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The Lord Cardinal-Inquisitor Francesco Barberini made sure to shed a tear and cry out when he was told his uncle had passed. Then after three minutes of plucking his nose hairs to elicit tears true for all visiting him to remember, he called on his brother Cardinal-Nephew Antonio Barberini, who arrived late and ghostly pale. He missed the chair and nearly fell and had to be helped by his valet to guide the seat of his pants to the much larger cushioned settee.

"Brother, we are lost. We are lost. Lost and doomed."

"Antonio, pray stop spreading nonsense. We have suffered a loss, this is true. But we are not lost. We are Barberini. We came from selling horseshit by the side of some forsaken Tuscan road during the Great Plague to now occupy the highest of holies of Christendom. One of our own was the father of all princes on Earth. And we shall now rule the Vacant Seat while a conclave, eventually, assembles."

Antonio needed a moment or a dozen to catch all of that and stared at his brother in confusion.

"Vacant Seat?"

"Aye. It is what is called when a pontiff has passed and another is not yet there to take his place."

"I did not... The rules of succession. I never read up."

"You should. It makes for a curious reading. Now then, while the Seat is not occupied, there is a regency, held by all cardinals, but shepherded by the Cardinal Chamberlain of the Holy Mother Church."

"That is I."

"It is you indeed. You are now in charge, carrying out the duties of all cardinals, til enough of them can be convened here to help choose a worthy successor to our good uncle, however long that shall take."

"Long?"

"Oh it won't be an easy affair, what with the wars and all ravaging our poor Christendom. But do not worry, the longest vacancy, per the records made by the moderns, was only two years and ten months. So at most, you shall be in charge for less than three years."

"Three years?"

"Here, have some wine. You are not making much sense dimly repeating things I have said."

Antonio drank and the Cardinal-Inquisitor read through reports and made notes in the margin. While Antonio attempted to recover his wits, the Cardinal-Inquisitor granted a knighthood to a worthy merchant, condemned another to an assassination and subtly strove to bankrupt the third. Then he looked up to find his brother almost sensible enough to resume conversation.

"The Medici are but a side show now, dearest brother. And side shows must be wound down lest they distract from the main stage. Let us instruct our good brother Taddeo to give us an easy win North of Castro and then fall back, while we concentrate on the real war eternal."

"You speak of France and Spain?"

"I am glad your wits have yet again found you. Yes, yes, yes. Spain will want Pamphili to wear The Triple Crown..."

"Over my dead body!"

"Pamphili would be preferable to some of the others I could name."

"He would destroy all we have built and...!"

"Pray be tranquil, dearest brother. While Spain have their candidate, so do your beloved French."

"As if you did not benefit from Richelieu's favors."

"Would that be favor he bestowed upon us by giving arms to the heretic rebels now killing Catholics in the Germanies, or the time he gave aid and comfort to Turks?"

"France is fighting for survival against Spanish juggernaut."

"I do not judge them. But pray do not confuse their interests with that of ours. And as I was saying, it would not surprise me if Parisian interests were not to push for Bentivoglio, at least initially, and then settle on Sacchetti, either of whom would be of great boon to us, so we will not be that lucky, due to the accumulation of seething hate."

"I... I do not understand."

"Brother, there will soon be celebrations in the streets and the busts of our uncle shall be thrown in the Tiber once news of his death is heard of in Rome. We have made these dumb people poor while flaunting our wealth. The Romans hate us and so we must now make them fear us, as they shall never favor us strangers with love. So we shall give them reason to fear us while we search for a less sharp response to elicit from these spoiled teeming masses. Thus, Taddeo must win a battle - any battle will do - and then bring down here foreign mercenary troops, the more foreign the better, and they shall must rape and pillage those we dislike and keep a lid on the cauldron of hate."

Antonio nearly choked on his wine and stared at his brother in dull shock.

"Brother, none of the money you earned was by legitimate means. Our uncle showered you with property taken from others, that is - stolen. Please do not look at me as you have given virgin birth and know not the meaning of sin. We are thieves and we must now do murder to hold onto power. But even murder has its limits, I fear. So we must be economical with it and plot and scheme and do it well. First, the sideshow of Medici is to be wound down, then we shall trampling Rome and then with our position recovered we may try to swim between the beastly frogs and dons and find our place in the sun and not have our properties taken back by the bloody hands of the natives. Which brings me to the next point, if you are quite ready for it: there shall soon arrive a fellow to our good Italies with a lot of gold of the New World and fable continents one thought myth and it would be quite prudent of us to make him welcome. His name is Augustin, I am told, though that may be a lie as is gold, but if true... I shall endeavor to find more. In the meantime, first Medici, second Rome and thirdly the Franco-Spanish relations. Yes, yes?"

Antonio managed a nod and was dismissed, his head in dark cloud full of thunder and rain.

As for the Cardinal-Inquisitor, he then shed a few more tears with two more plucks at his nostrils. More messengers were sent and brought in, to witness his sorrowful eyes and plans were hatched and assassins dispatched to dispatch others.

***


Boniface sat by the lake of Albano and awaited his fate. It soon made its presence known, a small runt of a man dressed in a travelling cloak, his one eye milky from a knife scar bisecting. He wore low cut boots to reveal ankle fine and a cloak decorated with Roman colors and fringed almost finely, though a bit ragged from five years hard use.

"If you are to shoot me in the back of the head, my lad, you can come closer still so as not to miss and make dog's breakfast of my skull and require reloading. I am unarmed and my hands are well away from my body and belt."

"I am here to give poison, not shoot."

"You carry a pistol in your right boot and another is hidden by your cloak."

"We live in most dangerous times, my good gentle."

"Aye. There is a sack of silverware by that tree. Couple of forks and a goblet. Next to the sack are a couple of good rocks. After I am dead, put the rocks in my doublet pockets to weigh me down and throw me into the lake. But do not forget to slit open my belly so I will not bloat to the surface. As for the silver, you can take that with you. Or toss it into the river. It shall give canopy to the tree of lies that I ran off with stolen things after the pontiff expired."

"Jesu, you are calm."

"I made a deal with the Devil. I know what comes next."

The milky eyed man threw a skin of wine at the feet of her target and stood back. His hand on the butt of his pistol, his one good eye darting.

Boniface picked up the skin. Pulled out the stopper and sniffed.

"You are Borgia?"

"Are we not all?"

"No, my blood has no such pleasure."

"Ah, I forget. You are a Moor."

"No, if I was Moor, I would be part Borgia. I am a Jew."

The words left his mouth and he felt his the lower right part of his stomach oscillate, it was the queerest sensation and he stared at it, not able to think of anything else. Why or should his body be subject to such a vibration, he could not answer. He looked up once he realized the milky eyed man was talking.

"I did not hear what you said, my mind was elsewhere."

"I asked if the wine is not to your liking."

"It is not the wine I find troubling, though it looks as if piss. It is the poison you are using. The old Borgia recipe, which is half-myth and half-dung. Cantarella. Favored potion of half bright alchemist looking to help a girl get rid of a bad suitor or a wicked stepmother. You would have been better off stealing Medici powders. Those at least have been proven to work from time to time."

"Ah, yes, forgive me. You are right. I am not much for poisons. I strangle and stab, and sometimes shoot. But mostly strangle."

"Garrote I should think, judging by those palm marks."

"You have a keen eye. Yes, yes, I prefer the garrote. Jesu, but this talk is strange."

"We live in strange times."

"Will you drink the wine then?"

"No, it will just make me sick."

"Then should I shoot you?"

"You just said you prefer the garrote. Suppose you miss?"

"I can get closer."

"I have seen shots be led astray at point blank range. No I should think a slit wrist is called for here."

The milky eyed man hesitated, then produced a wickedly sharp and much curved dagger.

Boniface suppressed a sigh. The weapon looked flash, but the way his killer held it did not fill him with confidence of a clean and quick death. The whole thing was beginning to feel silly and very queasy.

"Come I shall feed you my arm."

The milky eyed man nodded and made his approach, his heart at his throat, the blade handle slick with sweat in his callused palm and thick, broken fingers. He dry swallowed when he thought the strange Jew blinked to his nerves. Made his approach and looked on, not quite sure of what Boniface would do next.

Boniface felt the oscillation again in his lower right stomach. It was so strange. He stared again.

The milky eyed man wiped his sweaty hand as he was distracted.

"Ready?"

Boniface looked up and blinked. Then gave a nod.

The milky eyed man readied his blade.

Boniface jutted out his left arm. The milky eyed man steadied his breath, gently gripped the wrist of Boniface with his left hand and raised the knife.

Boniface struck the milky eyed man right in the kidneys.

The man doubled over, staggered and fell to his knees. His brittle, dandruff caked, sun burnt hair fell into his face and mired it with more dirt from its filthy edges and split ends.

Boniface stood to full height. Gave a sigh. Took the blade. He was not yet ready to die.

***


Mazarini was at the gaming tables, when he was told. He was playing Red and Black against aristos with more gold than sense and had been lucky, as always. A little page of no account simply walked up to him and whispered, "Yellow hawk" and departed. And Mazarini's heart skipped a beat, but his face revealed nothing and he played two more turns, losing money and made his excuses and departed. By the time he was through the outer salon, the gossip had started. By the time he got into his carriage, stable boys knew. So much for the silver he paid the page then. Soon all of Paris knew - the King was dead. Louis XIII, called The Just, because that is what he liked to be called, had finally expired. He had left behind a five year old son, a weak willed but strongly opinionated wife and a kingdom on the cusp of peace. The Battle of Rocroi had just transpired not that long ago, and the tide against Spain was turning.

Mazarini smoothed out his clothes and calmed his trembling fingers.

Peace. He would bring peace to France, and then utter destruction of Spain. In that order.

***


The two ship fleet, painted as a caravan of madmen, had come to linger in the port of Ajaccio at Corsica (then Genoese held) to better build up anticipation of their Genoese welcome at the capital town of the Most Serene Republic. Already three galleys had left bound for Genoa since their arrival, each with a morsel of news and a letter penned by Augustin at Olympia's dictation. Then, and only then, after two dozen fights in the taverns and the chances of the crew running off with gold in wild Corsica before the triumph, did Olympia finally give her approval for the fleet to depart and off did they sail, greeted and cheered by each passing Genoese galley, boat and ship.

The men, dressed in impractical but highly colorful matching clothes, worked the deck slowly, so as not to ruin their garb and the whole thing began to take on appearance of an opera staged by a sodomite with a drinking habit. Stays were missed. Mizzen sails not taken in as they should. And the pilot was so concerned about chipping the paint work of his hull against a particularly rancid spot of water near an island where locals shit in the sea that he nearly colliding with a fishing trawler now appearing on his other side. Augustin, over the objections of his companion, pulled the crew aside and explained that even though they are dressed like whores on parade, they are still sailors and there will be plenty of sailors in the Genoese harbor to judge them. That brought all up short and the crews stopped straying from form and performed marvelously thereafter.

And thus, three summers after setting sail from port, did the two ships return to cheers.