If the past is tampered with, the present might be totally transformed. So the whole fabric of reality depends on the watchful efforts of the Society of Time. Don Miguel Navarro is a junior officer in this force dedicated to defending the Spanish Empire and the mother church from the results of meddling in history by time-travellers. But he begins to wonder just how dedicated the Society really is when he has to deal with a case of corruption involving fellow officers . . . After he has to rescue the entire court from death at the hands of Amazon warriors brought through time, his greatest trial becomes unavoidable. Facing a threat to the most vulnerable event in his world's history, can the young Don prevent catastrophe? Or will the glorious triumph of the Spanish Armada never have occurred? (First published 1969)
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
232
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Don Miguel Navarro, Licentiate in Ordinary of the Society of Time and loyal subject of His Most Catholic Majesty Philip IX,
Rey y Imperador, dodged into a quiet alcove leading off the great hall and breathed a sigh of relief. He had arrived at the party less than
an hour before, and already he was wondering how soon he could inconspicuously slip away.
He felt worse than merely disappointed. He felt he’d been cheated.
He had stood in his lodgings a few days ago with an invitation in each hand, wondering which to accept. This whole year of
1988 was one long celebration, of course; since January, balls, parties and festivities galore had been held to mark the four
hundredth anniversary of the conquest of England by the mighty Spanish Armada—that key event of history which had saved the
Empire from vanishing off the face of the Earth when its homeland was once more overrun by the forces of Islam. Don Miguel was getting rather tired of these affairs, but it was socially wrong to turn down all the invitations.
One of the pair he’d had to choose between on this occasion was from the Alcalde of the Municipality of Jorque, who promised
clowns, jugglers and a grand pyrotechnical display. Commonplace. He had never been to an official reception in this particular
city—in fact, he had only visited Jorque two or three times before—but he doubted whether it would amount to more than a poor
copy of what he’d seen in Londres and New Madrid.
The other invitation had a great sprawling signature across the bottom, which could with some difficulty be deciphered as
“Catalina di Jorque.” And that was what had persuaded him. The Marquesa di Jorque’s reputation was not confined to the north
of England. She had been a famous beauty in her twenties and thirties; having lost her looks at about the same time as she
lost her husband, but having inherited his considerable wealth, she had set up as a successful society hostess and well-known
campaigner for female emancipation.
Don Miguel regarded himself as a man of modern and enlightened views. He saw no reason why women should be barred by prejudice
from fields traditionally reserved for men, such as philosophy and law. Consequently, feeling rather honoured to have been
singled out, he tossed the Alcalde’s invitation into the wastebasket and accepted the Marquesa’s.
And if things were going to continue as they had up to now, by the end of the evening he’d have turned into a hide-bound reactionary.
Damn the Marquesa!
It wasn’t only the embarrassing experience of being shown off around the hall by her—as it were, a real live time-traveller,
exclamation point, in the same tone of voice as one would say, “A real live tiger!” That happened too often for members of the Society of Time not to have grown used to it; there were,
after all, fewer than a thousand of them in the whole of the Empire.
No, his annoyance had a subtler basis. The invitation had referred to “a small gathering of intelligent people,” and that
was what he had expected. He preferred good conversation to all the clowns and fireworks in the world. But the gathering wasn’t
small. There were upwards of four hundred people, including clerics, philosophers both pure and natural, musicians, poets,
artists and many more.
And they all seemed to be somehow second-rate.
They were a wide enough cross-section, granted. As well as leading lights of Northern English society, he had been presented
to visitors from New Castile, on the other side of the Atlantic, all of whom reminded him in silky voices that the Prince
of New Castile was the Commander of the Society of Time, except for those who wore the sleek black braids which indicated
Indian extraction—they reminded him that the Director of Fieldwork for the Society was a Mohawk. He had also met a couple
of fuddled Moors, obviously present as a concrete demonstration of the Marquesa’s enlightened tolerance, who had been persuaded
to take wine against the injunction of the Prophet and who were becoming very drunk. Don Miguel found that most distasteful.
Second-rate, the lot of them. Clearly the Marquesa’s reputation was founded on sand, and if she was the best spokesman—correction:
spokeswoman—for sexual equality who could be found in the northern provinces, then it was going to be a long, long time before
the movement made any headway!
At least, if Don Miguel Navarro had anything to do with it. He wondered again what chance there was of sneaking out of the house and finding his way to the venue of the Municipality’s reception. Rather their clowns than these clowns!
His glass was empty. Looking around for one of the slaves who were circulating continually among the throng with trays of
full ones, he caught the eye of a slender Guinea-girl with knowing eyes and active hips, and as he watched her move away after
exchanging his glass he sighed again. There were so many better ways of wasting time!
The sigh must have been too loud; there came a chuckle from near where he was standing, and a deep voice with a humorous edge
to it said, “Your honour is perhaps not accustomed to the Marquesa’s entertainments?”
Don Miguel half-turned, and found he was being addressed by a man of middle height, in a maroon cloak and white velvet breeches,
whose gingery hair was fastidiously dressed high on his head. There was something rather engaging in his freckled face.
Giving the semi-bow which etiquette demanded, he said, “Miguel Navarro. Indeed, it’s the first time I’ve been to one of these
affairs. I’m not a very frequent visitor to Jorque.”
“Arcimboldo Ruiz,” said the freckled man. “You’re the time-traveller, aren’t you?”
Dispiritedly, Don Miguel admitted the charge. Don Arcimboldo gave another chuckle, tinged this time with sympathy.
“I can imagine what Catalina has been putting you through! It’s always the same when she manages to inveigle a celebrity into
attending one of these parties—the poor fellow gets trundled around from group to group while she basks in her moment of reflected
glory. Right?”
“Only too right,” Don Miguel muttered.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if she also had the grace to advise strangers of the best technique for surviving her receptions. Or maybe she can’t. Maybe she doesn’t know it herself.”
“It would appear that you do,” Don Miguel said. “At any rate, you seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“Oh, I am! You see, I’ve known Catalina a long time, and I’m no longer misled by her—what can one term them?—intellectual
pretensions, perhaps. As you’ve probably worked out for yourself by now, with the best will in the world one can’t avoid saying
that she’s over-confident of her own talents. Accordingly one must ignore the wild promises she makes about the fabulous and
wonderful guests one’s going to encounter here, and concentrate on the genuine advantages—excellent food and occasionally
miraculous wine. And if one does run into an interesting stranger, one treats that purely as a bonus.”
Don Miguel’s face twisted into his crooked smile—always crooked, thanks to a certain Greek hoplite on the plains of Macedonia.
“I’d arrived at the same conclusion,” he admitted. “Yet it seemed to me improbable. How could all these people be deceived
about her for so long?”
Picking a luscious-looking cake off a tray borne by a passing slave, Don Arcimboldo gave a shrug. “How many of them are ‘deceived’?
Would you be deceived the second time you were sent one of Catalina’s invitations? No, I think most of us are here to amuse
ourselves rather than our hostess. But it costs little to play up to her in return—a few minutes’ flattery will generally
suffice, after which one is left to one’s own devices.”
“That,” Don Miguel said from the bottom of his heart, “is a relief.”
At that moment, however, another slave—the Marquesa di Jorque was wealthy, and had perhaps a hundred in her household—came
searching through the crowd: this time a tall Guinea-man who towered above the heads of the guests. Catching sight of Don Miguel, he broke off his hunt and hurried
over.
“Her ladyship requests the pleasure of your honour’s company,” he informed Don Miguel with a low bow, then straightened and
stood like an ebony statue awaiting an answer.
Pulling a wry face at Don Arcimboldo, Don Miguel muttered, “I thought you said one might look forward to being left to one’s
own devices?”
Ruefully Don Arcimboldo spread his hands. “It’s not quite the same in your case, is it? After all, there’s something very
special about a man who has travelled in time.”
“I—ah—I don’t suppose I could tell him to go back and say he can’t find me?” Don Miguel suggested hopefully.
“It wouldn’t be fair. He’d incur a bout of Catalina’s wrath, which can be both spectacular and public. The poor fellow would
probably spend the night in chains.”
“You mean her egalitarian views don’t extend beyond women and Moors?”
“No. Not by a very long way.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Don Miguel grunted. “Oh well, I suppose I’d better comply.” He tossed back the last of his
drink, and as he turned to follow the slave added formally to Don Arcimboldo, “This meeting has much honoured me. May we meet
again.”
“The honour is mine. May we meet again.”
The Marquesa was standing under a bower of hot-house creepers trained on silver branches, deep in conversation with two men.
One of them Don Miguel recognised: Father Peabody, whose official post was that of a clerk to the Archbishop of Jorque but
who was commonly known as “her ladyship’s chaplain”. People whispered unkind speculations about his function in her household.
The other was a stranger to him.
“Ah, Don Miguel!” exclaimed the Marquesa when he halted before her, and flashed a look that had probably laid her suitors
low in swathes when she was twenty years younger. “I trust that I have not dragged you away at an untimely juncture! But we
are speaking of a difficult problem, and would welcome your expert opinion. Let Don Marco propose the matter to you.”
She gestured at the man Don Miguel did not know, a foppish person in a moss-green cloak and yellow breeches, whose sword-hilt was so heavily encrusted with jewels it was obvious
the weapon was not intended for use but only show. He uttered his name in a high goat-like bleat.
“Marco Villanova, your honour!”
“Miguel Navarro,” said Don Miguel briefly. “What is this problem of yours?”
“We were disputing regarding the private lives of the great, Don Miguel. It is my contention—indeed, reason demands it!—that
the greatness of individuals must be manifest as much in their private as in their public lives.”
“We spoke, in particular, of Julius Caesar,” said Father Peabody, rubbing his hands on the front of his long black cassock.
“There is a man whose greatness is not in dispute, I venture to claim.”
He spoke with a broad flat local accent, and bobbed his head humbly after every other word as though over-conscious of his
inferior social status.
“Well, as to Caesar,” said Don Miguel, a little more snappishly than he had intended because he was so irritated at being
sent for on such a petty excuse, “I can give you accurate information. As it happens, I’ve spoken to him. I found him to be
a perfumed fop. In his youth, he was guilty of abominations with men, and in his maturity his promiscuous behaviour was such
that the gossip of all Rome centred on it. If this was greatness in his private life, you may maintain so; I would not.”
Don Marco flushed and drew back half a pace, with a sidelong glance at the Marquesa. “It does not seem fitting to speak of
such matters in the hearing of a lady!” he exclaimed.
“Kindly refrain from blaming me—blame rather Caesar himself,” Don Miguel answered frigidly. “Her ladyship asked my expert opinion, and I’ve given it. History is an impartial force, Don Marco; it has no patience with those dabblers who
prefer to turn aside from what displeases them, and it’s full of unpleasant but inescapable facts.”
Don Marco’s flush deepened still further, and—after a moment’s debate with herself—the Marquesa gave an emphatic nod.
“Indeed, Don Marco, Don Miguel is perfectly correct to say this. It is the fruit of a false prejudice which has led to us
women being sheltered and pampered and, not to mince words, lied to about the nature of the world! It suits the interests of overweening men to invest us with a weakness we don’t possess!”
She raised her sharp eyes to Don Miguel’s face, and heaved a sigh. “But that we have in our midst a man who has spoken with
Caesar! Is it not miraculous?”
“We of the Society of Time do not regard it as such,” Don Miguel answered, already regretting that he had made his little
boast. “It’s an application of natural laws, nothing more. A miracle, perhaps, would be to discover a means of flying to the
moon. No one has yet suggested how that might be accomplished.”
“With—with respect, Don Miguel!” said Father Peabody, bobbing his round head in which his eyes were even rounder. “How was
it possible for you to talk with Caesar? I understood, if you will pardon me, that the rules of your Society forbid interference, and limit the activity
of time-travellers to simple observation!”
I knew I shouldn’t have opened my mouth in this kind of company…
The thought flickered across Don Miguel’s mind and left a trail of self-directed irritation. But it was too late now to do
other than answer the cleric’s sharp question. Anyway, the published data on the Society’s investigation of Rome themselves
implied how the trick was worked, and a truly astute man would not have needed to inquire.
He said wearily, “I assure you, Father, the rules are most strictly adhered to. It does not, however, constitute interference
if a notable historical personage utters words he would have uttered anyway in the hearing of a person he does not know and
will naturally never meet again. Does that make the method clear?”
Father Peabody gave a succession of vigorous nods, and there was a short silence. The Marquesa broke it at last.
“I may be only a poor stupid woman,” she said, and paused, as though waiting for automatic contradiction. Not getting it,
she shot a venomous glare at Father Peabody but was forced to continue.
“To me,” she resumed, “it seems that interference with the past is out of the question. What was, was! How can it be changed
by our intervention?”
Don Miguel repressed a desire to scowl even more fiercely than she had just done. For all her vaunted intellectual accomplishments,
the Marquesa had framed a question which no fifteen-year-old schoolboy of average intelligence would have wasted breath on.
He would have been taught the answer in class, or pieced it together himself from items in the news. Indeed, even Don Marco—who
did not strike Don Miguel as exceptionally bright—showed visible surprise at hearing it.
“The basic arguments, my lady,” Don Miguel said reluctantly, “are rather a matter for speculative philosophers than for a
pragmatic person like myself. But I have some conception of them, and if you wish I’ll try and elucidate.”
A shadow of discomfort, as though caused by the realisation that she had let herself in for some heavy brainwork, crossed the Marquesa’s face. But she composed herself and adopted an
expression of polite interest.
“Do so, if you will,” she murmured.
“Very well.” Don Miguel hesitated, trying to cast his thoughts into words suitable for her. “To begin with, there are, are
there not, in history certain crucial turning-points? Yet each of these in turn was composed of the sum of vast numbers of
individual acts and attitudes, and it’s rare that we can fine down any event in history to the point of being able to attribute
it to one unique causative factor. The majority stem from such a wide spectrum of influences that we cannot grasp the entire
range—effectively, therefore, we must regard them as random. The fall of Rome, for instance, was not only due to the invasion
of a barbarian horde; it was also due to decadence among the Romans which prevented them from offering much resistance.”
The Marquesa nodded. She was beginning to frown, but Don Miguel continued on the assumption that she was not yet out of her
depth.
“This vast flow, or stream, of events tending towards a crisis might be compared, in one sense, to a river. The presence or
absence of a single pebble on the river’s bed will make no significant difference to the course of the waters, and no detectable
difference to the level along the bank. Detectable or not, however, it is a difference—a priori! Therefore one may also compare the time-flow to an avalanche. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that something done
by a visitor from the future might serve to stay the first stone that triggered the landslide, and thus turn history into
another course. If that happened, we might rule ourselves out of existence! One key idea planted in the mind of a Roman of the year 300 might, for all we are able to predict, result in the defeat of Alaric and the survival of the Roman
Empire!”
“I’m fa. . .
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