Bonaparte was loath to leave a large body of men behind him under the command of someone else- someone of potentially questionable loyalty- but what could he do? He was one man, after all, and he had to delegate. Still, he could reserve the best soldiers for himself.
Raising an army was not an instant process, unfortunately, and while there was much promise in a newly raised brigade or regiment, they did not start great. The fairly drilled men he had in his hands were more valuable, at the moment, than whatever he would have later. If he even got them.
Bonaparte quite liked the idea of a highly mobile, responsive force under his command alone. Or maybe that was just him trying to make the best of the situation, considering that he didn't have many other options. As much as he might have liked to wait, the rest of Europe certainly wouldn't.
Perhaps it would be seen as a bit… bellicose, but he went on the warpath. He was a Bonaparte, after all. How could he really make his reputation worse? Well, ideally he would try to avoid conflict with the Spanish if possible- he'd still garrison the Pyrenees, of course, he wasn't a fool- but he did not entertain such ambitions when it came to the Prussians. They were the German power to mind, not to discount the other princes.
How interesting. An eagle of black over the Rhine, and himself, an eagle of gold. Not entirely different, necessarily, both clothed in noble plumage and armed with tearing claw, but fated to conflict.
Admittedly, some of the element of surprise was lost- the Prussians would know that he now ruled the French, of course- but if he were to catch them unawares… It was quite fortunate that the men Bonaparte had were so used to maneuver, because he wasn't entirely sure any other force could have really managed it.
His legions… it was hard not to think of their famed namesake in antiquity, the Romans. The marvels they had managed, building forts with such terrible speed, their incredible pioneering, were all certainly impressive, but not quite what he needed, not now. What he needed- and what he drew from the men by some mixture of inspirational speech and persistent cajoling- was speed.
His haste in reaching the Rhine would eventually earn them all something of a nickname: The Flying French… not exactly the most flattering of nicknames, at least if you read it to mean fleeing, but their speed was inarguable. They almost seemed to collapse into their camp every night, but they made their way toward the Rhine swiftly.
Crossing the Rhine was a risk, one that he didn't really want to take with the forces he currently had. Perhaps he would have to one day, but for now, he could certainly content himself with his own side of the river- there was a slice of Prussia he could go for there if he wished to risk an army slipping around his rear. (If the ruler of Baden allowed an army to pass, or marched his own into Alsace...)
Once again, he cursed the dreadfully limited range of human eyes and ears. Oh, to see the whole of the border, from the frost-tipped Alps to the Ardennes! What a wonder would that be! He had seen balloons in flight before, but the sort of far-sighted vision he wanted was far beyond their scope, possessed only by God.
With a trail of riders behind him to hopefully bring news of any advancing foes, he rushed north. He'd have to mind borders once he got up there- the Bavarians had their own little exclave on the Rhine- but he could make it as far as Cologne without infringing on anyone but Prussia.
Some part of him wondered if this was just an army generated from the ether, formed by his own mind… but when news of the enemy came, he was not in the least bit surprised. There was a place for being optimistic, certainly, but he knew the old enemy.
Well, old by his standards. Before his birth, his father had struggled against the Hohenzollerns and their armies. He supposed he could think even further back, to the War of the Spanish Succession, but at that point, it stopped feeling like France. Well, Bonaparte's France, at least.
Really, if he wanted to, couldn't he call the majority of Europe the 'old enemy', if he went by that definition? His father was… well, Napoleon didn't like to think of him as some irredeemable warmonger, but the man was inarguably bellicose. It was his great art, and, to some extent, Napoleon took after his father.
The numbers weren't exactly to his advantage, as far he knew with his limited information, but his father had overcome circumstances like that before. A few minor skirmishes had broken out between their scouting parties and Prussian ones, so it seemed that they both knew of each other. Now it was just a matter of giving battle.
Bonaparte opened with an attack from several directions, skirmishers peppering their flanks and vanishing away. They were so close, literally within musket range, but they managed to just barely slip away each time, frustrating the Prussian captains. It was also hard to ignore the very deliberate attack on their horse- Bonaparte feared for his light infantry and tried to obliterate the cavalry for it.
(The little eagle, if he had even deigned to take the field, made the most of his claws- he went for the eyes of the army, and the head as well.)
Letting any one of Napoleon's little bands wander around would be a disaster. There was the obvious threat of looting, of course, but there was also the creeping problem, far more insidious. Admittedly, many of the Germans on the Rhine did not have the fondest memories of the French, but when compared to the Prussians… well, perhaps priorities could be reassessed.
They may not want to be Frenchmen, surely, but the revolutionaries could play their game through intermediaries, sister republics, clients, or however else they decided to phrase it.
So they gave chase, and the skirmishers seemed to revel in the hunt. A Prussian column west, another east, one racing south, all playing the same deadly chase. What could Bonaparte do? How much of an army could he reasonably bring to bear in so short a time, even with support from the Sicilian? Their reports said his numbers were small, but he could cause all sorts of mischief and delay the Prussians bringing their own army to bear...
At some point, perhaps some realized the folly inherent in splitting up… there was a slow, creeping dread inherent to waiting for a response. You'd look and look, but no rider would ever appear. There were so many points where they could be intercepted, you know.
Those searching eyes did eventually see a rider- but not exactly the ones they had hoped for. Blue coats and flashing sabres marked French officers, at the head of inarguably French columns that sprang towards them from the rear.
"About face! About face!"
To their credit, the Prussians wheeled around with speed, realizing the French bait in front of them for what it was. Some small contingent worked to hold what was now their rear, as the rest braced themselves against the French onslaught, facing down a force that suddenly had the advantage of numbers on their side.
There was determination to stop the younger Napoleon from emulating his father, of course, but when faced with an army that outnumbered you? Morale wavered, and the French sprung forward with terrible elan.
Caught between a mighty hammer and an admittedly rather meager anvil, the Prussians felt the squeeze, and their spirits were not helped by the French formation curving into a crescent as their small number of cavalry moved to the flanks.
No. They wouldn't die here. At the edges, some men wavered- and then that began to cascade, fueled by the shock of the French's sudden appearance. What if there were more…?
The army in the middle collapsed, and without knowing it, the Prussians found themselves split. Well, without knowing it at first. Already, horsemen were peeling away, and the Frenchmen couldn't catch them all. Bonaparte had no time to lose.
Not wanting to waste his numerical advantage, he didn't split his forces but rather rushed to the aid of his skirmishers in the west. This would mean leaving the fates of his men in the east to providence… but this was a stratagem that required sacrifice. They would have to manage.
As fast as they dared, they went west, curving to catch the Prussians. Unfortunately, surprise was not on their side today, given the enemy who had escaped, and more critically, they knew- or at least, hoped- that their fellows to the east would relieve them.
Enemies in front of them, enemies almost certainly racing towards their rear… How the tables turned. Unfortunately, there was no time to dilly-dally or philosophize. With a cry, Bonaparte rallied his horse-most consisting of officers, it wasn't a true force of cavalry- and looked down at the Prussians. They, as basic survival instincts dictated, were arrayed in lines.
For a few moments, all Bonaparte could do was watch and let the time pass by. This was a fight for the men, and other than cheering them with his presence, there was very little he could do. Not right away.
Still, they had the advantage in numbers, and the Prussians started sweating as the French infantry curved around them. Musket fire was less frequent now, the fight descending into a good old-fashioned melee, a mess of bayonets.
"Cut them down!"
With a cry, Bonaparte and what little horse he had swung around his left flank, fired pistols into the Prussians, and then struck with their sabres. Theirs was a wheeling sort of charge- they could not commit for fear of a bush of bayonets- but the sudden presence of horse was enough to shake the Prussians, and their flagging willpower crumpled under the strategic blow. They broke, and Bonaparte did not bother to pursue them intensely. For obvious reasons.
Before they could even celebrate their second victory of the day, Napoleon rushed past the ranks on horseback, crying out to them. "Turn around! Turn around! Once more, my friends!"
They were certainly bloodied by the day's proceedings, but the Prussian officer he was facing down was no fool- he knew not to brazenly charge at a numerically superior foe. There was no gain to be had there, other than vainglory.
There were some minor exchanges of fire, a probing attack here or there, but the Prussians weren't willing to charge, giving the French precious time to recover their strength… the impasse was eventually resolved once Bonaparte made some threatening maneuvers. The Prussian turned tail, bearing some very unfortunate news, but at the very least, they weren't followed.
With that, Bonaparte set about the grim business of triage and the slightly less grim business of setting up camp. Some of their beleaguered scouts and skirmishers were drifting back in now, and his main body wasn't much better. Wounds to clean, water to boil… so much to do, so much to do.
Some poor unfortunate souls were forced to keep watch- they'd have to suffer even longer than the men who could just set up camp and collapse into their beds. It had been an eventful day.
The name of the stratagem was defeat in detail, and it wasn't original; his father had given the Austrians and Piedmontese the runaround in Italy in a similar way. Superior maneuver and a willingness to take risks could let you split an enemy force to pieces and then crush them one by one. Offer baits with small forces and spread the enemy out, then use massed, highly concentrated force to turn the numerical advantage on its head.
It was another day of much maneuver and marching, and the men took a well-deserved rest, at least for the night. They were almost certain to be back on the warpath tomorrow. Bonaparte could not help but worry- and prepare for another march. Britannia was a looming threat, always waiting to sink their daggers into France from behind. And he'd do well not to trust the Spaniards either, to be quite honest.
There was plenty of reason for him to turn back with the Prussians temporarily chastened (although they'd gather again in time, he was certain) but he could take a bit of time to set things in proper order, so to say. His presence- and that of his army- influenced the moods and actions of the people, and he had a certain idea in mind…
The Rhineland was a charming country of vineyards and river valleys, not completely unfamiliar when compared to France. Lovely Cologne- or Koln, he supposed- was a particularly notable city, and there was also Charlemagne's Aachen, home of warm springs and imperial history… While certainly a lovely place to spend a bit of time with the army, it was too much. Not in the sense of leaving him dazzled, although they were nice cities, but rather in the sense that he couldn't take it.
Other than it being uncomfortably similar to the old revolutionary borders along the Rhine's banks, it would be an overreach when his forces were already quite limited. Perhaps, given time, he could secure it, but he tried a slightly different approach.
While he tried to not linger overlong, he did stay in the Rhineland for a bit, using his forces like the surgeon's scalpel- removing particularly stubborn knots of reactionary sentiment and leaving power in the hands of those who would use it best. Some nobility purged here, a city guard driven out there...
Of course, he wouldn't pretend that the threat of violence- his violence- wasn't a motivating factor, but it was his hope that there were a fair share of republicans in the region, ones that could take the reins when left to their own devices. At worst, it would evolve into a loose collection of potentates, barely better than the Holy Roman Empire which ruled long before, but at best…
Bonaparte hoped a republic would flourish on those Rhenish banks, a flower sprouting in that valley. Maybe it would even prove to have thorns- there were rumors of militias being formed and such, and some allies would be a great comfort.
Still, he could not imagine that thin little strip of land holding out against the Prussians without help. Help that Bonaparte may or may not be capable of providing, depending on how the situation developed in France proper. In the best case? He gained an ally. In the worst? Well, flowers were such fading, ephemeral things, richly colored in bloom but doomed regardless…
Well, if this taste of hands-off governance made the people of the Rhineland disinclined to obey the Prussians so easily… well, that would be some good to come of the whole situation, right?
Hopefully, if they did well and didn't just dissolve into a knot of feuding cities, they'd pick a decent flag. Perhaps not something like the old Cisrhenian republic, though. Other than bringing back bad memories of being a client state- for what, a few months? It was a terribly shortlived little state- the colors, if he remembered correctly, were quite similar to the Italian flag. It'd be quite confusing.
Stirring up unrest was a bit of a trick, but Collins and company were starting to get fairly good at it- it was always nice to have some obfuscation. And if you were brave, there were plenty of things to sabotage.
They had heard the news. Britannia was on the move, armies were being mustered and prepared for war, destined for France. Rumors seemed to point to an attack at Cherbourg, or Normandy, perhaps? Some had chattered about Picardy or Calais, even, a rendezvous with the Prussians, which was certainly possible, but with Cherbourg being just off Jersey and the other channel islands…. With control of the sea, Britannia had no shortage of options.
Regardless of Britannia's potential target, Collins and the other rebels hiding in the midst of Britannia had their own concerns. A few of them- and many sympathizers in both Britain and Ireland- had already been caught in the tight grasp of the Red Hand. Of course, they gave as good as they got whenever the Brits came knocking- it was their ambition to make them fear the countryside.
It wasn't stellar, Collins would admit. Being attached to the armies of an actual state meant more resources, compared to the strange weave of sympathizers and loyalists who made up the country. It was a motley fabric, English red and Irish green, but all he could do was make the best of it. They found refuge where they could and avoided the rest. (There was a far more bloodthirsty camp, who argued, perhaps fairly, that they couldn't exactly make the government much angrier… but excess was not a great idea. Not now, not yet.) Unfortunately, their fighting against the Red Hand only seemed to cull the especially foolhardy ones; and there were always the rest. The ones who stalked and hunted more intelligently, who weaved a cohesive net of policing to catch the rebels… they were cautious. Ironically, some of the Peat Gatherers were heading for greener pastures in Britain proper, even those who were born in Ireland. Fair enough, he supposed, even though the risks in getting there were great.
There were certainly places to vanish into, both in Ireland and Britain proper, but as good as a nice marsh or heath might be, there was a certain impotence there. The cold nights and muck could do very little to cool boiling blood- you'd get quitters, sure, but the impassioned wanted to be out there. Collins wanted to be out there.
Fear and violence were not the conventional hero's tools, surely, but perhaps this wasn't an age for conventional heroes. How did the song go? Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannonball, or knew the force of powder to slay their foe withal…
Despite the terrible strength of foemen, they'd keep at it. As surely as the isle's grass grew green, a green banner would fly over her, one day.
They marched.
Hungary was as fair a county as any, Lelouch supposed. It would be a shame if they had to subject it to depredation to survive… but if they were to avoid that, they needed to make sure they could get supplies through other means. Either trains or buying. Neither was simple- what good would Italian credit be here?- but it was something to think about. Every town had some sort of potential in that regard, especially the ones ringed with fertile farmland.
It was a charming sort of town, the type that seemed so terribly far away from Paris and all the revolutionary dreams therein. The feudal lord resided in a house on a hill, the peasants labored in the fields, and the world did not seem entirely dissimilar from what it might have been a hundred years ago if not five hundred. Despite that, the town, or at least the lord who ruled over it, had not fallen into comfortable obscurity, burying their heads in their fields. Lelouch knew this because the man himself had come to meet them with a smile on his face.
He seemed the very image of a nobleman, broad shoulders and musculature partially hidden by heavy fur and fine cloth, sabre at his side… He had come to parley, a small retinue with him. Certainly nothing near the size of the Italian army, but enough to make Lelouch's own men a little jumpy.
Lelouch had the niceties and customs of court burnt into him, so he performed well enough. In contrast to the choking, constant observation and high standards of the Britannian court, this was far more rugged. Admittedly, he did not cut the most martial figure- he was a little too frail for that- but he presented himself well enough.
(Presentation was critical. While not seeming alien to the men was important, a bit of vanity could bring him far. Lelouch was, after all, the living, breathing representation of his state. With no offense intended towards his lovely senators, Lelouch thought he was, perhaps, more charming.)
Still, despite the smiles, there was an unsettling edge to it all. Both parties knew that conflict was a very real possibility- the expected one, even, if the Hungarians followed the wishes of their overlords. To think it a trick was not so far-fetched… but for now, they were at a sort of impasse. The duke would, at the least, turn a blind eye to any deals they made. A market was something, at least, a way to help alleviate some of their supply issues.
Asking the Hungarians to police his supply routes was basically requesting treason, in the sense of abetting the enemy in his campaigns. It wouldn't happen until the Hungarians committed. And of course, Lelouch looked into the state of Hungary, in both senses of the word.
Hungary was not a truly sovereign state, but they had their share of rights and privileges and a strong sense of self. There was a foundation there, one which could be built upon, given some time and confidence in their chances… there was a seed, and if the Habsburgs could be bloodied further, they might bear wonderful fruit.
They also proved a powerful information network, in their own way. Not exactly the speediest, but with a very good understanding of the inner machinations of the Danubian state. And if they were to be believed- and Lelouch knew well enough to doubt the babbling of any random noble- then there was a problem Lelouch would have to face.
It took a certain caliber of man to stand up to Napoleon. The Duke of Teschen, Archduke Charles, was one of very few who could boast that, even if he had been trounced by the Corsican as well. A victory against Napoleon was more than even Lelouch could boast.
After temporarily settling matters with the Count, Lelouch overlooked the men in his camp, making sure they weren't getting any foolish ideas in this foreign country. Otherwise, they needed to bask in Lelouch's presence and whatnot.
Some of the men's uniforms and hands were spotted with the faint reflections of fish scales, all a-glimmer in the orange light of dusk. Lelouch felt some gratitude for their resourcefulness- it was better than them going out and ravaging fields or the like. He supposed it was poaching, but if they were getting shot at by Danubians, it certainly wouldn't be for infringing on royal forests or the like.
While his presence had all the men snapping to attention, Lelouch did find the day-to-day activities of the men interesting. Other than the simple running of a camp, there were some plying their trades as barbers or tailors or what have you, and just plain conversation. Lelouch listened in to a pair talking.
"But gold can't corrode. Silver doesn't rust."
"Yes, I know that. It's symbolic."
"The gold corrodes… symbolically?"
"Well, it doesn't come with you, does it?" The man gestured vaguely at his uniform, "No pockets in shrouds. All these earthly things are passing, but what you did to get those things- that sticks with you."
"Treasures in heaven, and all that?"
"Yes!" The one who was teaching seemed overjoyed that he had finally gotten through to his pupil.
"And what treasures are we accruing by living by the sword, again?"
"A wage." From there, it almost seemed as if their conversation was going to veer off into the morality of war- which Lelouch would have liked to hear, at least from them- but they started when they realized Lelouch was so close, falling over themselves in overblown signs of respect.
The next conversation he chanced upon was slightly less complex: "Clasp your hands together. Like this. Now do it again. Notice something? It's the same thumb on top each time!"
Before retreating to his tent, Lelouch made certain to check in with the men who would be on watch, to cheer their spirits and remind them: even if they supposed they were among potential allies, they could never be too careful.
Nunnally- and Euphemia alongside her- had heard some news of minor skirmishes around the Tyrol, in the many mountain passes in the Alps. These were long-range affairs, prosecuted by rifle and the occasional mortar. Nothing like the great war pieces Lelouch preferred to bring on his campaign, just small enough to be carried by mule.
Still, a mortar was a mortar, and their results could be quite… spectacular. Apparently, only some of the avalanches caused by the mortar fire were intentional. No armies swarmed from those narrow passes, as of yet, but it was something to be aware of. Perhaps the Swiss could be trusted if they stayed home, but the Tyrol… well, that was a problem that had to be dealt with. They could never have enough fighting men, it seemed, and it wasn't as if they were lacking for bodies.
Nunnally had picked up some understanding of the raising and mustering of an army from Lelouch, and while she was no general, she could leave the military intricacies to the officers. Get money and supplies where they needed to be, and leave the nitty-gritty to the men in the field. That was how war worked- for some people, at least. Her concern was a bit above individual men, but rather logistics.
Oh, and that wasn't even mentioning babysitting Lelouch's pet inventor, Asplund. He devoured monies and supplies voraciously, but she had heard Lelouch sing his praises enough to consider him a worthwhile investment. (He promised and promised that results were coming, but Nunnally had arranged a trip… a little checkup, so to speak, to make sure that the only hot air was inside balloons.) Still, the matter of money always seemed to be rearing its head, and Nunnally contemplated the matter with Euphemia.
"How were the bankers?" Nunnally hummed.
"Oh, fair enough, but I feel we're trying their patience. They only have so much money."
"Or so they claim."
Euphemia laughed. "Oh, you're going to go and shake them down?"
"I could get Kallen to do it."
"Maybe you're onto something there."
There was the matter of the central bank, which was one of Lelouch's great unification projects, alongside the lira, and it did give them some, limited economic power. It wasn't just an organ of the monarchy, unfortunately- absolutism was so easy on paper, even if Nunnally understood the point of distributing power- but pushing the bank around a bit was possible. If they were willing to play a dangerous game with their precious metal supplies...
"If only it was easy as printing money…" Nunnally sighed.
"And how did that work out for the Spanish?"
"Technically speaking, they mined their money."
(Euphemia had read about Mansa Musa once, this great African king who went on Hajj with simply stunning amounts of gold. And he was generous, wildly so. Euphemia could respect that, even desire to emulate it… but the hyperinflation he caused was less impressive. While not the exact same concept as a press, Euphemia understood that printing money and mining money did not always mean more money. Well, it didn't mean more money of the same value.)
"And if we can't print it, we have to move it…" And how would that be accomplished? Taxes, she supposed, but they couldn't just slap the people with a massive tax hike.
"Could we borrow it?" Nunnally asked, basically just thinking aloud, not thinking that it was really that feasible...
"Maybe we could."
Well, the first thing that came to mind was liquidity. They couldn't get every last lira out of every last citizen, for obvious reasons. The lack of liquidity would throttle the economy, for one. Still, if they were to get some slice of the savings of most every family in Italy…
The logistics of it would be a nightmare. But in the cities, they could probably raise a king's ransom… if they promised eventual returns. To make it appetizing, they'd have to compare their rates to those of the bankers, they'd have to publicize it, and of course, they'd have to pay it back one day.
"Why are all the solutions to our problems future problems?" Nunnally sighed.
"Don't worry! I have complete trust in the Euphemia of the future to handle it. She's never let me down."
The trick would be convincing the people that they would pay, really. The value of Italian debt was rather dependent on the existence of an Italian state. It would require, she supposed, a certain amount of faith in the state before people could be sold on risking their hard-earned money to help save the state.
Give us money in the hopes that we might one day be capable of paying you more money!
Well, when phrased like that, it sounded just like any other investment. Still, Nunnally supposed the average bank wasn't at significant risk of being burned down by opposing armies. However, with the fighting in the Tyrol, there might be money to be made if they pleaded to the north. Fear was a motivator, after all.
"Are you certain you're ready for your trip to Venice?" Euphemia asked.
Nunnally nodded. It would do well to check up on the people up there- crossing into Lelouch's recent conquests might be a touch too bold for her taste, but the north could not be neglected.
(Nor could the south, although they were at less risk. Perhaps she and Lelouch could arrange a visit to Palermo, once things had finally drawn to a close? It wouldn't do to forget their roots, after all… or rather, it wouldn't do to neglect the roots that composed their image and strengthened their claims.)
Euphemia sighed. "It seems that duty calls, Nunna."
"The Leonine?"
"Yes," Euphemia laughed, embracing Nunnally before she went to leave. "A Britannian princess, talking with cardinals- what a world!"
Draft of a homily, written during the Italian campaign in Hungary:
Consider the Magi, who we read of so recently! They who journeyed for just the chance to see the Christ-child, who braved the dangers of the trail and banditry as they traveled. Imagine the harsh sands and harsh mountains of Persia- which they bore regardless, or the bandits who would have been overjoyed at the prospect of stealing their gifts.
And when they arrived, they found no reward. They had to search longer still. But they did so regardless, the first Gentiles to pay our lord homage. What determination! What passion!
In times such as these, remember them. We march through strange terrain, as they did, surrounded by danger, as they did. Do not lose the heavenly treasures you've accrued! How swiftly love and charity fly when war descends upon the land, when we abandon the pruning hook for the spear and the plow for the sword.
Danger lurks here in Carpathia, the snares of our foes, but mind also the traps of the devil, all the pitfalls which we must overcome in this earthly pilgrimage.
When the way is long and difficulties are common, hold to the faith. Remember the joy of the Magi upon seeing our Lord, the Prince of Peace.
Twenty-one hundred years ago, when the infant Christ was three foggy centuries distant, when Rome was a comparatively young city of sixteen generations, Alexander the Great rode out to trample Persia, overthrowing her satraps and spreading Greek culture as far as India. Those days were long gone, of course, but an army thundered over the sands of Cyrene, and they would not stop there, as Alexander had. Their end goal was Tripoli.
With Lamperouge's Carpathian distractions, the Tripolitans felt a little freer to reconsider their agreement with him. There was no guarantee he would get out of his adventure alive, after all, and Tripoli wasn't exactly flourishing under his anti-piracy dictate. That led to… economic reconsiderations.
But Lamperouge had shown that the pirates could be chastened, and they were not just something you were forced to tolerate. That knowledge, the rumors of renewed piracy, and the general instability that Lamperouge's visit had caused meant that Tripoli was certainly a country to watch, and a country to plan around.
If hypothetically, you were staking a significant portion of your fortune on some sort of project to funnel trade through the Mediterranean, you might not want some pirates screwing around in your otherwise lovely, profitable ocean.
The Pasha was keeping a very close eye on his beloved overlord, but he managed to spare enough resources to handle the situation in Tripoli. It was no Levant, to be certain, but it was better to seize it himself than have the Ottomans come in when their Bey's incompetence grew too grating. Under no circumstances could it become a staging area for an Ottoman advance into Egypt from the west.
With the eyes of Europe fixed on the rekindled revolution, a smaller war raged in the Maghreb. An overstep? Perhaps. But if the Pasha had crossed the line, the younger Bonaparte had leapt over it with a running start.
There was a careful balance to strike. Too slow, too inactive, and you faded from the history books, a mediocre ruler of a state doomed to failure. Too fast, too aggressive, and you were an Alexander, a Bonaparte. Your empire crumbled to pieces around you- or at least, it fell to pieces soon after you left this world behind.
On one hand sat a lasting legacy, an inheritance for his sons. In the other hand, the same doom that had struck a thousand kings and pharaohs before.
The Papist Problem
Looking at Britannia's situation in the age of revolutions, one problem only seems to grow more apparent with time. Despite the growing secularism of the age, there was a growing discontent among Catholic subjects of the empire. Part of this was due to other factors, of course, but Lamperouge's rise was notable.
The simple, personal power of a prince revoking his claim to the imperial throne for faith was remarkable. He already had some charm, but this… in contrast to a court that occasionally seemed to wander away from even their own professed faith, Lamperouge seemed a beacon. And when he turned away from the Empire, not all saw it as a betrayal- some saw it as a bold refusal, an unwillingness to come to terms with the Britannian kirk.
It should also be remembered that this Catholicism was Roman- with no offense intended towards the Byzantine, Maronite, Syriac, etc.- and as such had a certain appeal to Romantics in the Empire. Romantics, of course, in the sense of being related to the Romans, and not any particular passion in the domain of love (there was some vague association with Romantics in the other sense- your Byrons, your Shelleys, etc- whose mix of disappointment and awe regarding Napoleon trickled down to Lamperouge and the second Bonaparte).
In a world that wanted a new, fresh definition of "Latin", one could not help but look at that institution so mired in the language, headquartered in the Eternal City...
Next time on Risorgimento: the Archduke and the King, the iron-flanked monster of the Adriatic, and the hard road from Cherbourg. And possibly, the beginning of the Currant Affair?
There were some vague shades of the Byzantine general problem today. I know the usual application is computers, but it's what came to mind. Bonaparte's run is somewhat inspired by the tales of Stonewall Jackson's infamous foot cavalry, who pulled off some insane marches in the American Civil War.
The discussion of corroding gold is James 5:3, and the following verse is just legendary: "Look! The wages you failed to pay the workers who mowed your fields are crying out against you." I will admit to probably being a little Great Man in my history today/throughout this story, and I probably didn't expand on its counterpart as much as I should…
So, homework assignment, go read the poem Questions From a Worker Who Reads. (Welcome to my weird collection of influences. No, it does not get less confusing.) It's good. Something to think about when looking at any history, fictional or real. Anyways, I won't pretend that I'm giving some perfect window into this era of history, but I hope it's food for thought. Alternate history is very fun, especially making these little blurbs from later on in the timeline/in-universe text.
I was almost considering making an Ozymandias reference in the Pasha's portion of the chapter. What are the chances that he gets his hands on a twelve-year-old poem?
