Panjer – It’d take quite a power bloc to push out either the Arpads or the Grimaldis… both have huge crown lands to back their claims. However, if the wars continue another ten years or more, both could be weakened to the point where either a-someone like Bohemia, Saxony, or Bavaria takes center stage, or b-all sides agree to put a compromise (and thus weak) candidate on the throne.
Zzzzz… – In game, parts of southern England had turned French culture by this point, while the other parts were still Norman. Game-wise I’m not sure how much of a clash there’d really be, considering the French king has been the feudal overlord for over a century, there’s been no Magna Carta, and the Norman nobility before the takeover was partly French to begin with… for the common folk, they’re still getting what they’d get from the feudal system (probably screwed), regardless of whether their lords speak Old English or Old French…
cezar87 – If AP hadn’t taken up his standard, Antemios
was probably destined to simply be written off, his descendants making funny cameos way later in the story. I agree, AP’s work did him far more justice… it’s ironic that of all the children of Thomas II, the drunken, depressed Antemios had the noblest ending of all…
Hannibal X – Enough of England was French in culture already that the Capets never culture flipped back… so England as we know it no longer exists… hence Guillaume Shakespeare…
Vesimir – I must agree on the Scots side, as well as the Persians!
vadermath – I haven’t thought of it that way, but in many ways, Ravenscar would mark a huge turning point in European history. In the quarter century or so before that, Europe (at least southern, central and western) were moving towards unification—Sweden formed its Baltic empire, Germany consolidated again under the Arpads, the Roman Empire reunited after a period of disunity. Then, Ravenscar and the fallout broke Sweden, Germany descended into civil war, France was broken, and now Romanion teeters on the brink…
Enewald – Austria still has its lands… most of the what the looters took was anything of value that was portable. Cattle and crops aren’t as portable as gold, silver, and other trade goods…
viosin13 – Yup! Vive ‘Roi!
Siind – I wasn’t actually aware that Oslo was the old name for the city… so I’ll pull out the old alt-historians best friend and claim it was a another town lol.
Mr. Capiatlist – Thank you! Which center tags are you referring to? I’m probably missing something, it tends to happen when I rush…
Issac Wolfe – Once its complete I intend to release it as an independent mod… the key part is once its finished. Buh…
RGB – Well, Hakon was extremely dense, even for a Norseman. Antemios’ little scheme was more like stealing candy from a baby than pulling off an international caper…
Nikolai – AP and I discussed this. Clearly it mattered little to Antemios, but was something rather important to Andronikos… the Emperor dispatched someone all the way to Scotland to deliver the reward in person. Sometime in the future, I’ll reveal what it was, and if someone else took it up on the dying man’s behalf…
Nehekara – AP is good for one-liners… he’s far better at them than I! As for the Scottish debate… I have no idea. Old Norse is one of the many languages I know NOTHING about…
Welshdude – I didn’t… its why the AAR’s starting date was 1084, not 1066. I’d actually played the first 18 years as Alexios, gaining the Syrian lands and holding off the Turks as a prince with intentions of taking the purple… but then he died suddenly, and I decided it’d make a good story starting point… the rest is history!
humancalculator – I agree 100%. I’m honored AP decided to take time to finish this for us! He’s an excellent authAAR, and I’m sure I’m not the only one waiting with baited breath for his AARs to resume once more!
The_Archduke – All his life, Antemios had to frown. He
earned that smile though!
Well, there’s another treat for everyone! The next set of updates are done… yes, there’s a set. For the first time in easily two years, I’m actually going to be double-posting updates! I'm trying something new--usually with civil wars in this story I end up following a more history-book approach. This time, I'm going to try to convey the story of events happening far and wide while trying to keep things narrative. Consider it a test run, of sorts, for the EU portion once we reach there. We'll see how this goes...
Enjoy everyone!
“For every journey, there is an end. For every hill, there is a valley. What begins, must someday end.” – Unknown
April 26th, 1298
Napoli, Italy
Reinaldo Jimenez sipped on his
grappa, pleased pink despite the afternoon flies that hovered around his table.
Napoli wasn’t the most pleasant place in late spring, by some regards. The Spaniard didn’t mind it this once, though—not with riches on his mind, and the chance to rise further in the Dandolo merchant family in his grasp. War was on the horizon, but Reinaldo Jimenez saw a sea of
solidii that were his for the taking.
“Pah!” the man across from his grunted, before smacking one of the flies with his palm. Enrique Dandolo glared at the squashed insect for a second, before wiping it on the underside of the table. Reinaldo was still puzzled how such a rough-hewn man had become the head of the family business in one of the greatest cities in the Empire. He’d be easy to replace—after Jimenez’s scheme succeeded, of course.
“So are you here about silks?” Enrique asked—if one overlooked words such as ‘grumble’ or ‘growl’ to describe the noise. A big, fat thumb pointed behind his bulbous body towards the family storehouse. A servant came up to the rude table they’d set outside its entrance. Jimenez waved the poor oaf off.
“No,” Reinaldo said. Enrique raised an eyebrow.
“Why? Everyone comes to me wanting the Egyptian silks…” Dandalo said slowly.
Reinaldo shook his head.
News spread quickly across the Mediterranean, and news as important as armies mustering for war all across the Empire was already the talk of every man in every city. Arms were stacked, men deployed, and, most importantly to Reinaldo, grain requisitioned.
Grain.
Money might have been the sinew of war, but no army moved far without food. A year ago, in 1297, Reinaldo was the head of family business in Valencia, and no more. Reinaldo Jimenez, however, was shrewder than many others. While the other members of the family fretted, cancelling shipments and contracts, Reinaldo noticed the armies sat and waited. At first, he wondered why—he’d seen a stint in France during the wars, he knew when the campaign season began.
Yet, the spring of 1297 stretched into summer, then fall, and the armies, mustered but dispersed, still did not move. Merchants’ anxiety grew to complacence, and soon everyone was trading as if it was business as usual—despite the professional soldiers in their barracks, prepared to march within a few weeks notice.
As early as 1294, Reinaldo had been contracted out by the Prince of Murcia to requisition grain and other produce from the peasants to fill the
theme granaries in preparation for a ‘lean harvest’ that never seemed to come. Of course, Reinaldo then took a tenth of the proceeds officially as his pay. When each year rolled by, Reinaldo sold his tenth in Cordoba for a good deal of coin, then took up his contract to requisition even more grain, dropping money into the coffers of an officer or bureaucrat here and there to speed up the process. From 1294 through the fall of 1297, he turned enough of a profit that the family heads in Napoli called him there—to advise, and possibly take over from dear cousin Enrique.
“Silk won’t be profitable soon,” Reinaldo grunted out his advice. He’d seen Enrique’s stores—bolts of silk, reams of fine cloth and other baubles dotted the place. A nice store of goods for peaceful trade, but what was coming was anything but peaceful.
“Silk’s always profitable,” Enrique countered. “Blaise left for Marseilles three weeks ago with two trunks worth of bolts, as well as masca and indigo cloth. Those Franks buy that stuff like…”
“You can’t kill a man with silk!” Reinaldo snapped, tired of Enrique’s blathering. “This,” he pointed at the dagger fashionably hanging from his hip, “is something that can kill! War is coming, Enrique, and when it does, no one will want silk, they will want steel, and food!” Jimenez downed the rest of
grappa. “Blasted silk will be plunder and little more.”
“And how do you know war is coming?” Enrique raised an eyebrow. “Guiseppe said the same thing
last year when the
Megas Komnenos died, and look!” Dandolo waved his hands around mockingly. “No armies! No looting! No war!”
“Yet,” Reinaldo shot back.
Yes, things were quiet, but where others thought the tenseness is the air would pass, Reinaldo was certain it wouldn’t. The goliath of war had taken a deep breath, and the Known World, at least the Known World that mattered to Reinaldo, held its breath as well. Spring campaigning season turned to summer, as the scattered
tagmata all mustered, but never formed into their
banda or
taxarchoi. Every merchant had a story why—some said the Princes in the West were afraid to move so long as the Emperor was in Konstantinopolis with his great armies. Some said the Persians hand was stymied by trouble with the Turks. Disease, dissention, the rumors that were passed around were endless. It was as if the Princes of the Empire had drawn their blades, then stared at each other, each uncertain of what to do. All the guests had been invited to what promised to be a bloody fete, but no one had cued the musicians to play the dance of war. Reinaldo realized, however, that some time during the long night to come, the music would begin—and when it did, he would be ready.
“How do
you know?” Enrique countered.
“I have a ‘friend,’” Reinaldo smiled—the price of ‘friends’ was only 250 silver
solidii, apparently—“…who is a page to one Prince Demetrios. Eldest son of the late Emperor?”
“…and?” Enrique prodded.
“He assured me a month ago that his master had issued orders for his armies to gather outside of Napoli,” Reinaldo’s smile grew wide.
“I…how sure are you of this man?” Enrique frowned, crossing his arms. Reinaldo’s smile didn’t fade—he saw through the bluff. The merchant’s arms might have been crossed, but there was fear in his eyes.
“I have other friends that confirm the
tagma in Taranto, Bari, and Spoleto are on the move, as we speak. They’ll be here in a fortnight at the latest,” Reinaldo leaned back in triumph as Enrique’s eyes went wide. “Probably sooner,” he added.
“Th..they’re coming here!?” Enrique spurted his
qahwa onto the table. “Why? How?”
“He’s finally going for the throne?” Reinaldo rolled his eyes as if he was speaking to a stupid child. Yes, Dandolo was clueless. That’s why
Reinaldo was the money maker in the family, not stupid Enrique. “Napoli is an imperial city—to move the army into it would be an act of rebellion. My friend insists that Demetrios will take the city, by force if needbe, and announce he plans to topple his brother and claim his father’s throne.”
“B…but? Take the city?” Reinaldo saw the fear of looting and pillaging flashing through Enrique’s eyes. “But our stocks! Wharves! Goods!” Enrique protested.
“Are safe,” Reinaldo groaned. “You know of Gennadios Discourios, I hope?”
“The Prince of Apulia, yes,” Enrique’s cud-filled mind milled behind Reinaldo’s thoughts. “What…”
“You are an idiot, aren’t you?” Reinaldo groaned. “His people will arrive first. My friend’s made arrangements that our warehouses will not be touched, even if the city resists.” Jimenez sighed. “This could be the best thing to happen to the family in decades…”
“H…how?”
Reinaldo sighed once more—Enrique
really didn’t understand it, did he? War was destructive, yes. Goods were stolen, property lost. But if one was shrewd, and cunning, war could be profitable, even desirable. Reinaldo could read a map—Italy was in the center, and obviously armies from across the Mediterranean would soon be marching across the peninsula. Armies that would strip the land, as well as all the local merchants, bare within months.
Armies that would need weapons and food.
Slowly, painstakingly, Reinaldo explained his plan to his dubious cousin. Helmets broke. Spears snapped. Arrows bent. Shields cracked. Money keep men happy and armies might march on their bellies, but with no arms, the greatest
stratos was no more than a great mob armed with sticks.
As the gloves finally came off and the Princes moved in the spring of 1298, Reinaldo would be in position. Jimenez had spent the previous three years scouting every smithy in and around Toledo and further south that was in difficulty, buying full or partial ownership. Toledo was known for the finest steel weapons west of Damascus—a reputation Reinaldo would milk to the fullest. His supplies were secured—all that needed to happen was transporting the goods to where they were needed.
Here, in Italy.
It was easy for Reinaldo to see. The Prince of Istria had been only recently raised to some high office or another—Reinaldo had mercenary friends who openly talked about the fat contracts they expected from von Franken. He was moving into northern Italy, that was no doubt—the north Italian states were greedy, and wanted trade monies
and their independence. One didn’t need to know much history to think they’d try to their best to break free again, and von Franken was hiring his sellswords to do
something. Go try to breach the unbreachable in Konstantinopolis, or loot and pillage far weaker northern Italy? Reinaldo didn’t need time to wonder on that one.
Then there was Sicily, with the Emperor’s reportedly loyal brother Leo, who’d undoubtedly come marching north to suppress his elder brother’s rebellion. Then there was the troops in Africa, and even more in France, and
that was all assuming yet
another brother in Spain didn’t get involved. Jimenez was used to cutthroat deals amongst his family, but he wondered if the imperial lords of the empire wouldn’t have made excellent ‘legitimate businessmen’ themselves!
There were contracts floating all around, ready to be snapped up—and Jimenez wanted his piece of the pie. If his predictions proved right, there’d be many a quartermaster willing to pay a pretty penny for the cargo of his ships…
…once he had ships.
And therein laid the only problem with the plan—the only snag that prevented him from simply enacting the entire affair on his own, without Enrique or the other meddlesome Neapolitans. Reinaldo had only thirteen ships total, and only two that could be called great
nao merchantmen. He needed more—by his own estimates, thirty at least, as well as a dromon or two to escort them. The Dandolos were the oldest branch of the merchant family—surely they could spare the money when the profits promised to be so great!
“I’m going to need 20,000
solidii, however,” Reinaldo said, calmly dropping the astronomical sum.
Enrique spat out his
qahwa yet again.
“For what?!” Dandolo coughed.
“Ships, men to man them, capital to buy the raw iron and pay the smiths,” Jimenez listed off his expenses. “We’re talking about an entire smithing enterprise the likes the world hasn’t seen, Enrique!”
“And you’re talking sums I haven’t seen since we lost five ships in storms last September!” Dandolo snapped. “Cousin Julio’s profits from the Alexandrian trip, lost, at the bottom of the sea! No,” Enrique wagged his finger, “we don’t have that kind of resources!”
“Ah,” Jimenez steepled his fingers and sighed. “Well, perhaps you know several others who might be able to front some of the money, in exchange for a cut?”
“The only lender in the city that has that kind of cash is Abd Yasu ibn Yusef!” Enrique hissed, “and as he’s a
metatrapokoi, he charges outrageous interest… no!” Enrique waved his hand. “We can’t risk the family like that!”
“What interest does he charge?” Reinaldo pressed calmly.
“You aren’t serious! I said…” Enrique started to raise his voice, until Reinaldo grabbed his arm.
“Do you want everyone in the entire city to know the deal I have!?” Jimenez hissed. “I can guarantee, it minimum, five to one returns, Enrique! Think on it!”
“And ibn Yusef’s men break the skulls of the people who don’t repay him, if not worse!” Dandolo moaned—decidedly quieter than before.
“Five to one, Enrique,” Reinaldo said, before waving to the barmaid. The Spaniard tossed a small bag of silver on the table—it was far more than the cost, but Reinaldo didn’t care. He wanted to make a point. “This will be small change to us after we make our fortune…”
He could almost feel the
solidii and gems that’d soon be between his fingertips…
==========*==========
Isabella de Bevere trembled slightly. She didn’t shiver out of cold. It was not chilly, and regardless she wore the standard silks and cloths of a new handmaiden to the Dowager Empress. If that wasn’t enough, though, strong, warm arms held her close. Part of her chill was pleasant, but part of it was fear.
She knew he shouldn’t be here. Not in the personal apartments of the Dowager Empress, a full half of the
Kosmodion Palace. Not with his arms around her, mouth part open from a newly finished kiss, the secret door he’d used to sneak into the hallway outside her chambers wide open for anyone walking past to see. For not the first time in the last few hazy, pleasant minutes, she was glad it was late at night, and no one was nearby.
She wasn’t a loose woman, not like a few of the ‘maidens’ serving the imperial family in the palace. She bore an illustrious family name from far away France, but some lost relative long ago squandered the family lands and fortune. It was her grandfather who took the de Bevere’s to Konstantinopolis, volunteering his services in the most merit-worthy fashion he could—joining the Roman army. He became a
chillarchos, not august rank, but high enough his son had a chance in this new world. Guillaume de Bevere had taken the chance his father gave him, and risen slowly but steadily in the imperial bureaucracy—enough that his daughter qualified for the less-than-prestigious position of handmaiden to Empress Sbyslava, wife of the late
Megas Komnenos.
It was two months later, and Isabella still wasn’t sure why she was selected to join the Empress’ staff. Not that the thought occupied much of her mind—a pair of brown orbs staring down at her stole control. She sighed—she always got lost in those orbs—deep and dark, a hint of the Moor that was hidden somewhere deep in his Frankish past. It helped he was a head taller than anyone around, and that she could feel the muscle under his silken tunic.
He’d been born the son of a nobody. Henri du Roche had spent what little money he had for passage to Konstantinopolis from Marseilles. The man was a stonemason, and good at his work—enough so that he bought a position for his young son as a
kentarchos trainee in the
Mousalmanoi tagma. From there, Roland’s own talents, born of fisticuffs and honed through the school of street brawls, came to their own. Now, he was a
chillarchos in the
Vestiaroi tagma of the Emperor’s Personal Guard, an important man despite his fresh face and scant years—quick with his blade, but even quicker with his mind.
And, Isabella quietly thanked God, just as quick with his lips.
“You can’t be here,” she murmured once her lips were free of his. It was a dangerous game they played—all the handmaidens of the court were supposed to be models of Christian virtue and chastity. She knew several who visited lovers at night, but never, ever, had one of their lovers come into the Dowager Empress’ apartments! To be caught risked imprisonment or worse, even for a
strategos.
Even more since Isabella de Bevere was also a soon to be betrothed woman.
Her eyes flashed left and right—the corridor was still empty. Her mind told her she needed to go, to get away, before someone saw. His hands, and her heart, pulled stronger however.
“Why shouldn’t I be next to the woman I love?” he whispered in her ear, an pleasant echo of the whispers he’d said almost a month before when they’d first met—and a pleasant echo of the whispers he’d said in her chambers only two days before…
“Because,” she whispered, “I’m another man’s…” Her words died away as he kissed her ear.
“Not yet,” du Roche whispered. The noise sounded like smooth silk in her mind.
“He will be in a year,” she whispered back, wishing with all her heart it wasn’t true. Gennadios Tornikes might have been the
Kephalos of Abydos, he might have been rather wealthy, but where he was fat, du Roche was fit. Where Tornikes was gross, du Roche was chivalrous. Where rumor said that Tornikes had the bedroom skill of a wounded seal, du Roche…
“Don’t think about then,” the
strategos whispered, reminding her of exactly what
he could do, “think about us. Think about now. I have friends, we could get you released from your vows as a servant to the Dowager Empress, and…”
Suddenly the noise of sweet promises of a future together died in the air, killed by the noise of doors opening, and a chorus of footfalls briskly moving up the hallway. For a precious moment, too long but too sweet, the two stood, eyes looking towards the distant figures moving closer in the torchlight.
“Quickly!” Isabella shook of her surprise and terror, pointing towards the passageway du Roche had stepped out of only too briefly before. Roland blinked, the nodded. He couldn’t resist one last peck on the cheek before he disappeared into the darkness. As the footfalls drew close, Isabella hurriedly slammed her hand on the stone lever that closed the passageway. As the wooden panel clicked shut, the footfalls came to a sudden halt.
Isabella slowly turned, her heart thundering. Her eyes caught the glint of jewels and fine silks in the dancing firelight, then the dark eyes of her mistress. Awkwardly, Isabella curtsied. For an eternity, it seemed, the Dowager Empress looked her up and down, as if she could peer into her soul. Finally, when it seemed like the torture could last no longer, Empress Sbyslava spoke.
“Who was that man?”
Isabella blanched—she had seen!
“I…” A moment of indecision made her stutter. “Roland du Roche,” Isabella finished quietly with another bow. The game was up—lying to the Dowager Empress would only make the situation worse.
“Ah, the
strategos? A handsome young man,” Sbyslava smiled, looking straight at the hidden passageway Isabella’s love had disappeared behind only moments before. “He serves in the
Vestiaroi cavalry, I believe, does he not?”
“Yes,” Isabella said, before catching herself. “I do believe that is the case, Majesty,” she quickly added, stared at the ground, wincing, waiting.
“Bah, you know so!” the Empress chuckled, the noise gentle as the tinkle of shattered glass, “You aren’t a fool who wouldn’t know her lover’s posting in the army. You’re far too intelligent for that!”
“Majesty, it’s not that! I…” Isabella tried to protest. If the Empress found out! If there was a scandal…
Her words skittered to a halt as the Empress waved her hand. De Bevere’s heart fell. She’d broken her vows as a handmaiden to the Empress, she’d embarrassed herself before the Dowager Empress herself! She’d be punished! Banished! He’d be imprisoned for entering the Empress’ apartments! Images of terror filled her mind as she felt her knees tremble under her dress.
Her heart leapt into her throat as Sbyslava turned back to her, a smile still on her face.
A smile?
“Please, Isabella,” the Dowager Empress said slowly, as if carefully selecting each and every word, “continue your… relations…with du Roche. It would hurt my conscience if I… spoiled… young love.”
“I…”
“However,” the Empress’ eyes narrowed until they were sharp and venomous, her smile cold, “in return for my graciousness I expect you to perform a duty for your mistress.”
“A duty?” Isabella swallowed. She’d heard stories of the ‘duties’ that her mistress assigned. Empress Sbyslava had a considerable purse and estates granted on her husband’s death. She had her own network of informants—some said this strange death or that untimely demise was due to her assassins…
“Do not be afraid, child,” the Empress’ smile grew positively wicked, and at any moment Isabella expected a forked tongue to leap from between her lips. “I simply want to know more about this
strategos. Who he speaks of, where he goes, who his friends are… anything he tells you.”
“S…spy?”
“Not spy. Report,” the Empress gently patted her cheek. “No harm will come to him, child…” the Empress’ voice dropped to a whisper, rasping through the air like the first touch of winter’s chill, “unless you keep secrets from me. Then…” the Empress’ lips still curled back in a smile, but Isabella felt the eyes of a lioness staring at her soul.
“Of…of course, August Majesty,” she trembled as she curtsied before her mistress.
“Thank you, Isabella,” the Empress said curtly, not giving de Bevere time to focus her thoughts. “You may go, and take care to not get pregnant.” Sbyslava smiled, her teeth glinting like fangs in the torchlight. “We wouldn’t want a scandal, would we?”