Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

Welshdude – Sortmark is Sbyslava’s homeland, it’d be natural she’d flee there. Now, whether she’s plotting an invasion or simply trying to secure a safe place for herself and her sons (should someone unite Romanion, even hosting her and her boys could be dangerous), remains to be seen…

…you’ll be pleased Alexandros is in this update. =)

Morrell8 – That’d be a huge gulp of land (they’d basically double their size)… but if there’s any time to make a land grab, it’d be now…

4th Dimension – Oh he’s trying. But will he?

Issac Wolfe – Nikephoros has been a prisoner of the Persians since the Battle of the Halys. He’s alive and as well as one can be while they’re slowly dying of leprosy and attendant infections, but politically, he’s in rather the same position as Romanos Diogenes in our timeline…

Enewald – There’s all sorts of chaos and shenanigans going on right now—there’s just not enough time to get into all of it. For right now, our focus is on Konstantinopolis… but don’t worry, I’ll try to fill in other happenings too!

SplendidTuesday – His camel armies will be killer across the North Africa desert with their bonuses, but the moment he starts fighting in grassy terrain all those combat penalties begin to hit and there goes his army… =)

AlexanderPrimus – Incidentally, hellburners were a real weapon used, at least once, in warfare. Considering the historical anachronism of the h’wacha arriving centuries early, this actually isn’t as much of a stretch. The only difference between the real Dutch ships and the ones my Romans used is, of course, they added vats of Greek fire in the mix as well. A nasty nasty design—but so expensive (and so dangerous) a situation like Sinope is perhaps the only time one could justify building and using such a device…

Leviathan07 – Technically, that means Theodoros is a desert mouse. I think the name is appropriate now. =)

Burgundy straddles the language divide, though I’d say the Low Countries are going to have an especially strong pull, considering that’s where Burgundian wealth is, as well as the Burgundian court. I can’t say for sure they’ll be Dutch dominated in EU3, but I’d place my bets on that…

asd21593 – Not A-bombed. Fireshipped/firestormed. Imagine several tons of gunpowder going off, propelling vats of Greek fire over a hundred foot or two hundred foot radius. Then put this in the middle of a harbor, with tons of wooden ships, wooden docks, wooden buildings or buildings with wooden roofs, all within close range of the thing. Considering medieval firefighting techniques, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine an entire city burning down from such a start…

vadermath – William of Ockham, like Dante, was a cameo I couldn’t resist. I’d planned long ago to include both of them somehow, then I got so caught up writing the civil war I almost forgot. Dante the failed poet and Guillaume will both be returning in some capacity, more than likely…

RGB – Well, Philomena at least ended her service in a blaze of glory, as opposed to being stripped of her timbers and broken up. Well, the old Havigraes was near where Pereslavyl was—but that city was burned by the Mongols. This is the newer city—and yes, that’d be an accurate location.

Truth be told, I looked up a tributary of the Dniepr and picked one at random. At least the random one I picked has a reasonable basis in fact. =)

Basil II – I’ve actually got the start of a fantasy setting with both Byzantine and HRE elements in it sitting on my computer. It’s currently only about 5 pages though. =( In some ways, RA is kind of my test run to try characters and ideas with what CK gave me (or what I run off and do if CK gives me nothing). So who knows, maybe down the line?

Vesimir – Well, you should be tickled pink possibly by what happens below… and there’ll probably be a little bit of Venice in the EU3 portion. There almost has to be.

Zzzzz… – Well, right now Italy is basically split into three—the northern part (north of Rome) is occupied by von Franken’s men. The southern part of the peninsula is occupied by Demetrios, while Sicily is occupied by Leo—there’s been constant fighting between them, and the situation doesn’t seem likely to be resolved soon…

wolfcity – Yes, the Blue Horde was far weaker than its RL Golden Horde counterpart… it very briefly established a similar swath of tributary states, but within two decades infighting with other Mongol dominions had made it shrivel to a shell of its former self. And Andronikos was kind of in a hard spot—he’d had an heir picked out, but disease struck. The others weren’t very good choices, so he simply hedged his bets that he wouldn’t die at 50… and lost.

BraidsMAmma – Like others have said, I’m probably going to bounce from country to country in EU3—it’ll be more interesting for me as a player, and probably counterbalance the AI’s tendency to run a-quirky all over the place… It’ll also make it easier to focus on the whole story—the successor states, the strange Europe that resulted, possibly tidbits about events in far away India and China…

Hannibal X – Mali will be one of the nation’s played. The only other ones I know for sure I want to play at some point in the EU3 story will be Egypt and Persia… probably the Turks too (they are going to be interesting too)…

TC Pilot – Well, I was originally planning on answering a lot of those questions in an interim at the end of this chapter (because there’s a great deal of explaining that’s been built up), but now is as good a time as any to delve into the topc.

Firstly, Safiya did not exist. Thomas III married a Hohenstaufen (I don’t remember if the real character’s name was Frederica… that name was borrowed as a cameo from AlexanderPrimus), and had a bastard. In story, to keep with AP’s Frederica, I had RA’s Frederica have the bastard child… out of wedlock, with Thomas’ brother Gabriel (and I turned the bastard into a girl).

Manuel was the bastard son of Andronikos, born of some off screen woman unfortunate enough to not be a character in the game. For story purposes, I switched things around, making him sire the bastard with the bastard from the previous tinkering with game events. Thus—Safiya conceiving little Manuel.

In general this is likely the point where the game and the story, apart from characters and a broad general brush of the story, part ways. The game from this point on got rather tedious—I was simply too big to fall, and every little lord that tried to rebel was squashed with ease. Defeating rebels enabled my emperors to quickly build ridiculous amounts of prestige, and copious income meant I could buy off many rebellious lords with impunity. In many ways, what’s coming in the AAR is how the Komnenid Empire should’ve fallen, with tidbits thrown in here and there of how it did fall in game. The cycle of lumping individual ‘suicide by lieges’ into full scale rebellions continues, as does the simulation of smaller sub-kingdoms/despotates/exarchates CK’s mechanics doesn’t allow for, but certainly would have had to exist in order for an empire as cumbersome as this one to function.

Despite all the changes to make the story more interesting, at least for me to write, several things are staying the same. One is that most of the characters (apart from obvious historical cameos) will still be characters pulled from the game, and written out as best I can with the traits they had. The emperors I list, for the most part, ruled from Konstantinopolis (or had the clout they could have, ex. Sefyuallah). The major major events still coming (the arrival of the Black Death, among others) will take place when they did in the game as well.

cezar87 – I am assuming at this point that someone will play and write an AAR about the von Franken kingdom… it’s a tale I’d be very interested in reading. =)

Calipah – TBH, that’s another thing that drew me to Mali (aside from the personal connections)… apart from thrashingmad’s AAR, I can’t think of any other story that had Mali in it. I think it’d be lovely if they got a little representation—it was a fascinating society. It deserves a little spotlight. =)

varetta – I won’t forget Konstantinopolis, but by the point of EU3, there really won’t be a ‘Byzantium’ of note. The closest thing I can think of to compare it to would be the real post-Roman world, where everyone is claiming they are Roman, no matter their origins. Who is the real Roman Empire? He who controls Konstantinopolis? Rome? The largest land area? The largest army? The greatest wealth?

Nikolai – It’s probably mostly going to be written from either a neutral point of view (history book sections), or the POV of non-state actors (people more like Roland du Roche or Reinaldo Jimenez, not Basils or Thomases). There’s too much ground to cover as is in the civil war… it only gets broader from here.

Carlstadt Boy – I can’t say for sure what’ll happen (I won’t know until I play EU3 =) ) but chances are quite high that if a Constantinople based power arises again, it’ll be more along the lines of the Ottoman Turks claiming to be the Roman Empire—someone whom our Komnenoi wouldn’t recognize, either through changes over time or outside migration/conquest, taking the mantle for their own purposes. That in and of itself could be hugely interesting—what if an Aionite Roman Empire arises? Or if the Hungarians or some other ‘Latin’ group capitalizes on things and makes the Queen of Cities their own? Or the Danes? Or some unexpected group, like the Bulgarians, Georgians or Syrians? The possibilities are endless…

JacktheRipper21 –Ironically, Theodoros’ army is probably a little larger than the one Demetrios Megas used in his coup. However, back then there were only 35,000 men in the entire empire. There are several themes alone that could put that many in the field if push came to shove. That’s the major difference…

Ksim3000 – Hello stranger! England and the West hasn’t gotten as much long in the late speculation, and the possibilities there are almost as, if not more fascinating. While most of the post-Roman realms are going to be stuck navel-gazing at a Constantinople belly-button, its going to be people like the Scots, the Burgundians, and heck, even the Swedes, who will probably be leading the charge in terms of colonizing the new world. There’s probably going to be an amazingly different New World by the 18th century. There could be Muslim colonies in South America, Scottish colonies in Newfoundland, Burgundians in the Caribbean and Swedes in Mexico. Who knows?

armoristan – Like I said, that’s why I want to hop around—it’ll give a better chance to explore the world that’s resulted, rather than focusing on just one part. Even in the Mediterranean, picking whoever owns Constantinople could be extremely limiting (since more than likely they’re going to be expending most of their energy defending it, not seeing what Sortmark is up to or checking who’s colonized what…)

Whew! A lot of replies! Well, that brings me to this week’s update. Was very busy all week (my boyfriend gets his master’s degree on Saturday! Proud of him! =) ), but I managed to put the following together. It’s quick, but I hope you all enjoy!


April 11th, 1300

Agnes de Perigord sighed, looking up at the monstrosity that towered over her. She’d last been in Konstantinopolis over fifty years before, when the beast that would become the Kosmodion was barely a twinkle in the eye of its mad creator. Now, dwarfed by its massive colonnades and towering spires, she was duly unimpressed. It looked like the work of a mad child, not a master architect.

One person, however, was excited. It might have been the seventh time Alexandros II, soon to be Autokrator of the Roman Empire, had personally given this tour, but his voice chattered on with enthusiasm beyond her understanding.

Of course, he was always excited when he personally showed his future lovers around the grand palace he’d called home for only a short time.

“And this is the grand entrance hall,” Alexandros said as the small army of retainers and hangers on came to a halt in the entryway of the Kosmodion palace. The few servants in the room scattered, and the sparse number of petitioners bent their knees in homage.

“It’s amazing!” the boy repeated the words of the previous five others that had received the tour, hands tracing around and under the Persian lord’s shirt. Agnes frowned at his simple game—he probably thought he was building a path to power, and no doubt his family was spurring him on. He’d end up a mere husk—used, then tossed aside, like all the rest.

The Kosmodion like the rest of Konstantinopolis, was still festooned with banners and flags, most of them home-made, welcoming the Megas reborn into his new capital city. The entry parade had been grand, and the crowds of proles had lined the streets to scream for the man they’d adored in triumph less than a decade before. Coins were tossed into the crowd, and plans were laid for an even more lavish celebration later.

Yet Agnes felt uneasy.

It was all too neat, too tidy.

Truthfully, she was surprised that day long ago when the first message arrived, by secret courier, to Alexandros’ headquarters in Nikaea. Those dark days, when the Persian fleet had been decimated in port and there seemed no way across the Marmara—they seemed little more than a distant bad memory. Persia’s Syrian allies were immobile, bickering at one another, while the Egyptians had broken camp and returned home. The entire campaign seemed moribund—even Alexandros the Optimist was beginning to wonder if it was all a lost cause…

…under Kaisar Manuel’s offer.

The Kaisar explained his brother’s appointees were the only ones that wanted to keep fighting on, but that he saw no reason not to bow to the inevitable will of God, and hand Konstantinopolis, as well as the diadem, to the Persian Lion. Only then could the empire be reunited under a single sovereign, and all made right. Only one condition had to be met—Manuel had to remain as Kaisar and heir. It would mollify many in the government who would have otherwise opposed the Persian, he explained. In return for keeping his office, he would surrender Konstantinopolis, as well as the remaining imperial armies, now hunkered on the Balkan side of the Bosphorus.

Neat, tidy—and completely unbelievable.


Agnes looked back at her charge, and the young man clutching his arm. The latest boy was of old dynatoi[i/] stock—Agyros, she remembered. His family had almost been ready to ship him away to holdings in far off Wallachia when Alexandros arrived with his…unusual…tastes in companions. Like so many opportunistic families, they immediately sent for their shamed son, did him up and offered him to the Persian Lion. There was no doubt Alexandros would never sire a son of his own—his ‘wife’ in Persian had her own discreet lovers. His brother Isaakios wanted nothing to do with Konstantinopolis—he preferred Isfahan, and the Persian throne had already been transferred to his care. Manuel would certainly get his wish, provided he was fortunate to live long enough.

Agnes felt her lips curl up.

The offer seemed too good to be true—with Manuel came the Oikoi, the vaunted network of spies and assassins throughout the Empire. On the surface, this was an incredible boon, but Agnes had spent the last twenty years sniffing out plots her reckless lord ignored. She knew a rat when she smelled it. The master of the Oikoi could make a formidable enemy, especially when one was in his city, fighting in terrain he knew. Alexandros was a warrior without peer, but this should have been her battle, her fight.

Yes, the bedridden Nikephoros abdicated his throne—Agnes had seen the sad shell of a man, and had little doubt he would have done otherwise, even if he’d emerged victorious from the Halys. Alexandros had insisted his former enemy be treated with grace and honor—he would ride behind the new Megas Komnenos in a gilded carriage on his coronation day when it finally came, and would be tonsured with dignity in the Hippodrome before the mobs who’d cheered Alexandros’ arrival into the Queen of Cities. The menagerie in the Megara would be released, and the Kaisar had assured them the imperial tagmata in the city would march as well.

Yet Agnes had noticed something far quieter than the screaming proles and the pomp and ceremony promised since their arrival—something alarming. Her eyes drifted back to the few petitioners in the hall—sad little pieces of driftwood in a sea of emptiness where hundreds should have stood, demanding even a morsel of the Persian Lion’s time.

As Alexandros’ men had prepared to cross the Marmara two months before, courtesy the suddenly friendly Imperial Navy, the few spies she had left in the city spoke of the nobility and the clergy leaving in droves. The educated classes—the bureaucrats, grain monitors, block levitors, the cogs that kept the greatest city in the world moving smoothly, were fleeing. The problem had become serious enough that she’d advised Alexandros to shut the gates to the city and not allow anyone out, but her master had refused—why should he hem in the people who welcomed him with open arms? It meant the city was now run by relatively few men who were unfortunately overworked…

…and all appointees of one Manuel Komnenos.

De Perigord cast a glance towards her lord’s new ally, the man she’d been communicating with by raven for the better part of a year. She’d long ago decided he was a toad—a toad with a quick mind, but no more. She had no doubt he’d have instant words to address that glaring situation. Of course Alexandros was a stranger in a strange city—Manuel offered his expertise and his advice in running the affairs of the Queen of Cities. Keeping him as Kaisar would appeal to the imperial military and the bureaucracy—many of them owed their positions to the Kaisar, disturbing them would threaten the tenuous first few months of Alexandros’ new reign. He knew the commanders of the tagmata in the still large imperial armies in the region—he’d secured oaths of loyalty from all of them, by means both fair and foul.

More importantly, Manuel had offered proof he would keep the Church in line. Alexandros’ tastes for…companions… was hardly a secret, and his rather irreligious sentiments were not exactly hidden either. Konstantinopolis might have been a den of sin and vice, but it was also, titularly, one of the most holy cities in Christendom, home of the world’s greatest church, and the world’s most powerful churchman. Patriarch Thomas was still adamant that he would not crown Alexandros Megas Komnenos until he’d divested all the boys from his chambers, but Manuel had somehow concocted a statement from the Metropolitan of Hagia Eirene that, even while uncrowned, Alexandros had all the rights of a Megas Komnenos, save the right to chair a church council, and that he would be crowned Autokrator ton Romanion by the Metropolitan, no less.

Alexandros had no plans to chair a church anything, so the arrangement had suited him just fine.

“Over here is the column dedicated to Christ Pantokrator…”

The muted statement from Holy Mother Church didn’t suit Agnes at all—she’d read the words carefully, and without speaking treason, they spoke of denying the rightful emperor his due. More importantly, they severed any legitimacy of Alexandros’ overlordship—With the abdication of Nikephoros, there was no Megas Komnenos in the capital, only pretenders all across the Empire.

Agnes looked her charge—Alexandros was bubbling with excitement, chattering with first Ioannopoulos on the arrangements for paying the Persian host now that he had access to the Konstantinopolis treasury, then asking one of his young paramours how the boy liked the gilded marble colonnades of the Kosmodion. The Lion had conquered a city intact, spared from fire and storm, but he had not conquered an empire. Alexios still held Spain, though even Agnes’ threadbare network in the region spoke of sharp disagreements between Alexios and his father-in-law, Exarch Makrinokomnenos. Demetrios sat rudely in far southern Italy, while Theodoros gallivanted in the deserts of God Knows Where thumbing his nose at the capital. Even Leo had the temerity to rise, declaring he was personally promised the title Kaisar and thus rightfully deserved the throne!

Yes, Manuel had plans for that as well, including sending 50,000 of Alexandros’ fresh men by ship to retake southern Italy from Leo. It was bold, it was striking, it appealed to everything in the bones of Alexandros II, hailed as the Megas by the throngs in Konstantinopolis. But in the loudest praise often hung the quietest damnations—a sharp dissonance Agnes’ aged ears picked up with ease. Sending 50,000 Persian soldiers to Italy would be unexpected—because Alexandros should have them close to his person to protect his new gains! Every bone in her body screamed that it smelled of a trap, that Konstantinopolis was nothing more than a gilded prison, but Alexandros the Bold, no, he would never listen to such talk! The dream of his grandfather had been achieved, he would say! A son of Gabriel held his rightful throne!

Which is exactly, she was sure, what the toad wanted him to think.

De Perigord’s eyes then went to the Kaisar—Manuel’s eyes were fixed ahead, a slight frown marring his face. She echoed his expression.

She’d pointed out, repeatedly, that Manuel was undoubtedly plotting for his new master’s demise—probably from the start—yet Alexandros waved off her concerns. At first, his statements had made perfect sense. Why not use him, preparing to beat him at his own game when the time came? But the closer he drew to Konstantinopolis, the more the city’s infamous pull stole his attention. Instead of authorizing her to plant agents, he demanded she send spies to watch imperial naval progress. Instead of overtures to city fathers, he ordered spies sent to Italy and beyond to prepare the ground for future invasions. Even when she whispered warnings as he rode through the streets as he entered The Prize, he was fixated on the bauble, and not the danger that lurked!

“Did you see them?” he said, laughing away her concerns, “The people of the city love me! They’d castrate the Patriarch if they thought he’d harm a hair on my head!” No, her lord and master said, let Manuel think he’d won. Let him try his machinations—if he did, Alexandros would feed him to the hungry mob!

Agnes might have agreed, save she knew one thing—mobs were like feral dogs. They were as likely to bite the hand that fed them as to defend it.

Well, Agnes had a thing or two to say about such a thing happening. She might be an old hen, but if she could she was going to peck at the chief hound and chase him from his quarry!

“Highness?” she said, simply, directly, to the toad she knew was plotting right next to her.

“Lady Agnes,” Manuel kept staring ahead without giving her the slightest bit of a bow. The old Agnes, long ago, would have twisted her lip in a snarl over such rudeness. Slowly, he turned to face her. “How do you find the Queen of Cities?” he asked, smugness and success written all over his face.

“Surprisingly quiet,” she said sharply. “It seems many in the nobility do not like my master’s arrival. Only your supporters remain, I note.”

“They are loyal men,” the Kaisar nodded.

“Indeed, but to whom?” she turned and glared.

“To the crown,” Manuel turned as well, his smile thinning.

“A pretty dance of words,” Agnes said quietly. “Know this, Highness. I’ll be watching you like a hawk,” Agnes hissed.

“Of course you’ll be,” the Kaisar nodded slightly at her words. “If you didn’t, you would be remiss in your duties. Rest assured, madam,” he raised a finger and pointed at his eye, “I shall assuredly be watching you—you’ll be Archekronokrateros…”

“Arche-what?” Agnes’ eyebrows rose even higher. She felt her head rising up, her chest puffing in annoyance. The time for politeness was long gone. “If you think you can buy me with a title…”

“Oh no,” the Kaisar’s smile was now icicle-thin. “I would never think such a thing. I merely meant that the now united empire would have great use of your…”

“I heard that phrase, long ago,” Agnes felt her voice rise. She caught her master casting a glance back at her, but she didn’t care. “I was a child when those words were uttered by a man in this city to a Lord of Persia—a Lord of Persia the man cut down afterwards!”

“Agnes?” the soon-to-be-crowned Autokrator turned. The paramour of the day gripped Alexandros’ hand, shooting a defiant look Agnes’ way. De Perigord rolled her eyes—this one, like so many, assumed everything that went on around the palace revolved around him.

“Madame Agnes and I were merely having a… spirited discussion…” the Kaisar spoke before Agnes could even open her mouth, “about the future of the Oikoi. I have the perfect place in mind for her talents—Archekronokrateros.”

“Arche-what?” Alexandros’ brow furrowed.

“Majesty, if I…”

“Chief of intelligence,” the Kaisar talked over her. “The woman who will compile the reports from all over the empire so I may present them to Your Majesty. She, in humility, disagrees with my assessment of her skills. In my opinion,” he looked at her levelly, his lips smiling as his eyes shone with death, “she thinks too low of her talents.”

“She should be included,” Alexandros smiled at his aged nursemaid, even as his boy squeezed his hand and glared at her. “I can’t imagine ruling without her advice. Make her your second, if you please… yes?” he spun back around to the lover of the moment. The little charlatan gave Agnes an undo huff, before the new Emperor of the Known World was showing the boy the column dedicated to the great Demetrios Megas. Agnes stared after the baby she’d raised to a boy, then a young man, then a King.

“Archekronokrateros,” she felt Manuel’s cold fingers touching her shoulder, “you’ll receive apartments in my wing of the palace. I’ll make sure some of my people are…on hand…to assist you in your duties.” As Alexandros and the boy began to walk towards the next wonder to behold in the palace, guards in tow, Manuel leaned close. “As I said,” she felt him close to her neck, “I shall be keeping a very close eye on you…”

==========*==========​

May 8th, 1302

Roland du Roche was a humble man, from humble origins, so the weight of the ermine lined cloak that draped his shoulders still surprised him, despite having worn it on important occasions for the previous two months. Not that long before, the office tied to this cloak—black, trimmed with gold, and, of course, heavy amounts of unnecessary ermine—was fairly powerless, as evidenced by the ridiculous pomposity of its attire. Men with real duties would have little time to design such a monstrosity, and even less time to hobble about the palace under its weight. But now, the office of Kyriomachos—only recently the plaything of court favorites—was once again a title of distinction and importance.

And men of distinction and importance rarely could escape the bounds of ceremony—not when they were walking alongside the Kaisar himself to see no less than the Patriarch of Konstantinopolis.

The office was not what Roland had desired—he’d wanted his red cape, to be a strategos in the field, but circumstances, as they are prone to do, swept him past his goal. A litany of officeholders resigned their posts and left Konstantinopolis during the approach of Alexandros II’s army the previous year—among them the most recent Kyriomachos, a minor lord from Pereschen named Skleros. Since his posting in the capital, Roland had proven useful in many tasks—notably in securing the loyalty of several of the remaining non-Persian, non-Oikoi tagmata in the city. So useful, in fact, that Roland du Roche, the son of a Frankish immigrant, found himself named Kyriomachos—a useless, overly primed office worthy of the most chest-puffed nobody in the court.

Under the guise of ‘state reform’ under the new emperor, that was among the first things to change.

Most of the matters du Roche dealt with on a daily basis were mundane—trying to fill the many holes in the city government, among others. Yet amidst his main roles were secret, hidden ones as well—he was also in charge of the palace musicians, one of the largest nests of Oikoi spies in the empire. After the unfortunate death of the Archekronokrateros—du Roche himself had made sure her ‘fall’ looked like the work of an assassin sent from Italy—du Roche had inherited her roles as well. The man that once dreamed of being a battlefield commander now found himself second-in-command of the army of spies that patrolled the city—and he relished every minute of it.

Save the minutes that involved his ridiculous formal costume.

So now, with a small retinue of loyal Oikoi masquerading as servants in tow, du Roche and his lord made their way through the colonnades of the Hagia Sophia to the gardens behind the immense church. Finally, servants opened a small door for the pair, and they strode into the brilliant sunlight of a warm May afternoon, the grizzled, hunched form of Patriarch Thomas of Aquino sitting on a chair in the midst of a beautifully decorated patio. Two chairs were already arranged in front of him, within easy whispering distance. Both the Kaisar and Kyriomachos bowed, and the Patriach’s servants withdrew, leaving only the loyal Oikoi gathered out of earshot, ever watchful.

“Please,” the Old Man of the Church, as he was called, grunted. “I’ve been reading some of the latest letters from Alexandria,” the Patriarch leaned back. There was a cascade of cracks from his ancient bones, protesting his no doubt hours of sitting in that very chair. Even as his aged body protested his every move, Thomas of Aquino’s eyes shone with furious fire. “He refuses to recant!”

Du Roche crossed himself, he’d read the reports as well. Even Ioannis de Normandie’s first few days on his new Patriarchal throne were controversial—he stripped several prominent bishops of their crosiers, assigning their titles and lands to fellow dissidents like himself. Of course, these men appealed to Konstantinopolis, and Patriarch Thomas reinstated them. Angry missives flew back and forth through the summer and fall, until New Year’s Day, when de Normandie announced that all Christians, on pain of excommunication, would be required to pay an annual tithe of 2.5% of their wealth in alms to the poor. To Patriarch Thomas, this smelled strongly of the heathen zakat. Konstantinopolis sent a warning in late January for Ioannis to recant his heresy.

And oh, had the Patriarch of Alexandria replied!

“He won’t lift his excommunication and anathema?” the Kaisar asked.

“No!” the Patriarch snapped, before gesturing with tired arms for his guests to sit down. “He says no True Believer would ever deny such a tithe, even though it’s clearly Mohammedan, and not from Christ! It’s detestable!” the Patriarch rumbled.

“Deplorable,” du Roche watched as his master shook his head.

“Not even the interdict has changed his mind!” Aquino thundered on. “He had the nerve, the nerve, to put Konstantinopolis under interdict in retaliation!”

“If he doesn’t recant, God will surely punish him for perverting His holy word,” the Kaisar gave a wholly suitable harrumph.

“Such as how God is punishing us for allowing a catamite heathen to hold the Throne of Caesars?” the Patriarch said pointedly.

“Holiness,” Manuel sighed, “I had little choice but to surrender the city under the best terms possible.” The Kaisar shrugged. “What was I to do? Fight and let the people of this city starve?”

Du Roche found himself nodding with his lord. Since the start of the civil war, grain supplies had been running tight—merchant ships from Alexandretta to Valencia were being requisitioned to ferry troops and supplies hither and dither, and a ship filled with men and horses couldn’t carry the grain Konstantinopolis needed to be fed. So the city fathers had turned to scouring Thrace and Bithynia for grain—then the arrival of Alexandros’ armies in the fall of 1298 cut off that supply. For a moment, the arrival of Alexandros in the capital seemed to stem the problem—Egypt was a key ally of the new ruler of the city, surely the grain would flow?

But the grain did not flow.

At first, there were problems of shipment—the Navy still had many civilian ships under requisition to transport troops to Italy. Ordinarily there would have been rationing over a year ago, but a shortage of officials within the walls meant that bread supplies were muddled, sometimes lost, during several precious months during the summer. By August, the new Emperor was forced to deploy his Persian tagmata to guard the State Granaries meant for the army. The deployment of 50,000 men under Makarios Ioannopoulos to Italy in September of 1300 relieved the situation a little, as did the ‘reassignment’ of several key army units back to Anatolia earlier in the year—notably Bataczes’ 40,000 men to the south, and another 40,000 in the north.

On paper, all these deployments should have freed up merchant ships to resume the steady Egyptian trade, until more matters interfered.

The new Patriarch of Alexandria infamously opened his mouth, and after the hail of excommunications between Patriarchal capitals ended only a month ago, there were suddenly ‘issues’ with the docks of Alexandria. Grain ships suddenly dropped to the bottom of priority lists, and merchants in the rich city stopped booking holds for the steady but low-paying grain routes. All of the excuses seemed, on the surface, to be legitimate, but few inside the Theodosian Walls had any misconception of what was happening—in retaliation for the Patriarchal interdict, either the heretical people of Alexandria, or perhaps their master, Lord Isaakios, had cut the city’s grain supply to a trickle.

Suddenly, the crisis had become explosive.

The city was running out of food.

Three weeks before, the new Emperor had declared city-wide rationing, and thrown open the state granaries meant for the army. These final reserves were being quickly devoured, despite being guarded by Alexandros’ most trusted soldiers—and dark rumors were already abounding.

Some said it was the fault of the Komnenoi and the endless civil war. Some unfairly blamed the city prefects—du Roche had headed an investigation into their conduct, and found surprisingly little graft. More than a few, however, placed their wrath on the Persians, saying the growing food crisis was God’s wrath for not having a sitting Megas Komnenos, or having a Persian as the Lord and Master of the Empire. Some even said the Persians were stealing all the grain, or even shipping it back to their homeland. It was strange, du Roche thought, how an empty belly made many forget how they had cheered the same man’s arrival into the city a little over a year before…

“A… dreadful situation,” the Patriarch agreed reluctantly, the fire simmering a bit in those brown orbs. “I’ve requested monasteries from Athos to Konstantion to send their grain by wagon here to the city. I do not think it will stave off the crisis,” the old man shifted his cane, “but maybe it can buy us a week or two?”

“Mother Church cares for her children,” du Roche quietly crossed himself in thanks. His master echoed the gesture, and du Roche had no doubt most of the city would as well.

“She tries the best with what God has given her,” the Patriarch sighed, before his eyes laid on the Kaisar once more. “Clearly, God is displeased with this city, and His people. Surely, if a new Emperor were to rule…”

“Holiness, there will be a time for that. A time fast approaching. Christ teaches us patience,” the Kaisar cautioned.

“Indeed,” the Patriarch nodded, “but Christ also teaches us action, by example.”

“And there will be action,” the Kaisar said. “The first step is obvious—I intend to sail for Egypt, with some of my staff.”

“Sail for Egypt?” du Roche heard himself ask with a snort of sorts. He looked over at the Patriarch. Thomas did not give an undignified snort, but his crossed arms and severe frown conveyed the same sentiment.

“Yes, Kyriomachos,” the Kaisar said, “I will go to Egypt, and get our grain back.”

“How?” the Patriarch finally spoke. “I will not lift my interdict until he lifts his, and…”

“I will,” Manuel said with a huff. “Believe me. Now, as for Alexandros, Holiness, I advise patience. It will take me several months to resolve the grain supply. In the meantime, perhaps the grain shortage is a blessing in disguise, Holiness?” Manuel leaned forward. “Sometimes,” he whispered, “God chastises us into obedience. Sometimes, his chastisements are meant to show us we’ve… disobeyed?”

For a second the Patriarch frowned, before those ancient brown eyes went alight once more. They flashed up to the Kaisar’s, and an unspoken conversation erupted. Questions were asked, and answered, in full. After a moment, the Patriarch leaned back in his own chair and sighed.

“God works in His own time,” the Patriarch nodded his head slowly, before a slow trickle of a smile crossed his face. “In His own time—just like with the Lady Ioanna. Surely her pregnancy…”

“…is a miracle of God? Yes,” The Kaisar said quickly, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Nothing less than a miracle could explain how my brother could…perform…in his sickly condition.”

Du Roche fought to keep his face calm. He’d heard the reports in his new position. For the first time, there was evidence—the former Empress’ breasts had swollen, and her maidservants spoke of a hard stomach. Nikephoros, though, had abdicated his claim—as well as those of his heirs. It shouldn’t have been any concern to the Kaisar, except…

“Indeed! Perhaps, with prayer,” the Patriarch smiled, aged, cracked teeth yellow in the sunlight, “the Almighty might bless us with a boy, an heir to the name of the late Apokathistos once the diadem has been wrenched from the head of the Persian!”

Roland watched as his lord smiled… that paper thin line that barely hid Manuel Komnenos’ rage under its placid surface. The Kyriomachos was familiar with that look—usually shortly after the meeting where the Kaisar gave that deadly grin, he would order du Roche to dispatch spies to commit some evil to the man who had sparked the grim smirk.

“We should all pray for the health of Lady Ioanna,” the Kaisar said slowly, “as well as that of the unborn child. May God make sure that their lives do not fall into the wrong hands. In fact…”

Roland watched as his lord turned to him, the wire-thin smile growing wide.

“…Roland, please take a detachment of guards to Lady Ioanna’s quarters. For the safety of her and her child, she should be moved to the apartments next to mine at the Blacharenae.”

The new Kyriomachos bowed his head. He already knew who he would call on—Simonopoulos and Naissesios were good men. Loyal men. They’d make sure he knew all her communications, all her visitors…

…especially one Sostratos Meleniou.

“Of course, Highness,” Roland said with a flourish…