Irsh Faq - The Scots-Komnenoi coming back to their origin would be the comeback to beat all comebacks!
MajorStoffer - First of all, welcome to the thread! I'm glad you've enjoyed the story, and I've as I've always said, the atmosphere other readers create (from Mehtar Delenda Est to the current clamor for more Scots-Komnenoi) helps make this story enjoyable for everyone--both you the reader, and me as the author! Peek in occasionally when you're taking breaks from the Crovans, hopefully we can be a good distraction once more.
The_Archduke - It was so indelibly yours that when you disappeared for a bit everyone missed seeing it!
Here it is... finally. I can't wait until Black Friday is done, and my work schedule goes back to something more sane...
”The hunt offers all manners of escape, but one must never forget the purpose of a hunt—the kill.” – attributed to Ioannis Angelos
July 12th, 1272
Antemios Syrenios fought the urge to grimace as the noise of the trumpeter’s fanfare receded.
A cacophony of retainers, guards and general hangers-on, clad in the bright purple and gold of the court of Gabriel Komnenos, Emperor in Persia, seemed to cover the marble and mosaic floor of the Hall of Meeting in the
Kosmodion Palace. The vast display of power—so many retainers and servants for a mere emissary—was deliciously ironic considering the precarious state of the Persian realm.
Reports from Persia, despite the fastest of pigeons or ravens, usually a month or two old. The
Kronokratoi had only found out about the disaster at the Caspian Gates only a two weeks before. Since then, Syrenios and his master, the
Archeoikos, had been preparing for this day. Her army battered and the Mongols at the doorsteps of her capital, it was inevitable that Persia would come to Konstantinopolis to ask for aid. Syrenios had expected the Persians to refuse to crawl, but this display was nearly as mind-boggling as the Persian heir’s decision to leave the Persian capital.
Maybe Prince Alexandros was craven. Maybe he was a genius—either way, Syrenios was not sure why the Mongols had delayed their final move on Isfahan. Yes, the Prince had harried their columns further north through raids on their supplies, but surely, Arghun himself would push his men forward—Isfahan was open for the taking, and with it, the heart of Persia proper!
The only Mongol movement that Konstantinopolis knew of, however, was a force apparently under Altani
Khatun that was moving towards the Zagros in force. Syrenios wasn’t a military man, but blocking the passes Gabriel Komnenos needed to take to reinforce his capital seemed obvious. Perhaps that was where Prince Alexandros had raced off towards?
It really didn’t matter to Syrenios as he bowed politely to the latest emissary from the court of Gabriel Komnenos to Konstantinopolis. Great things were about—things that had taken years of thought, planning, and foresight. That alone would make most men smile, but Antemios Syrenios had another reason to enjoy seeing the Perso-Roman before him swallow hard and look around nervously—Ioannis Angelos himself had promised Syrenios that should all go according to plan, his son would become a
Komes outside Samarkand…
“Welcome to the
Kosmodion, Lord Dadiani,” Syrenios said, cat-like eyes smiling sweetly at the confused mouse before him.
Petros Dadiani was, by any measure, a mouse of a man. His father, the great Thomas Dadiani, brother-in-law of Emperor Thomas II, had been a small man too—but where Thomas Dadiani had been a great general and left to his sons the title Prince of Hamadan, Petros looked meek, and completely out of place. He peered into the world through a perpetual squint, and constantly slouched—almost as if he was prepared to duck at any moment. The gem-studded chain that hung around his neck seemed to at once outsparkle and dwarf him.
“Thank you, Master Syrenios,” Dadiani murmured uncertainly, eyes looking about the halls of the largest palace in all the Known World. Throughout the official Great Meeting Hall immense frescoes of the Komnenoi of old—Demetrios
Megas, Basil
Megaloprepis—glared down at the pair from olympian heights. “This place… it is awe-inspiring…”
Syrenios took a single look up at those gold inlaid faces and smirked. “Indeed. Come,” he gently motioned the awestruck ambassador towards a side door, “Let’s sit, have a drink, and discuss the reason for your visit, hmm?”
Syrenios led the man through a series of doors and corridors, to the precise room he and his master had agreed upon months before. It was a beautifully ordained meeting chamber, with fine mosaics and lush tapestries on the wall—one of the many rooms in the palace that was personally lavished on by the late Thomas III. Yet Syrenios didn’t want the finery to attract his counterpart’s eye—oh no.
He wanted the man already standing in the room to do so—and by how quickly Lord Petros Dadiani’s eyes went wide, Syrenios knew the presence of a finely dressed Mongol, wearing the signet rings and torques of an ambassador, had done so.
“I…” Dadiani started to stammer.
“Please.” Syrenios motioned for the man to walk forward, then closed the door behind them. “Tell me what your master wishes to say to mine.”
Dadiani’s mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments, his eyes locked on the man. Syrenios knew exactly what the poor emissary was thinking:
A Mongol? Here, in Konstantinopolis?! Surely Andronikos couldn’t be contemplating…
That’s
exactly what Syrenios and his friend
hoped Persians would think.
As if on cue, the Mongol smiled, displaying a brilliant set of gold teeth. Dadiani visibly shivered.
“I…um…” the
Komes stumbled. “I a message I must deliver to His Imperial Majesty! It is of the most urgent business…” the ambassador’s throat jumped as he swallowed again.
“Ah…” Syrenios looked down, feigned dismay on his face, “perhaps I can convey the message to…”
“It…it must be delivered in person!” Dadiani’s eyes went back to the Mongol, then to Syrenios.
“You are excused, as you have been travelling,” the Syrenios said, “but the Empress died in childbirth only three months before. His Imperial Majesty is still in mourning, and desires that no one disturb him from his hunts. If you would be inclined to give
me your message, be it written or spoken,” he smiled thinly, “
I would happily convey it to His Majesty at His Majesty’s earliest convenience.”
“I…um…” the man stumbled, obviously confused. For a few seconds he looked about, before finally settling back on Syrenios. “I fear it is a
private message,” Dadiani finally sputtered out, looking at the Mongol.
“His Majesty has deemed that any message to be discussed is to be discussed in this room and this room only,” Syrenios sighed theatrically. He waved his hand. “A way of ensuring only the people His Majest intends to hear the message do so. And alas, Qabul here is an official ambassador, and to forcibly remove him from a room where he has been waiting patiently would be… diplomatically impolite…”
Dadiani swallowed, as Syrenios smiled. The gauntlet had been thrown, and the poor Persian ambassador clearly understood what it meant. Dadiani seemed to shiver, visibly trying to marshal up his courage, before finally he spoke.
“If I may be frank,” he said in a whisper.
“Please,” Syrenios waved his hands openly. He was fairly sure he knew what was coming—he didn’t know the exact words Dadiani would choose, but he
was sure of the predicament the man’s master faced.
“My master faces numerous foes across a broad range of fronts,” Dadiani sighed. “While he has successfully pulled together those rebellious parts of his realm in the face of the new threat,” the man baldly lied—
that made Syrenios smile a little inside—“the threat from Arghun Khan is grave. He has already invaded Persia with tens, if not hundreds of thousands! What is to say he shall stay his hand if we should fall?”
“Hmmm,” Syrenios looked down, pretending to be in thought. “Your master,” Syrenios began slowly, “has committed many grievous offenses against mine, not the least of which,” Angelos crossed his arms, “was raising an army against my master in a false claim for his throne.”
“My master…”
“…was foolish,” Syrenios finished the man’s sentence for him. Dadiani’s nervous eyes flitted over yet again to the Mongol. Good. “It’s an insult and a threat that my master is not likely to forget.”
“We are Roman!” Dadiani said plaintively.
“Some of you,” Syrenios shot back without batting an eye. The ambassador blinked for a moment, clearly not sure how to respond.
“My master is prepared to make a
very generous offer to His Imperial Majesty…” he finally said.
“Does that offer include bowing and scraping before the Throne of Caesars?” Syrenios let iron enter his voice as it rose to a loud hiss. Dadiani once again looked over his shoulder. Qabul smiled. “I fear my master would desire that above all else…”
“My master offers to give up the title
Autokrator,” Dadiani said, “as well as a payment of 20,000 gold
solidii a year in tribute to…”
“Ah,” Syrenios pointed a finger at the man. Dadiani’s voice stopped dead in its tracks. “You have committed a cardinal sin in negotiation, Lord Dadiani!”
“I…what is that?” Dadiani fumbled.
“You showed how desperate your master really is,” Syrenios said, nodding his head. “Thank you, Lord Dadiani. We shall talk more, I assure you, but for now, I unfortunately have another meeting,” Syrenios glanced over at the Mongol, “and I must bid you adieu.”
“Master Syrenios, I trust…”
“Have you been shown your apartments in the palace for your stay?” Syrenios talked over the sputtering, stunned man. “They are in the imperial wing, and they are the finest offered an ambassador in ages…”
“…you surely don’t plan…”
“We plan what we plan, Lord Dadiani!” Syrenios hissed sharply. “Now,” the
Archekronokrateros smiled icily, “I will tell you that provisions are in place for my master to launch an expedition shortly, as soon as his hunts have finished.”
Dadiani nervously looked at the Mongol again. “Where?”
Syrenios smiled darkly and turned for the door, only to see none other than his master, Ioannis Angelos, striding towards him. While the
Archeoikos’ face was all smiles, his stride was crisp and quick—Syrenios plastered a smile on his own face, despite the sinking feeling in his gut.
“Lord Angelos, what a pleasant surprise!” Antemios said, along with a formal bow. Angelos nodded his head. “May I present Lord Petros Dadiani, an emissary from the court of Isfahan.”
“Lord Dadiani,” Angelos nodded quickly, “You’ll excuse me a moment? I have some important matters to discuss with the
Archekronokratos.” Before the ambassador could reply, Angelos had already turned—Syrenios shadowing behind. They quickly walked to the far side of the room— Angelos knew the acoustics the
Kosmodion inside and out—there was no question they were beyond listening range.
“The Emperor still refuses to move, despite the new information I found?” Syrenios raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Ioannis glanced sideways at the two men on the opposite side of the hall. Both Mongol and Perso-Roman were warily eyeing each other. “Despite me personally presenting the reports to His Majesty, he is loathe to consider the third suitor for our arms.” The
Archeoikos’ eyes narrowed as he gazed at the two others in the chambers. “Or any other suitors, for that matter.”
Syrenios bit his lip. Years of research, effort and wrangling behind the furthest of closed doors were on the line, simply because the Emperor could not bear to walk the halls of the palace, or think of anything but his dead wife. There hadn’t been an opportunity like the one Andronikos now held just within his grasp, and such a chance would likely never come again. Syrenios bit his lip—more than potential lands and titles for his progeny were on the line.
“We need to get him moving,” Antemios whispered half to himself. “The army would foul the whole thing up if the Emperor isn’t there to personally order them.”
Angelos nodded. “That bunch of blockheads would have us at war with everyone from Paris to Samarkand if they were in charge,” the
Archeoikos nodded. “It’d be a pity, when everything could be solved by a few small lines, a timely army, and a single, swift blow… wait…” Angelos’ voice drifted off as he looked over the great hall below.
Syrenios followed his leader’s gaze… only to find his eyes falling on the graceful curves of Lady Safiya Angelos, as she made her way through the
Kosmodion—no doubt to meet yet another of the lovers her husband let her almost openly keep, Syrenios looked up, expecting to see Ioannis Angelos frowning, at the very least for forms sake. Lady Safiya’s liasions were legendary, and while Syrenios doubted the
Archeoikos truly cared on a personal level—Ioannis’ own escapades were frequent—it did not do wonders for the
Archeoikos’ reputation when he was a known cuckold. Syrenios had oft heard his master mutter something had to be done about things.
But now, instead of a frown, Syrenios found Angelos grinning.
“Why are you smiling?” Syrenios looked uneasily between Angelos and his estranged wife.
“I think,” the
Archeoikos grinned like a schoolchild, “I know how to get the Emperor to want to go on campaign…”
==========*==========
July 22nd, 1272
Andronikos leaned back on his fur and silken cot and sighed. The world drifted slightly to the left and the right—a gentle rocking motion the
Megas Komnenos had come to enjoy these past few months. As the light of torches danced around his tent, he reached for the bottle of
grappa on the planked floor. Alcohol-addled fingers fumbled, and the bottle tumbled to the side—the fifth bottle in the past two days to spill across the floor.
“Dammit!” Andronikos spat, sitting up. The world spun slightly, but he caught himself. On cue, a servant entered the tent with another bottle, set it next to the emperor, then quickly left. Andronikos smiled—they’d learned well. At first, the servants had offered to pour for their perpetually drunk master, but Andronikos had wanted nothing more than solitude. After a few had been berated, they left him alone.
The hunt had started as his way to escape the memory of that horrible day—his pale, cold wife, the tiny, chilled body of his stillborn son, a future life of bliss snatched away in one cruel twist of fate. The halls of the palace reminded Andronikos of Cecilia’s laughter, his bed was an icy expanse without her warmth by his side. Yet even here, in the woods of Thrace, her voice echoed amongst the trees, her whispers rustled the leaves. Andronikos looked down—like the coward he was, he’d run again, this time, from hunting in the woods to his tent to the comforting arms of the bottle. Even that was not working as well as Andronikos had hoped—one of his churigeons had managed to procure a device from Arabia, a contraption that used water and the smoke of some weed to produce wonderous effects. Andronikos eyed the thing sitting in the corner, smoke still coming from it—its snake like arms seemed to wobble.
The Emperor turned back to the tent entrance, and a familiar wash of emotions rushed through his mind as he looked at the ornate, wonderfully made bow propped against one of the poles of his imperial tent. It was sized for someone a few inches smaller than him—someone that had delicate hands but a surprising pull, the only person who could actually outshoot him. This time, his hands found the bottle of
grappa, and the sting of harsh alcohol banished those thoughts, those memories. Instead, warmer memories came back—her touch, her smile. Andronikos blinked, looking down—the memory of some other things clearly affected parts of him below, alcohol or no. He took another swig.
“Majesty?”
The Emperor looked up—the world swayed slightly. The chief of his servants stood at the entrance to the tent. Andronikos frowned—Skaliates was always so stuffy. Why? Andronikos nodded his head to the man—the movement made his tent sway even more.
“There is a woman here that claims she should see you,” Skaliates said, “but she won’t give her name. She bears the signet ring of Lord Angelos, however.”
Ioannis’ signet ring?
Oikos, Andronikos said—Ioannis wouldn’t disturb him unless he thought it was important. Sometimes, the emperor drunkenly thought, what Ioannis thought was important was
stupid, but…
“Send her in,” Andronikos slurred out. He turned, and took another swig of
grappa. By the time he managed to turn around, she was already at the entrance of the tent.
“Majesty…”
Andronikos blinked, his vision hazy from wine. The woman that stood before him looked the part of sheer perfection—curves in the right places, full lips, an inviting smile. He
knew who she was—he’d seen her before, but his wine in his head blocked every attempt he made at connecting the face with a name. She had blonde locks, almost like Cecilia’s… wait… was it...?
He started to frown, but as he lowered his head she curtsied.
An eyeful of cleavage broke his mind from the problem.
Earlier that day…
Zagros Mountains, Persia…
The hot July sun peeked uneasily through the hazy sky. A bead of sweat trickled down Alexandros’ forehead, but still, like the men gathered around him, he dared not move.
“They
still don’t see us,” Alexandros the Younger, Prince of Persia, murmured. He squinted, clawing even closer to the rocky ground beneath him—even though the column of Mongols below clearly couldn’t see anything, instinct from several months around Rayy had taught him to clutch the earth like a toddler clinging to a parent. He glanced at the man next to him—by his weathered face and tired eyes, one might think he was in his forties, when in fact he was only ten years the prince’s senior. “You sure your men took down the scouts?”
“Yes,” Andreas Kaukadenos grunted The
chillarchos’ grim eyes then flashed back down to the long, black column of men crawling up through the Zagros passes once more. Alexandros grinned wolfishly at his second in command—Kaukadenos, by luck, had an unfortunate name, but he was distant enough from his more famous forbearer that his family managed to flee into Mesopotamia during the purges of Thomas II. The Kaukadenoi had been a large family then—it took a while for the vengeful Komnenoi to reach the third cousin of the man that attempted to usurp their throne, long enough that Andreas’ grandfather was able to escape. They’d lived on the rough since—Andreas had been little more than a palace guard till he befriended the young prince.
Thereafter, he’d risen up the ranks rapidly.
“Five scouts we counted, five bodies we have,” Kaukadenos added grimly. His own eyes then looked down at the long, snaking column, one fifth of the Mongol host intent on blocking the Zagros passes. The whole Mongol army in the region totaled some 40,000 infantry, 10,000 cavalry, but there were many passes to cover. Gabriel Komnenos, the Mongols knew, was a wily general—it’d take only a small force to hold any pass, but he would simply back off and try yet another.
Fortunately for Alexandros, the Mongol need to split their forces meant
his band had smaller chunks to contend with. After the Caspian Gates, the majority of his uncle’s army had streamed towards the walls of Isfahan, the nearest significant defensive fortifications. There was, however, no way the city could support 70,000 defenders on its walls,
and its population. Alexandros had wanted to ride out and meet the Mongols again before the city—his blood was up, his uncle needed avenging—but Kaukadenos, and others, had talked him out of the move. Petros Antiochites,
Megos Domestikos of Persia, would command the city defense, with 40,000 men. 25,000 would cover as many of the citizens that could flee further to the south. The heir to the Persian throne was simply too valuable to be holed up in a last ditch defense of the capital—especially since Alexandros had already shown a knack for command in the mountains outside of Rayy…
So, the generals had reasoned with the prince—he belonged in the field, outside the city, in his element. So three weeks before Alexandros, with all the pack mules and ponies the defenders could spare, left Isfahan with a force of light infantry and cavalry and sent to the Zagros to keep at least one pass clear. The defenders of Isfahan would hold the Mongols in place as long as possible, while Alexandros cracked open a route through the Zagros for his grandfather’s army. Arghun had a massive army outside Isfahan, but maybe, just maybe, the defenders could sally as Gabriel and his army arrived behind the Mongols.
Maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to save the Roman experiment in Persia.
Alexandros looked across the gorge—even though he knew there were 1,500 Qashqayee tribesmen hidden amongst the rocks and trees, he could not see any of them. He smiled—if he couldn’t see them, neither could the Mongols. Bahram, their chieftain, was a smart, clever fellow, and the Prince had no doubt his people would open up on the Mongol column just in time.
“They won’t know what hit them,” the Prince muttered to himself.
==========*==========
Later that night…
…the forests of Thrace…
“Majesty,” the woman said, her voice melodic. To his sotted ears, it sounded like heavenly music.
“Lady…” he said, trying his best to think. No, it couldn’t be Cecilia—but the looks, they were close enough his trousers were becoming uncomfortable. He blinked, hoping the woman would provide some clue as to her name, or why she was sent? A messenger? Another of Ioannis’ train of lovers bearing some news?
“I heard Your Majesty was still on the hunt,” she said, denying him a name, “and I thought I should pay my respects to the
Megas Komnenos.” She walked closer, then bowed again, giving him a much closer view of all her assets. “I hunt as well, Majesty, but a different prey than yourself. Perhaps,” she looked up, smile wide, inviting, “we could hunt together, Majesty?”
“You hunt?” Andronikos laughed, throwing his head back. He was too drunk to realize how loud the noise was, but he managed to catch himself before the motion made him pitch over. Gentle hands immediately grabbed his shoulder, helping to prop him up. “Thank you, milady… what
is your name?” he slurred.
“I also play… instruments…” the woman said, smiling. Yes, Andronikos was
sure he’d seen her before! Those long, delicate fingers slid down the side of his body. “Guitar,
lyra, and…” He swallowed hard as she reached her destination “…the flute?”
Part of the emperor’s drunken mind wondered how she undid his trousers so quickly. In a few moments, that question was forgotten.
==========*==========
Earlier that morning…
…the Zagros Mountains…
Slowly the column of horsemen and infantry drew closer—their commander was cautious. No doubt he was cautiously pushing forward, hoping at any moment his now-dead scouts would ride back with news. With the patience of a leopard stalking its prey, Alexandros and his men waited, watching as they knew thousands of eyes looked at the surrounding hills with wary gazes.
Finally, they drew close enough.
It was time.
Alexandros nodded to one of his men. The Prince reached up, and undid the dull, wooden clasp that kept the damnable woolen cape around his slender shoulders. Quickly, he felt something lighter brushing against the back of his leathers. He reached around, and found his bright golden clasp, and pulled the familiar lavender velvet across his shoulders. He didn’t need to look around to see the hungry look in his men’s eyes.
They all knew what that lavender cloak meant, as clear as a trumpet to form charge line.
“They see it,” Kaukadenos grunted. Below, some of the lead riders in the Mongol column reined up. One of them pointed directly at Alexandros’ position. The Prince smiled—yes, he had been seen. These were Altani’s men—they knew what a lavender cloak in the hills meant as well. As the pointing man yanked his mount around, he suddenly slumped forward—the Prince could just barely see the thin shaft of an arrow coming from his back. More men suddenly slumped or fell in the confused Mongol column as the Qashqayee archers opened fire.
“Let’s go!” Alexandros yelled, drawing his sword and scrambling down the rocks in front of his men…
July 27th, 1272
Kosmodion Palace, Konstantinopolis
“Ioannis!”
The barking voice was loud, rumbling and echoing through the rafters of the
Kosmodion palace, and instantly the
Archeoikos recognized it’s source. The Emperor hadn’t been expected back in the city for another week. If Andronikos had already arrived…
…Angelos smiled. So his plan had worked.
“Yes, Majesty!” Ioannis turned, and bowed with a flourish. He had more than enough time to catch a glimpse of the emperor, still in hunting leggings, storming towards him across the tiled floors of the main reception hall. Servants and petitioners alike scattered at the unexpected presence of the
Megas Komnenos, along with the long trail of guardsmen, barely able to keep up with their charge’s brisk walk.
“I want out of this goddamned place!” Andronikos hissed, snapping his fingers, fire and fury in his eyes. Angelos fell in step beside his best friend as he stalked on, taking a left turn towards the wing of the palace that housed the meeting rooms of the state. “We have maps of Persia, yes?”
“Andronikos, I thought you said…” Angelos said right on cue. It’d worked in spades!
“I know what I said!” the Emperor growled, “and I’ve changed my mind! I need to get out of this damn place! We’re following through with Syrenios’ plan. You!” an imperial finger lashed out at a stunned
majordomo as the Emperor stalked past, “send word to the
strategoi of the
Basilikon and
Anatolikon Stratoi they are summoned to the
Kosmodion, now!”
“But Majesty, it is past the tenth hour of night! The
strategoi will…” the poor man protested. Andronikos’ onward push halted—in a second the Emperor was in the sop’s face.
“Then…wake… them!” he shouted each word directly in the man’s face. The imperial finger lashed out again, pointing towards the door. Perhaps knowing his life was hanging close to the balance, the
majordomo scuttled off, hurriedly yelling at servants to make the arrangements. Andronikos glared after the man for a moment, before resuming his quick rush to the planning rooms.
“May I ask what prompted the change?” Angelos asked politely.
“Your wife is a whore!” Andronikos spat.. “Nothing more than a common whore!”
“Majesty, I…” Ioannis fought to keep himself from laughing at how easily his plan had worked. “If she’s done you an offense Andronikos…”
“A great offense!” the Emperor stopped, face thunderous, “she impersonated my Cecilia! She took advantage of me in my tent!” For a few seconds he stood, rooted in place, the fury boiling to the surface. Finally, the Emperor took a deep breath, the slapped his hands on Ioannis’ shoulders. “Ioannis,” he said quietly, “you are a good friend, and I know Safiya entertains you, but…” He shook his head. “She has gone too far this time. Too far!”
“I understand,” Ioannis said, with a sigh of triumph. “She will be taken care of, Andronikos,” he smiled darkly. “She
has gone too far! In the meantime, Majesty, shall I have some servants find maps of Sogdiana and Bactria as well?”
“Yes, and Khazaria,” Andronikos growled without hesitation. “You’ll be in charge of the government in my absence as Regent,” the Emperor went on without losing a breath. “Full power of life and death, and you’ll get a copy of my seal. Understood?”
“Yes, Majesty,” Angelos replied as they finally reached one of the great meeting chambers in the palace…
So Angelos manages to convince an unwilling Andronikos to move through our favorite former imperial wife. But who is this ‘third party’ that is involved in Persian affairs? Why does Andronikos want maps of places beyond Persia? Did Alexandros keep the passes open? Will Gabriel be able to defend Persia before Andronikos moves—whatever his intentions? Hopefully, the next update will come more quickly on Rome AARisen!
And for my fellow Americans, HAPPY THANKSGIVING!