“They call this the City of Men’s Desires. It is no less—it is the place where rot, sin and passion drive away all that is good, all that is just, all that is holy in this world! I pray God, for the sake of the soul of humanity, that this city is purged by fire and sword from the face of this Earth!” – Taqi ad-Din Ahmad ibn Taymiyyah, 1324.
January 8th, 1285
Taqi ibn Taymiyyah squinted, staring at the harsh winter sun. It wasn’t hot by any means, but the 27 year old felt like wiping his brow. The line of tatter humanity he stood in, as well as the triumphant soldiers that stood around made this normally cool day seem far hotter than it should.
Slowly the line shuffled forward—far ahead, Taymiyyah could hear words, arched tones of a plea. He looked down, then off to the right—men laughed, some chuckling at those desperate words ahead, others at the shattered remnants of an ‘army’ that now stood in their midst.
Taqi gritted his teeth. It wasn’t supposed to end this way! Taqi looked to the left, towards the soldiers drawn up on either side of the prisoners. They had hard faces, eyes radiating that dangerous calm of a man used to killing. Taymiyyah’s eyes went up—fluttering overhead were banners proclaiming the
Kalema-tut-Shahadat—“There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger.”
Tamiyyah’s heart sank. So the rumor was true—at leastone
chillarchoi of the Persian army that had defeated him was made of believers. He prayed fervently there weren’t six more like the rumors said. So much death, so much carnage—and for what? Muslims fighting Muslims, not unbelievers! Al-Nasir and others had said the Caliph would follow their lead, that the Muslims of Iraq and Iran would as well!
No, they hadn’t. Caliph Al-Muzzafar had not budged from his statement five years before, and Taqi and his men were going to pay for it in blood.
He looked back down as the line shuffled forward.
It wasn’t supposed to end this way!
The whole reason he’d taken up arms at the call of Caliph Al-Muzzafar was to free the Muslims from being the subjects of anyone—be they Hinnawist heretics or Christian unbelievers. In those early days of 1276, the Hinnawists had been the enemy—crowds were flocking to their banner, and in Karbala and Najaf they’d raised their flag in open revolt. They’d perverted the words of The Prophet, they’d called on the people to follow the words of a blasphemer. Their words spread like wildfire and the souls of the people were at stake!
Taqi had been a student then, a wide-eyed boy in the streets of swirling, whirling Baghdad. Long ago he’d met this Adhid al-Hinnawi, and he’d made his judgment of the man’s words—he said words that sounded pious, but the worst poison was often hidden in the sweetest treats. His claim to be the final prophet were nothing less than blasphemous, an affront to God and nothing else. So when the Hinnawists rose, and chaos and blood ran through the streets of Baghdad, Taymiyyah knew where his heart lay. The words of the
imams that travelled with the Muslim refugees to the safety of the south pulled on his soul—Iraq must be retaken, in the name of The Faithful!
In those days, Basra had been a city in chaos—the city fathers had declared themselves an Emirate, ruling in the name of the Caliph and no other. Rumors abounded the Hinnawists would come, or the Romans. Taqi and many of the other milling, idle youths were roused to the call to arms. They wove banners, they practiced with crude spears, and Muslims from the Roman
tagmata broke them of their boyhood. The spring of 1276, some 10,000 strong, they stumbled north out of Basra—a disorganized heap calling itself the ‘Army of God.’
Despite its homely origins, the ‘Army of God’ swept north out of Basra, a whirlwind worthy of Khalid ibn al-Walid. The Hinnawists had far more men—the
strategos later sent by the Romans said he had no doubt at Najaf they numbered 15,000—but the Caliphal army smashed force after force, and took city after city. Taqi’s fortunes rose as well—during that ferocious three year campaign, he went from being a common soldier to a
qubtan in charge of one of the Caliph’s
hamza. He’d led by example, leading from the front, suffering as his followers did. And the Aionites fled before them—running to Palestine, to Egypt, to get away from the swords of God!
Taqi shuffled forward as the line moved, his angry eyes looking at the purple tent ahead. The Romans were expecting him to beg for forgiveness, to renounce his rebellion and his sins. Taqi clenched his teeth—he would do no such thing, such would be a lie and an affront to
Allah.
He cursed the Romans, and he cursed those who’d led him and his men into this morass.
In retrospect, when the new Roman Emperor had not come to Iraq as promised was when Taqi should have said something. But he wasn’t an
amir, he was a mere
qubtan, he would never have dared to say anything to the Caliph! The Romans said the Arab tribesmen along the coast of the Persian Gulf were helping the Aionites, but Taqi knew better—some of his best men were from those very tribes. Yes, they’d preyed on Roman ships in the past, but they were steadfast in their belief in God, and their willingness to fight those who would pervert His Word! Yes, the lords in Persia had moved against Isfahan, but the Romans were unlawful occupiers, not legitimate rulers!
While the Caliphal army met the last and greatest Aionite force outside Baghdad, this treacherous Roman emperor invaded Muslim lands. While Taqi and his men bled and died, the Roman built forts on the Arabian coast, and collected tribute! While Taymiyyah and his fellow veterans wrested Iraq back by the sword and spear, the Roman put to death Muslim lords in Persia who’d bucked his rule! When the Roman finally arrived in Iraq, the Army of God had won the region by its own sweat, blood and tears.
And Al-Muzzafar returned it, all of it, to the Roman!
Taqi’s lip trembled slightly as he remembered that day—the day the Army of God, no longer a ramshackle collection of men more fervent than veteran but a hardened, disciplined
army of the Faithful, accepted the Roman as lawful ruler of Mesopotamia. The Caliph said just as his predecessor had honored his arrangement with the Roman in the name of peace, so would he. Al-Muzzafar had called on the men who had followed him to save Iraq from the heretics to now lay down their arms to a heathen from Isfahan!
The line shuffled forward, and ibn Taymiyyah mournfully thought of how small the line was. There were many who begged, pleaded with the Caliph to fight on, to free Iraq, then all Muslims, from the boot of heathen tyranny, but there were few, precious few, who were willing to go past begging and pleading. The Caliph was a prisoner of the Romans, Taqi knew that—a man could be prisoner in thought as much as in body! Until the Caliph was free, Taqi knew it was his duty—indeed, the duty of
every Muslim—to resist, and to free themselves.
The line moved yet again, the mud of the Euphrates plain sticking to Taymiyyah’s boots. A brief wind arose, and the damned Roman banner—a two headed lion on purple—fluttered quietly in the breeze. Those first days of insurrection had been filled with mud as well, along with cold nights, and sandy shoes. Taymiyyah had persuaded only 18 of the hundred survivors under his command to follow him into the desert, but many other small groups left as well. They grew, they raided for supplies, they organized, they grew stronger and stronger.
Taymiyyah looked just to the left of the entrance to that tent. A grotesque thing hung there, impaled on a pike. Once, it’d be the head of Al-Nasir Muhammad, the man who’d led their small army in the desert. Once he’d been a slave, but he’d risen to be one of the Caliph’s
amirs, respected by all for his piety and his bravery. In the desert Taqi and the others had proclaimed him their leader, the man who would show them the way God had prepared for victory. They proclaimed him
Seyfuallah – “The Sword of God.”
They’d been confident—they launched raids with seeming impunity, attacking caravans of unbelievers, destroying Roman detachments, then fleeing back to their hideouts. They tasted success, and they grew confident.
“In Allah’s help to victory, He helpeth whom he will. He is mighty and He is merciful,” Taqi quoted to himself. Just as the pagans proclaimed long before to the Muslims that the Romans were defeated, and rejoiced and boasted, so did Al-Nasir proclaimed to these brethren that the Romans were soon to be out of Iraq. Woe unto those pagans, and woe unto Al-Nasir Muhammad.
Taqi had to remind himself the day of destiny had only been a month before, when agents, friends of Al-Nasir, had come to their desert camp, saying the Roman was travelling south. They said that the Persian emperor was travelling to Basra with a small force—only 2,000 men, they said. They said that victory was in their grasp—to kill the Roman emperor would break the Roman hold on Persia and Iraq. They said a great man like Al-Nasir Muhammad, backed by his faithful and strong warriors, was sure to find victory.
They said that God Willed It.
They were wrong.
Taqi had cautioned Al-Nasir that the emissaries might be a trap, but the self-proclaimed
Seyfuallah would not listen. He’d brought the entirety of his force—all the Faithful in Iraq that were still free—into the Valley of the Two Rivers, intent on meeting the weakened Roman in the field. No boy who covered his eyes in soot could beat an army of The Righteous, Al-Nasir had proclaimed. Not when he had 10,000 men behind him!
Oh how wrong they were.
The man in front of Taqi finished his pleading and flattery of his victors, and Taymiyyah watched as they shuffled him aside. An
imam consoled ibn Yakub—despite his pleas, he was to die. Now, Taqi was suddenly face to face with his conquerors, and Taymiyyah couldn’t help but grimace at their grim faces. That day three weeks before those faces had been hidden behind chain masks—for 2,000 of the men
Basilieus Alexandros travelled with were the
Gond tagmata of the Persian army, his personal guard and some of the finest horsemen in the Roman world! The other 2,000 were the
Isigerdes tagmata, armed with great bows in the Roman fashion.
They had been waiting.
Those great bows cut swaths in Taqi’s ranks as he tried to get his horsemen around the Roman flank. Al-Nasir charged straight for them, only to break lances with the
Gond headlong. That damned purple cloak had been in the thick of it, dealing death left and right until Taqi found his contingent alone, surrounded by mounds of dead allies and an triumphant Roman force.
Taymiyyah bit his lip—if Al-Nasir had pulled back and skirmished, if they’d surrounded the Roman contingent instead of seeking a headlong fight, if…
“Name?”
Taqi’s mind snapped back to the present, and the burly, greasy looking man sitting opposite of him. He looked decidedly bored, tapping the end of his quill on the white plumed helm of a
kentarchos before him. A pair of equally bored Roman officers sat on either side.
“Taqi ad-Din Ahmad ibn Taymiyyahh.”
“Will you pledge allegiance to
Basilieus Alexandros II, rightful Lord of Mesopotamia and Persia?” the
kentarchos groaned. Taqi was sure he saw the man next to the officer roll his eyes.
For a moment, Taymiyyah felt his stomach churn. He thought of his aged stepfather and stepmother, of friends and loved ones he’d never see again. Then, he thought of what he’d learned of God, truth and justice.
“No,” he said quietly.
“Um, excuse me?” the
kentarchos frowned. The man next to him leaned forward, suddenly interested. All around him, Taqi felt eyes boring in—even the
imam stopped his prepared words of consolation to stare. Those eyes, those stares, they gave Taqi courage.
“No, I will not swear allegiance!” Taqi announced loudly, triumphantly. There! He’d said it, and they heard him say it!
“But you…”
“Wait.”
The voice came from the left, behind Taqi—it was soft, filled with whispery command. Taqi dared not turn from the looming
kentarchos in front of him, even as he heard the clink of spurs coming around until the speaker came into view.
Taqi’s eyes narrowed—it was
him.
To the Romans in Persia,
Basilieus Alexandros II, grandson of Gabriel, was already being called the
Megas reborn. Taqi had expected to see someone much taller, much stronger, and most certainly without the black smudges of soot around his eyelids. But Taymiyyahh, like everyone else from Basra to Mashad, knew of the bright lavender cloak—a sign of terror for enemies of the Persian throne, from Bahrain to Hormuz. Huge brown eyes bored into him, while several recent cuts rippled along Alexandros’ face as he smiled thinly.
“Did I hear you correctly?” the short emperor asked in that same quiet voice. Taqi swallowed hard—it was one thing to mouth off to some
kentarchos. But those eyes…
“Yes,” Taqi mustered, sure he spoke his own death sentence. “I refuse to swear loyalty to you, or your crown. My loyalty is to
Allah, and no other!”
Taqi instinctively braced himself—he expected the Roman to slap him for his impudence! But the Roman Emperor did no such thing. His face split into a smile. He started to chuckle. Taqi only realized a moment later his mouth must have dropped open, for the Roman laughed even more.
“This,” Alexandros pointed and shouted to all who could hear, “is an honest man! Would that many of you had his courage,” the
Basilieus called, “the tables might have been turned!” Those eyes swept back to Taqi—they weren’t filled with rage like Taymiyyahh expected, it was something else. A sad smile? “I could use men like you,” Alexandros laid a hand on Taymiyyahh’s shoulder, “but someone like you would not turn from his cause.”
“I will never turn from it,” Taqi finally said, his voice quiet with shock and confusion. He kicked himself—a martyr did not sound confused when he confronted the enemy!
“An honest man,” the Roman repeated, looking Taqi straight in the eye. “I shall tell you what I do with honest men. You are to be sent to the al-Muzhira
madrassa in Baghdad,” Alexandros said, crossing his arms. Taqi blinked, and the
Basilieus laughed. “You expected more? Castration? Blinding? Execution? No, you have an honest mind, you only need to learn to be an honest
man. I expect you’ll learn much from the other members of the
ulema, including why rebellion is wrong!”
All thoughts of martyrdom disappeared from Taqi’s mind, replaced by confusion. What? Why was he being granted freedom, when those who’d begged and pleaded had none? Was this a cruel joke? When would the Roman declare that no, Taqi would face the sword like the others?
“I want to make a new Persia, a new
I-ran,” the
Basilieus said quietly. Taymiyyah blinked—he didn’t recognize the second word.
“Something beyond Roman, beyond Muslim, beyond Persian,” Alexandros went on. “And to do that, I need honest men, intelligent men.” Suddenly, the Emperor was only inches from Taymiyyah’s face, his eyes boring into Taqi’s. “Loyal men,” Alexandros whispered.
Taymiyyah stared right back at the
Basilieus, eye to eye, his gaze not flinching, not changing. The Roman wouldn’t persuade him—no, to do as he promised would mean to let apostasy flourish, to let heretics run amok and heathens steal the souls of the people. No…
Allah demanded more, far more than a simple acceptance of peace!
“With those, we can build something great—as great as old
Rum, as Al-Andalus! As…” the Emperor’s words ground to a halt. Alexandros smiled slightly. “I do not expect your thanks,” the
Basilieus said, “But I have shown you mercy,” the Roman said quietly, “I ask you show me honor. I do not wish to live to regret letting someone like you go free, Taqi ibn-Taymiyyah.” That smile came back. “Because if I ever hear your name mentioned along with words ‘dissent,’ ‘revolt’ or ‘rebellion,’” Alexandros’ whisper was quiet and deadly as an icefall, “I’ll make you wish I had merely had you executed.”
Taqi swallowed hard at the words—for some reason, hearing the promise of death after being given life made the end sound far more fearsome. Then he heard the voice of his adoptive father, his
imam and others who had gone before. He saw the faces of the whimpering, pleading comrades who’d been dealt death, and he gritted his jaw.
At first, he wanted to spit at the Roman, to tell him his words were filth, till a soft voice told him no. This Roman—he led from the front. He was reckless—his courage was legendary. Let the Roman think he’d won. Let him think The Faithful had been cowed. Taqi ad-Din Ahmad ibn Taymiyyah was a man of his word—he would not raise arms while this Roman lived. But Allah has a way of seeing justice done, and Taymiyyah was sure he would be given his chance in time. Empires bent and broke due to the power of the tongue and the pen, as much as the sword and shield.
“On my honor, you will not live to regret your decision today,” ibn Taymiyyah said with no regret of his own.
Islam was not dead—it was dormant. And as long as Taymiyyah breathed, he would try to rouse it to action once more…
March 6th, 1285
“Oh Lord, we pray that you, in Your Mercy, will see fit to take the soul of the dearly departed Empress Doryotta, a loving wife, a caring mother, into Your arms…”
Manuel Komnenos, bastard son of the Emperor, kept his face calm, his thoughts quiet, as Patriarch Thomas Komnenos began his final benediction. The Patriarch’s sermons had grown longer and more rambling as he aged, but above all else, Manuel knew to respect simple decorum. Living life partially inside, partially outside the deepest ring of imperial politics had taught the 13-year-old that lesson.
Manuel was intelligent—his tutors would say that, so he had no problems describing himself as such—and he knew his place in court was tenuous at best. He was no legitimate son, no true blood of Komnenos in the same way as his half-brothers and sisters. His father had always liked him for reasons Manuel still didn’t understand, but he could just as easily end up a pauper in the street, or worse, if he aroused imperial ire or simply became inconvenient at court. Early on the boy had learned to tread carefully, to keep track of who he spoke to and what he said—the basic skills to survive in a place as treacherous as the Kosmodion palace.
Of course it helped to have Ioannis Angelos as a teacher—Manuel had spent his first ten years of life living at the Angelos villa in the city. The
Archeoikos proudly told his father that Manuel had read every book in his library—the Emperor’s response was to bring the boy to the palace. Manuel still had yet to make it through a single room of the Imperial Archives.
Not everyone present, however, was so respectful. Manuel looked to the left at the German delegation—burly men in thick furs desperate to keep out the late winter chill. They looked on with confused faces—the intricacies of a Roman funeral clearly befuddled them, and more than one muttered complaints to his comrades. Manuel only distantly met his step-mother—he’d only been regularly allowed in the palace only a few months before she died—but she seemed to be a kind woman who only wanted to make people happy. How such a simple, caring woman had come from such rough stock, Manuel knew he’d never know.
Today his father sat to the Patriarch’s right, glittering in all the regalia of Empire. He sat grimly, face set like stone, but not a tear ran down his cheek. His look was blank, inscrutable, unreadable. Was he sad? Angry? Happy? Manuel could not tell. He’d heard courtiers comment that she and his father were good friends but poor lovers, and he had to agree. His father and step-mother had been cordial, polite to each other even, but never close. Manuel had no doubt his father had cared for her, in his own fashion, but the 13-year-old was sure he’d never
loved her. From what he’d seen in the Kosmodion, that basic respect was far more than many husbands and wives at court received in their own marriages—Ioannis Angelos regularly embarrassed his newest wife in public by taking his lovers publicly to dinners.
“I hope he’s finished soon,” a voice said from next to him, and Manuel frowned. His half-brother Leo, Doryotta’s third son, didn’t have to worry about decorum as much as Manuel—he was legitimate through and through. At eight, he was too young to understand why Manuel had to be careful around court, but he openly looked up to his older half brother. Manuel hadn’t seen it, but he was sure that Leo had cried and complained till he got to stand in the same box as Manuel, even though it was further back and with the Angeloi, not his own full brothers.
Manuel had no doubt Theodoros would tease Leo later on, but he wouldn’t dare do it in front of Manuel. The bastard wasn’t sure of anything he’d openly said or done, but Theodoros always gave him a wide berth, and jumped when he entered the room. The nine year old seemed to jump at everything except his two younger brothers. Manuel thought Theodoros had all the makings of a bully.
“Do you think…?” Leo started at ask, before Manuel glared at him with wide eyes. The eight year old’s mouth hung open for a moment, before clicking shut. Manuel slowly shook his head, then nodded up towards the Patriarch. The man was old and his sermons went on
forever, but they couldn’t talk—not at an “important state function.”
“But Manuel…” Leo started again. This time Manuel simply put his hand on his half-brother’s mouth.
“The Patriarch doesn’t care about polo right now! This is a funeral!” Manuel hissed. Leo’s face fell. “I’ll show you the move Alexios showed me
later, alright?” Manuel hastily added. Leo’s face looked absolutely pathetic when he squalled, and cry he would—not here, not in front of Manuel, but as soon as he was by himself. He’d cried for hours after his mother had passed—it was by the grace of God that he’d composed himself enough to come to the funeral. Manuel sighed—he was probably trying to not think about his dead mother, that had to be it.
“Nursie I need go potty when mommy wakes up!” four year old Konstantinos’ voice rang out over the sanctuary of the
Hagia Sophia. As his nursemaid hushed his whimpering cries, Manuel wasn’t surprised to see the eyes of most of the congregation flick upwards, and a slight titter fill the air over the Patriarch’s prayers. Poor old Thomas rambled on, unaware of the rude interruption—Manuel frowned. If he was Patriarch, he’d have stopped and lectured them all on respect!
Manuel’s gaze found the usual suspects—the Komnenoaiguptoi were
never known for their decorum by the capital, judging by Father’s complaints about them, and the Chrysokomnenoi were chattering to themselves in the corner—Manuel picked up the word most commonly on their tongue—Antioch, their home. As the boy looked around, he saw perilously few heads bowed reverently.
One of them belonged to his elder brother Nikephoros, and Manuel smiled.
Of all the brothers, Nikephoros was the quietest. A seventeen year old caught between being a boy and being a man, is open, friendly face was always in this old book or that old parchment. He was the one that taught Manuel to read eight years before, making trips to the Angeloi villa simply for that purpose. Nikephoros had also taught Manuel everything he knew about polo and the sword. Other than Leo, Nikephoros was the only one of the elder brothers who treated Manuel as something more than someone to look down upon.
Not so with Demetrios.
The eldest of the imperial brood was conspicuously absent, in Italy as it were, as an officer in the army. He’d never been close to Doryotta anyhow, and his father had to do
something—Demetrios had brokent he maidenheads of quite a few daughters of the high and mighty inside the city. Manuel had seen Simon Kommenoedessa angry before, like when his name was changed, but he’d
never seen the old man storm and fume about the palace like that! After the old man’s thundering rant through the palace, young Leo announced he wouldn’t
ever break someone’s maidenhead.
Manuel smiled thinly at the memory. Leo had a
great deal to learn about the world…
For a brief moment there was a pause in the prayer, before suddenly the Patriarch began again “We pray that You find it in your will…”
Manuel heard a quiet huff from up front. The bastard prince’s eyes found the source and frowned. Prince Alexios might have been the eldest of Doryotta’s children, but he was clearly annoyed at the Patriarch’s unending benediction. Manuel frowned—Alexios was little more than a brat, concerned only about himself. He refused to let Manuel forget that
he was legitimate, while the mop haired boy was a mere bastard, someone who would inherit nothing. Alexios caught Manuel’s glance and made a face—Manuel huffed, but didn’t respond. No, the boy told himself, he was better than making faces at his stepmother’s funeral. Let Alexios act like a fool if he wanted.
Suddenly Alexios’ face twisted in pain as a hand grabbed his ear. Once he was abruptly back in his seat, his twin sister Anna shoved a finger in his face. Manuel couldn’t hide his grin—he’d heard her scold him before, she could only imagine the tongue-lashing he was getting for fooling around at
his mother’s funeral. The little brat deserved it, and nothing less!
“…and protect us from the Evil One, and all his servants. May our jealousy not blind us, our greed not cripple us from seeing and living in Your light and Your glory, in Jesus’ name we pray, Amen,” Thomas finally ended his rambling prayer, to an almost audible sigh of relief from the massed congregation. Manuel looked back toward the raised dais as the Patriarch lifted his hands in final benediction, first over the embalmed corpse, still and cold, then over the audience, suddenly quiet and attentive.
“Amen,” Manuel added himself.
==========*==========
May 11th, 1285
Paris
Gaston Capet,
chancilier of France sighed and crossed his arms. He’d been tightly snuggled in warm covers when his servants had knocked on his chamber door, telling him that Cardinal von Falkenburg had arrived unexpectedly from Trier. The bishop’s eyes went sharply towards the window where only the glaring blackness of night stared back, then to the torchlit face of the old man sitting across from him, a smile creasing his already wrinkled face.
“And to what do I owe the honor of your…unexpected… visit?” Gaston said dryly, fighting down a yawn. Von Falkenburg loved this—flaunting his authority by arriving unexpectedly, or at odd hours!
The old man’s smile grew.
“I am visiting on the business of the Holy Father,” von Falkenburg replied. “How are you, Your Grace? And your brother the King?” von Falkenburg asked with that annoying smile. Gaston bit his lip. Was that the point of this visit? Why did it have to be so sudden that the old man couldn’t wait until a
sane time to meet?
“He is well,” Gaston bit his tongue and replied with a thin smile. Hugues, it seemed, was never not well
physically. Mentally…well, he still talked to his warhammer. He’d been doing that publicly since…
Ah… so that’s what the old man wanted. Gaston barely managed to not frown at the realization. So von Falkenburg wanted France to follow her end of the deal, even after his ‘Papal dispensation’ to invade Scotland had resulted in nothing more than Hugues losing an army! Yes, it’d been ten years, but the French army had barely recovered! The nobility of France, the men who made up the core of her proud knights, had only recently come of age, replacing their fathers!
Many had wondered, and more had questioned the monarchy since the debacle. Why had so many sons of France bled out over the fields of Scotland? As Gaston breathed, the talk was daily growing closer and closer to treason. Despite that, despite knowing how tenuous Hugues’ throne was becoming, von Falkenburg still came… and Gaston knew what he was about to ask for.
Gaston steeled himself—he’d breach the subject, if von Falkenburg wouldn’t.
“My brother is keen to hear if His Holiness…”
“…will ask him to honor his word?” von Falkenburg chuckled. “It has been over a decade, I know, but His Holiness, at my advice, has been biding his time. As long as the German was bound to Constantinople, His Holiness’ hands were bound.”
“I am aware,” Gaston said grimly. Gaston had dreaded the day the Holy See would come calling, but Gaston knew von Falkenburg. A promise was a promise, and the old Cardinal would hold Gaston and his brother’s kingdom to every word.
“However, recent developments have now made the situation more favorable,” von Falkenburg went on, “and yes, His Holiness is now formally requesting the Kingdom of France’s support for an invasion of Italy to restore Rome to the See of St. Peter.”
“A miracle has taken place?” Gaston crossed his arms grimly. If the Germans were still in Constantinople’s pocket, the campaign south would be short indeed. If they moved, Dietmar in Bruges would move as well. France could withstand one of them—but Germany, Burgundy,
and the Romans?
To Gaston’s surprise, however, the Cardinal’s mouth slowly crept into a smile.
“Yes, a miracle did take place. Empress Doryotta is dead,” von Falkenburg creaked.
“Dead?” Gaston raised an eyebrow. That was a slight improvement—the Roman couldn’t call Hesso ‘brother-in-law’ when asking him to smash the Capets. “How?”
“The imperial court states that she died of a hemorrhage after a long illness,” the Cardinal leaned back and smiled.
“Well, did she?” Gaston pressed, dreading the answer. Emperor Andronikos may smile in public, he may be loved by the proles, but any lord worth his salt knew the poison behind the Roman Emperor’s smile. A man who killed his own wife…
“Does it matter?” the Cardinal laughed, “Without Doryotta, there is no living bond holding the Roman Empire and the Germans together! If Hesso were to begin to suspect that his sister was
murdered…”
Gaston’s eyes went wide.
Hesso was never the brightest of men—it would be, in the words of a Venetian, “an easy sell.” The two had produced children, quite a few, but there was no evidence that they shared anything more than a distant friendship—decidedly chilly, in Gaston’s mind. And if Hesso thought his sister had been murdered by the Roman Emperor…
War.
“The German dukes?” Gaston asked. He didn’t need to say anything about the French dukes… the lesser nobility,
they would be the lynchpin—would they marshal their armies and march to war for an emperor many of them disliked?
“I am confident,” von Falkenburg said, “that the Holy Father, on hearing of the cruel murder of Doryotta Arpad, will announce it is the duty of every Christian to dethrone the murderer and bring him to justice. Perhaps,” the Cardinal added with a dark smile, “anyone who refuses to help could be threatened with excommunication? Or,” the Cardinal added, “any noble who rebels against his lawful king in a time of great spiritual unrest is excommunicated, his lands placed under interdict?” The Cardinal’s smile softened, and he leaned forward, long bony fingers touching Gaston’s shoulder. “I am sure that would be sufficient to keep the more…independent minded… of the barons of Germany and France in line. So, Your Eminence,” von Falkenburg said, “will France join Germany in a war to regain the Holy See its due?”
==========*==========
Whew! A lot happened during this one! We jump ten years forward. Doryotta has just died, leaving a brood of children behind. Her death gives the Papacy the out it thinks it needs to make a move on Rome. Meanwhile, Alexandros II has cleaned up Mesopotamia, but ibn Taymiyyah has been let free—a man who is convinced that the spiritual and political renew of Islam is nigh. Where will Alexandros turn next? Will Hesso believe the Papal claims? Does Andronikos know of these threats? Can he face them should they all come at once? Things get complicated next Rome AARisen!