Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

February 19th, 1215

Tmutarakan

Tmutarakan had long been the chosen mustering place of Imperial armies for duty on the northern steppe frontier—it’s harbor was large and protected, and its position at the tip of the Taman peninsula made the city quite impregnable, at least to the siege abilities of the Cumans and the like. However, this perfect position meant that the city itself was crowded, messy, and decidedly spartan—despite its rather impressive permanent population of over 15,000, it had no public baths, and only rudimentary planning outside those governed by the needs of defense.

Any of which would have provided Megoskyriomachos Albrecht von Franken reason curse as his litter swayed through the darkened streets, his bearers desperately trying to keep their footing on the mud and rain slicked streets. The great chains of his new office clinked and rattled, an noise that still unnerved the young man.

Finally, the litter bearers and their cavalry escort trundled through the immense iron gates that marked the entrance to Tmutarakan citadel. Hurriedly a cloth curtain was raised, allowing Albrecht to make a quick dash from his litter towards the door to the central hall while only partially soaking himself. As soon as he was within the confines of the hall, von Franken had already divested himself of his all too soaked outer cloak. Wet and miserable, he stalked through the halls towards the meeting that had likely started without him, his rapid, angry gait only stopped by a familiar voice, only steps from the doors that were his goal.

“Albrecht?”

“Mehtar?” Albrecht stopped in midstride, turned, and said quietly, nodding uneasily towards his former superior. In the four weeks since the Emperor’s arrival and his official sacking as Megoskyriomachos, Mehtar Lainez had seemed to age a full decade to Albrecht. Even now, the old man sat hunched on a bench, facing slightly away from the great wooden doors that marked the conference room. As his servants were about to open the doors, Albrecht raised his hand for them to wait, walked over, and sat down next to the man that’d served as his mentor for the past four years.

“The chains of office fit well on you,” Mehtar smiled quietly.


“They are heavy, though,” Albrecht said quietly. Once the Emperor had confirmed his position, Thomas had also handed Albrecht all Mehtar’s old duties—a load that absolutely stunned the young man. Lainez had not only personally overseen both the domestic and foreign elements of the imperial spy network, he had his own personal network to spy on the spies, as well as planning and running logistics for the entirety of the Northern Campaign.

Albrecht had been forced to hand duties off to others—his wife, the Emperor’s sister Eirene, oversaw domestic spying, while the wife of the Emperor’s cousin, Tarifa bin Taishuifun, oversaw foreign espionage. Albrecht himself took up most of the day to day affairs of foreign diplomacy and correspondence, while Demetrios Lainez as Prostratos was handed the keys to the immense and impressive logistical network now in place across the Black Sea.

“You are well?” Albrecht continued, awkwardly, eyes away from the older man. He’d never asked for Mehtar’s office, nor did he know that Thomas on arriving would strip Mehtar of his duties for the debacle at Yaik. In a way, he felt for the old man—Mehtar had tried his best, but this new, deadly foe and simply been too much. Kiev had arguably lost the battle, not Mehtar Lainez…

“For the most part,” Lainez said quietly, before a rather distant smile came over his face. “My back is straighter, now that I am not weighed down by those chains!”

“Thomas treated you poorly…” Albrecht started to say, before Mehtar quietly shook his head.

“It matters not,” Lainez sighed quietly, before looking quietly towards the closed doors. For a moment the old man cocked his head, listening to the muffled noises from within, before a smile crossed his lips. “Thomas came, just as I knew he would. The boy has much of his father in him.” Inexplicably, the old man’s smile faded into something both wistful and mournful. Albrecht frowned.

“But it does matter! You’ve done nothing but faithfully serve him and the Empire, yet he pays you back by demoting you because a few hens clucked after the stupidity of a dynatos cost you Yaik…”

“He didn’t strip me and elevate you because of the dynatoi,” Mehtar said quietly, the look on his face vanishing as quickly as it appeared. “He did it because I counseled him to do so.”

“You… why?” Albrecht said quietly, the moment’s confusion quickly erased from his voice. He had grown used to Lainez surprising him with strange decisions. “Because it would be a convenient way to remove yourself, a hated enemy of many, from beside the Emperor?” Albrecht guessed, “And it would elevate the opinion of Thomas in the eyes of many of the dynatoi and the Church?”

Lainez smiled broadly, and patted Albrecht on the shoulder. “I trained you well, but you missed one very important reason.”

Albrecht went back over his logic, searching. After a moment he looked back up and shrugged.

“You forget how quiet the dynatoi, the army, and the Church were when you were named my replacement.” The smile became broad. “Nary a cross word or a sordid complaint when the Emperor raised his personal friend, son of a Western Emperor and protégé of Mehtar Lainez, to replace my… decrepit form,” Lainez added wryly.

Albrecht blinked, the full idea that Lainez had quietly stepped aside for him to rise to the fore only starting to sink in before the muffled noises from inside the other room died away, and both he and Lainez heard the creak of wood on brass as the two doors were slowly pushed open from the inside. Quickly, they were on their feet, as the doors swung wide.

As the doors creaked on their hinges, all eyes inside turned to the two newcomers. Standing opposite, looking up only briefly before his eyes returned to the maps sprawled across the large table at the center of the room was Emperor Thomas himself, grim and taciturn as always. Gathered around the table were some of the foremost military minds in the Empire, the ‘Young Lions’ as they were known—Demetrios Lainez, Prostratos and second in command of the Imperial Northern Army, Thomas Dadiani, the emperor’s brother in law and a feared soldier in his own right, Manuel Grimaldi, a man of Italian descent and a capable commander of missile troops, Demetrios Antiochites, already a rather well respected cavalry leader, Lain bin Taifushin, son of a distaff branch of the late Moorish royal family and a capable leader of infantry, and finally Alexios Thrakesios, once an obscure frontier comes who was now regarded as arguably the deadliest light cavalry commander in Christendom.



Both Albrecht and Mehtar stopped just inside the entry to the room, and as custom demanded, executed a low and formal bow.

“No formalities,” the Emperor grumbled, eyes firmly rooted on the maps before them. Albrecht stopped at the far side, trying not to get in the way, but a look from his friend told him to approach. As he neared, Thomas’ finger was already pointing.

“See that, Albrecht?” the Emperor pointed to the array of chits, figures and counters arrayed across the surface of the map.

“See…” Albrecht started to ask, confusion apparent in his voice. While Thomas had gone on to become a fearsome warrior, Albrecht’s strong mind and delicate constitution meant he was more apt at battles of paper, not swords.

“That is what Tarifa’s spy networks say will be arriving across the Volga in a few months,” Thomas said, putting his hands on his hips. Albrecht looked back to the chits blankly. They were meaningless to him, and by his look of confusion, Thomas could tell as well. “Here,” the Emperor pointed towards an array of porphyry chits on the near side of the map. “Ten tagmata of the Imperial Guard,” the Emperor spoke quietly, “the Danes, and auxiliaries. We’ll call it 120,000 on paper, 105,000 field ready in the Tmutarakan area alone.”

Albrecht blinked. He’d known the armies on the steppe would be massive, but this… this was easily the most massive force ever put into the field by a Roman emperor since the days of the ancients. Von Franken cast a look over towards Mehtar, and while the old man’s face looked stoic, Albrecht thought he could see a hint of a smile creep into the wrinkles at the corners of his face. There had been nary a slipup, not a word of troops low on supplies, or equipment out of place. The strategoi could ruffle, grouse and complain as they wished, but von Franken was in awe of the miracle Lainez had managed to perform the previous year.

“Grandest army put in the field since… Tiberias III?” Demetrios Lainez, Prostratos of the Empire, offered.

“Yes, and outnumbered by that!” Dadiani grumbled harshly, gesturing towards the sea of darker colored chits representing the Mongols.

Albrecht looked back, and his heart sank into his stomach… Dadiani was right… After a few seconds of hurried counting and math, he arrived at an absolutely chilling number.

“Where are the Danes?” Albrecht asked, swallowing hard. Romanion would need every soldier she could get if Tarifa’s estimate was accurate.

“Knud is dining with the great… jarls,” Thomas’ mouth tripped around the foreign word, “and assessing their will to fight again…”

“Basically, can we position them on a flank, or will they be in the rear where they’ll cause the least trouble?” Thomas Dadiani offered with a grim snarl. “Beastly people. Did you know, they had the temerity to tell me when I visited their ‘capital’ that I had to sleep on the floor with nothing by a fur under my back!” He hissed. “Barbarity.”

“I read all about it in your report,” Albrecht diplomatically kept his sigh to himself. He’d heard Dadiani’s complaints no less than five times, after the former holder of the position of Megoskyriomachos had unceremoniously kicked the complaints down to the lowly Megoslogothetes. “Maj… I mean Thomas,” Albrecht corrected himself to comply with the Emperor’s request for informality, “how are we going to face down… that?”



February 19th, 1215

Outside of main Mongol camp, Kazakh steppe

Subotai, son of Jelme, pulled his furs tighter around his body. It was not particularly cold this winter’s night, but when he was in the presence of the Great Khan, something made him shiver—not with fright, but with something else.

Genghis Khan, Great Khan of the Mongols, Lord of All He Surveys was not an imposing man by his looks. He was of rather average height, slim , his hair dark brown to slightly reddish with just the beginnings of gray starting to streak through its length. But his eyes… even in the light of a campfire, they shone with something… otherworldly. They radiated command, calm, coolness and intelligence. Such was to be expected in a man who, over the last twenty years, had quickly conquered the largest empire known to mankind.


Since his proclamation as Genghis Khan, he had lead the Mongols on a whirlwind of conquest—Xia Xia in two years, the Jin in four, Central Asia, then Chosun, and now into Persia and across the Russian steppe. Battle to battle, campaign to campaign, his armies had smashed empire after empire, a seemingly invincible tide until two powers checked their advance—the Turks to the south, and now, the Romans here in the north.

The Turks were waning rapidly—no one gathered around the campfire this night expected them to last much longer since the death of their brilliant Sultan Faramarz. But these Romans—they were a different story. The more Subotai heard of their empire, their riches, the more Subotai realized why the Great Khan had marshaled such an immense force on the Russian steppe… and why he could see, partially revealed by the light of the fire, the many guards that now surrounded the person of the Great Khan. The Romans were not only skilled in war, but treachery as well.

Subotai looked around the fire, and counted no fewer than ten men wearing the white horsehairs of a Noyan, great and illustrious names. Jebe the Hawk, Conqueror of Zhongdu, Chagatai, whose conquest of Samarkand was the stuff from which legends were made, the Great Khan’s other son Jochi, who led the destruction of Hsi-Hsia, the list went on.

Ten men. Ten tumen… when added with the auxiliaries the Great Khan had called from peoples as disparate as the Tanguts, Han Chinese, Chosun, and the Muslims of Central Asia, it was easily the greatest force ever called by a Khan in the history of the Mongols… almost 150,000 men, all ready to strike the Romans.


No, the Daqing, Subotai corrected himself. The Great Khan referred to these enemies by the name the ancient Chinese texts had called this great empire to the West… Daqing, land of riches and walled cities known since the days of the Han.

“…gathering,” Ogedei, third eldest son of the Great Khan continued his report. “30,000 or more are in the Caucasus, and another 40,000 or more are gathering in the lands of the Rus.” The young man looked around the campfire. “I’ve never seen organization like it—not even the Jin were controlling armies across such a distance in such numbers at once.”

“Subotai said the Daqing have a sophisticated military,” Chagatai, yet another one of the Great Khan’s sons chimed in.

“They do,” Jamuqa’s scratchy voice hissed. Silently, Batu nodded—they knew the might of the Romans all too well, as did Subotai.

“We shouldn’t sit idly around though once the thaw arrives. We should strike.”

Subotai looked up to see the eyes of Noyan Orda staring back at him. The disgraced commander ignored Subotai’s glare, and instead pressing his point. “If we move first, we get ground of our own choosing. We should strike quickly, and strike hard once the snows thaw. We can then decide the battleground, and force this monarch to face Your Greatness on a field of Your choosing.

“I agree,” Subotai heard the words coming from his mouth, even as his mind caustically wanted to refuse to admit he’d just agreed with Orda. “This Thomas…”

“What do we know of him and his armies?” the Great Khan finally spoke. He was hunched over, like all the others, clustered around the fire. As he spoke, he pulled out a stick and gently poked the fire, a nervous tic he had when he was thinking. “Is he brave, or a coward? How does he fight? How does he think?”

“Well,” Subotai cleared his throat. For the previous six months, the Khan had charged him with compiling every single report from Mongol spies across the region, as well as his own personal select group of scouts. “From what my scouts have told me,” Subotai cleared his throats, “this Thomas is little more than a boy… he is only 22 years old.”

“Batu is only 21!” Jebe laughed, playfully poking the Khan’s youngest son present in the side. Batu tried to cast a glare at the older Noyan, but it quickly collapsed into a gruff smile.

“That may be,” Subotai sighed, “but this Thomas has a fearsome reputation. My scouts have spoken with numerous merchants and others from the city called Astrakhan. Apparently this Thomas is undefeated in the field. He won his first battle at 17, destroying the army of a respected general far his senior. He then chased Faramarz all across Mesopotamia, whittling the Turkish army to barely nothing in a series of fierce battles…”

“He was the one that bloodied up Faramarz?” Hulagu, yet another relative of the Great Khan, raised an eyebrow. The Turkish Sultan had, until the surprise Roman invasion of the Seljuk Empire, steadily held off Hulagu, Chagatai, and even the Great Khan himself for several years.

“So that’s where that little bastard went,” the Great Khan mumbled. “How many battles?” Genghis finally looked up from the fire and folded his hands. In the firelight, the Great Khan’s eyes glowed red. Subotai shivered again at the power those eyes exuded.

“Seventeen major engagements, Great Khan,” Subotai said, “many at odds.”

For several minutes the crackling of the fire was the only noise between the commanders, before the Great Khan brought a hand up and scratched his beard, a guttural grumble coming from his lips.

“180,000 Daquin in three armies,” Genghis spoke to the fire. “That’s the largest single force anyone has placed against us.” The Great Khan looked up, and Subotai swore he could see a glint of mirth dance in his lord’s eyes. “It shows how much they must fear our armies.”

Subotai swallowed hard. He knew the Great Khan was right, but he’d also seen these Daquin… Romans… in battle. He knew how fiercely they fought. He only hoped the armies of the Khan were up to the task…


Tmutarakan

“…three armies.”

Albrecht looked at the larger map of the northern themes now laying across the table and nodded. Once his friend began explaining, the whole map arrangement started making more sense.

“Mahmud will take the army in the Caucasus,” Thomas gestured towards one set of chits.

“So you promoted him then?” Albrecht asked quietly. “Despite what the Patriarch said…”

“The Patriarch can jump into the Marmara!” Thomas said simply and directly, an undertone of ice seeping into his voice. “It was time, and I personally care little for any theological dispute between one of my most gifted commanders and the Patriarch. I have the army, Ioannis will be quiet,” Thomas’ voice quieted, looking up first at Albrecht, then Mehtar, before returning his gaze back to the map.

Albrecht sighed, and gave a slight shrug. Thomas and Patriarch Ioannis had never gotten along, but the Emperor did have a point—so long as the army backed him, the Patriarch could only mew like a neutered kitten no matter how much he wanted a lion’s roar.

“Mahmud proved himself irreplaceable in Mesopotamia,” Thomas went on, his fingers tracing lines of march on the map, “and I won’t easily toss aside a useful general. The man is easily my right arm, and his brother Sinan is my left,” Thomas said simply, motioning back towards the map. “So I gave them promotions, shove the Patriarch. The Megos Domestikos now has the Army of the Caucasus, marshalling here in Kartli, while I’ve assigned Sinan to coordinate the thematakoi of Pereschen and Moldau with the remnants of Kiev and the Rus…”


“35,000 and 25,000 respectively,” the Prostratos added, a slight grin on his face at the Emperor’s comments. Patriarch Ioannis had few friends in the army at all. Demetrios looked up warily at his uncle, before back to Albrecht. “Thomas wants to see if either of them can draw anything away from the Mongol horde across the Volga… if we can whittle them down…”

“If you get them to come at you with only 80,000 instead of 120,000…” Mehtar started to say, before the hot gaze of everyone in the room bored in on him. Albrecht watched his mentor stiffen slightly, before the old man went on anyway. “Majesty, you will remember that 40,000 of their men did…”

“Two differences, uncle. This army is not made of thematakoi,” Demetrios Lainez coldly interrupted, “and Thomas is in command!”

“No matter, this Genghis Khan,” Mehtar said the strange title with the smoothness of a pro, “will come straight for Your Majesty. You are his target, and you are the linchpin of the entire war effort. He will come at you if you open your throat.”

“Says the man who laid his army’s throat open at Yaik?” Thomas Dadiani said darkly, more dark eyes from around the room laying themselves on Mehtar Lainez.

“But simply knowing he will come if your throat is vulnerable gives you knowledge you can leverage to an advantage,” Mehtar ignored the strategos, pressing instead for the emperor still looking at the map. “The Mongols are cunning—they won’t fall for the same tricks twice. You will need something more than simply leading them into an ambush this time.”

“The defeated man speaks more words,” Lain grumbled, before the Emperor of the Romans raised his hands.

“I know… I read your report,” Thomas said grimly, suddenly looking up. “I intend to do just that. Lure the Mongol Khan south, to meet us on ground of our choosing, with tactics they haven’t faced before…”


Mongol camp

“What else can you tell us?” Noyan Muqali asked, the old man’s eyesbrows arching up. “Your scouts are good, Subotai. They, and you, should be commended.”

“Thank you, Lord Muqali,” Subotai smiled slightly, before clearing his throat. “The army we face is made of their elite troops—paid men, who train for war as a profession. They are disciplined, I have heard.”

“The Jin were disciplined too,” Genghis Khan said quietly, “yet that discipline fell when we cut them off from their supplies. Tell me, Subotai, how are these Daqing supplying such a vast force?”

“Their main army is being supplied by water, Great Khan,” Subotai added. “The Daqing have many great ships, which carry food, fodder and reinforcements for their armies.”

“Hmmm,” the Great Khan picked up his stick and poked some more. The fire crackled and rose higher in the air. “We cannot strike at that supply line yet, so their discipline will be high. Keep that in mind, Noyans.”

Subotai watched as the others all nodded… even Orda.

“If this Thomas is as skilled as you claim,” Genghis Khan set his stick down and slowly rose to his feet, “he’ll try to lure us to broken ground, and try to use ruses, ambushes. We’ll need to try to keep him from doing so—strike at things he must defend in order to get him to move to ground of our own choosing, and fight in a way of our choosing.” The Khan looked down at the ground under their feet for a moment, before his boots started drawing lines in the dirt. As the Noyans started to surround their master, the Great Khan finished his impromptu map.

“Jochi,” Genghis pointed to his eldest son. “You and Hulagu will take ten thousand foreigners with your tumen and march south to this place,” the Great Khan’s boot dragged across the ground. “It’s a port the Daqing call Sochi. Let the Chinese and our other foreigners lay siege to it while you keep this southern Daqing army at bay. Once the Chinese take this port, you will send men out to fell as many trees as they need to build thirty ships.”

“But the Daqing have many more ships than that!” Subotai protested. “And that will take many months time!”

“They do, and it will” the Great Khan replied, a deadly smile crawling across his lips, “but we don’t need to destroy their ships. We want them to know we are building hips, Subotai. That alone will compel them to move some of their ships away from supplying their army… and with fewer supplies coming, it could force the Daqing Emperor to seek battle with us sooner rather than later...”

Subotai went silent in mid-speech. The Great Khan was already a step ahead of him.

“Chagatai, Batu,” Genghis went on, “you will take your tumen and another ten thousand of the foreigners and move on this northern Daqing army.” The Great Khan’s boot dragged up in the opposite direction. “Pin them down, keep them in the north. Raid for forage and supplies. I need them away from their Emperor’s army in the center.”

“Subotai, Orda, Jebe, Tolui, Muqali and Ogedei,” the Great Khan rattled off the other tumen commanders, “You will accompany me and the Mangudai to face this Daqing Emperor. Subotai, you will surrender your tumen to my brother Kaijun, and accompany me personally as we ride against the main Daqing army of…” Genghis motioned towards Subotai.

“100,000,” the Noyan said, his voice drifting into quiet as he looked down, trying not to meet the Great Khan’s face. He wouldn’t show his disappointment, not to his Khan, the man who had spotted his gifts and raised him so young to high positions. Yet hadn’t he shown skill commanding a tumen in the field? Hadn’t he crushed the Rus, sacked Novgorod and countless other cities, as well as saved the field at Yaik?

“Subotai, do not be saddened.”

The Noyan looked up, surprised and instantly ashamed. So his disappointment had shown through. Yet as his eyes met those of his Khan, he saw Genghis had a half-playful smile on his face.

“I take your tumen from you because you will have greater responsibilities. You will be my second in command,” the Great Khan said, gently laying a hand on his subordinate’s shoulder. “I have but one pair of eyes, and when leading an army as vast as the one we shall have against the Daqing… I cannot control 130,000 soldiers myself. You shall have the position of honor, and command the tumen on the right, in honor of your service to your Khan.”

Subotai swallowed hard, disbelief in his voice. “Of course, Great Khan! It would be an honor!”


Tmutarakan

“You truly think they won’t expect that?”

Albrecht blinked, looking between Mehtar and the Emperor. Thomas’ plan was elaborate, skillful, and even the martially illiterate Albrecht could find some beauty in the scheme. Yet as quickly as the Emperor laid out an idea, the elderly Lainez leapt on it with the fury of a starved tiger.

“No, I don’t,” Thomas replied, his voice quiet and calm, but Albrecht could hear the hint of something sharp and deadly hidden in that quiet sea. “And if they do, I already explained what our counter would be!”

“Pardon me, Majesty, but I do not believe that will work!” Lainez snapped.

“It will work!” Thomas’ voice rose slightly. “If it is as you say, Mehtar—that the Mongols consider me the target, not the cities of the coast, not my army, it will work!”


“But…”

“Is there any further business today?” Thomas interrupted Lainez, looking around the table. Albrecht watched as all the strategoi, used to the Emperor’s moods, shook their heads no quickly. They knew pressing on the issue was bound to cause an explosion. Lainez started to open his mouth to protest, before clamping it shut without a sound. As they all started to file out of the room, Albrecht thought he heard the old man mutter a quiet, frightening phrase under his breathe.

“You are going to die, you fool.”



So there you have it! Genghis and Thomas both have brought the backbone of their empire’s power to bear for a clash of the titans! Next time, we’ll have an epic struggle, as the Battle on the Volga decides the fate of two empires…

Out of character, this was my attempt to try to make the CK Mongols more dangerous... Yes... I added almost 150k Mongol troops to their ranks (repeated f12 "events" will do that!). Next update, we'll see if it worked... or if the CK AI managed to find a way to screw up with even that behemoth force...