le piccole cose ii

[Radilo]

Badua
October 28, 2023

It was a few hours before sunrise, in the cool autumn air, the curtains fluttered about the Juilet balcony. Emilia and Aria were finishing up their costumes. Laid out on their shared bed, they admired their handiwork: ragged, yet warm tunics of corse linen accompanied by colorful aprons that with a bit of sandpaper and coffee stains had been made to look like they'd seen better days. Some of the braver reenactors, like silly Tabitha, opted to go barefoot for the four day long procession. Aria and Emilia, more sensibly, would be wearing rustic looking sandles. They even had taken two of their veils and given them a simmilar treatment. The final piece of each outfit was a traditional Radilan carnival masque--again with some artificial wear. They would transform, as much as they could, into impoverished 18th century Radilan servile peasants.

Their napsacks were filled with granola bars, first aid gear, sleeping bags, and a couple of goatskin sachels filled with wine. It wasn't much to carry, but they'd have access to provisions regularly during the 70 km march to St. Mark's Square.

This year, the sisters would be participating in the annual ritual celebrating la Marcia del popolo, the People's March. An uprising in 1797 that, along with a series of slave revolts and military defeats, culminated with the great reforms of la Nova costitusion. This marked a major transformation of Radilan government and society: the end of slavery, universal suffrage,* and a total revamping of Radilo's colonial project.

At sunrise, Emilia and Aria would be joining the marchers en route to la Città, some of whom had started more than a week ago in the Dolomites. They would take their time, walking about 20 km a day, before seeking shelter in various barns and makeshift campsites throughout the countryside. Like pilgrimage routes long ago, they would bond with their anonymous traveling companions, living off of energy bars and the charity of those they passed by. It was considered a patriotic act to give the caravan of reveling reenactors food and drink as they meandered their way towards the capital.

For this whole ordeal, Aria and Emelia would not be grateful refugees working in the restraunt industry. They were downtrodden, impoverished workers struggling in squalor. They didn't support the government--they despised those aristocrats who denied them basic rights and neglected their basic needs. They wore masques because they were joining a revolution to overthrow this despotic system.


Doge's Palace, la Città
anno domini 1795

The elderly Doge Ludovico Manin sat anxiously in the Naval Command Center. Next to him sat Captain General Ulstano Verno, who nervously tapped his armored gauntlet clad fingers on the aincent wooden table. Outside, the Ducal Guards snapped to attention.

"His Excellency, Giuseppe Luigi Constantino, Grandmaster of the Holy Sovereign Military Hospitaller Order of the Knights of Saint Joseph of Hierosolyma, Valetta and Antiochia; Governor of Valetta; and Lord Protector of the Holy Land."

While the Doge remained seated, the Captain General stood up and saluted the middle aged man as he walked into the Naval Command Center. The man wore the black robe of the Knights of St. Joseph, emblazoned with the Order's Grand Cross--which was also incorporated into the heavy gold and jeweled collar of the Order that he also wore.

"Grandmaster," the Captain General started, gesturing for the man to take a seat, which he did nodding in thanks. "There is no doubt you have read reports about the dire situation in our Occidential colonies."

"I have," he responded, somewhat curtly.

"Surely, you are intimately aware of the stress these wars have been putting on us."

"I have been living it first hand for some time, Captain," he said, forcing a smile.

"Your defence of Hierosolyma against the recent Peleglsian incursion and your quelling of the latest Jewish revolt were both executed perfectly."

"The Knights of St. Joseph are bound by sacred oath and aincent honor to fight to maintain possession of the Holy Land for the One True Church. I should remind you, given the rather forward implications of your introduction, that no part of that oath or honor deals with the preservation of the Most Serene Republic's extra-legal slave colonies."

The Doge coughed a few times, but didn't say anything, and the Captain General rapped his knuckles on the old table. "This is for the preservation of the Republic. You have sworn your oath to God, true, but you also swore one in the Great Assembly that you will serve the Most Serene Republic when called to."

"I have been serving the Republic before I was even a memeber of the Assembly at 16.* It has been me on the front lines of this whole damn war. More than half my Family's lands and holdings are currently under Protestant occupation."

"We will increase Naval aid to Valetta, and should you help us in i Tropici and i Caraibi, you will be granted whatever titles will make it worth your while, as will your men. What else would it take to make this assignment of defense appealing to you, Grandmaster?" The Captain General said as he poured a glass of wine for each of the three men in the room.

Grabbing his glass, Giuseppe swirled the wine for a few moments. "I shall be given total control of the mission; I will be second in my command to no one. I will have as many Marines and as many fully armed warships join my Knights of St. Joseph as necessary. Keep all of these promises to me and I promise you brilliant successes."

Finally the old Doge stirred, "you will have everything you ask, Grandmaster."

"Your Serenity," he replied, bowing.



@Neustria
@Oltremare


*universal family sufferage, where each household, regarless of income or status, was given a vote. This would evolve into modern universal adult suffrage over time.

*before la Nova costitusion, all men from aristocratic families joined the Grand Assembly when they reach the age of majority at 16.

 

[Radilo]

5 km South of Badua
October 28th, 2023

Comming up on their first watering station of the march, the masked Emilia and Aria nodded at eachother. So far--so good, it had been an easy paced walk lasting a little over an hour and a half. The locals in this scenic suburb had set up a small wine station for the reenactors that were comming through. Costumed locals cheered on the freshly minted revolutionaries as they plowed them with wine, bread, cured meat, and cheese.

"You want the good cheese, you have to work for it," the young woman across from Aria and Emilia smirked.

"You want us to catch a chicken or sweep your stoop for you?" Aria asked, eyebrow raised underneath her masque. It was typical for locals to ask those participating in the march to preform some task that was nominally connected to older chores or customs.

"No--we can tell you're Pannonian--sing us a Pannonian song and we'll give you each a loaf of sourdough bread, a liter of wine, and some fine ripened reggiano."

The sisters had prepared for this, as such requests were the norm. Aria looked at her sister and the two nodded.

Emilia started humming an aincent sounding melody.

Aria started singing, though her voice sounded like a whisper:

"Hazádnak rendületlenűl
Légy híve, oh Pannonia;
Bölcsőd az s majdan sírod is,
Mely ápol s eltakar.
A nagy világon e kívül
Nincsen számodra hely;
Áldjon vagy verjen sors keze:
Itt élned, halnod kell!"

("Oh, Pannonians,
keep immovably
your native country's trust,
for it has borne you,
and at death will
consecrate your dust!")

After some applause from the gathered croud, two sachels of local wine, two loafs of sour dough bread, and a small wheel of cheese were given to the girls who smiled and bowed to the small assembly of people. "God speed to you both and God save the Republic" someone shouted as they resumed their journey.


Mid Thaumantic Sea
anno domini 1795

Stading on the quarterdeck, Grandmaster Constantino looked off past the bow of the ship onto the horizon. He was standing next to Admiral Mario Ziambalvo; each man dressed in their finest uniforms. Above them, the sails bearing the Knights' Grand Cross strained against the wind.

"I must confess Admiral," Giuseppe started, "the speed at which the Arsenale was able to assemble this armada was impressive."

"We have lost a step, true, Grandmaster, but the Most Serene Republic is still the most efficient of the world's Naval powers. The urgencies of the emerging and ongoing conflicts seems to have lit necessary fires under necessary arses."

"Indeed," Giuseppe responded looking over the sailors working on the main and foredeck. He noticed among the rather rough hune men were a handfull of women. "Since when did the Most Serene Navy start recruiting women?"

"Since we started struggling to recruit men," Admiral Ziambalvo responded, glancing down at the sailors before them.

Giuseppe caught glance of a young woman among a small team of sailors scrubbing the main deck, something seemed off about her, but it was subtle. "Why is there difficulty in recruiting men?"

"The ongoing wars against Engwahl and Propontis have been draining and have already killed many men."

"They are reluctant to consider conscription?"

"As they always have been. The Republic has never used slaves or convict labor as oarsmen, and never conscripted anyone into the Navy. Professional soilders, sailors, and oarsmen, back in the day, have always been more effective. And arming people who you stole from their families and communities against their will is hardly a recipe for naval stability--or for officers keeping their heads."

"I'm sure the irony is not lost on you given this mission?"

Mario sighed and refrained from rolling his eyes, "no, Grandmaster, it is not lost, on anyone."

"Are you not worried for these women's safety?" Giuseppe asked turning towards the Admiral.

"If you go and talk to the women we've been recruiting, you'll learn quickly to feel pity for the lads who would try their luck with them..."

Before the Admiral had finished, the Grandmaster was walking briskly towards the young woman he spotted earlier. He started after him.

The Grandmaster stopped behind the woman and her male counterparts, "young sailor," he said, projecting authority.

"Which one of us, Knight?" A gruff young man responded.

"The woman," Giuseppe grunted.

"What the the fuck do you want?" She said, still scrubing the deck.

"You will have to excuse the language--the Navy isn't as..."

"You have nothing to apologize for Admiral, I've been a soilder for a while--Young woman may I speak to you?"

She stood up and turned towards him. She looked to be in her early 20s, dark featured, and with a strong face that would have been pretty without the dirt smudges and her generally disgusted scowl. She was barefoot, wearing the red pantaloons, white blouse, and red cap standard as the lighter dress of Radilan sailors. The one distinguishing aspect of her attire were her gloves: delicate looking, but oddly shaped.

"Why did you opt to do something as dangerous as join the Navy during wartime?"

She looked him over a few times, "not gonna ask me my name--Crusader?" During the brief pause Giuseppe started to respond, but she resumed, "it's Ella, daughter of Maltilde. I got out of prison a few months ago. This pays better than laying on my back or working as a servant. And if I die, my daughters will get a lifetime of benefits."

"Thank you for the clarification, Ella," Giuseppe said, turning away and walking back towards the quarterdeck.

The Admiral paused and looked over the woman, "you may return to your work, sailor."

"Yes sir," she said curtly, before resuming her scrubbing. Once the Admiral had also turned away she shot a glance back at the Grandmaster, making a mental note.


@Oltremare
@Neustria
@Thaumantica

 

[Radilo]

Mid Thaumantic Sea
anno domini 1795

In the officers' mess, the Admiral and Grandmaster sat next to eachother at the table; the higher ranks of the Knights of St. Joseph sat to the Grandmaster's side, and the officers of the line sat across on the Admiral's. The Knights ate their food in silence, save for the occasional bit of sign language; a sharp contrast with the boisterous nature of the Naval Command.

"You're men are awful quiet, Grandmaster," Admiral Ziambalvo said, leaning in close to his counterpart.

"We are ordained monks, we do not speak during meals," he responded, taking a bite of rosemary seasoned lamb ribs and a large gulp of wine.

"Your commitments and devotions are impressive, Grandmaster. But I recommend your men taking part in the limoncello, not just wine. They use to say that Radilans were immune to scurvy, but it was because we've aways stocked up on lemons--wether limoncello or hippocras before it, we have always had them as a staple."

"I was never actually in the Navy. And scurvy was never an issue for us, as the Knights' rations have always been a bit grander than most soilders."

"It fits a pattern I've noticed with monks," Mario said smirking.

"We live with the contradictions," Giuseppe replied, necking the rest of his wine. His second refilled his glass.

The mess for the able bodied sailors was even more ackward. Technically all Knights were officers, but there was not the physical space to accommodate them in the officers' mess. But that's not what made it ackward. The Knights did not mind eating the baccala (dried codfish) and drinking the limoncello grog of the sailors. It was that the silence versus the raucous was even more extremely pronounced. The sailors, however, after a while, also started to lower their voices to marvel at the silent, black clad Knights eating alongside them.

"You all don't talk?" Ella asked the Knight seated next to her. He shook his head. "Only when you're eating?" He nodded. The Knights, even before were stoic, and the sailors, trained to recognize the difference in rank did not dare to ask them before.

After a few more minutes one of the older Knights finished his meal, pushing his plate and cup away and wiping his mouth. "You sailors have questions, direct them to me."

Sailors cautiously started approaching him and asking about what the lives that these Holy soilders lived. He answered bluntly, but clarified what he could. After some time, when all the nibbles of cod had been eaten and all the grog had been drunk, sailors and Knights alike started returning to their hammocks.

Ella took a walk out to the foredeck to get a breath of air; she pressed up against the tip of the bow and looked out across the cloudless, starlit horizon. She breathed in and out a few times, feeling the cool air in her lungs. As her eyes were closed she heard a balde being unsheathed--she quickly spun around and grabbed the blade of the dagger that was pointed towards her. Her adrenaline was pumping, as the black clad figure before her came into focus.

"Armored gauntlets," the figure said, "finer than the ones the Captain General wears. Much more delicate, that's for sure."

"You," she hissed.

"Yes, me," the Grandmaster responded. "you seemed to have confirmed my suspicions. Who do you work for?"

"Him."

"Who does he work for?"

"Excellent question."

"Shit... you were sent to spy on me?"

"Not just you," she said, sighing, "there are concerns about the loyalties of the Crusaders."

"How many Longknives* have they assigned to this?"

"They don't tell us, but many."

"Fuck," Giuseppe said under his breath. Turning back to Ella he asked, "when I asked you earlier, what of your story was a lie?"

"I fabricated some of the timeframe. I got out of prison three years ago. That's when he recruited me. The rest I was honest."

"Who else on this ship knows of your true assignment?"

"Only the Captain, but even he would be ignorant if it were practical."

The Grandmaster sheathed his dagger. "What have the politicians in la Città hidden from me?"

"There is a growing fragility in the civil order. But know more people agree with you than you suspect."

"Agree with me?" He asked, truly perplexed.

"Your politics are not the secret you think they are."

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean..." she said, her eyes darting back and fourth. "We can't be seen talking," Giuseppe turned around and looked behind him; there was no one there. "Goodnight," he heard, softly. As he spun back around, she was gone. He looked out across the bow at the starlit horizon.


60 miles from St. Mark's Square
October 28, 2023

Ten miles into their journey, Emilia and Aria were in excellent spirits, to say the least. They had both been sipping on wine, maybe a bit unwise, but they were both feeling it, and feeling it well. A girl marching along side of them was playing a drum, a simple rhythm that the rest of the reenactors started to step along to. It was soothing and comforting--it made it easier to walk. At their front a woman, seemingly in her 40s, turned around and started marching backwards; she held a red banner aloft.

"Those in power keep us down," she shouted to the rest of the marchers. "They live in palaces as we live in squalor. We labor in their fields, in their homes, in their shops--we earn their riches, but we get nothing! Fuck the Doge! Fuck the Captain General!" The woman declared as she spun around to press forward. The crowd of reenactors cheered; Aria and Emilia cheered. The masked woman, ironically, was a local Red Party leader--most other days she was a supporter of the Iron Woman and a huge fan of the Doge she served. But... today she was in character. As was everyone else... Aria, her mind loose on full strength wine, began to feel the change within her.

Aria felt in character. She wasn't a busgirl in the early 21st century, she was a scullery maid in the late 18th. Sleeping in a cold nook in a cellar, curled up next to her sister. It wasn't hard to imagine, as they'd slept rougher than that for more than a year--but still. It was the hopelessness she could recall. She could transport herself back there--to that headspace, and she could allow herself to get infuriated by it. But, oddly eneough, with the wine, she felt she could control it. Her sister and her had packed up their meager belongings and ran off to join the revolution in progress. The rhythm of the drum made her press forward as she took another swig from her sachel. It was wine she had stolen from her former master. That idea made it taste all the sweeter.

The slaves in Oltremare, as she understood to the best she was able... they'd risen up. Riots were breaking out in San Alopen--people there were rasing the black and red banners. In ancient Hierosolyma, Jews, Christians, and Muslims had joined togeather in vigils against the aristocrats in Radila.

Rumors, even ancient and long verified ones, can have a magical grip on the soul. Emilia cut off a piece of ripened cheese and paired it with a hearty tear of bread. "Young revolutionaries need to eat," she said smiling under her masque. Aria smiled back, lifting her masque up for a moment to greedily nasch the bread and cheese.


*Longknives is an old term used for memebers of Radilo's intelligence service, it refers to the long slender, curved dagger they once carried for assassinations.


@Oltremare

 

[Radilo]

Feast of San Romano, in a garage in an upper-middle class neighborhood, Palmira
October 26, 2023

The celebration of the la Nova costitusion was different in Oltremare than it was in Metropolitan Radilo, or even other overseas territories. The Occidential part of the Republic had "won" its battles well before All Saints' Eve, so they celebrated victory on the Catholic harvest holiday of San Romano--albeit with a twist. In 1797, about a month or so before--and of course it varied from island to island, the slave revolts, aided by the Knights of St. Joseph, had triumphed. Ironically, the now former slaves had to finish the harvest--everyone had to still eat after all. But, because they had thrown the yolk off, during the Feast of San Romano, they raided their former masters' larders. They drank good wine and ate fine meats and cheeses on the holiday.

So it was the tradition for Oltremaro families to have an elaborate, fancy dinner for San Romano's day, or, as they called it, San Romano's Larder.

Kids would dress up as historical figures, mostly as knights and pirates--as those were the most fun. Leonardo was no different: dressed as a Knight of St. Joseph, complete with a plastic chain that approximated the Grand Collar of the Order. He was "helping" his dad smoke the brisket for their San Romano day meal, as in he was watching and occasionally fetching a beer... which was something he was absolutely not supposed to tell mom about. His dad, a bit more... loose than normal, was dumping historical factoids on the 10 year old lad, as any moderately drunk history nerd would.

"You see Leo, Black folks like us, they tried to keep us compartmentalized... so we'd be devided. They kept each plantation isolated. But we have our songs and our ways..." he trailed off a bit poking at the thermometer in the fatty bit. "180... getting there. Anyway, at night back then slaves would sneak out and..."

"Leo," came a call from his mom leaning out of mudroom door, "can you keep your eye on gramdma for a sec, I have to go to the wine cellar... make sure she doesn't pull another Joël Robuchon* with the polenta."

Leo winked at his dad, who winked back. Leo scampered past the mudroom towards the kitchen.

Once there he saw his whiteish-grey haired grandma mixing butter and cornmeal into the saucepan. "Mom said not to put in too much butter," Leo said with his 10 year old confidence.

"My little Crusader, it's la cassaforte de San Romano, butter makes it good... makes it seasonal. We eat enough fish and Johnnycakes most of the year... it's time to indulge..."


On a Beach near Palmira
1795

Another young woman sailor, unshod and dark featured was struggling to get the steeds of the Knights of Saint Joseph off of the ship. "They speak Urodoah," a voice said from behind her. "They are Urodoah horses, the strongest in the world, that's why we ride them," he said as he hopped up upon one. "We'll take it from here, girl," said the Knight.

After a few moments, the Knights, in silence, save their foreign instructions to their horses, started to mount their steads with the intent to head, eventually, to the Governor's Palace.

"Iilaa al'amam" the men would say to make their horses moved forward.

After their horses were offloaded, the Knights proceeded first towards the Cathedral, so they could celebrate Mass, as was custom. What they witnessed en route horrified them.

As they rode, in formation, to the Cathedral, they bore witness to the horrors that they were tasked to defend.

They passed young boy, no more than 10, who was as stretched out on a St. Andrew's cross being whipped with a chicote. Next, they passed the slave market. The horrified screams of children and mothers being torn apart... they would never forget.

"This, offends God," whispered one knight to the Grandmaster.

"Yes it does," he responded. The scenes of pain began to swirl around him. There was a thick miasma of mud the horses had to trudge though. It was impossible to ignore the misery such mud caked over. There seemed to be an organic procession of chains: an orgy of suffering. Giuseppe grew frustrated, then angry, then enraged. He signaled to bypass the Cathedral, so the Knights made their way straight to the Governor's Palace.


Governor's Palace, Palmira
1795

Giuseppe Luigi Constantino burst through the gates of the Governor's Palace, with his horse in tow behind him. A stable boy approached to take charge of the steed.

"Thank you, boy, but keep him ready. Atabaeah," he said to the beast, who obediently followed the squire.

He ascended the stairs at the front of the palace, with a growing contingent of Knights marching behind him. Once inside, navigating the various rooms, the Grandmaster burst into the room which served as the Governor's office, sword drawn.

"What is the meaning of this?" The soon to be former governor asked.

Grinning, Giuseppe responded, sword in hand: “his Serenity, the Doge, has granted me the authority to answer to no one save His Holiness and God himself. As His Holiness is busy with the church: I answer to God, and God is displeased with how you have treated his flock here in the New World..." he took a deep breath... “Therefore, you are relieved of your duties as the governor of this territory. If you object, I will relieve you of the burden of this world as well."

The stunned man was speechless... "go," Giuseppe said in a whisper, "a ship will take you to Radila."

The former governor proceeded to run away.


* a French chef known for adding an excessive amount of butter in dishes.

@Oltremare