Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

Update is about 50% done at this point! Hopefully it'll be up tomorrow, or Sunday.

asd21593 - Congratulations! You're a little ahead of me.

Avalanchemike - Now, how exactly will he turn out like his father when he doesn't have an insane martial stat?

Deamon - The Messiah Emperor, who also claims he is the God Emperor and controls all the spice?

canonized - Boo! Barack is the Messiah, I tell you! You don't need mosiacs to tell you that! He will save... um... not your wallet... maybe your spirit... of goodness... possibly...

(I am a Barack Obama supporter, but parody makes me giggle, even if it makes fun of my guy... :rofl: )

I'd like to apologize for not getting to replies properly as I should have, but I've got only a little bit of time left, and I want to get the update posted ASAP for everyone!


March 6th, 1188

Basilieos Komnenos, Third of That Name, Emperor of the Romans, slowly shifted on his mount, as the slow religious procession rode onward. Behind him stretched a small retinue of close friends from Konstantinopolis, as well as priests of Holy Mother Church.

The Emperor looked haggard. Despite his fine robes, his beard was now wiry and bristly, hanging down to the end of his neck. Underneath his fine robes, his formerly fine physique was now gone, replaced by a thinning body crisscrossed by old war wounds.


For a man barely above forty, Basil Komnenos felt ancient. His bones ached, and it often hurt to move. Daily, it seemed, a fever or chill accompanied him, while nightly sweats kept him awake. Often one or more of his old war wounds would ache or fester, only to clear up. He’d spotted blood in his gums, but none of the churigeons cures for consumption – all guaranteed to work, with testimonials to prove so - seemed to have an effect.

Despite all his ailments, his strength remained with him. So, the Emperor kept to his normally rigorous daily routine, in the belief that the day he slowed would be the day that whatever was harassing his aching body would gain the upper hand, and still project an image of a young, vigorous ruler. Most days were easy. Those were the good days, where he accomplished much, and stood as a wonder to his aides and logothetes who often struggled to keep up. Some, like today, were very, very hard. It’d actually taken him two tries to rise from bed on his own, his howling muscles and joints complaining at the movement, and he’d been unable to conduct business, to the point his aides, and wife, insisted he not make the short trek to this little creek north of the Golden Horn.

Of course, that would be surrender to the weakness in his body – something Basil could not do. So, he now sat astride his favorite riding horse.

“You really should have eaten something at breakfast,” he heard a voice say, and as he rode, he looked down at the litter being carried next to his horse and smiled. A curtain flipped aside, and Sophie’s eyes glittered at him. “A little piece of bread or cheese.”

“I wasn’t hungry, my dear,” Basil said simply, putting on a smile. He hadn’t been hungry at all – two cups of wine had sufficed. “I’ll have something to eat for lunch, my dear, I promise.”

Sophie merely sighed. “You had better, Basil,” she said quietly with the same sternness he’d seen her use against his children when they had been busy with mischief.

“Am I a badly behaving boy?” Basil asked, his smile broadening, “that you would use that tone with me?”

“Very,” she finally smirked, a small grin that made Basil feel better. The worst part of whatever was slowly draining him of energy was watching Sophie’s reaction every day. Clearly, it was wearing on her. “Have you considered things more?”

“On which subject?” the Emperor asked quietly.

“Both.”

“Yes,” Basil said succinctly. He felt himself growing old, growing weaker, and today, on this trip, he desperately wanted to turn his mind away from things of state – yet they always seemed to creep back into the forefront of his mind.

“And?” Sophie pressed. Her voice rose slightly in that tone of warning Basil knew was a sure sign of her annoyance.

“On the Cumans,” Basil sighed, looking ahead and away from his wife, “tell my cousin that we’ll dispatch two tagmata to his lands in Imeretia and Abkhazia as a warning to the Khagan that he should back down. And should the Khagans clan leaders continue raiding into Imeretia, I’ll sail north…”

“Basil…” Sophie’s annoyance broke through.

“…in person with two more Guard tagmata and settle the issue by the sword,” the Emperor said quietly. “Sophie, we’ve warned Kutan that he must rein in his tribesmen ever since I returned from Hispania, and clearly…”

“Basil Komnenos, you are clearly in no position to lead an army!” the Empress hissed. By her eyes, had the argument taken place in the Imperial Palace, she would have yelled. With all those around them in the procession, many likely paid in coin to listen closely to the Imperial couple, a public shouting match was likely not wise.

“…he hasn’t understood our intent,” Basil continued on quietly, before looking at her. He knew what she was arguing was right – from the perspective of his physical health. Yet he knew, from the perspective of stopping the raids from the resurgent Cuman hordes, that a personal appearance from the Emperor and four of the nineteen Guard tagmata would compel Kutan to stop his ceaseless raids into the lands of Andronikos Komnenos, son of the late Demetrios Nearos. If the Empire did not make a show of strength, that would only serve to embolden the Cumans, and Basil knew it was all too short a distance between simple raids and outright invasion.

He himself was loathe to leave the capital, not with the infighting between his sons, and…

“What about…” Sophie started to ask.

“It will sort itself out, Sophie,” Basil sighed. He wasn’t so sure the second major decision he’d made that morning would have as simple or direct a solution as the Cuman problem – in fact, the Cuman problem would complicate matters immensely…

“Basil! Please, you need to recall those messengers! You shouldn’t…”

“Why?” Basil asked, for the fifth time that day. He trusted his wife’s judgment, and she’d been opposed to his plans to settle the succession confusion ever since he’d told her. However, she could never fully explain why she was so adamantly against them, and since Basil could think of no other solution…

Before the two could exchange any more words on either subject, Basil spotted a small bend, where the road curved to follow the riverbank.

“Here we are,” he looked out across the wash, glad to have an excuse to get away. It hadn’t rained in the lower part of Thrace for several weeks, and the grass had begun to turn a slight brown around the small stream, lending a mournful look to the normally green region. The purported healing stream itself was perhaps only forty feet across, and Basil had no doubt even Patriarch Ignatios could wade across.


Slowly, the Emperor dismounted, then took off the purple boots that marked his office. Walking barefoot, he shed his expensive robes for the simple shift he wore underneath – he came today not as the Emperor of the Romans, but as a single man, seeking to be healed by and speak to God Himself.

Basil closed his eyes, and felt the rays of the run warm his skin. Slowly, he took one step forward, then another, until the waters of one of the small creeks that fed into the Golden Horn lapped gently over his feet. The waters felt wonderful on his often aching feet.

“God above,” Basil whispered to himself, “I am sorely in need of strength. I have gained many wounds fighting Saracen and Moor alike, and you have healed all of them. I ask you now heal the wounds of my Empire, and protect my wife and son…”

He looked back, and saw Sophie and his youngest son on the riverbank, along with a small retinue of pilgrims and servants. She was still a stunning woman, in Basil’s eyes, but even he could see the length of worry etched onto her face. The Emperor knew as soon as he came out of the water she would have servants ready to lay food before him yet again, but Basil wasn’t particularly hungry… he hadn’t been for some time, and it clearly worried his wife to no end. Perhaps, he thought, he’d keep his word and eat some bread and cheese, if only to ease her worry a bit.

Clasped within her arms was one of the lights for Basil in these dark days in Konstaninopolis. Heraklios Komnenos was a small, thin boy of 10, with a reedy voice, sandy hair, a perennial cough, and the slightly sunken eyes of a sickly soul. Even then, however, those sunken eyes were wide and filled with wonder and the spark of intelligence. Just like his father, he had an insatiably curious mind, always asking questions, wanting to know how things worked. Two months prior, armed with only a dirk, ingenuity and several hours of alone time, he disassembled one of the mechanical lions in the Blachernae Palace, simply to see how it worked. Others would have punished their child for the loss of such an expensive piece of machinery – Basil merely laughed, and brought in the grandson of the artisan who had installed it to explain the inner workings, now scattered all over the palace floor.

Heraklios had shown immense interest in the realms of statecraft that did not require a military mind or skilled brawn – he was a wizard at numbers, enjoyed reading and poured over every text on how to run a state, from his great-uncles Lessons for the Prince and Demetriad to Tacitus. He could quote numerous passages from memory, had an avid love of music, and was notable already to remembering the names and faces of far more people than Basil ever could.

Basil smiled at his fourth son – his hope for the Empire, a hope that was cemented in letters speeding to all the dynatoi and the five exarchs.

Yet even as Basil watched, Heraklios doubled over in yet another coughing fit. His mother leaned over, worry crossing Sophie’s face. Basil himself frowned – ever since he’d been born, Heraklios had been sickly, so much so that the churigeons and doctors had recommended he not practice with the blade as much as Basil would have liked. Basil frowned – Heraklios couldn’t wield a blade, couldn’t plan a battle, things he would have to do as an Emperor. Then again, Basil reasoned, that was the reason Kosaca was the young boy’s godfather. Kosaca was smart – he knew what would be expected, and what could likely come once two of the exarchs laid eyes on the letter.

He knew how David would react – publicly smiling and congratulatory to his youngest brother, but privately seething. Manuel would react much the same. Thomas, Basil reasoned, would openly condemn the letter and let his private feelings of chafing be publicly known – word had already reached Konstantinopolis that Thomas blamed his wife’s murder squarely on David, despite circumstantial evidence at best. Basil himself would never believe David would sink to such levels – then again, he’d never have believed before that both his sons would develop such a murderous enmity for each other.

Hence Basil’s difficult decision – Thomas would fight before he’d accept rule under David, and vice versa, and Manuel was clearly incapable. So the hopes of Basil, and the Empire, would therefore rest on another’s shoulders – much younger, closer to Konstantinopolis, who would be better integrated into the existing bureaucracy and dynatoi than either of his brothers.

Imperial succession had always been complex and fraught with delicate balances – at one point in the 10th century, the Empire had no fewer than 5 joint co-Emperors ruling at the same time, yet was not every day that the Emperor declared his youngest son (by many years) his successor as a senior co-Emperor, with one of his elder brothers as a junior Emperor. David would be incensed that he was junior to Heraklios, Manuel and Thomas would be enraged that they were not the co-Emperors in favor of their youngest brother.

Yet, Basil reasoned, if he and Sophie could prearrange allies around Heraklios now, they could make a coalition strong enough to withstand his now distant brothers, far removed from Konstantinopolis. David was capable, and would thus receive some authority, but Heraklios would, if all fell into line, have the support of the pillars of the state – the army, the church, and the nobility…

Most Emperors would not have had the courage to offer such a solution with such cantankerous heirs and the Cumans on the doorstep, but as Basil looked at the shoreline, he spotted the reason he was so sure – Clemente Kosaca stood on the shore in penitent’s robes, shielding his eyes from the sun. He was stilled donned in all black, in honor of his dead daughter. Kosaca and the army would respect and trust the will of their Emperor, and with Sophie’s guidance, Heraklios, even if he had little martial skill himself, would have the vast, powerful Imperial Army on his side, should things get bloody…

…Basil hoped it would not come to that. And if it did, he hoped Kosaca’s support would be enough…

“God,” Basil whispered quietly, “grant me ten years, or even six years. Grant me the life to see this succession through, to avoid civil war, and save Your People from bloodshed, and steel them for what is to come.” As the words left his mouth, the image of that stark banner, blue, white and fringed in blood, ran across his mind. A civil war would weaken Romanion, and that banner would fly from the ramparts of the Theodosian Walls…

Gently Basil shed his shift, and walked deeper into the waters. Patriarch Ignatios, himself wracked by the body pains of the ancient and elderly, had sworn to Basil that this particular stream, called Myrocephanae by the locals north of Galata, held miraculous and restorative powers. When Basil had pressed why this particular stream, the Emperor’s uncle, the last of the sons of the Megas and an ancient creature of 78 years, said that perhaps Saint Andrew had blessed its waters.

Regardless, the Emperor closed his eyes, and fell back into the stream. The cold of the water at first was a shock, but then it proved soothing, welcome, streaming over his aching knees and back, the cold driving away the pain flaring from the shoulder wound he’d earned at Niebla, and the shooting fire that flowed from the sword cut on his leg from the storming of Badajoz. The Emperor held his breath, and rose back out of the water, the slight breeze outside making him shiver with a chill.

Yet Basil felt alive yet again, and for the moment, his pain was forgotten.

“I pledge myself, my whole being, to you,” Basil whispered to no one but the vision of the Almighty in his mind and spirit. “Grant me just a few more years, just a little more time…”

Another chill went through his body. He never heard a voice, and his eyes were closed, but he felt it… a quiet assurance, as if someone had a hand on his shoulder, making him relax. He somehow knew that despite the prospect of a campaign in his bad health, and the squabbling of his sons, somehow, some way, it would all be fine. He smiled.

That smile was still on his face when he opened his eyes, and saw a messenger in the livery of Prince Andronikos of Imeretia. The smile faded away as he rode past the procession, directly into the river, calling the Emperor’s name.

The Cuman horde had crossed the border.

The Emperor listened to the man understandingly, numbers pouring through his head. The Cumans, three weeks prior, had crossed the border with three tribes… perhaps 30,000 altogether. He went through their likely targets – outlying villages, towns without walls. Plans came together, and the cold seemingly gave strength to his tired bones. The first thing he asked for was a razor – a long beard wouldn’t do with the tight fitting chainmail that went over his face…


June 7th, 1188

Rodrigo Jimenez sighed as the rain fell in torrents.

For the past five weeks, it seemed God Himself was trying to flood out Cordoba. Rodrigo had never seen such rain, and his parents had not ever spoken of rains like these in Spain – the torrents fell at such a rate, and for such a time, that the midwives had worried about his wife’s impending delivery of their first son. Yet such worries had proven unfounded, and the scion of the Jimenez and the daughter of the local powerful and newly baptized Qutabi family was asleep below.

Nestled in a tower of his residence, the hyperexarch gazed out his window, watching the cascading sheets of rain from the warmth of his study. In one hand he clutched another routine spending request from his own Logothetes, and in the other was a goblet of spiced wine, from one of the many barrels left in the stores from the abortive conference of exarchs months before.

Rodrigo wasn’t in the best of moods, as hundreds of thoughts rushed through the hyperexarch’s mind. The Fatima Qutabi, christened Eirene after her baptism, was the daughter of one of the most powerful Moorish families in Cordoba. The union bought Rodrigo a wealth of connections and news from amongst all the Moors of Spain – yet there was no happiness. Marriage meant he was expected in one bed, every night, something all too boring. While Fatima did her best, she didn’t compare to half the women he’d had back in Konstantinopolis…

…he pushed that thought aside. There was no time to worry about lust lost. Not here, not in Spain, and not with the ‘Conference of Exarchs’ in shambles, not to mention the other troubles…

And now there was the letter. Basil had, in his infinite wisdom, stripped his eldest son of the Kaisarship, bestowing it instead of Clemente Kosaca, the Megos Domestikos and paramount military commander in all of Christendom aside from the Emperor himself. As if this wasn’t enough, Rodrigo’s friend had then added that his successor would be his youngest son Heraklios, with David as a junior Emperor.

Rodrigo did not blame Basil at all – with the cantankerous behavior of his eldest sons, it was apparent that they would not provide the cool, steady hand that the Empire needed. Regardless of whether the Empire had David of Thomas after the final death of Basil, both would likely start their reign with a great deal of bloodshed. Heraklios was young, and would, Basil clearly hoped, prove to be a far more worthy successor than his brothers.

Yet Rodrigo knew exactly how Sophie would have responded to Basil’s decision. She would have protested, vigorously, loud and long, but, he knew, she’d never be able to tell her husband, the love of her life, why she was so against Heraklios becoming senior Emperor.

Rodrigo pushed that thought aside as well. That had been a huge mistake, the worst one he’d ever made. Sophie had been upset – it was soon after Niebla, Basil looked to be headed for the worst – and Rodrigo had gone to comfort her. Uncharacteristically she’d had a lot of wine, as did he. One thing led to another and…

…Rodrigo still winced in shame at the thought. There had been nothing there other than alcohol and raw emotion – it would be foolish to think anything otherwise. And things had been awkward between Sophie and Rodrigo ever since, and he couldn’t blame her. Before that, they’d been close friends, but nothing more. After… they were distant acquaintances, at best, it seemed. It’d been one reason why, despite the lack of women in Cordoba, Rodrigo was relieved, in a way, to be out of Konstantinopolis. No more awkward conversations with the wife of his best friend, and he wouldn’t have to look at Basil’s son, knowing…

Even Rodrigo had to admit, a few moments pleasure wasn’t worth… this…

Fortunately, Basil had recovered quickly after his turn for the worst, and considering the couple’s nightly habits, no one was surprised the Empress had turned up pregnant. Fortunately, other than his sandy hair, the child had inherited his mother’s looks, and not his fathers. The sandy hair on Heraklios’ head and slight freckles on his face could easily be attributed to Basil’s ancestors… his mother was half-Norman, after all. And now, Basil was considering raising him up to be the heir to the Empire…


All of which, Rodrigo knew, would play itself out here in Spain – a land already filled with plenty of intrigue.

The Hyperexarch had, in his own mind, done a wonderful job keeping the peace so far in Spain. Of the five exarchates, Rodrigo’s own Galicia was by far the smallest, and he had to contend with two rival Princes of the Empire, a young boy of 16, and the Emperor’s brother. Lesser men might have quickly lost control of the situation, but Rodrigo had managed to ride the buckling, thrashing steed of state rather well. Thrakesios of Baetia had been the easiest to manipulate – he was young, impressionable, and with a few words of flattery, coin to several advisors here and there, and he moved just as Rodrigo needed him to.

Enguerrand was more complicated. Clearly, the Emperor’s youngest brother felt he deserved yet more power, and after the hyperexarchate was handed to Jimenez, he resolved to gain it through outside help if necessary. Rodrigo’s spy networks in Spain were small, and nowhere near as widespread as in Konstantinopolis, but the hyperexarch had easily discovered the source of the coin now flowing into Lisbon – King Drogo himself.

That the King of the Franks was bribing officials in Lusitania, and perhaps even its exarch himself was of little surprise – he was likely smarting from his military defeat, and keen to strike back however he could. Bribing Enguerrand, even if it was only to stir trouble and provide a continual thorn in Rodrigo’s side, was probably coin well spent. So the hyperexarch had struck back in a similar manner – and coin was strategically distributed in Lusitania to block the more egregious of Frankish efforts, and several ‘accidents’ arranged for known turncoats. Lately, Rodrigo’s spies had reported that after the death of Lusitania’s domestikos in a ‘tragic fall from his tower,’ that many more officials were now refusing French coin.

Yet, if that alone had been the biggest problem in Spain, Rodrigo could have easily handled the matter. Yet there was still Thomas and David, and their reactions to their father’s decision would be paramount. Would they howling, complain, but ultimately acquiesce, their tenure’s as exarchs now meaning that they were effectively exiles? Would they smile yet secretly plot? Would they outright rebuke the results and declare outright war? Rodrigo had no doubt coin from the Franks was attempting to fuel the fires in favor of the last option, but neither Thomas nor David were men who could be bought.

The hyperexarch watched as the messengers from the Emperor, colored in Imperial livery, mounted up in the courtyard to depart with the announcement from Konstantinopolis. Amongst their messages were also orders to Jimenez’s spies in each of the exarchate’s courts… they would need to be most vigilant, and if possible triple their reports. Rodrigo needed as much information as he could get in this situation, with all the dark roads that could lie ahead. His spies spoke that Mehtar Lainez’s spy network was already ablaze with activity before the news of the Emperor’s decision had even reached Cordoba – Rodrigo knew something foul was soon to come rumbling out of Barcelona.

The hyperexarch sighed, then turned away from the window, parchment still in hand. He’d expected David’s spy networks to be the most difficult to infiltrate, but young Mehtar Lainez had almost proven Rodrigo’s equal. Every time one of the hyperexarch’s informants seemed to have sniffed out something useful – a plan, a plot – it always ended up being a red herring. Yet noisesome vassals of Tarraconnensis had suddenly gone quiet, and the religious ferment that seemed to boil in places like Baetia and Mauretania seemed absent. Lainez’s handiwork, once again.

Something was afoot to the north, in Barcelona. Rodrigo’s agents had sniffed precious little – agents moving to dockyards in the city, Lainez himself placing orders for timber, rather conspicuously appearing at the exarch’s side. Altogether odd, and surprising. Rodrigo would have expected Lainez to be attempting to smuggle himself, or other agents, down to Mauretania, considering his liege lord’s furious and virulent words against David Komnenos. Yet he didn’t move, and the spy network seemed focused on internal matters. Not even the slightest of feelers towards Mauretania.

Rodrigo sighed yet again. Later that night, he’d go over the Barcelona reports again. There had to be something going on, some kind of Mauretanian operation! Rodrigo knew Thomas Komnenos, and if the prince was spouting frothful words that David had killed his wife, he would undoubtedly have ordered his best friend and spymaster to pursue ‘options.’ Considering Thomas’ rather bloody battlefield habits and direct manner, Rodrigo could only imagine what ‘options’ those might be.

From somewhere down below, the squall of a baby crying could be heard just above the noise of raindrops rattling the roof. Rodrigo sighed – tiny Lord Lope Jimenez likely missed his father, but the crying child only reminded him of another crying child from years before. Rodrigo set the parchment and quill down on his desk, and walked towards the door. More orders could wait just a few minutes. He needed to get out, even if it meant getting wet. The cold might shock his brain away from the problem of Heraklios Komnenos, and towards the major problem he saw here in Spain:

Mehtar Lainez.



So Rodrigo and Sophie share a secret, as Basil is about to utterly shake up the succession! So, how will Mehtar’s assassination plot unfold? Will Basil’s worn body make it through yet another campaign? Will a Jimenez-Komnenos, and not a Komnenos, become senior Emperor? Also I’ll give brownie points to anyone who can correctly guess the ailment that is bothering Basil…