NationStates Jolt Archive

Rome, Italy
Senator Decimus Servilius Severus, one of the Optimates, worked to keep his dagger concealed inside his ceremonial robes as he walked through the Senate building toward the rotunda, where the Senate usually held its meetings. His face was sore from doing everything he could to keep a straight face, however judging by the stares he got from those he passed by, he was obviously failing. And there were many people he had to pass by today, the great Caesar Maximus I would be joining in the proceedings today, probably asking for a raise in taxes for the upcoming war in Libya to advance the goals of the French. Normally, one should be much more nervous walking through the Senate with a weapon, but Decimus had need to be, the security forces in the Senate had been paid off to look the other way for this day only.

Decimus walked into the rotunda and took his seat, three levels away from the Speaker’s Chair, with the other Optimates, each of whom carried a dagger somewhere on his person. Even some of the Populares agreed to aid them in this conspiracy, and both the Republicans and Democrats had vowed to stay out of the affair, neither helping the Caesar, nor the Senators. In this very room there were just over two hundred daggers all aimed at one man’s blood. Decimus’ gaze drifted down the rotunda to Marcus Romulus, the prime mover of this plot. For a moment their gazes met, and in that instant each knew that they were ready to do their part. The air was electric as every Senator in the room knew what was going to happen and, even if marginally, approved of it for their own reasons. For the Optimates, they were tired of seeing Italy play to the French tune, they were tired of seeing Italy remain a minor power while France elevated herself into a super-power. The Optimates wanted a new Caesar, a strong Caesar, one who would restore Italy and the Roman Empire to its former glory.

At last, Caesar Maximus I walked into the rotunda in an elegant purple and gold satin robe, gold laurels sat around his bald head; he was a picture of splendor and majesty. Cameras were focused the Caesar of Rome, but none of them were recording, no news of what happened here would make it to the public. The entire Senate stood for his entrance and the Princeps Senatus, Lucius Catulus, graciously gave up his seat. But when Maximus turned to approach it, he exposed his back to Catulus, who immediately drew his dagger and plunged it into the Caesar’s back. When he withdrew the blade, its tip was bathed in blood, Maximus arched back and might have screamed if pain hadn’t sucked all the breath from his lungs. At that moment all the Senate went into a frenzy, Decimus moved as fast as he could to cut off Maximus as he tried to escape, constantly being attacked from both in front and from behind. Despair marked the Caesar’s face as Decimus stepped in front of him, stopping him and stabbed the man in his stomach. Blood poured over Decimus’ hands as he pulled out his dagger, only to see surprise on Maximus’ face when he looked back up. Suddenly, everything stopped, they all knew the Caesar was dead, and Maximus turned around to face his best friend who had just stabbed him in the back. Barely above a whisper, yet what seemed louder than a shout, came Caesar Maximus I last words, “Et tu Romulus?” The body fell to the floor, dead. Senators immediately retreated straight to their offices to dispose of their weapons, clean themselves up and remove the blood from their hands. So ended the life of Caesar Maximus I, Caesar of the Roman Empire.

To the public, it would be said that Maximus had suffered a massive heart attack and died instantly. His funeral would be filled with grandeur, with all the members of the Holy League being invited, along with all the Optimates that had previously killed him so ruthlessly. The Optimates, unanimously agreed that Catulus and the two Consuls, Quintus Lutatius Catulus and Marcus Marius would remain in their offices to keep the other factions in line. Instead, the Optimates chose Romulus, the instigator of this conspiracy to become the next Caesar. Thus, a week after the funeral, the Bishop of Rome, crowned Romulus Caesar of the Roman Empire and Caesar Marcus Romulus I. Just after his coronation, from the balcony of the Palace of the Holy Citadel, Romulus I gave this speech:

“Citizens of the Roman Empire, I, Marcus Romulus I, do solemnly swear, with the help of God to lead and protect you and to never abandon you for as long as I live. It is my goal to bring the Empire back to the glory that it once held, it is my goal to restore Greece to its rightful place at our side, and with the economic aid Libya has to offer, I believe that this goal can, nee, will be achieved. As my first act, all those who are called slaves will become their own man, with all the rights and priviledges that every citizen of the Empire enjoys.”

((*Spits out coffee* My dear Lord. Have you been watching the Rome miniseries, Vecron? Well, talk about an entrance! And as a side note, I don’t think Doomingsland ever had slaves per se in Rome.))

Versailles

La Marechaussee could hardly be called the West’s premier and most ruthless intelligence network if it didn’t pick up what truly had happened. Soon after the last dagger had been washed in a no doubt marble sink an unnamed Senator, on the take from Versailles, placed the call. Within minutes the information was transmitted from the Palais Royale in Paris, where la Marechaussee kept shop, to the radiant palace where the Sun King resided. Prime Minister Monsieur le Comte de Maurepas was soon informed, being told of the event not a quarter hour after delivering a rather stern ultimatum to a rabble of Czech banditry. He was not a man taken aback at surprises, but this took him straight down. After dropping a glass of champagne, he gathered himself.

“His Majesty will want to know of this,” M. de Maurepas said, speaking absently to a number of valets who dressed him in the Court finery that was necessary whenever one sought to speak in person with the Most Christian King. He took a deep breath as the last brush of powder was placed on his face, and the similarly powdered wig came down over his thinning gray hair. Gathering himself, he left his apartments. Strolling down the Hall of Mirrors, he soon arrived at the Oeil-de-Boeuf antechamber, which led to directly to the King’s personal state rooms.

As the doors opened to the antechamber, a huge and ornate grandfather struck minuit. Monsieur le Comte de Maurepas was greeted with a massive and muscular Garde Suisse, resplendent in his gold, silver, and red uniform surmounted by a white plumed tricorner hat. The Garde had a long scar running down the side of his face. He was Sergeant Blazer, native of Zurich, and one of the Cent Suisse, the ultra-elite hundred man team of the Garde Suisse itself who were responsible for the security of the King directly. Behind him, flanking the silver and gold decorated doors which led to the Most Christian King’s apartments, two more Garde Suisse held watch.

“I must speak to the King,” stated the Prime Minister in a matter of fact tone “it is a issue of the greatest import.”

Sergeant Blazer inclined his head slightly. He nodded to his soldiers, who opened the door to him, and passed inside, leaving the Prime Minister waiting in the antechamber for several minutes. About ten minutes later Blazer returned.

“The Most Christian King will see you now, Monsieur.” The Switzers voice was like gravel, and he spoke French slowly with a heavy heavy German accent.

Maurepas nodded, and passed through the doors, the Gardes slamming their ceremonial mahogany rifle butts to the floor as he passed in salute. Monsieur le Comte passed down halls luxurious even in the dimmed light of night, past galleries and state rooms, to the Apollo Bedroom, where the King currently had his abode set up. Passing into the Bedroom, which was as large as a university basketball hall, he saw King Louis-Auguste sitting in a ornate but comfortable high winged chair, in front of a roaring fire. Themes of the sun god Apollo decorated the ceiling, motifs and frescos, painted by the worlds finest masters hundreds of years ago. In contrast to the finely dressed Maurepas, His Most Christian Majesty was in rather plain attire. The King had obviously been awakened, and wore a simple blue silk night robe, with a white silk cravat. He smoked a cigarette, and held a glass of, yes, Scotch whiskey in his hand.

M. de Maurepas fell to his knees in front of the King, and kissed the royal signet ring upon the monarch’s hand. Louis-Auguste, his eyes still bleary (since the war started his physicians prescribed rather heavy tranquilizers to help the Bourbon King sleep), gave a small smile. The Prime Minister was his friend, and a brilliant statesman, these indeed were the only reason he was given such an informal admittance.

“What is it, cher ami, that brings you too me at such an ungodly hour?” As always, Louis-Auguste’s voice was like gold on velvet. The King motioned for Maurepas to fill himself a glass of whiskey, which he promptly did, and then allowed the Comte the incomprehensible kindness of sitting next to him in the opposite chair.

“Sa Majeste, something has happened in Rome…” The Prime Minister then proceeded to tell France’s monarch what had occurred several hours ago in the Eternal City.

“And so, Sire, Caesar Maximus has fallen to this coup d’etat, Caesar Marcus Romulus now wears the golden laurels.”

King Louis-Auguste sat back in his chair for at least five minutes, dead silent, his pitch black eyes scanning the crackling fire. Intense thoughts swam like fish under those powerful eyes. He drained his whiskey in one pull, threw the cigarette butt into the fire, and smoothed his robe mechanically before turning his head ever so slightly to Maurepas. A slight smile played on the regal lips.

“It seems we have a Caesar with some initiative now, old friend, n’est-ce pas? Let us make the most of this new dynasty.” He was silent again for a minute or so, the thoughts still swimming like fish across his deep eyes. “We shall take this in stride, Maurepas. He seems committed to Libya, and it might do the Holy League some good to have another firebrand set loose.” He chuckled. “What is certain is that it will dismay the Communists, and inspire our alliance! So it suits us very well.” He stood up, silently the gentlemen of the bedchamber rose and prepared to once again perform the Coucher and put King Louis-Auguste into the massive bed.

Maurepas of course rose the instant the King did. As Louis-Auguste proceeded he stopped for a moment, and turned back.

“Yes, this could turn out very well. Tell our officers (meaning la Marechaussee) to bury this report we have found. Maximus died in his sleep, long live Maximus!” He then turned around and continued towards the bed, a very long walk, but did not cease speaking.

“You will personally leave on the morrow to speak with this new ruler. Inform him that my youngest brother le Duc d'Aquitaine is ready to wed, and it is my wish that Caesar Marcus Romulus provide some dame of his family as suitable spouse, and so seal the alliance that has so pleased us. Inform him we are supportive of his ascendancy. Inform him we shall attend the late Maximus’s funeral with all honor, and that we know of many things would benefit the Holy League. Yes, tell him we know of many things.” Maurepas could not see it, but he heard a smirk in the King’s voice.

“Tell him his brother the Most Christian King stands by him as a friend, and we anticipate gladly the day when marital vows shall unite us beyond common purpose into blood relations. Most importantly, tell him we pray for the success of his rule. Tell him these things, and that itinerary permitting we shall arrive within the week to sing Masses for Caesar Maximus’s spirit, and sing Masses for a long and glorious reign for Caesar Maximus.”

“Bon nui, cher ami” finished Louis-Auguste, as high ranking nobles removed the royal slippers and robes and eased the Sun King into his bed. Sergeant Blazer arrived to show Maurepas out.

“Bon nui, Sa Majeste.”

At first light, the Airbus 2000 was airborne from Paris, and directly on its way to Rome, bearing the Prime Minister of France with such heartening dispatches.

OOC-Bravo! That was brilliant! I shall post as soon as I can. Jean, you must admit, my current membership drive is paying of in dividends, no? The contrast and colour in your posts were marvelous, the juxtoposition between the two were great! Long live Ceaser!

BTW, I am sure this is what you were getting at, but the Bishop of Rome is th Pope, just in case. Jean, I just have to make sure he realises, he is, alas, a Protestant like myself playing a Catholic.

And Doomingsland definately had slaves, and lots of them. It nearly started a war, and was even unpopular within his own nation. This move should rocket the new Ceaser to both local and international recognition. The reason it didn't come to war was that Roman slaves are treated very well, and educated, they are completely unlike the American slaves of your history, Jean.

IC-The ambassador from teh Quinntonian embassy writes a missive congratulating the new Ceaser on his throne.

WWJD
Amen.

Deep in the grey thick grey walls of the Kremlin, in a dark, dank room there slept a giant. This was a creature of legend, like something out of Tribal Kyevian folklore. There lies the one and only true Tsar of all of the Russias. A mountain of a man, his seven-foot, three hundred and fifty pound frame was sitting up in a specially built high backed chair that faced his fireplace. Nothing but the dreary, dying embers lay there. The grey on the man’s massive head had crept down onto his wild beard like something out of the Old Testament, and then onto his chest, where among the think hair here and there were scars from sword wounds and bullets. Battle scars, war wounds like Tsars of old. A deep red blanket wrapped around his body he snored with such a volume that it threatened to shake the very beams of the roof that he sleep in. On a stand across the room stood his impressive Armour, bright golden in colour, with a red cape that was bigger than most men. And next to his bed lay his sword. The thing that he had carved his Empire out with. It was more than six feet long from handle to tip and weighed in excess of 75 pounds itself. It had been beside him when he had fought the Soviets of the USSR to win Ukraine from them. It had been at his side when he took most of Lavrageria as his own at a whim. It was at his side when he made Moldova and the Baltics bow to his will. And when he strangled the life out of Vladimir Putin to gain control of Russia and Kazakhstan, it was beside him also.

Around him lay a dozen empty bottles, each of fine Russian vodka, only the best for the Tsar. But though his capacity for strong drink was as legendary as everything else about him, in the end he was a man. And this man had drunk himself into a stupor again this night.

When the spies that Kargat had, and the French politely ignored, in the Palais called Yvonne, the head of the Kargat, Yvonne knew that someone would have to wake the Tsar. His temper was something to behold when he was awoken, but men were known to find out just how much strength that old man had left if they did not tell him things like this promptly. And no one was in the mood to get strangled tonight. Then the idea struck them, the Royal Princess Adrienna! His second daughter!

They found her otherwise occupied with one of her dalliances. It was distressing to the Kargat that these distractions with which she busied herself could be of either sex, as they did not know what to do with such information considering Winget’s tunnel vision and conservative views of his daughters. It was said that upon news of Jillesepone’s fourth child he still had not admitted to himself that she was not as virginal as the Sacred Mother herself. But, the tomboy Adrienna quickly dressed, putting on her black leather studded armour, heavy combat boots, carefully slipping a knife into each, strapping on her sidearm and her sword before brushing her uncombed but short hair out of her dangerous blue eyes and marching off to wake the giant.

She knocked for awhile, but when there was no answer on the huge, steel hinged wooden door, she opened it with a loud and lonely creek, like the ghosts of the many dead buried in the catacombs not far from here under Red Square. He was dying. She knew that. She thought that with a life like his, he should have given it up a long time ago, but the old man refused to admit that he too was mortal, and would have to pass on his throne some day. She heard his snoring before she saw him, and quickly shut the heavy door behind her with a loud bang that still did not rouse him. Her heavy boots clacked on the cold, stone floor, and she walked up to the giant chair, her 5’8” tall, and 160lbs. of solid muscle feeling insignificant next to him. She saw the bottles on the floor and took his mammoth paw and shook it as she said, “Papa, father, it is me, Adrienna, your Secret Police Director, Yvonne, wishes to see you…”

The old man moved and started to mumble, “Oh my Tsarina, why did you leave me alone? Peter isn’t old enough to be Tsar, and I shall never see my dear Jillesepone again. Why did you do it? Why did steal my pistol that day? I miss you so much…” With that, he started up, and stood with a flash to his full height. A slight brush of his hand sent his now sobbing daughter skipping across the floor and though naked from the waist up, his powerful arm caught hold of his sword while his magnetic and steely eyes flashed with righteous rage as he glared at the prone rag doll on the floor. He pulled back his sword arm with the awesome strength of a trebuchet and…”Father no!” poor, weeping Adrienna cried. He stopped in mid swing, his frame coming to a shuddering stop like a train suddenly applying the brakes. “Adrienna?” he growled.

She simply stood and ran from the room still sobbing as he noted, with some satisfaction and pride that she held her sidearm in her right hand and a boot-knife in her left.

“That is why I never allowed her to marry, I would lose too good a soldier. Who would command my armies? I am glad that I had that; what was his name, ah yes, Frederick removed. She will forgive me…one day.”

“Having his ears sent to her in a Faberge egg was an especially nice touch,” came the high-pitched weasely voice of Yvonne, his Secret Police Director, the leader of the infamous Kargat. The man wore a black trench coat, with round glasses on his face and not even a small amount of body hair anywhere on his hunched and sickeningly white frame.

Wingert Groznyy, descendant of Ivan Groznyy, Ivan IV to some, the first true Tsar of Russia to others, before that Romanoff trash took the throne from them. But most knew him as Ivan Groznyy. His Russian last name was translated as AWESOME, or TERRIBLE. Ivan the Terrible was his ancestor, and this Tsar too was both awesome and terrible all at once. “I think she knows that I tore them off of him, do you think she will love me again?”

“All must love you, my Tsar.”

“Yes, they must, mustn’t they. But can there be love without forgiveness? Enough of this,” the ogre bellowed, “what is it that brings you to my bedchamber at this time of night?”

“Only the most important news, my Tsar, the Caesar of Rome has been killed, a new Caesar is in place,” Yvonne snivelled. He then told Wingert the whole story.

The Tsar though for a moment as his servants brought wood in and stoked the fire until its embers now were turned into a flaming inferno. He strokes his beard as the red light of the fire lit his face and the fire danced in his eyes as if he were the Adversary himself. “The Romans know how to do politics, tell First Minister Armand that I will travel out to meet this other claimant to the Imperial throne. His claimant to the Eastern Empire is what interests me most. As Tsar is the Russian word for Caesar, so I am the modern embodiment of the Eastern Emperors. He should know that. But if my son-in-law in France wishes his alliance, then so shall we. Is he married?”

The preparations were being made for the monster to come from its lair once more and see the world. Caesar Maximus was in for a shock. He had not seen anything like this Wingert, this Tsar of all the Russias.

And outside, the cacophony of screams that emanated from the dungeons below the Kremlin mixed with the howling of the wind, with snow blowing through the frozen streets and a pale moon shining down on Moscow. The moons were so pale these days; it is almost as though light does not shine here any longer.

Tsar Wingert the Great.

Vaclav Klaus is getting a back massage by his favorite economic student Klára Lohniská in his office in Prague Castle when he is rudely interrupted by the telephone. Klaus reaches for the phone.

"Dont you remember that I did not want to be disturbed....Oh really. Italy you say? Those Holy Leaguers do seem to spend more time fighting themselves than others." An idea suddenly crosses Klaus's mind. "Send a bottle of our finest Svatovavřinecké red wine. Let him know that the Italians are always welcome to stay at Prague Castle."

Klaus hangs up the telephone and begins to enjoy himself again. He thinks that a bit of wine would taste pretty good right now. "Oh Klára Darling would be please be a good girl and get me some of the Svatovavřinecké?"

Ah, I really have to read this! But the internet cafe is closing and I have things to do. Should Yugoslavia worry? Ah!

Gaius Agrippa, secretary to Caesar Romulus I greeted the guests in the antechamber of the throne room, doing everything possible to ensure their comfort, then quickly walked through the large brass doors. The Throne Room was massive, a perfect example of Romanesque architecture as marble pillars stretched high above his head and lined the ceiling with tens of arches. Lights hung from each pillar, brightening the large room that would otherwise be very dark. There were very few windows in the Throne Room, much of the walls were adorned with tapestries and frescos of Virgin Mother and Jesus. In front of each pillar was a marble bust of past Caesar’s of Rome, going all the way back to Julius Caesar. The only window was above the Caesar’s chair, and when the sun reached the right spot in the sky, which was right about now, the shaft of light that would shine through would be centered on the Throne. His footsteps were muffled as he walked across the red carpet that led to Romulus’ throne. Underneath the carpet, a beautiful white and black polished marble floor reflected the light throughout the hall. Gaius was one of the few who could truly say he loved his job.

Romulus sat on the golden throne, adjusting his purple robes and armor while he spoke to one of the many priests who worked in and around the palace. Gaius walked up to the steps before his Caesar and kneeled down, bowing his head and waited his lord’s attention. He didn’t need to wait long, “Thank you, Father,” Romulus said, after bowing, Gaius was just able to see the priest’s foot as he walked past him. After a moment, Gaius heard Romulus stand up, “Gaius, you may rise.” He rose and saw a gentle smile on his Caesar’s face, “What business brings you here?”

“Caesar,” Gaius addressed, keeping his head bowed, “the Prime Minister of France and the Tsar of Russia have come to have an audience with you.”

Romulus raised his eyebrows, “Both of them?”

“Yes my Caesar.”

Romulus thought for a moment before responding, “They probably want me, or someone from my family, to marry. Well, my days as a bachelor are inevitably numbered, though I hope I can stave it off for as long as I can.” Gaius knew that Romulus despised the act of marrying among royalty in the Holy League, he knew that Romulus saw it as dismantling some of the sovereignty that every member of the Holy League had fought to build. Marriages to nobles from France and Russia only took that power away from him. “But, we do want to be full members of the Holy League, and I knew that would be the price. Bring in them in.”

Upon seeing the Tsar, and craning his neck to look him in the eye from his 5’9” vantage point, he greeted his guests “Tsar Wingert, I have heard of how impressive you are, I want you to know that the stories do not do you justice. Prime Minister, its wonderful to finally meet you, please tell me why you have come.”

After hearing the marriage offer from the Prime Minister, Romulus closed a hand around his chin and racked his brain for a suitable family member, “My options are quite limited, since I am an only child, and most of my cousins are not of a suitable age. However, I believe that there is one, who lives in Florence, her name is Vibia Sallustia, she would be happy to marry anyone from the French Royal Family.” What Romulus didn’t tell him was that Vibia was not a cousin he particularly cared for, she had too often shamed herself and harmed her family’s pursuit of status.

Then Tsar spoke his argument, his voice bellowed in the hall like a mighty lion’s roar. Romulus did everything in his power not to be intimidated by this menacing hulk. He kept his head held high and answered him, “No, my lord, I am not married, I am still a bachelor, though now with many women chasing after me for status than before. May I remind, Tsar Wingert, that I am the Emperor of the Western Empire and that one time this entire continent, both east and west, was ruled under the Roman banner. I respect your claim to the Eastern Empire, you have fought hard for her and have governed her well, I also respect the claim of the French on her Empire, as well as all members of the Holy League. No, Greece and Rome once had a very intimate relationship in the Empire, and with the economic help from Libya, I desire to restore that relationship.”

OOC: I hope I didn't just speak for you guys there, now that I think about it, I may have been edging toward that line. If so sorry.

IC: Caesar Romulus I sits down in the courtyard of the Place of the Holy Citadel, enjoying a nice dinner with one his friends, Senator Decimus. On the table sits the wine sent from Yugoslavia, half gone. Decimus, a man who could never hold his liquor, looked at Romulus, his eyes glazed over and holding up his third full glass of wine, "What kind of wine was this again?"

Romulus lifted the bottle and tried to read the label, "Svat- Svatavni- Svata- It's a red wine from Vaclav Klaus in Yugoslavia."

"Ah," Decimus exclaimed, "They anyone we should worry about?"

Romulus raised his eyebrows, "Not unless they give us something to worry about. Though I have a feeling that they may be of use to us."

OOC: Where is Yugoslavia?? :confused: I don't have a map around me right now.

The Tsar stared down at this insignificant wretch of a man. He wore the traditional purple robes, but he did not seem to be the warrior of some Caesars, rather the politician of the later ones. But he had been fooled when the French diplomats from the Versailles had offered their help in the Lavragerian conflict, that man had worn a wig and more lace than one of his whores. And when Louis XX had visited his native Ukraine to do some hunting after the marriage of his daughter to the French king’s son, and he had found him the measure of a warrior and a gentleman. And his son, who now sat on the throne of France, and had provided Wingert with heirs, rode into battle leading a grouping of tanks to crush the enemy. He had earned the respect of even the most hardened Boyars in the Tsarist lands.

Still, this little man had a steel about him, one did not become the ruler of Rome by chance, and in this case definitely not by birthright.

Wingert turned to the French Prime Minister and said in perfect French, as it was the court languages of the Tsars, “If you wish to find out first hand from Blessed St. Peter if Orthodoxy or Catholicism is the correct faith, then remain in my presence.” The Prime Minister took this subtle cue and took his leave so that the Emperors could speak alone.

Wingert drew up his seven foot frame, with his massive six-foot blade strapped to his back and his massive red cape draping down his back, is armour gleaming with a golden sheen, and bellowed, “I am not accustomed to be brought into group audiences with my inferiors. As much as I appreciate the French Prime Minister, he is a peon and I am a living manifestation of God.” This was obviously translated from Ukrainian into Latin, or Italian, by an interpreter.

Wingert pulled off his gauntlets, the metal in those alone must be incredibly heavy, and affixed them to his belt as his soulless, glaring, eyes fixed on Romulus. “I have come to give you the respect you deserve as a member of the Holy League and as the man who rules the highest Patriarchy, the See of Rome. But we have business, you and I. First, the matter of Greece; I consider them to be within my realm of influence. I am the Eastern Emperor, and you the West. Long after Rome fell into barbarism, the Roman Empire and her Emperors ruled the Eastern Empire from Constantinople until it fell in the fifteenth century to the Ottomans under Suleiman the Magnificent. At that time, Orthodoxy, who had broken with Rome spiritually long before your Cardinal Humphries excommunicated us,” he snorted derisively, “looked to the new Caesar, the Czar, the Tsar of Moscow and he became the embodiment of Byzantine Imperial power for the next several centuries. And for many Orthodox, I continue to be that Divine embodiment. Therefore, I am concerned when a Catholic king threatens a nation that has more than ten million of my Orthodox children.”

Wingert then paused, his maniacal and powerful eyes glaring out from his head as his giant paw stroked his wild beard. “But I also come to talk of alliance. I understand that you wish to remain unmarried for the time being. I respect that. I have been married thrice, and they are nothing but trouble. And they break so easily.” The last comment came as almost an afterthought, which chilled everyone listening right to the bone, as it seemed like the most honest moment that this monster had shared thus far.

“But I come to offer you a betrothal that may serve both of our purposes. It will be an advantageous marriage for me, and for you, it will not have to occur for years yet. I offer you my granddaughter Catherine Bourbon-Groznyy. She is eight years of age, and is the twin younger sister of my heir, my grandson Peter. You heard the last names right; she is the daughter of the current King of France, and my daughter the Queen. There is no better marriage to seal this alliance with the Holy League with blood, as you will gain close ties with both the house Groznyy, and the house Bourbon. And, you shall not have to commit to the vows until she is of age, perhaps 21. Or, depending upon how beautiful she becomes, earlier, if it would please your appetites.” Another shudder.

Wingert stopped, satisfied with what he had proposed, oblivious to the social awkwardness he had caused, this man was no diplomat, but he was a founding member of the League and over 400 million people in three continents pledged him allegiance. How would the Western Empire respond?

A map for you:
https://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/reference_maps/pdf/europe.pdf

Tsar Wingert the Great.

(OOC: Yugoslavia is in the Balkans, of course. Serbia (incl. Montenegro, Kosovo, Vojvodina), Croatia, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Slovenia, Macedonia (the SFRY in reality) plus Bulgaria. Klaus is the leader of the Czech Republic (capital at Prague, as mentioned), not Yugoslavia. The Czechs sent you wine :) Marshal Lav (Larionko Aidarov) is President for Life of Yugoslavia, and he probably won't send you wine, but it's a toss-up as to whether or not he'll try to invade Venice or something :) )

OOC: Yeah I am the Czech Republic but I can still be useful to you. Not really considering I am in a conflict with France's ally Austria, but it was worth a try. But if you wanted to make friends with us we would definitely try and accodomate you, although I do not know if it would be in your best interest. But good luck trying to decide which HL'er to marry. Maybe a compromise by marrying one of Klaus' grandchildren? ;)

OOC: Sorry about the Yugoslavia/Czech thing. I suppose we can pass the mistake up to a drunken stupor.

IC::eek: Romulus worked to maintain his composure in front of this giant. The Senate had prepared him for politics and how to deal with people to get what you want, but never had he needed to deal with rulers from other states. It was quite evident to him that he still had much to learn. But then again, this Tsar was not a diplomat either, no he was a warrior, better equipped to kill than to speak. It was quite clear that Romulus wanted this man as an ally more than anything less than that, but he would not be pushed around. “My great Tsar, let me first apologize for the grievance that I have done to you, I have no excuse. However, maybe we can work out a deal. I will take your granddaughter in marriage once she is of age, if you will remain neutral should a conflict arise in Greece. I will also swear, to God, to and on my honor that when Greece is returned to Rome, the Orthodox who reside within her borders will be allowed to practice without interference. I will not be swayed from Greece, oh awesome Tsar, but I hope that despite this we can become good friends.” Tsar Wingert may have been a man of impressive size and strength, but Caesar Romulus would not break.

Le Comte de Maurepas needed no urging from the giant that was Wingert, and before you could say –Adieu- he was scurrying off down the hall, after a bow to Caesar and Tsar, off to place a call to Versailles. Caesar Marcus Romulus was turning out to be quite a fellow, and that report of Maximus ‘slipping in the shower’ was thoroughly burned and used to light a victory cigar.

Le Duc d’Aquitaine was felt to be a good match for Signora Vibia Sallustia. If she had a ‘colored’ past, Louis Antoine Charles Xavier de Bourbon et Parma, known commonly as le Duc d’Aquitaine, had a pitch black one. Affairs were the least of his worries, his debaucheries, in the past of course, made Hugh Heffner look like a Cistercian monk. It would be a hopefully happy match; both were the younger members of the royal houses, and with such appetites each would no doubt keep the other well occupied…for boredom they could also bring in ‘a third wheel’, just no cameras.

At Versailles the Most Christian King was ecstatic at hearing the news, this happiness increased tenfold when he heard one of his twin children, Catherine Elise Louise Wingerta Jillesepone de Bourbon et Groznyy, was slated to marry Caesar Marcus Romulus. He could marry her at fourteen for all Versailles cared, agreeing with Wingert that sooner was always better when dealing with dynastic marriages.

On that note the Prime Minister to His Most Christian Majesty announced that King Louis-Auguste and his immediate family (Queen Jillesepone, le Duc de Berry, 5, and le Duc d’Anjou, one month) would be escorting le Duc d’Aquitaine, only in his early twenties, to Rome for the ceremony. They would leave Paris by train by the next days eve, and would arrive in the Eternal City shortly thereafter.

It would be good for everyone to meet and get together. One big happy family. Louis-Auguste was also looking forward to telling Caesar about insidious Czech's, and how to never trust that 'chap' Aidarov.

Caesar Romulus Magnus sat at the conference table with his three military chiefs: Capo di Stato Maggiore della Marina Julia Helvetius, Capo di Stato Maggiore dell'Regia Aeronautica Attius Axius and Stato Maggiore dell’Esercito Titus Petronius. It was a time of relative peace, though skirmishes were still breaking out in the air against the Soviets attempting to supply Yugoslavia. Each chief had delivered his report for their respective divisions. Petronius' as always called for more funding and men to replace losses in the Austrian battle. Axius reported that work had already begun on replacing the 22 Starfighters lost in Slovenia with Eurofighters and that they could be expected in a few months. Helvetius read the most intriguing report, most of corvette fleet and one Maestrale class frigate were already undergoing repairs and being rebuilt. However, she advised in her report that, with the Suez Crisis and an increasing number of heavily armed German and Quinntonian fleets floating in the Mediterranean, Rome needed to strengthen her muscle on the waters. She called for another three De la Penne class destroyers, two more Cassiopea 2 class corvettes and the construction of a supercarrier to rival Germany and Quinntonia. Romulus agreed with his new navy chief, he had already had a plan to strengthen his air force, now he had a plan to strengthen his navy. Plus, the Eurofighters made to replace the Starfighters could be used to fill this new carrier. Romulus also would like to invite the Kingdom of France and Tsarist Russia to assist in the designing, construction and financing of this project. It would be done!

(OOC: In case your wondering, the supercarrier would be equivalent to the Nimitz)

Hail Caesar!

The news of the Regia Marina’s new project of a supercarrier sparked a large debate in the Senate. The massive size of the project and the impact it could have on the economy required the Senate’s support. The major issue in the debate was the cost that would be incurred by the highly ambitious project. The Democrats wonder if a supercarrier is really needed in the Empire, after all, Rome is a regional power and a supercarrier seems largely to be overkill and a waste of Roman money and manpower. Some of the Republicans agreed with them, while others only agree in part, seeing a supercarrier certainly as overkill, they do see a need for a fighter carrier but only for a smaller, 30-40 fighter design. However, the concerns and voices of the Democrats and Republicans were quickly dismissed; the supercarrier could symbolize the Roman Empire moving into the world of the super power and vault the Holy League along with it. Among the Populares and the Optimates the debate raged about what kind of complement would be. The Populares favoured the French Rafale, built and designed specifically for use on aircraft carriers and much cheaper than making a navalised version of the Eurofighter. Enough of the Optimates, those who were “money conscious,” agreed with the Populares to cause the Optimate faction to pause. Only a slight majority of the Optimates were completely behind Caesar Romulus, seeing the Eurofighter as representing Roman sovereignty, especially in separating Rome from Paris. Plus, the possibility of selling the carrier to Rome’s allies could eventually lighten the burden of construction. There was also the increasingly tense world situation, in which carriers like this would become a huge asset. As the debate raged on, it was evident that the Senate would disagree with Romulus and either go with the Rafale, or refuse to build the supercarrier entirely. But Romulus was a veteran of the Senatorium and knew where to apply pressure on the Optimate and certain Populares Senators so that they could feel the pinch. Whether it was blackmail with some dark, dirty secret or the threat of financial ruin or even the threat of death, Romulus was determined to change the mind of the Senatorium. Every day, more and more Senators began to sing a different tune, and Rome received approval for the construction of Roman/Holy League carrier with a complement of navalised Eurofighters. However, there was compromise as the design was agreed to be smaller than the Nimitz, carry fewer aircraft and cancelled the order for two De la Penne class guided missile destroyers.

Soon afterward, the Senate approved a design for the carrier, smaller than a Nimitz with a maximum payload of 75 planes and helicopters and a regular complement of 5 TIE fighter-carrier squadrons or 60 Eurofighters that were being built to replace the Starfighter. Currently, an order was in progress to replace the 22 Starfighters lost in the Yugoslavian conflict with navalized Eurofighters and the supercarrier would not enter full service until all sixty fighters were constructed.

Hail Caesar!

Hm... now that we're back at war, I'm tempted to let you build it most of the way, and then launch a massive air/missile attack on your shipyard. Hee!

Shh! It was supposed to be a secret