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”Self-confidence is the mold from which emperors are made.” – Albrecht von Franken,
History of a Komnenid Servant
August 22nd, 1212
“Majesty?”
Thomas Komnenos, Second of That Name, Emperor of the Romans, merely glanced up towards the plain linen that marked the entrance to his tent. Standing in the purple light of a nascent dawn was Thomas Dadiani, the older brother of the still slumbering form hidden under several fur blankets on the other side of the cramped tent. The very first light of dawn shimmered off of the armor of a
chillarchos, his new position after his display of bravery at Potenza.
“The army has drawn itself up, Majesty, per your orders,” Dadiani continued.
The Emperor nodded with just the hint of a smile, as he shuffled parchments on the rough-hewn thing he called a desk. Slowly Thomas rose, stretched, then opened the large chest that dominated another corner of the tent. With Dadiani’s help, the Emperor quickly donned his own parade armor—if he expected the soldiers on this day to done the hot, stuffy ceremonial armor, he felt he had best do the same.
The entire army wasn’t drawn up beneath these heights – that would have been logistically impossible. Despite the years of war in Italy, the eastern
themes, and especially the eastern personal domains of the Emperor, had seen nothing but peace since Thomas I’s war against the Seljuks almost two decades before. From his personal domains, Thomas had drawn up the backbone of the remaining Imperial
tagmata, over 54,000 troops. They would form the core of his main army. Their target—Baghdad.
The personal armies of the Emperor in the East – defined as Konstantinopolis, the imperial lands of Sinope, Palmyra, Damascus, Alexandria, Acre and Jerusalem—were vast. The Imperial Guard of the East at the start of the 1213 campaign mustered 13 full tagmata, with almost 21,000 levies in support.
Yet this was not the end, for the young Emperor had put together over the past six months perhaps the largest and most ambitious invasion plan devised by an Eastern Emperor. Thomas’ central attack on Baghdad was only one of three massive prongs. To the north, Thomas’ distant cousin Manuel Komnenos, Prince of Edessa and Chaldea, would lead a combined army of 55,000
thematakoi from bases near Mosul across the Zagros Mountains towards Tabriz. Finally, a third massive force, led by Farad Qasim, Prince of Jaffa, numbering some 40,000 troops, would advance from Madaba in dispersed columns to take Najaf, Karbala and eventually southern Mesopotamia. A further 35,000
thematakoi led by Gabriel Komnenos, Prince of Galilee and grandson of the illustrious Kosmas, would stay near Palmyra as a reserve.
Some said the plan was overkill—the Turks were plainly occupied fighting someone from the east, and doubtless could not spare any armies to come west and help whatever local defenders were in the area. Yet Memnon had goaded and prodded Thomas to take no chances. If the rumors were true, Sultan Faramarz was no slouch at war—young, aggressive, some said he bore more resemblance to his great grandfather Sulieman than his father or grandfather. Memnon had prodded Thomas into studying all of the campaigns from the Third Seljuk War—caution and planning would be far better than an unfortunate, devastating surprise.
Even as Thomas finished donning his armor, part of him was still amazed at the sheer efficiency of the whole endeavor—food, supplies, arms and equipment, ready within six months of his initial decision. The eastern
dynatoi had even bee unusually cooperative. Thomas wasn’t sure what Mehtar had offered to some of them to get them to call up their
thematakoi en masse on such short notice. Part of him didn’t want to know—likely it was bribes of conquered land once the war was finished.
Finally, the Emperor stepped out of his tent, and into the brilliant reds and oranges of a Levant dawn. His eyes traveled down the obvious path cleared between the thousands of men drawn up for review, leading to a set of stairs that went to a rather unimpressive stone building.
“PROSOCHI!” Dadiani barked from beside Thomas with the snarl of a salted
kentarchos. The next
chillarchos down the line barked those same words, then the next, then the next, until only moments later the order ran down the ranks, followed by the low, rumbling thunder of 6,000 men in full parade armor coming to precise military attention.
For a moment, the voices in his mind were silent. Thomas smiled, watching as hundreds of banners and the immense standards of the three
tagmata fluttered gently in the morning breeze.
“CHAIRETISMOS!”
As one, the drawn up ranks of the
Optimatikon, Herculare and
Varangoi tagmata drew their blades. Sun danced off burnished steel, and thousands of points of light assaulted the Emperor’s eyes as the army, as one, raised their swords in salute. To the sounds of horns and drums, the Emperor slowly walked through the chasm of light and steel, his eyes looking over each officer, each man.
It was a sight to see.
Impressive, Thomas, Memnon whispered.
Impressive indeed.
Thomas sighed. So Theodora was awake too. Immediately all the joy of conducting an inspection was sucked out of him. Theodora had not been around long—she’d started as random parts of Acheron’s rants after Thomas killed his own mother, before definitely splitting into her own, separate voice the night of Thomas’ wedding to Helene. In his two years in power, Thomas had discovered ways to mollify or limit the effects of Memnon and Acheron—Memnon had a penchant for military precision, Acheron would be quiet so long as there was a hunt, a battle, something where blood was spilled. But Theodora… what she wanted Thomas could not, would not give her…
As the Emperor passed down the rows of faces, eyes looking in the distance per protocol but desperately trying to catch just a glimpse of their beloved “Little Boots,” or “Little Glory,” he could feel Theodora stretching out, pushing the quiescent Acheron and Memnon out of the way.
He looks particularly tasty![/i]
“Quiet, Theodora!” Thomas shouted at the voice. He felt her tugging his gaze left, towards some
chillarchos drawn up in parade stance. Thomas kept his eyes rooted hard on the chapel. He could feel her rattle the bars of the mental cage he’d tried to build around her—she wanted her fun!
Aw… just one glance!
Thomas made a face, and felt bile rising in his throat. No, he wouldn’t! Every time he’d given in to Acheron, to Memnon, they’d demanded more! No, she would not get her way, not with what could happen!
Thomas! Let me have my eye feast, or I will start speaking again when you lie with that stick of a woman you call a wife! He could feel her gaze lingering on the young man, as well as all her thoughts on his eyes, and wondering exactly what lovelies were hidden under his armor.
“You will leave Helene out of this!” Thomas hissed, before glancing left and right. The officers were still standing at attention. He closed his eyes and sighed. Either he hadn’t spoken aloud as he feared, or they simply didn’t care. Theodora giggled, a lilting harmonic noise that was discordant with her lascivious thoughts.
Thomas, I seriously do not understand why you couldn’t allow me to indulge, just once. Ah… Theodora sighed with nostalgic woe,
If only I was stuck in the mind of a Nikolaios, or even Mehtar. She let out a barking laugh.
Oh, the things I would do…
Thomas coughed, his mouth stinging foul. He could feel her dragging his mind towards mental doors he didn’t want opened. As he walked the last few steps towards waiting party of dignitaries, only he and his voices were witness to the epic struggle inside his unconscious. All the others saw was the young Emperor of the Romans finishing his inspection with a grimness beyond his years.
“His Majesty! Thomas, Second of That Name! Emperor…”
“Chamberlain,” Thomas said with an awkward, lopsided smile, “I think Patriarch Chaldikes and his staff know who I am.” Some in the bevy of people clustered around the stooped form of Patriarch Ioannis Chaldikes looked aghast. For his part, the Patriarch broke into such raucous laughter one could see his rolls of fat shaking like jelly under his blue vestments.
By the 13th century, a traditional color coding had developed in the Komnenid Empire to distinguish priests, bishops and functionaries of the four Patriarchates within Imperial borders. Officials from the Patriarchate of Konstantinopolis wore black, those from Antioch wore white, Alexandria wore yellow, and those from Jerusalem wore blue.
“Majesty,” the Patriarch beamed, “welcome to the chapel of Mount Tabor.” The old man gestured to the small stone building behind him—plain and devoid of ornamentation, save the gilded cross at the apex of its roof that was almost as tall as the building itself. Yet for all its lack of ostentation, for the Komnenoi, there were few holier sites within all the Christian world. For the Chapel of Mount Tabor lay on the site of a critical battle against the Turk from the days of the
Megas, and was halfway between the old Megiddo battlefield where the
Megas had destroyed the Fatimid Caliph and regained the Holy City, and the Battlefield outside of Shiloh where Basilieos
Megaloprepis had crushed the final Turkish army some 45 years before.
Thomas bowed his head slightly in return. “Thank you, Your Holiness. I was grateful to receive your invitation.”
“It is I who should be thanking you, for gracing this new chapel with your presence,” the Patriarch said, before turning and nodding to several servants behind him. Immediately they disappeared. “To commemorate the occasion, have a small gift to you, Your Majesty,” the Patriarch’s eyes twinkled. “It’s nothing much—I would call it a humble gift from the Church, to the family that has served as her greatest defender.” Moments later the servants returned, carrying an immense chest.
“I think it is something you will enjoy,” the Patriarch added, with the droll smile of a man who knew a secret.
The servants flicked the chest open, and slowly pulled out an immense roll of silk, dyed purple. Immediately Thomas was impressed by the exprense—to dye that much the imperial color… As the servants slowly continued to unroll, Thomas could make out white threads on the dyed purple silk, lines that finally coalesced into an enormous face, easily five feet tall, with eyes that seemed to stare into Thomas’ very soul. To each side of the enormous visage lay two other heads, each facing an edge of the enormous shroud.
“It’s…” Thomas said, looked at the banner in wonder.
“It is a banner of Christ, with representations of
Hagios Basilieos and
Hagios Demetrios,” the Patriarch explained.
“It shall be my new battle standard,” Thomas finally said, a warm feeling coming over him.
“Excellent, Majesty,” Patriarch Chaldikes smiled. “May the power of God flow through it, and its blessings and protection shield you and this Empire in battle.”
Thomas bowed his head as the Patriarch offered the blessing. When he looked up, he was surprised to see four more enormous rolls of silk, bright scarlet instead of deep purple. “What are these?” he asked.
“Well,” the Patriarch smiled with satisfaction, “I thought Your Majesty might like the original banner, so I took the liberty of paying for four more to be created, in scarlet instead of purple. You might have other Imperial armies carry these as their standards as well.”
“You are most kind, Your Holiness,” Thomas smiled, before nodding towards Manuel and Farad. Both commanders nodded in turn, and quickly several low ranking
kentarchos were carefully packing the silk amongst the general’s belongings.
“I understand you also wished time alone, to pray before the icons of
Hagios Demetrios and
Hagios Basilieos?” Thomas nodded, and Chaldikes motioned towards the thick wooden doors that lay before them. “Then by all means, Your Majesty.”
Thomas nodded, then walked towards the two main doors that seemingly took up nearly half the frontage of the small building. Servants pulled them open with a creak, and for a moment, Thomas peered into the dark, murky interior. After a few moments, the Emperor stepped inside. With a
thud, the doors closed, and Thomas was alone.
The sanctuary of the chapel was small—no more than perhaps ten feet by ten feet. It’s interior was rather spartan at the moment, simple granite cut to perfection substituting for frescoes, or walls and columns of semi-precious stones. The only artwork inside the tiny space was a crude drawing of
Hagios Basilieos and
Hagios Demetrios side by side, no doubt the planned location for a future icon. A simple wooden cross on a stand stood in front of the simple paintings.
Yet for Thomas, this spartan place was just fine. The Emperor walked forward, then fell to his knees before the cross.
“
Hagios Demetrios, Hagios Basilieos, hear my prayer, and intercede on my behalf, and on the behalf of the Empire, with the Lord God and His Son Jesus Christ…”
What are you praying for, Thomas?
The Emperor grimaced. Not now!
More battles is what he should be praying for! It’s what I’d pray for! Acheron interjected.
“I’m going to pray that God will banish you from my mind,” Thomas snapped, setting his hands onto the cross.
That will not be necessary.
Thomas jumped. The voice was calm, almost like Memnon’s, sharing the same tone and cadence. But something was… different. It seemed far older, with a harsher note of command mixed with an almost angelic quality. The Emperor frowned.
“Quiet, Memnon,” Thomas hissed.
I am not Memnon, I am Basil Megaloprepis… I have merely taken over this Memnon to speak to you, the voice said.
“Stop playing games, Memnon!” Thomas whispered. The air inside the chapel felt thick and stale. “You wanted to come here, to see the places where the
Megas and
Megaloprepis broke the back of the Mahomeddan faith! You…”
I am the Megaloprepis! the voice rumbled, indignation pregnant in each syllable. The force of the cry hit Thomas’ mind like a battering ram, and the Emperor felt himself sway slightly.
I am here for a reason, Thomas! Have you ever given a thought that fate has placed you here for a reason?
“Me?” Thomas whispered as he righted himself, clutching the cross once more. Thomas had seen Memnon mad—Memnon grew quiet, even poutful. He never roared in anger like this voice… Thomas wasn’t sure
what it was… but it wasn’t the old Memnon…
Yes, you, Thomas Komnenos, the voice continued.
You have a role to play in this farce called life. Play your role well, and you might save Romanion from the disaster that is coming…
“Disaster?” Thomas asked, a tinge of the fear of old in his voice. “Will the Turkish War go badly? Will Alexios renege on his peace treaties? W...what will happen?”
When I was alive, the Megas sent me dreams, told me of the future. He warned that Persia must stay alive… after Christian banners fly above Mecca and Baghdad, the Empire would fall…. There was a whisper of wind,, a light breeze that gently touched Thomas’ face as the voice became realer than real.
I told your father on my deathbed he could not make war on the Turk, and he ignored me!
Thomas’ eyes flew open. There was still no one else in the cramped sanctuary, and he couldn’t even heard voices beyond the thick wooden door at the entrance. He was utterly alone.
You cannot see me with your eyes, Thomas. Use your mind and your heart, the voice half rumbled, half whispered.
There is a far greater scourge, a far more deadly foe than the greatest Turk that lurks on the other side of the world. They are close, closer than you would ever dare to imagine.
“A foe? What foe?” Thomas asked. This… this went beyond Memnon playing a joke. Memnon wouldn’t have thought of anything of the sort. Acheron and Theodora weren’t at fault—he could hear them distantly rattling their cages, upset they were blocked from all but the furthest recesses of his mind. This was…
Hagios Basilieos?
I cannot say, the voice whispered.
You must be prepared though. There will be a time, in the future, where you may prosecute the Turk to the fullest extent of your power, but for now, you must be careful not to strike the Turk too hard! They are your shield against this menace!
The interior of the Chapel of Mt. Tabor today. Unfortunately the frescoes of St. Demetrius and St. Basil were lost during a Muslim uprising in the 14th century.
“What should I do? How will I know if I’ve overextended myself?” Thomas pressed. If
Hagios Basilieos was telling him there was a grave danger, then he must also know when it would come, and from where! “
Hagios Basilieos, it is too late to send the armies back…”
There was an audible sigh in the air.
If you absolutely cannot, then follow this. Only fight as much as it takes to recover any lost banners.
“But they have none now…”
You will lose one. Do not overextend Romanion, for she will need her strength shortly…
Thomas looked down, as familiar doubts played across his mind. Distantly, he could feel Acheron rattling his cage, and Theodora’s harsh laugh echoing through the recesses of his mind.
“Do I have the strength to lead her in my wretched state? With the demons I have? Why would fate do this to me?” He bowed his head even lower. Romanion was about to face an immeasurable test, and here,
he, Thomas the Mad, was the boy-emperor at the helm! “Why would fate do this to the empire built by you and the hands of the Megas?”
God does not move in ways you can understand, Thomas, the voice sighed.
To assume you can deduce what fate has planned means you assume you are the equal of God Himself.
“I don’t claim such a thing!” Thomas whispered. Surely, if God meant for Romanion to survive, he’d have made sure a
Megas or
Megaloprepis was at the head of the armies of Christ, not a 19 year old boy who heard voices…
You have three talents that many emperors did not have, the voice said, as if it heard his dark thoughts with ease,
a talent for war that has yet to reach its full potential, a recognition that you need the help and assistance of others in affairs which you are not gifted at, and trustworthy friends that will manage those affairs you do not understand, the voice whispered.
“And what if my friends betray my trust?” Thomas asked. He’d seen it happen so much… if his own mother could betray her husband, who was to say… “Or what if I anger my friends, and they do not want to help me anymore?”
That thought made Thomas tremble deep in his core…
You will survive. If some friends betray you, you are fortunate to also have some that will be loyal, and by your side no matter what happens.
“But
Hagios Basilieos, I am possessed by spirits, voices that take over my mind! Surely, God does not mean for his Empire to face this trial with one as tormented and tortured as me at…”
Even they have a purpose, Thomas, the voice cut him off. There was almost a slight chuckle in the air.
Memnon hones your skills, Acheron even sharpens your killer instinct. You must take care to not let them take control of you… the voice cautioned,
But neither can you banish them. They are you, and you are them. A time will come when they save not only you, but all of Rhomanion.
We will? Acheron’s voice wasn’t menacing for once… its harshness was now clouded in wonder.
Even Theodora, the ghostly voice said.
“How?” Thomas asked. “
Hagios Basilieos, if that is who you are, tell me how will this all end?! Where will things go?”
Everything has its own ending, Thomas. I cannot tell you your own…
“You know how I will end? What is my end? Will I save the empire from this threat? How will Acheron and the others help?
Hagios Basilieos, I have so many questions!”
Before your end comes, Thomas, you will know it. And you will be at peace with the result, the saint whispered.
That is far more than most men ever will know of their lives. I can say no more.
“But
Hagios Basilieos!” Thomas pleaded.
Farewell, Thomas Komnenos,
my grandson and heir…protect my people! Do not sheath your sword until my empire is safe!
“
Hagios Basilieos, please!” Thomas desperately tried to claw at the receding presence, willing to make it stay. There were so many other questions he needed answered!
He is gone, Thomas, Memnon said in that quiet, damningly calm voice.
You have me once more.
