Chapter 36, part 2: The death of a hero
26 January 1652, Treviso, Austria
Commander Jacopo Contadino absently scratched at his left arm before remembering it wasn't there. As part of his promotion, Marshal Cato had requested that surgeons remove the Commander's dead arm, as there was a chance it might become infected. Still, most of his job was paperwork, issuing orders, and talking with his subordinates, none of which required two hands. Prince Pietro was a more than capable aide, and had more than once proved his bravery in the early stages of the war.
Aragon had joined the war, as France's ally, but Savoy had not. This welcome but unexpected development still required that the Second Army remain in place, but if France were to leave the war, that would free up an additional three crack legions for the war. Two victories had already been won by Italy, one minor and one major.
The Battle of Treviso, a complete rout of the largest army Austria had in the field, had some inexperienced officers already claiming the war was over. Jacopo knew better. General Paradisi's leadership had been exemplary, and it was skill and coordination that had truly won the victory. The Fulmens Division was proudly at the front lines, and the overwhelming artillery barrages had crippled Austrian formations. As the First Army settled in for a long siege at Treviso, General Paradisi announced that the legion in Venice -- the Legio II 'Sicilia' -- had already begun to cross the straits and would further reinforce Italian forces.
As the Commander studied another dispatch, Lieutenant Commander Farnese -- as he insisted on being called -- entered the command tent.
"Commander, that was the most exciting thing I've ever experienced! My heartbeat is racing, my palms are sweaty, and I'm having the time of my life!"
Jacopo chuckled. "Easy there, Lieutenant Commander. Not all battles are so one-sided, and I have no illusions about the fighting strength of the Austrian armies. Remember that we still paid a price -- smaller than we might have hoped, but still a price. I would advise you to contain your enthusiasm in front of the men."
Quickly, Pietro sobered. "You're right, of course, Commander. Seeing some of them die, well, it's one of the most horrible events in my life. So much agony..."
Jacopo softened. "It is not supposed to be a pleasant experience. We fight for the glory of our Empire, to restore the honor of Ancient Rome, but most of all, for each other. If that is the only lesson you learn in this war, you will be a fine Emperor, if I may say so."
Pietro nodded, saluted, and left.
That boy is going to go places, thought Jacopo.
And it's my job to make sure he gets there.
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3 March 1652, Imperial War Council, Florence
Francis II was normally a kind and jolly fellow, but this news was not the sort to make somebody kind or jolly. He just heard of the first major defeat that the Empire had suffered.
While the navy had sunk six French and Castillian ships and the 1st Army taken Cremona, the army in North Africa had been a profound disappointment. It was that fool Borghese!
Originally Commander of the Legio VII 'Asia', his task had been simple; to take Safi before the Castillian army arrived.
After successfully assaulting the stronghold, the Commander was supposed to retreat. Unfortunately, Ludovico, a glory hound if there ever were one, decided he would take this opportunity to insist, through his father, that Ludovico be given a general's stars. Marshal Cato refused to grant them, on the grounds that a single legion, operating independently, had no need for a General. However, Ludovico's father, Giovanni, spoke with the Emperor. Giovanni was the Chief Magistrate for Italy, and so his opinion held much weight in Imperial circles.
The Emperor, fuming, nonetheless overruled his Marshal, thinking that if he gave the idiot and his son what they wanted, he'd hear no more of it. Then Ludovico, in his infinite wisdom, insisted on waiting until his actual stars arrived, so that his troops might "recognize what their valor had won." The disaster at Safi had been the result; on poor defensive ground, Castille's superior numbers overwhelmed the Italian position. The Seventh Legion, fighting a superb rearguard action, inflicted plenty of casualties, but the end result was still a defeat.
The Emperor was contemplating his response -- possibly executing Borghese and his son for their idiocy -- when a strange visitor entered. He was clearly from the Far East, dressed in an emissary's robes. Italy had not had many dealings with the other side of the world, but Francis II knew how much they loved their ceremony, and that ignoring their representative would be a serious affront to Manchurian honor. The fact the man was gaping like a lunatic actually made the Emperor smile just a bit. He waved for a translator, but the Manchurian shook his head, and in perfect Latin, said "It is an honor to meet you, Emperor of the Byzantines. I am here from his most Revered Majesty. I have been given the great honor of offering you peace between our nations for a small token sum."
Francis II was puzzled. "Excuse me, sir, what is your name?"
"I am called Lan Zhu, Honored Sir. I am a special emissary to your Empire for this mission of peace."
"Emissary Zhu, where exactly do you think you are, if I might inquire?"
"This is the majestic city of Constantinople, the capital of the Byzantine Empire. Do you not know your own city?"
Lan Zhu was understandably insulted by the bellows of laughter that erupted from Francis II's mouth. "Did I say something funny?"
As Francis II felt his mirth begin to subside, he found the strength to respond. "My friend, you are in Florence, the Empire of Italy. Byzantium was taken and annexed over 200 years ago."
"But do you not wear the Imperial standard of Rome?"
"I do, Emissary Zhu, but this is the garb of the ancient Roman Empire, not the Byzantine Empire."
"I see. Forgive my ignorance, then, Emperor Francis. Let us to business; what do you say to the Light of Heaven's proposal?"
Francis II narrowly choked down another fit of hilarity. "Emissary, we are already at peace with the Middle Kingdom. Here is the treaty."
As Lan Zhu read the treaty, he swallowed uncomfortably. "I... see. This is most unfortunate. My instructions are to return with 5000 ducats or my life is forfeit."
All traces of humor vanished from the Emperor's face. "I am terribly sorry, my dear fellow. Even if I had that much money, paying to a foreign power as tribute for a war that we've already ended is absurd. I have no ill will towards you or your people, but that's a ridiculous request."
Lan Zhu's color drained from his face. "I apologize for bothering you, Honored Sir. I will trouble you no more."
The Emperor stroked his beard for a moment, then rose his hand. "If I may ask, Emissary Zhu, why is your life forfeit if you do not return with the gold?"
The Manchurian sighed. "Quite simply, Emperor, I made the decision to fall in love with the only daughter of my lord and master. He tolerated this with poor grace when we were young, but as she is promised to be wed to a powerful businessman in Beijing, the only way he would let us marry is if I conducted this task speedily and with success. If I did not, I had only shamed his daughter with my designs, and if I returned to Manchuria, he would have me killed."
"Perhaps you needn't return, Lan Zhu. You understand our language very well, and I am always in need of capable assistants. We honor foreigners here; many have attained noble status through service."
Lan Zhu brightened considerably. "That would be a most satisfactory solution, Honored Emperor. I can teach your people many things, including how to make the air explode!"
"You mean gunpowder? We've known that for about 150 years?"
Lan Zhu blinked. "Really? Then perhaps you haven't heard of..."
As the two talked, Francis II found his mood had vastly improved. This entertaining character would be an asset to the Empire of Italy.
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21 May 1652, Serbia, Austria
Vittorio di Medici, the new General of the Third Army, had never felt worse about a promotion in his life. As hot tears spilled down his face, he couldn't believe his friend and mentor had died.
Vittorio had been close friends with the Gentileschi family for years; his father and the Field Marshal had grown up together; while Angelo di Medici had attended the Germanicus Academy for the Imperial Legions, Rodolfo Gentileschi had run off to sea. They met again when Angelo di Medici was the Commander of then Lieutenant Commander Gentileschi's legion. Vittorio was actually the Marshal's godson, and Rodolfo looked after him when Angelo died of a heart attack when Vittorio was a ten year old boy.
To honor both his father and godfather, Vittorio joined the Germanicus Academy as soon as he was old enough. He had a talent with artillery that mystified and pleased Gentileschi, and Vittorio had risen all the way to Colonel under the Field Marshal's wing. When Marshal Gentileschi needed a stable hand to run his artillery, he immediately turned to Vittorio, who was eager to accept the chance to work with his godfather and hero in the field.
For many months, Vittorio and his godfather had very little action. Naval victories and the fall of Karbala in the east did little to alleviate the boredom. Then an Austrian army under the commander of General Ferdinand Sauerzapff decided to assault the Italian position in Serbia. Thanks in large part to superior artillery fire, the battle was won easily.
The defeat at Ifni of General Borghese, however, dismayed the Field Marshal.
Marshal Gentileschi would constantly rant and rave. "The Spaniards are not supermen, they are in fact far worse soldiers than the Austrians we just defeated. How can that idiot Borghese keep failing?!"
Unbeknownst to anybody, however, a piece of shrapnel had pierced the Marshal's thick coat. He'd been bleeding, slowly, since the battle at Serbia, but that bleeding had stopped. The Marshal's histrionics reopened the wound, and widened it. On the morning of 19 May 1652, a messenger reported that Dayz az Zor had fallen in the east. The Marshal smiled, said "Thank God some generals can beat the Spaniards," and died.
As Vittorio dried his eyes, he turned to the map and roster of generals submitted by Marshal Cato. He tried to smile at seeing his own name at the bottom, but couldn't manage it.
He promised himself one thing -- if he ever saw that fool Borghese, he would demand satisfaction.
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5 June 1652, Castle St. Maso, Rome
Foreign Minister di Ferrari didn't know why he kept getting battle reports -- he wasn't a member of the Imperial Council of War, nor had he ever served in the military.
He was pleased, as any Italian was, about Second Brescia and Second Treviso, which had been completed on the same day. However, he'd had much more pressing matters. The Timurids, the wily bastards, had placed an Italian head on a spike outside Iraq-i-Arab; a sure declaration of war.
Their language was almost impossible to speak in, even for a brilliant linguist like di Ferrari. He snapped his fingers, and signaled for the new aide he'd been assigned by the Emperor.
"Zhu, do you speak barbarian?"
Lan Zhu, puzzled, replied, "Certainly, Honored Sir. My Latin is perfect."
Scowling, di Ferrari thrust the declaration of the Timurids in front of him. "No, you dolt, the Timurid tongue."
Lan Zhu brightened. "Oh yes, Minister. This says 'We declare war.'"
The Foreign Minister sighed. "And? What do they want?"
Lan Zhu was confused again. "They are barbarians, Honored Sir. All they want is pillage and slaughter. I am afraid only your armies will change their minds. Fortunately, you have already begun your advance, so I am not worried."
di Ferrari's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
Lan Zhu handed over the map the Foreign Minister received two weeks ago.
"Why didn't I see this before?"
"Because, Honored Sir, you have repeatedly asked me not to bother you with 'that stupid army stuff', as you put it."
As the Foreign Minister sat down, infuriated, Lan Zhu beat a hasty retreat. He was not making as many friends as he hoped.
This land is so strange. It is so fertile, yet some people do not eat. It is enormous, but surely pales in comparison to the Middle Kingdom. Yet, if we were to engage in direct combat, I have a feeling that the Italians would win. Perhaps this concept of reviving the Roman Empire has some merit? The people seem inspired, happy, even cheerful, and this included those who did not have enough to eat. They all knew, even without military training, that Austria was sure to fail.
I think I'm going to like it here.
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26 July 1652, Milan, Lombardia
With the fall of Brescia, General Carlo Felice della Torre was given the task of eliminating the Austrian army in Cremona. The General knew that the Austrians had had time to prepare for his assault, so he'd requested the assistance of the two legions that had taken Brescia.
The news in the rest of the war was good too. Italian armies had captured Serbia, Treviso, and Mosul. Mazovia and Riga had signed white peaces with the Emperor, which while not crippling to the Austrian war effort, symbolized that the Austrian alliance was beginning to crumble. Even better, a battle had finally been won against Castille, albeit in the East.
Della Torre was so confident that he sent a letter home to his family, writing that he'd be home for Christmas. He wondered what Vienna was like in the winter time. He'd never really seen snow, as a native of Palermo.
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Later that day, Castle St. Maso, Rome
As the French ambassador left, Foreign Minister di Ferrari was happy for the first time in months. Not only had he negotiated the French exit to the war, but he'd done so entirely without the Emperor's interference.
The Emperor still needed to sign the treaty, and the French ambassador needed to return to Paris to ensure the King was amenable, but neither the Foreign Minister nor the ambassador anticipated any trouble.
Even better, this gave di Ferrari an excuse to get rid of Lan Zhu for a while. The Manchurian was brilliant and handy with languages, the Minister admitted, but he was also a pain in the rear and gunning for his job, or at least he thought so. Lan Zhu was ordered to take the treaty to Florence for the Emperor's signature, which would free the Foreign Minister for at least a few days.
The war wasn't over yet, true, but with the Austrian armies running at every turn and the legions finally driving back the Castillians, it couldn't be much longer.
Could it?
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Next part will be this weekend, probably. Lan Zhu is the creation of Michaelangelo, our esteemed contest winner and possible Ninja Turtle.
