At long last, the update! Its rather long, and definitely meaty!
March 8th, 1190
Thomas Komnenos sighed, glanced out the window for a moment, before returning to the table and those present. Today was, according to Mehtar, perhaps the most important meeting of Thomas’ short stay on the imperial throne, but it didn’t feel like it. The
Megos Domestikos, Georgios Komnenos, Isaakios Vataczes and the other
strategoi kept prattling on about supply stocks, road networks and marching time-tables – things Thomas could care less about. As long as they got him to the battlefield against the Turk, he could care less. Mehtar was in the room as well, and would certainly catch all the salient details. Sitting at the head of the council table, feeling the tall ebony throne and its velvet cushions behind him gave Thomas a sense of immense power. He gripped the intricately carved arms of the throne, drumming his fingers in nervous boredom.
His mother and co-Emperor were late… again.
It didn’t surprise him – since the army’s backing of him, Thomas’ mother had been rather cold of late to both her son and the military. As power steadily slipped out of her grasp, as Mehtar’s web of bribes and alliances slowly unveiled itself, Thomas wasn’t surprised she snubbed them. She and Heraklios now had sole effective control only over the
Basilikon Toxotai, and the Blacharnae. Not here, in the renovated Great Palace. Nor, effectively, the city of Konstantinopolis, let alone the rest of the Empire.
“Why are you wearing
that?”
Thomas looked up and saw his mother, the Dowager Empress, as she strode into the room, fashionably late, servants scattering out of her way as the
strategoi and Mehtar all arose. Sophie Komnenos, still only 43, looked decades older. Strands of gray now decorated her hair in a lattice of age and wear, and wrinkles were now forming on her formerly youthful face. Her eyes, however… they burned when they looked at Thomas, and the
Autokrator found himself looking away, just over her shoulder – and hating her because of it.
“It isn’t becoming,” Sophie she continued, taking a seat near the head of the table. Thomas felt, rather than saw, Heraklios thump into the throne beside his. The boy was bright eyed, and Thomas forced a tense smile to come to his face.
“Brother,” he nodded.
“Hello, Thomas!” Heraklios said, a smile on his own face. Unlike his own, Thomas could tell the boy’s grin was genuine. He was only ten, after all. “We were delayed by some embassies from the Cumans – they came to Blacharnae…”
Thomas ignored the rest of his brother’s explanation. It was of no consequence, just rambling talk. Heraklios, Thomas decided, was like so many of his other advisors – they just didn’t know when to shut up, and stop talking. They let words tumble from their mouths, an endless waterfall of useless noise to Thomas.
“Why don’t you wear a regular diadem? It would certainly make the Patriarch in Konstantinopolis feel more at ease.”
Thomas turned to his mother as the last of the imperial
strategoi took their seats again, and sneered.
“I am the Emperor, mother, and I say it is becoming. The Patriarch can shove off. I like the oak leaf crown,” Thomas shot back quietly as he self-consciously adjusted the laurels on the crown of his head. He’d paid a good 1500 gold
solidii for the crown, a recreation of those on busts of Augustus and Caesar. He wasn’t about to take it off simply because his mother found it unfashionable.
“An Emperor,” Sophie corrected. There was a deadly glint in her eye. Thomas found himself looking away from her again.
Clearly, the war was going to happen – the army had already made plans, and Thomas’ open approval had only accelerated things. If he needed it, Thomas knew Mehtar could engineer a war. Sophie knew that too… She was lashing out. That was what it had to be – she still believed in his father’s stupid prohibition against making war against the Turk. Thomas smiled rather distantly at the thought of his father’s dying wish, and his own reply, whispered oh so quietly into the dying man’s ear.
“I am Emperor now, you are not. Rot.”
Thomas Komnenos, deeming the official attire of the Autokrator insufficient, has taken to wearing leather breastplates, embossed in bronze and brass, in the manner of the ancient Roman Emperors, as well as a golden crown of laurels. This change in attire has discomforted many – the imperial diadem and robes have an intricate history tied to both the state and the Church. However, Thomas has dismissed these concerns.
With Mehtar on his side, it’d been easy to outmaneuver Sophie and Alienor, guardians of the two other Emperors. Sophie had been profoundly distracted by Basil’s death, allowing Thomas to cement his control over the army and the promptly fill the newly empty offices of Bishop of Thessalonike and Patriarch of Jerusalem with two close friends – Alexandros Antiochites and Evangelos Laskaris. Alienor, through her Frankish arrogance and lack of Greek civility, had done an excellent job of alienating herself – to the point that she wasn’t even at today’s council meeting.
Which of course had
nothing to do with the ugly rumors surrounding her and the death of Thomas’ uncle Enguerrand. Such as her son was the heir to all of Enguerrand’s lands, or that Enguerrand’s death gave Alexios dominance among the Exarchates… what mother wouldn’t want that for your infant child? It also didn’t hurt matters that Mehtar’s agents were amongst the people, making hay of all the rumors. It wasn’t a coincidence that the new Bishop of Nikaea made several damning statements about the ‘Frankish heretic’ that exerted undo influence on one of the illustrious new Emperors.
“That is a diadem,” Sophie pointed to the traditional crown that circled Heraklios’ young head. Thomas frowned. She wouldn’t give up. She’d been beaten everywhere else, so she now fought this pointless and fruitless battle.
“They are both diadems,” the
Megos Domestikos uneasily offered. Thomas leapt at the chance to move on.
“Yes. My choice of diadem, however, is not the focus of this meeting. Kosaca, Georgios?” Thomas said rather coldly.
“As I was saying,” Georgios Komnenos continued where he left off, “The
thematakoi have been called up from Armenia, Asia Minor, the Levant and Egypt,” Georgios said. “On paper, this should give us some 200,000 men for the campaign. However…” he looked down, and coughed, “there are some… issues.”
“What… issues?” Thomas asked venomously. He wanted a campaign against the Turk! The
army wanted a campaign against the Turk! And by God, if Romanion was going to attack, there shouldn’t be any
issues from the main body that demanded the campaign! Georgios was a snake… he was in the midst of whatever this mess was!
“Some of the
dynatoi are refusing to raise their levies, not without a reduction in the taxes they owe the central government,” Vataczes said bluntly. “They say they cannot afford to call their peasants and freedmen to the field when the taxes they owe are so ‘onerous.’”
“Onerous!?” Thomas exploded. “Since my coronation the state has reduced the levies on the nobility by twenty percent! They were far more onerous under my father!”
“But, Majesty,” Georgios said with that shrift smile of his that Thomas hated, “your father never called the
thematakoi into the field in his twenty years on the throne. With all due respect, you’re calling them to the field in your first…”
“Are you one of these
dynatoi?!” Thomas shot out of his throne and spat at Georgios.
“Thomas!” Sophie snapped.
“Your lands in Antioch are under the call!” Thomas roared onwards. Let his mother prattle and tell him he was impolite! “Tell me,
strategos, are you upset you must stomach a little less income for the sake of the empire?!”
“Of course not, Majesty!” Georgios sputtered and backpedalled. That alone made Thomas happier – the sight of fear in the eyes of his self-serving, sly cousin pleased Thomas. “My
thematakoi are already training up and in the field! It is every Roman’s solemn duty to support the state when they are called for service!”
“So these men refuse state service because it hurts their coin purses?!” Thomas roared. He started to stalk around the table. He was the lion – these commanders, Heraklios, his mother, with their wide eyes, were the antelope.
“These men are rendering services they have not had to render in two decades,” Sophie shouted back. “Their
thematakoi are filled either with bloodless recruits, or veterans well into their fourth decade! None of the officers younger than their forties have likely seen combat! Its understandable why they’d be worried these men are being called up!”
“Mother,” Thomas turned to Sophie and growled, “If they were truly concerned about that, they wouldn’t propose their taxes be cut! And if that’s the state of the
thematakoi, its about time someone called them up to turn those recruits into veterans and give the old soldiers something to be proud of – not blather and dither over taxes! In fact, we should show them how the state treats such treason!” Immediately, his eyes flashed over to Mehtar. His friend was now a full
Logothetes! He could fix them!
By 1190, the thematakoi of the Empire were in varying states of disrepair. None had seen service since Sulieman’s invasion many years before. Some themes, such as Antioch, had kept their soldiers well provisioned – as this example of a kavallaroi. Others, especially the themes of Egypt, had seen their military arms dwindle to little or nothing.
“Thomas, if you want the campaign and make serious gains before winter, there wouldn’t be time,” Mehtar answered Thomas’ unspoken question. “Not if you wanted it done well. I would need time to plan ingress and egress, arrange for contacts, method…” Mehtar looked uneasily over at Sophie and Heraklios, “Not to mention you would not have your
thematakoi in time for the campaign.”
Thomas slammed his hand on the table, making the goblets and the jug of wine rattle uneasily.
“Make peace with them now,” Mehtar said, raising a hand before Thomas could sputter a protest. “Let me finish. Make peace with them now, and get the service of their soldiers for the coming campaign. Be liberal with their taxes even, as the Treasury will attest, we have more money than we know what to do with! When you return victorious from the Turk – which, you will be,” Mehtar nodded to the assembled generals, “
you will have the army in the field, and
I will have had time to plan visits to the more… disagreeable… of the nobility.”
“A sound proposal,” Thomas heard his mother say. “One or two of the most treasonous ones would suffice.”
He cast her a glare – she was not an Emperor, but yet again she spoke out as if she was one!
“What about the whole bally-lot of them?” Thomas asked.
“Thomas!” Sophie complained. “It wouldn’t make sense! Assassinations are expensive! Why spend exorbitant amounts killing many, and giving the monarchy a bad name in the process, when destroying the one or two bona-fide traitors would send a message to all those who are merely weak willed to back the throne?”
Thomas flashed a look over to Mehtar, and saw his friend nodding his head slowly. So, it was decided. He stopped his stalking in mid-stride, then sourly stalked back to his seat. He would have much rather had the heads of all the noble families in the palace at once so he could execute the miscreants tonight, but they were scattered all over the Empire – it would take a month easily for them to receive an imperial summons, let alone travel to the capital. Mehtar’s plan had the beauty of striking the
dynatoi when they weren’t prepared, and one look in the direction of his mother and brother told Thomas
they were already sold. If Mehtar backed it, it must make sense somewhere in that plotting mind of his. Sourly, Thomas nodded. It was what had to be done.
“With the proper
thematakoi in the field, what are the plans, Kosaca?” Thomas asked, changing the subject.
“In consultation with the other
strategoi, we would like to present Your Majesties with the following plan,” the
Megos Domestikos said as servants produced several large maps of Babylonia and Persia.
“As you can see, Majesty, our initial primary military objectives will be the former
themes of Azerbijian and Mosul,” Kosaca pointed. “We’ve assigned the
Armeniakon Stratos the task of taking Azerbijian, under the leadership of
Strategos Vataczes.”
“50,000 is a goodly number of men,” Heraklios piped up. His brother was normally quiet in all of these meetings after initial pleasantries – to hear a word out of him about the subjects was more than a little astonishing. Normally Sophie opened her mouth, claiming to speak for Heraklios.
“Indeed. Vataczes’ army will be operating on its own, away from the main force of the invasion, which will follow the Fertile Crescent into Mesopotamia and Persia,” Kosaca pointed. “Four armies, 25,000 strong each, will follow this route, with the primary goal of seizing Baghdad. From there, they will operate independently as needed to counter any Turkish counterattacks, or seize as much territory as possible before the Zagros Mountains.”
“What, we won’t go into Persia itself?” Thomas asked incredulously. “Why? Trajan got as far as Susa, that’s
deep into Persia! Surely I can do better!” Romanion was much stronger than the distracted Turk! It only made sense to drive for a knockout blow, to end the Turkish threat once and for all! Thomas looked around the table for heads nodding in assent.
“Majesty,” Kosaca said slowly, “The
strategoi have considered a great many parameters in arriving at this plan. Simply put, crossing the Zagros Mountains, at least in the initial year of the campaign before we have fully secured Mesopotamia, would dangerously expose our supply lines. We…”
Thomas frowned and crossed his arms as Kosaca prattled onwards. He didn’t like the
Megos Domestikos’ tone – he sounded as if he was talking to a dull schoolboy, not the
Autokrator ton Romanion! Yet once again Thomas took in the nodding faces around the table – he was blocked again. There was no point in fighting a useless battle… he would outlast them all. He
would cross the Zagros, into Persia itself! Maybe not in this war…
“Fine,” Thomas said when Kosaca finished his longwinded analysis. They wouldn’t cross the Zagros. Let the generals be little frightened women, afraid to cross where no Roman had been for over a thousand years! At least that Frankish woman and her little bundle of terror weren’t there to see him be talked down to by a bunch of frightened old men in red cloaks…
========== ==========
A few hours later, the great assemblage filed out of the Octagon, an array of swishing cloaks and self-important men. Thomas sat in his throne, still stewing over the mild admonishment from the
strategoi. He’d once again listened only half-heartedly to the rest of the planning – supplies, provisions, only stirring from his torpor when Diogenes discussed possible tactics for conducting a siege on the immense walls of Baghdad. The whole affair had been a case of rubbish, really. Thomas wanted to rule as the Emperors of old did – by decree, and by personal fiat, nothing more. No Councils, no seeking advice – except when he chose to, from Mehtar. In fact the only thing that had seemed to go right with the day was that Thomas didn’t have to listen to Alexios’ squalling while his Frankish mother asked constant pointless questions in her mangled Greek.
“Where
are Alienor and that little runt?” Thomas asked as soon as the great doors to the chamber closed. She’d been unusually… absent, of late. Mehtar had agents constantly tailing Alienor and her activities, tracking the budding relationship between herself and another Frank named Serlo, the slow, steady stocking of provisions for a long trip by sea...
Thomas turned to his friend. “It’s not like her to miss a council meeting, not when she makes a point of constantly claiming her son is my equal.”
Mehtar, for his part, had sat back down and was pouring another draught of wine with a smug, self-assured look on his face. “My spies say they secretly boarded a
dromon and set sail for Mauretania very early this morning.”
“You let them
flee?!” Thomas roared. “A murderess running loose? Are you mad?” He was up out of his seat. “I ordered you to arrest her! The people think she’s the one that had Enguerrand killed!” It mattered not that no one knew for sure
who had ordered Enguerrand’s death. Thomas himself was sure Mehtar had something to do with it – and he wouldn’t shed a tear for the loss of preening, annoying Enguerrand. What irked him was the lost chance to remove the half Capets from the succession by throwing the murder onto Alienor’s lap in a rigged trial. “Why not capitalize on that and get rid of her and her son!?”
Mehtar merely leaned back in his chair, and took a sip of wine.
“Instead of catching her while she’s in our grasp, you let her flee! Foolishness! I could have… Why are you grinning inanely?!”
Mehtar continued to lean back in his chair, and sipped on his wine for a seemingly endless few seconds. “Yes, I told my agents to follow closely, but not interfere. To have interfered would have complicated larger plans.”
“Larger plans? What larger plans?” Thomas fumed. He was still upset! Mehtar had a tendency to do this – always had done this! Come up with some intricate plot, tell Thomas just to trust him, and leave him in the cold on the details. It was a maddening trait, maddening to no end, but Mehtar said it was to give him ‘plausible deniability.’ “What plans could be larger than cleanly removing one of the other Emperors, as well as permanently closing his malodorous mother’s mouth!”
“Alienor will make it back to Mauretania, and Alexios will assume control of Lusitania,” Mehtar said calmly.
“Lusitania!” Thomas sat down, still fuming. There was no panic in Mehtar’s eyes – he
meant for this to happen. “Why? Why do I want that little ball of tears to gain even more power than being a
Basilieus by taking Uncle Enguerrand’s lands in Lusitania?”
“In the coming days, Thomas, I want you to write a letter to King Drogo,” Mehtar said serenely.
“You haven’t answered my question!” the Emperor snapped.
“You’ll write a letter to King Drogo,” Mehtar repeated himself.
“Why would I ever write to that barbarian? He’s nothing more than a malodorous runt, a pint sized shrew gnawing on our frontier!” Thomas spat. Drogo had planned the death of Thomas’ father numerous times, and cost Romanion many of her bravest and best soldiers. Such a King was below receiving a direct communication from the Emperor of Christendom!
“In that letter,” Mehtar continued, and Thomas frowned. Mehtar did this sometimes – when he felt Thomas’ complaints were outweighed by his plan. As much as Thomas didn’t want to admit it, Mehtar was usually right. “In that letter, you will say that Alexios and his mother have fled to Spain to raise an army and press his rightful claim to the thrones of England and France.”
Lands of Alexios Komnenos, as of 1190
“He’ll press his claim?!” Thomas roared yet again. “He’s a malodorous little runt that spoiled his baptismal font and would not stop screaming through his coronation ceremony! Why would Drogo believe that he went to Spain to raise an army, and not that the malodorous little runt was running…”
“Where did you learn that word?” Mehtar suddenly asked. Thomas stopped in midsentence.
“It was in a chapter of the
Nikolaid I read yesterday. It sounded fun to say,” Thomas said gruffly. He hated it when Mehtar corrected his Greek. “I decided to incorporate it into my everyday speech. Now, stop your malodorous corrections, and finish what you were saying!”
“Indeed,” Mehtar sighed. “Do not worry about why Drogo will believe that Alexios is pressing a claim. I have already laid that groundwork. Now, in this letter, you will say that Romanion will back Alexios’ claim at swordpoint, unless we receive a promise from France that she will not intervene in Italy south of the Po!”
“Why would we care about that?” Thomas asked, confusion in his voice. Why would Romanion want Italy south of the Po? The rich, tax-laden and historically Roman areas of southern Italy were already in the hands of Romanion…
“Has it not been your stated goal, Thomas, to add Rome to the
Roman Empire?” Mehtar asked with a smile.
Thomas’ eyes widened. So
that is where Mehtar’s torturous little line of thought led! To Rome!
To a united Empire!
Rome had not been a city under the Roman Empire for centuries, and Emperors had been loathe to move against it openly for the past two centuries for fear of the uproar it’d create in the West. Thomas’ mind ran over the situation, a situation he’d memorized well from the numerous cases he’d made to his father that it was time to take the ancient imperial city. Germany was a host of fractious states, warring with one another. Denmark was too far away, Poland and Sweden were far too weak. That left Drogo’s behemoth, the one last puzzle that had eluded Thomas while his father was alive. Now, if Drogo could be cajoled…
“It will take some time, Thomas,” Mehtar leaned forward, face now serious. “I’ll need to lay some groundwork in Italy for the operations while you’re in the East, and tossing those
dynatoi onto my lap won’t make it happen any sooner.”
Thomas didn’t hear Mehtar’s cautions, he was too giddy. The triumph parade, a triumph, for an Emperor, in Rome! When was the last time
that had happened? No… something even better than a triumph – a wedding!
“I… you… do what you must!” Thomas stammered in his excitement. “When can it be done?”
“Depends on your Turkish campaign,” Mehtar was back to leaning back in his chair with the grin on his face. This time, Thomas felt it was deserved. “If it’s quick and decisive, I can guarantee you’ll be Rome within a little over a year.”
“A Year! Excellent – I can host the wedding there!”
Thomas grinned broadly as Mehtar’s eyes went wide and his friend shot out of his seat. He’d been waiting to surprise his friend with the announcement for some time, but now, in the heat of excitement, it seemed appropriate. Rome would soon be Roman – why not celebrate it by taking a new wife?
“Come again?”
“A wedding,” Thomas plopped onto the table next to Mehtar and grinned. “You know, the ceremony that the church requires you have before you pop one in the girl’s oven if you want a legitimate child!”
Mehtar made a face, and Thomas laughed again. He certainly enjoyed shocking his friend. Thomas had been thinking about a possible wife for months, and he’d chosen the future Empress carefully. It wasn’t often he was able to spring a surprise on Mehtar – he reveled in the moment.
“Um… who?”
“Christina of Dau, the woman who rode with me during the coronation ceremony!” Thomas laughed. “She’s fetching, and her father’s wealthy. A match made in heaven, I would say!”
For a second, Thomas thought he saw a look of disappointment in Mehtar’s eyes, before that shadow seemed to be shoved away to the deeper parts of his soul. Instead, there was a moment where Thomas saw nothing, and then a smile – a wan smile, to be sure, a smile.
“Christina of Dau would bring her father Khorbut to your side,” Lainez nodded. “Not only is he one of the wealthiest lords in Romanion, he’s also one of the most well respected. Naming Malhaz Exarch of Tarraco brought the old nobility, Khorbut would bring the new.” He sat down opposite Thomas, and reached for his wine goblet and took a sip. “Clever. A clever political move!”
“I think so,” Thomas grinned, slipping into his friend’s old chair. “And she’s a sexy wench to boot! Wouldn’t you agree, Mehtar?”
Lainez coughed, spitting up wine into his cup.
“She’s so gorgeous even you spat up your wine!” Thomas laughed. “Making a slew of heirs with that ass…” Thomas folded his hands behind his head, smiled and leaned back.
As always when Thomas brought up some topic involving women, Mehtar’s face went to a blank slate. He’d done that ever since they were young boys, and went through that stage where girls went from being an annoyance to be avoided to the potential source of pleasure. Mehtar had clearly never been with a woman, Thomas reasoned, and the prospect of the act was what made him so nervous! It was so simple! Thomas had tried to drop hints to his friend that visiting a high class brothel to learn was perfectly acceptable, but Mehtar never seemed to understand, to get over that timidity.
Which of course, made Thomas laugh to no end.
“Of course, Thomas,” Mehtar said with the same inscrutable look he always gave when the subject of Thomas and couplings came up.
Thomas barked a harsh laugh, then leaned forward. “’Of course, Thomas!’ My God, you have a heart of ice to not be tempted by someone as beautiful as her. Mother was right! You are married to the state! Married to me almost!”
“You have no idea, Thomas.”
“Ha! So utterly loyal! If only there were more men in the world like you!” Thomas patted Mehtar on the cheek.
The Spaniard felt his face flush, and Thomas laughed again.
“Embarrassed? It’s the truth, God’s honest truth!” The Emperor grabbed the next jug – special from Corsica, quickly pouring two more goblets and shoving one in Mehtar’s face. “I think that’s worthy of a toast! To loyalty and love among friends!” Thomas said, cheerfully raising his goblet.
“To love among friends,” Mehtar said in a far more somber voice.
