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Off the coast of Africa, Augustin was met with a different sort of trouble. According to his maps, he should have been off an island held by Portuguese. Instead, the fort at the mouth of São Tomé harbor flew a Dutch flag.

"Captain, let us endeavor to sail North to find Portu'gee held land."

But this was easier said than done, for the next dozen islands and coastal towns all had Dutch markings. It seemed that the wars between Holland and Spain and Spain's reluctant bride Portugal had not done well (said marriage having occurred due to the death of the Portuguese king creating a union of thrones between the two Iberian powers that was not universally well received in Lisbon).

Running low of fresh water, the tiny two-ship fleet forced a landing at the next Christian held center of population, which turned out to be yet another formerly Portuguese colony now held by the Dutch. To forestall any awkwardness, the crew of both ships were indoctrinated with a story of being a three-ship fleet of merchantmen sailing from Genoa around the Horn to victual in the English township of Toliara on Madagascar and from there to hopefully go unto India, but tragically one of their ships was sunk and now they were returning back to Genoa, heads hung low. This tale, oft repeated and rehearsed amused the cruel Dutch and they left the ships alone and bartered food and water without much markup.

And so the whole thing would have passed without incident, had not the poor lunatic of the "Fortune" and his two officers not tried food that disagreed with them on land and expired, after squirming on deathbeds for four days, shitting and pissing themselves all the while. This left the sole third officer of the ship in charge, and as he was an eighteen year old nephew of a friend of the lunatic, with a brass nose due to the flesh organ having fallen off due to Venusian maladies acquired through a dissolute youth, presented a problem to be solved.

"Captain Kelly, if I could borrow your navigator, I shall sail the 'Fortune.' While you should take the surviving officer of 'Fortune' and keep an eye."

"I will not allow such a, uh, fellow upon my deck."

"Then I suggest we drown him."

"What?"

"If you do not believe he should be let to live, then..."

"I did not say that. I said I shall not suffer him on my deck, not... Let him live. So long as I have not to share his berth and share meals with him."

"Captain, either he is drowned or you take him."

"Why can't you keep him on the ship?"

"Because... Well, there you have me. I shall have him then."

In truth, Augustin had a hearty dislike for those who were sick, owing to his upbringing upon village green in the outskirts of nothing England, watching boil covered hags and dumb scarred dirty men go about their days til they went into ground. His mother died young. As did he father. And so did his natural brothers (though not all of them). And given his mother died of Venusian maladies, he was thus troubled by sight of brass noses and rotting flesh. Even more so than others. But he could not in good heart kill the unfortunate degenerate young man, for Olympia's father was struck down by same-such maladies as well, and she... Well, let us just say Olympia's relations with her elder were quite complex and not entirely well, but she too would not sanction the cold blooded murder of an eighteen year old, lest there was profit to be had by the deed. And Augustin's fears and her discomfort did not count as profit.

Thus Augustin became captain of "Fortune," assisted by a copper haired handmaiden of death, a brass nosed young degenerate and a bewildered and sometime shy pilot. And he could not be happier. He wanted to be captain since he was very young and the feel of the ship under his feet as he sailed her made him smile.


The two ships were next planning to land at the fort at the mouth of River Gambra held by Portuguese. It was to be the same fort where they victualed on their journey eastwards. But while they were away, the fort was taken by Dutch, lost back to Portuguese and then taken by rogue Couronians (of all things). By luck, they spoke decent German and being strangers far from home and all alone themselves they were eager to make a good deal with the passing Genoese fleet and soon pigs, goats and good foot was had by the crew.

As for Augustin's captaincy, it was well accepted. He sailed well along African coast, and he had done a good job going through the treacherous Gambra. And when it was found he made a deal with the local native rulers to bring women to slake the men's thirsts... Well, he was quite loved for that.

The next sennight turned the two ships into loud bordellos and there was some concern by Couronians that their visitors went mad with lust. While the locals began to think of the Genoese as insatiable. But Augustin was on hand to smooth things over and to keep peace. And on the eighth night, the women were sent back, bruised and exhausted, but not otherwise harmed and the happy crews sailed onward.


They made one small port of call before going through the Pillars, in a Portuguese held port town full of Arab merchants and tradesmen, and there, the two battered ships were repaired, and under Olympia's supervision, gaudily painted, while bolts of cloth cut in a uniform manner were bought for all crew. Augustin was dragged by his companion from tailor to tailor and made to put on impractical robes and bewildering capes. Then came blacksmiths who made him an even more impractical gilded armor that would get him laughed off any field of valor in Christendom and dare we say Mussulmen held lands. Then came barbers and worse. All this Augustin endured with the patience of martyr, only balking at being asked to wear furs. The weather was warm and Augustin could not be made to swaddle himself in furs, despite the urging of Olympia. It was bad enough he was dressed in silks and had his hair long.

Olympia took pity and had the furs taken off, but then held a long experiment as to the length of his hair versus that of his beard and what type of eye-patch the conquering hero of Australia should be made to wear upon his Genoese triumph to dazzle the men and the women of that fine port town.

***


In Florence, the funereal rites for the dead Grand Duke were carried out in a manner that combined Catholic ritual, Tuscan custom and Roman Empire splendor. There was food enough to feed 150,000 men and enough strong drink to render 250,000 insensible. The body was taken from the Cathedral di Santa Maria del Fiore and the procession wound its way down ever slow through jammed streets. The first stop was at Piazza della Signoria, where orations were read, official mourners wept and the three surviving Medici brothers proclaimed their brother's love for the city of Florence and all that it had stood for, though none were arsed to explain was that. After a gust of one strong wind too many sliced through the dashing but woefully thin robes of Gian Carlo, he shivered and sent a signal for the proceedings to be sped up. But Mattias misread the sign and launched into an ill advised Latinate speech seasoned with too much flowery language even by the relaxed rules of the Florentines, and soon the crowds began to move off towards taverns. Leopoldo intervened where he could, but by the time the procession resumed its march to The Palace by way of Ponte Vecchio, a third of the crowd was lost to the cold and Gian Carlo sneezed.

Things picked up once the crowd made its away past the shuttered bridge and got to the palace, where fires were lit in advance to warm hide and hearts. More strong drink was handed out, along with hot food and actors, under strictest of time limits imposed by now forewarned Leopoldo, gave orations that brought tears to the eye that had nothing to do with the chill winds. And here, and only here, while Gian Carlo was thoroughly lost to the sniffles, did Leopoldo give his big speech. It was a Florentine speech aimed at the true hearts of the true denizens of the great city, and it contained enough pauses in it to allow the words to be passed along by those in the front who had heard it to those in the middle and the back who had not. And so when dusk had settled on Florence, there was talk of how well it was done, but that mayhap the wrong Medici was by the side of the regent and babe.

Word of these conclusions quickly reached Gian Carlo, and he, in his stupor, as he had medicated himself with hot wine, made the decision, with too many people around to hear it to later reverse it while retaining any semblance face, that the war against Barberini must be made to continue and be persecuted with full vigor, scuppering all chances of the olive branch Leopoldo had offered to give. Whether this was done out of spite, jealousy, head cold or wine... take your pick.

***


"Good lady Ashley, I confess I had thought to find you in Florence, not Lucca."

"I prefer joy to grief, Excellency."

The Cardinal-Bishop of Lucca Marco Antonio Franciotti nodded his understanding, while struggling to maintain eye contact. The heaving bosom of the Englishwoman distracted his thoughts.

"So, uh, my brother and cousin tell me."

"They are too kind to take pity on a lonely wayward soul, Excellency."

The Cardinal-Bishop realized he had to sit, before his body made it impossible for him to stand without an aid of a codpiece. He found it rather remarkable. The last time he had such strong urges wreak havoc to his body he was very young, and fought them by laying on his stomach until the pangs of the body passed or were too painful to further maintain. But he was no longer three and ten, he was a man in his fifties, and this unseemly behavior confused and rather excited him in equal parts.

Seeing him sit, the Englishwoman sat down as well, making a production out of the affair and making sure the top of her lacquered scarlet boots pushed back the hem of her dress to reveal shapely ankle.

The Cardinal-Bishop once again struggled to find her eyes and when asked by his brother how the conversation went, he could not recall. But was not surprised to learn the next day that he had agreed to buy paintings from the Englishwoman and to let her stay in one of the family villas with her retinue.

To get the bewitching heretic born child of Albion out of his mind, he bade his steward to bring him three shapely blonde women in scarlet boots. He then picked out one that was closest to look to the Englishwoman and debauched himself with her completely.


As for Lady Ashley, she found the villa dreary, cold and out of style. Franciotti were an ancient family where Lucca was concerned, but there were two dozen still more ancient in that very town and half dozen of them had far greater wealth. Ashley roamed the halls, disgusted with art on display and marveling anyone with any taste could have such ridiculous tiles. That night she sought comfort in Salvatore's arms and wept at her misfortunes and made hot speeches about needing to fly back to good Florence as soon as the situation was clear.

***


"The situation is not entirely clear, my lord Cardinal-Inquisitor. Gian Carlo is acknowledged by all in the family as its leader now that Ferdinando II is dead, but the tavern talk places Leopoldo as the true power. As to the military men, they all prefer Mattias, feeling he understand the struggles they face."

"What of the wife?"

"I... I did not think she signified, so I did not ask."

"What of her side of the family? Any ambition seen?"

"They have no wish to be seen as attempting to be ruler of Florence, for they fear what would happen if anything were to go wrong. The feeling seems to be that while Medici are respected, if not beloved, any other family attempting to steer the ship would be blamed for all troubles encountered."

"You have my leave."

The spy departed, and the Cardinal-Inquisitor reviewed other reports. His mind was distracted and he first did not realize what the report from the Moorish town with an improbable name of Casablanca. It was three reports later, detailing the failing conditions of the Catholic cause in Germanies and speaking of a Battle of Gainsborough in England bringing much triumph to a Parliamentarian opposed to the king named Cromwell, that the Cardinal-Inquisitor suddenly blanched and went back to re-read. Two Genoese ships, with rich sailors, captained by Englishmen. One of them called "Female Bastard."

The Cardinal-Inquisitor devoured the report, then scoured for the confirmation in the others now on his table, but found nothing more on the subject. Two bell rings later, he barked out instructions for his agents to be sent out to collect more on the sighting, while he felt a strange shooting pain down his left arm from shoulder to the crook of his elbow. He examined his arms and stilled his beating heart to a more temperate rhythm.

A single sighting meant nothing of course. It needed confirmation. But if confirmed... things would change. As the Cardinal-Inquisitor thought through the implications of a fantasy made reality, his attentions were diverted from that fact that it was now more than a fortnight since he told a man now named Boniface to carry out his assassination of his good uncle.

***


His Holiness Pope Urban VIII was an enigmatic man, made more confusing by history, and it seems unfair of us to introduce him in person just now, at the very moment his assassination is planned by a man field dressing his game meat, but such are fates.

The pontiff sat at a balcony overlooking the lake and thought dark thoughts of war and fleeting glory. The frailty of human memory was his concern. He was shocked most profoundly how he, a patron of sciences and arts, was so quickly portrayed as destroyer of progress and intellectual forethought all because he had condemned a single stubborn heretic. All those paeans to him written by poets, alchemists (both secret and plain), turned to ash as soon as he merely exercised his proper authority. And the wave of vicious words that came afterwards... That they did not love him in so-called "Protestant" England, mutinous Holland and the rabidly heretic university towns of the wrong parts of the Germanies he had known. That Northern Italies would play politics with his careful decision to bring Galileo to heel, gently mind, just a house arrest and no rough stuff, that, that he almost understood. For he was an Italian and such were games his people had played. But when philosophers of France, a decent ally, whom he supported even when he should not, when those people barked at him, he was stunned. To say nothing of the good Catholic towns in the Germanies he was fighting to liberate from the yoke of the fanatic disciples of that miscreant Luther. When they spoke out against him, he was at a total loss. How quick they forget, he had wanted to shout, but held his tongue, for he was no mere man, but now an institution. But the wounds hurt, and so he did what he did best, he rebuilt.

He found Rome a town lacking esteem of Madrid, London and Paris. Crumbling churches, unpaved roads and pilgrims robbed at the point of the blade. He made that all a distant memory, where it counted. Fountains now decorated most squares worth knowing. All entrances to the Eternal City now held symbols of majesty of the Holy Mother Church. Renovation was done on a scale not previously seen in four, nay six, decades prior. Let the intellectuals thunder and philosophers drip poison from quills. His memory would be safeguarded by the surety of marble, which as as near immortal as decently proper.

The pheasant given to him at his table tasted strange to him that day, but he put it down to heavy thoughts which now weighed him for these last three years. The War of Castro was more vicious than planned, but with the Grand Duke dead, he had reasoned it would not last longer. He took a great lungful of the good airs of Albano, but suddenly found he could not breathe. He blinked and went for his collar, but his fingers stiffened and would not do his bidding. He opened his mouth to let loose a scream, but could not. His body voided itself of all fluids in his bladder and his backside churned the red cushioned chair a darker shade of magenta with some streaks of brown. He then fell off the chair and that noise is what brought his servants rushing in. They could do nothing. Pope Urban VIII had lived.