[Draft title:
1088-1090. It ain’t easy being green]
[Cast:]
Nasokrator Mutimir. Looking a bit haggard. Work on the eye-bags and stoopiness.
Brother Wamba. Positively venerable.
Empress Eldrid. Teenagerish. Somewhat florid and imperious, generally good looking.
Imperial niece Dobrina. We need a young actress who can really brood and sulk.
Chancellor Flora. Find me a difficult nose. Teenager too, and overdressed.
Georghe the Bastard. Spare no makeup: he needs to look just like a young Mihailo.
Zoltán Nemanjóvic. The lost prince of Serbia, as himself.
Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell. The lost count of Urgell, as himself.
Hovhannes Senek'erim Gardman-Aghbania. The lost count of Suenik, as himself.
Kettu Rurikovich. Think of a tubby, bearded, hairy-chested Xena.
Glande of Galindia. He can wear the glasses in this episode. Needs to look bookish and punctilious, as well as innocently good-natured.
Marshall Artemios. Don’t bother with makeup, just wrap him up well.
First Aide. Just as sergeantly as ever and growing portlier.
Second Aide. Last time you got him right. Just put some more grease on his skin, maybe a strange growth or two.
Sundry characters without lines. Some of the usual crew.
Digital assets and atrezzo. We’ll need Arab street crowds, a camped horde, and not much more. But we need a lot of different locations.
October 1088. Imperial palace in Ephesos. War-room. The Nasokrator is huddled over a map with several generals when the door opens.
[Nasokrator Mutimir] Well, the new purple color does have some advantages. At least now we can tell our lands from Georgia and Chernigov on the map. That should help some people… Oh, Georghe, come in.
[Georghe the Bastard] Yes, your Lordship. Did you…
[Nasokrator Mutimir] My dear Georghe! My bastard uncle! Please drop the ceremony. I hear you just finished your education… and I also hear you’re not too comfortable in the Imperial Court.
[George the Bastard, blushing slightly] Ehm… well… it’s not…
[Nasokrator Mutimir] Conked another disrespectful squire this morning, didn’t you? Of course, a married man has to take care of the family name. Your wife is an excellent character, indeed. Where did you go for your honeymoon?
[George the Bastard] In fact, we still haven’t…
[Nasokrator Mutimir] Good, good. So you’ll appreciate the travel.
[Silence for a heartbeat]
[George the Bastard] The what, Sir?
[Nasokrator Mutimir] The travel. I’ve got you two a new house, just out in the country. Great place to raise children. She can commute to work, too, since it’s just next door. And you’ll get a job as well. Goes with the house. You’ll be Bishop of Galatia.
[Georghe the Bastard, eyes wide] Galatia? A Bishop…? But I thought the army… a bastard’s place…
[Nasokrator Mutimir, patting him distractedly on the head and turning back to the meeting] Never think, young one. Bad habit. Let your elders do it for you, or get an outside expert. Now, Galatia. Off you go. Pack your bags, say goodbye, hop hop hop, you know the exit… and finally, gentlemen, I see the Southern Army is on the way, but can you tell me where our Northern regiments are or not?
January 1089. The Emir’s palace at Baghdad, a bit the worse for wear. Entry to the harem, a labyrinthine, walled-in part of the palace. Ermengol appears wearing armor, finds Zoltán and Hovhannes at the gates, looking in.
[Zoltán Nemanjóvic, before running into the harem] … and ten! Ready or not, here I come!
[Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell] What are you two playing at, Johnny?
[Hovhannes Senek'erim Gardman-Aghbania] It’s the Emir. We’ve already got the citadel and the castle, his troops are interned, his Sheiks have defected, and his wives are all over the city having the fun of a lifetime. But he’s gone into hiding. We know he’s inside this part of the Palace, but we can’t find him.
[Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell, egging him on] And Zoltán is playing hide-and-seek to find him because…
[Hovhannes Senek'erim Gardman-Aghbania, shrugging] Well, it keeps him busy and the Emir may just fall into the ploy.
[Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell] Like, jumping out of hiding and running to base to win the game?
[Hovhannes Senek'erim Gardman-Aghbania, squirming under Ermengol’s derisive look] Ehm. Well, we thought... Sort of. Yes.
[Zoltán Nemanjóvic, happily and from afar] Gotcha! You’re it, now!
[Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell, blinking] Unbelievable.
February 1089. Imperial palace at Ephesos. The Empress’ private quarters. Chintzy and rose-coloured furniture and cushions in profusion. The three ladies sit around a tea table.
[Dobrina, taking a bite] Say, these pastries are really different! How do you make them? Can I have another one?
[Empress Eldrid, smiling] Sure! Oh, it’s just a traditional recipe from Sweden that my mother always used. They’re called butter cookies. By the way, how is Georghe taking to his role of future father?
[Chancellor Flora, munching] Oh, just fine, just fine. Says it’s good to start a new tradition, whatever he means.
[Dobrina, dourly] I wish my husband was as positive.
[Empress Eldrid] Oh, come, Dobbie! Can’t be that bad! You two are pregnant at least, you should try my husband for lack of appreciation! I’m thinking of retiring to the countryside, find myself something to do. Here, lend me a hand and we’ll clear the table in a second. So what do you think of Johnny’s petition, Flo? You should support it, you know him well.
[Chancellor Flora, reddening slightly] Oh, hardly. He’s one of the knights in the Knives regiment, isn’t he? The one that’s always playing the mandoline around the ladies’ quarters at all hours.
[Empress Eldrid] Yes. And that’s the main problem with the petition, I think.
[Dobrina, looking guilty] What do you mean?
[Empress Eldrid, pouring the sweet wine] Well, you see… he’s such a pleasant fellow, what with the mandoline and the foot massages and the goat stories and all, that some ladies in the Court have become quite attached to him. They don’t really want him to leave for Suenik. So they’re smiling a lot, but not really supporting his petition to get the County back.
February 1089. The Sultan’s half-built new palace at Bilyar. A dark, cold, dank room. The flame of candles moves in the drafts and their red light flickers without really lighting the scene. Glande reads aloud from a large tract while Kettu Rurikovich holds the Sultan pressed to a very hard chair with a single hand. The Sultan squirms and tries to get away.
[Alp Arslan Sultan of the Seljuk Turks] … I said I’ll sign! Stop it! Please!
[Glande of Galindia, finishing the tome and closing it with a thump] … and the party of the second part will herewith renounce in perpetuity the aforementioned provinces, insofar and comprehending the wherewithal as well as the substance of the territorial demesne. The party of the first part will then hold a house-party. Non-partisan, in particular. And… that’s it.
[Kettu Rurikovich, picking his teeth] Everything clear now?
[Alp Arslan Sultan of the Seljuk Turks] Yes! Yes! Please! Whatever you want!
[Glande of Galindia, tut-tutting and reopening the book] Oh, no, no. Not us. We’re just plain fiduciary representatives acting ex officio. You must understand that the actual legal persona of the party of the first part is really his most excellent Imperial Naso…
[Alp Arslan Sultan of the Seljuk Turks, thrashing desperately in his chair] Aaaaaaaargh! Heeeeelp!
March 1089. A wooded hillside in Mesembria. Overlooking the encamped army of the Prince of Karvuna. Wamba and Sergeant Polly scout, while the massed regiments of the Empire hide in the forest.
[Sergeant Polly, biting the lower lip] It still seems a bit like bullying to me, sir.
[Father Wamba, distracted by a very large, venomous-looking centipede] Well, it’s not as if we didn’t ask first. Twice. And very politely.
[Sergeant Polly, looking severe] Of course, if you asked politely it’s a different matter, sir. We can’t have a polite request dismissed, sir.
[Father Wamba, trying to shoosh the centipede away while it clicks angrily at him] Definitely not. Think of the precedent.
[Sergeant Polly, sighing] But a hundred to one, sir... on my oath I’m not a sporting man, but we’re pulling an army against a bunch of peasants. Sir.
[Father Wamba, slightly exasperated] You’d be happier if the rest of the army stays here and watches, Sergeant?
[Sergeant Polly, shaking her head and distractedly killing the centipede’s head with a thumb] Oh no, I couldn’t do that, sir!
[Father Wamba, smirking] So…
[Sergeant Polly, peering at the enemy] I should take at least a dozen Eggs, or they will never forgive me for hogging the fun, sir.
June 1089. Castle of Edessa. The Emir’s throne room. Ermengol lounges at the main window while the Emir paces back and forth, waving his fists in the air, trailing his robes on the floor, and generally putting on a great performance.
[Emir Nasr of Edessa, warming up as he speaks] I said no! Edessa won’t submit to any tyrannical aggressor! Even though many old and famous states have fallen to the odious apparatus of Dioclean rule, we will not flag or fail! We will rise, and rise again! We will fight to the last man! We will go on to the end! We will fight you on the barricades! We will fight you in the fields and in the streets! We will fight you in the hills! We will never surrender! You shall not pass!
[Ermengol of Barcelona-Urgell, lazily looking through the window at the Dioclean-occupied city and the celebrating populace] Yes, I can see you enjoy the support and loyalty of your subjects on this matter.
[Emir Nasr of Edessa, wincing but recovering] My Sheiks won’t be tricked like the Turkish Beys! They’re faithful to the Prophet and his Heir! They revere me! They’ll die before…!
[Mikal Sheik of Amida, popping his head in through the door] Sir Ermengol, sir! Just wanted to say thanks for the fair deal, sir! Never thought I’d say this, but I’m turning Orthodox as soon as I can find a priest! Oh, hello Emir, old pal. Didn’t know you were still around. Must be going now.
[The Sheik pops out again. Silence reigns for a second].
[Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell] Now, regarding that peace treaty…
September 1089. Imperial palace at Ephesos. Private rooms of the Nasokrator. Mutimir paces up and down, looking sickly, while Wamba plays solitaire at cards on a nearby table.
[Nasokrator Mutimir] … I’m just so fed up with it all!
[Father Wamba, soothingly] Surely the obligations of State can be…
[Nasokrator Mutimir, dismissive] Work piles up, of course, but that’s not the worst of it. Not even the damned butter cookies. She knows I’m ill, she knows I’m busy, she knows I can’t be leaving Ephesos to sleep home every night, and still she keeps pestering me about the child!
[Father Wamba, surprised] The what!? Oh, congrat…!
[Nasokrator Mutimir] No, Wamba! She’s not pregnant. That is the problem.
[Father Wamba, deflated] Oh. I see.
[Nasokrator Mutimir] And now she’s taken to hanging out with Flora and Dobrina! Girls’ night out, pajama parties, jongleur concerts and what have you, and that fellow Gardman-Aghbania circling around them like a vulture.
[Father Wamba] Well, we can always take remedial action…
[Nasokrator Mutimir, shaking his head] The empress is no fool, I’d be nagged to death if we do. No, I’m rather tempted to give him back Suenik and be rid of him. Or giving her a county or two to keep her busy.
April 1090. Castle of Pest, the Dioclean headquarters in the captured city. Nicely appointed, well-ventilated room. The Marshall is in bed, bandaged like a mummy. The two Aides stand by the bed reporting.
[Marshall Artemios] So I’ve been unconscious since Pressburg? How did the battle go?
[First Aide] Oh, very well, very well, sir. We won. A crushing victory. They’re still looking for their backsides, sir. And our other armies are copying your daring tactics.
[Marshall Artemios] My daring…? How… how many losses did we have?
[First Aide to Second Aide, looking glum] He wants to know our losses.
[Second Aide to First Aide, even glummer] Well, he has a right to know, Fred…
[Marshall Artemios, looking from the one to the other and growing very pale] Was it that bad?
[First Aide] Well, sir, the thing was like this… you remember when you ordered the army to unhorse and charge suicidally up that rocky hill?
[Marshall Artemios, cringing] Vaguely. My head is still quite hazy.
[First Aide] Good! I mean… you ran ahead, carrying the flag and shouting the “St Mihailo for Dioclea” warcry…
[Marshall Artemios, eagerly] And the army followed well? I could see nothing with that helmet on…
[Second Aide] Sure! Of course! We were right behind you! But you see, you got a wee bit ahead of us.
[First Aide] A matter of a few steps, really. Then the Hungarians fell on you like… like…
[Second Aide] Like ravening wolves.
[First Aide] That’s it, like ravening wolves. They all tried to hit you and stab you at the same time, sir. There was a hideous confusion… we couldn’t pull you out.
[Second Aide] They piled in like crazy.
[First Aide] So, well, someone on our side quite accidentally ordered the archers to shoot at the pile while they had their shields down to kick you…
[Second Aide] And we won, sir. That is, you won.
[First Aide, looking very sincere] Very glorious battle, sir.
[Second Aide, nodding emphatically] Definitely.