Chapter 37: The Papal Chessboard and the Scoundrel's Lesson
The air in the Vatican's private solar was thick with the scent of aged parchment and beeswax. Pope Innocent IV sat motionless, his fingers intertwined over a pectoral cross, watching Emperor Frederick II with eyes that had seen empires rise and fall like the tide.
"I remember your coronation, Frederick," the Pope said, his voice a soft rasp. "You were a boy then. Now, you stand before me asking for a blessing to drench Italy in the blood of a fellow Catholic kingdom."
"Your Holiness," Frederick replied, bowing his head just enough to be respectful, but not a millimeter more. "Spain marches under the banner of a 'Crusade,' yet they dismantle a legitimate Christian bloodline. The King of Naples was no heretic; he died defending his people. I ask only for the mandate to ensure his soul finds rest—and that his heirs find justice."
"Legitimacy," the Pope mused, leaning back. "If I grant this burial, I implicitly recognize the Naples line. If I do that, I anger the Spanish King, Alfonso VIII, who claims he is purifying the south."
"Purifying?" Frederick countered sharply. "With 20,000 elite troops? That is not a pilgrimage, Your Holiness; that is an occupation. If Spain secures the south, they will not stop at Naples. They will look toward Rome next. They will see the Papal States as a 'resource' rather than a sanctuary."
The Pope paused. The Emperor was touching a nerve—the fear of Spanish hegemony. "I will not grant a war mandate yet. But... a burial of a Christian King cannot be denied. I will send a Legate. Spain must allow the procession, or they shall be seen as denying the rites of the Church."
Logistics of the Heart
While the giants of Europe moved their pawns, Julian was back at Castello di San Vigilio, dealing with a different kind of pressure.
Queen Eleonora had sought him out in the library. She didn't want comfort anymore; she wanted agency. "I cannot be a 'ceremonial relief,' Julian," she said, her voice firm. "If Naples is to be re-established, I must understand how it is held together. Teach me."
Julian sat her down and pulled out the supply ledgers. "Logistics, Queen, is the ultimate game of resource management. Think of it like a stream—if you dam one part to feed a garden, the village downstream dies of thirst. We have 232 core troops and 220 of your Royal Guard. That's 452 mouths that need 2,000 calories a day. If the grain shipment from Piacenza is delayed by two days, your soldiers start looking at their horses as snacks."
He used medieval terms, but his logic was pure gamer-strat. "We need 'buffs' in the form of secure trade routes and 'debuffs' on Spanish scouts. If we overextend, we're just NPCs waiting to be farmed."
Eleonora nodded, pretending to understand the word 'NPC' while focusing on the way Julian's hand brushed hers as he pointed to the maps. The intimacy was growing—a slow, natural warmth.
From the doorway, Isabella, Julian's PA, watched with a deep pout. 'He was flirting with me just hours ago,' she thought, her cat-like eyes narrowing. 'Now he's seducing a widow queen with "grain management." This man is a menace.'
Suddenly, the heavy doors swung open. Emilia, Julian's wife, walked through the hallway. She caught a fragment of the conversation: "...and once the fluid movement is established, the Queen will be fully satisfied."
The air in the room dropped ten degrees. Emilia didn't enter. She just paused, her red eyes flashing with a cold, possessive fire before she walked on.
[System Notification: Warning—Jealousy levels are reaching critical mass. I hope your "Humanity" buff includes a high resistance to physical trauma, Julian.]
The Elector's Circus
The peace didn't last. Julian was summoned back to the central command hub where the Great Dukes had gathered. It was less of a war council and more of a diplomatic disaster.
The Duke of Bavaria was openly flirting with a terrified Italian maid; the Duke of Saxony was loudly insulting the "weakness of Italian wine" to an Italian noble's face; and the King of Bohemia was arguing with the Duke of Wittenberg over land rights that wouldn't matter for another decade.
Julian tried to interject. "My Lords, if we could focus on the burial procession—"
"Quiet, boy!" Saxony roared. "The adults are speaking."
Julian, his "Humanity" making him more impulsive and less of a cold robot, snapped back. "If the 'adults' keep bickering over wine and maids, the Spanish will be serving you dinner in your own dungeons by winter. Your bickering is a 'debuff' to our collective survival."
The room went silent. Every Elector stared at Julian.
[System: Congratulations. You just committed diplomatic suicide. I'd clap, but I don't have hands.]
"Enough!" the Emperor roared, entering the room. "Listen to the Viscount. The Pope hasn't given the war mandate yet, but he has agreed to the burial. Julian, you will lead the procession. You have custody of the Queen and the Heir—they are our legitimacy. If a hair on their heads is harmed, you will wish the Spanish had killed you first."
He looked at Alaric von Luxembourg, the "Hero." "And you, Prince. You want a fight? You won't lead an Imperial army. You will lead 'mercenaries' and 'Naples rebels.' Target the 400 Spanish scouts near the border. If Spain complains, we say we have no control over angry peasants. It's a win-win."
The Spanish Gambit
Deep in the south, King Alfonso VIII of Spain was not waiting for permission.
"Pirates," Alfonso said, looking at his naval commander. "Strip the flags from ten of our galleys. Hire the Black Trident mercenaries. I want Rome frightened. I want the Pope to wake up to the sound of 'nomad' raids on his coast. When he begs for protection, we will offer it—at the price of a total Crusader Mandate over all of Italy."
"And the 20,000 reinforcements in Sicily?"
"Open fire on anything that moves," Alfonso commanded. "Merchant, noble, or African trader—sink them all. Claim they are heretics. No witnesses."
The Scoundrel's Repose
Back at his quarters, Julian was being prepared for his diplomatic meeting with the Spanish Legate. Isabella was fussing over his high-collar shirt, her fingers trembling slightly.
"You need to look elegant, My Lord," she whispered. "The Spanish value pride above all else."
Julian, feeling the surge of his returned emotions, looked at her. He reached out, taking her hand and pressing it to his cheek, his face shifting into that "tragic, philosophical scholar" look he had perfected.
"I'm so tired, Isabella," he coaxed, his voice a low, beautiful vibration. "Being a target for Emperors and Queens is exhausting. Won't you just... take care of me for a moment?"
Isabella's professional mask crumbled. She leaned in, her eyes softening as she began to comb his hair. "You... you're a scoundrel, My Lord. A genuine, perverted scoundrel."
"But I'm your scoundrel," Julian murmured, leaning his head into her lap.
[Isabella Favorability: +5 (Total: 45).]
In the shadows of the room, Captain Valerus watched the scene, already counting the gold he'd get for reporting this to Emilia.
[System: You know, Julian, the 'Cool Protagonist' would have been studying maps. You're currently using a fallen noble lady as a pillow while your captain sells your secrets for beer money. This is the 'Peasant Challenge' on Nightmare Difficulty.]
"Shut up, System," Julian sighed, closing his eyes. "At least the pillow is soft."
To be continued...