Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

Why does Trueblood have to be such a good series? And why did my friends have to introduce it to me?

Okay, trying something different with this update--smaller scenes, but more of them per update (3 scenes at about 2-3 pages apiece, instead of 1 eight or nine page scene or 2 four or five page scenes). I'm curious to see what everyone thinks. In terms of writing, this format is harder, but it allows me to cover more 'ground' in separated story lines...


June 8th, 1247

Outside of Aqaba, Theme of the Sinai…

“Adhid! Tea!”

Adhid al-Hinnawi jumped, the scroll he was reading tumbling to the dusty wooden floor below. Quickly, the nine year old scrambled to pick it up, and blew the dust from its ancient parchment. Gently, he set the (blank Sura) next to the Book of Gabriel and sighed.

The adults downstairs needed something, his reading would have to wait.

Al-Hinnawi clambered down the rickety wooden stairs of his adoptive home, hands running along stone walls far older than probably his family name. al-Shaib, “The Patient One,” would not have things any other way.

The old man was a Mutezalite, an ancient and dying breed of Sunni scholar that believed fervently in the application of rational logic and thought to unraveling the mysteries of God, as well as the mysteries of man. Al-Shaib had earned his nickname for his quiet retorts to opponents in debate, and true to his creed, he debated and reasoned with anyone—Christian, Muslim, Jew, even a strange Zoroastrian Persian who stopped in Aqaba on his way to Alexandria.


“But surely, you have to agree…”

Adhid ignored the raised voices of the adults next door—he was used to spirited debates, especially this debate. In every ulema al-Shaib had taken him to visit since adopting the orphan, Adhid had seen men of great learning and the common vile of the street all attempt to tackle the same question.

What would happen to Islam now?

The fall of Mecca was supposed to portend the return of Isa, the rise of the Mahdi, and the beginning of the End Times. In the early days, crowds gathered daily in Damascus, eyes turned upward, expecting Isa to arrive from the Heavens at any moment. But as the days wore on, and Isa still hid himself behind the clouds of Heaven, voices began to ask—what had happened? Were their teachers and leaders wrong in their interpretation of God’s Word? Some had even wondered if the Qu’ran was right at all…

“Clearly it didn’t happen!” Adhid heard the voice of one of his adoptive father’s closest friends blurting out as he checked the tea sitting above the firepit in al-Shaib’s kitchen. Georgios Altahiles, formerly known as Muhammad al-Tahil, was one of many Muslims who had taken the lack of Isa’s return as a sign that Islam was not the way. Like many others, Georgios had converted to the religion of his conquerers—he was a Metatrepokoi, a convert. He’d even taken to carrying an icon of St. Thomas the Conqueror around with him, despite the late Emperor not formally being glorified to Sainthood. “Muhammad was a great prophet but…”

“Blasphemer,” another voice added quietly, with a touch of wryness. Adil Assad, unlike ‘Georgios’ had converted to nothing. The vast majority of Islam was like him—still faithful, but confused, lost as to what the fall of Mecca meant, and what to do now. “St. Muhammad? Are you serious? Georgios, I think since you converted you’ve taken to drinking wine too much! You know, and I know that the law courts of Alexandria said…” Adil blurted out.

“The illegitimate, dangerous law court,” Georgios cut off his friend. Adhid began pouring the cups as he heard the convert rising to the challenge. “The Prince has ordered those courts suppressed, and for everyone to come to the Roman law court,” he needlessly added. “Shar’ia has no place when…”

“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass… pardon, al-Shaib,” Adil quickly added before launching back at Georgios, “for what a court filled with kafirs has to say about my family, or my property. They don’t know the Word of God through the Prophet! They even spit on the name of the Prophet, even as they thump their books of false teachings or pray before their idols!”

Such was the way of things at al-Shaib’s home. Al-Shaib believed that God spoke the truth through many means, and sometimes the unbelievers or sinners could utter the Truth of God for those only keen enough to listen. That was why he invited people like Georgios into his home, and listened to them, debated with them.

Adhid put the three cups of hot tea on a plate, and gingerly lifted it. Slowly, the young boy made his way to his father’s study as the noise and banter of the three men continued. Finally, Adhid drew into the doorway, and stopped. Georgios and Adil had stopped in mid-sentence, both looking at al-Shaib in confusion.

“Huh? Georgios murmured.

“I said, ‘is it the end?’” al-Shaib raised an eyebrow and repeated himself. “Was the fall of Mecca the end of time?”

“You are Mutazelite,” Adil laughed, waving his hand dismissively, “you all think crazy things!”

“Or is it the end of the beginning?” al-Shaib ignored Adil’s jibe. Adhid froze in place, eyes wide.

“Mayhaps,” al-Shaib went on, “God is laying the ground for someone to come and lead us to finishing the task we clearly were unable to complete?” al-Shaib smiled slightly. His eyes flicked over towards the doorway, and instinctively Adhid moved back towards the shadows. He’d been eavesdropping, he shouldn’t have, it was rude…

“Adhid, you have the tea?” al-Shaib asked, the smile growing, still genuine. At Adhid’s uncertain nod, the old man waved for him to come in. “Come, sit. Don’t stand in the shadows boy!”

“Should someone as young as him be listening to the grousings of us old men?” Adil chuckled.

“How else will he learn to think for himself, and thus discover God’s Truth in this world?” al-Shaib shot back, gently taking a cup of tea from Adhid’s proffered tray. “Here, sit boy. Now, what do you think the answer is?”

“The answer to what?” Adhid asked uncertainly.

“Why it has been ten years since Mecca fell, yet Isa has not come down from Heaven, and the Mahdi has not yet appeared?” Adil asked bluntly. “Maybe the babe has the wisdom we adults lack!”

“When you are one of the adults in question,” the one called Georgios quipped, “that is not so hard for the babe!”

“So, Adhid, what do you think?” al-Shaib said quietly.

Adhid stopped only feet from where the three men sat in the middle of the room. The teacups clinked slightly as she shook. It was the first time al-Shaib had asked him to share his opinion with some of his friends. He didn’t want to be wrong, nor to make a fool of himself! Adhid closed his eyes, and prayed for a moment. There was a quiet in his mind, and then the answer appeared, like a thunderbolt out of the blue.

Speak what he knew to be true, and all would be well.

“What if the Mahdi does not bring with him the end of time and the ushering of Paradise, but, as al-Shaib has spoken, he brings a new revelation from God?”

“So the babe sounds the words of his father?” Adil grinned over at al-Shaib.

“No,” Adhid could feel the pride coming from his adoptive father’s eyes, “it is the father that mouthed the words of his son. It was Adhid,” the Muztalite laughed, “that said that to me, not the other way around!”


Meanwhile…

Frederica von Hohenstaufen, Empress of Romanion, winced. The entirety of her maid staff, as well as the servants of her seven year old son, did the same as an earsplitting shriek echoed around the Purple Room of the Blacharenae.

“No! I won’t go!” the source of the shriek yelled again, stamping his foot. When he was angry, young Thomas reminded Frederica of how her brother Hans acted when he was little—throwing fits and tantrums if he didn’t get his way. And like most noble seven year olds, Thomas’ ‘way’ involved playing at swords, and riding horses, not donning his finest and stuffiest clothes for an official exit from the Queen of Cities.

“Young master, you need…”

Frederica watched as her maidservant Elise tried to get the young prince to comply, to no avail. Then the Roman servant Agata. At Agata’s failure, the Empress herself moved to intercede.

“Thomas,” she knelt, trying a voice of patience where the servant’s shouts and threats had failed, “you need to get ready, otherwise we won’t be able to go to Baghdad.”

His mother’s quiet voice stopped the tantrum in mid-scream. Frederica resisted the urge to smile—Thomas’ voice had quieted down, but that didn’t mean his opposition was done.

“Where is Papa? Why doesn’t he have to get ready right now?” Thomas huffed as only seven year olds were prone to do. For added measure, his little arms crossed, his lower lip stuck out in a pout.


“Because your papa is still talking to Master Aquinas,” Frederica said, before nodding to Elise.

“About what?” Thomas pestered. The young boy raised his hands obediently at Elise’s tapping on his shoulder. Frederica sighed—at least he was intrigued enough to no longer protest the maidservant putting on his tunic.

“Something religious,” Frederica said, cutting off the word ‘drivel’ before it could come out of her mouth. It wouldn’t do to have her husband’s legitimate son calling any religious conversation from Thomas Aquinas ‘drivel.’ To be fair, Frederica had to admit the young man was perfectly charming and obviously very intelligent. Religious discussions, however, were not her strong suit—and she had little doubt if word of the imperial heir calling the religious tracts of the budding legalist and favorite of the von Frankens Thomas Aquinas ‘drivel,’ the blame would fall on her shoulders. The von Frankens had a tendency to blame most things on her, even things she had no idea were going on…

“Damn Frank,” she thought she heard Agata mutter under his breath.

Frederica sighed—she’d never imagined her own maidservants and those that took care of her son would have the nerve to mutter anything about Latins in her presence, but alas, they were free to utter what they wanted so long as they knew the ire of the great Albrecht von Franken was directed her way. Von Franken had the Emperor’s ear, governed the personnel of the palace, and, for some reason unfathomable to her, staffed her chambers and those of her son with women who only thinly veiled their distaste for her, and, ironically, all Latins not bearing the surname ‘von Franken.’

“Will Uncle Gabby be there?” Thomas asked as Elise finally got the tunic over his head.

Frederica’s heart involuntarily skipped a beat. She remembered the great meeting of emperors seven years before, and how her husband’s brother had looked handsomer than ever, and all the stories from his gossip-filled wife of what he did in the bedroom—and who he did things with. He’d intrigued her long before Thomas had—Thomas was, in many ways, merely little more than a poor consolation prize. Frederica smiled, but for reasons that her young son would still not yet understand.

Theodora Donauri was dead.

Frederica would have considered the death of Gabriel’s wife in childbirth two years before a sad thing—the von Hohenstaufen hadn’t spent much time with the woman who had snatched up Gabriel before she could, but she’d found a kindred spirit in the Roman lady. They’d shared stories, secrets, gossips, and it was from Theodora that Frederica discovered Gabriel’s wayward habits—and his toleration for his wife’s own wandering eye. With Theodora gone, and, if reports were true, the war likely to soon be decided, Gabriel would be free to begin his romps yet again, with no rapacious woman to sap his energy…

“Oh he will,” she hoped. “Filled with tales of Persia and fighting the Mongol, no doubt!”

“Fighting the Mongol!” Thomas’ eyes lit up, and instantly the seven year old’s imagination was amok, an imaginary sword in his hand. “Hah!” he swung his hand, almost ripping the coat Elise was trying to put over his shoulders, “take that Hulagu!”

“Calm now,” Frederica told her son, and herself. Though as Thomas nodded, grinning broadly as the maidservant finished clothing him, the little prince had no idea the reason for his mother’s echoing smiles was something far more…adult…than anything going through his young mind…


July 7th, 1247

Outside of Amol, Persia

Alexios Komnenos, King of Mesopotamia quietly kicked away the scorpion that had desperately tried to crawl onto his boot. When he stomped down, a rewarding ‘crack’ came to his ears. Alexios hated the infernal things—almost as much as he hated life on the march, or the queasiness the night before a battle. All around him, he knew there were thousands that felt like him—suffering from the uneasiness prior to engaging the enemy. 65,000. That’s how many, despite the numerous columns sent off to skirmish, harass and mislead, that Emperor Gabriel had here in the field in Tabaristan. Their best guess was that their opposite mustered 40,000 or so… Hulagu’s finest, and the Khan himself.

“’Effin stupid, that’s what this frickin’ plan is.”

Alexios glanced over to the source of the gripe, and nodded to Simon Tatikios, chillarchos and one of Alexios’ most trusted military advisors. The man’s dark face and thin beard only added a shade of menace to words that Alexios knew were meant in gentle jest.

“Yes, but he’s bluntheaded,” another voice added, and the King turned to see his other chief advisor, the young Isaakios Bataczes grinning. “Get’s told he’s commanding the left of the army, and look!”


“Quiet you,” was all Alexios could manage before a slight, shy smile came onto his own lips. Many said that Gabriel Komnenos, Emperor of the Romans, was a man full of surprises. But for Alexios, none was bigger than the news that on the morrow, he’d been assigned the most important task of all the commanders in Gabriel’s gathered force.

To flank the Mongol army.

Alexios knew the logic of the plan—the Roman army was much larger, and had far more cavalry than normal—10,000 Turks, another two tagmata of heavy horse, and three tagmata of light horse as well as another 6,000 mounted Persian levies—25,000 horse altogether, the backbone of the Roman cavalry in Persia. They should be able to fly to the wings, forcing Hulagu to spread his outnumbered forces, but Alexios also knew the quality of many of these Persian levies—poor at best.

And it puzzled him why Gabriel handed such an important operation as leading the left flank of the combined army to him, a 19 year old King with no power.

“Here’s the camp of the Grigoroi,” Bataczes muttered quietly.

Alexios pulled up, as his horse whinnied nervously. The poor thing still wasn’t used to its new rider—as for Alexios, he would’ve preferred his normal riding horse or his charger, but both were far too well known for his purpose.

“You think they’ll fight?” Alexios asked uneasily. The Grigoroi would be the core of his attack, but he sadly knew little of the unit. They weren’t native Mesopotamian raised, nor were they Roman—they were a Persian unit of some sort.

“Aye, they ‘effin better!” Tatikios grumbled. “Tomorrow at least. After the Mongols are gone,” the chillarchos finished, before ominously shrugging his shoulders.

“Many of these men came to Persia with Gabriel’s father in 1233,” Bataczes added, “and they’ve been here for close to 15 years.” The chillarchos turned, a grimace on his face. “I know this unit. Fought with them outside of Amol seven years ago. Don’t get me wrong, Highness, these men know their duty, and they’ll strive to the ends of the earth to destroy the Mongol. But they have not seen their homes, their families, in a decade and a half. Would you want to stay here after such an absence, no rotation home, no chance to see your wife, your children?”

“What about the politkoi?” Alexios asked. Yes, the camp was rather ramshackle, the men clearly not the kavallaroi he expected. Lancers they were, yes. Bows they had, yes. Armor? Light leathers, steel skullcaps, little else.

He was expected to charge with these?


“They were promised lands years ago, lands they haven’t seen because of the Mongol boot,” Bataczes said. “They’re rapidly becoming restless, Majesty.” The chillarchos sat uneasily on his mount. “That’s why your cousin is finally leaving the fortresses and seeking battle. Nikephoros’ money has gone a long way, but money goes only so far…”

Alexios nodded emptily. All around him he could see the noise, the commotion, common to all armies on the eve of battle. Some of the soldiers had laid out blankets, and as one, knelt and prayed to the west-south-west—towards Mecca. Others threw dice, and Alexios saw more than a few engaged in drink.

“They’re a Muslim tagmata?” Alexios raised an eyebrow.

“The first your cousin raised,” Bataczes answered. “They might not look like much, but they’re a hardened bunch.”

“They have little armor,” Alexios thought aloud. “Isaakios, I’m afraid you won’t get much sleep tonight—someone is going to have to help me find a way to…”

“…charge home on the Keshik flank with unarmored lancers?” Bataczes grinned fiercely, much to Alexios’ surprise. Before the King could speak, the chillarchos added, “There’s a method to your cousin’s madness. Did you see the field before the sun went down?”

Alexios shook his head no. Gabriel had all his principal commanders tied up in meetings deep into the evening.

“Ground’s dry as sin,” Bataczes grinned. “There’s going to be a lot of dust tomorrow. The Grigoroi and their screen are going to be plunging around through thick palls of dust—you’re probably going to be on the Mongol flank before they know what him them, if” the chillarchos raised a cautionary finger, “we can find the Mongol flank. That will be our big problem—coordinating and spotting amidst the dust.”

“Problem?” Tatikios snorted. “That’s no problem, that’s a frickin’ quandarity!” the baseborn man spat, “a conundarum!” he went on, mangling Greek. “It’s the elephant on the frickin’ horse!”

“Any ideas on how to get around that issue?” Alexios asked, slowly walking his horse forward. Bataczes was full of ideas, it was the reason he was a chillarchos despite being 21 and from a low-born family, and Tatikios was no slouch either, despite his foul tongue. Alexios wondered if any of the soldiers or kentarchoi would have ideas as well.

“I’ve got a few,” Bataczes followed behind his King.

“’Effin buglers, I hope,” Tatikios snarled. “Drums the size of your mother’s…”

“More than that,” Bataczes looked over as his fellow staff member and grinned. Alexios smiled slightly—it was amusing when Bataczes tormented Tatikios by hiding an idea.

“Gentlemen, that’s not why we’re here tonight though,” the King cleared his throat, before dismounting. Quickly, he handed his reins to Bataczes, and looked around. There! The King, clad in the cloak and leathers of a common skoutatos, then made his way towards a nearby fire, a cluster of faces laughing at some joke.

“Would it be a bother if I partook in your company?”

Alexios winced as the rows of grizzled men, swarthy faces, missing teeth and all, looked up at him in confusion. His Greek was probably far too formal for… common stock as these.

“Sure! I ain’t got no problems with no ones sharin’ my fire!” one of the men blurted out. Grubby hands motioned for the King to sit. Alexios heard several crude comments about how nice he smelled, and at least one rude comment he looked like a ‘camp follower’ for one of the officers. The King resisted the urge to look back at Tatikios and Bataczes… he trusted they’d keep their tongues in check. After all, if the men knew they were speaking in front of the King of Mesopotamia, would they let loose of their tongues and speak of the real needs of the army?

“Eatin yet?” the ringleader asked.

“He’s likin’ a stick!” one of the others commented rudely.

“No,” Alexios lied. What kind of food did the men eat here?

“Ah… “ one of the men laughed. He had only one eye—a rude and empty socket glared from where the other one should have been. “Came over for some fish did ya? Well, we’s gots plenty since we marched up by the Caspian! Salted fish goes a long ways,” he added with a toothless grin. As Alexios watched, partly horrified, the man reached into a barrel near the group and yanked an example of said food out, and slid it into his throat without chewing. “See, easy as can be! Take one!”

Alexios could imagine the horrified looks on the faces of Tatikios and Bataczes…that made him smile somewhat as he took one of the slippery fish gingerly into his hands, before sliding it into his throat. It slid down with surprising speed, but not before it left a powerful aftertaste of salt that burned his tongue.

He winced. He thought he could hear Tatikios snickering behind him.


A lot of ground covered quickly in that update! Frederica et al are journeying to Baghdad, in pre-preparation for Gabriel winning a victory it seems. Meanwhile, Adhid al-Hinnawi is learning many different things under the tutelage of al-Shaib, and Alexios and his two lieutenants are preparing for the battle of a lifetime. Who will emerge victorious in the Battle of Amol? That famous clash is next on Rome AARisen!