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My withdrawal symptoms are still very bad as of right now. :(
 
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"Το καλό το παλικάρι ξέρει κι'άλλο μονοπάτι."
"The good (wise) lad always knows of an alternate path."
– Roman proverb​

April 7th, 1264

Cecilia Komnenos nee de Normandie still didn’t feel like the most powerful woman in Christendom. Part of her couldn’t believe the past year, even as she looked around at the bevy of servants, maids, guards, and retainers that followed her through the Kosmodion. This time last year, she was still in exile, fearful she would never see Andronikos again, now it was his stepfather that was exiled, and she was walking next to the young man she loved—someone she knew loved her in return.

His eyes seemed to light up when she came into the room, and she could almost instantly see through his calm exterior to the energetic mind beneath. She even knew that his eyes blinking quickly was often the only sign of nervousness he would ever show to anyone that was not her or Ioannis Angelos. So as they walked together through the halls of the Kosmodion, getting closer to the first meeting of the Inner Council of State since his victory over Gabriel, Cecilia smiled slightly as she saw Andronikos blink quickly. They passed a maidservant humming a familiar tune.

“So… unhorsing Gabriel’s lieutenant Gabras?” Cecilia raised an eyebrow. The maidservant looked at the Empress and grinned, her humming growing louder. Andronikos’ gaze stayed focused dead ahead, but his eyes blinked even faster. Cecilia smiled—so her suspicions were correct. She nodded to the maid—the woman probably thought she was paying her master a compliment.

“So,” Cecilia leaned close and whispered in his ear as they walked on, “how many bribes went out to tell that pretty tale around the city?”

“Do you remember how Master Bacon would always say that the gifts of reason and speech are inherent to mankind, a gift from God?” Andronikos smiled slightly, but his eyes were blank. Cecilia tried not to laugh, but a tiny snort escaped.

“I have an idea to test that,” he said, staring ahead, clearly trying to ignore the noise. “We’ll take two newborn from their mothers—pay the families well, of course—and put them on an island with a mute! Then…what?” he asked when she snorted again, the grave look on his face as thin and transparent as a sheet of glass.

“You!” she finally laughed as they passed several minor functionaries who bowed low. “Trying to change the subject, and poorly at that! Just admit it,” she went on, voice low enough none could hear, “you dropped a few coins here and there!”

Andronikos glared at her for a moment, before rolling his eyes, a sigh on his lips. A second later, a smile broke through his façade. He looked down, face redding.

“Oh no…” she started to chuckle, covering her mouth. “You didn’t write that little song the maid was humming, did you?”

“No,” Andronikos looked down again, “I paid the man who did though, and now everyone is singing it.” He looked up, a weary smile on his face. “I fear that song will hang around my neck like a noose! Thirty years from now people will be humming it… and I’ll be thoroughly cross!”

“It’ll serve you right,” Cecilia laughed.

“After the parade was enough,” Andronikos sighed, then smirked at her. “Maybe we should hire some new musicians, so I don’t have to hear someone trying to sing that song every dinner trying to impress me?”

Cecilia smiled thinly at the thought—she wouldn’t mind several new court musicians, or many of the other things Andronikos came up with. The triumphal parade, almost wholly his vision, had been particularly spectacular—ten tagmata from the Basilikon in parade gear, a long train of prisoners, most taken from Spain, the captured rebels prominently tied up in huge carts so the populace could throw their refuse at the once proud men. Interspersed through the whole affair were lions and all manner of great beasts from the fringes of the empire—and thus, civilization.

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Yet even as Cecilia rode beside her husband amidst the pomp and splendor—something unusual by the standards of previous triumphs, she’d been told—she couldn’t help but wonder how much the whole affair had cost. Yes, Romanos had worked wonders in Spain and was fully deserving a triumph. Yes, Gabriel being driven back to Persia was worthy of a sumptuous affair. But Cecilia had always been quick with numbers, and prior to her husband naming her his Logothetes ton Genikou she’d asked several eidikoi to go over the state’s finances with her.

The memory of those papers made her grimace, even now, days later.

She looked back at her smiling husband, still dragging his left foot slightly, and fought the urge to sigh. She loved that Andronikos was full of so many ideas, plans, and dreams for what he would do with his office. But she was worried he would do too much, too quickly. New court musicians sounded nice, but the money it would take…

“That does sound lovely,” she smiled, hoping her worry didn’t show through.

“Mayhaps we’ll add someone to the palace staff who can study the beasts from the parade as well,” the Emperor thought aloud as he shuffled along beside her. He’d already decided to keep the animals involved in Konstantinopolis—it was cheaper than shipping them back, so now they roamed about pens in the Megara Gardens. His eyes flashed again—Cecilia braced herself for another idea to come tumbling from his mind. “Did you know,” Andronikos leaned over, “that universities in northern Italy have their own buildings?”

“No…” Cecilia waved off several handmaidens standing in the hall, gawking. A new batch had been taken in, daughters of several of the prominent strategoi that had remained loyal as a token of honor to add to their family names. Unfortunately, the girls were as conscious of palace protocol as a bee was of anything besides honey. “The Deukalion doesn’t. Why don’t the local dynatoi just rent out some of their palaces and…”

“I know the Deukalion doesn’t,” Andronikos said, voice suddenly agitated, “and it’s… it’s unacceptable! Hold!” he called to the bevy of retainers following them as they passed a window. He led her over, and gestured out to the Queen of Cities. “Here is the greatest city in the world, with the greatest number of learned men in history, and they have no place to gather.”

“They do,” Cecilia furrowed her brow, “it’s called the palace.”

“But they deserve their own palace,” Andronikos went on. “It’s…unacceptable,” Andronikos huffed, “that the University of Bologna has a building of its own, and the Deukalion does not! I want to build a palace! A palace to thought! And…” he added, squinting in the distance, “the Augusteon plainly needs renovation, and with the new walls harbors could be added closer to the Kosmodion…”

“And what of the races and bread?” Cecilia prodded.

“That too…” he nodded quickly. “We have to keep the people happy.”

“And how much will all that cost?” Cecilia openly let her frown show through.

“I’m sure my lovely logothetes ton genikou can tell me,” Andronikos grinned.

Cecilia crossed her arms. “And I will,” she added, before looking up at the retinue gathered around them. “On,” she said, waving them forward. Almost reluctantly, Andronikos fell alongside her as the entourage resumed its progress towards the council chambers. “I’ve seen your plans for the Augusteon, Andronikos,” she said a moment later, “a statue of Demetrios Megas and the Megaloprepis on opposite sides of the plaza?”

“Twenty feet tall, with gold leaf,” Andronikos sighed. Cecilia rolled her eyes—he knew where the conversation was headed, but she didn’t care. It needed to be said, here, in private, before it was aired ever so delicately in front of the other members of the council—some Cecilia simply did not trust. She watched her young husband glance down, as if in thought, before looking back up at her. “Nag me later,” Andronikos’ forehead touched her as they walked. He chuckled before giving her a kiss. “I…”

Eidikios Theophylaktos showed me the figures,” Cecilia frowned, “and the treasury is…”

“Well, I know it is less than…” Andronikos started.

“…nearly empty!” Cecilia went over her husband’s voice with her own sharp whisper. Years of war, coupled with the monumental building projects of Thomas III, had left the state finances in a less than stellar. “Andronikos, you simply can’t go buying buildings and plots of land when…”

“I know!” he hissed with a suddenly sharp glare. After a moment, his face softened. “I know,” he sighed, looking down. “I’ll think of… something,” he muttered as the slow chorus of shoes on marble trundled onward.

“I already have,” Cecilia replied. “A simple stopgap. Have you considered selling the lands of Segeo and the other disloyal Spanish dynatoi still in imperial hands?” Cecilia raised an eyebrow. She was, after all, in a position to know who had what. He’d left her on the small council that’d been in charge of rewarding the loyal Spanish lords—including her father, the new Despotes of Galicia…

“I…I’d planned on keeping Cordoba as a Western capital, It’d be uncouth for an Emperor to simply sell lands…” he said slowly.

“You could simply… offer them graciously to landless dynatoi! Or great merchant families, in return for donations of a sort,” she waved her hand aimlessly as she whispered in his ear. “If, say, the Dandolos or Medicis donate buildings for a Deukalion complex, then why shouldn’t the Emperor grant them the princely title of… Murcia, for example? You would not sully your office, and there would be some funds in the short term for projects. Long term though…”

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“I know…” Andronikos nodded. “I have some ideas on how we can raise scutage for the dynatoi more, without it looking as such,” he added.

“What exactly?” Cecilia raised an eyebrow as the entourage rounded the final corner before the long hall in front of the Inner Council’s meeting hall.

“Shove more of the local military responsibilities onto their lap is one step,” her husband mused, “that’d allow us to cut the number of standing tagmata. Did you know,” he turned to her, “that we have 76 standing tagmata?” He shook his head. “That’s too many, not when we can do the same thing with far less falling on our shoulders…”

“But how to keep the dynatoi in line, and the strategoi happy?”

“And that’s the part I haven’t managed to solve,” Andronikos grunted. “In the long term though…” he started, before his voice drifted off as they arrived at the great bronze and gilt doors. “Announce,” he said simply to the chamberlain behind him as Cecilia ran a hand over her own ornate state dress. She felt a hand gently touch hers, and she found him giving her one last smile of trust and love before his blank ‘face of state’ wiped all emotion from his eyes. Metal groaned as servants pulled the doors wide, and the Grand Chamberlain of the Palace, resplendent in robes of red silk and white gold, walked into the room. Three times, his iron staff thundered over the marble.

“All Hail Megas Komnenos Andronikos, First of That Name, Emperor of the Romans…”

==========*==========​

Andronikos took a final breath, then walked into the richly decorated room.

“Majesty.” There was a rustle of rich garments as all in the room bowed in unison.

Even as he slowly entered the room (for both the sense of serenity, and to hide his limp), hand in Cecilia’s, his eyes glanced around. The room seemed smaller than Andronikos remembered—though that was partly of his own doing. While his stepfather had been Regent, Albrecht von Franken had kept the Inner Council small—himself, Andronikos, the Patriarch, and a few trusted advisors. Andronikos had decided long before he was going to increase the membership in the council—firstly to gain as many opinions as possible, and secondly as a measure to prevent any cliques in court gathering around a few members. Better to have a sea of voices, both to give ideas and to shout each other down into powerlessness.

“Be seated,” Andronikos said, taking his place at the front of the long table in a throne of striped ebony. The room again rustled as the powerful and mighty of the empire took their own seats.

Closest to Andronikos to his right sat Cecilia, the first Empress to be in Council since the days of Sophie Komnenos under the Megaloprepis. Across from her sat the new Megoskyriomachos, Ioannis Angelos, pleasantly smiling as he always did after a job well done. Beside him was Eleutherios Skleros, officially chief of spies, but often much more—Andronikos had little time to leave useful men like Skleros shuffling papers in some drafty palace. Across from him was the Megos Domestikos, now recovered from his wounds at Nikaea, then Thomas of Aquino, representing the Patriarch. Next, Andronikos had raised his old tutor, Roger Bacon, to the Council as a Special Representative—the old man’s simple monk robes looked like a dark, bland island in this sea of color.

Across from him was the Empress Dowager Anastasia, hands folded, smiling with pride at her son. She’d played her role in the previous drama to perfection, and Andronikos was more than happy to give her an honorary seat on the Council—even if she held no formal position. It was not without precedent, and if she utter one word of wisdom during her time present, it would be well worth it. Further down the table ran a series of officers of state, the army, and the church—a riot of color and a mass of power that sat, hushed, waiting for Andronikos to speak. For a moment the Emperor relished the silence and what it meant, before finally he opened a meeting of the Inner Council for the first time on his own.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Andronikos said the words he’d anxiously practiced for an hour after waking up in the morning. “Let’s begin. Ioannis?”

“Well,” Ioannis’ smile disappeared, replaced by a surprisingly business-like face, “I think we can safely say the crowds enjoyed yesterday’s triumph!” Several chuckles went around the room, some more nervous than others. “The whole affair went according to plan—save for the creature that decided to…” he looked quietly over at Bacon and Aquino before continuing, “foul the middle of the main thoroughfare. The…” he waved his hand, and grunted. “…the…what was it?”

“A rhinoceros,” Bacon pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “A beast from Nubia.”

“Ah… a rhinokeratos,” Ioannis butchered the word, but went on. “Whatever it’s called, the mound proved a mess for the prisoner ranks marching behind. Oh, and of course, the problem with the headsman…”

Andronikos put on a grimace for public show, even as he wanted to grin. What to do with Segeo Komnenos and the would be usurper Thomas Komnenos had been a vexing problem in a way—how, exactly should they be executed? Cecilia had been in favor of a simple hanging by the Golden Horn, while Ioannis had favored drawing and quartering. Andronikos decided on something more… public. And painful.

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“The boy’s neck was nearly as small as Segeo’s prick,” Strategos Simon Tatikios grumbled from the back of the room. “The headsman missed the first neck swing, so what? The boy was screaming already from the castration, so what was another minute of moaning and whimpering from him?”

Andronikos watched as Bacon, Cecilia, and Aquino paled, but he didn’t care. Public castration, blinding, and then beheading seemed the most appropriate punishment for the injury those two did to Andronikos—and by extension, the Empire. One man cost Andronikos his dear uncle, the closest he’d ever had to a real father. The other simply had the bad luck to be the son of a previous emperor. Both bled freely there, in the middle of the Hippodrome before the city crowds. Both heard the people of the city give bloody cheers as each step of the sentence was done.

“Minor problems,” Ioannis waved his hand. “Next, we have a petition from Bertrand de Toulouse to recognize his claim to being Prince of Algiers.”

Andronikos frowned. Was that really the next most important thing on the docket? He sat puzzled for a moment or two before he remembered the lessons from his stepfather long ago—the endless lists of nobility and their progeny throughout the empire. De Toulouse—Exarchs of Africa, two sons, Phillipe, the eldest, and Bertrand, the youngest. Two sons, who hated each other—and a father who had at least shown cowardice at Guidiana, if not outright treason, and then had the temerity to try to negotiate with imperial forces during the campaign to retake Spain…

…inside, Andronikos’ frown turned upside down.

“Who will succeed the father when the Exarchos passes on?” Andronikos asked.

Exarchos Phillipos has not made that clear…” Ioannis said, the smallest hint of a smile forming on his lips, “He hasn’t even made it clear if he wants his youngest son to be Prince of half the Exarchate when the elder is Prince of the other half.” Andronikos echoed the move. The Exarchs were simply too powerful, especially the treacherous Phillipos. They needed to be broken and replaced by smaller Despotes filled with loyal men. Africa and Mauretania were the only Exarchates left—Bartholomaios of Mauretania had fought against Segeo, and valiantly, he would be impossible to move immediately. If Africa fell into civil war though through the petty jealousy of two brothers, however…

“Send Prince Bertrand my blessings on the arrangement,” Andronikos smiled pleasantly. “Also send word to Phillipos that his son has been elevated to Prince by imperial hand,” he added before looking down the long line of advisors. “Next business?”

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May 8th, 1264

Mecca


Taqi ad-Din ibn-Taymiyyah stretched, trying to see while keeping his unsteady footing. The boy heard an “oof,” and settled back onto his adoptive father’s shoulder.

“You’re starting to weigh a great deal, Taqi,” the boy heard Ackbar al-Tayyif mutter down below. The eight year old told himself to be more careful, but the crowds that filled Mecca during the hajj made it so hard to see! Someone up in front—an Armenian, by the look of his broad hat, blocked Taqi’s view once more.

Yet even Taqi would agree that the pushing and crowding of a Mecca filled with pilgrims was far better than the silent screams that surrounded father and son at their first meeting.

Neither adoptive father nor adoptive son was able to stay in Spain after the horrors of Barcelona. So in the summer of 1263, Ackbar sold his droving interests, and flush with a tidy little sum, sailed south and east. In August, they reached Egypt, and it took another two months for them to reach their final destination, the place where they felt far enough away from the blood, gore, and death of Spain to set up a new life.

Mecca.

They’d settled into their new home quickly. The city was bustling, and Taqi heard all sorts of tongues as his father led him by the hands through the busy streets. The young boy recognized the Arabic he’d grown used to over the last few months—a language he still spoke with a thick accent. His ears perked up when he heard a smatter of Andalusi—harsh words he remembered his dead mother chiding him for repeating long ago. He craned his neck—a man wearing a Persian hat was in the way—and he saw a vast array of caps of all sizes, shapes and colors. Faces that looked Greek, some that looked Coptic, others that plainly looked from even further north—Taqi remembered those, al-Tayyif said they were the personal guardsmen of the Sharif, men descended from the far north whose fathers had served in the Roman army.

But the man that caught and held his gaze was simply dressed—a woolen shift and trousers, a knotted belt, and sandals that could belong to any laborer in Mecca’s streets. If he hadn’t been on a crate, his words echoing over the hushed plaza, Taqi wouldn’t have known he was any different from anyone else who visited his father’s tailoring shop these days.

“…just as misguided as the followers of Isa!” Adhid al-Hinnawi thundered. “Allah protects the meek and strikes the mighty! Look,” a hand pointed towards the north, “at what befell the mighty Jabreel ibn Thumas! The man they called the Desert Lion! Allah reached down and rendered him humble once more!” Those hands spread wide, the gesture seeming to circle the plaza and everyone within it. “You all, though, are far more clever than the heathen Romans! Why then did Allah humble us those years ago? Why did we make Him act so to His People? Surely, we, those who heeded the calling of Mohammed, should have been ready, and listening!” The hands fell, a look of sorrow came across that powerful face. “But we were not! We grew fat, rich, and sinful! But Allah is merciful to his people, and sends His Word once more! Will you listen to this clarion call? Will you heed the call of Allah?”

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As his words echoed over the still masses, drowning out the cursing of merchants and others on their daily runs trying to wiggle through the rearmost ranks of the crowd, Taqi frowned. He heard the man’s words—he’d heard them before, when they’d first moved to Mecca, distantly rumbling through the streets to his father’s house. They were on everyone’s lips too—even the shepherds that brought wool to his father’s shop.

Yet they did not follow what the Imams of the mosque preached. Taqi didn’t know or understand most of what the man called the Timeless One spoke of—he knew of The Five Pillars, and he knew of Musa’s Code and how not to be a bad boy. Despite his innocence, even a child as young as Taqi realized when a man was claiming that Mohammed was not The Prophet. Especially when that man claimed it was he, Adhid al-Hinnawi, that was the true, final messenger sent by Allah to guide his wayward people home.

“Do you agree with him, baba?” Taqi asked as his father lowered him to the ground. “He’s saying he’s the successor to the Prophet, isn’t he?”

Taqi watched as his adoptive father looked up at the man who had enraptured the crowd, and grunted. “Hmmm…” Al-Tayyif looked a moment longer, before kneeling down next to the boy. “I think he is touched by Allah.”

“So you think he’s right? That he is the Mahdi?” Taqi recoiled slightly. “But the Imam said…”

“No,” al-Tayyif said quickly, “I did not say that. Think on my words, Taqi. I said he has been touched by Allah.” The old man carefully took his son’s hands into his own. “There are some men who claim things who are clearly doing the work of Shaitan. Then,” he looked up towards al-Hinnawi, now thundering about how God had blessed mankind with reason, “there are those who, even if they are not right themselves, are being used by Allah for His work. I think that this man is of the latter, Taqi.”

Taqi frowned, looking back towards the preacher whose final words now echoed dimly over the plaza. If this man, this saddiq was touched by Allah, then how could he not tell the truth? The seven year old frowned, looked up at al-Tayyif, and asked his question—to which the old man laughed, long and hard.

“Well,” al-Tayyif said after a moment, “perhaps you would like to ask him?”

“Ask him?” Taqi’s eyebrows flew up in confusion.

“Al-Hinnawi takes questions,” al-Tayyif took Taqi’s hand and began leading him forward through the crowd. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? Then, tomorrow after Friday prayers, you can ask the imam what he thinks. The best way to learn is to ask learned men.”

“I want to be a learned man someday,” Taqi chirped as they moved through the slowly dispersing crowd.

“I hope you have many questions for both,” al-Tayyif smiled as they fell in line behind others wanting al-Hinnawi’s attention…

==========*==========​

June 18th, 1264

Baghdad


“How does this look?”

Lady Agnes de Perigord wrinkled her nose. In her opinion, her charge looked ridiculous with the dark lines drawn around his eyelids, but his mother, and most importantly, his aunt, approved. Agnes sighed—she’d argued long and hard against making Prince Alexandros wear cosmetics like some kind of whore, but the Empress Theophano was heavy with child. Agnes, like the rest of the court, fervently hoped the child would breathe this time, as well as be a son….

“You do not like it,” the boy complained.

“You used way too much,” Agnes chided, “Your Highness looks like a baboon!”

“I am not a baboon!” the boy snapped, hands on his hips. “I beat Uncle Nikky in a spar! I beat a warrior in a spar! I am no baboon!” he yelled.

Agnes merely snorted—she was the only one in the palace that scolded him, or even told him when he was wrong. She had three children of her own—while to others it was a miracle that he spent more time around her than anyone else, she was not surprised in the least. Children want structure and guidance. They’ll flock to it, even if its disapproving.

“A baboon fights well too. If you don’t want to be called one, your servants should wash it off and try again,” Agnes said simply, purposefully looking away from the indignant boy and out the window of the tallest tower in the Imperial Palace of Baghdad. The boy relished attention. Long ago she’d discovered he’d give in to reason if one simply pretended he wasn’t…

…she squinted. What was that in the distance?

As Alexandros barked in his high pitched voice for a wash cloth and more shadow, Agnes watched that long, hazy line beyond the city wall—to the northwest. For a few more minutes she puzzled as a swarm of servants surrounded the boy, cleaned off his eyes and tried again.

“This better?”

Agnes blinked, then looked back. The ring was much thinner now—enough to please Empress Theophano, but not so much that the boy looked like an ape. Agnes nodded, slowly, then went back to looking at the hazy line—yes, that had to be the army.

The Emperors were returning home.

“Is that grandpapa?” Alexandros asked, wandering beside her. She nodded, a hand finding his shoulder and urging him over towards the window. Together, they watched in silence for some time. The long columns looked haggard and worn, even to Agnes’ unmilitary eyes. She knew if the army looked that way to her, the situation must be truly be bad. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—Gabriel’s army had conducted a retreat across Anatolia. She’d seen two winters there—cold, wet, dreary—in short, something that had made her miserable, wrapped in warm cloaks and close to manor hearths. She couldn’t imagine camping in the wet—that had to be dreadful!

“I wonder how many have returned?” she asked aloud after several minutes silence, hand tightening slightly on her charge’s small shoulders. Would the boy in Konstantinopolis come charging after in the spring, with the might of the Empire behind his back?

“Uncle Nikky said two-thirds,” Alexandros piped up.

“Two thirds?” she raised an eyebrow. All of Baghdad had heard of the disaster that befell the Young Pretender, as Thomas IV was known. Agnes was no expert, but even she could do math. That was a quarter of the grand expedition. So that meant Gabriel had lost what? Another 15,000? Far less than she’d expected, considering the grim rumors about Nikaea that had run through the streets.

“Yes!” Alexandros nodded, before a scowl came over his young face. “They said the coward boy,” he hissed his new term for his cousin now ruling from Konstantinopolis, “refused battle twice after Nikaea!” The young boy spat on the floor.

“Alexandros!” Agnes scolded, as servants immediately wiped it up.

“He is a cheat and a coward, Lady Agnes!” Alexandros complained. “What man refuses battle when he has advantage! A coward! A stupid…”

She roughly caught his arm and jerked him towards her. There was no pause, no thought—the young prince was out of line, and his nursemaid was the only person in the palace authorized to correct him aside from his family.

Alexandros we do not spit on the floor!” Agnes snapped. The boy went rigid, glared for a moment, then looked down.

“Sorry.”

“Apologize correctly,” Agnes glowered.

“I apologize, Lady Agnes,” the boy mumbled, “for spitting on the floor.”

“Good,” Agnes nodded. “Now,” she said, a hand reaching under his chin to hold his head up, “if you want to spit at the young thief in Konstantinopolis, you do it thusly.” She turned, walked towards the western windows in the room, and spat onto the ground below. When she looked back, the young prince was grinning.

“There’s no reason to make extra work for the staff,” she chided gently, motioning him over. He came eagerly, and copied her example but spitting towards the Queen of Cities with gusto. “Why make them mop up the floor when they could be tending to your supper?” she finished her thought as he laughed.

“It’s too bad grandpapa couldn’t kill the thief!” Alexandros said a moment later.

“Oh, your grandfather will,” Agnes nodded, looking at that long line of soldiers once more. Her husband’s men had marched like that—desultory, grim—but after a good rest, she remembered seeing them leaving again—singing songs, eager for battle once more. “He’ll kill the little thief. Or your father will,’ she added.

“And if they don’t, I will!” Alexandros piped up with the vim and vigor only a child could have.

“Of course you will,” she ruffled his head gently and smiled. Despite the feminine shadow around his eyes, she was pleased. The boy had iron where it counted.

In his soul.

==========*==========

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Alexandros of Persia Theme



Sorry about the long delay! Got busy with gaming, then work, then the forum was down... but here's the final update of this chapter!
 
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Are you going to be using Jared Leto for Alex II?

Selling titles, that sounds like a really smart long-term decision. But a university surely isn't. Nothing but foolishness ever comes of scholars.
 
Superb update! Nice to see the next generation of Persian Emperors again. It can't be too long now before Andronikos has an heir as well.

The forum colors will probably be restored during the next days or weeks.
 
Here's some Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy

It's amusing to see how impressed the people are by the 'Rhinokeratos', when nowadays I can see thousands of them in zoos or in photographs, a thousand pound one-horned beast seems less strange somehow.

Despite the jubliant attitude and perception of victory in Konstantinopolis, or the claims of the Timeless One that Jabreel has been humbled by Allah himself, I don't think we've seen the last of the Desert Lion & sons' ambitions. Losing between a quarter and half of his army is definitely a defeat, but Andronikos didn't get away unscathed, personally or militarily, and I think he still underestimates Gabriel too much, to be frank.

I am also glad to see Segeo brought to justice in as bloody a way as possible, as he was just a right bastard in every sense of the word.

Finally, it's a good thing the poor child isn't turning into quite as much of a pansy as I feared he would, at least not yet. Alexandros Megas might very well have worn eyeshadow too, you know.
 
Mahdi, huh? I guess this forebodes some trouble for the Padi.. uh, Andronikos unless he remains quite tolerant.

Well, as long as he doesn't deny them the hadjj....
 
Guess we met two boys who will give Andi all kinds of trouble in the future. Personally I'd like to see Constantinople burn for what was done with Barcelona, preferably with Andi alive to see it...

Giving land to Dandolo's, Medici and Orsini? Guess that will come back to hunt the empire. Why not a nice local dynasty, like the Borja :D.
 
Very nice update. So the Roman empire is going back to its roots with Andronikos? The Inner Council reminds of the Senate.

And I'm sure Alexandros the Third shall be my new favourite living character after Gabriel passes on. Is he the one that's going to use that musketeer who we first saw with Ioannis? And awesome theme is awesome. The best one yet I think. :D Also, does this mean Alexandros will be a pirate? :p
 
Reducing the exarchates and at the same time enlarging the inner circle? The first risks decentralizing response to threats and advisors with power have a tendency to wish for their to be heeded. With the treasury drained this might signal quite the change in Imperial politics...
 
University?
Renaissance begins in 13th century Constantinople? :D
Or has begun already...

And a new fire burns in Mecca.
This young man seems quite promising. :cool:
 
In this version of the 13th century, the "renaissance" will include the Byzantine Empire :)

Oh and great update again, as usual. I cringed upon reading the passage where it described the torture and execution of Segeo and Thomas "IV" :eek:o The escalation in punishment brutality mirrors the escalation of Imperial power, against the threats that seek to tear it down...
 
Interesting update.

Andronikis seems to be pretty secure in his position of power in Konstantinopolis even if the Imperial coffers are struggling.

Meanwhile I am really looking forward to seeing the make-up wearing boy develop into a man - he is surely going to be a great character in adulthood. I have no idea hwo he will turn out.

But as we reach into the later 13th century we must be getting close the the point where the Empire starts to fall apart. Afterall we all know that at the start of the CK portion the Roman world is divided and its hard to see that happening in just a decade or two.
 
I've been gone a long time but I'm glad to see that this AAR is just as good as I remember it. It seems the Persian branch is still managing to pull off being Komnenid and reasonable at the same time, which is quite the feat. Although Safiya continues the tradition of being "annoying female character who really irritates me". While the rhino was awesome, I'm increasingly disliking Andronicus; the empire needs a Basil II, not a Manuel Komnenus (OTL).

How are the lands of the Rus doing? I imagine that since the Horde has declined in power, and Sortmark temporarily crippled, the various Russian principalities would be vying to recreate the Kingdom of the Rus.

If you're still doing alt-history updates, I know one I'd like to suggest. What if Thomas II had killed Genghis Khan at Neapolis? It would make it at best a Pyyrhic victory for the Mongols, and what would happen to Mongol conquests if the whole "khan's dead, let's go back to Karakorum to fight over who will be next" happened so early in the empire's history.
 
Although Safiya continues the tradition of being "annoying female character who really irritates me".

I'm increasingly disliking Andronicus; the empire needs a Basil II, not a Manuel Komnenus (OTL).

Speaking of that saucy wench, where is she now, post exile?

I don't think I agree fully. Basil was a great leader for his particular time, but we surely don't need another would-be warrior-king at this juncture. Yes, there is a war going on with Gabriel, but he's on the run for now, and the military has been bureaucratized to such an extent by Albrecht that the command of armies is delegated to quite capable men, and can run well enough even with a less militarily-apt Emperor at the helm (which can also prove dangerous, for obvious reasons). However, after the war, which will hopefully only encompass around a tenth to a fifth of his reign, (Assuming death at 50-60 years old, that is.) the empire needs a ruler who knows when to stay his hand, and use subtlety & subterfuge instead of brute force. Too many sons of Thrace have shed their blood already, and the coffers run dry as well. It's time to rebuild, and Andronikos has a better temperament for that than anyone save Thomas III. (And a MUCH better state of mind.)
 
Interesting update.

Andronikis seems to be pretty secure in his position of power in Konstantinopolis even if the Imperial coffers are struggling.

Meanwhile I am really looking forward to seeing the make-up wearing boy develop into a man - he is surely going to be a great character in adulthood. I have no idea hwo he will turn out.

But as we reach into the later 13th century we must be getting close the the point where the Empire starts to fall apart. Afterall we all know that at the start of the CK portion the Roman world is divided and its hard to see that happening in just a decade or two.

There is still the entire 14th century that needs to be played out, before going to EU3 :)
 
So far, Andronikos strikes me as developing into a fairly poor emperor. Not only has he left a vast swath of Anatolia devastated, he's frivolously throwing money around and making serious alterations to the state with little apparent foresight save for self-aggrandizement (and aforementioned throwing around of money). He's still just emerging from childhood, yet lacks any major constraints on his actions. With Ioannis and his goons at his disposal, Andronikos seems to be the most powerful emperor yet.
 
Basil was a great leader for his particular time, but we surely don't need another would-be warrior-king at this juncture.

I can certainly understand where you're coming from. The reason I said a Basil II was needed was not because he was a great warrior-emperor, but because in addition to that, he was (to my knowledge) a rather frugal emperor, and unlike almost every Komnenid, he did not let lust cloud his judgement. He was also a rather sensible administrator, letting the Bulgarians pay taxes in kind rather than money like the rest of the empire. The recent comments about toleration of the hajj are making me think someone is going to get the idiot idea of trying to abolish it. And he always did his conquering in bite sized chunks, unlike Andronikos who I can easily see reaching too far out of hubris and then falling flat on his face.
 
Did Andronikos become a "Hole in the Pocket"? I guess he could still have decent stats with it, but could also depict a promising young character going down hill early.
 
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