ESPERA MUMDI - A Fantasia-Mod AAR

[AmbassadeBelgie]

CHAPTER XIII – O PERIPLO DO HEROE


The mists cleared.
Three men approached, clothed in rags and smelling of fish.
Vasco da Gama had discovered the sea-faring and- to his fears- feminine-rule-approving civilisation of Britannia.

It had been three new civilisations discovered since the first time he’d sailed further than the Big South Rock off his native coasts of Gibraltar, conquering all fear of the dragons said to roam those and all outer waters.

It now troubled him; EVERY SINGLE PEOPLE they discovered followed the same heretical beliefs. Christians, they called themselves, but the Lusitanii thought of themselves, too, as Christians. Clearly a major flaw was at hand, and only one civilisation’s word was right. More and more it seemed to him that it was not Jorge’s, speaking of one true religion, which was right. There was no other way of explaining how people this distanced from Asturias, which when he’d left was under siege, would follow and worship Him in the same manner as these Northerners…

He had sailed into and through the very mouth of the Channel, which separated, it seemed, barbarians (as he’d encountered at Land’s End in Co’yhnw’ahll) from civilisation (our, Catalunhan, Asturian, and now Britannian order and religion).

He would have sailed directly back to Asturias to notify Venerable Jorge of this new discovery (his second civilisation!) but Britannia Queen Anne, who was very young and incredibly beauteous, had twisted his mind with tales of a faraway Emerald Isle… He knew of emeralds by stories descended from Easterner invaders: That they were the greenest and most precious beauties of minerals, and God’s reflection of young exotic maiden’s eyes. He wanted these minerals, now, not for Kingdom, not for Glory, not even for God Himself! For Anne. He’d blow his nose on Jorge’s silk tunic if he could conquer Anne’s heart, but his mind said she would never care for him. (She’s a maaaaneater [omfg Nelly Furtado ])

And so Vasco da Gama, ageing man (he was in his fifties already) with not the trace of senility, resigned his mind to the base needs of everyday living, and let his heart do the rest. And he dreamt of Queen Anne. Of her long silky hair, the colour of brown beer, as it remained solidly placed in her Northeners’ hair-supporting contraption… And of her milky white, long and delicate hands as they brushed a breadcrumb from her cheek, and Vasco would dream he were that breadcrumb as it flew over check, hand, and onto her other sleeve. Clearly he was senile, but this made little difference, for Vasco had set himself a life task:
BEFORE HE DIED HE WOULD FIND THESE EMERALD ISLES! HE WOULD LIVE IN THEIR REFLECTION, THEIR EYES REPLACING HIS BELOVED AND DROWNING HIM IN AN ILLUSION OF MOST SUBLIME BEAUTY.

***

Vasco da Gama, with his three ships fully replenished with victuals of Britannia (mostly fish, salt, and expired crab soup) set sail for the distant Emerald Isles, by description “around Land’s End and Northward”…

Vasco da Gama found no emeralds on the Emerald Isles, only more fish. There was neither a beautiful green-eyed maiden there to drown him in his tears and then resuscitate him with her own love… Only red-haired wretches with a character so arrogant and yet reserved, that they either demanded intrigue or commanded fear. Vasco fell for the later, circumnavigated the isle to make sure no emeralds were there, and promptly returned to Asturias- now Lusitanian- a broken, barely recovering man:

He was be famous once more. And he accepted free drinks everywhere in the civilised world. He was all drinking regions’ kings! And in the mornings he awakened always pale as the churches’ candle wax. And sick as drying crab, he vomited on the Holy Sacristy tiles… unintentionally of course. And dragging his legs slowly to the outside world the women fell upon him, and extracted his seed, and then went on to boast their progeny would someday rule the land…
And he would have died, if God had wished it, a promiscuous, drunk, and sickly old failure of a man, and the ex-bringer of true Glory to the Empire.

God had other plans.

But for now Jorge had already colonised Iberia Interior, and was on his way to the Catalunhan border, with as usual, plans for bloodthirsty and mindless conquest, unplanned and insecure. Navigation, for Jorge, was a matter for the future…

This break from exploration would be needed by Vasco, desperately. A cure for the lovesick by the path of debauchery, by the end of the year Vasco would be redeemed by God.

Mappa Mundi as of 1505. As you can see it has deteriorated over time... (actually this stupid school computer was incapable of making it JPEG so its 256 colours instead )


Needless to say Rafaela, as efficient as most strong women, succeeded in converting the docile nomads of Fez, and by now 4500 natives had securely settled all over the province. Recorded as true believers in Lusitanism they never caught the eye of Jorge, and contributed to the country by providing the most able cavalry-instructors Gibraltar had ever seen. Another proof that women now best… (Argh! btw, no I the author am not a woman )

[SirruShan]

Great!
Modified fantasia... were you the guy that did that AAR with the Mach Tungri? That was one of the first AAR's I read! It got me into modding the game files! Keep it up!

[AmbassadeBelgie]

YES! Ah a veteran, I am honoured

This is my second Fantasia-based AAR and the first AAR ever that I do outside the BeNeLux region (I thought I'd expand my horizons a bit ). I always loved playing Portugal (In Europa Universalis 1 it was the first country I ever played, and therefore the first ever Paradox Game country I played I have a long playing history with the country now I thought I'd make some more concrete by writing on it

[AmbassadeBelgie]

Not my best work, but hey, t'will serve

CHAPTER XIV – EL MORTO, ELA BELHA, EO PRINCE

An era of ambition had prompted Jorge to continue his desperate expansionist streak throughout central Iberia, and he now found himself in the final stages of a long conquering quest. Toledo, a province of great weaponry and some gold, was almost a city. Almost every province in the Empire was Lusitanist. The barbarians in the North were slowly becoming followers of the one true faith.

But nothing next to his greatest achievement:
HIS CAPITAL WAS ALMOST READY!

Now began a long migration of people from Gibraltar to his new Capital, Quixada, and the buildings in the new capital were almost complete… Even the Fine Arts Academy would be ready by summer 1506! Things were looking very good indeed for the Emperor of the Lusitanii.

In fact, things looked so good that Jorge was even planning a unique future for himself.
His son would never rule: Jorge would find and pay the greatest sums of money to find alchemists who can render him immortal.
Rafaela, his exigent wife, would be replaced, at her death, by the prettiest girl he could find in the World (which he’d have conquered by then), and she would then be given an Eternal Youth potion to serve him as he wished.
Forever, Jorge would be the leader of the greatest men on Earth, and of the largest and most illuminated Empire ever.

He loved these daydreams, and it spurred his maniacal conquering, eradicating the Cantabrians because of their aggressiveness, locking his wife and son in the Imperial Palace of Quixada, and soaring to a higher ground; the faraway and as of yet unconquered lands of the Pyreneas, as the Chief Cartographer called it.

***

It was 23 December 1506 when Rafaela’s previously prepared plan came full circle: Fez finally was large enough to become a city: eight-hundred Lusitanii governed the 7000 Berbers, and the final 100 were now on their way. The Berbers were now good Christians, and so- as Rafaela had anticipated- Jorge did not notice their Sunni ancestry.

But Rafaela was not present to see Berberia, as the colony was renamed, attain the status of City of the Empire: She was locked in Quixada with her son, in a half-constructed Palace. She would have suffered a life of boredom and would have contemplated giving up her –and her son’s- life up to God, in order not to have to live dependant of such an ignoble creature as Jorge was… but God had other plans.

In fact Rafaela, beautiful specimen of the human race, seemed to interest everyone but Jorge: The guards, the street-boys, even the Archbishop! It was with her charm that she managed to escape the Palace, with the aid of a black Berber named Francisco o Preto (Francis the Black). He was Captain of the Royal Guard section placed within the Palace, and despite his lack of interest in white women Rafaela’s every movement had hypnotized him as it had every other man she ever met. Yes, God had prepared Rafaela for great things.

***

For six months Rafaela, Francisco, and her two-year-old son Sebatião, remained in hiding in the increasingly populated city of Quixada. The Palace was complete and the new Capital boasted over ten-thousand immigrated citizens!



But Jorge had still not visited his new capital: He was still busy in the Pyreneas, and it seemed every province he tried to map got colonized by Catalunha before he could do so himself! Now he found himself with no more land to steal: Catalunha surrounded the Empire with her small colonies. Jorge was about to declare another brutal war. A war on Catalunha, for their lands, and to ensure they never stand in his way again!

***

The Emperor was in his stool, stuffing his face with the most exotic of victuals, from Britannia, from Eire, and even a vaguely known but unmapped political entity called Anglia, or something like that…

It took Francisco o Preto little time to enter the encampment, sneak into the officers’ tent, reach Jorge and stab him thrice in the abdomen. It took even less time to see the dictator’s corpse finally drop to the floor, lifeless and cooling, the end of an era of blood and brutality.

No sound was ever heard, nor traces ever found, and despite the cruelty in which Francisco removed the dictator from this Earth, it compared little to the way Manuel had been murdered by Jorge five years ago. So Francisco was absolved by God.

The only explanation for the death of Jorge o Venerable was suicide: There was found in his hand this final declaration.

I die today for lack of a better purpose in life but my own ambition. I die today by own decision and in the grief my tyrannous attitude has left me. I die today to free the Empire, and to let it take a more peaceful course.

Let my wife be Supreme Regent until the coming of age of my only son, Sebastião. He must then become Sebatião I of the Empire.

Let my death be an example and a penitence, to finally let me die in Gods eternal grace and mercy.

I need not describe the fact that Jorge never wrote this, but that Francisco o Preto had prepared it himself. So now Rafaela was to rule the Empire, and the Iron Fist would at last be unclenched.

Now the Empire would learn of prosperity, peace, honour and development.

Rafaela was tired of violence. Rafaela demanded the respect of her neighbours, and not once decided for war. It was time for a change for the better. Now the Empire was big, and it could finally focus not on its surroundings, but on its dried unplanned interior.

[SirruShan]

Beautiful! Let's kill some Catalonians!

[AmbassadeBelgie]

Book II: O Reino do Sebastião I

[AmbassadeBelgie]

CHAPTER I – A CHEGADA DO IMPERATOR


Ah, how Sebastião admired the Roman Empire! He’d even dug up some old roman maps of the western world while campaigning in north Africa. It seemed to him certain destiny that he rebuild so proper and grandiose an empire, and since his father had already named it the Empire, Sebastião had grown up with a single ambition: Finding Rome and building a new capital city on its ruins.

His father had left him the Iberian Peninsula and its unwavering support. His mother had offered him African colonies, and maps of distant and great civilisations to the North. But the North was cold and barbaric. It was the East which most interested the young man.

The East, which in his calculations was the direction of Rome, was his day and nightly dream. It was one he was certain of finding before the end of his life, but not- as his father- through deception and rage. Rather, he followed his mothers maxims: Love thy kinsmen, Honour thy neighbour, Peace renders war useless, and so on.

***

On August 6th 1519, after reigning over the Empire for thirteen years, Rafaela, wife of the former dictator and founder of the Empire, mother of the heir to the throne of said Empire, and Regent, resigned from her post without once having declared war upon any nation. She had spent a life of internal development of the soul and of the Empire.

She had ensured that her teachings of love and peace would contaminate the Empire, and especially her son, with the warm and charitable feeling of love. She succeeded in this through Lusitanism, which she slowly bent towards her own set of ethics, and which was the state religion of the Empire, and the only religion to be practised within the confines of the Empire.



North-West Africa now belonged to the Empire, and consisted of five major cities, predominantly of Berber-descendant population. But Africa was a Desert, and so only the rich coast had been claimed, and only for a certain distance from the capital (further than that the lands became hostile, as did the people [Francisco de Preto was killed there in 1514 on a mission of peace], and there were no resources of great value to be found).

The Empire had developed incredibly since Jorge’s death, and now every Iberian province had a capital city with a bailiff’s office, and a basic wall. The Empire was gaining 65 ducats per month, and was using this to develop itself into the best trading Empire on the face of the Earth: They had good competition from Eire and Catalunha, but scientists were describing new concepts daily of monopolies, total trade control, and even ways to stop others from profiting from the Empire’s riches. The 325 yearly ducats gained by the Empire’s traders would be nothing compared to what they would bring in the next decade!

Everything was set up! Everything anticipated the new-come times. Sebastião felt his body tingle as he stood in front of Quixada’s great crowds on the balcony of the Imperial Palace. He was being named Emperor of the Lusitanii on this day, August 8th 1519, at the age of 15, and by God he resolved then he would rule the world.

[AmbassadeBelgie]

NOTE, the AAR continues in Book II .

Hope you enjoyed Book I!

On second thought... No it doesn't

STAY TUNED

Thomas




P.S. I have made a Chapter Menu instead, on POST 1 of this thread

[Duke Henry VII]

The 'Chapter Menu' is a great idea, makes you (hèhè) much easier to use :-p
I'm hoping for an update soon, and I'm asking myself if the Lusitanii shouldn't turn Orthodox for some reason. This would cause religious wars, blood and tears, hunger, death!!! and popes....
anyway, Great AAR!

[SirruShan]

Nice explorations. One small nitpick - shouldn't Apulia's capital be in Apulia?

[AmbassadeBelgie]

Now, I thought SYRACUSE (East Sicily) would be a more beautiful capital city than any...it's a more historical one in any case

[AmbassadeBelgie]

Sorry I didn't notify sooner... This AAR will be on hold a week or two as I catch up on some RL issues. But expect more after that as we delve into BOOK II OF ESPERA MUMDI!!!

[AmbassadeBelgie]

Chapter II - Os Irmãos Alegre

October 17th, 1519

“…Hey I bet you can’t steal one of those warships!”

That’s how it all started. The brothers Alegre were fishing in their master’s fishing fleet as they did every day of the week to survive off the scraps of the nobility. São Felipe, capital of the province of Kabylia (the easternmost province of the Empire), had only recently been confirmed as a true city when the nobles came in and started telling everyone what to do. And now bread prices rose, whore prices lowered, and the whole city was turning into an impoverished flock of black-sheep.

It was in this environment that they had grown up, Miguel and Martim Alegre: The lower-strata colonial life. Their father had been a sailor and later labourer, and so both brothers had grown up on the developing coasts of Africa, born in Tangiers, moving to Fez, reaching adolescence in Orania, and now reaching the ages of 24 and 22 respectively in the world’s most forsaken city.

It is little wonder, then, that such a dare would be commonplace among the increasing number of poorer Lusitanii.

“I bet you I can steal one before you do!” Martim replied to his older brother Miguel.

The actual carrying out of such dares was not so common, despite everything, so the Alegre brothers’ master was dumbstruck as two of his smaller and more useless (but nevertheless HIS) fishing ships separated themselves from the pack of cheap and docile half-time fishermen…

The ships Miguel had pointed to were, although unknown to him, the two famous remaining ships of the late Gaspard de Corte Real’s exploratory expedition at the dawn of the century. Having lain idle in this, the further Empire waters, for over 20 years, it was not well guarded, and two hours, one hostage, and two black eyes later Miguel and Martim were off with Gaspard de Corte Real’s expeditionary fleet.

---

Halfway out of the natural harbour created by the fickle sands of the Barbary Coast, and both of them now officially branded fugitive, the two brothers slowed down and discussed through the piercing and deafening Mediterranean winds what they should do now. They had gathered some idle sailors in the Black Kettle Tavern, as well as some capricious prostitutes for the journey, and now found themselves on the fastest Lusitanian vessel this side of the Gibraltar Strait. And what to?


Ultimately, the best thing they could come up with was a trip to Syracuse, capital city of Apulia (whose direction was vaguely known and whose sea-route was undetermined and maybe even non-existent). They’d learn of Apulian women there, and try Apulian wine. They’d take on the weakling Apulian sailors to duel-drinking, and hopefully, they’d meet the leader of Apulia there, and see if they could be explorers or the like for that nation…for there was no way they would be accepted as legal explorers in the Empire now they’d stolen Empire property!!!

***

March 21st, 1520

What a surprise, as they entered the harbour of Syracuse (capital city of Apulia) to find it in full combat, women and children crying and fleeing from the streets, where men were sacrificing themselves strangely to hold up the Apulian flag, before being cut down by strange soldiers bearing red and gold uniforms.

They stared in disbelief from a reasonable nautical distance as the walls were finally breached, and off a distant tower Miguel even saw what he swore was the ruler of Apulia jump from the citadel onto the water-breaking rocks below.

It took two more hours before the Roman flag surfaced and was raised on that tower in the place of Apulian one, but by then the fugitive brothers had other worries:
The Roman Fleet had blockaded the harbour during the siege, and now brought unease the presence of to warships bearing an unknown flag (the Empire knows not of-, nor is it known by- the S.P.Q.R.). After warning signals not understood by any of the inexperienced Lusitanii sailors, a cannon-shot pierced through the hull of Miguel’s ship, and caused it to veer off to the left. The message was wel understood now, and the Alegre brothers fled for São Felipe in hope of a pardon in exchange for the valuable information they bore: Apulia is in danger, its capital province is captured! There must be a powerful enemy to the East to have caused such aggravation!

***

18 April 1520 to 1 May 1521

The welcoming ceremony for the return of Gaspard de Corte Real’s two stolen warships was as is custom in such occasions: The Governor of Kabylia scans the distance while the fishing-sloops are brought in. Cannon-shots sound off in the distance, and impatiently the Governor awaits the glorious message that both ships have been sunk.

Luckily for the Alegre brothers, the cannons misjudge their first shots, and so the surprise is wasted. Clearly Miguel and Martim are still seen as condemned criminals. There seemed no way for them to transmit their valuable message to the authorities of the Empire that the time was ripe for taking the Saharan provinces of Apulia!

Miguel was about to descend into a rowboat to personally give himself up for the information (only temporarily of course, for Martim would soon pass to free him). Suddenly the two warships were surrounded by merchant-vessels, hastily armed but still just as deadly because of their numbers. Fleeing once more remained the only option for these two brothers inexperienced in the art of naval warfare. This time they were sandwiched, and the only escape route was North, and the wind was good that day so they saved their skins rather sooner than they thought… By the next morning they found themselves on the coasts of an uninhabited island: One large and with water filled to the brim with sardines…



After a few days’ rest in Sardinia, the fugitives set sail again, this time to the obviously superior empire to the East, in the hope of docking at Roman docks and beginning a new life there. But with every province they cross the ports are blocked, as it seems the Romans fear the unknown Empire ship-design… Soon food becomes scarce and the size of the warships becomes a serious handicap in halting to go illicitly ashore for food and supplies.

Sure that the Roman Empire must end at some point, the two brothers continue in a northward circumvention of the Empire, but it seems all that land is claimed and hostile. Finally they find refuge in another, smaller island where the natives’ cheese smelled so strongly that not even the strongest sailors could survive the stench of Hell: They had landed in Corsica.



Good people, strange food, the only thing that affected the two fugitive warships was the weather, and the rebelliousness of the Corsicans… Ultimately the Alegre brothers were forced to escape when a brawl broke out concerning Martim and some guy’s wife’s cousin’s daughter or something. Nobody was hurt, but the rapid escape meant a quick sprint against the wind, to the West.

By nightfall strange mists covered the ships, and in the distance Martim – who had been counting the waves below – heard a terrible scream. “Miguel!” It had been a good five hours since the ships had seen each other, but by calls they had managed to stay together and sail in generally the same direction… That was until now. A sailor reported seeing a long tentacle the breadth of five tree-trunks in the water. A crash was heard as the hull-damage inflicted by the Roman Fleet off Messina enlarged to span the full breadth of the ship, which as the mists cleared looked cut laterally in two. Not a man or woman was in sight, and the remaining wooden planks soon drifted off into the distance… Barrels of stolen Porto, wine-bottles and a pair of ladies’ underwear… and now Martim had one less brothers.

Disheartened and nerve-wracked from fearing the whole day and night that the terrible creature might return, Martim and his sailors prepared the only remaining warship of Gaspard de Corte Real’s glorious expedition for a long and slow return to Valencia by sailing due West until reaching land.



August 30th, 1521

The maps of the new lands they had discovered and the sea-routes taken drooped tiredly over the edge of the tavern table, held in place only by a few beer mugs as the heavy sea-wind entered through the opened tavern doors. Valencia was in the noisy state of re-awakening as for the first time in twenty years an Emperor of the Lusitanii was marching into the city.

Sebastião I had decided to visit the Eastern-Iberian city in search of an Empress, although officially he was here “for the business of money-laundering in the province of Valençha…”

It happened when a drunk Martim Alegre, seated face-down on the table, lifted his mug signalling for another drink… The map of the West-S.P.Q.R. coasts flew swiftly out the door, fluttering past the exhibitionistic whores, soaring past the glaring goggle-eyed men, drifting over the scavenging dog-pack, gliding past the guards holding back the gleeful peasantry, and falling right into the Emperor’s lap.

By God this was what he had been searching all these years! S.P.Q.R. He pulled his medallion out from under his shirt and compared the ancient scriptures with the map. This acronym once ruled the world! Senatus Populusque Romanus! This was it! He had found it!

Sebastião jumped from his open carriage, through the flabbergasted guards, through the treacherously fickle peasantry, and into the tavern.

“5000 ducats for he who finds me the author of this map!” proclaimed the Emperor as the serving-girls froze and admired his tights…

Martim stumbled drunkedly towards the young Emperor, mumbling incoherently…
“Tha….wah ma bruddah…hez ded now…..we sailed to the…” Martim slowly picked the map from the Emperor’s hands and read slowly “Ess-Pee-Qiuu-Arr… and back, on stolen ships of Gaspard de Real Court or whatever…”

The Emperor would’ve hanged this man on any other day for such blatant disrespect, but today he was elated from his new discovery, and kissed Martim affectionately on both cheeks. “You my friend are going to buy yourself new clothes, and tomorrow you’ll set off to the Roman capital!” Martim hardly understood a word in his hazy vision and clouded hearing… “Bu.h….got…uh-nly one shihppp…” Martim leaned on the Emperor’s shoulder and whispered “Deh uthar one got…ssssinked by great big calamari god…” Martim collapsed, and only awoke the following morning.

He awoke to the sound of fanfares, cheering crowds, and to the smile of graceful Emperor Sebastião I of the Lusitanii. 5 warships awaited him, and an under-officer to teach him the art of naval warfare. By the end of that day his new fleet left the harbour of Valencia with the glory of a whole empire’s expectations… It was a memorable day and such an eventful one that Martim even forgot to get drunk complaining to his dead brother’s spirit for once…

[SirruShan]

Your best explorer's a drunkard? I suppose that being drunk helps you when you come up against sea monsters...

Drunk Captain : "I aaainn't afrred or nor munsters! Theeyrree prittyee..."

[Chief Ragusa]

An interesting take on what drives a man or two to exploration. Miguel is obviously fearless, without due to drink, lack of brains or phenomenal bravery is something for future tales.

Defunct is usually used in reference to mechanical devices, deceased is the word normally associated with people. Miguel will earn title Hero of the Lusitanian People with his discoveries.

[AmbassadeBelgie]

SirruShan: Yeah, I mean who can resist such beautiful scales? And the pretty manicured claws? Hopefully we'll see more of those monsters yet! Maybe...a drunk monster?

Chief Ragusa: I think you meant Martim, seeing as Miguel is "defunct" Well, we might see more of Miguel yet...
<<EDIT:I think I know where the mistake originated... "And now Martim was a brother less" can be interpreted both ways I think it's fixed now>>
Defunct...Agh! That's the problem with polyglots now isn't it? Both French and Spanish accept the term "défunt", "difunto" for people who are... you know... dead!

Interestingly enough, though, it is Sebastião who wants to find Rome, and not Martim... Maybe spoiling him with such gifts as a whole fleet of his own was a... foolhardy decision...?

MARTIM ALEGRE
I have savegame-modded him as an explorer into the Valencia fleet (still named "Gaspard de Corte Real's Expedition"), and changed the fleet from 1 warship to 5.
His attributes are:
Fire = 1
Shock = 1
Movement = 5
This reflects his style of navigating... from one hell-hole to the other with great speed (Kabylia, Syracuse, Corsica...). His fire and shock ratings are the bare minimum I expected him to deserve when accompanied by a badly-paid officer to teach him...

[AmbassadeBelgie]

Chapter III – A Busqueda da Roma

November 19th, 1521

The fleet bore the hope of an empire, the pride of Martim Alegre, and the weight of the 5000 Horse escort of the Emperor as it approached the now familiar coasts of Sardinia. Martim couldn’t get rid of that knot in his throat; it seemed every bit of the scenery reminded him of his adventures with his brother…

In a way, the Emperor had made it up to Martim when they docked for re-supplying at São Felipe… The Governor could only wring his hat as the Emperor officially declared Martim and Miguel Alegre absolved of all crimes in the eyes of the Crown and God! To be sure Martim and the Emperor had struck up a profitable friendship: Sebastião would find his ROME, and in unspoken exchange would provide Martim with the opportunity to found his own PARADISE off some uncivilized, uninhabited island he would himself discover in his future fugue… But this only when they would both be crippled with age… Right now Sebastião wanted to know of the S.P.Q.R., and Martim wanted to sail into the unknown, obviously inhabited regions of the Earth.

But back to the coasts of Sardinia, which all of a sudden had less sardines than the last time he’d visited… As the five warships drifted further and further East past the cliffs of the south coast Martim spotted an Apulian flag in the distance.

No sooner had he approached the Emperor to impart this knowledge, than a distant horn was sounded. Hostilities? All despite the fact that a year ago this had been the perfect hideout, it seemed now that Sardinia was a bustling isle of rushed development… And even when mentioning the Emperor, the coastal defences could not be silenced. Warning shots rang and echoed through Martim’s head, as the Emperor muttered what all were thinking: “We are not welcome here. Probably because of Apulia’s inevitable demise at the hands of the Romans. Let us sail to the East and open diplomatic channels with the S.P.Q.R.” Martim could only nod…

But the winds can be treacherous, and memory bitterly perforated. By the time they reached land Martim had brought them so far to the north of the Roman coasts that they found themselves in the more populated regions of the Senatus, almost at the same latitude as the island of Corsica! By some great stroke of fortune, however, the Pontifex Maximus as he called himself sailed out to greet the glorious expedition.

December 1st, 1521

Silence reigned on board as the rowboats brought a white-cloaked and a grey, ageing man to the back of the flagship, and all Sebastião could do was gaze in wonder at the intricate gold and white vestments.

“May the Lord bless you and your ships, what brings you to our eternal coastline? I am Leo X, Pope on Earth, and leader of the Senatus Populusque Romanus.”
Sebastião would have formally introduced himself if it weren’t for the holy crosses stitched into the Pope’s robes. He calmly inquired as to their purpose and significance.
“Ah, my young friend, I see you know not of the ways of our Lord! God Almighty, who rules the Kingdom of Heaven, sent his son down to Earth to bless all us humans! This cross was the one our ancestors spiked him to in honour of his divine lineage!”

All in all, this description matched almost perfectly the concepts spread by Lusitanism… “Do you have a name for that man?” “Jesus…” replied the Pope, now slowly losing his patience over this trivial matter, considering he stood before invaders flying an unknown flag. Sebastião suddenly noticed how he’d rudely interrupted the formal presentations, and so introduced himself.

“We are Lusitanii, good citizens of the Empire. I am Emperor Sebastião I of the Lusitanii… but I must say, we don’t have a…Pope… as you say. What is that?”

Over some stale bread and the remaining wine Pope Leo X explained the importance of having infrastructure and a lucrative enterprise such as the Church when enforcing the belief and worship of God. All present were fascinated by the speech, but saw it as highly unethical to rob the poor of their money by offering “payments to get out of sin” … A highly polemic issue which they debated a good hour before leaving the Pope to the protection of his rowboat escort.

One major problem came to light in the Pope’s visit… By NO MEANS may any Lusitani tread on Roman land, drink of Roman wine, or taste of Roman women. “…which basically means were stuck on our five warships” Martim muttered, and yes, it was so. But could the Pope be blamed? After all, a nation calling itself the Empire, by language thereby eliminating the possibility of it being AN empire under many, could only be a warmongering foolhardy people ready to do anything for glory and expansion… In addition to that, how could the Pope describe to the enthusiastic young Emperor that Rome had been burned down and razed to he ground repeatedly over the centuries? And that all that remained now was the enormous number of paupers and taverns and brothels, and the vehement bastards of the vilest of slaves…?

Interestingly, Sebastião determined the existence of two other Roman Empires through his talks with the Pope. Both of them were closely tied to the Senatus, of course, and were named Res Publica Romana, and Regnum Romanum Transalpinum. This made it clear: The Empire of Lusitania was not the great and only EMPIRE it had thought it was, nor called itself to be. Love thy neighbour, love thy neighbour, Sebastião had difficulty matching his mother’s ethical teachings now that the pragmatism of war on these weaklings had become a possibility… for who could be weaker than a people brought to submission before a lowly “Pope”?



---

January 30th, 1522

It took the fleet little time to realise that the only safe haven in these hostile regions was the unclaimed island of Corsica. Martim took some time before suggesting this idea to the Emperor, for he knew the families would all have turned hostile after that affair with the girl last time round…

And he predicted right: Upon landing, the Imperial Guard had to arm immediately for a pre-determined fight between 5000 Lusitanian heavy cavalry and 1400 light-armed but wretched, fearless Corsicans. Victory was not only an option, but an definite eventuality, and by May of that year Corsica in its entirety was submitted to the Empire, to serve it adequately as a diplomatic outpost.

July 15th, 1522

By July 1522 the fleet and the emperor had left the island and made for São Felipe again. Martim had missed his coasts of Kabylia, and was taking a well-deserved stroll along its endless beaches when the Imperial Messenger rode up to him and dropped a scroll at his feet, before galloping away again.

Martim picked up the scroll, unwound it, and read it with the mounting horror of what was to come.

War is a distinct possibility! Return to your fleet at once, we must sail for Valencia immediately.

The Senatus has contested our rights to control the island of Corsica, unjustly claiming it to be Roman land! This is a diplomatic crisis in its most developed form: Pope Leo X has refused to communicate with us and from this I can only derive that he is preparing Roman troops to invade our island, the Sahara, and later our beloved homeland peninsula.

This cannot be tolerated!

If there is to be a war I want to be the first to declare it. Send one of your ships ahead to notify the resting armies in Valencia and Gibraltar to activate and make ready for transport. We must control their capital and steal their maps. Only then can we find the true location of ROME, and only then can we call ourselves THE EMPIRE!

Sebastião

[SirruShan]

Let there be... WAR!

So, we know there's at least 26 nations, probably many more. Any hints?

[AmbassadeBelgie]

Wow, where did you get such a valueas 26?

Actually I don't even know exactly how many, neer gave it the trouble of counting... But yes I think your estimate is about right, not taking into consideration inter-AI independance and annexation... YES LET THERE BE WAR! And I promise you it will be an eventful one

[SirruShan]

Look in the picture. The Senate's details are up on the right hand side, saying that they have 33 victory points and are 26th in the world. I'd think there would be more, judging on how they've got at least nine provinces. Why nine? Look at Italy and trace the borders. They must own...:
Siena
Liguria
Emila
Frienze
Roma
Marche
Romanga
Lombardia
Naples

...for you not to see their border.