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Of course he can... try :D :D :D MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I foresee the end of the Roman dominance. Gabriel the Lion of Persia will roar, and his cubs will reach for the Imperial throne... but Byzantium is a gigantic snake pit, where venomous beasts and man eating pythons lurk in the dark. Now that the light has been snuffed out, the snakes are going to slither out of their snake pit and they will find the lions mighty tasty. The Komnenos line will bleed...

That's messed up man :p
Oh, BT stability isn't very entertaining is it? Only chaos may rule, with order always fighting a loosing battle...

Seeing how I started at the reign of Thomas II, might I ask where some of these foreshadowings may be (just a rough post number)

Ironic that I wanted chaos, but at the cost of a very cool character... such are the sacrifices... :rolleyes:
 
phargle - It's been a long time since I've seen you post here... and I'm glad to see you haven't forgotten about Solomon of Itil either! Once again, some good thoughts as always. That feeling of "is it going to happen, is it not?" was what I was trying to go for. As for Albrecht, he's been around a LONG time, Mr. Jacobi is just the older, grumpier incarnation I suppose (the guy who plays Thomas Cromwell in The Tudors was the younger Albrecht)...

Kirsch27 - You should be amused by Thomas' son, if you find Thomas III funny...

armoristan - Off the top of my head, I can't think of any exact post numbers... they're scattered about. I know the first big one that dropped the names of later emperors was just after Basil died--it was a historian's rather critical assessment of Basil's reign, and where it'd been the root of the disorder of later years.

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“As the spider weaves its snare,
The gnat flies on without care…”

- Roman children’s rhyme, 13th century.

October 17th, 1258

A cold, hard rain fell from the gray skies above Konstantinopolis, blown by the winds of autumn as they raced through the Queen of Cities. Men and women alike huddled in doorways and under alcoves, waiting for the downpour to pass.

Vishly ud Preussen glanced over at several women hidden in a doorway and sighed. Unlike them, he couldn’t hide from the rain—instead, like the tens of merchants with him, he was compelled to wait in line, downpour or not.

Tomorrow was the opening of the Great Market in the Queen of Cities, and hundreds of merchants were scrambling to get their wares through the official paperwork required to be allowed to set up a stall in one of the market squares throughout the city. While Vishly would have preferred to take shelter from the rain, Arvydas Sabonis, the man his papers claimed he was, would have stubbornly kept his place in line, rain or no, slow clerk or not.

So Vishly the Prussian maintained his place, the wide brim of his fur-topped hat at least keeping the water from his eyes. As other merchants around him scowled and complained of the cold and wet, Vishly instead took mute note of the sea walls of Konstantinopolis—formidable, yes, but not as high nor insurmountable as their legend in Havigraes said they were. They were only as high as the man who led the forces that would defend them, and he had been laid low.

Yet Emperor Nikephoros IV still lived.

Vishly smiled sourly to himself. He’d told Lord Asbjorn the plan to assassinate Emperor Nikephoros with a horse was bound to fail—“training” the horse was easy, but things would have to come together absolutely perfectly for a rider even halfway skilled to get killed outright. And Vishly should know—he’d been the dark blade of House Knytling in exile since he’d arrived as a penniless sword-for-hire at the gates of Havigraes some twenty years before. He’d slain several knyazii of the Rus, a Mongol bagatur, and a Polish prince, all in the name of the Shield and Castle.

If killing Nikephoros wasn’t hard enough, it was obvious that the von Franken bastard had made plans to secure the throne for his step-son Andronikos should something happen to Nikephoros. Vishly was no fool, and he could see that the upper reaches of the Roman aristocracy were filled with people tied to the Roman Great Lord von Franken—the senior commander in the West was uncle to the boy that would soon be emperor, the senior commander in the East was father of his playmate, another eastern commander was his grandfather. All personally tied to the boy that would be Megas Komnenos, all in position to profit by the boy staying on the throne.

But Asbjorn had insisted, for reasons Vishly hadn’t realized at the time. Lord Asbjorn was well acquainted with Roman politics, and was keen to hone in on the concept that an Emperor’s body was a reflection of the health of the Empire as a whole. An Emperor who was not of sound body could not rule alone. Yes, von Franken had taken steps to make sure his step-son got first consideration, and their damnable Patriarch had even called for such, but as Lord Asbjorn had keenly reminded Vishly then, there were other candidates, and not everyone was going to meekly sit by while a mere boy dangled his feet off the Throne of Caesars. Not matter von Franken’s plan, or even how smoothly things went before the coronation, the Komnenids were a rowdy brood and someone was bound to try their hand at snatching the throne from the child, or snatching the position of power behind the throne from von Franken.

Komnenidbranchescopy.jpg

Thus Nikephoros was reduced, if not neutralized. As he shuffled towards the imposing walls that lined the Golden Horn, Vishly’s ears listened even as he pretended to mutter to himself. He picked up snippets of conversations, passing information, his mind quickly sifting out the news he needed to know away from the gripes and complaints and bedraggled merchants. Yes, Nikephoros not only lived, but was awake. But, the plurality of his sources agreed the Emperor was bedridden, and likely would never walk again on his shattered leg.

The Prussian resisted the urge to smile—if the public knew that much information, the truth was likely far more grievous.

Suddenly, he couldn’t feel the incessant patter of raindrops on his hat. He looked up, and realized he was now just inside the great archway that held the main gate into the market quarters of the city. Four more people stood in front of him—one of them a loud Alan who was bitterly complaining about officious bastards making him late for a meeting.

No, striking down Nikephoros was the first part, Vishly now realized. Segeo Komnenos, dutiful dog that he was, had panicked when traders brought word the horse he’d sent had attempted to kill the Emperor, not his intended target. There was no way for him to confess what’d happened, or plead innocence to trying to kill the Emperor. So he’d declared himself free from Konstantinopolis, and if rumors were correct, was already in the field. Word here in the harbor even said that the Emperor’s brother was already on his way West, and the more wild tales said Segeo had found common cause with Phillipos Thrakesios, the Exarchos of Baetica, as well as Eudoxios de Toulouse, Exarchos of Africa.

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Vishly wasn’t familiar with either man, and he could only speculate why they’d possibly throw their lot with the likes of Segeo, if they had actually thrown their lot at all. Maybe it was jealousy of Konstantinopolis? A sense that with a child in charge, the central state was weak? Ambition? Simply spreading the rumor of revolt to gain concessions? Wild tales of traders? As rivulets of rainwater rushed by underfoot, Vishly shuffled forward and shrugged to himself.

Whatever the cause of the rumors, it was causing more chaos—Lord Asbjorn’s goal. The Western armies of the Empire would be held down by Segeo for a while at least, and it’d keep Nikephoros’ brother out of Konstantinopolis. Albrecht von Franken would be left as Regent, and neither Vishly nor Asbjorn assumed the Roman aristocracy would take to a German—even an elderly and well-respected German, being de facto Emperor. There was bound to be rifts, rumblings… especially if Lord Asbjorn’s connection to the high halls of the bureaucracy continued to stir the pot.

Three more to go.

The rumors from the East were not as promising. Despite Lord Asbjorn going to Baghdad in person, the Persian Komnenids had only argued about rising to threaten Konstantinopolis—they had not moved a finger. Meanwhile, the son of Thomas III had apparently ridden to Mosul, marched into the city’s central square shirtless, climbed onto a fountain and declared himself Thomas IV, by the Grace of God, Emperor of All the Romans. The young man then announced to the stunned crowd that he was raising an army, and needed volunteers to restore his rightful claim to the throne. Unfortunately at that moment, he also slipped on the wet stones and fell into the water, much to the crowd’s amusement.

The reaction so the young man’s brash move was so far tepid—the Persian Komnenids, kittens themselves, did not overtly stop him, but they kept their own tagmata from backing his cause. His rather comical announcement in the square of Mosul meant most did not take him seriously. Thus, the so called Thomas IV would not be moving on Konstantinopolis soon, and when he did move, it would be with a mismatched force of mercenaries—likely fodder for anyone in the way with a half disciplined army or an opponent with a few more coin than he. Lord Asbjorn had been forced to send extra coin to Mesopotamia, much to King Olaf’s discomfiture—Vishly had been present when the King had tongue-lashed the servant that brought the news to Havigraes.

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Two more to go.

Vishly looked up as the Alan grumbled again—the Turk in front of the clerk was fishing through his pouch for some “fee” of one sort or another. Other merchants behind Vishly grumbled. Vishly ud Preussen would have smiled at his plan for getting into the city clandestinely succeeding. Arvyadas Sabonis joined in the grumbling as the noise of the downpour reached a crescendo.

Vishly’s orders were simple—to establish a network in Konstantinopolis and cause as much chaos and confusion as possible. Lord Asbjorn left the Prussian’s orders as vague as possible—Albrecht von Franken had shown himself amazingly adept at sniffing out communications between spies in The City and their masters, so Lord Asbjorn would cut Vishly free—he was given starting coin, and free reign to conduct himself as he saw fit in order to reach the objectives. If it meant assassination, he was to do it. If it meant bribery, hw was to do it. If it meant laying low, he was to do it. No communication, no trail of coin gave the Sortmarkers deniability—and almost as importantly, it made Vishly much harder to track.

The only timetable Lord Asbjorn had given him was that the King planned on move on Azov and the Roman Black Sea provinces by 1260—if all went according to plan, the Romans would be ruled by a Regent, with a rebellion in Spain and some force from Thomas IV in the East causing trouble as well. If Vishly could stir one more major ingredient into the pot—regardless of what the ingredient was—Lord Asbjorn was sure it would tip the scales to Konstantinopolis willingly surrendering Azove, perhaps even Cherson, to the Danes in return for at least one peaceful frontier.

As the clerk calmly spoke to the Turk, and the latter exploded that his “fee” wasn’t enough, the Prussian was already planning his itinerary once he got into the city. Chief on his to do list—after washing, and shaving—was finding the villa of Lord Konstantinos Komnenos, Prince of Toscana, reportedly already in the city despite the coronation of Andronikos still being two months away.

Prince Konstantinos was the son of Nikolaios Komnenos, brother to Emperor Thomas II and third son of Emperor Thomas I. As the children of Gabriel were stained by their father’s excommunication, outside the teenage Thomas IV, Konstantinos had the strongest direct claim to the Imperial throne. Like his father, he seemed to be uninterested in imperial politics, and more focused on forming his ‘monastic societies’ and building churches across the devastated parts of northern Italy. However, he had won the hearts of his subjects, arguably the first Komnenid to actually win the loyalty of the notoriously troublesome city-states and Italian common-folk alike. He was also commander of the Roman Italian Army, which outside of their Spanish Army was the most powerful force in the Empire. In short, he was a popular and powerful man.

konstantinoskomnenos2copy.jpg

And the popular, powerful ‘Konstantinos the Good’ as he was being called, wasn’t as quiet as he seemed.

Vishly looked up, as the gruff Alan ahead of him finally walked up to the clerk and promptly harangued him for taking his sweet time while honest merchants were left to stand in the rain. One more to go.

Konstantinos’ piety was famous, but Lord Asbjorn had information on good account it went nigh unto rebelliousness—lost in the chorus of complaints that Nikephoros wasn’t ‘Roman enough,’ slang challenging his Christianity, were a few quiet statements from the Despotes of Italy, questioning the dire choice proposed by the Patriarch when the Spaniard had ascended the Konstantinopolis throne. It was a reminder there were other options than the Spaniard or Gabriel… was it a sign that Konstantinos wanted to move himself?

Even more ominous, Lord Asbjorn’s friends in the Papal Curia in Hamburg had it on good account that Konstantinos had sent a Christmas present to His Holiness each and every year since his ascension to the position of Despotes. These items weren’t mere trinkets—for Christmastide the year before Konstantinos sent the Pope a candelabra made of solid gold, as well as a gold and silver inlayed statue of Christ Pantokrator, nearly six inches tall. While the Prince of Toscana explained it was diplomacy—there were many in Northern Italy who followed the Latin rites, and Konstantinos’ gifts and respect for the Latin priests helped keep him popular—Vishly, as well as Lord Asbjorn himself, wondered if Konstantinos had not perhaps converted himself. If so, that was another, truly explosive wedge that could be used…

So Vishly thought this would be the first route he would explore to fulfill his shadowy orders. If Konstantinos had a price, Lord Asbjorn and his cousin the King would bend over backwards to pay it. Rich, powerful, well-liked by his people, the man could be a kingmaker amongst the Romans if he chose to do so—or his eyes were opened so it became apparent to him that he could do so. The time for such a move couldn’t have been better—Albrecht von Franken was a brilliant statesman, a first class spymaster, but every network had its limits. And with the famous von Franken distracted by a mad Thomas III, a child emperor, a dying Nikephoros, the Persians, Thomas IV, and Segeo at the least in Spain…

The Alan muttered some choice words about “stupid Romans,” and “arrogant pissheads,” in his own tongue as he stomped away, papers in hand. Vishly resisted the urge to smirk—the man clearly thought no one nearby could understand his own tongue as he cursed about the city, bureaucrats, and the rain falling from the sky. Instead, the Prussia took his cap off his head, and shambled forward, eyes looking about in mock confusion at the sights and sounds of the Queen of Cities. The weary clerk looked him up and down, and visibly sighed.

“Name?” the man asked with the vigor and interest of a dead fish.

“Lá,” Vishly murmured. “My name Arvydas Sabonis, I come from Próshje…”

vishlycopy.jpg

“Pr…what?” the clerk’s brow furrowed. He glanced up at his guards. Both of the soldiers shrugged their own shoulders. Stymied, the clerk frowned, then looked back at Vishly. “Where the bloody hell is that?”

“Good God, another idiot foreigner!” Vishly heard the perfumed Roman directly behind him hiss. He glanced at the clerk—by the look on his face, he’d heard the man’s curse as well.

“Pró…” Vishly started, before echoing the clerk in an apt expression of confusion. “Próshje! You know, yes?”

“No…” the clerk set his quill on the table and rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know. Who is your liege lord? Let’s start there. You have a lord, yes?” the man said, slowing his voice as if he was talking to a slow child. “A lord?

“I…um…” Vishly scratched his head. Clerks and secretaries were the easiest. “My lord is Bishop Mazovia, yes?” It wasn’t a lie—Vishly’s place of birth did lay within the boundaries of the ecclesiastical lands of Mazovia. Often a simple truth thrust into someone’s face could hide all manner of lies further away…

“So you’re from Mazovia then?” the clerk growled. Vishly made a noise of protest, but the clerk was already scribbling the incorrect location just as the spy hoped. “There, that wasn’t so hard. So, then, Arvydas, what is your profession?”

“Profess…” Vishly frowned, then leaned in closer. “I… word know not,” he purposefully butchered his Greek. By the officious scowl on the clerk’s face, his mangling of the language was sufficiently repugnant. “Oh!” the spy added a second later, as if recognition had hit him like a thunderbolt. “I is…” Vishly snapped his fingers, then grunted. “Um… I sells…” he paused again for effect, before pointing at his fur cap. “This!”

“My cloak is getting ruined! Hurry your ass up!”

“A fur trader?” the clerk sighed, glancing at the angry Armenian just outside the protective archway of the gate.

“Yes, fur trader!” Vishly pointed, laughing entirely too loudly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw many of the other well dressed Romans staring. He was close!

“How many wares are you planning on selling at…” the clerk started to ask, before glancing out across the docks. The rain was falling in sheets, and a distant roll of thunder rumbled through the air. “…the market,” the clerk finished in a deadpan.

“Hurry the hell up!” someone from further back complained loudly.

“Oh!” Vishly burbled, fishing in his pockets for the fake and now drenched papers detailing a shipment of furs that never existed. “Was on here! But… it…” he pointed upwards in gesture. The clerk sighed, and pushed the papers away.

“And what…” the clerk started fort he next question on the list, before growling. “Listen, Aryadas…”

“Arvydas!”

“Ayakas, whatever,” the clerk waved his hand dismissively, “I’m going to write down that you’re a fur merchant, here to sell your wares,a nd say that you have five chests worth for the markets.” Vishly leaned close, as if concentrating on his every word. The Greek’s delicate nose wrinkled in disgust yet again. “And I’m going to put you travelled by foot, okay?”

“Yes, yes, okays!” Vishly nodded enthusiastically as yet more falsehood filtered in due to the clerk’s carelessness.

“Here,” the clerk finished scrawling the rest of the document, before thrusting it out at Vishly. “Papers for safe conduct through the city. Now get out of here!”

With an eager bow, Vishly took the parchment proffered to him by the overworked and underpaid clerk, allowing him access to all the merchant quarters of the city of Konstantinopolis. Shoving the papers into his breast pocket before wrapping his damp cloak tightly around, Vishly walked through the gates and into the city.

It was the last the world was to hear of Arvydas Sabonis. Instead, after an inn and a shave, a new man, Danislav Monomakh, would come calling at the Hebdomon as a clerk skilled in the languages of the Rus, Varangians and Poles, offering his services to join the staff of Prince Konstantinos Komnenos…

==========*=========​

So Asbjorn’s sent more people to Konstantinopolis, and their target is Konstantinos Komnenos, the Tuscan Komnenid who has, potentially, a greater claim to the throne than 11-year old Andronikos. Vishly is my long overdue tribute to Mr. Capiatlist’s Homelands: Tales of the Anglo-Prussians. If you haven’t seen this magnum opus, I’d suggest heading over there. Your mind will be blown. :)
 
Treacherous Danes!! Break them. Burn their cities, and water them with their blood!
 
Silly clerk. Doesn't he know that to get people who don't understand your language you must TALK MUCH LOUDER.

This is going to be interesting. I reckon that the Danes will themselves get beaten, failing to get Azov. However the Civil War that shall erupt in the Roman Empire will bring it tumbling down.
 
Homelands. <3 :cool:

It is a shame so few read it.

Btw, what would be the biological change of Andronikos being inbred?
How much Komnenids and through which Komnenid lines?

And is there any other family, aside von Frankens, that could have enough influence to make an attempt for the throne?
 
Oy... I like this spy! :D

What would Rome AARisen be without a good spy somewhere in the story?? :)

Now that von Franken's son and potential successor is an imbecile, maybe the next generation of spies will operate in the pay of Rome's enemies...
 
Monomakh? I'm sure they'd actually check that one. It's a noble name. A GREEK noble name.

The market scene was comical, and rang very true. Sometimes you just have to wave them through, because there will otherwise be a riot, although I'm surprised they even knew of Mazovia. :p

What is Algiers sans the corsairs? No fun, that's what.

Konstantinos. Just the name itself gives him a few points in the diadem elegibility rankings. Whereas Thomas is just the opposite.
 
So now Romaion has to face three Exarchos in the West, the Danes and possibly Italy and Persia too? Well, makes for a nice change of pace :D. It has been a while since the heartlands of the Empire where threatened.

Also, since writing a Barcelonese AAR I can't help but root for Aragon/Tarraconensis, even if Segeo isn't the sharpest tool in the box.Hope Romaion can forgive me ;).
 
Oh shit, Vishly the tooth fairy has entered the Queen of Cities, and is ready to stir up chaos!

Thomas IV has managed to fail spectacularly with his antics - you think perhaps if he hadn't fallen down, he might've had better luck?
 
All we know is that Segeo has split. We have second-hand rumors from a prussian spy in a marketplace, across the continent, that others have "thrown their lot in" with him, though obviously nothing has happened yet, as far as actual mobilization, or these wouldn't just be rumors. The Danes are counting on an AWFUL LOT of details to fall in place, and there isn't much to indicate that Segeo will even give the Romans pause, and "Thomas IV" is about as nuts as his dad, I can already envision him in his own priestly garments, preaching atop fountains to the masses. Speaking of prophets, where's Aionos gone? But, anyways, the Danes aren't going to be able to succeed, if Gabriel doesn't move, and that Italian guy doesn't seem like he wants the crown, and he has a decent reason to leave the throne the way it is. He's got a cushy job, probably the richest despot of all. And he's family too, and if he didn't act when Thomas II died, why would he now, years later, and with less of a claim. Segeo's a punk, and will get put down pretty fast. Nikephoros not walking again does sound pretty bad though. An emperor who can't walk... not sure I remember one like that. The Emperor really was an indicator of the health of the Empire, in the people's eyes, hence why blinding was so damning for a deposed emperor.
 
I echo Enewald. Homelands <3

But he's not killing enough nobles and drinking enough blood, that Vishly. And Mazovia brings me to... What the hell is happening in Poland btw? This is the first time it's mentioned in the entire AAR I think.

And you know not putting Gabriel on the claimants list doesn't make you a lot of friends? :p
 
I echo Enewald. Homelands <3

But he's not killing enough nobles and drinking enough blood, that Vishly. And Mazovia brings me to... What the hell is happening in Poland btw? This is the first time it's mentioned in the entire AAR I think.

And you know not putting Gabriel on the claimants list doesn't make you a lot of friends? :p

I remember he mentioned Poland back when originally attacking Spain under Basil.

They had a big council 'thing' and the Kings of Denmark and Poland were squabbling. Then they had the King of Sweden who kept telling them about his 100 longships or whatever and kept getting ignored until he took Mallorca (or was it Menorca).