Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

Okay, did I have fun with this one? Yes. Is it a little far-fetched? Of course. And I'm sorry if this was immersion-breaking.

But one must recall:

Mass psychogenic illness is no strange thing in premodern times. A combination of religiosity, suggestibility, and (by modern standards) extreme emotional trauma can make people see and hear things that aren't there – I'm a firm believer of this. You can write it off to a prank, or a voice down the hall, and those all make sense. But anybody who's been exposed to something as mundane as a ouija board or tarot reading, or perhaps something more extreme like ecstatic religious experiences, occult rituals, miracle-working etc., will understand that, when framed properly, the unreal may suddenly seem very, very believable – and that you might feel it or see it yourself. Note that Sierotka never heard anything, exactly what was heard is never cross-referenced, and that Rudolf himself implies that he struggles with mental illness, to use today's terms (he did! And his son most certainly died of decompensated schizophrenia).

There are a few really fun books you can look into regarding people going bonkers in Early Modern Europe. A personal favorite is Possession at Loudun by Michel de Certeau, a Jesuit priest, psychoanalyst, and postmodern philosopher, who posited that the namesake psychic attacks upon Carmelite nuns at Loudun in the 1630s France were a composite experience based upon the following:

• Outright lies alongside coercion and suggestions during interrogation = you're in a heightened state by being so close to the "diabolic," and someone hearing something makes you hear it, too.
• Mental illness including PTSD, sleep paralysis, vivid nightmares, etc. – the nuns had endured some six months of isolation during a plague that killed half the town = you've kind of been through hell and back over the past two years, you're deeply religious, and probably weren't sleeping great after weeks on the road.
• The desire for a social "pressure valve," a means to speak about the unspeakable. Namely, in the case of Loudun: sex, the Devil, and the battle between the rising tide of empiricism and religious dogma = you're in a very cutting-edge room, full of controversial, cutting-edge things, it's likely windowless, candlelit, and all in all very spooky.

Another fun one is Anna Zieglerin and the Lion's Blood by Tara Nummedal, about the titular Anna Zieglerin, a rare female alchemist who was stricken with prophetic dreams. She eventually grew to understand herself to be something of a Protestant Virgin Mary, and concocted the Lion's Blood, a substance meant to fulfill everything an alchemist could dream of and, most importantly, become a lynchpin in the End of Days. And people really thought she was for real, and I'm of the opinion that she didn't think she was pulling a scam – I think she seriously thought all of this stuff, playing mental gymnastics whenever things didn't work out, like any good cult member or even leader. And she's your direct contemporary, active a few hundred miles to the north, with a meteoric career lasting 1572-5 and culminating in public execution.

So, yeah!

 

[Rolman]

It feels wrong, it is wrong, but the Jews in your homeland aren't so bad, nor do they keep magic knowledge hidden, as far you're aware. They mainly just keep inns and brew beer. Perhaps there's more to the story. "What… What do they know?"

"That the Devil is God and God is the Devil, for did all of Creation not emanate from Him? Man allows the Devil to seep up from Hell through deeds and foul words; Satan is a force, not a man! That is how there can be magic both white and black! The ninety-first Psalm: he who abides in the secret place of the Most High…"

Sierotka makes the Cross. "By Saint John, what are you talking about? And what did you two hear?!"

You try to tell him. "I– I heard it say--" Rudolf's ranting makes it difficult for you to get a word in.

"...The higher orders of the soul emanate from the Crown; they descend in threes into mind, mentality, and body, until we reach the Earth on which we trod, the sum of God's equation!" he taps on the three circles below the highest one. "Wisdom leads to Understanding leads to Knowledge – a holy idea is formed in that order, seed-sapling-tree, for the world is dominated by trinities! Even the Jews know of trinities, and the power in them! In their misguidedness they found the Lord!"

"I truly do not understand," says Sierotka, shaken.

"No! No! Damn it, I am not making myself clear! Crown – the Holy Spirit, the Everything! Wisdom – the Father! Understanding – Mother Maria! Knowledge – the Son!"

"My lord!" you finally manage to choke out, too confused and terrified to be offended at the bizarre heathenry he's spewing. "Indeed, the rabbis must be keeping great secrets from Christian minds, but: how will this help with the demon in your wunderkammer?"

Rudolf lets his parchment drop to the floor. "That this demon has been let in by our fear, by weaknesses in our senses of Victory and Surrender, those two forms of faith which form the Foundation of our beings!"

He squints. "Either that, or some warlock has spilled his seed in a most foul way to create a homunculus, and he was speaking through it to undermine our faith. Perhaps it was hiding – GUARDS!" he yells much too loud to his bewildered bodyguards, who have also been Crossing themselves and shifting from foot to foot some distance down the hall. "Sweep that chamber! There is only one egress; if it be material, it'll be in there still!"

A few brave ones step forward, muttering prayers, and enter the room with swords drawn and rosaries pulled out from under ruffs. Some breathless moments pass. "Nichts, Euer Apostolische Majestät!" Even with your limited German, you can follow that bit.

Rudolf says a few words in rapid German, answered quickly by the men within – these you could not catch – and turns to you and Sierotka, speaking Latin again. "We are safe for now, gentlemen. Whatever it was has escaped or subsided." He looks down at his diagram, and picks it up. "Forgive me, my lords, I can get so passionate when confronted with the Beyond. Really, though, you all must learn of Cabala and the secrets of the ancient rabbis."

Sierotka laughs nervously. "Perhaps… perhaps over dinner, then, my lord? The hour, eh…"

"Yes, yes, you're right!" he says, firing back his own string of giggles. "We must settle our nerves after this with food and drink and good company. The kammer and this entire hall will be sprinkled with holy water, I assure you."

Alright, so perhaps he may be a little mad. Or just, well, Prince Janusz did say he's got his own world, so maybe he's just very carefree in showing it. After all, you experienced what he calls the Beyond when you were dying of flux in the lungs, aboard that ship, just before the Sound Tolls. Has it already been two years? Nevermind that, this is the King of Hungary we're talking about, and one with no reason to be receiving visitations! You feel that he shook off the encounter with the Devil, or the voice of the encased imp – whatever it was – with a bit too much ease.

Rudolf's also gotten rather drunk. Every time he says something odd, like wanting to create a golem or finding an alchemist to make him an elixir of youth, you make eye contact with the equally-perplexed Mariana and Sierotka. Meanwhile, at the table for courtiers and lordlings, Sir Marszowski laughs loudly and occasionally hoots something inaudible in what sounds like broken German. He has to have gone through at least a bottle of wine all by his lonesome! You hate to see such a good man live so badly. But he seems to be having fun – which makes it feels worse; you try your best not to fixate on Hell.

Rudolf says something about the stars aiding digestion this night. The local Bohemian lords agree a bit too enthusiastically.

But the man is certainly a fine host! His Italian cook must be sweating buckets back there. You've been fed, amongst other things: some of the finest wines of Burgundy (you allowed yourself just two goblets), capon and whey cheese dumplings fortified with marrow and liberally spiced with cloves and cinnamon, gingered beef filets in slow-cooked prunes and cherries, dainty little fried balls of chickpea flour and chestnuts, an exhibition of exotic pommes de terre prepared fried, baked, and boiled and, to finish, an extravagantly buttery pie of dates and almonds, sprinkled with rosewater. The Sin in this will have to be addressed, for you could not help yourself – you're positively bloated. You lift your cap and scratch at your freshly-cropped hair.

You're leaning back in your seat, hand on your belly, trying to get your mind off Satan, as the Imperial firstborn requests stranger and stranger-sounding songs. "This next one is of the Friulian Alps!" he cries out in Latin, from the head of the feasting table. "A peasant song just recently notated! I give you Schiarazula Marazula!"

This… This is music. It is most certainly music, that much cannot be denied. You can't help but think of Death – a woodcut's Death, not the Reaping Angel proper, of course – dancing about to it. Very, very strange. You look to Mariana; she sucks in her lips. Things are more formal now, and you address Rudolf with obligatory deference, taking care to not 'my lord' him, no matter what he wants in private. "Such new music it is, Your Apostolic Majesty, that people will have to develop a taste for it as they will for your pimientos – but as always, exquisite and exciting, a vision of what is to come!" Hopefully that came off the right way.

"Hihi! It is never good enough to be a man of the present, says I," boasts Rudolf, "no, a man of the future one must be! If I'm not understood now, then I shall be someday."

"I think we in Polonia understand that," says Sierotka, nodding, willing to forego the homeland's name. "Praise be to God for Your Apostolic Majesty's sharing of the ideas of tolerance and reasonability, and praise God that His Imperial Majesty is the same; for even if we must abide by those in rebellion against God and the Holy Church in our midst, we shall never sully our hands with the Sin of murder." Your dear cousin is showing his serious side! Those within earshot applaud him – and you reckon some of them must be Hussites no less.

"Hear-hear! That is the truth," agrees Rudolf, "for to turn on each other would be to turn on the World, on God Himself. We must all live as brothers, cultivating faith and power of soul!" See, out of the blue he'll say something promising, in the midst of his ramblings or, in this case, filtered through them. The feast passes with still more of these glimmers amidst the gravel of his talk of surreal Netherlandish painters, memento mori woodblocks, and the sayings of rabbis and alchemists. You sit back and bite your tongue.

He must've noticed your silence. "Ah! My good lord prince, I do recall that you spent time in France as a young lad, and that you and I are just about the same age." He looks around at the feasters, listening intently; they shift their gazes to you. You feel an internal curling. "Tell me, did you ever cross paths with that soothsayer Michael Nostradamus? He arranged a horoscope for me when I was about ten or twelve."

[] "I'm afraid I never had the pleasure."

You'd heard of him, of course – no man at court in France in those days hadn't, for he was a friend of the Queen Mother – but by the time you arrived in the country he was very sick, nearly dead, and so you never crossed paths with the so-called prophet.

[] "Indeed I did, Your Apostolic Majesty."

It was during his last year of life, when the court was itinerant, surveying the terrible damage of the first War. He was wracked with terrible, terrible gout, swollen with dropsy and oozing pus through his many bandages. You couldn't have been older than fourteen, fifteen. He took one look at you, determined you were born under the Crab, and told you to clutch the Cross close and your woman, too. Would that be Mariana or Maria?

[ ] "I'm afraid I never had the pleasure." [lie]

This is the type of man who likes to hear himself talk, you reckon. So let him!

[] "I, ehm, I try to steer clear of that sort of thing, Your Apostolic Majesty."

Heresy and lunacy.

 

[Rolman]

You're reluctant to stray so close to the heretical, but you're also reluctant to lie – you've tried to forget about that Michel de Nostradame. "Indeed I did, Your Apostolic Majesty."

"Well, tell us what you thought of him, lord prince!"

He either doesn't see or doesn't care that you're a man of faith. But, someone of his stature must be entertained. "I must have been about fourteen. He was… Very ill when I met him. Dying, even, of the gout and of dropsy. Swollen and red all over, covered in foul-smelling bandages; he could hardly see because his eyes were all puffed up, like a man beaten about the head."

Rudolf chuckles. "We are eating, sir!" His cronies burst out laughing.

"Well, he said," you do your impression of the prophet, a gravelly yet nasal voice, "he said – 'Radzivilius Princeps, let me touch your face,' and, so, I let him, and then he took my pulse." Rudolf leans forward a little in his seat. You have always tried to not think on whatever sorcery it was that allowed him to say what he did next. "And he determined straight away that I was born under Cancer. He said: 'lord prince, you're more full of water than I am! Much phlegm and blood in you – passion and surrender, service and desire, you shall walk atop a tightrope as an acrobat. And you shall learn through falling.'"

Rudolf nods and grins widely. "I was born on the eighteenth of July – I too live under the sign of the Crab! Old Nostradamus noted the dominance of Mercury over me; perhaps it explains my… Constant excitement!" he laughs. "Though Saturn is the cause of my melancholia."

You'll play the game, may the Lord have mercy on you. How you hate this quasi-witchcraft, even when it's… Eerily accurate. "And I, funnily enough, am ruled by Mars under the Lion's gaze – Nostradamus never asked of that–"

"Ah-ha! But you seem not to be a hot-spur!"

"Heh, well, that's the thing: perhaps I try and keep it in check. My confessor is a Benedictine," you explain, "and a good man who's taught me much of restraint, lest I take to drink and dice-throwing and a suicidal love of battle."

Rudolf looks perplexed. "Well, I suppose that too demonstrates a conscience, a passion, as he said. When were you born, lord prince?"

"The twenty-seventh of June, in the 1,551st year of Our Lord, Your Apostolic Majesty."

He wears an expression of clearly mock horror upon his face, but his tone sounds sincere, even serious: "I am but a year your junior! And I am of the opinion that this is the springtime of life, sir! This is the time to let the choleric humor run wild and free, should a man possess it in him! Let oneself be cooled by the time he's, say, thirty."

"Well, it was killing me," you say, glancing down the table at Mariana. "That was not everything that Nostradamus told me, though, the most important part was this: 'hold the Cross close, and your woman, too.' For in those days I was freshly-Catholic, formerly a Calvinist." Mariana raises her eyebrows at you and looks a little thoughtful.

Rudolf lets out his laugh and looks to Mariana. "What do you think of that, my lady?"

"Forgive my poor Latin," she begins, "jak tse skazati… Fidelity! Fidelity to God and to one's wife alike is a very beautiful thing." Her eye contact with you flickers: she doesn't quite know what to say, or maybe just doesn't have the words. "Unless that woman spoken of is the Blessed Mother."

Is that… Is that pointed? "Indeed, I knew not what to think of it – perhaps I took it both ways," you chuckle, trying to conceal a rising nervousness.

"Your wife speaks Latin very well! Oh, certainly he means the princess," says Rudolf to Mariana, staying jovial. "For the love of Mother Maria is eternal, and never runs dry – but a man may run afoul of his wife with ease!" The table laughs.

"He does indeed hold the Cross close to him, praise God, for even if I belong to the Orthodox creed, piety is piety, and the Lord will be pleased," she says. There's something in the way she says this, though, that feels not so kind. You're not sure if others can see it, but you certainly can – never has she praised you to your face for your faithfulness.

Rumination dominated the rest of the feast.

You and Mariana haven't shared a chamber in weeks. Life on the road and lodging in foreign castles leads to an even starker separation of the sexes, and she's in a wholly separate wing of Prague's castle from you. You used a maid as a go-between, and at last the two of you meet in the wee hours of the morning, away from prying eyes, in a servant's corridor.

She's in her court dress, in her headscarf but without a cap, but her hair's down and spills out of it; she looks a bit bleary. "It's late, Stanisław," she says in a hushed voice, speaking her mother tongue. "Is something wrong?"

You're not angry, per se, but… "Should I be asking you that? You mocked my faith."

"I didn't mock anything," she says, betraying nothing on her face. "Touchy-touchy. You must recall that there is no purgatorium in my creed and, so, well…"

"What?"

"You had your head shaved – yet again – for making a decision you felt was right." Now she's starting to burn a little.

"I disobeyed my father by coming here with so many, with such pomp; it was only right, Mariana!" You struggle for words. "It's… It's not a good thing that I did this, I just couldn't sit by or–"

"And when was the last time you gave alms?" she asks. She waits for an answer. "How about having a church built? You could have filled Orsza up with missionaries if you wished, and instead you worried about what you ate, whether you tended to your garden of Saint Benedict." Your face is getting hot, and you say a little prayer in your head for calm. "You are godly enough within, Stanisław. I saw that in you, as did my father, glory to Christ. I was fond of you the moment I laid eyes on you, and I think that to be God's guidance."

"You don't understand–"

"I don't? I was there for everything when you came apart. When you–"

"I know what I did. I know what I did. Vomiting at the table. Gambling with those burghers. The way I'd ride from Wilno to Dubinki and back for no point besides having some of the Jews' Warka-style, drinking beer like a serf."

"This pity! Such pity! Bring the inside outside!" Mariana implores. She never truly gets angry with you, it feels, but this is the closest it'll get. "I don't know the man who married me anymore." Such a despairing thing to say, and yet, somehow, you detect not a trace of it.

"I didn't– I didn't call on you for this, to hear my own wife speak down to me!"

"What is it, then?" she snaps. "What is it? Do you need something from me? You need me when you need not God these days, it seems." She shakes her head. "I'll be back to my chambers–"

"It's important."

"What is it?"

You almost tell her you love her; it almost spills out, like an overfilled pitcher. You're not even sure if you truly do or not. But you do need her. It's hard to tell the difference, perhaps. "Rudolf. You've been speaking with the ladies – do they know anything?"

"You're a lucky man that I'm loyal to family and homeland," she pokes your chest, somehow able to half-joke through this. "He's a bit of a dog, as it turns out. There's much sleeping about; everybody says he's generous, kind-hearted, a good lover – yet not a serious man at all."

"But you never heard anything of him wanting our throne?"

"No. It's only been a few days, hasn't it?"

"Hmmm…" You look down in thought.

[] "...I've got to get him to say something."

Try to get Rudolf alone to determine whether he's properly interested or not.

[] "...We can't keep the Emperor waiting."

We must depart for Vienna within a few days, lest we lose our momentum.

 

[Rolman]

"…We can't keep the Emperor waiting," you decide.

"Yes, yes," says Mariana, sounding terse, "I think that's a good idea."

"And I don't want to speak on matters of God anymore."

"Well…" Her head bobbles in the pre-dawn shadow. "Well, you can't stop me!" she spits it out. "You're obsessed, Stanisław! Blinded!" She's quiet for a moment, and for some reason you cannot come up with a retort. Perhaps you're just waiting – or a little shocked. "You know my favorite Book is the Ephesian Epistle: 'by grace have you been saved by faith, not by your own doing; it is a gift of God!' Now, I'm no Protestant but–"

"But what?"

Mariana speaks as if she's saying one long word. "Letting a common friar tell you when to cut your hair and why and calling it penance is not faith or obedience to God! He's a sinner, too!" That's… Well, now. "But the Book… The Book is unerring, each word inspired by the Spirit and the Spirit alone, not some monastery's doctrine! And you are no monk. You've heard the jokes about monks. And there's always the Savior and the Pharisees."

Yes, you have heard that blasphemy, that disrespect. How they've got wives and children, grow fat on beer and cheese of their own making and– well, they are out there. No, no. No-no-no... But, as Saint Paul said, a little yeast works through all the dough – as does mold. And, now, you find yourself unspeaking, mouth a little open.

"Well?" asks Mariana. You're not even sure if you're angry anymore. The Friar is a sinner, too, it cannot be denied – and you feel like a fool for finally realizing it, to see him taken off his pedestal, to feel as if you've made a saint of him before you did even Benedict. "I'll be off to my chambers." And she turns and walks away. You're left behind now, only a little moonbeam through a narrow window keeping you company.

You try not to think about it, try to busy your mind with the preparations of leaving for Vienna. You cannot sleep. But her words are pulling on some sort of fabric by its frayed edges, thread by thread, and you wonder if speaking to the Friar on this matter is a good idea. As the porters and servants begin their work at dawn, you watch the sun rise, and give thanks to God for its beauty. You begin to leaf through your pocket Bible, recalling the Books after Matthew, feeling as if you found yourself too deep in the ancient Psalms.

For the first time in months – perhaps even a year or so – you lapse in going to Confession, but hear Mass twice before leaving Prague after five days of preparation.

"My father's a good man," says Rudolf, surrounded by his people to send you off. You can hear crowds already clamoring beyond the castle gates. "They say I take after him, though he doesn't share my particular interests. He will treat you all most graciously and gracefully, that I promise."

And may he be right; it was only about a week and a half to overcome the southern foothills of Bohemia, opening up into the plains that define the road to Vienna.

You're a bit shocked to find the Habsburg seat may, at least from how it looks, be only half the size of Prague. To be sure, though, once one enters through the city gates, he would be none the wiser. That familiar cacophony of animals and men, the rustling of domestic life filtering through open or glassless windows, the smell of sweat and shit hanging in the air – this is no mere town.

And the Hofburg, too, is a rather modest castle, though construction seems to span out of its wings in all directions. Your stomach begins to flutter and flip as you're ushered into the throne room.

You expected a man made of gold, shining and in full regalia, scepter in hand, the heir to the Caesars of Rome and of Constantinople, showing the riches and glory of one of the most powerful men in all of Christendom. Instead, as you approach the throne briskly, you see a middle-aged, goateed man that looks more like a banker or wealthy guildmaster: he wears a flat black feathered cap, a modest gold-buttoned doublet of matching color, and a fine fur coat. Rudolf was dressed more richly than he.

"I present to His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of the Romans, King of the Germans and of Bohemia, Archduke of Austria," booms the herald in Latin, loud-voiced indeed, "His Serene Highness the Imperial Prince of Dubincum and Birsanum, and His Serene Highness the Imperial Prince of Nesvisium and Gonionds."

You and Sierotka bow deeply and in unison. "Rise, Princes of the Empire, Eastern brothers," says the man, clear-voiced yet without the near-smugness held by the likes of the Frenchman or his late brother, the King. His Latin is thoroughly German-accented, unlike his son, who one could mistake for an Italian churchman. And still the man brings a presence, even in his modest garb. "We are most pleased to receive you both as dignitaries of Lithuania and Polonia and members of the Diet; what may we do to satisfy the reasons for your coming?"

He places his hand on his chin. In the corner of your eye, you see Sierotka look to you.

"Your Imperial Majesty, we have come before you with an offer."

"And what may that be?"

Surely, he must know – any fool with some knowledge of the Commonwealth could figure it out.

But you know you must mind your wording.

"Your Imperial Majesty, our throne lies vacant once more," says Sierotka, beating you to the punch. "And we find it to be in the interest of our country to find a candidate amongst your people, should God will it so."

"The interest of your country?" asks the Emperor, sounding almost puzzled. "Just two years ago our son was offered up to your throne – and the French Prince was picked instead. And decisively, too, we are told."

It is not ideal to do this publicly, but clearly the man wants you to get straight to business.

[] "All Lithuania backs the House of Habsburg, Your Imperial Majesty, and some of the Polonians, too."

Leave things open.

[] "But an election of His Imperial Majesty himself may not be so easily denied."

Stake your claim, and hope for strength to arise from it when the time comes.

[] "Things are indeed complicated – the Infanta Anna is the key to the throne, and the sons of Your Imperial Majesty are yet unwed.

Laying the groundwork for what could be a compromise back home.

 

[Rolman]

"All Lithuania backs the House of Habsburg, Your Imperial Majesty, and some of the Polonians, too."

That's not a lie, but there won't be enough Crownlanders. Not at the moment, at least. "That is but one half of your country, lord prince," replies the Emperor – he knows it. "And we are told that it is the smaller one, with fewer cities and many marshes." And that's not a lie, either. "Furthermore, we understand that your elections must be resolved with unanimity, and that any one man may make a stand against something he does not want."

Another truth, which Sierotka acknowledges. "But such obstructionists are often forced into assent, by word or by sword-point." Maybe that's too honest.

"We do indeed always find a way, Your Imperial Majesty," you chuckle, half-nervous, glancing at your loose-lipped cousin. Now for some flattery. "Your Imperial Majesty knows well how to deal with free vassals, the rule of consensus, the convention of councils and the management of the estates."

The elections here are more or less shams; everyone knows that. The Emperor sits still upon his throne.

"Perhaps we do. What did our son, King Rudolf, say about these matters?"

You and Sierotka look at each other. Your cousin speaks for you: "he… He did not say anything one way or another, Your Imperial Majesty. But he treated us most graciously and gracefully, showing us all the fineries of glorious Prague!" There isn't an ounce of insincerity to that; as little as you truly know cousin Sierotka, he is a man who does not and cannot sit still – he's been beaming for the entirety of the mission. Nearly every day he sighs and says: smell that foreign air!

"We are most pleased to hear that," replies the Emperor. "He is not one to make decisions hastily, and he is right to speak to his father on these matters first. We hope that was no cause for frustration."

You shake your head. "Of course not, Your Imperial Majesty."

"May our son, the Archduke Ernest, please step forward."

From the semi-circle of courtiers taking in the scene – such is the nature of public proceedings that you barely even took note of them – comes forth a near-copy of his brother, brown-eyed and skinny-faced in such a way so as to accentuate the familial underbite even further, jutting through his beard. He looks you and Sierotka over, before bowing deeply to his father. "How may I serve Your Imperial Majesty?" he asks in Latin, a Spanish or perhaps Italian accent like that of Rudolf.

A conversation in German is initiated, making you glance at Sierotka with some worry. The Emperor makes a motion like he's throwing a ball underhand and Ernest turns to you and places a hand on his hip. "I shall be addressed as 'Your Royal Highness:' do not mistake the dux in my title for needing some other styling. My father, His Imperial Majesty, wonders aloud as to why my prior bid for your homeland's throne failed."

"Our Protestants fear a good Catholic king, Your Royal Highness, despite articles guaranteeing their rights – the rest fear a war with the Turk," blurts out Sierotka. Too much candor? You're not sure.

"And, so… Why will this not happen again? A defeat, that is. Why bother trying once more?"

Sierotka continues: "Our Grand Duchy is encroached upon further by men of the Polish Crown with each passing day – we in Lithuania are, well, we are desperate."

Ernest throws up a hand. "Desperate enough to…"

The Emperor clears his throat, and his son looks to him. "We shall keep silent on matters of war and faith, for the time being; after our porters help the lord princes and their entourage settle in, and after dinner is served, we shall request a private audience with both of you. There we may speak more freely."

"We are eager, Your Imperial Majesty," says Sierotka with a bow.

"Indeed, Your Imperial Majesty," you add, joining your cousin by dipping low.

The feast is rather breathless, therefore – you can't even remember what the fare was! It was difficult to stir up an appetite. You miss your wife, who seems to be trying and failing to befriend the Empress' straight-backed and powder-faced Spanish ladies-in-waiting. She smiles, they don't, and yet Mariana refuses to steal some glances at you. You need the Friar. You do, don't you? Such doubt since that night in Prague. But God must always be honored, and the Habsburgs may provide that; the heretics must return into the fold. Peacefully, peacefully. The Prince Janusz Ostrogski – may he arrive someday, if at all – said that only Ernest is a man of proper faith from among the entire crop of Habsburgs. But things are handled differently in this part of the world. After all, it took much bloody war for cuius regio to be brought into the world.

A red-pink dusk of early autumn is settling over Vienna as you and Sierotka are ushered into the Emperor's quarters. He sits, rather unstately, at the foot of his bed, hat removed to reveal a near-bald head. "How stiff we must be before the court. We desire real answers now."

"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty," you and Sierotka reply with deference.

"Firstly, we imagine a world where your churchmen – for we are told one of the Archbishops presides over the throne in times of interregnum – move to declare one of our family king. But some of your nobles oppose it – then what? We must know if an army should ever be committed to guarantee our claim."

The prospect of securing the throne at pike-point makes your stomach drop. Sierotka says nothing; you must speak for all Lithuania. "We… We cannot guarantee that any of our people could or would support such an endeavor, Your Imperial Majesty."

"Revolt is one thing, but invasion… Your Imperial Majesty…" Sierotka places a hand to his chin. "Revolt is an enshrined right of our Commonwealth."

The Emperor's eyes dart between the two of you. "Then you mean to say that Lithuania would stand against Polonia in our favor?"

"That would be devastating," you say, barely able to stay composed. "The Muscovites would set themselves upon us like wolves, and the Tatars, too."

"So, no, then," nods the Emperor. "Very well. And your land's… quilt of religion – it is something we have dealt with before." He pokes himself in the chest. "Me?" A little jolt passes through you as he drops his Imperial countenance, as he speaks as a man. "Me, I could give a fig about matters of religion; I only care if someone kills or dies for it – look at France. If heretics wish to condemn themselves, let them do so in peace, and let them leave true Christians alone in kind." He smiles. "Mass is a bore anyways."

He clears his throat and goes on. "Ernst would be too faithful, though the Lord knows he is most willing, and Rudolf is my– our– firstborn. It comes down to either ourself or young Matthias. That boy is as flexible as a birch-strip; he's the third son, so, you understand, he shall take what he can get." Yes, maybe. A past you understood, a fellow third son, but that was before God gave you everything you'd ever need. The Emperor rises from the foot of his bed. "If we commit to this bid, we shall commit wholeheartedly – we leave the task of selection to you two delegates, for we shall play this game to win. We want whatever suits your realm best."

"May I…" Sierotka sounds tentative. "May I ask why such resolve, Your Imperial Majesty?"

"Because your realm produces enough grain to feed the Empire twice over, because your country's horsemen are fiercer than a Mameluke. Hungary must be defended and Transylvania brought to heel. And in exchange, my lords: your Tatars shall be driven back into Asia, and will the Swede and Muscovite not bow before Polonia, master of the East Sea? Will the riches of our coffers, the favorable loans of our bankers, not be offered up to the loyal ones?" He smiles. "You are dangling quite the prize before our nose, lord princes."

"We are glad that you know how hard-won it would be, Your Imperial Majesty," says Sierotka.

The Emperor looks to you. "You have been quiet, lord prince."

"With God on our side, anything is possible," you say, unable to find anything better. It's good that Sierotka is willing to be the bold one this time around.

"Perhaps that is the case," says the Emperor. He sighs. "Though you know we would have to rule by intermediaries, dividing our time between Vienna and Cracovia. We shall think more on this – and so shall you. God does not truly decide the winners of things, may He forgive me for saying such." Yes, may He. "Wise men triumph, well-advised men. You two may go. Consider ourselves to be properly interested."

Very good. Probably. You retire to your chambers without talking things over with Sierotka – the Emperor was plain-spoken enough.

And there's a knock on the door. You open it to find a very young man, with hair the color of sand and a sparse, rather unflattering suggestion of a mustache adorning his face. He is tall but rather gangly, perhaps not even fully grown – indeed, you are looking at a lad of perhaps sixteen or seventeen, you reckon. His resemblance to Rudolf is noticeable, with his tall forehead and prominent eyes. This fellow is properly handsome, though, with plenty of lithe jawbone but none of that chin. This must be…

"I am the Archduke Matthias," he says in Northern-accented French, with a voice only half-deepened by age. "And I am here of my own volition."

Your mind rushes to recall that out-of-practice tongue. "What– how– and what may I do for you, Your Royal Highness?"

He lets himself in; you retreat into the center of the chamber, slightly stunned. "I first must request your styling, my lord, for Octavianus knew that to properly lead one must be primus inter pares, and I as a prince look upon a prince and wish to speak to him as one."

"I am 'Your Serene Highness,' Your Royal Highness."

"Well then, Your Serene Highness, my father the Emperor has just informed me that I may, perhaps, stand as candidate for your august countries' thrones." He doesn't break eye contact, not even for a moment. "And I would be honored if your delegation found me to be the right man." Young man.

You can't contain some curiosity. "Your Royal Highness speaks French very well – and is the first of his people to do so."

He laughs. "I was tutored by a learned old Picard Fleming; he taught me much of Augustus from his travels in Turkey, where they keep such knowledge to themselves at Angora and Constantinople." He stiffens up once more, and regains that steely look in his eye. "The Turks are no barbarians. Did you know their Sultan considers himself the heir to Rome? And, indeed, they have done their reading, hence why they are so fearsome. But so have I."

You blink. Prince Janusz wasn't lying when he said that this boy is hungry. Matthias continues: "I believe in law and tradition and the land, as Caesar did. Peace by any means necessary. I will bring peace to your lands, God as my witness, within and without. There is nothing for me in this land, nothing more than governorships or perhaps even a bishopric. What would I commit myself to but the well-being of your people?"

Did Augustus not lord over his Senate? "Your Royal Highness desires a life anew, then?"

"Indeed, and it matters not who I must marry or what I must offer up to Your Serene Highness' realm. I believe in respect, in honor and good conduct between noblemen. I have chosen the motto: concordia lumine maior. Your Protestants will see themselves honored as the Holy Church is uplifted, I will balance the scales – to your people's estates I will listen and obey, and in the same breath I shall reconstitute the ecclesiastical courts, spread the Faith by peaceable means."

This is practiced. It must be. As much as this speech is making your heart stir some, it seems tailor-made, suspiciously so. His voice is too clear, his words too well-chosen. The Emperor's apathy regarding religion was honest, nonchalant, even, as he broke the royal we, but this boy contradicts himself. How can one truly strengthen the Church without undermining the Protestants? He must know you are a Catholic, and a faithful one, too.

You raise a hand. "Your Royal Highness, how do you intend to do all this? You know our kingship is a willfully hobbled one, for our freedom comes before anything."

His face flickers; he stutters just a bit. "By– because I shall live as a Polonian, change my dress, my manners, my language. In me you will find a native son in due time."

That's still not an answer… "But how, Your Royal Highness?" It's against your nature to push a man like this, but his bluster irks you.

He throws his hands up and seems nearly upset. "Did Augustus know how he would overcome Egypt, how he would defeat Brutus and Cassius? No. But he knew how to play the field."

Well, do you? "I will lay down everything for your glorious sister-nations," says Matthias. "I will make myself well-advised – and that means Your Serene Highness and his cousin, too."

You'd mistake him for a dairyman, what with all this butter. But there is a fire in his eyes; the passion of Rudolf combined with the haughtiness of Ernest, as little as you know of the latter. This Matthias is just as likely to be a windbag as he is a truly strong youth. Or a tyrant-to-be. You cock your head.

"Perhaps I have said too much, Your Serene Highness?" There are those nerves betraying him again. He is mighty easy to read.

"Well, I am certainly provided with much food for thought," you say, trying not to show your hand. "But it is not a good thing to speak hastily, without the presence of my cousin."

"I shall… I shall take my leave then," says Matthias, stepping onto his back foot. He thought this would be easier? "But know this: I wish greatly to speak before your Senate, your assembled estates – I desire to visit those lands and see their marvels ."

"Very good, Your Royal Highness. Till we meet again."

He nods.

The next day, you find safety in the Polish language to at last speak freely to Sierotka. You and he mull over the meeting with the Emperor, and you recount your meeting with Matthias.

You conclude:

[] "Maciej is full of bluster, but he may be useful."

Think of it: a boy-king, impressionable and ambitious and far from home. Provided that the right advisors are kept in his ear, he could be a great friend to the Lithuanian and Radziwiłł cause. But who knows how he may mature. That Caesar talk is a bit worrying – if he turns out to be competent, that is.

[] "Maciej is most impressive, even if he's a bit… A bit loud."

He's certainly more poised than you at his age – speaking at Meaux was your greatest achievement in those days, not approaching foreign dignitaries to offer up a bid for the throne. He may be nurtured into a true Polonian king, and a bridge between the Empire and the East. But one must be careful to ensure he turns out that way, perhaps.

[] "Maciej is full of bluster; it's the Emperor himself who we need."

Although that would definitively make the Empire and Austria's problems the problems of the Commonwealth, the prize of an Emperor-King is too rich to pass up. The aid of his countrymen would prove invaluable – assisting against the Turk would surely see Imperial troops committed to Livonia, you hope – and the inroads that could be made with the West invaluable for the realm in general and your people in particular. Imagine the reward that would be an Imperial marriage into the Radziwiłłowie! Not to mention the character of the Emperor: level-headed, religiously tolerant, and aware of the weight of the Commonwealth – his duties he would certainly not take lightly. But he himself mentioned that he would be splitting his time, and what man would truly give up his homeland in favor of a foreign throne (Maciej doesn't count).

 

[Sertorius]

[X] "Maciej is full of bluster, but he may be useful."

"Perhaps that is the case," says the Emperor. He sighs. "Though you know we would have to rule by intermediaries, dividing our time between Vienna and Cracovia.

Click to shrink...

I have to mention, that the King cannot move about as he sees fit. Sure, he may travel around the country, but to go abroad he needs the consent of the Sejm (commanding while on campaign is an obvious exception of course). That means, that the Emperor would have to ask for permission each time to go to Vienna and I don't think he'd like the idea. Plus, it would be much easier to sell to the nobles the idea of a young malleable King that's always in place, rather than somebody who's a monarch only on weekends.

 

[Rolman]

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?

 

[Rolman]

"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.

 

[Rolman]

Frost falls early this year. The days become shorter, and the burden falls upon your shoulders, now fur-cloaked, to bring a foreigner into the arms of the Commonwealth.

It is a lonely winter. Marszowski cowed into quiet, Mariana tight-lipped, your brothers running about Lithuania; Krzysztof fighting Tatars in the South, Septimus politicking amongst the Ruthenians — even Sierotka has returned to his estates. You're effectively alone in the Crownlands, your retinue and wife and her ladies all about and, yet, alone. Father is around, of course, but not in much of a speaking mood, rather holding a miniature court in his wing of Wawel. You reckon that those who you talk to go to him straight after.

As for the Friar… Well, you're not sure what to make of the Friar anymore. Do you still Confess as much as you used to?

[] Yes.

[] Yes, but you're beginning to mind your faith.

[] No.

[] No, and you feel an itch to replace him.

You find yourself, each and every day, speaking with someone new, explaining the decision for Maciej on behalf of the family as much as for yourself. It was your decision in the end, after all, for your cousin deferred to you; may God guide you both. You meet a dizzying array of men of all names and of all sorts of senatorial ranks: the aging Andrzej Tęczyński, the doubting Calvinist Hieronim Sieniawski, Sierotka's brother-in-law Mikołaj Mielecki, a fiery Zebrzydowski scion just about your age, and the coughing and wheezing Jerzy Jazłowiecki, who died during the early spring's mud. It's hard to keep track of them all, especially as the cold and dark dulls your senses, filling you with the melancholic humor. But, for the family, you must press on and do your duty, no matter how badly you wish you stay in your chambers.

And you answer the same questions again and again: why this young Maciej, and not the Emperor himself? Eyebrows cock and arms cross and the backs of necks are scratched but they do listen, and closely, too — God is good, they seem to still be aboard the ship, no matter how incredulous or even unnerved.

The Zborowscy remain a mystery, though, perhaps the card of the Fool in the mix (though certainly anything but). You expected fruitful conversations with any number of the brood of five, but they all tell you one thing: "it should have been the Emperor, and Samuel needs to come home." The rumors have it that they strengthen their private armies by the day. Until their missing sixth brother is allowed back into the realm, they shall be as statues. The infamis in question, meanwhile, has become a fixture in the Transylvanian court.

Indeed, it's all very frustrating. Everybody is keeping quiet, moving little, and speaking even less. If nothing else, it at least seems that the camps have not migrated, no matter how shaken the Habsburg faction may be by the bet placed upon young Maciej.

The trees begin to blossom before you know it, and you find yourself leaving the wintry haze, either renewed by faith in the Lord or in your fellow man. And it's good timing, too: a sejm is convening at Stężyca on May 12 or, well, a bit of a pre-sejm? A summit all the same.

Do you...

[] Hasten to Stężyca.

[] Stay in Kraków; await the arrival of the Archduke's procession.

Then, move as one to Stężyca – if you can make it in time!

 

[Rolman]

With the coming of the Sejm of Stężyca, you leave Kraków to travel once more through the springtime fields, where the serfs are hard at work weeding the grain fields and laying down onion and leek bulbs, scattering beetroot seeds into the wind. You feel an odd jealousy at their simplicity, but remind yourself that they are stupid by nature and live lives most unenviable. As for you, well, you hold a realm's future in your hands, sharing that burden with countless others. It nearly renders moot the finer things of life.

You relieved the Friar and left him in the Royal capital. He betrayed no emotion and merely nodded along with your explanation: that you have given into hypocrisy and self-righteousness, depriving yourself of the earthly world, and that the time has come for a certain loosening. You wonder if you simply never heeded his words and instead gave in to pride; after all, he cautioned you on your zealotry again and again. But, nevertheless, he is gone now. You are adrift before God and yet have never felt more free. Odd.

You turn your attention, for the first time in over a year, outwards. Poor Mariana, dearest Mariana, there must be something to do for her to make things right. Although busy now, you decide to spend the summer (should it be free)…

[] Simply speaking with her. Relearning who she is, and opening yourself up in kind.

[] Going outdoors. Let falconry and hunting do the talking – she's charmingly mannish in such ways, after all.

[] Giving her the finest things. Gifts, dances, feasts. Show her that you no longer reject life itself.

As for Sir Marszowski: "Chevalier amie, I owe you an apology," you blurt out to him one night in a folwark house's half-spartan quarters, having entered his chamber unbidden.

You see on his face that he must know but, ever the gentleman, he defers. "What ever for, Your Serene Highness?"

You cannot lie. "I thought you a sinful man, Sir Marszowski–"

"Well, aren't I?" he interjects, ever unable to fend off a quip.

You grin. "Maybe so. But, I turned away from you as a Pharisee would a tax collector, and I let myself forget that…" By God, this lump in your throat! "I forgot that you are my real father."

He looks like you just told him that his mother died and his cat has given birth to puppies all in the same breath. He blinks rapidly. "Ah, Your Serene Highness, ah–"

"No more titles in private. Please. I want things to be the way they were. I am a servant of God, but you are my greatest friend."

"Then it shall be so, lord prince."

"Stanisław. Say it."

"You are Stanisław Radziwiłł of the Trąby," he nods. "And I never had a son, but…"

You find that you're hugging each other. It was somewhat involuntary. You break the embrace and try to find some semblance of princeliness. "Consider yourself once more my closest advisor, Sir Marszowski, and the best man I've ever known."

"Even though this one is bound for Hell?" he smiles.

"Even if you're for the Pit."

Another hug.

Sadly, there isn't much time to be sentimental. You arrive at Stężyca after nine days' rapid travel, to find the convention in full swing. Only the Lord knows when – and if – Maciej will be able to make an appearance. But you grin, you cannot help it, at the idea of the young lad strutting into the Sejm with an army of diplomats at his back, ready to speak as a savior of the realm and as a young King. May his great bluff strike awe; you reckon that, while he must think he knows what he's doing, he truly is in the dark. Even if the two of you are closer in age than you'd like to admit.

In the meantime, you're sobered somewhat: you've got no clue who's here, what they've been talking about, or in what direction the debates have been trending. There is good cause to be decisive, to speak passionately here and now -- for what man can't look upon boldness with respect in this country? -- but you're not even sure if your own brothers are here. Nevertheless, nearly every head turns to face the arrival of what may well be a representative of Lithuania itself.

You decide to…

[] Barge in with fanfare, using your position as a Radziwiłł to address the crowds of noblemen.

[] Find some friendly faces and get to planning.

[] Try to parlay with your likely rivals.

[] Get the lay of the land more generally.