November 16th, 1189 - Konstantinopolis
Sophie Komnenos bit her lower lip, as she glanced over at her husband’s bed. Some days it was harder than others, and today was definitely a hard day.
It’d been four months since Basil’s final change to the succession law. Sophie hadn’t cared less – she’d argued long and hard once before that Heraklios shouldn’t be the senior Emperor – she didn’t try this time. The increasingly bedridden Emperor made more noises of speaking to the saints, and their messages that Heraklios would save Romanion as Emperor. There had been a time where she’d listened to the words of Basil’s dreams, but now she dabbed his head with water, and whispered soothing sounds to put him back to sleep.
It was a long goodbye.
As early as August Basil looked more skin than bone, and his formerly commanding voice had shrunken into a desiccated husk of its former power. By September, the Emperor was too weak to hold court in the Octagon throne room, instead meeting dignitaries at his bedside. Whenever they questioned, Sophie merely said that her husband’s illness was minor, and the churigeons said he would be improving. Yet as day turned to night, and days into weeks, his condition worsened. By mid-October, Basil was drifting in and out of consciousness, and bleeding and leeching by the doctors only seemed to make him even drowsier and weaker. Three weeks before, Sophie had banned the doctors from his room.
Now, she looked back over at the tall canopy bed in the Purple Room of the Blachernae, silk sheets and rich coverlets hiding the Emperor’s emaciated, deathly form. The doctors estimated that the wasting sickness had cost him nearly half his body weight, and he was unconscious far too much to eat often. Sophie tried her best to tend to him daily, but she also had to balance functioning as Regent as well.
Then there was Thomas and Alienor. The
Exarch had returned in mid-September, feathers ruffled that he did not receive the sole Emperorship, and only grudgingly acquiescing to the new succession law. Alienor Capet was even worse – in public she was ecstatic that her baby son was one of the three future Emperors, yet Sophie’s spy networks had already deduced she was privately chafed that the Empire did not run under Salic law, and she was already politicking with some of the more open-minded
dynatoi. At a time where Sophie wanted to spend every moment possible with Basil before he left the world, she found her hours taken more and more with assuaging bruised egos and dissuading ambitious nobles.
And then, only a few weeks before, more trouble had arrived, named Rodrigo Jimenez.
Even as she looked at him now, Rodrigo was still dashing and handsome, despite being far closer to fifty than he would admit. His blonde locks hid the gray well, and his wrinkles made him look ruggedly handsome, instead of old. While for other women all of this might be titillating, it troubled Sophie to no end.
Every night, she was haunted by their one tryst – not because it was good, because she wanted it again, but because of the simple fact that she had betrayed her Basil. Betrayed him, with his best friend. That idea stalked her, like some beast in the night – it’d followed her ever since, haunting every time she saw Basil, whispering her indiscretion in her ear every time she was close to her husband. It was torturous, especially as Basil’s sickness grew worse. Every time she saw his face, she felt ashamed, and angry – angry at herself, and angry at Rodrigo for
not turning away,
not rejecting her inebriated advances. And her anger found outlet – with suspicion.
That was why today, as she stood in the Purple Room, facing Rodrigo Jimenez, her eyebrows were raised, before the
Hyperexarch even opened his mouth.
“How is he?” Rodrigo crossed his arms, looking at Sophie then over to Basil. It was small-talk, she knew. Anyone with an eye could see how terribly thin that body was under the sheets, and how ragged the Emperor’s breathing had become in his sleep. She didn’t take her eyes off of the Spaniard.
“What is it?” she asked. It came off as harsher than she intended – she wanted to get this meeting out of the way, so she could return directly to Basil’s bedside.
Rodrigo looked taken aback. She’d expected that, and part of her relished the image.
“About the succession…”
“It has been decided, Rodrigo,” Sophie sighed quietly. Since his arrival in Konstantinopolis, the
Hyperexarch had constantly been advancing the cause of placing Alexios as a senior emperor. With the army’s refusal to accept any arrangement without Thomas, now the Spaniard’s tune had changed to demoting the third son of Basil.
“No, it hasn’t, and so long as Basil breaths, it can be changed,” Rodrigo pressed quietly. “Heraklios should be senior emperor, yes, but so should Alexios…”
Sophie’s face flushed. Here they were, only feet from her dying husband, the love of her life, and they were squabbling over the results of
that night! The thought of that event once again made her angry and ashamed.
It was obvious why Rodrigo wouldn’t shut up about the succession, she decided. Ridiculously obvious. She glared at Rodrigo – he’d been the cause of that indiscretion, and now he was using it as a power play!
“You just wanted Heraklios because he’s your son, and Alexios because you can influence him!” Sophie hissed. She’d hurt her Basil, she’d hurt him and he didn’t even know it! Never again would she listen to that Spaniard!
“No, I wanted them because
Basil was afraid of what Thomas would do!” Rodrigo shot back. “He wanted Heraklios because he would be a wise and good ruler, and Alexios because he’d secure the allegiance of the
exarchs as being David’s heir! I…”
“…put those ideas in Basil’s head!” Sophie snarled. Securing allegiances with the
exarchs! Of course! It’d secure the undo influence of Rodrigo Jimenez over the
entire imperial government!
“Sophie!” Rodrigo hissed back. “If Thomas becomes an
Autokrator, it means that
Mehtar becomes an
Autokrator in all but name!
He murdered David! I know it! I…”
“…don’t have any proof!” Sophie snapped. When Rodrigo had put forth his theory in correspondence, Sophie had leapt upon it – Mehtar always had an undo influence and attraction to Thomas. He also clearly had the ability – Sophie knew, because she’d seen him in action before on her own orders. He was the obvious suspect – save he had numerous eyewitnesses saying he was in Barcelona at the time – including Thomas himself. And as much as Thomas and David feuded, Sophie couldn’t bring herself to believe that David would kill Thomas’ wife, or that Thomas would then kill David…
“Sophie! Think on it!” Rodrigo continued his argument, yet every word he said, laying out counterclaims to Mehtar’s locations, even a claim that some of Mehtar’s ‘witnesses’ were harassed or badgered landed on deaf ears. Sophie
knew what it was.
Rodrigo had always been a political animal. How could she not have seen it? Those years of him playing Basil’s friend? Those years of standing by their side – it was all a ruse, confirmed by the words coming from his mouth! She’d shamed herself because of him! He was trying to gain power, gain influence himself in the only way he could – the people would never accept someone not of Romanoi blood as an emperor, so Rodrigo Jimenez was going to be the power behind the throne, the shadow that moves in the dark!
“Think on it, Sophie!” Rodrigo hissed. “
You trained Mehtar! You know his abilities, you know his utter and complete allegiance to Thomas! You know Thomas’ tongue, how much he hated his brother! Even if Thomas had uttered in anger or jest he wished for David…”
“Stop!” Sophie finally barked. The servants all looked up warily at the pair, and Sophie’s face went another shade of red. She looked over – Basil still peacefully slept. “Do not say another word,” she turned back to Rodrigo and said slowly, dangerously. “Not another word! Not here, not now, not ever again!”
Rodrigo’s eyes flashed, hurt and anger radiating from those brown orbs she’d listened to once. She could feel his rage at her, saw his hands shaking, before he snapped around and walked to Basil’s bedside. She stalked over behind him. Rodrigo wouldn’t steal any more time from her with Basil. She went to the other side of the bed, and gently took her sleeping husband’s hand. It twitched slightly.
“It was a mistake.”
Sophie looked up, glaring. Rodrigo sat their, on the other side of the bed, eyes frank and open – just like they were before.
“I said it was a mistake, you said it was a mistake,” the Spaniard said quietly. “We both agree it was a mistake. What’s done is done, Sophie. We have to move on from that…”
“I can’t,” she whispered, her eyes stinging from the tears wanting to escape. “I can’t trust…”
“If I wanted power, Sophie, why would I have said it was a mistake? Why would I have secluded myself and accepted Basil’s request that I go to Spain?” Rodrigo pressed. “I am not making up information against Thomas, Sophie! I do not know his role – all I know is that Mehtar Lainez is
dangerous – to you, to me, to the Empire, to Alexios, and to…” he stopped for a moment, a word almost coming out that Sophie dared not hear uttered in the palace. “Your son,” Rodrigo finished the second a heart-stopping moment later.
“What should I do? What
can I do?” Sophie murmured, one of her hands idly stroking Basil’s hair. The Emperor’s rattles were becoming more insistent. “Thomas is the next
Autokrator. He will protect Mehtar.”
“Convince him that Mehtar is dangerous,” Rodrigo offered. “Convince him I am not?”
“Alexandros! Bring up the left flank!”
Sophie spun around. Basil’s whole form was trembling. Her husband’s face was covered with sweat, his eyes were wide, the brown orbs brilliant and commanding as old, staring directly towards the ceiling. His hand was stretched upwards, as if pointing to the sky. She clasped his free hand, tears flowing down her cheeks. She’d been steeling herself for months for this moment, knowing it would come, yet staring death in the face made her tremble, made her feel powerless, lonely and weak.
“Vataczes! Get those
skoutatoi in line!” the Emperor wheezed as he barked orders to the ghosts of the past. “Vataczes! I need the Franks here! We have to pin Murad in the gorge!”
She nodded towards one of the manservants, who quickly dashed out of the Purple Room.
“Basil? Basil, can you hear me?” she pleaded, leaning over him, searching those brown eyes that had been filled with hope and love for so long. They stared back at her, vacantly. His body lived, but his mind was gone – the wasting sickness had taken it. He was already with the dead in the past, even if he still breathed in the present.
“Alexandros, we need to scout up the spine of the island, I think the Emir is hiding there…”
Slowly the room started to fill. Heraklios was first – he’d been waiting for hours outside of the door, his eyes were bright red from crying the entire night through. Then came Thomas and Manuel, both somber for once, looking down. The
Megos Domestikos was next, and the normally unemotional Kosaca looked practically broken.
“Vataczes, the Sultan’s cavalry is coming from the right, he’s going to envelop Clemente!
Hetaratoi!” Basil’s string of nonsensical commands continued, more distant, weaker, as if the ghostly army he saw was further and further away.
“Is papa…” Heraklios quietly whispered. Sophie looked up at her youngest son, a storm of emotions crashing through her mind. Basil
wasn’t his father! His real father was kneeling beside the Emperor, a hand on his forehead, whispering quiet prayers! She looked back at Basil, caught deep in the hallucinations that were dragging his mind from her. She felt another rush of tears threatening to storm out of her, but she held the breach, forced them back. She had to be strong – at least for Heraklios. She took a deep breath, and nodded, before waving him over to her side.
“Say something to your papa,” she urged. She was fairly sure Basil couldn’t hear them, but maybe, just maybe, the young boy might get through. She had to at least let
him believe he could.
“Papa? It’s Heraklios,” the ten year old leaned close.
“Drogo…fleet… Marmara…” Basil murmured.
“Papa, I am not the King of the Franks…” Heraklios started to say, before looking at his mother. “Why does Papa think I am the King of the Franks?”
“Papa is not himself,” Sophie said gently, steeling herself. Her voice choked up despite her best efforts.
“Thomas!” Basil suddenly called, loud and clear as a clarion bell, making her, as well as everyone else in the room, jump out of their skins. The Emperor called for his third son again, not as loud this time, and Sophie looked up at the heir-apparent. Thomas stood, rooted, dumbfounded, eyes wide with surprise and fear. She looked back at her husband, and Basil’s arm was reaching up, searching, hunting for what his dying eyes couldn’t see. Sophie looked back at Thomas, and nodded insistently. Slowly, the
Exarch leaned over his father.
As soon as Basil’s fingers found the velvet of his tunic, the grasped, then clenched, dragging him down till he was only inches from Basil’s wheezing face.
“Thomas…
do not make war against the Turk!”
Thomas seemed to wince, to pull away slightly. After a few moments, it seemed the dying man’s grip grew tighter, and with another yank Basil pulled his son close again.
“Swear to me!”
Sophie watched, heartbroken and awestruck. Even in death, it seemed, Basil heard the voice of
Hagios Demetrios. He’d told her several times about that dream long ago, the dream that said if Romanion destroyed the Turk, another, more dangerous enemy would cover the land in blood. She’d dismissed it as yet another one of his dreams and visions… yet when it gave him the strength to pull Thomas, despite the latter’s squirming, she had to wonder…
Thomas, for his part, squirmed a little more, before seeing the hopelessness of the situation. His eyes flashed about, and Sophie caught a quick, panicked glance in the direction of Mehtar. She turned to see what the other man would say, but only caught the very end of whatever it was that he mouthed. When she turned around, Thomas was leaning close to his father, whispering in his ear. A moment later, Basil’s grip relaxed, then his hand fell limply to his side.
The wheezing noise of Basil’s breathing started to ebb, then changed to a shuddering gasp. Sophie shoved Thomas away. This was the end – Basil needed her by his side, as she had been since those awkward days long ago. She cradled his head, feeling his weakening breaths on her arm. She prayed, to God, asking
Hagios Demetrios and every other glorified saint she could think of to intercede on his behalf, to ease his passing. As the great shadow of an emperor gave a final shudder, she muttered another prayer under her breath.
She prayed for Romanion, that it might survive the coming storm.