Chapter 9
Count Tesfaye of Sennar
My grandfather, the last Christian king of the Abyssinia, has been dead for a year now. It is now time for me to do some soul searching for my people, hopeless as this surely will be. My wroth, shyness, cynical nature, and craven heart ensure that I have absolutely no tact or diplomacy skills whatsoever. As liege of this county, I should be seen as the lord and protector, but it is common knowledge that I am a clueless warrior. Plus my own marshal, Fethee Doqaqit, makes no effort to disguise his hatred of me and will often conduct war meetings as if I am not present. Not that this matters, of course, since we can barely make war on a large band of thieves. I try not to talk at council meetings, and I hide in my room at other times. I don’t think my grandfather would approve of me.
Fethee is the only one on the council who really hates me. All the rest just dislike me, except for the Chancellor Geteye Antsokia Sennar, whose silver tongue is somewhat undermined by his infamous reputation as a hedonistic, lustful, 63-year old with syphilis. Cynical as I am, even I hesitate to inflict him on foreign courts. My wife and six-year old boy hate me. My vassals—mayor and bishop—dislike me. My heart’s desire is to become exalted among men, but my name is spat out by nobles and goat herders alike with disgust. They all loved my grandfather, but now that he is gone, they are blaming me for all their ills, regardless of the true blame. As much as I try to avoid conflict, all this animosity is starting to get my blood boiling, and I won’t be responsible for what I may do soon.
I can’t even remember anymore what triggered it. It could have been just a snide comment or a condescending smile from my marshal. But at once I snapped, and from a pedestal overlooking the council hall, I seized our relic of Monophysiticism and held it before me in front of all my astonished councilors and guards.
This relic is the defining object embodying our Abyssinian Monophysiticism. It is a knucklebone of Severus who was Patriarch of Antioch (512-518), who was a literary genius, and who lived his entire life after baptism refusing to take a bath. Many miracles were accorded to his remains after his death, although they seemed to have lost their potency by the time the knucklebone found its way to our troubled lands. Holding it up in a rage, I struck out at them in the way I intuitively knew would hurt the most: I renounced Monophysitism, denounced all who believed in it as heretics, and proclaimed that my realm would henceforth be a stalwart defender of the Orthodox faith.
It is difficult to be wroth when you are also shy and have craven heart. No sooner had I vented my spleen than my blood went from boiling to ice cold in a matter of a moment. I was inclined to cast the relic into the dust in front of them to signify my disdain at this worthless bone. But craftiness saved me, and instead I ran with it into my quarters, locking the door behind me. This may well have saved my life. After I had carefully hidden the relic, from this point on I was holding it hostage. They could not remove me from power without risking that I never again reveal where the relic is hidden. I’m cynical by nature anyway, so what do I care if Jesus had one or two natures? Maybe he had 32 natures? What difference does it make? In front of all who already hated me, I had converted from Monophyscism to Christian Orthodox, a heretic creed in their view, and I had ensured that I would live to tell about it… But they were under no obligation to make it pleasant.
Tough crowd.
My court is not pleased. Fortunately none of them can raise any levees against me. No matter, I instruct my chaplain, Gebereal Komel-Shokafa Senna, who is renown for his abilities, to begin conducting inquisitions to lead everyone to the (new) true path of the Orthodox faith. His look of disgust and hatred unnerve me. But then again, I'm craven--many things unnerve me. I've learned to live with it.
Perhaps my irrational outburst may have been a good thing. As Monophysites, everybody in the world either disliked or hated us. As Orthodox faithful, however, we fall into the fold of a religious tapestry that extends from the Holy Land all the way up to the Baltic Sea. The closest potential ally is, of course, Byzantium, and so I send Chancellor Geteye off to Byzantium to seek the good will of our new best hope, Basileus Michael VII. Geteye looks overjoyed at the chance to go to the capital of Byzantium. He is practically drooling to spend time in a place that can probably satisfy every degenerate desire he has and teach him some new ones besides. I give Geteye strict orders to avoid fornicating with the locals.
With a Martial score of 1, you might want to delegate the leading of the troops.
My hoped-for protector can barely protect himself. This will go well.
Upon Geteye’s arrival, however, I find that Basileus has problems of his own: Doux Michael of Nikaea is brazenly sieging counties right up to the capital of the Byzantium Empire. Geteye also reports, a little too happily, that the Basileus is commonly known in Byzantium as “The Drunkard.” And while he can muster up a good speech if needed, he knows less than a horse’s ass about military matters or state stewardship or any of the other traits considered useful to rule. He is also gluttonous, slothful, and cruel.
It occurs to me that an incompetent monarch whose distinctive trait is being a drunkard and who cannot prevent plundering of his lands at the doorstep of his capital may not be as useful as hoped to a small African county buried in the bowels of hateful infidels. But I converted to Orthodox. Who else can help us… the Russians? I have heard through my mother about their perpetual infighting, and they are too far away besides. No, it must be the Byzantines.
It occurs to me that I should probably try to make a good first impression with the head of my new religion. Unfortunately, Ecumenical Patriarch Charitan despises me, mostly for my being a sink hole of piety. I had best push diplomatic relations with the Basileus quickly, before Patriarch Charitan thinks to excommunicate me. Can the Orthodox even do that?
I write to my chancellor asking him to try to betroth my six-year old son with the Basileus’s 14-year old only daughter. In one way, I am encouraged by the Basileus’s response: “The Drunkard” actually likes me! But he thinks it is a horrible, terrible idea and asks me never to mention this of him again. So I ask if his son will marry my sister. Again, while he likes me, he would rather throw both her and her brother through the gates of hell than marry them into my dynasty. I think he will warm to the idea though.
I am the savior of my people! Forget my grandfather, whom everyone loved and looked up to. He was a failure--he lost almost everything in his petty and stupid wars. (And did he even win any battles?) It is I who will save the Zague Dynasty and safeguard my people. I find that “the Drunkard” appears to be, on balance, willing to take me on as a vassal. His good opinion of me plus the fact that my land is good (evidently no geographer has sit him down with a map), outweighs his better judgment. (Or, rather, incompetent judgment. I guess it is to my advantage that he knows nothing about anything.) I do not transcribe my message back to him—I write and seal the petition myself to become his vassal, so that none of my people can catch wind of this. As all of them still view the Byzantine as evil heretics, they will be unhappy with me. And by “unhappy,” I mean they may murder me. I begin barricading the door.