Meeting Jesus is always good.:nods: Guillaume sounds like he's become a much better person now. That has to count for something.
Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR
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When I read about the Aionite occupation I was like wtf! When I read about Saint Guillaume I was like WTF!!! When I found out that his brothels were bought by Taymiyya's guide I was like =)).
I wonder how can General BT predict future events when he claims he just started modding Roma Asundaar into EU 3.
Why is Andronikos a psycho? He's a despot. An absolutist despot tyrant. And that's what the world needs.
Also, I sense Constantinople will share Port Royale's fate as a city destroyed by an earthquake.
Also, I sense Constantinople will share Port Royale's fate as a city destroyed by an earthquake.
BT, can we get the name/banner/anything for the new chapter while we wait?
And of course we are always curious about whet happened ingame and the progress of Rome AsundAAR? =)
Lots of love from Sweden
And of course we are always curious about whet happened ingame and the progress of Rome AsundAAR? =)
Lots of love from Sweden
BraidsMAmma – Your wish is my command! Check out below...
Ha! And of course I never make anything unintentionally! Every single utterance in this entire monstrous piece of work was completely, 100% intentional! And, by the way, I live on the moon and wear a tin foil hat on my head.
Incidentally, that little quip was a little reference to Calipah's version of the modern world post Rome AARisen, where there were oblique references to a non-Aionite north and a great war between the north and the Aionite south (complete with bombastic patriotism). Does it mean it'll happen? I don't know. Official canon that far ahead hasn't been written.
Zzzzz.;.. – It wouldn't be the first time the city was devastated by earthquake. Several major fault lines run through the area, as exhibited by the Izmit earthquake not to long ago... and yes, the very next update has Leo in it, as a POV character even.
Vesimir – An earthquake could definitely happen, see above. The whole 'sliding into the sea' part is less likely—Port Royale was built on a sandbar, and it literally liquified during the earthquake and thus slid the town into the sea. Constantinople has more sound footing.
And I'm amused Andronikos is considered a psycho. We've seen emperors do far worse than slam a dagger in a table and threaten people.
Nikolai – Well he had a born again experience due to trauma. I had a discussion with this with another forumite actually, and I pointed out that people have 'seen the light' over things far less serious and far more mundane than nearly dying. Guillaume has definitely changed, but his change doesn't help Andronikos—who like a good BT-drawn Roman, is mostly concerned with his own needs...
Carlstadt Boy – Poetic license indeed. As for Rome AsundAAR... I have to confess I haven't made any progress on it really. It's be hectic enough trying to work on updates for this AAR that I haven't gotten a lick done in terms of modding for the next AAR. Someday soon, I promise, I'll get a mod thread going in the EU3 mod forums...
cezar87 – Just because he is a leading member of the Muslim community doesn't mean that al-Rafiki doesn't have business interests. D'Ockham had a small mercantile empire in the capital city, and when such a thing goes on firesale, almost everyone is going to cash in. As for why he becomes Saint Guillaume, we'll soon see...
Basilieus444 – Well, Andronikos Pyschokomnenos (I love that name, by the way. I'm giving you a cookie! ) has legitimate claim to everything from Jerusalem to the Pillars of Hercules. His goals are straightforward—he wants his father's empire back. No ifs, no ands, no buts. His campaigns so far have served to secure most of the East... Italy is the first step to regaining the West.
I have a feeling a certain gardener would have probably concluded a universal peace treaty, then arranged for accidents to befall the families of Leo, then Alexios, insuring that as the younger brother, he inherited their lands and titles. Oh, and there would have had to be at least one bloodbath in the ruins of the Colisseum to deal with some reprobates who didn't like the new arrangement. And as I said, the Aionite mention was intentional, if whimsical.
wolfcity – Yes, four chapters, which considering the length of chapters lately, is about 40 updates. So please, don't cry yourself to sleep on either account! Things are winding down...
von Sachsen – I was about to contest this, then I realized I couldn't. Lol
vadermath – The four narrative chapters? Yes, that's set in stone. And there will probably be far more maps, charts, and generally informative graphics, as opposed to the 'aw screw it, I'm tired, I'll find a picture and do a caption instead of a map' which tends to happen now! Lol
I think its safe to say Taqi might end up being the most unexpected mufti (higher than an imam, someone that is certified as a religious scholar and legal expert) Konstantinopolis has ever seen!
humancalculator – Oh, Andronikos has streaks of genius... they just get drowned out by streaks of...oh... many other things...
Hannibal X – Psykopathos? :rofl: You get a cookie as well! Anyone have any other nicknames for him?
RGB – Unorthodox.... that was quite punny, my friend. (I did chuckle ) Italy probably could wait, the East could get consolidated, but Andronikos is young, and he's had an unwavering streak of success. Of course he's going to want to lunge forward, and there's no one around him with the mettle to tell him no save his mother (who now has been exiled).
So we have a headstrong, overconfident young emperor with a bad temper leading an invasion of Italy just after he invaded the Levant with no one at court willing to stick their neck out and rein him in. I don't know, I think everything will go perfectly!
Lord Strange – Has he gone mad, or does he just have a really bad temper? Du Roche might be angry, but he has enemies of his own (the people like Prince Angelos complaining there aren't enough 'true Romans' in the government) and the emperor already doesn't like him. Maybe his neck is on the line (which is sad, considering he'd be a good Archeoikos if he hadn't gotten into a turf war with Sbyslava...).
asd21593 – Since the collapse of the first Andronikos' empire, we've seen the start of this. The Church is far more involved in politics, and far more adamant that Christianity be enforced throughout the Empire as the main religion. The imperial fracturing left a vacuum in the claim of universal authority...Mother Church is quickly stepping into that gap (which doesn't bode well for parts of the empire that are still dominant Muslim or have large Muslim minorities)...
Hello everyone! I have outlines for the next chapter finished, as well as snippets of the next update itself, but nothing concrete. So instead, I'll offer you two consolation prizes—first, the chapter heading for the new chapter:
Secondly, I know people have asked repeatedly to get a description of what happened in my actual game during this time, so I'll spill the beans below:
In short, it was boring. What's more exciting, perhaps, is an explanation on how I kept it boring in game.
In CK vanilla, I would say the collective nobility of the Roman empire had the same intellectual capacity of a crushed apricot, but that would be an insult to apricots everywhere. Since I would prefer not to have the apricot mafia place a hit on my person, I'll restrain myself to saying that their common sense was severely lacking. Seriously, a constant, uncoordinated stream of 'suicides by liege' made me wonder if my digital vassals had collectively decided that being nobles in the greatest empire in the Known World was simply too boring, and that a permanent vacation to Finland, Denmark or Scotland was in order to spice up their lives. For some inane reason, Scotland in particular became the destination of choice for these sun-loving, indolent rejects of Roman lordship—I'm not sure what the siren call of Alba was for the Kaukadenids, Thrakesids, Dukids, and countless others. Maybe it was the fog. Maybe it was the Komnenid stewards. Maybe it was the haggis. Something made nearly one half of my exiled rebel lords end up in the northern half of Britain.
Perhaps the Frenchified south smelled too bad?* Perhaps these nobles had an unnatural attraction to the mythical haggis? Either way, somewhere, these was probably at least a town set aside for Roman exiles.
So how did I go about ruling this vast polyglot collection of demented bluebloods? Well, for starters, in vanilla CK there was no punishment for having a far-flung desmense. You might have noticed from my maps that the imperial desmense is indeed far flung—Byzantion, Alexandria, Thessalonike, Sicily, etc. etc. Not contiguous by any means—by design. Why? One, it meant any serious rebellion would have a hell of a time making a surprise run on my lands. Two, I got to keep the choicest provinces for myself, which meant three, when a noble decided he would poke his head up in an obtrusive and annoying manner, I had a local powerful army already in the area, ready to be raised from x wealthy province nearby, to squelch his sad attempt at independence before he could usually even find a province of mine to besiege.
Simple, tried and true whack-a-mole tactics. But this alone didn't keep the empire in check—it reserved for the worst offenders—the nobles who made rebelling an annual holiday, usually somewhere between Easter and Christmas, were the ones who usually found themselves searching for lost haggis-love in the wee northern lands. In Vanilla, there was no option to simple revassalize a reluctant underling—you had to strip him of his lands, with all the attendant penalties for stripping a Christian lord of his rightful holdings. In short, I was punished for punishing a vassal who dared to revolt against God's ordained ruler on earth.
Which sucked.
So I needed a second strategy, one that tended to be the “go-to” tactic for most rebels—a noble who slowly gets grumpy over time, or get obtuse thanks to an event, and no other reason. For these instances, I turned back to the favorite pasttime of my in story Komnenoi, after murder and instigating continental wide intrigue over paltry inane matters.
Bribery.
By 1300 in the actual game I had turned bribery and its forgotten but just as fun cousin simony into an art form. By design, whenever I 'sorted out' a rebellious prince, I made sure to keep each new 'count' to a single province, if possible. This meant when I got tired of playing 'whack a noble' I could easily switch to the game 'here's fifty gold pieces to shut up,' and usually one province counts love to play that game. Fifty or a hundred gold to most of these men would turn them from my most vile enemy to my best friend instantaneously, and when I have a monthly income nearly 800 gold and a sitting treasury approaching 500,000 gold, I can usually afford to simply pay my way out of the bad graces of many a dynatos.
By these tried and true tactics, the in game period of 1297 to 1314 was benign and altogether boring, with the only even semi-strange happening being Nikephoros having a child a month before he died, and then that child reigning five months before he, too, died, leaving the throne to Andronikos. My original story line had more to do with Andronikos smothering his nephew to gain the throne, but firstly, I decided on a different course for Andronikos as a character, and secondly, the Komnenid Empire needed to crack, even break, to justify how it falls apart without hope later on. Andronikos II's story thus becomes one where he's trying to restore what has been lost, and not a mere copy of his father trying to cobble together what is already won... will he succeed? (for his lifetime at least?) Will future descriptions of him be justified? Well, we'll have to see.
*Editor's Note: Nothing implied against the French. To these Romans, anyone probably smelled bad in their eyes.
Ha! And of course I never make anything unintentionally! Every single utterance in this entire monstrous piece of work was completely, 100% intentional! And, by the way, I live on the moon and wear a tin foil hat on my head.
Incidentally, that little quip was a little reference to Calipah's version of the modern world post Rome AARisen, where there were oblique references to a non-Aionite north and a great war between the north and the Aionite south (complete with bombastic patriotism). Does it mean it'll happen? I don't know. Official canon that far ahead hasn't been written.
Zzzzz.;.. – It wouldn't be the first time the city was devastated by earthquake. Several major fault lines run through the area, as exhibited by the Izmit earthquake not to long ago... and yes, the very next update has Leo in it, as a POV character even.
Vesimir – An earthquake could definitely happen, see above. The whole 'sliding into the sea' part is less likely—Port Royale was built on a sandbar, and it literally liquified during the earthquake and thus slid the town into the sea. Constantinople has more sound footing.
And I'm amused Andronikos is considered a psycho. We've seen emperors do far worse than slam a dagger in a table and threaten people.
Nikolai – Well he had a born again experience due to trauma. I had a discussion with this with another forumite actually, and I pointed out that people have 'seen the light' over things far less serious and far more mundane than nearly dying. Guillaume has definitely changed, but his change doesn't help Andronikos—who like a good BT-drawn Roman, is mostly concerned with his own needs...
Carlstadt Boy – Poetic license indeed.
As for Rome AsundAAR... I have to confess I haven't made any progress on it really. It's be hectic enough trying to work on updates for this AAR that I haven't gotten a lick done in terms of modding for the next AAR. Someday soon, I promise, I'll get a mod thread going in the EU3 mod forums...cezar87 – Just because he is a leading member of the Muslim community doesn't mean that al-Rafiki doesn't have business interests. D'Ockham had a small mercantile empire in the capital city, and when such a thing goes on firesale, almost everyone is going to cash in.
As for why he becomes Saint Guillaume, we'll soon see...Basilieus444 – Well, Andronikos Pyschokomnenos (I love that name, by the way. I'm giving you a cookie!
) has legitimate claim to everything from Jerusalem to the Pillars of Hercules. His goals are straightforward—he wants his father's empire back. No ifs, no ands, no buts. His campaigns so far have served to secure most of the East... Italy is the first step to regaining the West. I have a feeling a certain gardener would have probably concluded a universal peace treaty, then arranged for accidents to befall the families of Leo, then Alexios, insuring that as the younger brother, he inherited their lands and titles. Oh, and there would have had to be at least one bloodbath in the ruins of the Colisseum to deal with some reprobates who didn't like the new arrangement.
And as I said, the Aionite mention was intentional, if whimsical.wolfcity – Yes, four chapters, which considering the length of chapters lately, is about 40 updates. So please, don't cry yourself to sleep on either account! Things are winding down...
von Sachsen – I was about to contest this, then I realized I couldn't. Lol
vadermath – The four narrative chapters? Yes, that's set in stone. And there will probably be far more maps, charts, and generally informative graphics, as opposed to the 'aw screw it, I'm tired, I'll find a picture and do a caption instead of a map' which tends to happen now! Lol
I think its safe to say Taqi might end up being the most unexpected mufti (higher than an imam, someone that is certified as a religious scholar and legal expert) Konstantinopolis has ever seen!
humancalculator – Oh, Andronikos has streaks of genius... they just get drowned out by streaks of...oh... many other things...
Hannibal X – Psykopathos? :rofl: You get a cookie as well! Anyone have any other nicknames for him?
RGB – Unorthodox.... that was quite punny, my friend. (I did chuckle
) Italy probably could wait, the East could get consolidated, but Andronikos is young, and he's had an unwavering streak of success. Of course he's going to want to lunge forward, and there's no one around him with the mettle to tell him no save his mother (who now has been exiled).So we have a headstrong, overconfident young emperor with a bad temper leading an invasion of Italy just after he invaded the Levant with no one at court willing to stick their neck out and rein him in. I don't know, I think everything will go perfectly!
Lord Strange – Has he gone mad, or does he just have a really bad temper? Du Roche might be angry, but he has enemies of his own (the people like Prince Angelos complaining there aren't enough 'true Romans' in the government) and the emperor already doesn't like him. Maybe his neck is on the line (which is sad, considering he'd be a good Archeoikos if he hadn't gotten into a turf war with Sbyslava...).
asd21593 – Since the collapse of the first Andronikos' empire, we've seen the start of this. The Church is far more involved in politics, and far more adamant that Christianity be enforced throughout the Empire as the main religion. The imperial fracturing left a vacuum in the claim of universal authority...Mother Church is quickly stepping into that gap (which doesn't bode well for parts of the empire that are still dominant Muslim or have large Muslim minorities)...
Hello everyone! I have outlines for the next chapter finished, as well as snippets of the next update itself, but nothing concrete. So instead, I'll offer you two consolation prizes—first, the chapter heading for the new chapter:
Secondly, I know people have asked repeatedly to get a description of what happened in my actual game during this time, so I'll spill the beans below:
In short, it was boring. What's more exciting, perhaps, is an explanation on how I kept it boring in game.
In CK vanilla, I would say the collective nobility of the Roman empire had the same intellectual capacity of a crushed apricot, but that would be an insult to apricots everywhere. Since I would prefer not to have the apricot mafia place a hit on my person, I'll restrain myself to saying that their common sense was severely lacking. Seriously, a constant, uncoordinated stream of 'suicides by liege' made me wonder if my digital vassals had collectively decided that being nobles in the greatest empire in the Known World was simply too boring, and that a permanent vacation to Finland, Denmark or Scotland was in order to spice up their lives. For some inane reason, Scotland in particular became the destination of choice for these sun-loving, indolent rejects of Roman lordship—I'm not sure what the siren call of Alba was for the Kaukadenids, Thrakesids, Dukids, and countless others. Maybe it was the fog. Maybe it was the Komnenid stewards. Maybe it was the haggis. Something made nearly one half of my exiled rebel lords end up in the northern half of Britain.
Perhaps the Frenchified south smelled too bad?* Perhaps these nobles had an unnatural attraction to the mythical haggis? Either way, somewhere, these was probably at least a town set aside for Roman exiles.
So how did I go about ruling this vast polyglot collection of demented bluebloods? Well, for starters, in vanilla CK there was no punishment for having a far-flung desmense. You might have noticed from my maps that the imperial desmense is indeed far flung—Byzantion, Alexandria, Thessalonike, Sicily, etc. etc. Not contiguous by any means—by design. Why? One, it meant any serious rebellion would have a hell of a time making a surprise run on my lands. Two, I got to keep the choicest provinces for myself, which meant three, when a noble decided he would poke his head up in an obtrusive and annoying manner, I had a local powerful army already in the area, ready to be raised from x wealthy province nearby, to squelch his sad attempt at independence before he could usually even find a province of mine to besiege.
Simple, tried and true whack-a-mole tactics. But this alone didn't keep the empire in check—it reserved for the worst offenders—the nobles who made rebelling an annual holiday, usually somewhere between Easter and Christmas, were the ones who usually found themselves searching for lost haggis-love in the wee northern lands. In Vanilla, there was no option to simple revassalize a reluctant underling—you had to strip him of his lands, with all the attendant penalties for stripping a Christian lord of his rightful holdings. In short, I was punished for punishing a vassal who dared to revolt against God's ordained ruler on earth.
Which sucked.
So I needed a second strategy, one that tended to be the “go-to” tactic for most rebels—a noble who slowly gets grumpy over time, or get obtuse thanks to an event, and no other reason. For these instances, I turned back to the favorite pasttime of my in story Komnenoi, after murder and instigating continental wide intrigue over paltry inane matters.
Bribery.
By 1300 in the actual game I had turned bribery and its forgotten but just as fun cousin simony into an art form. By design, whenever I 'sorted out' a rebellious prince, I made sure to keep each new 'count' to a single province, if possible. This meant when I got tired of playing 'whack a noble' I could easily switch to the game 'here's fifty gold pieces to shut up,' and usually one province counts love to play that game. Fifty or a hundred gold to most of these men would turn them from my most vile enemy to my best friend instantaneously, and when I have a monthly income nearly 800 gold and a sitting treasury approaching 500,000 gold, I can usually afford to simply pay my way out of the bad graces of many a dynatos.
By these tried and true tactics, the in game period of 1297 to 1314 was benign and altogether boring, with the only even semi-strange happening being Nikephoros having a child a month before he died, and then that child reigning five months before he, too, died, leaving the throne to Andronikos. My original story line had more to do with Andronikos smothering his nephew to gain the throne, but firstly, I decided on a different course for Andronikos as a character, and secondly, the Komnenid Empire needed to crack, even break, to justify how it falls apart without hope later on. Andronikos II's story thus becomes one where he's trying to restore what has been lost, and not a mere copy of his father trying to cobble together what is already won... will he succeed? (for his lifetime at least?) Will future descriptions of him be justified? Well, we'll have to see.
*Editor's Note: Nothing implied against the French. To these Romans, anyone probably smelled bad in their eyes.
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You must have a lot of imagination to turn something so boring into something so stunningly well thought out.
:laugh: I love it!
Komnenid Alba... 'tis a wild and lonely place, y'understand? The life is hard... and so are the men!
Interesting summary there BT, and I cannot wait to see the rightful Emperor in Rome Leo Komenos beat down his younger brother the usurper named Andronikos II Pyschokomnenos. Then again every other ruler based out of Southern Italy who has gone up against Constantinople has generally failed, and ironically I think many of those rebel lords were descendants of Manuel's brother or son Leo Komenos.
Indeed! The True emperor, Leo, under the guidance of the Megas and the Megaloprepis, will be victorious!
Haha.
You have achieved narrative success despite your gameplay success. There's many kinds of special irony in that.
You have achieved narrative success despite your gameplay success. There's many kinds of special irony in that.
I've been internetless for the past 197 days, but I've been checking around the forums here just to read the updates. This is what you've done to me ;-;;
Also GBT, I hope you're not creeped out when I say you're a very sexy man who looks like he's about either smoke a pipe or fight off a gang of hooligans from robbing an orphanage. Possibly both at the same time.
Also GBT, I hope you're not creeped out when I say you're a very sexy man who looks like he's about either smoke a pipe or fight off a gang of hooligans from robbing an orphanage. Possibly both at the same time.
vadermath - Indiana Jones? Ha! I don't wield a whip though... ironically, in our D&D game my boyfriend plays a fighter that uses a whip as a weapon (and can pull Indiana Jones stunts with it)...
Avalanchemike - Not creeped out at all, thank you for the compliment! lol Well, you won't have to wait much longer since there's (finally) an update below...
RGB - I'd say... I got good enough near the end that there wouldn've have been much to write about, or at least not much to build drama. What's sad is the save game irreparably crashed in 1399 (I think from porting over a vanilla game with thousands of character files in memory into DV), just after I had decided to "Screw it" and see what happened if I let everything blow up... what happens in story is my best guess as to what could've happened if it'd stayed stable until 1453...
wolfcity - Glad you like it!
Zzzzz... - Leo dose coming right up!
JackTheRipper21 - Well, I think in the coming update we might see some glimpses as to why Leo probably should've succeeded his father, instead of the muddled, then bloody mess that resulted...
“If honor were profitable, everybody would be honorable.” - Guillaume d'Ockham
October 11th, 1324
Guillaume d'Ockham blinked another bevy of men walked by. They were dirty, haggard, clad in cloth shifts and little more as their chains clinked above the roaring of the crowds. Rubbish and rotten vegetables sailed through the air, pelting the unfortunate men. Some were defiant, screaming obscenities at their tormentors in their patois of Italian and Persian.. Others kept their heads bowed. More than a few ducked. They didn't move with the pride and precision of even captured military men—no, Guillaume decided, these were civilian prisoners, yet more casualties in the long Italian War that never seemed to end.
This was no triumph—Emperor Andronikos had proclaimed there would be no more triumphs in Konstantinopolis until the Empire was whole and united once more. It was merely an 'official entry into the city,' and it was almost anything but triumphant—Andronikos had still not subdued all of southern Italy, and Varna, Moldau and Wallachia had risen in rebellion, proclaiming the Prince of Pereschen, one Baldar Komnenos, Rigas ton Transistrion. Pereschen had fled their claims and sought refuge with the Danes, justifiably fearful of the Megas Komnenos response, while the three rebel princes had already marshaled in the field. Prince Petros, eldest son of the Emperor, along with Megas Domestikos Heraklios and some 20,000 of the Emperor's Italian veterans were already headed north, even as the Emperor himself made a prominent and public show of not caring about such 'trivialities.'
Or so rumor said.
Old habits die hard, Guillaume smiled to himself as the procession continued. A few of the monks inside the lavra of the Hagia Eirene were a gossipy lot, and certainly didn't hold back when it came to blathering on and on about worldly affairs they supposedly had left behind. Many of them were unwilling exiles, men who'd learned the life of supposed Christian poverty as punishment for worldly greed, crime, and sin. Some still had holdings on the outside—most had families.
May little Petros stay safe, Guillaume prayed quietly. When he last saw the boy, he wasn't even seven years old, a hot headed little child that worshiped the ground his distant father walked upon. I wonder...
The crash of cymbals tore him back to the present, making him jump. He wasn't accustomed to public events—for the past ten years Guillaume d'Ockham had been a brother, and then aide to Metropolitan Kosaca at the lavra attached to the Hagia Eirene in Konstantinopolis. He hadn't expected to be in the streets, watching the latest imperial procession into the Queen of Cities. The streets, the people, they still called to him, and the riches and pleasures of his former life still beckoned. His present company provided a small measure of comfort—it was rather hard for one to throw off the cloth and run to manage to brothel when one sat beside His Holiness Patriarch Georgios Skalites, Patriarch of Konstantinopolis. He was still puzzled as to why the preeminent ecclesiastical figure in all of Christendom would invite him to his personal box to watch the official imperial entry into the city.
There, his comfort ended, for sitting next to the Patriarch was his nephew, Thomas Skalites, for the last ten years the Archeoikos and by reputation, the most feared man in the empire. Just looking at the man made Guillaume's skin crawl. Thomas Skalites had been a mere secretary only a few years before—a pudgy figure of some mild amusement at court. That unassuming smile, that almost comical appearance, were perhaps the best cover for a fanatical, disciplined mind that Guillaume d'Ockham had ever seen.
What fangs were hidden in those folds!
Today, no one in the city would disagree that two words described the Archeoikos--disciplined, and ruthless. The man seemingly had agents in every household, and always seemed to know what the dynatoi, and even Mother Church, were thinking before the thought could cross into anyone's mind. Even d'Ockham, cloistered away in Hagia Eirene for these years, had heard tales of dynatoi, even their entire families, disappearing in the night. While brutal, his measures were efficient—after the sudden spate of such 'disappearances,' the raucous dynatoi were quiet. Aside from the eccentric abd-Hinnawi, Skalites alone enjoyed the complete confidence of the Emperor.
“Is there something wrong, Brother d'Ockham?”
Guillaume spun to see the smiling face of the Patriarch. It was a rough one, kissed by time and age and left wrinkled and worn. The man's theological pedigree was long—Bishop of Kalliopolis, Metropolitan of Thessalonike, then a chief advisor and confidante of both Patriarch Thomas of Aquino and the late Simeon. “I...” Guillaume started to stumble, before he saw the Patriarch's eyes drift over to their companion.
“I owe him a debt, Master d'Ockham,” the elderly Patriarch smiled at his nephew. “The least I can do is invite him to share my box at the emperor's processional.”
More than a debt, d'Ockham wanted to say. After Simeon was taken by God, Metropolitan Kosaca was the expected successor to the Throne of St. Andrew. It seemed certain, considering Simeon himself had expressed that he wished Kosaca to succeed him. Yet somehow, several key bishops suddenly changed their opinion after a visit to the Blachernae, and now...
Guillaume looked up just as the Angeloi rumbled by, their blue and gold lamellar sparkling in the sunlight. He's breaking protocol, d'Ockham raised his eyebrows. Normally the guards regiments in procession marched without helms, but the Angeloi wore their full chainmail face mask, as well as their iron pothelms. Like all the “foot” regiments in the Emperor's Palatinoikoi, they rode magnificent coursers—Guillaume winced at the likely cost. Andronikos probably paid three months income from the treasury for that! And then there's always the fodder, grooms, stables... calculated versus ten regiments is...
“It still calls to you, doesn't it?”
Guillaume jumped at the voice, and found the Patriarch smiling at him gently. For a moment, he sputtered, before a “Yes,” came from his lips.
“You are human, Master d'Ockham. No one puts out the flames of avarice, or closed your mind to liking silks, or gold. You have spiritual water to douse those flames whenever they flare. That, my friend, is what God cares about.”
“Yes, Holiness,” d'Ockham nodded. He took in a deep breath, and relaxed. What I have is far better than any silver and gold. He looked back at the procession with new eyes. He went past the men in ornate parade armor, and instead saw the blades that slew their fellow man. He looked past the billow capes and golden helms and saw the money wasted, the taxes tossed on such useless items. Instead of richly caprisoned horses, he saw the dung they left in the streets. It's all empty, it's all a show... for what? The pageantry of war and death...
“It's a pity, though,” the Patriarch said, “there are many in the Church who do not use the spiritual water Christ gave them. It's my understanding while at Hagia Eirene you proved most helpful to Metropolitan Kosaca when he needed to take account of the monastery's assets?”
“I... I did my best, Holiness,” d'Ockham said. He opened his mouth to add more, but closed it shut. He already knows of the abbot and five brothers who had pilfered from the tithing, or the simony that gained the parish priest his position...Abbot Simon thought his scheme clever. I'd seen far more clever schemes come out of the mouths of thugs in my previous life...
“I fear,” the Patriarch went on, “that such avarice extends beyond the walls of Hagia Eirene, my dear d'Ockham,” the Patriarch went on. “Many a good Christian gives tithes to Mother Church in full expectation their hard earned coin and goods will be put to good use in furthering Christ's Kingdom on Earth—not lining the pockets of deacons or fattening the tables of bishops. Even the Bride of Christ, it seems, is in needing of a good accountant.”
“I shall certainly pray for your success in rooting out such malcontents, Holiness,” d'Ockham bowed his head.
“Oh, my son, I hope you will do more than pray.”
“Hm?”
“I have a mind, in fact, to appoint you my personal secretary,” the Patriarch smiled.
“I...” d'Ockham stammered. “I... am honored at the confidence Your Holiness places in me, and...”
“You do come with impeccable recommendation,” the Patriarch nodded towards his nephew.
“I...” d'Ockham turned to the suddenly smiling Archeoikos. He felt his skin crawl.
“Indeed. I spoke highly of you because, Master d'Ockham, the state has a vested interest in investigating whether the grants and gifts she donates to Mother Church are, indeed, being put to good use. With regards to graft and avarice, His Majesty is in whole accordance with His Holiness, and to be honest, I have never seen a man more talented with numbers than your person. I trust,” ” Thomas' smile grew wider and colder at once, “this means you'll be... talented...in spotting clever schemes with the property of Mother Church.”
“To be precise, I am on a hunt, as it were, searching for corruption and vice within Holy Mother Church. A good hunter needs a good bloodhound,” the Patriarch grinned. “You, Master d'Ockham, seem to be the best at the Church's disposal, for all the needs we have.”
“All the needs?” d'Ockham asked quietly as the tromp of the Angeloi receded in favor of the light and airy tones of flutes and horns as a troupe of musicians walked past. “What other duties does Your Holiness have in mind other than maintaining the records of Mother Church?”
“Several,” the Patriarch nodded, “but first, we have to arrange your consecration as bishop.”
“Bishop?” Guillaume squeaked.
Skalites chuckled. “It's merely an administrative elevation, my friend. You will have no flock, no chapel, no rectory. It has been tradition that the secretary to the Patriarch of Konstantinopolis be of such rank. I hope you have no objections to us continuing said tradition?”
“I... none, Your Holiness.”
A fanfare of trumpets rumbled over the Augusteon, a wailing roar that echoed from the ancient cobblestones. Guillaume and all his compatriots looked up, just as the imperial entourage itself cantered into the great square. Andronikos seemed heavier than Guillaume remembered—when he'd last seen his friend ten years before, he'd been tall and strong, but not this--a thick neck, huge arms and a barrel chest made the Emperor seem like a mountain on the move. He rode a black charger equal to him, a titan among horses. Together they cantered through the city, his mail and plate matching the charger's darkness, as if Ararat's shadow had come to parade through the middle of the Queen of Cities. No smile crossed his lips, nor did his eyes look to the cheering crowds. Instead, they looked straight ahead, some distant destination clearly taking his entire mind.
“Does the Emperor ever smile?” the Patriarch frowned.
“I am sure he does when he lies with one of his many mistresses,” the Archeoikos said suggestively. “Perhaps he does with his five bastards as well...or the Egyptian.”
Guillaume watched the Patriarch's face visibly darken as he himself frowned.
The price for Egypt fully kneeling before Konstantinopolis once more was Mother Church yielding to the call of Patriarch de Normandie in Alexandria—his excommunication would be lifted, until a full conclave of bishops from across the Orthodox world could decide on the merits of his 'reforms' of Orthodoxy in Egypt. Mother Church of course wanted no part of this blatant heresy, but the lure of Egyptian grain....
That's why they call me, Guillaume nodded. Yes, d'Ockham was good with money, but there were plenty of other more qualified, more prestigious men who could serve as the Patriarch's secretary and keep track of the Church's records. They're hoping Andronikos will remember me, will call on me instead of abd-Hinnawi?
Not likely.
Andronikos was stubborn, proud, and disinclined to admit any mistakes. He'd always been that way, from when Guillaume knew of him as a child. He hasn't spoken to me in ten years—he won't listen to me.
But... the Council...
If that is why the Patriarch was truly calling on him. They think Andronikos would really force them to have such a Council. Would he? Varna has already taken the field on the thought of it, and Moldau and Wallachia joined him. Would he even...? Abd-Hinnawi was close to the Emperor, Andronikos had hinged every decision, every choice on the man's word in Council, even when he'd clearly shown his incompetence in collecting monies or supervising taxes. Would he think that man called for something that would be the oblivion of Christendom, of the Empire as we know it?
“Holiness,” Guillaume found his voice. “I pray for his soul.” May he know what God intends him to do, and follow through with what is right and good, both for the empire, and for his own soul...
“As do we all,” Skalites nodded quietly.
October 21st, 1324
Leo Komnenos, Megas Komnenos and Emperor in Italy, closed his eyes and sighed as the late autumn winds of the Mediterranean swirled around his face and through the streets of his capital at Palermo. For a moment, he forgot about the never-ending war, or the weight of time itself that subtly pressed on his forty-eight year old bones.
The palace was good for that—dragging on away from the tedium and darkness that was the world around them, and shining light and good into one's life, if only for a moment.
It wasn't like the palaces Leo was used to—the Blacharnae, the Great Palace, even the eccentric Kosmodion, were all hulking, massive structures, dominated by looming domes and thick stones. The Dysipalati's foundations had been laid by Arab architects when Emperor Manuel I was campaigning in Italy hundreds of years before. His son Basil had expanded it, making it an imperial stop in the long journeys to and from the battlefields of Spain. It was Basil who had brought in craftsmen and masons from northern Italy who were fleeing French armies—men who had worked on the great flowing cathedrals rising across the north of Europe. They brought their skill here—the building was built around a courtyard surrounded by high, airy arches. Instead of a dark, gloomy palace, it was filled with light, and the cool Mediterranean breeze even on the hottest summer day.
Today, however, not even the palace's designs could work their magic. The self-declared Megas Komnenos sighed as another breath of wind graced his cheek. It didn't feel like a sunny day in beautiful Palermo. A dark, cold blizzard would have better fit his mood.
“Algiers?” Leo asked quietly, turning back to his Small Council. Pitifully small these days, he wanted to say. His Master of Coin, Reinaldo the Seven Fingered, was here as always. So was his own wife Isabella de Medici, his spymistress, as well as Fahrad Pahlavi, Prince of Spoleto and Megas Spahbod. Megas Domestikos Haroldsson, as well as his Megas Doux, Heraklios Makrinokomnenoi, were not.
“Algiers,” Pahlavi nodded, looking towards the man that loomed between the Council members and their Emperor. Blue chits gloomily sat on top of the intricately drawn letters of 'Algiers' in North Africa. Haroldsson and Makrinokomnenos will drive them off, Leo hoped. Alexios couldn't have come with that many—not all the way to Algiers, and not after the drubbing we gave his fleet...
...we didn't think Andronikos would hit is that hard either, a small voice reminded him, and the Emperor winced.
They'd been caught out of position, completely unprepared. The backbone of Leo's army in North Africa, holding off repeated incursions by his brother Alexios in the Mauretania. We were even discussing how to invade Spain proper, after Alexios landing at Azat was decimated, the Emperor wryly smiled. The von Frankens had been content to take Leo's annual payment of silver to fund their campaigns north—they had forced the Dukes of Bavaria to hand over his title, and raised themselves to Kings in Italy even. He had been assured, from multiple sources in Konstantinopolis, that his younger brother's court had been in disarray—he'd just exiled his mother, and stripped a great deal of power from his Megoskyriomachos. His new Spymaster was an unknown, no more than a secretary to the powerful Roland du Roche. Having just returned from campaign, no one expected Andronikos to have the funds, or the desire, to campaign anywhere else for at least five years. If he did campaign, everyone assured, he would go after the von Frankens, for declaring themselves Kings without his permission.
Leo turned back to the harbor and his dromons. We thought he'd sit on his laurels. Leo's eyes followed the five dromons as they gracefully passed the Dysipalati. Each in turn, as they passed Nikephoros' Tower, dipped their pennants in salute. It'd been a tradition in the Western Fleet, ever since Nikephoros the Saracen landed in Sicily almost 80 years before. We thought he wouldn't dare challenge our fleet. The Dytikos Stolos en masse had declared for Leo, and everyone, from old Ioannopoulos and Haroldsson on, had assumed the Eastern Emperor wouldn't want to match prows.
Oh, how they were wrong.
Andronikos had come, with full might and fury. Leo's armies were stronger than they'd been before, but the Emperor's younger brother had been ruthless and relentless. 1316 began with a powerful army of 40,000 men landing near Bari with no warning, then another force the same size landing and besieging Lecce a month later. The 15,000 Persians left to defend southern Italy had backpedaled towards the safety of Napoli, the Spahbod left behind sending out calls to all his vassals and retainers to call up their levies.
Then the von Frankens came. Only 10,000 men went for Urbino, but suddenly Leo was facing opponents on two fronts. Who could say that the von Frankens wouldn't send more? Or that Andronikos wouldn't either?
“How many do we think are raiding around Algiers?” Leo asked. The dromons had now turned out to sea. Gracefully their oars rose, then disappeared inside their hulls as the wind filled their sails. They, too, were off to North Africa. To salvage what we can from Alexios the Scavenger.
“No more than 15,000, we think,” Isabella said quietly. She was superbly intelligent—Leo knew she was far more so than he was, and he'd come to depend on her advice. Most of the time it was brilliant. She is human, though, he clasped his hands behind his back and sighed. She'd offered to resign her post after Andronikos' invasion. He'd told her absolutely not. I need you more than ever now, he remembered as he held her. “We think Alexios might have 50,000 or more in Mauretania, however, and his host is likely growing by the day...”
“Mmmmm,” Leo pursed his lips, and finally turned to his council once more. We could fight on both fronts, he thought, looking at the map. Many good men will lose their lives, Leo grimaced, looking at the map before him. Numerous clay chits marked his massing army in Sicily—40,000 Persians and North Africans, under the Megas Spahbod. Another set of chits marked Haroldsson's 30,000 marching towards Algiers, while another marked a pitifully small number left in southern Italy.
Pahlavi's old command, Leo sighed. Old Megas Spahbod Ioannopoulos had let Andronikos besiege city after city, while he calmly marshaled the resources of the entire Middle Empire at Napoli. They'd scrapped the Spanish idea, and stripped North Africa of as many men as they dared. When Ioannopoulos set out in the spring of 1318, he had a host nearly as great as Andronikos' whole army.
But Andronikos had taken Bari and Lecce already, Leo looked at the Apulian coast on that damning map. Every port had an imperial garrison, and Urbino, Ancona, all the way across the Appeninnes to Rome was in his younger brother's hands. One might stop a boulder, but one cannot stop an avalanche, went an old Sicilian saying—and Andronikos' slow, steady march had up to that point been an avalanche. But the moment Ioannopoulos started his swing around the Apennines to threaten Taranto, the avalanche suddenly lurched with surprising speed. 65,000 men, with Andronikos in command, made a lightning march across the same mountains further north, making speed for Spoleto. On April 19th, just as Ioannopoulos' vanguard was leaving the Appenines outside Taranto, Andronikos' army laid siege to Spoleto, behind the Megas Spahbod Ioannopoulos turned to deal with the enemy in his rear, only find no one laying siege when he arrived at Spoleto five days later. Andronikos was further north , seemingly making for Napoli.
I was with the army that day, Leo remembered, I could've ordered him to halt, to wait, to let the men rest. But I didn't...
No. Instead he'd ordered Ioannopoulos to press north, despite the weariness of the army from staging one forced march already. If Andronikos was pulling away, he had to be retreating! Leo's men marched valiantly, catching up to his brother's columns well before Naples. When they found him, Andronikios' army was drawn up in a ravine outside the small town of Amalfi, in an unassailable position. His flanks were secure, and there was no way to get into his rear without a lengthy mountain trek. He WAS unassailable Leo still told himself. If I had ordered the attack though...
Leo winced. Ioannopoulos' dying words had been of consolation—telling Leo not to shoulder the burden of defeat alone. No one could have known about that detachment, that the seeming army in the ravine was only a fraction of his force. No one could have known he had spent the better part of the previous day countermarching around those mountains. No one could have known that night he would send out Varangians and sappers to break into my fortified camp, or that his army would thunder in from all sides... They said the coast off of Amalfi was red for three days as Andronikos' men systematically executed every single person they captured for treason. 30,000 of my best men...
The war seemed lost that afternoon.
But it wasn't. We made him pay for every inch after that, Leo consoled himself. Leo and his tattered army retreated down the spine of Calabria for Sicily, as Andronikos set himself to lay siege to Naples and Spoleto. But where Leo's army suffered defeat, the Dytikos Stolos showed its mettle, gained from almost two decades of skirmishing with Alexios. First off Reggio, then off Siracusa, Megas Doux Makrinokomnenos and his ships broke the back of the fleets sent to cut off Naples and Spoleto by sea. Time and again, Leo's sailors brought supplies into the great fortresses, and Andronikos' great invasion stalled out. Six years later, Andronikos still had the same lands he'd gained by 1318, and his beloved brother had been forced to leave his armies in Italy while he returned to Konstantinopolis to set affairs right in his capital and quell the rumblings of rebellion amongst his Balkan lords.
We could fight, that siren call repeated itself in Leo's mind. Andronikos was away, leaving his brother Heraklios in command. The young man was no slouch, but this was by far the largest command the newly minted Megas Domestikos had ever held. He has 60,000 in Italy. We have 50,000. Those aren't such bad odds...
Unless another Amalfi happens, cold logic spoke once more. Leo looked up at his Megas Spahbod. “Pahlavi, you look like you want to speak...”
“I... Majesty,” the grey haired Persian bowed hastily, “Your brother is gone, but doubtless he will return, with even more men. If he goes on the offensive next campaign season, Majesty,” Pahlavi nodded towards the boot of Italy on the map, “we won't be able to resist him now that he has bases along the coast. Naples and Spoleto might hold, but he could just as easily take the spine of Calabria and have a dagger pointed straight at Sicily. And...”
Leo's eyes forlornly followed the gaze of his Megas Spahbod to the slew of dark blue chits that polluted the pristine lands of Mauretania and Tangiers. He sighed.
Something has to give. He came close once... the Emperor crossed his arms. And with Alexios running amok in the West...
“We need a truce, on one front or the other,” Leo finally spoke aloud what he was sure everyone present was thinking. Alexios is an opportunist, he'll come with his full might. Andronikos' problems are bound to end, and then he'll come with his full might. After Amalfi... He forlornly shook his head. We need terms...
“With who?” Isabella asked. Eyes all around the room asked the same question. The Middle Empire was the smallest, surviving even this long by skill and guile alone. Now, it seemed backed into a corner, as both its greater neighbors bore down on.
What terms even? Neither of my brothers would surrender Megas Komnenos, or even consent to me sharing that rank...I... A problem. Leo was the preferred successor of Andronikos Apokathistos, the son that, should his father have lived a precious few more years, would have taken the reins of a united empire as undisputed Megas Komnenos. By rights, Leo told himself for the seemingly hundredth time, the empire, from the Pillars to Persia, is mine!
He sighed—his brothers clearly didn't think of it that way, and they had squabbled and fought the whole thing to pieces. Demetrio was rotting away as a monk in Monte Cassino, tonsured and set away, his children exiled to Carthage and under the watchful eye of the Megas Domestikos. Theodoros had vanished to who knows where—last anyone had heard of him he'd been captured by the rebel ibn Taymiyya in Palestine. Nikephoros was dead, killed by the disease that forbade him from becoming the great man he should've been. Manuel was dead as well, killed by an olive, and not the plots and swords of another. Heraklios had dutifully stepped aside, serving as Megas Domestikos to Andronikos. All that were left of that great herd of would-be rulers was Alexios, Andronikos, and Leo himself.
There is a lesson in this disaster, Leo told himself, Pride comes before the fall. His people had seen nothing but war for the last twenty-five years. Southern Italy was a war zone, with armies pillaging towns from Calabria to Urbino. Leo himself had spent nearly half his reign on campaign, fighting someone, somewhere. My people need peace, he thought, looking down at his worn hands. A bevy of premature wrinkles, baked by the African sun, stared back at him I need peace! the Emperor sighed. Lesser title it would be then...
“Andronikos,” the Emperor said quietly. We've exacted a toll on his navy, and he has a flank to worry about. Alexios has run rampant so far—I doubt he'd be willing to listen to any terms, and he has no one threatening his back... The disorganized mess that had been France was no threat to anyone since the death of the last Hypatos some five years before.
“Andronikos? He's the stronger of the two, if he could throw his full weight at us,” Pahlavi sighed. “He has to know this. Why would he come to terms?”
“I...don't know,” Leo grimaced, looking at the map once again. I need a straw, anything to grasp... His eyes trained north, to the Danes north of the Pontus. No, they're preoccupied with the Rus, at last report. The von Frankens want us to stay busy, so they can keep creeping north. Egypt is making terms with Konstantinopolis. That leaves...
“What of Persia?” Leo asked aloud after a moment. “She might be key to getting my brother to listen...”
Avalanchemike - Not creeped out at all, thank you for the compliment! lol Well, you won't have to wait much longer since there's (finally) an update below...
RGB - I'd say... I got good enough near the end that there wouldn've have been much to write about, or at least not much to build drama. What's sad is the save game irreparably crashed in 1399 (I think from porting over a vanilla game with thousands of character files in memory into DV), just after I had decided to "Screw it" and see what happened if I let everything blow up... what happens in story is my best guess as to what could've happened if it'd stayed stable until 1453...
wolfcity - Glad you like it!
Zzzzz... - Leo dose coming right up!
JackTheRipper21 - Well, I think in the coming update we might see some glimpses as to why Leo probably should've succeeded his father, instead of the muddled, then bloody mess that resulted...
“If honor were profitable, everybody would be honorable.” - Guillaume d'Ockham
October 11th, 1324
Guillaume d'Ockham blinked another bevy of men walked by. They were dirty, haggard, clad in cloth shifts and little more as their chains clinked above the roaring of the crowds. Rubbish and rotten vegetables sailed through the air, pelting the unfortunate men. Some were defiant, screaming obscenities at their tormentors in their patois of Italian and Persian.. Others kept their heads bowed. More than a few ducked. They didn't move with the pride and precision of even captured military men—no, Guillaume decided, these were civilian prisoners, yet more casualties in the long Italian War that never seemed to end.
This was no triumph—Emperor Andronikos had proclaimed there would be no more triumphs in Konstantinopolis until the Empire was whole and united once more. It was merely an 'official entry into the city,' and it was almost anything but triumphant—Andronikos had still not subdued all of southern Italy, and Varna, Moldau and Wallachia had risen in rebellion, proclaiming the Prince of Pereschen, one Baldar Komnenos, Rigas ton Transistrion. Pereschen had fled their claims and sought refuge with the Danes, justifiably fearful of the Megas Komnenos response, while the three rebel princes had already marshaled in the field. Prince Petros, eldest son of the Emperor, along with Megas Domestikos Heraklios and some 20,000 of the Emperor's Italian veterans were already headed north, even as the Emperor himself made a prominent and public show of not caring about such 'trivialities.'
Or so rumor said.
Old habits die hard, Guillaume smiled to himself as the procession continued. A few of the monks inside the lavra of the Hagia Eirene were a gossipy lot, and certainly didn't hold back when it came to blathering on and on about worldly affairs they supposedly had left behind. Many of them were unwilling exiles, men who'd learned the life of supposed Christian poverty as punishment for worldly greed, crime, and sin. Some still had holdings on the outside—most had families.
May little Petros stay safe, Guillaume prayed quietly. When he last saw the boy, he wasn't even seven years old, a hot headed little child that worshiped the ground his distant father walked upon. I wonder...
The crash of cymbals tore him back to the present, making him jump. He wasn't accustomed to public events—for the past ten years Guillaume d'Ockham had been a brother, and then aide to Metropolitan Kosaca at the lavra attached to the Hagia Eirene in Konstantinopolis. He hadn't expected to be in the streets, watching the latest imperial procession into the Queen of Cities. The streets, the people, they still called to him, and the riches and pleasures of his former life still beckoned. His present company provided a small measure of comfort—it was rather hard for one to throw off the cloth and run to manage to brothel when one sat beside His Holiness Patriarch Georgios Skalites, Patriarch of Konstantinopolis. He was still puzzled as to why the preeminent ecclesiastical figure in all of Christendom would invite him to his personal box to watch the official imperial entry into the city.
There, his comfort ended, for sitting next to the Patriarch was his nephew, Thomas Skalites, for the last ten years the Archeoikos and by reputation, the most feared man in the empire. Just looking at the man made Guillaume's skin crawl. Thomas Skalites had been a mere secretary only a few years before—a pudgy figure of some mild amusement at court. That unassuming smile, that almost comical appearance, were perhaps the best cover for a fanatical, disciplined mind that Guillaume d'Ockham had ever seen.
What fangs were hidden in those folds!
Today, no one in the city would disagree that two words described the Archeoikos--disciplined, and ruthless. The man seemingly had agents in every household, and always seemed to know what the dynatoi, and even Mother Church, were thinking before the thought could cross into anyone's mind. Even d'Ockham, cloistered away in Hagia Eirene for these years, had heard tales of dynatoi, even their entire families, disappearing in the night. While brutal, his measures were efficient—after the sudden spate of such 'disappearances,' the raucous dynatoi were quiet. Aside from the eccentric abd-Hinnawi, Skalites alone enjoyed the complete confidence of the Emperor.
“Is there something wrong, Brother d'Ockham?”
Guillaume spun to see the smiling face of the Patriarch. It was a rough one, kissed by time and age and left wrinkled and worn. The man's theological pedigree was long—Bishop of Kalliopolis, Metropolitan of Thessalonike, then a chief advisor and confidante of both Patriarch Thomas of Aquino and the late Simeon. “I...” Guillaume started to stumble, before he saw the Patriarch's eyes drift over to their companion.
“I owe him a debt, Master d'Ockham,” the elderly Patriarch smiled at his nephew. “The least I can do is invite him to share my box at the emperor's processional.”
More than a debt, d'Ockham wanted to say. After Simeon was taken by God, Metropolitan Kosaca was the expected successor to the Throne of St. Andrew. It seemed certain, considering Simeon himself had expressed that he wished Kosaca to succeed him. Yet somehow, several key bishops suddenly changed their opinion after a visit to the Blachernae, and now...
Guillaume looked up just as the Angeloi rumbled by, their blue and gold lamellar sparkling in the sunlight. He's breaking protocol, d'Ockham raised his eyebrows. Normally the guards regiments in procession marched without helms, but the Angeloi wore their full chainmail face mask, as well as their iron pothelms. Like all the “foot” regiments in the Emperor's Palatinoikoi, they rode magnificent coursers—Guillaume winced at the likely cost. Andronikos probably paid three months income from the treasury for that! And then there's always the fodder, grooms, stables... calculated versus ten regiments is...
“It still calls to you, doesn't it?”
Guillaume jumped at the voice, and found the Patriarch smiling at him gently. For a moment, he sputtered, before a “Yes,” came from his lips.
“You are human, Master d'Ockham. No one puts out the flames of avarice, or closed your mind to liking silks, or gold. You have spiritual water to douse those flames whenever they flare. That, my friend, is what God cares about.”
“Yes, Holiness,” d'Ockham nodded. He took in a deep breath, and relaxed. What I have is far better than any silver and gold. He looked back at the procession with new eyes. He went past the men in ornate parade armor, and instead saw the blades that slew their fellow man. He looked past the billow capes and golden helms and saw the money wasted, the taxes tossed on such useless items. Instead of richly caprisoned horses, he saw the dung they left in the streets. It's all empty, it's all a show... for what? The pageantry of war and death...
“It's a pity, though,” the Patriarch said, “there are many in the Church who do not use the spiritual water Christ gave them. It's my understanding while at Hagia Eirene you proved most helpful to Metropolitan Kosaca when he needed to take account of the monastery's assets?”
“I... I did my best, Holiness,” d'Ockham said. He opened his mouth to add more, but closed it shut. He already knows of the abbot and five brothers who had pilfered from the tithing, or the simony that gained the parish priest his position...Abbot Simon thought his scheme clever. I'd seen far more clever schemes come out of the mouths of thugs in my previous life...
“I fear,” the Patriarch went on, “that such avarice extends beyond the walls of Hagia Eirene, my dear d'Ockham,” the Patriarch went on. “Many a good Christian gives tithes to Mother Church in full expectation their hard earned coin and goods will be put to good use in furthering Christ's Kingdom on Earth—not lining the pockets of deacons or fattening the tables of bishops. Even the Bride of Christ, it seems, is in needing of a good accountant.”
“I shall certainly pray for your success in rooting out such malcontents, Holiness,” d'Ockham bowed his head.
“Oh, my son, I hope you will do more than pray.”
“Hm?”
“I have a mind, in fact, to appoint you my personal secretary,” the Patriarch smiled.
“I...” d'Ockham stammered. “I... am honored at the confidence Your Holiness places in me, and...”
“You do come with impeccable recommendation,” the Patriarch nodded towards his nephew.
“I...” d'Ockham turned to the suddenly smiling Archeoikos. He felt his skin crawl.
“Indeed. I spoke highly of you because, Master d'Ockham, the state has a vested interest in investigating whether the grants and gifts she donates to Mother Church are, indeed, being put to good use. With regards to graft and avarice, His Majesty is in whole accordance with His Holiness, and to be honest, I have never seen a man more talented with numbers than your person. I trust,” ” Thomas' smile grew wider and colder at once, “this means you'll be... talented...in spotting clever schemes with the property of Mother Church.”
“To be precise, I am on a hunt, as it were, searching for corruption and vice within Holy Mother Church. A good hunter needs a good bloodhound,” the Patriarch grinned. “You, Master d'Ockham, seem to be the best at the Church's disposal, for all the needs we have.”
“All the needs?” d'Ockham asked quietly as the tromp of the Angeloi receded in favor of the light and airy tones of flutes and horns as a troupe of musicians walked past. “What other duties does Your Holiness have in mind other than maintaining the records of Mother Church?”
“Several,” the Patriarch nodded, “but first, we have to arrange your consecration as bishop.”
“Bishop?” Guillaume squeaked.
Skalites chuckled. “It's merely an administrative elevation, my friend. You will have no flock, no chapel, no rectory. It has been tradition that the secretary to the Patriarch of Konstantinopolis be of such rank. I hope you have no objections to us continuing said tradition?”
“I... none, Your Holiness.”
A fanfare of trumpets rumbled over the Augusteon, a wailing roar that echoed from the ancient cobblestones. Guillaume and all his compatriots looked up, just as the imperial entourage itself cantered into the great square. Andronikos seemed heavier than Guillaume remembered—when he'd last seen his friend ten years before, he'd been tall and strong, but not this--a thick neck, huge arms and a barrel chest made the Emperor seem like a mountain on the move. He rode a black charger equal to him, a titan among horses. Together they cantered through the city, his mail and plate matching the charger's darkness, as if Ararat's shadow had come to parade through the middle of the Queen of Cities. No smile crossed his lips, nor did his eyes look to the cheering crowds. Instead, they looked straight ahead, some distant destination clearly taking his entire mind.
“Does the Emperor ever smile?” the Patriarch frowned.
“I am sure he does when he lies with one of his many mistresses,” the Archeoikos said suggestively. “Perhaps he does with his five bastards as well...or the Egyptian.”
Guillaume watched the Patriarch's face visibly darken as he himself frowned.
The price for Egypt fully kneeling before Konstantinopolis once more was Mother Church yielding to the call of Patriarch de Normandie in Alexandria—his excommunication would be lifted, until a full conclave of bishops from across the Orthodox world could decide on the merits of his 'reforms' of Orthodoxy in Egypt. Mother Church of course wanted no part of this blatant heresy, but the lure of Egyptian grain....
That's why they call me, Guillaume nodded. Yes, d'Ockham was good with money, but there were plenty of other more qualified, more prestigious men who could serve as the Patriarch's secretary and keep track of the Church's records. They're hoping Andronikos will remember me, will call on me instead of abd-Hinnawi?
Not likely.
Andronikos was stubborn, proud, and disinclined to admit any mistakes. He'd always been that way, from when Guillaume knew of him as a child. He hasn't spoken to me in ten years—he won't listen to me.
But... the Council...
If that is why the Patriarch was truly calling on him. They think Andronikos would really force them to have such a Council. Would he? Varna has already taken the field on the thought of it, and Moldau and Wallachia joined him. Would he even...? Abd-Hinnawi was close to the Emperor, Andronikos had hinged every decision, every choice on the man's word in Council, even when he'd clearly shown his incompetence in collecting monies or supervising taxes. Would he think that man called for something that would be the oblivion of Christendom, of the Empire as we know it?
“Holiness,” Guillaume found his voice. “I pray for his soul.” May he know what God intends him to do, and follow through with what is right and good, both for the empire, and for his own soul...
“As do we all,” Skalites nodded quietly.
==========*==========
October 21st, 1324
Leo Komnenos, Megas Komnenos and Emperor in Italy, closed his eyes and sighed as the late autumn winds of the Mediterranean swirled around his face and through the streets of his capital at Palermo. For a moment, he forgot about the never-ending war, or the weight of time itself that subtly pressed on his forty-eight year old bones.
The palace was good for that—dragging on away from the tedium and darkness that was the world around them, and shining light and good into one's life, if only for a moment.
It wasn't like the palaces Leo was used to—the Blacharnae, the Great Palace, even the eccentric Kosmodion, were all hulking, massive structures, dominated by looming domes and thick stones. The Dysipalati's foundations had been laid by Arab architects when Emperor Manuel I was campaigning in Italy hundreds of years before. His son Basil had expanded it, making it an imperial stop in the long journeys to and from the battlefields of Spain. It was Basil who had brought in craftsmen and masons from northern Italy who were fleeing French armies—men who had worked on the great flowing cathedrals rising across the north of Europe. They brought their skill here—the building was built around a courtyard surrounded by high, airy arches. Instead of a dark, gloomy palace, it was filled with light, and the cool Mediterranean breeze even on the hottest summer day.
Today, however, not even the palace's designs could work their magic. The self-declared Megas Komnenos sighed as another breath of wind graced his cheek. It didn't feel like a sunny day in beautiful Palermo. A dark, cold blizzard would have better fit his mood.
“Algiers?” Leo asked quietly, turning back to his Small Council. Pitifully small these days, he wanted to say. His Master of Coin, Reinaldo the Seven Fingered, was here as always. So was his own wife Isabella de Medici, his spymistress, as well as Fahrad Pahlavi, Prince of Spoleto and Megas Spahbod. Megas Domestikos Haroldsson, as well as his Megas Doux, Heraklios Makrinokomnenoi, were not.
“Algiers,” Pahlavi nodded, looking towards the man that loomed between the Council members and their Emperor. Blue chits gloomily sat on top of the intricately drawn letters of 'Algiers' in North Africa. Haroldsson and Makrinokomnenos will drive them off, Leo hoped. Alexios couldn't have come with that many—not all the way to Algiers, and not after the drubbing we gave his fleet...
...we didn't think Andronikos would hit is that hard either, a small voice reminded him, and the Emperor winced.
They'd been caught out of position, completely unprepared. The backbone of Leo's army in North Africa, holding off repeated incursions by his brother Alexios in the Mauretania. We were even discussing how to invade Spain proper, after Alexios landing at Azat was decimated, the Emperor wryly smiled. The von Frankens had been content to take Leo's annual payment of silver to fund their campaigns north—they had forced the Dukes of Bavaria to hand over his title, and raised themselves to Kings in Italy even. He had been assured, from multiple sources in Konstantinopolis, that his younger brother's court had been in disarray—he'd just exiled his mother, and stripped a great deal of power from his Megoskyriomachos. His new Spymaster was an unknown, no more than a secretary to the powerful Roland du Roche. Having just returned from campaign, no one expected Andronikos to have the funds, or the desire, to campaign anywhere else for at least five years. If he did campaign, everyone assured, he would go after the von Frankens, for declaring themselves Kings without his permission.
Leo turned back to the harbor and his dromons. We thought he'd sit on his laurels. Leo's eyes followed the five dromons as they gracefully passed the Dysipalati. Each in turn, as they passed Nikephoros' Tower, dipped their pennants in salute. It'd been a tradition in the Western Fleet, ever since Nikephoros the Saracen landed in Sicily almost 80 years before. We thought he wouldn't dare challenge our fleet. The Dytikos Stolos en masse had declared for Leo, and everyone, from old Ioannopoulos and Haroldsson on, had assumed the Eastern Emperor wouldn't want to match prows.
Oh, how they were wrong.
Andronikos had come, with full might and fury. Leo's armies were stronger than they'd been before, but the Emperor's younger brother had been ruthless and relentless. 1316 began with a powerful army of 40,000 men landing near Bari with no warning, then another force the same size landing and besieging Lecce a month later. The 15,000 Persians left to defend southern Italy had backpedaled towards the safety of Napoli, the Spahbod left behind sending out calls to all his vassals and retainers to call up their levies.
Then the von Frankens came. Only 10,000 men went for Urbino, but suddenly Leo was facing opponents on two fronts. Who could say that the von Frankens wouldn't send more? Or that Andronikos wouldn't either?
“How many do we think are raiding around Algiers?” Leo asked. The dromons had now turned out to sea. Gracefully their oars rose, then disappeared inside their hulls as the wind filled their sails. They, too, were off to North Africa. To salvage what we can from Alexios the Scavenger.
“No more than 15,000, we think,” Isabella said quietly. She was superbly intelligent—Leo knew she was far more so than he was, and he'd come to depend on her advice. Most of the time it was brilliant. She is human, though, he clasped his hands behind his back and sighed. She'd offered to resign her post after Andronikos' invasion. He'd told her absolutely not. I need you more than ever now, he remembered as he held her. “We think Alexios might have 50,000 or more in Mauretania, however, and his host is likely growing by the day...”
“Mmmmm,” Leo pursed his lips, and finally turned to his council once more. We could fight on both fronts, he thought, looking at the map. Many good men will lose their lives, Leo grimaced, looking at the map before him. Numerous clay chits marked his massing army in Sicily—40,000 Persians and North Africans, under the Megas Spahbod. Another set of chits marked Haroldsson's 30,000 marching towards Algiers, while another marked a pitifully small number left in southern Italy.
Pahlavi's old command, Leo sighed. Old Megas Spahbod Ioannopoulos had let Andronikos besiege city after city, while he calmly marshaled the resources of the entire Middle Empire at Napoli. They'd scrapped the Spanish idea, and stripped North Africa of as many men as they dared. When Ioannopoulos set out in the spring of 1318, he had a host nearly as great as Andronikos' whole army.
But Andronikos had taken Bari and Lecce already, Leo looked at the Apulian coast on that damning map. Every port had an imperial garrison, and Urbino, Ancona, all the way across the Appeninnes to Rome was in his younger brother's hands. One might stop a boulder, but one cannot stop an avalanche, went an old Sicilian saying—and Andronikos' slow, steady march had up to that point been an avalanche. But the moment Ioannopoulos started his swing around the Apennines to threaten Taranto, the avalanche suddenly lurched with surprising speed. 65,000 men, with Andronikos in command, made a lightning march across the same mountains further north, making speed for Spoleto. On April 19th, just as Ioannopoulos' vanguard was leaving the Appenines outside Taranto, Andronikos' army laid siege to Spoleto, behind the Megas Spahbod Ioannopoulos turned to deal with the enemy in his rear, only find no one laying siege when he arrived at Spoleto five days later. Andronikos was further north , seemingly making for Napoli.
I was with the army that day, Leo remembered, I could've ordered him to halt, to wait, to let the men rest. But I didn't...
No. Instead he'd ordered Ioannopoulos to press north, despite the weariness of the army from staging one forced march already. If Andronikos was pulling away, he had to be retreating! Leo's men marched valiantly, catching up to his brother's columns well before Naples. When they found him, Andronikios' army was drawn up in a ravine outside the small town of Amalfi, in an unassailable position. His flanks were secure, and there was no way to get into his rear without a lengthy mountain trek. He WAS unassailable Leo still told himself. If I had ordered the attack though...
Leo winced. Ioannopoulos' dying words had been of consolation—telling Leo not to shoulder the burden of defeat alone. No one could have known about that detachment, that the seeming army in the ravine was only a fraction of his force. No one could have known he had spent the better part of the previous day countermarching around those mountains. No one could have known that night he would send out Varangians and sappers to break into my fortified camp, or that his army would thunder in from all sides... They said the coast off of Amalfi was red for three days as Andronikos' men systematically executed every single person they captured for treason. 30,000 of my best men...
The war seemed lost that afternoon.
But it wasn't. We made him pay for every inch after that, Leo consoled himself. Leo and his tattered army retreated down the spine of Calabria for Sicily, as Andronikos set himself to lay siege to Naples and Spoleto. But where Leo's army suffered defeat, the Dytikos Stolos showed its mettle, gained from almost two decades of skirmishing with Alexios. First off Reggio, then off Siracusa, Megas Doux Makrinokomnenos and his ships broke the back of the fleets sent to cut off Naples and Spoleto by sea. Time and again, Leo's sailors brought supplies into the great fortresses, and Andronikos' great invasion stalled out. Six years later, Andronikos still had the same lands he'd gained by 1318, and his beloved brother had been forced to leave his armies in Italy while he returned to Konstantinopolis to set affairs right in his capital and quell the rumblings of rebellion amongst his Balkan lords.
We could fight, that siren call repeated itself in Leo's mind. Andronikos was away, leaving his brother Heraklios in command. The young man was no slouch, but this was by far the largest command the newly minted Megas Domestikos had ever held. He has 60,000 in Italy. We have 50,000. Those aren't such bad odds...
Unless another Amalfi happens, cold logic spoke once more. Leo looked up at his Megas Spahbod. “Pahlavi, you look like you want to speak...”
“I... Majesty,” the grey haired Persian bowed hastily, “Your brother is gone, but doubtless he will return, with even more men. If he goes on the offensive next campaign season, Majesty,” Pahlavi nodded towards the boot of Italy on the map, “we won't be able to resist him now that he has bases along the coast. Naples and Spoleto might hold, but he could just as easily take the spine of Calabria and have a dagger pointed straight at Sicily. And...”
Leo's eyes forlornly followed the gaze of his Megas Spahbod to the slew of dark blue chits that polluted the pristine lands of Mauretania and Tangiers. He sighed.
Something has to give. He came close once... the Emperor crossed his arms. And with Alexios running amok in the West...
“We need a truce, on one front or the other,” Leo finally spoke aloud what he was sure everyone present was thinking. Alexios is an opportunist, he'll come with his full might. Andronikos' problems are bound to end, and then he'll come with his full might. After Amalfi... He forlornly shook his head. We need terms...
“With who?” Isabella asked. Eyes all around the room asked the same question. The Middle Empire was the smallest, surviving even this long by skill and guile alone. Now, it seemed backed into a corner, as both its greater neighbors bore down on.
What terms even? Neither of my brothers would surrender Megas Komnenos, or even consent to me sharing that rank...I... A problem. Leo was the preferred successor of Andronikos Apokathistos, the son that, should his father have lived a precious few more years, would have taken the reins of a united empire as undisputed Megas Komnenos. By rights, Leo told himself for the seemingly hundredth time, the empire, from the Pillars to Persia, is mine!
He sighed—his brothers clearly didn't think of it that way, and they had squabbled and fought the whole thing to pieces. Demetrio was rotting away as a monk in Monte Cassino, tonsured and set away, his children exiled to Carthage and under the watchful eye of the Megas Domestikos. Theodoros had vanished to who knows where—last anyone had heard of him he'd been captured by the rebel ibn Taymiyya in Palestine. Nikephoros was dead, killed by the disease that forbade him from becoming the great man he should've been. Manuel was dead as well, killed by an olive, and not the plots and swords of another. Heraklios had dutifully stepped aside, serving as Megas Domestikos to Andronikos. All that were left of that great herd of would-be rulers was Alexios, Andronikos, and Leo himself.
There is a lesson in this disaster, Leo told himself, Pride comes before the fall. His people had seen nothing but war for the last twenty-five years. Southern Italy was a war zone, with armies pillaging towns from Calabria to Urbino. Leo himself had spent nearly half his reign on campaign, fighting someone, somewhere. My people need peace, he thought, looking down at his worn hands. A bevy of premature wrinkles, baked by the African sun, stared back at him I need peace! the Emperor sighed. Lesser title it would be then...
“Andronikos,” the Emperor said quietly. We've exacted a toll on his navy, and he has a flank to worry about. Alexios has run rampant so far—I doubt he'd be willing to listen to any terms, and he has no one threatening his back... The disorganized mess that had been France was no threat to anyone since the death of the last Hypatos some five years before.
“Andronikos? He's the stronger of the two, if he could throw his full weight at us,” Pahlavi sighed. “He has to know this. Why would he come to terms?”
“I...don't know,” Leo grimaced, looking at the map once again. I need a straw, anything to grasp... His eyes trained north, to the Danes north of the Pontus. No, they're preoccupied with the Rus, at last report. The von Frankens want us to stay busy, so they can keep creeping north. Egypt is making terms with Konstantinopolis. That leaves...
“What of Persia?” Leo asked aloud after a moment. “She might be key to getting my brother to listen...”
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I certainly dont envy Leo's position between that rock and a hard place. He's done well for himself given the resources, that's for sure.