Eric Flint - Grantville Gazette.Volume XIX

"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."