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

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

St. Peters Basilica, Rome, Papal States 12:00 PM

"Where is he, Cardinal D'Euse!?" Sixtus VI shouted as he threw Orsini's denouncement into the fire. "How can one man and entire regiment of our army vanish into the Italian countryside? If this was a film, we'd all denounce it as pisspoor writing and cliche, d'Euse."

Yet for as cliche as it was, it was true. Virginio Orsini-Borgia had disappeared not long after publicly denouncing Sixtus VI as an antipope in a letter smuggled out of the nation, on a pig's foot no less. The letter had been copied and spread across international news media and social media accounts. The Inquisition has only been mildly successful in suppressing the letter within the papal states. Along with him, and not coincidentally it seemed (to Sixtus' apprehension), The Sisters of Saint Michael had abandoned Rome and disappeared as well. They'd murdered their commander, The Gonfaloniere Colonna (also the head of the entire papal army), and fled the city after the election of Pope Sixtus VI a week before. In a classified letter they left behind, they'd denounced his utterly chauvinistic politics and reactionary tendencies, as well as his illegitimacy as pontiff. While it was true that a minute amount of Cardinals had voted in his hastily put together election, he'd still won that vote handily. We were chosen by God! Sixtus VI thought to himself. He turned and scowled at the Cardinal who looked at him placidly. Cardinal Pierre d'Euse-Borgia is a terrifying man, even more so than his late father, the great Claude d'Euse. The cold and calculating visage of his D'uese paternity is belied by the fierce and venomous fire of the Borgia within. Most avoided d'Euse at all costs. Those most familiar with the medical doctor and interrogator never lived to speak about it.

"Your Holiness, it is from this absence of intelligence we can determine the Sisters are colluding with the Orsini fool." d'Euse said calmly. "My father's network of informers and spies are among the best, as you yourself should know, and thus only the Sisters could have the skill to cover their tracks this well."

"Indeed." Sixtus said with a sigh. "Damnable she-wolves. The lot of them."

"Agreed, your Holiness." d'Euse replied. "They should not even exist. Women have no place within the church, nor the armies. Your mother, an exception."

"No exception." Sixtus said. "She was no better than the harlot Dionysia III. Remind me to strip her of saintly status."

"Of course, Holiness." d'Euse said with a sneer. "May I ask if the public homily to Saint Peters is wise right now? Equus Albus is still in effect, as is the current pandemic."

"Any who would die from a disease at a Papal homily will be fine in heaven." Sixtus said. "We cannot destroy everything in the face of plague. Come."

"What of Spain?"'

"King Viracocha has not responded to any communications except to say he's in isolation."

"God tests us with that Leftist fool for a king."

"Indeed, Holiness." Both stepped forward onto the balcony to speak before a forcibly assembled crowd in Saint Peter's Square.

OOC (viewtopic.php?f=5&t=484120): This is part 1. The post got way too long for a single posting. This will be a RP centered on the chaos following the events therein, and I not wasnt immediate declarations of war or other such nonsense. For some context for RPers, I will say that IC Rome as well as the whole of Italy is under lockdown due to the current COVID-19 epidemic. News is slow to get out, so your first RP post should not be of complete knowledge of what's happening but more of a general acknowledgement that something very bad has happened in Rome. The city is burning and the pope is nowhere to be seen.

1. My word is law. If I ban you from RP, you don't post.
2. Posts must be longer than a paragraph (~six sentences)
3. Have fun people.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

St. Peters Square, Rome, Papal States 1:20 PM

Paolo Borgia yawned in his heavy armor as Pope Sixtus VI droned on above him. Something about a return to medieval tradition and a restructuring of the church to make it a better place for the true worship of god. His second cousin was the pope by technicality, and it was his duty as a sworn brother of Sergius and Bacchus to protect him, but it did not stop him from thinking the man was a right fool. Paolo was young, seventeen, and had no care for the blathering senility of this pope. He knew Sixtus would probably try to do away with his order, The Brothers of Sergius and Bacchus. They were 300 men bound by the love of god and of each other to protect the Holy Person from all threats, yet to Sixtus they were nought but sodomites. He'd had to keep quiet and to himself in the years before his initiation into the Brotherhood, as then Cardinal Adriano had kept tabs on those Borgia he considered 'deviant threats'. Yet he still did his duty. The Brotherhood was the most he could hope for, though a descendant of Calixtus IV, that line of the family had fallen into obscurity and poverty.

The people in front of him looked terrified and angry. Paolo felt sorry for them. They were being forced to attend this homily, with no regard for their health nor safety. All the guards, priests, and even Papal slaves (who served as staff for the clerical palaces) were given PPE. His own armor had built in N95 mask technology. They got nothing. Nodding off, he was woken suddenly by a notification from his phone. Relaying it into his helmet display, he laughed quietly and nudged the guard standing to his left. A very 'interesting' selfie from Bastien d'Mar, the love of Paolo's life. Bastien had introduced and initiated him into the brotherhood, and they'd sworn their eternal vows together before god a year before. It was and still is the best time of Paolo's life.

His serene memories were interrupted by the whizzing sound of bullets and screams. In moment, his training as a soldier snapped Paolo into a mode of readiness and alertness. Ducking down with Bastien, they threw away their ceremonial pikes and drew their side arms.

"What the hell is happening?" Paolo yelled as he followed Bastien inside.

"I don't know, but we have to get to his holiness." Bastien said through the coms and helmet. "CO, intel?"

Silence. They were being jammed. Several explosions were heard in the distance, one of which was at the gates of the Vatican City. Two guards fell to bullets as several silhouettes stormed into the Saint Peter's Square, at the guards and above them. They were aiming at the pope and assembled cardinals. Two of whom fell from the balcony into the square. The forcibly assembled crowd was running in all directions, wounded, and trampling anyone too slow or in their way. No bullets hit the crowd. These were expert marksmen....

"The Sisters." Paolo yelled in fear.

Bastien rallied whatever men they had, and retreated into the Basilica. Sealing the doors, several dozen guardsmen fought fiercely, being steadily driven back inch by inch. They (both the sisters and the brothers) had switched two their melee weapon, for fear of damaging the great basilica with bullet fire. Halberds, swords and dagger danced and glimmered against armor and blade. Blood spilled and pooled beneath the most sacred altar of the holy mother church. The Brothers stood firm but they were no match. Their advantage was in numbers, in a wall of pikes and bullets. The Sisters were expert shock troops, expert in combat one-on-one. They broke through the halberds, and separated the lovers from one another. They slew them one by one.

Storming into the Papal offices they found a wounded Sixtus VI and several cardinals making for the exit. Bastien grabbed the Pope, threw Cardinal d'Euse against the wall and dragged him out along with what little of the guard that survived. Opening a door in the stairs, the Guards brought the pope into the catacombs beneath Saint Peter's.

"What is happening, your Holiness?" Paolo said abruptly.

"Paolo, know your place, amour." Basiten said with anger.

"Virgino Orsini is making his move." Sixtus VI said with true fear. "d'Euse told me they were invading the city before you took me."

"Who? The Sisters?"

"Yes, but also Orsini's condotierri and Hospitaller knights." Sixtus VI said, shaking. "The Sisters are here for their mission, but his men are already begining to burn and pillage the city. They have shelled it for no reason. Spain is still silent. I wonder how much he knows."

"Rome is not safe then. We cannot escape to the Castel, then, like Clement did." Paolo said. "Cousin, we need to get you to Ostia."

As they moved through the darkness, the sounds of death from above emanated through the ground, and the smell of the dead already about them permeated all things. The darkness was illuminated by a brilliant explosion. Paolo was thrown against the wall with the pope. Two of the six escorting them ended up in pieces. Bullets flew in as Sisters surrounded the remaining guards. Bastien stood and drew his sword, guarding Sixtus VI with his own body. The tallest of the sisters walked forward and struck him down without even a blink. Paolo screamed and ran forward, leaving his weapons and the pope behind him. Sobbing, Paolo clutched Bastien close and just whispered "No, no, no, please no. God, please. Your Holiness, please." He was a living incarnation of Micheangelo's Pieta.

Emilina Corella, Mother Supieror of The Sisters of Saint Michael the Archangel, pitied the boy and stepped over him. Following her was Virginio de Orsini-Borgia. He was in full plate armor, adorned with the crosses of the knights of Saint John. Corella seized the pope and dragged him before Virginio. Virgino picked up the dented Papal Tiara and brushed off the dirt, and handed it to another sister.

"That is not yours, Orsini ape." Sixtus said in defiance.

"Nor is it yours, antipope." Orsini said with contempt. "Your false election will not be tolerated. You killed Victor IV, murderer."

"You are as paranoid as you are stupid." Sixtus IV said. "He died of the COVID virus."

"And you used to seize power."

"And? I'm Borgia."

"So am I." Virginio replied. "Yet you taint our Papacy with your usurpation. You are not leaving these catacombs."

"Saints are buried beneath Saint Peters." Sixtus IV said with a snear. "Will you have your bitch do it, or you yourself?"

"You insulted the Sisters with your vileness and your collusion." Corella said with a fury. "May I have the honor, Orsini?"

"Yes."

Pulling the cheese wire from her belt, Corella ended the pontificate of Sixtus VI. Orsini sighed as they left him there with the weeping boy. He had done justice, yet he felt sorrow. Rome was flooded with plague, and would do so again as an army tears its way through the city. He did not have the money to pay these mercenaries, so he'd looked away as they shelled and pillaged Rome. The Sisters would be ordered to turn on them in time, but now they were to collect the college of Cardinals for a true conclave. Rome would be in anarchy and destruction for now. What would happen in these next few months and years is completely uncertain.

[Allanea]

OOC: Greetings, friend. What a fascinating thread. Would it be possible to have an OOC thread for discussion of some crucial details?

[Allanea]

When the devil’s riddle is mastered
And the galley-bench creaks with a Pope,
We shall see Buonaparte the bastard
Kick heels with his throat in a rope.
~ A. C. Swinburne, A Song in Times of Order

"O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed; happy shall he be, that repays thee as thou hast served us.
Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stone." ~ Psalm 137, 8-9

The situation was, to put it bluntly, supremely fluid. Disease was spreading rapidly through the Vatican's realms. Violence, murder, and disappearances were reported. Some reports were grossly exaggerated, claiming thousands of deaths and running tank battles in the streets, others quite understated, claiming mild riots that had already been suppressed. Rumors of gross heresy abounded – such as they always did – as did rumors of Christ-like sanctity. "The Pope has been taken bodily up to heaven", "the Pope has been dragged down into hell for his sins", "the Pope has caught the new disease" and "the Pope has gone into hiding" had circulated.

There was no meaningful way to sift through those rumors, although of course the analysts discounted the most mad and unrealistic scenarios. UFO abductions and near Christ-like sanctity were ruled out, as was – at least tentatively – the idea of the Pope being dragged into Hell. (Surely the devil had the patience to wait, at least, for the man to finally expire?)

It was obvious, however, that something could come out of this situation. The analysts were not optimistic enough to hope for a collapse of the regime – and of course, in interior papers, it was "the regime" – but it was clearly a crisis, and it is an article of faith in any intelligence organization that a crisis is an opportunity.

For years, Allanea considered itself in a state of war against slaver regimes. Sometimes this war was open, with tank regiments and a hail of submunitions and guided missiles. Other times – of condemnations and insults traded across diplomatic channels and television stations. Under the benevolent reign of Queen Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, more use was made of the silent dagger in the dark, the covert operation and the sudden strike.

There was another motive, also. Many Allaneans were suspicious of Catholicism. In part this was due to Allanea being the leader-state of Greater Prussia, an alliance with strong ties to Protestantism. Though the rights of Catholics were respected in the Free Kingdom, the nation's experience with authoritarian Catholic states and organizations – the fascists of Iesus Christi, the slavers of Doomingsland, and many others – made the Allaneans, Christians or not, suspicious of the faith. Those in Allanea who were Catholics, and of these were few, felt a deep resentment against those nations that they felt twisted the articles of their faith to promote murder and oppression. To Allanean Catholics, the idea of slavers who claimed the mantle of St. Peter's church was an abomination, an offense to their deepest held ideas.

Then, the Sole and Holy Papacy of Il Borgia Vaticano was seen as an abomination. If you were an Allanean and a pagan – a threat to your faith and freedom. If a Protestant – the Whore of Babylon. If a Catholic – a living blasphemy against the very ideas of the Church.

And now the Whore of Babylon was ill. Coughs racked her body. In her churches, the coffins of the dead lay stacked, awaiting burial. Its Pope had vanished. Sniper fire and riots shook its streets. Now, the men in the clandestine offices felt, now was the time to move.

The sky began to be rearranged. Satellites were diverted, their orbits altering by slight angles, several of the sophisticated machines moving to better track the affairs of the Papacy. Thermal images and radar scans were taken, photographs collected, communications – intercepted to the best technical ability.

And in the Atlantic, two ships began to move. Three hundred meters under the sea, where light and warmth cease, they moved. They were the FKS Cretoxyrhina, and the FKS Elitist.

The two vessels split up as they moved towards the Old World. One took a long, arcing route North, the other South. One – to the North Sea, the other, to the Mediterranean.

The vessels were silent. Their bodies were coated in advanced materials to reduce echoes, their propellers and hulls were designed to be as silent as possible.

Within them, men and women whispered their prayers – to the Gods, to the Illustrious Ancestors, to the God of the Bible and the Koran, each in the way he believed. Those who believed in nothing at all contemplated the hidden and dangerous tasks were ahead of them.

They had many tasks, and many miles to go still, before they rested.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Castel Sant'Angelo, Rome

All was chaos among the mother of cities, the greatest in all the world. Rome, once again, burned. Screams of terror echoes through the night, and the skyline glowed like a bonfire in the darkness of a wood. Lone artillery pieces still randomly fired on the city, but the Sisters had snuffed out the worst of the barrage. Gun fire continued unabated, however.

Virginio sighed as he looked upon what he had done. Standing on the parapets of the great Mausoleum of Hadrian, he wondered how that emperor would react to seeing this city burn. Nero had fiddled, but Hadrian was a builder. Much of his work still shewed through the millenia of construction. Would he be furious? No. He would carry on, and build from the ashes. So must I. Virginio thought to himself, vainly attempting to justify this destruction. Word of this sack had to have reverberated across the world by now. Rome is on fire, and it is obvious he was to blame. His letter is now circulating around social media. History is being shaped by the moment now. Trending hashtags call him monster, traitor, and war criminal. Yet a vocal minority claim him a hero. Everything was fluid. Calling over a servant captured from the Papal palace, he drinks from the goblet and sighs again.

"How happy, eh, to be a slave? To have no will...to make no decisions. Driftwood. How very restful it must be...."

"I doubt the driftwood would agree." Emilina Corella said as exited the castle. "Eminent Highness. The Sisters have nearly driven the mercenary hounds from the heart of the city. Nothing of importance has been lost as of yet, though the Pantheon has had a hole blown though its roof."

"So Hadrian would be furious with me." Virginio replied. "Er...nothing. What of Saint Peter's itself."

"Nothing that can't be repaired in time." Corella said with a sneer. "Architectural concerns aside, the city is still on fire. There's been news of mass rapes, looting, and murder. The sisters are doing their best to contain it, but this city is massive. We need the Papal armies. The survivng 42 of the Brotherhood are prisoners."

"You're right, but that is easier said than done." Virginio said "We cannot call them without the Pope, and we need to collect the Cardinals for a conclave first. To do that, we're going to have to deal with resistance. That is most assured."

"Indeed."

She handed him an intelligence report for Italy. In the few days or so since the sack of the city, and the 'disappearance' of the antipope Sixtus, the nobles of Italy have already begun to go into panic and prepare mode. The vultures were flying around the corpse of Rome. The Medici have closed down Tuscany and begun preparations to secure the Vatican Bank's coffers, if not shut them down completely. Venice had sent out a public recall of their fleets, and the Arsenal has been quietly closed to the public. There were also unconfirmed speculations in the report that violence has already broken out between the many feuding houses of The Romagna as well as that the ever defiant Sforzas (so far the only unconquered piece of Italy) were reopening their country from the COVID-19 epidemic to make preparations to march south.

"That's it?" Virginio said with exasperation. "That's just Italy! What of The Low Countries, SPAIN?"

"We don't know. King Viracocha has only sent one note while he's holed up in his Alcazar. " Corella repsonded. "'Italy did nothing while my brother tore Spain apart. We'll let you do the same.'"

"Leftist coward." Virginio said with anger. "The damnable Medici are keeping us from accessing the bank, as well. So we cannot pay off these condotierros either!"

"There is another thing, sir." Corella said.

"What?"

"Your liege lord, Alfonso of Naples."

"Yes?"

"He's called his banners."

"Naples has never gotten involved in Papal Politics."

"It seems as if that has changed."

Naples has always been the silent brother of the Kingdoms of the Realm. A papal dominion, but also a soft extension of the Spanish realm. Naples and Sicily, only Duchies now, were ruled by a cousinly line of the House of Borja (descended from Prince Alfonso the Regent). Its authority was always split between its liege, Rome, and its family ties in Spain. It was from this tidal lock that the duchies had played little active involvement in the government. With the vacuum in Rome, it seemed anything was fair game now.

"I don't want you to split your forces thin, commander." Virginio said. "But it has to be done. Slow your pace at reclaiming Rome, and begin to secure Latium. Throw up forts, checkpoints, the works. I will head south to conference with Duke Alfonso."

"Shall we continue to search for Cardinals?" Corella said. "Of the Papabile, Montalvo and The Prince of Chimay are still missing. D'euse is imprisoned and is refusing to cooperate. We know torture will not work on him."

"Find as many as you can. Most are probably holed up in palaces and castles with their guards." Virginio said. "Don't harm them. If they're sick, leave them be. We just need enough for a quorum and 2/3 majority. D'euse is a snake, and cannot be trusted regardless."

"It will be done, Eminent highness." Corella said as she left. Virginio made preparations for his own departure. Due to constraints on his own resoruces, Rome will continue to be sacked for the coming days or weeks. A pitiful sight indeed.

[Poposhania]

(IC) The people of Poposhania refuse to get involved into any incidents unless it effects their country and the peace of Poposhania

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

(IC) The people of Poposhania refuse to get involved into any incidents unless it effects their country and the peace of Poposhania

OOC: Follow the rules, please.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

ACTA DIURNA BORGIAE Rome Has Been Sacked The First Official News Brief from The Vatican after Villains Try to Seize Power Rome, Italy-The world is in a state of shock, fear, and mourning as they hear of news that the heart of the world is now on fire and in the process of being sacked by villains. While the world is under lockdown from COVID-19, partisans and opportunists have used this time of uncertainty to seize power for themselves. While we are currently ourselves under siege here in the Castelo, we will risk our lives to tell the world of what has happened here, if only briefly. Some two weeks ago, His Holiness Victor IV was tending to the flock of god who had fallen ill to the COVID-19 pandemic. Along with him was Cardinal Secretary of State Francisco de Borja and Gonfaloniere Colonna. All three were giving last rites and aiding the ill, giving alms to those affected by the economic downturn of this disease. All three would later contract the virus themselves. Francisco de Borja was the first to die, but would soon be followed by Victor IV a few days later. The world would only be notified of his death four days after he had been buried. Seizing this opportunity, Adriano Borgia, then head of the Office of The Supreme Inquisition colluded with Colonna to seize Rome and force a new conclave-in-absentia via mail in ballots. These ballots were counted and collected from an extreme minority of the curia over several days. King Viracocha did not involve himself with this, nor does he continue to do so today. Giovanni Battista de Orsini-Borgia, in hiding, publicly denounced this election as fraudulent in a series of letters still trending on social media. Adriano was "elected" as Pope Sixtus VI a day later, and Orsini once again published a letter denouncing him as an antipope. The following two days were days of uncertainty. Pope Sixtus received no acknowledgement from Spain or the Curia, and the Sisters of Saint Michael deserted Rome. Yesterday was the day of judgement. Whilst giving his first homily to the assembled crowds, Rome was attacked by the Sisters and Orsini with his own army of condotierri mercenaries. The Sacred Band made a valiant defense of Saint Peters, and all but forty-two were butchered in the square and altar of the Basilica. Sixtus was spirited away by members of the Band, but has utterly vanished. No one knows if he escaped Rome, was killed, fled the country or is in hiding. Orsini has made no public statements about it. He has said only this: "I am not in Rome to become the Pope. I am in Rome to restore the rightful election of the pontiff and expel a viper from God's house. We will be collecting the Cardinals, by force if necessary, to form a conclave." Orsini, however, lacked the funds to maintain a strong hold over his mercenary army. After the initial strike on Saint Peter's, the army turned on Rome itself. The city was pummeled by artillery fire and the hounds have swept from street-to-street, looting and killing and raping whomever they please. The wails of the innocent are emananting across the city as I write this. Orsini says he expels vipers, but in doing so he's unleashed a far greater beast on Rome's people. Men. Top Comments (120,000) CardinalJoaquindeMontalvo_Borja I wrote this in a hurry. I'm currently on the run from Rome. It is all true as I know it. The world needs to know what is going on. May God forgive us all. EsterPio13 Let us all pray for Rome. She will survive this, she is the eternal city, but her people need our prayers. DeaconJohn I was there, man. In the Basilica. Blood was everywhere. The Sacred Band made a valiant stand. They're gonna be remembered throughout history for this. Only god knows I'll never forget what I saw...If I even survive that long. It was so horrible...horrible. THIS VIDEO WAS REMOVED DUE TO VIOLENT CONTENT LongDongOfTheLaw_69 Why is King Viracocha doing nothing? He's keeping us locked up over some disease, and Rome is literally ON FIRE. EN FUEGO. He needs to call up the armies and restore order to the city. ElReyTigre El papa Víctor fue asesinado por esa puta, Carola. Click to see more...

[Britiannia]

COBRA, Whitehall, London

Sir Anthony John Hill-Waverley, Kt. CBE, newly minted Prime Minister of the United Kingdom had a pretty uneventful December and new year. His term so far, 6 months into it has had no major international incidents or wars or gods forbid massive crisis's. Thanks to the absolute nonexistence of trade relations between Britannia and the People's Republic of China, and the effective containment measures enforced by the Republic of China, Coronavirus 2019 has been an absolute nonevent in Britain and her allies.
For others however, the situation seemed radically different. Of those national entities that was hit hard apparently, particular interest was allocated on the Papal Reich ensconcing itself on ancient Roman lands.
And so... with the rain pouring down outside as usual, the senior members of Her Majesty's Cabinet, the Imperial Defence Staff and the intelligence community gathered themselves in COBRA to map out a course of action.

"So ladies and gentlemen," Sir Anthony began. "I have gathered you all here to discuss the apparent campaign of wanton destruction unleashed on rightful Roman soil, and on the City itself by a gathering of unwelcome Papist slaver-occupiers, who have now apparently descended into civil conflict amongst themselves due to the recent death of their political leader, thrusting the state apparatus into chaos. It would be in the Commonwealth's interest to keep Italy free of bands of highwaymen and slavers. What's the latest news, Intelligence?"
A man in the mid-forties, dress impeccably in his morning suit rose to speak. "The situation is mildly speaking a damned fine mess. At least two Borgia factions have in turn seized the city, massacred their political rivals, declared a new head of state and the previous one illegitimate, and then proceeded to go on to further massacres of anybody they suspect of opposing them. We have currently no idea on the current dispositions of the Papist armies and navies and are trying to find that out."

At that moment a middle-aged gentleman, Asian in character rose for the word. "Maybe we could help with that..." Every eye in the room turned to the officer speaking. This officer was Colonel Iwaya Eiichi, age 45, Chief Attaché of the Imperial Fusō Armed Forces to the United Kingdom and specially invited to this COBRA meeting just to say what he has to say next.
Aware now of the attention Colonel Iwaya cleared his throat, took a sip of his tea and continued.
"I beg for Your pardons ladies and gentlemen. The Imperial Fusō Armes Forces would be willing, for this occasion and against a common vandal against Western Civilisation offer up use of our Type 75 Reconnaissance Complex..." The Type 75, or to use its full designation, Type 2675 Space Reconnaissance and Observation Complex was a set of sixteen imagery, radar and electronic intelligence satellites launched and delivered to the Imperial Fusō Armed Forces by the twenty-third district of the Academy City in Edo. Resolution capability was alleged to be incredible and the twelve in operation and four in reserve ensured that no area on Earth escaped the attention of the Empire for more than two to three hours.

"We are certainly open for a negotiated employment of your reconnaissance capabilities, Colonel. File it under... the Anglo-Fusō Treaty of 2373 AUC." Prime Minister Sir Anthony replied. "Until we know more, especially the dispositions of the papist forces... I guess we'll just have to wait and see. A complete travel ban to that place is already in place and all... Now about Gibraltar, and the loan of HMNB Valletta, Malta to the Allaneans..."

[Allanea]

Free Kingdom Ministry of War, offices of the Minister of War, Baroness Priscilla Stossel-Conde

The Minister threw back her luscious, brown hair, as she looked at the proposal that had been sent in from Britannia. The offer of assistance came in at an opportune time – the Allaneans had already made the first movements against the Papacy. Two submarines carrying small teams of operatives were already on their way through the Atlantic – yet obviously, to have an aerial base would be superior in all regards. Or at least this was the gist of it.

– "The situation is more complex than it appears, ladies and gentlemen." – said Baroness Conde. "I of course appreciate that the Britannians mean us well. They don't like those scumbags any more than we do. However, you appreciate that we cannot simply begin massing air power on Malta, delightful though that might be. Secrecy must be maintained. I propose, therefore, something different. Something that would require the cooperation of the Emergency Response Command."

The Emergency Response Command liaison, seated along the long, dark-brown wood desk, nodded. "You want us to pretend we are sending humanitarian aid to Malta."

– "As I understand, the novel coronavirus epidemic on Malta is not yet as widespread as to required actual humanitarian aid, but it might end up that bad. It might!" – the Baroness winked – "We can't be too careful when a fellow anti-slaver, freedom-loving state is concerned!"

– "What should we call this? " – an Air Force counterintelligence officer asked from the other end of the desk.

– "Let's call it Operation Nightingale" – said the Baroness. "That makes it all humanitarian and shit."

Several of the officers laughed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's get to work. By evening I'd like to see it all squared with the Brittanians. Get a press release about how we are all nice. Maybe actually put some shipping containers with masks there. Charter some jets for this. Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

And so the show got on the road. The next morning, the official EMERCOM website featured a press release on Operation Nightingale, in which the charitable and noble-minded Allanean people were sending out assistance to their friends on Malta, who were under the threat of a global pandemic. Noon – several airliners and cargo jets began taking off at airbases in Allanea. A day later, official photographs would be released where Allanean servicemen were unloading shipping containers from the aircraft, and opening some of them to show pallets of medical equipment, masks, and so forth, and handing them over to happy-looking Maltan nurses at hospitals.

Some things, however, remained hidden – such as the fact that more shipping containers were delivered than shown on the photos (which would have been the truth in even a genuine humanitarian airlift, of course) and the fact that not all the shipping containers even had medicine inside them. Out of sight of reporters, entirely non-medical containers were parked on the outskirts of the airbase. Some of them were completely empty, others were packed with ammunition for aircraft that were yet to be delivered. One contained within it a small armory, and soon enough a man took residence within it, checking over the guns and tools.

None of this would be sufficient, of course, to wage a war, but the Allaneans had no intent of waging a war, or at least not a war as most people understood one.

Operation Nightingale would continue the next day, and the next after. And because at least some of the containers genuinely had medical supplies in them, the nurses and doctors on Malta would certainly be happy to know that.

* * *

The passage of time is the one inexorable constant of human reality.

With every minute, the FKS Cretoxyrhina drew ever closer to what would soon be its hunting grounds. Already, the waters around it grew thicker with traffic – commercial traffic from all nations, seeking to reach the ports of Europe, or to return from them with cargo. This, of course, made the crew's job much easier. They traveled, when they could, in the shadow of massive freighter ships, the noise of their ponderous, titanic propellers helping obscure the submarine's passage even further. Their route began to arc out towards the North Sea.

It was in those waters, generations ago, that submarine warfare first came into its own in its full brutality. As they passed, they knew that somewhere below them was the wreckage of countless submarines and transports that had found their grave here during the great wars of Europe. And indeed they were headed towards the sites of the most famous and lethal submarine actions of all – those that caused some to raise their fists in outrage, and others to be inspired by the luck and skill of the captains and crew.

The clock was ticking. Every hour , the Cretoxyrhina drew closer to its staging area. Somewhere out there were men and women whose lives were drawing towards their final day, and they did not know it yet.

But then, who does?

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

The Alcazar of Segovia, Spain

Viracocha detested the robes. They were heavy, gaudy, and utterly...royal. He had hated everything about the life that has been thrown at him beyond his will. It was never his will, but it was in his brother's. Carlos had named him as his successor. Carlos had given him one last jab in their sibling rivalry. He'd gotten his last laugh. Damn him. His manservant placed the chain of the Golden Fleece and the crown upon his head, and he walked in slow procession to the great throne room of the alcazar. There waiting were the twin thrones of Ferdinand and Isabella. Old and wood, they were the symbolic representations of the might and authority of the two founding monarchs of this kingdom. Yet, Viracocha sighed when he saw them. His role was oppressive and utterly cruel. Yet he was bound by faith and blood to act in this role. Here was his stage, and he had to recite his lines. Literally.

The cameras were still being prepped when the 'producer' (ad hoc) came over to King Viracocha.

"Is everything ready?" Viracocha said. "I want this done quickly."

"Of course, Your Majesty." the EP replied. "We have secure connection to all the internet sources you requested. ADB Live, AP, Reuters, BBC, YouTube, Twitter, Facebook...Twitch? Really?"

"I want as wide an audience as possible." Viracocha said. "The world needs to hear this. Anything else?"

"Yes, you have a call from Lorenzo de Medici-Borgia." the EP said

"No."

"He says its not about the current issues."

"Fine. Get it done with."

Taking the phone, Viracocha braced himself for the prattle of Rome's bloody banker. Ippolito II was the son of the great CEO and technocrat Stefano. Trained all his life in his father's cantankerous shadow, Ippolito had settled on ruling Florence as its Duke and nothing more. Being the arbitrator of Vatican finances was his passion most of all. Calls from him were usually dreary and monotonous, of numbers and investments. He was the sort of capitalist fiend Viracocha detested most of all.

"What is it, Medici?" Viracocha said with some venom.

"Your Majesty, no need for the excessive friendliness." Ippolito said with a sarcastic smile. "We have an issue."

"What?"

"Have you seen news of the British efforts to have a charitable drive for Malta?"

"What of it?"

"Our bank's system has been keeping watch on it. Don't you think the timing is odd?" Ippolito said with patronizing tone. "We're what, three or four months into this pandemic? Why now? We've also noted some rather large and quite unmentioned donations."

"Hmm. I thought we owned Malta."

"The world is mysterious and this is just food for thought. I'll not keep you, Your Majesty."

Hanging up, Viracocha took his seat on the throne. Sitting in the throne of Isabella was his niece and new wife, Infanta Maria Luisa de Borja. The world would find out they'd married as soon as the livestream began. They'd married hurriedly amidst the chaos of this pandemic. While two decades her senior, Viracocha and Maria were quite smitten with one another for some time now. It was a good political move as well, as Maria Luisa was Carlos' sole child and technical heir. He'd overlooked her because of his Carlist politics...though Viracocha had yelled at him more than once that Salic law did not apply to Spain in any way since they were not even related to the Bourbons in France et Navarre. Regardless, he'd passed over her. Their marriage quieted notions of successional conflict. Viracocha straigtened himself, and looked straight ahead at the cameras, and raised the scepter and orb of his office. Maria Luisa did the same. This was his first public speech as King, and such matters (coupled with the pandemic and the sack of rome) brought this livestream into viral trending across the globe.

The light clicked, and they were live before the world. Newsreaders announced his speech, listing off his many titles one by one, as was tradition: "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; Duke of Parma, of Brabant, of Gandia and Modena; Count of Flanders, 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."

Then the camera shifted to King Viracocha. He thought in silence for a moment, and began to speak.

"Sons and Daughters of God, Our Subjects of The Spanish Realm, All the Good People of the World,

I bid you welcome and and all the best of luck in this time of great misfortune. We as a people face a struggle against our very natures. Under Equus Albus, we're forced to remain inside all day and everyday. We struggle against the cages we have made to keep us safe. Yet we must do so out of service to our elders and to the meek. This is the godly path. Stay the course. Be safe.

The COVID-19 Pandemic has seen us also fall into our own very natures. The bestial and base natures inherent in the darkest hearts of men. Rome has been sacked. Her people are still being brutalized. Many have wondered why I remain inactive. Why does Spain watch as Italy tears itself apart? Because they did the same as my own brother ripped this country to shreds for power. I will not allow the people to suffer needlessly. You are all my children, and no father should allow them to be bathed in blood. Your safety, your prosperity, and your lives are my sole priority. Such priorties may be lost in Italy, as Cardinals and princes fight each other for a fancy hat.

This is why I say here and now. Loud and clear. Spain will NOT involve itself in this nonsense. I am in effect cutting off ties with the mother country until she can order herself. I will recognize the sovereignty of the pope once again when one is elected under a dual conclave or seize the throne with enough strength to hold it in permanency.

Let the Cardinals peck at each other over the chestnuts. The eagle will only gaze upon them in disgust. Yet at this time many and more will see the vacuum of power as an oppurtunity to take control in the name of their own political ideology. I myself have always been a firebrand of equality, of socialist Christianity, and of freedom. Yet it is my duty as your king to maintain the stability of the state. Any talk of the removal of the pontificate or the propagation of any illegal political system is treason. Any who do so, set themselves against legitimate authority. You would threaten to throw us into even more permanent civil war and destruction. Can you imagine such evil? Such horror.

Let there be no confusion. Spain IS a kingdom. Italy belongs to the Church and her princes. Their rights are ordained and decreed by GOD and NO MAN can change that. Those who disagree with this fundamental fact makes themselves an enemy of God, King and Country. All the world sees us, and will seek to benefit from us falling into chaos. I WILL NOT tolerate the subversion of sovereignty of this country in any way. By anyone. Citizens of Spain, Of The Low Countries. Stay Home. I will not trouble you any further."

The Screen Cuts. The Spanish Anthem Plays. Pundits begin to Spin.

Fin.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Montecassino, Frosinone, Italy

Orsini was wary of his nominal liege. Never had Naples taken such an active move towards the pontificate. Duke Alfonso was clearly up to something, and Orsini wanted to know exactly what. The Neapolitan army had marched north at a steady rate, publicly too. This was not an obvious act of war. It was also a publicity stunt. Rather than confronting him directly, Orsini had arranged a private meeting at the historical abbey of Montecassino, home of the Benedictine Order. The great abbey had seen war after war. It had persisted regardless. The war had expanded in the last few days. The Houses of The Romagna were utterly at each others' throats. Imola had been raided and burned to the ground. The Maltatestas were running rampant in their rapes and pillaging. The Riarios and Romagnan Sforzas were still calling forces and hiring soldiers. There was news of a battle in Northern Tuscany.

Perhaps here they could make some sort of peace.

Sitting across from each other, Giovanni and Alfonso sized each other up as the monks went about their daily business. Quite too literally if you considered the codpieces. Both were in striking contrast to the monastic order around them. Cardinals, yes, but they were in full armor and decked out the symbols of their houses. Aristocrats and warriors. Alfonso de Borja tapped his hand on his seat and sipped some wine.

"Eminent Highness, please explain to me why we are in this mess." Alfonso said.

"An antipope tried to seize power in Rome." Orsini replied curtly. "I deposed him. Simple as that."

"Nothing about this is simple, Orsini." Alfonso said. "Rome is on fire. There is no government in Italy. Thanks. To. You."

"Unfortunate." Orsini replied. "But it had to be done."

"Did it?" Alfonso said angrily. "I've come north because of you."

"Why is that, your grace?"

"To support you. I'd assumed you'd have declared yourself the Pope. Now I find you here, not in Rome, and not the pope."

"I want a fair and legal election. I will not seize power like Adriano did."

"Adriano did what he must during a time of great crisis. Need I remind you there is a plague ripping its way through the country? It is only now beginning to slow itself down. Hundreds of thousands have succumbed. Now is not the time for political nonsense. Even now there are rumors that our enemies are trying to exploit this. Why is it that my half-indio leftist cousin is the only one with sense? Explain yourself."

"I already have, your grace. God ordained our church to elect its vicar through conclave. Nothing else. I have nearly secured a third of the required voting cardinals. I will continue to do so." Orsini said "If, I must and humbly request, the army of Naples and the Sisters march as one north we can put Italy to rights quickly. Not to mention the Knights of Saint John, I've begun to call them into an actual fighting order-"

"No." Alfonso cut in. "No. Naples will not play chase the Cardinals. I'm still marching north. I'm going to take Rome. I'm going to hang every last condotierro who is still there. I'm going to proclaim a pope. I don't know whom yet, but I will. Those who resist him or me will be garroted. That includes you."

"This violates Spain's neutrality declaration." Orsini said with a disrespectful tone.

"Spain has no dominion over Naples. I will put Italy to peace, Eminent Highness." Alfonso replied with a grin.

"So be it."

"So be it."

The meeting was never meant to be. It was a warning. Returning to his army camped not far from Montecassino, Orsini gave orders to the Sisters and his remaining condotierri to begin preparations for a defensive line. He would do his best to hold Latium against the Neapolitans. With the air force unpaid, and the navy recalled thus far, this war would be fought through the lands of the Italian Peninsula. Thousands upon thousands will die. Orsini was a sinner like any other man, but he was blinded by one over all. Pride. He refused to see how he'd plunged Italy into this crisis. He continued on for what his own pride determined to be the correct course. At all costs.

The man who sacked Rome was now protecting it from invasion.

[Allanea]

Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind,
And makes it fearful and degenerate;
Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.
Shakespeare, King Henry IV

Venice, 00:30 Local Time

The FKS Elitist rested miles outside the harbor. Carefully, the ship ascended to periscope depth, and for long minutes, its captain studied the city lights on the horizon. From here, the city's ancient beauties were not visible. He could not hear its church bells, breathe in its mysteries, marvel at its canals and palaces. He knew of them, but here, at this distance, their beauty could not enchant him, it could not bewitch him, and it would not stay his hand. From here he could see only the distant lights of the city's industry, the blinking of shipboard lighting, the glow of its wealth. The knowledge of its marvels only reinforced the Captain's determination – for he knew the ancient sin that had made those marvels real.

He had waited long to be here. He had waited in the belly of the ocean for weeks, reading about the city, inspecting maps of its ports and piers, studying its layout. Planning for the violence he would soon orchestrate.

The first plan was to sabotage the city's anti-flooding locks, to bring the ocean rushing into its streets. Yet it became soon clear that the lock system was far too complicated to reliably disable in a single strike, and that the flooding, if it happened, would not be as devastating as to justify such an effort.

Therefore, Captain Nathan Rowlandson had been forced to reduce his plan to something much simpler, though in some ways more vicious. And the time for his plan had come.

The periscope vanished under the waves, withdrawing into the black hull until its top was flush with the vessel's body. Slowly, the black shape began to descend.

* * *

Ensign Anthony Whitaker felt as if he had been buried alive. He was enclosed in a steel tube, like a corpse lying in a morgue drawer. He was clad head to toe in a night-blue suit, and a rebreather mask covered his face – and so, of course, his training told him he would not drown or suffocate in the tube. And yet, despite years of training, his mind screamed at him – Coffin! Coffin! Get out of here! We must get out!

He had suppressed this emotion in the past. He knew that to admit it would mean shame and failure. He knew also that it would last for only a few dreadful minutes. The polished walls of the steel tube seemed like they were pressing about him, as if he would crush or suffocate. The heavy, plastic-coated, object strapped to his chest made movement even harder. He made an effort not to begin gasping for air in panic. To reveal panic would, of course, end his suffering. The hatch at his feet would open, and he would be pulled to safety – but it would also mean failure.

It was the hatch at his front that opened first.

Cold water rushed into the tube, and Anthony clenched his teeth as his 'coffin' filled instantly with water. Even now, knowing full well he could not drown, that the water could not even touch most of his skin, he was terrified. The rushing water pressed about him, until, at last, it was calm. He began to propel himself forward.

Soon he was out. Free. Calm. At his sides, three other men swam forward of their torpedo tubes. In their own way they were more dangerous than torpedoes.

They moved forward, their bodies carrying them towards the harbor. They did not swim as such – each man held on to an object the size of a small suitcase, which pulled him ahead on the power of tiny screws.

They moved into the harbor just after high tide, rising nearly to the surface to pass the locks, and once again diving to remain hidden. To the piers – this was their destination.

Allanean intelligence had watched the schedule for weeks, and passing satellites identified many of the vessels in the harbor. The target had long been selected, and each of the four men knew where to find it – the number of the pier, the name of the ship, everything was contained in their briefing.

Even after years of training, the notion of being so close to a ship – touching its hull – filled Anthony with a sense of dread. The ship was not, of course, a threat to him – but there was something unusual, something near-supernatural, in the idea of a structure tens of thousands of tons in weight that could move, that was empty on the inside.

The vessel was a slave ship. It had arrived two days ago, and finished unloading its cargo. Soon it was scheduled to go back, to whatever awful third-world country it had procured these unfortunates from, and probably load again.

Anthony unstrapped the cargo that had been attached to his chest and reversed it. It was an elongated object, rounded somewhat on one side, with two handles. On the other side it was flat, and it would be this flat side that Anthony Whitaker placed against the hull of the slave ship. He moved a switch, and he felt the object press against the ship's body, pulled against it with a powerful magnet. Anthony yanked out a small, red ring from the device, and tossed it away, letting it sink into the depths. He thumbed the switch of his radio once, twice, thrice, saying nothing at all – the three hissing sounds would be a signal in and of themselves. Device in place.

Soon, likewise signals came back in response from his friends, and the four men began to move back to the Elitist, the 'suitcases' aiding in their escape. It would be a long journey, but by dawn they'd be safely away.

Venice Harbor, dawn

The dawn is a strange thing.

It seems like a poetic, gradual thing, where one cannot know precisely when night starts and morning begins.

Yet, of course, it is precise.

The Earth's speed of rotation is known.

The time of dawn is scheduled with more precision than any human activity.

And so, as the Goddess Eos blessed Venice with her radiant, pure pink beams, the four charges the Allaneans planted on the slave ship's body exploded.

The first blow came astern, like a strike of a vengeful hammer, tearing a hole near the engine bay, flooding water into the ship.

The second – the one Ensign Anthony Whitaker planted – tore a gaping wound in the ship's starboard side. So did the third, and the slave-vessel rapidly began to tilt away from the pier. As it rolled, exposing its belly to the townsfolk, a fourth charge exploded, spraying burning fuel out into the water. Metal creaked and tore as the slave ship sank.

This was the first scene of the play which the Allaneans staged for the people of the Papacy.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Sarzana, Liguria, The Borderlands of Tuscany

The great fortress of Sarzana now lie in ruins. The garrison had surrendered the old fortress after being bombarded for three days by artillery fire. No old walls like that could stand against such modern weaponry. They'd turned on the minor noble family which held the fortress as their fief, and now that family hanged on the walls themselves. A war tent was settled right on the boundary (at an oil press no less) between Liguria, possessed by the as of yet independent Duchy of Milan, and the Papal Dominion of Tuscany. The army that traveled with it, some 15,000 strong lay camped farther back in Sarzana itself. The pennants of the House of Sforza, it's quartered eagles and snakes, and an oddly modified House of Este flew over the tent. While the D'este family was papal vassal, it is a semi-independent one. Modena and Reggio do not fall within the borders of the Papal States, as they serve as a buffer against Milan. It seems Modena has turned against Rome.

Within the tent a large circle of knights and condotierro commanders argued over the best move forward. Some favoured charging directly at Rome, whilst others wanted to move east to neutralize Venice. Arguing among them were their two commanders, equal in power but not in stature. The one on the left was a massive hulk of man, over several hundred pounds in wait. Mostly fat, but it hid a level of terrible strength. Duke Gian Galeazzo II of Milan. An ambitious and gluttonous duke. The only thing more obnoxious than his loud mouth was his enormous codpiece. His army was at the command of his allied partner on his left, the entire reason for this campaign. Unassuming in stature, yet a fierce personality by all accounts. Count Leonello d'Este-Borgia of Modena. Leonello was perhaps the least expected person to be a territorial abbot in the world.

"I did not come to bloody Tuscany to be argued with all the way to Rome, dammit!" Sforza shouted in his massive voice. "Leonello, you're the overall reason why we're here. YOU DECIDE."

"I will." Leonello said with anger. Everyone quieted. "If we are to take control of the Papacy we need to get to Rome. To get to Rome, we're going to need to break through and pay our armies. You all saw what happened when Orsini failed to keep his well behaved."

"Yes, sure." A condotierro said. "My men are starting to get edgy, to be honest."

"We need funds." Leonello said calmly, now. "Ergo, we need the Vatican Bank. Ergo, Medici. Ergo, Tuscany."

"Firenze is a notoriously tough whore to force yourself upon, Leonello." Sforza said digustingly. "She's like to take your kidneys in the process."

"That's why we'll be talking with Ippolito in about five seconds."

"What!?"

Signalling them all to don their augmented reality glasses, ironically developed by the Medici Aeronautics, it'd quickly become among the most popular forms of communication by the nobility and clergy...yet was still far beyond the reach of the lower classes. Orisini too had rejected using this for the conclave, Leonello remembered. The old fool was now fighting his own liege lord at Montecassino. As Leonello thought about that conflict, the person of Ippolitio de Medici-Borgia materialized before them. It was almost as if he had been there in the tent with them. If only he were. The process would be so much easier.

"Signore, the Duke of Milan." Ippolito said with false hospitality. "Why has your army attacked the Papal States, and why my Sarzana?"

"I ordered the strike for their refusal to gain us entrance to Tuscany, Cardinal Ippolito." Leonello said before the Duke could utter something profane. "I mean to make for Rome and restore order."

"Is that so...?" Ippolito said with amusement and recognition. "Madonna Alessandra d'Este! Your father's Ferrara is a papal fief. Why do you march with Milan?"

Duke Sforza visibly and audibly facepalmed himself. This was not going well. At all. Ippolitio knew what he did, and he struck well, trying to breakdown the talks before they even began. Leonello kept his facade, however, and sighed.

"Your Eminence, you know very well that name is dead to me." Leonello replied. "And unless you want to end up like that name you will cease in your uneccesary provocations, signore."

"You are much more adept that it appears, Leonello." Ippolito said with a smirk. "What exactly is your end goal in Rome? No useless pontifications like Orsini, please."

"Fine. I mean to make myself pontiff and restore legitimate rule to Italy." Leonello said. "I have Borgia blood through my mother and my ancestry to Lucrezia herself. I have every right and the right of conquest."

"Indeed." Ippolito said. "And you need the Vatican bank to ensure you win."

"I'd prefer to not take it by force, Medici." Leonello said. "Do you even intend to particpate alongside Orsini in a conclave?"

"I have my own plans, signore." Ippolito said. "You will have to besiege Florence. A...abbot...cannot be a pope. Especially not a usurper."

The AR vanished. Leonello called for the army to begin packing and pillaging Sarzana. They were moving south. Florence would be besieged.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Rome, Italy

The eternal city still smoldered beneath a smoke-choked sky. Entire buildings were in ruins, bombed out and burned. Bodies littered the streets. All order had broken down in the past few weeks. In this chaos, Pierre d'Euse managed to slip through the chains of the Sisterhood of Saint Michael. He'd endured their torture and when they'd thought him broken, he'd made his desperate escape. He struck down his captors and flew from the Castel Sant'Angelo with glee. And keeping a low profile, he'd made his way to a black site underneath the city controlled by the Inquisition. Whilst larger communication systems had broken down in Italy, the great network of spies an informers belonging to the Inquisition remained...diminished but remained. The black site itself was still partially staffed, and his agents welcomed him with happiness. d'Euse was highly respected as a spymaster. He firstly ordered the release of all the criminals in the jails and inquisitorial cells across Italy and Rome. The country's worst heretics, violent crminals, rebels, rapists and murderers would have free reign. Suitable vengeance for trying to have him killed and enough of a screen for authorities trying to hunt him down.

He was then briefed by Inquisitors on the happenings since his imprisonment. Orisni's defensive entrenchment, the Vatican bank closing down, chaos in the Romagna, and now a man-woman was marching south with an army with the fat man from Milan. Orsini had also seized about a tenth of the cardinals he needed for a conclave already. None of this interested d'Euse. The vultures could dance for all he cared. He would work with the victor regardless...so long as they didn't threaten his own position. He enjoyed it too much.

One thing did interest him however. This so-called charitable endeavor for Malta and especially the explosion of a human flesh importer in Venice. That was far from accidental. Clearly. Someone was exploiting the anarchy to hurt the Papal economy even further. They need to be found out and dealt with. Venice was already reeling from the stock market fluctuations from the COVID-19 pandemic, and now war was threatening to hurt her even further. Rallying together his network, d'Euse intended to find out whom. Soon.

Imola, The Romagna

"We found him digging through the refuse of the castle, and living in your stables, Lord Riario."

The two men-at-arms were dragging what looked to be a rather young vagrant to the great castle of Forli. Francesco Riario, its lord, looked at the boy with disgust. This wasn't the first refugee from Rome they found, but it was the first they found alive. Thousands of refugees have been fleeing from Rome into the Italian countryside. Few were stupid enough to come into The Romagna. Every days battles were being waged by its lords. The Malatestas were especially vicious, attacking and robbing the refugees with glee. Riario had sealed off his castle as he gathered forces to try to unify the region for himself. Any vagrants loitering around the castle could be spies for other families. Or enemies seeking to pillage supplies.

This one looked to be too pathetic for either. Yet there was something curious about him regardless. Rather than having him beheaded for theft, as he usually would, Riario had him stripped and washed. Doing so revealed several wounds. Even more interesting. The castle's doctors tended to his wounds, whilst Riario personally oversaw the searching of his things. They found several items of interest. A phone with the portrait of another man as its wallpaper, an assumed lover. Several daggers bloodstained, and a saintly icon. Recognizing the emblem, Riario immediately brought the boy before him. They held back his clothes for the moment, as naked men have few secrets.

"Who are you, young man?" Riario asked, twiddling around the icon in his hand. "Why are you going through Imola's garbage?"

"I needed food." the young man said. "I've nothing to eat in a week. I dare not hunt on lands of The Romanga."

"Lest you be hunted yourself." Riario replied. "Smart move. Did you sell yourself to avoid dangers on the journey here?"

Silence.

"Is this yours?" He said as he threw the icon at the young man. He caught it, kissed it, and sneered at Riario. "I knew it. That icon is of Sergius and Bacchus. You're a survivor of the attack on Saint Peters."

"What of it?"

"Who are you?"

"Paolo."

"Paolo?"

"Borgia." Paolo replied. "The main line, descendant of Calixtus IV."

"Indeed. Why is a Borgia, even from the poor line, and a brother of Sergius no less," Riario said with impunity. "Raiding my larders, selling himself, and living with the animals?"

"To survive, Lord Riario." Paolo said with a deep sadness. "I fled Rome. My brotherhood is gone. My husband is dead. I'll never love again."

"Tragic, young Borgia. Truly." Riario said with a sigh. He was legitimately touched. "We've only recently heard of what caused Rome's sack. The Sacred Band made a valiant last stand. I must also ask. Why flee? Why are you lying low in the gutter?"

"I was there when Sixtus VI died." Paolo said bluntly, without realizing it. "He was garroted by Orsini." The room fell into a deep silence in a state of shock and dismay. The pope, even one of questionable legitimacy, had been murdered. Murdered by a condotierro in a condotierro fashion. Lord Riario listened with growing fury as Paolo recounted his story, of the death of his beloved, his flight from Rome with Montalvo (of whom he didn't discuss what had happened). Then he continued after they split up, noting his terrible travels into the Romagna where he felt it was comparably safer to Latium. He'd been accosted, robbed of his armor, beaten, and fought viciously for his very life. He'd received several wounds in the process and sought shelter with condotierros who were against the bandits who'd robbed him...though he'd had to pay his way with himself. He no longer cared about the sanctity of his body, nor his vows to Sergius and Bacchus. He only wanted to live. Those selfsame condotierros had dumped him near Imola a few days ago. Paolo wept as he ended his sad tale. Riario immediately ordered him to be dressed in what they could find on hand. The boy would stay with him in Imola for the forseeable future.

Later that evening, Riario sent messengers out to find both Montalvo and to make contact with Lord Malatesta. Vengeance must be had. Justice must be served.

[TURTLESHROOM II]

When the moon shines bring most every night
It'll bring the creeps we need to fight
But when all I hear is howling wind
It's when I know there's something wrong tonight...

"I didn't ask for this."

The sun fell to its knees on a highly windswept evening in the sun-baked jungles outside of Jonesboro. A full moon lit the jungles in grayscale brightness and shone through the simple stain glass of the seat of TurtleShroomian Catholicism. The Dry Season was in full force and, beginning in May and ending at a period between late June and early August, little rain would grace the rainforest.

"How could he do this? Of all the Borgias..."

Howling winds were commonplace, but not like this, for an unusual silence, outside of the wind, was deafening. The cheerful chittering and chirping of the multitudes of parrots, their brilliant plumage bringing cheer and nesting in the cathedral's two belfries, was in total absence. Nothing was outside. No lights in the far-off houses, the city lights the only light pollution restricting the full glories of the Milky Way and its satellite Barry Way galaxies (because "Magellanic Cloud" was a stupid name for an irregular galaxy, DUH) in the cloudless sky above.

The seats of the Oakwood Primital See were empty, the pews made of tropical wood bathed in the moonlight. The Minor Bascillica's stained glass, being nothing but simplistic squares of pastel colors and blues, placed in tall, narrow Dixie-style windows, were compliments to the candles burning at the simplistic altar.

The Cardinal-Primate's "Primital Throne", representing his authority and prestige as an Exempt Archbishop in the Borgian Catholic Church, was actually an old Baptist-style deacon chair. This is because it was purchased from a Baptist church when the minor bascillica, then a cathedral, was founded in 1920 AD, and that chair today is9 valued at about fifty dollars.

[quote="TURTLESHROOM II";p="34415610"][spoiler=What Icfella looks like]

^ This is Cardinal Icfella with his hair down.
He only does this when "off-duty", that is,
when he isn't holding Mass or preaching,
and not on Sundays. When in church services,
he never wears it like this, and when spoken to,
he moves it to look at the person talking.

[/spoiler]

Sitting in the chair was Cardinal-Primate Jason Icfella, a young adult with long Emo-style bangs, white knuckled and gripping the edges of the deacon chair's arms. Famous for his zeal, his youth, and his clumsiness, the most striking part of his appearance was his aforementioned hair. Normally well-groomed and inpeccably cleaned, it was combed over one eye when he was alone or not holding Mass (and brushed aside whenever he spoke to others), for the past few weeks it has been frazzled, with split ends and loose strands. It was uncombed, going straight down and covering his whole face like some Oriental ghost that hides in wells. His long hair, in terms of his otherwise humble appearence, was one of the only things he ever took pride with, and he kept it up accordingly. This unkempt behavior was so far out of the Cardinal-Primate's character that it scared everyone who loves him.

The TurtleShroomian Rite had always been a black sheep in the Catholic flock because of its adherence to Sola Scriptura, a canon of sixty-six Books, and a rejection of some of the more controversial venerations (particularly the wholesale rejection of accolades and veneration to the Virgin Mary outside the Creeds and Rosary). The TurtleShroomian Rite was also known for its deep devotion to the Bishop of Rome, its steadfast loyalty to Transubstantiation*, and its childlike trust in the Vicar of Christ. The TS Rite never seriously rejected Catholic tradition and doctrine, as little of it, from the eyes of a faithful Catholic, even using the Bible alone, challenged the Bible.

This did. Prior to the TS Rite entering communion with the Borgian See, the last Pope over TS was Clement XV, the Conclave choosing him attended by Cardinal Icfella directly.

When he was still a teenager, he had the honor of serving in a Papal Conclave in 2010 AD. There, his hero, Cardinal Johannes, of Germanoslavia, became like a father to him. He was a deeply loving and spiritual mentor. Cardinal-Primate Icfella and Cardinal Johannes had maintained contact ever since, and visited each other on a regular basis. Germanoslavia eventually slipped into isolation and fell off TurtleShroom's radar, but his hero's words consistently came back when reflecting on his Walk with Christ.

After the death of Pope Clement XV, his and his sucessors' Vatican eventually lost recognition by TurtleShroom's Catholics aftr it failed to nominate a new Pope for many, many years.

TurtleShroom jopned the Borgian See, ironically enough, for the stability of a single-family Papacy and a deep respect for autocephaly in minor Church doctrine. Following the election of Pope Victor III, the TurtleShroomer Rite rejoined Communion with the Borgian Papacy after a heretical woman was rejected by all TurtleShroomian Christians- not just Catholics -as a slap to the face of the Bride of Christ. Whispers in the shadows of the TS intelligence community about assassinating the Black Deaconess, as she was called (among nicer terms), were silenced by her premature death.

What would Jesus do? What would Cardinal Johannes do? In order, these were the questions Icfella asked in his daily prayers. Taking lessons from known Catholic apparitions, Johannes, and the other Cardinals back in that Conclave, one thing he always knew to do was pray using the Rosary. The particular Rosary he used was given to him from the Borgian See upon his elevation to Primate.

This was a particular challenge to Icfella that tore at his soul. The villain of this spectacular scandal was one of the only Cardinals in the Borgian See's leader pool that respected the Bible and its teachings as infallible. He was explicitly endorsed by Icfella and the TS Rite in a pool with the likes of Duke Stefano, the blasphemer needing to be defrocked, and Cardinal Viracocha, a believing Christian that had gone wayward and in need of guidance.

The reigning Antipope that had seized Peter's seat by electoral fraud was notably the man the TS Rite cast its vote on in the first place.

Icfella received several of the Pig's Feet Denouncements over the past few weeks, each one scaring him. They reminded him of the lost, heretical monk, Martin Luther, that simultaneously broke the Church that Icfella loved and called out sin. He had barely eaten since the news swept TurtleShroom, cloistering himself in fervent prayer to God for guidance. He wrote letters back and tried to contact TurtleShroomian intelligence services, and all he received was silence... from God and men.

The oaken door at the front of the church being thrown open caused the Cardinal-Primate to flinch and look up. It wasn't the wind.

"Your Eminence." it was a turtle that assisted in laity aspects of the Mass procession. "I have received word from your sister."

"Which one," he asked, the fear clear in his voice. He had nine sisters, right by blood and one adopted, all but one younger than him.

"The ones married off to House Borgia."

That meant Mei Lee and Mary Icfella-Borgia.

Mei Lee was a Tsao adopted at age twelve, an Oriental beauty (by TS standards) and devoted Catholic known for her authoritarian politics and uncharacterisitic political ambition, likely from her Tsao parents that died resisting the Tsao genocide as millions of Tsaos fled to Juntan and, later, to TurtleShroom. She saw herself a lady, yes, but not one to be pushed around and certainly not one to keep her head down and walk along. She was as aggressive as she was independent and this flustered many. When the chips were down, though, at the end of the day, she delivered in the way a Christian woman was supposed to walk and remained a virgin before her betrothal.

Then there was Mary, his fraternal twin sister. They almost looked exactly alike (especially in their faces), with Mary's obvious, but modest endowments and hips visibly separating the two. Her defining features were her gorgeous auburn hair that went down to her waist, and her affinity for long pants with extremely high heels, making the already tall woman even more intimidating to your average non-TS man. Like the rest of her family, she was a devoted Catholic.

Mary was originally always boasting very tight fitting jeans in her teens and twenties, but within the past five or so years, her zeal for Jesus called her to a different route. Now wearing loose pants and far more modest (even by TS standards) clothing, she was preparing to give up britches for good and become a nun. That was before the Borgias called her up and asked for her hand.

Both of them had already borne several newborn Borgias for their husbands, and Icfella presumed them to be alright.

"Jason, I have bad news."

The clergyman's heart sank as he stared at the turtle.

"Mei Lee shot her husband dead, the Borgian Doge of Amalfi. Shotgun to the face."

"WHAT?!"

"She said she wanted the Doge of Pisa or a prince, but ultimately Amalfi was where she went. She knew that man was trouble. We all did. After she bore his daughter, the Doge had broken one of her ribs and gave her a black eye. She had taken pictures and sent them out of the country and to the Borgian authorities throughout Borgia Italy. I have them here."

Cardinal Icfella stood up and ran to collect the manilla folder. He wept at the pictures showing the blue and purple bruises. Putting them back in the envelope, he made the Sign of the Cross and tossed the manilla envelope onto the hardwood floor.

"He hit a woman for the very last time, Jason."

Jason shook his head.

"Is.... i-is she okay?"

"No. She's on the run. Not just from the wicked Doge's goons, but because she stumbled upon something rotten in the Borgian Vatican. Something big. Bigger than the Pig's Feet Denouncements. We've heard that she headed north and had a rendezvous with the monastic sisterhood and its rebel leader. We suspect that it was her that smuggled the Pig's Feet Denouncments out of the Borgian Papal States. We recognized the instructions on the back, written in Tsao. We think she's hiding with the rebel forces. TurtleShroomian intelligence has limited contacts in the Borgian See because they naively assumed the Catholic Papacy is pure enough to be trusted."

"-and Mary?"

"Mary is wed to Virginio Borgia-Osini's eldest son** and was pregnant with his firstborn son** shortly after her marriage. She really loves that man; you remember the letters and the postcards. We suspect she's loyal to him to a fault and actively doing his bidding."

Cardinal Icfella nodded. He immediately knew this was a sign from God.

"Call the Chancellery Guard. I'll call the Crown. Don't let Air Korena in on this, we need a really small plane. God willing, we'll be wheels up from South Auskral by the time my train reaches the station."

Wiping his tears, he smiled a grin that did nothing to mask his grief.

"Do you remember the Independent Aviation Consultants? They have stealth craft as well."



* = OOC note: the first time I ever played Icfella, I was not familiar with the way the Lord's Supper was done in Catholicism and accidentally depicted the TS Rite's Mass as using symbolism like Protestantism, not a literal vessel containing the essence of the Holy Spirit that Jesus said IS My Body and Blood. I already corrected that, even back then, in the 2010-era posts and just wanted to make that noted here if any of my older posts are dredged up.

** = Borgia, if you wish for a different person for her to marry that is less relevant, let me know. If I have made any mistakes, let me know.

[TURTLESHROOM II]

GREAT BOUNTIFUL EMPIRE OF THE UNITED TURTLES, MUSHROOMS, AND MEN OF TURTLESHROOM
IMPERIAL MINISTRY OF THE STOREHOUSE
RELIGIOUS DIVISION
HOLY COMPASSION BOARD (CODE: )

Horror upon horrors! Rome burns and the Borgian Throne is vacant! Our Protestants and Orthodox laugh as travesty strikes their Catholic Brothers and Sisters In Christ.

The Great Bountiful Empire of TurtleShroom is the Defender of the Faith and of Morality for all of Christendom, and the sacking of the Papacy that is recognized by TurtleShroom's Catholic flock.

The Holy Compassion Board has decades of surplus for the exact purpose of alleviating and assisting worthy nations and causes. For this reason, we have decided to engage in an... unorthodox donation.

Their oppression will not last much longer.

---

ATTENTION: BORGIAN CONDOTTIERIES

IMMEDIATE NOTICE OF PAYMENT.

TO ALL WHOM THESE PRESENTS MY COME, BEHOLD!

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, ALL UNPAID MERCENARIES CURRENTLY INVOLVED IN ANY SACK, LOOTING, OR SEIZURE OF ROME SHALL IMMEDIATELY HAVE THEIR DEBTS SATISFIED.

ALL UNPAID DUES TO ALL MERCENARY BODIES CURRENTLY ACTIVE IN THE BORGIAN CIVIL WAR, AND ALL MERCENARY BODIES CURRENLTY SACKING ROME, WE DECLARE THEIR DEBTS ABSOLVED.

INCLUDED WITH THIS MISSIVE IS THE DATA FOR THE WIRE TRANSFER FOR ALL PARTIES KNOW TO BE INVOLVED. RECEIVE THESE WIRE TRANSFERS BY MIDNIGHT TONIGHT. ALL MONEY HAS BEEN TRANSFERRED INTO THE REELVANT CONDOTTIERI ACCOUNTS.

IN EXCHANGE FOR THIS SERVICE, THE HOLY COMPASSION BOARD SEEKS TO ASSUME THE TEMPORARY LOYALTY OF THESE SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE, PAID IN FULL, AND ISSUE THE FOLLOWING ORDERS.

1. ALL SLAVES PRESENT IN CURRENT MERCENARY TARGETS ARE TO BE RELEASED. ALL SLAVES CAPTURED SHALL BE TRANSFERRED TO SAFE HAVENS OR OUT OF THE COUNTRY UNTIL THE CONCLUSION OF THE CIVIL WAR. TURTLESHROOM WILL ASSIST THE INSTITUTION OF SERFDOM- WITH JUBILEE PROTOCOLS -IN THE BORGIAN SEE AND THE REPATRIATION OF SLAVES TO THEIR HOMELANDS.

2. SECURE AN AREA OF ITALIAN, MALTESE, OR OTHER COASTLINE (OF YOUR CHOOSING) FOR FUTURE TURTLESHROOMIAN INTERACTION, INCURSION, OR ASSISTANCE.

The payments should come by midnight.

-HOLY COMPASSION BOARD OF THE GREAT BOUNTIFUL EMPIRE OF THE UNITED TURTLES, MUSHROOMS, AND MEN OF TURTLESHROOM
PSALMS 33:12

[MEMORANDUM IS TO BE RELEASED IMMEDIATELY UPON SUCCESSFUL DELIVERANCE OF SHIPMENT. AS PER TS LAW, TRANSPARENCY CAN BE DELAYED IN CASES OF WAR AND RISKY MATERIAL.]

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Firenze, Tuscany

Florence was under attack. Tuscany was never famed for her armies nor her warriors. Ippolito knew this, but he had to resist. He'd called up the city militia as well as hiring some condotierri from the countryside with the Vatican's treasury. Florence would resist the machinations of Leonello d'Este as long as they could. Meeting with his Council of Ten, Ippolito began to understand the dire situation he was in.

"Your Eminence, the front continues to shift south every hour." One of the Ten, a Brunelleschi said. "Firenze will fall within a few days. Our militia nor our mercenaries cannot stand against Milan."

"Can we withstand an extended siege?" Ippolito asked.

"As much as we dress like it, this is not the 17th century, Medici." Another responded. "They have artillery, they have the manpower. Our walls will fall in hours, not days."

"Florence is far to important to batter into ruins, Donati." Brunelleschi said. "They'll try to strangle us out regardless, I say. If they did, we'd only be able to hold for about six months."

"Not if Siena betrays us." Donati said. "They've been grumbling about continued Medici rule. A large party is trying to establish its own republic."

"We will not allow that to occur." Ippolito said. "I agree with Brunelleschi. Make preparations for a siege. Begin to make a rationing system." The Ten broke up and moved to their districts in order to prepare the city for a siege. The army was still being pushed back and the news was not good. High losses. Ippolito was unsure whether he could hold the city with a skeleton garrison in the first place. He considered using the bank to activate the airforce, but that would put an even larger target on his city. No. It could not be done. He sighed as he heard the distant artillery fire. The binging noise of his AR glasses, however, startled him. Turning it on, he was even more shocked to see who was on the other end.

Unknown Blacksite, Rome

"Of course you managed to escape." Ippolito said as he appeared via AR to Pierre d'Euse. "I would expect nothing less from Rome's most vile creature."

"Indeed, Medici." d'Euse said amused. "I'm here to discuss an important matter."

"Is this about these letters from the Turtleshroom Rite?" Medici asked. "I'm aware of them."

"Those letters and the matter of Venice." d'Euse replied. "I've been in contact with my agents in Venice. The signoria does not believe the explosion to be accidental. Foreign agents destroyed a slave ship."

"That does not seem to fit Turtleshroom's MO." Ippolito said. "So it seems we have two nations beginning to interfere in our crisis."

"Indeed." d'Euse said "We need the Vatican bank open, Medici. I need the funds to begin counterintelligence operations. We are vulnerable."

Ippolito sighed and gave d'Euse a secret access operations account for his own discretion. He refused to open the bank completely, but he knew d'Euse would be the best to handle foreign interference. d'Euse moved immediately to begin to counteract Turtleshroom's interference. Turtleshroom was clearly trying to steal mercenaries for their own ends. This was obvious. d'Euse began to contract his own from among the looters of Rome as well as some foreign ones, but for whatever reason, was refused by Romagnol groups. Odd. Of the large army of mercenaries plaguing Rome, around a quarter had accepted the Turtleshroom offer. The others had stolen the money and continued to loot, rape and pillage. d'Euse paid some of them to expand their reach across the city. A threeway battle was now being fought across Latium. Sisters of Saint Michael, Turtleshroomer Condotierri and rogue condotierri were battling each other for territory. It was from this chaos d'Euse slipped out of the city with an armed escort. He was going to Venice.

[TURTLESHROOM II]

Code: Select all

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ATTENTION: TO THE PATRIOTIC SONS OF ITALY'S LANDS UNDER THE BORGIAN PAPAL STATES.

TO THE ENROLLED ITALIAN MERCENARIES IN SERVICE TO THIS HOLY AND NOBLE CAMPAIGN, YOUR ORDERS:

YOU ARE THE FRONT-LINE SOLDIERS OF GOD FOR THE CATHOLIC HERESY. OUR MUTUAL, CATHOLIC BROTHERS AND SISTERS IN CHRIST LANGUISH AT THE LOSS OF THEIR LEGITIMATE HOLY REVEREND. TURTLESHROOM SHALL BRING PEACE AND RESTORATION TO THE CHURCH.

YOUR PURPOSE IS SIMPLE: SUPPRESS ALL BELLIGERENCE, ATTAIN THE VOLUNTARY SURRENDER OR DEATH OF ALL HOSTILE PARTIES, AND ENABLE THE CREATION OF A LEGITIMATE PAPAL CONCLAVE WITH A FULL ELECTORAL COLLEGE MEETING THE TRADITIONAL QUORUM TO ELECT A POPE.

OBSERVED BY THE GREAT BOUNTIFUL EMPIRE OF TURTLESHROOM AND THE TURTLESHROOMER RITE OF CATHOLICISM, A SECRET BALLOT CONCLAVE SHALL BE CONDUCTED IN PRIVATE, USING NORMAL METHODS AND ALL CARDINALS THAT DID NOT BETRAY THE CHURCH, TO DETERMINE FROM HOUSE BORGIA THE NEXT POPE.

1. RELEASE ALL SLAVES AND BONDSERVANTS UNDER YOUR COMMAND AND RETAIN THEM AS FREEMEN CONDOTTIERIE SOLDIERS AS DESIRED. THEY CAN BE FORCED TO CONTINUE FIGHTING FOR THIS CAMPAIGN'S DURATION. ALL EMANCIPATED EX-SLAVES THAT REFUSE TO VOLUNTARILY STAY IN YOUR SERVICE ARE TO BE RELEASED FROM THEIR BONDS. TURTLESHROOM WILL FULLY REIMBURSE THE COST OF EX-SLAVES THAT QUIT IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PER-CAPITA AGREEMENT NEGOTIATED IN OUR CONTRACTS. EX-SLAVES CHOOSING TO QUIT MUST FORFEIT ANYTHING THEY CAPTURE, OR GAIN IN THE CAMPAIGN TO YOU.

2. PACIFY ROME AND ITS OUTLYING AREAS BY FORCE. OFFER SURRENDER FIRST. ANY BELLIGERENT PARTY REFUSING TO STAND DOWN IS TO BE TERMINATED. YOU ARE NOT TO ADVANCE ELSEWHERE UNTIL THE CITY IS COMPLETELY FREE OF THE ENEMY. GRANT ALL CLERGY NOT PLEDGED TO ANY BELLIGERENT PARTY FREE PASSAGE OUT

3. EVACUATE ALL CIVILIANS TO SAFE ZONES OR DRIVE THEM OUT OF THE REGION. CIVILIANS THAT REFUSE ARE TO BE EXPELLED BY FORCE.

4. ONCE ALL CIVILIANS ARE EVACUATED, YOU ARE FREE TO LOOT GOODS AND PROPERTY WITHIN THE CITY. THESE SPOILS WILL BE DIVIDED ON A NINETY-TEN RATE, NINETY TO YOU AND TEN TO US, AT THE END OF THE CAMPAIGN. DO NOT LOOT CHURCHES OR THE ACTUAL HOLY CITY IN THE BORGIAN VATICAN ITSELF.

4. EMANCIPATE ANY CIVILIAN SLAVE FOUND AND EITHER ADMIT HIM TO YOUR SERVICE OR SEND HIM AWAY WITH THE CIVILIANS. YOU WILL BE PAID A BOUNTY FOR EACH LIVING SLAVE YOU SUCCESSFULLY LIBERATE AT THE END OF THE CAMPAIGN.

5. CAPTURE AS MANY ENEMY CLERGY AND OFFICERS OF THE ENEMY AS POSSIBLE AND SURRENDER THEM TO OUR CUSTODY AT [LOCATION SECRETLY ENCLOSED]. THESE WILL BE MADE TO STAND ACCOUNTABLE FOR THEIR SINS AGAINST THE BORGIAN PAPACY AT THE CONCLUSION OF THE CAMPAIGN. YOU WILL BE PAID A BOUNTY FOR EACH LIVING SLAVE YOU SUCCESSFULLY LIBERATE AT THE END OF THE CAMPAIGN.

6. ALL PERSONS NOT UNDER YOUR COMMAND COMMITTING RAPE OR SEXUAL ACTIONS ON ANY PARTY ARE TO BE EXECUTED OR CASTRATED. YOUR MEMBERS, FOR THEIR LOYALTY, ARE EXEMPT AND WILL BE GRANTED AMNESTY IF REPARATION IS PAID TO ALL VICTIMS. ALL MEMBERS COMMITTING SEXUAL CRIMES GOING FORWARD, AFTER THIS GRACE PERIOD, ARE TO BE SHOT ON SIGHT. FULL COMPENSATION FOR ANY LOST MEN WILL BE PROVIDED AS PREVIOUSLY OUTLINED IN OUR CONTRACTS.

7. UPON THE PACIFICATION OF ROME, DETACH A GARRISON TO ASSIST THE LANDING OF TURTLESHROOMIAN ASSETS. SHOULD THE CONGRESSIONAL DUMA CONSENT, TURTLESHROOMIAN ASSETS WILL BE IMMEDIATELY DEPLOYED TO ASSIST YOUR MEN IN HOLDING THE CITY.

8. ALL REMAINING SOLDIERS ARE TO MARCH TO THE MERCHANT REPUBLIC OF AMALFI AND LAY SIEGE TO THE CITY. KEEP THE PORTS OPEN AND CIRCLE INWARDS. DO NOT ATTACK THE CITY UNTIL GIVEN THE ORDER.

DO NOT COMMIT ANY OTHER OFFENSIVE ACTION UNLESS FIRST ATTACKED. SHOW NO QUARTER TO ANY MARTIAL PARTY THAT FIRES THE FIRST SHOT AGAINST YOU.

DO NOT MAKE ANY INDEPENDENT OR AUTONOMOUS ACTION, NOR MAKE THE NEXT DECISIONS ON THE PROSECUTION OF THIS MILITARY CAMPAIGN, UNLESS EXPLICITLY TOLD TO DO SO BY THE HOLY COMPASSION BOARD.

NOTICE OF IMMINENT PAYMENT:

IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE EMANCIPATION CLAUSES AND THE GO-AHEAD FOR EXECUTING RAPISTS, AS PROMISED, THE NEXT THREE MONTHS' CHARGES TO RENT ALL INVOLVED PARTIES

SHALL BE PAID IN ADVANCE

UPON CONFIRMATION OF ORDERS RECEIVED AND INITIAL ENACTMENT OF COMMANDS.
THESE PAYMENTS ARE SIMULTANEOUS AND GUARANTEED REGARDLESS OF THE DURATION OF THE CAMPAIGN.

ALL REPARATIONS FOR FREED SLAVE-SOLDIERS AND SUMMARILY EXECUTED RAPISTS ARE TO BE PAID AT THE END OF THE CAMPAIGN. BONUSES FOR VALOR, FOR PROTECTION OF CIVILIAN LIVES, FOR DELIVERANCE OF ENEMY CLERGY TO TURTLESHROOMIAN CUSTODY, AND EXECUTION OF RAPISTS IN AND OUT OF YOUR ORDERS WILL BE ASSESSED AT THE END OF THE CAMPAIGN.

IF EVERY ORDER LISTED IN THIS MEMORANDUM IS COMPLETED WITHIN THE MONTH OF MAY, TWO PERCENT OF THE STANDARD MONTHLY CHARGE SHALL BE ADDED ON TOP OF EXISTING BASE COMPENSATION. REPARATIONS AND BONUSES WILL NOT BE GIVEN UNTIL PEACE IS DECLARED.


IN CHRIST,
-HOLY COMPASSION BOARD OF THE GREAT BOUNTIFUL EMPIRE OF THE UNITED TURTLES, MUSHROOMS, AND MEN OF TURTLESHROOM
PSALMS 33:12


[Allanea]

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, blood and revenge are hammering in my head. ~ Shakespeare, "Titus Andronicus", Act 2, Scene 3

Vengeance is sweet. Vengeance taken when the vengee isn't sure who the venger is, is sweeter still. ~ Gary D. Schmidt, "The Wednesday Wars"

Vega A Oil Platform, near Sicily

The station was like a tower of lights. Brilliant projectors, window lights and landing pad signal lights. It seemed like a beacon of civilization, towering defiant against the blackness of the night above and the unforgiving, bluish darkness of the sea below. It seemed to proclaim proudly – here I am! An outpost of Man. With his science and artifice, I shall go out and wrench sustenance from the belly of the Earth! It was beautiful in its own way, as all industry was beautiful.

Its engine heart continued to pump, moving up tons and tons of precious oil every hour. Its crew moved in orderly shifts – some slept, some rested, some labored. In the engineering room, the men looked at the station's dashboard – all systems nominal, flow nominal. In the crew mess, those who were resting watched a recording of a soccer match they had missed out on when they were on shift. All was as it should have been.

Next to it was its storage tanker – an enormous ship, two hundred meters long, but not capable of long journey. It served only to store the station's product until shuttle-tankers moved in to pick it up.

None of these men paid any attention to the water. But it would not have helped them even if they did. It would not be possible to discern the black, shape moving deep below in the murky waters. It was a submarine, yes – but not, of course, the Elitist. It was much tinier – a vessel to deliver Ensign Whitaker and five more of his fellow men. In the shadows, with the tanker between them and the station, they began their work – first, attaching their charges against the tanker's hull, and then swimming over towards the station.

Here, far from harbor, they could afford to use the minisub as a base. This in turn meant they could bring larger charges than what they could carry in their packs – swimming a few hundred meters back and forth in the swirling murk was but an irritation for men such as these.

They departed within an hour, their victims none the wiser.

An hour passed. Still the workers in the mess hall were playing cards and watching soccer, the recorded game now in its second half. Brightly-colored players ran back and forth on the pitch with their ball.

tick-tock, tick-tock…

The detonations rippled through the side of the storage tanker. One would have been enough. The saboteurs planted six, each of them tearing a broad, ragged wound in the tanker's side, flaming petroleum spewing forth into the Sicilian Strait.

Alarms blared. Feet stamped against steel decks as men ran to windows, sleepers were awakened. Tanker crew shrieked in terror as their ship began to list and they realized that the very water around their ship now was ablazed, tens of thousands of tons of oil flowing free, cutting off their escape.

tick-tock, tick-tock…

Five more explosions tore through the left side of the Vega A in violent staccato. The sixth severed its rig pipe with the finality of an executioner's axe.

Then the station began to tilt. The Allanean explosives had penetrated its supporting pontoons on one side, and water was flowing unimpeded into the wrecked sections.

Of course, it would have been possible to simply fire torpedoes, or missiles.

Yet a sabotage strike, with the perpetrators unseen and undetected, would leave questions. It would remain a mystery for quite some time. The Allaneans might be suspected – though they did not see their act as a crime – but so could be a dozen other abolitionist nations.

They did not, of course, fear retaliation as such – rather, they wanted their strike to be as demoralizing as possible. An unknown enemy, striking under cover of darkness – this was the guide that they preferred to take, for now.

Several hours later, the Elitist set course for Malta.

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Chiesa di San Vito, Roccasecca, Lazio

Virginio Orsini prayed within the tiny church that lied just behind his front line. He prayed for deliverance from this battle, for the souls of those dying underneath of him, and for the rightful guidance to an elected pontiff. For all his faults, Virginio was a devoted christian. He listened to and followed the word of god and Christ. He saw these tribulations as his own godly suffering to do good in the world. The election must be held. It would be. Legally. Yet it looked to most as a futile endeavor, as pretenders were rising to seize the papal throne by force of arms. First Naples, and now that bastard from the House of Este. Virginio cared not for how either of them identified or their reasons, but both Este and Alfonso were clearly usurpers of the rightful authority of the church of god. They had to be stopped.

But how?

He prayed for deliverance.

His army had been thrown back several miles by the superior forces of Naples. Craters and corpses dotted the landscape between here and Montecassino. He'd tried to arm the monks there, and they'd been slaughtered. Word had reached them yesterday Alfonso had hanged the abbot and numerous monks for 'treachery' and burned much of the monastery for 'involving themselves in temporal affairs'. The irony of the statement was palpable.

He prayed for deliverance.

His prayers were interrupted by a knight, sworn to god and his service. His mace hung at his side, still caked in old electronics and brain matter. The armor worn by knights and nobles of the age had made some form of melee possible again, though Orsini was too old for that sort of thing now. He remembered his youth in the time of Pelagius III, dancing in the streets with rapiers and daggers, if only for a moment.

"Your Eminent Highness, you're going to want to read this." The knight said handing him a letter.

Reading it, Orsini smiled. "God has delivered for us."

"It's not only that, Eminent Highness." the knight said. "We've received word that we'll be receiving reinforcements in the next few days. Well, technically we're recouping losses since the sack."

"Oh? Has someone rallied our mercernaries, now in the paid hands of Icfella?" Orsini said smacking the letter with glee. "Who is leading them?"

"Your son, Eminent Highness."

"Vincenzo Maria, are you finally useful for once in your life." Orsini said with apprehension. "That man prefers playing with his swords, flesh and steel, more than his duties."

"Er, yes, Eminent Highness." the knight said awkwardly. "About that."

"What?"

"The forces are nominally in his command, but in reality they answer to his wife."

"What wife?"

"Mei Lee Icfella."

"The one who murdered her husband!?" Orsini sighed. "I don't blame her, Amalfi was a monster...but to run off with my son...The scandal."

He sighed as he heard the arrival of several helicopters. Wondering how they'd not been shot down, they'd obviously come from the northwest. It seems the command wanted to make time before their mercenaries arrived. When they both turned up before Virginio, he chastised his son and slapped him well with his metal gauntlets. He would not abide stupidity during a crisis like this. Vincenzo still lacked sense. He offered, however, Mei Lee full respect and instead called upon her to share command of their forces. He recognized her as his daughter-in-law and conferred upon her the County of Pitigliano. Her reinforcements, barely a tenth of what he'd brought to Rome, should be able to hold Naples down for now. Even if they abandoned Rome again. They had about a quarter of the cardinals they needed. The journey was long and hard, but they would endeavor.

[TURTLESHROOM II]

{ OOC: A quick note. Mary Icfella is the wife of Virginio's son. Mei Lee is the Dogaressa of Amalfi. }

[Allanea]

"The ships destroy us above
And ensnare us beneath.
We arise, we lie down, and we move
In the belly of Death.

The ships have a thousand eyes
To mark where we come...
But the mirth of a seaport dies
When our blow gets home."
~ R. Kipling, Submarines

At Malta, the Elitist surfaced at night. After a long, arduous journey, the sailors felt as if the earth was swaying slightly under their feet as they walked the streets. Well-earned shore liberty was now theirs, and soon enough men in dark-blue uniforms would bring crates of of maltese lager from shops across Valetta to the naval base that played host to them.. They were sailors who had just completed a hard journey, and they had to drink – but wisely enough the Captain recognized that having them drink in bars would almost inevitably sacrifice secrecy. At this stage, this could not yet be risked, and so instead he opted to keep the men in quarters and opt for delivery. Those arrangements made, he joined his men in the celebrations.

Many miles away, in the North Sea, the FKS Cretoxyrhina had not yet had its opportunity to rest. It had waited for its signal, and it was about to strike. Its target was far away still, but its target was loud.

It was a fishing trawler of immense proportions. Within its belly, conveyor belts hummed as they processed hundreds of tons of herring. Cranes moved, moving loads of fish into the ship's holds, and the crew labored to bring herring to the streets of Amsterdam and Hamburg, and to the tables of millions of faithful Catholics throughout the Papacy. Theirs was a hard, thankless, and dangerous job – and the Captain of the Cretoxyrhina intended to make it far more dangerous yet.

It was deep at night when the Cretoxyrhina finally found its prey and caught up with it. Radiant lights flooded the supertrawler's decks, but the Cretoxyrhina never saw them. It hunted by sound.

The supertrawler was a peaceful ships. Its vast hull was as long as a cruiser at the Battle of Jutland, but unlike those vengeful warriors she bore no heavy guns, and was not clad in armor to hold off enemy torpedoes. The fish factory in her belly, the broad nets, the powerful motors – all aided in its work, and, unbeknownst to its crew, all of those now aided the black steel predator that now stalked it from beneath the waves in keeping to

"We have it." – a sensors officer whispered, two miles away.

Captain Arkhipova nodded, allowing herself a slight smile. – "Weapons officer, fire two torpedoes."

"Aye aye Ma'am."

Two torpedo tube hatches were flung open, bubbles boiled up as the torpedoes came forth.

"Torpedoes are two miles from target. Closing. Closing." – the weapons officer leaned forward at his station, as if bringing his face closer to the screens would make the precious signal come back faster.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the men and women on the bridge held their breath. Captain Arkhipova tracked the two green blips on her tactical display with her eyes, as if she could push the torpedoes forward with her sheer will.

And then –

"We have impact!" – the weapon's officer cried out.

A ton of aluminized high explosive vaporized several meters of hull, water rushing into the fish processing room. If any of the herring were still trashing about on the work tables, no doubt they viewed this in a completely different way from the sailors – sailors who were no being tossed by the current by dolls, crushed by falling machinery, set ablaze as fuel and metal burned. Two seconds later, another torpedo smashed through the ship's hull and detonated in the engine section, sending forth a hail of engine parts and flame.

The ship began to tilt, steel creaking and snapping as it broke and tore. There would be no time for lifeboats. Into the cold water, the fishermen went.

Aboard the Cretoxyrhina, Captain Svetlana Arkhipova savored the destruction with a cruel smile. She could not see it, just as she never saw her foe other than on photographs, but she could hear it. Secondary explosions rumbled through the water as the supertrawler was finally swallowed up. Thumps could be heard as it went down, each crumpling sound a tell-tale mark of an enclosed compartment that had still housed air, and perhaps even some souls struggling for breath in the dark – and that was now crushed by tons of cold seawater.

"Helm, bring us about. To Brittania. We are done here." – Arkhipova said.

* * *

By morning, the effects of the attack would be felt – in anguished newspaper reports, in upticks in prices for food and maritime insurance. Nobody in the Papacy could deny now, the country was certainly under attack by a force as yet unknown.

But for the more astute, for the men and women of intelligence and law enforcement, there would be an even more frightening threat. One that could not yet be fully comprehended, but, for those who understood such things well, was a portent of darkness to come.

In Italian-language web forums, a cryptic message would appear, posted from throwaway accounts with obviously significant names – Garibaldy_1980 or Voltaire_1990, for instance.

To my patriot friends!

Soon the Edelweiss shall bloom from under the Alpine snows.

Search under the light for the gold.

The chair is against the wall.

John has a long mustache.

Union, Strength, Liberty!

[Il Borgia Vaticano]

Castle of Chimay, Hainaut, Belgium

"We are clearly under attack, Prince." d'Euse said from an unknown location to Prince Eugene of Chimay. d'Euse had been monitoring these attacks in their increasing escalation and viciousness in the past days. Whomever was doing this seems to be making themselves more obvious. They knew they were getting away with it.

"That is obvious, d'Euse." Chimay said "Have you figured whom? Or for that matter, why?"

"The Borgia have made numerous enemies." d'Euse said with anger. "Trying to figure out why wastes time. We need to find out who and eliminate them."

"E.g. Your job as spymaster and inquisitor." Chimay said with annoyance. "Why come to me? I'm no torturer like you."

"Why and Who are unanswered, but where, when and how are Prince." d'Euse said. "That's if you're paying attention. Let the princes of the church peck at each other. Our issue is with a foreign element. A heretical element, I suspect. Either way. Look at the attacks. A slave ship in Venice. An oil platform. A herring ship."

"Ad Maria, Cardinalis." Eugene said in realization. "Hostes qui in mari est."

"Indeed, Prince." d'Euse said. "Mare Nostrum. We need to act now, and I need to rally forces both in the shadow and light to stop them."

He needed to stop them soon. These attacks were only exacerbating the great troubles spilling out across the Papal Dominions as the country still reels from the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic. The subject merchant republics were seeing incalcuable amounts of loss and unemployment, and the stock exchange of Venice spilled as much red as the condotierros were in Rome. Some were wondering if the Vatican bank would remain solvent. These terrorist attacks were driving the red even deeper in all these places. Eugene knew this. He was acting as head of the Low Countries' Trade Monopolies. Worse, with no pope, none could revoke the Papal Bull enforcing a stay-at-home order. The disease was just now starting to flatten, but now war has interrupted Italy's food supply chain. The Bull has forbid anyone from leaving their homes, with food delivery on the government's part. There was no government. Food was grown by chattel labor, but delivery was employed. People stayed at home and hoarded food, both from fear of the roving armies and of obedience to the papal decree.

If this crisis continued for too long, there would be a famine. d'Euse had to stop this.

"I need the company assets to begin probing the coasts and sinking any submersible craft in our waters." d'Euse said with firmness. "I've already begin to seek approval from our merchant republics to do the same."

"I cannot just wave my hand and summon fleets, d'Euse."

"You are acting Governor-General."

"Yes. Acting. Appointed by our now missing pope. The Lords of The Seventeen Provinces deny my full authority. Flanders, at the insistence of his merchants, is even demanding a States-General."

"Do not allow it. Force them if you must. Execute a few."

"Easier said than done, but I'll do what I can."

[McNernia]

MINISTRY OF DEFENSE-CATHCRIDE ARCHINIA

---

Slavery was a problem, the issue was how to deal with it, it was surely a threat. In some colonies of Archinia there was the problem of sharecropping like arrangements but as of the current moment there was the Borgia Empire which dominated a whole lot of Europe, while the British and Fuso were working with the Allaneans Archinia was a Constitutional monarchy and though there had been a civil war there was also the whole issue of the dynasty, boasting Capetian and Hapsburg claims to the throne of France and Spain respectively there was the need to bring the hammer down on the vice filled Dynasty. Archinia could liberate Europe it would mean blood and treasure for sure but in the midst of a pandemic there was the opportunity and the Borgia were fighting among themselves,

And the lion of Archinia smelt blood. Over video screens there was the discussion between the Chief of the General Staff, High Admiral Sir David Ralton and the Minister of Defense and the Permanent Secretary were all talking about the situation over a video call.

“So the Army believes that there will be a ground operation in Europe?”

“Highly probable to stabilize the situation, Eliminating this threat to us, the Slavery issue is a problem, will have to be contained, so we nip this now and we are looking at minimal problems, abducting people to serve in the religious orders, though Cellibacy has gone out the window…”

The Minister nodded and looked at the report that could be seen by him and the Admiral. Of note was question marks with the flaming oil rig off of Sicily and the ship overturned in the Venetian Lagoon. Signs of fire was evident.

“Ill send some submarines to the area have a look around.” Said the Admiral.

“That certainly works…Ill leave the composition to you.”

“Thank you Minister.”

---

At Sea, Central Atlantic
Archinian Royal Navy Submarines

---

The two Maverick Bs would be escorting a Maverick ELINT sister ship as they patrolled in a loose formation on the Eastern approaches to Archinia nominally. The Central Atlantic was a very impressive place, large and full of commerce, the Royal Navy could shut it down and the Borgia dynasty was a known slaver.

“Captian we have flash traffic on the priority Data channel.”

Royal Navy COMSATS kept the isolated patrols of the submarine service appraised of when they would need to enter a region or attack a nation. A maverick b contained cruise missiles though not a nuclear-tipped variety, that tended to be more towards the SSGN variety, the C bloc. A ELINT B tended to sacrifice cruise missiles for the ELINT gear and sported an A Type sail. More space for the gear to process data from the target. The comms buoy traffic from a satellite could only mean on thing, it was a recall order or there was the possibility of a deployment.

The captian left his cabin, the executive officer was waiting at his station. An aristocrat, the boy had made commander on the recommendations of flag officers. No family connections, the ELINT boats would never see the daring raids on convoys or the wardenship of a carrier, Archinia was mighty yes but an Empire that had been through a political crisis was not something that would perhaps be able to handle a general war.
“The message sir.” A printout from the computer, and there were orders on it.

“We are going to Europe.”

“Roger that sir…buoy in?”

“Lt Commander you know how this works.”

“Right sir.” The XO turned from the captain settled into his seat and gave the order. “Communications, retract the buoy after transmitting confirmation and relay to other submarines, tell them we will be making for Spain”

The submarines dove and headed ESE into the European continental shelf waters, no violations of Spanish waters yet. Emphasis on Yet.

---

Cathcride, Archinia
PMs Residence

TO:The Ambassador of the Free Kingdom of Allanea
FROM:Prime Minister Albert E Shapter
SUB:Meeting
SEC:SECRET-DELIVERED BY PM COURIER TO EMBASSY

Greetings
I am a Jew, my ancestors fled Spain fleeing the Papacy and the Borgias were probably some of the worst of the lot. The fact that they practice slavery only hardens my heart against them. I wish to meet with you to offer the assistance of the Kingdom of Archinia and its Commonwealth against this menace.
Sincerely
A.Shapter