The Eagle, the Pomegranate, the Cross, and the Crescent - Tales from the Wars of Romes

[Mr. Capiatlist]

In 1689 the world found itself with an abundance of Romes and would-be Caesars, Neroes, and Hadrians who, if they only could for a moment, would reach out a pluck greatness from the tree of history. Europe, after four centuries of religious conflict, found itself inching closer and closer to a potential end, or at least some respite from the terror wrought by the recent sectarian conflicts that had engulfed the continent in its entirety since the 1500s.


By the far the greatest player was the aging Caliph and "Great Sultan of Hispania and her all Dominions, Holder of the Eternal City, and Protector of Christians" Isma'il III Nasirid, who - with his tetrarchs, generals, and client kings and princes - ruled the greatest realm the world had seen since the days of a unified Rome. In 1689 the dust was just settling in England and Baden, where the Great Sultan had waged a pair of wars to expand the frontiers of the Empire. For centuries Hispania has acted as a puppet master in Anatolia and the surrounding regions, especially after their numerous wars with the Ottomans left the Turks a dwindling tribe in the mountains of Armenia and Hispania the sole power in the Levant.


His next "equal" was Emperor Ioannes VIII Basarab, a young and fiery orator with ambitions to unify the Eastern Romans as the first step of his master plan to push back against the encroaching tide of Islam. He is supported in the shadows by his sister Antonia, a silver-tongued diplomat. Her purposeful refusal to wed the King of Gothia, her second cousin, sparked the so-called Roman Civil War, enabling her brother to push for unification. The unification of the Roman states would mean a unified Orthodox state to resist both Islam and Papism. Rome holds a strong position, bolstered by crushing their biggest rivals, the Ottomans and the Hungarians, in the XV and XVI Centuries. The wheat and soldiers provided by Pannonia has created a force to be reckoned with.


On the other side of the the Roman Civil War are and now claiming the titles "Co-Emperor" Petru and David Basarab of Wallachia and Gothia respectively. Wallachia was a kingdom of the rise until it came under the sway of a resurgent Roman Empire. After a disastrous defeat at the hands of the Crimean Tatars, Wallachia had stagnated for over a century. The thought of freedom from the yoke of Constantinople, or perhaps even dominion over it has driven the aged King Petru to seek conflict above all else. Gothia was the rump remnants of the Empire of Trebizond, but after the Hispanian invasion of the Genoese colonies in Crimea also spilled over into conflict with the Tatars, the princes were able to play their cards right and gain a great deal of land, taking the title "King of the Goths". King David is younger than Petru, but also more cautious. While slighted by the refusal of Antonia, he was uncertain to be dragged into a war with his second-cousins and their much larger realm.


It was only with the assurance of King Konstantine I Dzolbordi of Georgia, a distant claimant to Constantinople, that King David agreed to war. Georgia is a state punching above its means. Mountainous and generally shielded from the broiling conflicts of elsewhere, in 1689 Georgia is freshly unified and freshly rid of their ancient enemies, the Ottomans, who are left as a rump state to the south. The success of many of the Roman claimant states lies on the Hispanian defeat of the Ottomans in the 1500s as well as pure luck. Georgia is no different, but unlike Ioannes, Konstantine seeks no war with Hispania and has, in the past, bent the knee to the Great Sultan in order to gain favors and lands.

****

A warning to readers.
This is a piece of, mostly, humorous fiction, and will contain both adult language and situations. If that sort of thing is not your thing then sorry to say this thing isn't your sort of thing and I highly recommend you find something more your thing to make your thing.

If it is your thing, then I am sorry to say that it's not going to be half as good as either of us are hoping, which actually makes it a quarter as good as I initially hoped.

It is also important to note that this is a highly ahistorical world. It is not meant to be taken too seriously and instead just enjoy the æsthetic.

You have been warned.​

****

Power players:


Isma'il III Nasirid, Great Sultan of Hispania – largely recognized Emperor of Rome in the West

Ioannes VIII Basarab, Emperor of Rome – recognized as the legitimate Heir to Rome

****

Petru I Basarab, King of Wallachia

David III Basarab, King of Gothia

Konstantine I Dzolbordi, King of Georgia

****

Antonia Basarab, Princess of Rome

Gregorius XX, Pope

Hossein Nasirid, Prince of Tigris

Muhammad Nasirid, Crown Prince of Hispania

Jabbar Nasirid, Prince of Belgica (minor)

Radomir Nasirid, Prince of Carinthia


****

Dramatis Personæ:


Mareyscal y Señora Julie-Maupin d'Aubiñie - an opera singer and fencer, turned hero of Vienna
Amatullah Amna Rosenda bint Rico Tarec - a beautiful girl
Great Sultan Isma'il the third, Muhammed Abdala bin Muhammed Nasirid - ruler of much of the known world
Count Wilhelm the first von Thüringen - count of Ulm, ambassador, and cunning linguist
Tetrarca Mohammed Mufaddal Kareem Kareemid - Tetrarch of much of Hispania's eastern possessions

****

Updates:


1689, March: 1, 1​

​

 

[Mr. Capiatlist]

Hopefully I can stick to this one. Expect a turbulent update schedule.

 

[stnylan]

It's been a long while. Quite the setting you have established.

 

[Nikolai]

Wow, sounds really interesting! And what a different world!

 

[Mr. Capiatlist]

It's been a long while. Quite the setting you have established.

Wow, sounds really interesting! And what a different world!

Thank you gents, it's only going to get weirder from here.

 

[gigau]

Interesting setup ! Looking forward reading what comes from it !

 

[Mr. Capiatlist]

Interesting setup ! Looking forward reading what comes from it !

Thank you!

Hope to have the inaugural post up soon(ish). Until then, I updated the OP with some warnings and new details. I'm sure it has everyone excited.

 

[Tom D.]

This must be the first AAR I see of you, Mr. Capiatlist, I first thought this must be an announcement of some more forum rules . I like the disclaimer in the OP btw . Let's see where this ahistorical world will go to, subbed!

 

[gigau]

This must be the first AAR I see of you, Mr. Capiatlist, I first thought this must be an announcement of some more forum rules . I like the disclaimer in the OP btw . Let's see where this ahistorical world will go to, subbed!

For a great read : Homelands and Bastions, the Tales of the Anglo-Prussians, from the olden days of CKI and EUIII.

 

[Tom D.]

For a great read : Homelands and Bastions, the Tales of the Anglo-Prussians, from the olden days of CKI and EUIII.

I probably should've clarified, the first AAR of Mr. Capiatlist I could read from the start . Thanks for the links, the last one seems to not work though but I'll take a look at them for some ancient Paradox games laughing - but primarily for the good story of course .

 

[gigau]

I probably should've clarified, the first AAR of Mr. Capiatlist I could read from the start .

Ahh, okay.

Thanks for the links, the last one seems to not work though but I'll take a look at them for some ancient Paradox games laughing - but primarily for the good story of course .

Fixed the link.

 

[Mr. Capiatlist]

March 1st, 1689

Paris, Primary City of Franxi y Bretaña​

Paris, in spring, was a horrid city - especially now, especially now - but a summon was a summon and what was one to do when summoned to such a place to listen to such things and give thoughts on ideas that were not your own, ideas that would be ignored, dismissed, considered low and stupid and vapid until repeated by a gentleman of some extraction who the night before had argued the completely wrong idea and yet stood before you, usurper of your very own mind because his own is encased in his sword, instead of his head, though which sword is completely irrelevant because regardless of which sword his brain finds a home in he thinks he'd sooner stick it into something then accomplish something of note, but he'd never come to the conclusion of the reality that he'll accomplish nothing of any amount of note because he was too busy being stuck with swords of the metal variety while holding his sword of the fleshy kind, but regardless of that what really made Paris such a horrid place in spring was partially the politicians but also because the summer fashions of the wives and mistresses (may they never meet) of the flesh-sword-holding morons had not yet morphed into the summer form, with their plunging bust lines and the lovely little duckies within, which is a crime, after all, because isn't that what we all truly sought, the warmth and comfort of another woman's bosom while her husband was away and I, so unworthy of note except to be summoned to Paris this spring day, would be allowed to sit beside her and sing her a song, a song she had never heard before, and I was a good singer after all, that's how I first got noticed, but in the grand tradition of France being saved by the women and not the men, I had been given a chance, a chance to lead and so brought me here to Paris this horrid spring day.

"Name?"

"Mareyscal y Señora Julie-Maupin d'Aubiñie."

The guard blinked.

First once. Then twice.

"Ah," he said with none of the excitement that was due in this circumstance, but for the sake of the convenience of those who summoned me, I said nothing. No grand flourish. No threat to dice his liver up without removing it. Not even so much as a smile and a nod as I waited here, in a horrid spring Paris day, as he read a list. "Here you are."

"Ah. Good. Can I enter, then?"

"W-what did you say your name was?"

"Marshal and Mademoiselle Julie Maupin d'Aubiñie, daughter of the secretary of his most honorable Minister for the People of Marseilles Joseph-Louis de Provenca. Was that too much? Should I not come on so hard? Or can I go through the door now?" I said, pointing through this small gateway meant for dignitaries to enter privately and was still blocked by this oaf with a list and a duty. "I mean... my name is on the list."

"Do you know what this sigil is?"

I looked down at his uniform, which until I had completely ignored, and saw, roughly sewn into his tunic, was a red shield crossed with a golden bend or dexter or whatever the heraldrists called them, but it lacked a certain something which in any other circumstance would've nearly led me to care. "I see. It says... You. My friend. Are a fuckwit."

And with that I forced my way past him.

Inside the courtyard of the grand palace of Paris, several sets of courtiers milled about, looking for any purpose but the one that they actual had, which was to find an excuse to get whoever they were with inside, somewhere cozy, with a bottle of cognac, and unwrap all those hijab and petticoats with an utmost deftness.

Several pairs of eyes wandered my way.

But they weren't the "unwrap my hijab with utmost deftness" kind of eyes, well a few were, but the majority were probably more interested in this young maiden who was wearing half women's dress and half soldier's uniform who had seemingly stumbled into the courtyard while a guard from outside shouted after her.

"Madame! Mademoiselle! You can't just barge past a..."

"A what?" I asked, turning with my hands on my hips. "A what? A guard? Have you no ears? I am Marshal and Mademoiselle Julie-Maupin d'Aubiñie. That first bit, mind you, is as much a part of my title as 'Mademoiselle' and I'll give you, soldier, ten seconds to fix whatever it was you were about to say into something a tad more worthy of my position."

He stood there, frozen to the spot, melting under my glare. Then, suddenly, he snapped to attention and re-shouldered his musket before turning on his heel and carefully marching back to his post at the front of the gate.

Now, without him bothering, there was a bit of time according to the fancy spring-driven clock above the central fountain, around which gathered lovelies who nearly matched in beauty those from Marseilles. Or Barcelona. Or Granada herself, the greatest city of them all, nestled in the hills and mountains of Andalusia, where lord Europe stoops down to kiss madam Africa ever so lightly and the caravans come from far and wide bringing goods of every make and cloths of every color and more than a million souls rise in the morn and sleep at night.

Ah.

To be in Granada once more, though that seemed a distant dream as I found a place to sit beside some more conventionally dressed duckies who had gathered around a book that seemed like neither the Quran or the Bible, pretending to read it but as sure as the sun will rise I had caught them pointing and whispering about me. When they saw I had elected to sit nearby, they giggled, the surest sign of any that I was welcome to linger, though the hardest part was often telling if they desired me to remain for my company or for the target I provided.

I didn't say anything, tried to enjoy the unseasonably warm day that would be considered unseasonably cool back home - though both had the German frontier beat hands down. Glancing as appropriately as I could at the gaggle of women beside me, I realized I recognized one.

Aye.

She was the daughter of the Tetrarch of Italia... which meant at least two of the four where here at the palace. And one was bad enough. But two? Could there even be... three?

No.

I dare not think what it could mean for there to be three tetrarchs in once place. There were times when things looked dire, but surely not so dire as to require three of four to be in once place. And what if there was four? My head perked up because the thought was instantly worrying.

Because if all four tetrarchs were in once place, there was a fifth someone who probably followed with them. And all of that meant that we were going on one hell of a campaign. Who'd know where. Prague? Berlin? Krakow? Moscow even. Constantino—

I swallowed.

The girls giggled again, the palest one, who was sitting next to the tetrarch's daughter, leaned over, "Señora, are you okay? You've gone white as a sheet."

Without thinking, I tried to recompose myself, "Just a nasty thought. What are you girls reading?"

There was another laugh, this one not so inviting, and I caught one of them muttering in that awful lenga d'oïl gargle that, just as the rumors said, I acted as if I thought I were a man, which is a terrible lie. A terrible lie perpetrated by terrible husbands.

"We're reading The Satires, though it looks like you already have and taken them a bit too seriously."

Ah, there it was.

Target.

"What did you say your name was?" the Tetrarch of Italia's daughter asked. It was about now that I began to realize I had completely forgotten her name.

"Marshal and Madame Julie-Maupin d'Aubiñie, at your service," I said with a half-faked smile and offered my hand as she might've to a suitor. "We've met before, or I've met your father before and you were there in the background. My apologies for having not learned your name."

"Amatullah Amna Rosenda. How and why did you meet my father?"

"He went to one of my shows."

"Show?!" she asked, face blushed the color of half-ripe pomegranates.

"Op-er-a show. I'm an opera singer... amongst other things. Opera singer, translator, orator, commander of attentions, fencer, and leader of men."

"Ah, see you've several gifts of the tongue."

"Truly."

That got a much more friendly set of giggles, and though it was tempting to perhaps sidle a bit closer to them, really there'd be better times. Surely if at least two tetrarchs were in town there'd eventually be a party, a big party, and lovely alcohol would start to flow and everything would be easier, better, and more excusable.

"Shouldn't you be in the meeting?" Rosenda asked. "With my father?"

"Doesn't start for another hour," I said, pointing to the clock... which was exactly where it was when I last checked it. "Ah... well,itwasgreatmeetingallofyou,Ihopetoseeyouallattheafterparty."

They laughed, which was good, at least someone was getting some positive from a damned broken clock. Could've told me right away. Or the guard could've told me. Anyone really, anyone with some common decency, which probably wasn't as common as I was hoping. I walked, half ran, straight across the courtyard and into the main palace. The guards there hardly noticed my presence but also didn't salute my presence either.

After asking for directions, getting lost, and asking a second time from a much more understanding elderly maid, I found myself outside a tightly guarded door that led, according to what I was told, to a large auditorium. And that meant a briefing. A large one. That I missed most of. Or at least part of it. Hopefully not too much.

With a salute to the guards, I quietly pulled the door open just enough to slip through without causing any noise and with the grace and silence that only someone who has worked backstage in the finest opera houses of France, Hispania, Italy and now even London would know how to achieve, I found an empty chair next to an old, mostly African man who just sat there stroking his beard. When he saw I needed to scoot through, he moved his legs, but otherwise remained seated.

Up front, I counted three of the four tetrarchs. So not a worst case scenario at least. Currently speaking was Sameer Hanif Ziya ur-Rahman, the Tetrarch of Franxi y Bretaña. On his left was Abdul Imram Bulus Rodrigid, Tetrarch of Hispania y Africa. His right-hand-man was Rico Tarec Farid, Tetrarch of Italia and father to beautiful daughters. The only one of the four missing was Mohammed Mufaddal Kareem Kareemid, Tetrarch of Egipto y Siria. In the crowd were military commanders and a few foreign dignitaries, of whom the only one I really recognized was Count Wilhelm I von Thüringen of Ulm, who other than being a lovely lover and long-time friend-through-letters, was also the permanent ambassador from our Empire to the German Empire. And like speaking the name of the devil aloud, he turned and saw me, but instead of a knowing smirk or a happy smile he looked very worried and kept nodding his head.

I shrugged back, which was worth a laugh because the look on his face was a priceless work of art I would admonish him about the first chance I got, probably tonight between desert and his bedroom.

"Do you know master Wilhelm?" the old man asked me.

"Aye. I might've met him a few times."

"Ah," the old man said with a chuckle and a rocking nod. "Flower of youth. Spent many days chasing the pretty girls back home. Wouldn't call it wasted."

Just when I was going to ask the old man where 'home' was, the doors burst open and there, sweat running down his brow despite the cool weather, was Mohammed Mufaddal Kareem Kareemid... Tetrarch of Egypt and Syria, a sight which caused me to immediately suck my lips in in an attempt not to blurt out something incredibly rude or vulgar. Especially for a woman.

But even for a man.

"At least someone gets the seriousness of the situation," the old man said gesturing to my look of shock while in the background Mohammed Mufaddal apologized 'profusely' for being late, owing to the broken clock in the courtyard. Sameer raised his hand to tell the poor man it was okay and he could calm down now.

Mohammed Mufaddal was headed down to take his seat, and now I recognized that tucked under his arm he had several ornate tubes, each probably full of maps, which meant this was a briefing, perhaps the first of many, for a war.

But we had just finished a pair of wars. Unless they meant to invade Scotland, I guess... we could probably manage that before winter, but then why all the important people? So it was a big target. Surely not Bohemia and the German states... but then why Count Wilhelm? Why any of us? I didn't really even have an assignment at this point. A post. A curiosity maybe. The opera singer turned lady fencer turned combat leader.

"I don't think I know you," the old man said.

I didn't shift my vision back to him, I just kept focusing on the four men at the front, but I did offer him my hand, "Mareyscal y Señora Julie-Maupin d'Aubiñie."

"Ah. Yes. I signed your commission."

My head snapped around faster than my eyes could keep up, leaving everything a sickening blur.

"You came highly recommended after what you accomplished in Vienna. But I've been extremely rude, I haven't introduced myself."

I could've practically mouthed along with him.

"I am Isma'il the third, Muhammed Abdala bin Muhammed Nasirid."

Which caused me to involuntarily suck my lips in in an attempt not to blurt out something that would actually get me burnt at the stake.

 

[Nikolai]

Haha, lovely. Both adept at reading the situation(s) and quite assertive, that woman.

 

[gigau]

Brilliant !

I had missed your style !

 

[Mr. Capiatlist]

This must be the first AAR I see of you, Mr. Capiatlist, I first thought this must be an announcement of some more forum rules . I like the disclaimer in the OP btw . Let's see where this ahistorical world will go to, subbed!

Welcome to the party. Martinis and hors-d'œuvre will be served shortly.

Haha, lovely. Both adept at reading the situation(s) and quite assertive, that woman.

Usually.

Brilliant !

I had missed your style !

I was going to remark that I felt this was a grand departure from "my style" but with some reflection, I think you're right. With where I am in my book series (roughly the first act of book four) everyone is so dour and reflective. It's actually a breath of fresh air on my part to write someone much better suited for my style - quippy, horny, and who talks more than thinks.

****

Feedback-feedback done, some notes for the game itself - so I've played about as far as this AAR will last, which is the end of the Wars of Romes. One theatre in particular wasn't all that involved but I'll see if anything changes not far after the end and means I should include more, but I doubt it. Expect to see some changes to the OP as I whittle some things down.

That said, I expect to start a second update soon and maybe even have it done for tonight or tomorrow. But I can't promise this pace past that. Maybe one/two a month.

 

[Macke11]

Perhaps occasionally checking the main AAR page pays off! I was merely glancing at the AAR sub-forum overview and found this!

Admittedly, I have never actually read your works in depth, but they seem to be well-liked, so I'll see if I can give this a look. Inconveniently, the current time of day at my location doesn't seem to align with that idea, but hopefully I may read it soon. A (relatively) slow pace of updates suits me well, as it improves my feasibility to keep up and feel that I can take my time with it.

 

[The Number 9]

Hopefully I can stick to this one. Expect a turbulent update schedule.

You can expect regular comments after each of your irregular update.
Nice to see you back at AAR writing, I remember some great stories from you.

And I already like this one.

 

[stnylan]

I admit it, I chuckled

Quite a few times.

 

[Mr. Capiatlist]

Perhaps occasionally checking the main AAR page pays off! I was merely glancing at the AAR sub-forum overview and found this!

Admittedly, I have never actually read your works in depth, but they seem to be well-liked, so I'll see if I can give this a look. Inconveniently, the current time of day at my location doesn't seem to align with that idea, but hopefully I may read it soon. A (relatively) slow pace of updates suits me well, as it improves my feasibility to keep up and feel that I can take my time with it.

That's okay, I find that the majority of my work is best read quickly, not paying too much attention to prose or world-building as they both are often slapdash. Especially when it comes to AAR writing.

But more seriously, I fully understand. I am dreadfully slow reader myself. It's seriously impacted how much 'fun' I get out of reading and makes it hard to be too active in AARland.

You can expect regular comments after each of your irregular update.
Nice to see you back at AAR writing, I remember some great stories from you.

And I already like this one.

Welcome and thank you very much!

I admit it, I chuckled

Quite a few times.

If it was more than once, I'm under par for the course, of course.

 

[Mr. Capiatlist]

March 1st, 1689

Paris, Primary City of Franxi y Bretaña​

Tetrarch Mohammed Mufaddal had finished apologizing to the others, and had now rolled out several maps, inviting those closest to the front to lean over their desks and gawk, pretending to even be able to make out the difference between Belgica and Byzantium. Beside me, chin supported in hand, the Great Sultan Isma'il the third, my liege and possibly the most powerful human being alive, hummed a tune that I recognized from a pub I had patroned once outside of Bordeaux. If my memory was clear, and I'm fairly certain it was, a dancer had hummed it while she popped out of her top for the amusement of the crowd. And now the thought of the Great Sultan sitting in a dirty tavern in the outskirts of a navy dockyard in hopes of catching a glimpse of a pair of duckies was giving me cause to bite on my lip and try not to laugh or faint or do anything else stupid in this sort of situation.

"This has been a long time coming," Isma'il said, leaning over so he didn't have to raise his voice much over a whisper.

"Has it?" I squeaked, quickly biting my lip again.

He nodded, licked his lips in preparation for some grand line, but only sighed, folding his hands in his lap as Mohammed Mufaddal went over the situation in Georgia, which considering what they were facing, was pretty good, all things told.

The Great Sultan swallowed and nodded again. "Yes. After the last war with the Ottomans, we returned a few useless mountains to the Georgians and with it guaranteed their independence. Many of my advisors, unsurprisingly, weren't too happy. Probably for this reason right here."

"Yes. Unsurprising," I said, without understanding what made that unsurprising and slightly distracted imagining the balls on the man who would openly disagree with the Great Sultan.

He seemed to get that, and gave me a side-glance, his bushy, old-man eyebrows slightly peaked.

"Sorry, I must say that outside of a certain set of events in Vienna and this one time in Verona where I got into a bar fight, I don't have a terrible amount of military experience."

"I think Vienna speaks for itself."

"Ooookay. You're the Great Sultan."

"I am," he said. "I like to think in seventy-seven years I've learned a thing or two about spotting excellence."

The conversation in the front of the lecture hall had been taken over by Tetrarch Rico Tarec, who was pointing out key points in a massive effort that would see the entirety of the Roman Fleet, nearly two hundred ships, bottled in the Pontic Sea. Two new fleets, new fleets, were going to be the backbone of the attack, while smaller fleets from around the Middle Sea would be supporting.

"But, the main two-hundred ship fleet being built is Hispania has been met with delays, owing for raids on our colonies in Canada. Even without them, we fell, with the Romans busy in Gothia, we'll be able to crush any smaller fleets in the Aegean and then lock up the Bosphorus."

"What about the Roman fleet in the Adriatic?" a voice asked.

"They currently have thirty ships, mostly transports. The Venetian Fleet should be able to make short work of them before joining with the rest of the fleet north of Crete."

"The war on the seas is the easy part," Mohammed Mufaddal said. "Current estimates put the Roman Army in the hundreds of thousands."

"And?" I asked, perhaps a tad too loudly.

The Tetrarch pointed up in my general direction, as sign he had heard me, "Can't move a million men into Anatolia at once. Plus the Romans are currently moving in three columns of roughly thirty to forty thousand. Generally within a week's march of the column closest to it. If even one column can catch one of our armies off guard or isolated, it'll quickly crush it."

"Communication will be paramount. Use runners and use them often."

Isma'il reached over and touched my hand to get my attention. "Anatolia is nearly deserted; they're being too cautious... but what does an old man know about war?" He shrugged. "I've only fought in six."

"They can't've abandoned Anatolia completely."

"The hard part's going to come in Wallachia... or Gothia... I've already pulled some strings, made sure we're welcome."

"So if Anatolia is empty, why not just run straight for Constantinople? I mean once the Bosphorus is closed an army can park itself outside its walls and sit. Practically forever. So long as the navy can keep it fed and other armies can keep the Romans at bay"

Isma'il unclasped his hands and with a wry smile pointed a finger at me. "There you go. Just need a road map."

"Going to need some cannons."

"Those too."

"Thank you, your majesty."

"You're very welcome, Mareyscal."

****​

"You didn't tell me you were coming to this shin-dig," I called out to Wilhelm through several conversations that were probably a tad more important given the way that their participants and even Wilhelm himself glared at me. Then came the part when I had to force myself through that very crowd.

"Excuse me... sorry... apologies... oh, you are looking fantastic tonight, any chance that we mi— no? Fine. Well then, anyway... Hello... yes... sorry... Ah! Wilhelm! You are looking very sophisticated tonight."

"What are you doing here?"

I held up a finger to hold his pardon as a maid walked by with a tray of glasses full of some mysterious clear liquid. I took a glass and left the girl a coin with a wink. I'm sure had I actually had time to pull the curls out of my hair and straighten up a bit so I didn't have to wear this blasted headscarf I could've at least gotten a wink out of her, but the glass was enough. A whiff of the stuff was enough to knock most people on their asses, but it was different so what harm was there? You couldn't get this in any other place ruled by a 'sultan' which probably explained why we were as unpopular with the rest of Islamic community as we were with the Christians.

My drink drunk and my pardon held, I turned back to Wilhelm, who was clearly not in the mood for my shit tonight, so I laid it on thick, "I'm drinking drinks, gazing upon the finest beauties that France and her neighbors have to offer, and I apparently did some smoozing with an Emperor. That was my time thus far, how. are. you. doing my old friend?"

He brushed the finger I had punctuated my point with from his chest and looked around as if anyone in the room cared for even a second that two people, with drinks in their hands and history behind them flirted for two seconds.

"Please. I'm married now. I told you as much in my letters."

"And?" I took a sip of my drink, which was growing on me with every passing taste. "I asked how you were doing, not to whip it out across my face right here and now."

"Do you think of nothing else?"

"Don't insult me, I've stabbed men for less. What is this stuff?"

"Really? That's what you're thinking about right now?"

"Well, given that I've a bit of a reputation as a boozer, womanizer, and, apparently, cock-handler, I thought that it was best to focus on what came to me naturally in these trying times of war. You still haven't answered my original question, which if I remember was quite innocent all things considered."

"Worried. Okay? I'm worried."

"Why?"

"Supply lines? Trying to convince an empire of Christians that the big bad Muslim Hispania doesn't really mean anything by utterly crushing the only major, unified Christian state in Europe?"

"I would assume we mean quite a lot by it."

"Th-that's my point, Maupi."

"Ah! You called me Maupi, still."

"For fuck's sake! Give me that!" He snatched the drink from my hand and downed it all himself. "Christ, I hate this Dutch shit. It's like being French kissed by a Tannenbaum. Now will you pay attention?! Maybe it doesn't mean much to you Hispanians, but the title 'Emperor of Rome' is certainly going to mean a lot to 'Emperor' Vladimir. He's going to want answers that I have to give him."

I was taken slightly aback about the whole thing. The very thought of us having anything to answer to Vlad, a child only three years older than myself, was almost insulting, even to me.

"Of all the people here, I thought at least one person would have a little more foresight."

"Not sure why you're pinning that assumption on me," I said, folding my arms with a pout. "I don't think in all the years we've been acquainted I've shown much of that on the grander scheme of things."

"The horror that of all people in Vienna that night, you were the one to leave with a commission."

"Yeah... well... I did. Okay?"

He shook his head and put the empty glass back in my hand before turning around and heading off back into the crowd, leaving me half-dumbfounded and half shocked at my own stupidity and ignorance. What a fool I was, of course the lad was having it rough, but that didn't mean he needed to treat me like discarded trash. Was an entertainer just expected to not entertain? It was literally my job description to make people happy.

I turned to huff off back in the direction of gin or wine or brandy or applejack, whatever was available, but instead nearly bowled over poor Rosenda bint Rico Tarec. She laughed, gently, and put her hands on my chest, like she would've to keep any other lad in his military finest at a socially acceptable distance but instead left us both beet red in the midst of the party.

She retracted her arms quickly and coughed, trying to regain some small part of her lost composure.

"You're Señora d'Aubiñie, right?"

I cleared my throat. "I am. Yes. That's me. Uh... at your service, Madame Rosenda."

"Tetrarch Muhammed Mufaddal is looking for you. And please, Amatullah to you."

"Oh."

The rapid collapse of my timbre must've tipped Amatullah off. "Not sure what you were expecting, Señora, but I am not exactly available, especially not to women who think themselves men."

I opened my mouth to correct her, but she waved the words away before I even spoke them.

"I'm the daughter of a tetrarch you are a... child... of a Jewish banker. Let's be reasonable here."

"My father is Jewish."

"And?"

"My mother isn't."

"I didn't say you were Jewish, did I? I said you are the child of a Jewish banker, is this not the case? Or do you have a point to make? Don't you think you're a bit more the type for... say... the maid-in-waiting of the daughter of a Tetrarch?"

When I didn't respond immediately she dipped her chin and rolled her eyes back toward her maids. It was then my eyes grew a bit wider, "Oh. Perhaps. Sorry, I... uh... forgot my place."

"Anyway..." She started heading back through the crowd, and I followed like a gosling to its mother. Along the way I ran into the maid again and grabbed another drink off her tray. This time I did get a little wink, though I was hardly sure of what I did to earn it. Maybe she had heard my name? Maybe passing quickly through the crowd I had been mistaken for a dashing soldier.

"Señor Muhammed Mufaddal, this is Señora d'Aubiñie, as you requested."

"Ah, splendid," he said, putting no effort to hide a hefty scoop of disdain on top of his words. "How did you two meet, again?"

"Her father was a patron of my troupe when we were in Italia last. We met at a gala to raise funds for the theater," I said, cutting Amatullah off suddenly.

"Great. Good. Anyway, thank you Amatullah, as always."

She curtseyed and headed off to her ever-giggling gaggle of duckies, who were watching, glasses of wine in hands. The pale one caught me looking their way and grew a brilliant hue, not unlike that of a fine rosé, before turning away from me and distracting herself with her glass of wine.

"You are certainly a strange one, Señora. I can't say I am terribly interested in having you serving somewhere in my command."

The life drained from my chest and into my fingers and toes, leaving me heavy and tired. At least he was forward, I thought. Didn't have to spend an entire war wondering if my boss wanted me to be the next impaled on some spike.

"It's not really my interest to let this war become a stage for your fancies, there are battles to be fought and slaughters to be had. I, and the other Tetrarchs consider your title, Marshal, to be purely honorific, without authority."

"My apologies, but the Great Sulta—"

Muhammed Mufaddal silenced me with a raising of his hands and an exasperated closing of his eyes. He had certainly heard enough of this today. "Did you really come here thinking that you, you of all people, were going to walk out with an assignment to command an army? Fifteen thousand men? You're a singer and a stage fencer and that's the best that could be said about you."

I swallowed and took a sip of my drink, the only thing keeping me from splashing it in his face and starting this damn fight right now. I don't know how well the old man could handle a sword, but I knew sure as hell if he thought I was merely a stage fencer, he was already severely underestimating me, and that might the only advantage I'd need.

"That said, you've been given an actual commission, as a Coronela. You'll be with brigade five of the Army of Al Quds."

"Five? That's an artillery group..."

"Armies in the east are organized differently than in the west. Each brigade needs to be detachable and still function as a whole. You're got two thousand muskets, a hundred guns, and seven hundred and fifty riders. Believe me when I say it's far too many, but luckily the Army of Al Quds has a pretty simple task."

"Aye, sir. Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. And may God almighty forgive me."

"Who am I reporting to?"

"General Yonatan of Jaffa. I don't believe he's made it here. I hope you packed light, we must be off to Normandy to sail in a few days for Alexandretta. So get your kicks now, Marshal." He walked off.

Kicks?

I'll get my kicks when and where I please, thankyouverymuch. But huffing and puffing here wouldn't do me any good. Instead, I scanned the room for someone to huff and puff with. Amatullah and her little clique still haunted the corners of my vision. These parties were like that. Men to one side. Women to the other, poor little me stuck in the middle, waiting and wondering which side I truly belonged to.

The pale girl looked over again, her nose down in her glass, but her eyes up at me. I tried to put on a friendly face, leave the aches and pains of this other world in that world, and to be the friendly, upbeat character I was meant to be. I had to be cool, calm, collected, other words starting with C that were just on the edge of my mind's tongue.

For the first time that day, I removed my hijab, to little fuss, letting short, boyish black curls down around my ears. As long as no one paid my dress any mind, I'd blend perfectly in. Drab olive jacket with golden buttons and cords. Whatever.

Didn't matter.

We were all a bit too drunk to care, so I took another sip and headed over into the fire. To have fun, because apparently, I was soon to be on a ship to the Levant.