Ragusa's Defiled Banner
Spanish delegation, French delegation, and even representatives from the Papal States. The Archbishop of Ragusa's sudden action silenced them all. But the water had already been spilled, so the archbishop moved forward without hesitation. He pulled something out, and the faces of those watching intently filled with curiosity. But as its identity became clear, their expressions slowly shifted to bewilderment.
I inwardly marveled at the showmanship of the seasoned politician, the Archbishop of Ragusa.
"Do you know what this is?"
"Th-this is..."
Letters written on a torn Knights Hospitaller flag. I couldn't understand their meaning, but everyone knew where they came from.
"I assume you all know."
The archbishop began to dominate the room. Truly worthy of a man who rose from Roman courts to Archbishop of Ragusa, I thought.
"Isn't this... infidel script?"
A noble from the French delegation spoke up. Viori Count glared at him, but the words were already out.
"Correct. This is infidel script. They are committing countless atrocities across Mare Nostrum—our sea."
The French delegation fell silent at once. There was a historical reason for this.
The Franco-Ottoman alliance. My father—Charles V—had propelled Spanish power to new heights. Born the century's golden child, Charles V was Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, King of Spain, heir to the Low Countries through Burgundy, and Archduke of Austria. Factoring in the nations under his influence... he was an absurd existence. One man ruled nearly a third of Europe.
Feeling the threat, Europe's traditional powerhouse, France, sought allies after defeats in the Italian Wars. They couldn't ally with England, their Hundred Years' War nemesis. Northern Italy had endured French invasions since Charles VIII, fostering deep anti-French sentiment. With no partners in Europe, they turned to the infidels—the Ottomans.
A Christian nation allying with an infidel one. It showed France's desperation. For the Ottomans, France was a boon too. Suleiman the Magnificent needed help against his lifelong rival, Charles V. As if waiting for it, François I's offer led to the Franco-Ottoman alliance in 1536.
This was tolerable for national interests but anathema to Catholics. Yet before the pro-French Pope Paul IV, no one dared mention it... until the Archbishop of Ragusa shattered the taboo, under the banner of the "greater good."
"They invade the sacred territories of Christian nations and enslave Christian souls."
The hall fell into near silence. France, as a Christian nation, bore some responsibility.
"And they have insulted one of the Christian knightly orders—the Knights Hospitaller. This is a direct challenge to His Holiness the Pope and a declaration of war on the Christian world."
The archbishop's words bordered on demagoguery. Mostly exaggerated or distorted, but not entirely wrong.
Knights Hospitaller. True to their name, they began as a hospital for pilgrims, formally named by Pope Paschal II. Tied to the Papacy from birth, most Crusader orders had been dissolved by France and popes, but the Hospitallers endured—a remnant of the Crusades into the 16th century. They still fought infidels under their banner.
Defiling the legendary Hospitallers' flag with infidel script... as the archbishop said, it could be seen as insulting the pope who endorsed them. Though flag desecration was commonplace then. Especially by those infidel-pirate enablers, the Maltese pirates... er, Knights Hospitaller. To Muslims, they were Christianity's Barbary pirates. The Hospitallers had little ground to complain about such insults.
But the archbishop framed it masterfully: a challenge to the Christian world. Naturally, fellow Christian France was roped into fighting the Ottomans.
Viori Count seemed ready to protest, but the archbishop gave no opening.
"The Christian world groans under the infidels. Catholic nations must stand against them. And the man here to first proclaim this will to our brothers is present."
Speaking in theatrical tones, the archbishop—true to Italian flair—pointed at me amid the heightened tension.
All eyes turned to me. I stood and met his gaze.
I'd stayed silent through the entire Spanish-French diplomatic spat. Now, suddenly highlighted by the archbishop, everyone looked puzzled.
I surveyed them all and began my prepared speech.
"Dear Christian brothers. I am Don Juan, Count of Malaga, here on behalf of His Highness Philip II, guardian of the faithful."
Heads nodded. With French, Spanish, and Papal representatives present, a brief introduction was needed. Thrust into high society by the archbishop, but my task was simple—I just wanted to finish and vanish.
My role: show Philip's letter to everyone. Meant privately for the pope, I wouldn't reveal the contents—just the sealed envelope. Displaying Philip II's seal here achieved the goal.
"As a Christian, I am deeply outraged by the archbishop's words. I believe all Christians share this sentiment."
More nods. The French looked like they were chewing rocks, but I didn't care.
"The one most grieved by this lamentable state is His Highness Philip II, who, as protector of the Catholic faithful, declares he can no longer tolerate the infidels' actions."
Murmurs rippled. The king of Spain—this era's superpower—speaking thus was shocking. People foresaw war, if not on Crusader scale.
I paused, letting it sink in. Pope Paul IV stared at me with a complex, anger-tinged expression.
Like an Italian opera, my recitativo with the archbishop—our monologue—had ended. Now the overture would play, and the lead, the pope, would step forth.
Aging Paul IV wanted to hand power to his relative, Cardinal Carafa, on his right, but knew it wouldn't be easy. Philip's letter, destined for him, offered that chance. Not full Crusade, but influence over Christendom—and a pretext to empower Carafa.
Yet Paul IV, pro-French and anti-Spanish, hesitated.
"The King of Spain ponders... what does your father ask?"
A cleric assisting the pope questioned. I replied softly.
"His Majesty seeks to reclaim Jerba Island—the lost land of the Knights Hospitaller."
Philip, with ties to the Hospitallers, made sense. Our father, Charles V, had granted them Malta. But Jerba? Once Christian, now Muslim-held near Tunis—it signaled control over southern Italy.
Proximity to Sardinia, Sicily, and Naples meant tacitly acknowledging Spanish rule there.
The French delegation kept trying to interject since Jerba's mention. They had reason to block the pope: two of their three demands would fail, expanding Spanish influence in Italy uncontrollably.
If France dug in, as Christians, they'd have to support or join the anti-Ottoman war per papal order—their "father's" command. They could feign noncompliance, but the Ottomans would see aid or troops as betrayal.
France would have to publicly "reluctantly" join, acknowledging Spanish rule over Sicily, Sardinia, and Naples. Plus, land routes meant ceding Siena and Parma—gateways south, since Milan was blocked.
France would gain nothing but impoverished Ajaccio. Insisting on independence for those three was futile; their nobles were Spanish-aligned, and Spain wouldn't yield.
Spain firmly controlled southern Italy; France couldn't hold the north. Rejecting meant Siena influence and Parma duchy—both pulling France into anti-Ottoman war under papal sway.
France profited from Ottoman trade alliances. Without better options, they needed Ottoman checks on growing Spain. Breaking that risked little gain: war-torn northern Italy was already lost; no desire to bleed for outdated knightly rescue. Poor cost-benefit.
Yet France clung to hope, pleading with eyes for papal refusal.
The final decider, Pope Paul IV, whispered something. The cleric approached me.
"His Holiness wishes to read the letter."
Choosing the historical path. The French delegation—especially Viori Count—went from ashen to ghostly pale.