EMPEROR OF THE WEST
An Inter-Season Showcase by General_BT
Editor's Note said:
Here's General_BT's (of
Rome AARisen Fame) wonderful mirrorpoint to Calipah's piece ! It once again sheds light on some of the events that occur between Seasons II and III hope you enjoy !
Philip Habsburg was used to a vast array of fine coats, jackets, furs, and hats – such were his usual attire. After all, it would not do for the King of Spain, France, and the Holy Roman Emperor to
not have the finest attire his vast state afforded him – for in a world where one’s attire, even the color of one’s clothing, spoke of one’s place in the world, it would almost be an insult to the dignity of the litany of offices, titles and roles that followed his illustrious name to be clad in anything
but the finest clothes.
Yet, the Habsburg King couldn’t help but feel a little strange in the odd robes and cloaks that now hung about him, as attendants buzzed around him. He looked down at the loose, long sleeved gown, inlaid with precious stones, and literally felt the weight of over a thousand years of history on his shoulders.
“
Skaramangion,” he whispered under his breath, practicing the difficult Greek word. He raised his arms, as servants quickly belted a bright blue cloth around his waist, cinching it tight. After a moment’s mental confusion, he remembered its proper name in Greek as well –
sagion.
Philip IV was, for his day, a rather enlightened monarch. He made an effort to at least learn a small amount of the language of each and every major region now under the purview of the Imperial Government – he was fluent in Spanish, French, Italian, and even knew smatterings of German. But Greek? That hadn’t seemed a priority really – not until the Imperial banners flew high and proud above the ancient
Hagia Sophia only a few months before.
Suddenly, Philip was presented with a truly unique opportunity – as a crowned Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, with the power and might that exceeded even all his august titles, this son of Habsburg could do what no man had done since Theodosius the Great, in the 4th century.
Reunite the Eastern and Western Roman thrones.
In the late 15th century, the last scion of the ill-starred Palialogos dynasty, Andreas Palialogos, had sold the rights to his then defunct crown jointly to Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile – the progenitors of Philip’s own imperial line. Thus, he was logically the only true successor to the Byzantine emperors of old, and by papal acclamation as well as sheer temporal power, the Caesars and Emperors of Rome in the West.
“Are you finished yet?” Philip snapped. As the greatest King in Europe, perhaps even the world, he was used to major events – but none which had the gravity, the history, of what was about to happen this day.
The servants nodded, and bowed away from the body of the King. With an imperious turn, the Spanish King swept out of the room, and through a corridor of bodies – the lords, ladies, functionaries, and servants of his court. All were dressed in attire far beyond the finest they could afford – a gift from the state for this illustrious occasion. As he reached the end of the long tunnel of humanity, Philip finally spied his personal guard, eight of the finest soldiers in Europe, dressed in resplendent Habsburg heraldry and each holding a ferocious looking halberd. As one, they fell in around their King as he stepped out of the Topkapi Palace, former residence of the Ottoman Sultans, and made the comparatively short walk to the
Hagia Sophia.
There were ancient and proscribed customs for crowning an Emperor of the Romans – Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus had described them in detail in his writings. However, unfortunately for Philip, the Turkish Sultans, in their one hundred and seventy odd years of rule over Constantinople, had irrevocably changed the city. Many of the locations mentioned in Constantine’s records had long since been demolished and paved over, others were dilapidated ruins, unfit to hold a ceremony as grand as this. So, slowly, the immense procession made due. There would be no visit to the defunct
Augustoeon, or the long demolished Senate House, just an immense, brilliant procession from the Topkapi Palace to the graceful yet powerful symbol of the
Hagia Sophia, once again the first church in all of Christendom.
Yet other considerations had conspired to change the ancient ceremony even more. Certain subtleties had to be worked around – for example, Philip wanted his Holiness Pope Urban VIII to participate in the ceremony, something that Constantine most certainly
did not describe. Normally the Patriarch of Constantinople would have crowned the Emperor, yet Philip had decided, no insisted, that His Holiness, not the Orthodox Patriarch, take primacy in the ceremony. This move would undoubtedly stir up some resentment amongst the local populace – and while Philip was a monarch willing to compromise, his faith and the role of the Pope within it was one area he refused to budge from.
Other parts of the ceremony described by Porphyrogenitus were mishmashed and addled together as best could be accomplished with maximum pomp on such a short notice. There were no senators anymore, nor many of the other ancient offices and titles which once presided over the greatest realm in Europe. So once again, Philip made due – his greatest commanders, lords, and functionaries would fill those roles, just as Spanish would substitute for the traditional Greek in the ceremony.
As the procession slowly made its way towards the hulking form of the
Hagia Sophia, Philip’s eyes could, just barely make out the Anatolian coast across the Bosphorus. Ghosts from the past spoke to him of Turkish warlords, crossing that sea, and storming this city. Philip was the Emperor, the mightiest ruler Christendom had ever seen, yet still, he swallowed hard. Today’s ceremony not only made him truly the new ‘Roman Emperor,’ it set him squarely against the Ottoman Caliphs, who, since the day they took Constantinople nearly 200 years before, had always styled themselves
Kaysar-i-Rum – Emperor of the Romans, with claims to all the lands and titles thereof.
Not that they were a problem any more, considering the collapse of the Turkish Empire. After the fall of the great city, the Ottoman Empire, already besieged on all sides, disintegrated, the vast majority of her lands falling into the hands of the great Persian kings. The
Shahanshah had made noises that this ultimate title should be his, but Spanish power and might would undoubtedly keep the hands of Isfahan away from this most ancient, and Christian, of titles.
Slowly the grand procession moved onwards, through the silent, awestruck crowds of Constantinople. Once the ‘Queen of Cities,’ even now, she continued to awe, even Philip. All around him were a multitude of peoples – Greeks, Turks who had chosen to stay, Armenians, Georgians, Bulgarians, and yes, even a few Spaniards. The Christians amidst the throngs cheered wildly, many hoisting aloft images of the saints, while their Muslim counterparts were far more subdued, unsure of their future.
The King himself, along with his bodyguards, solemnly walked at the front of the procession, a priest walking before them, censer swaying. Behind him and his bodyguards came the great captains of Spain, Philip’s finest generals, admirals and soldiers, followed by a full
tercio. Finally came the long bevy of courtiers and dignitaries from all of Phillips lands – Spain, France from his title as King of France, the Germanies, Italy… a vast, colorful throng. Finally the procession reached the hulking form of the
Hagia Sophia itself. The priest turned to one side, allowing the King and his retinue to pass.
Inside was a scene of splendor only equaled by the Basilica of Saint Peter which was finished two decades earlier. For weeks the artisans of Constantinople had been almost drafted by the Spanish government to remove all traces of the Muslim occupation from the ornate
Hagia Sophia. While the minarets outside still stood, the Arab calligraphy that had once graced the top of the columns had been removed, replaced by Christian icons. The massive altar and reliquary was still being restored, a process that would take years, but a wooden replica, covered in gold leaf, stood brilliantly in its stead.
Philip smiled, for standing in the ivory and gold pulpit was his personal guest – Pope Urban VIII. Despite the Pontiff’s obvious age and stiffness of motion, his face broke into a smile, in recognition of the Christian King that did what no western lord had been able to do for 400 years – conquer Constantinople. More importantly, Philip’s success had fulfilled the dreams of countless men since Constantine – create a united, Christian, Roman Empire, undivided.
Of course, this was perfect propaganda and rather far from the truth. The Orthodox Patriarch had been invited to the ceremony, of course, but he had not been accorded the role of laying the crown upon the imperial head, as proscribed by a millennia of tradition. That honor, instead, went to Urban – a choice that incensed the Patriarch, and many of the Orthodox within the city. For Philip, the matter was not even a question – he was “His Most Catholic Majesty,” and he would live up to that title, no matter who it angered.
Slowly the great mass of humanity flowed into the greatest church in the East, Philip walking to the raised dais before the altar, where the Pontiff waited for him. It seemed an eternity before the noise of the crowd entering the building died away, as the last soul finally found a place to stand. Once the last functionary was within the church’s stony embrace, the Pope looked up, over the crowd.
“May you reign,” the Pope called, beginning the ceremony.
“For many and good years,” answered the crowded masses behind them. Compared to the Greek and Turkish Philip heard during the solemn procession, the thunderous rumble of Spanish sounded like music to his ears.
Philip turned now to face the audience. As he did so, the great lords of Spain, the commanders of his infinite armies and vast navies stepped forward, several rows of clanking armor, lustrous silk capes billowing behind them. As one, they drew up in a line before the altar, then fell to one knee.
“We are at your command,” they intoned, “for many and good years.”
With a slight whoosh of billowing silk and clink of armor, the great lords and commanders broke from the middle, half to each side, forming a corridor of capes, coifs and steel on either side of the immense aisle down the middle of the church. Into the gap poured the great stewards and chancellors, from Phillips own minister Olivares to the Chancellors of the universities, the stewards of mail, monies and harbors, the bureaucrats the made sure the Spanish Empire remained a honed, healthy creature. As one, this sea of gowns, caps, and capes knelt before their Emperor.
“We serve at your pleasure,” they said as one, “for many and good years.”
The storm of capes and cloaks then dispersed, falling to the sides of the immense church behind the lines of soldiers. Philip turned to Urban, and as the new ceremony proscribed, knelt before the Pontiff. As one, the great mass of humanity behind the King knelt as well.
“And the Holy Church shall be your ally, for many and good years,” the Pope cried. Urban then turned, and reached for the ancient replica of the Byzantine diadem. Slowly, he hefted the crown off of the silken pillow on which it rested, and lifted it over the King’s head.
“You are worthy,” intoned the Pope, holding the crown high over Philip’s head.
“Worthy,” the massed audience rumbled.
“Glory to God in the highest and peace on Earth!” the Pope called above the crowd. As one, the mass of dignitaries echoed His Holiness’ call.
“Good will to all Christian folk!”
The audience’s reply seemed to shake the altar.
“Today is a great day in the Lord!” Urban called, the same phrase that had been repeated by Patriarchs for over a millennia.
“This is great day for all Christians!” the audience replied.
“This day we crown the Emperor of the Romans!” Urban’s ancient voice cracked, but in the height of the moment, few noticed. “Glory be to God in the highest!”
It seemed an eternity went by, before Philip finally felt the cold, heavy weight of the Imperial diadem on his head, strings of pearls hanging to each side, the golden crosses at their ends clinking as the Pontiff’s shaking hands adjusted the crown slightly. Philip looked up, into Urban’s smiling eyes. With a small gesture, the Pontiff bid him to rise.
“Holy, Holy, Holy, Glory to God and Peace on Earth,” the vast congregation thundered, the noise echoing off of the ancient stones of the great church. “To our great Emperor and Lord, we wish many and good years!”
Philip looked up as the last of the audience’s chants slowly faded into the incense filled air, and took in all the faces below. All were looking up at him, as was all of Europe – for leadership, guidance, and protection. As the Emperor of Spain and the Holy Roman Empire now arose as also Emperor of the Romans, a rumble filling the massive vault of the
Hagia Sophia as the hundreds of dignitaries in attendance rose as well. Philip turned to the crowd, and raised his hands upwards, a gesture beckoning God to guide him. A new day was beginning for Europe, Philip mused – even if it did begin in thousand year old clothes.
