“Empires are not built off of sweet words, or great ideas. All those words, all those ideas, are backed to the hilt by hot blood and cold steel...” - Andronikos II Komnenos
August 19th, 1308
Taqi ad-Din ibn Taymiyya sniffed the air. It was rank with sweat, horses, blood, and shit.
The smell of a fresh battlefield, a fresh victory, the latest and greatest in a string that would have made Khalid ibn-Walid proud.
The Romans had come, just as he'd predicted. They'd come in small retinues, they'd come in armies. 5,000 men attempted to land in Jaffa the previous May only to be engulfed. A week later, 200 attempted to do the same, under some impetuous lord or other. His name was irrelevant, his bones lay half buried in the sand, vultures doubtlessly picked them clean. 20,000 men, malarmed and mislead, landed in Gaza—Taymiyya's army surprised them in camp, capturing most of this army of peasants from Spain, taking their arms, and throwing them into the Sinai to march home. Taymiyya told himself it was merciful—some of them would make it back, as opposed to the thousands his army would have killed in an open battle against such a horde of
kafirs.
But the army that lay around him, their blood fresh, calling to all the vultures of Syria—that army had been different.
Where the previous hosts had scarcely been hosts at all—the dregs of society, the last of the last, the eager but unarmed coupled with the misled and the ill-regarded—this last army had been the finest. They came from all parts of the empire, some with a full
tagma of their
thematakoi, others with a few retainers and no more. They came from all ranks of the nobility—the great Prince of Ikonion led them, while the
Komes of the Baleares sailed with a bare 10 men at great personal hazard. When the host marshalled its might outside of Tyre, it swelled to nearly 40,000—18 great
tagmata in strength.
Ibn Taymiyya spurred his horse on, carefully picking his way through the carnage. 40,000 men... the greatest army ever to face the
Jayshallah. Yes, recruits had flocked to Taymiyya's banner after the fall of Jerusalem, and yes, he now had 30,000 in the six
qabbatin he'd brought north this day, but he was not facing a
Levantikon Stratos. These were battle-hardened
thematakoi, men who'd seen combat during the civil war. They were sellswords, looking for work or salvation during this uncharacteristic lull in their bloody work. In short, they were professionals... and as they marched just below the hills of Baalbek, horns and drums beating out the calls of war even as they shambled along, they
looked the part.
“Another Roman lord!” one of Taymiyya's men called as Taqi rode closer to their encampment. He watched as his men pulled the unfortunate fellow, gilded armor now covered with dust and blood, out of a pile of bodies. The soldiers fetched a waterskin and poured it into his mouth.
Tamiyya smiled—after battle, there were only men. Men should be saved. Living men could convert to the Faith and save their souls. Such was what Taymiyya preached—and he was glad to see his men acting on his words.
They hadn't always been so obedient. Once, his
qabattin had screamed and yelled, urging him to charge north as the Army of Princes was gathering.
Shatter them before they unite! his commanders urged. Break them before they gather and break us! As Taymiyya finally entered camp and dismounted in front of his plain tent, he could see the shadows of the very same men inside, gathered around the sel-proclaimed 'commander' of the Roman host. Only two days before, they had so little faith. Now, he could hear their laughter, their jibes—the noise of men relieved to be alive, men who had seen death and stolen victory from its gaping maw.
Two days before, they'd howled in protest at Taymiyya's plan.
Let the Romans gather their full might.
Taqi had tried to explain his logic to them. Moving north prematurely would provoke the Syrians, and Taymiyya was not ready to deal with them. God had shown him the path to tread—keep the Syrians complacent, focused on fighting each other, instead of him. Let them think that the Army of Princes would do in the Muslim upstart in the south. When it fell—and fall it would, Taymiyya was sure—the
Jayshallah would only grow stronger, while the Syrians weakened themselves against each other. It was the
Syrians Taymiyya worried about—they had many armies, much coin, and most importantly...
“Welcome,
Seyf-u-allah!” the tent guards called as Taymiyya dismounted. They were full smiles—or in Fahd's case, a bloody grin. He'd lost half his teeth the day before, and proudly showed off his gaping maw to any who looked.
I earned this serving in God's name, he repeated to all who'd listen. Like all the
Jayshallah, he was proud of what they did the day before. Never before had Taymiyya's men been so united in purpose, so focused on victory.
...everything the Roman Army of Princes had
not been, precisely the reason Taymiyya wanted to let that vast host gather for months and months that spring.
The Prince's Army brought together lords from across the Mediterranean, princes great and small, with no clear leader, no precise chain of command. Noble privileges, seniority, and all manner of minute issues would crop up in such a motley horde—this Taymiyya knew. He'd watched Roman Persians pull rank on one another with ease. Their cousins to the west were even more prickly when it came to title and seniority. The Roman nobles would not lead a coherent army—no, the more Roman nobles that arrived, the more the 'Army' would instead resemble a horde of individual retinues stumbling through the hills north of Galilee, drinking all the water as far as the eye could see till thirst tore at their bellies.
Thus it was shambling mass girded as an army, its straight ranks hiding the cracks in it's command, that had wandered into the passes near Baalbek—just as Tamiyya had hoped. When the
Jayshallah, freshly fed, watered, and having marched hard for five days, thundered down from those heights, the shambling mass splintered. Five hundred individual contingents, each fighting their own battles, not a unified military formation 40,000 strong. They fought bravely, they fought honorably, but there was no way they could stand. The five hundred contingents shattered into the wind, their remnants—the dead, the wounded, the dying, arms, equipment, and the other detritus of war—lay strewn as far as the eye could see.
Taymiyya nodded to his men as he walked into the dimmer linens of his tent. His
qabbatin stood in their muddied armor and cloth, toasting each other with
qahwa and tea. In the middle of the tent, dejectedly astride a campstool, sat a muddied Roman. His hair was astray, his armor muddy and streaked with blood. One of his shoulder guards was missing. Slowly he looked up. While his body spoke of weariness and thirst, his eyes were bright, challenging, even angry.
“Are you thirsty, sir?” Taqi spat out in Greek as he sat down wearily before the Roman. He yanked off his leather gloves and tossed them aside. They chafed his hands. One of the
qabbatin handed Taymiyya two cups of chilled water from the springs above their camp—the very springs the Romans had been stumbling towards. Taymiyya was forced to grunt in slight admiration—the Roman looked at the cup, and despite plainly cracked lips, he showed no surprise, no longing,
nothing, save the imperious look only a king should have.
“No?” Taymiyya swallowed the goblet in a gulp. He
was thirsty, and had no qualms of hiding it. “What is your name then, sir?”
“My name is Theodoros Komnenos...” the broken Roman said clearly, sharply, as if reciting his name before courtiers in some haughty palace.
Taymiyya looked up at his friend Qayyim, eyebrow raised in confusion. Qayyim had always been interested in the Romans and their culture, from the day he and Taqi met long ago. He knew Roman naming practices far better than Taymiyya would ever care to know.
Taqi's friend frowned.
“Wait,” Taymiyya raised his hand at Qayyim's face. Didn't most of those blasted Romans carry some prefix or suffix to that cursed name? Ancyrakomnenos? Komnenoedessa? Aiguptokomnenos? Here was one that was just plain
Komnenos? Was he that poor, that unimportant? Or was he...
Taymiyya's eyes went wide.
“...son of Andronikos
Apokathistos, rightful
Megas Komnenos...” the man blathered on. “Rightful Prince of Leptis Magna, Lord of...”
“You are
Komnenos?” Taymiyya asked. “
The Komnenos?”
“I am,” the man sat up a little straighter, his eyes challenging, as if the mere mention of his family ancestry should make all in sundry quiver in fear. “
Megas Komnenos, you cretin! Have you heard of this? Emperor of...”
Taymiyya looked up at Qayyim in confusion. There were too many Romans claiming to be emperor these days! Was this one worth worrying about?
“Is that the Roman Emperor?” he hissed quickly in his native Arabic.
Qayyim shook his head. “That is the weak brother of the Roman Emperors Alexios, Leo and Andronikos.”
“It is rude to speak behind your better's back!” the Roman spat. “If you release me, I promise you, I will spare your lives! If you do not...”
“...nothing?” Taymiyya said, a smile slowly growing across his face. He crossed his arms. “Lord Theodoros, I know who you are. You are a
nothing. A
gnat.”
“You... you can't say...” the former Prince of Leptis Magna sputtered.
“It's almost a shame, Lord Theodoros, that Romans are paying me coin to kill other Romans,” Taymiyya sighed. “But God used the Persians to chastise the Jews, and the Romans to chastise my people before the Prophet...”
What madness are you speaking of? The Romans would never pay the likes of you...” Theodoros hissed.
Taqi smiled thinly, then reached into his purse, and flicked a golden coin onto the table in front of the incredulous Roman lord. It bounced, rolled, then fell, face up.
The eyes of Ishaq I, Shahanshah of Persia, Autokrator ton Romanoi, stared up at Theodoros.
The Prince stared back at the coin, his eyes wide, flashing between the listless gaze of metal below, and Taymiyya's piercing gaze above. The
Seyfuallah's smile thinned. The man finally saw.
“I think you fail to see what a pack of jackals you all are,” Taymiyya sighed. Yes, the
Jayshallah was supported by the blasted Romans in Persia. The whole arrangement had been concieved by Abbas back in India, and part of his promotion to Vizier in Mesopotamia. The Persian Romans were weaker than their neighbors. Taymiyya was raising an army, and the Roman Ishaq thought Taymiyya would keep his neighbors off balance while he rebuilt from his brother's losses.
It wasn't an arrangement Taymiyya liked, but it did for the time being, until contributions from the
ulema, as well as the
jizya from wider and wider lands grew enough to support Taymiyya's army. Then, Taqi had promised long ago, the Roman would learn that dogs would indeed bite the hand that fed them.
“Now, Lord Theodoros,” Taymiyya leaned over the table, “I don't see your face on any coins, nor your name.
You are a gnat, not an Emperor,” Taqi said simply. “My lord, I tell you what we, the servants of God, do to gnats!”
Taqi watched as the Roman's lower lip trembled, and his whole form tensed. He tried to sit upright, sit proud as the son of a lion should do, but his shoulders slumped, his body tensing for the words
death and
torture—words he would have surely heard if he'd been captured by another Roman.
Taqi ad-Din ibn Taymiyya, however, was no Roman.
“We shoo them away,” Taymiyya said, nodding to the
qabbatin. The Roman named Theodoros stared up, mouth agape, confusion on his face as they undid his bonds.
How sad, mercy does not enter your mind, Taymiyya thought. “We have no need of you, or your ancestry. You make take the True Faith, if you wish, and join the
Jayshallah. You will be at one with God, and one with us.”
“And...if I r...refuse?” the Roman said slowly, shock seeping through his voice, and fear. Mercy had been offered. Taymiyya knew that when death was offered next to mercy, the light of life made death all the darker and terrifying.
“We will strip you of arms and armor, and send you on your way to the Sinai,” Taymiyya said. “Feel free to go to Egypt, and wherever you wish from there. We demand only two things—you always speak of the mercy of God and the
Jayshallah, and you never return to lands of the
ulema.” Taymiyya looked up at the Roman—in his confusion, he looked small, weak, vulnerable.
“You have two minutes to decide.”
==========*==========
February 1st, 1309
Megoskyriomachos Roland du Roche looked up in the sky and sighed, his breath clouding the cold winter's air. He watched as his hawk lazily circled above, just like it had for the past half hour.
Still no prey in sight.
Roland du Roche had little to complain about—the preceding six years had seen him do quite well for himself. He was now not just
Megoskyriomachos and
Archeoikos, he was also Prince of Abydos, in charge of the Anatolian castles that watched the Dardanelles Straits to the south. Isabella had been his bride for almost that time, and their third child was well on the way. Life, it seemed, had opened up her bounty to him for his talents.
Yet this damned hawk couldn't seem to find any prey to take down.
The
Megoskyriomachos grunted to himself—he knew a losing proposition when he saw one, just as easily as he could smell an opportunity from a mile away. Today's main business was not about hunting in the first place, no matter what the
Megas Komnenos though. Today was about politics, even here, far in the glade and away from The City.
Normally when
Megas Komnenos Andronikos II went on a hunt, there was a massive retinue. Hundreds of guardsmen, officials, hangers-on, and other functionaries turned a personal trip into a veritable mobile festival, a circus that slowly meandered through the forest. But Andronikos was a keen hunter, and there were days he refused to let the court come with him.
Today was such a day.
The Emperor rode out of Konstantinopolis the day before with 40 guardsmen, ten huntsmen, two scribes, a dovemaster, and only two other people—Roland du Roche, and his best friend, Guillaume d'Ockham.
Du Roche would have never refused such an invitation. Aside from his own love of hunting, it was a chance to speak to Andronikos, one on one, without the interference of his infernal mother and her plotting and paranoia. Such hunts, du Roche knew, were chances to make careers, undo enemies, and ascend even higher than his already lofty ambitions.
Roland whistled again as his hawk swooped low, before perching on its master's outstretched arm. So far, there had been no luck today with the birds. He hoped, perhaps, the huntsmen had more luck and there'd be boar or venison for lunch.
Ahead, Andronikos whistled as well, calling his own falcon back home. The now 19 year old Emperor had filled out his promising frame, growing nearly a foot between his 16th and 17th year. Not only was he tall—at 6'4” he literally towered over a room—but his shoulders were broad, his legs thick and strong, so long that they seemed to drag down any horse he rode save the greatest charger. His immense frame was topped by a face sharp and severe, bright blue eyes piercing out into the world. Around the court more than one person whispered words such as 'colossus' to describe the young man who could clumsily wield even a Danish bearded axe in one hand. While physically he dominated any room he entered, Andronikos II was known for saying little, and listening a great deal. In council, he was quiet, observant, asking advice from his counselors before coming to a decision, and inevitably siding with the will of his damnable mother, even if he openly gritted his teeth with her decision.
In private, while alone on the hunt, however, du Roche had discovered a different Andronikos. His reports spoke of this side of the Emperor, but he'd never witnessed it for himself. He knew Sbyslava had tried to talk her son out of taking du Roche on such a private hunt—the boy had blathered about her complaining he was 'needed for state business' this week, or some other excuse, but surprisingly, the boy had refused to listen.
Opportunity knocked, and Roland du Roche answered. Empress Sbyslava's popularity, in both the city and amongst the nobility, was falling fast. She was too close to the Danes, and the time was ripe for someone to slip into the growing vacuum.
Many men, learned men, powerful men, were asking du Roche to do such a thing.
“Goddamn birdshit!” the young Emperor exploded, glaring at his soiled glove, then the falcon that had done the deed. The bird squawked at its master in response, and the Emperor responded by clutching his head—and du Roche frowned.
They'd begun three years before, not long after his coronation—headaches so violent, so powerful, the young man complained it felt like his head would split in two. Churigeons had tried everything they could to stop them—bleedings, leechings, this concoction or that prescription for exercise, but the pain seemingly came and went at random, much as his sudden mood swings—which also started about that time. For days on end, Andronikos would be paranoid, unwilling to leave his chambers without an escort of forty guards, as well as a taste-tester for each day of the week. Then, as suddenly as the sun bursting through cloud, a gregarious, adventurous young man would burst out from the melancholy.
That Andronikos had a habit of sneaking into the city disguised to 'see how the people really lived.' That Andronikos would eagerly break lances with a dragon if one ever came, so fearless was his disposition.
Marking the breach between the two halves—the headaches. Always the headaches...
“Are you in pain?” the other man present asked, his youthful voice cracking with concern. Guillaume d'Ockham had also grown, from a cherubic boy to lean faced teen, locks of golden hair framing an impishly angled face. Intellectually curious, the boy had a habit of poking his nose into any discussion or debate that seemed to rankle the established academics of the University of Konstantinopolis. Officially, d'Ockham was a nobody at court, the son of an exiled lord with no rank and title. Unofficially, he was the first bodyguard of the Emperor, as well as Andronikos' closest confidante—a position of considerable importance and power, if only the young lad could recognize it. Fortunately for Roland du Roche, d'Ockham saw it more as an excuse debate, hawk, hunt, and drink with his best friend, and little more.
Du Roche had even taken to calling d'Ockham the 'imperial shadow.' The boys were constantly together, even after Andronikos' investiture as
Megas Komnenos. During one of Andronikos' adventurous moments, d'Ockham had even helped the young, married emperor sneak out of the
Kosmodion, only for the two to cause a ruckus at a nearby brothel. Du Roche's agents insisted the small, wiry Frank had broken the nose of two sailors before the disguised emperor pulled him from a brawl involving cheating and Kings and Cups. There'd been long talk that the boy could find his way into a priest's frocks if his shenanigans continued, but money and the word of the Emperor spoke higher for now. Since the incident, the Dowager Empress had used one of her son's bouts of paranoia to suggest he increase his bodyguard, if only to keep future incidents of the sort to a minimum.
“A little,” the Emperor rubbed his temples, and blinked.
Du Roche frowned—as always, the young man was lying. Roland du Roche hoped the Emperor wasn't lying so much to his doctors... du Roche's life rode on his coattails. There were plenty who wanted the former servant of Manuel II dead. Between complete chaos in the city, and the necks of the du Roche family wrapped in nooses, stood one beating heart...
“Mama is bringing in a new churigeon next week,” the Emperor visibly bit his lip. “Kaleb ibn-Hinnawi?”
“abd-Hinnawi,” the young lord corrected. “Heard of him?” d'Ockham turned to the
Megoskyriomachos.
Roland grunted and nodded his head. He knew only a little about the man. Kaleb ibn Isa abd-Hinnawi al-Tair al-Jizyah was considered something an eccentric genius in Egypt. At the tender age of 18, as a student at the University of Alexandria, he developed a cure for Prince Isaakios' persistent cough. Later that year he formulated a a theorem that debunked current estimations of the number
pi, or some other mathematical garbage, du Roche wasn't sure. Now at age 30, the man was considered a polymath, but he was also
strange. Half the time he spoke his own language, a mixture of mathematical and linguistic riddles, and he absolutely disdained traditional churigeons and their methods, calling leechings and bloodletting, tried and true methods of curing disease, “barbaric.” It only compounded matters that he was a follower of that charlatan, the 'Aionios'--a badge of faith he wore with honor, fearlessly debating Christian and Muslim clerics wherever he went, leaving trouble in his wake.
“Have you heard his latest... remedy?” d'Ockham asked, a smile already splitting his lips.
Both Andronikos and du Roche shook their heads.
“The quack says that drinking pig's blood will solve the issue!” Guillaume laughed. “He gave a lecture at the Medicus Building at the University of Konstantinopolis,” the d'Ockham went on. “I dropped in—it sounded interesting. Father Millibrand tried to persuade him that leechings would remove the bad humors of a terrible headache but...”
“...
Every churigeon has done that,” Andronikos interrupted his friend, rubbing his temples, “and it still hasn't worked. I'm not sure I want to drink pig's blood though...”
“Well, he did offer some other remedies that weren't as drastic...” Guillaume said.
As d'Ockham and the Emperor talked about this remedy or that plan from Kaleb al-Hinnawi, du Roche's mind drifted away from the inanity of the moment. Andronikos' world was one of the court, headaches, hawking, and philosophical debates with his friend and any hapless priest who walked by. Du Roche's was made of far more...significant things. Raids from ship's belonging to the usurper Leo on Corfu. Diplomatic overtures from the Makrinokomnenoi brothers offering allegiance in return for protection from Alexios. The ongoing war between the Komnenoedessoi and the Chrysokomnenoi. None of these things, however, were nearly as pressing as the notice that arrived in court three days before.
King Skjalm Knytling's latest list of demands.
It'd scarcely been five years, yet King Skjalm was already displeased with the lands he had been given, and was demanding more—this time, he wanted all the lands across the Ister, and well as 10,000 men to help him fight the Alans and their Basilieus. His demands had been constant and growing—greatest trading privileges for Danes in the Queen of Cities, then a Danish district, then a reduction in toll levies on Danish ships.
Now this.
It was a dangerous game, as the game of thrones was prone to be. He knew Andronikos' grip on the throne was weak—a few rebellions and his fractured army would be completely tied up, unable to respond. Each of his demands placed additional strain on the monarchy—especially early on, they couldn't afford to fight the Danes, not when the Balkans needed pacifying, garrisons needed to be reestablished, and armies rebuilt. Yet each time Konstantinopolis gave in to one of the demands, the nobility grumbled, jostled, and made their displeasure known. This latest, outrageous demand finally revealed Skjalm's hand—if he couldn't control Konstantinopolis, he was going to provoke a civil war in the city, for some nefarious ends. Considering his ancestry, du Roche could only imagine the sacking the jumped-up Viking had in mind.
Yet again, the
Megoskyriomachos and Dowager Empress found their interests aligned. Both would suffer should stability in The City collapse. Yet, as they had spent the last few weeks scrambling to find a solution, their courses diverged. Sbsylava preferred negotiation—she knew Skjalm, she had talked him down before. Her son's realm was shaken, he was underage. They could scarcely go to war....
she claimed.
Du Roche huffed as the boys debated some point of medical this or that from their own scant knowledge.
He knew the truth. In lieu of a
Megas Domestikos, du Roche found himself handed most of the duties of organizing the imperial army, often over the objections of the Dowager Empress. Yes, Andronikos was now undisputed lord of Greece, the Balkans, and Anatolia, but his armies were a broken mishmash—forces from Bataczes, the
Palatinoikoi, the remnants of Manuel II's army, as well as a few Danes. They were still being reorganized, yes, but by the numbers they were formidable—with Bataczes' contingents, nearly 100,000 men altogether, most campaign veterans, battle-hardened. Yes garrisons needed manning, especially in the Balkans, and the
dynatoi were recalling their
thematakoi back as best they could for their own purposes, but du Roche could easily clear a field army from the mess...40,000 strong, with the formidable
Palatinoikoi at their core.
He knew Sbyslava knew this too.
He also knew the only choice they would have to command such a force.
Bataczes was too old for field command—he'd settled in Gangra, retaining command of the
Anatolikon as a garrison army as well as now styled Prince of Sinope since his lands in Azov had been forfeited by treaty. Sostratos Meleniou had been found off the coast of Lykia, but he was a broken man, one trained only in naval combat anyways. He'd sought an early retirement, but instead du Roche had taken intense pleasure in naming him
Komes of Naxos. The 'promotion' saw him safely shoved out of the city, to an insignificant place.
There was only one man in the True Empire with the ability, and respect amongst the soldiers, to lead them against the Danes. Roland du Roche. And the Dowager Empress feared what havoc he would wreak if he returned at the head of a victorious army, the soldiers lauding him, and her own son, long chafing for the field, singing his praises...
“...the goddamned Danes.”
The noise of his emperor speaking brought du Roche back from his thoughts.
“Majesty?”
“I just said,” Andronikos frowned, his hand gingerly touching his temple, “that I wish I could lead an army against the goddamned Danes. I hear every day how they're demanding this and that! Last week when I went into the streets—God above, that was insane of me—I heard the smallfolk cursing the
Kosmodion for giving the Danes so much! The
smallfolk, du Roche!”
“It's time we give them the sword!” d'Ockham agreed heartily. “Like I told Andie, there was this Danish man at the lecture as well, and he got chased out by the masters swinging their canes like swords! Why can't we do the same as some stodgy professors?”
Roland du Roche blinked.
A medical lecture led to this? If the young emperor called for war, there'd be nothing his mother could do to stop it—he was 18, legally emperor in law and right. He had been chafed his mother counseled against his riding to Jerusalem's aid. He would doubtlessly demand command.
Which would mean he would need an experienced subordinate.
“I agree, Majesty, as I have counseled Your Majesty's dear mother many times,” du Roche pounced. “We have waited to see where our rivals will play their hands. They are stretched, their backs are turned. Leo wars with Alexios in North Africa. Your father-in-law prepares to invade Germany. We have a small but well-trained field army that could be dispatched north quickly, as well as Your Majesty's fleet to harass and harry Danish ships all throughout the Black Sea. We can afford to give the Danes the attention they justly deserve, and I am confident, given the chance, Your Majesty will be triumphant, and stop these so-called Vikings from causing any more harm!”
“Yes,” Andronikos whispered, his voice distant as he stared off into the wood as if the trees themselves were speaking to him, calling him to his roots. “My mother
negotiates. While a bunch of renegades gathers their strength in the Levant, my mother
negotiates. What will happen in Taymiyya's bandits invade and take Egypt?” Andronikos huffed. “They smashed an army of fine men, 40,000 strong! What happens when the Danes come back, hungry for more?” The
Megas Komnenos sighed, looking off in the distance for a moment, before his eyes flashed back to du Roche, their blue orbs strained by the pain. “It appears, Lord du Roche,” Andronikos smiled grimly, his hand leaving his head by only an inch, “that my family has forgotten its roots.”
“They have,” du Roche sank his verbals claws deeper. “They say nice words, but forget the knife that must shadow them...”
Just as quickly as it'd appeared, that small, grim smile left Andronikos' face, replaced by a scowl. “Everyone wants to be the spider, the jackal that ambushes from the shadows. They forget their past The Empire was not built by jackals, but by lions!” the boy snapped, iron hard in his voice. Something cold, hard, almost
ancient loomed behind his squinting gaze. “Lions do not talk to jackals, they drive them off! The
Megas, the
Megaloprepis, my father, they didn't treat with lowborn scum! They routed them with
Storm!” the young man snapped, gesturing to the blade bouncing at his hip. The hilt, polished and redone dozens of times over the centuries, gleamed menacingly in the sunlight. “That is what we must do! Break those who would tear the....Pissing blood!” the Emperor massaged his temples, eyes almost shut as the next wave of pain hit.
“The Danes are jackals, Majesty, and only understand the language of ruthlessness,” du Roche said quietly. “Majesty, you will surely scatter them as a lion scatters a pack of dogs,” the
Megoskyriomachos nodded, “if...”
“If you get on the field, Andie,” d'Ockham interrupted. Andronikos glanced over at his friend, and Guillaume smirked. “I've been telling you to openly dispute things your mother says if you disagree with them. You're Emperor, she's not!”
Roland blinked again as the
Megas Komnenos nodded slowly.
He counseled against the Dowager Empress? For a moment, Roland du Roche, Master of Spies and commander of the
Oikoi, was stunned. He knew d'Ockham was close, but this
political?
Du Roche made a note to call on d'Ockham more often.
“What clever thing would you do?” Andronikos smiled thinly at his friend, his hand suddenly away from his temple.
“Ah. The clever thing, he asks of me?” Guillaume laughed. “Well,
my liege,” he said with a mock flourish, “the clever thing is to go for the Danes. Go for their throat, take the war to them before they know what happened! Win your spurs! It'll shut up your mother, win the army, and scare your brothers! After that...”
“...Jerusalem...then the rest of the Empire...” Andronikos nodded, his voice distant. Suddenly his spun around, all look of pain or torment gone from his face. The headache had passed. The adventurous Andronikos was already at the fore.
Du Roche smiled as he saw his own eagle rising. Yes, being away from The Capital meant his nemesis would be left alone, but the
Oikoi were good men,
his men, handpicked and loyal. They would withstand her charms. And if they didn't... would it matter if he returned with the army at his back, and a beaming emperor at his side? She could have the blasted city at that point, it would do her no good. Her own son might order her to a convent at that point, or even better!
“Shall I arrange a meeting with the
strategoi for Your Majesty on your return?” du Roche's smile grew, till it split his face ear to ear.
“Yes please!” the Emperor said, eyes aflame. “Plan on marching with the first thaw.
Megoskyriomachos, I'm naming you
Megas Domestikos and you'll march north with me! Together we'll teach my godfather a lesson he'll never forget!”
