The State of San Marco
Lelouch poured himself a glass. He was all for moderation, knowing well that too much booze addled the mind, and that was certainly not what he wanted at the moment.
"Would you like some, Cornelia? We do need to empty the bottle."
"Just the one glass, if you would." Lelouch obliged, and managed to pour out a glass without so much as a drop spilling. Cornelia grinned and took it. "You've gotten better."
"A toast to my eye."
"Cheers." Cornelia deadpanned. They drank.
With no offense intended towards his noble, hardworking people, it was… lackluster, at best. But their intention was not to get drunk. Their intent was to empty the bottle. Feeling generous (or perhaps wanting some company in his misery) Lelouch offered Jeremiah some as well.
Jeremiah, of course, refused the alcohol. He was determined to stay sober and alert, given the circumstances. They were on a border that was almost certain to become hostile, after all. He could not afford to be a tottering drunk.
Lelouch looked into the glass. There was still a bit of wine left, and they couldn't have that. Stepping out of the tent, he walked over to a fire, whose coals still smoldered. Lelouch did his part to put the fire out, dousing them with wine… it wasn't flammable, of course. He wasn't fool enough to pour whiskey on hot coals, nor that much of a spendthrift.
Frankly, he didn't care much for the swill in this bottle. But he flagged down a soldier and handed him the bottle. The soldier rushed away, to add it to the pile. They were getting as many as they could, after all, and emptying bottles was just one part of it. Lelouch had made a royal request for as many empty bottles as possible.
Or whiskey and brandy. Anything above proof would work.
Bonaparte had grown to understand some of the character of his legions. They were generally opposed to the Bourbon regime- hence them finding military employment on the southern side of the Alps- and a fair portion of them liked him. Not all, of course, and there was roughly a regiment or so of more ardently republican soldiers, and getting them on board with his plan was a bit of a trick.
His family had something of a reputation for subverting republicanism, after all, at least in the sort of pure form that some wanted. For that reason, Bonaparte bit the bullet and made promises- written and loudly, publicly declared- of his intent to cede some executive power to a prime minister. A significant chunk of it, actually, far more than any concessions Lelouch had made to his own parliament.
Still, he wasn't completely lacking in men that were willing to fight for him and not for promises of a more republican society. Interestingly, quite a few of them were the scraps of his father's old army. His old army. The Bourbons had recognized that the military they inherited after the fall of his father's empire was not exactly loyal to them. So they went about reorganizing and rearranging the military- leaving veterans jobless. At least, until Italy welcomed foreign military volunteers with open arms.
He wasn't fool enough to underestimate the Bourbon monarchy and their army, though. They had already filled the army with nobility, to replace those able generals of his father's. Of course, those noblemen would almost certainly have some military education, and it would be folly to think their appointments were just the result of nepotism. If nothing else, the feudal system did produce military men- but not enough to completely clean out the system from top to bottom.
Shortly after he had departed from Grasse- whose people had been fairly accommodating, with a small number of them who had decided to cast the die. Even with his slightly bolstered numbers, he had remained tense. He had managed to sway some of the men there to his side, but Bonaparte was still short of a full fledged army.
Of course, Bonaparte relied quite heavily upon his scouts- many of whom knew the land quite intimately- to make sure he was not caught by surprise by the Bourbon armies. His heart thrilled when he heard news of a great formation of cavalry prowling the countryside. Not exactly a pleasant thrill though, at least not entirely.
The news did not stop him from marching entirely, of course, but he had given orders to form square if they saw so much as a hint of cavalry in the distance. It was certainly an uneasy feeling, marching just with the men he had at the moment… but he wasn't sure if he wanted to risk staying still to drum up support. Paris was the jewel in the crown- and the head of the snake.
Still, every step he and his men took drew attention: he had accrued a small number of hangers-on from Grasse already- certainly not enough to form a battalion, just some extra muskets carried by men caught up in dreams of change. And of course, camp followers. It was good for morale, he supposed…
Almost before he realized what was going on, the men marching ahead of him were beginning to form a square- and Napoleon quickly rushed his horse in the center of the forming block. Well, perhaps square was a bit too generous a term, the shape a little more rectangular, stretched longer in parallel with the road.
Looking around, Bonaparte finally spotted a dense formation of men on horseback in the distance, light gleaming off hundreds of cuirasses and sabers. Mercifully, he could not spot any of their number carrying lances, although that relief was dampened by the fact that he was still facing heavy cavalry, just cavalry that would have less shock… in exchange for much more flexibility in the melee. Wonderful.
They lingered far out of range- perhaps they had rumors of the rifles- and gathered together in a rough clump. If it was preparation for a charge, it was a damned odd one. Hell, if Bonaparte himself was in charge of such a unit he would have found the disorder horrifying. What were they doing?
Eventually, they reordered themselves, and a single one of their number peeled off from the mass. There was something off with his saber, although Bonaparte couldn't quite put his finger on it until he began waving it in the air like a fool… with what seemed to be a long strip of torn undershirt caught on its end, waving in the air like some parody of a banner. Were the Bourbons incapable of so much as furnishing their men with proper flags?
Obviously, such a makeshift banner was not spangled with fleurs-de-lis, its white field barren of any golden lilies… but of course, there were other meanings to a pure white flag. Considering how the rider galloped on the periphery of their range, attempting to catch attention, it was possible…
Parley, at least, if not some sort of surrender. Still, Bonaparte knew how precarious his situation was for… well, his ambitions would almost always be in danger, but getting shot before he even had the chance to buy some sort of peace with a treaty would be truly unfortunate. Any one of them could have a pistol on their persons…
Bonaparte did not have many horse to spare, but he sent a message to the block of cavalry, painfully aware that time was of the essence, even if they were friendly.
Quietly, calmly, he watched his own messenger talk with a few moments for the cavalry, and after a few moments of discussion, the cuirassiers began to work their way towards his position. Slowly, gingerly, not en mass, as to make their intent clear.
Confirmation came when one of them finally reached shouting distance and loudly greeted him: "Your Majesty!" Bonaparte smiled.
Cuirassiers were a wonderful addition. He would definitely be able to make some good use of heavy horse in the days to come. Well, perhaps he wouldn't keep all of them as heavy cavalry considering that he had artillery to tear gaps in the enemy's lines. He was definitely in need of scouts now.
Bonaparte had managed to integrate a few more 'traitor' regiments into his army's ranks, although he would make sure to repair their reputations upon his victory. (He couldn't lose. He couldn't lose, not now.) Unfortunately, even with some provincial governments turning their coats, he eventually ran into obstacles.
Sabotage by royalist militias and dissidents was to be expected- a problem that would probably haunt his regime for some time- and while they were certainly annoying, their efforts were part of a grander strategy. They could never win in open battle, but that was never their intent. Bleeding him and heckling him before he (presumably) crashed against the rocks of the steadfast royalist defense.
That rock met him north of Lyon (which had folded with shocking ease, bolstering his ranks slightly) and some ways east from Geneva- not that he had any intent of touching the Swiss. If they wished to stay in their mountain homes, that was perfectly fine with him. He would already be several titles short of his father, there was no need to garnish that shortened list with 'Mediator of the Swiss Confederation.'
But the army facing him this day certainly wasn't Swiss. They were Bourbon, of course. While getting exact numbers was difficult, Bonaparte believed that they were larger than his. Not too much larger- they had to scramble to meet him, after all- but it was enough to make him worried. He had to make up the gap through his tactics. They said his father's brilliance was worth thousands of fighting men...
From what his scouts had gathered, Bonaparte would have to be worth about a thousand or so fighting men today, although that discounted matters like weapons and morale. He had an advantage at range, but Bonaparte knew his father's dislike of rifles had good reason- the older sort could be dreadfully slow.
They were on the left bank of the Saône, as was the foe- their intent was to stop him dead in his tracks, before he could cross and swing towards Paris. They had decided to make their stand near Macon, although most of their force were on the wrong side of the river for a defense. Sure, there was a paltry force near a bridge, but it seemed as they didn't want to battle near Macon.
Whether that was for love of the town, or fear that its people might greatly complicate the battle, he couldn't be sure. Or maybe they just figured he would sprint straight past in a mad dash for Paris- and yes, Bonaparte had been marching the men hard.
Perhaps he could have avoided them… but leaving a cohesive royalist element at his back would be disastrous. He would give battle here.
Their lines were thin and spread wide, most of them hidden behind trees or hiding behind fences and stone walls at the far ends of fields, and they stretched from near the riverbank to a large farmhouse upon the crest of a gentle hill. There was almost nothing between their forces but farmland and pasture. It would be painful to charge toward them… and despite the occasional orchard or row of trees, he had no chance of pulling off a sneak attack.
The spring wheat in the fields was, thankfully, thick enough to crouch in, and Bonaparte certainly hoped it would grow in thick and lush… for later, of course. He put some of his infantry into the fields, crouched low, to catch any charges, but otherwise, he set about preparations.
Thundering, the guns sounded from both the enemy and form his own 'grand' battery. He had an advantage at range, but that wouldn't win him the day alone… some of the walls and fences took a hammering, shards of stone and flying splinters putting minor dents into the enemy's ranks already. The farmhouse took a few shots, but unfortunately, Bonaparte couldn't pull off counterbattery fire. They'd be charging at guns.
Eventually, his bombardment grew more focused, a thunderbolt tearing through the men cowering behind what used to have been a fence. While the guns sang, his own forces scrambled around, horses whinnying and limbers being moved into place.
With a smile, Bonaparte unleashed his own cavalry. Slowly, their speed rose to a gallop, the great mass of men and horse picking up speed, cannonball soaring o'erhead to dissuade the enemy from getting into thick formations. They fired until they ran the risk of hitting the cuirassiers, the guns falling silent as they quickly loaded onto limbers and moved.
Even then, there was still a gulf between his horse and the foe, and the infantry managed to get a number of shots off, but the cavalry ate up the distance, drawing pistols and firing as they closed. Against a foe not already massed in square or ranks…
Hooves crushed and sabers sang- but Bonaparte couldn't afford to get distracted by martial glory. With a hole punched in their formation, their morale would take a hit, but his cavalry would be doomed without support. Infantry charged and the cannon were moved forward.
Across the field, the cavalry wheeled, turning towards the Saône and causing chaos behind the enemy's line. Their aim was not just to push the infantry all the way to the riverbank, but to cause as much chaos on that particular chunk of the enemy's line. Faintly, Bonaparte could see his horsemen darting back and forth, plunging into the lines and then swiftly riding away… hopefully, they would also inconvenience any cannon over there.
The tear that the horse had made was being exacerbated by his own cannon- keeping the two sides isolated would hopefully chip away at morale, and perhaps even allow him to sweep up and destroy an entire flank.
He rode with the men who would hopefully be doing the sweeping- one of his more drilled Legionnaire regiments, who worked their way across the field, would serve as a wedge, forcing separation. On the furthest end of his line, far from the river, were more of his Legionnaires. The most ardent republicans were there, charging uphill at the farmhouse, which bristled with rifles in windows and makeshift gunslits.
Was his intent to make an Uriah of them, sending them as a forlorn hope? Someone needed to charge that position, but he had made a specific choice regarding who. He did have to seed their ranks with his more supportive legionnaires, just so they didn't cotton on, but it might have been necessary to… shrink disloyal elements.
Suffice it to say that he lost a good number of men during the charge. You just couldn't hide men in fields like this… at the very least, he kept his formation loose, trying to minimize the damage cannon caused. The sound of artillery was near constant. In front of them, of course, and behind them, as his own pieces were moved forward.
Thankfully, the men Bonaparte rode with didn't have to surmount a stone wall or particularly sturdy fence, although they quickly turned to sweep up the royalists holdouts who hide behind such things. In front of him, Bonaparte could see the farmhouse had been quite thoroughly ruined with cannon, and that fire and smoke rose from it as men fled outside.
Looking behind him, not wanting to get caught between a rock and a hard place, he saw that much of the isolated infantry had fled or surrendered… he did hope the one who leapt into the Saône knew how to swim.
Turning forwards again, he could see that cohesion among the defenders had dissolved, to the point that… they were shooting at each other? Bonaparte smiled. It seemed he had more friends than he had originally thought.
A CORSICAN COUP
The Corsican pretender has struck against the king's forces near Macon, where several treasonous regiments and aid from the Italians doomed the defense, winning him much of the Rhone.
Of course, we are confident that the King will beat this revolutionary rabblerouser back before sweeping into Italy. Militiamen have already risen up in southern France and the Massif Central, ready to devastate the pretender's supply lines and his provincial governments.
All the great powers of Europe know of the Italian treachery, their obvious cooperation with the forces of the Corsican...
The Danubian assault eventually came, as Lelouch expected. There had been some minor skirmishes, but those were nothing compared to the Danubian deluge.
Charging up the shores of the river, they took heavy fire from the Italians as they worked their way towards the trenches, aimed rifle fire and cannon chewing through their ranks and turning the grass and earthworks red. They lobbed grenades into the trenches and fired at the Italians who peaked over the edges.
Losses were intense, but rifles were not exactly the fastest weapons to fire- and with a rousing cry the Danubians leaped over the lip of the trench and made the fight personal. Bayonets struck home as the Italians scrambled to put their own on, desperately blocking with their rifles or lunging with knives. The Italians attempted to drag away the wounded- whether the damage had been done by bayonet, shrapnel, or shot- as the fighting spilled into the trenchworks. In such close quarters, saber and bayonet ruled the day, and even with an entrenched position, the weight of Danubian numbers began to push the Italians back.
While there was a certain romance to dying in pitched melee, it wasn't exactly a great way to go, if such a way really existed on the battlefield. Why would you charge into fire, bayonet in hand, when you could, say, seize one of the cannons the enemy left behind and turn it against them? It was risky, of course, as it required them staying in the open to load any guns that hadn't already been spiked, but the advantages were obvious.
Perhaps, if they had checked, some of the guns which remained unspiked (by some miracle) were a touch too cold, considering that they had been sending hails of shot towards the river moments ago. But of course, you're not exactly stopping to make checks while attempting to commandeer a cannon, as death whistled in the air around you.
So they desperately loaded the cannon, trying to send anything back against the Italians and the ardent hail of shot and ball pouring towards them. Swabbing, loading the powder and the strangely shaped shot into the gun, lighting the fuse, and-
Under forces the gun was purposely designed not to withstand, it burst, sending shards of iron flying directly into the men who were attempting to fire it. Suffice it to say that such a thing was quite fatal, the debris striking men who weren't even operating the gun- quite an unlucky day for the unfortunate few who managed to scramble over the earthworks.
Lelouch was glad to see that the cannon trick had actually worked out several times. That should make them doubtful about touching their cannons in the future… but hopefully, the day wouldn't come when the Danubians were in a position to seize Italian guns that actually functioned.
Soon enough, the Danubians were refraining from touching any Italian artillery, not willing to risk the temperamental Italian guns, especially when that risk was compounded by the fact you'd have to run through Italian shot and ball to get to a cannon that might have been spiked. Still, they left over the scarps anyways, depending on the artillery behind them to help win the day.
High above the field, the Italian hot air balloon floated, a complex series of flag signals giving the battery below them positions to fire for. Not all their shots were perfect, of course, but it was hard to imagine that such well aimed fire wasn't dispiriting for artillerymen who would usually be confident in their relative safety.
Further back in their defenses, specially assigned sharpshooters overlooked the field, keeping their eyes wide open for special targets. While there were the obvious choices- those who looked like officers- Lelouch had special orders to aim for the tall and strong looking. Both because they might be more dangerous in the trenches, and because they were more likely to be carriers of grenades. Lelouch imagined he'd take his head off with shrapnel if he attempted to throw a grenade.
His men's shots were comparatively slow, but were well aimed- there was definitely a place for the sheer demoralizing effect of a wall of smoke and ball, but they were absolutely going to make the most of their defenses. The Danubians bled and bled before they even reached the trenches, and when they did, they were caught up in a tangle of twisting paths- some enterprising officer had thought to make the trenches zig-zag, lowering the danger of grenades significantly.
Eventually, the cries of battle slowed, replaced by the faint moans of the dying. Lelouch prepared his men for their counter.
Venice had passed away into history, but the people of her hinterlands remembered the days when Italians once ruled in Italy. And the legacy of that famed state lingered, a legacy that would influence a certain revolutionary movement's planned name for their provisional government: the State of San Marco, named for the saint who had been so intertwined with the Venetian state. They didn't have the saint's basilica, of course, considering that it was on the other side of the Piave, but he was still a symbol.
(Any happy, pious associations the name might have given were a happy benefit. There were no illusions that it would provide any more protection from the Danubians than a handkerchief, but it was a moderately better look.)
As news of battle between the Italians and Danubians broke out, revolutionaries and nationalists sprung into motion. They had planned for this, after all. Not all of them had contact with the famed Euphemia, but they had begrudgingly accepted that the Italian crown wanted them to wait until the time was right. And the time, it seemed, was right.
In towns and villages, impassioned young men and burgesses were caught by that revolutionary zeal, while more rural locations had that nationalist fever spread to them by… well, perhaps a word for them might have been evangelists. Of course, they were not exactly spreading the Gospels- perhaps a bit of Dante, but that was for love of the Italian poet and his literature more than the theology therein.
For those not entirely sold on the idea of some grand Italian community, there was something to the idea of being a first class citizen… and to the idea of a better living under a different flag. Not every man was a patriot, but rumors had spread of the Italians getting wheat from the Egyptians.
That carefully planned powder-keg was just waiting for the moment to be lit- perhaps it would have eventually caught flame by itself, but the news of the King over the river and rumors of skirmishes at the Piave spread like wildfire. And at long last, the State of San Marco stood- ready to defend itself until it could be absorbed into Italy, until that tricolor flew over them as well.
A messenger was sent- navigating around the Danubian army was a trick, but the news was important, and the Danubians were not quite in the state to be chasing every rowboat on the Piave
A revolt in Danubian Italy was, in a way, a good thing- Lelouch was, of course, nothing more than a humble servant to the will of the Italian people- but in current circumstances, it was a bit more of a mixed bag. Zealous revolutionaries weren't any good to him dead, after all, and at the moment there was a river and the remnants of a Danubian army separating them from Italy. It would be so easy for them to get caught up between the Piave and the reinforcements that would be inevitably sent to Italy.
And of course, to break them out- to bring the war to the Danubians- they needed to cross the Piave, which would be no mean feat, even with the bleeding the foe had already suffered through. Not something that Lelouch particularly anticipated, considering recent circumstances.
The assault began, of course, with the thunder of cannon. Lelouch had put a number of pieces out of commission with the spiking trick earlier. Of course, he had made sure such treatment was inflicted primarily upon the smoothbores, both because they had less utility and because their lower range obligated placement closer to the river.
It was a loss in firepower, but he certainly had other guns- guns which were certainly powerful, although even they faced issues when it came to heaps of dirt. Earthworks were quite effective, assuming you could get enough earth moved into proper position. He made certain that a few of his artillerymen were devoted solely to counterbattery fire. Even if the cannons were hidden behind dirt, they could spook the men firing them.
And with that, the assault began. The crossing was not pleasant to watch from afar, and Leouch did not want to imagine what it would have been like up close. Even with their artillerymen doing their best to cow their counterparts on the far side of the river, they managed to fire, balls kicking up flumes in the water. Thankfully, they hadn't quite seemed to get the hang of bouncing their shot off the water- if such a thing was even possible, considering the flow- and trying to bounce them off the wet muck by the riverside only dug furrows in the earth.
Still, it would be folly to underestimate those cannons, especially when his men got on dry land, not to mention how difficult floating cannons across on rafts would be if those guns weren't taken. Grapeshot was the sort of stuff that made infantry assaults into nightmares.
After climbing from the river, his men rushed to the escarpments while facing down musket fire. But they had something which would, hopefully, make the assault a bit easier. They didn't go to the effort of emptying bottles just for the sake of drink, after all.
In addition to what grenades Lelouch could get his hands on before the fight, other… surprises flew over the tops of the trenches. For the most part, these were bottles, filled with all sorts of detritus- nails, rocks, buttons- along with a helping of gunpowder. Lelouch made a note to honor the men who had the courage to light a fuse while storming the glacis. Some of them fell, or threw improperly, causing casualties among their ranks. Risky stuff, those grenades.
However, they would need every advantage they could get. For all the good that rifles had done Lelouch before, one of their major advantages- the range- was practically useless in the trenches. Greater projectile speed might still help them win the day, though.
As the fight raged, Lelouch lost sight of his men behind the lips of the trenches. Thankfully, the Italian artillery were smart enough to adjust their guns accordingly, as to not send balls soaring through trenches filled with their own men. Soon enough, they were joined by cannon and mortar on the far side, when the Italians could overtake the pieces quickly enough.
Occasionally, they would see grenades and bottles flying in the air- thankfully, the men had remembered to have some sense of husbandry with them, considering that the Danubians had dug more than just the once trench as well. As the sky darkened, hundreds of bayonets gleamed, wet with blood, lit by moonlight, lamplight, and alcohol-fires.
They were bleeding… but so were the foe, exhausted by their previous assault.
After the guns had long been silenced and the trenches cleared of enemy soldiers, Lelouch and company made their crossings. The boost to morale he would have provided on the other side of the Piave was not worth the risk of him taking shrapnel or getting sunk- he was not a strong swimmer- which he was perhaps a bit more mindful of, considering his recent ocular trauma.
So he waited a bit, so he wouldn't bumble himself to death in the middle of an active fight. By the time they crossed- in a raft, no need to wade- the river had accrued all manner of flotsam and debris… including a number of his own soldiers. Lelouch sent out men to fish the dead from the river, both Danubian and Italian. It was the gallant thing to do, and leaving bodies to float downstream was not a good look.
Admittedly, they didn't exactly have the time to dig individual graves for them all… but Lelouch still tried to arrange something as camp was set up on the far side of the river. They couldn't spend too much time, so a stopgap solution was proposed. There was a grim sort of humor to repurposing trenches to hold the dead.
By the time Lelouch had wrangled some matters of logistics and setting up camp- technically in enemy territory, although about as friendly as it could get- the dead had been, for the most part, laid to rest, with army chaplains performing their rites as some men knelt and wept before the mass grave. A few clumsy crosses had already sprouted from the ground, names etched in the wood. They wouldn't be the last, he was certain.
But this was what came with ruling nations and leading men to the field. To pretend otherwise would make him wildly incapable for the crown. Now it was just a matter of convincing the living those sacrifices were worthwhile- and steeling their resolve for more, of course.
For a moment or two, he bowed his head to the first few victims of yet another war that would sweep across Europe. Lelouch was not a particularly prayerful type, but he stayed silent long enough to imply it, burning the grave in front of him into his mind, the great width of it all.
Lelouch turned to the men. "I would like to thank you all. I will not pretend the cost demanded of you all is not steep. Even with my… recent injury," Lelouch's hand brushed the cloth covering his lost eye, "I cannot claim to understand it."
"But it is a price worth paying, to secure us our liberty from tyrants who would joyfully crush us underfoot! They've done it before!" Lelouch let a hint of emotion shine through, a few controlled gestures, "They will not leave us be, leave us to the produce of our fields and the justice of our laws, for fear of us! Fear of a state for the people! And they've already begun to extract the price we must pay for our liberty."
"May all those men who died in gallantry today rest peacefully. Let them rest in the soil of their beloved homeland. In Italy, as her beloved sons. We will continue the fight, and make a place for them to rest peacefully. A land for ourselves."
Dead patriots had their uses, but living ones who were clamoring for annexation were also quite useful… so Lelouch was forced to rush to grab them before they got put down. Admittedly, he wasn't planning on dawdling- speed and maneuver defined so much of modern warfare- but Lelouch was almost certain he'd be charging headfirst into a Danubian backhand.
He (and his scouts, who did a lot of the actual work) stayed aware, but they saw very little as they marched towards where they hoped to rendezvous with the men of San Marco. San Marcese? Whatever. They would, hopefully, be Italians first and foremost.
The plan, at the moment, was to march for Udine, gather supporters there at the metropolitan area, before quickly seizing Trieste to the south. From there, he'd have to see how the Hungarians reacted, before attempting to sneak around the Alps… he'd also have to stay cautious of any attacks from the Alpine passes. He'd almost certainly have to breakthrough into Carpathia eventually, although there was a fair case to be made for seizing Dalmatia, perhaps even permanently.
But before he could harbor ambitions of making the Adriatic his own, he needed to lock down San Marco… so he marched hard for Udine the first day, approached at a slightly more relaxed pace the next, so his men would be rested.
As they approached, they could faintly see the tops of the Alps in the distance, the crests of the mountains which guarded the Tyrol. Some of his own men were waiting in those Alpine passes, keeping watch… but in Udine, those mountains promised nothing but unfriendly partisans.
Now there was the matter of gathering his eager volunteers...
Kallen realized that someone might have been quite jealous of her current position, as she had a surprisingly close view of Princess Euphemia's government. When she wasn't busy with one of those propaganda projects Euphemia was ever so fond of, she stayed as something approaching a guard… although some part of her wondered if Euphemia was enamored with the idea of a female friend her age who wasn't a sister of hers, a conniving snake, or both.
Euphemia was working some kind of financial magic with her pen while Kallen fiddled with a penknife. Of course, the princess had pens with metal nibs, so… "There's no reason for to stay here if you don't wish to, Kallen."
"It's my duty, isn't it?"
"Duty, huh?" Euphemia smiled at her. "Well, then I'd like to revise your duties to include visiting Nunnally."
"If you insist." She sighed. There were certainly guards enough for Euphemia, and Kallen begrudgingly thought sitting on her hands on one side of the palace wouldn't be too different from the other. Figuring that Nunnally was probably spending her time in the library, she headed in that direction. Sure enough, the little lady was there.
Nunnally was sweet. A bit innocent, although calling her an ingenue didn't do her justice, Kallen thought. She was a bit too keen for that label to fit. At the moment, she was running her fingers over some sort of cylinder with a look of intense concentration. Looking closer, Kallen saw a number of dots ringing the cylinder.
Upon hearing Kallen's steps, she looked up, probably for Kallen's sake. "Hello… is that you, Kallen?"
"You're good at that." It was almost unnerving.
"Oh, it's just practice." Nunnally demurred, letting her thumb glide across the cylinder before picking up a stylus and carefully punching holes in with a sort of gride to guide her.
"What's that?"
"Braille. Do you know it?"
"I'm not familiar."
Nunnally gave her a brief explanation of the writing system for the blind. Intriguing, but not popular… yet. Still, there were another question on Kallen's mind.
"And the cylinder?"
"For encoding letters." Nunnally smiled. "You turn it, see?"
It was a collection of rings around a central axis, made of a rich wood and delicately carved with the braille bumps. How expensive was it, she wondered… Nunnally's fingers danced across the letters with a practiced ease, spinning the rings, before getting back to scoring the paper.
"How is firing a rifle?"
Kallen blinked. "What?"
"What is it like, I mean?"
"Loud." Kallen chuckled. "I'm sure Lelouch doesn't have ears like yours anymore."
"Really?" Nunnally showed just a hint of a coy grin. "I'm sorry to hear that."
If the girl could have seen it, Kallen would have shot her a disappointed look. Instead, she could only sigh.
"Is it difficult?" Of course, she wouldn't know. When did royalty handle guns for the first time, if a gentle soul like Nunnally ever did?
"A bit more complex than point and shoot, I must say." There were some finer details, of course, but something told her Nunnally wouldn't appreciate those intricacies.
"You don't say. I don't think Lelouch has done much shooting." She giggled. "Well, he might not have the build for it, you know?"
"Perhaps not." Lelouch seemed the sort to be more at home in the tent or overlooking the field than in the thick. It was probably better for Nunnally's heart that way.
They spent the next few moments in silence, punctuated only by the gentle sound of wood sliding on wood.
Before the day was up, she was press-ganged into some other project of Euphemia's. Something coastal, this time around, although Kallen mostly just stood to the side and let Euphemia pull out the charm.
She looked out to the sea and wondered what exactly she would do if this whole thing collapsed in on itself. It was hard not to think about how she got here- and who she came here with- when she caught a whiff of that salt air. After all, she had burnt the Stadtfeld bridge. Or, she supposed, she had burnt her ship behind her- leaving her marooned on a peninsula in the Mediterranean.
On the same sea, but a very different shore, men dug away under the hot sun, broadening a ditch that had been formed in the sand. Perhaps ditch was a bit of an understatement- it brought to mind something that could be dug around a camp or in front of a defensible position, not something large enough to send a ship through. Of course, getting it to the depth to fit a ship's draft was no small feat.
Still, it was work that could be done without having to construct tremendous locks, so while gargantuan, it seemed quite achievable. Not necessarily fast, but possible.
Without the Britannians close enough to make a fuss, progress was fair. The work was certainly not quick, not with the tools available to them, but it was getting done. Foreign investors were quite interested, and while the Pasha couldn't say for sure, it was hard not to imagine several of the great powers finding some satisfaction in the Britannians being taken down a peg or two.
If the Italians were to succeed, they might make fitting allies for Egypt- a shared animosity towards Britannia would make a good foundation for relations, and the Italians were already trading with them. The Pasha also quite liked the idea of some of the modern machinery that Lamperouge was peddling- perhaps some of it could hasten the canal's completion? If not, it would still be best to stay up to date.
Some of the Pasha's forces were tied up in the Sudan, protecting his southern center of administration in Khartoum, not all of them were. Another contingent were keeping a careful eye on Tripoli, just to be safe, but the majority were protecting and policing the Levant. A victory against the Turks in the past did not guarantee one in the future, after all.
In the court of the King of Spain, rumors danced. They had all heard that the Corsican, Bonaparte's boy, was heading to overthrow the king's kinsmen in France after his brief stay in Gibraltar. Of course, the expected thing to do would be rushing into the fray to help his relatives beat back the revolutionary menace.
So orders were given, noble generals and their armies sent on their way towards the Pyrenees, ready to leap upon Bonaparte from the south… while the king himself waited.
He still had Lamperouge's promise, for what little it was worth- Gibraltar for peace. Such an offer had stayed his hand before when it came to the Italians, and prying Gibraltar from Britannian hands was almost worth it on its own. (The peninsula was getting too Britannian for his comfort, what with them sidling up to the Portuguese.) However, said promise wouldn't apply to Bonaparte and his ilk.
Frankly, the chances of Bonaparte swinging around the Pyrenees were quite low- he would have issues enough in claiming France without attempting to meddle in Iberia. Of course, that was making the optimistic assumption that the revolutionary cabal would stop at France. Like a recurring sickness, it was taking root again, and his memories of imprisonment by their sort were still fresh.
It would be best to stay guarded, considering that he did not want to find himself returned to the gaol or sent to the grave a bit before his appointed time. To trust either Bonaparte or Lamperouge too greatly would be the height of folly, even if the latter had shown willingness to come to the table. Wars weren't good for states, after all.
Lamperouge had cozied up to the Church, having come to a compromise with the Leonine, but it wasn't as if that was the sole indicator of what made a good, traditional ruler. Bonaparte- the former- had eventually come to terms with the Church while still managing to turn Europe on its head. These sorts could use religion as a tool, wearing traditional piety as a skin, so it was no guarantee of anything.
Still, he sent a rider down south to Andalusia- to look into whether or not the Italians actually had intentions of holding onto Gibraltar. Leaving them to pester Britannia was quite tempting, but if the war turned and they stood to reclaim the Rock, snatching it from underneath their noses was… a pleasing idea. Assuming they were too busy for a reprisal, of course.
He was fond of the country he ruled- of course- but even he could admit that their golden century had long since passed. The sun shone on Britannia… for now. But if the French Revolution had taught them anything, it was that crowns and thrones hung precariously- and that their power could be as hard to grasp and hold onto as flowing vapor.
Vapor of vapors, vanity of vanities.
THE EAGLE SOARS
At long last, a Bonaparte has returned to Paris victorious. Napoleon II- who has noted his rejection of the title of Emperor upon his arrival- has taken up his roost in the heart of France, with several garrisons and armies defecting to his ranks. The King of the French (and Prince of Corsica) has begun to gather men for yet another revolutionary conflict, springing his eager supporters from prisons and levying men.
News of the Bourbon claimant is conflicted: some rumors say that he flees to his relatives in Spain, while others insist that he heads for Germany- perhaps Low or perhaps High- but it is clear that he no longer resides in or around Paris. Bonaparte proclaimed his intent to force an abdication from the old king- with promises that no Bourbon blood need be shed should they renounce their claims to the throne.
Unfortunately, it seems that other blood is significantly less precious- and has already been spilled. Bonaparte's armies have already had to take action to calm riots that have occurred in Paris- in addition to more peaceful distribution of bread- and both Royalists and Bonapartists lie dead on the streets.
If the Italian revolt had caused unrest, news of Bonaparte's attempt at the French throne inflamed it horribly. Collins had taken a risk and gone to Britannia proper, both to avoid the Red Hand- who had driven themselves into a frenzy- and to alleviate some of their sympathizers. There was only so much people were willing to part with in times like these…
War production had reached a fever pitch, and while Collins and company had taken a few opportunities to sabotage it, there was only so much they could do. They had also tried to work their way further inland… to avoid the press gangs, mainly. None of them particularly wanted to be on the receiving end of a cannonball, especially not the exploding shells of the Italian navy at Gibraltar.
The army was recruiting too, of course. Forces to land in the mainland and crush Bonaparte and his cronies, forces to hold down the colonies… Admittedly, you probably wouldn't get much choice in the matter. There was always somewhere the army needed to be.
Several (non-critical) members of the royal family were supposed to be heads of a great force to strike at France, before working their way down to Italy. Logical sounding, he supposed, although Collins had to wonder how much Britannia would really want to cooperate with powers on the continent… or whether the Emperor might want to make true on that King of France title.
Collins couldn't help but imagine how miserable it would be. Yes, he knew he was certainly part of that problem, being a dissident raising trouble, but it just seemed like they bled and bled and bled. Britannia could divorce itself completely from the continent and be fine. Better than fine, even. They had wealth from places the average man couldn't dream of, and still they wanted more.
He supposed the same could be said of Bonaparte, though... and Lelouch. They ate and ate, making promises through bloodstained lips. But so far, Lelouch had made good on some of them.
Omake: ᏓᎶᏂᎨ
Marrybell mel Britannia had an interesting Viceroyalty. She reined in Georgia, from Savannah- at least until her planned inland settlement grew a bit more, into a proper capital. Some considered naming it Marryville, and it seemed as fair a name as any. Admittedly, Savannah was certainly reassuring, in the sense that it could be taken by sea and held from rebels, like during Washington's revolt.
But the west beckoned to settlers, as her viceroyalty's handsome land claims beckoned to her- in theory, all the way to her sibling's holdings in Louisiane. Something told her those claims would be worth little more than the paper they were written on if she couldn't people the land and fortify it, though.
Then there was the matter of keeping the people loyal to her. Even if a generation of rebels lay in graves, their sons were still bitter, and Marrybell was almost tempted to make concessions… Lelouch had some good ideas, even if he had gotten himself in over his head.
Still, there were other ways she could attempt to tame her people- not including the risky option of naked military force- and she generally tried to be reasonable, frugal, and understanding. Gathering councils of locals to get advice was no parliament, but it was something.
(She had also made a… regrettable decision to appeal to them with 'native' fashion. Her siblings would never let her live the vair coat incident down. She was touched- although a little exasperated- to see the knights under her service adopting the pattern in their heraldry. At the very least, a coat of squirrel fur was less expensive than that sprawling garden her sibling in Florida kept.)
Thankfully, despite Georgia no longer serving its purpose as a buffer between the Carolinas and Florida, they had managed to make something of themselves. That Whitney fellow and his cotton gin were before her time, but she inherited a people with a voracious desire for land- land which she, as a dutiful viceroy, surveyed.
Reports from the inland, the Piedmont, were interesting, although not always useful. There were a number of mountains, the tail of a chain of them that lead north to Massachusetts or thereabouts, mineral springs which could be the epicenter of a small spa town… But none of those discoveries quite piqued her interest like the most recent.
One of her soldiers had stubbed his toe on a shiny yellow rock: gold. She had gone to efforts to keep it quiet, not wanting anyone to stake a claim on her- pardon, on the Empire's gold, not when it was apparently so plentiful it sat on the ground and in rivers.
She had, of course, called for advisors to tell her a bit around the area. It was quite likely to be peopled by the natives, after all, and she would do well to know about them and whether or not they could come to terms.
"The natives call it Dahlonige. Meaning yellow."
She chuckled. "Yellow? They named it Yellow?"
These were, if memory served, the very same natives who had made their own written language. The Cherokee, she thought. Perhaps she could get them to do some of the hard work?
I will note there is some timeline fudging going on here- Napoleon's march, even at a breakneck 30-mile-per-day pace, would take around a fortnight. The real Napoleon's took around 13, it seems? I also spoofed the infamous newspaper things regarding Napoleon. The ones that started "The Corsican Ogre has landed at Cape Juan" and ended "His Imperial and Royal Majesty, yesterday evening, arrived at the Tuileries, amidst the joyful acclamations of his devoted and faithful subjects."
On an unrelated note, Joseph Smith is beginning to spread Mormonism at around this point in time. This raises a number of interesting alt-history concepts. Do they even get kicked out, or do they gain the favor of a viceroy? Some ambitious prince or princess becoming King of Deseret sounds wild… although the idea of a France-Italy-Deseret democratic (or theodemocratic) block sounds crazier. This man is your friend. He fights for freedom!
The omake title is Cherokee: Dahlonige. Or as we might know it, Dahlonega. Specifically, it's yellow, not gold. As for why the Dahlonega gold rush didn't happen in 1829? (I forgot.) But there are some possible in universe explanations- how would a crushed American revolution impact immigration? Would revolutionaries have attempted to flee west? If a few more people got killed during the revolution, there goes your gold discoverer (or his father or whatever), right?
