Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

Deamon & RGB - Ah, so that's Arthas... I haven't played the game, I've only heard the music.

Avalnchemike - Nope... not Albie. He's happily married to Thomas II's sister, and they have a brood of their own...

Kirsch27 - More on that below...

TC Pilot - The math will make sense... and you're right, Gabriel's not as mean-spirited. It is a start...

Servius Magnus -




June 5th, 1229

Gabriel Komnenos sighed in delight, kicking aside the sheets that covered his naked body. He turned, batting away the frills of a pillow in the way before reaching over and running a finger along the sweaty body next to him. A cool breeze from the Marmara blew through the room, a gentle whisper next to the noises that had gone on only minutes before. The Prince smiled—there were moments when it was good to be the heir to the throne!

“They didn’t lie… you do have a way with men!” he whispered coyly into his lover’s ear. He was rewarded with a giggle, and fingers traced their way around his chest.

“Of course I do,” Anna Droulenos whispered, her breath just as ragged as his, leaning close to him for a kiss.

“God’s blessings be upon us! It is the fifth hour!”

Gabriel shot straight up in the bed, eyes looking to the window in a panic as the servants of the Droulenos estate made their rounds calling out the time. The fifth hour? In a flash, he was out of bed, hurriedly grabbing tunic and breeches, and cursing his luck.

“Gabby, come back…” Anna lazily rolled around to face him and complained.

For a second, Gabriel looked appreciatively at the view her shift allowed, before he returned to yanking his breeches on. Fifth hour?!

At his continued inattention, Anna’s voice grew more insistent. “What is the hurry?” she asked, before drawing imaginary lines on the bed with her finger. “You aren’t leaving, are you?” she suddenly grew serious.

“Milady,” Gabriel huffed with the best politeness he could offer in a hurry, “I’m afraid I must!” There was simply too much to do—the sendoff banquet for the African expedition had likely already begun, and Gabriel was thankful he’d worn a nice crimson tunic and breeches on what was to be a simple dalliance at Anna’s abode. A simple dalliance that turned into a five hour diversion… Undoubtedly once he got there, Eirene and Sophie Kantakouzenos would be vying for his affections, then there was the daughter of the Prince of Smolensk, and that new manservant he thought was eyeing him, probably several important state functionaries that needed his attention…

…and probably David…

…so much work, and so many distractions for…it…

“You’re leaving again?” Anna was now in a full huff. She sat up as well, as the Emperor’s son struggled with buttoning his tunic. “You… bastard!”

“I am fully legitimate, Anna,” Gabriel said dryly, finishing his tunic and starting for the door. There was no need to hide—Anna’s father knew full well of his presence, and Gabriel knew Theophylaktos Droulenos would have no problem with his daughter having a powerful lover—and the presumed heir was as powerful as one could get. “I shall call on you when I can,” Gabriel added, sincerely. He just had to fit her in… somewhere. He tried to think of a spot, and cursed himself for, yet again, not planning his social life ahead. There was only such much time between meetings, necessary duties, his own planning time, sleep, and the others who ‘entertained’him…

“When you can?!” she snarled. Gabriel felt something sail by his head, before a pillow thunked harmlessly into the door ahead of him. The Prince turned around, before flashing the smile that made the women of Konstantinopolis quiver.

“Things are busy, Anna,” Gabriel said outwardly cool and calm, delivering the same line he’d delivered to Fatima Naijar two nights before, “preparing for the campaign, dealing with my father’s incessant demands. I do hope to see you again, before we sail out next week!” In neither Fatima nor Anna’s case was Gabriel lying—indeed, he hated using the line on Fatima. In the case of Theodora Bataczes and Ioannis Spartenos, it was an outright lie—if his ‘urges’ hadn’t called, he wouldn’t have normally touched either of them.

Just like in all those cases, the words had their effect—Anna’s glare turned to a look of pity.

“Please forgive me,” Gabriel asked in more ways than one, bowing according to the script he’d planned long before, “but my father said he wished my presence at the eighth hour—I must go and prepare. I hope I have your forgiveness…”

“…of course, of course,” Anna sighed, before her look of exasperation turned to one of slight longing. “You will come and call again?”

“Of course, milady,” Gabriel smiled. He fully intended to, once the campaign was over…


“Africa will be such a bore.”

Gabriel sighed, both at his company, and the person who made the comment.

Mahjun al-Hawa was a thin, almost lithe little thing, his Saracen descent fully on display with his dark skin, curly hair, and brown eyes. Even while standing still and holding a goblet, he seemed to give off an air of lightness, like a small breeze would blow the man away. When he laughed at his own comment, the noise sounded to Gabriel like a badly mishandled set of chimes—light, and annoying. Gabriel still chafed that the only reason al-Hawa was present was the simple fact that somehow, during the last six years, this thin Saracen catamite had managed to go from a minor functionary from provincial nobility to a chief confidante of the Emperor.


That alone puzzled Gabriel—despite al-Hawa’s repeated, often oafish attempts to garner the Emperor’s attentions, Gabriel saw they all failed pathetically. Thomas II was, in the realm of love and even lust, wholly and utterly committed to his wife, the ever silent, ever strange Helene. Consequently, the Prince didn’t understand why, when only he and his mother were present, his father put up with al-Hawas chicanery, to the point of allowing him to sit on the Imperial lap. While the Emperor claimed al-Hawa calmed him from his rages, Gabriel wished his father would let alcohol do that work, not this…thing. While Gabriel dabbled often in men, al-Hawa was simply too much…

“It has its advantages,” Gabriel said quietly, too distracted go against the unwanted person and his comment. The Prince’s mind was split—part was already planning disembarking orders, encampment assignments, and all the duties he would need to do as a chillarchos in the vaunted Athanatakoi tagma. Gabriel’s father was only taking 15,000 men with him on campaign, mostly due the severe losses in the original Imperial Guard and the still wearied nature of the Balkan provinces. If Alexios came with his promised troops, Gabriel saw no way that the Crusader States could resist successfully, even if they mustered their full levies—but the prince knew stranger things had happened, and it was always better to be prepared…

The other part of Gabriel’s mind was following three specific people around the room. One was one of the maidservants bowing and offering goblets of wine to his brother Antemios—unfortunately, the tall lout was coming on the expedition as well, as a full strategos where he would undoubtedly further display is inadequacy for the throne. The second was a maid clearly trying to get his attention by displaying amply cleavage while bowing very low to Prince Fahd of Khor Nubt, much to the discomfort of the normally prudish old man.

However, these two paled before the third—mostly because for the Crown Prince of the Roman Empire, persuading a mere maidservant (or manservant) to visit his chambers required little persuasion at all. The daughters and (rarely) sons of the dynatoi were an entirely different matter. Few stuck hard in Gabriel’s mind the same way that David Paleologus did, especially when the young man flashed that smirk that made even Gabriel’s face turn a slight shade of red. Gabriel paused in mid thought, as David started to walk over. The prince, ever watchful, managed to catch himself before his jaw could drop open at the way…

“Catch a look at her?” David’s words broke his reverie, as the young Paleologus looked over his shoulder at the maid smiling in front of the sputtering Prince Khor Nubt. He turned back to Gabriel, and whispered deviousl,. “I think she’s after the imperial nethers!”

“Who wouldn’t be?” al-Hawa muttered wistfully over his cup, before sighing. Gabriel flashed a quick glare at the Saracen, but said nothing.

“I think she is too,” Gabriel said, turning back to David after the moment of noble indignance failed to change al-Hawa. The man was incorrigible. “I think my own chambers shall be busy after this banquet…” Gabriel added. None of the daughters of the dynatoi present were really worth looking at—the maidservants would have to do.

“After you meet Strategos Donauri, and talk to Thomas Dadiani as well about where you’ll be deployed in the fleet for the sail to Carthage,” David started.

“I thought we were to be in the vanguard,” Gabriel nodded away from al-Hawa to a more remote corner of the room.

“Yes, but your father took your advice and is adding Strategos Donauri’s archers to help you,” David followed Gabriel away. “Said it was a ‘bloody brilliant’ idea?”

“Good,” Gabriel smiled slightly—those words were the highest praise his father bestowed on anyone in the last few years. To the Crown Prince, it’d only made sense to have the most feared tagma in the entire Roman Army, the Basilikon Toxotai, be part of the initial landings so they could be in the field as quickly as possible. He also knew his own strategos and the other horsemen of the Athantakoi would likely not mind operating underneath an umbrella of those fearsome two and a half foot arrows. “Since you are playing my staff officer in Africa, is there anything else, kentarchos?” Gabriel smirked, using what would be David’s official rank.

“Well,” his friend grinned, “your father liked your idea so much that he’s likely going to give you a red cape on the soonest possible occasion, and,” David continued, “he’s also going to send several of the carts with you as well. Considering how they failed to work at Hymettus, he’s not so sure…”

“Really?” Gabriel’s eyes lit up. The Prince was only one year old when the disaster at Neapolis had happened, but ever since he could read, Gabriel Komnenos had poured over the details of that, and other famous battles fought by the Roman army—everything from Alesia to Mount Tabor. He’d also spent much of his waking time (when he wasn’t in the middle of some liaison) looking at what the Crusaders of Algiers were capable of—large levied armies with a smallish core of mounted armored knights. He even had his battle plan worked out…

“Oh, and the ambassador of the Great Khan wishes to see you, sometime before the night is out,” David said, nodding to the man in question.

Gabriel’s eyes followed his friend’s movement, towards a man dressed in the strangest combination of clothing he’d ever seen—he wore fine silks and beautiful cloth with thick furs, summer and winter clothing at once. Gabriel had especially studied on the Mongols as much as possible, and dreamed of reclaiming the northern themes from what was called the ‘Golden Horde,’ the Mongol realm of Batu Khan which now sat astride the northern amber trade routes and was profiting [i[enormously[/i] from the monopoly.

In Gabriel’s mind, it was truly fortunate that on the death of the great Genghis Khan in 1227 that the Mongols had followed traditional barbarian ideas of succession—their immense empire was divided into five ‘hordes,’ with one of the Great Khan’s sons taking each one. His eldest, Jochi, was named the new Great Khan, a first among equals, in Gabriel’s estimation, and ruled from some faraway placed called Khanbalik or Karakorum. What mattered most of the Romanoi was the inheritance of Batu—all the Mongol lands of the Russian steppe and westwards, including dominion of their vassals of the Rus, Sortmark, Poland, and parts of Germany.

“And,” Gabriel heard David add with more than a little irony in his voice, “a representative of Mozes Arpad wishes to see you.”


One man, seemingly, had stood this past decade between the Mongols and European domination. The former King of Hungary had managed to smash a Mongol force outside of Buda, earning himself plaudits, and the crown of Germany. Quickly Mozes had set about forcibly reuniting the northern parts of his realm, his Magyar horsemen riding far and wide. By the time Batu Khan returned with a force of 40,000 to punish the Hungarians for their impudence, Emperor Mozes Arpad could field a mixed army of 80-90,000 against them, Magyar horsemen and horse archers as its core.

Krakow, fought on May 19th, 1227, according to rumor the same day Genghis Khan died in far away Mongolia, was technically a draw—Mozes’ combined army took more losses, but Batu lost 15,000 of his valuable horsemen. The two sides came to a historic agreement a few months later—the Mongols would retain their vassal states, and leave Central Europe in peace, for a period of five years.


“Bah.” Gabriel complained quietly into his goblet. Those two would take up any remaining free time this night. It was well known that Gabriel had the ear of Albecht von Franken, the head of the Imperial bureaucracy, as well as the Emperor. The Arpad’s wanted a commitment to a joint attack on the Mongols in 1232 likely, while the Mongols wanted the opposite. Neither were pleased the Romans were making the time to launch a side expedition somewhere else.

“Anything else?” Gabiel sighed, watching his fun time slip away because of the call of duty.

“No, nothing else,” David finished in that matter of fact tone he always had. It was another thing David did that drove Gabriel to distraction—the ability to snap from work to play and back in half a sentence. “If you finish all of that, you take one harassing the old prince, I take the other?” Smirk. “If you don’t, I’ll just take both…”

“I think that’d be a…”

Gabriel’s sentence trailed into nothing, as his eyes caught sight of the woman gingerly standing in the doorway to the massive hall. Long shivers of black hair were tightly bound behind her head, a perfect compliment to her alabaster skin, ruby lips and dark, soulful eyes. Timid, deer-like, she hovered just inside the room, looking about nervously in her bright blue dress that clearly marked her as a member of the nobility…

“Who is she?” Gabriel whispered, holding out his goblet. By the time he remembered to full it back, a servant had already filled it with grappa. Gabriel downed the heavy drink in one gulp.


“Theodora Donauri,” David whispered in a less-than-pious tone, “daughter of the Strategos of the same name, your comrade in arms and the new Prince of Outrejourdain, I might add.” He leaned even closer. “She’s a year older than you, and I have heard her flower has yet to be opened…”

Flower yet to be opened? Gabriel heard that cool, calm voice that came into his mind so often. After all the meetings are done, you should invite her to your chambers…

“But I need my sleep,” Gabriel heard his mind reply.

All work and no play makes Gabriel a dull boy… the voice chided.

“I’m lucky there hasn’t been a bastard yet!” Gabriel shot back. “If I listened to you all the time, half the women in the city would be with my child!”

I’ve been the one keeping you lucky… the voice snapped. You’ve worked for several hours at this banquet, since I’ve last had my due! Take a boy then!

“I have work…”

Fine, the voice hissed, if you must keep busy, what harm would there be in going and saying hello to her? She is the daughter of your future comrade in arms…there’s no harm in that, right?

“I…um….”

“Why are you standing there with your jaw open?”

David’s voice snapped Gabriel out of his mind and back into the present.

“Just go over and say hello,” David chuckled. “My, she’s got you tongue-tied and slackjawed? Never seen that before…”

“Yes… I’ll go do that…” Gabriel said quietly, half to himself. He handed David his goblet. “There’s nothing wrong in just saying hello…”


“I want fourteen and a half oranges!”

“Half an orange[i/]?” the Master of the Chambers quaked. They knew better than to ask why their Emperor had the whims he did.

Thomas the Youngest for his part winced at the noise of his father’s bellow, even though the enormous shout wasn’t even directed at the young prince. Servants hurriedly bowed, and footfalls echoed across the deck of the Drapetevo as men fearing for their lives immediately set to work.

The man they feared was slumped into a throne of ornate opulence—gold encrusted with semi-precious stones, velvet cushions and gilded double eagles looking out over a stateroom with carpet, tapestries and soft furs deep enough to sink into. Sadly, atop all of this oriental splendor was a sea of maps, charts, notes, records—the detritus of endless meetings called by the Emperor to plan what should have been a minor expedition.

A replica of the Drapetevo. Her stern was rebuilt with giltwork and statues, to remind the citizens of Konstantinopolis looking into the Golden Horn of where their Emperor was.​

Despite the splendor and chaos of his throne room aboard the Imperial galley, Thomas II Komnenos was dressed simply, even shabbily—a torn white shift, over black breeches with harsh military boots. The Emperor’s formerly clean-shaved face now held a fearsome looking goatee, and even little Thomas could see something immense and frothing was always stirring behind the Emperor’s wide eyes, torchlight gleaming across their orbs.

“Are you deaf!” the Emperor hissed at his Chamberlain. “Yes! Half an orange! I want to squeeze the juices on my chair! It will make this foul… stench…” he nodded towards the Chamberlain, “go away!” As the man bowed and hurriedly left as well, the Emperor turned and gave his youngest son a crooked smile. “Tom, my boy,” the Emperor’s languid pose suddenly exploded into movement, as the older Thomas snapped himself around to sitting somewhat properly on the throne, “now that those vagrants are gone, what is it you wanted to show me this late at night? There’s planning to do, swordwork to practice…” The Emperor paused, then leaned back slightly.

“Papa, I did more drawings…” Thomas the Youngest said quietly, his tiny hands clutching the parchments under his arm. Master d’Orbais had been proud of them, he’d even called them remarkable. But Thomas didn’t want Master d’Orbais’ approval—Master d’Orbais couldn’t make workers start building his idea…

“Which ones?” the Emperor’s voice changed from excited, to slightly suspicious. “The walls? Or your church…things?” he waved his hand dismissively. “If it’s your things for the churches and palaces, I shall be very cross with you.”

“I’ll show you,” the seven year old said, enthusiasm already draining from his voice. He pulled out the third sheet from under his arm, knelt, walked forward, and knelt again before his father. A sore cheek had taught him the proper way to approach the Emperor’s person. “It’s a drawing, Papa. Of the tower for more walls.”

“Hmmm,” the Emperor snatched the paper from his son’s hands. For several seconds, the Emperor held the piece of paper close, grunting, then murmuring to himself. For his part, little Thomas held his breath while his father looked over the detailed, if very crude drawings.

“Murderholes there?” the Emperor finally said after a few minutes.

​

“Yes, Papa!” the little boy breathed out a barely audible sighed of relief. “I think the new wall’s towers should have…”

Thomas’ talk ground to a halt as his father held up a hand. “How has your sword work been going?” The Emperor’s eyes stayed on the parchment for only a few more minutes, before they bore in on him. Thomas shrunk back, and watched his father’s nostril’s flare.
“I told Gabriel to train you!” the Emperor thundered, the noise making his son cringe. “Were you not listening to him?!” He slowly started to rise from the throne, his bellows growing louder. “He’s the best fighter I’ve ever seen, you had to not be listening to him!”

The Emperor raised the back of his hand, Thomas cringed back further. He couldn’t cry! That’d only make his father angrier! Real men didn’t…

…he felt a big, fat tear course down the side of his cheek.

“By rights I ought to beat you for disobedience!” the Emperor snarled, leaning close to the much smaller boy. “Impudent runt, running off to do your drawings when you should be learning swordplay!” The Emperor spun back around towards his solitary throne, his boots ominously thudding as he walked across the deck. “You’re no son of mine,” he rumbled on.

“Murderholes…” the Emperor repeated, ominously, before sitting down. “That was a good idea. How tall are your towers?” Another crooked smile.

Thomas stood there, confused. One second his father was raging, the next he was smiling? The boy stood, utterly confused and unsure whether he should speak.

“Out with it boy, or I’ll have you beaten!” the Emperor smile disappeared into an explosion of anger.

“I…um…I…” Thomas shuddered, “Forty feet, Majesty!”

“Forty?” the Emperor looked at the sketch in interest. “Hmmm, well,” he leaned forward, offering back the parchment, “it looks to be something interesting. I’ll tell surveyors to take a look at that spot. Wait…” he paused, withdrawing the picture back to himself, “I should keep it. I should give it to them myself!”

“Thank you, papa,” Thomas said quietly. The boy wanted to smile, but he wasn’t sure if it was…

“Well, take it!” the Emperor snapped again, shoving the parchment back out. “It’s bloody awful! You need at least three more lines of walls if you want towers like that! Simply hideous!” At the look on the young boy’s face, the Emperor’s face grew dark. “If you cry, I shall have you beaten! Princes do not cry!”

Thomas barely managed to hold himself to sniffles as he took his drawing back from his father. He hurriedly bowed, then walked backwards away from the Emperor as quickly as he could. He had to get out before the tears began! He had to! As he crossed the great doors that lead to the Emperor’s cabin, he finally was able to turn, and start to run as tears finally coursed down his cheeks. He needed Zoe, and Gabby!

==========*==========​

So we now know a little more about our Gabriel, and Thomas' madness is on full display. Next update, off to Africa! Will Gabriel prove he has the competence his father assumes? And what of Antemios? And what of Albrecht's ominous quote above? Hmmm....

A side note: Yes, that most-Mongol map has been cleaned up amazingly from the polygot of single counties and Kingdom of Burgundy holding Moscow type mess the Mongols and the unraveling of the Kingdom of the Rus left behind. The original map made me blanche. I like this one better.