A New Era for an Old Town: An Oldenburg AAR

loki100 said:

your pie charts are soo ... neat?

good update, esp all the politiking and developments within the Empire as Christian made the most of his reputational gains from the war

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I had the same thought. Gotta look at the upside, eh?

Aye, and if you look closely at the overview screen, you'll see that new RMs have been arranged with some big parties. That'll be touched up on in the next update

Ashantai said:

A long update which deserves a proper response.

On the gameplay side I am pleased to see things continuing. Love the neat pie charts too. Naples' assault on Greece and Turkey is unusual and probably won't last.

On the first narrative section; I liked the interplay between Duke and Minister. They have a good rapport and it's a nice way of explaining royal marriages in something other than an abstraction.

On the second, I found Elisabeth and Dietrich rather fun together. You've done well characterising them as two reluctant people still trying to do the best regardless. The comment by the Imperial guard was also rather funny.

On the third, a nice little discussion between Dietrich and Christoph. Some nice little references to Arabic writing (I assume they're real but I'm no expert in the field!). Pleasant interaction and well written bonding.

On the final, the death of the Duke is actually quite touching. Nicely written bit of drama there.

What are the stats for Dietrich again?

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Oh, you think Neapolitan Turkey is weird? You ain't seen nothing yet.

Thanks for the feedback on the characters. The titles mentioned are all real Arabic texts, but I'm barely knowledgeable on the subject, so you can thank Wikipedia for those references. Except One Thousand and One Nights, that one I knew...barely.

Dietrich's stats are ADM 5, DIP 5, MIL 3. I considered writing his character as a total buffoon, but I found it easier and more fun to write him as an intelligent, albeit hugely lazy, character. Will Dietrich be able to continue his brother's legacy? We shall see.


The next update might be a bit delayed; with the start of school coming ever closer, I've been getting busier working on things related to it, primarily the freshman mentor program I signed on for. Add on a trip back to Georgia this week to visit family and friends, which may or may not involve a funeral for my great-grandmother (she's still hanging in there somehow, but my grandfather doesn't know for how much longer), and I might not have time to post an update. Even if I get a chance to write, the internet at my grandmother's house has always been a bit spotty, and it's a pain to connect new computers to her service.

misiame said:

Another excellent update. The way you write your AAR is perfect in my opinion. It is not overly storybook, but more like a real life drama with a comedic twist. I love the part with the guards at the end of Dietrech and Ilse's conversation. The Duke's death was dramatic and well done. Keep up the great work. I'm excited for the next update.

Also, will Dietrech inherit Christian's iron scepter?

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Thanks. I've never been good at writing simple storybook-style papers; a few years ago, I failed an assignment to write a children's book for my English class because the "language was too sophisticated and beyond the scope of an actual children's book." Essentially I failed because I wrote too well.

Also, *waggles finger* no spoilers! Keep reading.

Ducal Citadel, Oldenburg, Duchy of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg
November 28, 1409


It had been four months since the death of Christian VI and the ascension of Dietrich I, and life was continuing as usual in the duchy. The nobility of Saxe-Lauenburg and Lüneburg continued to praise their lord while finding convenient reasons to avoid close interaction; the population of Oldenburg continued to work mutely beneath the oppressive yoke of the aristocrats; the Berbers of Ifni continued to provide absolutely nothing of value to the state; and the duke continued to mediate matters of varying importance.

Upon his succession to the throne, Dietrich had been careful not to rock the boat; he had allowed his father’s advisors, Reinhard Hinrichs, Friedrich August Engel, and Thomas Von to continue to serve on the small council, if only so he wouldn’t have to deal with the minutia of governance. Hinrichs was old now, in his early 50s, but he was still an able enough treasurer. He made a constant effort to improve Oldenburgian trade techniques, but constantly found himself thwarted by the noble-inspired mercantilist policies of the duchy. He had become Dietrich’s favorite of the group; despite the stress of his job, he was still friendly to his new lord, and sometimes he would acquire new texts for Dietrich to read. Thomas Von was amiable enough, but his duties at the mint kept him from the court on most days; since what was known as Christian’s Crisis, or the Economic Collapse of 1404, he had been forced to oversee the minting of coin on a more personal level, so as to minimize the inflation of the monetary supply as much as possible. It was hard work, but Thomas never complained, and for that, Dietrich was thankful.

Now, his brother’s favorite, Friedrich August Engel, was a different story. He showed only the most cursory respect for Duke Dietrich, and was always quick to oppose whatever initiative put forth by his liege. Dietrich had no delusions about the statesman and knew very well the disdain he held for him, but despite this, Engel was loyal to the von Oldenburg dynasty and the state of Oldenburg; when Dietrich finally made a decision, Engel’s dissent ended and he carried out the orders to the best of his ability.

Presently, Dietrich was holding a council meeting with what remained of the old Ducal Council: Lord Treasurer Hinrichs, Statesman Engel, and Heinrich Freiherr von Derfflinger. Thomas Von was, as always, preoccupied at the mint, Joachim Freiherr von Delmenhorst was dead somewhere in Granada, and Emelrich Freiherr von Gundingen continued to rot in the dungeon. Dietrich had entertained the notion of releasing the imprisoned baron, but dismissed it, realizing it was easier to keep his son, Rickard, in line so long as he was in his custody. Plus, it would look bad if the first thing a new duke did was release a man accused of treason. Looking around, Dietrich couldn’t help but feel a bit forlorn; the table was so much emptier than it had been before embarking on the triumphant Crusade.

It was Reinhard who had the floor right now; he stood beside the duke, laying documents and calculations down before him. “As you can see, there has been little improvement in the financial situation of the duchy since the end of the Crusade. Currently, there are only three Oldenburgian merchants active, all of them in Andalusia, one of the lesser trade centers of Europa. Our unrealistic policy of restricting interactions with foreign traders in the hopes of strengthening our own trade has proven…well, fairly damning, actually. It is horribly expensive to fund our merchants, and they are very unlikely to succeed in the more lucrative regions of the continent.”


Dietrich had never been too fond of economics, and while he had a functioning knowledge of the trade system, he preferred his books to ledgers. He cast a disinterested look around the table and said, “So what do you propose?”

“Your brother had begun a slight loosening of trade restrictions, so as to allow our merchants to bring our salt to market more easily. This kicked off that period of successful trade in Lübeck, if you can recall that.”

“That boost was temporary,” Dietrich pointed out.

“Because the policies we instituted were not enough,” Reinhard retorted. “It may take years, but if we continue to work towards freer trade, we may be able to see a more sustained increase in Oldenburg’s trade. I suggest we start by removing some of the barriers on interaction with foreign merchants…we don’t have our own, extensive web of commercial contacts, and opening ourselves up to traders from the Hansa, Venice, Genoa, and the other Imperial states will allow us to begin doing so.”

“But allowing foreigners easier access to Oldenburg will stifle local markets!” Heinrich von Derfflinger complained.

“Newsflash, Freiherr von Derfflinger,” Dietrich said coolly. “There isn’t shit in terms of commercial markets in any of my holdings- Oldenburg, Saxe-Lauenburg, OR Lüneburg. We rely on trade with Lübeck and Antwerp…both of which are foreign markets.” He turned slightly to look at Reinhard again. “Do what you see fit.”



Despite the nobility’s misgivings, there was no immediate backlash from the new policies instituted by Herr Hinrichs, although there were also no immediate benefits, though that could be attributed more to the lack of funds to actually capitalize on the reforms than the reforms themselves.


News arrived from the northeast that the Gryfs of Denmark had annexed their vassal, the Imperial prince of Holstein. While this was somewhat worrying, Dietrich was nevertheless confident that Emperor Vaclav IV would take a stand against foreign expansion into the Reich.



Meanwhile, Erich Askanier continued to try his damnedest to make trouble in Saxe-Lauenburg, completely unimpressed by Christian and Dietrich’s accomplishments in Morocco. Fortunately, the Administrative Council’s newfound respect for the Oldenburgers outweighed whatever complaints they may have had, and he found few allies in that regard, but he did make efforts to mobilize his relatives in Anhalt and Saxony against Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg. In response to this, Dietrich issued formal warnings to both of the duchies in early 1410: cause any trouble whatsoever in Northern Germany, and they would have to answer to all three of the von Oldenburg states.



In March of 1410, the Duchy of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg was visited by, of all people, dignitaries from the Imperial exclave of Riga. Not particularly interested in meeting with the representatives of a state constantly under threat by the Knights Teutonic, Duke Dietrich assigned Engel to entertain them. They stayed for a few days, but never met with the duke, who, as far as they knew, was too busy with matters of state.

When they left, Engel entered Dietrich’s chambers, where the duke was enjoying a pipe filled with a sort of musky-scented herb, which he’d become quite fond of since just before his wedding. They had no real name for it, since none of them could pronounce whatever it was the Arab had said the Ming trader had called it, so Dietrich had taken to calling it Fortunato, after his own nickname, Dietrich Fortunatus.

“Your Grace, the Rigan emissaries have left, and I am pleased to report great success in terms of our relations with them,” Engel said, grinning broadly and proudly. “As they are so close to the border where the true Church’s authority fails and the so-called Orthodox take over, and they’re so far from the rest of the Empire, they were truly eager to make firm bonds with a fellow Christian state.”

Duke Dietrich squinted at him from his study chair, blowing some smoke out through his nose. “So?”

“It never hurts to have strong relations with our fellow Catholics, Your Grace,” Engel said, frowning.

“Alright…so now we have strong relations with a far-flung Latvian principality that is one misstep away from subjugation or annexation by the Teutonic Order,” Dietrich said, puffing his pipe. “Whoopdee-fucking-doo.”

Engel’s mouth became a thin line of irritation. “You cannot fault me for trying, milord.”

“No, but I can fault you for misdirecting your efforts,” was the reply. “Come see me again when you have an alliance offer from someone important. Like Burgundy, Bavaria, Austria, or the Palatinate. Don’t waste my time on doomed Baltic states.”

“Riga is not doomed,” Engel started to say defensively, but was cut off by a laugh from the duke.

“Think about it, Friedrich. If the Teutons don’t subjugate them, and eventually collapse, what other options would they have? They would have to worry about the Republic of Both Nations, the Kalmar Union, the Merchant Republic of Novgorod, or even the Kingdom of Muscowy. Riga is not worth our efforts.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Engel said, bowing his head slightly. He wanted to argue, to put this upstart in his place, but in his heart, he knew the young duke was right. As he left the chambers, he was forced to admit that Dietrich the Lucky wasn’t quite the imbecile he had once thought…in fact, he was rather intelligent. Problematically, he was still lazy and uninspired, and that, in a way, was more frustrating.



Dietrich Fortunatus’s foreign policy remained rather uninspired; he issued a warning against aggression to the Duchy of Braunschweig, who had neglected to reopen any relations with the Duchy of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg since the War of the Saxe-Lauenburgian Succession. His reasoning was that, since Braunschweig was close to Oldenburg and Saxe-Lauenburg and bordered Lüneburg, it would be in his best interests to stem any potential Braunschweiger expansion. However, the Oldenburgian economy remained poor, with little funding available to expand trade abroad. In fact, not a single merchant had been funded in the months since Dietrich had ascended, and many of the Estates, as well as his own adviser Engel, were beginning to question his abilities.

But Dietrich I von Oldenburg had a few things going for him: a strong wife, an intelligent heir, and a love for the arts. In May and June of 1409, he, Ilse, and Christoph had spent much of their time amongst the people and nobility of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg, searching for aspiring politicians. They found one in Oldenburg, by the name of Johann Kleen, and another in Lüneburg, Gregor Behrmann, who had taught themselves the basics of science and commerce, respectively, but being lowborn, they had little opportunity for advancement. Then-Prince Dietrich had brought them both to the citadel, disguised as servants so as not to allow Reinhard and Engel to believe they were being replaced, and allowed them access to all of the books and lessons available to the duchy, from all three states. Their abilities flourished, exceeding every adviser in the Oldenburg court, and within just a year, they were ready for duty.



The two men found employment immediately; Kleen was hired by the King of Scotland to develop a more efficient production system. Behrmann was discovered by a Knight Hospitaller returning from their fortress on Rhodes to visit family, and brought back to the Grandmaster to help bring more wealth to the impoverished order. Duke Dietrich was paid well for their service, 14 ducats apiece.

With that success, Dietrich announced his new Cultural Advancement Program (Kulterell Verbesserungprogramm) , a plan to foster skilled individuals at the Citadel in exchange for the hiring fee paid by whichever state opted to hire them. Of course, the scale of the program would have to be limited to a few people each year, so as to ensure a level of quality over quantity. The program promptly drew three new students: Wenzel Behrmann, brother of Gregor and an aspiring judiciary, Adolf Harms, a budding philosopher, and Christian Brockstede, a sketchy man that was already rather adept at traveling and communicating incognito. Brockstede actually arrived in Oldenburg, and it was a solid four days before anyone actually realized he was there.



Having laid the Estates’ doubts to rest, Dietrich gave Reinhard the go-ahead to attempt to expand Oldenburgian trade once more. After careful calculation, the treasurer found that the odds of success were greatest in Antwerp and promptly funded four merchants to set up shop.



The odds of success may have been highest in Antwerp, but that sure wasn’t saying much.

The encouragement of academics within the duchy, under the de facto supervision of Friedrich Engel and Prince Christoph, led to the establishment of a basic bureaucracy in Oldenburg. This, in turn, allowed Dietrich to create the Chamber of General Commerce (Kammer des Generalhandel) under the supervision of Treasurer Hinrichs, who took the post of Director of the new branch. After ironing out the details of the new chamber, Director Hinrichs, with the approval of Duke Dietrich, began to lay out certain guidelines for the officials of the ministry to follow, essentially a “How-To” guide for competition abroad. While it couldn’t exactly be described as a nationalized trade policy, it would theoretically allow a more shrewd trade practice for Oldenburgian merchants.



Dietrich went on to formally recognize Engel and Christoph as the Directors of the cultural program, which marked Christoph's first real assignment in the administration.



With the mercantile wing of the Oldenburgian government more firmly organized, it was only a matter of time before all aspects of Oldenburg’s trade practice improved.



The year 1411 saw widespread expansion of Oldenburgian trade, mostly through funds obtained through the Cultural Advancement Program; by the end of the year, there were eight Oldenburgian merchants actively participating in commerce in Andalusia, Antwerp, and Lübeck.



Despite his admiration of Arabic culture, the first two years of Dietrich’s reign generally ignored their new colony in Ifni, mostly because of the sound advice of Ilse, Christoph, and Reinhard; it was unlikely that any investment in Ifni would see any significant return. As such, Dietrich had decided to assign Wilhelm von Kundert, one of his father’s guards who had campaigned in Morocco, as Baron of Ifni, to rule as he saw fit. Unbeknownst to Dietrich, Freiherr von Kundert saw this assignment more as a punishment than a reward, seeing as he despised the local climate. As such, he began to vent his frustrations on the locals, leading to more and more dissent as time went by.



In July of 1411, Baron Wilhelm I sent a message to Duke Dietrich, informing him that the tensions between the mixed Castilian and Oldenburger garrison and the Berber populace were reaching a boiling point, blaming leading figures in the community rather than fessing up to his own tyranny. In the hopes of easing the tensions, Dietrich planned a visit to the town of Sidi Ifni, but instead of leaving Oldenburg under the control of Friedrich Engel as his brother had often done, he announced that Duchess Elisabeth would be the authority of the state until he returned from Africa, and brought Crown Prince Dietrich along with him.


Sidi Ifni, Ifni, Duchy of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg
August 24, 1411


Immediately upon stepping onto the docks of the fishing village of Sidi Ifni, Duke Dietrich I recognized the unfeasibility of his courtly garments and returned to the Graf Anton Günther long enough to shed them in favor of a light, cotton tunic and thin wool breeches. It was still godawful and insufferable, but at least he wasn’t sweating into thick velvet and silk. He suddenly understood why Christoph had opted to leave behind all of his own courtly attire, and was thankful he hadn’t been forced to accompany Christian VI’s crusade down here. Granada had been enough for him.

Dietrich and his escorts were met at the dock by Baron Wilhelm and a score of guards, mostly of Oldenburgian origin. The garrison had foregone their traditional chainmail, halfhelms, and surcoats for light leather armor headwraps not dissimilar from those of the natives. Even the baron was clad only in light cotton clothing. As Dietrich, Christoph, and their own guards reached their position, Wilhelm and his escorts bowed deeply. “Welcome, Your Grace, to the humble Barony of Godforsaken Hellhole,” Wilhelm said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I see you received my message.”

“Aye, that I did,” Duke Dietrich nodded, tapping the docks with the ducal scepter; he’d found the iron heirloom beneath Christian’s bed one night while searching for his lost pipe, and had taken to carrying it with him.. “What is this I hear about an imam stirring up trouble?”

“Ah, yes, perhaps we should discuss this at the fort?” Wilhelm replied, looking about nervously. “Best to keep it away from unfriendly ears, yes?”

“What, have you been teaching the natives Low German?” Dietrich asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh…no?” the older noble said.

“Then fill me in as we go,” Dietrich said, waving his hand forward as he walked through the ensemble of guards. “Do you have horses?”

“A few, but we’ve taken to relying on camels,” Wilhelm said, following after the duke and gesturing for their men to do the same. “More suited to the climate, see.”

“Camels?” Dietrich said, following a sign in Arabic that pointed toward the stables. “What the fuck is a camel?”

As Wilhelm and Christoph hustled to catch up with the duke, he reached the edge of the stables and started to step inside. “Well, a camel is…”

Without warning, there was a sickening, wet sound, followed by a splat as a globule of foul-smelling and slimy liquid smacked Dietrich the Lucky in the face. “OH DEAR JESUS, LORD GOD, WHAT IN THE NAME OF SATAN’S GLOWING RED BALLSACK-“ the duke spluttered, staggering back and falling on the hot sand.

“That,” Wilhelm said, trying and failing to suppress a laugh. “That is a camel.”

Christoph lost it; he doubled over, laughing and clutching his sides, unable to keep his balance. He staggered a few steps back, then fell to his knees, roaring with uncontrollable laughter. He wasn’t alone; at least a dozen of the guards had managed to round the corner in time to see the spectacle of their sovereign being set upon by the camel. One of the Arab stablehands, grinning broadly, handed the duke a cloth to wipe down his face. As Dietrich wiped his face and stood, he saw the guards, grinning like hyenas, and scowled. “What are you staring at?” he demanded, pointing his scepter at them. “Kiss my burnt, sand-covered ass and wipe those smirks off your faces.”



While the residual chuckles faded, Dietrich took a few steps back to examine the animal before him. It was tall, hairy, and stinky, with a long, arching neck and a large hump. “Hell no. That thing reeks. I’m not riding that. Where are the horses?”

Wilhelm pointed at a handful of smaller, Arabian horses on the other end of the stable. “There. We acquired some local steeds from traders; they’re smaller, but faster than warhorses and camels.”

“Good. Have them saddled up.” He glared at the camel that had spat on him from its stall and gave it a wide berth as he walked past. He considered ordering it put to death, as he was the duke and he was technically in his right to do so, but decided not to let an animal get to him.

About half an hour later, the duke, prince, and baron were riding on their Arabian horses, with some of the knights following on horses and camels, and the rest of the guards trailed behind on foot, using their spears and pikes as walking sticks. The “fort” was little more than a sandstone wall surrounding a wooden bailey and a series of lightly-colored stone barracks, wherein was stationed the 2,000 levied militiamen from the Empire and Castille and the 1,000 garrison men recruited from the locals, Oldenburg, and whatever foreigners were willing to offer service.

As the procession reached the fort gates, Dietrich happened to catch sight of a handful of silhouettes to the east, atop what looked like an oversized sand dune. They were mounted, though he couldn’t tell if they were horses or camels, and clad in flowing robes, but he could see no more than that. “Wilhelm,” he called to the baron as he began to ride past.

“Sire?” came the reply.

“Who are they?” the duke asked, pointing.

Wilhelm squinted into the distance and said, “Nomads. They inhabit the nearby deserts, somehow. We’ve tried to meet with them, but we can’t find where they make camp. They keep to themselves, so I wouldn’t worry about them.”


Popular Oldenburgian Art of the Ifni Nomads

Dietrich frowned. “How many are there?”

“Hell if I know. A hundred? Maybe two? There can’t be that many if they live out there in that wasteland.”

“Do they…lurk like that often?”

“Eh, sometimes. Maybe a bit more in recent months. Why?”

“No reason,” Dietrich lied. “Since I’m here, though, I’d like you to double your watches along the walls and in the town.”

“Why?” the baron asked, raising his eyebrow.

“Are you questioning me?” Dietrich demanded, turning cold eyes on his subject.

“No…Your Grace,” was the baron’s sullen reply. “Thy will be done.”

The order was given to one of Wilhelm’s knights, who transferred it to the garrison commanders, and within half an hour, Germans, Castilians, and Berbers were being mustered to join those already on the wall, and a detachment of around one hundred men was gathered to be dispatched to the town itself. Dietrich rebuffed Wilhelm’s offer for a welcoming feast, and instead commanded him to personally oversee the detachment returning to the city. The baron’s irritation was evident, but Dietrich didn’t particularly care; he wasn’t overly impressed with Wilhelm Freiherr von Kundert’s attitude, anyway.

Wilhelm and his detachment had scarcely been gone for half an hour when news reached Dietrich and Christoph of a new development; the news was brought by one of the knights that had gone with the baron, lightly armored for the climate and riding one of the small Arabian horses. He was quickly admitted by the gate guards, and rode through the streets to catch Dietrich as he was about to enter the bailey. “MEINEN HERZOG! the knight bellowed, panting as he reached the procession.

“What is it?” Dietrich asked at once.

“Freiherr von Kundert,” the man gasped, leaning over his horse. “He has been beset by the nomads! He has drawn his unit up on a hill, but the footing is treacherous and the enemy greatly outnumbers them! Your Grace must make haste to relive him, before they are all slain!”

“How many are there?” the duke demanded, nodding to Christoph, who gave a shout and led his procession back toward the barracks to rally the troops.

“Anywhere from seven to fifteen hundred,” the knight answered, straightening. “Obviously, I couldn’t get an exact count.”

“Thank you,” Dietrich said, urging his horse forward to return to the wall. “I ask that you stay here and command the garrison on the wall. If worse comes to worst, be ready to give us access to the fort and seal it to the nomads.”


It was actually surprising how quickly Dietrich and Christoph managed to rally the army; within just over half an hour, all 2,000 men of the field army, almost exclusively Germans and Castilians, stood outside the gates of Fort Ifni. Duke Dietrich I took personal command of Oldenburg’s First Regiment and placed Prince Christoph in control of the Second Regiment and deployed them in two large, square formations. As the last of the men formed up, Dietrich rode over to Christoph and said, “Take your men around the south of the enemy and form up to the west; keep them out of the town at all costs! I’m going to attack them head-on and try to push them towards you; we’ll encircle them in the middle, eliminate their resistance and, hopefully, save the baron.”

As the Second Regiment began its encirclement, though, the odds of saving the small baronial detachment seemed highly unlikely; already, Dietrich could see that the Berber nomads were pressing their advantage and swarming the sand dune upon which Wilhelm had made his stand. Only a few men had been mounted in the first place, but now, only two of them were visible; it was impossible to tell if they were German or Arab. Once Christoph’s regiment was underway, Dietrich gave the order for his own to march. At Christoph’s insistence, each man carried, in addition to their light armor, wooden shields, spears, and swords, three full waterskins. This would allow the Oldenburgian army to march at double-time without fear of losing men to dehydration.

About halfway to the point of conflict, Dietrich relayed the order to his knights to extend the Oldenburgian lines from a square to a long rectangle, four ranks of 250 men apiece. Being veterans of the Tenth Crusade, many of the Germans and Castilians were able to reform the ranks as they marched, but there was a slight delay as the rear rank was reformed, during which time another of the mounted men in the fray fell.

Dietrich could see Christoph’s regiment close to forming up outside the town, and once again quickened the pace. At about fifty meters from the fading fight, he gave the most important order. “CHARGE!” he roared, jabbing his scepter toward the Arabs, and his point was emphasized as the knights blew their warhorns, and one thousand stouthearted Oldenburgians surged forward, loosing their own battle cries, among them the duke’s favorite: “FÜR FORTUNATUS!”

The nomads were not professional warriors, and even though their chief had seen the sally from the fort, he was unable to regain control over his forces in time to turn and face them; just enough of Wilhelm’s detachment had survived to keep their attention focused on the hill. One moment, the nomadic infantry swarm had the advantage; the next, Duke Dietrich Fortunatus was leading a charge into their midst, dashing with his sword and bludgeoning with his scepter. Blood splattered, teeth scattered, and bones shattered as the unarmored duke charged through their midst. It was a truly heroic sight; red droplets stained his white tunic, flew from his steel blade, and coated the iron scepter. His hair streamed behind him, his teeth remained gritted, and he didn’t so much as flinch as blood built up all over his face and torso, for he knew it was not his own.

The one-dozen knights who accompanied him had formed a wedge behind the duke, and it was behind this mounted group that the Oldenburgian levies rallied. The shock from the sudden, bold charge allowed the infantry to quickly overtake the rear of the nomads, and a determination to keep pace with Dietrich the Lucky prevented the duke from getting isolated, even as he made straight for the isolated survivors of the baronial detachment.


Later propagandic painting commissioned by Dietrich the Lucky

He could now identify the ethnicity of the last mounted man; it was an Arab, as was evident by his headscarf and flowing robes. As the noose around the detachment loosened and Dietrich arrived with his knights, this Arab charged him, scimitar flashing in the sun. The duke turned to face him, but as he started to urge his mount forward, one of the nomads let out an unnerving shriek and lunged at him, and the disadvantage of the small Arabian horses was shown. The nomad soared through the air, grabbed hold of Dietrich, and tore him from the saddle before the mounted man could reach him. The wind was knocked from Dietrich as he hit the ground, but he managed to keep a hold of both sword and scepter. As the nomad stood, grinning, a scimitar now in hand, Dietrich pushed himself to his feet in time to deflect a blow with the scepter, holding it near the base. The force evidently stung the nomad’s hand, as he dropped his blade and shook his hand vigorously, lashing out with his foot. Without missing a beat, Dietrich stepped to the side and plunged the blade into the man’s side. Then he remembered the charging horseman.

He could hear the hoofbeats of the horse, and without really thinking, he dropped his scepter, taking his sword in both hands as it got close. He stepped to the side of the horse to avoid being trampled, ducked just enough to avoid the scimitar if it swung toward him, and swung his blade at the horse’s legs with all his force. He heard the swish of the scimitar going over his head and the shriek of the horse’s pain, felt the sword being torn from his grasp as the animal collapsed into the sand. He couldn’t see where his blade had fallen, and had to settle for the heavy iron scepter as the rider was thrown from the horse. The nomad managed to recover, somehow, and stood, scimitar still firmly in hand, sand coating his robes.

“Rider of the desert sands,” Dietrich called in Arabic. “Where you come from, no one knows. But if you do not yield, I can tell you exactly where you shall go!”

The nomad laughed as he saw the scepter. “Decadent fool. You know nothing!” He lunged forward, slashing ferociously with his blade, forcing Dietrich to dodge with quick steps back and to the side, sending sand spraying across fallen soldiers and evoking anguished cries from at least two wounded men. As the Arab’s foot slipped on some of the sand, his guard was lowered, allowing Dietrich to launch a counterattack; the nomad just barely managed to get his scimitar up in time to deflect the hammering blows. The twitches of his eyes indicated that the blows stung his hand, but unlike the footman, he was able to keep his blade in hand.


Zahir Essaid, Chief of the Ifni Nomads

As the dismounted nomad renewed his own attack, Dietrich took a chance; he moved his scepter to the side enough to give his adversary an opening. This was noticed immediately, and the scimitar swung for what seemed likely to be a crippling blow to the chest. As the blade arced down, though, Dietrich swung his scepter across his chest swifter than he himself would have thought possible, while simultaneously leaning backward. The iron scepter hit its mark; rather than deflecting the scimitar, it landed firmly against the nomad’s fingers. With a cry of anguish, the Arab dropped his weapon and clutched his hand. Duke Dietrich didn’t miss his opportunity; he followed the swing up with a backhanded swing at the man’s hip, and was rewarded with a sickeningly satisfying crack before following up with a sharp jab to the man’s sternum, and as he fell, Dietrich ended the battle with a flourish, spinning around and planting the scepter against the man’s skull. Blood splattered on the sand as the skin and bone split, and the foe fell.

Not wanting to be caught without a blade, Dietrich scooped up the man’s scimitar and turned about to see how the rest of the fight was progressing. To his surprise, he saw several of the nomads gaping in horror at the sight of Dietrich standing over his enemy’s corpse. “Zahir is slain!” one cried, aghast.

“Chief Essaid! He is fallen!”

The cry began to spread through the ranks, even as Christoph’s regiment began to close in, and the nomadic tribe began to lose its willingness to fight. From his vantage point at the hill, Dietrich could see the Arabs steadily trickling away, fleeing east, and as the Second Regiment arrived, their will broke entirely. The envelopment was incomplete, though, allowing almost half of their number to escape to the north, then flee east, but many were captured or slain.

“Your Grace!” Dietrich turned to see what remained of the baronial detachment, bloodied and weary, kneeling before him. “We cannot thank you enough. You are truly a cut above your late brother.” Of the hundred-odd men who had gone to reinforce the town, only eleven remained. Wilhelm Freiherr von Kundert was not among them; the speaker, judging from the livery on his shield, appeared to be the only noble left among them.

“A matter of opinion, I suppose,” Dietrich shrugged. “Where is von Kundert?”

The noble pointed at a bloody corpse laying at the center of the ring the detachment had formed; Baron Wilhelm had died surrounded by both friend and foe, and one could fairly assume that many of the latter had fallen to his own blade. His horse was nowhere to be seen.

At that point, Christoph reached the center of the battlefield, grinning broadly. “Well done, Dietrich! You’ve routed them! Do you realize the significance of this?”

“No…I beat back a handful of savages in a desert,” the duke said, frowning. “What of it?”

“This is the first single-handed Oldenburgian victory in a field battle since the 13th century,” Christoph said excitedly. “The only other battle we’d fought was that disastrous Battle of Granada; this is a welcome change.”

Dietrich had no time for thinking about how his reign would be viewed in hindsight; he waved off the praise, sent the remnants of the first detachment and some men from the Second Regiment back to the fort to get carts for the wounded, while the First Regiment gathered the wounded and prisoners and counted the dead.


The final toll: 174 dead Oldenburgers, 105 wounded; 226 dead nomads and 139 wounded, with a further 248 captured.

Hoping to find out why the nomads had suddenly decided to strike, Dietrich had personally searched the corpse of their chief to see if there was any indicator. He found a handwritten note on behalf of the Sidi Ifni townsfolk, complaining of the ironhanded treatment of their Christian baron, and offering gold and silver in exchange for the overthrow of the new regime. As he read the letter, standing over Wilhelm’s body, a smirk came to his face. He knew there would still be tensions in the province for awhile, but one of the main instigators was no more. Funny how things worked out sometimes.


Unbeknownst to the ducal forces, the surviving nomads would carry the tale of this battle back to their people, and no part stood out quite so much as the duke’s charge. Tales would spread among the tribes of the Lord of the Rod, slaying with both blade and scepter, unconcerned for his own safety. Some of those who had seen him defeat Zahir Essaid even began to speculate that this man was no mere mortal, but a demon unleashed by the Christians to end their way of life. It was fortunate, then, that the nomads knew nothing of his reputation for lethargy back in Oldenburg.

The next two days were fraught with nothing but celebration; wine and beer flowed freely, though the feasting was kept to a minimum to preserve food stores, which was for the best. Much less to clean up afterwards, at least. Despite the lack of luxury in the bailey, Dietrich determined to stay in Fort Ifni for a few more days, so as to ensure that no further tensions sparked up, and to determine who would take over the barony.

JKNUBZ said:

I lol'd.

This is really top-quality stuff. You do a great job making even details like mass advisor spam sound vaguely interesting.

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>_>
<_<

Danke. The start of this AAR coincided with me picking up and reading the book Iron Kingdom, so I figured I'd use things like that to describe the actual development of Oldenburg's bureaucracy and whatnot.

homy_dog34 said:

Excellent work. This is really good writing. I hope you keep on doing what you do.

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Will do.

Ashantai said:

A really good update. I love how you give incidental events a story and reasoning. Definitely my favourite current AAR.

And still only 1411!

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Thanks, that really means a lot, considering how many excellent AARs are gracing the EU3 and CK2 forums. :happy:

Yeah, I'll probably be going at a faster pace once the Oldenburgian empire is properly formed, since there'll be so much happening. But at this early phase, every event is crucial.:closedeyes:

loki100 said:

agree, really like the depth you are building into this

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Thank you, tell your friends.

misiame said:

Another awesome update. Glad to see that Dietrech is more badass than Christian. Crushing skulls with the famous iron scepter. I hope you continue with the iron scepter, its really a staple thing of the aar.

Also, I'm glad you go out of your way to make characters for your story. It makes the story feel more real and it makes it feel like I'm reading an author's abridged version of an actual historical event.

I can't wait for the next part.

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Yeah, the scepter started out as just a bit of flavor, but it may well become the symbol of Oldenburgian legitimacy. It'd be cool if I could find some decent artwork to represent it; the picture from earlier on described the decorative silver one that Christian bent on Gundingen's face. It doesn't seem authoritative enough to represent the new one.

And you'll have to wait awhile for the new chapter. School started back this week, and since I'm on the school newspaper, I have to devote time this week to interviews and piecing together an article about the new teacher evaluation system. If I wasn't hoping this would be a good start to my future journalistic career, I'd drop the class, since we probably have less people who read the newspaper than who read this AAR. Shocker, but teenagers don't really care about ongoing events in the school community, except sports, which they don't care about enough to read articles over them.

So yeah. I'll try to get a short update out soon, but the next chapter probably won't be as lengthy as the last two.

vasziljevics said:

nice! I'm off listening to some Iron Maiden now...

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Glad someone caught that. When the opportunity presents itself, I'll throw in some Easter eggs like that.

Sooo...anyone like the camel scene? I thought it was funny. >_>

After a few days in Fort Ifni, Duke Dietrich the Lucky appointed Georg Lukas Ritter von Schaumburg, the knight who had kept the baronial detachment intact after the old baron’s death, as the temporary Provincial Governor of Ifni (Provinziellenregler von Ifni) until he picked a proper Oldenburgian noble to grant that land. About a week after returning home to Oldenburg, Dietrich brought up the matter of the Ifni succession to Ilse, and was surprised at her suggestion for the title.

“Rickard von Gundingen?” Dietrich asked, blinking in surprise. “Why would I appoint the son of a treasonous man to lord over our only extra-Imperial territory?” Despite his father’s imprisonment, Rickard had not inherited his father’s titles and claims, and so was legally unable to extract taxes from trade or the peasantry, and this would be the case until old Emelrich Freiherr von Gundingen died.

“Think about it, Dietrich,” Ilse urged him, placing her hand on his. “You can’t afford to keep enemies at home if you wish to build on Christian’s success abroad.”

“Why would Rickard want to accept a chunk of desert?” Dietrich said, frowning.

“Well, it wouldn’t be as simple as just naming him Baron of Ifni, obviously,” Ilse replied. “There’d be a bit of a steady process.”

“What kind of process?” the duke asked doubtfully.

Ilse placed her index finger gently on his lips. “Shush. Let me finish. It’s time to mend ties with the Gundingens, so you should begin by taking Emelrich von Gundingen out of the dungeon and giving him chambers more befitting his station. Double his meals, help him get back to health, and then release him with a full pardon. He’ll return to the Gundingen Estate, hopefully in a condition to live for a few more years. Then, you offer the Ifni barony to Rickard, along with a small estate here in Oldenburg so that he doesn’t feel like he’s being banished. As far as the nobles are concerned, Ifni is a symbol of Oldenburgian might, so I’ll wager Rickard would be eager to assume control over it.”


Contemporary image of Emelrich Freiherr von Gundingen in prison, glaring at the artist

“I’d never considered it that way,” Dietrich admitted. “Do you think he’d really buy into it?”

“Of course,” Ilse said. “What reason do you have to doubt me?”

“It’s not you I doubt,” Dietrich said defensively. “It’s Rickard. I’m not entirely sure how stable he is.”

“The man is fine,” the duchess replied. “His heavyhanded behavior on the Gundingen Estate is rooted more in the loss of his father than any mental imbalances.”

“I hope you’re right,” Dietrich said doubtfully. “The tempers in Ifni have flared under the misguided leadership of Wilhelm, may God rest his soul, and I can’t afford to repeat that mistake.”

“Worry not, my love,” Ilse said, smiling comfortingly. “I’ll handle the arrangements. I think Emelrich and Rickard will be more open to someone not directly related to the man who brought this shame upon their family.”

“If you’d like,” Dietrich shrugged, hiding his relief, then smiling slyly as he put his hand on Ilse’s thigh. “But I think Emelrich can stand to wait until tomorrow.”

Ilse giggled. “My, you’ve certainly gotten frisky since you returned.”

“What can I say?” the duke said, kissing her neck. “I can’t stand to be away from you. Got to make up for lost time, hm?”

“If you insist,” his wife said, feigning a reluctant tone as she pulled him closer.


The next day, Emelrich Freiherr von Gundingen was released from the dungeon by Duchess Elisabeth, with orders from the duke himself. He was given quarters in the southwestern tower of the citadel, but was under guard at all hours of the day. The man was in his late forties now, but looked surprisingly strong for a man that had spent the last decade in prison. Still, he was in no shape to be governing an Estate, especially with his simmering hatred of the von Oldenburg dynasty; his lack of front teeth on both top and bottom jaws remained as a memento of his last dealing with an Oldenburg sovereign. Crude wooden dentures were crafted for his use, with replacements available in the event that they rotted from use, and Ilse spent much of her time talking with him, listening to his complaints and highlighting the extraordinary differences between the late Christian VI and the reigning Dietrich I. No hint was given to his eventual release, though he seemed aware that it may come, and this seemed to help his rehabilitation.



In the meantime, Dietrich, Christoph, and Ilse would focus on strengthening Oldenburg’s diplomatic position, especially in and around the Holy Roman Empire. An effort was made to marry Christoph to an English princess, but the King of England ultimately decided to marry her, instead, to a relative of the King of Castille. Instead, Christoph was married to the niece of King Eric of Denmark, a young lady named Sigrid, on September 30, 1411.

Dietrich went on to issue a warning to his brother's former enemy, the Archbishopric of Köln, in the event that they chose to wage a war against any of Oldenburg's neighbors; the most likely victim, by Christoph's reckoning, would be the Archbishop of Münster.



Three days after Christmas, Pope Innocentius VII had died, and the College of Cardinals had selected a new pope, who took the name Pius II. While this meant that Oldenburg’s influence with the papacy was diminished, it was not too much so; Pius II was still well aware of the painstaking efforts of the Duchy of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg in Morocco, and applauded Dietrich for repelling an effort by the heathens to retake Ifni.



By March of 1412, Emelrich von Gundingen had almost fully recovered, and was granted a ducal pardon after renewing his oath of fealty to Duke Dietrich. His son, Rickard, was then given a small Estate north of Oldenburg proper and offered the title of Baron of Ifni. He readily accepted after being promised priority in all commercial matters relating to Ifni, in a way undoing one of Christian VI’s last reforms, and set sail for Ifni immediately.



When May came around, Director of General Commerce Reinhard Hinrichs gave a report on the state of trade in Lübeck to Duke Dietrich; having outcompeted a merchant from Brandenburg, Oldenburg now had five merchants in place in the Hanseatic trade town, and together regularly handled just over 80 ducats annually. Unfortunately, most of this never returned to Oldenburg’s coffers, but still, it was a start.



For nine years, the peasantry of Poland had reviled against their noble masters, and so far, the Jagiellon dynasty had failed to restore order. In April, an impromptu mob had formed in the streets of Lublin and set out on a rampage, burning no less than a dozen different noble Estates across the province. This feat inspired the peasants of the Archduchy of Austria, and in early May, no less than three thousand peasants had stormed the fortress in Lienz, and although the garrison had ultimately forced them back out, they still managed to set fire to the interior of the castle and burn down the chapel. This act of defiance led to increased tensions across the state as the Estates imposed harsh penalties on any form of dissent.



The rest of 1412 and early 1413 saw a continued focus on trade, with minor success being found in both Antwerp and Paris. Surprisingly, 1413 saw another unlikely state establish itself as a small power: the Kingdom of Tyrone. In an unprovoked war, King Niall I O’Neill had crushed the Duchy of Brittany and forced them to pay a small indemnity…and cede the province of Finistere.




Ducal Citadel, Oldenburg, Duchy of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg
October 17, 1413

It was a foggy, overcast day in the town of Oldenburg, projecting a dreary atmosphere onto the people. The nobles and few free peasants walked the streets with solemn faces, and even Duke Dietrich von Oldenburg described the general feeling of the day as “meh.” Until a green and red rose was sighted to the north. Standing on the walls of Oldenburg, the duke recognized the familiar banner immediately; without hesitation, he ordered his bodyguards to bring Christoph and assemble at the northern gate. Moments later, Dietrich, Christoph, and a dozen guards were riding to the north to meet the standard-bearers, and the duke couldn’t help but be surprised at the sight before him.

About twenty-five men, mostly on horseback, were riding in a scattered formation at a slow pace. They wore robes in the Arabic fashion, the men’s beards were untrimmed, and the women were covered from head to toe in black, leaving only space for their eyes to peer out from their veils. But the most recognizable was the man at the head of this quaint group.

“Yusuf?” Dietrich called, shocked. “Is that you?”

The man looked up and offered a weak smile. “As-Salamu Alayka, Dietrich von Oldenburg. I never thought I would see you again, my friend.”

“Nor I, you,” Dietrich said, dismounting and walking on foot to the Granadan procession. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I have few other options available to me,” Yusuf replied, sliding down from the saddle. “But I had hoped to visit the land of the Germans when I was a child, and I saw no better time than this.”

Dietrich embraced the former Granadan prince, then held him at arm’s length. “What has happened?” he asked, frowning.

“Emir Yusuf III Nasrid, they once called me,” the Granadan said, eyes downcast. “Now I shall be forever known as Yusuf the Last, He Who Lost Al-Andalus.”


Yusuf the Last

“You mean Granada…?”

“Yes,” Yusuf said glumly. “The Castilians came, thousands of them, and trampled my land and people underfoot. We fought, but we were hopelessly outnumbered, so we sat in the city, praying for deliverance…but it seems that Allah has forsaken us.” He looked up at the cloudy sky above and sighed. “Granada is now no more than a province of the Crown of Castille.”


“I am sorry, Yusuf,” Dietrich said solemnly. “You must be tired after such a long trip by sea. There is space available in the citadel, if you would like somewhere to rest for awhile.”

“You are most generous, Dietrich,” the former emir said, smiling thankfully. “I do not wish to impose, but I have my doubts that anyone else in this land will house my kin and I.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, you’re probably right,” Dietrich said, frowning. He mounted his horse once more and waited for Yusuf to do the same before ordering his men to form up around the mostly-unarmed Granadans and escort them into the city.



That night, the remnants of the Nasrid family were treated to a lavish feast, at which pork was pointedly absent. The Christians among them still drank wine and ale, but the Muslim guests refrained from partaking. Dietrich sat at the head of the table beside Ilse on one side and Yusuf on the other, with Christoph and his new bride sitting next to her. To Yusuf’s left were his wife, Ruwa, and their son, Mohammad.

“So, Yusuf,” Dietrich said, cutting into a thick steak as he spoke. “What news do you bring from the south?”

The deposed emir poked at his own meal, which had been blessed before preparation by one of the two imams that had accompanied him from Granada. “The Spaniards celebrate the end of the Reconquista,” he said, taking a spoonful of beans. “Even now, they look across the Strait of Gibraltar to Morocco, who, like Allah, abandoned us in our time of need. They are recovering from a period of strife, in which the old council of regents was toppled by dissident factions within Morocco. Recently, a distant cousin of the Mamluk sultan, Muhammad Burji, seized the throne, but his hold on the sultanate is weak. Castille will destroy them soon, mark my words. And I won’t give a damn.”

“I’m sure Algiers will come to Morocco’s aid,” Dietrich said. “They have a common enemy in Castille, no?”

Yusuf laughed. “No, not at all. Algiers abandoned Morocco when your brother joined the Crusade, and has no interest in tying themselves to a sinking ship.”

“Perhaps this could be an opportunity for us, then?” Dietrich mused, chewing and swallowing a bite of steak. “If Morocco is vulnerable, would it not be better for us to provide protection to their people than the aggressive kings of Castille?”

“I suppose,” Yusuf said with a shrug. “Though you would have to act quickly, before Castille gets the chance to sweep across the desert. And you may need to get some more information on Burji’s Morocco, first.

“You may be able to help with that,” Dietrich suggested, taking a gulp of ale and looking thoughtfully at Yusuf.

“How so?” the Granadan asked, raising his eyebrow skeptically.

“You share a faith with the sultan of Morocco, and represent a strong claim to the south of Iberia,” Dietrich said. “It is entirely possible that he will trust you.”

“True,” Yusuf said, nodding. “Muhammad Burji is a bit of an imbecile. It’s entirely likely that he will believe that he has a chance of pressing my claim in Iberia against the Spaniards. But what could you gain from that?”

“Information, like you said,” the duke replied. “You are still, nominally, the Emir of Granada; he would willingly entrust you with more information than the average Arab noble.”

“True,” Yusuf said again. “But what’s in it for me to cooperate with infidels?”

“Your words wound me, my friend,” Dietrich said, clutching his chest dramatically. “If you relay all of the information to my representative in Ifni, I can promise you a position of governance in whatever new territory we manage to acquire from Morocco.” He glanced at Yusuf’s young son and added, “A hereditary position.”

Yusuf looked thoughtful for a moment and shrugged. “Ah, hell, why not? I’ve got nothing else to lose. As long as you can pay to charter the ship I used to get here and make sure your soldiers know not to kill me.”

“That can be arranged,” Dietrich nodded.


Just three weeks later, word reached Oldenburg that Castille was renewing the Crusade against Morocco.




And on February 3, 1414, shortly after Dietrich had returned to Ifni in preparation for war against Morocco, the first message arrived from Yusuf Nasrid.

My previous assertion about the venerable Sultan Muhammad has proven correct. I have been accepted with open arms, and even granted an honorary position in the province of Figuig. Morocco has seen better days; Fez is controlled by rebellious peasants, and Muhammad only has one regiment ready for use, though he has called for a levy of another 8,000 men across his territories. No sight of the Castilian army yet, but it is only a matter of time. Act now or act later, the choice is yours.

-Yusuf

homy_dog34 said:

Morocco must fall! Attack!

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The land might suck, but it'll suck less if its Oldenburgian.

Ashantai said:

I was very impressed by the way you weaved the narrative and history parts together. Nice characterisation and descriptions. Congratulations on another great chapter!

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I wasn't overly impressed with myself there; I threw it together in just a few hours to get an update out so folks wouldn't lose interest. The next update is more to my liking, though. Read on, my awesome fans!

Update momentarily.

The contrast between the start of the Second Oldenburgian Crusade (still technically the Tenth Crusade) and the First was absolutely remarkable. Whereas Duke Christian VI had been viewed as a ridiculous dreamer that was potentially leading the state to ruin, Duke Dietrich I was hailed as a hero for continuing his brother’s work. The nobles were more than willing to pay a large tax increase to help fund the war, and each of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg’s allies were more than willing to join the war, though it seemed unlikely that any but the Hansa would be able to assist in a useful manner. There was also the fact that, unlike before, Morocco was utterly alone and vulnerable to a strike, even by Oldenburg’s meager 2,000-man field army.

The disadvantage? Dietrich hadn’t exactly planned out the invasion very thoroughly; the initial plan was to seize control of the province of Sus, a vital source of gold for Morocco. En route, though, Prince Christoph had pointed out that, with Moroccan troops being raised in Safi, a siege in Sus would leave Ifni vulnerable to a counterattack by Moroccan recruits; even if Sus was occupied, there was the chance that Ifni would be lost, and the Oldenburgians would be trapped in a landlocked, hostile province with no resupply rout. Despite this, Dietrich determined to enter Sus and plunder what they could from the countryside before making for Safi.


There was one figure who was discontent with the direction of the Duchy, a man whose name had long been a curse on the House of Oldenburg: Erich Askanier. Unbeknownst to most of the nobility, Dietrich had agreed to allow Yusuf’s son, Mohammad, to remain in Oldenburg while Yusuf was working for him, for his safety. Askanier had learned of this by bribing one of the guards at the Oldenburg palace, and promptly exposed it to the public; those who knew of the arrangement between Dietrich and Yusuf had been relatively uneasy about consorting with Muslims, but were willing to look the other way so long as they worked for the ducal crown. Actually housing them, though, was an entirely different matter.

Ducal Citadel, Oldenburg, Duchy of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg
March 20, 1414

“This is an outrage!” Erich Askanier roared, slamming his fist down on the table emphatically. “We are waging war on the infidel, and yet here we are, housing one of their number beneath our duke’s own roof!” He pointed angrily at Duchess Elisabeth, who was sitting calmly at the head of the table, flanked by two guards; Mohammed was cowering behind her, fearful of the rage being aimed at him by the nobles. “Your husband has always been soft on the heathens, with his Arabic texts and sympathies! It is one thing to exploit them, another to offer them sanctuary!”

There were some scattered murmurs of agreement across the table, which seated more than a dozen representatives from the various Oldenburgian Estates. They were located in the throne room, but the duke’s throne was empty; Ilse didn’t want to incite any more rage by sitting on the throne in this meeting. She cast a cold look at Askanier, arms folded across her chest. “Calm yourself, commander,” she said coolly. “Your dissent has been noted, but I would tread lightly if I were you; it would not do to run afoul of the duke in a time of war, would it?”

“You aren’t our sovereign,” Askanier began hotly, but was cut off immediately.

“I am the Duchess of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg,” she snapped. “And so long as His Grace is at war for the good of our people, I am running the affairs of state at home, and that means that I carry the authority of the duke. Now, if you do not take your seat, I will be forced to remove you from the citadel.” She ended with a dangerous tone, daring him to make a retort; the old deposed duke, however, seemed to have found the line, and took a seat, glaring venomously at the duchess. “Thank you,” Ilse said sweetly. She looked back at the assembled nobles, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. “Your anger is understandable, my friends,” she said. “But misdirected. The Nasrid family is not our enemies any longer; we have been at peace for almost a decade, and Emir Yusuf III has kindly agreed to help our cause on his own volition. It is through his efforts that we know what we are up against in Morocco, and the least we can do is keep his son and heir safe from the retribution of Sultan Muhammad Burji if he is caught.” She glared icily at Askanier as she continued. “What poor thanks it would be if we were to turn young Mohammad here away, refuse him our hospitality? Dietrich gave his solemn word as a Prince of the Empire to Yusuf Nasrid to protect his son against harm; an oath is an oath, whether given to a Christian or a Muslim. If we were to reject Mohammad, we would dishonor not only His Grace, but our entire state!”

“But what of our reputation amongst the other Princes?” old Emelrich Freiherr von Gundingen asked, leaning forward from his position near the head of the table. “Sheltering Muslims will undermine our repute within the Empire, and likely cause some unease amongst the populace.”

“True,” Ilse conceded. “But that would not have been an issue, had this remained secret. The rest of Europe would have been utterly oblivious to our actions had someone…” She cast a withering glare at Askanier. “…not brought the issue to light.”

“Bah!” Askanier scoffed. "Administrative transparency is a good thing. If we trust your husband to rule us, he can at least trust us with his secrets.”

“And would you trust us all with your secrets, Erich?” Ilse asked, frowning. “Do share. This is all done in confidentiality, of course.”

There were a couple of snickers as Askanier made an angry growl, but that was nothing compared to what happened next.

“No need for that, my Lady. I assure you, Erich is a veritable saint,” a woman’s voice said; heads turned to see Anna Askanier, daughter of Christian VI, niece of Dietrich, and wife of Erich, entering the chamber, a devious grin on his face. “He may come up short where it counts, but he is not short on honesty.”

That did it; the Estate representatives broke out into raucous laughter, hooting and jeering as Erich Askanier’s face purpled like a plum, the issue at hand momentarily forgotten. “Silence, woman!” he roared, pointing a wrinkled finger threateningly at her. “You are still my wife, and by law, I command your respect!”

“Big talk for such a small man,” Anna teased, smirking insolently. The laughter redoubled, and Erich stood abruptly, his chair crashing to the stone behind him. He started to walk around the table to get to Anna, but, at a nod from Ilse, two of the palace guards restrained him. The older man tried to pull away, but was unable to break away from the two burly men.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Erich,” Ilse said, wagging a finger in disapproval. “Don’t let your anger get the better of you. I’m afraid my guards will have to escort you out.”

As the barrel-chested guards guided the former duke away, he spat venomous comments, mostly at Anna, but a few violent threats and insults were hurled at Ilse, such that would likely have gotten him killed on the spot by Dietrich. When he was finally gone, Ilse looked back to the nobles, who had finally calmed down from the hilarity of the moment. “I thank you for bringing your concerns to me, my friends,” she said. “They have been noted, but I can do nothing to countermand my husband. Necessity sometimes dictates we do things we don’t necessarily agree with. If that is all…meeting adjourned.”

In the world of great power politics, after 12 years of strife, Poland was finally able to get a handle on the situation. Some claimed that the Jagiellons had made concessions to the peasantry to bring them back into line, but it was generally accepted that the peasants had simply had enough of being slaughtered wholesale by the nobles’ levies. Although dissent was ravaging Austria, Poland was finally able to claim a level of stability, and there was hope within Austria that this would deter a continuation of the rebellion. Only time would tell.


Safi, Sultanate of Morocco
April 24, 1414

“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” Georg Lukas Ritter von Schaumburg said wistfully, watching the riders in the distance. “Wasting all of that liquor. Were Bacchus real, he would be weeping.”

“Let the fictional, divine drunk bawl,” Dietrich said, stifling a yawn as the sun cast its first rays over the horizon. “I’ve never really cared for liquor, anyway. Where’s the fun in eating a fine meal, drinking, and then immediately regurgitating that fine meal?”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” the knight said, smirking. “You’re obviously a bit of a lightweight,”

“So I prefer my fortunato, what of it?” the duke said defensively, but he smiled, too. Georg had done an excellent job in keeping Ifni stable while Dietrich had been pondering the barony’s successor. The knight had obviously been disappointed that he hadn’t been given the appointment, but he had been willing to accept a position in Dietrich’s retinue, being a bit more familiar with the local geography. Since then, the duke and knight had gotten along well, and Dietrich had been toying with the idea of appointing Georg as the head of his ducal guards. That would have to wait till the war was over, though.

“Some of the scouts reported in awhile ago, Your Grace,” Georg said.

“And?”

“Apparently, the new Moroccan regiment is just now gathering near the town of Safi; we can’t get much more information, but the scouts tend to agree that there is no central leader. Either a junior officer or a circle of senior enlisted men are in charge of this regiment, so we shouldn’t have much trouble here.”

“So we should hope,” Dietrich said grimly. “Are your men ready?”

“Almost. We’ll be ready to set out by the time the sun rises, Your Grace.”

“Good. See to it; it is time that Oldenburg won a battle against a proper foe.”

“Indeed it is, Your Grace,” Georg said, a gleam in his eye. “When the day is over, all of Morocco will fear our soldiers!”

“Don’t get too cocky, Georg,” Dietrich warned. “Morocco is still a large nation, and we would do well not to underestimate them.”

“Aye, milord,” the knight said, bowing his head. “By your leave?”

“Go.”


The sun had begun to rise in the east and the town of Safi slowly awakened. A thousand warriors had gathered near the town to answer the call of their new sultan, Muhammad I Burji, commanded by a handful of merchants who fancied themselves officers. In preparation for a Crusader attack, they had set up camp around the city while leaving a garrison of around one thousand militia inside; the Moroccan merchant class was confident that they could repel any invasion by the lesser state of Oldenburg. Many of them were incensed by the fact that such a minor Christian nation had managed to establish themselves on their border, and were eager for the chance to push them back out.

So when the yellow-and-red banner of the Oldenburgers and the red cross of the Crusade appeared on the horizon as the sun rose behind them, the Moroccan response was anything but tempered. They were unable to see that the Germans were positioned in a single row, so they appeared to be preparing for an attack; the officers immediately roused their armies and formed up to defend, but when the Moroccan army was at last prepared, the Oldenburgers seemed to think better of it and retreated behind the hill.

The Moroccans pursued under orders by their citizen-officers, reaching the hilltop at around the same time the Oldenburgers reached another hill in the distance. Paranoid, the officers were initially unwilling to attack, but when a volley of arrows found their way into the Moroccan ranks, they abandoned all caution and ordered an immediate attack. A few Muslim archers managed to loose their arrows into the retreating Crusaders, but to minimal effect; the officers weren’t worried, though, for they knew that beyond this second hill was a long plain where the Germans would be vulnerable.

The small Oldenburgian detachment formed up on the far side of the plain as the Moroccans crossed it, and now that they were in the open, the officers could see that the Crusaders had, at most, three hundred men. Presumably, the man on the horse riding around the back of the unit was Duke Dietrich Fortunatus, a very desirable target for the Moroccans, seeing as he was the brother of Christian VI. Confident, the merchant officers agreed to begin a direct attack, ordering the entire army forward.

While most of the commanders opted to stay behind and observe, one of them was necessary to keep the men in line; being mounted, he didn’t notice the inexplicably wet ground stretching a two-meter section of the plains, but the infantry did, and concerns were voiced about this anomaly. The officer ordered the army to be silent, and the calls faded to nervous murmurs.


Had the Moroccans been paying attention, they would have noticed a pair of riders to the south, surveying the situation, but they would not have seen their sly smiles, or heard Duke Dietrich’s single word. “Now.”

From behind him, dozens of flaming arrows were fired by another detachment of the Oldenburgian army, targeted at the general location of the Moroccans, and several of them struck that strip of wet ground that around a third of the Moroccan army had crossed; the fires caught and spread, forming a U shape around the men who were at the head of the army and cutting them off from the rest of the force. Unable to turn back, left, or right, the Moroccans charged forward, hoping to break through the smaller Oldenburgian unit and escape, but it was hopeless; Georg Lukas von Schaumburg’s troops had formed their pike formation, presenting a phalanx-like array of spears to the enemy while Dietrich’s troops peppered the main force with arrows. The isolated Muslims desperately threw themselves against the Oldenburgian formation, but it was futile; for every Oldenburger they slew, almost ten Moroccans fell.

The main army started to launch an attack against the duke’s force in the south, but a horn was sounded; to the north, the remainder of the Crusader army appeared, led by Christoph von Oldenburg, having remained somehow unnoticed behind little more than a knoll. The citizen-soldiers of Morocco knew they were beaten, and sounded the retreat before they could be annihilated. While Georg’s unit finished off the isolated troops, Dietrich’s began to get the fire under control and Christoph’s pursued the Moroccans as they fled west. They were ultimately able to escape to the north after a delaying action by the Safi garrison, but once the Oldenburgers were reorganized, they were ready to pursue.

As he surveyed the scorched and bloodied field, Duke Dietrich swore; he hadn’t timed the fire attack as well as he’d hoped, allowing most of the Moroccans to get away. He would have to pursue if he wanted to really diminish Moroccan military capabilities whatsoever and make any impact on the course of the war. The army regrouped near Safi after the garrison had retreated back inside, and Dietrich called an impromptu war council with Georg and Christoph.

“The Moroccans are fleeing northeast, towards the capital in Marrakech, if I were to guess their destination,” Prince Christoph reported, removing his helmet and shaking his sweat-drenched hair. “The militia retreated back into town; if we move now, we can surround Safi before they can bring any new resources in to prolong their defense.”

“No,” Dietrich said, shaking his head. “We go northeast. To the heart of the beast.”

“Marrakech?” Georg asked, eyebrows rising in surprise. “But why? Safi is as good as ours!”

“We can annihilate this Moroccan force and seize control of their capital,” Dietrich argued. “That will give us an edge in any future negotiations and allow us to return south at our leisure without worrying about the Sultan rallying in their capital.”

“But seizing Marrakech is no different from if we had taken Sus,” Christoph reasoned. “We’d just be trading gold for a capital city, and we aren’t entirely certain if Muhammad will be able to rally forces in Marrakech. It’s folly, Dietrich!”

“I have made my decision,” the duke said coolly. “Prepare the men. We march immediately.”



The chase to Marrakech was fairly successful; many laggard Moroccan soldiers were cut down by Oldenburgian scouts and infantry over the two weeks it took for the armies to arrive in the Marrakech countryside. On May 7, a desperate resistance was pieced together by the damaged regiment, but they were dispatched without a fuss.



The news back home, however, was less inspiring; early on the first day of May, Director of General Commerce Reinhard Hinrichs died of natural causes, having served on the County and Ducal courts for fifteen years. Lacking the authority or funds to hire a replacement, Duchess Elisabeth named Master of the Mint Thomas Von as the new Director of General Commerce. A message informing Duke Dietrich of this was dispatched to Ifni, but it would be some time before he actually received it.



Meanwhile, in Morocco, the north of the country had become besieged by armies of the Crown of Castille and their allies, the Kingdom of Tyrone, with a Hanseatic army also making landfall in Melilla once more. Dietrich expected Sultan Muhammad to continue his efforts to expel the rebellious peasants from the fortress in Fez or make an attack against one of the more threatening Crusader armies in the north, but he was no mystic…


Outskirts of Marrakech, Sultanate of Morocco
June 4, 1411

“Your Grace, urgent report!” Georg Lukas cried, bursting into the duke’s tent. “The Moroccan Royal Army has arrived near Marrakech and is marching this way! Sultan Muhammad seems to have abandoned the siege of Fez to see us off!”

“No!” Dietrich cried, aghast.

“It gets worse,” Prince Christoph said grimly, stepping in behind the knight. “The Moroccans had been training a new regiment inside the walls of Marrakech; some men claiming to be friends of Yusuf say they are ready for action and may sally as soon as the sultan arrives.”

“How many total?” the duke demanded.

“The Royal Army appears to have a thousand infantry and a thousand cavalry,” Georg said. “I would assume the men inside Marrakech are more infantrymen.”

None of this boded well; just the day before, a message had arrived from Yusuf Nasrid in Figuig, warning of another regiment marching for Marrakech. If Dietrich stood his ground, his cause would be completely lost. “We have to act now,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “Herr Georg, take control of your men and form a rearguard; hold off the Moroccans while we gather the troops and retreat.”

“But where do we go?” Georg asked, frowning. “We are in the center of Moroccan territory, with no friends nearby. If we flee south, they may be able to rout our forces and take control of Ifni.”

“So we go north,” Dietrich said calmly.

“But there is nothing to the north but mountains and ocean!” Georg protested.

“Actually, there is some good news in the north,” Christoph interjected. “Tangiers has fallen to the King of Tyrone, and they now lay siege to the fort in Toubkhal, just to the north. A pair of their scouts was met by our own recently, and despite the language barrier, we made a decent impression. If we retreat north, we can link up with the Irishmen and bide our time until either our Hanseatic allies or the Castilians can arrive and wipe out the main Moroccan force.”

Dietrich paused for a moment, then smiled slowly. “As our Arabic foes might say,” he said. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” He straightened up and squared his shoulders. “Time to move; we cannot waste any time.”

Within an hour, the camp was broken, the men were formed up in marching formation, and Herr Georg Lukas was preparing his detachment of 500 men for the rearguard action. The battle would take place to the north of Marrakech, and hopefully buy Dietrich’s troops enough time to escape to Toubkhal. As the troops began to march, Dietrich took the bold knight aside and said, “Remember, Georg; this is not a death or glory mission. Come back alive, with as many of your troops as possible, and meet us in Toubkhal.”

“I will not fail you, Your Grace,” Georg pledged, thumping his chest proudly. “But I am not afraid to die for God, duke, and country.”

“Take care, my friend,” Dietrich said, smiling weakly.

As the army moved north, the last Dietrich saw of the Oldenburgian rearguard was the banner being raised and Herr Georg bellowing orders to his men, while in the distance, a shadow appeared on the horizon…



Dietrich’s force arrived in Toubkhal in early July in good order, and was greeted by the reigning King of Tyrone, Niall I O’Neill. Through a translator who had studied in Dresden, the king thanked Duke Dietrich for his assistance and praised his brother for leading Oldenburg out of obscurity, not unlike what Niall himself had done with Tyrone via his war with Brittany. He proposed linking up the two minors’ war efforts, but Dietrich declined on the grounds of having different goals in the war. He did agree, however, to remain in Toubkhal until the Moroccan army ceased to be a threat.

Georg Lukas von Schaumburg’s rearguard arrived a few days later, bedraggled and scattered, but in a certain sense, victorious. When the Moroccans had descended on their position, Georg’s unit had formed what amounted to a large schiltrom formation, fighting off Moroccans on all sides, giving as good as they got and resisting several cavalry charges. In the lapse after one of those charges, the Oldenburgers had broken out, but by the time they reached the edge of Irish scouting patrols in Toubkhal, they were down to a measly 120 men. Fortunately, the venerable George Lukas Ritter von Schaumburg was still alive.

A feast was held to celebrate Schaumburg’s relative success, in which King Niall passed on to Duke Dietrich news from King Enrique III about the Holy Roman Empire; the esteemed Kaiser Vaclav IV von Luxemburg had died, and the mighty Kingdom of Bohemia had fallen out of favor with the electors for their failure to challenge Denmark’s expansion into Holstein. It was Albrecht IV von Habsburg who had exploited this, securing the votes of six of the seven Prince Electors of the Holy Roman Empire. Under normal circumstances, Dietrich would be obligated to issue certain oaths to the new Kaiser, but this was waived on account of the circumstances.



In early August, when news reached the Tyrone-Oldenburg force that Sultan Muhammad had returned to besiege Fez, Dietrich thanked King Niall for his hospitality and took his leave, taking his army back south. With his army relatively intact and no Moroccan field armies nearby, Duke Dietrich determined to lay siege to Safi, leaving the Moroccan Royal Army to King Niall’s Irishmen and the growing force of Hanseatic troops under Statthalter Burkhard Steetz.

The siege commenced on August 27, with Dietrich breaking his two regiments into four commands of 400 men apiece; his own unit, consisting primarily of native Oldenburgers, was positioned north of the city. Ritter von Schaumburg took another four hundred and covered the east, and Prince Christoph’s unit took the south. One of Dietrich’s guards, a barrel-chested knight by the name of Siegfried von Sternberg, commanded the four hundred men in the west, half of whom were to be dispatched to occupy the port of Safi far to the north.


Meanwhile, independent seafarers had begun traversing the waters of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburgian Africa enough to get a feel of the local currents, and they shared this information with the duchy.



A week later, news reached the ducal forces that the Burji sultan’s grip on Morocco was continuing to weaken as six thousand residents of Atlas proclaimed solidarity with the peasants of Fez and laid siege to the city of Jerrada, aiming to create an independent Fezian nation. There was much rejoicing, both in Atlas and in Safi, for the duke realized that the rebellion would prevent Sultan Muhammad from turning back to deal with his own force.



The month of October was completely quiet as the Oldenburgers waited for the Moroccan food supply to run out, but in November, there was progress on another front of the Crusade. On November 18, the red hand of Tyrone rose over the city of Toubkhal, but there was no time to bask in this victory; King Niall immediately turned east and marched for the besieged city of Fez, forcing a thousand Moroccans to withdraw from the region.



In December, Director of General Commerce Thomas Von and Statesman Friedrich Engel got together to propose the foundation of a constable, which would oversee the collection of taxes from the various Estates. While Duchess Elisabeth was favorable toward this, she was forced to refuse on the grounds that there was no money available for such an endeavor.



A month later, another proposal to establish a government-run armory in Oldenburg was also denied on the same grounds.



News arrived from a land far from home, yet close to the hearts of many, and it wasn’t good. For almost 2,000 years, Rome had persevered, rising from a scattered collection of Italian towns to a mighty republic and empire. The last millennia had seen the remnants of Rome push back their doom on many occasions, but never permanently. A Crusade had been called in their favor, but the very Catholics who had gone to save the ancient Empire proved to be its downfall, plundering Constantinople and exiling the emperor. Through it all, Rome had clung to survival, but with the Ottoman Turks on their doorstep, their fall was inevitable…and so it was that on January 20, 1415, the Roman Empire was annexed by Bayezid I Osmanli. A great piece of European history died that day.



In early February, the Moroccan force that had been removed from Fez entered Ifni by way of Sus, laying siege to Fort Ifni; Baron Rickard I von Gundingen was able to send a message to his liegelord before the fort had to be sealed off, expressing his confidence that the fortress could hold out until Dietrich could liberate it.



Ducal Citadel, Oldenburg, Duchy of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg
April 6, 1415

“I can’t deal with it anymore!” Thomas Von declared, throwing his hands in the air as he paced back and forth in front of the throne. Since this wasn’t an open conference with the nobility, Duchess Elisabeth was sitting on the ducal throne this day, listening to the complaints of the man who acted as both Master of the Mint and Director of General Commerce. “The mint requires my daily attention, especially with the war going on! I have to make sure we are making effective use of what gold we get a hold of, and I can’t do that when I have to liaison with the merchants, as well!”

“I understand, Director,” Ilse said gently. “But you understand our delicate financial situation. Most of our funds are in reserve in case the war dictates we need more troops…or in the event that God abandons us and we must pay off the Moroccan sultan.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, milady,” Thomas said, folding his arms over his chest. “It occurs to me that we actually have enough money to employ a new agent to take control of the Chamber of General Commerce and still have enough money left over to get us through the war. Perhaps even raise some more troops. If you believe the reports from your husband, the Crusade goes well enough for us to consider this option.”

“And would you happen to have a replacement in mind?” Ilse asked, raising her eyebrow. “We can’t really spare the resources to go find a new man.”

“Well, thanks to the cultural advancement program, we were able to find a young trader whose skills are above and beyond his peers,” Thomas said with a sly smile. “Herr Engel has promised me that he is an excellent candidate. Jeremias Becker,” he added to answer the duchess’s unspoken question.

“And how is he qualified?” Ilse asked skeptically.

“Well, you see, I was born as the son of a serf who had been released from service for saving his master’s life,” a new, oily voice said. A man with short-cut blond hair and green eyes entered the chamber, waving away the guards who had moved to restrain him. “By the time I was fifteen, I had my own market stand, and now…well, let’s just say that neither Saxe-Lauenburg nor Lüneburg would have any trade income were it not for me.” The man fell into a steep bow. “Jeremias Becker, at your service, meine Herzogin.”

“Leave him be,” Ilse told the guards, who shrugged and returned to their posts. She scowled as she looked down at the man. “You’re either very confident or very stupid to walk right into my court without invitation.”

“I can’t be both?” Jeremias joked, smiling. “I respect the efforts of your husband and his brother, as well as the late Director Hinrichs for their efforts to reform the trading system, but they have not gone far enough. Unless Oldenburg manages to get control of Antwerp or Lübeck, I don’t see any advantages forthcoming from your current system of trade. I promise you, I will assist in the reform of our financial system so that we may join the ranks of the economically independent…if all goes well, I may make Herr Von’s expertise unnecessary.” He winked at the master of the mint, whose mouth was now a thin line. He noticed that Ilse’s face remained expressionless, unconvinced, and added, “I understand, you need more proof than some fancy rhetoric. If you’ll ask Herr Engel, I’m sure he will provide you with some of my work in studying the economic systems of the Hanseatic Republic and contrasting them with those of Burgundy and Bavaria.”

“I’ll do that,” Ilse promised. “We’ll let you know if we require your services.”

“I’m sure you will.”


Two days later, Thomas Von resigned as Director of General Commerce and was succeeded by none other than Jeremias Becker.



Not long after, Duchess Elisabeth sent out a call to the Estates of Oldenburg-Saxe-Lauenburg-Lüneburg, mandating that each noble family provide and equip one of their sons for military service as heavy cavalry in the ducal army to assist the Crusade. Although there was some dragging of the feet, one thousand knights were assembled in Oldenburg by July 24. This made the combined strength of the Oldenburgian army greater than that of the Archbishopric of Bremen, allowing the nobles to change their focus; it was time to secure the sealanes.



Safi, Sultanate of Morocco
August 19, 1415

The nonsensical red scribbles of Morocco had vanished from the flagpole of the small castle inside Safi, replaced by a solid white flag. The gates of the town had been thrown open, admitting the besieging Crusaders to a town filled with stony-faced Arabs who watched the procession with muted rage. The fresh water of the town had run out, food supplies were dangerously low, and the locals were tired of the siege. They weren’t happy with the impending changes, but a life under occupation beat a life under siege.


The garrison had gathered in the city center, weapons thrown to the ground, with the mayor in the middle, his face blank and inhospitable. As the Oldenburgers took control of the walls and one of the regiments came to the center with Duke Dietrich, the mayor was prepared to greet the conquerors. “Welcome to Safi, you sons of whores,” he said in Arabic, certain that the foreigners wouldn’t understand. “I hope you enjoy turning our city into a shithole.”

“Thank you, good sir,” Dietrich replied in Arabic, looking smugly down from his horse. “I hope you enjoy the view from that flagpole.” He pointed up at the flag above the castle, a sly grin on his face. The mayor’s expression turned to one of horror as he realized the implications. Dietrich raised his voice to address the Moroccan garrison. “You are all free to return to your lands, but your weapons will stay here. You’ve served your sultan honorably, but it is time for you to lay down your arms and return to the tranquility of civilian life. I do not ask for your love, for I understand the difficulty of your position…all I ask is for peace, so that the beautiful lands of Safi will not be stained with your blood.”

That afternoon, the red-and-yellow stripes of Oldenburg were raised over Safi, eight hundred militiamen were allowed to leave, and a new decoration was added to the highest tower of Safi; the mayor was hung there, allowing him one last view of Safi so that he could see what he had lost.