Well, its that time of year again! The ACAs are here! So go out, and make sure to not just vote, but take this chance to go and read AARs you’ve never seen before. Try some new up and coming ones, or veterans you haven’t had a chance to look at yet. Trust me, getting votes in the ACAs can really boost a new author’s confidence, and is a great way to tell a veteran how good of a job they’re doing.
Also, as a reminder (because sometimes I forget this too) remember there are
many categories you can vote in. So, if you aren’t sure which AAR you want for one category, you might be able to vote for them in another, and thus show your support to
both at the same time. If you are looking for some advice or help, you can
read the first post in the AAR Choice Awards thread for the rules, or
comagoosie’s article in the AARlander for some analysis. But don’t take anyone’s word for what’s good or not – go out and find out for yourself!
Thank you all once again for all your support and help… and now I’ll get off my soapbox and let you all get to what you really want to see. The next update!
June 8th, 1181
Mehtar Lainez wearily collapsed into his camp-stool and sighed. Today had been yet another long day at camp – more letters had streamed in from Leo Komnenos to his commanders, letters that Mehtar had to intercept and read, and yet another Frankish commander had proven himself too brilliant for his own good, and would soon be greeted by Mehtar’s assassins.
It’d be a quick, meteoric rise for the son of
Strategos Lainez. Even as early as 1179, the boy’s talent at languages and natural intelligence made it obvious that he should work with the then forming
Italikon Stratos marshalling in Naples. The Empress had personally advised the new
Megos Domestikos, Clemente Kosaca, that Mehtar would be most useful in army security – a role the
Italikon Stratos sorely needed. Of its 50,000 troops, at least 10,000 were
thematakoi cajoled from the Emperor’s brother Leo, a man whose loyalty to the Empire was dubious at best.
So far, the still young son of Gregor Lainez had uncovered no less than seventeen different plots within the army over the last eight months, and many more since his arrival in Italy almost two years before. Most were minor things – a jealous junior officer plotting the demise of a superior, a plan by a group of soldiers to raid a Latin chapel in Brescia and steal the communion wine for their own benefit – small things. Yet he’d also intercepted numerous messages between Leo Komnenos and the commanders of his
thematakoi, to discover that Basil’s brother did not have as much control of his troops as once thought - to the point that one of his own
chillarchoi called Leo an “incompetent git,” in a letter addressed to his master in Naples.
Yet the workload was not the only reason that Mehtar sighed. He looked down at the small desk in his tent, and pushed a secret button. A side drawer popped out, filled with papers, blank and fully covered by writing. He reached down and took an unfinished letter, bringing it to the top amongst the piles of official correspondence.
Mehtar Lainez, son of Strategos Gregor Lainez
“My dearest Thomas,
It has been so long since you’ve written…”
The letter would never get sent, but that didn’t matter to Mehtar. It was a place where he could say everything he couldn’t say in front of Thomas. It was dangerous, yes – Emperor Nikolaios had said that a man shouldn’t put his personal interests above that of the state, yet Mehtar knew he shared far more in common with his idol than an interest in state security. The histories he had read even had a name for it – “Nikolaios’ affliction.”
In Mehtar’s case, the “affliction” concerned his best friend, the one person in the world of intrigue he would willingly die for - Thomas. Mehtar couldn’t place a time where his playmate had changed to something else in his mind - It was about the same time when David and the others realized girls were no longer whiny, spoiled crybabies that should be avoided - it was just one of those things, he
knew. And, it seemed, he couldn’t find any salvation from it by faith – he’d even tried the rites of the Muslims, to no avail – so he’d grown to accept it. Intellectually, he’d know nothing would come of it, yet in his heart of hearts, he hoped…
It was thus how Mehtar had become Thomas’ famous defender in court. Others called Thomas a brute, a bully, but Mehtar would hear none of it. He acknowledged his friend might not have been the sharpest sword in the armory, that he was inclined to rage about and displayed a woeful lack of tact and a brutish love for battle, but none of these traits ever were arrayed against Mehtar. To his friend, Thomas seemed a troubled but ultimately good soul – a boy misunderstood by the world, who lashed out in response. Mehtar had become infamous for defending Thomas no matter what – and it was a reputation the young son of Lainez did not mind.
For his part, the third son of Basil Komnenos had never acknowledged Mehtar’s affection, though Mehtar had no doubt he knew, on some level it existed. Mehtar had never acted on it, not once – he knew that right now, dynastic issues were at stake for his friend. Thomas would need to marry, and sire children. Yet somewhere, somehow, he hoped, no, knew, that his friend would act on the bond he felt so strongly between them. Thomas would never read all the letters Mehtar had written these past eight months – Lainez had already decided when and how he’d dispose of the evidence – but the writing made him feel better about the whole situation.
He went on, forgiving Thomas’ lack of attention due to the rigors of the campaign, as well as his lack of attention during his visit (for the Emperor’s had often dallied with the daughter of the
Megos Domestikos, no doubt, in Mehtar’s mind, a political move). He wrote onwards, describing the latest minor chicanery that he’d spoiled here, as well as the latest on the Italian campaign – a short sentence saying little had happened. Which, since the heady days of the initial attack, was the same thing he’d said for almost a year.
In 1179 Drogo Capet the Second’s immense war machine had finally moved. The Moors had beset Roman Spain from the north and by sea from the south, while the French King and his great lords moved over 100,000 men in four armies into northern Italy. However, Drogo had not been counting on facing not just Clemente Kosaca, but David Komnenos who had come into his own as well.
The eldest son of the Emperor had been on the forefront of the teams that negotiated the passage of the Imperial army northward through the peninsula, and even had recruited a few of the city-states, such as Ferrara, to contribute men of their own. By the time Drogo’s hordes had crossed the Alps, the
Italikon Stratos, as the conglomeration was grandly called, had blocked all the crossings of the rain swollen Po.
On August 9th, 1179, Drogo had attempted to turn the Roman defenses near Brescia, north of Genoa, and his detachment of 20,000 had ran into 8,000 Romans under the command of an ‘inexperienced’ 16 year old David. The son of the Emperor had spent weeks devising an intricate set of defenses, with scorpions and even catapults fronted by sharpened stakes and pits. Drogo attempted to force the position on the 9th and 11th of August, taking huge losses before finally quitting his attempt.
David had been lauded as a hero by the Romanoi after this, a fact that Mehtar knew no doubt chafed Thomas – a fact which made it almost certain that Thomas was livid at David being named
Kaisar soon after. In public, David was the brilliant, handsome son of a lauded, respected Emperor, yet Mehtar had also seen the more private side of the Prince on many an occasion. Proud, vindictive, even devious. David Komnenos was not a man to be crossed, as Mehtar could testify from the fates ordered for many of the plotters he’d caught.
“Mehtar?”
Lainez fairly jumped out of his skin, and on instinct, slid his false letter into the pile on the desk. Opening the secret compartment with someone in the room was out of the question.
And there he stood.
Battle, it seemed, has a way of changing men. Since Brescia, the eldest son of the Emperor had fought in no less than seven engagements, all victories, all with odds, by the numbers at least, against him. As Kosaca held the crossings of the Po, the Prince and his wing of the army artfully danced where the river did not block, deviously bruising Drogo’s armies and ego. David was no longer the handsome, brilliant but untested prince of three years before. He was a warrior, and looked every inch of his father’s shadow.
At Brescia the Franks attempted to get around the raging Po River by moving against defenses prepared to David Komnenos. Romanoi scorpions and archers cut up the Frankish attacks before they could go far. The “Italian War” has since devolved into a long waiting game, punctuated by sharp skirmishes.
“Ah, so you are still awake,” the
Kaisar said with a smile that chilled the room. Mehtar knew his place on David’s list – a friend of Thomas was
not a friend of David…
“Yes, Highness,” Mehtar said, hiding the unease in his voice as he abruptly rose to stand at attention. “I was just doing a review of paperwork before ending my day.”
“Excellent,” David started to walk over, that smile making the room colder and colder. “You always were among the best of my staff. Which,” the smile faded, replaced by a blank face Mehtar could not read, save he knew it hid something, “is why I’ve come here tonight. You see, Mehtar,” David motioned for him to sit back down, “I have a problem.”
“A problem, Highness?” Mehtar relaxed slightly. ‘Problems’ were easier to solve than social visits and Mehtar could always stop listening, claiming he was working on the prince’s problem…
“Yes – well, more of a person. You might be aware of him. His name is Thomas Komnenos.”
Mehtar felt ice run up his spine. Whenever the commander of the
Italikon Stratos had a problem and came to Mehtar, it was usually for one purpose, and one purpose only. Surely David wasn’t foolish! Surely he knew that…
“I know you care for my brother as a friend,” David said, the words coming out of his mouth in twisted irony.
Mehtar blinked, thankful he’d hidden the false letter – so that’s the angle the prince would attack from. True, rumors went around Konstantinopolis like wildfire about Mehtar – that he cast long glances at young men, not women, that he doted on Prince Thomas far too much. But rumors were worth as much as a brass coin in a city
filled with rumors – at least, until some piece of hard evidence backed them up. Mehtar steadied himself – he wouldn’t let David know such hard evidence was only inches away from his grasp, should he look.
“I, too, care about my brother,” the Prince continued, his long shadow turning much of the tent dark. “I would hate to see Thomas fall into the hands of the Moors,” David continued darkly. “After all, should his
chillarchos order his men to not help their prince the next time he’s ambushed…”
And there is the other angle of attack, Mehtar realized. All the requests to check out minor groups of soldiers engaged in pillaging and the other detritus of war – it was to keep Mehtar busy while David planted his own agents. Couple that with Thomas’ rash nature and tendency to jump into danger…
Mehtar looked up, and knew that David saw the machinations turning in his mind. A devious, deadly smile. “I hear the Moors have already said they will cut to pieces any son of a Komnenos they find – and then hang the pieces of the body.”
Mehtar shuddered. It sounded out of someone’s worst nightmare, but the Moroccan Sultan had publicly promised to do just that until all the Romans were driven from the peninsula. While Mehtar guessed that the statement’s inclusion was bravado intended to motivate his followers, he had no doubt that many an enterprising noble would love to execute those orders to the letter, if only to prove their loyalty and prowess. After all, capturing a Komnenos was not an easy thing these days…
“So you have me, then,” Mehtar said slowly, in a measured voice.
“I’ve fairly ensnared you,” David nodded.
“What…” Mehtar said quietly, “what do I have to do?”
“You’ve got a sharp mind, Mehtar,” David said, grabbing another camp stool and tossing on the side of the desk opposite Mehtar. “Building a web around your own spidery ones was – a challenge. I face few of those, and it was certainly enjoyable.”
Mehtar said nothing. David was trying to elicit the natural human response to talk when nervous. Men gave away secrets then. David had outmaneuver Mehtar, but the young man wasn’t about to compound his mistake.
“Ah, you want to see what concerns you. Well, there is an alternative to this dark road. I need your help in planning the spectacular.” A broad smile. “It will help save Thomas, as well as the Empire.”
“Planning what exactly?” Mehtar swallowed hard.
“I feel you are too intelligent to be lied to, so I shall be precise, and blunt. Father is hard pressed in Spain – one hundred thousand Moors coming from north and south, and he with only a quarter that dancing in between. He can hold them in a stalemate, for a long time, I am sure, but I don’t want to see that. I want to relieve him.”
“You also want to undercut Thomas,” Mehtar said quietly. Mehtar only had rumors and whispers of what was going on in Spain outside of the official reports, and despite Thomas’ lack of strategic brilliance, it was clear he had huge amounts of personal bravery. Hence the reason Mehtar was worried David’s threat to let Thomas charge to his own doom could come true…
David smiled again, that same, blinding smile.
“Very astute of you. Yes – you know, and I know, that I am Father’s heir. I have been
Kaisar for two years, since the original repulse of Drogo at Brescia, yet I have no doubt that my brother is constantly pouring his thoughts of me into Father’s ear. Poisonous thoughts, no doubt.” David raised a hand before Mehtar could open his mouth. “Don’t try to cover for his words, Mehtar. Your lovestruck ears hear things far differently than the rest of us.”
“He mere…”
David’s eyes grew hard, and Mehtar went silent. He’d broken his own rule, and quietly he chastened himself for it.
“He claims that my victories here are worthless! He openly flaunts the fact he has single-handedly killed three score Moors as proof he has prowess, and most damning, I know that he has had
you contact
dynatoi from Nikolaios Agyros to the
Megos Domestikos himself in an effort to round up support!” the prince snapped.
As his words ricocheted off the canvas of the tent, Mehtar closed his eyes. So David knew of that as well. Those letters had been well covered, well hidden – David’s network had extended far further than Mehtar could have imagined.
“Fratricidal politics – isn’t that what we should avoid, Mehtar?”
“Says the man who has agents ready to lead his own brother to his doom,” Mehtar said under his breath.
“True, but what I want isn’t Thomas’ blood. I want stability, Mehtar. And what better way to serve the Empire, and show to all I am the best heir, than to save Spain?” David absently picked up one of Mehtar’s letters. “Ah, a letter from Naples. What says the Prince to one of his hirelings?”
“I…” Mehtar started to refuse to divulge such information, until it clicked in his brain that as one of the two commanders of the
Italikon Stratos, David Komnenos had likely held every one of Mehtar’s reports in his hand.
“You don’t trust me?” the son of the Emperor smiled. “Well, I imagine my good uncle Leo is trying his best to stir mischief, sending threatening information that he’ll recall his
thematakoi if a grander title isn’t added to his already pompous list.”
Mehtar swallowed. The Prince of Naples now wanted to be known also as a Senator of Rome, despite the fact that city was completely outside the Empire’s jurisdiction, and Basil had no authority to confer such a title.
“You deal with the scavengers who would eat Romanion raw every day,” David said smoothly. “I am not among them, I tell you that on my word as a Christian, and as a Prince of the Empire.”
“Yet you foment discontent, and even plot to kill your own brother?” Mehtar asked before thinking. He chided himself – anger had gotten the best of him. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
“Thomas…” David said airily, letting the name hang for a moment. “Well, let me tell you
what my goal is, and you may judge, for yourself, if it is harmful to
your Thomas.”
The accent bit hard into Mehtar’s mind, and he closed his eyes tightly for a second. Nikolaios Komnenos had always recommended that one not let personal relationships interfere with the business of the Empire – yet hadn’t even that sage Emperor fallen for Ioannis Thrakesios?
“What I desire most is a smooth succession,” David said simply. “Grandfather stepped aside after Father had proven himself – and I have no doubt who Father prefers to succeed to the throne - now. Who knows what will happen if Thomas keeps loudly speaking his poisons,” David continued. “I have won seven field engagements, Thomas has personally led none. True, he fought with father at Cordoba and led the charge at Seville, but did he
command?”
Thomas Komnenos was not nearly a match for his elder brother in strategic ability, but his reputation for personal bravery was unrivaled. Here he is depicted in a mosaic slaying the son of the Moroccan Sultan. Thomas personally charged the young Bey and his thirty bodyguards alone, slaying the Moor with his lance before dispatching five bodyguards with his sword. Amongst the Moors, he already has a name – Shaitan, or “the Devil.”
Mehtar kept quiet. He was not going to argue that point of semantics. It’d be petty, and show David he was off balance. He
wasn’t off balance under this attack… was he?
“Romanion needs a good
commander, not just a good soldier. And a smooth succession,” David said, setting the letter down before walking around the desk towards Mehtar. The son of Lainez breathed a sigh of relief – David had not come close to the false letter.
“You know this,” David continued, “you work against cads, cowards and backstabbers daily! I love Thomas as a brother, but I fear in his anger against me he’ll upset the delicate balances of power that keep the Empire together…”
Mehtar felt a sharp comment rising in his throat, but he bid his tongue stay its words.
“Imagine what the Leo Komnenos’ of the world would do if the succession were in doubt – if I was forced to confront Thomas in the field,” David continued, before wryly adding, “and imagine what would happen to Thomas. Do you really think he could best me, and my battle trained
tagmata with his… what?”
Mehtar mentally filled in the number. 500 cavalrymen.
“ He would charge valiantly, and be butchered valiantly. It would be a needless bloodbath, and if I thought that was the only route, I will gladly pay off his regiment to defect on the field to save myself the trouble. Yet, there is another way. If you will help me devise a way to detach half of the
Italikon Stratos from the Po line and get it to Spain without Drogo being the wiser, not only will I be forever in your debt, I will take you with me. Tell me, Mehtar,” David drew closer, that dark smile rising, “how long has it been since you’ve seen my brother?”
Mehtar swallowed hard.
“Eight months, seven days,” Mehtar said quietly. He was had, and he knew it.
“Time is falling away, like the sands of the hourglass,” David said. “If you help me, we’ll save Roman Spain, secure the succession and make sure that Romanion will have a peaceful and prosperous future. If not…” David’s smile faded away in a moment, “I can only imagine what the Moors will do to him, if I don’t get to him first.”
And so the battle amongst siblings begins, even as war rages in the Western Mediterranean…
