Fie on Father; you can't believe you're thinking that, but fie on him. It's a violation of the Fifth Commandment, and indeed your hair is cropped near-bald for the offense at the urging of the Friar. But, for once, you reckon you know better: in France and Muscovy alike a foreign dignitary must always bring the wealth and splendor of his homeland with him, lest he appear unimportant, even rude. One cannot appear before the Emperor, a true heir to Caesar, as a half-spy. You make sure to bring along your full complement of servants, heralds, your trusty retinue, as well as Mariana and her companions. Things may be distant with Marszowski and van Gistel – and the latter grumbles about being in Leviathan's belly – but there's always a need for lesser noblemen to cavort about with courtiers, footmen, and bodyguards.
In a frustrating twist, the Zborowscy have retired to their estates – rumor has it to build up a private army. Ever since the exile of Samuel for his fatal duel at the coronation, it's said, they've grown bitter regarding those who supported Walezy, insisting that any red-blooded Polonian would make an exception regarding the law for a man of his stature. At least that army, should it come to it, would likely be on your side.
This leaves just two men of note. You find the first one – the familiar one – in his chambers.
"Cousin!" cries Sierotka at the sight of you, giving a brisk handshake. "So very good to see you again! Your retinue seems to be all packed up for traveling? Shall you be staying here? Oh, that'd be a delight; I've missed you!"
You lower your voice. "Well, that's the thing. My father's assigned me on a mission to the Empire and, I'll just get down to it: we could use a second Radziwiłł prince to add some weight to the delegation."
"Yes." He smiles broadly.
"What?"
"Yes, of course, take me. I'll send word to my estates."
"You… Don't you have…"
"Dear cousin," says Sierotka, "no, I don't have questions. How I have been longing to leave the country! All of Creation out there and I'm trapped at Nieśwież for half the year ever since '65, save for Czaśniki and old Zygmunt's tours. Take me! I'll help any way I can. Especially if it means bringing in a king of the Faith."
"God willing, God willing," you say. It's good to have a member of the family who isn't astray, isn't in jeopardy. You throw your hands up. This is Sierotka, alright. "Then it's done. Can you be ready in five days? And bring everyone you hold dear."
"Of course." He claps his hands. "Oh, this is awfully exciting! Next, I'll head for the Holy Land, walk where the Savior walked!"
Well, that was easy. Someone friendly and of equal rank will surely ingratiate your party to the Austrian court, you reckon.
Next up: "Yes, Your Serene Highness, I am the Prince Janusz Ostrogski, of our own arms." He's scarcely a grown man – perhaps seventeen or eighteen. "How may I serve a brother-Litwin?"
With him, you reckon you ought to be a bit more tentative. "Well, firstly, I'd like to offer my regards to your father, the Prince Konstanty Wasyl, and on behalf of my kinfolk, as well."
"Duly appreciated, Your Serene Highness, I'll be sure to forward your salutations."
"And I know us to be, as you said, sons of the Grand Duchy, sons of the Pogoń, which supersedes our own arms – loyal to our common homeland."
"Indeed, Your Serene Highness," replies Prince Janusz. He squints a little. "You're being quite kind. Something makes me think you're not just here to exchange pleasantries with me."
He's wiser than you were at his age – maybe even more poised, too. "Yes, indeed, you've caught me," you say with a smile. He places a hand on his hip. "Well, as our families are good friends, as our causes are common – for despite the incorporation of your lands into the Crown, that robbery, we are both Lithuanian…"
"Of course, lord prince," he interjects.
"You have spent time in the Empire, I'm told, amongst the Habsburgs. It is time we contact them."
Prince Janusz nods knowingly, but looks upward in contemplation. "You know my father," he says. You nod. "I ought not go over his head on this."
"But it would take weeks to receive a reply, my lord. The time is now!" Though you do, in fact, recall the severity of Konstanty Wasyl.
Janusz purses his lips. "I really shouldn't. But it's not because my heart isn't in it, Your Serene Highness. I will send twenty sworn men with you, to pad out your numbers and to act as my representatives," he says. "They will bear the family seal, and I will write a letter of salutations to all my old associates. You have the family's backing, I just fear what father would say should I overwinter abroad without his say."
At least he's gracious enough to tell you everything he knows – he was last in Vienna a year ago.
"There's the Emperor himself, of course, Maksymilian. Mmm… He's about forty, forty-five. Deeply tolerant man – much more Sarmatian than Spaniard – surrounds himself with men of the highest caliber, regardless of faith. He even provided an Orthodox confessor for me. He values peace and order above all else; he is a man of the law and of the quill, not the sword."
"Then there is his firstborn, Rudolf. Raised up in Spain, and came home when I was about fifteen. A little brooding, certainly melancholic in the blood, but greatly intelligent and eager to show off his… His world to people. He walks his own path, that's for certain. He was always nose-deep in a book. He loves Prague more than his own mother."
"Next, there's the Archduke Ernest – he and Rudolf are thick as thieves; they grew up together, and came back to Vienna at the same time. He's a little stern, a little bit of a stone wall, especially compared to the oddball. Very pious, very much an Archduke's Archduke. Like if someone made his father out of slate, but I cannot deny that he's a stately young fellow."
"Matthias – Maciej. What a hungry young lad, most handsome of the bunch, doesn't have that…" he makes a hand, projecting out from his jaw. "He was raised apart from Rudolf and Ernest and, though younger than I, sees nothing in his older brothers. Hungry-hungry-hungry – he'll do whatever it takes to supersede them. Yet, as a man, he's rather easygoing, keen to see reason and humanity. Like his father in that regard. Between you and I, I felt him to be a bit of a little back-biter."
"As for Maksymilian the younger and little Albrecht – they're still boys, give them a year or three, a battle to fight or a governing position or some such; then I could say more about them. I don't know, they're young fellows, you know, eager to be grown and to strut about, the two of them. You know how it is. There's also Wacław, but he's still in Spain, and is even younger."
You think back to that past self, the self that inhabited France. Indeed, in those days, before the Lord called you to pray and work, work and pray, you were eager to get yourself into a real fight, and to prove yourself on the field of politicking, too. They must be like that. Naive, but ready.
It comes to you. Maybe Janusz is like that, too? "If you wish not to come, then you wish not to come, lord prince," you say, "but you've spoken only of risk, and I worry you haven't thought of reward."
"Oh, no, I understand the gravity of it," Janusz says. He's quiet for a while, then makes a face and exhales. "Allow me to be late, perhaps. Allow me to come before the first snowfall, should my father permit it."
You give a little sigh. "Waste no time, please, sir. We need your German and your insight and your illustrious name."
He smiles and nods. "I'll see, Your Serene Highness, I would certainly hope to join you."
Between the combined entourages of yourself, Sierotka, and Prince Janusz's advance party, the column of men and women leaving Kraków's western gates numbers somewhere in the low hundreds. There's no secret to keep, and you pray that Father will understand your rationale when you meet him next.
Habsburg heralds first met you after leaving the Piast principalities, and informed you that the firstborn Rudolf wished to offer the hospitality of the Bohemian capital to you and yours – they ensured good transit through the countryside and better treatment from the local lords. You accepted graciously, of course, and were greeted with a panorama of towers and spires, and an impressive citadel looming over the city walls.
It takes just shy of three weeks to transit through Silesia and the Moravian hills, bound for Prague, heading through the large market towns of Olomouc, Brno, and Ostrava; even then, in the provinces, the spires of ancient Goths' churches in the former two cities remind you that you are far from home, even if merely next door. Heading through the kingdom's southern highlands, you enjoy the slightly foreign sight of tall, rolling hills – sometimes spiking up into little mountains – alternating between meadowland and broadleaf forest.
Intrigued denizens line the streets and hang out windows as beggars run alongside the column, hands outstretched. You ascend the hill to the city's castle, which seems shining-new and built in the latest styles, straight out of an architecture class back in France. It is only the matter of some hills, but if someone told you you were back in a Paris reborn, you'd have to think on it: the clothing and buildings are only subtly different, though the commoners' language makes it clear that you're still close enough to home. Except this city, unlike the wartime capital of your youth, lacks the gangs of orphans and throngs of half-mad amputees, the haggard half-starved prostitutes and men with hands always resting on pommels. Peace in the West – for now.
It's a beautiful city, yes, but you are here on business. Introductions are called out for yourself and Sierotka. You motion that you'll take the lead. What's gotten into you, eh?
His Apostolic Majesty Rudolf, King of Hungary and Croatia, eldest son of the Emperor, can't be older than you are. He looks stately enough in his black doublet sandwiched between bright white trunk hose and a high-collared ruff, certainly giving off a first impression – everything is threaded and buttoned with gold. You can't tell how tall he is on account of his tall-crowned, bejeweled felt hat. If one squints, he's handsome, but in reality you cannot deny that he's a little odd-looking: his face is well-formed and long, framed well by his ruff and complemented with a solid jaw, yet his ice-blue eyes bulge a bit out of their sockets, and his noticeable underbite makes his little forehead look almost concave in comparison. He addresses you in a confusing soup of French and Latin, with an accent you recognize from Spanish or Italian churchmen. He sounds like one, too, as much as you hate to think so lowly of godly men, but there's that erudite squeakiness to him. "Radzivilius Princeps – Your Serene Highness – I must ask you: have you ever been to this beautiful city? There is magic in this place, true magic."
Magic? As in warlocks and alchemists? You've heard the rumors, and it sounds bad. It's worth making the Cross, then, in a place like this. But, hopefully, he's just being figurative. "I have not had the privilege of visiting before, Your Apostolic Majesty–"
"Oh, please, 'my lord' is fine. Let us take to the streets, then, and breathe it in. Father says I've been stiff as a board since I've been at Escorial, and says a good Austrian must be amiable." he says. "Ah! And, so, here is a gift for you – a wonder of the natural world. Johannes!"
A servant runs up and puts a shiny thing in his hand, which he hands to you. It's mottled dark red and brown, and its sheen seems to be of an oily sort rather than a metallic luster. It's about as long as the palm of your hand, and seems to be dried-out, like a cured meat. You press it to your nose, and it gives off a pungent, earthy smell. "Give it a bite!" says Rudolf, smiling. "But be ready, Your Serene Highness."
"Ready for..?" he gestures to you: go on! And, obviously, you cannot disappoint.
You rip off the end of the thing with your front two teeth and begin to chew, it's fibrous and full of seeds and by God something is happening!
You've had black pepper before, and it's a little intense, but ultimately pleasurable. This is so much more, so much worse – there may well be an open flame in your mouth, like a fire-spitter whose act has gone awry. Your mouth waters and you begin to suck in air as the heat spreads to the roof of your mouth, your cheeks, starting to make its way down your throat. You do your utmost not to spit it out, but forget to chew. "Ah, ah, uh, my lord, sir, what is this?!" You start coughing and cover your mouth.
"It is pepper's older brother, isn't it, lord prince?" He takes it from you, gives it a big bite, turns bright red, and smiles. "Ah! Clears the nostrils, expels the phlegm and puts melancholia at bay! Who needs sal ammoniac? By God, who needs brandy?"
"Yes, ah, certainly, my lord, clearly the stronger son, ah-ah-ah!" A drop of sweat beads down your forehead. "May I–"
"No, water doesn't help," Rudolf says, reading your mind. "In Spain, we called it pimiento. I hope I don't seem cruel. I just… I cannot help but share the things I find wondrous, Your Serene Highness. The Lord put fire in a vegetable; it grows on bushes in the Indies! My alchemists have extracted its oils – that's the source of it."
"Forgive my impertinence, Your Apostolic Majesty," cries Sierotka in Latin, running up and dipping into a bow. "But may I try?"
Rudolf hands him the last of the thing, and Sierotka tucks in without fear. He makes a face. "I regret this." He begins to pant.
Rudolf laughs a loud, high-pitched, grating laugh. "Isn't it something, my lords?"
You continue to sweat slightly, feeling hot in the face. The sensation is hitting your stomach now, making it lurch. "Do… Do show me your city, my lord. I'd like to see the Clock I've heard so much about."
"Indeed, indeed," agrees Sierotka.
"With pleasure, sirs!"
You ride in an open carriage with Rudolf and Sierotka, surrounded on all sides by swearing bodyguards, telling the locals to get back. You had circumvented the city square on your way in, opting instead to approach from the South to better cross the impressive Charles Bridge, which is now brimming with locals to see the approach of the Imperial heir and the mysterious troupe of Easterners. The Clock is indeed impressive, as is the entire square: watched over by a looming Dark Age cathedral, and a smaller sister on the opposite side. The burghers seem particularly rich here.
"I appreciate your willingness to speak to us without attendants," you say, raising your voice over the din of city life.
"Yes, indeed," agrees Sierotka, "let us speak as princes, and not representatives of our peoples, Your Apostolic Majesty."
"Like I said, 'my lord' is more than acceptable," says Rudolf.
You lean in and fold your hands. Sierotka beats you to it: "as you've certainly heard, our French king has fled the country like an utter coward."
Rudolf's gaze flickers between the two of you. "We hoped to acquaint ourselves with yourself, my lord, with your people," you say.
"Right." He keeps looking back and forth. "You last nominated my brother," Rudolf says. "Why me, then? Or why not my father?"
[] "What better to offer a firstborn son than another crown, my lord?"
[] "We have heard of your inquisitive ways, my lord, your openness – you know our land is unlike others."
[] "Unlike your father, we can offer you a queen, a true queen – aged, yes, but who may still be fertile yet."
The rumors are unconfirmed.
[] "Well, it does not have to be you, my lord." Sierotka glances at you.
