Basilieus444 - If the mod gets finished (I haven't had time to even really start work on it, and to be honest finishing the story has taken a higher priority), I would definitely release it for other people to play. I'd be far more interested, really, in what other people would do with the pieces than playing it myself... I've dealt with this world for four years, every two and a half weeks if not more frequently. I think I deserve a slight break. lol
BraidsMAmma - Nothing to do with the actual gameplay...the gameplay for this era was really, really dull. Whack-a-noble, peaceful succession, whack-a-noble. No great rebellions or real threats. That is, with two exceptions which are rapidly approaching in the story... (cue ominous music!)
sarevok2 - Leo had children... as I lost my screenies for this time period, I can't tell you how many or what their names were for sure, but I think he had 3-4 sons and a few daughters...
Zzzzz... - Andronikos I had a sharp eye when it came to picking a successor. If he'd lived a few years longer, the Empire in-story would have been more like the empire in-game at this point. There's another what-if...
wolfcity - Well, with Guillaume I wanted to represent that no one shut off those urges or thoughts... they're still in his mind. And Guillaume will definitely get in way over his head in a few years, that's for sure...
asd21593 - Really? Good, I was thinking of using the 'jump' more often to get the story moving...
vadermath - You're starting again from the
beginning? Impressive! And yes, the Empire's been at war for literally a generation. Our attention's been riveted east, but in the West things have been no less violent. Credit Leo with being the first to admit the crown isn't worth it...
RGB - The von Frankens are in a rather bad pickle, half from bad luck, half of their own making. While the Emperor was busy fighting in Italy and their flanks were clear, they declared themselves Kings in Italy. While yes, its technically still a position of vassalage to Konstantinopolis, they raised themselves without imperial permission. Peace in Italy means the Emperor could, if he was sufficiently angry, turn his ire on them when they still have some rather grumpy neighbors in the north who oppose their attempts at hostile takeover in Germany. Not a good place, I'm afraid. It'll take some epic-level weaseling to squeeze out of that, should peace in Italy come to pass.
Carlstadt Boy - You know by this point I would completely do something as twisted as using good Ser Jorah to depict a depraved character, or someone who does something totally evil...
Nikolai - He's done well enough to survive, but not thrive. Though who could caught between those types of forces?
“The lioness kills as readily as the lion. Dare not turn your back on her.” - On Hunting, Andronikos II Komnenos
November 19th, 1324
Isfahan
Bell after bell thundered, echoing above the Persian plains. The bells were new to Isfahan, an import brought to the city by its Roman overlords almost eighty years before. Their pealing, crashing roar cascaded through the night, blending with the calls of hundreds of
muezzin from minarets throughout the city. The noise, unique in the Roman world, broke all sorts of protocol, but so did its cause.
Eirene Kaukadenos-Komnenos felt her lips twist up in a snarl as she stared at the cause of the ruckus. It dangled, tantalizingly, from the left sleeve of the ambassador of Faraud. The Persian princess wished, just for a moment, that she was a cat—she could slink up, silent and swift, and knock that terrible thing from the bulbous old man's grasp.
Then, she thought,
we would be safe from the works of foolish men.
Like all truly dangerous plans, this document had a logical basis—the Persian
Shahanshah had no sons of his own, and his brothers had numerous of their own. Handing the throne to a nephew was bound to provoke an internecine struggle as great as the contest that had torn apart Persia's western neighbor.
Shahanshah Yahya had three daughters, however, and a strong man with a strong army tied to them could easily hold the realm together, despite the wishes of any of the cousins. Yet, instead of turning to a good, Persian noble, the counselors of Yahya had turned east.
To Faraud, and her young prince Timur.
The alliance wasn't unusual on the surface. Persia had intermarried with her eastern neighbor before—Eirene's own mother was a Mongol princess, related by blood to the royal family of Faraud. But never before had a Persian princess been promised to a prince of Faraud, with
all of Persia for a dowry. Never before had
E-ran faced the prospect of a man more Mongol than Persian or Roman taking the throne.
Never before have we more shamed ourselves, or our ancestors! Eirene fumed.
Why did the blood of our grandfathers cover the plains of Yazd red? Why did the mountains run crimson at the Caspian Gates? What were their deaths for, if a Mongol from the East sat on the throne of Jabr'eel?
“All Hail Shahanshah Yahya, First of His Name of House Komnenos, Lord and Ruler of All Persia!” the chamberlain bellowed after slamming his ceremonial staff onto the marble of the throne room floor. Eirene, like all others present, bowed her head to her father even when she wanted to weep as that hollow shell of a man hobbled to the throne, attendants holding him up.
Once he had been a tall, strapping man, broad of shoulder and great in strength. Those days were long gone. Last year, during one of the incessant battles against the Taymiyyite rebels in Mesopotamia, the Shahanshah was thrown from his horse and struck his head. For weeks the entire court had been secluded in prayers for his survival as he lay motionless, caught in the void between life and death. Their prayers were partially answered—Yahya awoke, but not the same. He could barely stand. While he would have never been considered a brilliant man, he became almost feebleminded, forgetting information his secretaries had told him only minutes before. He could hardly see, complaining of halos around everyone's head and blurriness. Even now, the Taymiyyite preachers to the south claimed that his coma, and resulting bouts of sleepiness and other maladies were God literally striking him in the head for his sins.
And her husband...
Ach, he's little better! Eirene hissed, her eyes drifting to that hapless figure as wel..
Nikolaios Kaukadenos certainly looked the part of a King. He was well bred, from an ancient noble family that once had an emperor briefly on the Roman throne. He played polo with the grace of a natural horseman, looked splendid in silks and fur cloaks, and possessed a deep, rumbling bass as well as a beautifully full beard and tall stature that commanded respect and attention. Once, long ago when he was only courting her, she'd called him a stork. Now, he looked like a magnificent lion, claws rampant in glorious review.
Looks alone, unfortunately, were no guarantor of ability.
Nikolaios was also a notorious gambler, spending many of his nights plying that vice through the dens of Isfahan with his cohort of yes men. He was vain, avaricious, and charitably could be described as shortsighted. If Nikolaios had been the last man live on earth, Eirene might have taken him in—if he'd stayed still and didn't open his mouth. As it were, an arranged marriage guaranteed she had to take him , to her bed no less, and she'd dutifully granted him two sons and a daughter.
He plays dice, while our enemies gather, she fumed. We're surrounded from without, and from within Taymiyyites, Zarathustrans and countless others are stirring trouble! This throne is tottering on a precipice! she huffed. If we aren't careful, it will fall apart, strewn to pieces by Mongols, Muslims, and all manner of noble intrigue!
As she fumed, the ambassador from Faraud confidently intoned the ancient phrase used to greet the Emperors of Persia: “Greetings, King of Kings, Lord of All the Persians.” For a split second there was a pause, before the adept man quickly added, “and Lord of All the Romans, rightful Megas Komnenos and Ruler of the World.”
A useless vanity, Eirene snorted, before starting her path through the crowd. She was tall, for a woman—five feet and six inches, with fiery red hair from her father's side and green eyes from her mothers. While she wasn't tall enough to see over the clustered great and small of the Isfahan court, she could already spot her destination. Her very gait spoke volumes—it told of someone unused to fine silken clothes, of someone more used to riding leathers, steel and horse. It, as well as her reputation, parted the crowd of gawkers with surprising ease.
She was the living Kahula bint Azwar. To the Danes, she was a shieldmaiden, to the Mongols or Kipchaks, she was a warrior—no more, no less. To the Romans, however...
I'm a freak, she grumbled as she stalked through the crowd. For not the first time, she cursed her birthright—daughter of the man the Romans called Autokrator Ioannis Komnenos. Her mother was of Faraud—she'd ridden to war in her youth, before her marriage, and she spoke fondly of the experience. In Persia, she rode and hunted with the men, but she was never allowed to fight, and she often confessed to her most beloved daughter of five that she missed the excitement, the terror, the camraderie.
Now, Persia was in a dark age. Her father was powerless now, and she had no brothers to take the throne. Her cousins were so self-seeking and avaricious that her father's counselors, in the name of peace, were offering the throne to the so-called Komnenos child Timur in return for him marrying Eirene's younger sister. The nobles of the Empire, they were like wolves, stalking around the dying beast, ready to leap on the carcass and tear apart their own chunks.
The vultures wait.
Two of the vultures preened and pranced in the front. Hamid Lainez and Bashar Dadiani were the scions of the two most important noble families in Roman I-ran--their princely titles stretched back to the days of Thu'mas Parvez, their lands were vast and their vashti numerous and well armed. Both had distant claim to the Persian crown as well—they both had married into the imperial Komnenid family, the Lainezes marrying a sister of Jabr'eel, while one of the Dadianis had married Thu'mas Parvez himself. It was common knowledge that both been in contact with the old King in Faraud, Mikail, and that the new King, Papaz, regularly sent them gifts and presents. Both had been instrumental in 'persuading' elements of the inner circle around the disabled Shahanshah that a marriage alliance with Faraud would save Persia from internal war and dissention.
They think they have won, Eirene stalked on as her father weakly muttered the words his advisers told him to say. They think they have trampled us down.
They would soon find out what the Scolari already knew.
Eirene would rise into the breach, and Eirene would crush their petty ambitions, desires, and foolishness that threatened to tear apart the Empire of Jab'reel. She'd learned to hunt, to ride, to fight, by her mother's side. While the Roman elite scoffed and complained, the native Persian commanders were at first amused, then amazed. They let her practice at command, watch, and learn...
They respected me before. Even the Romans should respect me now, after what I did to the Scolari, she thought as she stalked on. Like the Lainezes and Dadianis, the Scolari also had blood descent from Thu'mas Parvez. Like the Lainezes and Dadianis, they were also some of the most powerful nobles in the realm as a result. However, when Prince Fahrad rose a little too high, when he went so far as to publicly claim the Regency during her father's coma the year before, Eirene was in the Shirvan a fortnight later, along with four vashti of the Persian army. Prince Scolari was no military slouch, but even a gifted general would find himself at a disadvantage when caught in camp.
And now his head rests on a pike, Eirene scowled, and his son knows his place. Dadiani made some quip, and immediately Lainez and the other lesser men all bayed their laughter. They sound like the pack of jackals they are.
As the ambassador from Faraud knelt before the Throne of Gabriel, Eirene slowly kept walking through the petitioners. As words that could shake the Near East were muttered, and promises made, Eirene slinked on, with the grace and power of a panther. She wasn't mingling with the crowd—she was headed towards one man, the man that had seen her skill in the saddle, and watched her translate that into skill leading men. As her father meekly swore to uphold his part of the alliance, she came closer to Eran Spahbod Butrus Hamadani, the principal commanding officer in the entire Persian Army.
Butrus looked like an average man—He was not remarkable for his height, nor his girth, or any other aspect—other than his fine ceremonial tunic, one might have never imagined the unassuming man was the commander of the Gond artesht in the Persian army, the central formation defending Isfahan itself and its environs. His quiet voice and calm demeanor masked a man of great tactical experience and cunning—he'd been a junior officer at Sisak, and had his own vashti on the Halys, and was universally respected in the Persian military for his actions in both great battles. With Spahbod Sohrab Diba's ignominious retreat from Palmyra ten years before, Hamadani was left as the preeminent military man in the entire Persian army. His rise to Eran Spahbod was almost a foregone conclusion.
A truly loyal patriot, she smiled, nodding as she drew up next to him. He nodded in return.
“Sad day,” she looked back at the scene. The ambassador had clasped his hands around the shaky ones of her father—no doubt in the name of his master Papaz, he was promising to be loyal and true, a friend evermore of Persia and the Gabrieline family.
“It would make any true son of Persia weep,” Hamadani shook his head. “Handing us over to half-Mongol bastards... Farsi and al-Rumi alike should be enraged!” His mustache trembled with fury. “Your father hands us to Mongols, when your bloodline should be in Konstantinyye!”
“I know,” Eirene nodded, casting one last look at the gathered mass of sycophants around her weakened father. Lainez and Dadiani were already up next to the throne, doubtlessly whispering more poisons into her father's ear.
“It's time,” she said aloud. Is that all it takes? Two words? She felt no remorse, no fear over what was soon to be done. What must be done. For the Persian crown. For the Persian people. “Spahbod, I'll secure the imperial seal. You have the harder task.”
“Yes, Highness?” Hamadani's eyes were alight.
“Marshal the Anusiya vasht on the palace, on the double. There are traitors here,” she looked towards Dadiani, Lainez, and the other rabble already cheering and celebrating this new 'alliance,' “and I want them arrested within the hour.”
“Who should I tell my men authorized this action?” Hamadani asked.
Eirene paused—she could not authorize the orders, no matter how necessary they were. A woman launching a coup? Unthinkable. She looked up at her 'husband.' He was off in a corner, talking to a guardsman. No doubt they would soon disappear for a game of dice. Sometimes, the distasteful is necessary. “On the authority of Crown Prince Nikolaios Kaukadenos, Regent in the name of His Majesty Ioannis Komnenos, Shahanshah of Persia.”
==========*==========
January 15th, 1325
Konstantinopolis
Andronikos II Komnenos, Megas Komnenos and Lord of the Known World, grunted. Pain washed over his back, followed by release as yet another knot relinquished its hold. Kaleb abd-Hinnawi, medicus and logothetes ton genikou grunted as his fingers attempted to fix his emperor's troublesome back.
Andronikos sighed in the dancing candelight of his chambers—the man worked wonders. Yes, he wasn't as gifted as the Emperor's mother had been at finding money, but he had logothetes and mystikoi to perform those tasks for him! He kept the books balanced, and he gave good, loyal advice. He wasn't plotting or scheming, like Prince Angelos, the Churchmen, or Roland du Roche. That is all I want in a member of my Small Council! Someone competent who I know I can trust!
Someone not like the men that filled his Small Council—small minded men, with small minded ideas. Men like the former Logothetes ton Mystikoi, Michael Psellos. Andronikos had hand raised the man from being a lowly secretary to being the chief adviser on palace affairs. I made him, Andronikos fumed, and he dared to bite the hand that placed him so high! Psellos, of all people, had the temerity to rise in council during the emperor's last visit to the capital and said that returning to Italy would be against all good judgment, morality, and common sense. He said that! To me! Andronikos felt a snarl coming to his lips at the memory. Skalites' men paid Psellos' villa a visit that night on Andronikos' personal orders, and the old man discovered to his demise that dry tinder shouldn't be stacked directly before all of the doors to one's home. No one would dare to speak to my father that way! When I am done, they will all fear the office of Megas Komnenos, as they should!
Now Andronikos' eyes went back to abd-Hinnawi. Good old man, tell me what I need to hear, he thought, casting a smile his friend's way. Abd-Hinnawi stuttered and stammered like he always did. No doubt he can't form words because too many brilliant thoughts are running through his mind at once! the emperor mused. Andronikos trusted him—trusted the words he said, the advice he had. He was knowledgeable, intelligent, and always knew what he was talking about. What better counselor can one ask for? the Emperor thought.
“So?” Andronikos prodded. That always seemed to work. “You're silent. Maybe, he's not ready for battle,” Andronikos sighed, sipping on the medicine. Twelve years in, it didn't taste so vile anymore. “Heraklios called him impatient. Heraklios, old man!” Andronikos snorted. “Captain Draw-Spatha-and-Ask-Questions-Later says my eldest boy is too impatient! Ha!” The Emperor swirled the drink around for a second, before downing another gulp. Yes, the wine definitely helped. “What do you think. Sixteen is too soon for war? I think he's fine, but...”
“I...” abd-Hinnawi stumbled for a moment, “I have observed the Prince's variables in action, and I believe they build an equation for success, Majesty.”
“Excellent!” Andronikos beamed. Clearly I'm right, if abd-Hinnawi of all men reaffirms my decision! “Chillarchos Nikon advises me that sometime this week or next the army will be in Iasi, and that we'll smoke the bastards out by fire and sword if they don't find battle.”
“I...I have counseled Your Majesty that my variables are not set to provide adequate functions regarding the battlefield, so I trust the word of this more professional mind will be correct,” Hinnawi blurted out quickly.
So modest! Andronikos wanted to smile. Not like all those others, who preened and prattled and openly said their opinion was better than the Emperor's Will. This is why I trust you, old man!
“Well, then, there's another item,” Andronikos went on. “My brother sends to me, offering me peace and cooperation if I recognize him as Autokrator.”
“I...Majesty, I am...not familiar with the variables you are using...” abd-Hinnawi said. The Emperor felt the Logothetes' hands leave his shoulder. He turned around just in time to see the medicus almost flinching.
“He wants to be a co-Emperor,” Andronikos patted the man's cheeks. “Shoulders again?” he pointed, “A co-Emperor, old man! Yes, he would grant me the supreme title, and grant me authority over him, but he would become a vassal, lord of the west, as it were. The others,” Andronikos nodded disdainfully towards the door, and the rest of the world, “say it's a generous offer, that I should accept immediately. Should I listen to them, old man?”
“I...um...” The medicus' hands stopped for a moment.
“Well blast it, speak your mind and keep rubbing my shoulders!” Andronikos snapped. Stop quivering and tell me what you think! I am not a monster, I do not bite! “Should I make peace with my brother and leave him as a viceroy, or should I sail for Italy this coming spring with all my might and finish off the bastard?”
“I...I...am sorry if I offended Your Majesty, I...”
“Just speak your mind, old man,” Andronikos growled.
“I... peace is the most noble result of any equation, Majesty,” abd-Hinnawi said a second later. “For years, the empire has known the constants of war and strife. Peace added to time equals prosperity and happiness, for you and your people. It is an end of its own. So would say al-Abadi, and so say I.”
“Ah, well then,” Andronikos said after a moment, “I shall take his offer under serious consideration. Your Aionios was a clever man, I'll grant you, and perhaps peace can be arranged—his children of course shouldn't be Autokratoroi, obviously...”
“A wise and august choice, Majesty,” abd-Hinnawi sighed. Andronikos turned—the medicus was smiling, and his face looked as if the weight of a century had been lifted from his shoulders.
“Of course it is. Why would I surrender any rights to his progeny!” Andronikos huffed. It'd be damned stupid! “They'll become Sebastokratoroi or something, or...ah. Sebastokrator kai Rigas ton Sikelion! They'll put the jumped up von Frankens on notice!” the Emperor beamed. That irksome clan needs to be lowered a peg. Naming themselves Rigas without asking me! The nerve! So long as they sent their annual tribute and scutage to Konstantinopolis he couldn't do anything against them. I can publicly slap them in the face with dishonor, though!
“A wise and just move, Majesty,” abd-Hinnawi nodded quickly.
“Thank you,” Andronikos nodded back as the medicus went on with his work. “I was also thinking, old man, perhaps, once I get these reprobate bishops behind the idea of a Church Council, that you should send for some of your friends from Egypt to come to Konstantinopolis and lend their learned opinion to the proceedings. Oh, I'm sure Skalites and the other churchmen will howl, but it'd do them good to hear some outside opinions before they get mired in whatever theological stupidity they will doubtlessly stumble into!”
“Majesty?” abd-Hinnawi's hands stopped once more. “I...oh that would be an exquisite idea! The meeting of such integers would make a multiplicity of truths become evident!” abd-Hinnawi burbled excitedly. “Think on it, Majesty! Truth added to truth. Truth squared! A union of truths may even be possible! Al Abadi even used the function of his mind to determine this! 'For when reason meets reason, and sound minds blessed by God judge, only the truth as God allows it can rise to the fore.'”
“Spoken like a master of the mind,” Andronikos winced. Abd-Hinnawi's hands had returned to work and found yet another knot. That's from taking that bastard tower on the walls of Spoleto. “I can't see why Skalites or the others don't think like you do. It's sheer... brilliance! Perhaps what those prelates really need is a dose of your philosophy,” Andronikos stretched. It'd do the stodgy old priests some good!
February 11th, 1325
North of Iasi, Pereschen Principality
Prince Petros Komnenos' huge frame shivered, his breath making clouds in the cold winter air. The small puffs merged with the snorts of horses and the breath of an army of men to form a great, rolling cloud, that half obscured the field before him. The prince could hear the whisper of arrows, the scream of men in battle and men dying, but he could only catch glimpses of such things.
All decency and common sense dictated he shouldn't be here—he and his entire army, by the conventional rules of war, should have been curled up in winter quarters. It wasn't like they hadn't accomplished anything the fall previously—they'd retaking Tarnovo, Constantia, and chased the rebel barons out of Wallachia. Yet as much as Petros' men marched, as fast as they moved, the Vlach and Moldavian horsemen were faster it seemed. Every trap laid proved to net nothing, while raiders and bandits nipped at the flanks of the imperial host.
Now, we've got you, you rat bastards! Petros huffed out another breath of cold air. The princes had set up winter camp—they hadn't expected the imperial host to leave its camp early, in the middle of a light snow, and march ten miles to their camp, offering battle. They also hadn't expected a host of Mongols to cross the frozen Bahlui river and block their only route of escape. So, now they did battle amongst frozen drifts, and the heavy imperial infantry wreaked havoc amongst their lighter counterparts.
Thank God for Nikon... it was his plan that got the barons bottled up here! Petros thought, rubbing his gloved hands together. He felt another shiver run down his spine as Chillarchos Nikon Laskaris calmly directed couriers to inform the strategoi of the cavalry reserve to prepare to follow the Hetaratoi and the Prince in a coup de grace. The man was a natural, calm, cool, collected.
A whoosh and a roar filled the air, as one by one, the fifteen pyrokaroi in Petros' host opened up on the confused and battered thematakoi[i/] of the rebel lords. The Prince jumped in his saddle, and his horse shied to the right. Petros grimaced, yanking the steed sharply back into place, and cursing all the same. He couldn't show fear! He couldn't show he was afraid! It was, after all, his first combat command, and he wanted to do his father proud.
The son of Andronikos Nikitis cannot be afraid! he told himself, even as he felt his hand tremble slightly. He'd wanted this day to come, he'd longed for it, strove for it, and here he was, his hand shaking! Curse me, he snapped in his mind, looking around. The eyes of the Hetaratoi were focused on the sagging enemy ranks, as Vlach, Moldavian and Bulgar alike recoiled from the hail of arrows from the Basilikon Toxotai and bolts from a small bevy of pyrokaroi.
“You think when my father returns to Italy, he'll break that usurper Leo once and for all?” Petros turned to Nikon, trying to distract himself. He was grateful the noisesome vale of war drowned out everything but his loudest shout—the worst thing that could happen would be the men around him hearing his voice crack on the field.
Laskaris turned, and gave that big, confident grin he'd always worn throughout their childhood. While young Petros was afraid of spiders, the slightly older Nikon killed them for him. When his tutors gave him work that proved too difficult, Nikon answered the questions for him. When life itself seemed too hard, too difficult, Nikon was always there, ready with a helping hand and a kind word. Now he manages my army when my teeth chatter from cold and fright. What would I do without him? I shall think on my wedding night I shall even be asking his advice! Petros thought. That thought brought some levity, and Petros chuckled. The Prince had stumbled through his first coupling with a brothel woman only a few weeks before. Gods, I was an awkward cow in there! the prince laughed at himself. Nikon was already married, with a young one well on the way back in the capital. Nice and easy for him, I bet...
“I think,” young Nikon barked in that smooth, calm voice of his, “your father will break him, then sail to Valencia and smash the thief Alexios as well! That's what I would do in his place!”
That's what I would do too! Petros told himself as the screeching roar of the pyrokaroi finally died away. The strategos in charge of the Basilikon continued to bark orders, and a moment later another barrage of black death arced up from their ranks.
“Now?” Petros asked impatiently as the Pereschen hordes shivered under the arcing arrows, even as the prince felt a tingle of cold himself. They must be close to breaking! They must! Why is Nikon being so cautious? Let us finish this, before I begin to shake in front of the men! Why must...
“Now, my prince.”
“Kataphraktoi! Charge line!” Petros bellowed. For a moment, he had the joy of hearing his voice sound strong and true, just as a prince's should. Storm whispered against her scabbard, and gleamed the sunlight. “One pass with the kontos, wheel, and then its time for the spatha!” Petros yelled, straight from the tactical manuals he'd studied intently the night before. He glanced back at Nikon once more—his friend nodded approvingly. Gingerly, Petros Komnenos put his spurs into his charger, and the Hetaratoi rumbled forward at a walk, then a gallop.
