"Όποιος γίνεται πρόβατο τον τρώει ο λύκος."
"He who becomes a sheep is eaten by the wolf." – Roman proverb
May 24th, 1263
Outside Baghdad
“Grandpapa?”
Gabriel Komnenos looked up from the maps that dotted the camp table before him, a smile crossing his face as he looked at the child ambling into the headquarters tent of the Army of Restoration. Amidst the clang of thousands of men at drill, the smell of horses and mud, leather and steel, the boy was a welcome sight. He was pudgy, a ruddy red face with bright blue eyes and neatly trimmed black hair on his head—a stark contrast to his father’s unkempt, mottled mess.
Gabriel looked at his grandson Alexandros and smiled at his namesake. Alexandros the Elder grinned back, walking over and scooping up his eldest son as the boy’s nanny, tutor and other servants watched silently from just outside the tent.
“Oh!” he grunted as he hefted the 8 year old into the air, “You’re heavy! You’re going to break your poor father!”
“No!” the child giggled as his father swung him in a circle. The mirth lasted for only a moment, before those blue eyes locked on Gabriel’s once more. “Father, is that grandpapa?”
“Yes, it is…” Alexandros said, voice suddenly quieter as his eyes met Gabriel’s uncertainly. He set the boy down. “Go see him,” the elder urged the younger, and the boy ambled towards the tall, grizzled man he’d never seen before, looking him up and down with the frankness only a child could muster.
“You’re not as tall as in the pictures in the palace,” the boy said bluntly. “And you’ve got grayer hair.”
“That I do,” Gabriel smiled, kneeling down to his grandson’s level. “Your father has said much about you.” He frowned, looking the boy up and down in much the same way the child had eyed him only moment’s before. “You’re taller than he said, and you look stronger,” Gabriel said gruffly.
“That’s because I practice with the sword every day, like papa and Uncle Nikky tell me to!” the eight year old beamed.
“Good lad,” Gabriel grinned broadly. Alexandros might have been young, but Gabriel could already pick his features—he would thin when he grew, just like his father did. His eyes, blue in blue, fierce, reminded Gabriel of his elder son Nikephoros.
“Papa said you had gone away on a long trip?” the boy asked, looking innocently between his father and grandfather. Alexandros the Elder looked down. Gabriel laughed.
“Well,” Gabriel knelt beside his grandson, “I did go on a long trip, and I got very lost. Your papa,” he nodded to Alexandros the Elder, “kept the kingdom going, while your uncle Nikephoros found me and brought me home.”
“So Uncle Nikephoros is a hero, and papa is craven?” the boy frowned.
“No!” Gabirel laughed again, tears coming to his eyes. “No, no no. It takes courage to step into someone’s shoes and rule in their name!” Gabriel looked up momentarily, and saw his son looking down at him. “Both your father and your uncle were very brave, and very smart to have run things so well while your grandpapa was lost!” he winked at his son. Alexandros the Elder visibly relaxed. Alexandros the Younger grinned.
“Now run along,” Gabriel rose, gently patting his grandson on the head, “your father and grandpapa have much to discuss.” Alexandros the Younger nodded eagerly, then ran back to his nannies outside the tent. Gabriel watched as he took the woman’s hand—she was some Italian woman, an exile. The eight year old immediately leapt forward, pulling her forward even as she tsked him for his rashness. Gabriel couldn’t help but smile—yes, the boy had his father and uncle in him!
“I trust that…” Alexandros started.
“Your son is charming,” Gabriel smiled, cutting off his own son’s apology. A younger, angrier Gabriel would have held his incarceration over his sons’ heads. The older, wiser Gabriel knew why it’d be done, and that he was as guilty a party in the fiasco as they. “He has much of you in him,” the older Komnenos added.
“Thank you, father,” Alexandros breathed an audible sigh of relief.
“How is his mother, Lady Šahrzād?” Gabriel asked quietly.
“She is… well,” Alexandros said, the nervousness plain in his voice. Gabriel hid his sigh—Alexandros’ marriage to Šahrzād was supposed to seal the alliance between the Komnenids and one of the most powerful converted Persian families, Esfahanis. Her father was a great landowner in the region around Isfahan, her ancestors counted Arscanid kings and the legendary Surena, and their support had been crucial in securing the loyalty of many other great native nobles.
However sound the political union was, the marital union was…tepid. Šahrzād had barely hidden contempt for her husband, a man she considered a boor, and the two often fought over the upbringing of their two sons, Alexandros and Isaakios. Šahrzād had gone so far as to give both of them Persian versions of their names—Eskander and Eshaq.
“She is not dead then, and the family alliance lives,” Gabriel said wryly, “good. Well then,” Gabriel said after a moment, turning back to the camp table covered with maps that’d held his attention before the interruption, “back to the matter at hand. As I was saying, I’ve read what we know on Bataczes, but what can you tell me about this ‘Andronikos?’” Gabriel grabbed a grape from the table.
“He’s a aggressive runt,” Alexandros plopped down into a chair and sighed, “He’s been challenging your uncle directly for some time now. Turns sixteen in a week.” He poured himself some wine, then his father. “The army thinks highly of him.”
“They’ve forgotten about me,” Gabriel said distantly, before walking over and taking the cup his son offered. “No matter, they’ll soon remember. You do know why your brother told me to come here?”
“He doesn’t think I have enough field experience to command the army alone,” Alexandros grunted. By the briefest of sour looks on his face, Gabriel read his son’s disappointment. He didn’t blame him—Alexandros was 29, with a decade of ruling as his brother’s junior. He’d seen combat, fighting rebels here or a raiding Arabian tribe there. Surely that would count for something, Alexandros’ momentary look screamed.
“You don’t,” Gabriel said quietly, before sipping his wine. Alexandros was a fine commander, with practical experience, but not enough. Not when one was facing imperial
tagmata. “Especially when we both know that this Bataczes fellow will be in real command, whatever the runt says about taking the field or taking the lead.” Gabriel looked over his cup at his son—Alexandros nodded glumly.
“I will need a steady second in command,” Gabriel offered with a raised eyebrow, “someone that can run an independent operation or two.” Immediately Alexandros’ head was up, some fire and eagerness back in his eyes. Good, Gabriel mused. There was no way for Alexandros to gain experience without taking some kind of command in a formal war. “Now,” Gabriel pulled out a chair and sat opposite his son, “what do you think we should do, my second?”
“Um,” Alexandros thought for a moment, “Bataczes is aggressive—his record during your campaign and in Azov speaks to this. But I think this Andronikos is going to be a cautious boy. The two will obviously disagree.” He looked up. “I think we should exploit it.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Gabriel nodded. “Get the two separated, then we can predict their behavior.” He smiled. “And I have just the plan…”
May 31st, 1263
Konstantinopolis
Vishly ud Preussen, Cupbearer to His Imperial Majesty, stood quietly at the edge of the Great Octagon throneroom in the old Great Palace, the official dining hall for all the banquets after an imperial marriage. A host of the most powerful people in the mightiest Christian Empire greeted his gaze—Konstantinos Komnenos, grinning as always and especially from Italy, the Emperor’s grandfather Adrianos, princes, noblemen, lords and ladies from all corners of the vast Roman realm. Vishly had not seen the lovely ceremony in the chapel of the
Kosmodion Palace, though he’d heard from servant’s twitters all about the spectacle—the vast hall filled to the brim, over a thousand in attendance, the cream of the Empire not at war in Spain. The Dukes of Pest and Bohemia, representing the German King. The Comte d’Champagne, representing the King of the French and the English, and a whole host of other lords from all over Europe completed the menagerie of bluebloods—a vast congregation that had migrated from the Kosmodion to the Great Palace for tonights festivities.
Yet as Vishly looked across the crowd from his unobtrusive location, he looked for one set of eyes, a pair that flicked around the room amidst laughter, directly at him. A wink.
There, the signal!
Vishly gave no reply, but simply turned and started down the stairway towards the special kitchens under the throne room/dining hall. Another roar of laughter rumbled from behind him as Vishly quickly descended. Other servants rushed up, some with trays, those meant to sing empty handed. The Prussian pressed himself against the wall, all involved dexterously keeping their cargoes from spilling on each others linen tunics made especially for the occasion. Some were muttering the latest gossip—that the Emperor was madly in love with the Empress, that he hated her, that she’d already taken the Emperor’s best friend Lord Angelos to bed, that one could hear them across the palace. Vishly paid little attention—palace gossip was a useless source of information in a city as filled with spies as this one—anyone with half a brain knew how to plant rumors amongst the servants.
Besides, all of their twitter wouldn’t matter come the morning, no matter which of Vishly’s three masters’ wishes came true.
Finally the Prussian reached the bottom of the stairs, and briskly walked into the suddenly empty kitchen under the great dining hall. He looked back as the last of the servant’s shadows disappeared up the stairs, and rumble of applause greeted his ears. Yes, just as Andronikos had promised. Quickly, he went to one of the nearby cupboards and drew a bottle of Cretan wine—the kind the Emperor loved. He quickly poured a goblet half full, and went to work.
The poison picked was simple—a light mixture of belladonna, uncrushed, and several lesser poisons, topped with a large amount of pure
grappa. The boy had built up a tolerance for poisons and little tolerance for alcohol—most of the effect would come from him being overly drunk. His hope was to throw up part of the belladonna or any of the other ingredients, enough to be conclusive evidence of poisoning, without truly the poisoning itself.
Vishly looked around again to be sure. No one, as the boy had said. From the distance, he could hear singing of some kind, birthday wishes. The servant’s song.
Vishly opened his small pouch, and quickly tossed in the root as ordered, and looked around again. He heard footfalls receding in the distance, and sighed. He
hated kitchen poisonings—there were always too many opportunities to get disrupted, or even caught. Laughter trickled in from the halls above. Vishly looked around one last time to be sure, fished around in his pouch once more before pulling out a vial of clear liquid. The Prussian balanced it on two fingers, and lifted it up and down—still the same weight.
He smiled, pulled the topper, and poured it into the glass, the followed it with a healthy amount of
grappa, just like Andronikos had ordered. The smell of the Italian liquor was sharp, harsher than any of the mead or wine Vishly was used to in his adoptive homeland. Its taste was just as pungent—it would be the perfect ingredient to cover a blend of wolfsbane, belladonna and wormwood.
Andronikos wouldn’t taste anything until it was too late.
And Vishly’s newest employer would be
infinitely pleased.
The Prussian stirred the concoction until the slight film on the surface from the belladonna disappeared. Satisfied, he put the cup on his serving platter, and walked towards the stairs. As Vishly came out of the stairs and into the room boiling with bright silks in the latest fashion, song, dance and music, the Prussian couldn’t help but smile. Precisely as he’d been trained, he walked directly towards the raised dais at the center of the Octagon, and bowed. As protocol, neither the groom nor bride paid him any attention—Vishly caught the former glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, a slight smirk coming to his lips. As for Safiya, the wench was busily talking to one of her ladies in waiting, atwitter over some joke.
The Imperial Cupbearer slowly walked up the steps, then set the full concoction in front of the Emperor before removing his empty goblet. He regarded the boy—he had audacity, the Prussian had to admit, and part of him wondered what the boy would be like if he rose fully to the throne.
If… Vishly had learned long ago nothing was certain, except death was coming, sooner or later. If the boy lived, he might be a great emperor, he might be a scoundrel. Or he could die, or be left mute, or deformed. The concoction was powerful, even against a prepared body, and the permutations were endless. But it was no matter. Vishly bowed again—he had a boat waiting at the Boukoleon. He shouldn’t be late.
Under the gaze of the high and mighty, Vishly ud Preussen backed down the dais, bowed one last time as a goodbye to this most wicked of cities, and walked into obscurity…
“I wonder if that sad Spanish creature would’ve proven as able as I will tonight.”
Andronikos coughed. The Emperor of the Romans looked sideways at his new wife, the source of that quiet whisper his ears only barely caught above the revelry of the imperial wedding banquet. Beside Safiya, her lady in waiting—Lady Psellos, wife of the
Kephalos of Kaliopolis—giggled loudly. She’d always been as loud as a bleating sheep, with looks to match, but his wife’s ugly choice of retainers didn’t concern him.
Her words did.
Andronikos blinked. No, she couldn’t have… it was the wine, I had to be. He downed the rest of his cup, hoping his mind had been playing tricks on him, and starting picking at his food.
“Really?” Lady Psellos twittered.
“One night with me, and he’ll forget his Spanish cow forever,” Safiya said. He didn’t need to look up to know she was grinning, and likely looking at him with that
leer of hers. He felt bile rising in his throat. That
leer, that carnal stare!
All of the sudden the Emperor could hear the whispers around the table, the conversations hidden by the noise of the dinner guests, almost as if a magical veil had been pulled from over his ears. Women commenting on how much of an animal Safiya was, men making either quiet snarls about probity and piety, or openly wishing they were in the Emperor’s nightshift
this night. He’d ascended to the purple, unfettered, and all these clucking hens could talk about was how much they would enjoy spreading their seed over his new wife’s ample fields!
He looked up, and saw those brown orbs of hers. Safiya daintily picked up a strawberry, licked it slowly from tip to stem, then ate it with a laugh. A laugh! Andronikos felt the bile, the anger, the resentment rising higher even as other parts of him stirred at the thought of what she was implying. He was a triumph, a conquest, and nothing more to her!
The thought excited him, and made him furious at once—not just because it made him lose control of himself, his body, his emotions, but because it insulted someone he cared about, deeply! He’d struggled since that day three weeks before in his study, where Safiya had displayed all her charms, then left him hanging, yearning for more. His mind was young, and while he’d never performed the deed before, he was fully aware of all the mechanics and joys—Ioannis’ tales of camp whores were filled with more than enough detail!
So Andronikos had tried to get her to simply fulfill his desires—it’d clear his head, it’d let him refocus, if only he could find out for himself that she wasn’t all his nethers built her to be. But she refused him, aggravated him, made him wait like he was an impudent child. Throughout the ceremony he’d wondered if this was it—that physical desire was the end all, be all. It wasn’t until the Patriarch had uttered the final prayer at the end of their vows that it’d hit him, like a thunderbolt from the blue.
Someone that loved him…they wouldn’t toy with him like that.
Cecilia wouldn’t toy with him.
Since her exile he’d thought about her daily. He’d wanted to write, but he knew his uncle would confiscate his letters. He’d sent one with Ioannis—the fleet would have stopped off in Thessalonike where she was in exile before it proceeded to Spain. He couldn’t wait to hear her reply. It’d taken today—the vows, the ceremony—for him to realize that he loved her. Not merely lusted, but loved! He’d been attracted to Cecilia too, but she never used it to her advantage, despite him telling her. She was gentle, she was sweet, she was kind…She was not a
cow! She cared about him! She loved him!
He looked over at his new wife and growled, a low, angry, guttural noise. He couldn’t believe that part of him since that day three years ago had questioned his whole plan, all the preparations he’d made, all the plots unfolding over the past few months. Now, at hearing her ugly words, he was
glad. Glad of what was to come, glad of what would soon come to pass!
The bitch deserved nothing less!
“My intention is to try my mount at least twice tonight,” he heard Safiya say. “Once, chaste-ly, while the courtiers are about the bed. The other time will be in the dead of night, when…”
As she spoke of things Andronikos both yearned for and dreaded, he stewed as she laughed next to him. So, he was a mount, was he? He was nothing more than a stud, something for her pleasure? Fine. He’d make it even worse for her! He’d use her, use her wholly and completely, and
then…
…he blinked, as Lord Psellos’ blue silk tunic seemed to leap out at him, colors twirling and whirling about. Andronikos let his eyes wander to the candelabra in front of him—the flames seemed to dance and flicker above the candle, tongues of orange rushing up towards the ceiling. A gentle breeze came through the windows, and Andronikos was sure the wind was blowing
through him. It took a few moments, before he realized the light amount of belladonna was already at work. He smiled, not caring his grin was lopsided from alcohol. He felt a tug on his arm—he turned to see Safiya smirking at him.
“Someone already thinking towards what comes next?” she winked.
“Next?” Andronikos felt, rather than heard, the words bouncing around his mouth before emerging in a slur. “W..why not now?” he added, taking her hand awkwardly. He started to rise. The room moved, but he caught himself. By the gradual silence and the slow rising of all the guests, none saw his stumble.
“Of course,
Your Majesty,” Safiya’s leer somehow become even more lecherous. “Is my husband drunk?” she asked, voice quieter, before adding in a scandalous whisper, “Oh, the things I will show you…”
Andronikos wanted to spit at her, tell her she was nothing more than a rabbit looking for her next rut, but he forced his mouth shut as he pulled her to her feet. Lord Kaukadenos of Abydos of course said something ribald—the man could not hold his tongue, not matter the circumstances—and Andronikos’ head swam. He couldn’t even glare as the major functionaries began to file behind the imperial couple, servants scurrying out of the path to the bedchambers.
Safiya was whispering something—to Andronikios’ ear it sounded like a distant murmur. By the look on her face, and where her hand had started to trail during their walk, he could only guess. Despite his state, her efforts were working. Cecilia’s face, indistinct and bright, clouded Andronikos’ mind. He looked down, and felt his face redden in shame.
“Allow me!” one overeager courtier cut in front of the pair, opening the bedroom chambers himself before ushering them inside. Andronikos focused, trying to walk, bt he found his feet bumping into each other. He gripped his wife’s arm tighter, avoiding a public stumble. His uncle came over, beaming, a look that made Andronikos’ stomach roil—that man, grinning at him in his bedchamber, just before he was to take a woman he wanted but hated!
Ladies in waiting fluttered around Safiya, a horde of giant gnats who quickly divested the Empress of her jewels and fine silks. They ushered the giggling woman into bed, and the curtains around the imperial consummation bed closed with a swish.
Andronikos wanted to fidget, but the alcohol was hitting him harder than he expected. That had to be it. He’d prepared for the belladonna—the
Mithradation said a small dose would make him feel lightheaded, confused, but nothing like the swimming going on in his head. Albrecht’s smile was gone. He whispered words of concern. Andronikos waved him off—the old man was worried about his step-son being too drunk, and unable to perform. Ha! They’d get a performance, all right! Maybe it was nervousness. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe he wasn’t used to even a ‘slight’ dose of belladonna. No matter. He had to perform his role this night if he wanted to put Safiya and that dog Albrecht in their place!
Suddenly the curtains flew wide. Safiya, clad only in a nightshift, beckoned him to enter. Andronikos walked unsteadily forward, as the elite of the empire twittered, giggled, or otherwise made a nuisance of themselves. It took all of his energy to not simply collapse into the thick down of the bed. Lord Psellos made a comment that sounded like “Have a nice ride.” Andronikos frowned in confusion as the curtains swished shut again.
He was now alone with her, and the room was spinning.
He laid back, trying to gain his bearings as her hands went to work and fabric tore. A distant part of his mind chided that his silken tunic and breeches were
expensive, and tearing them was such a waste. He wanted to tell her no, and tried to sit up. He stumbled, and could only see the top of her head—flecks of light danced in her hair. Were they horns? Why did she have horns? She looked up, and he heard a rumbling noise, like a demon chuckling.
Safiya was a demon? Her eyes glowed red, fiery, and he blinked. Now they were soft and blue, her skin black as night. Andronikos frowned, as he heard her say something about unsheathing… what? He tried to shake his head, but the motion took too much effort. Something tickled the back of his throat, and Andronikos coughed, and something wet and bitter filled his mouth. Safiya shrieked. He tried to look down—his head was swimming, and only moved with the greatest of effort. He heard the curtains surrounding the bed imperial flying wide, and hurried prayers and curses as he saw the bright crimson streak down his nightshift, He looked up, confused.
Wait, this wasn’t supposed to happen.
He thought he saw Ioannis’ face, blurried, and he heard voices calling his name. Figures of light danced around them, merged with them, flew away from them. He blinked—that wasn’t right either. Were they angels or demons? Why was he seeing angels and demons? The world shifted, he could suddenly feel something soft behind him as the noises grew more distant. Was he dead? Was he dreaming? Was…
The world went black.
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Did Andronikos die? Who was Vishly’s third employer? Holy cliffhanger Batman, it’s the end of the chapter! Just as a teaser, I also submit to you the title pic for the next chapter…
