By The Sword

[History Guy]

Yeah...another story. It's an epic, worry though not. It just doesn't look to be one from the start. As I will be gone for the next few weeks in a couple of days, this might be the only part for much of this month(!), so please enjoy. Comments are, of course, appreciated...unless they are stupid. Anyway...enjoy.

[History Guy]

BY THE SWORD, Chop One

BY THE SWORD

“…In those days of the Year of Our Lord 1291, our whole world was plunged into a pagan darkness. Yes, by the Grace of God and the intercessions of His saints we had blunted the remorseless assaults of heathen men, and in the East we had rescued the holy city of Christ’s passion, Jerusalem, from the heathens of the East, but the world was still plagued by sin and terror, brought on by Satan himself, who assumes the form of war. It was but for the great Grace of God that I myself managed to survive this age to tell to you through my chronicles the tale of that year. May God bless my parchment, may it last the ages…”
--St. Hugh of Canterbury, ‘Historie of God’s Creation’

A thick, dark, foul-smelling smoke filled the long, equally dark chamber of stone. This chamber, carved deep into the earth and stone, was almost three hundred years old, and it smelled of death. This underground series of tunnel, encased in stone, had been the last ditch line of defense for the kings of Bavaria when they were under attack, and had rarely been used. Indeed, the last time that it had been used during a national crisis had been when the present royal family took over in 1187, over one hundred years previously. This whole network of tunnels had been the final resting-place of hundreds of Bavarian pikemen and noblemen, including the old king himself. The invaders had managed to set the whole thing alight, filling a good deal of it with straw and pig-fat. Some of these huge, ancient stones still bore the charred marks of that terrible day. The ghosts of those men, roasted alive, were said to still stalk these gloomy corridors.

The King of Bavaria, Ludwig IX, who bore the sobriquet ‘the Bold’, was himself on his knees on the dark, murky stones, praying that this smoke was only from the burning mountain-side castle above, and not from a bonfire being built to force out those hiding in the tunnels. It seemed as if the smoke was indeed only from the castle above, which must have been filled with many separate fires from the many breaching-points of the invading Prussians (who bore torches in their hands, with which they immediately set alight everything that they could see that was remotely flammable), but Ludwig could not be sure. Clutching in his withered hands the old jewel-encrusted dagger that he had rescued from the corpse of his chief advisor (whom he himself had murdered once the advisor turned against him for the invaders), Ludwig seemed to be on the verge of breakdown. He was alone, down within the bowels of this world, preparing to enter the next. These Teuton barbarians had burst into his kingdom, claiming that they came to re-unite old Germany and to bring back the long-lost order of the Teutonic Knights, and had immediately set about to go attack the capital itself, and the ancient and strong castle that ruled over it. Now, after a four-month siege, that castle had been breached, and these evil barbarians were flooding through the smashed walls to destroy the Bavarian Kingdom, and it’s ruler. Ludwig was horrified. Betrayed by his own advisors and heads of state, he’d fled alone down here. Some pikemen and swordsmen had followed to join him, but he’d lost them in this deep labyrinth of tunnels.

Ludwig felt bitter, frightened, and naked all at once. Bitter, because he had been defeated and betrayed, and he knew that his time was up. Frightened, as he knew that he was unready to face his Lord in person. And naked, as he was without any defense against it all. He was physically wearing less than most, reduced to his simple mail tunic, having lost his cloak and woolen shirt in the race to get down into these catacombs. He still clutched at his jeweled crown, however, keeping it tucked up on top of his gray pate. He felt as his cheek, and felt the blood among the whiskers. Some damned Prussian villain had slashed at his cheek with a small sword. It still hurt somewhat, and Ludwig, for all his years, was unused to being hurt. It was a rude awakening to his person, and a late one. It was all over now; the old man could feel it in his brittle old bones. Even now, he heard the clumping of mailed feet on the stones far in the distance. It sounded much closer than it actually was to Ludwig for two reasons. Firstly, of course, because of the echo in this deep place of stones, and secondly, because Ludwig was scared, shivering in his boots.

He was relieved somewhat when he heard the clumping turn to a different direction, off to a different tunnel, moving off into the distance, leaving the old frightened king on his scraped and bloodied knees. “This cannot be done to me,” Ludwig said angrily to himself in the lowest of voices. “This Kingdom is mine by right. ‘Twas my forefather who took this land for himself and for the family of which I am sole heir. This is my right, consecrated by God, and it cannot be thieved away from me.” A tear glistened in Ludwig’s eye, and he shivered in the darkness and the cold, and stood to his full height. He turned about and brandished his dagger at the specter before him.

At least, the form walking towards him from out of the darkness of the largely unlit catacomb looked to Ludwig like a terrible specter. This form, this huge, muscular, lumbering form, seemed to glisten even in the darkness. The body was made taller than it actually was by the huge, strong set of unblemished armor that the form was clothed by. The head was crowned by a huge, rectangular helmet with holes carved in the appropriate spots so as the wearer might be allowed to both breath and see with it on. It hid the face of the advancing specter. What struck Ludwig from the start were the specter’s hands, the left covered by a gauntlet and the right by only a glove of black leather. Over the glove was a large, blue sapphire ring. Its band was made of pure gold. In the massive gauntleted hand, the specter clutched a long, strong, and ancient sword. It seemed to have some ancient designs carved into it. The specter lifted it up.

“Come you to put an end to me?” cried Ludwig in his shrill, terrified voice. Though he waited for several long and suspenseful seconds, no response came from the form before him. Ludwig quickly lifted the jewel-encrusted dagger before him. In a lightning fast movement, the sword of the specter flashed through the air, snapping the dagger down to the hilt, the blade flying off into the distance, slamming into the wall somewhere. Ludwig let the hilt of the dagger drop to the ground, clattering against the rock floor. This specter, he knew, was the Devil, come to take him for his many hideous deeds. Ludwig fell into prayer for forgiveness, trying to ignore the pain of the blade that was about the slice into him. He knew that he could not be saved in this world, but by God’s great grace he could be in the next. The specter then lifted his sword once again, and swung.

The blade cut sharply through the air, and deep through Ludwig’s old and frail neck, splattering his blood against the stones about him, and against the breastplate of his killer. As Ludwig’s head, cleaved off by the form’s single swing, dropped noiselessly to the floor, and the crown clattered onto the stones, the sword was withdrawn, and the specter stood back as the dead king’s headless form fell to it’s knees once again, and then fell forward to the stones, stretched out before the armored man. With that, the man in armor stooped down to remove the fallen, blood-soaked crown of the dead king, holding it in his gloved arm, toying with it in an odd fashion. He then turned about, the sword in one hand and the crown in the other, and walked back into the darkness from which he had come.
* * * * * * * * * * * *

The Consul of the Confederation of Italian States, Julius Caesar, rode at a slow pace through the streets of Florence, his advisors by his side, and his armed bodyguard trailing along behind. He looked resplendent in his red robes, as resplendent as the great city itself. He wore long red and purple robes on his person, all held of them together by the large brass badge he wore on his right breast. Covering his pate was a large, red cap, with a long orange feather sticking out of it at an angle. Caesar was a tall man, with a long, angular face. He had a long, crooked nose, and he had large, brown eyes. His hair (what was left of it) was also brown in color. He rode on his tall, black horse through the streets of Florence, a major port city-state on the coast of Italy. It had lately become the last of the major city-states to actually join the Confederation of which Caesar was elected head, and this was Caesar’s first official visit of the city. The portly Cosimo di Medici, the city’s patron, rode on his smaller, chubbier horse on Caesar’s right. Cosimo was never known for having strong good looks, but at least he was easier to stomach than the Umbrian patron Caesar had met a week before.

Caesar ignored the rather nasty smells that drifted past from the dockyards (obviously the smells of dead fish, being flayed by the fishmongers), and looked up at the new library of San Lorenzo, the new local saint that the Pope had consecrated only a dozen years prior. Lorenzo had been a scholarly priest living in the region, who’s home had been the spot of several verifiable miracles. The library, a place of learning and the arts, had been established in his honor. It stood near the old cathedral of San Paulo, one of the most beautiful churches in Italy. Caesar was riding into the market-square, which was filled with wares of all sorts, taken in from the port. Caesar spied the foreign vessels in port as well as the tall, masted military vessels (many carrying tall, wooden tower-like structures) belonging to Florence, sitting warped in their births. “I see the port is full of foreign traders this day. You seem to receive the fruits of many country’s labors in return for the fruits of your own city’s labors.”

“Yes, Caesar, that is so,” responded Cosimo, in his quiet, but clear voice, ”We have set up prosperous trading relations with our allies in France, England, and Spain, and we receive shipments from the Viking peoples, as well as, on occasion, from the Chinese. We have made a good amount off of these wonderful negotiations. It is the reason that Florence is the richest of all city-states, next to the Mother City, of course.”

“The Chinese? So exotic and far-flung are your trade routes?” responded Caesar in mild surprise. He had no idea that the Chinese had set up trade with Florence. He knew that on occasion the Chinese Emperor would send out shipments of silk to Ostia as a mark of good will towards Europe, but he had no idea that the Chinese had an on-going trade relationship with Florence, of all places!

“Yes, as I said, only on occasion. We receive the finest silk from their shipments. Indeed, our own silk reserves are of far lesser quality in comparison, though they are fine in their own right. It is well, I believe, that we have so branched out in our foreign relations. Indeed, it seems to me now that the very robes you wear were presents from my city, and were made of this foreign Chinese silk.”

Caesar was surprised and at once gratified, “Thank you for this most magnanimous gift, Cosimo. I am sure you spent many a pretty penny on it indeed!”

“I beg you, Caesar, think nothing of it. Deliver your thanks to the one true God Almighty,” responded the patron of Florence piously. He was a hard man to understand, Cosimo was. A shrewd businessman by all accounts, and sometimes downright dirty in his tactics, and yet he always attempted to keep up a relationship of some sort with Heaven, though he understood very little of religion.

“Yes, you are quite right, my brother. From God’s bounty do all blessings flow.”

“Ah, this man here,” said Cosimo suddenly, “is one of our greatest benefactors! Good day, Giuseppe Rosini!” The man at whom the patron shouted turned about, removing his fat, ringed fingers from the precious wares that he handled carefully. He was a short man, and a corpulent man. He had a small black beard, and a long droopy mustache. His hair was black, as were his two large eyes. Despite his bulk, he was not at all an ugly man. He was dressed in fine clothing, and he sported a large black leather moneybag in one of his huge, thick hands. He enthusiastically waved one hand about, and wished the patron and those who rode with him a good day. “Giuseppe, I have with me the Consul, Caesar himself. Caesar, this man, Rosini, is a merchant of high esteem, and a rich man, having amassed his fortune through selling Asian silk and clothes made from it. It was in his shops that your own garments were created. He is a good man, a good man of God, as well. He also deals in fine cloth. When he became rich enough, he built a school and home for the wayward and the homeless, so that they may be given a place to live out their days and to learn of God’s great grace.”

“Salve, Caesar! It is an honor to meet you, sir. It is always an honor to meet great men. I know several great men, in fact. The Pope, for one, a good friend. I have also dined with the Emperor of China himself!” For all his piety, Giuseppe Rosini was a great boaster.

“It is likewise an honor to be introduced to you, friend Giuseppe. How fare you this fine day?”

“I am well, sir. So it seems also is my shop. I visit it far too often these days. I am far too pre-occupied in political affairs, and in managing my estate on the coast. There are days when I do indeed miss it, though it is run by good men now.”

“You no longer control your establishment?”

“Oh yes, I own it, but I leave it in the very capable hands of my managers. We have been expanding as well, and it is hard for an old man such as I to keep up. Come, tonight you must all visit my humble home, and dine with me!” Giuseppe’s home wasn’t quite as humble as he would have it said, but it was humble enough for a man who could afford something yet larger.

“Yes, Giuseppe, thank you for the invitation, I shall be paying you a visit this evening then. Good morrow, friend.”

“Oh, good morrow, sir!”

“Cosimo, let us now go to the cathedral. I have not visited it since I was a boy. I long to return.” Leaving the merchant to his buying, the horsemen rode up towards the hill where the cathedral stood. They rode past the tall, mud-brick apartment buildings.

“As you will, Consul Caesar. There have been some additions, as late, though, and so it might not be quite what you remembered. The altar has been replaced in the last ten years, and the roof has been re-tiled. The knave was expanded, and the Lady Chapel was completed. I trust you shall find the improvements worthy of a house of God.”

“I trust I shall find them satisfactory, Cosimo. But I must say this; nothing is worthy as a house of God, sir. Nothing.”

“My Lord, you speak the truth,” responded Cosimo, in a slightly lower tone of voice. The horsemen then scurried back out of the way as the cry of ‘Gardy-loo’ thundered down from the apartment above.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Charles Beaumont, France’s emissary to old Prussia, stood along with the other foreign dignitaries, standing off to one side of the huge Cathedral of Aachen, and watched as Archbishop Baldeger of Aachen lifted the ancient jewel-encrusted, ermine laced crown of the Holy Roman Empire above the partiality bare pate of the warrior below. Charles Beaumont was a relatively young man for this important post, but many believed him to be wise beyond his years. He was a tall man, clean-shaven, with a long face, but an almost expressionless one. From looking upon his countenance at first, one might have taken him for a simpleton, but that was to his advantage diplomatically. Charles Beaumont was a diplomatic genius. Beaumont was a placid man, and indeed, most always calm, but he could not help but feel slightly disturbed by what was happening before him.

This old cathedral was radiant today, as ever. This house of God was large enough to be a palace. Indeed, it was the size of many palaces, as befitted an earthly palace of the one true God. The huge, stone structure had stood since the Dark Ages, and had been host to many events. A royal coronation was hardly anything new. As the spectrum of multi-colored light flooded down from the literally giant stained glass windows above, a tall, muscular, bald-headed man knelt in this radiance before the Archbishop, who, with his blessing, was preparing to lower down the ancient crown upon the scalp of this conqueror, for better or for worse. In a second, the thing was done; this man was king of all Germany.

This man, Charles Beaumont noted, was a true warrior. He had ascended to the throne of Prussia twelve years before, and had from the start been a fighter. After defeating his younger brother in battle over the throne, this man had exiled him to France. After this, this conqueror had declared that he was going to fight for the re-unification of the Germanic peoples, as they had been in the time of the Teutons. When the glorious queen of France, Jeanne d’Arc, appointed Beaumont to replace the ailing and infirm ambassador to Prussia, he’d immediately become wary of him. Beaumont watched quietly as many kings in succession came to bow down before this conqueror in servitude. Austria had gone first, ravaged in a two-year war. The final siege of Leipzig Castle, the last stronghold of the Austrians, had lasted for almost eight months. When it fell, this conqueror took no quarter. After the slaughter, the conqueror moved into the other old Germanic states, annihilating from the face of God’s earth those who opposed his iron rule. The last to fall had been Bavaria. As a mark of revenge for it’s slow capitulation, the conqueror razed the capital city to the ground. Now, however, he was back in Aachen, and was being crowned Emperor of Germany.

As the conqueror arose into the light, everyone in the room bowed. This man surely had an awe-inspiring presence. He had his peculiarities, though. As an example, one needed only to look at the conqueror’s hands. His left hand was uncovered, and looked perfectly normal. The right, though, was covered by a thick, black leather glove, which Charles had always seen the man wear, even at court. Indeed, there had never been a single time when Beaumont had seen him without it. Over the middle finger of the gloved hand, the conqueror wore a large ring, the band made of gold. A large, blue sapphire sat in the center, like a spider on a web.

The man’s face was walrus-like, resembling the poor animals that his merchants had slaughtered for their ivory. He had beady, sunken, close-set eyes, and they were steel gray. His hair, what was left of it, was also gray in color. His face was of a light-pink texture. His long nose seemed to sit upon his huge, bushy, gray mustache. The man sat down slowly upon the throne prepared for him. On his head sat the crown. In his left hand, he clutched his scepter. In his right hand, he held the orb. This conqueror, this Otto of Bismarck, was now Emperor Otto the Great. Long may he reign. May God save him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

[civman2000]

[johncmcleod]

As soon as I saw the title of this story and the author, I said "By Jove, this willbe a good story." And it is. It isn't as action packed as the DG series, but it's really good writing. What are your credentials in writing? I did you take it in college or whatever? And if you have time, I posted this story a couple days ago at http://apolyton.net/forums/showthrea...threadid=52508 and I was wondering if you could critique it. I am about halfway through chapter 2 and I need all the advice I can get. After my first story (which was the worst story ever written) I looked at tips writers gave me and wrote A Grand Day. It was an okay story, but it was so much better than my first one. If you could critique this new one called Times of War and Diplomacy I'd really appreciate it.

[History Guy]

Thanks guys for the positive review. I'll try to crank out another 'chop' before I have to leave.

John-- Thanks, your compliments are undeserved, I must admit! To be honest, I have relatively few at all credentials in writing, but I do know how to write from reading good pieces of literature (something I'd suggest just about everyone do). I liked A Grand Day, and I voted for it, in fact. This new story looks to be even better yet, I must say. Please keep it up, as I must say I do like it!

As for my story, it'll be good sized, I think. It's mainly about the European civs, though the Chinese, the Mongols, and the Turks will play a minor part. It's based on several conglomerated Civ3 games. The difference is that every civ in the story is in it's historical place, and that I will have some PTW civs involved as well, like the Spainairds, and perhaps the Vikings. Enjoy!

And don't worry, it'll get much more interesting over time.

[Metaliturtle]

It's really stupid comment time, really stupid comment time, here's a stupid comment now.

Man dats big

[History Guy]

Right, Metaliturtle, brilliant deduction...I'll be sure to stick in a character named Metaliturtle in the next post, and have Bismarck remove his head or something.

Anyway, now I can start tickling the keys again to produce another chop.