There are shades here of Stephenson’s Baroque Cycle and of Gentle’s own magnum opus, Ash, but 1610 is far less tightly plotted than the former and neither as long or as consistently wrong-footing as the latter. There’s actually nothing wrong with either of those things; it’s a little bit of a relief to know that one need not scrutinise every word of its 750 pages for clues. The book starts with our narrator, French spymaster Rochefort, being blackmailed by Queen Marie de Medici into arranging the assassination of Henri IV of France. He makes arrangements which he’s sure will fail, but by horrible chance they succeed, and soon he’s on the run with infuriatingly insouciant young duellist Dariole, heading to England. There, they encounter Robert Fludd, a (real-life) mathematician and occultist who in this world has mastered the calculation of probabilities. Fludd’s work tells him that, in half a millennium, the world will come to a disastrous end—unless, in 1610, King James I and VI of England and Scotland is assassinated, and his son Prince Henry placed upon the throne. We are therefore in a speculative realm, which I love, and which Gentle blends most effectively with historical truth. Rochefort and Dariole also cross paths with Saburo Tanaka, a shipwrecked samurai on an ambassadorial mission to James; Suor Caterina, an Italian nun hiding out in Cornwall (whence the strong flavour of Stephensonian unlikely-but-possible character interactions); Aemilia Lanier, a poet and playwright who actually lived and is here part of Fludd’s faction; and many others.
I am not sure how well the writing of Saburo holds up; I could find nothing overtly offensive about it, but he is often described as hard for Europeans to interpret and his arc involves some double-crossing. More troubling and fascinating is the way Gentle deals with rape, which walks a fine line between seventeenth-century attitudes (that a woman so violated is unmarriageable, “spoiled goods”, likely to kill herself afterwards, and so on) and early twenty-first-century ones (that healing is possible but will take a long time; that vengeance is often desired but rarely desirable). On the whole, I think, she manages to make clear the full devastation of rape without allowing it to destroy the character’s life, which feels right—but then it is not clear that she takes the rape of men or male-presenting people as seriously as she does the rape of women, given a scene near the beginning where Rochefort attempts to sexually humiliate Dariole in this way only to find that Dariole’s enthusiastic response renders it impossible. Also fascinating, and rather heartening, is her focus on submission kink, which provides a long-running—almost fanfic-esque—tension between Rochefort and Dariole. Near the end, it is suggested that kink might permit a means of rehabilitating the powerlessness of a person who has been raped, which has been borne out in contemporary studies of the kink community and its efficacy around sexual trauma and trust. I always have a soft spot for novels set in the past which show characters discovering their own sexualities in a manner both true to their personalities and congruent with that society’s vocabulary for and understanding of sex.
This is also book 8 of my 20 Books of Summer.