Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

July 5th, 1176

Rodrigo winced as the clash of lance on shield echoed into the air, before being drowned out by the noise of the crowd in the Hippodrome.

Despite his Latin sounding name, Rodrigo Jimenez had been raised amongst the Romanoi, and felt comfortable amongst Roman customs, ideas, and games. The Latin tournament, in its ferocity and scale, reminded Jimenez of the tales of ancient gladiatorial contests. There were mass melees, where knights, lords, and men at arms would engage in huge, bloody scrums with “blunted” weapons that all too often drew blood and broke bone – spectacles that the mobs of Konstantinopolis loved. Yet it was today, the third day of the massive tourney organized by Emperor Basil, that had drawn the most interest from all of the city. For today were the jousts, where individual knights pitted skill against skill, nerve against nerve, charging into each others attack at full bore. At once such tourneys placed the best and worst of men to the fore – the skill and chivalry of brave men, cast directly alongside the blood and mayhem of a public spectacle.

In true Roman tradition, Emperor Basil had arranged that the knights and Roman cavalrymen that would participate in the contest were placed in teams based on the old Roman chariot squads, the old Blues and Greens prominent, but also the less well known Reds and Whites, as well as the Golds and Purples, not seen since the days of Heraklios. The jousting tourney was massive – 36 knights, six to a team, distributed evenly throughout the brackets. The participants ranged from heady Roman nobility from the western themes to Latin knights seeking to make a name for themselves in possibly the grandest tourney ever conceived.

As if this wasn’t enough to draw the attention of the raucous crowds of the Hippodrome, there was the simple fact that the captain of the Purples was none other than their Emperor himself. Despite Sophie’s objections and the concerned clucking of prim and proper Roman nobles everywhere, the Emperor had taken to the tourney with gusto, clad in purple tinctured armor and a billowing cape of the same – a truly imposing figure of Rodrigo had ever seen one.


Rodrigo had many things to be anxious about this day. Basil was only the first – and much of that concern disappeared after Rodrigo saw his friend go through his first tilt – the poor knight, a German named Ludwig von ‘something-or-other,’ had done a full spin when Basil had knocked him off his saddle to the roar of the crowd. Sophie still worried, but Rodrigo didn’t – Basil’s shield arm was fine, and from the looks of things, it would be an utter rout.

No, the Spaniard’s eyes more often were looking off into the crowd of the Hippodrome than the field itself. Specifically, to the large private box that held the French Ambassador and other dignitaries – for today was the day that Romanion would strike back…

Rodrigo reminded himself that it would be foolish to try to look – the Hand of the Emperor was notorious for secrecy. As if he would spot a single person committing the act of assassination either. The “Hand of the Emperor” was not a single person, but a whole organization.

For hundreds of years the Romanoi had perfected the darker arts of statecraft – intelligence, spymastery, poison and bribery. Most any competent agent of the Imperial intelligence agencies could do any of these things. Yet at times, an enemy arose that was so dangerous, so cunning that even these experts did not qualify. It was for these foes that the Hands of the Emperor were designed.

They were trained from youth to love the Roman state above all – even the person that was ruling the state. Only the strongest, the quietest, the most intelligent would find their way into such hallowed, and hushed, ranks. Rodrigo himself did not know any of the Hand’s roster that as Head of Intelligence they all answered to Sophie, and her special assistant – a Bulgarian named Krum. So the Logothetes ton Xenos fought the urge to look once again towards the French ambassador’s garishly decorated private box – if they were as skillful as claimed, Rodrigo knew he wouldn’t see anything untoward until the deed had been done.

With the impatient sigh of someone awaiting vital news, the Spaniard settled back into his Kathisma seat. Beside him sat the Empress, and clustered to their front were her four boys. Young Gabriel was just past the age where he’d learned how to walk, and so he didn’t realize the full importance of the Hippodrome, or what was to take place down below. David, 12, Manuel, 10, and Thomas 9, all fully understood the magnitude of seeing their father in personal combat. David and Thomas were fairly clambering over each other for a view. Manuel hung back, away from the window, attempting to feign disinterest even as he made hidden glances.

Beside the brothers stood their friends and hangers on. The young Dukid princes, also tussling for viewing spots, Thomas’ friends, David’s sparring partners, most far older than the gifted prince – all were clustered about, desperately trying to see as Basil went for his next round of tilting. Yet in all this press and cluster, Rodrigo did not notice Thomas’ best friend, Mehtar, son of Strategos Lainez, slip out of the Kathisma…



Conciergerie Palace, Paris


Drogo Capet had reason to smile today.

The sun was shining down on his realm, the most powerful in the West since Charlemagne himself. From the ancient ruins of Hadrian’s Wall in the north to the Mediterranean in the south, every major noble knelt before the might of the French King – even the miscreant Dukes of Poitou, long a thorn in the side of French royal power. True, technically Drogo did not rule in England – that realm was officially under the control of his son Louis – but everyone knew who the real power was in the realm.

As the German Kingdom fragmented through civil war, Drogo could only watch with amusement. Heinrich, for all his diplomatic acumen, was unable to keep the miscreant German princes in line, and it seemed for every victory Imperial forces earned, they suffered a defeat elsewhere. The anti-Imperial coalition now included both Dukes of Lorraine, as well as the Dukes of Bavaria, Swabia, Saxony and Brandenburg. To add insult to injury, the traditionally independent-minded cities of northern Italy had freely drifted, if not ran, out of the imperial orbit. Once the dust cleared, Drogo had no doubt a minor princeling, utterly unable to control his peers, would occupy the Imperial throne – it would be then when the King of France would move into Lorraine, then Swabia and Saxony.

At that point, there would be little that could stop Drogo. The “France” that the King had planned for would be enormous – stretching from the Mediterranean to Hadrian’s wall, from Brittany to the center of Germany. It would be an empire larger than Charlemagne’s, and effectively as powerful as the vast realm the Greeks ruled to the east…

Only one power stood effectively in the way of Drogo and his goal – Romanion.

Twice the King of the Franks had attempted to deal the Greeks a setback, and both times, their damnable Emperor had escaped. There was no doubt the Greeks, with all their deviousness, had now deduced Drogo’s original plan, so, as any good spider would do, when Drogo’s web was damaged, the King of the French built a new web of intrigue – hence the presence of his most esteemed guest.

Rashid al-Murabatid, brother of Sultan Ishaq Taifun al-Murabatid of Morocco.

The Sultan had grown alarmed at Romanion’s success in Iberia – Ishaq, like Drogo, had expected the French King’s diversion of all the Latin crusaders would mean the destruction of the Greek army on the peninsula, and consequently, left Iberia open for Moroccan conquest. For his part, Drogo had hoped Toledo would emerge with enough force to maul Ishaq, thereby letting the French King add Iberia and Morocco to his English gains at his leisure. Yet Basil’s penchant for surviving Drogo’s carefully laid traps had ruined both of their plans.

“…and that, Rashid, is why you must tell your brother the Greeks must be driven from Spain,” the King of France said smoothly, “and how France will help you.” The negotiations had been going on for several weeks officially, but today was the first day that Drogo had been able to sit down with the Moorish ambassador, and discuss things, man to man. He flashed a reassuring smile towards the Moor. “You would have France and England as an ally…”

“Perhaps… Allah willing,” the Moor said in broken but melodic Latin. “Though, I am afraid, Majesty, my brother still does not trust you…”

While Drogo was confident Ishaq did not know the full scale of his planned double-cross, the Moroccan ruler was wary. So Drogo had spent the past three months gradually persuading and cajoling the Moroccans to send a diplomat to speak to him face to face, and spent the last few weeks trying to persuade Rashid that he should inform his brother that a full-on assault on Romanion’s lands in Spain by the full might of Morocco would be in both their interests. Ishaq had, at his call, over a hundred thousand soldiers, more than enough of a force to overwhelm the Greek garrisons, and provide a formidable deterrent to any attempt by Basil to retake those lost lands. Spain would sap time, troops, and energy from the Greeks, while Drogo romped through Germany.

“Trust me? Listen, my friend, he is wise not to trust me. A ruler cannot trust a ruler these days,” Drogo smiled, before adding, “unless it regards something that is to that ruler’s advantage. Look at the map of the Mediterranean,” Drogo waved a hand airily. “I do not want the Greeks in Spain, just as your brother does not. He can trust me on that regard.”

Which was not a lie, in and of itself. Drogo and Ishaq both wanted the Greeks gone. Ishaq just didn’t realize Drogo’s plan would leave him to fight the Greeks mostly alone – leave him bloodied while Drogo moved on Italy and elsewhere, so that once the Moors won, they would be weak, bled white, and easy prey for the might of France…

Rashid smiled. “Perhaps, however…”

Before the Moor could continue, there was a gentle knock at the door. For a moment, Drogo’s eyes narrowed, before he realized that no servant, however, impudent, would have had the nerve to interrupt him while he was meeting with his guest. The only person who would do such a thing…

“Enter, Louis,” Drogo called.


Hippodrome…

Mehtar Lainez, too, smiled.

To the casual observer, the smile would be coming from a fairly well dressed boy. Mehtar was only three weeks shy of his thirteenth birthday, with long locks of dark hair. Thomas Komnenos, his best friend, often said that Mehtar looked like a poorly made eagle – his nose, like his father’s, was too long for his face, making his entire head seem aquiline. His eyes were sunken, so that even at this age he looked perennially tired, even when he wasn’t. Yet those same eyes also darted about with quick precision and intelligence – Mehtar, aside from David, was easily the most intelligent of the new “Lion’s Brood,” slowly arising in Konstantinopolis. When he was five, he could calculate the number of bricks in a large stack in his head. When he was seven, he could mimic the accents of merchants from Alexandria to Tarsus.

Which is why he took the personal interest of Empress Sophie, and more importantly, her agent, the Bulgarian Krum.

Carefully the son of the strategos slipped out of the Kathisma, disappearing into the stony bowels of the great track. He’d spent three weeks scouting the entirety of the Hippodrome for this – and at his prepositioned spot, he removed a loose stone and drew out a set of old, ratty clothes fit for a beggar or member of the commons. Quickly he changed.

Unlike many thirteen year olds, Mehtar understood what was being asked of him. Sophie’s personal lessons had groomed him, and Mehtar had joined the Hand at eleven, without his father’s knowledge. Konstantinopolis was a city full of the paranoid and wary – few of those cautious people would refuse to trust a child, however.

Exactly why Mehtar was selected for this very public, very important mission.

It’d been the young boy who’d suggested Amalric die at the Hippodrome – the very public nature of the spectacle would automatically simultaneously exonerate the Imperial government, and send a chilling warning to everyone. “The dirty Greeks,” the Latins would say, “kill in the dark, in the quiet. They wouldn’t dare show some crassness like this in public.” Yet even as they reassured themselves, the Latins would shiver in their boots, wondering if Amalric really was poisoned.

Quickly and precisely Mehtar made his way towards the dark recesses of the track closer to the box. From his position in the Kathisma, the young boy had carefully watched the ambassador’s box as he watched the tourneys – Amalric had a huge appetite for wine on hot days, and today was scorching. Mehtar moved swiftly past trainers, whores and moneychangers closer to his target.

The beverage masters.

Like any large arena, the Hippodrome had its share of merchants that were willing to bring drink to those with coin in the stands. Ippolit of Thessalonica was amongst the best – he had a special room for his business within the cold stones of the track, where he kept his wine cool and fresh. Amalric had used his services often… this would be Mehtar’s vehicle.

It wasn’t long before Mehtar caught one of Ippolit’s beverage masters, the man cursing a storm about the bloody Latin Franks getting drunk and disparaging him. Mehtar made his way closer, until he was finally mere feet from the visibly angry man. Mehtar caught a glance of what was in the cup – wine, steaming hot, coupled with what looked to be pieces of cinnamon and rosemary leaves. He marked the goblet. Amalric loved his spiced wine with such a concoction.

As the beverage master made his way out of the bowels of the Hippodrome, both hands holding the platter that held the drinks of the French delegation, Mehtar quietly followed. Few paid any attention to a lanky, shabbily dressed boy in the dark recesses of the Hippodrome – all assumed he was either a beggar or someone’s servant gone awry.

As a reassurance, Mehtar touched his belt on his left side, and felt the reassuring slight lump between his tunic and the leather. It was there, and it was now time to act.

Of all the friends of the young heirs, Mehtar had always been the most gifted with mimicry and the like. Thomas had always said Mehtar’s impressions of a Moor were dead on, as if the young lad had any idea what a Moor acted like. Mehtar put all of these skills to full use as the sunlight and roar of the crowd overwhelmed him as he stepped out into a teeming mass of humanity.

The beverage master was good at his work. As the crowds shifted and yelled for their champions, he artfully dodged and twisted from their inadvertent blows, all the while not spilling a drop from the goblets under his charge. Mehtar mimicked those moves, dodging twisting through the crowd, drawing ever closer. Finally, he was almost alongside the beverage master, when he intentionally leaned into the taller man.

The blow wasn’t harsh – Mehtar wanted to merely bump him, not upset the wine. The move allowed Mehtar to put on his finest act – throwing his arms out to catch his balance. As his right hand passed over the marked glass, Mehtar relaxed it, dropping a few pinches of the white substances he’d been palming into its mix before anyone in the crowd or even the beverage master could notice.

“Watch it, you lil’ git!” the man cursed sourly.

“Pardon, sir! Pardon!” Mehtar pulled away with false meekness. The deed was done.


Paris

Slowly, awkwardly, the door to Drogo’s private chambers opened, and as the King expected, his only son stood in the doorway, carrying a platter with a jug of wine and three goblets – as planned.

Prince Louis was tall and thin, the opposite of his rather short and squat father. He had an almost airy aura about him, and seemed to move everywhere, no matter what he was doing, with an unearthly, regal grace. However, the young prince’s eyes betrayed what was in his heart – things that, in Drogo’s eyes were not things belonging to a strong and willful king. Drogo wasn’t sure if the Prince’s constant look of fear had more to do with fear of him, or just fear in general. His voice was soft, hardly that of a commanding monarch, and his disposition entirely too amiable, even to people that would soon be his enemies.

The behavior made Drogo dislike, even loathe, his son. Louis would be the son that would foolishly attempt to kill his father, while doing a botched job. He would be the noble who tried to rule firmly but only made others flee his grasp. He would be a tom fool of a King…

Yet he was all Drogo had… for now.

“Rashid, I would like to introduce to you my son, the King of England,” Drogo motioned towards Louis, still standing awkwardly in the door.

Drogo watched Rashid’s eyes – they grew a little wider as they took in the sight of a royal monarch filling the role of a servant, and instantly, without Drogo having to speak a word, a whole host of messages were conveyed. England technically had a separate monarch from France, but at a stroke Rashid knew who exactly was running both kingdoms.

“It is a pleasure, Majesty,” Rashid bowed, recovering well.

“Thank you, Highness,” Louis stammered slightly, before looking uncertainly towards Drogo. “Father, where would you like these?”

“Here,” Drogo patted the third chair at the table. “Come, son,” Drogo motioned towards the young man, and quietly, reluctantly almost, Louis came towards the table, setting the wine down between them all. “Pour me a cup, Louis! It is a time to celebrate! Rashid?”

Drogo watched as Louis brought the jug of wine over, his hands shaking slightly. Drogo frowned – something wasn’t right with the picture, he couldn’t decide what. Slowly the Prince Royal poured three cups of wine, then finally sat opposite his father, and next to Rashid. The Moor looked at the cup and smiled – Islam might have prohibitions, but Rashid was a sinner, at least in the regard of alcohol.

Drogo reached for the his cup as well. The concern that was in his eyes as he looked at his son faded. Louis needed a lot of work, true, but the King thought he could still turn his only son into the powerful monarch the new empire would need. With a sigh, he took a long sip, a smile on his lips. Everything was going according to plan.

Louis was pliable, and negotiations were proceeding amiably with the Sultan’s brother. Things seemed to fall into place, as Drogo and Rashid moved on to movement timetables. France and England would not be ready to move in force anywhere until 1180… giving the Moroccans enough time to…

That feeling of bliss did not last long, however, for only a minute later, Rashid began to spit up blood…


Hippodrome…

It was done, quicker than any eye could catch the boy’s movements – just as his mentors had taught him. The blend Mehtar had been armed with had been potent - a mix of hemlock and wolfsbane from Lemnos. True, the young man could have slipped only a small dose of the poison into the cup, but why waste that, when half of a pinch would do?

Mehtar resumed his movement through the crowd, all noise drowned out by the roar of the populace as the Emperor downed yet another challenger. The beverage master ignored it, making his way towards the small private box owned by the French delegation. After following for a few minutes, at an opportune moment, Mehtar broke off, slipping back into the crowd, then the Hippodrome itself.

As the roar of the crowd and the glare of the sun were swallowed up by the marble bulk of the Hippodrome, Mehtar smiled. It had been far easier than anyone had told him, and what he’d expected. Above the disappearing crowd, the young boy heard a scream, loud and long, a noise of absolute horror.

Mehtar smiled. This was more fun than he’d ever thought it would be.


Paris…

Drogo looked at the reeling ambassador as Rashid gurgled, before tumbling to the floor as a harsh bitter taste filled his mouth. Instantly, he went through his own mental checklist – his pulse was racing, but that was just as attributable to seeing a man poisoned before him as to poison itself. He didn’t feel hot, didn’t feel clammy, cold, nervous, sweaty, or any of the other onsets of poisoning.

Drogo had spent a lifetime taking tiny doses of every poison he could find. When he was young, the small doses made him often sickly, but as time had gone on, his body had begun to tolerate steadily larger and larger amounts. Now that Drogo was in the bloom of mid-life, he knew for a fact lethal doses of many poisons wouldn’t affect him, and only gargantuan doses of another would have an effect.

After that moment’s assessment that he was fine, his eyes flashed towards Louis.

The Prince was visibly quaking, eyes wide at his father. Drogo had become very good at reading emotions – this was fear. Absolute, unyielding fear. It was not directed at the poison… Louis’ eyes would have been focused on the convulsing Moroccan. Instead, they were focused on his own father.

“You…” Drogo snarled, slowly rising from his chair. Louis fell out of his own, so desperately he tried to clamber to his feet.

“You tried to poison me!?” Drogo grabbed his son by the scruff of his tunic, before throwing him back down. “You… you cowardly little shit!” Rage flashing through his veins, Drogo drew back, and slapped his shaking son as hard as he could. There was a slight crack, and blood ran out of the Prince’s nose as he screamed and laid shivering on the floor.


“You were a fool if you thought a little hemlock would work!” Drogo spat, glaring down at the battered boy. All this work, all this effort, to hand a monumental kingdom, no, an empire to his progeny, and God had seen fit to curse Drogo with Louis. Sniveling, weak, stupid Louis! “I have read the Mithradatium too! I’ve built up an immunity to those poisons!”

Drogo watched as his son’s eyes widened in surprise. The King of the French smiled – that dangerous, dark smile someone gave when they were absolutely enraged. “You greedy little shit!” Drogo unceremoniously spat on his son’s sprawled form. The nature of the bitter taste came to his mind – hellbane, from the southern reaches of the lands of the Rus. Which meant only one thing.

In some way, shape or form, the Greeks were involved.

“You didn’t have the balls to try to kill me with your own hand, so you use the Greeks and their poison! You filthy little cur!” Drogo delivered a vicious kick to his son’s side. The Prince curled up into a ball, whimpering as his father’s fury poured all over him. “What did they offer you, you simple-minded fool!? A whore? A trinket? A worthless title?”

“Basilieus…” Drogo thought he heard Louis whimper between tears. That made Drogo’s fury build even more – so Louis had been bribed to throw away imperial power for an imperial title! The Pope, even Heinrich wouldn’t mind if weak Louis took over with Basilieus for the lion Drogo – Louis wouldn’t be able to keep any of those lands in check, and would lose one or both of his kingly titles quickly!

The fool!

“Get out of my sight, you little shit, before I gather my wits and run you through!” Drogo barked. Louis’s eyes peeked up behind the cowering shelter of his own arm.

“Go now, you damn fool!” Drogo shouted, his mind made up. Louis would flee to his own apartments, and likely waste an hour packing to flee. As he watched his son scramble to his feet and run out of the room, Drogo made up his mind – Louis would be tossed into the dungeons of the palace, and as far as Drogo was concerned, left to rot. Such was the waste his loins had given him. With a sigh, the French King looked at the corpse of the Moroccan ambassador. It was a pity – for being an infidel Moor Rashid had been articulate, charming, and very tolerant of Drogo’s court and predilections. The King would miss him – but even in death, Rashid would have a use.

Drogo reached over and impatiently pulled the long drawstring that led to a bell hanging in the servants quarters, more parts of a new plan unfolding in his mind. A messenger would ride hard for Catalonia, the northernmost of the Moorish holdings. The King of France would regret to inform the Sultan that his brother was dead, killed by poison from the Greeks. The letter would then say that Drogo agreed in full to an alliance to punish the Greeks and their Emperor for his treachery. Louis’ little plot had inadvertently provided Drogo with the casus belli he needed to prod Ishaq to war.

But there was still the matter of disappointment. If Louis had drawn a knife on him, and stabbed him, Drogo would have had infinitely more respect for his one and only son. That would have meant that Louis was devious, cunning, and bold – traits worthy of a successor. Yet relying on the Greeks? That spoke of weakness... a man like that was too weak to succeed to such a powerful throne. The English barons, so long as Drogo lived, knew who they truly served, and they served Drogo with dread. As soon as soft, weak Louis took over, they would buck from under his unsteady reins.

The King of the French sat down and sighed, the rage and anger slowly ebbing from his body. His loins had failed him once with Louis... it was time to try again, with a new, younger wife. He looked back at the dead ambassador, sighed again as he took the man’s unfinished goblet, dumping it on the floor. Slowly, the King of the Franks stood, then briskly walked towards the door, cup in hand. Why not expand the plot? The Christian nobility would not care much if a Muslim ambassador had been murdered – but a chaste, Christian queen, the Queen of France?

That would certainly rile them up for war. The Greeks had struck first, and struck in a way Drogo had not expected. It would be up to the King of the Franks to strike back. Timetables were already running through the King’s head, when he finally arrived at a date.

Basil would rue the year 1178…

I've got the next update done. Tomorrow, I swear, I will put up a list of long long long overdue replies... for right now, I'm beat. Enjoy...


Konstantinopolis, May 5th, 1178

“Something just happened,” Mehtar said quietly.

Thomas Komnenos looked up from his sword practice and grimaced. That was the line his friend Mehtar Lainez used whenever major trouble was brewing.

And major trouble had been brewing for Romanion for over two years, since the fateful day the Romanoi struck back, striking down the core of the Frankish intelligence operatives in Konstantinopolis and around the Empire, as well as making a strike against Drogo himself. The last attack had been only halfhearted, but to the Romanoi’s delight, Drogo’s own son willingly participated – if nothing else, an irreparable rift had been created between the King of the Franks and his eldest son.

Not that such things had stopped Drogo. The French Queen died only hours later under mysterious circumstances, and Drogo had promptly laid the charges at the feet of the Greeks, forcing most of Latin Christianity to at least condemn Romanoi treachery, even if they all feared Drogo as well. Drogo had even officially retaliated by sowing trouble within the new exarchate of Lusitania, created only a year before. Already the Latin Spanish nobility were bucking from under Greek rule – and it was beyond a doubt that the coin funding the purse of these rebels came directly from Paris.


Yet none of these more salient points of foreign policy were in twelve year old Thomas’ head. He was more concerned that something was going on and he wasn’t clued in as the others were. Dark locks hung over his face, and his pale eyes looked at his father, standing at the other end of the practice gardens. Normally the Emperor would be personally teaching Thomas, David and Mehtar swordmanship (having given up on the frivolous Manuel), but something had his attention from the start of the session, and he’d told the boys to practice themselves for a bit.

“Father looks worried,” Thomas added, looking over Mehtar’s shoulder.

“Father always looks worried, he’s the Emperor,” Thomas’ older brother David grumbled. The Prince had grown tall and filled out like his father, long locks of dark hair cascading over his shoulders, making him the catch of the decade in the court at Konstantinopolis. Even Simonis Droulenos, the girl that had given Thomas a flower on his eleventh birthday, now only wanted to ask him about David. It didn’t help that the young man, just shy of his fifteenth birthday, was almost as good a swordsman as their venerable father.

David had changed, in Thomas’ eyes. The big brother he idolized was now garnering all the attention of the whole court, all the eyes of the world, it seemed, while Thomas slipped into the shadows with Manuel, Gabriel, and the other children. Thomas wanted his share of the light…


“That means something bad has happened?” Thomas ignored his brother’s quip. “Like two years ago when father stopped speaking to mother?”

Something important had happened the day of the jousts in the Hippodrome – to this day Thomas wasn’t sure what. It had something to do with a Latin dying, and Basil being upset at Sophie. It wasn’t until Mehtar explained the French ambassador had beena assassinated and the King of the French angered that Thomas understood the full ramifications of what had happened.

“No, it means being Emperor has happened,” David said gruffly, finishing his series of ripostes. “Seriously, Thomas, I wonder if you are awake during your tutelage. Grave things come before father’s eyes all the time. Everything you’ve been told seems to enter one ear and fly out the other. Do you have fly ointment inside your skull?”

“Leave him alone, David,” Mehtar rose to Thomas’ defense. The younger prince smiled – Mehtar was good for that. Loyal, dependable, there was a reason the two had remained tight knit friends.

“Mehtar, I only speak the truth,” David matter of factly shot down Mehtar’s defense. “Thomas is a dolt.”

“David, you think you’re so smart!” Thomas snapped, the smile from Mehtar’s defense long gone. “Well, let’s go to father, and see what he says!” Thomas knew his father would say he had his uses, and that he didn’t have fly ointment for brains.

“Let me tell you something. Father just coddles you,” David said matter of factly, continuing his swinging practice, “he wouldn’t tell you the truth that you’re a scrawny little bully trying to make up for being small and dull. He’s your father, he can’t do that.” A smile, sharp and angry. “The truth is none of us can stand your squalling.”

Thomas felt his firsts clench up. Those were the same words Manuel had said three days earlier, and his lip was still fat and bloody. As much as he wanted to sock David in the nose, Thomas also recoiled – Manuel was short and as thin as a reed. The only sharp thing on him was his tongue. David was tall, muscular, and probably would swing back instead of crying like Manuel, and as much as Thomas wanted to hit his older brother, he was afraid of being hit back.

“Relax those fists, you don’t want to swing,” David turned away. Thomas thought he saw a slight smirk on his brother’s lips. “Show you have some sense.”

Thomas felt his hands unclench, and the sting of tears behind his eyes. But he wouldn’t cry. Not now, not in front of him. Instead, the prince arrogantly turned and marched up the practice field towards where his father sat, looking at papers. He heard huffs, a muffled curse, and footfalls behind him. So David thought he was going to tattle. Thomas knew he was better than that… this time. He wouldn’t say a word.

As Thomas approached, he saw his father look up, squint, then smile.

“How many times did you practice the Varangian defense, Thomas?” the Emperor asked. It wasn’t often anymore that Basil could directly teach the children, so for Thomas it was a treat to learn directly from his father today.

Which is why his face went bright red again with rage when David coolly said he had only gone through the maneuver thrice.

Thomas wanted to learn the Varangian defense, but the moves were hard and tiring. He couldn’t keep his arms steady to complete it time and time again like David could. But he didn’t want to disappoint his father – never disappoint his father. And now, because David opened his mouth, Thomas watched as Basil’s lips thinned as the Emperor shook his head.

“You have to practice it hard – seven run throughs back to back to build up your strength,” Basil said gently. To Thomas, that gentle recrimination was sharper and more brutal than a martial bellow on the field.


“Yes father,” was all Thomas could say, looking down. After a moment, he looked sideways, and glared at David.

“What is so important that you’ve postponed our sparring?” David leaned in close over his father’s shoulder. “I know how much you like teaching us, father. It must be something important.”

Thomas crowded in as well – something was going on, and he wanted to know what. No one told him anything – well, if they wouldn’t tell him, he’d find out on his own. “Why are you reading Drogo’s letter again?” he asked, pointing over his father’s shoulders to the crumpled letter that’d arrived five weeks earlier. “The words haven’t changed.”

“I’m not reading it,” Basil said patiently, and Thomas watched his father’s squint, as if he was seeing something past the words. The words to Thomas were blatantly obvious – Drogo had once again laid full blame for the death of his wife at the foot of the Basilieus, calling him a servant of Satan. Thomas’ mother and father still had arguments over the joust and this letter… Sophie saying she had to do it for Basil’s safety and the crown, Basil saying it was dishonorable. Thomas wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was, save the killing of the Amalric fellow was only a part of ‘it.’

“Drogo’s going to move in both places,” Thomas heard his father say softly.

“How do you know?” It was Mehtar’s turn to crowd close, as all three boys looked quizzically at the Emperor and the letter that had held him in rapt attention. “He’s busily calling you a usurper and such, where does it say he’ll hit us in Italy and Spain?”

“He doesn’t. That letter’s a rant,” David said dismissively. “Probably was dictated by that ignorant Latin.”

Basil smiled distantly. “Hit us? You sound like you’re a part of the Imperial government already, Mehtar.” The Emperor looked back down at the sheet of paper, and grimaced. “I’ll show you. I’m not reading the letter, I’m looking for clues in it. Drogo is writing in Latin script – its harder to see patterns than Arabic, as its more formulaic.”

“Formulaic?” Thomas’ brow creased. He didn’t know that word.

“More rigid, structured, less artistic,” Mehtar offered, and the Emperor nodded.

“However, I’ve noticed a few things. First, look here – look at how he spaces his words.”

“They’re clumped,” David muttered. “That scribe’s writing is the worst I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s not a scribe,” Mehtar mused. “Scribes, even Latin and Turkish ones, are trained for legibility, and employed for legibility. This is legible, but barely – I’ll wager a hundred solidii Drogo wrote it himself.”

“Since when do you have a hundred solidii to wager?” David raised his eyebrow.

“Well, then not a hundred, but ten definitely!” Mehtar didn’t back down. “Drogo was likely educated at a church school - most of the Latin nobility are, at some level. If this is his handwriting, it’s bad, but that’s not a proper judge of his intellect.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t they still try to teach people to write legibly?” David retorted, before turning to his father. “So he writes poorly?”

“Not poorly, just his words are close together,” the Emperor corrected. “Look at each word individually – the Latin letters are well made, so its not bad penmanship. He probably writes like that because he has so many ideas in his head they’re fairly pouring out,” Basil mused. “He tries to squeeze as many as possible onto the page. And look here,” Basil pointed towards the rudimentary illuminations on the sides, “They’re also cramped together. Now, your mother’s spy network tells me one thing Drogo has as a hobby are illuminations…”

“So he’s creative as well?” Mehtar asked.

“Exactly,” Basil sighed, setting the letter down. “He’s obviously a cunning man, which means he’s a careful planner. He’s brimming over with ideas, and he’s creative. The loss of his ambassador has probably scared him a bit… but he’s not going to be stopped by that – as evidenced by this ruckus over the death of his late wife.”

“He’s like Emperor Manuel then – cunning and dogged,” Mehtar said.

Basil’s eyes narrowed a moment. “Yes, it would appear so. It just tells me that he seems to be one that grabs multiple goals if he feels they’re within his grasp. And with Lusitania in chaos…”

“You think he thinks that the Roman forces in Spain are occupied, and you are distracted…” David said slowly, “he’s cunning, resourceful and creative enough to find a way to strike us, or appear to strike us, in both Italy and Spain?”

Thomas looked at his brother and his friend with a blank look. He didn’t follow their logic at all – it leapt from Point A to Point J with no interlocking locations in between. “So…” he muttered, trying to sound as smart as everyone else gathered around, “if he goes for Italy and Spain, where will he strike with the bulk of his forces?” Thomas smiled proudly – by the looks of thought on everyone’s faces, he’d artfully moved the conversation forward without betraying his confusion.

Basil looked down for a moment, then at the three boys. “Well, what do you three think? David?”


“Spain would be the obvious primary target – Italy could simply be a holding action,” the eldest Komnenid heir said martially. “It’d make sense – striking towards Spain means he’d strike towards our weakness with his strength, gobbling up the peninsula while we slog across the Po and other river valleys. He could grab Italy north of the Po with ease before we could respond, even with only a holding force, and use the river as a wall.” David looked down, like he always did when pondering a problem. “If he has, for the sake of argument, 100,000 men, if I were him I’d send 60,000 to quickly secure Christian Spain, and 40,000 to hold the Empire in Italy.”

“Italy is the target!” Mehtar interrupted. “Its lands are far richer, and by moving there, he puts pressure on Boniface to either support him or collapse. Besides, it wouldn’t take much of a force to shove us aside here – Kosaca has what, 25,000 in total for the peninsula? He could steamroll us with the opposite of your statistics, David, and…”

“Good points,” Basil said thoughtfully, before turning to his third son. “And you, Thomas?”

“I…um…” Thomas stammered. “Why not both?” he said softly. At his father’s raised eyebrow, Thomas sputtered onward. “Why not legitimately try to take both, no ruses or diversions in either one? Be greedy?” The prince’s voice rose questioningly at the end of the sentence, as he shrunk slightly. He desperately wanted to be right.

Basil looked at his son with a confused look, and for a moment, Thomas thought he’d once again uttered something foolish. Yet after that moment’s terror, Basil’s face lit up in a smile, and Thomas breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s what I was thinking as well – Mehtar, you’re right, Spain is not numerically well defended, so I think Drogo thinks he can swipe both at once – and I think I know how he will do it. ”

“The Moors?” Mehtar looked up slowly. Basil nodded in reply.

“Yes – think on it. The Moors have inferior arms, but many, many men. If they strike us now, with what we have in Spain, we’d almost have to give ground – we can’t defend Spain and Italy at the same time, without calling up the eastern themes…”


“God forbid the dynatoi get disturbed from their slumber,” David muttered. Thomas nodded emptily – he’d heard his father and brother disparaging the powers that their grandfather had given the nobility of the Empire. Thomas, for the life of him, couldn’t understand why Manuel had given the dynatoi free reign over their thematakoi and the right to some of the taxes raised in their provinces – if he had his way, the young Komnenos would do what he assumed his father really wanted to do – take the army and knock some sense into their thick skulls.

“So, father, you’d head to Italy then?” David said promptly.

Basil looked down, and started to chew on his lip. “David, it’s time you got a taste of command – I’m going to send you with Kosaca to Italy. You’re to be his aide-de-camp, and learn everything you can from him while he commands in the field. You’re level-headed, so I can trust you won’t gallivant about using your purple cloak contrary to him?”

“Of course, father,” David said quickly, eyes alight. None of the Komnenid princes had seen anything beyond official positions within the pages, yet David was unofficially acknowledged by most of the military staff that met him as being ‘uniquely gifted.’ “Why won’t you take command of Italy though? It is closer to Romanion and more strategic…”

“If I am in Spain, we can stand a chance against the Moroccans,” Basil said simply. Kosaca had done a wonderful job from Niebla onwards securing Spain, but the newly minted Megos Domestikos had not faced a threat of this size. Among the Imperial commanders, only the Emperor had successfully challenged odds that great and come out victorious.

David nodded. “What forces would be deployed to Italy?”

“The Athanatakoi, Herculare and Toxotai tagmata of the Imperial Guard, plus thematakoi from Bosnia, Istria, Croatia and African Sicily,” Basil mused. “Altogether, everything we can throw there in six months time…”

As Basil rattled off the dispositions of the Imperial troops off the top of his head, Thomas was neither impressed, nor even concerned. The young 12 year old’s mind kept returning to one salient, damning point. David was getting his own command, in Thomas’ eyes. He knew what was going to happen. David bullied everyone into doing as he said – so while Kosaca would command on paper, David would really be giving the orders. Thomas knew he was a prince of the blood. True, he was young, but so was David! Father and the Megos had proven themselves worthy Roman men and emperors through war, through the honor of the battlefield. And David was going to get to go, but not Thomas?!

“I can go too!” Thomas stepped up. All eyes suddenly turned on him, and the prince’s face went bright red.

“Thomas, I’m sure you have the bravery to go, but you just turned 12,” Basil said with a smile. Thomas frowned – that voice was his father’s pooh-poohing voice. “You just joined the pages…”

“I can fight!” Thomas shouted. He could feel the hot, stinging tears starting to come up, right behind his eyes, dagger points stabbing into the back of his eyeballs. He couldn’t cry, he wouldn’t cry, not in front of his father, not again!

Before he could say anything else, he felt a big, fat tear course down his cheek, and cursed. A torrent followed.

“I’m sure you can – and there will be plenty of time for you to prove that,” Basil knelt next to him. Thomas wanted to play big, wanted to recoil, to show he was big and tough, just like David, but he felt himself falling into his father’s arms, sobbing. As Basil hugged his son, Thomas looked up. Through blurried eyes, over his father’s shoulder, Thomas shot daggers at his eldest brother.