Portugal in Europa Universalis, part 3

“Onward, cowards!” General Poltroon cried. Portuguese soldiers, decorated in chicken feathers and yellow shields, charged into the open plains of Mali, long deserted by real heroes who were fighting a civil war to the west. “Let’s go east!” sounded the regimental horns, an impressive feat considering how chapped their lips were from the African sun. We took Mali’s eastern half, including Timbuktu, before reluctantly returning west, where the real men were: men about whom adjectives like ‘brave,’ ‘stalwart,’ and ‘resolute’ were used. My men had never heard these words. Yet westward we trekked. Slowly, of course. After all, who’s in a hurry? The civil war was bitterly contested. Our gutless capture of Mali’s vacant capital had the accidental benefit of throwing their empire into further tumult.

In the meantime, my allies in Europe knew better than to join this folly. They were content to send thousands of men to needless death in France and the western fringe of the Holy Roman Empire. I dreamed of summering in the Canary Islands, safe from harm.

My soldiers continued to march west where the fighting in Mali was heaviest. Their conversations mostly revolved around the specific shade of yellow their shields were painted. “Corn, I think,” said some. “More like sunflower,” said others, cowards to the last. The Mali Civil War had turned against the loyalists. At long last, my troops bravely met the retreating Mali forces. A rout! We fearlessly struck down the enemy troops as they rushed passed us, having dropped their weapons many days ago. Their terror of a foe more heroic than ourselves shall long live in Portugal’s poems of gallantry.

Buoyed by the sight of our general licking his finger and painting a “1” in our imaginary win column, we pressed on. By “we,” of course, I mean “they.” I was safely lounging in Lisbon, attended to by a hall of courtesans. The female-type, wink wink.

Portugal’s finest descended on the Mali Liberation Army, who were weary from beating the loyalists. Many were so exhausted they walked right into Portuguese swords, which were still rather sharp from disuse. What a victory! “To cowardice!” was both our new battlecry and a common dinner table toast in Iberia.

Mali was shattered. In the peace treaty I was able to procure most of their western half, which looked very nice next to my coastal provinces. Portugal now looked impressive. No longer locked to the continent by Castille and the Atlantic, Portugal was a world power.

That lasted about a day and a half.

The Mali Liberation Front, as it’s now known, is a deeply rooted organization with its tentacles–or roots, to please the metaphor–entrenched throughout West Africa. Thousands of troops erupted in fresh rebellion. While experts in sword-into-the-back-of-an-already-retreating-foe combat, my troops were no match for them in a fair fight. I had to ship a new mercenary army from Lisbon. Once they quelled one rebellion, another sprang up. My armies were crushed and I had to ship another army from the homeland. It was too late. The fires of independence burned across the African brush. I retreated back to my coastal colonies.

As is my kingly duty, I spoke to my armies and citizens by way of rousing letter, posted by a faceless clerk. “My dear sons and daughters of Portugal,” it read, “your cowardice has been a fine example to the lords and ladies of Europe. Like a frightful toe, tentatively testing one’s bathwater, our first embarrassing foray into the art of global domination will not be the last. Except for me it is, because I kinda wanna check out the Byzantine Empire. See you suckers later. Abdicate! Abdicate!”

Next: From Chicken to Turkey. The ashes of Roman might contend with the Ottoman Empire.