"At civilization's end", an MP Megacampaign

The 19th century was a time of great change for France.
Firstly, it launched a final offensive against the Spanish empire to regain the lands it had lost several decades ago. The war was long and hard. At first it went well, the attack was a complete surprise to the Spanish troops, and the border guards had hardly rallied together when the French armies arrived. The Spaniards were quickly destroyed and enslaved. The French quickly pushed towards the Pyrenees while the Italians and Germans finished occupying and routing the border guards.

After having reached the Pyrenees, and destroying the rest of the Spanish army there, the French began to push past the mountains into the Iberian Peninsular. However, the Incan Empire came to Spain's defence, and its grand army pushed the French back into the Pyrenees. The French troops were on the verge of absolute defeat when Italian and German reinforcements arrived in the mountains. The large amounts of artillery of the 2 Central European countries were key in defending the mountains. The Incan army was entirely comprised of infantry and so found it hard to breach the coalitions defences. The unrelenting shell fire rained down on the Incan soldiers, but their generals kept them marching.

The Incans knew that the Europeans were running low on reserves, so they kept attacking their well defended position. The casualties were much more for the Incans, but they could easily be replaced. After several victories in the mountains, however, the coalition decided to once again push into Hispania. This resulted in more clashes with the Incans, who eventually returned the coalition to their mountain strongholds.

The Incans continued attacking and draining the European strength. The European armies were beginning to starve in the mountains. Meanwhile, Spanish militias were being raised throughout the country and being sent to the front. Fortunately, Russian troops were now arriving at the Pyrenees. The superior troops of this rich country allowed to coalition to make quick gains into Hispania. Bavarian troops, now not needed in the mountains, began raiding Portugal, destroying the militias making their way up North.

Unfortunately, this victory was short lived. The Incans regrouped and pushed the coalition back into the mountains. The Europeans' artillery were becoming weaker as, after years of constant firing, they had rusted and their previous veteran operators had died of famine or frostbite. This allowed the Incans to finally push past the Pyrenees and begin their long planned offensive against the coalition.

This victory was, however, too late for Spain. Rich Spanish trading families were becoming increasingly enraged by the constant Scandinavian blockade. They wrote letters to the Spanish King demanding peace. Similarly in occupied France, Spanish farmers, whose crops were being used to feed the coalition's armies, demanded a peace meeting. The workers of the Spanish factories were starving since no food could be imported and any food that was produced was sent to the armies.

Finally, after several risings across the kingdom, the Spanish king allowed safe passage for the French Prime Minister to his palace in Granada. They discussed for not even an hour. Both were too determined to give up, the King not willing to cede land, the Prime Minister not willing to stop fighting for anything else.

After the king announced, from a balcony, to the crowd outside his palace that no peace deal had been made, they became angry and started banging against his high walls. The king returned to the Prime minister to show him out, but, as they were walking down the grand central staircase, they heard shots fired outside. They rushed to the doors to see what was happening.

The king's guard were at the gates firing on the ground. A few shots were being fired back, but none affected the guard. Suddenly there was a loud bang and bricks went flying across the courtyard. A large hole had been blown in the wall. The mob had somehow acquired a cannon and they began entering the king's estate.

They mostly wielded cheap cutlasses or farming equipment. A few of them had pistols or rifles, taken from deserting soldiers. They ran towards the guard, who, while managing to fire a few shots before the mob was upon them, were all killed by the angry workers. The crowd caught sight of the king and prime minister standing outside the front doors. One of them, a magistrate whose son had died of starvation, walked towards the pair.

The magistrate laid down his rifle and put his hands up. The rest of the crowd, confused, stood still. The man spoke out,
'My liege, we beg that you accept peace. We work and live for you, but our families are starving and the factories are closing. If you do not accept peace we have no choice but to find a new leader. Everyone behind me wants peace. Millions across the country are crying out for peace. We want the death to end!'
A large cheer rose up from the protestors behind him.
The king sighed, and looked at the prime minister, who wore a slight smirk.

And so peace was signed, and the French borders were finally restored to their 16th century lines. Bavaria and Italy too took lands they felt belonged to them.

So overjoyed were the people of France that when the term of the prime minister was over and he was forced to step down, they demanded he become the permanent leader of France. And so France became a monarchy again.

Sébastien de la Tour d'Auvergne was crowned king of France. He was, however, half German, and had spent a lot of his adolescence in Germany.

Therefore, his first act as king was to unify the kingdoms of Germany and France, and so was crowned for a second time as the King of France-Allemagne.

 

I am glad to see the decisive effect of the Scandinavian blockade acknowledged!

 

Guest of Dishonour

October 6th, 1845
A warehouse in Bergen, Norway
Evening

The children were not, strictly speaking, forbidden from playing in the warehouse; but neither had they approached the master and got his august nod of permission. So when Geir heard men approach, he scuttled behind one of the paper-wrapped bales of whatever-it-was that had been unloaded the day before, made himself small, and settled down to wait for them to leave. It was probably just the master coming down to inspect his goods; he wouldn't need more than a few minutes for his gloat, and then Geir could get back to capturing pirates.

He was surprised, then, to hear the voice of Tormod, the master's butler: "Here it is - three tons of silk, finest kind, fresh from China. Maybe a hundred thousand, all told - most of the Randale capital, in fact; all in one place. Burn it, and Randale would be ruined, and so would his creditors."

Geir blinked in shock. Burn the master's goods, ruin him? He knew what happened in houses that went bankrupt: The servants were turned out, to find new positions or starve. Quite apart from what would happen to Geir's father, Tormod couldn't want that, could he? He'd be just as ruined as anyone - more so; it was harder for the higher servants to get new positions.

"That's fine as far as it goes, Tormod." Geir didn't know the second voice, a gravelly bass. "Ruin an exploiter, send shock waves of bankruptcy through the upper classes, wake people up a bit. But it doesn't do the poor any good, does it? We don't want the silk burnt, we want the money spent on good causes."

"Good causes like your fifteen girlfriends in the Four Lions?" a third voice sneered; a woman.

"They're poor too," the gravel voice came back, cheerfully unruffled. "But you have an exaggerated idea of my capabilities if you think I can spend a hundred thousand, or even just my share of it, on helping poor women."

"Let's not count our women before they - er, before we have the money for them," Tormod put in. "Agreed that we don't want the silk burnt. But we can't steal it, either; three tons of the stuff! Not to mention the difficulty of fencing it."

Geir's eyes widened in indignation. He hadn't grasped why anyone would want to burn valuable things, but stealing he understood. He just hadn't expected it of Tormod - the same man who had given him an epic thrashing and a lecture on the Importance of Property for a mere three apples out of the master's garden, calmly discussing taking all the master's goods and putting him, Geir, out in the streets!

"Which is where you come in," Gravel Voice agreed. "You say the buyers are arriving tomorrow night?"

"Some of them are here already, but yes, the major players won't arrive until tomorrow."

"And they'll have what, an auction?"

"Right. What am I bid for lot one hundred seven, another half-hundredweight of finest Shanxi silk? Do I hear one thousand?" Tormod let his voice go high and drawling, in vicious imitation of the master; Geir had to suppress a laugh at the cleverness of the impression.

"They'll have muscle, though, won't they? And anyway nobody carries a thousand riksdaler around in their pockets." The woman's voice was quite pleasant when it wasn't sneering, Geir noticed.

"That's the clever bit," Gravel Voice returned. "They'll put it all in Randale's strongroom for safekeeping - some in silver, most in bearer bonds."

"Why won't they just write out notes on the spot?"

"For a thousand riksdaler a pop? Even the merchant class don't trust each other that much. It'll be bonds drawn on reputable banks, thank you kindly, none of your private notes."

Geir didn't understand the talk about bonds and notes, but silver was clear enough - silver was money, and they were plotting how to steal the master's money and ruin him, and Geir. The situation was, come to think of it, rather like the romance Geir had borrowed from Johann the previous week, where the plucky young hero overheard the bandits planning to ambush the wealthy merchant's carriage and abduct his daughter. In the book, the hero had revealed the plot and been rewarded with A Position; Geir sharpened his ears.

"So how do we get into the strongroom?" the woman asked.

"Well, pardon me," Gravel Voice said. "I thought I was speaking to Banging Bertha, known far and wide for her skill with powder and locks."

Geir stiffened; he knew the name. If Gravel Voice wasn't joking, one of the most wanted criminals in the entire North Sea Empire was right here in the warehouse with him.

"Quite so, Gjest (*), but I do need to actually get to the locks, you know. And I prefer not to be interrupted by merchants while I work; they tend to make rude remarks about my tits, not to mention the Penal Laws, and hangings, and suchlike unpleasant things."

Geir couldn't restrain a start of surprise; if that 'Gjest' meant what he thought it did, then the most wanted criminal (**) in Norway was also in the warehouse - and making plans with boring old Tormod, a man Geir knew best for his uncompromising attitude on apples and suchlike trifles. Truly life was full of surprises.

"Tormod will be our inside man," Gjest said. "So we've got him to let us in a back door and show us the strongroom, you to blow our way in, and me and a couple of boys I know to cart the loot and do any strong-arm work that's needed."

"And how do I know you and your boys won't cart away all the loot, strong-arming me as necessary?"

"I give you my word, yes? All the world knows that Gjest Baardsen is a man of honour. If I wasn't, who would bring me word of useful schemes like this? Come now, Bertha, you know this as well as I do. Thieves have honour or nobody brings them business, nobody helps them when they're on the lam, nobody thinks twice about ratting them out. Pimply strong-arm men who roll drunken sailors for two shillings can work that way; not the likes of you and me."

"True, but with a hundred thousand, you don't need any more business; on such a sum you can retire to sunny Spain, where they don't ask too many questions about where a man's money comes from. You've always dealt fairly, but maybe you were just building up your reputation for this one big score, no?"

Gjest sighed gustily. "Well, you're right; but I don't see what guarantee I can give you. Shall I swear on my mother's grave? Give you my silver watch for security? Cross my heart? Either you trust my word or you don't. If not, well, we'll call it off and let the exploiters get on with their truck and barter. So, are you in or out?"

There was a pause; at last Bertha said, "Oh, very well. You can only be hanged once, and I've got a price on my head already. I'm in."

"Splendid. Then I'll get my boys, you'll get your powders and oils, and Tormod will go and do his last day of service to a rich man. We'll meet here tomorrow night, an hour after sunset."

(*): For the non-Norwegian speakers, 'Gjest' is pronounced 'Yest'.
(**): Actually the reward for Bertha's capture is higher than that for Gjest; but Gjest is better known - he's the one with songs written about him. Like any woman in a male-dominated field, Bertha has to do twice the work to get half the recognition!

---------------------------------------------------​

October 6th, 1845
Randale mansion, Bergen, Norway
Evening

Geir had counted slowly to a hundred, three times, before daring to move; and when he finally did stir out of his hiding place, it was in the creeping expectation that Tormod's hard hand would any moment descend on his ear to capture him, as had happened in that memorable episode with the apples. But Gjest and Bertha, Geir thought, weren't the kind to be satisfied with a mere thrashing and a lecture; so gooseflesh ran all up and down his body, and his spine froze at every tiny stirring as he made his way out of the dark warehouse. But nobody grabbed him; once outside he breathed more freely - they wouldn't suspect him of overhearing if they saw him outside, would they? - and ran as fast as he could for the mansion house.

Once he got there, though, he slowed down; what, precisely, was he going to do? If he burst into the house babbling about Banging Bertha and, no less, Gjest Baardsen, both meeting in the warehouse - well, yes, if he hadn't heard it himself he wouldn't believe it either. He'd be sent to bed without supper for telling lies; or at best would have his hair ruffled and be told not to read so many penny-dreadfuls.

Then again, did he really need to save the master's money? He couldn't help but notice that the hero's reward, in that book, had been a position - a job, in other words, involving presumably hard work. Not, for example, bags of jingling silver money, or even "bearer bonds", whatever they were. Suppose he instead found Tormod and threatened to reveal the plot unless Tormod paid him - well, how much? Tormod wouldn't have any money now; if he did he wouldn't be a butler. And afterwards it would be too late, Tormod would be over the hills with his money and have no need to share with Geir. There was the honour among thieves that Gjest had talked about; but Geir didn't feel like relying on it, and anyway Tormod wasn't a thief, he was a dishonest servant. If he could have tried the blackmail trick on Gjest, the famous thief might have kept his word, supposing Geir stayed alive long enough to extract it; but Geir had no way of getting in touch with him.

No, it would have to be loyalty and information-leading-to; the question was how he could make anyone believe him. Perhaps if he left out the names of precisely who he had heard? Yes, he decided, that would work. Mention Gjest Baardsen and everyone would think he had been reading penny-dreadfuls again - well, he had, he admitted to himself; but that wasn't the point - but if he just said he'd heard thieves plotting to break into the strongroom, that was another matter. The master was deathly afraid of thieves. Even if he didn't believe Geir, he would put in extra guards just on the principle of the thing; and then Geir would be vindicated when the thieves were captured.

---------------------------------------------------​

October 7th, 1845
Randale warehouse, Bergen, Norway
An hour after sunset

For a famous thief with a price on his head, Gjest seemed quite calm about being surrounded by armed men; the master, on the other hand, was practically dancing with glee. "We got him!" he kept shouting. "Gjest Baardsen himself!"

"It's a fair cop, guv," the thief acknowledged. Now that Geir could actually see the man, he was less formidable than his reputation, and his deep voice in the dark, had made him seem the night before; a quite ordinary man in late middle-age, with grey eyes set far apart and a low forehead. But his stoicism was impressive; he had never been convicted of murder and so might escape the noose, but he could surely expect to be in prison the rest of his life.

"But then, how long was Adam in Paradise?" he quoted, and Geir realised with a shock that no, actually Gjest expected to escape from wherever he was put. He'd done it before; was famous for it, in fact.

"A noose ought to hold," the master shot back, referring to the line in the song asking what irons and bolts could restrain Gjest; but the threat was weak, and Gjest shrugged it off.

"I've done no murder, nor threatened any man, nor offered violence. If I weren't wanted for theft you wouldn't even have grounds to do more than run me off your property for trespass."

The master's lips drew back from his teeth, an alarming gesture. "Oddly enough, though, the reward for your capture is 'alive or dead'. I think they make them that way to encourage people to surrender." He weighed the pistol in his hand, consideringly; Geir was reminded that Randales didn't sit about in their mansions all their lives counting money. In his youth the master had gone out on the ships himself, as his sons were doing now, and had fought real pirates, not make-believe ones.

"Sir," one of the guards said, laying a restraining hand on the master's arm, "that's murder, and in cold blood at that. You'd hang. He's not worth it."

"It's not murder if he's trying to escape a lawful arrest," the master shot back. He looked around, challengingly. "Two men's witness is all it needs; you can all see him struggling and fighting, can't you?"

Looking unconcerned, Gjest began whistling, and Geir realised he knew the words, he just hadn't connected them to the living man in front of him: "Say what you will, and think what you can, and call him a thief and a highway man; this praise he shall have, for it's rightly his due: He steals from the rich and he gives to the poor." Suddenly Geir was uncertain; had he done the right thing, informing on Gjest? True, it meant his father's position, but... perhaps Gjest would have given them some of the money?

The guards were refusing to meet the master's gaze; they were happy enough to capture a thief, but apparently balked at conniving to murder one, at least when the thief was Gjest Baardsen. But Tormod, who had been looking increasingly green as he saw his life crashing down around him, suddenly burst out: "I'll do it! He's struggling and fighting, just as you say! And he threatened me, forced me at gunpoint, to let him in!"

Gjest raised his eyebrows, bemusedly; "That'll teach me to trust a man in honest employment," he remarked. The master, though, was grinning fiercely. "Aye, of course. You'll still be dismissed without reference," he noted, and Tormod nodded frantically, sealing the implicit bargain. A lie in court, in exchange for no charges being made; dismissal without reference was better than prison and disgrace.

"That's one, then." The master needed two witnesses that Gjest had been shot while trying to escape, rather than in cold blood; he looked around thoughtfully, searching for the second witness. His eye fell on Bertha, whom he had been ignoring to this point in his focus on Gjest. "What about you, sweet tits? What are you doing in this company, anyway? Bad girls get spanked, you know." Then he looked more closely. "I say - " he gestured for the lamp to be brought closer, and his eyes widened in recognition. "You're Banging Bertha!" he exclaimed.

"Damn straight," Bertha answered. "And I daresay I'm not too worried about spankings." Geir understood what she meant: Unlike Gjest, she had been convicted of violent crimes and thus faced hanging, not imprisonment. He was beginning to feel a bit sick; he'd expected - he didn't quite know what he had expected, but it wasn't this calm talk of murder and hangings. He'd saved his father's job, and the master's capital, and there was likely a reward in his near future - but he felt sick, all the same.

"Well then, how would you like a petition for clemency?" the master asked.

Bertha looked thoughtful. "It's a handsome offer," she admitted. "If it works. I've rather a lot of deaths on my conscience, you know; even a consul's plea for clemency might not be enough to save me from the Nordnes Tree - especially if there's any suspicion of, hmm, shady dealings." She straightened her shoulders, as much as she could with two burly men holding her. "No. I've killed by accident, and maybe it's fair I hang for it. I've never killed on purpose; and I won't start by ratting out a comrade to be shot in cold blood."

"That's fair dealing," Gjest remarked. "I owe you one, if we both get out of this."

"As you said," she answered. "We're neither of us two-shilling strong-arm men. Or murderers, either;" this last with a contemptuous toss of her head to indicate the master. Geir was confused; somehow the two thieves who had plotted to ruin half the gentry of Bergen, one of whom was wanted for gunpowder murder, had the moral high ground. After Bertha's speech, Geir wasn't at all surprised to see the two burly "boys" Gjest had brought shake their heads mutely when the master looked at them; presumably they weren't wanted for anything in particular, and would get out of this with at most a fine for trespass.

At last the master's eye came around to Geir, who stiffened under his regard. "What about you, boy? You've done well, helping me capture these thieves. The reward for them both is rightly yours. But I'll double it if you witness that Gjest is trying to escape."

Geir swallowed, trying to think. If he refused, would the master turn his father out into the street? That was what he'd been trying to avoid, throughout this Adventure - which he suddenly felt like spelling with a small 'a'. "How big is the reward?" he temporised.

"For Gjest, twenty-five riksdaler; for Bertha, a full fifty, she being wanted for murder. Total, seventy-five riksdaler."

"Um - what's that in shillings?" Geir could actually do the arithmetic in his head, but there wasn't any harm in looking a bit younger and naiver than he really was. The master smiled.

"Three thousand, six hundred shillings."

Geir blinked; he had apparently done the arithmetic wrong, for he'd come out with one-tenth of that. His father's wages were five shillings a week; three thousand six hundred would pay him for... confused, he couldn't come up with anything better than "a very long time". And the master was offering to double that?

"Th-that's a lot of money," he stuttered.

"Indeed it is," the master said. "We're agreed, then?"

The 'yes' trembled on Geir's lips; but he looked at Bertha, who had just refused to save her own life at the price of a lie, and at Gjest, who had joked about helping the poor in a way that suggested that the song might be a bit inaccurate - and at Tormod, who would rat out a comrade to save himself from prison. Gjest was no comrade of Geir's, in fact he was in some sense an enemy, having plotted to steal the capital that employed Geir's father and throw them out in the street to starve. But Geir suddenly felt a deep distaste for Tormod, and for this shadowy dealing in false witness and murder. It occurred to him that no penny-dreadful hero would have agreed to lie in court, but that didn't matter - his decision was made before the thought came to him, and had nothing to do with books. He wanted to be like Gjest, and not like Tormod; and so he said, low, "No, sir." He swallowed, trying to come up with some justification for his flat refusal, and suddenly remembered a dusty Bible lesson. "Thou shalt not bear false witness. Sir." He'd never thought religion was good for anything but church, before; but there it was, the explanation he'd been looking for.

"Nor covet thy neighbour's goods," the master replied; but it seemed Geir had reached him, for the tension in his shoulders eased. "But no, no, you're right. We'll give the law its chance; this isn't the Gold Coast." He glared at Gjest. "But make sure you tie that man up tight."

 

A Tour of Italy

A new era has begun for us in this centuries’ long campaign of global domination. The age of industry is upon us, as railroads and factories are springing up all over the world.
But all great things must come to an end. So it is with a heavy heart that I say goodbye to the Republic of Greater Italy. But from the ashes rises the phoenix. And so as Italy disappears a new and greater country takes it place. However, we will touch upon these changes later. For now, let us say goodbye to Italy as we take a tour of the country early on in the Industrial Era in the year 1846.


Background



Italy was formed from the Serene Republic of Venice by Mark. After unifying Italy, he pushed eastwards, conquering Illyria, European Greece, and Hungary. I took over in the 1720s and added Bulgaria and Constantinople to the realm. For most of its history, Italy was a patrician, merchant republic. It briefly became a kingdom under the d’Estes and then went back to a republic, albeit a constitutional one.


Population



Over 60 million people live in Italy and there are approximately 15.20 million people eligible to work. This puts us squarely in the middle of world populations. We are dwarfed by the 100 million Asian giants of China and India but we are close with everyone else. Hopefully it will increase as more people come to appreciate the beauty and majesty of the Italian land. As you can see, the vast majority of the population works as farmers or laborers. Hopefully the number of capitalists, clerks, and clergymen will increase with time.

The three main ethnic groups are North Italian, Greek, and Hungarian. All ethnic groups receive equal treatment, although there is significant resentment in Hungary (a fact that I made up but it makes it more interesting.) There is a smattering of other cultures, such as Austrian, Croatian, and Serbian in the east and Spanish in the west. The population is predominantly Protestant (sadly) with a small Sunni minority in the west, though religion does not play a major factor in the republic.


Literacy



Quite frankly, our population is a bit dim. But this should improve with time.


Budget



Our economy is relatively stable, with a daily profit of over 150…moneys. Unfortunately, taxes are quite high on every population in order to fund our education and administrative spending. Hopefully we will be able to lower taxes as the economy continues to grow. We owe 300,000 moneys to private investors after I received some inflation events at the end of EU3. Some of these events I accepted on purpose as a gamble to see whether owing money to Italian citizens would help boost the economy. We will see when I pay the debt back, though I doubt anything will change, meaning I am not the best economic manager.


Politics



Here is where things get interesting. My population is overwhelmingly conservative, so conservatives should have an iron grip on the government for the next few decades. That’s unfortunate for my reforms, although I was luckily able to allow party harassment in the beginning of the game (we’re a democracy after all) and I started with a few reforms. Fortunately, conservatives will allow me to subsidize industry, which is very important for the economy this early in the game.

Now, the parties are interesting. I have Canadian parties because the converter gave us parties based on how similar our country was to a vanilla Vicky country in regards to slider moves, national ideas, and such. So, in my case the convertor decided I was most similar to Canada and gave me Canadian parties.



Of course this makes no sense for the Italian government to have a party named “The Conservative Party of Canada” and I don’t want to totally ignore the name in my future AARs. So I will fanwank and offer an in-universe explanation. We shall examine a passage from Venetian Steel: The History of 19th Century Italy, which states, “Italy’s first constitution was ratified in 1761, which called for an officially democratic government with a presidential election and senate. In theory, Lodovico d’Este hoped to move the Italian government away from the patrician dominated governments of old centered around wealthy Venetian families, which was a republic in name only. In practice, this failed miserably, as after Lodovico’s death a Venetian patrician named Niccolo dello Torre was elected president and held his position for over fifty years. So, in 1835, the Italian government gathered once again and wrote a new constitution. The factions who favored government reform called themselves Canadians and dominated the proceedings. They amended the constitution to state that presidents would be chosen by different political parties instead of wealthy families. This opened up the seat of power to any politician across the republic, even those in the Greek and Hungarian provinces (though wealth still continued to determine political influence, of course). The constitution also guaranteed elections very four years and contained a bill of rights which protected free speech and the liberties of all citizens of republic, not just wealthy Italians and Greeks.

The Constitution of 1835 was a major step in a more progressive direction and would help guide the republic to increasingly democratic positions. However, it was far from a complete success in that regard, as the franchise was still limited to wealthy and landed men, trade unions were illegal, and the number of parties allowed to campaign for the presidency and senate was limited. Furthermore, the constitution proved to extremely divisive among the citizenry. Canadians split into conservative and liberal factions that disagreed about economic policy and the extent to which political rights should be given. Those who disapproved of the new constitution or wanted a restoration of the d’Este monarchy formed the Christian Heritage Party of Canada (the “of Canada” portion of the name added as a way to mock their political opponents who supported the new constitution). Finally, a fourth party emerged called the First People’s National Party. This party consisted of more radical Canadians, some of the lower class, and many Hungarians, who were angered with the system and demanded a complete overthrow and democratization of the government.”


Diplomacy



This is perhaps Italy’s greatest disappointment. The diplomacy itself is fine, as I have maintained good relations with most of Europe and have even begun to patch things up with Spain after being in a nasty war over a decade ago. What is disappointing is Italy’s ranking. Number 13 puts us right near the very bottom of world power rankings. Quite frankly, this is a bit preposterous given Italy’s military capacity and size. But my prestige is rather mediocre, having not recovered from the initial wars I lost when I took over Italy in the 1720s and not having the ability to gain extra prestige from colonizing like Britain, Norge, and others have. My low military score is a bit mystifying, though that could perhaps be attributed to my very weak navy. I believe my industrial score is reasonably sufficient and should continue to grow.


Odds and Ends



Alcoholism is a major problem in Italy



Which is why so much wine is needed to make canons (????)


You thought I was going to show you my military and technological secrets. Ha! I won’t tolerate any spies!


That’s all for now. Next AAR you will get to see the results of the changing winds taking place in Italy.




Portrait of Alessandro Garibaldi by Silvio Leggo, 1836*

*Though Alessandro Garibaldi was nicknamed "The Wretched" for his mediocre skills as a general of the Armata di Vienna, he was an extremely effective politician. Garibaldi was an influential member of the Canadian delegation at the second constitutional convention and later became leader of the Liberal Canadians, serving in the senate for thirty-four years.

 

I have to say that this strikes me as an odd description of a democratic-ish reform.

Great explanation. I usually just maintain a strict separation of gameplay and story, myself. Incidentally, I ended up with the Italian parties; would you like them back?

 

Actually, I made the newspapers also for last conversion Game which was before the V2 newspapers expansion. Would the inspiration be the other way around?

 

Hentzaus incoming.

 

last week's AAR

I - The Birth of Werner Schnodorf, and his illustrious ancestry

WERNER SCHONDORF
A whole century I have toiled !
They called me a fool !
They called my beautiful SCIENCE
Wrong and misguided !
But tonight it happens !
Tonight !

--Hentzau Reborn ! the laser neopera (Act I)

In many ways Werner Schondorf was the opposite of his father ; and yet, in many other ways, less so than most people would later think. For all the two men's divergence in values, in accomplishments and in eventual fate, their two lives seem really just one story – especially, as often, in retrospect.

Kurt Schondorf made his reputation in the early 1830s in Dollman's Dirty Division, the best and worst of the Bavarian Army. In the early stages of the War of Northeastern Aggression, 300 thousand Bavarians had crossed the French border, more or less every standing and reserve unit in Bavaria, from pot-bellied local militia pikemen in mismatched uniforms to the peerless and fierce Tyrolean Jäger, two black grouse feathers in their green cap. An other 300 thousand, every able-bodied man as could be found, reinforced the front lines in the following year, as the Inca intervention immobilized them along the Pyrenees in a deadlocked struggled. Most of either group died in the hellish passes of Pyrenees meatgrinder, where thousands died to buy a foot of ground – or nothing.

In what few remain in a army which just suffered near-200% casualties, it should not come as a surprise than a considerable portion would consist of cowards, shirkers, brave-players and shell-shocked wretches. And yet, something of Hentzau's mad pugnacity had seeped in Bavarians' blood or culture. Even as a ragged thirty thousand troops were pulled back from the front-line to police conquered territory, some fire-eaters among them wanted back in the fight. It was from those crazy knaves and braves Colonel Dollman formed, outside of regular command, his Dirty Division, the pride and shame of European soldiery, the elite of scum, a merry ragtag band of heroes and scoundrels to sow fear and devastation behind the Spaniard lines.

Corporal (formerly sergent) Jäger Kurt Schondorf was already a legend of sorts in the army. By then he had survived twenty battles, ten wounds (nine from the enemy and one knife stab from a now-dead French grenadier in a dispute over a cask of captured Spanish plonk), a bad case of the flux and two courts-martial. He cheated death, palmed cards, infuriated his officers and saw no reason for it to change. Dollman picked him in a minute.

The Division's methods were rough and unorthodox. In commandeered merchant and fishing boats, they would sail along the Spanish shore, under the nonplussed protection of the Nordic state-of-art-the-ships-of-the-line which blockaded it, storm some beach and destroy anything in the vicinity, then re-embark. That was all. For three years, as Dollman put it, they were alive. The material impact of their actions should not be overstated, although they killed as many soldiers as them at least and tied up even more. But they made an impression, and had a good time. Cities to the torch. Villages to the torch. Fields to the torch. Mosques to the torch. Ear necklaces and scalp epaulets. Corpses down the wells. Roasted prisoners. A taste of hell for Spain. A taste of heaven for Kurt.

He distinguished himself in every pitched fight and every atrocity, from the sack of Cadiz to the frantic, desperate fighting retreat from Saragoza toward the incoming Russian troops who had finally broken through the Pyrenees. When the war ended in 1835 he had a lieutenant brevet, Dollman's personal trust and two saddlebags full of Cordoban jewellery. Then the good years were over. Bavaria's High Command and government would not go so far as to condemn the Division's actions, which they had never explicitly ordered, but they did not care for the like of Dollman and Schondorf as peacetime soldiers and they had it made clear to them. It was time to quit.

Kurt Schondorf went back to his Tyrolean logging town of Eilingen, where he now was a big fish in a small pond. He still had his pockets lined with unofficial spoils, and Dollman's patronage allowed the poacher's son to marry the compromised daughter of a wealthy lumber mill owner. Maria's father died soon, and her wastrel brother was easily convinced to sell his shares of the mill for a reasonable remittance. A few years later Kurt made it big when coal was found in the region; he was at right place and the right time to invest in the new mine. The hungry boy loitering in the unpaved streets, the brutish grunt at the whipping post were readily forgotten. Now Mr Dollman was respectable, powerful figure in a booming industrial town. Werner stood to inherit it all.

His earliest memory of his father was a morning at the tavern, where for some reason he had taken him, and sat him on his knee while he drank schnapps and played Königsmark with other patrons. Kurt Schondorf was an excellent knave at cards, but an indifferent slave at best, and after two brave rounds where luck was against him he was fuming. Some remark set him off and he slammed the table. Of course the war had been a good thing! Anyone saying otherwise was a ****er. But what of the alliance with Spain?

“What of it? That alliance was worth ****. Some crap the Hentzaus came up with, and what did they accomplish? **** Hentzaus, and **** that game.”

It was the first time Werner heard the name Hentzaus, and he wondered why everyone around the table evidently agreed they had been a bad thing. The conversation continued ; Werner’s father conceded the Savoy Germans, whom the war had had ostensibly been fought to liberate from the Spanish yoke, were half-Germans at best, strange of language and ways, like the chain-loving Rhenans in Eastern France. But so what? When all Europe was taking a slice of Spain, what was Bavaria to do? Stand the war out and see France grow even more, without growing itself? ****ing nonsense. Three jacks had been down.

They went on about the people of the world. Werner listened, content to hear Bavarians were the best, and Bavaria the finest place on Earth. Beyond that he did not fully understand why Spaniards, who did not eat pigs, slept with them and not in beds; his young and perplexed mind understood the hair of pale-faced snow monkeys to be made of actual piss, and not just to share its colour. Frenchmen were the worst; Italians were acceptable, but often greedy and slothful; Russians fought bravely, but spoke the weirdest gobbledygook; Incans were all buggers, whatever that meant, and dressed as such.

Italians were slothful, and yet the Hentzaus had been Italian! Again with them! But Werner, at that point, found it hard to remain focused, and whatever was said afterwards he promptly forgot.

Werner's next memory of his father was considerably more hazy, and its real meaning would escape him until his late adolescence. He had awaken at night to glimpse him sitting at dinner table with two men he would later meet at the mine office. One was Samuel Katz, the chief accountant. The other was an engineer named Karl Lessing.

“There is no Lessing&Katz company, his father was telling them. You will find nothing gets done in Eilingen without me.”




Research points please.

 

II - How Werner Schnodorf familiarized himself with the Hentzaus of yore

WERNER SCHONDORF
Many worlds have watched me dream,
Before dying.

--Hentzau Reborn ! the laser neopera (Act I)

Samuel Katz lacked the decisiveness and moral fiber he would have needed to truly make it in the cutthroat business of 1840s coal trade, but he was canny enough to please his employer, and by extension his son. He quickly noticed how the boy Werner Schondorf loved the cheap Hentzau novels by Anton Hoffnung, as did, in fact, every literate boy of his generation who could somehow procure them. Therefore he did not miss an occasion, birthday, name-day or new year, to gift him with one of them, in the most splendid edition available, with lavish engravings and an embossed, red and gold cover.

Kurt Schondorf, in fact, did not think much of reading as recreation, an activity notoriously conductive to softness and fruitery. The very subject actually reminded him of his angry scorn for the sodomites and parasites in the growing Bavarian administration, who employed his tax money for dreaming up Rights of Man and such, while the railroad had not even reached Eilingen yet. But it had been pointed to him that eggheads, in fact, intensely disliked Hoffnung’s works for their levity and inaccuracy, and Hentzau Wrath in Muhammad’s Salt Mines properly piqued young Werner’s interest in the family’s business ; so the books were tolerated.

They were young Werner’s haven and escape. When his father, downstairs, got angry and loud after schnapps, the boy in his room delved in them rapturously, hands on his ears; he tried not to listen, pretended not to hear, and for a while, he truly did not. The Hentzaus as novel characters, brawny tricksters and wordly masterminds, appealed to his youthful imagination even more than the exotic settings. To the timid, friendless boy, they offered vicarious courage and surrogate camaraderie. Their ruthless, cynical outlook seduced him. He could not help but imagine himself at their side, as the plucky squire or grateful freed prisoner who almost always attached himself to their adventures, far from Eilingen.

Soon he had read them all in the collection, and started re-reading them until he knew them by heart, smuggling candles in his room by night, pretending to be sick by day to skip his private lessons. He learnt more, anyway, or so it seemed, from the didactic asides which padded the book chapters. “At 458 degrees… iron melts” said Heinrich von Hentzau (with a smirk) in Prisoners of the Greek Dungeons!! before cutting through his chains with a ray of sunlight and a makeshift lens. Blood on Snow listed the twenty-six words Baltic pidgin had for waves. In Hentzau Hunting he read all about the strange, deadly beasts of the Inca rainforest and the ingenious traps local hunters rely on.

One afternoon, as he was reading the exploits of Rupert von Hentzau cleaving though the mongrel hordes of Mongolia, Werner was drawn out of the story by a curious sensation of being watched. No one, obviously, was in the room. What about the window? The Schondorf house was on that side of Eilingen where the forest had not been felled yet for his father’s lumber mill ; beneath the empty garden, there was a steep slope of old pines, and beneath it again the familiar snow-topped mountains. No one in sight.
Maybe it had been a bird, he thought, opening his book again. Or just an impression.
Five hundred meters hundred a lean, dangerous man was leaning behind a fallen three, unusual-looking binoculars in hand. Everything about him looked normal. Everything about him looked alien, from the strange cut of his camouflage cloth to that of his blonde beard and hair. In fact he himself looked altogether out of place in the whole world, like the figure of the man drawn on top of a pre-existing background.
He opened his other hand and a life-size, trembling head flickered into existence above it. Its face, on the right side, had a brotherly resemblance to the stranger’s own, but looked visibly older; on the left side, it dissolved in a ghastly confusion of scars and burns.

“Is that him?” the disfigured head asked in a strange Nordic language. Is it the Hentzau conjurer? The spacetime tinker?”
“It’s a boy obsessed by Hentzau junk. Unusually perceptive.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“That’s all I can tell here and now. Do you want me to go ahead and terminate him?”
“No. We cannot take that risk until we are sure. We are running out of worlds to sacrifice… Do you truly see nothing else?”
“There is nothing else to see.”

The grey-haired head pondered the deflection.

“If I stay longer I may find out more,” the man with the binoculars offered.
“No. Every minute you stay in this timeline is a chance for the Enemy to detect us. We will have to make sure at the next window of opportunity.”
“Very well.”
In a blink the man and his two heads disappeared.

Gameplay stuff and stuff like that :
I could not do much but I encouraged bureaucrats and literacy and researched some effete technologies to get more focus and research points.

Overall it was boring but at least more tense that late EU.



Research points please.

I hope you're happy Andre

 

At 458 degrees...iron melts!

 

It is known!

 

Hey, this is getting pretty good, Kuipy. Keep it coming.

 

Capital

May 8th, 1856
A garret in Copenhagen, Norway
Morning

"Are you coming to the speech?"

Geir looked up from the passage he'd been laboriously translating with some relief. The Greek was straightforward, but the convoluted Aramaic stubbornly refused to match it - either he, or the man who'd written the Greek passage, was making a fundamental mistake somewhere. He was glad, therefore, to see his room-mate Johann; he was an indifferent student, but could be relied upon for interesting distractions.

"Eh, why not?" he said, flinging the text down and stretching out the knots in his back. "I decline to decline any further Aramaic verbs until I've had the chance to decline some beers, which chance I shall decline. Who is speeching?"

"What do you care? All you want is to get away from the Aramaic."

"True," Geir conceded, "but if it's some idiot from the Kristelig Folkeunion I might stretch the week's budget as far as a couple of rotten eggs." Opposition to the party of the aristocrats had been, to a good first approximation, Geir's only strong political opinion, ever since their leader had suggested raising the tuition at the University "to keep the riff-raff out". As one of the riff-raff, and one who had to live (and pay tuition, and books, and beer...) off a fixed sum until he graduated - no wealthy parents to bail him out, if he overspent - Geir had not been pleased.

"No, no, quite the opposite," Johann assured him. "It's Baardsen - you know, the famous writer."

"Gjest Baardsen?" Geir stopped looking for his left shoe to stare at Johann. "I thought he was in jail!" An old uncertainty twinged. His actions that night had probably been right; but they had also led to a hanging and two imprisonments, of people Geir had, actually, come to admire a little on less than an hour's acquaintance. The hypothetical bankruptcies that had been avoided seemed, somehow, not as weighty, even though they would have been far more numerous; things that hadn't happened couldn't quite match definite events. In any case it wasn't as though his ten-year-old self had had any real understanding of the ethics; he'd acted from a desire to protect his father and himself, and from a surfeit of trashy novels. Reasonable enough, in a child; but that was why he was here, studying religion and law and philosophy, so he could avoid making a choice on such a basis again, and perhaps put his mind at rest over what he'd done.

"He was, but they let him out in the general amnesty when the Crumpet was born." That was student slang for His Royal Highness, Olav MacRaghnall, more formally titled the Crown Prince.

"Oh? Good." The man had still been in jail for - Geir calculated quickly - a bit over eight years; but at least he wouldn't die imprisoned. It eased his doubt slightly. He found the left shoe behind the water bucket, and they went down the rickety stairs.

"You agree with him, then?" Johann asked. Geir thought carefully before answering. His reaction hadn't had anything to do with politics, but confessing to a personal sympathy for the notorious agitator and rabble-rouser wasn't likely to do his academic standing any good either - in fact, that was the kind of thing that got students from non-wealthy backgrounds expelled on any grounds that were convenient. Not that Johann was likely to rat him out, but... he chuckled awkwardly.

"Honestly, I have no idea! Never read the man." An outright lie; in fact he had memorised every pamphlet and devoured both the books,searching for clues on what he should have done that night. "But I hate to see people in jail. Chop their heads off and be done, I say."

"A great saving in food," Johann agreed.

They had reached the main quadrangle of the university; the garret they shared was cheap because it had been shakily added to an existing building and the wind whistled through the gaps where the landlord had saved on timber, not because of its location. The quad was already full of people; students in dark suits, but also a crowd of men in cheap Russian wool, wearing knitted hats instead of the academics' flat bonnets. There were, Geir noted with some concern, bottles going around and a marked lack of women and children; he took prudent note of the exits, in case things turned violent. They were, unfortunately, rather narrow; space was at a premium in Copenhagen. In many places the upper-floor apartments hung out over the streets, making tunnels rather than canyons.

A barking cheer announced that things were about to get started; men were climbing the central stage that overlooked the quadrangle, originally intended for the lecturer, back when the University had met in the open and consisted of a man reading slowly from a book so that the scholars could make their own copies, and become learned men by possessing written knowledge. Now it was used by senior faculty to address the students on holidays, and for political speeches.

Prison had not been kind to the famous thief. When Geir had last seen him he'd been a man in late-but-vigorous middle age, with dark hair and still quite capable of doing his own strong-arm work. The orator taking the stage now was unambiguously old, with white hair and the careful movements of a man with little strength left over for anything but the minimum required motions. Mr Randale had brought a dozen brawny warehouse workers to subdue him; as he was now, ten-year-old Geir might have sufficed. But his voice was still surprisingly powerful, the same deep gravelly bass that Geir remembered, booming out now incongruously from the sunken chest and easily making itself heard all over the quadrangle.

"When I was young," he began, "I thought that helping the poor could be done by taking from the rich; and so I defied the law and the church, and gave away what I had stolen, and it's true, there are men alive now who would have starved if not for bread that they bought with money Gjest Baardsen stole. But when the bread was eaten, what then? The silver I took with risk to life and limb trickled, by devious paths, back to the men I'd robbed: For who else owned the farm that grew the grain that made the bread that fed the child for whom I stole? And although I was the best thief in Christendie, still I could not steal a farm; to do so you need armies, or lawyers."

There was an angry growl of agreement; some of these men had perhaps been turned out of their yearly tenantcies when sheep became more profitable, or seen it happen to their fathers. The Americas remained hungry for labour, but not everyone could muster the price of passage or the desire to spend years hacking farms out of raw forest; the poor districts of Copenhagen, and every other city in Norway, teemed with such men, working perhaps one day in three and drinking the other two.

"In prison I had time to think, and here is what I thought: There is enough bread in Norway today to feed every child; there is no need that anyone should go hungry. Why, then, does it take a thief to get the bread out of the warehouses and into empty bellies, where it rightly belongs? Only because some men have more than they need, more even than they can stuff into gaping, open gullets and bellies swollen with years of overeating. They gave me the name of thief, and I bear it proudly; but the real thieves are the ones who keep bread they cannot eat, and won't let others near it, for love of silver. Let me be a thief, then! But let me do it properly, this time: Not with lawyers, but with an army: Workers and peasants, the largest armies on this Earth! I'll steal no more silver, no more bread, no more goods at retail. Only wholesale theft for me: Farms and factories, ships and white sails, gold mines and green forests! Take from the rich, yes, and give to the poor; but not bread. Take the means of production from the few rich thieves that own them, and give those to the poor; and then who will be poor after that, when every man owns what he needs to make his living?"

Some of the students, who were there mainly for entertainment, took Gjest's pause for breath as their cue to jeer and throw things; the working men, on the other hand, filled the space with cheers of agreement, and some of them turned around to glare menacingly at the jeerers. Geir could see a brawl developing, and began to think about a strategic retreat; genteel fisticuffs with the scions of the aristocracy after the bars had closed was one thing, but dock workers tended to fight rough and to take pleasure in kicking men who were down.

His thoughts were interrupted, however, by a tramp of boots; turning, he saw with a sinking sensation that the street he'd come out of had been closed by a company of soldiers, fixed bayonets glittering against the backdrop of black uniforms. An officer came out to stand in front of his men, and read from a sheet of paper in a loud command voice:

"Our Sovereign Lord the King charges and commands all persons, being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves, and peaceably to depart to their habitations, or to their lawful business, upon the pains contained in the act made in the first year of King Eirik, for preventing tumults and riotous assemblies. God Save the King!"

He was, Geir realised with a chill, literally reading the crowd the Riot Act; and although the Act technically provided that the people thus addressed had an hour to disperse before deadly force was authorised, the bayonets and the tense eagerness of the soldiers suggested that they were expecting to fight - often a self-fulfilling prophecy. Worse, more soldiers were blocking other exits, making it impossible for thousands of men to disperse; and one group was making their way towards the stage, presumably to arrest the speaker.

"We'd best get out of here," Johann hissed, tugging on Geir's sleeve.

"You don't say?" Geir returned, looking around frantically for a way out. Then it occurred to him that there was a man nearby with vast experience of this sort of thing, and he returned his attention to the podium. Indeed, Gjest was being supported down the stairs by two of his brawny followers, moving much more rapidly now.

"We'll follow them," Geir said, pointing; "they'll have a plan." He started forward, Johann on his heels.

It was hard to move quickly through the crowd, which was milling around uncertainly, unsure of where to go and of what was going on. Not many workers had the education to recognise the Riot Act or to catch the meaning of a phrase like "peaceably to depart to their habitations", said in the open air over the mutter of a crowd; and many of them were drunk. The mood of the crowd was uglier by the minute; Geir was beginning to understand why students who'd lived in Copenhagen all their lives spoke with such respect of its mob. He'd always thought that a mob was just a bunch of people, a synonym for 'crowd' or 'band'; now he was in the middle of a crowd that was becoming a mob, and understood the difference.

Geir had just reached the stage when the first paving stone flew; it struck a soldier on the head with an authoritative thump/, and the incipient mob crystallised. "Land and Bread!" someone shouted, and immediately it was on hundreds of lips; knives came out of boots and belts, and more stones were ripped out of the pavement. The soldiers who'd been trying to reach the stage disappeared in a shower of missiles and then bodies, arms rising and falling rhythmically; the screams of pain and iron scent of blood threw the mob into a frenzy, and they began to surge towards the exits.

Words of command sounded, and then rifle volleys, like knitting needles in Geir's ears. His mouth was dry with terror; once it had come to shots fired, the army would not make fine distinctions - they would keep firing until nothing moved in the quadrangle, or until the mob overran them. Where had Gjest got to? There - they'd gone through that door, still swinging on its hinges. He ran for it, aware that he was being followed; other students, presumably, as eager to get out of this killing field as he was.

He got through the door with a gasp of relief, then stopped short: The knife wasn't quite literally at his throat, but it was pointed that way, and the man holding it looked like he'd used it before. "Not so fast, there," he said. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Anywhere that doesn't have soldiers shooting at me," Geir said honestly.

"Good for you; but this is our bolt-hole. You lot can find your own. Shoo!" The man, a huge red-bearded fellow who spoke in a singsong northern dialect, gestured meaningfully with the knife. In ordinary circumstances it would have intimidated Geir into submission; but compared to rifles - grapeshot too, to judge by the deep booming sounds that could only be cannon - and thousands of angry men, even a knife that verged on sword size wasn't so much of a much. Besides, Geir had comrades behind him, and the northerner was alone.

"If it has only this exit it's not much use for escape, is it? How about you go through, then we go through, and nobody bothers anyone else? You shoo." Geir wished for a knife, even a tiny one, to make threatening gestures with, but had to settle for balling his hands into fists. Johann came up beside him, and he had - of course - a bottle of beer, which he was holding by the neck, ready to smash it to make a nasty weapon.

"We're trying, dammit," the man said.

"Well, what's the problem? Move along!"

"We can't! It's Gjest - he's sick, he can't breathe!" Geir felt a sudden abrupt change in his sympathies at the anguish in the man's voice. A moment ago he'd been ready to trample an obstacle in his rush to escape; now he saw a man worried about his leader and doing the only thing he could for him.

"All right, look - I've studied anatomy." Well, he'd certainly bought the textbook, anyway, and he'd looked quite intently at some of the drawings too, although presumably Gjest didn't have those particular parts. "Let me have a look at Gjest, I'll see what I can do for him, meanwhile these friends of mine will go through quietly, all right?"

"You're a doctor?" The look of sudden hope on the man's face made guilt well up in Geir; but it was life and death, and no time for scruples.

"Studying to be one," he said, not quite honestly. He had not yet decided to quit after his lower degree, so it was quite possible that he'd get his doctorate in a few years; and if the man chose to interpret that as doctor of medicine rather than philosophy, well, Geir hadn't told him any outright lies.

"All right, come in - the exit's through there - go quiet, now," the man said, putting the knife back in its sheath. The other students began filing through the hallway; Geir followed the northerner to where Gjest lay on a table, his shirt open, gasping for breath and holding his chest as if trying to keep his heart from escaping. It was an anatomical theatre, Geir realised with a chill, and the table was for dissections. He hoped it wasn't an omen.

"All right, give me some room," he said, affecting confidence; sweet sod-all he knew about medicine, but if the keyed-up men surrounding Gjest realised he was bluffing them, there was no telling what they'd do. He'd have to put on his best game face and maintain the bluff until he could get out.

"So, difficulty breathing, chest pain," he said, listing what was obvious to anyone; but Gjest nodded as if he'd said something sensible, and there was a slight relaxation in the room. Clearly he didn't have to be very convincing; these people were desperate for a doctor, any kind of doctor. He could probably count Gjest's teeth and bleed him to let the excess humours out without anyone raising an eyebrow. He rubbed his chin. "Ordinarily I would prescribe rest, darkness, and quiet. That is perhaps not very practical."

"Don't think so," Gjest gasped out. "Guess I've given my last speech, eh?"

"I - well, that's possible, yes," Geir had to agree. "But let's not give up quite yet. A dram of whiskey sometimes has a calming effect on the heart. Does anyone have any?" For all he knew a dram was deadly poison to Gjest, but it sounded good, and that was all he needed. A bottle of whiskey came out of someone's pocket, and Gjest took a long draught; it might have helped a bit, for the set of his shoulders relaxed slightly.

"Feels a little better," he said, and his followers - there were five of them, four men and a woman - all looked at Geir as though he'd worked a miracle.

With his authority thus established, Geir could afford to admit some ignorance; he didn't want their hopes so high that they'd kill him if Gjest died.

"I'm afraid that's all that can be done right now. Don't get up!" he added hastily. "Rest and quiet, that's what you need. Which the army is quite unlikely to give you. But if you lie back, and you and you" - he pointed to the two brawniest followers - "break the legs off the table and pass them under it, like so, we'll have a passable stretcher and we can get out of here without straining your heart."

"Clever, lad." Gjest managed a chuckle while his followers scrambled to do as Geir said; they had perhaps been rather panicked, or they'd surely have thought of it themselves. "Why are you helping us, though? You're - ah, **** that hurts - on the other side, aren't you?"

Geir looked aside. "I wasn't born to money," he said quietly. "And, well, I did you a bad turn once. Maybe I can make up for it a little."

"Really? You look a bit young to have done anything, good or bad, before I was in jail."

Geir flushed. They said confession was good for the soul; and who knew, perhaps Gjest would forgive him - he hadn't known what he did.

"The night you were arrested - I was there," he said, and Gjest interrupted.

"You're the boy who wouldn't bear false witness!"

"I suppose I am," Geir said, surprised.

"Well then, you saved my life; and you might have got seventy-five riksdaler for it, too."

"I - yes, I suppose you could say that." Geir hadn't really thought of it like that; it was the warning he'd given Mr Randale, about the thieves meeting in his warehouse, that had occupied his obsessing over the crucial event of his young life. "But I'm the one who ratted on you!" Oops, he could have put that better.

"Oh - that's how he knew," Gjest said. "I thought Tormod - well, never mind, what he got he had coming to him anyway. I can't say I'm happy about it, but fair's fair, I was there to steal. And anyway you were what, twelve?"

"Ten," Geir admitted.

"Well. The great Gjest Baardsen, brought down by a boy of ten playing in a warehouse - I suppose that's how you found out? I don't know what I was thinking, meeting actually on my victim's property. Getting sloppy, getting slow, getting old. Someone else would have gotten me, if you hadn't." He gasped, clutching his chest tighter. "Oh, God. No disrespect to your doctoring, lad, but I think it's a priest I need most now."

"I - I know where to find one," Geir said. They weren't far from the university chapel. There was a tightness in his throat.

"Then lead us there, if you would." He looked at his followers. "And you'll drop me off and run, and not argue; I don't think I need to worry about jail now, but I'd as soon not see anyone else lose years of their lives. And besides, you're needed to carry on the work." He held their gazes, one by one, until they'd all nodded assent.

"As for you, lad - what's your name, anyway?"

"Geir. Geir Randall."

"Spear, in the old speech; and the surname means you're related to the kings." Gjest was wandering, now; but he brought himself back with a start. "I'm dying, I think. So listen carefully. I've got two things to say. First thing. Don't forget where you're from. The money you got for me and Bertha was luck, and I see you're using it wisely. But don't forget what your life would have been without it." Geir nodded; his throat had closed, leaving him unable to speak. "Second thing. We're even. Every man's hand is raised against a thief, and I don't hold a grudge for that. But you could have got rich by killing me, and you didn't. You don't owe me anything, hear?"

"Thank you," Geir whispered; something in his head, that had been tightly wound for ten years, relaxed at last.

They'd reached the chapel, and the duty priest came running out, carrying the oil and the Eucharist. He asked no questions, but knelt by Gjest's side where his followers had put him down, and daubed his forehead with the oil, rapidly reciting the blessing for the sick, to Gjest's groaned amens.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Gjest ground out, each word seeming to cost him a great effort. His voice fell to a whisper, and Geir heard no more of what passed, until at last the priest stood up.

"May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you and lead you to eternal life," he said. The tears finally flowed from Geir's eyes.

 

"Greetings Father Jean," said the aged priest entering Jean's not so humble abode.
"Oh **** off with the fancy talk, Francois. We only have to act like that in front of the plebs." Jean replied.
Francois was shocked.
"Jean how dare you curse?! God sees all, whether you're in a pulpit or not."
"Shame he doesn't exist." Jean said plainly.
"God have mercy upon you, I hope you are joking. Let us cease this petty quarrel. It has come to several priests' attentions that you are not using your local collection for the sake of the church." said Francois.
"Bull. ****." Francois declared.
"Really? Then tell me how you payed for this mansion?"
"I inherited it."
"What about the gold plated flooring?"
"That was a wedding gift from my father."
"3 storeys. 1,000 square metres. A wedding gift? Do you really expect me to believe that?"
"It's true."
"Well I guess it could be true, if we ignore the facts that your dad died before you were born and you are not married. Speaking of love, we have good evidence to show that you have been frequently using prostitutes."
"That's such a lie!" Jean retorted. " ... Who told you anyway?"
"Many of the prostitutes themselves, one of them showed an ancient relic you payed her with."
"But you obviously can't believe any of those *****s."
"Why ever not?"
"They're all complain-face sluts!" said Jean.
Francois closed his eyes and began to pray while disapprovingly shaking his head.

Francois finished and spoke again,
"Ok Jean, I think the church can overlook the gold flooring and prostitute use. However, l think something needs to be done about your business ventures..."
"What are you talking about?" Jean asked innocently.
"Apparently you charge a small price for premier seating, including the front 3 pews as well as the middle 3 pews which have extra cushioning."
"Well the elderly people might want a better view so I have to reserve those front pews for their bag blind eyes. As for the cushions, some people might have disabled backs and so need a bit more support, and I charge them a small fee for the cushions. You see, it's really quite fair." explained Jean.
"Well that might be so," said Francois, "but what about the Greek servants who go around, while you preach, selling snacks."
"What? So it's against the bulb to eat food? Bloody hell man, it's just hot dogs and burgers, I'm not starting a gourmet restaurant!"
"Well no because the local council rejected your planning application for a 2-storey restaurant in front of your church"

Silence.

"Anyway," Francois continued, "we also have reason to believe that you rent out the church to swinging parties every Friday night."
"Go forth and multiply." Jean said in defence.
"That may be but can you explain the abundant narcotics we found after searching your church?" questioned Francois.
"Ahh I was looking for those! The king left them there after his visit. You might want to send them back, he's threatening to close down every church in Avignon if he doesn't get them back by Tuesday."
"Ok, but what about your business empire? 41 people have died in your 8 small factories."
"It doesn't matter."
"Why not?"
"They were Muslims!"
"They were still human beings!"
"Human beings, yes. But also, dirty Allah-worshipping scumbag human beings."

"Look, Jean, I'm sorry but you are not living a Christian life, so I am going to have to seize your church and assets."
"But the king has already decided to make me the next Archbishop of Avignon!" said Jean.
Francois was shocked. He left immediately.


---

During the French war against Spain, many of the Avignon priests took over Spanish estates around Avignon.

The priests were in constant battle to become the next archbishop. They tried to win favour from the king by holding fancy parties for him and his courtiers. As the luxury of these parties increased, the priests looked for ways to expand their assets to pay for the parties. They slowly bought more land from the poor Spanish farmers around them.

By the mid-19th century, the city of Avignon had turned into a sizeable enclave comprising of several towns and farms. The Spanish king, infuriated by this growing enclave asked to buy it from the French in return for the Spanish enclave.

 

Return of the Romans

“Four in the mornin’, and I’m zonin
They say I’m possessed, it’s an omen
I keep it 300, like the Romans
300 bitches, where the Trojans?
Baby we livin in the moment
I’ve been a menace for the longest
But I ain’t finished, I’m devoted
And you know it, and you know it”
-Kanye West

The Sultanate of Rum’s adoption of their name was an act of remarkable hubris and presumptuousness. What then, does that make the Republic of Greater Italy’s adoption of another Roman name in 1846, almost two centuries after the fall of the Eastern Roman Empire? Was it an act of madness, folly, and arrogance? Perhaps so, though examined closer the reasons for the name change are quite understandable.

The Second Constitution of the Republic of Greater Italy famously left the nation in a state of confusion and disarray. Political parties, such as the conservative and liberal Canadians, arose out of the ground and began to viciously compete for power and influence. Pamphlets, demonstrations, and vigorous campaigning arose for the first time in Italy. Party figureheads denounced the other side as being not patriotic enough, slaves to the church, thieves of public money, and so on. This mass campaigning soon led to mass demonstrations, unrest, and violence. Though the conservatives easily won the first three elections, the damage was done.

But events beyond the political sphere became the most problematic for the republic. Militancy rose among the poor population due to supposed government neglect of industries. The tipping point came in foreign policy. After the quick defeat of Bavarian and Italian troops by France-Allemagne and Norge, thousands took to the streets of the major cities such as Venice, Milan, and Constantinople. A group of generals, led by Alessandro Garibaldi and Lodovico di Cavour, seized the Senate Building and the President’s Palace (formerly the Doge’s Palace) proclaimed the Roman Republic and set about writing a new constitution.





Militancy was extremely high among the population in this period

The generals had the wise sense to keep most of the existing political infrastructure intact and not to restrict any of the political safeguards in the constitution. In fact, they added more, including the right for citizens to vote via secret ballots and less restrictions on trade unions.

But what did the name change to the Roman Republic, or “New Rome”, accomplish? The allure is obvious. The name would connect the Italian Republic to the glories of old Rome and Constantinople and officially sanctioned the country’s claim as the successor to the Roman Empire (despite the fact that the Kingdom of Greece was still intact).

However, there is another benefit that is not as obvious. Since the conquest of Hungary, the Hungarian population had been discontent with Italian rule. They believed (rightly so) that they were treated as second class citizens and that their lands were resources for the Italian patricians to exploit. These claims were furthered when the First Constitution did not clamp down on the power of Venetian patricians, who still were able to claim the positions of power in government. Changing the name of the Republic of Greater Italy to the Roman Republic was an inclusive move and a nod to the Greek and Hungarian populations. They would no longer be foreigners ruled by the Italian government, they were now Roman citizens. The change obviously held a tremendous amount of appeal to Greek citizens who believed that Greek culture was a continuation of the glories of the Roman and Byzantine past. Hungarians were also mostly satisfied thanks to the change but mostly thanks to the greater freedoms in the new constitution and the ability to wield more political power. This satisfaction would not last, of course, as the Hungarian discontent would regrow in later years. But overall, the adoption of the Roman Republic was a success in the short term.



The population was initially satisfied after the adoption of the Roman Republic

-From Rebirth of Rome by Giuliano Castigliari, 1972






Celebration of New Rome by Carlo Rosetti, 1846

 

This is a really interesting campaign, been following it for a while. These AARs are really good.
Also could somebody please post an updated map?

 

Here you go:



France lost of lot of land in a war with Spain, Italy, and Bavaria.

Very dark blue: France-Allemagne
Dark blue: Malaya
Medium blue: Norge
Light blue: Greece
Red: Great Britain
Pink: USA (Former Incan Empire)
Yellow: Spain
Grey- Bavaria
Light green: Roman Republic (Italy)
Dark green: Russia
White: Nejd
Brown: Sindh
Purple: India
Dark beige: Mongolia
Light beige: China

Still need a player for Nejd if you would like to join!

 

Which after the recent war might more reasonably be called Northern Allemagne-France.