And yet another part of the big update I've been working on...
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Three years later…
March 9th, 1138
A sketch for a painting of Nikolaios, second Emperor of the Komnenid Dynasty
Nikolaios glanced only briefly to the left as he walked towards the private wing of the Great Palace. He saw no less than two younger lords, men of the
dynatoi, who smiled somewhat lasciviously at the
Basilieus. Old rumors might have died down, but they never died, and there were those that would use whatever flimsy straws they had to grasp at power.
Nikolaios gripped the tiny crucifix that hung around his neck and muttered another prayer. Since Ioannis’ death, religion had become a solace, a place of healing and hiding from himself and those memories. He’d had urges since Ioannis – but every time he thought about satisfying them, he saw Ioannis’ face, and found himself unable, even ashamed.
The cross provided some manner of reassurance these past three years. It took only a moron to realize the uneasy power relationship between the now lone
Basilieus and his siblings was unstable at best, and could be disastrous at worst. Georgios was still in his perpetual stupor, but there were noises from Senoussi that he wanted more than just two titles of
comes. Romanos had ascended to his title Prince of Edessa, with lands in Edessa, Aintab and several
comes, and while he was ruling competently, Nikolaios had heard rumors of the
comes were plotting against him. Manuel would shortly be headed to Aswan to take his title, and in only three years Demetrios would succeed to the title Prince of Imeretia. Finally, Ignatios was still in his position, and staying completely, utterly silent.
Christophoros still reigned as Prince of Chaldea,
Kaisar and
Megos Domestikos, but it was plainly obvious he wanted more. Nikolaios already knew that Christophoros had begun talks with the Princes of Abydos, Croatia and Al Jazira, and Nikolaios had no doubt what the subject was – how to best topple the
Basilieus. He knew Georgios was trying to do the same – but the sot had only talked to the
comes of Quattara, someone who wasn’t exactly a threat to the throne.
Added to this was the strain of the new conquests of the Empire. The massive new conquests meant a massive new bureaucracy. No less than seven new principalities had been created, only three of which had been handed to Komnenid princes. Another had gone to the Church, but the remaining three, Al Jazira, Georgia and Armenia, were viewed as lesser lords by the
dynatoi – and if Edessa, Aswan and Chaldea were not controlled by Komnenid princes, the
dynatoi would have likely ignored them as well.
In the eyes of the old
dynatoi, the Princes of Krete, Hellas, Nikomedia and Butrinto, for example, even older princes that had been added under the Megos, like Tyre, Galilee and Cyrenaica, were beneath them, and the split was growing wider and deeper. Almost by default, the new princes were gathering around Christophoros, himself one of their number.
The old
dynatoi were clustering around Nikolaios, and the tensions were rapidly growing. In the social scene, there was a huge social stink when the Prince of Varna refused to allow his daughter to marry the new Prince of Georgia. Partisans had assaulted the Prince of Varna, and the grandfather of the Prince of Georgia was murdered. Nikolaios had been forced to intervene – yet the symptoms of inner tensions continued to rise.
Nikolaios walked into the small room, watching both its occupants at their studious work. Yet as he looked, he frowned, and walked over behind the table of the first. Shifting from being an advisor to his father to a full
Basilieus in his own right had been a harsh change. Being in the forefront meant that all of Nikolaios’ flaws, alongside his brilliance, were on display – and available as fodder for his enemies.
Chief of which was the precarious state of his succession.
Thus, tutoring his two youngest siblings had became Nikolaios’ new tasks when he wasn’t busy governing the Empire. He’d left his own writings often unfinished in his efforts to prepare the youngest generation – maybe some ruling ability could be spread to them before it was too late. Michael’s parentage was more and more in doubt, and Nikolaios was anyway more and more concerned the Prince would not be able to corral the Empire should he ever succeed.
The Great Palace in Konstantinopolis - center of intrigue in Romanion
“Manuel,” Nikolaios loomed over his younger brother, peering over Manuel’s brown and blonde locks, “what are you reading?” Manuel was always reading…
“Nothing,” the younger Komnenos said smoothly, quietly, before turning to face his elder. Manuel looked like a mixture of a Frank and his father’s noble Greek heritage, with a long aquiline nose, a narrow hatchet face, and unkempt locks that alternated between brown in the winter and dark gold in the summer.
Yet for Nikolaios, the most telling aspect of Manuel were his eyes. Their hazel forms alternated between green when he was content to a steely gray when he was upset. Most telling, however, was when Manuel looked at you. Even at age 16, it seemed like he could see directly through you, deep into your soul with his own still, emotionless eyes. Demetrios Megos’ eyes radiating warmth and heartiness, Nikolaios’ radiating intelligence and cunning, but Manuel’s radiated nothing – no emotion, no warmth, no hate, a simple blank slate.
There were only three things Manuel ever showed a passion for. The first was the art of governing an empire – he read anything Nikolaios laid before him, and soaked up information on Romanion, her neighbors, even lands as far away as distant Cathay and India. Second, he showed a passion for the Church, spending his evenings with his ancient Uncle of the same name, talking and debating all sorts of theological matters. The third obsession was one that made Nikolaios uneasy.
“You’re reading the
Mithradatium again, aren’t you?” Nikolaios asked warily. There were times Manuel frightened him – he had an obsession with the
Mithradatium, the ancient book by King Mithradates of Pontus that compiled all the known poisons in the world and their antidotes. Mithradates, through years of personal experimentation, had discovered and compiled the information in a life long paranoia over assassination. Manuel often commented the irony of the situation – in revealing his secrets, he gave a multitude of assassins the information they needed.
A jar made to hold the semi-mythical mithradatium, King Mithradates cure for all poisons
Nikolaios closed his eyes and cursed silently. Of Demetrios’ five other living sons, Manuel seemed the most gifted towards the arts of statecraft. Like Nikolaios, he had an unnatural interest in statebuilding and diplomacy. Like Christophoros, he was gifted with a sword and probably had skills leading men in the field – something they would discover when he took his post as Prince of Aswan in three years. Yet unlike either of them, Manuel showed an interest in subterfuge and the darker sides of statecraft that none of his brothers could match.
Not just an interest, more an obsession – something that frightened Nikolaios on a basic level.
“Considering that the nobility of Romanion are like a wild horse…” Manuel started to repeat the same phrase Nikolaios’ mother had drilled into his own head, “sometimes a few doses of ironwood can calm the steed down.” Manuel smiled, something that made Nikolaios shiver.
“Re-read your father’s
Strategikon,” Nikolaios shook his head in dismay. Manuel smiled, nodded, and opened the tome and started reading again. Nikolaios hoped maybe reading how to wage war might corral the prince’s dark mind.
“When can I read the
Strategikon?” a voice piped up, and Nikolaios turned to his second evening charge. Demetrios Komnenos the Younger was the spitting image of his namesake, though at age 14 he did not have his father’s beard, obviously. His voice had yet to fall, and even now hit an annoying falsetto when he felt he was being slighted. Which was often. Nikolaios thought he saw Manuel glare at his younger brother and sneer, but he wasn’t sure.
“When you’ve finished your basic Plato,” Nikolaios sighed. It was apparent that other than his abilities to wed a wealthy
dynatoi’s daughter, Demetrios would have little use in statecraft. He was whiny, combative over the tiniest matters and careless about the greatest.
Someone cleared their throat in the doorway, and Nikolaios turned to see his only son. Malhaz (known as Michael to the Greeks), with each passing day, looked less and less like his father. Where Nikolaios was tall and dark-skinned, with raven black hair from his Magyar ancestry, Malhaz was short with brown hair and blue eyes. The hair could be explained away, but the eyes could not easily. Jacinta had taken to claiming her grandfather had blue eyes to push away prying minds. Minds continued to pry, every question pushing closer and closer to Nikolaios’ secret.
He also did not inherit his father’s intelligence or cunning – he was smart, to a fault, but he tended to leap to easy answers, and was surprisingly lazy. Swordplay came easy to him – Latin and Greek did not. Even now, he stood rather dumbly at the doorway for a few seconds before speaking.
“Uh, father? Uncle Christophoros wishes to see you,” he stammered slightly.
Nikolaios waved his hand and looked down. Christophoros, since rising to the position of
Kaisar, had been placing ever increasing demands on Nikolaios. He’d demanded a war against Beni Halal, a small kingdom on the North African coast once again – Nikolaios had no doubt the purpose of the war would be for the
Kaisar and
Megos Domestikos to aggrandize lands and titles, increasing his power.
“A wise man will use a bit of hemlock to solve a problem that would take thousands of soldiers,” Manuel smirked after Michael left.
Nikolaios stood rooted in his spot, mouth slightly agape. Manuel’s logic was dead on – coldly, methodically accurate – almost inhumanly so. Yet the look in those eyes…
“I am not going to poison Christophoros!” Nikolaios hissed. “I am going to talk things over with him, offer him the position of
Kaisar, and end all this talk of conflict!”
“Sometimes an Emperor must be ruthless,” Manuel pressed his point.
“I will not be ruthless against my own brother!” Nikolaios rumbled. “I’ve sinned enough in this life, I won’t add fratricide to the list!”
“Manuel said nothing about poison!” Demetrios absurdly rose to his brother’s defense. Demetrios didn’t see Manuel sneer again.
Nikolaios groaned as Christophoros and his entourage swept into the room. He waved Manuel and Demetrios out of the room – the time for tutelage had ended, and the time to rule an Empire intruded once more.
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A map of Northern Africa, showin Romanion and Beni Halal. The small kingdom has only recently expanded north and shifted its capital to Tunis
“Why Beni Halal?” Nikolaios crossed his arms. The Empire was still absorbing the great conquests of the late Megos, an both were well aware of the ongoing chaos. Adding Beni Halal’s lands would necessitate Nikolaios created two more princedoms, which would strengthen Christophoros’ party, anger the older
dynatoi, and in general cause problems.
“They hold the lands that ancient Carthage was built on, as well as Hippo Regius, where
Hagios Augustinos walked the earth,” Christophoros said coolly.
“And why should I concern myself about ancient cities that no longer exist?” Nikolaios sighed. Carthage had been destroyed by the Muslims in the 8th century. As far as Nikolaios knew, so had Hippo Regius as well. He knew immediately it would be a losing battle – Christophoros was not one to commit to battle unless he’d aligned all his forces.
“
Ancient cities that no longer exist?” Christophoros painfully accentuated each word. “I am surprised you do not know from your histories that Carthage was once the third greatest city in the Empire! Half a million souls! Capital of an
Exarchate!”
“In the time of Justinian!” Nikolaios snapped. “We can’t control such an Empire! Justinian’s experience should have…”
“The Patriarch of Konstantinopolis tomorrow will call for the reconquest of Carthage, that she might be added to the list of holy Patriarchates,” Christophoros smiled thinly. “And the lands held by Beni Halal will prove an ideal springboard for an invasion of Italy…”
“You get ahead of yourself,” Nikolaios warned. “I am the Emperor, I decide when and where we go to war!”
“That may be,” Christophoros said, before smiling, “but if the
dynatoi, the Patriarch, and the people want war, an Emperor must comply! And,” Christophoros added darkly, “there are many of the new
and old
dynatoi are fearful that an Emperor who is an Arpad might…”
Nikolaios started to open his mouth, but nothing came out. It was a thought that hadn’t even crossed his mind – that the nobles might feel he was beholden to the Western Emperor.
“…might what?” Nikolaios pressed.
“Might make themselves more beholden to the Western Emperor and his claims on Italy, instead of taking steps to ensure Romanion retakes lands that belong to her,” Christophoros leveled the charge calmly. “You know, and I know, that such beliefs are untrue, but the
dynatoi…”
Nikolaios fumed. He had no doubt that Christophoros had fanned the flames of that rumor. Yet, ambushed as he was, the Emperor could see little way out of it. If he asserted his prerogatives and refused permission, there was now little doubt that Christophoros would complain to those “in the know” that Nikolaios was refusing him access to the natural springboard to Sardinia and Italy – North Africa. Thus the Emperor was ceding Italy to the interests of Rome and the German Emperor, not those of Romanion…
“Fine, I’ll grant my permission,” Nikolaios grumbled, “so long as you use only the troops the Imperial hand allots you.”
Christophoros smiled with self confidence and bowed. “Of course, Majesty.”
Nikolaios closed his eyes. He knew what was coming, and he was powerless to stop it.
The Romanoi were gifted with the largest fleet in the medieval world, allowing them the ability to launch far-flung invasions like that of Beni Halal