House of Ivy

Stuyvesant said:

The Romans held out admirably (that's what, six months?), but in the end they can't escape their ultimate fate. The City will fall, sooner or later. A grim tale, with no heroism in it.

Click to expand...

Indeed not. Though, as we will be soon(ish) seeing, there are plenty of acts of individual heroism on both sides.

Storey said:

The end draws near.

In game I’ve only seen the Ottomans defeated by the human player by blocking off the sea lane between Asia and the Balkans. In real life the Ottomans were just too powerful to stop.

Click to expand...

Exactly, and apparently even that tactic doesn't work any more with the latest patch.


“Why should we be stuck with the names given us from birth? Bagatur called himself the Whisperer. Isra called herself Ivy. And Cobalt… Cobalt chose to name himself after a wound, a reflection of his own nature"- Khalid of Samarkand "Samarkand Chronicle”.

-----


The fleet drew near...

My name is Ivy.

I was born in the slums of Cairo. They gave me the name Isra, which means “night-journey”. My family name was El-Amin, which means “the truthful”. I dropped my surname when I was old enough to think for myself, as I delight in lies. Lies make the world spin. Lies are what all people crave, when it comes down to it. She loves me. I am good. I will go to paradise. All little lies, all being weaved into a tapestry of deception.

I do tend to travel by night, however, so perhaps my first name is apt. It is so much quieter at night. I don’t have to put up with dirty travellers, or leering old men who have never seen a woman as pretty as I. I can simply wander in peace, without the cares of the lesser folk worrying me. And should some bandit or wandering cutthroat seek to rob or harm me, I get some practice for my knife.

But my name is Ivy these days. Ivy, the creeper and the climber. I like it as a name. It was given to me by an English poet, who bought passage in a ship to Rome which I happened to be on. After I had tricked the Captain into diverting the ship to Tunis, where I had needed to be, he bestowed the name upon me, in the morning half-light as we dozed in one another’s arms. A pity, really, that he was killed. Pirates began to drag him off as we passed the western tip of Sicily, so I was forced to put a bullet in his skull. A mercy shot, you understand. A better fate than whatever would have become of him as a Barbary galley slave.

Now, though, I am on a ship again, but a different kind. This is not a merchant cargo ship, but a sleek galley of the Sultan’s navy. I am standing at the bow of the vessel, watching the water. Two similar vessels are behind me.

We fought hard to get here. Off the coast of Satalia, we were set upon by the heathen Greeks, spewing the filthy fire, the secret of which they hold so dear. I swear, one day I’ll find that secret and turn it against them. Then they’ll see what it’s like to watch your comrades scream and burn.


Despite the very small number of ships, it took a long time for the battle to be concluded, largely as a result of the immense tactical use of Greek Fire.

Some consider it strange, that a woman commands troops and sailors. Some consider that it goes against our religion. They say that the Qu’ran forbade it, that men inherit more than us, that we are their fields to be ploughed at their will, that we should be chaste and meek, that we must stay in our homes, avoiding lust and keeping our pretty heads down.

What do I say to that? I say that the ways of the world turn. I am not some meek housewife, I am a warrior! I spit at the man who tries to cut me down. I am Ivy! The Jezebel of Cyprus, the Blood-Soaked Princess, the Maiden of the Moorish Banner! Already my titles have cut their path across this island-filled ocean!

The sailors weren’t very happy with the appointment. They even tried to mutiny. It was a terrible bore. I and my officers had to cut down about twenty of them before they yielded. Twenty good men! Such a waste, particularly since we had to fight the Greeks only three days later.

Oh, yeah, the Greeks. A single ship tried to stop us. The Greek Fire was a pain, and it took us ages to board them. But we did, and though we couldn’t capture it, we made them flee back to the City. They won’t cause us any more problems.

I can hear shouts, whoops from behind me. I can see why; there is the city, and the army, up ahead. The land is frosted over, and the city walls and crumbling and bruised. But the standard of the Rum still flies! I grin with pleasure. The Emperor is still mine for the taking, then.

Don’t misunderstand my stance on dear Ioannes. I don’t want to kill him. I don’t want to torture him, as torture is the refuge of the weak and the coward, who enjoys to inflict pain but is terrified of receiving it. I want him as my slave, my pet. I want that Emperor, who dared to throw me from his palace, to be my footstool. I will put him in a mask so that none recognise him, and call him Doulos. And I’ll cut out his tongue, of course, so he can’t tell anyone who he is. And I’ll then have my own little Emperor to serve my food and brush my hair. And I’ll break his spirit, too, break it into little pieces, so he’ll do it all willingly. The Emperor of Rome, reduced to a house-servant.

We reach the shore. A little delegation is there to meet us- Cobalt, the Sultan, and his other closest advisors, Miroslav Shishman and Bayezid Piyale. The wind whips around the faces of the Whisperer and myself as we step off the ship.

The Whisperer is a curious oddity. In his character, he is ferociously intelligent, with a highly developed ability to spin webs and lies. I have seen him trick even the Sultan many times. He hails from the far East, spending many years travelling across the roads until he reached Samarkand, where he lived for a while. He told me, one fine evening as we hurried towards the City, tales of that place. A citadel, a bridge between east and west, the melting pot of the world. I would very much like to visit it, when all of this is over.

But the Whisperer has certain, duller parts of his personality. Like many men of his calibre, he desires me, seeing an equal in me. It might have been flattering, but after long lines of many such men with similar thoughts, such advances merely bore me. He is a little meticulous, and too involved in his work. But he has proved himself an intelligent and loyal friend, despite such flaws.

What errand the Sultan ordered him to accomplish, I do not know. We encountered him, in a small dinghy, shortly after the victory over the Roman fleet. He refuses to speak of it. I don’t think it was anything particularly important; probably just some service for the Sultan, which would explain why he attempts to be so honourable about the information. He doesn’t understand what is and is not important, yet.

We reach the Sultan, and make the customary greetings. He bids us rise. He is young, and full of fire. His face is, however, unusually cold. This does not bode well.

“Your soldiers were arrested. The City holds out”.

I had suspected as much, since the City was still Byzantine. But I do not correct the Sultan’s mistake. I simply smile brightly. “My apologies, sire. But I must point out that I was not to blame for the actions of the Emperor. I possess no powers of witchcraft or clairovoyance.”

The Sultan nods towards me, apparently satisfied. What had satisfied him, I cannot say. He asks the Whisperer in a low voice, “Is it done?”

The Whisperer nods. “Yes, sir. They will be here in fifteen days, by my estimates.”

The Sultan smiles broadly. “Then come! Come, both of you! We shall organise a feast for this fortuitous homecoming!”

We follow him into camp. I look up at the city walls, grey and forboding. Soon, my dear Ioannes. Soon.

Derahan said:

Interesting, just read through it all and I love it

Click to expand...

Thanks!

Stuyvesant said:

I still do not like Ivy much at all. Sure, intelligent, makes something of herself in an age and world that is extremely dismissive of women, has a will to power that would leave men like Stalin appreciative (right before having her dragged off to an unmarked execution site)... But her cold, selfish nature does not sit well with me. The poet she killed with a mercy shot? How awfully convenient of her to decide that was the better option. Her plans for Ioannes? Despicable.

So no, no appreciation for Ivy from me. I do like the way the complicated relationship between her and the Whisperer is sketched out, though.

Click to expand...

Good; If people liked Ivy, I'd be very worried she's basically a warped, twisted, self-serving and truly awful person. That said, her character isn't quite as it may seem on the surface.

Next update will be tomorrow or Thursday, on account of how I've basically got to read the entirety of the Alexiad by 3.30 tomorrow afternoon .

Stuyvesant said:

Ooh! I remember reading (an English translation of) the Alexiad in college once! Main themes: dirty Normans are backstabbing bastards (which extends to all non-Romans, really), Anna's dad was right awesome who beat up on everyone (yet, erm, somehow did not manage to conquer the entire world. I'm a little hazy as to how this apparent contradiction was resolved by Anna), Anna is right smart and good too, although she's too modest to say so, and in the end it all turns a bit sour for Anna, through no fault (or ill-conceived scheming) of her own.

There were other bits, but I'd consider those padding.

Anyway, glad to see I'm not completely misreading Ivy. Will be interesting to find out where he scheming takes her, but I do so hope that in the end it will come to naught (well, one can hope, right?).

Click to expand...

I can't tell if she hates Guiscard or loves him I also like how she claims that she is completely unbiased just after yet another monologue about how wonderful and blameless Alexios was.

We can hope, indeed- but I am saying nothing .

Storey said:

Oh I don't know I would just describe her as "complex". After all she did provide a bit of mercy when she shot her lover through the head... I think it would be a mistake to judge her without more information.

Click to expand...

Stuyvesant said:

Her - unreliable - words. Plus, she decided that her lover was better of this way - I know the galleys were bad, but he might've preferred the chance to live (perhaps escape) instead of having Ivy splatter his brains all over the poop deck.

Click to expand...

"Complex" is the right word, yes though she is definitely not a good person. In her defence, she was only doing what she thought was right when she shot the poet.

Saladin Osmanli said:

Do note that there's apparently no solid evidence of the use of slave rowers for galleys beyond Ptolemaic Egypt.

Click to expand...

Stuyvesant said:

Interesting. I guess I'll have to read up on the topic more, because I'd always assumed that most imperial galleys (i.e. not merchant republic ones) were slave-powered. Thanks for making me question that assumption.

Anyway, before I drift off too far off-topic, for the purpose of this story I will assume that slave rowers are an established fact in this history. And I still don't hold with Ivy's treatment of the Englishman. Still, if there is more to her character than is currently apparent, than I will be happy to learn more. Not that I expect it to redeem my opinion of her, but still... It's always good to know one's enemy through and through.

Click to expand...

Eh, it may be inaccurate, I'm not sure- but if you have Barbary Pirates in a story, there have to be galley slaves . So we'll say that they definitely do exist in this history.

There is more to Ivy's character... but she's a strange one, and it will be a long time before I reveal her deepest motivations.


“Bagatur hated me, and with good reason.”- Khalid of Samarkand.

-----

Many have asked me about the siege of Constantinople, and of the bitter winter my compatriots had to endure. In the Latin lands, they demand to know the horrors of such a tale. In the East, they name it a great victory for Islam, and beg to know of the heroism and courage which allowed this to happen.

I tell them that I was not there in the Bitter Winter. I was sent by the Sultan to other places. But if I am allowed the indulgence, I will tell you what I know of that winter. The snow was deep, the men starving and weak. Cobalt, who was there, told me that soldiers died like mayflies and that all the while, amid the haunting and whistling wind, troops were made to assault every gap in that wall. When I reached the city, in February, I could see such unmistakable signs of suffering, of frostbite, of death. Disease was beginning to spread throughout the camp.

The Sultan, however, had taken me far away from the cold. I went north, to the Crimea. The last of the old Chingissid Khans in Europe, the Crimeans had suffered under assaults from Russians, Greeks, and every other infidel east of the Elbe. But their armies were still powerful. The old traditions of the Steppes died hard with them. These were the children of Jochi and Batu, of that army of my people which unified half the world. These were people I could talk to.

So, we set sail, across the Black Sea. I was, I admit, somewhat nervous. Mongols they may have been, but Mongols long removed from the rest of the Empire, and I knew not what to expect. What was this khan, this Haci Giray, really like? Was he a tyrant, a barbarous nomad king, a just and effective monarch?

We landed at a Genoese port, called Kaffa. I was struck at how strange and varied this city was. Greek merchants called out to us to buy strange spices from the far Indus. Italians walked the streets, Tatars and Russians brawled in narrow alleys. We stayed there for two nights, before we set off again- the little delegation from the Sultan, off to treat with the Khan.

Three days later, we were in Qirq Yer. It is the strangest place I have ever been; vast caves, cut into the side of a cliff, and fortified against all invaders. I was taken aback, I must say. I would have liked to visit it again, but, alas, I am stuck in this tower, condemned to spend my golden years writing on a page.


The Crimean capital in the mid-Fourteenth century, as seen today: a peculiar fortress indeed.

It is a misfortune I must suffer, but one I do not suffer gladly. The accursed Khalid, that savage of Samarkand, the false philosopher who spreads slander about the righteous and the good, has kept me here under lock and key.

But I digress. The Khan was a tall, but not unkind man. He seemed to be a strong ruler, with hawklike and piercing eyes. I explained to him the wish of the Sultan: the Romans had taken an army to besiege Varna, but had now decided that instead they would attack Edirne. The Sultan’s first wife, heavily pregnant and only fourteen, was inside the city, and the Sultan feared deeply for her safety. I attempted to make the Khan see the great benefit of aiding the Sultan with his army, using subtle argument and reason to convince him.

And convinced he was. He promised his support, and that his riders would escort us back to the Empire. Even as I was leaving, I saw him in hurried counsel with his generals. I left feeling satisfied, and, indeed, I was not to be disappointed.

From the tales and scraps of gossip I have heard, the Khan gathered his forces immediately, great horsemen and archers. He rode south, across the lands of the Bulgars and into Greece. The people were wary of this army; they were strange folk with stranger customs. Most steered clear, but as far as I can gather, there was no inappropriate behaviour on their part.

This vast force attacked the Greek army just outside the city. The Greeks were not expecting any relief to come to the city, and so intent was their leader on taking the stronghold that he had neglected to send out scouts and spies; he did not know that they were coming. The first strike of that battle was particularly bloody, however. The Romans fought valiantly, cutting down many Tatars and after the first day, the continued to hold out. However, the besieger was now the besieged; they were trapped between the city garrison and the Tatar horde.

The second day was a different affair. The Tatars pummelled them with arrows, while the city garrison rained fire down on them from above. The Greeks were losing many men, and thus attempted to charge the Tatars in a last-ditch effort to escape. But the Khan had expected this, and had also brought with him Russian mercenaries, waiting behind the main cavalry line with pikes, hiding in the long grass. As the Greeks charged, the Tatars moved aside for them, and then closed behind them as they were impaled on the Russian poles.


The Battle of Edirne effectively ended any real Byzantine hopes of a victory.

What was left of the Greek army quickly surrendered, seeing the impossibility of their situation. With the destruction of this army, there was little hope left for the Emperor in Constantinople. I, meanwhile, was travelling the seas. All was going well, and we expected to be back in Constantinople by the end of December. (The attack at Edirne happened after this, in February).

But then, disaster struck. Seven Roman ships, the last ragged remnants of their navy, spotted us by mere chance. We were attacked, and our ships were all sunk. Greek fire roared out of metal faucets, and cannon were fired at our ships. There were almost no survivors. I can remember the feeling, clinging onto a wooden plank, of being tossed to and fro, convinced that my own death was near.


Even at the end of the Empire, Greek Fire was still feared across the seas.

By some miracle, a Greek fisherman found me, and looked kindly upon me. He took me to the mainland, where I acquired a horse and began, slowly, to ride to the coast. As I travelled along it, looking for safe passage across the straits, a curious happenstance occurred; Ivy’s little navy passed by. I signalled them, and came aboard, to the amazed faces of Ivy and the rest of the crew. Not long later, we reached the City, and the Sultan was there to meet us; he was pleased with my deeds.

-----

Back to Cobalt next time, for the last, dark days of the City...

Are there any narrators who people want to see more of? Or any other characters whom people want to have a chapter or two?

Stuyvesant said:

Byzantium, being squashed like a bug. Not a pleasant sight, but inevitable. At least these Romans held off a siege for a very long time and they took to the field for one last glorious (foolhardy?) and terminal campaign.

Regarding your question about other characters: we know so little about any of them, that it's hard to know where to focus attention. All four (do I have that right? Cobalt, Savas, The Whisperer, and Ivy) are still very enigmatic, with only Savas and Ivy showing some real glances behind the façade - although those glimpses are in their own words, so less than trustworthy.

I'd like to know why Khalid locked up The Whisperer and why there is such enmity between the two men, but I'm not sure I'll ever find out - from your Georgia AAR I remember that you don't feel a compulsion to neatly tie up all the loose ends.

Click to expand...

Oh, you'll find out about Khalid. But not for a while .

Storey said:

I'm not sure what to make of this. There's ample evidence of slave rowers during the 15th-16th centuries and later in the Christian navies. I'm less knowledgeable about the Muslim navies but I thought they too used slave rowers to some extent.

Sorry but I have to edit this. In various christian navies men were for various crimes sentenced to row but they weren't "slaves". Maybe this is the distinction you are making?

Click to expand...

I thought this was the case too... I'm fairly sure that the Barbary pirates of the 16th century used galley slaves...



The horn sounds, and I grasp my sword, shouting orders to the soldiers below.

The blasts of cannon fire and explosions line the wall, up and down. The Greeks above keep firing and slashing at us through the smoke. An arrow whizzes past my arm, plunging into one of my compatriots. I can see little below or above me. The Greeks have created ingenious devices to cloud the air, most likely brought back from the far Orient. Occasionally, a hand off of one of the walls can be seen, and I rid any qualms I still have, and stab upwards.

The end of Rome is here. The city is almost mine. The soul of the world hangs in the balance. Moments like these are what we live for.

I am somewhat disconcerted that I cannot see the rest of my troops. I am only commanding a small contingent, as opposition from the Sultan's court has stopped me from taking a larger role. It irritated me for a time, but I think I prefer things like this: me, a band of comrades, and all the thrill of the fight.

We are at the top! It is only the first wall, granted, but we are here at last! Arrows continually rain down upon us, and I am glad of my shield. I signal to my men to raise their own towards the second wall, while continuing to hack our way through.

It is easier to see from up here. From what I can see, we are the first upon the walls. I smile, and get to work on these Greeks, terror in their feeble-minded faces.

It doesn't take us long. Before much time has past, we are all flattened against the battlements hearing the whizz of arrows flying past us. I look around, trying to analyse the myriad of problems that the defences present, ignoring the putrid smell of battle and the fearful shivering of the soldier beside me.


We can't enter the moat and try to climb again; we'd be cut down instantly. We can't simply throw ladders across; the same principle applies. We're stuck, unless we find some way to get rid of the bombardment from above... or, alternatively, to distract them...

"Ab", I mutter, to the shaking soldier beside me. "Ab, I need you to do something for me."

Abbas looks up at me, blank fear on his face. He is no soldier. I feel a touch of pity for the boy. He is barely nineteen, and is not here for his martial prowess but for his knowledge of explosives. The child is a genius with them. He is the son of an alchemist, and has studied the property of various metals and powders. I first encountered him in a tavern in Fes, where he served the infidels and degenerates who attend such a place. He was worth more than that, so I travelled with him, among others, to the Sultan's realm. There, he came into the service of the Magyar, Orban, and together they designed some of the weapons which at this very moment are pummelling the walls.

I had an inkling that the situation might come to this, so I took him with me in the assault. "Ab, I need you to plant one of your grenades at the base of the wall. Wherever it will do the most damage. Preferably damage to the people on top of the walls, rather than the walls themselves."

Ab looks terrified. "But-"

"Do it!" I hiss. I have no time for fear! None of us do! Abbas is braver than he himself knows; as he lowers himself down, trying to flatten himself as much as possible, I am struck by how much worse it has to be for someone like him, who has no experience of combat. It is not just death he faces, it is a measure of his true worth that he encounters.

Bah! I am beginning to sound like the Whisperer, and I do not want to do that. I watch, tense, as he creeps along the ground, still unnoticed. I see him place several small pots in positions around the base of the wall, and then light each one individually; before hurrying back to the wall, and beginning to climb.

I reach out to take his hands, and pull him back up onto the wall. The genius child, shaking, takes his place behind the battlements again. "Three minutes. Will blast enough of a hole to destablise the whole thing. Should give you the distraction you need."

I see him grin for the first time since I told him he was to be in my contingent. I tousle his hair with an appreciative look. "That's my boy."

A grunt comes from the battlement to the other side of me. "Well, hurry up! We haven't all day, you know."

The irate yet deep of Qasim of Baghdad makes me smile, too. Qasim is an old man, twice my age at almost fifty. He was born hairless, with no eyebrows and a bare scalp, and some say that it is this which has made him so annoyed at the world. He is a good man, though, and took Abbas under his wing, caring for the youth. I also found him in Morocco, a bandit who tried to rob me and my little band. Not out of malice, but out of necessity to survive. Life is tough in Morocco.

I promised him a far better life, and he has found one here. The occasional gunshot wound isn't enough to beat down the old man's spirit-

A sudden, ear-shattering sound blasts through the air, as a huge gust of wind whistles past me. I turn, to see a vast segment of wall collapsing, bricks flying into the gap, Greeks and Italians falling from the wall and running in fear. I turn to Abbas incredulously. "That is what you call "destabilisation"?

Abbas shrugged. "I had to make do with what I had. Oil, black powder, a few mixtures of my own concotion- a little mixture of aqua regia and oil of vitriol..."

I shake my head. Qasim, however, lets out a roar. "Now is the hour! Now is the city ours!" He throws a rope across the wall,and having jumped down, charges into the rubble, sword aloft.

We follow suit. The bloodlust has caught up with us, even young Abbas. Qasim runs and scrambles up, through the smoke, through the rubble, to the top of the wall. Some of the remaining Greeks are still shooting us, but they are scattered and afraid. We slash and cut our way through, screaming the cries of barbarism, to the top of the wall.

In triumph, I yell a blood curdling cry, before shouting with all my might, "the City is ours! The walls have fallen!" Not strictly true, as all we have is a foothold but enough to cause a roar from the attackers below. I pluck from my back a rolled up textile, a standard, and picking up the lance of a fallen soldier, make for myself a makeshift flag. "I think the honour is yours, Abbas", I grin, and watch as the youth raises the banner high, swinging it above the city.

And then I turn to look at the city- and stop dead.

There are no reserves. I cannot see any reserves. Where are they? Did they throw their entire force onto the walls, a last-ditch gambit to halt us? The City is ours. We have our foothold. It would take a miracle to turn us back now.

I see, and hear, the other attackers climb atop the walls. The same view greets us all; the glistening city, its palaces, its churchs; a shadow of what it once was, but still a shadow of an Empire.

We descend. We run across the city, its orchards and gardens. We hear the screams as we plunge through the streets, the cries of fear and dismay. What has to be done has to be done. The civilians will just have to live with it.

The city is ours. The other troops attack what remains of the resistance in earnest; a desperate Greek charge into the belly of our army, to allow their comrades to get to the ships. I have a different plan; as we near the Hagia Sophia, I see a small group of soldiers running into the fray, a purple clad figure at their head.

Rushing forward, I and my men power into the back of them. They turn, shocked to see their death, and fight back with all their might; but there are too many of us, and too few of them. I see Ioannes rip off his regalia. I see him roar, "The City is fallen, and I am alive!", before running into our swords.

But he doesn't get a chance. I grab ahold of him, and disarm him, pinning him to the ground. As he looks up at me in defiance, I lower my visor. "Yes, my dear Ioannes", I hiss. "The City is fallen, and you are alive."

Stuyvesant said:

But it also appears that she has others to carry her shield for her.

Click to expand...

That was a typo have changed it, thanks for spotting it.

Stuyvesant said:

Ah, Ivy... I hope she gets blown up by one of Abbas's home-made explosives (an IED, perhaps, if you forgive me the anachronism?).

A vengeful, spiteful woman she is. Dismissing the plunder and rape of the city as 'What has to be done has to be done. The civilians will just have to live with it' is cold-hearted. Is she brave? She is leading a small contingent of troops, first into the city, this is true. She personally fights, true. But it also appears that she has others to carry her shield for her. Oh, and her musings that the city is hers - not the Turks', not the Sultan's - hers. I guess she takes things personally (such as this awful episode with Ioannes) and is equally adept at ignoring things she doesn't want to bother with, such as the innocent civilians caught up in this era-ending event.

So, I still don't like Ivy, and I still don't like that the Empire has been killed (even if it's only been put out of its misery). But a good, gripping update. And very nice pictures chosen for illustrations.

Click to expand...

Stuyvesant said:

Ah. I think I can reconstruct what it used to say, how you intended that, and how I interpreted it instead. It is much clearer now.

Still, don't think I'm going to go soft on Ivy because the correction of a single ambiguously phrased sentence takes most of the wind out of my sails regarding her cowardice. Maybe she's not a coward, but she's still vile. So there!

Click to expand...

Ivy is pretty nasty... but I wouldn't go judging her quite so soon. She does at least try to be a good friend to Abbas... and while she does do a lot of very cruel things, she has a good side too. Her heart is sometimes in the right place, at least- she though she was doing the poet a favour when she shot him.

Though, as I said before, there are still complexities to Ivy's character yet to be revealed....

(By the way, with regards to Abbas' IED: what do you get when you do as Abbas did and mix vitriol with aqua regia...? )

Saladin Osmanli said:

Maybe it's just my ignorance about the exact design of Constantinople's fortifications, but I am unable to properly imagine the scene with Ivy and Abbas.

Click to expand...

Then allow me to explain through the medium of a hastily downloaded-and-annotated internet diagram!

“Even now I cannot believe that I am still alive and writing this account of the emperor's death. I put my hands to my eyes, wondering if what I am relating here is not all a dream - or maybe it is not a dream: perhaps it is a delusion and I am mad, the victim of some extraordinary and monstrous hallucination. How comes it that when he is dead I am still numbered among the living?” Anna Komnena, The Alexiad.

-----


A portrait of Savas Lala, known in the west as "Amargo", the bitter.

Ah, good, you're back again. Bring me closer to the fire. I am old, and my bones ache terribly when I am not warm.

Constantinople, Constantinople... it draws men to it like a moth to a flame. It is the very paragon of worldly things, as the Christians would say. The City of World's Desire, I have heard it called. But despite all of its pleasure, it is still also a place of spirit in the highest degree. The churches, the mosques, synagogues and all the rest... every man who searches for God will end up in the crescent city eventually. Maybe that is why it is so pursued, like a beautiful maiden. It satisfies your hunger and saves your soul.

The fall? You want to know about the fall? I was not at the fall, my lad. I told you already, I was in the Morea, fighting for my life against the heathen children. No, I know little of the fall. I heard about it from others, from Ivy and Cobalt and little Abbas. I heard that old Bagatur wrote a book about it! I would very much like to see it, one day. He wrote so well. Nothing on Khalid of Samarkand, of course, but his writings on strategy are the wonder of the world.

I often wondered why those two hated each other. After all, fathers and sons are supposed to love each other, care for each other, honour each other. But I am merely an old soldier. I don't know the ways of the world. That is for philosophers and theologians, imams and sultans, Romans and emperors to decide. I did my duty, and that is all I ever knew how to do.


Byzantium has fallen, but the Romans are not quite dead...yet...

We were in the Morea, you see, and fighting hard. We chased them to their castles, and sat in for the siege. Oh, those were good days to be a soldier! We knew nothing of our folly, and only saw sweet victory, lounging and fighting in Pelop's summer isle. I still marvel at the beauty of this country. You are lucky to live in it, young Greek.

We clashed, sword on shield, for many weeks, for months. But, at long last, the governor finally came out. He was a piteous figure; thin, half-starved, and with all his Roman dignity scattered. But I didn't feel pity. I'm not sure I was capable of it then. Either way, we won the siege, and the Morean morale further weakened, as they fled south, to Monemvasia.


The fall of Achaea, shortly before the fall of Constantinople, severely damaged the morale in the Despotate.

We cheered, drank merrily, and sparred with each other. I was a barbarous little rat, obsessed with war, glory, honour, and the thrill of the fight. My men loved me, and feared me. Shortly after the war, I bought certain private mines which deserters would end up in. Yes, youngling, I am that Amargo! That Savas Lala! Oh, don't be angry at me. I was... different then. Please, don't blame me for the crimes I committed as a youth. Or, rather, do blame me, for I deserve all the blame in the world. Just forgive me, little one. You Christians are supposed to do that, are you not?

I had little time to celebrate. The business of taking Monemvasia was left to a lieutenant, for the situation had changed in the north. There, the fall of the city had caused much agitation among the Greek nobles. They had risen in revolt, while we were away, and weak. And further west, the troubles continued. The heroic Skanderbeg, my first great foe, may have fallen, but his kinsmen carried on his spirit. It was a terrible time to be in the north, child. Our empire was under serious threat, and anyone thought to have any Turkish sympathies was harmed in a most dire fashion.


The revolts came in the wake of increase taxation on the people to fund the war effort, as well as an ardent desire by local churchmen to save the City and stop the Sultan. Such revolutionary ideas were madness, but to the ill-informed peasantry and desperate men of piety, the unthinkable was happening, and anything they could do to stop it was worth it.

I rode north. The Sultan, meanwhile, had other worries. He was in control of a half-looted city, a vast ruin and a shadow of its former self. He had rebuilding to do, in earnest.

And he made it great, I tell you. Over all the years I went there, I saw the half-abandoned wreck transform into a shining citadel, as great as the days of Alexios or Justinian. It is a magnificent sight to behold: minarets, golden domes, bustling streets filled with men and women from all four corners of the empire, of the world! It stands as a testament to the sublime state, to its greatness and incomparable power.

Oh, to see it one more time! I would dearly love to, just once. But, I digress. Throw another log onto the flame. That's better.

The Sultan was still merely an occupying power in a foreign and hostile city. Even as he begun building, he had to watch his back.


However powerful he was, Mehmet was still an infidel invader in a city full of angry Greeks. He did not go west, in order to impose his authority.

So, the dear Sultan stayed in Constantinople. We, meanwhile, travelled north, through the dying embers of winter. Snow fell across the mountains, and rivers began to swell in the valley. The cold winter was over, and we who had suffered least were glad. The snow and ice even began to look beautiful to us.

Maybe we were lucky. Maybe the Sultan had a worse time of it. For he still had court full of intrigue to deal with, and most problematic was Ivy.


An artist's later rendition of Ivy and the Whisperer. The actual Whisperer's appearance was much different.

The Sultan didn't see her as a problem, of course, and by this point counted her as his closest advisor and confidante. But a problem she was. Her power caused anger among the nobility, her popularity caused stirrings amongst the people, her beauty caused madness among the menfolk and jealousy among the women. She was dangerous, and if she got too much power, she would dominate the Empire.

Which is exactly what happened. Ah, fate works in mysterious ways, youngling! The Almighty saw fit to grant the reigns of empire into the hands of a hedonistic warrior and a manipulative devil-woman. But none can deny that such a partnership worked.

Amid all of these power-grabs and intrigue, there was one piece of news which pleased everyone: the Sultan's wife bore him a son. He was named Yusuf, and he was considered a miracle, a blessing to mark the momentous conquest. The Child of the City, he was called by many. Later on, he would grow to be exactly that; but for now, he was simply a crying babe wrapped in swaddling clothes.


The timing of Yusuf's birth was seen by many as a sign that he would be a great ruler.

And so, the succession was secure, the rebels were being dealt with, the Romans had fallen and their last pockets of resistance were being fizzled out. To an outsider, the Empire must have seemed to be a being whose rise would never cease. How little they would have known, if they knew of the glory and chaos to come.

The night is at its coldest, and it is time for sleep. I shall tell you of the battles in the Balkans at another time, child. Help me up, now.


The rebellion is beginning to pick up speed...

-----

If any Devil's Darkness readers among you haven't guessed, Savas Lala is the re-incarnation of Amargo Bagratuni, just in a totally different time to totally different parents with a totally different ethnicity, culture, religion and much, much later in life .

But for the rest of you, this has absolutely no bearing on the story whatsoever, don't worry .

(By the way, to any lurkers, please do comment! Comments are the oil which make the wheels of an AAR turn! )