“If you hide the eyes of a vulture, it will still find its prey. Be like a hawk, and always strike and swoop with speed.” - Andronikos II Komnenos, On Hunting
Eirene's Theme (for her Section)
June 9th, 1325
Bishop Guillaume d'Ockham grimaced as he entered his room in the Patriarchal's Palace. It was far larger than the simple monastic cell he was used to at
Hagia Eirene, but half its space was taken up by his desk.
My bane, he sighed, sitting down behind a mound of documentation that glowed orange in the soft candlelight.
I want peace and quiet, not mounds of paperwork, he idly grumbled to himself, reading the first of his nightly parchments. As the chief secretary to none less than the Holy Patriarch of Konstantinopolis, though, he would see no rest, no respite from the constant assault of letters, documents, and petitions that flooded in on a daily basis.
Bah, I miss the lavras! he grumbled as he tossed aside a pointless report from some superintendent of construction in Herakleia. The bishop grumbled, picking up the next document—some litany of complaints from a choirmaster at Mount Athos that his salary was not sufficient.
Bah, what I would give to be back at the lavras!
Yes, the
lavras could sometimes be too quiet, but there were some parts of the
Lavras that Guillaume genuinely missed. The Oddsmakers, for one—a pair of exiled nobles from Tyrus, men too indolent to learn an honest work at the monastery, but too energetic to sulk in their cells like many of the other fallen lords. Instead the pair sat at the table, quizzing penitents and other visitors, and then gossiping about the news they'd heard from the outside world. They always made loud pronouncements of what they thought would happen—sometimes, they were right, sometimes they were dreadfully wrong. They'd blithely predicted the young
Kaisar would suffer disaster on his expedition north, and had been proven completely wrong, as his 'victory procession' into the capital proved only a month before. On the other hand, they had guessed that the young man's wife was pregnant with twins—technically they were correct, even if one died a few days later.
As much as the abbot hated them, Guillaume found himself listening to them on more than one occasion. It was a diversion, and it kept the part of Guillaume that longed for the old days of politics and intrigue satisfied. These days, he had more than enough of both in his new position. He flipped to the next parchment in the pile.
Another caught in the spider's web tries to wriggle free, he grimaced. A certain
Kephalos named Palialogos from Phillipopolis was now claiming that he was led astray by Metropolitan Konstantinos Sophitis.
Yet another sad man crying the same song. Many were now claiming they had been led astray by said Metropolitan, begging forgiveness and offering restitution to Mother Church. Since Sophitis' scam had been exposed, and the good cleric put on trial, several reams of such pleas for clemency had crossed d'Ockham's desk.
The scheme had been utterly breathtaking in its scope—the
Metropolitan took monies from nobles high and low throughout the Empire, then 'stuffed' the names of their sons into the ordination rolls for the
Hagia Sophia and
Hagia Eirene. Sophitis even went so far as to take bribes to ensure petitions reached the desk of the Patriarch, and not his own, where they would wallow in 'bureaucracy' for years. By d'Ockham's best estimate, over ten years the
Metropolitan had sold no less than ten bishoprics, eighty-five clerical posts, and innumerable parish positions, all while taking in some 50,000 gold solidii.
5,000 from the 'Office of the Imperial Logothetes, Guillaume's lip twisted up. Even the
Emperor was involved!
Angelos' bastard, I imagine. He rose rather quickly from a student at University to Bishop of Abydos! 5,000 gold will lower any walls, even for a boy scarcely 20!
The only thing that angered d'Ockham even more was the
Metropolitan's supposed response when agents of
Archeoikos Skalites came to arrest him on charges of theft, simony and fraud.
It was just hearsay, Guillaume reminded himself,
but to say it was 'not unusual and perfectly normal?' For a shepherd of Christ's flock to say that? He sighed, the weight of his investigation crushing down on his shoulders.
Why should I not be surprised? I saw how things worked, I saw how quickly a coin here or there could accomplish mir...no, not miracles. Works, no more...just works...
Memories clawed at the back of his mind, the siren call of a past life. The wine, the women, the money.
Christ is all I need, Guillaume prayed yet again,
He gives me salvation, and through the Father gives me what food and raiment my wretched body requires. I need only Him, for he cleanses the soul, and leaves me white as snow. Forgive my thoughts, oh God. Forgive your humble servant of his trespasses, and set his mind right once more.
Silently, the Bishop crossed himself, and focused on the stack of papers once more. More reports—the
Metropolitan's confession. Guillaume winced—the
Archeoikos' signature was floridly displayed on the bottom, and d'Ockham didn't want to know how Skalites had obtained the laundry list of deeds. Two lovers, and a score of bastards hidden away in Kalliopolis. Payments to a Sicilian moneylender to cover a debt to a young man in Thrake for 'indecent and unwholesome acts.' The list went on.
A truly evil man. Thank God he's been purged from Mother Church, Guillaume thought as he finished the stack. An even larger pile of papers sat defiantly on the corner of his desk.
More cases, more corruption. Oh Lord, what has Your Church...
A gentle knock at the door made Guillaume look up, just in time to see the soft, round head of the Patriarch's nephew poke through the doorway.
“
Archeoikos?” Guillaume stumbled to his feet, his voice hitched in surprise.
Did Sophitis call in a favor? Am I arrested? Am...
“Please, Bishop, be seated,”
Archeoikos Thomas Skalites walked fully into the room. His black doublet and hose made him seem to meld into the dancing shadows of the candlelight. His plump fingers glistened from numerous gold rings—each said to be taken from the hand of a great noble he'd found guilty of treason. “This is a social visit, Excellency. I believe,” he gestured towards the wide open doorway, “you know the
Megoslogothetes?”
At his words, Prince Theophylaktos Angelos,
Megoslogothetes and
Despotes of Anatolia, also walked into the doorway. Unlike Skalites, he was thin, with a well-trimmed mustache and slight beard. His clothes were from the finest ermine and silk, perfectly cut by the best tailors money could buy. Guillaume remembered how Andronikos used to call him Prince Peacock—and now that peacock was easily a contender for being the second most powerful man in the Empire, alongside
Megoskyriomachos du Roche and, of all people, Thomas Skalites...
“Good evening, Bishop,” the Prince bowed formally, not a smile breaking his lips.
“Good evening, Highness. Please,” Guillaume scrambled back down into his chair, “how can I... help you?”
“Father Theodoros has resigned from his post as Chaplain to His Majesty,” Skalites said quietly.
“Resigned? What for?” Guillaume asked quietly.
And what does this have to do with me? Andronikos has gone through six chaplains in the past ten years. Why should another resigning his post be any different?
“Abd-Hinnawi.” The name came from Prince Angelos' mouth as if it was poison to be vomited to the ground.
“Father Theodoros complains that the
Logothetes has far too much influence on His Majesty,” Skalites explained, steepling his fat, pink fingers, “He says that His Majesty takes the words of the Egyptian to heart, and that His Majesty has become disagreeable on many subjects, infrequently attends services, and is almost violent when he finds something he thinks is objectionable.”
“He feared for his life,” Angelos spat again, his famous temper already on the rise. “A priest, inside the palace of the Holiest City in Christendom, fearing for his
life!”
“Surely you exaggerate,” Guillaume whispered, a voice from the past bellowing in his ear.
”Stay, pray, do whatever it is you do! Be a selfish asshole!” Andronikos had a temper for sure, but one that would make a man of the cloth fear for his safety?
“I do not, unfortuately. It is not in His Majesty's nature to do such a thing, but the Egyptian whispers in His Majesty's ear,” Skalites said, walking behind d'Ockham, his breath licking on the back of Guillaume's neck. “He renders advice and counsel that are contrary to the interests of Mother Church...”
“Him and that heathen al-Qayyim!” Angelos hissed. “And probably that old goat Taymiyya too! Those three form a great, evil cabal bent on destroying the Church. I would swear it! I've even heard that the
Megoskyriomachos has extended invitations to the Egyptian to have dinner at his home! The swine!”
“Come now,” Guillaume rolled his eyes.
I remember Roland du Roche—he was a schemer, a liar, and completely self-serving. How would inviting abd-Hinnawi to his home serve him? It'd anger the church, anger Skalites...but could it please Andronikos? A voice in d'Ockham's head told him to say something tart. Instead, he added, “Prince Angelos, you are far to intelligent to fall for such a silly rumor!”
“I...” Angelos huffed, before staring at Skalites. “Tell him!”
“I... know you have been a friend to His Majesty, and still regard him in high esteem,” the
Archeoikos bowed his bulbous head slightly and smiled, “but please, Bishop, understand that Master abd-Hinnawi has been providing His Majesty with most...incorrect, and dare I say, dangerous counsel. In fact,” the smile slowly disappeared, “His Majesty intends to decree that the...sitting...Egyptian clergy will be allowed to participate in the proposed Church Council. This ignores that there
are Egyptian clergy, forcibly in exile, living in Konstantinopolis.” Skalites sighed. “This is, of course at the insistence of Master abd-Hinnawi.”
“Aionites in the Council?” Guillaume blinked.
Surely he's not serious! Andronikos, you wouldn't! You couldn't!
“Yes,” Prince Theophylaktos looked towards the
Archeoikos, who nodded at him in return. “I know you love and trust His Majesty as a friend,” Angelos said slowly, “but we have proof. See here.” With a flourish, he pulled several parchments from his sleeve. They crinkled as they landed on the desk before d'Ockham. “I...procured these...from several of His Majesty's scribes. They are copies of letters even now being sent to Alexandria, inviting Patriarch de Normandie, the Archbishop of Fustat, as well as the Bishops of Damietta, Gizeh and Aswan to Konstantinopolis...”
“We hardly need tell you, Bishop,” Skalites pointed towards the damning letters, “that all of these men are known Aionite sympathizers, if not outright heretics. Their presence at the Council could prove most...disruptive...to the work that needs be done in the name of Christ.”
“Merciful Father,” d'Ockham crossed himself.
Men who claim Mahomet as one of their prophets, and deny the divinity of Christ invading a holy council of Mother Church? Peter said for us to beware false teachers—why must Andronikos not be wary of such? Guillaume thought of many words, many ideas, but only four reached his lips as he looked at the annoyed Angelos and infernally cherubic Skalites.
“How can I help?”
“In fact, you could prove quite crucial,” Skalites' smile return, larger than ever. “The Patriarch has authorized me to ask you if you would be willing to serve as His Majesty's personal chaplain. We would like a good voice, a Christian voice...”
“...a Roman voice, as best as you can be...” Angelos added sharply.
“...to counterbalance abd-Hinnawi and the other evil men who poison His Majesty's ear with false counsel,” Skalites went on.
“
Personal chaplain?" Guillaume asked as his heart dropped.
They want me to be their eyes, their ears. They want me to undermine abd-Hinnawi, not counter him. He wanted to tell them he had been done with politics for over a decade, that he merely wanted to finish his duties as the Patriarch's secretary, and clean Mother Church before retiring back to the
lavra where he could pray and study the wonder that was God's work in peace and quiet. All those thoughts, hopes, and dreams fought with each other, trying to escape his lips. None came out.
“I do not know if His Majesty will truly accept me into his service,” Guillaume said weakly, praying that they would not press.
“We have it on good authority that His Majesty asks of you often,” Skalites said slowly. “We are confident that His Majesty would gladly welcome you into his service, and eagerly listen to your advice and...counsel. I understand your reluctance,” Skalites sighed, pacing around the Bishop, “I would be reluctant if I were in your place. Politics is a dirty business, but then again, to truly clean something, one must be willing to get a little dirt on one's fingers.” He stopped just behind Guillaume, and the Bishop could fee the fat man looming behind him. “The Church is on trial, Bishop. Someone needs to stand up for Christ, and stand against heathens are charlatans,” Skalites said, before a thin smile crept across his face. “Will it be you? Or will you be yet another Pilate?”
==========*==========
July 5th, 1325
”Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Note when you are between breaths. Wait for that moment, wait for it...”
Guillaume heard the twine of his bow creaking, and felt pain shooting up his arm.
”Wait,” the voice of the past told him as he strained. The deer seemed to be peering at him, staring, trying to determine what he was, who he was. It was too worn out to run, so it stared with big, brown eyes.
Not another hound, d'Ockham imagined the beast saying,
Not another hound. The bishop slowly, ever so slowly turned so the point of his arrow was aimed at the heart of the beast.
One more second, one more second...
He let fly. The arrow left with a
whoosh Guillaume hadn't heard it in years, before slamming into the animal's chest with a
thud loud enough the bishop could hear it from 80 paces away. The animal started to turn, its back legs pumping even as its front legs collapsed forward. It struggled for a moment longer, before sprawling awkwardly on the ground. A moment's twitching later, it lay perfectly still.
“Good shot!” Guillaume turned to see his old friend, Emperor Andronikos, put his hands on his hips and nod. He looked back up at Guillaume and flashed a grin. “Glad to see you haven't lost your touch with a bow in all these years.”
“When I stayed at the
Lavras outside Prusa, some of the monks needed help finding meat for the Feast of St. Nikolaios,” Guillaume pulled out his knife and started for the dead animal.
Do I start the cut at the neck, or the flank? “We did the best we could,” he went on, staring at the dead animal as he got closer, “since it was sometimes the only chance some of the smallfolk had to taste something like venison.”
Oh how the monks complained! He laughed out loud. “Trudging through the woods covered in deer urine was a penance, in their eyes!”
“A penance?” Andronikos' smile grew as they finally came up to the carcass. “Why, how can walking across God's green earth, stalking a good deer and striking the killing blow be a
penance? I thought penances were supposed to be drudgery, pain and torture so you
didn't want to perform them? God's balls,” he huffed, “if hunting was a penance I'd sin more often!”
Guillaume winced.
Same Andronikos, he reminded himself. “Penance is an sign of contrition. One might be one man's joy could easily be another's penance. For you, penance might be not hunting for a period of time, or forsaking venison.”
Or ignoring your Egyptian friend, or sleeping with your wife instead of your mistresses.
“Ha!” the emperor laughed. “If those are my penance, Father, I promise to be a good and Christian boy!”
“I sincerely hope you will,” Guillaume felt his lips curl up into a smile. “Else Father Bradwardine will be very cross, God rest his soul.”
“God rest his soul,” Andronikos echoed quietly. “Did you know, I've started writing another book?”
“Another?” Guillaume laughed. “That's what, the third in the past two years? What's this one about?”
Something other than hunting, I hope? That's what the last two discussed, at length...
“Flora in the Empire, actually,” Andronikos smiled. Just for a moment, the big burly man looked sheepish. “Most of the legwork was done by abd-Hinnawi during the campaigns. I was a little...busy...to look at flowers then, but now that I'm cooped up in Thrace,” he sighed, “I've had more time than I know what to do with!”
“I'm glad to hear your scribbles are about something more than just hunting,” Guillaume said.
“Indeed,” Andronikos put an arm around d'Ockham. “It's been too long,” Andronikos laughed, “and I have missed you! Remember that time, when we went to the broth...ah,” Andronikos looked down, and shook his head. “Forgive me. That...that was a different life. I forgot once again.”
“There's no offense taken,” Guillaume replied, kneeling down beside the slain deer.
The neck, he thought, as he tried his best to start to skin the beast. “It was my life, and there are memories, but let us focus on the memories to be made, not the ones that have...”
“No, here,” Andronikos was suddenly down next to him, and took the knife. He snapped his fingers at a nearby huntsman, who threw a rope over the bough of a nearby tree. The huge Emperor hefted the animal up, and a moment later it was dangling by a noose. He started gutting the animal with the ease of a master. “Hang the thing first, my friend. And I know. And I
do apologize, and I am glad you decided to become my chaplain. It shall certainly make sermons more interesting!”
“And relevant, I hope, Majesty,” Guillaume wiped his hands on his plain hunting breeches and sighed.
I did completely forget how to do it, he thought as he watched.
“I don't have many I can trust,” the emperor went on, his knife cutting into the beast's flanks. “Everyone has plans, plots and agendas! Everyone wants to use me for their needs and ends. No one gives a damn about me, or what
I need from them!” he grumbled, ripping off another section of pelt. “I'm surrounded by fat sots and sordid fools, with few I can trust. Even Skalites,” the Emperor said, finally stabbing the knife into the deer's ribs, “even he has turned! I swear, he's gone from being a good loyal bloodhound to a mangy cur that runs to his uncle when the Holy Father calls!”
“I...” Guillaume started to speak.
“I need advice, like the old days,” Andronikos went on, yanking the knife back out and resuming his gutting. “Things have changed, Guillaume. A woman rules now in Persia through her lackey husband and invalid father. The Danes are trying to convince me I should marry my second son to their royal princess, while the von Frankens are losing northern Italy even as they reach into Germany. Eveything is upside down. The true honey in the pot, though, is that Leo offered terms to me, no less than six months ago.”
“Leo has offered terms?” Guillaume heard himself squeak.
The Oddsmakers had it sorted out! The war was going to continue next spring with another campaign...
“Terms,” Andronikos nodded, peeling off the last of the deer's hide. “He will be a junior co-Emperor, but the empire will be one.”
“And you offered counter-terms?” d'Ockham raised an eyebrow.
“Of course! He'd be only an
Autokrator, and his children would be
Sebastokrators, no more. A hereditary junior emperor? That's asking for a usurper,” Andronikos snorted as his bloody fingers handed the hide off to a huntsman for proper curing. “Venison tonight?”
“A sound idea,” Guillaume nodded. “On both accounts!”
“You agree then, on peace with leo?” Guillaume watched his friend's eyebrow arch up in surprise. “My,” Andronikos laughed as servants brought over rose water and he started washing the blood from his hands, “I thought a...um... religious...man, like yourself...would not agree with someone the Patriarch calls 'that dreadful Egyptian....'”
Guillaume couldn't help but smile.
He remembers so little of what we learned as children... “I might not agree with the
Logothetes on certain matters,” he nodded, “but I believe even a heathen can be granted godly wisdom at times. God is mighty, and not bound by what we men consider agreeable. Neither is his wisdom confined to those we deem such. Peace, I believe, is a goal that any good Christian would agree with,” he felt his smile grow, “even if it means agreeing with a 'dreadful Egyptian.'”
“Ha!” Andronikos laughed. “Bradwardine would be proud of you!” He shook his hands dry, and motioned for Guillaume to follow him back to their horses. “And,” he added, “proud of what you've become.”
“I'm sure he would be proud to see what you have become as well,” Guillaume smiled back.
“I'm glad to hear you say that,” Andronikos said quietly, before stopping in mid-stride. Servants, equerries and the entire imperial assemblage ground to a halt as well, all eyes turning to the suddenly motionless Emperor. For a moment his eyes seemed far away, lost in thought. He blinked, and suddenly they were alight once more. “You are my chaplain. You must come and stay in the palace!” Andronikos threw an imperial hand around Guillaume's shoulder. “I'll have some apartments set up! Don't,” he raised a finger before Guillaume could utter his first words of protest, “They won't be opulent or anything. Something suitably...simple...for my pious friend.”
“Yes, please,” Guillaume finally managed to say, “something simple. Nothing as gaudy as the home Kosaca built for himself.”
“Ah, yes... the 'Palace on the Mount,' as I call it,” Andronikos chuckled, waving the assemblage on. “He should start giving sermons there. Perhaps it might provoke Christ into the second coming out of annoyance!”
“I...” Guillaume blinked at the blasphemous joke.
Did he...
“There are wrongs left and right committed by men in the Church,” the Emperor went on. “Bishops stealing tithes and using them on fine manses and horses, abbots stealing grain,
Metropolitans even stealing coin. You have seen and experienced these wrongs, have you not?” Andronikos angled.
“I...have...Majesty,” d'Ockham said warily. “I have seen and rooted out much vice and trouble in the name of Patriarch Skalites. He does Mother Church well in his efforts...”
Dare I say it? d'Ockham thought for only a moment, before he felt his mouth form the words, “Even simony from the highest places.”
“Ah...” Andronikos pursed his lips and looked down. Guillaume braced himself for a verbal barrage. Instead, the Emperor merely looked up at him after a minute. “Straight, and to the point as always. I know your...handiwork...well. It almost stymied my efforts to have a Council convened to address the numerous problems within the Church.”
“Your efforts?” d'Ockham swallowed.
“Sophitis was a noted opponent of calling a Council to address problems of simony and other sin within the clergy, for reasons you...obviously...know. I promised him immunity from lay courts and a healthy stipend. Your ecclesiastical courts did him in. My reasoning,” Andronikos folded his hands behind his back and sighed, “was that a small sin, done in order to undo many sins, is no sin at all.”
“I...but the Bible clearly states in the eyes of God, a sin is a sin,” Guillaume rejoined. “It does not matter the motive.” D'Ockham looked up, just in time to catch his friend scowling at the ground. “Even though,” the Bishop quickly added, “I would...agree...with you, Andronikos,” Guillaume found himself saying, “There should be some Council called into session, and sat for however long it takes to sort out the doctrinal problems facing Mother Church....”
“I know that face,” Andronikos smiled thinly. “Say but...”
“But,” Guillaume sighed, “I do not think inviting the Aionites to such a meeting would be profitable, or helpful to the cause of Christian unity, or Your Majesty's reputation. There are...many...who are still furious over your compromise in the Levant. They are furious that you would willfully hand the Holy Land to...”
“...men who are now loyal subjects of the Empire?” Andronikos asked, the scowl returning. “Men who think that are fools.”
“Men who just recently were in arms against the Empire,” Guillaume rejoined. “It initially invited discord, even though it has resulted in peace. Andronikos, I do not think bringing the Aionites to council will have nearly the same peaceable consequences! Inviting the Aionites also invites discord, as well as renewed calls for their suppression,” Guillaume offered.
Maybe the political tack will work. “Neither suits your interests, the interests of the state, or the interests of the Egyptians, for that matter! You need Egypt's grain, and while you could conquer Egypt, Konstantinopolis would be left at the mercy of the Danes, or the Anatolian lords to fill her granaries. No one wins by provoking an unnecessary war.”
“A war?” Andronikos snorted. “You really think allowing them to debate freely and speak freely at the Council would lead to
a war?”
“I do,” d'Ockham nodded, lunging for the opening. “You have said yourself you have many enemies at court—which one of them wouldn't pounce? Mother Church and all Christendom would howl in agony. Andronikos,” Guillaume stopped and turned to his former friend, “surely it is better...wiser... to not invite them to a Council! Let them be in Egypt, if you will it, but don't bring such disaster on yourself, your realm, and the Christian world! I only advise you as a friend, not as a bishop, not as a Christian, but as a friend!”
“I... I shall think on it,” the Emperor said quietly, before his grim face became a placid, blank smile. “Now, let's away with politics, and talk of venison and dinner...”
==========*==========
August 11th, 1325
Princess Eirene Kaukadenos-Komnenos, officially
Vurzog Farmadar of the Persian Empire, dismounted from her caparisoned horse. Guardsmen all around the docks of Hormuz came to attention, as she looked around at the teeming sight of thousands of soldiers and sailors preparing for war.
The first overseas expedition I've ever ordered, she thought to herself, before sighing. She couldn't resist slipping out of Hormuz castle to take just one look. Yes, the military would have the matter well in hand, but she needed to be there, to see it for herself. She found her left hand fidgeting with her right pinkie.
Stop it, she told herself,
don't show your nervousness!
The expedition was officially to secure Persian trade rights on the Arabian peninsula. Since the days of her great-grandfather, Omani and Arab pirates had threatened Persian Gulf trade. Her great-uncle Alexandros had conquered a strip of the Arabian coast and vassalized its chieftains, but Oman still remained a threat. Her Sultan, from his citadel at Muscat, organized raids along the coast of Sistan, and his docks hosted merchant rivals of her own Persian elite. If the Persian Gulf was to be opened as a rival trading route to the Red Sea, Muscat, as well as the Omani coast, had to be made safe for Persian vessels.
Eirene watched as the docks of Hormuz pulsed with teeming crowds—soldiers boarding ship, sailors making final preparations, merchants and street vendors hawking their wares. It was no great fleet, not compared to the hundreds of warships she knew her distant cousins possessed. Nor did it have anything nearly as powerful as a dromon. Most of the ships, in fact, were converted or enlarged
baghlas or
dhows, the same ships the Omanis across the Gulf possessed. Unlike the Omanis, however, the Persian warships had siphons for
naptha, as well as a full compliment of marines, as any Omani ship who got too close would quickly discover.
“
Daryasalar,” Eirene said to the man next to her and nodded towards the docks ablaze with light and color as 5,000 men boarded ship, “how much resistance do you expect?” Eirene had been briefed repeatedly on the plan—the fleet would make for the chief Omani city of Muscat and place it under blockade after landing Alamgir's
vashti to besiege the city by land. However, she'd only seen estimates of what the Omanis could have... no concrete numbers, even as the army,
her men, she reminded herself, boarded the ships.
“A rider came this morning,”
Daryasalar Ibrahim Alamgir coughed, then spat into the dirt. The man looked like a prole in his simple breeches and shift, but the supreme commander of what Persia had for a navy long ago said this simple attire was the mark of a true sailor. “The Sultan Khalid has sent Your Excellency a letter, demanding that you stop provisioning ships for war. He offers...”
Eirene waved her hand, and Alamgir went silent.
We are well past negotiations, Khalid. There was a day when Alamgir, head of Persia's nascent navy, would have balked at a woman refusing an offer of peace—let alone giving him orders. Those days were long gone, banished forever since the night where Persia was almost handed to barbarians.
“Well, our latest estimate is the Sultan has perhaps a thousand men guarding the city,” Alamgir returned to the original topic, “and if he calls the neighboring
banu to his banners, he could muster a relief army of maybe 10,000 or more...”
“Mmm,” Eirene nodded, her eyes narrowing as they caught the pennants and three masts of Alamgir's flagship.
It looks large and comfortable. “Is there any extra cargo space on your ship?”
“Extra...well...” he said thoughtfully, “depends on what Your Excellency wishes to put aboard.”
“15,000 gold dinars,” Eirene smiled. “On your voyage, think of some trustworthy men who know the land. Send them with a thousand dinars per
banu. If we take Muscat, we can recoup the coinage later. Muscat will make a fine base to secure tribute from the tribes once it's secured.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“I have nothing else,
Daryasalar, you may see to your dispositions,” she nodded.
As Alamgir bowed and excused himself, Eirene couldn't help but smile. Things were progressing better than she had ever expected. She had moments of doubt, right after the
Anusiya arrived at the palace that dark night over two years before. Most of the guests had panicked, and for a moment it looked as if the palace guards would not let their brethren inside without a battle. During that moment of uncertainty, it was Eirene who stepped to the fore.
Before her ailing father, and amidst her enemies with only Butrus and a few personal bodyguards for protection, she announced herself—she was going to free Persia from any semblance of a foreign yoke, and defend the Kingdom against all comers. She would secure the succession for her sons and their sons, not some mongrel nomad prince. Anyone who refused to bow before the new Regency would be executed on the spot.
It'd taken courage to make such a stand, even as she trembled with fear on the inside. The bulbous nobility, the fat merchants, all the men who hoped to gain from a Faraud prince on the Throne of Gabriel, they gawked, then stammered, until finally Prince Dadiani pushed through the crowd and tried to slap her.
Slap me! The daughter of a Shah! she fumed at the memory. He hadn't counted on her carrying a shamshir, nor had he thought she could draw her blade and slash open the arteries of his arm in the same motion. She still remembered his eyes, wide and horrified, as he watched the pulsing stream of blood spewing from his arm. She remembered his fingers, trembling, fumbling as they went for his own sword only to find it too heavy for his weakened grip. She remembered his mouth, gasping and gaping as he stumbled and fell at her feet.
He bled out on the palace steps, like the sheep he was.
The rest of the slaughter inside the palace had been just as fearful. Dadiani's retainers, Lord Fahraz of Mazadaram, the
Mirza of Gilan, and the
Mirza of Rayy were all cut down by Hamadani and his bodyguards, while the Prince of Yazd, the Governor of Mashad and dozens of others fell when the
Anusiya belated broke into the palace. Of her major enemies, only Lainez had managed to reach his estates.
And like the mangy cur he is, he didn't stay and raise his vashti. He fled west—may he rot on a spit there!
Eirene had no doubt Lainez would try to rile the court of Konstantinopolis against her—his family still had connections there, and one of his distant cousins was now Prince of Bosnia or some other Balkan backwater. While securing Persian Gulf trade lanes was a noble purpose in and of itself, her invasion of Muscat had another purpose—it was a dress rehearsal, a test of the Persian military before she began her
real task—breaking the threat that was Faraud, while her cousins in Konstantinopolis were distracted.
It was no secret
Shahkhan Papaz was infuriated by the new 'Regent's' dismissal of the previously agreed marriage alliance, and Persian ambassadors in Havigraes, Sarai, and Kashgar all reported officials from Faraud spending long nights talking with their local counterparts. With the Turks focused on India and freed of their so-called 'vassalage' by her father five years before, Persia was alone, hemmed in from east and, should Romanion find its footing once more, the west as well. Something had to be done, quickly—Eirene could read a map as well as anyone, and Persia could not survive an assault on both flanks.
So she resolved to take the offensive. To strike quickly, and strike hard, while Romanion was down, and before Faraud could call in favors from her Mongol cousins. Only once Faraud was a Persian client, or even better, a vassal, could
E-ran turn her attention to fully defending her western frontiers. Romanion had been sprawled by civil war before, and she had always arisen again, more powerful, more dangerous. Persia must be ready for when that day came!
It was a war she intended on leading.
On all official documents, the war was to be lead by Prince Kaukadenos, Regent of Persia, her husband, but one look at that sorry excuse for a man next to her, in brilliant chain and coat of plate with a plumed helm, would show anyone who was
really in charge. Nikolaios Kaukadenos looked like a mere lamb next to a hungry lion, a fact proven by his silence. It was Eirene, not the Regent, who barked orders to the soldiers as they marched by in review, and it was Eirene, not the Regent, whom the officers saluted with raised blades as they rode past.
My husband sired me three sons and a daughter, a good use for such a sad sack of a man, Eirene looked to the Regent, standing aloof and unsure. He'd spoken nary a word to Alamgir—he knew nothing of sailing, and thought the man an insolent peasant.
If I still didn't need him to sign documents, I would be well rid of the fool, she hissed to no one in particular. The army might respect her competence, but neither Mother Church nor the educated
imams of the
ulema would.
They say a woman is weak, that she would lead men astray. Ha! I've seen men lead themselves far astray, without a finger lifted by a woman!
Her eyes drifted back to Alamgir—he was handsome, in that rough, wrinkled sailor way. The man was already bellowing, and sailor and soldier alike scampered to fulfill his requests. For a moment, her mind dallied, and thought of the possibilities. It wasn't the first time—she was constantly surrounded by handsome, strong men, men who respected her and her abilities now that they had been shown to all. Affairs had been tempting, but thoughts of her children, especially her eldest son, Isaakios, pushed these lustful thoughts aside, just as they had replaced all others that came before.
My son will succeed to the throne one day, and no one should be able to claim that Isaakios Kaukadenos-Komnenos was bastard born, or that his mother was a whore.
“Husband,” she said with all the sweetness her now sour disposition could muster, “I think it's time we retired to the castle. Your lord father awaits, and the
Eran Spahbod has several proposals for...me...to review.”
No need to include him... he's already picked out three or four scullery maids. No doubt one of them will have a plump belly soon enough.
“I...um...yes, my dear,” Nikolaios stammered. He turned, and with the grace of a half-legged crane, awkwardly clambered into the saddle. Eirene fought down her snort of disdain, before leaping into the mount as her mother had taught her. She gave one last look down at Alamgir, wishing she could sail away too, before looking to the
Gond men standing at attention.
“Guard detail, on me!” she barked, spurring her horse back to Hormuz castle.
Though if I saw a period piece that had cars driving around in the background, I would be enraged too! (Though there are a couple movies where you can see this... a highway in the background they forgot to close off, etc.)
