The Fire and the Cross

Christmas Day, Anno Domini 1089

Giancarlo Addagio closed his eyes, humming along as the sweet words of chanting monks rose, twisting and turning through harmony and minor through the cold, hard stone of St. Peter's Basilica. The opening chants and prayers were his favorite part of any service at the formal seat of the Papacy—something about music spoke to man past faith, past origin.

As the last of the notes slowly bled away through the vaulted brick, Giancarlo sighed. He wished he could sit and listen to the enchanting harmonies day in, day out. But even while the people of Rome knew him as one of the master bricklayers within the city, a man with merchant connections from Antioch to Valenica, 'Giancarlo' was far more.

Once the music stopped, Giancarlo's work began—the work of eyes, of ears, gossip and rumor. While the crowds watched the dais filled with cardinals and swaying censers, Giancarlo watched the crowd.

The Duke of Spoleto chattered with two men next to him—his Hounds, they were called, the men charged with spoiling the countryside to fill his coffers. The Count of Urbino sat one pew further up and scowled at Spoleto—after all, it was his lands that were getting despoiled. Giancarlo's eyes went past them, towards the front, as a man clad in robes of white and gold climbed into the dais.

Pope Formosus, First of His Name was a frail man, nearing decrepit. He'd been Pope for barely a year—they said he was hand picked by Pavia, a man utterly lacking in spirit or drive. Giancarlo thought he could see this in the man's gait, his slow, measured steps as he mounted the dais of St. Peter's Basilica. He walks like a man hounded by men, Giancarlo remembered his father saying.


The magnate turned to the left, towards the royal box he'd helped build three years before. It was a finely crafted thing made solely of Giancarlo's stone, with the lions and griffins that the Kings of Italy called their sigils. They were no eagles of the Karlings, but then again, the Hucbaldis were always trying to make up for their distinct lack of relationship to Karolus Magnus.

God saw fit to give them cardinals, but little else, Giancarlo sighed.

It wasn't that Rome was a bad posting—Giancarlo was close to home, and the pay from his contact was handsome indeed. There was often just little to report—the Hucbaldis were struggling against this petty warlord or that bandit, some group named the Saxons had married their way into the land of the Franks, the Shia Malagids pressured petty Christian chiefdoms in Hispania. It was nothing like the postings in Makkah, Konstantinopolis, or Delhi. There was where the real work too place! Intrigue, espionage... not sitting in a stuffy church listening to old men blather!

“...et nunc et semper, et in sæ´cula sæculórum. Amen,” Cardinal Abelard finished, before hobbling off to the left.

Finally, Giancarlo sighed as the Pope approached the rostrum. Wrinkled hands rose into the air, the Sign of the Cross bestowing a blessing on the people. A low rumbling “Amen,” filled the great basilica, then all fell silent.

“Brothers and sisters in Christ,” Formosus called out, his voice far stronger than Giancarlo ever remembered, “let us bow our heads and pray: Hostium nostrorum, quaesumus, Domine, elide superbiam...”

Giancarlo frowned even as his head bowed. Crush the pride of our enemies? He had never heard that beseeched from within St. Peters!

“... et eorum contumaciam dexterae tuae virtute prosterne. Per Dominum. Amen!”

“Amen!” a confused congregation replied.

“Brothers and sisters in Christ,” the Pope began, “there are times I have come to you, speaking of the love God bore for us, and that we should bear for each other. All too often, this call falls upon your ears like you are deaf. I do not come today to respeak those words your sinful hearts deem useless!”

Giancarlo fought the urge to smile. He had no doubt the Duke of Spoleto was sinking in his pew, considering the three towns he'd let his men burn to 'keep in practice.'

“Instead, I appeal now to your base senses!” Formosus went on. “I appeal to your desires to fight, your need for war! Can not even these urges be used for holy work, even as Christ turned putrid water into the finest wine? Of course, for through God, all things are possible, even for the least of you!”

“So now I call. I call with the voice of a simple man, small in faith, who nonetheless has heard the Word of the Lord and seeks to obey. For too long, our brothers and sisters in the Holy Land have lived under a hostile yoke! First the Saracen, then the Persian! First the whips of the false god Muhammad, then the fires of the false temples! I say no more!”

The entire basilica was as silent as crypt. Giancarlo watched as all eyes stood transfixed on the old man and his white robes.

“Even now,” Formosus' voice suddenly crashed through the rafters, “fires burn on Golgotha! The light of infernal hell cascades over the Church of the Holy Sepulchre! And I ask, what do the great kings and rulers of Christendom do?” His eyes levelled a damning gaze, directly towards the royal box. “They squabble, they fight over parcels of land, they shed the blood of Christ's flock in the name of baubles. Verily, verily, I say to you now, no more!”

Giancarlo stole a look at the royal box. The Prince Royal looked aghast, his mouth almost inviting a bee to fly inside. His royal father sat seemingly calm, resolute, but even from here Giancarlo could see the old Karling's eyes flashing with something—was it fire? Resolution? Fear?

“This land which you inhabit, shut in on all sides by the seas and surrounded by the mountain peaks, is too narrow for your large population, nor does it abound in wealth, and it furnishes scarcely food enough for its cultivators! In the name of land you murder one another, you wage war, and frequently you perish by mutual wounds!” Those same eyes stole away from the king, and now pierced into the gathered masses.


“In the name of Christ, I, his representative, command that from now and thenceforth, let hatred depart from among you, let your quarrels end, let wars cease, and let all dissensions and controversies slumber! Enter upon the road to the Holy Sepulchre; wrest that land from the wicked race that dances by the light of infernal fires! Douse their flames with the waters of God's truth, backed by the steel of your blades!”

Giancarlo could feel the shame in the room. He didn't need to see their eyes, their downcast glances as God's representative laid before the great lords of Italy all the evils done by their hands. Formosus' hands rose skyward, as a ray of the rising sun trickled from the windows above onto the papal pulpit.

“I speak now not to just the nobles here, but all men that walk with Christ! God has conferred upon you above all nations great glory in arms! Accordingly undertake this journey for the remission of your sins, and rest assured that, if you make this perilous journey and, by arms turned from your brothers and sisters in Christ and upon the infidels of Persia, you will most assuredly gain a seat at the Father's Table in the Kingdom of Heaven!”

“Deus vult!” the Pope cried.

For a moment, silence hung throughout the room, before Giancarlo heard the hiss of a blade being drawn. Lord Urbino hoisted his dagger aloft, candlelight catching its steely edge.

“Deus vult!” he cried.

“Deus vult!” another answered, and then another, and another. King Leone's mustache rippled as he looked left, then right, before drawing his own blade and joining the chorus. One by one, the lone voices became a trickle, and then a flood.

“Deus vult! Deus vult!”

“Surely they...” Giancarlo couldn't hear the words that escaped his lips over the tumult. It was madness! The petty kings of Europe, only one step away from savages, uniting against the might of the Eternal Empire? They would burn, as a moth burns when it flies into a bonfire! Surely the Pope recognized this! Surely no man would agree to march thousands of miles to commit suicide by the sword!

Surely, yet they all chant as if they have the might of all the yazatas in their wake, Giancarlo realized as the rafters shook from their calls. He looked back—crowds were pressing in to the doors, blocking his way out.

I must get word to Cteisphon! he thought as he raised his own fist to blend into the mob.


*Edit: Eeep. Formosus I was actually Formosus II... ah well. To arms!

Warspite_TW - Hopefully for longer than the last attempt at writing a CK2 AAR.

videofan - My hope is to keep improving on my writing. I've gotten out of practice, so I will have to work the rust off.

Hyena Dandy - Believe me, CK2 threw me some curveballs with this one, more curveballs than you'd imagine!

Derahan - Or at least get word to Persia... next update we'll get introduced to Persia proper.

AlexanderPrimus - Thank you! I'm happy to have you along for the ride!

CommCody - Thank you, welcome aboard!

SplendidTuesday - RA seems an age ago... I'm still surprised I kept going that long. I'm hoping I can keep this one going just as well!

I'm working on the next update tonight, hopefully it will be finished tomorrow or Thursday. After that, we'll have to see where things go in terms of updating pace...

Aetherius - Hahaha, well, I don't know if you'll want to do that after you see what happens to some of the people I'm introducing.

videofan - I don't know as of this time. I've only played the game through 1092 so far.

hawaiiansteven - Thank you! I hope this one turns out as well as some of the other ones in the past!

January 26th, Anno Domini 1090

Khosrau sighed, letting his mind drift away from the red and blue colonnades that stood sentry all along his path. As the footfalls of an army of servants cascaded off the gilt lions and eagles that climbed those colonnades and perched on the ceiling, Khosrau filled his mind with the more mundane. Vellum, papyrus and paper filled his thoughts, smudged words covered his mind. Smudged words and disappointment.

That was the last copy of Falafsa in my personal collection! Khosrau fumed. The glared at his left hand, black ink brazen on his once powerful fingers that even now shook slightly. I'm an awkward fool! he fumed. An aged imbecile! He'd known his fingers were sure when he was making his edits, and now, three full pages of Muslim philosophy, gone! Familiar voices of doubt rose in his mind. If I can't control my inkwell and quill, how can I...


The rumbling thunder of Khosrau and the retinue that followed behind slowed to a halt, and Khosrau took a moment to look up at the enormous bronze doors, built by his great-grandfather. On the left, a lion rose into the air, claws extended in fury. On the right, the boar, long a symbol of E-Ran, leaped airborne to challenge. From their sapphire and ruby eyes, three centuries of glory spoke to Khosrau.

Ahura Mazda, yazatas, give me strength this new day, Khosrau whispered to himself as metal screeched against metal, and those great bronze doors swung open.

The light of a thousand candles greeted Khosrau's eyes, a brightness that always reminded him of where he truly was—one man, one part of something much grander, much more important than his quills, his breath, his knowledge. The room was a sumptuous red, its walls decorated in beautiful calligraphy taken from the palace of the Empire's Abbasid predecessors. Ahead sat a throne of ebony and gold, a mighty lion festooned with jewels rising behind it, as if to protect the man who sat in that seat. Banners of silk and gold hung depicting cities from Egypt to the Hindu Kush hung over head, all of which had fallen beneath the gaze of the mighty Saffarid family.

“His Imperial Majesty,” the chamberlain's familiar booming voice intoned, “Khosrau, Third of His Name, Padishah and Shahanshah of E-Ran, Khan of Khans, Badshah of Arabia, King of Egypt and Lord of India!”

“Lord and Refuge of the World, we bow before you!” rumbled from the ornate ceiling of the throne room.


“Watch me, yazatas,” Khosrau said to no one but himself, the strode past the Doors of Ardavan, and into a sea of color, prostrated to the floor. Some of these great men wore the red capped turbans of the Wurzugan, others the the white caps of the Great Houses. Mobads, priestly gowns glowing white in the light, bowed before his path. Rajas from the Indus knelt in their strange clothes, and Greeks from Antioch bowed in their cloaks as Khosrau climbed up the dais, and into the Seat of the King of Kings. As soon as he sat, as one the vast assemblage rose. Khosrau's fingers gripped the boar headed arms of his throne so hard he could see the white of his knuckles. No shaking, not here, not in front of them!

“Let any who wishes to petition the Lord and Refuge of the World,” Khosrau intoned the same words he'd called for over two decades, “step forward, that in the light of Ahura Mazda his words can be heard, and justice dispensed over the world!”

For a moment, silence hung over the hall, until a strong, powerful voice boomed over the hall.

“Father of Peoples, I bring news from the Hindu Kush!” The crowds of caps and turbans parted for a man dressed in bright blues and golds. “I bring news of your son, Bakhtiar, Lord of Multan!”

“Speak!” Khosrau gestured the man to come forward, years of practice keeping his face calm. Another setback? he wanted to ask. How many men this time? When will my son learn he is no Bahram Parviz?

“Shahzada Bakhtiar begs to report that Multan has fallen, and the great kings of Sindh are in full retreat!”the herald bowed. “He sends these gifts, Oh Great King, as trophies to display your power and might!” The herald clapped his hands, and the sea of people in the throne room moved as twenty servants materialized on each side, carrying elephant tusks and boxes made of beaten gold.


“May the world see this tribute,” the herald continued, “and know the power of the King of Kings! Great King, your son begs your blessings to continue his campaign, raising levies from Baluchistan and Afghanistan, to press on the heels of the rajas as they flee to Lahore!”

More blood, so he'll stand apart from his cousins. Khosrau barely fought off a grimace. My father made many mistakes, but impressing on the young the value of the sword.... Khosrau shook his head. The Empire had added the banners of Egypt to the rafters only ten years before. E-Ran needed peace, not more bloody campaigns!

“What is the state of his army?” a voice asked. All eyes turned towards the entrance, as a tall, powerful man strode into the room, white robes traced with gold thread streaming behind him, green turban with the symbol of Sistan intricately woven into the fabric. As one, the gathered great and small of Persia bowed once again to the only man in the Empire that could rival the Lord of Hosts.

Varshasb, Framadar of E-Ran, son of Khosrau's prior co-ruler, Shahruz II, and the greatest claimant to the throne outside of Khosrau's own son. For the past four years, the 22 year old had been recognized as the head of the House of Sistan, a cadet branch of the Saffarid line that had nonetheless claimed the throne twice in the last century—once when Khosrau's father was a minor, and then again when Khosrau himself was a child.

Khosrau watched as the mass rose from their bow. The Justanids and the Karenids all glanced uneasily up towards the Shahanshah. So did the Saffarids of Khorasan. They think I should do as they advised all those years before, and uproot Varshasb and his family... Khosrau knew they wondered, they questioned why he let such a great threat to his and his own not only live, but thrive to the point Sistan now held the post of Framadar, the head of the imperial bureaucracy and the eyes and hands of the Great King.

They ask me to strike him down, but... Khosrau looked at his white knuckled hands, and felt a familiar pang tear through his heart. ...I can't...I could never...


“Well?” Varshasb asked as the ringing of bells on the man's feet stopped when he reached the herald.

“I...” the herald looked over at Khosrau. “Lord Varshasb, I...”

Yes, now you don't know who to answer. Tell us, Khosrau nodded.

“The Shahzada's army fought valiantly, my Lord Framadar,” the herald said uneasily. “The Rajas outnumbered them by four to one, they say, but the Shahzada plucked victory from the jaws of defeat with his personal bravery in the field!”

“You did not answer the question,” Khosrau leaned forward, his heart sinking. If the herald is avoiding the answer... “If my son's victory was so crushing, why does he need more levies?”

“The Shahzada lost five thousand men in the battle,” the herald finally said. “Rest assured, Lord and Refuge of the World, they slew five times that number! The Indus ran red with the blood of the rajas and their men!”

“Five thousand men?” Framadar Varshasb's voice cracked throguh the colonnades in the throne room. “Five thousand! Majesty,” he spun to Khosrau. “I advised you, and your son, that it was unwise to campaign past the Indus! And now, Your Majesty's Army of the Boar has been mauled, with only a city to show for it!”

“His Majesty still has the Army of the Eagle and the Army of the Lion!” the herald shot back. “If the Lord and Refuge of the World would see fit to lend us the Shahzada one of those two armies, we could make His Majesty Lord of Delhi and the Ganges!”

“I... will consider my beloved son's request,” Khosrau said carefully. It wouldn't do to publicly embarrass Bakhtiar, no matter how foolish his son's efforts to cover himself in glory were. For a moment, rather than sitting on the throne, Khosrau felt the throne's weight sitting on him. He caught a concerned look on Varshasb's face.

I will resume business tomorrow. I need to ease my mind...too many worries, too many troubles...

“Leave us!” Khosrau called, “Framadar, you remain.” The chamberlain's voice boomed that the imperial audiences were over for the day, and with a murmur the great host of people began to file out. Some twenty minutes later, all that remained of the multitude was the noise of the great doors closing, leaving Khosrau and Varshasb alone.

“I never thought they would leave,” Khosrau sighed. He felt his fingers tap against the metal of the throne as he relaxed his grip.

“Neither did I,” Varshasb climbed the dais. There was a time, long before, when the young man would have nervously looked around the throne room, checking for errant prying eyes. Now, he walked, no, slinked up the steps, until he was looming over the Shahanshah. “But now, they are gone. Khos,” the young man leaned over, a hand touching the white beard of the old ruler, “Bakhtiar is a problem.”

“I...I know,” Khosrau sighed at the touch of those fingers. In thirty-five years, no touch of his wife had been able to elicit the same reaction as the slightest touch from the Framarad. “He thinks we have an endless army.”

“We do, if we call the satraps and marzubans to our banners. And the last time that happened...” Varshasb was now so close Khosrau could feel the young man's breath on his neck.


“Shahanshah Morteza was deposed,” Khosrau felt a slight shiver run down his neck.

“So,” Varshasb whispered, “I think, that we should instruct Bakhtiar to stop his campaign to 'consolidate his rule.' Give him some baubles as a thank you for his triumph.”

“Yes...that's a good idea,” Khosrau nodded, his heart racing.

“There were also reports from the West,” Varshasb's breath hovered over Khosrau's ear, “the Christian Pope is calling for a war on all non-Christians. It's no threat.”

No... the Arabs swept the Christians aside, and we swept the Arabs aside...

“You should also visit your harem this afternoon” the fingers traced down Khosrau's chin, then his neck as Varshasb's check brushed Khosrau's. The young man's breath was hot in his hear. “The wuzurgan are talking. They say a Shahanshah needs as many sons as possible, especially since your second eldest joined the Immortals...”

“But I have eight other sons,” Khosrau's complaint came as a tortured whisper. “I wish to be in your chambers.”

“Make it nine,” Varshasb's lips barely touched Khosrau's ear. The old king closed eyes his eyes, but as suddenly as there was warm breath, it was gone. When he opened his eyes in confusion, he saw Varshasb backing away from the throne, a mischevious smile on his lips.

“Come back,” Khosrau said. I'll make you my heir!

“Khos, you may command the armies and peoples of the world,” Varshasb smiled, “but you do not command me. Visit your harem, and later tonight, I will visit your chambers!”

As Varshasb bowed, turned and left, the old Shahanshah could do little more than pray that night came quickly.