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The Sea Wolf shrugged off the wolf furs, stood and wetted his throat with weak wine enriched with a few peels of lemon. Then he sat back down and gestured. Olympia, dressed for the occasion in a more respectable and sober, if still male cavalier, black outfit trimmed with silver, said and did nothing. With a stifled groan, the Sea Wolf put on his wolf fur again and gestured once again.

"Olimpia is next."

"Ah, I had not realized you set an appointment for yourself with me. How amusing."

"No, my wolf. It is a meeting set for Olimpia Maidalchini, sister-in-law to Cardinal Pamphili, and some would say his brain and dark heart. Here are the prepared materials."

Notes passed, and the Sea Wolf read them. He looked up only once, despite a multi-paged array of facts fantastic before him about a woman more than a few cardinals of the French party called an apple squire, with implication being that a hapless Pamphili was her whore to lease. In truth, the relationship between the two was more complex, but that is neither here nor there, and we only mention the above most sordid view of the widow to illustrate the sheer visceral degree of opposition to Pamphili and his candidacy among the adherents of the anti-Spanish faction.

"Let us not keep the lady waiting."

"She is no lady, my wolf."

The Sea Wolf gave a nod in lieu of having a conversation that would parch his throat again.

Olimpia Maidalchini was ushered inside by a liveried lackey. All stood. All bowed and curtsied. Pleasant chats were had on family, weather, price of silk and the affairs in England, the last part was Olimpia's attempt at divining the loyalties of the English born Sea Wolf as to the rebellion then taking place upon that wet and sad rock jutting out in the North Seas full of angry madmen. But the Sea Wolf hid his thoughts and steeled his face, and soon (though not soon enough for the tired Sea Wolf), did the conversation turn to the true purpose of these and many, many, many other meetings Sea Wolf held in his new lair in these last three days: the conclave.

"I shall not speak to the sagaciousness of labelled my dearest brother-in-law as member of the so called 'Spanish party,' but do wish it to be known, he is free of prejudice towards the Spanish or French interests, unlike the last pontiff. And my good brother-in-law only acquired the not entirely deserving reputation as a staunch defender of the interests of the His Most Catholic Majesty, Spain and its Empire because he opposed, on principle, the French intrigues perpetuated by the previous occupier of the Triple Crown."

The Sea Wolf held his tongue, and Olympia spoke:

"Are we to understand then that should Cardinal Pamphili were to take the throne of St. Peter, he would be neutral in his affairs with Paris and Madrid?"

"Naturally, my good lady. My brother-in-law desires only peace and prosperity for all."

Not much could be said of import after such a crude lie, and so the next half hour was spent on nonsense. Feeling herself losing her newly empowered audience, Olimpia eschewed the diplomatic tongue and struck out hard and plain:

"If my dearest brother-in-law was chosen to become father of all princes in Christendom, he would admonish them in trying to seize lands by virtue of previous agreements made by pontiffs past and declare the New World open for discovery by those bold enough to seize their fates."

The Sea Wolf beetled his brows at that. Olympia once again spoke on his behalf:

"Cardinal Pamphili would revoke the Treaty of Tordesillas?"

"He could not revoke that which he did not make. The notion that the world can be divided as if an apple between two parties, namely Portugal and Spain, is but a jest in our modern times regardless. No, no, he would merely rebuke. And call for all decent Christians to go forth and evangelize the savage lands of the heathen New World as they can best, provided the role of the Holy Mother Church is acknowledged. But, naturally we, for I dare to speak on my dearest brother-in-law's behalf in this, hold the notion of private property as quite important in all things proper and would likewise seek to acknowledge those individuals who have decent and legitimate claims to lands taken prior to my dearest brother-in-law's ascension, should it be the Lord's will."

The noon time heat, the furs and wine all made the Sea Wolf be less diplomatic than Olympia wished:
"Should Cardinal Pamphili become Pope, I would get Australia and Solomon Islands via a papal bull, while in return I grant rights to tithing of the lands discovered?"

Olympia blanched at that, but Olimpia did not. She leaned forward and flashed almost good teeth.
"Yes, my good brave Agostino."

There was much feeling behind those words. Far too much for Olympia's taste and her hand found the handle of a hidden dagger at her belt. The Sea Wolf saw it, while Olimpia did not, for her eyes did find the Sea Wolf pleasant to the sight. Her own desires ran more to power true than base carnal lust, but she was a woman who liked men, and there were things to like in the barbarian half-civilized king sitting opposite her now, dressed as he was in wolf furs and good scarlet silks, a giant thick long sword at his manful belt, his one good eye blazing intelligence and raw power, while the other was covered by an embroidered patch, with exotic scars running near it. His boots were new and fat and the smell of rich leather stirred things in Olimpia's heart as well.

And so with the two females of the species in his room thus occupied, it fell to the Sea Wolf to bring peace to the proceedings and this he did, by speaking gentle, low and of many unimportant things, and so the situation dissolved, with the desires unstated and no real promises made.

"She's more whore than apple squire," hoarsely said Olympia when Olimpia was gone.

The Sea Wolf held his tongue and got more wine.

"Who is next?"

"Cardinal Bentivoglio d'Aragona, but he does not come along. He has with him Bichi. Here are reports."

And so the long day continued for the sweating Sea Wolf, while all of Genoa was abuzz with anticipation.

***


Pilgrims, well-wishers, agents of influence, the curious and the bored all streamed alike into the port city and filled it to the brim. Landlords charged outrageous rents, and said a small prayer of thanks to the Sea Wolf each morning. The food sellers did trade brisk as well, to say nothing of jewelers called upon by the wealthy (visiting and local) who suddenly had cause to dazzle all near them with splendor at many social occasions sprung near the great event. The sellers of relics of dubious holy provenance were gleeful and celebrated newfound wealth as well. The vigils therefore were almost the only ones who groaned at the crowds, for nipping and foisting increased ten thousand percent fold and would have gone further still if not the easing of restrictions on the necessary amount taken to constitute a felony, that is a hanging crime. Two dozen thieves on gibbets later, and the number of disappeared coin purses and slit open sacks went down a more palatable statistic.

But if trade fair and lawful went well, so did the kind that was frowned upon, if not outright illegal. The beguiling daughters of Eve walking the Genoese alleys and streets soon found many ready customers. There was a veritable explosion of the sales of tobacco, sold in shops and corners by tradesmen who were not always licensed and not entirely reputable, and brought in to port not always labeled as such (to avoid certain duties imposed on the Devil's weed). But all of this was not much commented upon as much as the wagering.

A mania of gambling upon the outcome of the conclave seized the great port town, and soon every tavern had at least one almost reputable looking cove armed with a smudged leaflet listing the odds his backers were prepared to offer, for all 55 cardinals confirmed arriving (though some listed odds for all 60 princes of the Church regardless). The odds fluctuated wildly for the top half dozen favored candidates, and coin was spent well there by visitors and locals alike, but where money truly flowed in rivers of gold and silver were the longshots. Some of it was playing the odds, but for others it was a chance to support a favored son of their town or region and to gain moneys in the bargain as well.

Take for example the good town of Ferrara. The town's favored son was Cardinal Guido Bentivoglio d'Aragona. But his odds were fixed at a rather discouraging (from the point of view of profit) eight-to-five (by at least a dozen taverns, though some offered as low as four-to-three and others thought him a nine-to-five odds). That is, at eight-to-five, one would have to risk five florins to gain eight. To gamble thus did not seem endearing, and so as much if not more money was bet on the other son of Ferrara, the 29 year old Cardinal Carlo Rosetti, whose dashing escape from Puritan mad England made him a hero to many, but whose candidacy was a truly mad thing to bandy about given his age. We talk of an epoch when young pontiffs were a thing of the past and seen as relics of a bygone wild and disreputable era. It was a time when to be under sixty was considered to be a great disability to preclude a man from ascending to the throne of St. Peter. So if all that was known, what would possess men and women of sound kidney to bet on a 29 year old? 157 to one odds, for one.

And so it came to pass that the more mad followers of the Spanish party shunned betting on Roman by birth, but Spaniard by politic, Pamphili (one-to-eight odds) and instead bet on the Spanish Cardinal Albornoz, whose candidacy elicited anywhere between 65 to one and 57 to one odds in the wine sinks.

And, the Germans, Bohemians and true devotees of the Holy Roman Empire's cause spread their bets almost evenly between longshots Ernst Adalbert von Harrach and Fabrizio Savelli, each man standing somewhere between 44 and one and 54 and one odds, depending on the moods of the agents in taverns and dens of iniquity. Harrach at 44 to one was seen as grotesquely overvalued by most serious odds setters, but the man was considered a lucky omen by Imperial supporters, for he went to Rome so rarely that when he arrived earlier in the year, Pope Urban VIII was said to have remarked it was an ill omen for him. And so it came to pass that the pontiff died soon thereafter. And what as an ill omen to the now dead standard bearer of the French cause was happiness to the Spanish and Imperial supporters. So they drove down the odds by betting so much on their man.

As for Savelli, there was talk among sharps that he was overlooked and that a man on the right side of sixty, as far as the conclave was concerned, and who was pro-Spain and Roman-born, should get shorter odds and be much more favored. But Savellis were as poor as convicts and it was understood that to win this election (or any election for that matter) one would need a goodly amount of gold to bribe. Sure, sponsors and various interested parties would come and give one aid in such an endeavor, but personal wealth was regarded a necessity as well. Thus, the odds.

***


While Genoa buzzed and the Sea Wolf's day grew longer still, the 88-to-one longshot Cardinal Antonio Barberini sat on a bed, in a respectable Genoese palace of a distant family friend. For a wonder, he was sober. It was the first time in a fortnight that he went to bed without consuming wine and broke his fast with a simple ale. His still living uncle, fellow cardinal and a man who shared his name - Cardinal Antonio Barberini, Senior - stood before him and spoke nonsense:

"The Spanish party is much confused, and it important to note that of the 55 of our peers now in town, the vast majority were appointed by my good brother and you dear uncle. If we could marshal them... We can hold the Triple Crown, and hold it in our family. You could be the next pontiff, nephew!"

Antonio gave a nod. There was no point in arguing. He knew what he had to do and he would do it. Antonio Sr. went on for some time, occasionally pausing and looking to him significantly as he outlined his harebrained scheme of so many wicked turns it would cause even a man paying attention to twist about. Each time it occurred, Antonio (Jr.) would not and that seemed to satisfy. Finally Antonio Sr. gave him a most significant look, and Antonio gave the gravest of nods and his living uncle left.

Antonio wrote out a letter to his brother Taddeo, who this very moment held down Castel Sant'Angelo. Then signaled for the servants and they dressed him in the full regalia befitting a man of his stature. First went on the crimson cassock with thirty three buttons, one for each year the Redeemer lived. Then came the fascia sash belt, to remind him of his vow of chastity. That he could keep his face straight when it went made either made him quite serious about today indeed or simply distracted. Then came the snow white rochet, looking for all the world as if a bedsheet became intimate with surplice, except it was good enough to be trimmed with lace. They tied the ends over the back of his neck into several knots, then tied those into knots as well. Then they did the same for his sleeves. The under-footman holding the bottom of the world's queerest masculine chemise then released it and it cascaded down to Antonio's knees. The scarlet half-cape that went down to his elbows was put on next. Then skullcap. They forgot the pectoral cross suddenly realized Antonio and said as much. A mad dash was carried out and it was soon found by servants. It was put over Antonio in a hurry, then adjusted so it stayed over his heart. Then found the biretta and set it on his princely head. There were mirrors next and Antonio stared a puffy faced stranger dressed in finery and looking scared and pale. He gave a nod.

Mazarini went through the same ritual, though he talked through it with his agents. He was given money by his Queen. Good coin with which to dispense freely. But he had sticky fingers and they performed an alchemy indeed. For French gold became New World silver somehow, with which he parted on bad terms to his not amused as such agents.

Cardinal Pamphili was dressed in the same finery as others. His careful toilet overseen by his dearest sister-in-law Olimpia Maidalchini. Pamphili felt his heart pound against his ribs and thought of meadows to still himself. The possibility he would lead The Church was strong, and all he met since that filthy Barberini pegged out knew it. He saw how different they became when they treated with him and at first it pleased him, though he was not proud of it. But soon fear crept in. He was too far ahead. He was too much a leading candidate. Those crowned popes before going into conclave suffer more heartbreak than success and he had tried to talk of other candidates, first as a jest and then in deadly earnest. He talked up other leading members of the Spanish faction, and of the chance the French would organize a revolt. But it was to no avail. He knew it was his election to lose and the heart leapt at his throat each time he even thought of the word "conclave." If to wear a crown is no easy thing, then knowing it is yours to lose is no easier. And it was his to lose. Despite what he said, or he tried to make himself believe. It was his. And he could taste it.

***


The last visitor left the Sea Wolf's lair and he drained the jug of wine and lemon. Olympia whispered words of wisdom and encouragement and decamped to ensure all went according to their master plan. He nodded and waited until she left to shrug off the oppressive furs and fling away the silly sword. The silks stayed on. They were pleasing. But the eye patch went. All at once, the sweat came, and in rivers as well. He rode out the rain storm. Then stalked to find a thick cloth to dry off. He was exhausted and the conclave proper would only begin next day, and that is when the true horse trading and betrayal would start warned Olympia.

The Sea Wolf strode through the deserted private chambers of his apartments and went to a place that gave him peace, the charts and map room. Each time he could steal away from the affairs of state, he would go there and draw out his journey to Australia and back, and then he'd burn the chart for fear someone would bribe the servants to steal it. The secrets to the journey to Australia and the Gold Mines of King Solomon lay in his head and in his head alone. He walked into the cool room, sat and only then became aware of a stranger in the corner.

A pock marked fellow stood and held a pistol aimed at him.