Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

[Rolman]

would Mariana be sticking with Stanislaw too, if he goes to personally visit the beloved mother of the Commonwealth?

Click to shrink...

Ah, I didn't really consider that. Let's say yes, she accompanies, but your audience with the Infanta would be one-on-one

 

[Rolman]

Princess Mariana Sapieha Radziwiłłowa places a finger to her lips as if shushing someone, but what she's really doing is thinking. Thinking, yes, always thinking. Most men don't see it – including Stanisław half the time – but the young lady is burning brightly. She is alone at last.

This world is a lovely orange, she decides, looking out from the carriage into an autumn grove, standing tall beyond some fresh-fallow fields. She will be in Łomża soon. And the air feels orange, too, even if there's a chill. Oh, God, why couldn't I have been born a merchant's girl or even a serf – let me into the woods, damn it, so I can look up at the canopy and spin till it's all one great circle, rings upon rings. Who cares if I'm so dizzy I fall down?

Mariana sighs. There's no one to talk to, but she doesn't mind it a bit. When does a woman of status ever have the chance to forego her ladies-in-waiting? She's pulled strings so that some little Radziwiłł functionary will be her chaperone, a mouse of a nobleman, really, rather than that buoyant Andrzej Marszowski. She can breathe now, be herself. I am what Stanisław wants me to be – his snooping fox, his pretty vixen. Well, it's an easy role to play, at least.

She smiles, half-bitter, thinking of that one-legged fool she can't help but admire. She thinks him a very genuine man, not a peacock like half the szlachta, but she also knows what he wants: her wits, her sarcasm, her sensuality, his Mariana. He loves me and doesn't know why. She suspects he may wish that he was a wife, so to speak, or a monk, or a peasant; Stanisław just wishes that he wouldn't have to do what he has to do. Serf couples look each other in the eye, pick the lice out of each other's hair, throw pitchers and shoes at each other if they have to, no 'my lord' and 'my lady' with them. "Urszula, how's the weaving?" "I told you, Janek, I'll do it once the cow's milked!" Mariana snorts. That's probably what they're like. Stanisław loves to see strength in others because he needs all the help he can get. Herself, Marszowski, even his own father and brothers – Stanisław Radziwiłł, the admirer, the admirable. She finds him pathetic in a deeply endearing way. Pathetic isn't the right word, she thinks, that's cruel. But I've never met a man so nervy and needy. But then a flash of recognition shoots through her mind, pulling her backwards. Orange! Foxes are– heh, perhaps I'm orange.

Mariana Sapieha realizes that she has no clue who she is, really. She realizes that she's always been something to someone else – some thing, some thing – and that she only comes into herself at rare moments such as these, when there are no eyes on her, when she may ride alone in a carriage. Even sharing a bed with Stanisław ruins it. His hand on her thigh, their legs tangling in a half-sleep, she becomes someone else for him. My name's not even Mariana, she thinks. Lord help me, I think in Polish these days. My name is Maryna. Maryna, she repeats, switching into the language of her mother and father. I am Maryna Sapieha of the Lis, glory to God.

Maryna crosses her arms and begins to think once more. She is once again a pawn: in this case, to remind another woman, much older, that she, too, is a pawn, and always has been, and always will be. Could life be different? Is there such a thing as a free woman? That's an Amazon, or an Indian with bare breasts. Maryna grew up buried in a book, reading of just such strange people. No one was around to tell her no. Father was sixty-four when he had her, and Mother didn't live very long after. I never talk about her, nor Stanisław about his mother. Maryna groans. Stanisław! It's always about Stanisław! Stroking his hair and staring at his stump and climbing atop him to ride him, always giving him what he wants. Maryna wants children, and Stanisław wants them to look like her, act like her, bear her birth-sign – he said it himself. Why is it my master worships *me?* The least he could do is…

When has he ever been in the position to listen? He fawns over his wife, but never has made an effort to do so. Like I'm his favorite hound or a little toy for him, boy-child, to cling to. Stanisław does not call Maryna by her name. They spoke Ruthenian with each other the day they met, and never again. Imagine if Almighty God placed Himself at the feet of His children, asking to learn from them, she thinks.

But men are not God, nor are they gods; Maryna knows this. And still she cannot answer the question of why. Why is it that Eve failed as she did, and why is it that now, through all of creation and time, have men decided that this is cause for skepticism, for hatred, for punishment? Why is it that God, in His power and in His all-consuming wholeness, his sophia, decide that He Himself would be a man? What man has given birth to anything? Maryna crosses herself dutifully, but without real regret for thinking such things. She hates that, even in this moment of quiet, this moment of self, it has circled back to her duties: husband, mothering, servitude. And she wishes she knew that there could be more to think about. With effort, she sets her mind on Franciscus de Vitoria, how he spoke of the New World Indians and how that, inferior as they may be, they possess the ownership of themselves, for God made it so that Indian would rule Indian from the outset of His plan. Was it God or was it Saint Paul that made it so a woman should learn in quietness? Any woman can be seduced, even the first one – as can any man, save for Christ.

The carriage trundles to a halt. Maryna can hear the birds, the wind through the trees. Her chaperone appears at the door and she becomes Princess Mariana once more.

"Your Serene Highness," he says, "we've arrived."

Lady Sapieha could give a damn about the pageantry, the rolled out Persian carpet, the servants and the wine and the fine food – none of that matters. At a feasting table, she cocks her head slightly and takes in the Infanta, sitting at the head of the table.

Not so pretty… Forehead is bulbous, the skin too white (if there can be such a thing), eyes too dark, hair can't decide whether to be blonde or red. She frowns at thinking about her in this way generally, but especially because the so-called spinster princess brings a gravitas with her. That cannot be denied. There are those who, by virtue of their position, are constantly and consistently, unfailingly heard. Infanta Anna would certainly be one such person. But Mariana sees something else, for she has to by virtue of becoming Mariana once more: it's subtle, in the way that people lean in when Anna speaks, for her voice doesn't necessarily project much. They remain leaned in for just a bit too long; they are listening. And not even the most powerful men are necessarily listened to, not all the time.

To Mariana, all the pleasantries and formalities are a blur, a smear across today and a smudge in her memory; it is only after dark that she is granted an audience with the Infanta, one-on-one. Mariana finds her sitting at a desk, surrounded by letters and still in full courtly attire.

"Enter, enter," says Anna, sounding tired, pulling with her hand. "It has been a pleasure, lady princess."

A small chuckle of nervousness from the younger woman. "Is Your Highness joking?"

The Infanta smiles. "That business in the main hall is awfully boring," she says, cracking a little smile. "You detected my lie. But you? I am rather interested in you."

Mariana decides to hang back. "Thank you, Your Highness, I am honored to have such august eyes on me."

"You're young, you're pretty, a good conversationalist, though I could detect your boredom," Anna chuckles. "But I also know why you're here. Don't play coy."

Mariana nods. Honesty shall be what drives things forward, then. "Indeed, I come as a representative of the family, on behalf of my husband, His Serene Highness the Prince Stanisław, and his father, His Serene Highness the Prince Mikołaj, the one they call the Red," she says.

"And these men must reckon that this is a woman's job? Or that you, lady princess, would somehow soften me?"

"Maybe, Your Highness," says Mariana. "I more thought that it would be because when two women talk, they never think it could be anything serious. It's a safeguard, of sorts."

"Indeed," says Anna, looking as intrigued as she does understanding, her smile returning. "We are merely speaking of the trends in dresses and caps, or about men with broad shoulders. Surely, some will understand the ruse, but…"

Mariana laughs quietly, breathily. She is suppressing her nerves. "I suppose we ought to unwrap the bandage, then. I have come to inquire about the prospect of marriage between Your Highness and the Archduke Maciej."

The Infanta removes her cap and sweeps a hand over her taut, tied-back hair. She hums. "Well, why would I want to do that, lady princess?"

[] "Because he will prove easy to control, Your Highness."

Straight to the point.

[] "Because Prince Batory is too old to treat you with respect, Your Highness."

The man may prove too formidable, too wily.

[] "Because the realm needs an educated, wise ruler; that would be you, Your Highness."

Leave it to implication.

[] write-in.

Phrased as a sentence. Recall that you're playing the Princess at the moment; be sure to roleplay accordingly.

 

[Rolman]

Mariana swallows; her mouth and throat are dried-out from the night's wine. She looks to it for courage, facing down the most powerful woman she's ever met. "Whatever my husband told you," she says, "not that." Stanisław told her about his meeting with Anna, how he tried and failed to convince her, and made it into a mere point of propaganda that she would be a legitimizing factor. She wants to hear of a realm her late brother, the King, would be glad to pass down, thinks Mariana.

The Infanta lets out a little chuckle and raises her eyebrows. The other princess presses on: "because… Because the Archduke is young, and healthy, and from a family healthy enough to marry into half the titles in Christendom, Your Highness" she says. "Because the right pacts and bargains made now, God willing, would serve the Twin Nations for fifty years, a hundred years – all of Maciej's natural life and beyond." Which will, of course, be longer than yours, Your Highness. "The throne would be occupied for decades, by a young man who will be made a Pole by absorption, keeping the realm stable for years to come." She feels like an orator. She is. She hopes. "Your Highness, How long may we expect Prince Batory to live; how long would it really be after his crowning that we would be met with yet another Sejm? Yet more instability?" she asks. Rhetoric! Like a man! Mariana would be excited to try her hand at this were she also not so nervous. But she's doing it because she has to, perhaps just like her husband.

Infanta Anna smiles, eyes downcast with thought – she nodded along all the while through Mariana's first ever little speech, and continues to do so. A moment passes before she looks up to meet Mariana's gaze. "Lady princess, you seem to not understand that I have no desire for real power. Personal power, that is. A queen-consort will always wield half a scepter, of course, whether her husband wills it or not."

"Indeed," says Mariana. "The higher a man is, the higher his wife. A little landlord's lady has very little to do, I'd imagine."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," replies the Infanta, "once your husband comes into some land, some wealth of his own, you'd be shocked to see the amount of work a wife must pick up when he's not on his estates. I've been around for a long while. We can always be more than ornaments and bargaining chips."

"It's awfully difficult."

"Awfully," Anna agrees. "I'm unwed at fifty-two because they could never sell me to just the right man. I'm used to sitting and waiting. You – you're young, you're powerfully-wed; you'll have your chance." She waves her hand. "But that's all digression, forgive me."

Well, this is perplexing. "Your Highness says all this, but still isn't desirous of real power? I could never bear being a plaything for decades," says Mariana, hoping that she didn't offend just now – it sort of just slipped out.

"No, no, you misunderstand me, lady princess," replies the Infanta, looking almost shocked. "I hated it, but now? I'm a little tired of it all. I am content to weave and play cards, or, at least, I am resigned to such a prison. Though I make my presence known," she adds with a hint of pride. "The prospect of co-ruling intrigues, I'll confess, but it does not excite." Mariana stares. "You still seem confused: I'm much more interested in preserving the legacy of my family. I said I care not for personal power."

"Your Highness wishes to uphold the legacy of His Royal Majesty the King Zygmunt August and his august father?"

"Yes. Why, lady princess, do you think that I committed so much of my inheritance to the Royal Castle, to the great bridge at Warszawa, and to the mausoleum of my dear brother?" she asks, from her tone not expecting an answer. "I will be the last of the direct line of Władysław Jagiełło and Jadwiga to reside in their ancestral homelands. My sisters are far away. I must act as my brother and father would."

Perhaps Infanta is to Anna as Mariana is to Maryna, thinks the younger princess. Everything here is family, blood, and the honor and dignity of menfolk. But this is the position Anna has staked for herself, it seems. Is this what noble spinsters are like? No, thinks Mariana, they are all different. Like anybody.

"I cannot and will not speak for the dead, especially not those so noble as our departed monarchs," says Mariana diplomatically. "But stability, a guiding hand – Your Highness could help mold one of the finest kings the land has ever known, in the image of Your Highness' family."

"But does the Prince Batory not possess the experience of rulership and leadership, on the battlefield and in a court?"

"He does," Mariana concedes, "he does. But such men are set in their ways, are they not? He will rule this place as he rules Transylvania, for better or for worse. In the Archduke we have a clean slate, who can reliably live for forty, fifty, sixty years. His will have for himself an entire era, rather than a singular generation."

"And he is, what, eighteen years of age? He is hardly grown; how may he turn out by the time he's thirty? We know Prince Batory to be fully-formed."

"But that is where Your Highness will become the mother of the nation."

The Infanta snorts. "The rumors of my fertility are untrue," she says. "I don't know why I confide this in you. I will mother nothing."

"But Your Highness will mother him," says Mariana. She smiles. "Your Highness knows how young men crave mothers."

Anna looks toward her notes, and takes a sip from a goblet resting on the table. "I will be wed to whoever the Sejm deems fit. And call me Anna, may I refer to you as…"

"And let that man be Matthias Habsburgiensis, Archidux Austriae," Mariana nearly interrupts. "...Anna," she adds furtively. "And 'Maryna.' It's my Ruthenian name, my birth name."

"Well, Maryna, your proposal intrigues me. You're wiser than your husband, I dare say."

Princess Sapieha grins, almost grimaces at what may well be the truth of it. Anna goes on: "I cannot make a public declaration, it would throw the Sejm into chaos, and undo the honor of my male protectors."

"Of course." That is the truth of it. Maryna thinks back to the day her father told her that it would be Stanisław. A mix of dread and elation that it would be the one she -- however vaguely -- fancied. A fine family, power for her own people; she felt like a queen. A powerless, powerful queen.

"Tell me, do you weave?" asks Anna.

"On occasion," replies Maryna, honest. "I've made a tapestry or two. I did it more of it when I was a virgo."

"Do not give up on it," says Anna. You sound like an aunt, a grandmother. Not a bad thing. "It is a valuable skill. It teaches one discretion, patience, and the importance of laying each thread slowly, carefully. Tell me, what do you know of the Archduke's character?"

"Well," thinks Maryna, "he's no weaver. He's fiery, hungry – a third son. Did you hear of his remarks at Stężyca? Third sons are always a little adrift, wanting to grab on to something and hold; I married one," she chuckles.

Anna returns the laugh. "Oh, Maryna, you should have been born a man. Astute," she says. "Astute. You'd do well in a Sejm. Reading them is half the battle."

"I don't wish to imply that Your High– that you would need to make a decision, Lady Anna."

"Perhaps he will be domineering, though; you overlook that. The relative meekness, if I may say so, of your husband…"

"But what if he's scared? Acting as a peacock does," says Maryna. She loves to call them peacocks – that's all they are, sometimes, vibrant colors and great feathers hiding the fact that they are merely birds. And only little different from a peahen in behavior, manners, flesh, the Gospels, Mariana dares to think, be damned. This is life.

"He will surely take mistresses. You know what peacocks are like, Maryna. And that's where his ear will truly lie."

"My lady Anna, you will be queen nevertheless."

"Maybe so. And, again," she sighs, "I don't know why I feel the need to be so honest: your proposal has interested me. What of the Turks?"

This woman is smart. She must have time to read – like Maryna used to; the life of an unwed woman allows for much time-biding. She is speaking for the dead. "The Sejm will take care of that," replies Maryna. "They would never allow for such a foreign entanglement."

"But, I am confused, Maryna," she says, enunciating the words just a bit too hard; Maryna reads this confusion as mock in nature. "Will the Sejm govern, will I govern, will the Archduke govern? Who shall it be?"

"All three," says Maryna. "Such is the nature of our government, the men's liberty." For it is the men's, after all. Ah-ha. "It shall be a matter of weaving. We women must be quiet."

Anna nods. "We must be, and it shall be a difficult tapestry to tackle. This is a strange pair of countries, unlike any other in Christendom, any other in the world."

"Lady Anna, you will always have one ear of the Archduke. I don't know if the same could be said of Prince Batory." She feels courage in her breast, a willingness to speak plainly now. "I have advised my lord Stanisław more than once, done work for him that should be a man's. If I was wedded off to some old bachelor – he wouldn't listen."

"Maybe so, maybe so."

"Young men need mothers," Maryna reemphasizes. "Whether they have one or not. He will cling to his bedfellow, even if he takes on other ones. Mater Archiducis, Mater Poloniae."

"You sound regal speaking Latin, Maryna," smiles Anna. "Surely your husband will have the ear of the Archduke, should he win?"

"He would." Boldness, boldness, boldness – say it! "And may I have yours. I swear by the Trinity that you will have me for a friend, Anna, no matter what happens. With our husbands' help, we may form a faction together."

"You are a brave young lady, Maryna, and smart, too," she says. "But do not try to tempt me on such matters. Shall I repeat myself as to where my interests lie?"

"I… I'm sorry, Your Highness."

"My name is Anna," she says flatly. "We have established that. But, perhaps I shall be a link between the old and new, the aged and the young. This youthful clique that would form – the young Ostrogski lads, your husband, Jan Firlej's sons, still at their studies in the Empire." She's swaying! "They will need good women."

"There has been talk of the marriage between Jan Zamoyski and the sister of Prince Mikołaj Kryzsztof – the one they call Sierotka," divulges Maryna. It's a gamble; even Stanisław is tight-lipped on the matter. "Anna – we are poised to form a strong new order. An order of young men, ruled by law, custom, tolerance, their consciences and the liberty so newly established. They are scions that would make His late Royal Majesty proud," she is at last willing to say.

"The Radziwiłłowie dream of undoing the Union of Lublin."

"But will that ever come to pass?" asks Maryna. Surely she must know that the Sapiehowie straddle that line. "I'm not so sure. The Crownlanders in government will form a counterweight to my husband and his father and brothers. There will be unity between the Crown and Grand Duchy," she says, feeling bullish, mannish, steel-strong. A good feeling. "And it will be the Archduke and yourself that will form the glue. Prince Batory wields a mace against his foes; he would treat his opponents here as he would his foes in Transylvania. Just because his estates elected him doesn't mean that he will rule as an elected man."

"And the Habsburgs are such models of consensus and liberty?" snorts Anna.

"They are not. But the Archduke knows not of such things. He wishes to become a Polonian."

"We shall see, Maryna," is all the older woman says. She reaches for her goblet again.

"We shall, Lady Anna. And you will be there in any case."

"I will be."

"And let you be there as your own woman," says Maryna. "As a true Queen of Poland and Grand Duchess of Lithuania. Not as some man's lynchpin of legitimacy."

Anna scratches at the corner of her lip. "We shall see," she repeats.

Maryna, becoming Princess Mariana once more, knows that Anna would be a fool to divulge her intentions. But she also knows that the realm will hear of it, in whispers and rumors, in servants' halls spreading to the lesser courtiers to the greater ones and then onward to the Sejm. And may the young Lady Radziwiłłowa be the one to have convinced her.

"You may take your leave, Maryna," says the Infanta. She looks warm. "You are a formidable young lady. And persuasive."

[] One last push, one last push.

Perhaps it's pride, thinks Mariana, but I want to hear her say it.

[] Disengage.

Leave her to her decision.

 

[Rolman]

Maryna became Princess Mariana once more before she even had to speak to Stanisław again. She felt this, and was dismayed. She was an errand girl. Speaking to an elders – an errand girl, speaking of the nature of the men they know – an errand girl. She cannot strike that thought from her mind. A tool for the House of Radziwiłł. A part of her wishes she didn't (seemingly) succeed: surely, she will be greeted with elation from her husband, but then she will return to the so-called ladylike things of dancing, small talk, and looking pretty. It was over in a flash; she has arrived back at Warszawa in five days. Barely enough time to think, as she is want to do.

She finds Stanisław laid up in bed as he often is, the physicians excusing themselves after checking for infection and changing out the plaster cast as they often have.

---

There she is! You smile broadly at the sight of her, dressed this time around in the Ruthenian garb of her mother and grandmother, dressed for the growing chill: fur hat, embroidered fur coat – a more modest figure cut than her corseted, ruffed, chesty Austrian look. You miss that; she looked so… Devilish.

She returns the warm expression. "Stanisław," is all she says, accepting your embrace. "Any news on the leg?"

"Still healing marvelously," you say, grateful to God. "almost completely closed up, and they say that the false leg they made for me in Kraków is on the way."

"Are you excited?"

"Well, of course I'm excited!" you exclaim. Though you've been warned, too. "They say it will not be so easy as merely standing up and walking, though. Someone finally told me about the challenge of stairs."

Mariana sits at the foot of your bed and draws a hand down your remaining leg, over the covers. "Well, hm, of course it won't be easy, but I know you can do it."

You can't wait any further: you feel a need to get down to business with haste. "So… how did it go?"

"Well, as you may or may not know…" what's she mean by that? "...the Princess Anna is smart. Very smart."

You're not sure what to say. "Mhm."

"And so she said nothing meaningful, made no promises," says Mariana. "But her concerns lie in the preservation of the Jagiellonian name, and of the works of her brother and father," she explains. Yes, I recall her being as such. Though she was not so kind to me. Women talking to women… Pay attention! "But it seemed like I may have won her over, talked some of the benefits of the Archduke's potential ascension into her." Mariana makes a face, slides her jaw to one side. "She wants power, but not… power-power. Not for herself, that is."

"Her legacy."

"The legacy of her family, yes," Mariana says – a gentle correction. "She's rather selfless in that regard. So, I reminded her that the Archduke's youth doesn't just mean pliability, but longevity." God, she's smart, isn't she? A cut above, truly. "A long-lived king is a long-lived rule are long-lived policies, aims, and pacts. And the Habsburgs are no slouches, either."

You exhale in a half-laugh and smile broadly. "Mariana, you're…"

"Yes, you're welcome," she teases. "We'll only know til unconfirmed reports begin to spread. But I think I made a compelling argument on behalf of the family."

"You're wonderful," you say, stars in your eyes.

She shakes her head. "I can play at diplomat, whisperer."

"You're a fox!"

She rolls her eyes. "One small thing, and I hope you're not upset: I teased the idea of Zamoyski's marriage to Krystyna." She let slip that prospect of my cousin and..! "Don't be angry! I brought it up solely as an idea, in an effort to let her know that peace between the Sejm factions would be solidified, no matter who wins."

"That's big news you let out…"

"I needed a trump card," says Mariana. "The Infanta is a woman of confidence and discretion; she'll only tell if it benefits her. Such a union benefits the realm, in my opinion. That's why I told."

Women are… How could she say such a thing? Just let it out? Though, ladies talking to ladies – you don't know. How could you? But women! They always blab, always tell each other their little secrets! Your mouth hangs open, ever so slightly; you close it when you realize.

Mariana chuckles. "Oh, Stanisław," she says, breaking out the honey, "don't you trust me?" Even with this… this eyelash-batting – I do.

You exhale. "I truly hope you know what you're doing."

Your wife nods. "Perhaps it would be wise to speak with Zamoyski to seal the deal? Though you surely ought to speak to cousin Sierotka first. He's her guardian, after all." Something flickers across Mariana's face. You're not sure what.

"Hmm…" you begin thinking.

"Three days left till the Election Sejm," says Mariana, sounding as if she's speaking of an equinox or solstice. "Those are an important three days."

"Kiss me," you say, unsure why you just said it. Huh? There's just something so… When she shows off those brains, you…

She obliges you, and hangs close to your face. "What do you think you'll do with them?"

[] Begin to spread rumors of Anna's preference.

It's perhaps a little bold, but it sounds like Mariana did some truly great work. What's the harm in whispering about something that's probably going to happen – even if the news is delayed by a week or two.

[] Remain silent regarding Anna; deliver a speech on the Archduke's merits instead.

The lordlings cannot resist good rhetoric. This could serve as a final push to throw the lower and middle noble classes – usually pro-Piast – into full disarray.

[] Remain silent regarding Anna; meet with the Archbishop-Interrex and the Papal Nuncio, Vincenzo Lauro.

While the clergy at large is staunchly pro-Habsburg, it would be good to coordinate with the Interrex and the Papal representative to lay the groundwork for a declaration of the Archduke as king.

[] Remain silent regarding Anna; meet with Zamoyski – after speaking with Sierotka – regarding his potential marriage into the Radziwiłłowie.

This could be a major peacekeeping gesture and, God willing, a means of placating the chief of the Piast camp in preparation for his concession of defeat..

[] Remain silent in general. Wait for the beginning of the Election Sejm on the 7th.

Keep quiet and stay put. There's no point in sticking out your neck for any reason whatsoever, especially if things to be going the way they are.

[] write-in.

In the vein of the above decisions – recall that you're working with three days of time.

 

[Rolman]

You are humming. Vibrating, perhaps, but not shaking. An opening to deliver a speech has come. You are emerging, appearing from the crowds of senators and lords high and low and into the clearing where the speakers go. You move slowly, trying not to be clumsy or slip into the Sejm camp's mud with your one leg. Every arm-straining step forward on your crutches count; even if men wouldn't laugh in your face were you to stumble – how could they? – you must show yourself to be as strong as ever. A hush slides like a wave over the crowd as you make your way to the center, spreading front-to-back. The Sejm Marshal Sienicki, though a Piast, nods to you with respect, and rises from his seat; the other seated ministers and clergymen and whoever else had the opportunity to obtain a chair stand, too. Your supporters begin to applaud, hailing Stanisław "Ajax," while your detractors merely clap.

In, out. You have spent the past three days watching the ebb and flow of the Sejm in relative silence, taking notes by day and forming a skeleton for your speech by night. The rhetorical lines of both factions have changed very little. Everything should go according to plan.

"My lords," you yell out, placing yourself in the lower register of your voice, trying to boom. "Before liberty and our God do we stand here today, the first day of the exercising of our inviolable and sacred rites to the election of the king!" Who can't cheer to that?

You recall your notes on how to begin after this little preamble:

[] With a story of the Romans (Rolman picks).

[] With a story of the Romans (write-in).

[] With a story from the Book (Rolman picks).

[] With a story from the Book (write-in).

[] No need for flair – speak of the practicalities straightforwardly.

 

[Rolman]

"Nec enim musculis, celeritate, nec arte corporis res grandes conficiuntur, sed consilio, gravitate, et iudicio," you enunciate like a churchman. "So said the great Cato regarding the worth of men." You smirk; a part of you loves the enrapturement of the audience, the rush of a thousand ears listening – you're like a thespian. That's all this is. "And, furthermore, did Aeneas not say unto Achates: quae regio in terris nostri non plena laboris?"

Pause, you think, pause for effect. People seem perplexed. Good. "Laboris… laboris…" you muse aloud, theatrically. "People have taken that word in more than one way. 'Calamities,' 'trials,' 'struggles,' for Troy was laid low, of course, and Pius knew that all the world knew of this tragedy. A grim thing to say. But what if we interpret laboris by its most simple translation? 'Works,' 'labors.'"

"Then," you say, "Aeneas was speaking proudly: 'which place on this earth is not full of our work?' Full, that is to say, filled with a knowledge, an understanding, a looking-to: Mater Polonia et Soror Lithuania stand above, beyond, and beside all other lands upon this earth, Christian and Mohammatan, Indian and Antarctic, higher still than that empire of far Cathay. For what is it that we have that they have not?" You extend your arms and bow your head: speak to me, brothers.

Freedom! they scream, unified for but a moment.

"We stand now as Aeneas did before untamed Italia – not with malice or conquest in our hearts, for we never desire to dominate our fellow man, only take what is ours – no, we stand instead as colonists, as settlers, reaching out into a world that desires not our liberty, nor holds respect for our Nobles' Republic!" you cry.

"This is a young liberty; we all know this. Young as a child, not even ten years of age. And we now find ourselves beset by the Eastern tyrants: by the so-called Caesar, Antichrist of Moskwa, and by the heathen hordes of Tartary!"

You clear your throat.

[] Speak of vanquishing these foes in battle – with Habsburg help.

[] Speak of vanquishing these foes in battle – through the strength of the Twin Nations alone.

[] Speak of the battle in which you lost your leg.

[] Ask them: who do they truly expect to see the homeland guarded?

[] Ask them: who do they truly expect to see the Golden Liberty protected?

[] Continue with Roman analogies. (circle back to the opening Cato quote)

[] Continue with Roman analogies. (write-in)

[] Shift to a Biblical tale. (Rolman picks)

[] Shift to a Biblical tale (write-in)

[] write-in.

This is hardly the end of the speech, bear in mind. Consider each of these choices as a buildup, rather than a 'body paragraph,' so to speak.

 

[Rolman]

"In these heady days of youth, we cannot be overcome with drunkenness at the splendor of the Libertas Aurea, for indeed – and I think we all know this – we indeed tread within choppy waters. We do not struggle to stay afloat, such is our strength, but all matter of sea monsters float about, desirous of our flesh!"

A few opponents of yours have started laughing, cracking jokes. Perhaps you ought to shift into a more serious tone?

"Great Rome found itself assaulted by the Hun," you rumble loudly, "a godless heathen foe of the east, led by a power-hungry maniac named Attila – another story we all know. We are not as weak as the empire in its dying days, but recall well who stood alongside the heirs to the republic as brothers, fighting off the foreign foe: it was the Germans!" Your detractors groan like you just delivered some sort of tasteless punchline. You chuckle a little, feeling colder, trying to make that little laugh quiet enough that people don't catch it, so that they think you're merely smiling at their jests.

"Goth and Frank, Burgundian and Saxon, they stood alongside the august Roman and drove the Hun back into the dark forests, the further plains, that Sarmatia which we now call our beautiful home!" you shout. "But nevermind that mystery of the origin of the Hun – we have found our barbarians to the north and to the east!"

"Recall the savage rapine that the Muscovite armies wrought upon Livionia," you say, "recall their tireless slaving – slaving, for they are but thralls to their dux! – for decades now to overcome fair Lithuania, to drive into beautiful Poland. Our grandfathers and great-grandfathers annihilated the Muscovite horde at Orsza sixty-one years ago last month, and still the tide has not yet been stemmed! They are ruled now by a man more fearful, fearsome, and demented than any hitherto produced – the princes and lords of Muscovy, fine men and brothers in nobility, are cowed by the crook-nosed false Caesar, who put entire cities to the sword in his maddened paranoia!"

We know all this! someone yells, getting told to shut up but still pressing onward. What's your point?

Move, move, say something! "That… That we await now our Catalaunian Fields, our Campus Mauriacus, our final battle with the Muscovite! Let us retake Livonia and, if God wills it, drag the false Caesar by his hair out of his fortress at Moskwa – death to tyrants, death to all enemies of the patria!"

That gets some cheering, for certain. "We see His Imperial Majesty the Emperor–" ah, damn it! A fusillade of boos. Press forward. "The armies of Vienna are great, skilled with pike and with gun large and small. Might I remind you all, gentlemen, of the promise offered up by the candidate-Archduke of military aid in our reclamation of Livonia?" you ask, listening to yourself echo, just barely audible above the din of grumbling. "Who may oppose the might of the Empire combined with our own armies, powerful and strong and without fear? Think of it: Empire and Republic, united as one, to lay low the Eastern foeman once and for all! With my own eyes I saw it, and by the Trinity I swear by it, our armies at Zawadówka were outnumbered two to one by Tatars, and still we prevailed!" you shout, to patriotic cheering. "Ask even my good friend – and foe," you chuckle, "the Lord Royal Secretary Jan Zamoyski! We battled as brothers that day," you say, letting your voice rest a little.

Inhale. "Recall, too, my good lords, that that great battle against the Antichrist-like Attila was in the defense of Gaul. Soft, soft Gaul." People laugh, another round of groaning; they already know what you're getting at. "We tried a Gallic man, as we all know, and how did it turn out?" Boos, silence, some of your fellow senators glare – after all, like with the Habsburg candidate you support yourself, the Walezy bid was one spearheaded by the very wealthy, the very powerful. The Crownland magnates, of course, but great lords who you now find on your side, by and large. Let them swallow this bitter medicine, you decide, this little flash of populism. Though you perhaps didn't account for this when you wrote up your notes.

"Although by virtue of his Articles he codified our young freedom, made it inviolable, he was an effete little wretch: fearful of dirt, of chipping his nails, prancing about with his pierced ears, spurning our beloved Infanta to hang about those powder-faced boys he loved ever so much!" you laugh too-loud, a laugh from the theater. Keep it all implicit. "And I have spoken before of his willingness to kill, the role he played in the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew's Day," you add, now grim. "An utter blackguard, he was."

You're starting to sense that your fellows from the upper crust are really wishing this all rather went unsaid. The senators closest to the front are shaking their heads, not so much at your words, you feel, but rather at you. They understand the sentiment, the aim, but cannot stand by their own names being dragged through the mud by association. This was all rather recent. Perhaps it's time for a pivot?

[] Begin speaking of the Archduke's merits.

[] Continue on about the reconquest of Livonia.

[] Remind the assembly of the generosity of the Archduke and his attached Pacta.

[] Make implications regarding Infanta Anna's rumored preference.

[] Continue with more Roman analogies (Rolman picks).

[] Continue with more Roman analogies (write-in).

[] Try a Biblical analogy (Rolman picks).

[] Try a Biblical analogy (write-in).

[] write-in.

 

[Rolman]

Alright, alright… You clear your throat and wheel yourself around on your crutches to face away from the magnates and clerics toward the Mazovian patch-jackets and the middling types, trying to buy time to think. You've only offended the Senators – on a personal level, that is, not political. This can and will be forgotten in time. You are here to secure votes. Denouncing the Frenchman was a bit too strong of a tangent, and hit too raw of a nerve.

Time to remind them of both the benefits and benefits of the Archduke's election. You must stick to the plan.

"Recall now that the Archduke Maciej has promised to us just shy of two-hundred thousand złoty in donations to both the royal coffers and to you. We nobles should not be beholden to bankers as Imperial lords and Italians may be, and the young Archduke in his mature wisdom knows this!" There's a cheer – probably to the bit about bankers, or the implication of bribery.

"Recall, too, that we have never seen before a foreigner so willing to embrace our Liberty and adopt our customs." A far cry from the Walezy Prince. "The Prince Batory is of a people closer to us in customs and manners, it is true, but will he import his Transylvanian, his Hungarian ways here? Will he truly adopt this realm as primus inter pares, or will he merely see himself as a Voivode-Prince with a shiny new crown?"

This starts up some bickering, especially among the men dressed richly but not too rich. You ignore the little tumult, and the fact that there are many fine points in Batory's proposed Pacta that show a commitment to the political status quo. It's just rhetoric, it's all rhetoric! You crack a little smile watching men get so fired up over it.

And, after all, you think you have a way to shut them up: "I speak now to those among us who are rich in bravery and honor but not in means, as well as to our Ruthenian brothers," you say, making a half-turn to gesture your crutch at the Easterners in their featherless fur hats. "Not only has the Archduke promised the alleviation of debts for noblemen who struggle, but a new life as well! A bountiful life, a freer life, an honorable life!"

You make yourself sound almost wistful. "Noble villages and strong forts on the edges of the Wild Fields, land for the landless, serfs for the men who ought to be masters – all rewards for fulfilling the sacred task of guarding our southern borderlands from the Turk and his Tatar hound. Pogranicze Wojskowe, as it is called in our tongue. Battle-tested in Hungary, and sure to work here!" You point at the lordlings, sweep your crutch with your other hand at the Ruthenians. It's genuinely rather glorious! "Safety, prosperity, and a noble task for God and the Patria!"

You sober up a little. "I can assure our Ruthenian friends that they need not foot the bill, nor shall they find their ancient and rightful holdings infringed upon," you say, giving your voice a rest.

"Let us speak further on military matters, my lords." Let us knock the last item off of the list. "We find ourselves threatened as ever by the Antichrist of Moskwa, Angel of Death to his own cities, on our eastern and northern frontiers," you call out, theatrically spiteful. "His hordes of miserable soldiers and chainmailed riders lick their lips when they look upon our bountiful twin fatherlands. Of course, as we slaughtered them at Orsza sixty years ago, as we outfoxed them as Czaśniki in '64 and bested them on that very same battlefield again three years later – our victory is assured; the Lady of Victory watched over us long before she made her presence known at Lepanto." Nodding and cheering and shaking fists. Good, good.

"But it is undeniable that we have always been on the defense, always parrying and dodging in this duel." Take a beat, rest a second. "I reckon – and the Archduke too – I reckon that it's time we take the fight to the Muscovite!" The throngs erupt into a roar; the senators and bishops on their risers clap in a more subdued manner. "Livonia shall be ours! Iwan's pretender-Dane shall find himself throneless, and the Bishop of Dorpat and Courlandish lords shall breathe free at last!"

No man can hide his patriotism at the thought. But you know that some are listening more closely. "How shall we accomplish this? Imagine the field of battle before you, my lords, in which our mighty armies are joined by a forest of Imperial pikes, imagine Western cannon making the earth shake, the sky tremble!" Battle is nothing like this. Nothing like this at all. Channel those rare moments of elation on the field, that strange sublime sense of survival and victory.

"And the sabers will be drawn and the lances and banners raised high as our hussars start their charge, German rajtaria beside them, pistols and carbines booming, yellow-black and red-white, two eagles with three heads fighting as one, the Lithuanian knight beside them – who can stand against such combined power?"

They're loving it! Loving it! But it's time to draw this speech to a close. You've had your moment – other men go on and on and on, even for hours on end; but you've always preferred brevity.

You shall finish it all off according to plan, with a…

[] Return to a Roman analogy (Rolman picks).

[] Return to a Roman analogy (write-in).

[] Brief Biblical analogy (Rolman picks).

[] Brief Biblical analogy (write-in).

[] an invocation of the Trinity and a brief prayer.

[] Populist appeal to glory, victory, and the fatherland.