Bastions
Chapter Forty Five: Quid Pro Quo
Part 1
Prelude:
To the dismay of Caliph Ramon III, the war between the sons of Peer de Beauce quickly ended their feud when the eldest son, Duke of Normandy, seized Paris and made it his capital. Attempts to keep the war going failed, and France quickly turned back to normal. Feeling that he had missed his chance with Northern Gaul, the Caliph quickly moved to try to get more influence on Southern Gaul. He tried to drive a stake between the North and South by pushing linguistic differences and claiming that the French were trying to usurp the legacy of Frandism. This struck a chord with the Occitanians and the Vaques of Southern Gaul. Meanwhile, in the East, the Romans under Emperor Stephen I had begun to antagonize the Wallachians by means of funding Bulgarian raids across the Danube. Wallachia, for all intents and purposes was still a protectorate of Prussia, who was not happy with these new incursions. Tensions in the Black Sea were high, Prussia stepped up patrols and their ships were seen farther and farther south. On land the Wallachians prepared to move south in Bulgaria, who was caught between their former masters to the south and Prussia to the far north. The young Prince Doyvát wanted to take part with the fleet, but his father worried that he would lose his only heir and kept him on dry land. Instead, he installed his son as Admiral of the Southern fleet and stationed him in Morcárgrád.
The Black Sea with Prussia, Wallachia, Bulgaria and Rome highlighted.
July 3rd, 1375
The Lord-Protector sat idly in his office reading reports of action to the south. His days were dull and lifeless, spent mostly collecting papers and deciding which were noteworthy enough to be sent north to Memelgrád. Very few pasted the test, and so only a couple letters -one or two- trickled out. The vast majority were just burned. However, the Lord-Protector was building a reputation with the nobles of the south. It was strange, in the south there remained pockets of nobles who did not trust the monarchy, or looked upon Doyvát and his father as usurpers. There were also foreigners: Azowians and Moldavians by the thousands, though now the Roman quarter was nearly abandoned and slowly being taken over by a growing middle class.
Doyvát's nights were often filled entertaining guests: foreign dignitaries, local nobles, fellow admirals, and merchant men from around the world. Morcárgrád sat on the crossroads of Europe, Asia and Arabia. And with the war it was hard for a city based on trade to make any money. It was therefore Doyvát's plan to force open the Bosporus and Dardanelles. He'd burn Constantinople if he had to. It was this mentality that endeared him with the southerners. They wanted a war; the nobles needed to send their sons off to earn glory and honor. The Saxon mentality was alive and well in the South, despite the language and religion being long dead and forgotten. With a heavy sigh, Doyvát looked out of a rain-covered window and into a grey and dull world, not unlike that of Mariengrád. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his stomach and wished that he was anywhere else. What a horrid town, he thought. Somewhere over the Black Sea, lightning crackled and thunder boomed reaching the town and a dull and faded rumbling in between gusts of rain.
"Mead, m'lord?" a servant asked, startling the Prince with his sudden presence.
"Yes, please." Doyvát managed as he tried to recover his composure. He turned around and watched him slowly pour the golden liquid into his goblet and then took a sip. It had been a bad batch, but then again all beer in the south tasted off, the must be doing something wrong. Or they just fed him piss-water, either way. The servant left with what Doyvát thought was a sly smile. The Lord-Protector cocked his window a bit and poured the remains of the drink out. His only allies in the area were the Azowians, die-hard supporters of the monarchy... so long as they didn't feel their rights were being trampled on.
It was amazing to see how far one hundred years can take a people. Doyvát marveled in their language and customs, found them foreign yet somewhat familiar. A few Prussian Kings had fallen under the spell of the Azowians, but none more than King Kárnák. Kárnák found it easy to give the Azowians nearly everything they wanted and had used them in his wars against Rome, the Mords and the Turks. But in this day and age, the Azowians resented the push for them to centralize, settle down and adopt a less tribal lifestyle. The border between Prussia and Azowia was long and porous: Azowian settlements often popped up in Prussian land for a short period of time before moving off to greener pastures.
A light rapping on the door broke Doyvát's train of thought. "Come in," the Prince called. The door slowly swung open revealing one of the older nobles. He hobbled in with a cane and cursing under his breath the laziness of the young. Doyvát was unphased and instead let him hobble on his own without so much as recognizing his disability or cursing someone of much higher rank. "What can I do for you Koit?"
"When does the war start?" Koit asked, hardly making it to his seat, "When can we plunder the Queen of Cities again?"
"A state of war already nearly exists between us and the Romans, but why would you think we'd turn it into a full-blown war?"
Koit eyeballed Doyvát suspiciously, "I never did trust government-types to understand."
"Koit, not only do I out-rank you as a noble, but I also out-rank you as a military officer. You might want to learn to hold your tongue."
"Bah! I have grand children old than you."
"I greatly doubt that, but still: it is no excuse." Doyvát waited a bit, he was still uncertain to Koit's real reason for being here. He thought, briefly, that he could detect the smell of liquor on his breath. "Why are you so interested in the war starting?"
"I wish to sign my sons up for the navy so that they may capture and plunder and gather glory for the family."
"I think you grossly misunderstand the purpose of the navy. We are not organized pirates with national colors. We are not the Irish last I checked."
"Irish?"
"Never mind," DOyvát sighed and rubbed his forehead with his fingers."Koit, do you have any other reason for being here?"
"Yes, I was going to note that I will be in attendance for Thursday lunch, next week, as will be some of my granddaughters," the old man said with a wink.
Doyvát looked at him idly, "Koit, I've met your 'granddaughters' before; the oldest is what, seven?"
"But she's a pretty little thing, eh?"
"And she's also African... and a boy."
"You government types, always so picky..."
"Yes... yes I am. I am quite picky... I like my potential brides to be of age, of royal decent and women... but when you are heir to the throne of the most powerful Christian realm in the world, you are allowed to be choosey." Doyvát stacked some papers in an attempt to look like he had been doing stuff and still hand things to do, "Now, if you don't mind I am rather busy."
Koit got up and left without more than a slight chuckle. After the clumping of the old man's cane had faded out into the distance, Doyvát got up and stretched. He let out a long sigh and then turned to face the window again. He was surrounded by idiots, the insane and those who wanted him dead. His thoughts turned back to the Azowians. He needed some amount of protection. Kiev was the nearest sanctuary; he doubted he could make it that far in the event of a revolt or anything. The Prince became frightened at how fast the King's authority diminished over distance. Here in the south they were more than happy to pay taxes while they sharpened their daggers. "I guess the alternative is being conquered by Rome and raided by Azowia," he thought aloud.