rhetoric, logic, astronomy and geometry with Mister Hobbes."

"Astronomy, you say? Well, when the wind settles down, we can go out in the courtyard and see what we can spy with my telescope. Would that appeal to you, young lord?" William thanked him profusely.

"Is Mister Hobbes your only teacher?"

"In Paris I attended an Academy in the basement of the Louvre. I took lessons in riding, fencing, dancing, singing, drawing, tennis, and playing the lute."

"The lute!" exclaimed Galileo. "That is my instrument, too." He raised his voice. "Giuseppe, fetch my lute. And Michelangelo's old one." This was a reference to Michelangelo Galilei, Galileo's brother.

"What about you, Mister Hobbes, are you a musician?"

"I play viol and flute, Dottore. But only for my own amusement."

"I am sorry I cannot provide those instruments." Galileo spread his hands in apology.

The servant boy appeared a few minutes later, with two lutes. "Thank you, Geppo. That will be all." Galileo handed one lute to William. Following Galileo's example, William tuned his instrument.

Galileo invited him to play first. William played an English tune, one popular at court. Galileo complimented him. "Now it is my turn."

It was clear from the first few bars that Galileo was a skilled musician, although his fingers were slowed by age. After he finished the piece, he set the lute down, and sighed.

"That was my baby brother Michelangelo's 'Toccata.' He composed it for the Archduke Maximilian. Michelangelo died in 1631, of the plague. May his soul rest in peace."

"Amen," we replied.

Galileo rose, and took William's arm. I picked up the telescope, and we all went out onto the veranda.

It was, of course, still daylight. With Galileo's guidance, we set up the telescope in such a manner that it would project an image on a white board. "In this way," Galileo said, "I can observe the sun even when it is too bright to look upon—which is most of the time."

After pointing the telescope in the correct direction, William held the board behind the eyepiece.

"About a foot away is best. Mind you don't tilt the board away from the axis of the scope—the image should be circular. Yes, that's it." We could see the projected disk of the sun. Magnificent!

"Now, look for sunspots." We had no trouble finding them.

"How wonderful!" William said. "Is this system of projection another of your inventions?"

"Oh, no. This was conceived by my beloved pupil, Benedetto Castelli."

I thought it best to demonstrate that I was not ignorant of Galileo's writings on this subject. "I have read of this device in your History and Demonstrations Concerning Sunspots and their Phenomena."

"Then you know that its importance is not just that it protects my eyesight, but also that it allows me to record, on this very paper, the exact locations of the spots. And I can make such records every day that the clouds permit me to see the sun.

"It was in this way that I determined that it took the sunspots a little more than fourteen days to traverse the entire solar disk. It follows that the sun revolves, and that the sunspots are on its surface."

We then turned the telescope toward terrestrial targets; the Convent of San Matteo where Galileo's daughter was a nun; the River Arno, and the great city of Florence. All too soon, it was time to retire inside.

"So, Mister Hobbes, we didn't really finish our discussion of motion. How do you intend to develop your thesis?"

"First, to show that sensation is the result of motion. The clapper has no sound in it, just motion, and it makes motion in the bell. The air has motion, but not sound. And the air causes motion in the brain, and it is that motion which we call hearing.

"In like manner, I will explain sight, and touch, and the feeling of the heat of a fire."

"Interesting," Galileo said. "You will, of course, want to devise experiments to prove your point."

Experiments, bah. But one must be polite, so I didn't pick a fight. "Ultimately, my goal is to extend the theory of motion to the actions of men upon each other, that which we call politics."

"Ah, politics. I have gotten into enough trouble discussing religion, I cannot afford to talk about politics as well."

At that point, La Piera came into the salon. "Dottore, why aren't you in bed?"

"I feel fine."

"Have you forgotten? The duke's physicians are supposed to be here within the hour. So that they can examine you, and attest that you are too sick to travel to Rome to appear before the Inquisition."

Galileo winced. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I must bury myself under the covers, and you had best be going. The duke is on my side, but appearances must be maintained." Galileo disappeared into his bedchamber, and let off a trial moan or two.

As we filed out the door, we could hear Galileo calling, "Where is my hot water bottle?"

***

We rode back to Florence, and decided to have our supper out on the veranda.

"So, Mister Hobbes, are you going to do those experiments? Can I help?"

"William, William," I said. "There is more than one path to knowledge. Experimentation is a last resort, to be adopted when one cannot reach a conclusion by pure reason. It is better to proceed, wherever possible, by geometrical constructions.

"Have I told you about poor Francis Bacon?"

"No, Mister Hobbes."

"I was his private secretary before I joined the Cavendish household. I took dictation, helped him translate his vernacular writings into Latin, and so forth. Besides being Chancellor, he was a great experimenter.

"Well, in 1626, I think it was in March, he was riding in a coach, and suddenly he decided that it was a good time, the weather being so cold, to test his theory that cold would delay the decomposition of flesh. 'Stop the coach,' cried he, when it entered one of the market squares. Out he hopped, and bought a chicken. Then, still a-shiver, he cut it open and stuffed it with snow. And do you know what happened?"

I didn't wait for William to answer. "He developed a bad cough, took to his bed, and died."

William sat in silence for a moment. "Whether Bacon had died or not, his experiment still settled the issue, didn't it? And would Galileo have discovered the moons of Jupiter, or the phases of Venus, by pure reason?" He looked at me expectantly.

"And look where Galileo is now—hiding under his covers, in the hope that the Inquisition will relent and leave him in peace," I replied.

"Would you like some more chicken?"

***

William went up to his room to do his lessons, and Geoffrey sat down beside me.

"English fellow was talking to us. Us servants, I mean."

"Are you sure he was English?"

"Spoke like a native, sir."

"And what did we want to know?"

"Who the young lord was, and why was he in Florence, and where else was he going. And 'may I buy you fine lads a drink?'"

It was customary for the British consuls in foreign cities to keep tabs on the movements of English nobleman. Not as much as it had been in the days of Queen Elizabeth, but not unheard of even today. And I had reason to think that King Charles might have sent instructions to step up such surveillance.

"And what did you fine lads tell him?"

"Oh, it's just a sightseeing trip, entertainment for the idle rich, under the guise of education."

"And that was all?"

"No. When we said that we were going to Germany, he asked if we had ever heard of a place called Grantville. In Thuringia. No, I said, we were going to Germany, all right, but just to visit a few towns and then come home by way of Hamburg."

"And do you think he believed you?"

"Well, I did let on that I thought that you, begging your pardon, Mister Hobbes, had a sweetie in Nürnberg, and that we were swinging through the Germanies so that you could have a rendezvous at your employer's expense."

"Is that so?" I didn't know whether to be aghast at his presumption or delighted by his ingenuity.

"I kinda thought that if they were looking for a baser motive than education, it was best to volunteer one that wasn't, uh, political. There's all sorts of talk about Grantville, y'know."

"All sorts. Thank you, Geoffrey." And I tipped him heavily, of course.

Papal States border post

January, 1633

Although the marriage of King Charles to the Catholic Henrietta Maria in 1625 had considerably eased relations between England and the Vatican, the inquisitors were still capricious in their examination of Englishmen.

Consequently, I gave William and the servants a severe lecture before we saddled up for the ride to Rome. "Don't argue about religion; in particular, do not defend the Church of England, the Lutherans, or the Calvinists."

As I said this, I kept my eye on Samuel. Back home, he was always railing about papist this and papist that. Right on cue, he protested my instruction.

"But sir, it is one thing not to start an argument about religion, but must I feign allegiance to the Harlot of Rome?"

I put him in his place, of course. "I expect you to protect the interests of your master, the earl. Don't pretend to be a Roman Catholic unless it is absolutely necessary to avoid arrest, but don't say anything in favor of the Anglican Church. Or any other faith.

"Oh, and don't give scandal in their churches. If you cannot bear the idolatry, remain outside."

Of course, it was easy for me to give such advice. My views of God and religion would give offense to everyone.

***

Despite my little precaution, I couldn't help but be nervous when, at the border, we were summoned before the local office of the Inquisition. After all, we were Protestants in the heartland of Catholicism.

"Next!" said the sergeant.

The Dominican friar, the representative of the Inquisition at this border post, closely examined us. Dressed in black, he looked like a large crow. One with a case of dyspepsia.

"What is your country?"

I answered for the entire party. "England."

"What are the names and stations of all of the members of your party?"

"This is William Cavendish, Earl of Devonshire and Baron of Hardwicke." Always good to let the inquisitors know that they are dealing with someone of high rank. "I am his tutor, Mister Thomas Hobbes, a graduate of Oxford. We are accompanied by his servants, Patrick McDonnell, Samuel Brown, and Geoffrey Watson."

"Are you all Christians?"

"Yes."

"Are you all Catholics?"

"Yes." It was an honest answer, since we Anglicans considered ourselves to be the true Catholics. I had warned our little company to expect this question, and my stock reply. I warned Samuel twice.

"What is your business in Rome?"

"To see the sights."

"Where are you going after you are finished in Rome?"

"Naples, to see Mount Vesuvius."

"Are you carrying any books which are on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum?"

"No, Holy Father."

The inquisitor conferred with the sergeant. "You are free to go."

Rome

February, 1633

William lunged, delivering the coup de grace to a phantom opponent.

I shook my head. "Lord Devonshire. Have you been keeping your journal up-to-date?"

William shook his head like a man trying to rouse himself from sleep. "My journal?"

"You heard me, Milord. Your lady mother expects to see proof that you have been observant. As I have told you before, you must record the history, geography, climate, wildlife, trade, agriculture, minerals, food, clothing, customs, art, laws, politics, and fortifications of each land we pass through."

William gave me a sheepish look. "Not since we left Florence."

"I have to go out and run some errands. This would be a good time to set down in your journal a description of what you have seen in Rome so far. You may go outside once you are done, but don't go alone."

***

I returned to our apartment and found classical bric-a-brac all over the place. Vases, bronzes, tablets, and busts galore. There was barely room to walk without tripping over an ancient Roman or two.

"Look what I bought!" William chortled.

"I am looking."

"I went off to the old Forum. It's market day there, and as I was walking about, I ran into this Englishman. We got to talking, I told him who I was, and he said that he had been a friend of my father, God rest his soul.

"Well, it turned out that his guide, this Italian fellow, was from this old family, that could trace its descent all the way back to old Julius Caesar, and they had all this old Roman stuff that had been in their family for generations. And because I was a fellow Englishman, and because he knew my father, they were willing to let me in on the chance to buy it!"

"How extraordinarily generous of them," I said. I wondered whether any of the sculptures were more than a year old; they had been somewhat indifferently "aged."

"Patrick, Geoffrey, you were supposed to keep his lordship out of trouble."

"There was no trouble, sir, no trouble at all. Lord's expected to shop when he's in foreign parts."

"What's wrong?" William said.

"Lord Devonshire, how many splinters of the True Cross are there?"

William blinked. "I don't know. A hundred?"

"Judging from the number which have been sold, enough for a thousand crosses!" I shook my head. "Lord Devonshire, you have great wealth and people will try to take advantage of you. Here in Rome, they have been manufacturing fakes for over a thousand years."

"So these aren't real?" William's lips quivered.

I took pity on him. A little bit. "Well, some may be good copies of the real thing. I would have to look at them more closely."

"But I was going to ship them home, as presents."

"You can still do that. Just give them to relatives you detest."

William directed the servants to start putting the classical menagerie in some kind of order. By the time he was done, I had remembered the question I had meant to ask him. "What progress did you make on your journal entries?"

William proudly presented his work. "The River Tiber runs through the town," I read. And, a bit later, "Here, also is the great amphitheater, which they call the Coliseum because of its size." Clearly, William was not destined for a literary career.

Naples

March, 1633

For our excursion to Naples, I hired a vetturino. The man had been recommended to me by the Tuscan ambassador to Rome, Francesco Niccolini. I paid him a fee, in return for which he arranged the coach, our lodging, and one meal a day, for a fifteen-day round trip.

"Not all vetturini are as honest as this fellow," I warned William. "You will expect a private room and then find other guests in the same chamber, or even the same bed. Complain to the innkeeper, and he says that it was all that the vetturino had contracted for. Complain to the vetturino and he insists that the innkeeper is responsible, and you must take the matter up with him. Round and round you go, and are never satisfied."

We went inside the coach; the other servants had to ride on the outside. Our fellow passengers looked up and then ignored us.

To pass the time, I told William a bit about what we expected to cover in Naples: Virgil's Tomb, the House of Cicero, and the many volcanic sites. The latter included the Phlegraean Fields, whose fumaroles led many a visitor to think of Hell; the Grotto of the Dog, whose vapors brought death; and of course Mount Vesuvius itself.

After a while, I urged William ...