Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

Update is still in progress... maybe 40% done right now. Stuck at boyfriend's parent's place, and unable to write. I probably won't get a chance to work on anything til tomorrow... and if it doesn't get done then, I likely won't have it up until Sunday at the earliest.

General Notes about Robin Hood - Plan on definitely using that, considering for a future major character I was already planning on using Russell Crowe!

VILenin - Wow! Long time no see! Glad to hear you're still around, and still enjoying the story!

Ksim3000 - To you that's normal every day stuff. To some of the rest of us, its jaw-dropping historical-stand-around-and-stare-at-things.


August 31st, 1258

Auden Leofricson barely managed to keep his mouth closed, but his eyes reveled in the jaw-dropping sights and sounds that was the City of Men’s Desire. Two days before, as the Kronan docked alongside the beautiful marble edifice that was the Boukoleon Palace, Auden was expecting to deliver the gift to a Lord Alexandros Komnenos. The groom wasn’t sure why a Spanish Roman lord was buying a Sortmarker horse for another Roman lord, but he grew even more perplexed when, on landing he was greeted by an officious man who said he represented a Gottfried von Franken, a powerful man in the empire—Auden didn’t know what the long list of titles, meant, but the groomsman had worked long enough in the royal stables to know a long list of titles usually meant someone to be listened to.

This von Franken went on to say that the stallion was to be given to Emperor Nikephoros instead. So now, after two days of preparations, here was Auden, Groomsman of the Stables, son of a stableman and a ferrier’s daughter, tramping in his finest blues and golds through the streets and byways of the greatest city on earth, leading a monstrous horse to its new owner.


And what a monster it was. Kragesprt was by far the largest horse Auden had ever seen—and he’d worked at the royal stables outside the rebuilt Havigraes since 1230. Kragesort was nearly a half head taller than any other horse he’d seen, even King Olaf’s mighty Krigsleder—the beast was no hunter or courser, but a true ‘great horse,’ nothing less. To make him even more imposing, the great stallion was a black as night, with eyes that still held the fire and spirit of a strong will deep in their brown orbs. At once, the animal was entrancing and frightening, beautiful but deadly.

Exactly the type of steed that royalty wanted in their stables.

Auden hadn’t seen much of the creature—it was four years old, he knew that, and for its first year or so it’d been with all the others until its future immense size began to show. Then it was handed to Auden for special care, but even this didn’t last. Shortly thereafter the great beast was placed into the hands of the King’s cousin, Lord Asbjorn Knytling, as well as his retainers. From there, the Royal Groomsman had seen not a bit of the animal until five months before, when he was curtly informed he would be travelling with the animal to Konstantinopolis to present it as a gift to a high ranking Roman nobleman. The whole affair was quite strange, but then again everything around Lord Asbjorn was strange. Some of the courtiers spoke of him having a sixth finger, and others said he could see into the future, amongst other trickeries.

But Auden Leofricson had little time to worry about any of that as he and his small party crossed under yet another gate of marble and into the Gardens of the Megara. The groomsman fought the urge to stumble to a halt and stare at all the strange fruits that hung from unfamiliar trees all around him, and instead focused on keeping Kragesort focused on him, and not the strange surroundings. The stallion might have been immense and powerful, but his steppe blood came through true—he shied away from shadows, and spooked at almost any sudden noise. To be in the middle of a strange place, with strange sounds, sights, and smells, meant the animal was constantly tugging away from Auden’s grip.


As he fought his charge in a quiet, unspoken battle, Auden desperately tried to remember the words he was supposed to say, cursing his own tired tongue the entire time. He wasn’t exactly sure why Lord Asbjorn wanted him to say those specific words, but the groomsman knew he place. He was just a groomsman. It was likely some part of ridiculous Roman court etiquette. King Olaf’s court was filled with enough etiquette to man a sane man mad—Auden could only guess at what lunacy the Romans had invented to reinforce their superiority on those around them!

Finally Auden and his small cadre arrived at a rather large clearing, where a sea of men in fine robes of silk and gold ringed a central grassy knoll, pleasantly split between light and shade. In the direct middle, alone, stood a rather tall, thin man in fine riding leathers, his beard black as night, his hair trimmed perfectly, beyond even the perfection demanded by the nobles of Havigraes. Auden’s escorts drew to a stop, then performed an immediate bow, that all the others gathered around the clearing echoed. Auden looked about in momentary confusion, before realizing who he was standing before, and performing a hurried half-bow of his own.

“Auden Leofricson, Majesty,” one of the escorts announced. Auden tried to bow again, but Kragesort chose this as the best time to tug harshly on his reins—Auden found himself lifted back up to his feet by the stallion’s pull. Red faced, he looked up at the Emperor’s approach.

Emperor Nikephoros was thinner than Auden expected—from the stories he’d heard the Sortmarker had expected a giant of a man, a colossus worthy of the empire he ruled. Instead, he saw someone that reminded him of his cousin Lars—gangly, with an open smile and expressive eyes.

“Master Auden,” the Emperor said in halting Danish. Auden blinked—he’d been expecting to conduct the conversation entirely in Greek/

“Good afternoon, Majesty,” Auden replied after he’d overcome his surprise. He was pleased to see the Emperor smile—he’d practiced his Greek long and hard before Kronan had tied up to the docks. “And this,” Auden shook the beast’s reins slightly, “is Kragesort, a gift from Sortmark to Your Majesty, on behalf of Lord Segeo Komnenos.”

“He’s beautiful,” the Megas Komnenos said, running his hand down the beast’s neck. “At least 16 hands?”

“17 and a half,” Auden said, chest swelling with pride. Kragesort whickered, edging away from the Emperor’s stroke. The groom gently ran a hand on the opposite side of the beast’s neck, whispering a few quiet words into the creatures ear, trying to steady the beast. It stopped shying, but its eyes were still wide. “He’s fierce,” the groom added, “he’s got spirit! He’ll prance and show himself off in a parade, or carry you into battle with…”


“He’s not fully broken,” Nikephoros said quietly, with more than a little appreciation. “It’s rare to see such a large animal that hasn’t been broken into a simple showhorse.”

Auden nodded. The fact that Kragesort wasn’t completely docile made the creature infinitely more valuable as a war steed. A completely broken warhorse was a useless warhorse. A charger, especially a great horse, needed to have spirit, to have fire, to still have some wild power left in its soul. A charger broken so anyone could ride it would not kick and bite enemies, nor would it charge through the fiery gates of Hell at the spur of its master.

“He’s bred for war, like all our steeds, Majesty,” Auden replied. Kragesort edged to the left, eyes wide as it looked at Auden. He shushed the beast, as Nikephoros slowly circled the creature, looking over its form with the eye of someone used to seeing much lesser creatures. Finally, the Emepror looked over at Auden, and raised an eyebrow. The groom blinked, confused, before finally realizing what the Emperor was wanting to know.

“Oh yes, he can be ridden, Majesty.”

“He’ll be prone to spooking a bit, I imagine,” Nikephoros nodded in thanks. But as soon as the Emperor stepped onto the stirrup, Kragesort immediately pulled away. Auden gripped the reins a little tighter as the Emperor tried again—the stallion wasn’t used to Nikephoros. It was only natural the beast shied under the weight of a new rider. Kragesort’s ears went back, then flicked about uncertainly as Nikephoros settled into the saddle.

“He’s a little more edgy than I’d like,” the Emperor muttered, and Auden frowned. That certainly would be no good!

“It’s the steppe fire and spirit in him, Majesty,” the groom said reassuringly. Nikephoros gently tugged at the reins to the left. The stallion tossed its head in disagreement, rebellion. The Emperor nodded to Auden, and the groom let go. Nikephoros had to bond with the horse, alone. A steed could only have one master, so the reassuring hand of Auden had to give way to the strong hand of the Emperor. Nikephoros tugged again, this time more insistently. The beast’s ears flicked back in anger, but it turned at his command.

“There he goes!” Auden grinned. The Emperor seemed a natural, turning the horse slowly in a circle, getting the steed used to his surroundings to try to keep him from spooking. After two circles, the Megas Komnenos gave the horse a slight kick. Kragesort responded instantly, only happy in his nervousness to break into a trot. Then a full canter.

“What’s his background?” Nikephoros asked, grinning as he beast reluctantly moved at his whim and command.

Auden blinked. Oh yes! He’d almost forgotten! The Emperor was mounted, and Lord Asbjorn’s instructions were explicit.

“Yes Majesty,” Auden nodded hurriedly. What was the speech he was supposed to give? Auden’ wracked his brain, momentarily letting his hand off Kragesort’s neck. The beast whickered again, shying towards the right. “Um, Majesty, Kragesort is the greatest, most noble of the Sortmark steeds!”


At his name, the stallion bucked slightly. The Emperor clamped his legs on the animal’s flanks, and it responded by rearing slightly. Auden frowned, but Lord Asbjorn had demanded he finish the speech once he started. Besides, the Emperor wouldn’t want the horse’s groom grabbing the reins just because it started to rear—as Auden had long ago discovered, royalty were touchy about such things. Pride.

“The Sortmark steeds are a unique breed, a strain that combines the size and power of the traditional great horse with the speed of a steppe pony!” Auden recited from memory as the steed stopped his momentary rearing. The groom was so focused on remembering the exact words Lord Asbjorn had told him to say, he didn’t see the animal’s ears fall flat on its head, or the look in its wild, wide eyes.

“In the fields outside of Havigraes…”

At the name of the capital, the beast let out a shriek that broke Auden’s concentration and sent a chill down his spine. The groom looked up as the animal angrily walked sideways, completely outside the control of its rider. The Emperor did as most royalty would, and pulled hard on the reins, digging the bit into the horse’s mouth to regain control. Kragesort’s response was instant—he snorted and shuddered, and with all the power over two tons of muscle could muster, the beast heaved, all of its might focused on ridding itself of its rider.

Emperor Nikephoros barely had time to scream before he was airborne.

Then all hell broke loose.



“Report?”

To anyone not used to him, the voice of Albrecht von Franken, Megoskyriomachos of the Roman Empire, would have merely sounded placid, perhaps mildly annoyed. Yet to his intimates, especially the servants and staff who worked with him on a daily basis, the slight tone of panic so carefully hidden from the world was all too glaring. Like the other Blacharnae servants and courtiers who had been bringing him updates for the last three hours, these two dispensed with any formalities. Immediately two parchments found themselves shoved into his impatient hands. The clerks who’d carried them then dashed off without any official bow or recognition of their lord and master’s status.

There wasn’t time.

Albrecht closed the door behind them with practiced speed and deftness, making the chamber door go shut with a soft click instead of a slam. It wouldn’t do to go about slamming doors in the presence of foreign diplomats—especially when Albrecht was in the middle of delicate negotiations on the behalf of the Emperor, now all the while unsure if there even was an Emperor.


The information from the Megara was amazingly sparse. Nikephoros had gone with a delegation of groomsmen and equerries to receive a horse—a gift from his father-in-law Segeo and the Kingdom of Sortmark. The beast had somehow thrown the Emperor off, then trampled him, hitting him at least twice with its massive hooves before Nikephoros’ body could be pulled from its deadly kicks. It’d managed to break the skull of one of the imperial stablemasters, and shatter the ribs of two others in the process. Since then, there’d been only silence from the Great Palace and the Boukoleon—the churigeons were doing everything to save the Emperor’s life, that was all Albrecht knew.

The incident couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Albrecht had long suspected Sortmark of planning to use force to solve the Azov issue. So, as the Megoskyriomachos turned from his door, he was forced to plaster a weary, annoyed smile on his face as the confused Berke Khan, ambassador from the Blue Horde, looked up at him.

“Another message?” the Mongol raised an eyebrow. “I knew the Grand Secretary was a busy man,” the Mongol said, using his people’s translation of Albrecht’s long title, “but this? How do you ever sleep, My Lord?”

“I hardly do,” Albrecht confused with a theatrical sigh, before settling in the chair opposite the Mongol. There was a time long before when Albrecht would have panicked in a situation like this. He’d seen it before, after all. Twice, in fact. After Neapolis, he’d been stuck in Tmutarakan, betrayed by the senior Roman officer with soldiers left in the theater, removed from his friends and allies in Konstantinopolis, with a badly wounded, unconscious Emperor Thomas to tend to.

Those events in that devastating year led to a ruinous four year civil war.

In 1238, he’d been in Konstantinopolis when his friend was mortally wounded at the siege of Mecca, and Albrecht had carefully navigated the choppy waters of state for the next two years, ensuring the death of the ambitious Bardas and forging a confusing sham of peace in the Mediterranean while pouring resources into holding off the Mongols in Persia.

Yet today was far different from both of those. Today, he was in the center of power, at the center of a web of bribes, alliances and deals far thicker either than those hazy days 42 years before, or even the more recent experience twenty years before. He’d served arguably five emperors, and had nearly four and a half decades experience in the upper echelons of government. The Albrecht von Franken of 1258 was not going to make the mistakes the previous ones had made—he’d seen two civil wars ravage the Empire, and he was would be damned before he saw it happen yet again.

He’d started by ordering the gates to the Megara, as well as the Boukoleon and the Great Palace locked, with guards posted. Only Albrecht and the most trusted clerks and members of his staff were to be briefed on the situation, as well as anyone Albrecht deemed ‘necessary.’ Anyone who spoke of the Emperor’s condition to someone unauthorized was threatened with summary blinding and castration. The Megoskyriomachos knew that as soon as word reached Konstantinopolis, let alone the rest of the Empire, that the Megas Komnenos might be dead, that all manner of political chicanery would erupt.

He had no illusions the Emperor’s fall was a secret—word would have slipped out immediately, before his orders to clamp down the palace would have arrived. But Albrecht’s moves prevented any would-be powermongers from getting confirmation, and no potential coup-maker worth his salt would move without knowing the Emperor’s condition for sure—to do otherwise was suicidal. But if Albrecht could give them pause, even for a day, it’d give him time to entrench his position, and to politically outflank any of his potential foes. Plots within plots, bribes stacked on bribes, von Franken would be using the whole array of his considerable power to keep the ship of state on course, no matter who, or what, fiddled with the tiller.

The entire thing smelled of someone not just fiddling with the tiller, but attempting to hack it off with an axe.

Nikephoros wasn’t the best horseman in the Empire, but like most nobility he was good on horseback. For a horse to suddenly throw him, after it had calmed down according to most witnesses—it seemed too out of the ordinary. The groom had been immediately taken into custody, and pro forma would likely be tortured for any information he might have—at the very least, the man was guilty of falsifying how trained the animal had been. Albrecht knew Eleutherios was the best there was in the whole of the Empire at making the most intransigent people suddenly pliant, but he doubted there’d be anything else the Dane might know—if this had been a plot, chances weren’t good that a lowly groomsman would know anything important about it.

The Megoskyriomachos quickly tore open the seal to the letter, then scanned its contents. It started with a long request for the intercession of Hagios Demetrios on the behalf of the stricken Emperor. Albrecht ignored that, as well as the patent balderdash and medical ninnery that clogged the beginning of the report. Finally his eyes reached the section he cared about… and he audibly sighed with relief.

Nikephoros still breathed.

He was battered—the churigeons said the beast’s kicks had shattered one of the Emperor’s legs, broken an arm as well as several ribs. He was also unconscious after landing on his head in the initial fall. But unconscious, unresponsive—he breathed. As long as he breathed, his appointments were law, documents with his signature held the full weight and force of the imperial state. The Megoskyriomachos resisted the urge to reachf or his pockets and check that the two parchments, his ‘Doomsday Sheets,’ were still tucked into its tunic. For five years they’d languished in a secret compartment of his headboard, hidden away, just in case.


Von Franken had never assumed that just in case would come when Emperor Nikephoros was only 36.

Albrecht folded up the churigeon’s report, and stuffed it into the pocket alongside the two papers that potential could save or destroy the Roman state. He remembered when he’d persuaded Nikephoros to sign them both, and how his ally had initially balked, especially at the first. Nikephoros had complained then that its purpose was too dark, too unnecessary. Yet as time had gone on, events had only vindicated Albrecht’s position way back then.

The second was just as delicate a subject, if only for different reasons. If anything happened to Nikephoros before Andronikos reached his majority, Albrecht’s carefully planned succession would be thrown into doubt. So the Megoskyriomachos had persuaded the Megas Komnenos to sign a proclamation raising his nephew to Megas Komnenos in the event of the Emperor’s injury or premature death. However, matters were not nearly so clear-cut. For if Albrecht merely promulgated the second proclamation, he knew there would be an immediate air of illegitimacy—there would be whispers that he’d twisted the Emperor’s arm into signing onto it, if only because it made him stepfather to the Megas Komnenos. Albrecht needed someone with weight, with an air of impartiality, to come in on his side, to quash any such rumors before they gained traction…

“My lord,” the Mongol said politely, even as he fidgeted nervously at all the apparent hustle and bustle with no idea of what was happening, “our meeting was set to begin two hours ago, and we are constantly being interrupted…”

“Lord Berke I do apologize,” Albrecht started to say, using all his strength to make his face as calm and placid as possible. “Perhaps we should…”

Another set of raps at his told stayed von Franken’s voice. A few seconds later, another one of his more trusted clerks stuck is head into the study.

“My Lord, Metropolitan Thomas is here to see you.”

Albrecht slowly rose, fighting to keep his face from falling. “Metropolitan Thomas…” he gestured slowly, hoping to not hear the name he was dreading.

“Of Aquino, Lordship,” the servant said quietly. Albrecht knew his face slipped for a moment, but he didn’t care. A look of dismay on his face would probably make the Mongol think he was annoyed at being interrupted yet again. Mentally, Albrecht cursed. He’d asked for the Patriarch, not his politically inept partner!

“I’ll meet him outside,” Albrecht said as pleasantly as possible, but no matter hoe he would have tried, his voices came out dripping with icicles. Von Franken turned to Berke Khan, and for a moment, let his true emotions through as the servant closed the door. “Idiot fools!” Albrecht snapped. “I apologize, Lord Berke. I left strict instructions that we were to be undisturbed, but a spiritual man of great importance has decided now is the time to bother me! I shall return shortly. Please, help yourself to wine,” he gestured, “or some cakes. I hope this won’t take long.”

As he left the grumbling Mongol, Albrecht dreaded that it would take long. No sooner had he entered the hallway outside his chambers, did his worst fears come to life.

“Lord Albrecht!” Metropolitan Thomas of Aquino smiled broadly. “How are you today, milord? With all these servants bustling about, one could be led to believe that a war was being planned!”

“You have no idea,” Albrecht sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I asked to meet Patriarch Thomas on urgent business of the state. Where is he?”


“Um, Patriarch Thomas is busy finishing the latest comments on our joint work, Perelipsi Enanti Amartoloi, or Summa Contra Gentiles, if you prefer the Latin,” the Metropolitan waved his hand disdainfully, his face an island of calm in the sea of rushing clerks, secretaries and servants. “It’s a wonderful work,” he added despite Albrecht’s immediate scowl, “covering a wide range of discussions on the range of human perception and its role in the world created by God, refuting the erroneous claims of Aristotelian logic proposed by numerous heretics and unlearned men. Have you had a chance to read the latest copy? I could have a scribe make one quickly and send it ov…”

“No!” Albrecht spun around and hissed in the man’s face. “I have not read your stupid little book, nor do I have time to!”

“Well there’s no need to be rude!” Aquinas snapped.

Von Franken felt his nostrils flare, anger rising hot as he glared. Aquinas stared back, oblivious to the storm that was about to come. Without thinking, Albrecht’s hand rose, but something, somewhere managed to stay it from slapping the man. Instead, he grabbed the Metropolitan by the collar, and shoved him into the wall. In a second, Albrecht was there as well, inches from Thomas’ face.

“I have ordered ten times more deaths, more atrocities in the name of peace than books you have read, written, or ever will write, young man! They gave you the peace you need to write your prattle!” At Aquinas’ wide, frightened, eyes, the Megoskyriomachos let him go. “I don’t have time for your theological commentaries, and you don’t have time today to explain them to me! The Emperor has had a terrible accident, and…”

“My God!” Aquinas shouted, before Albrecht’s hand clamped over the Metropolitan’s lips.

“Not so loud!” von Franken hissed, nodding in the direction of the still cracked door to his chambers, and the still confused ambassador from the Mongols inside. “Walk with me,” Albrecht commanded quietly. The Metropolitan glanced back at the Mongol in his fine silks and cap, then back at Albrecht, and nodded quickly.

“Now,” Albrecht said quietly once they were further away, “I need you to send a message to the Patriarch. In the name of God above,” Albrecht mildly blasphemed, not caring the Metropolitan’s face was blanching at his words, “the Patriarch must declare that it is the Will of God, not mine, not the Megas Komnenos’, that Andronikos be immediately raised to Megas Komnenos beside his uncle!”

“But isn’t he a boy of…”

Albrecht’s grip on the hapless’ priest’s arm suddenly became like a vise. “Yes,” Albrecht hissed, “but unless you want Gabriel and his army of whores from Babylon marching into the Queen of Cities, I suggest you convey to your master the urgency of this situation!”

“G…Gabriel?” the Metropolitan stuttered.


“Yes, him!” Albrecht snapped, voice as harsh as a snake rustling over sandpaper. “This must be done today, not tonight, not tomorrow! Today! Else we’ll have ever man in the city with half a cup of the blood of Komnenos declaring himself Emperor and trying to raise an army!” The Metropolitan’s eyes went wide, and secretly, Albrecht was pleased. Perhaps the stupid theologian finally understood the gravity of the situation! “Now, I need you to leave here, and go straight to Patriarch Thomas with this news,” Albrecht gripped the priest’s arm tightly once more. “Tell no one else, for if you do, the Empire will descend into chaos! I might not be a religious man,” Albrecht once again was mere inches from the Metropolitan’s face, “but imagine the punishments God would have prepared for someone who’s loose tongue destroyed the Christian Empire!”

The Metropolitan’s eyes were down on the marbled floors, and Albrecht could easily feel his arm shaking. Was it fear? Was worry? The Megoskyriomachos didn’t care. He had Thomas’ attention. Roughly, Albrecht pushed the priest away.

“Go! Quickly! Tell no one!” he hissed, before curtly turning around towards his chambers. This time, he let himself slam the door shut behind him—it was convenient theater for the Mongol ambassador, but it also just felt good.

“Idiot,” Albrecht grunted, provoking a chuckle from the Mongol. “I am sorry about that interruption,” Albrecht put on the sweetest smile he could, a trial considering the situation. With Nikephoros unconscious, Albrecht knew he was the only beating heart between the entire Empire and chaos. He needed to move fast.

“I trust there is a reason for the continued interruptions,” Berke Khan said, his face smiling but his eyes most definitely not.

“Idiots, that’s all,” Albrecht said truthfully. With a grunt, he settled his wearied old frame into his chair, and poured himself a cup of wine. He needed it. “Now,” Albrecht took a sip, before leaning over the table to begin the negotiations in earnest, “regarding our planned operations against the Danes…”


First, an apology to my readers who speak Danish. I don’t, so I know the Danish in this update was likely terrible. Nonetheless, I made a valiant attempt, even though it probably valiantly failed.

So Nikephoros has taken been thrown by a horse sent as a gift by the Danes and Segeo Komnenos--the infamous cargo on the Kronan. Was it trained to throw him? Or was it so unsteady a mount that Gottfried et al knew it was bound to happen? Between the Empire and chaos lays Albrecht, Patriarch Thomas and his unwitting Metropolitan. Meanwhile to the east, Thomas (calling himself IV) last update said he’s raising an army, and Nikephoros’ incapacity means that Thomas III is, temporarily at least, senior emperor in Konstantinopolis. Will news of Nikephoros’ injuries finally spur his namesake in the East to move? Will crowning Andronikos be enough o hold the gap? What chaos will Thomas III cause while he is legally on top? And what is on that first parchment that Nikephoros the Spaniard opposed so long ago? Chaos, confusion, and yet more civil war loom on Rome AARisen!