Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [35]
“Yes,” the driver said. “That’s it.”
Shel used his cell phone to take a picture of it. “It dates from the Middle Ages,” he said.
“It strikes me,” said Dave, “that we’re pretty much in the Middle Ages.”
“I won’t argue the point.”
“Is that where he lived? Galileo?”
“No. Not really.”
“How do you mean, not really?”
“The legend is that he used the tower as an observatory. It was the place where he was able to separate himself from the Inquisition. Get away from them.”
“But it’s a legend? That he came here?”
“Yes. It probably never happened. They kept him bottled up in his villa. The guy had trouble getting out to see his doctor.”
Houses were becoming numerous. The cart stopped at a connecting road. “We’re going this way,” the driver said, pointing. “Arcetri’s straight ahead. About a mile.”
They thanked the boys, and Shel gave them a couple of coins. The kids lit up. There were cries of “Ringraziato, signore.”
“My pleasure,” said Shel in English.
They climbed down, and the boys kept showing each other the coins and shaking their heads in disbelief. “What did you give them?” asked Dave. “Gold?”
“They’re carlinos.”
“Carlinos?”
“They’re silver. And they are worth a bit.”
“You came prepared.”
“Of course.” He shielded his eyes from the sun and looked uphill. “Looks as if we walk from here.”
Dave was still admiring the tower.
“In our time,” Shel said, “it’s been overhauled and refurbished. It’s now a museum and library dedicated to Galileo’s memory.”
“He’s near the end of his life?” asked Dave. “Here, I mean.”
Shel was moving briskly toward the cluster of houses at the summit. “He has two years to live. And he’s almost totally blind.”
IL Giojello stood on a small street near a piazza of modest proportions. Several people were gathered in a park, playing a game that might have been bocce ball. “Did they have bocce ball this far back?” asked Dave.
Shel shrugged. “Don’t know.”
Two riders on horseback entered the street from the opposite end, moving casually, and raised their hands to say hello to Shel and Dave as they passed.
Shel pointed toward a large villa on the far side of the piazza. “There’s another famous place,” he said.
“What’s that?” asked Dave.
“Some historians claim it’s the birthplace of comedy.”
“That sounds mildly subjective. What is it?”
“If I’m reading my directions right, it’s Il Teatro.”
“The Theater.”
“During the Middle Ages, comedians are supposed to have performed there.” Shel was looking at his map again. “On this side,” he said, pointing at a villa on their left, “is Il Giojello.”
The house straddled three sides of a courtyard. It was two stories high, surrounded by spiked bushes. Vines climbed walls constructed of smooth gray stucco. The courtyard was of modest dimensions, and there was some open ground beyond it. Olive orchards and vineyards were clustered on either side.
“How do we get in?” asked Dave. “Is the Inquisition watching?”
“No. They left Galileo’s son Vincenzo in charge. To see that he didn’t violate the rules.”
“His son?”
“Vincenzo was supposedly a good Catholic. The Inquisitors believed they could trust him.”
“Could they?”
“Apparently.”
“So how do we get past him?”
They’d stopped a few paces from the house. “The restrictions during Galileo’s later years became less stringent. They knew he had only a short time to live. And he couldn’t get around very well. He got visitors periodically. In fact, John Milton will be here next year to see him.”
“Milton?”
“Yes.”
“My God, Shel, that’s when we should have come.”
“You want to talk to Milton?”
“I’d love to.”
“Maybe we can arrange it. Meanwhile, though, let’s do one thing at a time. Let’s get my father back first.” He extracted a rolled document from his jacket. “If Vincenzo is at all reluctant to let us in, we give him this.”
Dave frowned at it. “What is it?”
“A letter from Cardinal Bellarmine instructing him to grant us entry.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Same place I got the carlinos. What did