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Chapter 40

General von Mercy’s encampment

Gyulafehérvár


“There’s one thing you can say about George Rákóczi,” von Mercy said via radio to Morris Roth. “He’s not the most pleasant man in the world.”

General Roth’s chuckle crackled over the connection, though von Mercy was pleased that, for the most part, radio contact had been better since they had arrived in the capital. The fact that a good portion of Gyulafehérvár was at a higher elevation didn’t hurt. “He must be under a lot of internal pressure to give a show of force to the ‘invaders,’ as I’m sure many in his close circle consider us to be. Don’t worry about the prince’s contrariness, General. I’ll have a good sit-down with him when I arrive. We’ll hash it all out.”

“He can show whatever outward bluster he requires to satisfy his detractors in the Diet, but if this endeavor is going to succeed, his army—whatever army that may be—is going to have to fight hard in the battle that’s coming.”

There was a pause, then: “When do you expect the Wallachians and Moldavians to arrive?”

Von Mercy shook his head, still not quite used to speaking to someone so effortlessly, so far away. “Hard to know. The prince claims to have spies along their most likely routes of ingress. If so, we should be able to keep apprised of their movements. If not… ”

General Roth cleared his throat. It sounded like a cork popping out of a bottle. “Have you considered training at least one of these spies on a radio?”

“If we had one to spare, I’d consider it. But we lost a few at Déj. One went missing, two were damaged beyond repair. But I’ll have Len check to see what we can do.” He paused, deciding whether or not to be so forward with his next comment.

“What would really help, General, is for you to get in the saddle and double-time it to Kolozsvár and then on to the capital. Having the whole army back together, sir, will make the biggest difference and allow me more reconnaissance options than I have right now. We beat the Moldavians back at Déj but expended a lot of supplies doing so. Lost more men that I would have expected too.”

Von Mercy could hear Morris sigh deeply on the other end. “Three days. Possibly four, depending on weather. We’re in Zilah now which, according to our maps, is a little under forty miles from Kolozsvár. We’ve had to deal with rain squalls for the last couple days, causing all sorts of havoc on these meager little roads we’re marching. Hell, Franz, it’s not easy getting our APCs and cannons through the mud. Not to mention being harried at every step by those goddamned Impalers. The Zizka Brigade had nearly half of their cattle herd stolen by those bastards. Those sneaky little shits are like hornets without a nest. Gretchen’s aggressive tactics—and that’s putting it mildly—are beginning to have an effect. They’re becoming less active, less bloodthirsty, I guess you could say. But information travels slow in a country with no radios, so a lot of their field operatives don’t quite yet understand the reality of her message: Don’t fuck with the Sunrise. We’ll get there, though, and soon. I promise.

“In the meantime, I want you to be careful tomorrow on your survey of the field. I’m sure the prince will have a large security detail tagging along, but take one of your own as well…just to be prudent.”

“No worries, General. We’ll have sufficient security.”

“Oh, and take Len with you tomorrow. I’ll have Ellie keep contact with you during your tour in case anything immediate comes up that requires my attention.”

Von Mercy nodded again. “Yes, I’ve already assigned him to my team.”

“And finally…have fun tonight. Relax. Eat a good meal. Have a drink for me.”


The Princely Palace

Gyulafehérvár


The complex was impressive, but to say that it rivaled any castle in Western Europe was, to put it mildly, hyperbole. In his mind, von Mercy let the comparison go, as he, his staff, regimental and company commanders, Len, Rabbi Gotkin, and Gáspár were led into the dining hall to greet many members of Prince Rákóczi’s court, Diet, and the leading families of the various Transylvanian counties. The room was, quite literally, packed.

“I must show you the grounds, General von Mercy,” Gáspár said as they were led to their seats. “Perhaps tonight, after the feast.”

Von Mercy nodded. “Thank you, Gáspár. I would like that.”

Three tables had been set up in the center of the room, creating a U-shape with the top table of the U reserved for the prince, his family, and close advisors. All others in attendance were guided to seats at the remaining two. Von Mercy and his entourage were honored with positions closest to the royal table.

Von Mercy was impressed with the opulent clothing on display. Most everyone wore what he could only surmise as traditional Hungarian attire: the men in red, green, silver, and gold fur-lined dolmans, held together in the front by gold and silver buttons. Some had mente dress coats over their dolmans. Some carried walking sticks. Some wore felt caps with feathers. Some wore modest chains of gold affixed to crosses.

For the ladies, their dresses were just as resplendent and similar in color to the men. Many wore outer dresses of red and green with modest white shifts beneath. Some wore traditional bodices laced in full display across their pressed cleavage. Their headdresses were a mixture of scarfs, felt hats, feathers, and various long pins that held their dark, flowing hair up in stylish buns.

Everyone was courteous. Everyone smiled. Everyone greeted von Mercy and his staff with polite bows, broad smiles. Some even dared give him a hug. Their attitudes were better than what he had experienced so far with the prince. They would be, he admitted, as he accepted a golden goblet of wine from a girl in a modest shift of red and white. It was their homes, their lands, their families being threatened by the Wallachians, Moldavians, and—for all intents and purposes—the Ottomans. So far, the enemy had confined itself to attacking Saxon areas of southern Transylvania. It was a sound move: eliminate the Saxon threat—some of it, at least—and lessen the threat of an enemy army rising behind you. Whether it would play out that way in the end was to be determined. But the enemy was coming, with Ottoman support, and these people knew it.

Von Mercy looked around the dining hall, trying to see who among them might be representatives from the much beleaguered Saxon Sees. It was difficult to tell in the ocean of pressing colors. Some were wearing more traditional German garb, but the entire ensemble was a mixture of local, Hungarian, German, and indeed, Ottoman attire.

A small troupe of musicians behind the royal table began to play a pleasant tune that von Mercy did not recognize but, based on the reaction to it around the room, was a signal for quiet.

Shortly afterward, a man wearing a gold, flowing dolman and a felt hat with black feathers walked up the space between the two facing tables. He paused in front of the royal table, struck the floor three times with the foot of his walking stick, and then proclaimed loudly, “Prince Rákóczi and the royal family!”

Everyone stood and began to cheer and applaud loudly. Von Mercy’s own clapping was drowned out by the ruckus, including the pleasant music still playing behind the prince.

Von Mercy leaned over to Colonel Renz and said in a muted tone, “This is going to be interesting!”

✧ ✧ ✧

The order to attend the reception had taken Christian by surprise. He expected only General von Mercy’s top lieutenants to be required. When he got the word from Colonel Renz to get ready, he scrambled to get a good bath and find suitable attire.

The bath was less than desirable. By the time he reached the tub, it had already been used by a couple of other officers, including Captain Kinsky, who never failed to make a mess. The water was cloudy, dirty, and lukewarm. Still, it was one of the best baths he had had since entering Transylvania. The hard-bristled scrub brush did its job well, although Christian’s skin was a bit red and sore afterward.

As far as clothing was concerned, he had nothing but his battle uniform, which these days was little more than a worn tan buffcoat, a ragged plain white shirt, torn breeches, and dusty black boots. Lieutenant Enkefort loaned him a heavily worn red doublet and a clean black felt hat that, when all assembled on his person, made Christian look almost presentable. Good enough for a simple sit-down meal, anyway.

The meal, he had to admit, was most excellent. He hadn’t had such delicious and filling food since they had entered the country. He particularly liked the lepény and the marzipan cakes. A dozen of those were rolled out and distributed among the tables. Prince Rákóczi himself brought the dinner to a momentary pause to present them “in honor of Gabriel Bethlen. May God bless his name.” Christian did not know who this Bethlen fellow was, but he sure liked his cakes.

Geese and pheasant and boiled partridge eggs. Roast pig, beef, lamb, and fish from the nearby river. Potato soup and wine… God, the wine! By the end of the meal, Christian had already drunk a full bottle.

Now, he stumbled through the three courtyards of the complex—greeting with kindness everyone who bothered to pause and give him notice—and watching musicians and dancing troupes entertaining the prince’s guests.

The most appealing dance to him was an ensemble of men and women facing each other across the courtyard, clapping and shouting to one another to the feverish pace of the music. The men were dressed head to toe in a modest white dolman tied at the waist with a black belt. To Christian, their costumes resembled a woman’s shift. The men wore a hat that a lady standing next to Christian said was a clopuri. To him, it resembled a Turkish fez.

Similarly, the ladies wore white dresses, but with red-and-yellow aprons tied at their waists to give themselves a little color. Their heads were wrapped in matching red-and-yellow scarfs.

Everyone looked clean, fresh, well-groomed, and common. Christian liked it.

He stood and watched as the dancers began to shout “Hey…hey…hey” and clap to the music. Then, the ladies gathered round and formed a huddle, as if deciding which men they would choose. Shortly thereafter, they broke the huddle and paired off.

Christian found himself swaying back and forth to the music as the male dancers stood like statues and let their partners dance around them like hovering birds. Then each pairing joined hands again and continued to dance.

“You like the dance?”

Christian started. He stumbled back but kept his balance and looked at the beautiful woman standing next to him. He almost didn’t recognize her, because of the apparel she wore—a long, red gown, very unlike what she’d worn while working as a nurse.

“Andreea Hatmanu,” he said, bowing. “Nice to see you again.”

She nodded. The hint of a smile spread across her red lips. “Nice to see you as well, Captain von Jori.”

“You are welcome to call me Christian.”

“Very well. Then simply call me Andreea.”

They stood there a moment in awkward silence, then Christian said, pointing to the dancers, “I would ask you to dance, but I don’t think they have room in their line for us.”

Andreea nodded. “I don’t think you would like my dancing anyway, Christian. Especially in this dress. How is your face?”

Christian put his hand up to his cheek. Only a scar remained where a large splinter had struck him during the Battle of Déj. “Healing well, thank you. You did a wonderful job on it. I was in good hands that day.”

Andreea smiled and nodded, but said nothing. Another pause of awkward silence passed between them. Christian then asked the big question. “I was sorry to learn from Devorah that you had been ‘summoned,’ as she called it, to the capital. I came by the hospital to say goodbye to you before we left Kolozsvár.” He chuckled. “Summoned to the capital. A confidant of the prince, eh?”

Andreea smiled, shook her head. “No, not at all. The prince hardly cares about what I think of politics or matters of war.”

“Then I take it your nursing skills are known far and wide here in Transylvania, and that—”

“No, Christian,” she said, cutting him off. She cast her eyes to her slippers, which were just as red and beautiful as her dress. “I…came here because my husband summoned me.”

“Oh? And who is your husband?”

✧ ✧ ✧

Von Mercy was watching a dance troupe comprised entirely of men dressed in white shirts, black vests, and black hats, when Pál Rákóczi pulled him aside.

“I must apologize for my brother’s behavior, General von Mercy,” he whispered to ensure the guests walking by could not hear. “But you must understand the enormous pressure he is under. Many in the Diet are ready to call off the alliance with Bohemia and beg Sultan Murad for forgiveness. Some never liked the idea of an alliance in the first place. And now, with the Saxon Sees all but conquered, many are wondering if a mostly Jewish army can defend Gyulafehérvár. And some are opposed to the idea itself, anyway.” He looked left, right. “It’s a delicate time.”

Von Mercy nodded. “I appreciate your brother’s situation, but he himself suggested that time was running thin. I agree with that. If the alliance were to fall now, if Morris Roth were to order me to fall back to Kolozsvár now, I guarantee, this city will fall. Your army is not prepared to face up-time weaponry alone. So, please persuade your brother to set aside any concerns or animosities that he may have. Convince your court to do the same. You’re going to need my army—yes, including the Jews, Pál Rákóczi—if you have any hope to beat back the wolves that are coming.”

“I know that,” Pál hissed, more forcefully than perhaps he wanted. He backed away a pace, held up his hand. “My brother knows that, and whether they wish to admit it or not, the people of Transylvania know it as well. Most of them, at least. But there is danger in this capital, General, and my brother must navigate through it carefully. He’ll be there with you in the end.” He smiled. “A victory against the Wallachians and Moldavians and, in truth, against Sultan Murad, will solve so many problems.”

Von Mercy nodded, but glanced left and right as if he suddenly felt a thousand distrusting eyes upon him. “On that, Herr Rákóczi, we can agree.”

✧ ✧ ✧

“I am her husband, sir.” Marius Hatmanu said, stepping forward as a group of guests passed by. “Colonel Hatmanu, commander of Prince Rákóczi’s red trabants.”

Christian turned abruptly toward the colonel, bowed sharply. “Nice to meet you, sir. Captain von Jori.”

Hatmanu eyed him wearily. “Are you enjoying the reception, Captain?”

“Yes,” Christian said, nodding. “Very much. I was asking your lovely wife why she was summoned to the capital. Her service as a nurse for the Sunrise has been most welcome. It would be disappointing to lose her services.”

“Yes,” Andreea said, “and I was about to explain to him why—”

“You need not explain anything to anyone, Andreea,” Hatmanu said, loud enough such that those nearby threw an uncomfortable glance their way. “The fact that I, your husband, summoned you, is reason enough.”

Christian was just as shocked as Andreea at the outburst. Their expressions matched. But Andreea put her head down and fell silent under her husband’s glare, as if she had done so many times before. Christian was about to say something, anything, when the princess consort appeared beside him.

“Captain von Jori,” Zsuzsanna Lorántffy said. “Colonel Renz has told me that you are a Calvinist. Is this true?”

She was dressed in a modest black-and-white gown. Her soft, round face was cupped in a simple white scarf wrapped around her head. To Christian, she looked like a nun. A far, far cry from all the other royal ladies in attendance.

“Well…yes,” he said, trying to recover his bearings and focus on the princess’s question. “I am a Calvinist. But I must confess, Princess Lorántffy, I do not practice my faith as much as I—”

“That is no problem, Captain.” She extended her left arm to invite Christian to take it. He did, and she obliged, wrapping it with her own until Christian couldn’t pull away if he wanted to. “Come. Let us find Minster Alsted and have a frank discussion.”

Prince Rákóczi rolled his eyes and shook his head, letting a small grin cross his mouth. “God, give us strength! Captain, you have many hours of grueling religious debate ahead of you tonight. Good luck!” He turned toward Colonel Hatmanu. “Come, Colonel. Let us find General von Mercy and further discuss our survey of the field tomorrow.”

“Yes, My Prince.”

As he was pulled away, with Zsuzsanna Lorántffy’s voice droning in his ear about John Calvin and Huldrych Zwingli, Christian looked back at Andreea standing alone, despondent, humiliated by her husband’s sharp rebuke, abandoned by everyone. But then her eyes caught his. She smiled and from her waist where her hands were cupped together, she allowed two fingers to wiggle in his direction.


Schäßburg (Sighișoara)


The Chaldiran hovered above Sergiu Botnari like a floating mountain. Up close, it was even more formidable. His heart raced as the airship pulled on its tethers like a dog straining on its leash, its engine belching hydrogen into its expanding envelope.

Vasile Lupu popped his head up out of the gondola. He waved at Sergiu. “Morning, my murderous little friend. Isn’t she lovely?”

In a way Sergiu could not describe. Early morning fog curled around the ship’s wicker gondola, obscuring what the voivode had in his hand. It looked like a musket; it could be a walking stick.

“Come,” Vasile said, tossing a rope ladder over the side. “Welcome aboard.”

Sergiu took the ladder and climbed slowly, making sure each foot was set before climbing to the next rung, and the next, and the next. Eight steps and he was at the lip of the gondola. The Janissary guard gave him a hand and pulled him over. The gondola wobbled slightly; Sergiu gained his balance before standing.

The crew comprised Voivode Lupu and the two kafirs, Moshe Mizrahi and Mordecai Pesach, one Janissary, and another man whom Sergiu did not recognize. They were all moving here and there in the gondola, as if in preparation for flight. Sergiu finally got a good look at Vasile Lupu’s hands. He was definitely holding a musket.

He offered it to Sergiu. “Here,” he said, “give it a try.”

Sergiu accepted the weapon and looked it over. A muzzle-loading flintlock. Good heft. Decent balance. “Is it loaded?”

Vasile nodded. “Of course. With Sultan Murad’s own mini-ball. A brilliant design. Smaller than the normal ball, with a flange that expands when fired, thus the bore as you may notice is rifled, making said mini-ball far more accurate on the shot than other muskets. Go ahead. Give it a try.”

Vasile motioned to the larboard side of the gondola. Sergiu walked over to the edge, cocked the hammer, and raised the musket forward.

About one hundred yards away, a man stood in the dark with a torch. He waved it back and forth, catching in the light what Sergiu could only deduce was a circular target, a plate perhaps, attached to a post. The dim light of dawn, dispersed through the fog, made it very difficult to see the object in full.

“Go ahead,” Vasile said, “fire it. See if you can hit the plate.”

Sergiu was an excellent shot, especially with a rifle, but under these conditions? What purpose did all this serve, save to satiate the whims of a crazed voivode with delusions of grandeur? Sergiu’s time would be best served with his men, in the field, preparing the way for the Moldavian army to move against the capital. His Impalers had ventured farther into Transylvania and were doing good work against the main body of the Sunrise; had done good work in Déj and Szamosújvár. He hadn’t gotten a report yet from the detachment he’d sent to ambush the Silesian wagon train at Szatmár, but he was sure they’d done well also. They could do so much more if Sergiu was with them.

But…he worked for the voivode of Moldavia.

“Very well,” he said, crouching.

He rested the musket on the lip of the larboard wall. He aimed down the barrel and waited as the torchlight moved into his sight, out, in, out, each time shedding light on the tiny plate so far away. He timed it: one, two, three…

He fired, catching the recoil against his shoulder. The musket fired true with a tiny spark off the frizzen, a burst of smoke from the pan and barrel. A nice, clean shot.

“Excellent,” Vasile said. “Now, we wait.”

A few seconds later, a horseman rode up from the target. He reined his horse to a stop and shouted up to the gondola. “Hit! Left side. Small crack. One inch chip.”

“Wonderful!” Voivode Lupu could not contain his joy. “You will do wonderfully.”

“Do what ‘wonderfully’?” Sergiu asked.

Vasile ignored the question. He clapped his hands at the Janissary standing guard at the rope ladder. “Go, and get the rest of the rifles.” He then turned to the kafir Mordecai Pesach. “When he returns, drop the tethers, and we’ll be off.”

Sergiu looked at Moshe and Mordecai, hoping to see a clue in their eyes, on their faces, as to what was happening. Moshe simply shrugged and got back to work; Mordecai looked away.

“My Voivode, if I may ask. What are we doing? Where are we going? With respect, I really must return to my men. We’ve work to do before—”

“You will return to your men soon, Sergiu. That is a promise. But right now, you will serve me.” Vasile turned and placed his hand on Sergiu’s shoulder. “Another report from Gyulafehérvár tells me of a great, great many things that we must look for, act upon, and quickly. You will be a part of that.”

Sergiu shook his head. “What things, Voivode?”

Vasile winked and smiled. “Opportunities, my murderous little friend. Opportunities.”


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Framed