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Hamlet – William Shakespeare
“My father was murdered, and I will have revenge upon his enemies,” the young prince said in a voice as pitiless as the hiss of the headsman’s axe. “I know who they are as surely as if I were standing next to him when the foul blow was struck.”
He looked down one side of the council table and then the other. “My father said that no insult could be forgotten until it was forgiven. And he never, ever forgave the Saxons of Transyvania or the Black Crow of Hungary. We had long been making discreet preparations so that we might be avenged upon them both, a cause my father did not live to see carried out. My father rode out that fateful night to meet a man who swore he could turn over important fortifications to us. Instead – he met with treachery and I rule in his place. And I will have revenge upon his enemies!”
“This is an insult to you, noble sirs. This is an insult to me. An insult to my father, to the House of Basarab, to every boyar and comitu of Wallachia! The Saxons have squatted on their hill, year upon year, sneering down at us. They make jokes about us, they mock our language and our ways, they call us – us! The true sons of Imperial Rome! – they dare to call us barbarians! They have demanded - not asked, as true men would, but demanded! – concessions and monopolies on our trade. They have conspired against us, made war upon us and treacherously slain our Prince!”
“Men of Wallachia, to their insults what is your answer!?”
“WAR! WAR! WAR!”
“Then let the dragon banner fly!
Notes from ‘Hamlet and Radu IV, A Comparison of Gifted Sons’: Doctoral Thesis, Porter Hopson, University of Bienville
Looking at a map, one might conclude that the alliance headed by Prince Radu IV of Wallachia was severely outmatched. Wallachia was the strongest of a coalition that mustered only Byzantium, Serbia and Moldavia, and Wallachia herself was no heavyweight. Hungary, Poland, Holstein, Hesse and Savoie were lands far more populous, or rich, or both.
In fact, Radu’s blow was shrewdly timed and placed. All his allies adjoined Wallachia, but of his enemies only Hungary and Poland could bring armies to bear. Having been at war with most of Italy for a decade, the Hungarian alliance was exhausted of money and men and bereft of hope. At this critical juncture, this alliance found itself committed to a new war in Germany, beset by Denmark, Sweden, Brandenburg and Lithuania.
And then Radu struck.
Of all the central and eastern European nations, the only ones not at war with Hungary and Poland were Austria and Bohemia. The Hapsburgs were gambling for giant stakes in France and content to wait for Hungary to beg for their assistance; the Bohemians were simply glad that someone else was on the bottom of the pile for a change.
It is important to bear in mind that Prince Radu was still a young man and a largely unknown quantity when he lead his nation to war. It is easy for us to look back over the adult accomplishments of Radu cel Mare (‘the Great’) and assume that his success in this first campaign was inevitable, whereas nothing could be farther from the truth. There were three critical theaters in this first season of war, and while a defeat in any one would have been serious; a defeat in two would certainly have been ruinous.
In the west, the Serbs and Croats faced each other along the valley of the Sava River. All that was required was a stalemate, but the outnumbered Croats broke and ran, allowing the Serbs to rampage across the countryside. This effectively removed Croatia from the war and intermittently from the map of Europe.
In the center, Radu led his army of vengeance into Transylvania and made a smoking ruin of a prosperous region. Scarcely a village was spared, and the Saxons who were not killed outright were driven out with little or nothing. Some of the Hungarian lords led their household troops south in defense of their Saxon subjects but never in sufficient strength to accomplish anything but their own defeat.
It is in the east, therefore, that we must look for decision in this critical first year of war. Moldavia was possessed of a large and efficient army and ruled by a strong and able king – the justly named Stefan cel Mare (‘the Great’). But Stefan was in his later years (he died in 1507), and not able to take the field for long campaigns as he had done in earlier times. And as bitterly as he resented vassalage to Vlad ‘the Spider’, vassalage to a boy Prince like Radu must have galled him even more. Asked for his advice, Stefan had counseled against this war, and he must have seethed with indignation to go unheeded. In any event, the Moldavian forces abandoned their campaign in Podolia in the spring of 1496 and returned home.
The only uncommitted forces available to the Hungarian alliance were those of the lords of southeastern Poland. Shrewdly calculating that one good victory would drive Moldavia out of the war and force the Wallachians home from Transylvania, King Jan Olbracht sent funds and royal permission to command an army to Count Zygmunt of that region. Drawing support from an area largely untouched by war, Zygmunt led his forces down the Dniester valley and into Moldavia.
If King Jan Olbracht expected Stefan cel Mare to be intimidated, he misjudged. Opposed to the war he was and unimpressed by the boy Prince of Wallachia he might be, but Stefan was a prideful old lion and a staunch man of his word. It speaks to us even now that he could rise above his anger, set aside his bitterness and gamble his kingdom for a vow he must have spent his life regretting. Through late May and early June he summoned his lords and sworn men to their duty and then led them forth up the wide Dniester valley in search of destiny.
And on June 15, 1496, he found it on The Field of Flowers.
“My father was murdered, and I will have revenge upon his enemies,” the young prince said in a voice as pitiless as the hiss of the headsman’s axe. “I know who they are as surely as if I were standing next to him when the foul blow was struck.”
He looked down one side of the council table and then the other. “My father said that no insult could be forgotten until it was forgiven. And he never, ever forgave the Saxons of Transyvania or the Black Crow of Hungary. We had long been making discreet preparations so that we might be avenged upon them both, a cause my father did not live to see carried out. My father rode out that fateful night to meet a man who swore he could turn over important fortifications to us. Instead – he met with treachery and I rule in his place. And I will have revenge upon his enemies!”
“This is an insult to you, noble sirs. This is an insult to me. An insult to my father, to the House of Basarab, to every boyar and comitu of Wallachia! The Saxons have squatted on their hill, year upon year, sneering down at us. They make jokes about us, they mock our language and our ways, they call us – us! The true sons of Imperial Rome! – they dare to call us barbarians! They have demanded - not asked, as true men would, but demanded! – concessions and monopolies on our trade. They have conspired against us, made war upon us and treacherously slain our Prince!”
“Men of Wallachia, to their insults what is your answer!?”
“WAR! WAR! WAR!”
“Then let the dragon banner fly!
Notes from ‘Hamlet and Radu IV, A Comparison of Gifted Sons’: Doctoral Thesis, Porter Hopson, University of Bienville
Looking at a map, one might conclude that the alliance headed by Prince Radu IV of Wallachia was severely outmatched. Wallachia was the strongest of a coalition that mustered only Byzantium, Serbia and Moldavia, and Wallachia herself was no heavyweight. Hungary, Poland, Holstein, Hesse and Savoie were lands far more populous, or rich, or both.
In fact, Radu’s blow was shrewdly timed and placed. All his allies adjoined Wallachia, but of his enemies only Hungary and Poland could bring armies to bear. Having been at war with most of Italy for a decade, the Hungarian alliance was exhausted of money and men and bereft of hope. At this critical juncture, this alliance found itself committed to a new war in Germany, beset by Denmark, Sweden, Brandenburg and Lithuania.
And then Radu struck.
Of all the central and eastern European nations, the only ones not at war with Hungary and Poland were Austria and Bohemia. The Hapsburgs were gambling for giant stakes in France and content to wait for Hungary to beg for their assistance; the Bohemians were simply glad that someone else was on the bottom of the pile for a change.
It is important to bear in mind that Prince Radu was still a young man and a largely unknown quantity when he lead his nation to war. It is easy for us to look back over the adult accomplishments of Radu cel Mare (‘the Great’) and assume that his success in this first campaign was inevitable, whereas nothing could be farther from the truth. There were three critical theaters in this first season of war, and while a defeat in any one would have been serious; a defeat in two would certainly have been ruinous.
In the west, the Serbs and Croats faced each other along the valley of the Sava River. All that was required was a stalemate, but the outnumbered Croats broke and ran, allowing the Serbs to rampage across the countryside. This effectively removed Croatia from the war and intermittently from the map of Europe.
In the center, Radu led his army of vengeance into Transylvania and made a smoking ruin of a prosperous region. Scarcely a village was spared, and the Saxons who were not killed outright were driven out with little or nothing. Some of the Hungarian lords led their household troops south in defense of their Saxon subjects but never in sufficient strength to accomplish anything but their own defeat.
It is in the east, therefore, that we must look for decision in this critical first year of war. Moldavia was possessed of a large and efficient army and ruled by a strong and able king – the justly named Stefan cel Mare (‘the Great’). But Stefan was in his later years (he died in 1507), and not able to take the field for long campaigns as he had done in earlier times. And as bitterly as he resented vassalage to Vlad ‘the Spider’, vassalage to a boy Prince like Radu must have galled him even more. Asked for his advice, Stefan had counseled against this war, and he must have seethed with indignation to go unheeded. In any event, the Moldavian forces abandoned their campaign in Podolia in the spring of 1496 and returned home.
The only uncommitted forces available to the Hungarian alliance were those of the lords of southeastern Poland. Shrewdly calculating that one good victory would drive Moldavia out of the war and force the Wallachians home from Transylvania, King Jan Olbracht sent funds and royal permission to command an army to Count Zygmunt of that region. Drawing support from an area largely untouched by war, Zygmunt led his forces down the Dniester valley and into Moldavia.
If King Jan Olbracht expected Stefan cel Mare to be intimidated, he misjudged. Opposed to the war he was and unimpressed by the boy Prince of Wallachia he might be, but Stefan was a prideful old lion and a staunch man of his word. It speaks to us even now that he could rise above his anger, set aside his bitterness and gamble his kingdom for a vow he must have spent his life regretting. Through late May and early June he summoned his lords and sworn men to their duty and then led them forth up the wide Dniester valley in search of destiny.
And on June 15, 1496, he found it on The Field of Flowers.
Notes from ‘Hamlet and Radu IV, A Comparison of Gifted Sons’: Doctoral Thesis, Porter Hopson, University of Bienville
Part Two – The Field of Flowers
The contending forces who met in opposition on the Field of Flowers were not armies in any modern sense. Local headmen and petty nobles might have some armor, arms, and a horse. Wealthier nobles would have mounted warriors who were sworn to their service, and footmen and squires as well. Middling and great nobles would have their own banners and standards, and their men moved where those banners went. There were no standardized unit sizes or weapon types, and on both sides could be found men in gorgeous plate and men in rags with scythes.
As to command structure, there was little. On the Polish side, Count Zygmunt did not command so much as preside, and it may be helpful to think of the Polish army as more a collection of semi-autonomous war bands than as a unified national force. There were hundreds of nobles great and small, all touchy and prideful and quick to anger, all having to be coaxed along by the camp marshals. These few marshals provided what little administrative staff there was, riding ceaselessly up and down the straggling columns, attempting to keep the army moving in the right direction while not damaging any of the delicate egos.
The Moldavian army was not a paid, permanent force like the Wallachian legions. Like the Polish army, it was formed of nobles who owed service to Prince Stefan along with their associates and retainers, and whatever mercenaries could be scraped up and paid. Unlike the Poles, however, these men had been on campaign together, and recently. They knew and respected their Prince, and knew and trusted each other.
From the few accounts that have come down to us (the Record of the heralds is of great interest), we can make some assumptions about the armies. Almost all accounts agree that they were roughly equal in size; most modern estimates range from 15,000 to 20,000. They were similarly equipped as far as weapons, but the accounts agree that the Polish force had rather more cavalry and the Moldavians fielded mostly infantry.
The field itself – the famous Field of Flowers – was a long, wide meadow carpeted with wildflowers, apparently flat but in reality sloping gently down toward the Dniester in the distance. The Record refers to it as a fit ground for tourney, and that meant it must have been wide and deep, fairly flat and nearly level, even of surface and mostly free of trees. It was ideal country for a knightly tourney, or for a battle whose fate would turn on knightly prowess. Stefan, knowing the country better, had taken up position near the southern end and made camp on the previous day.
The day itself began foggy and wet, clearing as the day lengthened toward noon. The ground was reasonably dry, though mucky in the slight depression down the center of the meadow. Not a serious obstacle in itself, it would nevertheless restrict any cavalry action to the left and right sides.
Both commanders deployed their troops in conventional array. The Poles clumped in three blocs, headed by Count Pawel on the Polish left, Zygmunt in the center and Tomasz on the right. Prince Stefan split his footmen into blocs in left, center and right and split his small cavalry, putting half on the outside of each flank.
There is a tendency to romanticize the pomp and pageantry of these late medieval battles – the flags and banners, gleaming weapons and armor, heralds and trumpets and the gorgeous nobility. The truth is less palatable: the stinks of manure and slaughtered livestock mixed with the stench of men who had not bathed or changed clothes in weeks or months. The camps sprawled in a disorderly riot, the banners were drab and smoke-stained and torn and the gorgeous nobles were prideful, quarrelsome and infested with fleas and lice. And over it all was the roar of some forty thousand men plus camp followers: armorers and blacksmiths, food-sellers, horse-handlers, prostitutes and cooks all plying their trades.
While the heralds were enumerating the complaints of each party and jotting down the names of the greater nobles on each side, the Poles were struggling to organize. Every noble, it seemed, had reasons why he and his party should be in the forefront: some of these reasons were fanciful or outright inventions, others dated back centuries. Other nobles refused to serve under or alongside those with whom they had feuds that might be generations or centuries old. The situation on the Moldavian side was only better because Prince Stefan had sent some nobles home, forbidden others to duel during the campaign and threatened more than a few with the royal displeasure.
Stefan had no intention of attacking but feared the Poles would not. If they declined battle, his infantry would be unable to force their cavalry to give battle and if the Poles split into marauding bands, his infantry would be unable to catch them. The Poles, for their part, had no conception of any operation except battle and no battle plan except a straight-forward plunge with massed mounted knights.
The first wave of Polish cavalry got underway just before noon; the left wing first and the right a few minutes later. Less a charge than a great thundering shamble, this first wave was comprised of the highest nobility. As each wanted to be first into battle, they blew out their horses before reaching the Moldavian lines. Even so, the moral and physical impact almost bowled the infantry over. Prince Stephan shuttled a small reserve of bowmen from one threatened spot to another and led a mounted counter-charge himself.
These heroic bowmen were not, as legend would have it, Genoese crossbowmen. They were equipped with crossbows and they may have some of them been Italian, but their claim to Genoese training is certainly no more than mercenaries puffing up their resume in hopes of higher pay.
In any event, they helped turn the tide and the first great Polish flood went trickling back toward their starting lines. At least one source claims that Count Zygmunt was dejected by the failure of the great assault; in any event, some few minutes passed while the leader of the Poles sat irresolute. We will, in any case, never know what he intended to do, for one of his subordinates made the decision for him.
Even Polish nobles who were provably elsewhere or even yet unborn have claimed to be the Bannered Rider. Available evidence of his actual identity is nil and it is certain that he did not survive the charge that followed.
Riding out in front of the Polish host, a lone rider galloped back and forth before his fellows, waving a crimson banner and taunting them. The Polish right wing grew increasingly disordered and excited until men began moving forward. Gaining in numbers and momentum they rolled forward across the lush grass and wildflowers and crashed into the Moldavian infantry. A furious melee ensued and Stefan committed his reserves and, finally, his cavalry on the left.
The second battle of the Polish left wing, therefore, found little resistance when it routed the small group of Moldavian cavalry on that wing, scattering them into the distance. Reforming and wheeling to attack the infantry in their flank, the Poles could have crippled or destroyed the Moldavian army and sealed the campaign as a triumph.
Instead, they went haring off in hot pursuit of the fleeing Moldavian knights, allowing Stefan to draw reinforcements into the melee on his left. Exhausted, the Poles eventually withdrew to their starting lines and the Moldavians made ready for a third charge… which never came. After a cheerless night on the now-trampled field and the dawn sight of the Moldavians grimly standing to arms, the Polish army abandoned the campaign to return home.
Leaving behind, in the words of the ballad ‘Flowers Wild Do Grow’,
Part Two – The Field of Flowers
The contending forces who met in opposition on the Field of Flowers were not armies in any modern sense. Local headmen and petty nobles might have some armor, arms, and a horse. Wealthier nobles would have mounted warriors who were sworn to their service, and footmen and squires as well. Middling and great nobles would have their own banners and standards, and their men moved where those banners went. There were no standardized unit sizes or weapon types, and on both sides could be found men in gorgeous plate and men in rags with scythes.
As to command structure, there was little. On the Polish side, Count Zygmunt did not command so much as preside, and it may be helpful to think of the Polish army as more a collection of semi-autonomous war bands than as a unified national force. There were hundreds of nobles great and small, all touchy and prideful and quick to anger, all having to be coaxed along by the camp marshals. These few marshals provided what little administrative staff there was, riding ceaselessly up and down the straggling columns, attempting to keep the army moving in the right direction while not damaging any of the delicate egos.
The Moldavian army was not a paid, permanent force like the Wallachian legions. Like the Polish army, it was formed of nobles who owed service to Prince Stefan along with their associates and retainers, and whatever mercenaries could be scraped up and paid. Unlike the Poles, however, these men had been on campaign together, and recently. They knew and respected their Prince, and knew and trusted each other.
From the few accounts that have come down to us (the Record of the heralds is of great interest), we can make some assumptions about the armies. Almost all accounts agree that they were roughly equal in size; most modern estimates range from 15,000 to 20,000. They were similarly equipped as far as weapons, but the accounts agree that the Polish force had rather more cavalry and the Moldavians fielded mostly infantry.
The field itself – the famous Field of Flowers – was a long, wide meadow carpeted with wildflowers, apparently flat but in reality sloping gently down toward the Dniester in the distance. The Record refers to it as a fit ground for tourney, and that meant it must have been wide and deep, fairly flat and nearly level, even of surface and mostly free of trees. It was ideal country for a knightly tourney, or for a battle whose fate would turn on knightly prowess. Stefan, knowing the country better, had taken up position near the southern end and made camp on the previous day.
The day itself began foggy and wet, clearing as the day lengthened toward noon. The ground was reasonably dry, though mucky in the slight depression down the center of the meadow. Not a serious obstacle in itself, it would nevertheless restrict any cavalry action to the left and right sides.
Both commanders deployed their troops in conventional array. The Poles clumped in three blocs, headed by Count Pawel on the Polish left, Zygmunt in the center and Tomasz on the right. Prince Stefan split his footmen into blocs in left, center and right and split his small cavalry, putting half on the outside of each flank.
There is a tendency to romanticize the pomp and pageantry of these late medieval battles – the flags and banners, gleaming weapons and armor, heralds and trumpets and the gorgeous nobility. The truth is less palatable: the stinks of manure and slaughtered livestock mixed with the stench of men who had not bathed or changed clothes in weeks or months. The camps sprawled in a disorderly riot, the banners were drab and smoke-stained and torn and the gorgeous nobles were prideful, quarrelsome and infested with fleas and lice. And over it all was the roar of some forty thousand men plus camp followers: armorers and blacksmiths, food-sellers, horse-handlers, prostitutes and cooks all plying their trades.
While the heralds were enumerating the complaints of each party and jotting down the names of the greater nobles on each side, the Poles were struggling to organize. Every noble, it seemed, had reasons why he and his party should be in the forefront: some of these reasons were fanciful or outright inventions, others dated back centuries. Other nobles refused to serve under or alongside those with whom they had feuds that might be generations or centuries old. The situation on the Moldavian side was only better because Prince Stefan had sent some nobles home, forbidden others to duel during the campaign and threatened more than a few with the royal displeasure.
Stefan had no intention of attacking but feared the Poles would not. If they declined battle, his infantry would be unable to force their cavalry to give battle and if the Poles split into marauding bands, his infantry would be unable to catch them. The Poles, for their part, had no conception of any operation except battle and no battle plan except a straight-forward plunge with massed mounted knights.
The first wave of Polish cavalry got underway just before noon; the left wing first and the right a few minutes later. Less a charge than a great thundering shamble, this first wave was comprised of the highest nobility. As each wanted to be first into battle, they blew out their horses before reaching the Moldavian lines. Even so, the moral and physical impact almost bowled the infantry over. Prince Stephan shuttled a small reserve of bowmen from one threatened spot to another and led a mounted counter-charge himself.
These heroic bowmen were not, as legend would have it, Genoese crossbowmen. They were equipped with crossbows and they may have some of them been Italian, but their claim to Genoese training is certainly no more than mercenaries puffing up their resume in hopes of higher pay.
In any event, they helped turn the tide and the first great Polish flood went trickling back toward their starting lines. At least one source claims that Count Zygmunt was dejected by the failure of the great assault; in any event, some few minutes passed while the leader of the Poles sat irresolute. We will, in any case, never know what he intended to do, for one of his subordinates made the decision for him.
Even Polish nobles who were provably elsewhere or even yet unborn have claimed to be the Bannered Rider. Available evidence of his actual identity is nil and it is certain that he did not survive the charge that followed.
Riding out in front of the Polish host, a lone rider galloped back and forth before his fellows, waving a crimson banner and taunting them. The Polish right wing grew increasingly disordered and excited until men began moving forward. Gaining in numbers and momentum they rolled forward across the lush grass and wildflowers and crashed into the Moldavian infantry. A furious melee ensued and Stefan committed his reserves and, finally, his cavalry on the left.
The second battle of the Polish left wing, therefore, found little resistance when it routed the small group of Moldavian cavalry on that wing, scattering them into the distance. Reforming and wheeling to attack the infantry in their flank, the Poles could have crippled or destroyed the Moldavian army and sealed the campaign as a triumph.
Instead, they went haring off in hot pursuit of the fleeing Moldavian knights, allowing Stefan to draw reinforcements into the melee on his left. Exhausted, the Poles eventually withdrew to their starting lines and the Moldavians made ready for a third charge… which never came. After a cheerless night on the now-trampled field and the dawn sight of the Moldavians grimly standing to arms, the Polish army abandoned the campaign to return home.
Leaving behind, in the words of the ballad ‘Flowers Wild Do Grow’,
- ‘the flowers of nature’s nobility,
covered oer’ by the death of chivalry.’
Director, you should join Prufrock in getting published!
Go Wallachia, and may their Moldovian vassals live long and prosper! (until they are annexed into the realm, that is).
Go Wallachia, and may their Moldovian vassals live long and prosper! (until they are annexed into the realm, that is).
rapturous joy! A new update! Wonderful stuff, and saving your buddies the soon to be brought into the realm Moldavians was truly a magnificent act!
calcsam - Great idea! First you buy the publishing house... er, calcsam? calcsam? buehler...?
Seriously, that would put me in good company indeed. Thank you for the compliment.
Moldavia, joining the realm? <Looks at notes>. Not while Stefan is Prince; those stats are too good for my Wallachian monarchs to overcome.
I was well served by my allies this round, at least by Moldavia and Serbia. Byzantium cooperated to the extent of not doing anything dangerous and stupid, which is usually all you can ask from an AI ally.
I will admit to sweating hard when 18,000 Poles crashed into 18,000 Moldavians. The battle went on forever and both sides took significant casualties, but Moldavia won!
That allowed me to take Ruthenia and raised the warscore to 27%. Hungary - of course - turned down my offer of Transylvania (10%)! So the war went on...
Stay tuned for the Wallachian discovery of a Weapon of Mass Destruction.
Amric - Annexing Moldavia would help my pitiful manpower rating but would be a poor repayment for their loyalty and sacrifice. Translation: I'm offering but they ain't having none of it.
Valdemar - I fear this is not up to my better standard but I am plowing ahead and I intend to finish it. The game is played up to circa 1550 and there is plenty of trouble... er, plot material... ahead.
Seriously, that would put me in good company indeed. Thank you for the compliment.
Moldavia, joining the realm? <Looks at notes>. Not while Stefan is Prince; those stats are too good for my Wallachian monarchs to overcome.
I was well served by my allies this round, at least by Moldavia and Serbia. Byzantium cooperated to the extent of not doing anything dangerous and stupid, which is usually all you can ask from an AI ally.
I will admit to sweating hard when 18,000 Poles crashed into 18,000 Moldavians. The battle went on forever and both sides took significant casualties, but Moldavia won!
That allowed me to take Ruthenia and raised the warscore to 27%. Hungary - of course - turned down my offer of Transylvania (10%)! So the war went on...
Stay tuned for the Wallachian discovery of a Weapon of Mass Destruction.
Amric - Annexing Moldavia would help my pitiful manpower rating but would be a poor repayment for their loyalty and sacrifice. Translation: I'm offering but they ain't having none of it.
Valdemar - I fear this is not up to my better standard but I am plowing ahead and I intend to finish it. The game is played up to circa 1550 and there is plenty of trouble... er, plot material... ahead.
Great updates! I love the battle scenes. Don't sell yourself short, you are writing a very good tale!!!!
Director,
A great battle, some memorable lines and a juicy hook left in that last message of comments. A Weapon of Mass Destruction? In the Middle Ages? Would that be the plague? Or the utter and complete lack of personal hygiene?
I'm glad to see the war finished in a satisfactory fashion and I'm delighted to hear you'll continue this tale!
A great battle, some memorable lines and a juicy hook left in that last message of comments.
A Weapon of Mass Destruction? In the Middle Ages? Would that be the plague? Or the utter and complete lack of personal hygiene? I'm glad to see the war finished in a satisfactory fashion and I'm delighted to hear you'll continue this tale!
Part Three – The Secret Weapon
Barbara stood beside him, studying the screen intently. Slowly she raised her hands to her mouth and shook her head.
“Oh, Ray, you didn’t! How could you!”
“We’re falling behind in military technology, Barbara, and we need any improvement to morale we can get. But I didn’t think of this. Blame Kevin and his wacky sense of humor, or blame the Wallachians. They got the idea from the Hungarians when they were campaigning in Ruthenia. It’s not a new idea, you know – the technology has been well developed since Roman times at least.”
“Or blame Hitchcock,” he continued. “With us asleep and Joe needed elsewhere, they put him in for the rest of that shift. By the time I came in it was too late to put a stop to it. And now the Wallachians are lusting to use them.”
“That one looks different, somehow.”
“They added a bellows that you put under your arm and pump. I tell you, Barbara, they’ve gone crazy over these things. Prince Radu was building a monster with five-meter tube extensions that had to be mounted in a wagon and pulled by a team of horses. Fortunately the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. I shudder to think what would have happened if they had successfully completed it.”
“I just can’t believe you’re actually going to let the legions use those things!”
“As I said, I can’t stop them now. All the legions already have them. And be fair, Barbara. Soldiers in this day and age have to put up with rotten food, no sanitation, bad medical care, no retirement benefits and the risk of every kind of wound from a sword-cut to broken bones from a mace.”
“I mean, really. Compared to all that, how much damage can a bagpipe do?”
Part Four – The Honor of the Legion
Legionary commanders – legates- were notoriously eccentric, and there were so few of them that their every quirk was known to every legionaire. Mostly they were talented, politically rising men of early middle age. This one, Zakhariy, was a comitu from a powerful Bulgarian family and a large landowner in his own right. Militarily gifted and experienced he was not, but that was why every legion had a staff of professional, long-serving tribunes.
Zakhariy had a reputation for being tough and fair. His Bulgarian ancestry was an extra obstacle to advancement in the Romanian-dominated court and the command of a legion was a real mark of royal favor. He had been home visiting his family and had returned only to be set upon by irate citizens, merchants, shop-owners, city officials and representatives of the Prince. He was, at the moment, very angry, and in every army anger rolls downhill.
First stop on the downhill slide were the tribunes of the units involved and second was the centurion who now stood braced in the center of the legate’s office.
“Drunkenness, fighting. Destruction of private property! Arson! Theft! Rape! What in the names of All the Saints got into you to allow your men to run wild like that!”
The tribune concentrated on making himself invisible. The centurion shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Well now, sir, not rape, certainly. The innkeeper’s wife did get… but that was a fair fight, sir, nothin’ like rape about it. There wasn’t none of that. The boys might have had a bit of wine, but drunken… except for Jerzy, he has no head for the stuff… and Pawel had a bit too much, sure, but I don’t know as to being drunk, exactly…”
Zakhariy stood breathing heavy, veins standing out on his forehead. The tribune rested his head in one hand as if afraid to look. “Tell. Me. What. Happened. Now.”
“Yes, sir. Um, me and some of the boys from Third Cohort took the new pipers down to the Boyar’s A… um, Donkey. That pub where we go when we’re off-duty, like.”
“Pipers?”
The tribune intervened. “Yes, sir. Some of the men volunteered to learn the new pipes. We put them up front with the war horns and drums, and let them play when the men are marching and drilling. The men like it a lot, sir, and it’s been a real boost to morale.”
“The city folk don’t like it worth a damn!” Zakhariy growled. “So you went down to the pub, and I won’t ask about the name.”
“Yessir. Nossir,” the centurion stammered, and then continued. “Well, some of the men started making fun of that special piper uniform, the one…”
“It’s an authentic Roman legionary outfit,” the tribune protested. “Right down to the leather kilt-thing and the breastplate!”
“Right, right,” the centurion agreed. “Sir. Anyway, some of the boys were giving the pipers a hard time, and we had been drinking a bit, and they got to pushin’, so we all went out into the street and damned if those pipers didn’t hold their own! So that made them part of us, you see, so we went back into the pub and put some of the tables back together…” He faltered under the legate’s furious glare. “Well they got busted up a little but by accident, sir, just by accident…”
“So that’s when the pub caught fire?”
“Oh, no sir. That’s when the city guardsmen came in.” The tribune returned his head to his hand. “And they were most disrespectful, sir! They made jokes about our pipers!”
“Which your men had just been making fun of and fighting with!”
“Well, yes, sir… but we had all that straightened out by then, you see, and they were part of us, now. And here was these heathens making fun of a legionary tradition!”
“Tradition!” The legate exploded. “I’ve only been gone a week! You’ve had these wretched pipers for, what…”
“…four days…,” the tribune interjected weakly.
“Four (blasphemous) days! How can it be a (deleted) tradition after four (uh-oh) days! You were just making fun of them yourself!”
“It doesn’t have to be a long time for it to be traditional,” the centurion protested doggedly. “It’s just… traditional now, you see. And no (blasphemous) city guardsmen had better insult the honor of the legion when I’m around, sir!”
“He has a point there, sir,” the tribune started, then hurriedly returned his head to his hand when he saw the expression on the legate’s face.
“HOW in the (blasphemous) (deleted) (unprintable) (bad location) did the (unkind) (unlikely) (unfortunate) PUB burn down!”
“Um, well, we were holding down the guardsmen… I mean, we decided to show them that they were wrong, sir, so the pipers decided to play…”
“(Unlikely contortionist position)! In the middle of Bucuresti at MIDNIGHT!”
“Um, in celebration of the rounds that the guardsmen were buying after we sold their clothes… um… so the pipers got up on the tables and started in on ‘Drunken Shepherds Reel’, which was only appropriate… and then this minstrel came in, and it was all his fault really, sir…”
The legate was sitting bloodless and pale now, shaking with fury. But in a still, small voice he said, “You wrecked the bar, disturbed the peace, beat up the city guard, robbed them and stripped them naked and had a drunken table dance in the middle of the city at midnight and it was all his fault!”
“Oh, yes sir! He said the pipes were out of tune, sir!”
The tribune put both hands over his face and moaned like a man in mortal pain.But then he had heard the pipes, so perhaps he was.
“And Pawel swung at him for the insult! But the boy ducked, and Pawel hit the innkeeper’s wife right in the… that front part, sir, which is a little hard to miss on her… and she swung at Pawel but slipped and fell instead, knocking the barmaid off the naked guardsman’s lap. He got up to run, fell over the table and knocked the pipers across the bar. They overset the lamps and – well – that’s how the pub caught fire.”
“But we all (bodily function) on it to help put it out, sir.”
Both officers had their heads in their hands. “Centurion,” the legate managed to croak, “have you no remorse or what you’ve done?”
“Oh, no sir! It was for the honor of the legion, sir… and we were proud to serve!”
Barbara stood beside him, studying the screen intently. Slowly she raised her hands to her mouth and shook her head.
“Oh, Ray, you didn’t! How could you!”
“We’re falling behind in military technology, Barbara, and we need any improvement to morale we can get. But I didn’t think of this. Blame Kevin and his wacky sense of humor, or blame the Wallachians. They got the idea from the Hungarians when they were campaigning in Ruthenia. It’s not a new idea, you know – the technology has been well developed since Roman times at least.”
“Or blame Hitchcock,” he continued. “With us asleep and Joe needed elsewhere, they put him in for the rest of that shift. By the time I came in it was too late to put a stop to it. And now the Wallachians are lusting to use them.”
“That one looks different, somehow.”
“They added a bellows that you put under your arm and pump. I tell you, Barbara, they’ve gone crazy over these things. Prince Radu was building a monster with five-meter tube extensions that had to be mounted in a wagon and pulled by a team of horses. Fortunately the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. I shudder to think what would have happened if they had successfully completed it.”
“I just can’t believe you’re actually going to let the legions use those things!”
“As I said, I can’t stop them now. All the legions already have them. And be fair, Barbara. Soldiers in this day and age have to put up with rotten food, no sanitation, bad medical care, no retirement benefits and the risk of every kind of wound from a sword-cut to broken bones from a mace.”
“I mean, really. Compared to all that, how much damage can a bagpipe do?”
Part Four – The Honor of the Legion
Legionary commanders – legates- were notoriously eccentric, and there were so few of them that their every quirk was known to every legionaire. Mostly they were talented, politically rising men of early middle age. This one, Zakhariy, was a comitu from a powerful Bulgarian family and a large landowner in his own right. Militarily gifted and experienced he was not, but that was why every legion had a staff of professional, long-serving tribunes.
Zakhariy had a reputation for being tough and fair. His Bulgarian ancestry was an extra obstacle to advancement in the Romanian-dominated court and the command of a legion was a real mark of royal favor. He had been home visiting his family and had returned only to be set upon by irate citizens, merchants, shop-owners, city officials and representatives of the Prince. He was, at the moment, very angry, and in every army anger rolls downhill.
First stop on the downhill slide were the tribunes of the units involved and second was the centurion who now stood braced in the center of the legate’s office.
“Drunkenness, fighting. Destruction of private property! Arson! Theft! Rape! What in the names of All the Saints got into you to allow your men to run wild like that!”
The tribune concentrated on making himself invisible. The centurion shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Well now, sir, not rape, certainly. The innkeeper’s wife did get… but that was a fair fight, sir, nothin’ like rape about it. There wasn’t none of that. The boys might have had a bit of wine, but drunken… except for Jerzy, he has no head for the stuff… and Pawel had a bit too much, sure, but I don’t know as to being drunk, exactly…”
Zakhariy stood breathing heavy, veins standing out on his forehead. The tribune rested his head in one hand as if afraid to look. “Tell. Me. What. Happened. Now.”
“Yes, sir. Um, me and some of the boys from Third Cohort took the new pipers down to the Boyar’s A… um, Donkey. That pub where we go when we’re off-duty, like.”
“Pipers?”
The tribune intervened. “Yes, sir. Some of the men volunteered to learn the new pipes. We put them up front with the war horns and drums, and let them play when the men are marching and drilling. The men like it a lot, sir, and it’s been a real boost to morale.”
“The city folk don’t like it worth a damn!” Zakhariy growled. “So you went down to the pub, and I won’t ask about the name.”
“Yessir. Nossir,” the centurion stammered, and then continued. “Well, some of the men started making fun of that special piper uniform, the one…”
“It’s an authentic Roman legionary outfit,” the tribune protested. “Right down to the leather kilt-thing and the breastplate!”
“Right, right,” the centurion agreed. “Sir. Anyway, some of the boys were giving the pipers a hard time, and we had been drinking a bit, and they got to pushin’, so we all went out into the street and damned if those pipers didn’t hold their own! So that made them part of us, you see, so we went back into the pub and put some of the tables back together…” He faltered under the legate’s furious glare. “Well they got busted up a little but by accident, sir, just by accident…”
“So that’s when the pub caught fire?”
“Oh, no sir. That’s when the city guardsmen came in.” The tribune returned his head to his hand. “And they were most disrespectful, sir! They made jokes about our pipers!”
“Which your men had just been making fun of and fighting with!”
“Well, yes, sir… but we had all that straightened out by then, you see, and they were part of us, now. And here was these heathens making fun of a legionary tradition!”
“Tradition!” The legate exploded. “I’ve only been gone a week! You’ve had these wretched pipers for, what…”
“…four days…,” the tribune interjected weakly.
“Four (blasphemous) days! How can it be a (deleted) tradition after four (uh-oh) days! You were just making fun of them yourself!”
“It doesn’t have to be a long time for it to be traditional,” the centurion protested doggedly. “It’s just… traditional now, you see. And no (blasphemous) city guardsmen had better insult the honor of the legion when I’m around, sir!”
“He has a point there, sir,” the tribune started, then hurriedly returned his head to his hand when he saw the expression on the legate’s face.
“HOW in the (blasphemous) (deleted) (unprintable) (bad location) did the (unkind) (unlikely) (unfortunate) PUB burn down!”
“Um, well, we were holding down the guardsmen… I mean, we decided to show them that they were wrong, sir, so the pipers decided to play…”
“(Unlikely contortionist position)! In the middle of Bucuresti at MIDNIGHT!”
“Um, in celebration of the rounds that the guardsmen were buying after we sold their clothes… um… so the pipers got up on the tables and started in on ‘Drunken Shepherds Reel’, which was only appropriate… and then this minstrel came in, and it was all his fault really, sir…”
The legate was sitting bloodless and pale now, shaking with fury. But in a still, small voice he said, “You wrecked the bar, disturbed the peace, beat up the city guard, robbed them and stripped them naked and had a drunken table dance in the middle of the city at midnight and it was all his fault!”
“Oh, yes sir! He said the pipes were out of tune, sir!”
The tribune put both hands over his face and moaned like a man in mortal pain.But then he had heard the pipes, so perhaps he was.
“And Pawel swung at him for the insult! But the boy ducked, and Pawel hit the innkeeper’s wife right in the… that front part, sir, which is a little hard to miss on her… and she swung at Pawel but slipped and fell instead, knocking the barmaid off the naked guardsman’s lap. He got up to run, fell over the table and knocked the pipers across the bar. They overset the lamps and – well – that’s how the pub caught fire.”
“But we all (bodily function) on it to help put it out, sir.”
Both officers had their heads in their hands. “Centurion,” the legate managed to croak, “have you no remorse or what you’ve done?”
“Oh, no sir! It was for the honor of the legion, sir… and we were proud to serve!”
Director! Seems like you have read my mind!
This legionary tradition reminds me of myself yesterday, when I was on a bar with some friends, drinking beer. The beer we were drinking is called Primus and is on the market since last year. Yes, new stuff. But the propaganda on the TV says something like "Primus: an old tradition since 2002".
Oh my God... the world is so tiny...
This legionary tradition reminds me of myself yesterday, when I was on a bar with some friends, drinking beer. The beer we were drinking is called Primus and is on the market since last year. Yes, new stuff. But the propaganda on the TV says something like "Primus: an old tradition since 2002".
Oh my God... the world is so tiny...
Excellent excellent,
I have nothing to point at, you are still my favortite active writer
V
I have nothing to point at, you are still my favortite active writer
V
Nothing like a four day old tradition...ought to strike terror or at least loathing in the hearts of your enemies....
Ye gads! Bagpipes! What unholy terror! I was smugly thinking Greek Fire for a while, but this is much worse...
So I take it you've edited down the morale of every nation bar Wallachia (and those durned Scots, if they're still around) in the game? To represent the absolute horror sane people experience when subjected to that... for lack of a better word... music?
That was a great little piece: the Legionairs even acted like true Scotsmen: first fighting drunkenly amongst each other and then uniting and rounding on some outside enemy.*
Great way to start a tradition, it seems to me.
*Note that this is my personal, seriously uninformed and stereotypical, view of Scots. I'm sure I'm completely wrong and I apologize beforehand. But stereotypes can be such fun...
So I take it you've edited down the morale of every nation bar Wallachia (and those durned Scots, if they're still around) in the game? To represent the absolute horror sane people experience when subjected to that... for lack of a better word... music?
That was a great little piece: the Legionairs even acted like true Scotsmen: first fighting drunkenly amongst each other and then uniting and rounding on some outside enemy.*
Great way to start a tradition, it seems to me.
*Note that this is my personal, seriously uninformed and stereotypical, view of Scots. I'm sure I'm completely wrong and I apologize beforehand. But stereotypes can be such fun...
Anibal -
Valdemar - not so active lately, I fear, but thank you for the compliment.
Two nights ago my truck was hit and totalled... I'm OK, mostly, but I did spend yesterday in bed and today (and $400 US) at the doctor.
So no updates for at least a few days, OK?
Amric - Four-day old moonshine, four-day-old tradition...
"A rational army would run away."
stnylan - I enjoyed it. In fact I just reread it and I laughed some more. I'm proud of it because my skills at writing humor aren't that well developed.
Stuyvesant - So we have Romanian legions equipped with eagles and bagpipes and commanded by the sons of Dracula... God knows, I'd run! Those people must be crazy!
No, no editing of the game files yet, although there is (*SPOILER ALERT*) possibly such in the offing. I don't consider it a cheat, but some may.
Stroph1 - You remember the original series? Good grief!
That was a funny episode, though. The original bar fight was in a Western, I think, and they lifted it pretty much intact.
Valdemar - not so active lately, I fear, but thank you for the compliment.
Two nights ago my truck was hit and totalled... I'm OK, mostly, but I did spend yesterday in bed and today (and $400 US) at the doctor.
So no updates for at least a few days, OK?
Amric - Four-day old moonshine, four-day-old tradition...
"A rational army would run away."
stnylan - I enjoyed it. In fact I just reread it and I laughed some more. I'm proud of it because my skills at writing humor aren't that well developed.
Stuyvesant - So we have Romanian legions equipped with eagles and bagpipes and commanded by the sons of Dracula... God knows, I'd run! Those people must be crazy!
No, no editing of the game files yet, although there is (*SPOILER ALERT*) possibly such in the offing. I don't consider it a cheat, but some may.
Stroph1 - You remember the original series? Good grief!
That was a funny episode, though. The original bar fight was in a Western, I think, and they lifted it pretty much intact.
truck? truck? TRUCK? you drive a TRUCK?
I always knew you were a hillbilly or swamp monster, or something in between
Seriously I hope you're OK? At least that will buy you time off from work, no?
On a completely different subject Master and Commander just opened over here and i just saw a bit of the trailer.
I'm two minds about seeing it, on one hand it loos fine, one the other it looks like the special effects guys have very little knowledge on the true naval combat at that time
Also it looks like they may have cramped several book into the movie?
V
I always knew you were a hillbilly
or swamp monster, or something in between Seriously I hope you're OK? At least that will buy you time off from work, no?
On a completely different subject
Master and Commander just opened over here and i just saw a bit of the trailer. I'm two minds about seeing it, on one hand it loos fine, one the other it looks like the special effects guys have very little knowledge on the true naval combat at that time
Also it looks like they may have cramped several book into the movie?
V