[POV: 3rd Person – Charles VIII]
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fifth Month (July 1495).
Fornovo di Taro, 30 kilometers southwest of Parma, Duchy of Milan.
The air on the banks of the Taro River was more than merely humid; it was a liquid shroud that clung to the lungs. July had brought rains that transformed the Fornovo valley into a mire of mud and despair.
Charles VIII, King of France, gazed at the map upon the command table with a mixture of incredulity and bitterness. The edges of the parchment curled from the dampness, much like his hopes for a triumphant retreat.
Only months ago, his entry into Naples had been a parade of flowers and cheers. Italy, fragmented and fearful, had folded before him like wheat before the scythe. Kingdom after kingdom, castle after castle had fallen to him and his host. Those ancient fortifications had stood no chance against the thunder of his cannons.
"It feels as though it were another life, does it not?" he whispered to himself, his hand tracing the pommel of his sword.
He remembered the roar of his mobile artillery as it breached walls once thought eternal. It had been a brilliant innovation, a counsel from his generals that had changed the very rules of the game.
But now, that same technology was his undoing. The heavy bronze cannons sank into the Taro's mire, turning into useless anchors. Hemmed in by the League of Venice to the north and with supplies exhausted, the 'Most Christian King' was forced to choose: die for an Italian crown or flee to preserve the French one.
The tent's canvas stirred, admitting a gust of cold air and the metallic scent of rain. Antoine de Bessey entered, his face lined with exhaustion and a pallor that boded ill.
"Majesty," Antoine said, his voice a hoarse thread. "The scouts confirm the worst. The Holy League has barred the way completely. We are surrounded."
Charles looked up, his sunken eyes searching for a crack in the armor of fate.
The magnificent opening campaign had withered into a panicked retreat. Initially, several kingdoms and duchies had accepted Charles as King of Naples, but witnessing the fall of all resistance, they had turned their coats, terrified by such prowess and might.
Determined to avoid greater conflict and seizing the initiative, he had withdrawn from Naples, leaving only a de facto governor there in hopes of reclaiming it. Yet even that sliver of hope had vanished with the intervention of the Crowns of Castile and Aragon, and the Holy Roman Empire.
They—the ones with whom Charles had struck treaties and made concessions to secure this campaign—had broken those accords and joined the League of Venice.
"And the supplies, Antoine? Be honest," Charles inquired.
"If we do not break the encirclement today, tomorrow we shall be eating saddle leather, Sire. There is nothing left but to fight," the commander replied grimly.
Charles felt a knot tighten in his stomach. It was not merely the fear of death; it was the thought of the baggage wagons stationed at the rear. Jewels, silks, masterworks of art... the spoils of Naples, the tangible proof of his glory. To lose them was to lose his legacy.
"Is there no other route? A bribe? A parley?" Charles asked, his spirit nearly spent.
"Sire," Antoine interrupted firmly, "you command the finest army in Christendom. We are fewer, yes, but our men are pure steel against the League's levies. Trust in your cavalry."
The King closed his eyes, exhaled the weight of his indecision, and nodded. "Then let the trumpets sound. If they hunger for French blood, we shall give them a flood."
Thirty minutes later, the valley exploded.
The roar of the French cannons on the front line was a deafening thunder that made the muddy earth vibrate. However, the spectacle was more visual than effective.
The boom was followed by a disappointing hiss; the humidity from the recent rains had soaked the powder. Many projectiles simply buried themselves in the enemy mud with a dull thud, failing to ricochet or cause the expected carnage.
From across the Taro, the 'novice' artillery of the Holy League answered. Their shots were erratic, lacking the French cadence, yet the volume of fire was enough to keep the air thick with acrid smoke and wooden splinters.
"Now!" shouted Marshal Gié, his voice slicing through the chaos.
The charge of the French cavalry began.
The sound was a nightmare symphony: the rhythmic, heavy splashing of thousands of hooves striking the mud, the terrified neighing of steeds, and the war cry of the Gendarmes.
Charles watched from his high vantage point; his knuckles white as he gripped the reins. He saw the knights collide in the center of the valley.
The encounter was no clean charge, but a bloody struggle in a sea of filth. Men fell from their mounts and, before they could stand, were trampled or pierced by crossbow bolts that buzzed like iron hornets. The ground was no longer brown, but a macabre mottled pattern of steel and crimson.
The League was losing more men, but their numbers were overwhelming.
Charles felt a prickle of panic as he noticed the French rearguard was under attack. The Stradiots—mercenaries of the League—were not seeking the throats of soldiers, but the supply wagons. They were there for the plunder.
"Cursed scavengers!" Charles roared, rage eclipsing fear. "Antoine! Order the full charge! Everyone to the front! If we do not break their line now, they will use us as fertilizer for this valley."
"And the loot, Sire?" Antoine asked, gesturing toward the wagons being ransacked. "If we move now, we lose everything."
Charles turned to him, his face a mask of fury and bitterness.
"The loot? If they hunger so for gold, let them choke on it! My only intent in taking Naples was to unite Christendom and march against the Ottoman infidels. To halt the Sultan's advance!" he spat with contempt. "But these Italian princes are shortsighted. They feared my army more than the sword of Islam. If they want the treasures, let them take them! I want only the road to France!"
With a desperate gesture, the King of France spurred his horse, leading the final charge to carve a path through the butchery, leaving behind his dreams of empire in exchange for one more day of life.
[POV: 3rd Person – Maximilian I]
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fifth Month (July 1495).
Worms, Holy Roman Empire (Germany).
The city was a pressure cooker wrapped in silk and protocol. The air above the Rhine felt stagnant, heavy with the dust of the retinues that arrived without end.
Maximilian I, 'King of the Romans' and sovereign of the Holy Roman Empire, gazed at the silhouette of the cathedral from one of the palace's high windows. Though the imperial crown from the Pope's hands remained a distant longing, his authority in Worms was indisputable, yet fragile. Since March, the city had become the board for an exhausting negotiation.
The Empire was a mosaic of egos: principalities, free cities, and duchies that had forgotten the meaning of centralized obedience. Maximilian knew he could not govern by absolute decree; that age had passed. However, he had discovered an almost perverse pleasure in diplomacy.
If he could not be the lion that roars, he would be the weaver who catches flies in his web of political favors. He needed funds to halt Charles VIII's advance in Italy and to contain the Ottoman tide in the east. But to obtain the gold of the nobles, he first had to sell them the illusion of reformed stability.
The sound of spurs striking the stone floor announced the arrival of his aides. Maximilian did not turn immediately; he preferred the tension of his silence to do the work for him.
"Is the news from Milan true?" he finally asked, his voice icy. "Has Ludovico Sforza kept his word?"
"Majesty," said the first aide, bowing deeply. "As foreseen, Charles VIII's army is being encircled in the north of the peninsula. 'Il Moro' Sforza and the Venetian League have closed the routes. Hunger shall achieve what French steel could not stop."
Maximilian traced a minimal, almost imperceptible smile. The Holy League was working.
"And Naples?" he inquired. "Shall we continue to allow the fleur-de-lis to fly in the south?"
"King Charles left a garrison there, Sire, but the League is already planning the siege to reclaim it. Furthermore, the Crown of Aragon has confirmed it will send direct aid… King Ferdinand of Aragon will not allow the French to keep his backyard. It is possible they may even send Gonzalo Fernández de Córdoba to retake the city, in addition to confronting Ottoman movements."
Maximilian nodded, returning his attention to the desk covered in parchments detailing the demands of the German princes.
"The princes are nervous," a second aide remarked cautiously. "With the retreat of Charles VIII, their fear of a French invasion wanes, and with it, their willingness to open their coffers. However, it seems they are prepared to accept the Ewiger Landfriede."
"The Perpetual Public Peace," Maximilian murmured. "They want me to ban private wars because they fear their neighbors will devour them while they are here in Worms… It is ironic."
To Maximilian, peace was not merely a Christian ideal; it was a tool of control.
With the Reichskammergericht (the Imperial Chamber Court), he could formalize treaties that, in practice, would limit the movements of his fiercest opponents. It would be the law, and not the sword, that brought the nobles to their knees.
"And what of the Gemeiner Pfennig?" he asked with a hint of bitterness.
"Little fortune there, Majesty. When it comes to the 'Common Penny,' the nobles become poorer than the peasants. Some suggest the tax should fall only on the lower classes… or the Jews."
Maximilian snorted, rubbing his temples. The pettiness of the powerful was always the same: they wanted the Empire's protection without paying the price of its upkeep.
"Let us not waste time begging for what they will not give," Maximilian declared, straightening his posture. "There are always other paths… What says the banker?"
He turned to his final aide, who wore a curious, almost amused expression.
"Jakob Fugger has given his assent, Majesty. The funds for your Italian campaigns and against the Turks are secured under the agreed terms. However... 'Jakob the Rich' has an unusual request."
Maximilian arched an eyebrow. The Fuggers did not make unusual requests; they made investments.
"He desires exclusive licenses," the aide continued. "Not for Hungarian copper or Tyrolean silver. He seeks a monopoly on certain new products arriving via the western routes… something called 'cacao' and other exotic crops."
The monarch fell silent. He knew the Fuggers' cunning; if Jakob wanted a license for food, it was because that food was worth more than metal.
"Cacao?" Maximilian frowned. "Since when has Jakob Fugger taken an interest in agriculture? His business is mines and war."
"It seems these products spoken of by the mariners, hailing from the Suaza Kingdom, are beginning to gain followers in the most exclusive courts. Fugger wishes to be the sole distributor within the Empire."
Maximilian pondered for a moment.
In his mind, the world was widening. It was no longer just the Mediterranean or the eastern steppes; there was now a 'West' sending strange delicacies and new riches. If granting Fugger control over a few exotic beans meant having the gold to crush the French and reform Germany, it was a price he would pay gladly.
"Give him what he asks," he ordered with a sharp gesture. "Respond affirmatively to Jakob. But tell him I expect results and a higher sum. And to the princes… tell them the Diet concludes soon. I want the Ewiger Landfriede and the Court of Justice operational before the first snowflake falls this year."
"If they will not give me their money, they shall give me their legal obedience," Maximilian whispered.
The King looked out the window once more. The sun was setting over Worms, and for a moment, he felt like the architect of a new era—one where he and the imperial law would weigh more than the old feudal swords.
[POV: 3rd Person – Leonardo da Vinci]
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fifth Month (July 1495).
Castello Sforzesco, Milan, Duchy of Milan.
The July swelter hung over the Duchy of Milan like a heavy, damp blanket. In the courtyards of the Castello Sforzesco, the usual bustle of courtiers had transformed into a rumor of metallic urgency: the clatter of armor being polished, the whinnying of warhorses, and the incessant echo of hammers in the forges.
Barely a year ago, Ludovico Sforza, nicknamed 'Il Moro,' had opened Italy's gates to the French King Charles VIII in hopes of consolidating his own power over the duchy. However, the French campaign toward Naples had proved to be a storm of unforeseen ferocity. News of falling cities and the speed of Gallic artillery had sown a chilling panic in Milanese hearts.
Now, with the winds of war shifting and Ludovico turning against his former ally, the castle was a hive of preparations for a siege everyone took for granted.
In the midst of this whirlwind of political paranoia stood Leonardo da Vinci.
To the world, Leonardo was the polymath: the painter who captured the soul, the architect who dreamed of ideal cities, and the engineer who could divert rivers. But to Ludovico, in these moments of crisis, Leonardo was, above all, a mind capable of perfecting his defenses and aiding his weaponry.
The master walked through the corridors of the north wing, deliberately ignoring the sketches of ballistae and catapults his lord demanded with growing insistence. Leonardo felt a physical revulsion toward pazzia bestialissima—beastly madness—as he called war.
In his mind, the forms of new cannons already churned—designs for assault machines with complex gears that could decimate armies—but he refused to give them life on paper. His genius was no slave to destruction. To him, observing the flight of a dragonfly or the tension of a human tendon was a sacred pursuit; to dedicate that same intellect to dismembering life felt like a betrayal of nature itself.
In the gloom of his studio, the air smelled of linseed oil, turpentine, and lapis lazuli dust. Leonardo leaned over a wall, concentrated on applying blue pigment to the tunic of the central figure. His fingers moved with a delicacy that contrasted sharply with the crudeness of the outside world.
"Master," a servant announced from the threshold, breaking the silence, "the Lady Beatrice d'Este requests entry."
Leonardo did not look away from the fresco; the stroke of a fold in Jesus' clothing demanded his absolute attention.
"Let her enter," he replied softly, barely a murmur.
Beatrice stepped into the room. As a woman of great culture and a passionate lover of art, she understood immediately that she must not break the thread of creation. She stood motionless, watching.
For ten minutes, the only sound was the friction of the brush and the artist's steady breathing. Beatrice, a devout Christian of fervent heart, felt her breath catch as she analyzed the work. The faces of the apostles, though yet incomplete, already displayed a haunting humanity; the details of the bread upon the table and the background perspective suggested a window open to the divine.
Finally, Leonardo set down his brush and straightened, rubbing his stained hands. Noticing Beatrice lost in a sort of religious trance before his work, a spark of legitimate pride crossed his light eyes. He cleared his throat slightly to return her to the present.
"Highness," he said, bowing his head with measured courtesy, though his eyes remained grave, devoid of the usual warmth of their encounters.
Beatrice emerged from her stupor and returned the greeting with the grace of her rank, but she was quick to notice the master's coldness.
"Master Leonardo," she said with a tone of soft reproach, "it is not fitting for so elevated a spirit to harbor grudges. If you allow bitterness to cloud your soul, I fear even these colors shall be influenced by the shadows of your heart."
She paused briefly, stepping closer.
"You must not blame my husband Ludovico for diverting the bronze from the equestrian monument to the casting of cannons. War is no whim; it is a beast already clawing at our gates. We must be prepared to protect what we love."
Leonardo shook his head, his gaze turning distant.
"It is not the bronze for the horse that distresses me, my Lady. A sculpture can wait for nobler times. What oppresses my chest is the very fact of war; this clamor of hatred rising without justification other than ambition. To what end do we study the harmony of proportion if the ultimate goal is to reduce the human body to ash?"
Beatrice, moved by the painter's somber countenance, decided to steer the conversation elsewhere.
"Your progress on this wall is... astonishing, Master. It is a masterpiece that already breathes." She gave him a playful smile, attempting to lighten the mood. "But tell me, knowing your tendency to let time dilate between stroke and stroke... shall this painting be finished this time?"
Leonardo sighed, thinking of the long list of unfinished commissions that populated his past.
"Yes," he responded with unusual firmness. "This work has the proper inspiration. The faces speak to me, Highness."
"Your determination gladdens me," Beatrice said, suddenly recalling an additional reason for her visit. "Though perhaps you might use that momentum to attend to other works. There are merchants in the city—men who travel under the banner of a very distant foreign kingdom, the Suaza. They are actively seeking paintings for their monarch."
Leonardo arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "A foreign kingdom? Seeking art amidst this chaos?"
"Just so. They say they spare no expense. I have heard they pay chests overflowing with silver for a single painting of great mastery." Beatrice noted the surprise on the master's face. "Not even the Medici have shown such largesse in these days."
One week later.
The studio's calm was shattered by a metallic crash. Francesco, Leonardo's young apprentice, had burst in with such momentum that he tripped over a lectern, sending a terracotta vessel to the floor.
"Master! A thousand apologies!" the youth exclaimed, trying to regain his composure while dusting off his tunic.
Leonardo, who was examining the anatomy of a dried bird's wing, stepped away from his workbench with a patient smile.
"Steady, Francesco. I see your enthusiasm always arrives before your feet. Have you obtained what I asked?"
The youth nodded fervently, catching his breath.
"Yes, Master. I have spent days in the merchant circles of the docks and the antechambers of the nobles. That kingdom the Duchess spoke of, Suaza, is the talk of everyone. They are no mere rumors."
Leonardo set the bird's wing down and folded his arms, his scientific curiosity now fully awake.
"Tell me, is it true they value art above spices?"
"It is real, Master," Francesco confirmed. "They have acquired paintings from churches and private collections for sums that would make a Venetian banker tremble. But it is not only that. I have discovered they seek something deeper: knowledge. I was told they have sages who study the course of the stars and the heavens with unheard-of precision. Even..." the youth paused dramatically, "even they study all religions—not to combat them, but to understand the essence of faith."
Leonardo stood still, staring at his painting of The Last Supper. A kingdom that studied religion as a phenomenon of the human mind was something that resonated deeply with his own way of viewing the world.
"But there is something more, something that will interest you for your studies at the hospital," the apprentice continued, lowering his voice. "They say they have unraveled secrets of the human body and of the ailments that wither us."
Leonardo turned sharply; his eyes fixed on the youth.
"Medical secrets? To what do you refer?"
Francesco swallowed hard at the intensity of his master.
"They dare to claim that diseases are neither divine punishments nor imbalances of the humors. They say there exist small beings, invisible creatures that dwell in filth and stagnant waters. They claim it is these beings that enter the body and provoke the plague and fevers."
A flash of wonder and recognition crossed Leonardo's gaze. He fell silent, his mind working at a prodigious speed, connecting his own observations on decay and hygiene with this new idea. He began to pace, murmuring words to himself that Francesco could barely decipher.
"...microscopic beings... agents of corruption... microorganisms," Leonardo whispered, with an expression of pure fascination. "If disease is life attacking life, then the cure is not a prayer, but an invisible war."
In that moment, Ludovico Sforza's war and the bronze cannons seemed to Leonardo the smallest, most tedious concerns in the world. There was a new horizon to explore, and it lay far across the sea.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support. Let's get straight to the chapter comments.
CHAPTER COMMENTS
First, considering something Vongola mentioned, it's true that if I don't specify what has changed, it's a bit tedious for you to check if what I wrote was historically accurate, or if it's something that changed due to Chuta.
Unfortunately, clarifying these changes isn't something I'm going to actively do; perhaps by putting them in parentheses or mentioning them here in the comments.
This is because I think it would break the immersion of these chapters. And it's not that I don't know what the changes were.
For example, in the previous chapter, King John II of Portugal's suggestion not to involve the Swazi Kingdom and to cooperate with Spain is a direct change. Historically, Portugal didn't share any voyages and, moreover, monopolized most of the routes to India via southern Africa.
Another example: Juan, Prince of Spain, had very poor health, but with the care and hygiene he learned from the Suaza clan, his health improved, which changed the course of history for Spain and Europe.
However, what I can tell you as a clue that can help distinguish the changes are these same details.
If something about the Suaza Kingdom is actively mentioned, or if some knowledge of it is involved, it generally indicates a change. On the other hand, if the mention is subtle or only in passing, it is likely that nothing has changed, or at least not for these characters.
An example is Maximilian I, who grants the trade license but does not become involved with the Suaza Kingdom. Or perhaps Leonardo, whose thirst for knowledge is simply rekindled by the mention of the Suaza Kingdom.
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS
I republished a long chapter.
I couldn't resist, hahaha.
I feel like I should have been a historian, like I wanted to be since I was little. That would have satisfied my thirst for knowledge of history.
Did you know that even Ludovico could have claimed the Kingdom of Naples? Or at least his sons could have, since his wife was a Princess of Naples. If he had used Leoardo's mind to develop better firearms (even though Leoardo refused), he could have been ambitious and perhaps unified all of Italy.
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#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
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