Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

As promised, the next update, on Friday. I know I was evil leaving it on a cliffhanger like this... but that will just make you want to read the next update even more...


When the Great Seljuk Empire sent its massive aid to the Cyrenaicans, their hope had been for a Muslim campaign against the Croat lands of the Levant – Egypt and Palestine. It was in these two areas that the backbone of Croat power – the Duchy of Slavonia – had its seat. A campaign there would also leave the Romanoi in Jerusalem facing the possibility of assault from two directions. Cyrenaican forces could have easily cooperated with their Turkish counterparts in a campaign against Rome.

Yet what they had hoped for, and what they had received, were two entirely different things.

The Cyrenaicans quickly assaulted Benghazi, where the Croat King, Stepjan II, had moved his army to prepare to leave for Croatia. The assault was unexpected, and ferocious. King Stepjan did his best, but his army was small, tired, and had little in the way of food or supplies. They had spent eight years campaigning in the Levant, and were not prepared to face a few, fresh enemy.

On a small mountain outside of the city, the Croat army arrayed itself into battle, and held against the Cyrenaican assault for several hours before breaking. The Croat defenders were killed to a man, including King Stepjan himself. It was a moment that would be lionized throughout Europe – the first European monarch to fall on Crusade.


Things seemed they could not go better for the Cyrenaicans – Croatia’s far flung holdings were now held by a six year old, Stepjan’s son Tomislav. The Levant was open to the taking, as there was little prospect of European reinforcement. Yet the Cyrenaicans were not content. Sensing blood, they pooled the remainder of the funds they had been sent and built a massive fleet in Tobruk and Benghazi, and ferried an enormous army of 10,000 across the Ionian and Adriatic Seas to Croatia itself. They didn’t just want Croat lands in the Levant, but a new invasion of Europe itself.


Initially the surprise invasion was a stunning success – no Croat leader in the homeland was able to successfully rally their troops, while the Duke of Slavonia held off committing his forces to battle in Croatia, instead shipping them to his richer holdings in Palestine and Egypt. While at first all of Christendom condemned him as a coward for not engaging the infidel on European soil, it soon became apparent what he was waiting for.

The Cyrenaicans might have brough an army of 10,000 with a superb fleet to ferry them, but they did not bring enough food, and the war devastated the countryside. Soon enough, the vast host began to wither – there was little food to forage, and the Croat people were not inclined to assist the occupying enemy in any way. By September of 1102, some six months after the invasion, the vast Cyrenaican host had withered to 5,500 men.

In Egypt, where he had most of his holdings, Slavonia went on the offensive. Cairo was recaptured on the 8th of July, as was the west bank of the Nile by September.

In Croatia proper, things settled into an uneasy stalemate…


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July 4th, 1102

Nikolaios wasn’t sure what was happening, only that something important had taken place. His mother’s normally calm voice had an air of sharpness, of nervousness that could not be matched. She’d demanded that he not attend sword practice, and instead spend extra time studying the history of the Croats. While for the life of him he could’t imagine why the Croats were important, reading anything sounded far more interesting than swinging blades with his father.

The Crown Prince had a sneaking suspicion about his Croat knowledge when he was ushered, as normal, to the meet of the High Council. Before he even came into the room, he could tell by the quiet, tense tones that something was dreadfully wrong, and his quick mind guessed it had something to do with the Croats. He came into the room as Logothetes Theophano was speaking in quiet, somber tones.

“…word that Stepjan was killed.”

“Damn!” Demetrios uttered a harsh series of curses involving the Savior’s anatomy that made the Patriarch blanche. After a second, the Emperor raised a hand in apology. “I am sorry, kind Photius. This news is extremely shocking.”

“What news?” Nikolaios heard his mother ask as she took her seat at the far end of the table from her husband. The young Crown Prince, for his part, stood back by the door and waited impatiently, listening in as the adults spoke.

“King Stepjan of Croatia fell in battle against the invading Cyrenaican forces three weeks ago, Majesty,” Theophano briefly recapped the discussion. “He leaves his six year old son Tomislav as ruler of Croatia…”

“…and leaves Romanion facing the threat of Saracen attack from two sides,” the Emperor’s brother, Evangelos finished Theophano’s statement.

“You missed your sword practice this morning, Nikolaios,” the Crown Prince heard his father say. The older Komnenos frowned at his eldest son. “Your brothers are quickly outstripping you because they practice with their blades.”

“Half-brothers,” Hajnal reminded harshly, “and Nikolaios was busy at his studies,” she patted her son on the head, “learning about the history of the Croats.”

“Croat history, bah!” Demetrios waved off her reason, and Nikolaios felt the familiar pain – his mother was still smiling approvingly at him, but he could plainly see his father’s displeasure. Truth be told, he didn’t like sword practice – the blades were far too heavy, and he was too slow and clumsy to keep up with the likes of Ignatios or Christophoros. “All that matters is that Croat history as we know it has come to an end!”

“Your Majesty, if we could address the problem at hand…” Theophano started to say quietly. For another moment the Emperor glowered at both Hajnal and his son, before his attention came back to the Council.

“Do we have any idea why the Cyrenaicans invaded Dalmatia?” Demetrios asked.

“Their reason for war was one of the flimsiest excuses I have ever heard,” Zoe spoke next. “Something about a claim that the Croatian King defiled several holy sites in Egypt during his visit, and freeing Egypt from the infidel. Yet as far as I can tell from my searches of archives and my spy networks, there were no Muslim holy sites visited by Stepjan, and the Cyrenaican’s move only against the Croats, and not the Norman English.”

Nikolaios found at seat at the table next to his mother, and listened eagerly. While he wanted to go outside and play with the other children, he found the business of the adults to be utterly fascinating. Here was where decisions were made, and he had trouble breaking from his imagination – that here was where Basil Bulgarontocus, Justinian, Heraklios, and other great Basilieus’ had made the decisions that governed the life or death of tens of thousands. He leaned a bit into his mother, confident in the smug knowledge he was probably just as smart as everyone else there (so his mother told him), but insecure. He was in an adult world, and he knew some of the adults in the room did not like his mother, or him.

“…fear the wrath of the English King. Robert can amass 10,000 in Egypt alone, if the Egyptian Latins agree to his call,” Theophano was saying. “Maybe it’s just a naked land grab, no more, no less.”

“But Cyrenaica shouldn’t have the monies or resources to equip as fine an army as they put into the field!” Nikolaios heard his uncle Evangelos exclaim. The young man, only 28, was a spitting image of his father, Alexios – tall, with a deep booming voice and a raven black beard. Yet he had an excitable quality to him – when he spoke he fairly trembled as ideas tumbled from his mind. “I have been told confidently that they have steel swords made in the Damascus fashion – a time consuming and expensive process that at present, only we and one other Empire in the Known World can afford!”

“You want me to believe the Seljuks are involved because of swords, Evangelos?” the Basilieus grumbled, his armor clinking slightly. Demetrios had taken to wearing his armor as his robes of state – he said he felt more at home wrapped in steel than silk.

“Your brother has a point,” Theophano thought aloud. “Last report I read, the Cyrenaicans were having desperate trouble finding enough steel to make armor for their backstabbing of the Fatimid Caliph. Never mind that fleet they built so quickly to invade Croatia itself…”

“And I have no doubt that Malik Shah will smile once the news of the Cyrenaican invasion of Zara reaches Shiraz,” Zoe added. “Even if the two are not connected, the Turks have always shown themselves to be opportunistic – look how quickly the splinter themes along the border fell when they broke from Romanion.”

“How confident can we be that they would react to us acting against this threat?” Zoe asked.

“Father, what would you do if the Turks found a Christian enemy suddenly arose in far India?” Nikolaios suddenly spoke up, surprising himself with his own voice. He’d never said anything in any of the previous Council meetings he’d sat on. The Emperor looked at his son for a moment, also surprised that he spoke.

“Why, I’d strike them while their armies were away, with all my…” Demetrios’ words trailed off, and Nikolaios watched his father’s eyes widen slightly. Then the frown returned. “Let us assume the Turks would get involved. How do we deal with this crisis?”

“Going after the Cyrenaicans with all our forces is out of the question,” Kamal interjected. “That would leave the Eastern Army far too weakened.”

“I have an idea…” Hajnal said, and immediately Nikolaios could see his father glowering at her.

Demetrios groaned. “What does this new ‘sage’ propose then?” He leaned back, and grumbled, rolling his eyes, “Illuminate us with your brilliant logic on how to not be surrounded by Saracen hordes.”

“We are not surrounded yet!” Hajnal said.“The logothetes spoke of Croatian nobles still fighting, didn’t she?”

Theophano cleared her throat. “Um.. yes… the Duke of Slavonia, among others. But they’re paralyzed right now!” she caught herself. “Their king is dead, his heir a boy of six!”

“I would say take the Croatian nobility under your wing,” Hajnal continued. “You are an Emperor, there is nothing to stop you from taking on the mantle of a mere King as well.”

“But that would mean war against young Tomislav!” Evangelos loudly protested.

“Father would tell you I’m not a worthy heir at ten because I cannot swing a sword, so why should we listen to a six year old’s complaints?” Nikolaios shot back. There were stifled snickers at the table, and Demetrios’ face grew dark.

“And what would the boy do to resist?” Theophano said quietly, a plan coming into her head. “Really? What could Tomislav do? Nothing!” Emboldened by a few nodding heads, she continud on. “He has no army, and his nobility would rather have a Roman Emperor than a Saracen lord! Use their soldiers to make our armies stronger! Conserve our men – what you have consistently preached and done, Your Majesty.”

“They are Latins!” the by now ancient Photius spoke up. “They follow the heretic Bishop of Rome! They are iconists!” He lifted his hands up. “Why would they follow an iconoclast Emperor?”

“How did the Croats come to fall in the folds of Rome?” Hajnal asked.

“The same way you Magyars did,” Evangelos spoke darkly. He had a low opinion of those who weren’t Romanoi, and had no problem displaying it. “The Bishop of Rome offered their leader the Latin rex and a golden crown to wear all over the place, and they bent over backwards for him!”

“The most powerful man in Croatia is the Duke of Slavonia, correct?” Nikolaios spoke up yet again. When several people nodded, Nikolaios gave the beaming smile of a boy who knew he was about to say something clever. “He is a Duke now, if he joins us, he’s a Prince!”


“You mean bribe him?” Demetrios looked at his young son. Nikolaios nodded enthusiastically, and by the grunt his father gave, he knew Demetrios liked the idea. “If it works,” the Emperor said after a moment, “I would be suitably impressed. State policy coming from a ten year old!”

Nikolaios didn’t see the smile from his father, or how that smile turned into a frown. He was too busy smiling at his own mother, who beamed in approval at her son’s intellect. She gently patted him on the head, and he turned back to the council meeting.

“…can we do this?” Kamal was asking. The converted Saracen leaned back and sighed. “Your Majesty, there are only two of us, and you know the Eastern Frontier needs two commanders should war break out with the Turk.”

“I know,” Nikolaios heard his father grumble. “I could always raise up Isaakios Thrakesios… he’s shown immense ability on the field in the past, I have no doubt he would be a capable commander. But we would still need a second leader in the West should we do this so-called simple plan.”

“I could do it!” Evangelos blurted out. Nikolaios watched as eyes darted towards his uncle, some wide with disbelief, some shining with mirth.

“What, you all don’t believe I can?” Evangelos snapped, hurt at the silence. “I can, I tell you! Ask Demetrios, he trained me in swords himself! I can fight, and I commanding a regiment of skoutatoi during Manuel’s Rebellion!”

“A regiment that stayed in Konstantinopolis,” Demetrios said gently.

“Fool!” Kamal hissed barely loud enough to be heard.

“What did you call me, Saracen?” Evangelos said dangerously, his whole form now shaking.

“Enough,” Demetrios raised both hands and glared at both parties. Kamal leaned back in his chair once again, while Evangelos gave a slight harrumph.

“Sending a member of the royal family would make your intentions plain,” Theophano said after a second, breaking the silence. When no one jumped on her, she went cautiously onward. “You could always give Thrakesios overall command, yet send Evangelos. We are agreed that the Cyrenaicans are not the same threat as the Turk…”

“Thrakesios is a good man, I would take a position underneath his command,” Evangelos hurriedly agreed.

Demetrios sat for a moment, before giving a grunt that the rest interpreted as a grudging agreement to the proposal.

“Very well… home many troops would this drain from the Eastern defenses?”

“Reasonably,” Kamal began, “We could accomplish things with as few as 15,000 men, should the Croats assist us as hoped. Slavonia marshals…”

“Maybe 5-10,000 my lords, concentrated in Egypt and the Levant,” Zoe said. “We can trust them to handle Egyptian resistance properly.”

“So… say 5,000 troops to Cyrenaica proper to link up with the Slavonians, and 10,000 to Croatia itself?” Demetrios reasoned. Kamal and several others at the table nodded. “Very well… I’ll appoint Thrakesios commander of the Armies of the West, with a field command in Croatia, and give Evangelos here command of the troops headed to Cyrenaica.”


“Now, what about the Turks?” Theophano said a moment later.

“You should have winter court in Damascus this year,” Zoe offered. “Hajnal and I can run the government in Konstantinopolis well enough – we have done so in the past. Make a visit to your brother in Baalbek – I think you are the only person Manuel gets along with…”

“He called me a cretin during a sermon…” Photius began to complain.

“We would still have over 90,000 to throw against them should they try something,” Kamal piped up.

“…it would send a message to the Great Sultan – if he is planning this, it would tell him we know his plot and that he should back down,” Zoe spoke over the Patriarch’s complaint and Kamal’s talking. “If he is not involved in a plot with the Cyrenaicans, it might still intimidate him into staying quiet for a few years longer…”



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Militarily, the southern expedition was an unmitigated success – the 5,500 Romanoi faced no Cyrenaican army, and the campaign consisted of a series of quick sieges of the local strongholds to bring the region under control.

Unfortunately, the stress and excitement of this very first campaign proved too much for Evangelos. At first, his commanders attributed his lack of sleep and his occasional bouts of speaking to himself to nervousness and stress – yet with Evangelos attempted to order the massacre of every blue eyed child in Leptis Magna after the city was taken, Strategos Phocas took action. Evangelos was detained and stripped of command, while a courier rode back to Konstantinopolis with news of the Prince’s madness and a request for instructions.


To the north, however, Strategos Thrakesios faced stiffer resistance – the quick seizure of the Croat royal lands was followed by a series of engagements against the bulk of the Cyrenaican armies. Despite the fact that Thrakesios brought nearly 8,000 soldiers with him, and faced a Cyrenaican army that numbered only 4,500 troops that were tired and ill-supplied from a long campaign, the battles in Zara and Croatia proper were bloody affairs. Each Cyrenaican soldier was well aware he was fighting for his life in a land far from home – retreat was not a possibility. It was not until Thrakesios cornered the Cyrenaican army at Gorod Gum and butchered them to a man that the actual sieges could begin.

As this happened, Demetrios moved as well – the Emperor, Theophano, and their families and retinue all moved to Damascus, where, should the Turks invade, Demetrios would be on the front, ready to organize a counterattack. Kamal and his family wintered further north at Trebizond, in position to rally the northern part of the Eastern Armies should the need arise to go to war. The existing Imperial plans for war with the Turks went into their first stages – the militias were called up for training, and prefects and governors were instructed to stockpile and maintain arms. The message to the Turks was clear and two-fold – we know what you are up to, and you’ll pay in blood if you test us.

The Basilieus left Konstantinopolis in the joint care of his wife, the Logothetes in charge of the Treasury, and his mother, the Logothetes in charge of Intelligence. Things were not as orderly, or calm in the City as they were in the field. Hajnal had spent years building her personal network of spies, and on Christmas Day, one of them stumbled across several incriminating letters in the study of the Emperor’s mother.

Zoe in the meantime had come across information of her own – several damning letters between the Count of Ankyra and several factions at court. They revealed that the Emperor, for some 17 years, had been keeping a secret, a secret the count was hoping to capitalize on for his own ends. Resolved to strike before Anathasios was ready, Zoe unwittingly set in motion an avalanche of events that would soon engulf the entire court of Romanion…

Here is the midweek teaser for this week... as drama unfolds in Konstantinopols, a menace reveals itself in the east...

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January 3rd, 1103

Baghdad was bustling.

Thousands of vendors and hawkers had set themselves up inside the city, screaming their wares, and the clang of steel on steel echoed from hundreds of forges all over the great city, along with calls to prayer that were followed by sermons beseeching God’s help.
Jerusalem had fallen, the imams called. Men of virtue and valor were needed to reclaim the city in the name of Islam. All were the sights and sounds that greeted the ears of Malik Shah every day as his armies prepared for war.

He turned from the balcony and walked back inside his chambers. The Great Sultan had taken to staying in rather spartan quarters inside the Great Tower, an immense keep that dominated the walls of the city that faced the river. Across on the opposite bank, sat the camp for the Sultan’s vast host – over 40,000 soldiers. And that was only force in this army. Altogether, at his word, the Sultan could unleash almost three and a half times that number on his foes.

Malik had seen campaigns before – in his 59 years he’d led many in person. He’d ridden to battle with his father, and led assaults by example. Yet never before did he feel as at home in his armor as he did these days. Burnished and shining golden, it was a constant reminder of why he was here – how his unarmored, sleeping sons, one by one, had been brutally murdered.

“Shall we continue, Great Sultan?” Suleiman al-Jabbari, now Grand Vizier of the Great Seljuk, spoke eagerly. Malik looked up, and regarded al-Jabbari and Kermaddin al-Talil, his two closest advisors, before nodding. al-Jabbari looked at his parchments, and continued his recitation.

“Shiraz sent…”

On the floor in the midst of the chamber sat an immense map, covered with figures of soldiers and cavalry men that represented thousands of living, breathing men over the hundreds of miles of border. His two advisors had already set the map up, along with figurines that represented known Roman troop concentrations.

“We have an army under Emir Talil massing Trebizond, some 20,000 foot and 10,000 horse,” al-Jabbari continued, “a smaller force of 5,000 foot and horse in Derbent, and 20,000 foot and 5,000 horse in Al Jazira.”


“And then us,” Malik said, tapping the tallest of the mass of figurines clustered around Baghdad. He looked up at his Grand Vizier. “How many have come?”

“All of Luristan, Hormuz, even Khwarezm and Qarakhanid,” al-Jabbari beamed. All the great Turkish, Persian, and Arab lords underneath the Seljuk banner had mustered, and the sight outside the walls of Baghdad was truly frightening to behold. “Khwarezm has in particular sent 4,000 of their finest heavy cavalry, which should be more than a match for the Roman cataphracts and lancers.”

“All told, Great Sultan,” al-Jabbari started flipping through parchments, “over 30,000 infantry and 15,000 cavalry are here in Baghdad, awaiting your instructions.”

“A princely force,” Malik said grimly.

“Yes, Great Sultan,” al-Talil said. “Your own armies easily match the legions of the Romans.”

“What of logistics, al-Talil?” Malik asked. Malik Shah knew his history well – of how countless Persian legions were always hamstrung by their inability to feed their hordes, of how vast host after vast host withered away from starvation, rather than battle. He had under his command the most powerful army Islam had seen since the days of the Prophet, and he was not about to let it too turn to dust because of lack of water or food.

“Great Sultan, my agents report that reserves of water and food are more than adequate in the mustering points, and for our march to Jerusalem, vast supplies have been prepared in Amman for our arrival. The Fatimid infidel has agreed to bend his knee to us, and will supply us with all we require as well to retake the Holy City.”

Malik nodded, and smiled. The sensation of the expression felt strange on his face – he hadn’t had reason to smile much since Kilijc’s death. Yet now, it seemed, things were going right yet again – he was about to march, with the full might of his Empire, against the Roman dogs who had breached the peace.


The planned invasion was brutal in its simplicity. Malik knew he could not count on the Cyrenaicans for much – word had just arrived they’re invasion of Croatia was stalling, and Malik had no doubt the Romans would pounce. When developing the planned invasion, he’d assumed the worst – that barely any Roman troops had been drawn away, and that the Emperor knew of his strike. Such were things in these days, where planning for the worst often led to the best.

Smaller armies in the north would launch raids into Roman territory, pressing as far as Kappadokia before pulling back. Malik hoped this could draw a significant portion of the Roman army northwards, allowing him, with his massive host, to quickly move in and seize Jerusalem. From then, he would march north, collecting his forces, looking for battle sites that favored him, luring the Roman Emperor into battle. Ideally, when the climatic battle occurred, Malik hoped to have favorable ground and a significant advantage in numbers.

He slowly rose, and walked to the window of the great tower. Just within view over the walls of the city, Malik could see the countless tents of his vast army. From below, he could hear scattered cheers – the sunlight had caught his armor, revealing his presence to the people below.

“A war it is then,” he muttered to himself, before turning back to al-Jabbari and al-Talil. “Send riders to Konstantinopolis, Damascus, and every great city of the Romans. Have them proclaim, ‘In the name of God, the most Great and Merciful, I, Malik Shah, Shahanshah of Persia, the Great Seljuk and Great Sultan of Baghdad, do declare Demetrios Komnenos a Usurper and a heretic, an affront to God. I shall sweep him away, as a broom sweeps away motes of dust. Hear this proclamation, and bend your knee, and I promise tolerance and peace. Remain unbowed, and you shall be swept aside as well.”

Both of his advisors nodded.

“Have the drums beat, and call the commanders. We march tomorrow.”

RGB - Yes, Demetrios is going to have to find out this time how far that "16" military rating will stretch...

Lordban - Did you make that quote yourself, or does it come from somewhere? Its very dark and foreboding, and seems familiar... I might use it in a coming update, if you don't mind!

English Patriot & VILenin - At this point the Turks could put about 120-130,000 in the field. Romanion in comparison could have put roughly similar numbers (in 1103 I think that had gone up to 120,000 from the 110,000 before, mostly from conquests), but 15,000 are away dealing with the Cyrenaican mess. It looks like it will come to a race of how far the Turks can get before the Roman armies in the West can get into the field - yet looks can always be deceiving.

Fulcrumvale - That remains to be seen. If Demetrios tries to hold the border itself, things will get really ugly, really quickly.

Yeah, this is what everything has been building towards! That said, the narrative structure is going to be a little bit complicated for a bit, because there are two stories going on: The first is Demetrios' military campaign to save the Empire from the Turkish onslaught, the other is the story of Michael and Nikolaios and their adventures during the war. So without further to do, we go back to the story...

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February 18th, 1103



“How do you do that?” Nikolaios found himself asking. The longsword in his hand felt heavier than normal, sweat stained his jerkin and his breaths only came in pants. Nonetheless, Nikolaios was happy to be out, practicing with a blade – for the first time. It had little to do with his skill, and more to do with his enthusiastic sparring partner.

Things had not always been that way. Nikolaios now realized the exact day his mother found out about his bastard brother Michael - Nikolaios had been able tell something was wrong that day.

First of all, his mother had missed their daily lessons – something she hadn’t done since there had almost been a riot in Konstantinopolis. She’d spent longer than normal rummaging around in Grandmother’s apartments and chambers, and she’d come back out very agitated, in a panic that was beyond rage or fear. The first time he’d seen her all day was when she’d swept out of Zoe’s chambers. Not that she knew he’d seen her go in. She often went into his grandmother’s rooms when Zoe was gone. She’d taught him many things, and one was to hold a secret until it was useful to tell. He guessed she had bribed several of the guards, and he’d even figured out which ones.

Nothing was spoken of the matter that caused her so much agitation, and for a while, Nikolaios thought that whatever it was, it had gone away.

He couldn’t have been further from the truth.

It was almost a month later, just after the first of November, when Nikolaios saw his mother immensely upset yet again. The lessons that day were a strange mix – court etiquette alongside treatises on plotting and conspiracy. He even heard his mother mutter several things under her breath when she thought he was busy reading – something about “’Hellsbane could work...”

Even as he wondered what had made his mother so upset, the cause of her anger entered the palace, and shortly, Nikolaios was ushered off to meet this charlatan.

He was tall and broad, a spitting image of Nikolaios’ father, with the dark shadows of a nascent beard forming along his chin. When he laughed, it was deep and rolling, and his voice thundered like the sea. Nikolaios caught his grandmother smiling at the man, even as Hajnal looked at him with eyes that shot daggers. Nikolaios instinctively backed away – if his mother didn’t like the man, something was seriously wrong.

To Nikolaios’ horror, the man turned and began walking towards him. His gait even reminded the Prince of his father, something that had made Nikolaios want recoil even more.

“Hello. You must be Nikolaios,” the man bent down to Nikolaios’ height. “My name is Michael. I’m your brother.” He held out a hand, a friendly gesture Nikolaios wasn’t sure he could trust.

“Half-brother,” Nikolaios heard his mother harshly correct.

Nikolaios gingerly took the young man’s hand, warily eyeing him. He was a brother. He was older, which meant if their father deemed him legitimate, he could become the eldest heir. Nikolaios was used to meeting strangers, but the simple fact of the man’s age had made the young prince back away.

For the next several weeks, things in the Palace at Blachernae were awkward. Michael continually made attempts to be nice to Nikolaios, but the young man wouldn’t trust him. He’d grown up in a world filled with intrigue, and had seen plots and counterplots played across council tables by an age when many boys were only starting to get a grip on Greek. He knew this man agitated his mother, and that was always a bad sign.

Yet dumbly, stupidly, this Michael refused to stop.

He would talk to Nikolaios during his lessons, and Nikolaios was forced to admit he was rather intelligent – at least far more so than his father. He would practice swords with amazing speed and power, but he could also quote the Aeneid better than anyone Nikolaios had ever seen before. Nikolaios found himself spending more and more time with him.

At first, it was more curiosity than anything – Michael seemed able to do most things well, and many things excellent. Nikolaios would sneak behind Michael, listening in on his conversations just as he did his mother, his father, and everyone else in the palace. He expected to hear dark plots, ploys to remove him from the position of Crown Prince, yet he only heard a happy young man, eager to meet his father and serve in what ever position he could. He had expected the angry voice of a son who felt he had been overlooked, instead he heard the cheerfulness of a young man glad he was in Konstantinopolis instead of a provincial backwater like Ankyra.

Part of Nikolaios wrestled with the possibility that this Michael was so utterly devious that he was fooling everyone – that he spoke all of these things yet harbored in his heart a plan of some kind. Yet the more he watched, the more he realized that Michael’s behavior was more than an act – he truly was a kind-hearted young man that wanted to do good by all.

A rarity anywhere, let alone Konstantinopolis.

As the weeks ticked by, Nikolaios found himself more and more intrigued. He found himself watching his bastard brother’s dancing – the man had a gift for dance – him playing music, his easy banter with the nobles and servants around the palace. Especially, Nikolaios found himself watching his bastard brother’s swordplay.

The Crown Prince had been used to watching his father and other half-brother’s train – their sword strokes were slow, but devastating. Matches often consisted of watching the two foes circle each other warily, sometime for minutes at a time, before suddenly one struck with all their might, often breaking the other’s practice shield or sword. Michael fought in a more frenzied style – his blade danced, knocking his opponents defenses aside, searching, probing for weaknesses while darting about in feints that bamboozled his foes. It was a style even Nikolaios could see was superior, and try as he might, he could not emulate it.

Even if he is a rival, I can learn from him... Nikolaios had decided, a decision that led him to ask Michael to train him with swords once his lessons were done.

“Tired?” Michael asked, breaking Nikolaios’ reverie. The older boy, just turned eighteen, had only just broken a sweat, but he moved with an ease that told Nikolaios he could go another few hours. Nikolaios’ arm still throbbed from the blow Michael landed on it, and the Crown Prince cursed himself for telling the older, larger boy to not hold back.

Nikolaios nodded, planting his sword into the ground.

“Part of the problem is that you’re fighting the wrong way,” Michael mused. “I should show…”

“It’s the way my father taught me…” Nikolaios started to say.

“Father doesn’t realize you don’t have his brute strength, and by your frame you never will,” Michael grunted, eyeing Nikolaios for a second. The young boy felt hurt, ashamed even he hadn’t been able to stop the bigger man’s attack, and he expected Michael to start berating him like his father would have. Instead, Michael gave a grunt of thought, before lighting up with a smile.

“Here, there’s another way you can fight,” he said suddenly. Quickly hands were around Nikolaios’ own, changing the boy’s grip on the sword. “Grip the sword thusly. It will allow you to swing faster, if you snap your wrists so,” Michael moved Nikolaios’ hands slowly, showing him the move. Nikolaios practiced it a few times, and while it was ungainly, he could feel how much faster his blade was moving.

“Good!” Michael laughed, clapping him on the shoulder, “If you practice it often, you’ll learn to defeat something much bigger and stronger than you using that speed!”

“What if the opponent is wearing armor?” Nikolaios asked, swinging the sword about. The new move seemed far easier than the hacks and slashes his father had taught him. “Won’t I need a powerful attack to harm them?”

“Not necessarily,” Michael said. “Every armor has a weak point, and if you know where it is and can strike that weak point before your opponent realizes what you are doing, your enemy has lost, no matter how heavy his armor.”

Nikolaios nodded. It made perfect sense – it tied in with everything he'd learned in his lessons as well. Striking an opponent diplomatically with a clever strategem was the same as flicking your blade to an unexpected spot before thrusting into your opponent's weakness. It all made perfect sense.

He practiced the move again, and grinned. “I want to try you again!”

“Oh really?” Michael smiled. “You won’t beat me right away, but with that attitude…” Michael shrugged, and mimed like he was parrying a flurry of attacks.

Nikolaios laughed, and their swords started to dance. For the first time in his life, Nikolaios forgot about plotting, forgot about his mother, even forgot his lesson time – swordplay was suddenly immensely fun.

A timely lesson, as Nikolaios would soon find out…