Kirsch27 - Believe me, the East would love a reunification with Spain... however, considering how the Western Empire was founded, and that there are still some alive that can remember Thomas I, it's not likely in the near term. Then again, the West is still under the rule of a minor... so is the impossible actually possible?
“Do not be too eager to solve every problem, every time, on your own. Often problems will resolve themselves, if watched vigilantly.” – Nikolaios Komnenos,
Advice to the Prince
From Sandra O’Connor’s
Gabriel Komnenos: The Myth and Legend, Parkway Prress, 2003:
…Gabriel exploded out of Arabia at the head of a small, highly professional army, centered on three
tagmata of the Imperial Guard that had marched to Arabia—the
Hetaratoi companions, numbering slightly under one thousand, the
Nubiatakoi heavy axe
tagma, numbering we are told some 2200 under arms, and finally the famous
Basilikon Toxotai, numbering almost 3800. As he moved north, the Emperor’s relatively high reputation amongst the Muslims of the Levant garnered him additional support—some 5,000 volunteers between Beersheeba and Tyre, if the Aionite chroniclers are to be believed. Along the way, the Princes of Jaffa-Ascalon and Galilee also pledged their
thematakoi, as did the Prince of Tyre. Initially disdaining help from his wealthy and powerful cousins the Princes of Edessa and Antioch, Gabriel Komnenos’ army appeared on the plains of Cilicia on August 3rd, 1238, barely a month and a half after erupting out of the Hejaz on their historic march north.
Bardas Komnenos had been expecting the impulsive Gabriel to move north with speed, but even the wily Italian Komnenos was surprised by the speed with which his opponent covered the long distance between Mecca and the gateway to Anatolia. Likewise stunned, the Anatolian princes held their tongues and swords.
However, the old Italian Komnenos had surprises and skills of his own.
Bardas Komnenos had secretly through the fall of 1237 prepared to move the bulk of his Italian
thematakoi to the Bosphorus, a plan that went like clockwork the moment word reached Konstantinopolis that the Emperor’s fifth assault on Mecca had failed early in 1238. Bardas thus had, scattered from Nikaea to Smyrna, some 60,000 under arms, not counting the forces of his allies the Princes of Makedonia and Adrianople.
It wasn’t until August 12th that Bardas received word by a wretched and worn courier that Gabriel was in Cilicia. To the surprise of many, Bardas did not match the sudden, impetuous lunge of his opponent. Instead, he let Gabriel march towards Ikonion while slowly, ponderously, he marshaled his own forces over the next month. Where his
strategoi clucked and complained he was surrendering the initiative, the wily Bardas had something altogether different in mind.
Every step, every inch, that Gabriel’s men marched into Anatolia drew them further and further from their support, and closer and closer to Bardas’ bases and strength. When Gabriel crossed into Antalya on the 12th of September was when Bardas finally revealed his own speed—his army of 68,000 covered the distance between Smyrna and Antalya province in the space of 8 days.
Thus it was Gabriel Komnenos, so used to surprising and annihilating opponents, who instead was surprised by a far superior force deep in enemy territory. The
Autokrator had undoubtedly assumed that Bardas’ lack of response meant his forces weren’t organized, a cue for the speedy young Komnenos to plunge himself deeper into Bardas’ defenses to demoralize and cut apart his detachments. If we are to believe some of Gabriel’s detractors, the Emperor was delayed in Antalya by the attentions of a young man named Eleutherios. Perhaps the city’s excellent port made it seem a logical location to rest his army for a day or two, requisition stores from the ships in harbor, before lunging deeper. We’ll never know. Likewise, we can only guess his surprise on the morning of September 22nd when he awoke to find Bardas’ entire army astride his avenue of retreat…
Bardas’ approach in tyrian purple, Gabriel’s in darker purple.
===========*==========
October 14th, 1238
Antioch
Gabriel Komnenos,
Autokrator ton Romanoi, wanted to close his eyes and hide—not the characteristic reaction of a man described as the ‘Young Lion’ or the ‘Desert Demon,’ depending on to whom one was speaking. It wasn’t the brightness of the sunlight filtering through the brilliant stain-glass windows of the Prince’s Palace of Antioch that made Gabriel want to look down—it was two pair of the eyes across the table from him that made Gabriel alternately look down, or leap across and strangle the necks that held those orbs.
There wasn’t much to fear from the owner of the table—Prince Michael of Antioch sat across from the
Autokrator as well, but his grey eyes were vacant at best, a chlopish mix of simple-mindedness and boredom. While his hands were dripping with ornate jewels and gems and his body was clothed in resplendent silk and gold-laced cloth, he sat out of place, quiet, alone in this small meeting that would decide the future of the Roman world.
The
other two pairs of eyes were the ones that held the Prince’s attention—and his tongue. Prince Adrianos of Edessa could have dressed himself in finery to rival his cousin Michael, or even an Emperor, but he wore a simple black tunic with a dark red cloak, the only sparkle on his body being the simple golden chain of his office. His hairs were graying, but those deep brown eyes still stared at Gabriel hauntingly, as if judging the boy that’d prepared the wildly successful Persian campaign was now an unworthy man, having lumbered into so obvious a trap, even if he did manage to save the backbone of his army.
It’d been a near thing, a very near thing, Gabriel admitted. Three weeks before, Bardas had stolen a night march on Gabriel, bringing the backbone of his army down on the would be Emperor’s army on the night of September 21st. Looking back, even as his eyes stared at the three grim faces before him, Gabriel knew how lucky he was. Several alert sentries—Berbers, all of them—had caught the unmistakable smell of horses on the air. They’d ignored their dismissive
kentarchos and had gone straight to Gabriel themselves. Yes, they’d interrupted Gabriel when he’d been busy with some young woman from Antalya named Eirene, but this was a military matter, and the
Autokrator sent a few scouts out that way.
In the purple glory of a rising sun, they’d rode back into the camp, pell-mell, screaming that Bardas was only two miles away with a vast host.
In retrospect, he should’ve been caught, pinned between Bardas’ main force of 50,000 and the small advance column the
Despotes had sent ahead to block Gabriel’s retreat. Yet those five sentries had given Gabriel just enough time to rouse his army, and launch a desperate assault on the Italian vanguard. The battle was sharp, direct, and lasted barely more than an hour before Gabriel’s horse put them to flight at horrendous loss—but the
Autokrator and the backbone of his army escaped to fight another day.
If any lesser commander had been in charge, Antalya would have ended with the complete destruction of Gabriel’s army. As it was, the would-be Emperor lost almost 20% of his forces fighting his way out of the trap.
“Well, then,” the fourth person present finally spoke, and Gabriel turned to the equally severely dressed form of his Uncle, Albrecht von Franken, still
Megoskyriomachos of the Roman Empire despite being in ‘exile.’ There was little hiding what lay in his eyes—a bit of the contempt reserved for those who now judge the high and mighty of the world when they are brought low. “You seem to be in good form, Majesty.” Gabriel felt like hissing when he heard his uncle say the proper term of deference—the word ‘Majesty’ was drawn out, almost as if Albrecht didn’t want it to escape from his lips.
“God blessed me with surviving Antalya with nary a scratch,” Gabriel said quietly.
“Yet your army was scratched aplenty,” Adrianos cut in, his fingers starting to drum on the fine wood of the table. “3,500 casualties from the battle, another 1,500 lost on the retreat back to Syria for winter?” The Prince of Edessa pursed his lips together.
“We still have 20,000 men at the core,” Gabriel heard himself retort, even as he told himself such a retort was useless. Yes, the core of his army was still intact, but he was facing a foe that numbered thrice his own, and who would be gathering even more men in the spring.
“Unfortunately, Majesty,” Adrianos’ grimly set lips turned upwards ever so slightly, “facts tend to be stubborn things.” Michael started shuffling parchment, and the rasping noise seemed to echo across the otherwise silent marble walls as his cousin’s voice continued. “Your march was one that would have made your great-grandfather proud, no doubt, but at Antalya, Bardas caught
you with
your pants down, if you’ll allow the expression.” The hint of a smile became the real thing, much to Gabriel’s chagrin. “So now, you are here, coming to us.”
Gabriel noted with a barely hidden snort that Adrianos’ ‘us’ plainly included his uncle Albrecht.
“You all know my claim to be true and rightful. My father declared
me Kaisar,” Gabriel started the pitch he’d used to no avail in Tarsos already, “and Bardas merely will use my brother as a front to run the Empire in his name. Surely, my lords…”
“What are the assurances we will receive?” Adrianos folded his hands on the table grimly.
“Yes, what assurances!” Michael suddenly broke from his doldrums to speak, before looking in momentary confusion at the Prince of Edessa and the
Megoskyriomachos. “Assurances on what?”
“Of Gabriel’s victory, of course,” Adrianos’ eyes didn’t turn from the blonde
Autokrator. “My great-great-grandfather claimed the throne, and misjudged who he was dealing with. I refuse to place misplaced trust in a player of the game of thrones, only to lose my head or worse—legitimate claim, or no.” Adrianos leaned closer, the table creaked slightly under the pressure from his elbows. “So, Majesty, what assurances do we have that you are taking all the steps necessary to win?”
“I…I’m recruiting new soldiers as we speak!” Gabriel stumbled at first, before rising to the occasion. “I have assurances from sellsword captains in Alexandretta and Tyre that by the new year, I’ll have 4,000 Normans, Franks, and Moors under my command. Addtionally the
comes of Baalbek and the
comes of Archa have each promised 1,000 men, and the citizens of Damascus and Baghdad are sending levies my way as well, perhaps 10,000 altogether from those cities and surrounding areas. I…”
“I don’t hear anything from Anatolia,” Adrianos interrupted. He turned to the now moribund Michael. “Did you hear any mention of Anatolia, cousin?”
“Anatolia? No, none!” Michael perked up. “Why?”
“Because our dear cousin here,” Adrianos’ eyes turned back to Gabriel, “wants us to each contribute hundreds of thousands of
solidii, as well as tens of thousands of men, to his cause when he
doesn’t have the support of a single Anatolian prince!”
“Highnesses,” Gabriel backtracked, surprised by Adrianos’ snappish outburst, “it’s well known that your word would move half of Ana…”
“You’d still need the other half,” Adrianos interrupted yet again. “Albrecht, please tell me,” the Prince went on, glaring at Gabriel, “why would Anatolia be afraid to back such a
rightful claimant to the throne? What stays even their pens and coin, let alone their sweat and swords?”
“Very simply put,” Albrecht joined in the staring at Gabriel, “the lords of Anatolia want some concessions if they’re to stick their
themes, coin, soldiers and lives on the line for your claim.”
“They should, my claim is rightful,” Gabriel muttered, jaw set. So the two were ganging up on him?
“They won’t, unless you give them some particularly sweet things as concessions,” the prince’s uncle went on, ignoring the comment. “Bardas controls The City, and Bardas has more men. Bardas has already bested you in the field—yes,” Albrecht raised his hand, preempting the protest already rising in Gabriel’s throat, “most of your army escaped unharmed, but nonetheless, you were bested! The princes are all tried and true men, and avarice is among their virtues. They won’t unbutton your brooch if you won’t unbutton theirs.”
“And what will unbutton their brooch?” Gabriel growled. “For that matter, what will I get if I ‘unbutton their brooch?’”
“More useful things than if you unbutton their breeches!” Michael chortled at his own joke. Gabriel glanced over before deciding to ignore him. Adrianos only went so far as to glare.
“Myself, as well as Prince Michael,” Adrianos stopped glaring at his distant cousin and looked back at the prince, “can each personally contribute our
thematakoi, for a total of 30,000 additional men to your cause. At our word, Prince Theophylaktos of Samos, Prince Georgios of Ikonion, and Simon of Kaiseria, all will abandon Bardas’ cause for your own.”
“Complete with troops,” Albrecht added.
The great themes of Anatolia as they stood in 1238. Of note, Samos is controlled a Komnenid cousin—Theophylaktos Komnenos, grandson of the same, and great-grandson of Emperor Manuel. Kappadokia is likewise controlled by Alexandros Komnenos, grandson of Demetrios Koutsos, brother of Basil III. Nikaea is under the rule of the rather moribund Laskarids, who seem disinclined to become involved in the civil war one way or the other. The vast lands of Ikonion and Kaiseria are held by two cousins—Georgios and Simon Angelos, along with the Laskarids some of the last of the old dynatoi families remaining in any position of power. Cilicia has been ruled by the Rubenids since the days of the Megas, and both Mesopotamia and Trebizond are officially wards of the Church.
Gabriel’s eyes lit up momentarily. If
Samos was prepared to abandon Bardas’ cause, it would cause immense problems for the
Despotes. Bardas’ entire supply line ran through Prince Theophylaktos’ territory, and so far the Prince had been ambivalent to his cousin’s supply wagons running across his lands…
“Bardas still hasn’t marshaled the Balkan princes,” Gabriel said, half-thinking, half-aloud, forcibly bringing himself back down to earth. Bardas’ own
thematakoi might be endangered, but if Andreas’ rebellion showed anything, it was that the Balkan princes went as the wind blew. “There’s
easily another 60 or 70,000 potential
thematakoi there, plenty for him to deeply garrison the cities he already has in Anatolia, and push forward with a sizable relief army.” The Emperor looked around the table. “You all might be able to contribute 30,000, but who will garrison
your cities? That is almost all of your
thematakoi!” The Emperor leaned back, crossing his arms. “Why should I unbutton your brooch when it will merely make you lose your trousers?”
The Emperor looked expectantly at his distant cousins, hopeful for an answer yet trusting his military knowledge that none would come. If Michael and Adrianos stripped their
themes of all their men, it would invite all sorts of lawlessness at best, and an invasion by an enterprising neighbor at worst. Gabriel arched an eyebrow when it was Albrecht, of all people, who cleared his throat to speak.
“Um, well, Majesty,” his uncle drew out the imperial title slowly, as if testing it, “Prince Michael and Prince Adrianos are prepared to raise an additional 50,000 between them, over and above their
thematakoi, while we are sure that Mesopotamia and your brother in law in Azeribijian can raise another 25,000. Mosul, under Adrianos’ son Alexios, will raise an addition 15,000, and…”
Gabriel smirked, then sputtered, then laughed, then doubled over in laughter. His uncle stopped in midsentence, his face glowering with a look a tutor might give an impudent student.
“You… how?! How?” Gabriel laughed. The numbers were
preposterous! Yes, Adrianos and Michael both had gold flowing out of their latrines, but that money could only stretch so far! Tens of thousands of arms would have to be found, the men trained, provisioned, and above all,
paid. No Prince of a
theme had the money to field as vast a force as they promised! Gabriel paid the men of his
tagmata 2 silver
solidii a month, per man! 90,000 men would need almost
200,000 silver
solidii a month… and that was in addition to all of Michael and Adrianos’ personal
thematakoi! If they had the depths of the Imperial treasury in Konstantinopolis, then yes, but the golden wells of Antioch and Edessa didn’t reach
that deep! It was simply
ludicrous!
“Persia,” Albrecht said in a deadpan.
“What about Persia?” Gabriel sputtered, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Uncle, you know
nothing about warfare if you think you can…”
“We don’t pay them silver, we pay them in land in Persia,” Albrecht’s deadpan continued.
“Land?” Gabriel’s wearied chuckles drew to a halt. “Where in Persia?”
“You were so busy lunging north with your army that you likely paid no attention to the refugees,” Albrecht leaned back, folding his hands. The sharp tutor voice was back. “Muslims, fleeing from the easternmost Persian borders out of fear of the Mongol. We’ll promise these levies lands in Persia, a small plot they keep as free farmers if they render military service when called.”
“So in effect, they garrison the Persian border when this Bardas’ business is finished,” Adrianos added. “A massive body of free troops—infantry mostly—for overthrowing Bardas, and a ready trained militia garrison for the Persian borders when the business is done.” Adrianos smiled, that bright, shining grin that Gabriel remembered. “A beautiful scenario for all involved.” The smile disappeared as suddenly as the sun hiding behind a storm cloud. “If,” the Prince’s finger snapped out, pointing at Gabriel, “and only if, you give the Anatolians, and us, concessions and assurances.”
“Ah,” Gabriel folded his own hands on his lap, and rather unregally rocked back in Michael’s expensive mahogany chair. “So, what’s your price? 120,000 men means you’re going to take me to the market and sell me wine grapes that are as shriveled as raisins.”
“One, my son Alexios is to be raised as
Basilieus of Mesopotamia,” Adrianos said, voice sharp and curt. The prince might have a brilliant smile, but he was also known for his bluntness in negotiations. “You are an
Autokrator, above a mere
Basilieus, the difference in rank should be plain.”
“Lands to be his?” Gabriel sighed. If Adrianos was starting with this as the cheapest part of his price…
“Mosul, Basra, Karbala,” the Prince listed, before dropping his voice low, “and Baghdad.”
“B…” Gabriel started to sputter, before he caught himself. Adrianos and his cabal could afford to sit and wait. Gabriel had 50,000 reasons to agree sitting in Cilicia, with more arriving by the day as their lord and master waited for spring to launch his offensive. “Fine, but no title of
Basilieus,” Gabriel said, pressing where he thought he could gain a little. “He’ll be king.
Rigas ton Mesopotamion.”
The crown created for ten-year old Alexios Komnenos for his position as Rigas to Mesopotamion, still in the Imperial Archives of Baghdad.
To his surprise, Adrianos smiled slightly, and nodded. “Excellent. King of Mesopotamia then. Next,” the Prince pressed on, “your brother Thomas is to be crowned a co-Emperor with Your Majesty.”
“T…Thomas?!” Gabriel almost spat up his wine. “W…how, why? Thomas?” he asked again, as if repeating the name might conjure up a reason for it being used in
this conversation,
this way.
“Yes, Thomas.” Adrianos looked over towards the
Megoskyriomachos.
“Many of the Anatolian lords are… disconcerted,” Albrecht said slowly, “by Your Majesty’s close relations to the Muslims of the Empire. Your brother…”
“And what exactly are they afraid of?” Gabriel huffed. “That I’ll make them all go to a mosque and pray to Mecca?!”
“Your brother,” Albrecht repeated, over his nephew, “was hand educated by the Patriarch of Konstantinopolis. His elevation would dissuade many of their fears, as he is a good, god-fearing…”
“And I’m not?!” Gabriel snapped. Gabriel thought he heard Adrianos mention something about ‘whore’ under his breath, but his ire was too focused on his uncle to care.
“I did not say that,” Albrecht said in that calm, damning voice of his. “I said that raising your brother would allay their fears, and bring them to your side. Bardas has been fanning the flames of religious fear. Thomas is the water we need to put those out.”
“I…”
“Besides, he’ll be a co-Emperor in name only. He will, in all likelihood, not want any of the responsibilities or power of the office,” Albrecht said, his thin smile growing larger than Gabriel expected. “We all know who will truly rule in such an arrangement.”
For some reason, Albrecht’s last phrase made Gabriel’s hairs stand on end, but the Emperor wasn’t sure why. A voice, a tiny part of his mind, told him he needed to stand up, and storm out of the room right then and there. Yet the military mind, the brain that had seen Antalya, seen the reports, repeated the 50,000 reasons Gabriel had to say yes. 50,000 reasons versus a few hairs.
The 50,000 reasons won.
“Fine.”
And with such few words, the history of
Romanion was altered.
==========*==========
Albrecht watched as his nephew stalked out of the room, the nails in his boots clicking and scraping on the marble floors as he left. A small part of him marveled how Gabriel looked the part of an Emperor—like Heraklios, he was tall, blonde, and already had a reputation as a warrior. But for all that martial skill and might, he wasn’t able to fight battles of negotiation.
And he’d lost his throne before he’d even gained it.
“He is not pleased with us,” Michael murmured unnecessarily as the clipped noise of nails on stone slowly receded away.
“Why would he be? We just fleeced him of Mesopotamia and foisted a co-Emperor on him!” Albrecht grunted. He knew
he wouldn’t have been pleased in Gabriel’s shoes. The Prince—no, Emperor, Albrecht had to correct himself—had given very few inches. Not that Albrecht had expected Gabriel to be a pushover. He’d conceded Baghdad on the condition that Mesopotamia was to be a client crown to
Romanion, a vassal. He’d issued requirements on what arms the 120,000 troops were to be issued—mostly to make sure he wasn’t completely swindled on that account as well. Albrecht had seen in his eyes he wanted to argue for more, that he really didn’t want to agree to the deal…
An early politicos, one of the militia created during the Third Komnenid Civil War. Early on these soldiers were lightly armored, usually with thick felt coats, or simple boiled leather. The instructions of Gabriel Komnenos from 1238 specified they needed a spear, a shield, a bow with quiver and 20 arrows, and a sideweapon—dagger, axe, sword or mace. These weapons were to be furnished and maintained by the politikos at all times, ready to serve within three days of notification.
But 120,000 men was a hard offer to turn down, however…
“Well, let’s hope he fills his father’s shoes amply,” Adrianos grumbled, rubbing his eyes and dropping his ‘negotiation face’ in favor of a tired, worn countenance. “We can raise all those men you described easily, Albrecht… the numbers aren’t the problem. The
quality of them is.” The Prince of Edessa sighed, and scratched his head. “We’ll need most of winter to even think of having them partially trained, and that many mouths will deplete the granaries from Coloneia to Aleppo. Then when it comes to the actual campaign,…” Adrianos’ voice fell to nothing. “Bah! Albrecht, I’m not so sure…”
“Train them, officer them, but don’t provision for the campaign west,” von Franken smiled. “That should keep the granaries fuller than you expect.”
“And how shall we feed them? That many men can’t forage!” Adrianos stared at Albrecht like a father might glare at a particularly stupid child. “They’d clean an entire
theme of all leftover foostuffs in a month! How the…” the Prince’s words descended into a burble of confused noises as he started to sputter.
“Don’t provision for a campaign to Konstantinopolis,” Albrecht said, trying to make his voice sound reassuring. “It won’t be necessary. If my informants are right, things are coming to a head quicker than our dear Emperor Gabriel, or even
Despotes Bardas, could dream of.” The
Megoskyriomachos leaned forward, eyes sharp, intent. “We need only keep Gabriel in the field long enough to train the soldiers, and make sure Thomas and Alexios are crowned.”
“And after that?” Michael asked, eyes blank as his mind. He clearly didn’t see the ridiculousness in what Albrecht was asking, because the whole affair was beyond the pea that was his brain.. Adrianos’ mouth merely hung open, confusion plain on the Prince’s face.
“Leave it up to me,” Albrecht turned to the doubting Prince of Edessa.
“Coming to a head? No camp… Albrecht!” Adrianos finally managed to spill out between the confused noises he’d been making.
“Gabriel and Thomas will enter the Queen of Cities without having to lift a sword,” Albrecht repeated himself. Despite the look of protest on Adrianos’ face, Albrecht would say no more. Mehtar had always said that Albrecht’s ideas never took into account the bloodiness of ruling an empire. Blood, after all, is always easier than precision, and for this whole nascent civil war to be quashed and von Franken’s ideas on the throne to see fruition, Albrecht needed
precision—in timing, in execution, in secrecy. The
Megoskyriomachos allowed himself a small smile as Adrianos continued to pry for information as to the plan, but Albrecht wouldn’t budge. It’d taken too long to move to this point, and it’d taken him knowing his best friend would die but not lifting a finger to reach it.
Adrianos could wait. Albrecht would accept his congratulations later, after the whole affair was over…