"Grantville Gazette.Volume XIX" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

The Anaconda Project, Episode Eight
Eric Flint

After they left the restaurant-or "cafe," rather-Piccolomini glanced up at the sky, which had grown leaden.

"Snowing soon," he said, reaching up and drawing his cloak around him more tightly.

Von Mercy followed suit. The temperature wasn't too bad, but there was something of a wind that added considerably to the chill. "Where are we headed? Unterer Werd?"

Piccolomini shook his head. "No. The ghetto would be too far from the center of things for Abrabanel's purposes. And he's got plenty of money." With his chin, he pointed straight ahead down the street. "Just up there a ways. Less than a five minute walk."

Franz was a bit surprised, but only a bit. Although Jews in Vienna usually lived in the ghetto located on the island formed by the Danube and one of its side branches, the city did not enforce the provision strictly if the Jew involved was wealthy enough.

As they walked, Franz noticed two other restaurants sporting the new title of "cafe."

"I swear, it's a plague," he muttered.

Glancing in the direction of von Mercy's glower, Piccolomini smiled. "If you think it's bad here, you should see what it's like in Italy. My younger brother is the archbishop of Siena and he told me there was almost a public riot there a few months ago, because of a dispute involving the rules in a game of soccer."

"A game of… what?"

"Soccer. If you don't know what it is, be thankful all you have to contend with is the occasional restaurant with pretensions. And pray to God that you never have to deal with the intricacies of baseball."

"Intricacies of… what?"

"Never mind. Stick to the cavalry, Franz."

A few dozen yards further along, Piccolomini pointed with his chin again. This time, at a small shop they were nearing. There was a small sign over the door, reading: Sugar and Things.

"There's the real money," said the Florentine general. "That shop's owned by a partnership between two local merchants and one of the American mechanics whom the emperor hired recently to keep his two automobiles running. Sanderlin's his name-although it's really his wife who's involved in the business."

"They are sugar importers?"

"Yes-but mostly they process it into something called 'confectioner's sugar' and sell it to the city's wealthiest residents and most expensive restaurants." He shook his head. "Sugar is already worth its weight in gold. What they do with it…"

He shook his head again. "But people are besotted with things American-especially anything they can find involving Vienna in those tourist guides. So, they say Vienna needs its cafes with coffee and pastries-and the best pastries require confectioner's sugar."

"A plague, as I said."

"May as well get used to it, Franz," Piccolomini said heavily. "When Wallenstein's Croats failed in their raid on Grantville, all of Europe was doomed to this lunacy. Even in Paris, I'm told."

He stopped in front of a nondescript doorway. Just one of many along the street, marked in no particular way.

"And here we are."

Uriel Abrabanel proved to be, just as Piccolomini had said, a man whom no one would think to call "comely." He was saved from outright ugliness only by the fact that his animated and jovial spirit imparted a certain flair to his coarse and pox-marked features. It was hard to believe, though, that the man was closely related-uncle, no less-to Rebecca Abrabanel, reputed to be one of the great beauties of Europe.

But von Mercy was skeptical of that reputation, anyway. He didn't doubt the woman was attractive, probably quite attractive. But he was sure that the near-Helenic reputation given to her appearance was mostly the product of the same glamorous aura that surrounded almost everything American by now, almost four years after the Ring of Fire. An aura that was just as strong-probably stronger, in fact-among the peoples who were the USE's enemies than those who lived under Stearns' rule directly or counted themselves as his allies. Unlike the Swedes or the Germans or the Dutch, who had had many occasions to encounter Americans or their Abrabanel associates directly, for most Austrians or French or Italians-to say nothing or Spaniards or Poles-they remained mostly a matter of legend and hearsay.

And if much of the hearsay and many of the legends involved their wicked ways and nefarious schemes, there was no reason those couldn't be combined with other qualities. So, if Mike Stearns was a relentless savage bent upon destroying all that was fine and sensible about Europe's social and political arrangements, he was also surely the most cunning and astute barbarian who had stalked the earth since Attila raged out of the east. So also, if his Jewish spymaster Nasi was evil incarnate he was also intellect incarnate-just as Stearns' Jewish wife combined the appearance of a goddess with a spirit fouled by the demons of the Pit.

For, indeed, the same aura extended to those closely associated with the Americans, even if they were not American themselves. That was especially true of the Jews, especially the Sephardim of the widely-flung and prominent Abrabanel clan.

Franz believed none of it. He'd read some of the philosophical and theological speculations concerning the nature and cause of the Ring of Fire. But, in the end, he'd come to the same conclusions that, by all accounts, the Americans had come to themselves. Namely, that they had no idea what had caused the miraculous phenomenon, and they were certainly not miraculous themselves. Just people, that's all. Granted, people from a distant future possessed of incredible mechanical skills and knowledge. But no more exotic, for all that, than visitors from Cathay.

Less exotic, in fact, in most ways. They spoke a well-known European language, and most of them were Christians. And all of them except a handful of African extraction were even of European origin. Solid and sturdy origin, at that: English, German, and Italian, for the most part.

As von Mercy had been ruminating over these matters, Abrabanel had spent his time studying Franz himself. Eventually, he seemed to be satisfied with something he saw, if Franz interpreted his expression correctly.

"Not a bigot, then," Abrabanel said softly. "Octavio told me as much"-here he gave the Florentine general a sly glance-"and I was inclined to believe him, even though he is an Italian and thus of duplicitous stock. So unlike we simple and straightforward Hebrews and even simpler and more straightforward Lorrainers."

Franz couldn't help but laugh. Partly, at the jest itself; partly, at the truth lurking within it. For, in point of simple fact, the seemingly-bluff Piccolomini was a consummately political general, as you'd expect of a man from a prominent family in the Florentine aristocracy. He'd spent a good portion of his years as a military officer serving more in the capacity of a diplomat or even-in truth if not in name-as what amounted to a spy.

Duplicitous, as such, he might not be. But Franz didn't doubt for a moment that lies could issue from Octavio Piccolomini's lips as smoothly and evenly as a gentle tide sweeps over a beach.

He recalled himself to the matter at hand. "No, I am not a bigot. I claim no particularly fondness for Jews, mind you. But I bear no hostility against you, either. What I don't understand, is what any of that has to do with your purpose in asking me here." He nodded toward Piccolomini. "Nor why you needed to use him as your conduit."

"In answer to the second question, I am not actually using Octavio as my conduit to you. It would be far more accurate to say that I am using him as my conduit-say better, my liaison-at-a-comfortable-distance-with Emperor Ferdinand."

The logic was clear enough, once Franz thought about it. "Ah. You feel that if you employed me directly, the Austrians might fret themselves over the purpose of the employment. And then, out of anxiety-"

"Oh, that's far too strong a term, Franz!" protested Piccolomini. "Don't give yourself airs! We would-at most-be motivated by reasonable caution."

He bestowed a fulsome grin upon von Mercy and Abrabanel both.

Franz returned the grin with a thin smile. "Out of reasonable caution, then"-he looked back at Uriel-"they would take steps that you might find annoying."

"Oh, ridiculous!" boomed Piccolomini. "That he might find disastrous to his plans! Utterly destructive to his schemes. Might lay waste his entire project for years to come." The grin returned. "That sort of thing. Much the better way to put it."

"Indeed," said Uriel, smiling also. "This way, at every stage, the Austrians are kept-to use a handy little American expression-'in the loop.' I think that will serve everyone nicely."

Piccolomini brought a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat noisily. "Except… well, Wallenstein, perhaps. If he finds out that I'm involved in any way. I assume he's still holding a grudge?"

"Well, yes. Of course he is, Octavio. His name is Albrecht von Wallenstein and you did, after all, plot and carry out his murder."

Piccolomini waved a meaty hand. "In another world! In this one, it never happened! And that, only according to a detestable play by a German of very dubious reputation. Why, the man hasn't even been born yet. How can anyone believe a word he says?"

All three men laughed, now. In truth, Friedrich Schiller's play Wallenstein was now one of the best-known plays in central Europe and very widely published and performed-despite the fact that it wouldn't have been written until the year 1800 and only one copy of it had existed in Grantville. Partly, because the subject was still alive and now King of Bohemia, a position he'd never achieved in Schiller's universe. And partly-such was the universally held suspicion-because Wallenstein secretly financed the play's publication and many of its performances. Although Wallenstein had its criticisms of the man who gave the play its title, the portrait of him was by and large quite favorable.

When the laughter died away, Uriel shook his head. "But I saw no reason-and see none now-for Wallenstein to know anything of your role in this business. All he will know, if all goes well, is that I met a fortunately-unemployed cavalry commander of excellent reputation in Vienna and hired him on behalf of Don Morris."

Piccolomini grunted. "So much is easy to explain. How about the other two?"

Franz wondered who "the other two" might refer to. But he decided to say nothing, for the moment.

Uriel shrugged. "They're only a colonel and a major, Octavio, and unlike General von Mercy they come alone, not accompanied by a complete regiment of cavalry. I doubt if Wallenstein will even think to inquire."

Piccolomini rubbed his jaw for a moment, and the nodded. "Well. You're probably right."

Uriel turned back to von Mercy. "My proposition is simple enough, General. As you may or may not know-and I suspect you do, at least the gist of it-the King of Bohemia has entrusted Don Morris Roth to see to Bohemia's interests to the east. Among those interests-this is at the center of Don Morris' own concerns, as well as my own-is included a reasonable and just resolution of the Jewish issues involved."

Franz managed not to wince. He could think of several possible resolutions to what Abrabanel was very delicately calling "the Jewish issues involved" in the politics of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and the sprawling lands and peoples of Ruthenia. But neither "reasonable" nor "just" was likely to be part of them.

A small number of immensely wealthy and powerful Polish and Lithuanian magnates lorded it over vast estates worked by Ruthenian peasants-serfs, to call things by their right name-and used Jews as their absentee managers and rent-collectors. How was anything either reasonable or just supposed to issue from those premises?

But all he said was, "Not so easily done. And if it can be done, it won't be done by cavalry."

Uriel now grinned. "And an honest man, too! No, General, it can't be done by cavalry. In the end, in fact-such is Don Morris' opinion, and I share it-the matter can't be resolved by any sort of military force. But what cavalry can do, as we wrestle with the problem, is keep someone else from imposing their own very unreasonable and unjust solution."

"Possibly. Although it will take more than one regiment of cavalry."

"Quite a bit more, in fact." Abrabanel leaned forward in his chair. "But here's the thing, General. We can train-so we believe, at least-a powerful enough military force out of our own resources."

Franz raised an eyebrow. "From Jews? Meaning no offense, but I find that unlikely."

Abrabanel shrugged. "It was done in another universe. But it won't simply be Jews, in any event. The Brethren are with us also, and-"

"Socinians." That came from Piccolomini, who, for all his cosmopolitanism and sophistication, still had more than a little in the way of straightforward Italian Catholic attitudes. The word was practically sneered. "Heretics who make Lutherans and Calvinists look sane."

"As it may be. But whether they are heretics or not-and as a Jew, I would not presume to judge such Christian matters-I can assure you that they are quite capable of fighting, Octavio. They did very well, actually, against Holk's forces last year."

He turned back to von Mercy. "But here's the thing-as you well know from your own experience. Without the traditions involved, there is no way we can forge a good cavalry force on our own."

After a moment, Franz nodded. At least, this Don Morris and his Abrabanel agent were not so wildly impractical as to imagine they could conjure up good cavalry from the ranks of ghetto-dwellers and rustics.

Infantry… maybe. Perhaps even artillery, if not too much was demanded of it in the way of maneuvering. But cavalrymen, like archers, almost had to be born to it. At the very least, they had to have spent years learning all the necessary skills.

"So. And for that, you seek to hire me. Yes?"

"Exactly."

"And the terms?"

Abrabanel's description was short, clear and to the point. When he was done, von Mercy studied him for a few seconds.

"And all this is going to come from the purse of one man? Who is not even a duke, much less a king. Pardon me, but I find that hard to believe. I'm not a village peasant, who thinks a 'rich Jew' is some sort of devil-summoned creature with bottomless coffers."

Uriel smiled. "You might be surprised, actually, at how rich some of these up-timers have gotten. The Roth fortune derives largely from cut jewelry, of which at the moment they have an effective monopoly and is a rage sweeping Europe. More than one monarch-and any number of dukes-are opening up their coffers to obtain the new gems. And, at that, Don Morris' wealth is small compared to the fortune being amassed by the Stone family with their pharmaceutical and chemical works. Still-"

He waggled fingers in a gesture that simultaneously dismissed the problem and cautioned the need for discretion. "Not all of the funds, of course, will come from Don Morris himself. Probably not even most of them. I said that Wallenstein was not directly involved here. I did not say he was not involved at all."

Von Mercy leaned back in his chair. And felt the tension caused by the Austrian emperor's refusal to hire him begin to ease. It seemed he would be able to keep his regiment intact, after all. Some of those men had been with him for years and would have been very difficult to replace quickly if at all.

In fact, he had heard tales of the wealth of the man Roth in Prague. The intricately-carved new jewelry he and his partners had introduced to Europe was, indeed, all the rage-at least, among those circles who could afford such gems at all. But there were a lot of noblemen in Europe, many of whom were very wealthy themselves-and it seemed as if each and every one of them was bound and determined to acquire one of the dazzling new "Prague jewels," as they were now being called.

And if Wallenstein was also involved, even if only at the level of providing funds through the back door…

Yes. Roth could afford to employ an experience general and a regiment of cavalry, even on the munificent terms he was offering.

"Done," he said. "Where do you want me to take my troops? And by what date, and by what route?"

"As to where, Brno. As to when… there is really no great hurry. Two months from now would be ideal, but three months would be acceptable if you need that much time."

He made a little grimace. "The tricky question is by what route, of course. Given the unfortunate state of hostilities between Austria and Bohemia."

He glanced at Piccolomini.

"I'm afraid not," said the Florentine officer. "To allow Franz and his troops to pass directly from Austria into Bohemia would be just that little too blatant and obvious. So I'm afraid he'll have to take the longer route."

"That's time-consuming but not difficult," said von Mercy. " Provided I'm given free passage through the USE. I'll need to pass through the whole of the Oberpfalz and enter Bohemia at Cheb."

Uriel's good cheer was back in full force. "Not a problem."

Piccolomini and von Mercy both gave him skeptical looks.

"Johan Baner's in command of the USE army in the Oberpfalz," pointed out Piccolomini.

"And he is, by all accounts," added Franz, "choleric to the point of lunacy."

"Baner." Abrabanel spoke the word much the way he might have named an insect. "Merely a general. Meaning no offense. Did I mention that my niece dotes upon me? And she, in turn, is doted upon by her husband?"

After a bit, his grin was met with two smiles.

"Well, then," said Piccolomini. "All seems to be well."