I

“The city should be there before us, Capitano,” the first mate said. But there was no city there. A malevolent mist had descended around the ship, reeking of piss and fear – though perhaps it was just the stench of the crew at the oars as they approached the maelstrom.

“Tar my bung hole and use me for a keg!” Capitano Manzoni cursed. He was a tall man with a well-kept dark beard and moustache, as most men of his House wore, and he paced the deck of his galleon nervously. He had followed the star-painted night skies across the seas to guide him safely home only to find his journey’s end obscured. They had lost the sun and all sense of direction and distance. If the fog did not lift he could not see the Walled City. And if he could not see the Walled City he might as well resort to the folly of the sailor’s incantation: blowing on his thumbs and turning around three times in a counter direction to the maelstrom. That had as much chance of guiding a man safely through the whirlpool as he had of flying his ship over it, he thought.

“Any sign of that Lorraine vessel?” he called to his first mate, but he knew the answer would be that they could no more see the rival ship behind them somewhere than they could see the Walled City ahead of them.

“No sign,” the mate called back from the rigging above.

“Shorten the sails,” the Captain ordered, and he heard the whirl and click of brass gears as the crew wound the Windseeker’s sails in a little. He could have as easily ordered the masts to be wound lower into the ship’s hold, but he needed the crow’s nest at maximum height.

There should be no fog, this time of year, Capitano Manzoni thought. Lesser men would believe it a bad omen. But he had been taught that was no such thing as ill-fortune or good fortune. Only good planning. And Galileo’s secrets. The small tent had already been set up on the foredeck, to hide the instruments from the crew. You could never tell who might be a Lorraine spy, and galley slaves would trade any of the family’s secrets for just the promise of a few copper coins. Though they’d more likely get their throats slit instead. Doing business with the Lorraines was as dangerous as doing business with a scorpion. Except that scorpions didn’t actually do business, did they? He sighed. He had never been strong at the art of metaphors that conversation in the Walled City was ruled by.

He looked down into the belly of his ship where over a hundred men sat by their oars, sweating heavily despite the chill in the air about them. They were scared, he knew. For every two ships that negotiated the maelstrom only one survived. Each journey was a roll of the dice. A game of chance the Medici family was playing, with their lives, or deaths, as the stakes. That was a better metaphor, he thought. That would serve him well some time.

The crew foolishly believed that the forces of fate controlled their lives and the only intercession was through talismans and chants. They even felt their prayers had been granted when they were taken on as galley slaves. Yet who wouldn’t want to be in service to one of the families of the Walled City? The only place in the entire civilised world free from the scourge of the great plague that had ravaged cities and countryside alike for six long years now. The Walled City had closed its gates and tried to block the mountain passes to the east, turning to the treacherous sea for trade. Galley slaves preferred to risk their lives to the fickle forces of chance that they believed ruled the seas, rather than the certain death from the plague. But in truth, the only forces that controlled their lives were those of the Medici family. And they controlled Galileo who controlled the forces of nature.

Well, except the fog, Capitano Manzoni thought. Though he would talk to the old man about that and perhaps he would invent some device that could dissipate it more quickly. A giant bellows mounted on the front of a ship perhaps. And such a device might also be used to blow a ship along in calm weather. He wondered why nobody had thought of that already. He would seek an audience with Galileo on the morrow to discuss it.

He paced back across the deck of the Windseeker and stared into the fog again. He was tempted to reach down into his pocket and rub the small gold charm his wife, Alaria, had given him upon his departure. “To bring you home safely,” she had said, pressing her lips to his. He wondered if she would get word of his return and greet him on the docks. Just the thought of seeing her, so close now, filled him with a deep longing worse than any that had filled him while hundreds of leagues away.

Patience, he told himself. Almost home. He had been gone three months, sailing right out of the inner sea to the open oceans and down towards the heathen lands in search of spices and grain. For some captains, leaving the inner sea filled them with the most worries, but for him it was always the return home. He well remembered the apprehension he had felt on previous journeys approaching the swirling waters that filled the outer harbour of the Walled City. Eight times he’d made it through already. That made him a veteran. After ten successful journeys, a ship’s captain could retire with a very handsome pension. It was both an incentive for the men and also a recognition that no man could tempt fate for too long.

That would all change now, though, he thought. Everything had changed. Although anything that raised the suspicion of the Lorraine spies had to be avoided. So perhaps he too would be allowed to retire after one more voyage, and he could then spend his days making love to Alaria. While most men he knew kept at least one mistress, he was still very much in love with his wife and had no inclination to chase other women. She was still beautiful after having borne him two children, and they could still raise a few more. As long as the spice trade continued they could all expect to live, safe from the plague. He would be docking in her harbour, as they liked to call it, when together that evening. That was one of Alaria’s metaphors though, not his own.

“Stand ready!” he called out, to reassure the crew and galley slaves that he was in control of everything. And then, as if upon his order, the fog started to lift. He could already see the swirling edge of the maelstrom ahead, filling the outer harbour of the Walled City. Manzoni smiled. “Bring the ship around,” he called and the slave master had the men on the port side of the ship stroke their oars once, then again, until they were facing directly towards where the red brick towers of the Walled City were now starting to appear ahead of them, seeming to dance as the fog broke up around them.

But it was the maelstrom that his deck crew were watching. They had to wait for one of the lulls in the waters as and then attempt a dash through. Hoping it would happen before the Lorraine vessel on their tail appeared, ready to fight them for their precious cargo.

But Capitano Manzoni knew it would be different today. He strode to the small tent at the front of the ship and stepped inside. The front of the small structure was open giving him a clear view of the city ahead. He waited until the fog had nearly entirely lifted and he could see that there had been changes in the many weeks since his departure. Several Lorraine towers had been pulled down, and there were two new Medici towers standing there. He smiled. That meant at least two more Medici ships had successfully delivered their precious spice cargo to make the spice wine that warded off the plague, and none of the Lorraine ships had gotten through. Cosimo the Great would be very pleased.

And now that he could see the city, he knew that another Lorraine tower would be pulled down, and another Medici tower built. He took out a small key and unlocked the wooden case at his feet and carefully lifted out the secret implements that had been entrusted to him. The first was a set of dials and cogs that he had to assemble. It was a difficult task, but he had practiced it many times. If they had been captured by the Lorraines they would not know what they had found if they could not assemble them.

He soon had the chronometer together and then took out two glass discs. He stood them at either end of the thick ornate cloth they had had been wrapped in and then rolled it around them and tied it tight with the ribbons on the end. So simple to construct but so difficult to know what it was if one had never seen a magnifier.

“Sir!” a voice outside the tent called urgently.

“What is it?” Manzoni asked crossly.

“That Lorraine ship.”

“How far off?” he called back.

“About three leagues.”

Too far to catch them, but close enough to witness him complete his ninth successful voyage. He searched for a metaphor. None came. He sighed. It would take some getting used to, being back in the Walled City.

“Rowers at the ready.” He heard his order relayed to the nervous men. It was time. He wound the brass key in the back of the chronometer and the small gears and wheels began turning, each linked to another, a world of turning dials and cogs. It took a moment to feel its effect. He looked out the front of the tent and saw the swirling waters of the maelstrom were slowing. His heart, by comparison, was beating faster. He was filled with a feeling far beyond the excitement of captaining a ship far out beyond the inner sea. He was controlling time itself – that slipperiest of thieves, that most inescapable of prisons, that most irreversible of paths. Galileo had warned him of the intoxication of it – as well as the physical toll – but not the absolute sense of wonder that it gave him.

He wondered if he would break his vow and share this feeling with his wife. Wondered what playing the majestic butterfly with her would be like if he slowed time around them in their bed chamber. But also wondered what the toll on their bodies for that would be? Would she agree to that, or should he tell her afterwards?

Then he lifted the magnifier to his eye. It took him a moment to get the focus right, then he scanned across the blurred and magnified towers of the city until he found the one he was after. That is where the old man would be. He felt his heart beating rapidly with excitement. Patience, he told himself. There was a flash of light upon glass and he aligned his magnifier with the one on shore that was pointing at him.

And then distance was changed. Everything was changed. His vessel was halfway across the maelstrom before he even called out the order to row. The men in the belly of the ship had no way of knowing what was happening and the men on deck had no way of understanding it. Galileo’s machines controlled time and distance, and he controlled the machines. He felt a tingling in his fingers as they shook a little and he grasped the instruments tighter to hold them steady.

The waters of the maelstrom now presented little difficulty to the rowers, sucking at the ship with no more force than that of an outgoing tide. Capitano Manzoni waited until they had reached the far side of the whirlpool before stopping the chronometer, as per his strict orders. He heard the roar of the waters fill his ears and the cry of the first mate, “Safely through!” The slaves at the oars let out a loud cheer and kissed their talismans.

The Capitano disassembled the chronometer, unrolled the magnifier and locked all the instruments in the case. He felt his fingers cramp a little and opened and closed them slowly, turning them over and looking for any signs of the change in them he had been warned of. The magic of science did not come without a price. There were no signs of the grey blotching on his skin and his fingers were just a little stiff. Surely that was nothing. He shook them a little and stepped out of the tent. He wanted to see what the Lorraine vessel behind them would do. Undoubtedly their Capitano was standing on the foredeck with his mouth agape like a triple-inbred Umbrian peasant. Which he probably was. Oh, that was a good one, he thought. He’d better remember it. But before he could even set eyes on the rival ship he felt the deck shake under him. It felt like they had struck something. But that was impossible. There were no rocks on this side of the maelstrom.

“Capitano!” his mate called out, still up in the rigging. “It’s… whales!”

“What?” he asked, as if not comprehending. He strode to the ship’s rail and looked over into the waters below. It had to be a Lorraine trick. But it was whales. At least three of them. He looked at their dark rough-skinned backs, looking like some leather-clad machines of Leonardo’s, under the water there. But these were alive. Each as long as the ship’s width, and they were attacking the Windseeker, nudging it backwards towards the maelstrom. “No!” he said. It was as impossible as… He searched futilely for the metaphor that might make it too incredible to be really happening. But the whales rammed the ship again, knocking him off his feet. A cry of panic ran up from the men at the oars as some took up their talismans in both hands while others tried to follow the order to row, so that the oars quickly became tangled with each other. They had lost forward movement and the ship started drifting backwards.

Capitano Manzoni started ranting in panic, not unlike a triple-inbred Umbrian peasant might, and he called to the first mate to try to regain order with the slaves as he tried to rush back to the tent with his instrument case. But his fingers were so stiff and clumsy and he knew he knew he would have no time. No time! The crew at the back of the ship were already pointing at the waters behind them in alarm. The whales were now pushing them back steadily and he felt the stern of the ship start to spin as the swirling waters fastened their grip on it.

Like a submerged beast devouring its prey, he thought. A good metaphor he’d never be able to share. They were dead. They were all dead. He would never retire after ten voyages and would not raise any more children with his darling Alaria. And Capitano Manzoni found all his teachings deserting him as he clasped the gold charm his wife had given him and cursed both the Medici and Lorraine Houses for killing him, and then blew on his thumbs and turned around three times in the opposite direction of the maelstrom as it sucked his vessel down into its embrace.