And finally, the next update...
December 13th, 1158
A cold, wintry wind blew, making the cape of the
Megas Doux audibly flap behind him in the morning breeze. The sun was still low in the horizon, its orange rays slowly fading into yellow as it climbed into the sky, eating away at the brilliant colors of the sunrise. If that wasn't enough of a reason, Kosmas Komnenos had plenty of other reasons to smile on this day.
The campaign so far had proceeded beautifully. The Emperor had wanted to make a safe landing at Bari, then gather the
thematakoi of Apulia into one great host. Kosmas had persuaded Manuel that a far bolder strategy would lend a quicker, more decisive victory - the Imperial army of Manuel would land and directly assault Salerno, as the
thematakoi attacked the city from the landward side. The plan required immense planning and impeccable coordination, and it had worked flawlessly.
Salerno had been taken within a day, and soon thereafter, Napoli had felt the wrath of the Emperor. Today, they rode where no Emperor had ridden in hundreds of years.
Within five miles of Rome itself.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?"
Kosmas turned, and found the Emperor riding next to him. For most of the campaign Manuel had been irritable and excited - worrying constantly over the state of supplies and the deployment of the troops. By the end of the night, however, the army would be at Rome's ancient walls, and Manuel could set to work on his final goal - Kosmas assumed that was the main reason for his cousin's good humors.
The countryside of southern Italy, through which Manuel's armies marched.
"Yes," Kosmas replied. He glanced behind him - the army was only just breaking camp. It was early in the morning, and for once in the campaign, there was no need to rush. He had just turned back around when far up the road, his keen eyes caught something.
Movement.
It looked like a fuzzy brown thing, slowly coming up the road.
"What is that?" Kosmas said quietly.
Manuel stood in his stirrups and grunted. "Looks like men. Many men." The Emperor turned to his cousin and grinned fiercely - the look made Kosmas shiver. He'd seen it as a child on the face of his great-uncle, the Megos. "So Innocent does have a backbone after all!"
"Unless he sends his soldiers out and hides in the Lateran Palace," Kosmas said absently. His cousin leveled a withering stare at him, but the
Megas Doux went on. "He is a man of God, after all - it would be unseemly for him to lift a blade against a fellow Christian."
Manuel merely grunted at the logic, and turned his horse around. Orders were relayed, drums beat, and horns blared as the Roman army rapidly deployed itself across the road - spears and archers to the front, cavalry in reserve. Within ten minutes the bristling might of Romanion was arrayed in the brilliant morning light, and yet the foe advanced. Archers primed their arrows, men whispered their prayers, until finally the first ranks of the enemy became clearly visible.
Old, gray men, clad in peasants clothes. Then younger men, then women, even children, a great procession headed up the road, the noise of prayers, chants and singing slowly drifting over the Romanoi lines as the line of plain dressed people steadily approached.
"Are they even armed?" Kosmas squinted. It did not look like it - he couldn't spot a single spear, a single blade - instead he saw a slew of crosses, one in each person's hand.
"Short work, then?" Kosmas turned, and saw that Manuel was grinning - grinning!
"Why do they still come? They surely know they won't survive..." Kosmas said quietly.
Yet onward the procession came, until opposite from the disciplined Roman lines stood an ungainly mob - men, women, children, young and old, their voices raised in song. Kosmas realized what was going on - and he wanted to nod his head in acknowledgment of the bravery of these people. Yet doing such a thing would only antagonize his cousin the Emperor.
Finally, one man stepped out from the mob before them. He was tall and terribly gaunt, his face plain as day with a balding crown of grayish-white poking from under his snow white cap. Clad in brilliant crimson and white, he stood out from the crowd, his wrinkles looking like craggy rocks on his weatherbeaten face. Despite his homely looks, there was ample reason for Kosmas's mouth to fall open in shock.
Innocent II had indeed come to the field.
Innocent II, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Christ
========== ===========
"What is the meaning of this?" Manuel snapped. Standing before him, impudently, was the Vicar of Christ. Innocent wasn't bowed, wasn't groveling, wasn't doing any of the things Manuel had hoped to force him to do. He stood proud, with an open, frank look on his face. The Emperor felt the heat of anger rising in him.
"Greetings, Emperor Manuel Komnenos, Vice Gerent of Christ," Pope Innocent II said, with a slight, almost disdainful nod of his head towards the mounted Emperor. His voice was strong, even - nothing like the quivering mess Manuel had envisioned he would hear on storming the city of Rome. The Emperor said nothing in response.
"I see you have brought your army. And as you can see, I have brought mine," Innocent said.
"And a sorry army it is," Manuel hissed. "If you have come here to offer your surrender, I accept it. I will ride into Rome - "
"I have not," the Pope said simply. Manuel stopped in mid-sentence, before letting out a hiss of anger.
"Then why have you come here?" Manuel bellowed.
"To end your threat to the Holy City," the Pontiff smiled.
Manuel laughed, a harsh, almost baying sound. "With this?! A mob armed with wooden crosses? How will they stop the swords of my men?"
"I do not need to stop you to defeat you," Innocent said quietly.
"And how do you know I won't just order my cavalry to run you down?" Manuel shouted.
"Because, Majesty," the Pope said simply, "you cannot win by doing that."
On one side, the army of pilgrims from Rome
On the other, the battle-hardened tagma
of the Eastern Empire.
Manuel raised an eyebrow, spurring his horse closer, right next to the old man. Innocent held his ground. Yet another act of intimidation failed. The Emperor leaned down and hissed only inches from the Pope's face, "What do you mean by that? I'll run you through, I'll take Rome, and no one can stop me!"
"God will," Innocent said with a quiet, serene smile. "God protects the city, and He will protect me from you, if only you will soon realize my death is not to your benefit."
Manuel looked at the old man for a second, before letting out a harsh laugh.
"Go on with your jest, old man."
"For if you kill me," Innocent said in that same quiet, serene voice, "and these unarmed people,
Majesty, you will be known throughout the Christian world and for all history as the Emperor who murdered a sitting Pontiff," Innocent said soberly. "All your previous accomplishments and glories will be forever forgotten, covered by the stain of this one blemish. The other Patriarchs surely wouldn't stand to be ruled by a man who slew their fellow, no matter our disagreements," the Pope's voice was even, but rose in volume, louder and louder. "Your Majesty, you would face unrest and rebellion at home here and now, and the shadow of ultimate disgrace forever more. Such a circumstance would be unfortunate, to say the least." The Pope looked up at Manuel, and smiled as a grandfather would grin at the antics of a troublesome child. "Instead, you will turn around to Napoli, content with your spoils, and leave Rome in peace."
The Emperor stopped cold.
"You will surrender Napoli, Salerno...?" Manuel said slowly.
"Temporal lands are no concern of mine," Innocent said quietly. "They will change hands again and again. Only the Church is timeless. Keep them."
Manuel stopped in mid-speech again. In his mind, land meant power, land meant authority. Napoli and Salerno, if the Pope had time, could have raised him an army strong enough to resist the Romanoi incursion. Manuel smelled a trap.
"Why do you bend so easily?" the Emperor asked darkly. "You fight in the most unorthodox manner I have ever seen," Manuel grumbled. "Why?"
"Because, Majesty," Innocent smiled, "while you have soldiers and swords, I must make due with beauty and truth."
The Emperor's face darkened at the slight - but Manuel said nothing. He couldn't think of anything to say - for the first time in years, Manuel found his tongue was tied. To his chagrin, his opponent diplomatically smiled.
"If that is not sufficient, we are entirely prepared to return your son," Innocent smiled.
"So you admit keeping him prisoner!" the Emperor seized on a point which he could argue.
"We have not kept your Basilieos prisoner," Innocent clarified, "a prisoner implies someone in a state of bondage, held against their free will. At no point did we incarcerate your son, we merely shepherded him and safeguarded him from the machinations of evil men." The Pope gave that same calm smile that drove Manuel insane, before adding, "You may see him, if you wish?"
"What are you implying?" the Emperor said darkly.
"I imply nothing against your Majesty," the Pope said, but that sardonic smile came through, making Manuel's blood boil.
"There are those who would like to see Christ's work undone. We have shielded the young men from those people, and we know that Your Majesty will do so as well."
"I see," Manuel verbally stumbled again.
"You may have what you have taken. You may have your son. In return, we ask for our city," Innocent continued. "If you agree, we all return whence we came. If you do not, we will stand in this road and block you with our bodies, our lives, if need-be. Majesty, the choice is yours..."
========== ==========
"You will do fine, Basil," Rimini said quietly, answering the young prince's nervous question. For his own part, Basil looked closely at his tutor's face. He didn't see the normally bright light that came from Rimini's eyes - just a sad, gray expanse.
The Prince felt a lump rising in his throat, and with all the willpower he could muster, he forced it back down. Anyone could say what they wanted about his stay in Rome, but Basil genuinely enjoyed his tutor. He didn't think the Cardinal was always right - they had spirited disagreements on many occasions even, but he regarded him almost as a second father. It'd been
Rimini who had sheltered him from assassins, found a way around his difficulty reading, and had inspired him to learn things as diverse as history and swordplay.
In short, it was Rimini who had made the young prince into the what he was that day.
Rimini looked up, impatience in his eyes. "They're still speaking," he said quietly, "I don't think it will last much longer though." The Cardinal looked at his charge - he had to look up, as Basil was already tall - and sighed. "I think it is time for us to say our farewells."
"So it is," Basil said quietly.
For a second an awkward silence hung between the two, before Rimini gave an uneasy laugh. "I almost forgot something - Highness, we have a gift for you."
"We?" Basil asked. He felt the lump coming back in his throat.
"Well, myself, and Master Nocioni," Rimini clarified. The Cardinal walked back to a cart near the end of the mob, and pulled out something long, wrapped in cloth. "He continually said you surprised him all the time with your skill in both sparring and in the tests he put you through." Rimini proffered the cloth covered item to him.
Basil gently took it into his hands, and immediately felt its weight. He smiled - he didn't have to be told what it was.
"Master Nocioni told you about it?" Basil asked, a sad smile on his face.
"Yes," Rimini smiled back. "He'd never felt a swordblow come down that hard on his own blade - said it was a wonder your sword only broke in two pieces, and not a million."
Basil carefully unwrapped the cloth, to reveal a brilliant longsword, its blade shining as if it had been forged only the day before. It was clearly a masterful piece of work - it bore no gold, nor any jewels or gilt inlays. Its simple, true steel form was all the beauty the weapon needed in Basil's eyes, and by far this was the most beautiful sword he had ever seen.
Beside it laid a scabbard, its beautiful leather covered with engravings.
"Thank you, Cardinal," Basil said breathlessly.
"Remember what I have taught you," Rimini said quietly, putting both hands on the young man's shoulders. "Men can gain power through avarice, deceit and greed, but leaders who have honor, courage and integrity will inspire others to follow them. Any man can lie and cheat his way through life - only a brave man attempts to live a truly noble life."
"I will make you proud," Basil replied with a slight sniffle.
"And Nocioni included some advice as well - look at the crossguard."
Basil lifted the hilt up to his face. He could tell there were words, but the Latin letters seemed to jumble themselves together. He squinted, and concentrated, trying to piece them together.
"
Non mihi, non tibi, sed nobis?" he said slowly.
Basil's sword, now a Romanoi national treasure.
"Not for you, not for me, but for us," Rimini translated it into Greek. "You have a great skill in war, Basilieos. This blade should never be the first thing drawn - however, there are times where you will need it. When you draw it, make sure it is not for reasons of selfishness, or greed, but to defend those that need your defense, to further the will of God, and to uphold justice."
Basil nodded, as the lump pushed its way further up his throat.
"Every sword has a name - Charlemagne had
Joyeuse, Julius Caesar had
Crocea Mors. What will you call yours?"
Rimini asked quietly.
"
Kyriomachos," Basil said after a second. "Lord of Battle."
Rimini laughed softly. "Asserting something bold, aren't we?" the Cardinal said.
Basil looked at his mentor and smiled. "Confidence is a key ingredient for success."
Rimini's laugh became full throated.
"Indeed. This world, Basil, is governed with little understanding. I pray that with what I've taught you, you will break this trend."
A few minutes later, Rimini looked up, and Basil saw a mixed look come upon his face.
"I think His Holiness has succeeded," the Cardinal said, "for your father is looking very sore and upset. Come," his voice suddenly grew quiet, "it is time."
Basil nodded. The prince's own reserves were breaking down, and he was actually relieved when Rimini gestured for him to walk forward. If it'd been a few more minutes, Basil was sure he would have started crying.
Slowly, the crowd parted for the young man, as Basil sheathed his new sword, and strapped it to his waist. Seemingly alone save for the Holy Father himself, Basil stood well-dressed within the crowd - a tunic, leggings, shoes and cloak worthy of his imperial station. As the final ranks of the crowd parted, father and son finally saw each other for the first time.
Basil had not seen his father in almost seven years. When he'd left Konstantinopolis, Manuel had been a young man of twenty-nine, still tall, thin and darkly handsome. Age was catching up with the
Basilieos - a slight gut could be seen under his armor, his formerly midnight black hair was now filled with strands of gray. The Emperor looked older than his thirty-six years, by at least a decade.The Emperor beamed a smile at his son, but Basil still shivered. While Manuel's smile was large, it wasn't echoed in his eyes. Try as he could, Basil couldn't read the look in those gray eyes - they seemed to be a cold, blank wall.
"Father," Basilieos said softly, nervousness echoing in his voice.
"My son," Manuel walked up to the boy and encircled him in a warmless hug. Basilieos managed to put a smile on his face, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the fuzzy figure of Rimini back in the crowd. Basilieos couldn't make out the priests face, but in his mind, he saw tear streaks going down the Cardinal's face.
South Italy after the treaty between Konstantinopolis and Rome. The Eastern Empire now controls the entirety of the peninsula south of Rome, with the Papacy only holding Rome itself and the small county of Ortobello. The treaty can be counted as a Papal victory however, in that the Papacy survived...
========== ==========
December 25th, 1158
Sultan Sulieman Arslan reined up his horse, and heard the snorts and neighs of the steeds behind him coming to a quick halt as well. While his Vizier was not here, most of his military commanders had accompanied the Sultan out of Nisbis to see in person what the Master of Spies had loudly proclaimed in council the day before.
"Where is this fortress, Tawfiq?" Sulieman trotted over to the Spymaster. Tawfiq Rishtami was a tiny man, so small he couldn't ride a regular horse, and had to make due with a mule. His simple looks and small size belied one of the sharpest minds that Sulieman knew, and his offputting looks meant he often had access to information others might not receive.
"There, Great Sultan," Tawfiq pointed. Just over the rise before them, Sulieman could barely make out the walls of the fort.
"That little thing?" Omar Khitami, one of the leading clerics in Abd'al'Aziz university in Baghdad, said in disgust. The man was widely respected through all of Islam for his strict, dogmatic approach to theological matters and the Koran. The man, like many academics, loudly professed to know right and truth, and tended to shout down anyone who opposed him. Obviously, his expertise did not extend to military affairs, but that never prevent him from opening his mouth. His great status would have made it unpleasant to not include him - no matter how much he irritated the Sultan.
"Yes," Tawfiq explained patiently. "The Romanoi have lined their border with small fortresses like these. If we don't take them, the troops inside would raid our supply lines, slowing or halting an invasion long enough for them to marshal a powerful army to oppose us."
"Which is why his survey of the fortresses is so important," Sulieman finished. He squinted - the thing was unremarkable.
"What does your information say?"
"The border fortresses are deserted," Tawfiq said with glee. "There aren't any troops, even local levies!"
"Praise be to Allah, who grants us success," Khitami murmured.
For his part, Sulieman merely raised an eyebrow. "How many of the border forts have your men scouted?"
"Six, Great Sultan," Tawfiq bowed. "My contacts within the Roman state say that their Emperor is in the West, settling a matter with the Bishop of Rome. The border is open, an avenue to Constantinople, for you!"
"You seem awfully optimistic," Sulieman rode forward slowly until he could see over the crest of the hill, then took a look for himself at the small fortress before them. It was nothing remarkable - four short, round towers with walls connecting them. Fully garrisoned, it would probably hold no more than a hundred men. Yet as Sulieman looked, he spotted one singular detail.
With a grunt, he rode back to the small party.
"We won't go forward," the Sultan said after a moment, to looks of dismay and shock.
"But why?" Khitami's voice rose in protest. "Why?"
"We are still two years from being prepared," Sulieman said simply. "And I -"
"Why do you not attack? Why?" Khitami snapped. "God does not favor them! God alone determines the results of battles!"
Sulieman looked at the cleric who had so rudely interrupted him, and his face darkened. "The results of battles are determined by God," he nodded, trying to keep his voice under control, "but also by preparation, numbers, the absence of disease and the availability of water!" The Sultan felt his own voice taking on a hard, sharp edge. Khitami started to open his mouth, and Sulieman's lips curled back. He had enough of this miscreant cleric. "One cannot maintain a siege with the enemy behind! How many battles did God win for the Muslims before I came? That is, before God determined that I should come?"
Khitami stumbled for a second - the Turkish history against the Romanoi since the start of the century had been of defeat and loss. "Few enough," the cleric admitted, but adding harshly, "but that was because we were sinful!"
Sulieman's lips turned into a mocking smile. "It is because you were unprepared. You let the Romanoi trample your fields, fool your generals, and destroy your armies!"
"If you think that way, you will not be Sultan for long," Khitami hissed under his breath. Sulieman cocked an eyebrow.
"When I am no longer Sultan, I quake for Islam," the Sultan growled. Foolishness - God laid the path to success open, but for wise men that saw when that path was ready. Today, the path to victory was not open. For all their giddiness and pride at seeing the Romans weakened and distracted, Khitami, even Tawfiq, had fallen into the sin of pride - pride that they were Muslim, and their enemy weak. Sulieman had already noticed something that he doubted Tawfiq or his men had paid attention to.
The Roman banner flying above the small fort. Anyone leaving a fort unmanned would keep a banner flying high, if only to discourage bandits. But SUlieman had noticed the banner itself was in perfect condition, with nary a fray or tear in sight. A banner left abandoned for months, days even, would have looked weathered and torn from being left to the elements...
Sulieman pointing at the banners of Aftarikon fort
...the Romans weren't gone after all. They'd probably laid low in the fort, cataloguing all of Tawfiq's observing men. Even more reason for Sulieman to wait until all the preparations were complete. The Sultan was intent on winning this war, no matter what the Romans, or even his own people, tried to do to impede him.
"Come," Sulieman called, "let us go back to Nisbis, before we are missed too much."
========== ==========
January 6th, 1159
Zeno Komnenos sighed, and poured another cup of wine for himself.
Only a year before, Zeno had been riding high on the winds of fate. With Niketas dead and Basilieos lost, the son of already forgotten Christophoros had become the heir apparent to Romanion. His estates in the
theme of Mesopotamia ensured he was one of the wealthier men in Konstantinopolis, and his cousin had invited him to sit on his Council to render advice - what advice Manuel would listen to. Yet, in the space of eight weeks, all of that had changed...
The Emperor was returning with the Crown Prince - and poor Zeno had now gone from likely heir apparent to an unimportant relative.
Zeno touched the pages again, indecision running through his mind.
The Turks were scouting the border marches again, this time in force. Some at the Aftarikon fort near Nisbis had insisted in letters to the lord of their
theme they had seen many Turkish nobles watching the fort three weeks ago. Zeno smiled - that certainly sounded like Sultan Sulieman. Zeno was that lord, and the Turks were scouting his
theme.
The Prince of Mesopotamia fingered the letters yet again - he knew how his cousin Demetrios would react to such news. Callup of the
thematakoi on the border, a massive show of force - clear messages to the Turk that Romanion knew what was going on, and moves that would have likely dissuaded even someone as bold as Sulieman. If the Emperor's other frontiers were peaceful, Romanion could, on paper, put a vast host in the field against the Seljuks, a force powerful enough to thunder all the way to Baghdad. Yet Romanion's frontiers were never quiet.
"A
theme for the diadem," Zeno whispered to himself. Mesopotamia was right on the Turkish frontier, directly in the center of the obvious invasion route. Likely his new estates would be the first to be burned by the Turks should they invade.
"More cover," the Prince whispered quietly.
Zeno weighed things. By nature he tended to be cautious. It'd taken him three years to find the perfect time to strike against Niketas and Basilieos. All eyes would be on him as soon as the brat returned anyways - there was no direct evidence that Zeno ordered the assassination attempts, but the Prince had little doubt the thirteen year old would squeal to his father.
Zeno sighed, then made his decision. It was a leap of faith, a dangerous plan, but if it was successful...
He set aside the report from Aftarikon - it would reach Demetrios' hands in due time, but not until Zeno had let it grow months old. As distasteful as it sounded, Zeno needed a conflict, a conflict with the Turks being preferable.
Instead of sending the letter on to the Regent, Zeno began writing a letter to
his cousin Theodoros. The man was a natural schemer and politician, someone that Zeno saw as a natural and powerful ally. As he wrote, his confidence began to rise. He would have to tread very carefully, yet a constellation of events was coming where Zeno could see himself sitting in the Octagon. Little did he know what a perfect storm he was slowly setting into motion...
========== ==========
Whew! Finally done. Basilieos is headed back to Konstantinopolis, while Sulieman's advisors have failed to get him to move before he was prepared. Meanwhile, Zeno has begun what he does best - plot. How will it all end? Find out more in the next update of Rome AARisen!
