Oppenheimer points imperiously at the English fleet which appears to be slamming sideways into the Dutch ships. ‘Who shall win, Joseph?’
‘The English,’ replies the child in a well-rehearsed response.
Emperor Leopold, watching from a high-backed baroque chair, leans forward on his gold-tipped cane. The rugged features and huge craggy jaw break into a grin that immediately softens the unprepossessing visage. Oppenheimer, exceedingly conscious of Leopold’s approval, decides to exploit the young emperor’s joviality further.
‘And why, my child?’ he asks.
‘Because we don’t like the Dutch,’ Joseph answers in an uncertain tone.
Leopold’s cackle bounces around the small court chamber.
‘And…?’ the purveyor-general persists. Worried, the boy creases his forehead in imitation of his father. The emperor, recognising the gesture, laughs again.
‘Because we owned some of the East India Company?’ the child replies nervously.
‘Bravo!’ the emperor applauds and turns to Samuel. ‘You have the child well trained. If only the English were as compliant.’
‘Protestants are never known for their compliancy, sire, but they do make excellent propagandists.’
‘Indeed, we have to thank their printing press for that.’
Leopold, suddenly sober, falls into a meditation as he gazes uneasily upon the toy battlefield. The Anglo–Dutch war is ravaging the North Sea, and Turkish troops in painted green turbans hover around Austria, while the French, on tiny black horses, line the borders of his own empire and Brandenburg. In short, Europe is a quilt of warring factions.
Samuel, reading his master’s disposition and knowing his love of tactics, dramatically pushes half the Dutch fleet up to the east coast of Scotland.
‘I have news of the next chess move,’ he announces mysteriously. ‘The Smyra fleet is to attack from the north. However…’ and with the other hand he skilfully manoeuvres several of the English Charles II’s ships so that they face the Lowlanders, ‘I am not the only one with spies.’
Again Leopold collapses into laughter. ‘Samuel, you do me more good than any hallowed medic,’ he gasps, then shakes himself into a semblance of dignity.
‘I am undone, exhausted and nearly dethroned. A pox upon the machinations required of today’s statesmen. I am exhausted by it all.’
The arrival of a page interrupts him. The young servant, caught unaware by the emperor’s clandestine presence, blushes and genuflects, stumbling backwards in the effort.
‘What is it, Fritz?’ Samuel says, irritated, wishing the boy would stop bowing like an idiot.
‘There is a visitor from the Rhineland; he says he has an important letter to deliver to the Court Jew.’
‘The Court Jew is there.’ Leopold points to Samuel with an imperious finger. ‘However, the emperor is not.’ And with a wink he steps neatly behind a painted Chinese screen.
‘You are not here but you still hear?’ Samuel enquires with one of his customary puns, mouth pressed to the thin silk partition. On the other side of the screen the emperor giggles.
A moment later the page ushers in the messenger. With boots still dusty from his ride, the chevalier throws back his cloak and reaches deeply into his breeches. He pulls out the scroll, now grimy with sweat, and hands it to Samuel.
‘This comes from one of your people. It is a message of the highest importance and involves a member of the royal family,’ he announces pompously. ‘I am to return immediately with a reply.’
Samuel, recognising the royal seal overpressed with Alphonso’s ring, looks up at the chevalier. ‘You may wait outside.’
‘And then will you have a response? This is an urgent affair, his highness is gravely ill.’
‘You have my word.’
Samuel waits until he is alone before unrolling the scroll. After a quick perusal he pushes back the silk screen, surprising the emperor who has pulled off his long curly wig and is busy scratching his naked scab-covered scalp.
‘Sire, I believe this might amuse you.’
‘Let us hope it is more amusing than the interior of a closet.’ The emperor throws his wig on again, this time crookedly.
‘The writer is a minor actor in my employment. Having some dramatic ambition he writes in the style of Molière, that limp-wristed French copyist of little talent. He is, however, to be trusted,’ Samuel informs the royal gravely.