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Sonata, Part Three

Written by David Carrico

Movement III - Adagio Sostenuto

Grantville - March, 1634

". . . and after seeing and hearing Master Ingram's uncle's violin, the masters were eager to get the new 'merino' designs. They agreed to make us thirty master grade violins for 20 guilders apiece."

Johannes Fichtold was positively beaming, Franz thought. Then something in Johannes' report registered.

"Merino? Did you tell them these were merino designs?"

The other young man's face fell. "Aye. It was a slip of the tongue while I was making the initial proposal to them." His face brightened. "But, it's all right—they think the designs were made by an Italian named Merino. You should have seen the looks they gave each other."

Marla burst out laughing. Everyone, Franz included, looked at her wide-eyed as she positively howled, drumming her feet on the floor and pounding her fist on the table. No one spoke—they were all somewhat shocked—Marla just didn't act like this. Finally, she subsided into gasping, "Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh, that is absolutely hilarious, totally priceless." She laughed a little more, giggled actually, brushing her hair back and wiping her eyes.

"Uh . . . Marla," Franz ventured, "I grant you that the masters of Füssen thinking the up-time designs were stolen from an Italian master is somewhat humorous, but . . ."

"Oh, come on, guys . . . can't you just see the passage in some future twentieth century music history textbook?" Marla's voice took on a dry, lecturing tone. "' In the middle of the seventeenth century arose the so-called 'Merino' refinements to the basic string orchestra instruments. It is commonly accepted that, as with so many other technological advances, this was due to the advent of Grantville in the Western European scene in the 1630's. The earliest documentation of the term is found in the guild records of Füssen in southern Germany, but by 1650 both the designs and the term were in common use throughout continental Europe, with England lagging somewhat behind. A number of very interesting rumors and theories exist as to the origin of the 'Merino' term, but it is generally accepted that it was the name of an Italian master who either initially produced the designs or from whom the designs were stolen. Periodically, an old theory is resurrected that the name has some connection to the merino breed of sheep, but no proof has ever been found, so it always retires back into the category of interesting fables.'"

Everyone in the room laughed, even Lady Beth Haygood, with Marla's voice skirling over them all. At length—a very long length—order was restored. "Yes, I think we can all take some pleasure on having played a joke on posterity," Franz said, his voice a little uneven as he tried to keep from laughing again. "But, for Johannes' sake and the sake of the joke, we must keep the secret to ourselves. No more slips of the tongue. Maestro Merino must be accorded his appropriate due." Chuckles sounded all around the conference table.

"So." Lady Beth looked up from where she was sitting beside Amber Higham, who was making notes. "Thirty master class violins at 20 guilders apiece, three guilders in advance, the balance on delivery in Magdeburg by 1 April. You did specify 1 April by the Gregorian calendar, I hope?"

"Yes, Frau Haygood. But that was really not such an issue since they use that calendar every day. It was just to make sure they did not try to claim we had expected delivery by the old calendar's date, ten days later." She nodded. Johannes continued, "All instruments produced from the merino designs by December 31, 1637, will be delivered to the Royal and Imperial Arts Council."

"You got over three years out of them!" Friedrich exclaimed. "I do not believe it! Master Hans knows some of those men, and he was skeptical that they would allow even one year."

"Yes." Johannes grinned. "Well, they quickly saw that having these designs would give them . . . what did Master Girolamo call it . . . ah, yes, a 'competitive advantage.' They might not know those words, but they know the concept. I could tell they were positively slavering to get their hands on the designs, so I held my ground. It took over a week. In the process they slandered me greatly and profanely more than once. If my brother was not one of them, I am sure they would have had things to say about my ancestry. In fact, Master Eichelberger as much as said that I was an altar boy when my parents were married." Johannes laughed. "But he took it back after the others remonstrated with him."

"A good job of negotiating," Lady Beth said. Johannes sat back, beaming. Lady Beth looked at Franz and raised her eyebrows.

"The initial part of our recruiting trip was very slow, but we had three musicians who traveled with us back from Mainz. Several more from Stuttgart, Frankfurt and Schweinfurt caught up with us on the way back. So, at the moment, we have twelve. If Josef and Rudolf have any luck, and if any numbers at all respond to the broadsides and letters sent out, we should have our minimum of forty-five players by the first week of April."

Lady Beth nodded. She waited for Amber to finish taking notes, then said, "Okay, folks. Like I told you at the beginning of the meeting, I'm leaving for Magdeburg tomorrow to stay. Amber here . . ." The pleasant woman with the gray-streaked hair smiled at them all. ". . . will be taking over the job of representing the Imperial Arts Council here in Grantville. I'll do the same in Magdeburg, in addition to my other work with the new school." She stood and signaled that the meeting was over. "I'll see most of you in Magdeburg in a few days."

They all stood as Lady Beth and Amber left. Friedrich looked at Franz. "The Gardens?"

"By all means."

****

They were all seated around a table in the Gardens: Franz and Marla, Friedrich and Anna, Isaac, Thomas and Leopold; all the initial group from Mainz that had gathered around Marla last year to learn about up-time music. Franz had just finished describing his final encounter with Rupert Heydrich. The revelation of Heydrich's death and the manner of it greatly shocked those who hadn't been there. Anna was absolutely ashen-faced. Friedrich, Thomas and Leopold were studies in various shades of incredulity and aghast-ness.

Marla had grasped his arm while he had haltingly related what had happened. Franz felt her shiver. On his other side, Isaac was withdrawn, with a very distant look on his face. Franz was reminded of something that had puzzled him off and on since that night.

"Isaac?" No response. "Isaac?" A little louder. That pierced Isaac's shell. He looked over at Franz. "You said something that night when the body was turned on its back and the knife was revealed, something that I did not understand. What was it?"

Isaac looked very disturbed. He took a long time to respond. Finally, he said in a low tone, "Baruch dayan emes. It means 'Blessed be the Righteous Judge.' It is . . . traditional . . . for Jews to say this when we hear of or see a death. It is a reminder of the sovereignty of God; that nothing happens outside of His awareness; that regardless of our grief, He is the King of the Universe and all things happen as He wills it. It is meant to be a comfort."

"For everything there is a season . . ." murmured Marla.

"Exactly." But Isaac still looked distressed.

After a moment, Franz said, "Was it his death that discomfits you?"

"Nay. I have seen death before."

"The manner of it?"

"Nay."

Franz leaned forward. "Isaac, you are as close to me as a brother. I would not see you suffering because of what was my problem. Tell me what oppresses you."

Isaac sat for a long moment, staring at his tightly clasped hands on the table top, obviously wrestling with himself. Finally, he gave a great sigh. "As you will." Another moment passed. "That night, when I realized what I had said, I well nigh choked. Of all people I knew, the passing of Heydrich was not one that would have occasioned me sadness. I understood the waste of his talent, the tragedy of his life. But after all he had done, particularly after he so forcefully rejected your attempt to reconcile, there was an element of justice to his ending.

"But then you said 'That could have been me,' and . . ." Isaac swallowed. "That statement crashed through to my heart. I saw everything that happened that night in a new light. In Heydrich's rejection of reconciliation, that could have been me. In very truth, it is me. I must reconcile with my father—all our wisdom, all our tradition calls for it—and . . . I . . . cannot." Franz waited. "It is a blight on the life of my family, on my own. And if God, in His wisdom, calls for my life as he did for poor Heydrich's . . ." Isaac swallowed again. "I have not the courage to risk rejection again. Yet if I do not, I risk blighting my family for the rest of their lives." He looked up, with a desolate expression. "I wish to go to him so strongly, but I hurt so badly . . . it tears at me like a wolf, Franz. It hurts!"

Franz laid his hand atop Isaac's trembling clenched hands. "If you truly believe that God is sovereign, that all things happen according to His will, then trust Him. He will make a way. And until He does . . ." Marla laid her hand atop his, followed by the hands of the others at the table. ". . . you have here those who will help you bear your burden, just as they helped me bear mine."

One lone tear began to slowly trickle down Isaac's cheek.

Magdeburg - Early April, 1634

Franz watched as the various groups of musicians trickled into the ballroom. First came the group from Mainz, Stuttgart, Frankfurt and Schweinfurt that had returned with him from the recruiting trip, led by his friend Georg Seiler. Franz had helped Georg and his daughter find a place in a rooming house that Klaus and Reuel had sworn was clean and fairly priced. Georg was still quiet and gaunt, but seemed to be a little less despondent. Franz truly hoped that the move from Mainz would be healing for both Georg and Odelia.

Following on the heels of the first group were the various musicians that had drifted in by ones and twos and threes from various towns in Thuringia, as well as a half-dozen from one of the Jesuit collegia. Franz felt a little guilty about how many small towns had just lost their premier musicians, perhaps even their only musicians, but not enough so to tell them to return to their homes. The vision of an orchestra that drove him and his friends was a stern taskmistress. He had to take the musicians regardless of where they came from.

The final group that entered was the direct result of Josef and Rudolf's recruiting trip to Copenhagen; nineteen musicians sent from the hand of Kappellmeister Heinrich Schütz. They had arrived the day before, looking somewhat worn from the rigors of traveling so far so quickly. Master Schütz himself was not with them. He had not been able to leave with them. In any event, his itinerary had been different. Matthaüs Amsel, the leader of this group, had informed Franz that the master would first visit family in Köstritz, then would go directly to Grantville to meet with Maestro Carissimi. Only after that would he come to Magdeburg. Franz could forgive him the delay, when he saw how many musicians had come in his name.

If his count was correct, even after sending the wind players on to Grantville to study at the high school, there were sixty-two in the room right now. Franz had hoped for sixty and would have been willing to settle for forty to forty-five. He had feared that there would be fewer than thirty. They had enough! Providing, that is, that they stayed.

Franz stepped up on the platform that had been placed at one end of the room. "Your attention, please!" He pitched his voice to carry over the buzz of conversations that filled the room. The musicians turned and moved toward him. The noise began to dwindle. "Thank you, my friends, for coming to Magdeburg, for accepting the challenge to be a part of something that has never existed before—a symphony orchestra." As he spoke, Marla, Josef, Rudolf and Isaac gathered to each side of the platform.

Someone in the crowd started to speak. Franz raised his hand. "Please, all of you, let those of us in front of you speak. After that, we will have plenty of time to answer questions." He lowered his hand. "Now, I assume that you have all heard of Grantville." Heads nodded around the room. "How many of you have been in Grantville?" Perhaps a third of the men raised their hands. "How many of you have heard anything about the music of Grantville?" Over half of the hands went down.

"Well, it should not surprise you that just as Grantville contains knowledge and mechanical arts that seem amazing to us, it also contains music and instruments that are equally amazing. I and my friends . . ." Franz spread his arms to encompass them ". . . have been studying the music of the future for almost a year, now. My wife, Marla, is a Grantviller. You will find she is a surpassing musician in her own right."

There were a few frowns and some definite muttering from the crowd. "Yes, you are skeptical. I, too, had masters who taught me that women would never make superior musicians. I tell you that they were wrong. I tell you that Marla has won the approval of both Maestro Giacomo Carissimi—yes, you know that name—as well as Signor Andrea Abati, il gentilhuomo premiere of Rome." The citation of the famous castrato evoked more whispers. "Her knowledge of what music became in their time is invaluable, as it will help guide us to learn it, to digest it, to make it our own, then finally to move beyond it."

The rest of the morning was spent discussing some of the fundamental changes that the musicians would have to adapt to, including the changes in tuning and tempering that had been adopted as universal standards in the future. Marla figured prominently in those, naturally, as she had already had to shepherd Franz and friends through the same issues several months previously. The piano caused quite a sensation when Marla demonstrated its tuning. The planned discussion was diverted for quite some time as the other musicians almost mobbed around Marla to see the piano and its workings.

Finally, Franz announced a break for lunch, requesting that everyone return in two hours. While the others thundered out the door in search of taverns and inns, he turned to Marla and gestured to Isaac, Josef and Rudolf.

"Were we that loud and opinionated?" He was answered only by her silvery laugh, and winced. "I was afraid you would say that."

Grantville

April 1634

Heinrich Schütz, one-time Kappellmeister of the Elector of Saxony, watched with interest as his carriage rolled through the streets of Grantville. There were many strange things, including the poles with cables strung between them which served no purpose that he could see, but seemed to connect all the houses and buildings. However, it was as Josef Tuchman had said; there was no gold paving the streets of Grantville. A pity. He could have used an ingot or two. A man with a mother and two growing daughters to support could always find a use for an ingot or two of gold.

Thoughts of his family inevitably led to recollections of Magdalena, which in turn evoked the pain of her loss. Even after almost nine years, longer than they had been married, thoughts of his wife still hurt. It was an old hurt, one that perhaps no longer stabbed but was now a familiar ache.

The hurt was a little stronger, a little fresher right now, after stopping in Köstritz to see his mother and his daughters. Each of the girls, in their own way, took after their mother. Seeing them had scraped the scab off of a wound that Heinrich feared would never heal.

After Magdalena's passing, he had taken his daughters to live with their grandmother. The Elector's court at Dresden was no place for a widower to attempt the raising of two young daughters. It meant that Heinrich only got to see them a few times a year, whenever he could beg leave from Elector John George, which wasn't as often as he wanted. Regardless of whether he could come or not, Heinrich sent a purse for their support as often as he could scrape together a few coins. Lately, the Elector's pay had been as infrequent as his allowing leave, which was why Heinrich was in Grantville.

After a time, they left the houses behind, coming in view of the . . . what had Johannes called it . . . oh, yes, the high school. Lucas Amsel pulled the horse to a halt in front of the building. Schütz exited from the carriage, while Lucas jumped from the driver's seat to hold the horse's head.

They stood together looking at the building. "Master," Lucas said, "are you sure that is a school? It looks more like a warehouse to me."

Heinrich looked over at the young man fondly. His parents, as so many others did, had named their children after prominent New Testament figures. By good fortune and the grace of God, all four of their sons had survived to adulthood. As they had been named in order of birth, Lucas was the third. His oldest brother, Matthaüs, the lead violinist amongst Heinrich's musicians, was quite capable. Next oldest, Marcus, also played violin and was also numbered in Heinrich's company. Youngest brother Johan was a viola player who had joined his brothers just a few months ago, but was by no means the worst player in the ensemble.

Lucas, however, was not a musician. He was a personable young man, hard working, reasonably intelligent and handsome. By rights and all expectations he should have been as fine a musician as his brothers. Alas, he was tone deaf and had an abysmal sense of rhythm. Heinrich recalled the day that Lucas had approached him, dressed in his finest clothing and holding his hat in hand, begging for any kind of position; anything, so long as he could work with the master like his older brothers and thus feel a part of their world.

Heinrich, pitying the boy, had given him a trial as a music copyist. To his great surprise, Lucas was both meticulous and rapid in his work. He soon became almost indispensable to the master copyist. As time passed, his responsibilities gradually broadened, first by taking over the responsibilities of Heinrich's secretary when that individual died suddenly of pneumonia, then by additional delegations from Heinrich. Lucas had accepted so many delegations, that he now served as factotum. All among the musicians—indeed, all at the Elector of Saxony's court—knew that when Lucas spoke in Heinrich's place, he was indeed the voice of the Kappellmeister.

Despite his rise, Lucas was still the same earnest soul that he was on that first day. Heinrich knew just how much work the young man did. He was indeed grateful for Lucas because of that. Above and beyond that, however, Heinrich was very fond of him. In his heart, Heinrich at times considered Lucas the son he had never had. If his daughters were older, he would have encouraged a match between one of them and Lucas.

"Aye," Heinrich said, clapping Lucas on the shoulder, "it does look like a warehouse with windows, but I am assured that this is an institution of learning like no other in the world."

Just then the most appalling sound blared forth, loud, assaulting the hearing, most discordant. If there was a sound that was the very antithesis of music, this was it. All three of them—Heinrich, Lucas and the horse—jumped at the sudden onslaught to their hearing. Lucas immediately turned to calm the gelding, whose eyes were wide and white-rimmed and whose feet were dancing as if the drive were suddenly hot iron. Thankfully, the noise lasted only moments.

Just as Lucas was getting the horse to settle, the doors in front of them burst open and out poured what seemed to be a very horde of youths, most of whom ran over to a variety of yellow and black contraptions that stood in a drive to one side of the building. Heinrich was stunned to see that boys and girls alike were dressed in trousers, some of them even cut above the knee! A few of them ran to a metal rack nearby in which strange wheeled devices stood, pulled them out and jumped on them. Heinrich felt his mouth drop as they all began moving their feet and somehow the devices began moving down the drive, their riders calling out to each other and waving to him as they passed.

All of a sudden the yellow and black contraptions all began making loud rumblings, which were shortly accentuated by grinding noises. The poor horse became very insistent that he did not want to be in this vicinity any longer. Heinrich felt as if he was almost of like mind when the machines began slowly rolling by themselves down the drive and out onto the road toward Grantville.

It was quite some time before Lucas had the horse quieted again. At last, the eyes were calm and the big head turned and lipped Lucas's hair. There was no hitching post in sight, so Lucas led him over to the metal rack and tied the reins to it.

"Well, Master Heinrich, that was exciting. I shall have to make sure that poor Blume receives some extra grain tonight, to compensate him for the fright he has just received."

Both men laughed. "And perhaps we should receive an extra dose of grain ourselves, eh?" Heinrich said. "An extra flagon of beer, yes?" He clapped Lucas on the shoulder again, urging him up the walkway to the door. "Those yellow and black . . . things . . . do not match the description in the stories and rumors of the APC machines, so they must be the other machines, the 'busses.'"

"I care not what they are, Master. And I am not at all certain that I want to find out, either."

"Oh, come now, Lucas. Where is your spirit of adventure?"

"I think it is driving Blume's spirit of adventure back down the road as fast as it will gallop." Lucas opened the door.

Heinrich's laughter echoed down the empty halls. Rich and fruity, loud and resonant, it sounded as if a Titan had suddenly entered the building. An Englishman had once told him that his laugh reminded him of a character named Falstaff in some play or other that Heinrich could not call to mind at the moment.

There was a doorway ahead over which hung a sign that was lettered "Administration." A woman appeared in it, obviously searching for the source of the laughter. She, too, was wearing trousers. Heinrich tsk'd, but at least hers covered all of her legs. Her interested gaze appeared to assess them.

"Can I help you?"

Her German was oddly accented and inflected, but understandable. Heinrich and Lucas looked at each other. Help?

"Can I be of assistance?"

Ah, that they understood.

"Yes," Lucas said. "This is Master Heinrich Schütz and . . ."

He broke off as the woman raised her hands and laughed. "Slower, please. I am still new to this speech."

"We are looking," Heinrich said slowly, "for Master Giacomo Carissimi."

"Ah, il maestro." She smiled. "I believe he has not left yet. Come this way, please." She led them down a hallway lined with metal lockers interspersed with doors. After turning a corner into another hallway, she stopped at the second door on the left. It was open.

"Maestro, you have visitors." She stepped aside and smiled at them as they entered. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway when she left.

Heinrich saw a youngish man in a black cassock look up from stuffing papers into a leather satchel. "Good day. I am Heinrich Schütz, and I am delighted to finally meet you." As one educated man speaking to another, he spoke in Latin.

"Master Schütz!" Carissimi stumbled in his haste to come out from behind the desk. "It is an honor to finally meet you, sir, in the flesh, as the Americans would say."

"The honor is mine, Master Carissimi."

"Please, please, call me Giacomo."

"And I am Heinrich."

The Italian was absolutely beaming. "Our letters give me some sense of you, Master Heinrich. Of course, Master Monteverdi has spoken quite highly of you, as well."

"As he did of you as well, Master Giacomo." Heinrich found himself returning Carissimi's smile; the man's enthusiasm was infectious.

"How did you know to look for me at the school?"

"We were directed first to your house, and met Master Zenti's apprentice, Johannes Fichtold. He advised us to come here.” Heinrich frowned a little. “No sooner had we arrived than we were greeted by the most appalling clamor."

Carissimi had a quizzical expression for a moment, then he laughed. "Oh, you mean the 'buzzer.' They use it to mark the beginning and end of various study times. Yes, it is nasty sounding isn't it? Intentionally so, I'm afraid . . . it is designed to capture one's attention."

"It succeeds admirably in that." Heinrich shivered. "Even our horse took note of it." They all shared a laugh. "But tell me, Master Giacomo, what do you here in this school? Are you a choir master?"

Giacomo shook his head. "Oh, no. What do I do? Well, I teach a little Italian, I teach a little Latin. Sometimes, I teach what some of the other instructors call social studies or current affairs—I tell them about Italy—the cities, the rulers, the Holy Father—the tensions between all of them and between them and the other lands of Europe."

"What? You teach no music? No choirs?" Heinrich was thunderstruck. Here was one of the leading lights of music in Italy, doing the work of a mere pedant! Did no one know what they were wasting here? "I am outraged, sir. I am outraged that you are not given your due, not given the work for which God so admirably equipped you!"

"No, no, no, Master Heinrich" Carissimi said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "It is as I desire it. I teach what they need taught. In turn, I am a student."

"A student of what?"

"First of all, the English language. Already my English has improved dramatically since I first arrived. But more importantly, I study music, the course of music as it developed from our time to a future more than three hundred and fifty years from now."

"So, you believe their tale that they have come from the future?"

"Yes." Carissimi was quite firm. "What I have learned since I arrived leaves absolutely no doubt in my mind."

"But how? This has never happened in history. God has never done such a thing."

Carissimi smiled. "Master Heinrich, my friend, surely the God who can conceive of the universe that surrounds us—the turning of the seasons, the natural order that exists—surely that God could do such a work if he chose to. And the greatest works of God in his creation are only done once: the ark of Noah; the parting of the Red Sea; and the birth, death and resurrection of our beloved Savior. At one point in the history of man since Adam none of these things had happened. If someone before that point had said that because they had not yet occurred, they would never occur, would he have been right?"

"I understand your argument." Heinrich sighed. "But it is still hard to accept."

Carissimi laughed. "We are human. Of course, it is hard to fathom the power of God! Yet Grantville is here, a hard fact." He stamped his foot. "And unless you have fallen into the Manichaean heresy, what other explanation is there?"

"And is this what the pope and his college of cardinals believe?"

"I know not what decision the Holy Father will reach, but I am here. The music of Grantville is also here. I will learn it; I will master it if it takes the rest of my life." Carissimi was quite serious, Heinrich saw.

"If you judge it so, Master Giacomo, then make a place beside you, so that I may learn also."

"Then follow me, Master Heinrich, if you will."

The Italian master led them down the hallway to a large room. There was a sign on the door that said 'Choir Room.' When they entered, Heinrich saw that chairs stood on risers that formed arcs around the room.

"Please be seated."

Heinrich sat on the lowest level, motioning Lucas to sit beside him. They watched, somewhat mystified, as Carissimi walked over to some boxes on a table and touched them, to the accompanying sound of clicks. Then he dug into his satchel and brought out three small flat cases, which he set on the table.

"Once I heard that you were coming, Master Heinrich, knowing, believing that I knew what you came for, I did some small preparation. I am certain that you have heard that the Grantvillers possess some mechanical arts that are quite advanced." Heinrich nodded. "It is indeed the truth. Some of these arts, we of our time do not even have concepts of. This is one such, that by the small machines you see before you they can reproduce the performances of musicians from years ago, from many miles away, through what they call 'recordings.' This is an entirely different order of creation than the simple music boxes that we know of.

"The devices can be operated without knowing the arts to construct them. Witness that I will do so. I tell you all of this to prepare you, my friend. Do not be alarmed when you hear music seemingly from the air—it is only their arts."

With that, Carissimi turned and pressed on one of the cabinets. A small drawer slid open, into which he inserted a silver disk he removed from one of the small cases. He touched the cabinet again; the drawer retracted itself into its cabinet. Finally, he turned a knob on one of the other cabinets.

Despite Carissimi's warning, when the sound of massed trumpets and sackbuts split the air, Heinrich's eyes widened. He looked around for the brass, sure that somehow they had entered the room behind him. But there was no-one there. Then it dawned on him, this was the very thing that Master Giacomo had just told him about. Forcing himself to relax and listen, before very many moments passed, he realized that he knew this piece! The Sonata Pian e Forte, by his old master, Giovanni Gabrieli! He had heard it performed in the Basilica of Saint Mark in Venice during the days of his youth, when he had studied with the master. He closed his eyes and relaxed, listening to the purity of the music. Almost, almost it sounded as if he were there in the basilica again.

All too soon it was over. He opened his eyes and raised his head. He spoke aloud the words he had written about his master several years before. "But Gabrieli, immortal Gods, what a man!"

"Indeed," Carissimi answered. "So, you know that piece. You will know this one as well, I believe." He retrieved the first disk from the drawer and inserted another one.

This time, the music was choral. Within an instant of hearing the opening "Cantate Domino, Cantate Domino canticum," Heinrich knew this was his work, his setting of Psalm 96 as part of his Cantiones Sacrae. So, Rudolf Tuchman had been right! The future from which Grantville came did remember him. Again, he closed his eyes and drank in the sound, this time listening critically. When it ended, he opened his eyes

"They pitched it too high by almost a step."

Carissimi laughed.

"That is something for another discussion, Master Heinrich. At least they have much of your music." He sobered quickly. "Very little of mine survived. I have read nothing of what they know of my . . . past, as strange as it feels to say, but Elizabeth has told me that I am remembered more as a teacher than as a composer. I know it was all written to the glory of God, but unworthy man that I am, I cannot help but feel some anger at the future princes of the church who let the works of my mind, my spirit, disappear without a trace." Carissimi spoke with an almost bitter tone.

"Who is this Elizabeth?" Heinrich was treated to the sight of Carissimi uncomfortable. Was the man blushing? Surely not.

"She . . . is one of the uptime musicians who have taught me much. When you go to Magdeburg, you will meet another: Marla Linder. We Italians have known that women can be good musicians. Marla and Elizabeth, they are proof that women can be more. They can be virtuosi."

Heinrich absorbed that without comment, but decided to let himself be the judge of that. "Enough of music that I already know. The young men who came to me in Copenhagen, the brothers Tuchman, brought to me a work from Grantville—from, as you say, the future. It was entitled The Art of Fugue, by one . . ."

"Johann Sebastian Bach." A dreamy smile crossed Carissimi's face. "Ah, yes, The Art of Fugue. Probably the greatest contrapuntal work by the greatest of the contrapuntalists." He focused again on Schütz. "There is a recording of it in Grantville, but I do not have it with me." Turning back to the table, he extracted a disk from the third case and placed it in the machine. "I do, however, have this by the man; the Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor."

For the third time, Heinrich closed his eyes and listened. The piece began with an organ playing a slow stately theme in the bass register. After eight measures it repeated as a basso ostinato with a new theme added to it. With each repetition of the bass theme, new themes were added to the work; so it grew in complexity. Then the rhythms began variations, but still that bass theme was heard.

The work was much longer than the previous two. Heinrich simply listened, listened with the ears of a master musician, as it built, as additional ranks of pipes were added and the sonorities became richer. It quieted to flute voices only as the various themes were delicately sounded.

Again additional stops were opened and the sonorities began to build, and build, and build, only to once more soften to passages of quiet dexterity and virtuosity. The piece was as much a test of the organ as the organist, he decided, displaying the consummate skill of the composer. The themes passed from register to register, but almost always that recurring theme was in the lowest voice. At last came a passage where the tempo slowed, followed by an outburst of rapid loud voicing, terminating in a thunderous, resounding terminal chord.

Heinrich felt chills chasing up his spine. The hair on his neck prickled. "God in heaven. To hear such work in my lifetime."

"Oh, master. This is only the beginning."

Magdeburg - April, 1634

"Come with me, please." Franz led Isaac Fremdling and Matthaüs Amsel to a small room off to the side. As they entered the door, Isaac whistled.

"Greetings, Johannes. I take it these are the violins from Füssen?"

"Hello, Isaac." Johannes Fichtold nodded at his friend. "Indeed, they are. Freshly delivered from the master craftsmen."

"Matthaüs,” Franz said, “this is Johannes Fichtold, assistant to Master Girolamo Zenti, piano craft master in Grantville and brother to one of the luthier craft masters of Füssen. Johannes, this is Matthaüs Amsel, principal violinist and leader of Master Schütz's musicians." The two men bowed to each other and murmured pleasantries.

Franz rubbed his hands together. "Right. Let us begin. Johannes, how many do we have here?"

"Of the contracted thirty, thirty were delivered in Grantville. Three of them were rejected by Masters Zenti and Riebeck and Journeyman Braun as being of inadequate quality. So only twenty-seven were shipped here to Magdeburg for your review. Here they are." Johannes waved a hand at the table.

Franz looked at Isaac and Matthaüs. "We will all three inspect each of them. Then you two will play each of them. If any one of us votes 'no' on an instrument, it is rejected. Ready?" He opened the first case, and they began their inspections.

At some point in the morning the door to the room opened again. Lady Beth Haygood and Marla entered.

"Sorry I'm late, Franz," Lady Beth said.

Franz nodded, held up a hand to indicate they should wait and dove back into the conversation about ...