December 7th, 1503

Kremun, Lombardei

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For Maximilian, it was defeat, yet again. But it was not a resounding defeat, and there were clear lessons to be learned in this lack of victory. That was what it was.

Now based in Kremun, he sat and pondered, like he usually did most days. The fire crackled in the background, bolstering the chill of the Italian December. His mind flashed back to those moments of Magenta, visualising the bravery of the Imperial left as clear as day.

It was like the sea against a rocky cliff, in which you could not guess who had the upper hand, for although the French waves endlessly beat against the Imperial rock, not weakening, and they only fell back to strike anew. Still, the rock of Berlichingen and his Dritter stood on, as it had always stood, still visible among the turbulent waves. And so, the rock stood, despite the beating of a storm, where one might think that it would be washed away. The waves subsided, for just long enough, and that was enough.

Smiling at the valiant efforts of Berlichingen, Maximilian thought back to the din of battle he found himself in, at the centre of it all. By God, it had been a long time since he was in the thick of it in such a manner. Standing with pike, shoulder to shoulder with his German brothers, with the din of battle surging around him.Thinking back to that symphony of battle, which he had grown accustomed to, for it must have been something in his genes. Something that meant that the roar and hubbub of battle, for everyone else simply a horrifying hullabaloo that drowned out everything else, was like a symphony, like a concert for a full orchestra. For while many only heard the artillery whistled overhead, the screams of men being pierced by steel, the neighing of pierced horses, and the thudding of men falling from the saddle, he heard notes, chords, and tones.

‘Keep in line!’ Maximilian roared. ‘Keep an even step! Hold the line! And keep close! Close!’

Despite the guns ripping through the Landsknecht, the interior of the square stood, bolstered by Maximilian’s voice, cutting through the confusion.

’Stand strong, boys! One last push! One last advance into their weak underbelly! Those French think that they have enough to defeat the finest soldiers in the world? Let’s show them!’

A throaty German roar rose after those words, and the presence of Maximilian looked as though it would be enough to bolster a failing army. For, at that time, it was bravery and valour that carried the day. As the right stood and dug in, holding steadfast, the troops stepped forward, one brave step at a time. All while standing shoulder to shoulder with their King, the line holding just long enough for that singular shove into the French lines. And that spirit reinforced the centre enough to push back enough. For it was no victory, but it was certainly no complete defeat on the fields of Magenta.

A valiant display, for certain, for the King of the Romans. He could only have imagined how Mary would have felt about such a battle. But he had made it out, and their retreat was orderly and competent, and their forces had made it to Kremun, where they remained right now.

January, 1504

The calls went out across Germany for more recruits to join the Kaiserliche Armee, both bolstering and readjusting the force. Over the winter spent in Lombardy, few days of rest occurred for the Kaiserliche Armee. Drilling was constant, with von Frundsberg and Berlichingen’s methods being swift and constant, ensuring the Imperial forces were able to take to heart the lessons of Magenta.The holidays were celebrated, albeit in a more hushed version than usual, as Lombardei was far from home for these men. But they filled their hearts with hope, for the upcoming campaign season would be one with lessons learned and new ideas.

The Kaiserliche Armee will march again, for its duty is not done. And so, Maximilian saddles up for yet another year in Italy, like the Emperors of old.

[M] Raising more troops & training them and stuff