This is the opening chapter in an alternate history/time-travel story which came to me in a pain-relief doze - sugar overload and not enough sleep headache (drinking Lucazade on a night shift). I'm posting this section here as opposed to the writers forum in search of general feedback - is it too obscure or do you get a sense of what has changed, and how?
(The title refers to Special Order 191 from the ACW, the unlilely circumstances of which always struck me as an example of meddling from the future.)
One
“Cardinal Benz will see you now.”
I rose and tugged my uniform jacket back into place. It had taken seven weeks of written requests and clarifications to secure an interview with the deputy-head of the Vatican archives, so being kept waiting another hour or so was pretty much par for the course.
The priest I was following fished out a mobile phone and started a conversation in quick-fire Italian. You might think that displayed a marked lack of respect in front of a visitor, but during my brief stay in the ‘Old World’ I’d experienced a pervasive contempt for all non-Europeans. We walked along a wide corridor flanked by tall, narrow windows and up a broad marble staircase. A fixation with the written word was everywhere, evidenced by the box files, document cases and loosely-bound bundles of paper carried by the majority of those we passed. The archive was a closed-off, self-referential world of its own within the Holy See, obviously attracting those prone to bibliomania. Even in my unfamiliar uniform I barely rated a second glance, or perhaps they found my scarred face repugnant.
My guide ended his call with a ‘Ciao!” and put the phone away as we approached a set of ornate oak doors. They were flanked by a pair of Swiss Guards in ballistic vests over purely functional uniforms, carrying Steyr assault rifles. Quite why the Cardinal required such protection here, of all places, was beyond me – unless it was simply for my benefit as a none-too-subtle form of intimidation.
The priest knocked softly and entered, leaving the door slightly ajar. I heard a murmur of conversation and then he held it open, ushering me inside. The room within was large and airy, pleasantly cool despite the hot summer weather outside. The flunky introduced me; “Major Josiah Tom, your Eminence. The American.”
Cardinal Benz rose from behind his desk as I approached. He was a slightly-built man, lean and wiry, like a featherweight boxer. Benz extended his hand and I knelt, my lips brushing his ring.
“It is indeed gracious of you to see me, your Eminence. I am well aware of how precious your time must be.”
“It is always pleasant to entertain visitors from overseas, Major. Please, sit.” His voice had a slightly clipped cadence but other than that betrayed no trace of an accent. I stood up and settled into an armchair across the desk from the Cardinal. Benz sat back and gave me a thin-lipped smile. “So, how are things in your Confederacy?” he gestured to my face, “Still squabbling with your northern cousins, I see?”
I shook my head and gave him a wry smile. “This? Sloppiness on my part during a dispute of no consequence in the demilitarised zone. It involved only irregular forces and was more in the manner of a family feud than anything international. We in the South have learned to live-and-let-live with Federal America.”
“Unfortunately. Now, before we begin may I offer you any refreshment? Tea, coffee, mineral water?”
“Most kind of you to offer, your Eminence, but I require nothing more than information.”
“Well, we shall see.” Benz dismissed the waiting priest with a wave of his hand and I heard the door close behind me. He opened a manila folder on his desk. “To be blunt, Major, the only reason I agreed to this meeting is your reputation as a military historian. I have read and enjoyed ‘American Crusade’, your account of Papal intervention in the Civil War.”
“We in the South refer to it as the War Between the States, your Eminence.“
“Quite. How remiss of me.”
“I meant no disrespect. All those with any sense of history recognise that the Confederacy owes the Holy See an eternal debt of gratitude. I very much doubt the English would have become involved were it not for your influence.”
Benz smiled. “How could a Catholic monarch stand idly by while his co-religionists battled an un-holy alliance of heretics, schismatics and Jews? Unfortunately the Confederate victory was a missed opportunity in the history of evangelical enlightenment. The Jesuit marauders could only do so much on their own.”
I inclined my head. “Unfortunately the sack of Washington satiated even the most blood-thirsty southerner. And speaking of history that is why I am here, in search of illumination. My new book is concerned with other missed military opportunities.”
He tapped the top sheet of the document. “And this involves a minor heretical warlord from the seventeenth century?”
“The premature death of King Gustavas Adolphus in sixteen-thirty prevented the Swedish army taking the field against the Catholic League. Hardly a minor event, your Eminence, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“But an Imperialist victory was inevitable, Major. After all, we had God on our side.”
“Of course, but I believe the struggle would have been far more bitter and protracted than it was, given the strength and proven ability of the Swedish army. It was those early victories which emboldened Emperor Ferdinand to forcibly restore Catholicism throughout the German states, and ultimately the entire continent. Perhaps the American experience makes it easier for us to envisage a war-weary, messy compromise which would have left Europe as a house divided.”
The Cardinal snorted. “Protestant states as equals in the family of nations? Come, come, Major Tom, you’re overstating the importance of one man – the theoretical importance, at that. The death of Adolphus-”
“Assassination.”
Benz glared at me for a moment, obviously unused to being corrected, and I feared he would bring the interview to a premature close. However after a moment he seemed to compose himself and sat back, steepling his fingers. “Assassination?”
“I recently came into possession of the memoirs of Johan Skytte, who tutored Gustavas and acted as his quartermaster during the attempted invasion. This is a hand-written original, not the English translation as used by Berthold and Russ in their book ‘The Lion of the North’. In the popular version Gustavas was mortally wounded during a skirmish outside the city of Wolgast, shortly after landing in Pomerania. However Skytte makes it plain that the king was killed by a single shot at long-range, and that the marksman did not fire from within the fortress walls.”
“So, what of it? Killed, assassinated, you are talking about semantics.”
“Normally I would agree, but there are troubling inconsistencies between the wound suffered by Gustavas, as described by Skytte, and the ballistic characteristics of musketry from that era.”
“Then it was a customised firearm created by an enthusiast. Esoteric weaponry has existed throughout history, Major. If you wish an example from that period then consider Prince Rupert of the Rhineland. He carried a pair of rifled pistols and used to impress ladies by shooting at weathercocks, making them spin one way and then the other.” The Cardinal stroked his chin. “In any event I fail to see what any of this has to do with your request. The journal of an obscure country priest can shed no light on these matters, even one contemporaneous with the Swedish sojourn.”
There was a noticeable coolness in the Cardinal’s manner, not that it had been exactly warm to begin with, but having come this far I could not afford to back down now. “Obscure county priest, your Eminence? Arturo Hoth was Bishop of Wolgast and his account of events-”
The Cardinal cut me off with a raised hand. “That individual was subsequently accused of witchcraft and put to the question. He recanted his fanciful tales and lived out his remaining years in rural exile, a pitiful excuse for a man, let alone a priest.” Benz sighed. “At least these days we are more understanding in such cases. Even at this remove it is plain from his writing that the Bishop had suffered a severe mental breakdown.”
“So his journal is held within the archive? Until now I have only come across fragmentary references and allusions to its existence. I traced it to the Pappenheim Museum in Leipzig, only to be informed it had been removed on orders of the Holy Father himself.”
Benz sat for a long moment, like some malign graven idol, then reached forward and closed the folder. “I must consult with our restoration team before any decision regarding access can be made. I trust you appreciate that the preservation of Church documents takes precedence over speculative enquiry. Thank you for your interest, Major. My office will inform you of my decision in due course.” He rang a small bell on his desk and I heard the door behind me open. “Father Bellini will show you out.”
I stood - he didn’t - and straightened my jacket. “My sincere thanks for your time, Cardinal. It has been most informative.” I bowed, turned, and walked past the young priest out into the corridor. He closed the door gently and scurried past to lead me onwards, out of the labyrinth.
I felt unfriendly eyes on me every step of the way.
(The title refers to Special Order 191 from the ACW, the unlilely circumstances of which always struck me as an example of meddling from the future.)
One
“Cardinal Benz will see you now.”
I rose and tugged my uniform jacket back into place. It had taken seven weeks of written requests and clarifications to secure an interview with the deputy-head of the Vatican archives, so being kept waiting another hour or so was pretty much par for the course.
The priest I was following fished out a mobile phone and started a conversation in quick-fire Italian. You might think that displayed a marked lack of respect in front of a visitor, but during my brief stay in the ‘Old World’ I’d experienced a pervasive contempt for all non-Europeans. We walked along a wide corridor flanked by tall, narrow windows and up a broad marble staircase. A fixation with the written word was everywhere, evidenced by the box files, document cases and loosely-bound bundles of paper carried by the majority of those we passed. The archive was a closed-off, self-referential world of its own within the Holy See, obviously attracting those prone to bibliomania. Even in my unfamiliar uniform I barely rated a second glance, or perhaps they found my scarred face repugnant.
My guide ended his call with a ‘Ciao!” and put the phone away as we approached a set of ornate oak doors. They were flanked by a pair of Swiss Guards in ballistic vests over purely functional uniforms, carrying Steyr assault rifles. Quite why the Cardinal required such protection here, of all places, was beyond me – unless it was simply for my benefit as a none-too-subtle form of intimidation.
The priest knocked softly and entered, leaving the door slightly ajar. I heard a murmur of conversation and then he held it open, ushering me inside. The room within was large and airy, pleasantly cool despite the hot summer weather outside. The flunky introduced me; “Major Josiah Tom, your Eminence. The American.”
Cardinal Benz rose from behind his desk as I approached. He was a slightly-built man, lean and wiry, like a featherweight boxer. Benz extended his hand and I knelt, my lips brushing his ring.
“It is indeed gracious of you to see me, your Eminence. I am well aware of how precious your time must be.”
“It is always pleasant to entertain visitors from overseas, Major. Please, sit.” His voice had a slightly clipped cadence but other than that betrayed no trace of an accent. I stood up and settled into an armchair across the desk from the Cardinal. Benz sat back and gave me a thin-lipped smile. “So, how are things in your Confederacy?” he gestured to my face, “Still squabbling with your northern cousins, I see?”
I shook my head and gave him a wry smile. “This? Sloppiness on my part during a dispute of no consequence in the demilitarised zone. It involved only irregular forces and was more in the manner of a family feud than anything international. We in the South have learned to live-and-let-live with Federal America.”
“Unfortunately. Now, before we begin may I offer you any refreshment? Tea, coffee, mineral water?”
“Most kind of you to offer, your Eminence, but I require nothing more than information.”
“Well, we shall see.” Benz dismissed the waiting priest with a wave of his hand and I heard the door close behind me. He opened a manila folder on his desk. “To be blunt, Major, the only reason I agreed to this meeting is your reputation as a military historian. I have read and enjoyed ‘American Crusade’, your account of Papal intervention in the Civil War.”
“We in the South refer to it as the War Between the States, your Eminence.“
“Quite. How remiss of me.”
“I meant no disrespect. All those with any sense of history recognise that the Confederacy owes the Holy See an eternal debt of gratitude. I very much doubt the English would have become involved were it not for your influence.”
Benz smiled. “How could a Catholic monarch stand idly by while his co-religionists battled an un-holy alliance of heretics, schismatics and Jews? Unfortunately the Confederate victory was a missed opportunity in the history of evangelical enlightenment. The Jesuit marauders could only do so much on their own.”
I inclined my head. “Unfortunately the sack of Washington satiated even the most blood-thirsty southerner. And speaking of history that is why I am here, in search of illumination. My new book is concerned with other missed military opportunities.”
He tapped the top sheet of the document. “And this involves a minor heretical warlord from the seventeenth century?”
“The premature death of King Gustavas Adolphus in sixteen-thirty prevented the Swedish army taking the field against the Catholic League. Hardly a minor event, your Eminence, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“But an Imperialist victory was inevitable, Major. After all, we had God on our side.”
“Of course, but I believe the struggle would have been far more bitter and protracted than it was, given the strength and proven ability of the Swedish army. It was those early victories which emboldened Emperor Ferdinand to forcibly restore Catholicism throughout the German states, and ultimately the entire continent. Perhaps the American experience makes it easier for us to envisage a war-weary, messy compromise which would have left Europe as a house divided.”
The Cardinal snorted. “Protestant states as equals in the family of nations? Come, come, Major Tom, you’re overstating the importance of one man – the theoretical importance, at that. The death of Adolphus-”
“Assassination.”
Benz glared at me for a moment, obviously unused to being corrected, and I feared he would bring the interview to a premature close. However after a moment he seemed to compose himself and sat back, steepling his fingers. “Assassination?”
“I recently came into possession of the memoirs of Johan Skytte, who tutored Gustavas and acted as his quartermaster during the attempted invasion. This is a hand-written original, not the English translation as used by Berthold and Russ in their book ‘The Lion of the North’. In the popular version Gustavas was mortally wounded during a skirmish outside the city of Wolgast, shortly after landing in Pomerania. However Skytte makes it plain that the king was killed by a single shot at long-range, and that the marksman did not fire from within the fortress walls.”
“So, what of it? Killed, assassinated, you are talking about semantics.”
“Normally I would agree, but there are troubling inconsistencies between the wound suffered by Gustavas, as described by Skytte, and the ballistic characteristics of musketry from that era.”
“Then it was a customised firearm created by an enthusiast. Esoteric weaponry has existed throughout history, Major. If you wish an example from that period then consider Prince Rupert of the Rhineland. He carried a pair of rifled pistols and used to impress ladies by shooting at weathercocks, making them spin one way and then the other.” The Cardinal stroked his chin. “In any event I fail to see what any of this has to do with your request. The journal of an obscure country priest can shed no light on these matters, even one contemporaneous with the Swedish sojourn.”
There was a noticeable coolness in the Cardinal’s manner, not that it had been exactly warm to begin with, but having come this far I could not afford to back down now. “Obscure county priest, your Eminence? Arturo Hoth was Bishop of Wolgast and his account of events-”
The Cardinal cut me off with a raised hand. “That individual was subsequently accused of witchcraft and put to the question. He recanted his fanciful tales and lived out his remaining years in rural exile, a pitiful excuse for a man, let alone a priest.” Benz sighed. “At least these days we are more understanding in such cases. Even at this remove it is plain from his writing that the Bishop had suffered a severe mental breakdown.”
“So his journal is held within the archive? Until now I have only come across fragmentary references and allusions to its existence. I traced it to the Pappenheim Museum in Leipzig, only to be informed it had been removed on orders of the Holy Father himself.”
Benz sat for a long moment, like some malign graven idol, then reached forward and closed the folder. “I must consult with our restoration team before any decision regarding access can be made. I trust you appreciate that the preservation of Church documents takes precedence over speculative enquiry. Thank you for your interest, Major. My office will inform you of my decision in due course.” He rang a small bell on his desk and I heard the door behind me open. “Father Bellini will show you out.”
I stood - he didn’t - and straightened my jacket. “My sincere thanks for your time, Cardinal. It has been most informative.” I bowed, turned, and walked past the young priest out into the corridor. He closed the door gently and scurried past to lead me onwards, out of the labyrinth.
I felt unfriendly eyes on me every step of the way.
