“When a loyal man shows himself, snatch up his services. When a devil shows himself, keep him just as close. It is far easier to kill the devil nearby than it is to hunt down one from afar.” – Nikolaios Komnenos,
Advice to the Prince
July 7th, 1238
Aetios Silvagentios wanted to yawn and stretch in the hot sun, but somehow, he managed to keep himself in check. While it would’ve been completely unprofessional, Silvagentios cared little for that—it was more the mutterings and grumblings of the men lined up before his desk under the merciless July sun that kept him in place, looking as officious as he could. At the moment, he’d give his right arm to lay in the cool of an Abkhazian forest, or dip himself into one of the baths of Damascus, but he couldn’t do those things any longer.
Not when a shipping canal needed dug, and he was the master of payments for the laborers hired out to do the work. The Orontes River had slowly been silting up for years, which spelled bad news for the major shipping magnates of Antioch. So with the help of the great Komnenid princes of the city, they had commissioned a five mile long canal to be built
around the silted section—and an Aetios Silvagentios, freshly decommissioned and needing work, had found employment as the ‘paymaster’ for this particular section of the great project.
The tall, thin Silvagentios almost looked out of place in the Syrian heat. He was of mixed Italian and Greek stock, with a long thin face complimented by a nose of the same. Dark brown locks perpetually got in front of his eyes. Aetios batted some away in annoyance, reminding himself when he finally got back to the ramshackle hovel he called a home, he needed to take a dagger and lop some of those strands off. For now, he grumbled as they blocked his view of the line of laborers, ready to receive their week’s earnings. Silvagentios’
spatha hung from his old
tagmata belt, thumping against his Norman-style trousers.
Aetios Silvagentios, ex-kentarchos
“Bloody hot,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Couldn’t get much worse, could it, William?”
Silvagentios looked over towards the portly, ever squinting form of William Fitzgerald, the foreman’s official clerk, secretary, and money counter. The Norman hailed from some place in southern Italy, the bastard son of a bastard who, despite his officious appearance, was building a brood of bastards of his own. He served as the brains for the two-man crew that handled the constant whining, howling, and complaining of ‘honest laborers,’ a perfect compliment to Aetios’ military veteran brawn. William looked up, and flashed what could, in passing, be described as a thin smile.
“It always could,” the dour Norman shot back, before looking back down at the paper before him. “Um… Leonidas Mar…Marmarostili?” the Norman frowned, wrapping his tongue around the strange Greek name. Several men in the line frowned or shrugged. Even Aetios raised an eyebrow at the monstrous surname.
“That’s a mouthful,” Silvagentios murmured, before looking back up, for the first time seeing the man who bore the hellacious name—and his eyebrow rose even further.
Aetios was used to seeing laborers who looked akin to the walls of Antioch—low, wide and powerful. This Leonidas was anything but—he was as thin as a stick, with overly large ears and deep brown eyes that showed far more innocence than a rough and tumble day laborer should have. He was dressed plainly enough, that was true, with simple trousers, a shirt and a red scarf, but his face was handsome—far too handsome for that of a malnourished, ill-treated peasant. When he walked forward, he almost stumbled clumsily, seemingly without the bare grace necessary for a labrorer to throw dung in the air without hitting himself.
Immediately, Aetios’ suspicions erupted. Several times a month, some clever chap decided he had a perfect scheme to take a few extra coppers for himself—and it was Aetios’ job to find these would be thieves and stop them before they stole money, or started a brawl in the line, whichever came first.
“Leonidas?” the paymaster reached into his purse, drawing out the copper
solidus the man was due, and flicking it between his fingers. “Odd name. Tell me, where are you from?”
“I’m…I’m from Konstantinopolis.”
“New to the site?” Aetios pressed.
“Yes… sir,” the man said, adding the respectful form of address all too slowly. Some might have dismissed it as churlishness, but Aetios had seen enough of that to know when someone was intentionally disrespecting him and his position. No… this man almost seemed to
forget, as if it had simply skipped his mind.
Aetios’ eyebrow arced even higher. The man’s Greek was flawless, without the guttural smack of the lowly streets, the mud and dust of a Syrian accent. Silvagentios had only heard highborn
chillarchoi and
strategoi speak such Greek outside of the priests of Holy Church. Something
definitely was not right. On instinct, the paymaster glanced momentarily at the hands of this ‘Leonidas.’ They were smooth, pale white, not the calloused, cracked, and sunbeaten hands of a worker.
Subtly, the paymaster’s eyes flicked upwards towards the line of people behind the ‘Leonidas’ with well-honed precision. Warily, they spent a second drifting from person to person, taking in scars, missing teeth, and shifty looks. Quickly, he spotted three men further back in the line—they looked rough, burly and tanned by hours under the sun, but their gazes were too keen, too sharp, too focused on the boyish man at the front of the line.
Silvangentios smiled thinly, flicking the coin back into his purse. So, the oldest trick remained the favorite—altering the list of workmen and faking that one was new to steal a day or two’s wages. Aetios immediately guessed the workings of the operations—Leonidas, likely a partly educated sort, was the brains, while his buddies in back served as the brawn. The silver
solidus was likely just going to be funneled into some scheme or other to commit villainy elsewhere in the city.
“William, take the next person in line,” Aetios said calmly, eyes boring in on those of Leonidas. “Leonidas and I need to have a private conversation…” Aetios smiled grimly.
“Um… why?” the man said worriedly, using more proper Greek than Aetios had heard in a long time. A
true laborer would’ve uttered some guttural, profanity laced complaints about not receiving his money immediately.
“Just a couple issues we’ve got to clear up, since you’re new,” Aetios lied, taking the young man by the arm and pulling him away from the line. Out of the corner of his eye, the paymaster caught the three others growing fidgety, and he felt their eyes boring in on him. The final evidence he needed came when all three broke out of line, walking towards the back, staring the whole time.
“Well, Leonidas,” Aetios finally turned to him, his face falsely grave ,”we have a few problems. First, because ‘marble column’ is a fake surname.”
A very surprised ‘Leonidas Marmarostili’
“Whuh…” the young man stuttered, eyes wide. Aetios smiled—this was probably Leonidas’ first pull, and he likely walked in with all the confidence in the world, not expecting to get caught by a retired
kentarchos!
“I think you and I need to take a trip down to the City Prefect’s Office.”
With speed that would have done a panther proud, Aetios gripped the young man’s arm tightly. The young man didn’t even have a chance to move before Aetios’ vice-like hold had his arm. The paymaster gave a harsh yank, pulling ‘Leonidas’ off his feet. “No doubt you’ll have some interesting story to tell Phillipos,” Aetios allowed himself a dark chuckle, “but the Prefect is an honest man. You lie to him, and you’ll lose both hands, not just one!”
“B…both?” the young man stuttered, as Silvagentios yanked him away from the now gawking paymaster line and into the streets of Antioch. Aetios was relieved—the young man wasn’t struggling at all, he seemed in utter, complete shock.
“Y…you can’t do that!” the young man finally cried, the shock wearing off and the panic that Aetios expected finally arriving in full force. The young man tugged, but the ex-
kentarchos merely kept his right grip. “You can’t! Please, good sir, you can’t have my hand chopped off like a common thief! I am no thief!”
“I’ve never heard that before!” Aetios rolled his eyes.
“No! You can’t! I’m…I’m not Leonidas!”
“I know you’re not,” Silvagentios stopped momentarily as the narrow street they were following emptied into a large plaza festooned with merchant tents and covered with people. Merchants from all across the Near East filled the plaza—men in turbans speaking Farsi haggled with Jews in yarmulkes, Romans rubbed shoulders with Turks, and even the occasional Cuman. It was a sea of chaos, exotic sights and sounds filling the senses.
The paymaster caught the young man’s three accomplices from the corner of his eye—so, they were following. Aetios normally didn’t like to take the thieves he caught through a crowded place like the market—too many chances for them to make a break—but if this young man had three buddies bent on violence to get him free, strolling into the market square filled with hundreds of potential witnesses wouldn’t be a bad thing.
“I…I can give you good money if you let me go!” the young man cried, pulling and twisting his arm now. For someone thin and scrawny, he was surprisingly strong. “Five hundred gold
solidii!”
“You’re as bad a liar as a thief!” Aetios frowned, yanking the young man into the sea of people. By the looks of him, the boy had maybe ten
silver solidii to his name. Silvagentios didn’t know any
chillarchoi who had five hundred solidii! Yet the young man’s lie wasn’t the only reason he frowned. The would-be thief hadn’t even bothered to look even remotely at his three friends, all of whom were still shadowing Silvagentios from a distance. For as rank an amateur as this young man had been, Aetios refused to believe he was disciplined enough to not even
try to check if his accomplices were going to rescue him…
Aetios felt a slight tug, his eyes looking back, checking on the three men. It wasn’t nearly as strong as the others, so the paymaster paid little attention. In fact, his first indication something was wrong was the look of surprise in one of the shadowers’ faces. Instantly, Silvagentios knew what’d happen, before he even turned.
He was loose.
Somehow, young ‘Leonidas’ had twisted free, and amidst the noise of merchants calling wares and screaming at each other, the paymaster hadn’t heard the noise of cotton ripping. By the time Aetios turned around, already breaking into a run, the young man was a good ten strides ahead, running at full tilt.
‘Leonidas’ proved very hard to catch…
“Stop!” Aetios snarled, hand on his sword-hilt as he dashed after the young man. Aetios wasn’t too worried—in the crowded market, so long as Silvagentios could see the young man, he could catch him. Invariably, the thieves would misstep on the myriad of wares scattered about, or run into some merchant who stepped into the chase path. Then, all Silvagentios had to do was catch up—and avoid those hazards himself.
But it was not to be.
The young man had the speed of a deer and the grace of a leopard, leaping over fruit vendor ranks and tumbling around boxes of cheap Mesopotamian cotton. His very gangliness and awkwardness seemed to be an advantage, as he twisted, ducked, and stumbled around every chance obstacle in his path. It took all of Aetios’ skill to keep up with that gazelle, as he darted to and fro as the man careened about.
If Silvagentios hadn’t been busily involved in footrace, he might have wondered why the young man, fleeing the law, might have yelled “Sorry!” every time he bumped into a merchant’s stall or disrupted some wares. He also might have wondered why the youthful perpetrator was dashing
towards the Prefect’s Office, not away, but Aetios was too focused on keeping his quarry in sight and not smashing into things to worry over such small details.
Finally, Leonidas took a wrong turn, and suddenly the two were no longer running amidst the clamor and confusion of the market. Their footfalls echoed up the nearly deserted side street, the only other noise being the surprised squawks of people and fowl who had to jump out of the way. Aetios momentarily thought he heard footfalls behind him, but he was too focused to pay little more heed to the noise.
It wasn’t long before his target took a bad turn, and skidded to a halt before a dead end to a back alley. Aetios slowed his run to a walk, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. He wasn’t as young as he used to be.
“Aha!” Silvagentios growled, his
spatha out. “That’s enough…” Silvagentios breathed heavily. He wasn’t a young man, and he hadn’t been forced to chase a thief in some time. “Come… quietly, and I’ll… hand you over to… the Prefect. Run any more,” Aetios hissed, adopting the snarl of a
kentarchos’ bellow, “and I’ll… just wet my
spatha… in your guts!”
The young man’s eyes went wide at Aetios’ blade. The young man’s eyes flashed about, desperately looking for a way out of the mess, yet only finding stone and brick on three sides, and a tired and
cross Silvagentios on the last. He had no where to run, no where to hide, unless he could pull another miracle and climb up stone walls. Aetios prayed that wasn’t the case—the
tagmata had taught him how to run with stamina, but climbing sheer stone walls was not something prospective
kentarchoi were taught.
“I’m Prince Thomas Komnenos, son of the Emperor!” the man cried, desperation obvious in his voice. “Let me go, I beg you in the name of all that is holy!” The young man fell to his knees. “I know I stayed in Antioch too long and I was supposed to be in Konstantinopolis! Please, I beg you, I only wanted to see…”
Aetios cocked his head to the side, breaths still coming quick and ragged as he ignored the rest of the man’s babbling. That first phrase rattled momentarily in the paymaster’s head, before his ragged gasps for air turned into a chuckle, then outright laughter.
“You… you…wait!” Aetios laughed, holding up his hand. By God,
that was one he hadn’t heard before. “You said you’re who?”
“Prince Thomas Komnenos!” the young man cried again desperately.
“Good,” a gruff voice said from behind.
Aetios spun around. And found he was face to face with the three men that’d been shadowing him and ‘Leonidas.’ He instantly recognized how they fanned themselves out across the alley—they too were blocking any possibility of escape.
Don’t back a kentarchos into a corner…
“I warn you, back off!” Aetios snapped, the deadly point of his
spatha now facing them. “Your friend is under arrest, and I…”
To his surprise, the closest of them, a tall, especially greasy looking fellow with an obvious snaggle tooth, broke out in laughter, the noise sounding like the baying of a hyena. Other than the few locals present scurrying away, it was the only noise in the alley.
“Friend?” The greasy one cackled.
“He is no friend,” the man who had shifted to the right when they’d fanned out murmured. He was far taller, with the swarthy complexion and jet-black hair of a Cuman. “He has a price on his head.”
“A hefty price,” the greasy one murmured. There was the rough hiss of steel sliding against steel as he drew a nasty looking dagger of Cuman make. “Now, I suggest you get out of the way,
old man,” the greasy one sneered, as the other two flanking him did the same.
Silvangetios’ eyes narrowed.
So they were murderers? Young ‘Leonidas’ must have been a true rank amateur, to have angered some criminal lord so much they hired thugs to kill him! Yes, that had to be it. Otherwise, was he…?
Aetios shook his head. There was no way the young man’s story held any truth! The sheer impossibility of the tale! Regardless of the truth or falsehood of the young man’s words, three men were here to murder someone Aetios Silvagentios was taking to the City Prefect.
That was something the paymaster was not about to let happen—no matter who the young man was, or why they wanted his blood!
“I am older than you,” the ex-
kentarchos murmured in reply, “but my sword still cuts deep.” Silvagentios felt his emotions calm as he serenely sized up his new opponents. They all held their knives like professionals—the blade naturally pointing up, where it could stab, slash or parry. Aetios knew his
spatha had a much longer reach, however—a reach he intended to use if things came to blows.
“This man is under arrest,” Silvagentios repeated himself, as he heard a frightened whimper from behind him. He was no longer surprised at the cool, calm voice that came from his mouth when he was about to fight. He’d been surprised the first day it’d appeared—the last day at Neapolis, amidst the smoke and carnage. That cool calm voice saved a
chillarchii as the Mongol horse thundering through the Roman lines! Compared to the Mongols, these three rogues were supposed to frighten him? “You three, be on your way, before there’s trouble.”
“Hey,” the taller one held a hand out in front of his grubby companion, “the old man’s like us! He’s waiting for the right price!” The man turned back and grinned, his mouth an toothless black maw. “Hey, 50 silver says you leave here, you forget us, and you forget Leonidas here!” Suddenly, a coin purse landed before Silvagentios’ feet. “Take your price, and get out of here!”
Aetios looked down at the purse, before levelly returning his gaze up at the tall Cuman. He smiled slightly, before kicking the purse away.
“He’s a fool!” the third man, a short, grubby man that had the looks of an Italian grumbled. The man flicked his dagger up.
The tall Cuman shrugged. “Boss said nothing about not killin’ anyone that got in the way!” He waved his hand, and all three started forward.
Aetios lowered his
spatha into the low guard position, saying nothing as the three men approached. Silvagentios slowly backed up, eyes darting between the three threats, keeping himself between them and their apparent quarry. Several deathly quiet moments passed across the plaza as the two parties sized each other, feinting not with blades, but furrowed brows, trying to mentally outmaneuver the other, the only noise the sound of sand and dirt crunching underfoot.
Finally, it was the short snaggle-toothed Greek who lunged first. He leapt forward, blade coming from high, too high for Aetios to parry immediately. So the paymaster spun himself around, dodging the blow and into position to deliver a sharp elbow to the man as he passed behind. The thug had clearly lunged before his friends expected, for they stood, rooted, for just half a moment, as their minds caught up with the action that suddenly exploded before them.
Half a moment was all Silvagentios needed.
His foot kicked up and high, flinging the sandy dust that perpetually coating the streets of Antioch up and into the eyes of the two assailants before him. One, the tall Cuman, twisted his face away and raised his arm in time, the other did not, and howled as sand blasted into his eyes. Aetios used the brief moment to lunge forward,
spatha drawn back, his training as a
kentarchos coming to the fore. Blinded or no, the men had drawn blades on him, and he had no regrets as his own sword slashed open the belly of the blinded Italian. He howled, screaming words in his own tongue as he collapsed to the street, blood staining the sand and dirt a dull brown.
Aetios’ eyes came up. The Cuman was lowering his arm, finally reacting, bringing his own blade to bear. Silvagentios instinctually brought his larger, heavier
spatha up, smashing into the Cuman’s hand. The man howled as skin separated from bone, and his sword-hand’s fingers sailed through the air alongside his dagger. Aetios snapped the sword around again with a vicious backhand, snapping the flat of the blade into the man’s jaw. Bones snapped, and blood and teeth joined the fingers in an arc through the air.
Silvagentios spun back around to the final assailant behind him. Aetios’ elbow from behind had knocked him to the ground. He was only
just rising, but he was starting forward, towards the cowering form of ‘Leonidas.’ Without a thought, Silvagentios lunged forward, driving the
spatha deep into the man’s back. The Greek gurgled as Aetios twisted the blade, then kicked the dying man down to the ground.
The veteran
kentarchos brought his sword back up into a guard position, eyes flashing around for any more threats. All he saw were shuttered windows, all he heard were the howls of the Italian, the whimpering of the Cuman, and the death rattle of the Greek. After a moment, satisfied the last two were the only potential threats, Aetios turned to them, his
spatha pointed to them just as before.
“Begone, both of you, before I finish the job!” Silvagentios’ snarled at the bloody men, his bellow as loud as the ones he gave at Neapolis. The one whose mouth was nothing more than a bloody maw quickly complied, clutching his mauled hand, but his friend was far too slow rising for Aetios’ tastes. A helpful boot to the chest told him that, slash wound or no, he had best be on his way more quickly. As soon as the last of them disappeared down the alley, Silvagentios turned back to ‘Leonidas’ and sighed.
The young man was curled in a ball, hands in front of his face, sobs shaking his body. From behind shaking fingers, his blue eyes were staring at the dead Greek in the street. When Aetios reached out, the young man recoiled from the touch.
“Come on, boy,” the paymaster grunted, grabbing one of the boy’s hands and pulling. ‘Leonidas’ stumbled to his feet, his whole body shaking like a leaf. “You and I are still going to the Prefect’s office!”
Aetios didn’t say it was more because he was bloody confused now as to what exactly had just happened.
==========*==========
The City Prefect’s Palace of Antioch, as it looks today
Silvagentios sighed, worriedly looking out the window of the City Prefect’s palace towards the receding red of the setting sun. It’d been nearly three hours since he’d hauled Leonidas into the offices, to the cluck of Christophoros, the clerk Aetios couldn’t stand that the jail beneath “had little enough room as is.” Aetios had been in the midst of tongue-lashing the man when Phillipos Rhagabe, City Prefect for Antioch, had come into the room filled with the noise of shouting.
And his face had gone white.
Aetios stuck the point of his sword into the wooden floorboards, and spun the blade ‘round and ‘round for the umpteenth time since the Prefect had hurriedly taken the boy away. Shortly thereafter, a servant boy, face white as a sheet, had come into the room and informed Aetios to follow him upstairs. After providing him a chair on the window side of a rickety table, the servant had left, muttering about a “Lord von Franken,” or something.
Aetios had seen
no one since.
Part of Silvagentios’ mind wondered if William had managed to keep the peace in the line, but none of that was the veteran’s concern now. He’d heard the noise of voices in a room next door—raised, angered voices. He couldn’t catch most of what was said… someone calling another “stupid,” and something about someone named Bardas. Whatever the conversation was, Aetios knew waiting in the Prefect’s Palace meant one thing.
He’d officially done a Very Bad Thing.
Maybe there was truth to the boy’s story after all? Maybe the boy simply had a powerful backer? Aetios didn’t know for sure. All he knew was that the normally punctual, efficient Phillipos had left him waiting for hours on end, just to hand him the standard ten silver fee for apprehending a thief.
So, when the door to the small, stuffy room finally opened, Silvagentios was already starting to rise out of his seat, his mind confused and worried while his tongue prepared to harshly demand an explanation.
“Why have you…” Aetios started to complain, before the words died in his mouth. Standing in the doorway was a man of average height, whose curly hair had slight tinges of gray at its root. His eyes, deep brown, looked Aetios up and down with the appraising gaze Silvagentios had last seen from a
chillarchos some twenty years before. His robes—fine silk, ermine fur—and his jewels, pearls, and rubies on rings that studded each of his fingers, spoke of someone far more important than a mere battalion commander.
“My name is Albrecht von Franken,” the man said simply. Hands dripping with jeweled rings moved those fine ermine and silk robes, as the man took his seat opposite Aetios. “I am
Megoskyriomachos, and answer only to the Emperor. I do believe your name is Aetios Silvagentios?”
A very annoyed Albrecht von Franken…
Aetios swallowed hard, his heart sinking fast. So that young whelp was? And this man knew his name? Neither of those spelled anything good—Aetios had attempted to arrest a
Prince of the Empire? Visions of prison cells, tonsures and blindings danced in the paymaster’s mind.
A very weak, very timid, “Yes,” was all the ex-
kentarchos could muster.
“Please,” the man smiled thinly, annoyance plain in his eyes, “be at ease. No one present seeks to prosecute you for arresting a Prince of the Empire. Instead…”
“Thank Christ,” Silvagentios hissed out without any thought whatsoever. Aetios decided he would most
certainly be in the Basilica that evening, and would most certainly stay through the entire service! He’d…
Silvagentios realized the powerful lord across the table from him was drumming his fingers on the table impatiently. Aetios looked back up, flushed, fearful he’d caused some other offense.
“Instead,” the man went on as if he hadn’t been stopped at all, “I am to give you this, for saving Prince Thomas from those assassins.” From somewhere within the folds of his beautiful attire, a silver threaded silk pouch was in his hands. Assassins? He slew an assassin, and mauled two others? Aetios muttered another quiet thank you to God. As von Franken slid the pouch onto the table, Silvagentios heard the clink of coins, and thought he saw the glint of gold through the opening. He looked momentarily at von Franken, then towards the pouch.
Just as his hand reached for it, the lord’s hand snatched his up with a grip far more powerful than Silvagentios expected.
“If,” von Franken added, “you agree to join the Prince’s staff as a bodyguard.” The smile on the man’s face grew, but was just as thin, just as annoyed.
Silvagentios swallowed hard again, fairly sure that refusal was simply not an option—so he nodded.
“Good,” the man named von Franken leaned back, and folded his hands. “Mind you, the young Prince won’t be taking any unannounced,
foolhardy walkabouts of Antioch incognito ever again. Of course, he says he wanted to merely see a building site without the pomp and circumstance of an actual visit, and… Bah!,” the man snarled before composing himself with a sigh father’s normally reserved for rambunctious children, “Anyway, you’ll be expected to guard his person and his chambers. Damned idiot,” von Franken snapped, and finally Aetios realized the man’s annoyance wasn’t with him after all—it was directed solely, it seemed, at the young prince…
Von Franken sighed, and a slight, far more genuine smile crossed his lips. “So, Aetios? Taking down three assassins told me you had fighting skills. Needless to say, I’m not surprised to find out you were a
kentarchos, but Neapolis?”
“I…uh…” Aetios stumbled.
“The fact,” von Franken spoke over him, “that you guarded the Prince without knowing his identity further proves you honorable nature, in not just my eyes, but those of Prince Thomas. I trust I need not tell you the price of failure to do your duty, now that you’ve agreed?”
Aetios shook his head.
“Good. Now then, you’ll be receiving 25 gold
solidii per month as your starting salary, with more…”
==========*==========
So Thomas likes to take incognito walks in the city, and nearly ends up in trouble, saved by an army veteran who arrested him for his trouble. Bonus points to anyone who can tell me where Aetios Silvagentios comes from (and a link to it!
) Yet there’s one puzzling fact—how did Albrecht end up in Antioch? Why wasn’t he in Konstantinopolis? And where’s Gabriel?
