A Very Common Story
December 25, 1780, the village of Palicone north of Nice. The Kingdom of Sardinia had failed to notice the separatist movement in Annecy. It was due to the events unfolding in the villages around Nice.
The tax collectors had arrived just like any other day to collect taxes. December 25th. A day when everyone should have been happy. But the tax collector showed up without a care, and the village's joy shattered with his arrival.
"Pay up. Including arrears, that's 130 livres. Perfect, this calf will cover it. Haven't had veal in ages."
"If you take that too, we really won't have anything to live on! You won't get milk if you slaughter it. Please, have mercy!"
"Hey now, tax collection is a solemn royal decree."
The village's last cow—their final means of production—was about to be seized by the tax collector.
"Please! Please..."
"This won't do. Drag him out."
"Yes, employer."
"Argh!"
The cow's owner fought desperately to keep it, but he was overpowered by the tax collector's guards and thrown out of the barn.
"We can't live like this anymore. This is my cow—I raised it!"
Moo...
Rolling on the ground outside the barn, the owner could only watch as his cow was taken. But there was one thing different about today: it was Christmas.
"Lord, forgive me—I'm going to kill this tax collector and go to hell."
The people's simmering resentment reached its breaking point, ignited by the spark of Christmas. Right beside him was a pitchfork used for cleaning the stable.
Stab.
"Gahk..."
He ended up killing the tax collector.
"Well... with the boss dead, we're outta here. That cool?"
"..."
"Guess that's a yes."
The mercenaries fled the moment they saw the tax collector die. His death wasn't just a murder—it was the people's answer to exploitation.
"You fool! Now the army will come to our village! We'll all be killed! I get being angry, but crossing that line... what have you done?!"
"If we'd sat still, we'd have starved! The country crossed the line first!"
"Urgh..."
The onlookers were thrown into chaos, yet they realized there was only one path left: survival or death. Thus began the Sardinian popular uprising.
*
December 27, 1780, Annecy Free City. The tale of Palicone village spread to Annecy in less than three days. The reason it spread so fast was that the uprising had erupted like wildfire around Palicone.
"Now's the time! This is our chance to submit to France! We can take tax collectors with pitchforks and torches, but not soldiers. Send an envoy to Lyon and ask them to absorb all the rebel areas!"
Adelheit's proposal to defect threw the people into confusion.
"Young Adelheit, why not block the road to Turin or head to Chambéry?"
"That's exactly why we must go to Lyon now. Attacking Chambéry or blocking Turin ourselves won't matter when the army comes—it's over. We need France to intervene in this uprising right away, turning it from an internal Sardinian affair into a northern Italian Peninsula crisis. Then they absolutely won't commit troops."
"That... makes sense!"
The politically apathetic people of Annecy were swayed by Adelheit's words. Even the intellectuals who cared about politics had no real counterarguments. Sure, annexation by France would bring countless problems, but it beat starving.
"Follow the roads! To Lyon!"
The 8,000 people of Annecy packed up everything and marched to Lyon. They took all their worldly possessions—but there wasn't much. The tax collectors had seized their furniture for arrears and requisitioned their food.
When they arrived in Lyon, the officials were thrown into disarray. They couldn't accommodate 8,000 refugees. Lyon itself was barely a city of 30,000. Taking in a quarter of that at once was physically impossible.
The Lyon officials temporarily housed the Annecy refugees near the poorhouse and reported to the central government, awaiting instructions. While the bureaucrats floundered and the refugees provided free labor in exchange for food and shelter, the Annecy refugees' representative—young Adelheit—moved in secret.
"Monsieur Anci. Two years, huh."
"How have you been, Lyon senior?"
Alias Adelheit, agent codename Anci. The strong young man known as Adelheit was a National Intelligence Agency operative handling Annecy.
"Eh, nothing much. But this is over the top. For an op this size, you should've at least given notice."
"Time was short, so I took provisional action on my own. My apologies for that. Popular uprisings have broken out around Sardinia. I handled the first wave, but the second spread like wildfire, forcing me to pull out. One question, though: was paving the road from Lyon to Annecy a central command op?"
"No. We're investigating it now. It wasn't a standard route—neither easier nor shorter. Our probe found the road veers gently midway toward Grenoble. We're checking everyone who worked on it end of November, but no results yet."
The two NIA officers sensed someone else had meddled, but they didn't know who. One thing was clear: whoever it was wanted chaos in Sardinia.
"The plan's gone to hell. Scrap all existing ops. I'll handle the NIA report—you send back any able-bodied Annecy refugees who can fight. Oh, and leave the republicans in France. Republicans in Annecy could draw Austrian intervention."
"Understood."
The picture they'd been painting for five years had crumbled, but the NIA adapted on the fly.
*
January 8, 1781, Versailles Palace. Cabinet chamber.
"An uprising has broken out in the Kingdom of Sardinia."
The first agenda item of the day was already grim. Then again, with France in such a dire yet dynamic state, not every 18th-century European country was a paradise. With someone's economic sabotage making life hell for the people, uprisings were bound to happen. Damn, the world's a rough place. Who the hell's behind it?
"A very common story."
Well, it wasn't exactly shocking. Rebellions popped up daily in some imperial backwater county, duchy, or free city of the Holy Roman Empire. Still, this was the first major one in a kingdom the size of Sardinia.
"Border areas mean lots of refugees. Mobilize them for undesirable labor and expand the poorhouses."
That should suffice. It wasn't like we were taking them in for a day or two.
"Your Majesty, there's a graver issue. The uprising has spread centered on Savoy and Nice, our border with Sardinia. Some cities have declared themselves free cities and expressed unconditional desire for annexation by France. Sardinia suspects us of instigating it."
"Indeed, that's serious."
That changed things. Economic prosperity drawing refugees was one thing; whole territories coming over was another league. You could blame "incompetent cruel lords" for refugee mismanagement, but territorial annexation—even voluntary—could be seen as invasion.
"Reject it for now, provide only humanitarian aid. Sardinia border's near Lyon and Marseille, right? Divert some grain bound for Spain to Chambéry and Nice. Foreign Ministry, inform Turin it's humanitarian aid."
"As you command."
Sardinia couldn't complain about that. They'd stay wary but grateful. Humanitarian aid has rarely ever been purely humanitarian, then or now.
"Come to think of it, I haven't gotten the scale yet. Where exactly did the uprising start and spread?"
"Yes, the Sardinian uprising is mainly in French-speaking areas along the France-Sardinia border. Likely because they share the language, they see annexation as feasible."
"Skip the preamble—list the regions."
"Continuing the report. Key rebel areas are Nice and Savoy. The entire west side of the Alps wants merger with France. That would make our southern border Nice, central Monte Viso, northern Mont Blanc. Sardinia's west of the Alps is already in our sphere."
"I see."
I eyed the lines drawn on the map. Basing the new border on mountain peaks noticeably expanded France's southeast. Mountains wouldn't boost food production, but minerals might turn up. Nice, Monte Viso, Mont Blanc. Mont Blanc...? Isn't that already ours?
"Need to think this over. Short recess. Comptroller General, follow me to my office."