Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest
- Thread starter Rolman
- Start date
- Mature Historic
[X] "Maciej is most impressive, even if he's a bit… A bit loud."
I'm thinking about this from a different angle: he's very enthusiastic and ambitious, but he's much too callow and I expect him to either break the court or be broken by it if we become his evil Vizier.
No, I think he'd be off more use to our cause and the cause of the Commonwealth if we make use of his talents instead of keeping him prisoner, as this option suggests.
I'm thinking about this from a different angle: he's very enthusiastic and ambitious, but he's much too callow and I expect him to either break the court or be broken by it if we become his evil Vizier.
No, I think he'd be off more use to our cause and the cause of the Commonwealth if we make use of his talents instead of keeping him prisoner, as this option suggests.
- Location
- Virginia
[X] "Maciej is full of bluster, but he may be useful."
This seems to be a common miscomception. The Ottoman ruler did hold the title of "Kayser-i-Rûm" but that was generally more to denote that they owned the lands of the Romioi near Kostantiniyye*, than because he actually wanted to emulate the Roman Empire. From what I can tell (and I am by no means an expert on the subject) the Ottomans generally respected aspects of the ancient Roman history but also sought legitimacy more through a mixture of Islamic and uniquely Ottoman institutions (the title of Caliph, the line of the House of Osman etc.) rather than claiming they were some "third Rome"
I found a post by Chehrazad talking about it here
Now it's probably more of an in-character mistake (it wouldn't be that odd for a European noble working with secondhand information to be misinformed about the minutiae of Ottoman legitimacy) but I still thought it'd be a good point to bring up
* The Turkish name for Constantinople. The city wouldn't officially be renamed to Istanbul until 1930
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Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
The average European noble rejected any notion, that the Ottomans had an Imperial title, be it of Roman origin (laughable) or anything else (since as pagans, they deserve none). Sure, your typical diplomat will be, well, diplomatic but for regular nobility, the Ottoman Sultan was just one of many Sultans, much more like a King.
- Pronouns
- He
[X] "Maciej is full of bluster, but he may be useful."
[X] "Maciej is full of bluster, but he may be useful."
Kir the Wizard
The Sun King
- Location
- Ukraine
Rum, as in, Anatolia, was something that even pre-Ottoman Turkish rulers claimed the reign of.
[X] "Maciej is full of bluster; it's the Emperor himself who we need."
I don't want to repeat the IRL Commonwealth's Swedish throne wars. However personable Matthias may be, this potential union is too big a prize to ignore, as the Emperor notes.
[X] "Maciej is full of bluster; it's the Emperor himself who we need."
I don't want to repeat the IRL Commonwealth's Swedish throne wars. However personable Matthias may be, this potential union is too big a prize to ignore, as the Emperor notes.
[x] "Maciej is most impressive, even if he's a bit… A bit loud."
“The Ceiling.” October 9, 1574. Vienna, Archduchy of Austria.
- Location
- United States
It is another night alone in bed, in a chamber to yourself. You stare at the stucco and night-dark beams above you – no canopy on this bed. The candles are still lit, and the room pulses in their orange light. Sleep is generally easier this time of year: the stuffiness and heat of summer are no more, but the lack of insects strip the soundscape down to the whispers of Vienna beyond the palace's walls. Someone screams out in the night, someone in the city proper. Long, shrill, peeling wails. A drunk? A madman? A birthing woman?
Exhale. Your ribs close in on themselves as, for some reason you cannot decipher, you try and expel every last bit of air from your lungs. Maybe because it is a privilege to be able to do so. When you were dying aboard that ship – just two years ago, but it feels miles, miles away – you couldn't have more than a few breaths without stabbing, wheezing coughs taking you over, filling all your chest with the sensation of being crushed by a gauntleted fist. You've survived two battles and a duel, and there will surely be more. You sweep a hand over your cropped hair on the left side of your head, and touch about for the top of the ear that you know you will not find. Only the curving ridges and bumps of the center remain. He is keeping you alive for now.
Memento mori, sed non omnis moriar. By the grace of the Spirit and the Savior, His Father and Mother, may you perhaps live on forever with a saved soul. Your illness was a gift as all mortifications are, a personal Passion, to suffer as the Lord Jesus Christ did and to turn to him forthwith in the throes of your agony, that animal fear of death, however ready you felt as a thinking man to go to God. You prayed and tried to sing holy songs and the Reaping Angel came just to tell you: not yet. He himself relit the swinging lantern above your deathbed.
The distant screaming continues. A shiver creeps down your back, and you make the Cross, still staring at the ceiling. Not everyone experiences such favor, perhaps.
But those hymns you uttered, half-dead… They were in Polish. Calvinist in origin, belonging to a childhood when you didn't know better and didn't hear Mass, instead praying to the Lord one-to-one with nothing but hope for salvation, without the Saints, without the guidance of Peter's heir, without Mother Maria, without true Absolution, without doing anything necessary to secure a seat in Paradise. Perhaps there was a perverse freedom in reliance upon faith alone; perhaps that freedom is why so many of your liberty-loving countrymen are led astray. But were those words you sang not holy and true? Maybe so, but you catch yourself, for they were vulgar in both senses of the word. Surely. To keep the services and prayers in Latin is a very beautiful thing, for it is unchangeable and inflexible, truly sacred, the language of the Church Fathers. And, still, you recall all of that old Protestant song:
Ah, my heavenly Lord,
God almighty,
In the unity of the Trinity,
Reigning always.
Well, it goes on for a while – as a boy, you preferred the final stanza, the closing words:
I give my self up to your power,
And my body, and my soul,
For You alone are the Lord of lords,
Forever and ever.
And that is undeniably the truth of God, even if it came from a heretic's lips. You feel some ice in you at that revelation. It is also the truth that, for all your struggle, all your tearful recitations of the Psalms, the days you spent in your godly garden at Orsza, burning your neck in the summer sun, you have not handed out alms. Nor have you raised a church, nor have you commissioned a printer to create proper Catholic Bibles. Mariana's words, all those quarrels, her exhortations – God help me and forgive me, what of the widows and orphans?
You forgot all about it, so lost were you within yourself. You forgot this, too: Mariana would take to the streets of Orsza with her ladies-in-waiting and meet with the priests of her creed – for that was an Orthodox town – giving out bread and lesser coins to anyone who approached. Surely, some of them were louts and cutpurse urchins and women of low repute, and she knew that. And still she gave them their fill. And she never told you why. Because you never asked, and perhaps because she never felt a need to tell. A woman's virtue and purity is her glory and, though she may be in some form of impious rebellion against you, her husband and master – her good works cannot be denied. For they come from a kind heart, a worried heart, a heart that aches because it does not understand. That is the truth. But you? You understand. God and the Friar have given you what you need, yes?
Where is sleep? Most certainly being scared off by that terrible yowling. It's growing worse, louder, turning into a howl more than just a cry. You decide now that it must be a woman in labor, though it almost sounds like the shriek of a fox prolonged. No, that is a human being, it must be, and that's the sound of birth. And a hard one, too, you reckon, not that you would know well – only peasant men help with the delivery, and only if there aren't enough wise old matrons around to properly help. It gets you thinking. A child has not been planted in Mariana yet, such is the will of God; you can only hope that she prays for a son – or any living child at all, for that matter – as much as you do. You can hardly recall the last time you laid with her, so long it has been.
Mother died not long after you came about. Within months, you think. You never knew her. Did you kill her? Or was it the constant quarreling with Father that the servants used to whisper of? Did her heart drown in a sea of black bile and intolerable nerves? Perish that thought; you recite an Ave Maria, for there's only one Mother you need, one who left behind no body, needed no tomb. The Mother is powerful, powerful indeed, she who will be clothed with the sun at the End of Days; Our Lady of Victory vanquished the Turk three years ago at Lepanto, sweeping aside the heathen with as much ease as she bore the piercing of her heart with the seven swords of dolor.
The screams of the laboring woman are quieting, turning hoarse and ragged. Perhaps she will not survive the night. The thought does not help. Maybe, you try to reason with yourself, she has finished the job, and brought new life into the world. But something deep in you makes you doubt that. Is a woman who dies bringing new life into the world a martyr? Can the priests answer that? And can they answer this: who is taken, who is not, and why?
Are you abandoned? Have you truly changed, even by a speck? Well, of course, the drinking has ceased, the gambling and the hazy wandering from Dubinki to Wilno, Dubinki to Wilno. But your conceit before God, your pride – have you given it up? Mariana calls you one-tracked, obsessed – you say you're here for a reason, and that is to glorify God on this earth. The Friar warns you time and time again about the pitfalls of your lofty station, but your mind circles back to the matter: when was the last time you did something about it? Have you listened even to the words of your confessor? "This pity! Such pity! Bring the inside outside!" said Mariana, just thirteen days ago. You've been counting. Those words echo through you, bouncing through your head and choking up your throat.
Well, what if she's right?
Exhale. Your ribs close in on themselves as, for some reason you cannot decipher, you try and expel every last bit of air from your lungs. Maybe because it is a privilege to be able to do so. When you were dying aboard that ship – just two years ago, but it feels miles, miles away – you couldn't have more than a few breaths without stabbing, wheezing coughs taking you over, filling all your chest with the sensation of being crushed by a gauntleted fist. You've survived two battles and a duel, and there will surely be more. You sweep a hand over your cropped hair on the left side of your head, and touch about for the top of the ear that you know you will not find. Only the curving ridges and bumps of the center remain. He is keeping you alive for now.
Memento mori, sed non omnis moriar. By the grace of the Spirit and the Savior, His Father and Mother, may you perhaps live on forever with a saved soul. Your illness was a gift as all mortifications are, a personal Passion, to suffer as the Lord Jesus Christ did and to turn to him forthwith in the throes of your agony, that animal fear of death, however ready you felt as a thinking man to go to God. You prayed and tried to sing holy songs and the Reaping Angel came just to tell you: not yet. He himself relit the swinging lantern above your deathbed.
The distant screaming continues. A shiver creeps down your back, and you make the Cross, still staring at the ceiling. Not everyone experiences such favor, perhaps.
But those hymns you uttered, half-dead… They were in Polish. Calvinist in origin, belonging to a childhood when you didn't know better and didn't hear Mass, instead praying to the Lord one-to-one with nothing but hope for salvation, without the Saints, without the guidance of Peter's heir, without Mother Maria, without true Absolution, without doing anything necessary to secure a seat in Paradise. Perhaps there was a perverse freedom in reliance upon faith alone; perhaps that freedom is why so many of your liberty-loving countrymen are led astray. But were those words you sang not holy and true? Maybe so, but you catch yourself, for they were vulgar in both senses of the word. Surely. To keep the services and prayers in Latin is a very beautiful thing, for it is unchangeable and inflexible, truly sacred, the language of the Church Fathers. And, still, you recall all of that old Protestant song:
Ah, my heavenly Lord,
God almighty,
In the unity of the Trinity,
Reigning always.
Well, it goes on for a while – as a boy, you preferred the final stanza, the closing words:
I give my self up to your power,
And my body, and my soul,
For You alone are the Lord of lords,
Forever and ever.
And that is undeniably the truth of God, even if it came from a heretic's lips. You feel some ice in you at that revelation. It is also the truth that, for all your struggle, all your tearful recitations of the Psalms, the days you spent in your godly garden at Orsza, burning your neck in the summer sun, you have not handed out alms. Nor have you raised a church, nor have you commissioned a printer to create proper Catholic Bibles. Mariana's words, all those quarrels, her exhortations – God help me and forgive me, what of the widows and orphans?
You forgot all about it, so lost were you within yourself. You forgot this, too: Mariana would take to the streets of Orsza with her ladies-in-waiting and meet with the priests of her creed – for that was an Orthodox town – giving out bread and lesser coins to anyone who approached. Surely, some of them were louts and cutpurse urchins and women of low repute, and she knew that. And still she gave them their fill. And she never told you why. Because you never asked, and perhaps because she never felt a need to tell. A woman's virtue and purity is her glory and, though she may be in some form of impious rebellion against you, her husband and master – her good works cannot be denied. For they come from a kind heart, a worried heart, a heart that aches because it does not understand. That is the truth. But you? You understand. God and the Friar have given you what you need, yes?
Where is sleep? Most certainly being scared off by that terrible yowling. It's growing worse, louder, turning into a howl more than just a cry. You decide now that it must be a woman in labor, though it almost sounds like the shriek of a fox prolonged. No, that is a human being, it must be, and that's the sound of birth. And a hard one, too, you reckon, not that you would know well – only peasant men help with the delivery, and only if there aren't enough wise old matrons around to properly help. It gets you thinking. A child has not been planted in Mariana yet, such is the will of God; you can only hope that she prays for a son – or any living child at all, for that matter – as much as you do. You can hardly recall the last time you laid with her, so long it has been.
Mother died not long after you came about. Within months, you think. You never knew her. Did you kill her? Or was it the constant quarreling with Father that the servants used to whisper of? Did her heart drown in a sea of black bile and intolerable nerves? Perish that thought; you recite an Ave Maria, for there's only one Mother you need, one who left behind no body, needed no tomb. The Mother is powerful, powerful indeed, she who will be clothed with the sun at the End of Days; Our Lady of Victory vanquished the Turk three years ago at Lepanto, sweeping aside the heathen with as much ease as she bore the piercing of her heart with the seven swords of dolor.
The screams of the laboring woman are quieting, turning hoarse and ragged. Perhaps she will not survive the night. The thought does not help. Maybe, you try to reason with yourself, she has finished the job, and brought new life into the world. But something deep in you makes you doubt that. Is a woman who dies bringing new life into the world a martyr? Can the priests answer that? And can they answer this: who is taken, who is not, and why?
Are you abandoned? Have you truly changed, even by a speck? Well, of course, the drinking has ceased, the gambling and the hazy wandering from Dubinki to Wilno, Dubinki to Wilno. But your conceit before God, your pride – have you given it up? Mariana calls you one-tracked, obsessed – you say you're here for a reason, and that is to glorify God on this earth. The Friar warns you time and time again about the pitfalls of your lofty station, but your mind circles back to the matter: when was the last time you did something about it? Have you listened even to the words of your confessor? "This pity! Such pity! Bring the inside outside!" said Mariana, just thirteen days ago. You've been counting. Those words echo through you, bouncing through your head and choking up your throat.
Well, what if she's right?
- Location
- Denmark
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Really good quest, very interesting, rare you see historical quests on SV, also very funny experience to see myself cited like I'm a great Ottomanist authority. That made me laugh. Anyways, I'm actually not sure what the play is yet, while it's clear Matthias doesn't really have a good idea of what to do to secure his power, I'm also not certain about going for the personal union; both have some pretty big risks, and my big worry regarding the latter is seeing the Commonwealth torn in twain, with Habsburg interests favouring the closer west and surrendering the east to the Muscovites. Much to think about, I'll have to give it until tomorrow.
This is not true! Ottoman rulers are regularly portrayed in woodcut as Turcarum Imperator. Obviously you could claim these woodcuts are just being diplomatic, but seeing as a good amount of them were made in Germany or France, there's not much reason to believe that. Earlier Crusade bulls from the Pope refer to the Ottoman sultans as duces, but this is usually in the context of being a war-leader (as dux has a broader meaning in Latin), not literally the Pope considering the Ottoman Empire a duchy. There are very few references to a Turcarum Rex, most of them date to before the rule of Fatih Mehmed, being references to either Bayezid (Baiazethes) or Osman himself (Othomannus) as turcarum reges, and in fact even in Polish and Hungarian chronicles of—for instance—the Battle of Mohacs, we see references to Süleyman as turcarum imperator. A great example of this is Conflictus cladesque Hungarorum, which likewise refers to Süleyman as Emperor. Obviously, I can't speak to the opinions of average European nobles, because I can't go and ask them, but judging from the general use of the title Great Lord among Italians, the consistent references in woodcuts to turcarorem imperatores—which we have no exceptional reason to believe deviate from the opinions of their makers—and a lack of references to other titles in use for the Ottoman monarch, it seems fairly consistent that the title of Emperor was well-accepted. With that said, though, there is also the additional popular title of Grand Turk, which stems from the Italian gran signore, and was corrupted into gran turco. It seems possible that one could hypothesize this was used as a more 'neutral' title without making reference to the imperial status of the Ottoman monarchs, but I am not well-read enough on affairs west of the Ottoman domains to make a case for this. Regardless, I've attached some of the woodcuts here:
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Please keep in mind, that we are not talking about the ruling elites, nor even the educated elites.
Woodcuts, while obviously a goldmine of knowledge, are ultimately works of art and the art of that time usually reflected the views of the man, who paid for it, not those of the artist, which more often than not lead us to the men in power. Your typical, run-of-the-mill noble that's not very affluent probably never even left his country house further than a dozen miles away from home and there is a chance he can't even read (yes, it is actually true! Some nobles didn't even see the need to learn that!). His home province was the end of the world for him, while the Turk was an almost ephemeral persona from some land beyond the horizon. The only thing he knows about him, is that he's a heathen and that he brings Christians to the curb via conquest. For them, he's no Emperor, for that would implicate, that the ruler of the Holy Roman Empire is his equal and is was a universally accepted truth in the Christian world, that when it comes to titles, the Habsburg Emperors were at the top of the food chain.
When talking about the ruling class, monarchs, educated people and those with some diplomatic sense, by all means you are right. Yet the much more numerous noble country bumpkins, that never saw a Turk in their life? I don't think so.
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- Pronouns
- She/They
As someone who's been studying this conversation for historical trivia like I do most of this thread...I thought the context was that we were talking about the Third Prince of the Holy Roman Empire here, not the masses.
I suppose I misunderstood what you meant by "the average noble" in your previous post, and didn't account for that (in many countries including Poland) including an entire mass of small land holders who may or may not be literate or politically relevant beyond a local level.
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Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Notice that the reply was made to my specific quote about the average European noble not believing the Ottoman ruler to be some sort of Emperor. Unfortunately the average noble was not one of those, that ruled the country, lived in palaces, had tons of money or even an education, hence why I wrote what I wrote. The rich, powerful and mighty aristocrats were but a tiny percentage of the noble populus, therefore they do not constitute a majority opinion, only the most influential one, since nobody cared what the powerless thought about the matter.
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- Pronouns
- She/They
Yeah I realized in an edit that I was operating off an idea of a "noble" that I'm not sure whether it's pop history or just very Anglo-centric, where noble equates to the political class of the time period rather than anyone with a hereditary plot of land. In either case, not relevant to a historically aware story set in central Europe.
That and I'm not sure how the discussion got to the noble hoi polloi from a comment by Matthias von Habsburg but I'm going to chalk that up to thread drift.
That and I'm not sure how the discussion got to the noble hoi polloi from a comment by Matthias von Habsburg but I'm going to chalk that up to thread drift.
- Location
- United States
Even though something crazy like up to 10% of families were szlachta, indeed many were poor as fuck, basically peasants with an inherited saber and freedom of movement/owned land. These are the lordlings who run alongside your magnate's convoy begging for work or money.
They hate peasant-peasants though; no solidarity of any kind whatsoever, which is expected, of course, but I mean hate.
Even Wikipedia mentions it:
The brotherhood of equals thing should NEVER be equated to anything even close to human rights, not that I think anybody in thread thinks so.
Religious freedom also is for nobles only; a nobleman had every right to forcibly convert his peasants as he saw fit. One Polish town that kept being bought and sold amongst magnates went Catholic-Calvinist-Lutheran-Calvinist-Socinian in the span of like 30 years (I'm making up the confession changes, but not the anecdote).
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Just to reiterate:
Aye, the nobles of the Commonwealth had the right to decide about what form of religion their peasants and burghers would be able to practice (at least openly). The monarch could do the same with his subjects living in the Crown lands (except for royal burghers, who had also been given the privilege of choosing their religion, as well any free man living in the Commonwealth, hence why foreigners were also included). This was one of the articles of the Warsaw Confederation, which guaranteed religious freedom (mostly). Jews were a different matter entirely, since they had many old privileges dating back to the Middle Ages, which protected their faith.
In practice, many nobles were highly tolerant and didn't care about such things, so long as the taxes were paid on time. Of course many of them funded various churches, yet forcing the populus to change religion was a delicate subject. Take Lithuania for example. The vast majority of peasants are Orthodox, yet I've never heard the Radziwiłłs or anyone else forcing them to change their faith, since it would simply not be feasible and it just invites religious turmoil, that nobody really needs or wants.
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Solarstream
It's all in the cards
- Location
- Zombie World
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Maciej is most impressive, even if he's a bit… A bit loud."
XXI. October 9-October 25, 1574. Vienna to Kraków.
- Location
- United States
"Maciej is full of bluster, but he may be useful," you say. "Easy to control, enthusiastic, far from home."
Sierotka nods thoughtfully, giving a sly smile. "Like the Frenchman all over again – except it'll be our man, not the Crownlands'."
"Precisely. It'll be good to be in royal favor for once," you chuckle, "no more borderland assignments for me."
"I'm sure Zamoyski and his little lordlings' movement will be a problem," says Sierotka. "The Protestants, too."
"We can appeal to their cynicism," you say, mildly shocked at your, well, cynicism. "The Confederation will keep freedom of faith – upholding it will be included in his articles should he be elected…"
"What of Princess Anna?"
You click your tongue. "She's much stronger, smarter, than people think. But she's got no say in the matter. Maciej is unmarried, as is she; her guardian is the realm, and the Senat will bring them together."
"That could be very important," Sierotka replies; you nod. "That would bridge the old and the new in an undeniable way, and make the Crownland magnates feel like they've got a man, heh, woman of their own."
"If we win Maciej, we win Anna, we win both countries. Imagine reversing or revising Lublin…" you say, almost wistful.
"Heh, now that would be something," says Sierotka, "but let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Of course not. But we're in agreement?"
"I think so, cousin, I think so." You shake hands. Just a month or so outside of the country, and the Habsburgs will be making a bid for the throne, and with a tailor-fit, manipulable candidate to boot. I'm politicking! Watch me go! You feel a boyish mischievousness and nearly laugh at it. You hope that Father can't be too upset for going over his head when the results are this.
Last night was saddening and difficult, listening to the woman in labor until the wee hours, staring at the ceiling and questioning everything. You woke up this morning realizing that there is more to life than the Rule of Saint Benedict, than prayer and restraint. The Friar himself warned you that to live as a prince was to live as a (particular) sinner but, while you don't remember your dreams when you at last found sleep, they must have imparted a sense of action in you. You were always choleric in spite of your birth under Cancer – and you feel it surge through you, feel chains breaking, a Samson with hair grown again. You clear your throat and think: careful! An accommodation of Sin cannot mean surrender to it.
"Cousin?"
You blink. "Yes, Sierotka? Apologies, I was thinking. We ought to inform the Emperor at once."
"Agreed!"
And, so, a private message is dispatched to the Emperor's chambers; the reply is short and in the affirmative – but you must appear before him on the throne.
The herald announces the entry of the two Polonian princes once more.
This time, the Emperor is dressed much more richly, wearing a richly-dyed gold doublet and trunk hose over which hangs several pendants and medallions, a black cloak adorned with shining buttons, a pearl-studded be-feathered cap above a large ruff, Reichsapfel and Imperial Sword in each hand. He raises his hands to show them off and gives a little smile. "We would have worn the full regalia were we to have it here and not at Nuremberg, but rest assured, lord princes, we have worn our finest things for you two on this day."
You and Sierotka say nothing, instead bowing deeply. The Emperor already knows the outcome of this conversation and has assented to it – perhaps everybody but the common courtiers know that – but the play must be put on. He waits in silence.
You swallow, even though you know it's all just a dance. "Your Imperial Majesty," you begin, "should the Dux Engolismensis not return to our throne as he bound by law to do so, and we have no King, and no Grand Duke, we would wish to see His Royal Highness the Archduke Matthias stand as candidate for the throne."
You note the boy's reaction: he nearly jumps in place, smiles broadly, and covers his mouth. Archduke Ernst stares straight ahead and clears his throat. The courtiers gasp – they really didn't know.
Sierotka adds in: "We know Your Imperial Majesty is a man too dedicated to his homeland and to the tasks God has already asked of him to sit atop another throne, though it surely would please the Lord to see His Imperial Majesty there."
"We consider that to be an astute judgment and wise decision – a captain-general cannot command two armies at once, let alone three. Our son is in his seventeenth year," he looks to Matthias, "and may make his own decisions. What does he say?" He cannot make his own decisions, in fact, you think, but the answer is guaranteed regardless.
"Yes!" he blurts out, before literally shaking himself out. "Yes. Your Serene Highnesses, I am most honored to hear this! I will not let your countries down. I will personally lead the delegation and make my case."
"And we are honored, too, Your Royal Highness," you say to him, almost wanting to wink, "that a young man of such august raising would consider offering himself up to the service of our lands, giving up his patrimony to live under a foreign sky."
The boy nods enthusiastically. "And I would be glad to do such a thing, Your Serene Highnesses." Surely, he must be a little scared? He's not showing it.
"Then it is settled," says the Emperor, "what more do the Imperial Princes ask of us?"
"That His Royal Highness the Archduke appear at Cracovia by June – with diplomats, clergymen, and gifts. And that His Royal Highness should be prepared for an extended stay."
Sierotka seems to want to make sure you don't sound haughty. "We ask that much because it shall be an uphill battle – we cannot deny it – to bring a man of the House of Habsburg to rule over our lands. A great impression shall be necessary, to accompany the great deliberation amongst our estates."
"There will be Swedish and even Turkish delegations to contend with," you agree, "perhaps Transylvanians, perhaps His Imperial Majesty's own Silesian dukes." You're not lost that the three of the four are adversaries of the Empire – with the Swedes soon-to-be, perhaps.
"We would be most pleased to have good friends to our East, especially a land so great in size and wealthy and so well-peopled, both in number and in manners," says the Emperor. "Gamble as it perhaps may be, if the princes find that our son is the best option, then he is the best option. You are welcome to stay and enjoy our hospitality for as long as you wish. This audience is concluded; you may take your leave."
"Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty," you and Sierotka reply.
It all went off without a hitch – nevermind Archduke Ernest is vibrating in place, looking back and forth between you and his younger brother.
As much as it would be a fine thing to overwinter at the Imperial court, you know you surely have an angry father to contend with, and Sierotka needs to get back to his lands to properly manage them.
Your convoy heads north at a rapid pace, forgoing any fanfare, heading through the Moravian hills before turning eastward into the plains around Brno, a straight shot to Kraków.
Where your father is, as it turns out. He speaks to Sierotka first – for he is the elder of you two and your titular superior – before having you ushered into his quarters.
He takes in your nervous entry, crosses his arms, and scoffs. "On one hand, I am happy to see the meekest of my sons do something so bold." Ouch. "But you have defied me, and flagrantly at that. And did you know you nearly made Prince Ostrogski's son follow you? Now that, that would have been a real treat. Then the Crownlands truly would have been in an uproar. But your bishops and cardinals are certainly happy," he says with more than a bit of venom.
"I come bearing good news, Father," you reply limply.
"You better have. Showing the family's hand so soon – there are no secrets anymore that we're preparing a bid for the Habsburgs again." He puts a hand to his temple. "Sierotka has told me about the shakeup. That it will be one of the Emperor's sons, rather than the man himself. I suppose the two of you can't be wrong, but – explain yourself."
You do, faltering and wobbling. That he will personally visit Kraków and Warszawa come election time and dazzle the nobility with his youthful vigor, that his young age and eagerness to please will make him moldable and pliant, that he will bring the benefits of Habsburg rule while actually being present to do so.
"Hmph. Well, like I said, I trust the judgment of yourself and Prince Sierotka. But understand this," he points a finger at you, "you are not to go over my head on matters of the family again. You may be a man grown and a prince but I am the father of this family – I am your liege lord as much as I am your parent. You shall not do this again, lest I find some way to make life less pleasant for you. I do not take kindly to disloyalty, especially when the outcome is something so risky, something unexpected." Father shakes his head. "It's not like you led some wild charge into battle, unordered, you perhaps have disrupted the entire dance. Now, fix it. I leave it to you, but you ought to begin speaking with important people with haste. I still think you dependable, but you are now indebted, son, and you shall do as I say."
Important people? Like…
[] The clergy, perhaps best represented by the Primate-Archbishop and interrex-to-be, Jakub Uchański.
Surely, they rejoice at the prospect of a Habsburg candidate. That in mind, collaboration must begin at once to form a strong voting bloc. Not to mention, it's hard to argue with the emissaries of God when they say their piece.
[] Representatives of the Crownlander magnates, primarily Senators – the Zborowski brothers, for example.
The swing voters, and a healthful mix of Protestant and Catholic. By coordinating with those inclined to the Habsburgs, or otherwise attempting to convince those sitting the fence, one may find the lordlings in patronage to the greater nobles rallying to the Imperial cause.
[] The reformist lordlings, led by your likely rival, Jan Zamoyski.
Heading into the jaws of the enemy, betting on a minor detail: the fact that it's Maciej, not the Emperor. You can appeal to their striving nature and cynicism, perhaps, by reminding them that a young and experienced ruler beats a Swedish King or Batory prince – someone who could actually call the shots, and not necessarily in the little nobles' favor.
[] The young Albrecht Fryderyk, Duke of Prussia, as well as chief burghers of Gdańsk.
The interests of the Northerners cannot be ignored – the Duke of Prussia stands alongside the all-important, primarily German-speaking trading port of Gdańsk, granted special privileges by Zygmunt August. Protestant lands both, they will need reassurance that Imperial autocracy is not being imported into their homelands, that the privileges of Ducal Prussia be upheld, and that the prospects of expanding the markets and (Prussian) power projection into a reconquered Livonia are too good to pass up.
[] The Ruthenians, perhaps led by Prince Konstanty Wasyl Ostrogski.
Similarly to the Catholic clergy, the Ruthenians at large are likely to fall in line behind a Habsburg candidate in an effort to curb the encroachment of Polish Crownlanders into the lands lost at the Union of Lublin in particular, and into the Grand Duchy in general. Coordinating with the preeminent Prince Ostrogski could solidify a strong, secular bloc of Habsburg supporters, composing the entire Eastern half of the Commonwealth.
Sierotka nods thoughtfully, giving a sly smile. "Like the Frenchman all over again – except it'll be our man, not the Crownlands'."
"Precisely. It'll be good to be in royal favor for once," you chuckle, "no more borderland assignments for me."
"I'm sure Zamoyski and his little lordlings' movement will be a problem," says Sierotka. "The Protestants, too."
"We can appeal to their cynicism," you say, mildly shocked at your, well, cynicism. "The Confederation will keep freedom of faith – upholding it will be included in his articles should he be elected…"
"What of Princess Anna?"
You click your tongue. "She's much stronger, smarter, than people think. But she's got no say in the matter. Maciej is unmarried, as is she; her guardian is the realm, and the Senat will bring them together."
"That could be very important," Sierotka replies; you nod. "That would bridge the old and the new in an undeniable way, and make the Crownland magnates feel like they've got a man, heh, woman of their own."
"If we win Maciej, we win Anna, we win both countries. Imagine reversing or revising Lublin…" you say, almost wistful.
"Heh, now that would be something," says Sierotka, "but let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Of course not. But we're in agreement?"
"I think so, cousin, I think so." You shake hands. Just a month or so outside of the country, and the Habsburgs will be making a bid for the throne, and with a tailor-fit, manipulable candidate to boot. I'm politicking! Watch me go! You feel a boyish mischievousness and nearly laugh at it. You hope that Father can't be too upset for going over his head when the results are this.
Last night was saddening and difficult, listening to the woman in labor until the wee hours, staring at the ceiling and questioning everything. You woke up this morning realizing that there is more to life than the Rule of Saint Benedict, than prayer and restraint. The Friar himself warned you that to live as a prince was to live as a (particular) sinner but, while you don't remember your dreams when you at last found sleep, they must have imparted a sense of action in you. You were always choleric in spite of your birth under Cancer – and you feel it surge through you, feel chains breaking, a Samson with hair grown again. You clear your throat and think: careful! An accommodation of Sin cannot mean surrender to it.
"Cousin?"
You blink. "Yes, Sierotka? Apologies, I was thinking. We ought to inform the Emperor at once."
"Agreed!"
And, so, a private message is dispatched to the Emperor's chambers; the reply is short and in the affirmative – but you must appear before him on the throne.
The herald announces the entry of the two Polonian princes once more.
This time, the Emperor is dressed much more richly, wearing a richly-dyed gold doublet and trunk hose over which hangs several pendants and medallions, a black cloak adorned with shining buttons, a pearl-studded be-feathered cap above a large ruff, Reichsapfel and Imperial Sword in each hand. He raises his hands to show them off and gives a little smile. "We would have worn the full regalia were we to have it here and not at Nuremberg, but rest assured, lord princes, we have worn our finest things for you two on this day."
You and Sierotka say nothing, instead bowing deeply. The Emperor already knows the outcome of this conversation and has assented to it – perhaps everybody but the common courtiers know that – but the play must be put on. He waits in silence.
You swallow, even though you know it's all just a dance. "Your Imperial Majesty," you begin, "should the Dux Engolismensis not return to our throne as he bound by law to do so, and we have no King, and no Grand Duke, we would wish to see His Royal Highness the Archduke Matthias stand as candidate for the throne."
You note the boy's reaction: he nearly jumps in place, smiles broadly, and covers his mouth. Archduke Ernst stares straight ahead and clears his throat. The courtiers gasp – they really didn't know.
Sierotka adds in: "We know Your Imperial Majesty is a man too dedicated to his homeland and to the tasks God has already asked of him to sit atop another throne, though it surely would please the Lord to see His Imperial Majesty there."
"We consider that to be an astute judgment and wise decision – a captain-general cannot command two armies at once, let alone three. Our son is in his seventeenth year," he looks to Matthias, "and may make his own decisions. What does he say?" He cannot make his own decisions, in fact, you think, but the answer is guaranteed regardless.
"Yes!" he blurts out, before literally shaking himself out. "Yes. Your Serene Highnesses, I am most honored to hear this! I will not let your countries down. I will personally lead the delegation and make my case."
"And we are honored, too, Your Royal Highness," you say to him, almost wanting to wink, "that a young man of such august raising would consider offering himself up to the service of our lands, giving up his patrimony to live under a foreign sky."
The boy nods enthusiastically. "And I would be glad to do such a thing, Your Serene Highnesses." Surely, he must be a little scared? He's not showing it.
"Then it is settled," says the Emperor, "what more do the Imperial Princes ask of us?"
"That His Royal Highness the Archduke appear at Cracovia by June – with diplomats, clergymen, and gifts. And that His Royal Highness should be prepared for an extended stay."
Sierotka seems to want to make sure you don't sound haughty. "We ask that much because it shall be an uphill battle – we cannot deny it – to bring a man of the House of Habsburg to rule over our lands. A great impression shall be necessary, to accompany the great deliberation amongst our estates."
"There will be Swedish and even Turkish delegations to contend with," you agree, "perhaps Transylvanians, perhaps His Imperial Majesty's own Silesian dukes." You're not lost that the three of the four are adversaries of the Empire – with the Swedes soon-to-be, perhaps.
"We would be most pleased to have good friends to our East, especially a land so great in size and wealthy and so well-peopled, both in number and in manners," says the Emperor. "Gamble as it perhaps may be, if the princes find that our son is the best option, then he is the best option. You are welcome to stay and enjoy our hospitality for as long as you wish. This audience is concluded; you may take your leave."
"Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty," you and Sierotka reply.
It all went off without a hitch – nevermind Archduke Ernest is vibrating in place, looking back and forth between you and his younger brother.
As much as it would be a fine thing to overwinter at the Imperial court, you know you surely have an angry father to contend with, and Sierotka needs to get back to his lands to properly manage them.
Your convoy heads north at a rapid pace, forgoing any fanfare, heading through the Moravian hills before turning eastward into the plains around Brno, a straight shot to Kraków.
Where your father is, as it turns out. He speaks to Sierotka first – for he is the elder of you two and your titular superior – before having you ushered into his quarters.
He takes in your nervous entry, crosses his arms, and scoffs. "On one hand, I am happy to see the meekest of my sons do something so bold." Ouch. "But you have defied me, and flagrantly at that. And did you know you nearly made Prince Ostrogski's son follow you? Now that, that would have been a real treat. Then the Crownlands truly would have been in an uproar. But your bishops and cardinals are certainly happy," he says with more than a bit of venom.
"I come bearing good news, Father," you reply limply.
"You better have. Showing the family's hand so soon – there are no secrets anymore that we're preparing a bid for the Habsburgs again." He puts a hand to his temple. "Sierotka has told me about the shakeup. That it will be one of the Emperor's sons, rather than the man himself. I suppose the two of you can't be wrong, but – explain yourself."
You do, faltering and wobbling. That he will personally visit Kraków and Warszawa come election time and dazzle the nobility with his youthful vigor, that his young age and eagerness to please will make him moldable and pliant, that he will bring the benefits of Habsburg rule while actually being present to do so.
"Hmph. Well, like I said, I trust the judgment of yourself and Prince Sierotka. But understand this," he points a finger at you, "you are not to go over my head on matters of the family again. You may be a man grown and a prince but I am the father of this family – I am your liege lord as much as I am your parent. You shall not do this again, lest I find some way to make life less pleasant for you. I do not take kindly to disloyalty, especially when the outcome is something so risky, something unexpected." Father shakes his head. "It's not like you led some wild charge into battle, unordered, you perhaps have disrupted the entire dance. Now, fix it. I leave it to you, but you ought to begin speaking with important people with haste. I still think you dependable, but you are now indebted, son, and you shall do as I say."
Important people? Like…
[] The clergy, perhaps best represented by the Primate-Archbishop and interrex-to-be, Jakub Uchański.
Surely, they rejoice at the prospect of a Habsburg candidate. That in mind, collaboration must begin at once to form a strong voting bloc. Not to mention, it's hard to argue with the emissaries of God when they say their piece.
[] Representatives of the Crownlander magnates, primarily Senators – the Zborowski brothers, for example.
The swing voters, and a healthful mix of Protestant and Catholic. By coordinating with those inclined to the Habsburgs, or otherwise attempting to convince those sitting the fence, one may find the lordlings in patronage to the greater nobles rallying to the Imperial cause.
[] The reformist lordlings, led by your likely rival, Jan Zamoyski.
Heading into the jaws of the enemy, betting on a minor detail: the fact that it's Maciej, not the Emperor. You can appeal to their striving nature and cynicism, perhaps, by reminding them that a young and experienced ruler beats a Swedish King or Batory prince – someone who could actually call the shots, and not necessarily in the little nobles' favor.
[] The young Albrecht Fryderyk, Duke of Prussia, as well as chief burghers of Gdańsk.
The interests of the Northerners cannot be ignored – the Duke of Prussia stands alongside the all-important, primarily German-speaking trading port of Gdańsk, granted special privileges by Zygmunt August. Protestant lands both, they will need reassurance that Imperial autocracy is not being imported into their homelands, that the privileges of Ducal Prussia be upheld, and that the prospects of expanding the markets and (Prussian) power projection into a reconquered Livonia are too good to pass up.
[] The Ruthenians, perhaps led by Prince Konstanty Wasyl Ostrogski.
Similarly to the Catholic clergy, the Ruthenians at large are likely to fall in line behind a Habsburg candidate in an effort to curb the encroachment of Polish Crownlanders into the lands lost at the Union of Lublin in particular, and into the Grand Duchy in general. Coordinating with the preeminent Prince Ostrogski could solidify a strong, secular bloc of Habsburg supporters, composing the entire Eastern half of the Commonwealth.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
By the way, I can understand our Prince being somewhat informal with his cousin, but calling him "Orphan" all the time to his face might be a little... annoying for him, especially since it comes from him really being one. Imagine yourself in his place, I don't think you would appreciate that. The same goes for Stanisław's father calling him "Prince Sierotka" when speaking with us. It's a nickname, but calling somebody by his nickname all the time is very condescending, if not insulting.
What can I say? The clergy always loved the Habsburgs as staunch Catholics, as well as enemies of heretics and heathens. They will surely support him.
Funnily enough, the Zborowskis were supporters of the Habsburgs, with some other Crownland magnates to boot. Like it says on the tin, some will go along with it, since politics, politics...
I don't believe in this one. Zamoyski was the mastermind behind Bathory's ascension to the throne and was his staunchest supporter. They both cooperated brilliantly and funnily enough, Samuel Zborowski was Bathory's guest in exile, therefore he will most assuredly support him as well.
A lost cause to be fair. Protestant and from the opposite camp when it comes to Imperial politics. We can't promise them nothing they don't have already, with the exception of granting Ducal Prussia full independence, yet no Sejm will ever accept it. Not to mention the fact, they the simply cannot vote in the election, only provide money and support from the shadows.
I can see them supporting the Habsburgs, since the Ruthenians (both rich and poor), unlike other Crownlanders, loved a good scrap and the Turks with their vassals were primary targets. There is also the matter of Lublin but nothing will ever come from it, not without a civil war or facing destruction at the hands of foreign invaders.
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- Location
- United States
Huh. How come I thought it was bestowed upon him by Zygmunt August at a young age, and was kind of just… His epithet, like "Rudy" or "Czarny."
In any case, more formality is probably the right idea.
Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
You are right of course, but he has lost both parents by this point (mother when he was 13, father when 16), therefore he actually is an orphan now.
As for the epithets, the thing is they were used informally, yet probably never to their face, especially by strangers. Can you imagine somebody calling you in court:" Hey Black/Red/Orphan! Get over here!"
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