Grantville Gazette 46

The Duelist, A Continuation of the Euterpe Stories

Magdeburg

October 1635

Giacomo Carissimi closed the front door behind himself, and began to take his coat off.

"Is that you, Jude?"

The sound of his wife's voice calling out her nickname for him still stirred a warmth in him. Elizabeth Jordan had not been married to him long. Her deceased husband Fred had died in March of this year, and it had taken her some time to deal with her grief, wrap up the family's affairs in Grantville and relocate with her children to Magdeburg. They had, in fact, been married for only two weeks. And it was still the joy of Giacomo's life to wake each morning and find her in bed beside him.

"Yes, it is me," he responded, hanging his coat on a peg in the wall next to the door. It looked to be a hard winter coming. It was already getting cold enough in October to warrant heavy coats. And being originally from Rome, Giacomo was already not very comfortable in cold weather.

"Papa Giacomo!" Elizabeth's daughter Leah came running down the stairs to the second floor. She ran over and threw her arms around him, giving him the most ferocious hug her seven-year-old arms could manage.

"Bella mia!" Giacomo said with a smile, ruffling her hair.

"Go finish your homework," Elizabeth said as she walked into the room. "Supper will be a while yet."

"Okay." Leah bounced back up the stairs as Elizabeth handed something to Giacomo.

"What's this?"

"Duh. It's a letter, silly."

Giacomo looked at it. It was indeed addressed to him, with a Grantville postmark. But who would be writing a letter to him?"

"I have no idea," Elizabeth said, which made Giacomo realize he must have spoken out loud. "Why don't you open it?"

He ripped open the up-time style envelope, extracted the pages, and began to read. "It's from Johannes Fichtold! Why would Girolamo's journeyman be writing to me?"

"Come read it to me while I finish putting supper together."

Giacomo followed Elizabeth to the room they used for dining. Leaning against the door frame, he shuffled the pages and began reading out loud at the beginning while Elizabeth began placing dishes and bowls on the table.

To Master Giacomo Carissimi

Magdeburg, USE

From Johannes Fichtold

Grantville, USE

Second day of October, in our Lord's year 1635

Esteemed Master Giacomo,

Please pardon this letter, but the matter involved is much too complicated to discuss by telegraph, even if a certain amount of secrecy was not warranted.

As you know, Master Girolamo Zenti, your friend and my craftmaster, does from time to time go on long trips to different areas. During these trips, he searches for sources of supplies and parts for pianos, as well as seeking to make contacts to develop purchasers for the pianos we construct. He left a few weeks ago on such a trip, leaving me in charge of the house and the workshop.

One night I woke up at the sound of someone in the main living room of the house. It was very late or very early, whichever way you want to think of it. I could hear steps coming and going from Master Girolamo's room, so curiously and a bit anxiously I got up to go check.

When I entered the room I found Master Girolamo just closing a couple of saddle bags. His clothes were dirty, his boots muddy, his face unshaven, and he clearly did not take good care of his personal hygiene. He smelled bad. I was quite taken aback by seeing him in that bad shape.

"What is going on?" I asked. "In what kind of trouble are you? Running from a zealous father or a jealous husband?" You see, I know the master well.

He whispered tiredly, "I wish. I hid for the past four nights and I was able to sneak to the house only now. But I cannot stay. I need to leave Grantville and Germany altogether."

"Why? What happened?"

"Long story short, I killed a man. It was done honorably, in a duel, in front of seconds and accordingly to the rules of honor that regulate these things. But I doubt his family and the law will consider this. They are already starting to look for me, to hunt me, and if either catches me, the outcome for Girolamo won't be that good. In one case I can end up losing my head to the ax, or be thrown in a very unhealthy gaol for some time. In the other, well, I guess bleeding slowly to death in a back alley is what I can expect."

"I do not understand. I mean if you won in a regular duel, would not that count?" I said.

"Oh, the fact the duel was carried out according to customs helped me not being killed by my rival's seconds, but it still remains illegal, and my rival's family is not satisfied. They want revenge, and they are out for blood-mine, specifically. That is not uncommon. Even in Italy, too many times a duel leads to a blood feud. It is best for everyone if I leave, and the less you know the less you have to lie for me when they ask you where I am gone."

"How did that happened? Who did you kill?"

Master Girolamo sighed. "All right, if you want to know the whole story, please go fetch us some wine while I finish packing. Then I will sit down a few minutes and tell you everything. Go, don't look at me like that!"

I came back to the room shortly carrying a carafe full of wine and two cups. Master Girolamo was sitting on an armchair right under the sconce. He seemed a bit more relaxed under the flickering light of the candles. When I gave him the cup he took it in both hands and drank fully and deeply, then looked at me and started telling me his story.

"I was in Nordhausen, for business. Christian Schenk von Tautenberg contacted me some time ago because he wanted to order two instruments for his new wife; one a harpsichord and one a wall piano for his music room. We agreed to meet in Nordhausen, because he was inspecting properties in the area his family had just inherited. The negotiations went well, and we signed a contract. I left with some silver as earnest money for the instruments. Plus, I also managed to meet two local craftsmen I decided to hire to help produce the felt punchings we need in the new pianos."

I nodded. "Production bottlenecks," as the Grantvillers call them, were becoming a common issue for many craftsmen in the area, with supply unable to sustain the demand of many goods. It was good that Master Girolamo had found some help.

"And having killed two birds with a single stone, I decided to celebrate in the best tavern in town. A place recommended to me by the craftsmen. I was expecting good food, good drink, possibly good company, and instead the fates had planned something entirely different for me."

"So now you are being very dramatic, master, but your bait is good and you got me hooked. What happened at the tavern?" Master Girolamo always tells a good story, you know. I was hanging on the edge of my chair.

"Initially, nothing happened. I was there eating and talking about trivial matters with one of the artisans I connected with that day-my treat. I will warn you that the taverns of Nordhausen have a Branntwein that should be called fool-killer. One glass and you are a fool. Two glasses and you are so numb you will probably be dead the next morning."

"So how many glasses did you drink?" I asked.

"Half of one, and that probably led to what happened next. I was getting annoyed by the very loud noises coming from a table nearby where a group of youths were eating and, well, being particularly exuberant. I do not usually mind similar habits. God only knows that when you are in your early twenties that is the time to behave foolishly. Hell, maybe five years ago I would have asked to join. But this time this group of young and very well-dressed youngsters was being a little too political for my tastes."

"What do you mean?"

"They started attacking the Piazza government of Thuringia and Franconia, and Mike Stearns, and, well, insulting almost everyone in Grantville, saying that they were subverting things and destroying the natural order of things. I guess that is all right-I mean, probably a good portion of the Germans think the same, the ones who did not take advantage of the opportunities brought forth by the Ring of Fire. However, when they started insulting the working classes, our fellow Americans, and consequently every foreigner in Grantville, I reacted."

Uh-oh, I thought. "And that did not end well, I guess?"

"That is correct. I started chastising them, but you know my German is coarse and my accent is thick. And I was feeling the Branntwein a bit. Before long I did realize I was just fanning the flames instead of putting them out. I was about to go back to my place and try to ignore all the noise, when the leader of the group asked me where I was from. When he learned I was from Roma, he started raving about me being the lackey of the pope and the cardinals and other, notgentlemanly things. He had also had more Branntwein than he needed, because he was slurring his words. But then he repeated slowly, making sure everyone around could hear, that he was Franz Jure Vorhauer, that he was connected to Graf Wolfgang III von Mansfeld, that his ancestors loved visiting Rome in 1527 and his house is still full of souvenirs from that visit. Then he stated that he and I must be cousins, because he is pretty sure his great-grandfather paid my great-grandmother in a brothel in Roma and left her begging for more."

Master Girolamo drank some wine, then continued, "Now, seeing that I was with someone from the working class, and not exactly looking like a dashing swordsman, I can only imagine he did this thinking I would leave the place fearing violent consequences if I reacted to his words. That is usually how duels are started, you know, by someone underestimating the consequence of their actions. But I did not cower in fear. I took the left glove out of my hand and I slapped him hard with it. I should have known better. Me, a foreign visitor, very likely a commoner, challenging him to a duel in a public place, in front of his friends. I left him with only two choices, none good, because one of us would have ended up hurt. He could have conjured with his friends to have me beaten for daring such a thing; or he could have accepted the duel thinking it would be an easy thing to finish. I saw the same thoughts passing in front of his eyes. The temptation to simply attack me there on the tavern floor quickly vanished and he accepted meeting me at dawn to settle things. In a way I got lucky, because it is not unheard of for a foe to be murdered by his rival's friends just before the duel. He had the advantage of numbers and did not know I carry a revolver. They could have attacked me in a back alley out of the tavern and I am not sure I'd be here to tell the story. Still, surviving the first confrontation left me with a big quandary to solve."

"And that was?" I asked.

"Well, in Germany duel customs and traditions vary significantly from town to town. I was not sure what I should have done for the day after. I was also missing some worthy seconds. That detail alone might have invalidated the duel with no one to back my cause; and besides, it would have been very dangerous."

"More dangerous than a duel?"

"Oh, Mary Mother of God, of course it is! You should know these things. Seconds are crucial." Girolamo was exasperated, I could tell. He put his glass down and counted on his fingers. "They make sure both parties respect the rules. They make sure you do not get stabbed while removing your coat; or attacked on the way to the duel by a party of hired cutthroats. They also serve as witnesses that you acted honorably. And, finally, they protect you if the other seconds decide to join the fray if they are not able to stay still and do nothing while their friend fights. No seconds means putting your life completely in the hands of the other party. No one is so trusting, not even among men of honor."

"So how did you find the seconds you needed?"

"In the oldest way in the world, I guess," he replied. "I paid them. And they were not cheap. Dueling is 'officially' illegal, and the fact that I really did not know anyone in town did not help. It basically took me all night, but I finally found a couple of retired soldiers that needed some extra support and were not squeamish to take part in a risky endeavor. Plenty of them all over the place if you know where to look, with this war that has been going on and off for so long. They weren't gentlemen or famous fencers, but I guess they knew how to use those sharp irons they carried with them."

"So you did make it in time?"

Master Girolamo picked up his wine glass again. "Barely. The dueling place was near a small mill a few miles outside of the walls, hidden from the main road by a small row of poplars. We had to move fast to get there in time. When we arrived we found the young man who challenged me, his two seconds and a surgeon. They were all ready and the event seemed quite formal. Of that I was happy; the more formal the setting, the less chances of surprises. These people seemed willing to play by the rules."

"That was good for you," I said. "But you still ended up having to run. What happened?"

"Well, as I said, I was a foreigner in a foreign land, and about to fight an important local. I needed to win fast and leave no doubt I played clean and without any trick. The more prolonged the duel, the harder it would be to prove I dominated it. I hoped I was about to fight someone untrained, cocky, and inexperienced, someone who would have attacked me blindly. Someone easy to dispatch."

"I take it that was not the case?" I responded.

"No. As soon as we crossed swords, I knew I was dealing with someone who knew what he was doing. Fencing is both an art and a science. In a way, it is a dialogue between two people, almost like playing music together. I tested him, tried to dominate his blade, closed at a distance when I could strike and tried a false attack. When he did not panic or react without composure but simply parried and riposted knowing my attack was false, I knew he knew the tune and could play along with me. He was well trained in the German style, so he made lateral steps much more than we are used to down in the peninsula, and he used many more cuts than what I consider healthy, but he knew what he was doing, and that was both terrifying and exhilarating."

"Why so?"

"Well, because being able to fence with someone good, keeping up a conversation with very high stakes is a testament to the art. But I also knew then that if I made a mistake-and I am human, it could happen-there would be very little ground to correct it. In the end, I guess God loved me best, because the mistake was his, and I got the opportunity I wanted. It happened so quickly I am still surprised it ended that fast."

"Can you explain?"

"Sure." Master Girolamo stood up and looked around, beckoning to me to get to my feet. "Johannes, are those walking sticks we found in the house still behind that enormous piece of furniture they call a 'lazy boy'?"

When I nodded he walked there and picked two sticks, giving me one. "Now imagine you are him," he said, and placed himself in front of me. "We were in what fencers call a misura larga, which is simply the distance from your opponent in which you can touch him with a lunge. It is a very dangerous place, where you do not want to stay too much, because the more you stay there the more are the chances you will get wounded or killed and vice versa. Better be a bit more distant and safer."

Girolamo extended his arm with his stick and let stay it a little out of the line of his body. "I did something even riskier at this point, what we would call an 'invitation' as my arm was not protecting my right flank and the center of my body; I was basically baiting him to attack there. I was not truly expecting him to attack, because he should have known I was setting a trap. I was expecting a false attack followed by a true lunge somewhere else, and I was ready to parry the true attack with my dagger. Instead he went ahead and simply lunged in the area I left unprotected. I do not know what he was thinking. When he lunged," he signaled me to do it, "in the time it took for his point to arrive close to my body, I had all the time to parry with the shell of my sword and place my point right at his throat like this." I felt the point of the stick right at the base of my neck, a few fingers below my Adam's apple. "Then I moved my rear foot back, brought my torso forward and my sword went through the base of his neck all the way. He was unconscious before hitting the ground, and died shortly thereafter. There was nothing the surgeon could do. Such a shame."

"You feel sorry about it, don't you?" I asked, lowering the cane.

"Of course I do. No one sane of mind likes taking a human life, especially like this. It should have not happened."

"Why?"

"Because at the core of fencing is the art of defense, the skill of hitting someone without being hit back. There was no way he could have lunged so openly without being hit. He took a chance. And he could only have won if I had fallen asleep, because any trained swordsman who is fully awake could have stopped his attack without blinking. What a waste. This is fencing; you do not take those chances."

"It is almost like you regret it. Maybe there is some good quality in you after all."

"Oh don't get me wrong, I am glad to be alive, glad to be running while his body is probably in the ground now. And I know it sounds stupid, because, after all, I was there to kill him. I just wish. . I just wish he had not wasted his life so foolishly."

"And then what happened?"

"Oh, then things started going downhill pretty fast. The surgeon no sooner declared Vorhauer dead than one of the seconds jumped onto his horse and rode belly down toward town. I knew then I had to leave and fast. It took me four days to make it back here. I mostly rode at night on back roads and across fields. I imagine his family pressed charges against me and I am surprised no agents have showed up yet; they knew my name and the fact I was coming from Grantville. This is why, Johannes, I have to run now. You never saw me."

"Where are you going now?"

"I won't tell you now." Master Girolamo got up, picked up the few personal objects left to pack and began stuffing them in his pack. "However one of the things I learned from the Americans is that in a crisis there is also deep opportunity. And I learned about the Risorgimento, the resurgence. Interesting people would live in the peninsula 200 years from now according to the stories of another universe. So I guess it is time we find another Garibaldi and Mazzini." He grinned.

"For now I will cross the Alps and then we will see. There are plenty of good causes to be picked back in Italy. If Germany can become one under the Americans, we can't let them have all the fun. You never know, you may hear about me sooner than you expect," he said and then started singing some uptime lyrics.

O mia Patria, si bella e perduta!

O remembranza si cara e fatal!

Still humming the motive of this aria, Master Girolamo gave me a rough embrace and left the house. Riding into the sunset the Americans would say. Of course, that night it was more like riding into the moonset.

Yesterday I received an anonymous letter with a very familiar handwriting that said Master Girolamo was across the Alps.

Before he departed, Master Girolamo left instructions on how to handle the company and the rest of the investments. And I now know where to send the dividends, which, based on the orders we have in hand, should be significant.

Master Girolamo also said I should inform you of what occurred as soon as I knew that he was safe, and that every communication to him will have to be addressed to Giuseppe Verdi. Witness that this letter accomplishes that.

Please let me know if there is anything I should do for either you or Master Girolamo.

With the greatest respect,

Johannes Fichtold

Giacomo lowered the pages. "Girolamo, Girolamo, always a bit too ready with the point and the edge. And once again you are leaving everything behind while you ride away from trouble."

He looked up to see Elizabeth looking at him. "Did I ever tell you how he came to join me on my quest to Grantville?"

Elizabeth smile. "More than once. I guess once a duelist, always a duelist."

"Maybe so," Giacomo said. "Maybe so. But I fear for whomever will try to stop that gentleman. Or maybe we need to learn to call him Verdi."

Elizabeth laughed, looked around, and said, "Everything's ready. Let's eat." She went to call the children.

Giacomo folded the letter and tucked it in an inner pocket of his doublet. He then crossed himself and muttered a quick prayer for the safety of his friend. "Not that I doubt his ability to keep himself safe, you understand," he said at the end of the prayer. "But as many risks as he takes, he could use some extra protection."

He crossed himself again as the children ran in.