“Youth bows to wisdom, as a tree bows before the wind.” – Roman proverb
Baghdad
April 1st, 1263
Gabriel Komnenos awoke with a start.
The 48 year old former emperor stretched ad grumbled as he blinked at the blinding light. Part of his tired mind wanted to simply pull the covers even higher, but the rest of his brain was already at work.
The sun was out.
Why had no one awoken him?
“Koutsos?” he called for his
majordomo, rubbing his eyes the whole time. He grumbled choice words about the man and laziness—he liked to be woke just before dawn, not when the sun was clearly flooding his bedroom hours after clearing the horizon!
Silence.
Gabriel blinked, then sat bolt upright. His plate of food half-eaten grapes and bread from the night before sat on a table next to his bed. His door was ajar—beyond, he caught a glimpse of sheets on the floor, as if thrown down in the midst of folding. He cursed—there’d been no blade kept near him in 15 years.
Slowly, Gabriel rose to his feet, graying hair falling to his shoulders as he walked forward. He pulled the door open—still silence. No voices, no servant’s chatter, no guards muttering to themselves.
No one.
“Hello?” he called, nervously, steeling himself. Was he meant to die? Had something gone wrong? He walked to the next room—tablescraps laid across the floor of the small barracks for his closest guards. No weapons were in sight, yet things were in a state of disarray.
It was that way each room his bare feet ran into—no one present, all the signs of a hasty evacuation present. Finally, his aging form peeked around a corner into the entry hall of his gilded prison, and for the first time since he’d closed his eyes the night before, he saw someone.
His own son Nikephoros, standing in front of the doorway in finely burnished steel armor.
“What is the meaning of this?” Gabriel said, his thoughts leaking into half-spoken word. He leaned forward, looking behind the nearest set of columns—no soldiers there either. “Where have the guards gone?” Wary blue eyes looked up, meeting his son’s solid gray.
“You’ve come to kill me?”
“No,” Nikephoros chukled slightly at those words and looked down, “Father, to every thing there is a season…” Nikephoros began, snapping his fingers. The servants behind him dashed around the corner, and Gabriel could hear their footfalls, then the noise of metal clinking.
“…and a time to every purpose under heaven,” Gabriel finished. He walked briskly to his left, checking behind more columns. No guards. “You didn’t come here to quote the Bible to me, Nikephoros!” Gabriel snapped. He stalked over towards his son. “What is the meaning of all this?”
Just as those words came out of his mouth, the first of the servants returned. Clutched reverently in his hands was a gilded helm, polished to shine like new, that Gabriel Komnenos had not seen in over 15 years. The others quickly followed, each holding a shining piece of memory—gauntlets, shin-guards, mail and aventail. Gabriel stared, first at his old imperial armor, then up at his son.
“Arrangements have been made,” Gabriel heard his son say, “your nephew’s claim will give us a way into the city.”
As his son spoke words of framing Thomas and shunting him aside, Gabriel’s hands slowly, shakily touched that gilded mail, felt the rings slip between his fingers. Finally, trailing behind the others, came a harried servant who hastily bowed and proffered up a fine steel blade, hilt made with perfect giltwork, a massive ruby marking its pommel. Gingerly, he wrapped his thick fingers around the hilt—it still felt perfect, as if it was made for him yesterday morn.
“They’ll clamor for us to remove him when we take the city,” Gabriel felt a hand on his shoulder. Blue eyes met gray again.
When we take the city? Does this mean…
“Fifteen years penance is enough,” Nikephoros smiled.
“It is time for the lion to rise once again.”
Samarkand
April 6th, 1263
Altani
Khatun wished she had not risen this day.
She’d known for two weeks that Arghun Khan, Lord of India and her nominal overlord for the past year was coming to Samarkand, at the head of a vast and mighty host. Yet even her worst fears couldn’t describe the vast multitudes that now camped around Samarkand,
her city, in a fearful and awesome display of power. Elephants of war, strange machines, tens of thousands of fearsomely clad men in mail and more horses than she’d seen since her father’s host all those years before.
She looked up, for once not outside the window of her apartments and across the beautiful, vibrant city that was her capital. Instead, her eyes went to the man that threatened it.
Arghun Khan was by no means a handsome man—his face was too…utilitarian. His nose was simple, if long, borrowed from his Ghorid mother, his skin taught. Despite having just finished three healthy courses and being only 33, the man looked like a walking skeleton, his form hidden behind flowing robes of silk and a turban of Persian linen. His beard was long, kept in the Mongol fashion, but her eyes kept going back to his eyes—sunken brown orbs that conveyed intelligence and cunning. Even now, they peered at her, almost in question, searching her mind, her heart…
“And is that the Church of the Nativity?” Arghun casually looked out the window,
her window, at the tallest structure in the new Samarkand. He pursed his lips as if the breath was taken out of him. “Truly a beautiful building. Persian architects, built it, yes?”
Altani nodded slowly. “Why do you care?” she asked, looking down.
“I appreciate all forms of beauty,” her bane turned back to her, that cunning, charming smile gracing his lips. “
Inshallah the building should stand.”
“But you are Muslim,” Altani asked. “Why do you pray for a Christian building to stand? Shouldn’t you be plotting its demise stone by stone?” She took a deep drink from the wine Arghun refused to touch—it was expensive, all the way from the Roman lands. She told herself she wouldn’t let it go to waste. It hit her belly with a thump and her head swam. She didn't look over to the doorway—old Tokhtamysh, grey hairs and all, would be standing there, disapprovingly.
“It’s your building anyway,” she murmured under her breath.
“It is,” he said, making her jump. “And yes, I am Muslim. Like you, I have broken from the religion of our forefathers,” Arghun smiled thinly. “I considered Christianity,” the
Khan said, scratching his beard, “but I choose Islam for political reasons as much as reasons of the heart. My nobles, the Ghorids, are Muslim. And the Hindu Rajs resist my rule—and their religion confuses me,” he waved his hand.
“Islam can be confusing,” Altani retorted before thinking. She grimaced.
“And so is the religion of the Christians,” Arghun’s smile grew wider. “But we are not here to talk of that—we are here to talk of us. You,” he pointed at her, “and me. And the state of the Empire left by your grandfather.”
Altani swallowed hard—she’d known it would come to this, on this day, an afternoon she’d prayed long and hard would never come. After the battles on the Syr Darya, Arghun had been content to make her kneel before him, to promise to be his loyal servant, and then he’d taken his host, vast as the sea, back across the Hindu Kush. He knew he had time, and he’d let her stew, let her think she’d been spared. Altani had spent long days breathless in the Church of the Nativity, its towers spindling high above the city skyline, hoping against hope that Arghun wouldn’t return, that she’d have time to consolidate her position, despite all that’d happened, despite the rumbles and rumors from the great Mongol lords under her banner.
But it was not to be.
“My cousin Kublai rules in Karakorum now,” Arghun smiled as he sat down opposite to her, pouring himself a goblet of water. Her nose wrinkled—she’d met his father Tekuder many times… Tekuder had been rough-spun, a man who drank goatsmilk and bragged of tenderizing pork under his saddle. Arghun was urbane, sophisticated, and still respected by the steppe lords…
…in short, he was dangerous. Not just to Altani…
“A boy of seven!” Arghun chuckled darkly, taking a swig of water. “His uncle Qayban rules in fact. The man has taken to Chinese dress and ethics,” Arghun added, irony plain in his voice. “He makes the horse lords of the East nervous.”
“And you wouldn't?” she dared to ask.
Arghun chuckled, looking down. “Of course I wouldn’t. I can wear silks as the finest Arab, but as you saw, Altani
Khatun, I can ride with the fiercest warrior. I can hunt with the best,” he added, before his eyes looked up, dark, challenging, “hunting deer, or men.”
Altani swallowed again.
“But Kublai is of direct descent,” Arghun swirled his water cup gently, “while I’m a cousin. So, if I am to take the mantle of Great Khan, I must prove I am worth more than my mere birth. And you,” he smiled thinly if pleasantly at Altani, “are the linchpin, the central point from which my Empire will expand. So, Altani
Khatun, I am going to need your complete, utter obedience, or I’m afraid some unfortunate things will happen…”
“You cannot bully me!” Altani hissed to herself. She looked desperately over at Tokhtamysh, and by the ashen look on her face, she knew she’d spoken too loud. She panicked, looking at Arghun—the
Khan’s face was still unreadable, but his eyes were like boiled leather.
“But I can,” his mouth smiled in spite of his eyes. “For, my dear
Khatun, the lords of the Mongols will respect you and follow you as an adviser to Qayshan Khan. With his death…” Arghun raised his hands up and shrugged slightly.
Altani wanted to utter something harsh, something mean, but nothing would come to her lips. She knew her predicament—it was the reason she’d cried that night on the Syr Darya after Arghun’s men forced a bridgehead. It should’ve been nothing more than a mere skirmish—a few hundred men at most. But the young Qayshan had defied her strict advice, even orders, and ridden close to see the fight.
It wasn’t even an aimed shot—a mere stray arrow, and the lifeblood of her claim to legitimacy reddened the muddy riverbank. For the Mongols would follow a
son of the great Genghis, a male. But to follow a woman outright? To let a woman rule as
Khatun with no superior, real or nominal?
“Altani,” Arghun slowly rose, and walked towards the windows of her personal tower. The late afternoon sun streaming from outside made him look like a loom dark specter, a nightmare looming over her dreams of a city, an empire. “I have the greatest respect for you, and what you’ve done.” She heard silk sighing as he clasped his hands behind his back. “There are few, man or woman, who could have created a realm here, and turned Samarkand so quickly from one of many cities to something so unique.”
Altani only let a sigh of her own come through—she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her complain, or uttering something rude or mean. Even if she wanted to.
“So, daughter of Hulagu, I give you a choice. You and I could be partners, allies, and your Christian city and Christian state will be left in peace. An island, if you will, in the Muslim sea I wish to create. Or,” Arghun grimaced, as if he’d swallowed a bitter date, “I will remove you and all like you, and sweep away your kingdom and its faith into the bitter alleys of history.” Arghun shrugged his shoulders, and looked out over Samarkand once more. “This is a beautiful city.”
“Would you sigh at its beauty if it was despoiled?” Altani asked sharply.
Her cousin said nothing for a moment, still looking over the towers and minarets that marked its skyline, before slowly turning to face her.
“I would weep,” he said. “Please do not force that decision on me.”
Altani looked him up and down one last time—his face was quiet, plain, his eyes pleading and hard at once. Quietly, she nodded her head. There was no other way.
Arghun only smiled thinly—no huge grin, no lording triumph or words of victory. Just a simple, small smile.
“Together, Altani
Khatun, we could rule the Mongol Empire,” he said quietly, offering a rugged, ring covered hand.
Altani looked over at Tokhtamysh—her husband eyed the
Khan warily before nodded. Slowly, carefully, Altani held her hand out, and just as slowly, Arghun took her hand into his own. She was surprised at how soft his hands felt—she’d expected hard leathery fingers and palms, like those of her Tokhtamysh.
“Good,” Arghun nodded, smile huge and genuine. “We’ll start with the north and the Blue Horde, before we go for the Chagatai, then the crowning triumph of Persia,” he said, summing up years of future campaigning, blood and sweat in a simple sentence. “With those conquests…”
Shorter than normal update this time, but still filled with juicy things! Gabriel has been unleashed! And Altani’s conqueror has grand designs of his own. Opportunities and pitfalls about as we go to Konstantinopolis next time on Rome AARisen!
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