Eric Flint: 1634: The Ram Rebellion

“Is Gustavus Adolphus going to like it? The arrangement he made with Mike, whatever it was, didn’t include having us swallow his allies.” Ed was sure of that.

“The king, ah, emperor, can’t do much about it. Margrave Christian is volunteering. His politics are local; his main interest has always been keeping the war out of Bayreuth. Right now, he sees us as his best bet for doing that. No guarantees that he would continue his allegiance if we fall flat on our faces at some future date, of course. But for right now, I think, our honorable captain-general will just have to live with it.”

“I’ll put the best face on it that I can. Mike should love it, even if he has to keep his own face poker-stiff. Next?”

“All right. Steve’s final point. The Nuernberg city council is increasingly worried about the quasi-independent status of Nuernberg as an Imperial City and an independent state within the USE, separate from Thuringia-Franconia.”

Ed raised his eyebrows. “Do they have reason to be?”

Arnold looked at him. “Not right now. After all, Rhode Island managed to survive. It will depend, in the long run, if they’re good enough politicians to hang on. If they aren’t…”

“Speaking of politicians, what’s Big Bad Brillo doing at the moment?”

Arnold smiled. It was a rather thin smile. “Running for congress. He was thrown out of law school, you know. What else is left for him, when he isn’t organizing a revolution?”

Magdeburg, October, 1634

“I still don’t like capital punishment,” Mike Stearns said softly, in a tone of voice that was more thoughtful than accusatory. He was standing at the window of the USE prime minister’s office, looking out over the Elbe river, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Yes, Michael, I know you don’t,” came Francisco Nasi’s voice from behind him. “But-be honest-that’s not so much a moral or religious stance on your part, as it is a matter of… I’m not sure what to call it. Class antagonism, perhaps.”

Mike considered his words. “I guess that’s fair enough. The one thing I always noticed, back in the up-time US of A, starting from when I was a teenager, is that you never saw a rich man on Death Row. Never. Didn’t even see ‘em serving life sentences that often. So I concluded by the time I was twenty that, once you stripped away all the bullshit, the death penalty was just another way for rich people to kill poor people-and I figured they already had enough ways to do that.”

“You can hardly object to this one, then.”

Mike turned away from the window and sat back down at his desk. “Well, sure, there’s that savage and primitive part of me that’s practically howling with glee. Especially since they hung Dr. Lenz along with von Bimbach. Yes, sir. Too bad they didn’t shove one of Pestilenz’s pamphlets down his throat-the one he wrote about Becky, I mean-before they yanked open the trapdoor.”

For a flashing instant, a very fierce grin came and went on his face. Among the many reports that had come to Magdeburg after the Ram Rebellion-as it was now universally being called, across Europe-had been the results of the thorough investigation the authorities of the State of Thuringia-Franconia had made of Dr. Lenz’s papers. One of things that had been discovered was that Lenz had been the author of the notorious political pamphlet Pestis Pontifica, Pestis Judaica , that had circulated widely in Franconia in the course of 1633. Included in the pamphlet’s anti-Semitic and anti-NUS rantings had been some very vile accusations leveled at Mike’s wife Rebecca, involving grotesque sexual acts between her and Cardinal Richelieu.

Nasi matched the grin “Indeed. Of course, he was not the only such pamphleteer. And, unfortunately, there was no direct reference in his papers to whichever up-timer fed him the Protocols of the Elders of Zion. So that’s still to be determined, if it ever is. Nonetheless. He’s dead. Along with von Bimbach. And both of them as a result of scrupulously legal-if very quick-judicial proceedings.”

“Sure was quick,” Mike drawled. “But I imagine the SoTF authorities in charge saw no point in dawdling. Bad idea, that would have been. Might have stirred up the ram again. Speaking of which…”

He leaned forward, sifting through the papers. “Remind me. I know it’s in here somewhere. Your assessment of Constantin Ableidinger’s election chances.”

“The details hardly matter.” For a moment, Nasi’s face held a peculiar expression. Longing, you might call it. Mike had seen it several times before. The first time after he’d explained to Francisco the up-time methods of polling voters. Alas, the preconditions for that didn’t exist in the seventeenth century. Not yet, at least.

Mike was just as glad, actually. He thought it was a lot more interesting to have to use your brains. But it wasn’t surprising that Francisco, who doubled as his unofficial political adviser as well as his chief of intelligence, didn’t see things the same way.

Nasi sighed, and the look faded from his face. “Never mind the details,” he repeated. “Constantin Ableidinger’s chances for election range from ‘guaranteed’ to ‘landslide victory.’ Probably the latter.”

Mike grunted. “Good. Better news, really-much better, in the long run-than His Bimboship and Pestilenz hanging from the neck. I’ll be looking forward to meeting him, when he comes to Magdeburg.”

Nasi cocked his head a little. “Ah… Michael. The general elections for the United States of Europe won’t be held until next year. Ableidinger is running for one of the new Franconian seats in the congress of the SoTF. He’ll be in Grantville, not Magdeburg.”

Mike’s grin, this time, stayed on his face. “Don’t be silly. A man that smart? It’s called ‘stepping stone,’ Francisco. You watch. He’ll run in the nationwide election, come next year. And he’ll win handily, I bet. I’m expecting Wilhelm Wettin’s party to win in the USE as a whole, but I’ll be very surprised if Thuringia-and now Franconia, too-doesn’t remain one of our bastions.”

He rose to his feet and went back to the window. “That means Ableidinger will be here, sometime next year. Like I said, I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

Without turning around to see, he added: “You aren’t rolling your eyes, I trust?”

“I was thinking about it,” Nasi admitted. “The thought of you… and Ableidinger… A bit frightening, actually.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I’ll sure we’ll get along just fine.”

“Yes. As I said. A bit frightening.”

Mike laughed. “One thing more. Send Ableidinger a letter asking him to have a tailor take his measurements. He’ll need a proper suit, now, and I doubt very much if he owns one. I also doubt if he’s got much in the way of money. Leading a revolution’s not generally a well-paying proposition.”

He swiveled his head, and laughed again. Now, Nasi was rolling his eyes.

“Don’t tell me,” Francisco stated.

“Of course I’m going to tell you. We’ll have the suit made here, by my own tailor, and send it to him with my compliments. Best tailor in Magdeburg, probably the whole USE. Make sure you pay for it out of my personal account, though. I wouldn’t want any accusations of pilfering official funds for partisan purposes.”

Nasi was still staring at the ceiling. “God forbid.”

“The ceiling’s not that interesting.”

“Only because you have-so far-failed to have it plastered with one of those grotesque political paintings.”

But he did lower his gaze. “I will say that being in your service is never dull. ‘A bit frightening’ just went to ‘a bit more frightening.’”