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All Hail General_BT
Savior of the Romans!!


Who seconds this post?

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Very interesting. You put so much effort in this, it's awesome.

Just a point: Girona has no sea port, it's an inland city. And quite inland, like 40 minutes from the sea by car. But I like to see my home city so well positioned in the Spanish Empire.
 
Just a point: Girona has no sea port, it's an inland city. And quite inland, like 40 minutes from the sea by car..

Girona is situated on a big river unless Im much mistaken, and this being the middle age, ships are small enough to go up rivers, that cant carry any major trade today. So it could still have a sizeable port dispite being inland.
 
Enewald - I searched up and down for any hints of actual Byzantine demographics... couldn't find any, at least in the time frame I gave myself (a few hours of looking before work). Anatolia's population might have been much higher if that stat turned out true...

RGB - Southern Lebanon got nailed by part of the Great Flood Tide, while northern Lebanon's trade is getting siphoned off by a re-energized Antioch...

asd21593 - Indeed--and the scary thing is what if Roman Persia expanded out to include historical Persia... Zaranj, Ghazni, Merv, Balkh, Mashad, Bam... all large historical cities, and none of which are in Roman Persia...

Qorten - Keeping clear of trouble and collecting riches in the process? That sounds like a winning combo to me too!

armoristan - BT Restitutor? I do believe we get ahead of ourselves. :)

Nikolai - That smiley is amazingly cute! I want one!

Cèsar de Quart - Welcome to the AAR, first of all, and second--nope, had no idea about Girona. We'll just fudge it and follow Siind's idea. :D

Kirsch27 - That's according to the wiki entry on the history of Santiago de Compostella, and I've seen maps of the post-Roman Empire that have Suebi in Galicia.

Siind - Good point (and nice author save!) :D


Next update proper is about 50% done, where we'll head back to Persia, and you'll meet a man who'll play a major role in the fight against the Mongols...
 
Very nice, and your demographics are well put together for the time you took on them. For reference, your population figure for the Empire as a whole closely resembles that of the Empire of Justinian. That's as good a point as any to start for a revived Roman Empire. The demographic bias towards the east is also rather historical -- the lower Balkans, Anatolia, Egypt, and the Levant (which I'm using to mean the whole eastern Mediterranean seaboard) did have a major demographic advantage over the west until about the 14th century.

EDIT: I have one objection though: No Philadelphia :(
 
Call me a pessimist but im worried about Konstantinopolis. Im suspicious of another Neapolis like event.

Please BT dont do it!

Also, Nikephoros and Gabriel are suprisingly similar, both show favour to the islamic populations of their empires and both have mighty military conquests at suprisingly young ages. I hope it doesnt come to blow between these two, especially with the mongols around the corner.

One more thing. Is the Konstantinopolis update gonna have lots of architecture porn? :D
 
Update is now about 80% done... I have some text holes to fill and graphics to find... hopefully it'll be completed and up tomorrow!

Servius Magnus - Gabriel and Nikephoros are definitely headed down the same path for many similar reasons--both are in regions that are heavily Islamicized, and its politically to their advantage to be respectful of Muslim tradition and culture, unlike Gabriel's brother Thomas... and as for the Konstantinopolis update, yes, there will be architecture porn, alot of which I'll have to splice together myself with Photoshop. :)

Issac Wolfe - It'll be a sight to see... I hope. The graphics are going to be the tricky part...

Plushie - I'm glad my numbers came out close, overall! It'd make sense the Empire and those regions would be approaching that total... the 13th century is about when Europe was peaking after the Dark Age population plunge...

armoristan - All I'll say is to check the Mazadaram city entry. Zoroastrianism still has its sway in Gilan and Mazadaram at this time--in our timeline, it was on its very last legs, but who is to say if the holdouts don't gain a new lease on life in this one? :)
 
EDIT: I have one objection though: No Philadelphia :(

Yeah...I did have Philadelphia/Amman on my Jerusalem maps, but I didn't notice it on BT's.

Maybe the Transjordan isn't doing so well in this TL.
 
“A curse on you!”

The shout instantly caught the Emperor’s attention, and Thomas spun around to face the still prone and bleeding Friedrich. Mourtzes could see the same great breaths as the Emperor stalked over to the wounded man, and with a mailed fist slapped him across the face also. There was a sickening crack.

“What did you say, cur?!” Thomas screeched, his voice sounded like some demon banshee.

“A curse on you!” the German snarled between the blood and pulp that were now his lips and teeth. “A curse on all your line bearing your name!” The German rocked as blood seeping from his jerkins, and ran across the stone balcony. “May every son in your family named Thomas die in raving, stark madness! May God strip them of their wealth, their name, their health, and their loved ones!”

The strategos looked up at the Emperor, surprised. Thomas stood there, eyes flared wide, visibly heaving with each breath. Considering the speed with which Thomas had just casually tossed the Pope over the balcony, why was this German, spouting epithets and things far worse still shouting his obscene threats and curses on the Imperial line?

“What?” Thomas asked yet again, that quiet, damning whisper returning.

“May their penises wither and crack!” the German snarled, grasping onto the stone railing, slowly, desperately pulling himself up. “May their wives die in childbirth, may they love men, not women! May they rise against you, and bring you bitterness and shame in your shortened days!”


I think i know whats wrong with Thomas III...
 
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“Do not destroy the Turk. One day, they will save us.” – attributed to Basil Megaloprepis


March 3rd, 1240
Isfahan, Persia


Gabriel Komnenos quietly spun the new ring on his left finger and sighed. It’s silver chased with white gold was more ornate than he was used to wearing—one of the ‘perks’ of the new title he’d rather quietly accepted—Despotes of Persia, in addition to his Imperial rank. Around him, the unease in the room was readily apparent—his friend and sometimes bedmate David Paleologus, the heavy chain of the office of Megoslogothetes hanging grimly around his neck, was pacing back and forth. Gabriel’s two principal subordinate commanders for the upcoming war were also nervous as well. Pudgy Leon Gabras’ nervous drumming of his fingers on the table didn’t bother the Emperor, but the way Gabriel’s uncle, the respected grey-haired Thomas Dadinai, chewed on his lip as he stared into the fire unnerved the young man.

They had reason to be nervous—apparently, the Mongols had moved, and moved swiftly. The first inklings in Isfahan that something was wrong was a sudden influx of refugees in Amol and Sari—people claiming they were from Samarkhand and Bukhara. The short-lived Khwarezm rebellion was at an end, snuffed out by a Mongol army “as vast as the sands of the desert.” The upstart Khwarezm Shah had been butchered, his army slaughtered, and the two great cities burned, their walls leveled to the ground. Then reports filtered in from further south—the great city of Ghazni, razed. Zaranj pressed, the Seljuks being driven from yet another capital, the Sultan and his army taking to the hills. From the south, reports flooded in of Turkish refugees – men, women and children – fleeing into Roman lands.

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“How many refugees?” Gabriel asked, finally breaking the silent gloom that seemed to dance in the dark shadows left by the twisting tendrils of flame in the fireplace. They would be just one more hindrance—Gabriel had no doubt the tagmata would move them through with professional quickness—they had managed a horde of people fleeing the Mongols before, it was just not the thing he hoped to see on the eve of one of the greatest campaigns in the history of the Empire. Defeating the Mongols would be hard enough by itself. Defeating the Mongols while shepherding frightened Khwarzemis was another. Doing the above while also keeping an eye on Turks fleeing into the border?

Gabriel shook his head yet again.

“Thousands,” David murmured. “Fleeing Zaranj and Afghanistan for Yazd and the Persian Gulf coast. Strategos Phokas has called on the small Persian flotilla off the Arabian coast to start ferrying them to Basra. We also sent word to Prince Antiochites at Karbala to expect their arrival… same procedure as before.” The Megoslogothetes scratched his head. “It’s just diverting resources we need elsewhere. Not to mention that so many Turks in our borders are making more than a few people skittish.”

Gabriel’s eyes flashed up towards those of his uncle. As he expected, Thomas Dadiani seemed to be glaring at the world, and no one in particular.

“I don’t like him coming to Isfahan,” Dadiani growled. “I know, nephew, you think he’s coming to offer an alliance, but letting him see our defenses here? We only fought his father ten years ago to take this place from them!”

“I’m just leery of any groups flooding our borders. Especially with what happened out West. Help can turn to worse in a second,” Gabras offered darkly.

Gabriel sighed, and tossed the reports into the fire. That was a sorry state of affairs.

“Damn Nikephoros,” the Emperor muttered, watching the parchments curl in the flames. If Adrianos had been left to his own devices, Michael would be defeated now, and the Prince of Edessa would be reinforcing Persia with his badly needed troops! But no—Gabriel’s cousin hadn’t silenced that two-bit priest in Spain, and hordes of Latins had jumped on ships, and sailed West.

“King in Carthage my ass,” Dadiani grumbled darkly.

Gabriel grumbled in reply. Some Latin lord named Maurice de Bracy had been the leader of the Latin ‘Crusaders.’ Yet instead of even sniffing the Holy Land, de Bracy and 30,000 Latin knights and their retainers had landed in northern Africa, declaring that they intended to conquer the city for Christ once and for all. They’d proceeded to burn mosques, looting Muslim and Christian alike, then laid the greatest Imperial city in the West under siege. Five months earlier, Carthage fell—and de Bracy had the temerity to declare himself Maurice I, King of Africa.

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“He’s not alone,” Gabriel added. “Nikephoros had a hand in the mess. More than a hand.”

“I’ll give Nikephoros credit,” Dadinai grumbled, “he did come to fix the damn problem he helped start.”

“Fix?” Gabriel laughed harshly. “Those Latins burning Carthage, seizing Sicily, and declaring an independent ‘Christian’ kingdom is a mere ‘problem?’” Gabriel’s hands scratched across the table, found another date, and angrily threw it into the fire. “That’s not a mere problem, it’s a disaster! And fix? Anyone that thinks Nikephoros is ‘helping’ is an idiot! Why would he land 40,000 men in Italy when the Latins have set up their abomination in Sicily and Carthage! He plainly means to gobble up Italy!”

“Adrianos and this Nikephoros are up to something,” David murmured in agreement. “Why else would Michael still be running about Italy between the two of them and their vast armies?” For his part, the Megoslogothetes of Persia spat towards the fire. “Lord knows they also have enough strength to wipe out those Latins too, instead of making plans to go to Konstantinopolis together!”

“Yes, they are certainly up to something,” Gabriel agreed glumly. Adrianos was plainly a snake, that was to be sure. The man had taken every opportunity he could to aggrandize himself and his family. This Nikephoros was certainly looking to be the same—Gabriel suspected the Latins that stormed Carthage and declared their “Kingdom of Africa” did so with more than a little encouragement from Cordoba. And behind every shadow, every plot, Gabriel had come to expect the hand of Albrecht von Franken. “Has David told you, uncle, of the note I received two weeks ago that bears Nikephoros’ seal?”

Dadiani shook his head.

“Well, in it he basically offers that if I meet him in Konstantinopolis to discuss ‘something of mutual benefit,’ he’ll personally lead a tagma from his Western army as well as 10,000 levies to aid in our war effort.”

Personally lead them?” Dadiani raised an eyebrow.

“Isn’t that baby crawling awfully far from his crib?” Gabras quipped.

“Whatever he wants, he’s willing to commit to a campaign season in Persia in person, as well as 15,000 men,” David folded his arms. “He’s rocking his queen behind a line of pawns. I don’t like it.”

“He’s also very young. He could simply be foolish,” Gabras offered.

“Not likely, considering how quickly he whipped his nobles in line, or the debacle that is Italy right now,” Gabriel huffed, crossing his arms. “I have no doubts that a week or so before he and Adrianos sail for Konstantinopolis, Michael will suddenly be defeated.” The Emperor sighed. “He won’t be useful anymore, as they won’t need a pretext to be near each other if they’re sailing on the same ship for the same destination.”

“My guess is that he’s going to offer Albrecht something to let him ‘supervise’ Italy on your brother’s behalf, “ David murmured. “That’d be the only reason to allow the Latins to stay also—it’d give him a pretext for offering, after Adrianos leaves to help you with his forces.”

“If that Edessan swine comes at all,” Dadiani hissed.

“Why do you think he’s so desperate to talk with you?”

“I have no idea. It’s the only damn reason I’m quitting Persia into your capable hands for the next two months,” the Emperor nodded to his uncle. “Can’t let the jackals run loose in Konstantinopolis…”

“Not when we’ve got jackals in the palace,” Dadiani grumbled as a servant handed him a brief note. “Apparently the Seljuk Sultan is a little early. He’s awaiting your pleasure in the Throne Room.”

Gabriel’s eyebrow ticked up. The Sultan and his retainers had planned on arriving in Isfahan in two days—Gabriel’s stewards had prepared an appropriate welcoming ceremony, as well as a banquet in his honor. If he was here already…

“Send him in,” Gabriel said warily. Something wasn’t right—if the Sultan was here, already, he clearly didn’t have the retainers or guards he was supposed to. Why would he have traveled to Isfahan without a royal retinue? “Uncle, move across the table to here—we’ll let the Sultan take the chair opposite me.”

As servants left to fetch their unexpected royal guest, Gabriel could feel the tension in the room skyrocket. Everyone present had been on campaign in 1233, and had helped destroy the land of this Sultan’s forefathers. Gabriel didn’t expect it to be a friendly meeting…

Finally the door to the meeting room creaked open. The first thing that Gabriel noticed was that Sulieman II Arslan was far taller than he expected—the man was a positive stick, a few inches over six feet but clearly under 200 pounds. His face was thin, haggard, a scratchy beard of black and grey framing one grim eye and a rude brown cloth that functioned as an eyepatch. Gabras had said that the Sultan had lost his eye during the first desperate defense of Zaranj, where they’d held the Mongols just long enough to evacuate many of the Turks out of the city.

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Holding the Mongols—that alone qualified the man for some esteem from Gabriel, even if he was a Turk.

Slowly, uneasily, the Turk walked into the room, eyes watching four of the men who helped tear down his father’s realm only a decade before. Finally, his eye fell on Gabriel.

“Sultan,” Gabriel nodded slowly saying in his best Turkish, the tension in the room palpable. No Roman Emperor had met a Sultan of the Turks face to face in peace since Basil Megaloprepis and the Sultan’s namesake almost 80 years before.

“Imperial Majesty,” Sulieman responded with an equal nod, his Greek flawless.

“You caught us by surprise,” Gabriel folded his hands quietly, trying to measure the man. “We were told you would be arriving in two days with a hundred guardsmen and another hundred servants and retainers. We weren’t expecting such a surprise arrival…”

The Sultan smiled thinly. “Forgive my sudden arrival, but…” the Sultan suddenly paused, the thin smile wavering for a moment, “but there was a matter I needed to…um… bring to your attention. I…I presume you know why I am here?”

“You seek an alliance?” Gabriel said, motioning for a chair left at the opposite head of the table from his own, smiling to try to put the Sultan at ease. “We’d be…”

“I…” the Sultan started to speak, before something robbed him of his words. Gabriel instinctively stopped speaking as well. For a moment the Sultan glanced downwards, before slowly sliding into the chair set aside for him. “You must forgive me, Majesty. What I am about to say… it…” Another paused, before finally those hazel eyes looked up, hard and defiant. “I come to you on the behalf of my people. We are harried, we are pressed, and we face destruction at the hands of the Mongol. I come here seeking Roman protection for the Turks.” The words tumbled out, embarrassment and shame plain on the face of the ragged Turkish leader.

“Roman…protection?” Gabriel said the words slowly, carefully. Was Sulieman implying…

“Yes. Protection,” the Sultan said quietly, his face looking as if acid had been poured into his mouth. “I…we…we cannot stop them, Majesty. Not alone. My cities are waste, my people are fleeing into your borders at my direction. We humbly… I humbly…request your provide shelter and protection for myself, and my fellow Turks.”

“A…are you offering to kneel?” Dadiani sputtered. The Sultan turned, an acrid look on his face, before slowly, deliberately, he began to rise from his seat.

“I am,” Sulieman said hoarsely. “I am willing to become a subject king, a vassal, to your Empire. I am willing to pledge my men and my treasure, if you pledge your sword and shield.” The Sultan turned back to Gabriel, and started to walk towards the Emperor. Quickly, on instinct, Gabriel raised his hand.

“No,” the Emperor said simply. “Please, don’t kneel, Majesty. It would be unseemly, and do you and your proud people a disservice.”

“So… you reject my request?” Sulieman stopped in mid-stride, a perplexed look covering his face.

“No, I reject you groveling like a chlopish peasant. You are a king, and even as a vassal king, I must show you the dignity of your station.” Gabriel nodded towards the empty chair opposite him. “Please Majesty, sit and be at ease. You are among friends now.”

“He wants…” David, like the others, was still stumbling over the simple idea the Turk, the dreaded enemy of Romanion, were now petitioning for vassalage and protection. Gabriel glanced up, and was amused to find his friend’s jaw was nearly on the ground.

“You wish for lands under the Roman banner?” Gabriel asked, his mind already trying to work out details. The Turks had been thrashed, Zaranj had been burnt, but for their Sultan to travel all the way to Isfahan to kneel?

“Yes, or rights to our lands before this latest Mongol invasion,” Sulieman clarified. “Zaranj, Afghanistan, Ghazni, down to Baluchistan.”

“Hmmm,” Gabriel steepled his fingers. He had already tasted the blood of Turks during his father’s invasion, and like the great Thomas, Gabriel had hoped to bring the Turks to heel one day. But this—the Turks willingly coming to him, kneeling like some barbarian tribe? It was too good to be true. It would definitely rouse the public of the Queen of Cities towards Gabriel even while he was out of the city… and the Turks as a client kingdom to the east of Roman Persia? Gabriel could think of no better guard dogs against nomadic aggression, and no better group to soak up Mongol arrows intended for Romans.

“Agreed,” the Emperor said slowly, “if you, in the name of your people, agree to serve the Roman Emperor when called upon in all perpetuity, to contribute taxes and levies to Roman coffers when required, and to acknowledge the Emperor of the Romans as your lawful sovereign. In return,” Gabriel added precisely, “we agree to place the Turks under our protection, we will raise swords against your enemies, and,” Gabriel added, “in no way interfere with the internal politics of your people.”

“Does that include religion?” the Sultan asked warily.

“It does,” Gabriel replied simply. To the Emperor’s delight, the Sultan’s face relaxed after those words.

“I… Majesty…” the Sultan stumbled slightly, plainly dizzy from the suddenness with which Gabriel had accepted his kneeling without making him grovel, “that would be more than acceptable to me and my person. I, and my fifteen thousand riders will be at your service, pending...finalization…of all the details?”

“I believe that can be the start of an arrangement,” Gabriel smiled, trying to keep the worry out of his face. The Sultan had only fifteen thousand riders left? That was all the mighty Turkish empire had been reduced to? Part of Gabriel smugly thought it was no wonder the Turks had agreed to kneel. Another part glumly remarked that meant the Mongols were far more devastating than he, or his advisors, had anticipated. Nonetheless, fifteen thousand Turkish riders would be invaluable. The Turks knew the nomadic art of fighting by horseback by heart. They weren’t up to the same level as the Mongols, but they were close, much closer than any of the Roman or Persian forces under Gabriel’s banner.

“But, for the meantime, Majesty, you are my guest. You are free to choose any apartment you like in my palace to call home, while your officials coordinate with mine,” Gabriel nodded to Paleologus, “to finalize these preliminaries. In the meantime, Majesty, I wish to know what happened exactly at Zaranj. Please, sit. If we are to work together, I need to know how the Mongol came at you, as much as you can remember.”

“Um…” The Sultan finally sat down, then looked down for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. “We’d been bested by the Mongols twice in the field—once outside Heart and once closer to Zaranj. Those were only holding actions, giving us time for what we hoped would be a siege that would break the back of their invasion,” the Sultan said, before sighing. “They came at Zaranj with a large force—one tumen, and at least 30,000 levies,” the Sultan pointed a thin finger at the immense map. “Their leader is unknown to me—though there was at least one woman storming our walls.”

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“A woman?” Dadiani’s eyebrow arced upwards.

“I heard reports from some of the refugees from Samarkand,” David spoke up, “saying that there was a woman among the Mongols on their battlements as well.”

“A woman there too?” Gabriel frowned. Unusual. The Cumans had occasionally let women ride into battle, but this was the first of such barbarity he’d heard from the Mongols. “Richly attired, or poorly clad?” he asked anyone, hoping someone would know.

“Clad in silks, fine armor,” the Sultan said stiffly. “My bannerman, Ibrahim, crossed swords with her. Said she was the fastest swordsman he’s ever seen.”

Gabriel glanced over to David, who nodded as well. The Emperor frowned. Poorly clad women implied desperation—men calling on their wives to fight. A richly clad woman? Daugher of a noble of some kind? That wouldn’t be as common…

“So the same units that wiped out Khwarezm are now pressing the Turk?” Gabriel thought aloud. He frowned—it didn’t make any sense. If he had 200,000 soldiers, he’d launch a wide frontal push, hitting as many places as he could to test, to probe, to goad the enemy into battle. Instead, Hulagu was holding a massive strategic reserve? What for?

“He’s going for Sari and Amol,” Gabriel said suddenly.

“Sari?” the Sultan murmured, clearly confused. In his day, it’d been a sleeping town on the Caspian coast…

“They’re the hip of our defenses in northern Persia,” the Emperor explained. “Those two fortress cities and Mazadaram are the keys to the Caspian coast, and the first step towards cutting Isfahan off from Mesopotamia and the rest of the Empire.” Yes… that’s what Hulagu was after. It had to be. “The attacks on your people are meant to lure us/i] southward, away from the three fortresses.”

“You’re going to just tell him our deployments, nephew?” Dadiani whispered harshly, eyes looking warily towards the Turkish lord. “He’s spoken nice words, but there have been no actions…

Gabriel glared at his uncle. “I am going to tell him, as he is my client and vassal,” he said, purposefully loud enough so the Sultan could hear, before letting his voice drop to a whisper matched only by the winter winds outside. “And you, uncle, would do well to remember that I an Emperor, you are not, and you will not question my authority in front of others again!” Gabriel ended his threat with an icy smile. At Dadiani’s silence, he turned back to the Sultan. “As you can see, we’ve split our border into zones, Majesty,” Gabriel explained, pointing to the map. “Here, in the north out of Mazadaram, is my uncle Thomas’ command with a field force of two tagmata and 20,000 Persian levies. Here,” Gabriel’s finger drifted to the far south, “out of Yazd is Prince Gabras, with the same. In the middle, reserve, is myself with eight tagmata, as well as 40,000 Persian levies.”

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“They’re job is to delay?” Sulieman at the map, plainly awed by its immense size and detail.

“Yes,” Gabriel smiled slightly. “We didn’t know where the Mongol blow is going to fall exactly, or in what number. We thought it unlikely the full 200,000 or thereabouts will attack on one point. These local field armies have the job of delaying, engaging only if they have a significant advantage. Additionally, we’ve deployed 120,000 politkoi—trained militia—into the cities of Sari, Amol, Yazd and a string of forts we’ve built in-between. They’re role is the same—delay. Our was to pin the Mongols on the frontier for a week, maybe two, just long enough for us to use some forced marches to concentrate on one part of the Mongol invasion with the entire force.”

“Ah,” Sulieman nodded with a smile, but in that one word there was a mixture of approval, awe, and hope. The entire operation was complex, and needed a network of couriers and coordination that no one outside of the Roman Empire could manage…

…save the Mongols.

“Now, with your information about Zaranj, I think this will be changing. For now, Majesty, your main job is to safeguard your people crossing into southern Persia while your army keeps the Mongols in the south busy. Gabras,” Gabriel turned to the Prince of Hamadan, “send one of your tagmata and a few levies south—preferably raucous, ill-trained levies, the kind that will open their mouths for a few drinks or coin. Act like you’re moving to intercept the Turks,” Gabriel nodded towards the Sultan.

Sulieman’s face beamed. “So the Mongol will think you’re moving south to stop me, when in fact all of this,” Sulieman gestured to the Roman armies around Isfahan, as well as the rest of Gabras’ force, “will instead march north. But how to keep that large a movement secret?”

“We’ll use the deserts north of Yazd to cover much of the march. Majesty, I’ll need guides, good guides, from some of your men. They know the land better than we Romans, some of them fought against us there.” Gabriel was up out of his seat, eyeing the map, thinking quickly. “How long do you think we have?” he muttered aloud, to no one in particular.

“Until the Mongols are convinced you are deployed to face me and my people,” Sulieman said quietly. “Then whatever is up there,” the Sultan pointed to Transoxiania, “will move south. Six months?”

“That’s what I was thinking exactly,” Gabriel nodded in agreement. “Six months—still enough time to go to Konstantinopolis to meet Nikephoros, and see if he’s genuine with his offer to come East…”

==========*==========​

So armies are finally on the move. Nikephoros is coming to Konstantinopolis, with an offer for Gabriel, while Sulieman Arslan has seen the writing on the wall for his empire and sought shelter with the only power seemingly capable of stopping the Mongol juggernaught. What’s Nikephoros’ offer? Will Basil’s old prediction about the Turks hold true, and Gabriel and the Romans successfully hold Persia? Or have things deteriorated to the point a Neapolis the Second in the offing? And finally, what the hell happened between Frederica and Thomas? More to come, when Rome AARisen continues!
 
Gabriel is really genorous to his new vassal king.
 
The sultan is actually a mongol spy sent by Hulagu to find out the Roman Positions and is doing this so the mongols will give them stewardship over the lands of persia taken from the romans in exchange for vassalage.
 
I have a feeling that the disaster of 378 might happen once again. :cool:
Nikephoros shall propose a deal, he shall make the rebels in Carthage kneel to him, aka Western Roman Emperor and be rewarded with those lands if he gives troops for the Eastern Campaigns? :p

A plan more clever would be to settle the turks in North Africa...
 
Gabriel went a little to far with equality. I can live with the whole not kneeling thing but calling him a king? He should be adressed as a Prince and nothing more.

And what the hell happened between Thomas and Frederica?!

Subcomandante - That fighting woman was someone among the lines of a Roman Joan d'Arc if I remember correctly.
 
That's a lot of travel in six months, and that if the estimates are correct.

Nikephoros is playing some large game there...