Alright… this one took forever to crank out, but here it is. Before we get to it, I owe people some more replies.
Avarri – David’s wasn’t that high really… if I remember right, it was a 13. So he was gifted, but not as naturally gifted as Mehtar. In this case, Mehtar was blinded a bit by love, and David blindsided him.
Enewald – No, David doesn’t become a gladiator either. And yes, in Basil’s case the Komnenid problem of too many heirs arises again. Whether they are ‘capable’ or not, I leave for you to decide after reading the following…
The_Archduke – In the AAR, yes, Rodrigo is still spymaster. I tend to keep the AAR offices separate from the actual in game ones, because often I don’t have the names even of some of the people who served in the offices that weren’t exceptional (Mehtar, of course, being an exception). It also allows me to slide developed characters into places that make sense, rather than introducing people willy nilly for a scene or two before dropping them again.
DarthJF – Hooray! You’ve caught up! Yes, amongst the three eldest, its pick your poison… David is very skilled but rather arrogant, Thomas is vicious and cruel, and Manuel is a do nothing who will earn a lot of enemies despite his intellect. David overall would make the best emperor, but as Byzantine history shows us, the best heir doesn’t necessarily inherit.
RGB – It would be something to do in honor of good old Manuel’s memory, that’s for certain!
Lordling – One can argue that a Manuel type of Emperor would be better, in the long run, than a Basil. Basil makes spectacular military gains, but Manuel, despite trying conditions, had nearly all of Byzantine society cowed. In a huge, sprawling empire, making sure the various nobles are subservient to the central will could be more useful than being an honorable and brilliant general…
Estonianzulu – David did indeed play Mehtar. It remains to be seen though if Mehtar will turn this tune around and play David in return…
4th Dimension – Welcome to the AAR, glad to hear you’ve caught up! Yes, if the rivalry breaks into the open, it could be the prelude to a long civil war at the worst possible time. To answer your questions – yes, the Swedes are still on Majorca, though they haven’t really done much lately. As for Mehtar, I myself don’t know. The closest thing I can guess (since his mother was also Spanish) was that before they arrived in Constantinople’s court they spent time in an Arabicized court (there were plenty amongst the Byzantine duchies and counties) and when Mehtar was born the name randomizer rolled the 15% for “local culture.” His younger brothers are either Spanish or Greek (and were born in Constantinople), so that’s my best guess as to how it happened.
And now, the next update!
September 1st, 1181
Thomas Komnenos, third son of Basil, Emperor of the Romans, sighed and downed another cup of wine.
Most other men would have been joyous on such a night. Only five hours before, Thomas and his father had been looking at annihilation. The Emperor had been able for two years to artfully dodge the massive, lumbering attacks launched by the Moroccan Sultan, but with every passing month, the immense noose around Spain grew tighter and tighter still. As the Emperor smashed a Moroccan army at Badajoz, Valencia fell. As he crushed a group under the Sultan’s own son at Hermansillo, Seville surrendered to the enemy.
Simply put, even with Basil at the head of the
Basilikon Hispanikon Stratos, the sheer weight of the Moorish attack was telling. For all his brilliance, Basil could only be in one place at once. For all his ferocity, Thomas could not be at multiple battlefields at the same time – and slowly, over two years, the noose tightened. Eventually in August of 1181 the Emperor and his depleted army found themselves caught – fast on their heels were 30,000 men of the Sultan, while scouts to the north brought ominous news that the Emir of Catalonia was moving south with another 20,000 to intercept. As much as Basil, Thomas, and the
strategoi dodged, the jaws of the Moorish trap seemed to come ever closer by the day.
Not that the Romans were going to die without a fight, and Prince Thomas was almost always at the front by his father’s side, even saving the old man several times in battle through sheer ferocity alone. At the Second Battle of Niebla Thomas had personally charged into a detachment of Moorish lancers to extricate his trapped father. At Almeria he’d challenged and killed the Moorish commander in single combat, and at Gujara he was so covered in Moorish blood his men thought he was bleeding from every orifice in his body. He knew his reputation amongst the Moors, and prided himself on wearing ostrich feathers, dyed red, on his helmet – the sign that
Shaitan was unleashing the fury of his blade.
Yet even this was not enough. Thomas himself had narrowly avoided capture seven times in the past eight months, and even as the nicks and pits in his sword grew, the strength of his cavalry units fell. By August 29th, things indeed seemed grim. While no news had come from the north of the Emir’s movements, Basil and Thomas both assumed the worst – their scouts had been cut off and killed. With the Sultan himself fast on their heels, it seemed there would be only a matter of days.
Emperor Basil won many otherwise ‘crushing’ victories during the first phase of the Third Spanish Campaign. Here, at Tarragona, he utterly wiped out a Moorish column of 8000 at minimal loss. However…
Seemingly for every victory the Emperor earned in the field, more Moorish reinforcements poured into Spain, from not just the north, but across the Straits of Hercules to the south…
Until Basil found himself in this unenviable situation. A powerful Moorish force has invaded through Badajoz, then split into columns to siege Cordoba, Seville and Granada. It takes all of Basil’s efforts to try to tangle with what he hoped would be the main Moorish army at Cordoba – instead it was a mere detachment, 4,000 strong. After the fall of Seville and Granada, the main Moorish force, totaling nearly 30,000, would march north after Basil’s much smaller force (after two years of war, whittled down to some 18,000 under arms)…
And then their “hero” arrived.
Thomas nodded to Mehtar as the wet and bedraggled man stumbled over to a place beside him at the camp table. He’d ridden long and hard to tell them that the Emperor’s son had managed to sneak a sizable army across from Italy, and it was his troops, not God, that had caused the Sultan’s northern armies to vanish – to turn around to their own doom, outside of Barcelona, beneath the blades of his men. Mehtar spoke of a vicious, pitched battle that saw three of the Sultan’s best lieutenants killed, and, as usual, the
Kaisar staying far above the fray itself.
David’s brilliance struck once again, to Thomas’ regret and chagrin.
Shaitan wanted to cut another long, glorious swath through the Moors, just as the Roman Emperors of old would have. Even now David was moving south, at all speed. All Basil and Thomas had to do was to stay alive, for a week longer at most.
“He makes it so easy,” Thomas muttered under his breath as he looked around the small camp table – it was nice and cozy, the way things should be. His father sat across from him, laughing and joking with his commanders and Mehtar, doubtlessly relieved that the noose around their neck had seemingly lifted. There was also Thomas’ uncle Demetrios Koutsos, hunched and grim as always – he served as quartermaster of the small ragtag army, a position Thomas was sure only soured his already grumpy disposition. Then there was the bearer of wanted, yet unwanted news himself – Mehtar Lainez.
Thomas’ childhood friend plopped onto a camp stool next to him, as one of the
strategoi dropped hunk of roasted boar down between them all. It’d been cooked horribly – the outside was charred black, the inside still red and dripping. It was no matter – to all of them, food was food.
“Mehtar!” Thomas looked up at his beaming father, “I have yet to hear an angel’s trumpet that sounds as sweet as the words you spoke earlier tonight! So David marches?”
“Marches hard, Majesty,” Mehtar started to explain. Thomas didn’t care to listen. Whatever glory could have been taken from Spain was now long gone – it would all be David’s.
And that irked Thomas to no end. David was a
coward, nothing more! He never took the front, he relied on plots and deviousness whereas Thomas relied on the old Roman tradition of cold, hard steel. David laughed at Thomas for his ideas – what was wrong with
Rome becoming a
Roman city once more? All in all, the more Thomas heard his brother speak, the more he was convinced he was nothing more than a Greek in Roman clothing.
“Blasted Greeks,” Thomas muttered under his breath, not realizing a moment of silence had covered the conversation of the others. Immediately, all eyes in the small tent were on the prince.
“What is wrong with the Greeks?” Basil looked up, confused.
“He is probably referring to the ‘Greek condition,” Koutsos said blandly. “Yes, ‘tis something unfortunate to have. I remember a story, about your great-uncle Nikolaios…”
Thomas sighed. Koutsos’ stories went on forever, and tended to require audience participation. The prince only wanted to finish the boat meat on his plate in peace. “I care not to know of this ‘Greek condition’ you speak of,” Thomas said, hoping to cut his uncle short.
“Ah, that’s well and fine. You know, I had a conversation…”
"Thomas, have you ever heard of the Greek condition?" Mehtar asked, instantly reading his friend’s confusion. Thomas ripped off another chunk of roasted boar and sighed. Mehtar had always been one to ask Thomas questions. Sometimes they were useful, like when Mehtar asked him questions to calm him when he was enraged. Sometimes, like now, they were more annoying than anything – Thomas didn’t care, but one look at his father spoke that the Emperor Basil did.
Everyone spoke nasty rumors about Mehtar, rumors Thomas knew were designed to merely separate him from his best friend and most capable ally. It’d be ludicrous to think that Mehtar was interested in men! Why would he be Thomas’ friend then?
"Yes, I have,” he muttered. “Isn’t in the condition of not being able to shut up and let me eat my dinner?" he turned and glared at Koutsos. His uncle shriveled backwards under the gaze. Too many questions about supplies and troop dispositions made Thomas an angry fellow. Tales of bawdiness and bravery – those were more up to the Prince’s liking.
“I think what young Lainez is attempting to say…” Koutsos tried to sputter, before Thomas cut him off.
“You think I need you to interpret for me what my best friend is trying to tell me?” Thomas blurted around a piece of chewy boar. He glared at his uncle – Koutsos wasn’t like Mehtar… the Lainez boy knew when he was testing Thomas’ patience, and knew how to tell Thomas what he needed without making Thomas angry and resentful – something the prince fully appreciated. Koutsos, however, was a haughty bent man, inflated because he’d served as
Kaisar for so long. Thomas didn’t have time for such airheads. “Fool, he was merely quieting you down. If anyone at the table is suffering from the Greek condition, it’s you, Koutsos! Speaking and philosophizing like you’re Aristotle when you should be donning armor and fighting in the field like a true
Roman.”
Snickers went around the table, and Thomas joined in. Obviously they were laughing at poor stupid Koutsos. His father looked appalled, but Thomas had already decided that his father looked appalled at any kind of humor. He’d always been a stick in the mud.
“Come, Mehtar, we should take some air and get away from these
Greeks,” he cast a dreadful glare at his uncle.
Mehtar gracefully excused himself from the table, while Thomas abruptly stumbled outside. All around them, the noise and bustle of an army at camp surrounded them. The Prince brought up a wine flask, and after offering some to his friend, stood and looked off into the darkness.
“How many does he bring?” Thomas asked, bringing the bottle of wine to his lips.
“18,000 foot and 7,000 horse,” Mehtar said simply.
Thomas whistled quietly. That force was larger than the one he and his father now jointly commanded.
“I need to ask this,” Thomas leaned close and whispered. He saw Mehtar’s eyes light up momentarily. “How, in the name of God and all His angels, did you pull that off? 25,000 men? From under that old Frankish bastard’s nose?”
David’s initial landings in Catalonia – some 4,000 soldiers landed in the first wave. Another 21,000 followed behind
Thomas looked up, and to his surprise he saw Mehtar look down, slightly sad, before giving a sigh.
“It was relatively easy,” he said. “Brescia and the skirmishes over the past few months had convinced Drogo that forcing a Po crossing would be impossible. So we stripped men from those bridges after building up more defenses. Even now Drogo’s still pacing around Brescia trying to figure a way around.”
Thomas watched his friend give his standard ‘it was easy’ shrug, and laughed, patting Mehtar on the back. “You, my friend, have unbridled brilliance!” The prince looked off to the northwest, into the darkness. Somewhere, out there, was his brother’s army – and on the morrow, or the next day, or whenever the two Roman armies united and battle was finally joined, Thomas was determined to be in the front. Strategy could lead to a victory, but blood on a sword meant glory. “I’m glad you’re here, at my side, and not shackled to David any longer.”
“I’m glad too,” Mehtar stuttered.
He put his arm around his friend, and gestured towards the new Roman army, hidden by the cloaks of night and distance. “With you here helping me, it won’t matter that David’s pulled this little coup. We’ll still get father to like me more. You’ve spoken to him already, yes?”
Mehtar nodded.
“You told him it was all your idea?”
Mehtar nodded again.
“Excellent. Credit where credit is due, even if father will flaunt it onto the shoulders of his eldest, most sycophantic son,” Thomas said harshly. He loved his father, he truly did, but he believed Basil purposefully overlooked the harsher sides of David’s character – his weakness, his shyness from the actual combat of battle. Thomas was the loyal one that served in the doomed Spanish theater, just to serve by his father’s side. Thomas was the one that’d saved the Emperor several times, while David racked up glory in Italy. Thomas deserved the crown, not David!
The Prince looked back up in frustration – thoughts of David’s success versus his own always got him agitated and irate. Why should David be
Kaisar? For all his father knew, David could be plotting with Leo, or even that simpering Pope in Rome, to take over the crown! And why didn’t the true
Romans rule from Rome even?!
“Rome, again?” Mehtar said gently, pulling Thomas from the spiral of angry thoughts. Grumpily the prince nodded.
“Rome, David, all running together,” Thomas waved his arms up in frustration. “Bah! How do I ensnare David in his own success?” the Prince asked desperately. David
had pulled a major coup – and in a stroke, Spain had gone from a lost cause to an easy victory. Yet Thomas knew on the morrow, when David’s troops marched into the fray, their Prince would not be at their head – no, he would skulk about the tail of the army, “issuing orders and commanding men,” instead of leading them by example, like Thomas would.
Mehtar looked down for a second, the long shadows made by the campfires dancing across his face like dark fingers. Finally, after a few moments, Mehtar looked up.
“Do nothing,” he said.
“Do nothing?” Thomas repeated, confusion slowly spreading across his face. “Do nothing? Wh…” Out of practice, the Prince stopped his protests, raised his hands and bowed his head. Mehtar would have an explanation – Thomas need not ask for that.
“Your father will expect you to come to him pouting and complaining, actions that I doubt the Emperor approves of,” Mehtar explained. “Your brother is conniving, devious, and brutal, it is true, but he hides these traits well. I mean no offense, but your constant behavior only camoflages his actions even more.”
The last part bit into Thomas slightly, but he, in turn, bit his tongue, and nodded.
“David will misstep – the time will come eventually, and when he does, will you not want to be ready to step in, as the good son, to accept in full your father’s good graces at his downfall?” Mehtar smiled darkly.
“So we wait,” Thomas started to catch on, “and play the good, quiet child, while David acts like David…”
“Yes,” Mehtar nodded. “And once David has acted like David enough, your father will tire of him, and you, Thomas, will find the chain of the
Kaisar draped around your neck.”
Thomas Komnenos might not have been as clever as his brother David, but he knew when to leave plotting to those more capable than him…
“But Mehtar,” Thomas’ cheerful face suddenly darkened as concern overtook his glee, “how will we ensure that David acts to my father’s displeasure?”
“I will make those arrangements,” Mehtar said simply.
Thomas started to ask what those arrangements were, but he saw that look in Mehtar’s eyes – the look that said to leave him to his own devices. So, instead of questioning, Thomas Komnenos merely shrugged, and laughed.
“And how do I know I can trust you, master of shadows?” Thomas said playfully.
For a second Mehtar looked taken aback, until by his eyes he realized it was merely a jest. His eyes softened, and silence hung in the air between them for a few seconds before he finally spoke.
"Thomas, don't you enjoy the company of other men? For I enjoy yours – that is how you can trust me," Mehtar said, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. Thomas rolled his eyes – his friend was always asking him that question. Thomas thought it went without saying. So he was going to play coy. Fine.
"Who doesn't?” the prince rolled his eyes. “Who else will fight beside me, then get me drunk and find me a wench?” The prince looked down into his cup. A sadly empty abyss stared back at him. “I'm going to go get an ale," he shook his head, slapping Mehtar on the back.
Lainez could be so daft sometimes.
