by Eric Flint
“Oh, look, Heinrich!”
But Heinrich kept his eyes closed.
Florence, capital of the Duchy of Tuscany
Italy
“My hosts keep urging me to move into one of their bigger and newer palaces. I lived in one of them for a time, in my first exile. The Palazzo Medici, they call it.”
Fakhr-al-Din waited for the translator to finish, before continuing. The emir’s Italian was excellent, but unfortunately Mike’s was mediocre. If Rebecca had been present, she could have done the translating. But the customs of the Levant were such that his host would have deemed it very improper for her to be present.
As Fakhr-al-Din proceeded to demonstrate. “But I much prefer this older palace, the Palazzo Vecchio. Yes, the rooms are small, as you can see”—he waved his hand about—“but there is much more privacy. That is very important for the women. Here, they can move about outside, because there is an enclosed garden. In the larger and more recently built palaces—”
His expression grew stern. “It is quite scandalous, the way the Florentine boys try to get a glimpse of our women. It is very hard to prevent them from doing so, in a place like the Palazzo Medici.”
Mike kept his expression as bland as possible. He couldn’t quite bring himself to nod in a gesture of agreement, though. Some impish part of him was tempted to explain to the emir that the customs in the German lands he now called home included public baths, which were not segregated by gender. So far as he could tell, there was no significant moral decay caused by this practice, compared to that which prevailed anywhere else in the world, including the Near East.
He glanced at David Bartley, who was sitting next to him. The young man’s own expression indicated a certain degree of reproof. Hopefully, Fakhr-al-Din would interpret that as David’s disapproval of young rascals rather than his disapproval of old male chauvinists.
“But I grow tiresome, I fear,” said the emir, after another pause for translation. “You did not come all this way to hear an old man grumble about the sinfulness of young men.”
He smiled, and his face seemed to lose about twenty years of age and forty years of disapprobation. “I fear I was no angel myself when I was young.”
Fakhr-al-Din wasn’t particularly old by up-time standards, being only in his early sixties. But down-timers gauged these things differently. Any number of them could and did live into their seventies and eighties, and some into their nineties. But as they drew near to the Biblically stipulated lifespan of threescore and ten, they tended to become fatalistic on the subject of age.
“We wish to propose an alliance, Emir.”
The years of age returned. “For what purpose?”
Mike began to explain.
* * *
Rebecca’s meeting with the rulers of Tuscany was a relaxed affair. Perhaps that was due to the fact they were meeting in the open air, in the spectacular Boboli Gardens adjacent to the Palazzo Pitti, which served as the residence for Florence’s ruling family. More likely, Rebecca thought, it was because for all practical purposes the meeting was between women.
Yes, a man was present at the meeting—no less a figure than the grand duke himself, Ferdinando II de’ Medici. But Ferdinando’s great passion was not politics but new technology. That had been true even before the Ring of Fire and had become something of an obsession since. The moment he learned that the diplomatic delegation from the USE had brought a radio to give to the Tuscans and Rebecca handed him the manual of operation—already translated into Italian, conveniently—he’d had no interest in anything else. So while he stayed in his seat with his nose in the manual, Rebecca discussed affairs with his wife Vittoria della Rovere. And they did so in the course of a stroll through the gardens.
The grand duke’s wife had considerable influence in Tuscany’s political affairs, though in her case it was tightly focused. Vittoria was a devout Catholic, and she had been determined to attach Tuscany as closely as possible to the church. When Cardinal Borja had carried out his coup-in-all-but-name and Pope Urban VIII had barely escaped Rome with his life, Vittoria had become a partisan for the pope in exile. That partisanship had only increased and become fiercer after Urban was murdered.
But that was something she and her husband, who sided with her although he didn’t share the same fury, had to keep hidden for the time being, as much as possible. Borja and the Spanish who ruled half of Italy had enough on their plate already to want to avoid a war with Tuscany. But if the Medicis made too much trouble, that could change. In the meantime, the grand duchess was keenly interested in forging good, if discreet, relations with the United States of Europe.
Hence the very pleasant reception she gave Rebecca. If Vittoria was dismayed that her guest was Jewish, she kept it to herself. Rebecca suspected the grand duchess found that reassuring, actually, since there was little chance Rebecca could be an agent of another faction within the Catholic church.
* * *
“I will need to consider your proposal,” said Fakhr-al-Din. “It is not something I can give you an answer to immediately.”
Mike nodded. “Of course, Emir.”
“How long can you stay in Tuscany?”
“There is no set time by which I need to be back. The siege will be lifted for a time, since Murad will need to winter over his forces in Vienna.”
With a finger, Fakhr-al-Din summoned one of the servants standing next to the door. “Make ready a suite for the general,” he commanded. Then, eyed David Bartley.
“He does not need to remain in Florence,” Mike said. “We’ve discussed enough of Major Bartley’s logistical plan already.”
Given the small dimensions of the room, there was no chance the servant hadn’t heard their entire conversation. That had made Mike uncomfortable, but by now he was accustomed to the habit which seventeenth-century grandees almost invariably had of ignoring the presence of servants when important matters were being discussed. When he’d been prime minister, his chief of intelligence Francisco Nasi had taken full advantage of that careless practice.
The Druze emir must have sensed Mike’s discomfort. After the servant left, he said: “You need not worry, General Stearns. All of my servants belong to Druze families closely bound to my own Ma’an family.”
As if treason isn’t something done by insiders. But Mike kept the thought to himself. So far they’d only discussed the broad elements of Mike’s proposal, including the part David Bartley would be playing. He’d said nothing at all, for instance, of bringing Admiral Simpson and the Baltic fleet into the Med.
They were still at a political stage of the negotiations. When and if it became time to discuss operational matters, he’d insist that the meetings be kept completely private.
* * *
“We can have a suite prepared for you,” Vittoria said to Rebecca, as they concluded their stroll through the gardens. They were approaching the figure of the grand duke, who was still sitting on the same bench and still had his nose in the radio manual.
“One of the ones with a private bath,” she added, smiling.
The smile seemed quite innocent, diplomatically speaking. As if the woman who was pointing out the amenities was not fully aware that Jewish custom was to bathe more frequently than Christians generally did. Rebecca wouldn’t be at all surprised if they had dinnerware in the palace appropriate for kashrut as well. The Medicis were nothing if not sophisticated, and while much of Italy was hostile to Jews, Tuscany was more liberal. Some Jews were politically prominent and a larger number were important to the duchy’s financial affairs. Rebecca would not be the first Jew who’d enjoyed the dynasty’s hospitality.
The Catholic church was just as powerful in Italy as it was in her native Spain, but Italians did not share the typical Iberian obsession with “Judaizers,” also known as marranos, “Secret Jews.” That was because the Italians had been more humane—or simply smarter—and had not emulated the mass forced conversions that the Dominicans had carried out in Spain and Portugal
at the end of the fourteenth century.
If you don’t force Jews and Moslems to hide their religion, then you don’t have to be worried about secret Jews and Moslems, do you? It ain’t rocket science, as her husband Michael would say. But he had a much greater aptitude for politics than most people did, including most rulers.
“No, thank you,” she responded. “I need to get back to the USE as soon as possible. The radio operators will stay, of course. But I do have one favor to ask…”
* * *
If there had been anyone watching the day the USE delegation arrived—which there probably had been—they would have seen five people leave the airfield along with their luggage and equipment of some kind. Four of them would have been men, all of them in uniform. The big man who seemed to be their leader wore a particularly floppy hat that made his face difficult to see, but was obviously the famous Michael Stearns. Obviously, if for no other reason than the proprietary manner in which his beautiful wife held onto his arm as they walked away from the plane.
Very beautiful wife, as said all the tales about the famous Jewess, Rebecca Abrabanel. If any watching spies had been male—and most spies were male—they would have spent most of the time they had available to study faces studying hers.
If there was anyone watching on the morning the delegation left—and there probably was—they would have seen only three people return to the airfield. The same beautiful woman—no doubt about it, since she wasn’t wearing a veil of any sort—and the same two men in uniform. One, slender and quite young. The other, the big fellow in the floppy hat. That would be General Stearns. Had to be, for his wife had the same proprietary grip on his arm.
* * *
Once in the air, the Florentine nobleman who’d been posing as Mike Stearns proved to have none of the up-timer’s anxieties—and had the privilege of riding in the front seat, as Mike had done himself. He’d have to make his own arrangements for returning to Tuscany, but he wasn’t worried about that. He was a self-confident man who’d traveled a lot, and the grand duchess had provided him with ample funds for the purpose.
For the moment, he was just enjoying himself, looking out the window.
“Oh, look!” he exclaimed.
Chapter 10
Prague railroad station
Bohemia
Colonel Jeff Higgins finished his scrutiny of the train drawn up to the new station the king of Bohemia had built in his capital. Wallenstein had situated it in that part of the city that would have someday in another universe been called “Wenceslas Square.” In this universe, it had been named Wallenstein Square—which Jeff thought was a little ridiculous since there was no square there yet.
The section of Prague where the train station was located did exist by this time. It was called Nové Město—New Town—and had been established by Charles IV almost three centuries earlier. Protected by a fortified wall, New Town had grown rapidly, partly because the king decreed that all noisome trades had to be located there. The banks of the Vltava River in the area were soon lined with structures suitable for tanners, dyers, fishermen, carpenters and woodworkers of all sorts, brickmakers—you name it and if it was practical and/or loud and smelly, it would be in New Town.
The area that was now Wallenstein Square had been known as the Horse Market, and was still used for that purpose. The only large building yet constructed was the train station at the southeast end of the square, abutting the Horse Gate which led out of the city.
The train station was called—what else?—Wallenstein Station. Jeff was a little puzzled that Wallenstein kept naming things using his original cognomen, when he now had much more prestigious ones he could use, such as Venceslas V Adalbertus. But he was pretty sure Prince Ulrik’s analysis was correct: “Wallenstein has read the famous-in-another-world poet Schiller’s play about him, which Schiller titled Wallenstein. He probably thinks the name is some sort of lucky charm. He’s very superstitious, you know.”
As the years passed since the Ring of Fire, Jeff was finding that “other universe” to be increasingly fantastical. He still had moments when he deeply missed his parents, but not many of them anymore. He had a wife and family of his own now. Perhaps most important of all, he had a life—and not one he could ever have had in the world of his origin.
As for the lucky-charm business…
“Good luck with that,” Jeff muttered. Ulrik was standing close enough to him to overhear and cocked his eye quizzically.
“I was just thinking that Wallenstein’s looking pretty bad these days.” Jeff and the prince had had an audience with Bohemia’s ruler the day before, right after they arrived in Prague city. Most of the Hangman Regiment was camped outside the city, of course, since no ruler in this century—well, any century—wanted a lot of foreign troops stationed in his capital.
Wallenstein had been quite cordial and pleasant. But only Jeff and Ulrik had been allowed to see him, since he was now more or less permanently confined to his bed. He’d looked…
Awful. At death’s door, as the saying went.
“I don’t think he has much longer to live,” said Ulrik, nodding his agreement.
“And then what’ll happen?”
The prince shrugged. “Nothing too dramatic, unless I’m greatly misreading the situation.”
“And your reading is…what?” Jeff was genuinely interested. Over the past few weeks in Ulrik’s company, he’d come to have a lot of respect for the Danish prince’s political acumen. That boded well for Ulrik’s ability to absorb military lessons in the future.
“The key is that Pappenheim seems to have no political ambitions of his own and he seems genuinely attached to Wallenstein. Without Pappenheim leading or at least lending his support to a coup attempt, I see no way it could succeed.”
Jeff grunted. “Yeah, no kidding.” Pappenheim was the commander of Bohemia’s army and was utterly ferocious in battle. He was universally considered one of the premier generals of the day.
“So I think a regency would be—will be—set up, given that the king’s son is still a small child. Queen Isabella Katharina will be the official regent, but the power will actually be wielded by a privy council. Say this much for Wallenstein, he’s a good judge of talent and has picked capable subordinates and advisers.”
“None of whom are going to be stupid enough or rash enough to piss off Pappenheim. He’d be part of the council but mostly there as the queen’s watchdog.”
“Precisely so.” Ulrik gave the train another quick examination—which really didn’t take long given its modest dimensions.
“What’s your conclusion, Colonel?” he asked. Whenever their discussion ventured onto military issues—which Ulrik defined quite expansively—he was punctilious about getting Jeff’s advice.
“Forget it,” said Jeff. “It sounded like a great idea in the abstract, but now that we’ve been able to see the actual reality…”
He gave the train a look that wasn’t quite disgusted but was certainly wading into those waters. “There is no way this rinky-dink barely-more-than-a-Lionel-toy-train is going to move an entire regiment with all of its horses, weapons, ammunition and equipment from here to Breslau without taking weeks and weeks to do it. One little shuttle at a time, carrying a relative handful of soldiers”—he eyed the locomotive—“and doing it none too swiftly.”
The locomotive was newly built, but to Jeff it already looked like an antique, something that belonged in a museum.
“Assuming it didn’t break down—and I wouldn’t bet a lot of money on that—it’d still take longer than the tried-and-true old-fashioned method. What’s called ‘marching.’”
Ulrik smiled. “I suspect the men would give me a different opinion.”
“Sure. Lazy buggers. That’s why officers were invented.”
Ulrik stroked his beard. Like his father and Gustav Adolf, he favored a Vandyke, but he kept his cut shorter than usual. Quite a bit shorter than Jeff’s own, for that matter.
“There’s no
reason you couldn’t take the train, though, Colonel,” he said, “along with a bodyguard detachment. I’m sure I can manage overseeing the regiment while it’s just marching through friendly territory. I wouldn’t really have to do much, since you have such good officers.”
Ulrik left off the beard-stroking and swept his finger down the length of the train. “There’s room for at least thirty men and their horses and equipment.”
Jeff frowned. “What would be the advantage of my going ahead?”
Ulrik smiled again. “Aren’t you the one who keeps stressing to me the importance of having your soldiers end a long and tiring march with good quarters?”
“Well, yeah. Troops get cranky when they finish plodding along carrying a third of their body weight in backpacks and discover they’re supposed to sleep in a hole in the ground or a tent made of scraps and held up by a couple of twigs.” He stroked his own beard. “It’s true that if I got to Breslau a week or so before the regiment did that I could probably wrangle us some decent quarters.”
Ulrik’s smile widened. “Especially since you’d be wrangling with your own wife. Whom you’d be seeing earlier than either of you expected.”
The beard-stroking got more vigorous. “Yeah, there’s that too.”
* * *
Jeff left the next morning, with one of the regiment’s platoons. The train didn’t take them the whole way, since the line ended at Ostrava, which was becoming a major coal and steel center for the kingdom. In terms of pure distance, they hadn’t actually gained much since they’d traveled east instead of northeast. But the train got them across the Sudetes mountains and put them on the Amber Road. That ancient trade route would take them straight to Breslau. Men on horseback could handle it easily.
Jeff still wasn’t all that impressed with the train. But it had done its job well enough—and he would allow that it had a dandy whistle.
