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Anzio was not much of a town. In fact it was no town at all, but a fishing village. All sensible travelers went to neighboring Nettuno to catch passage across the sea or to gain a coach or something rougher to travel overland down, or up, the Italian peninsula. But the strange pock marked ill looking fellow did not look as if he wanted advice or passage, and so his dreary wine was served without commentary at the fishing village tavern. The stranger took his wine without any words as well. And the tavern keeper went about his day, til he was fed gossip by Vincenzo Russo, village idiot and town crier all in one:

"They say all the Jews are dead in Rome!"

"Leave off."

"I have heard it from the people on the road. Tiber red with blood."

"What utter nonsense. Everyone knows heathen blood is not red. Jew blood is light pink."

"I would not know that, but I know the Jews are being killed."

"The guards at the forsaken heathen ghetto simply let the good men inside to cleanse town?"

"There were no guards."

"Everyone knows there are guards."

"No, no, no, they were not there. They were called off. They say the Inquisitor arranged it."

"Oh leave off. Come back when you have better news."

"Thousands of Christ-killers are no longer breathing and you do not think it good news?"

"I would, if I believed in any of it. Off with you."

The tavern keeper was not sure when the pock marked fellow was gone, but when he next looked, the fellow was not there. But his good coin remained. And that was all that mattered to the keeper.

***


His Excellency Prince Gian Carlo Medici woke late. The affairs of state have begun to take a toll on his body and mind, and he had found himself exhausted most days. He was dressed while in a sullen silence and stalked the ornate hallways of the Medici palace in a mood. His younger brother Mattias was not present, having returned to the frontlines to resume the costly and exhaustive war against Barberini. The trouble was not there. Well, there was trouble over the bloody cost, but that was not the utmost trouble in Gian Carlo's mind. The trouble was his other brother, now occupying rooms in the heart of Florence, at the old Medici palace. And it was there that now courtiers and fortune seekers trekked. The palace where Gian Carlo brooded housed the widow of the former Grand Duke said to be with child, though who could truly tell, for the woman turned to fat routinely and by purging got back to decent weight, only to plunge to fatness yet again. That would be the ultimate joke, would it not? The so-called regent of Tuscany trapped in a now cold and dreary palace with a dumb fat woman who had no heir to give, while his brother truly ruled Florence and by extension the whole of Tuscany. Gian Carlo turned and hit a wall. Unfortunately his fist found a beam behind the wall rather than mere plaster and he broke two knuckles and smeared blood on an artwork to boot.

The doctors worked their cures, while Gian Carlo brooded still. Leopoldo had stolen his thunder, then glory and now true power. The only thing saving Leopoldo's circus ugly body from an even uglier fate was that Gian Carlo was a Medici, not Borgia. Medici did not kill brothers. But sometimes the urge to find Borgia blood in his veins to justify the unjustifiable was strong. None more than now, while he was sitting on a chair, his right hand wrapped in blood streaked bandages, his mind full of confusion and loathing, and his life slipping out of his hands.

The messengers were avoiding him and he knew it. He could not blame them, but blamed them still.

"You there, damn your eyes. Get here. I see a scroll."

The meek fellow brought the sealed scroll and retreated before he could be hit. Gian Carlo read the words without reading, forced his eyes to focus and re-read. Then re-read yet again, for the message seemed a jest. Australia discovered? By an English sea wolf in the pay of the Durazzo? The Sea Wolf's twin sister a former picture monger of the former Grand Duke of Tuscany, now living in Lucca? It reads as nonsense. The first urge was to throw the scroll at someone's head, but then the Medicean instinct prevailed. The blood cooled and he realized that no agent would dare bring such a jest to a Medici prince, even one as isolated as Gian Carlo. And if it was not a jest...? It changed things. It might even change Gian Carlo's situation. But, first a confirmation.

"Send for my spymaster, and be quick about it."

***


Cardinal Mazarini put down the letter from Cardinal-Inquisitor Francesco Barberini announcing the accidental death of a man he knew as Allesandro, and set it down next to the spymaster's report on the English sea wolf returning to Genoa with the gold from King Solomon's mines. He was missing a link in these chain of events, but took no more than a quart hour to seek out to find it. There were more pressing issues after that, such as the fates of France. The Eldest Daughter of the Holy Mother Church was beset by enemies, without and within. The Sea Wolf and his gold would no doubt be of some help to the beleaguered kingdom, but one had to move careful here. One had to find the right approach, but the time for it was not there, especially now that the sole spy who had gotten closest to the Sea Wolf and his copper haired killer angel Olympia was dead, by accident. An accident. How... timely.

The missing link troubled Mazarini more and would not let him go to his other duties. He made a note to assign one of his better men to look into it. One of the better, mind, but not the best. For the brother of the now dead Louis XIII - Gaston, sometimes called "Monsieur" at court - rated as bigger trouble, as did the newest cabal of contessas - no, no, the word was "countesses," one should think like a Frenchman while in France, and he was Jules Raymond Mazarini, not Giulio Raimondo Mazzarino any longer. And while the gold of the Australias glittered in Italies, he was now in France, and more French matters had to take leading role. Still, the puzzle would be solved.

***


Cardinal Chamberlain of the Holy Mother Church Antonio Barberini stared at a document before him.

"This is the logbook of their journey?"

"Uh, a logbook, my lord, made by one of the crew of a surviving ship."

"But not the logbook of the Sea Wolf?"

"No, my lord. It was made by another."

"An officer at least? Or am I looking at the half-literate scratches of a common sailor?"

"It is a copy of a log kept by the captain of 'Fortune,' who did not survive the journey."

"A copy of a log then, not the real thing?"

"It is real, my lord. A friend of the now dead captain held it for him."

"Can it be inscribed unto a map?"

"It shall be converted into a portolan shortly, my lord."

"Suppose you tell me what is a 'portolan?'"

"A map, with navigation observations, compass directions and distances between objects."

"You... You are saying I have in my possession an object which can be turned into a map to the Isles of the Gold Mines of King Solomon?"

"Yes, my lord. But... The distances all read as estimates. That is, we think them accurate, but..."

"'We?' How many have seen this log?"

"I have had it authenticated by experts in the employ of his lordship. The distances are all estimates, my lord, as I have said. The Sea Wolf did not share with anyone the distances he observed using the moons of Jupiter. The Sea Wolf then merely instructed the captain to sail this way or another, and did not tell anyone how far they were from one object or another. What you have before you is an experienced sailor's guess based on what he saw all about him."

"I... I thank you for your honesty."

"I have no wish to lie, my lord."

"Go on and make this log into a portolan then. Let us see what we have before we speak further."

"Yes, my lord."

Antonio Barberini released the arm of his chair from the grip of his left hand. His fingernails and fingers hurt. He was so close, he could almost smell the almug wood and feel the gold slipping through his fingers. And then the gold truly slipped through. But hope springs eternal and all that.

In the meantime, the armies of Medici pressed down and the people of Rome were restless. His brother, it was said, had allowed the mob to slake their bestial urges by removing guards from the ghetto and letting violence occur against the Jews, for a few days, mind, not a lot. Though the mob they did great damage and murdered many in the streets. Antonio did not ask his brother if the rumor was true, because he was not sure he wanted to know true answers. He, Antonio, was no innocent in the ways of the world, despite his youthful look and the comments of Francesco. He understood many things, including knowing when he must not understand if he was to sleep at night.

As to the murders of the Jews in the streets and alleys, they had given respite from the seething of the savages among the Romans. But the respite all too brief. He knew from reports that it would not hold. The true cause of their troubles was the price of bread and wine. And with merchants being leery of loaning any more on credit... The idiotic war had to be wound down to restore credit balance or a new source of credit had to be found. A third was not given. He was aware his brother Francesco had some sort of plan, but Antonio was his own man, with his own beliefs and he crafted plans of his own making.

***


Olympia woke with a start and looked about the bed. She was alone. Her hand found a dagger under the mattress and a pistol under the bed. She checked the firearm was loaded, before slipping off the bed into a defensive crouch.

"I am on the balcony, alone, please try not to shoot me."

Olympia relaxed her posture, slightly, and crouching still, made her way to the balcony and saw the man now known to all as Agostino of Australia, the Sea Wolf, was indeed alone. She stood to full height and then realized she was stark naked for a wind from balcony stung her body.

"There is a warm robe on the chair by the door."

Olympia was not used to having people in her mind, but made allowance for the Sea Wolf. She set down the weapon in her left hand, hefted the robe, slipped on a warm sheep skin lined left sleeve. Picked up the weapon. Set down the one in her right. Slipped on the right sleeve, and rearmed. She then put down the pistol into the robe's single pocket and tucked the dagger into the robe's cloth belt at the small of her back. Thus fortified she braved the balcony.

There stood the Sea Wolf in an almost matching robe, admiring the world, without an eye patch.

"Morning."

"You really should put on the patch."

"I will, but I like the sensation of the wind and sun upon my skin. Did we get any messages from Medici, Barberini, Mazarini or, uh, my sister?"

"None as yet."

"How many spies are in our household?"

"Four. One spies for Medici. One for Barberini. One was hired by Spanish interests, though whether that of the crown or a competing court interest, I know not. And the fourth spies on us for Durazzo."

"How sweet of the Durazzo."

"This is how things are done in Italies."

"Aye, I know."

The Sea Wolf raised an arm and encompassed Olympia in a side hug. These displays of public affection and familiarity were proof still to Olympia that her man was shedding his Englishness in good measures.

She waited for the warmth of his body to penetrate his robe and then hers, before she spoke on what she had meant to say last night, but held off until such a time as the Sea Wolf was more distracted:

"You met with agents of the family Savelli."

"Yes, in secret. Though nothing can escape you, can it?"

"No, nothing can. May I know what...?"

"I was going to make it a surprise, but if you insist..."

"I insist."

"Savelli are rather poor."

"Have been, for a while."

"They have things they wish to sell."

"Pray continue."

"You really hate surprises that much?"

"I do not enjoy not knowing things. Tell me."

"There is a box, there on the table it stands. If you hate surprises, take a gander."

Olympia did not hate surprises, but once curious, she had to satisfy the urge. She came to the ornate jewelry casket, opened and withdrew a queer pistol. It was covered in gold leaf and looked worthy of a gift to a prince, or in this case a princess predisposed to weaponry. But that was not the strangest thing, for this was Italies, and many weapons here looked as if gold and silver were vomited upon them by Vulcan on a day of whimsy or much drinking (of ambrosia mayhap?).

What the made pistol in Olympia's hand truly odd was the, uh, half split pomegranate work of metal surrounding the part of gun where barrel met the trigger. Inside the pomegranate seeds were hollow tubes filled with paper twists, containing by the smell, heft and the fact it was still a gun despite its weird shape: ball and powder. Olympia held the pistol in one hand and touched the pomegranate with the thumb of other. It revolved.

Gradually, it dawned on Olympia that she held in her hand a flintlock of the sort she only read about. Henry VIII was said to own a fowling piece which could be reloaded quickly by switching barrels. Here some ingenious gunsmith had instead resolved to switch the shot itself by breaking the barrel in two. She counted the tubes in the pomegranate and blanched. Eight. She held in her hands a gun which when loaded could fire off eight shots before having to reload again. Bewildered she turned to look at the Sea Wolf. He, having seemingly mastered the art of reading her mind, gave a smile and nod.

"Did you create this?"

"What? Me? No, no, no. I know little of the way of guns, unfortunate. This came from Nuremberg. Apparently they have had these type of lethal toys for quite a while now."

"It is no 'toy,' beloved. It is a... An army equipped with such weapons..."

"... would be quite fearful for an hour, mayhap two, then run out of shot. And think of the expense. What you have in your hand cannot be done by a mere half-bright gunsmith. That there flintlock is the work of a master whose craft took time and not inconsiderable skill. To put that sort of weapon into the hands of 15,000 strong... it would take time and money."

"So it would. But if were done..."

"Oh if it could be done, the known world would lay prostrate at the feet of the man, or woman, behind such an army."

A bell clanged somewhere softly before Olympia could rejoin. She hid the ornate pistol and took her much less ornate one and stalked forward. The hired help were used to her ways and her appearance did not shock them. The butler merely bowed and declared that someone calling himself "Salvatore Spadaforte" was at their doorstep and claimed to have a message from the sister of the Sea Wolf.