Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

And the promised map update...

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By January of 1100, the Eastern Mediterreanean looked as thus:





Romanion is at the center, ruled by Demetrios Komnenos, who despite his young age (only 32 as of 1100) is already being called “Megos” by many of his subjects. For the first time since Basil, the Roman Empire has made significant territorial gains – reconquering Sicily and most of the Levant.

The Normans continue to rule southern Italy as Dukes of Apulia, a title handed to them by the treacherous Bishop of Rome as a counterbalance to true Roman claims in the region. Rumor has it that Duke Roger Borsa, at the urgings of his more ambitious brothers Tancred and Bohemond, might be planning to complete the Norman conquest of the southern half of the Italian peninsula, and lay claim to a Kingship of his own. Such a move would, by necessity, provoke a powerful and angry response from Konstantinopolis.

The aged King Salamon continues his wise and beneficient rule in Hungary, the Kingdom now enlarged thanks to the agreement with the Emperor in Konstantinople. Eager to expand, Salamon has made forays into the Kingdom of Germany, exploiting its weaknesses both militarily and diplomatically. These forays were to pay off handsomely in the near future.

To the north, the vast Cuman Khaganate seems to grow ever larger. The princes of the Rus, disunified and frightened, have repeatedly appealed for Roman assistance – yet Demetrios has consistently replied that until the Rus unify, no matter Konstantinople’s assistance, fighting the Cumans will be a lost cause.

To the east stand the mighty Seljuk Turks – with lands stretching from Trebizond to India. Malik Shah has ruled this mighty empire since his father’s death in 1074, and so far he’s shown himself an able administrator and commander in his own right. However, an unknown force has been supporting the Turk’s great internal enemy, the hashashin, and all of Malik’s four sons have fallen beneath their blade. Malik himself has remarried, in hopes of siring a new heir, while making arrangements with the great Turkish lords as to who will succeed if that isn’t successful. Finally, he’s sent spies to the far corners of the globe, seeking out information as to who has backed the hashashin, and thus caused him this loss.

In the Levant itself, the former Fatimid Caliphate has crumbled even further. The Emir of ‘Jerusalem’ has bucked the rule of the underage Sultan and declared himself independent, with his capital in Ascalon. The Fatimid ruler, in title a Caliph, rules a mere shadow of his former empire from Akaba. Neither, should the Crusaders, Romans, or Turks decide to march, would stand much of a chance.

To the south, Muslim Egypt is but a memory, as the greedy Croats and Normans divided the land amongst themselves.

Cyrenaica for starters had gained immensely at the expense of the Fatimid fall. Her Emir is by far the most powerful ruler in North Africa, with lands stretching from Egypt proper all the way to Tunisia. When Egypt came under assault, she wisely played neutral, letting both the Fatimids and the Crusaders wear each other out. Now she stands supreme in the region.

Amongst the Crusaders, the situation is chaotic. Officially, all the English crusaders pay homage to the Duke of Sussex, who has moved his court from England proper to Alexandria, and in turn he owes homage to King Robert. However, in practice the Duke is independent, as are the small vassals of his that control areas from the Delta down to almost Asyut.

The Croats also have lost a significant amount of nobility to Egypt, as the Duke of Slavonia – now more powerful than the Croat King – has moved his own court to Cairo, holding lands on the eastern bank of the Nile and Gaza. On paper the Count of El-Arish is also within the Croat fold, and supposedly the Duke is planning an expedition against the shattered Fatimid lands. To make matters even more interesting, the Croat King, Stjepan II, was starting to grandly style himself a “Caesar” in his own right – an outrage that will undoubtedly infuriate the True Emperor once it reaches his ears…

To celebrate this Orthodox canonization (By the Holy See, no less ), I have a short teaser for everyone that will lead into the next update...

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October 5th, 1101

The halls of the Great Seljuk’s Palace in Shiraz were silent. A call for mourning echoed over the city, and all within the palace walls wore black.

Within the bowels of the palace, three men sat in the center of opulence. One was a Master of Spies, simply dressed, old and filled with wisdom from years in his position. Another was young, with a fresh beard and the fine cloaks of the Master of Foreign Affairs, eager and ambitious to prove himself. The third was the Great Seljuk himself, Malik Shah, wizened from having dealt with men of both calibers for decades – yet now in mourning over the murder of his youngest, and only surviving son.

The Sultan stroked his beard – he was so unnerved, distressed, and above all, angry, that he knew little else what to do.

Once that beard had been raven black, just as once his stooped form had sat utterly erect in the saddle, the spitting image of his father, the dreaded Alp Arslan. Yet now, Malik was an old man – he had seen 58 winters – and he knew his death was drawing ever closer. Yet fate had conspired against him, and now he lacked the comfort of having a single son to his father’s Empire.

“The hashashin, my lord,” his Master of Spies, Kermaddin al-Talil answered the Sultan’s question, and Malik silently closed a fist. There would be time to weep for Kilij Arslan later. Now was the time to think justice, and vengeance, both of which required a clear mind.

“The hashashin yet again…” Malik hissed between his teeth. It was this way the last three times, and he knew it would play out the same way again. A son murdered. The hashashin the culprit. No trace of the murderers, save the one martyr who died in the act, and dead men didn’t talk. They had stolen his family from him, his heirs, and now they threatened to destroy the Empire Alp Arslan and Malik had built.

“What do I have to do to get rid of these… butchers?!” he snarled in frustration. He’d offered money, positions in court to Hassan ibn-Sabbah, but the recluse’s response had been his messenger’s heads, knives in the hearts of Malik’s sons, and threats of more carnage if the Great Turk did not renounce his “deviant, scandalous lifestyle,” and his throne.

It mattered not that the Caliph in Baghdad had issued a fatwa proclaiming the hashashin to be heretics, infidels that had perverted the word of Allah and His Prophet. It had not mattered that the Sultan’s spies had paid people to infiltrate the organization, or that they threatened, even killed those related in any way with its known initiates. The assassins kept coming, and the location of the hashashin’s secret lair remained hidden.

“With all due respect,” Sulieman al-Jabbari, the Great Sultan’s Master of Foreign Affairs leaned forward and said, “I think we have been going about this problem the wrong way.”

“The wrong way?” al-Talil snapped. “You manage affairs with civilized peoples, who obey certain rules! I am charged with hunting a gang of madmen who think of nothing but murder to get into heaven!” al-Talil laughed harshly. “I have flogged everyone we can find related to this group. I have executed them, put them on the rack, slaughtered their families, and yet they still come. What would you do differently?” He crossed his arms and smirked.

“I would find who is backing them,” al-Jabbari said calmly. “And, Great Sultan, I believe I have found that information out.”

“Found that out?!” al-Talil started, until Malik held up a hand. al-Talil was a trusted lieutenant of many years, but Malik wanted to hear what the Master of Foreign Affairs had to say. Any news, any hints or links, were more than what the Great Seljuk had previously had to go on before.

“One of your recent captives was carrying a large number of coin on him,” al-Jabbari turned to al-Talil. “Some of your interrogators were rather unscrupulous and pocketed the excess money – my own spies caught them, and recognized the significance of the coin.”

“You dare…” al-Talil started, only to go quiet at the Sultan’s glare.

“I do not blame you, al-Talil,” al-Jabbari finished. “Your apparatus is quite impressive compared to mine, and I have no doubt this was merely an isolated incident and you will dole out suitable punishment. However, I digress,” he turned now to the Sultan. “Several of these coins were not from our lands, or any Muslim land…” al-Jabbari reached into his pocket, and flipped a single coin towards the Sultan. Malik caught the piece of metal in mid-air.

On one side, in gleaming gold, stood the figure of Demetrios Komnenos, Emperor of the Romans, proudly holding a sword. On the other side was an engraving of the Golden Gates to Konstantinopolis, proudly proclaiming that the coin was minted in Konstantinopolis, A.D. 1099…

Shock. Rage. A tidal wave of emotions thundered through Malik’s brain. He had concluded a treaty of eternal peace with the previous Roman Emperor, Michael. True, he knew he would break it if the time was right, but to stoop to murdering the children of an Emperor…

“What I propose, Great Sultan,” al-Jabbari smiled at the look on the Sultan’s face, “is that we fight fire with fire. Intrigue with intrigue, assassins with assassins. We all know that this Demetrios has vastly improved the armies of Rum.* They now almost equal us in strength, and bear heavier arms.”

“This Demetrios has already shown himself to be a capable battlefield commander,” Malik said as a harsh understatement. He squeezed a fist around the Roman coin, as if by doing so he could squeeze the life out of his tormentor in Konstantinopolis. “He takes command from the front – and his presence is worth ten thousand soldiers.”

“Yes, Great Sultan. But we need a response,” al-Jabbari pressed. “They strike at us without soldiers, we can strike back as such. Blood for blood.”

“Blood for blood,” al-Talil echoed his compatriot’s statement. “You speak well… how are you proposing we do it?”

“We can weaken the Emperor of Rome by proxy,” al-Jabbari answered. “A nest of gnats can distract a great bear, so even a weak fox can surprise it and take it down,” the Turk continued. “The Fatimid Caliph is gone – and our friend, the Lord of Cyrenaica, owes us for not intervening in that conflict. I propose to send a proposal to him – money and arms, in return for him attacking the Franks who occupy the Holy Land.”

“Which tribe?” Malik asked. There was no spoken agreement to the plan – both al-Talil and al-Jabbari implicitly knew the Sultan wanted someone in Konstantinopolis to pay for this outrage. “There are two.”

“The one called the Croats,” al-Jabbari continued. “They are weaker, and serve our purpose better. Cyrenaica, with our help, can easily conquer not just the Croat holdings in Egypt and Palestine, but also their lands in Europe…”

“Putting the Romans between us and the Cyrenaicans…” al-Talil began to see the plan.

“Yes,” al-Jabbari smiled at his slower comrade. “The Emperor will almost have to respond, and with enough forces that his eastern frontier will be vulnerable. My spies tell me there is no one at court he truly trusts with military command – if he heads west, we can then move…”

“Strike the snake while the snake is away,” Malik started to smile. The plan was complex, but it made sense, as well as doing away with Roman numerical equality and their superior military leader.

Malik nodded. He was not the same caliber of military leader as Demetrios, but he recognized small steps led to great gains. Even if the campaign went awry, even if only Jerusalem was regained, it would be a huge step – perhaps even it might persuade the hashashin to end their campaign against the Seljuk.

“Very well… Sulieman, I am appointing you Grand Vizier, and giving you full power to implement these plans,” Malik said after a moment. “al-Talil, you are to assist him in all ways possible. Allah Willing, we will crush the infidel before he knows what has hit him.” He stopped, the look on his face thunderous. “Make this happen, Sulieman. Strike down those that killed my sons.”

Some responses for everyone -

Lord Valentine - Well, you can now see the Turkish response! As for the father/son relationship, it will become extremely stormy, if you can't tell from Nikolaios' tone regarding his old man. I'm glad you caught on and liked the things like the hypersolidus and the Demetriad, I tossed them in because the first was a real problem Demetrios would have had to deal with, and the second made me giggle.

Lordban - Taking Jerusaelm was an opportunistic grab I did in game - it was there, it was easy, so I snagged it, and nearly lost the Emperor in a battle with the stronger than expected Fatimid response. At the start of the next update, we'll be in the midst of the Muslim AI's response to Christian boots marching into the Holy City.

English Patriot - You're right to be suspicious of everyone but Demetrios - this is the Byzantine court, everyone has an agenda. As for Naples, yes - it was really tempting to just snap up the lands of those Norman usurpers.

Fulcrumvale - The Turks are moving...


And finally, I've decided to stop behind graphically lazy. Many AARs have a standard header at the start of each story post, and I loved the idea, I just never got around to making one myself. Well, I finally did it, and here it is:

Here's yet another teaser for the next update, which is currently about halfway finished. Hopefully it will be posted either Thursday or Friday of this week. Enjoy!




Nikolaios Komnenos, Crown Prince of Romanion, growled and scratched out a portion of the assignment he was writing. He was adept at Greek, Latin, even the tongue of the Magyars – grammar was not the reason he grumbled and scratched at the parchment. He could not find the right word to express his idea, and even at the age of ten, he was showing a tendency towards being a perfectionist. He didn’t see it, but his mother also saw his action, and she smiled.

“What do you have for me?” she asked, walking to beside the desk where his small hands labored with quill and parchment.

“My essay, responding to the financial and trade needs of the Empire,” Nikolaios mumbled, now chewing on the end of the quill as he thought. He finally settled on the word in Greek that backed his idea the most, and scribbled it in, before handing the parchment to his proud mother.

She could not have asked, in her eyes, for a more handsome son. Already he was showing signs of becoming lanky, and he was tall for his age. His face was dark, like that of his mother – a sign of his Magyar blood. Tousled black hair covered his head, locks constantly astray from his habit of running a hand through them when he was thinking. Many in Konstantinopolis behind his back said he looked too Hungarian and not Greek enough - but none dared to speak that to the face of the Prince, or his mother.

“Hmm… a scholarly argument,” she said, reading through his work. His Greek was flawless, and despite his tender age, his arguments sound and direct. Hajnal had reason to be proud – the eight years of work she had put in, from reading Herodotus and Thucydides to him as a child to her constant drilling of his mind as a youth were paying off.

Nikolaios smiled at his mother, pleased that she was happy with his work. She lauded praise on him when he did well – unlike his father, who shouted and berated when Nikolaios had trouble lifting a sword, or failed to attack. With Father it was constant shouts of “Do better! Swing harder!” while with his mother, there were rewards to his hard work.

She set the parchment down, and walked to the far end of the room, seemingly thinking. “We shall now go to the golden lesson.”

“Again?” Nikolaios started to complain. For years, it seemed, his mother had been shoving this idea down his throat. He knew it by heart, and saw no reason to spend time on it – again.

“What is the highest goal for a prince in these days?” Hajnal asked, pacing to near the window. “Is it to form a mere Empire spanning the Known World?”

“No, he must form a dynasty,” Nikolaios answered, rolling his eyes. The lesson they were covering seemed utterly obvious to him.

“Why?”

“The stability of an Empire rests in its rulers, and a stable chain of rulers gives an Empire far greater strength that its adversaries. Remember the Caesars of Rome, or the Five Good Emperors, versus their Parthian enemies. The Parthians and the Persians were ascendant under occasional brilliant rulers, but suffered when lazy or inept rulers came to power, or dynasties shifted. Under a stable series of rulers, Rome was able to flourish, and control the known world for centuries.” He cleared his throat. "To do this, a ruler must keep the factions of his court in line, and skillfully play them off of each other, as well as play rivals outside his realm against each other. By doing this, a ruler can conserve his military and might for use against dire foes, and keep all opponents at bay and occupied."

“Excellent,” Nikolaios looked up as his mother smiled. “Now,” Hajnal flipped to a different parchment in her hand, “Can you tell me what was important about Justinian’s legal reforms…”

Nikolaios didn’t hear her. The call of a bird had drawn his attention, and like most ten year olds, his mind wandered often. This time he looked out the window, and sighed. Ten year old Christophoros and eight year old Ignatios, both bastard brothers to Nikolaios, were out in the courtyard below, bare-chested and playing with polo mallets. A crowd of children, the sons and daughters of courtiers and others who wanted Imperial influence, clustered around them as they playfully swung at a hapless ball on the ground.

“Why must I stay inside and read all these books?” Nikolaios finally complained. Outside he could see Christophoros and Ignatios had stopped playing – some kind of dispute erupted and the two were soon on the ground in a madcap wrestling match. The other children had gathered around and were cheering and raising bedlam. “They are going to the Hippodrome later with father, yet I have to continue my studies after the meeting. Andreas Myrkonis is racing today for the Greens, and he is by far my favorite driver…”

“Because,” Nikolaios felt his mother’s hand gently yet firmly turn his face towards her. “You are the Crown Prince. They,” she nodded contemptuously outside the window, “are your father’s bastards. They will grow up knowing how to wrestle, and ride, and fight, but you, you Nikolaios, will know how to rule.” She patted him on the head again. “And that, Nikolaios, will mean you will be Emperor someday, and not they.”

She walked away from him, still speaking. “That is why you get to attend the meetings of the Imperial Council, and they do not. I am training you, my son. To control Romanion…”

“…is like breaking in a wild horse. The nobility will throw you if they sense any weakness,” Nikoliaos finished his mother’s phrase for her. “I won’t show them any weakness, mother.”

“I know you won’t, my child,” Hajnal said. “No matter what your father tries to teach you, or others speak to you, remember that. Your father is a lout that thinks intellect and diplomacy are for fools. I tell you, Nikolaios, that view will hurt him and Romanion some day.”

Nikolaios’ face darkened a bit. The mere mention of his father’s name brought to mind memories from the previous day’s sword practice – lifting a blade far too large and heavy, simply because his father said it built stamina. Learning attacks that, Nikolaios knew, if he planned and intrigued enough, he would never have to use. It was irritating.

“Father is good at one thing, momma. He does what he can,” the boy sighed.

“And that is why I want you to be better than him… so you can take the throne in your own right someday,” Hajnal smiled.