Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

The night is quiet. None of the men, not even the unscathed musketeers, are in the mood for revelry. Many still drink, of course, but it's a quiet thing. Conversations around campfires, yes, but no singing or dancing. The camp-following kobzari and lirnyki hang back, easily reading the mood. You washed yourself hard and well in a basin before bed, but still feel utterly disgusting on this humid night, sticky and with crawling skin, like the dirt and dried blood is all still there. The fresh-sutured wound in your thigh itches and stings, and your whole leg aches and is turning purple and sickly yellow from being crushed by the horse. You're lucky it wasn't broken.

And so you toss about in your tent, bone-tired and yet without sleep. Perhaps it's that terrible ringing in your ears following you about long after the last shot was fired. Or it's the yowls and groans emanating from the surgeons' tents, lingering long after the last amputation of the day. Maybe it is all the things you see when you close your eyes, the shapes and colored dots floating across your vision as your mind races, replaying every kill, every moment in which you stared death in the face, the way the low-ranking Tatars were gunned down and put to the sword. Another Moncontour, this time yours – even if they were heathens, even if they committed countless crimes of their own. It's one thing for a man to be killed or even tortured after a lawful trial, but to lay down your arms with hopes of mercy, only to be rounded up and shot and hacked to pieces? How can that sit right with anybody?

What a strange and cruel world we inhabit. God's grace and beauty all about, the words of the Saints to live by and study, and yet men turn on each other in these ways, are led astray into Mahometan heathenry and Indian idolatry and even misguided Christianity. For it was Eve who first gave into the Adversary's lies, and her son struck down his brother. And now it repeats itself upon this Earth, again and again and again.

You make sure to place the Tatars under heavy guard by loyal men, sadly sapping you of a hundred or so good fighters – and this is not just so that they don't escape. There are more than a few furious Ruthenians who disagree with your decision to make them all into bargaining chips. But you ensure that they will not be treated as true noblemen, for they're nothing more but heathen clan chiefs. They're fed the bread and cheese that have gone moldy, forced to drink beer and smear their food with pork lard to spite their evil faith. That last bit wasn't your idea, but it seems like a good enough one, and the Lipkas remain silent on the matter. You're not sure to be proud or terrified of yourself – imagine being told to spit or piss on the Cross… No, no, it's not the same, it can't be the same. The Christ is merciful indeed, but that won't spare them from man's justice. Or punishment. Let them wallow in their disgrace. Sometimes you feel like that little bastard King of France Charles, who laughed and cried, one after the other, at the Huguenots' slaughter, may he be burning in the Pit.

Everybody was too weary to speak the night of the battle, but the camp comes more alive the following morning. The thousand musketeers – them being lowly commoners and the least-bloodied of the fighters – are marched to the battlefield to begin the arduous process of burning Tatars and burying Christians, flanked by priests both Catholic and Orthodox, alongside the Lipkas' imam and the Protestants' reverends. You're glad you don't have to see that mess, though you may smell it soon enough. You're told that that many men and horses can produce a miasma that carries for half a mile.

The Lipkas' Mirza Amurat asks to see you. "We are not cowards, Your Serene Highness," he begins.

"Surely not," you interject. "I have heard of you and your people's valor, and I commend you all. You will be paid double – no, triple wages."

"But that will not bring my men back, my kinsfolk and countrymen. You know our villages well, Your Serene Highness, how few of us there are…"

"Yes..?"

"Well," he sounds shaky, scratching the back of his neck. "We are farmers before we are soldiers or mercenaries. You know we are loyal to the family, and always grateful for our land grants and our freedom of faith and conduct." He hesitates. "But I must request we be sent home. The rye harvest is already here, and so many of us will be buried so far from our houses." It almost seems like he's getting emotional. "It is difficult to go on."

[ ] "Very well. I shall pay your people with the enemies' armor and weapons and horses. You have served the cause admirably."

The noble thing to do.

[] "Very well, but on one condition: pick ten of your men to stay behind. They shall be our emissaries to Bakczysaraj."

It'd be invaluable to send Tatars to negotiate with Tatars.

[] "I'm afraid I must command you to stay, mirza. This will all be over soon, I swear it by my God."

We cannot afford to lose a few hundred skilled skirmishers, not at a time like this.

[] write-in.

Framed as a verbal response; perhaps some other kind of compromise can be reached?

Amurat nods. "Yes, my lord. Thank you for the audience."

Another issue to be handled is the case of the disobedient rajtaria: some but not all stayed behind at the Tatars' camp to loot it. After thoroughly dressing down their German captain – who never disobeyed you and showed off some personal courage, you're told – you tell him to:

[] flog any of his men found in possession of looted goods.

Tatar bows, Armenian carpets, sets of armor, sabers, inexplicable amounts of gold or silver. All of these warrant punishment, even if these men could have acquired some of these items off of the field as part of the customary looting, rather than from indiscipline in the camp itself.

[] let his men know that they shall not receive double pay, but promise better rates should they shape up.

Let's not have a mutiny on our hands, but they must face some kind of punishment for their indiscipline. With these types, you give an inch and they take a mile. Let them feel a sting for their refusal to be proper soldiers.

[] deliver a strongly-worded speech to his men, promising real retribution should they act up again.

It's best not to interfere with things like pay, let alone imposing discipline externally. Mercenaries are fickle, and it's best to let them *fear* punishment than to actually mete it out upon them.

[] write-in.

Recall that you're using the mercenary captain as a middleman between yourself and his rank-and-file.

There will need to be a few days taken to rest and bury or burn the dead. But after that? You're not quite sure.

Konstanty doesn't really speak anymore, just stares, but his brother is more than willing to speak: "we have met terror with terror," says the hotspur coldly. "We must continue the campaign as late into the season as we can."

You recall that you have until October 3rd, when the Convocation Sejm is to commence at Warszawa. That gives you some time, but not too much time – it would take about three weeks, you reckon, to make it to the city from here, and obviously longer if you find yourself further afield. Leaving by the middle of next month at the latest would be ideal.

"What of our friends though, lord princes?" asks Zamoyski. "We haven't put them to the sword out of the kindness of our Christian hearts. I'm of the opinion we establish a line of contact with the Khan, and see if we can't negotiate a peace." He crosses his arms. "After all, it's one of his own grandsons on the line – though Lord knows he's got a lot of spawn – and his beys will surely protest their sons and brothers and nephews being held with knives to their throats." Oh, so you can take the credit?

You calculate it would take two and a half weeks for horsemen to reach the capital in Crimea. You say…

[] "I'm afraid I agree with the noble Prince Janusz, Lord Zamoyski. We've got them on the run – let's finish the job. We can speak of ransoms and peaces once they're back over the Dniepr."

The only thing stopping you is time and money…

[] You grin. "Let them taste their own bitter medicine. We'll dispatch our messengers for Bakczysaraj, but lie in wait here to ambush any chambuls returning home."

Perhaps the best of both worlds, but certainly treacherous on your part. It's a good way to guarantee a reprisal in a couple years.

[] "We're too bloodied to go on. Let us dispatch emissaries and see what comes of it, and respond to any new incursions."

The losses suffered here at Zawadówka are great. It's best to begin a slow withdrawal, or at least to take a defensive posture and wait for a reply.

[] You stand tall. "I'll go to Bakczysaraj myself and settle the score. You all can decide what to do here. Treat my men well."

More than a month's round trip, and they wouldn't dare touch a man of your stature. Would they? But the bargaining power and awe-striking presence of a fearless Christian prince in their midst…

[] write-in.

Framed as a verbal response.

 

[Rolman]

I noticed some wonky wording: the choice of having some Lipka Tatars stay behind to serve as adhoc diplomats is NOT mutually exclusive with the choice of personally going to Bakhchisary -- should the vote for going yourself win, they come with, should it not, they go by themselves with an armed escort of hussars.

 

[Rolman]

Okay, I'm gonna close voting and start writing soon given the big margin, but I'd like to make sure I've got this right:

Write-in: "Very well, you've served admirably and courageously. You shall have the enemy's weapons and armor and horses, yet I must request a handful of your men stay behind to assist me as emissaries to Bakczysaraj."

"We're too bloodied to go on. Let us dispatch emissaries and see what comes of it, and respond to any new incursions."

Click to shrink...

These are our two provisional winners, and are the ones I'm confused about. Am I meant to understand that you are personally going to Bakhchisaray ("assist me"), but also arguing that the PLC army should hang back and lick its wounds? Or are we only sending Lipkas, while you stay home ("let us dispatch emissaries"). @bookwyrm wrote the write-in -- what was your intent?

Everybody else, feel free to chime in with your understanding, too! Just wanna make sure I get this right.

 

[Rolman]

I'm too weirded out to proceed. I'm writing a going to Bakhchisaray post no matter what because it's too fun not to (trying my hand at Shogun the TV show, hehe), which you all will get to see no matter what happens.

Okay, so here's what is happening:

• A selection of Lipkas are going on a diplomatic mission to the Khan no matter what
• The army is adopting a defensive-reactive, wound-licking posture, whether you're there or not
• The mercs are having their pay docked, whether you're there or not (though it's unclear what could happen should you leave)

But is our Prince personally going to the Tatar capital?

[] Yes!

[]No!

 

[Rolman]

The mood lightens slowly as the amputees are evacuated back to their homes on the outgoing supply wagons. It's hard to celebrate a victory when every fifth man, depending on the case, is dead or maimed. But now, after four days, the drowning of sorrows is turned to the celebrating of survival and valorous, honorable triumph over a heathen foe.

The kobzari and lymiki stop being so furtive, and step forward from the little followers' quarter to play their instruments, sing their songs, and tell tall and bawdy tales. Tense and having trouble sleeping for the past couple nights, you decide that God will have to work to forgive you just this once as you throw back another gulp of fiery, spiced gorzała. Before you lies a table of hearty soldier's' fare, however spartan: amply-buttered black bread, salt pork, dried fish, some foraged vegetables and herbs. You'd kill for some wine, but for now you're stuck with the hard stuff.

"Chase it with some water, lord prince!" says a more than tipsy Marszowski, handing you a skin. Across the table, a red-faced Colonel van Gistel starts grinning.

You cock it back and – what the Hell?! The drink sprays from your mouth. "Goddamn you, Sir Marszowski!" you shout with a smile, as your old fencing master laughs maniacally. "Who puts beer in a waterskin anyways? Madman – it gets warm!" You grab a slice of buttered bread and take a big bite, hoping to wash out the flavor of that strong, hideously warm Warka. "Bleh."

"Well, it's not like we've got a lager cave!" says Marszowski in between fits of laughter.

"And I saw you smile, van Gistel! You were in on it, too!"

Your poor infantry captain was so glad to at last spend some good time with you again – he's not one for politics so he sat out Stężyca, and then for this campaign he was shunted mainly into a quartermaster's role,.on account of no Radziwiłł infantry being present. "No, no," he says, "I only knew about it 'cause he pulled it on me, too!"

You roll your eyes. "You two are getting demoted as this rate," you tease. "Betrayal of your lord and master? That'd be getting off light."

You all laugh. That damned German mercenary boss is conspicuously absent: Zamoyski and the Ostrogscy brothers you can understand – for they've got their own people – but him? He's under your command. He obeyed well enough when you told him that his company's pay was to be docked for insubordination during the battle, but clearly he's making a statement here. Bedst to keep an eye on them, you think. It's not like they'd mutiny or anything drastic like that, you estimate, but they may find ways to quietly take their revenge for missing out on the frontliner's doppel.

Best not to think about that right now! You pour up some more gorzała from a pewter flagon into all three cups. "To proper Sarmatian heroes, sworn men of noble families, people who fight for God and honor!" Oh, whoops, van Gistel is Netherlandish, and technically a mercenary. Yes, alright, you're drunk. He still toasts to it, though.

"Hear hear!"

More fire down your throat. By God, you forgot how good this stuff is. And it hits fast: as your belly warms, so too does your head become lighter, the tingling glow in your body spreading through you. And you can feel your mind ease itself up like a tense muscle being massaged, turning into a liquid sort of thing of its own, allowing you to think and feel more freely than you could in the aftermath of the great ritual murder. The men are singing and dancing outside, and you'd join in were it not for this stitched-up, black and bliue leg. Life may be full of death and terror, but it's full of pleasures and glories and beautiful things, too. You wince as you forget about the Lord and His Saints, for it's somewhat consciously-done, and you exhale through your nose, close your eyes, and lean back. You can pray on all of this later.

"Lord prince? Your Serene Highness?" It's Marszowski. You open your eyes. They were talking, weren't they?

"Yes? Sorry."

"We wanted to know: how'd that first battle feel?"

[] "As terrifying as it was exciting."

[] "Exciting."

[] "Terrifying."

[] "Like I had a job to do."

"Heh, that's how first times feel, I reckon," nods Marszowski with a smile. "Mine mainly felt like some sort of terrible game or sport, but I came to love it."

"Aye," agrees van Gistel. "Like your first lay with a woman!"

You all laugh.

The rest of the night is a little blurry, but good times were had by all, certainly. You can't quite remember the last half-hour or so before falling asleep, but indeed blessed rest did come to you. A deep, dreamless, dry-mouthed sleep, the kind you feel particularly in your eyes upon waking. You're glad you weren't met with a dream – they surely wouldn't have been good ones, and Mariana's not here to soothe you.

Oh, Holy Spirit, Mariana…Saint Mariana she ought to be, making you smile before you Cross yourself for minor blasphemy. You cannot wait to return to her, to return to what is, perhaps, a sanity of sorts, a quieter world without blood and screaming and baggage trains. The world you, fool as you were, thought you left behind in France. You just didn't think it could be possible elsewhere. But it's possible everywhere. You'll be home soon, you tell yourself.

That morning, you see Amurat and his Lipkas off, their wagons and saddlebags laden with the loot you gave them, missing over a hundred men and boasting more than a few armless or legless. You made sure to give them a Radziwiłł banner and a Pogoń as a sign of your esteem, heathens as they may be. You hope they shall return to Wilno and Troki as heroes and victors, as well as provide Father or your brothers with an update on the goings of the campaign – and a recounting of your heroism. The more people know the better, and you're not thinking that from a prideful heart. Let the people of the Sister-Nations hear that it was Radziwiłł, not Zamoyski, who won the day. You're sure the bastard, however friendly and cooperative he may be for the duration of all this, will try and spin things his way in due time.

Meanwhile, you say farewell to the selected Tatar emissaries – mirzas and sons of mirzas – and their escort of some fifty hussars. You hope to hear from them in just over a month, if everything goes according to plan. If they're gone for more than two moons, Saadet and the other captives will be hanged and burned, to spite the Mohamatan requirement for burial.This fate is an open threat to the Tatars, who for the most part hold their heads high, and you can't help but admire their bravery. "In any event, lord bey, we will be judgedjudged by almighty Allah sooner or later; we welcome martyrdom in these foreign lands," says Saadet Mirza. This impressed you, and as a mercy you permitted them to pray beside the Lipkas (an odd sight), but now they are adrift without an imam. It makes you feel odd, pained, even, but you try to shake it off. They're barbarians and infidels and that's that.

Prince Janusz comes to see you one night after dusk.

"Your Serene Highness," he bows in the threshold of your tent.

"Oh, come in, come in, my lord, we're comrades, aren't we?"

"Thank you." He approaches and speaks in a lowered voice. "I just wanted to thank you for commanding that flank and saving my brother's hide."

"Think nothing of it," you say. "We all did what we had to do to get each other out in one piece, no?"

"Yes, indeed, glory to God. But it's about Prince Konstanty," he says, looking grave. "He's really not well. Not eating, not sleeping, terrible nightmares."

"Hm," you say, thinking back to the days after your first battles, to the nights in the wake of Saint Bartholomew's Day and of the slaughter at Moncontour.

"Some of the men are whispering that he's a coward. He's not. He's my brother."

"He faced some of the worst fighting there was," you say, internally unsure if that melee beat the ambush at the camp. But there's no point keeping score. "Of course he'd be rattled. I had terrible dreams about my first fight for months. No shame in it." Right? Right.

"Well, what is it that got you to snap out of it?" Janusz asks.

"Prayer, and if he drinks, tell him to stop for a while. It's bad for the nerves, produces more black bile after an initial rush of blood," you say, a bit surprised at your authoritative tone, the speed of your answer. But you know this well. "Let him find solace in God and his all-forgiving Son and in the miracles of the Saints. One can't lose sight of that in a world that hurts and kills and maims: we are watched over and guarded and guided."

"Yes…" says Janusz, thoughtful. "Yes, of course, for there is nothing more high. I'm not the most pious, I admit, but…"

"As God the Father gave us victory, the Mother of God, too, will provide solace."

"I'll remind him of that."

The waiting drags on as you wait for reinforcements that never come, finding safety behind a reformed tabor. Days pass digging new latrines, heading to the Southern Bug for water, and awaiting new supply trains from the west. The probing scouts report nothing again and again, with the charred remains of the Tatar camp left undisturbed and rained on by a summer thunderstorm so as to make it an ashy slurry.

Until one day, close to end of the month and right around when the emissaries should be reaching Bakczysaraj, a group of riders return to camp kicking up dust.

Their leader, a rather young hussar, dismounts and drops to one knee. "There's a chambul approaching from the east, Your Serene Highness, around four miles* from here! Riding slow, along the riverside."

"How many?" you ask.

"Many. Certainly more than five hundred, led by mirzas in armor. They were riding abreast in rows of ten, good order; I counted ten by forty before they drew too close for comfort."

"Smart man! Thank you, sir," you say. He looks familiar, carries himself well. "You're one of Lord Zamoyski's lieutenants?

"Yes, Your Serene Highness."

"You best go and grab him, then!"

The man nods and runs deep into camp.

Quickly, Lord Zamoyski and the Ostrogski princes appear, and you explain the situation to them. Konstanty grips his coattails; it looks like his jaw's locked up. Maybe some exposure will help him, in fact.

"Well, let's move then!" exclaims Lord Zamoyski. "Another day, another victory, and it sounds like we have them more than outnumbered."

"But to attack or to ambush," you ponder, letting them draw close…"

"We ought to let them go," says Janusz to cocked eyebrows. "Let them find their ruined camp and spread the news. I'm not sure if we're here for glory," he says, glancing at his brother. "I think we're here to end this great and terrible raid."

"Your Highness?" asks Zamoyski, looking to Prince Konstanty.

The lad blinks. "Any of it. Any of it."

He's trying very hard not to crack up. You're not sure to step in for him or to let him go at it again. You recall how Marszowski used to bruise you up in sparring back when you were a tyke.

[] "Perhaps the noble Prince should stay back and keep an eye on our camp?" you ask the men.

[] "Join us, then, lord Prince."

The others agree with you, Janusz shooting you a look of some sort. Not a bad one, but not a good one either. Just a look.

Then you state your opinion:

[] "I agree with Lord Zamoyski; let's smash them."

Keep on cultivating glory and stacking up dead Tatars — it's what you came here to do, after all. Besides, the more of them are slain, the quicker things draw to a close.

[] "I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill."

It might not be the most flashy way of doing it, but it's the traditional style, and also ensures that it'll be harder for the Tatars to quit the field or even withdraw before the fight can even start.

[] "Let them come and see the funeral pyres, the graves, the remains of their camp."

Fear and confusion is stronger than any weapon; let them go back the way they came with panic in their hearts and warnings on their lips.

[] write-in

Written as a verbal statement.

*17.4 Imperial miles, or 28 kilometers.

 

[Rolman]

[Red denotes untranslated dialogue, which, were this posted, I would not have revealed]

Lord Zamoyski and the princes seemed more than a little shocked when you offered yourself up to be swallowed by Leviathan. But there's no better way to add some serious weight to what otherwise would be a mere ransom run: to potentially negotiate a Tatar withdrawal, or to set them upon the Muscovites to savage them as they had three years ago — it'd be a triumph. If they don't just take you hostage, that is. A risk of the mission,it is, and of your occupation and station in general, but you reckon with just fifty good hussars you could fight your way out of their Goddamned tent-filled hole.

That's another thing, too. Is it really a hole? You're curious, there's no denying it, and you do enjoy travel. The air of mystery makes you excited. Not many commoner Christians leave Bakczysaraj as free men, and the Crimeans tend to come north and west for diplomacy and trade, and only invite Turks into their depths. You want to see how the savages live, like how you'd want to see the Indians of Asia or of the New World and the Antarctic, or the reindeer herders of far Finland. Do they truly spend all their lives in those circular tents? Surely not, yes? But there's only one way to find out.

You depart into the edges of the Wild Fields feeling very small: five well-esteemed Lipkas, fifty hussars, and a few dozen support staff is all you bring. You spend days and nights on watch, fearing ambush at any moment, but as you snake around abandoned villages and small settlements, you find no sign of anything besides the odd group of Tatar herdsmen – no threat from them. You and the men theorize that, this late in the season and in this remote of an area, the chambuls have all moved deeper into the country, further from the Dniepr. And it's not as if the Tatars need supply wagons.

Which is what you thought, until your heart leaps out of your chest at the sight of a dustcloud on the horizon on the seventh day, with the river nearly in sight. Pistols and sabers are drawn and, judging from the size of the approaching mass of mounted men, a decision is made to move to engage, rather than flee and lose precious time. As you ride toward the foe, sun hot on your helmet, you wonder if you'll make it out of this one, too. You squeeze the trigger on your pistol as they come into range; your men do, too. A few slump off of their horses, and arrows begin to fly at you, killing the man to your left with an arrow in the eye. You scream a curse.

It's only just before contact is made that you realize that you're staring in the face not Tatars once more, but Zaporozhians! Suddenly, everyone is screaming to stop, and the air is filled with grunting and swearing as horses everywhere rear up or collide into each other. "Stop, by God, stop! All of you! We are Christians!"

"Who's in charge here?!" bellows a long-mustached man with a half-shaved head.

"Me, my lord, and I must heartily apologize for–"

He slaps you hard across the face. You haven't been hit like that since you were a boy.

Your men lunge for him but he produces a pistol and brandishes it wildly, sending them leaning back into their saddles. "You rich bastard! Do you have any idea how many of my men you just killed? I know I don't, but I've never taken so much pistol shot in my life!"

"You… You're of the Sich," you say, rubbing your jaw and cheek.

"That I am! A free man from a free land, peacock. Clearly, you didn't see the flag," he says, gesturing up to a banner with a white cross on a maroon field, framed by suns and crescent moons. "Does that look Crimean blue to you, God damn you? If we had our war wagons with us…"

You raise your fist for your men to cease their swearing and spitting. "We have an Orthodox priest among us; let us bury your dead and we'll be on our way. I sincerely apologize."

"A Christian burial's a start," he grunts. "What the Hell is a peacock doing out here anyway?"

"On a mission to see the Khan. We took valuable prisoners and are moving to negotiate," you say. "It's for your people's sake, too. We either weaken their coffers or force them to withdraw."

The Zaporozhian lets out a "Ha!" His men laugh despite the circumstances. These are some real tough bastards. "Good luck with that. He'll cut your Christian head off. But, you know what? That's brave. Suicidal, but brave. I can respect that."

"Got any coin?" chimes in another Zaporozhian.

"Yeah!" says another.

Their leader smirks. "You know, burying my men makes me liable to forgive you. But compensation makes me liable to forget."

You sigh and curse the man heartily in your head. You look back to Marszowski. "What have we got?" you ask in Polish. "We're being extorted."

"I've got my pimply ass for him, then!" he exclaims. Those who can understand him laugh. Even some of the Zaporozhians.

"Come on, not now."

"Fine," says Marszowski. "We have a couple hundred złoty for bribes and 'gifts.' That's all."

"One hundred złoty," you say. "For what? Five men. That's more than enough for their families."

"Surely you've got more than that between all of you."

Stop being annoying. "We have pistols, too, you know. And armor. You have not."

He looks you up and down. A moment passes. You place your hand on the hilt of your blade. His men look fierce. But then they all laugh. "Good man! Good man! You're young but you've got a fire. You could be a real kozak!" He sighs. "How terrible it is that we meet under such circumstances. Fork it over so I can give the widows something, and get your men to start digging."

Funerals are conducted out on the steppe. Five men. Everybody sings Vichnaya Pamyat. The grasslands and gentle hills and sparse shrubbery stretch for a mile. Crosses are fashioned from a rare tree. You and the Zaporozhians part ways. How fierce do you have to be to shrug off the deaths of five of your comrades? They're a different breed, alright, like that Filon Kmita.

You manage to find some peasant ferrymen the following day, and make it over the Dniepr, then you turn southward for Crimea. More than once, the Lipkas must talk down armed Tatars, who always part at the mention of their Khan. Praise God that simple bandits were never encountered at any point.

To your surprise, you find the Tatars here on the peninsula living in houses like anybody else, unlike the nomads of the steppe. As you ride toward the Crimean capital, now back on defined roads, you notice that the thoroughfares are lined with what look like shallow graves. A Tatar peasant explains that it's all slaves who died being marched to the sea. Barbarians. But they seem to live as any other kind of people.

Bakczysaraj makes your head spin a little – it looks straight out of an engraving of Turkey! Minarets loom over the rooftops as you ride into the city, greeted by local noblemen who speak hurriedly with the Lipkas. One turns to you and smiles. "They were not expecting this," he chuckles. Curious Tatars and Greeks line the streets and stand atop the near-flat roofs, pointing and discussing amongst themselves with hushed voices. Only the rare Orthodox priest is friendly — they allow Christians to abide? — most people seem confused at best.

A column of shackled Ruthenians on the main thoroughfare are beaten with canes to make way. They begin to beg and plead and pray, asking to be bought – now there's an idea – but you can only feel a tightness of sorrow and anger in your breast as you proceed to the center of the city. There's still business to attend to.

A great mosque sits astride the Khan's palace, which looks halfway like an Italian villa (from the woodcuts you've seen), except the walls are all done up with beautiful murals and, when there isn't paint, mosaic tiles. Floral motifs abound, creeping vines and rose-wheels of blue and yellow and green, interspersed with what you recognize to be Mohamatan calligraphy – you saw a forbidden Koran once, shown to you furtively by the philosopher Montaigne back in France. The savages are capable of such beauty? You knew Turks to be civilized heathens, and formidable ones at that, but these monsters of the steppe? It's food for thought.

A blonde man in Tatar garb greets you at the threshold of the palace's sanctum. "My name is Fetih, honored guest, translator-slave of the great Devlet Khan, he who sits upon the Throne of Crimea and Desht-i Kipchak, Lord of the Great Horde and of the Circassians and all the Nogai," he says in Ruthenian, a thick southern peasant's accent forcing you to listen closely. Fetih… the poor man must have been renamed. A voice calls out in a throaty language from deeper in the room, behind the curtain. "My master bids you enter."

You are ushered into the room and briefly drop your jaw at the sight of its many colors. Beautiful carpets of Persia and Turkey and the more familiar Armenian kind adorn the floors and walls almost completely, cast brightly and beautifully beautifully by the light shining through oblong windows. A turbaned man in flowing green and blue robes sits atop a mat surrounded by brightly-dyed pillows; he beckons you toward him and his chainmailed guardsmen. As you approach, you recognize now that he is an older man – perhaps sixty – with deep wrinkles and crow's feet, wearing a large graying beard. He almost looks kindly, but there's something in his eyes. This is a genteel barbarian and a heathen king.

You're unsure how these people salute each other, so you drop to a knee and try to say what you've been muttering to yourself over and over again:

"Assalamualaikum, Khan muazzam. Bik zur räkhmät sêzgä, ḩäm ozak yashäy sezgä telim," you enunciate slowly. The Lipkas taught you for hours the day before, and said it's an honorable address, thanking him for the audience and wishing a long life. ["Peace be upon you, noble Khan. I offer up my thanks, and may you live long."]

The Khan laughs dryly and claps his hands. "Oh, that's marvelous, truly. He can talk. Allah help me, he sounds like those Northerners; I can hardly understand them, let alone this one. Slave, tell the infidel fool 'welcome.'"

"My master welcomes you to his home," says Fetih. It seems like the Khan said a lot more than that.

"And ask him why he's here before I have him clapped in irons and traded for his weight in silver."

"He wishes to know why you honor him with your coming. A Christian prince in Bakczysaraj is a –"

"Just translate. I can tell you're talking too much," snaps the Khan.

"Yes, of course, my apologies," replies the interpreter meekly.

Your eyes dart between the two of them. "I am here to parlay for the lives of around a hundred mirzas," you say, deciding to just rip the bandage off. "Including His Majesty's grandson, Saadet."

The Khan perks up at the mentioning of the name. "Did he just say 'Saadet?' What of my grandson?"

"I…" the translator sounds hesitant, almost wincing. "I am afraid to say, great Khan, that a blow has been struck against our mighty armies. A hundred noblemen are prisoner to him, including Saadet Mirza."

The Khan lets out a little gasp, leans back, and hums. He rumbles out angry words. "May Allah give you troubles, infidel… Seven living sons and thirty-nine grandsons, and he captures my firstborn's firstborn." He shakes his head and laughs, sounding weary. "That boy's heels were always too hot. And here I thought a treasure trove just walked himself into my palace." He mutters: "and my beys would be furious about their sons and brothers…"

Fetih is grimacing. "The Khan is troubled by this news." He looks to his master.

You swallow. The Khan is staring daggers into you, but you feel as if that must be a thinking face as much as it is an angry one; perhaps you ought to protect yourself. "And I wish to inform His Majesty that if I am not back to my people within a moon, the mirzas will all be killed."

"He threatens their lives, great Khan, and sets a deadline for his safe passage home: one moon hence." The Ruthenian translates with a hurried tone now.

Devlet Khan swats at the air, not looking so stately. "Just ask him what he wants, then."

"My master asks for your terms."

What do you say?

[You literally got so lucky that the Giray at picked at random happens to be close in line to the throne. I would then prompt you to ask for money, peace, or both.]

 

[Rolman]

"I truly think an ambush at the burnt campsite is our best option here. It's our turn to use that hill," you say.

Meanwhile, Konstanty looks utterly relieved – were the lad not seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, he'd surely take offense. But you've been there, the dread that follows, the sweating that never stops, smelling gunsmoke when it isn't there, waking up after second sleep with the phantom sensation of a bandit's hands around your throat. Let him rest.

"A surprise attack at a Tatar campsite is the traditional method of the Zaporozhians and, dare I say, I think we hussars only come in second place as Horde-slayers." You jolt in place, suddenly struck with an idea. "And I just thought of something! So, the burnt campsite stretches for hundreds of feet, yes?"

"Go on…" says Zamoyski, twirling his mustache in interest.

"If we knock down the tentposts still standing, the Tatars won't see the ashes til they're right on top of it," you say, trying to contain some self-satisfied excitement. "Our horse waits behind the hill to charge; the musketeers – some but not all – we smear them with ashes and have them lie flat. A volley followed by a charge and the heathens are wiped out."

"How much time have we got?" asks Janusz.

"Four miles at a mounted walk?" you run some calculations from your time with Strozzi back in France. "Flat terrain… maybe four hours?"

"No time to waste, then," says Zamoyski. "All in favor of His Serene Highness' plan?"

All hands rise. It'll be on you once again.

The men are gathered in the center of camp and briefed: only a few hundred musketeers are selected to deploy on account of the burnt camp site's, while nearly all of the cavalry – now whittled down to about two and a half thousand after deaths, injury, and illness, are to be deployed in a long, thin column behind the steep hill overlooking the Zawadówka battlefield. When the signal is raised, they'll spread out into typical line formation and charge the entire breadth of the Crimean column, pinning them to the river and forcing a slaughter or surrender, whichever comes first.

The musketeers strip down to their underclothes so as to not ruin their blue and red coats, and it's a funny sight to see men in what are effectively their nightclothes wearing leather boots, bandoliers laden with powder flasks, short straight swords and daggers on their belts. They seem somewhat miffed to dirty themselves in such a way, but excited to be more than mere execution squads – there's no fun in that, after all, only satisfaction. For them.

Another pre-battle Mass, the Orthodox's Liturgy, the Protestants' sermon. Holy water is sprinkled, icons are kissed, Confessions are heard in the priests' tents. Although the great battle was over two weeks ago, the similarity to last time fills you with apprehension. Mass is usually a transcendent experience, a feeling of great closeness and glory as one consumes the Body and Blood – it's a whole different feeling to want for protection, instead; a grim affair defined by worry and desperate prayer. Life hangs on by a thread, and only He can preserve it.

Deployment is settled and the wait begins, and you're pleased to see that, from atop the hill, you can hardly see the prone musketeers at all. Just a little bit of shine from their barrels. The men at the rear of the cavalry column report that one cannot see the river from their position, which means that the Tatars shouldn't be able to see you either. There's no banners or flags raised high this time, no battlecries or sabers in the air. Only swatting at flies attracted to accumulating horseshit, smacking mosquitoes, silent prayer or quiet conversation.

You're at the front of course, flanked by Prince Janusz, Lord Zamoyski, and your lieutenants. Van Gistel is down there in the ashes.

"I'm praying that this goes better than last round," says Prince Janusz quietly.

"It will, it will," Zamoyski reassures him. "This is a little fish, a quick and easy kill."

"God will be the judge of that," you say, your stomach stirring and the back of your neck buzzing.

You keep your eyes closed and fall into something deep and uncharted yet utterly familiar, conjuring up a picture of Mother Maria and fixating upon it. The Friar taught you this, and it did much to settle your heart. You breathe in, and you breathe out, and you feel watched by something much greater than you, like a man looking down upon two colonies of ants ready to do battle with each other. That's all you are, and that's all this is. But the Lord will light the way to victory, if he deems you and your men righteous enough.

An inordinate amount of time passes, interrupted by cracks carrying on the wind. Musket fire. It's begun. "Sound the horns!" you cry, bleary-eyed and squinting at another sunny summer day. The men behind you are shouting encouragements to each other and calling out "let's go!" According to plan, the column begins to unfold: your section makes up the middle, the center the left, and the rear the right.

"Bóg nam radzi!" you shout, joined by your men, as those of other herby call out their family mottos.

Your new horse – the largest and strongest of the captured Tatar corral, as of yet unnamed – struggles to climb the hill with your armored self atop him, but as you crest its peak you take in the scene: the ground closest to the campsite is littered with the humps of dead horses and the forms of splayed out men, a cloud of smoke drifting out from the positions of the well-camouflaged musketeers who, from the sound of it, are firing in ranks. The Tatars are maybe a few hundred stopy away, approaching the edge of their effective range, and moving back quickly. You can just barely see heads turn in your direction as you begin a breakneck charge down the hill, more than aided by the slope. This would not be a good time to have a horse's leg break on you.

You reach down into your saddle holster and produce your first pistol with your left hand as you hold your lance in your right. You see the glinting form of a mirza appear out of the mass of unarmored horse archers: that's your man…

[] to capture.

[] to kill.

 

[Rolman]

Your plan is working so well, you almost forgot you're in a state of utter dread. Oh, but you are. Again into the pit of gnashing teeth, screaming men, pouring blood, again into the jaws of an unholy dragon, a thing that chews up life and spits out death. Many will go to their Creator on this day, as many went just a few short weeks ago. There's the familiar gust of wind, the thundering under your seat, the subtle collisions between your cuirass and pauldron, cuirass and bevor, the shaking of your helmet. You spur hard as your ears are battered once more by your comrades' rising chorus of pistol fire.

Focus on that mirza; it's the armored ones that are most dangerous, after all. You raise your pistol and dammit! Right as you squeeze the trigger a common horse archer, riding away from the fusillade emanating from the camp, takes the shot inadvertently for his master. You think you got him in the leg, and his horse's legs buckle and throw him off. You couch your lance and tense up every part of you that can be tensed up.

Impact. The mirza reels back on his horse as your lance shatters, sending splinters flying blessedly past your face. "Yes!" you scream; in the split second before his horse rears up in fright, you catch a glimpse of the end of the shaft jutting out of him, perhaps below the nipple and close to the armpit. You stare down at him against your better judgment, and feel something sharp in your soul. It's a pathetic sight. He's hacking up blood, flat on his back, barely moving, and a horse kicks him in the head – no more. Christ. And there's no time to celebrate it.

Pay attention! You're in the mix now, and you barely have room to draw your saber fully, thankfully due to the tight formation of your own men rather than a burgeoning melee. You look through the gaps in the wall of steel and horseflesh formed by the men in front of you: the Tatars are being heartily driven back as your line pushes forward, and the first desperate ones are beginning to try and ford the river on horseback.

You hear several voices bellowing commands in their throaty tongue – they are loud, through your ringing ears and the clamor you can hear them – and the Tatars that are still able to begin to wheel around to your left. You make your presence known to the men with some shouting of your own, and they part ways to allow you to the front. The tail-turning Tatars are being cut down right off their horses, but they're pushing hard into the leftmost flank; you see elbows drawing back bowstrings to loose arrows at point-blank range, and you can hear the sounds of metal on metal as the heathens make a desperate bid at a breakout. Meanwhile, the ones plunging into the river are either arms sticking out of the water or nearly on the other side. Everyone around you is roaring with triumphant bloodlust. You're so taken aback by the one-sidedness of it all that you forget to bring your saber crashing down on more than a few helmetless Tatar heads.

Like sand through a funnel, though, the surviving Tatars begin to pour desperately leftward, pounding their feet on their horses' flanks and whipping their reins with all their might. They've broken through. As your battle-line collapses inwards on theirs, though, very few make it out alive, but certainly some have managed to slip through the jaws of your hussars.

You are standing on a heap of dead men and horses as you watch no more than twenty or thirty Tatars race into the fields from which they came, riderless horses running wildly in zigzags among them. They're just barely visible through the small gap in your lines. It looks like a wall collapse: a mass of steel and horsehair denote a handful of killed hussars. Pistols boom at them, but none fall. Across the river, around ten more Tatars flee for nowhere in particular.

The gunsmoke from the musketeers and the cavalry charge wafts in from two directions, reminding you of fog rolling down from the Carpathians, casting the grim scene with an otherworldly haze.

Your eyes sting and your nostrils burn; you clear your throat. You issue an order:

[] Pursue the survivors.

This is potentially (and commonly, the veterans tell you) a multi-day affair, and could reveal the location of another war-camp. Only the cavalry would be going.

[] Return to camp.

Maintain the defensive footing you've held so far. Besides, a living Tatar can tell tales of defeat once he gets home.

 

[Rolman]

"Let them go!" you yell. "Let them go." Dead men can't say what happened to them. Let the survivors spread panic amongst their ranks. Let them tell their savage brothers that Saadet Mirza's camp is no more, and that a mighty host of righteous Christians nearly ground them into dust. The smell of sulfur hangs heavy in the air; they say that that's what demons smell like, that it pours out of the possessed in their sweat. You feel close to the Adversary at the moment, surrounded by mortal sin. But Mother Maria is the Lady of Victory, too; the heathens who drowned by the thousands at Lepanto four years ago, probably pulling each other down by the leg as they breathed in water, had to die. Yes? That is truth, yes?

For your horse is ankle-deep in fresh-dead flesh. A handful of unhorsed mirzas stand or kneel with their hands in the air, your men disarming them, stripping their armor, and frisking them for loot. Hussars lance the dying, as the rajtaria cut throats or simply chop at the squirming ones with their messers like they're tall grass. The Tatars' saddlebags and knapsacks are laden with pilfered goods, and men pick up sabers and bows by the handful. The musketeers have run up and admire chalices and silver crucifixes and bolts of cloth, Orthodox icons framed in brass or gold, as others begin to divide coinpurses of grosze amongst themselves. To the laughter of his comrades, one of them tries on a blood-splattered Tatar hat. You grimace; there's money to be made here, that's for sure, and at least you can perhaps lower the cash payouts to the men on account of their ever-growing pile of loot. Between these fresh captives, the ones back at camp, and Saadet… They ought to fetch a small fortune, or maybe even a fortune-fortune! It's strange to think of money when the air smells like metal, too.

Once the dead are picked clean of valuables and the Tatar horses rounded up, the usual rituals begin: Christian dead are separated from heathens, lined up in a row in a deep ditch dug by the peasant musketeers, blessed by the various clerics, and covered up: the cartwrights fashion crosses from spare parts. Requiem Aeternam and Vichnaya Pamyat and the twenty-third Psalm; Bogurodzica is sung again. As for the Tatars and dead horses, they're piled up and burned. Poorly, of course – another heap of charred bodies and bones to adorn this field. The acrid smell of burning fabric and hair adds itself to the cacophony of smells. You wonder if this batch of Tatars saw the scene that would've been on their right-hand side, the burial mounds and black-red-white piles, but were too late to turn back before they came under fire. When the serfs return home to their Zawadówka, perhaps these blood and ash-soaked fields will allow the rye and barley and buckwheat to grow tall. Perhaps some life and nourishment can spring from all this. You can only hope. But you catch yourself, you stem the melancholia: we must kill so that the little people may live and the great ones rule over them in peace and prosperity. We are making the world right again.

You look down. Blood is seeping through the fabric of your trousers on your right thigh, and as your breathing steadies and the sweat feels colder you realize that that stinging means you've opened your sutures in the fight. You Cross yourself; this is very bad air to be in for an open wound.

You lay with your leg propped up in your command tent as the surgeon gets to work, naked from the waist down. Marszowski stands there with his arms crossed, looking at your wound.

"I'm a little worried about the battlefield miasma," you say, dividing eye contact between him and the surgeon.

"And rightly so," says the medicus. "Such proximity to death is very bad for a healing injury. The good news is that it was already half-closed – Your Serene Highness would have been due to get the stitches out in a week were it not for this."

"Nearly lost a hand once," says Marszowski, before realization crosses his face. "Not to – not to bring that up, my lord. But it was a nearly: the thing turned all pus-filled and purple and started making its way up my arm, but I suppose the Lord let this sinner go for now." He rolls up his sleeve and shows a nasty, keloidal scar just above his left wrist.

"You continued to talk about it," you smile. "I'm not sure if I've ever seen that before."

"Oh, believe me," he says, removing his delia and beginning to unbutton his żupan.

Your attention turns to the surgeon. "Ready, Your Serene Highness?" He's holding a bottle of gorzała.

You nod. Ouch. Your leg twitches involuntarily as you hiss at the sting of it poured over your wound. "The good thing," says the surgeon, almost absent-mindedly, as he produces his bloodletting knife, "is that it's rather shallow. Your Serene Highness, I'll be making some small incisions around the injury just to be safe."

"Very well," you say.

"Look, Your Serene Highness," says Marszowski, holding up his shirt. He's criss-crossed with a spiderweb of scars. "And I survived them all."

But there's something else on his torso, too. All pink and splotchy. "What's the rash?" you ask, suddenly filled with apprehension.

The surgeon looks up, and you wince as he cuts you just a little too deep. "Oh, Christ," he says.

"What is it?" asks Marszowski.

"My lord, that's… That looks like French Pox."

"What?" says Marszowski. You've never seen the man without poise, but his mouth his open, his neck craned toward the surgeon. It's a very jarring sight to see the man rendered nervous. "I had a rash that came and went on back for a year or two, but – I thought these were flea bites, or…" You vaguely recall him bringing that up once; he told you it was nothing.

The surgeon rises from his stool and leans in. "No, that is certainly French Pox. You frequent certain ladies, if I may ask, my lord?"

"I do, I'm not ashamed of that," he says. You feel he's trying to hide a tone of urgency.

"Well, the good news is that the Pox has lessened in severity since the turn of this century – it used to kill in months," explains the surgeon. "Now? Years. But this is very grave indeed. I must ask you to leave, my lord, for there is a chance the rash may leak at any moment and give off bad air."

"What… what is to be done?" By God, Andrzej Marszowski is scared. Your nose starts burning, and so do your eyes. No, no…

"Thankfully, I have liquid mercury with me, as well as powder of a certain New World wood. This is a soldier's disease, of course, and so I came prepared."

That's good, at least. It allows you to swallow the lump in your throat. Marszowski is heading for the door. "Very good. Come to me next, please, master surgeon." He looks to you. "I'm sorry, Your Serene Highness."

You can't say anything, but you nod. The surgeon tells you that he's going to re-suture your wound, but you can hardly listen. He's not even fifty; keep him for at least five or ten years more, Lord. Please.

As the days go on, no Tatars are spotted. But there's another enemy: your leg oozes dark blood and aches. Medical spirits are applied daily, and an expensive and rare powder applied to your bandages, made from ginger, sage, thyme, and a bright yellow plant from India called curcuma. More and more of you begins to be bloodlet: above the thigh, behind the knee, even your scrotum. The wound refuses to close. Damn that gunsmoke! Damn that blood, that rot, that sour smoke from the pyres!

Meanwhile, Marszowski's rash goes down with the application of vapor of mercury and the Indian wood, you're told, but he's in great pain and losing a bit of hair. The surgeon says this is to be expected, but you wish you could see him. You can't imagine the man being afraid, but you saw his face, heard his voice. And you're afraid for yourself, too. The latrines are dug further from camp, but some of the men are starting to expel the sanguine humor from their rear ends, and more and more are reporting fever and sweats. A few of the Tatar mirzas, weakened by their poor rations and melancholia, give up the ghost.

The Lipkas return with a wagon laden with gold, silver, and even gemstones. Apparently, there was a major communication barrier – for their Tatar speech is different from the Crimean kind – and they had to work through Ruthenian slave-translators, whom the Lipkas themselves had trouble understanding. Therefore, peace talks could not be efficiently opened, but akcha is altyn is zoloto is money, gold, to be precise. But, according to the delegation, things must be dying down anyway with the coming of the Fall: the serfs and lordlings are beginning to return to their homes, the Jews to their inns, and the priests to their parishes. No hostile Tatars were spotted in the Wild Fields, only roving Zaporozhian counter-raiders and the nomads trying to avoid them. The Tatar mirzas are provided with horses, some bread, and are told to get going. They shall return home emaciated and ashamed, praise be to God, however much you cringe at this spike of sadism in your breast. Perhaps they got off easy.

With mid-September approaching and the miasma worsening to the point that graves are dug daily, you and the Ostrogski princes – Zamoyski communicates by messenger, for he too is struck with dysentery – make a decision to conclude the campaign, return the men to their homes, and head for the Convocation Sejm. The men are given their back pay and the remainder split between the three houses composing the army. Horses and sabers and sets of armor – all sorts of things, really – are sold by common soldier and officer alike on the road to Warszawa, as settlement grows denser. A bit of it trickles up to you.

It's a very good sum of money, perhaps thirty or forty thousand złoty in cash value. What to do with it?

[] send it to Wilno; it shall be the family's.

Ingratiate yourself to Father and your brothers, show off some fine spoils. Besides, you'll get a cut of it someday.

[] Keep it for yourself.

Begin to set up a coffer for yourself. Perhaps you can invest it with some Danziger merchants and bankers?

[] Keep it for yourself… to bribe the lordlings.

Ugh. Such skullduggery, it'll certainly need to be brought up at Confession. But Prince Batory and Zamoyski have promised *two hundred thousand* złoty in bribes for the lesser nobles, and the least you can do is grease the wheels yourself.

Zamoyski isn't speaking with you anymore – go figure. The alliance was temporary, but you can admire his soldiering, and hopefully he can admire yours. Better to be friendly rivals than proper enemies; it wards off duels and espionage and other unsavory things. And, if the Archduke Maciej is defeated, perhaps you'll find yourself with a new title despite it all.

Meanwhile, your leg holds steady. Not great, not terrible, and treated everyday. You're encouraged to walk unaided despite the pain because it squeezes out bad blood.

You were greeted as heroes in folwark house and in towns' lanes all the while on your way back from Ruthenia, but it's only in Warszawa that you feel truly triumphant, arriving with a few days to spare before the 3rd. The nobles of the Sejm camp – which already formed well over a week ago – lines the streets waving caps and drawing swords in salute, as the townsfolk cheer and the women throw flowers and garlands. You smile broadly as you ride up toward the castle. It's a genuine smile, but a cynical one, too, just a bit: the men will tell of your taking charge, of how you made Zamoyski your subordinate, how Zawadówka – and apparently the news preceded your coming – was all yours to claim. Stanisław Radziwiłł, the victorious Prince, equal to his father the Red, the victor of Czaśniki, grandson of Jerzy "Herkules," hero of Orsza, brother to the mighty knight Krzysztof. At last! At last! Apparently a young poet by the name of Długoraj is calling you Ajax. You wonder if that'll catch on.

Mariana and her ladies are at Warszawa's Wawel-replica to see you! A pleasant surprise; you thought she'd still be at Kodeń. She's gorgeous, decked out in Western garb with a lightly-powdered face. You hobble-run up to her in the great hall, ignoring the stabbing pain in your leg and stiffness of the tightly-wrapped bandage to give her a thoroughly indecorous hug and a heart-leaping kiss – you'll be damned if you're bowing and hand-kissing after such a cruel and deadly summer. Her ladies-in-waiting holler with scandalized delight.

She smiles broadly and flicks your ear. "Kept the ear and a half I see, my lord! My hero!" but her eyes flicker downward. "But your leg…"

"A Tatar knifed me," you say, trying to sound unbothered. "It's a little angry, but I have it treated by a good surgeon everyday." You lean back and take a look at her, trying to ignore that low collar, that little glimpse of chest. Reminds you of France.

"Alright," she says, sounding a little unsure before brightening up once more. "I'm just glad God kept you."

"And may He keep me yet," you reply. "Hopefully we can go hunting or falconing again soon, I just need to be careful with it. I didn't expect you to be here! And what's with the garb?"

"The Austrian style, thank you very much – in solidarity with our candidate," she feigns haughtiness. "And, well, I figured you'd need all the support you can get – these are very interesting times, after all," she says, before lowering her voice and leaning into your ear. Her cheek brushes against yours. God, it's been so long since you've been around a woman, it gives you goosebumps! Even when all she says is: "and you know how wives talk to wives."

"You'll be my spy, eh?" you say with a lowered voice. "Very good, Mariana, you fox, you." She giggles girlishly in your ear. By the Lord she can make your heart pound.

"I've secured us a chamber to share," she says, withdrawing. Her gaze softens. "I'm glad you're home, my lord."

"As am I. I can tell some war stories, if you'd like."

"Oh, so you like war now?" she teases. "What happened to the peaceable Benedictine?"

"I like winning, my lady, and getting my men home safe. I did that and I'm proud of it. As for the monk, he's gone for now," you chuckle. "As you've surely noticed: he's gotten a grip of himself that doesn't involve fasting or head-shaving."

"And my husband remains a pious man yet!" she returns a laugh. She looks back to her ladies, placing her hands on her hips and lifting her chin. What a performer. "Not a mistress in sight!" she jokes, to their too-loud cackling.

You want to show the ladies-in-waiting you're no wet blanket. "For I have everything I need right here!" Mariana blushes through her powder.

Ooooooooo! go the ladies.

"I will never live that down," she rolls her eyes. "You have my thanks."

Flirting like the day you two met! Ah, it makes a man feel alive, it makes a man feel drunk! It's a fine lady you've married, politics be damned! You don't need an Ostrogski princess or some Italian courtesan when you've got a wife like this.

The rest of the day is a happy blur, and the night happier still: you wake up beside Mariana the following morning to a ransacked chamber – you think there may have been a pillow fight? – and there's a pitcher of wine tipped over on the floor.

You reach out and run a hand over her soft body, feeling the dip of her waist rise into hip; she hums in her sleep, and lazily opens her eyes, sweeping a strand of that honey-colored hair off her face. She plops a hand on your chest and laughs sleepily. "Such fights, Stanisław, we used to get in such fights… This was a good one."

"I'll do battle with you every night," you say.

"That is horrendous," she groans, smiling. "Never use that one again."

"Fine, fine…" you feel something warm on your right leg. "What is that?" you ask, knowing full well what it is.

Your hand comes back quite bloody, rust-flecks and fresh liquid alike. You lower the sheets to find a little pool beside you. "Oh, God damn it…" you say. You move your leg gingerly, and it hurts more than before. "That's not good."

Mariana bolts upright. "I'm sorry," she says.

You wave her off. "It isn't anybody's fault."

She strokes your hair with worry. This bliss was momentary.

A German physician takes a look at it later that day. "I believe you no longer should rely on sutures," he says in Latin, "but rather the iron."

You exhale. That'll hurt. In the end, you bit down on your belt as his surgeon did it, and take in the puncture-slash looking worse than before: it's pink and oozing clear fluid. But you're assured that this is the most sanitary way of doing things, that it forms the best seal against bad air and, in conjunction with a good bandage and herbal powders similar to the ones the field surgeon applied, you should be healed up in no time.

But the area around the injury grows redder and redder in a few more days, and you begin to feel chills. Now, you're given a compress for your forehead, and are bloodlet in your armpits, ankles, below the nipples, your flanks, your nethers and your temples. Everything hurts. You can walk with a crutch.

The 3rd comes around and the church bells ring. This is not good. You're stable but certainly unwell.

You'll have to…

[] attend the Convocation and all further meetings.

At the end of the day, God will either keep you or He won't, and there's no telling how Zamoyski could twist the narrative down there, and that's only the tip of it. The Ostrogski Princes won't be listened to on account of your youth, and there's only so much the rumor mill of soldiers and ladies and poets can cook up in your favor. Besides, showing up illness-stricken from a war wound? That's honorable and brave.

[] Work from bed.

Better safe than sorry – you're on physician's orders to rest. You'll have to work via letter, holding audiences with those willing to come see you, and through the intelligence reports of Marszowski and Mariana. People won't think any less of you for this, but if you're not there, you're not there.

 

[Rolman]

The air in your chamber is cool, as it has been for a week or so. It chills the sweat on your brow, makes the compresses on your forehead dry and sticky.

"This could kill you, you could exsanguinate unduly," says the German physician in flowing Latin, his surgeon beside him. "And it may not right your humors, either. But the flesh is only dead in just one spot – you still have a chance."

He has explained the procedure – an experimental thing – designed for wounds produced by shot rather than by stabbing, so as to remove the poison that is gunpowder. He has a theory that the knife with which you were stabbed was contaminated due to the presence of gunsmoke and spilled powder, or that at least this method could draw out some other sort of unknown toxin. The physician Brunschwig devised the treatment almost eighty years ago, but never before has it been applied in such a manner: your cauterized wound will be reopened, drained of blood and pus, and swabbed with a cotton seton soaked in oil of garlic, cloves, and oregano, combined with a touch of honey. Then, a page will be taken out of the book of Paré (whom you fondly recall from the Louvre, giving you no small amount of confidence) and Paracelsus. While the latter disagreed with the principle of suppuration – this physician does not – the usual treatment of boiling oil or re-cauterization will instead be replaced with suturing once more, followed by the application of a bandage soaked in turpentine, pork lard, and egg yolks. Then, you will be surrounded with roses and herbs and other good-smelling things, bloodlet once more, and left to rest. At least, that's what you should be doing – but you've got work to do. You'll be on crutches, but you must make it to the Convocation.

"It will be extremely painful, start to finish," says the physician. "I recommend you get drunk beforehand."

You swallow. "I have to do it," you say. "I have to get my strength back. I trust you, medicus. Stay here and prepare your tools – give me a moment, though."

"Of course, Your Serene Highness," the learned man nods.

You send a servant for Mariana, Marszowski, and two bottles of strong German wermut.

Mariana arrives first, in her Austrian-inspired court attire, radiant as usual. You smile at her; she returns a weary one. "Pull up a chair," you say.

She begins to carry one over to your bedside. "God, you look so pale," she says. "Pale but so red." She places a hand on your cheek – you feel a good kind of warm. "Burning up."

"The Virgin will protect me," you say. "Either that, or I can only hope to die well and happy."

"Don't say that!" she exclaims, nearly half-angry. You sense her fear. "You're young, you can beat it back. The humors are strong in young folk."

"It's true, but look at me," you say. "I need to start making peace with my situation. I've seen strong soldiers die in one night and two days, stronger men than me."

"You call on me to tell me you're ready to die," she says, voice wavering. You can't read her face. "That's cruel, Stanisław. Even if the Reaper takes who he wishes, and at any age, that's cruel."

The servant stands furtively in the doorway, bottles and glasses in hand. It almost looks like the poor man is trying to inch out of sight.

"Enter, enter," you say, waving him in. "A glass for myself and the Princess."

"Right away. Would His and Her Serene Highnesses like to be left undisturbed?" he asks as he brings over a small table, removes the wooden stopper from the first bottle, and begins to pour carefully. Poor fellow, ever so tactful. Servants are smart like that.

"Yes, please," you say. "Shut the door behind you and knock when you've retrieved Sir Marszowski."

"Of course, Your Serene Highness."

You effortfully begin to sit up to retrieve your glass, but Mariana hands it to you without a word. She doesn't seem angry necessarily, just…

Tell her what's happening. "I'm having surgery performed on me today, in a few hours. We'll all drink to loosen up, toughen up – you, me, Marszowski, all of us," you say. "I want the two of you here with me in case something happens."

"Oh," she says, blinking rapidly. You explain the procedure. "Well, it sounds… I don't know how it sounds, that's for physicians. Turpentine works! I had a bad cut once when I was a girl."

You take a greedy swig of the wermut. Mariana matches you. You smack your lips at its strong herbal bitterness: it would be improper to have a lady throw back gorzała, and this is the runner-up in terms of strength. "You used to drink too much," she says.

"I did."

"If I had the servants give you this stuff instead of French red…" she chuckles and smiles, but looks utterly weary.

"Have you been sleeping?" you ask.

"Not quite." You haven't shared a chamber since you've had to be bundled up like this. "I just sit there waiting for a priest to call on me." You squint. "So I can be there when you die."

"Oh."

"Indeed."

You tip back the glass again and shiver. "Well," you smile, "I wouldn't mind going out seeing your face before the ceiling opens up."

"You're a gentleman," she says, probably sincere. "That's what you think it's like? The ceiling opens up?"

"Yes. And Gabriel and Michael and Raphael come down and carry you out of your body. And then you see His face, His Son and Mother by His side."

"That's grand," she says. "I always thought it would be more like… Have you ever had a dream where you see yourself?"

"No."

"I imagine there's a blink," she says, "the final blink, the closing of the eyes for the last time." She extends a palm, looking past you. "And then you're standing next to your body, and the Savior comes down and you take Him by the hand. There will be a flight of stairs." It's like she's staring out to sea.

"Perhaps it's because I was raised a prince that I think there'd be a fanfare," you muse.

"Perhaps. But again," she at last looks at you, "I don't think it's your time yet." She sucks her lips in. "I don't want it to be."

You cock back your glass and finish it. "Mariana, do you love me?"

"Love you?" She smiles broadly. She's glad you asked, you think, but: "Stanisław, I hardly know you. It's been two years and you spent a good deal of it, well… It's not like we're serfs who grew up together–"

"We met at a dance like peasants do," you tease. You're not offended. You know you acted a fool somewhat. Even if it was to glorify God.

"But I do fancy you, fool. And I always have." She sighs. "Lying with you is…" Her eyes hood slightly.

You snort, feeling a bit like the cock of the walk, pleasing memories of ecstasy flashing behind your eyes. "I just wish it didn't open my stitches. What a mess this has become."

She chuckles, but looks guilty. "I shouldn't have…"

"No, no, don't blame yourself."

She stares into your eyes. "Well, do you love me?"

You exhale a half-laugh of disbelief, shocked by the fact that you do not know. And that's what you say. "I don't know."

"Charming. Gentlemanly, even."

"I'm sorry!" you exclaim to the tune of her laughter. "There were girls in France who threw themselves at me, but I never wanted it. Courtesans, bold ladies-in-waiting, older women… I just… didn't," you say. "But when I saw you down that feasting table, it was the first time I really, truly, wanted someone." That's how you remember it. A want.

"You've never seen a prostitute? When you were a bachelor, that is?"

"No. Why do you think I was so shaky when I first had you in my hands?"

She hums. "Yes, I do recall making the first moves…"

"Oh, shut it, don't rub it in." You remember her taking off that corset as clear as day, how you reached out for her in the middle of the night and found her body. Breath mingling, heat mixing. She smelled of rosemary and lavender. "It was good."

"Yes, yes it was. The older ladies told me not to expect much growing up. Men don't know that we speak of such things." You're a little shocked at the thought of ladies talking of sex amongst themselves. "But it was good."

She reaches out and strokes your cheek. "So…" there's that tone again. The kind that raises the hair on your neck in a good way. "So, you may love me."

"I don't know," you say once more.

"It's proper for a man to love a woman, but for his love to remain aloof," she says, leaning in closer and closer to your face.

"Dark Age chivalry," you say, suddenly approaching flusteredness.

"Dark Age chivalry," she agrees, "some kind of Western romance."

She kisses you, deep and long, humming into it. She withdraws and taps your nose. Are those tears in her eyes? "So don't you die on me yet, knight. Prince. I want you to keep wanting me."

You feel like several different colors at once, and forget that you're sick. You lean in for more and thump-thump-thump. Mariana draws back quickly, smooths out the ruffles in her dress. They're here.

"Enter," you call out, more than a little annoyed, as your wife rises to her feet.

You haven't seen Marszowski in a good bit, and he definitely isn't looking great. He's skinny and pale, red-eyed and blemished like a young lad. "Your Serene Highness!" he exclaims; if you could only hear his voice, you'd be none the wiser. He strides up to your bedside, kisses a smiling Mariana's extended hand, and then bows low before you. "You're still with us yet!"

"So far, so good," you croak. "And you look half-dead!" you manage to joke.

"I don't know what's worse, the Pox or the mercury, but I'm not partial to meeting my Creator at the moment," Marszowski says. "Goddamned teeth are starting to get loose. But the rashes are gone."

"Are you in pain?"

"Oh, yes," your fencing master smiles. "Tingling, burning… But it's far from the first time I've found myself in the possession of suffering." Mortification is a good thing, after all, a gift from God in a backwards way – you try to remind yourself that.

"God bless you, sir," says Mariana. "I can see why my husband admires you." Ha! You're jealous! She means absolutely nothing by that, you know.

"Well," you declare, pointing to the bottles. "This wermut won't drink itself. I'm having a surgery performed today, Sir Marszowski."

"Wise prince to get drunk for it," he nods knowingly. "Nasty business. God willing, it brings you back."

"Indeed," you say, Mariana handing you another glass

And, indeed, the three of you try to keep things light as possible, talking about anything and everything: the leaves of the trees changing color, the birds flying off to wherever they go – and theorizing whether they change their shape for the winter or simply live elsewhere – the goings-on of the Sejm camp, the gossip amongst the magnates' wives. Laughter builds and you feel warm through your fever's chill, like your belly has turned into a gently-burning oven. Your head is light and it's hard to repress your smile.

You muster up the courage at last. "All good things must come to an end," you say. "Servant!" you address the man waiting diligently by the door. "Summon the physician and surgeon."

They arrive with their bags of tools. Your blanket-bundle is unwrapped and lowered to reveal your naked body. God, you can see your ribs, your stomach looks sucked in. You're pale. And that leg. Yellow and red and purple for the span of about a fist's worth, a little black bullseye appearing where the cauter struck it. It stings, exposed to the open air. Mariana covers her mouth, reaching out for your hand and squeezing it, worry in her eyes but not a trace of disgust. Marszowski cocks his head and grimaces.

The surgeon hands you a thick leather strap as the physician places a pan between your legs. "Bite down, Your Serene Highness."

You do. The physician speaks cooly and calmly. "Surgeon, apply ligatures above the knee and below the hip," he says in Latin.

"Yessir."

You exhale through your nose as your wounded thigh is exposed to pressure from below and above, squeezing it by proxy. Mariana continues to grip your hand. Is that your sweat or hers?

"Make the incisions and shear off the dying flesh," says the physician. "Take care around the artery."

You stop watching and begin to groan, fixating on the ceiling as your inner thigh is set alight with stabbing pain. Tears well unbidden in your eyes. Mariana hisses. Marszowski mutters an oath.

"Express the wound, surgeon."

"Yessir."

Ah! Pressure, pressure, awful pressure! He's squeezing hard. You knit your brow and moan, and you slam your free hand into the sheets and grip hard. They speak amongst themselves in German, sounding focused.

"Good, good, much pus and little blood. That's a good sign, my lord. The cleansing seton, surgeon."

You writhe in place, almost howling, hurting your teeth on the strap. He must be stretching out the wound. "Hold his leg, hold his leg," says the physician, as you feel further pressure on your knee. There's a burning now, layered atop the stabbing and the pushing and the aching. It's exquisite in its horrendousness. "Just a moment more, Your Serene Highness."

"It's looking better, lord prince," says Marszowski. Is he just saying that?

"Remember to breathe, remember to breathe," adds your wife. "Breathe deep, like a birthing woman."

"Surgeon, begin to suture the wound."

Your breathing slows as the stabbing turns to a mere burn – a very relative thing. You're sweating hard and your vision's tunneled, light in the head beyond what the wermut could do to you. You're able to be a bit more quiet, now raggedly growling. You feel your skin tightening up with every rise of the surgeon's arm, just barely visible in your lower periphery. There's a fly on the ceiling. You realize you've been digging your nails into Mariana's palm, and you untense your hand as much as you can afford to.

"Well-stitched, surgeon," compliments the physician. "Apply the bandage. This will sting, Your Serene Highness."

"Mhm. Mhm," you say through your grimacing face and biting teeth. You feel your leg raised by a pair of hands, and you hiss as the cloth makes contact with your leg. Indeed, that's quite a sting. But it's not the worst bit of the ordeal. You pull a clump of bedsheet into your hand once more as the bandages tighten with each revolution around your thigh, before your leg is gingerly placed back onto the bed. It's fiery-feeling and stinging indeed, no doubt about that, but you no longer feel the need to bite the strap. This you can handle. You remove the leather from your mouth yourself. "Holy Virgin, oh, Jesus, wow…" you laugh the kind of laugh that you can only produce in or after battle, as you've recently learned.

"Very good, Your Serene Highness," says the physician. "A success."

"Praise God," you say.

The surgeon smiles humbly. "Je le pansai, Dieu le guérit," he says.

You recognize those words. You find the poise in you to switch to French, even though the man's a German. "I knew Seigneur Paré, you know, from my time in France. And I'm glad you know him, too," you say, extending your arm to give him a handshake. May it prove true that he's the best medicus money can buy.

"Well, as I said, only God can truly heal you," he says, raising his cap and swiping a hand through his hair. "But I do try and use the latest techniques."

You're given the customary bloodletting, the surgeon squeezing wounds into his half-full pan from temple to anklebone. A combination of honey and hyssop oil is smeared on your bare chest to provide a good odor, and a bushel of dried sage is placed between your legs. "I must recommend at least several days' bedrest, surrounded by this sanitary air. You are weakened from loss of blood, Your Serene Highness, and further miasma may prove fatal. Infection could start anew."

You shake your head. "No, no. Today's Convocation Day – I must show my face."

"Stani– my lord," stumbles Mariana.

"You're sure of that, Your Serene Highness?" asks Marszowski.

The physician looks stormy, in his eyes a mix of anger and confusion and maybe even a pinch of fear; the surgeon looks bored, tired. "Of course, I cannot stop Your Serene Highness, but it is my strongest medical advice that you remain confined to bed until the bleeding ceases and any swelling goes down."

"Fetch me some crutches," you call out to the servant, fidgeting in place at the end of the room.

"Yes, Your Serene Highness."

The physician sighs and steps back. "Very well, Your Serene Highness." He and the surgeon excuse themselves with terse bows.

The crutches are delivered, you're helped into your heaviest winter clothes, and you hoist yourself to your feet – foot – aided by Mariana and Sir Marszowski. "The good leg is very good," you joke, to their grim laughter. "Just give me a moment, I've never used these things before." Your head is starting to hurt, and it feels as if it only amplifies the grinding ache of your leg. "Call for the entourage, Sir Marszowski, we move out at once."

You turn to Mariana, eyes bigger than usual. "I'll be alright," you say.

"I'm not so sure, honestly. But go with God."

"Thank you."

Your arms shake as you use the crutches and your head pounds harder and harder, beating you to even more hellish heights as you expose yourself to direct sunlight beyond the city gates. You give up as your good leg feels on the verge of buckling. "A chair! A litter. I think I need a litter."

A litter only slightly better than a common stretcher is quickly fashioned, a few pillows placed atop it for comfort. Cold beer is fetched for you, which you greedily drink down. Good for strength, it is; you'll be needing the energy. You're so focused you've forgotten that you're drunk atop it all. Your lieutenants carry you into the sea of colorful tents. You've already missed the opening ceremony.

Men part before you, peering curiously or hailing Ajaks, the wounded hero of Zawadówka. You're taken through the throng to the Senat's meeting place, and carefully deposited in the chair of the Castellan of Orsza, on one of the rearmost benches. Heads turned all the while as you were carried in, and indeed your seat-neighbors now talk to you all at once, hushed and hurried, inquiring about your wellness as much as they congratulate you on your victory. You look down and see a drop of blood blotting through your pantleg. You exhale.

Here, amongst the Senators, you are in a friendly place. Zamoyski and his people are too low-ranking, and the great men of the realm all want a Habsburg – even the men who profess Reformation. Some bishop is already speaking.

"...indeed, we know that it is in the interest of the Crown as much as it is in the interest of the Holy Church to bring about the Archduke as our new…"

You can really hear your own breathing. Thankfully, your lungs and nose and throat have been left alone by the infection. It's hard to concentrate in this state, but you understand that you need only sit here, especially for a meeting of the Senat – save your energy for the general Sejm.

You lean your sweaty head into the back of your chair, and find it hard to stay awake. You check your leg: some blood, but not too much. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Heavy eyelids and a fading, falling sensation. Falling, falling, falling.

It's dark. Shapes and colors, dark green and black-shrouded blue dance across your vision. A distant voice orates. Am I dead?

No, only sleeping, nearly sleeping. You are very weak, and you feel it in all of you: through the wermut-haze you can sense the heaviness of your body, the heat radiating off of your heavy clothes, the way how the tiny, fractional space between skin and fabric might as well be filling with steam. God, I'm sick.

Air out through your nose. Something touches you, jostling you lightly. It's your left shoulder. "...Highness…"

"...Prince…"

You emerge from the depths. "Your Serene Highness." A fellow Castellan is shaking you. "Oh, praise God."

"Thought he was dying," says another Senator quietly, facing backwards in his seat. The bishop has stopped to watch. "You seem very ill, lord prince."

[] Now's your chance!

Hoist yourself up and raise that voice and tell them of your glorious victory, the source of your illness. Sure, it's not the general Sejm, but word travels fast, and lordlings in the crowd always scribble transcripts. Then, hopefully, you can go home for the day.

[] "I'm alright." Call out to the bishop: "please continue!"

Don't draw attention to yourself. You could kill for some water or weak beer. All you need to be is *here.*

[] "Honorable Senators, I think I must excuse myself."

Why lie? They all can see it. This was a bad idea.