Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

Avalanchemike - There was a map somewhere before, but at present in the Church of the Empire there are four apostolic patriarchates - Constantinople, Antioch, Jerusalem, and Alexandria, as well as four non-apostolic, non-autocephalous patriarchates - Cordoba, Carthage, Samarra and Mazadaram. Italy at present falls under Constantinople.

Siind - Currently there is no Pope or Patriarch in Rome. The Papacy is in Trier, and the Empire so far has been disinclined or too distracted to go through the headache that would be setting up a replacement...

Irsh Faq - There are a few spots of Catholicism in the borders outside of northern Spain--north Italy for one, and interestingly enough, quite a few enclaves on the North African coast... remnants of the Crusaders.

Enewald - Ptolemy Komnenos duking it out with Antigonos Komnenos? Nah, I'd leave the diadochi to lay where they are.

Leviathan07 - Yes, northern and western Europe are still vehemently Catholic. There haven't been any crusades to the east yet, other than the mercenaries that set up shop in Finland. In game, I'm not sure why this hasn't happened. In story, we can assume that no one in the West really wants to make the Roman Empire stop looking eastwards (or inwards) and start looking north...

KaiserMuffin - Huge tracts of texts are hereby plagiarized!

Hawkeye1489 - Oh, my hybrids are going to be very very touch and go!


Well, here it is!



Albrecht von Franken sighed as he quietly sat down, deciding he’d never be used to the Patriarch’s new palatial home. As part of Thomas III’s lavish building programs, the Emperor had granted the Patriarchate a stretch of land in the Megara, and erected a magnificent five story manor fit for a king for the Patriarch and his staff. Grimly, the Megoskyriomachos noted the marble in this meeting room was grander and better than that in his own in the Blacharenae. He glance sideways at his companion—by the look on Queen Anastasia’s face, he was sure the Spanish woman was thinking the same.

Across from him, servants pulled out two chairs for his two opposites—Patriarch Theodoros, and his assistant.

As Patriarch’s went, Theodoros was young, fresh, and a little naïve, in Albrecht’s estimation. He had barely been on his throne for three years, and at 38 was far younger than any past Patriarch since long before anyone could remember. Theodoros’ meteoric rise through the Church hierarchy was partially due to his quick intellect and incessant writing, but his surname played a major role as well.

Komnenos.

Theodoros, true, was the third son of the second son of the Prince of Pereschen, related to the imperial house distantly at best (through the treacherous uncle Manuel of the Megas), but he still bore the name that had increasing become the sure-fire way to power. After that, it was only a slight push from Thomas III, who had taken a liking to the young man’s writings, that had shoved him into place.

The second part of the ‘Twin Boys’ now in charge of the most important see of the Christian Church looked even younger—which he was, by far. The 23 year old Thomas of Aquino, also known as Thomas Aquinas, only six years before had merely been a student at the University of Konstantinopolis. There his writings and arguments in the defense of natural theology attracted great interest, and the young man quickly found himself lifted up by the Church hierarchy. At 20, he was named a Bishop, and with Theodoros’ rise a year before, the new patriarch tapped young Aquinas to be his chief assistant and lieutenant—with the rank of Metropolitan.


“Your Holiness, Metropolitan Aquinas,” Albrecht nodded to each man in turn.

“Lord von Franken, Majesty,” the Patriarch adjusted his robes slightly. He paused on the young woman, and a look of pity came over his face. “Majesty, all true Christians must weep at the news of the death of your husband, a most noble and pious man. We shall both pray for you, and send letters to our bishops asking they do the same.”

“Thank you, Santidad,” Anastasia responded, taking the Patriarch’s hand. Yet even as she looked down in the presence of the leading clergyman of Christianity, Albrecht saw a fire bloom in those brown eyes. It was obvious what had happened, and Albrecht knew that Anastasia knew as well. Why else would this Altani Khatun have been able to ambush and slay a high ranking Roman noble, then “escape” out of the suddenly clumsy hands of Gabriel Komnenos? Albrecht wasn’t sure if in Gabriel’s shoes he’d have had Alexios killed—the young man was popular, to be true, but from everything the Megoskyriomachos had heard, the young man wasn’t seeking to displace anything, he more wanted to be left alone. His murder put everyone on notice—something Albrecht regarded as foolish at best.

And it’d earned Gabriel the eternal enmity of the woman sitting next to Albrecht. The Megoskyriomachos had to admit he was impressed with the sister of Nikephoros—the woman had taken the news of her beloved husbands death with dignity, but only a fool wouldn’t notice how those brown eyes now had a perpetually hard glare the moment anyone mentioned the name of Gabriel Komnenos. The Emperor in Persia had made an eternal enemy in her, an enemy Albrecht was pleased he could harness for his own uses.

Hence her presence today. A living reminder to the two men across from Albrecht of what Gabriel Komnenos could do. It was well known throughout the capital that she hadn’t trusted Albrecht—for her to appear before the Patriarch, approving Albrecht’s ideas and confirming Gabriel was an enemy…

“We all mourn his loss,” Albrecht added, somewhat truthfully. He’d never met the young Alexios, but from the descriptions it sounded like the King would’ve been someone Albrecht wouldn’t have minded working with, instead of around like his current charge. Thankfully the Patriarch had not expected the Emperor present—Thomas was off at the Kosmodion site, likely screaming into the ear of some hapless mason that his mortar mixture was wrong, or chasing down a cart of marble because he wanted it cut for yet another statue idea. The Megoskyriomachos cleared his throat. “Hence my request for a meeting with you today.”

“Yes,” the Patriarch turned from Anastasia and folded his hands impassively. “What can we do for you, Lord Albrecht? I understand the Emperor’s plans for several new basilicas have crossed your desk. I meant to ask you…”

“I’ve sent the requisite letters,” Albrecht interrupted the man with a pleasant, if fake, smile. “No, that is not the reason for my visit. It’s a theological matter, as much as a state one, that brings me here today alongside the rightful Queen of Mesopotamia.”


“Ah, Lord von Franken!” Aquinas suddenly perked up with interest, “I always assumed you were a student of politics! I never knew your had an interest in theology!”

“I have dabbled in theology some,” Albrecht smiled politely. He knew what was coming—Aquinas was legendary for his ability to turn any conversation into a theological matter, then happily run rings around anyone who was willing to continue the discussion.

“Excellent! It is true learning, the only learning,” Aquinas said with a stern smile, “that can lead us to knowing more about ourselves and the world around us!”

Albrecht managed to keep the smile on his face firm and polite, even when he wanted to smack the impudent boy in the head. “What, then, young Aquinas,” the Megoskyriomachos asked quietly, “is the role of the Emperor in our Holy Church?”

“The Emperor is the Vice Gerent of Christ, the temporal expression of Christ’s Power, just as the Church is the Spiritual expression of Christ’s Love.”

Albrecht’s smile grew thinner. The Metropolitan’s definition was rote, however that definition was also imprecise. And therein laid the problem with that classic definition. “Now, Your Eminence, Your Holiness, answer me this question. Where is the boundary between the temporal concerns of the Emperor, and the spiritual concerns of the Church?”

“The Church concerns itself with souls, Lord von Franken,” the Patriarch intervened before Albrecht could ensnare Aquinas any further, “the Emperor concerns himself with being the sword, the defender of Christianity against all threats, all challenges. Something the current ruling family has done in a stellar manner, along with brilliant and inspired advice and counsel from men such as yourself,” the clergyman hastily added with a smile.

“Flattery does not become your position, Holiness,” Albrecht let any pretense drop from his face, glaring at the man. “Your predecessor often intervened past a concern for men’s souls into concerns of the empire! While he was a fool about it,”Albrecht growled, his voice never rising, only gaining venom, “and caused much trouble, with your forgiveness, Holiness, you’d be an even greater fool to try to completely deny such a connection!”

Theodoros looked over at his aide, then the young Anastasia, surprise across his face. Clearly the clergyman wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a… base manner.

“Holiness,” Albrecht didn’t give the man a chance to speak, “I came today because something powerful moves this way, and Mother Church must not sit on the sidelines of what is to come. You have, no doubt, heard of the results of Amol?”

“Indeed we have,” Aquinas said, relief clear in his voice that the Megoskyriomachos had stopped berating his master. “A most glorious day for Christians everywhere that the heathen Mongol was driven…”

“No, Your Eminence,” Albrecht interrupted. This Aquinas might have been theologically brilliant, but Albrecht decided the man was clearly a political fool. “It was not a great day for Christianity! It has unleashed a demon that would threaten to turn Christianity as we know it inside out!” he slammed his fist on the table for emphasis.

That made both the clergymen jump.

“What do you speak of?” Theodoros finally said, confusion plain on his face.

“Gabriel,” the Queen of Mesopotamia growled.

Anastasia had said nothing throughout the early part of the meeting, but her voice dripped with daggers when she spoke that name. The Patriarch looked at the Princess, then back to Albrecht, clearly looking for an explanation.

“My lords, I with a good conscience tell you that if Gabriel Komnenos sits on the Throne of Caesars, he will exercise his temporal power against the Church in ways you have not seen from an Emperor in centuries. Need I remind you of iconoclasm?” Albrecht said grimly, dropping that dark word into the middle of the room.


Both the clergymen opposite shuddered slightly.

“The Patriarch of the Mesopotamians has already aroused Gabriel’s ire for attempting to convert the local people,” Albrecht went on, inflating the truth as necessary, “as has the Patriarch of Mazadaram. After Amol, Gabriel promptly issued writs for their arrest on charges of violence against the populace and stirring sedition! Now that his armies are free, gentlemen,” Albrecht roared onward, his voice damningly calm, “he will march on Konstantinopolis to take the diadem by force! And I need not remind you what your predecessor did that could count as outright treason, nor, my lords, need I remind you that it was the Patriarchate of Konstantinopolis that demanded that their brothers in Mazadaram and Samarra begin ‘more aggressive conversion efforts,’ to use your words.”

Aquinas visibly swallowed hard, while the Patriarch paled only slightly—the only sign of his discomfiture was the quickened drumming of his fingers on the table.

“Well then, um, Lord von Franken,” Theodoros cleared his throat again, “I presume, you…um… have a solution to this?” Fingers rapping more on the table. “A, um, solution that would involve us?”

“If you wish to stop Gabriel from coming to Konstantinopolis and tearing asunder the work of the saints, I need you to do two things. First, call on the Lords of Anatolia to rise up to block Gabriel from coming to Konstantinopolis,” Albrecht replied.

“C…call on the dynatoi to rebel against a lawful emperor?” Aquinas whispered quietly.

“Not lawful, boy,” Albrecht sneered at the stupid man, “he is lawful in his own dominions, Persia, Mesopotamia! The moment he crosses into Anatolia with his armies, he is suddenly unlawful by the treaty he signed seven years ago!”

“My lord,” the Patriarch gave a pained smile out of politeness, “there is precedent that such a call is not a…um…wise idea. Why do you not…um…exercise your own…connections, as it were, and ask the dynatoi yourself?”

“If I speak out and call on the Anatolian lords to bar Gabriel’s entry, they will ascribe my motivations to political maneuvering, no more,” Albrecht said, allowing a tinge of sadness to echo in his voice. “However,” he turned, eyes lighting up, “if the Patriarch were to call on them to do so, they would immediately!”

“But…”

“Second,” Albrecht rammed onward through whatever words the Patriarch was about to utter, “prepare a formal call asking that Emperor Nikephoros of Spain come to Konstantinopolis and defend the city against Gabriel, and yes…”

“Call Nikephoros from Spain?” Aquinas asked. Albrecht glared at the young man for interrupting, then resumed his sentence.

“…and yes, offer him a joint diadem with our beloved Thomas III,” Albrecht went on. Years of practice had let him learn not to smile wryly when using ‘beloved’ so closely to the Emperor’s name. “Spanish and Italian arms will protect the city, long enough that…”

“Isn’t Nikephoros a Saracen?” Aquinas interrupted again, looking at the Patriarch with confusion.


“Is my brother a que?” Anastasia asked, her voice sounding dangerous again.

“I…um… well, there have been some…worries…about Nikephoros,” Theodoros quickly jumped in with his characteristic lack of spine, “that he wears Saracen dress, and has Moors in his court…”

“Yet he built the largest cathedral outside of the Hagia Sophia, and diligently gives money to Mother Church, as well as takes service thrice daily!” Anastasia snapped. Albrecht smiled as she displayed the second reason he wanted her present. “He might wear Moorish linens, but that is because Spain is hot! Only a fool would go about in furs and wool! Does not God look for the heart, not the outer trim that covers it?”

Aquinas started to open his mouth, but wisely the young man closed it before anything else came out. The Patriarch blinked, then pleasantly smiled at the Queen who had just berated him.

“Um…yes, Majesty. Of course. I was merely saying that foolish people, vulnerable to human foibles, have murmured such things.”

“If I may be blunt, Your Holiness,” Albrecht’s voice dropped to an icy whisper, “would you rather have a tried and true Orthodox Emperor from Spain, or a schismatic sitting on the throne?”

“Schismatic?”

“Nikephoros is of Orthodox faith, even if he dresses sometimes like a Saracen. I am sure Your Holiness would prefer someone who dresses like a Saracen but is in line with good doctrine, versus someone who dresses as a Roman but secretly visits mosques on a regular basis?” Albrecht said, dropping the most common charge against his rival.

“He what?” Theodoros rose slightly out of his seat, alarm on his face.

“Yes, Emperor Gabriel visits mosques on a weekly, or so my agents tell me,” Albrecht lied. He waited a second, before stretching it even further. “Rumor has it he even attended Friday prayers several times, and prayed towards the city of Mecca. Would you really want that sitting on the Throne of Caesars, as the Vice Gerent of Christ?”

“That… that is most disturbing news,” Theodoros murmured uncertainly after several seconds of awkward silence. “I had heard rumors, but I dismissed them!” He quickly crossed himself. “Oh the disaster that would be…”


“A true and utter disaster it would be,” the Metropolitan nodded sadly, before turning to Albrecht. “I am not a man of the world, Lord von Franken,” Aquinas said with just a hint of pride, “but I am assuming that if you invite… Nikephoros,” the Italian waved his hand slightly at the mention of the Emperor’s name, “that Gabriel will march on the city with all his power?” The Metropolitan frowned. “The Anatolian lords are powerful, Lord Albrecht, but they cannot stop a whirlwind. We will pray…”

“He won’t march with his full might,” Albrecht leaned back and smiled.

“Of course he will!” Anastasia whispered, venom in her voice. “That… man,” she visibly shook slightly, restraining her tongue before the Patriarch and his aide, “will stop at nothing to take the crown! And my son’s life!”

“He won’t,” Albrecht sighed. He wanted to pat her on the shoulder, but he was afraid she would snarl and bite his hand. “I’ve sent someone to Baghdad to ensure of that!”

“Who? That German woman?” Anastasia hissed. The fact that the wife of Thomas III had rather eagerly packed up for Baghdad months before was common knowledge.

“I…um… don’t see how Empress Frederica could be an effective negotiator on your part, Lord Albrecht,” the Patriarch said quietly, face darkening with concern. “I am not one to listen to rumors, my lord, but if they are true…”

“They are,” Albrecht said sharply, levelly looking at both the two men opposite him, then the woman beside him. “That is precisely why I sent her. She wanted out of the city, so as a merciful Christian man I saw no reason to not accede to her wishes. The Emperor, of course, completely agreed as well…”

“So she can be a whore in Babylon?” Aquinas raised an eyebrow, confusion on his face. “What is your point? How does that help stop Gabriel from coming to…”

“Oh, my dear Metropolitan,” Albrecht replied, rolling his eyes, “That is the point!”



Prince Alexandros Komnenos sighed, and kicked the grass underfoot in annoyance. The wind picked up the small puff of dust, and simultaneously acted as if it would blow him away. He was positively skinny for his age—his mother used to always complain that it was almost like he’d never eaten, and would promptly order the scullery maids to make a special plate for him, which the young child dutifully gobbled up. His whole personality was like that metabolism—energetic, perpetually wanting something new, something exciting.


So today it was the second son of Gabriel Komnenos that openly chafed in the courtyard of the former palace of the Caliph. It wasn’t the heat, nor the stuffy formal clothing he wore, nor the servants, for there were none present at his father’s orders. It was the simple fact he had to stand here, at rigid military attention alongside his father and elder brother, when he would have much rather run rampant through the City of a Thousand and One Nights, searching every nook, every cranny for anything interesting.

Impatiently, the thirteen year old scratched at his silken tunic and cloak, its purples and golds shimmering in the sunlight. With only a half jealous glare, he looked over at his brother Nikephoros. Like always, the eldest son of Emperor Gabriel stood impassively, a look of partial boredom and sadness on his face—despite the fact that Nikephoros likely had little to be sad about.

For someone whose name meant “Ever Victorious” if translated in just the right way, Alexandros was sure his elder brother was perhaps the most dour and morose person he’d ever met. Nikephoros wasn’t like his father—he was short and powerfully built, with a head of red hair that was already receding rapidly. He was quick of mind, good with a sword, and showed all the makings of a capable Emperor—save few people wanted his company. He bemoaned failures even as he devised ways to solve the problem, and he quietly warned during event he greatest success that fame is fleeting and prepared for the worst.


The army in particular found Nikephoros interesting—the Crown Prince’s speeches were already legendary, despite the fact he’d only given one to his first command, a chillarchoi of skoutatoi at Amol. He promised them that no matter what they were going to die, but if they stood and fought bravely, they might not die that day—perhaps it’d be later in bed with a woman, or from a falling chamberpot, or from a lightning bolt from the blue. He reportedly then shrugged, looked off into the dust and told them they might as well have at it. His tendencies aside, Nikephoros had a reputation in the field akin to his father’s. He’d been a page on his father’s staff at eleven, and he’d seen his first action—a skirmish against a Mongol raiding party—when he was thirteen. Already a chillarchos at sixteen, he was probably going to get a red cape before he was twenty, just like his father.

Alexandros stared back ahead as the doors on the far side of the courtyard finally swung open. In a way, he idolized his older brother—Nikephoros was brave, and popular despite his own dourness—but in a way, he was also jealous. If only because he could be perfectly happy (or as happy as he could be) no matter where he was or what he was doing, while Alexandros perpetually needed something inter…

The Prince’s higher thoughts crashed to a halt in the face of what stood in the doorway.

She was tall, and even at this distance Alexandros could make out she was slightly older—he thought maybe twenties, he wasn’t sure—but her rapturous looks held his teenage eyes. When she started moving forward, it was with an almost carnal power, like a panther slinking openly towards its prey. So entrancing was her looks, the way her hips moved as she walked forward, that the 13 year old momentarily forgot the rest of the world. Before he realized it, she was standing only feet before them.

“Greetings, Majesty,” she said, politely nodding her head.


The woman’s speech was mesmerizing. Hormones and a young mind quickly went places, and he fought hard to keep his eyes from going over her figure now that she was close, and with that revealing a dress. He knew his mind would be lost then! He looked over at his father and brother, desperately trying to avoid a truly embarrassing moment in his trousers. Nikephoros looked completely disinterested—how did he do that?!—while Alexandros’ father gamely looked the woman up and down

“Majesty,” the Emperor replied. For a second Alexandros thought he heard a slight strain in his father’s voice. The woman seemed to smile broadly at the discomfiture.

“May I introduce your nephew, Thomas,” she said, her voice silken smooth as she pulled a small boy with curly hair from behind her. Alexandros blinked—he’d been so focused on the woman, he didn’t even notice the child she brought in tow. A momentary part of his brain registered that this made her a mother and older than he thought, but the louder parts of his mind shouted it down. The boy bowed politely. “Thomas,” she added, “this is your uncle Gabriel.”

“Hello uncle!” the boy piped up, brandishing a wooden toy sword and saluting extravagantly with it. Alexandros her his older brother snort—he was only momentarily distracted from the woman’s cleavage.

“May I…um… present my sons,” the Emperor stammered slightly. “My oldest, Nikephoros, and my second son Alexandros. Sons, this is your Aunt Frederica, from Konstantinopolis”

Alexandros bowed politely to the famous Frederica, and tried to keep his tongue from hanging out of his mouth. So that was the woman that he’d heard whispers about since he finally realized girls were more than icky things! He’d heard stories—the prince grunted slightly in frustration as his overactive imagination went to work.

“Well, Majesty,” Frederica looked around the courtyard, her smile growing in both appreciation and promise, “I thank you for agreeing to meet me here, without the inconvenience of servants and advisors. Lord von Franken sends his respects, and is sorry he…”

“Were you at Amol?”

Alexandros blinked as his young cousin poked him again in the side with his wooden sword. “Well?” Thomas demanded.

“I…um…yes,” Alexandros stammered, his mind fighting to disengage from staring at the thing of lust talking to his father, and to the thing’s child. “I was a page on my father’s staff, I rode after the spearline when it made its advance.”

“So you know fighting!” Thomas laughed. “Play swords with me! I’m bored!”

“Children?” Frederica’s voice rang musically above her son’s, “stay here. The Emperor and I are going to discuss matters of state. Privately.”

Alexandros nodded, not really registering the words as his young cousin smacked him lightly on the arm with his wooden sword. The brat was insistent! Alexandros huffed.

“This won’t end well,” Nikephoros sighed, his voice low and depressed like normal.

“What won’t?” Alexandros asked, now deftly dodging another swing from Thomas. The young boy started loudly whining about no one wanting to play with him.

“Everything,” Nikephoros said.

“You always say everything will end up foul!” Alexandros laughed, before spinning around to his young cousin. “Stop that!”

“But this will definitely end up going foul,” Nikephoros wandered over to a nearby bench and sat down. “We won’t leave here in time,” he added, staring at the ground.

“Leave…what?” Alexandros squeaked as Thomas caught him in the shins. “We just got here, Nikephoros! There’s a thousand places to explore in this city! We can’t leave just yet! There’s negotiations, and banquets, and…”

“The soldiers?” Nikephoros looked up at his brother. “We have to leave quickly… we took the city without any fight. If we don’t move, we’re doomed.”

“Doomed?” Alexandros sighed. It was too bad. He had really wanted to explore the city of legends inside and out. He glanced up at Frederica and his father—they were far closer now, both smiling, talking quietly about something. Aunt she might be, but… “Why doomed? Why do we have to go now?”

“Because” Nikephoros replied, “Father’s led those soldiers to victory after victory, but they want to go home, Alexandros. Fifteen years is longer than you’ve been alive. That’s how long most of them have been in the field”


“Bah!” Alexandros huffed. His little cousin was saying something, but the Prince annoyed him. Thomas, he decided, was a little brat. “So? Those men would die for father and his cause! Why should they run off when we have a year, maybe two according to fa… ouch!” Alexandros howled, his words cut off by a sharp bolt of pain through his leg. When he turned, he saw his seven year old cousin grinning broadly, that damnable wooden sword firmly in both little hands.

“Have at you!” Thomas squeaked, adopting a rather comical combat stance.

Alexandros glared for a moment, before snatching the wooden blade from his cousins grasp. As Thomas started to cry, the Prince threw the blade as far across the courtyard as he could.

“That should occupy him for a bit,” Alexandros huffed as his cousin ran off in search of his toy, bawling the entire way. He sat down next to his brother and sighed. “Why wouldn’t they follow father another month? Another year? He pays them well, he keeps them feed, he keeps them well supplied? Why…”

“Men fight wars for a time, but when the war is done they want to live their lives,” Nikephoros said, “not fight another war.”

“But think of the lives they would have if we took Konstantinopolis!” Alexandros waved his hands wide. “The money! The honor! The lands they would be given! Surely that would motivate them to… oh God help us,” Alexandros blasphemed as he watched his seven year old cousin saunter up, that damned wooden sword back in his hand. “Swing that at me again, and Ill break the sword in half!” he warned.

“I think my mama likes your papa,” Thomas said in a singsong voice.

“Why?” Alexandros hissed, annoyed. The little runt might’ve been a Crown Prince of the Empire, but that didn’t give him the right to hit people at random with his damn wooden sword, or constantly interrupt!

“Oh, that would be an…inglorious…union,” Nikephoros said slowly and sighed. “Father would care even less about getting us out…”

“Because your papa is kissing my mama,” Thomas pointed at the embracing couple in the distance and laughed.


So, will Gabriel dally to his doom in Baghdad? And what’s in Nikephoros coming to Konstantinopolis for Albrecht—as we all know, lately the German doesn’t do anything that doesn’t help him stay in power, as well as the empire. More answers to come, when Rome AARisen continues!