Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

crusaderknight - It was my honor to do the tribute! Zeyd was definitely a fun character to write. As for the reading, let me know what you think as you progress!

DarthJF - His schedule permitting, AP has already said he'd like to do a followup to Antemios' 'marooning' in Scotland.

asd21593 - After that kind of disaster, the chance is definitely there...

Hawkeye1489 - I'm kind of patterning Konstantinos' character after his image, the Hospitaller from Kingdom of Heaven - Calm, easy-going, maybe even unusual, but brilliant in his own way and an charismatic smartass. As for Spain, it is definitely worth it... it has a huge population, huge tax base, not to mention valuable mines...

Kirsch27 - You're actually about to hear from the Germans...and its easy to have the political intrigues of the world when the Empire borders nearly every nation of note in the Old World save China! XD

cezar87 - Was Segeo brilliant, or lucky? Was it Phillipos that was brilliant? That all will be revealed in a little more light...

Vesimir - Considering the leading Latin lord in Spain still fights on the side of Konstantinopolis, its unlikely they'd revert under Segeo...

Tommy4ever - Konstantinos' wants are more explored in the next update (right below!)

TC Pilot - Why so violently in favor of Konstantinos? And how are you violently supporting him? Are there protests going on somewhere I haven't been briefed about?

Fulcrumvale - Whoops! Thanks for the catch.

Enewald - It's the story of the Empire... stretches out, cracks, retreats, stretches out again...

FlyingDutchie - It's going to take a great deal of diplomatic acumen and military power to keep things from flying apart...

4th Dimension - I think that qualifies as violently opposing someone, definitely!

RGB - I pulled one on you! Usually I can't do that. I'm very pleased!

Oh yeah, there's an update too!


March 7th, 1261

Anastasia Komnenos, now Dowager Empress Anastasia, had long known this day was coming, but nothing could have prepared her for the emptiness after she’d buried her brother. She didn’t cry—she’d stopped crying over Nikephoros long before. The tears flowed when he was first hurt, and flowed more as the succeeding months wore the once proud man down to a comatose husk of himself. By the time he finally passed and a massive state funeral befitting an Emperor saw him to the afterlife, she had no tears left. Only emptiness and anger—anger at the men who’d done this, anger at the men who’d also robbed her of her dear brother-in-law, robbed her of her first husband…


The Danes.

Her father.

Gabriel.

Brooding and dark in her sea of black robes, she quietly supped her wine at the banquet after the funeral, looking about at the luminaries of the Empire come to honor the fallen man and mourn with her.

“Majestät,” the man sitting next to her bowed his head as he sat down. Berthold von Hipper was something rare in the Roman eyes—a stolid, officious looking German, with an overly large nose and jowls fit to scowl at the greatest of men. Anastasia wondered to herself if part of the reason Emperor Bela had posted von Hipper as his ambassador to Konstantinopolis was simply on account of his severely paternal looks.

“We all mourn,” the ambassador said solemnly. “Your brother was a man of honor, a glory to your family and your realm. My master grieves with you, and prays for his soul in heaven.” Von Hipper shook his head slightly.

“I thank you for your sympathy,” Anastasia said quietly, before letting a slight sigh out. She shouldn’t feel so morose—the Nikephoros she knew, the man who laughed, loved the lute, casually threw his feet on the table during meetings—he would have chided her for wasting tears on him. He would’ve told her to enjoy her life, and remember the fond memories of his existence, not dwell on his loss.

She cleared her throat—she was going to try to do that.

The chamberlain’s staff thundered onto the marble of the Octagon’s floor, and the entire room, filled with the greatest of the Empire and neighboring realms, fell silent. All eyes went to the front, to the dais where long ago the Megas held court. Now, alone, stood the one thing Anastasia had left in this world—her son, Andronikos, resplendent in his black tunic and cloak, clad for mourning and looking imperial all at once, the finely made guitar she’d ordered from the finest lutier in the city in his hands.

“My uncle was like a father to me,” Andronikos began his quiet eulogy to the late emperor, and Anastasia’s eyes immediately flashed down towards her erstwhile husband. Albrecht von Franken’s face remained impassive, blank. She’d secretly hoped he’d be incensed, angry… no such luck.

“…I would like to dedicate this to his loving memory,” Andronikos finished his short remarks, before lifting the guitar in place. His hands fluttered, and haunting melodies immediately filled the air. He called the song The Fallen Lion, and said he’d written it down in the hour after hearing of his uncle’s passing. The lyrics were heartfelt, the music a soaring minor melodic, telling of a great warrior, loved by all, cherished by many, brought down by the cruel hands of fate.

“He is truly gifted in music,” the ambassador smiled as Andronikos’ hands fluttered above the guitar strings, always gracefully moving, never seeming to slow down or tarry on a single note. “What is the name of the instrument he is playing?”

“A guitar, Excellency,” Anastasia said, her own smile huge with pride.


Andronikos had grown from a small, thin lad into a tall, thin young man who still carried himself with a grace far beyond his scant 14 years. In his every courtly bow, polite word, or strumming of the guitar, Anastasia saw her work and couldn’t help but smile out of pride. No matter who else claimed to be an Emperor, Andronikos looked a young paragon of an Emperor.

And looks, while shallow, had a power all their own.

“We do not have this instrument in Germany,” von Hipper sighed as the sad melodies of the dirge went on.

“If it’d please Your Excellency, I can send one with your next courier to Pest, as a gift to your master,” Anastasia said, happy yet another person was showing interest in the music of her homeland. “Of course, I’ll make sure to send one to your home as well.”

“You are even more gracious than what is spoken of you, Majestät,” the ambassador bowed.

“Is my graciousness why you requested to sit next to me at the funeral banquet?” Anastasia asked. She knew what the answer was—her husband had briefed her on that. Better to be direct, and get to the meat of things. She had her own part to play in the scene to come—little did Albrecht know Anastasia had changed her own script…

Von Hipper chuckled. “Directly, Majestät, the answer is yes. My master and your Regent have not always had… good relations…” von Hipper said charitably.

Anastasia resisted the urge to snort at the understatement. Good relations? If one counted no less than Mozes Arpad leveling the accusation that Werner von Franken, Albrecht’s father, had a hand in murdering Heinrich VI Arpad, one could claim they had good relations. The Arpads had viewed Albrecht and his family as direct threats to their restored rule ever since!

“My master is, um, concerned about a recent political development in your realm,” von Hipper said quietly.

Anastasia’s own eyes watched her husband slowly making his rounds around the feast. Yes, he was making his way over towards the black cloaked form of Konstantinos Komnenos. So the rumors were true—the Italian was up to something.

Time for the performance to begin. She started by putting on a pleasant smile.

“I assume Your Excellency is referring to the recent posting of one Gottfried von Franken as Lord of Istria?” Anastasia’s smile remained fixed as her husband glanced up at her. Albrecht nodded that grey crown of his, and she nodded in reply. Yes, she knew the lines she was supposed to deliver, and she knew why. “Mine husband is also aware of the… difficulties… that having Lord Von Franken the Younger,” she used her step-son’s new, more distant name since his exile, “on your border might cause. He wishes me to tell you to tell your master, my lord, to not fret or worry over the posting of Gottfried von Franken to this border province. He has fallen out of favor—his posting is an exile,” she said, calmly finishing what she was supposed to say, “not a promotion or a motion towards the crown that sits securely on your master’s brow.”

“Ah,” von Hipper smiled thinly, politely, “but nonetheless, my master is still concerned. There are many relatives, distant cousins, of your husband and his…son… that could use his very presence to stir more dissention amongst the nobility…”

“My husband is aware of that,” Anastasia kept her smile.

“He is?” the ambassador raised his eyebrow. “Is he also aware that my master cannot idly sit by while a rival claimant sets up court just across the border in Tergeste?”

“He is,” Anastasia turned to the ambassador, her voice dropping to the barest whisper that could be heard above the noise of the diners, “and he expects your master will do all within his power to end the threat to his crown. In fact,” Anastasia’s smile genuinely grew larger, “he will not raise a finger to support the Prince of Istria should you respect Romanion’s territory while you remove said threat.”

“He…” the ambassador’s jaw dropped. “But the Prince of Istria is his own firstborn!”

“The Prince of Istria betrayed his father, and the Empire,” Anastasia said coolly, calmly. “He sold his soul, and he shall now reap what he has sown. I am not as tactful as my husband,” she said grimly, “I hope the idiot gets a German blade between his eyes.”

“So, if something should befall Herzog Gottfried, there would be no response from Konstantinopolis?” von Hipper asked warily.

“None,” Anastasia confirmed, taking another sip from her goblet. “In fact, ‘an accident’ would receive unofficial approval from our court,” she added, a slight grin coming to her lips for the ambassador’s benefit.

“My Emperor will be most pleased to hear this news,” Von Hipper nodded.

“Then he will be more pleased to hear the rest of what I had to say,” Anastasia added. “What I have said to you has been what I have been told to tell you, Excellency,” she said. At the slightly confused look on his face, she added with a hiss, “Keep smiling!”

The ambassador jumped, then promptly followed her command.

“But I wish to tell you the following. There are many in The City who are not friends of Lord von Franken, nor his policies. Myself being chief among them.”

“Majestät?” von Hipper asked cautiously, his smile faltering. She could tell by his eyes he wasn’t sure how, or even if, he should proceed. What was coming? A bitter young wife eager to be rid of an ancient husband? A plotted coup?

“Keep smiling!” she hissed. “Albrecht von Franken does not desire your crown, for he has more wealth and control being the power that is behind our throne,” she said, smile fixed. “I have no doubt you have heard of the disaster that is Spain?”

Von Hipper nodded solemnly. Who hadn’t?

“Spain is lost,” Anastasia muttered bitterly, images of her childhood home being despoiled running through her mind. “Mauretania remains loyal as does Asturias. But that self-declared Sergios I thumbs his nose at Konstantinopolis, as does the heir of his childless loins, Phillipos Thrakesios!”


“A sad state of affairs, Majestät,” the ambassador agreed, voice solemn but eyes alive with interest. Anastasia’s lips twitched upwards slightly—the ambassador was well aware a proposal of some kind was coming.

“But all hope is not lost, for Batholomaios and Guillaume de Normandie still fight on for their Emperor. But they are cut off, alone, and the Exarchos of Africa, the one man who could open the sea lanes and give us access to them, is demanding he become King of Africa as his price!” Anastasia shook her head. “Albrecht is negotiating with him!” she added with a hiss.

“I imagine there are quite a few in The City who are not pleased with the way Lord von Franken has handled the affair,” von Hipper said, face calm but his eyes alive with a smile.

“Indeed,” Anastasia said before supping on some more wine. “But there is more. The Empire faces two campaigns, at the least, as Your Excellency no doubt knows—one against the Danes in the north, as they have invaded Azov theme and lay siege to the port capital, and to regain Spain. Mine husband has decided to raise the scutage owed by the great lords to the crown. This has caused a great many nobles distress, as you can imagine.”


Von Hipper chuckled. “Indeed I can, Majestät. My master has often been forced to forego campaigning because of lack of money, and how often the German nobility scream if he threatens to raise the pittance they already give the crown!”

“So I have heard,” Anastasia smiled demurely, not pressing the issue any more. All of Europe knew when Emperor Bela III had summarily insulted at a great tourney in Aachen by the King of Burgundy, and how Bela’s threats of war fell flat with his lack of coin.

“But those are affairs of state, madam,” von Hipper said, smile larger, “and they do not do justice to your, um, vehemence earlier. I trust there is another reason, a more personal one, that moves the hand of Majestät against her husband?”

“My son,” Anastasia nodded towards the front, as Andronikos finished the solemn dirge with a flourish. Applause momentarily filled the hall, as all eyes looked at the 14 year old sole Megas Komnenos, who regally bowed his head as the noise of the audience thundered from the rafters. With all the grace and elegance of a true noble, he handed his guitar to a waiting servant, and rejoined the feast at his proper place—the raised dais, two seats to his mother’s left.

“Wonderful performance, Majestät!” the ambassador suitably crooned as Andronikos walked by. The boy strictly followed protocol—he did not stop to accept the ambassador’s thanks, merely gave a stolid, firm nod of recognition, but even Anastasia could see the grin breaking through his face. Part of her wanted to admonish him for breaking the rules of conduct in public, part of her knew Andronikos had earned that slight smile with the haunting notes that were now the talk of the banquet.

“He is truly gifted,” von Hipper said a moment later.

“A fine young man, who will soon be in need of a fine wife,” Anastasia said her smile of pride starting to fade as soon as the subject of his marriage arose.

“I am sure, Majestät, that there will be no shortage of fine young ladies of noble birth seeking his hand. My master, in fact, has a daughter, Doroyotta, who…”

“Unfortunately, that is the problem,” Anastasia’s smile finally went to its grave. “My husband has a bride picked out for him.” She looked down for a moment, before asking, “Have you heard of Safiya Komnenos?”


“Safiya?” the ambassador blinked in disbelief. Anastasia nodded. “But...” the ambassador stumbled, “but she is a bastard, an illegitimate scion of an unholy union! For your son to marry her… it’d…it’d…” he stumbled, before finally one word cartwheeled out of the vocal wreckage.

“Why?”

“Because, my dear husband claims,” Anastasia hissed through her teeth, “that it would unite the strongest Komnenid bloodlines, the child of Andronikos and that… thing… would be the undisputed head of all Komnenid realms! And,” she added as an aside, “he says it would buy peace in the East while we fight for Spain.”

“If I may be frank, Majestät,” von Hipper set his spoon down, face still dark and grave, “that would come at the price of sullying your son’s office! The whole world would laugh, and say that Andronikos Komnenos is ruled by his step-father, a cast out German!”

“You are forgetting another reason I would hate such a match,” Anastasia added, voice colder than an icy fog, ‘That girl is the daughter of the man who killed my Alexios!” She trembled slightly, as angry, quiet words came to her tongue. “And by holy God I will not marry the last of my lost husband to something that came from the loins of his murderer!” The Dowager Empress took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm. She stopped trembling, but nothing could be done about the icicles that clung to her words. “Believe me, Excellency,” Anastasia said with all the warmth of an arctic blast, “once my son reaches his majority, we shall have no more need of my ‘husband.’” The smile that came onto her lips was darker than a midwinter’s night. “You can tell your master this secret: when my son turns 16, I shall make him a present of Albrecht von Franken, wrapped in a bow, and laid on your master’s doorstep to do how he pleases.”

There was a brief moment of silence, as von Hipper echoed Anastasia’s smile.

“In return for?” the ambassador prompted.

“Nothing much,” Anastasia shrugged her shoulders. “I hear Hugh Capet is having trouble keeping his vast realm in order, and the southern princes of Provence and Languedoc, I believe it is called?” Her smile grew, “They are both wish to secede. I have sent some private representatives to make them offers. If I give your master von Franken, I want you to make Hugh Capet an offer—let Provence and the Mediterranean coast go, or else…” she let the words drift off.

The rest did not need to be said. Von Hipper nodded politely to the Dowager Empress, hand over his heart.

“Your wish would be my command,” the German said with a polite, predatory grin.



Albrecht von Franken looked up and saw the German ambassador give his wife a positively wolfish grin. For a moment, he wondered what had actually been said between the two—he didn’t expect his erstwhile wife to hold completely to the script, but she was merely supposed to prepare the ground. Albrecht already planned to meet the German ambassador in three days to talk about Gottfried and the Germans placing pressure on the Poles and Mazovia to ‘jab’ some of Sortmark’s Rus allies.

Some distraction, any distraction, would be useful in keeping the Danes off balance.

Distraction, however, wasn’t what Albrecht wanted for himself. As the Megoskyriomachos’ eyes went back to the slightly smirking form of Konstantinos Komnenos, he could only curse.

A distraction was what he’d received.

“And you’re sure the man was an agent of Sortmark?” Albrecht asked warily.

Konstantinos Komnenos always unnerved von Franken. The man was as pious as St. Paul, but he was shrewd, some plan or idea always hiding behind his damnably genial grin. That smirk was like a wall that kept everyone out of the Prince’s mind. So when the Prince of Toscana had approached an already harried von Franken, saying he had important business to discuss, Albrecht knew little of what to expect. The last thing he expected was for Konstantinos to openly start the conversation by claiming an agent of Sortmark had openly recruited him to make a play on the Roman throne.

“He said so himself,” the Prince gave one of his quiet smiles as he sipped on his spiced wine. Albrechr gritted his teeth.

“Well? What was his name? Did you take him?” the Megoskyriomachos growled.

“Names have a price,” Konstantinos laughed, swirling his wine around, “as does my ear.”

“Your ear?” Albrecht asked darkly. Was he implying…

“Yes, my ear,” Konstantinos nodded, his swirling coming to a jerking halt. Wine sloshed onto the floor as the Prince’s smile went from pleasant to deadly.

“What…um…” the Megoskyriomachos caught himself before he stammered, “what would be the price of Your Highness’ ear?”

Konstantinos?

They’d recruited Konstantinos?

Albrecht’s plans on holding the enemies of Romanion at bay had counted on Konstantinos doing as he’d done for the past decade—stayed content to rule his Despotate as ‘Konstantinos the Good,’ and ‘Konstantinos the Builder.’ Everything was in place to hold the line—Bataczes and an army would head across the Black Sea, negotiations were well underway with the Exarchos of Africa to land a Roman army in Spain, a controversial marriage alliance had been proposed to keep the East quiet.

But Italy?

If Konstantinos moved…

…Albrecht shuddered. Konstantinos was popular amongst his people, and as commander of the Italikon Stratos he was commander of the second largest Roman field army after the now battered Hispanikon Stratos. If he moved outright for the throne, the remaining armies were strong enough to resist him, but that would mean the definite loss of Spain, and the probable loss of Italy and the lands across the Black Sea—prices Albrecht was not willing to pay…

The Prince of Toscana’s icy smile turned into a dark chuckle. “I know what you think I’m about to say, and you couldn’t be further from the truth. I am not a fool, Lord von Franken,” the Prince of Toscana smiled even as his voice dripped daggers, “I know what a civil war would cost. No,” he shook his head, “I don’t want the diadem, and I don’t want part of a shared diadem. My price,” he resumed swirling what was left of his wine, “is something else.”

Albrecht growled. So he wasn’t going to simply tell him what it was. No, Konstantinos was reveling in catching the redoubtable Albrecht von Franken off-guard. He was going to make the old man guess!

“Name it,” Albrecht grumbled. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“Apulia,” Konstantinos said over the rim of his cup.

“Apulia? That is all?”

“Despotes authority over all of Italy,” Konstantinos went on, his voice suddenly deadly serious. “All the tax revenues therein save the lawful scutage I owe my emperor. I want the position of Despotes of Italy to be hereditary to only me and my family. In fact,” Konstantinos paused for a moment, looking skyward, “I want a title change to. Perhaps Rigas ton Italikon?” Konstantinos’ smile grew at Albrecht’s blatant stare. “I would truly like Basilieus but I expected you would be.. upset… if I pushed my family luck that far!”


Albrecht blanched—he knew he blanched. Rigas? King? ‘King’ would mean autonomy! And if one Despotes successfully pushed Konstantinopolis for autonomy, it’d be only a matter of time before another would try their luck for the same, and then another… the train would be endless, and the Despotates would go from lords kept under the thumb of Konstantinopolis to independent kingdoms who would refuse to bow and scrape before anyone!

“Surely my lord,” Albrecht smiled thinly, “you can appreciate the predicament granting your request would place on His Majesty’s government.”

“And surely,” Konstantinos smirked, chewing on a fig, “you can appreciate you not granting my request would have on me in my capacity as lord of the whole peninsula. A new title, and new lands, or my men will not lift a finger in the upcoming war.” The smirk grew dangerous. “Or perhaps they could…”

Albrecht bit the curse that was about to leave his tongue. Konstantinos was clearly angling. So von Franken reached deep into his bag of tricks and titles, and threw one out he knew the Prince would not expect.

“Sebastokrator?”

“Sebastokrator?” Konstantinos raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t the last holder of that title Nikolaios, son of the Megas?”


Albrecht grimaced—the Italian Komnenid was stonewalling. “Yes,” von Franken admitted, “the title fell out of use once Nikolaios Komnenos became co-Emperor with his father. But, my lord, it is above the title of a mere Despotes, and it would signify your… august position.” Von Franken was amazed he didn’t spit on the man who held him by the hip, and by Konstantinos’ slight laugh, he knew the Prince was reveling in his discomfort.

“Very well. I also ask, on the behalf of my people who follow the Latin rites,” the Prince said quickly, as if an afterthought, “that you begin a dialogue with Hamburg to heal the rift originally caused by Emperor Thomas I. Burning Rome? Murdering a Pope?” Konstantinos shook his head and tsked. “Quite a dark spot on the reputation of our Empire. And, need I add,” the Prince said, “it would do much to win the loyalty of the Latins in Spain to His Majesty’s cause, instead of falling into the arms of the Segeos of the world…”

Albrecht nodded easily. Promising to begin negotiations wasn’t the same as making them fruitful.

“Oh! There is one more thing, my lord,” Konstantinos added with a sly smile. “I understand the German Emperor has a fetching young daughter. My son, Nikephoros, will soon be coming of age, and…”

Albrecht’s smile faded rapidly.

“..,if his hand should meet hers in matrimony, and I and my heirs are Sebastokratoroi ton Italikon with practical control over the peninsula, and Your Excelleny makes a genuine effort to repair the rift with Rome,” Konstantinos said, before pausing to deliver one, final smirk of triumph, “you shall have my ear.”

“And the man’s name?” Albrecht said as he grimly nodded.

“Better,” the Prince popped a grape into his mouth. “You’ll have my armies.”

Albrecht bit his lower lip. Giving the Italian Prince what he wanted would secure support Albrecht had hoped for—nay, support he required to regain Spain and hold the Azov line. But to raise Konstantinos so far… it risked setting up a second imperial family, powerful enough to challenge the unchallengeable dynasty Albrecht’s schemes and plots had worked so long to create!

To agree, or not to agree…


So Konstantinos’ game is to gain another Despotate. Is this the start of a much grander bid? Did Albrecht even give in to Konstantinos’ demands? Meanwhile, Anastasia has started talking with the Germans on her son’s behalf… will it lead to another way to retake Spain than the path Albrecht has chosen? Will Albrecht discover her duplicity? Will Andronikos be forced to marry Safiya? Oh, things are getting interesting…