Zenta Letter!

Now, dear reader, our focus turns to events in the Sanjak of Zenta. Some general background to this area of Mittelheim has already been discussed in this humble publication, as well as a few more details on its nefarious links to Rotenburg. But our concern is rather more specific - it is with the palace of Hospodar Casimir, and that locale known as the harem. The hospodar is technically an Orthodox Christian. But he is technically Christian in the same way that, technically, he rules according to the law.* In this vein, he has actually modelled his court along the lines of Ottoman custom: or rather, the customs that he likes. On this afternoon, Casimir is holding court in the harem (below). In Turkish, harem simply means "private", although in Zentan, it could also be loosely translated as "get your hands off, you dirty pervert". Casimir likes to hold his council meetings here; at least when his wife, Roxanne, is out shopping. 

With the crude cultural stereotyping so typical of europeans, it would no doubt be thought that the harem is a den of oriental debauchery, where sweaty nakedness and unchristan acts of carnal satisfaction take place all day, every day; or for at least as long as the participants can bear the chafing. But this would not be true. Such things take place only on Thursday mornings after 11. On Mondays,  for example, the pool is used for under-sevens' swimming. And on Tuesdays, the harem is the location of a usually well-attended coffee morning -  although, to be fair, this mainly involves all the activities of a Thursday, but with the addition of hot beverages.

Casimir's careful cogitation is rudely interrupted, as the doors fly open, and his ceremonial trumpeters announce the arrival of a visitor (Above). Casimir winces at the noise. It is Casimir's vizier, Radu Pasha (below). Radu bows low and approaches.'You seem tired, Dread Lord', says the pasha. After several years as vizier, Radu has learnt to become sensitive to the hospodar's moods. Radu recognised early on that Casimir was that worst kind of bloodthirsty psychopath - the sort that was intelligent and intermittently quite nice. Staying on the right side of the hospodar Radu decided was important, especially if he wished to continue to perform such important tasks as providing advice, and staying alive. In fact, Radu actually has great respect for Casimir. The hospodar may indeed often be violent, bloodthirsty, and judgemental; but balance and open mindedness won’t get one far in Zenta. Politics in the sanjak is like a knife fight in a water closet. One doesn’t survive as hospodar for as long as Casimir has by fairness and "seeing both sides of things": unless, of course, by "seeing both sides", we 
mean having an opponent sawn down the middle and then looking at the results.

'You have a hangover, Dread Lord?' asks Radu solicitously.
'In a manner of speaking, slave Radu', replies Casimir. 'The hangings over-ran, so I really didn't get to bed early enough'.
'Did you hang them all, Awful One?' asks Radu. 'I thought that you intended to release some of them because there was no evidence against them?' 
'Yes, but then I decided that the gurgling noises would improve my mood', replies Casimir. 'Besides which, slave, evidence or not, they were all guilty. This is Zenta. Almost everyone here is either actively plotting against me or plotting to have a plot. Ask any random subject of mine if they want to do some plotting against me, and I know that, rather than saying "Nay, nay, let me not betray my lord, where is my honour", they would say instead something like "How much does it pay and what are the hours like?" 
'But, Dread Lord, if being more discriminating with prisoners would help to get you to bed earlier ...'
'How long have you known me, slave Radu?'
'Four years, Dread Lord', replies the pasha. 'The happiest and most rewarding of my life', he adds quickly.
'And how would you characterise me?'
'Well, Dread Lord, aaah ... oooh ... it's so difficult to ... to put into words'.
'Come on - it's not a trick question', says Casimir, a sure sign that it is probably a trick question.
'Well, Aweful One, I would say that you are a sovereign who, when it comes to making omelettes, understands that one needs to break a few eggs'.
'Yes, breaking eggs is necessary. And also boiling them, skinning them, hammering them, and then displaying the results for several days at strategic points throughout the Sanjak. Anything less than disproportionate and indiscriminate violence I think my subjects would see as weakness and a sign that I was mellowing'.

Casimir yawns. Radu waits patiently. 'On the subject of hangings', says Casimir, 'I haven't yet seen a sight of the new ambassador from Bachscuttel'.
'No, Magnificant One. He arrived last week; but he is the most reluctant applicant for an audience in court that I have seen for some time. He goes through the motions of applying to see you, but he keeps losing the paperwork, apparently. He has also made the point that he is undoubtedly the most boring man in Bachscuttel, and that no sane ruler would want to talk to him, and he says that it is likely, anyway, that he is suffering from the plague, or something worse'.
'That's a shame', replies the hospodar. 'I'll wager that breast and back plate of his might heat up nicely'.

'Anyway', adds Casimir, looking at Radu, 'I suspect that this polite preliminary circling of the issues means that there might be some bad news in the offing?'
Radu nods and gulps. 'We have been sent a letter, Terrible One. From the Sublime Port'.



* The sanjak tends to work according to the principles of cutomary law - that is, things are lawful if the hospodar customarily likes to do them.

With This Appointment You Are Really Spoiling Us!

Prince Rupprecht scowls.
'And who the devil is this, Fecklenburg?'
'It is I, Bastian, Ritter von Dweeb, you most potent highness', says the new visitor.

Fecklenburg gestures towards Dweeb. 'It is as we were just discussing, sire. See, here is the fellow that we were just talking about'.

'My father?'

'No, my lord. We talked about your father yesterday. I mean just now. Just this minute'.

'Martin Luther?'

'No, my lord. We talked about Luther more than a year ago. I mean literally, mere seconds ago, we were talking about Dweeb here'. 

Rupprecht's face contorts. Either he is thinking hard, or having an aneurysm. Possibly both. 'No, I've got nothing, Fecklenburg - you'll have to give me a clue'.

'It is Ritter von Dweeb, sir. You are going to tell him that you have appointed him to be your ambassador to the Sanjak of Zenta'.

Rupprecht's face contorts again. 'Fecklenburg, you know I hate cryptic clues - just tell me who this is and what he's doing here'.

(Above) Dweeb utters a groan. 'My lord! Zenta? Have I upset you in some way, sire?'

Rupprecht suddenly nods vigorously. 'Yes, that's right! Dweeb! Zenta! Ambassador! Well, you got there in the end, didn't you Fecklenburg!'

The ritter looks extremely downcast. He has struggled for many years to make his way through the Byzantine intricacies of the Bachscuttel diplomatic service. His success thus far in the face of the cut-and-thrust of court politics can be explained by his caution and by the fact that he wears a back and breast plate.

'Yes Dweeb! Rejoice, for you are to be my new ambassador to Zenta!'

Dweeb gulps. 'But it's really dangerous there, sire!'

'Fecklenburg says that it's perfectly safe!'

'Well', says Fecklenberg interrupting, 'I think that I actually said that it was 'generally safe'.

'But the hospodar bites!' cries Dweeb.

'Fecklenberg says that isn't true'.

'It generally isn't true, sir'.

Dweeb snuffles. 'He bit the Venetian ambassador'.

'Everyone bites the Venetian ambassador' says Rupprecht. 'That's practically his only purpose. I myself have been tempted on occasion to have a nibble'.

'But I won't be safe. I'll say something perfectly innocuous, and then Hospodar Casimir will fly off the handle. And then he'll probably take the handle and hammer it right up my ...'

'Those rumours are lies', says Rupprecht firmly. 'Generally lies' he adds quickly with a jaundiced eye on Fecklenburg.

'I think, sire, that those rumours actually are generally true', says the chamberlain.

'Look', says the prince, losing control of his italicising, 'Dweeb, someone has to go. Many of those that have been there say that the hospodar actually is a very jolly fellow and that their time there was great fun'.

'Some of those say that', says Fecklenburg.

'Those that still have their tongues, no doubt', Dweeb adds. 

'It will be fine. Besides, you've got your back and breast plate'.

'That won't help me, sire, from the threats that emanate from ... below'.

'Listen Dweeb, one way or another, you're going to Zenta to be my eyes and ears'.

'Only for as long as the hospodar lets me keep them', says Dweeb sadly.

Rupprecht waves dismissively at the ritter. 'It is decided. No more discussion. Now, begone father. Fecklenburg will fill you in on the arrangements. I look forward, Luther, to your first report!'

Medical professional!

At Schloss Tanvaund, Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel has been forced yet again to attend unwillingly to matters of state. This time, Leopold von Fecklenburg, Rupprecht's Grand Chamberlain, is bothering him with issues relevant to the current plague.

'A chief medical officer?' asks the prince, bewildered.

'Indeed, sir. It seemed prudent that you should have an expert advisor on plague-related issues. He is here for you to meet - a noted physician by the name of Hans Klenser'.

Rupprecht sighs. 'If I promise to meet him, will you promise to go away?'

Fecklenburg bows.

'Very well' Rupprecht says wearily. 'Let's have him'.

'Aaaaagh!' says the prince. 'What a horrifying visage, Klenser!'

Herr Klenser bows. 'Thank you, sire: I find that it keeps incidences of illness low'.
'It fights off disease and ailments?'
'No, sir - it makes potential patients too frightened to come and see me. Whenever I appear, rates of reported illness tend to drop off quickly'.
'Since the patients don't get treated, presumably other things quickly drop off as well?'
'It is the way of things, my lord. Life is "nasty, brutish, and short"'.
'The philosopher Thomas Hobbes?' interjects Chamberlain Fecklenburg.
'No', says Klenser. 'my mother - although I think that she was actually describing my father. Anyway, the point is that life is pain'.
Rupprecht snorts. 'Mine isn't. It's actually quite nice'.
The physician nods. 'Oh yes, sir - for the nobility that is so. But for ordinary people life is rather less entertaining'.
'Well', says Rupprecht, 'it serves them right for not working hard enough to inherit their father's wealth'.
Klenser bows. 'I have often had the same thought, sir'.

'Anyway, who's this with you?' asks the Prince. 

'My assistant, sire'.

Rupprecht blanches. 'I must commend you, Klenser, for such an act of charity - to allow such a snaggle-toothed crone, withered and bent with age to accompany you. I'll wager she helps to scare off some of the worst of your patients!'

'She is my wife, my lord'.

To be fair, even Rupprecht is capable of some measure of shame and embarrassment. There is a moment or two of awkward silence before the prince provides the best apology that he can.

'Bloody hell she's ugly', he says solicitously.

Fecklenburg intervenes swiftlty. Rupprecht generally only has two responses to difficult emotional situations: lunch or executions. And since it is too early for lunch, it is better for Herr Klenser that the conversation is moved on.

'Herr Klenser has already formulated some excellent advice on treating the current pestilence', says the chamberlain.

Rupprecht nods. 'Hasn't that Vulgarian minister, Ranald Drumpf, already come up with some perfectly good suggestions: catching the disease in a small net; killing the pestilence by snorting mouse traps; or having a shark eat the affliction out of our bodies?'

Klenser shakes his head wearily. 'I am a medical professional, my lord. Such suggestions are dangerously uninformed hearsay. In such times, we should abide by the clear scientific evidence'.
'Which says that we should do what?' asks the prince.
'Well, my lord, the standard treatment recommended in situations of a pandemic would be a course of leeches'.
'But that's the same treatment that physicians always recommend! I had a bad back and they recommended leeches!'
'A wise choice, sire'.
'But they weren’t even applied to my back! He applied them to my testicles - how was that supposed to help. It really hurt!'
'And did that pain take your mind off the pain in your back, my lord?'
Rupprecht considers this carefully. 'Yes, I suppose that it did'.
'Well, there you go, sir'.

Eventually, to Rupprecht's delight, the meeting ends. A part of his mind registers vaguely that some decisions have been made to which he might have assented; the rest of his brain makes fun of that part and returns to princely ruminations about pigs.

'Excellent!' says Rupprecht. 'So I think we're all done here aren't we?'

'There's just one more thing, my lord', says Fecklenburg.

'It's never ending', groans Rupprecht. 'I've been working for nearly twenty minutes!'

Nutters!

'Well, he seemed to be just the sort of fellow that we're looking for', says Graf Petr Peiper-Pickderpeck, Lord of Pickelpeipers, the Gelderland Royal Chamberlain.

Graf Wernar von Wormer, a Fenwickian minister, nods. 'Yes, his inability to work the door handle I think indicates that he is a man of suitable quality'.

'You don't think that he's too stupid, do you?' asks Count Matthias von Sachsenblaus, Gelderland's Minister for War and Strudels.

Wormer shakes his head dismissively. 'No - for our purposes that's simply not possible. Anyway, I'm sure that his struggle to work out the right way to use a chair was just some silly joke of the Prussian sort'. The minister sits back. 'You know, he did look familiar, though. From illustrations that I've seen somewhere before. He looked an awful lot like that Baron Munchhausen fellow'.

Count Matthias stares. 'You don't suppose ... you don't suppose that he actually is that fellow Baron Munchhausen!?'
'No, no, no!', replies Count Petr. 'He said his name was Hunchmausen - it's completely different'.

Matthias nods. 'Hmmm, still, he seemed pleased. I don't know what he meant about all that "destiny" stuff, though'.
'I can tell you that his destiny is likely to involve some pretty tricky domestic problems', interjects Wormer.
'How so?'
'Well, he'll be required to marry Baltazar's widow, the Duchess Isolde.'
'Is she a bit ... difficult?'
'Difficult? She is know as the "Verging Queen"'.
'But she has nine children!'
'No, "verging" as in "on the cusp of".

'On the cusp of what?'
'Madness, they say'.
'Nine children will do that to a woman, I should imagine'.
'No, no - she is a noble and so she never sees her children. I mean more broadly. She has views that indicate a certainly instability of the mind'.
'Such as?'
'Constitutional constraints on the exercise of power; meritocratic promotion in the army and civil service; reducing income inqualities; more equitable distribution of taxation'.
'What a terrible, terrible illness. But - why then is she only on the verge of madness? What possible signs of sanity has she exhibited?'.
'Well, apparently she doesn't like gherkins, which reputable physicians have noted is a sure sign of a balanced mind. It's all very tricky'.

Wormer sighs. 'Anyway, this leads me to the second key issue that I need resolved. We need to crown Emperor George as king of Gelderland as soon as possible. It needs to involve a really impressive ceremony to fully demonstrate his majesty and authority'.
'The Bishopric of Schrote is the place', says Petr. 'It has the best cathedral in the whole of Mittelheim; which is to say it's the only cathedral'.
'Excellent - then I shall leave it to you, on the Gelderland side of things, to work out the details'.
Petr nods. 'Yes, let me know how many guests so I can sort out the catering. And we'll need flowers. Ooooh, I know a really good painter for the pictures'.
'With the plague and all, we'll need to socially distance', says Matthias.
'Oh, we're fine already', says Graf Petr. 'Nowhere else is there such an enormous gulf between the social classes: no mere plague will force us to reduce the distance!'
Wormer nods. 'Excellent. Just make sure it's impressive and that it runs smoothly'.
'Of course, of course. It's just a coronation. We've had loads of those. What could possibly go wrong? What sorts of possible problems might emerge that could break the peace and lead to another interminable outbreak of terrible war?'
'Well', says Wormer reflectively, 'that's an interesting question'.