RGB - Well, progress has stalled, we'll see if he ever makes it through...
Winner - Logic like that is probably what'd go through Gabriel's mind, especially considering he's at war...
Hawkeye1489 - Yup. It's under Gabriel's 'influence' but its technically not his... Komnenopolis might be a good name for Isfahan as well, perhaps once the Komnenids are more firmly established...
Hannibal X - See above.
Vesimir - Alexandria, on the other hand, would be doable. The problem is that moving his capital there would remove him from the main theater of war...
Enewald - Gabrielpolis sounds a little ugly.
Gabai might be a possibility. I think down the line I'll have a voting poll for what the name should be.
Laur - The imperial capital of 'Carpet City?' :rofl: It's a possibility, Kouvertopolis has a ring to it. And the Greeks were just as uncreative in naming cities as people are today... Naples was Neapolis, which was literally 'New City.'
armoristan - There's a chance they might not rename it too. Haven't decided yet.
von Sachsen - The main difference is that Thomas makes Lepidus look like an indispensable part of the Triumvirate! :rofl:
Servius Magnus - You'll see in a bit.
And now on to something special. Many of you know AlexanderPrimus, who's been a long-time reader and contributor to this AAR. Some of you that haven't been around for a while might not know, however, that AP is an
amazing writer in his own right. If you haven't taken a look at them, I would seriously recommend anyone waiting for an update here to run over and read through either
Chronicles of the Golden Cross or
Aethellan: A Tale of Kings. In fact, the musical accompaniment for an AAR was not my idea at all, it came from AP's excellent
Chronicles (which has a score far better than any of my meager attempts!). Alas, computer issues temporarily stopped both his AAR projects, but from what I understand, the delay is almost over! Hooray!
AP was intrigued by the idea of Komnenids and Scotland, and one thing led to another, with the following as the result. Enjoy everyone!
==========*=========
A Komnenid By Any Other Name
The small ship glided swiftly through the murky, grey waters of the northern sea, and Antemios Komenos scowled. He had only been in the country a short time, but he already knew that he utterly hated Scotland. For starters, no one in the whole God-forsaken kingdom had ever
heard of
grappa. Instead, they drowned their sorrows in a crudely-brewed concoction they simply called “whiskey.” It tasted like goat piss mingled with seawater and felt like drinking liquid fire, yet the locals actually seemed to enjoy it.
“Almost there, cousin,” called out his companion, a fire-haired youth named John Comyn the Red.
“For the last time,” groaned Antemios, “I’m not your cousin.” None of the Scots had been able to wrap their tongues around a name like “Antemios Komnenos,” so they had scotticized it to the more palatable “Andrew Comyn.” And of course, everyone who bore the surname “Comyn” had to be a cousin of John the Red.
“Don’t be daft, man! Of course you’re my cousin,” scoffed John Comyn, “Every Comyn in Scotland is my cousin!”
“Good lord, man! Are all Scotsmen as stupid as you? My name is Komnenos! Kom-nen-os! The very idea that I could be kin to ruffians such as you is ludicrous!”
John Comyn the Red just laughed. The young man was technically supposed to be his bodyguard, but Antemios suspected that Comyn had orders to slit his throat from ear to ear if he so much as thought about disobeying their king.
King Duncan was young, handsome, had the attentions of any woman he liked, and was actually privileged enough to drink real wine on occasion, and so he naturally reminded Antemios of Gabriel. And of course that meant Antemios had hated the young King of Alba from the moment he met him, but that didn’t change how much he needed him. Scotland was literally Antemios’ place of last resort. He had travelled as an impoverished refugee throughout all the petty realms of the Germans and the Franks. Each time he was politely turned away, and each time he heard the same crass motto: “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”
Antemios was too impoverished and too desperate to afford gifts, but that only made the boorish Latins distrust him further. By contrast, when he had arrived in Scotland, Antemios found himself warmly welcomed by their king who had even generously granted Antemios his own parcel of land – his right as a man of noble birth.
King Duncan had smiled when presenting Antemios his fiefdom, and now that his small skiff was drawing near to his new home, Antemios could see why. It was a pathetic scrap of an island, scarcely more than a large heap of mud-covered rocks. He took another swig of the Scottish whiskey as the boat pulled into the most rundown excuse for a pier that he had ever seen.
A tall man with bushy hair and wild eyes awaited them on the heap of firewood that passed for a Scottish wharf. “Welcome,” he drawled in his thick Scots brogue, “to the Isle of Barra!”
“Who are you?” Antemios asked timidly. He suspected that more than half of Scotland’s inhabitants were insane, and this large fellow seemed to fit the bill more than most.
“James the Stewart,” the man bellowed proudly, “I am maister of all that ye’ see on this wee isle. I ran things here for our last laird, and now I run things for you!” He grabbed Antemios by the forearm and heaved him up out of the skiff, nearly dislocating the Roman prince’s arm in the process. John Comyn was left to fumble out of the waterlogged craft by himself.
“What did you say this miserable place was called again?” asked Antemios.
“Barra!” boomed James Stewart, stretching his arms wide. “This is the Isle of Barra, and that’s the village of Barra!” He pointed to a cluster of dilapidated huts. “And that,” he pointed to a stone edifice on a rocky crag, “That’s Castle Barra, yer new home!”
“Dear God,” moaned Antemios, swilling yet more of the Scots’ goat urine liquor.
“I knew ye’d like it here!” roared James the Stewart, his expression ominous. Antemios was beginning to suspect that the man didn’t know how to speak without shouting.
“And ‘tis well and good that ye’ like it,” he continued, “For ye’r here to stay until the King says ye’r allowed to leave!”
“Ah, there’s the catch,” thought Antemios, “King Duncan doesn’t trust me either. He’s banished me to the most miserable place on earth!”
“Come on then,” continued the Stewart, “And I’ll show ye’ to the Castle!”
Calling the meager stone tower that stood before them a castle was like calling a pebble a gold
solidus, thought Antemios. A ragged scrap of cloth hung from a pole atop the tower, and as the bitter northern wind caught it, Antemios could see that it was actually a banner depicting some kind of animal.
“Whose banner is that?” asked Antemios, “I thought this island belonged to
me now.”
“That’s the banner of our last laird,” said the Stewart, his voice actually taking a reverent tone, “ ’Tis the Rampant Goat of Thane Faiggish Macdeth!”
“And what happened to him?” asked Antemios, at last aware that he might actually have a rival for his new fiefdom, pitiful though it was.
“Oh, ‘twas a dreadful tragedy,” cried James, his wild eyes now wide with lamentation, “The Laird Faiggish was always a wee scrawl of a man, as thin as a starving weasel, and as sick as one too. Anyway, it so happened that one day as he sat in the garderobe, he fell in and slid down the shaft!”
“And he died?” said Antemios, already losing interest.
“No! The garderobe shaft leads to the dungeon, which was filled with the husbands of women the Laird had ravished, and other enemies!”
“And they killed him?” interrupted Antemios.
“NO! If ye’ wish to hear the tale then ye’ must let me finish!” roared the Stewart. In fact Antemios did not want to hear the rest of the tale, but he feared to anger the big Scotsman so he just nodded.
“So the Laird had landed in his dungeon, but he found it was empty except for all the dung from the garderobe. He soon saw that the mortar around one of the sewage grates had crumbled and so the iron bars had come away. The Laird Faiggish was able to crawl outside where, covered in dung, he was found by all the prisoners who were gathered there.”
“So they
did kill him?” anticipated Antemios, becoming anxious.
“NO!” roared James, “Did I not ask yer Lairdship to let me finish? The escaped prisoners bound him and dragged the Laird Faiggish to yonder beach, where a ship was waiting, filled with bloodthirsty pirates!”
“They kidnapped him?”
“NO! LET ME FINISH! The prisoners argued over whether to sell him to the pirates or to just reek his collops on the spot. While they fussed like wee bairns, a sudden sea storm broke loose, and the pirate ship sank, and the beach began to flood, and a mudslide blocked the path back to the castle! Laird Faiggish was trapped there with his captors, and the water got higher, and higher, and higher, until it reached their necks, and
then…”
“What?!” blurted Antemios.
“Terrible way to die!!!” James Stewart shook his head.
“Sweet Jesus,” muttered Antemios, clearly shaken.
“Och aye!” responded the big Scotsman, “Sweet Jesus does na’ live here! This is the
Isle of Barra! ‘Tis a wild and lonely place, y’understand? The life is hard… and
so are the men!”
Antemios shuddered. His new home was the cesspit of the universe, he was as far from Konstantinopolis as he could possibly be, and he was there to stay.