“When an Empire ignores her subjects-disaster results. When an Empire utilizes her subjects, great things can happen.” – From the private memoirs of Albrecht von Franken, dated 1233
Kairouan
July 22nd, 1229
And, like every day so far this long, hot summer, the sun beat down mercilessly on the mud buildings of Kairouan.
The ancient city of Kairouan had long been known for its scholars of the Muslim faith—a fact that had drawn pilgrims of the most unusual kind. Four of them trod those dusty streets, away from the guarded camps of the slowly gathering Imperial Army of North Africa, camped on the vast plain that stretched towards the sea. One of them muttered grumbles, the other three remained silent, as their red capes parted the sea of colorful cloth that surrounded them.
“It’s bloody hot,” the first of them complained.
Strategos Georgios Donauri slowly raised a wearied hand to his wrinkled brow, and wiped the sweat away from his growing fields of gray hair. “Ridiculously hot.” He glared at the hustle and bustle around him. “How do the damn Saracens put up with it?”
“Your father could have picked to campaign in the cool of autumn,” the second man muttered. Prince Andronikos of Khor Nubt was a tall, spindly man, who always leaned forward as if he was perennially walking into the wind. “Make’s more sense—he thinks this is Mesopotamia, or the Russian steppe?”
Strategos Georgios Donauri, left, was already a famed military commander for his handling of the Basilikon Toxotai tagma in the field of battle. Andronikos Khor Nubt, right, was one of the lowest ranking thematic princes, yet he had some of the greatest experience in dealing with the Empire’s Muslim subjects.
“I told him to pick this time,” the third voice muttered. Gabriel Komnenos was by far the youngest of the three, having just seen his sixteenth birthday. Already, he wore the red of a full
strategos—a reward for the part of his plan he’d put forward to his father earlier that year. “It’s the hottest time of year—our disciplined
tagmata will fare far better in the heat than the Duke of Algiers or his levies.”
“Maybe,” the final man muttered.
Strategos Sviatopolk Nikolaeyvich, called “Shelom” (the Helm) also wiped his brow, sweeping sweat away from a tousled sea of off blonde Varangian hair. His eyes were dark, almost grim, as he surveyed the unfamiliar surroundings around him. “My men, in their armor won’t go far in this…” the Varangian’s voice dropped quickly once he saw the dark look that came over Gabriel’s face. “Of course, Highness” Sviatopolk backtracked with an awkward smile, “we’ll try our best.”
“I hope so,
strategos, Gabriel permitted the dark look that was on his face to lighten some, “we’ll have a great deal of hard marching ahead, even after the second plan goes into effect.”
“It’s rash!” Donauri grumbled. “You don’t know how many will come! It could be…”
Gabriel sighed—caution was one of the
Strategos’ better traits, yet the Prince was sure his idea would work, despite the misgivings of his elder. While Gabriel might have been sixteen, while he might not have tasted an actual field engagement, he
was a Komnenos, a Prince of the Empire, and by his father’s own appointment, the commander of the Vanguard of the Imperial army that had yet to fully arrive. Gabriel said a quiet prayer—he knew his father wouldn’t approve his whole plan, but unfortunately for Thomas II, his son had neglected to inform him of the second part.
“Rash it may be, but speed wins wars,
strategos,” Gabriel said tartly as the quartet rounded another turn in the street. “I doubt your men will complain about the part of the plan that sees them mount on mules instead of trudging across the sands of North Africa…”
“No, but…” Donauri began, before angrily throwing his hands up in the air and muttering curses about youth, inexperience, and rashness. Gabriel ignored him—Donauri was a curmudgeon, he was against almost every part of Gabriel’s end-plan, but the Prince thought having a nay-sayer around was still a good idea.
“
Strategos,” Gabriel stopped and spun around to face his detractor, before flashing a grin. “Trust me. Prince Andronikos does,” Gabriel added with a wink.
Donauri cast a wizened look of distrust to the Prince of Leptis Magna, one that prompted a slight grin from Khor Nubt’s mouth. Donauri had argued repeatedly, and vehemently, that he did not support the Prince’s extension of House Khor Nubt’s policies to a general military campaign…
…nor did he support the Prince launching the invasion preemptively without his father’s reinforcements.
Gabriel’s plan was simple, and had sound foundations. As soon as the Prince had landed with the initial three
tagma of 5,000 men as well as Leptis Magna’s 2,000
thematakoi, he’d been beset by intelligence reports claiming the Duke of Algiers had already mobilized his levies and was moving on Constantine, still ravaged from the savaging bestowed on the Prince by Muhsin Kosaca ten years before. The Empire needed to move quickly, before Constantine fell and the Franks secured their new conquests, yet Gabriel only had 7,000 to the Duke’s potential 25,000. As confident as he was in Roman discipline, Gabriel was not about to leap into odds of that nature…
Which was where the man he was about to visit came into the picture.
“Ah, there it is!” Gabriel said a few minutes later.
The Grand Mosque of Uqba at Kairuoan, as seen today.
“It doesn’t look like much,” Sviatopolk huffed. “It’s big, but it’s not pretty.” A lopsided grin. “Churches in Smyrna have more…”
“But look at the crenellations!” Gabriel pointed to the artistic carvings all around the entrance to the building.
“Crennal-what?” Donauri raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Have you spent too much time with your brother Thomas?” Before the
Strategos could finish his sentence, however, the Prince was already walking towards the entrance to the massive building. Several confused men broke away from him, before Gabriel stopped at thresh-hold.
“I must speak to
Imam al-Hilali!” he shouted in Arabic.
For a few minutes the prince paced about the front of the mosque, before an old man dressed in robes of fine linen came out of the gate to meet him. Whereas the others had looked at him with downcast eyes, no doubt thinking a raid or attack was about to begin, the
Imam looked directly at the young man, blatantly from another place, and held out a hand.
“I am the
Imam,” the man said. Gabriel thought his voice sounded strangely fluid despite his age.
“I am Gabriel,” the prince said, before leaning closer and whispering, “of the Komnenoi, son of Emperor Thomas.” When Gabriel leaned back, he grinned, expecting to see a look of shock on the man’s face. Instead, the old
Imam’s face remained impassive, as he gave a slight polite bow.
“What can I humble man of God do for you, Highness?” the
Imam replied.
“I come looking for you to call for a struggle against the Franks of Algiers,” Gabriel said in Arabic. As the words came from his mouth, he wondered if his tutors would have been proud. However, the
Imam’s face looked puzzled for a second, which quickly turned to a smile, then outright laughter.
Imam al-Hilali of the Mosque of Uqba
“What is so funny?” Gabriel asked, confused. Had he said something wrong?
“Your accent is… quaint, Highness,” the
Imam replied in perfect Greek between chuckles, “that is all. Let us use your tongue. You speak flawless Arabic of the kind once spoken in Abbasid law courts. This,” he gestured to the humble building around him, “is no law court of a Caliphate. Besides, my lord, I need to practice my Greek more.”
“Very well,” Gabriel smiled, concealing a sigh of relief.
“Come, let us walk,” al-Hilali gestured, and gingerly, Gabriel followed, underneath the domed entryway and into the mosque proper.
“Please Highness, your shoes,” the
Imam pointed. Gabriel watched Donauri’s mouth start to open in protest, but saw that Khor Nubt was nodding quietly. The Prince quickly divested himself of his military boots, which a servant quickly picked up for him.
“And your weapon,” al-Hilali continued. “This is a place of peace, my lord. Even the display of a sheathed weapon is forbidden.”
“Highness, is it really wise…” Donauri finally found his voice, before Gabriel cut him off with a wave. His tutors had already explained to no end that the Muslims were a peaceful people like most, for the most part. While most of the residents of Kairuoan did not know who he was, al-Hilali clearly did. The Komnenid name would surely protect him. Gabriel unbuckled his sword and dagger, and handed both to Sviatopolk.
“Ah, now you are attired to come inside a House of God,” al-Hilali smiled, gesturing onwards. Gabriel nodded, and followed him inside.
What the Prince found inside the Mosque of Uqba stunned him.
While Gabriel had pestered his tutors for information on the Muslim inhabitants of what he hoped would be his empire, he’d never seen the inside of a mosque—and the sight stunned him. Before his eyes lay a sea of columns made of heavy stone, painted in brilliant colors with fluid Arabic crawling up their length, while men in fine linens clad in the Saracen way moved about, scrolls flapping in a gentle breeze that wafted from the outside.
“Ah, young prince, do not try counting the columns inside this mosque. You will go blind in the attempt, so goes the legend!” the
Imam smiled at Gabriel’s awestruck reaction. “You have never been in a mosque, have you?”
“No,” Gabriel managed as the two turned down along corridor. Students backed out of their path, bowing slightly with their hand on their chest, saying words of Arabic Gabriel didn’t understand. Gabriel felt their eyes boring on him—a blonde haired, blue eyed Christian in a sea of dark haired, dark eyed Muslims. He felt as if the hiss of his his feet on the stone floor was the roar of a thousand snakes...
“They say ‘Peace be to you, Light of the Faith and Cord of the Muslims,’” the
Imam filled in Gabriel’s unasked question. “They do not address you, because they do not know who you are, or your rank. Please do not take offense, they mean no rudeness—they are in fact very afraid.”
“I…take none,” Gabriel said quietly.
“Good. This is a place of great learning, as well as spiritual renewal,” the
Imam said, stopping before a small room, “unfortunately it can also be a place of gossip amongst the younger students. I thought by your whisper outside, Highness, you would prefer them muttering about a minor Christian nobleman stopping in our holy mosque, than bowing and scraping and whispering to the world the Crown Prince was here.” The old man gestured for Gabriel to enter. Once Gabriel had entered, the
Imam motioned towards a cushion on the floor. “Come, sit! Welcome to my home,
Jebreel ibn Thu’mas*!”
Gabriel had heard from people in Konstantinopolis that the Muslim
Imams lived lavishly, and he was surprised, even shocked by the bareness of the room. The room was spare and spartan—a table in one corner that bore several books, a rather lumpy mattress in another corner, and several worn cushions distributed all about. What dominated the room was not a piece of fine furniture or art, but the countless scrolls and papers that laid about in neatly stacked piles.
The interior of the mosque, including its famous colonnade
As Gabriel gingerly found a seat, al-Hilali continued, “So, Lord Komnenos, how can I help you defeat the Franks of Algiers? I am but a weak and old man, I have never fought someone with a blade in my life!” the
Imam laughed.
“I want to raise an army,” Gabriel said simply, directly. Glimpses of some of the paper showed Arabic that Gabriel didn’t recognize save words about divinity—he assumed they must be theological arguments of some sort.
“An army?” the
Imam gave a lopsided grin of confusion. “How can I, a cleric of peace, help you in that?”
“Many here in Kairuoan, indeed throughout the Mahgreb,” Gabriel used the Arabic word for the African coast, “take heed of your words and counsel. I’ve heard your name from Carthage and Tunis, and Lord Khor Nubt says your words are familiar in Tripoli even.”
“Ah, you have spoken to Andronikos,” al-Hilali’s smile grew wider. “So, ah, what pollution has my friend filled your mind with?”
“That if you speak publicly against the
Firanj,” Gabriel said, throwing in another word of Arabic, “that the people of this area will rise up, and follow Romanion’s banner to destroy the Franks before they can ready their defenses.” Gabriel leaned forward. “Eminence,” he said, hoping it was a correct title of deference, “already the Duke of Algiers has called out his levies, and he moves towards Constantine. I need not tell you what has happened to those who were not of the Latin faith under the rule of Duke Godfrey, or his father Duke Richard…”
“My public support?” the
Imam asked, slowly repeating each word. “A formal declaration against the
Firanj and a plea that the Faithful fall under the banners of
Rum?” His face turned from a look of pondering to a look of seriousness. “Highness, that is most grave. What exactly do…”
“Title of nobility, position in the Imperial court in Konstantinopolis,” Gabriel answered the
Imam’s unfinished question. To his surprise, al-Hilali broke into a massive grin, then a huge series of laughs. “Did I say something humorous?”
“What will
The Faithful get in return for supporting
Rum?” al-Hilali clarified, intermittent chuckles still breaking through. “Your empire has turned our greatest mosques into churches, and while we may worship, we do so in fear that even while we might have a munificent leader, that leader is still an infidel that may turn on us, much as your
Malik Andreas did…”
“And that usurper was a fool for turning on you,” Gabriel bristled slightly at Andreas’ name even coming up. “We Komnenoi have always been respectful of the followers of Islam. Have we done forced conversions?”
“You have not,” al-Hilali smiled, “but some of your governors and agents have.”
“And we have punished them for not following our edicts,” Gabriel riposted.
“Have you?” al-Hilali folded his hands and leaned back. “Remember the case of Darum, some years back? Your local lords even sided with our rights to a mosque in that city, but the local prince wanted it closed. Our people rose for their rights, and an imperial
tagma marched in and destroyed the mosque and executed many of the people merely wanting access to their mosque. That,” al-Hilali sighed, “is not true respect.”
“Bu…”
“When you side with your local
dynatoi over the local population,” al-Hilali raised a hand and simply talked over Gabriel, “that is not respect, and you are no better then than the
Firanj you despise so much. Highness, if I urge my fellow Muslims to take up the banner of
Rum against the Latins,” al-Hilali leaned back, “I expect one thing.”
“Sir, I cannot…”
“I expect your ear,” al-Hilali interrupted again.
Gabriel stopped in mid-sentence. “My… ear?”
“I expect you will listen to me and my fellow Muslims. I expect you will hear our cries and pleas for mercy and justice, as well as our dances of joy. I expect we will become full parts of what will be your glorious empire. In short,” the
Imam smiled, “I expect your ear.”
“I…I can grant that,” Gabriel stumbled, not expecting such a simple request. “But…”
“Ah, so quick to answer, so foolish to not consider the ramifications! Tea!” the
Imam leaned out into the hallway and called. Al-Hilali turned his attention back to Gabriel. “Long have I lived under the banner of you men of
al-Rum,” the old
Imam began, “and long have I suffered from the ill-wishes and ill-plans of a foolish few.” A servant returned with a pitcher full of steaming hot tea, set it between them, bowed, then left. “See,” Al-Hilali watched the boy leave with a smile of thanks, “there is a young one who is already wise, wiser than many of his fathers. He knows,” the
Imam turned back to the Prince, “his role, and he performs his role well. Because of that, someday he’ll taste the air of freedom.” Al-Hilali’s smile faded away. “I like speaking with wise men, and working with wiser men. You, Highness, have a plan, but, even though you might be the son of a prince,” Al-Hilali poured some tea, “you are young, and not every son of a prince is wise. Tell me,
Ibn Thu’mas al-Mukana bil Barq,** are you a wise man?”
Gabriel smiled. “You’re wise to ask,” the prince replied. "And to answer, I shall reply in a couplet.
I'm known to the horses, the night and the wilderness. I'm known to the sword, the spear, the paper and the pen,” Gabriel recited from memory.
“I am impressed—a son of
al-Rum who knows our poetry, and by heart, nonetheless! Bold words, however,” Al-Hilali smiled, “originally written by a bold man. Tell me, Highness, will you be another al-Mutannabi?”
“No, Eminence,” Gabriel grinned, “I have no pretensions that my poetry or swordsmanship are superior to another’s. I treat every encounter I face, be in conversation or on the battlefield, as a meeting of equals. Rest assured,
Imam, you shall have my ear. I will not promise my decision will be always to your liking,” Gabriel admitted, “but I will be honest and say that, to treat you with openhandedness and integrity.”
“I think someone poisonous would have said much sweeter things,” the
Imam grinned. “So I have finally met a wise Prince of
al-Rum,” Al-Hilali raised his cup of tea. “We shall toast then—to the success of
al-Rum in driving out the
Firanj of North Africa!”
*"Gabriel, son of Thomas."
**"son of Thomas, whom we calling Lightning"
).
