Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

First off...there are now three people interested in writing about Theodoros... so I have an idea—an interim contest! Assuming there's interest (as well as mod approval, if necessary), I'll formulate some rules for people to PM or email me a post about where they think Theodoros would end up in an alternate version of this alternate history. If you're interested, please so (and Mr Capiatlist, if I could get your approval as well? The whole thing would remain confined to this thread...)

For those who are interested, here is what I can remember of Theodoros' stats... the actual numbers, etc. were lost when my computer crashed unfortunately:

Martial: Average
Diplomacy: Terrible... it was 3 or 4.
Intrigue: The only one I remember—0
Stewardship: Average.

One of his traits was indulgent, I remember that, and I kind of concieved him as somewhat petulant, and a tad whiny, but never got to write much about him. I'd be excited to see what you guys can come up with!

On another note, due to some prodigious amounts of productivity this weekend, chances are there will be at least two, possibly three or more updates this week! I've been chugging along writing wise, so I hope everyone enjoys the ride!



February 1st, 1312

Konstantinopolis


Guillaume d'Ockham checked the longsword he only wore on ceremonial occasions and sighed as the silver and gold traced scabbard clicked against his uncomfortably jeweled belt. A great ruby in the pommel slid against his fingers as he started to adjust his silk and cloth of gold doublet, then the gold and sapphire chains of his great office. He normally wouldn't dress so finely—a simple silken doublet, signet rings and chain of office would do on most occasions. His face was well known in the city, be it from the inns, brothels, and other myriad of investments he owned.

Today, however, was different.

I hate this ceremonial sword, d'Ockham growled to himself as he stalked through one of the many gates in the Sea Wall that led to the docks in the Golden Horn, a kentarchoi of men of the City Watch falling behind, their yellow cloaks billowing grandly. The Megoslogothetes ran a hand through his long blonde hair—yes, it was straight. He'd been in the midst of an important appointment when the news had first arrived. It wasn't every day that he had the chance to visit one of the many brothels he owned throughout The City, or enjoy himself during the process. He'd been very irate at first when one of his attendants burst into the room while he was mid-coitus, until the man shouted out the news already on the lips of everyone in the city.

80 longships had been spotted north on the Bosphorus, making sail for the city.

Varangians merchants probably, he told himself as the bevy of sails rounded the cape of Galata and entered the Golden Horn proper, the drums of the ten dromons escorting the small armada echoing off the various Sea Walls of the great city all around. The newcomers flew a strange flag—blue with a white chi, it seemed. As the drew closer, d'Ockham could make out the men on their decks of the strange longships—giants, it seemed, all clad in a garish riot of checkered robes and clashing colors.


Barbarians, Guillaume grimaced, not Varangians. I know how to deal with the Danes at least.

Barbarians he would have to deal with. Amongst all the pomp and circumstance of being Megoslogothetes, Guillaume d'Ockham did find himself with one unenviable task—he was directly in charge of law and order within Konstantinopolis. The Imperial Navy was charged with keeping the peace on the water—from the rowboat that arrived earlier at the docks, it was clear the Megas Doux had deemed this mob of men visitors, not a military threat, and was escorting them to shore. On land, with the Megoskyriomachos out of the city, touring the camps of the new Haemutikon Stratos and the Dowager Empress preoccupied with petitioners, it fell on Guillaume d'Ockham to sort out what was happening and make sure the newest 'guests' of Konstantinopolis didn't cause too much trouble.

“Where did they say they were from again?” d'Ockham looked over at Kephalos Gennadios Phokas, the chief harbormaster of the entire Golden Horn and the man who'd issued the hurried call for the Megoslogothetes to come to the harbor as quickly as possible.

“Some place named Skotia, My Lord,” the barrel chested Roman grunted, the chains of his office tinkling against his overgrown belly. From his previous dealings with the normally fastidious magistrate, the sudden appearance of so many foreigners, unannounced, no doubt was driving him to fits. “Tagmata have...”

“Been deployed in key positions should trouble arise,” d'Ockham nodded before the glorified clerk could finish his question. 80 longships could hold maybe 1,600 men? No horses, if there were that many. Not enough to pose a problem in a city the size of Konstnatinopolis, but nonetheless, the Vestiari had abandoned their mounts and been deployed by the Sea Walls, just in case—although by the noises above and behind him, d'Ockham was sure a large throng of idle cityfolk were now mixed in, watching the strange people float in.

Finally the dromons broke off from the impromptu procession, leaving the longships to plod their way to the empty quays on the dock. D'Ockham could hear orders being barked in some strange language that sounded remotely like Danish, and as the ships neared the dock, the garish men in front began to blow into their strange flutes. The bags before them inflated with an audible rush of air, and then a dissonant, terrible wail rose in the air. The crowd on the Sea Wall above him hissed, and d'Ockham could imagine them covering their ears much as the Kephalos next to him did. Guillaume, however, stood transfixed—he'd never heard anything like this before. Slowly, the discordant screeching fell into something resembling a warbling note, a thunderous howl rolled across the water. Guillaume frowned...yes, it was music!


The droning howl of those pipes continued as the longships finally drew up to the quay, and several of the men quickly leaped onto the docks and began tying their vessels up. Guillaume glanced down at his doublet, then his chains and rings—yes, they were in place enough to impress a barbarian, he hoped. He took a deep breath, and stepped forward. In response, one of the unruly giants, a huge man with a red mane that stretched down to his shoulders and a beard that seemed to engulf his face, stepped forward as well.

“I takes from the wailin' of yer smallfolk,” the giant pointed to the seawalls as the droning 'music' came to a halt, “that they not be likin' the bagpipes?”

He knows at least some Greek, thank God, Guillaume thought. He'd planned to try Danish first, and if that'd failed, well, he had no backup plan.

“They are not used to them,” d'Ockham said diplomatically, while offering the hand with his signet ring. Like he expected, the barbarian glanced at his hand only a moment, before going on as if nothing had happened. None of them know they must show obeisance to a Roman official...

“Och aye,” the burly man grunted.

Och aye? Guillaume blinked. He didn't recognize that language at all.

“Me lads were simply playin' a wee tune for ye,” the man went on in his accented Greek. “ 'Tis called Alba an Aigh. King Caustantin said his foster father war' fond 'o music. Him bein' Roman, I taught you all be like?”

“I beg to say...what...is...that?” Guillaume gestured to the enormous pommel and hilt poking over the barbarian's shoulder. It had to be a sword, one even larger than the Kyriofonias that Andronikos proudly wore by his side at all times! He looked at the crowd of them disembarking in the most unruly manner. Yes... they all had massive swords...every last man.

Guillaume looked down at his own hip—suddenly his longsword didn't seem so long anymore...

“Och aye, that be ma' claymore!” the big man laughed. “ 'Tis a sword big enough for a Scotsman, not like them wee daggers ye have strapped by yer side, eh?”


“Ah,” was all Guillaume was able to say. A monster blade like that could cleave through lamellar like it was nothing more than a haunch of a venison... “Um... what is your name, good sir? And what is...”

“Ma' name is Duncan Mackenzie, of Clan Mackenzie!” the man proudly proclaimed. “Fifth son of Kenneth Mackenzie, chief of Clan Mackenzie! I be fifth or third cousin from the Count of Sutherland, and second cousin of the Earl of Moray! We are a proud, fierce...”

“Um, very well and good,” Guillaume frowned, before the man got going. These foreign types... if you let them go on they'll list every single person they're related to by bastardy to the sixth cousin... “I am Guillaume d'Ockham. I am Megos..., Grand Secretary,” d'Ockham decided to simplify his title, in case the brute wouldn't understand, “to His Majesty, Emperor Andronikos II.”

“Andronikos? Secon'? Och aye...” the Scotsman grunted. “We were supposed to be meetin' an Andronikos, aye, but the first, not the secon'! What 'appened to the first one?”

“He...”

“Guillaume?” the burly man's eyes suddenly narrowed. His entire body tensed up, like some enormous bear preparing to charge. “You not bein' a Frenchie, are ya?”

“I...my father,” Guillaume laughed uneasily, “was an Englishman who was exiled. I...”

“Aha!” the man's laughter roared over the quays, “Boys, it be anotha' bastard the Frenchies pissed on! Any man,” he turned back to d'Ockham, “the Frenchies hate be a friend o' Duncan Mackenzie, aye! Ah wish I coulda kilt more o' them at Comnyn Moor!”

“I...” d'Ockham shook his head. “Um, Lord Duncan,” he decided to offer the courteous title, “you never finished stating your purpose here in...”

“Och aye!” the man laughed again. “Ah forget! Yammerin' on ah was! We be sellswords, hired by Andronikos, the first 'un! Set out in 1302, we did, but we got waylaid in tha north—wee problem with the Bohemiers and the Rus. Aye, the truth, it took a damn decade to sort it out with our claymores!”

“Um... alright,” Guillaume blinked. Sellswords, a decade late? For a moment he wondered what in the blazes of hell could have delayed them for a full decade, till he remembered the Kingdom of Bohemia and the Rus had been locked in a rather bloody war this entire time. They saw the opportunity for a side contract, and didn't realize how long it would take? They got bored and pillaged around the north till they were tired of that too? There was no telling with this mob. “I presume you have the contract?”


“Aye,” Mackenzie fished around in a leather bag strapped to his waste, before producing two parchments—one with a broken seal Guillaume didn't recognize and in florid Greek, stating the mercenary band, 2,500 strong, was sent out on the orders of King Konstantinos IV of the Scots to fulfill a contract with Andronikos I, Emperor of the Romans. The other parchment was still closed with a seal Guillaume hadn't seen in a decade—that of Andronikos, First of His Name, Megas Komnenos. Guillaume took the latter, and tore it open. A quick skim confirmed it backed up everything Mackenzie said.

“So, you are as you say,” he murmured.

“Aye, and had a hell time gettin' to ye. Lord Protectah, God bless 'is soul, said we shouldn't be goin'. 'E had no use for gold,” Mackenzie grinned. D'Ockham winced—it was a big, empty maw save for a single misshapen hook that passed for a tooth. “Gold is useless, a soldjah, aye, that's useful, is what 'e'd say. But good King Caunstantin, God bless 'im,” the Scotsman laughed, “'e said 'e's got plenty o'soldjahs, but not enough gold! Soldjahs is good at fightin', aye, but gold, it buys soldjahs, lands, castles, even an enemy. 'E even took the money ere before we left!” The all-mouth grin returned. “Aye, King Caustantin, 'e be a clever one!”


“So this contract is...already paid for?” Guillaume asked, still watching the rest of the 'Highlanders.' A gust of wind arose, and several of their leines flew up a tad too high for d'Ockhams tastes. There were more gasps from the battlements above. Several of the Scotsman laughed—one went so far as to lift his leine again for the the benefit of the crowd, loudly roaring on in his barbaric tongue. A few others flashed their hands forward in an obscene gesture. Mackenzie spotted them too, and immediately a series of harsh, staccato commands roared from the Scotsman's mouth. Immediately the pranksters stopped.

“Sorry, milord,” Mackenzie sounded anything but, “the lads be a mite feisty now that they be troddin' the land again. Aye, the contract's been paid, all sorted on account. We lost a good many up north in the fightin', but we still be thousand five hundert claymores for ye. Daily pay there is, though. The men git a silver a day, each man. Commanders get a gold. I get ten gold.”

Guillaume nodded, quickly doing math in his head. 1,500 men... they probably have 5 or ten commanders, plus Lord Loudmouth here in charge... that comes to... 200 gold solidii a day, at worst? Brothel income, plus the levies from the Thracian estates... Numbers came together in that instant, and Guillaume smiled.

“Well, seeings that your previous employer is deceased, I would hate for you to have to sail home with no prospects of income,” d'Ockham smiled. “I'll take you into my personal service.”


March 19th, 1312

Damascus, Syria

“To our Amir, may victory continue to shine on his efforts!”

Inshallah!” the qabbatin of the Jayshallah raised their hands in salute.

Taqi a-din ibn Taymiyya smiled, for more than just their accolades over his success. Amir, they call me. They have learned their lesson. Gone were accolades for the Seyfullah, the salawati, the praise that bordered on worship. Here, now, were simple men, officers, saluting their commander. Nothing more, nothing less.

The way things should be, Taymiyya raised his hands to quiet them.

“I do not deserve all the praise,” Taymiyya said. “We owe a salute to the men of the Jayshallah, who worked tirelessly during the eight month siege. All that time they never gave in to fear, and never lost hope that Damascus, the ancient seat of the Ummayad, would once again return to the hands of the Faithful! We also must remember our friend Hassan,” Taymiyya gestured to the Qubtan. “Taking the Burj Ahmar was no small feat,” Taymiyya nodded to the beaming man. The young man, along with 40 others from his unit, had scaled the famous Red Tower along Damascus' walls in the dead of night, and overwhelmed the soldiers inside. They then threw down ropes. By morning, 500 of Taymiyya's men were on the walls, and had stormed the Palmyra Gate. The city defenders surrendered less than a day later.


Only two weeks before, the qabbatin had met inside Taymiyya's linen tent, filled with the dirt and dust of a campaign. Today, they met inside the old Ummayad Mosque. Men from the Jayshallah had already taken down the gold crosses that had once graced her minarets—to the Romans, she was the Church of St. Demetrius, dedicated to warrior son of the man who'd taken the city from the Muslims. Taymiyya had ordered the crosses, as well as the images of the Christian saint, put into storage. They weren't fit to be inside a Muslim holy place, period.

They would defile our holy places. I shall respect theirs. Men must respect men, Taymiyya had said often, if they want to be godly.

In Taymiyya's experience, that was something the Romans had always lacked—respect. They were Lords of the Universe, and carried themselves as such. Anyone who was not a Roman, bearing a Greek name and speaking the proper lilted accent of Konstantinopolis, was a barbarian in their eyes. They even treated each other with disrespect.

Like the Syrian branches of the Komnenos, Taymiyya grimaced. The two sides had spent the better part of a decade warring and raiding each other, despite being distant cousins and titularly members of the same empire. Only the threat of the Jayshallah managed to convince them to set aside their differences in the face of a common threat. The two sides mustered their hosts the previous spring, 25,000 men from Antioch, another 20,000 from Edessa, intent on ending Taymiyya once and for all. If their hosts had combined, they would have outnumbered Taymiyya's advance guard of the Jayshallah two to one.

Those were dire days Taymiyya remembered well. By April 8th, the Antiochean host was near Tyrus, while the Edessan army had approached Palmyra. Prudence might have dictated that Taymiyya hold his ground in Galilee or even backpedal, to call on men from Gaza or the qabbatin watching the Sinai.

Prudence and tactical necessity, however, did not always make good bedfellows. If Taymiyya waited, the Romans could march into the Golan Heights, unite their armies, and face even the full-strength Jayshallah with a numerical, as well as equipment advantage. The Syrian armies had been honed by years of skirmishing between the factions—they were veterans, bloodied, and would not break easily—a far cry from the Levantikon, or even the Army of Princes.

Faced with an unenviable position, where prudence dictated retreat, Taymiyya chose to attack. Quickly, he rushed into the Golan Heights with the advance qabbatin of al-Qayyim and Hassan, his best 10,000 men, and waited—a small force was both faster, and easier to hide amongst the hills. Most of the men had bows as at least a secondary weapon, and had been longstanding men of the Jayshallah for at least five years—Taymiyya's own crack troops.

There was sound reasoning behind such a seemingly suicidal move. Taymiyya had realized that the Romans were united against the Jayshallah, but there was little else holding the two factions together—only a year before, they had been the bitterest of enemies. A cat and a dog in a sinking barrel will not work together to live, Taymiyya remembered his stepfather saying once. It was the same with those Romans—the Antiocheans had boldly advanced southeast from Tyrus to Baalbek, while the Edessans had dallied in Damascus. No doubt there were plots and plans running amok between the two factions, but the end result was the same.

The Antiocheans marched into the Golan alone, their allies barely two days march away in Damascus...

“Fifteen thousand prisoners!” al-Qayyim laughed, pulling Taymiyya back to the present conversation. “What shall we do with them?”

“March them into the Sinai,” Hassan the Hero, as he was now jokingly called, offered, “or south to the Levant, and make them slaves to our brethern already repopulating the region?”

“No, we offer them a chance to reject their polytheism,” Taymiyya said, “and embrace Islam. If they do so, we will honor them, allow them eat our bread, drink our drink, and ride with us to battle. If they do not, we send them north.” We could use more men, and keep our good reputation...

“Why north?” al-Qayyim raised an eyebrow—he clearly knew his old friend was thinking of something.

“If they are like most Romans,” Taymiyya smiled, “they won't want to admit they were broken by an army of kafirs, peasants, and gnats,” Taqi drew on the old letter from Galilee once more. “They'll invent a host of reasons why they lost—they'll tell the northern Syrians we had many times our number, that we rode demon horses or that we came flying out of the sun!”

Chuckles went around the huddled group of leaders, then laughter.

“Whatever they say,” Taymiyya held up his hand, “they will spread fear, and maybe, just maybe, some of the Roman cities to the north will throw open their gates instead of fight. Inshallah, we will save time, lives, and take those cities intact!”

“Inshallah,” the qabbatin agreed.

The Battle of Golan had hardly been a battle in Taymiyya's eyes—it was more a three day long skirmish, where the Roman army found itself herded deeper and deeper into the hills while attacks nipped and tore at its flanks. When the end came on April 14th, 1312, the great Antiochean host fought for only three hours before its Prince fled, leaving his men to surrender or die. En masse, the remaining 10,000 survivors who had not deserted, fled or been killed, knelt in the dust.


“We'll need it,” al-Qayyim nodded. “The Edessans still have half an army after Palmyra, and while we laid siege to Damascus, my little birds say they've been laying spears in the hands of every freedman they can find, and throwing coin at sellswords throughout the eastern Mediterranean. If we're not careful, Amir, they might have another army come next spring.”

“We'll smash that one too,” Taymiyya smiled thinly, “and finish the job.” There's now 30,000 of the Jayshallah in Syria. The Edessans won't be a problem...


“Inshallah,” al-Qayyim echoed the grin. “They were easy enough to catch in camp. Perhaps next time half their camp won't break and flee so quickly?”

“No matter, their flight gave us innumerable horses and arms!” Hassan rejoined. “And as news of the Amir's victories spread, we will soon have soldiers ride the horses and don the armor!”

“Inshallah, you speak the truth,” Taymiyya nodded. “We'll need the men shortly for what I have planned.”

In truth, the Jayshallah had grown large enough that it was no longer feasible for it to be a single, unified army. Taymiyya's greatest successes had come at the hands of small hosts—25,000 or less, where he could capitalize on speed and manueverability to fight larger foes. If al-Qayyim's recruitment figures were right, the Jayshallah, spread from the Sinai to the south to here at Damascus, was nearing 70,000 strong. Many were raw recruits, however, not seasoned veterans, and giving orders to 70,000 men, let alone supplying them all if they were in one place, would be troublesome at best.

Even laborers have their uses, Taymiyya told himself, and numbers had their uses too. Many were already in garrisons manning the cities of the Levant, and as the Jayshallah moved north, they would need even more men to man city walls, to the point Taymiyya had sent a letter to his friend Abdas, telling him to ask the Caliph to call for more men to aid in the struggle.

We will need men to garrison the north. It's only a matter of time before the young Lion of Konstantinopolis tries to sink his teeth into us. We must be ready...

“And what is that, Amir?” Hassan spoke up. “Perhaps you are considering fulfilling the hadith concerning the Romans?” Hassan asked.

Taymiyya looked at the youngest of his qabbatin. “Which hadith do you speak of?” he said, hoping it wasn't the answer he thought it was.

"Verily you shall conquer Constantinople. What a wonderful leader will her leader be, and what a wonderful army will that army be!" Hassan grinned back. “Amir, Syria is on her knees before us. Damascus, the city they said would never fall, is ours. Antioch, Emessa, Edessa, they all shall shortly follow. Why could Anatolia not be the same? Why not Konstantinyye?”


“Take the Rūmiyyat al-kubra?” Taymiyya asked as he fought to keep his jaw from dropping. Has Hassan lost his wits? The Den of Harlots is heavily guarded! We have no fleet to get to it, let alone the forces to besiege such a fortress!

“Konstantinyye,” Hassan nodded. “The Kayser-i-Rum is campaigning north of Derbent. Tell me, siddiq, if you were him, would you campaign against that jackal Iskander of the Alans with only a part of your army?”

Yes, Taymiyya answered in his mind without hesitation. The Lord of the Alans had affronted Roman honor by naming himself Basilieus—but an affront to honor was not worth the largest city in the world—not to a Roman.

“I would take a few of my best troops,” Taymiyya replied, “leaving the bulk of my army behind, along with a capable and trusted man to lead them. The Alans are not so great as to require the entire army of the Roman Kayser, not if he is as skilled at war as reports insist. No, we secure our northern flanks,” Taqi insisted. Chasing after daydreams, that one, he smiled thinly. Konstantinyye was the source of the great evil, and it's conquest would be a worthy victory, a crowning achievement, and the fulfillment of prophecy of hadith, but not yet. The Roman had an army waiting, no doubt, and the Jayshallah was not strong enough to march so far from home in strength to fight the Romans.

Not yet.

“But Amir,” Hassan started to protest, before the words fell into nothing. The qubtan looked around—the other qabbatin stood sullen, but silent. They clearly did not agree with their Amir,, but it wasn't the first time, nor the last. Seeing their silent acceptance of the word of their commander, Hassan bowed his head.

Taymiyya smiled. There was a day only a few years before that Sabbah, Hassan, even al-Qayyim would have lauded Taqi as the Seyfuallah, dumped plaudits and salawati on his name, and urged him as the Ever Victorious Leader to march to the Gates of Hell themselves. Now, they understood—Taqi a-Din ibn Taymiyya was a military commander and a scholar... no more, no less. It'd taken three long, bloody years, but the qabbatin, and the army, had finally learned what God required of them.

“Inshallah, one day we will march on Konstantinyye,” Taymiyya couldn't help but smile—he knew their coming reaction, and it made him beam with the same joy a father had for a son who had finished memorizing the Qu'ran. “I have prayed to God for many weeks, asking for His guidance, and I am at peace with the following decision: we shall take Antioch, Emessa and Edessa. No further north. Our goal will be to secure our northern flank and block the Romans of Konstantinyye from interfering while we march on our true goal.”


Taqi smiled—the answer after his prayer and fasting made sense to his military mind too. Antioch, Edessa and Emessa were all great Roman cities, with strong walls and ample supplies for great garrisons. With the expected reinforcements from Persia, Taymiyya would have more than enough men to properly hold these cities against a Roman onslaught—and no Roman army from Anatolia could advance south without taking all of these great fortresses, lest their supplies be threatened by any remaining members of the Jayshallah.

Taymiyya paused, letting the promise of what was to come linger in the air like the smell of fresh bread. He watched the qabbatin to a man lean forward slightly. He could feel their minds reaching for the unspoken thought, the name of the place so important that Taymiyya would not immediately fulfill the prophecy of the hadith before the Roman emperor returned from campaign.

“Al-Qayyim,” Taymiyya decided to draw it out a little longer, “I want you to muster three qabbatin's worth of men, and mount them on camels. Hassan, you muster six more qabbatin, and you both will march to Baalbek. You will train there, and gather supplies for these forces to march across the desert...”

Taymiyya saw al-Qayyim's face start to beam. He knows. Good.

“...that will leave me with ten qabbatin in the north to take Antioch, and Sabbah, you will take five to Emessa,” Taymiyya went on. By now, Hassan's face was etched with a slowly growing smile. “Hassan, I want you to head to Baghdad, then Isfahan. You will talk personally with Khalifa al-Mutawakkil, and ask His Highness to call for more volunteers to join our ranks. We'll need them, if we intend to take and hold those cities to protect our flank while we march south.”

“Amir, where...” Sabbah, always the last to grasp something, asked the question on everyone's mind.

“After we secure the north,” Taymiyya's smile became huge, “we will turn south, and march on Mecca. Inshallah.”


So part one of the double or triple parter concludes with Guillaume buying mercenary Scots who have arrived years late (the special mission of Godwin Haroldsson), and Taymiyya plotting on how to secure Syria so he can return to Mecca. Why does Guillaume want mercenaries? Will Taymiyya's plan come to fruition, or will the regrouping Edessans foil his plans? More to come shortly!

Hey everyone! Next part of the update is ready! I think I'll hold off on replies till a little later in the week--hopefully we'll get word back from the mods by then, and I'll be able to address everyone's comments and questions at once!



August 5th, 1312

Konstantinopolis

For many years, the Grand Audience Hall of the Kosmodion was considered its greatest architectural wonder. The massive vaulted ceiling emblazoned with brilliant frescoes of saints and emperors soared fifty feet above the intricate designs in marble below. The immense weight was held up by eight massive columns of malachite and porphry, gilded figures of angels as their capitals, and the stern faces of ancient emperors of old glaring from their sides. Legend said Thomas III had issued an edict ordering any remaining bust or statue of the ancient emperors brought to Konstantinopolis, to serve as a model for the sculptors. As Dowager Empress Sbyslava walked past the seemingly endless columns, she smiled as she passed the impassive face of Traianus.

My son could be a new Traianus, she thought.


She blinked immediately after, as after she passed each column a riot of colored light from the east blasted her view. Along each side of the immense hall, great colored glass windows depicting various images of the Megas and the Megaloprepis loomed, as if sternly reminding all present the history, pomp, and power behind the Throne of Caesars. She raised his hand and looked to a towering image of Basil III, Kyriomachos aloft and a cross in hand, towering over a miniscule Cordoba.

My son will follow your footsteps to Spain, she nodded to the colossal glass figure. He'll bring back what you gave us, and rebuild what was lost.

The Imperial Dais itself was dominating by the official Imperial Throne, commissioned during the reign of Andronikos I, made of ebony, bronze and studded with precious stones, towering a full twelve feet over its occupant. Angels and emperors in relief adorned its sides, and at its summit stood the Komnenid double eagle in gold relief, enormous emeralds sparkling as each bird's eye. Streaming down the steps of the dais was a richly made carpet in tyrian purple, flanked on every other step by a mechanical beast covered in giltwork, its mouth opening and closing on command. Bronze poles lofted up a tyrian purple curtain of the lightest silk—should the Emperor command, it could be drawn shut before the throne, allowing petitions to see not a man, but a shadowy, otherworldly figure moving behind those purpled veils.

Sbyslava strode confidently up those steps to her own place—a smaller ebony chair to the right of her son's rightful seat, covered with deep velvet cushions of tyrian purple. It was her proper place—as Regent in her son's absence, she was not entitled to sit in the Great Seat of the Emperor. Someone, however, had to take the daily Hour of Petitions on the behalf of her campaigning son. Normally it would be a task the Regent would do alone, but her son had specified that Megoskyriomachos du Roche was to 'assist' in this important daily task.

The roach thinks he gains on the lion, she thought sourly as she settled into her seat. If du Roche's goal had been to nip into her power, he'd failed—she still had final say on petitioner's matters by her son's will. If his goal was to annoy her...

...the wretch is doing better than he deserves, she thought, as the Imperial Chamberlain slowly climbed the twenty-five steps up to the dais before her. His thickly jeweled hands held a small stack of letters—the most important of the written petitions that daily flooded the palace.

As the Chamberlain offered her each letter in turn, she wondered if du Roche really thought he was winning. It'd been eight years since her son had taken the throne, and each time he'd left on campaign, she was named Regent. It is regular, and it shall always stay that way, she thought, shaking her head at a complaint from Wallachian noble, My son knows I serve him and his interests. He will trust me with these duties till little Petros becomes a man grown, ready to practice at ruling.

The thought of her eldest legitimate grandson made her smile slightly. Petros was bigger than most of the other five year olds in the palace, a pudgy lad who had as much a taste for sweetcakes as he did wooden swords and his father. Two nights before he'd sworn he would become a great general like his 'dearest papa.' His mother Helena had sourly told him he needed to be more attentive to his tutors, and avoid sweetcakes so much—a sentiment Sbyslava agreed with.


“Hmmm,” Sbyslava read the next petition, from the same daughter-in-law in fact. Empress Helena wanted 5,000 silver solidii from the treasury to patronize a new church in Gaza once the late revolt of Taymiyya was beaten back and order restored. “Of course,” she signed off on the request. She's a good woman—loving, a good mother, and forgiving of my son's... transgressions. I could not ask for a better daughter-in-law... so long as her father is happily besieging Vienna. If he need's something though... Sbyslava shook the images of Helena's nagging from her mind. Not today—she had enough nagging to contend with already.


The next petition came from her other full-blooded son—Heraklios, now 19 in his own right. It appeared his stipend as a member of the Purple Family, as well as his salary as a strategos were not enough. He asked for a forward of 500 gold solidii as well as an annual increase of 2,000 solidii to his stipend, saying a portion of his villa had cracks in the roof, and that his prodigious size meant he 'consumed much meat, in order to stay strong and lead men into battle.' Sbyslava hissed through her teeth—her little birds told her that Heraklios' money problems had less to do with unforseen repairs to his villa and food expenses, and more to due with a gambling debt.

He runs around with d'Ockham and his damn Scots too much, she thought as she shook her head. The chamberlain quietly folded the petition and placed it in a satchel for requests that were denied. I counseled Andronikos to name Heraklios Megas Domestikos, to give the boy something to keep him from being an idle commander of an idle regiment. And now, he's d'Ockham's cup bearer at their nightly bacchanalia.


The very name of her son's best friend made her grimace.

Stupid boy, Sbsylava wanted to snarl. The Megoslogothetes was scarcely 20, yet he was overflowing with golden solidii thanks to her son and his devilishly clever mind. He held brothels, taverns, as well as farm estates in Thrace, a mountain of income that by her own estimates, rivaled those of many landed Princes. He doesn't realize that he soils my son's name with his constant whoring and business interests, or that Andronikos is following his example!

That was what truly worried the Dowager Empress—her son was 22 and already had three bastards. Three! Doesn't he recognize the trouble they could cause him down the line! Doesn't he remember his half-brother Manuel? she wanted to scream. There was only one reason why her boy, her charming boy she'd raised to be emperor, would do things so reckless to his legacy. D'Ockham!

Lately she'd sent some of her men to watch the young Megoslogothetes, looking for some opening, some way to remove him from his post of influence to save her son. She'd heard rumors that he dabbled in usury like a Muslim or a Jew, but none of her Filoi had been able to find concrete information on such a damning charge. A pity, she told herself, as it might have persuaded Andronikos it is time to grow up, to be an emperor, and shed the childhood friends that hold him back!

Now the young d'Ockham bastard had recruited, out of the blue, 1,500 barbarians from Scotland. Scotland! she hissed to herself, watching as one of his Lofandroi stalked the edge of the audience hall, clad in bright plaid yellow and green, a concoction of color that burned the Dowager Empress' eyes. They were all like that—loud, garish, drunk, and parading around the city with their enormous two-handed swords for all to see. It made her think of the old Varangian Guard, and all the pains it caused the Emperors before the Komnenoi. The only thing worse than their attitude and drunkenness were the damn pipes some of them played all hours of the day, making a hellish racket throughout their Blacharnae barracks and all the areas around.


He is a bad influence, she told herself, dismissing yet another written petition from another displaced abbot from Egypt who lost his monastery and lands due to the Aionite takeover. We don't have the resources to help you, she wanted to say as she scribbled her apologies, we have too many problems to deal with at home, like the men who would lead my son into the dark wilderness for their own gain!

“Are there any more written petitions?” Sbyslava asked. They were the more tedious part of the daily ritual in the Great Audience Hall, and she was loathe to deal with any more pompous requests in florid Alexandrian Greek.

“None, Your Grace,” the chamberlain bowed.

“Are there plenty of…”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the chamberlain said, an apology apparent in his tone.

Of course there are more landless Egyptians… always more landless Egyptian cousins… she grimaced. It’d been that way for years, ever since the Egyptian Prince declared his land one for Aionites and Copts.

“Very well, logothetes. Send the rest in.”

At first, Sbyslava had put the seemingly idiotic declaration to the fickleness of love. Isaakios had married into a wealthy, influential Coptic family—a covetous Coptic family. My, how they quickly forgot the Tenth Commandment, Sbyslava thought dourly as the chamberlain slammed his great staff into the marble of the Great Audience Hall.

They didn't fall into the heresy, but they are laying hands on as much as they can by their relative's new-found faith, Sbyslava grunted. The Metropolitan of Aswan had been only the first to complain about his seized lands. Then came the Skleroi of Damietta, then the Chrysothrakesoi of Gaza, then the Komnenodukoi, then the Komnenoskleroi... the list went on. Noble after noble, all proudly Orthodox, all fled the declaration that proclaimed their faith an anathema and a jizya upon their heads. They were powerless—as the Metropolitan had keenly pointed out, most of his own thematakoi[i/] were either Aionites or Copts, and would've gladly thrown him out if he hadn't fled. All told tales of countless cousins, brothers, or uncles who had stayed behind, and were unjustly paying twice or thrice their normal scutage to the Egyptian lord, their own armies threatening them if they didn't. It was a political earthquake, cowing the rivals of Prince Isaakios or rendering him impotent, while raising important family allies.

In one fell swoop, the man has secured Egypt wholly, utterly for himself and his family, all while Romanion is too busy tearing itself apart to stop him. The Orthodox Roman part of Sbyslava was horrified, but one part of her, the side that plotted, schemed, and even ordered death in the name of her son, could only nod in approval. Well played, Isaakios. Well played.

“Will the Megoslogothetes be joining us today, Majesty?” Sbyslava heard the Megoskyriomachos slither up next to her. The Dowager Empress fought the urge to shiver in the presence of Roland du Roche—she wasn't afraid of the man, not by any means, but despite all her attempts to curb his power, even attempting to take his life, he still outmaneuvered her. Now he was Megos Domestikos, with the full backing of the army thanks to his part in the great victory on the Pruth. Sbsylava had since abandoned plans to erase him from power, and had spent the last three years concentrating on holding what she had—control of the Regency during the Emperor's absence, as well as imperial finances.

Even these handholds, it seemed, were slowly slipping out of her grasp, as letter after letter announced a new position or new responsibility for the glorious Megoskyriomachos...

“No,” Sbyslava swallowed to get rid of the sour taste in her mouth. “He's off hunting with Princes Kappadokia and Athenai, along with the Komes of Nikomedia.”

“Mmmm,” du Roche nodded, rocking on his heels.

Sbyslava frowned.

Nine years of working with a man she couldn't trust for her life meant she watched him closely, trying her best to gain any insight she could into how he thought. Did he crinkle his brow when he was lying? Did he have a tic when he was thinking seriously? Through this observation she'd noticed one sure behavior—whenever du Roche was worried, he rocked on his heels slightly.

He was worried about d'Ockham.

Guillaume? That playboy? Sbyslava sarcastically laughed inside her mind. He's good at cards and plotting is way into women's bedchambers, no more! He danger because his presence slanders Andronikos, and no more. He probably thinks wandering around the city with hundreds of barbarians at his beck and call will make him more attractive to women, she snorted.

“Something on your mind, Majesty?” du Roche asked quietly.

“The half-truths to come,” she sighed.

“All petitioners seeking the word of the Throne of Caesars, now enter!” the chamberlain thundered, as the great bronze doors swung open.

One by one, petitioners filed into the Great Audience Hall—a sea of priests, nobles, and merchants, all the peacockery of the world slowly covering the great marble floors before the grand dais. She was more than a little surprised—the usual slew of Egyptian nobles and clergy were not to the front. For the better part of a decade, they'd been at the forefront, demanding immediate action that was never granted.

Today, however, another contingent was clearly in the fore, clad in the yellows and deep reds of the Syrian Komnenoi. This bodes well, Sbyslava settled into her throne and watched.

As the crowd pushed in, all manners of silk and cloth-of-gold filling the scene, murmurs arose in the air—hurried greetings, grumpy complaints, nervous banter. Sbyslava's ears also picked up the soft hiss of whispers, reeds blowing in the wind of conversation. She tried to listen most closely to these—whispers carried secrets, as well as danger.

Danger she knew all to well.

There were whispers about her, and whispers about the court. These were always carefully muffled—she couldn't hear what any individual person was saying, but she knew some of her Filoi planted around the room would. She also knew what word was being bandied about.

Foreigners.

She was a woman of the Rus by birth. Roland du Roche was a Frank. Even Guillaume d'Ockham was a transplanted Englishman. None of the three most powerful people in Konstantinopolis were Roman by blood, and they owed their position to either friendship or blood tie to the Roman Emperor himself. There were forces slowly rising in the city, forces that were unhappy about the distinct lack of Roman...flavor...amongst the highest echelons of government.

As her eyes scanned the room, she recognized a handsome man in a doublet of dark red with four angels woven into the front with gold thread and semi-precious stones—the chief murmurer, Theophilos Angelos, son of the late, great Ioannis Angelos. As recent as a decade before, his family had been the most prominent house in Anatolia—he had inherited his father's title of Despotes, as well as command of the Anatolikon Stratos. he was wed to the daughter of Emperor Andronikos I, making him a brother-in-law to Sbyslava's own son. Everything seemed primed for the young man to take his father's former paramount position in the Empire... Pandomestikos ton Anatolikon, perhaps even a high court title such as Megoskyriomachos seemed to be spelled out in his future.

Then came the Halys River.

The defeat wasn't Angelos' fault by any means—Emperor Nikephoros V was the one that misread Persian intentions and designed the resulting faulty deployment. Angelos' Anatolikon fought as well as could be expected, but in defeat, the Prince had promptly retreated to Ikonion and shut the gates of the city. When Alexandros III marched triumphantly into Konstantinopolis, Angelos was among the first to kneel—and as a result, during the brief reign of Manuel II, he was amongst the first to lose all dignities save his princely title. When the whirlwind of war had ceased, Theophilos Angelos found himself only a Prince—no army command, no Despotes title. The Anatolikon itself had practically ceased to exist as an independent command—most of its men had been siphoned off to restock the new Basilikon Stratos that formed the personal army of the new Emperor.

So now, six years later, the former Despotes of Anatolia was now a Prince among many. Even his close family ties to the reigning Emperor in Konstantinopolis availed him nothing—Sbyslava thought him a threat to her son's rule, and purposefully sidelined the Prince of Ikonion from important duties. She knew he knew of her actions, but he also blamed Roland du Roche as well—the 'foreign sirens,' as he called the two of them. Why should the Emperor, especially the son of Theophilos' own godfather as well as his brother-in-law, be advised by a Dane and a Frank? Why should a Dane and the Frank be left to run the empire in Regency when there were a good number of well-bred, educated, gifted Roman men in court... men of proper birth, proper training, proper upbringing.

Because I have outmanuevered you time and again, was Sbyslava's answer, and I live and breathe to serve and protect my sons. You would serve yourself—not him, and not the empire.

“Lord Petros Mavrokomnenos, Kephalos of Emessa!” the chamberlain boomed. Sbyslava gave Angelos one last look, before turning to the first petitioner of the day. He wore the bright crimon tunic of Syrian silk, the Komnenoi double-headed eagle above a horizontal scimitar emblazoned above his ample chest and stomach in gold thread. His wispy thin beard hid a triplet of chins that wobbled as he bowed. With all the grace his walrus-like body could muster, he removed the feather-adorned cap that graced his balding head.

“Your Grace,” the Syrian bowed first to Sbyslava, his voice raspy and wet. “My Lord,” he nodded towards the Megoskyriomachos.

“Lord Mavrokomnenos,” Sbyslava nodded as presiding Regent. “State your petition before the Throne of Caesars.”

“My Lady Regent, My lords,” the man said, ponderously rising from his bow, “a great disaster has befallen all Christendom! Last year, the armies of my master, Prince Komnenoedessa, as well as our allies, the Chrysokomnenoi, were defeated in a series of battles...”

Sbyslava nodded slowly—yes, she knew of Golan and Palmyra well...the idiotic Edessans had purposefully tarried marching into the Golan Heights, hoping that the heathen Taymiyya and their rivals, the Antiocheans, would tear each other apart. Instead, the Antiocheans were savagely beaten, and Taymiyya leapt out of the heights and burned the Edessan camps, and mauled their army. Even now they were licking their wounds. Oh, what my son will do when he marches down there! she thought as the Syrian continued to talk of arms captured, cities fallen, and men lost. The Edessans have another army, Sbyslava told herself as he yammered on. Sellswords from across Anatolia and Greece spoke of generous contracts handed out by Prince Komnenoedessa. They'll hold that heathen at bay until...

“...our new host is lost!” Mavorkomnenos exclaimed.

“Lost?” she heard du Roche exclaim as she tried to regain her bearings. How? When? More than 30,000 under arms? How? So soon...

“Five months prior, my master, Prince Komnenoedessa, marched south with a host of 35,000 men, including a great many sellswords,” Mavrokomnenos explained. “His intent was to relieve the beleaguered city of Damascus and the good Christian souls inside, but his army...” the Kephalos' voice cracked slightly, “his army was surprised to find Damascus had fallen, and the infidel was already inside. As he made plans to lay siege to it...”

“...Taymiyya and his army surprised his men in camp?” the Megoskyriomachos groaned a prognostication. Sbyslava stared at the Kephalos, hoping the prediction wasn't true. Immediately a storm of noise erupted around the room—several bishops were already calling out prayers of preservation, dignitaries were crossing themselves, and d'Ockhams Lofandroi barked several sharp words in their own tongue. Even the normally impassive Prince Angelos' eyes were wide at the news.

There is no field army between the heathen and Anatolia...

“No, Your Grace. He had sent scout parties out...”

“God preserve us...” du Roche groaned, holding his head.

Sbyslava wanted to groan herself, or hold her head. No, she told herself. I am Regent, the acting Will of my son in Konstantinopolis. I have to keep dignity, for him!

“...and they reported that the infidel army was to our south, making haste for Bethlehem. One of their outriders was captured, and said they planned to desecrate the birthplace of Our Lord, so my master broke camp and pursued them south, into the Golan Heights, where we were ambushed...”

Sbyslava felt her lip twisting upwards into a snarl. The fools!

“Has this Taymiyya ever desecrated a site holy to Christendom?” she suddenly asked. “Metropolitan Attalos?” she gestured to the highest ranking clergymen from Antioch in court.

“Um, no, Your Majesty,” the elderly man grumbled, before adding, “but his presence there would no doubt leave anyone of the True Faith uneasy. There are doubtless some in his ranks who would wish to...”

“So you master was led into a trap then?” Sbyslava cut the clergyman off with a growl and stared back at the Kephalos. “He was grabbed by the nose and pulled into a trap, the same trap laid for his Antiochean cousins only the year before! The fool!” An echoing murmur ran around the room. The Egyptian expatriates, in particular, sensed blood.

No doubt they want me to dismiss him perfunctorily. They presume they shall have their men afterwards...

“Why, may I ask,” she continued coldly, “should the Throne of Caesars aid nobles who not only have rebelled against it's authority, but who also have shown themselves to be absolute incompetents facing a peasant uprising?” She heard an angry murmur from the peacocks of the Empire—the Egyptian exiles the loudest. After all, every man sent to Syria was a soldier taken away from restoring their[i/] lands...

“I...” Mavrokomnenos stumbled for a moment, his fingers twisting around the cap in his hand, “We come to the throne, Your Grace, as humble children come to their father, as a sinner comes penitent to his priest. We have failed His Majesty, it is true! We have committed the sin of rebellion, but surely, Your Grace, the disasters we have suffered at the hands of this...heathen... have been chastisement enough for our failures!” The cap disappeared almost between his white-knuckled paws. “We are besieged! Tyrus and Palmyra have fallen! The enemy lays siege to Edessa, Emessa, and even Antioch!” Chrysokomnenos cried. “In the name of the Holy Church, we beg you to rescue our city, the seat of a Patriarchate ancient and symbol of Imperial Syria for centuries! We bow before the Throne of Caesars in awe, kneeling to its will, begging it to save us! Without your aid, without your arms, we are doomed!”

Doomed by your own trickery and stupidity, Sbyslava wanted to rejoin, but she bit her lip. The words were beneath the dignity of her office and obvious to anyone who had heard what Mavrokomnenos had said. I wanted my son to let you hang... I had no idea you would willingly kick the stool from under your feet... This was her moment of victory, the reason she'd counseled her son long ago to wait, to set other matters straight before Syria. Yet now, her triumph here, the Syrians humbled and begging for the Throne to save them, the moment felt hollow... dangerously hollow.

Anatolia lay wide open to Taymiyya. Only the fortresses of Antioch, Edessa and Emessa stood in his way...

He won't reach here, Sbyslava told herself. My son will crush them when he returns. He must, she told herself. He is Komnenos, he has the blood of the Megas and the Megaloprepis in his veins! He broke the Danes and the Alans, and he will surely break this heathen fool!

“My Lord,” she called in her calm, steady voice—all needed to hear this message, from Alexandria to even distant Cordoba, “His Majesty is dedicated to restoring the Empire to her rightful place and glory! On His Majesty's behalf, I accept your fealty. Upon His Majesty's return, he shall do everything within his power to restore Syria to her proper place, a jewel within the Roman crown, and drive this heathen dog who has eluded justice too long back to the desert from whence he came!” Slowly she rose from her side throne, holding aloft her son's signet ring, the symbol of her authority in his name. “This, I swear before you all, in the name of His Imperial Majesty, Andronikos II, Megas Komnenos and Lord of All the Romans!”