Si Deus Nobiscum: A Polish-Lithuanian Scion Quest

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Scheduled vote count started by Rolman on Jun 4, 2024 at 12:59 PM, finished with 30 posts and 16 votes.
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“Spinning.” September 5, 1574. Wawel, Kraków, Polish Crownlands.
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    • By the virtue of your name are you ushered into her private chambers, and without a chaperone to boot. She does not stand to greet you; in fact, it takes her a moment to look up from her work.

    You drop to a knee in lieu of kissing her hand. "My lady, Your Highness, I am the Imperial Prince Stanisław Radziwiłł of Dubinki and Birże, of the Trąby."

    The Princess Anna Jagiellonka chuckles. "I have heralds, Your Serene Highness. Rise, please." You do. She looks back down at the object of her attention, rolling her tongue across the inside of her top lip.

    Everything about her is gracile and spindly. Her very fair, unfreckled complexion combines with her near-red hair and high forehead to create the impression of a human candle-flame, skinny at the top before billowing down into heaps of Western-style dresses. Her long white fingers work deftly – at least it seems that way, you wouldn't know of such women's matters – and you realize she's embroidering the Jagiellonian double cross onto a book cover. She is neither beautiful nor ugly, and only a few wrinkles on her face, resolutely unpowdered, belie her age. Her eyes flit up and meet yours – dark brown, the same color as Mariana's. "How may I help you, exactly?"

    Right. How does one go about this? Telling a woman who she ought to marry, that is. It's not like you've had sisters or daughters to practice on.

    Anna snorts. "The thing about embroidery – or tapestry-weaving, for that matter – is that one must sit and wait. To someone watching, like Your Serene Highness, it may seem involved, precise, worthy of intense concentration, like one of your duels or jousting tilts." Her needle flies in loops, low to high and back down again. She works while looking at you! "Rather than that pointedness, that concentration, I imagine, where one must know that he must do everything right, right now, in that very moment, or else all will be lost, well…" she shakes her head. "This is a different kind of thoughtlessness. One could listen to a play while doing this."

    You take a few tentative steps forward and better take in her project. It is beautiful; the saffron cross is wreathed in quasi-floral, organic designs. "You certainly weave very well, my lady."

    It almost seems as if she didn't hear you. "But there must remain the concentration. Lingering, looming, no matter what is going on about oneself. One must allow the waiting to take hold, the understanding that each thread, well-placed, will come together into a beauty. For one cannot watch the play, truly – it is difficult to recover from a mistake in this practice."

    Anna looks back down, still working. "You have come to me wanting something, Your Serene Highness, and that's no problem. Ever since that preening little man meant to wed me left, that's all they want these days. That's all they wanted before that, anyhow." She shakes her head. "Nobody wants to shoot dice with old Infanta Anna anymore, oh no. Those days are far behind. I weave and I watch and I wait."

    They said that she's a spinster, dull and pious. You're not so sure now. She reminds you of the defeated Ostrogski girl, your old marriage prospect. There's something in there. "So," she says, at last stopping her embroidering. "What does the heir to all Lithuania desire?"

    That's a mighty strong way of putting it, but it's not like she's incorrect. The real heirs moreso, in your mind, would be Sierotka and your older brothers. Yourself and the three teenage brothers of your cousin are princes, rather than the firstborn kings or a battle-hardened hetman who earned his way, like Krzysztof, one of the youngest generals in the realm.

    But, you must answer her. "I must entrust my lady with delicate information regarding herself."

    "Myself?" she chuckles. "Well, I certainly hope I know myself, for if I haven't known myself, I'll have not known what I am. Is there something I'm unaware of yet?"

    You return a laugh nervously. "Well, I'm sure that the implications of a marriage is something you're more than aware of." You swallow and let it out: "would you assent to a marriage to a man of the House of Habsburg, perhaps one of the Emperor's sons?"

    She raises her eyebrows. "And would that be for the good of the realm?"

    "In my opinion, my lady, yes. Whatever the outcome of the next election, half the realm will hate the new king, and the other half will love him, you say. "My lady, Your Highness, you would be the great legitimizer – perhaps even ruling sui juris."

    "I am old, Your Serene Highness," Anna says, not betraying a thing, "I am no longer desirous of great power, a good husband, anything. What I care for is the legacy of my dear departed brother, and the good of the Crown." She leans back in her seat. "A Habsburg is good for Lithuania, good for the Ruthenians – it is not good for Liberty, for the Crownlands."

    A woman always has someone in her ear when she says such things. Isn't that right? "And who was it that told you that, my lady?"

    She cocks her head. "My waiting and weaving, of course. And I'm privy to the discussions of the Royal Secretary and his camp, so I've some notion of the lordlings' opinion, too. But nevermind them – I would not invite men into the realm from a place where their elections are mere formalities. I would not allow a Western tyrant to undo the work of my brother, to import intolerance."

    "But we are all stronger together, my lady. None would tolerate a true loss of the Liberty, nor the Confederation."

    "A true loss you say – that reveals the self-serving nature of Your Serene Highness' request. There exists, then, lord prince, a willingness on your part to risk it all for the aims of the Lithuanians, in a petty squabble with the Crownlanders."

    You ball your fists. Your brother is the one who stole half of the Grand Duchy merely to spite my own father! You can't say that, of course. "I cannot convince you." It doesn't come out as a question. We will have our way, by God, a Catholic – no, it is not merely because of that – your Crownlander tyranny will stop here! The Muscovite will be driven back into his hole, the Tatar into his tent and, if God makes us enemies, the Swede into the sea!

    She remains silent. The nothingness hangs in the air. "I shall not waste your time, Your Serene Highness."

    "And I shall not argue, my lady." You exhale, your shoulders sagging. Though a part of you senses that, should push come to shove, she may find herself without a choice. To what woman – even with her age and high station – is such a decision left?

    "Take your leave, please," says Anna, returning to her embroidery. And, yet, there's nothing you can say to that.
     
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    • XIX. September 2-25, 1574. Kraków to Prague, Kingdom of Bohemia.
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    • Fie on Father; you can't believe you're thinking that, but fie on him. It's a violation of the Fifth Commandment, and indeed your hair is cropped near-bald for the offense at the urging of the Friar. But, for once, you reckon you know better: in France and Muscovy alike a foreign dignitary must always bring the wealth and splendor of his homeland with him, lest he appear unimportant, even rude. One cannot appear before the Emperor, a true heir to Caesar, as a half-spy. You make sure to bring along your full complement of servants, heralds, your trusty retinue, as well as Mariana and her companions. Things may be distant with Marszowski and van Gistel – and the latter grumbles about being in Leviathan's belly – but there's always a need for lesser noblemen to cavort about with courtiers, footmen, and bodyguards.

    In a frustrating twist, the Zborowscy have retired to their estates – rumor has it to build up a private army. Ever since the exile of Samuel for his fatal duel at the coronation, it's said, they've grown bitter regarding those who supported Walezy, insisting that any red-blooded Polonian would make an exception regarding the law for a man of his stature. At least that army, should it come to it, would likely be on your side.

    This leaves just two men of note. You find the first one – the familiar one – in his chambers.

    "Cousin!" cries Sierotka at the sight of you, giving a brisk handshake. "So very good to see you again! Your retinue seems to be all packed up for traveling? Shall you be staying here? Oh, that'd be a delight; I've missed you!"

    You lower your voice. "Well, that's the thing. My father's assigned me on a mission to the Empire and, I'll just get down to it: we could use a second Radziwiłł prince to add some weight to the delegation."

    "Yes." He smiles broadly.

    "What?"

    "Yes, of course, take me. I'll send word to my estates."

    "You… Don't you have…"

    "Dear cousin," says Sierotka, "no, I don't have questions. How I have been longing to leave the country! All of Creation out there and I'm trapped at Nieśwież for half the year ever since '65, save for Czaśniki and old Zygmunt's tours. Take me! I'll help any way I can. Especially if it means bringing in a king of the Faith."

    "God willing, God willing," you say. It's good to have a member of the family who isn't astray, isn't in jeopardy. You throw your hands up. This is Sierotka, alright. "Then it's done. Can you be ready in five days? And bring everyone you hold dear."

    "Of course." He claps his hands. "Oh, this is awfully exciting! Next, I'll head for the Holy Land, walk where the Savior walked!"

    Well, that was easy. Someone friendly and of equal rank will surely ingratiate your party to the Austrian court, you reckon.

    Next up: "Yes, Your Serene Highness, I am the Prince Janusz Ostrogski, of our own arms." He's scarcely a grown man – perhaps seventeen or eighteen. "How may I serve a brother-Litwin?"

    With him, you reckon you ought to be a bit more tentative. "Well, firstly, I'd like to offer my regards to your father, the Prince Konstanty Wasyl, and on behalf of my kinfolk, as well."

    "Duly appreciated, Your Serene Highness, I'll be sure to forward your salutations."

    "And I know us to be, as you said, sons of the Grand Duchy, sons of the Pogoń, which supersedes our own arms – loyal to our common homeland."

    "Indeed, Your Serene Highness," replies Prince Janusz. He squints a little. "You're being quite kind. Something makes me think you're not just here to exchange pleasantries with me."

    He's wiser than you were at his age – maybe even more poised, too. "Yes, indeed, you've caught me," you say with a smile. He places a hand on his hip. "Well, as our families are good friends, as our causes are common – for despite the incorporation of your lands into the Crown, that robbery, we are both Lithuanian…"

    "Of course, lord prince," he interjects.

    "You have spent time in the Empire, I'm told, amongst the Habsburgs. It is time we contact them."

    Prince Janusz nods knowingly, but looks upward in contemplation. "You know my father," he says. You nod. "I ought not go over his head on this."

    "But it would take weeks to receive a reply, my lord. The time is now!" Though you do, in fact, recall the severity of Konstanty Wasyl.

    Janusz purses his lips. "I really shouldn't. But it's not because my heart isn't in it, Your Serene Highness. I will send twenty sworn men with you, to pad out your numbers and to act as my representatives," he says. "They will bear the family seal, and I will write a letter of salutations to all my old associates. You have the family's backing, I just fear what father would say should I overwinter abroad without his say."

    At least he's gracious enough to tell you everything he knows – he was last in Vienna a year ago.

    "There's the Emperor himself, of course, Maksymilian. Mmm… He's about forty, forty-five. Deeply tolerant man – much more Sarmatian than Spaniard – surrounds himself with men of the highest caliber, regardless of faith. He even provided an Orthodox confessor for me. He values peace and order above all else; he is a man of the law and of the quill, not the sword."

    "Then there is his firstborn, Rudolf. Raised up in Spain, and came home when I was about fifteen. A little brooding, certainly melancholic in the blood, but greatly intelligent and eager to show off his… His world to people. He walks his own path, that's for certain. He was always nose-deep in a book. He loves Prague more than his own mother."

    "Next, there's the Archduke Ernest – he and Rudolf are thick as thieves; they grew up together, and came back to Vienna at the same time. He's a little stern, a little bit of a stone wall, especially compared to the oddball. Very pious, very much an Archduke's Archduke. Like if someone made his father out of slate, but I cannot deny that he's a stately young fellow."

    "Matthias – Maciej. What a hungry young lad, most handsome of the bunch, doesn't have that…" he makes a hand, projecting out from his jaw. "He was raised apart from Rudolf and Ernest and, though younger than I, sees nothing in his older brothers. Hungry-hungry-hungry – he'll do whatever it takes to supersede them. Yet, as a man, he's rather easygoing, keen to see reason and humanity. Like his father in that regard. Between you and I, I felt him to be a bit of a little back-biter."

    "As for Maksymilian the younger and little Albrecht – they're still boys, give them a year or three, a battle to fight or a governing position or some such; then I could say more about them. I don't know, they're young fellows, you know, eager to be grown and to strut about, the two of them. You know how it is. There's also Wacław, but he's still in Spain, and is even younger."

    You think back to that past self, the self that inhabited France. Indeed, in those days, before the Lord called you to pray and work, work and pray, you were eager to get yourself into a real fight, and to prove yourself on the field of politicking, too. They must be like that. Naive, but ready.

    It comes to you. Maybe Janusz is like that, too? "If you wish not to come, then you wish not to come, lord prince," you say, "but you've spoken only of risk, and I worry you haven't thought of reward."

    "Oh, no, I understand the gravity of it," Janusz says. He's quiet for a while, then makes a face and exhales. "Allow me to be late, perhaps. Allow me to come before the first snowfall, should my father permit it."

    You give a little sigh. "Waste no time, please, sir. We need your German and your insight and your illustrious name."

    He smiles and nods. "I'll see, Your Serene Highness, I would certainly hope to join you."

    Between the combined entourages of yourself, Sierotka, and Prince Janusz's advance party, the column of men and women leaving Kraków's western gates numbers somewhere in the low hundreds. There's no secret to keep, and you pray that Father will understand your rationale when you meet him next.

    Habsburg heralds first met you after leaving the Piast principalities, and informed you that the firstborn Rudolf wished to offer the hospitality of the Bohemian capital to you and yours – they ensured good transit through the countryside and better treatment from the local lords. You accepted graciously, of course, and were greeted with a panorama of towers and spires, and an impressive citadel looming over the city walls.

    It takes just shy of three weeks to transit through Silesia and the Moravian hills, bound for Prague, heading through the large market towns of Olomouc, Brno, and Ostrava; even then, in the provinces, the spires of ancient Goths' churches in the former two cities remind you that you are far from home, even if merely next door. Heading through the kingdom's southern highlands, you enjoy the slightly foreign sight of tall, rolling hills – sometimes spiking up into little mountains – alternating between meadowland and broadleaf forest.

    Intrigued denizens line the streets and hang out windows as beggars run alongside the column, hands outstretched. You ascend the hill to the city's castle, which seems shining-new and built in the latest styles, straight out of an architecture class back in France. It is only the matter of some hills, but if someone told you you were back in a Paris reborn, you'd have to think on it: the clothing and buildings are only subtly different, though the commoners' language makes it clear that you're still close enough to home. Except this city, unlike the wartime capital of your youth, lacks the gangs of orphans and throngs of half-mad amputees, the haggard half-starved prostitutes and men with hands always resting on pommels. Peace in the West – for now.

    It's a beautiful city, yes, but you are here on business. Introductions are called out for yourself and Sierotka. You motion that you'll take the lead. What's gotten into you, eh?

    His Apostolic Majesty Rudolf, King of Hungary and Croatia, eldest son of the Emperor, can't be older than you are. He looks stately enough in his black doublet sandwiched between bright white trunk hose and a high-collared ruff, certainly giving off a first impression – everything is threaded and buttoned with gold. You can't tell how tall he is on account of his tall-crowned, bejeweled felt hat. If one squints, he's handsome, but in reality you cannot deny that he's a little odd-looking: his face is well-formed and long, framed well by his ruff and complemented with a solid jaw, yet his ice-blue eyes bulge a bit out of their sockets, and his noticeable underbite makes his little forehead look almost concave in comparison. He addresses you in a confusing soup of French and Latin, with an accent you recognize from Spanish or Italian churchmen. He sounds like one, too, as much as you hate to think so lowly of godly men, but there's that erudite squeakiness to him. "Radzivilius Princeps – Your Serene Highness – I must ask you: have you ever been to this beautiful city? There is magic in this place, true magic."

    Magic? As in warlocks and alchemists? You've heard the rumors, and it sounds bad. It's worth making the Cross, then, in a place like this. But, hopefully, he's just being figurative. "I have not had the privilege of visiting before, Your Apostolic Majesty–"

    "Oh, please, 'my lord' is fine. Let us take to the streets, then, and breathe it in. Father says I've been stiff as a board since I've been at Escorial, and says a good Austrian must be amiable." he says. "Ah! And, so, here is a gift for you – a wonder of the natural world. Johannes!"

    A servant runs up and puts a shiny thing in his hand, which he hands to you. It's mottled dark red and brown, and its sheen seems to be of an oily sort rather than a metallic luster. It's about as long as the palm of your hand, and seems to be dried-out, like a cured meat. You press it to your nose, and it gives off a pungent, earthy smell. "Give it a bite!" says Rudolf, smiling. "But be ready, Your Serene Highness."

    "Ready for..?" he gestures to you: go on! And, obviously, you cannot disappoint.

    You rip off the end of the thing with your front two teeth and begin to chew, it's fibrous and full of seeds and by God something is happening!

    You've had black pepper before, and it's a little intense, but ultimately pleasurable. This is so much more, so much worse – there may well be an open flame in your mouth, like a fire-spitter whose act has gone awry. Your mouth waters and you begin to suck in air as the heat spreads to the roof of your mouth, your cheeks, starting to make its way down your throat. You do your utmost not to spit it out, but forget to chew. "Ah, ah, uh, my lord, sir, what is this?!" You start coughing and cover your mouth.

    "It is pepper's older brother, isn't it, lord prince?" He takes it from you, gives it a big bite, turns bright red, and smiles. "Ah! Clears the nostrils, expels the phlegm and puts melancholia at bay! Who needs sal ammoniac? By God, who needs brandy?"

    "Yes, ah, certainly, my lord, clearly the stronger son, ah-ah-ah!" A drop of sweat beads down your forehead. "May I–"

    "No, water doesn't help," Rudolf says, reading your mind. "In Spain, we called it pimiento. I hope I don't seem cruel. I just… I cannot help but share the things I find wondrous, Your Serene Highness. The Lord put fire in a vegetable; it grows on bushes in the Indies! My alchemists have extracted its oils – that's the source of it."

    "Forgive my impertinence, Your Apostolic Majesty," cries Sierotka in Latin, running up and dipping into a bow. "But may I try?"

    Rudolf hands him the last of the thing, and Sierotka tucks in without fear. He makes a face. "I regret this." He begins to pant.

    Rudolf laughs a loud, high-pitched, grating laugh. "Isn't it something, my lords?"

    You continue to sweat slightly, feeling hot in the face. The sensation is hitting your stomach now, making it lurch. "Do… Do show me your city, my lord. I'd like to see the Clock I've heard so much about."

    "Indeed, indeed," agrees Sierotka.

    "With pleasure, sirs!"

    You ride in an open carriage with Rudolf and Sierotka, surrounded on all sides by swearing bodyguards, telling the locals to get back. You had circumvented the city square on your way in, opting instead to approach from the South to better cross the impressive Charles Bridge, which is now brimming with locals to see the approach of the Imperial heir and the mysterious troupe of Easterners. The Clock is indeed impressive, as is the entire square: watched over by a looming Dark Age cathedral, and a smaller sister on the opposite side. The burghers seem particularly rich here.

    "I appreciate your willingness to speak to us without attendants," you say, raising your voice over the din of city life.

    "Yes, indeed," agrees Sierotka, "let us speak as princes, and not representatives of our peoples, Your Apostolic Majesty."

    "Like I said, 'my lord' is more than acceptable," says Rudolf.

    You lean in and fold your hands. Sierotka beats you to it: "as you've certainly heard, our French king has fled the country like an utter coward."

    Rudolf's gaze flickers between the two of you. "We hoped to acquaint ourselves with yourself, my lord, with your people," you say.

    "Right." He keeps looking back and forth. "You last nominated my brother," Rudolf says. "Why me, then? Or why not my father?"

    [] "What better to offer a firstborn son than another crown, my lord?"

    [] "We have heard of your inquisitive ways, my lord, your openness – you know our land is unlike others."

    [] "Unlike your father, we can offer you a queen, a true queen – aged, yes, but who may still be fertile yet."

    The rumors are unconfirmed.

    [] "Well, it does not have to be you, my lord." Sierotka glances at you.
     
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    • Anna ran circles around us. We should have consulted with our wife first on approaching her.

    [X] "We have heard of your inquisitive ways, my lord, your openness – you know our land is unlike others."

    Let's flatter him but give ourselves a way to say no. Don't want to come across as too pushy.
     
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    [X] "We have heard of your inquisitive ways, my lord, your openness – you know our land is unlike others."

    1 and 3 feel like traps given Rudolf's position and personality (and Anna being firmly opposed to endorsing a Habsburg, if not marrying one), and I like Rudolf, so this one it is.
     
    [X] "We have heard of your inquisitive ways, my lord, your openness – you know our land is unlike others."

    I wouldn't really worry about Anna. She has no say in this and cannot decide whom to marry.

    If the nobles order her to marry an appointed man, she will do so, because that is the law. She won't like it, but she will obey.

    I kind of hoped to meet Samuel out and about in Bohemia to be honest. It's close enough to Cracow should he think about leaving the country this way. By the way, Samuel was acquainted with Prince Bathory, since he has spent the first years of exile in Transylvania. It's possible he's still there right now and everybody knows, that the Princes of that realm were enemies of the Habsburgs, since they were vassals of the Ottomans and co-heirs of Hungary, to which the Emperors claimed sole succession.

    Rolman said:
    I would not invite men into the realm from a place where their elections are mere formalities.
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    The Crowns of Bohemia and Hungary are formally elective, like that of the Commonwealth, yet in practice they are bestowed upon a Habsburg chosen by the Emperor. It's usually the monarch himself, but sometimes he gives the Crowns to his sons, usually the heir.
    Rolman said:
    His Apostolic Majesty Rudolf, King of Hungary and Croatia
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    This Rudolf is surprisingly amiable. Very open, very blunt and sociable. He doesn't sound like a pompous jerk at all. Some rulers are so damn stiff even with their peers, that it's unbearable.

    Rolman said:
    Father says I've been stiff as a board since I've been at Escorial, and says a good Austrian must be amiable."
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    The Spanish Court is held at Escorial. It is also the birthplace of strict, dull and very formal courts, that spread all over Europe during the last century, since it was considered a perfect example of one. Naturally not every royal court held to its severe regime.
     
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    Sertorius said:
    This Rudolf is surprisingly amiable. Very open, very blunt and sociable. He doesn't sound like a pompous jerk at all. Some rulers are so damn stiff even with their peers, that it's unbearable.
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    I conceive Rudolf as that nerdy guy with an esoteric edge who invites you over to his house and talks to you (or at you) about whatever, kind of strings you along into things you may or may not want to do, watching weird movies, doing tarot readings or whatever -- it's always guaranteed to be a little strange. I also understood him to perhaps be overcompensating, even breaching etiquette, in a conscious effort to calm down after all the stiffness of Escorial. He's kind of just here to have fun in his idiosyncratic way.

    Also, regarding Samuel Zborowski: I thought he became a fixture in Transylvania after a period of roaming around Central Europe. I suppose I realize now that he could be stomping about in Bohemia, but I took it as that he had already headed eastward and settled down for now, since it's been about seven months since his exile. It's not the end of him, though, I reckon...
     
    Rolman said:
    I conceive Rudolf as that nerdy guy with an esoteric edge who invites you over to his house and talks to you (or at you) about whatever, kind of strings you along into things you may or may not want to do, watching weird movies, doing tarot readings or whatever -- it's always guaranteed to be a little strange. I also understood him to perhaps be overcompensating, even breaching etiquette, in a conscious effort to calm down after all the stiffness of Escorial. He's kind of just here to have fun in his idiosyncratic way.
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    Ah, so a man of Fantasy, as Sertorius would say. I have a good feeling about him.
     
    [X] "We have heard of your inquisitive ways, my lord, your openness – you know our land is unlike others."

    I'm almost worried this is too obvious, but it seems like the best way to sell it? Rudolph seems like quite the strange fellow, but mayhap he'd find the Commonwealth less spicy than it's previous monarch.

    It feels like a strange thing to have to advertise becoming a king, but I suppose Rudolph only has to wait until he gets a throne of his own. And being told "he'd be a better king than his father or brothers" is a rather potent form of flattery.
     
    Baltika9 said:
    Ah, so a man of Fantasy, as Sertorius would say. I have a good feeling about him.
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    Indeed.

    Speaking of fantasy, our Prince's little stunt with Szujski and the Muscovites in Smoleńsk was a good display. Sure, combat skill is also admirable and all, but going straight into the lion's den, lie to his face and escape unharmed with your prize in tow is the very definition of fantasy.

    A modern real life example for fun.

    One guy I know does historical reenactment and dresses up as a Sarmatian noble for various events with a bunch of his friends. One day two of his buddies were supposed to meet the rest of the bunch in a bar for a drink before going to one such event. Unfortunately they went to the place across the street by mistake and found a few tipsy losers that proceeded to make fun of their attire. After leaving quickly and going to the right place this time, they met up with the rest of their friends, who were happily drinking to their heart's content. After explaining their encounter with the gentlemen from the other bar the group got angry and decided, that such an insult was unacceptable for a Polish noble. So, they immediately went to that place, found the men at fault, surrounded their table from all sides, dressed in period clothes with sabres strapped and calmly asked the poor sods to apologise for their transgression.

    Which they promptly did. :D
     
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    [X] "We have heard of your inquisitive ways, my lord, your openness – you know our land is unlike others."
     
    Rolman said:
    If one squints, he's handsome, but in reality you cannot deny that he's a little odd-looking: his face is well-formed and long, framed well by his ruff and complemented with a solid jaw, yet his ice-blue eyes bulge a bit out of their sockets, and his noticeable underbite makes his little forehead look almost concave in comparison.
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    Habsburg Jaw hours are upon us.

    Rolman said:
    Magic? As in warlocks and alchemists? You've heard the rumors, and it sounds bad. It's worth making the Cross, then, in a place like this. But, hopefully, he's just being figurative. "I have not had the privilege of visiting before, Your Apostolic Majesty–"
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    Prague indeed had the reputation of the centre of witchcraft at the time (it's still one of the favourite tourist trap city trips there nowadays; same with "Mystical Lviv", actually... and Chernivtsi... I think it's almost a stample of Habsburg Monarchy cities). However, so did Krakow: the Jagiellonian University was treated by some particularly pious writers as a Scholomance of black magic.
     
    XIX-II. September 25, 1574. Prague, Kingdom of Bohemia.
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    • "We have heard of your inquisitive ways, my lord, your openness – you know our land is unlike others," you say. It's been a while since you've had to converse fully in Latin, but to speak the Holy Church's language is oddly refreshing.

    "The Frenchman had his Parlements but, had he stayed, I reckon that he would have begun to rule as a tyrant," adds Sierotka.

    "He signed articles, but articles mean nothing in France, it seems. I was there for the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew's Day," you say. Pictures flash in your mind. So many children, mothers beside them; even as you looked down to avoid the heaps, you could see them. The singing of Psalms by a doomed street of Huguenots.

    Rudolf shakes his head, near-indistinguishable from the bumping of the carriage. "And that Kingdom is forever sullied by just one night. Perhaps you were lucky, sirs, by his flight."

    "He was part of the plan all along, an architect of–"

    Sierotka cuts you off; you feel a little spike in your ribs. "We are headless at a pivotal time – though we know what is best for us; that is what makes our land special," he says, placing a hand over his heart. "We need no guidance, save from God and a king ordained by Him alongside the nobles of our land. And that is why we become before you, my lord. Because we know you are a man of culture, a man of understanding, a man who understands both Heaven and Earth."

    "They say I take after my father in regards to matters of faith and freedom," says Rudolf, "whatever the latter term means. I was 'elected' to the thrones of Hungary and Croatia, sirs, but I believe in respect. Men laugh at me behind my back for my interests, which I admit are peculiar, but still I respect them. I believe in a brotherhood of men. Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius," he rhymes. "We are but little specks before the Beyond, bound together by God."

    The Beyond? You're a little awestruck by what you're hearing. Here's a man who believes in true humanitas. "Indeed, we must live as Our Lord Jesus Christ, and distinguish nothing between men by means of love," you say. Highborn men, of course.

    A little something flashes across Rudolf's face. He produces a single, shining guilder, yells something in Bohemian, and throws it into the spectating throngs. You smile, but realize he's avoiding speaking on any real commitment – which is fine, perhaps, as he's only one among many, and not in the spiritual sense.

    Sierotka laughs. "Oh, praise be to God! What fun charity is! Let me have one, please, my lord! You're a man of good faith." A smiling Rudolf hands him another guilder. "Catch, wretches!" yells Sierotka in Polish, throwing it hard enough to bounce it off a house's wall, sending locals chasing.

    Sierotka continues a giggling fit, which is spreading to Rudolf, with his high-pitched hihi's. "You think this is fun, gentlemen, then I must show you my wunderkammer – that is, my wonder-room."

    This reminds you that, on matters of faith, you don't quite know what to make of the man yet. You've heard of such rooms, such chambers – filled with the Devil's work, heathen idols, and witches' tricks.

    Sierotka, on the other hand, though a man of great faith, you thought, claps his hands excitedly and asks: "unicorn horns? Oh, the wonders of God's earth…"

    "And that's merely the tip of it, my friend!" Rudolf laughs too hard. "And still it needs more!"

    "Anyways," you say, deciding to try and steer things back on track (and away from the Devil), "the only thing regarding the election to our throne, should my lord be interested, is that we have a princess, last of the line of Vladislaus and Hedvigis – a marriage would be essential."

    Rudolf scratches his projecting chin. "Even though I am of the blood of Vladislaus of Bohemia and your old King Casimirus Andreas?"

    "Opposition to a Habsburg king is, well…" says Sierotka, folding his hands. "Well, it's steep. It's the cost of a formal invitation."

    You cannot lie: "she's about fifty, I'm afraid."

    "Hm. Alright. That's what mistresses and courtesans are for!" he shrieks his little laugh. You feel even Sierotka shift around, bumping you with his hip – he's uncomfortable too? He's a faithful man, even if he doesn't show it. "Well, surely I can remarry once she's gone?"

    "With the consent of our Senate, yes," says Sierotka.

    "What?" Rudolf furrows his brow.

    Sierotka sounds almost innocent. "Our king is a servant of the realm – the realm shall help him with his decisions, as a servant ought to be told what to do at times."

    Rudolf shakes his head. "That's rather odd. And how many senators are there?"

    "One hundred and forty-eight," the two of you reply in unison. "Including both of us," adds Sierotka.

    Rudolf is rubbing his hands on his trunk hose, ruffling them, looking perplexed. "But there are senators major and minor or..?"

    "Oh, yes," says Sierotka. "In fact, I'm his superior," he says, pointing a thumb at you; he's right, but you give a little scoff.

    Rudolf gives a half-hearted hihi and hums. He looks off into the distance and lights up. "Ah! Nearly home now! How time has escaped us."

    He's avoiding the matter, you reckon, and hopefully Sierotka senses that, too. You look where Rudolf's looking and, indeed, the castle looms overhead. Perhaps this prince-king is more slippery than he lets on. "Now, onward to the wunderkammer!" he cries.

    The place is dark and windowless. Rudolf holds up a dried-out, be-tailed man, perhaps as big as a little finger, encased in a glass prism. Is that a… "Observe here the imp, found in a barn turning cow's milk to blood!"

    "Saint Michael protect us," you mutter, making the Cross. You're overwhelmed by the room, brimming with bones, things both liquid and solid in jars, foreign plants, and squawking, brightly-colored Indian birds, among other things. A multitude of strange smells hang in the air.

    "I assure you, lord prince, he's harmless, though still alive in there. Holy water is sprinkled on him every other day."

    "That's a relief, my lord," you say with an exhale, utterly genuine.

    Sierotka cranes his neck closer, though also crossing himself. "I think I even see horns!" This is not good.

    "Indeed, that is correct," says Rudolf, beaming with pride. He puts down the imp and gestures over this particular table. "This is my section for human oddities and man-like things." He points at a grotesque fetus suspended in a jar, boasting a snout and pointy ears. "The cynocephalus of far Africa," he explains, and then points at its neighbor: another unborn child, a terrible gap in its face. "A woman outside Regensburg birthed a cyclops some decades ago. She was cleared of all charges of witchcraft, and her husband swears by her fidelity. So, a mystery."

    Sierotka's walked down the table, turning his attention to the unicorn horn he wished to see so badly. "This is what I think it is?" he asks with glee.

    "Indeed," nods Rudolf. "They reside in Hyperborea – I acquired it from some Basque whalers back in Hispania. We have live things, too, you know." He walks over to the cages. "Beyond just the birds, of course. Is this not the greatest spider you've seen?"

    You walk over and jump back upon seeing the thing scuttling about a soil-filled chamber – it's as big as your hand! "It eats solely frogs, for it accepts no other foods. It's from the Antarctic. It bit a servant's finger once and it turned gangrenous, so I do not recommend touching it. The New World tarantula – much, much greater than those found in Apulia."

    You don't quite know what to say. "This is marvelous, my lord, truly!" exclaims Sierotka.

    "Perhaps later we may meet my astronomers and astrologers," says Rudolf, pointing to the door. "I've got them collaborating to determine the movement of the planets and stars by means of mathematics, to determine when and under what constellations illnesses spread, what brings melancholics like this one to dark places with such haste and–" his face twists and he throws up a hand. "Do you hear that?"

    All you can hear are the birds. Rudolf repeats himself. But then you do hear something. It's from the darkest corner of the room. A low, rumbling, gravelly whisper. "Nimia curiositas."

    "What? What? I don't hear anything!" Sierotka looks back and forth between you and Rudolf. You're without words.

    "Begone, you!" cries Rudolf, making the Cross. "Back into the Pit, I tell you!"

    "Stop your joking," says Sierotka, scared. "That's nothing to joke about. What is it?"

    "Ego sum qui sum," It laughs quietly, mocking the Lord. "Nimia curiositas."

    You and Rudolf make a stumbling dash for the door, exclaiming prayers and holy oaths – Sierotka follows, shouting questions, and dives through the threshold as Rudolf slams the door behind him.

    "What? What was it?!" Sierotka asks. "This isn't funny!"

    "Forgive me, my lords! The imp is known to speak through the prism and throw its voice, it's harmless, I assure you, merely a test of God!" Rudolf breathes heavily.

    You're shaking. You're nearly as fearful as you'd be in a battle. "This is… No…" you shake your head.

    Sierotka backs himself up against the opposite wall, staring at the door. "I didn't hear a thing."

    "We did!"

    "What did you hear? What did you hear?"

    "I'll have that room blessed by sundown!" Rudolf half-madly produces a piece of parchment and a stick of charcoal from his breast pocket. There's an architectural design, but he flips it over onto its blank back. "God finds expression in the Tree of Life, the Jews know it and keep it secret from us, eh, ah, look here." He holds the parchment up against the door and begins to draw circles in a rough diamond shape, connecting them with intersecting lines. "Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius! Manifesting from the Crown is the Lord, the Everything, emanating down into…"

    You look over at an utterly bewildered Sierotka.

    Why now? Why is he explaining this now? What is this, anyway? This is how he reacts to the Devil?! He's half-heretic, by God! You stare at the closed door.

    [] "I cannot do this! Diablerie and heathenry! We need a priest, not this nonsense!"

    Better to offend a man than offend God.

    [] Remain silent.

    Your heart still pounds.

    [] "What… What do they know?"

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

    But one must recall:

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

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

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

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

    So, yeah!
     
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