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The distant booming of canon drowned out the crunching of dry snow underneath the man's

feet as he slowly walked up the hill.

The weight of his 52 years hung heavy on his trim, slightly stooped frame, bundled up

in thick, luxurious furs.

Tiny flakes fell from the steel-gray sky, and he absent-mindedly brushed them out of the

neatly trimmed beard hanging from his prominent protruding jaw.

The man's thoughts were elsewhere, here at the end of December of 1552.

The Holy Roman Emperor Charles the Fitt, who also happens to be King of Spain, King of

Naples, and ruler of a whole bunch of other territories, had a lot on his mind.

The Emperor's retainers, huddling against the cool, maintained a respectful distance as

he stood on top of the rise and looked down at a tablo of misery and violence.

Trenches dug into the iron hard ground, black lines against the dirty white snow, surrounded

the high medieval walls of the city of Metz and Eastern France.

Reasing soldiers loaded in fired cannon, little clouds of white smoke emerging against

the backdrop of snow when they threw iron balls at the walls, followed by a crack a few

seconds later when they hit.

The siege wasn't going well.

The cold and disease were killing dozens of the Emperor's men every day before the

French even got a chance to shoot at them.

The cost was ruinous.

...