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Droplets of rain began to fall from the low clouds that hung over the Alpine Valley.

Jagged bridge 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 rain.

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.

And 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.

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

Yakub Fugger, merchant of Augsburg, trader and banker.

Yakub Fugger, the rich, the wealthiest man in Europe, credit her to emperors and

popes.

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