Rome (2)
“Oh, come in, come in. Delighted to meet you all.”
The cardinal welcomed us with arms outstretched. Unable to see the Pope right away, we'd naturally ended up with the man who held real power—or at least the number two spot—the Ragusa Archbishop.
“Thank you for such a warm welcome, Your Excellency.”
Bishops and archbishops were divided by population size, but there wasn't much real difference between the two. Ragusa, a prosperous Venetian colony, simply had a large populace, so its diocese warranted an archbishop. Normally, I'd have brushed past it, but knowing this man's true identity all too well, I groveled like I was ready to hand over my own gall bladder.
“Your Excellency's prestige extends beyond Italy to the Iberian Peninsula itself. It's an honor to meet such a noble figure.”
“I'm the one honored that Count Don Juan recognizes me.”
The Ragusa Archbishop—his real name Giovanni Angelo de' Medici—sounded wealthy with that Medici surname, but he had no connection to those Medicis. He'd lived a poor life, studying at university only thanks to a friend's help. Later, his brother's marriage into the Orsini family opened doors. He'd earned his degree from Bologna late in life and worked as a canon lawyer in Rome. Then, recognized by the previous Pope, Paul III, he'd been appointed Archbishop of Ragusa... Though known as that now, he was soon to become Pope Pius IV.
In the medieval and early modern eras, popes were essentially secular monarchs. So, cozying up to the next power player was essential. The Papal States' sovereign—the Pope—was a secular ruler, yet not permanent... because he was elected by the College of Cardinals in conclave. That meant even non-Italians from other countries could become Pope. Nations lobbied fiercely to install one of their own. The future was unpredictable, unknowable. But I knew it, so I couldn't hide my joy at meeting the Ragusa Archbishop, my future staunch ally. Plus, the Council of Trent—my chance for opportunity—would be reconvened under him during that pivotal Catholic reform. For all these reasons, I was deeply grateful for this encounter.
“You must be tired from the long journey. Shall we head to your lodgings first?”
With that, the others followed the cardinal. Even as we walked, I chatted away to win his favor. The simplest way to charm a cleric? Casually, repeatedly emphasize my devout faith in conversation.
“The beauty of the Roman Curia truly can't be matched by any other land.”
“Haha... The Apostolic Palace itself is a work of art.”
Construction and renovations had continued since Pope Nicholas V in the 15th century. Naturally, the Renaissance's greatest talents—Michelangelo, Raphael, names that rang out on their own—had adorned its interiors. Amid priceless artworks and relics from Catholic saints that radiated holiness, I lavished praise.
“A martyr's altar. What an honor to see Saint Benedict's actual relics, our patron saint.”
The famous Saint Benedict, protector of farmers, monks, students—a popular guardian saint and founder of the Benedictine Order. In modern terms, it was like folk religion. Much like Guan Yu worship in Taoism, Catholics enshrined famous patron saints at home for prayer. Canonization was the process of petitioning the Church to recognize a worthy Catholic as a saint upon death; papal approval made it official.
Seeing me geek out over Catholicism like a true fanatic, the Ragusa Archbishop looked pleased. Unlike the current hardliner Pope Paul IV, he was kind and approachable—a social butterfly who instantly clocked my desire to get close.
“In my student days, I too kept a statue of Saint Benedict and was saved from the devil.”
“What a wonderful story.”
The 59-year-old archbishop smiled faintly, lost in memories of his youth. We arrived at the room. I scanned the interior, then turned to him.
“Thank you so much for escorting me personally.”
“If anything's amiss or you need something, just say the word.”
He smiled, made the sign of the cross. I mirrored him, then bowed slightly in thanks. Finally alone, I sighed and stared blankly around the room.
“Now the question is how to play this...”
Mountains beyond mountains. I sank into thought on my next moves. Paul IV, the hardliner—delivering the letter to him posed no issue. My real headache was the peace treaty with France. No solid plan for dealing with those arrogant French bastards. Sure, I'd studied statecraft in Vienna since reincarnating here... but book learning wasn't the same as hands-on diplomacy between nations. One wrong clownish move in front of them, and it'd bite Spain diplomatically. I had zero intention of that, so I racked my brains for ways to steer things Spain's way.
“Ugh...”
My bald head hit its limit. As I stewed, a knock came—likely everyone unpacking. The first to visit would be my steward, Isabel. I approached the door.
“Steward Isabel here. May I enter?”
“Of course, Señora. Come in.”
At my permission, the Swiss Guard opened the door. Since Paul III, the papal guard had exclusively been Swiss. They now protected visiting nobles too. European palaces often allowed personal guards, but not in the Papal States—the Pope's turf. So Swiss Guards stood at my door, handling it for me.
“How's Rome treating you, Steward?”
“It's wonderful. The whole city feels like a living artwork.”
Her usual cool demeanor cracked with a slight smile, swept up in Rome's romance. A Moor by blood, converted from Islam to Christianity, she had that elf skin overlay. Stunningly beautiful. Her smile eased my tension.
“Something troubling you?”
“No. By the way, where are the others quartered?”
“All to the west wing.”
“Hmm...”
Unlike me in the east near the Pope, they were west. As the only royal here, maybe that explained my solo placement... but it felt oddly isolating. Like they were watching me. No reason for the papal side to suspect me, per my memories—why act this way? Regardless, no plans today. Time for fresh air.
“Steward, do you know the Duke of Medina Sidonia's room?”
“Security keeps it undisclosed. But the Guard should know.”
Tight security, as poison and assassinations plagued the era—even here. The Church fretted over diplomatic fallout if a foreign noble died on their soil.
“Understood. I'm going sightseeing. Care to join, Steward?”
“I'd be delighted.”
She curtsied lightly by lifting her skirt hem. We left, and I addressed my door guard.
“I seek the Duke of Medina Sidonia's room. Know where?”
“I'll escort you.”
He led us to a western annex. The duke had brought a massive entourage—his room rivaled mine, a king's. More Guards outside. I stated my business to his.
“Tell the Duke Count Don Juan calls.”
“Right away.”
The guard knocked, announced me. Out came the duke—already in casual clothes for bed, looking adorably boyish.
“Forgive my rudeness, Count Don Juan.”
Apologizing first for his informal attire, the cute duke. I waved it off.
“Nonsense, Duke. I came to discuss our prior chat.”
“You mean...”
Alonso pondered, then grinned, recalling Madrid.
“Gelato for real?”
“Yes. Hard for me to guide, so I'll borrow the archbishop's help.”
The Ragusa Archbishop had offered aid before we parted. Time to deepen ties—and fulfill my promise to this young duke.
“Ah, that cardinal.”
“Exactly, Duke.”
“I'll prepare at once.”
“No rush.”
But excited Alonso acted every bit the 8-year-old, ready in a flash. His summoned aide and steward trailed, bewildered.
“Shall we?”
The beaming young duke proposed. I nodded and followed.
“Let's.”
Diplomacy with France loomed tomorrow. Before that, bonding with Medina Sidonia—and some fresh air—were in order.