The Calends of October 1669: Nine Days of Intrigue and Whispers
Rome was still stifling under the persistent September heat when the news spread like wildfire: His Holiness Clement IX had passed from life to death.
Suddenly, on September 30, 1669. A murmur of astonishment, tinged with consternation and opportunism, ran through the narrow streets of the Eternal City.
The funeral of the deceased Pontiff, traditionally lasting nine days, promised to be less a sacred mourning than a feverish prelude to the imminent conclave.
Day 1: The Broken Seal and Funeral Murmurs (October 1, 1669)
The protocol was executed with chilling diligence.
The Camerlengo, Cardinal Antonio Barberini, his face grave but his eyes sharp, confirmed the death of Clement IX.
The silver hammer struck the Pope's inanimate forehead three times, his baptismal name echoing in the silent chamber.
Like the three knocks at the beginning of a play, like the start of a Trojan War:
Who will be Achilles? Who will play Hector? Who will be Ulysses? Who will take the City?
Then came the symbolic and brutal gesture: the papal seal was broken, signifying the end of his reign and the inability of anyone to use his authority.
Barely had the body been washed and prepared for exhibition, when the first whispers began.
Not prayers, but whispers about the Pope's last action: this legitimization of royal control over the Portuguese Inquisition.
The valets, the Swiss Guards, the scribes – all had heard about it. The air was heavy with foreboding.
Cardinals, arriving in haste, had only ten days before the conclave. Every minute counted. Messengers from the courts of France, Spain, the Empire, were already crisscrossing the Roman palaces, seeking to slip in a word, a piece of information, a promise, before the great enclosure began.
Days 2 to 4: The Arrival of the Wolves and the Ballet of Factions (October 2-4)
Rome became teeming, as if dotted with fleas and ticks.
Cardinals flocked in, each at the head of an ostentatious procession. Dozens, sometimes hundreds of men and women accompanied them: greedy nephews, erudite theologians, personal physicians, sharp-eyed secretaries, and a cohort of servants and guards.
The rumor of the Inquisition's betrayal swelled. The Gallican cardinals wore a new confidence, their smiles betraying the opportunity.
The Spanish cardinals and the Zelanti, fiercely attached to the Inquisition, displayed rigid dignity, but their secret conclaves were only more intense.
Days 5 to 7: The Time of Underground Negotiations and Targeted Rumors (October 5-7)
Funeral masses followed one another, grandiose but distracting.
While sacred chants filled the naves, the real deliberations took place in the antechambers and palace gardens. Faction leaders clashed in verbal duels, probing potential alliances.
The kings' right of exclusion weighed on all minds: who would be the persona non grata?
The rumors of betrayal by the Portuguese Inquisition were not yet accessible to all these cardinals. Clement IX's death had not yet reached João and his crew.
Days 8 and 9: The Final Pressure and Last Maneuvers (October 8-9)
The hours passed, inexorably. The tension was palpable. Cardinals received the last, often contradictory, instructions from their sovereigns.
Was a strong Pope needed against the Reformation, or a pragmatic Pontiff facing secular powers? Discussions around the Inquisition were lively: was a zealot needed to restore its honor, or a moderate to reform it deeply and avoid further scandals?
October 10, 1669: The Day of the Lock-in
At dawn on the tenth day, the cardinals' faces were marked by fatigue and anxiety. The final procession to the Vatican was quieter.
The escorts, reduced, saluted their masters for what could be long weeks. The conclave doors closed, sealed.
The official lockdown began.
October 1669: The Conclave in Suspense
When the heavy conclave portal clanged shut behind them on October 10, 1669, the cardinals were enveloped by an atmosphere of palpable tension.
The First Days: Stalemate and Echoes of Scandal (October 10-17)
The first days of voting were a futile ballet. Votes scattered, no name managing to achieve the qualified majority. The cardinals, divided between the "Zelanti" (defenders of the Roman Curia), the French faction, and the Iberian powers, observed each other, probing weaknesses. Meals taken in common, far from being moments of relaxation, became silent jousts, opportunities to assess alliances.
In the corridors and austere cells arranged for them, Clement IX's name was still on everyone's lips, but it was less mourning that occupied minds than the memory of his last decisive act: the legitimization of royal control over the Portuguese Inquisition. Whispers circulated, rumors, detailed "information" about the evidence of corruption and sabotage that had forced the hand of the deceased Pope. This evidence, discreetly slipped into sacristies and salons before the lock-in, now weighed heavily. Although no one dared to openly brandish it in plenary, it was the ghost haunting the room. How to defend the omnipotence of an institution known to have been caught in flagrante delicto of betrayal?
The Portuguese delegation, led by Cardinal Nuno da Cunha e Ataíde, added to this atmosphere of forced prudence. Discreet observers, they supported no candidate, their silence screaming the discomfort of a nation whose Inquisition had just suffered a papal affront, and which now had to navigate with extreme caution in pontifical waters. Their neutrality was a backdrop to the moral decay of the Inquisition, letting the evidence do its insidious work in the minds of the electors.
Barely had the last greetings been exchanged, the air was pierced by the first shock: Emperor Leopold I's veto, signified by Cardinal Federico Sforza, striking the candidacy of Cardinal Carlo Rossetti, deemed too close to French interests.
Then came the second blow, revealing a more unexpected fissure for some, within the very House of Habsburg.
Cardinal Pascual de Aragón, faithful representative of Madrid's interests and of the young King Charles II of Spain, exercised his veto. His choice fell not on an Italian or a Frenchman, but on Cardinal Franz Egon von Fürstenberg, a Bavarian prince-bishop whose ascent was perceived as too aligned with the ambitions of the Austrian Habsburgs.
For Madrid, such a Pope risked serving imperial interests at the expense of theirs, weakening the Spanish branch in the management of Habsburg domains in Italy or in the financing of wars.
The two crowns, though linked by their dynasty, are not the same crowns, having their own strategies to defend, and the papacy would not be the instrument of an imperial hegemony that would marginalize Spain, the Spanish inquisitorial faction preparing for a deluge of protests in the empire and in Spain, seeking to avoid the detachment of the empire from their interests, even without admitting their real betrayals.
The Rest of the Month: Fatigue and New Data (October 18-31)
As the confinement dragged on, fatigue set in.
Meals became tiresome, nights shorter. Impatience mounted. It was then that, according to tacit rules, new faces appeared.
Cardinals from distant Italian provinces, then, after long and perilous journeys, the first French and Spanish cardinals who had not been able to arrive in time for the initial lock-in.
Each new entry was an event, an interruption of the closed session that brought with it a breath of fresh air, but also new instructions from their courts, new perspectives on Europe.
These arrivals, far from simplifying matters, added layers of complexity. Debates intensified. Was an intransigent Pope needed, a "Zelante" to wash away the Church's honor tainted by scandals? Or, on the contrary, a pragmatic Pontiff, a man capable of compromising with secular powers and reforming the institution, even if it meant sacrificing certain prerogatives to save face? The question of the Inquisition was at the heart of all discussions, even if the word was not always pronounced.
Factions exhausted themselves in nocturnal conciliabules, trying to break the deadlock. Promises and pressures accumulated.
As the last lights of October faded, no cardinal had yet managed to gather two-thirds of the votes. The conclave, far from being on the verge of ending, was preparing to enter its most difficult phase: the search for an exhausting compromise, where passions and political strategies would clash with the pressing need to find a new Vicar of Christ.
The shadow of scandals and intrigues weighed heavily on this assembly of men, forced to choose the future of a Church torn between dogma and secular reality.
Thios was a promisingly long debate before a new pope got elected
_______
The autumn sun sets on the Tuileries Palace, its last orange rays filtering through the tall windows of the royal apartments. Not the magnificence yet to come of Versailles, but an older, more intimate splendor, where the white stone and dark slates breathe the history of regent queens and conspiracies. The palace, backed by gardens freshly redesigned by Le Nôtre, offers an unobstructed view of the Seine, the rooftops of Paris, and the distant Louvre.
The cabinet where Louis XIV receives Colbert is not the largest room, but certainly one of the most austere and functional, a sign of the grave nature of the affairs dealt with there.
The walls are covered with heavy dark green brocade, enhanced by a few Flemish tapestries depicting allegorical scenes of justice and power – an ironic counterpoint to the conversation in progress.
A large black marble fireplace dominates one wall, its silver andirons reflecting the faint light of the fading day.
In the center of the room, a large, heavy, solid oak desk is cluttered with rolled maps, leather-bound registers, and stacks of sealed mail, testament to the uninterrupted correspondence connecting the King to his kingdom and the rest of Europe.
A pair of finely crafted terrestrial and celestial globes sits in a corner, symbols of a world the King seeks to master.
The air is still, heavy with the smell of old paper, ink, and a hint of beeswax. The distant crackle of wood in the fireplaces of neighboring apartments and the muffled sound of the city falling asleep are the only audible sounds, barely perceptible through the thick walls.
Louis XIV, always impeccable in his dark velvet attire, does not wear his grand ceremonial insignia. His face, usually impenetrable, betrays deep concern. He stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze lost towards the gardens where the statues begin to fade into the twilight.
The idea that the divine order, through which his own power develops, could be perverted to such an extent, chills him.
Colbert, meanwhile, has his hands resting on the desk, his back slightly hunched. His fingers tap nervously on the polished wood. His eyes, usually sharp and piercing, are troubled by the revelations.
The plan for infallible royal justice, which he so meticulously designed for the Ordinance of 1671, wavers. Secrecy, fear, confession – these instruments, which he considered levers of efficiency, are revealed to be open doors to betrayal. (It's called the Ordinance of 1670 which mimicked the Inquisition methods, but became effective in January 1671, and they personally called that the Ordinance of 1671).
The declining light accentuates the shadows, giving the scene an air of theatrical gravity. The crisis is not playing out on a battlefield, but in the silence of a cabinet, where the reason of state clashes with betrayal and faith wavers in the face of the reality of corrupted power.
Colbert (voice low, brow furrowed): "Sire, the dispatches from our agents, confirmed by… unexpected sources, from Rome itself, leave no room for doubt. The Inquisition, that institution supposedly safeguarding the purity of faith… has betrayed."
Louis XIV frowns. The notion of the Church's betrayal is almost blasphemous.
Louis XIV (voice measured but piercing): "Betrayed? Speak clearly, Colbert. Against whom? And how dare you make such allegations?"
Colbert: "Against the Catholic nations themselves, Sire. Against Spain, Portugal, the Italian States… and potentially, if we are not careful, against us. The evidence converges: economic sabotage, destruction of harvests under the guise of heresy, incitement to local revolts weakening garrisons, and above all, deliberate violations of secularism, undermining the authority of princes for motives… which they call 'religious purity,' but which prove to be pure political manipulation."
Louis XIV rises, his face darkened. The idea that spiritual power could thus undermine temporal power, and from within, deeply shocks him.
Louis XIV: "The Inquisition, saboteurs? But to what end, by the Holy Virgin?"
Colbert: "For absolute power, Sire. To ensure that Rome reigns not only over souls, but also over wealth and armies. They have weakened our neighbors to better assert their own ascendancy. What is happening there is systematic subversion. I would never have believed it possible, Sire, not from an institution claiming to be the guardian of faith. I have always mistrusted its interference, but never to this extent…"
The King begins to pace. France, with its Gallican tradition, has always been jealous of its independence from Rome. But this revelation is beyond comprehension.
Colbert: "And Sire… what is even more troubling. Our own tribunals, our parliaments, even certain ecclesiastical jurisdictions… though loyal, they sometimes apply inquisitorial procedures, secret methods, a cult of forced confession… If the Inquisition has been able to pervert its objectives to this extent, could we guarantee, in the long term, that our own tools of justice will not also become enemies of the nation? The line is thin, Sire, between justice and oppression, between religious purity and fanaticism."
Silence falls heavy. Louis XIV stops, staring at his minister.
Louis XIV: "You supposed that our own justice, inspired by these methods, might turn against my authority, against my people?"
Colbert: "In the long term, Sire. If the European peoples discover the extent of this betrayal, trust in any institution perceived as 'inquisitorial' will collapse. And we would not want our own subjects to come to doubt the legitimacy of your judges, Sire. Our new Criminal Ordinance… it is just, it is necessary for order, but it also relies on written records, the secrecy of the investigation… methods similar to those that have been perverted elsewhere. We must clearly distinguish royal justice from ecclesiastical tyranny."
Louis XIV reflects. Colbert's pragmatism is often a useful voice against some of his too… breathstealing aspirations.
Louis XIV: "Very well, Colbert. Let these horrors consume our neighbors for now. But We shall prepare the Council. We must discuss how we will protect France from any pernicious influence. And how we might, discreetly, ensure that our methods of justice, while firm, do not become a breeding ground for… traitors."
______
The Hammer and the Silver: Recruiting Excellence in Stockholm
The Stockholm air in this cold October of 1669 is crisp, imbued with the scent of pine and tar, but for Diogo and João, it is the smell of opportunity.
The time has come to introduce the "Cat and Mouse" machines, perfected for nearly ten years in Portugal, but the plans alone are worth little without Swedish hands to build and operate them.
João, Diogo, and Luis are in search of twenty elite masters and journeymen in carpentry, joinery, and cabinet-making. Not just anyone.
They need those whose hands speak the language of wood with unmatched eloquence, those capable of precision and speed, even for a new piece.
Their first stop is the naval carpenters' guild.
In the immense workshop bathed in dim light, the acrid smell of sawdust and resin stings the nose. Giants with gnarled arms cut beams for future vessels. João, with his faltering Swedish, has enlisted an interpreter, addressing the guild master, a man whose face is weathered by the sea wind.
"Master Karlsson," João begins, "We seek excellence. Men of expert dexterity, in relation to certain arrangements we have with the royal council. A project of such magnitude that it would only be entrusted to the best."
The interpreter translates, and adds his personal experience about his employer to the guild master before the curious gazes of the artisans.
"And the pay will be commensurate. A contract your men have never seen before. Gold capable of making even the most reluctant planks sing."
He lets the silence hang, a subtle jingle of gold coins in his purse adding to the persuasion.
The proposition hits home. The naval carpenters' guild, proud but always on the lookout for lucrative contracts, offers its best.
Their faces, initially wary, light up at the mention of the sums. The same scene repeats itself at the cabinet-makers' guild, where the finesse of woodworking is elevated to an art, and among the building joiners, renowned for their robustness and ability to work quickly.
Diogo, João, and Luis are not content with promises; they demand demonstrations, observing the quality of the joints, the speed of saw strokes, the accuracy of the lines.
They select a core group of men, twenty in total, among the most promising, their eyes gleaming at the idea of such a pact.
Meanwhile, Rui is no less busy than the others, already in the banks inquiring about merchants in default of payment, or facing bankruptcy for the upcoming trading season.
His challenge: to find a place where these men could work away from prying eyes and in warmth during the Swedish winter.
After visiting old royal navy warehouses, disused sawmills, and port hangars, his choice falls on a vast, recently unoccupied wood storage shed, located by the water but sufficiently isolated.
It is not a palace, but it has the advantage of being easily heated thanks to its thick wooden structure and the possibility of installing several large masonry stoves. Rui negotiates secretly, using the same tactic of hard cash. Whether he rented or bought it, the important thing is that the building is now at their disposal.
Teams are dispatched to clean it, install sturdy workbenches, sharpened tools, and the stoves that will soon crackle, driving away the biting cold.
The camp is established. The twenty experts and their "troops" (apprentices and helpers) are recruited. The hangar is ready. The stage is set for the frantic production of the "Cat and Mouse" weaving machines, with their characteristic wheel and pulley system that activates during the up-and-down inversion of the warp threads to guide the "mouse" (shuttle) between the upper and lower masses of threads.