Ruy paused a moment, turning the new phrase over in his mind. "No, Doctor Nichols," he said. "We have operational bragging, instead. I intend to take advantage. By your leave, Doctor Ambassador wife of mine?"
"Be careful, Ruy," she said, "and try to make it to the rendezvous by dusk, please."
Chapter 34
Rome
As he watched the citizenry of Rome panic and run in circles and other geometric forms beyond even the wit of Pythagoras, Ruy decided that there was no profit to be made in hurrying about this matter. A man hurrying, in these streets on this day, was apt to be considered about military business. One side would demand of him that he attend to the defense, and the other that he make himself busy in the attack. He could, indeed, legitimately claim to be too old to trouble with either, further that he was not gainfully employed by either side and in conclusion that he had duties to a power not party to the conflict, to wit, his new and most delightful wife. However, the question was better avoided by simply pretending a calm disinterest and attracting no attention.
It would, naturally, not do to proceed straight to the Borgo to visit again with the young Señor Stone. He had left there scarcely two hours before, by the watch on his wrist. Consulting the thing, he realized that removing it and placing it in a pocket would be wise. He would variously have to pass for an out-of-town Italian or a Spaniard unattached to the invading forces. A timepiece not notably available to either group would be a telltale. And, while he was about it, the up-time firearms would have to go into his saddlebags.
The first order of business, then, would be to scout the approach of his countrymen—and the assorted Castilians, Aragonese, Andalusians, Italians, Germans and whatever other mercenaries had rounded out the attacking forces. The obvious approach would have been along the unimaginatively-named Via Ostiensis. Around the city wall would be quicker, but through the city itself would glean more information. He would not have to leave Rome for another few hours, and so through the city seemed the best approach. He urged his horse to a trot. It was a gelding he had selected for characteristics suggesting stamina, but otherwise undistinguished.
Were it not for the cacophony of the bells and the occasional party of persons in a state of panic, it would be a fine morning for a gentle promenade through the city. Indeed, had events not intervened, he would have suggested as much to Sharon. The sun was bright enough for everything to seem clear and fresh, it was too early in the year to be copiously dusty, the thin overcast took much of the fire from the sun without interfering with the blue of the sky overhead, and the streets were quiet as Monday mornings were apt to be.
Twice, as he proceeded through the ancient Palatine, he saw bands of local volunteers erecting barricades. He wished them luck, although doubtless they would need little. A small detachment to ensure that they did not remain loose in the Spanish rear and the main force would simply pass around them to the targets farther on in the city. It was, perhaps, the attackers' intention to cross the river a little downstream of the city proper and approach their more likely targets along the right bank of the Tiber. Much, of course, depended on how well-found for crossing-points the attackers were downstream of the city. Sanchez had not, himself, troubled to reconnoiter the matter, seeing no particular need before today.
It became clear, some few minutes later, that the intent was to use the city's own bridges to procure access to the Vatican across the Tiber. Wishing to use the Via Ostiensis, the advancing army had remained on the left bank and ignored the ferries—time consuming—and ford—likewise—that they had doubtless passed as they marched. Rome itself was much supplied with bridges and the Spanish commander would surely have a realistic appreciation of the pitiful opposition he would face.
Arriving at the Piazza di Porta San Paolo, Sanchez paid himself the small wager he had made. Sitting his horse at the inner side of the piazza, he could see that a group of volunteers, under the direction of what seemed to be a militia officer, was preparing a barricade across the gateway. As with many of the other gates in Rome's walls, it lacked an actual portal in the archway, and the small fortification that guarded it had been built in Caesar's time, from the look of the thing. Sanchez allowed perhaps half an hour for the defense to be reduced using only field pieces, if the opposing commander took a fool notion to do such a thing. Looking through the gate, Sanchez could see a tercio forming up some few hundred paces away. He could also see that the formation was being stuck together in a manner almost random, quite unlike the methodical efficiency practiced by most Italian condottieri. He mulled that for a moment. Either improvising in haste, or creating a distraction while the real assault proceeded to one of the many other gaps in Rome's walls. If that were so, then an assault on the defenders' rear would be arriving at any moment. Sanchez removed himself from the main street to a discreet position in a small alleyway.