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well time to reply to keep this thread alive for the General til he returns =)
As always it would be interesting to know what happened in game at this time, but I guess that we will get to know that later =)
I could also mentioned that I now have converted chapters 1-12 as PDF-files (being very close to the original but without some gameplay pictures and some of the interims not affecting the story).
 
Hello everyone!

First, I apologize about the delay in replies and updating--in the United States last weekend was the holiday Labor Day. Traditionally its a time to take one last summer vacation, so my boyfriend and I went back to my hometown to visit family and friends. On the way back, disaster struck--we had a flat tire with a broken bolt on Labor Day itself, and there were NO auto repair shops or auto parts stores open anywhere that could fix the problem.

So we spent 19 hours in a Walmart parking lot and slept in the car until the next day. :blink:

Needless to say, that's all delayed the updating a bit. There are two very important scenes coming up... I'll write them as quick as I am able!

Two other major things--first, I don't think I ever posted the "idea/rules" behind the Theodoros interims. Here they are:

We got mod go-ahead!

Everyone who is interested, please write a short scene showing Theodoros in your alternate version of this alternate history, starting from his last appearance as a messenger for Taymiyya in Arabia. You would need to explain how he got where he did in your scene, what he's doing, and what his future plans are, if he has any chance to formulate them. Please email or PM your posts to me (email is preferred, it's wtinder2@gmail.com), and I will post them anonymously in this thread at a future point (probably at the end of this chapter), and let the readership determine who the winner is. Winner gets the honorary title of Sebastokrator from me. :)

If you have any questions on background, the rest of the world, etc. please PM me!

Secondly, while we wait, I would like to pose a question to all of you--who was the greatest Roman in the Komnenid Empire? Why was that person so great? The person could be an emperor, they could be a statesman, they could be something else. It was something I was wondering while I was stuck at work last night...

BraidsMAmma - Great! Keep up the good work! Is there any way I could see Chapters 9, 11 and 12? And were you planning on posting the pdfs so others can download them, or should I tackle that?

wolfcity - Posted the rules above, since it appears I didn't actually post them. That's my bad. :blink: And yes, I'm pretty sure the smilies did change... some of them do look weird...

Vesimir - Andronikos is gifted on the battlefield, but is he up to Taymiyya's genius status? That question will decide everything...

asd21593 - Well, the Taymiyyite army is in one place, but yes, their attention is now suddenly divided. It's entirely feasible they could win out in the Levant only to have their supporters in Persia and elsewhere driven out... and if all those refugees go to the Levant as a safe haven, ironically, in terms of the long-term survival of the Taymiyyite state, would possibly make it stronger...

WelshDude - I double checked and confirmed I was the one getting confused. Alex was indeed Alexandros II. (there was an Aspar Anastasios, not Aspar Alexandros)

Leviathan07 - Yes he sure did.

Zzzzz... - It's also hodgepodge as hell. The upside of basically losing many of the regular standing formations--if you have the money, you can hire a bunch of kickass mercenaries. The downside--its entirely possible the regular formations might never return, or continue on only in the hands of the nobility...

Saithis - :p I didn't think of it as dirty until you wrote with the voice of George Takei...lol

AlexanderPrimus - Running away from the palace in time to see a mob at a mosque isn't quite in action... at least compared to the action coming up for her lol.

Carlstadt Boy - It'll be here when you wake up too!

RGB - It's a very chaotic war... one that's about to get even more convoluted before it all ends...

 
Secondly, while we wait, I would like to pose a question to all of you--who was the greatest Roman in the Komnenid Empire? Why was that person so great? The person could be an emperor, they could be a statesman, they could be something else. It was something I was wondering while I was stuck at work last night...

Hands down Manuel I. Martialy talented, but also kept the nobles in line unlike Andronikos I, or Basil III. During his rule the Kommeni Empire was at it's peak. And I know what you are saying "Andronikos I had was the peak", no, after Basil the social/political side of the empire steadidly deteriorated until you get the chaos thats going on today. (On a side note you said "greatest Roman" that doesn't include Albretch or Mehtar the only nonemperor contenders for this)

*Thanks for the rules!
 
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Manuel I if you set aside the fact that he was totally evil. He set the framework for Basil, Thomas I and Thomas II to expand the empire to the point that the Mongols couldn't steamroll it. Ultimately the feudalization under Manuel I set up Romanion for the fall, but I don't think that it could have gotten as big as it did without that change. Manuel also brought Egypt and southern Italy into the Empire. The Spider will probably end up getting a really good shake by historians much like Octavian who was not such a great person personally either.
 
I'd just like to pop in here to say once again that I really hope you're still planning on playing a non-Roman state in EU3, it'd be way cooler to see what the AI does with the remnants of the Roman Empire.
 
I'd just like to pop in here to say once again that I really hope you're still planning on playing a non-Roman state in EU3, it'd be way cooler to see what the AI does with the remnants of the Roman Empire.

A smart writer once said "I've had enough of the AI's blatant disregard for my ideas.". It will be impossible to avoid weird scenarios in EU of course, but it would be better if they could be held in check.

I for one, would like to see a Greekified southern HRE under the rule of the von Frankens.
 
Next update is ready! By the way, I personally include both Mehtar Lainez and Albrecht von Franken as "Romans" even though they are not ethnically such--both basically became Romanized...


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“For lust of knowing what should not be known, we take the Golden Road to Samarkand.” - Ioannis Flecker, The Road to Samarkand


September 12th, 1313


Mikail Gok-Rum was used to leading armies in the field.

Today, the man the Romans called Rigas ton Transoxanion led a host far different. Instead of swords, they wielded quills. Instead of shields, they bore parchment. Instead of the blue sky of Central Asia overhead, the azure domed halls of the Great Palace of Samarkand glistened above.

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“What am I going to do with another granddaughter?” Mikail asked aloud to no one as the assemblage thundered on. Princess Aspas had been pregnant by Mikail's eldest son Papaz four times before—one miscarriage and three daughters were the result. Yasu has three sons, Thu'mas has two, the line will continue... he told himself once again, but unease filled his heart. A smooth succession went from father to son—uncle to nephew could easily get messy, especially when there were five nephews involved...

A grandson I prayed for, four times, and God saw fit to bless me with three granddaughters, Mikail huffed as the entourage passed a black clad deacons of the Church of the East. They bowed deeply to their lord, the man who had made the authority of the Church of the East absolute in his realm, but he did not acknowledge them. Mikail had inherited a realm that was already profoundly Christian, thanks to the efforts of Altani Khatun before him—Mikail saw converting to the Church of the East as a stabilization measure, even if he cared little for religion itself. Oh, how the old Mar Catholicos loved to remind me that he and I were both named Michael! he thought with a sigh of annoyance. The man had been dead twenty years, and even his memory was still annoying.

Like the late head of the Church of the East, Michael Komnenos was long dead—that name was a remnant of a past long gone, when Italian had been his language of choice, and his greatest goal had been to convince his mother that he was indeed ready to rule, and do the name of his late father proud. Those were fleeting concerns, the kinds of things that occupied the all the attention a sixteen year old could muster.

Mikail Gok-Rum was no young man.

He was now fifty-five years old, with greying hair and and tired eyes framing a worn face. Every worry and every care from nearly forty years on the throne in Samarkand had left a wrinkle on his now deeply etched face. There was a time Mikail had great plans, a time when he first arrived that he had dreams of uniting all the tribes, and sweeping west, first into Persia, and then onto Konstantinopolis. He was a direct descendant of Thomas I, was he not? The gift of Transoxania would be the undoing of his cousin Andronikos, the usurper!

Mikail smiled wryly at the thought of his youthful stupidity. Years of ruling, winter after winter of learning the art of rulership, taught by the tutors of Life and Circumstance, made him realize what Transoxania was—a trap, a pit meant to contain him in perpetual exile. It'd taken Mikail two years of being mired in the politics of the local Mongol and Turkic tribes, two years of surviving by the skin of his teeth against cutthroat local magistrates in the great cities of Urgench, Samarkand and Bukhara, to make him realize Transoxania was a prison. It'd taken him another six months to realize he had two options—die here, in far off exile, unmourned and forgotten, or make the best of his situation, and rule the kingdom that was now “his.”

mikailgokrumcopy.jpg

Mikail chose to rule.

At first, his choice was limited—the initial Mongol viceroy was loyal to Karakorum alone, and constantly countermanded and undermined Mikail's decisions. The viceroys had always been a stumbling block to Mikail's realm—he, like the natives, now called it Faraud, and not the “Transoxania” he grew up calling it. Today, those concerns were set aside. Mikail scarcely paid attention as he and his retinue swept past the blue and yellow embroidered form of Ambassador Qabul, Imperial Viceroy from Karakorum. The Basilieus barely heard the slightest note of the man's simpering voice before he, like so many others this day in the Royal Palace, was left in the dust.

Like the man has any authority anyway! Mikail huffed as the retinue rumbled past.

Mikail still remembered the day when Qabul had arrived fifteen years before—a pompous young man, distant cousin to the Khagan, followed by a train of mounted warriors in resplendent silks and all the trappings and pomp of a potentate extraordinaire. It'd taken Mikail only a year to crack him, just as he'd manipulated the other Viceroys since the Temur Khan, the second Viceory who arrived in 1291. Qabul, like the others, was fond of drink and women, and so long as he was distracted by those, the Shah could do most anything he pleased so long as it wasn't egregious to Karakorum.

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As if we would do any such thing, Mikail wanted to hiss. There were plenty of times he wanted[i/] to ignore Karakoum—when the Khagan issued his nearly annual call for a representative to come to the great city and pay obeisance to the Lord of the Mongol World, or his repeated demands that Faraud, despite its small army, render a contingent for the relentless war against the stubborn Song. Yet even now, after years in power, Mikail carefully followed those demands to the letter, while keeping as much from his overlord as possible—it was a reputation of caution born from his realm's exposed, tenuous position.

Basilieus ton Tranoxanion and Wang Hé Zhōng was not an easy job for any man. Mikail had to watch four borders, four powers that could easily crush the small kingdom if given the chance. The Persian kings, as well as their subjects, viewed the lands of the Oxus as rightfully theirs. The Turks were preoccupied in northern India, but there was no telling when Sulieman Fatih's gaze might turn north. The Great Khan was bound by treaty to respect the independence of Faraud, but his vassal, the Khans of the Blue Horde, were not. Weakened they might be by civil war and Roman interference, but they still mustered more tumen than Mikail could focus on just them. The outlying tribes might respect him, the city fathers of Samarkand, Khiva and Bukhara might sing his praises, but his dynasty needed legitimacy to survive—and Horde tribesmen raiding from the Urals did anything but reinforce his right to rule.

Mikail had done his best against this constellation of threats. The Blue Horde had been distracted by the Alans, handed money by Samarkand just for that purpose. The Khagan was, as always, distracted by the intractable Sung to his south, while the Turks were busy destroying the last of Arghun Khan's Indian Empire. The Persians, finally, had been bought off by marriage—Mikail's daughter Ayfer to the Persian crown prince, and the eldest daughter of the Persian Shahanshah Ishak to Mikail's own son, Papaz (known as Basil in the Old Tongue).

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And now, the union of the two houses, was about to bear fruit.

“The Shah-Khan!” the vice-chamberlain barked his native Turkish title as the Basilieus and his retinue rushed through blue tiled rooms and underneath mosaic-filled ceilings. Like most things in Faraud, even Mikail's native title was a clever compromise that wouldn't offend neighboring powers—while it's full form of Shahanshah made him a full equal to his Persian 'friends,' the shortened Shah implied his subservience, while still alluding to his claim as Basilieus and superiority to a mere khan. The King was proud of himself for that clever diplomatic strategem—it won him the allegiance of the khan of Merv, a crucial link on the great Silk Road, without stirring any of his rivals. Such was how Mikail had cobbled together a realm that stretched from the Caspian to Lake Balkhash, from the mountains of Afghanistan to the southern reaches of the Russian steppe—carefully, piece by piece, slowly adding territory here or solidifying control there, all without causing undo alarm amongst his more powerful neighbors.

“The Shah-Khan!” Arslan snapped yet again, as servants and retainers melted to the sides of the palace on Mikail's approach. Walls adorned with mosaics of peacocks, men at arms, and beautiful calligraphic scripts flowed by, as Mikail strode on—through the great chambers of power, through side hallways, until finally the gilded double doors that led to his son's apartments parted for him. Without a glance, the Shah-Khan blew past kneeling maids and servants, headed straight for his daughter in law's bedchamber.

What am I to do with another granddaughter? Mikail thought once more Arslan rapped impatiently on the door. From within, Mikail could hear murmured voices, hushed tones. No screaming or yelling—the baby must be born.

After a moment that seemed to stretch to eternity, the door finally opened. Old Khusrau ibn Bahram, Chamberlain of Faraud, poked his head through the door.

“Your Grace,” his head bobbed in a bow. With the grace of a cat despite his sixty and seven years, the old man slipped into the antechamber, and bowed once more. “Your Grace, your son asks that all visitors please remain outside of his wife's chambers, as she is recovering from her exertions.”

“How is my granddaughter?” Mikail nodded. By Khusrau's eyes, the chamberlain was not going to budge. Good man. Loyal to my son and his... Mikail's line of thought stalled as the chamberlain smiled broadly. “Why are you grinning, Khusrau?” the Shah-Khan asked. “You didn't smile at your own son's wedding! What...”

“You have a grandson, Your Grace,” Khusrau's grin split his face from ear to ear. “A healthy baby boy. Strong of lung and heart, the churigeons say!”

Praise be to God, Mikail felt his own face splitting wide with a smile. Finally! “I... send someone to the Mar Catholicos, and tell him that prayers of thanksgiving are needed all over Faraud! I...” A dizzying array of thoughts flashed through the Shah-Khan's mind—there must be a parade, gifts of alms to the poor, a donative to the Church, a whole tidal wave of things that needed to be done to show his thankfulness at the gift God had wrought. But now, just for a moment, the former boy from Italy stopped to smile, and bask in the moment.

The line is safe.

“Khusrau?” the Shah-Khan asked as the chamberlain turned to see to his original request. “What have they named the boy?”

“Sidirios, if it please Your Grace,” the chamberlain bowed.

“Sidirios?” Mikail repeated, before snorting. “Bah! That's what everyone in Takht-e Rum will call him. No, we'll use his real name here. Timur!”

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Timur's Theme

==========*==========​

October 1st, 1313

Taqi a-Din ibn Taymiyya was used to the noise of confused, even frightened qabbatin in his tent. Most of those days, Taymiyya was cool, calm, collected—the voice of scripture that reassured them, gave them heart, and then pointed them towards victories that pleased God. Today, however, even Amir a-Jayshallah felt the cold touch of fear brushing against his heart.

“How did he do that?” Taymiyya muttered to himself. Qabbatin from al-Qayyim's Antioch force were only now starting to file into the tent—a force of Mongols had harried their retreat, and many of the officers bore the marks of battle. Even their commander, Muhammad al-Qayyim, had a gash over his lip where a Mongol arrow had missed by the barest of margins.

It wasn't the Mongols, that prompted ibn Taymiyya's question, however—it was another host, one further south, that caused him such worry.

Andronikos Komnenos, along with 70,000 or more Romans.

The Roman bamboozled me! Taymiyya growled to himself as he fumbled for another map, more and more worried qubtans pressing into his tent. Why didn't I think about that? Taymiyya wanted to ask someone, anyone, but he knew there would be no answer from any of them. He was their Amir--they trusted him, they trusted his judgment. They wouldn't second guess him.

No, that activity is left for lonely me to do, Taymiyya hissed.

Taqi had expected the Roman to pursue—from what he'd gleaned from travelers and others about Andronikos II Komnenos, the Roman was a dogged foe. During both his Danish campaign and his Alan campaign, once the young emperor smelled blood, like a good hound he ran his opponents down, chasing them till they were too tired to run, too tired to fight. Then he went in for the kill. Taymiyya had been counting on this—after al-Qayyim pulled back from Antioch, he was to lead the Roman to Damascus, where Taymiyya hoped, the gathered, fresh Jayshallah would meet a tired, worn Roman army on ground of Taymiyya's choosing.

Instead, the Roman had swung south, marching hard and fast along the coast, then taken Acre and Joppa by surprise storm. He was now in the Golan, sitting between Taymiyya and the heart of the lands of the Jayshallah. It was now Taqi who was held by the hip—Syria was not a friendly land. Christian peasants denied his men food and supplies, and bandits plundered baggage and attacked foraging parties. The Roman could simply sit in the Golan, and let Taymiyya starve if he wished.

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We're hung, if we can't make him move.

Taqi wasn't sure how the Roman had moved such a vast army so quickly. His ships supplying him allow him to not have a great baggage train? Taymiyya wondered. How then will he campaign away from the coast? No... it must be something else. Already, Taymiyya had heard several of the lower qabbatin calling the Roman Barak—“the Lightning Bolt.” Taymiyya's eyes poured over the maps, his eyes dallying on a gaggle of chits that marked the huge Roman army, and the scattered, smaller number of stones representing the Jayshallah.

How do I move him? Storming straight into the Golan like a Roman was out of the question. He fights like a Jab'reel, Taymiyya sighed, looking forlornly at the smaller number of the Jayshallah. We know the entrances into the Golan, but he has tens of thousands of men, he could cover them all with ease, or even worse, ambush us... Taqi paused, as al-Qayyim batted away another question from the junior qabbatin. Yes, the Amir was thinking of something.

His supplies must be coming from Joppa, Taymiyya thought, staring intently at the map. He's probably requisitioned every cart in all of Galilee to transport fodder to that host, and the crops are only just being harvested... Taymiyya grunted. He's young, Taqi told himself, full of confidence and vigor. We need to get his blood up... no... he shook his head. We need to compel him to leave the Golan. He could've let his blood lead him to Damascus, but he didn't. He won't leave good ground like that of his own volition...

Taymiyya's eyes drifted towards the eastern parts of the map, where faded lines crossed empty parchment—caravan routes, trading roads. There... is that how we...

Amir,” al-Qayyim interrupted.

“I'm thinking, friend,” Taqi whispered. Yes, that's how...

“It's a messenger from Palmyra, Taqi,” al-Qayyim repeated himself. “He has been waiting for a half hour, my friend. He says it is most urgent, and by his looks,” al-Qayyim's eyes flashed momentarily to the tent's entrance, “he looks parched. Will you see him?”

Has it been so long? Taymiyya blinked, looking back at the map, and then his chief qubtan. “Please,” Taqi waved. Al-Qayyim nodded, then motioned towards someone outside the tent. A boy, clad torn, dusty linens with a partly sheared mail vest, stepped into the tent. His eyes spoke of hunger, his cracked lips spoke of thirst. Taqi immediately motioned to one of the qabbatin—water was quickly in the boy's hands. Some of it sloshed onto the ground, his hands shook so.

“There's nothing to be afraid of,” Taqi said, gently pulling the boy into the tent and guiding him towards his own seat. Something terrible has happened? The messengers know not to be afraid of me, no matter what news they bring... “What has happened. Please,” he interrupted the boy as the lad started to stammer, “drink.” Taqi's hand slowly guided the cup towards the boy's mouth. “There is plenty more. When you are ready, start at the beginning.”

The boy looked at Taymiyya, before slowly finishing his cup. “I...Persians, Amir!” the boy finally stumbled. “Persians attacked us!”

“Where?” Persians?! If it's the Persians, why... Taqi blinked, his mind refusing to believe his ears, or the fear his eyes saw dripping from messenger's shaking hands, his quivering mouth.

“They came to Palmyra, a whole artesht!” the messenger said, before his voice cracked. Taqi put an arm around the man—his shoulders palpably shook. “They came... with siege ladders, rocket carts, and engineers! I...I was with a scouting party. We were on the far side of the city when they came out of the desert. We rode here as soon as we could!”

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“Allah preserve us,” Taymiyya whispered quietly. He was in a vise, a trap spanning two great empires.
“What is your name, boy?” Taymiyya asked. “I... was rude not to ask. I apolo...”

“Zahir, Amir,” the boy said, before gulping down more water. No one complained of his rudeness—no one cared. Not when 30,000 Persians were laying siege to one of the cities taken by the Jayshallah! “And there's more, my Amir!

“There's mo...?” al-Qayyim squeaked, before Taymiyya shushed him with a waved hand.

“We were ambushed by a Persian patrol,” Zahir went on. “They killed my captain, Bashir, but Ibrahim and I, we slew them, but not before Ibrahim was wounded. It festered, and...” the boy's voice faded a moment, before he visibly shook his ashen face.. “I...we talked to one of the Persians before he died, and he...I do not know if he meant to...”

“Speak what he said, child,” Taymiyya said as gently as he could. Falsehoods did he utter? Perhaps. We won't know, however, until you tell us...

“He said the Khalifa has issued a fatwa against you!” the boy's voice trembled with urgency and fear. “A fatwa! And Abdas al-Rustami was named Vizier-i-Azam of the Persian Empire!” the poor boy croaked. “Two hours, they said, after the fatwa! There are riots in Baghdad and Isfahan, the man said,” Zahir greedily took the new cup of water and downed it as well. “He claimed our fellows are being massacred, and the Khalifa overthrown!”

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“Riots?” al-Qayyim's eyes flashed up towards Taymiyya's. “Amir...”

Riots? A fatwa? Voices of confusion, of fear echoed in Taymiyya's mind. The Khalifa had condemned him, yet now the Khalifa was ousted? Taqi felt his kneels tremble, and tears welling up behind his eyes. Islam's greatest hour, and we turn on ourselves like a pack of dogs?! Time stood still. For a moment, Taqi a-Din ibn Taymiyya was nothing more than a frightened boy in Barcelona, wedged tight between a cupboard and a wall in the remains of what had been his home, his dead mother's ring tightly squeezed in his tiny hands. The Romans had killed her, not because of her faith, not because of her creed or her loyalty, but simply because of where she lived. She was an example, along with all the others! his mind's eye shouted.

The Romans are wicked, the instruments of Shaitan! God deems they must be punished, and I am the whip that will chastise them! the voice of Taymiyya's lost childhood yelled in his mind. They did this! They manipulated the Khalifa! They hoped to make us fall on each other, just like they burnt Barcelona! Taymiyya shook his head quietly. It cannot stand. We must fight! We are the sword and shield of Islam! The Jayshallah must find a way out of this, it must hold together! We cannot face the Persians and the Barak at the same time, Taymiyya thought. It would've taken a masterful desert march to take the Romans by the hip, but now? The Persians undoubtedly watched those roads. They could leap in and destroy us on the march. No, the Jayshallah would have to take the southmost caravan route, but the Romans...

Barcelona spoke—it told of blood, of gore, of terror. It called for blood for blood, vengeance for vengeance. Go straight at the Romans and the Persians, and break him! it's siren whispered. Break them all!

Taqi felt his mouth start to open—the men would've gained heart, and they would have marched. But another voice, a quiet voice, started to speak.

And do not throw yourselves by your own hands into destruction,” Taqi repeated from the Qu'ran, then looked down. If we fight him in the Golan, we turn our back on the Persian scum. If we fight the Persians, he will take us from behind. Going directly at either would lead to our doom...

Amir, your orders?” al-Qayyim asked quietly. The gash by his mouth was bleeding again, dripping onto his dusty white linen shirt.

Taqi felt his mouth open, but no words came out. Barcelona warred with the holy word, vengeance fought scripture, anger fought cold, heartless logic. The frightening Romans who slew an entire city, all Taymiyya's friends and family, stood toe to toe with the necessity of the moment, the outcome of an epic betrayal. The struggle was tumultuous, violent, though all the rest of the world saw was the Amir of the Jayshallah pause for a second. In Taymiyya's mind, that second lasted an eternity. He heard his mother's screams, he heard the laughter of his grandchildren, he heard the boots of his army, he heard the call to prayer. Taqi tried to push those aside, seeking another sound, a quiet whisper as thunderous as the sea. Scripture ran through his head, years of practice and learning calling forth surah and verse until that calm, quiet voice spoke in his minds eye.

Taqi a-Din ibn Taymiyya looked back up at his qabbatin, at the frightened Zahir.

We must defeat them in detail, Taymiyya thought as his eyes went over to the map. Persians in Palmyra, Romans in the Golan. Roads, lines of march, all started to sing in his mind, a harmony matched by the horrors of Barcelona in the distant past. We have to strike the Roman first—the Persians are delayed by Palmyra's walls. The Romans could come down from the Golan and take us by surprise at any time. We could leave warning riders to watch the Persians. One lightning march... Yes, the Romans had to be destroyed first. He knew the route to do so. But how to hold them...

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Then it hit him, like a bolt out of the blue.

He knew what he needed to do.

“I will talk to the Roman Emperor,” Taymiyya heard a voice say. A moment went by, before it sank in that the words came from his own mouth.

Amir?” al-Qaayim's squeak was the loudest of the noises of confusion that ran through the tent. “Talk? You mean...”

“No,” Taymiyya shook his head. No, I won't surrender. We won't surrender. Islam won't surrender! “I am merely stalling for time, al-Qayyim,” Taymiyya said, “time and your skill.”

“My...” al-Qayyim started to complain, before stopping. Taymiyya smiled—his friend had finally caught on that when Taqi said something that seemed impossible, it was not just possible, but crafty, even wise. I hope my plan is worthy of his trust....

“You'll have to take the desert roads,” Taymiyya went on, “as going towards the coast means you'll be spotted by the Roman ships. March hard,” Taqi almost yanked al-Qayyim over to the maps on his desk, ad gestured feverishly to those roads, now between his two greatest enemy armies. “You'll have to squeeze between them before they know what has happened. Come around to the place the Romans call Philadelphia, then towards Jerusalem. Then, maybe, you can take the Romans from behind...” Maybe, just maybe you can. If you can just reach the Jordan before the Romans find out...

“But Taqi, if they find out you're stalling, they could kill you,”al-Qayyim warned.

“That doesn't matter,” Taqi said immediately.

“Y...you are the Seyfuallah!” Zahir stammered. “Y...we can't go on without you!”

“Sir,” al-Qayyim nodded, “you hold together the army, the cause! If you...”

“We have been fighting for an idea, my friend!” Taymiyya cried, cutting off his friend, “an idea! The idea that Muslims can be free, can rule themselves according to the tenets of what God has shown us! The idea that we are the shepherds of our destiny! Not the Romans, not the Persians, not the Aionites! I am a man, no more no less, and my life is worth the same as any other man's! If it is the price I must pay, I will pay it! If I can save that idea...”

Taqi looked around the tent. Worried eyes, terrified eyes, defeated eyes—they all stared at him. He was their Amir. They all looked to him as a father, as a leader, as a spiritual guide. For the first time, Taymiyya felt the weight of time crashing down—each pair of eyes felt like a year, each trembling hand a decade. For the first time since he had began his personal quest those years before, Taqi felt all of his fifty years pressing hard on him. Barcelona called one last time, before the words of God pushed those thoughts away.

"Conduct yourself in this world, as if you are here to stay forever; prepare for eternity as if you have to die tomorrow." he recited. God has placed me here for a purpose. God knows when my race has run. I will trust Him...

“...if we can save that idea,” he forced himself, made himself go on, his voice growing stronger by the syllable, “we have saved Islam...”

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So ibn Taymiyya finds himself in a desperate situation, and comes up with a desperate solution. Meanwhile, in Samarkand, Timur is born! Where will Timur's path lead? Will the Jayshallah find a way out of the trap now that Persia has finally played her full hand? An Emperor and an Amir, next Rome AARisen!
 
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Timur! Timur! So... He's the grandson of Michael of Transoxania meaning he is the direct descendant of Thomas I. And his mother is the niece of Alexandros II. Correct? An up to date family tree would be nice. :D And it'd be nice if Timur stayed Roman instead of going full native.
 
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Me neither...! Timur Lenk, heir to both the Mongol and the Roman Empire! Wow. Just. Wow.:)
 
Go Timur! In my humble opinion he is the most badass guy ever to walk the earth (, and on a side note look at this awesome smile! :ninja:)
 
Oh we're screwed now: A Roman/Mongal Timur!