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This was originally part of a gigantic monster update, the stuff I hadn't typed because I was busy doing last minute studying for the exam. All together, the monster update was unwieldy, so I'm posting this first part tonight, with the rest to come later this week after some more editing. Enjoy!

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July 11th, 1087

There was always something reassuring about heading a long line of soldiers, and for the first time in his role as leader of Kappadokia, Demetrios felt at home.

Before his father had been wounded, the younger Komnenos had been set off to join the Komnenid army. By the age of ten, he received extensive training in all the fighting arts – horsemanship from the Master of Stables, archery from the Saracen Murad, swordsmanship and single handed combat from his father, and finally mounted combat from the former Domestikos. At age 11, he was sent for a year to serve alongside his father’s lowly skoutatoi, the spear regiments that formed the backbone of the Romanoi armies. At age 12, he served in his father’s personal regiment of kataphraktoi, first as an aide and a page, and by the next year, as a member of the fighting unit itself.

Demetrios might have often felt lost and adrift in the sea of diplomacy – he had good ideas, but he left the field to the likes of the Anastasias, or his mother – but it was in the saddle, in command that he truly felt comfortable, in command, and in control. In a way, the war was a relief for him.

Anastasia the Younger had done her job well. Starting in May, she had sent increasingly insulting letters to the Emir, at first demanding small strips of territory, then Tyre and Tripoli itself, and finally unrestricted rights for Christian pilgrims and a call that the Emir cease his daily prayers to Mecca and convert to Christianity. It was alarmingly easy – the young and rash ruler immediately declared war, and promptly burned several small churches on the border. Raising the standard of battle was not hard amongst the Kappadokian lords after that, and Demetrios had noted with pride that every single vassal under his rule had responded to his call.

Demetrios himself looked splendid. His armor borne gilt tracings on its greaves and scales, and his helm had designs etched in brass and gold, all polished to a bright shine. His heavy oak shield was painted with the dark blue and lighter aquamarine of Kappadokia, the original family theme, while the bright brass boss in the shield’s center denoted who its owner was. Strapped to one side was the short compound bow used by all kataphraktoi in the family service, as well as the long kontos*. Unlike the others in the family’s heavy cavalry, however, Demetrios did not carry the standard skull-crushing mace. Instead, he bore a sword with a shined, brass and gold hilt – the sword carried by his father since Alexios set off on his first campaign at the age of 18.

Behind the prince streamed the Army of the Eastern Themes – 13,000 troops all together amongst the three columns. First came the horsemen, ranging from heavy kataphraktoi armed like their liege lord to lighter Turkoman and Turcopole cavalry on swift ponies – the eyes and ears of the immense host. Further behind came the bread and butter of the army of Romanion – the skoutatoi and other spearmen, as well as numerous heavily armed infantry equipped with the Varangian axes Demetrios had seen long before. Pennants streaming in the wind as they marched out of the city, the army was a frightening sight to behold.

Now, to end the business quickly, Demetrios thought, reflecting back on the endless hours of strategizing over maps. His own domestikos was a lousy commander at best, forcing Demetrios to do most of the planning himself.

The attack was divided into four columns. Demetrios led the largest, of 4500 troops, into Baalbek, while another column of 3500, under the inept Qasim, struck to the north. Further to the south, vassal armies of 2500 and 1500 would harass the Emir’s flanks. Demetrios’ goal was the lure the Emir into battle – if he’d lumbered his 13,000 troops into one massive force, he could have steamrolled over all of Tripoli at a very slow pace, but such a move would have played into the Emir’s plans.

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Demetrios' complex invasion plan.

The Turks and Saracens move and fight light, Demetrios remembered his father always saying, They move faster than your troops, and their bows shoot further. You cannot force them back into a corner to fight, you must lure them into your superior troops. Make them think you are weak where you are strong, and they will seek you out, where your heavier troops can fight them on equal terms…

Demetrios would personally led only 4500 men, but they were the best soldiers in Kappadokia, and possibly the entire Empire. His hope was that the Emir too would be looking to end the war quickly, and would rashly come at him with his entire force, some 6000 troops.

4500 Romanoi versus 6000 Saracen… that hardly favors them, Demetrios smiled coldly as the sounds of trumpets began to attack his ears. Surprised, he spun around in his mount, only to see someone in the colors of a herald thundering down the column towards him, the pennant of the office of Basilieus streaming from his hands.

“News from Konstantinopolis!” the messenger reined up his horse. “Emperor Michael, honoring your position as the leader of one of his themes, bids me tell you he too marches to war against Tripoli! He begs me ask you to tarry until he can arrive with the Army of Anatolia to assist your attack!”

Demetrios swore under his breath. Michael knows the game… he reminded himself. The Basilieus had probably gotten word through his spy network – Anastasia might have skills, but even Demetrios realized that Kappadokia had no where near the resources to devote to espionage as even a madcap Emperor. Undoubtedly this meant that Michael’s armies were already on the move… time was of the essence. Already Demetrios’ plan for a quick victory had acquired an alarming grade of necessity.

Yet before him still sat this messenger, patiently waiting for word from the Lord of Kappadokia, Damascus and Edessa, and Demetrios knew if he spoke poorly the words could haunt him. He uttered a mild curse again at not having either Anastasia or his mother nearby to quickly sound for advice. For a few seconds Demetrios thought carefully about the wording, before giving his reply.

“Please tell His Majesty that I will conduct a scouting mission in force, so that when he arrives I may inform him accurately of the Saracen dispositions and strengths.” The messenger nodded, as Demetrios smiled. There was no reason to tell the man that he intended to scout with his entire army, and that he intended to capture as many fortresses as possible before the unwieldy imperial troops arrived…

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Demetrios’ attack lunged forward, rapidly laying siege to most of the Emirate’s greater cities, and quickly Safed fell to Kappadokian troops. Demetrios wasted no time, immediately appointing one of the Qasim brothers, trained in a monastery and now fully of the Orthodox faith, as the local bishop.

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Bashir Qasim, son of the Domestikos, who is infinitely more competent than his father.

The Emir of Tripoli, however, had no intentions of waiting while the young Komnenos conquered his lands. Gathering his forces, the Emir struck back outside of Homs, attacking one Kappadokian column with the backbone of his entire army. Demetrios, despite his better quality troops, did not give into temptation to seek battle immediately. Instead, he backpedaled slightly, until his army was deployed across a narrow pass, flanks secure, daring the Emir to approach. Challenged, the Emir marched forward, and into the jaws of the trap.

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Demetrios looked down the long battle-line at his men. Disciplined and strong, they numbered almost as much now, three months into the campaign, as they did marching out of Palmyra. In the first rank stood the proud skoutatoi clad in mail hauberks with heavy wooden shields and ten foot long spears. They would be the rock of the Komnenid line. On their flanks were small numbers of his Varangian axemen, similarly armored and equipped with heavy two-handed axes. Behind them stood his archer corps, lightly armored and armed with bows of the Saracen fashion – light and compound. Demetrios himself sat in the rear with his heavy cavalry, the Turcopoles on his flanks.

Across from the Roman lines were 4000 foot and some 1500 horse of the Emir’s army. Unlike the army of the Komnenids, the Emir possessed little heavy cavalry. Outside of his personal bodyguard of 100 ghulam slaves, most of his cavalry was armed with short bows and little armor – good for harassing but poor for a boxed in battle.

Similarly, the Emir’s infantry was built for speed at the expense of protection, and they too were poorly suited to the upcoming engagement. While numerically they had more than the Romanoi, the narrow defiles of the pass meant that their numbers were squandered – they would be forced to face the more heavily armed and armored skoutatoi man to man. Demetrios had picked the battlefield well, and had outfoxed his opponent into drawing up exactly where he wanted him to.

The Romanoi closed in an unusual formation – Demetrios lined all his cavalry behind his infantry and archers, before closing, while the Emir attempted in the narrow spaces of the pass to put his cavalry on the flanks. As the Romanoi closed, the Emir’s cavalry began to harass the massed skoutatoi with bowfire and javelins, yet Demetrios’ men grimly marched forward as his bowmen began firing back, driving the Emir’s cavalry back to its own lines.

Finally, the massed Romanoi spearmen clashed with their Saracen counterparts, and quickly, the superior Komnenid discipline and arms shone through. The Saracen troops began to bend and their line started to crack. Yet as it seemed they could bend no longer, trumpets sounded, and the skoutatoi broke off the engagement, reforming a line across the pass.

The Emir, his bodyguard still untouched, doubtlessly wondered to whom he owned this thanks. Part of him wanted to withdraw – the field was obviously one that favored the Romanoi, yet another part of him wanted to test them again. The Romanoi obviously pulled back for some reason – was their commander injured, was their confusion in their ranks?

Taking a position just behind his spearmen, the Emir ordered the tired troops back up the defile once again, directly towards the silent, menacing Romanoi spearline. He could see movement behind it, but he was not sure what he faced until a single, bloodcurdling trumpet call echoed off of the hills around them. As one, the skoutatoi reformed ranks – doubling their depth, while leaving gaps between the clumps of soldiers. The ground began to shake, thunder filled the air, and the Emir watched in horror as horsemen, armored head to toe, trotted through the gaps and formed a charge line with sickening speed and precision. It was too late to turn around, too late to pull his fractured troops out of the narrow pass of death. In the open, his cavalry could have ran circles around the slow Byzantine heavy cavalry – but here…

Five hundred heavy kataphracts, Demetrios at their head, lowered their kontos and charged.

The Emir’s fragmented army did not have a chance.

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After his crushing victory at Baalbek, Demetrios’ troops slashed further southward into the Emirate. Anastasia the Younger joined them, and we know that all creature comforts were not lost, as she once again became pregnant.

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Despite the rigors of the campaign, Demetrios and Anastasia do find alone time…


Demetrios’ whirlwind campaign, however, confirmed him in the minds of all as a formidable tactician, gifted and experienced beyond his years. The intense training ordered by Alexios for his son was paying immense dividends, and in courts from Konstantinopolis to Cairo to far away Shiraz, Demetrios’ name began to appear on the lips of the powerful, a name that they spoke with fear.

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The Komnenid military tradition continues.

Demetrios’ other family members continued to develop as well. Manuel’s education in the church was finally complete, and the surly, grumpy teen had now become a surly, acid tongued intellectual. However, his knowledge of biblical affairs remained unmatched among any in the Komnenid court. To save the minds and ears of his courtiers and prevent several unfortunate threats of brawling or fights, Demetrios duly appointed Manuel the new Bishop of Baalbek, giving his sibling a whole new group of targets for his acerbic wit.

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Manuel Komnenos is a highly intelligent, articulate young man…

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...whose tongue was so sharp and annoying his brother sends him to be the bishop of Baalbek.

However by this point, the cool Middle Eastern winter was upon them, and as the cold breezes began to blow, they brought in unwelcome guests – the Imperial Army of Anatolia, with Michael VII at its head. Unannounced and unwanted, they streamed south from Antioch, where Demetrios’ poor Uncle Isaakios lost two years worth of income entertaining the Emperor and his entourage, stealing sieges in Beirut, Tripoli and Tyre.

Come Christmas of 1087, the Emirate of Tripoli ceased to exist, its interior in the hands of vassals of Demetrios, its coastline under the control of vassals of Basilieus Michael. On Christmas Day, the two sides came together for a tense and uneasy feast celebrating the birth of Jesus, and the end of an Imperial enemy…

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The Basilieus, along with almost 30,000 Imperial troops from all over Romanion, arrive in Tripoli…

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*kontos - an long, heavily built spear used by Byzantine cataphracts.
 
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Nice the way you dealt with those Arab dogs! However I have the feeling Emperor Michael will not be amused. Anyway I can't wait for the second part of your update. There are few things that are more entertaining as a byzantine AAR with a great story full of intrigue like yours. :)

~Lord Valentine~
 
Here's the rest of that monster update... things are starting to come to head...

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Christmas Day, 1087

Demetrios shivered in the cold wind that blew off the Mediterranean. Above, the sky lay gray, the clouds racing close to the ground, almost within touch. Rain was coming, a cold and wet deluge. Yet still he stood, outside the ancient walls of Baalbek, waiting for his lord, the Basilieus, and Demetrios had no doubt that Michael was intentionally tarrying to make his greatest subject wait in the cold. It was small and petty, and Demetrios was determined to not give the Emperor any satisfaction for it.

The bells inside the city’s church, the former mosque now having bells in its minarets, tolled that it was six o’clock when Demetrios finally caught sight of a long train of horsemen approaching in the gathering mists, horsemen who soon revealed themselves as the Basilieus and the great lords of his court. Powerful they might have been, but imposing they were not.

The only one in the whole lot that Demetrios even respected slightly was the ancient Patriarch Photius. The man had long been a bulwark against the worst of the Emperor’s machinations, but even his exalted position was slowly being undermined by the Emperor’s ill rule.

Michael for one simply did not look right in his armor. The great imperial suit of mail was designed for someone far shorter than the willowy Emperor, meaning that his midriff made fleeting appearances, despite his best efforts to hide it. Demetrios reasoned it was probably the ancient armor of Basil Bulgarontocus, gilded and dented from blows – the latter something earned during the great days of Basil, the former something Michael undoubtedly added.

As they approached, Demetrios could see the Emperor rode awkwardly as well, as if he was barely in control of his steed. Surreptitiously one of the lords held the Emperor’s bridle, and Demetrios could see it was he, not the Emperor, that kept the Imperial charger in check.

To Demetrios’ trained eyes, however, the most damning thing about Michael was not his ill-fitting armor or his lackadaisical look – it was his hands. His fingers were smooth and clean, free from not just dirt and grime, but the callouses earned when one swings a blade often.

“You rotten git!” the Emperor’s high pitched voice echoed strangely under the ill-fitting helmet as he drew near, “You were o…ordered to w…wait for the Imp…Imperial Armies to c…come to y…your s…s….support! Inst…instead, you opp…opportunistically stole Tripolitan…tanian lands from your B…B…Basilieus!

“Majestic Lord, Vice-Regent of Christ, I humbly protest,” Demetrios bowed. I, too, can play this game. “I merely made a reconnaissance in force, and once I determined that Tripoli was weak, I reasoned your Majesty would prefer that I move quickly to destroy the enemy, and begin converting the heathen. My Lords,” Demetrios gestured towards the city of Baalbek itself, “I have already set about building churches for the people, and even appointed a bishop for the province. Surely, Master Patriarch, you would not want the Lord’s work disrupted because of a misunderstanding of orders?”

The Patriarch’s face was flushed, a smile on his lips. He saw the game as well, and a chance to flex what power he had. “Oh, of course not!” he said quiet loudly, loud enough that soldiers gathered around could hear clearly, “God clearly intended that the Komnenids take Baalbek, Tyre, and their other conquests to spread the gospel as quickly as possible! Majesty, we should be singing praise to God over this glorious achievement!”

The Emperor shifted angrily in his mount, but the Patriarch had spoken, and even the madman in Michael could see that picking a public fight that made him appear to want to take away new churches could be disastrous. So he nodded and said nothing, while his eyes threw daggers at Demetrios. For his part, the young Komnenos merely continued bowing, hiding the smile he wanted to give.

Two of the Emperor’s equerries finally arrived, and one got on all fours to allow the Imperial feet a footstool as the Basilieus dismounted. Immediately, the Emperor’s purple boots became stained with the brownish gray of the Syrian dirt, a stain Demetrios hoped would spread.

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The newly redecorated Great Hall at the small keep guarding Baalbek was filled with noise and laughter. The Muslim mosaics on the walls weren’t completely replaced, but tastefully secular or religious tapestries hung over the worst parts. Wine flowed freely, and plate after immense plate of food was brought into the room by the massive temporary staff hired just for this occasion. Demetrios looked out onto the scene from one of the entryways, and sighed, before look over at his brother, who was making far ruder noises. The young Bishop of Baalbek leaned against one of the columns in the entryway, wearing clothes more akin to mourning than celebration.

“My luck!” Manuel snarled. Still tall and willowy, his brown eyes glared with fire and venom at the great lords who had marched with the Basilieus down to the former lands of Tripoli. “No sooner do I get a fief than I get a fief’s debt when this chicanery was forced on me!”

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Poor Manuel and his broke bishopric…

“I would have helped, brother…” Demetrios started, but Manuel raised a conspicuously unjeweled hand.

“No, you were at war, and that is rightfully where your monies should have gone,” Manuel repeated himself for the tenth time. “I just wish some of these zealots, harlots and idiots had read the Good Word, and noticed the section where wasting my money on needless food and drink makes Manuel upset!

“You’re referring to yourself in the third person again,” Demetrios smiled.

“Shut up. You’re a Prince, you’re supposed to be rubbing elbows with the other people who are drinking up my people’s hard earned tithes,” Manuel waved towards the crowd with disdain.

“I’m a brother, who needs to occasionally keep his brother from speaking in the third person, or upsetting the Patriarch so,” Demetrios said gently, sparking a smirk from Manuel.

“Not my fault I can quote scripture better than that old man,” the bishop grinned, for once showing his youth and seventeen years. “Go Demetrios, before being around me soils you in their eyes!”

Demetrios bowed exquisitely, provoking one last laugh from his beloved brother, before walking into the hornets nest itself. Almost immediately, jeweled hands were offered in his direction, and perfumed faces turned to speak to him. On the lips of every single noble present there was only admiration and congratulation, but Demetrios knew most of their words were poison. Only those truly loyal to Michael had marched out this far from their homes, and likely none of them held the young Komnenos, chief challenger to their patron in many eyes, in high esteem.

Only one spot amongst the seriously overcrowded tables was left open. Demetrios refused to consider a seat on the raised Imperial dais… that would have required sitting next to Michael, who in addition to not having the best opinion of him was making a frightful bore out of himself by noisily sucking the meat off the bones of his pork roast. Unfortunately, this seat was also next to another Dukid – Andronikos, Prince of Thrace. Part of Demetrios merely wanted to sit down and have a bite to eat, but part of him wondered what excuses the Emperor’s brother would spit his way.

He quickly found out there were none.

“Know this,” the Prince whispered quietly, with nary a greeting, hello or even acknowledgment, “you and the Emperor are now enemies, Komnenos.”

“Thank you for explaining what is obvious, Highness,” Demetrios hissed back, a cold smile on his own lips. Both Anastasia’s told me about you – a viper with a brain, Demetrios thought coldly. The chief plotter in the Emperor’s court. He didn’t care anymore – there was no game here, only the statement of cold, hard facts. “A blind beggar would be foolish to not see that fact.”

“Boy…” Andronikos hissed in anger. Demetrios glared back, and raised his finger in protest.

“I…am…no…boy!” Demetrios said slowly, putting venom behind each of the words. He leaned in close to Andronikos before hissing, “I am Prince of Kappadokia and Edessa, Lord of Palmyra and Lord of the greater region of Tripoli. I rule lands that dwarf yours, muster armies that outnumber your puny followers, and see in a month the same tax revenues you see in two years.” Demetrios cocked his head slightly to one side. “That either implies great competence on my part, or great incompetence on yours. Either way, you are in no position to address me as such, sir.

“I will address you as I see fit, boy,” Andronikos hissed right back, matching venom with venom, “for my dear brother is the Basilieus, while yours is the bishop of a putrid country backwater. I was wearing the purple, as a member of the Imperial family, when you were just learning not to soil your swaddling clothes!”

“Milords?”

Both nobles looked up, hatred in their eyes, only to see a young winesteward, his jug in hand. The young man smiled and attempted to offer the wine he was carrying. At both of their looks of death, the young man fearfully withdrew, not having served any wine at all. What had almost turned into a shouting match instead became a staring contest.

“Bah!” Andronikos finally pronounced angrily. “You are a hopeless case, young Komnenos. So eager for power, but so ill equipped to handle the enemies you’ll make. You have done much… but you are a mere boy, and until you are burned by fate, you will remain so…”

Demetrios was about to throw back another sordid reply when trumpets began to blare. Both men looked up in time to see several members of the Emperor’s guard striding in, a young man clad in the pink and white of the Kingdom of Hungary between them. He looked mortally afraid.

This cannot be good… Demetrios thought. The great kingdom of Hungary was home to the Magyars, the terrors of the Empire’s western borders only a few centuries before. Bad blood had existed between the two states ever since.

“Milords!” the young breathed hard. “I bring word from the West!”

Michael merely raised an eyebrow and smirked, while Andronikos, attention now fully away from Demetrios, spoke for his brother. “What news from the West is important enough to disturb the feast of Christ?”

“My Lords!” the poor messenger knelt, “I beg to report that the King of Hungary has sent his salutations, and demands Your Majesty recognize his right to rule over all of Bulgaria and Thrace, on pain of war! His Highness the Prince of Varna has openly declared he sides with the King of Hungary and refuses to acknowledge your rule until you see the justness of King Salamon’s request! My lord begs me to tell you that his claims are valid, ancient, and known even amongst your own scholars, and should they not be recognized, he will take the crown of Caesars as well!”

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Hungarian armies menacing the Imperial border

At these words, the chamber fell into a quiet twitter, the nervous noise of men whose lands were suddenly at stake, thousands of miles away. The sound lasted for only a moment, before Michael’s baying laughter echoed over the hall. Andronikos started to speak, but bowed his head in frustration when a jeweled Imperial hand waved him off.

“W…what?!” Michael sputtered, genuinely giggling. “T…the…M…Mag...Magyar dog w…wants t…to fight?” Another baying squeal of laughter. “H…he… is of n…no conce…concern!”

“What shall I tell my lord?” the messenger lowered himself closer to the ground.

Michael smiled yet again, before calling for the leader of his Scholarae, whispering something in the man’s ear. His eyes suddenly flashed dark and malicious, and a quick flick of the hand later two soldiers had grabbed the messenger and held the poor soul firmly against his will.

“C…cut o…out… his t…t…tongue, and b…blind him!” Michael snarled, the full fury of his anger now apparent. “T…take h…him to S…S…Salamon and V…Varna, and t…tell them t…this will b...be their f…fate!” A wave of Michael’s jeweled hand, and the poor man was led away, kicking and screaming.

“Let the f…feast c…continue! We sh…sh…shall not s…scurry out on the w…word of a M…M…Magyar dog!” Another wave of the Imperial hand, and the music began to play again, yet under the noise, the nervous twitter arose yet again.

“Varna was our bulwark against the barbarians, they held back the Pechenegs for years!” Demetrios heard a voice amidst the twitter of the chamber. He thought it might have been the Prince of Dorostorum, but he wasn’t sure. “With them backing the Hungarians, the road is open to my lands!”

“King Salamon can bring over 50,000 to the field…”

“Huge siege equipment…”

“Probably moving with the backing of the Bishop of Rome…”

Demetrios turned and glanced over at Andronikos. The man was looking intently at his plate, eyeing several wayward peas, but Demetrios saw him casting worried, angry glances at his brother. The younger Dukas’ Princedom of Thrace had been a realm protected by the bulwark of Varna, a shield now stripped.

There was no doubt, King Salamon meant for war. And while the Magyar hordes gathered themselves again, and Varna opened the gates for them, the Emperor and the Imperial armies merely sat in Tripoli and stared at the Komnenids…

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The Imperial Armies sit in the former territories of Tripoli while the West burns…


Meanwhile…

The cold winds of winter didn’t reach far inland, and in the palace at Palmyra things were beginning to wind down. The servants were doing their final preparations for the night, the kitchen was almost clean, and maids busily went through the drafty place dousing unused candles.

Anastasia the Elder walked amongst them, clearing a path wherever she went. The maids told stories about her, some fantastical, and some duller than the truth. Her name was whispered, always with a kind of fear and reverence only a master of spies can earn.

Anastasia paid no attention to them this night – her mind was still wrapped around the problem of who ordered the assassination of Alexios. Ruling out the Great Turk, or the Emperor, left many more subtle parties – Prince Andronikos of Thrace, the Prince of Samos… the list was long and tortuous. Anastasia’s body might have been aged, but her mind was still keen, and even as she made her way to bed, she was going over the lists in her mind.

It wasn’t until she was almost to her apartments that it hit her.

It all made perfect sense – why all the information hinted at the Emperor, while Alexios was done in, and why Demetrios had suddenly gained the mantle of his father in the eyes of much of the Imperial nobility. Everything suddenly fit into place. Rather gleefully, Anastasia opened the door to her chambers. Always careful, she barred the door behind her. Almost instantly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Someone else was in the room.

“Who’s there?” she asked, her ancient voice cracking. She plucked a lit candlebra from a table by the door and cast the light into her bedroom. Shadows danced and flickered in the dim light, but try as she might, she could see no one. Still perturbed, she decided she was going to sleep elsewhere tonight, and she started to unbar her door.

She didn’t hear the swift, silent footsteps behind her, and before she could scream, a garrote was around her neck.

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An end of an era…
 
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Some quick asides:

1) Do people like the current format? I'm mulling the idea of turning towards a more "historical" way of narrating once Demetrios' fate is revealed (which occurs shortly). Things will proceed quicker once this happens.

2) I really wasn't sure what the AI for both Byzantium and Hungary was doing during this part. Hungary declared war on the Byzantines, and moved all those troops next to the border and didn't cross for the longest time, while the Byzantine armies, already mobilized, just hung around the Holy Land for several months, until there seemed to be a collective "Duh! We're at war!" and both sides started marching simultaneously. It was very weird. :wacko:

3) Manuel will become very important later on in Byzantine history.

4) In game, Spy Master Anastasia died from natural causes, but for the story it was more appropriate to have her get knocked off. I was actually quite sad... she'd been one of the original court members in 1066, and once she was gone there really wasn't a replacement for the longest time.

I really hope people are enjoying the AAR, and hopefully the next update will come at the end of this week or the start of next!
 
A great AAR!
I like to format very much! Nevertheless I also like historic narratives, so go ahead an experiment!
I just hope you don't find the empire so shattered once your emperor, that a "Komnenid Revival" is impossible. Especially the Turks have the tendency of swarming all the way into the Balkans in a kind of "Medieval-Blitzkrieg" once unleashed.

~Lord Valentine~
 
Hi everyone,

Hopefully I'll have an update ready this weekend, probably Sunday. Next update I'll reveal what has kept the Turks too busy to take on Michael's crippled Empire, and whether their hungry eyes stay away, or they come to feast on Anatolia...
 
I love Byzantine AARs.

And I really like this one. Count me in.
 
I'd like to apologize for the shortness of the new update, but it was short for a good reason! Namely that in game I've almost finished the Roman Empire's run in CK, and I've been spending quite a bit of time modding EU3 to the alternate world... so far this has included 11 new countries, and modifications to a huge number more. Needless to say its going to be an ongoing process...


My goal is by the time the AAR reaches this point, I'll have an up and working scenario, with events, that the AAR can seamlessly go into. :)

Without further ado:

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September 4th, 1087


The Emperor and the Imperial armies had finally left the Levant in March of 1088, but His Imperial Majesty did not march for Hungary – instead the Imperial armies marched on Varna, laying waste to the country. Even now, in September, some three months after their arrival, the Imperial troops were still raping and looting their way through the former principality. The only saving grace of the entire debacle was that the armies of King Salamon had retreated across the border at the approach of the Imperial host. There they sat, warily watching the whole affair unfold.

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The Imperial armies looting and pillaging their way through Varna

Demetrios himself was only just starting to sleep at night again. The death of the elderly Anastasia had sent a cold shock throughout the court. Not only did her death deprive Demetrios of his most reliable source of information on the rest of the world, but her brutal garroting – with much of the evidence left behind to make it obvious she had been murdered – had sent a chill through his heart. Someone wanted him to know they could get to Anastasia, and thus, they could always get to him too.

That itself spoke volumes.

If it were the Emperor, Demetrios had no doubt that in his demented state he would’ve taken down the young Komnenos as well – even Zoe had to agree on that account. The Turk also didn’t make sense – a caravan had arrived from Baghdad only a month before, laden with gifts from the Turkish Sultan. Malik Shah wanted peace with the upstart Komnenid lord, at least for now.

The reason why Malik Shah wanted peace was the subject of today’s utterly gloomy meeting. The air drafting in from outside the Palmyra palace was hot and dry, but inside the meeting room of the Council of State, Demetrios swore he could see icicles forming.

“And what of the disaster to our East?” Demetrios sighed, looking towards a stoic, silent Anastasia. At his prompting his logothetes began to speak in a distant, quiet monotone.

“The Kingdom of Georgia, as you all know, has grown rapidly in the past two decades. The Bishopric of Armenia left the Empire for Georgia, and the Georgian King Bagrat had managed to extend his kingdom as far down as just next to Palmyra – a truly vast and rich realm. If he had played the game of politics right, he could have held far more, considering our precarious Imperial state…”

“He was arrogant,” Zoe said under her breath.

“That he was,” Anastasia nodded. “While you and the Emperor were busy staring at each other during the Feast of Christ’s Birth, King Bagrat issued an ultimatum to the Great Turk – he must surrendered Azerbijian and Mesopotamia or face Bagrat’s wrath…”

“The wrath of a lion cub about to be devoured by a tiger?” Demetrios groaned.

“Bagrat’s armies fought valiantly, and through the early parts of this year made significant headway, even laying siege to Baghdad. But in recent weeks it has become apparent that the Turks were merely biding their time…”

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The light blue outline is the Georgian Kingdom at its height, approximately 1086 A.D. As you can see, it stretched from the Caspian almost to the Med. Too bad Bagrat picked a fight with the Seljuks…

“Luring the Georgians deep into their lands to destroy them piecemeal,” Demetrios finished the sentence. Malik Shah was no Arp Arslan, but neither was the Turkish Sultan a mindless stooge. He clearly knew strategic thought, and the ambitious Georgian King had fallen into his trap. Overstretched, the Georgian armies were now being crushed piecemeal, and everyone in the room knew it was only a matter of time before the Sultan’s huge forces from Persia arrived and ground the Georgian Kingdom into dust.

“Has Bagrat sent for aid again?” Demetrios asked wearily. Another Kingdom of the faith falling to the infidel?

“As far as I can tell through our late logothetes’ spy network,” Anastasia said, Bagrat has appealed to Konstantinopolis for aid, but as you know, our Emperor is busy. And you heard the reply yesterday.”

Demetrios growled. He’d made his position on that when the first news had arrived from Konstantinopolis the day before – a courier from the Basilieus forbidding any of the Princes from marching to aid Georgia, while at the same time castigating many of them for not marching to Europe to terrorize Varna.

“So Bagrat has turned northward, asking the Cuman pagans for help,” Anastasia continued, “only to have the Cuman turn on him…”

“What?” Zoe squeaked.

“Probably had an agreement with the Turk,” Demetrios said glumy, mulling over numbers in his head. If Michael had freed even the easternmost themes to march to the aid of a fellow Christian nation, Georgia could have had another 30,000 troops to aid her defense – numbers that would’ve made even the Great Turk pause before marching forward.

Instead of pushing the Hungarians back, he marches to Varna to destroy the Prince that defied him. Instead of aiding Christian Georgia against the Turk, he turns his back to kill fellow Romanoi…

“Enough, is enough…” Demetrios said quietly, his voice muffled by his hands.

“What was that?” Zoe looked up, her eyes still wide from the news that the Cuman horde had swept into Georgia.

“Enough is enough, mother,” Demetrios said again, a little louder. “It is clear Emperor Michael is imperiling not only the Empire, but Christendom as well. Who is the most dangerous enemy of the Empire?” Demetrios asked.

“The Turk, but we aren’t at war with them right now,” Zoe countered. “We are not strong enough to fight the Turk, and it’d be foolish to…”

“Strike them in the back while they were busy?” Anastasia interrupted, her own eyes flashing. “Yes, very foolish indeed to cut off your worst enemy’s head when he has his back turned. Very unsporting,” her voice dripped of sarcasm. “I’m sure the Turks will refrain from rapine and pillaging when they finish with Georgia, and turn their eyes here to us!”

“A wise Emperor,” Demetrios rumbled, “would have propped up Georgia, using it as a bulwark against the Turk, but Michael turns his back…”

“He’s fighting the Magyars…” Zoe started to say, before Demetrios cut her off.

“He’s looting Varna and slaughtering fellow Christians for leaving the realm, instead of protecting his realm here, in the East!” Demetrios spat. “If he continues to dawdle in Varna, we’ll lose the West to the Magyars, and the East to the Turk, and there will be no Empire left!”

“And what do you propose to do, to fix it?” Zoe spat. There was a challenge in her eyes, and for the first time, Demetrios stared her down. A heavy, angry silence hung in the room, as Demetrios’ mind tried to find every alternative, every way possible to solve the Empire’s dilemma, before finally arriving at one, single conclusion.

“Michael cannot rule this Empire any longer,” Demetrios said quietly.

“What?” Zoe asked, genuinely not hearing her son’s mumble.

“Michael cannot rule the Empire any longer,” Demetrios said louder, troop numbers already going through his mind. The Emperor is committed in Varna, with only half his original force under his banner… my troops have been rested, spent time at home, and muster nearly that number…

“But he is God’s appointed ruler on Earth! The Vice Regent of Christ…”

“God would not have sent us a Vice Regent for his Son as foul as this!” Demetrios cut his mother off. For a moment an uneasy silence hung in the room.

“So do you propose to know God’s Will?” Zoe said with bitter finality.

“No… I don’t… but I know that God would certainly not curse us with what we have and expect us to do nothing.”

“Demetrios, what are you…” Anastasia started to ask, before a smile began to slowly spread across her lips. Demetrios looked at his wife, and nodded his head.


The time for diplomacy was past. The time of treaties, and talking, and peace was over. Kappadokia was going to war yet again, but now it was not against an infidel or enemy of Romanion. The Romanoi had a long history of civil strife and even war – and this upcoming conflict would be no different. At its conclusion, Demetrios Komnenos was determined that someone, other than Michael Dukas, would wear the Imperial diadem…

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Alea iacta est…
 
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Now things get interesting. Hopefully others will flock to Demetrios' banner, otherwise this could be one short coup.

It's too bad Georgia got wiped out after building up a healthy sized kingdom for themselves. They never seem to last in my game, the hazard of being sandwiched between powerful enemies, most of whom are Muslim.
 
Excellent storytelling.

And Georgia just tends to do that. A lot.
 
OOC Comments:

In game I was actually surprised when I recieved the rebellion event, and I couldn't believe my good luck. I had been prepping for a run at the Imperial throne, but I wasn't planning on making a move for a while (or the Byzantine throne ceased to exist, and suddenly I had to start as Aleppo or Syria and reconquer it), however the time seemed ripe. The Byzantine AI had finally shuffled all of their armies to Varna and Hungary (and never fought the Hungarians, strangely), and left a clear marching road.

Also, Michael's low stats meant that the Imperial desmense was only Byzantion and Thessalonike - meaning a quick grab was possible, so long as my vassals answered my call. You'll have to wait until next update to find out what happened - lets just say I got some surprises. :)


As for Georgia, they were growing large enough I was starting to get worried - from 1066 to 1086 they'd grown slowly and steadily, mostly by absorbing errant vassals from Byzantium, but they also conquered Derbent (for once) as well as some minor breakoffs from the Cumans. Then, inexplicably, they DWed the Seljuks, who had been very peacefully minding their own business after the bloody nose Alexios gave them back in 1074. The Georgians raced south, and at one point had seized lands almost down to Baghdad - only to have the vast Seljuk host from Persia grind their lead armies to dust, while other regiments sieged Georgian cities in the rear. To add insult to injury, the Cuman AI dogpiled, and within two years Georgia had ceased to exist, leaving a hugely engorged Seljuk Empire at the doorstep of Romanion...
 
Good luck! Good story, too.
 
This is the first in what I hope will be a triple update this week. The moment has arrived, Demetrios has finally declared for the throne, but things do not go as expected...

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Secret couriers galloped out of Palmyra that very night, with a call to arms to all Komnenid vassals. A few days later, regular couriers set out to all the major cities of the Empire, bearing the message that God had deigned the misrule of Michael VII Dukas at an end, and called upon all true Christians to rise against this faithless ruler for the glory of Christ and the good of his flock. Anastasia even somehow got Patriarch Photius to make a sermon condemning the reign of Michael Dukas, yet to Demetrios’ chagrin, the Empire wide rising did not happen.

Kappadokia’s vassals responded in force – not a single lord failed to bring troops to muster – yet across the Empire, the general attitude was one of waiting and seeing who would emerge the victor. Even noted enemies of the Dukids, such as the Princes of Sinope and Samos, sent no word or troops. The Prince of Trebizond only sent a declaration that he was leaving the Empire for good.

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Fortunately for Demetrios, Kappadokia's vassals respond in force...

Finally, in August of 1089, after wasting several months in vain for reinforcements from other dissatisfied princes, Demetrios set off for Konstantinopolis. The plan was simple – 9500 troops under the Lord Komnenos would march towards the Queen of Cities, hopefully to enter in triumph, while 6000 more troops besieged Thessalonike. The risk in the plan meant that only 3000 troops were left to defend the whole of the Komnenid desmense and her vassals – a paltry force should anyone decide it was an opportune time to strike.

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The sum of Kappadokia’s defenses should the Empire move…

The actual march itself was easy – most of the troops marched across vast stretches of friendly or at least neutral territory in Anatolia. Michael had done little to enamor himself to the wealthy aristocrats from the region, and their support showed. On reaching the coast of the Aegean, Demetrios wondered if the entire coup could possibly be bloodless – no noble had stood up for the Emperor, and the Imperial armies were still, inexplicably, busy in Varna.

Yet all that changed as the Kappdokian Army marched up the coast towards its crossing point at the Dardanelles. Scouts galloped into camp, reporting they’d seen a fleet of ships – galleys, triremes, dromons – all flying the Imperial banner, sitting menacingly at the mouth of the Sea of Marmara.

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An Imperial dromon, the most powerful warships in the Romanion Fleet.

Somehow, Michael had divined what was going to happen, and had moved, and moved quickly. Anastasia’s informants in the navy had been dead wrong – to the point that as they reached the Dardanelles, reports stopped arriving. Her informants in the city of Konstantinopolis itself also became increasingly sketchy – all that was known for sure was that a huge leadership change had occurred, relatively rapidly.

Unable to sit on the Dardanelles coast, and unable to go home, Demetrios resolved to cross the narrow straits at night, and hopefully get his army on the other side. He reasoned, with some naïve hopefulness, that the sight of his advancing army might stir the city fathers to negotiate, or at least stir them into revealing themselves.

By some miracle perchance, the entirety of Demetrios’ army, some 9500 troops, crossed the Marmara that night with full kit and supplies for several weeks. Unfortunately, the huge size of the force and its haste meant that supplies for a long siege would either have to be foraged from the countryside, or shipped over, and as Demetrios marched north, he realized it would have to be the latter.

North of the Dardanelles, the land had been burnt – houses, crops, and the animals that could not be taken with had been slaughtered and left to the wolves. For a while Demetrios hoped that the reticence of the Imperial fleet would continue, yet there was no such luck, for only a fortnight after their crossing, the Imperial dromons blockaded the ports on both sides of the Marmara and the Dardanelles, cutting the young Komnenos’ supplies to a trickle.

Faced with the choice of either sit and starve or march to the city, Demetrios chose marching, hoping to catch the city unawares. Yet even as dispatches arrived from the south stating Anathasios had put Thessalonike to siege, Demetrios arrived at the Queen of Cities to find her massive gates shut and soldiers manning her formidable defenses.

To make matters worse, couriers continued to stream into the Kappadokian camp underneath the Theodosian Wall, bringing ever more ominous reports – the Emperor had given up the sieges in Varna and was marshaling an army 9,000 strong. Then the Emperor was in Sofia, then his legions were in Dyrrachion, boarding a fleet, with one obvious target.

To take out Kapapdokia’s desmense, and bring her to her knees.

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The Emperor moving in force towards Kappadokian lands by sea…
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The formidable triple walls of Konstantinopolis

Christmas had come and gone, leaving the air bitter and cold. The Kappadokian army still camped outside the walls of Konstantinople - by land, no one got in or out, but by sea, foodstuffs and supplies still freely entered the city. The presence of an apparently loyal Imperial fleet made the prospects of the siege all but fruitless...

“Michael is more clever than I thought,” Demetrios sighed late one night. The siege had dragged on. Calls upon the city to open its doors, even at the urging of the Patriarch, had failed. Deep in gloom, Demetrios realized the Emperor’s subtle, deadly strategy to deal with the man that was already acknowledged as the Empire’s foremost land commander.

Don’t engage him, Demetrios thought to himself, Let him come to the city, and by some foul means, keep its gates closed… Let the lion starve to death instead of trying to kill him yourself…

“And how in the bloody hell has he done it?” Demetrios said aloud to himself. He heard a grunt, and looked up as Anastasia turned to face him. Turning alone was now a major endeavor for her – she was grossly pregnant with the couple’s fourth child. Demetrios sincerely hoped that unlike the first and third, the child would survive until term, and unlike the second, it would be an heir. Despite the dangers, she had insisted on coming.

“What do you mean?” Anastasia asked quietly.

“Lord Kantakouzenos of Samos has cronies all throughout the city government,” Demetrios complained. “They are no friend of Michael! Why do they not open the gates for Michael’s enemy?” Demetrios heard Anastasia tsking quietly to herself.

“They want something in return,” she smiled. “And knowing that makes things infinitely easier.”

“How so?” Demetrios asked, his mind focused on scaling ladders, food supplies, and clean drinking water. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of any way any of those factors were easier. As long as the city barred its doors, he and his army were stuck, helpless…

“We merely need to figure out what he wants,” Anastasia smirked.

“How does that make sense? Why haven’t your spies reported anything on the city in weeks?”

“Because they are his spies as well,” Anastasia said finally. “It makes sense. It’s doubtful we’ve been led here for a slaughter – Kantakouzenos doesn’t gain anything from that, other than a stronger Emperor Michael, which he doesn’t want. No… he wants to talk to you… he wants something…”

“He’s already the riches noble in all of the Empire!” Demetrios complained. “He owns lands from the region of the Pechenegs to the richest Aegean islands! He knows I will not hand him the crown!”

Anastasia looked off for a second in thought, before her eyes suddenly narrowed. Demetrios recognized that face – she only had it whenever something truly devious had come to her mind…


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The average Kappadokian cavalry, swordsman, and skoutatoi spearman, respectively*​


“Bloody hell, I’m hungry!”

Isaakios Thrakesios pulled out several utensils his father had given him – a knife, a small pot, even a skewer, but he let out another curse when he realized there was no bread anywhere in the rough sack he carried with him.

“You and half of Kappadokia, I seems,” mulled Pentrarch Slavos. The man was a big brute from north of Cherson, a Cuman, with an eyepatch over his ruined left eye to boot. He had no last name, “Slavos” was the nickname he was given when he joined the Kappadokian personal guards years before as a mercenary seeking his fortune – it meant ‘Slav,’ what the Kappadokians called half the people north of Cherson. Isaakios was taken to calling him One Eyes.

“When was the last time we had some bloody food that was fresh?” snarled Eudoxios, called “Ape” because of his horrible looks. The man looked as if God decided to spit foulness on his face, and then beat him with an ugly stick. His teeth, crooked, yellow, at all angles, completed his ghoulish look. Ape pulled out a single piece of bread, crawling with maggots.

“I’ll take that,” Isaakios said, reaching his hand out. Ape yanked the bread away.

“Nope, you ain’t getting it, Boy!” Ape called back. Isaakios growled. He hated his nickname. He had freakish quickness with a blade and was an accomplished archer (in his eyes), yet everyone in the entire tagmata took to calling him “boy.” It didn’t help the description was rather accurate. He was tall, rail-thin, the son of a Varangian guardsman and a Palmyra whore. Barely 15, his blonde hair was an unkempt mop on his head, and no hair grew from his face. It didn’t help that his teeth were straight and the camp followers were constantly harassing him.

Yet he reluctantly put up with “Boy,” since it was a shortening of the full-nickname, given to him when the army first marched out. “Pretty boy.”

“Wonder what the old Prince is up to?” One Eye grumbled, ruffling through his own sack. “I served under him in Tripoli, he wouldn’t march us here to let us starve. He’s got something planned. They say,” One Eye turned and gave a smile with crooked teeth, “that his wife is some kind of sorceress… she knows people, reads their minds.”

“Yeah, he gets to bring a wife!” Ape muttered. “I can’t even bring that lovely little wench I saw in Bithnyia!” He kicked at his sack again for a bit, before turning to the hapless young Isaakios. “So, Boy, you have a woman?”

“Uh…”

“Ah, that’s what I thought, he hasn’t!” Ape grinned, provoking laughter from several of the troops around. Isaakios growled to himself, and decided the best way to deal with things was to just turn his back to them.

Trying his best to ignore the taunting, he took in the Theodosian Walls – massive, whitewashed, in need of repair here or there, but powerful enough they held the whole Kappadokian army at bay. Along the tops of the towers fluttered the colors of the Imperial Throne – a broad red field, with a golden cross, and four “Bs” in each subfield. He thought it looked slightly pretty, until he noticed the gate underneath one of the towers was opening, and a rider, bearing a different flag, was cantering towards the camp…


*Pic came from CrackdToothGrin’s “History of the World” AAR
 
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It's going to be a tight moment; can the rebels get inside Constantinople and Thessalonica before their homelands are laid to waste by the loyalist troops? Too bad there's nothing to simulate gaining entry to a city by treachery.
 
I must say this is most dramatic!
I can already see it coming, even if Demetrios wins Constantinople he will have a hard time securing his reign. Anyway I am looking forward to the next episode. :)

~Lord Valentine~