Negotiation (2)
Silken carpets woven from the finest brocades and premium wool covered the floor of the opulent palace. The Legislator—true heir to Rome and ruler over Islam—sat reviewing his dispatches. Renowned for his handsome looks since his youth, he was impossibly beautiful and striking even at thirty-eight. An elf by birth, he watched as a man approached and bowed low to his Padishah, Suleiman the Magnificent, the Great Solomon.
The elf glanced at him briefly and gestured casually for his loyal retainer to rise.
"Come, Sokollu Pasha."
"I behold the exalted Legislator, guardian of all Muslims."
A relatively simple greeting. There were endless florid praises one could heap upon him, but as grand vizier, Sokollu could trim it down to this much. Unlike the elven Legislator, the pasha appeared fully human—having risen from Serbian Janissary origins, he could almost pass for European.
The Legislator rose, as always shouldering his burdens with a smile, and recited verses in an angelic voice.
"Sky, sky, lofty sky, twilight sky. My Istanbul, my Baghdad, Khorasan, woman of beautiful tresses, my love with the slanted brow, my sorrow-filled love. I shall always sing for thee."
"A fine ghazal."
"Is it?"
The Legislator smiled. It was a shortened version of verses he'd sent to his late wife Hürrem under the pen name Muhibbi. April 1558. With his "blue bird" departed, an emptiness lingered in the heart of the elven emperor. Sokollu, pretending not to notice, praised it anyway. He knew better than anyone that the empire needed to accelerate its expansion now, so he let the Padishah's grief slide past unacknowledged.
Understanding his vassal's intent, the elven emperor descended to the vizier's side and stood beside him.
"Shall we take a stroll?"
"An honor."
This walk was their sole opportunity for private counsel—the grand vizier and the emperor.
The beautiful gardens of Kostantiniyye. Land conquered a century ago by the current Padishah's great-grandfather, Mehmet II. This ancient territory, now restored to its rightful master, flaunted its splendor for him. The imperial gardens within Kostantiniyye were one such jewel—a spot from which one could glimpse the Golden Horn, said to have been disassembled, shipped, and reassembled by Mehmet II himself.
"A truly magnificent view."
"Indeed."
Sokollu Pasha savored the privilege of walking beside the Padishah, trailed by the emperor's personal Janissary guard.
"Vizier."
"Speak, my lord."
"I wish to build a fine structure over there…"
"What sort?"
"A bridge befitting the arsenal."
The elven emperor beamed. The pasha smiled in return.
"As expected of a patron of the arts."
"But for now, I find myself fond of the shipyard's clamor."
Gazing wistfully at the Golden Horn, the Padishah leaned on the balustrade, smiling at the vast imperial arsenal below.
"Materials?"
"As commanded, gold and timber flow straight to the yards."
"To claim the Mediterranean—our sea, Mare Nostrum—from those Venetian dogs, we need ships."
Venice and the Ottoman Empire vied for Mediterranean supremacy. Genoa was gone, absorbed by Ottoman-friendly France. Thus, the elven emperor need only watch Venice, the Pope, and Philippe—self-proclaimed protector of the infidels.
With his rival Charles V gone, nothing truly stood in the way of Ottoman expansion.
"Can we replicate the Venetian galleys?"
Having captured several, the Legislator marveled at their uncanny uniformity—like stamped from a single mold. Rather than chase their craftsmanship, he'd overwhelm them with numbers: 120 dry docks, two ships per dock—240 vessels to sweep the Venetians from their sea.
"Yes, artisans are dissecting them as we speak."
"Good."
The Legislator smiled. Though he'd lost his blue bird, he remained the steadfast sovereign, unswayed from his path.
"It's time to drive the infidels from our sea."
"Haha! We've won again!"
The king flung open his plate armor visor. Overcome with heaving breaths, he laughed heartily as he removed it.
In the tournament's highlight—the melee—he'd led his team to annihilation of the foe through sheer cunning, and it thrilled him.
"A knight king's triumph, indeed."
The defeated enemy approached with a grin: Count Jean Marnay.
"Haha. You need more practice. Your vanguard and main guard faltered—despite the momentum, that's how we counterattacked."
"Astute as ever, sire. Analyzing it so swiftly—impressive."
The king smiled at the praise. Henry II raised his sword with bravado.
"Victory is ours today!"
Tournament champion and knight king, he reveled in the triumph. Then came a group on horseback—not knights, but nobles in finery. Henry set aside his joy to receive the heralds.
"What brings you here?"
His puzzled tone prompted bows.
"Sire, you must return to the palace at once."
Something unfit for public ears. Regretfully, Henry followed.
Shedding tournament plate alone was impossible; servants swarmed to strip it off. Lighter now, he rode with his guard knights straight to the palace.
"Whew… exhausting."
The knight king who adored tourneys hid none of his ire at handling state affairs on a weary body.
The herald looked guilty. Henry waved it off, demanding answers.
"Rebellions are flaring among the Italians in Milan and Genoa."
"What of the colonial governors?"
History diverged. In the original timeline, France lost Siena to Spain-Savoy in 1557, then was fully expelled from Italy by 1559's Cateau-Cambrésis. Here, France still held Savoy, Milan, and Genoa via governors.
France warred with Spain over Naples, Sicily, Sardinia—not grand armies, but proxy skirmishes with mercenaries.
Wealthy Italy sustained them. Indirect rule via governors was prudent, but rebellions spelled trouble.
The Great Italian War had dragged sixty-six years, bleeding France's coffers dry. They'd once seized cities for plunder; now governance restrained them. No funds to crush revolts.
Henry clutched his throbbing head.
"This tournament's left my skull pounding…"
Brutal sport in heavy plate—he half-feared it'd kill him like some manly curse. Post-exertion headaches amplified by vexing news were agony.
"What are your orders?"
"…"
Rebellion eroded conquest's gains. Yet he'd poured blood, treasure, and time into northern Italy—no yielding it. Holding on would bankrupt the realm. The moment of royal decision had arrived.
Resting after meeting my brother, I pondered in my chamber. The many divergences from true history. The Low Countries' tale had shifted drastically—and it started from my birth in this altered timeline. Don Juan at twenty? This world was doomed from the start.
"The Low Countries…"
This rebellion wouldn't drag to 1580. Simply because France still gripped northern Italy. Originally, France's crushing defeat at Saint-Quentin in 1557 led to Cateau-Cambrésis in 1559, reviving Milan, Genoa, Savoy. Here, France projected power there still.
That opened Genoa's void for me. But it tied down Philip's forces—no massive army for the Low Countries. If he marched through the Holy Roman Empire, it'd take ages. Independence hastened.
Suits me fine. The more he struggles, the freer I am.
"Plus, I'll take command without hassle…"
Today's secret deal with him all but sealed it. With his blessing for betrothal talks with Elizabeth I, I'd won his favor. Marrying her on my own would've meant his blade at my throat. But seeking his intent first? Same outcome, legitimate process—that's key.
Things had gone better than expected. Then—a knock.
Knock knock.
"Who is it?"
The guard at my door appeared, apologetic and cautious.
"The Lord Chamberlain's here, urgent business."
"Understood. Summon the valets—I'll be ready shortly."
"Yes, my lord."
Time for red stockings again. Sighing, I endured the valets dressing me once more—the humiliation anew.