Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

I’m back on the web (intermittently)! To celebrate, I’ve finished the next update! A little more slapdash than I’d like, but things have been busy—full time work schedule, as well as becoming apartment handyman have eaten up my time lately. Hopefully, the next update will take slightly less time than this one.

Oh, and on the subject of completion--I'm hoping this AAR will be done by then! That's the plan... we'll see how close we can get considering there's about 120 years left before we reach the final reign which'll be done in history book format.

But enough blabbing from me. Enjoy!


September 3rd, 1263

Outside Taranto, Apulia

Konstantinos Komnenos looked up into the night sky, and sighed in annoyance.

He wanted to listen to the sighing of the early autumn wind through the trees of his private gardens—he’d been home from the Queen of Cities for scarcely a week. Apulia was a far cry from his villa in Konstantinopolis—there were no streets surrounding the structure, cutting it off from the countryside in rings of noise, people, and smell. Instead, Konstantinos should have been able to relax this night, nibbling on dates and sipping grappa as he enjoyed staying at his private estates in his Italy. But Konstantinos couldn’t hear the autumn wind. He winced—his tooth had been hurting him all day, and the chewy dates he ate this night weren’t helping. Of course, the conversation company he had to keep tonight didn’t exactly help either.

Father Demetrios Tzimices could charitably be described as a…talkative…person. Considering his visitation to Konstantinos’ manor was now in its fifth hour, and third hour past sunset, the Roman lord had plenty of other words he could use to describe the good priest—none of which should be spoken before a clergyman, women, or gentlefolk. If the good Father hadn’t been a renowned theologian from Konstantinopolis, and unofficial emissary from Patriarch Thomas Komnenos, Konstantinos would have likely tossed the yammering priest out of the villa into the Apulian countryside.


“…was absolutely foul,” the priest yammered on in his unsolicited dissertation of what was wrong with the people of Apulia, “and then my ring went missing! Some Norman lout stole it, I bet!” the priest huffed. “Stealing a ring from a priest! Would you believe it?” The priest reached past Konstantinos and took several dates from the lord’s plate without even the courtesy to ask. Konstantinos grimaced again—this time not from his tooth.

“Unfortunate and distressing,” Konstantinos said, suppressing a sigh. The Prince of Toscana and Sebastokrator of Italy still wondered how the Patriarch was able to look past this man’s flapping mouth and consider him a good messenger. Yes, Tzimices’ piety and sincerity to the Church would never be in doubt—but his mouth constantly moving was also as certain as the rise of the sun. “But, good Father,” Konstantinos tried, as delicately as he could, to move the conversation to the important matters the visit was supposed to cover, “what of His Holiness in Konstantinopolis? I have heard how things went during the trial…”

Konstantinos let his words hang there—partly from not knowing what to say exactly. ‘Debacle’ didn’t cover fully the events that had unfolded in Konstantinopolis three weeks before. ‘Disaster,’ ‘travesty,’ and ‘blunder’ also were severely lacking—the normally pious and urbane Konstantinos could only think of a few more coarse ways of describing the full depth of the Patriarch’s disastrous trial of Albrecht von Franken and Megos Domestikos Romanos.

To be fair, no one had expected the young Emperor to arrive at the trial in person and effectively use centuries of precedent to take over the proceedings—but, as Tzimices went on to describe the catastrophic events blow by blow to the nodding Prince of Toscana, Konstantinos mentally kept a list of the litany of blunders the Patriarch made during the day’s proceedings. Instead of vigorously challenging the Emperor’s counter-assertion of poison, the Patriarch had blinked, stunned, surprised like a deer caught by a wolf at the watering hole.

Thomas of Pereschen, the man who’d had the Roman state under his thumb and was on the verge of destroying the edifice that was Albrecht von Franken, had stood in muted silence as a sixteen year old boy called the Patriarch’s own advisors to give evidence as to the effects of poison! Like confused cattle, they’d lumbered forward and opened their mouths, uttering the truth like the good little priests they were, and undercutting a confluence of events that even Konstantinos could not have made with years of plotting and agents!


“…then His Majesty had no choice but to vacate the charges,” Tzimices huffed slightly. “While I must disagree most vigorously with von Franken running free, His Majesty did have a valid point that the evidence for witchcraft was not sufficient given the gravity of the punishment. I only pray that next time, the warlock leaves enough evidence behind that we can make the case, or compel him to a trial by ordeal or combat…”

“Ah, um, indeed?” Konstantinos blinked, re-engaging himself with the conversation after ten minutes of daydreaming through a recollection of events he already knew all too well, “Well, that is most unfortunate for His Holiness…”

“I myself had heard rumor that this Andronikos openly scoffs at the scriptures!” Tzimices tsked over Konstantinos’ words. “Now, I have not seen or heard it myself, but it would be a sad day if the Vice Gerent of Christ was to be like the heathen Gabriel and…”

“Ah yes, Gabriel!” Konstantinos leapt into the gap, eagerly grabbing the straw he hoped might turnt he conversation back on topic, “I have heard that his legions have already moved past Kaiseria and are deep in Anatolia, and that Andronikos threatened that his life was the only one between Gabriel and the throne…”

“His Holiness is very concerned, to say the least,” the priest said, “and I am afraid His Holiness is not sure that His Majesty, for all his legal arguments, will be sufficient to stem the heretical tide.” Tzimices harrumphed slightly. “Andronikos is likely to be trounced!”

“With all due respect,” Konstantinos sighed, his patience at an end, “His Holiness was trounced by a sixteen year old boy with ease. I would trust the Patriarch with spiritual affairs any time, any where, but in politics your master is… pardon the expression… a fool.” The Prince of Toscana put on his most pleasant smile, even as he really wanted to sail to Konstantinopolis and smack Thomas of Pereschen for his stupidity after smacking Tzimices for wasting his time. “Only your master could’ve taken the position he was given and ruined it,” the Prince of Toscana smiled wryly.

“His Holiness placed and continues to place his trust in God that the path of righteousness will be…”

“A question, Father,” Konstantinos tossed aside a seed and picked up another date, annoyance now plain in his voice. “A man is travelling along the road. A good man, a godly man. He comes across a starving beggar who robs him, kills him, and takes his food. Who has God helped?”

“Well clearly…” the priest frowned, clearly confused by the story.

“He helps those who help themselves,” Konstantinos rolled his eyes, cutting off the priest before a sermon interrupted his night. “Especially when it comes to the Game of Knives, Father Tzimices. You have to guard your position,” Konstantinos bit into the fruit and chewed slowly as he spoke, “outflank your enemies, and then cut them off. The Queen of Cities might as well be Persia, and your rumors, your accusations are soldiers on a battlefield. I know His Holiness had the best of goals in heart, but His Holiness was not aggressive enough in taking what God offered to him—so God instead handed it to the beggar Andronikos, who grabbed it with full force!”

The priest blanched slightly, a look that Konstantinos ignored. He knew what he would have done—bribed the guards with promises of doing their duty to God, and if that didn’t work, good hard coin—then had them block the Emperor from even entering the chambers, or even leaving his the Imperial Bedchambers that morning. Then again, a Patriarch Konstantinos would have done far more differently—he wouldn’t have arrested the Megos Domestikos on the word of a few panicked hens clucking about, and he would’ve pulled a page from the book of the Latins and made opposing Gabriel a holy war.

“Well, I…” the priest started as Konstantinos smiled thinly. The man sputtered for a moment, before looking down and giving a sigh more akin to a harrumph. “Well, the beggar as you say, has persuaded the people of Konstantinopolis that is the only alternative to Gabriel’s heinous rule, but,” Tzimices smiled, “Mother Church knows differently.”

“Does she?” Konstantinos’ smile grew slightly. Finally, to the point of this nocturnal visit. “And what does Mother Church intend to do with this knowledge?”

“In spite of some of your speech,” Tzimices looked dimly at the Prince, “His Holiness thinks you are a good and godly man. A man that cares for his people as a father cares for his children. He is prepared to offer the Church’s support if you…”

“Declare my intent for the throne?” Konstantinos tossed aside the newest seed, and the process started all over again. “What you say of me is true—I am a good and godly man,” Konstantinos shuffled in his chair—his back was hurting yet again. “However, I am also an intelligent man, Tzimices. Claiming the throne with the support of a publicly humiliated Patriarch?” Konstantinos made a sour face as he bit into the seed inside the date.

“His Holiness is preparing other allies …”

“I am afraid it’s too late, Father,” the Prince spat the seed out, then growled. Now his tooth burned with pain. “Others are moving more quickly than you, Gabriel, or Andronikos. I’ve placed my wager, Father, if you’ll pardon the sinful anal…” His voice drifted off to nothing. He looked about, then frowned. “Did you hear something?”

“No…?” the priest looked about, confused.

Konstantinos sighed, as he heard the noise again—it was the trees rustling in the night breeze.

“Is there anything that can be done to persuade you to change your mind?” Father Tzimices folded his hands prayerfully.

“Inform His Holiness that he must conjure a miracle,” Konstantinos sighed, “then mayhaps we can speak of this again.”

“You were said to be a godly man, yet you utter blasphemies left and right as a farmer idly talks about the weather!” Tzimices grumbled, his face flushing in the torchlight.

“My tongue is my own. I speaks what needs to be said,” Konstantinos shot back. He smiled—watching Tzimices getting angrier was well worth the diplomatic grouching that would inevitably occur. Not that any of it would matter once Gabriel took the city and then was ousted…

“His Holiness spoke kindly of you,” Tzimices growled, shaking as he rose to his feet, “But I find you the most incorrigible and selfish of men!”

“I admit my humanity freely,” Konstantinos smile turned into a full grin—more that he was about to be rid of the interminable priest than at the comment. “Goodnight, Father Tzimices.”

“Goodnight, Lord Komnenos,” Tzimices said with all the warmth of a January wind. With a whirl of black robes, the priest was soon gone, and Konstantinos was left alone in his gardens with no company more than the cool night air. Konstantinos chewed on the last of the dates for a moment, before stretching. It was far too late, he thought as the trees rustled yet again, and he turned to start making his way back to his home. Lord Angelos’ son was supposed to visit the villa the next day for lunch, and together they were supposed to discuss his father’s plans for…

There was a quick flash of movement, something black blocked Konstantinos’ vision for just a moment. Something was over his mouth! A foul smell immediately filled his nostrils, powerful, pungent. He reached up, strained to yell. His fingers felt long, thin things—fingers, a hand holding a cloth! He twisted, turned, trying to run, to get away! Someone had his hands rudely at his sides, other hands held him in place, and the thing over his mouth and nose turned all his yells into nothing more than muffled murmurs! He pushed, he shoved as he felt himself grow hot, his lungs burning for air! Where were his guards!? Where was…

Something blocked the light coming from his villa. The last thing Konstantinos Komnenos of Toscana saw was a face that looked something like the guest he was supposed to have over in the morning…


Ioannis Angelos looked up towards the villa a minute or so later, watching the distant pinpricks of torches and candlelight. Still no untoward movement. Quickly, his eyes went back down the form on the ground, barely lit in the thinnest moonlight. One of his servants was already leaning over the body, hand holding a thick, foul smelling cloth over the man’s mouth. A few seconds later, Ioannis made out his man nodding. The deed was done.

When Angelos had arrived in Taranto, it’d been to much pomp and circumstance—all that was due the son of one of the Stratoi commanders and scion of one of the richest noble houses in the Empire. Yet unbeknownst to his guests, fifteen of the “crew” aboard the ship that brought him there were more than merely sailors. Five were keen eyed, lookouts. Another five were skilled at forgery, charm, and simple bribery. The final five and Ioannis.

They had their own skills.

Angelos glanced over towards the villa once more, just to be sure—candlelight danced in the windows, as small orange dots moved slowly around the outside—the guards were still on their normal patrol. Ioannis reached over to the leader of the Oikoi, a rough looking fellow named Gennadios, and tapped his fingers. The man nodded, then there was the briefest glint of jewelry in the night as he handed Ioannis a ring bearing the mark of the Tzimices family.

“Clean this up,” Angelos muttered to no one in particular. The other five Oikoi went to work—one closed the dead man’s jaws, another closed his eyes, a third manipulated his hands till they clutched his chest. Within two minutes of his unnatural demise, Konstantinos Komnenos looked as if he’d fallen in a fit of apoplexy, as if God Himself had struck the proud Italian Komnenos down.

Exactly how Andronikos wanted the death to look—save one thing.

Ioannis walked around the body as four of the Oikoi slipped over the walls of the terraced garden to the barest of rustling noises. Several ideas went through Angelos’ head as he and Gennadios finished their work, before finally he smirked—a dark, shapeless thing in the moonlit night. His bone hilted dagger flashed briefly, and with surgical precision, he carved an ugly hole into each of the dead man’s hands.

The stigmata.

Yes, Angelos smiled, admiring his handiwork as he wiped the few traces of blood onto a cloth he kept for that purpose. That was perfect, enough to make people wonder, to question, and to tremble. Gently, Angelos added the final element—the ring—directly on top of the dead man’s hand.

The advance team of Oikoi, led by Gennadios, had stumbled across one Demetrios Tzimices grumbling loudly to other priests about waiting for the return of Lord Komnenos some three weeks ago. As Ioannis tapped Gennadios on the shoulder, he mentally thanked the man for his quick thinking. What was to have been a simple assassination was now something far more useful, thanks to Gennadios’ quick hands three weeks ago and a local jeweler expert at his craft and willing to accept a small chest of gold to keep quiet. Gennadios planned to pay the man a visit before the whole entourage returned to Konstantinopolis—Ioannis would have it no other way.

Gennadios nodded, and as quickly as they’d came, he and Ioannis Angelos disappeared back over the walls to the terraced garden. The next morning, Angelos would hear that his luncheon would be cancelled—Konstantinos Komnenos, Prince of Toscana had been found dead in his garden, the stigmata cut into his hands. Rumors would abound, but all would know the last man to see him alive was one Demetrios Tzimices…


September 18th, 1263

Near Angora

Simon Angelos turned over in his cot, silently cursing the march.

As Gabriel Komnenos lunged deeper and deeper into Anatolia, Despotes Simon Angelos of Ikonion was forced to join the Anatolikon Stratos in its march back to Nikaea. Gone were his plush pillows and divans in Ikonion. He turned yet again, cursing a lump in his camp mattress that wouldn’t go away. His co-commander was in Konstantinopolis, rallying the Basilikon Stratos for its role in the upcoming drama… a drama that would have Simon Angelos in center stage…

If he could get some sleep, he grumbled to himself.

The Anatolikon Stratos was outnumbered, yes, and prudence would deem it wise to retreat before the oncoming Persian horde—but Simon Angelos and his half of the army were not running—they were maneuvering into pre-arranged positions, planned with Gabriel Komnenos in advance, to lure any loyalists in the Basilikon into the field, where they would be slaughtered, leaving the way open for Gabriel to take Konstantinopolis, and the diadem…

…or so Gabriel thought.

“Bah!” Angelos hissed to no one in particular as he ruffled his pillow, trying to make the lump disappear. Outside, someone laughed loudly. There was a clink. Angelos moaned—not noise too!


Even though he could not fin sleep, Simon was virtual lord of Anatolia, Despotes of Ikonion with a malleable cousin ruling Kaiseria. He commanded the Anatolikon Stratos. To a new hand at power, a hand needing as many friends as possible, Simon knew he would be nigh close to untouchable. From his untouchable seat was where he would watch as the Persian regime crumbled—he might be forced to pry a brick loose here or there, but Gabriel on the throne was bound to end badly for Gabriel. After the Persian and his sons were out of the city, the only one left would be young Thomas—the same young Thomas Komnenos that Angelos had been corresponding with for the past year, and the same Thomas Komnenos that had jubilantly accepted the idea of Angelos as Megoskyriomachos… save for one problem…

…but that boy wouldn’t die.

“It was his son’s idea,” Simon murmured to himself.

It was the only part of the plan that Simon actually didn’t like. Andronikos Komnenos was the best friend of his second son, a boy that was clearly intelligent—and headstrong. Angelos had originally wondered if it would be possible to use Ioannis’ friendship to control the young Emperor. The speed of Andronikos’ attempts to buck from under his own stepfather’s guidance made this idea stillborn. No, it was better to place a person he knew could be easily influenced on the throne.

So Simon had made a clandestine offer to the Persians to kill Andronikos—a perfect vehicle to get his own puppet in position before the Persian downfall. It would be a simple way to ingratiate himself to the heathen Gabriel, and ensure the latter’s arrival in Konstantinopolis—the first step in a long avalanche that would end with Thomas IV on the throne, and Simon as the power that lay behind. The extra dose of belladonna was supposed to ensure that Gabriel got into the Queen of Cities and earn the Persian’s trust. Yet Andronikos refused to die—instead he thrived, limping into the Patriarch’s sham trial and soundly browbeating that old sacred cow with his own minions, no less!

Simon turned over on the cot. There was a brief pause in the noise outside—Angelos snuggled closer to his pillow, trying to use the respite to finally fall asleep, but his mind kept him awake. Things were too complicated now. With Andronikos alive, it meant there was a call to fight Gabriel, and Gabriel would not trust Angelos as he would’ve if the plot had succeeded. There would be a battle on the plains of Anatolia, and more than the ruin that two armies would cause trampling through Simon’s lands, he was worried at the results after. With Andronikos alive, Gabriel would not be as trusting—but what if Andronikos found out about Simon’s plans? And battles were always iffy, messy things…what if this one went a way Simon did not expect? What if it went against whichever side he backed?


No road was safe. Neither party was likely to trust a turncoat—something that made Angelos’ stomach turn to jelly. The simple thought of the conundrum facing him made Simon’s brow grow wet with sweat.

This was not how it was supposed to turn out!

Simon grunted as the noises started up outside—someone cursing, another person dropping a pack outside the tent. Angelos sat up, yawned and stretched. His mind was too awake—there wouldn’t be any sleep now. Slowly, the Despotes rose, feeling his legs crack. Fine—he’d read through some more papers. Perhaps quartermaster’s reports would be dull enough to set his ill at ease mind to rest. Simon sighed, rubbing his eyes as he trudged through the heavy curtain that separated the public section of his tent from his small sleeping area.

Then he heard a creak. The Despotes cracked one eye open.

A man sat in the campstool opposite.

And winked at him.

Simon wanted to scream, to yell, but nothing came out of his mouth as the man casually tapped an awkward, strange looking crossbow on his lap, an amused look on his face.

“Greetings, Lord Angelos,” the man smirked, “I hope I’m not intruding.” Simon started to open his mouth, sure he now had the words to call for help, but the man shook his head. “No need in calling the guards, Your Highness. They’re dead,” he added as if he was commenting on the weather. At Simon’s utterly horrified look, the man nodded to the ugly looking crossbow sitting across his lap. With the ease and power of a lounging panther, the man pushed a campstool over to Simon with his foot. “Please, Lord Angelos, have a seat. We have much to discuss.”

“W…we do?” Simon stumbled out.

“You are the co-commander of the Anatolikon, are you not?” the man asked, the very beginnings of a smile on his face. “Lord Angelos of Ikonion, yes?”

“Y…yes.” Simon swallowed hard. Those features, the grey beard, he dreaded to ask the question, but he had to know. “Y…you’re Eleutherios Skleros, a…aren’t you?”

“Precisely,” the man grinned for a moment, before the look as still as pale death came over the man’s face. “I’m here on business, m’lord. A simple proposal, straight from His Majesty Emperor Andronikos.”

“A…Andronikos? I…” Simon stumbled again. He caught himself on the campstool Quickly, he sat down, trembling. The boy?! Skleros had been Albrecht’s toy for decades! Was the boy…

“You’ll likely hear word tomorrow that the young man who calls himself Thomas IV has met with a most unfortunate setback,” the renowned assassin crossed his legs and sighed. “Somehow, the Levantikon caught his little army on the march, and for reasons I certainly can’t explain,” Skleros shrugged, “his band of tribesmen, thugs and bandits were more than eager to turn him over to Strategos Tetragonites rather than face his army in battle.” Skleros raised an eyebrow. “You have heard of Tetragonites, yes? The man famous for his deep purse? Oh, and in case you doubt me, I have this.”

Something shiny appeared in Skleros’ hand, and the spy tossed it to the Prince. Angelos caught the ring awkwardly. It was of fine craftsmanship in the Syrian fashion, a single great ruby at its center. Along its rim, in Greek, was the name of its owner.

Thomas of the House of Komnenos, Fourth of That Name, Emperor of the Romans.

Angelos’ heart sank into his stomach.


“The boy is being held somewhere safe,” Skleros took the ring back from Angelos’ suddenly clammy, sweat covered hands. As quickly as he’d offered the ring, it disappeared into the folds of his robe. “I do have one question, before we get to business, Lord Angelos,” Skleros uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Your son is a trusted friend of Andronikos. You have a high and exalted position. Why?” the spy shrugged. “Why gamble it all away in disloyalty?”

“Uh…”

“Ah… you thought that with your family’s stranglehold on Anatolia that you could control the throne?” Skleros whispered, looking up for a moment. “Clever, Simon, clever. And who needs to wear the purple when one controls the purple? An Empire, without toppling a Komnenos…”

“I…” Simon blurted out, fighting the sudden and distinct urge to pee in his trousers.

“But that’s why I’m not here, Lord Angelos,” the spy sighed, setting his awkward crossbow onto the camp table, “I’m supposed to make you an offer, in fact!” he folded his hands, smiling. Smiling.

“A…an…an offer?” Simon blinked. Konstantinos was dead, and now the deadliest assassin in the Empire was staring him in the face to make an offer? The urge to urinate somehow grew stronger.

“If you bring the Anatolikon to battle against the invading forces of Gabriel, His Majesty is prepared to award you and yours handsomely. You’ll be named Sebastokrator, your son Ioannis will be named Megoskyriomachos, and…something suitable…” the man waved his hand slightly, “will be found for your other son, Konstantinos. This,” the man lifted the ugly crossbow again slightly, “was to get your attention.” The smile came back, easy, open—frighteningly so. “If you disagree, or cross us, I promise you’ll see me again. And next time, I won’t be so… affable. In fact,” Skleros leaned forward his brown eyes as deadly as his smile was wide, “I’ve been told I could be creative in killing you if that happened. I tend to prefer castration before removing one hand, then another,” he paused, letting the words hang darkly in the air, “but that’s my personal preference.”

“I… uh…” Angelos stammered, looking desperately towards the tent flap. It waved forlornly in the breeze as he remembered what Skleros had said about his personal guards. He felt something warm and wet running down his leg.

Skleros looked down momentarily towards Angelos’ leg, and laughed. “You don’t have much of a choice, Simon. Death and destruction, or a high exalted position?” The assassin picked up the ugly contraption and pulled a lever. The monstrous thing squeaked, and clicked. Suddenly the small, deadly shape of a bolt hovered on the back of the device. A second later, it was pointed straight at Simon’s crotch.

“I’m going to be generous tonight, Lord Angelos,” Skleros said. “You have ten seconds to decide.”


So the Oikoi have moved already, killing Konstantinos in Italy, while Eleutherios has not murdered someone, and merely made Simon Angelos an offer. Will Angelos come back into the imperial fold, or will he be scared into the hands of the Persians? Will Gabriel’s hordes press onwards towards their ultimate goal? We travel to Konstantinopolis and Gabriel’s army on the march next Rome AARisen!