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Chapter 39

The Collegium Academicum

Gyulafehérvár


Gyulafehérvár was smaller than Kolozsvár, but it was the political and cultural center of Transylvania. Set comfortably upon a hill, it rested beside the Maros River, in view of the Carpathian Alps, and von Mercy was glad to see that it was on the right bank of the river, the side where, if an invading force was coming from either the south or the east, they’d have to cross the Maros to lay siege.

He entered the city with only his personal staff, deciding to keep his army and its officers outside the walls. It was best not to fill the city streets with mercenary cavalry and highly motivated Ashkenazi infantry, lest his army be seen as an invading force.

Why he was meeting Prince Rákóczi in a college, von Mercy could not say. He had been told by Gáspár Bojthi Veres that the so-called Princely Palace, where George and his family lived whilst in the city, was a splendid domicile, one to rival any castle in Germany. So, why not there? The general had his suspicions but kept them to himself.

The prince of Transylvania greeted him warmly at the front gate of the Collegium Academicum. Only a translator was at his side, a man whom Gáspár knew well, apparently. They greeted each other with a similar measure of warmth. The prince was the first to speak, in Hungarian, through his man.

“I welcome you, General Franz von Mercy, to Gabriel Bethlen’s greatest achievement. Well, one of his greatest. There were so many.” He motioned for them all to follow. “Come in. Let me show you the finest university in the world.”

“Thank you for welcoming us into your city, Prince Rákóczi,” von Mercy said, following. “I regret that Morris Roth could not be here to greet you in person. But I assure you…he and the rest of our army will be arriving in Kolozsvár soon.”

The prince brushed off von Mercy’s apology with a wave. “Let us not worry about that right now. First, allow me to show you the grounds.”

They walked through the entire campus. Still under construction, it was indeed an impressive compound, though von Mercy doubted that it quite met the standard of universities in Germany or Italy. Young men were nestled into corners, studying, talking, debating. The students and teachers that they met were very respectful in the presence of their prince. They greeted von Mercy with kindness, but with a kind of polite hesitation. Polite, but wary, as if they were happy to make his acquaintance, but not sure if it was the right thing to do. Clearly, the apprehension of the citizenry of Déj to the Sunrise’s presence in their country had made its way to the capital.

As the tour proceeded, through a maze of study rooms, living quarters, kitchen, and dining hall, von Mercy wondered if the reason for the tour was simply to show him that Transylvania was not the barbaric, uneducated Eastern European vassal state that many in the west assumed. For his part, von Mercy had never held those opinions. Being a general for so many years, having to treat with mercenaries from all over Europe, he knew that intelligence—and stupidity—was universal. One was not a barbarian simply because he hailed from Hungary—Prince Rákóczi’s country of birth—or a learned man because he lived in Prague or Magdeburg. A tour like this would better serve Morris Roth, not a soldier like him. Yet, he endured and applied all the proper nods and impressive acknowledgements of this statue and that ancient tome and that bit of history that the prince seemed quite anxious to provide.

The tour ended in the library. It was, indeed, an impressive room, with walls of books and scrolls and lovely paintings that hung proudly on each wall. What impressed von Mercy the most about it was the long table in the center covered in maps. Detailed maps. War maps.

He understood now why they were here and not at the palace.

“Would you care for a drink, General?” Gáspár asked, pointing to a tray of four goblets and a bottle of light red wine.

Von Mercy shook his head. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

“Then please sit,” Prince Rákóczi said, pulling a chair out for himself at the table. “We have a lot to discuss.”

Von Mercy accepted a chair from Gáspár. He sat humbly, unbuckling his belt and laying it and his sword and scabbard on the floor at his feet. He laid his hat over them and leaned back, wiggled a little for comfort, and then waited.

The prince stared at him across the table. Von Mercy stared back, taking the measure of the man.

George Rákóczi was middle-aged, at least a few years older than von Mercy. His face was long, his nose Hunnic in its prominence. His hair was pitch black and curly. It hugged his face and cascaded down and across his shoulders in a swirl of over-combed split ends. His chin was bare save for a small tuft of black whiskers that looked like a hastily prepared Vandyke. His mustache was nothing more than a whisk of hair that seemed rather juvenile resting above a pair of thin lips that he pressed together tightly as if he were holding words back.

Finally, he spoke. “I must say, General von Mercy, that your reputation on the battlefield precedes you.”

Von Mercy nodded. “Thank you, Prince Rákóczi. As does yours, though I admit my knowledge of your service is, at best, spotty. I’d like to know more.”

“I’d be happy to share the stories of my time as a soldier for the great Gabriel Bethlen at tonight’s reception.”

Von Mercy cocked his head. “Reception?”

“Yes. At my palace. There will be a dinner and entertainment in honor of your arrival. I’m expecting you and your staff to attend.”

Von Mercy moved to kindly refuse the offer. He wasn’t sure if he had the proper attire to attend such a feast. For that matter, none of his staff probably did. Surely they all had fresh clothing of some kind tucked away in their travel lockers, but nothing as appropriate as royal dress. He looked at Gáspár and knew immediately that such an invite could not be refused. Von Mercy sighed.

“We’d be delighted to attend.”

Prince Rákóczi nodded. “Let’s turn then to more pressing, important matters.” He held his breath, then let it out slowly. “You served the Imperial army, did you not, sir?”

Von Mercy felt like falling out of his chair, as if the man sitting before him had pulled the trigger of a pistol and had sent a ball through his chest. Such an abrupt switch of topic and tone surprised him, though he kept his poise and nodded truthfully. “Yes.”

“And therefore, you served the Habsburgs.”

“Yes.”

“And now, you serve the Bohemians, General Morris Roth, and this so-called Grand Army of the Sunrise.”

Von Mercy smiled. “Yes.”

He could tell that his lack of elaboration on each point rankled the prince.

“Then you should know, sir, that I have, my whole professional life, fought against the Habsburgs.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” von Mercy said, keeping calm. “My service to the Imperial army and to the Habsburgs is, as they say, ancient history. I serve a better cause now, Prince Rákóczi. A better man.”

Rákóczi nodded, sighed, and leaned up in his chair until his elbows were perched on the table’s edge. “Why should I, or my countrymen, trust a general who so readily switches sides?”

Von Mercy pursed his lips, gritted his teeth. “I could ask the same of you, Prince Rákóczi. You most recently served Sultan Murad and the Ottomans as a vassal state, but you have now signed an alliance with Bohemia and with Herr Roth. Could that not be seen as ‘readily switching sides’?”

“Those two matters are entirely different, General,” Rákóczi said, his jaw muscles now moving fast. He flashed a speck of tongue between his pale lips, said, “You made conscious decisions in your alliances. My countrymen had little or no choice but to serve Murad, lest they be absorbed by the Ottomans in full. In Transylvania, we serve and worship God, General von Mercy. Not Allah.”

Von Mercy couldn’t decide if the prince was just being—as the up-timers might say—a dick or if he were playing to a larger audience. There were three doors that led out of the room. Could curious ears be pressed against those doors, or could it possibly be for an audience of one: for the translator who sat at his side changing his Hungarian words into perfect German for the benefit of his guest? The truth of it was not written on Rákóczi’s face. His expression was closed, foreign.

“You must understand, General,” he said, striking a less adversarial tone. “There are many in my court, in the Transylvanian Diet, who think I have made a terrible mistake putting my trust and alliance behind a”—he leaned forward and whispered—“a Jewish army.” He continued to whisper. “The Lutherans and Calvinists fear that, with your arrival, the Sabbatarians and Unitarians will be given too much power…not to mention the Jews. I, myself, like many of my predecessors, have always tried to be tolerant of the cultural and religious diversity of Transylvania, though I will admit to some disdain for Sabbatarians. Be a Jew or a Christian, I say. Not both! Many are wondering if your arrival will tip the scales in favor of our Jewish citizens and, indirectly, the Sabbatarians. Despite what I may or may not feel about it, it is a valid concern.”

Whether it was a valid concern or not, it was not something von Mercy wished to discuss. “My good sir,” he said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable and quite annoyed in his seat. “I am no politician. I am a soldier. Your concerns are best laid at the feet of General Roth, with whom your brother signed the alliance. He understands matters of state better than I.

“But what I can tell you is that those Jews you, or whoever, are concerned about…They died in dozens at the Battle of Déj defending your country from a Moldavian force that, if left unattended, could have easily seized the town and others. They are still dying, in fact. My personal surgeon, who is a Jew himself by the way, is working himself half to death trying to keep men alive so that they may take up arms once more and, again, fight for your country. I cannot speak eloquently about your political and religious concerns, as valid as they may be. Again, I am a soldier, a general, and my duty is to serve the army to which I have pledged my service.

“So I say again, please, in good faith, discuss these matters with Herr Roth upon his arrival, and let us turn toward any military concerns that you may have.”

Von Mercy found it odd that he would vigorously defend Doctor Kohen with whom he had so recently argued. He was still angry with the young physician. How dare he come into my tent and refuse my orders so publicly? A general’s authority could not be challenged so readily, lest others try the same. But he wasn’t about to let this…prince…impugn the integrity or intent of any of his soldiers, including the Jews. Whatever von Mercy thought of Morris Roth’s objectives, or the end goal of the Anaconda Project, he was not about to allow his soldiers’ motives to be questioned, or be accused of an agenda they did not have.

The room was quiet, too quiet, as if no one could speak, as if God himself had waved His hand and denied everyone a voice. Finally, Gáspár cleared his throat, and said, “My Prince, if I may?”

He waited until Rákóczi nodded, then, “I have seen General von Mercy and his army in action, and I can say with certainty: they are not the conquerors of our history. They treated the citizens of Déj very kindly, despite their reluctance to assist against the Moldavians.”

Rákóczi huffed, looking straight at von Mercy. “It is my understanding that you ransacked their homes, their farms, and took every scrap of wood you could find.”

Von Mercy nodded. “Yes, in order to construct fortifications to protect the eastern and southern roads from attack. Otherwise, Déj would be under Moldavian control right now.”

“Do you intend on paying them back for their contributions?”

Von Mercy closed his eyes to slits. “A small price for them to pay for their safety.”

Rákóczi huffed again. “Well, my good man Gáspár, that sounds like a conquering army to me.”

Von Mercy had had enough. “Sir, are you withdrawing from your agreement with Bohemia? Shall I pull my forces back to Kolozsvár?”

“What’s done is done!” Rákóczi flew out of his chair and threw up his arms as if he were swatting away flies. “You are here, your army is here. The agreement has been signed. I cannot rescind it even if I wanted to. The die has been cast, isn’t that what your up-time friends say? Pieces on the chess board are moving to check. Hermannstadt has fallen to the Wallachian army. The Moldavians march west. Soon, they will link arms and come for the capital.”

What Prince Rákóczi was really saying through his frustrated rant was that the enemy had moved faster and had seized territory more efficiently than he had anticipated. Because of that, his own forces were ill-prepared to face them, especially against forces in possession of Murad’s up-time-inspired weaponry. Von Mercy could hardly blame the prince or the citizens of Transylvania for their concerns and frustrations. If he had never experienced the working end of a ZB-1636 rifle or a ZB-2 Santee, he’d be shitting his breeches as well. But it did no good to accuse the army that had come to save them of being conquerors.

Von Mercy let the silence in the room linger a moment more, then he stood up and said, “Then I would say, Prince Rákóczi, that the next move in this chess game is yours. What do you want to do?”

The prince of Transylvania stood there, silently, rubbing his poorly groomed chin, staring out a window that cast bright light across the room. Finally, he turned toward von Mercy, and nodded. “Let us discuss the coming battle.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Prince Rákóczi’s mood improved a little once the discussion turned to war. He allowed General von Mercy to bring in his staff, who picked his personal aide-de-camp, Colonel Shalit, Colonel Renz, and some of their subordinates to take copious notes of the conversation. Likewise, the prince invited his brother Pál, one cavalry officer, a Hajdu mercenary captain, Colonel Marius Hatmanu, the leader of the prince’s red trabant Szekler infantry corps, and additional staff. The room, as large as it was, now felt cramped.

Before they started, von Mercy made it perfectly clear to the prince that this would not be the final word on the matter. “Everything we discuss here, I must impart to General Roth, you understand,” he said, taking his place near the table bearing the maps. “We will have other meetings to discuss a final battle plan once he arrives.”

Prince Rákóczi nodded. “Of course, General. But we do not have a lot of time to debate. As I have said, Hermannstadt has fallen. The Wallachians are now ready to move against our capital.”

“Why do they hesitate?” Colonel Shalit asked.

The prince seemed a little put out by the question, as if the answer were so obvious. “Matei Basarab would be a fool to face us alone. No. He awaits the arrival of Vasile Lupu and his Moldavians.” He placed his finger on the map where Gyulafehérvár sat atop a hill, then ran it south along the Maros River. “Our belief is that Basarab, now in possession of the most important Saxon See, will move as soon as the Moldavians link their forces with his. At which point, they will march up the valley in this direction and try to seize the city.”

Von Mercy much preferred large, open battlefields to all this valley fighting. One couldn’t get away from mountains in this blasted country! Everywhere you looked…mountains, mountains, mountains. Although it was difficult to get a clear sense of the exact elevations of the valley floor versus the Carpathian ranges both east and west, moving an army up the river valley toward the capital was the soundest tactic, but also the most obvious.

“We have the good fortune of the Maros River between them and us,” von Mercy said, running his finger up the river to the capital. “Though, I’m sure it’s possible for the Moldavians, at least, to swing around behind us and attack from here.” He pointed to the roads running south from Kolozsvár.

“It would be foolish for them to do so,” Colonel Marius Hatmanu said, standing as erect as a statue. “My Székelys would destroy them easily.”

“I have recommended to my lieutenants, General von Mercy,” Prince Rákóczi said, “that their best role in the battle to come is defensive. The bulk of our county forces will defend the capital while your more modern, up-time army will meet the enemy in the field.”

“Why not just hold position along the Maros River?” Colonel Renz asked, pointing to various spots at the bends. “Force them to push across. Stack them up in critical places. Cut them to pieces.”

“Surely you aren’t suggesting that we allow them to lay siege?” Colonel Hatmanu asked.

“I did not bring my men all the way from the Partium to lie in winter camp,” Lazlo Guth, leader of the Hajdus, said. “I will turn my columns around and head home if such an idea takes root.”

Prince Rákóczi eyed the mercenary captain with a wry smile. “Perhaps, General von Mercy, you can find a place in your battle line for this brave, yet impetuous man and his hearty soldiers.”

It seemed as if Captain Guth was about to object to being called impetuous, but von Mercy spoke before it came to that. “Colonel Renz is not necessarily suggesting a siege, Captain Guth. There’s ample space between the Maros and the edge of the city. We could place the army here, here, and here, and force them to strike first.”

“That’s assuming, of course,” Pál Rákóczi said, “they decide to cross the river and engage. Neither Voivode Basarab, nor Lupu, are skilled tacticians, General, but they aren’t stupid.”

Von Mercy had to agree. “They’ve certainly done well for themselves so far. Despite their lack of military experience, they’re practically at your doorstep.”

Prince Rákóczi shrugged the comment off. “Only with the aid of Murad’s forces. Trust me, General. If they had to advance without armored tanks, screaming rockets, and Janissaries at the point of the spear, we would have crushed them already.”

Von Mercy nodded, though he wasn’t so sure. The Transylvanian troops that the prince had been able to muster prior to their arrival had, at least, slowed down Wallachia’s and Moldavia’s inexorable march toward Gyulafehérvár, giving them some time to meet and plan their defense, but he had yet to see the Transylvanian forces in action.

“With Gyulafehérvár on a hill,” Colonel Shalit said, “it should be relatively easy to defend against a direct assault. A siege, if it came to that, should be as easy to endure.”

Laughter broke out on the Transylvanian side of the table. “Please forgive me, gentlemen. Did I say something funny?” Colonel Shalit asked.

“Sir,” Colonel Hatmanu asked, “have you ever endured a Carpathian winter?”

“No. But I’ve endured a Krakow winter.”

Now it was von Mercy’s side of the table to laugh.

“I’m well aware that Polish winters are brutal,” Prince Rákóczi said, “but there is nothing like a Carpathian winter. Though the temperatures may not fall as swiftly as they do in your country, Colonel Shalit, the snows and blistering winds that howl through the Maros River Valley can freeze fat men solid where they lay. Before it is all over with, you’d beg for death. The Wallachians know this; the Moldavians know this. My countrymen know this. We would endure. You?” The prince gestured with his hand as if he were tossing snowflakes into the wind. “Well, I don’t think a siege is the right approach. And I don’t think General Roth, like Captain Guth here, brought the Sunrise all this way just to lie in winter quarters.”

That much was true, von Mercy had to admit. Though there the prince went again, impugning the resolve of his soldiers. Von Mercy had a good mind to pack up and leave with Captain Guth and his Partium mercenaries.

Instead, he took a deep breath, and said, “Well, there are many options before us. We’ll need to know a lot more about the composition of the Wallachian and Moldavian armies before we commit to a plan. We’ll need to know more about what forces you, Prince Rákóczi, can put into the field in full, whether they be gathered in defensive circles around the city or share our battle line. And I’ll need to see the lay of the land before I commit to anything. While these maps are excellent, I cannot get a good sense of all the different elevations. I need to see the ground.”

“We can take you out at first light,” Pál Rákóczi said, “and show you everything you’d like.” He turned to his brother, nodded. “With your permission, of course.”

“Of course,” Prince Rákóczi nodded. He looked at von Mercy and winked. “Assuming that you and your officers do not overindulge at tonight’s party.”

Von Mercy gritted his teeth. “No problem on that, Prince Rákóczi. My men are always prepared for duty.”


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