In the grand scheme of things, an army was both the least useful and yet most essential part. She had known that from the very moment the Crown Prince had annulled their betrothal. So, until this point, she had sought out how best to approach the issue. Naturally, one had to look to the Ancient Romans. While it would have been easy to focus on the imperial years, it was the case that she was, in a sense, militarising a city and so the republic period better matched.
She did not think herself particularly talented on matters of war, nor did she think her reading on the topic gave her a particular expertise. That was why she had sought out those who knew better. Imitation was one thing, such as the hierarchy of officers she had put in place. Another thing entirely was understanding how to translate wisdom from those ancient to these modern times.
Her knight had a willingness to embrace change and could lead men into battle, yet she found him conservative. Rather, in her husband, she found promise. He wished for answers. It was this earnest desire to understand that she so prized, better still that he would seek answers with humility, neither so sure of himself that he refused help nor so dull as to need everything spelled out. Although it remained to be seen how decisive he would be in battle, she felt that was an area he could hone.
"Darling has spoken before on organisations which justify themselves."
His unspoken question fell amidst the summer breeze, a refreshing touch as the sun's heat broke dawn's chill. Over this honeymoon-year, she had been rather amused by his change, a familiarity in how he now said so little and yet asked so much.
"Dear has a good memory," she answered.
He let out a light laugh that the weak wind swept away.
Ahead of them, the militia trained. It was as simple as walking in a line along a road and then turning to the side. Simple, however, did not mean natural. The better an army could walk along a road, the quicker it would reach its destination; it needed not be stated the importance of that.
Little by little, that weak wind swept away his lingering smile.
"If I may speak honestly, I feel… lost. You were right to say this was a good arrangement for myself and I have learned so much. On the other hand, all you asked of me was to lead your army, yet I fear now that there is little more I could even do."
Such words were not exactly addressed to her, merely expressed aloud, quiet words that he hoped the weak wind would sweep away too. However, she had always been a good listener.
"If I may be blunt, does dear think his father encouraged him to be a good son?" she asked.
His lips curled into an awkward smile and he lightly said, "If you were to ask my brother—"
"I am asking you."
That awkward smile froze, then melted, left behind something hollow. "What does it even mean to be a good son?" he asked.
It was not a joke, almost a plea, almost but not quite. Rather, it was wistful and nothing more. A reminiscence of a time when he had dearly wished for an answer. Of course, none had ever been given. His brother had simply been good in every way, and he had been bad in every way, including—especially—in ways his father did not know.
"A master craftsman is a master, not because he understands how to teach others or how to lead or manage, but because of his seniority in the craft. In this, it becomes clear why guilds rely on legal protections. A father is little different. His position of seniority is inherent and unshakeable, thus he would consolidate all authority into seniority."
He listened closely and, by the end, couldn't help but softly smile. "You speak as if fathers are tyrannical kings."
"It is better to say kings are tyrannical fathers," she said, her tone clear that this was no joke. "That is beside the point, though. One should not ignore the truth because it sounds unbelievable. Pray tell, as a child, did your father ever compromise? Or is it only when you held power over yourself that your father would entertain such weakness?"
Although he lowered his head in thought, of course he knew the answer. Even her previous correction of kings as fathers now settled into place.
"I do not bring this up to shame dear," she said, her tone softer now, gentle. "However, I think being aware of this brings a natural clarity. Dear asked what it means to be a good son, yet such a measurement is set by the father, measured by the father, and announced by the father. What dear dares not even consider is the precise opposite, that of whether his father is a good father."
She paused there; he understood why, the next moment her hands holding on to his arm. A simple gesture, chaste, one that she often performed in public. Of all things, he had underestimated her ability to perform the most.
"Dear asked about those things which justify themselves. For the most part, these things emerge naturally. However, they are things made up of people, thus are anything but natural. A guild does not become a guild because it is the best choice for some purpose, but because it offers those with power some particular benefit. So it is that we have something that is both resilient and yet without purpose. Or rather, its purpose is to itself, not to the city nor the ruler. Any benefits or taxes it pays are necessary in pursuit of its purpose and it should naturally seek to reduce these necessities if ever possible."
He let out a long breath, her explanation, while not overly novel compared to previous discussions, still proved heavy when juxtaposed with the other half of what she had spoken about. That, to his father, he was an unavoidable expense and little more. Not that he hadn't known that for a long time already, had even been told as much by his father.
"It is my intention to making lasting changes. Thus, these changes must also justify themselves, even in the face of competition and even in the absence of my support. Does dear know what I most prize in these endeavours?"
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Her question hung in the air, not with great pressure, instead the opposite, a gentle pull that coaxed an answer from him.
"I would suppose you look for steady income," he said with a hint of pride.
She tittered, a hand over her mouth, which rather shattered his ego, fragile as it was this moment.
"Pray tell what it is, then," he said.
His surliness certainly endeared him to her, a smile lingering on her lips. "It is managers. A good manager will hire good workers and ensure each worker has appropriate work to do. Good workers with appropriate work are productive. If we compare the disruption caused by a bad worker to that caused by a bad manager, it is easy to see that a bad manager is much worse as they would hire bad workers as well as improperly assign work to good workers."
Although a longer explanation than he expected, and one that still felt lacking, he appreciated it. However his thoughts still stuck on the other issues they'd discussed. That did not mean he did not think over what she had said, though.
"Then is it not important to make changes that do not rely on a good manager?"
A note of laughter left her lips, mingling with the breeze. "The trick, as I see it, is to first establish something good, then to make it sturdy. The Venetians, for example. One wonders how they have avoided most internal trouble and, to me, it stems from their election. While not an entirely accurate description, it is as if they vote each time to eliminate someone and so, at the end, the only one left is inoffensive to all and mild in ambitions. This leaves free everyone else to continue doing those things they are good at without much disruption from above."
His knowledge of Venetian history and politics left much to be desired; however, he heard in her words an echo of something else. "The joint consuls with their veto powers," he said, more a whisper, "so significant change required agreement or compromise."
To that, she said nothing, left him to his thoughts while she watched the men of the militia walk.
"I have been full of doubt. All along, I waited for you to slip-up, to reveal some other plan. Your suggestion to consider what good we may accomplish together, this manner of rulership that goes against the common wisdom. However, this is your truth, is it not?"
She did not give an immediate answer, yet she did not dawdle either. The breeze brushed against them, a welcome chill in the growing heat, and her voice joined it.
"I believe people are good."
It hit him hard, bowing his head; she responded by raising her own, a smile on her lips, that it would have looked to those watching as if the couple were sharing a sweet moment.
Doubt, no, it had been his pessimism which kept him from believing in her. That he could tell himself she was both thoughtful and misguided, the world not as simple as she made it seem.
However, faced with her initial reforms to the militia, he could no longer deny her competence. Not brilliance, but competence. She did not simply round up a bunch of peasants and hand them spears and arquebuses and expect success.
An imitation, she called it, thick with self-abasement. Yet it resembled nothing, resembled everything. The Ancient Romans, the Czechs, the Swiss, the Polish, the Hungarians, even the Muslims. It was as if she read through every book ever written on warfare and taken notes.
Perhaps she had.
Earlier in the day, he had witnessed the strength of gunpowder. These bombard crews were not the bumbling men he had heard stories of before. Ten crews of six men, each capable of loosing a shot in a minute. With the arquebusiers, her first company could manage at least two shots in a minute, albeit then slowed by fouling.
How would a battle with such an army go? He didn't know—couldn't know. Not yet, at least.
Her hands on his arm dropped down, brushed against his hand, and her voice followed the gentle wind. "There are those who claim to be rational, that their beliefs naturally follow from the facts. What this means is that any attempt to question those beliefs is necessarily an attack on their very being as it calls into doubt their ability to reason. Of course, few people go out of their way to believe things they know untrue, rather they do not think to question those beliefs they agree with or to look again at those beliefs they have already accepted."
She paused there; a gentle laugh spilled from her lips and her head bumped against his shoulder.
"In war, there is certainly a measure of power in the confidence belief brings. There is a similar measure of power in strict order and harsh discipline. However, the benefits of these are, in a sense, fleeting. That they are justified in victory, only to become inexplicable in defeat. Or rather, the explanation becomes that the army did not sufficiently believe, or that they did not impose strict enough discipline."
"That everything must justify itself."
His quiet interruption gave her pause, yet the smile he heard in her words that followed told him she did not mind. "I believe in dear and would support him as best I may. That all I ask is to know the expectations he has for himself, such that I would hold him to those alone."
At last, the knife she had brandished earlier now buried itself deep into his gut. The idle talk about his father not without purpose. No, she never did anything without purpose. Nor was it lost on him that her question did not explicitly limit itself to the commanding of her army. How, even now, she would not force him into a role he did not think himself capable in.
A bad worker an issue, a bad manager much worse.
"It is a great shame you would have no daughter," he whispered, and he meant it with all his heart.
"I know."
He could understand now how necessary this marriage had been to her, how she could strive so earnestly to prove herself, disregarding any obstacle, even—especially—her own beliefs. If only she had thought God would understand.
If only.
However, he dared not broach such a topic given his own situation. That did not mean he had nothing to say.
"I accept the commission."
His gentle voice joined the breeze, yet was still clearly heard. "King Sigismund will be at war with the Greeks again within a year. At that time, I shall propose sending a small force to assist the Greeks, perhaps two hundred men and four cannons. They may leave early under the pretence of training with the Austrians and then march through Hungary to reach the front."
He drew in a breath, unprepared for the news. "You are confident?"
"Polish nobles have been cancelling grain contracts with Imperial merchants, King Sigismund has been meeting with many of the more moderate members of the Sejm, and there has been a notable shipment of cannons from Sweden."
Of course she knew. He gave his chin a rub, the extent of what she alluded to at the centre of his thoughts. "What reason have we to interfere?"
"To King Sigismund, compromise means that he takes two steps forward and then one step back. We cannot compromise with such a neighbour."
Although he nodded along, he found his question unanswered. Found his question did not need more than that answer. Rather, what he truly wanted to know was why she desired a capable army at all, yet that itself was a foolish question, one he already well-knew the answer to.
"Then I shall go to Greece and be sure not to compromise."
"Is that so? Pray do bring Lord Styria along, or someone else you intimately trust, that I would worry less knowing you have someone to look after you," she said.
Her voice held no insinuations, perfectly innocent. However, he heard clearly what went unspoken, an empty laugh leaving his mouth. "I am not so needy as to need looking after," he said lightly.
"While that may be so, dear needs to be kind to his wife."
He froze. Unlike any time before, she spoke, not evenly, but somewhat petulantly, almost a whine, voice every bit that of a bullied lover. Just when he thought he knew the full extent of her ability to act, she had to prove him wrong. Had to test him.
"Okay, okay, I shan't worry darling," he said, his own acting on show with his gentle, coaxing voice.
"Good."
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