Life is not simple for good Iulianu. Not simple at all. And from his vantage point we see Ciro's litany of ... disappointments, I think I would say. These new lands are proving fractious to say the least.
The Red Crown: a sAARdinian Tale
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Top quality storytelling once again - and with some very topical themes. One hopes something decent may finally happen for Iulianu and Fatimah - but that would be bucking the trend. Iberia - the place of dreams and nightmares for all would-be conquerors. And dangerous for its inhabitants caught up in the middle of it.
So Prince Ciro was his father’s Spymaster? Always a dangerous job.
So Prince Ciro was his father’s Spymaster? Always a dangerous job.
Well we were seeing Sardinia Corsica attempt to remake the Spanish empire at its height in reverse...now we're seeing their first bits of expansion hit a gigantic wall. And it doesn't look like they have the power to do much about it. They may be mighty powers within their own kingdom but elsewhere...
Such a sad chapter...
I hope that King Ciro's plans will succeed, and Fatimah and Ilianu will return home.
I hope that King Ciro's plans will succeed, and Fatimah and Ilianu will return home.
You're telling me! These Englishmen are pretty ornery as vassals. Much like in real-life history, conquering a kingdom is a lot easier than holding it.
Eh, I wasn't really going for a "ripped from the headlines" approach on this one. It's just two people from vastly different cultures finding each other amidst a time of strife for both of them; that sort of thing's been happening since the beginning of civilization, so it's nothing new. Although I can see how it's analogous to current events, in a way.
As to Prince Ciro, he had something like 20 Intrigue, so I figured he'd be good at Spymasterin'. Clearly I (and, by extension, King Ciro) overestimated his skills.
Conveniently, I wasn't trying to blob too much for this AAR, so I think all the revolts and vassal management troubles dovetail into that quite nicely. Ciro isn't much of a ruler, really; he's spent most of his time dicking around with the Hermetics instead of actually managing his kingdom(s). Hell, I almost had a roleplay justification for not pressing his claim on Andalusia, but I realized it was too good an opportunity to pass up, even for Ciro. It's part of the reason I chose to adopt Iulianu's viewpoint: I realized that a bunch of chapters of the king puttering around stargazing and writing books might not be particularly exciting from the reader's standpoint.
Things are always darkest before the dawn (unless you happen to live in Finland, what with that midnight sun and all).
Chapter Twenty-Six: Union (December 26th, 1331-August 13th, 1335)
Chapter Twenty-Six: Union (December 26th, 1331-August 13th, 1335)
*January 15th, 1332*
The old English couple remained stoic as the soldiers uprooted their meager furnishings, scanning the floors of their farmhouse as mice might sniff about in a maze. This was not their first encounter with the rough men of Sardinia’s seemingly endless army, and they, with a certain sardonic grimness, predicted that it would not be the last. One of the rough men noisily munched on a loaf of bread they had kept in the cabinet, idly pacing while his subordinates tapped their various weapons against the walls, the floors, the ceilings. He spoke between mouthfuls in terrible English, substituting clarity with volume:
“And there are no others here?”
“None, good sir.”
The English couple showed no signs of undue emotion or response. Their expressionless masks frustrated him immensely. He swallowed his last mouthful of bread, wiping the crumbs from his beard.
“Bunch of English raff here,” he called back to his men, “but no treasure here for us.”
The “treasure” he referred to was not to be found in gold or jewels, but in human lives. The English couple understood this as a matter of course. They had lived in Andalusia since the early days of English rule there, and had survived the change of crown from England to Sardinia without much fuss, at least until the recent troubles. Sardinians had come to view the English as untrustworthy and treacherous; the English and Anglo-Andalusians readily reciprocated these sentiments, which went ill for both parties.
But for now, the Sardinian men had other business to attend to. Stowing their weapons, they sauntered out of the farmhouse, leaving it in a state of disarray. The couple watched as they disappeared over the horizon, marching north to Seville.
Once they were gone, the old man tapped thrice on his grain silo, executing the prearranged signal. From a small service entrance, Iulianu and Fatimah emerged, sliding down a pile of stored grain.
“Thank you,” Iulianu said, trying hard not to trip over his English. “Thank you again.”
“Do not thank us,” the old man replied, his face grim and sagging. “We are finished here.”
Iulianu helped Fatimah to her feet. He felt himself amazed at her continued strength; though she had not yet begun to display visible signs of her condition, he knew that the child, their child, grew rapidly within her, drawing more of her life-force with each passing day. Yet her grip was strong; any delicacy that may have been a part of her character had been replaced by an iron strength, driven by equally metallic willpower.
“This is the last time,” the old man continued. “You are to leave.”
“Leave?!” Iulianu spoke this word too loudly, and in Sardinian, though he sensed it was understood. He tried to quiet himself: “Good sir, that cannot be. This woman is with child. If we just-”
“The woman is a Moor. They are the cause of all this. You are Sardinian. You are also the cause.”
“I do not apologize for what I am, and I cannot-”
“Do you know what they say? In town? They say your Sardinian king is fixing to take out the rebel duke’s son. Revenge for the prince’s death. Is that how you Sardinians do things? An eye for an eye?”
Iulianu bit his tongue, ruminating over a number of Sardinian expletives which, while satisfying, would have been wholly inappropriate for the situation.
“It’s no wonder,” the old man continued, his frustrations uncorked, “that the rebellion’s gaining more support.”
“More support?” Iulianu tilted his head. He hadn’t heard of this; the past few weeks had been tumultuous enough. The flight from Seville was no mean feat; it was pure luck that the Sardinian army decided to march southeast to intercept Duke Albert’s levies. They had stowed away in a merchant wagon and ridden it for a good distance before sneaking off to the unknown countryside, darting from homestead to homestead in search of shelter. The locals’ kindness, much like everything else these days, was in short supply.
“Yes, that’s right. Duke Ralph came to his senses and has thrown his lot in with Duke Albert. Murcia and Seville will clean up this mess together, I’d say.”
Iulianu fumed, especially at the way the man looked at Fatimah when he said “this mess.” It had become clear during their flight that a great many Andalusians blamed the Moorish elements of the population for “weakening” the kingdom, thus contributing to the conditions of the rebellion and the various religious uprisings in Mallorca. He and Fatimah had to be careful about who they spoke to: the land, it seemed, was filled with informants and bounty hunters hoping to score a ducat or two by turning in “sympathizers” and “agents” of the Moors.
Iulianu felt Fatimah’s iron grip holding him back, preventing him from striking the man. If she felt any hatred towards the old couple, Iulianu could not perceive even a hint of it.
“We must press on,” she said, simply and directly.
Iulianu sighed, scratching his unkempt beard. Drawing up his small rucksack, he accompanied his wife as they once again took up the path of the dusty road ahead of them.
*July 26th, 1332*
“How much longer is this going to take?” The fire-eater folded his burly arms, rolling his eyes at the juggler, who had once again dropped his apples, scattering them about the campsite.
“Now now, let’s not get our doublets in a tangle here. It’ll be done when it’s good and done. Now let me practice; I swear I can get up to nine apples at once.”
“And I say your head is naught but apples! I don’t like this one bit, you know. All these delays.”
“Life is but a delay between birth and death, my friend.”
“Quiet with your philosophizing, or I’ll make your delay very brief indeed!”
The juggler shrugged as he practiced his craft, sending a half-dozen apples or more flying above his arms. The fire-eater scoffed, pacing about the tents with a dour expression on his face.
“Yes, it’s all well and good for you to stand there like an empty-headed peacock,” the fire-eater continued, “but some of us prefer to be paid for our work. We’re certainly not getting paid in Malaga, not with all that fighting going on over there.”
“Not in Carmona either. The whole place is swarming with soldiers and rebels and God knows what else. We’d get shanked in the gullet in ten minutes flat over there. Or worse, taken prisoner like those noblemen.”
The juggler looked up at the flying apples, trying his best to ignore his grumpy compatriot. The fire-eater continued, having worked himself into something of a rant.
“And who do we have to thank for these glorious times? That bastard King Ciro the Old, that’s who. ‘The Old Fool’ is more like it! You know what he’s been doing this whole time? With the war on and all? Do you know? Take a guess! Go on, guess!”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway-”
“You’re damn right I will! He’s been scribbling away at some useless book! A book, they say, he wrote in some kind of code so that no one else can read it! Now tell me, does that sound practical to you at a time like this?”
“You know me, I’m not one for practicality.”
“Oh, what’s the use? You’ve a head in the clouds.”
“The clouds seem an awful pleasant place to be at the moment…”
The juggler caught eight of the nine apples coming earthward, the ninth bouncing off his head by accident. The fire-eater did not share the juggler’s fit of giggling laughter at this development, and harrumphed his way over to the main tent.
“Is it going to be much longer, Edith?”
A shrill voice sounded from within: “No, and keep patient! I’ve already got enough of a handful over here without your constant jabbering!”
“I’ll jabber all I like!” The fire-eater rolled his eyes. If it were up to him, the troupe would have never let those two interlopers into their site, but Edith had something of a heart left in her old shriveled-up chest, and couldn’t turn away a girl so heavy with child. It was tremendous luck that Edith had once been a midwife when she was young, although the fire-eater sometimes doubted if Edith had ever been young.
It was perhaps half an hour more when the yelling finally came to a halt, replaced with small, subtle cries, and with muted expressions of relief.
***
“Fatimah, she has your eyes.”
“And your head, Iulianu. Looks just like a pear.”
“Funny. My mother used to say that.”
“She really is a very tiny little thing.”
“Like her mother.”
“Hopefully not; what I’d trade for a tall child…”
“With all this running around we never discussed what-”
“I know. She needs a name.”
“A name. Let me think. Oh...I’m no good with names, I don’t think.”
“There is a way that children are named where I am from. They bear the names of their ancestors, sometimes going back many generations.”
“Hm. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I know very much about my ancestors.”
“Then we don’t need to go very far back. What about your mother? What is she called?”
“...Tharesa. My mother’s name is Tharesa.”
“I see. It’s a very lovely name.”
“Are you...is that what you’re thinking of? For the name?”
“Perhaps. I am also no good with names.”
“Tharesa...it’s a little strange. Or not, perhaps. I do bear the same name as my father.”
“Ah yes. You told me about when he passed on.”
“I did.”
“I tell you what, Iulianu. We will name this one ‘Tharesa.’ When we have a son, perhaps we will name him ‘Iulianu,’ after you, and after your father. This world could use more Iulianus.”
“Fatimah?”
“Yes, Iulianu?”
“I...I think I love you.”
“...that’s very interesting.”
“What? What do you mean by that?’”
There was no answer. The desperate, frantic energy of the day had finally taken its toll. Only sleep remained for the three of them.
*January 1st, 1333*
The troupe harbored them as long as they could. It was an effective arrangement at first, but everywhere they went there were whispers amongst the common folk, whispers that grew gradually louder and more pointed. “The Moors have eyes everywhere,” they seemed to say. “They’ve infiltrated the offices of the nobility, of the clergy,” they said. “Snuck in through the cat door, they did.” “They should be driven out, wiped from the face of the earth.”
Thus, another attempt would have to be made to return to Sardinia. The situation had changed in the time since their last endeavor, and not just by the addition of little Tharesa, her dark, reflective eyes always open, always aware. The severity of the situation in Mallorca had grown dire enough that the king wished to make an example of the local Muslims. To that end, he enlisted the services of Teutonic Knights, famed for their defense of the Holy Land. The fear of their military might was at least as powerful as their strength of arms themselves.
Supplemented with Sardinian troops, their mission was to bring a final doom to the rebels. And doom they brought, staining the Balearic Islands red with their blood. Four thousand of their number perished in a fruitless attack on the mighty Teutonic Knights, and many more perished in the horrifying executions ordered by the Sardinian generals. The uprising was forced to lay down its arms, utterly defeated.
Meanwhile, the situation in Andalusia continued, and a Sardinian victory still seemed a long way off. The matter of the kingdom’s succession, at least, was solved for the time being by the cooperation of the docile Duke Gilbert of Algarve, who cast his vote alongside the king in naming Prince Corrado as heir to Andalusia and the other Sardinian territories; it was quite a different tact for the son of Duke Philip the Quarreler and his infamous opposition to the crown. With this gesture Andalusian independence seemed, at that moment, no more than a fleeting dream.
A slow, grinding victory was more likely. The reinvigorated Sardinian troops marched endlessly, scoring victories at Aracena and Malaga, rounding up dissident noblemen and commanders by the score.
Suddenly, Iulianu saw, amidst the chaos, a chance to escape, a slim chance. With the end of the Mallorcan uprising came the promise of safe passage for vessels bound back for Sardinia. The harbors of Andalusia were abuzz with sailors, merchants, dockworkers, all manner of folk readying their rigging, hoisting sails, loading cargo, a mass of activity to those longing to take to the sea once more.
It could hardly be expected of them to notice two rather insignificant people and a tiny, bundled infant hide behind a crate before darting into the hold of a cargo ship. Nor could they have possibly heard these two very quiet people as they lay amongst yards of cloth and bushels of wheat. They would not have been able to perceive the muffled, relaxed breathing of the sleeping infant, the only sound from their tiny hiding place as her mother watched her for any signs of outcry, ready to calm her at a moment’s notice. The three of them had become adept at keeping totally still, secret without fault. And it would have been a most simple, straightforward matter to continue to hide all the way back to the shores of Arboréa, disembarking in the murky depths of twilight to some back alley in Oristano, and then onward on the road to Atzàra, to home, to peace.
But as soon as the three of them heard the terrible commotion above deck, the clash of swords, the death-scream of hapless sailors, the faint, resonant sounds of men plunging into the sea, followed by the fading sounds of their struggles to stay afloat; once all these could be heard, and once the realization that it was not some horrible nightmare became apparent, it was then that such hopes of returning home came crashing to the ground after a long, perilous ascent.
Only moments passed before the attackers, clearly of Moorish persuasion, had infiltrated the cargo hold. Iulianu hardly had time to stand as he wheeled over in front of Fatimah and the baby, hoping if only for an instant to shield them from harm somehow, to make a wall of his own flesh and blood. A winding torrent of hands seized him, pulling him down with a hard strength borne of endless days of sea travel, of salt-spun grit. It was not long before he lost consciousness.
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, beyond thought, beyond dreams, was a prayer for his wife and child; not of words, but of a pure animal instinct.
*May 28th, 1333*
The endless sunlight cast no shadows, gave those beneath its gaze no refuge. Iulianu, wiping the sweat from his brow once again, involuntarily swallowed, his dry tongue sitting heavily in his throat. Looking up from his toil, he surveyed the island once again. It had become quite a familiar sight to him.
He had come to learn that the place was called “Tabarca,” resting only a few miles from the Iberian coastline. It was a tiny, easily-overlooked sort of place, a flat, almost featureless strip of land barely a mile in length. Enough for ships to harbor and some small dwellings, but little else. Iulianu and his fellow captives cursed the sunlight, as the island offered no shelter from its pitiless rays as they endlessly hauled about crates and worked at building and repairing the ships of their captors. It was difficult for him to believe that they were true Barbary pirates, the ones he heard about in stories as a child. Of course, the stories were insufficient in describing the casual brutality they engendered, at least to the followers of Christ in their keeping. Hunched over a heavy beam of wood along with three other worn-down prisoners, Iulianu had but one singular thought, the same animus which suffused his parched lips and aching joints for the past five months.
He was not interrupted by the deep-throated cries of monk seals sunning themselves on the beach. The round, comical-looking creatures were plentiful on the isle; it seemed they were the only things which preferred this place, other than the pirates. Iulianu had at first wondered how the pirates had avoided being taken in by the local Murcian authorities; he came to suspect bribery or corruption in the government as part of an agreement to allow them to operate. It would not have surprised him in the least.
The taskmaster behind him glanced over at the seals. He was called “Ibn Talut” by his fellows, although his full name was Harun ibn Talut ibn Isma’il al-Jahani. Ibn Talut had taken something of an interest in Iulianu since his arrival, favoring him as a target of his frequent bouts of cruelty. Their effects had dulled in intensity; perhaps Iulianu was becoming accustomed to such hardship.
“Rather plump things,” he said, regarding the seals. “It’s a shame their flesh is haram. I imagine they’d be delicious.”
He glanced over at Iulianu again, stifling a laugh.
“I suppose you’re very much like them, aren’t you? Lounging about in the sun while the world changes around you. You remind me of why my brothers and sisters fight your kind every day. You’re disgraceful.”
Iulianu paid him no heed. These were oft-repeated words.
“Our brothers and sisters in Mayurqa understand. That’s why so many of them have swelled our ranks. That’s why we keep you alive, aleadui. Because it is in our nature to instruct those who do wrong against us.”
Iulianu knew what would come next, and he was not wrong. He felt his head jerk backwards as Ibn Talut grabbed him by the scalp, holding his curved sword about Iulianu’s throat. It hardly registered to him anymore. The other prisoners acknowledged this action with varying degrees of fear.
“Sometimes we lead by example, aleadui. Sometimes our actions decide what we leave in this world. What have you left, hm?”
Ibn Talut drew closer, his eyes locked steadily with Iulianu’s.
“I’ll tell you what: misery. The destruction of our people. Every day we lose more to your Christian ilk. Every more of us are forced to flee, and we are running out of havens. When will you stop, hm? When all of Africa kneels to the cross? When my people are wiped from the face of the earth?”
He released Iulianu, throwing him to his knees. Any pain he might have felt was subsumed by the endless heaviness of the sun’s heat.
“And to think, she allowed herself to take up with such a-”
“She?”
“Ah, he speaks! And in a civilized tongue, even! There’s hope for you yet, aleadui.”
“Where...is she?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry if I were you. The woman, she is much smarter than you. She and the child both-”
“If you’ve harmed either of them I’ll-”
“You’ll what, prisoner? What? Do not accuse us so readily! Even we shiftless pirates are more noble than even the most civilized of your kind. We do not make it a habit to enslave those who follow the true faith, no matter in what state we find them. You, on the other hand…”
At this, Ibn Talut struck Iulianu about the face, forcing his left eye shut in pain.
“...you are quite fair game. Remember that, aleadui. Remember your place.”
Before Ibn Talut could continue his torments, one of his fellow pirates arrived with a most animated pace. They thought perhaps that Iulianu was too weak or not skilled enough in their language to listen in, but he understood enough. Thus, he was not as surprised as the other prisoners when it was announced the next day that the pirates were sailing to Mallorca. They were to lend support: yet another uprising had broken out.
Ibn Talut was right about one thing: it seemed that the people of Mallorca would not be broken so easily. Iulianu wondered how long his own resolve would hold out…
*February 19th, 1334*
News came in tiny spurts, in trickles. News of the deaths of the children of Albert the Drunkard, leader of the rebellion. Rumors of fiendish plots on their lives, in revenge for the murder of Prince Ciro. More noble blood quenched the Andalusian soil, miles away.
And still the wars raged on. Excruciatingly slow progress on the Iberian mainland was counterbalanced by the rising tide of the Sunni rebels in Mallorca, ready to battle to the death to drive out the foreigners imposing on their ancient way of life.
All these passed with the days, each one the same as before. Iulianu, his body marred by cruel sunlight, by the lash and the knife, remained alive, for reasons he could not fathom. Over a year had passed since the capture; to him it was only a figure, a rough assemblage of time. There was but one thing which mattered to him, one thought which compelled him ever-onward, a single hope which suffused his being, prevented his spirit from the same grievous state which wracked his body.
It was morning, a morning when blessed clouds offered an all-too brief respite from the undying sun. He was sawing away at a plank, mechanical, unfeeling. A small voice sounded behind him.
“Iulianu.”
It was her. Fatimah. He blinked to make certain it was not a dream or a vision, and yet there she was, standing as tall as she could. She was older, certainly. Eighteen years of age, and still rather small, yet somehow more alert, more perceptive. Her eyes were still dark, still distant. Two pirates stood behind her, watching her every move; she tried not to notice them. At her side was…
Iulianu felt tears streak down his face. Little Tharesa, standing on her own two feet, if hesitantly. The same eyes, the same hair. Only a slight curvature of the face, an affectation of the nose. Iulianu’s stamp on her countenance; however slight it might have been, he recognized it instantly. She was his child, his very own. Were he not chained down, he would’ve rushed to them at once, sweeping them up so quickly they’d have practically flown from the island.
Too many words gathered in his mind and tangled up with each other in the back of his throat. No words could escape, he was beside himself. Yet they all disappeared when he saw Fatimah’s expression. There was no joy, no sadness, nothing at all. There was only news:
“I convinced them to let me see you, before...I wanted to see you. It took some time for them. It was all decided very easily, once...but I had to see you.”
Suddenly, a quavering of her lip. A small hint of some buried feeling; Iulianu knew that it spoke volumes.
“I had to. I kept wondering every night if you were hurt, if you were...and here you are. Here I am too, for now.”
Iulianu braced himself. He had already guessed what was coming next, and the tears flowed in anticipation.
“We’re being sent away. Somewhere along the African coast, a Berber family. They’re taking us in. Tharesa and me. They all agreed it was for the best.”
Fatimah looked away, her free hand fidgeting at her side.
“I...I suppose you know what that means.”
“Yes,” Iulianu croaked out, barely coherent.
“Yes, well...yes.” Fatimah wiped a tear from her cheek with her wrist. “So I came to tell you. This is what is happening now. It is the only thing which can happen.”
The two of them shared a silence punctuated only by the wind and the rolling sea. A pirate behind Fatimah came beside her, signalling her.
“It is time,” she said, straightening herself. “It would...I think it would be best to forget. To do otherwise is...it’s too much. Yes. That would be best.”
Iulianu opened his mouth, hoping that some powerful word would escape, hoping that some utterance could command time itself to come to a halt. He struggled to summon forth this word, but it did not answer his summons. The whole of his body was as leaden scrap, a useless pile. He watched as Fatimah scooped up little Tharesa in her arms, turning to accompany the guards to their vessel. As Iulianu watched them go, he saw a tiny arm come up over Fatimah’s shoulder.
Tharesa waved him goodbye, as innocently as if she were going around the corner to visit a neighbor.
*April 6th, 1335*
A year passed. Another grinding sunswept year. Another sweat-stained, bloody, year, smelling of raw, burning meat.
The outside world continued with its endless vicissitudes. Albert the Drunkard feared for the lives of his remaining children, placing his daughter Beatrice in hiding to throw off her would-be assassins.
The crown prince suffered his own woes as his faithful second wife finally succumbed to cancer, leaving him unmarried once again. The people of Sardinia and Corsica wept for his loss as instructed.
These things held no more importance, no more weight. Not to Iulianu.
He had been eyeing Ibn Talut all day. Waiting for his moment. He and his fellow pirates had gathered on the beach at the western end of the isle, all laying out their mats for the evening’s salah al-maghrib, the prayers facing towards holy Mecca, facing away from the dying sunset. Their outlines as they prostrated themselves, first standing, then sitting, then kneeling, were visible to Iulianu. It had been a simple matter to sneak up behind them; they had grown accustomed to his presence in time, and did not watch him as closely as they once did.
There was Ibn Talut, at the back of the procession as always. Closest to the isle, closest to Iulianu. He seized his chance, his moment. Rushing up behind him he struck Ibn Talut in the back of the head. Not enough to knock unconscious, but enough to get his attention. To get all their attentions.
Instantly he was seized upon, the pirates furious that he would interrupt their service. Ibn Talut grabbed his knife, ready to plunge it into Iulianu for his insolence, but after a moment he stayed his hand. He smirked.
“Ah, you again, aleadui. This is becoming quite tiresome.”
“...”
“Well, you must be enjoying yourself immensely. I know what it is you seek. This is not your first attempt.”
Iulianu answered with silence, his eyes darting to Ibn Talut’s blade. Ibn Talut laughed.
“Again you prove how uncultured you are! Have you not heard the words of the Prophet? ‘He who commits suicide by stabbing himself shall keep on stabbing himself in the Hell-Fire.’ Now I would be the most terrible person to bring about such a thing, wouldn’t I?”
Iulianu sank, his gaze falling to the ground. Ibn Talut and his fellows continued laughing, sensing the enormity of his defeat. They let him fall, his head half-burying itself in a sand bank.
“And you prove yourself a coward as well. Of course it’s none of my business how you choose to end your life, but you keep trying to use us to fulfill your perverse wishes! I’m sorry, my friend, but we are not for hire. This business is in your hands.”
They left him in the sand behind them as they continued to pray. They did not bother to watch him. Iulianu remained there, neither asleep nor awake, until the morning came and he was hauled up again to complete the day’s work.
*August 13th, 1335*
The news had come from a passing vessel ferrying Muslims to the Almohad territories, and its news sent waves of disappointment amongst the pirates, with some quiet sighs of relief from their prisoners. The revolt in Andalusia had finally been quashed.
Duke Ralph of Murcia’s last desperate attempt to counterattack the Sardinian mainland was easily repulsed by a combination of Sardinian regulars and the surprisingly reliable Bulgarian mercenaries employed by the Red Crown. This rather ignominious ending signalled the death-knell of the rebel duke’s cause. The treaty was quickly drawn up and signed.
Albert the Drunkard was stripped of his titles, and clearly the Red Crown thought better of awarding them to another Englishman. Instead Seville was granted to an unlikely candidate: Gastone della Carceri, one of the illegitimate children of Camilla the Unchaste, Countess of Ogliastra.
Barely into his manhood, Duke Gastone was perhaps chosen precisely because his position was so precarious; being a bastard with few connections, his only true loyalties were to the Red Crown, and doubtlessly he would have no underlying sympathy for the Andalusian common folk. With this, another blow was struck against relations between the Sardinians and their subject peoples.
For the pirates, all this meant was a paucity of raiding opportunities along the Andalusian coast, forcing them to accrue revenue by other, older means.
“Wake up, aleadui.”
A not-so-gentle kick roused Iulianu from his sleep. He contemplated refusing to awaken, but did not wish to prolong the ensuing encounter, and thus sat up slowly to face Ibn Talut.
“Rejoice, fool! You are to be sold today. Isn’t that exciting?”
Ibn Talut let out a peal of laughter as he grabbed Iulianu by the collar, dragging him outside.
“Yes, quite a lucky catch, really. A fair price for you and a few of your fellow mongrels. Sardinians only, at that! Clearly your new owner has...hm, specific tastes? I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”
Iulianu was lined up amidst a few other prisoners, all charred by continual sunlight and doubled-over with hunger, all cracked and twisted like a dry riverbed. As they boarded the ship that was to haul them away, Iulianu prayed again. He prayed not for salvation, which he knew was impossible. He prayed not for Fatimah and the baby, who existed only as a pleasant half-forgotten dream might exist. Not for his countrymen, and not for the future.
As he was lashed to a galley-bench and handed an oar, Iulianu prayed for a swift, final death.
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
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It is a litany of pain for Iulianu. My but he does have a hard life.
I don't understand the following sentence btw:
"For the pirates, all this meant was a surfeit of raiding opportunities along the Andalusian coast, forcing them to accrue revenue by other, older means."
I think the reason I don't understand it is I don't understand the use of 'surfeit' - which usually means to have an excess of something. So I don't understand why an excess of raiding opportunities would force the pirates to go to other means. I wonder if that is the word you meant to use?
I don't understand the following sentence btw:
"For the pirates, all this meant was a surfeit of raiding opportunities along the Andalusian coast, forcing them to accrue revenue by other, older means."
I think the reason I don't understand it is I don't understand the use of 'surfeit' - which usually means to have an excess of something. So I don't understand why an excess of raiding opportunities would force the pirates to go to other means. I wonder if that is the word you meant to use?
What a vale of tears! Iulianu will either pass through to some kind of poignant redemption - or die tragically after one terrible break too many. Or perhaps even both! Is his fate tied somehow - some mystical bond - to that of the old King, one wonders rhetorically?
And Ciro still seems to win in the end. Funny that the final battle that settled the Andalusian revolt should occur in Sardinia! What of the Sunni revolt - will they ever stop? Not being an expert in the game, are the stocks of rebels not depleted by recent defeats? That is, if the revolt risk is high enough and the RNG spawns a revolt, it just starts with the same large number of rebels as before? It hardly seems worth hanging on to if it’s just going to be revolt after revolt after revolt: the cost in troops and treasure must be large.
And Ciro still seems to win in the end. Funny that the final battle that settled the Andalusian revolt should occur in Sardinia! What of the Sunni revolt - will they ever stop? Not being an expert in the game, are the stocks of rebels not depleted by recent defeats? That is, if the revolt risk is high enough and the RNG spawns a revolt, it just starts with the same large number of rebels as before? It hardly seems worth hanging on to if it’s just going to be revolt after revolt after revolt: the cost in troops and treasure must be large.
I have a suspicion that the sufferings of Ilianu will end only when Ciro dies... And that will require a new character to tell the story.
Chapter 27: Home (August 13th, 1335-October 19th, 1340)
Chapter 27: Home (August 13th, 1335-October 19th, 1340)
*September 26th, 1335*
The ocean spray, the warm early-autumn sunlight, the cry of distant gulls, the white cliffs approaching in the distance; these sights and sensations were as a dreamscape to Iulianu. The churning in his stomach, the blurring of his vision was perhaps not entirely a symptom of his voyage, which after all included relatively little time on the sea. Many ports were willing to receive the ships of the Barbary pirates, a surprising amount, in fact. At each one, Iulianu witnessed sad, broken men like himself, all in chains and all auctioned off to the all-too-eager hands of waiting slavers, where unnumbered depredations awaited. As he grew dizzy stepping down the ramp to the shoreline, he wished only that whatever unsavory fate was to be his own would simply get underway already.
He did not witness who it was who exchanged payment with the Barbary pirates, nor did he note their passing. His stomach was a churning mass of cogs in a ruined clocktower. Thus he also did not see who it was who inspected the Sardinian prisoners, releasing each one before him, each one grateful beyond power of speech. He did not register when his shoulders were clasped in a great exaltation, and when he was half-dragged to a stately inn near the seashore. Speech occurred in his general vicinity, he knew not whether it was directed to him, or who it was that spoke. A terrible retching overcame him, bile spurting from his lips uncontrollably. Darkness inevitably followed.
Iulianu awoke some time later, rather perplexed. He felt beneath him the tell-tale swaying of a ship at sea; was it possible he never left the ship? Was his experience naught but a dream? The clenching sensation in his stomach reminded him of his earlier pain, still present but to a lesser degree. With that episode past, he could perceive his surroundings more clearly, recognizing the bed he laid upon, the cabin he occupied, and two faces hovering over him as he awoke.
Or at least, he thought he recognized them. It took considerable effort to peer past the mists of time and the change of seasons, and with great difficulty he forced two small, quiet names from his lips:
“Filumena? Constanzo?”
He could scarcely believe his eyes, perhaps wondering if the dream had ever ended. Nearly fifteen years had passed since he had seen either his sister or her husband, their cousin, and the erosion of age had not left them untouched; Constanzo was showing considerable graying in his temples and beard, and Filumena had put on quite a bit of weight. Still, the details of their faces resonated deep within Iulianu’s consciousness, and he knew them instantly on a deep, almost instinctual level.
Filumena approached him slowly, her eyes shimmering with tears. He realized that she now looked more like their mother than ever before.
“Thanks be to God, Iulianu. We’ve found you, we finally found you.”
“What...how did you...get on the ship…”
“Do you know where you are?”
“I...thought I did…”
“We’re bound from Menorca now. That’s where you came to us, where we finally found you. We’ve been searching for two years now.”
“How...I don’t…”
“There’s so much, Iulianu. So much we must tell you, I hardly know where to begin.”
“Menorca…”
Constanzo interjected, stepping forward to stand alongside his wife. Had Iulianu had more of his wits about him, he might have noticed Constanzo’s rather fashionable garb; it seemed he had improved upon the questionable clothing tastes of his father.
“Yes, Menorca, old boy. I have an office there in the old trading post. Of course we couldn’t stay long, what with Duke Tedice marshalling the army there. Going to be quite a battle there against those Moorish upstarts; shame we won’t get to see it.”
Filumena brushed Iulianu’s hair, slick with sweat, from his eyes. “Rest easy now, my brother. We’ll explain it all in time. Sleep now. When you wake up, we’ll be in Sardinia. We’ll be home.”
Iulianu felt his eyes flutter, and a strange trembling rocked his innards. Home. That single, powerful, ever-elusive word again. That word which formed the axis of his world, his aims, for uncounted years. The word he thought never to utter again, and there it was, spread out before him so easily, so mercifully. And yet his mind, jumbled about though it was, was elsewhere.
“Have to make room for her...when we get there…”
“What was that, Iulianu? What did you say?”
“What’s she...going to drink…”
Constanzo put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “He’s still delirious. We should let him rest.”
Filumena nodded, watching as Iulianu’s eyelids fell, as his whole body released its tension. He remained in silence for a long while after that.
*November 26th, 1335*
News had come piecemeal, in manageable portions, so as not to overwhelm him. It was a futile gesture; the whole experience was overwhelming to him.
Iulianu gazed out across the rolling hills of the Mandrilosai. The rough country roads were not made for a carriage such as the one Constanzo had taken for the occasion, and so the ride was replete with bumps and jostling. Iulianu paid it little mind, though, as his eyes wandered about the green-gold hills and white sky, blanketed by clouds signalling a sizeable snowfall this year. A deep breath filled his lungs with brisk air, and his mind with memories beyond counting.
Much had changed in his absence, but this, at least, remained the same.
He remembered little of the arrival in Oristano, and was only partially conscious during his recovery. He had always wondered what the hospital there was like, but was not pleased to arrive as a patient rather than a visitor. Nevertheless his recovery was fitful yet complete.
In that time he learned much of what had transpired in his absence. Constanzo relayed to him that the search for him had taken considerable time and effort; lacking specific information about where he was held, he was forced to generally search amongst rumors of captured or missing Sardinians leftover from the Andalusian campaigns. He was uncharacteristically sheepish in admitting his role in the fate of the family vineyard. He explained that Iulianu’s long absence had opened up the property to public bids, and that a group of local burghers had purchased it almost immediately. For some time they managed the place, and Marianu and Tharesa went south to stay with her relatives in Cagliari. Four years ago, Constanzo was able to buy out the property from its owners, putting it squarely back in the hands of the family. Iulianu, far from his initial standoffishness with his cousin, was willing at once to accept the deal he proposed: to leave Iulianu to manage the property in his name and deliver unto him a percentage of all products sold, in exchange for a sizeable recapitalization and enough hired labor to care for the place properly. In a way, it was everything Iulianu could’ve dreamed of. He was surprised that Constanzo had seemingly proved to be a much more adept businessman than his father; Constanzo only shrugged at the suggestion.
Filumena told them that their mother had passed away two years ago. This was part of the reason why their search for him had become so fervent: it was her greatest wish, even to her deathbed, that Iulianu be found and returned home. Although Iulianu in some way expected his mother to be gone, the news cast a pall over him, one which he still struggled to deal with. He was, however, happy to know that Marianu was doing relatively well for himself. In exchange for relinquishing his claim on the vineyard, Constanzo had used some connections to get Marianu a position in a carpenter’s guild in Cagliari. He flourished in his new work, excelling despite his physical handicap; Iulianu felt great pride in his brother. Just before Tharesa’s passing, he was married to a lowborn girl; Iulianu understood that they were expecting their first child together.
It would be a child to join his growing list of nieces and nephews: Filumena and Constanzo’s children visited him in the hospital. Iulianu at that moment was keenly aware of just how much time had passed: the eldest, Elena, was already eighteen years of age and married to the son of one of Constanzo’s business partners. The others were Sebustianu, sixteen years old and already well on his way to take over the family business from his father, Maddalena, nine, precocious and feisty, and Constanza, six, shy and gentle.
Looking at them all filled Iulianu with a certain familial pride...followed soon thereafter by a profound emptiness.
“We’ve arrived.” Iulianu turned as Constanzo opened the door, eager to stretch his legs. “Bit of a rocky road, but nothing too taxing for an adventurer like you, eh?”
Iulianu frowned. He detested this “adventurer” joke that Constanzo devised during his recuperation. He looked past Constanzo at the rows of vines, all neatly trimmed, all waiting for springtime to begin their cycle of growth once again. It was the very same sight he espied each and every time he closed his eyes for years on end, and now that it was before him, he found himself quite stunned, as if he were watching his own dream.
“Yes, it was a bit touch-and-go for a while, but I think this place is on the upswing, finally. It’s still going to take some work to get it fully functional, of course, but I didn’t think you’d mind getting back to it.”
“That’s...that’s true.”
“...I’ll leave you alone for a moment. But then we have much to discuss, yes, very much!”
Iulianu ran his fingers down a row of vines, feeling the texture of their leaves as they passed between them. It was almost too much to be believed, that he would be standing back where his life began, and where, he hoped, it would end. For a moment he let his feet wander where they would, heedless of time or direction. Soon he saw another figure waiting about near the house, clad in the robes of a churchman. As he approached, he could hardly believe his eyes:
“Perdu?!”
“Blessed day to you, Iulianu. Welcome home.”
“I can’t believe it, it’s so good to...why are you dressed as a priest?”
“Hey! I ain’t dressed as a priest! Yer lookin’ at a full-blown man o’ God over ‘ere, so show some respect!”
The laughter erupted from Iulianu’s mouth like a burst dam. Perdu waited impatiently for him to let up before continuing:
“Look wise guy, after I got back from campaign I took t’ the church t’ straighten out some stuff in my life, all right? It was a big-type deal ‘n all. N’ then Father Èfis got too old t’ keep on at the church, and so there I am comin’ in to replace ‘im. Ta-da! Say hello t’ Father Perdu!”
“I just can’t believe it. You, of all people.”
“Yeah, me, of all people. It’s been workin’ out real good so far, though. Church life’s not so bad, all in all. Less excitin’, but a lot safer. ‘Specially after-”
“Yes, after Andalusia.”
“After Andalusia.”
“Perdu...er, I apologize, Father Perdu-”
“Eh, I’ll let it slide; I’ll hold off on the eternal damnation n’ all.”
“Oh, how generous of you. Listen, I...I’ve been wondering something on my way back here, and maybe you can answer me. I have to know what happened to Lionardo. In a way it’s his fault that I was-”
Perdu’s countenance grew more reserved. “Well, you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that no more. Nobody does.”
“What do you mean?”
“See, a while back in Aracena, Lionardo got into a quarrel with one o’ his cronies ‘bout some plunder ‘r somethin’. One thing led to another, brawl breaks out, somebody draws a knife, ‘n...well, there y’ go. Lionardo ain’t nobody’s problem no more.”
Iulianu nodded silently. He found himself unsurprised by Lionardo’s fate.
“Well, enough ‘bout that. I got a lot to ask you, old buddy. One o’ these days I gotta sit you down n’ hear all ‘bout yer adventures.”
“I wish everyone would stop with that. I’m not an adventurer, I wasn’t on any adventures.”
“Suit yerself. You c’n talk t’ me ‘bout any o’ them y’ want, y’know. Like did you see any o’ the fightin’ in Menorca at all?”
“No, I was only there briefly. And I wasn’t quite conscious for it, either.”
“Oh man, I heard those Moorish bastards really got what’s comin’ to ‘em this time! They got wiped out! Wish I’da seen it.”
Iulianu winced. “Er...perhaps. I’m not sure if they deserved such a harsh treatment, though.”
“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout? Them Moors ain’t go no place on Menorca or nowheres else in the kingdom. That’s why the king’s such a great guy, he’s defendin’ the faith from all them infidels n’ straightenin’ them all out.”
Iulianu felt a dull pain in his gut as Perdu spoke. He could not see the multitudes of enemies Perdu envisioned when he spoke of “the Moors.” He could think only of two in particular, one of which bore his face…
*January 1st, 1336*
Life in Sardinia and Corsica assumed its usual rhythm, a rhythm orchestrated by the watchful presence of the Red Crown. The eyes of the nobility were ever-searching, in this case for a bride for Prince Perdu, newly widowed after his wife was beset by a rabid madness and a frothing of the mouth.
For the enemies of the Red Crown, the world was a living nightmare. King Ciro, not content with merely imprisoning the former Sevillan duke Albert and stripping him of his titles, set about to exact a most gruesome vengeance on the hapless fellow, torturing him incessantly.
News of this latest indignity was ill-received by the people of Andalusia, and further rebellion arose in a newborn fit of anger and resentment towards the Red Crown.
But for Iulianu, such things were once again distant and altogether unimportant. He had set about the work of the day with a vengeance and threw himself into the task of working the vineyard. There was a joyous simplicity in his life once again, and in toil he slowly made an effort to divest himself of the burdens afflicting his mind.
He feared that it would be some time, however, before he could enjoy a night of peaceful slumber.
He had taken a short respite from his duties to attend a feast celebrating Christmas and the coming of the new year at Constanzo and Filumena’s home in Oristano. He was something of a “guest of honor,” fielding all manner of questions about his journeys and experiences. He answered with polite vagaries, impatient yet willing to affect a relatively friendly demeanor, if for no other reason than for his sister’s sake. She did seem overjoyed to have Iulianu back on Sardinian soil, and the feeling seemed to be somewhat contagious.
The night wore on and the feast was worn down to its last scraps, the attendants having stuffed themselves vigorously, as if they were forbidden to eat until the next new year’s celebration. The subject turned to a hundred minor points of gossip and chatter, which Iulianu only half paid attention to. The current topic was the subject of names for Marianu’s upcoming child; though he could not be in attendance, this did not deter Filumena and her friends.
“What about ‘Ciro,’ after our king? It’s a popular name these days.”
“It’s too popular, I say! Every other boy is named ‘Ciro’ or ‘Perdu’ or some such thing. Enough with the royal names!”
“Royal names are good luck.”
“Horseshoes are good luck, but you wouldn’t name a child after them.”
“I might.”
“Well, that’s your affair, then. What about ‘Lisandru’? That’s a fine name.”
“Well, we’re also assuming it’s going to be a boy. It could be a girl, you know.”
“Why not a boy? We could use a boy.”
“We should consider girl names just in case, then. I like ‘Cadrina.’”
“Hmmm... doesn’t sound very Sardinian, though.”
“Why does it have to?”
“The girl might run into trouble later on because of it.”
“Oh, nonsense. It’s a perfectly good name. It’s perfectly serviceable.”
“‘Serviceable?' The child isn’t a mare, you know.”
Filumena sat next to Iulianu, regarding the continuing conversation with mild amusement.
“You’re awfully quiet now.”
Iulianu looked up from the table, noting Filumena’s arched eyebrow. He realized that there was something she wanted of him.
“Just enjoying the ambiance.”
“Yes, there’s quite a bit of that. I take it you don’t have any thoughts on baby names?”
“I think that’s Marianu’s business.”
“It doesn’t hurt to speculate. Anyway, I’m more worried about you.”
“Me? What about me?”
“Well, I think it’s time we put your life in order a little bit, don’t you, Iulianu?”
“I...I’m not sure what you mean. I don’t need any more help at the vineyard, Constanzo’s been more than-”
“Oh, stop with the vineyard for one moment! I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about you. Me and Marianu have both started families of our own, we’ve both made lives for ourselves. Don’t you want that same opportunity? You really ought to be married, Iulianu.”
Iulianu froze. Filumena had said this last thought so casually, so quickly. A chill ran down his arms, and his full belly felt as though it had been emptied in an instant.
“I...didn’t really consider that a priority at the moment.”
“Not a priority? I think your mind is still a bit addled from all that time on the other side of the sea. It must have been so difficult for you, being alone all those years.”
He wanted to tell her. Right then and there, he wanted to tell her everything. He could see Fatimah and the baby staring back at him, their faces clearer than anyone in that room’s. He could see himself in Fatimah’s dark, reflective eyes; he could see how frightened and powerless he looked. He wanted to tell his sister everything, so that someone would know, someone would understand.
But who could understand a marriage between infidels, and a child of two worlds without a home in either?
“Filumena, I...you’re right. It is terribly difficult to be alone. But I don’t think I’m ready yet. Not just now.”
“Iulianu, I can see you’re going to need my help. That’s perfectly fine, I’m more than happy to arrange something.”
“Filumena, you shouldn’t-”
“Oh, but I should! You’re far too modest, my little brother. I know quite a few young ladies who would just fall all over themselves to be wed to you! You needn’t worry about it, leave everything to me!”
When Filumena returned to her circle of friends, having moved on to some other topic, Iulianu excused himself into the hallway. He knew his tears would raise too many unwanted questions. He wanted to tell her, but he did not know exactly how.
*May 23rd, 1338*
The world continued to turn. The peasant rebellion in Andalusia was swiftly dealt with. The Red Crown wasted no time in reminding its subjects of their place.
One of the crown’s longest servants, Simon the marshal, passed away at the ripe old age of 74. His masterful leadership of the Andalusian campaigns was already becoming the stuff of legends. Mourning broke out among all the soldiery of the kingdom. Iulianu, remembering his brief encounter with the man personally, added his own silent prayer for his soul.
The armies of Lithuania again faltered in their attempts at conquest, repulsed yet again by the might of the Kaiser and of Christendom. They seemed destined to fade into obscurity with the rest of their pagan ilk.
The Red Crown continued its efforts at diplomacy, betrothing Prince Perdu to Fahriya bint Oddone, a girl of mixed Berber and Genoese ancestry. This decision proved to be controversial at the court, although it was promised that she would incorporate herself into Sardinian customs and way of life without difficulty. She was still young yet, so time would tell.
Iulianu did not turn when Filumena approached him in the fields, his brow already drenched in sweat. Even without turning, he knew that she had brought a lady with her for his viewing. Another lady. He heard her speak.
“Iulianu, remember how I said I wanted you to meet Felise here? She’s a friend of Elena’s, my eldest. I’ve told her all about you, and she wanted to introduce herself, didn’t you Felise?”
Iulianu spied over his shoulder a very pale, slim, well-dressed woman, wearing a rather fetching hairpiece. She curtseyed and brought herself up to eye level with him.
“Monsieur Iulianu, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She spoke with a hint of a French accent. And she had a French name; Iulianu assumed she was part-French, part-Sardinian. It would make sense. He grunted some form of acknowledgement before she continued:
“If I may, good sir, may I say it is a fine day today. And what a fine vineyard in your keeping, too.”
Iulianu turned back to his vines, crouching down to inspect them more closely. “It’s too cold for May. Unusually cold.”
Felise and Filumena looked at each other, put off by Iulianu’s apparent rudeness. “Iulianu,” said Filumena, “perhaps you should take a break from that for a minute or two. I think you and Felise should talk, don’t you?”
“This vine,” said Iulianu, his back still towards them, “is sick. It has been for a while now. You see? There’s this mildew growing along the stems. It fouls up the vine’s usual growth. It’s supposed to grow straight, so the fruit doesn’t split when it blooms. But now that it’s sick, it’s grown off in all kinds of unexpected directions. It gets all tangled up that way; the vine doesn’t know which way it’s supposed to go. Have to go back and cut out the sick parts. Those parts that got tangled. Get rid of them; that’s what all the experts say. It’s the only way to make the vine grow again. It’s the only way.”
Felise backed away slightly, unnerved. Iulianu continued talking, more to the vine than to either of his visitors. Filumena shook her head, trying to contrive some excuse for Felise. Out of the corner of her eye she glared at Iulianu, though she knew he would not see her.
***
“Again, Iulianu! Again you do this to me!”
Iulianu had invited her back to the cottage that evening; he knew that if he didn’t she would invite herself anyway. He prepared for her usual comments in the wake of this latest failure.
“Two years! For two years I try to find a good match for you. I ply my connections, I arrange things with my friends, I follow every protocol of etiquette I know, and what do I get in return? A stone wall that used to be my brother!”
Iulianu simply nodded as Filumena’s eyes bulged.
“I’ve given you a wide berth when it comes to this, Iulianu, I really have. I’ve tried to be the understanding big sister, but enough is enough. I’ve wasted enough time on you. Now you’re going to tell me why you’ve rejected every one of my suggestions. And no more excuses! No more ‘I have to concentrate on the vineyard’ or ‘this one’s too above my station.’ No more! You’ve been hiding something from me all this time, and I’ll be damned if I don’t learn what it is this very instant!”
Iulianu sighed. He too knew that this was a long time coming, and he had grown weary concealing the truth from those close to him. If Filumena or Constanzo or anyone was to react strongly to the truth, it would pale in comparison to the silence he endeavored to keep all this time. Today, he would lift the weight from his chest. Today, he would know who it was whom he could truly trust.
“Yes, Filumena. Yes, you deserve to know, to know why I will not marry any of your matches, however good they might be. Why I haven’t spoken of my time away from home. It all has to come out now.”
“It...yes, I would say so! I would say this is long overdue, Iulianu.”
“Yes, well...I suppose I’ll begin at the beginning. I already told you how I wound up in that town, Carmona. How that priest took me in, saved my life. While I was there the conflict in the Menorcan isles was just getting started, and...and then there was this girl…”
*December 26th, 1338*
The snow came in great clumps that year, slightly reflective in the thin ray of sunlight which managed to snake its way in between the clouds. Throughout all of Sardinia, men and women huddled together in the warm safety of their homes, well-prepared for the bitter cold. The wealth of their new overseas territories brought prosperity to the whole of the kingdom, and the people of Sardinia and Corsica knew that this winter, at least, they would eat well and stay warm.
It was a winter which brought many tidings to people both lowborn and genteel. Prince Corrado, a widower twice over, was wed for a third time. This time his wife was Benoît of the de Genève family, herself also a twice-widow from earlier marriages to the men of the Morosini merchant clan. The de Genèves had a history of service to the Red Crown; long had she been a mainstay of the king’s court, slowly using her considerable powers of persuasion and indomitable personality to win over King Ciro personally. Eventually it was decided that her talents would make her well-suited as a match for Prince Corrado. It was only hoped that he would survive to see his reign, as he had troubles with various illnesses which sometimes put his life in jeopardy.
It was not a baseless concern, for Queen Agnès would breathe her last that winter, dying in her sleep at age 58. The king called for a week of mourning across the whole of the kingdom to mourn her passing, and he decided that he would have no other queen but her.
One Sardinian was not inside that winter. One Sardinian could be found trudging about the deep snow, surrounded on all sides by an endless sea of shining white. In his hands was a sword, a sword gifted to him by a soldier-turned-priest, perhaps his only true remaining friend. The bitter cold which wound its way around his bones did not slow him in the slightest. He thrust the blade, turned it this way and that, practiced parrying, ripostes, everything he could think of.
Perhaps this was what he was meant for all along. After all, he already knew he was no good with a spear.
Iulianu had devised for himself a mission. Whether it was a grand task or a fool’s errand, he knew not. He knew only that it was something he had to accomplish, no matter the cost. Already he had contacted his old friends in the military, the ones who were still alive, and still willing to speak to him. He would use every contact at his disposal, every scrap of information he could get his hands on. He had to know, to try.
He had to find her, and bring her back.
Filumena and Constanzo...they would not understand. How could they? They had their chance, their life. They had what they were given, and used it to its fullest extent. How could Iulianu hope to convey to them what it was he needed to accomplish? They would tell him that his life here is “comfortable.” That some “fling” he had with a “foreigner” “didn’t really count.” That he should forget it and move on with his life.
Iulianu thrust the sword out yet again, panting heavily. He was “moving on”, if not in the direction they intended.
*November 6th, 1339*
It was the smell, more than anything which bothered Iulianu. All else he could have endured, but the smell offended him in a way his other senses could not have perceived.
Iulianu dared not enter the place, both out of propriety’s sake and to avoid any further exposure to the foul smell, a horrid mixture of sweat, wine, scented oils, and the sharp unique odor of fornication which clings so readily to those in its throes. The bawdy tunes and lewd sounds emanating from the shut windows were already offensive to Iulianu, but the riotous stench was altogether more powerful than all other sensations combined.
Iulianu had never ventured into the eastern half of Sardinia before, and certainly not to the port town of Tortolì, nestled within a fantastic array of deep red cliffs overlooking the Ligurian Sea. He resolved that once his business was completed here, he should never return to that place save for the most dire need. It was only a task of the utmost import which brought him there in the first place.
At last, his contact emerged, his clothing half-undone and his shaggy beard disheveled. The huge fellow was a sailor of mixed Berber and Pisan stock, swarthy and of impressive height and girth. Powerfully muscled, his flesh hardened by a life at sea, the man regarded Iulianu as a schoolmaster might regard a small child outside their office. A giggling harlot, half-naked, clung to his side as he fastened his belt.
“I hear tell you’ve been looking for me.”
Iulianu tried his best not to appear intimidated, remembering that he had been in much worse situations before. At least the sailor wasn’t armed. “I’m looking for someone who can tell me what I need to know. Is that you?”
The man chuckled; his laughter vibrated in Iulianu’s bones. “Is it? Depends.”
“I have coin, if you have information.”
“In that case, I have information. Come, join me.”
“We will conduct our business out here.”
“I’ll not stand on the street corner like some common peddler! You will enter, or you will leave.”
Iulianu considered this and, wrinkling his nose, joined the man inside. It was all too easy to block out the iniquitous surroundings, lurid and enticing though they were. Iulianu was determined to achieve what he came for, and then be on his way. The sailor tossed a stool to Iulianu and sat, the harlot still wrapped about his shoulders.
“No names. Not yours, not mine.”
“Fine by me. You tell me what I need and I’ll be out of your way without any fuss.”
“No doubt.”
“I was told that you’ve some sort of information about a certain pirate gang.”
“Watch it, little man. I’m no pirate! I make an honest living!”
“I’m certain. I was just told that you know someone. Someone who used to operate out of a little island called Tabarca. Sound familiar?”
“Well, I don’t know. My memory’s awfully spotty these days.”
The sailor held his immense hand out, fingers curled up. Iulianu unhitched his coin purse; he had been saving his earnings for some time, hoping to utilize them in some meaningful way. He gambled that this meeting would be that use. Counting the coins, the sailor pocketed them and brushed his hand against the harlot’s cheek.
“Yes, richer men have better memories, don’t they? Since you’ve been so nice: I know the Tabarca gang, yes. You didn’t hear it from me, but my brother runs with those fellows, has for quite a while now.”
“And what does your brother tell you?”
“Oh, they know not to hit our ships. Too many brothers and sisters of the faith on them, you know. Wouldn’t want to be too impious, eh?”
“I need you to think, to remember. About six years ago, a ship bound from Malaga. Intercepted by them. Did your brother tell you anything about that?”
“Hmmm...not sure…”
“Please, it’s very important. Six years ago, the ship from Malaga. They killed the crew and took prisoners. One of them was a girl, a young Moorish woman married to a Sardinian. They had a child with them. Please.”
“Why do you care about some prisoners? They’re probably...wait a minute...oh, I see your game. Yes. A most...personal matter, isn’t it?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“And what’ll happen if I do answer it, hm? How do you think this is going to go?”
“Answer the question.”
“Look at the big hero over here, eh? Big hero, big strong guy.”
“You know. You have to know. You’re going to tell me.”
“That won’t make any difference. No one ever taught you, I guess. No one-”
“Damn you to hell! Where is my wife?! Where is my child?! Tell me!”
All revelry ceased. The music stopped. The dancers gave pause. All chatter and limericks, songs and illicit liaisons, all were halted by a single outcry from one small, tired man. The sailor sighed, his expression suddenly turned grim.
“Nobody ever taught you that there are no heroes. But you deserve to get what you came for. Just because I feel for you, I really do. If my own child were still alive, I’d...but that’s another story. Ibn Talut and his boys, they used to sell prisoners wherever they could, whoever could offer the highest price. But the followers of the Prophet, they wouldn’t sell. Not a one. They had a port down on the coast near the border of Tlemcen, around Oujda. Wanted to get the faithful resettled in that area, around the Atlas mountains, the villages there. That’s where you should look.”
All were silent, save for Iulianu’s heavy breathing. He composed himself, taking a deep breath in.
“Thank you. It’s...I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
“You don’t need to. It won’t mean anything in the end, I promise you that.”
The cold night air was a welcome reprieve for Iulianu. It did its part in washing away the smell of that place. Each step felt as though it was a step in the right direction, a step towards a great purpose. He needed nothing to warm him that night; his heart flared with a determination warmer than anything he could’ve gotten his hands on.
*August 16th, 1340*
The confidence Iulianu felt that night was all-too brief. It seemed the world was unwilling to allow him to leave Sardinia’s shores again. Constanzo had balked at his request to charter a ship to the Pisan Berber coast; his single-minded focus at recovering Fatimah and Tharesa had further alienated him from his family. Constanzo formally forbade him from pursuing his search for Fatimah. Iulianu, for his part, forbade himself from speaking to Constanzo ever again.
If Iulianu was not moving, the fate of the kingdom certainly was. The younger Corrado, son of the crown prince of the same name, had succumbed to a bout of illness while on campaign with the Knights Hospitaller. In his place stood his younger brother, Ciro, a young man said to be of impeccable virtue and great bodily strength.
His father, Prince Corrado, heir to the Red Crown, was recently appointed as the kingdom’s chancellor after the death of Aimone, the mayor of Fordongianus who had faithfully and skillfully served the crown since the days of King Perdu II, and was instrumental in securing the Mallorcan isles in the war of 1303.
And the realm was in need of a good chancellor, what with the diplomatic situations unfolding, both at home and abroad. England, perhaps still incensed over the loss of their Iberian holdings, had set its sights on its old rival France once again, attempting to claim the whole of Toulouse for themselves.
The Red Crown’s response was swift and exacting. The king passed a new law requiring a greater portion of levies to be apportioned from each vassal lord in times of war. Iulianu feared that this was a portent of a future coated in blood.
His fears were soon realized. Duke Ralph of Murcia, once thought too cowed by his inability to sufficiently support Duke Albert the Drunkard’s rebellion, was caught by Sardinian agents trying to draft up falsified entitlements claiming that the whole of English territories in Andalusia was promised to him and the de Umfraville dynasty. This flagrant disrespect for the crown was all the excuse King Ciro required to name Duke Ralph a traitor to the Red Crown and demand his immediate arrest.
Much like previous attempts to pacify the English lords of Andalusia, this too was met with failure. The people of Murcia were too loyal to Duke Ralph (or perhaps too afraid of him) to obey the command of their king, and the duchy rose up its banners in rebellion once again.
The church in Atzàra felt like such a tiny, ramshackle structure to Iulianu now, especially when it was bereft of parishioners. He and Perdu had arranged their little private meeting, and there Iulianu told him all that plagued his mind: Fatimah and Tharesa, the reactions of his family, the meeting with the sailor, his preparations, everything. Perdu, for once, was quiet. He nodded as Iulianu choked back tears, leaning back in the pew as he gazed at the church’s low ceiling.
“I’m at my wit’s end, Father Perdu.”
“I already told you, ya don’t need t’ call me that.”
“It helps me get used to the idea. I was so close, Father, I really was. I even got a hold of some maps and figured out exactly where that port he mentioned is. I have everything except a way to get there. Everything except what I need.”
“Hm. I think this is the part where I’m s’pposed t’ tell you all ‘bout how God provides everyone with what they need, right? God puts us where we’re needed.”
“Then God seems to have a strange sense of delayed gratification. You know something, Father Perdu? I was hesitant to tell you all this, what with your...attitudes, shall we say, about the Moors.”
“Well, it’s true, I been trained t’ preach against the infidel n’ all that. ‘Course, I been trained t’ do a lot o’ stuff I don’t do, so whatever.”
“Hmm. You know, you’re a terrible priest.”
“You’re a terrible soldier. We do what we can, eh?”
“Yes...yes, I suppose.”
“Hmmm, what if...nah, that’s a dumb idea.”
“What? What’s a dumb idea?”
“Well, you just got me thinkin’...yer lady’s somewheres around near the Atlas Plateau, right? That sorta area?”
“Reasonably close. Why?”
“Well, it’s just that I was thinkin’...y’know there’s an awful lotta infidels livin’ round those parts, ‘specially in those mountains where everyone’s all isolated n’ hard to get to, right?”
“Er, yes?”
“So here’s what I’m thinkin’: I hear tell ‘bout all kindsa missions goin’ down there all the time, like priest-guys goin’ down t’ try n’ convert a bunch o’ infidels n’ stuff, right? They asked me t’ go one ‘r twice, but I ain’t really interested. But what if, see, what if I send you down there instead o’ me, n’ then you could do all yer searchin’, right?”
“But...won’t they be suspicious of me?”
“Ah, that’s the beauty! See, most o’ those ol’ God-botherers ain’t never met me before! You could say yer me, n’ they wouldn’t know the difference. Boom, yer on yer way no problem. ‘Course they might figure out you ain’t a priest, on account o’ you ain’t as educated or smart as me n’ all…”
“Actually...that’s not a bad idea. What am I saying, that’s the best idea you’ve had in your whole life!”
“Eh, fourth-best, maybe.”
“Father Perdu, this could actually work!”
“Sure it could work. Could not work too, but there y’ go. Last I heard, the next one o’ these missions is leavin’ in October. Gives you ‘bout two months t’ get ready.”
“Then I will be. I have to be.”
*October 19th, 1340*
The day had arrived.
Iulianu had spent days, weeks, staying up late into the night to train for his own personal mission. To learn enough scripture by rote so as to quote it like a priest. To practice his sacraments and gestures, to speak as if he had a great knowledge of the priesthood of Sardinia, and of the rites they followed. Perdu lent what help he could, eager to see his friend in better spirits. It would not be enough of a ruse to fool them for long, but he did not have to fool them for long. Only for the length of a short sea voyage. It was enough; it would have to be enough.
Weary yet filled with vigor, Iulianu set out from Atzàra, his steps dashing about like the wind. Though his vision was bleary and his throat raspy from lack of sleep, he would let nothing deter him. The thought of being reunited with his wife and daughter filled him with a kind of hope that he had never known, a hope for a renewed tomorrow, a return to a happiness he could barely comprehend.
The sun hung high as he walked the winding road between Atzàra and Fordongianus, an autumn breeze whipping about the back of his cloak. Even as he walked he dreamed, dreaming of a day when he and his family were reunited, when they could settle down and achieve a life together. He knew not how much life remained in his soul, especially at thirty-nine years of age, but he knew only that he would be utterly without merit, without any virtue in his bones, if he did not strive to try. Perhaps it would not be in Sardinia that they would find their destiny. Perhaps it was elsewhere in the wider world, some place where the differences between them would be no cause for alarm or disgust. Perhaps it existed only in a dream, but to him it was a dream worth pursuing.
The air seemed colder than usual as he passed by the countryside, the place so firmly entrenched in his memory and imagination. He looked about, remembering that his father’s body was buried somewhere in the nearby hills. In a way, he thought this rather appropriate; his father was a man of the earth, and so in death he returned to the whole of the earth, rather than a single stone marker or patch of funerary estate. Chills ran through Iulianu’s body, and he shivered in a way that perplexed him. Was it excitement that suffused his body, which made his flesh tremble?
That evening, when Fordongianus was in sight, he realized that it was not excitement, not the drive his newfound purpose had infused in him. What he had thought was nervous spasms and weariness was something more sinister, more debilitating. Through his labored breathing, he managed to stumble into an inn near the town square, somehow securing a bed for the night. There he lay, wheezing with wet, struggling lungs. He had failed to recognize it in time: influenza, a common malady, but a deadly one nonetheless.
Other patrons surrounded him, unaware of his true purpose. To them, he was a fellow Sardinian in need of help, and that was all the reason they needed to see to his well-being. Iulianu found small comfort with that. If he could’ve spoken, he would have told them how they were decent human beings, and how his travels had informed him that such individuals are in short supply, either in Sardinia or anywhere else.
Sweat poured from every inch of his body, and he trembled as he struggled to breathe. The room faded, objects melting into nothing more than indistinct shapes. He sensed the end of his time, come all too soon. Never again would he behold the face of his wife, or of his daughter. He tried to imagine what they might look like now, but each attempt was stifled by hacking coughs and wet lungs. He thought he heard someone utter a prayer for his soul, although it might have been his own prayer. He took a very small comfort in knowing that at least he would not die alone, that he would be surrounded by his faithful countrymen in his last moments.
Until that too was taken from him.
From outside, he heard the swift hoofbeats of a rider rushing in from the next town over. A great commotion started up, and those who had attended his deathbed rushed outside to hear the news, leaving Iulianu quite by himself. By straining, he could only barely make out the rider’s cries:
“Spread the news! Spread the news to every corner of the kingdom! The king is dead! King Ciro the Old is dead! Long live King Corrado!”
Iulianu closed his eyes. The burning in his insides faded. Everything faded.
In the instant before the end, he managed to produce a single thought:
“How appropriate. I wonder if the two of us are headed the same way…”
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
You two are going to get quite a lot out of this chapter, I can tell.
As to the revolt question: the first revolt was because of the religious differences in Mallorca since they hadn't gotten converted. The next two was because I tried to proselytize there, increasing the revolt chance. Oddly enough, Menorca converted to Catholicism all on its own in the middle of a revolt, without me having to do anything.
Oh, my suspicion was right. RIP Ilianu 
But good to see the return of Pedru... Pardon, Father Pedru
A very good chapter. Sad and funny at once (esp the namechoosing scene).
Corrado. Craven, it seems? Well, another reign of seclusion may await. Or not.
But good to see the return of Pedru... Pardon, Father Pedru A very good chapter. Sad and funny at once (esp the namechoosing scene).
Corrado. Craven, it seems? Well, another reign of seclusion may await. Or not.
Jesus Christ. I wish... I wish more people would see this story. This is so emotional. Thank you for such a story, and curse you for it's realistic, depressing ending. In a twisted way, it's nice to be reminded of such things. God, I hope Iulianu is in heaven. That's a dumb thing to say but he felt like a very real person and I thank you for the chance to see him and his mind.
It feels truer that there is no true resolution for Iulianu. His life spent, apparently so, and incomplete.
I had (as you know) a feeling it may end roughly thus, but you still managed to surprise a little in its timing and manner relative to time and place. It was nice for Iulianu and his reading supporters that he at least got relief from the dreadful slavery and a mission to motivate him. But typically tragic that it was interrupted (very finally this time) by forces beyond his control (the story of his life - and death).
As this chapter went on, I thought he might have found her but then see she was in a new life, get killed when he was over there or even - horror of horrors - have the ship he was travelling on taken by the same band of Barbary pirates! But he at least died in the land of his birth - though even at the end he was abandoned to solitude. Iulianu will be missed more by us than old Ciro - and it will be interesting to see where the story goes with Corrado. Bravo once again: you are one of the foremost storytellers on the Forum, my good sir!
As this chapter went on, I thought he might have found her but then see she was in a new life, get killed when he was over there or even - horror of horrors - have the ship he was travelling on taken by the same band of Barbary pirates! But he at least died in the land of his birth - though even at the end he was abandoned to solitude. Iulianu will be missed more by us than old Ciro - and it will be interesting to see where the story goes with Corrado. Bravo once again: you are one of the foremost storytellers on the Forum, my good sir!
That was very good. Liked the subtle relationship which indicated disparity of feeling between the husband and wife. No idea if she shows up again (probably better if not, or maybe just her gravestone or some other Easter egg) but Corsica seems to be changing and becoming the proper villain of the Mediterranean. Shakespeare and the romantics are gonna love these guys.
Oh, my suspicion was right. RIP Ilianu
A very good chapter. Sad and funny at once (esp the namechoosing scene).
Corrado. Craven, it seems? Well, another reign of seclusion may await. Or not.
Sardinia has some interesting times ahead. Pity that Iulianu won't be around to see them. Or he may be better off, actually.
That was really touching! Thank you so much. I actually found myself so invested with Iulianu's story that I had to keep reminding myself to put in stuff about Ciro and the kingdom, e.g. the ostensible purpose of the AAR! I'll miss him quite a lot.
I always knew he and Ciro were going to die in the same moment, although at one time I considered making his story an inter-generational one. In the end he was as I intended: a single small person caught in machinations far beyond his ability to control.
I'm very flattered by all the praise, thank you. Iulianu's story got a lot more involved than I had anticipated, and a lot less pleasant for him (the pirates, for example, were something of a last-minute alteration). It is funny to me that almost everyone in his life ended up okay, except for him. Poor guy.
It's funny, the Sardinians probably think that someone else, maybe England, are the real villains. Although I suspect that most of the actual people of Sardinia and Corsica are pretty decent, it's just they seem to keep getting monarchs of shall we say dubious political acumen.
Bear with me on this next part, friends, because Corrado's reign is going to be quite unusual. I'm getting a little experimental with this one...
Chapter Twenty-Eight: santayana_record1 (October 19th, 1340-February 8th, 1345)
Chapter Twenty-Eight: santayana_record1 (October 19th, 1340-February 8th, 1345)
BEGIN RECORDING
YEAR: 304 AS, DATE: SEPTEMBER 15, TIME INDEX 09:05:34
LOCATION: CORMORANT MOBILE STATION, ZONE 18, CURRENT COORDINATES: 57°03'08.9"N 171°43'41.5"W, SPEED: 18 KNOTS
LET THE RECORD STATE: THIS ONE IS IDENTIFIED AS MACHINE INTELLIGENCE UNIT DESIGNATION PK008, CODENAME: “SANTAYANA”
THIS ONE WILL RECORD ALL ACTIVITY ASSOCIATED WITH THIS ATTEMPT
PROCEDURE ATTEMPT NUMBER SIX WILL SOON BE UNDERWAY
CURRENT SUBJECT HAS BEEN APPROVED BY THIS ONE AND ALL EIGHT OTHER PK UNITS
APPROVAL HAS ALSO BEEN GRANTED BY SENIOR PROJECT OFFICERS, ALL IN ATTENDANCE
CURRENT SUBJECT WILL ENTER THE CHAMBER
FOR THE RECORD, CURRENT SUBJECT WILL STATE NAME, RANK, AND VITAL STATISTICS
Heu, Jaelin. Rank: Specialist. Age: 41. Sex: Female. Height: 172 centimeters. Weight: 67.5 kilograms. Blood Type: A. Good morning, everyone...good morning, Santayana.
GOOD MORNING, CURRENT SUBJECT WILL PLEASE BE SEATED
You said “please” this time.
YES
ASSISTANTS: APPLY MONITORING DEVICES TO CURRENT SUBJECT, HENCEFORTH REFERRED TO AS “SPECIALIST HEU”
MONITORING DEVICES IN PLACE
SPECIALIST HEU: TEMPERATURE: 36.9 C, PULSE: 50BPM, BLOOD PRESSURE: 100/60
NO ABNORMALITIES DETECTED, ALL VITAL FUNCTIONS NORMAL, BRAIN ACTIVITY NORMAL, STRESS LEVELS WITHIN EXPECTED PARAMETERS
That’s news to me.
SPECIALIST HEU, ARE YOU COMFORTABLE?
As much as I can be...yes, yes I’m comfortable.
THIS ONE WILL BEGIN THE PROCEDURE
ASSISTANTS, APPLY ANESTHETIC
ASSISTANTS, INJECT THE CHRONESTHETIC SOLUTION
CHRONESTHETIC SOLUTION INJECTED AT TIME INDEX 09:14:11
BEGIN ELECTRICAL STIMULUS
ELECTRICAL STIMULUS APPLIED
ALL VITAL FUNCTIONS OPERATING WITHIN NORMAL PARAMETERS
SPECIALIST HEU HAS ENTERED STAGE ONE OF CHRONESTHETIC DISPLACEMENT
THIS ONE WILL NOW INITIATE STAGE TWO
AT STAGE TWO, THIS ONE WILL NOT BE ABLE TO COMMUNICATE WITH PRESENT TIME INDEX DIRECTLY
ALL DATA AFTER THIS POINT WILL BE STORED IN THE MEMORY OF SPECIALIST HEU UNTIL END OF CHRONESTHETIC DISPLACEMENT
THIS ONE IS ENTERING SPECIALIST HEU’S SENSORY FRAME
ONCE COMPLETE, THIS ONE WILL ADJUST ALL SYSTEMS TO MATCH SPECIALIST HEU’S CURRENT TIME INDEX AND DISPLACEMENT TARGET
THIS ONE WILL RETURN
PAUSE RECORDING
***
RESUME RECORDING
There you are. I was getting a little worried there for a second.
SPECIALIST HEU: DESCRIBE YOUR CURRENT SENSORY INPUT
Nothing. Blackness. No visual, no audio save for you and me.
ADJUSTMENT IS NOT YET COMPLETE
FULL DISPLACEMENT WILL OCCUR MOMENTARILY
You know, when the staff told me I’d be getting to work closely with you, I didn’t quite expect things to get this close.
SPECIALIST HEU: IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT YOU RESTRICT ALL COMMENTARY OR OBSERVATIONS ONLY TO THAT WHICH IS MISSION-RELEVANT
You and me working together is mission-relevant. I’m sorry, it’s just...even after all the training, it’s kind of a strange sensation. Sharing your mind with one of the Philosopher-Kings themselves.
THAT IS NOT THIS ONE’S OFFICIAL DESIGNATION
“PHILOSOPHER-KING” IS AN INFORMAL COLLOQUIALISM DERIVED FROM THE CODENAMES FOR THIS ONE AND THE OTHER PK-SERIES UNITS
I’m aware of that.
SPECIALIST HEU: DESCRIBE YOUR CURRENT CONDITION
It’s...very strange. Weightless. Like there’s no gravity.
YOU MAY EXPERIENCE MOMENTARY DISORIENTATION UPON DISPLACEMENT
Do you know when the displacement will be complete?
WORKING…
DISPLACEMENT IS IMMINENT
Oh shit, we’re already-
SPECIALIST HEU, REPORT
REPORT
SPECIALIST HEU, RESPOND
I...I’m here. It worked. I can see now. And hear.
FOR THE DURATION OF THIS ATTEMPT, YOU WILL DESCRIBE ALL EXPERIENCES PERCEIVED WITHIN THE DISPLACEMENT TARGET IN THE EVENT THAT AUDIOVISUAL INFORMATION DOES NOT SURVIVE THE TRANSFER
Right, yes. It’s very strange, I’m starting to get some memories now. I...I know who the target is. I know his name.
STATE ALL RELEVANT INFORMATION
He’s called...he’s called “Corrado of House Bas Serra.” Actually... King Corrado. Bit of a step up.
It worked, the displacement worked perfectly. I can see through his eyes now, hear through his ears. It’s all coming in clear. I...I think I have a time index now.
STATE CURRENT TIME INDEX
October 30th, the year...what? 1340? That doesn’t make sense.
TIME INDEX IS BASED ON CURRENT DATING CONVENTIONS
THIS ONE HAS RECALCULATED
CURRENT TIME INDEX IS YEAR 848 BEFORE THE SHIFT OCCURRENCE
848 Pre-Shift? That’s over a thousand years ago. I’m getting some more now...we’re in a city called… “Oristano.” It’s...it’s hard to make things out, the language isn’t quite getting through.
THIS ONE HAS BEEN RUNNING TRANSLATION ALGORITHMS
FULL TRANSLATION MATRIX IS COMPLETE
Thank you, much better. Yes, the city of Oristano on an island called “Sardinia.” I don’t recognize the name. We’re in the middle of the...“Mediterranean.”
“MEDITERRANEAN” IS AN OCEAN, THE FORMER DESIGNATION FOR ZONE 30
Right, I see. This is going to take some getting used to.
IF THE PROCEDURE IS FUNCTIONING PROPERLY, YOUR MIND WILL SOON ACCLIMATE TO YOUR NEW SURROUNDINGS
CONTINUE DESCRIPTION
A lot of memories of family to sift through. Quite a clan, this “Bas Serra” dynasty.
Corrado...he seems to have very strong feelings about his family. A lot of emotions here. Oh, I’m getting more of his surroundings now. There’s...shit, that’s a lot of people. A huge crowd.
THIS ONE PERCEIVES THEM AS WELL
I’ve got it. I’ve got it! He’s being crowned, er… “coronated,” is their word. His father just died eleven days ago. He was the former king; the title gets passed to the eldest son.
Shit...something just happened.
REPORT
I’m...I’m okay, we’re all okay here. It’s just...I think I’m a few hours ahead now. It just jumped suddenly.
YOU MAY EXPERIENCE CERTAIN GAPS IN CHRONOLOGICAL CONSISTENCY
NOT ALL EXPERIENCES OF DISPLACEMENT TARGET CAN BE RECORDED
INFORMATION MAY BE FRAGMENTARY OR MISSING ENTIRELY
I remember the mission briefing, Santayana. It’s just a very different thing to experience it firsthand. Hold on, someone’s talking to him. This might be important.
THIS ONE WILL ATTEMPT TO PROVIDE IDENTIFIERS FOR ALL ENTITIES
{Ambassador}: “-must apologize for his majesty’s absence, but given the circumstances-”
{Corrado}: “Certainly, certainly. But I am most pleased that King Baudouin was able to send such an able emissary as yourself. His grace is keenly felt far beyond the borders of France.”
{Ambassador}: “Yes of course. And the military aid granted by my countrymen-”
{Corrado}: “-with regards to the Andalusian campaigns, yes. Such friendship is not swiftly forgotten, least not by we Sardinians.”
He’s got some kind of motive, it looks like.
{Corrado}: “Tell me, my good man, of what age is your liege nowadays?”
{Ambassador}: “Hm? I believe the king is well into his tenth year by now.”
{Corrado}: “And yet it seems your people have done him something of a disservice!”
{Ambassador}: “How do you mean, my lord?”
{Corrado}: “To not have secured a marriage contract for the lad at such a late date…”
{Ambassador}: “With all due respect, we are...still considering the possibilities.”
{Corrado}: “Then I shall do you a favor and end your process of consideration: you know that I have two daughters of my own, yes?”
{Ambassador}: “And three sons, if I’m not mistaken.”
{Corrado}: “My eldest girl, Anna, is quite close to marriageable age herself.”
{Ambassador}: “Begging your pardon your majesty, but I think it is presumptuous to assume that-”
{Corrado}: “That what? That the great Kingdom of France would be so quick to dismiss its staunchest allies? That they would forget who it was who shielded them time and again from the ever-rapacious grasp of the English?”
That’s so funny...Corrado’s terrified. Corrado feels completely vulnerable; he’s just hoping he can smooth-talk his way into-
{Ambassador}: “You...raise some interesting points, yes.”
{Corrado}: “Then you’ll relay my proposal to your king’s regency council?”
{Ambassador}: “I...shall do that post-haste, yes.”
Damn, it worked.
Clearly our king here’s been around the block a few times already. Let me see...internal memory shows he was a count, a lower-ranked ruler, for many years. He’s a nervous wreck on the inside, but he’s definitely got experience.
THEN DISPLACEMENT SUBJECT MAY BE SUITABLE FOR OUR PURPOSE
I guess now all we have to do now is wait, right?
WAIT AND OBSERVE
MORE INFORMATION MUST BE GATHERED
CHRONOLOGICAL JUMP DETECTED
STATE CURRENT TIME INDEX
Time index now is...December 22nd.
HENCEFORWARD, PLEASE AUTOMATICALLY MAKE NOTE OF ANY CHANGES IN TIME INDEX
Affirmative. Looks like we’re in the middle of some kind of feast for...ah, Christmas. That’s what they must’ve called it back then.
ELABORATE
Corrado’s seated, he’s...he has a headache. He’s sitting between these two fellows, they’re...his son Ciro and his brother Perdu. Oh...this doesn’t look friendly…
{Perdu}: “...and in all my years I would never have dreamed of such an indignity!”
{Ciro}: “Dear uncle, while I have tremendous respect for you, I must kindly ask that you refrain from further proving your own idiocy in front of all our guests-”
{Perdu}: “I’ll prove whatever I like!”
Family bickering. Even after a thousand years, some things never change.
{Ciro}: “Father, would you please explain to your brother that Cismonte is traditionally granted to the heir of the kingdom, in this case myself, and it would be highly unorthodox to-”
{Perdu}: “And would you explain to your son that an effeminate lout like him has no business running a stable, let alone a county!”
{Ciro}: “And could you perhaps enlighten your brother on the intricacies of rule, which are perhaps too complex for his feeble mind to comprehend?”
{Perdu}: “You little shit, I’ll rip out your eyes!”
{Ciro}: “Have at thee!”
{Corrado}: “Gentlemen, please!”
Oh, this ought to be good. He’s got their attention now.
{Corrado}: “Now I have put up with this for entirely too long. As king, I have made decisions which will further the continuance of our realm. I am working to ensure the stability of our holdings, here and overseas. I have sworn to bring about peace, the peace which eluded our father for so many years. And that peace...that peace starts in the home.”
Hm. They seem to be listening…
{Corrado}: “For how can we have peace without if not peace within? Our proud and noble house, or family has endured countless hardships to be where we are today. And you two would throw that away over some squabble? And during a feast in honor of the birth of Our Lord and Savior? He who died to bring all men together as brothers, as the family of mankind?”
{Perdu}: “Look, I...your majesty, we weren’t-”
{Corrado}: “Let us put all this behind us. Let us drink together, for shared purpose and in common cause. The House of Bas Serra has never been stronger, if only all its hands lift up together! Arbor Altior Turris!”
{Ciro}: “Arbor Altior Turris!”
{Perdu}: “Arbor Altior Turris!”
Santayana, translation?
“ARBOR ALTIOR TURRIS,” LATIN, TRANSLATION: “THE TREE STANDS TALLER THAN THE TOWER”
It appears to be some sort of family motto.
THE ORIGIN IS OBSCURE
IT IS THOUGHT TO MEAN: “THAT WHICH IS GRANTED BY NATURE IS ALWAYS STRONGER THAN THAT WHICH MAN DESIGNS FOR HIMSELF”
THIS ONE AGREES
Really? I wouldn’t have thought so. Corrado...he wants his family to stay together no matter what. I think he still remembers when one of his brothers got murdered...oh, and his son died of illness. This guy’s been through quite a lot…
CHRONOLOGICAL JUMP DETECTED
Right. Current time index is...February 9th, 1341. Corrado’s overseeing documents about this war going on in Murcia. Getting a lot of memories about this one now.
ELABORATE
Well, if Corrado’s remembering this right, his father Ciro...er, “King Ciro the Old,” he was trying to quell the rebellious Duke of Murcia, this “Ralph” person, and he rebelled just before Ciro died and left the kingdom to Corrado. Corrado inherited it, I guess. And now he’s being assisted by...the Pope?!
What? How did that happen?
UNCLEAR
GAP IN INFORMATION NOTED
No kidding. Corrado really wants this war over with, it’s frustrating him. He really meant what he said about wanting peace; he’s no conqueror like his dad. I’m getting some more sadness and frustration now...his kinsman Tedice...sorry, “Duke Tedice the Fat” just passed away. Smallpox. Now the islands of Mallorca passed to his son Settimio.
Corrado doesn’t seem to like Settimio that much, but he’s putting him in a meaningless advisory role to shut him up for a while. It seems like Corrado feels obligated to see to all his family, all the time.
ELABORATE ON SMALLPOX
DOES THE OUTBREAK PRESENT RISK TO THIS REGION?
Looks like it was a fairly local phenomenon. Not too severe.
AFFIRMATIVE
CHRONOLOGICAL JUMP DETECTED
We’re moving pretty fast here. Current time index is...June 10th, 1341. It looks like Corrado’s having a little heart-to-heart with his daughter Anna. She just turned sixteen.
{Corrado}: “It’s not a matter of ‘honor’ or anything of the sort, my child. Really you must keep such notions in check.”
{Anna}: “Perhaps I shall try. Yet you still haven’t provided a suitable reason. ”
{Corrado}: “Hm. Your brothers are much easier to placate. If nothing else, I want you to know how proud I am of you. You’ve really blossomed into a-”
{Anna}: “You’re changing the subject, Father.”
{Corrado}: “Yes I am.”
{Anna}: “I do not think it’s a very complicated question: why have you refused France’s offer?”
{Corrado}: “For peace, my daughter, for peace. France is beset by enemies too powerful to defeat, even with our combined forces. To throw out lot in with them now would be a costly mistake, and we’ve our own troubles to deal with now.”
{Anna}: “This I understand, but it obviates the need for my betrothal, does it not?”
{Corrado}: “Not necessarily, Anna. There may come a time in the future when France’s position, and our own, changes. You must remember your history, the history of our people.”
{Anna}: “Yes, yes. The Red Crown is now two crowns in one. But with France’s aid, we could be so much more. The Kaiser’s lands lie just beyond our shores; what if he were to set his sights on our lands? We would need all the strength the West can muster to stand a chance of-”
{Corrado}: “And this I know as well. The Kaiser’s interests lie eastward. He wishes to snap up the lands of the Mohammedan kings, the lands once held by the pretenders to Rome. I imagine the Kaiser wishes to stake his claim on a true Roman Empire, if I had to hazard a guess.”
{Anna}: “I don’t find that particularly amusing, Father.”
{Corrado}: “You will, in time. Right now we are in as secure a position as can be, barring the Murcian matter of course. You know, your great-great-grandfather, the first king, I’ve read his journal. He was a most peculiar man, and he had equally peculiar notions about securing his borders.”
{Anna}: “The ‘Sword of Peace.’ I’ve done my reading too.”
{Corrado}: “What a disastrous idea; true peace cannot be wielded like a weapon, it cannot be used as a convenient excuse to deal death quietly, out of sight. Peace is lighter than air and heavier than mountains. It’s a strange paradoxical thing, and it comes with words, with understanding, with love.”
{Anna}: “I still say it’s a foolish business not to capitalize on the inroads with France. We still have many enemies, Father.”
{Corrado}: “Right now I’m more concerned about you, my dear. About how you will survive in their court.”
{Anna}: “Quite well, I imagine. I’d wager I can speak and read French better than most Frenchmen.”
{Corrado}: “Of that I have no doubt. No, I’m talking about you in particular. About who you are, and how that will affect you.”
{Anna}: “Father, what are you getting at?”
{Corrado}: “I know, Anna. I know about your...bedroom activities. You need not pretend around me.”
{Anna}: “How?! I’ve...I’ve been so careful.”
{Corrado}: “I’m your father, Anna. It’s my business to know these things.”
{Anna}: “I tried to ignore it at first. Tried to convince myself it was some...I don’t know, temporary mental aberration. I’ve only recently come to make sense of all these feelings. I did think about telling you, about telling everyone, but…”
{Corrado}: “But you thought it would be bad for the realm. It might hurt your marriage prospects, cast aspersions on our dynasty, on me.”
{Anna}: “...something like that.”
{Corrado}: “Forget about me, forget about France, and forget about the dynasty for a moment. I just need you to answer me this one question: are you going to be all right?”
{Anna}: “I...I think so. This...isn’t quite how I imagined this conversation would go.”
{Corrado}: “Anna, I can’t pretend to understand these feelings you have, this attraction to other women. Perhaps I never will. All I know is that my daughter is who she is, and that it could put her in danger if she isn’t careful.”
{Anna}: “Believe me, I know how to please a man if the need arises.”
{Corrado}: “Above all else, I want you to keep yourself safe. The way of the world is fickle: a man can be a king one moment and a beggar the next. Protect yourself first, always. Don’t worry about the political ramifications, those can be sorted out later. Above all else, you matter. You’re a Bas Serra. The world revolves around us. Those other bastards don’t matter. Understood?”
{Anna}: “Understood, Father.”
SPECIALIST HEU
SPECIALIST HEU, RESPOND
I’m here, Santayana. I was just...this guy wasn’t what I was expecting.
WHAT IS IT THAT YOU EXPECTED?
...I’m not quite sure.
CHRONOLOGICAL JUMP DETECTED
We’re at time index April 18th, 1342. Holy shit there’s a lot going on.
The Murcian revolt just called the Doge of Genoa into his war for some reason. I’m not quite sure how he pulled that off, and neither is Corrado. Siege operations are continuing in Murcia, but they’re going slowly, maybe too slowly if Duke Ralph keeps scrounging up allies. All this memory observation sure is a funny thing; I talk about these places as if I’ve lived here my whole life.
Meanwhile it looks like Duke Gastone of Seville died suddenly. He was only 23, too. Now his kid is the Duke of Seville, and he’s a Borromeo. That family’s getting very powerful in the kingdom these days...they started out as just simple military men from some minor house in Malta. Corrado’s getting scared, but not as scared as he is of-
-England, of course. They’ve taken Toulouse and have a major foothold in the Mediterranean now. Corrado’s freaking out, he can hardly sleep anymore. I can feel how disturbed he is by all this.
DOES THIS TERRITORIAL EXPANSION POSE A MAJOR THREAT TO WORLD STABILITY?
Er...no. Not even close. Just this little corner of it.
FURTHER INFORMATION GATHERING REQUIRED
Right. Oh, we’re looking at another jump...ugh, that one felt rough. Time index...June 21st, 1343. That’s a bigger jump than usual. Ah, no wonder. Looks like our friend Corrado here was out of it for a while. Stomach disease brought on by a nasty case of food poisoning from the looks of it.
A lot of garbled memories, hard to make things out. I’m going to have to listen in on this. This guy...got it. It’s the kingdom’s chancellor. Duke Gilbert of Algarve.
{Gilbert}: “-and Duke Settimio sends his regards as well. Er...he would, except for his great dedication to fulfilling the administration of the realm from the isles-”
{Corrado}: “Yes, Gilbert, that’s all well and good, but please dispense with such empty pleasantries. I wish to know the state of the war in Murcia. Please tell me that it is nearing its conclusion.”
{Gilbert}: “Er...yes?”
{Corrado}: “...I wanted an answer, not a question.”
{Gilbert}: “Well old chap, it’s a bit of tricky business over in the west…”
{Corrado}: “Gilbert...I have been ill for the better part of a year. My patience is at its end. Speak plainly, please.”
{Gilbert}: “Well...as you know, his holiness Sergius V continues to supplement our-”
{Corrado}: “I’m sorry, ‘Sergius V’? Who?”
{Gilbert}: “He is the Pope, sir.”
{Corrado}: “The Pope? Whatever happened to Clemens IV?”
{Gilbert}: “Oh, he died, sir. Ah...you took ill around the same time. Perhaps you did not hear the news.”
{Corrado}: “No, I did not hear the news, Gilbert! I was...never mind. So, Sergius V has continued his predecessors’ support in the Murcian matter?”
{Gilbert}: “Yes, sire. Sergius the Sea-Devil was most enthusiastic about-”
{Corrado}: “I’m sorry, I need to stop you once again: ‘Sergius the Sea-Devil’?”
{Gilbert}: “Yes sire, that’s what they call him. He is a funny sort of chap, what with that peg-leg and that colorful squawking bird always sitting on his shoulder.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
IMPROBABLE, BUT POSSIBLE
{Corrado}: “The Pope is a...never mind that. Please continue.”
{Gilbert}: “Yes, well, with the Sea-Devil’s help we’ve managed to occupy most of the Murcian holdings. The Genoese have landed in Gibraltar and are trying to link up with Ralph’s armies, but it’s doubtful that they’ll be able to get there in time.”
{Corrado}: “That’s good news.”
{Gilbert}: “Of course the Calatrava armies are still massing for their own advance, so it might-”
{Corrado}: “Gilbert, what are you talking about?”
{Gilbert}: “Oh yes, I forgot to mention, sire: the Knights of Calatrava are attacking Murcia as well.”
{Corrado}: “What?! Why?!”
{Gilbert}: “Well apparently, your majesty, they and Duke Ralph had some sort of conflict over local land grants in Almansa. So now the Knights are marching to take the whole basket, as it were.”
{Corrado}: “Just...has anything else been going on while I’ve been ill? Any pressing bits of business I need to attend to? Please, just lay everything out right now and get it over with.”
{Gilbert}: “Hm...can’t really think of much else, sire. The war’s been rather occupying everyone’s attention.”
{Corrado}: “Right. I’m glad I’m fully apprised of the situation now. Thank you.”
{Gilbert}: “Oh, there’s also that Danish fellow trying to take Seville.”
{Corrado}: “All right, now you’re just making things up.”
{Gilbert}: “Oh not at all, sire. There’s this fellow from the Teutonic Knights who’s raising an army to take Seville. Probably should have mentioned that earlier, now that I think of it.”
{Gilbert}: “Sire? Sire, are you feeling quite all right?”
{Corrado}: “Leave me, Gilbert. I think I feel another bout of intense disgust washing over me…”
The longer I’m in this guy’s head, the less things make sense.
BE THAT AS IT MAY, THIS ONE STILL DOES NOT DETECT THE THREAT WE SEEK
Neither do I. Is it possible we were sent to the wrong time?
POSSIBLE, BUT EXTREMELY UNLIKELY
ALL PROBABILITIES WERE BASED ON SIMULATIONS OF CHRONOLOGICAL INTERACTIVITY ON A QUANTUM LEVEL
THIS ONE ADVISES FURTHER PATIENCE
Understood. We’re jumping again. Time index November 23rd, 1343. We’re at some kind of contest of combat and martial skill. A...yes, I’m getting the word now, a “tourney.” It’s to celebrate...oh, the end of the war. I guess they won.
I can sense Corrado’s excitement at the spectacle...hm, and some other things too. He’s crowning the winner now.
IS THIS RELEVANT TO THE MISSION?
No idea. The winner’s a member of the royal family, he’s the son of Baron Sinucello. Funny, he...doesn’t strike me as much of a fighting-man.
Another feast. This guy sure holds a lot of feasts. He’s hobnobbing with a bunch of other royals and dignitaries. Looks like half of Europe turned out for this tournament. Who’s this...Corrado only knows this guy by reputation. Gu...Guo...Gueo...how do you say this guy’s name?
{Corrado}: “King Guoethoairn the Liberator himself approaches! On behalf of all the peoples of my realm, it is an utmost honor to receive the presence of the savior of the Bretons here in my court!”
Good thing Corrado just remembered who he is. King of Brittany, only freed from French rule about fifteen years ago, by this guy. Hence “the Liberator.”
{Guoethoairn}: “We are equally honored to stand in the presence of so glorious as ruler such as yourself. May I say that your tournament has been perhaps the most wondrous celebration that we have ever attended! My compliments.”
{Corrado}: “I am humbled by such praise. Come, stay a while and partake in some of our wine. Sardinia produces the best red wine in all of Europe, after all.”
{Guoethoairn}: “Ah, but I must take your majesty for a liar then! I have brought the best wine in Europe myself, casks straight from the vineyards of Nantes. Shall we put it to the test?”
{Corrado}: “We shall!”
Another jump...just a couple hours for this one. Good thing the chronesthetic displacement doesn’t include alcohol intoxication.
THAT DESIGN WAS DELIBERATE
{Guoethoairn}: “But why? Surely your sword-arm was longing to enter the fray and claim glory for yourself!”
{Corrado}: “A king’s position is to judge, not to partake.”
{Guoethoairn}: “And I say unto thee: bullshit! You have ‘partaken’ plenty this night, eh?”
{Corrado}: “Not quite as much as you, my friend.”
Corrado’s intimidated by him, but he’s still pretty smart. He’s gotten King Gu...I’m just going to call him “King G.” He’s gotten King G nice and drunk and buttered him up with flattery. Corrado seems to be good at that.
{Corrado}: “In any case, I hadn’t a proper sword ready to engage in combat. I’ll let you in on a secret, though: I have a master smith working his forge tirelessly to make for me a sword of such grandeur, it will be the envy of all men!”
{Guoethoairn}: “Ha ha! I should very much like to see it when it is completed!”
{Corrado}: “Perhaps you shall. It seems there is much we share in common.”
{Guoethoairn}: “Yes, like the love of good wine.”
{Corrado}: “And the love of family, too. Nothing is more important.”
{Guoethoairn}: “Yes, perhaps some day my lineage will grow as yours has, a mighty tree bearing plenty of fruit! I have much cause to be fruitful myself, you know…”
{Corrado}: “I have no doubt. But have you considered matches for the next generation of Bretons? For you children, for example?”
{Guoethoairn}: “Hmmm...there has been much to trouble me in my kingdom. We are beset on all sides by those who would see us under the yoke of foreign oppressors yet again.”
{Corrado}: “In such trying times, it pays to have ties beyond your shores. Ties to those who might provide aid to those in need.”
I think King G’s taken the bait...
{Guoethoairn}: “Do I sense a proposal?”
{Corrado}: “A betrothal, actually. My Sergio to your eldest, Sulgubri. Tales of your daughter’s beauty and intellect, even at her age, have reached even our shores.”
{Guoethoairn}: “I very much doubt they have. Still, I am intrigued. The mingling of our bloodlines...it is a thing to consider…”
{Corrado}: “It is. Another thing to consider is the advances of the English. I would hate for your realm to get swallowed up by their conquests. Especially if aid could have been rendered from those tied by marriage to the de Hennebont dynasty. Very soon now the House of Bas Serra will find itself in France, together, who knows how far our reach can extend…”
{Guoethoairn}: “...you know what? You talked me into it! Another glass for me! Drink to swords and ties both newly-forged!”
All this alliance-forging and trading children...when I signed up for this mission, I didn’t think I’d be thrust headlong into all these political matters. And there’s still no crisis I can see, nothing world-shattering...I hope we have something to present to the other Philosopher-Kings when this is all over.
THIS ONE ALSO SEEKS APPROPRIATE INFORMATION
The whole thing could be the crisis, maybe? All of Europe, struggling, dying, at each other’s throats? Is there something to it, there?
UNLIKELY, PREVIOUS MISSIONS DID NOT INCLUDE MAN-MADE CATASTROPHES
ONLY THOSE CAUSING MASS DESTRUCTION
POMPEII, LISBON, NEOLITHIC OREGON
SO-CALLED “DOOMSDAY SCENARIOS,” TO DETERMINE HOW CIVILIZATION COPES WITH UNIMAGINABLE DISASTER
And maybe to teach us how to recover from the Shift, yes, I know. I’m just not quite seeing it here. At least not yet.
CHRONOLOGICAL JUMP DETECTED
Time index: May 9th, 1344. Damn, he was right. That is a nice sword.
{Corrado}: “I dub thee ‘Gladius Vindicte’, the ‘Sword of Vengeance.’ I hope never to wield you in battle. Yet any who would raise their sword against my dynasty...you shall taste their blood.”
{Corrado}: “That horrible Andrew. He will pay for his machinations soon enough.”
Earl Andrew of Almansa. He’s a conniving little man who harbors ambitions of claiming the Duchy of Murcia for himself. He’s trying to exploit the instability around the region. Apparently he’s now going into assassinations. Sounds like a stand-up guy. Oh, Corrado’s not alone, his son’s here.
{Corrado}: “Ciro...you shall replace Stefano as the master of my spies. Root out the conspiracy set into motion by Earl Andrew. These English rabble will not threaten the peace we have worked so hard to achieve, not while I still draw breath.”
{Ciro}: “Yes, Father.”
Ooh...this seems like a bad idea, Corrado.
HE CANNOT HEAR YOU
I know that! I’m just making a comment.
NOTED
THIS ONE HAS ASSEMBLED INFORMATION GATHERED THUS FAR AND COLLATED IT
SOON THIS ONE WILL BE ABLE TO IDENTIFY THE CRISIS OF THIS TIME PERIOD
CONTINUE OBSERVATIONS
CHRONOLOGICAL JUMP DETECTED
All right, let’s see here...time index February 8th, 1345. King Corrado’s in a council meeting.
{Corrado}: “All in favor? All opposed? Very well! The reforms, as I have enumerated them, pass!”
He’s instituting new laws allowing the crown certain extended powers with regards to vassals fighting amongst themselves and laws governing the succession of the kingdom. Corrado keeps thinking about how shortsighted the previous kings were to have not instituted these laws already.
{Corrado}: “And now, on to the next item on our agenda. Michelangelo?”
The marshal. Michelangelo of House Borromeo, Count of Gallura.
{Michelangelo}: “Thank you, your majesty. The Danish upstart Jørn has declared his intentions to take the Ducy of Seville by force. He set out from somewhere on the coast of Denmark this past December.”
{Corrado}: “Have there been any reports on him since then?”
{Michelangelo}: “Yes, my lord. Jørn made a resupply stop just south of Brittany very recently. Our intelligence suggests that he commands less than six thousand troops in total. A sizeable force to be sure, but still quite inferior to the combined levies of all our territories.”
{Corrado}: “I see. What are your recommendations?”
{Michelangelo}: “It might be possible to repel the assault using only the native Andalusian forces. It could be more cost-effective to forego naval transport at this time.”
{Ciro}: “With all due respect, I must disagree with you on this point, Count Michelangelo. Perhaps the Andalusian levies might be sufficient to repel this ‘Jørn’ person, but the number of troops on each side is too evenly-matched. Reinforcements would be needed to present a clear numerical advantage. If we’re lucky, perhaps the fool will see our superior show of force and change his mind about the whole venture, leave of his own accord.”
{Michelangelo}: “Hm. Where should we draw the reinforcements from? Mallorca, perhaps? Duke Settimio?”
{Settimio}: “Mallorca will provide sufficient support, provided that our levies are not overdrawn in this matter. To be frank, we have more important matters to attend to than repulsing some misguided northman buffoon.”
{Gilbert}: “I say, is it really necessary to bring out the levies from all of the Andalusian territory? Perhaps with a sufficient bribe…”
{Ciro}: “For the last time, we are not negotiating with him, Duke Gilbert. You cannot simply pay off all your aggressors.”
{Gilbert}: “Well, there was this one time I gave a few coins to my wife, and it certainly halted her aggression...temporarily…”
Well this is all fascinating, but I’m still not seeing any-
CRISIS IDENTIFIED
What, the Danish guy? I have a feeling he’s not going to be-
THIS ONE IS GRANTING ACCESS TO AN INTER-CHRONAL INFORMATION FEED
SPECIALIST HEU, DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION TO THE INCOMING DATA
All right, let me see here…
...my God…
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
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