1635_ Cannon Law - Eric Flint [201]
Tom went to one knee beside him. "Your Holiness? Please be quick," he said as gently as he could over the noise of battle. "The man is surely gone beyond any comfort you can bring him."
"I know," he said, and Tom saw in the firelight that the pope's eyes were bright and shining, his face blank with distress. "But he will not go there without my prayers to speed him on his way. He—will—not."
Tom realized that what he had taken for distress was, in fact, overwhelming fury. "It's all wrong, isn't it?" he said, embarrassed at the banality of the sentiment in a place where men were dying every second.
"All wrong, yes," the pope said, closing the dead guardsman's eyes and crossing himself again after a briefly murmured prayer. Tom didn't know enough Latin to understand what he'd said.
"These men"—the pope gestured at the broken thing beside him, the brains leaking onto the ancient flagstones, the smells of shit and blood and piss reeking the man's death even over the stench of powder-smoke—"have pride that they die before I am taken. And Borja knows this. Signor Simpson, I have not learned enough English to say it well, but—"
Tom didn't have enough Italian—or, at least, not enough of that class of Italian—to follow all of it, but the sentiment was clear enough. He hoped that, wherever he was, Borja's ears were burning. And the pope was right. Borja's attempt to capture the pope was as good as a death sentence for all two hundred of these tough, wiry men from the Alps, no matter that they went to their deaths grinning savagely and determined to heap up the corpses of their attackers on the way.
Whatever else he had ordered today in Rome, Borja had ordered the murder of two hundred men who, Tom was sure, he would have gotten along with famously if he had met them elsewhere. His Episcopalianism notwithstanding, Tom couldn't help feeling that there might well be something to a church that had a man like this at its head. Sure, the fellow was a notorious crook when it came to money and nepotism, but still—
He sighed. "Your Holiness, let's get back under cover, please?"
The pope nodded, rose stiffly from his knees and moved back with Tom under the shelter of the wall. "I thank you, Signor Simpson. It seems that once again I am to be saved to continue God's work by the United States of Europe."
Tom grinned. "Any time, Your Holiness. It isn't like we can piss the Spanish off any more than we already did."
The pope smiled back. "This is true. But one Spaniard deserves to be pissed off a great deal, I think."
"You're picking up English idiom quite well, there, Your Holiness," Tom said, trying not to snigger like a schoolboy. The idea of priests swearing was kind of amusing. Hearing the pope do it was hysterical.
Tom was saved from bursting out laughing altogether by Ruy reappearing.
"What're we doing?" Tom asked.
"A diversion is arranged, and we should take cover while it comes to pass." Behind him the keep of the Castel Sant'Angelo seemed to explode as people—mostly men, but some women as well—began pouring out of the door and fanning out to head for the bastions and the various buildings under the walls.
Tom wondered about that for a second or two, and then a horrible thought presented itself. "What have you arranged as a diversion, Ruy?" he asked, with a horrible suspicion that he'd already worked it out.
"The good captain and I discussed it, and it seemed a shame that all that powder would be wasted for want of time to shoot it at the enemy. And it certainly makes for an excellent alternative to surrender, yes?"
"Ruy! That building is a fuckin' world historical monument! Are you out of your—" Tom stopped. "Yes, you are, aren't you?"
"Indeed. And I notice that you have followed me every step of the way, Señor Simpson." It was dark under the wall, and Tom could not see Ruy's face very clearly, but his imagination clearly supplied the grin. A great deal of humor with more than a tint of malicious glee.