Anarchy in Rome, A Sack Amidst Plague [MT-PMT, CLOSED, IC]

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

San Marino, The Romagna, Italy

"La vendetta, oh, la vendetta,
è un piacer serbato ai saggi.
L'obliar l'onte, gli oltraggi,
è bassezza, è ognor viltà."~The Marriage of Figaro

What happened today was unprecedented. What will happen today will also be unprecedented. The Lords of The Romagna were meeting to discuss a truce. Even during the time of peace, the lords had worked at each other in the shadows, with as much dagger as cloak. Here and now they met, in person with social distancing measures ensured, for the first time in ages. Francesco Riario had arranged all of this after snagging the support of his cousinly Sforzas in Forli and allowing Lord Pietro Malatesta to interview Paolo Borgia himself. They'd settled on neutral territory. San Marino. The ancient republic had been finally annexed centuries ago, but their independence was still de facto at this point in time.

As the great hall filled with condotierro lords and their retainers, Francesco noted the cold tensity of the air. This truce was built on shared paranoia, and could break at any moment. He noted the leading men represented the houses of the romagna. He himself, Riario, of Imola. Malatesta, of Rimini and Cesena. Sforza, of Forli. Bentivoglio, of Bologna. Manfredi, of Faenza. Accompanig them at this table were two notable guests.One was Paolo Borgia, at the invitation of Francesco Riario. The other was Cardinal Joaquin Santiago Gonzalez de Borja-Montalvo. Techincally the head of the church's oriental branches, he'd taken control of the state media company and made a global post a few weeks back. He'd fled Rome after doing so, and apparently gone into hiding with the Bentivoglios. He had intended to flee to what allegedly remained of the Empire of Trabadius to discover what happened to it, but he'd been imprisoned as a bargaining chip for when Orsini finally turned north.

Riario had had to bribe the Bentivoglios for his release. This meeting was now costing him financially as well. As each lord took their seats at the grand table, they feasted on what larders the San Marinese could provide. Wine, grapes and meat were plentiful for the lords. Francesco could see the disgust on Paolo's young face. The teenager had just weeks before been subsisting on nuts, garbage and whatever he could get out of the men he bedded. He barely touched his food. This continued on until Lord Malatesta slammed his fist on the table to shut them up.

"We are not here to commit an act of gluttony during a pandemic, lords." He said. "We're here to discuss an important matter brought to us by Riario. Important enough to need a truce when I'd rather be gutting the lot of you."

The room nervously laughed as Riario signaled he wished to speak.

"They say few things would bring us lords into concord, but I think I might just have him." Riario said. "This is Paolo Borgia. He is as far as we know, the last surviving member of the Papal Guard."

"A living witness to the assault on Saint Peters." Lady Manfredi said with partial awe.

"Yes." Riario replied. "Paolo. Will you tell them your story?"

Paolo did so, albeit in excruciating detail which included his own journey into Riario's care. All tension in the room was replaced by sadness and empathy for Paolo and anger in equal measure. Bentivoglio even feigned dry eyes. Getting towards the end, Paolo sighed.

"Tell them even what you did not tell Malatesta." Riario insisted.

"Fine!" Paolo said angrily. "After they garroted him with a cheese wire right in front of me, they stripped him of his vestments and jewelry. Orsini used some of them to bribe a few more of his mercenary commanders not to break with him! They then desecrated his body and hid it in various places throughout the city. No one will ever find it!"

The room was stunned to silence. Only to be interrupted by Malatesta.

"How do you know this?"

"I witnessed the stripping myself. The rest I overheard by The Sisters dragging me outside to a corpse cart. I...I played dead...like some craven animal."

"No, boy, you are among the bravest I've ever met." interrupted Cardinal Montalvo, silent until now. He placed his hand on Paolo's shoulder "Survival is not cowardice. You did your duty then to protect your pope, regardless of his legitimacy. You did your duty by surviving. You are still doing it now."

"I've heard the Sisters of Saint Michael utilize such tactics on foreign heads of state." Bentivoglio said. "But to butcher the body of the Pope!"

"Was he really a Pope though?" Sforza asked. "That is debatable."

"He was still a cardinal, a bishop, duke, and son of a legitimate pontiff, Sforza." Riario answered.

"Garroting a man with a cheese wire is something only the minion of a mafioso does." Malatesta. "We don't even stoop so low. I for one-"

"ENOUGH!" Paolo interrupted Malatesta with a shout. "Is his legitimacy and mode of death all that matters to you vile whoresons!? Sixtus VI was murdered! He was butchered like an animal! Orsini killed him! Orsini slaughtered him! Orsini attacked Saint Peters! Orsini raped Mater Roma! Orsini ROBBED ME OF EVERYTHING!"

Paolo broke down and wept before the assembled lords. All was quiet. Only Montalvo sank down and comforted him.

"Everything..."

"What would you have us do, boy?" Malatesta said in a softer voice. "I'm a monster, admittedly, but Orsini is dangerous in that he does not see his own monstrosity. You're right, young Borgia."

"I want what is owed to me as a Borgia." Paolo said as he calmed. "Vengeance."

Later that day, the lords left San Marino. Paolo and Montalvo were accepted into the care of Riario. They were gathering their forces. They were had heeded the story of the young lover, the bereft lover had impacted them all. His story and subsequent rant had turned even the coldest among them in that room. The lords of The Romagna had done the impossible. They were working together as one coalition. Adopting the red and yellow banners as well as the great symbol of The Romagna, The Coalition of The Caveja would move south as quickly as possible. They had only one goal in mind. Virginio Orsini would die for his crimes. Anyone associated with him as well. Vengeance.

Riding behind Paolo and Lord Riario on horseback, Cardinal Montalvo began to write.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Una Dichiarazione della Coalizione della Caveja! SIXTUS VI MURDERED! Eyewitness to the Sack of Rome and Lone Survivor of The Sacred Band Reveals Fate of Sixtus The Romagna-I apologize for my great informality and the lack of credibility this journalistic endeavor has. Our coalition is new, and my access to the Acta Diurna Borgiae is severed. This will have to do for now. The purpose of this article is to illuminate the wider world on the crisis currently engulfing the Italian peninsula, as well as clarify the intentions of the lords allied together today. Before we get to the headline at hand, allow me to quickly sum up the events concerning Italy for the general public as the world continues to receive conflicting reports daily of the machinations of the Borgia family. After my own flight from Rome, the city has remained in a state of anarchy as condotierro and civilian populations begin to pillage the city and burn their way across the landscape. Foreign involvement has attempted to curb this rampage, but it has done little in that regard. It has subsided by a lot in the last week, but not much. In Southern Italy, battle is being raged between Virginio Orsini (of whom we'll be speaking of shortly) is holding the line against his liege lord, Alfonso of Naples near the old abbey of Montecassino. Alfonso means to take Rome and forcibly name a pope, soon to be announced as (from reputable sources in Naples) Cardinal Jose de Borja, Duke of Zaragoza, his cousin, as 'Pope' Calixtus V. Orsini has recently recieved reinforcements under the command of his daughter-in-law, Mei Lee Icfella. To the north, Venice has recalled her fleets and the stock market continues to fluctuate wildly. Florence is currently under siege by a Milanese-Modenan coalition under the Duke and Leonello d'Este who means to take the papal throne by force. The Vatican Bank remains sealed, but Florence is expected to fall quickly. there are also rumors of revolt by the Sienese. The COVID-19 pandemic continues but by the grace of god, the amount of death and new cases has begun to decrease. Unfortunately the disruption of supply lines for charities and government distribtion has been impeded by the war, and there is widespread rumor of a famine possibly taking place if this does to end quickly. God save us all. There have also been multiple terrorist attacks on Papal ports, ships, and fuel platforms in the backdrop as this crisis continues. The Holy Inquisition has already begun to investigate, and sources in the congregation say a list of suspect nations has already been shortened. Whomever is doing this, reveal yourselves and your intentions. Cowardly attacks on a nation weakened by disease are barbaric behavior, unbecoming of a civilized country. A contingent of the Sisters have been taken from Orsini by the Inquisition to deal with these threats. Now for the actual piece of this article. It is my solemn and most regretful duty to inform the world that the pope, anti- or not, Sixtus VI is dead. He has not fled from Rome, as rumors say. He was murdered during the attack on Saint Peters on the orders of Cardinal-Prince Virginio Orsini, by the hand of Emilinia Corella, Superior-Commander of The Sisters of Saint Michael. Adriano Borgia, son of the Papissa Clementia XV, and a cardinal of our holy mother church was garroted with a cheese wire in the Vatican catacombs beneath St. Peters Basilica. His body was later dismembered by the Sisters and distributed across Rome. His remains were pilfered of their valuables as well. This utterly atrocious and heartbreaking story was brought to Lord Francesco Riario of Imola by a survivor of The Sacred Band, Paolo Borgia. His story has been recorded at his request and uploaded to YouTube. Orsini not only has allowed his pride to cause Mother Rome to burn, but has utterly reduced him to barbarous inhumanity. The martyrdom of Adriano Borgia has caused the formation of this coalition. Moved by the story of Paolo, the lords of the Romagna have come together for the first time. They have formed "The Coalition of the Caveja", using the iron agricultural rod famous of their region, as a symbol of their oath. Our oath, actually, as I for the first time I have blustered into Italian factionalism. What is our intentions? Are we yet another claimant to papal authority? Am I using them to take power? No. The coalitions intentions are very much one single matter. Justice. We are moving south to confront, capture, and kill Virginio Orsini-Borgia. We have no other desire, no loftier goal. He must answer for his many, many, crimes. Virginio Orsini murdered Sixtus VI, attacked Saint Peter's Basilica, and sacked Rome. He now continues to pontificate about the holiness of our church whilst ignoring the deadly sins hes committed against it. We will not fight against any other claimnant nor will we ally with them. We have one mission and none other. We actually support a legitimate conclave, as Sixtus VI is dead. We just will not allow Orsini to hold our Princes of the Church hostage to do so. We will not coutnenance anyone who supports him militarily or ecomincally. They will be killed alongside him. We ask, in the name of the mercy of Christ, that Mei Lee Icfella and her husband to disband their forces and go home. They do not deserve to die needlessly. Thank you. Pax Christi. Top Comments (120,000+) CardinalJoaquindeMontalvo_Borja I should clarify that after we do end the life of Orsini, the coalition has no intention of breaking up and resuming their normal depravities. We mean to return to Rome and secure the city, to end the looting and to make preparations for a legitimate conclave. Our current supreme commander isn't Romagnol. To alleviate disputes, we've hired a venetian commander who's currently unemployed. Our 'Il Gallo' is Federico Colleoni, Lord of Malpaga. DeaconJohn Paolo's story is truly tragic. We can also confirm that Paolo may be the last survivor of The Sacred Band. We're writing on this account, my brother's account, today as he has taken his own life as of three days ago. He did not deserve this. God rest his soul. BorgiaBull1492 I really hope this ends quickly. A famine in the modern era is truly unthinkable. How is it possible though? We have enough [servants] working the fields to get us food? Surely we can make them deliver it too! EDIT: I get that Pope Calixtus IV banned that to keep our people working, but these are desperate times! LongDongOfTheLaw_69 @CardinalJoaquindeMontalvo_Borja Oh dear lord, really? Il Gallo? A Colleoni!? Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. I hope he has the balls to assure your victory. TheMarranosDidIt Label me as a conspiracy theorist all you want, sheeple simps, but I know who is to blame for all of this! My research has led to this irrefutable conclusion, people. Allanea is responsible for everything! Those abolitionist nutcases are behind all of this. They know we prosper far better than they ever can with [servants], and are doing all they can to weaken our great country. They killed Victor IV AND Sixtus VI. They did those terrorist attacks. They made the COVID-19 virus!! It's all true, just google it. Click to see more...

[TURTLESHROOM II]

{ OOC: Recommended soundtrack. }

"On the streets where you live, girls talk about their social life."

Footsteps and the shimmering of a flashlight. The squelching of mud and splashing of puddles. The rubbing of material from a backpack.

"They're made of LIPSTICK, PLASTIC, and PAINT, a touch of sable in their eyes."

A tall Asian woman cut her way through the ankle-deep sludge and slurry of the Great Pontine Marsh. A strip of cloth was tied horizontally around her forehead, keeping the raven hair that extended to her waist out of her eyes. Normally, her hair was gorgeous, and even more so since she was chosen to marry into Borgian nobility. Now, its tips were covered in mud, leaves were caught in it, and the part framing her left temple was torn into split ends.

"All your life, all your life, all you asked was when's your daddy going to talk to you..."

Mei Lee Icfella-Borgia stopped near a tree stump, flicking off the flashlight and sitting down. The clothes she wore today were unbecoming of her, and while not sinful, they would draw looks in any of her homeland's people. In a country as reactionary as the Borgian See and its constituent states, it would be near-scandelous.

She wore mid-thigh length, dark blue, denim short pants and a light grey hooded sweatshirt. Tattered socks and cheap tennis shoes adorned her feet. All of these were caked in sweat, visibly staining her chest and armpits, through her bra and down the front of her shirt.

Around her neck was the small, Latin cross necklace given to her by her brother, carved out of a single sapphire. This was the only item of value visible on her person.

"No one heard a single word you said. They should have seen it in your eyes, what was going 'round your head..."

Everything else was in her grey backpack. She couldn't take much. A few Pavesini snack cakes, some granola and bottled water, the Bible she received when she was adopted, and other trinkets. An Italian-to-English dictionary. Most important of these were the manilla envelope containing copies of the evidence she sent to police after she shot the Doge of Amalfi, to prove her identity. Alongside that were the three ornate rings she normally wore on her hand to denote her position as Dogaressa, with its accompanying sash. One of the hats representing her office, the Dogaress Voile, was also present.

For centuries, TurtleShroomers had a long history of insisting regalia be worn every day, if they were not too cumbersome. In public, the Tsars wore their crowns around the clock, the same as their coronation, and were trained to be able to wear them sitting, standing, and even running. Mei Lee's brother, Cardinal-Primate Icfella, never took off his choir dress vestments in the day. She was devestated to think that she might damage something so important. Such beautiful, ornate garments were not meant to be squished in a backpack, but they were essential to her plan.

"OH, she's a little runaway! Daddy's girl learned fast, all the things he couldn't say! OH, she's a little runaway!"

The mad dash from the Doge Palace of Amalfi was one of blood, tears, and classic TurtleShroomian "shotgun feminism".

Even now, tears stained her face and drew traces on her dirt-stained cheeks as she thought about what had happened a few days ago.

The broken glass. The thrown vase. Her computer monitor punched through by the Doge's fist. Him lifting his arm, with the monitor like a bracelet, and tossing it at her. She hated thinking about what got him riled up in the first place.

Her wedding, months before, was the happiest time in her life. Sparks of euphoria lit up her slanted eyes as she took the hands of the well-tanned Italian casanova, dressed in his golden robes and wearing his pointy Doge hat, in a ceremony of roses dripping in diamonds. She wore a crimson traditional, silken Tsao gown and bright red lipstick alongside a red, traditional Catholic veil. The Borgian Pope himself, in his Papal Tiara, oversaw the union.

She remembered the gasps when she was brought forward before the eligible Borgian bachelors, who then negotiated behind closed doors to whom she should be married off. Not during the meeting, no. These gasps were from the result.

Alphonse Borgia, the Doge of Amalfi, was the chosen man. Newly elected and only recently sworn to the Doge Promissione Oath, he was eager to bare his first child to a fine Italian beauty. The woman the Borgias agreed to give him that night was....... not Italian.

Mei Lee winced and gripped her fists. TurtleShroom was a land where no human was racist to humans. The talking turtles and mushrooms had that nice effect of showing that all humans are men.

As a little girl in the iron stratocracy of Comrade Commissar, she was a Tsao, the elite race of the authoritarian union of the Five Commissariats. She was born into a well-off family, not crazy rich, but never going without. She never saw any of the primitive, nomadic Kheks, the haughty, aristocratic Aashinian whites, nor the towering Kitsunes and Japan-equse humans of the Yue Commissariat. Funny enough, the Aashinians reminded her greatly of her new world, this fine and fancy Italian plutocracy that she had been captivated by.

Mei Lee's teenage years, where she developed her modest figure and began anticipating a husband, were wrought with turmoil. Her family shipwrecked on a refugee boat bound for the Asian Coalition.

They all survived, but her father and mother were both officers in the CC military, high enough to be on the genocide list that would follow after the War of Red. After deeply tearful goodbyes, all three mutually agreed that Mei Lee would need to be separated for good. She was smuggled into TurtleShroom before the general refugee influx. Mei Lee was put up for adoption and taken in by the Icfellas, who showered the teen Oriental with love and Christian fellowship. Never religious before, she converted to Catholic Christianity within months of living with her new family.

TurtleShroom Catholicism's dance with House Borgia and their Papacy was still romanticized, and the bizarre alignment of two peoples and churches with noticably differing views on the Mother Church and society itself was a match that only the Holy Spirit could sustain. -and sustain it did, even in chaos.

The illegitimate "Popess" that usurped the Borgian Papal throne was an affront to all faithful Catholics, but her brief "reign" was shot down by God Himself within the year. When a true Pope took to Peter's seat, the TS Rite was the first to recognize him, despite being the youngest member of the Borgian Church. This was rewarded with an acceptance of House Icfella as a ranking member of the Borgian nobility, worthy of the husband taking that very name behind the elite Borgian bloodline.

It was into this life that Mei Lee was thrust, and she took to it like a pig to mug. Asians of all stripes have always had ties to high culture and strict etiquette, and growing up a Tsao and child of military officers, this was not hard to fathom. It was different from the down-home, humble, no-frills traditionalism that was the unique Slavo-Dixie compound of TS life. Yet, the parties, the ceremony, the beauty and the honors she had as Dogaressa, embodying the processions and dealings of the Republic, these were so new, and every day, so fun.

Her Tsao accent and her distinct appearance made her popular with the crowds, and her humble, kind heart won the public's adoration in Amalfi. The worries of an interracial union into the ancient Borgian aristocracy seemed to fade as Mei Lee demonstrated the TurtleShroomian cultural mandate that guests assimilat to foreign countries. She was taking Italian, learning catillion, smiling and waving.

Given that a reigning black Pope was prior the Doge of Venice, the Borgian Papacy didn't seem to have racial problems.

-but Doge Alphonse did.

Did.

It was from that night that the people of Amalfi learned the other lesson about TurtleShroomian women. They don't miss their abuser.

She didn't think she had to run at first. The Almafite populace held rallies in the Dogaressa's favor, and the police agreed that it was self-defense. That was when the rotten fish showed up in the covers. Then the horse's head. Then the garroting wire. Gestures of running a thumb across their throat was in her peripheal vision. When the Palace of Amalfi's stained was broken with a brick, and the sounds of Italian leather tapped the floor, she knew she was in trouble. She learned quickly that she didn't need to fear the law, for it was on her side. This was Italy, and in Italy, she was about to learn that power and connections weren't as black and white as they were in TurtleShroom. The vendetta had come for her, but she had already slipped into the night.

These modern "tourist clothes" were paid for using some expensive jewelry from the Dogaressa's bedside jewelry box. The backpack was already hers. The rest of the stuff was in her closet. She was on the run, not from the people of Amalfi, who loved her, nor from the Papacy, who understood her. The elements coming for her were far more brutal and would not subject her to a trial.

* SNAP *

Her thoughts were interrupted from behind, as the bushes began to part. Mei Lee's shotgun, given to her as she left by Cardinal-Primate Jason's father, was still sticking out of her backpack.

She reached for it and slowly stood up, her long, dark hair scraped the birt on the ground. She pushed up her thin, bejewelled glasses and hissed under her breath, in heavily accented Italian that betrayed her race...

"Chi va li?!"

[Vegvarak]

The streets of Perugia were deserted as a horrible unease fell over the city.

The nobles of Perugia had always resented the Papacy's temporal powers over Umbria, and multiple rebellions and insurrections over the centuries had resulted in the Pope building the massive Rocca Paolina in 1504 - now heavily modernized - that towered over the city center, its guns always ready to fire on the city itself should another . It is rumored, even, that Perugian nobles orchestrated the murders of more than one Pope. But there was no joy or feeling of liberation as the news of Pope Sixtus VI's murder spread throughout the city. Only horror. Such a brutal, inhuman murder - an attack on the Eternal City itself during a plague, an attack on St. Peter's Basilica itself? The citzens lived in constant fear - Perugia was caught between multiple factions who would certainly seek to take the city before long, and with the pope dead, who controlled the Rocca Paolina? The fortress was silent, its gates shut since the start of the pandemic, but ever looming over the City of the Griffin.

At the start of the pandemic the Vegvaraki and Orrovian cardinals had sought refuge and isolation in the Abbazzia de San Pietro in the city's southeast. Their Trabadian and Palatinean colleagues were still unaccounted for, and they assumed they had either fled to the Imperium, been captured, or succumbed to the virus. For weeks they had been trying to set up communication with Vištozim - the nearest major Imperial city, without success.

"It failed again..." Cardinal Luca Tevanietcai muttered obscenities under his breath. "We've tried everything to reach the empire."

"Why are you even trying to route it through the old radio tower?" asked Gontanzo, one of the monks of San Pietro.

"The Empire's damned isolationism. We like life to be... simpler, without social media and such distractions, but in times like these it's maddening. But it's not just that. There are many spies on all sides of this conflict - and none of us have the skill to disguise a message. What do you think any of these armies when they find out the Cardinals of Orrovia and Vegvarak - half of the Imperium - are waiting out the plague in an Umbrian abbey? We'll be forced at the threat of death to elect that dog Virginio Orsini's hand-picked candidate as the new pope. Or the Neopolitan candidate. Or the Milanese, or the Venetians'... I've all but given up on reaching Vegvarak though. Perhaps we can reach this Coalizione della Caveja?"

"Do you trust them?" Asked Gonstanzo

"No. But what other choice do we have?"

[Allanea]

Palermo

Oh, Palermo, the beautiful Palermo!

The lovely Sicily!

Oh, the beaches, the stuff of song and art!

Squint just right and you can play that lovely game of soldiers across the nations – pretend there's not a war on. You can pretend that you're only a step away from stretching out on a beach, or hiking down hillside paths, or perhaps striding among the centuries-old churches among tourists and pilgrims. Perhaps you can relax at the hotel later, in an air-conditioned room with a maiorchino cheese – who does not love cheese, these days? Maybe you will meet a nice local girl who's not totally religious – or one that is totally religious, but you persuade her to forget about God and the Saints for a few hours? Ah, Palermo, with the achingly-beautiful blue of the skies, the roofs of the old homes like orange peels, the sea like emerald!

But he can't keep pretending that there's not a war on. He had seen them – the church slaves, sullen, wiping the stairs in front of the grand cathedral. He'd seen them about the Archbishop's home – some more overworked than others, some more healthy-looking than others. Perhaps it was just in his mind, that idea that you can distinguish them somehow, that there's some indelible stain on their visage from the compulsion they suffer that you can identify. Maybe there's never been a difference, between an exhausted slave-girl and a tired factory worker, and the whole thing about slavery and freedom is just a ruse to keep up appearances.

That is an interpretation Ensign Emilio Sanchez chooses to reject. So does his friend, Anthony Whitaker. They are two well-educated men. They do not reject a foreign idea lightly – each of them is familiar with the defenses of slavery, and has chosen to reject them years ago. Now, all that remains is the last stage. The waiting, and the action.

The alarm in the Archbishop's mansion, the vibration alarm that was meant to have alerted of a man entering the second-story window, cuts out near-midnight. In a few minutes, the automated dialer will call out to the security call center that's responsible for the alarm, reporting the malfunction. So what? Alarms malfunction all the time. Somewhere, a tired hand slams the snooze button on a dashboard. The man who does this does not know he's saving the lives of several security guards. By now, a pair of hands had already wrapped around the windowsill and lifted a figure inside.

The man moves like a shadow across the seventeenth-century hardwood. His heavy boots, instead of thumping threateningly on the wood, seem to land with all the softness of cat's paws. A second – and he is in the hallway.

The archbishop wakes.

He does not see the man.

Not at first.

Sssh! – something hisses. There is no need for a translation. The ecclesiarch understood immediately. There was a black-clad man in his room, and the man's posture left nothing to the imagination. He paled, the moonlight making him look like he was dead already.

Prendi tutto… – he whispered, terrified. The voice replied, harsh, unforgiving.

"I am not a robber, Archbishop. I'm a messenger."

"Un messagero? – the Archbishop switched to Common, broken, confused. Half-awake, his accent was worse than usual. "After midnight? Are you insane?"

"I have a message you don't need to be awake to receive. It's a very Sicilian kind of message, I think." – the man said, approaching the priest's bed.

"Cosa?"

"The message is that the blood of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

The man darted forward, a thin, sharp blade striking the priest in the ribs.

He would be found this way in the morning – his eyes wide-open in terror, a small blood-stain on his silken night-gown where the dagger had found his heart.[/align]

* * *

The waters of the Adriatic are warm, and they flow along Italy's beautiful beaches. Therefore, by the simple motion of water, wind, and moon, items thrown into the water South are sometimes found on beaches in the North. Sometimes those items are quite substantial ones.

In this case, the items are black, sealed fuel drums. The brave soul who opens one up will find that their inside is somewhat smaller than the outside – the walls are thicker than they look, filled with a material that aids in the drum's floatation. More importantly, each of the drums is filled with weapons, of simple yet effective designs – not to its entire volume, of course, lest it drown, but substantial nonetheless – a few rifles, perhaps, a submachinegun or a pistol there, some cartridges and magazines. Some have more substantial things – grenades, or a few pounds of high explosives. Either way, each has included within it a sealed, laminated list of all the items that were thus included. Each list was printed with the ominous words – For the Heroes Fighting for Italy, Unity, and Liberty in Italian and Latin. On the other side side was a copy of the painting showing Garibaldi in the Alps.

A careful investigator might notice, printed in tiny typeface in the corner of each list, a tiny set of digits. An even more careful one – find it matched a serial number on the lid. Soon enough one might receive news of more and more drums being found – 34, 35, 67, 80, 90….

In true reality, of course, the Allaneans set about two dozen drums afloat. They waited, now, for the enemy to make his own assumptions and do his own math.

[McNernia]

OFF N.SPAIN
ARCHINIAN SUB SURFACE TASK FORCE
CONDUCTING ELINT OPERATIONS

It was quiet, in the afternoon watch as there was news from Italy which had been transmitted to Spain. A reference from the SATINT branch of the military nominally handled by the Central Reconnaissance Office. Trawler attacked expect increased patrols. Maintain silence… run deep wherever possible. The Captian looked up from the message, the Allaneans or whoever the hell was behind this were upping the game.

“I think captian there is something in the books of international convention that one does not assault the food supply of a nation when they are at each others throats in the midst of a Pandemic….” Archinia had seen a drop in cases over the past few weeks, the parade for the Kings birthday had been cancelled as a precaution and there was a general order for stay at home. In some cases High Speed Trains had been seconded to the Ministry of health for the transfer of patients and several hospital ships had been dispersed to keep an eye on the sitituation. Venice was a key city as a major port they had done business with the Crown of Archinia though the days of the Venetian Quarter in Cathcride were over.

The captian of the Squadron of three ships looked at his XO, the Commander stood over the shoulders of Helm control, the Captian had emerged from the comms room after being paged. Of course the Captian as commander of an enhanced submarine was also commander of the Squadron. He looked at his executive Officer. “Well I suppose sir that there is much to be decided over the next couple of days. And we wont be escalating to violence, though the Amistad declaration does oblige us to deal with the slavers….” The Captian trailed off thinking about his wife and children back home….

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ROME ITALY , VATICAN QUARTER
ARCHINIAN EMBASSY TO THE PAPACY

---

The Belle Epoque style palace in the Quarter close to Vatican city was a fine sight, it was locked down and secured by members of the Constabulary. Armed with rifles and wearing black body armor they were a very scary sight for those whod sought to loot the Embassy of the MacInamaras to the Holy See. For Centuries the MacInamaras had been at the outer edge of Europe, taking in the remnants of the Capetians and Hapsburgs and such the Medici being the last, marriages into the MacInamara dynasty came with offers of trade and Europe had obliged until the Borgias had taken over. The times of the lack of relations had benfitied no one for the most part.

Now Ambassador Raibert MacFhiongain a career diplomatic officer looked out over the city, in the distance was St Peters BAsillica and the hole blown in its roof by the rebel Artilery. Archinia had maintained for the longest time ecclesiastical and trade relations but the current sitituation was interesting. A dead pope and the sole survivor of the Papal Guard testifying that the Sisters of St Michael backed by mercenaries had elected to off the man. Taking the air on the roof overlooking the city he stared out at St Peters, seat of the Borgias, they were masters of Italy and Spain. And France by proxy. The British held out against them as did the North. Much of Europe bowed to them one way or the other. MacInamara claims to the Hapsburg Throne of Spain were quite strong. If you were talking descendants of a dynasty that was basically gone in the senior line. He looked at the shock troopers peering down at the people. There was the prospect of the use of Gas or live ammunition to defend the Embassy compound.

Then there was also the message from Archinias cardinals, the four or was it five, four had contacted him, the seals on the letter were something one did not expect, The Cardinals stood for the institutions as the Church stood for the people as much as it did for tradition. And now the Papacy as degenerate as it had become was under threat. From within and without. There was the possibility that this usurper Pope would be without allies from his family. The Ambassador retreated into the Chancery building to send a message to the Foreign Ministry.

---

Cathcride, Archinia
HM Foreign Ministry
The Ambassadors Communique was received by the skeleton crew at the Foreign Ministry including the Minister herself. The Minister though was in a isolated state in her office along with her chief secretary and the various others. The old pneumatic systems for rushing urgent mail about the building had proven rather invaluable and so the foreign Minister had things sent to her that way. There was a technician and his apprentices who were tasked with handling this in a lot of government buildings.

The Minister looked at the Communique from the code room, it had been sent by Email and the Pneumatics’ was used for the odd large file or something. The Communique outlined the statement that the usurper Pope was in dire straits as the Lords of Italy had declared against him and there was much to consider. The Prime Minister was informed immediately.

---

PRIME MINSITERS RESIDENCE
The COVID-19 issue was on the way down in Archinia but the nation still had to be vigilant, the best scientists that could be cajoled into doing it. The team had tele-briefed the Cabinet and the Minister of health had said it was only a matter of time, the current situation was something that was interesting. The Foreign Minister responded to his subordinates' Email.

CONSIDER THIS VERY CAREFULLY AS THE LAST OPTION, IT COULD MEAN WAR.

The PM went to be thinking of the issues of how badly beaten up the economy was. The task was to uphold the foreign obligations as much as one was holding up the domestic need to save lives and the issue was now what to do. There was still no word from the Allaneans about what precisely was to be done. He awaited their communique.

[Allanea]

To: Prime Minister Albert E Shapter
From: Ambassador Richard J. Abrams
Classification: Secret, diplomatic courier

Dear Sir!
I understand of course your feelings. The Free Kingdom of Allanea has a tradition for standing up for individual liberties and human rights, and has also for many years had a tense relationship with Catholic theocracies. As the signatory and founder-state of the Amistad Declaration on Slavery and the Rights of Man, we are continuously in a state of hostility against foul slaverkind and all its works.

However, the Free Kingdom is fully cognizant that we do not always have the ability to actually end slavery in any given place, for example in certain large-scale slaver regimes. Partially as a response to this, we operate under what we refer to as cost imposition strategy or cost imposition operations. This means that we repeatedly launch sabotage and direct action strikes against those slaver regimes we cannot currently remove, as well as slavers themselves, their economic infrastructure, as well as those industries sustained by slave labor, with the goal of increasing the economic and social costs borne by slave economies.

As a Jew, you may remember here the book of Kings, where Elijah says to Ahab: Thus saith the LORD, Hast thou killed, and also taken possession? And thou shalt speak unto him, saying, Thus saith the Lord, In the place where dogs licked the blood of Naboth shall dogs lick thy blood, even thine.

For this reason, the Free Kingdom carries out a range of cost imposition operations against slaver regimes, both on the tactical and strategic level. I am not fully knowledgeable personally about their extent, but I have conferred with the military attaché , Col. Petr Andreevich Repin, and he has assured me that a more detailed briefing can be prepared at a later stage should cooperation be agreed upon.

(I hope you understand the importance of information compartmentalization in a context of international covert operations and in context of enemies such as the Borgias, who are known for their immense craftiness and their traditions of centuries of covert actions, assassinations, etc.)

May G-d Bless Archinia.
May He forever continue to Bless Allanea.

[McNernia]

Prime Ministers Residence,
Cathcride, Archinia

OFFICIAL COMMUNIQUE OF THE KINGDOM OF ARCHINIA
HM GOVERNMENT
OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER

From: Prime Minister A.E Shapter
To: Ambassador Richard J Abrahams of the Free Kingdom of Allanea
Cc:
Sec:SECRET-STANDARD-SECRET-COURIER DELIVERY
Sub:

Greetings

I am Jew Ambassador descended from those who fled Spain heading for the New World and those who fled other areas but in storm subject to the winds of fate wound up off the coasts of distant Archinia. I care not much for bible verses as I was never destined for it, my father was a Cantor, my mother was a Librarian, one of my uncles was a lawyer and he was the one who said that I should pursue a career in Parliament. Theology is for other families, a dynastic way of doing things. I recognize there might be some Irony but it is somewhat sound as there is the tradition of the Tribe of Levi and the House of Aaron.

We realize that the Borgias are quite devious and they are rather ruthless. However we have the advantage of professional standing armies that are obliged by oath to protect the State rather than by money. Also we have strong claims to the Capetian and Hapsburgs and a claim to the Carolingan Dynasty. We shall not pursue them at present, we shall however consider escalating ELINT to Anti Ship and Shore facility strikes. However I have consulted the Cabinet about the issue of striking at food supplies. Such things are surely in violation of international norms. But if they are allowable under the Amistad Treaty that is good enough for me and for the cabinet.

Signed

AEShapter

A.E Shapter Prime Minister of the Kingdom of Archinia

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Florence, Tuscany, Italy

O gente umana, per volar sù nata,
perché a poco vento così cadi?

Purgatorio, Canto XII, 95-96

Enough was enough. The city had been hit enough, and her people were beginning to starve. Florence was to beautiful to be allowed it to have devastation attached to it. So here they were. Marching out of the old city gates with the city garrison, Ippolito rode on horseback to make the surrender to Leonello d'Este-Borgia official. Awaiting at the lines was d'Este, The Duke of Milan and their retainers. Behind them flew the same banners of Sforza and d'Este, but now the late lord of Parma had come to join them. The Fleur de Lys, Blue on Yellow, of House Farnese. The Borgia always did delight in their beautiful Farneses. There was no point in continue with this siege, plus there were other concerns to deal with.

"Florence is yours, Count Leonello. Her art, culture, and her people are yours." Ippolito said. "We wish for you to pass on your way to Rome quickly-"

"I care neither for your art nor your people, Medici." Leonello replied. "You know what I want."

"The Varican bank is also yours, signore."

They followed him immediately into the city. In a public and televised ceremony, just to rub it in, Medici swore himself to the d'Este cause and transferred control of the Vatican finances to the Count of Modena. Though he was still its arbiter. A secret account still funded d'Euse's intelligence efforts. That night, Florence celebrated its surrender. As Florentines would. Plays were held, feasts were feasted, and sins great and small were perpetuated all through the night. Many and more were committed by the Duke of Milan himself, but it seems both Ippolito and Leonello were cunning enough to remain sober. Following him into the Medici's great courtyard, Ippolito asked the Count for a discussion of their rapprochement.

"What is it you want, Ippolito?" Leonello said.

"Florence and my bank are yours." Ippolito replied. "What do you intend to do with the world's mightiest financial institution?"

"Of course. You're worried I'll spend it into oblivion." Leonello said. "I was going to buy the Romagna into the cause. It seems not. This coalition is unexpected...and dangerous."

"They have good reasons. Sixtus' murder, regardless of the reasons, was abominable." Ippolito responed. "It was one of the other catalysts of my surrender."

"And the others?"

"Pragmatism." Ippolito said. "That and there are external factors playing in the background right now."

"So I've heard."

"d'Euse is managing it. He's been in contact with both Chimay and The King."

"Indeed." Leonello said. "Any suspects."

"None with certainty." Ippolito respoded. "We have some suspects, but these barrels we've found full of propaganda are confusing to be sure."

"False flag?"

"Possibly, but we cannot make assumptions." Ippolito said.

"I'll rid Rome of these fools when I take the Papal throne." Leonello said. "As for future plans, have you any recommendations, sir?"

"Do not buy arms from foriegn powers, even if you have to fight with sticks." Ippolito said. "You already owe a debt to Sforza. Imagine owing one to someone competent."

Leonello laughed. This was true. Even if he won control of the papal throne, it'd be done so with the aid of the Sforzas of Milan. The Duke's army made up more than two-thirds of his forces. He descended from his horse and bid Ippolito to follow them in a quick walk around the grounds. As they talked, Leonello began to consider his options. The Coalition was not hostile to him, yet, but they needed to be considered an enemy until they decided otherwise. Orsini's defeat seemed utterly assured now. He was trapped in a trench and in a stalemate with a true adversary, Alfonso of Naples. Should Orsini surrender to him, things would be thrown into chaos. What to do....

"I cannot buy the Romaganol lords. It seems I've found the great golden chest, with literally nothing to do with it."

"Not so, Lord d'Este." Medici replied. "The Icfellans are interfering with this war. You can outbid them ten times over. You as well as I know they'll never support your papacy."

"Indeed. Backwards fools."

"There is another thing you can have none others will."

"That being?"

"The mightiest dowry in the world."

"Impossible. You know that." Leonello said with anger. "I will never be some person's trophy, nor their trade piece."

"Did I say that, signore?" Ippolito said. "It was a joke, and a bad one it seems. No, I meant that any prince or ruler in this world would get on all fours and pray to God for endurance to marry a potential pope, AND into the bank you now de facto control."

"Indeed, Medici." Leonello responded. "Based on what I heard about Viracocha, marriage can get you many things money cannot buy."

He rode off to make his plans. Medici was an insightful man indeed.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Urbino, Umbria

The Coalition's army was meandering through central Italy on its way south to Rome. Though pledged to rid the country of injustice and seek vengeance, it was doing little more than sowing the seeds of future grudges. Rather than heading straight to Rome to battle it out with Orsini, the Coalition was "gathering materiel and manpower" in a way only mercenaries knew how. They were pillaging the land wherever they went, and in the distance between San Marino and Urbino, they'd burned dozens of farms and stolen hundreds of servants for use in their army. Dozens more were conscripted into service, or to servicng the beds of their soldiery. Montalvo and Paolo were both utterly disgusted...but they knew they'd have to bear this evil to deal with Orsini's crimes.

With news that Florence had handed itself over to Leonello d'Este-Borgia, the Coalition had doubled its efforts. It was now a race to see who would claim Rome first. Neither army considered the other an enemy, but was wary of each others' goals. It was likely there would be a battle if they got near the city at the same time, though neither side really cared. With Orsini still trapped in Lazio, they knew they had to move fast regardless anyway. Grand-Captain Colleoni did not want any detours.

Yet here they were anyway. Montalvo had argued with him for hours about the need to go to Perugia. The Vegvaraki delegation was trapped there. He, in his position in the curia, had to make contact with them. Both for their own sake and for the sake of the coalition. What little contact with the Empire in the east could prove as useful to the coalition as the Vatican bank to d'Este.

Montalvo was coordinating his next letter when Paolo came into his room.

"You wanted me, your eminence?" Paolo asked.

"Yes, young Paolo." Montalvo said. "Your birthday is soon, is it not?"

"Uh, yes, Eminence." Paolo replied. "I'll be eighteen. Why?"

"I have a gift for you, then." Montalvo said. "Though it is a selfish one, and one you would not like."

"Then is it actually a gift?"

Montalvo laughed and handed him a box. Inside was a green and wide brimmed hat.

"A hat, eminence?"

"A galero. In green."

Realizing what it meant, he threw it on the floor. The green galero was only worn by territorial abbots. Leonello d'Este-Borgia was the territorial abbot of Pomposa. This was an ecclesiastical appointment. Paolo became infuriated at the sight of the damned thing.

"Absolutely not." Paolo said with anger. "I am a man of the Sacred Band."

"Your band is defunct." Montalvo replied calming him. "The abbot of Subiaco was murdered in the sack of Rome. The monastery is in ruins. This is merely a symbolic move."

"You want me to take your place."

"When the time comes. My duty is to the eastern churches."

"I do not want it."

"Good." Montalvo replied and sent him on his way. Returning to his desk, Montalvo began to write a letter to the Vegvaraki delegation. He notified them of their approach, and his need to meet with them to discuss both the fate of this church, but of the delegations' own fates. He assured them they'd face no harm at the Coalition's hands, but warned them that they should seek refuge with the army. Orsini has given general orders to capture any cardinal he can find. Even those with no electoral power were being imprisoned by his Sisters. Colleoni would arrive soon. They would be safe.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Palermo, Sicily

There was no need for stealth today. The Sisters were at the Archbishop's palace in official capacity. In full skintight light armor, emblazoned with the Borgia bull, and wearing their long silk white and golden capes, they tore through the palace as they investigated this latest attack. d'Euse had bought them and dispatched them South immediately on hearing the news of his murder. He had suspected enemy involvement from this at the beginning. Nothing was stolen. No one else was dead. This was a specifically targeted move on a political nonentity. Someone was sending a message. The sisters cleared the area around the palace. None were allowed inside or out. All staff were interrogated about it, though none really had much to say. The security guards were hanged outside for good measure.

The head of this squad, a Sister Vanozza, conferred with Cardinal d'Euse via AR. He agreed with her hypothesis based on the evidence they found. The security system had been disabled utterly, and little evidence of the assailants entry was found. Minute leftovers from bootprints entering the second story window. A palace servant had been tortured into confirming that fact, and was later released. This was a professional murder, an act of espionage. d'Euse immediately put out a notice to the country's police and borders. They were to be on watch for any suspicious activity and the borders were to be immediately closed and monitored, though how well this could be done was another matter entirely. All intelligence on this matter was also being copied and sent to Spain. The King had warned the world about interfering with this war, and someone had clearly done so. Hopefully the "diabolical leftist", as d'Euse called him, would heed his warnings and act.

Elsewhere in the city, news was also being disseminated about barrels of weapons and propaganda being found on the coasts. They were advocating armed uprisings all across the country. One of these, labeled "67" as its serial, washed up in Palermo. The Sisters seized it and cordoned off the site. The weapons within were pathetic, but d'Euse felt that it was the point. They were aesthetically perfect for a peasant's uprising...or a slaves. The nationalist propaganda was confusing to most including the Sisters. They destroyed it as well quickly as possible and asked d'Euse what it meant. He said nothing.

The hunt continued.

Zeebrugge, The Low Countries

While d'Euse conferred with his warrior woman battalion, Prince Eugene of Chimay began to move against whatever was threatening the financial interests of the papal empire. He sat in the harbor as his personal vessels returned to port. Zeebrugge was technically a seaside resort and commercial port, but he had commandeered it for his own palatial uses at the begining of the COVID-19 pandemic. Though the ships returning to port were civilian ones, their cargoholds were carrying something far from that when they left. As effective head of the merchant fleets of the North Sea, he'd acted on d'Euse's demands for action days ago.

He'd docked all vessels under the dominion of the Papal Empire at the ports of The Low Countries. This was publically stated as being "A quarantine effort to stop the seaborne spread of COVID-19".

For his own benefit as well as those in other principalities who were demanding a states general, all those ships would be paying a duty fee for their stay in those harbors "for putting Dutch, Flemish, and all other peoples' lives at risk." Those who could not pay now would do so in the future.

The coasts of the Low Countries would not be accepting any foreign ships whatsoever, and those in distress would not be answered.

All travel of foreign vessels within thirty miles of the coast was forbidden.

As for those civilian vessels returning to port? They were the actual defense Chimay had planned. Alongside other disguised military vessels, they'd spent the past two weeks laying a large minefield between De Panne and Amsterdam. The field made a large arc, coming with a dozen miles of the English coastline. Moored mines were commonly laid, but the second most used in this case were CAPTOR targeting mines (purchased from the Medici Aeronatuics company at great expense to Chimay's horror) to deal with submersible enemies. d'Euse had suspected such an enemy after the sinking of their fishing ship. There were also several uses of daisy-chained mines, a bit of extra nastiness for Eugene's pleasure.

All in all, anyone going for a boatride near Papal territories in the north is going to have a rather unpleasant experience.

[Allanea]

Somewhere near the Britannian coast, SS High Tide

John Tavington knew very little of the covert war that was going on against the Papacy – though as many in Allanea, he assumed that his government was doing something about that country. Slavery was a terrible thing, perhaps the most terrible thing, and the government was doing something about it at any given point – though sometimes, Tavington was given to understand, in some kind of complex government ways that he did not follow or understand (and, he suspected, would be disgusted by if he did know about them). Last time he thought about any of those things was when he was watching an action film in the ship's mess with the other crew members. It was a high-budget thing where Henry Bovill played a dashing handsome PLU operative. No doubt some people were really like that, though he suspected the films had exaggerated the operatives' handsome rugged looks, at least.

At any event, John was a busy man. His job was to steer the High Tide to port, with its 10,000 container-units of flat-screen TV sets. This was a tricky business – arrive late, and you cost the company thousands for every day of delays, arrive early and you need to wait for days at sea for a slot for your ship to become available at the pier.

It was, then, necessary to try and arrive, as novelists say, 'in the nick of time'.

Standing on the bridge of the High Tide, he peered into the darkness in front of him, checking once again for positioning lights. True, the ship had radar, but there were always boats small enough that sea surface clutter could conceal them, or that radar angles could fail to spot. Nobody wants to wake up in the morning and discover they'd run down a family of four on a holiday trip or –

There was a slamming sound, as if the ship had been struck, from port, by a giant hammer.

Tavington's first thought had been a collision – but he knew, from bitter experience, that a collision with a yacht sounded nothing like that. This was something bigger, much bigger.

The ship began to tilt forward inexorably. There was a crashing sound as several shipping containers skidded off their mooring. Which bastard secures a load like that? – Tavington's first thought was.

And then he looked on in horror as he saw the ship's prow dip into the waves.

He mashed an alert button.

It was too late to save the High Tide.

It was too late the High Tide five minutes ago.

A tear large enough to drive a car through had been made in the front, and water was now rushing in. The lower the prow – the more water – the more the ship began to tilt. Now the men ran frantically for their life raft.

In theory it was simple.

In theory, it could have been done under stress.

In practice, Joe Hall died, slipping on the tilted floor in one of the hallways, falling down a staircase and breaking his back in two spots.

In practice, Karina Smith was washed off the deck, and vanished in the dark, cold waters.

Theory held that all men would make it to the life raft and lower it with relative ease.

Practice demonstrated that out of a crew of twenty, only nine were so lucky. By that time, the ship was already listing forward precariously, and horrifying creaking noises were being audible from within its vast bulk.

Semyon Kostarenko died most tragically of them all – while handling the raft. A gust of wind, and the inflatable raft's body yanked forward on its chain, throwing Semyon off-balance and off the ship. When they lowered the raft, they saw Semyon no more. They called out his name for two hours, on and off, shining their flashlight into the darkness. At that point they stopped. He wore a vest, of course, but what's a vest at night, at the edge of the North Sea?

Ramla Beach, Malta

It is a truth universally acknowledged, and one of the foundations of military doctrine in the Free Kingdom, that war is not only battle, nor is it only glory or even tragedy and death – war hard work. At the present, Ensigns Sanchez and Whitaker were taking a break from that hard work. They were sitting, relaxed and out of uniform, on a pair of beach chairs on Ramla Beach, watching young Maltese girls enter the water. Each had in hand a tall cocktail glass – though, after weeks and weeks at sea, one could forgive Sanchez and Whitaker if they did not want to go into the water themselves, right now.

Somewhere behind them, on the main island and on Gozo, dozens of Allaneans in uniform and in plainclothes, and hundreds of locals, were still working hard. Men were unloading cargo, assembling equipment, and – of course, as was the Allanean way – digging into the soil, placing items that looked like oversized water tanks underground.

And then there were the others, dressed as civilians, who met in conference rooms at local hotels and seemed to not do any hard work whatsoever.

Although, of course, men like Whitaker knew better than to condemn those strangers as lazy.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

A Public Communique And Televised Letter from His Most Catholic Majesty, The King of Spain

To Our Fellow Kingdoms of The World,

It is unfortunate that I must write this letter to the world today. As my spanish subjects continue to languish in quarantine, and my fellow brothers in god in Italy tear each others throats out, I must still sift through the mires of international politics. Such is my duty as a monarch. This letter shall contain multiple announcements to that effect.

The sinking of the Allanean vessel, High Tide, is an unfortunate tragedy. One that I am willing to repay with my own treasury. Many are wondering why it has occurred and why the current governor-general has mined the seas around the Low Countries. I answer that now with the fullness of my office. Our intelligence services have confirmed that a recent spate of terrorist activities have come from foreign agents. Their origin is unknown and their cause seems to be exploiting the current papal interregnum. I warned the world. Verbatim "I WILL NOT tolerate the subversion of sovereignty of this country in any way. By anyone." It seems multiple nations have ignored this decree anyway. The terrorists continue to attack us with impunity. Turtleshroom, an old ally that once met with our predecessor here in Spain, has funded mercenaries and had the relatives of their cardinal lead armies in a direct and partisan attempt on their part to influence the church in their own favor. Britiannia in an utterly obvious attempt at espionage, has utilized their own charity work on Malta to position themselves in this conflict. Milan has directly invaded Italy to put a clear puppet on the papal throne. I'm utterly surprised the Bourbons aren't involved in some way, yet.

The actions undertaken by the Prince of Chimay and our Inquisition have my express support. In common defense of this country, I will allow the Inquisition access to the royal treasury and to our communications networks for now. However. We are still no way directly involving ourselves with the civil war. We will only be acting to curb foreign interference.

In this regard, I am announcing my secondary marriage. In the tradition of my mother's people, The Inca, I will be taking a secondary wife. It will be a trial marriage and confirmed by papal dispensation when this conflict resides. The woman in question is Laila of Morocco, daughter of the Sultan Muhammad VII. My niece, Maria Luisa, shall remain my principal wife and Queen. Laila shall be titled as "Princess of The Alhambra".

This marriage comes as both states have agreed to immediately close the Straits of Gibraltar to any new shipping. Our fleets will maintain a prescense there and turn back all ships entering or exiting the Mediterranean Sea. Attempts to circumvent our navies will result in the sinking of the ships in question. This will continue until this spate of terrorist actions subsides.

From,
His Catholic Majesty, Viracocha de Borja, the King of the Spanish, King of Castile, of León, of Aragon, of Portugal, of the Two Sicilies, of Jerusalem, of Navarre, of Granada, of Seville, of Toledo, of Valencia, of Galicia, of Sardinia, of Córdoba, of Corsica, of Murcia, of Jaén, of the Algarves, of Algeciras, of Gibraltar, of the Canary Islands, of the East and West Indies, of the Islands and Mainland of the Ocean Sea; Sovereign of Parma, of Brabant, of Gandia and Modena; Suzerain of The Low Countries, of Roussillon, and of Barcelona; Lord of Biscay and of Molina de Aragón; Captain General & Supreme Commander of the Royal Armed Forces; Sovereign Grand Master of the Order of the Golden Fleece and of the orders awarded by the Spanish state.

[Allanea]

In a hotel room in Cathcride, Capital of Archinia

Officially speaking, the event was a business conference. That the hotel room in which it occurred was thoroughly swept for bugs, that curtains were drawn on the windows to prevent laser-based eavesdropping, that hotel security tenaciously headed off anyone who was not a member of the conference – well, corporate espionage is a threat to big corporations and small ones alike, isn't it?

In reality, however, the man speaking at the "conference" would not be a businessman, or at least not unless we stretched the word 'business' beyond any meaning. He was, in fact, Oleg Dontsov, a senior agent with the Organization for Armed Shenanigans – a group that, despite its humorous name, was a powerful intelligence agency. Here he operated under the codename 'Shaman'.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he spoke, addressing a group of Archinian and Allanean agents who were assembled in the small room, "As all of you know, my organization has been responsible for counterslavery operations in a variety of countries, quite recently in Posteastan, Qaidi, and – I know nobody here is shocked when I say this – in the Borgia Papacy."

"Our organization's strategy focuses – as we believe is our moral and legal mandate – on the abolition of slavery worldwide through violent or diplomatic means. We do this not only out of non-selfish motives but out of selfish ones as well. Through a reasonable and tenacious push for abolitionism, Allanea has been able to acquire allies who share its worldview, and where it was not possible, we worked out relationships with nations whose worldview is opposed to our own in many ways – socialists, communists, even fascists – purely on the grounds that we work together to abolish slavery, which is condemned by all reasoned-thinking beings as one of the greatest evils."

"Which brings us to the present situation. The Borgia Papacy is a complex, large, multicultural society with slavery ingrained into its culture, its economics, even its religion on intricate levels. This, combined with the Papacy's large territory, means that it is not possible at the present to abolish slavery there other than through large-scale war and an occupation to last for decades. This is not something that's practical for us at the present, although the situation may change in the future."

"So, in this context, one may ask – why are we here? Why are we bothering to even meet in this room?. Let me reply briefly: our policy is one of cost imposition. Where slavers cannot be dislodged in the short term, we will work to weaken their society in the long-term through sabotage, assassinations, and terror strikes, while also working to rescue those slaves that can be rescued."

"At the present, we are working on three long-term operations. One is a campaign of sabotage and submarine strikes. You have already seen some of its effects on the slaver enemy. The second – more covert – is a campaign of psychological operations. We are working to create disinformation to persuade the enemy that we have an array of agents within the Papacy's borders, far larger than the one that actually exists."

This last phrase was added on the off-chance that some bug may have been skipped, or perhaps one of the agents was a traitor. If a recording of this speech was made and somehow leaked – the Borgians would not be able to stop looking for Allanean agents.

"But we are now planning to move on to a bigger target."

A map of Africa, with a small piece of territory marked off appeared on the screen behind the agents.

"This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Papacy's African colony. This is where they keep millions of men and women to breed as chattel and to utilize in cruel slave labor. Now, I propose to you that it would be magnificent – and horrifying, to the slaver – if those individuals were suddenly to rise up for their liberty. They might not win – but they would either live free or die free. We propose nothing short of giving the slaver what he is most afraid of. A slave rebellion.

[McNernia]

ARCHER HOTEL
CATHCRIDE ARCHINIA

---

The Archer was a luxury resort rendered in Art Deco and Bahaus styles and looming over the heart of the city. Though dwarfed by some of the large modern and neoclassical towers it was a impressive building all the same. The place had been cordoned off for the conference from the OAS as this was to be a joint operation that would no doubt put a dent in the slavers coffers, the Borgias were a usurping dynasty that would have to be dealt with. In the fine ball room the Archinians brought people wearing uniforms, Navy, Army, Intelligence and the Airforce were all present. They would sit down when the briefing began.

The Chief of Staff to the Chief of the General staff a young Commodore looked at the agent. “So how do you plan to arm these rebels? The area is a place where there could be the hiding of guerillas, and we are in a position to conduct submarine strikes, what is interesting is that satellites indicate that there is the jungle and I suppose they who run the camps for breaking slaves are in possession of Airpower which is key when one wants to root out insurgents. Either you give them something to take down the aircraft or they will be cut to pieces, a propaganda of the Deed operation is rather, wasteful of good lives….”

This was met with murmured assents from the other Archinian officers and agent. “Commodore Renauld St Axel, of HM Navy.” Said the man , his French accent was pronounced, as the Normans of the country tended to be. He looked at the Allanean. “Either you try your utmost to shape the slaves into a force, or just let them die, the opportunity to handle the Borgias main overseas base besides Mexico is a thing that should be taken advantage of…” There was more nods all around.

---

CENTRAL ARCHINIA
MEETING OF THE GENERAL STAFF
The Amistad treaty laid out Archinias obligations, to end the threat of the slavers, one way or the other. The Allaneans had started it, Archinia had thousands of fresh troops, the Army was seeking some manner of glory as Hutanjia while a small scale engagement was the first, then the Terpischore idiocy and now there was the prospect of victory at long last. The defeat of the heathen Papacy meant that there would be glory as well as lives lost. The Borgia were heathens squatting in the holy city of St Peter, they would be driven out.

“Well while our seconds are handling the situation in the capital with the foreigner I do believe gentlemen that we may discuss the issue of esclation.” Admiral Ralton looked around the private lounge, men relaxed into plush arm chairs maintaining disatance around the library at the country club, the place was a favored retreat of members of Parliament and the military elite. The military more so since Price had been elevated to Lord Chamberlain of the Household and was close to the King. Who wielded some authority despite the fact that he was rather infirm.

“Esclation?” Asked the Chief of Army staff an old man who smiled sadly. The Army was ready as the Pandemic was ebbing off, the cases were dropping in number daily so it was decided to meet face to face and the Field Marshal turned to the High Admiral of the fleet. “Well Sir David what do you mean?” Ralton smiled a grim, thin smile. “Soon the Allaneans and the British will be found out, its only a matter of time… our obligations are clear, we must and shall offer the usurpers cold steel…”

“The Army stands ready, six divisions, two airborne can go when given the word, perhaps that will be enough, the Borgia have artillery but little to no armor it seems, so two mobile corps with plenty of armor and heavy infantry can smash ashore and drive over the mountains of spain, Airborne will be good for rooting out any stragglers, fire force tactics are being trained for.”

“The Air Force can run limited raids against Spain and Italy though gentlemen securing the neutrality of the first, the dealing with the later will be made much easier, though flying from Britian will also be an effective strategy.”

“Any martime operation, invasion or blockade will involve the assistance of the British at least in intelligence, running interference, the issue of the mining of the Channel is a rather concerning thing….” Ralton said recalling what his chief of Staff had laid out from the planning department at the Admiralty. Plans for blockcade of Europe via submarine, counter mining and the positioning of ships at the top of the North sea and the mouth of the Channel. Gibraltar would be a tough nut to crack. The message from the King of Spain was a thing that had to be considered.

---

Rose Palace, Cathcride
Sequestered away in his palace facing marital troubles, King Emilion the Fourth was not a man for the issue of the day. Which was popes who were stuffing the churches full of slaves. While the prospect of working with beautiful nuns with Guns was on the table,fighting them to a standstill was something that was oddly appealing.

The Borgias had been criticized and praised in equal measure for the fact of their progress, acceptance of LGBTQ+ was a positive, the slavery issue was a negative, a formal declaration of war had been drafted for when the Allaneans had decided that it would not be the way to interdict commerce and the damaging of the economy with random acts of sabotage and terror. When the call came to war the clans would answer so to speak. And the King sat considering the issue.

No drinking, the issue with his marriage was in the weeds with Parliament. The Prime Minister was defending a welfare increase, the policy seemed to be rather Bismarckian in its outlook. And so the King thought and waited.

[Allanea]

Archer Hotel

The Allanean contemplated the question. "Sir, our position in this is rendered somewhat – somewhat – easier by the situation in the Papacy's mainland. Now, I do not want to give anyone the false impression that there are no complexities in this, but, should we plan the operation appropriately, there are several choke points at which we can restrict the movement of the Papacy's navy – in other words, to ensure that what weapons they have in place to defend their colony are the only ones they will have."

"Internal civil wars have forever been the bane of empires – not only, and not so much, of the sheer number of resources they directly eat up, but because of the fact they corrode and eat away at the very mechanisms a society uses to keep itself alive – the mutual trust of its citizens, the cooperation of its intelligence and military authorities, the labor of its factories and the logistics bureaucracy for its armies. Like an autoimmune disorder, they weaken and corrode the body. Foreign enemies of any nation have long sought to incite civil wars within them, but of course it is almost impossible to incite a civil war in a healthy society. When a civil war begins, however, it is difficult to stop. This is, of course, where we come in. Or, in the old saying: push those who are falling."

"We should provide a shove. Land small teams of professionals to decapitate slaver leadership and provide leadership to the victims of Papist slavery. Submarines to cut off shipments of arms to their enforcers. Sabotage strikes to destroy their aircraft on the tarmac and to silence their phones and radios. Then – when they have been blinded, deafened and disarmed, when their wings are cut their claws blunted – we will increase our assistance. As our enemy weakens, our blows will become stronger."

"If our plan succeeds, then, by the time we will enter the fighting with a conventional force, the entire place will already be ablaze."

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Perugia, Italy

"Cardinal Luca Tevanietcai" Montalvo said as he entered and took off the hood of the monk's habit he wore. Cardinal Enrique de Montalvo-Borja had slipped away from the main force of the Coalition, now openly battling forces of Orsini-loyalists to the southeast for the first time. Mei Lee Icfella's reinforcements had thrown the Duke of Naples back to the South and were currently engaged in the Second Battle of Montecassino. Seeing this success, Orsini had charged his son with moving north to stop the coalition and capture more Cardinals. He commanded a corps of Condotierros. They were currently engaged fighting outside Leonessa. Colleoni had changed plans. Rome would wait. It was clearly a trap of a city. Orsini's forces needed to be engaged and destroyed before they could rape and fortify themselves in Rome once again. That and d'Este was soon to arrive in Rome. He rather not risk open battle with Milanese and Tuscan forces. They were not his target yet.

None of this really mattered to Cardinal Enrique. The Coalition was a means to an end. Restoring order was his priority, as well as doing his duties for the East. Which is why he'd traveled all this way. While Trabadius had withdrawn from the world stage, the Cardinals of Vegvarak had found themselves trapped in Italy by the Pandemic. He needed their aid for his plans, but also he dearly wanted to keep them safe.

The Cardinal looked like a ragged old friar, dirty, sweaty, and with a full beard. These last six months of flight, hiding, and conflict were tearing at his constitution and one could tell by looking at him. The Vegvaraki Cardinals looked quite concerned as they looked at his visage. He spoke:

"I will be okay, Cardinals. I'm here for inquiring for your safety and health, not mine own. I am Cardinal Enrique de Montalvo-Borja, son of that Trabadian legate to Rome. I am here today because I'd heard you all sought refuge and aid from the Coalition of the Caveja. I can assure you that the Coalition will keep you all safe from the crimes of Orsini and his family. However, you cannot stay in Perugia. While the Coalition will keep you safe, I cannot trust its soldiery. Condotierri will betray their masters for impulsive gains. No. I had another place in mind for you all. Viterbo. Go to the Palace of the Popes. Viterbo is under the occupation of Milanese forces, but I've been assured by a mutual friend they don't harm cardinals. Tell as many prelates and bishops to seek refuge there as you can. I will be accompanying you all there as soon as possible. When this war done I mean to call a great meeting. Changes will be made. It should have been done long ago...well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return."

Rome, Italy

Emilina Corella had seen the writing on the wall. Virginio Orsini was doomed. The moment the Coalition had formed, she knew his demise would now be inevitable. Many of her fellow Sisters of Saint Michael had already abandoned the old fool, seeing the external threat to the Papal Empire as far more important than their revenge against Sixtus whom was already dead. Emilina was late, but she now agreed...and ironically now worked with the man whom she'd previously tortured and interrogated six months ago. Politics are such a weird game to play. Though they communicated through middle(wo)men, Eminila had made a feigned apology to the Cardinal-Inquisitor, and recommended they do more to drive their enemies out into the light.

That is why she was back in Rome. The city was not nearly as bad as she thought it would be, and definitely far improved from when she'd last seen it. Rubble and ruins still littered various areas of the city, true, but the Roman people were taking upon themselves to clean it up and work towards securing some sort of peace. Looting and pillaging by various mercenaries and citizenry still happened daily, but much of it had been reduced in these last few weeks. Rumor had it the most notorious of these fiends were being lynched by roving vigilante mobs. Corella was honestly impressed at these people. A testament to the common good, even if it meant some stupid commune.

Corella exited their vehicle to observe their operation in action. The vans they had purchased sat quietly in front of their targets. British, French, Archinian, and Trabadian (though abandoned). All embassies, all targets. Some were suspects, whilst others were merely a cover and unfortunate collateral damage. Using her binoculars she watched as her agents left the vehicle and disappeared into the crowds around them. They waited.

She received a report from a soldier that the last vehicle was in place. Before she gave the order, she and her sisters encrypted their communications even further so they could all commune as one. They prayed a chaplet and a rosary. At the appointed hour, 3pm when Christ died on the cross, she gave the order.

"Fiat Lux."

Across the city of the Catholic Church, already besmirched by plague, pillage, and poverty...explosions dotted the horizon. Each van had been installed with military grade explosives, and dwarfed the one the world had seen in Oklahoma in the New World so many years ago. The final one, the largest, would reduce the great hospital of the Knights of Saint John on the Quirinal Hill to rubble. Corella prayed for forgiveness.

Leonessa, Rieti, Italy

Paolo's steel danced in the light of the summer afternoon. He and his second corps of the coalition led the charge into the front ranks of the Orsini condotierri. He gave a rare smile as their bullets deflected off the plate he wore. Modern technology was truly an amazing thing. Yet the infantry were not his intended foes. Wars of honor were the mainstay among the armies of Italy. The infantry fought in the traditional matter, but it was the nobility who fought in the unconventional means of melee combat. It was the 'form of war' for the armored nobles and knights to charge though enemy positions to break their formations, followed by the traditional infantry and artillery. And when they did so, they often met the enemy's own contingents of nobles and knights for hand to hand combat. This would continue until both forces grew exhausted or low on morale and withdrew. War for condotierri was more of a stately pavane than an all out slaughter. Condotierri did not profit from quick wars.

His HUD read the markers of the warriors around him. A warrior from Sicily charged him with hammer in hand. Bulletproof he was, concussive-damage from a war hammer he was not. Paolo dodged the hammer and deflected some of the damage with his shield, but took a large dent in it in the process. Before a fatal blow could be fell, a bullet struck the hammerman in the fave. It had flown right through his visor. He thanked god and moved on, taking down two more soldiers with his blade. His HUD beeped as he found his intended target. Orsini's son fought before him, sword in had. Both were skilled warriors, but Paolo had trained with his brothers in the order of Sergius and Bacchus. He charged at Orsini, drawing his blade and swinging it towards his leg. Orsini dodged and swung his blade in return. He parried it and tried again to end Orsini. The man punched Paolo and threw him into the mud. He himself slipped and fell into the mud. Reaching up he tore the helmet from Paolo's head. He tried to strangle boy, and Paolo struggled for breath. Reaching for his belt, Paolo drew his dagger and jammed into Orsini's gorget. Steel pierced through flesh and bone, and blood flowed freely. Life left Orsini's eyes.

The enemy withdrew by three post meridiem. He had won the day, and Orsini's army had gone into flight to the south. Paolo had sustained a few injuries himself. A broken arm from that hammer, and dozens of bruises from the bullets. He decided to rest for the next few hours. His sleep was interrupted not long after by shouts and general discord. Hobbling outside his tent, he discovered a large group of soldiers rallied around a computer monitor. A livestream was playing a foriegn news report. Someone had blown up vehicles across rome. It had destroyed several embassies and a hospital for the sick and dying. Paolo's stomach sank and he fell incredibly ill at the sight of this. Rome's enemies had been launching a terrorism campaign, but now they had stepped up their atrocity. Rome had suffered a terrible blow at the hands of Orsini, but now some foreign power was trying to make that blow a fatal one. Despicable. Paolo knew the Coalition would expand their pregorative of revenge now.

He sighed as he walked away from the screen. This would not end well for anyone involved. He went back to his tent after getting the bone set by the combat medics in camp. He slept for the rest of the night, the first truly restful nights of sleep he'd had in months.

Outside his tent, the lifeless corpse of Vincenzo Maria Orsini-Borgia hanged lifeless from the tree.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Campo Marzio, Rome

The armies of Milan and Florence, now conscripted into Leonello's cause, camped outside the city of Rome. The old Quarter of Victory and the Olympic stadia (now in ruins) overlooked a sea of camping men and pennants. Leonello d'Este-Borgia had planned to cross into Rome and occupy 'the city of papal corruption' yesterday, but the terrorist attacks on its embassies had terribly mislaid his plans. A planned papal procession into the city, in full regalia and pomp, was cancelled. It would be terribly insulting to do so now. Rome mourned again at the terror and destruction throw at her innocent people, and so did d'Este. The sack was far, far, worse...but the unknown cause of this one with no one claiming responsibility drove a far deeper wedge into the hearts of everyone in Italy. Whomever had done this will pay. All had shouted this in their souls, and even the Duke of Milan agreed.

Leonello himself was camped in the old French Military Cemetery overlooking Rome. The city was a poor sight, but one also full of hope. Scouts and spies had reported citizens of the city cleaning up the streets, helping the sick and establishing charities for victims of the sack. Condotierros stupid enough to return to the city proper were being captured, put on trials in tribunals, and hanged by the people of the city. Collective farms were being established and priests as well as monastic orders were opening their doors for the impoverished and ill, completely disregarding Pope Victor IV's bull. Recovery was in sight...but now Leonello had arrived with a Milanese army. He grew intensely worried that the Duke would inflict himself further upon Rome. So he waited, and waited, and prayed. Drinking only water for four days and four nights, Leonello never left his tent as he prayed and debated his next course of action. He had to either rid himself of Gian-Galeazzo, or curb his violent tendencies.

On the fifth day, he fell ill.

Word flew through the camps that the hopeful pontiff was ill, and panic spread. Many began to desert, and Gian Galeazzo himself as well as Ippolito demanded entrance into the tent, but were denied by the Modenan guards. Yet both were offered the customary water from the same well as Leonello. As night fell Leonello began to recover. The Duke of Milan and the Lord of Florence waited and prayed. At the hour of highest night, Leonello hobbled out of his tent, muttering to himself in Greek. And to the heavens above. Gian Galeazzo and Ippolito de Medici tried to rouse him but could not.

"Κύριε Πατέρα, Κυρίαρχο Θεό μας, γιατί συνεχίζεις να με εγκαταλείπεις!? Γιατί βάλατε αμέτρητα βάσανα στον εαυτό μου και στο αφοσιωμένο σμήνος σας και στις ιερότερες πόλεις? Είμαι γιος του Αδάμ, αλλά με δημιουργήσατε ως κόρη της παραμονής! Τι θεός κάνει αυτό το λάθος; Όχι. Ο Θεός είναι τελειότητα. Είμαστε οι δικές μας αμαρτίες, αλλά δεν είμαι η δημιουργία του διαβόλου. Είμαι ο γιος σου, ο αφοσιωμένος γιος σου! Θα είμαι πάντα γιος σου. Δεν μου απαντάς ποτέ, Ω Πατέρα του Χριστού. Παρακαλώ τουλάχιστον, Ιεχωβά, μην σκληρύνει την καρδιά του Φαραώ ... Ο άρχοντας του Μιλάνου. Ακούστε τις προσευχές μου, μια φορά, Θεέ μου! Ακούστε τον γιο σας! Είμαι αλλά ένας θνητός που δεν ξέρει πώς να αποτρέψει μια άλλη φρικαλεότητα σε αυτήν την. Αψηφάω την εξουσία σας και επιλέγω το δικό μου σώμα. Συγχωρήστε αυτήν την αμαρτία, Κύριε! Δεν ξέρω τι να κάνω, δεν ξέρω τι να πω. Ωστόσο, Κύριε, το κρυμμένο τέρας μέσα σου με έδωσε αρκετά βασανιστήρια."

As his shouting rant eased into a quiet mumble, Leonello fell to the ground on his knees. As did both Gian Galeazzo Sforza and Ippolito de Medici. Before their eyes, as well as the eyes of their guards, stood a vision of a chariot of fire pulled by two great gilded lions. Sitting on the chariot lied The Throne of Wisdom, it itself bestrode further more of the gilded lions, and sat on the golden throne was the Madonna and Child, the Mother of God and the Child of The Father. The Madonna and Child were both clothed in brilliant silks of Tyrian Purple and Cloth of Gold, and each bore a divine halo of perfect sunlight. The halos rays were surrounded by glowing eight-pointed stars, and the Virgin bore a gilded crown of an Empress, almost bull like in its appearance. She spoke.

"Daughter of Eve or Son of Adam, Thou art the cherished child of the Lord our God. Your creator, all knowing and all powerful. He who is the father knows thy struggle and thy torment. Thou art a creation of strength, a receiver of the font of suffering of Christ, Our Son. The Father of Mankind and His Son hears thy prayers, Bishop of the Church. He cannot reply to all but he hears all. Our duty is to be his intercessor and your patron, Young Lion. Our church and sacred city suffers because of the Sins of Man. We weep as we hear the prayers of the sick and the dying. Ioannes Galatheus of Mediolanium, do not inflict further injury on the Roman people. Thy wrath inflicts wounds on thy immortal soul.

Thou must be the savior of The Rock of Saint Peter. Thou must be the savior of the Church against the sins of her enemies. Thous must be the savior of the world and Vichar of our Son, Jesus Christ. Do this in the name of Victory, with thy name and our rosary as thy champion. In signum meum, vinces."

Then the lady vanished. All men slept until morning, and upon the sunrise they all conferred about what they had seen and heard. All agreed at its portents...and they prayed. They prayed before assembling the army and telling their great story. Prayers flooded the heavens that day as they prepared to enter Rome itself.

The Milvian Bridge, Rome

Leonello would have preferred to cross in Papal regalia, but instead he entered as a conqueror in armor. It would have been wildly inappropriate to approach Rome in celebration at this moment, though in his own soul he had a distaste for it anyway. The events of the previous day left him utterly drained and completely anxious. Had they really glimpsed the Virgin? Or was it a fever dream? Impossible. Sforza and Medici both saw it, as did their retainers. Poison? Possibly...but he survived. Orsini would make sure his poison was lethal.

It gnawed at him. He'd been given a mission to save the church...but from whom? "It's enemies". Vague, but such were the aspects of prophecy. He brooded on this has he led his forces towards the bridge. The Ducal guards of Milan, Florence and Modena-Ferrara trailed behind Gian-Galeazzo, Ippolito, and Leonello. All wore rosaries about their necks and a large statue of the Virgin Mary was being carried by priests in a procession with them. The army had taken their vision/apparition seriously. Morale was never higher...and even Gian-Galeazzo had mellowed. Rome would be spared his wroth. For that, at least, Leonello was thankful.

Waiting for them in the middle of the bridge, however, was a delegation. Led by someone surprising to all three Dukes. A Frenchman. Jean II de Borgia, the Lord of Avignon. The recluse and hypochondriac of a cardinal had not been seen since the Pandemic began. Many thought he'd died. Yet here he was, in his ridiculous wig and heels that makred the fashion of the French. Leonello smirked at this. Behind the Cardinal was several banners Leonello only barely recognized. Red and yellow. Roman, to be sure, but to whom were they loyal?

"Welcome to Rome, Monsieur Bishop of Pomposa." Jean said with a courtly bow. "Monsieur, the Duc de Milan. Monsieur the Duc d'Medicis."

"Jean de Borgia, Duke of Valentinois and Comte de Avignon." Leonello said with a firm voice. "Why do you block our entrance into Rome? I mean to take the city and restore order."

"You mean to claim the papal throne." Jean said. "Rome has restored itself to order. I am here to welcome you into Rome, and to relay you south against Orsini as soon as possible."

"What do you mean, restored itself to order?" Sforza said with anger.

"I mean, the rioni of the city have established a temporary government until a true pontiff has been chosen."

"So that is why these banners are familiar." Ippolito said. "The Commune of Rome is reborn. I take it then, Jean, you are its consul?"

"Correct."

"A true pontiff has arrived." Leonello said with indignation. "Now let us in."

"Oh? You were picked by conclave, monsieur?"

"No, by the Virgin himself."

He told his story. Jean's facade only broke for a moment before he put it right back up with the smug smirk that only the French could master.

"If this is true, and I cannot see why it would not be, Quo nomine vis vocari?"

Leonello thought carefully. He did not want to lay siege to Rome. That would merely exasperate his army, and put the city at risk of another sack. Clearly this commune or whatever it was needed to be played along with. He remembered the communes of history. They were notoriously difficult to rid the city of. Many and more medieval popes spent decades in exile when the Roman people expelled them from the city. Leonello did not want this. He had to do as he was commanded, and the sin of lying could be forgiven. Eventually at least.

"Soterius Duos." Leonello replied with a smile. "Obviously I will need wider recognition, but this was indeed the will of god. I am here as a guest of the Roman people. Please guide us south, Cardinal-Consul."

"We will allow your armies to say encamped presently where they are, but also allow your 'holiness' access to the Vatican city and Castel Sant'Angelo." Jean replied. "However, the rest of the city is still rebuilding itself and under the control of the Roman commune. You are not to enter it at all without permission from the senate. Nor is your army to remain for longer than two weeks. You must move on against Orsini, your actual target, as soon as possible. We will provide you manpower or supplies either."

"Agreed."

Hand in hand, the forces of Milan, Tuscany and Rome entered the city together. Rome had not fallen to another army. It had opened itself to one at its own choice. The city would recover, as it always did.

Riding together, Ippolito and Leonello spoke together silently.

"Pope Soter II." Medici said with a nervous alugh. "Pope Savior."

"I had to think quickly, Ippolito." Leonello replied with a laugh of his own. "We will make this papacy the mission of Our Lady of Victory, that we shall have."

"We were on the Milvian bridge. Why not Constantine II?"

"Too conqueror-ish"

"I take it John XXIV isn't being considered."

"Completely off the table, de Medici. Nor will I be having a procession on the Via Sacra!"

Both men laughed as they continued on to the Castelo.

[Britiannia]

North Sea-English Channel

Hellespont Oceania, a 440,000 ton VLCC belonging to Euronav Scandinavia had departed Bergen, Norway last week with a full load of Norwegian crude destined for their Far-East customers. The journey last month from Yokohama to Bergen, through the GIUK gap has been relatively uneventful for her fifty year old Swedish master Mats Larsson - the usual North Atlantic weather notwithstanding. Now, in the middle of the burning June summer the Scandinavian VLCC, fully laden to her brim with fuel that would fuel the Asian economies was taking a short-cut through the English Channel, a short-cut that cut its journey time down by at least a week. Too deeply loaded for the Suez, Hellespont Oceania had to go around the Cape of Good Hope, not that it could if it fit anyway since the Spaniards had basically sealed off the Med and the Suez since last week for absolutely everybody. Needless to say, lawyers from multitudinous international shipping companies were now in Madrid and Rabat suing the Spanish and Moroccan governments for reparations to damages and losses caused by this arbitrary measure laid down against the common laws of the seas.

However for Mats Larsson, what the legal department of the company were doing was of no concern to him, as long as they weren't paying him visits. What had him concerned for the past week as his ship crossed the North Sea were those mines the Spanish pirates had laid between East Anglia and Calais, especially since a merchantman had gone missing in the same waters earlier this month. So far though she had not hit any of those obstacles against humanity as Oceania approached the Dover-Calais stretch of its journey. That, on this hot summer evening was going to change drastically.

As she sailed within visual range of the White Cliffs of Dover, M.S. Hellespont Oceania was suddenly lifted by the bows by a water column estimated to at least 20 meters high. As she settled down with a thunderous crash her speed precipitously dropped as the bows section seemed to dig in harder and harder into the water. From the bridge almost four-hundred meters to the rear the crew's ability to ascertain just what had gone wrong was extremely limited but they could at least attempt to prevent the supertanker from going to the bottom of the busiest stretch of the Channel... by grounding her. However, before she could go anywhere Mats Larsson's supertanker was struck at the stern by four separate detonations and all propulsive power seemed to be lost. With no choice left to him he ordered his crew off the vessel. They would at least try to seek refuge on the English coastline, preferably before the ship inexorably sank.

In the twenty minutes they sent the Mayday signals out and relocated to the ship's emergency motor-launch, the bows of their 400,000 ton monster had become almost entirely submerged and the stern was jutting out of the water. Five minutes later as Mats Larsson and his crew passed the ship's stern - with its missing propeller and mangled shaft an electrical fire in the submerged bow section ignited portions of the cargo... and from there on all hell broke loose as the blazing fire travelled down the entire ship. By now, French and British rescue and firefighting services had arrived on scene, thirty minutes after the first Mayday signal. They were treated to an absolute inferno as hundreds of thousands of tons of crude oil were being consumed by the blaze. The images would soon be on the evening news of every International news agency on the planet.

---

The Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs and First Secretary of State
Of Her Majesty's Government

---

To: Madrid, Kingdom of Spain
CC: International Community - Public Statement
From: The Office for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs
Encryption Level: Unencrypted

---

Honorable Sirs,

The Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs and First Secretary of State presents his compliments to High Representatives of the Kingdom of Spain and wishes to convey Her Majesty's Government's Condemnation of the Continued Illicit Occupation of the Republic of Portugal, the bellicose of mining of International Waters in the North Sea resulting in preventable losses of life and the equally bellicose blockade of International Straits in the Mediterranean.
The Commonwealth requests and demands:

That the Spanish Occupation forces retires to its own legitimate possessions with all due haste so as to prevent an unfortunate albeit justifiable military intervention under the Treaty signed between the Commonwealth of Britannia and the Kingdom of Portugal in the year 1373 between His Majesty King Edward III and King Ferdinand and Queen Eleanor of Portugal.
That the Kingdom of Spain presents due reparations for neutral merchant shipping lost and economic damages caused due to illegal Spanish actions on the High Seas.
That the illicit and bellicose blockade of International Waters ceases post-haste.

Yours Sincerely,
The Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs and First Secretary of State
Edward Reginald Aubrey Vane-Tempest-Stewart, 10^th Marquess of Londonderry

[Allanea]

Leyfield Palace, Sovereign Duchy of Leyfield

"Cassie. You have to see this."

To Priscilla Stossel-Conde, she was still – Cassie. She had been that before she was Queen. In some cases she might have been offended at someone not addressing her by her full title. Not in Priscilla's case.

"What happened?"

"Rome just exploded."

"Excuse me? You mean like a – "

"Well, sadly not literally exploded. But someone has set off several dozen enormous bombs – each about half a dozen tons TNT at least- throughout Rome."

"Are you sure?" – asked Cassiopeia, and then caught herself – "I'm sorry, that was dumb. You could probably see that shit from orbit."

"Cassie, you have no fucking idea. We have infra-red and visual imagery of the explosions. It's like a goddamn Wintereenmas tree of slavers exploding."

For several seconds, the Queen of Allanea laughed. "Unbelievable. Just unbelievable. Do we know who, or why?"

"Our first guess is some kind of faction within the Papacy. Second guess is a third-party saboteur force."

"Do we know who?"

"It would take incredible hard work to do if you did not have people within the country. Just maneuvering this amount on explosives-"

"Yes, Pris, I understand what this much explosives looks like. How many are dead?"

"Thousands, probably. The damage to the cultural artefacts is also – "

The Queen laughed again. "Oh my Gods, Pris. Oh my god their fucking artefacts. The gods-damned treasures of Rome. The chapels, right? Oh my gods." – she was still laughing, barely able to restrain her mirth. "This is awesome. Just think of all the effort that it took to build those things. The frescoes! The statues! All of them slaver bureaucrats and –" – she could not speak for several seconds – "and officials and their treasures and gold-plated crap and – and they did it themselves?" -

On the other end of the secure line, the Minister of War chuckled good-naturedly. "Yes! It would be harder for us to achieve this much even with bomber strikes."

"Excellent. Excellent. Do we have the angelic voice ready to sing?"

"Yes. Yes we do."

"In that case, it should start performing… well, as soon as night falls in that time zone.

"On it."

* * *

Malta

Radio is a strange matter. During the day, AM radio can broadcast perhaps a hundred mile, if you have a powerful transmitter. During the night, however, with the ionosphere deflecting its waves, the signal can carry hundreds of miles.

And so the music was heard at night. Most of the time it was regular music – pop music, or classical, or sometimes a soft jazz. Sometimes it was a voice – a soft Italian baritone, speaking of regular things like sports, and music, and celebrity gossip. This is St. George Radio, on the hours, speaking…

But sometimes, among the regular broadcasts, came a different message.

This is St. George Radio. Are you a brother or sister in chains, bending down under the whip? Are you a woman forced in a nunnery against her will, in contradiction of the words of the Fathers of the Church and the Gospel of Our Lord, Jesus Christ? This is a broadcast for you. For sure you have seen that the slavemasters are afraid. They are sending out patrols to the sea coast, and making frightened announcements.

That you allow yourself to be so oppressed, out of Christian kindness and humility, or out of mercy towards your masters, is kind on your behalf. But remember that while one may argue that you may, out of humility, allow yourself to be enslaved, you should not tolerate the enslavement and abuse of your brothers and sisters in Christ. I will tell you that it is not your duty to tolerate even your own enslavement. I will tell you that as a creature of God you are entitled to liberties.

You will say – "I am unarmed, I am weak, I am afraid." – and I shall tell you, brothers and sisters, that the Philistines prohibited the sons and daughters of Israel from maintaining weapons of iron, and restricted them to iron farm tools – and yet with those farm tools did the Israelites defeat the Philistines, because they were strengthened by their faith in the Lord their God. If you are strong enough to labor in your master's garden with mattock and shovel, you are strong enough to swing that mattock through their brain pan. If you cook their food and cut their meal, then you have a knife with which to part the master's flesh from their bones. Fill yourself with courage and faith, and you will make the slaver know fear.

Know this, also – that you have many friends abroad, who are friends of liberty and friends of the Christian peoples. Some are men and women of the Christian faith, and yet others are merely friends, yet already they are beginning to act. Even now your masters are afraid, lest a steel-clad hand reach out from the sea and grab onto their throat. And remember now the words of the scripture: O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed; happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us.

To the brave and faithful, there are weapons everywhere. In the master's pantry, there are sharp knives. In his toolset, there are chainsaws and hammers. In the garage, there is gasoline, which combined with the material in disposable cups makes napalm. Pray to the Lord, and He shall provide you with guidance.

And now, for some relaxing jazz…

* * *

In the Atlantic

The submarines were on the move. A pack of eight war vessels, moving in the abject darkness, was moving towards the Gulf of Guinea. They were filled with special cargo – crews of highly trained men, ready to do violence on land, with a bewildering array of weapons. Together, the crews were elements of a clandestine organization called Team Harpax.

Team Harpax was a result of the Free Kingdom Navy's constant competition with other branches. In particular, the Navy had always envied the glory of the Army's PLUs – specialist teams trained to liberate prisons, labor camps, and slave camps. To be able to perform its own liberations, the Navy had trained its Special Boarding Teams to be something more than men who would perform boarding actions and inspections.

They would be the Navy's own PLUs. They would put those green-clad, arrogant bastards in the Army to shame. And soon – soon they would have that one thing they lacked.

An opportunity.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

North Sea-English Channel

Hellespont Oceania, a 440,000 ton VLCC belonging to Euronav Scandinavia had departed Bergen, Norway last week with a full load of Norwegian crude destined for their Far-East customers. The journey last month from Yokohama to Bergen, through the GIUK gap has been relatively uneventful for her fifty year old Swedish master Mats Larsson - the usual North Atlantic weather notwithstanding. Now, in the middle of the burning June summer the Scandinavian VLCC, fully laden to her brim with fuel that would fuel the Asian economies was taking a short-cut through the English Channel, a short-cut that cut its journey time down by at least a week. Too deeply loaded for the Suez, Hellespont Oceania had to go around the Cape of Good Hope, not that it could if it fit anyway since the Spaniards had basically sealed off the Med and the Suez since last week for absolutely everybody. Needless to say, lawyers from multitudinous international shipping companies were now in Madrid and Rabat suing the Spanish and Moroccan governments for reparations to damages and losses caused by this arbitrary measure laid down against the common laws of the seas.

However for Mats Larsson, what the legal department of the company were doing was of no concern to him, as long as they weren't paying him visits. What had him concerned for the past week as his ship crossed the North Sea were those mines the Spanish pirates had laid between East Anglia and Calais, especially since a merchantman had gone missing in the same waters earlier this month. So far though she had not hit any of those obstacles against humanity as Oceania approached the Dover-Calais stretch of its journey. That, on this hot summer evening was going to change drastically.

As she sailed within visual range of the White Cliffs of Dover, M.S. Hellespont Oceania was suddenly lifted by the bows by a water column estimated to at least 20 meters high. As she settled down with a thunderous crash her speed precipitously dropped as the bows section seemed to dig in harder and harder into the water. From the bridge almost four-hundred meters to the rear the crew's ability to ascertain just what had gone wrong was extremely limited but they could at least attempt to prevent the supertanker from going to the bottom of the busiest stretch of the Channel... by grounding her. However, before she could go anywhere Mats Larsson's supertanker was struck at the stern by four separate detonations and all propulsive power seemed to be lost. With no choice left to him he ordered his crew off the vessel. They would at least try to seek refuge on the English coastline, preferably before the ship inexorably sank.

In the twenty minutes they sent the Mayday signals out and relocated to the ship's emergency motor-launch, the bows of their 400,000 ton monster had become almost entirely submerged and the stern was jutting out of the water. Five minutes later as Mats Larsson and his crew passed the ship's stern - with its missing propeller and mangled shaft an electrical fire in the submerged bow section ignited portions of the cargo... and from there on all hell broke loose as the blazing fire travelled down the entire ship. By now, French and British rescue and firefighting services had arrived on scene, thirty minutes after the first Mayday signal. They were treated to an absolute inferno as hundreds of thousands of tons of crude oil were being consumed by the blaze. The images would soon be on the evening news of every International news agency on the planet.

---

(Image)

The Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs and First Secretary of State
Of Her Majesty's Government

---

To: Madrid, Kingdom of Spain
CC: International Community - Public Statement
From: The Office for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs
Encryption Level: Unencrypted

---

Honorable Sirs,

The Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs and First Secretary of State presents his compliments to High Representatives of the Kingdom of Spain and wishes to convey Her Majesty's Government's Condemnation of the Continued Illicit Occupation of the Republic of Portugal, the bellicose of mining of International Waters in the North Sea resulting in preventable losses of life and the equally bellicose blockade of International Straits in the Mediterranean.
The Commonwealth requests and demands:

That the Spanish Occupation forces retires to its own legitimate possessions with all due haste so as to prevent an unfortunate albeit justifiable military intervention under the Treaty signed between the Commonwealth of Britannia and the Kingdom of Portugal in the year 1373 between His Majesty King Edward III and King Ferdinand and Queen Eleanor of Portugal.
That the Kingdom of Spain presents due reparations for neutral merchant shipping lost and economic damages caused due to illegal Spanish actions on the High Seas.
That the illicit and bellicose blockade of International Waters ceases post-haste.

Yours Sincerely,
The Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs and First Secretary of State
Edward Reginald Aubrey Vane-Tempest-Stewart, 10^th Marquess of Londonderry

A Public Communique To The 10th Marquess of Londonberry, From His Most Catholic Majesty, The King of Spain

To The Most Honourable The Marquess of Londonberry,

My lord, It is truly a benefice of God that you would make such a bellicose and utterly intransigent demand under the guise of truly rightful outrage at the ecological disaster that is at hands in the waters of the English channel. My brother, the former Carlos V (of the Spanish), would have arrayed a new armada against you for such iniquity. You use the potential disaster of a lifetime to advance your own political interests. Shameful. Your Queen should divest you of your office for such ineptitude.

Spain will meet your demands for recompense, as we did similarly for another vessel of Allanea, and going beyond this we have sent word to His Majesty, Louis XX of France et Navarre, to offer the aid of our own cleanup crews in the English channel for as long as it takes to ensure the cleanliness of the environment for future posterity. I would recommend that you order your ships to avoid the area currently mined by the Prince of Chimay whenever possible. His actions, while extreme, come from a true place of security for our state. We are under attack by external forces, and we must do all we must to protect ourselves. Should this action however, continue to sink more innocent ships than actually prevent terrorist attacks, I will move against Eugene of Chimay as much as I can. The Low Countries are not my vassals directly. The Governor-General is appointed by the Pope, though the actual candidates are recommended by the King of Spain. Chimay was my brothers' idea. Until we have a pontiff, a legitimate one, I can do nothing.

Portugal, however, is mine. By right of inheritance and of divine authority. Portugal cannot and will never be divested of the Borja crown that rules it. Portugal is an integral and permanent territory of this kingdom. The Portuguese are a happy and devout catholics who submit willingly to our absolute authority. Some hundred or so years ago, almost, His Holiness the Pope Julius IV crowned our great-great-grandfather Pedro Luis as King of Spain and King of Portugal and enforced this by Papal edict. The House of Braganza long ago vacated their catholic throne, and thus the Holy Father named Pedro Luis as its new occupant. It has passed down through our family line, survived a civil war, and now sits upon my unfortunate neck. I have already been acclaimed its king by its cortes. I am the absolute and legitimate king of Portugal, anointed by god. This will not change. Republics are godless and plutocratic systems. They should never exist.

Your treaty, however, need not be made void. Continue it in alliance with Spain, not against it. Our monarchies can and should work together for the betterment of the world.

From,
His Catholic Majesty, Viracocha de Borja, the King of the Spanish, King of Castile, of León, of Aragon, of Portugal, of the Two Sicilies, of Jerusalem, of Navarre, of Granada, of Seville, of Toledo, of Valencia, of Galicia, of Sardinia, of Córdoba, of Corsica, of Murcia, of Jaén, of the Algarves, of Algeciras, of Gibraltar, of the Canary Islands, of the East and West Indies, of the Islands and Mainland of the Ocean Sea; Sovereign of Parma, of Brabant, of Gandia and Modena; Suzerain of The Low Countries, of Roussillon, and of Barcelona; Lord of Biscay and of Molina de Aragón; Captain General & Supreme Commander of the Royal Armed Forces; Sovereign Grand Master of the Order of the Golden Fleece and of the orders awarded by the Spanish state.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Saint Peters' Basilica, Rome, Italy

The bells of Saint Peters were silent. Rome still mourned the thousands that were killed just days ago, now was not the time for celebrations, Leonello had deemed. Yet today a coronation was to take place. His own. The Commune of Rome had made for an allowance to have the great procession through the city, but denied their use of the great Lateran basilica. Jean had told Leonello that the commune did not want to be seen to be endorsing one candidate over another, nor seen to be condoning the use of force to seize the pontificate.

Leonello understood, and with his usual pragmatism, altered the plans for the coronation. The great procession would instead leave the Castelo, cross the Ponte Sant'Angelo, make a short circuit through the Palazo Alberini and recross the Ponte Principe Amadeo back into the Vatican walls to be coronated at Saint Peters instead.

And so it was. Leonello was carried by what archbishops were still in the city on the sedia gestatoria, his great velvet palinque, flanked by the great fans carried by the cardinal deacons. Behind them were the guards of Modena, bearing a new banner, a flag of Marian Blue with the image of the Sacred Virgin cloaked in tyrian purple upon it. Leonello had also added it to his coat of arms. Three times, the procession was stopped, and a bundle of flax lashed to a gilded staff was burnt before Leonello, while the master of ceremonies (Ippolito de Medici-Borgia) said: "Pater Sancte, sic transit gloria mundi!" As the procession entered Saint Peters, the great coronation mass was begun. It followed the usual course, with the attending bishops kissing the feet of Leonello as he sat enthroned on the High Altar of Saint Peter.

After the confiteor, the three cardinal bishops were supposed to give their prayers over him, but none were in attendance. Two had been captured by Orsini while another had fled to Viterbo on Jean's orders. Leonello merely skipped it. Ippolito then arose from his seat and placed the pallium on his shoulders, and cried out to the audience and to Rome. "I invest thee with the Roman papacy, that thou rule over the city and the world."

As the mass drew to a close, the Laudes Regiae began. Leonello sighed to himself quietly, but did not let himself be seen doing it.

Christus vincit! Christus regnat! Christus imperat!
Christus vincit! Christus regnat! Christus imperat!

Exaudi, Christe
Exaudi, Christe
Ecclesiae santae Dei salus perpetua
Redemptor mundi, tu illam adiuva
Sancta Maria, tu illam adiuva
Sancta Mater Ecclesiae, tu illam adiuva
Regina Apostolorum, tu illam adiuva
Sancte Michael, Gabriel et Raphael vos illam adiuvate
Sancte Ioannes Baptista, tu illam adiuva
Sancte Ioseph, tu illam adiuva

Christus vincit! Christus regnat! Christus imperat!

Exaudi, Christe
Exaudi, Christe
Soterius Secundus Summo Pontifici et universali Papae, vita!
Salvator mundi, tu illum adiuva
Sancte Petre, tu illum adiuva
Sancte Paule, tu illum adiuva

Christus vincit! Christus regnat! Christus imperat!

Exaudi, Christe
Exaudi, Christe
Episcopis catholicae et apostolicae fidei cultoribus,
eorumque curis fidelibus, vita!
Salvator mundi, tu illos adiuva...

On and on it went. It felt like hours before the mass ended, and Leonello was led to the balcony of Saint Peters to finally be coronated. The balcony was now screened with bulletproof glass for this most sacred part of the ceremony. Yet as he stood to be crowned, he saw the devastation of Rome. Much of the outer rioni were still lawless and still burned. The balcony itself was still riddled with bullet holes, and the stains of blood could still be seen in some corners. Leonello quietly prayed to the virgin mother to bless the souls who died that day. With all the devastation, thousands still showed up to watch this spectacle. Rome was healing, and needed a pontiff. Now more than ever. Leonello had to win this war. Two pages brought the tiara he'd requested specifically out on to the balcony. Rome had been looted of many of the other tiaras previously worn. The infamous four-tiered tiara of Leo XIV was stolen by Orsini's mercenaries and torn apart to be sold. So Leonello had look abroad, and found one that evoked the message he wanted to send to the world. It was the Belgian Tiara of Pius IX. It's 'holy-romanness' appealed to Leonello's imperial aspirations, and had come at quite the price. He'd given Prince Eugene of Chimay millions for it. Greedy monster Leonello thought as Ippolito lowered it on to his head.

"Accipe tiaram tribus coronis ornatam, et scias te esse patrem principum et regum, rectorem orbis in terra vicarium Salvatoris nostri Jesu Christi, cui est honor et gloria in saecula saeculorum." (Receive the tiara adorned with three crowns, and know that you are the father of princes and kings, the ruler of the world, the vicar of our Savior Jesus Christ on earth, to whom be all honor and glory, world without end.)

And so it was done. Pope Soter II would give no speech. He had to march south on the morrow. The Pope must wage a holy war.

Naples Cathedral, Naples, Italy

The bells of the Cathedral of Naples were a raucous of noise, to announce the coronation of a new pope in their fair city. For Jose de Borja, it was a surprise. For it was his own. He'd assumed that he was to be crowned when Rome was retaken by Neapolitan forces. This had all changed a few days ago when spies in the city heard Leonello was to be consecrated as pope shortly. His nephew, the Duke Alfonso of Naples, grew furious at this. That a "man-woman", a "whore", in his words, could beat him to the punch in consecrating a pope. He would not have it, so thus Jose was to be consecrated himself. A 'legitimate' man, albeit not in Rome.

Jose understood, with his own pragmatism, that he had no choice in the matter. He'd realized his error weeks ago, and that he should never have signed this deal with the devil. He was not allowed to leave the palace of Naples, and there would be no procession for him as it was "for his own safety". He was a prisoner and a puppet, and he knew it.

And so it was. Jose was escorted, with a pack of Neapolitan soldiers to the Cattedrale di San Gennaro in the heart of the city. There was no parade, no audience, no presence in the streets at all. Duke Alfonso had ordered a general martial law on top of the Papal Bull of Victor IV. The city was dead silent, except for the bells of the cathedral. Jose did his best to make it seem like a procession, and carried a great gilded cross as if he were leading a mass. He prayed continously for deliverance until their arrival. At the doors of the cathedral was his papal coat of arms, which had his former arms of his cardinalate forcibly impaled by the arms of Naples. Ignominy. As the procession entered the cathedral, the great coronation mass was begun. It followed the usual course, with the attending deacons (they could find no bishops except the archbishop of Naples himself) kissing the feet of Jose as he sat enthroned on the Altar of San Gennaro.

After the confiteor, the three cardinal bishops were supposed to give their prayers over him, but none were in attendance. Instead Alfonso had ordered that the deacons should do it for him. "They are clerics just the same!" he had shouted. Each of the deacons wore vestments of incredibly ornate adornment, as they needed to be visible for the cameras. Taking the idea from King Viracocha, Alfonso and Jose both agreed that this coronation should be livestreamed for wider visibility. As of now, being simultaneous with Leonello's coronation, the catholic world of Social Media was ablaze. #SoterII and #CalixtusV both competed for trending strength as trolls of either side slung mud at the other. The Archbishop then arose from his seat and placed the pallium on his shoulders, and cried out to the non existent audience and to the watching world. "I invest thee with the Roman papacy, that thou rule over the city and the world."

As the mass drew to a close, the Laudes Regiae began. Jose visibly yawned, forgetting that he was being filmed.

Christus vincit! Christus regnat! Christus imperat!
Christus vincit! Christus regnat! Christus imperat!

Exaudi, Christe
Exaudi, Christe
Ecclesiae santae Dei salus perpetua
Redemptor mundi, tu illam adiuva
Sancta Maria, tu illam adiuva
Sancta Mater Ecclesiae, tu illam adiuva
Regina Apostolorum, tu illam adiuva
Sancte Michael, Gabriel et Raphael vos illam adiuvate
Sancte Ioannes Baptista, tu illam adiuva
Sancte Ioseph, tu illam adiuva

Christus vincit! Christus regnat! Christus imperat!

Exaudi, Christe
Exaudi, Christe
Soterius Secundus Summo Pontifici et universali Papae, vita!
Salvator mundi, tu illum adiuva
Sancte Petre, tu illum adiuva
Sancte Paule, tu illum adiuva

Christus vincit! Christus regnat! Christus imperat!

Exaudi, Christe
Exaudi, Christe
Episcopis catholicae et apostolicae fidei cultoribus,
eorumque curis fidelibus, vita!
Salvator mundi, tu illos adiuva...

On and on it went. Jose nearly fell asleep before the mass finally ended. He prayed as he began to kneel for his final coronation. It was unbecoming of a pontiff to sleep at his own consecration. Dear Lord God, deliver me from the devil! He thought and he prayed. Whomever won this conflict, their pontificate would forever be marred by the stains of usurpation and bloodshed. His cousin, King Viracocha, had chided him for this when he stripped him of his duchy of Zaragoza...but Jose did not listen. He was a Borja, and suffered this cursed family's two cardinal sins. Ambition, and pride. He thought he could do good as pope, but he now realized he'd done so the wrong way...yet he did not refuse Alfonso's demands nor his abuses. He still suffered from those sins. He would still be pope regardless. He would wash out the evil with the light of Christ. He hope to, at least. The archbishop placed the tiara he'd snatched from Spain during his travel to Naples. It was The Spanish Tiara of Pius IX, gifted to him by Queen Isabella II. He was a Spaniard, and would wear a Spaniard's crown. The archbishop laid it upon his head and spoke.

"Accipe tiaram tribus coronis ornatam, et scias te esse patrem principum et regum, rectorem orbis in terra vicarium Salvatoris nostri Jesu Christi, cui est honor et gloria in saecula saeculorum." (Receive the tiara adorned with three crowns, and know that you are the father of princes and kings, the ruler of the world, the vicar of our Savior Jesus Christ on earth, to whom be all honor and glory, world without end.)

And so it was done. Pope Calixtus V would give no speech. Alfonso had to march north on the morrow. It was time to finally subdue Orsini.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Montecassino Abbey

"Fatto v’avete dio d’oro e d’argento;
e che altro è da voi a l’idolatre,
se non ch’elli uno, e voi ne orate cento?."~The Inferno of Dante, Canto XIX, lines 112-114.

Virginio Batista de Orsini-Borgia was a man of ability and means, but he knew he was done. He knew it fully now, but a small part in the back of his mind knew it ended when his son died. His boy. My Boy. He thought as he strode into the chapel. I killed my boy. Vincenzo had been a disappointment to Virginio all his life, but mayhaps that was merely the failings of his own, he now realized too late. The Coalition was cruel. They refused to return his body. They left it hanging in the tree where he was felled by the Borgia welp. The images were posted all across social media. The Colonnas (in seculusion but not cut off from social media) relished in his demise, as now the Orsini were set to die out when, not if, the Coalition caught up to him.

Virginio prayed to god for his son to be released from Purgatory. He prayed day and night. He was your greatest gift to me, and my heir, but my pride killed my boy. I am sorry.

In the morning he reached his final conclusion and came to terms with it. It was done. He was broken, in more ways then one, but his noble cause could not win now. Yet he would not allow himself to die. His great sin, his pride, still had not been snuffed out by the waters of guilt and repentance. I am sorry my boy, but I will not let your death be meaningless Orsini said to himself has he called his officers for a meeting via phone This battle is over, but my war will not end until I do. Christians die in battle, and shall reign eternally with Christ. I will see you soon regardless. He kept tabs on the news from his phone as well, reading through as many briefs from his commanders in the field as he could. The Coalition had pushed farther south after breaking Vincenzo's corps. They were nearly at Avezanno and continually moving, pillaging the land and its people in the process. The manwoman Pope Soter was last seen in Colleferro with a combined force of Milanese and condotierro troops, supposedly recruited from those imprisoned by the Commune of the City. He himself was holding down Naples not far from here. Had the enemies not surrounded him, Orsini would've broken through by now.

Before he entered the meeting hall, he was stopped by his second in command, a Piccolomini, who whispered something quite unsettling into his ear. There were two women demanding an audience...one of whom was claiming to be Vincenzo's wife. That could not be possible. She was out in the field, arraying a defense against Soter. Had he broken through? Was this even more bad news? Calling off the meeting, he rushed to his private rooms, the former abbot's. They'd stormed in demanding to see him without regard to security or protocol.

When Virginio entered the room, he recognized neither woman. One was clearly with child, the other, of far eastern descent looked disheveled, bloody, and hungry. A shotgun, worn, but recently used lie across the coffee table. Virginio stiffened, but stood firm.

"And who are you?" he asked with suspicion.

"Your son's widow, you damn fool." The pregnant one said angrily. "For a man who spent years deriding his son over his incapacity at rulership, you are blind in many ways, Virginio."

"That is 'your eminent highness', woman." Virginio replied. "My son's widow is commanding our northwestern corps, and you certainly-"

"You are impossibly foolish and distracted, Virginio." She said, foisting out her hand. On it was a ring. The ring Virginio had given to his wife, Vincenzo's mother, so many decades ago.

"How..?" Virginio said stammering. "Mei Lee..."

"I am Mei Lee Icfella, Cardinal Orsini." the other woman spoke for the first time. "I am not nor ever was I married to your son. The Doge of Amalfi was my husband. I killed the bastard."

"But..." He sighed and put his face in his hand. "I apologize to you both. This crisis has taken all my attention."

"Clearly, but it gives you no excuse for not recognizing your own daughter-in-law for someone who looks nothing like her." Mary Icfella said. "You still don't realize what its staring you right in the face. Your son has been married to me for years, but your politicking and ambition and derision drove you apart. We've never met until now."

"Staring..?" then it hit him. "The child."

"Obviously." She replied with a note of smugness. "Bless art me among women, for I bear the last heir of House Orsini-Borgia."

"I apologize again. Congratulations, Maria." Virginio said with a rare humility. "Tell me your stories so that I may finally get everything straight."

They did so. Mei Lee corrected the 'account' Virginio had learned previously, noting her flight from Amalfi, her time wandering the pontine marshes with little aid from anyone. She survived on her own there. She was only later able to reunite with Mary and carefully make their way to Montecassino. Mary told of her own journey, and her own struggles after the stealing of her husband by an unknown person (she never believed it was her sister) and his resulting death.

After it was done, Virginio sighed.

"What you did was right, Mei Lee, I completely agree with it...yet it will win me no knew allies in Naples."

"Who cares?" Mary interrupted. "You are done, Virginio. Everyone can see that."

"I know. I was going to to deduce a new stratagem at a meeting today...but you're right." Virginio said. "It's done."

"Wait!" Mei Lee interrupted picking up her shotgun. "You two make reconcile all you like, but we've not discussed the elephant in the room. Who the hell is the one who stole my name?"

"I have legitimately no idea." Virgionio said with deep shame. "She arrived with Vincenzo, she had the loyalty of the condotierri in your family name. She was authentic enough to reach that level of power."

"Authentic enough!?" She cocked the gun and yelled several obcenties in her own native tongue. "You people cannot tell the difference between us, can't you? We don't even look alike!"

"I see that now, but we didn't exactly have anthropologists with us at the time, woman." Virginio replied curtly. "She'll be dealt with. She led my boy to his death, clearly. I'll be sending word to d'Euse about this. She has to be a foreign agent of some sort."

"That's it?" Mei Lee snarled. "I want to deal with her myself."

"d'Euse will draw her suffering out far longer than you ever can, Mei Lee." Virginio said. "Besides, all three of us are fleeing tonight."

"Since when?" Mary asked. "I cannot just cut and run now. This child can be born anyday."

"Since now. We will all die if we stay here. The army will join whomever they damn well please. We need to go."

"Where?"

"The land of your birth. Exile."

"You want Jason's involvement directly?" Mei Lee said. "You want a foreign army to invade and drive out the antipopes. Like Della Rovere and Charles VIII of France."

"Yes." Orsini said with a newfound smile. "Though your country is majority heretic and filled with monsters, I will put pressure on Icfella and your government to invade."

"Now that is the Orsini we know." Mary said. "You'll find a new home there, regardless. House Orsini-Borgia, formerly of Bracciano, now of Turtleshroom."

It was with that note their things were packed that night. Piccolomini was quietly notified, and given overall command of the local forces, and told to do with them what he pleased and to tell them to side with whom they pleased. Clothing was packed, supplies were packed, and electronic devices were destroyed after their final use. A few final messages were surreptitiously wired to Venice, Rome, and Spain. d'Euse would recieve word of the false Mei Lee, and instrusctions of what to do with her, his cardinals were also ordered to flee the country, and King Viracocha was notified of the false Mei Lee as well and begged not to intervene if an allied power to his cause were to invade. One final message by Mary, to Jason through her same contacts used to get Orsini's pig letters out, called upon him for rescue. They took a pillaged sports car and sped down the SR630 to Formia, where they'd take a ship to the island of Ponza, legendary home of Circe. Like Odysseus, Orsini would not be allowed to return for much time.

And then they were off like a thief in the night. None would know until morning their champion, the only champion of a legal election, had abandoned them. The man who had sacked Rome, initaited nine months of struggle and sectarian war, had lost and fled with his tail between his legs. The dogs of corruption and ambition that he'd tried to tame would now openly tear out each others' throats.

[Allanea]

Let the wind shake our flag like a feather,
Like the plumes of the foam of the sea!
While three men hold together,
The kingdoms are less by three.
All the world has its burdens to bear,
From Cayenne to the Austrian whips;
Forth, with the rain in our hair
And the salt sweet foam in our lips;
In the teeth of the hard glad weather,
In the blown wet face of the sea;
While three men hold together,
The kingdoms are less by three.
~ Algernon Charles Swinburne

Borgian Guinea

The night was hot – disgustingly hot, the air filled with moisture. For those on the shore, it was intolerable, making men's skin sticky and salty with sweat. For those men now breaching the ocean's surface, it would be tolerable for a while. For a few seconds they allowed themselves rest, floating on the waves, looking upwards into the tropical night. Above them, the sky was clear and starry. It seemed that the stars were not those seen from the streets of Liberty-City, nor even from the slopes of the mountains that dominated the landscape of the Allanean mainland. Perhaps it was simply that they could see more of the stars here, the city lights no longer obscuring that of the stars – or perhaps they were far enough away from home to see different constellations entirely.

There was not enough time for Commodore Tobias Landorf to contemplate this. For several seconds, he took in the radiant beauty of Creation, and then began to push towards the shore. Behind him – his team.

They had a special task to them – to be first in this invasion. They walked out across the white beach, towards the edge of the jungle that loomed greenish-blue in the dark. The commandos swept up their foot-steps, though of course Landorf knew that this was a mere precaution – the tide would begin coming in in an hour, and by dawn there would not be any evidence they ever were here.

They walked through the jungle in small groups, the men who walked in front scanning for threats, the ones behind working to remove the most obvious trace of their passage.

Nevertheless, soon enough the enemy would not be able to ignore their existence.

[United Osean States]

From WNN News

Osean President James Harington III Spoke about the violence and the terrorist attack in Rome, Italy witch destroyed the United Osean States Embassy killing 63 Embassy workers including Ambassador Lawrence Stevens. " Ambassador Stevens was a good soul and a family man. He's the kind of guy that would give you the shirt off his back." President Harington also gave a vow to the terrorists. " We will find you and we will bring you to justice."