Empress

Empress is a collection of tales in a fictitious universe similar to Europe during the Napoleonic Wars. All gender traditions, dispositions, and taboos have been reversed. Women fight the wars while men maintain households and raise children. All work herein is fictitious and not representative of personal opinion or real world fact. It is simply made to be read and enjoyed.


Damas

General Antoine Damas dressed himself slowly, pulling up his tight trousers, buttoning his wide coat, tying the red sash that hung heavy with golden, shining medals from previous conquests. He, long ago at the start of the war, had joined the army while impersonating his wife, drunken and despondent after the Prussian war’s horrors had destroyed her mind nearly a decade ago. Time had blessed and cursed him by letting him prove his tactician’s mind and rise to the rank of Général de brigade, while increasing the chances that his deceit would be discovered, invariably leading to his court-marshalling and subsequent hanging.

As he tied up his long hair and slipped it under his bicorn, he forced his voice into a light tone and addressed one of the guards outside his command tent. “Would the woman outside please come in?” A young, heavily bandaged woman stuck her head into the tent and upon seeing the gentle admission of the general, stepped fully inside. “Madam, How may I be of service madam!” said the guard with a heightened tenacity. Damas turned around to his desk and retrieved a large pole adorned with a white flag. “I am attempting to parlay. You will be my convoy.” Damas thrust the flag into the woman’s hands and rapidly pointed her out of the tent, following close behind.

Outside, the war raged. Cannons thundered like a strained heartbeat, the dead were arranged in stinking piles of rotting flesh and pus. The dying were arranged in rows, to be sent to the surgeon and relieved of whatever twisted and broken limb pained them. The earth itself, when stepped upon, would release groundwater stained red. All this chaos, Damas reflected, to expand the natural border and political domination of the Empress Bonaparte.

Damas urged the woman to move forward and hoist the large flag. They moved past artillery, cavalry, and the ragged fusiliers he had been commanding for the last several weeks. Like a partition of God, all firing, all hate, all fear seemed to quell itself and turn its full attention to the passing banner. When the pair reached no man’s land on the battlefield, all fire from the enemy had ceased and infantry from both sides crowded around the General, forming a circle of which he was the center. The guard, at Damas’ request, planted the flag and backed up into the half circle behind him.

Before long, a smug and noble looking face pressed through the crowd of Prussian women. This General sauntered forward with both thumbs looped through her belt and a fiercely reposed posture. She spoke in her native German tongue. “So, to what do I owe the honor of being visited by the noble sword of Napoleon?” Damas bowed, dropping his sword at his feet in the motion. “I am General Antoinette Damas, loyal subject of the French Empire and commander of this army. My only wish is to negotiate a peace between us miss....”
“General Sofia Brunswick”, “On what terms do you offer your surrender”
“Madam, can’t you see that this battle isn’t worth losing any more life over? All I want is for the two of our armies to retreat, I am prepared to offer this even at risk of betraying the order from my commanders. There is no reason either of us should be suffering like this.”
Brunswick paled and looked behind her at her equally pained army. The air tensed as both sides prepared for her answer, steeling themselves to fight again if she said so.
“You… must understand. There is no way that we can simply give up, what will you do when you are hung for this and the next woman to fill your place attacks my women the same as you have? How can you really assume that you betraying your Queen will help any of the soldiers here?”
“I don’t know your position Madam Brunswick, but if I had to die to save the lives of thousands,” Damas picked her sword off the ground and continued speaking,” and if you feel the same, let one of us die. May the best woman win and claim the glory of finding peace.”
Damas recognized the sorrowful look in Brunswick’s eyes as he unsheathed his saber and assumed a defensive stance. Brunswick followed the action, stepping forward slowly, “If that is how you feel this war can be won, I accept your sacrifice!”

The Prussian thrusted and swung wildly, with Damas barely being able to parry or dodge her attacks. He was completely defensive, hoping that the Prussian would tire herself out and he could go on the offensive. She quickly feigned left, then cut horizontally across his abdomen, tearing his waistcoat, drawing some blood but not being delivered with enough force to be fatal. He knew that he must react or be slain by the resolute woman in front of him. Upon the next swipe, Damas countered, throwing the Prussian off balance and laying a heavy blow to the back of the knee as she fell. Brunswick now fought more in rage than skill; laying heavy, unaimed blows to the air around Damas. She aimed high, forcing Damas to crouch while directing her blade above himself, knocking his hat to the ground and letting loose his hair from its bun.

Damas felt a rush, time slowed around him as Brunswick stared him down for a final attack. In slow motion, he dodged a feint over his shoulder, catching Brunswick’s eyes flit down and right. On cue, the cold steel of her saber cut shallowly and diagonally up from Damas’ hip to  shoulder. Reactively, he swiped horizontally at Brunswick’s neck. At once seeing her loss impending, she dropped her out of position saber and blocked the blow with both hands, a deep cut stinging through her palms and forcing her to kneel on her only good knee.

Damas has been cut deeply on his chest, stinging blows that leaked blood and nearly exposed him to the crowd. The fight was truly won. Brunswick kneeled, clutching her palms together and boldly staring her fate in the eyes. Damas approached and leveled his sword at the flat throat of his adversary. “Sofia Brunswick, do you admit defeat?”. She looked up at him with a fruitfully furious gaze. “Have you won this war now, saint!”. Antoine looked down upon her, at the sword at her neck, and the women who would have killed each other in thousands had he not risked himself. “If you will not accept defeat, accept my help.”

Damas pulled off the tattered sash and waistcoat, baring his flat pectorals to all the women around him. He kneeled, taking the red sash and wrapping it as a bandage for Brunswick’s hands. He then lifted her up, taking the large woman in his arms, and passed through the assembled crowd toward the French surgeon.

Brunswick weakly struggled until he spoke, dropping his feminine voice. “Madam Brunswick, my name is Antoine Damas.” The woman in his arms looked softly at his face. “I accept defeat.” He looked fondly into her eyes. “If we may ever see each other again, perhaps in another world, perhaps in another time, things could be different. Madam, I regretfully admit that I am doomed to fate.” Blood collected on Brunswick’s waist as she accepted his embrace. Damas set her down on a cot in the French infirmary. He didn’t look back as he approached the Major General already waiting outside. Brunswick lay still, crying softly as she heard the sound of cannons thundering outside.