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Homage to Etruria, Part One: The Patron's Plight

Written by Jay Robison

I.

May 1635, Outside Rome

Giulio Gentileschi paused to re-tie the kerchief around his nose and mouth to keep out the dust. His companion, a hulking lefferto named Carlo Belzoni did the same. If only cloth could keep the smell of panic out of their noses as well as it kept out the dirt being stirred up by the thousands fleeing Rome ahead of the Spanish.

They could still hear the alarm bells ringing faintly behind them. Giulio had hoped that they would be farther down the road by now. On a normal day they'd already be at their intended destination, the cottage of a certain young widow of Giulio's acquaintance who lived a couple of hours outside Rome on the Latin Plain. But while Carlo's bulk and scowl could get them through the stalled knots of people here and there, they did nothing to hurry their already skittish oxen.

Carlo pulled out a wine skin and took a long swig, then handed the skin to Giulio. "We've been lucky so far," he said. "Borja's thugs have been leaving us alone. If we keep our heads down we'll probably not have any worries."

Giulio nodded. He'd been worried about that. The troops securing Rome and the countryside for Cardinal Borja had been harassing lefferti they found on the roads, as much for the fact that they were spoiling for a fight as for the fact that many lefferti absorbed their role model Harry Lefferts' radical political sympathies along with his dress and behavior. In this, Carlo Belzoni was not the typical lefferto. He was a barber-surgeon by trade, but he'd gained small fame as a circus strong man and leg-breaker in the rough Borgo quarter of Rome long before Harry Lefferts had arrived there in the company of the cleric-diplomat Mazzarini the previous year. Carlo understood Harry Lefferts better than most of the American's Roman imitators, in that it was as important to cultivate an intimidating reputation, for a fearsome reputation was frequently key in avoiding fights altogether. If one had to back that reputation up now and then, well, that was life. Carlo was generally good-natured enough to offer to patch up his opponents, if they showed enough humility after their defeat.

There was also the matter of the cloth badge sewn onto Carlo's tunic—a white circle quartered with a blue cross and a blue shield. When Sharon Nichols arrived in Rome as the USE's ambassador, she brought with her a number of doctors she'd begun training at her previous post in Venice. Her price for the training was that these doctors would in turn help train barber-surgeons, midwives and herbalists in up-time "first-aid"— basic, easy-to-learn techniques that would help treat people with minor injuries and help keep people with more serious problems alive until they could seek advanced treatment. This training cadre was told to begin training people in the poorer quarters of Rome, Venice and Florence, who would in turn train others while providing care themselves. Carlo's badge was proof that he'd received this training, and for now Spanish forces seemed to be leaving such people alone.

Carlo nodded to Giulio, and they goaded the oxen into motion once more, maintaining a comfortable walking pace.

"I'm just glad that I'm too obscure to be worried about, at least for now," Giulio said. "If my sister were here . . ."

"Yes, it's just as well Artemisia is living in Grantville, given the trash Borja and his lapdogs are putting out about her." Carlo spat on the ground. "She'd probably be going, what's the up-time word, ballistic, at the sight of those pamphlets."

"Don't think she's not. My niece's betrothed says my sister is very upset. He's quite upset himself, and I get the feeling Signore McDougal doesn't get so angry often. He's a friend of Frank Stone, and Signore Stone's unwillingness to respond to the attacks against Artemisia has not sat well."

"Young McDougal has a point. Caution is commendable, but there's a time when one must act. I don't believe Signore Stone, for all his good work, understood that lesson until it was too late. Thankfully, your niece's intended has given us the means to take more direct action." Carlo patted one of the crates on the oxcart. "Assuming, of course, we can stay out of trouble."

That turned out to be more easily said than done. As they rounded a bend in the road they found a wagon upended in a ditch. A few crates had been thrown some distance and pillaged by other refugees but otherwise it looked like the wreck had been avoided. No one wanted to court trouble. There were no signs of life, but Carlo insisted on investigating anyway. He took his calling as a healer very seriously.

Giulio stayed with the oxen while Carlo took a closer look. "Nothing we can do for this poor devil," he heard Carlo say from the far side of the wagon. "Broke his neck, from the look of it."

Just then, Giulio heard a groan. At first, he thought it was the shattered wagon's remaining axle squeaking, but he heard the groan a second time and the wheel clearly wasn't spinning. "There's someone under the cart, Carlo."

With a heave, Carlo yanked the wooden plank that had served as a bench for the wagon free. "If he's not too far gone, we'll need to put this under whoever's under there," Carlo said. "It will help not make his injuries worse, if he's hurt his neck. But you'll have to do it. I think I can lift the cart but it will take all my strength."

Giulio nodded. He was pretty sure he could do what Carlo was asking. With a mighty heave, the former strongman lifted one end of the cart far enough off the ground so that Giulio could get underneath. There was a man, cushioned by a pile of rags he'd been hiding in when the wagon flipped over. Quickly but carefully, Giulio slid him onto the plank and then slid the plank back out from beneath the cart. With a sigh, Carlo let the cart drop back to the ground.

Rubbing his hands, Carlo looked at the man they'd rescued, examining him for internal injuries. Giulio, seeing his face clearly, exclaimed. He knew this man; knew him well in fact.

"Cavaliere dal Pozzo!"

****

"As if you haven't brought me enough trouble already, Giulio Gentileschi!" Lucia di Lazio rubbed her pregnant belly to emphasize just what kind of trouble she was referring to. She was pretty sure the baby was his, though he certainly wasn't the only man to share her bed. Brain fever, or what some called the mal'aria, had taken away her husband and daughter two years ago. Lucia was attractive enough that men offered to pay to sleep with her, and she was desperate enough to sometimes accept. And sometimes, she just got lonely between Giulio's visits and if she could ease that loneliness and make life a little less difficult, why shouldn't she?

Giulio Gentileschi wasn't a paying customer. He was kind and generous; enough so to make up for his decidedly average looks. He wasn't wealthy, but his sister made a good living as an artist and sent him a generous allowance to see to her remaining affairs in Rome. Giulio had explained on one of his visits that he used to be responsible for his sister's finances but was glad enough to be relieved of the duty by his niece's up-time fiancée. For all the affection she had for him, Lucia knew Giulio's brains were as average as his looks and couldn’t take the firm hand needed when patrons tried to cheat on their commissions.

Giulio looked at her like a whipped puppy. She softened. "You did the right thing. What else could you do? You've told me how generous dal Pozzo has been to your family, and I know he's an important man. You just have to promise me something."

"You know I'll marry you, Lucia."

"I do know that, Giu'. But you're going to leave, and you must take me with you. A baby in the belly is no guarantee the soldiers will leave me alone, and I do want this baby to live, if possible. I've been so lonely."

For a time, they just held each other. There was nothing else to do while Carlo attended dal Pozzo. Then Giulio stood up and helped Lucia stand. "Let's check our crates," he said. "Since it took so much work to get them here from Rome."

When Giulio and Carlo finally arrived at Lucia's cottage in the late afternoon, they'd put their cart behind the small house. It wasn't a great hiding place, but it was the best they could do. One by one, Giulio lifted the boxes off the cart. Taking a ring of keys off his waist, he unlocked the crates and opened them. More to pass the time than anything else, he told Lucia about the contents.

The first crate contained wedding presents for the Dotta Ambassadora Sharon Nichols and her intended, Ruy Sanchez: a beautiful portrait by Artemesia depicting Sharon with her father, the Moorish doctor, and her mother, who'd died long before the event known as "The Ring of Fire."

"How did your sister know what the Ambassadora's mother looked like?"

"The up-timers have wonderful relics of a technology that they call 'photography.' It uses light and a strange kind of paper to preserve images forever." The painting was thankfully undamaged. The groom's gift was rather more durable, an edition of an up-time book called Homage to Catalonia. From the letter Signore McDougal sent with the materials, this book was an Englishman's account of fighting in a future civil war in Spain and might be of interest to Señor Sanchez. Giulio hoped to be able to deliver these gifts as soon as he could determine where the party from the USE embassy was headed. Carlo, he hoped, would have some ideas. Carlo was clever that way.

Lucia's mind started to wander while Giulio carefully examined documents intended for the pope. The true pope, that was, Urban VIII—if he still lived. The crates were more interesting. There were a number of what looked like folios of illustrated stories. They certainly seemed fantastical enough, with strange people in colorful costumes doing incomprehensible things. But Lucia had spent enough time as an artist's model to be familiar with mythology and mythological themes. Maybe these were the tales of the gods and demigods of up-timer mythology? She recognized the Norse god Thor in one of them, fighting alongside a strangely armored man in red and orange and a warrior in red, white and blue.

"These are comic books," Giulio explained. "My sister and niece have been using them to teach the basics of composition and storytelling techniques to their beginning students and she thought they might be useful to her friends here. She doesn't think much of the artists themselves, though."

Finally, Giulio opened up a crate that had been hidden beneath the others. First, another book, full of colorful posters with powerful images. Despite her illiteracy Lucia was able to understand that the images encouraged people to fight and work harder. Though she now lived in the country she grew up in the Borgo; she grasped immediately the impact such images would have posted by the dozens or hundreds there and in other poor quarters of Rome. And when Giulio unrolled a poster, she saw she wasn't alone in sensing that possibility.

The image was visceral. In a style that combined modern sensibilities with the style of the posters in the book—which Giulio said came from up-time Russia—Cardinal Borja leered out from infernal flames, pointing a finger at Pope Urban, who was trying to protect a group of scared people. There was a line of printing under the image which Giulio said read "Beware false prophets!"

"I hope we can manage to smuggle these back into Rome, but I hope they will have an effect in other cities." He held up a cloth-wrapped bundle. "These plates my sister had engraved will let us print out as many copies as we want."

Giulio then carefully repacked the crates, and Lucia helped him with the lighter items. By the time they were done, Carlo had emerged from the bedroom where Cassiano dal Pozzo lay.

"Cavaliere dal Pozzo has revived a little and would like to talk to us," he said.

****

At first, dal Pozzo didn't do much talking. Giulio looked on while Lucia helped him drink the broth she insisted on making for him. He and Carlo made a stew out of the leftover broth, enough to make a filling meal for the three of them.

Cassiano dal Pozzo's injuries looked worse than Carlo said they actually were. "A lot of cuts and bruises, and one shoulder out of joint." How he made it through the accident without breaking any bones, Giulio would never know. Dal Pozzo was hardly a young man. Maybe there was an explanation, maybe it was a miracle—at this point, given that they could not stay at Lucia's cottage for long, Giulio didn't care so long as his family's old patron would be fit to travel.

"The Castel de Sant'Angelo was in flames, and if the pope isn't dead or captured by now, he will be soon," Carlo reported. "It also seems certain that Signore and Signora Stone have been captured or killed, along with their compatriots in the Committee of Correspondence."

"And the rest of the up-timers?" Dal Pozzo asked.

"We saw smoke coming from their embassy," Giulio said. "But it is my feeling that they have escaped."

"You are so certain, Giulio? A good many cardinals with the resources to protect themselves or escape have been killed." Dal Pozzo sounded surprised that Giulio could be so confident.

"The Dotta Ambassadora and her intended, Señor Sanchez, are very smart and very brave. And I know that the Ambassadora's father, the doctor, was a soldier in his youth up-time. Prudentia's fiancée wrote to me once that on the day of the Ring of Fire, Dotto Nichols rather calmly killed a number of marauding mercenaries before attending Dotto Abrabanel and his daughter. And Signore Thomas Simpson is in their company as well, a man even bigger than Carlo here. They will escape the Spanish."

Dal Pozzo nodded. After admonishing Lucia to eat something, he told of his escape from Rome.

"Poor Mattias, whom you buried, came from Casa Barberini to warn me to flee. His Holiness' elder nephew, Francesco, was in residence and had sent Mattias to me. We are old friends, Francesco and I. I was his secretary until just a few years ago, you know, so it seemed certain the Spanish would arrest me, or worse." Giulio nodded. Dal Pozzo shifted in the bed and winced in pain.

"I will make some Lethe for you," Carlo said.

"Not until we're done talking. We'll need my wits. Then, I will rest."

Dal Pozzo continued with his tale. After receiving Cardinal Francesco Barberini's warning, he directed Mattias to prepare a horse cart for departure and directed his servants to gather rags and junk to load on the cart. He then dismissed his servants with as much money as he could afford to pay them, hid in the cart, and they left. If questioned, Mattias would claim to be a rag merchant. Mattias would say that no papermakers in Rome would buy his wares in the current chaos, so he was going to try elsewhere. It was the best story they could come up with in a short time.

It worked well enough, at first. They blended in with the other refugees on the road and no one bothered them. But the sight of approaching soldiers had been more than the overwrought Mattias could stand; he panicked and goaded their horse into a gallop, or the closest to a gallop a draft horse could manage. The last thing dal Pozzo remembered was the loud crack of a broken axle and the cart tumbling over. "I am grateful that you gave Mattias a decent burial," he said. "He deserved better."

"So do a lot of people, and they seldom receive it," Carlo said. "The question now is where we go. We could try to join up with the up-timers and their party but we have no idea where they are or where they might be headed."

"The logical destination for them would be Venice. They have an embassy there and after Cardinal Bedmar left the city one step ahead of a mob last year, the Venetians aren't likely to be well-disposed toward the Spanish. Even less so if King Philip consolidates his control over the Papal States." Cassiano dal Pozzo might be known mostly as a scholar and patron of the arts in Rome, but he had a formidable reputation as a diplomat as well.

Lucia, having finished off the remaining stew, spoke up. "Why not go to Venice then?"

"We could," dal Pozzo said. "But what ties do we have to call upon in Venice if the Americans aren't there? For that matter, what ties with the Americans do we have in order to request asylum with them? Granted, Artemisia and Prudentia are making a name for themselves in the Swede's realm, and Prudentia is betrothed to one of these up-timers. But his ties to authority are tenuous at best. I don't want to depend entirely on others' good will then."

"Yes, Cavaliere. But . . ." Carlo raised a finger, surprisingly slender for such a large man. ". . . it is also well-known that the Tuscan Grand Duke eyes the Duchy of Urbino and resents Pope Urban for annexing it. I can see no other reason for his betrothal to the last Urbino duke's only child. Certainly there is little enthusiasm for the match on Ferdinand's part."

Dal Pozzo raised his eyebrows in surprise. Giulio couldn't help smiling. Whenever Carlo took a job as a bodyguard, he kept his mouth shut and ears open. Many employers didn't take notice of the hired help and didn't think twice about what they said in front of them. One underestimated Carlo Belzoni's brains at their own peril.

Giulio thought for a moment. He didn't have Carlo's brains, but even he could see there was only one place they could go. Somewhere both the Gentileschis and dal Pozzo had long-standing ties and where they might be reasonably out of the reach of the Spanish. But was Florence that sanctuary? Or were they merely delaying their capture?

Dal Pozzo grimaced and groaned. He was clearly in a great deal of pain.

"We will leave this until the morning," Carlo said. "Now, we'll all rest. Cavaliere dal Pozzo, you will drink this." This time, dal Pozzo did not resist. He drank what Carlo called "Lethe," a concoction Carlo's grandfather, also a barber-surgeon, had come up with: watered-down mulled wine with a few drops of opium. A strong but effective painkiller. Dal Pozzo was asleep within moments.

"Now, let us do the same. We'll be getting little enough sleep in the days ahead."

II

Florence, June 1635

The tiny chamber in the Tuscan Grand Duke's palace was checked regularly, to make sure that there were no spy holes and no unexpected places for unwanted ears to listen in. A rose carved in relief in the wood paneling opposite the secret door was a not so subtle reminder that everything said in this room was secret, not to be spoken of—sub rosa. Others used the chamber as well, for discreet discussions and meetings. Right now Grand Duke Ferdinand II's minister of state and Lord Bailiff, Andrea Cioli, and the Grand Duke's eighteen year-old brother, Leopoldo, sat across a chessboard from each other.

"It didn't take long for Borja's Folly to land on our doorstep," Cioli grumbled dourly. "De la Mer's voice is almost as irritating as his constant demands. I could happily drown him in the very wine he sells."

"My brother still dithers?" asked Leopoldo.

"He sees himself in the hollow of Philip's mailed fist on the one hand and as the champion of Tuscany on the other. Don de la Mer offers no hard proof that Cassiano dal Pozzo and his would-be rescuers are here. I believe Ferdinand believes dal Pozzo is in Florence, and he can neither betray dal Pozzo nor refuse the Spanish demands outright."

Leopoldo made his move. "I wish to remain in ignorance of this matter. If you're going to try to ensnare me in a plot against my own brother I'd as soon go back to my books."

"I am not seeking to replace your brother or even undermine his rule. Quite the opposite, as it happens. History will not remember His Grace Ferdinand II as a clever man, but he is a fairly good one. If anything, Leopoldo, I am hoping to get him out of a difficult position." Cioli made his move.

The scholar-prince sighed, surveying the board. "I cannot fault your logic, Lord Bailiff. Would that Ferdinand would be bold and choose the Cardinal-Infante's course. With our brother Mattias to lead our forces, I even believe he could pull it off."

"One step at a time, Leopoldo. Let us focus on the problem at hand, that of smuggling Cassiano dal Pozzo, the lefferto Belzoni, Giulio Gentileschi and Gentileschi's woman safely to the USE through very hostile territory. All without your brother officially knowing, so he may in good conscience plead ignorance in the face of the howling Ambassador de la Mer."

"If they are here, Andrea."

"As you say, Leopoldo. If they are here."

"You are forgetting an important detail," said Leopoldo as he mated Cioli's king. "My other brother. Giancarlo."

Cioli grunted sourly, and not because he'd lost the game. Giancarlo de' Medici was twenty-four, with the sex drive of a bull elephant in rut and less restraint. He was being groomed for a career in the church.

The cough from the room's third occupant seemed very loud. Leopoldo had forgotten the man's presence entirely. He was a priest approaching middle age, even if his youthful looks belied the fact. Officially the man was secretary to the Grand Duke's confessor. Unofficially, Father Giuseppe had a nose for secrets and gossip, and a willingness to pass on information to the Grand Duke or those working on his behalf. A very useful man to have around.

"If His Grace the prince and the Lord Bailiff will forgive my interruption, it pays to remember that Giancarlo is ruled by his genitals. Especially in this case."

"He seeks to tumble Esperanza de la Mer?" asked Cioli.

"Exactly so. Giancarlo believes he knows how to get His Grace the grand duke to give in, and hopes by advancing the Spanish cause to advance into Doña de la Mer's bed. However, I believe I can arrange for a suitable distraction. Meanwhile, I would draw both of your attentions to a piece of correspondence that crossed my desk by a regrettable accident. A letter from an artist His Grace's blessed father held in some esteem." It was plain even to Leopoldo that it was no accident Father Giuseppe had seen this particular letter. Naïve Leopoldo might be, mostly by his own choice, but he was still a Medici. And he was curious.

"Which artist would this be, Father Giuseppe?" He asked.

"Artemisia Gentileschi, my lord. She writes of the betrothal of her elder daughter to a young up-time man. One proficient in the arts of what the up-timers call 'television.' I seem to recall that His Grace expressed a wish for a demonstration of this strange art to young Signore Bartolli during his trade mission last year. Perhaps it is time for that demonstration to take place."

Cioli's frown slowly gave way to a smile. He nodded slowly. "Yes, Father Giuseppe. An outstanding idea. I will propose it to Ferdinand right away."

"No need," said Leopoldo. "I will have the Accademia del Cimento sponsor a series of lectures by Signore McDougal." Leopoldo also had a burning desire to see this strange device and the art it displayed. When Ferdinand established the Accademia del Cimento last summer—some twenty years ahead of schedule by the up-timers' history—the Grand Duke had asked Leopoldo to assume a leading role, along with Leopoldo's mentor Galileo. In the other time line, Leopoldo had also been a leader of Accademia del Cimento. Even at the tender age of eighteen Cosimo II's youngest son— who was never without a book to read in a spare moment—was the obvious person to be the ruling family's choice to lead the new academy and help Tuscan scholars break free of the stifling preconceptions of the Aristotelian method.

"And while he's here, he can see to family business as well. We'll make a politician out of you yet, Leopoldo," said Cioli. "I'll send a courier to Venice to deliver a radio message."

"Perhaps the Accademia del Desegno would like to be involved," suggested Father Giuseppe. "Artemisia Gentileschi is the Academy of Design's only woman member and they are sure to be curious about her new son-in-law."

"Yes," said Cioli. "Very good. And Father Giuseppe . . . if you should hear of gossip involving unusual goings-on at Casa Buonarotti, feel free to apprise me of them. An important citizen such as Signore Michaelangelo should not be the subject of common rumor. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, Your Grace. It will be as you say. In fact, I have it on good authority that a rider left Casa Buonarotti in a great hurry. Heading for Venice. A popular place, it seems, from which to send messages, though I'm sure it's but the basest of whispers."

III

Rome, June 1635

Father Diego was a hard man unaccustomed to soft surroundings. And his rooms in the Lateran Palace of Rome were certainly soft surroundings. He accepted them, however, as the respect to which he was due after a lifetime of service to Mother Church and her greatest defender, His Most Catholic Majesty Philip IV. Cardinal Borja had made a dog's dinner of his attempted takeover, however pious his intentions may have been. It would be up to Father Diego and those like him to clean up the mess.

Of course, if those who had installed Father Diego in these luxurious surroundings had divined the true purpose to which he'd lately dedicated himself, he would not be in the Lateran Palace. He would be in a dungeon, or at the center of an auto da fe, ending up a charred lump tied to a stake. That thought didn't bother the old priest. Church and crown would ever be foremost in his heart.

Even so, he wasn't completely sure of the one he was about to meet. This young man was rumored to possess a prodigious intellect and a gift for discovering secrets and making sense of them. Father Diego's superiors—his true superiors in The Cause—believed this man was ripe for recruitment. That remained to be seen. Meanwhile, he had a man to find, a man that had nothing to do with The Cause, and whatever else happened, Father Diego would make use of this man's skills.

In due course a young Dominican friar was shown into the chamber. Just the man Father Diego wanted to see. Irrevocably committed to Holy Mother Church and Spain's role as her most ardent defender, Fra Andres believed that the Spanish Inquisition was crucial in maintaining Spain's purity. Purity of faith, purity of blood. And even though the young Dominican had moved on to other assignments—as was customary for inquisitors—Andres still held the ideals of the Spanish Inquisition dear in his heart. At least, according to everything Father Diego had been able to find out. This is what made him a prime candidate for The Cause.

The friar would be an asset. Andres had a top-notch legal mind and knew canon law and procedure by memory. He did not allow his passions to rule his intellect and approached investigations with rigorous logic. He had not been afraid to suspend proceedings if he could not prove charges, which proved he believed in laws over men. Most importantly, however, Fra Andres had a burning hatred for the United States of Europe and the up-timers in particular. That hatred had led him to study them, particularly their methods of law enforcement and investigation, to strengthen the Inquisition and to better oppose the radical heresies the Americans had brought with them from their infernal future. Just as those of The Cause hoped to ensure Spain's greatness by making up-timer philosophies and learning serve to glorify His Most Catholic Majesty and the Holy Church he defended.

Father Diego looked up at the young monk; Andres couldn't be much beyond his mid-twenties. The old priest smiled thinly.

"Tell me, Fra Andres—why have you been sent for?"

"I can only assume that there is an assignment which requires my services, Father Diego."

"And why would I require your services?"

"I do not know. I only seek to be used as God wills." Unlike many ambitious young men, Fra Andres looked as if he meant it.

"You are correct, Fra Andres. I have read much about your time as an inquisitor. Your unorthodox methods are perfectly suited for what I have in mind." Diego motioned to a chair. "Sit, please."

Andres sat. "If by 'unorthodox' you mean the investigative methods used by the up-timers, then I would say that they have proven singularly successful in my small efforts to advance the defense of the Church by His Most Catholic Majesty," the monk said, a little defensively.

Diego raised his eyebrow. Andres took that as a signal to continue. "To effectively fight the enemy, you must think like the enemy. How can one ever discover a secret Jew, for example, if one does not know all the ruses they employ? To combat the up-timers we must learn to think as they do. Anticipate their tricks and use them to our own ends. Such thinking might have saved us from the humiliation at the Wartburg and those heaped on us since." Diego didn't pursue the latter point. Aside from the slaughter of inquisitors at the Wartburg, the Americans had introduced a popular comic figure to the Germans: the bumbling Cardinal Ximinez, who always proclaimed that no one expected the Spanish Inquisition. And of the Jewish comedian Brooks' comical singing Torquemada, the less said the better.

The old priest nodded. Andres was right, of course. One of the officers who'd escaped the flames of the Wartburg and had been paroled by the Americans brought back a copy of the procedures used by their police force. Amazingly, he hadn't even had to pay any bribes. He'd asked for a copy and received it. The manual had been duly translated back in Madrid and a few copies made, most of which gathered dust. Only a few enterprising young men like Fra Andres bothered to look at them. But it paid off. Using these new procedures to gather evidence, Andres had built such convincing cases of heresy that sometimes torture wasn't even necessary to gain a confession.

Father Diego drew out a sheaf of paper and shuffled through them.

"As ...