A Collaborative History of Genoa

I can't think of the right string of superlatives to do justice to that trio of posts driftwood. Simply...awesome, incredible, fantastic, phenomenal, spectacular, evocative, brilliant, inciteful...

In short sir, that kicked ass!

I love the varied perspective. The first post set the whole scene beautifully, and the second engendred a tremendous empathy for the Jacques and Maria, and the last post was heartbreaking. I'm sure there's the material for an entire novel in there, and if you ever decide to write it, I'll be delighted to read it.

Can I gush some more?

Now I feel like I'm doing short shift to RJ, LD and Sgt B. I feel truely honoured to be a part of this collaboration. I hope the Wild Bunch keeps dropping by since I'd hate for them to miss a single word of it.

Thanks all. I realized I never actually complimented RJ on his last set of posts. I especially enjoyed the asides with the audience reactions ... breaking up the format like that turned out to be an inspiration for me, at 2 am, as I sleepily pounded out that last segment.

In general, please excuse any typos or half-formed sentences, since I tend to write my pieces late at night, in a single effort, without any re-reading. I know, it's very Kerouac of me. That's the problem with waiting until the last minute, when you're too tired to apply any polish.

LD, I got your address confirmation email, but that's all.

driftwood

It was a while before Sir Jonathan returned to the book. The deck had been deserted at this time of night, and the air not much cooler than it had been during the day. But the little breeze had brought some comfort, after the cabin had seemed so confining. Sir Jonathan found that he was becoming personally involved with the fates and desires of these distant actors in a small Italian republic. That last report had brought the times to life vividly. Too vividly, for with life came death and with death came the horror of the age.

Now, back in the cabin, Sir Jonathan reached out for the bottle to refill his glass. But then he hesitated, and pulled his hand back. Taking a deep breath, he opened the book once more.

Guiseppe Buffani writes.

I was reviewing the correspondence in relation to the recent marriage of state with Mantova (a very satisfactory affair, once we changed the bride's name from La Putta Rossa to Rosalia Maria Gianna di Fremonte) when Giovanni came in to announce a visitor. I raised my eyebrow, for it was late, and I was not accustomed to receiving at this hour.

"It is a Lady," Giovanni explained.

"Aaaaaah!" I said.

"Madame Bracchia, in fact," he added.

"Oh. Well, show her in."

I rose to greet her. Not as young as she once was, Madame Bracchia had gained considerably in her person, although she still carried herself with wonderful comportment and an imposing air.

"Madame it is a pleasure to see you! I was just thinking about you in connection with that most satisfactory affair with the Duca to Mantova last year... Please, do have as seat." I pointed to a chair, but then, after a second glance, changed my mind. "Perhaps the couch...?"

"Thank you, my dear Buffani, thank you... It is always a pleasure doing business with you, and there is little that makes me happier than to serve my adopted home of Genova. But, my dear Buffani, I must scold you! I have not seen you in my establishment for a long time. Hopefully, we have not been remiss? I remember you had taken a particular liking to the little German thing with the bi..."

"Madame," I cut her off, "perhaps some wine? Allow me to ring for some wine." Composing myself, I continued, "It is just, you see... Angelica does not approve."

"I see. Nevermind then, my dear Buffani. Anyway, I have come here on business of a different sort...."

She paused while Giovanni came in with the wine.

"Let me ask you, just between ourselves, do you support all of the Doge's policies?" she asked after her first sip.

"Why, of course, the Doge is a great leader and..." I began, but I stopped and considered her. There was a shrewed look under the horrid make-up.

"Well..." I started again, "he can be a bit impetuous, if I may speak freely. But generally, his counsel has been sound." It was as much as I dared say, but I think she saw that I didn't believe my own words. The Doge had done much annoy the citizens, and had lately crossed the aristocracy. The general feeling in the population was settled again, but the Doge wasn't exactly diplomatic, and many an old family felt stubbed. And there were rumors about how the latest revolts in the new provinces had been delt with...

Madame Bracchia watched my face as those thoughts went through my head. She settled herself on the couch and fussed with her dress for a moment. Then she looked up at me again.

"Surely you realize, my dear Buffani, that in my modest establishment I have the honor of receiving the very first men of our republic." I nodded. "It also happens from time to time that there is a meeting in my salons, by chance or... These gentlemen, noblemen of the first order all, have over time come to put their trust in me and the discretion and reputation of my house."

"Of course," I put in.

"Thank you. Well, you may be aquainted with some of the gentlemen who have sent me here as an... as an emissary, if you will. (You will understand that I do not disclose their names, yet.) Perhaps I should impress on you first the general feeling of discontent with the Doge's policies of late. I myself for that matter could complain that the luxury tax has been extended to personal services. But I am always eager to help my republic. No, the grievances I come to report are of a different sort. There are commoners in Doge's counsel, and the old privileges are being undermined. True some of the nobility have come around to what they call the modern ways, but my patrons are quite concerned about the general unravelling of the god-ordained order of things and the fabric of society. Mostly they baulk at the free hunting rights for the general citizenry. I will not try to convey the sense of frustation in the nobility with my terse words, but the sense is that things have gone far enough and that it is time for a change. The aristocracy wants no revolution, but they feel they can no longer tolerate Pietro di Campofregoso as Doge. But why do you laugh, Buffani? Surely it is not a matter for mirth?"

It was a while before I could speak. I wiped my eyes and took a breath. "Surely, my dear Madame Bracchia, you must see the irony in this? Your noble clients send you as an emissary in this matter to me, an inn-keeper's son by birth?"

She looked a bit shocked and grasped for words for a second. I waved her off.

"No, no, don't worry. I do not take offense. Rather tell me, who do they have in mind, your patrons?"

Sir Jonathan reached out for the bottle and this time he did refill his glass. Then, eagerly he turned the page.

Guiseppe Buffani writes

"So then, after making a great show of my amusement, I asked her, 'Tell me, who do they have in mind, your patrons?' She was bashful at first, but finally she came out with it. They have it all laid out and they think themselves very clever. It is Prospero Adorno that they want."

"What!? Is that how they repay our family? For shame!" Lodovico di Campofregoso got up from his chair and started pacing the patio. His remaining hand worked feverishly behind his back.

I drank a little more of the excellent wine he had offered me and waited. Like his son, Lodovico was impetuous; but unlike Pietro, he knew how to play his cards. The sun was westering and the long rays cast shadows of the olive trees and statues that seemed to reach over the southern patio of the Campofregoso family estate in Pontevecchio.

"So, Guiseppe, you tell me my son's position has become untenable?"

"Yes, Sire, so I fear. The nobles are dead-set against him, the military suspect him of indecision, and the citizenry bear him no great love, ungrateful though that may seem in them. Never have they enjoyed as much power in Genova. He tried to win some nobles over by including them in his counsels, but rather than as a gesture of reconcilliation, it was seen as attempt to divide and conquer the old families, to undermine their position."

"I cannot say I disagree with Pietro's policies, but he was never one for subtlety, I guess. But still, I see where it rankles, Guiseppe, I can see it. I have been here in exile, if you will, but my thoughts have not been far from our fair city and her fate these years past. I wish that Pietro could continue his rule, but if it is not to be, I will bear it. But that pompous ass of an Adorno! That I cannot bear. Who does not remember, how in the days of my Grandfather one of their vile sons came to Pontevecchio and..."

"Sire, did not you yourself and Raffaele Adorno put that old feud to rest?"

"Yes, it is true. We did. But you know that smiling on a balcony and shaking hands is easier than forgetting... Blast the ungrateful dogs to hell! Another Adorno Doge!"

I stood up and walked over to him. In a quiet voice I spoke to him.

"Sire, it need not be that way, I think. Perhaps it is time for Pietro to go. Never did he much enjoy the Dogeship. But don't you see that the nobles and the council are bandying the name of Prospero Adorno about because they feel there is no one else? Give them someone else, and they will not look to Prospero. He is young, and they know it...."

"But who, Guiseppe? My grandson Battista is barely a child, and there is no other heir. Pietro has no child, and..."

I regarded him steadily as he cast the possibilities around in his mind. Then his eyes grew wide and he looked at me.

"No, Guiseppe. You don't mean? That is why you came out here... But I am too old. I resigned years ago for Pietro, and I would not whish to supplant him now. They would never have me, a cripple and ..."

"Sire, they will elect Prospero Adorno, else. I have it from reliable sources. They care less about the new Doge than they are set on taking revenge on Pietro for curbing their hunting rights."

"Perhaps, but how... I mean..."

"I have everything arranged. I can plant the suggestion in the proper places. Young Tostolli is bound to support the notion, even though he is clamouring for Pietro's head now. They others will not want an open confrontation. And I will break it to Pietro. He will like to be free of worry and work. I hear he has been planning a trip to Rome, to visit Cardinal O'Fyle..."

The old Doge stood for a moment, regarding the setting sun as it touched the crest of the western hills. He sighed.

"It is dusk, Guiseppe, and I am tired. But I have some life in me yet. I will return if I may thus keep the Adorno hothead out of the Palace of the Doge. By God, I know the task and the politics. But let me tell you Guiseppe, the old families need not look to me for favors!"

The report ended here, and Sir Jonathan turned the page in vain. Only a short note was added to the effect that after a unanious election Lodovico di Campofregoso had become Doge for a second time, returning to office in May 1459 and replacing his son, Pietro, who left Genova to join the Dominican order in Rome.

Sir Jonathan shifted slightly to ease a kink that threatened to take over his back. The surface of the column was rougher than it had looked from a distance, and he ended up placing the rucksack in between to soften it.

Having read, earlier, an account that had shed some light on his doctoral thesis on Austria and the Papal succession, he decided to have a look at the detailed account of this supposed ‘Royal Marriage’ between the Habsburgs and the Genoese. He knew of no such thing, and wondered what mystery lay under the shrouds of time.

When he turned to the section he almost dropped the book, for what he found was a longish original document in the unmistakable hand of Friedrich V, Holy Roman Emperor and Archduke of Austria. It appeared to be a memoir of sorts…

January 6th, 1462, The Palace of Friedrich V, Vienna, Austria

From the high windows of the fourth floor of the palace I watched the lazy flow of the Danube as it wound its way eastwards towards the lands of Hungary and onwards to the Black Sea. After several says of rain, sleet and snow, the weather had relented somewhat, leaving behind imposing grey clouds and temperatures that barely crept above freezing during the day. Beyond the river, the Carpatian mountains began to rise majestically above the plain, and I suddenly wondered, distractedly, whether I would have to send my armies marching that way again in the spring. There had been many rumours of troop movements among the heathen Turkish hordes, and there was open speculation that this was merely another precursor to war.

In the room behind me, the large opulently appointed sitting room, I could hear the sounds of my son playing with a small drum that had been a yuletide present from his uncle. Not yet three years old, young Max seemed to have taken to the toy with characteristic Habsburg aplomb, beating it repeatedly with the drumstick, or his fist, or even, on occasion, picking it up bashing it against the head of one of the hounds that lay contentedly by the warm hearth.

Turning to survey the scene of domestic peace I looked first to the divan where my wife, Eleonor, was sitting slightly reclined with her legs tucked up under her skirts and her hands busy once more with her needlework. They had scarcely paused, moments ago, at the audacity of the man’s question. In the nearly ten years of our marriage I had grown to love the Portuguese-born beauty, and I almost felt young again at the sight of her beauty. Almost. What the twenty-six year old mother of my children - as the thought struck me I began sinking back into a sombre mood...child, I corrected himself - she was still young and radiant. In comparison I felt old, tired, and ugly; the lines of worry and stress deeply etching my face, and my once jet-black hair now decidedly more silver than not.

Beside her, commenting occasionally on her handiwork while half-heartedly working on a design of her own, sat my sister Katherina. Her own marriage to Karl I of Baden was a decidedly less amorous affair, being one purely of political and dynastic convenience and having none of the respect or warmth that had flourished unexpectedly in his own. Having fulfilled his needs, he was at least decent enough to allow her to travel occasionally, and she had decided to spend the winter at my court in Vienna rather than brave the isolation of her husband’s. She had not yet recovered from the shock of the past few moments.

Across from them, sitting almost rigidly upright in his deeply upholstered chair, eyes focussed intently on mine, sat the youngish and, in my opinion, impertinent Charles of Burgundy. What did they call him in his land? Ah yes…“The Bold”. Perhaps the name did indeed suit the man, I mused, for the request he had only just delivered had been very bold indeed. Not yet thirty, Charles could afford to travel in the middle of winter without feeling the pain in his muscles or ache in his bones…unlike myself who felt every one of my forty-seven years most acutely, despite the blaze of the hearth or the goblet of mulled clove wine I had been cautiously sipping for the past half hour.

Sighing deeply, I drew breath to reply, but then thought better of it. ‘Always think things through,’ I remembered counselling my nephew Ladislaus before the youth had been murdered. ‘Always think things through before you answer.’

I looked down at my son once more and tried not to think of the two siblings that had already been placed into god’s hands. Maximilian, if he survived, would inherit all of my lands and titles and, god willing, also have the title of Holy Roman Emperor bestowed upon him as I had. At two and a half years old, however, it was hard to imagine the infant as Duke of Styria, Carinthia, Carniola and Tyrol, and Archduke of Austria, let alone receiving the crown of the Empire from the pope’s own hands. What a day that had been. For a moment I almost allowed myself the luxury of retreating back to that day, but then realised that there would other, better times for such reminisces, and that there was an important matter at hand.

What Charles was seeking had shocked me. The lad’s daughter, Marie, was already five years old – twice Max’s age; and to suggest formalising a dynastic alliance between the two children at this young age when it would be years before they would be wed? It was ridiculous. What if Max followed his now-deceased brother Christof early to the grave? What if he became ill with the same malady that had claimed the life of his infant sister only two months earlier? No, it was too soon, regardless of the potential advantages of such an intermingling of blood lines. Heavens, if Charles died without further issue then Max would also become the Duke of the Burgundian lands as well! Preposterous.

Drawing breath to speak a polite refusal, praying that he wait some few years before broaching the subject with me again, I was interrupted by the entrance of one of my servants.

“Your Grace,” he said. “The ambassador of Genoa requests an audience. I beg you forgive the interruption, but he says it is most urgent and would not be put off until later.”

I let out my breath explosively, not realising that I had been holding it, and nodded to the servant to grant the Italian admittance.

“Your pardon Charles,” I said. “It seems that our Italian friend must be satisfied and we will have all the time in the world to resume our discussion later.”

Privately I was relieved, as I had now gained some precious moments to further reflect on my decision. What I wanted most of all was for him to go away…for the words of ‘The Bold’ to become unsaid. Barring that impossibility, a visit from Marcello Ferrara was the next best thing. The Genoese ambassador had been a permanent appointment to my court since back in the days when I had been guardian and regent of the young Ladislaus. What had it been now? Ten years? More? Yes, twelve years at least.

During the two-year interregnum after my nephew’s murder, Marcello had stayed close and held fast, realising that Genoa must support - however tacitly - the might and influence of my claim over that of my older brother Albrecht. I regretted that during those years I had never once been able to do more than pass pleasantries with the amiable Italian. We were of an age, and the things that amused us or interested us were similar. Even during the Ottoman siege of ’58, the plucky Signore had stayed within the city walls and frequently visited the palace to brighten my mood with his wit and charm.

The door to the chamber opened to admit the ambassador. Marcello had become a little bit plump over the years, and rather than going grey his hair had begun to fall out, giving him almost the tonsured look of a bishop. His robes were of the finest cloth available – likely imported from his homeland as such finery was almost never seen north of the Alps – and his fingers glittered with the bejewelled rings that adorned his every finger. I wondered, idly, whether I looked that old.

Though Marcello’s countenance was aged, his smile was filled with the delight of youth. “I bring you greetings, your Grace, from my master - the most beloved Doge of his people, Lodovico de Campofregoso – who hopes that his must humble servant and ambassador finds you in good health.”

“About as well as can be expected, Signore,” I said with a smile. “And how does your young master?”

“Your Grace surely jests! My master is older than your Grace and I put together, though I am sure he would be flattered that your Grace enquired after his health. I am told that it is excellent, but then again I was told the same thing only the day before my own mother departed this life. How does a man know how to tell the veracity of what he is told these days?”

“How indeed, Signore. How indeed.” I knew that his mother yet lived, but it was an old joke between the two of us and it never failed to elicit a smile, no matter what my mood.

“I must beg your Grace’s pardon,” he continued, “for this most rude interruption…oh, I am doubly cursed for I see that you have company already! I beg you, sir, lord, aaah, your Grace?..forgive me, I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance to know how best to address you.”

Charles scowled at the cheery Italian and I made shift to quickly remedied the situation. “Signore, you have the pleasure of addressing the Duke Charles, ruler of the peoples of Burgundy.”

“Oh goodness gracious me,” exclaimed Marcello. “I must now beg the pardon of two Graces. Perhaps, should it be the appropriate time - which I deem it is given the rumbling in my stomach - I should say ‘Grace’ before I continue? Non dignus es, your Grace; I am not worthy to make the acquaintance of so lofty and infamous – ahh, I beg your pardon again as my German is not so good and I see that I have chosen the wrong word yet once again…perhaps renowned? Yes? Good – so lofty and renowned a personage as your Grace. I fear that I have now irrevocably shattered the relations between our two nations and that my counterpart in…wherever it is that your Grace makes his capital – geography not being my strong suit so to speak.”

Charles seemed rather taken aback, and it was all I could do not to burst out laughing. I had missed Marcello since duty had called him away to Genoa for the last several months. I was delighted that he had returned, and I could sense some devious, underlying mischief at the heart of his visit for he was, when we conversed, an entirely different man. This was all a show, and why he felt it necessary to do began to intrigue me greatly.

I schooled my features and interrupted his ramblings. “Your Grace, I have the questionable pleasure of introducing Signore Marcello Ferrara, the Genoesse ambassador to my court.”

Charles barely moved a muscle, inclining his head only fractionally to acknowledge that he had heard. He was, most definitely, not impressed. Ah well. That would be someone else’s problem, and certainly not mine.

“And what urgent matter has led to your most egregious interruption, Signore?” I said in as severe a tone as I could muster given the circumstances.

Marcello turned back to me, seeming almost to have forgotten his mission. Bowing deeply to me, “your Grace,” and then back to Charles, “your Grace. Please believe me that I am most embarrassed and apologetic for the intrusion, but I must speak privately with…” he turned back to me “your Grace. Might I beg a moment of your time, your Grace,” back to Charles, “your Grace?”

“If you promise to be brief,” I replied. “Charles, please make yourself comfortable and request anything you desire from my servants. I will return momentarily.” Then, addressing my Genoese friend, I commanded, “follow me; and it had better be important.”

“Thank you your Grace,” turning, “your Grace,” and then pursued me from the chamber. I could have sworn that I hear him mumble, as he came, “Goodness Graces me!”. I almost ran down the corridor to put enough distance between myself and the room before I began to roar with laughter. He joined me, moments later, and offered up a cloth with which I could wipe the tears of mirth from my eyes.

“Now. Honestly. What is it that I can do for you old friend?”

His mood shifted instantly, and he was all seriousness. “I have come, my friend, to prevent a wedding.”

Sir Jonathan paused for a moment, midway through the document, to open his canteen and take a few swallows of water. Replacing the cap, he glanced around himself to ensure he would remain undisturbed, and then plunged back into the story…

…which I hope to be able to resume tomorrow for you.

Sorry, I try to limit my exposure to high culture by only reading Maxim and watching one-shot Fox specials, such as When Animals Attack Bachelorette Magicians Who Reveal Their Secrets and Want to Marry a Millionaire. That was a keeper!

MrT ... Non dignus es, *I* am not worthy? Did you want to say ]Non dignus sum, or was that an IC dig at C. the B.?

driftwood

Originally posted by driftwood

MrT ... Non dignus es, *I* am not worthy? Did you want to say Non dignus sum, or was that an IC dig at C. the B.?

driftwood

Click to expand...

Was intending to say: *I* am not worthy to make your acquaintance...but with religious overtones and a couple little digs.

The second half will probably be delayed until tomorrow or Monday. I got caught up in a couple other things and haven't gotten back to the story yet. Sorry 'bout that.

After that overwhelming response I’m almost hesitant to resume……almost…

Now…where was he? Sir Jonathan skimmed back over the last few paragraphs…He had expected to read about a Royal marriage between Genoa and Austria and here he was discovering that the ambassador was engaged in doing almost the opposite.

__________________________________


“Now. Honestly. What is it that I can do for you old friend?”

His mood shifted instantly, and he was all seriousness. “I have come, my friend, to prevent a wedding.”

Marcello and I never bothered with formalities in private – we had become too close as friends and small liberties such as this were permissible. To the outside world he presented the face of an amiable and simple-minded diplomat. I knew better, though, for he had one of the sharpest minds and driest senses of humour I had ever encountered. When he was at his most absent-minded was when he was at his most attentive. When he was acting the clown, he was really at his most conniving. But when he was serious, which was rarely…

When he was serious, he was deadly serious.

“News travels fast, it seems,” I think I said. I could barely get the words out, so great was my shock.

“I have my spies, Friedrich, as I’m sure you do. When Charles The Bold shows up in Vienna in person and immediately requests an audience with the Arch Duke the mind begins to work…and it was the only logical conclusion. He wants you to agree to betroth your young Max to his Marie to secure your friendship and non-involvement in his affairs. In particular it’s obvious that he is looking to protect one of his flanks. The question, then, should not be whether to grant his request, but rather what are his underlying motives?”

“Do you always treat such things so pessimistically?”

“When it comes to the affairs of the French or Burgundians, definitely! In fact, I tend to think that way most of the time, but particularly with those two. They are land-hungry, Friedrich, and if one of them is actively seeking a marriage then you must surely know that there are soon to be widows elsewhere.”

I thought about his words for a moment. “Even if I agree to this betrothal, I may still oppose him if he declares war on our allies.”

“True enough, but that is hardly a reason to accede to his request. My guess is that he is eyeing some of the smaller German states to the north. That may or may not bode well for your son as most of them are elector states. He may find himself, on your eventual but regrettable death, being forced to do Charles’ bidding in order to garner enough votes to become the next Holy Roman Emperor. While this may not worry you much at the moment, it is hard to predict the attitude of his unborn sons…”

“So you would advise me to decline his advances?”

“Nay. Say not ‘decline’, but rather…’delay’ them.”

“He will not stand for that. I have met him before and I know that he is most insistent.”

“Hmmm. How far had your discussions progressed before my most timely arrival?”

“He had only just popped the question. I hadn’t even had the chance to respond yet.”

“Excellent. Well then, you may simply tell him that he is too late and that Maximilian is already promised to another.”

I looked at him quizzically. Charles was not an idiot and would surely know that this was a lie. Much as I was somewhat ambivalent towards his nation, I was not in a big hurry to incur is enmity. I said as much to the Genoese ambassador.

“It need not be a lie, Friedrich.”

“No? What am I to do? Sneak out of my own palace and start offering my infant son’s hand in marriage to every nobleman I meet on the street in the hopes that he sire a daughter in the next few years? That hardly seems the best approach to securing a lasting dynasty.”

“Very funny Friedrich, but no.”

“What then?” I said, anticipating the wily Italian’s next words. “Is your Doge, by merest happenstance, celebrating the birth of darling granddaughter?”

“Ah, you see through my every scheme, Friedrich. As it happens Signore Campofregosa is doing exactly that – hence my rather extended absence from your court of late – though he would not presume to offer to betroth her to you at this early date. It occurs to me, though, that such an arrangement could be negotiated and thus I could relieve you of the need to dissemble to Charles.”

“Yes, and of course that would also do you and your country no harm either, would it Marcello? The same arguments you just gave me about Charles wanting to secure his border would go double for you, would it not?”

“Well…yes. But surely you know that the Genoese are peace-loving people who have no – or at least very modest – territorial ambitions. We are a nation that thrives on peace and stability…”

“Yes. As long as the rest of the world is going up in flames around you so you can negotiate those highly profitable loans and your merchants can move - almost unopposed – into the centres of trade.”

“Ah. You wound me deeply, Friedrich,” he said with mock pain dancing across his expressive face. “We are indeed a nation of trade and finance, but we are hardly in favour of this incessant conflict between our European neighbours. It undermines the stability and profitability of our business, for out of such conflicts do bankruptcies arise. We would rather see peace with, perhaps, a little small scale conflict here and there.”

“Of course. Of course,” I said. “And so what you are trying so delicately to tell me is that it would cost me little – if anything – to agree to such a liaison between my house and the house of Campofregoso.”

“Less than nothing, Friedrich. For once such an agreement is cemented it is unlikely that the Doge – or any of the candidates who are vying to become his successor since Lodovico is not a young man – would offer you anything other than our nation’s friendship.”

I considered his words, and they did have some merit. Having no secret designs on his small nation didn’t hurt either. But then…”There is the questionable behaviour of several of your nation’s allies, Marcello. Why it was only last month that I learned that your Doge had successfully wooed Modena into your Italian League.”

“The Duchy of Athens is hardly Italian, Friedrich.”

“And you know very well that I know that. Stop deflecting my questions Marcello and answer me truthfully. What of the Pope, Modena and Tuscany? What are their intentions?”

“I cannot say with any great certainty, Friedrich, but I imagine that they are more afraid of you than you are of them. Did not the Pope personally place your crown upon your head?”

“No. That was his predecessor.”

“Ah. And have Tuscany or Modena offered you the slightest offence?”

“There you have me, for they have not.”

“And territorial claims? Have you any just cause to desire their lands; or they, yours?”

“No.”

“Then I fail to see the problem.”

“As you opined earlier, I do indeed have my spies. What they tell me is that your alliance is not long for this world. There is trouble brewing in Italy and I have been convinced that all of your efforts are doomed to failure. Then where would you be?”

“We will cross that bridge when we get to it, Friedrich, though I pray that I not live to see that day.”

We stood there for a while in silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

“You shouldn’t leave Charles waiting much longer, Friedrich. He is just brash enough to take it as an insult.”

“I know,” I said. “But I was weighing your offer. There is some merit to it, and - truth be told – I would truly wish to see a further improvement in our countries’ relations. I was just thinking about the sheer absurdity of arranging for the marriage between a three-year-old and a baby. Who knows if either will survive to a sufficient age?”

“I mourn the loss of your son and most recently your daughter, Friedrich; but you cannot base your foreign policy on the dead, or on the chance that another child might die. It is the living who need you most.”

“And what of Charles?”

“What of him? You can always tell him that you’ll be happy to reconsider if something untoward should happen to the Doge’s granddaughter, or if you should sire another son.”

It would be another half hour before we had settled, in principal, on the terms…

__________________________

Sir Jonathan read through the balance of Friedrich’s account, but there was little further beyond an itemized list of the details of the marriage betrothal. This was most surprising for he was absolutely sure that Maximilian would subsequently marry Marie, the daughter of Charles the Bold – though he could not recall precisely when. Unless he was very much mistaken, that was how the Habsburgs had later inherited the Burgundian lands, for Charles had died without further issue and Maximilian, through his wife, had nearly doubled his nation’s size by virtue of this claim – and without a drop of blood being shed.

But this account, and the brief overview that had referenced it, certainly seemed to assert that Genoa had secured a royal marriage with Austria in January of 1462. What then had happened? Perhaps, in his future readings, he might find a clue…

I will take up this story again and bring it to its conclusion; but later. Several other of the AAR’s authors have offerings of their own to make before that…beginning, I believe, with RJ (or is it DW?).

Still here. Still reading. Still astonished. Still wondering if MrT hung out in Vienna in the mid-15th century.

Originally posted by Carligula
Still here. Still reading. Still astonished. Still wondering if MrT hung out in Vienna in the mid-15th century.

Click to expand...

Only in spirit, unfortunately.

Glad you're still reading Carligula. It's comforting to know that the extra effort (far more detailed investigation than I've been doing for France, which is still pretty thoroughly researched) is appreciated and provides a sense of the period. If I wasn't so deeply into my preliminary work for an upcoming Papcy AAR I think I'd write about Austria next. It's a country that is so deeply steeped in history that I find it almost mesmorizing.

Sir Jonathon closed the history in irritation. "Abdul!" he roared, stamping his walking stick on the floor. "Abdul!"

"Yes, sir?" the British-born servant panted as he skidded into the room.

"What is that awful cacophony coming from downstairs?"

Abdul blinked. "Why, it's jazz, sir! Horns and trumpets and ..." seeing that Sir Jonathon was unimpressed he added "... it's very American!"

Sir Jonathon harrumphed in disapproval. "Well, I don't approve of those New World-types, except for that delightful Canadian couple, of course, so put an end to it! Right away! If I want bombast without any content, I'll hire an ensemble to play Tchaikovsky, thank you!"

Once the horrible ruckus had stopped, Sir Jonathon flipped to the next entry in the book. He saw, to his mild surprise, that it was another entry in the Kingfisher of Liguria series. Surprising, since multiple accounts from one series rarely appeared in these narratives.

The Kingfisher of Liguria, Vol. VII
Being the Life and Times of Lorenzo Petrosco, and Exploits of the Same, with Accounts by Eye-Witnesses of undoubtable and Unimpeachable Veracity

Presented to the Court of the Doge and the Estate of the Corsican Petroscos with all Due Respect

Now, Lorenzo had swept back into Bastia in late 1458 not unlike Caesar into Pontus. Before his righteous and steady hand, the whorling torrents of anarchy receded back into the hills whence they came. But when tax revenue began to drop precipitously during 1459, due to reasons that were of a completely unrelated nature, his enemies were quick to take advantage. And, sadly enough, the Kingfisher's greatest enemies were those who shared his blood.

"Brother, I would have words with you!" boomed Mario. It was the second week of January, 1460, when the winds off the coast of Corsica blow cruelly across the entire island, making everyone seek shelter within four sturdy walls.

"Yes, dear elder brother," Lorenzo answered with his customary courtesy. Yet Mario roughly grabbed him by the arm and dragged him onto the balcony, into the horrid chill.

"Those men you arrested last week - I demand you release them!" Mario declared theatrically.

"Why, dear brother, they were convicted criminals. Surely you have enough respect for our father's memory to want to maintain the order he built here."

Mario's face purpled. "You know nothing of his legacy! Guido Petrosco was a man of the people, who cared more about their well-being than whether they obeyed petty regulations dreamed up by the nobles of Genoa to deal with Genovese problems. Money was never important---"

"Never important?" Lorenzo shook his head, for his brother had clearly gone insane. "Father came here for the sole purpose of squeezing more money out of this miserable scrap of land and he succeeded admirably. They even say he was of noble birth."

Mario snorted. "The street urchins and shady men you pay in Genoa say such things. You know as well as I that he had no family to speak of, and started off as a minor counting house clerk."

Lorenzo smiled; his brother could be so simplistic. "Who is to say what happened so long ago? In time, I'm sure people will agree that my version is correct."

"Then let us speak of what has happened very recently," Mario said animatedly. "You arrested twenty village leaders for non-payment of taxes. I demand to know what you plan on doing with them."

"Oh, well, I suppose they'll be executed, like normal."

"That's insane! No one on this island can possibly afford the amounts you demand, and even if they could, they don't have the coin here. All they have is their produce, their livestock. Back when Father collected the taxes, he understood---"

"Father was weak, in the end," Lorenzo said very clearly. "I see now that you inherited that lamentable trait. In fact, I believe that, should you stay, you could become a menace both to yourself and to the public weal. Perhaps you would like to visit Genoa, to see her nobles legislating on such minor and unimportant issues."

Mario drew himself up very stiffly, for he was a proud and vain man. "Very well, brother, for the sake of our departed parents. But I will not forget this."

Time would show the truth of his ominous threat...

"Zounds!" exclaimed Sir Jonathan. That infernal pizazz, or whatever the music was called, was playing again. He would have to put off reading the rest of this account for a little while. "ABDUL!" he shouted in vain.

[ooc: should have the rest up tomorrow]

driftwood

The beleagured Sir Jonathan sat down on the garden bench with a heavy sigh. Maybe here he could escape the brouhaha in his home.

Over the next two years, the Kingfisher nobly tried to honor his obligations both to his fief in Corsica and his liege in Genoa. Though it hurt his generous, giving heart, he continued and even increased the pace of arrests. Soon, not a loafer was to be seen on the streets of Bastia. In fact, it was surprisingly hard to find any of the locals in Bastia.

However, unbeknownst to Lorenzo, Mario had not been idle in Genoa. He had been spreading coins around the perpetually indebted nobility, presumably by borrowing heavily himself, and had bought himself many friends. With some of those friends, he had gained access to the Doge's ear. He whispered dark words of betrayal against his brother.

With his other ill-gotten allies, Mario incited the credulous peasants of Corsica against their master. Despite the speed and absoluteness with which the Kingfisher put down the minor revolts, his enemy in Genoa was easily able to pass word of them along to the Doge. As 1461 drew to a close, the situation spiralled out of control.

At this point, there was a break in the text. In consternation, Sir Jonathan saw that it picked up late the next year, 1462. He could only hope that the narrative hadn't moved too far ahead. It appeared to be a record of a conversation between Lorenzo - the self-styled Kingfisher - and his new bride, Antilla.

"You look quite fine in your commander's uniform," Antilla told her husband, who was a full decade older than her.

"Well, it is a very prestigious command that the Doge has bestowed upon me," replied the Kingfisher.

"And you are not worried about Corsica?"

"Of course I am worried!" Lorenzo bellowed. "The Doge, for some reason, has passed the title onto Mario's brat and made my spineless brother Giuseppe his regent! He's as bad as Mario was, except without the balls, and I'm sure the little bastard won't be any improvement!"

"Well," Antilla said nervously, "he had to do something after you ... I mean, after Mario ... that is, his sudden death..." She began frantically fanning her face, then attempted to extricate herself by saying, "I thought it was quite impressive that he promoted you, after all."

Lorenzo slapped her, for he knew that women had to be shown their place at all times, lest they forget those important lessons.

"My brother was a danger to the Doge, the Republic, and the Petrosco family. I *know* he was planning to do away with me - what was I supposed to do? If I had to, I would do it again. If I have to, I *will* do it again." He smiled then. "The Doge knows that: I'm sure that's why he has appointed me to such an important position."

Swallowing back tears, Antilla continued. "Without doubt. Still, all of Genoa was quite unsettled. It's been months now and the people still haven't calmed down."

"I grow tired of your prattle," Lorenzo said magnanimously. "Why do you not spend as much energy giving me an heir? Here, I'll help you..."

The text then trails off into melodramatic descriptions of sunrises, flower blooms, and erupting geysers. Sir Jonathan closes the book in disgust, wondering if he would be better of braving the 'jazz' in his house.

driftwood

Superb driftwood!

"If I want bombast without any content, I'll hire an ensemble to play Tchaikovsky..." LOL!

Bravo! Although MrTs highlighted lines were unfortunately way over my head. The woes of being uncultured

Yes, as a youth playing mediocre violin in the school orchestras (luckily I wasn't completely untalented, since I was able to avoid embarassing myself even though I never practiced), I always enjoyed Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture, Romeo & Juliet, and all that. Nutcracker Suite, not that I ever played it. Then I read somewhere that many fans of classical music look down their well-cultured noses at T-boy for being all emotion and no discipline, or something like that.

I guess in comparison with later Beethoven or Dvorak, to bookend the Romantic period, I can sort of see what they're saying. But that's like saying that John Williams or Danny Elfman are crappy composers because they write fun, easily accessible orchestral pieces for movie/TV themes. 6 of one, half dozen of the other, I say.

I'm glad you appreciated the line, MrT. And Rictus, don't worry, I was grasping at straws to appear that snooty.

driftwood

Who's up next? Isn't it RJ?

I'm out of town more or less all week, through Sunday, so I can't really contribute. I also don't have any great ideas for the Mainish revolt, since I just wrote this assassination story. But I'll definitely do the feud of 1474 (?).

driftwood

Yeah Im up next, sorry guys, I've been dealayed by the greatest adversary known....term papers. I ought to have my first post up tommorow afternoon though, finally...

RJ

Oh, well, yes, perhaps. In fact, that's exactly what I meant! He was at the Luxor Guest House and Opium Den.

driftwood