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Haven't there been a lot of foreshadowing an Komnemid emperor Anastasios II?
But hasn't there already been an emperor by that name in this timeline?

Anyways, General, will you make an in game summary of the Komnemid empire when we reach 1399? As I've understood it a lot of the story differs quite a bit from the game (the succession of Nikephoros IV and Andronikos as one example)...
 
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I see the Persians securing victory in Antolia - Nikopheros shall surely die a heroic death at the head of a cavalry charge. With Manuel now secure in the Balkans and Von Franken onside, I'm unsure about what will happen next.

Spain is lost for sure, we're not sure what's going to happen to France (the French may defeat the Spanish invaders and may well restore a Frankish kingdom). North Africa is really up for grabs for anyone at the moment. Likewise, anything could happen in Italy. However the Persian titan in the East shall surely, in the short term atleast, secure the wealthy East.

I can see how the Empire gets Balkanised so quickly. :D
 
Just reminding everyone who likes TV Tropes, Rome AARisen has a TVtropes page here. Any Tropers, feel free to add any tropes you feel are missing from the main page.

It should also have a page in the 'Awesome' section. Or, even better, a wiki.
 
ATTACK77 – The sheer size of a wiki project is the big reason I’ve never attempted one. Though if several people are seriously interested in helping, (as well as showing me the ropes of using wikia) I know I’d be willing to make one.

The Empire’s Balkanization has been underway for quite some time… you can argue the creation of Despotates was a reaction to the simple problem of central rule over such a vast area. Now is the first time there’s no strong central control… so things are spiraling all over the place.

Welshdude – See above for the wiki. And if I’d been after a WC, it probably could’ve happened during the reign of Thomas II or Thomas III. In game I simply had such a preponderance of power I could have steamrolled Europe with ease. So I started creating client kingdoms and the like, trying to roleplay as a Roman Emperor instead of simply smashing the world…

SplendidTuesday – Thank you again for making the TV Tropes page. I’m amused that there are already so many tropes, and you’ve only covered things about a quarter way through the AAR…

BraidsMAmma – Wow. I actually didn’t realize there was a second Anastasios in the historical timeline. That’d make our Anastasios number 3. Good catch, bad author research ahead of time! (I probably saw his name listed as Artemius Anastasius, and assumed he wasn’t numbered as an Anastasius… whoops!)

vadermath – Alexandros has legitimacy through the purple—his grandfather was an emperor in Konstantinopolis, as was his great-grand father and great-great grandfather (and so on up the line). Nikephoros’ father was emperor, but then his closest claim goes through his grandmother to the imperial line (his grandfather’s claim is more indistinct, it goes up through a legitimized bastard line from the Megas). Alexandros has, probably, the more legitimate claim to the throne, but the Komnenoi have spread so far and wide that any claim is relatively hazy at this point. Alexandros so far has been the one most successfully backing his claim with force of arms…

…and all the Gabrielid invasions? There’s been only two previous to this: Gabriel’s first attempt after defeating Hulagu, that got waylaid in Baghdad, and his second attempt that stopped at Nikaea. He was planning a third when Arghun Khan attacked, and there hasn’t been a Gabrielid invasion since… until Alexandros…

..and Basil’s train of thought was a little more complex than ‘attack attack attack,’ lol. It was usually aggressively maneuver then force the opponent to attack him on ground of his choosing. Alexandros has never been tactically on the defensive in any of his battles lol.

Antoku – Konstantinopolis likely would be split—the lower classes love him, as evidenced by the reception he received at the triumph six years before. The nobility, and especially the clergy, hate him. It’d be a clash of classes in the city should he arrive…

Isaac Wolfe – I’d say there’s about 60 years of narrative left, then another 30 or so of history book after that. Barring plans changing of course!

wolfcity – I won’t say if the emperor in that teaser was Andronikos II or not. Or if Alexandros will even get to Konstantinopolis (he still has to get across the Marmara, and the Persians don’t exactly have a fleet). In fact I’ll just plead an authorial Fifth right now. :)

viosin13 – A second front would definitely be useful right now, with Nikephoros’ army in dire straits and the situation out West growing worse by the moment. If there’s an enterprising Mongol strong enough, though, now would be the time to strike Romanion while she’s low…

…maybe inviting the Mongols could be a bad idea?

And Alexandros had planned on crossing in the south, except the imperials moved a few detachments down there just in case. So he crossed in the middle—but it was indeed south of the main imperial force!

Clydwish – Manuel comes from the Dune style of plotting—have plots within plots, backups within backups. And yes, he has the Oikoi, and there’s no strong Andronikos watching them anymore…

Zzzzz… – Seeing things and hearing voices has run in that side of the family… And yes, if Manuel wanted the purple, he’d need battlefield victories—the sad part of the legacy of Demetrios and Basil. Only a general (or, at least, someone who wins enough battles to prove their military competence) can be a Komnenoi emperor. No scholars, administrators, or money-counters allowed…

TC Pilot – At least he’s hearing only one voice, not three. And Nikephoros is a genuinely nice guy—I think if he’d been crowned at a more peaceful time (or even without his illness) he might have made a decent emperor, or at least been a decent man…

asd21593 – At the very least, honorable motives or not, he’d need to use that army to secure Konstantinopolis. The main imperial army in Anatolia has been defeated, it remains to be seen how badly or even if the emperor got away. The capital must be secured. Of course this provides all sorts of reasons for Manuel to bring the army in for more nefarious purposes, if that is indeed his goal…

Panjer – Well, like I said, if I can find some people willing to lend a hand with it (I can’t do it by myself, not if I want to finish the story itself sometime before CK2 comes out lol), I’m all for a wiki. Anyone that would be willing to help, please post after the update!

Nehekara – If Nikephoros dies, according to legitimists, Manuel becomes Emperor. But Leo was told he was to receive the Kaisarship and eventually become the heir. There’s the usual suspects, and of course lets not forget the underage children of Andronikos still alive. A messy situation indeed… at least Nikephoros doesn’t have any children who could have mussed it up even more…

Enewald – Manuel knows he’s not a Bulgarontocus, he doesn’t want to try to match the one and only lol.

Carldstadt Boy – Good to know, thank you. I’ll pick shades that are further apart next time.

Vesimir – Well, we don’t know if Nikephoros lived, got captured, or even died. By the time Manuel was fighting at the Trajan Gates, there’d still been no word what’d happened in Anatolia…

AlexanderPrimus – Trouble indeed!

Next update is finished! Enjoy!

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“Men look for the straight path; the wolf looks for the most secure.” – unknown


August 16th, 1298

Spoleto, Italy


Reinaldo Jimenez felt like he was going to vomit—an outcome that would’ve been unfortunate, considering he stood on a perfectly tiled mosaic floor in one of the finest villas outside Spoleto. He hadn’t eaten for the past three days out of nervousness, he told himself, so he likely wouldn’t vomit anything anyway. Considering the monumental, colossal, epic disaster that had taken place, whether he vomited or not seemed a trivial matter now.

In the grand scheme of things, 4 ousaikoi and 48 small merchantmen were small, he’d told himself. With war in France, war in North Africa, war in Northern Italy, armies moving, fleets sailing, a single convoy took little precedence in the minds of the high, mighty and powerful. But to Reinaldo Jimenez, they meant everything—the sum of a life’s work, his cohort’s monies, as well as own.

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He looked up, in time to see the dark Moor he’d greeted with halting, nervous words a few minutes before disappear behind a set of great oak and bronze doors that a bevy of servants quickly closed. The clunk of that door shutting left Jimenez alone, pacing, with nothing alongside him except the haunting truth brought to his door three days before.

The entire fleet had been lost. Every last ship.

No natural tempest or treacherous tide stole the 48 vessels he’d bought, leased, or borrowed—only the storm of war, and its ravenous appetite. It just so happened that Exarch Makrinokomnenos had plans to take North Africa, and he’d dispatched a particularly dutiful representative to Valencia to commandeer as many vessels as possible. When 48 fully provisioned merchantmen, as well as their four ousiakos escort arrived in the harbor, this young gentleman let them dock before commandeered all but one with his soldiers. The last was allowed to return, bearing no weapons, no armor.

Only the piece of paper clutched in Reinaldo’s shaking hand, promising that at war’s end, “the most dutiful Christian Emperor Alexios I” would repay the merchant for his losses. The small parchment, written in draconian Greek, crinkled quietly in the worried merchant’s hands. Despite the cool winter air, the foyer felt intensely hot—Reinaldo was sure a bead of sweat was already forming on his brow. Would ibn Yusef accept the paper? Would he accept an arrangement?

Footfalls made Reinaldo look up, just in time to see the dark Moor return. His face split into a smile, the white of his teeth almost garish with the black of his skin.

Il Patrizio will see you now,” the man bowed deeply, then gestured towards those fine oak doors. Reinaldo swallowed as he walked forward—he swore he saw the two guards on either side grin, the wind rustling their gaudy silk clothes.

The audience hall of ibn Yusef’s villa was spectacularly decorated in hues of blue, calligraphy and art merging into scintillating patterns across the walls and ceiling. Sunlight poured in from above through great glass windows. For a moment, Jimenez was lost in the blaze of beauty all around him—the way his footfalls echoed, the way the winter winds cooled the room but never chilled it—until his eyes fell back down to earth, and he saw the man before him.

Abd Yasu ibn Yusef was many things—he was a scholar, some would argue. He boasted the largest collection of scrolls and books south of Rome and outside the church in his private library. He clearly was obviously wealthy—he wore a red tunic and white turban of the finest silk, each traced with gold. Three servants knelt around him, their heads down, waiting for their master’s slightest need. He was all that, and much more—but Abd Yasu ibn Yusef was certainly not one thing.

A man to be trifled with.

Despite his Arabic name, Yasu ibn Yusef was a Christian—a Syriac Christian, or Nestorian to the uneducated Greeks and Latins of Italy. His piety was as shallow as his pockets were deep—he was not subject to excommunication for flouting the lending laws governing those of the Orthodox faith (technically, he was already excommunicated for simply being Nestorian). He’d used this technicality to his full advantage, building on his father and grandfather’s more...legitimate… trading interests in Acre, Tyre and Antioch to create a lending empire based out of Napoli. He’d shrewdly built a lending interest in most mercantile enterprises in southern Italy and financially backed the Discouroi and Skazioi princely houses. His influence even reached up to Rome proper. Legend said he’d even attempted to buy the title Senatore from the Roman Kephalos and the city fathers, but to people in the know across the south of Italy, he was known simply as Il Patrizio.

The Patrician.

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“Greetings, Abd Yasu ibn Yusef, patron of…” Jimenez started the long list of titles and flatteries the thoroughly frightened Enrique had prepared for him back in Napoli, only to have the Arab moneylender raise his hand.

“Not necessary. Come,” ibn Yusef waved Reinaldo in. The Spaniard looked around, unsure of what to do for a moment, before walking forward.

“My aides told me what happened… a calamity,” the Arab shook his head slowly.

“I will repay you, Lord ibn Yusef,” Reinaldo bowed his head. “I have interests I can sell and draw upon, if given time to collect the proper notes and gold…”

“Mines in Spain, smithies in Spain, yes, I know your interests,” the Arab nodded. “Perhaps, Signore Jimenez, you are not aware of my interests. It is very sad,” the lender murmured, before snapping his fingers towards one of the servants. Instantly the man was on his feet, dashing to one of the side doors. “I had very much planned to lend 20,000 solidii to my lord Skazios in Taranto. He is having trouble with paying his armies now that trade with the north has been… disrupted.”

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Reinaldo swallowed. Lord Skazios was involved? The dynatos that lorded over Spoleto… where Reinaldo was currently standing?

“If given a year, I will take my ship to Spain and…”

Yasu laughed—not a small chuckle, but a huge, rolling guffaw that seemed to echo all around the room, from the ornate rafters to the tiniest mosaic on the floor.

“You really think I would let you take ship for Spain?” the Arab cried between laughter.

“I could send a representative…”

“Oh!” ibn Yusef finally said, his mirth dying, “I don’t think we have time for that!” He sighed, wiping a tear from his eye. “I think we’re well past that, Signore Jimenez!” The Arab looked Reinaldo square in the eye. “I don’t trust anyone who was so stupid as to let their ships get requisitioned to sell anything or raise any money…”

“I had no way of knowing, ibn Yusef!” Reinaldo started to protest.

“Did you have contacts with the Spaniards?” the Arab asked. For the first time, Reinaldo saw the upper corner of his lip twitch.

“I had contacts with the Prince of Valenica…”

“…who fled to Africa last year,” ibn Yusef interrupted with that same damningly calm voice. “Someone with a map and your military experience, Reinaldo,” ibn Yusef paused as one of the servants returned with a platter of dates. He took his time, fingers hovering, until he found the exact one he wanted. “Someone with your experience,” the Arab resumed, “should have known the Prince would flee. He was surrounded on all sides. Why…”

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“I thought he would kneel, not…”

“…and yet he did flee, and your ships have been confiscated,” ibn Yusef cut him off. He popped the date into his mouth—in the silence that followed, Reinaldo swore he heard the noise of steel creeping out of scabbards. “How,” ibn Yusef looked up, his face suddenly thunderous as a summer squall, “will you repay me the 20,000 solidii in gold I lent you?!”

Suddenly Reinaldo felt big, meaty hands on each of his shoulders. He tried to spin around to see who was behind him, but the hands held him fast.

“Hold him, Gjon!” the Arab snapped. The hands clamped down. Jimenez caught something white in front of his eyes, before the cloth was tightly over his mouth. He twisted, his own hands clawing at the ones holding him in place—they stood firm, hard. He squirmed, he stretched, he writhed, but those big paws held him down as a bear holds a fish!

“You made me lose 20,000 solidii!” ibn Yusef growled, his hand reaching for that fancy jeweled knife. It shone brightly in the sunlight cascading through those beautiful glass windows. Reinaldo felt it’s ice-cold edge touch his throat. “You have one month to find me my money! One month!” Suddenly, Reinaldo felt a fingers pulling at his left hand, dragging it away from the paw that held him in place. He screamed into the cloth. Only a weak howl came through.

“This will be to remind you,” ibn Yusef said, before pulling Reinaldo’s palm open. Jimenez felt his ring finger being pried open, and then pain. Searing, blinding pain.

Another muffled howl escaped the cloth.

“Bandage him up,” the moneylender hissed. Amidst the agony of losing a finger, he felt something rub on that fine silken shirt he’d worn today. A distant part of his mind wondered if the Arab had wiped the bloody knife on him.

“Now, go and find me my money!”ibn Yusef growled, his mustache bristled as he came within inches of Reinaldo’s face. “My men will tail you! If you flee, they’ll kill you! And if you don’t have my money by next month,” the knife suddenly jabbed just above Reinaldo’s codpiece, “I’ll move a little lower to extract my next interest fee, and you’ll have no more children!”

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August 19th, 1298

Konstantinopolis


Isabella de Bevere stared out of the windows of the Dowager Empress’ apartments at the Kosmodion Palace, and felt like an angel, staring down at so many scurrying ants.

Konstantinopolis was a sea of motion. Unlike the normal, almost lazy meander of people on their daily business, today the city was in a frenzy. Shops were shuttered, and throngs had gathered in the streets—more than a few were cheering. Others, notably the high and well-to-do, were in a state of panic, for a disaster the likes the Empire hadn’t seen since the death of Nikephoros I at Pliska almost five hundred years before. What made the loss of Nikephoros V at the Battle of the Halys River even worse was, unlike his ancient namesake, Nikephoros Komnenos fell into enemy hands.

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And that enemy was making all speed for the Queen of Cities with his victorious juggernaught.

Isabella cast a worried look out the window towards the Golden Horn, where a parade of ships slowly made for the Marama, oars slowly rising and falling to the tune of some distant drum. Between the dromons of the Thrake Stolos lumbered the hundreds merchantmen requisitioned by Antemios Skoteinos on behalf of the Kaisar—the vast array of men and ships that were sailing to Nikomedia, then Smyrna, to save the remnants of the Basilikon and Anatolikon armies. Amidst event these sailed dozens of brilliantly painted galliots, galleys and dhows, the pennants of this family or that house fluttering in the wind. While the smallfolk were forced to stay and await the arrival of the Persian yoke, the high and mighty were scattering to the seven winds.

“Isabella?”

De Bevere jumped slightly at her mistresses call. She spun around to see the Dowager Empress looking past her, at the same scene that had held the handmaiden’s rapt attention.

“Sorry, Majesty, I was…” Isabella quickly curtsied.

“No apologies,” Empress Sbyslava craned her own neck slightly, “it would hold my attention too.” Her eyes flicked back to Isabella. “Have the arrangements been made at the Hepdomon for our arrival?”

“Yes Majesty,” Isabella curtsied again.

“You’ve been most attentive to making preparations for my boys,” the Dowager Empress went on, “you deserved a chance to see what was going on in the Golden Horn. A grand sight, yes?”

Isabella nodded—and she could see why the Dowager Empress had long ago decided it’d be a hassle to flee by sea like so many other dynatoi in the city—the fleet had priority, and it was taking up much of the Golden Horn in its desperate attempt to save the Imperial Armies in the East. So instead she and her retinue, accompanied by a detachment of guardsmen, would ride for the Hepdomon Palace outside the city, and thence Thessalonike—and there take ship to some place safe. Crete? Athens? Empress Sbyslava had yet to say.

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“Have you satisfied your eyes?” the Empress asked gently. “Come,” the Empress motioned back to the sewing circle, “join me, please.”

Isabella nodded, and walked to the lone spot of serenity in the sea of activity throughout the Dowager Empress’ quarters. Sbyslava nodded to an empty chair to her right. Isabella sat, and immediately picked up the ball of thread the Empress was drawing from for her work—nothing complex, merely fixing the stitching on her nightcap. For a moment, only quiet passed between the two as the Empress worked.

“I hear Chillarchos du Roche returned to the city,” the Empress said.

“Yes he did, Majesty!” Isabella nodded, before feeling her face heat slightly as memories of the night and day she’d lost only three days prior filled her mind—as well as hope for what might come once darkness had crept over the city. “Though, Majesty, he has been promoted to strategos of the Vestiaroi by orders of the Kaisar!” she added, a little of her excitement at other things seeping into her voice.

“Ah. Please tell him my congratulations,” the Empress nodded with a smile. For a few more seconds, silence hung between them once more. “Why his sudden return?” Sbyslava’s mood changed suddenly—serious once more. “Last I heard, he was with the Kaisar in the field…”

“I asked the same!” Isabella offered, “When I did, though, he looked unwell, and…”

“He looked unwell?” the Empress’ eyebrow arched upwards.

“Y…yes, Majesty,” Isabella nodded. “He spoke very little. I…I asked him his business in the city, why he’d returned from campaign…”

“And?” the Dowager Empress asked.

“He said he the Kaisar had won a great victory at the Trajan Gates. He also said he had letters to deliver to Antemios Skoteinos. Important letters…”

“Letters?” the Empress repeated, before suddenly hissing. She’d stabbed her finger with the sewing needle. Isabella started to rise to get some salves, until Sbyslava’s hand firmly held her down. “What letters? My finger is fine.”

“He…” Isabella looked down, “he would not say, Majesty. He stammered, and mentioned the palace…”

“And?” The Dowager Empress’ voice hitched for just a second. Isabella’s blood went ice cold—she’d never seen the Dowager Empress stammer, or look confused. The woman was poised, cool, calm… if she was worried, even a little…

“He would say no more, Majesty,” Isabella said, each word feeling like a leaden weight added to her shoulders. What was du Roche not saying? Was he hiding something? What was he hiding? Isabella’s mind skittered down a slippery slope of darkness as the Dowager Empress stared at her the cap in her hands, fingers unmoving.

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“Did you lay with him that day?” the Empress suddenly spoke, and as if time unfroze, her fingers diligently went back to finishing the cap—her hands jerkier. Isabella watched as one stitch, then another, went slightly wrong.

“Did... I… Majesty?” Isabella squeaked, looking around the room. The other handmaidens were busily filling trunks, sorting china, collecting tableware—none seemed to notice.

“Did you lay with him? Did he have his…way… with you, as lovers are wont to do?” the Empress repeated, annoyance seeping into her voice.

“Uh…yes… Majesty,” Isabella said slowly. Why was the Empress asking this? What could she learn from such… tawdry details?

“And how attentive was he? How ardent?” the Empress pressed on.

For a moment, Isabella’s mouth hung open. “I…um… he,” she stammered, “He was attentive in his… affections,” her words skidded to a halt. The Empress glared. Isabella cleared her throat. “We laid for hours on Thursday, and he was more fervent than I have ever seen him…”

“…as if he might not see you again?” Sbyslava’s eyebrows arched up even more. Her sewing suddenly stopped again.

Isabella nodded slowly. Was she in trouble? Was the Dowager Empress angry? Was she going to send du Roche away? What…

“Ladies!” Sbyslava suddenly called. Immediately all work stopped, and Isabella’s heart fell. So she was about to be exposed! They would shun her, and she’d be cast out…

“Please make sure all items are packed in seaworthy trunks, and make sure you include extra furs!” the Empress finished her orders. She tossed the unfinished cap down, eyes flashing towards Isabella. “Isabella, please send word to Droungarios Hagioparis that I will need alternate transportation out of the city. He has a ship for us as well as my two sons, he only needs to be informed.”

“Yes Majesty!” Isabella shot to her feet, relieved and confused at once.

“And Isabella?”

“Majesty?”

“Tell no one, if you value your life and the lives of these other maidens, myself, and my sons…” the Empress whispered, her voice sharper than tempered steel. “If the wrong people here of this…”

“Persians, Majesty?” de Bevere said, her voice shaking slightly at the thought of the purple-cloaked demon himself breaking into the palace and chasing her down.

“There are more than Persians to fear, Isabella,” the Empress said darkly.

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January 16th, 1299

Konstantinopolis


Sostratos jumped as an arm bumped into his side.

The servant bowed profusely and apologized—he clearly didn’t mean to—but Meleniou decided, then and there, he would never get used to the Kosmodion Palace. Indeed, it was three months since his abrupt promotion, but the new Droungarios was only now getting used to his titles, as well as prerogatives. In September, Sostratos Meleniou had been a Tourmachos, and an honorary one at that. He’d been left in the capital after both the Emperor and the Kaisar marched out for war—his liaison position temporarily at an end, he’d been an officer without a command.

And then the Dowager Empress left the city.

In retrospect, Meleniou didn’t know how anyone would been able to stop it—Droungarios Hagioparis had planned well, with a tight-lipped crew and a seaworthy ship. Even without the chaos of the rest of the navy trying to plan an emergency evacuation of Smyrna and Nikomedia, even without the hundreds of merchantmen and private craft clogging the Marmara, it would’ve been difficult to stop that one lone ship—especially when neither Megas Doux[i/] Tzetas, or Sostratos himself, had orders from the Kaisar that the Dowager Empress was not to leave the city. Somewhere, somehow in the confusion, orders were lost—and now the Dowager Empress, as well as her two sons, were on a ship sailing north towards Sortmark

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Of course, the Kaisar’s fury knew no bounds when he returned to the capital three weeks before after his triumph over the Balkan lords. Megas Doux Tzetas was even arrested on suspicion of treason. From what Meleniou had pieced together, those orders had been left with the Antemios Skoteinos and the Oikoi units on land. In the end, Tzetas was reinstated, and Skoteinos was sacked, tonsured, and packed off to a monastery. When the flurry of punishment ended, Sostratos Meleniou suddenly found himself with a droungarios’ cap, as well as most of Tzeta’s practical duties. In the absence of the captured Emperor Nikephoros, Kaisar Manuel’s word was law, and he trusted the young new droungarios almost implicitly.

As he strode through the halls of the Kosmodion, Sostratos wasn’t as confident as his lord and master. He was confident he knew how to run a ship—Philomena was probably the best drilled ship in the fleet when he was her captain—but a squadron? Or even a fleet? He wouldn’t tell anyone, but the thought secretly frightened him, and he thanked God the ongoing operations across the Bosphorus and in Smyrna were under the command of already capable droungaroi.

Yet Droungaroi Ankyrakomnenos and Phokas could each only be in a single place at one time, and there were more problems for the fleet than just Nikomedia and Smyrna. The Oikoi had already discovered the Persians were requisitioning every merchantmen in every harbor between Herakleia and Trebizond, as well as hauling timber to Sinope. Konstantinopolis was safe if the sea stayed open, and the combined “fleet-in-being” to the south kept the Syrians and Egyptians from sending their ships north—so Alexandros was clearly going to simply build a fleet where he needed it. Could the Thrake easily handle the Persian fleet should it be ready? Probably, but the Kaisar was dead intent that the need shouldn’t arise, for reasons only he knew.

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Sostratos had learned long ago that Manuel thought on a level past simple military need, so he’d drawn up plans to counter the Persians before their fleet ever put to sea. It required few ships and even fewer men, and overall Meleniou was quite pleased with himself. He hoped when he reached the Kaisar’s quarters that Manuel would be pleased as well…

Droungarios Meleniou, I presume?”

Sostratos skidded to a halt, his thoughts doing the same. He recognized the melodic voice, but wasn’t sure why he’d hear it speaking to him. Slowly, he turned around, coming face to face with Empress Ioanna, daughter of King Dietmar of Burgundy, and wife of the unfortunate Nikephoros V.

To say Empress Ioanna was a thing of beauty would be akin to calling the Theodosian Walls a fence, or the Nile a stream. Brown hair coupled with dark brown eyes on a face that would tempt even a saint, she smiled broadly at him. Sostratos smiled nervously in return—why did she approach him, or all people? He was a sailor, not a noble, not a general, not any number of people that could demand the attention of the woman married to the still titular sitting emperor…unless…

He blinked—those were just rumors, from a city that used gossip as mortar for every structure within its walls.

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“Majesty,” Sostratos bowed uneasily.

Droungarios,” she nodded her head in reply, before waving her hand. On cue, her maidservants bowed and backed away. “I believe we met briefly at a banquet the day before my husband left for war,” she said, without a hint of sadness in her voice. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Sostratos.” The smile grew. “May I call you Sostratos?”

“Ah…um…of course, Majesty,” Meleniou hurriedly bowed again. Sostratos? Why was she talking to him so calmly? He swallowed hard.

“Good. My brother-in-law tells me that you are now a very important man in the war,” the Empress went on. Her voice sounded like gentle chimes in a summer breeze. “Since the Dowager Empress fled, I have been obliged to take her duties—and considering your new station, I would be remiss, droungarios, if I did not invite you to dine with me. You would find that…acceptable?”

“Of course, Majesty, I’d be deeply honored!” Sostratos blurted out anxiously. He felt his face heat—he knew he was turning red. To his chagrin, the Empress’ smile grew even wider.

“Good. Would you object to dining in my personal quarters?”

“Um…” Meleniou swallowed hard again, as thing stirred in him that hadn’t arisen since his wife passed five years before. Part of him screamed she was a married woman, the wife of an emperor, but another part coolly reminded that her husband was a prisoner of the Persians, and liable to be dead already. The two parts of Meleniou’s brain—one base, one carnal—debated for a moment.

“Of course not, Majesty!” he heard himself blurt out, kicking himself for the nervous twitch that engulfed his voice.

“Good,” she nodded. “I shall see you at the eighth hour, my lord. My maiden Elise will meet you near the kitchens, and show you the way. I have a feeling we will become very acquainted, droungarios,” the Empress chuckled.

As she turned away, he swore she winked at him.
 
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I’d say there’s about 60 years of narrative left, then another 30 or so of history book after that. Barring plans changing of course!
Wait a moment, that 30 years, is that how you are finishing this story? I hope you don't mean the EU3 portion will be 30 years!

An excellent post, by the by. I feel like I am watching a medieval version of HBO's Rome or something.
 
Poor Reinaldo... so Isabelle is Nikephoros's mum?
 
Woah, that was awesome! In all of the years of this long story, I can't remember the Empire ever being threatened as much as now. Alexios is advancing, Alexandros is advancing, hell, even the drunkard Demetrios has had significant gains! Everyone, except Manuel. I suppose he is de facto Emperor now, with Nikephoros in Persian hands? He's definitely proven he's smart and cunning, and that he's got some of the Gardener's blood in him, but I don't think he's got what it takes to win this. I doubt any of the past Komnenid Emperors could've found a way out of this predicament, whilst simultaneously keeping the Empire intact. He's either going to have to give up the East, the West, or Italy, and it seems to me he's about to lose all three.
 
Oikoi using hot-air-balloons or even Zeppelins, probably.
I hate how CK has no navies. Mediterranean is dead, somehow.
Persians sitting and eating attrition?

Nikephoros might be dead, so who would be next in inheritance?
Alexandros? :D
 
Sorry, I meant Sbyslava.

Manuel is a bastard of the late Emperor and some Babylonian wench that carries, Manuel having more Komnenoid imperial-blood in his veins (wincest), which not many know, thus Manuel has a nice claim to the throne which he secretly wants, but as an official bastard, even the kids of Sbyslava and the late Emperor have more legitimacy being official heirs of the emperor.
Manuel wants to kill his half-brothers, in order to get throne, but Sbyslava as evil bitch tries to defend her sons claims to the throne.
Everyone wants the diadem!