Stories of the Imperial Roman Republic

[TacCovert4]

April 25th, 1916

Aztec Embassy, Vilnius Union

Consul Atl's door rattled under the knocking of the night guard.  "Sir, you're needed in the communications room".  Groggily, Atl rose from his sleep, pulling on a robe and slippers as he walked to the door.  The Eagle Warrior Lance Corporal stood there, coffee in hand.  "Right this way sir" he says, taking off at a brisk walk to the secure communications room. 

Walking there and gratefully drinking the offered coffee, Atl thinks about the last two years.  How his fortunes had changed.  He had once been the Ambassador to Rome, but in the chaos and then war, he had found himself functionally demoted. Two ambassadors couldn't exist at the same embassy, and so he had been entitled 'Consul of Roman Affairs', which normally consisted of keeping in touch with what remaining contacts he had in the Imperial Republic and reading Roman papers. 

Reaching the communications Room, the duty sergeant hands him a sheaf of papers.  Reading them, his eyes widen.  The recognition code is one he has rarely seen, and the authorization number for the requisite seals and signed and embossed paper for the message he is to deliver....they match those of the seal on the small safe kept in his office.  Consul Atl rushes to retrieve the required materials as the duty sergeant rouses a secretary to type the letter and sends the Lance Corporal to the railroad station to secure passage on the next trains headed to Rome.

By 0800hrs, Consul Atl and an embassy attache are on a train, in coach, rattling towards the Roman border.  He looks at his hastily assembled itenerary with chagrin.  Eight trains over four days with only one stay in a hotel between here and Rome, many of the trains in 2nd class or Coach with no sleeper cars due to the late hour of the bookings.

May 1st, The Imperial Palace, Rome

Consul Atl approaches with his credentials in hand.  The staffer behind the desk takes the credentials, Atl saying "I have a message of the utmost importance for the Emperor, I would request an audience".  After an eternity that was only probably an hour or two, an Assistant Minister from the Foreign Ministry comes out to meet the Consul.  Atl smiles, "Giovanni, I see you got promoted".  "Atl, it is good to see you in Rome again" he replies.  "I am sorry to tell you, but His Majesty is under the weather I'm afraid and is not taking visitors today."  "I am sorry to hear that, is it serious?".  "Nothing more than a cold", Giovanni replies, "but I can write you in for some time next week?  Thursday morning perhaps?"  Consul Atl ponders a moment and replies, "I'm sorry my friend, but this message must reach his Majesty immediately.  It is from his Majesty and I received orders to have it delivered no later than today. Can you see that he receives it?"  "Certainly my friend, I will take it to him myself."  "Thank you Giovanni" Atl says and then departs, leaving an envelope embossed with gold print, or is that actual gold leaf, in his hands.

Inside the envelope, sealed with gold-flecked green wax and the seal of the Sultan, is a letter on gold-edged paper, reading:

To his Imperial Majesty, Trajan VIII


Your Majesty, or designee, are cordially invited to the dedication of the Caicos War Memorial and Cemetery

The ceremony to be held on the 20th day of September, 1916, at Providenciales Island and Port, the Caicos.

Accommodations, Entertainments and Victuals to be provided by His Majesty, Ali 8th, Sultan of Aztecs

All Roman persons present for the ceremony are hereby to be considered Honored Guests of His Majesty with the privileges and guarantees thereof.

Response Requested so that arrangements can be made.


Your majesty, I hope you find this letter in good health.  Our nations have striven at cross purposes these last years.  But we both respect the sacrifices made by our soldiers, and I would wish this memorial and cemetery to bridge the gap betwixt our peoples and honor the valor and sacrifices of those who can no longer go home.  And maybe symbolize the ending of an era of war between our peoples and the opening of a new era of peaceful cooperation and respect.

Signed,

(The letter is hand signed, as this is from the small stock of hand-lettered signatures that each ambassador keeps on hand for state missives when required)

Ali 8th, Sultan of Aztecs

[snip]

Catching up after being a little occupied due to getting our office space ready for everyone coming back from remote work. This coming week is when everyone gets back, so might be a little sparse for another week or two. I'll try and get the storyline caught up to the endish of 17H1 as quick as I can.

May 7th, 1916. Brest

"I don't know what to say."

Amelia brushed a cluster of unruly hairs back behind her ear as the wind blowing off the Atlantic again dislodged it. She wiggled a bit on the bench she sat on to adjust her overcoat, not replying to the comment.

"What else did you discuss?" Eugène asked, taking the non-reply as a request to move the conversation forward.

"Nothing of substance." Amelia replied. "He needed some rest, so I left after he fell back asleep. Since he was clearly out of danger at that point, I returned to the academy the next morning."

"Have you seen him since?" Eugène's tone was soft, letting the question hang in the air.

"Yes," Amelia began her reply still looking at the horizon. "I've been down for a few weekends since. He asked about you."

"Good things I hope." Eugène's reply was jesting in tone.

"Of course." Amelia turned and smiled sweetly. "He did hint that some have been giving him pressure about me."

"What sort of pressure?" The question came off tinged with a note of understanding the answer, Eugène knew full well what it was.

"The whole unmarried heir..."Amelia's though trailed off. "Unmarried sooner-than-she-wants Empress topic."

"I'm sure your enthusiasm was contagious." Eugène replied, letting a smile split his face as the light barb was thrown.

Amelia ignored the response. "Its something I know I'm going to hear more about, but that is not the thing that bothers me most. Since I was small, I've always kind of though about what my wedding would be like. Its one of the few girly things that I've come back to. Of course, the details have all changed throughout the years. There was always one constant, that my father would be there. I don't know if I can see such an event without him."

"I understand" Eugène said. "Or at least, I'm trying to and am sympathetic."

"Thank you." Amelia warmly replied.

"I suppose at some point, the question of marriage should be answered." It was Eugène's turn to break eye contact and look out over the Atlantic. "I believe I understand my feelings on the matter, but I gather you are perhaps a little less sure of yours since we last spoke about it."

"I don't think less sure is the right way to put it." Amelia responded. "It's the details that matter and its not just our feelings on the subject to consider."

"Can you imagine the scandal if we walked into a random church right now?" Eugène's question was jesting.

"I do think it would cause several heart attacks." Amelia answered far more deadpan than the question had been.

"My mother among them." Eugène paused momentary before continuing. "Not mine tho."

Amelia caught the now off topic reply on her tongue and responded to the last comment. "What do you mean by that Eugène?"

"What I mean to say," Eugène began without any sort of disclaimer. "Is that if it were truly your wish to marry in a smaller less formal ceremony, I would support that decision. Given it could mean the difference between your father attending and not, your feelings and desires on the subject are most important."

Amelia leaned her head onto Eugène's shoulder. "Thank you. I'm sure my father would be understanding of the point."

"You are most welcome." Eugène rested his hand on Amelia's shoulder. "That only leaves the matter of telling my mother."

"You would be right." Amelia replied. "If, that is, you had actually had an engagement to announce. I am going to make you ask directly and not just by implication." She looked up and smirked.

Eugène laughed, then stood up. "If you insist, Crown Princess." He then got down on one knee, facing Amelia. "Crown Princess Amelia Vittoria Sforza, would you do me the honor of taking my hand in marriage?" Eugène capped the question by producing a small box from his pocket. He flipped the lid back, revealing an elegant, but simple ring.

"Yes Eugène Charpentier." Amelia could not keep from smiling even if she wanted to. "I would love to marry you."

Eugène breathed an over exaggerated sigh of relief. "You have truly a talent for making me nervous." He chuckled once before slipping the ring onto Amelia's left hand. After it was securely in place, he stood up.

Amelia stood up to join Eugène and pulled him into a passionate kiss. When she broke away, she locked eyes with her fiancée. "I love you Eugène, with all my heart."

[snip]

November 11th, 1916. Abbazia di San Martino al Cimino.

Amelia cocked her head slightly as she examined her reflection. It was difficult to believe the reflection staring back was real. The white silk gown she wore spilled from shoulders to floor, sinched just below her breasts by a royal purple sash. The front of the skirt had some light gold embroidery, and the fabric was folding in such a way as to make her hips appear a little more prominent. The dresses sleave fell from her shoulders to right above her elbow, where they were met by white gloves. Atop her bobbed hair sat a thin silver crown over which a vale was currently thrown back over her head. Around her neck hung a single strand of pearls on a gold chain.

Absentminded, Amelia found herself fingering the pearls. This strand had belonged to her mother, the only one of the available possessions Amelia had chosen to wear on this day. Her father had left them for her, an unnoted gift in a small box on her dressing room table. She remembered the same pearls from a photo from her parents wedding day, they hung around her mother's neck to almost the same place as they fell on her own. Amelia's relationship with her mother had been strong before the accident. Processing the untimely death of a parent was difficult for adults, much more an eleven-year-old child. With the passage of time, the grief grew less but sometimes came rushing back with vigor.

Before such an event could take place as each pearl was moved between thumb and forefinger, a knock at the door pulled Amelia's attention away from her past dwellings. The knock was lighter than it would have been months before, but the cadence was as consistent as ever.

"Amelia." Emperor Trajan VIII's voice came softly from the other side of the old door. "Are you decent my waterlily?"

"I am papa." Amelia replied, turning to face the door. "Please come in."

Trajan slowly opened the door and stepped inside. His gait had slowed and his features were drawn gaunter than they had been months before. The sickness slowly eating the old Emperor from the inside continued to progress, and while the doctors expressed hope, the Emperor had developed a tendency to chastise them whenever the subject of recovery came up. He was dressed in a formal suit, a royal purple cloak drawn over his shoulders falling to the floor over the black jacket fabric. Despite a recent adjustment by the tailor, there were some areas where the cut of the suit was almost unnoticeably baggy. On seeing Amelia, Trajan's eyes widened slightly, and he drew in a breath sharper than the last.

"Dearest daughter, you look simply stunning." Trajan's soft voice was laced with excitement and joy. "I am unable to articulate more than this."

Amelia felt herself blushing. "Papa..." A tear threatened to carve a path of untold destruction though expertly applied makeup. She quickly dabbed it with a light tissue.

Trajan wiped his own tears from the corners of his eyes. "I'm afraid the effect is contagious. I suppose we will find out when he sees you."

Amelia's hear skipped a beat. "Is it time?" She approached the doorway where Trajan stood.

"Yes my waterlily." Trajan smiled, eyes slowing swimming with tears. He offered his arm. "It is time."



The main hall of the small church was far less crowded than a wedding of the heir to the throne should have by any right been. This was by design, and a function of time. With on a matter of months to plan rather than over a year as would have been typical, sacrifices had to be made. The small crowd of witnesses clustered to the front of the pews, in front of which rose the alter. The old stone structure was draped with traditional cloth and dark royal purple bands of fabric. Two men stood next to the alter, one in a bishop's robe the other in a Marine dress uniform. When a door off to the left side of almost the final row of pews opened, every eye in the room turned. Gentle swells of sound flowed from a small choir of four backed by an organ.

The pair that emerged from the door slowly made their way to the central isle. The old man's purple cloak a stark contrast spilled across the ground behind them alongside the woman's white vale. Slowly, at the old man's pace, the pair approached the alter. On reaching the first step to approach the alter, they stopped. Whispered words and hug lead to the pair parting, an aid helped the old man to his seat in the front right row of pews. The woman watched the old man take his seat then turned and climbed the steps to the alter.

The bishop began to speak to the assembled crowd. The young couple took each other's hands. The bishop turned to the Marine on completing his opening remarks. The man then spoke to the woman, his words provoking chuckles from her and the assembled witnesses.  The laughter faded and several tears were shed by most in the room as he closed his remarks. The bishop then turned to the woman. Her speech drew a far more reverent reaction. On finishing, the woman turned to the bishop again. At the bishop's gesture, one of the choir members produced a small box from which two simple rose gold rings were produced. The bishop handed one to the man, who placed it on the woman's left hand. Her smile lit up the room. When it was handed to her, she placed the other ring onto the man's left hand. The bishop said one final short statement before the couple shared an almost to passionate kiss.



The applause still echoed from inside the cavernous hall of the abbey as Amelia and Eugène exited the main door. Outside, some of the townspeople had gathered. They cheered the couple to the waiting carriage hitched to two stout brown horses with no hair out of place. Eugène helped Amelia into the bench seat and then joined her. He signaled to the driver and the horses were encouraged into motion within a heartbeat.

Amelia squeezed her husband's hand tightly. Her makeup had run slightly from the emotions the ceremony had inspired. Where before there had been nervous energy now resided pure warm happiness.  Today was a grand shining memory, something to cherish for the rest of her life. There was still a little nervousness, since now there was no social construct which would get between her and Eugène after the reception dinner had finished, and the guests had slowly trickled off to leave the newlyweds alone. All the places that could now be explored without repercussion. A shudder of preemptive pleasure raced up Amelia's spine, which Eugène felt.

"Something the matter, my lovely wife." The goofy grin that split the lightly scarred face betraying how giddy he felt.

"Nothing at all darling husband." Amelia's lips broke into a toothy smile before she leaned in and kissed Eugène. The kiss lingered almost to long for as public as the carriage still was. She moved to whisper in his ear. "I have a surprise for you later, Eugène. Something for your eyes only. Are you curious?" Amelia's grin of happiness turned more mischievous as eager longing overtook Eugène face. Waiting would be difficult, but worth it.

[snip]

February 28th 1917, Imperial Naval Academy, Brest.

The knock on Amelia's door had the energy of attempted forced entry rather than notifying the room's occupant that someone was outside. Amelia started awake, the bed occupied by her alone. Like the other married officer cadets, spouses were only allowed the occasional visits on campus. Eugène alternated between his family home and finishing up his duties before beginning permanent assignment to a more suitable location for the spouse of the heir in Rome. Amelia would never ask Eugène to give up his commission, but she would confess if prompted to pulling on a couple strings to ensure that on her graduation and return to Rome her husband would be there too. Pushing the longing thoughs for Eugène's touch out of her mind, she called out without checking the time.

"Who is it?"

The voice that answered back was sharp and unmistakable in its originator and urgency.

"It is Sergeant Major Ploussard, Crown Princess. Please make yourself decent for travel as quickly as you can. You are needed in Rome."

Amelia had already sprung into action, gathering items and changing. "Have you been informed what for?"

"Your father." Ploussard's tone added more weight to the two words.

"Has anyone sent for Eugène?" The quarry's worth of heavy stone that settled in her gut only allowing this though to pass her lips.

"Yes, however he is currently in transit in Pannonia and may not be able to join you until late tomorrow." Ploussard's reply was matter-of-fact.

Amelia opened the door, unkept but decent. "Let us go to the train then, I can finish preparing on the way."



Bedchambers of Emperor Trajan VIII, Early Morning of March 1st 1917.

Amelia slid gently through the gap in the doors. The well-oiled hinges gave no protest as the doors were gently closed behind her. Her father did not instantly react, the raspy shallow breaths came in a slow rhythm. Amelia closed the door and stood hesitantly. Her father's head turned, and his eyes attempted to focus but failed.

"Catherine, my darling, is that you? After all this time is it you?"

Amelia attempted to swallow the welling geyser of emotion inside of her. "It's Amelia papa."

The emperor let out a raspy sigh. "I'm sorry my little Waterlily, so sorry. Please forgive this old man for his longing for those who have passed."

Amelia took several steps necessary to cross the room as her father spoke, sitting down in the chair next to his bed. Tears began to gently roll down her cheeks. She took her father's hand. "It's ok papa, I miss her dearly as well."

Trajan VIII's body convulsed with a long, hacking cough that made Amelia recoil slightly. "I'm afraid..." the thought trailed off into another cough. "I'm afraid that I will be added to the people you miss dearly soon. I hope you can forgive me for this as well."

"Of course, papa." Amelia choked out. "Of course, I forgive you. I wish I need not, but I forgive you."

"Amelia," The old emperor's eyes semi-focused gaze met his daughter's. "Please do this dying man the honor of listening to one last request." He did not wait for any response before continuing. "You have a pure heart, my little Waterlily, the best your mother and I could give you. When those who will advise you are unsure of themselves and look to you for guidance, and you yourself are unsure, trust your heart. Trust what it tells you to do and head its advice. At the risk of offending someone I am about to meet, I have always felt God speaking strongest to me though the heart. While you and I view faith differently, I ask you trust."

Amelia choked out a reply between silent sobs. "I will papa, I will."

Trajan continued, seeming not to have heard. "You will face many challenges on the throne. Some of which you understand, others which you don't. Attempting to go alone is the gateway to the path of madness. Surround yourself with good people, like your darling Eugène, and trust your heart. Now, I'm quite tired and would like some rest. Would you be so kind as to send the gentlemen waiting outside the door in?" The old man sank back into his bed with finality.

Tears flowed freely across Amelia's face. "Goodbye papa." She stood, gently kissed him on the forehead, turned and walked to the door. She took one last look back as she opened the door. Emperor Trajan VIII did not reciprocate, gaze locked onto something far beyond the ceiling. Several men acknowledge her and then stepped into the room.

Amelia exited the hallway and began walking in the direction of her childhood room. Once she felt she had put enough distance between herself and the gathering of people waiting outside the door, she broke into a run. By the time she arrived at her room, any pretense of presenting a ladylike decorum was thrown to the wind. Tears streamed freely, breaths came in gasping sobs, and as soon as the door was closed, she collapsed to the floor. Amelia curled up against the foot of her bed and cried until there were no more tears to cry with. That did not stop the gasping sobs.

Sometime later, Amelia was startled by a sharp knock on the door. A familiar voice called out from the other side.

"It's Sergeant Major Ploussard m'lady. May I come in?"

Amelia stared at the door from behind her knees. "Are you alone or do you have company?"

The hushed arguing from the other side made it clear that Ploussard was not alone at all. Finally, he replied. "There are several of us here m'lady. These other gentlemen have agreed to do as you wish." The glare accompanying the last words was audible.

"Is my husband her yet Sergeant Major?" Amelia forced the question out without waver.

"Not yet m'lady, my understanding is his train will arrive within the hour." Ploussard's voice carried cleanly though the door.

Amelia wiped at her eyes with her hands. "Just you may enter Sergeant Major, but to appease the other gentlemen you may leave the door open."

The door swung open, and Ploussard stepped inside. A gaggle of other men stood outside and peered into the opening. Ploussard walked over to Amelia and looked her in the eye. "May I join m'lady?"

"Please Sergeant Major, I do apologize for the lack of seating." Amelia felt the geyser of emotion begin to boil again. She knew why Ploussard was here.

Ploussard made no move to sit and came to parade ground attention. "M'lady, it is my solemn and sad duty to report to you that Emperor Trajan the Eighth passed away a short while ago. I have been told he went peacefully and in little, if any, pain. Please let me be the first to offer condolences to m'lady for her loss. Know that the men under my command, and myself, are at m'lady's service." Done with the formal part of his duties, Ploussard spoke again, softer while helping Amelia to her feet. "I'm so sorry Amelia."

Amelia shakily replied. "Thank you, Sergeant Major,..." Then the geyser of emotions erupted. Amelia felt as if she were falling, unable to find anything to grab onto.

Sergeant Major Ploussard stopped the falling. He pulled Amelia into a tight embrace and held her as the flood of emotion poured out of her. Then, he answered a question that Amelia had asked him time and again, that he recognized answering now would do the grieving woman some infinitesimally small amount of good. "Please call me Maximilian, if it pleases your Majesty."

[The Rock Doctor]

Good stuff.

Except him dying on my birthday.  That's a bit awkward.

[Jefgte]

March 2nd 1917

Sultan Constantin XII is very affected by the death of Emperor Trajan VIII.
The Ambassador of Byzantium will attend the funeral of the Emperor.
Due to the Emperor's attachment to the Navy, the Sultan will be personally represented by Grand Admiral Izmar, Commander-in-Chief of the Byzantine fleet. The Admiral will travel quickly to Rome with the cruiser Enteia.

[The Rock Doctor]

Sigismund VIII Vasa, Queen Sophie, and the people of the Vilnius Union wish to express their sincere condolences to the family of Trajan VIII and the people of Rome on the loss of their beloved emperor.

The Vilnius Union's royal family will travel by train to attend the funeral.

[snip]

I had stuff I wanted to do between the above and this, but given how behind I am thought it best to continue. Onward to the Coronation, which will be on July 15th, 1918.

June 15th, 1918. Imperial Palace, Rome. 0324.

Amelia awoke with a soft start, the transition from idle tossing to semi-alertness less than ideal. Rolling her head to the left, it was apparent that the pillow next to her was unoccupied. Her feet felt the presence of Tiberium, the now massive Cain Corso curled at the foot of the bed. The dog softly snored, oblivious to the world around him. As the fog of slumber began to slowly peel back, Amelia lifted her head and scanned the room. As expected, the French door leading to the balcony was open. Amelia sat up, inserted her feet into some waiting slippers, and pulled a robe over her shoulders. She chose not to tie the sash as she stepped into the still night air.

Amelia found Eugène leaning against the railing, gaze passing over the mostly darkened city and focusing on something far beyond. His elbows attempted to gouge into the stone as his left hand covered his mouth and right hand clenched and unclenched over and over. Amelia approached her husband, unconsciously being careful not to make her footsteps to quiet.

"Eugène." Amelia softly called out. "May I join you?"

Eugène's focus visibly returned as if by the snapping of an elastic band. "Did I wake you?" The apology, unspoken, dripped from his voice.

"No." The little white half-lie slipped through her lips with practiced ease. "I can't really sleep ether."

"It is less than a month away." Eugène took Amelia's outstretched hand as he spoke and pulled her gently closer. "If the nerves are keeping you awake now, its going to take a minor act of God to get you rest the night before."

"I'll be fine." Amelia replied, hoping the shaky confidence that Eugène was in fact right did not show cleanly though. She changed the focus off herself. "The nightmare is back?"

"Yes." Eugène's reply was flat and emotionless. "Slightly different this time, wounds in different places, some more important than others."

"Do you think that's because of what I told you today?" Amelia ventured the question timidly.

"Maybe, but that is not your fault." Eugène broke eye contact and returned to scanning the skyline. "I can't help but worry, what if something is wrong. What if something is wrong and it's my fault. If what happened comes to pass again..."

"Eugène." Amelia reached up and brushed his cheek. "I know it was hard before, I still wonder if I could have done anything to change the outcome, but this time is different. I know you trust me husband, this feels different. I can't explain it, I just know."

Amelia guided Eugène's hand to her lower abdomen and gently placed it on an almost unnoticeable, but discernable bump.

"You are going to be a father Eugène." Amelia could not and would not stop the smile parting her lips. "I'm pregnant, and that will not change until it is time to welcome this little one into the world."

Eugène returned the smile and pulled Amelia into an embrace. The soft passing of his breath along her neck came smooth and strong. The pair stood entwined for a extended moment, allowing the night air to circle around them. The soft sound of paw on stone interrupted the stillness as Tiberium came to see what his humans were up to. Letting his tongue flop out of an open jaw, the dog sat down and awaited the attention he though he so deserved for being clever enough to find his humans.

Eugène reached out and tossed the dog's ears around. "I see I woke you up to."

"On the contrary." Amelia joined in by scratching Tiberium's chin. "He was snoring when I came to find you. So, my fault there. Come, we should all return to bed."

Amelia gently tugged Eugène's hand and began moving back towards the door. In a month, she would formally become the Empress of the Imperial Roman Republic. Some time after that, she would become a mother. The excitement and terror of both looming milestones mulled around, suppressed by a massive layer of happiness.

[snip]

July 17th, 1918. Rome.

Amelia nodded at what felt like the thousandth dignitary, who bid her farewell and shuffled off down the line. She closed her eyes and inhaled perhaps a little too loudly.

"Are you all right dearest?" Eugène's whisper cut though the background noise with practiced efficiency.

"Yes." Amelia replied. "Thank you for checking. How many more of these do we have?"

"You wont like the honest answer." Eugène replied, a slim coat of jest on his tone.

Amelia sighed again. "Its not helping that this gown is just a smidge tighter than it should be."

The comment was delivered in a hushed tone, as Amelia's pregnancy was not to be widely know until after the coronation. The gowns were altered at the last moment to best conceal the increasingly obvious bump, but there was only so much that could be done and still maintain the illusion.  As if powers beyond mortal influence conspired to bust the secret out into the open, the background noise in the room took an acute dive at that exact instant in time.

"I take it our guests from across the Atlantic have arrived." Eugène commented.

Amelia turned to look at her husband, cutting a dashing figure in his full Marine dress uniform. "Are you sure you are ok with this." The question rolled off her lips like a statement, which was intentional.

"Of course." Eugène's reply was diplomatically neutral.

The arrival of the Aztec delegation had been an affair in and of itself. The HMS Eagle and HMS Implacable had been met at sea by the IRS Jeanne d'Arc and IRS Agincourt. On arrival, the Aztec ships were formally welcomed by the IRS Imperito. That one of the Ironclad Bay survivors preformed this duty was no accident. The general mood had been welcoming, but the occasional voice of displeasure bubbled to the surface.

The Aztec delegation paused at the point where they were to be announced, the Pretorian Guardsmen subtly stiffened. Amelia caught her first glimpse of Queen Fatima. The Aztec was older than Amelia, but anyone attempting to guess would place the gap much smaller in Fatima's favor. Her white linen dress was clearly meant for a far more humid climate than that of the Mediterranean. A white and green scarf circled her neck, able to be pulled into a more traditional face covering should the occasion desire. Various rubies and gold adornments twinkled playfully in the light. The single female bodyguard trailing half a step behind drew more inadvertent attention, the new world cavalry uniform more tailored to feminine curves distinct from the more traditional uniforms sported by the various male European officers who had filtered through since the reception had begun.

"Announcing Queen Fatima of the Aztec Sultanate." The court crier's voice carried without aid to the far corners of the vast receiving hall.

Fatima closed the gap between her and Amelia at an almost to quick for formal pace. The bodyguard behind her in followed with no variation in distance. Amelia wondered if the cavalry officer also served as a translator, or if Fatima's Modern Latin was far better than her Aztec. Fatima arrived at the protocol-demanded spot and faced Amelia and Eugène. Whereas the Roman and other European dignitaries had bowed or curtsied, Fatima and the young woman behind her only bowed their heads in respect. Amelia took no offence but could be sure she heard at least four hearts skip a beat among the court officers. Amelia politely nodded in return before speaking.

"Queen Fatima." Amelia began the well-rehearsed lines she had already spoken many times that day. "Please accept my welcome invitation to the Imperial Roman Republic. We are honored by your presence."

Fatima's eyes danced over Amelia and the faintest flash of realization broke over her face. Disappearing as quickly as it appeared, Fatima spoke in heavily accented Modern Latin.

"It is my pleasure and delight to be in attendance." Fatima's voice was smooth and filled the air despite its restrained volume. "It is truly an honor to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is mine." Amelia replied with a less artificially warm tone than she expected. "This is my husband, Eugène Charpentier."

Eugène bowed. "A pleasure, your majesty."

"I hope your journey was uneventful?" Amelia offered the question with a formal politeness.

"I am told it was just that." Fatima answer. "Unfortunately, I have no frame of reference as this is my first time in Europe."

"Perhaps if the opportunity were to present itself, I would be able to show you some of the sites of the city while you are here?" Amelia asked pleasantly.

"I would find that agreeable." Fatima's answer was pointed. "I will have my staff reach out to yours."

One of the men standing behind Amelia politely cleared his throat.

"As much as I do not wish to cut short our meeting, I'm afraid the schedule means I must." The apologetic tone sincere in Amelia's voice, she continued. "Thank you for making the long journey to attend and please inform my office if there is anything you require."

"Your hospitality is generous." Fatima replied, then continued with a very knowing tone. "Please take care of yourself and your family, may the future bring you joy and happiness."

Amelia caught her right hand moving to her swelling belly unconsciously. Fatima smiled softly. The two women exchanged a knowing glance before Fatima bowed her head again and departed.

[TacCovert4]

Exiting the throne room, Fatima and Atlacoya return to the phalanx of five additional guardswomen of Queen Fatima's light cavalry, these in full ceremonial weaponry as well, with scimitar sheaths gleaming from their baldrics.  Obviously the Praetorians standing at the throne room doors had not been keen on letting a number of armed Aztecs into the Imperial Presence, even if they were devoid of their pistols or carbines.  Falling in with them, Atlacoya lags behind her Majesty, walking beside her old Comanche Wars comrade turned Major, Ohtli, Captain of the Queen's Guard.

"How was the Empress?" Ohtli asked, in hushed tones as they walked back to the waiting cars.  "Young" Atlacoya answered, "about your age, though you can see that the crown, and other things, weigh heavily upon her already.  You can see the steel, that she was born to rule, but you can also tell that her ascension is weighing upon her mind, not unlike our own sovereigns, especially during the war.  I do not envy her task, her father was a strong Emperor, and she can be nothing less in these times, lest she be devoured by their politicians." 

Ohtli nods.  "The Praetorians seemed professional enough, though you can tell that some of them were nervous with our presence."  Atlacoya chuckles at the remark.  "Well trained, but without the quiet confidence of those who have slain their enemies face to face and survived in many battles" she replies, "A common affliction of ceremonial guards I've heard".  Ohtli then says "The courtiers were most interesting, a mix of gawking and haughty looks.  Some even appeared to be taken aback, it seems they have not seen women who go to war before."  Atlacoya replies "It's not every day that they do, I suspect.  And to see the honors won in battle, at the expense of their countrymen no less, the combat cavalryman's badge, and the Texas Campaign Medal probably annoyed more than a few of those who were a part of the old government.  After all, the reverses we inflicted upon Rome were some of the first major reverses by what they'd consider a minor power in centuries, and our stand at Grand Turk and our campaign in Texas caused quite a number of their politicians to fall from power and grace."

Walking down the steps to the waiting rented cars, Atlacoya and Ohtli cast their eyes about, feeling reassured when they saw the waiting pairs of drivers and Guards, these carrying their pistols and carbines respectively and being dutifully watched by a squad of the Praetorian Guard.  The firearms were unsuited to the purposes of ceremonial duties in any palace save that of the Sun Throne, but both women had been confident that if the Empress had been a weak ruler and willing to stoop to treachery, or a cabal of politicians had taken designs upon making an international incident or political move, the Praetorians in the palace would have learned to their horror the efficiency of Aztecs with the blade, something never publicized like the Japanese and their Samurai traditions, but a storied tradition of valor and excellence nonetheless.  Fortunately, it seemed that the Empress was what she appeared to be, and maybe Rome had not lost its sense of honor.  These were good signs for future relations.

[Kaiser Kirk]

(Sorry, the end of June through early August was disrupted)

The Parthian Royal family will send their condolences.
The Parthian Ambassador* to Rome shall pay their respects.

*given the travel distances, Royals attending the funeral is likely difficult to arrange.

Sigismund VIII Vasa, Queen Sophie, and the people of the Vilnius Union wish to express their sincere condolences to the family of Trajan VIII and the people of Rome on the loss of their beloved emperor.

The Vilnius Union's royal family will travel by train to attend the funeral.

[Kaiser Kirk]

I had stuff I wanted to do between the above and this, but given how behind I am thought it best to continue. Onward to the Coronation, which will be on July 15th, 1918.

For this, there is adequate time for Parthia to send suitable royals. :)

[snip]

July 18th, 1918. The Vatican, Rome.

Septimius Rocchi, Prime Minister of the Imperial Roman Republic, had given many speeches in his life. None had, perhaps save one made slightly under four years ago which had set in motion his elevation to Prime Minister, been as important as the one he was about to give despite its length. Less men than could be counted on two hands had given a speech like this. Septimius had yet again fallen accidentally into a small group of Roman politicians.

As he stood off to the side of the entrance to the cavernous interior of Saint Peter's Basilica, trying to avoid sweating to much in the stifling suit which stretched across his broad Sicilian shoulders, the fuss of a small commotion reached out to his ears and drew his attention outward. It was far to late for any additional guests to be arriving, which meant such commotion would be reserved for one individual. Septimius turned, and his suspicion was confirmed.

Crown Princess Amelia and the small gaggle of assistants that had been buzzing around the poor woman likely for hours had turned the corner. The deep purple gown spilled from shoulders to floor, the deceptively simple pattern made grander with fine white fur trim. While from the distance most would observe from the gown maintained the illusion which need only be maintained for a matter of hours longer, Septimius could tell from the shorter distance that Amelia was clearly pregnant. He respectfully met Amelia's gaze and nodded to her. Amelia politely motion for the swarm of handmaidens to give her some space and approached Septimius.

"Crown Princess Amelia." Septimius bowed deeply as he allowed the formality of the occasion to return the proper title, despite knowing how annoying its continued application would be. "May I say you are positively glowing."

"Prime Minister Rocchi." Amelia responded while curtsying. "Thank you, you are looking quite sharp yourself."

"Only the best for this day." Septimius accepted the compliment. "Is there anything I can do for your Majesty before we begin?"

"I do believe it is all taken care of." Amelia's tone contained not a hint of audible worry. "What comes after today, I will require your assistance with."

Before Septimius could reply, a sharp ring of a bell cut though the entryway and the space beyond. One of the handmaidens rushed over and whispered into Amelia's ear, a glare from one of the planning staff borring into the back of the unfortunate girl as she retreated without waiting for reply.

"It appears the time has arrived where they need someone to coordinate mister Prime Minister." If this fact made Amelia nervous, it did not come though in her reply. "If you will excuse my acute exit from our conversation..."

Without waiting for an answer, Amelia stepped away from Septimius. He bowed deeply as Amelia was shuffled away by the various attendants. Septimius stood waiting, and watched as Amelia was guided into position behind a large set of double doors. With no queue, they swung open away from the Crown Princess, the room beyond falling into an impossible silence. Amelia turned her head to Septimius, nodded once, then looked forward again. Pulling her small frame as strait as possible, rolling her shoulders back, she stepped forward without another glance back. Septimius would not have stifled how impressed he was at the confidence projected by Amelia with a gun to his temple.



Despite the outward confidence she steadfastly maintained since the moment her foot first touched the stone of Saint Peter's that morning, Amelia's inside was filled with turmoil. Throughout the ceremony until this point, her actual involvement was minimal. With the conclusion of the anointing, that was about to change. For privacy, the anointing was done under the cover of a small tent. Amelia felt a streak of oil running around her belly towards the floor from where it had been wiped on her chest.

She followed the bishop across the floor, keeping the outward confidence resolute. In front of her stood a small, elevated platform, the three tiers which made it up forming a simple stair. Atop this platform sat a grand wooden chair, accented with ornately upholstered red cushions, and covered in intricate carvings. Another church official, this one a deacon, stood next to a table to the chair's right, on which sat three open chests of various sizes. These contained some of the final steps of the coronation, completing the appointment to the job that as the youngest female child, by all right never should have fallen to Amelia.

On the first step she thought of her brother, Gian. The middle of the three siblings, he had died after a long bout with illness eleven years before. Amelia had a more active relationship with Gian, only four years her senior. His death was her first real experience with the loss of a family member and as such had not been an easy experience to process at eleven years of age. At the time, she had not understood what Gian's role would have been, but he would have found himself were she was now had he lived.

On the second step Alonzo filled her thoughts. By circumstance, Alonzo was twelve years older than Amelia, a fact he did not let the young girl forget for the longest time. The tragedy that was 1907 softened their relationship, and the pair grew constantly closer until Alonzo's untimely death six years ago. Alonzo's roll had always been clear to Amelia since she was old enough to understand, Alonzo was to be Emperor. The memory of being held by her father in the pouring rain the night of Alonzo's passing still bubbled to the surface from time to time, the acute pain of the moment filed ever softer with time.

Taking the final step to reach the top tier, Amelia though of her parents. Her mother, Catherine, had been loved by all who met her. Taken by the same illness that had killed Gian less than a month later, what had not quite been understood about his death was blown to the highest proportion with Catherine's. To this day, Amelia found herself comparing anything she did to the smallest detail to her mother. Never letting anyone see how those comparisons brough an unstable mixture of happiness and pain which would slosh around inside her.

For all his faults, Trajan VIII always tried to be a good father. Distant from his only daughter for most of her early life, the death of his wife and male children forced the gap to close. What Amelia had sometimes attributed to malice, she later discovered to be mainly ignorance. Trajan had prepared her to the best of his ability for a task which he never foresaw her undertaking. Amelia wished for one more conversation with the late Emperor, both for some token nugget of advice that had remained ungiven and for one more chance to provide her father with thanks for what he had done to prepare her for this.

Amelia reached the appointed spot in front of the chair and turned to face away from it, looking out over the assembled crowd. The deacon approached her, the first item held across his palms. He offered the scepter to Amelia, who took it in her right hand, ensuring the correct end was held aloft. The deacon then shuffled away, and returned with the second item, a gold orb with a cross on the top of it. This was placed onto Amelia's outstretched left palm, its weight requiring a slight adjustment lest it drop to the floor. The deacon returned with the final item, an ornate crown. Emerald gemstones and diamonds adorned most of the base and sides, with the top being a small orb with a cross placed at the peak. Holding this orb were the wingtips of golden eagles whose feet gripped the base of the crown. As the deacon was much taller than Amelia, she hardly had to duck for him to place it atop her head. It was somehow lighter than expected, but a great weight settled across her shoulders as the deacon's hands moved away.

"With these items, the scepter, orb, and crown of the Imperial Throne, I declare the Empress of the Imperial Roman Republic. By what name shall your subjects address thee?" The deacon's question swept across the cavernous chamber, chased to every corner by silence.

"They may address me as Empress Amelia." Amelia allowed her voice to project over the assembled crowd.

Amelia surveyed the crowd, and saw Septimius Rocchi stand from his seat in the nearest row of chairs. "Will your majesty allow me the honor of speaking?"

"You may speak, Prime Minister Rocchi." Amelia's voice was flat and controlled.

"Allow me the honor and privilege of being the first of your subjects to address your majesty by her chosen name." Septimius' voice honed by years of public oratory was heard by all. "Long live Empress Amelia!"

Septimius repeated the sentence but his voice was joined by a chorus of others. With each repetition, the call grew louder. Silently, the deacon retrieved the orb and scepter. Amelia took half a step back, and slowly sat on the throne that was now formally hers. As the chant trailed off into silence, the Empress of the Imperial Roman Republic felt her child stir for the first time within her belly. She smiled and waved from the throne, maintaining the mask of calm over a maelstrom of emotion.

[The Rock Doctor]

Good stuff as always.

It can be assumed that the Union's royal family are present, if that somehow matters for narrative purposes.

[snip]

November 4th, 1918. Imperial Roman Naval Base, Genoa.

Amelia sat as comfortably as she was able to as the ceremony proceeded on the stern of the IRS Jeanne d'Arc. While the appearance of the Empress at a typical changing of command ceremony was uncommon, that the command of the most modern large armored cruiser was being passed to a now years-long family friend of Alessandro Valli made for an exception. It was also likely to be her final public event before the arrival of her child. Eugène sat next to her, more attentive to the proceedings than she was.

Amelia suppressed any contortion of her face as for what was the latest in a mostly irregular cramp radiated down her belly. While the discomfort had been present for some time, initial she felt it was tied to something eaten the previous night. Something about this instance felt different enough that she wondered what else would be the cause. Between this thought and the droning of the admiralty officer speaking, the next cramp was a surprise which forced a sharp exhale despite all effort to suppress it.

"Everything all right?" The whisper from Eugène was calm and collected. "Can I fetch you anything? That's the third time you've become tense in the last quarter of an hour."

Eugène's helpfulness lead to a revelation, that something which seemed so irregular was in fact rhythmic.

"Do you know how long until the ceremony concludes?" Amelia did her best to keep the tone of the comment neutral.

"I'm sure nobody would bat an eye at a request to shorten the proceedings on your account." Eugène gave a non-answer. "They are after all, your subjects." A playful gest.

"It is not on my account at all." Amelia replied. "Rather, someone has decided it is time for an introduction."

Someone else must have noticed the change in Eugène's expression, the normally unflappable Marine officer façade cracked from within by the expectant father. "Now? The doctors said we had another two to three weeks?"

"Well doctors can be wrong." Amelia tossed the statement gently.

One of the ship's stewards noticed the conversation and approached. "Is there something I can do for you, Your Majesty?"

Amelia turned and smiled professionally as another labor cramp began contorting her insides. "Actually yes there is. Would you please fetch the ship's surgeon, my driver, and the head of my staff. Please tell them at the conclusion of the ceremony that I will need to be taken to hospital."

"Of course mlady." The steward replied. "May I inform them as to the need? The surgeon is very proud of the ship's facilities and may insist on treating you here."

"As skilled as the surgeon is, I do not believe he would wish to press this issue." Amelia failed at stopping a slight grimace as the cramp concluded. "Unless, of course, he has experience with delivering a child."
The steward, to his credit, kept a strait expression. "I will inform them right away Your Majesty." He departed without another word.

The speaking Admiral had noticed the attention of the crowd shifting to the rapid departure of the steward and turned. "Is something the matter Empress."

"Nothing unnatural." Amelia allowed her hands to settle on her belly. "But if we could perhaps finish quickly, I would be grateful as somebody else has so rudely decided to seek the attention of the moment. I will apologies now for my quick departure at the conclusion Admiral, I do not believe that labor will wait.



Eugène had been dismissed from the room as soon as they had arrived at the base hospital. Left in a small waiting area, he felt helpless. Time crawled by, moments stretching longer as the cries of his wife in pain grew more frequent from her room down the hall. How he longed to be there with her in this moment, but every time he attempted to approach the door, a stern nurse rebuffed him. While overpowering her would have been trivial, it would not have improved the situation. This is woman's work, let us help her.

Minuets ago, the screams had reached a crescendo, then fallen to relative silence. The time gnawed at Eugène's sanity, mind racing as to all the outcomes. Finally, the stern nurse appeared around the corner with the doctor behind her. Eugène found himself bracing for soul-crushing words to hammer his ears. The fear did not come to pass.

"Congratulations." The doctor walked over and shook Eugène's hand. "A perfectly healthy delivery. Please come with me."

Eugène felt the shock of relief wash over him. "Of course, doctor."

The doctor paused at the door, which he held open. "She insisted you have some time with her, alone."

Eugène entered the room and herd the door close behind him. Sunlight filtered though the curtains, dancing across the floor. The softer glow of electric lights illuminated the room. Amelia lay in a bed, tilted upright. Her normally semi-curly hair was matted to her face with sweat, which shown across her exposed skin and drenched the gown which covered her body, pasting it to her figure. The one blue and one brown eye dance with emotions; exhaustion, pain, joy, and happiness. Held in her arms, nestled snuggly against her chest, a small bundle. A bundle which cooed softly.

"Amelia..." Eugène began.

"Eugène, my darling." Amelia smiled, lips parting slightly.

"I tried; they would not let me in." Eugène's excuse present as comment to a unvocalised regret.

"It will surely make you feel better that they did not listen to me ether on that subject." Amelia replied. "Something about being too delirious to know what was best for me, the Empress. Now, come here." She slightly shifted her hips to make a little more space. "Its time to meet your daughter."
Nothing in the world would have stopped the grin that split Eugène's face ear to ear. Without a word, he took the offered seat on the bed and looked down at the bundle held against Amelia's breast. Staring back at him was the most adorable face he had ever seen despite the trauma it had just been though.

"Hello little one." Eugène said aloud without meaning to.

"Do you want to hold her?" Amelia asked softly.

With great hesitation, Eugène gently took his daughter from his wife's arms. The baby stirred and began to fuss within the confines of the swaddle.

"It's alright daughter." Amelia reached out a hand to brush the baby's cheek. "This is your father, the most kind and caring man in the world. He already loves you more than you know."

Amelia leaned her head against Eugène's shoulder as he held the baby. A few minuets passed, then she returned to holding their daughter.

"I do suppose we should come to a conclusion on a name." Eugène said. "I'm sure that someone will ask me as soon as I leave the room."

"Of course they will darling." Amelia replied. "I know we had a few ideas, but I may have had a last minute addition."

"Do share." Eugène asked.

"In some way, I feel she had an idea of her own." Amelia looked down at the baby and smiled.

"If its what I think you are thinking." Eugène also looked down at his daughter. "Knowing you, as I do, wife. I like it."



Announcement from the Imperial Palace, dated November 5th 1918.

Announcing the birth of Princess Jeanne Cathern Sforza.

Empress Amelia and her husband welcomed their first child, a daughter, yesterday. Born in Genoa, the Princess arrived late in the afternoon. Both mother and child are doing well and are expected to return to Rome later this week. The couple has asked for privacy until the princess's formal introduction at a to be announced date.