"Witchcraft," he stated. "Sorcery, pure and simple. Satan's hand clutches Thuringia today."
Servien bowed. "As you say, Cardinal."
Richelieu patted the letter with his fingertips. He was tempted to crumple the thing in his fist, but the cardinal was not a man to ignore reality. No matter how detestable.
"Very well," he said. He rose to his feet, adjusting the great robes of office. "We will accede to the Spanish request."
Demand, he thought sourly.
"Take the silver to Bernard of Saxe-Weimar, Etienne. Make sure he understands the conditions of his new service."
Servien's face twisted into a grimace. "He's a hothead, Cardinal. Unruly."
Richelieu waved his hand impatiently. "We can deal with Saxe-Weimar's undisciplined nature on a later occasion. For now, I simply need him to move his forces aside so that the Spanish troops have a clear line of march on Thuringia. He can manage that easily enough, even with Oxenstierna in the vicinity. There is so much chaos in Germany today that Bernard can justify his movements a hundred different ways."
The cardinal began pacing slowly through his garden. Servien walked by his side.
"There will still be no way to keep the tercios hidden," remarked the intendant. "Not marching all the way from the Spanish Netherlands."
Richelieu shrugged. "That hardly matters. From the reports, I suspect the Spanish will be defeated in any event. Probably all the better, if their approach is foreseen. It will distract attention from the real blow."
Servien's eyes widened. "Wallenstein has agreed?"
"Yes. I received his letter three days ago. He expects to be locked with the Swedes very soon now. Probably at Nьrnberg. A siege will last for months. More than enough time to use his Croats for this purpose."
The grimace returned to the intendant's face. "Cardinal, I've seen those works. The thing they call a 'power plant,' in particular, is built like a castle. There's no way a cavalry force will be able to reduce them. Not significantly-not in a raid, for sure."
Richelieu smiled faintly. "I am not concerned with that." Shaking his head: "You worry too much about the mechanics of war. A paltry business, that. Money, Etienne-that's the key. I could tolerate the king of Sweden, armed with his fancy new weapons. I could even tolerate a rich new republic-a little republic-in central Germany. We've managed to live with the Dutch, after all. Given time, given that they remain small, I expect we'll consume them soon enough."
He walked on a few paces before continuing. "What I cannot tolerate is Swedish power dominating central Europe, standing on financial bedrock. A poor Sweden will never be dangerous. Obnoxious, yes; dangerous, no. A rich Sweden-rich from its new connection with this bizarre United States-is a different matter altogether. Better a powerful Habsburg dynasty than that. Whatever else, the Habsburgs can always be counted on for disunity."
He stopped abruptly, and scowled at an inoffensive rose bush. "I cannot touch the Abrabanels in Turkey. Not even-as you know-in Vienna."
Servien nodded. That had been part of his recent mission. To convince Ferdinand II to dispense with his court Jews, and execute the Abrabanels in particular. But in that purpose, the intendant had failed.
There had been no condemnation of Servien in the cardinal's words, however. Richelieu had not expected a Habsburg emperor to destroy his court Jews in the middle of a war-certainly not at the urgings of his French enemy.
The cardinal continued: "I may be able to have the Italian branch eliminated. Hard to say, especially dealing with Venetians. But they are the least important, in any event. The key is destroying them in Thuringia."
The intendant began to speak again-another demurral, judging from his expression-but the cardinal waved him silent. "Yes, yes-I know the Croats won't be able to kill all of them. Not in the time they'll have. It doesn't matter. They will savage the place so thoroughly that whatever Abrabanels survive will soon enough take their business elsewhere." His thin lips grew thinner: "Jews, you understand."
Servien nodded. "Half the greedy Germans will pack up also. Half, at the least." His own lips grew thin: "Merchants. Manufacturers. Rats in a granary set on fire."
"Yes." Richelieu leaned over and sniffed the roses. "Exactly."
"That still leaves us a mess with the Spaniards," muttered Servien. "We'll have let them into Germany."
"Please, Etienne!" The Cardinal continued his sniffing. "Give me a moment to enjoy God's handiwork, before you spoil the rest of my day."
Several weeks later, in his fortified camp outside Nьrnberg, Wallenstein did crumple a letter.
"Idiot," he hissed. He tossed the message into the fire. The roaring flames in that great fireplace-as ever, Wallenstein had appropriated the largest mansion in the area-consumed the paper in an instant.
The imperial army's top commanders were standing as far away from the fireplace as possible, while staying within speaking range of Wallenstein. In the heat of a July evening, they found the flames oppressive. Absurd, even. But Wallenstein always insisted on a fire, no matter the time of year.
"Idiot!" repeated Wallenstein. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at his officers. His next words were spoken in savage, sing-song mimicry: "'Kill all the Jews in the town.'"
Piccolomini barked a laugh. "Ha! Easy to say-for a cardinal! What does that shithead think we're dealing with? Unarmed civilians in the Inquisitor's chambers?"
Next to him, General Sparre sneered. "And how in God's name are the Croats supposed to find them?" he demanded. "Especially in that grotesque place! Read the street signs? The ignorant bastards are illiterate."
"Wouldn't matter even if they weren't," muttered General Gallas. He lifted his heavy shoulders. The gesture was not so much a shrug as a twitching off of insects. "Does Richelieu seriously think you can order Croat cavalry to kill selectively?" He snorted. "They might spare the dogs. Probably not. Jews are dogs, after all-ask any Croat."
The salon echoed with coarse laughter. The huge portraits on the walls, mediocre for all their size and splendiferous frames, stared down with disapproval. The disapproval was odd, perhaps. The obscure line of petty barons who had-involuntarily-given up their ancestral mansion for Wallenstein, had been noted for little beyond coarseness. But such men, when they pose for a provincial artist's work, almost invariably frown. An attempt at grandeur, perhaps; or simply holding in their bladder.
Wallenstein strode over to the table at the center of the salon. The table was quite out of place in the room's furniture. It was a great, heavy kitchen table, wrestled into the salon by soldiers on the day Wallenstein took possession of the mansion. The chairs and couches which had already been there were fragile and fancy things, imported from Vienna. They were even more fragile now, but no longer very fancy-not after Wallenstein's officers had spent the past days inflicting spurs and spilled wine upon them.
The table, on the other hand, was more than sturdy enough to support cavalry boots and flagons, as well as the huge map which covered most of its surface.
When he reached the table, Wallenstein spread his hands and leaned over the map. His officers gathered around him. After a minute or so, Wallenstein stretched out a long, bony finger and pointed to a spot.
"There? A demonstration."
That would be Piccolomini's task. The Italian general leaned over and studied the area indicated.