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    For Rebecca, the rest of that day—and the next, and the next, and the next—passed in a daze. She was lost in legends not even Sepharad had ever dreamed. All she ever remembered were glimpses and flashes.

 

    Bizarre vehicles, not drawn by anything other than a roar from within. But those roars, soon enough, she understood to be machinery. She was more fascinated by the speed of the vehicles—and still more by the smoothness of their progress. A carriage traveling at that speed would have been shaken to pieces. The secret was only partly contained in the incredible perfection of the road itself. There had also been—

 

    When she climbed out of the vehicle, in front of a huge white-and-beige building, curiosity overcame concern for her father. She stooped to examine the vehicle’s wheels. Odd-looking, they were. Small, squat, bellied—almost soft-looking. She poked the black substance with a finger. Not as soft as she thought!

 

    “What is that?” she asked the hidalgo. He was leaning over her, smiling.

 

    “Rubber. We call those ’tires.’ ”

 

    She poked it again, harder. “It is filled with something. Air?”

 

    The smile remained as it was. But the hidalgo’s eyes seemed to brighten. “Yes,” he replied. “That’s exactly right. The air is—ah,
pumped—
into them at high pressure.”

 

    She nodded, and looked back at the tire. “That’s very shrewd. The air acts as a cushion.” She looked back up at him. “No?”

 

    There was no reply. Just a pair of bright blue eyes, staring at her intensely. Very wide, too, as if he were surprised by something.

 

    
What?
she wondered.

 

    Into a room now, buried somewhere within the labyrinth of that huge building. The building was a school, she realized. She had never heard of a school so big.

 

    The equipment was odd, dazzling. Rebecca realized that she was in the presence of a people who were master mechanics and craftsmen—far more so, even, than the burghers of Amsterdam.

 

    But she had no time to wonder. The room was filled with people, urgently moving furniture and equipment aside in order to create a makeshift hospital. The badly injured farmer and his wife were being attended by several women. The doctor was easing her father onto a table covered with linen and removing his clothing. There was a rapid exchange of words between him and the women. Rebecca couldn’t follow the conversation. Too many of the words were unknown to her. But she understood the meaning of the womens’ head-shaking. Whatever the doctor wanted was not available. She saw his black face tighten grimly.

 

    Despair washed over her. She felt the hidalgo’s arm go around her shoulder. Unthinkingly, again, she leaned into that comfort. Tears began filling her eyes.

 

    The doctor saw her face and came over to her, shaking his head. “I think he will survive, Miss—ah—”

 

    “Abrabanel,” said the hidalgo. Rebecca felt a moment’s surprise that he had remembered the name.

 

    The doctor nodded. “Yes. I think your father will live. But—” He hesitated, making vague gestures with his hands. As if groping for something. “We do not have the medication that I wanted most. The”—again, that strange term:
clot-busting?
—“drugs.”

 

    The Moor sighed. “He will lose some of his heart capacity. But I have sent people into town to get”—she recognized the Greek term
beta
; not the rest; and there was a substance he called
niter
-something. “That will help.”

 

    Hope flared. “He will
live?
”

 

    “I think so. But he will be incapacitated for some time. Days, possibly weeks. And will have to be very careful thereafter.”

 

    “What can I do?” whispered Rebecca.

 

    “For the moment, nothing.” The Moor turned away and went to the farmer. A moment later he was back at work, surrounded by assistants. She saw that he was going to suture the man’s wounds, and was deeply impressed by his obvious skill and confidence. She felt her anxiety begin to lift. Whatever could be done for her father would be done.

 

    The room was now packed with people. Rebecca realized that she was in their way and edged to the door. A moment later, unprotesting, she allowed the hidalgo to lead her out of the room. Out of the room, down a long corridor, down another, into a library.

 

    She was stunned by the number of books. There were many young people gathered in the library, talking excitedly. Most of them were young women—girls really. Rebecca was amazed to see so many prostitutes in a library, wearing clothing more immodest than any permitted even in Amsterdam’s notorious brothel district.

 

    She glanced up at the hidalgo.
Odd.
He seemed to take no notice of the girls.

 

    
They are not prostitutes,
Rebecca realized immediately.
That scandalous show of bare leg is simply their custom.

 

    She pondered the matter, as the hidalgo gently steered her onto a couch. “I will be back in a moment,” he said. “First I have to make a”—
garble—
“call, in order to arrange for you and your father. They’ve got the”—
garble—
“system working again.”

 

    He was gone for a few minutes. Rebecca pondered the strange term he had used. She recognized the Greek prefix “tele.”
A long call?
she wondered.
No. Distant.

 

    Mainly, however, Rebecca spent the time trying to settle her nerves. It was not easy, with all those youngsters staring at her. They were not impolite, simply curious, but Rebecca was relieved when the hidalgo returned. He sat next to her.

 

    “This all seems very strange to you,” he said.

 

    Rebecca nodded. “Who are you?”

 

    Fumbling, obviously confused himself, the hidalgo began to explain. They talked for at least two hours. Rebecca became so engrossed in the conversation that she was even able to ignore her fears for her father.

 

    By the end, Rebecca was answering far more questions than she asked. She seemed to accept the reality, in some ways, much better than the hidalgo. She was surprised, at first, because of the man’s obvious intelligence. But eventually she understood. He had none of her training in logic and philosophy.

 

    “So you see,” she explained, “it is not really so impossible. Not at all. The nature of time has always been a mystery. I think Averroes was right—” She flushed, slightly. “Well, my
father
thinks—but I agree—”

 

    She stopped abruptly. The hidalgo was no longer listening to her. Well, not exactly that. He was listening to
her
, but not to her words. Smiling with his eyes even more than his lips.

 

    Blue eyes held her silent.

 

    “Keep talking,” he murmured. “Please.”

 

    Flushing deeply, now. Silent. Flushing.

 

    The Moorish doctor rescued her. He strode into the library and came up to them.

 

    “Your father is stable, Miss Abrabanel,” he said. “The best thing to do is get him into a bed and make him comfortable.” The doctor smiled ruefully. “Away from this madhouse.” He cast a questioning eye at the hidalgo.

 

    Michael nodded. “I already sent word into town.” He gave Rebecca a glance which combined care with—puzzlement? “Under the circumstances, I thought—”

 

    There came another interruption. An elderly couple was entering the library. They spotted the hidalgo and approached. Their faces were creased with concern.

 

    Michael rose and introduced them. “Miss Abrabanel, this is Morris and Judith Roth. They have agreed to provide lodgings for you and your father.”

 

    The rest of the day was a blur. Her father was carried into a large vehicle shaped like a box. The words “Marion County Rescue” were emblazoned on the sides. She followed with the hidalgo, in his own vehicle. The hidalgo’s men had already loaded all of the Abrabanels’ possessions in the back of the vehicle. In a very short time—so fast! so smooth!—they drew up before a large two-story house. Her father was carried up the stairs on a stretcher, into the house, up the stairs into a bedroom, and made comfortable. Rebecca and he whispered for a few minutes. Nothing more than words of affection. Then he fell asleep.

 

    The hidalgo left, at some point. He murmured something about danger needing to be watched for. He gave her shoulder a quick reassuring squeeze before he went. His departure left her feeling hollow.

 

    Everything was rolling over her now. Her mind felt adrift. Mrs. Roth led her downstairs into the salon and eased her into another couch. “I’ll get you some tea,” she said.

 

    “I’ll get it, Judith,” said her husband. “You stay here with Miss Abrabanel.”

 

    Rebecca’s eyes roamed the room. They lingered on the bookcase for a moment. For a longer moment, on the strange lamps glowing with such a steady light.

 

    Everything seemed vague to her. Her eyes moved on to the fireplace. Up to the mantel.

 

    Froze there.

 

    Atop the mantel, perched in plain sight, was a menorah.

 

    She jerked her head sideways, staring at Judith Roth. Back to the menorah. “You are
Jewish
?” she cried.

 

    A day’s terror—a lifetime’s fear—erupted in an instant. Tears flooded her eyes. Her chest and shoulder heaved. A moment later, Judith Roth was sitting next to her, cradling her like a child.

 

    Rebecca sobbed and sobbed. Desperately trying to control herself, so she could ask the only question which seemed to matter in the entire universe. Choking on the words, trying to force them through terror and hope.

 

    Finally, she managed. “Does he
know
?” she gasped.

 

    Mrs. Roth frowned. The question, obviously, meant nothing to her.

 

    Rebecca clutched her throat and practically squeezed down the sobs. “
Him.
The hidalgo.”

 

    Still frowning, still uncomprehending. Hope burned terror like the sun destroys a fog.

 

    “Michael. Does he
know
?” Her eyes were fixed on the menorah. Mrs. Roth’s gaze followed. Her own eyes widened.

 

    “You mean
Mike
?” The elderly woman stared at Rebecca for a moment, her jaw slack with surprise. “Well,
of course
he knows. He’s known us all his life. That’s why he asked us to put you up, when he called. He said he thought—he didn’t understand why, he just said he had a bad feeling—but he thought it would be best if Jewish people—”

 

    The rest of the words were lost. Rebecca was sobbing again, more fiercely than ever. Purging terror, first. Then, touching hope. Then, caressing it. Embracing it, like a child embraces legends.
Hidalgo true and pure.

 

    
 

 

    With the morning, blue eyes came again. As blue as the cloudless sky, on a sun-drenched day. In the years after, Rebecca remembered nothing else of the two days which followed. Simply blue, and sunlight.

 

    Always sunlight. Drenching a land without shadows.
Chapter 6

    Gustav II Adolf, King of Sweden, had a form given to him by his ancestry. His skin was pale, perhaps a bit ruddy. His short-cut hair, eyebrows, upswept mustache and goatee were blond. His eyes were blue, slightly protruding, and were alive with intelligence. His features, dominated by a long, bony and powerful nose, were handsome in a fleshy sort of way. He was a very big man. He stood over six feet tall. His frame was thick and muscular, and tended toward corpulence. He looked every inch the image of a Nordic king.
    So much came from nature and upbringing. The rest—the spirit which filled that form at the moment, striding back and forth in his headquarters tent pitched on the east bank of the Havel River—came from the hour itself. The chalk-white complexion came from horror. The closely shut eyes, from grief. The trembling heavy lips, from shame. And the manner in which the king of Sweden’s powerful hands broke a chair in half, and hurled the remnants to the floor, came from outrage and fury.
    “
God damn John George of Saxony to eternal hellfire!
”
    The king’s lieutenants, all except Axel Oxenstierna, edged away from their monarch. Gustav Adolf’s temper was notorious. But it was not the rage they feared. Gustav’s anger was always short-lived, and the king had long ago learned to keep that rampaging temper more or less under control. An excoriating tongue-lashing was usually the worst he permitted himself. And, on occasion, venting his spleen on innocent furniture. This occasion—this monumental occasion—was shaping up to be a veritable Sicilian Vespers for the seating equipment.
    Gustav seized another chair and smashed it over his knee. The sturdy wooden framework dangled in his huge hands like twigs.
    No, it was not the rage which caused those veteran soldiers to quake in their boots. And they were certainly not concerned with the chairs. Axel Oxenstierna, the king’s closest friend and adviser, never stocked Gustav’s tent with any but cheap and utilitarian furniture. This was not the first time, since they arrived in Germany, that the Swedish officers had seen their monarch turn a chair into toothpicks.
    “
And may the Good Lord damn George William of Brandenburg along with him!
”
    It was the blasphemy which frightened them. Their king’s piety was as famous as his temper. More so, in truth. Much more. Only Gustav’s immediate subordinates ever felt the lash of his tongue. Only those of his soldiers convicted of murder, rape or theft ever felt the edge of his executioner’s ax. Whereas many of the hymns sung by Sweden’s commoners, gathered in their churches of a Sunday, had been composed by their own king. And were considered, by those humble folk, to be among the best of hymns.
    The chair pieces went flying through the open flap of the tent. The two soldiers standing guard on either side of the entrance exchanged glances and sidled a few feet further apart. On another occasion, they might have smiled at the familiar sight of broken furniture sailing out of the king’s headquarters. But they, too, were petrified by the blasphemy.
    The king of Sweden seized another chair, lifted it above his head, and sent it crashing to the floor. A heavy boot, driven by a powerful leg, turned breakage into kindling.
    “
God damn all princes and noblemen of Germany! Sired by Sodom out of Gomorrah!
”
    The blasphemy was shocking. Terrifying, in truth. None of the officers could ever recall their monarch speaking in such a manner. Not even in his worst tirades. It was an indication of just how utterly enraged Gustav was, hearing the news of Magdeburg.
    The king of Sweden stood in the middle of the tent, his great fists clenched, glaring like a maddened bull. His hot eyes, glittering like sapphires, fell on the figures of three young men standing a few feet away. The men were all short and slim, and dressed in expensive clothing. Their hands were clutching the pommels of their swords. Their own faces were pale.
    For a moment, Gustav Adolf glared at them. The bull challenging the yearlings. But the moment was brief. The king of Sweden inhaled deeply and slowly. Then, expelling the breath in a gust, his heavy shoulders slumped.
    “Please accept my apologies, Wilhelm and Bernard,” he muttered. “And you, William. I do not, of course, include
you
in that foul tribe.” The king had blasphemed in Swedish, but he spoke now in German. Gustav was as fluent in that language as he was in many others but, as always, his accent betrayed his Baltic origins.
    The dukes of Saxe-Weimar and the landgrave of Hesse-Kassel nodded stiffly. The tension in their own shoulders eased. Very quickly, in truth. For all their aristocratic lineage, they were more than ready to accept Gustav’s apology in an instant. The three noblemen were the only German rulers who had rallied to the Protestant cause, in deed as well as in word. In large part, their attachment to Gustav was due to youthful hero worship, plain and simple. Italians were beginning to refer to Gustav II Adolf as “
il re d’oro
”—the golden king. Wilhelm and Bernard of Saxe-Weimar and William of Hesse-Kassel would put the matter more strongly. As far as those young men were concerned, Gustavus Adolphus—as he was known to non-Swedes—was the
only
European king worthy of the name.
    So, it was more with relief than anything else that they accepted his apology. Their own easing tension was echoed by everyone in the room. Gustav’s temper, even today, was proving to be as short-lived as ever.
    The king of Sweden managed a smile. He glanced around the interior of the large tent. There were only two chairs left intact. “Best send for some more chairs, Axel,” he murmured. “I seem to have outdone myself today. And we need a council of war.”
    Axel Oxenstierna returned the smile with one of his own. He turned his head, nodding to an officer pressed against the wall of the tent. The young Swede sped out of the tent like a gazelle.
    Gustav blew out his cheeks. His eyes flitted around the room, as if he were assessing the quality of the twelve men within it. Which, indeed, he was.
    It was a quick assessment. More in the nature of a reassurance, actually. None of those men would have been in that tent in the first place, if they had not already matched the king’s high expectations of his subordinates.
    “Very well, gentlemen, let’s get to work.” Gustav’s gaze went immediately to Wilhelm and Bernard. “The imperialists will march on Saxe-Weimar next. That is a certainty. The two of you, along with William, have been my only German allies worthy of the name. Emperor Ferdinand will demand your punishment.”
    Wilhelm, the older of the two dukes of Saxe-Weimar, winced. “I’m afraid you’re right, Your Majesty.” A trace of hope came to his face. “Of course, Tilly is on Maximillian of Bavaria’s payroll, not the emperor’s, so perhaps—”
    William of Hesse-Kassel snorted. Gustav waved his hand. “Abandon that hope, Wilhelm. And you, Bernard. Maximillian is even greedier than the emperor himself. He has already demanded the Palatinate for his services to the Habsburg dynasty and Catholicism. He will certainly want to add Thuringia and Hessen. Parts of them, anyway. The emperor can hardly refuse him. Since Ferdinand dismissed Wallenstein, Tilly’s army is the only major force left at his disposal.”
    Wilhelm sighed. “I can’t possibly stop Tilly,” he said, wincing. “He will ravage the Thuringian countryside and take every one of its cities. Weimar, Eisenach and Gotha, for sure. Erfurt may be able to buy him off.” The nobleman’s face was drawn and haggard, giving him an appearance far beyond his tender years. “The people will suffer greatly.”
    Gustav clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders. His face was heavy. “I can do nothing for you. I am sorry, bitterly sorry, but that is the plain truth.” The next words came leaden with anger. And, yes, shame. “I will not make any promises I cannot keep. Not again.
Not after Magdeburg
. I simply don’t have the forces to save Thuringia from Tilly. And the geography favors him entirely. He is closer and can use the Harz Mountains to shield his flank.”
    Bernard nodded. “We know that, Your Majesty.” He straightened, clutching his sword pommel. “My brother is the heir, and he must remain here with you. But I will return to Weimar, and do what I can. I will reestablish contact with you by courier as soon as I can, but—”
    “
No.
”
    Startled, Bernard’s eyes went to Axel Oxenstierna. The Swedish chancellor spread his hands apologetically.
    “Excuse my abruptness, lord. But that is really a very bad idea.” Axel raised his hand, forestalling the duke’s impetuous protest. “Please, Bernard! I admire your courage. All the more so, since courage seems a rarer substance than gold among the German aristocracy.”
    Again, the Swedish officers in the room barked angry, sarcastic laughter. Axel plowed on:
    “It would be a very romantic gesture, Bernard. But it would also be sheer
stupidity
. You can accomplish nothing in Thuringia beyond dying or being captured. You have few forces of your own, and—”
    Axel fixed the young nobleman with keen, intent eyes. “You are inexperienced in war, lad.” He almost added
“a virgin, in truth,”
but bit off the words.
    Bernard of Saxe-Weimar’s face was pinched, tight. His eyes flitted to Gustav Adolf, pleading.
    Gustav breathed heavily. Then, stepping forward, he placed a huge hand on Saxe-Weimar’s slender shoulder. “He’s right, Bernard.” The king’s face broke into a sudden, cheerful smile. “Stay here instead.
With me.
I would be delighted to add you to my staff, along with Wilhelm. I am certain you would be an asset”—Gustav blandly ignored the barely veiled skepticism on the faces of his Swedish officers—“and, in exchange, I believe I could teach you something of the art of war.”
    The last part of the sentence did the trick, as Gustav had expected. Saxe-Weimar’s adolescent admiration for the king’s military prowess had become a minor embarrassment.
    Bernard’s eyes moved to the other men clustered about. Veterans, all. Men of proven valor. Plain to see, the young man was concerned for his reputation. His gaze settled on the youngest Swedish officer in the tent. That was Lennart Torstensson, the brilliant commander of the Swedish artillery.
    Torstensson chuckled. “Have no fear, Bernard. Let the imperialists taunt you as they will. Soon enough—within a year—they will taunt no longer.”
    The laugh which swept the tent, this time, was neither angry nor sarcastic. Simply savage and feral. So might northern wolves bark, hearing that reindeer questioned their courage.
    Torstensson’s response, and the accompanying laughter, was enough. Saxe-Weimar’s nod turned into a deep bow, directed at the king. “It would be my honor and privilege, Your Majesty.”
    Gustav clapped his hands together. “Excellent! In the meantime—” He turned to one of his cavalry commanders, Johann Banér. “That small garrison is still at Badenburg, I trust?”
    Banér cocked his head. “The Scots, you mean? The cavalry troop under Mackay’s command?”
    “Yes, them.
Alexander
Mackay, as I recall. A promising young officer.”
    Oxenstierna, judicious as ever, refrained from commenting on that last remark.
You spent less than an hour in his company, Gustav. Based on
that
you call him “a promising young officer”?
But he left the words unspoken. The king, he was quite sure, was under no illusions. He simply wanted—almost desperately—to bring confidence and good cheer into a day of gloom and horror. Besides, unlike Banér, Axel knew of Mackay’s real mission.
    Gustav continued: “Send a courier to Mackay, ordering him to remain in Thuringia. I don’t expect him to hold Badenburg against any serious assault, of course. If he’s pressed, he can retreat into the Thuringen Forest. I simply want him there to report on Tilly’s movements.” He gave Oxenstierna a quick glance. “But have that courier report to me, before you send him off. I’ll have more detailed instructions.”
    Banér nodded. The king turned to Hesse-Kassel.
    “William, I can provide you with nothing in the way of direct assistance either. But your situation is less desperate. Tilly will move on Thuringia first, not Hessen. And—”
    Hesse-Kassel snorted. “And Tilly moves like a slug under any circumstances. The great and mighty General Slow.”
    Gustav smiled, but the smile faded very quickly. “Don’t underestimate the man, William,” he said, softly and seriously. “He may be slow, but remember this: Jan Tzerklas, Count Tilly, has been a professional soldier all his life. Most of that time as a commander of armies. He is over seventy years old, now—
and has yet to lose a major battle.
”
    The king’s face grew solemn. “He is the last, and perhaps the greatest, of a breed of generals going back to the great Gonzalo de Cordoba.”
    “The butcher of Magdeburg,” snarled Torstensson.
    Gustav glanced at his artillery officer. When he spoke, his tone was sad. “Yes, Lennart, so Tilly will be known to posterity. And everything else forgotten.” The king squared his shoulders. “I do not say it is unjust, mind you. A general is responsible for the conduct of his troops, when all is said and done. But all reports of Magdeburg are agreed that Tilly attempted to restrain his soldiers. He certainly had no reason to put the city to the torch.”
    Torstensson, accustomed to the ways of Swedish monarchy—Gustav’s Sweden, at least—did not retreat. “So?” he demanded. “Tilly
chose
to lead that army. No one forced him out of retirement. An army of sheer wickedness. He cannot complain if his devils got loose.” The young artilleryman’s anger became mixed with admiration. “
Your
army, Highness, has no Magdeburg to stain its banner. Nothing even close.”
    Gustav’s temper began to rise, but the king forced it down. He did not disagree, after all. “I am not of that old breed, Lennart,” he replied mildly. “But I can still admire it for its virtues. So should you.”
    Then, smiling wryly: “I believe I have started a new line of generals. I hope so, at least.”
    Several of the officers chuckled. The Swedish chancellor did not.
    “You, yes,” murmured Oxenstierna. “A new breed. But Wallenstein is doing the same, my friend Gustav. Don’t forget that. Some day you will break Tilly and his legacy. Only then to face Wallenstein. Like you, he scorns the old ways. And—like you—he has yet to find his master in the art of war.”