Delight in Disorder for scoured
Title: Delight in disorder
Author: sionnain
Character, Pairing: Natasha, Natasha/Otto Von Doom
Rating: R for mentions of sex and revolutions!
Word Count: 3289
Summary: They’d come to Transylvania on a whim, hearing of unrest and tensions between the Hungarians and the Turks. Sure enough, the land was a powder keg of turmoil, and awaited only the strike of the match to set it ablaze.
Recipient: Scoured
AN: Written for Scoured in the 1602ficathon, who requested Post-series Doom/Natasha. They can plan and execute nefarious deeds, with the crew of the Fantastick and most everyone else halfway around the world. I wanted to find something historical in which Doom and Natasha could have conceivably been involved. The following tale of intrigue and revolution in the principality of Transylvania, a pawn between the Ottoman Empire and the Holy Roman Empire, seemed just the thing that might interest the two of them.
Thanks to Carlos_Thedwarf for looking this over for any historical inaccuracies, and to Kethlenda for the beta. Fear my newly acquired knowledge of Transylvanian history! The title is a poem by Robert Herrick, a 17th century poet.
Delight in Disorder
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.--Yeats, Easter 1916
Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca), October 1, 1604
Giorgio Basta was, as far as men went, neither terribly licentious nor terribly pedestrian in his tastes. Natasha Romanova, most recently of Latveria, reclined in curvaceous splendor upon the bed of the Albanian general and wondered if this little endeavor would soon be ended.
It was not that she found him an uninspired lover; in fact, far from it. He was punishing and exact in his pursuits; whether it be keeping the insipid, miserable population of this provincial little principality from rising up against the rule of the Empire or sating the needs of one very voracious spy. Natasha did not envy him the former responsibility in the slightest. The local population was constantly wailing about famine and poverty, when they weren’t being subjugated by Basta’s ruthless army of mercenaries and bandits.
It was entirely truthful to say that the only thing Natasha enjoyed about her current repose in this lawless, politically troubled land was the constant, throbbing potential for complete and utter chaos. Walking through the streets of Kolozsvár just the other day, Natasha had heard the low rumblings of dissent amidst the brow-beaten population clamoring for a savior from the brutality of Basta’s rule.
All in all, it was a delightful place to spend her autumn, though she was heartily tired of listening to Basta’s paranoia about his impending usurpation-as well-founded as that paranoia may be-and despite his prowess in the bedchamber, she was beginning to grow quite bored of him.
Just now, she was watching him pace the room in slow, measure steps, his dark eyes wild with fervor and alight with mania most dreadful. He was drinking wine in great, fearsome gulps, and Natasha noticed with disdain he was pouring a great deal of it on his fine linen shirt.
She detested poor manners, she really did.
“Giorgio, darling, do stop pacing and return to bed,” she cooed, patting the bed beside her. “I daresay I can deliver more inspired sport.”
“I am sure of this, Natasha,” he responded in his deep, rich voice, bracing his hands on the wall and staring out of the window. “Nevertheless, I cannot sleep until I hear word on Barbiano’s success in Bihar.”
I could tell you the outcome, if I were so inclined. Your hopes are foolish and your days here are numbered. Natasha smiled invitingly and twined a strand of red hair about her fingers, making her voice low and seductive. “I am certain all is as you wish, Giorgio. The Empire would never allow that traitor Bocskai to live, if he is as much a threat as you say.”
Her mistake, of course, was to mention the name Bocskai to him at all; Natasha winced inwardly as he began a lengthy diatribe about Istvan Bocskai and the evils of those “foul Mohammedans.” It was only interesting insofar as the passion with which Basta denounced his supposed rival; his eyes blazed like braziers and his hands fisted and waved, his voice imbued with the tenor and strength of the field commander able to make men stand to attention and march on his whim.
He was wasted playing Imperial vassal, Natasha thought sadly, making appropriate noises and nodding her head at intervals to appease him and his rapidly growing ire. “Yes, darling, I know, the Empire has our Lord and his hosts on our side and shall never be defeated by these godless heathens.”
Natasha wondered idly what dear Giorgio would do if he were to learn the truth of her. Not only that she was manipulating him as surely as child played with a poppet, but she believed in no God or celestial army interfering in the acts of man. It did not matter if one army sent their praises to Mohammed and the other to the Lord Jesus the night before a battle; in the morning they faced each other across the field of war as men, and fought and died alike.
She was relieved when his speech was finally ended and his agitation quieted, though he did not join her in the bed as she wished he might. Instead, he paced the length and breadth of the room and muttered under his breath, boring her most dreadfully until finally a knock came upon the door.
“General, sir, I bring word from Barbiano.”
“At last,” Giorgio muttered, nearly tearing the door from its hinges in his haste to admit the courier. Natasha remembered at the last moment to pull the sheet up and cover her nakedness, though likely Basta would care not a whit if she were displayed for all the army’s pleasure as naked as the day upon which she entered the world.
He tore the message open and read, and she felt a pure rush of triumph at his anguished howl. Natasha drew her knees to her chest and watched as he flew through the room in a fury, tossing things to and fro in his rage, hoping he would be off soon and she could make haste to rejoin Otto.
* * *
She and Otto had come to an agreement, in the hours following the fall of Doomstadt, and it seemed to be serving them both rather well.
He had begged her to cover his face, and she had found some metal mask hidden away in his armory and carried it to him without words. Privately, she thought the scarring on his face gave him character, made him interesting in a way he had not been to her in ages. It was not the time to think of such things, however, as they had Latveria to subdue in the wake of the escape of Otto’s prisoners.
He endured her presence in silence, until the night she’d come to his room, draped in silks with seduction etched in the lush curves of her body. “I trusted you once before, and you betrayed me. Do so again, and it is death that awaits you. No one betrays Otto Von Doom twice and lives.”
He’d been in a temper in those days, sullen and angry after the flight of the Fantastick. She’d merely nodded at his pronouncement-Otto was ever-fond of his pronouncements-and crept closer to him, sliding her hands up his body and removing the mask he wore daily with gentle, insistent fingers. “I understand, Otto. I have no need for treachery at the moment. There is a great world which awaits us; it would be most pitiful of you to hide away in your castle and sulk when you think of the fun we two could have together.”
She never knew if he assented to her presence in his bed because he felt genuine desire for her, or if he felt that no woman would dare take Otto the Handsome to her bed now that he resembled a monster more than a prince. It did not bother her, and she felt a curious thrill at tracing her tongue over his myriad of scars while he took her. Otto had been a generous and rather languorous lover; in the days after his disfigurement, however, this changed completely. He developed a love of the harsher, darker pleasures, and Natasha found it quite ironic that he’d finally managed to find a way to ensure her continued interest in his person.
They’d come to Transylvania on a whim, hearing of unrest and tensions between the Hungarians and the Turks. Sure enough, the land was a powder keg of turmoil, and awaited only the strike of the match to set it ablaze. Natasha had endeavored at once to catch the Imperial potentate’s eye. It hadn’t been a terribly difficult thing to arrange, which was almost disappointing. By the second chance meeting between them, he’d been as eager to mount her as was a stallion in the presence of a mare.
Otto had disappeared into the murky world of the Turkish resistance, seeking the man called Istvan Bocskai, a Hungarian nobleman who had been dispossessed at the insistence of the ruling Bathory family. Bocskai had been an ally of the Emperor until Basta and his cohort Giacomo Belgiojoso came to power in 1602, and the atrocities committed against his people drove his alliances towards the Turks-or, as Basta was wont to call them, the “filthy Mohammedans”.
General Barbiano, the military governor of Upper Hungary, had received word from a so-called “turn-coat” (Natasha had privately thought she looked devastating in the ensemble she’d assembled for that particular meeting) that Bocskai had turned to the Turks and was seeking refuge from the Empire. Otto, for his part, had attempted to convince the dispossessed noble to fight rather than suffer yet another ignoble capture and dispersion of his estates.
Playing at such games was entertaining, especially when one had no loyalty to either side. At first, they had debated pitting their skills against each other and seeing who would emerge victorious and thus control Transylvania, but that quickly fell by the wayside as Natasha grew more aware of the intense hatred the people of the tiny principality felt towards the Empire.
What fun was it to cede an insignificant would-be nation-state to one empire over the other, if no empire would fall in the process? Over a shared sumptuous meal in the shadow of the Carpathian Mountains, Natasha and Otto had toasted to the fall of the Hungarian presence in Transylvania. Not that either of them were overly fond of the Turks; it was just that recently, they had quite a grudge to bear against European monarchs.
As the leaves began to change and the nights began to chill, Natasha could see that their plan was well on the way to succeeding. Right now, if Otto had been successful, then the seeds had been sown and General Barbiano was on his way to being quite thoroughly routed, by his own troops, no less. It would only be a matter of time before Bocskai, for so long content to rest in his country estate and take no stand in the tug-of-war between East and West, would make a move to wrest control of Transylvania away from the Hungarians and the vaunted Empire.
Whether or not he succeeded wasn’t really the point, though both Otto and Natasha had secret ambitions that he would. It was fun enough to watch the men fall like chess pieces, moves and counter-moves plotted and planned and set in motion by a Latverian count and a female spy.
Basta had left her with little more than a hurried, “Until later, dear Natasha,” and she waited until she heard the clatter of hooves announcing his departure before she stood and began to dress.
As she did so, she made sure to find any small trinkets of value-sentimental or otherwise-that she wished to keep. Chances of meeting Giorgio again seemed slim at best. She was not entirely sad to seethe situation end, so she may as well take what she could from the encounter.
Natasha pulled a cloak on over her dress and flipped the hood up to veil her distinctive red hair (not quite the norm in Transylvania), hurrying out into the darkness. She must find a way to get to Kassa, and soon.
She wanted a vantage point from which she could watch what would happen next, but far enough away to remove herself from any danger. She and Otto had been involved in one siege, and Natasha did not have fond enough memories of that occurrence to wish to be engaged so soon in another.
* * *
Kassa (Koisce), November 11, 1604
Natasha peered down from the window, watching with ill-concealed anticipation. “Otto, I do believe it should happen soon, do you not think so?”
“So impatient,” Otto murmured, coming to rest behind her, his gloved hands resting on her shoulders. He pulled her back quite un-gently so that she rested against his body. “Though I share your hope, Natasha, as I have grown quite sick of this city and this entire affair and wish to be done with it and move on.”
“Otto, you must realize the importance of what we have accomplished here,” she said earnestly, tilting her head to look up at him. He peered down at her, his green eyes the only recognizable feature from his days as Otto the Handsome. “We are making the world change by our very actions! Cannot you feel it in the air, trembling as it is?”
“I feel dissent and disquiet in the air, my darling Natasha, and the strong urge to flee this godforsaken land before that which we have wrought here comes fully to rest within this city.” His fingers drew slow circles on her skin, and he lowered his head to press his lips against her neck. “A survival instinct, you may call it, if you wish.”
Natasha could feel the slide of his scarred tissue against her own unblemished skin, and it made her shiver. She pushed back against him wantonly. “But to see it played out…like a game of soldiers, Otto, played by a child on the hearth in front of a fire.”
“So very vicious you are, Natasha. I shudder to think that I would have killed you ere I had the chance to fully appreciate your…charms.”
“You took me to bed before,” she reminded him, her eyes on the gates, pushing at the window ineffectually in her attempt to open it.
“It is not of those charms of which I speak,” Otto said, reaching out and opening the window with apparent ease. “Though I am of course in no position to deny their attraction.”
She shivered as the chill wind lashed through the open window and danced over her nearly-nude form, and leaned back against him for warmth. “Do you hear that?” she asked, straining to hear in the distance that which sounded like…
“Marching,” he said, and despite his earlier words she could hear the excitement in his voice. “They come, it would seem.”
Almost a month ago, Barbiano and his remaining troops-those hajdús who had not deserted the General because of perceived religious intolerance (a truly genius plan enacted by Otto and his rather gifted way with words and suggestions of subterfuge)-had attempted a withdraw from nearby Várad after a rout by Bocskai and his now-enhanced forces into Kassa. The local populace, finally disgusted with Hungarian rule, had closed the gates to the town firmly in the General’s face.
Only fifty men of his eight-thousand troop army were left standing with Barbiano that day. Natasha had watched it happen from their rooms at the inn, had watched the deserters join forces with their brethren fighting for Bocskai. She’d though of Basta, and wondered where he’d been and what he’d done when he’d heard of it. It made her smile, even now, to think of it. Likely, whatever furnishings were about him at the time barely escaped unscathed.
As Otto and Natasha watched, Bocskai and his troops began to march into the city of Kassa, the gates standing wide and welcoming for their procession. “They look so dashing in their uniforms,” she murmured, excited, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of the military parade marching unencumbered into the city. The populace had begun to come forth from their dwellings, cheering and singing songs in a language Natasha did not know.
Otto had chosen them rooms directly across from the gates and facing the town square, where they watched Istvan Bocskai dismount and approach the splendidly-dressed form of Gábor Bethlen, holding a ceremonial sword and beaming at Bocskai.
“How delightful. Before, Bocskai fought for the very Empire he is now betraying.” Natasha wrapped her fingers around Otto’s, pulling his hand slowly down her body. “Our intrigue has led him to this, pledging his soul to the infidels and turning the tide of history.”
“We are quite a team, are we not?” Otto brushed her hair back and placed a kiss on the crown of her head before he left her. She watched him, knowing he would put on the mask and the cloak, in case others were to spy them in the window.
We are nothing to them, she thought, watching as Bethlen presented Bocskai the sword and pronounced him as Prince of Transylvania by orders of Sultan Ahmed the First. We are nothing and this is everything, and yet without us, who knows what this day would have been?
Otto returned and draped a warm, fur-lined cloak about her shoulders. “We should leave here, soon,” he said, watching the proceedings in the square with little interest. “I am quite sure there are other cities which would benefit from your wiles and my genius.”
“Wiles, is it?” she asked pertly, reaching to pull the window shut. The cheering was beginning to give her a most fearsome headache, and she still wished to celebrate. “How is it that I am not the genius, here?”
“Perhaps you are, and perhaps you are not, Natasha. We do not know, in the end, if this will be advantageous for the Turks or Transylvania.”
“It is of no matter,” Natasha said, shrugging lightly, turning away from the window. “It is done as we wished for it to be, and that is the only right I know.” She dropped the cloak and her fingers went to her loose gown beneath, leaving her bathed in afternoon sun and a wicked smile. “Come, Otto. Show me your genius and I shall show you my wiles, and let the Empires fall as they may.”
One day, they would likely have to kill each other, Natasha thought as he pushed her down against the soft down mattress. Perhaps they would cause a revolution in every city in the known world before that, or perhaps not. Still, it could be said with certainty that one day in the far future historians would look back at Bosckai’s revolution and never know, in the end, from whose machinations it arose.
* * *
That December, while Natasha and Otto were wintering at a lovely town close to the Black Sea, she heard word that General Giorgio Basta was soundly defeated and the majority of his troops deserted to join the young prince Istvan Bosckai.
That April, a diet convened at Szerencs and acclaimed István Bocskai ruling prince of Hungary. Natasha heard the news with much delight, and thought of sending the new young ruler a trinket; she still had one of Basta’s favorite signet rings in her possession.
That might invite inquiry, however, and she was more inclined to let all this nonsense with the Hungarians and the Turks be for the present moment. She and Otto were on their way to Russia, and planned to spend all of the summer in Moscow. Rumor had it, there was a new tsar who was only sixteen years old, and whose mother was the beloved daughter of the tsar they’d named Ivan the Terrible.
Surely that was recipe for some sort of amusement, was it not?
~Fin
Author’s Note: In July of 1605, Feodor the II of Russia and his mother were arrested by a group of Boyars who refused to swear allegiance to the young tsar. Boyars were members of the highest rank of the feudal Russian, Romanian and Bulgarian aristocracy, second only to the ruling princes, from the tenth through the seventeenth century. Feodor and his mother were both executed. I imagine Natasha and Otto watched it from a balcony somewhere.
The historical events as described in this story are true. Bocskai’s revolution hinged upon his willingness to fight instead of surrender, and there was indeed a turncoat that alerted General Barbiano to Bocskai’s allegiance with the Turks.
Author: sionnain
Character, Pairing: Natasha, Natasha/Otto Von Doom
Rating: R for mentions of sex and revolutions!
Word Count: 3289
Summary: They’d come to Transylvania on a whim, hearing of unrest and tensions between the Hungarians and the Turks. Sure enough, the land was a powder keg of turmoil, and awaited only the strike of the match to set it ablaze.
Recipient: Scoured
AN: Written for Scoured in the 1602ficathon, who requested Post-series Doom/Natasha. They can plan and execute nefarious deeds, with the crew of the Fantastick and most everyone else halfway around the world. I wanted to find something historical in which Doom and Natasha could have conceivably been involved. The following tale of intrigue and revolution in the principality of Transylvania, a pawn between the Ottoman Empire and the Holy Roman Empire, seemed just the thing that might interest the two of them.
Thanks to Carlos_Thedwarf for looking this over for any historical inaccuracies, and to Kethlenda for the beta. Fear my newly acquired knowledge of Transylvanian history! The title is a poem by Robert Herrick, a 17th century poet.
Delight in Disorder
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.--Yeats, Easter 1916
Kolozsvár (Cluj-Napoca), October 1, 1604
Giorgio Basta was, as far as men went, neither terribly licentious nor terribly pedestrian in his tastes. Natasha Romanova, most recently of Latveria, reclined in curvaceous splendor upon the bed of the Albanian general and wondered if this little endeavor would soon be ended.
It was not that she found him an uninspired lover; in fact, far from it. He was punishing and exact in his pursuits; whether it be keeping the insipid, miserable population of this provincial little principality from rising up against the rule of the Empire or sating the needs of one very voracious spy. Natasha did not envy him the former responsibility in the slightest. The local population was constantly wailing about famine and poverty, when they weren’t being subjugated by Basta’s ruthless army of mercenaries and bandits.
It was entirely truthful to say that the only thing Natasha enjoyed about her current repose in this lawless, politically troubled land was the constant, throbbing potential for complete and utter chaos. Walking through the streets of Kolozsvár just the other day, Natasha had heard the low rumblings of dissent amidst the brow-beaten population clamoring for a savior from the brutality of Basta’s rule.
All in all, it was a delightful place to spend her autumn, though she was heartily tired of listening to Basta’s paranoia about his impending usurpation-as well-founded as that paranoia may be-and despite his prowess in the bedchamber, she was beginning to grow quite bored of him.
Just now, she was watching him pace the room in slow, measure steps, his dark eyes wild with fervor and alight with mania most dreadful. He was drinking wine in great, fearsome gulps, and Natasha noticed with disdain he was pouring a great deal of it on his fine linen shirt.
She detested poor manners, she really did.
“Giorgio, darling, do stop pacing and return to bed,” she cooed, patting the bed beside her. “I daresay I can deliver more inspired sport.”
“I am sure of this, Natasha,” he responded in his deep, rich voice, bracing his hands on the wall and staring out of the window. “Nevertheless, I cannot sleep until I hear word on Barbiano’s success in Bihar.”
I could tell you the outcome, if I were so inclined. Your hopes are foolish and your days here are numbered. Natasha smiled invitingly and twined a strand of red hair about her fingers, making her voice low and seductive. “I am certain all is as you wish, Giorgio. The Empire would never allow that traitor Bocskai to live, if he is as much a threat as you say.”
Her mistake, of course, was to mention the name Bocskai to him at all; Natasha winced inwardly as he began a lengthy diatribe about Istvan Bocskai and the evils of those “foul Mohammedans.” It was only interesting insofar as the passion with which Basta denounced his supposed rival; his eyes blazed like braziers and his hands fisted and waved, his voice imbued with the tenor and strength of the field commander able to make men stand to attention and march on his whim.
He was wasted playing Imperial vassal, Natasha thought sadly, making appropriate noises and nodding her head at intervals to appease him and his rapidly growing ire. “Yes, darling, I know, the Empire has our Lord and his hosts on our side and shall never be defeated by these godless heathens.”
Natasha wondered idly what dear Giorgio would do if he were to learn the truth of her. Not only that she was manipulating him as surely as child played with a poppet, but she believed in no God or celestial army interfering in the acts of man. It did not matter if one army sent their praises to Mohammed and the other to the Lord Jesus the night before a battle; in the morning they faced each other across the field of war as men, and fought and died alike.
She was relieved when his speech was finally ended and his agitation quieted, though he did not join her in the bed as she wished he might. Instead, he paced the length and breadth of the room and muttered under his breath, boring her most dreadfully until finally a knock came upon the door.
“General, sir, I bring word from Barbiano.”
“At last,” Giorgio muttered, nearly tearing the door from its hinges in his haste to admit the courier. Natasha remembered at the last moment to pull the sheet up and cover her nakedness, though likely Basta would care not a whit if she were displayed for all the army’s pleasure as naked as the day upon which she entered the world.
He tore the message open and read, and she felt a pure rush of triumph at his anguished howl. Natasha drew her knees to her chest and watched as he flew through the room in a fury, tossing things to and fro in his rage, hoping he would be off soon and she could make haste to rejoin Otto.
* * *
She and Otto had come to an agreement, in the hours following the fall of Doomstadt, and it seemed to be serving them both rather well.
He had begged her to cover his face, and she had found some metal mask hidden away in his armory and carried it to him without words. Privately, she thought the scarring on his face gave him character, made him interesting in a way he had not been to her in ages. It was not the time to think of such things, however, as they had Latveria to subdue in the wake of the escape of Otto’s prisoners.
He endured her presence in silence, until the night she’d come to his room, draped in silks with seduction etched in the lush curves of her body. “I trusted you once before, and you betrayed me. Do so again, and it is death that awaits you. No one betrays Otto Von Doom twice and lives.”
He’d been in a temper in those days, sullen and angry after the flight of the Fantastick. She’d merely nodded at his pronouncement-Otto was ever-fond of his pronouncements-and crept closer to him, sliding her hands up his body and removing the mask he wore daily with gentle, insistent fingers. “I understand, Otto. I have no need for treachery at the moment. There is a great world which awaits us; it would be most pitiful of you to hide away in your castle and sulk when you think of the fun we two could have together.”
She never knew if he assented to her presence in his bed because he felt genuine desire for her, or if he felt that no woman would dare take Otto the Handsome to her bed now that he resembled a monster more than a prince. It did not bother her, and she felt a curious thrill at tracing her tongue over his myriad of scars while he took her. Otto had been a generous and rather languorous lover; in the days after his disfigurement, however, this changed completely. He developed a love of the harsher, darker pleasures, and Natasha found it quite ironic that he’d finally managed to find a way to ensure her continued interest in his person.
They’d come to Transylvania on a whim, hearing of unrest and tensions between the Hungarians and the Turks. Sure enough, the land was a powder keg of turmoil, and awaited only the strike of the match to set it ablaze. Natasha had endeavored at once to catch the Imperial potentate’s eye. It hadn’t been a terribly difficult thing to arrange, which was almost disappointing. By the second chance meeting between them, he’d been as eager to mount her as was a stallion in the presence of a mare.
Otto had disappeared into the murky world of the Turkish resistance, seeking the man called Istvan Bocskai, a Hungarian nobleman who had been dispossessed at the insistence of the ruling Bathory family. Bocskai had been an ally of the Emperor until Basta and his cohort Giacomo Belgiojoso came to power in 1602, and the atrocities committed against his people drove his alliances towards the Turks-or, as Basta was wont to call them, the “filthy Mohammedans”.
General Barbiano, the military governor of Upper Hungary, had received word from a so-called “turn-coat” (Natasha had privately thought she looked devastating in the ensemble she’d assembled for that particular meeting) that Bocskai had turned to the Turks and was seeking refuge from the Empire. Otto, for his part, had attempted to convince the dispossessed noble to fight rather than suffer yet another ignoble capture and dispersion of his estates.
Playing at such games was entertaining, especially when one had no loyalty to either side. At first, they had debated pitting their skills against each other and seeing who would emerge victorious and thus control Transylvania, but that quickly fell by the wayside as Natasha grew more aware of the intense hatred the people of the tiny principality felt towards the Empire.
What fun was it to cede an insignificant would-be nation-state to one empire over the other, if no empire would fall in the process? Over a shared sumptuous meal in the shadow of the Carpathian Mountains, Natasha and Otto had toasted to the fall of the Hungarian presence in Transylvania. Not that either of them were overly fond of the Turks; it was just that recently, they had quite a grudge to bear against European monarchs.
As the leaves began to change and the nights began to chill, Natasha could see that their plan was well on the way to succeeding. Right now, if Otto had been successful, then the seeds had been sown and General Barbiano was on his way to being quite thoroughly routed, by his own troops, no less. It would only be a matter of time before Bocskai, for so long content to rest in his country estate and take no stand in the tug-of-war between East and West, would make a move to wrest control of Transylvania away from the Hungarians and the vaunted Empire.
Whether or not he succeeded wasn’t really the point, though both Otto and Natasha had secret ambitions that he would. It was fun enough to watch the men fall like chess pieces, moves and counter-moves plotted and planned and set in motion by a Latverian count and a female spy.
Basta had left her with little more than a hurried, “Until later, dear Natasha,” and she waited until she heard the clatter of hooves announcing his departure before she stood and began to dress.
As she did so, she made sure to find any small trinkets of value-sentimental or otherwise-that she wished to keep. Chances of meeting Giorgio again seemed slim at best. She was not entirely sad to seethe situation end, so she may as well take what she could from the encounter.
Natasha pulled a cloak on over her dress and flipped the hood up to veil her distinctive red hair (not quite the norm in Transylvania), hurrying out into the darkness. She must find a way to get to Kassa, and soon.
She wanted a vantage point from which she could watch what would happen next, but far enough away to remove herself from any danger. She and Otto had been involved in one siege, and Natasha did not have fond enough memories of that occurrence to wish to be engaged so soon in another.
* * *
Kassa (Koisce), November 11, 1604
Natasha peered down from the window, watching with ill-concealed anticipation. “Otto, I do believe it should happen soon, do you not think so?”
“So impatient,” Otto murmured, coming to rest behind her, his gloved hands resting on her shoulders. He pulled her back quite un-gently so that she rested against his body. “Though I share your hope, Natasha, as I have grown quite sick of this city and this entire affair and wish to be done with it and move on.”
“Otto, you must realize the importance of what we have accomplished here,” she said earnestly, tilting her head to look up at him. He peered down at her, his green eyes the only recognizable feature from his days as Otto the Handsome. “We are making the world change by our very actions! Cannot you feel it in the air, trembling as it is?”
“I feel dissent and disquiet in the air, my darling Natasha, and the strong urge to flee this godforsaken land before that which we have wrought here comes fully to rest within this city.” His fingers drew slow circles on her skin, and he lowered his head to press his lips against her neck. “A survival instinct, you may call it, if you wish.”
Natasha could feel the slide of his scarred tissue against her own unblemished skin, and it made her shiver. She pushed back against him wantonly. “But to see it played out…like a game of soldiers, Otto, played by a child on the hearth in front of a fire.”
“So very vicious you are, Natasha. I shudder to think that I would have killed you ere I had the chance to fully appreciate your…charms.”
“You took me to bed before,” she reminded him, her eyes on the gates, pushing at the window ineffectually in her attempt to open it.
“It is not of those charms of which I speak,” Otto said, reaching out and opening the window with apparent ease. “Though I am of course in no position to deny their attraction.”
She shivered as the chill wind lashed through the open window and danced over her nearly-nude form, and leaned back against him for warmth. “Do you hear that?” she asked, straining to hear in the distance that which sounded like…
“Marching,” he said, and despite his earlier words she could hear the excitement in his voice. “They come, it would seem.”
Almost a month ago, Barbiano and his remaining troops-those hajdús who had not deserted the General because of perceived religious intolerance (a truly genius plan enacted by Otto and his rather gifted way with words and suggestions of subterfuge)-had attempted a withdraw from nearby Várad after a rout by Bocskai and his now-enhanced forces into Kassa. The local populace, finally disgusted with Hungarian rule, had closed the gates to the town firmly in the General’s face.
Only fifty men of his eight-thousand troop army were left standing with Barbiano that day. Natasha had watched it happen from their rooms at the inn, had watched the deserters join forces with their brethren fighting for Bocskai. She’d though of Basta, and wondered where he’d been and what he’d done when he’d heard of it. It made her smile, even now, to think of it. Likely, whatever furnishings were about him at the time barely escaped unscathed.
As Otto and Natasha watched, Bocskai and his troops began to march into the city of Kassa, the gates standing wide and welcoming for their procession. “They look so dashing in their uniforms,” she murmured, excited, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of the military parade marching unencumbered into the city. The populace had begun to come forth from their dwellings, cheering and singing songs in a language Natasha did not know.
Otto had chosen them rooms directly across from the gates and facing the town square, where they watched Istvan Bocskai dismount and approach the splendidly-dressed form of Gábor Bethlen, holding a ceremonial sword and beaming at Bocskai.
“How delightful. Before, Bocskai fought for the very Empire he is now betraying.” Natasha wrapped her fingers around Otto’s, pulling his hand slowly down her body. “Our intrigue has led him to this, pledging his soul to the infidels and turning the tide of history.”
“We are quite a team, are we not?” Otto brushed her hair back and placed a kiss on the crown of her head before he left her. She watched him, knowing he would put on the mask and the cloak, in case others were to spy them in the window.
We are nothing to them, she thought, watching as Bethlen presented Bocskai the sword and pronounced him as Prince of Transylvania by orders of Sultan Ahmed the First. We are nothing and this is everything, and yet without us, who knows what this day would have been?
Otto returned and draped a warm, fur-lined cloak about her shoulders. “We should leave here, soon,” he said, watching the proceedings in the square with little interest. “I am quite sure there are other cities which would benefit from your wiles and my genius.”
“Wiles, is it?” she asked pertly, reaching to pull the window shut. The cheering was beginning to give her a most fearsome headache, and she still wished to celebrate. “How is it that I am not the genius, here?”
“Perhaps you are, and perhaps you are not, Natasha. We do not know, in the end, if this will be advantageous for the Turks or Transylvania.”
“It is of no matter,” Natasha said, shrugging lightly, turning away from the window. “It is done as we wished for it to be, and that is the only right I know.” She dropped the cloak and her fingers went to her loose gown beneath, leaving her bathed in afternoon sun and a wicked smile. “Come, Otto. Show me your genius and I shall show you my wiles, and let the Empires fall as they may.”
One day, they would likely have to kill each other, Natasha thought as he pushed her down against the soft down mattress. Perhaps they would cause a revolution in every city in the known world before that, or perhaps not. Still, it could be said with certainty that one day in the far future historians would look back at Bosckai’s revolution and never know, in the end, from whose machinations it arose.
* * *
That December, while Natasha and Otto were wintering at a lovely town close to the Black Sea, she heard word that General Giorgio Basta was soundly defeated and the majority of his troops deserted to join the young prince Istvan Bosckai.
That April, a diet convened at Szerencs and acclaimed István Bocskai ruling prince of Hungary. Natasha heard the news with much delight, and thought of sending the new young ruler a trinket; she still had one of Basta’s favorite signet rings in her possession.
That might invite inquiry, however, and she was more inclined to let all this nonsense with the Hungarians and the Turks be for the present moment. She and Otto were on their way to Russia, and planned to spend all of the summer in Moscow. Rumor had it, there was a new tsar who was only sixteen years old, and whose mother was the beloved daughter of the tsar they’d named Ivan the Terrible.
Surely that was recipe for some sort of amusement, was it not?
~Fin
Author’s Note: In July of 1605, Feodor the II of Russia and his mother were arrested by a group of Boyars who refused to swear allegiance to the young tsar. Boyars were members of the highest rank of the feudal Russian, Romanian and Bulgarian aristocracy, second only to the ruling princes, from the tenth through the seventeenth century. Feodor and his mother were both executed. I imagine Natasha and Otto watched it from a balcony somewhere.
The historical events as described in this story are true. Bocskai’s revolution hinged upon his willingness to fight instead of surrender, and there was indeed a turncoat that alerted General Barbiano to Bocskai’s allegiance with the Turks.