Isabella's Crusade

A stately woman sighed as she pushed open the door to her bejeweled throne room. It had been a long day. "Curse you, infidel who picked marathon game speed. May you rot in Hell."

Her many advisors and priests had rapidly disappeared behind columns and into corners as the Spanish ruler, Isabella the Catholic, entered. She was not someone to approach when in a temper, and this one seemed severe.

Relatively tall at 5'4", considering the nutritional options available in either 4000 BC or 1451 AD, even to nobility. Dark brown hair swept behind her slender figure. Blue eyes briefly noted some of the more important courtiers, but she was the monarch, queen absolute over all Spanish possessions on this Large size map. There were a few who advocated spinning off three cities located approximately ten squares off the south side of the main Spanish possessions, but Isabella wasn't having any of that. Who could she possibly trust? Maintenance costs be damned, they were her Catholic citizens.

Slumping into her chair, uncaring of the way her golden dress settled around her, she addressed the cowering court. "Right. Business. What turn is it, anyway?" A buzz of muttered answers flew back. "512." "Slave revolt in Barcelona." "Christian cathedral completed in London." "Trebuchet completed in Cordoba." "...Catherine."

The usual. Teching was behind schedule, there had been a lot of pre-Machinery warfare to slow things down. At least on this continent; messages often came from unknown sources announcing the founding of new sects of infidels and the construction of wondrous projects that glorious Spain had only recently unlocked the secrets to building. Caravels had left only a few turns ago following the success of Optics research, reports were anticipated soon.

"Crack down on the slaves, Barcelona has a lot of food and too few hammers." "London to continue building domestic infrastructure." "Cordoba has a Citadel, continue with Trebuchets." Underlings scampered away to do her bidding as Isabella's imperious voice, if somewhat tinged with fatigue, rolled out commands.

The normal routine involved somewhat more micromanagement - city governors were, to a man, incompetent fools. She remembered vividly the hanging carried out after the discovery that Seville's mayor had the citizens working a three food tile instead of a three hammer tile - while producing a Worker!

Finally, Isabella arrived at the last and most crucial issue of the day. Catherine the Great, leader of the Russian empire and infidel supreme. Russia had spawned at the northern end of a long, snaky land mass that practically traversed the globe north-south and had quickly vassalized Darius I of Persia, whose empire was founded nearby. Conversely, Isabella had shown no quarter to Elizabeth, the English monarch with the bad fortune to tech quickly and refuse Christianity, a truly lethal combination when adjacent to almighty Spain. Natural expansion of these two empires near the top of both the points and power classifications had finally caused cultural borders to touch near the equator.

Cease fire was the order of the day after the collision of some very large early-medieval stacks near the border, frustrating Isabella to no end. Catherine would not be the limp-wristed pushover Elizabeth had been. The wily Russian knew to defend her cities properly, that building two wonders in the early game is simply asking for invasion. The initial clash had been slightly to Isabella's favour, but not sufficiently so to capture any cities. Frustratingly, Catherine's proclivity to produce Great Generals would be extremely tiresome in a drawn-out conflict, nor could Spain afford yet more delay in research, as conquering the continent would not yield sufficient territory to result in a domination victory. Conflict with overseas empires would be inevitable, and Isabella did not want to throw Frigates and Ships of the Line against Destroyers.

There weren't any visible shortcuts, either. Russian culture was too powerful for amphibian strikes, unless the captured cities were razed - and razing would be a real waste of resources when there were still three unknown civilizations lurking somewhere across the ocean. It was an ugly problem and one that wasn't going to be solved easily, but Isabella had a special thinking cap.

"Enough." There were only a couple of advisors still around: the turn's orders for a 11-city empire required a lot of manpower. Some deep bows graced Isabella's rising from her throne, bows she did not care to acknowledge. It was time for some recreation.

Isabella's imperial suite was tacked directly on to the back of the throne room. The additional maintenance cost was somewhere between the value of a silver mine and a gold mine, but it was worth it to the Spanish monarch. A marginal improvement in her mood was often worth the lives of hundreds of her citizens spared the whip. The trappings of power were cliches for a reason - they were appreciated by those wielding said power.

However, there was one minor detail of the room - covered in exquisite silks, jeweled Christian icons, multitudes of objets d'art, shockingly expensive perfumes - Calendar was an early technological priority - that was in stark contrast to all these, a bare stone patch on the floor. It was, in fact, a trap door. To be fair, there was nothing 'trappy' about it, there had been no attempt to hide it. After all, nobody but Isabella entered here and lived. It was thoroughly cleaned every other week and the slave executed. Isabella had every intention of running Slavery as long as possible.

Taking a purpose-built silver lever to the floor, Isabella popped the hatch and briefly peered down into the darkness below. Nothing, as expected. A tightly wound circular staircase led down into the blackness, necessitating her to feel her way down. However, at the bottom of the stairs was a conveniently located barrel of pitch in which soaked several dozen torches. Withdrawing a flint and steel engraved with a crucifix, Isabella lit the torch, applying it in turn to a half-dozen other torches places in wall sconces.

The reddish light illuminated a stone room approximately 10 by 15 meters, extremely unostentatious relative to the surroundings one story above, but clearly well-constructed; even a casual glance would notice how expertly all the stones had been quarried and shaped. Smoke from the torches spiraled upward, escaping through some cunningly engineered ventilation system. The Spanish tyrant didn't care about the details - only that things happened as she willed them.

Of course,
the average visitor wouldn't notice any of this, and with good reason, because there was a person in this room. Gloriana, the Virgin Queen; By the Grace of God, Queen of England, France, Ireland, Defender of the Faith, etc, Elizabeth I. That alone would normally be more than enough for anyone to be captivated at the expense of ignoring their surroundings, but now the average visitor - if there were any visitors - would not even remark on the presence of royalty, and for good reason.

It had not been a pleasant captivity for Elizabeth. While the beautiful red hair of which she was justly proud remained intact, most else was not. Hands shackled together and in turn shackled to the ceiling, continually forcing the soles of her feet off the floor or the restraints into her wrists, spawning a trickle of blood down Elizabeth's pale, lithe, scar-covered body. It was hard to date the scars - at this point in the game each turn was still multiple years, and that didn't translate well into a consistent human biology. How should scars appear if they were inflicted three nights and simultaneously ten years ago? Her strength long since vanished, Elizabeth could only lift her head to weakly peer at Isabella's entrance.

Such details weren't going to bother Isabella too much, either. With sufficient torches burning for light, she turned her attention to a table of devious instruments. Whips, floggers, spikes - and much else that defied conventional description.

Yes, indeed, it was time for some relaxation.