Chapter 3
Roth town house
Prague, capital of Bohemia
The man introduced himself as Pál Rákóczi, brother of George I Rákóczi, prince of Transylvania.
He was not dressed in an ostentatious manner, though that could easily be excused by the distance he had traveled and the manner in which he had arrived: all cloak-and-dagger, in the back of a covered wagon that had pulled up to the gates of their home, with the driver begging admittance to discuss a most important matter. After a complete security check of the occupant of the wagon, the man claiming to be Pál Rákóczi was let in.
He was a short man. He wore a burnished red doublet with gold buttons. Hanging from his neck was a modest silver chain from which dangled a crude wooden cross. His headdress was more fur than felt, and in it, a single dark feather, dry, worn, crooked, and ready to fall apart. His beard and mustache were well-kept but filled with strands of gray. His breeches, a shop-worn tan; his boots, a hard tarnished black leather.
He smiled, nodded quickly, and said, “It is an honor to meet you, Herr Roth. Your legend grows as we speak.”
“My legend?”
“Oh, yes,” Pál said, following Morris down the hall. “Your military successes against the Polish and Lithuanians, specifically, in addition to your great success here in Prague at the Battle of the Stone Bridge. How many years ago was that engagement? Three? Four?”
Morris shook his head, opened the door to his study, and stepped aside to allow Pál Rákóczi entry. “I’ve lost count, to be honest. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
They sat on opposite ends of the large rectangular table that filled the middle of the room. The space served both as a study and a library. Judith had commissioned three large bookshelves to be constructed and bolted into the far wall. Now all they needed were enough books to fill them.
The room itself was ample, like most rooms in the house, but the tall windows behind Morris’ chair captured the light of the sun and cast it across the space. Unfortunately, the sun had already set for the evening, and so, the young lady who had followed them in, carrying a tray of wine and tea, set the refreshments down on the table and lit two lamps. The hot glow from the light made visibility tolerable.
“Hakaras HaTov,” Morris said, nodding to the young woman. She nodded in kind and curtsied to both him and their guest, and then left quietly through a small side door.
“Would you care for a drink?” Morris asked, motioning to the tray.
Pál Rákóczi nodded. “Yes, thank you. Some wine, please.”
Morris rose and went to the tray. As he poured, he was intrigued by the man’s expression. “Do you find it odd, Herr Rákóczi, that I am serving you, instead of the young lady?”
Rákóczi shook his head. “No, Herr Morris. Although I must wonder why any man who would bother having a servant girl, would not expect her to complete her duties.”
Morris shrugged and passed the drink over. He prepared a cup of tea for himself. He’d had enough wine with Len, Ellie, and Jason; his head was throbbing under a mild buzz. “I do it for two reasons. First, security. The absence of servants at a discussion that might require confidentiality makes it less likely that gossip will spread. Secondly, she brought in the tray and lit the lamps. What more could I have asked for? I like to think that I am still humble enough to serve a guest in my own home. The Talmud teaches us that humility is a great virtue.”
“It is true, then. You are a Jew.”
The statement took Morris by surprise. “You didn’t know that already?”
“Oh yes, yes. But it is always best to get the confirmation from the source. Rumor, conjecture, hearsay…have all converged in Transylvania to make you a Moses, an Attila, the second coming of Saint Stephen I, though he was a Christian. But now, I know for sure.”
“And does that bother you?” Morris asked, returning to his seat with a simmering cup of tea.
“Not at all, Herr Morris. It is one of the reasons for my visit.”
“Indeed, sir. Why has the prince of Transylvania sent his brother to me?”
Assuming that the man was the brother of the prince—and Morris was not entirely convinced yet that he was—the question was valid.
Rákóczi took a sip of his wine. He nodded. “Very good. I would request a bottle upon my return home. But…let us put that matter aside for now and get to it.” He set his glass down, leaned forward with hands and elbows on the table. “Herr Roth. The prince of Transylvania, my brother, feels that it is time to reconsider his current political relationship with the Ottoman Empire. He would like to explore the possibility that an alliance with Bohemia might enable him to restore his principality’s independence.”
Morris almost did the classic spit-take from up-time comedy shows. He stopped and collected himself right before a dribble of tea escaped his mouth.
This was indeed a surprise. When he had been told that an envoy from the Transylvanian court had arrived in Prague requesting a meeting, he figured it would be some minor dignitary at best, afraid of where the Grand Army of the Sunrise might venture next. He imagined the little oaf pleading with him not to “invade” his country, and then throwing wild, and probably unenforceable, threats at him to try to scare him into another direction. Or, at worst, making serious threats on behalf of Sultan Murad himself. Transylvania was, after all, a vassal state of the Ottomans. But this?
He tried to remember what he knew about Transylvania’s history. Had Transylvania ever been an independent realm? He wasn’t sure, but his impression was that the area had always been some other power’s vassal, or at least subordinate, going all the way back to the Roman Empire.
He might be wrong about that, however. He was hardly an expert on the subject. Happily, his spymaster, Uriel Abrabanel, probably did know—and as luck would have it, was in Prague right now.
Morris cleared his throat. “That’s quite a proposition, sir.”
Rákóczi nodded. “And a sincere one, I can assure you. I speak for the prince.”
Did he? Nothing in the man’s countenance suggested otherwise, but Morris knew enough about Transylvania’s history to know that the term “turbulent” was appropriate. Competing political, social, and religious interests were as common there as the fog that skirted the vast Carpathian mountain range hugging the central basin. So many invading forces had marched through its fields and foothills, its forests, its towns, that it was, even today, a hodgepodge of ethnicities, a soup of religious denominations and cultures. Could this man be who he claimed to be, or was he playing a role? Was he a spy?
“I have been further instructed to offer you this, Herr Morris: Prince Rákóczi will agree to an alliance with Bohemia, and do so publicly, in exchange for military support from you and your army. He is also willing to cede portions of our northern territory so that you may continue to move into Ruthenian lands.” Rákóczi smiled. “And thus, continue your Anaconda operation.”
Morris raised a brow. “Anaconda?”
“Come now, Herr Roth.” Rákóczi smiled and waved as if he were swatting a fly. “I mean no disrespect to you in your own home, but Transylvanians are no fools, nor do we tread into situations that we are unprepared for. My brother is well aware of your political and religious goals. And he has no quarrel with them, especially if you agree to our proposals and conditions.”
Morris sat up in his chair, near giddy with equal amounts of excitement and dread. “And what might those be?”
✧ ✧ ✧
The sun had risen too soon, Morris hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before, and now his head throbbed with a nasty headache. Uriel Abrabanel seemed to find it quite amusing. But then, Uriel found most things amusing.
“I would think that, being back in Prague,” the Sephardic agent said, “you’d find time to rest, my old friend. What ails you that you lose so much complexion…and sleep?”
Morris rubbed his face vigorously to help himself come alert. “Well, since you claim to have known the man, how’s this little quip from Shakespeare: ‘One may smile and smile, and be a villain’? I need to know if the man I have in my home, sleeping in one of my guest rooms, is a villain or what he claims to be. And I need to know now.”
Morris dropped his hand and made a face. “Very soon, at least.”
Uriel nodded. “I can confirm this with certainty: the man you have in your home is indeed Pál Rákóczi, brother of Prince George I Rákóczi. He has another brother too, by the way: Zsigmond. I don’t know where he is or what he is up to at the moment. I can find out if you like, but it will take some time. Gyulafehérvár, the capital of Transylvania, is at least five hundred miles from here—and farther than that, when you include the detours that have to be made to avoid Ottoman territory.”
“It’s that far?”
Uriel’s little smile broadened. “Even after all the years since the Ring of Fire, you Americans keep thinking that Europe isn’t nearly as big as your homeland. Yes, it’s that far.”
Morris shook his head, not as a gesture of negation but in an effort to clear it. “Is there any reason I need to know about Zsigmond?”
Uriel shrugged. “Two brothers, two competing interests? The prince sends one brother as his envoy. Why not the other? Why not both? Things to keep in mind if you decide to pursue this offer.”
That was the trouble with spies: always seeing crosses and double-crosses in everything.
“Very well. What do you know of the Rákóczi family?”
Uriel stroked his beard. “George himself came to power not long ago: 1630, thereabouts. He succeeded Stephen Bethlen, who was prince for only one year. Catherine of Brandenburg came before Stephen, and her reign wasn’t long either. She was the second wife of Gabriel Bethlen, who ruled Transylvania for sixteen years. George was a great supporter and admirer of Gabriel, and I don’t doubt that he considers himself the rightful successor to the man.”
“Seems like quite a tangle.”
Uriel nodded. “As dynastic successions so often are. The Rákóczis, the Bethlens, the Báthorys, the Bocskais. And on and on and on. All of them, and more, have held power in Transylvania for as long as history has been recorded.”
“Was Gabriel Bethlen a good leader?”
“Many consider him one of the finest princes to have ruled Transylvania—but he ruled as a vassal, and there is a fine line between ‘good ruler’ and ‘obedient puppet’ under those circumstances. He was king of Hungary for a short time as well; the duke of Opole and Ratibor. The history of Hungary, Transylvania, and the Ottoman Empire are inextricably woven together, Morris. You must understand that going in…if you do go in.”
He did understand that. Since the Ring of Fire and his acceptance of the Anaconda Project, Morris had become a student of history. There was still much he hadn’t learned, but he had made a point to become knowledgeable about the history of Bohemia, Poland, and Lithuania. He knew much less about Transylvania since it hadn’t seemed especially relevant to his interests. He knew a fair amount about Transylvania’s current relationships with larger and more powerful kingdoms and empires around its borders. But the day-to-day machinations of the Transylvania court he did not know.
“And the Rákóczi family, specifically?”
“They are neither angels nor devils, Don Morris. They are one family in a line of pragmatic rulers of Transylvania that goes back centuries. They rule in their own self-interest, and if it aligns with Transylvania’s interests, then all the better. There are good people and bad people in all families, including royal ones.”
“And George himself? What is he like?”
“He is new to power, but he has a lot of military experience. And, as I said, he was a confidant to Gabriel Bethlen, which puts him in good stead with many in his country. I do not know the man personally, but I have heard good things about him. Then again, I’ve also heard that he is an ass in the world.”
More Shakespeare? Uriel preferred up-time Westerns to iambic pentameter. He should be quoting Louis L’Amour, not The Bard.
“What would you do, Uriel, if the decision was yours?”
Uriel laughed softly. “I’m sorry, my friend. I don’t wish to make light of the matter, but that is a question you will have to answer on your own. It is your army, your men, your cause. I fully support what you are trying to do, and if you believe that moving the Grand Army of the Sunrise into Transylvania is the right course of action, then may God guide you. God—and I strongly recommend you get my niece’s advice as well.”
“Well, that’s a given,” said Morris. Rebecca Abrabanel was the Secretary of State of the United States of Europe. There was no way Morris was going to make any decision over a matter like this without consulting her. He’d already sent a radio message to Magdeburg. He’d sent copies of the message to Krakow and Linz as well, since he didn’t know where Rebecca was at the moment. The down-timer had taken to up-time-style “jet-lag diplomacy” as if she’d been born to it.
✧ ✧ ✧
Over the next few days, Morris had several meetings with Pál Rákóczi—although calling them “meetings” was more of a courtesy than anything else. Nothing substantive was discussed. The meetings were more in the way of social encounters; basically, a way to be polite and attentive to the Transylvanian nobleman without making any commitments.
Rákóczi did not object. He understood perfectly well that the commander of the Grand Army of the Sunrise was not going to make any decisions without collecting as much intelligence as he could and discussing the situation with the powers-that-were in Bohemia. That meant General Pappenheim, first and foremost—and Pappenheim was in Linz, confronting the Ottomans. It would take him a while to get back to Prague.
And while Rákóczi had no way of knowing that Morris had asked Rebecca Abrabanel to come to Prague as well, he would certainly not have been surprised. The likelihood that Bohemia, or even an officially “detached” Grand Army of the Sunrise, would make common cause with Transylvania against the Ottomans without consulting first with the United States of Europe was effectively nil.
Morris did spend quite a bit of time studying the two up-time atlases he had that showed modern Romania and its many counties. He also questioned any of his officers he could find—there were more than he would have thought—who’d spent time in Transylvania.
The result was to heighten his interest in the Rákóczi proposal. The northern area that the prince was offering basically comprised the up-time Romanian counties of Satu Mare, Maramureș and Bistrița-Năsăud. Together, they would provide an excellent avenue through which to move the Grand Army of the Sunrise eastward to advance the Anaconda Project.
Morris continued to use that term for it, for lack of a better alternative, even though it was no longer very appropriate. Wallenstein, who had launched the enterprise, had had the simple and fundamentally crude goal of expanding his kingdom and turning it into what amounted to an empire. Morris’ aim, on the other hand, had overlapped but had been quite different. He didn’t care whether Bohemia expanded its territory, except insofar as that might advance his own goal, which was to torpedo or at least forestall the Chmielnicki Pogrom depicted in the up-time histories. Unless that history was changed, a dozen years in the future a great Cossack rebellion would erupt that carried in its train one of the worst slaughters in Jewish history. Not comparable to the Holocaust, certainly; but probably as bad as the 1919 pogroms carried out in the Ukraine by Petliura and Denikin’s White armies during the Russian Civil War.
Truth be told, Morris still had no clear idea how to achieve his aims. But since it seemed self-evident that the more power he accumulated, the more leverage he would have, he had continued to proceed along the lines laid out by Wallenstein. But was that the right course of action now?
Airstrip southeast of the Horse Market
Prague, capital of Bohemia
Morris waited to approach until after Rebecca’s plane taxied to a halt and the pilot cut the engines. That wasn’t so much due to any apprehension on his part that the propellers might accidentally fire up again, as it was to the necessity to watch where he was treading. The ground bordering the small airstrip was rough enough that you couldn’t take your eyes off it, lest you stumble and plant your face square in the dirt.
The pilot, Captain Laura Goss, was the first to emerge from the cockpit. She was holding a pair of aircraft wheel chocks and looking rather disgruntled. Normally, chocking the wheels would be done by one of the attendants at the airfield, which, in this case, was…
Well, nobody. The airstrip had only one person on duty, and since he was officially a “controller” and it was a cold day for late April, he’d decided to exercise his authority to stay inside what passed for a control tower.
“Why the hell did you have us land here, Morris?” Goss asked, a bit grumpily, as she placed the chocks. She waved her hand in the direction of Prague’s regular airport, which was in Malá Strana on the other side of the river. “What’s wrong with Wallenstein Field?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the field,” said Morris. “Except that it’s too close to Wallenstein’s palace. We have a guest staying there now who is the reason for your coming, but someone we don’t want to know that you’re here. Yet, anyway.”
By the time he finished those sentences, both Rebecca Abrabanel and General Pappenheim had emerged from the cockpit, in time to hear.
Pappenheim chuckled, looking in the direction of the city. The rather far distant city. “I’d forgotten this airstrip even existed,” he said. “We must be a mile beyond the Horse Market.”
“Not quite, but pretty close.” The Bohemian general had used the traditional name for what was now officially Wallenstein Square—and in the universe Morris came from, had been called Wenceslas Square. A lot of people had started doing that since Wallenstein’s death. The man had named so many things after himself that it got hard to keep them straight.
Laura Goss was looking somewhat alarmed. “Uh…boss. I don’t think—doesn’t look like it, anyway—that there’s anywhere suitable here for me to camp out.”
Knowing Laura, Morris was pretty sure her major complaint was more along the lines of and for sure nowhere to get a drink and join a party. But he kept a straight face. “Relax, Captain. You’ll all be staying with Judith and me in the Josefov.”
He pointed to the northwest. “See? Here come our rides.”
Turning, they saw a young man on a horse leading a string of them in their direction. The mounts were already saddled.
Laura’s expression now got a bit on the sour side. Like many Americans since the Ring of Fire, she’d learned how to ride a horse. But she didn’t have to like it.
“So, what is this all about, Morris?” asked Rebecca. She wasn’t fazed by the oncoming equestrian mode of transport. Raised a Sephardic girl in London and Amsterdam, Rebecca had never ridden a horse before the Ring of Fire either, but she’d become quite a good horsewoman in the years since.
“I’ll explain along the way,” he said.
Roth town house
Josefov district, Prague
There was silence in the room for at least a minute after Morris finished the presentation that he’d begun while they were riding from the airstrip. That presentation had taken quite some time, since by then Morris had gathered a lot of information. Most, though by no means all of it, had come from Uriel.
Rebecca was the first to speak. But all she said was: “Well.”
Pappenheim’s contribution was no more effusive. “What does the Queen’s Council say? As you know, I’ve been preoccupied with dealing with the Ottomans lately.” He pointed to the south. “Down there.”
Morris smiled. “It will no doubt astonish you, Gottfried Heinrich, to learn that the entire council, including the queen herself, has deferred the matter to your judgment. The grounds, of course, being that the main parameters involved would seem to be military in nature.”
Pappenheim made a little snorting sound. “Astonished? No. Irritated, yes. For the love of all that is holy, this is not primarily a military affair, it’s a political and diplomatic one. If we form an alliance with the prince of Transylvania, the impact on…on…will be… ” He ground to a halt.
Roth’s smile became very close to a grin. “You see the quandary. In point of fact, the diplomatic repercussions of us forming an alliance with Transylvania are practically nil. The Ottomans will become our enemy? They already are.”
He shrugged. “In fact, Gottfried, the council is right. The issue is almost entirely military. On the positive side, we would be opening another front against the Turks—and one which, if we suffer a loss in it, doesn’t make our situation any worse. On the negative side… ”
“It would require a certain commitment of forces that we might prefer to use elsewhere.” The general gave Morris a look that wasn’t exactly unfriendly but had no warmth in it either.
“As to that, General Roth,” said Pappenheim, “the situation is as simple as could be. We will suffer no diminishment in our ability to fight the Ottoman Empire because the only Bohemian forces that would be involved in this enterprise would be yours.”
That came as no surprise. Morris nodded and looked to Rebecca.
“So now, I plop the matter into your lap, Secretary of State Abrabanel. What if any military or other support might we expect—hope for, at least—from the United States of Europe?”
Rebecca was chewing on her lip. A small, what you might call ladylike portion of it, anyway. She was not someone given to excessive public displays of concern, or uncertainty.
“To be honest, I have no idea,” she said. “I will need to discuss it with… ”
She left off the lip-gnawing, took a deep breath, and slowly sighed it out.
“Several people. Gustav Adolf and Ed Piazza, of course. My husband. Probably some others.” After a moment, she added: “Certainly some others, rather.”
She looked at the big standing clock in a corner of the room. What Americans called “a grandfather clock,” for no good reason she’d ever been able to determine. The thing looked very modern to her.
“How accurate is that clock?” she asked.
Morris glanced at it. “We adjust it every day. It’s accurate within five minutes.”
“Good. I still have plenty of time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to fly back to Linz before nightfall. Prime Minister Piazza might be able to make the flight from Magdeburg by then as well. He can certainly get there by tomorrow midmorning.” Rebecca rose to her feet. “Please have one of your servants summon Captain Goss, Morris.”