To Father Thomas Fitzherbert SJ of the
Illustrissimus Collegium Anglicanum in Rome
From Maestro Giacomo Carissimi in
Thuringen Gardens, Grantville
August 1633
Very Reverend Father,
I am sorry it took so long to write you again, but a journey through Europe in these days is everything but short and comfortable. Only after I reached my final destination could I spend some time to tell you in detail of my adventures. I only hope your students and the other teachers at the collegium will forgive me for the time I steal from your primary duty. Hundreds of miles on the road can fill a lot of pages and break a courier's back!
I haven't received any letter from you yet, but I'm sure I will in the next weeks. After all the letter must cover the same distance I did and only the Americans seem capable of traveling faster than on horseback.
We arrived in Grantville last night and we are finally getting some rest from the fatigues of the trip. We are hosted in a brand-new inn that is more clean and comfortable than any other place where we have slept in the past weeks. We may also dare to pay a visit to the bathhouse and enjoy the too often neglected pleasures of hot water and soap. Soon maybe we will enjoy some of amenities of the twentieth century.
This town is so different from any other I've visited, so unique that it would take too much time to describe even my first impressions, but I promise to carry out this task in my future letters.
Today, as soon as we arrived we paid a short visit to the local church, but we plan to introduce ourselves in a more polite and thorough way to Father Mazzarre, Grantville's parish priest. Our goal is to make a good impression, but it's hard to have a respectable appearance so covered in mud and dirty as we were this morning.
We need also to start looking for a long-term accommodation. The town is crammed full, but I have the feeling that some American will help us.
As you have certainly noticed I said "we" and not just "I." Many things happened during this trip and I'm not alone here. Well, I think I'm confusing you, so I had better start from the beginning.
I left Rome very early on a hot day in June. It was the only possible way to avoid the traffic that jams the gates of the city when many people come from the countryside to sell their products.
As I told you in my previous letter, my travel companions were three German Jesuits all freshly graduated from the seminary and ready for their first assignment. The youngest of them, Matthias Kramer, was going to Innsbruck to teach in the local college. The other two, Dietrich Adler and Heinrich Schultheis, were directed to Wien, where the company has its headquarters for the Holy Roman Empire. Together with their servants, we had an armed escort of five horse arquebusiers detached from the papal cavalry. With their leader, the cavalier Ruggero Longari, they were remaining in Wien at the papal legation.
The coach we traveled in is a proof of the power and influence of your order, dear Father. It was entirely made of timber reinforced with bronze. Not only did it have glass windows and not just leather curtains, but six horses pulled it. Moreover the coach was provided, I have been told, with one of those new "swan neck" suspension systems that allows the wheels to make large turning movements and makes traveling easier for the passenger. Made to fit six to eight people, it was very conformable for just the four of us and I had planned to read as much as I could during the trip.
I brought with me a small library: a copy of Torquato Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered, that small but already so famous book titled Lo Statista Regnante written by Don Valeriano Castiglione, the two volumes of the Advancement of Learning by Francis Bacon, your recently printed translation of Turcellini's Life of Saint Francis Xavier. I found it very appropriate to bring along also a copy of Tacitus' Germania.
After all, Father, it is you who always said that reading a page or two in Latin every day keeps the mind keen and well trained. Unfortunately, as I will explain later, I didn't have many occasions to read.
Once you leave Rome, the Via Flaminia follows the Tiber valley for a few miles until Saxa Rubra where it begins its way among hilly countryside headed toward Civita. Many travelers, once on the top of the first hill, make a stop to rest in a place called Malborghetto. A very large inn has been built there, using the remains of a triumphal arc. The view from there is breathtaking. Under a blue summer sky, it looks like a Tiziano's landscape. One can see the whole Roman countryside and the last ridges of the Apennines surrounding it. Far in the background, one can see the whole of Rome and it is still possible to recognize some of its features like the Dome of Saint Peter, the cuppolone.
While we were relaxing under a pergola lazily eating food from a tray full of pears and pecorino, I saw a rider coming in haste up the road. He was somehow familiar, but only once he got closer could I recognize Girolamo Zenti. He was riding a very tall steed and was dressed like someone ready for a long trip. Thigh-high boots, a leather doublet, and a plumed large hat made him look very different from the artisan I met in his shop. The sword at his side and the two pistols on the saddle did nothing but reinforce the impression. My Girolamo looked like a dragoon!
Quite surprised, I began waving at him. I rose from the table to meet him along the way and I told him how startled I was to see him on the very same road.
"Well, Maestro, for the moment I can just say I had a change of mind. I will explain myself later, once it is possible to have some privacy. I'm happy to have found you so early. At the collegium, they told me you had left at dawn. Thank God you are not rushing those horses! Besides, I'm afraid I have to ask you the huge favor not to introduce me to your friends as Girolamo Zenti. You'd better tell them I am Carlo Beomonte, a friend who needs to travel to Germany and would like to share the long journey with you."
I did as asked, but I was eager to know more.
The same night, when we were guests at the Rocca Colonna in Castelnovo, I met him in the castle's courtyard. He was sitting on a bench trying to stretch his long legs and watching the castle servants doing the last chores of the day. After some time, once he realized we were alone, he lighted his clay pipe and gave me an account of the latest facts.
Girolamo had spent the night before in Trastevere gambling in a tavern, a place notorious for being visited by the offspring of the Roman aristocracy.
One of them had spent hours playing dice with my friend. Playing and losing big money. This was a very dangerous and explosive situation. As you can imagine, the young noble didn't accept losing face in front of friends and accused Girolamo of cheating.
To make his words sound truer, the young noble hastily drew his sword, probably expecting that a normal commoner would have backed off. Instead my companion, maybe for having drunk too much wine, reacted by drawing his own sword.
"Probably I took more fencing classes than he did, or maybe it was just surprise, but I ended the fight quickly by putting a few inches of steel through the young nobleman's shoulder. Nothing deadly, but enough to put me in serious trouble. It is never self-defense when the loser is the son of the marquis Casati.
"So, while my friends kept the young man's retinue at bay, I escaped as quickly as I could. While running home I realized I had just two options left: leave town that very same day or find refuge in a monastery and take the vows. I don't much see myself as a member of the clergy. Even if judged innocent by the police, I would have had to fear Casati's personal revenge."
Girolamo went home to change clothes and to take the pistols he kept in an hidden place together with his cash money and papers. Then he sneaked into his partner's home nearby and explained how he was forced to go away, probably to Naples, to escape the law. He had then spent the rest of the night hiding in a safe place in the ghetto.
With the day still young, he went to get the horse that he kept in a stable just inside Porta San Paolo. He had already begun his escape south when he recalled I was leaving for Germany. So, with a certain apprehension, he reentered Rome and paid a visit to the collegium. There he met Renato, S. Apollinare's sacristan who told him of my departure for Grantville a few hours before. Relieved to know I wasn't too far away, he went north following the Flamina until he caught me.
I objected that even if we made it to Thuringia it could be a long exile for him. But, quite confidently for a fugitive, he replied:
"Yes, I know it can be long. But if what you have told me of these Americans is true, they will value a man more for his skills than for his birth. And that is a place where I'd be happy to live. I'm tired of licking aristocratic boots any time I want to sell one of my works. I'm tired of being unable to read the books I want or to live the way I want. I'm fed up with these aristocrats and their caprices! Considering how much I'm interested in these pianos of yours, there is no better place to go!"
I was seriously afraid he could have put himself and me in further trouble. But there is something in him I like no matter what. I find his careless approach to life quite enticing and his enthusiasm contagious. So I told him I was happy he would come along, but that he had to be careful. More troubles and he would have to travel alone.
He promised me I would not regret my decision. Beside some minor accidents, I may say he has been very discreet for the rest of the trip.
He had another surprise up his sleeve.
It happened just the morning after our talk, while we were getting ready to leave the castle. The three servants were loading our chests and the rest of the baggage on the coach roof. The driver, under his coach, was carefully greasing axles and hubs and our escort was letting the horses have a last drink. Girolamo was nowhere to be seen.
While we were about to send one of the soldiers to check if his horse was still in the castle stable, Father Matthias saw him coming from the village holding two saddled horses by the reins.
One was his courier, Rodomonte, and the other was a smaller, but not a bit less beautiful brown mare.
When I asked him about this new addition to our party, he answered that the mare was for me, if I wanted to accept it and if I could ride her. Then Girolamo added: "Maestro, I think that once we will be alone on the road, traveling by horse will give us some advantage in speed and agility compared to renting or buying another coach."
I pondered his words and I agreed with him. So I replied that I could ride. I wasn't a master of the skill, but rode enough to stay on the saddle while following a coach. My bigger problem, I explained, was that I had never traveled on a horse for long stretches.
"Well, you will learn! These are the perfect conditions to do so. I can teach you some tricks, and you can always rest on the coach from time to time."
When I asked him the price of the mare he answered, "Don't worry, Maestro. I plan to sell the horse once we have arrived in Grantville. I have yet to see a war zone where there is not a desperate need of horses. As a matter of fact I plan to make a profit. Anyway I need to abuse your kindness again as I need another favor."
"Please speak."
"The problem is that I'm not very good with languages. I can speak a few words in French, but that's it. I need to learn more English and German and I was wondering if you could help."
"That will be a pleasure to me. What's the mare's name?"
"I've been told it's Carlotta, do you like it?"
"Could be worse," I answered, while caressing Carlotta's nose.
I think we both enjoyed the possibility to use the road as a schoolroom. We both had a lot to learn and all the time spent riding, talking, and prattling gave us the occasion to know each other better.
The more I knew him the more I felt that my early feelings about Mastro Zenti were true. He is quick of wit and tongue and has much more experience of this world than you would expect from a man of his young age.
He was born in Viterbo, where is mother's relatives are renowned wood carvers. His father, Achille Zenti, was a soldier, a reiter in the Pontifical Army. Girolamo speaks highly of him and he must have been a good man. Unfortunately he fell sick and died in 1619, when Girolamo was just twelve. His mother remarried soon and Girolamo was sent as apprentice in Rome to learn the art of wood carving and instrument making with another artisan. The same one who is now his business partner.
He admitted not to be the first country boy who had let himself be corrupted by the pleasures of a big town. Especially one so seducing as Rome. But, despite his introduction to vice and sin, his great natural talents permitted him to keep on his apprenticeship. So he became a journeyman at just sixteen and a master at twenty when he produced his first harpsichord.
Since then, work and his natural curiosity brought him to travel in other states, mostly in Naples, Tuscany, and Lombardy. Only three years ago, with his name already established, he came back to Rome where he purchased half of his former master's enterprise.
Girolamo's father wanted him to be a soldier, an officer maybe, so he started very young training in the science of soldiering. Since then he has studied with different arms masters wherever he went. His skill is such that, once back in Rome, he managed to be accepted in the sword combat school of one of the Alfieri brothers. Who, I have had explained to me, have improved the already deadly teachings of Ridolfo Capoferro, the famous fencer, and direct some of the most important salles of the peninsula. Both his pistols and his rapier, he told me, belonged to his father.
Like his lifestyle, I am afraid to say, his political and religious ideas are quite radical.
Once, while we were both enjoying the vapors of a good grappa, Girolamo's tongue got loose enough to tell me of Naples where he befriended one of the last scholars belonging to Brother Tommaso Campanella's circle. Eager to learn, he has been strongly influenced by the theories of the Dominican philosopher.
Even if today Campanella is a free man and a trusted advisor of His Sanctity, his students are still persecuted in the lands governed by the crown of Spain as they strongly reject the Spanish hegemony and domination in Italy.
So Girolamo, like Petrarca, Machiavelli, and many others before him, dreams of an Italy free of any foreign domination and united in a league of states. It is a dream that never became true and, I am afraid, probably never will.
Discussions and gossip, riding classes and languages learning didn't distract us from our primary goal, traveling.
For the first two weeks, we had been blessed by very favorable weather. Not too hot, and with some scattered rains that wet the dust on the road without making it too muddy.
The traffic on the Flaminia is never scarce. Mostly it consists of merchants carrying goods and farmers bringing their animals or their crops to the nearest town. We were well aware of the chance of worse encounters along the road. Maybe because of our military escort or because of the papal insignia painted on the sides of our coach, we never met any trouble.
The road is quite large and well drained. Two carriages can pass side by side and the grades and slopes are never too harsh even when crossing mountain ridges.
We crossed northern Latium and entered in Umbria. We crossed a great Roman bridge at Narni and slowly climbed the Somma pass, which brought us into the territory of Spoleto.
Spoleto, once the capital of the Longobard duchy, is a magnificent town. We stopped there to rest for a day at the guest quarters of the monastery of Saint Luke and found the time to visit the Towers bridge and the cathedral. We didn't neglect the rich food. The area is renown for its trout and famous black truffles.
In the monastery we learned of a local legend. The locals say that Pope Innocentius III, here on a visit, miraculously made a spring of icy water gush out from the cloister floor. This spring is said to be able to restore fully the health and stamina of any weary traveler who drinks it. It is superfluous to say we filled our bellies and our canteens.
The day after, just outside of Foligno, we encountered an infantry regiment going to Urbino. The old duchy has been the most recent addition to the Papal States territory, having been ceded to the Church by its last aging duke seven years ago. We managed to travel with the soldiers as long as possible. Our trip became slower, but even safer.
The Via Flaminia is an open-air treasure for any student of architecture. Along its way it is possible to see and visit hundreds of vestiges of ancient Roman buildings: tombs, bridges, theaters, road markers, and much else.
Two of them made a deep impression in me. One is the River Furlo Gorges, where the road has been completely carved into the mountain rock by the work of thousands, I imagine. In one place where frequent landslides made the road unsafe, the Romans carved two long tunnels into the mountain so that the road could be kept always open. The tunnels are used even now. It is an amazing show of the skill of the ancients.
One of the Jesuits, a lover of history, found it amusing to see the Pope's ragged regiment marching on such a road. A road used by the Roman legions to crush by surprise the army of Hannibal's brother at the River Metauro battle and by Narsete's Byzantines to intercept and defeat Totila's Goths many centuries later.
Povera Italia!
The other vestige is less impressive, being a simple stele placed in the market square of Rimini, the town built where the Flaminia ends and the Via Emilia begins. Simple, but of no less historical value. The stele says:
The dictator Gaius Caesar,
having crossed the Rubicon,
addressed his comrades-in-arms in the civil war
here in the forum of Rimini.
I don't know if the stele is real or a fake carved much later. Some claim it is fake, but I found it fascinating anyway.
Once it left Rimini, our road followed the Adriatic coastline toward Ravenna and Ferrara, in the lower river Po valley. Being so close to the mouth of the biggest Italian river, the area is filled with marshlands and swamps. It is a dreadful place, haunted by malaric fevers and pellagra caused, I've been told, by the terrible swamp fumes. Not even the night brought us any relief from the hot and humid weather. All the time, but especially in the hottest hours of the day, we were continuously attacked by armies of mosquitoes. Only the occasional winds from the sea brought us some relief.
After four days in such a miserable state we finally reached the nice town of Ferrara and could rest comfortably in the governor's palace.
The next day we crossed the Po on a traghetto and finally left the Papal States. After a fast inspection at the customhouse and after paying a surprisingly low tax, we entered the Venetian Terraferma.
It was in the low Polesine that we learned from other travelers of the destruction of the Dutch fleet in a great naval battle and of the Spanish invasion of the United Provinces. The winds of war were blowing again in northern Europe and we were traveling toward the center of the storm.
The news left us with a dark and gloomy mood that neither our fast pace on the well-kept Venetian roads, nor the security provided by the Capelatti patrols, nor the good hospitality we received in Verona, could lift from us.
The fact that we were traveling in an area full of refugees from the duchy of Mantua didn't help. That town was brutally sacked by an imperial army three years ago. More than one-third of the duchy's population was murdered or died from the plague brought by the imperial conquerors. This was the same plague that spread all over northern Italy. What was once one of the wealthiest states of the peninsula was reduced to ruins. As a matter of fact, it was the sack of Mantua and the fear of another 1527 that made His Sanctity's government hastily increase the defenses around Rome and add more troops to its armies. Venice seems the only safe place left in northern Italy. An island of peace in an ocean of war. Will it last?
Anyway, we decided to stop in Verona a little longer to make some small repairs to the coach before reaching the mountains. It was then that I discovered another of the many talents of which Girolamo is endowed. It seems he is possessed of a remarkable financial shrewdness.
Over the past five years, Girolamo has used large part of his savings to finance a portion of some Venetian mercantile expeditions in the Black Sea. While very risky these expeditions produce high profits when the ships return, because goods are sold at many times the initial price. Reinvesting the profits the same way he managed to earn quite a sum. All this without actually touching a single coin, any operation being done in bonds secured by some of the most important Venetian banks. Once in Verona he came to know that the Nasi family has a branch open in Grantville. So he visited the Veronese branch of the same bank to exchange part of his finances for letters of credit to be used in the American town.
"This should be enough," he told me that evening while we were crossing Piazza delle Erbe and walking back to the inn. "I think I can buy enough supplies and tools to open a decent shop in Grantville and hire some helpers. I think I know where I can find the best timbers of the whole Alps."
The Alps! If God should choose a throne to sit while in this world, it would be there. Because there is no other place that sings more clearly of His power and of the beauty of His creation.
Once the repairs to our carriage were done and the coach ready, we left Verona on the road that we followed up to the Danube. The road follows the River Adige and it brought us closer and closer to the border. So, while the plains became hills and the hills became mountains, we left the Serenissima Republica and entered the episcopate of Trento, the southernmost province of the empire.
It took us two days of easy riding to reach the city where we received hospitality in the castle of Buonconsiglio, residence of the bishop prince. During the evening we had the occasion to admire in awe the halls where the council sessions have taken place and to learn more about the status of the war in Germany.
The Adige valley offered us a magnificent landscape that gave us true moments of joy. The river cuts a straight, deep dent in steep mountain ridges that are interrupted only by other, smaller valleys created by its many tributaries. Small, neat, and beautiful villages are scattered around the valley and many castles have been built to guard the road from higher ground. Our eyes did feast on the charming countryside: from the gentle slopes of the foothills covered with vineyards and chestnut orchards to the lush alpine grazing land: from the dark green fir forests to the gray rocky peaks of the mountains.
I loved the wine produced in these valleys. It's called Welschriesling and it is dry, fragrant, and fruity. A perfect companion to wash down the dust from our thirsty throats.
The valley is quite large south of Trento, but the further north we went the closer we came to the mountains. In the episcopate people still talk a strongly accented Italian, but, once past the small town of Mezzocorona, we finally entered the Tyrol with its German-speaking inhabitants.
Where the Adige meets the river Eisack we finally reached the town of Bozen, and ended the first part of our trip. Girolamo and I would follow the Adige to Meran and the Reschac pass, while our other companions would take the Brenner pass road toward Innsbruck. The weeks spent on the road together helped the growth of a sincere friendship among us. I remember fondly the laughter and the constant good humor of young Matthias, potbellied Father Einrich's passion for chess and Italian food, the sincere admiration and deep knowledge that Father Dietrich had for anything Roman. I hope that their trip ended as well as ours and I plan to write them soon to learn how they fared.
The day we separated, we woke up very early to celebrate a moving mass at the beautiful Church of Saint George. We felt necessary to thank Our Lord for the safe passage He had granted us and to ask Him to make the second part of our trip as safe as the first. Only then, reluctantly, we separated.
The rest of the morning was spent in Merchants Road looking for two mules and two packsaddles to carry my baggage and other supplies we bought. Girolamo and I left Bozen in the heat of the early afternoon and reached Meran that night.
We had planned to travel to Schlanders in the morning and try to make Glurns the same day, but bad weather stopped us. When we left, the entrance of the Schnals valley, well protected by a grim castle, was on our right. Above the valley the sky began to turn black. Thunder and lighting started striking the mountain slopes all around us. We arrived in Schlanders barely before the squall line. Then rain, hail, and gusts of wind poured down the valley. We found refuge at the Gold Eagle Inn in the outskirts of the town and decided to stop for the day.
It turned out to be a good decision. Resting at the inn, we enjoyed a tasty amber beer and filled our bellies with some obermoosburgkeller—a pork shin roasted on the spit that is as delicious as its name is hard to pronounce. I decided to take my traveling spinet inside and, after the meal, I began tuning it (Girolamo made the process much faster) before I enjoyed myself trying to arrange some simple tunes.
In a short time I discovered I wasn't the only one with an instrument in the inn. Girolamo produced a flute he had hidden somewhere in his bags and an inn employee and another customer joined us with a violin and a Venetian guitar. After a little practice, our improvised ensemble began to get along quite well and we started playing. We began with some minuets and gavottes, then we passed to some old pieces of Francesco Da Milano and other popular ballads and we went on with some simple dances.
The innkeeper kept providing us with beer and food and seemed quite happy. As news of our improvised concerto reached the rest of the town, the inn became crammed full before dinner.
So much beer had his effects on us and I realized I had drunk too many mugs of it when I began to sing and roughly translate in German some lecherous lyrics written under false name by Adriano "the abbot" Banchieri.
I see already the disappointment on your face, Father. But it was a nice, fun, and innocent night and if I must spend more time in Purgatory for that so be it! After so much road we deserved some rest, I think.
During the concert we discovered that one of the musicians was traveling to Fussen, in south Bavaria, and we decided to cross the Alps together.
His name is Johannes Fichtold and he was returning back home after having finished his apprenticeship in Padua. He went to Italy to learn to build lutes and guitars the "Italian way," with the back of the lute constructed with many narrow ribs glued together. His family owns a lute maker's shop, and young Johannes is going to work back there.
Hearing this, Girolamo smiled like the cat who ate the canary. Fussen is the place where he planned to order the timbers he wanted to use in his new enterprise.
The next day, despite our hangovers and the muddy and slippery conditions of the road after the storm, we managed to go at a sustained pace. We began a more steady climb along the Vinschgau valley, riding in part through mountain forests and in part among cultivated fields and apple orchards. Above the village of Schluderns we enjoyed the view of the Churburg, a magnificent castle guarding the entrance of the Matsch valley.
Our morale was incredibly high, but we were abruptly sent back to the sad state of the contemporary world on our approach to Glurns. The town is a little architectural jewel in the crown formed by the Alps, but all its beauty was spoiled by a set of gallows near the east gate and by the rotten corpses hanging from them.
As we approached the gruesome scene, a group of soldiers wearing dark green uniforms and large hats told us to stop. They looked formidable with their very long muskets and an impressive array of blades.
"Jaegers!" said Johannes, while the soldiers came closer. "They are the local militia. Fiercely loyal to the emperor and incredible marksmen."
The soldiers asked for our passports and wanted to know where we were headed and the reason for our trip. Once satisfied by our answers one of them, who looked like their commander, gave us a warning, "The corpses you see hanging here are part of a band of bandits that are marauding this area. Deserters from what once was Tilly's army. Once on the pass, watch out for your lives. Unless," he added with a grin, "you can pay for the services of his Imperial Majesty's hunters."
"And how much would this service cost?" I asked.
"Three golden ducats for each one of you, two for the animals. Four expert guides will guide and protect you up to Nauders, the first town beyond the pass."
"Sto fijo de 'na mignotta! This is robbery!" said Girolamo, luckily in Italian.
"Please close your mouth," I told him. "I'm sure you are more than able to defend all of us. I don't want to have potential enemies ready to ambush us along the road and hostile militiamen behind our back. We can afford to pay and I am ready to do it. Dead people cannot waste money. That's a privilege of the living."
I was surprised by my firm tone of voice. And apparently so was he, because he managed to remain silent while I finished dealing with the sergeant. The next morning we would be escorted beyond the Reschen pass.
The fact that endless people since the beginning of the world have used this road is probably because crossing the pass is not very hard. But for a small slope before the village of Reschen, the road climbs its way gently along the hills and the mountains. Even the top part of the pass is surprisingly easy, as it maintains more or less the same altitude for half a dozen miles.
At the end of the day, after the long ride among woods and meadows, we made camp in an empty barn just above the little town of Nauders. We were tired, but proud of the progress we had made.
It may have been because of the presence of the Jaegers, but nothing bad happened along the way. I was quite wary of all those horror stories about travelers left with their throats cut in some roadside ditch.
The company of the soldiers was more pleasant than expected. These are not bloodthirsty monsters. Even if widely recruited as scouts by the imperial armies, they are mostly just hunters or woodsmen who spend part of their time defending their land and families. Not only did they not rob or murder us, as Girolamo feared, but they cheered us up with their numerous hunting stories and mountain tales. I particularly appreciated a story about a holy white steinbock who lives in the area, but this is not the time to tell it. Their knowledge of the land and of the flora and fauna is also extraordinary.
From Naders the road brought us to Landeck and from there it crossed many other valleys and small towns until, a few days later, we left the duchy of Tyrol and entered the Bavarian town of Fussen.
Fussen, built where the River Lech meets the Via Claudia Augusta, is apparently another of those numerous small towns scattered all along the river valleys of this mountain area. They all share common features: one or two thousand souls at most, a circle of walls, a small cathedral, and a small fortress. Even if the wars in Germany and in Italy have reduced the flow of travelers who pass by this town, what remains is enough to grant prosperity to their inhabitants.
What makes Fussen special is the fact that in the last fifty years it has become the home of some of the most famous lute makers of our time. The vicinity of the Alps with their huge reserve of valuable timber and the closeness to important trade routes make it the ideal place to build instruments that can be sold throughout Europe, from Spain to Poland, from Denmark to Sicily.
Once in town we received hospitality from Johannes's older brother Hans, a respected member of the lute makers' guild. The guild not only controls the sale of any instrument built in town, but also watches very closely the trade in timber, making sure that the best planks of yew, oak, cherry, and fir not leave the town.
"Oh, we will see about that!" Girolamo told me with a bellicose light in his eyes. "The guild member that can keep me away from what I want still has to see the light of this world."
As a matter of fact, the bargaining must have been harder than he expected because he more or less disappeared for all the duration of our stay in town. He was busy meeting guild members and the owner of the local timber mill, pleading, flattering, threatening, whining, and God only knows what else! But at the end he obtained what he wanted, a good number of planks of very good timber to be sent to Grantville in the shortest possible time. Only later did he tell me that he had been able to obtain the wood supply only by agreeing to enter the guild and to pay a huge annual sum to have such a "privilege."
I used those days to visit the town and its surroundings. I saw from a distance the Hohenshwangau Castle, but I far more enjoyed a visit at the small Saint Anna Chapel where I was struck deeply by some wooden panels painted with scenes of a dance macabre. That artifact seems made to direct our thoughts toward the precariousness of life and it seemed very appropriate for what I had seen in my first days in Germany. Here life is lived under a constant threat.
These people seem to have lost hope in the future. They appear to feel it is likely that the future will bring destruction or a violent death. This is a small, rich town, where everybody should be happy and busy enjoying the many gifts God gave them. Instead fear, no matter how well hidden, is the most common emotion among the locals. Fear of an army sacking and pillaging their pretty homes, fear of plague and famine. Fear of an unwanted war upon which they have no control.
After three days we left town. Girolamo was furious at the terms he had to accept to get his timber. Nothing seemed to cheer him up, not even the smart jokes of Johannes who had decided to come with us (with the blessing of his brother who saw profit in expanding his business close to the fabled Americans) and who seemed as eager as we were to visit the American town.
All kinds of rumors about war followed us all the way to Landsberg and then on to Augsburg. Somebody was saying that the kingdom of France had raised a huge army near Strasbourg and was ready to invade northern Germany. Others were saying that one hundred thousand Swedes and their fiendish allies were already across the Danube directed toward Ulm and Wien and killing everybody along the way. Someone hinted that it was the Spanish that were coming through the Valtellina and now were in Baden-Wurttemberg, ready to defend to the last man the Catholic population.
We learned to not give much credit to all these rumors. As a matter of fact, the only soldiers we saw at that time were a regiment of Bavarian troops training just outside Augsburg's walls.
In Augsburg we had another proof of the anguish Bavarian people were living in. While we were heading toward the Jesuit collegium, we were stopped in Maximilianstrasse by a large procession of people praying for the defeat of the Protestant forces. All the confraternities of the town, members of all the religious orders, seemed to have united for the event. The air was full of supplication; religious songs and Kyrie were sung and statues of many saints and of the Virgin Mary were carried toward the cathedral, Dom St. Maria. Even having spent all my life in Italy, I had rarely seen such a strong display of public faith. My companions and I were so struck that we followed the procession until we saw all the statues enter into the beautifully carved gates of the church.
All the roads to and from Augsburg are full of refugees. Only the fact we were on horseback and able to leave the road in the most crowded sections made us move as fast as we did. Anyway it took us over three days to reach Donauworth at the confluence of the Danube and the river Wörnitz and to finally find the rival armies.
The town is at the border between Swabia and Bavaria, and is located along the last navigable point on the Danube. At the moment, Donauworth is in Bavarian hands and the big garrison and the heavy fortifications seemed to show the will of Maximilian's troops to remain here. However, the fact that Swedish soldiers were a few leagues away from the town walls didn't help our passage.
Our intentions were to cross the Danube in this place, but the situation didn't seem very favorable and we had previously agreed we should stay away from any army as much as possible.
We went straight to the wharves on the Danube to find a boat that could bring us down river toward Ingolstadt where we hoped to find better conditions. Only by paying a sum that left our purses much lighter did we manage to find a barge.
Our plan succeeded. We spent the night at the wharves and left at dawn. After a few hours on the river we reached Ingolstadt. From there we took a road that should have taken us straight into Nuremberg.
The second day along this road a squad of Swedish troops stopped us. With them was a man dressed in strange clothes who, when seen closely, looked as stolen from a forest during fall. If he is hidden in the wilds it must be very hard to spot him. The name written on those clothes, his strange German accent, and his even stranger weapon gave us other hints that he was a real American.
The Swedish soldiers are probably used to causing awe and fear in civilians like us. I'll never forget the puzzled look on their faces when we started to laugh! But we couldn't conceal our joy.
"Cazzo Giacomo we made it!" shouted Girolamo, colorful as usual.
"Thalassa, thalassa, thalassa!" I replied, my mind following strange paths leading to Xenophon's Greek army and its march to the sea.
We definitively had lost our decorum as we started hugging and patting our shoulders. Girolamo barely restrained himself from hugging and kissing the American on the forehead. The American stared at us like we were madmen.
Our feelings must have been contagious, because the Swedish troopers seemed less grim and the American, probably once he realized we weren't a threat, was smiling.
I removed my hat to him and introduced in English my friends and me. Then I showed him one of Mazarini's letters of introduction.
All this happened ten days ago. I would tell you more, but my eyes are sore, my hands tired from so much writing, the ink is almost gone, and I need another quill. Just know that the rest of our voyage went quite smoothly and early this afternoon we arrived in Grantville. While I'm writing, Girolamo and Johannes are downstairs enjoying the local brews and, if I learned their habits well, also the local women.
Now the first part of our adventure is ended, but the hardest part of our trip has still to begin. Will we manage to do what we came here for? Will we be able to build good relationships with the Americans? Will Euterpe smile upon us? I don't know, Father, but I have all the intentions to try.
I hope I am your prayers as you are in mine, always.
Your friend and student,
Giacomo Carissimi
P.S. What does "dude" mean?