Well, it's missing two pictures I had yet to convert from .PSD to .JPEG, but the update was saved! Looks like its a completely software issue, with Windows deciding to puke... so I'm teaching myself Linux until some alternative can be found. I'll add the missing images as soon as I get Photoshop back up and running. Thanks everyone for all your well wishes... it pays to know someone who knows what they're doing with computers!
“Politics is the realm of liars and fools. Those who are successful are liars. Those who fail are fools.” – Emperor Manuel I Komnenos
September 11th, 1302
Alexandria, Egypt
Drip…drip…drip…
Manuel Komnenos pinched his nose as the lone noise in the audience chamber grated his ears. The
Kaisar uncomfortably shuffled in his chair. Surrounded by incomprehensible luxury, he felt small, even out of place, in his black tunic and cloak. He knew what his cousin was trying to do—and he hated to admit to himself, Isaakios of Egypt had succeeded in one regard.
Manuel had to admit, he was impressed.
He was born, bred in Konstantinopolis and Anatolia—all other cities there were dim candles next to the brilliant light of Konstantinopolis. Alexandria though… she was a beast in her own world—a blend of Arab, Coptic, and Roman architecture, art and culture. Where parts of the Queen of Cities were always showing their age, her entire waterfront for miles shone with the gleam of new limestone and marble. She was alive, vibrant, merchants hawking Indian vases, Andalusian silver jewelry, Roman books, Syrian cloth, and Persian spices, often within feet of each other.
He’d spent the first few weeks of his visit waiting for the Prince to return from an expedition to the south—the Makurians were making inroads on Meroe once more, and the Egyptians were keen to protect their own source of excellent iron. In the meantime, Prince Isaakios’ entourage entertained the
Kaisar with all manner of galas, balls, banquets and parties. Some were vapid affairs, others interesting, and a few even awe-inspiring. Among the latter was a midnight boatride on the Nile, with the banquet barge followed by two ships filled with
automata musicians who played a small array of music, and even smiled at the crowd.
Yet it was when he was finally taken to the official residence of the Prince of Egypt that he had to resist the urge to openly gawk. The complex was immense, with a huge inner courtyard complete with palm trees and marble benches. In the middle was a large lake, great fish Manuel had never seen before swimming in its crystal blue waters. The servants had led him through a slew of great rooms, each larger than the last, all lavishly decorated, garishly displaying the power and wealth of the Aiguptokomnenoi—the second richest noble house in all of Christendom.
And so now he sat, and fretted, in an audience hall that, dare he say it, rivaled that of the
Kosmodion.
Manuel looked back up at those gilded doors and sighed. He looked down at the sleeves of his own fine tunic, then his robes—yes, they were immaculate. His eyes went back up to those doors—four eyes from a double-headed eagle stared back at him, their talons clutching a palm tree in one hand and a stalk of wheat in the other, as if they were thrusting the two symbols of Aiguptokomnenoi power for all to see. Servants in bright blue and gold stood at attention all around the room—helpful, but intimidating at the same time.
The
Kaisar nodded to himself—so his pre-planned negotiations were going
that way. Manuel wanted to grimace—Isaakios had a reputation as a plotter and a schemer, but he was telling Manuel what he was about to do as clearly as if he had sent a courier with an officially sealed note.
So, he was going to renege on the deal—no. The grain stranglehold was too lucrative. He was simply going to up his price, and
threaten[i/] to keep the supply cut off. Thoughts ran through the Kaisar’s mind, as finally, the garish doors opened.
“Welcome, cousin!” Prince Isaakios Aiguptokomnenos rushed into the room, servants in tow holding up a fur and ermine train to looked completely alien to every other costume Manuel had seen in the Princess of Cities. He was tall, almost gangly, a neat black beard framing a face that had a nose slightly too large and deep brown eyes. He swept over, and the Kaisar returned the official, light ‘hug’ just as officially, just as lightly.
“So, cousin… how do you find…”
[Prince Isaakios]
“I have little time for pleasantries, cousin,” Manuel cut Isaakios off. Time to throw him a little off balance. Isaakios was clearly a man who planned meticulously—hence the long trip through the palace, the long wait in a sea of luxury, all advertising his wealth and power. Put negotiations into motion, Manuel decided—before his cousin had a chance to size him up in person. “I have thousands of people threatened with starvation, Highness. Time is of the essence. Perhaps we can discuss pleasantries after the grain fleet is once again on its way to Konstantinopolis?”
“Perhaps,” Aiguptokomnenos smiled thinly. Manuel watched his eyes—they flicked off to the left, at a mosaic on the wall. Was he nervous? Angry? Manuel couldn’t tell… not yet. “Wine, cousin?” he offered.
Manuel nodded, and two goblets and a jug appeared on the table between them as servants scurried about.
“So, I’ll be blunt,” Manuel said as the Prince sat down, “what will it take to get Egyptian grain moving again? We had discussed 100,000 gold solidii from the imperial treasury as well as indemnities paid to the great merchant houses…”
“I am afraid,” the Prince of Egypt folded his hands casually, “that the price for Egyptian grain has risen considerably.”
Manuel glared, but bit his tongue.
“I see the acts of a Patriarch have the same effect as the Nile not flooding?” the Kaisar let a deluge of sarcasm overrun his voice. “Fine, we are grown men, let’s negotiate new...”
“Religious autonomy for me and my people,” Isaakios interrupted.
“…terms,” the Kaisar sighed. Manuel took a long, deep drink from his wine—he needed the time to think. Think! Now that excommunications and anathemas had been thrown back and forth, Thomas of Aquino would never agree to an autocephalus Church of Alexandria! How to work around the old curmudgeon… how…
“You know well I can’t do that,” Manuel finally spoke after a moment.
“And you know I can’t let de Normandie be divested of the Patriarchate,” the Prince of Egypt retorted. “So we are back at the beginning, it would seem.”
“It would seem,” Manuel grunted. “Aquino is… old,” Manuel traced his finger around the edge of his goblet. “I need him while he lasts, but God will surely call him home soon. When he does, I will be in a position to appoint a new patriarch, one who could... repair…the divisions between Konstantinopolis and Alexandria. One who would be… agreeable,” the Kaisar smiled cautiously, “to an Alexandria who resolves her own religious questions?”
“A promise?” Isaakios snorted. “A promise, from you? Why should I trust such a thing?”
“I would also be prepared, on my ascension,” the Kaisar continued, “to raise you and your heirs to the rank of Sebastokrator, as well as eliminate the taxes and duties your family would own to Konstantinopolis…” The Kaisar paused as the Prince digested Manuel’s dangled offer. The Kaisar had hoped he wouldn’t have to reach that far into his bag of tricks, but it never hurt to be prepared.
Espeically when negotiating with Isaakios of Egypt.
Aiguptokomnenos’ arms were still crossed, but his eyes were interested. Manuel smiled thinly. “You would receive, in whole, the Aiguptikon Stratos and all the equipment therein,” he continued. “You would gain the right, in perpetuity, to appoint and oversee the Church in Alexandria just as the emperor oversees the Church in Konstantinopolis. Of course, you would be expected to supply money and arms when the Empire calls on you…”
“A client?” Aiguptokomnenos said cautiously.
“In effect,” Manuel nodded. “Subject to imperial decree, of course, as well as continual, uninterrupted supply of grain… at reduced rates.” The Kaisar smiled. “Of course, the gain from your tax relief will outweigh the loss in revenue from cheap grain…”
“Perhaps,” Aiguptokomnenos’ eyes flicked down, and Manuel saw a smile start to cross his lips. After a moment’s hope, suddenly his eyes came back up—the eyes and smile were hard, as sharp as the marble blocks that lined the outer walls of the palace. “And how do I know you’ll carry these things out?” Isaakios asked. “What guarantee do I have?” The Prince of Egypt casually took another sip of his wine.
Manuel stared into his own goblet and groaned—it was empty. Part of him wanted to look up and around, at the slew of Egyptian guards he knew were in the room, but Manuel kept his eyes focused on his goblet. No, he wouldn’t let Isaakios seem him nervous—not with what he was about to say.
He took a short breath, and launched into a gamble.
“This,” the Kaisar held out his cup—in a moment, a servant had filled it to the brim once more. “I need your grain to rule. I will move Hell itself to keep that grain. If my negotiations are insufficient,” Manuel added darkly, “perhaps Megas Domestikos Bataczes, or Spahbod Ioannopoulos should come and negotiate on my behalf? Or, perhaps both? Perhaps the Imperial Navy should come as well, and ensure that no cargo of any kind leaves Alexandria’s wharves.” He leaned close, his voice dropping to a snake’s whisper. “For if I fall because of your impudence, by all of God’s glory I’ll drag your slimy ass down with me!”
[Manuel]
“I…”
“I can go into greater detail, cousin…”
“I… I don’t think we need to discuss that route of diplomacy,” Prince Isaakios laughed nervously. Manuel allowed himself a thin smile, when he really wanted to laugh in triumph! He’d found his point of leverage—and now he’d extract as much as he needed from the Egyptian!
“So then,” the Kaisar swirled his wine, “the title Sebastokrator, only half of current taxes, and…”
“My lord,” Prince Isaakios’ eyes flared, “only a few minutes ago you said no…”
Manuel smiled at the sputtering protest. There was much about his original counteroffer he didn’t mind—ceding control of the Patriarchal appointments made the Aionites, Copts, and all manner of other religious fringe groups along the Nile the problem of the Aiguptokomnenoi, not Konstantinopolis, and political ‘autonomy’ really only cemented what had been fact for half a century. Manuel gave up little, even as he seemed to give a great deal.
“…autonomy in domestic affairs and Church appointments,” the Kaisar spoke on over the Prince’s complaints. “I deal fairly with those who deal fairly with me. I have altered our deal. Pray I don’t alter it further.” With those ominous words, the Kaisar lifted his glass with a smile. “Now, if those terms are acceptable, and further negotiations are not required…”
“They are not,” the Prince of Egypt replied, his face looking like he’d swallowed a lemon whole.
“Good,” the Kaisar nodded. “Now, I understand that there are some fifty ships on the quays filled with grain. I need their crews ready to leave within the day—I intend to lead them with my dromons back to the city…”
November 12th, 1302
Havigraes, Sortmark
“My Lords and Ladies! We are gathered…”
Andronikos Komnenos, son of the same, sat perfectly still on the wooden Throne of Havigraes, his face placid, inscrutable, despite his twelve years and the urge to wince. It’d been four years since he’d heard the formal, lilting Greek of Konstantinopolis, and his ears had long since adjusted to the guttural patois that passed among the merchants in the Danish capital—it was even the dialect he spoke when his mother couldn’t hear him.
His eyes, however, were free to move—his mother had made no prohibitions about him looking around as the complex coronation began. Gathered all throughout the immense Audience Hall of the royal castle of Havigraes were the high and mighty of Sortmark, from the Prince of Smolensk, Andronikos’ uncle, to the Danish jarls and even a few khans from the remnants of the Cumans. In the far corner was a small assemblage from the lands of the Poles, a few priests from the Latin church, and even a drably dressed man claiming he represented the Arpad Kings of Hungary.
However, the most richly decorated contingent stood off to the left—a gaggle of silken color in a sea of darker fur drab. Their leader, Metropolitan Matthias of Kaliopolis, his robes tyrian purple with gold crosses adorning them, stood before the massed nobility of the north and droned on words about the sanctity of this day and the ceremony to come. To a man his clustered contingent wore the robes and mitres of bishops and metropolitans from the Most Holy Orthodox Church, all also resplendent in the bright tyrian purple and black of clergy representing the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Konstantinopolis. After all, no one, save someone given authority by the Holy Patriarch himself, had the authority to crown an Emperor of the Romans.
Or so said the church.
The twelve year old boy let out an ever so quiet sigh, one that was drowned out by the bombastic words coming from the mouth of Father Matthias. Despite the pageantry, his ancestry, and the thundering encouragement and scolding words of his mother, Andronikos did not want to be here today. He might have been twelve, but he was no fool.
Andronikos Komnenos, son of the same, did not want to be emperor.
He was the seventh son of an emperor, and even after his father’s death when he was a mere seven, he hadn’t expected to rule. Ruling, in his mind, was something to be abhorred—his brothers’ experiences and the chaos in the south, from what he heard, only confirmed it! He knew what happened to people who took the crown—they’re best friends betrayed them. People tried to use them. Every word, every whisper, would become fodder for political scheming. Men raised armies against them!. Priests railed against them, their own family would turn on them.
No. It was far better to live a life in exile, the boy had long ago decided. Here in Havigraes, he was free to hunt, to play, to learn. He’d become friends with the many people in the Danish court, from the Ravenmaster who carried the King’s Banner into battle, to the Court clerks and masters-in-residence. He’d even developed a grudging respect for the King’s Chaplain—Father Valdemar never treated Andronikos like someone above his station, and sparred with the boy on theology like he was an equal. Andronikos dreamed of being like Master Bradwardine, or any of the other tutors present at court—free to learn, free to hunt, free to do what he wanted, when he wanted, not sit on a dusty throne all day listening to droning people while everyone and their uncle tried to snatch the crown fro his head and life from his veins!
Besides, Andronikos thought, it wasn’t like he would make a good emperor anyway…
“Highness, do you swear before all these here gathered, to uphold the Laws of God?” Metropolitan Matthias interrupted Andronikos’ brief daydream. The twelve year old took a deep breath, just as his mother told him to, and looked directly in the priest’s eyes. He saw a little surprise there—perhaps Matthias thought no boy would ever stare him in the eyes?
“I do so swear,” Andronikos said, loudly but without shouting, just as his mother told him to.
“Highness, do you swear before all these here gathered, to protect and defend the Roman Empire, her people, her lands, and her name?”
“I do so swear,” Andronikos said again, still staring directly at the priest. The old man’s eyes would flick off to the left, then the right. The Prince fought the urge to smile—so, he won the unofficial staring contest apparently.
Andronikos was sure the old man was relieved when he had to look down to bring up the small pan of holy oil. The Prince closed his eyes, thinking of when this would all be over, and he could resume reading, when he and Guillaume could wander in the courtyard again. He felt something wet touch his forehead, and remembered his mother’s instructions. He opened his eyes again as the priest withdrew his hand, still wet from the holy water.
Andronikos was no longer merely a Prince.
He was now Megas Komnenos—however much he wished he wasn’t.
Matthias began some longwinded prayer, asking for God to safeguard his soul and keep his body, but Andronikos’ mind wandered back to that day, when he was rudely snatched from his exile. He remembered that day well—he and Guillaume were interrogating their new tutor, Master Duns Scotus, about formal distinction. The old man was muttering about how the conceptual and the real were linked but independent. For once Guillaume was not in the lead poking holes in the man’s thoughts, and Andronikos was about to bring up all the writings of Patriarch Aquino and the Latin Peter Abelard when Lady Isabella hurriedly burst into the chambers, saying Andronikos’ mother wanted him to come quickly.
King Olaf was dead.
Skjalm Knytling was the new King of the Danes—and wanted Andronikos to be crowned, as quickly as possible, Emperor of the Romans... but only after he was symbolically re-baptised as Skjalm’s own godson. That ceremony was awkward as well. Andronikos remembered how his mother had constantly had her hand in Skjalm’s, the looks between the two. The thought of his mother… no, Andronikos banished that thought. It was revolting to think of one’s mother doing such things.
A simple power grab, a feather to don his royal cap—Andronikos had hoped that’s all it was, and no more. He wouldn’t mind a quiet life as someone’s ‘famous guest.’ He could hunt, he could read, he could write and do as he pleased and not have to worry about ‘affairs of state’ or this or that, let alone constantly look over his shoulder as every emperor had to do…
“Behold, the crown that marks whom God has chosen to rule!”
Alas, it was far more than making Andronikos a mere ‘famous guest.’
Metropolitan Matthias raised a golden circlet high for all to see, as Andronikos fought to keep perfectly still. The linen and wool of his ‘coronation robes,’ bright as they might be, itched to no end. Slowly, majestically, the priest presented the golden circlet studded with gems to each of the cardinal directions, before mercifully turning back to the increasingly itchy boy, and gently placing the crown on his head.
It wasn’t as heavy as the Prince thought it would be.
“All hail Andronikos, Second of That Name, Great Komnenos, Lord of the Nile and Ister, Master of the Two Seas, Lord of Konstantinopolis and Defender of the Faith! God save the Emperor!” Matthias called.
“God save the Emperor!”
“God save the Emperor! God save the Emperor!” the gathered people raised their voice as one. Andronikos managed to keep his face looking straight ahead, but his eyes wandered to his left—his mother stood, beaming proudly, while ten year old Heraklios looked worriedly at King Skjalm, then the assembled mass of peoples from all across the Mark.
Andronikos knew surprisingly little about their newest host, considering they had lived in exile at the Danish court for the better part of four years. He knew the King and his mother knew each other as children, and that the then-prince fawned over him in an overly friendly way, as grownups who wanted something from Andronikos were wont to do. The only thing the Prince knew for sure was that Skjalm had a reputation for being brave in battle, a leader of men, but Andronikos put little stock in such things. A battle meant better, wiser men had already failed—and any idiot could swing a sword.
Nonetheless, then Prince Skjalm had taken it upon himself to teach Andronikos the blade, as ‘a good godfather should do.’ He said all spoke all sorts of praise about Andronikos’ ‘natural skill,’ but the Prince knew better—he was flattering him, he had to be. He’d barely had a chance to practice with wooden swords before they fled The City—how could he be any good with a real sword? Surely Skjalm was letting him win! The Prince almost frowned at the thought, but managed to keep his face calm as Metropolitan Matthias continued his sermon. God, apparently, abhorred men who swore oaths and then reneged on them. What, Andronikos wondered, would God say about men who flattered mere boys about their martial skill?
Very little, he decided.
“Amen,” Matthias finished his prayer, before turning to Andronikos, and taking to a knee. “I bow before the Heir to Caesar, Lord of Christendom,” the priest used the most formal, grandest title of the Komnenoi emperors.
“We bow to thee, Lord of Christendom,” the mass of humanity rumbled, fur and linen kneels alike finding the ground. Andronikos watched as a head here or there disappeared from view, joining its master’s kneels in touching the ground. The vast majority—all of the Danes—only bent a knee, no more. Slowly, Andronikos stood, trying to remember the motions. He raised his left hand, then the scepter in his right, before turning his left hand flat, palm up, and raising it further. The King’s Chamber rumbled as the assembled mass rose to its feet.
“Let it be known,” Andronikos heard his godfather call, “that Skjalm I, King of the Danes and all Sortmark, draws his blade in defense of the rights of Andronikos II, Emperor of the Romans!” At those swords, steel scraped against a scabbard, and the Danish royal sword gleamed in the sparkling light of Havigraes’ church. “My Lords!” the King called over the audience, “What say you? Do you agree to your king’s call?”
A burly looking man in the far corner stepped forward. A scar ran from his scalp across an unseeing eye, down his cheek and neck until it disappeared under his rough black excuse for a silk and fur cloak. “Aye!” he roared in a loud, gravelly voice,“I, Knud Hvide, pledge in the name of house Hvide, Lords of Kongeå, Dannebrog and Lund, to honor and uphold the claims of Andronikos Komnenos!” A rumble of assents came from the slew of rough-looking giants around him—all drew their blades, and hoisted them aloft as well.
“Aye,” another man called. “I, Harald Harefoot, Jarl of Christiana, pledge to honor and uphold the claim of Andronikios Komnenos!”
“Aye!” another called, then another, as each lord of the Mark followed in turn, promising his men, his monies and his honor and, if needbe, his life, to press for the young boy’s rights to the throne. Andronikos swallowed as the litany of Danish nobles responded to the ancient call of the t’ing.
He didn’t want them to fight for him.
He didn’t want men to die for him.
He wanted to go back to his tutors, to that quiet courtyard, to his books, to life before the day Olaf died! If they swore to fight and die for him, he’d just disappoint them all!
“My Lords of the Rus!” Skjalm pointed his shining blade towards the other half of the massed nobility gathered, “As your Velikiy Knyaz, your Dread Lord, your Sovereign, and as you value your honor and status as vassals, hear your liege lord! In the name of Andronikos, Second of that Name,” Skjalm intoned the most formal call to his Rus subjects, “I, Skjalm, First of that Name, call your druzhina, your boyars, and voevoda to arms!”
“We hear our Dread Lord,” the Rus nobility thundered the formal response to their lord’s call, “and we will obey!”
“Let it be know, from the forests of Novgorod, to Southern Sea,” Skjalm called, “from the steppe beyond the Volga, to the distant lands of the Franks, that the people of the Mark are to war!”
“To war!” the assembly echoed.
The Danes were to war, marching to Konstantinopolis to force the city to accept an emperor who did not want to be an emperor. Skjalm spoke long about marshalling men, armies, and plans come spring. Andronikos didn’t listen—his mind was absorbed in the irony of the whole thing. The prince sighed at the irony as the bells of Havigraes finally began to peal far and wide, and the great and small of Sortmark began to file out of that chamber.
A wise man once said politics was the realm of liars and fools—this whole sham of a ceremony was simple proof of it!
