armoristan - There are advantages to being behind sometimes.
Servius Magnus - Yes... way way back! And there were jokes about Dune during Basil's reign as well...
Ksim3000 - So Albrecht's the mastermind behind Adrianos? Well, don't forget Adrianos has done some plotting of his own--his agreeing to marry his son to Nikephoros' sister effectively undercut Albrecht in 1241, betraying him. Have he and Albrecht mended fences? Hmm, we shall see. Albrecht is definitely a relic of a lost time--he's the last main character to have spoken to Sophie that is still alive...
AlexanderPrimus - Merci, mon ami!
Fulcrumvale - I get into writing moods. Then words torrent from my mind onto the computer screen. Prepare to be astonished again I guess (I had another moment of inspiration!)
Leviathan07 - There are many reasons for Anastasia to bring Albrecht down, and there are many reasons for her to want to keep him around--he has a hold on the state a way her brother can't match, at least not without years of preparation. And if something should happen to Nikephoros, Albrecht's about the only person with the connections and clout to protect her from Gabriel, should he arise again. That all said... he's an old, creepy, blackguard. Plenty of reason there to NOT want him around.
asd21593 - Lazy bum!
Eh, keep the stockpile going for when my updates slow down again. Then you'll get your fix when you want it.
4th Dimension - Point. Though even by the medieval period you could find people knowledgeable enough in those kinds of affairs to jury-rig something with some needle and thread (seriously, that stuff happened).
Hannibal X - Achaemenids not so much. A weak monarchy in need of time to find its footing sounds more like the Persian Komnenids right now... hence the sons undercutting their father for the sake of stability... As for Alexandros, remember the name was Alexandros II Megas. Gabriel's son would be Alexandros I... unless he claimed Alexander the Great as a predecessor or something...
Leviathan07 - Was that all a major slip up by Albrecht? Like I said above, Anastasia has a few reasons to keep him around, but it remains to be seen if those will overcome "OMG OLD GUY BLACKGUARD WHO IS USING ME" reasons to betray him as soon as possible. She's a Komnenid, but he's also had decades to cement himself into the organs of the state and the church. It'll be hard to root him out, if she chooses to do so...
Siind - If they do, Nikephoros could give his daddy a run for his money... probably complaining and crying the whole time too...
FlyingDutchie - Little Andronikos is going to get a spotlight soon (possibly next update), so you'll get a chance to see then!
Tommy4ever - Essentially both boys decided their dad wasn't acting in their interests (and he wasn't, he was acting in the interests of first his pants, and then his pride), so they took matters into their own hands. We'll see, though, if Gabriel Komnenos can be held by a gilded cage...
Enewald - A happy marriage for a Komnenid? You saw where that goes with Anastasia and Alexios...
Vesimir - I think everyone's reaction when they first see it is that it's a cigarette. I know it's not, but I'm still trying to figure out for the life of me what it
is...
Deamon - There's more Nikephoros one liners coming up. I'm trying to recruit my boyfriend (who came up with the character mannerisms after I told him the traits Nikephoros had in game) to help me come up with more one-liners for him.
Qorten - Good catch. That is indeed Paul Atreides from SciFi's version of Dune...
Morrell8 - I suppose it'd be devastating personally if you were a 'devout' Catholic (but if you were that devout, how'd you get excommunicated?), but not nearly as politically and economically devastating as it would've been if you were a medieval monarch...
A Reminder: Please go vote in the ACAs!
By my request,
Rome AARisen is not running for any ACA awards. Use the downtime between updates to explore around! There are plenty of worthy authors here that deserve your support!
Without further ado, here's the next update!
“And then the Aionios spake unto Lord Komnenos – Behold, I am the Mahdi, the End and the Beginning. I hath been sent to thee to announce God’s Truth unto thee, pure and uncorrupted as the mountain snow.” – from
Al-Lawh Al-Mahfouz (The Eternal Tablet)
June 4th, 1252
It was days like today when Michael Komnenos,
Kephalos of Damietta, wished he did not have his position, or its responsibilities. Unfortunately, as he passed the halfway point of his fourteenth year in the position, those days were coming more and more often for the 60 year old Komnenid.
Michael Komnenos was an ‘important man,’ or so he was constantly told. He
had received an invitation to the ceremonies in Konstantinopolis whereby the two Kings of Persia swore their fealty to the Imperial throne in Konstantinopolis.
That was certainly an honor, even if Michael felt the Church and the conservative northern nobility had overreacted with regards to Gabriel. The man blasphemed and sinned left and right, but so had many previous emperors. To strip him of the crown for it? Michael had decided long ago that was a dangerous question to ask—just like asking why Gabriel was allowed to stay sequestered in Baghdad. Such problems were far above his responsibility and position!
Unfortunately, the
Kephalos smiled wryly, problems such as the one that brought him to his Justice Hall were
just at his responsibility and position—especially since his cousin the
Despotes had fallen head over heel trying to show his loyalty to the new system once it became apparent Gabriel and Nikephoros were not destined to come to blows. Michael Komnenos would have much rather sailed to Konstantinopolis to see the Queen of Cities, and watch the no doubt historic ceremony where the Empire again became whole, but no—troubles within his own city walls would keep him here, even while his cousin, the
Despotes, sailed with a beautiful retinue to the City of Men’s Desires.
Michael wasn’t exactly sure what had happened—Idris his clerk had only said that there were disturbances in the city, and violence threatened to break out between the Ismailis and the Nizaris unless someone from the Roman government stamped things out before they got too hot.
As he walked through the small cavern of humanity towards his throne, the
Kephalos felt all eyes boring in on him. Uneasily, he looked around at a sea of turbans, bearded men, most with at least gray whiskers streaking through their hair, stared back at him—some with eyes of contempt, some as blank as the whitewashed walls outside the
Kephalos’ hall. Yes, Idris had been right—the high and mighty of Damietta’s Muslim community were clustered here. The
Imams of three mosques in the city, several members of the
Shar’ia court, other notables—it looked like anyone of much property was clustered in the Hall of Justice, craning their heads, watching the
Kephalos.
He recognized most of them—Samir al-Adin, one of the principal cotton merchants in the city. Moqtada al-Buhsehr,
imam of the largest mosque in the city, Ismail al-Rafiki, another prominent merchant… Michael had taken to calling these men ‘The Notables’ when they weren’t in his halls. The twenty of them, the richest, most prominent Muslims in the now cosmopolitan city, always took it upon themselves to ‘represent’ the interests of the Muslims within Damietta’s walls.
Even thought they were all Ismailis, to a man.
The
Kephalos sighed—of course, the center of today’s major problem was a Nizari. The
Nizaris were always
everyone’s excuse for everything in post-disaster Egypt. They were immigrants, arrived from Persia at the start of the Mongol wars, and they had not blended well with the native Ismailis. They lived in their own neighborhoods, did business with their own kind, and spat on the Ismailis, as the Ismailis spat on the Nizaris. Michael wasn’t sure what had caused the rivalry, nor did he care—all that mattered today was the notables of Damietta, Ismailis all, were complaining that a Nizari was leading other Nizaris into acts the Ismailis claimed were sacrilegious. Michael had no idea if they were or not, and his own
Logothetes ton mouselman was a staunch Ismaili—he’d be of no true help.
“Simple matter my ass,” Michael groaned in the final seconds he had to himself before he turned, faced the assembled crowd in his hall, and grimly sat on his throne.
“Lord God,” the
Kephalos heard his chaplain, Father Demetrios, intone the opening prayer from the corner. Michael quickly bowed his head, his mind awash in thoughts. What if the Nizari had been stirring trouble? To punish him would anger the Nizaris in Damietta, and Michael keenly knew that several of them were former members of the
hashashin cult. But to do nothing would anger the Ismaili majority…
He calmed his mind. He hadn’t heard the man’s defense yet. Perhaps there was a way out of causing too many headaches…
“…and provide His Lordship with grace and a just ruling in this matter, Amen.”
Michael was among the few in the room that echoed the final word. None of the Muslims bowed their heads—as expected. When the
Kephalos looked up, he saw all their faces hard. The Ismaili notables were clearly itching for the trial to come.
“Bring the prisoner in,” Michael motioned. The two guards at the end of the hall quickly bowed to their master, then opened the wooden doors that led to the
Kephalos’ Hall. Two other guards roughly pulled into the hall a man…no, Michael corrected himself, he was no more than a
boy, 18 at most! As one, they shoved the poor boy into the center of the room, before stepping back towards the doors, bowing to their lord and master.
God, was this the cause of all the trouble? Michael blinked.
A boy? He stole a momentary glance over towards the Ismaili notables. They all stared at the boy as if he was the Antichrist. Moqtada glowered the darkest at the young boy.
What could he have done to get them so angry? Michael frowned. Something wasn’t right, wasn’t normal here.
“What are the charges?” the
Kephalos asked, shifting uneasily on his throne. The heat was filtering in, and with the heat, Michael knew it wouldn’t be long before the flies followed. The boy’s eyes stared up at the
Kephalos, at once calm, even warm, but ringing clear with defiance.
“This man,” Moqtada stepped forward, “is charged with disturbing the peace, and uttering blasphemies against God! Blasphemies which encourage civil unrest,” the elderly
imam snarled, finger stabbing at the man, “and strife!”
“And how ironic you, of all people, would come to
me accusing another of blasphemy,” Michael gave a lopsided smile. Only the year before, Moqtada had allowed several itinerant preachers to deliver Friday sermons. One of them said God’s Judgment was nigh, and urged the congregation to take to the streets to fight the Roman. Only a few rough-heads had heeded his words, but those were five men who hung from a giblet unnecessarily—riled by the words of a stupid holy man who promptly fled into the desert once it became apparent the city guards would easily overcome his abortive ‘holy jihad.’
“Why do you not try him in your
shari’a court?” Michael asked. Blasphemy against the Muslim religion? That wasn’t a matter for the Roman law courts! Neither Michael, nor his master the
Despotes, nor
his master the Emperor, gave a damn about Muslim theological disputes. Matters of trade, money, taxes, property, and bodily harm,
those were things that came before the Roman representatives! Muslim theological arguments? Let the
shari’a handle that mess. Best to keep one’s hands clean of unnecessary filth.
“But the blasphemy he utters isn’t against just our faith,” Moqtada raised his head to stare at the
Kephalos. Michael thought momentarily he’d be able to count the old
imam’s gray nosehairs if he raised his head any further. “This man’s words,” the old man rumbled on, “are blasphemous even to your faith, Christian!”
There was a rumbling from the Ismaili notables gathered—a noise that sounded dangerous and ugly. The chamberlain slammed his staff onto the wooden floor, the
booms shaking the walls until the room was again silent. Michael nodded to Father Demetrios. Within a moment, the priest was by the
Kephalos’ side, all ears, ready to hear the charges as well.
“Very well,” Michael said, turning back to Moqtada and the unknown. “What has he said?” Michael asked, leaning forward.
“Ask him, Your Lordship!” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. Michael glared at the old
imam for a moment, before turning his gaze to the young man now in the center of the room.
He was of average height, average build, perhaps even slightly skinny—a fresh face, no beard, with long, dark hair that hung to his shoulders. If Michael’s litter had passed him on the street, the
Kephalos wouldn’t have given the young man any notice. But the way he carried himself—proud, erect, in spite of his chains—
that was something the
Kephalos had not seen in a while. Years, in fact. The stance, it reminded Michael of someone…
“Son,” Michael looked the boy up and down, “what is your name?”
“I am the Namuz of Musa,” the boy said, his voice surprisingly strong and deep, like a fast running river.
“What?” the
Kephalos asked, confused.
“I am the Guide, the
Mahdi. I am
Aionios,” the young man said, switching to Greek. The words flowed off the young man’s tongue with surprising ease.
“The Timeless One?” Michael repeated the name, confused. He looked over to Father Demetrios—the priest’s brow was furrowed. It made no sense to him either. “What is your real name?”
“A name is simply yet another cover, an appellation, a title,” the young man replied, calm, cool, no nervousness, no fear in those eyes. “It only applies to the surface. I tell you, Lord
Kephalos, the important things that lie
under the name.”
Michael put his hand to his forehead “What do people call you besides…
Aionios?” Michael sighed, hoping if he played along, the young man would as well.
“They call me The Seer. The Guide, the Leader. The One Who is Beyond Time,” the young man replied. Immediately, an audible hiss went around the hall at the young man’s final words, loudest from the lips of Father Demetrios. There was only one being in the universe who could use that title…
“I…” Michael blinked momentarily. Father Demetrios’ face looked thunderous. “Fine, but
what is your name?” the
Kephalos snapped. “The name your parents gave you?”
“He is Adhid al-Hinnawi! Son of Sharif al-Hinnawi!” Moqtada blurted out, eyes burning holes in the back of the young man’s skull.
“Al-Hinnawi?” Michael asked, eyes wide. He remembered Sharif—the man had been a chief assistant and advisor to Michael’s predecessor, Nikolaios Komnenos! The al-Hinnawis, even after Sharif’s unfortunate death during the Great Flood Tide, were still a powerful and prominent family in the Delta. Ismailis! But this Hinnawi was related to the Nizaris!
“Is this true?” Michael looked the young boy up and down. Yes… that’s where the gait, the stance came from. It had to be!
“My earthly father was named Sharif,” the young man replied in that calm, soothing voice, “but what is an earthly father but flesh that will soon return to the dust from whence it came? My heavenly father, The Creator of All Time, is the one that matters! He is who I serve,” the young man said, slowly raising a shackled hand until its finger pointed damningly at the
Kephalos, “and whom you all should serve,” he said, finger swing around the room at all present.
“So you claim you are God?” Father Demetrios asked, his voice sharply crackling off the walls of the room.
“No. I am merely a Prophet,” Adhid said firmly, voice rising with every word, every syllable, “One who has heard the calling of God, and who has been sent by him to reveal to the world the Word of God, uncorrupted!” As he spoke, his nostrils flared, eyes flew wide, his voice filling with power and persuasion the likes of which Michael had never seen from a lowly street urchin. “The final call from
Allah, The Lord, The Creator of All Things!”
Michael was tempted to ask what that Final Revelation was exactly, but he feared doing so might cause the vein throbbing on Father Demetrios’ forehead to explode all over the room.
“And what do you say of Our Lord Jesus Christ?” Michael looked over at Father Demetrios. The old priest’s eyes looked positively dangerous. “What do you say of the Savior?”
“As Moses brought us the Age of the Law, Isa brought us the Age of Compassion. He taught us to love our neighbors and to love God. Then Mohammed brought us the Age of God, he taught us to abhor idols, and to seek out the Truth of God’s Word. I bring the Age of Enlightenment,” al-Hinnawi spun around to his accuser. “The Age when God, now revealed to us, will shower us with his blessings, and reveal to us anew his path of righteousness!”
“So do you deny that Jesus Christ was the Son of God?” Father Demetrios rasped through clenched teeth. The noise sent a shiver down Michael’s spine, even as he saw Moqtada and several of the other Ismailis almost
grinning.
“Isa was a Prophet, a Man of God,” the boy replied.
“Boy, tread carefully with your words,” Michael said quickly, before the priest could say anything else. “Your life may depend on them. Do you elevate yourself alongside Christ?”
“I am the
Mahdi,” the boy said, his words evasive, but his demeanor challenging. Michael blinked—al-Hinnawi clearly thought that was an
answer.
“Do you claim you are equal to Christ!?” Demetrios shouted.
“Isa was a highly revered Prophet. A messenger of God, as I am,” the boy took a step forward, every inch of his body exuding an unnatural confidence for someone so young, facing such grave a future.
“Father?” Michael reached forward to touch the priest on the back. This was
his trial to conduct. The priest glared at the boy harshly, then looked at the
Kephalos. His eyes said everything about what he thought should be done to the boy. Michael gave a single, brief nod, before turning his eyes back to the young man.
“And why do these men attack the shops and trade of these good men,” Michael gestured towards the Notables, “in your name?” That was the real reason the Ismailis dragged him here. Ever since the fall of Mecca, doomsayers and prophets had tumbled from the desert into the cities, only to fade away. Why did this boy shake these staunchly rooted men? Because he threatened their trade, their profits…
“I do not instruct them to commit violence—violence is abhorrent to God,” al-Hinnawi said firmly, “But I also tell them to not abide while widows are robbed, while the coin of the sick is stolen, and food taken from the mouths of babes! To stand idle while that happens is also an affront to God!” The boy turned and stared the Notables—Michael thought he saw them shiver slightly under those brown eyes. Finally, Moqtada seemed to shake the boy’s gaze off of him, and the
imam stormed into the middle of the room.
“My Lord, you must punish him severely!” Moqtada shouted. “His blasphemies cause disturbances! Only three days ago followers of this troublemaker broke into my mosque during Friday prayers!”
“Yesterday five of them roughed up Samir, and accused him of price gouging, and stealing from the poor!” one of the richly clad merchants harrumphed.
“And why shouldn’t I just have this man cast out of the city, like most villains and ruffians?” Michael rubbed his temple. Yes, the headache was coming back, fiercer than ever. “He himself hasn’t
done anything. And as a man cannot be held responsible for the sins of his father, no more can he be held responsible for the trouble others cause using his words as an excuse.”
“But he utters blasphemies!” One of the notables cried, anger and frustration apparent in his voice.
“And if I punished everyone for that, you would all be sitting in my suddenly overcrowded dungeons,” Michael groaned. He didn’t look over at Father Demetrios—the priest wouldn’t have minded the full dungeons as much as the
Kephalos would have.
“But the Nizarites!” another voice cried.
Michael hissed a breath into his mouth. That again.
The boy was Nizari, but he was related to the Hinnawis. If he executed him for things vagrants and vagabonds did, or for blaspheming against God, he would incite the Nizaris. To do nothing would incite the Ismailis, as well as the Church—Michael had no doubts that Father Demetrios would furiously report his ‘laxity’ to the Patriarch of Alexandria.
What to do, what to do?
“He must suffer some punishment!” Michael heard Father Demetrios hiss. “He claims he is the equal of Christ! We cannot allow that to stand! Never!”
Michael nodded slowly. His mind rattled around ideas for several moments, as all eyes in the room bored in on him—the Ismailis and father Demetrios glared, eyes expecting harshness and punishment, while young Hinnawis looked up with… hopefulness? Michael sighed. No one would be happy, no matter his decision—so he opted with the one that made the most sense.
But where to send him? He clearly couldn’t stay in the Empire proper—someone else would get enraged by his words, and then blame Michael for not ‘ending things sooner.’ No… Michael would send him where he sent all the other religious zealots.
Arabia. Let him stew in the desert with others who thought they were the “Mahdi,” or “Arisen One,” or “Lord of Snakes,” or what have you!
“I knew your father,” Michael pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “and it is in his memory that I pronounce your punishment.” The
Kephalos looked up, at the furious eyes of the Muslim leaders present, then over at the equally blazing eyes of Father Demetrios. He sighed again. “Adhid al-Hinnawi, you are hereby banished from the
Despotate of Egypt, and the Empire as a whole.”
The
Kephalos heard a slight gasp, then mutterings, grumblings, even a few calls of “Outrageous!” The chamberlain’s staff slammed on the floor once, twice, and the rumbles of anger quieted to hissed mutterings.
“You are to be sent to Arabia,” the
Kephalos continued over the quiet noises of rage, “to the Port of Jeddah, where you will remain for the rest of your days. Should you set foot in the Empire again, the sentence of death shall hang over your head, for all your remaining days.”
“So it has been said,” the chamberlain intoned in the deep, thunderous voice Michael was thankful for, “So it shall be done!”
The murmurs in the room rose, words dangerous but held close for fear of the guardsmen about. Michael silently cursed to himself as the mailed men led al-Hinnawi away. The Ismailis would undoubtedly grouse and complain, and there was little doubt from Father Demetrios’ throbbing forehead that a swift and scathing note would soon be headed to Alexandria. Silently, the
Kephalos thanked his lucky stars the Patriarch was headed to Konstantinopolis for the ceremony—it’d give him a few weeks to calm the Notables down before he had to deal with a yet another tongue-lashing.
So here we have the Aionios! Happy 4,000! Adhid al-Hinnawi has grown up, and found his calling… and unfortunately, a new home in Jeddah, capital of the vassal kingdom of Arabia. Meanwhile, Gabriel’s two sons have dethroned their father, and accepted the offer of Nikephoros—becoming client emperors (or kings) in return for the Emperor of the newly united Empire not crashing down upon them...
