[Draft title:
1078-1084. Unleash the dogs of war. More. OK, that's enough.]
[Cast:]
Duke Mihailo. Just Mihailo, but a bit more of him. And some occasional silver around the temples.
Brother Wamba. Just as lanky, but getting pudgy around the eyes.
Duchess Binhilde. Rather matronly and as vapid as ever.
Zoltán Nemanjóvic. The lost prince of Serbia, as himself.
Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell. The lost count of Urgell, as himself.
Kettu Rurikovich. The lost duke of Novgorod, as himself.
Hovhannes Senek'erim Gardman-Aghbania. The lost count of Suenik, as himself.
Stupid son Vladimir. We need someone who can play dumb, crippled and whiningly unpleasant. And balding. Ugh.
Bastard son Nikodim. Lamb-eyed, but slightly sinister youth. You could picture him poisoning someone, but never fighting back.
First Squire. Burly youngster, about a finger and a half of forehead and all of it bone.
Second Squire. Nimbler version of the same model. Must look a proper bully.
June 1078. Ducal palace of Zeta, main hall. The Duke arrives late, enters in hunting garb and finds an unscheduled party going on. Strange people in warrior-like apparel are everywhere. A large fellow is serving beer pints from the Duke’s bar, a small fellow is critically perusing the Duke’s liquor cabinet, five scantily-clad old men (one on a wheelchair) are cornering the maids, and the Duchess flutters among the chaos. There is a surprising lack of baby elephants.
[Duke Mihailo, banging the door shut and pretty peeved] What the hell is this!
[The noise gets drowned and the party goes on; almost nobody notices the Duke]
[Black-haired, crooked-nose person by the door, holding a beer] Well, if you ask me, it’s not that bad, really. Drunk some worse along the way. Although I’m not saying it’s exactly good either, can’t get a good brew south of the Alps…
[Duke Mihailo, rounding up on the nondescript person with mock civility] And you are, my dear sir…?
[Black-haired, crooked nose person by the door, half-bowing and slopping beer on the carpet, blissfully unaware of the Duke’s look] Zoltán Nemanjóvic, to serve you and any good-paying cause. One-time prince of the lost kingdom of Serbia. You may have heard about it. A bit to the East of here, until the Bulgarians came…
[Duke Mihailo, bewildered] A Nemanjóvic? And just what are you doing here?
[Zoltán Nemajóvic, looking pained] Well, just what we all are, wouldn’t I? Earning my pay, looking for adventure, a bit of revenge on the side… I joined the Knives only recently, when I heard we would be fighting along the Hard Boiled Eggs. What’s your story?
[Duke Mihailo, absolutely lost] Knives? What’s my…?
[Thin big-headed fellow, with a glass of the Duke’s finest in his hand, ambles forth and joins the conversation] Zoltán asks for your reason to join, good sir. What was it? A lost county, like myself or Johnny? A matter of love? A bet? A severe mental deficiency? By the way, I’m Ermengol. Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell.
[Zoltán Nemajóvic, helpfully] Yeah, I know the Captain likes taking in tough old birds like Cohen and his friends there, but you look somewhat stiffer around the joints. What made you join the merry band? When did you sign up? Have you met the local bigwig we’re helping against the Seljuks?
[Duke Mihailo, glassy-eyed] Seljuks. Oh that. The bigwig. Yes. Well, you can probably find out more from that monk that’s trying to hide behind the column there. Do you mind if I go fetch him?
*
May 1079. Ducal Palace of Zeta. Duke’s working chamber in the highest tower. The Duke is perusing a document, then nods, signs, and carefully seals it.
[Duke Mihailo] Well, it’s done… as soon as this is published, the Duchy will no longer be elective. We’ll be just like any good Catholic country, strictly hereditary.
[Stupid son Vladimir, lounging by the window] And is that good, Dad?
[Duke Mihailo, looking at him quizzically] That depends. It makes our dynasty more secure. On the other hand, if the heir is a half-cooked, effeminate invalid coward, it could be trouble.
[He gets up from his chair, joins his son by the study window].
[Duke Mihailo] Thankfully, your eldest son is shaping up to be the good little bastard that you never were. You only kept the nose of our good neighbor the Prince of Vidin. And your brothers are better at war but not at intrigue. They can't run a Duchy like Dioclea.
[Stupid son Vladimir, wrinkling his brows in an attempt at thought] The nose…? I… don’t… understand.
[Duke Mihailo sighs, pushes] No. Well, I had to try…
[Stupid son Vladimir, flailing] Dad? Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!
*
March 1081. The coast of Alexandretta. An expeditionary force under Dioclean banners is marching up to the Seljuk-held citadel. In the middle of the column, four adventurers march side by side.
[Hovhannes Senek'erim Gardman-Aghbania, whining] All I’m saying is, if you hadn’t opened your big mouth, we could be up there, helping Suenik before the Turks gobble it up. I don’t mind the Emperor gobbling it up, but the Turks, I ask you…
[Kettu Rurikovich, wearing an outfit in desert browns] Lay off him, Johnny. The boy just confused the Duke with me.
[Zoltán Nemajóvic, marching along in the column] Yep. Same bushy eyebrows and pug nose. And, if you ask me, it could have been a lot worse.
[Ermengol de Barcelona, marching by his side] Hmrph. Worse than attacking a fortified Turk town on a Friday?
[Zoltán Nemajóvic] I mean, he didn’t have us all killed, or even fire us. Or he could have made us return the bottles.
[Ermengol de Barcelona, shaking his head] Couldn’t. Those bottles are fair booty. And we were more than his guards.
[Zoltán Nemajóvic] He was really civil, the way I see it. And he didn’t really throttle the monk. I saw him before he boarded ship and he still moved. Or twitched. Sort of.
[Ermengol de Barcelona] Well, it’s not as if the whisky was that good, either.
[Zoltán Nemajóvic, smiling at the thought] And he did send us to war with the Turks, didn’t he? I mean, he could have peaced out when he found that the Hard Boiled Eggs had inadvertently gone and invaded Trapezous. We’d be out of a job. Hey, you may even get Suenik yet!
[Hovhannes Senek'erim Gardman-Aghbania, sourly] Yeah. We only need to beat the Turks off, then beat the Byzantines off, and then prise it from the Duke’s claws. Easy as pie.
[Zoltán Nemajóvic] See?
*
April 1081. Ducal palace of Zeta. Southern grounds, near the stables. Two young squires squat below a tree discussing the news.
[First Squire, sitting on a mound of blankets. The mound stirs and whimpers] So the Pope has called a Crusade? And what does that mean?
[Second Squire, eyeing a passing dog and picking a stone] It means that the Franks will be pestering the Arabs, and nobody will help the Empire against the Turks.
[First Squire, punching the mound, yawning] Yeah, right. Sounds awfully interesting. What I mean is, do we get to go to the Crusades or not?
[Second Squire, shooting the stone and hitting the mark] Naw. If you want to fight, you gotta go to Anatolia. Maybe the Boiled Eggs will have you!
[The First Squire jumps on the second and a half-mock fisticuff ensues. They run away after each other. The blanket mound stirs doubtfully, then falls away to reveal a bruised youngster.]
[Bastard son Nikodim] Snifls.
November 1081. Castle of Aleppo. Main hall. The commander of the invading Dioclean forces, the count of Palermo, negotiates the surrender of the Emir helped by Ermengol de Barcelona. The three sit at a table.
[Emir Rashid ud-Dawlah Mahmud of Aleppo] You don’t really regret it, then? Becoming a vassal?
[Count Ayyub ibn Ziri of Palermo, wistfully] … not really, no. I’m getting to see world and meet different people.
[Emir Rashid ud-Dawlah Mahmud of Aleppo] And do I have to convert too? Shave my beard, and get rid of my hundred wives? Indulge in drink and pork derivatives?
[Count Ayyub ibn Ziri of Palermo, surprised] Well, er...
[Ermengol de Barcelona, leaning forward and nodding solemnly] Absolutely, my good Emir.
[Emir Rashid ud-Dawlah Mahmud of Aleppo] No getting away from it?
[Ermengol de Barcelona, with a self-deprecatory shrug] We definitely require it.
[Emir Rashid ud-Dawlah Mahmud of Aleppo] And the mothers-in-law are included, right?
[Ermengol de Barcelona] Sad but necessary. They must be dumped in the street.
[Emir Rashid ud-Dawlah Mahmud of Aleppo, brightening considerably] Well, you should have started there! Where’s that treaty?
[The Count of Palermo and Ermengol ride out past the castle gates]
[Count Ayyub ibn Ziri of Palermo] I think I missed something in there, Ermengol.
[Ermengol de Barcelona, somewhat smugly] Really, sir?
March 1084. Ducal palace of Zeta. Private chambers of the Duke. Mihailo is having his hair washed and dyed by his loving wife. There’s a knock on the door.
[Duke Mihailo] Come in, Wamba.
[Brother Wamba, opening and coming through] Thanks, Sir. May I ask… how did you know…?
[Duke Mihailo, sighing] It’s the smell, Wamba. At this time in the year, it advances seven paces in front of you. Now, what was the matter?
[Brother Wamba] There’s a Turkish emissary downstairs, Sir. Says the Sultan Alp Arslan of the Sublime Door would deign to let you live if you stop, and I quote literally, “pestering him in his royal domain of Alexandretta and getting in the way of finishing this damned Byzantium business”. Sir.
[Duke Mihailo, a predatory smile coming through liberally spread shaving foam] We get to keep all the conquests by Dobroslav and the girls? And the Aleppo lands? Tell him we agree.
[Brother Wamba] But Sir! If we leave their hands free, they will finish smashing the Empire! They’re already besieging Byzantium!
[Duke Mihailo] And if we don’t, they’ll smash us to free their hands. Besides, we can't afford to keep fighting. We accept the peace.
[Brother Wamba, pleadingly] But…
[Duchess Binhilde, wielding an admonishing barber’s razor] That will be enough playing for now, boys. Wamba, do as you’re told or you’re next in the bath.
[There’s a yelp and the sound of sandals scampering].
[Duke Mihailo] Binnie dear, you're a treasure.
[Duchess Binhilde] Shut up.
[Duke Mihailo] Yes dear.