"So, what you think?" asked Piccolomini. The Italian general from Florence who was now in Austrian service raised his cup.
The man sitting across from him at the round little table in the small but very crowded restaurant frowned down at the cup in front of him. He'd only had a few sips of the dark liquid contained therein. He still didn't know what he thought of the stuff—and he certainly would never have ordered it himself, as expensive as the concoction was.
His name was Franz von Mercy. He came from a noble family in Lorraine, not Italy, as did his table companion. But in other respects, they were quite similar. Like Piccolomini, von Mercy was a general. They were long-acquainted, as well, almost if not quite friends.
There was one critical difference between them, however, which explained part of von Mercy's skepticism toward the black substance in his cup. Octavio Piccolomini was gainfully employed—very gainfully, by the Habsburg ruler of Austria—and von Mercy was not.
In fact, he was not employed by anybody. Just a short time earlier, he'd been in the service of Duke Maximilian of Bavaria. But after the traitor Cratz von Scharffenstein surrendered the fortress of Ingolstadt to the Swedes, von Mercy had taken his cavalrymen and fled Bavaria. He'd known full well that, despite his own complete innocence in the affair, the murderous duke of Bavaria would blame him for the disaster and have him executed.
So, he'd come to Vienna, hoping to find employment with the Habsburgs. But he'd been turned down, with only this bizarre new hot drink offered by way of compensation.
He looked up from the cup to the window. He'd wondered, when they came into the restaurant, why the owners had defaced perfectly good window panes by painting a sign across them. And he'd also wondered why they chose to call their establishment a café instead of a restaurant.
Now he knew the answer to both questions.
"God damned Americans," he muttered.
Piccolomini winced at the blasphemy, even though he was known to commit the sin himself. Perhaps he felt obliged to put on that public display of disapproval, since he was now quite prominent in the Austrian ranks. They were, after all, right in the heart of Vienna—not more than a few minutes walk from either the Stephensdom cathedral or the emperor's palace.
"Damned they may well be," said Piccolomini. Again, he lifted his cup. "But I enjoy this new beverage of theirs."
"Coffee," said von Mercy, still muttering more than talking aloud. "We already had coffee, Octavio."
His companion shrugged. "True. But it was the Americans who made it popular. As they have done with so many other things."
He set the cup down. "And stop blaming them for your misfortunes. It's silly and you know it. They had nothing to do with Scharffenstein's treason—they certainly can't be blamed for Maximilian's madness!—and it's not because of them that the emperor decided not to hire you. That, he did for the same sort of reasons of state that have led rulers to make similar decisions for centuries. About the only connection the Americans have to the affair is that they've provided us with a rather delicious new expression for it.
"And speaking of delicious . . ." He paused while he picked up the cup and drained it. "I happen to love coffee, myself. The expression is 'cold-blooded,' and it's pretty apt."
He gave his fellow officer a look of sympathy and commiseration. "Tough on you, I know. Tougher still on your men. But look at it from Ferdinand's perspective, Franz. He's expecting a resumption of hostilities with the Swede and his Americans by next year. No matter how badly Maximilian has behaved and no matter how much the emperor detests him, do you honestly expect Ferdinand to take the risk of escalating the already-high tensions between Austria and Bavaria by hiring a general who—from Duke Maximilian's peculiar point of view, I agree, but that's the viewpoint at issue here—has so recently infuriated Bavaria?"
He shook his head and placed the cup back on the table. "It's not going to happen, Franz. I'm sorry, I really am. Not simply because you're something of a friend of mine, but—being honest—because you're a good cavalry commander and I'm sure I'm going to have need of one soon enough."
Glumly, von Mercy nodded. He realized, in retrospect, that he should have foreseen this when he left Bavaria. He knew enough of the continent's strategic configurations, after all, being by now a man in his mid-forties and a very experienced and highly placed military commander.
He'd have done better to have accompanied his friend von Werth to seek employment with Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar. Bernhard would certainly not have cared about the attitude of the Bavarians, seeing as he was already infuriating Maximilian by threatening to seize some of his territory. Or so, at least, Maximilian was sure to interpret Bernhard's actions—but, as Octavio said, it was the Bavarian duke's viewpoint that mattered here.
Nothing for it, then. He'd have to head for the Rhine, after all, and see if Saxe-Weimar might still be in the market. Von Mercy could feel his jaws tightening a little at the prospect of leading a large cavalry force across—around—who knew?—a goodly stretch of Europe already inhabited by large and belligerent armies. Most of whom had no reason to welcome his arrival, and some of whom would actively oppose it.
Alternatively, he could head for Bohemia and see if Wallenstein might be interested in hiring him. But . . .
He managed to keep the wince from showing in his face. That would be certain to infuriate his Austrian hosts, who'd so far been very pleasant even if they'd declined to employ him and his men. He had even less desire to fight his way out of Austria than he did to fight his way to the Rhine.
He heard Piccolomini chuckle, and glanced up. The Italian general was giving him a look that combined shrewdness with—again—sympathy and commiseration.
"I have another possible offer of work for you, Franz. And one that is rather close at hand."
Von Mercy frowned. "The only possibility I can think of, close at hand, would be Wallenstein. And why would you or anyone in Austrian service be sending me to Wallenstein? Like as not, a year from now, you'd be facing me across a battlefield."
A waiter appeared. Piccolomini must have summoned him, and Franz had been too pre-occupied to notice.
"Another coffee for me," the Italian general said. He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at von Mercy. "And you? What's in your cup must already be cold."
Franz couldn't see what particular difference the temperature of the beverage would make. Hot or cold, it would still be extremely bitter. But . . .
Piccolomini was obviously in an expansive mood, and under the circumstances Franz felt it prudent to encourage him. "Yes, certainly. And thank you."
After the waiter was gone, Piccolomini leaned across the table and spoke softly.
"Not Wallenstein directly. In fact, part of the agreement would be that you'd have to be willing to give me your oath that—under no circumstances—would you allow yourself or your soldiers to be used directly against Austria. But . . . yes, in a way you'd be working for Wallenstein. He wouldn't be the one paying you, though, which—"
He gave von Mercy a vulpine grin. "—is always the critical issue for we mercenaries, isn't it? Or 'professional soldiers,' if you prefer the circumlocution."
Franz felt his shoulders stiffen, and forced himself to relax. He did prefer the circumlocution, in point of fact. If that's what it was at all, which he didn't believe for a moment. The difference between a mercenary and a professional soldier might be thin, but it was still real. A mercenary cared only for money. A professional soldier always placed honor first.
As Piccolomini knew perfectly well, damn the crude Italian bastard—or he wouldn't have made this offer in the first place. He'd take Franz von Mercy's oath not to allow himself to be used against Austria as good coin, because it was and he knew it. He'd certainly not do the same for a mere mercenary.
"Who, then?" he asked.
Piccolomini seemed to hesitate. Then, abruptly: "How do you feel about Jews?"
Von Mercy stared at him. His mind was . . .
Blank.
Piccolomini might as well have asked him how he felt about the natives in the antipodes—or, for that matter, the ones that speculation placed on the moon but which Franz had heard the Americans said was impossible.
What did Jews have to do with military affairs? They were the least martial people of Europe. For any number of obvious reasons, starting with the fact that most realms in the continent forbade them from owning firearms. About the only contact professional soldiers ever had with them involved finances, and that was usually only an indirect connection.
Belatedly, Franz remembered that he'd also heard some rumors concerning recent developments among the Jewry of Prague. They'd played a prominent role in repulsing the attack of General Holk on the city, apparently. That had allowed Wallenstein to keep most of his army in the field and defeat the Austrians the previous year at the second battle of the White Mountain.
They were even supposed to have produced a prince of their own, out of the business. An American Jew, if he recalled correctly.
Throughout the long pause, Piccolomini had been watching von Mercy. Now, he added: "Yes, that's right. Your employer would be a Jew. An American Jew, to be precise, who is now highly placed in Wallenstein's service."
Franz rummaged through his memory, trying to find the name. He knew he'd heard it, at least once. But, like most such items of information that didn't seem to have any relevance to him, he'd made no special effort to commit the name to memory.
Piccolomini provided it. "His name is Roth. Morris Roth." He smiled, a bit crookedly. "Or Don Morris, as the Jews like to call him. They fancy their own aristocracy, you know. At least, the Sephardim always have, and it seems the Ashkenazim as well."
Franz noted—to his surprise; but then, he didn't really know the man that well—that Octavio knew that much about the inner workings of Jewry. So did Franz himself, from a now-long-past friendship with a Jewish shoemaker. But most Christians didn't, certainly not most soldiers.
He realized, then, the purpose of Piccolomini's probing questions. And, again, was a bit surprised. He wouldn't have thought the outwardly very bluff—almost to the point of brutal—Italian soldier would have cared about such things.
"I have no particular animus against Jews, if that's what you're wondering." He smiled crookedly himself. "I admit, I've never once contemplated the possibility that one of them might wish to hire me. For what? In the nature of things, Jews don't have much need for professional soldiers."
"Or a need so great that it is too great to be met," said Piccolomini. "But, yes, in times past you'd have been quite correct. But the times we live in today are ones in which the nature of things is changing. Quite rapidly, sometimes."
The waiter returned, bringing two hot cups of coffee. Piccolomini waited until he was gone, and then picked up his cup and leaned back in his chair. Still speaking rather softly, he said: "Well, then. Let's savor our coffees, and then I'll take you to meet someone."
"Roth?"
Piccolomini shook his head. "No, Roth himself is in Prague, so far as I know. The man I'll be taking you to is one of his agents. Uriel Abrabanel, of the famous clan by that name." The Italian blew on his coffee. "Famous among Sephardim, anyway."
Quite famous, in fact. The Jewish shoemaker whom Franz had known in his youth had once told him, very proudly, that he himself was—admittedly, rather distantly—related to the Abrabanels.
Von Mercy's grin was probably on the vulpine side also. "Famous to many people, nowadays. Seeing as how the wife of the prime minister of the United States of Europe is an Abrabanel. And has become rather famous herself—or notorious, depending on how you look at it."
Piccolomini nodded, and took an appreciative sip of his coffee. "She has, indeed. The redoubtable Rebecca Abrabanel. I've been told that Cardinal Richelieu himself remarked upon her shrewdness—which, coming from him, is quite a compliment."
"Yes, it is. Although many people might liken it to one devil complimenting another on her horns and cloven hoofs."
"Oh, surely not," chuckled Piccolomini. "The woman is said to be extraordinarily comely, in fact. So I'm told, anyway."
He chuckled again, more heavily. "What I know for certain, however, is that she's the niece of the man you'll be meeting very soon. So do be alert, Franz. Uriel Abrabanel would be described as 'comely' by no one I can think of, not even his now-dead wife. But he's certainly very shrewd."
It was Franz's turn to hesitate. Then, realizing he simply needed to know, he asked: "At the risk of being excessively blunt, Octavio, I must ask why you are doing me this favor?"
Again, the Florentine issued that distinctively heavy chuckle. "Good question. You'd really do better to ask Janos Drugeth. Know him? He's one of the emperor's closest advisers."
Von Mercy shook his head. "The name's familiar, of course. He's reputed to be an accomplished cavalry commander and I try to keep track of such. But I've never met him and don't really know much about him."
"Well, Janos is also one of Ferdinand's closest friends, and has been since they were boys. This was his idea, actually, not mine." Piccolomini made something of a face. "For my taste, the reasoning behind it is a bit too convoluted. Quite a bit, being honest."
Franz cocked an eyebrow. "And the reasoning is . . . Indulge me, if you would."
Now, Piccolomini hesitated. Then: "I suppose there's no reason you shouldn't know. Drugeth is not in favor of continuing the hostilities between Austria and Bohemia, and thinks we'd be wiser to let things stand as they are. Personally, I disagree—and so does the emperor, for that matter. But Ferdinand listens carefully to whatever Janos says, even when he's not persuaded. And Janos suggested this ploy as a way of encouraging Wallenstein to look elsewhere than Austria for any territorial aggrandizement. We know that he's appointed Morris Roth to expand his realm to the east. But how is Roth supposed to do that without a military force? So, Drugeth thinks we should help provide him with one."
Von Mercy nodded. Up to a point, he could follow the reasoning. War had a grim and inexorable logic of its own. Once the Bohemians began a real effort to expand to the east, in all likelihood they would find themselves getting drawn deeper and deeper into the effort. The more they did so, the less of a threat they would pose to Austria to the south.
There came a point, however, at which the logic began to crumble. Granted, Franz was more familiar with the geography of western Europe than central Europe. Still, one thing was obvious.
"'Expanding his realm to the east' will take him directly into Royal Hungary, Octavio."
Piccolomini grimaced. "So it will, indeed—and don't think I didn't point that out to the emperor and Janos both. I thought that would end the business, since the Drugeth family's own major estates are in Royal Hungary. But Janos—he's an odd one, if you ask me—didn't seem to feel that was much of a problem. In the end, the emperor decided there was enough there to warrant making the connection between you and the Jew in Prague."
He gave Franz a stern look. "But I stress that we will want your vow not to take the field against us."
"Yes, certainly. But you understand, surely, that if I enter—indirectly or not, it doesn't matter—the service of Wallenstein, that I will simply be freeing up some other general and his forces to come against you."
The Italian shrugged. "True enough. But they're not likely to have your skills, either. I think what finally convinced the emperor was Drugeth's point that if we simply let you roam loose as a free agent, since we didn't want to hire you ourselves, the end result was likely to be worse for us than having you leading Wallenstein"—he waved his hand toward the east—"somewhere out there into the marshes of the Polish and Lithuanian rivers."
Once more, that heavy chuckle. "It was hard to dispute that point, at least."
* * *