Subotai might be a nice foe for Gabriel.
Although Subotai does not have a namesake archangel
Although Subotai does not have a namesake archangel
Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR
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Assassins have come to claim the lives of both our young lovebirds.
Thomas cowered; Frederica beat a man's face in with a mace.
Unless Thomas does some growing up in a hurry, he'll never wear the pants in this relationship; and Rhomanion will be again under the spell of a Spider Queen!
Thomas cowered; Frederica beat a man's face in with a mace.
Unless Thomas does some growing up in a hurry, he'll never wear the pants in this relationship; and Rhomanion will be again under the spell of a Spider Queen!
That wasn't Thomas. Tommy is back in Antioch awaiting them. No, it was Eleutheros who was traveling...and hiding, while Xena took care of the rabble
~Hawk
That wasn't Thomas. Tommy is back in Antioch awaiting them. No, it was Eleutheros who was traveling...and hiding, while Xena took care of the rabble
~Hawk
I meant when Thomas was attacked back here.
KlavoHunter - Well, Frederica delicately beat a man's head in... it took her over a minute to position herself just right so it wouldn't soil her cloak, and yet she failed. I wouldn't quite call that the actions of a stone-hearted killer.
English Patriot - Awww, what has poor Frederica done to you? lol
Enewald - True... and wasn't Gabriel the Archangel of Death?
Ksim3000 - I had a great idea for a Christmas treat, but it's going to get delayed some since this update came out late... I'm going to see if I can't have it posted by Christmas Day here in the states, we shall see though...
FlyingDutchie - Komnenids don't have a habit of joining hands and singing Kumbaya, I'll tell you that!
Leviathan07 - I'm glad you like that section, and the scene was the only way I could imagine Frederica doing the deed--first preoccupied with keeping herself clean, then smacking the guy the same way someone scared of spiders kills one with a flyswatter. I rewrote it, because unfortunately dirty minds read the first version and ran amok. I think the new version is rather clunky. I might reedit it again at some point when I have time...
asd21593 - The Mongols are some of the most preeminent opportunists of the age. Hulagu et al aren't about to let such a golden chance slip out of their grips!
Fulcrumvale - Altani got her own theme, you can rest assured she has a very interesting path ahead of her!
AlexanderPrimus - The idea of a de facto ruling Khatun isn't as far fetched as some might think it is. See Toregene Khatun...
Servius Magnus - Jeb'reel has quite a temper once you get him started, as you'll see...
Qorten - They've got a slight road bump ahead of them called Bardas and his army, still camped in Anatolia and preparing to campaign as well...
Hawkeye1489 - Albrecht did insist that Gabriel shouldn't be "prematurely" killed, and said he had his purpose. The Mongols are coming... hmm...
...then again, Albrecht might simply want Gabriel kept alive to shine his shoes.
Issac Wolfe - Need time to gather those Roman arms first. The good news is the Mongols will need time to turn around from India, gather their armies, and move in the first place... If the Romans find out about it with enough time...
RGB - I knew amongst the steppe nomads female fighters weren't necessarily banned, just viewed as out of the ordinary. I'd be curious if anyone has ever tried to figure out how many women rode into battle with Genghis Khan's armies?
Vesimir - If Romanion doesn't get its act together, ****ed doesn't even begin to describe how bad things could get. P.S. I think you'll like parts of the update below (yes everyone, you get an update with your replies!)
”He who feeds the beast rules the beast. Woe unto him who has the beast, but no food—for it will roam, eating at will, and likely its master will perish first.” – attributed to Albrecht von Franken.
December 8th, 1238
Gabriel wanted to close his eyes.
As the Emperor of the Romans, no, ‘an’ Emperor of the Romans, he could almost very well do what he wished—in theory. In reality, politics demanded he keep rapt attention to the longwinded joke his dear cousin Adrianos was telling, and laugh heartily when it reached its flat, awful conclusion.
As the Emperor looked up the wedding banquet table, he caught sight of the bride. Frederica von Hohenstaufen had eschewed Greek tradition at the wedding, demanding she, too, be allowed to eat alongside her husband and guests. It was at her insistence there was a dining table to begin with—Roman aristocracy tended to prefer divans, and had for centuries. Frederica insisted on the somewhat barbarian table. At the very least, she had deigned to use a fork, instead of tossing the beef and pork on her plate into her mouth like the local merchants from Marseilles, who unofficially ‘represented the interests of the French monarchy.’
For not the first time, Gabriel’s eyes paused on her figure, and as if by prescience, she turned, caught his gaze, and smiled. He had to admit, she had a brilliant smile, and curves that…
She wants you…
Does she really want Gabriel?
Gabriel mentally nodded. By some of the feelings going on in his trousers, he didn’t need the voice in his head to tell him her certainly wanted her. Theodora wouldn’t mind… he might even talk her into joining in like she usually did with David or any one of the man or maidservants Gabriel brought to their bed. He even knew where he could do the deed—there was an alcove in the Antioch Palace, behind the marble staircase on…
…Gabriel shook his head, and frowned. No, he couldn’t! Not with his brother’s new wife! Desperate to calm the dragon in his mind and the dragon down below, the Emperor looked around the table for something, anything, to draw his attention away. It was only a moment before he caught just the thing…
…his brother’s empty throne, at the far head of the table.
Gabriel sighed. He knew exactly where Thomas had gone—likely he was on the opposite side of the one of the immense granite pillars that lined the dining hall, sulking. He’d been prone to that ever since he was a child—castigating himself when he thought he’d failed or he’d been a nuisance. One only had to listen to the murmured conversations of the great guests or even the small servants to know that Thomas had indeed caused a ruckus that day.
Slowly, Gabriel rose, waving his hands for the others present to not follow suit. He’d be back to the table shortly, he hoped—after he gave Thomas some brotherly advice, and hopefully cheered him up. It’d never do to have an emperor, even a figurehead emperor, sulking on his coronation and wedding day.
Gabriel found Thomas just where he thought he’d be—sunken to the floor, staring at one of the granite tiles, his fine imperial robes awash around his sullen figure, the immense feathery hat given to him by Prince Michael lying crumpled at his feet. He looked less like an emperor, and more like a young boy chastised for putting on his father’s clothes.
A rather sullen Thomas
“Thomas,” Gabriel said quietly, tapping his brother on the shoulder.
“You’re mad at me I bet,” Thomas murmured, not turning around but slowly rising off the floor. “I bet everyone is.”
“Well, Uncle Albrecht is fuming…” Gabriel admitted, letting his voice trail off.
That was an understatement. Gabriel’s uncle Albrecht von Franken had gone to extreme lengths to plan the entire affair—an immense processional, led by the Patriarchs of Alexandria, Antioch and Jerusalem, followed by both Gabriel and Thomas on horseback, then the prospective bridge Frederica von Hohenstaufen and Gabriel’s wife Theodora, then the massed boots of Gabriel’s army in shining mail, would crawl through the streets of Antioch. Von Franken had set aside 10,000 silver solidii to be thrown to the crowds, as well as bread, to earn goodwill. The processional would be followed by a very precise, ornate coronation ceremony, and then Thomas’ wedding to the Hohenstaufen princess.
However, things had been—less than optimum.
The ceremonial procession from the Prince’s Palace to the Basilica of St. Christopher had been plagued by an unseasonable warmth—and sand flies. With the surprising heat came the small bugs, buzzing amongst the crowds, biting, leaving itching welts in their wake. Gabriel could only thank Heaven that the smoke from the swaing censers of the priests in the procession seemed to keep the midges from him or his brother, but any notion of a regal, orderly audience was gone.
Once inside the great basilica, the ceremony had to be delayed while pages fetched the replica imperial crown—the real crown jewels still being held in Konstantinopolis. The hurriedly made jewels paled in comparison to the real affair that crowned Antemios in Konstantinopolis—Gabriel’s crown’s pearl was mounted crookedly, and poor Thomas could only be crowned with a rather plain circlet, not the immense diadem due an Emperor of the Romans.
Thomas, true to his nature, stumbled over his oaths, saying he would stay “true to the One God and the People of the Empire,” instead of “God and the One Empire.” The Patriarch of Alexandria slipped during his turn to bless the newly crowned Emperor, almost dropping the holy oil he would dab on Thomas’ head. Strategos Gamal Alsomanides fell asleep during the Patriarch of Jerusalem’s longwinded address, and could only be awoken with a sharp elbow and far sharper rebuke from Gabriel’s uncle Thomas Dadiani.
And then there was the wedding ceremony.
From the moment Frederica von Hohenstaufen rose, it was plainly apparent to all that Thomas III, Emperor of the Romans, was a mere deer in the face of a von Hohenstaufen panther. Frederica almost slinked up to the dais, managing to appear both powerful and carnal despite her virginal white bridal robes, while the Emperor of the Romans was noticeably trembling, the small Syrian pearls that hung from his plain diadem clattering slightly in the silent church.
Thomas’ shaking did not last long—as Patriarch Thomas of Jerusalem began to speak about godly love, the Emperor’s eyes looked up towards the ceiling, where something held his gaze. At first, Gabriel and others followed his gaze, only seeing plain stone with decorative artwork—nothing altogether unusual for a Basilica of a Patriarch. Yet as Patriarch Gregorios began to speak of marital fidelity, the Emperor openly started murmuring to himself, shaking his head, alternately looking down in thought, before casting his eyes back up towards the ceiling. His bride tried following Thomas’ gaze, but she too saw nothing—at one point she openly shrugged towards Albrecht von Franken, who stood grimly to the side of the Emperor, chewing on his lip in anger at his nephew’s apparently lack of care.
Just when Gabriel hadn’t thought things could go worse, they did.
“I didn’t mean to offend anyone,” Thomas looked up desperately, and just as Gabriel feared, words came tumbling from his brother’s mouth. “It’s just that I noticed all the cracks in the vaulted ceiling of the Basilica, and that made me think, ‘Of course, why hasn’t anyone built a new Basilica for the Patriarchs outside of Konstantinopolis?’” Thomas’ face lit up like the sun as he yammered onwards. “So I was thinking that we could build a church in Alexandria, Antioch and Jerusalem to celebrate defeating Bårdas! We could use flying buttresses to let light shine in, and…” Thomas’ excited speech died away at Gabriel’s lack of a reply, and once again, the newest Emperor of the Romans looked down. “I didn’t realize I said ‘eureka’ out loud.”
“You didn’t say it, you yelled it with a look as if God Himself had opened the gates of knowledge to you!” Gabriel snorted.
“And I didn’t mean to run off the dais,” Thomas went on, “I just wanted to sketch the idea out before I forgot.”
Gabriel still winced thinking of that moment. As if interrupting Patriarch Prokopios was during the middle of the wedding vows was bad enough, Thomas had turned and, grinning like a madman, dashed off the dais towards the door, his pearls clattering together. Frederica had looked absolutely hurt, while Gabriel and the rest of the audience looked on, stunned. Guards had managed to fetch Thomas back before he ran off too far, and the Patriarchs had calmly restarted the ceremony right where they left off as if nothing had happened. The only clue something extraordinary had happened was the unceasing murmur that came from the gathered notables, even through the tentative, half-hearted kiss Thomas gave his new bride.
“I ruined the ceremony, didn’t I?” Thomas asked, crossing his arms. “I ruin everything.”
“You…” Gabriel started, before stopping himself. What could he say? The coronation had been troublesome enough, but the wedding had been an absolute disaster. The elder Emperor only had to half-listen to hear on the lips of almost person in the table subtle, quiet references to the unprecedented events earlier that day. “Um… you just gave everyone a wedding that they’ll never forget,” Gabriel said, with no small amount of wryness in his voice.
“Don’t lie. I ruined it,” Thomas murmured. “I’ll ruin being an Emperor too. I didn’t want this, Gabby! I didn’t want to be an Emperor!” Thomas said slowly, eyes fearfully looking at his older brother. “You probably think I want to steal your throne!”
“I know,” Gabriel said quietly, leaning against the column and crossing his arms as a ripple of laughter cascaded over the main table. Adrianos had said something else entirely too witty, and the guests giggling. At least they weren’t whispering about the wedding anymore. “Uncle Albrecht asked you to do it?” Gabriel asked, careful to try to make the inflection in his voice as neutral as possible. Thomas loved his ‘Uncle Albie,’ and Gabriel didn’t feel like rehashing those old arguments.
“Patriarch Gregorios did, actually,” Thomas replied, his voice a little stronger now that it was apparent that Gabriel wasn’t incensed at him. “He said that it was necessary for you to gain your rightful crown, and that it was a godly sacrifice for the good of the Empire.” He looked back down, the strength gone as quickly as it’d come. “I don’t know if it was worth it. I don’t want to muck anything up.”
If Albrecht von Franken was the architect of the 1238 Dual Monarchy, Patriarch Gregorios of Antioch could be considered the final capstone. Encouraged by coin and promises from von Franken, the Patriarch used his lofty religious position to pry the pious Thomas away from a life of architecture and into the imperial purple.
“Ah,” Gabriel nodded, biting his tongue. So Albrecht had brought the Patriarch of Antioch into the whole affair? His uncle knew his mark well, Gabriel would give him that. If Albrecht had approached Thomas himself, Gabriel knew his brother would have only been drug to the throne kicking and screaming. If the words came from a holy man, making assuming the imperial mantle a religious duty, then…
“Please don’t think I agreed to betray you,” Thomas whispered quietly. Gabriel sighed—he hated seeing Thomas like that.
“I know you didn’t want the throne, Thomas,” Gabriel reached over and lifted his brother’s head. “I also know you’d never betray me… and Thomas, listen,” Gabriel held his brother’s gaze up firmly the moment Thomas tried to look back down, “I’ll never betray you either. We’re brothers! We have to look out for each other!” Gabriel smiled, sincerely, for the first time in days. “We just happen to both be emperors too.”
“Okay,” Thomas smiled sadly, and Gabriel let his brother’s chin go long enough to wrap Thomas up in a hug. For a split second the younger Emperor stood in confusion, before he hugged back, just as fierce and tight as the grip he was held in.
“You’re my flesh and blood, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Gabriel whispered, “and I won’t let you muck it up! You’ll do just fine, Thomas.”
“I hope so!” he heard his brother say somewhere in the folds of his richly covered shoulder. “Promise me you’ll show me how to be a good Emperor, Gabby?” Thomas added, his voice muffled. Gabriel finally released him from the hug, and gave a lopsided grin.
“If you’ll pay more attention than you did during sparring!” Gabriel laughed.
“Yes, yes I will!” Thomas nodded, a smile on his face even as his eyes were still wet. “Where do I start? What do I do first? When can I send some designs to be built?” His voice started to trail off. “What should be built first? We have walls around Konstantinopolis. We need a new palace, and those churches, and…”
Gabriel laughed again. “Your first job will take place tonight—your husbandly duty!”
Gabriel jabbed a finger at Thomas’ chest. A small, tiny part of Gabriel’s mind railed against the idea of his brother having Frederica, but the Emperor managed to hush the voice under the blanket of practicality. “Theodora has only given me Nikephoros, and Theophano. Your children are the heirs of Romanion after Nikpehoros, at least until Theodora blesses us with more boys! Now, should Frederica take with child, you…”
“Uh, um… Gabriel?”
Gabriel stopped talking, with a sinking feeling in his chest. By the utterly quizzical look on Thomas’ face, he was about to ask his brother something that Gabriel knew would vex him.
“What?”
“What… what exactly is my husbandly duty?” Thomas asked quietly. “Patriarch Simon didn’t say what that was…”
“Ah…um…” Gabriel stumbled, blinking. Did Thomas really just ask what his husbandly duty was? “To mount Frederica, of course!” the Emperor sputtered in disbelief to his younger brother. “Mount her as often as you need to get her to conceive an heir!”
“Mount her?” Thomas raised an eyebrow. “How so? I’m a little old to play piggyback, Gabby!” the newest Emperor of the Romans snorted. “Besides, how does piggyback…”
“No, I mean,” Gabriel started to snap, before sighing. Could Thomas, at 17, still be that naïve? Gabriel had ‘mounted’ already by the time he was 14! How… Gabriel sighed again. It was Thomas he was thinking about—simple, pious, strange Thomas. The Emperor realized that bringing up the subject of intercourse might require more… creativity…than he first realized.
“Uh, um,” Gabriel scratched his head, trying to think of an analogy his brother might understand. “You see, there are birds, and… no, that won’t do… um, it’s…uh…aha!” Gabriel grinned from ear to ear. “Thomas, you see that lock over there?” he pointed towards one of the side doors to the immense banquet hall.
“Yes,” Thomas nodded, “it’s really bad too. Rusted out horribly, probably because it hasn’t been used. I’m thinking of… sorry,” Thomas lowered his head at Gabriel’s momentary glare.
“Follow my thought, brother,” Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Part of him couldn’t believe what he was about to say. Another part was unduly excited, simply thinking about Frederica, and what his analogy meant she would be doing.
“Frederica is like that lock, Thomas,” Gabriel said slowly, “and you have the key. Behind that lock, is a child, perhaps an heir to the empire. To open the lock, you have to insert the key…”
==========*==========
February 9th, 1239
Bård Asketilson uneasily walked down the slowly rocking gangplank, sighing with relief as his boots hit the solid rock of one of Konstantinopolis’ many quays. The tall Varangian might have only just grown a beard, and could only count 24 winters in this world, but he was already second in command of the lumpy , leaky Rus ship Siren. Her masts might be rickety, her decks brittle, but she’d survived many a storm, and she was his ship.
Or, she would be. Bård felt a hand clap his shoulder, and he turned to see the current owner of the dilapidated boat, Stephanos Dragases. While Bård was full blooded Varangian—his father was a steppe Dane, his mother a refugee from Norway—Dragases was as true a cur as any in the Empire. The captain could count a half-Greek, half-Cuman mother, and a half-Serb, half-Danish father, a mixing that truly was reflected in his appearance. The captain was as short as Bård was tall, with a long mane of grey and black hair that made Bård’s stubble seem freshly shaven.
“No harbormaster yet?” Dragases said quietly. Bård’s hand rested gently on his sword hilt. He would’ve much preferred the large bearded axe strapped to his back, but city law forbid anyone unsheathing any weapon longer than four feet—Bård’s mankiller was nearly five and a half feet tall.
The Varangian scanned the quiet docks, to no avail. Once, not so long ago, the docks would have been teeming with ships. Porters would be carrying merchants to and fro, oxen pulling carts would have festooned the streets, and hawkers would have enticed sailors with wares as strange as wooden forks and obscene as disease ridden whores.
The Great Flood Tide had changed that.
When the sea had thundered inland into Egypt and the Levant that spring, it’d dragged hundreds of ships with it, drowning their crews, wrecking their hulls, and spewing their cargo far and wide. Most of those very ships had been slated to make the all-important summer grain runs, the steady bread and butter business of a quarter of the merchants in the Eastern Mediterranean. None of the runs were as regular or comparatively lucrative as the grain run to Konstantinopolis.
The Queen of Cities might be the center of the Imperial world, but every monster needs feeding, and the 600,000 residents of the Imperial capital consumed far more bread and wine than the surrounding farmlands, or even most of Thrace, could provide. Since the days of Manuel and the reconquest of Egypt, the Komnenid Emperors had subsidized merchants to ship grain from fertile, abundant Egypt north to their capital city, both to keep the mob pleased and stave off famine and disease.
The Flood Tide interrupted all of that. A great many fishermen on the coast, the men who would crew the grain ships, perished when their villages were swept away. Many ships sitting in harbors like Alexandria or Gaza were ruined when the Flood Tide dashed them onto rocks, or threw them onto buildings. The great warehouses of Alexandria, filled to the brim with Egyptian wheat, were demolished. An entire half a year’s worth of foodstuffs for the capital city was destroyed in a day.
At first, the city’s granaries staved off the inevitable—Bård had seen those immense vaults, when delivering the produce of Sortmark into their vast caverns. For the entire summer and most of the fall, it seemed the disaster in Egypt wouldn’t have an effect—or so the residents thought. The city leaders knew otherwise, and as stores continued to melt away and only a trickle of the normal flood of grain ships entered the Golden Horn, the city fathers had evidently decided the time for rationing had come.
And with rationing, of course, came the black market, and smuggling.
With fewer ships, the harbors had died quietly. With no grain, the city’s life had ebbed away. There were no more games where bread was distributed, there were no market days—all were hoarding their goods for black market food. This darker economy was what had driven Dragases and Bård this far south, away from their normal routes between Cherson and Trebizond. The Siren was officially listed as carrying furs from Belozero, but Bård knew for a fact that old Dragases had managed to fix six crates filled with Sortmark grain into the hold as well. The grain was green, and normally would be good for only animal fodder, but those with pockets in Konstantinopolis would pay for it to eat more than their fair share.
The Varangian’s eyes finally spotted something over by one of the many gates that led to the harbor, and his heart sank. Flooding out was a sea of people, a man dressed in bright reds and blues at their head.
“There he is,” Bård said quietly. They’d hoped the harbormaster would show up alone, or with a small group of men. The bribes to them would make nary a dent in the profit from black market grain. But, if the master came at the head of a crowd…
“You there!” the man bellowed from afar off, his gait long and imperious. Bård resisted the urge to snort—like all the Greeks he knew, the man was dark, with a long nose and lilting accent that made the Varangian cringe. “I’m Simon Akoupakos, harbormaster for these quays! You will prepare your ship for boarding and inspection!”
“I’ll handle it,” Dragases hissed, before walking forward. The small Chersonian only covered three steps before Akoupakos was upon him.
“You’re the captain?” the Greek asked haughtily.
“Yes, and I have permits for my cargo—furs from Belozero,” Dragases said, not quite lying. They did have those permits. “We stopped to fill our water casks before continuing to Thessalonike,” the Pontic mutt shifted to completely lying.
By his snort, Simon Akoupakos saw through the lie as well.
“You sure as day there ain’t no grain on that ship?”
Bård shifted uneasily—he wasn’t liking how the harbormaster was in Dragases’ face. Nor did the Varangian particularly like the crowd slowly gathering behind Akoupakos. Their eyes were sunken, their limbs thin and shriveled. They were lean and dangerous. Bård rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, eyeing the crowd, then back to Akoupakos.
“There isn’t any grain, how many times do I have to tell you!” Dragases snapped angrily. “We’re from Cherson, not Damietta, not Alexandria! Now let my carts through so I can fetch water for my crew!”
Akoupakos pointed a beefy finger at one of the barrels on the ship’s deck. “I wanna inspect ‘em! We’ve got starvin’ peoples! You can’t be smugglin’ no grain in for no rich dynatos and lettin’ them starve!”
The crowd murmured angrily behind him. Clearly, at the head of a mob, the man felt ten feet tall.
“I am not a smuggler,” Dragases huffed sharply. “I have legitimate deliveries in Thessalonike, and I don’t appreciate…”
“Smuggler!” someone in the crowd yelled.
“Hang him! Take the ship!” another bellowed.
An angry medieval mob
Bård looked up at the walls of the Imperial City forlornly. He could see dark red capes—guardsmen, people charged with keeping order in the city. Yet instead of stopping the crowd which was getting angrier by the minute, they leaned on their spears and watched.
Watched!
“I think,” the harbormaster inched up, until his chest was almost bumping Dragases chin, “I shall have a look at that cargo of yours.”
“I think,” Bård finally spoke, putting a hand on Dragases’ shoulder and pulling the smaller captain back, “you need to speak to me before you drag your hooligans all over my ship.” Bård heard Dragases sputter, but he ignored his friend. “Now, we have permits. You are legally bound to abide by those permits. Let us get our water and be on our way.”
“Just kill them and take the ship!” Someone in the crowd yelled. There were more murmurs, and even a few shouts.
“String them up!”
“Tell that mob to back down,” Bård raised an eyebrow, subtly changing his grip on the hilt of his sword. To a bystander, he was merely resting his hand. A trained swordsman would have realized that rest could change in half a second…
“You will surrender your ship to inspection, and confiscation!” the harbormaster snarled, the noise of the mob goading him on, the push of the crowd shoving him closer. It was then that Bård realized what was truly going on—the harbormaster was planning on just confiscating the Siren regardless, and likely would pocket the furs and surrender the ship to the state… and the mob would be his army to do so…
“I’m warning you one last time,” Bård said, his voice quiet, even, and deadly. The Varangian heard boots behind him—good, Dragases and the sailors were already on the gangplank.
Akoupakos’ hand reached for his own sword. “And I’m warning you that if you resist, they,” he nodded to the angry mob, “will tear you apart.” The man’s hands slowly started to grip the hilt of his sword. “Now,” Akoupakos smiled thinly, “I suggest you step aside, and…”
The Greek never finished his sentence. In a single swift motion, the Varangian drew his sword from its sheath, pulled it back, and ran it into Akoupakos’ soft belly. The Greek howled, then gurgled, shaking as Bård twisted the blade cruelly to the left, then the right.
“Back!” Bård shouted, pulling his blade from Akoupakos’ belly. The mob had stopped its advance, all eyes were focused on the stumbling hulk of the harbormaster, now stumbling backwards into the mass. People backed away from the bleeding, whimpering man, forming a semi-circle around him as he fought to hold keep his innards from falling outwards.
Deftly, the crew of the Siren clambered up the rest of the gangplank, Bård not far behind, the blood dripping from his sword forming a trail up the battered wooden steps. The crowd was starting to murmur—it’d be mere moments before the shock of their leader’s stabbing wore off. Only an idiot couldn’t fathom what chaos they’d cause then.
“Raise the plank and shove off!” Dragases barked. Axes came out, and quickly the crew hacked away the ropes holding the ship to her moorings. With a creak of protest, Siren broke free from her berth, the falling tide slowly dragging her away from the dock. In a few days, Bård might have mourned the gold they lost by fleeing the Queen of Cities, but in that moment, as they drifted to see, the angry noise of the mob echoing across the Marmara, he was glad to not set foot in Konstantinopolis. He could flee…
…a small part of him pitied those forced to stay in the city. The rest of him spat on them for chasing him out. There would be no bed of silver coins for Bård, at least this smuggling trip. The furs would probably fetch a nice price in Thessalonike—all was not lost.
Except, Bård grimly thought, for whoever was in charge of Konstantinopolis by winter’s end. As he now knew all too well, hungry mobs tend to be angry and desperate…
So Thomas and Frederica are married… Thomas acts like Thomas, but Gabriel is torn—he loves his brother, but he lusts for Frederica. Added to that, the tsunami and its disruption of the Egyptian grain supply threatens Konstantinopolis. What will happen next? More to come as Rome AARisen continues!
Bård Asketilson is a humble nod to Vesimir’s Brittania: A Saga of Albion. I’d encourage all of you to go and take a read—you might recognize a few faces there.
English Patriot - Awww, what has poor Frederica done to you? lol
Enewald - True... and wasn't Gabriel the Archangel of Death?
Ksim3000 - I had a great idea for a Christmas treat, but it's going to get delayed some since this update came out late... I'm going to see if I can't have it posted by Christmas Day here in the states, we shall see though...
FlyingDutchie - Komnenids don't have a habit of joining hands and singing Kumbaya, I'll tell you that!
Leviathan07 - I'm glad you like that section, and the scene was the only way I could imagine Frederica doing the deed--first preoccupied with keeping herself clean, then smacking the guy the same way someone scared of spiders kills one with a flyswatter.
I rewrote it, because unfortunately dirty minds read the first version and ran amok. I think the new version is rather clunky. I might reedit it again at some point when I have time...asd21593 - The Mongols are some of the most preeminent opportunists of the age. Hulagu et al aren't about to let such a golden chance slip out of their grips!
Fulcrumvale - Altani got her own theme, you can rest assured she has a very interesting path ahead of her!
AlexanderPrimus - The idea of a de facto ruling Khatun isn't as far fetched as some might think it is. See Toregene Khatun...
Servius Magnus - Jeb'reel has quite a temper once you get him started, as you'll see...
Qorten - They've got a slight road bump ahead of them called Bardas and his army, still camped in Anatolia and preparing to campaign as well...
Hawkeye1489 - Albrecht did insist that Gabriel shouldn't be "prematurely" killed, and said he had his purpose. The Mongols are coming... hmm...
...then again, Albrecht might simply want Gabriel kept alive to shine his shoes.
Issac Wolfe - Need time to gather those Roman arms first. The good news is the Mongols will need time to turn around from India, gather their armies, and move in the first place... If the Romans find out about it with enough time...
RGB - I knew amongst the steppe nomads female fighters weren't necessarily banned, just viewed as out of the ordinary. I'd be curious if anyone has ever tried to figure out how many women rode into battle with Genghis Khan's armies?
Vesimir - If Romanion doesn't get its act together, ****ed doesn't even begin to describe how bad things could get. P.S. I think you'll like parts of the update below (yes everyone, you get an update with your replies!)
”He who feeds the beast rules the beast. Woe unto him who has the beast, but no food—for it will roam, eating at will, and likely its master will perish first.” – attributed to Albrecht von Franken.
December 8th, 1238
Gabriel wanted to close his eyes.
As the Emperor of the Romans, no, ‘an’ Emperor of the Romans, he could almost very well do what he wished—in theory. In reality, politics demanded he keep rapt attention to the longwinded joke his dear cousin Adrianos was telling, and laugh heartily when it reached its flat, awful conclusion.
As the Emperor looked up the wedding banquet table, he caught sight of the bride. Frederica von Hohenstaufen had eschewed Greek tradition at the wedding, demanding she, too, be allowed to eat alongside her husband and guests. It was at her insistence there was a dining table to begin with—Roman aristocracy tended to prefer divans, and had for centuries. Frederica insisted on the somewhat barbarian table. At the very least, she had deigned to use a fork, instead of tossing the beef and pork on her plate into her mouth like the local merchants from Marseilles, who unofficially ‘represented the interests of the French monarchy.’
For not the first time, Gabriel’s eyes paused on her figure, and as if by prescience, she turned, caught his gaze, and smiled. He had to admit, she had a brilliant smile, and curves that…
She wants you…
Does she really want Gabriel?
Gabriel mentally nodded. By some of the feelings going on in his trousers, he didn’t need the voice in his head to tell him her certainly wanted her. Theodora wouldn’t mind… he might even talk her into joining in like she usually did with David or any one of the man or maidservants Gabriel brought to their bed. He even knew where he could do the deed—there was an alcove in the Antioch Palace, behind the marble staircase on…
…Gabriel shook his head, and frowned. No, he couldn’t! Not with his brother’s new wife! Desperate to calm the dragon in his mind and the dragon down below, the Emperor looked around the table for something, anything, to draw his attention away. It was only a moment before he caught just the thing…
…his brother’s empty throne, at the far head of the table.
Gabriel sighed. He knew exactly where Thomas had gone—likely he was on the opposite side of the one of the immense granite pillars that lined the dining hall, sulking. He’d been prone to that ever since he was a child—castigating himself when he thought he’d failed or he’d been a nuisance. One only had to listen to the murmured conversations of the great guests or even the small servants to know that Thomas had indeed caused a ruckus that day.
Slowly, Gabriel rose, waving his hands for the others present to not follow suit. He’d be back to the table shortly, he hoped—after he gave Thomas some brotherly advice, and hopefully cheered him up. It’d never do to have an emperor, even a figurehead emperor, sulking on his coronation and wedding day.
Gabriel found Thomas just where he thought he’d be—sunken to the floor, staring at one of the granite tiles, his fine imperial robes awash around his sullen figure, the immense feathery hat given to him by Prince Michael lying crumpled at his feet. He looked less like an emperor, and more like a young boy chastised for putting on his father’s clothes.
A rather sullen Thomas
“Thomas,” Gabriel said quietly, tapping his brother on the shoulder.
“You’re mad at me I bet,” Thomas murmured, not turning around but slowly rising off the floor. “I bet everyone is.”
“Well, Uncle Albrecht is fuming…” Gabriel admitted, letting his voice trail off.
That was an understatement. Gabriel’s uncle Albrecht von Franken had gone to extreme lengths to plan the entire affair—an immense processional, led by the Patriarchs of Alexandria, Antioch and Jerusalem, followed by both Gabriel and Thomas on horseback, then the prospective bridge Frederica von Hohenstaufen and Gabriel’s wife Theodora, then the massed boots of Gabriel’s army in shining mail, would crawl through the streets of Antioch. Von Franken had set aside 10,000 silver solidii to be thrown to the crowds, as well as bread, to earn goodwill. The processional would be followed by a very precise, ornate coronation ceremony, and then Thomas’ wedding to the Hohenstaufen princess.
However, things had been—less than optimum.
The ceremonial procession from the Prince’s Palace to the Basilica of St. Christopher had been plagued by an unseasonable warmth—and sand flies. With the surprising heat came the small bugs, buzzing amongst the crowds, biting, leaving itching welts in their wake. Gabriel could only thank Heaven that the smoke from the swaing censers of the priests in the procession seemed to keep the midges from him or his brother, but any notion of a regal, orderly audience was gone.
Once inside the great basilica, the ceremony had to be delayed while pages fetched the replica imperial crown—the real crown jewels still being held in Konstantinopolis. The hurriedly made jewels paled in comparison to the real affair that crowned Antemios in Konstantinopolis—Gabriel’s crown’s pearl was mounted crookedly, and poor Thomas could only be crowned with a rather plain circlet, not the immense diadem due an Emperor of the Romans.
Thomas, true to his nature, stumbled over his oaths, saying he would stay “true to the One God and the People of the Empire,” instead of “God and the One Empire.” The Patriarch of Alexandria slipped during his turn to bless the newly crowned Emperor, almost dropping the holy oil he would dab on Thomas’ head. Strategos Gamal Alsomanides fell asleep during the Patriarch of Jerusalem’s longwinded address, and could only be awoken with a sharp elbow and far sharper rebuke from Gabriel’s uncle Thomas Dadiani.
And then there was the wedding ceremony.
From the moment Frederica von Hohenstaufen rose, it was plainly apparent to all that Thomas III, Emperor of the Romans, was a mere deer in the face of a von Hohenstaufen panther. Frederica almost slinked up to the dais, managing to appear both powerful and carnal despite her virginal white bridal robes, while the Emperor of the Romans was noticeably trembling, the small Syrian pearls that hung from his plain diadem clattering slightly in the silent church.
Thomas’ shaking did not last long—as Patriarch Thomas of Jerusalem began to speak about godly love, the Emperor’s eyes looked up towards the ceiling, where something held his gaze. At first, Gabriel and others followed his gaze, only seeing plain stone with decorative artwork—nothing altogether unusual for a Basilica of a Patriarch. Yet as Patriarch Gregorios began to speak of marital fidelity, the Emperor openly started murmuring to himself, shaking his head, alternately looking down in thought, before casting his eyes back up towards the ceiling. His bride tried following Thomas’ gaze, but she too saw nothing—at one point she openly shrugged towards Albrecht von Franken, who stood grimly to the side of the Emperor, chewing on his lip in anger at his nephew’s apparently lack of care.
Just when Gabriel hadn’t thought things could go worse, they did.
“I didn’t mean to offend anyone,” Thomas looked up desperately, and just as Gabriel feared, words came tumbling from his brother’s mouth. “It’s just that I noticed all the cracks in the vaulted ceiling of the Basilica, and that made me think, ‘Of course, why hasn’t anyone built a new Basilica for the Patriarchs outside of Konstantinopolis?’” Thomas’ face lit up like the sun as he yammered onwards. “So I was thinking that we could build a church in Alexandria, Antioch and Jerusalem to celebrate defeating Bårdas! We could use flying buttresses to let light shine in, and…” Thomas’ excited speech died away at Gabriel’s lack of a reply, and once again, the newest Emperor of the Romans looked down. “I didn’t realize I said ‘eureka’ out loud.”
“You didn’t say it, you yelled it with a look as if God Himself had opened the gates of knowledge to you!” Gabriel snorted.
“And I didn’t mean to run off the dais,” Thomas went on, “I just wanted to sketch the idea out before I forgot.”
Gabriel still winced thinking of that moment. As if interrupting Patriarch Prokopios was during the middle of the wedding vows was bad enough, Thomas had turned and, grinning like a madman, dashed off the dais towards the door, his pearls clattering together. Frederica had looked absolutely hurt, while Gabriel and the rest of the audience looked on, stunned. Guards had managed to fetch Thomas back before he ran off too far, and the Patriarchs had calmly restarted the ceremony right where they left off as if nothing had happened. The only clue something extraordinary had happened was the unceasing murmur that came from the gathered notables, even through the tentative, half-hearted kiss Thomas gave his new bride.
“I ruined the ceremony, didn’t I?” Thomas asked, crossing his arms. “I ruin everything.”
“You…” Gabriel started, before stopping himself. What could he say? The coronation had been troublesome enough, but the wedding had been an absolute disaster. The elder Emperor only had to half-listen to hear on the lips of almost person in the table subtle, quiet references to the unprecedented events earlier that day. “Um… you just gave everyone a wedding that they’ll never forget,” Gabriel said, with no small amount of wryness in his voice.
“Don’t lie. I ruined it,” Thomas murmured. “I’ll ruin being an Emperor too. I didn’t want this, Gabby! I didn’t want to be an Emperor!” Thomas said slowly, eyes fearfully looking at his older brother. “You probably think I want to steal your throne!”
“I know,” Gabriel said quietly, leaning against the column and crossing his arms as a ripple of laughter cascaded over the main table. Adrianos had said something else entirely too witty, and the guests giggling. At least they weren’t whispering about the wedding anymore. “Uncle Albrecht asked you to do it?” Gabriel asked, careful to try to make the inflection in his voice as neutral as possible. Thomas loved his ‘Uncle Albie,’ and Gabriel didn’t feel like rehashing those old arguments.
“Patriarch Gregorios did, actually,” Thomas replied, his voice a little stronger now that it was apparent that Gabriel wasn’t incensed at him. “He said that it was necessary for you to gain your rightful crown, and that it was a godly sacrifice for the good of the Empire.” He looked back down, the strength gone as quickly as it’d come. “I don’t know if it was worth it. I don’t want to muck anything up.”
If Albrecht von Franken was the architect of the 1238 Dual Monarchy, Patriarch Gregorios of Antioch could be considered the final capstone. Encouraged by coin and promises from von Franken, the Patriarch used his lofty religious position to pry the pious Thomas away from a life of architecture and into the imperial purple.
“Ah,” Gabriel nodded, biting his tongue. So Albrecht had brought the Patriarch of Antioch into the whole affair? His uncle knew his mark well, Gabriel would give him that. If Albrecht had approached Thomas himself, Gabriel knew his brother would have only been drug to the throne kicking and screaming. If the words came from a holy man, making assuming the imperial mantle a religious duty, then…
“Please don’t think I agreed to betray you,” Thomas whispered quietly. Gabriel sighed—he hated seeing Thomas like that.
“I know you didn’t want the throne, Thomas,” Gabriel reached over and lifted his brother’s head. “I also know you’d never betray me… and Thomas, listen,” Gabriel held his brother’s gaze up firmly the moment Thomas tried to look back down, “I’ll never betray you either. We’re brothers! We have to look out for each other!” Gabriel smiled, sincerely, for the first time in days. “We just happen to both be emperors too.”
“Okay,” Thomas smiled sadly, and Gabriel let his brother’s chin go long enough to wrap Thomas up in a hug. For a split second the younger Emperor stood in confusion, before he hugged back, just as fierce and tight as the grip he was held in.
“You’re my flesh and blood, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Gabriel whispered, “and I won’t let you muck it up! You’ll do just fine, Thomas.”
“I hope so!” he heard his brother say somewhere in the folds of his richly covered shoulder. “Promise me you’ll show me how to be a good Emperor, Gabby?” Thomas added, his voice muffled. Gabriel finally released him from the hug, and gave a lopsided grin.
“If you’ll pay more attention than you did during sparring!” Gabriel laughed.
“Yes, yes I will!” Thomas nodded, a smile on his face even as his eyes were still wet. “Where do I start? What do I do first? When can I send some designs to be built?” His voice started to trail off. “What should be built first? We have walls around Konstantinopolis. We need a new palace, and those churches, and…”
Gabriel laughed again. “Your first job will take place tonight—your husbandly duty!”
Gabriel jabbed a finger at Thomas’ chest. A small, tiny part of Gabriel’s mind railed against the idea of his brother having Frederica, but the Emperor managed to hush the voice under the blanket of practicality. “Theodora has only given me Nikephoros, and Theophano. Your children are the heirs of Romanion after Nikpehoros, at least until Theodora blesses us with more boys! Now, should Frederica take with child, you…”
“Uh, um… Gabriel?”
Gabriel stopped talking, with a sinking feeling in his chest. By the utterly quizzical look on Thomas’ face, he was about to ask his brother something that Gabriel knew would vex him.
“What?”
“What… what exactly is my husbandly duty?” Thomas asked quietly. “Patriarch Simon didn’t say what that was…”
“Ah…um…” Gabriel stumbled, blinking. Did Thomas really just ask what his husbandly duty was? “To mount Frederica, of course!” the Emperor sputtered in disbelief to his younger brother. “Mount her as often as you need to get her to conceive an heir!”
“Mount her?” Thomas raised an eyebrow. “How so? I’m a little old to play piggyback, Gabby!” the newest Emperor of the Romans snorted. “Besides, how does piggyback…”
“No, I mean,” Gabriel started to snap, before sighing. Could Thomas, at 17, still be that naïve? Gabriel had ‘mounted’ already by the time he was 14! How… Gabriel sighed again. It was Thomas he was thinking about—simple, pious, strange Thomas. The Emperor realized that bringing up the subject of intercourse might require more… creativity…than he first realized.
“Uh, um,” Gabriel scratched his head, trying to think of an analogy his brother might understand. “You see, there are birds, and… no, that won’t do… um, it’s…uh…aha!” Gabriel grinned from ear to ear. “Thomas, you see that lock over there?” he pointed towards one of the side doors to the immense banquet hall.
“Yes,” Thomas nodded, “it’s really bad too. Rusted out horribly, probably because it hasn’t been used. I’m thinking of… sorry,” Thomas lowered his head at Gabriel’s momentary glare.
“Follow my thought, brother,” Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Part of him couldn’t believe what he was about to say. Another part was unduly excited, simply thinking about Frederica, and what his analogy meant she would be doing.
“Frederica is like that lock, Thomas,” Gabriel said slowly, “and you have the key. Behind that lock, is a child, perhaps an heir to the empire. To open the lock, you have to insert the key…”
==========*==========
February 9th, 1239
Bård Asketilson uneasily walked down the slowly rocking gangplank, sighing with relief as his boots hit the solid rock of one of Konstantinopolis’ many quays. The tall Varangian might have only just grown a beard, and could only count 24 winters in this world, but he was already second in command of the lumpy , leaky Rus ship Siren. Her masts might be rickety, her decks brittle, but she’d survived many a storm, and she was his ship.
Or, she would be. Bård felt a hand clap his shoulder, and he turned to see the current owner of the dilapidated boat, Stephanos Dragases. While Bård was full blooded Varangian—his father was a steppe Dane, his mother a refugee from Norway—Dragases was as true a cur as any in the Empire. The captain could count a half-Greek, half-Cuman mother, and a half-Serb, half-Danish father, a mixing that truly was reflected in his appearance. The captain was as short as Bård was tall, with a long mane of grey and black hair that made Bård’s stubble seem freshly shaven.
“No harbormaster yet?” Dragases said quietly. Bård’s hand rested gently on his sword hilt. He would’ve much preferred the large bearded axe strapped to his back, but city law forbid anyone unsheathing any weapon longer than four feet—Bård’s mankiller was nearly five and a half feet tall.
The Varangian scanned the quiet docks, to no avail. Once, not so long ago, the docks would have been teeming with ships. Porters would be carrying merchants to and fro, oxen pulling carts would have festooned the streets, and hawkers would have enticed sailors with wares as strange as wooden forks and obscene as disease ridden whores.
The Great Flood Tide had changed that.
When the sea had thundered inland into Egypt and the Levant that spring, it’d dragged hundreds of ships with it, drowning their crews, wrecking their hulls, and spewing their cargo far and wide. Most of those very ships had been slated to make the all-important summer grain runs, the steady bread and butter business of a quarter of the merchants in the Eastern Mediterranean. None of the runs were as regular or comparatively lucrative as the grain run to Konstantinopolis.
The Queen of Cities might be the center of the Imperial world, but every monster needs feeding, and the 600,000 residents of the Imperial capital consumed far more bread and wine than the surrounding farmlands, or even most of Thrace, could provide. Since the days of Manuel and the reconquest of Egypt, the Komnenid Emperors had subsidized merchants to ship grain from fertile, abundant Egypt north to their capital city, both to keep the mob pleased and stave off famine and disease.
The Flood Tide interrupted all of that. A great many fishermen on the coast, the men who would crew the grain ships, perished when their villages were swept away. Many ships sitting in harbors like Alexandria or Gaza were ruined when the Flood Tide dashed them onto rocks, or threw them onto buildings. The great warehouses of Alexandria, filled to the brim with Egyptian wheat, were demolished. An entire half a year’s worth of foodstuffs for the capital city was destroyed in a day.
At first, the city’s granaries staved off the inevitable—Bård had seen those immense vaults, when delivering the produce of Sortmark into their vast caverns. For the entire summer and most of the fall, it seemed the disaster in Egypt wouldn’t have an effect—or so the residents thought. The city leaders knew otherwise, and as stores continued to melt away and only a trickle of the normal flood of grain ships entered the Golden Horn, the city fathers had evidently decided the time for rationing had come.
And with rationing, of course, came the black market, and smuggling.
With fewer ships, the harbors had died quietly. With no grain, the city’s life had ebbed away. There were no more games where bread was distributed, there were no market days—all were hoarding their goods for black market food. This darker economy was what had driven Dragases and Bård this far south, away from their normal routes between Cherson and Trebizond. The Siren was officially listed as carrying furs from Belozero, but Bård knew for a fact that old Dragases had managed to fix six crates filled with Sortmark grain into the hold as well. The grain was green, and normally would be good for only animal fodder, but those with pockets in Konstantinopolis would pay for it to eat more than their fair share.
The Varangian’s eyes finally spotted something over by one of the many gates that led to the harbor, and his heart sank. Flooding out was a sea of people, a man dressed in bright reds and blues at their head.
“There he is,” Bård said quietly. They’d hoped the harbormaster would show up alone, or with a small group of men. The bribes to them would make nary a dent in the profit from black market grain. But, if the master came at the head of a crowd…
“You there!” the man bellowed from afar off, his gait long and imperious. Bård resisted the urge to snort—like all the Greeks he knew, the man was dark, with a long nose and lilting accent that made the Varangian cringe. “I’m Simon Akoupakos, harbormaster for these quays! You will prepare your ship for boarding and inspection!”
“I’ll handle it,” Dragases hissed, before walking forward. The small Chersonian only covered three steps before Akoupakos was upon him.
“You’re the captain?” the Greek asked haughtily.
“Yes, and I have permits for my cargo—furs from Belozero,” Dragases said, not quite lying. They did have those permits. “We stopped to fill our water casks before continuing to Thessalonike,” the Pontic mutt shifted to completely lying.
By his snort, Simon Akoupakos saw through the lie as well.
“You sure as day there ain’t no grain on that ship?”
Bård shifted uneasily—he wasn’t liking how the harbormaster was in Dragases’ face. Nor did the Varangian particularly like the crowd slowly gathering behind Akoupakos. Their eyes were sunken, their limbs thin and shriveled. They were lean and dangerous. Bård rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, eyeing the crowd, then back to Akoupakos.
“There isn’t any grain, how many times do I have to tell you!” Dragases snapped angrily. “We’re from Cherson, not Damietta, not Alexandria! Now let my carts through so I can fetch water for my crew!”
Akoupakos pointed a beefy finger at one of the barrels on the ship’s deck. “I wanna inspect ‘em! We’ve got starvin’ peoples! You can’t be smugglin’ no grain in for no rich dynatos and lettin’ them starve!”
The crowd murmured angrily behind him. Clearly, at the head of a mob, the man felt ten feet tall.
“I am not a smuggler,” Dragases huffed sharply. “I have legitimate deliveries in Thessalonike, and I don’t appreciate…”
“Smuggler!” someone in the crowd yelled.
“Hang him! Take the ship!” another bellowed.
An angry medieval mob
Bård looked up at the walls of the Imperial City forlornly. He could see dark red capes—guardsmen, people charged with keeping order in the city. Yet instead of stopping the crowd which was getting angrier by the minute, they leaned on their spears and watched.
Watched!
“I think,” the harbormaster inched up, until his chest was almost bumping Dragases chin, “I shall have a look at that cargo of yours.”
“I think,” Bård finally spoke, putting a hand on Dragases’ shoulder and pulling the smaller captain back, “you need to speak to me before you drag your hooligans all over my ship.” Bård heard Dragases sputter, but he ignored his friend. “Now, we have permits. You are legally bound to abide by those permits. Let us get our water and be on our way.”
“Just kill them and take the ship!” Someone in the crowd yelled. There were more murmurs, and even a few shouts.
“String them up!”
“Tell that mob to back down,” Bård raised an eyebrow, subtly changing his grip on the hilt of his sword. To a bystander, he was merely resting his hand. A trained swordsman would have realized that rest could change in half a second…
“You will surrender your ship to inspection, and confiscation!” the harbormaster snarled, the noise of the mob goading him on, the push of the crowd shoving him closer. It was then that Bård realized what was truly going on—the harbormaster was planning on just confiscating the Siren regardless, and likely would pocket the furs and surrender the ship to the state… and the mob would be his army to do so…
“I’m warning you one last time,” Bård said, his voice quiet, even, and deadly. The Varangian heard boots behind him—good, Dragases and the sailors were already on the gangplank.
Akoupakos’ hand reached for his own sword. “And I’m warning you that if you resist, they,” he nodded to the angry mob, “will tear you apart.” The man’s hands slowly started to grip the hilt of his sword. “Now,” Akoupakos smiled thinly, “I suggest you step aside, and…”
The Greek never finished his sentence. In a single swift motion, the Varangian drew his sword from its sheath, pulled it back, and ran it into Akoupakos’ soft belly. The Greek howled, then gurgled, shaking as Bård twisted the blade cruelly to the left, then the right.
“Back!” Bård shouted, pulling his blade from Akoupakos’ belly. The mob had stopped its advance, all eyes were focused on the stumbling hulk of the harbormaster, now stumbling backwards into the mass. People backed away from the bleeding, whimpering man, forming a semi-circle around him as he fought to hold keep his innards from falling outwards.
Deftly, the crew of the Siren clambered up the rest of the gangplank, Bård not far behind, the blood dripping from his sword forming a trail up the battered wooden steps. The crowd was starting to murmur—it’d be mere moments before the shock of their leader’s stabbing wore off. Only an idiot couldn’t fathom what chaos they’d cause then.
“Raise the plank and shove off!” Dragases barked. Axes came out, and quickly the crew hacked away the ropes holding the ship to her moorings. With a creak of protest, Siren broke free from her berth, the falling tide slowly dragging her away from the dock. In a few days, Bård might have mourned the gold they lost by fleeing the Queen of Cities, but in that moment, as they drifted to see, the angry noise of the mob echoing across the Marmara, he was glad to not set foot in Konstantinopolis. He could flee…
…a small part of him pitied those forced to stay in the city. The rest of him spat on them for chasing him out. There would be no bed of silver coins for Bård, at least this smuggling trip. The furs would probably fetch a nice price in Thessalonike—all was not lost.
Except, Bård grimly thought, for whoever was in charge of Konstantinopolis by winter’s end. As he now knew all too well, hungry mobs tend to be angry and desperate…
==========*==========
So Thomas and Frederica are married… Thomas acts like Thomas, but Gabriel is torn—he loves his brother, but he lusts for Frederica. Added to that, the tsunami and its disruption of the Egyptian grain supply threatens Konstantinopolis. What will happen next? More to come as Rome AARisen continues!
Bård Asketilson is a humble nod to Vesimir’s Brittania: A Saga of Albion. I’d encourage all of you to go and take a read—you might recognize a few faces there.
Yay! And he's a smuggler which makes this double-cool. And I must say that scene is great. It shows how much those people are desperate. So desperate that they won't notice their leader is just like the nobles.
I wonder how many more "greek sausages" and "keys and locks" we'll have before Thomas realises what's going on.
I wonder how many more "greek sausages" and "keys and locks" we'll have before Thomas realises what's going on.
Gabriel's hearing voices. Wonderful. At this rate a coup by another Komnenian branch would almost certainly be a good thing for the Empire in the long run.
Oh Thomas....
I say let the Leonids take control; they are descended still from the greatest Emperor ever to exist ever (Manuel) but do not suffer from Basilian insanity or Spanish-ness.
I say let the Leonids take control; they are descended still from the greatest Emperor ever to exist ever (Manuel) but do not suffer from Basilian insanity or Spanish-ness.
The only problem with this AAR is that I always time out by the time I'm done reading.
I can see Gabriel easily marching into the city now and feeding the people.
I can see Gabriel easily marching into the city now and feeding the people.
Nicely done.
BT, you have always been good at building anticipation to a fever pitch. I can't wait for the next update(s)!
BT, you have always been good at building anticipation to a fever pitch. I can't wait for the next update(s)!
Always enjoy the interaction between Gabriel and Thomas. Can't begin to imagine what would happen should Thomas suddenly found himself on the Imperial throne.
Also, if he's lucky, Frederica might be the one to mount him. Should make things easier for him. And it's not like she wouldn't do it
Also, if he's lucky, Frederica might be the one to mount him. Should make things easier for him. And it's not like she wouldn't do it
1. Dragons. Ha ha. Are they prophetic dragons and do they sinuously inhabit secret caverns? If you let one out into the public, does trouble ensue and do things get set on fire?
Also, Gabriel won't stay young forever, and you might need to find a new series. I'm at a loss who to pick though.
2. A witch! She turned me into a newt! And then stole my grain!
3. The way this is going, you might have to call the locksmith. Leave us alone, Mr.Mel Brooks!
4. I hope Bardas does face a starving Constantinople mob. He deserves it ><
Also, Gabriel won't stay young forever, and you might need to find a new series. I'm at a loss who to pick though.
2. A witch! She turned me into a newt! And then stole my grain!
3. The way this is going, you might have to call the locksmith. Leave us alone, Mr.Mel Brooks!
4. I hope Bardas does face a starving Constantinople mob. He deserves it ><
You say that like Frederica will waste any time in completing Thomas' education on the subject
Persia seems destined to become the battleground between Empires, unless the soon-to-be reborn Persia is able to establish itself firmly.
Thomas is quite charming in his naivete, I'm going to feel really bad when somebody kills him.
Thomas is quite charming in his naivete, I'm going to feel really bad when somebody kills him.
Hihii. :rofl:
Poor Thomas. :rofl:
So mobs might kill the Bardas?
Would be quite normal in the Queen of Cities.
Poor Thomas. :rofl:
So mobs might kill the Bardas?
Would be quite normal in the Queen of Cities.
Hihii. :rofl:
Poor Thomas. :rofl:
So mobs might kill the Bardas?
Would be quite normal in the Queen of Cities.
Except Bardas isn't in the Queen of Cities but in Anatolia.
Perhaps all those grain carts that were headed east are going west eventually when Gabriël and Thomas
rofl enter Konstantinopolis?
Except Bardas isn't in the Queen of Cities but in Anatolia.
Perhaps all those grain carts that were headed east are going west eventually when Gabriël and Thomas
A manufactured foot shortage to put the pressure on Barda - and to subsequently show the compassion and magnanimity of the victors once they've liberated the city - would be my guess too. But who knows, could be something truly unexpected.