Don Francisco leaned back, and despite his legendarily imperturbable demeanor, his mouth hung open a little. “Eight years?”
Miro nodded. “I went on my first trading voyage when I was seventeen. My father decided I had a gift for commerce and for navigating the various social complexities that it implies for us marranos. So at nineteen, it was decided that I was to be withdrawn from activity beyond the xueta community. I disappeared, insofar as the outside world was concerned.”
Don Francisco nodded, understanding. “So you could emerge with a different identity, six years later, groomed to pass as a hidalgo and to operate as one in all regards, down to the smallest detail. And all the records of your community’s hidden holdings, accounts, contacts-?”
Miro tapped his temple. “All up here. Never written down, not one bit of it.”
“And your credentials were never questioned?”
Miro kept his shrug modest. “Why would they be? I never attended a court, I never went to a ball, I never proposed a joint family venture, I never wooed a gentleman’s daughter. My purpose-and my activities-were purely business, and my demeanor and speech were my bona fides.”
“So, given your extreme separation, how did you manage to function as a factor for the xuetas in Palma?”
“By working as a cargo broker only, and by making sure that my terminal clients in the Mediterranean were non-Jews who had a record of preferring to do business with the xuetas of Palma. I was able to impose terms on most transactions which made it inevitable that they would be brought-advantageously-to my community. Whose merchants would know, by a variety of codes, that it was I who had sent the deal to them. The money I made as a broker and speculator was, however, the source of our greatest gains, and I funneled both my profits, and my community’s, into separate accounts in Venice. My family and friends access theirs through a lawyer who specializes in handling confidential transactions in the Rialto.”
Nasi frowned. “And you left your position-why?”
“Firstly, many excellent opportunities in the Mediterranean were compromised when the Nasis departed en masse from the Ottoman Empire.” He allowed himself a smile at Don Francisco’s raised eyebrows. “I do not criticize your decision; indeed, have I not made the same one myself? But the regional consequences were undeniable: the marrano business networks that you managed in the Mediterranean faltered when your direct control dissipated.
“Besides, the trade in the Mediterranean is changing and as it does, it attracts new scrutiny. Any determined attempt to track where my trades ultimately resolve would reveal a suspiciously high percentage of them ending quite favorably in the hands of the xuetas of Palma. Not that I am particularly worried about the Spanish government: Olivares’ hordes of auditors and investigators have troubles enough without worrying about small fish such as myself. Besides, they would only discover that I am facilitating trade upon which they grow ever more dependent, as their failures in war and diplomacy mount.”
Nasi nodded. “So, since exposing your past did not threaten you personally, your primary fear was for how it might impact your community.”
“Exactly. I was particularly worried by a group of broadly inquisitive Portuguese nationalists that I knew: they would have found me extremely useful against their Spanish occupiers. Even though attempts at directly extorting me would have been fruitless, the related knowledge of how we xuetas have been manipulating trade would been decisive leverage against my community.”
Nasi steepled his fingers. “Our old Ottoman masters might have seen a similar advantage in coercing you to become their confidential agent-and not just with regard to the Spanish, but all the European nations of the Mediterranean.
Miro nodded. “So, to protect my community, I left my life as a broker quickly, unannounced-and with no time or opportunity to access my own funds in Venice.”
“And now you hope to go into business in Grantville?”
“That is my hope. Although I am open to opportunities involving an official position, as well.”
Evidently Don Francisco heard the subtle inquiry; he shook his head-sadly, Miro thought: “Had you arrived two years ago…” Nasi shrugged. “But now, if I tried to-to find a place-for you, there would be strong accusations of nepotism. And let us speak truth: what credentials, besides your claims of who you are and what you have done, do I have of your abilities and accomplishments?”
“None whatsoever.” Miro smiled and stood. “My regards to your family.”
August 1634
While he waited for the bank’s chief officer, Senor-no, “Mister”-Walker, to finish guiding an elderly lady through a lien agreement, Estuban Miro considered his unusual situation. He was, by any reasonable assessment, a relatively affluent man, yet all his money was trapped in a Venetian bank. Radio was, unfortunately, no answer to his predicament. Even if access had not been highly restricted, no responsible bank would transmit or receive confidential instructions through these devices, since their nonofficial operations were expressly excluded from any assurances of secrecy.
So he would have to endure the to-and-fro tedium of exchanging bonded letters with Venice. The first several would be necessary to establish his identity, achieved through a multi-tiered set of codes and checks. Next would come detailed financial instructions, and finally, the actual transfer of credit to the bank here in Grantville. Even if he was fortunate, it would be at least four months before any of his assets-other than his emergency stash-became available.
So here he sat, waiting to see if there was a way to parlay his remaining travel monies into real estate. If the bank was willing to extend him any credit whatsoever, it might allow him to buy a humble property in which he himself could live while subsisting upon the meager rents generated by boarders. The plan elicited a small grin: the price of his newfound freedom was, evidently, a life of penurious humility. His old, Talmud-spouting neighbor in Palma would have found much to appreciate in this pass of events.
However, it wasn’t the frugality of the investment that irked Miro: it was the wrongness of it. There was a new kind of business booming here in Grantville, which was the epicenter of an expanding trade in information and credit-based (or as some called it, “liquid”) finance. In all the known world, only Venice and Amsterdam had possessed primitive precursors of this kind of fluid commercial network. And of course they-and so many others-had now assiduously studied and selectively adapted the vast array of up-time financial instruments for the specific needs of their rapidly altering markets.
These trends were spawning a peculiar kind of economy, particularly in Grantville: here, the power of the up-timer bourse was not vested in traditional accumulations of common goods, coin, and land, but in a far-flung network of high-value, and often rare, equipment, information, and expertise. Interestingly, many of the most lucrative contracts involving the transfer of these “new goods” resembled the contraband trade. The freight was extremely low-volume, high-value, and required maximum security: the most common examples were bonds, contracts, bank notes, correspondence, research, copied up-time books, sometimes gems and specie. And in addition to safe transport, these objects also wanted rapid transport: it seemed that a constant challenge in this new economy was that its crucial assets were always needed in too many places at precisely the same time. And that, Miro knew, was the key to a whole new kind of wealth: anyone who could figure a way to swiftly and safely move these key resources from one nexus of need to another would become a very rich man, indeed.