Okay, I lied - the update is here. I finished watching earlier today one of my favorite medieval movies (bonus points if you can guess which) and I got an immense urge to write this scene. Long update, delayed my working on the other AAR, but it was well worth it!
And if anyone knows any films I can easily get my hands on that would help with writing a scene regarding 1930s political intrigue, by all means, let me know! That could speed up the other update as well!
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September 1st, 1139
The
theme palace at Thebes was a structure steadily growing by the day. In the year since Prince Manuel had arrived the temporary wooden huts and structures that had clustered around the ancient stone villa had given way to a series of new stone buildings, as well as a proper keep. From here the Prince of Aswan ruled Upper Egypt from the Pyramids at Giza down to the First Cataract of the Nile.
Manuel’s court was a wealthy one, despite its distance, and the décor this day reflected that – banners brought from other Komnenoi, tapestries of the lions and crocodiles that populated the area hung along the walls. And at the center of the far wall, on a raised dais, sat the Prince’s throne, a fine piece of furniture cut from cypress and ebony. On its stately form sat Manuel, now a young man of seventeen, clad in the full raiments of his position. In form and grace he looked a young man, only sporting the barest of hints of a beard, yet in his eyes one could seen the experience of someone far older, far wiser, and far more dangerous.
Before the prince stood the nervous form of a herald, dressed in the new dark blue and gold of the newly proclaimed King of Egypt, lately Edmund, Duke of Alexandria and Hampshire. As the man bowed, he held for a parchment that a servant took and handed to Manuel.
The herald that came before Manuel would have looked similar to this – save he would have worn the colors of his liege lord, dark blue and gold.
“My lord, I come from Alexandria bearing you a message from the hand of my liege,” the herald said. He looked nervous – rumors had already gone about that Prince Manuel did not like receiving bad news, ever.
“What does the good Duke of Alexandria say?” Manuel leaned back on his throne and gave a wry smile. “Did he appreciate my gifts?”
The messenger shuffled his feet for a moment, then cleared his throat. Clearly he was stalling for time. Manuel returned all his efforts with a blank, empty smile. Finally, the young man spoke.
“Edmund de Normandie has been proclaimed by the Patriarch of Alexandria and the Grace of God to be Edmund, First of that Name, King of Upper and Lower Egypt,” the herald said in his best voice. “He demands that as a good Christian lord, you must owe him your loyalty and fealty.”
A gasp went through the throne room, followed by a rapidly growing murmur. Manuel’s smile disappeared, and he held up his hand for silence.
“That is a very serious claim, sir. Are you sure that is what he said?”
“Yes, he was explicit in his instructions,” the messenger said.
“Well, he must surely know that this invalidates the treaty he signed with my father long ago,” Manuel leaned back in his throne. A slight smile came on his lips, something he knew frightened the messenger. “We shall have to discuss this, and form a suitable reply. In the meantime,” Manuel was suddenly on his feet, walking towards the messenger, “come. You have undoubtedly traveled far, and are probably weary. You deserve rest and our hospitality.”
Some minutes later the Manuel had brought the messenger to his personal study, where all the lords of Aswan had gathered. There was Manuel’s slew of
logothetes, carrying papers covering everything from granary stocks to personal details on lords within the Crusader state. There was the Bishop of Aswan, to provide spiritual counseling, and finally there was Thomas Skleros, the
domestikos of Aswan, a short, stout man with a loud voice and a strong swordarm.
The herald settled into the back of the room, clearly uncertain of why he was present. Manuel told him to come and sit at the table, and freely help himself to the wine. He was free to the entire jug – everyone else at the table would do without.
“I am not sure I should drink, Your Highess,” the herald said, confused. “I do not know if it fits within protocol.”
“Are you thirsty?” the Prince asked, and the young herald nodded in reply. “You are famished from your long trip,” Manuel smiled distantly to the courier as he filled a goblet from a nearby jug of wine. “Here,” he offered it to the messenger, “I insist. You would dishonor me and my own house if you refused."
The herald took the goblet, and betrayed his thirst by downing it in a single gulp. When he looked at the jug of wine, then at Manuel, the Prince nodded that he should drink more.
“Highness, I still do not see the wisdom of having him here,” Skleros complained pointing an accusing finger at the messenger. “He will undoubtedly tell Prince Edmund everything he hears us say in this room!”
“Really?” Manuel looked at the herald. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“No, Highness,” the herald shook his head, another goblet-full in hand. His face was starting to turn red.
“See? There you have it. He wouldn’t tell anyone,” Manuel smiled cherubicly, “So we may plan in peace.”
“Highness, I really don’t…” Skleros started to speak, until a slight gasp came from the herald. All eyes turned to the young man, who was clawing at his throat, his face twisted into an agonizing expression.
“I know he won’t tell anyone of our plans,
Domestikos,” Manuel’s smile became slightly demonic. “As far as Prince Edmund is concerned, our plans will be revealed when our armies enter his territory. Speed is of the essence. We must march quickly, make the Prince react foolishly, and lure him…”
There was a dull thump as the herald’s head fell to the table. The choking noises subsided, then died altogether.
“…to his doom,” Manuel finished. He motioned for a nearby servant, and pointed towards the dead body. “Clean that up, if you please.”
“Highness!” Skleros was on his feet, looking at the body in horror.
“Let that be a warning to all of you,” Manuel said icily. “This plan must be kept in the utmost secrecy. I do not want any loose words or loose talk about its details – Edmund is a moron, but even morons have spies.”
Several servants came and hefted the hapless herald’s body from the table. Manuel stopped until they had removed the body, then he motioned for all the servants to leave the room. The door made an echoing boom as it shut them all inside.
“Speed and surprise,” Manuel repeated, leaning back in his chair. “Now,
domestikos, to begin…”
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Heavy Norman knights – these would form the core of any armed response from Prince Edmund and his forces
On the night of September 5th, 1139, the army of the Principality of Aswan marched north into Giza, effectively invading the lands of Prince Edmund of Alexandria. Manuel’s light and rapid horse quickly enveloped the many settlements along the Nile River, effectively cutting them off by land, while a fleet of barges denied them succor by river. Giza, Luxor, and Memphis all surrendered quickly.
The King of Egypt had no sooner donned his crown in a lavish ceremony before he was off to the south, at the head of his newly named “Royal Army.” Edmund wanted to repel the invasion, and to do so quickly. He did not know if the Prince of Aswan was acting alone, or merely a vanguard of other invasions from the other Roman
themes surrounding him. The force numbered over 12,000, including 3,000 heavily armored knights.
Edmund, however, was no Bohemond, and the Norman cavalry commander, Bohemond’s son Tancred, was far more rash than his father. Tancred saw the title Duke of Aswan in his future, if he could only persuade the Norman King to launch a counter attack, which meant speed. Tancred persuaded Edmund he should attack at once, and the King complied, leading his host directly down the Nile at Manuel’s forces.
But the Prince of Aswan was wily. Manuel was outnumbered, true, but he took into account his terrain. Quickly the Aswan army turned to the northeast, and headed into the marshy Nile Delta. Edmund felt compelled to follow – if the Greeks were able to cross the delta, they could strike almost any of Edmund’s chief cities – Damietta, Tanis, perhaps even Alexandria itself, while he was far away.
Edmund’s forces, heavy cavalry and heavy infantry, proved to be unsuited for the marshy conditions. Roads were often paths through the bogs and reeds obscured the view on all sides. Manuel’s forces, much lighter in arms and armor, were able to maneuver better in the conditions. On the 3rd of October, Manuel’s scouts tracked down the slow, clumsy Norman column, and the Roman forces turned on their pursuers.
Prince Manuel’s attacking force was only some 8,000 strong, with only 500 heavy cavalry, yet the Prince felt confident of his chances. At dawn, Roman horse archers moved forward, and began harassing the Norman lines. Three times, the Norman heavy cavalry attempted to charge, only to get caught and bogged down in the mud. Manuel mercilessly ordered his archers and infantry forward, with orders to strike down the Norman horses. Thousands of Norman knights fell into the mud and became trapped or drowned. By midday, seeing the demise of most of his cavalry, King Edmund attempted to pull away from the enemy. Yet once again the terrain worked against him – Manuel had posted troops on the roads out, forcing many of the Normans into the marshes themselves. The Norman army disintegrated, breaking up into pockets of men slogging through a fly infested hell.
Over the course of the next three days, Manuel’s army rounded up and slaughtered every small pocket of Norman troops they could find. On October 9th a small contingent of knights was overrun by some of Manuel’s Nubian troops. The men had no idea who they had killed until one came across a signet ring.
Edmund de Normandie had lasted as King of Egypt for less than two months.
The destruction of the Norman army in the Nile Delta was a devastating defeat for the Normans, and put all of Egypt within the grasp of Romanion
Yet the plan was only unfolding. The de Normandie field army had been crushed, but Manuel wanted all the cities on the Delta coast. As soon as word of the disaster reached Alexandria and Damietta, Manuel’s agents, planted over the preceding two years, went to work.
In Alexandria, agents instigated a riot against the Latin Patriarch. Other agents poisoned the water supply of the City Guard, ensuring that few soldiers arrived to stop the chaos. Emboldened, the crowds broke into the offices of the Latin Patriarch and dragged him through the streets. The remaining Norman nobility quickly fled by ship, leaving the city to its own devices. When Manuel, at the head of 6,000 troops, arrived two weeks later, the gates were thrown open. Most of the remaining Norman nobility in Damietta were killed in an ambush as they sallied from the city to try to delay what they knew to be an inevitable Roman advance from the Delta. The majority of the surviving Norman commanders, including all the children of Tancred de Hauteville, were slaughtered.
It was thus that by December of 1139, Manuel had conquered all of Egypt. Flush with victory, the Prince sailed for Konstantinopolis, towards an expected reception…
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January 1st, 1140
Prince Manuel on his return to Konstantinopolis.
A cold, wet draft blew into the private chambers of the
Basilieus, a winter wind that was no match for the chill between the two men in the room.
Prince Manuel of Aswan, hair hanging long and flaxen, sat at one side of the enormous ebony and oak desk that was the personal workplace of the Emperor. His face bore that same, frustratingly blank look that it had borne for years. On the other side sat his older brother,
Basilieus Nikolaios, face taut from years of worry that his sibling’s latest stunt had only added to. Off to one side, unnoticed, unneeded, sat a jug of wine. Intrusively laying between them were stacks upon stacks of letters and correspondence.
Letters from Rome. Letters from Germany. Letters from Denmark, France, England – the entire Christian world that followed the Patriarch of Rome. Some of the letteres were long, some were succinct. Some were polemic rants, some couched them venom in the politest terms. Yet all were united in one fact – they condemned the Roman occupation of the Nile Delta, in no uncertain terms.
Nikolaios quietly drummed his fingers on top of the parchments, as the noise of servants preparing for the celebrations of a new year wafted through the windows. Later that day the Prince and the Emperor were to appear at a great service in the Hagia Sophia, then attend a long series of banquets, dances, galas and balls thrown by all the
dynatoi of the city, each striving to outdo the next.
None of that, however, was on either of their minds at that moment.
“The King of England writes to me that unless lands are returned, and an apology delivered, he will set sail with a fleet of a thousand ships and make me return Egypt by the sword,” Nikolaios said distantly, matching his brother’s mask.
“He does? His bed will surely be cold if he does that,” Manuel let a lascivious smile come through. “I doubt our dear sister Helene would allow her husband to go to war against us – even if his brother lies dead on the banks of the Nile. Besides, Nikolaios,” Manuel pushed his chair back and stood, “The whole Kingdom of England might have a hundred ships, two hundred if they impressed merchants by the dozen. But not a thousand.”
“That may be,” Nikolaios lost his cool exterior and growled at his brother’s smugness, “but you have raised a diplomatic storm the likes we have not seen in a while! The Pope has called for three days of mourning, the Kings of the Germans and the French have both lodged formal protests, and the de Hautevilles are calling for blood!”
“Let them come,” Manuel smirked as he reached the opposite wall. The Prince crossed his arms and leaned against it in a relaxed pose. “How will they get their men to Egypt? I do not think the King of the Franks can fly, and we have the most powerful navy in the world.” Manuel laughed darkly. “You know, Nikolaios, as well as I, that for all the barking these dogs do, they cannot bite us that hard.”
“You are so sure?” Nikolaios rumbled. He picked up a ream of the letters and thrust them out. “Read these!”
“I can imagine what they say,” Manuel’s smirk remained. “They call you a tyrant, me a warmongering boy, and have all sorts of rubbish and threats that really do not concern you. Brother, you are putting on a fine act, but it is an act nonetheless,” Manuel started to clap. “An act worthy of mention from an actor, but one that is unneeded. You wanted Egypt, and I have delivered it to you. Yet you must do something to make it seem you are shocked and appalled. Am I correct?”
Nikolaios ground his teeth together slightly. Of course Manuel was right, but he wasn’t about to let his brother have the satisfaction of knowing that fact.
“Leave aside the diplomatic mess. Why did you do that, Manuel?” Nikolaios fumed, slowly crumpling the letters in hand. “Why Egypt? Did you want to make a name for yourself? Secure more lands? Why?”
Manuel looked past his brother, directly at a banner commemorating their father’s victory over the Fatimids so many years before.
“For the glory of Rome and to restore the rightful Patriarch to his Alexandrian throne,” Manuel said blankly, before his eyes flitted directly towards Nikolaios. “Nikolaios, why do you think I did it? I’m not coy – I did it for power.”
“Power, Manuel?” Nikolaios’ voice began to rise.
“Alexandria is still the greatest African port in the Mediterranean. Through her warehouses come goods from Ethiopia, Nubia, Arabia and even far away India. The grain for Konstantinopolis lies in the holds of the thousands of ships that visit her harbor. He who holds Alexandria holds an immense amount of power – it was unfortunate that imbecile Edmund never realized it,” Manuel smiled wryly. “I do.”
“So you are in the business of usurping me as well then!?” Nikolaios shouted. Manuel
did have a great deal of power now – he controlled not just Aswan, but all the Nile Delta and most of Egypt – as well as Konstantinopolis’ grain supply. “You haven’t counted on one thing – that I can take Alexandria away from you.”
“Take it away from me?” Manuel chuckled.
“I am Emperor of the Romans, by rights Alexandria is mine,” Nikolaios said sharply.
“Simple, but academic, dear brother,” Manuel’s chuckle became darker, “for Alexandria is mine.”
“By what authority?” Nikolaios sputtered. The Emperor by now was so furious he could hardly see.
“It’s got my troops all over it, that makes it mine,” Manuel’s chuckle ended as his voice went cold.
Emperor Nikolaios was growing steadily more upset with the behavior of his impudent brother
Nikolaios clenched and unclenched his fist, and for a moment he felt the urge to strike his brother across the face for such insolence. Yet his colder, political mind realized that was exactly
not the thing to do – if his suspicions before were not enough, Manuel’s strike on Alexandria confirmed Nikolaios’ opinion.
His younger brother was dangerously capable.
The
Megos Domestikos was away, stuck in a long, drawn out war that seemed to be without end, and here, a boy of 17, had crushed a larger army in the field and recaptured one of the oldest churches in Christendom. Few would care that he’d attacked a man best described as a fool – the results were all that the people, the
dynatoi, and the clergy would see.
Nikolaios felt the anger ebb, as his political mind took over.
“You came here for a reason, Manuel,” the Emperor let the crumpled papers drop to the floor as he turned towards the table. “I do not think thumbing your nose at me was the chief one.” Nikolaios started pouring two goblets of wine. “Wine, brother?”
“No thank you,” Manuel held up a hand.
“Very well,” Nikolaios set the other goblet down and drank deeply. “What is it you came for?”
“The position of
Kaisar,” Manuel said confidently.
It was Nikolaios’ turn to laugh – the noise came out as more of a harsh bark than anything born of mirth.
“Is that all?” the Emperor asked. “Something so… simple? A request for the position another holds?”
“A position that someone will likely hold only a short while longer,” Manuel smiled, coming away from the wall. “You, as well as I, know that when Christophoros returns one of two things will happen.”
“And what would those be?” the Emperor asked, taking another drink.
“Either he will return in triumph, and use his position and the loyalty of the army to try to usurp the throne, or,” Manuel was now only a foot or so from his brother, “he will return in disgrace, and you will strip him of all his titles, relieved that the gravest threat to your throne is finished. Either way, you would need someone to be
Kaisar. Your son cannot fill the position. Romanos is an indolent git, Demetrios…”
“And how should I know you wouldn’t stab me in the back?” Nikolaios interrupted darkly. “I shan’t like it if that happened.”
“Why would I back Christophoros?” Manuel laughed, his face looking horrificly like that of a happy cherub. “He has sons, he’d name them
Kaisar as soon as it was convenient and toss me aside. He’s rash, he’s arrogant, and he’s foolish – there would soon only be half an Empire to rule by the time he was done.”
“And why should you be loyal to me?” Nikolaios asked, finishing his wine. “You are young, clearly capable – why do you not sit on the sides of this contest, wait for Chistophoros and myself to weaken our respective forces, then strike?”
“Because,” Manuel smiled coldly, “I have time on my side if I pick you, a precious ally indeed. Christophoros has a brood of sons. You have none that could truly rule. I need only to wait for your time to pass through the hour glass to have my crown.” Manuel laughed slightly. “You have seen 46 winters already, there aren’t many left.”
“You are so kind and loving,” Nikolaios made a sour face.
“If I waited for the both of you to finish your squabble, once again I would inherit the rump of an Empire,” Manuel continued. “Call me greedy, dear brother, but I would prefer to gain the whole intact.”
Nikolaios started to chuckle, then the chuckle turned to a full fledged laugh.
“Did I say a joke?” Manuel asked, his voice sounding dangerous.
“No,” Nikolaios continued to giggle a bit, “but I’ve won!”
“How?” Manuel backed away, confusion on his face.
“You’ve shown me your true age,” Nikolaios grinned. “You’ve given me a full measure of how your mind works, what you consider when acting, what you ignore. To these aged eyes, Manuel, that is what victory looks like!” Nikolaios sputtered another laugh.
“I did no such thing,” Manuel fumed.
“You shall have the
Kaisar-ship, dear brother,” Nikolaios said finally, “If two things happen.”
“What would those be?” Manuel said, not as angry. Now was the time for negotiation, and Nikolaios was pleased to see his younger brother suddenly reinterested.
“You will make Alexandria a property of the Imperial Crown, and you will return Damietta and the Delta to Edmund’s nearest successor,” Nikolaios grinned, preparing for the inevitable explosion that would come from his younger brother.
“What?!”
“If I let you keep Alexandria, Christophoros is likely to get suspicious.” It was the Emperor’s turn to be slightly smug. “And you
have created a diplomatic storm, so to speak, and returning those Crusader lands would alleviate that while keeping Alexandria firmly in the Imperial grasp. Alexandria is what is important – the other lands can rot in Norman hands for a few more years for all I care.”
The Norman King of England threatened war if parts of Egypt were not returned to Norman hands. Fortunately for Romanion, his wife was a renowned beauty and the sister of the Emperor, and she could do some negotiating of her own…
Manuel looked down in thought.
“I’ll agree if I receive an army command when Christophoros comes after you,” Manuel said after a moment. “And I also must receive credit as the Conqueror of Alexandria, or some other gibberish title of that ilk. I want the people to know that I did it, and remember I did it.”
“As long as I can conduct ruses to make Christophoros think you I stripped the province from you, rather than talked it away from you,” Nikolaios countered.
“You did not talk it away from me!” Manuel complained, before a slight smile snuck through onto his lips, “I freely gave it up!”
“As freely as a miser surrendering his fortune,” Nikolaios smirked. “A public falling out of some sort is in order. It will be made known that I stripped Alexandria from you.”
“Make it seem you did it to have full control of the Alexandria Patriarchate,” Manuel advised. “That will be sure to rouse the passions of any traitors within the Church, so that when they stick their heads out of their rabbit holes we are ready with an axe to cut those heads from their bodies.”
Nikolaios crossed his arms. “My, you
are a vicious boy. And what traitors would those be?”
“I heard the Patriarch doesn’t like you for things you did with some of your friends.”
Nikolaios’s face went completely dark. “How did you hear of those things?”
Manuel shrugged his shoulders. “Old rumors die hard. Peace, brother, Patriarch Anathasios has no love for this family, and I have no doubt that the rumors were spread by agents who wish to see Christophoros made Emperor.”
“No doubt,” Nikolaios’ bristling came to an end.
“You don’t trust me, do you?” Manuel smiled. “A wise man. And I don’t trust you. But you know I don’t trust you, I know that you don’t trust me, and we both know that we both know those things. Altogether, we are a very knowledgeable pair.”
“Indeed,” Nikolaios sighed, before looking out the palace window. It was getting late in the day. “Well then, to the falling out, before it gets late in the day and interrupts supper.”
“That would be a travesty, would it not?” Manuel smiled.
“Servants should hear us shouting at each other first. Shall we begin this, you rash, war-mongering boy?” Nikolaios grinned.
“At your leisure, you old, indolent lizard,” Manuel smiled as well.
The Emperor didn’t realize Manuel’s smile was one of triumph.
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Why is Manuel smiling in triumph? Will Christophoros return victorious or defeated? The answers to these questions will be in the next update!