If so, Mike Stearns would take the time and effort now to stamp the city in his own political mold as best he could. Using the memory of Hans Richter as the stamp, every chance he got. Richterhof, Richterplatz, Richterstrasse—there were at least three of those in the city—Richter Park; for all Francisco knew, a Richter lamppost somewhere and no doubt a profusion of Richter Alleys.
Stearns was utterly shameless. Francisco glanced at a nearby wall of Mike’s office, which was covered with enlarged portraits. A few of them were photographs; most were paintings. Mike agreed fully with Mary Simpson that drawing artists to Magdeburg was yet another way to ensure that Germany’s most radical city also became its most important. As Paris goes, so goes France; the same for London—and if Stearns had any say in the matter, the same would be true of Magdeburg as well.
Most of the portraits were what you’d expect in the office of the new nation’s prime minister:
A large portrait of the emperor, Gustavus Adolphus.
A not quite so large—perhaps by half an inch—portrait of Mike Stearns and Gustavus Adolphus and Axel Oxenstierna solemnly discussing political affairs. The emperor seated, his two principal advisers standing. Francisco was particularly taken by those poses: Oxenstierna with his hand atop a globe of the world—well, that was reasonable enough—and Mike Stearns with a sword belted to his waist and one leg turned out in the finest courtier style. Given that Mike Stearns did not own a sword, had no idea how to use one, and had never been seen by man nor beast in any stance that was not either relaxed or what you’d expect of an ex-pugilist . . .
Those type of portraits.
Ah, Magdeburg. Nasi loved the city, despite its multitude of flaws. It was the only city in the world other than great Istanbul that he found truly exciting.
His favorite portraits, however, were two others. One, by far the largest, covered almost the entire wall in the back—where visitors would first enter the room. The enormous painting had been only recently completed by the young Dutch artist Pieter Codde, a student of Franz Hals who had managed to escape Amsterdam just before the siege closed in. The painting was entitled Allegory of the Rebirth of Magdeburg, and it was all Francisco could do not to burst into laughter every time he entered the prime minister’s office and looked at the thing.
His amusement was caused not so much by the image of Michael Stearns standing just beside Gustavus Adolphus—but carefully portrayed as barely more than half the emperor’s size. Not even by the truly ludicrous spectacle of Mike Stearns as the loyal spear-carrier, wearing a Roman centurion’s armor, no less!
Nor was it caused—well, perhaps a bit—by the inevitable mob of cherubs lifting the soul of slaughtered Magdeburg to Heaven, accompanied by the inescapable angels blowing upon their horns.
No, it was the centerpiece that Francisco could never look at without having to suppress the urge to riotous laughter. The babe, of course, was to be expected. Magdeburg reborn, looking much like any babe. But the young mother so tenderly cradling the infant . . . the obvious symbolism, the allegory to the birth of Christ . . .
He must have choked. Mike glanced at him. “What’s so funny?”
Francisco shook his head. “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking of the mother in that grotesque new painting of yours.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, not daring to actually look. They did have serious business to conduct, this day.
Mike glanced at the huge painting, and smiled. “I have to admit I get a kick out of it myself. I will say that Pieter did one hell of good job, having to work from memory the way he did, with the model still back in Amsterdam.” He went back to staring out the window, the smile still on his face. “Spitting image of my wife. Who is, ah, no longer a virgin and has never been a Christian at any time.”
He hooked his own thumb over his shoulder. “But don’t lie, Francisco. I know you think that other one is even funnier.”