[Draft title:
1088-1099. Purple rain, purple rain.]
[Cast:]
Prince Mutimir: Same as last time, but a bit twitchier.
Princess Milka: Blonde, haughty, thoroughly unlikeable. And undefinably bovine.
Brother Wamba: Doing well.
Ermengol de Barcelona: the lost count of Urgell, as himself.
Dogukan Bey of Suenik: a heavily bearded, fat, bow-legged crook-nosed man. Not ugly.
Georghe the Bastard: the youngster grows into a man, and the characterisation should stress the likeness with St Mihailo.
Stripling: a veritable street urchin, shock of hair, load of freckles, impudent air.
Caesar Stuart: think of Nero after several decades of doing himself too well on the starchy foods.
Sundry characters without lines: a couple dozen, but make sure we have quite a handful of swarthy, round and generally mean-looking ones to do as Beys.
June 1088. Palace of the Prince of Dioclea. Training room. The Prince is doing a concentration exercise while the sparrings play darts and have a smoke.
[Prince Mutimir, pacing and wringing his hands] ... ruthless. I can be ruthless. I can be ruth... Wamba! Thank goodness!
[Brother Wamba] You called, your highness?
[Prince Mutimir] I did, I did! Oh Wamba, what are we to do now? We have seized the Sultan's fortresses, we have his family, his women and his treasury, but his generals and armies are all out there yet! They will fall on us and squash us! We won't last a week!
[Brother Wamba slaps the Prince twice, fast] Your highness... breathe deep...
[Prince Mutimir pants a bit, regains composure]
[Brother Wamba] Through months of hard work, you have mastered the art of the bold strike. You must now train yourself in the underhand blow.
[Prince Mumimir] The underhand blow?
[Brother Wamba] It is easy. Here, grab this sword...
[Prince Mutimir] Ehm. Wamba. This is a stick.
[Brother Wamba] It's a metaphorical sword, your highness. Now, you will stand in the middle of your sparrings, close your eyes, and try to hit them. Two points if you whack them in the head.
[Prince Mutimir] In the middle of...?
[Brother Wamba nods]
[Prince Mutimir] With my eyes closed?
[Brother Wamba nods]
[Prince Mutimir] And... what's to keep me from peeking?
[Brother Wamba pats him in the back] You're half way there already, little grasshopper. Keep at it, your highness. Soon we'll send those generals an offer they can't refuse.
July 1088. Palace of the Prince of Dioclea. Waiting room. Several garishly-dressed Turkish Beys gather, nervously talking in low voices and looking out of the window on the palace court, where some men are bringing strange cloth sacks and loading them onto a cart. The men come from a place just below the window but made invisible by a ceiling. The sacks are rather big, amorphous and all have one side profusely bloodied. Some seem to twitch. Every few seconds there is a chunky hacking sound, and occasionally a bleating or gurgly noise, and another sack is brought forth.
[A door opens. A Bey steps out of the room. The door closes and is locked.]
[Ermegol de Barcelona-Urgell, lounging by the door with a guard] Your turn is next, Dogukan Bey. Be kind enough to come over and ready yourself, sir.
[Dogukan Bey of Suenik, obeying with shaking knees] But… kind sir, can you tell me what is happening inside that room?
[Ermegol de Barcelona-Urgell, shrugging] Oh it’s simple. Inside there is only the infamous Brother Wamba, the Prince’s inquisitor and executioner. This cruel and sadistic monk will ask you some meaningless questions. The rub of the thing is this: you can either swear fealty to the Prince and empty your purse to buy off the monk, or you can leave the room and never worry about the matter again.
[Dogukan Bey of Suenik, surprised] I can leave?
[Ermegol de Barcelona-Urgell] Yes. There is a door in that room just for that.
[Dogukan Bey of Suenik, suspicious] Not this one?
[Ermegol de Barcelona-Urgell] No.
[Dogukan Bey of Suenik, looking at the bloody cart under the window] And… what happens if I leave?
[Ermegol de Barcelona-Urgell] Well, I can only guess, I haven’t met any that did… but I know you don’t get a second chance.
[Horrendous shriek from the patio. The door opens. The Bey steps in, face ashen].
[Ermegol de Barcelona-Urgell, turning to the wide-eyed assembly] Bulend Bey, your time is come, sir. Are you ready for it?
[Brother Wamba, his voice briefly heard through the door] …down, my dear Bey. Tell me, do you believe in angels?
[The door closes. The guard turns the lock].
August 1088. Grounds of the Palace of the Prince of Dioclea. Under a shady tree. Wamba is sitting and looking sad.
[Brother Wamba, talking to a stripling messenger] This is sad news indeed. May the Lord have him in his glory.
[Georghe the Bastard, coming around from the main building] Hello, old man! What’s the matter? I hear you and Ermengol are pulling them in by the cartload, ha, ha.
[Stripling, bristling] You should not address the Abbot that way, whoever you are!
[Georghe the Bastard, looking around] What Abbot?
[Brother Wamba, waving a hand for peace] He means me, Georghe. The sainted Costello has died in England, and I am now the only survivor of the order. Or, as this kind messenger says, the Abbot.
[Georghe the Bastard, unimpressed] Ah. Well. Congratulations, I think. But I suppose you didn’t call me for that?
[Father Wamba] No, I called you because I have news for you. Your training is finished, and you will now take your place in the world. Or to be more exact, you will be taking a wife. A relative of the Duke of Genoa, one Flora Giustiniano... who is to become the next Chancellor of Dioclea.
[Georghe the Bastard, flabbergasted] What? Me? Marry the Chancellor? Relative of a Duke? But… but I’m only a bastard!
[Father Wamba] Well, St Mihailo for one thought that being one was part of the job requirements, so I wouldn’t worry about that.
[Georghe the Bastard, thoroughly lost] The what?
[Father Wamba, looking at Georghe quizzically] If I told you too much, I’d have to kill you. Now, go forth, and make me proud. I’ve got work to do. We need more money, fast, and some Beys are not in the sack yet. Har har.
[Stripling] Hur hur.
September 1088. Palace of the Duke of Dioclea. Old study of St Mihailo in the tower, which has been slightly redecorated. The Prince and the Princess are having a subdued tiff. The Princess is dressed in blue and purple, with a vaguely bovine spot pattern.
[Princess Milka] … actually I looked it up in the children’s names book and…
[Prince Mutimir] … and you chose Berbat.
[Princess Milka, haughtily defensive] You said yourself that it sounded nice.
[Prince Mutimir, deprecatingly conciliatory] Yes, there is that, of course. Well, I think that settles the matter. No need to talk again about those counties you lost to most inconsiderate uprisings. Now, dear, if you will come over here to the window, I need an opinion on the design of the new gardens. Yes. Thanks. Have a close look.
[Princess Milka, doing cartwheels] Sonofabiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!
[Prince Mutimir, looks down to the stone-flagged court, picks a flowerpot from the window sill, aims, drops] Seven floors and she’s still twitching… This woman can’t get a subtle message. Let’s see… bingo! Spot on.
September 1088. Imperial Palace of Ephesos. The inner rooms of Emperor Alexios Comnenus. The Emperor is getting his vestments and regalia ready while he talks with his privy counsellor, Caesar Stuart.
[Caesar Stuart] Well, you know my opinion. It’s the best news that we’ve had for years.
[Emperor Alexios, sighing] I still don’t quite see it, Caesar. I mean, why does he come now? What does he want of me?
[Caesar Stuart, laughing and shaking in jelly-like ripples] Why, your throne of course! In the long run. As your most powerful Prince, he will become Kaesar of the Empire, your heir. His vassals will be less rebellious under the Roman administration. He will secure his position. Don’t forget that his great-grandfather was a vassal of yours, and most of his real is a bunch of savages. He’s coming to where we can civilize them.
[Emperor Alexios, adjusting his robes] Yes, I know those arguments. The question is, why now and not before? And why now and not after he’s finished digesting the Turks?
[Caesar Stuart] Before, you could have stopped his war or vassalized the Beys yourself. After, and he would have had to let the Emirs go free since he can’t vassalize them. Now you can declare war and take them under your wing yourself.
[Emperor Alexios, thoughtful] That makes sense.
[Caesar Stuart, petulantly, launching a stuffed olive into the air and catching it in his mouth] Of course. I’m always right. The boy is just looking for some civilized haven after all.
[Emperor Alexios, setting the diadem right on his head] Yes. But he’s not much more civilized than the rest of them.
[Caesar Stuart, emptying the rest of the bowl in one go] True. But… remember... under our laws, he has no heir. A knife at the right moment, and we get the empire without the barbarian.
[Emperor Alexios, smiling] Well! You think of everything, Caesar. OK then. They must be all waiting in the Throne Room by now for the proclamation. How am I looking?
[Caesar Stuart] Extremely imperial, my lord.
October 1088. Imperial Palace in Ephesos. The inner rooms of Emperor Mutimir. Wamba sits at a working table with lists and maps while Mutimir walks moodily about.
[Father Wamba, picking names in a list] Isa Emir of Esfahan, Abol Hassan Emir of Azerbajan, Humayun Emir of Korassan, Tekin Emir of Hormuz… only Mosul and Abbasid of Baghdad hold out. Your Lordship, not even Alexander the Great got much further East!
[Nasokrator Mutimir, moodily] Yeah. I know.
[Father Wamba] And not even St Mihailo could have performed that double-crossing backstabbing better than you.
[Nasokrator Mutimir, moodily] Guess so.
[Father Wamba] Alexandretta has fallen at last. You have practically dismantled the Sultanate. And you’ve kept the loyalty of all the Greeks, too. They admire you. They didn’t even budge with the change of laws.
[Nasokrator Mutimir, slightly whining] ... not surprising after what we did to the Emperor in his own throne room. But Wamba, I think we overdid it with the new title. “Autokrator” was a relic, OK, and so was “Imperator”. But “Nasocrator”…
[Father Wamba, didactically] Shows a proper disdain of any criticism of your imperial figure, and stresses that it is your difference that makes you fitter to rule than the rest.
[Nasokrator Mutimir, snorting] Yeah right. Shows you and I were filthy drunk when that damned flunkie came and asked what they should put on the new coins, that’s what it does.
[Father Wamba, blushing guiltily] Oh well... Talking about the Abbasids now... I think a visit by the Knives is in order.