First, a HUGE thank you goes out to AlexanderPrimus, who wrote that hilarious interim! He originally wrote a previous interim about Antemios far back, and hatched the idea for this one way way back then. If you like his writing, I'd recommend you check out Chronicles of the Golden Cross, his first AAR about the Kingdom of Jerusalem (on hiatus now), or for more recent work Athellan, A Tale of Kings which follows Saxon England after a hypothetical victory over William the Bastard at Hastings in 1066.
Enewald - And more you shall have, just below!
Tommy4ever - Antemios has definitely got himself in a pickle. And AP is peerless when it comes to getting the accents just right for his characters to make them believable and hilarious at the same time.
RGB - A Greek Prince who's first inclination at the Band of Brothers around him is to start drinking. Who could blame him in that company of heroes?
Sergei Meranov - All thanks need to go to AlexamderPrimus... this one was entirely his baby. All the accolades need to his feet!
Nehekara - Considering he's studying Saxon England and it had enormous Norse influences, I'd hope he'd have it accurate... at least, far more accurate than I could ever match...
Clydwich - He isn't... he's simply throwing out an impossible demand simply so he has a casus belli...
Frrf - I would highly recommend it. If ANY of you have not read any of AP's previous AARs, I would recommend them highly. Check out the links above!
armorstian - It was a Lollible? Terriblol? Disastrolol?
Panjer - Rather capable. In order to survive, he almost had to evolve...then again, he'd survived Konstantinopolis decently enough, that gave him a leg-up training wise for court politics one could say...
Vesimir - Perhaps this is Sweden's definitive "I'm a part of Europe too, dammit!" statement to get the author's attention? lol
Zzzzz... - He's outlived one of his brothers already, and the other is in exile as well... just in the opposite direction (and with more soldiers, more money, and more opulence to play in)...
asd21593 - It's almost demotivational poster quality bad...
Leviathan07 - Well, you'll have to petition Mr. AlexanderPrimus for another Antemios update! (Yup, just shoved the buck down the line!
)
AlexanderPrimus - No worries, it was WELL worth the wait!
Won't say anything more, except UPDATE TIME.
“The Komnenoi and cockroaches share two things in common—we are indestructible, and we spread our filth everywhere. May God have mercy on this Earth.” – attributed to Andronikos Komnenos
December 14th, 1271
“…stabilized nicely…”
“Andronikos Komnenos folded his hands and smiled—both at his wife, and at the words coming out of her mouth. Cecilia’s dedication to her office as logothetes ton genikou had been inspirational—she attended every meeting of the Inner Council, as well as advisors on the imperial treasury, as well as tended to all her duties within the Imperial Household, despite her ponderously pregnant belly that seemed to grow by the day. When she was carrying Demetrios, Andronikos had tried to get his wife to stay quiet, to no avail. Now, on child number three, he knew better and simply let her do as she wished.
“…lowered the inflation of the hypersolidus, which hopefully will mean the merchants in Pola, Venice, and Genoa will lower their prices on everything from wine and food to furs and velvet.” She smirked, looking as beautiful as ever. “I can clearly see by those of you gathered around that the latter is your primary concern!”
A gentle ripple of laughter went around the room, as a few of the plumper Council members poked fun at themselves—the loudest being Andronikos’ cousin, the Prince of Samos, who was likely drunk already or well on his way. That was the sole reason Prince Arkadios Komnenos had been named to the now largely ceremonial position of Megoskyriomachos. Its duties had been subsumed by other offices—and publicly ‘stripping’ Angelos of it had done wonders for the Emperor’s popularity with the nobility—even as Ioannis held the same authority through other auspices. As Andronikos watched, Arkadios nearly tumbled out of chair, spilling wine on his shirt.
In fact, only one person in the entire room didn’t laugh—Idris ibn Khalid, the Imperial logothetes ton mousalmanoi. In the five years since Andronikos created the office within the Council and selected him—son of a prominent Muslim merchant family with many connections throughout the Empire—he’d never seen Idris laugh during a Council meeting. Even the pious and pompous representatives of the Patriarchs occasionally chuckled—but not Idris. Not ever.
“So in short, thanks to your advice,” Andronikos gently patted his wife’s great belly, “the treasury is now growing by…” he quickly did the math in his head, “6,500 solidii per month?”
“Close,” Cecilia smiled, “65,000 solidii. Your Majesty forgot to carry a ten. The decision to require all payments of scutage to the imperial government to be in silver coin has paid off handsomely, as you can see.”
Andronikos smiled as another slight chuckle went around the room.
“Good for all of us that the Emperor’s wife counts better than he does,” he added. “So, Ioannis?” he looked up at the Archeoikos and second-most-powerful man in the empire, “what news on our frontiers?”
“Would Your Majesty like to begin with the East, or the West?”
“The West,” Andronikos said quietly, nibbling on figs from the lone plate on the table. It truthfully concerned him more—his webs in the East would be spinning. He’d find out how they were doing later, as well as find out why the servants were late with the plates of food normally at council meetings.
“First, Majesty, it appears King Magnus of Sweden is claiming he is an Emperor,” Ioannis said, nodding to a nearby servant. The man produced a parchment, tassels of blue and gold hanging from its wax seal, and offered it to the emperor. “He even sent an ambassador, urging Your Majesty to recognize him with the Roman title of Basilieus.”
“What?” Andronikos choked. The Emperor coughed until the offending piece was out of his mouth. “He what? Why? How?”
“He claims,” Ioannis said sardonically, “that as he rules as King of the Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians, and that as the Baltic is his lake as much as the Mediterranean is ours, that he should be granted the dignity by your,” Ioannis referenced the paper in his hand quickly, “Illubrious Majesty?”
“Illubrious?” Cecilia raised an eyebrow.
“I can’t read that damn scrawl the Varangians call writing,” Ioannis cursed. “He also says that he has petitioned the Pope in Trier to recognize his claim to the title, as it was held by his most magnificent ancestor, Knud of the Danes.”
Andronikos gently pushed the proffered parchment away with a polite, but paper-thin smile. The servant bowed, and took the parchment away. Even though the King of the North had the courtesy to ask for permission to use such a prestigious title (unlike the Capetians, who simply took it, unrecognized), Andronikos wouldn’t, couldn’t, grant such an honor. Basilieus belonged to the Romans, and no others.
Just in time, the belated servants arrived with the trays of food normally present at every meeting.
“Any news on what happened with the French?” the emperor changed the subject as a bevy of servants laid plates of food and other light snacks on the table. He snagged a grape. “How much have the Capetians grown?”
“Well,” the Archeoikos laughed subtly—a noise he did both when he was furious and when he was absolutely giddy—“our sources in Paris have been asked to compose a lament over some battle at Le Patano Comnine…”
“What’s that?” the new Megoskyriomachos hiccupped.
“The place where Hugues Capet was defeated fighting against an army of ten hundred thousand barbarous Scots,” Ioannis winked, “if my minstrel source is believed.”
“Ha!” Andronikos snorted, before looking at Ioannis—Angelos was still smirking, but he was nodding his head. “You’re serious,” Andronikos smiled slightly, before pointing at his friend. “I thought you were japing about for a second. So, the Scots beat the French? How?”
“Well,” Ioannis’ smile turned as wicked as a schoolchild telling a secret, “my agents tell me that Hugues returned to Paris angrier than a bleeding bull, screaming and complaining of some kind of Komnenid trickery…”
“Komnenid trickery?” Andronikos openly laughed, “He’s seeing shadows! My reach is far, but I do not reach to Scotland for my tricks!” Andronikios looked around incredulously. “It’s almost insulting! To think that we would stoop to using half-barbarians to do the work of good Roman steel?” Laughter echoed around the room as the gathered strategoi bobbed their heads in agreement.
“Oh, he has good reason to complain,” Angelos’ smile grew even wider.
“Really?” Andronikos leaned forward, now immensely curious. “How did you pull that off? Influencing a battle in Scotland?”
“Oh, I didn’t,” Angelos said quickly, “though Antemios Komnenos did.”
“Antemios Komnenos?” Andronikos raised an eyebrow. “Um… there are Komnenoi in Scotland? How the hell…?”
“Last I heard they were in France, but that was 30 years ago,” Syrenios muttered, eyes turning to saucers just like all the others who were old enough to remember the events of over thirty years before.
“They are in Scotland,” Ioannis laughed, “and what makes it even better, he is, or was, at least, the High Protector of Scotland or some nonsense,” Angelos waved his hand dismissively.
“Was?” Cecilia prodded.
“Well, after they met the French, and by the way, my man in Paris says King Hugues was savaged in that battle, some Varangian army landed and they did battle with the Scots.”
“Well who won that?” Cecilia asked.
“Does it matter?” Andronikos joined Ioannis’ laughter. “Hugues was beaten, savaged, by a bunch of barbarians led by a rotted crow of a Komnenos!” Andronikos slammed his palm on the table.
“Our lovely French peacock fell in the latrine pit!” Antemios Skoteinos, Archeheteratos and commander of the Emperor’s personal field escort joined in the banter.
It took almost a minute for the laughter to die down around the table enough for Andronikos to speak again.
“Oh!” he sighed, wiping a tear from his eye, “Amazing. So,” he looked around a room still shaking with chuckles, “Our West… is secure. What about the East?” he steepled his fingers and took in a deep breath. It was time to be serious again. “How is friend Gabriel?”
“Ah,” Ioannis nodded to his deputy, and Syrenios nodded his head first to the Emperor, then the rest of the Council.
“Gabriel flatly rejected the Caliph’s request for entry, as Your Majesty suspected he would. My agents tell me that Gabriel’s sons and grandson toned down the rejection somewhat, but rumors are spreading widely that he spat on the Caliph’s letter and had it burned.” It was Syrenios’ turn to smile—Andronikos had no doubt the man’s agents in Persia were behind those rumors, regardless what Gabriel had actually done. “And, as Your Majesty also suspected, the Caliph was no fool, and he sensed blood from his mudpit caravan. He has camped just across the frontier in the lands of the Turks, and has called on the Saracens and Persians to rise up against Gabriel’s rule, and restore him to his rightful place in Baghdad.”
“Won’t Gabriel compel the Turks to make him disappear?” the Prince of Samos asked. His voice wasn’t slurred, but Andronikos already knew the sot was already drunk. “They are his vassals…”
“Indeed,” Syrenios nodded, “he has sent letters demanding they do such, and the Turkish Sultan has… refused. Not that Gabriel has much authority now anyway, for his people have taken to the fields, and beacons of rebellion light the night from Hormuz to Mosul.”
“Excellent. Idris?”
“As Your Majesty has directed,” the lone Muslim in the room looked around nervously, especially under the withering gaze of the representatives of the Patriarchs, “notices are being spread from Syria to Spain with Your Majesty’s response to the events in the East, and instructions have been sent to local kephaloi and officials that these notices are to be translated into a local language at the soonest possible convenience.”
“Good,” Andronikos nodded. “While We do not like his faith,” Andronikos looked squarely at the representatives of the clergy as he spoke using the ‘imperial voice’—they puffed up with slight smiles at the comment—“the man is, by Our reckoning, a foreign Head of State, and is thus due far more respect than he has received from Gabriel.”
The clergymen obviously weren’t pleased by the rest of his assessment, but not one of them opened their mouths. Andronikos smiled—normally they were a noisy lot during meetings of the Council, especially whenever Idris opened his mouth in defense of the Muslims of the Empire.
“And what of the Persian army?” the Megas Domestikos pressed the matter most important to the army.
“My sources say that the Persian armies in the East are fully busy dealing with the rebellions that are daily growing in strength,” Syrenios went on. “Some of the unconverted local nobility have quickly become lightning rods for unrest, and declared their own Emirates. My people know of six strategoi left in Mesopotamia—the rest have marched East…”
“He has perhaps as few as 15,000 in Mesopotamia left?” Agyrpoulos stared, wide eyed. “Majesty, we…”
“Will not be launching a Persian adventure,” Andronikos cut the strategos off abruptly. Yes, Persia was wide open for the taking, but Andronikos saw no reason to lumber into that hornet’s nest. Let Gabriel fight the swarm of rebellious bees—Andronikos would stay in his realm, safe on all fronts for the time being, and focus on enemies here at home.
“But Majesty…”
“Ioannis, I do need for you to send a letter to the Polos again,” Andronikos spoke the signal arranged between him and Angelos one plot-filled night long before, “and ask the Mongol lords in Cathay if they would send us more silkworms. The Spanish and Italian nobility prefer the Chinese silk to our own homegrown—we shall need to pocket some money from that.”
Ioannis raised an eyebrow, asking an unspoken question. Andronikos said nothing more, but nodded slowly. Yes, he was sure—it was time to begin the great game in earnest.
“Now, Ioannis, what of your visit to Italy?” the emperor said, decisively changing the topic.
“It was productive,” Angelos nodded, both at the emperor’s verbal statement and the implicit message from just before. “I visited courts from Rome to Venice, and the general appraisal from most of the North Italians is that they are pleased with Your Majesty’s rule—especially the laxity of in-kind taxation in favor of smaller coinage tax.”
“And the lords of northern Italy?” Andronikos pressed. “Specifically my cousin Michael in Florence?” The son of Konstantinos had a more direct claim through the Thomasine branch of the imperial family than Andronikos—he could trace male-descent from the Megaloprepis, while Andronikos could only claim descent through his mother. Should he decide to start trouble…
“To be blunt,” Ioannis smiled, “it appears Lord Michael wants nothing more than to be left alone, like his grandfather was.”
“Hmm,” Andronikos nodded. A frown slowly crossed the Emperor’s face. Michael might want to be left alone, but that wouldn’t prevent others from trying to rally around him. For now, Andronikos would stay his hand. Long term, however, something would have to be done, unfortunately. “Good,” he said. But Ioannis stood there, his smile growing frosty. Andronikos sighed, and leaned back. “There’s more, Lord Angelos?”
“Indeed, Majesty,” Syrenios spoke before his master. “While the Archeoikos was in northern Italy visiting your cousins in that region, my agents have uncovered some…unsettling tidings out of Bari?”
“Oh?” Andronikos leaned forward, suddenly interested. Bari was one of the strongholds of the Apulian Komnenoi—descendants of the infamous Leo Komnenos.
“My agents… procured,” Syrenios smiled thinly, “several letters to be sent by your cousin Andronikos to his brothers in Salerno and Reggio. It appears your namesake feels your increase in the scutage for Apulia was unjust…”
“Were his complaints treasonable?” the Megas Domestikos asked.
“Yes,” Syrenios said quickly and firmly. “He questioned His Majesty’s legitimacy to rule, going so far as to say he has a more direct male descent from the Megaloprepis than His Majesty. I need not tell Your Lordships,” Syrenios’ smile became infernally large, “that such talk easily constitutes sedition.”
Murmurs went around the table—the strategoi, occupying nearly an entire side of the table, seemed to chatter the most. Treason meant war, and more meant opportunity—something they were keen to discuss…
“So what is to be done?” Andronikos asked darkly, looking at his generals. They would likely, to a man, advocate the emperor smash the rebellion before it even started. A violent military expedition meant a chance for glory, fame, promotion, and land—if the Apulians were stripped of their titles, someone would have to take their themes—and history had shown the most likely beneficiaries were the leaders of the army that invaded.
“My agents took the liberty of resealing the letters and making sure they arrived at their destinations,” Syrenios said, “to prevent the Prince of Apulia from having suspicion. I presume,” Syrenios slyly glanced at the anxious strategoi as well, “Your Majesty has a plan of what could be done?”
“I do,” Andronikos folded his hands, breaking his gaze from his generals. “Skoteinos,” Andronikos nodded to the Archehetaratos, head of the Emperor’s personal retinue of soldiers, “Take the Athanatakoi and three tagmata from the Basilikon to Bari. I’ll have the Megas Doux,” Andronikos nodded down the table to the commander of the imperial navy, “make arrangements to transport you and your 7,000 men.”
“What will our purpose be, Majesty?” Skoteinos asked.
“Peaceful, hopefully. If We expected large scale violence, of course we would send more tagmata,” Andronikos nodded to the generals. They looked on with suddenly muted interest. No, Andronikos decided, he didn’t want a full scale invasion—the generals had far too much power already. To make two or three of them princes, as they would expect—no, demand? The Emperor mentally shook his head. Far better to send a small, trusted force of men already in high office, loyal to him, with just enough men to get the job done. The Prince of Apulia would not expect 8,000 men on his doorstep—he’d have no time to call his thematakoi, or call on his brothers. Surprise, Andronikos had found, was often worth 10,000 men.
“You will carry a message—that Lord Andronikos and his brothers are to change their name, immediately, on pain of being accused of treason and being stripped of their lands,” Andronikos clarified. “Their ancestors plotted treason, and undid the work of the Megaloprepis as good as any Saracen or Mongol! Henceforth, he and his kin are to stripped of the name Komnenos, just like those Spanish bastard sons of Malhaz,” Andronikos growled. “Just as they are now Malkazoi, these sons of Bardas will now be renamed!” Andronikos thought for a moment—he needed something appropriate, something… suitable. “They shall be the Skazioi, the ‘Shadows,’” he smiled thinly. “A thin figment of what a true Komnenos is, a shade, but nothing more!”
“And if Lord Andronikos resists, Majesty?” Skoteinos asked.
“Cut him down as an example, and march with all speed on Salerno,” the Emperor said. “His brother in Calabria isn’t as great a threat. If Apulia resists and Salerno is cut down, I have a feeling the Last Komnenid in southern Italy will yield without a fight. If he doesn’t…”
“Yes Majesty?”
“Cut him down too. And cut down every member of that family,” the Emperor glowered. “It’s time the Komnenoi be pruned.”
==========*==========
February 16th, 1272
Altani Khatun looked up at the February sun and sighed—she’d never expected to start a campaign this early in the year again, not since her father had pushed his army hard year round. Then again, she’d hadn’t started her week expecting to be outside the walls of Samarkand in full armor at the front of her tumen and their auxiliaries. She also hadn’t expected her lord and master to arrive outside her gates, a great army streaming behind, with hurried orders for her and her men to join, now. The spring campaign season was here, and Arghun Khan—the same man that only a year before before the walls of a fallen Kashgar had announced his realm would have three years of peace—was demanding she and her tumen be ready to make hard for Persia with the rest of his vast host.
Altani looked over at her husband. She could only see his eyes when he had mail covering his face, and she suspected it was to cover the disdain he had for her lord and master. Arghun’s letter had arrived three days before—his army had arrived this morning. She and her husband had scrambled together a tumen of riders that were ready, but there were garrisons across her realm that were untouched—yet Arghun wanted to host a review before the city walls, then go.
Altani silently prayed—it was a new prayer, one the Mar Catholicos had composed for her only the day before, at her own request. It asked for patience, for faith, and guidance. She’d never been one to make war hastily, and neither had Arghun—not until this spring, apparently.
As she opened her eyes, she ran her fingers along the side of her horse until she felt the side scabbard that hung just before her left leg, then the sword that hung inside. Her fingers traced foreign letters and designs along the pommel. She did not draw it—she never drew that blade. Even all these years later, it felt strange and heavy in her hands. The Mongols made no swords like this—long, straight, razor sharp on both edges with a heavy crossguard and pommel. That strange, reddish hue only added to the allure. Even though she’d never use it in battle, she still kept it by her side—at first as a symbol of her triumph over the man that’d killed her father and one of her brothers. Now, she had another reason to have its scabbard hang from her horse.
She knew while Arghun Khan ruled half the known world, he had nothing like this ‘Fire Tongue’ in his vast treasury. The Roman blade, taken directly from the body of the King Alexios who slew Hulagu and slew Guyuk, was hers, and hers alone. But even its reddish hues competed little against the awesome scene before her eyes.
Arghun Khan had given her no notice of his arrival, no word of his approach. Altani had no doubt he’d ordered all the governors of the lands she ruled to not send word of the approach of him and his vast host, simply so he could arrive outside of Samarkand, unannounced, with the most powerful army she’d ever seen.
She shifted uneasily on her horse as a figure began to gallop up the length of that vast host, drawn at attention for inspection. Her fingers ran across the pommel of the Roman sword—its cold steel was no comfort, not when Arghun had elephants. Sixty of them, their armor on full display. As one, the great beasts trumpeted at their handler’s beckoning, trunks rising high into the air—the roaring noise made Altani jump, and she heard the jingle of her tumen behind her shying from the din. The trunks danced, like so many serpents, waving lazily as their lord and master rode down the length of the line. It was a fearsome display of power, a terrifying show of the might of Arghun Khan, Sultan of India, Khan of the Chagatai and Blue Horde as well as Master of Transoxiania.
Finally, the master of the western half of the Mongol world reined up next to her. While his guards and retainers were clad in gold inlaid mail with ornate helms and brilliant spears, Arghun himself was clad in white linens, a jeweled circlet with hanging pearls the only indication that he was one of the most powerful men on earth and not just another well off merchant.
“Greetings, Lady Altani,” he said, voice silken. He lifted his hand, and orders barked down the line in dozens of languages. The ground shook as legions came to attention. Altani had seen the numbers, but nothing could ever prepare one for seeing a host of 150,000 men, horses, camels, amirs, lords, khans and beyliks, pennants streaming, spears glinting, the crash of metal, the storm of light and steel. Altani blinked—the last time she’d seen such a host was just before her father’s invasion of Persia. A small part of her mind whispered this was only part of what Arghun could bring to bear.
He’d never told his erstwhile partner his full strength, but Altani had heard about India—a near endless number of men, great elephants, chariots of war—the weight and power equaling that of China. Tokhtamysh privately said he thought Arghun had upwards of 400,000 in total, numbers that sent a chill down her spine. How many would be needed in India as garrisons? Surely no where near a third of that, and Kashgar and the lands of the Blue Horde would need even fewer…
“Lady Altani.”
Altani jumped, and turned to see Arghun’s face right next to her, smiling.
“You look frightened, and the story has yet to begin!”
“I am not frightened,” Altani growled her own greeting, upset both at her predicament and that Arghun had caught her saucer-eyed look at his army. She’d never wanted to be his ally, but stranded on the edge of the Mongol world, as he bested her, then ground down both the Blue Horde and the Chagatai, she had little choice. One could swim with the tidal wave that was Arghun Khan—or one could drown fighting the current. Altani had made peace with the idea long ago that she would have to swim for the sake of her husband and three grown children. However, the woman that had once led her own wave of men would never be happy treading in someone else’s water. “I…” she started to say, cursing her tongue as it stammered.
“…have never seen an army as large as this?” Arghun asked. The Lord of India, Sarai, and Kashgar seemed to settle into his saddle, smug and confident. “I, too, trembled when I saw an army so great, but, Lady Altani, look more closely. Tell me what you see.”
Altani took stock of the great host gathered across the plains. There were elephants, great scores of horses, camels, and other beasts of burden. There were cavalry as far as the eye could see—Mongols, strange Indians in chain armor and funny hats, and…
…scores and scores of Indian infantry. Men with a shield, a spear, and little more.
“I see many ill-equipped infantry,” she said, glad to find the courage to speak something negative about Arghun’s host.
“I must confide something in you, Lady Altani,” Arghun smiled thinly, “I am not comfortable with this invasion.”
“Not comfortable?” Altani unregally squeaked. She looked around. Not even Tokhtamysh was paying attention—clearly no one heard her.
Arghun’s thin smile grew stillborn. “I do not think my armies are ready. The cavalry of the steppe is always ready, mind you,” he said hurriedly, “but my infantry…” His voice drifted off and he shook his head. “Not enough time to properly equip the expedition troops, and only barely enough time to get the supply trains ready.”
“Then why not wait?” Altani heard herself asking. Her father had spent years planning his second great invasion of Persia after the first was snuffed out! Arghun could call on far more troops than even the great Hulagu! Couldn’t he wait? “Hold off for a year, two even? Your armies could return to their garrisons while you address… that…” she gestured over towards some of the unarmored infantry.
“I fear I will not have a year even,” Arghun sighed. “You are aware of the troubles in Persia, yes?”
Altani nodded slowly—who wasn’t? Gabriel had foolishly refused the Caliph a simple request to be allowed to return home, she’d heard, and the whole of the nation was in arms against the Romans. The self-proclaimed Emirs of Hormuz and Luristan had both sent ambassadors to Samarkand to ask for Altani’s intervention, despite her official conversion to her husband’s Christian faith. She’d demurred—Arghun and his host’s unexpected arrival had made moot any decision she could have made.
“Gabriel is a fine commander of men, and his sons are capable leaders of men,” Arghun said quietly, “and I fear if I do not act now, they will sort the mess out, and they’ll be all the stronger for it. That and…” he started to speak, before he looked over at her. Altani blinked… was that nervousness in his eyes?
“You must wonder,” that flat, blank smile returned, “why I tell you these things?”
Altani nodded slowly. She wasn’t exactly a friend of Arghun—a vassal, yes. Bannerwoman, yes. Confidante—she’d never expected that role.
“You are the most important of my lords,” Arghun looked over the sea of men and beasts. “You command the best tumen—which means you command the best of my best troops. The tumen are the finest cavalry in the world, and my elephants are formidable, but the rest of this force is hollow—we are a tiger whose teeth are not as sharp as the numbers would appear. I am counting on the Persians to react as you did when you caught glimpse of the size of my force,” he nodded her way, “To see the vast host and shiver and quake. And if they don’t, I’ll be relying on you, my amirs, and the horse of this great host to break them until they do tremble.”
Altani nodded slowly.
“We’ll strike with speed and surprise on our side—the enemy will be distracted, and…”
“What about the Romans in the West?” Altani asked. The Da’qin outside of Persia held a vast empire of their own—lorded over by a man whose father Altani had slain. Surely as she’d sought vengeance for the death of her father and brothers, this Great Roman would lumber east in search of the woman who spilled his father’s blood?
“One of the few things I am sure of,” Arghun’s smile grew slightly warmer, “is that the Da’qin outside of Persia will not intervene. I have…assurances…that they will stay in their realm.”
Altani nodded—Arghun had won his empire through caution, as well as boldness. If he’d felt so confidant as to call her two tumen to war, and bring his host, already assembled, to her doorstep, his confidence had to be deep and solid. She shook her head—why was she worrying about him? If the Da’qin tumbled down, they’d land on his head, not hers!
“I know we have never been… allies,” Arghun’s smile thinned, “but I know we have been good partners. I need you and your men for one last campaign, before I have the power needed to topple Kublai in Karakorum. Then,” he nodded towards the spires and domes of Samarkand, “I shall leave you and your city in peace. In return, I offer you something no one else can.” Arghun’s eyes flashed back to her, looking at her, through her, like those of a viper. “I promise you’ll get to strangle the Persian Gabriel with a bowstring.”
==========*==========
So a lot goes down this update! Andronikos decides its time to start bringing the hammer down on more malcontent branches of the Komnenoi, while Gabriel’s troubles encourage Arghun to launch his invasion before he’s fully ready. What was Andronikos’ message to the Polos? Will Arghun’s bet Andronikos won’t respond be accurate? How will the Komnenoi of southern Italy react to their sudden demotion? And, of course, will Persia stand before the twin dangers of rebellion and the Mongols, or retreat before the onslaught? War, strife, terror, all will appear in the next update of Rome AARisen!
Enewald - And more you shall have, just below!
Tommy4ever - Antemios has definitely got himself in a pickle. And AP is peerless when it comes to getting the accents just right for his characters to make them believable and hilarious at the same time.
RGB - A Greek Prince who's first inclination at the Band of Brothers around him is to start drinking. Who could blame him in that company of heroes?
Sergei Meranov - All thanks need to go to AlexamderPrimus... this one was entirely his baby. All the accolades need to his feet!
Nehekara - Considering he's studying Saxon England and it had enormous Norse influences, I'd hope he'd have it accurate... at least, far more accurate than I could ever match...
Clydwich - He isn't... he's simply throwing out an impossible demand simply so he has a casus belli...
Frrf - I would highly recommend it. If ANY of you have not read any of AP's previous AARs, I would recommend them highly. Check out the links above!
armorstian - It was a Lollible? Terriblol? Disastrolol?
Panjer - Rather capable. In order to survive, he almost had to evolve...then again, he'd survived Konstantinopolis decently enough, that gave him a leg-up training wise for court politics one could say...
Vesimir - Perhaps this is Sweden's definitive "I'm a part of Europe too, dammit!" statement to get the author's attention? lol
Zzzzz... - He's outlived one of his brothers already, and the other is in exile as well... just in the opposite direction (and with more soldiers, more money, and more opulence to play in)...
asd21593 - It's almost demotivational poster quality bad...
Leviathan07 - Well, you'll have to petition Mr. AlexanderPrimus for another Antemios update! (Yup, just shoved the buck down the line!
)AlexanderPrimus - No worries, it was WELL worth the wait!
Won't say anything more, except UPDATE TIME.
“The Komnenoi and cockroaches share two things in common—we are indestructible, and we spread our filth everywhere. May God have mercy on this Earth.” – attributed to Andronikos Komnenos
December 14th, 1271
“…stabilized nicely…”
“Andronikos Komnenos folded his hands and smiled—both at his wife, and at the words coming out of her mouth. Cecilia’s dedication to her office as logothetes ton genikou had been inspirational—she attended every meeting of the Inner Council, as well as advisors on the imperial treasury, as well as tended to all her duties within the Imperial Household, despite her ponderously pregnant belly that seemed to grow by the day. When she was carrying Demetrios, Andronikos had tried to get his wife to stay quiet, to no avail. Now, on child number three, he knew better and simply let her do as she wished.
“…lowered the inflation of the hypersolidus, which hopefully will mean the merchants in Pola, Venice, and Genoa will lower their prices on everything from wine and food to furs and velvet.” She smirked, looking as beautiful as ever. “I can clearly see by those of you gathered around that the latter is your primary concern!”
A gentle ripple of laughter went around the room, as a few of the plumper Council members poked fun at themselves—the loudest being Andronikos’ cousin, the Prince of Samos, who was likely drunk already or well on his way. That was the sole reason Prince Arkadios Komnenos had been named to the now largely ceremonial position of Megoskyriomachos. Its duties had been subsumed by other offices—and publicly ‘stripping’ Angelos of it had done wonders for the Emperor’s popularity with the nobility—even as Ioannis held the same authority through other auspices. As Andronikos watched, Arkadios nearly tumbled out of chair, spilling wine on his shirt.
In fact, only one person in the entire room didn’t laugh—Idris ibn Khalid, the Imperial logothetes ton mousalmanoi. In the five years since Andronikos created the office within the Council and selected him—son of a prominent Muslim merchant family with many connections throughout the Empire—he’d never seen Idris laugh during a Council meeting. Even the pious and pompous representatives of the Patriarchs occasionally chuckled—but not Idris. Not ever.
“So in short, thanks to your advice,” Andronikos gently patted his wife’s great belly, “the treasury is now growing by…” he quickly did the math in his head, “6,500 solidii per month?”
“Close,” Cecilia smiled, “65,000 solidii. Your Majesty forgot to carry a ten. The decision to require all payments of scutage to the imperial government to be in silver coin has paid off handsomely, as you can see.”
Andronikos smiled as another slight chuckle went around the room.
“Good for all of us that the Emperor’s wife counts better than he does,” he added. “So, Ioannis?” he looked up at the Archeoikos and second-most-powerful man in the empire, “what news on our frontiers?”
“Would Your Majesty like to begin with the East, or the West?”
“The West,” Andronikos said quietly, nibbling on figs from the lone plate on the table. It truthfully concerned him more—his webs in the East would be spinning. He’d find out how they were doing later, as well as find out why the servants were late with the plates of food normally at council meetings.
“First, Majesty, it appears King Magnus of Sweden is claiming he is an Emperor,” Ioannis said, nodding to a nearby servant. The man produced a parchment, tassels of blue and gold hanging from its wax seal, and offered it to the emperor. “He even sent an ambassador, urging Your Majesty to recognize him with the Roman title of Basilieus.”
“What?” Andronikos choked. The Emperor coughed until the offending piece was out of his mouth. “He what? Why? How?”
“He claims,” Ioannis said sardonically, “that as he rules as King of the Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians, and that as the Baltic is his lake as much as the Mediterranean is ours, that he should be granted the dignity by your,” Ioannis referenced the paper in his hand quickly, “Illubrious Majesty?”
“Illubrious?” Cecilia raised an eyebrow.
“I can’t read that damn scrawl the Varangians call writing,” Ioannis cursed. “He also says that he has petitioned the Pope in Trier to recognize his claim to the title, as it was held by his most magnificent ancestor, Knud of the Danes.”
Andronikos gently pushed the proffered parchment away with a polite, but paper-thin smile. The servant bowed, and took the parchment away. Even though the King of the North had the courtesy to ask for permission to use such a prestigious title (unlike the Capetians, who simply took it, unrecognized), Andronikos wouldn’t, couldn’t, grant such an honor. Basilieus belonged to the Romans, and no others.
Just in time, the belated servants arrived with the trays of food normally present at every meeting.
“Any news on what happened with the French?” the emperor changed the subject as a bevy of servants laid plates of food and other light snacks on the table. He snagged a grape. “How much have the Capetians grown?”
“Well,” the Archeoikos laughed subtly—a noise he did both when he was furious and when he was absolutely giddy—“our sources in Paris have been asked to compose a lament over some battle at Le Patano Comnine…”
“What’s that?” the new Megoskyriomachos hiccupped.
“The place where Hugues Capet was defeated fighting against an army of ten hundred thousand barbarous Scots,” Ioannis winked, “if my minstrel source is believed.”
“Ha!” Andronikos snorted, before looking at Ioannis—Angelos was still smirking, but he was nodding his head. “You’re serious,” Andronikos smiled slightly, before pointing at his friend. “I thought you were japing about for a second. So, the Scots beat the French? How?”
“Well,” Ioannis’ smile turned as wicked as a schoolchild telling a secret, “my agents tell me that Hugues returned to Paris angrier than a bleeding bull, screaming and complaining of some kind of Komnenid trickery…”
“Komnenid trickery?” Andronikos openly laughed, “He’s seeing shadows! My reach is far, but I do not reach to Scotland for my tricks!” Andronikios looked around incredulously. “It’s almost insulting! To think that we would stoop to using half-barbarians to do the work of good Roman steel?” Laughter echoed around the room as the gathered strategoi bobbed their heads in agreement.
“Oh, he has good reason to complain,” Angelos’ smile grew even wider.
“Really?” Andronikos leaned forward, now immensely curious. “How did you pull that off? Influencing a battle in Scotland?”
“Oh, I didn’t,” Angelos said quickly, “though Antemios Komnenos did.”
“Antemios Komnenos?” Andronikos raised an eyebrow. “Um… there are Komnenoi in Scotland? How the hell…?”
“Last I heard they were in France, but that was 30 years ago,” Syrenios muttered, eyes turning to saucers just like all the others who were old enough to remember the events of over thirty years before.
“They are in Scotland,” Ioannis laughed, “and what makes it even better, he is, or was, at least, the High Protector of Scotland or some nonsense,” Angelos waved his hand dismissively.
“Was?” Cecilia prodded.
“Well, after they met the French, and by the way, my man in Paris says King Hugues was savaged in that battle, some Varangian army landed and they did battle with the Scots.”
“Well who won that?” Cecilia asked.
“Does it matter?” Andronikos joined Ioannis’ laughter. “Hugues was beaten, savaged, by a bunch of barbarians led by a rotted crow of a Komnenos!” Andronikos slammed his palm on the table.
“Our lovely French peacock fell in the latrine pit!” Antemios Skoteinos, Archeheteratos and commander of the Emperor’s personal field escort joined in the banter.
It took almost a minute for the laughter to die down around the table enough for Andronikos to speak again.
“Oh!” he sighed, wiping a tear from his eye, “Amazing. So,” he looked around a room still shaking with chuckles, “Our West… is secure. What about the East?” he steepled his fingers and took in a deep breath. It was time to be serious again. “How is friend Gabriel?”
“Ah,” Ioannis nodded to his deputy, and Syrenios nodded his head first to the Emperor, then the rest of the Council.
“Gabriel flatly rejected the Caliph’s request for entry, as Your Majesty suspected he would. My agents tell me that Gabriel’s sons and grandson toned down the rejection somewhat, but rumors are spreading widely that he spat on the Caliph’s letter and had it burned.” It was Syrenios’ turn to smile—Andronikos had no doubt the man’s agents in Persia were behind those rumors, regardless what Gabriel had actually done. “And, as Your Majesty also suspected, the Caliph was no fool, and he sensed blood from his mudpit caravan. He has camped just across the frontier in the lands of the Turks, and has called on the Saracens and Persians to rise up against Gabriel’s rule, and restore him to his rightful place in Baghdad.”
“Won’t Gabriel compel the Turks to make him disappear?” the Prince of Samos asked. His voice wasn’t slurred, but Andronikos already knew the sot was already drunk. “They are his vassals…”
“Indeed,” Syrenios nodded, “he has sent letters demanding they do such, and the Turkish Sultan has… refused. Not that Gabriel has much authority now anyway, for his people have taken to the fields, and beacons of rebellion light the night from Hormuz to Mosul.”
“Excellent. Idris?”
“As Your Majesty has directed,” the lone Muslim in the room looked around nervously, especially under the withering gaze of the representatives of the Patriarchs, “notices are being spread from Syria to Spain with Your Majesty’s response to the events in the East, and instructions have been sent to local kephaloi and officials that these notices are to be translated into a local language at the soonest possible convenience.”
“Good,” Andronikos nodded. “While We do not like his faith,” Andronikos looked squarely at the representatives of the clergy as he spoke using the ‘imperial voice’—they puffed up with slight smiles at the comment—“the man is, by Our reckoning, a foreign Head of State, and is thus due far more respect than he has received from Gabriel.”
The clergymen obviously weren’t pleased by the rest of his assessment, but not one of them opened their mouths. Andronikos smiled—normally they were a noisy lot during meetings of the Council, especially whenever Idris opened his mouth in defense of the Muslims of the Empire.
“And what of the Persian army?” the Megas Domestikos pressed the matter most important to the army.
“My sources say that the Persian armies in the East are fully busy dealing with the rebellions that are daily growing in strength,” Syrenios went on. “Some of the unconverted local nobility have quickly become lightning rods for unrest, and declared their own Emirates. My people know of six strategoi left in Mesopotamia—the rest have marched East…”
“He has perhaps as few as 15,000 in Mesopotamia left?” Agyrpoulos stared, wide eyed. “Majesty, we…”
“Will not be launching a Persian adventure,” Andronikos cut the strategos off abruptly. Yes, Persia was wide open for the taking, but Andronikos saw no reason to lumber into that hornet’s nest. Let Gabriel fight the swarm of rebellious bees—Andronikos would stay in his realm, safe on all fronts for the time being, and focus on enemies here at home.
“But Majesty…”
“Ioannis, I do need for you to send a letter to the Polos again,” Andronikos spoke the signal arranged between him and Angelos one plot-filled night long before, “and ask the Mongol lords in Cathay if they would send us more silkworms. The Spanish and Italian nobility prefer the Chinese silk to our own homegrown—we shall need to pocket some money from that.”
Ioannis raised an eyebrow, asking an unspoken question. Andronikos said nothing more, but nodded slowly. Yes, he was sure—it was time to begin the great game in earnest.
“Now, Ioannis, what of your visit to Italy?” the emperor said, decisively changing the topic.
“It was productive,” Angelos nodded, both at the emperor’s verbal statement and the implicit message from just before. “I visited courts from Rome to Venice, and the general appraisal from most of the North Italians is that they are pleased with Your Majesty’s rule—especially the laxity of in-kind taxation in favor of smaller coinage tax.”
“And the lords of northern Italy?” Andronikos pressed. “Specifically my cousin Michael in Florence?” The son of Konstantinos had a more direct claim through the Thomasine branch of the imperial family than Andronikos—he could trace male-descent from the Megaloprepis, while Andronikos could only claim descent through his mother. Should he decide to start trouble…
“To be blunt,” Ioannis smiled, “it appears Lord Michael wants nothing more than to be left alone, like his grandfather was.”
“Hmm,” Andronikos nodded. A frown slowly crossed the Emperor’s face. Michael might want to be left alone, but that wouldn’t prevent others from trying to rally around him. For now, Andronikos would stay his hand. Long term, however, something would have to be done, unfortunately. “Good,” he said. But Ioannis stood there, his smile growing frosty. Andronikos sighed, and leaned back. “There’s more, Lord Angelos?”
“Indeed, Majesty,” Syrenios spoke before his master. “While the Archeoikos was in northern Italy visiting your cousins in that region, my agents have uncovered some…unsettling tidings out of Bari?”
“Oh?” Andronikos leaned forward, suddenly interested. Bari was one of the strongholds of the Apulian Komnenoi—descendants of the infamous Leo Komnenos.
“My agents… procured,” Syrenios smiled thinly, “several letters to be sent by your cousin Andronikos to his brothers in Salerno and Reggio. It appears your namesake feels your increase in the scutage for Apulia was unjust…”
“Were his complaints treasonable?” the Megas Domestikos asked.
“Yes,” Syrenios said quickly and firmly. “He questioned His Majesty’s legitimacy to rule, going so far as to say he has a more direct male descent from the Megaloprepis than His Majesty. I need not tell Your Lordships,” Syrenios’ smile became infernally large, “that such talk easily constitutes sedition.”
Murmurs went around the table—the strategoi, occupying nearly an entire side of the table, seemed to chatter the most. Treason meant war, and more meant opportunity—something they were keen to discuss…
“So what is to be done?” Andronikos asked darkly, looking at his generals. They would likely, to a man, advocate the emperor smash the rebellion before it even started. A violent military expedition meant a chance for glory, fame, promotion, and land—if the Apulians were stripped of their titles, someone would have to take their themes—and history had shown the most likely beneficiaries were the leaders of the army that invaded.
“My agents took the liberty of resealing the letters and making sure they arrived at their destinations,” Syrenios said, “to prevent the Prince of Apulia from having suspicion. I presume,” Syrenios slyly glanced at the anxious strategoi as well, “Your Majesty has a plan of what could be done?”
“I do,” Andronikos folded his hands, breaking his gaze from his generals. “Skoteinos,” Andronikos nodded to the Archehetaratos, head of the Emperor’s personal retinue of soldiers, “Take the Athanatakoi and three tagmata from the Basilikon to Bari. I’ll have the Megas Doux,” Andronikos nodded down the table to the commander of the imperial navy, “make arrangements to transport you and your 7,000 men.”
“What will our purpose be, Majesty?” Skoteinos asked.
“Peaceful, hopefully. If We expected large scale violence, of course we would send more tagmata,” Andronikos nodded to the generals. They looked on with suddenly muted interest. No, Andronikos decided, he didn’t want a full scale invasion—the generals had far too much power already. To make two or three of them princes, as they would expect—no, demand? The Emperor mentally shook his head. Far better to send a small, trusted force of men already in high office, loyal to him, with just enough men to get the job done. The Prince of Apulia would not expect 8,000 men on his doorstep—he’d have no time to call his thematakoi, or call on his brothers. Surprise, Andronikos had found, was often worth 10,000 men.
“You will carry a message—that Lord Andronikos and his brothers are to change their name, immediately, on pain of being accused of treason and being stripped of their lands,” Andronikos clarified. “Their ancestors plotted treason, and undid the work of the Megaloprepis as good as any Saracen or Mongol! Henceforth, he and his kin are to stripped of the name Komnenos, just like those Spanish bastard sons of Malhaz,” Andronikos growled. “Just as they are now Malkazoi, these sons of Bardas will now be renamed!” Andronikos thought for a moment—he needed something appropriate, something… suitable. “They shall be the Skazioi, the ‘Shadows,’” he smiled thinly. “A thin figment of what a true Komnenos is, a shade, but nothing more!”
“And if Lord Andronikos resists, Majesty?” Skoteinos asked.
“Cut him down as an example, and march with all speed on Salerno,” the Emperor said. “His brother in Calabria isn’t as great a threat. If Apulia resists and Salerno is cut down, I have a feeling the Last Komnenid in southern Italy will yield without a fight. If he doesn’t…”
“Yes Majesty?”
“Cut him down too. And cut down every member of that family,” the Emperor glowered. “It’s time the Komnenoi be pruned.”
==========*==========
February 16th, 1272
Altani Khatun looked up at the February sun and sighed—she’d never expected to start a campaign this early in the year again, not since her father had pushed his army hard year round. Then again, she’d hadn’t started her week expecting to be outside the walls of Samarkand in full armor at the front of her tumen and their auxiliaries. She also hadn’t expected her lord and master to arrive outside her gates, a great army streaming behind, with hurried orders for her and her men to join, now. The spring campaign season was here, and Arghun Khan—the same man that only a year before before the walls of a fallen Kashgar had announced his realm would have three years of peace—was demanding she and her tumen be ready to make hard for Persia with the rest of his vast host.
Altani looked over at her husband. She could only see his eyes when he had mail covering his face, and she suspected it was to cover the disdain he had for her lord and master. Arghun’s letter had arrived three days before—his army had arrived this morning. She and her husband had scrambled together a tumen of riders that were ready, but there were garrisons across her realm that were untouched—yet Arghun wanted to host a review before the city walls, then go.
Altani silently prayed—it was a new prayer, one the Mar Catholicos had composed for her only the day before, at her own request. It asked for patience, for faith, and guidance. She’d never been one to make war hastily, and neither had Arghun—not until this spring, apparently.
As she opened her eyes, she ran her fingers along the side of her horse until she felt the side scabbard that hung just before her left leg, then the sword that hung inside. Her fingers traced foreign letters and designs along the pommel. She did not draw it—she never drew that blade. Even all these years later, it felt strange and heavy in her hands. The Mongols made no swords like this—long, straight, razor sharp on both edges with a heavy crossguard and pommel. That strange, reddish hue only added to the allure. Even though she’d never use it in battle, she still kept it by her side—at first as a symbol of her triumph over the man that’d killed her father and one of her brothers. Now, she had another reason to have its scabbard hang from her horse.
She knew while Arghun Khan ruled half the known world, he had nothing like this ‘Fire Tongue’ in his vast treasury. The Roman blade, taken directly from the body of the King Alexios who slew Hulagu and slew Guyuk, was hers, and hers alone. But even its reddish hues competed little against the awesome scene before her eyes.
Arghun Khan had given her no notice of his arrival, no word of his approach. Altani had no doubt he’d ordered all the governors of the lands she ruled to not send word of the approach of him and his vast host, simply so he could arrive outside of Samarkand, unannounced, with the most powerful army she’d ever seen.
She shifted uneasily on her horse as a figure began to gallop up the length of that vast host, drawn at attention for inspection. Her fingers ran across the pommel of the Roman sword—its cold steel was no comfort, not when Arghun had elephants. Sixty of them, their armor on full display. As one, the great beasts trumpeted at their handler’s beckoning, trunks rising high into the air—the roaring noise made Altani jump, and she heard the jingle of her tumen behind her shying from the din. The trunks danced, like so many serpents, waving lazily as their lord and master rode down the length of the line. It was a fearsome display of power, a terrifying show of the might of Arghun Khan, Sultan of India, Khan of the Chagatai and Blue Horde as well as Master of Transoxiania.
Finally, the master of the western half of the Mongol world reined up next to her. While his guards and retainers were clad in gold inlaid mail with ornate helms and brilliant spears, Arghun himself was clad in white linens, a jeweled circlet with hanging pearls the only indication that he was one of the most powerful men on earth and not just another well off merchant.
“Greetings, Lady Altani,” he said, voice silken. He lifted his hand, and orders barked down the line in dozens of languages. The ground shook as legions came to attention. Altani had seen the numbers, but nothing could ever prepare one for seeing a host of 150,000 men, horses, camels, amirs, lords, khans and beyliks, pennants streaming, spears glinting, the crash of metal, the storm of light and steel. Altani blinked—the last time she’d seen such a host was just before her father’s invasion of Persia. A small part of her mind whispered this was only part of what Arghun could bring to bear.
He’d never told his erstwhile partner his full strength, but Altani had heard about India—a near endless number of men, great elephants, chariots of war—the weight and power equaling that of China. Tokhtamysh privately said he thought Arghun had upwards of 400,000 in total, numbers that sent a chill down her spine. How many would be needed in India as garrisons? Surely no where near a third of that, and Kashgar and the lands of the Blue Horde would need even fewer…
“Lady Altani.”
Altani jumped, and turned to see Arghun’s face right next to her, smiling.
“You look frightened, and the story has yet to begin!”
“I am not frightened,” Altani growled her own greeting, upset both at her predicament and that Arghun had caught her saucer-eyed look at his army. She’d never wanted to be his ally, but stranded on the edge of the Mongol world, as he bested her, then ground down both the Blue Horde and the Chagatai, she had little choice. One could swim with the tidal wave that was Arghun Khan—or one could drown fighting the current. Altani had made peace with the idea long ago that she would have to swim for the sake of her husband and three grown children. However, the woman that had once led her own wave of men would never be happy treading in someone else’s water. “I…” she started to say, cursing her tongue as it stammered.
“…have never seen an army as large as this?” Arghun asked. The Lord of India, Sarai, and Kashgar seemed to settle into his saddle, smug and confident. “I, too, trembled when I saw an army so great, but, Lady Altani, look more closely. Tell me what you see.”
Altani took stock of the great host gathered across the plains. There were elephants, great scores of horses, camels, and other beasts of burden. There were cavalry as far as the eye could see—Mongols, strange Indians in chain armor and funny hats, and…
…scores and scores of Indian infantry. Men with a shield, a spear, and little more.
“I see many ill-equipped infantry,” she said, glad to find the courage to speak something negative about Arghun’s host.
“I must confide something in you, Lady Altani,” Arghun smiled thinly, “I am not comfortable with this invasion.”
“Not comfortable?” Altani unregally squeaked. She looked around. Not even Tokhtamysh was paying attention—clearly no one heard her.
Arghun’s thin smile grew stillborn. “I do not think my armies are ready. The cavalry of the steppe is always ready, mind you,” he said hurriedly, “but my infantry…” His voice drifted off and he shook his head. “Not enough time to properly equip the expedition troops, and only barely enough time to get the supply trains ready.”
“Then why not wait?” Altani heard herself asking. Her father had spent years planning his second great invasion of Persia after the first was snuffed out! Arghun could call on far more troops than even the great Hulagu! Couldn’t he wait? “Hold off for a year, two even? Your armies could return to their garrisons while you address… that…” she gestured over towards some of the unarmored infantry.
“I fear I will not have a year even,” Arghun sighed. “You are aware of the troubles in Persia, yes?”
Altani nodded slowly—who wasn’t? Gabriel had foolishly refused the Caliph a simple request to be allowed to return home, she’d heard, and the whole of the nation was in arms against the Romans. The self-proclaimed Emirs of Hormuz and Luristan had both sent ambassadors to Samarkand to ask for Altani’s intervention, despite her official conversion to her husband’s Christian faith. She’d demurred—Arghun and his host’s unexpected arrival had made moot any decision she could have made.
“Gabriel is a fine commander of men, and his sons are capable leaders of men,” Arghun said quietly, “and I fear if I do not act now, they will sort the mess out, and they’ll be all the stronger for it. That and…” he started to speak, before he looked over at her. Altani blinked… was that nervousness in his eyes?
“You must wonder,” that flat, blank smile returned, “why I tell you these things?”
Altani nodded slowly. She wasn’t exactly a friend of Arghun—a vassal, yes. Bannerwoman, yes. Confidante—she’d never expected that role.
“You are the most important of my lords,” Arghun looked over the sea of men and beasts. “You command the best tumen—which means you command the best of my best troops. The tumen are the finest cavalry in the world, and my elephants are formidable, but the rest of this force is hollow—we are a tiger whose teeth are not as sharp as the numbers would appear. I am counting on the Persians to react as you did when you caught glimpse of the size of my force,” he nodded her way, “To see the vast host and shiver and quake. And if they don’t, I’ll be relying on you, my amirs, and the horse of this great host to break them until they do tremble.”
Altani nodded slowly.
“We’ll strike with speed and surprise on our side—the enemy will be distracted, and…”
“What about the Romans in the West?” Altani asked. The Da’qin outside of Persia held a vast empire of their own—lorded over by a man whose father Altani had slain. Surely as she’d sought vengeance for the death of her father and brothers, this Great Roman would lumber east in search of the woman who spilled his father’s blood?
“One of the few things I am sure of,” Arghun’s smile grew slightly warmer, “is that the Da’qin outside of Persia will not intervene. I have…assurances…that they will stay in their realm.”
Altani nodded—Arghun had won his empire through caution, as well as boldness. If he’d felt so confidant as to call her two tumen to war, and bring his host, already assembled, to her doorstep, his confidence had to be deep and solid. She shook her head—why was she worrying about him? If the Da’qin tumbled down, they’d land on his head, not hers!
“I know we have never been… allies,” Arghun’s smile thinned, “but I know we have been good partners. I need you and your men for one last campaign, before I have the power needed to topple Kublai in Karakorum. Then,” he nodded towards the spires and domes of Samarkand, “I shall leave you and your city in peace. In return, I offer you something no one else can.” Arghun’s eyes flashed back to her, looking at her, through her, like those of a viper. “I promise you’ll get to strangle the Persian Gabriel with a bowstring.”
==========*==========
So a lot goes down this update! Andronikos decides its time to start bringing the hammer down on more malcontent branches of the Komnenoi, while Gabriel’s troubles encourage Arghun to launch his invasion before he’s fully ready. What was Andronikos’ message to the Polos? Will Arghun’s bet Andronikos won’t respond be accurate? How will the Komnenoi of southern Italy react to their sudden demotion? And, of course, will Persia stand before the twin dangers of rebellion and the Mongols, or retreat before the onslaught? War, strife, terror, all will appear in the next update of Rome AARisen!
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