Eric Flint - Grantville Gazette.Volume XIX

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."

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."