This is the second part of what was originally conceived as a single update. Before we get to that, first a couple replies:
RGB - Thank you for the map compliment. At some point, I'd love to try to do some coloring over of Google Earth, but right now, I don't have the time... as for things getting serious, wait until you see below...
OutsiderSubtype - The Sultan's original war goals were to regain Azerbijian, Armenia, Trebizond and Mosul. Considering how Syria is wide open, he might just strike there instead...
Fulcrumvale - The Roman
thematakoi have already been mobilized - they're a large part of those
stratos already in the field. In the time of Demetrios Megos, at least one of those
stratos would have been all Guard
tagma. Now, the Guard is spread thin, all across the Eastern border...
canonized - Another reason why the Turks are so keen to retake these regions is because they're still Muslim in many cases... Anatolia, Armenia and Syria have converted, but Mosul and Azerbijian are still Muslim. Add to that the insult that the infidel holds Jerusalem, and you knew the one powerful Muslim empire next door was eventually going to act...
Nikolai - You got it.
Enewald - The music is all AlexanderPrimus... if you really like it, you should check out his AAR, if you haven't already. He's not only got musical scores to accompany updates, but also battles on Youtube as well. Its pretty cool!
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Zeno slowly took the parchment from the messenger’s hands, looked at the map hanging from the wall, and winced.
Strategos Psellos, along with the
Megos Domestikos had insisted a great tapestry of the empire hang in the Council’s room while it debated the sucession. Garishly colored pins poked out from the cloth – white representing Romanoi troop formations, black representing known Seljuk forces. In the mere four weeks since the first word of the Seljuk incursion had arrived, the black pins were steadily inching further across the tapestry.
The timing could not have been worse. Zeno had been counting on a year from his plot’s fulfillment to when the expected Seljuk invasion came. A year to stuff the bureaucracy with people loyal to him, a year to get the army on full war footing. Just a year. Theodoros had manipulated his brother into leaving important (and Zeno-loyal) units in Macedonia, in preparation for Zeno being declared Regent, and eventually Emperor.
Of the three traditional pillars of the Imperial throne – the army, the church, and the
dynatoi – Zeno’s weakness lay with the military. While the Prince of Mesopotamia had spent years cultivating those in the Church that Manuel had offended and ignored, as well as picking the pieces of the
dynatoi left behind after the Great Rebellion, Zeno had never been able to make inroads amongst the soldiers and officers of the Army, the third, and arguably strongest, pillar of the state.
Nikolaios Psellos and Michael Laskaris were commanders of the Athanatakoi
and Herculare
tagma of the Imperial Guard respectively. Both were well respected, highly capable commanders – men that Zeno Komnenos could ill afford to ignore.
Yet stupid, stubborn Manuel refused to die. Instead, the Emperor of the Romans lay paralyzed in unspeakable agony – yet alive, and religiously guarded by his damned
Nubiatakoi. If Manuel died, Zeno could claim to follow the traditions of Nikephoros Phokas and Ioannis Tzimices, styling himself and ruling as ‘co-Emperor’ to the minor Basilieos, who’d be shuffled aside. True, there was precedent for removing a crippled emperor from power – Staurakios had been sent to a monastery to spend his last pitiful months in contemplation of the afterlife. But while he was paralyzed, Manuel’s following was so great inside the military that the thought of usurping him might have provoked a mutiny in the guards regiments, no matter how much the church and the
dynatoi despised the man.
Thus, the usurper was stuck. While Zeno might be the only real possibility for Regent as Basilieos was still only 14 and too young to rule (Demetrios the Younger in the field and Ignatios ineligible due to his wearing the cloth), so long as Manuel lived, Zeno could not place the diadem on his own head as co-Emperor to legitimize his decisions. The army loved him far too much. To the soldiers, Zeno was a man who hadn’t seen combat in years, while Manuel was an Emperor in the mold of the Megos – one who took absolute command from the front and led his soldiers from victory to victory.
If only Manuel would just die.
The end result was the chaotic mess that lay before Zeno’s eyes as they swept back down the table before him. Unable in the first weeks to muster the support he needed to rule by fiat, Zeno had been forced to consent to a convoluted position of first among equals in a grand council. The Council of State was made of Theodoros, Prince of Antiochea, already in the Levant to command the Levatine
stratos, the
Megos Domestikos, and Kosmas, off in Syria. So long as Zeno’s main supporters were away, he was left alone with a council of twelve, charged with ruling Romanion until either the Emperor’s health returned, or Basilieos reached his majority.
Four representatives from each Patriarch made up the ecclesiastical wing. The leading member of the legation was Ignatios Komnenos, Metropolitan of Trebizond, representative of the Patriarch of Konstantinopolis. Konstantinos Antiochites represented the Patriarch of Jerusalem, Simon Gavras represented Antioch, and Theophylaktos bin-Yussuf represented Alexandria.
Ignatios Komnenos, Metropolitan of Trebizond, bastard son of the Megos. Ignatios was known for his piety, keen mind, and bulldog tenacity when it came to affairs of theology. In affairs of state, however, his skills have never been tested.
Four of the most powerful
dynatoi represented the nobility – Isaakios Kantakouzenos of Samos, Thomas Skleros of Vidin, Romanos Komnenos of Edessa, and Malhaz Komnenos of Bosnia. Of these four, only Skleros was truly friendly to Zeno – Kantakouzenos was a power hungry fool bent on self-aggrandizement, Malhaz was a dullard who liked few other people from his family, while Romanos was a decrepit man at age of 41, his body torn to pieces by years of debauchery and disease.
Finally, there were the generals from the army, all vocal opponents of Zeno.
Strategos Psellos led this contingent. Zeno was Regent, ruling in the name of the crippled Emperor, but only at the grudging behest of the others gathered in this clunky, inefficient arrangement.
It had been a perfect storm – the Turks striking just as Zeno enacted his plans. So when Romanion was in crisis, and needed a firm hand at the helm, instead she would be steered by the shaky hands of an invalid, the uncertain hands of a usurper, and the mercurial hands of a committee.
And now this.
“How many dead?” Psellos finally spoke up for the whole group. A room full of grim eyes bored down on the poor herald.
“We do not know,” the young man said softly. Zeno recognized a Castilian accent – the man was yet another refugee from Spain. “The
Megas Doux barely made it out alive, all of his bodyguards were slain. I…” the young man stopped for a moment, then gathered himself. “I was there. I saw it. There could not have been many that escaped.”
“So the
Syriatikon stratos is retreating where?” Zeno finally spoke. The messenger was young, he was probably overexaggerating. If Kosmas was making for Palmyra, that might indicate there was some fight left in the army – it would put him on the flank of the Turks, or so old Psellos was grumbling. If he made for the walls of Antioch, that meant he was badly mauled.
“I…” the messenger stumbled again, “I evidently did not make myself clear to Your Eminences. There is no more
Syriatikon stratos.”
The Battle of Tell Bashir, here depicted in a thirteenth century illumination, was the worst single defeat suffered by a Roman army in almost two centuries.
Zeno felt his draw drop, and a chill ran down his spine. The Syrian Army had been led by Kosmas – the man who’d saved an army against all odds at Joshua’s Ford, the man who’d stormed Rhodes, Euboeia, and Corfu! For Kosmas to fail...
“H..” Zeno started to stammer, but caught himself. As Regent, he needed to put forth a face of command. He coughed, then spoke again. “How did it happen, exactly?”
The messenger closed his eyes, then started telling his sad tale. Kosmas had been shadowed by two Turkish armies, and it wasn’t until he’d reached the small town of Tell Bashir that he’d realized the danger he was in. The Prince had tried to retreat back to Antiochiea, only to find his path blocked by Turkish cavalry. Desperately, he deployed for battle on a hill outside of the town, and for three hours his outnumbered force held the Turk at bay. In the fourth, however, they broke – and the Sultan’s horse swept down, capturing thousands of men. As the young man spoke, an awed, fearful hush settled over the room.
“My God,” Kantakouzenos whispered quietly. “
Forty thousand troops? Gone?”
Psellos uttered a curse far more blasphemous. “Kosmas destroyed, and we haven’t even decided on the commander of half of the
stratoi deployed!” The
strategos slammed his fist onto the table, before leveling a glare directly at the Regent. Zeno stared back. Psellos made no secret that he thought Zeno was behind that attack in the forests of Thrake four weeks ago.
“We still have the Anatolian
stratos?” Antiochites asked hopefully.
“Yes, but with no commander!”
Strategos Michael Laskaris hissed. “Psellos and I three
weeks ago suggested
Strategos Ioannis Vatazces be elevated to a Princely title to command this force, but – “
“We are
not elevating Vatazces!” Zeno rumbled.
Laskaris turned to the
de facto Regent and snarled, “You have yet to list the charges against Vatazces, why he sits in his villa at Chrysopolis, and not on a horse, leading an army in the field!”
“I am still compiling all the evidence,” Zeno’s voice grew louder, “and I will release it to this council when it is complete and full!” In truth, Vatazces had long been an outspoken defender of Manuel, and he was popular with the men. Zeno feared if Vatazces went into the field and started winning victories…
Strategos Ioannis Vatazces rose through the Roman ranks the hard way, starting as a common soldier and rising to the rank of strategos by merit. Unfortunately, he brought many of his coarse peasant manners along with him, as well as a penchant for speaking his mind, regardless of who was in charge.
“Bah!” Laskaris threw his hands up.
“I swear, if we crowned the fourteen year old things would be more competent than this,” Psellos said under his breath.
“What was that?!” Zeno snapped. The four ecclesiastical reps stared at him – clearly they had not heard the
strategos’ sharp comment.
‘Fine. Why don’t you go and take command in Anatolia!” Zeno pointed at Laskaris. “Let’s see what you can do!”
“Why don’t you take command, Highness?” Romanos offered dryly. The dying man gave a toothless smile. “You
are Regent…”
Zeno rolled his eyes, even as his heart dropped. His stupid cousin had pinned him – Zeno was not militarily experienced, yet he was Regent… with the crisis at hand, if anyone should take command, it should be him. Yet Zeno knew as soon as he left Konstantinopolis, this gang of thieves and fools would immediately cause a slew of trouble with their petty squabbles and plans.
“Why don’t
you take a field command too, you pox-ridden sot!” Zeno shouted.
As the Council broke down into debates and arguments, no one present noticed a pair of eyes watching through a peep hole in the walls…
==========*===========
“My God…”
Since his arrival in Konstantinopolis several years before, Basil and his friends had quickly grown accustomed to the various secret passageways and tunnels through the Blacharnae Palace. Today, however, was the first time they had witnessed the debacle that was a session of the Council of State.
Basil closed his eyes tightly. So Kosmas had failed – utterly. The Turks continued their march.
The young prince dove into the war after the assassination attempt on himself and his father – it was the only thing he
could do, as he was constantly surrounded by bodyguards from the
Nubiatakoi on orders of the Council.
And, he had no doubt, over the objections of the Regent.
The Prince desperately wanted a part in the war – to hold a command. His father had lead an army in the field at nineteen. His grandfather was the great Megos, winning victories at the tender age of 18 and still smashing Turks when he was 63. Basil grew up in a long family line of warriors, Emperors who lead from the saddle. Add to that his years in Rome, learning the chivalric rights of the West, and there could be no doubt in Basil’s mind he was born to lead men into battle.
Young Prince Basil in happier times.
Yet, to Basil’s frustration, that looked like it would never be. Even if Basil had been older than his fourteen years, Zeno and the Council would never let him take the field – the pro-Manuel elements would worry if the Empire gambled with a clearly gifted heir in this time of strife, while Zeno’s contingent would undoubtedly worry about the Prince being too successful.
But
something needed to be done. Basil could read a military map as well as anyone (provided it was close enough he could see), and if Kosmas had been as badly as the messenger said…
“Antioch will fall, as will Edessa, Palmyra, maybe even Damascus,” a voice said next to him. Basil looked over at the concerned faces of Bernard and Rodrigo. The German was wide eyed – he’d heard wild tales of what the Turks did to their captives, and hadn’t been able to sleep well for a week. Rodrigo’s handsome face was set in a grim frown.
“Theodoros will be hard pressed to hold the Levant,” Basil muttered quietly, “and without a set of good commanders, the Turk will merely march on.”
“Why didn’t Zeno appoint Demetrios Katakoteros (the Younger) to command in Anatolia? Isn’t it the larger army, more appropriate to the
Megos Domestikos,” Bernard asked. “Demetrios is a good commander…”
“Which is exactly why Zeno stuck him in Armenia with the smallest of the armies,” Rodrigo’s eyes narrowed. “Demetrios is a threat. If he’s on a sideshow front away from the main action, he doesn’t have to worry about the namesake of the Megos coming after him. The same reason Vatazces is sitting in his villa – he’s far too capable…”
Basil managed to refrain from speaking the mild curse that inched towards his lips. The sheer stupidity of things! Placing politics above defending the state! If Romanion fell, there would be no state for
anyone to inherit…
“We have no commanders in Anatolia, in Egypt, in Makedonia or even here in Konstantinopolis,” Basil hissed. He could see it already – the Turks would seize Syria, and press hard into Anatolia. Zeno and the Council needed to commit the
Basilikon and
Makedonikon stratoi to stop the advance – or do the unthinkable.
Basil felt his cheeks flush as that thought ran across his mind. The utterly unthinkable. How could Romanion, seat of the True Emperor, Lord of the East, have come to such a state. Basil’s gaze fell on Zeno.
As the Regent gesticulated and pointed in a shouting match over blame, Basil knew exactly where he was pinning his for the debacle.
A dated picture of Bernard von Baden
“What are they arguing about now?” Bernard whispered.
“Zeno says that he must keep political stability here as much as defeat the Turks,” Basil breathed. “He’s offering to hand command in Anatolia to Romanos Venizelos.”
“Who?” Bernard frowned.
“Isn’t he a cashiered layabout and a drunk?” Rodrigo asked more pointedly. Basil sighed, and nodded.
“Yes – Zeno wants to send such a man to Ikonion, to lead the Anatolian forces against the Turk!” Basil felt his hands clenching and unclenching, rage running through his veins. “That… damned…” Basil’s eyes went wide as the curse slipped out.
“Basil?” the Prince heard Rodrigo’s voice, and turned to see his friend looking at him, wide-eyed. Basil never swore. Ever. The two looked at each other for only a few moments, but a long conversation was told through that mere glance.
“Basil… are you sure that Zeno killed Niketas?” Rodrigo whispered.
Basil closed his eyes, and nodded, the memory of that night in Taranto running back into his mind. The last time he’d seen little Niketas had been as his younger brother was tucked into bed by one of the servants. Basil had teased him that the next day, if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up sparring with an errant soldier. Niketas had giggled and thought it was a wonderful idea…
“Yes,” Basil said quietly, before uttering a short prayer for his little brother’s soul. He peered through the hole yet again. Now Zeno was pointing at Laskaris, before a servant brought in a sheet of parchment. Basil’s cousin hurriedly and angrily wrote something down – Basil couldn’t make out what.
“Basil – this is your chance then!” Rodrigo whispered. “You see what’s happening! Psellos is a friend of yours, you know Laskaris, Antiochites, Dragases, even Starariokos! A mere word from you and your father, and you could unseat him! The
dynatoi are not united behind him, your uncle sits as a member of the Church section of the Council, and
you would have the army. ”
Basil nodded, fire burning behind his eyes. The anger was flooding back. “The
Nubiatakoi would support me too, if I had father’s blessing.” Yet as much anger burned in Basil’s soul, something, like a hard, cold hand on his shoulder, held him back. He’d had all of the works of Nikolaios Komnenos read to him – and despite the man’s reputation, Basil had been struck by one key point – the good of Romanion, above personal gain, above dynastic power.
Zeno and the Council were horribly messing up affairs, but Basil was only fourteen. Could he do any better? More importantly, what would happen to Romanion if Roman turned on Roman, even as the Turks bore down? Basil’s anger rose higher in frustration – he was caught between a rock and a hard place. He could either watch his arch enemy, the man who h was sure had killed his brother, attempted to kill his father, and tried to kill Basil himself twice, gain more power, or he could strike out at the risk of losing the Turkish War.
Basil had prayed for guidance on the issue, day and night since the damnable council had come together four weeks before. Unlike anything Cardinal Rimini, or his other teachers had said, he heard no response from On High. No voice from God, no hints, no word of encouragement. Only silence… still, damning silence.
“Rodrigo,” he turned his friend. “Are you still as good and slipping in and out of places as you were in Rome?”
The Spaniard straightened slightly and smiled. “Of course. Ask Alexandros’ sister!”
“Then Rodrigo, I need you to do something for me,” Basil said quietly, in measured tones. “I have no proof that Zeno was implicated in either plot. You will find such proof for me?”
Rodrigo’s eyes went wide.
“Rodrigo… I’m counting on you. If I can prove that Zeno murdered my brother, and tried to murder me and my father…” Basil let his voice trail off. The council behind them adjourned quietly, with that hideous veneer of politeness that could only cover the worst venom in the minds of its participants. The Prince knew things were rapidly heading towards a point of no return.
He prayed he would have his answer, from Rodrigo and God, by the time that day came…
==========*==========
The Roman state is in chaos. But if Basil acts, will he only stoke the flames as the Turks move in? Can Theodoros in the south salvage some of the situation? Will the Council agree on at least assigning
commanders to the armies of the Romanoi? Dark days lie ahead, as Rome AARisen continues!