Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR
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I am about to cry... it is so wonderful. Mehtar the Foul is dead. When I first read that I thought he was killed by Alexios from beyond the grave, but I am not sure now. Who was the Despotes?
At long last, the worst thing to happen to Romanion is gone! Mehtar has been destroyed!
At long last, the worst thing to happen to Romanion is gone! Mehtar has been destroyed!
That bastard killed Mehtar! 
And who the heck is this Demetrias that inherited him?
And who the heck is this Demetrias that inherited him?
Well, judging by the remarks, at least the only one who has read it, also learned a heck of a lot from it....
A new shadow figure in the making?
A new shadow figure in the making?
Mehtar performed his first assassination as a pupil of Sophie, during Basil's reign. The amazing thing about this story is its sheer scale--generation upon generation passes into the abyss, and the story remains. It's a monumental achievement.
ive been reading this AAR since page 10 (so that would be..november 2007), i think the same thing; all these generations ive seen come and go over 130 pages
Was tragic the trouble Mehtar ultimately created for the Empire, but he did kind of redeem himself a bit when he came out of retirement to try stopping the mongols and the like. Hated him at first, but by his death i have to say i came to like him a tad
Well, I for one was kind of a fan of Mehtar. He was already 69 though so it would've happened quite soon anyway.
I almost thought Mehtar wanted his protege to kill him, why else would he accept a drink that so obviously had been poisoned? I hope that the tearing sound wasn't The True History but I'm sure that it's extremely unlikely. Still, a wise person would hang onto an incendiary document like that, you never know when it might prove useful.
As for your potential new project, I'm all for seeing more work from you as long as this opus is carried to completion.
I hope that the tearing sound wasn't The True History but I'm sure that it's extremely unlikely. Still, a wise person would hang onto an incendiary document like that, you never know when it might prove useful.As for your potential new project, I'm all for seeing more work from you as long as this opus is carried to completion.
I don't really know what to think of Mehtar. I guess in the end he had the well-being of the empire in his heart, but he was even more flawed than Manuel in both his execution and results. The shadow of Thomas I is a long one, and that's all because of Mehtar.
I've been lurking since the Mongols and I believe it time to give praise to this brilliant ARRuthor.
The best serious AAR I've ever read. EVER. 10/10
The best serious AAR I've ever read. EVER. 10/10
Well well, the spider is finally dead. Its a shame really, as soon as I finally saw some good in him, he is offed by this fellow. Although, I do have to agree with VILenin on this one, it almost seems as if Mehtar wanted Eleutheros to kill him. oh well, a very nice update BT, looking forward to the rest of the story.
Cheers!
~Hawk
Cheers!
~Hawk
Hawkeye1489 - He could have also simply resigned himself to the fact thatit was going to happen... or in his age he simply slipped...
armonistan - Thank you for the high praise, I hope you like what's coming down the line too!
TC Pilot - Indeed. If Mehtar had been better at his job (or just better in general) we definitely would be somewhere different than where we are. I don't know if David would have dealt with the Mongols better, but its safe to say he wouldn't have allowed two civil wars to happen.
VILenin - Or VILenin, you could be right and Mehtar just wanted to go. As for the True History, you all will find out in a little bit more about that...
Qorten - He was old, true...
Carach - People liked Mehtar a little? I still remember all the blood and vinegar in comments about him all those posts ago.
asd21593 - Rice krispies?
Fulcrumvale - If I remember right, Alexios was the start of the seventh generation of characters, so Gabriel et al would be generation eight... the ninth generation is encroaching quickly.:wacko:
Clydwich - Maybe, though if he reappeared it likely wouldn't be under the name Eleutherios...
RGB - Where is that from?
Enewald - That would be Demetrios Lainez, one of the chief generals in the Imperial army. He was at Neapolis.
AlexanderPrimus - Are angelic choirs singing?
The_Archduke - You'll be finding out the identity of your hero eventually. As for the worst thing to happen... not so much, considering something big coming down the line...
Enligsh Patriot - It wasn't meddling, it was merely him listening to his... pants... oh wait, it was meddling.
Kirsch27 - Though I do have to agree with Kirsch to an extent... he did a great deal of good in the end, after he did a great deal of bad earlier on. So his legacy is mixed, like that of so many characters in this story...
“Gang of Three? Gang of Fools, in my opinion.” – Albrecht von Franken
March 4th, 1233
Albrecht von Franken sighed, but the noise was hidden, yet again, by the trundle of a heavy cart.
Only an hour earlier the Megoskyriomachos had been cursing the carts filled with stone that seemed to bottle up every street his litter turned in the city. The Emperor’s decision to build a third ring of walls around the Imperial capital made strategic sense, but that didn’t stop von Franken from grinding his teeth at how late those carts had made him—all on the day of what could be the most important meeting he’d had since the death of his friend and mentor, Mehtar Lainez.
The Thomasine Walls, started in 1232, would be some of the most extensive fortifications in the entire medieval world. If legend is to be believed, the idea of more defenses was conceived by Thomas II’s youngest son—the Emperor himself went on to add to the plans, conceiving a vast belt of defenses that not only provided another layer of defenses for Konstantinopolis proper, but also saw a wall built to protect her northern suburbs as well, incorporating these communities effectively into Konstantinopolis itself. Along the western approaches, the new wall, slated to be finished in 8 years, would be marked by a 25 foot high wall with 50 foot high square towers, the modern remnants of which can be seen on the left. The northern approaches would be defended by a smaller wall—15 feet high with 20 foot intermittent towers, as seen above.
Even as he briskly walked through the halls of the Blacharenae, he fretted. They had over an hour to talk amongst themselves before his arrival, and Albrecht had no doubt that some scheme had already been concocted, some plan put into motion without him present to apply the iron brakes of bureaucracy. He had little doubt that even Prince Gabriel had not been able ot stand before the might of their collective... forcefulness.
Finally, he reached the former throne room of the now tertiary Imperial Palace and took a deep breath, telling himself that he was Megoskyriomachos, and that his power and control exceeded that of even those three combined. Yet as those words went through his mind, they rang hollow. Outside of the Emperor whenever he left his galley-filled stupor, none could challenge the collective power of the so-called Gang of Three. Finally, Albrecht resigned himself to a meeting that would be sour from the start, and nodded. Servants heaved, and the mighty bronze doors slowly opened.
Once the Blacharenae throne room had been a truly glorious place—the Palace had been home to the Megas while the Great Palace was renovated, and it’d long served Emperors before. Even as late as the Triple Monarchy, it’d served as home to Emperor Heraklios II. Yet for the current emperor, the palace served as nothing more than a reminder of the excesses of his mother. Other than a skeletal staff, it was used for meetings, and little more. Thus when the bronze doors finally clanked fully open, the noise echoed through a room painted to look like the sitting place of an emperor, without the banners, tapestries, or carpets to match. Indeed, the only furniture in the room was a single oaken table, finely crafted and carved, with six chairs arrayed around it.
The tallest was, by tradition, left empty—should Thomas decide to actually attend one of the meetings, it would be where the Emperor would sit. Albrecht quietly strode into the hall as the noise of whispering amongst the four already gathered died to nothing. The Megoskyriomachos slid himself into a chair opposite the empty Emperor’s, eyes panning the room with more than a little discomfort. Four pairs of eyes looked back—only one of which seemed friendly.
First, there was Bardas Komnenos, Despotes of Italy, and until Gabriel’s 16th birthday, Kaisar of the Roman Empire. He was tall, swarthy, like his father and grandfather before him, a think shock of gray running through his beard. Wind, weather and war had etched wrinkles deep into his face, wrinkles that ripped as his lips turned into their usual irrepressible sneer at the mere Latin that held the most powerful office in the Empire. Today his hands were folded like that of a schoolboy at morning prayer—a sign the Despotes was eager to leap into the morning’s debacle.
Sitting next to him was the young, rash Prince Theodoros of Damietta. Only 30, short with a dark hatchet shaped face, he certainly didn’t look the part of the hero of the North African campaign almost 14 years before. Yet behind his small, dark eyes lay one of the premier intellects alive in the Empire, a man both gifted at scholarship and the art of war. Unfortunately, this brilliant mind was paired with the most tactless tongue imaginable, so often his brilliance was wasted in rudeness. Albrecht often thought it a sad fact that since the downfall of House Dau, this man was likely the most powerful noble in all of Egypt, and thus crucial to the Empire.
Across of them was Prince Adrianos of Edessa—the most distantly related Komnenos present, but perhaps the most regal looking. He was of only middling height, with a few strands of gray sticking out of his raven hair. The man hardly ever spoke, but Albrecht knew Adrianos was always listening, thinking, planning. He might not be as loud as Bardas or as warlike as Theodoros, but he was the most respected and powerful lord in the Asian parts of the Empire, a Despotes in all but name.
Sitting next to him was Prince Gabriel, one year back from Wallachia and celebrating his first month of marriage to the lovely Theodora Donauri. Albrecht had to admit the Prince had shown himself capable, but von Franken had seen capable youths fall often in the rough and tumble politics of Konstantinopolis. Add to that the constant scandal surrounding the young man—marriage, even to a lovely woman, had scarcely whet his appetite for young women and, if rumor was true, young men. Nonetheless, the young Prince had the full backing of the army—the Megos Domestikos had gone so far as to say the Prince was the Megaloprepis reincarnated. Albrecht had heard such words before, and they had fallen far short…
“Why the Turk?” Albrecht didn’t bother to start the meeting with any pleasantries—he didn’t feel like it, and thes three coundrels would appreciate the bluntness. “Why now? Didn’t the Emperor make peace with the Turk two decades before? Isn’t Fahraz far weaker than Faramarz or brother ever were?”
The arrival of Genghis Khan’s son Hulagu in Central Asia spelled a new round of invasions into Turkish lands
“And that is exactly why we must move,” a surprising voice said. Albrecht turned to Prince Gabriel, eyebrow raised. The Prince looked down slightly, but continued. “I know the Megaloprepis always said to not make war against the Turk.” His eyes came up, defiance in their stare. “Yet we have done so twice since, with no ill effects. If we do not move, we’ll have Mongols in the Zagros in a decade, and in any future conflict, they’ll have the high passes, they’ll have the good ground, while we will be stuck on the flat, open plain that is perfect for their horse…”
“Exactly!” the Despotes of Italy jumped in as well. “He’s squeezed between us and the Mongol, and has only 30,000 ill-armed boys and grandfathers under his command!” The Despotes’ eyes lit up, “it’s been handed to us, perfectly, as if God in Heaven willed it!”
“You’re sounding like the Latins you rule,” Adrianos muttered quietly, his face twisting into a scowl.
“Now, once the Turks fall,” Bardas ignored the jibe, “I was thinking we could divide the remains of Persia into six themes. I have four younger sons that…”
“Bardas, we are here to talk about this so-called campaign,” Albrecht interrupted, trying to keep his voice calm. He never thought the Despotes would be that blunt in his attempt to gain more principalities for his children—as if Apulia, Calabria, Salerno, Benevento and a host of others weren’t enough. By the looks on the faces of Adrianos and Theodoros, they were past shocked—they were angry.
“And what of my sons!” Theodoros exploded.
“Your sons are five and three years old!” Bardas hissed, “they couldn’t rule the nursery if they tried!”
“And what of mine?” Prince Adrianos complained, his voice slightly louder this time. The man hardly ever shouted, but his quiet voice had a tinge of iron in its depths. “We have more experience in the East than your sons…”
“If we don’t plan the campaign well ahead of time, there won’t be any land for anyone’s sons!” Gabriel snapped. Albrecht winced—the boy’s voice had the same sharp power von Franken used to hear in Thomas’ voice before that day at Neapolis. At the collective silence of the three most powerful princes in the empire, Gabriel went on. “Fahraz is hard pressed, Megoskyriomachos. The great princes, as well as myself, and my father, are all inclined to agree—the time to strike the Turk is now, before the Turkish lands are gobbled up by the Mongols.”
“Ah,” Albrecht sighed. If it’d been just the three Komnenid princes, Albrecht might have been able to defuse the situation. If it’d been them and Gabriel, the chances weren’t nearly as good. The Emperor himself added to the list? The war would happen—he sighed in defeat, and trudged onward. If it was to be war, it needed to be a spotless war.
“So then… how do we defeat the Turk?” Albrecht asked. “What supplies do we need? Troops? Tax levies? Intelligence?”
“No, the question is more complex,” Gabriel corrected. “How do we defeat the Turk, including everything you mentioned, and stay strong enough to compel the Mongol to not molest our gains?”
“Smash them both!” Theodoros grunted. “Let the Great Khan and the Sultan screw themselves in Hell as we run a sword…”
The Near East in 1233. The sudden, forceful Ilkhanate invasion has splintered the remains of the Seljuk Empire, with Emirs along the southern coast of the Persian Gulf using the chaos to declare independence. Cut off from Isfahan, the survivors of the Mongol rampage in Central Asia have also broken away—nominally they kneel before the Khans, but time will tell if the loyalty of Khwarezm is true or false.
“No, not smash,” Gabriel blurted out.
“Not smash?” Theodoros’ excited talk ground to a screeching halt as confusion reigned over the Prince’s face.
“What do you mean?” Albrecht asked, leaning over the table. He looked into the Crown Prince’s eyes. Behind those blue orbs, he could almost see a mind quickly at work, something keen, sharp, calculating. Maybe he’d underestimated the young man…
“How have you treated the Muslims within your domains, Prince Adrianos?” Gabriel turned the Prince of Edessa. Adrianos blinked several times before replying.
“I let them keep most of their mosques, I only hire converts into the administration, but I don’t see a reason to stir up a nest of sleeping hornets…” the Prince stammered, confusion on his face. “If they are loyal, if they pay taxes and serve, I let them be…”
“We know Adrianos is a fool who doesn’t prosecute infidels like God, the Good Book, and the Patriarch all wish him to do!” Bardas snapped, sneering at his eastern cousin. Albrecht groaned—one of the most contentious points between the Eastern and Western Princes once again rose to the fore. To the almost wholly Christian West, and even Christian Anatolia, the idea of compromising with the heathen seemed foreign and sinful. To the Princes of the Levant, Egypt and North Africa, it was a necessity...
Bardas’ gaze turned towards Gabriel. “What does this have to do with the Turk? Adrianos’ weakness likely only encourages Turks within his realms to secretly plot with the Sultan and…”
“And you, Prince Theodoros?” Gabriel spoke over the Despotes and looked towards his Egyptian cousin.
“I don’t care about religious… foppery,” Theodoros waved his hand dismissively. “It interferes with raising taxes and armies. The priests and mullahs can all fornicate with each other in the market for what I care!”
Albrecht coughed, and the Megoskyriomachos knew that everyone present likely blanched slightly. While all had heard Theodoros’ tongue in action, it always seemed the Prince of Damietta could find some way of surprising them all with a new method of crudeness.
“Blasphemer,” Albrecht heard Bardas hiss under his breath.
“My point is,” Gabriel said loudly, clearly trying to draw attention back to himself, “that we Romanoi have not harshly treated the Muslims under our rule. Lord von Franken,” Gabriel turned to Albrecht, “how have the Mongols treated the Muslims of Central Asia?”
Albrecht stopped for a second, before hiding the smile he wanted to show at the boy’s cleverness. He had underestimated him—and all that talk of Gabriel speaking to imams in North Africa had not been rumor, hearsay and legend. So that is what the young Prince was up to…and if it worked…
“The armies of Hulagu ransacked Samarkand and Bukhara, looting and pillaging, destroying towns and mosques from what travelers say. In Herat they left only three alive out of a city of fifty thousand.” He paused for a moment, looking around the room. As he expected, there were at least frowns, if not looks of revulsion, on the faces of all gathered. “In short, the Mongol puts the heathen to the sword…”
“Which concerns us and the heathen how?” Bardas interrupted. “Why not smash the Turk once and for all? You Eastern scum are just too weak to do God’s bidding!”
“How much of God’s bidding can we do when we’re putting down rebellion after rebellion instead of building churches and converting?” Gabriel said darkly. “If we did as you say, the Eastern half of the Empire would descend into chaos, warfare, famine and strife! Tell me, Despotes, how in the name of God is that Christian work?!”
“Perhaps you should concentrate less on preaching and more on not being such a lech!” Bardas snapped back.
“We need to get a foothold onto the Persian plateau,” Gabriel raised his hands and leaned back, backing away from the bait Bardas had laid—something else that impressed von Franken. “It’s that simple. And talking to…”
“Are you proposing we negotiate with the Turk?!” Bardas snapped. “Of all the…”
“No!” Gabriel quickly clarified, “Not with the Sultan! With the imams, the mullahs, the beys and city leaders of Persia!”
“Ah, so we Christians talk to the leaders of the heathen… that is far better,” Bardas rolled his eyes. “This is disgraceful! Just as disgraceful as you wandering into one of their demon pits in North Africa and…”
“Fahraz has no heirs, and is fighting a hopeless war,” Gabriel went on, ignoring the Despotes. “He will lose. It is as simple as that.”
“What can we offer… these mullahs?” Theodoros asked, doubting hanging thickly in his voice. “You surely don’t think…”
“Ferdows’ attack on Alaeddin Naijar destroyed any support the Sultan might have had amongst the religious leaders of Persia,” Gabriel went on. “I have spoken with several eminent imams from Mosul and Azeribijian—they say the Sultan and his son are reviled amongst the courts of the religious leaders…”
“…a wedge?” Prince Adrianos said quietly, a smile crossing his face.
“We are the lesser of two evils,” Albrecht nodded, continuing the Prince’s thought. The boy clearly had brilliance marked all over him. “The imams and mullahs face a choice—rule by a rather benign set of unbelievers who, if you pay tax and stay loyal, care not what you do, or destruction at the hands of another set of unbelievers.” Albrecht’s eyes flicked up towards the Despotes of Italy. “Faced with such a choice, Despotes, which would you choose?”
“Neither,” Bardas crossed his arms and grumbled, “I’d fight, tooth and nail.”
“What do you think Naijar’s rebellion was?” Adrianos said darkly. Albrecht could feel another, greater storm building in the Prince’s voice. “He called himself al-Malik al-Islam, the Ruler of Islam. He was trying to unite…”
“I’m not going to ask my dear cousin how he knows so much about the heathen and their thoughts,” Bardas muttered. “And you, von Franken, siding with the heathen…” Bardas started shaking his head.
“Because I fought Naijar alongside the Megos Domestikos!” Adrianos snapped. Albrecht blinked—he could count on his hand the number of times he’d seen Adrianos lose his temper. “You of all people should realize knowing your enemy delivers them into your hands! When the Turkish Sultan used a respite to destroy Naijar, he ruined his reputation amongst the clerics. Bardas, you must realize, the religious leaders of the heathen world keep in contact with each other remarkably well, and I do pay attention to the words of the imams within my theme…”
For later generations of Muslims and even some Aionites, Alaeddin Naijar was seen as a glorious yet tragic figure…
“Don’t the imams also say that if one can, one should flee to lands ruled by a Muslim ruler?” Bardas smirked. “I am not a fool, I rule no Muslims but I keep track of some of their traditions!”
“Where can they flee to?” Albrecht shot back, pointing towards the map, covered with double eagles or blue and red pennants. If Gabriel could find a way to persuade the religious leaders of Persia to support Romanion—it could lead to a spotless, maybe even close to bloodless takeover! “Persia is about to fall, to either the pagan Mongol or us Christians if you have your way! Mesopotamia is Christian-ruled, as is all of North Africa and Spain. How many Muslims can fit into the deserts of Arabia?”
“Enough to trouble Heraklios,” Bardas huffed and crossed his arms. Albrecht bit back a smile—he’d seen Bardas debate before, and the Despotes was about to grudgingly give in, if he was pushed a little more. Bardas was loud, Bardas was belligerent, but even the hardheaded Italian Komnenos could see when he’d lost a battle.
“Heraklios’ empire wasn’t a third as powerful as ours,” Gabriel retorted, evidently spotting the weakness as well. “No, these imams know that flight isn’t an option—there is no Muslim nation to take them, outside of the Hejaz or Mali, and few can afford the cost to flee to either. Some will go, but most will stay. They’d prefer us to the Mongol.”
“So the clerics agree, let’s say,” Bardas sighed and grumbled. Albrecht let his smile come through—Bardas giving way, even unwillingly, was a rare sight. “Fahraz will still fight!”
“You yourself said he has, what was it? ‘30,000 ill-trained boys and grandfathers armed with pitchforks?’”
“But… bah!” Bardas waved his hand dismissively and looked away from the table.
“If I can get Your Highnesses to commit 20,000 troops each,” Gabriel smiled in triumph, “or persuade other themes near you to contribute,” he added with a wink, “and you give me five months, I can guarantee that the Turks will fall within a year, and we can hold off the Mongol if they intervene.”
“And what of your father and his say in this?” Adrianos raised an eyebrow.
“I have a plan. I’ve taken it to him and he’s already approved if Your Highnesses will support it…” Gabriel smiled.
Gabriel’s plan involved a rapid invasion using mostly readily available thematakoi and only a limited amount of the still battered Imperial Guard. While Adrianos and Theodoros were allowed to lead their own contingents flanking Gabriel and Thomas’ forces, Bardas’ ‘contribution’ would be parceled out between imperial father and son. To the north, the Megos Domestikos would cover the Caucasus border with another contingent of thematakoi. According to Gabriel’s plan, once the perceived ‘buffer zone’ was taken, the invasion would stop…
armonistan - Thank you for the high praise, I hope you like what's coming down the line too!
TC Pilot - Indeed. If Mehtar had been better at his job (or just better in general) we definitely would be somewhere different than where we are. I don't know if David would have dealt with the Mongols better, but its safe to say he wouldn't have allowed two civil wars to happen.
VILenin - Or VILenin, you could be right and Mehtar just wanted to go. As for the True History, you all will find out in a little bit more about that...
Qorten - He was old, true...
Carach - People liked Mehtar a little? I still remember all the blood and vinegar in comments about him all those posts ago.
asd21593 - Rice krispies?
Fulcrumvale - If I remember right, Alexios was the start of the seventh generation of characters, so Gabriel et al would be generation eight... the ninth generation is encroaching quickly.:wacko:
Clydwich - Maybe, though if he reappeared it likely wouldn't be under the name Eleutherios...
RGB - Where is that from?
Enewald - That would be Demetrios Lainez, one of the chief generals in the Imperial army. He was at Neapolis.
AlexanderPrimus - Are angelic choirs singing?
The_Archduke - You'll be finding out the identity of your hero eventually. As for the worst thing to happen... not so much, considering something big coming down the line...
Enligsh Patriot - It wasn't meddling, it was merely him listening to his... pants... oh wait, it was meddling.
Kirsch27 - Though I do have to agree with Kirsch to an extent... he did a great deal of good in the end, after he did a great deal of bad earlier on. So his legacy is mixed, like that of so many characters in this story...
“Gang of Three? Gang of Fools, in my opinion.” – Albrecht von Franken
March 4th, 1233
Albrecht von Franken sighed, but the noise was hidden, yet again, by the trundle of a heavy cart.
Only an hour earlier the Megoskyriomachos had been cursing the carts filled with stone that seemed to bottle up every street his litter turned in the city. The Emperor’s decision to build a third ring of walls around the Imperial capital made strategic sense, but that didn’t stop von Franken from grinding his teeth at how late those carts had made him—all on the day of what could be the most important meeting he’d had since the death of his friend and mentor, Mehtar Lainez.
The Thomasine Walls, started in 1232, would be some of the most extensive fortifications in the entire medieval world. If legend is to be believed, the idea of more defenses was conceived by Thomas II’s youngest son—the Emperor himself went on to add to the plans, conceiving a vast belt of defenses that not only provided another layer of defenses for Konstantinopolis proper, but also saw a wall built to protect her northern suburbs as well, incorporating these communities effectively into Konstantinopolis itself. Along the western approaches, the new wall, slated to be finished in 8 years, would be marked by a 25 foot high wall with 50 foot high square towers, the modern remnants of which can be seen on the left. The northern approaches would be defended by a smaller wall—15 feet high with 20 foot intermittent towers, as seen above.
Even as he briskly walked through the halls of the Blacharenae, he fretted. They had over an hour to talk amongst themselves before his arrival, and Albrecht had no doubt that some scheme had already been concocted, some plan put into motion without him present to apply the iron brakes of bureaucracy. He had little doubt that even Prince Gabriel had not been able ot stand before the might of their collective... forcefulness.
Finally, he reached the former throne room of the now tertiary Imperial Palace and took a deep breath, telling himself that he was Megoskyriomachos, and that his power and control exceeded that of even those three combined. Yet as those words went through his mind, they rang hollow. Outside of the Emperor whenever he left his galley-filled stupor, none could challenge the collective power of the so-called Gang of Three. Finally, Albrecht resigned himself to a meeting that would be sour from the start, and nodded. Servants heaved, and the mighty bronze doors slowly opened.
Once the Blacharenae throne room had been a truly glorious place—the Palace had been home to the Megas while the Great Palace was renovated, and it’d long served Emperors before. Even as late as the Triple Monarchy, it’d served as home to Emperor Heraklios II. Yet for the current emperor, the palace served as nothing more than a reminder of the excesses of his mother. Other than a skeletal staff, it was used for meetings, and little more. Thus when the bronze doors finally clanked fully open, the noise echoed through a room painted to look like the sitting place of an emperor, without the banners, tapestries, or carpets to match. Indeed, the only furniture in the room was a single oaken table, finely crafted and carved, with six chairs arrayed around it.
The tallest was, by tradition, left empty—should Thomas decide to actually attend one of the meetings, it would be where the Emperor would sit. Albrecht quietly strode into the hall as the noise of whispering amongst the four already gathered died to nothing. The Megoskyriomachos slid himself into a chair opposite the empty Emperor’s, eyes panning the room with more than a little discomfort. Four pairs of eyes looked back—only one of which seemed friendly.
First, there was Bardas Komnenos, Despotes of Italy, and until Gabriel’s 16th birthday, Kaisar of the Roman Empire. He was tall, swarthy, like his father and grandfather before him, a think shock of gray running through his beard. Wind, weather and war had etched wrinkles deep into his face, wrinkles that ripped as his lips turned into their usual irrepressible sneer at the mere Latin that held the most powerful office in the Empire. Today his hands were folded like that of a schoolboy at morning prayer—a sign the Despotes was eager to leap into the morning’s debacle.
Sitting next to him was the young, rash Prince Theodoros of Damietta. Only 30, short with a dark hatchet shaped face, he certainly didn’t look the part of the hero of the North African campaign almost 14 years before. Yet behind his small, dark eyes lay one of the premier intellects alive in the Empire, a man both gifted at scholarship and the art of war. Unfortunately, this brilliant mind was paired with the most tactless tongue imaginable, so often his brilliance was wasted in rudeness. Albrecht often thought it a sad fact that since the downfall of House Dau, this man was likely the most powerful noble in all of Egypt, and thus crucial to the Empire.
Across of them was Prince Adrianos of Edessa—the most distantly related Komnenos present, but perhaps the most regal looking. He was of only middling height, with a few strands of gray sticking out of his raven hair. The man hardly ever spoke, but Albrecht knew Adrianos was always listening, thinking, planning. He might not be as loud as Bardas or as warlike as Theodoros, but he was the most respected and powerful lord in the Asian parts of the Empire, a Despotes in all but name.
Sitting next to him was Prince Gabriel, one year back from Wallachia and celebrating his first month of marriage to the lovely Theodora Donauri. Albrecht had to admit the Prince had shown himself capable, but von Franken had seen capable youths fall often in the rough and tumble politics of Konstantinopolis. Add to that the constant scandal surrounding the young man—marriage, even to a lovely woman, had scarcely whet his appetite for young women and, if rumor was true, young men. Nonetheless, the young Prince had the full backing of the army—the Megos Domestikos had gone so far as to say the Prince was the Megaloprepis reincarnated. Albrecht had heard such words before, and they had fallen far short…
“Why the Turk?” Albrecht didn’t bother to start the meeting with any pleasantries—he didn’t feel like it, and thes three coundrels would appreciate the bluntness. “Why now? Didn’t the Emperor make peace with the Turk two decades before? Isn’t Fahraz far weaker than Faramarz or brother ever were?”
The arrival of Genghis Khan’s son Hulagu in Central Asia spelled a new round of invasions into Turkish lands
“And that is exactly why we must move,” a surprising voice said. Albrecht turned to Prince Gabriel, eyebrow raised. The Prince looked down slightly, but continued. “I know the Megaloprepis always said to not make war against the Turk.” His eyes came up, defiance in their stare. “Yet we have done so twice since, with no ill effects. If we do not move, we’ll have Mongols in the Zagros in a decade, and in any future conflict, they’ll have the high passes, they’ll have the good ground, while we will be stuck on the flat, open plain that is perfect for their horse…”
“Exactly!” the Despotes of Italy jumped in as well. “He’s squeezed between us and the Mongol, and has only 30,000 ill-armed boys and grandfathers under his command!” The Despotes’ eyes lit up, “it’s been handed to us, perfectly, as if God in Heaven willed it!”
“You’re sounding like the Latins you rule,” Adrianos muttered quietly, his face twisting into a scowl.
“Now, once the Turks fall,” Bardas ignored the jibe, “I was thinking we could divide the remains of Persia into six themes. I have four younger sons that…”
“Bardas, we are here to talk about this so-called campaign,” Albrecht interrupted, trying to keep his voice calm. He never thought the Despotes would be that blunt in his attempt to gain more principalities for his children—as if Apulia, Calabria, Salerno, Benevento and a host of others weren’t enough. By the looks on the faces of Adrianos and Theodoros, they were past shocked—they were angry.
“And what of my sons!” Theodoros exploded.
“Your sons are five and three years old!” Bardas hissed, “they couldn’t rule the nursery if they tried!”
“And what of mine?” Prince Adrianos complained, his voice slightly louder this time. The man hardly ever shouted, but his quiet voice had a tinge of iron in its depths. “We have more experience in the East than your sons…”
“If we don’t plan the campaign well ahead of time, there won’t be any land for anyone’s sons!” Gabriel snapped. Albrecht winced—the boy’s voice had the same sharp power von Franken used to hear in Thomas’ voice before that day at Neapolis. At the collective silence of the three most powerful princes in the empire, Gabriel went on. “Fahraz is hard pressed, Megoskyriomachos. The great princes, as well as myself, and my father, are all inclined to agree—the time to strike the Turk is now, before the Turkish lands are gobbled up by the Mongols.”
“Ah,” Albrecht sighed. If it’d been just the three Komnenid princes, Albrecht might have been able to defuse the situation. If it’d been them and Gabriel, the chances weren’t nearly as good. The Emperor himself added to the list? The war would happen—he sighed in defeat, and trudged onward. If it was to be war, it needed to be a spotless war.
“So then… how do we defeat the Turk?” Albrecht asked. “What supplies do we need? Troops? Tax levies? Intelligence?”
“No, the question is more complex,” Gabriel corrected. “How do we defeat the Turk, including everything you mentioned, and stay strong enough to compel the Mongol to not molest our gains?”
“Smash them both!” Theodoros grunted. “Let the Great Khan and the Sultan screw themselves in Hell as we run a sword…”
The Near East in 1233. The sudden, forceful Ilkhanate invasion has splintered the remains of the Seljuk Empire, with Emirs along the southern coast of the Persian Gulf using the chaos to declare independence. Cut off from Isfahan, the survivors of the Mongol rampage in Central Asia have also broken away—nominally they kneel before the Khans, but time will tell if the loyalty of Khwarezm is true or false.
“No, not smash,” Gabriel blurted out.
“Not smash?” Theodoros’ excited talk ground to a screeching halt as confusion reigned over the Prince’s face.
“What do you mean?” Albrecht asked, leaning over the table. He looked into the Crown Prince’s eyes. Behind those blue orbs, he could almost see a mind quickly at work, something keen, sharp, calculating. Maybe he’d underestimated the young man…
“How have you treated the Muslims within your domains, Prince Adrianos?” Gabriel turned the Prince of Edessa. Adrianos blinked several times before replying.
“I let them keep most of their mosques, I only hire converts into the administration, but I don’t see a reason to stir up a nest of sleeping hornets…” the Prince stammered, confusion on his face. “If they are loyal, if they pay taxes and serve, I let them be…”
“We know Adrianos is a fool who doesn’t prosecute infidels like God, the Good Book, and the Patriarch all wish him to do!” Bardas snapped, sneering at his eastern cousin. Albrecht groaned—one of the most contentious points between the Eastern and Western Princes once again rose to the fore. To the almost wholly Christian West, and even Christian Anatolia, the idea of compromising with the heathen seemed foreign and sinful. To the Princes of the Levant, Egypt and North Africa, it was a necessity...
Bardas’ gaze turned towards Gabriel. “What does this have to do with the Turk? Adrianos’ weakness likely only encourages Turks within his realms to secretly plot with the Sultan and…”
“And you, Prince Theodoros?” Gabriel spoke over the Despotes and looked towards his Egyptian cousin.
“I don’t care about religious… foppery,” Theodoros waved his hand dismissively. “It interferes with raising taxes and armies. The priests and mullahs can all fornicate with each other in the market for what I care!”
Albrecht coughed, and the Megoskyriomachos knew that everyone present likely blanched slightly. While all had heard Theodoros’ tongue in action, it always seemed the Prince of Damietta could find some way of surprising them all with a new method of crudeness.
“Blasphemer,” Albrecht heard Bardas hiss under his breath.
“My point is,” Gabriel said loudly, clearly trying to draw attention back to himself, “that we Romanoi have not harshly treated the Muslims under our rule. Lord von Franken,” Gabriel turned to Albrecht, “how have the Mongols treated the Muslims of Central Asia?”
Albrecht stopped for a second, before hiding the smile he wanted to show at the boy’s cleverness. He had underestimated him—and all that talk of Gabriel speaking to imams in North Africa had not been rumor, hearsay and legend. So that is what the young Prince was up to…and if it worked…
“The armies of Hulagu ransacked Samarkand and Bukhara, looting and pillaging, destroying towns and mosques from what travelers say. In Herat they left only three alive out of a city of fifty thousand.” He paused for a moment, looking around the room. As he expected, there were at least frowns, if not looks of revulsion, on the faces of all gathered. “In short, the Mongol puts the heathen to the sword…”
“Which concerns us and the heathen how?” Bardas interrupted. “Why not smash the Turk once and for all? You Eastern scum are just too weak to do God’s bidding!”
“How much of God’s bidding can we do when we’re putting down rebellion after rebellion instead of building churches and converting?” Gabriel said darkly. “If we did as you say, the Eastern half of the Empire would descend into chaos, warfare, famine and strife! Tell me, Despotes, how in the name of God is that Christian work?!”
“Perhaps you should concentrate less on preaching and more on not being such a lech!” Bardas snapped back.
“We need to get a foothold onto the Persian plateau,” Gabriel raised his hands and leaned back, backing away from the bait Bardas had laid—something else that impressed von Franken. “It’s that simple. And talking to…”
“Are you proposing we negotiate with the Turk?!” Bardas snapped. “Of all the…”
“No!” Gabriel quickly clarified, “Not with the Sultan! With the imams, the mullahs, the beys and city leaders of Persia!”
“Ah, so we Christians talk to the leaders of the heathen… that is far better,” Bardas rolled his eyes. “This is disgraceful! Just as disgraceful as you wandering into one of their demon pits in North Africa and…”
“Fahraz has no heirs, and is fighting a hopeless war,” Gabriel went on, ignoring the Despotes. “He will lose. It is as simple as that.”
“What can we offer… these mullahs?” Theodoros asked, doubting hanging thickly in his voice. “You surely don’t think…”
“Ferdows’ attack on Alaeddin Naijar destroyed any support the Sultan might have had amongst the religious leaders of Persia,” Gabriel went on. “I have spoken with several eminent imams from Mosul and Azeribijian—they say the Sultan and his son are reviled amongst the courts of the religious leaders…”
“…a wedge?” Prince Adrianos said quietly, a smile crossing his face.
“We are the lesser of two evils,” Albrecht nodded, continuing the Prince’s thought. The boy clearly had brilliance marked all over him. “The imams and mullahs face a choice—rule by a rather benign set of unbelievers who, if you pay tax and stay loyal, care not what you do, or destruction at the hands of another set of unbelievers.” Albrecht’s eyes flicked up towards the Despotes of Italy. “Faced with such a choice, Despotes, which would you choose?”
“Neither,” Bardas crossed his arms and grumbled, “I’d fight, tooth and nail.”
“What do you think Naijar’s rebellion was?” Adrianos said darkly. Albrecht could feel another, greater storm building in the Prince’s voice. “He called himself al-Malik al-Islam, the Ruler of Islam. He was trying to unite…”
“I’m not going to ask my dear cousin how he knows so much about the heathen and their thoughts,” Bardas muttered. “And you, von Franken, siding with the heathen…” Bardas started shaking his head.
“Because I fought Naijar alongside the Megos Domestikos!” Adrianos snapped. Albrecht blinked—he could count on his hand the number of times he’d seen Adrianos lose his temper. “You of all people should realize knowing your enemy delivers them into your hands! When the Turkish Sultan used a respite to destroy Naijar, he ruined his reputation amongst the clerics. Bardas, you must realize, the religious leaders of the heathen world keep in contact with each other remarkably well, and I do pay attention to the words of the imams within my theme…”
For later generations of Muslims and even some Aionites, Alaeddin Naijar was seen as a glorious yet tragic figure…
“Don’t the imams also say that if one can, one should flee to lands ruled by a Muslim ruler?” Bardas smirked. “I am not a fool, I rule no Muslims but I keep track of some of their traditions!”
“Where can they flee to?” Albrecht shot back, pointing towards the map, covered with double eagles or blue and red pennants. If Gabriel could find a way to persuade the religious leaders of Persia to support Romanion—it could lead to a spotless, maybe even close to bloodless takeover! “Persia is about to fall, to either the pagan Mongol or us Christians if you have your way! Mesopotamia is Christian-ruled, as is all of North Africa and Spain. How many Muslims can fit into the deserts of Arabia?”
“Enough to trouble Heraklios,” Bardas huffed and crossed his arms. Albrecht bit back a smile—he’d seen Bardas debate before, and the Despotes was about to grudgingly give in, if he was pushed a little more. Bardas was loud, Bardas was belligerent, but even the hardheaded Italian Komnenos could see when he’d lost a battle.
“Heraklios’ empire wasn’t a third as powerful as ours,” Gabriel retorted, evidently spotting the weakness as well. “No, these imams know that flight isn’t an option—there is no Muslim nation to take them, outside of the Hejaz or Mali, and few can afford the cost to flee to either. Some will go, but most will stay. They’d prefer us to the Mongol.”
“So the clerics agree, let’s say,” Bardas sighed and grumbled. Albrecht let his smile come through—Bardas giving way, even unwillingly, was a rare sight. “Fahraz will still fight!”
“You yourself said he has, what was it? ‘30,000 ill-trained boys and grandfathers armed with pitchforks?’”
“But… bah!” Bardas waved his hand dismissively and looked away from the table.
“If I can get Your Highnesses to commit 20,000 troops each,” Gabriel smiled in triumph, “or persuade other themes near you to contribute,” he added with a wink, “and you give me five months, I can guarantee that the Turks will fall within a year, and we can hold off the Mongol if they intervene.”
“And what of your father and his say in this?” Adrianos raised an eyebrow.
“I have a plan. I’ve taken it to him and he’s already approved if Your Highnesses will support it…” Gabriel smiled.
Gabriel’s plan involved a rapid invasion using mostly readily available thematakoi and only a limited amount of the still battered Imperial Guard. While Adrianos and Theodoros were allowed to lead their own contingents flanking Gabriel and Thomas’ forces, Bardas’ ‘contribution’ would be parceled out between imperial father and son. To the north, the Megos Domestikos would cover the Caucasus border with another contingent of thematakoi. According to Gabriel’s plan, once the perceived ‘buffer zone’ was taken, the invasion would stop…
Ah. I see Persia is going under the boot of Romaion. Excellent! I wonder how long before Romaion is overextended though... Treating heathens well is all good and well, but if they get too many, it will be difficult to manage... Why stop before all the Turk land are taken though? And why take one province from the Il-Khans?
According to Gabriel’s plan, once the perceived ‘buffer zone’ was taken, the invasion would stop…
It says "Planned Endpoint" on the map and you have dots after the invasion should stop if the buffer zone is taken in the paragraph.
Does this mean that that isn't really the endpoint?
Going to fight both the Turks and the Mongols?
Because that's a distinct possibility as i see it right now.
@fish heads:
Every kung fu master has his one weakness. Most of them seem to share a taste for fish heads, to the point that Tarantino Kill Billed that piece of trivia.
Because that's a distinct possibility as i see it right now.
@fish heads:
Every kung fu master has his one weakness. Most of them seem to share a taste for fish heads, to the point that Tarantino Kill Billed that piece of trivia.
If you're looking for something to go wrong with that plan, I'd like to draw your attention to the words "Emperor Thomas" at the head of the army. I can trust Gabriel with religious toleration and diplomacy...his father, not so much.