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Droplets of rain began to fall from the low clouds that hung over the alpine valley.

Jagged ridge lines hugged the edges, almost invisible behind the steel gray sky and the falling rain.

A cobbled road cut through the valley, then headed up, up, up over a ridge, into the clouds, and over a pass that

led down into the next glen. Curses and shouts and bellowing oxen broke through the crashing

ring. A heavy wagon blocked the road as it switched back and forth across the ridge,

its wheel cracked into by the rough terrain. A group of men struggled

to lift the wagon just enough to pull off the damaged wheel. Rain soaked through their heavy

woolen cloaks. I see wind cut them to the bow. Their muscles ached from the strain of shifting

hundreds of pounds of smelted silver, the load that had so overburdened the

wagon and its poor oxen. This was one of a half-dozen wagons in the train, all of them,

just as weighed down with silver. The men cursed one name as they struggled and strained.

Jacob Fugger, the owner of the silver and their employer.

Jacob Fugger, merchant of Augsburg, trader and banker.

Jacob Fugger the rich, the wealthiest man in Europe, creditor to emperors and popes.

Jacob Fugger, financier of wars and voyages of exploration.

Jacob Fugger, home safe in his counting house while these carters suffered to get his goods

to market.

They spat at every mention of Jacob Fugger's name.

From his home in Augsburg, Fugger's reach went everywhere.

Southwest to Lisbon and Madrid, north to Lubeck and Antwerp, east to the mines of Hungary,

...