Thump!
The man awoke with a start, every fiber of his body tingling, his hairs standing on end. For a moment, his mind stumbled between the world of dreams and the world of reality, before the cold, calculating part of his mind shook his conscious awake.
Thud!
He sat up from his rudely made bed that stretched across the closet he called a room. Such were the sacrifices he had to make for his safety. A new boarder in a full bedroom of a villa was bound to be noticed by servants at the least, and servants talked. An unused closet behind the master’s bedroom—that was not likely to be checked, except by the master himself.
He quietly, cautiously climbed to his feet, deftly unwinding his rude sheets from around his ankles. His ears picked up distant murmurs, mutterings, noises, all muffled by the heavy wooden door between him the hallway outside his supposedly empty room. He closed his eyes and listened, concentrating his mind. Years on the lam, and years of training before came into play. Distant murmurs became syllables, words, and even a few sentences, all muffled by the thick wooden door no servant was permitted to open. For a few moments, the sleepy man blinked, his brain parsing all the words, trying to make sense of the commotion.
He frowned. He could only catch glimpses—a word here, a sentence there. What he couldn’t hear in content, however, he heard in tone.
There was a panic, a sense of urgency in those words.
Something was wrong.
The man was instantly bolt upright, plans running through his mind. There was no secret passage out of the room, if it was his old gaolers that were causing the commotion. He hastily threw a shift on, and listened more. There were murmurs of something happening at the palace… a coup? His heart sank… if their scheme had been found, if the Empress had moved, all the work he’d put in since his escape, all the time and energy spent on evading Imperial agents, building a small network of conspirators…
He almost leapt out of his skin when he heard and saw the doorknob start to turn.
He backed away the few precious feet his situation allowed. His eyes cast about in the dim light through the tiny slit of a window. There was his candleholder, a few scrolls and their heavy metal scrollcases.
His hand darted out to grab those. Yet no sooner had his fingers grasped the metal, than the closet door opened.
“Mehtar!”
Mehtar Lainez slowly set the scrollcase down. Quickly, his nephew,
Strategos Demetrios Lainez, master of this villa and commander of the
Nubiatakoi tagma of the Imperial Guard, slid into the room and closed the door behind him. He wore only a black sleeping shift, his short beard and curly hair were unkempt, ruffled, his eyes wide. Indeed, something had gone terribly wrong.
Strategos Demetrios Lainez, commander of the Nubiatakoi
“Mehtar!” Demetrios hissed, “get dressed!”
“Demetrios, what has happened?” Mehtar asked. He started to reach for his old travelling clothes, which lay in a pile next to what he called a pillow.
“The Dowager Empress is dead,”
Strategos Demetrios Lainez whispered back. He pushed on the door yet again, making sure it was shut. “You must dress, be quick!”
“How…”
“The von Franken boy,” Demetrios hissed. There was a thump outside. He spun, staring at the door for a few seconds before a familiar curse told of the clumsiness of a servant, not the noise of an invasion. “The Emperor slew his own mother, then called for the von Franken boy to ask what to do!”
“Who else knows?” the Mehtar asked, even as his mind leapt into action. Empress Christina dead. First step, secure the Emperor. Second step, secure his cooperation. Third step, secure his coronation. Even the manner of the Empress’ death was important. No one must find out of the matricide…
“No one, he assures me,” Demetrios said. “The servants had been ordered away by the Empress herself, for privacy.The servants might have heard raised voices, but that is not uncommon if one was around Her Majesty.” Demetrios added hopefully, before shoving the door again. Mehtar sighed – his nephew had always been paranoid, even when he’d been a child. Since Mehtar’s escape from Lesbos, it’d only grown worse. The paranoia of
all the
dynatoi had grown since Christina’s ascension.
Mehtar glanced around the room, looking for anything that could be useful in the task he knew was to come. “How much time do I have?” he asked.
“Till dawn. At that point, I’m going to assume something has gone horribly awry, and I’ll lead my
tagmata into the city,” Demetrios said. Mehtar winced – if the soldiers went into the city, no matter what anyone intended, there would be violence. Wholescale butchery. Blood in the streets, the likes had not been seen since Emperor Manuel’s massacre of rebels in the Hippodrome almost fifty years before.
“Can you secure me a priest’s outfit, and papers to say I belong in the Great Palace?” Mehtar asked. He had a plan—it would only work if Thomas and Albrecht stayed mum, and he got into the palace within the hour.
“We could borrow my personal chaplain’s clothing,” Demetrios said after a moment. “He is near your size, and currently off at one of the army brothels near Nikorola.”
“Good,” Mehtar nodded. It could work. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up,” Mehtar said simply. Yes… all of that would do nicely. “You need to make sure I get into the Palace. I’ll take things from there…”
==========*==========
The bronze doors that led to Regent Christina’s chambers
“Their Majesties have been within for over two hours.”
Mehtar, officially Eugenios Laskaris, priest of the Most Holy and Apostolic Church, nodded to the worried looking servant. The other servants gathered around the great bronze doors to the Regent’s chambers all were attempting to look disinterested, but the corners of their eyes watched his every move.
“If you would please,” Mehtar nodded towards the door. One of the servants pulled it open just wide enough Methar could slide in.
Mehtar knew the Regent’s chambers very well—during another time, they were his own, as
Megoskriomachos. Christina had changed the entire décor, adding useless trappings of wealth, and, to Mehtar’s chagrin, stripping the room of much of its more useful content.
Mehtar’s gaze found the Regent’s bed on the far side of the room, on a raised dais. The Emperor was kneeling beside his mother, one hand clasping hers. Soft murmurs, words Mehtar couldn’t understand, came from Thomas the Younger’s lips. Another young man stood near him, a hand on the Imperial shoulder.
Ah, the famous Albrecht von Franken. Mehtar had never met the person he and his nephew had corresponded with during the formation of their coup, and Lainez was surprised at how young he was. By his sharp mind and vocabulary, Mehtar had expected someone in their mid or late twenties.
Not a boy that looked perhaps thirteen. Albrecht turned as the great bronzed doors closed with a final
boom, and started over.
“Oh God, thank you Father for coming!”
Mehtar nodded towards Albrecht, whose eyes were wide, shimmering even in the candlelight. Yet despite the fear in those orbs, Mehtar saw no panic. The young man nodded towards the door to the chamber. The metal hinges groaned slightly, then the great bronze doors closed with a clang of finality. Mehtar looked back at the doors, before with lightning speed, he grabbed Albrecht’s shoulder and yanked the boy away from the weeping Emperor.
“So, is it true then?” Mehtar hissed. Albrecht started to look over at Thomas, but Mehtar squeezed his shoulder. “He is weeping now, he cannot hear, but he can see. Pretend you are talking to me about arrangements.”
“Is what true?” Albrecht asked softly.
“He killed her?” Mehtar rolled his eyes. Yes, this was a traumatic event, yes it was frightening, but Mehtar needed
information! Now! “How did he kill her?”
“Smothered her with a pillow.”
“Thank
Hagios Basilieos,” Mehtar sighed. A smothering would be relatively easy to clean up. A choking, slightly harder. A stabbing? That would’ve tested even Mehtar’s skills. “How long ago?”
“About two hours,” Albrecht replied. He started to look warily at the door this time, and once again, Mehtar had to restore his attention with a harsh grab. “Um… the servants were…”
Albrecht von Franken, aged 13
“Away from the door, and he had sense enough to ask them to fetch you but not come in,” Mehtar finished testily. “Yes, I know that!” Two hours meant that the Empress’ back was likely dark red or even brown, like most bodies that lay on their back for some time. It was important she stayed face up. “I’m going to need to adjust her body some, and ask His Majesty a few questions.”
“But…”
“I need you to help me get the answers I need from His Majesty,” Mehtar cut off Albrecht’s protest. “He’s emotional right now, I know. Regardless, I need answers to some questions in order to save you, me, and His Majesty from the shitstorm that will ensue if this matricide becomes common knowledge. Now,” Mehtar turned Albrecht around, and gently pushed him towards the kneeling figure, “go and tell him that a priest has arrived.”
Albrecht nodded. Mehtar watched as the young boy walked over to his friend, kneeling beside him as he spoke quiet words Lainez couldn’t hear. The Emperor looked up, and weakly, beckoned Mehtar to come over.
“Father… I have sinned…” Thomas whispered, his cheeks wet. Mehtar took in that face. Yes, it was like Thomas’ in some ways—big, expressive eyes, a hard jawline—but the young man clearly had his mother’s lips, and her curls. Lainez permitted himself a moment’s longer glance, before he turned to the body. Her mouth was slightly agape, eyes wide in horror. He fought the urge to smile.
“We all have,” Mehtar shot back absently as he cupped her cold face. Thankfully she hadn’t bitten the pillow in her struggle. Lainez poked a finger inside her mouth.
“F..father… what are you…?”
“Checking to see if swallowed a feather of down or anything else,” Mehtar replied a matter of factly. “Your Majesty, did your mother eat anything while you spoke to her, before her death?” Maybe the Emperor had moved a plate. A choking would be easy to recreate…
“No… why father?”
“She had been ill the past few days,” Albrecht offered.
“Ah,” Mehtar started to smile, before catching himself. He might have played in darker arts, but he wasn’t a sadist, not to a son of the man he loved. He leaned back. “Well then, we need to just rearrange her a little bit.”
“Rearra…”
“Thomas!” Albrecht hissed, “this man is here to help you!”
“By defiling my mother’s corpse?” Thomas complained.
“He’s making it appear as if she died naturally,” Albrecht explained, “he wants to make sure your reign doesn’t start with evidence of matricide!”
“But there
was…” Thomas started to yell.
“Thomas!” Albrecht’s hand was instantly over his friend’s mouth. The Emperor clawed at Albrecht’s hands, but the young German held tight. “This man is Mehtar Lainez, the famed spy and assassin! He wants to help you! Please, do not yell and make a fuss!”
Mehtar paid little heed to the continued hissing conversation between the two. Busily, he forcibly closed the Empress’ eyes, and when one of her arms wouldn’t move cooperatively, he snapped a bone just above the elbow to get it to move. He was almost done when a hand roughly grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.
“You are Mehtar Lainez?
The Mehtar Lainez?!” Thomas snapped. There was rage in his eyes, anger—that was plain.
“Yes,” Mehtar shrugged the Emperor’s hand free. “I am he. If you trust me, Majesty…” Mehtar started to say.
“You?! And why should I trust you, a known catamite, liar and murderer!” the young Emperor hissed.
“Because,” Mehtar turned around and spoke over his shoulder as he shifted the Empress’ head slightly and pulled up every single cover over her body, “this catamite, thief, liar and murderer loved your father, as more than a brother.” Finally, the body was in place. Mehtar stepped back, glanced at the arrangement with the eye of an expert, and pronounced it good with a simple nod. His work done, he finally turned to face the young Emperor. “Out of his memory, I will serve you faithfully.”
For a second Mehtar thought he saw a flash of anger in the young man’s eyes, but as quickly as it arrived it faded away. Thomas turned to the body of his dead mother, a sigh of grief and relief, sadness and remorse, escaped from his lips.
“Now, Majesty, as I was going to say, if you trust me, I can ensure in the week that the
dynatoi, army and church all back you. Here, Majesty,” Mehtar said, taking out a necklace with a golden cross and hurriedly wrapping it around his neck, “take her hand, while I act as if I’m preparing to recite last rights over her body. Albrecht,” he nodded, “go outside, in a panic, saying that the Empress has stopped breathing, and six priests are needed by her side.”
“What about…?” Albrecht started to ask. Mehtar was already one step ahead of him, and cut the boy off.
“It is late, fortunately, so no one will call embalmers till the morning. By that point, they won’t be surprised that she’s stiff. Now, hurry!” Mehtar let himself watch the boy dash towards the doors for a moment, before he turned to the body. In the chaotic aftermath of the public announcement of her death, it’d be relatively easy to slip out of the palace—he merely needed to kept he façade of a priest on until them. As the Emperor looked at his mother forlornly, Mehtar grimly noted the excuses he would have as a priest for
not performing extreme unction – he needed six more priests, there was no Bible in sight, no olive oil present. Mentally he shrugged.
Christina of Dau took his love from him—he rather preferred to ensure her soul went to hell.
==========*==========
’Grim Emperor Thomas II’ painted by Yuri Molodin, Kiev, 1878
Thomas II’s Theme
Thomas II has finally come to the throne, with the help of our good friend Mehtar Lainez. But who will be in charge in this new monarchy—the unstable and still young Emperor, or Mehtar? What role does Albrecht have yet to play? And what will the new Emperor do about those pesky rebels left in the West? More to come, when Rome AARisen continues!
