vadermath - Well the full details of what the Persians have going on just barely didn't make it into this update (it got too long) so part will be revealed here, and another part will come with the next update (already partly done, so hopefully it won't take as long to finish!) And there are definitely some similarities to Song of Ice and Fire, though Sbyslava has shown herself to be anything but a whore, and her religious fanatics are across the Mediterranean, not in her own capital. Andronikos is a bit more older and more capable than Tommen too...
Avernite - It's harsh indeed--definitely something a Basil would not have done. Terror, when used correctly, can be a formidable tool in conquest (look at Genghis Khan, or Timur), but when used improperly, it can spark revolt or even worse, civil war. We'll have to see if this becomes a regular tactic with Andronikos, and if so, if he walks that fine line...
MajorStoffer - Great to see you still with us! At least you don't have to wait for updates for a while! And yes, Game of Thrones has been mighty convenient picture wise--it showed up right as my own reserves of images were starting to run low!
Vesimir - I think the amount of Greek fire necessary to set the Mediterranean on fire would be mind-boggling! :wacko:
von Sachsen - Mercy definitely has its uses as well. If you look at people like Genghis Khan or Alexander the Great, they always balanced mercy and cruelty--resist unreasonably, and you will be utterly destroyed. Surrender peaceably, you will live, perhaps even thrive. The carrot and stick approach works well--and Andronikos DID reach for the stick awfully quickly. There wasn't much thought about the carrot options... a sign of things to come?
asd21593 - In plunder, no. In reputation, if not one's soul? Yes, a definite price...
BraidsMAmma - I knew I somehow needed an Ottoman cameo. Osman as a cleric, especially considering what his name translates to, was simply too good an opportunity to pass up!
Saithis - Taymiyya is probably the most honorable warrior this story has seen in a very very long time. If he can muster the means, he could definitely take on the Empire--the means have so far been his problem, and the Persian government seems keen to try to cut off his means now (whether they succeed or not is a different story). If I had to guess his stats, I'm sure his Martial is in the 20s...
Zzzz... - Yes, it was
that Osman... the one that Ottomans took their name for...
Nikolaios - A great deal depends on what kind of man Mutawakkil is. He could decide that despite doctrinal differences, the good of Islam requires him to issue a fatwa for all Muslims to help Taymiyya as best they can. He could also decide that, no matter how successful Taymiyya might be, one man who is not the appointed Khalifa should not have so much sway over Islam, or that Taymiyya's doctrinal differences are too big a gap to be bridged. It all hangs in the balance...
cezar87 - Andronikos does have some of Thomas' traits--the love of battle, the anger issues, to be sure. So far, he hasn't yet shown any signs of being insane... unless his headaches and mood swings are a harbinger of something much darker to come... (dun Dun DUN?)
Leviathan07 - Andronikos as a child never wanted to be emperor, yet the role was thrust on him. Is it any surprise that campaigns provide an escape for him? It's likely much closer to the hunts he loves than sitting in court, hearing petitions and issuing decrees... and of course the Jayshallah is involved (unwittingly) in a plot... this is Rome AARisen...
everyone gets used in a plot! :rofl:
Carlstadt Boy - Konstantinopolis will get sacked at a future date. I won't say by whom or for what reason though... it's a surprise!
Is anyone still interested in the Theodoros side story? If so, please let me know!
“Konstantinopolis is the city of the devil. I think if it should sink into the Marmara, the world would be a better place...” - Taqi a-Din ibn Taymiyya.
May 19th, 1313
Outside Konstantinopolis
Tromp tromp tromp...
The noise of boots on the road behind him sounded like music—a steady, comforting rhythm, a reassuring measured beat that spoke of order, discipline and strength. Andronikos II Komnenos could fall asleep to such soothing tones, if sleeping on the march was appropriate. Alas, it was not, so instead the
Megas Komnenos contented himself with gazing at the vast host moving south east at his beck and call. Banners fluttered, tunics and mail shined in the sun, and pride swelled in the young man's heart.It reminded him of the day Petros killed his first grouse with a bow, the day Anastasios said his first word, or the day Theodoros took his first steps—but unlike those events, mere letters to be read in his tent while he was on campaign, his army, his
other sons, they were real, here with him. He missed his trueborn children, he missed his wife, but he was
Emperor, ruler of a broken realm.
Someone needed to put the shattered pieces back together. Someone had to lead his adoptive sons to victory, honor, glory, and a renewed, reborn Empire.
I'm the only one that can, Andronikos told himself yet again.
But can I? Dark, troubled thoughts danced lazily in the back of his mind, taunting him, haunting him.
He hadn't wanted to be emperor—yet here he was.
He'd been told that from the time he spent in exile in Havigraes.
You will be a great emperor, you will rebuild your father's realm, his mother always said. He'd worked wonders so far, had he not? The Danes were pushed back, the Black Sea was once again a Roman lake, the Alans had been punished—all his work, despite his youth. He'd even asked abd-Hinnawi if he thought the reconquest of the realm was his life's mission.
”These ten digits,” abd-Hinnawi had murmured touching his fingers,
”they will build an unknown variable of things, if,” he had tapped Andronikos' head,
”the equations of your mind let them. Does that answer your query, man of few years and many questions?”
“Yes, it did,” Andronikos said to no one, and everyone.
I will rebuild the empire. I must do it! No one else can! he told himself. Syria would be the start of that great crusade.
And after Syria, Egypt, then Leo, then Alexios...
...and then peace?
Andronikos was not taking any chances with this ibn Taymiyya—the man had already decimated every Roman army sent to stop him, and despite invading largest Christian Syria, showed no signs of halting his lightning advance. He'd stripped the garrisons of the Balkans dangerously low, and yanked
thematakoi and standing
tagmata alike from Anatolia. He'd even pulled, by imperial decree, nearly 10,000 men he'd promised his own wife he would send to help her father campaign in Austria—over her loud and frequent complaints. In all, the great
Syriatikon Stratos that would finally assemble at Tarsos would number nearly 30,000 horse and 50,000 foot, easily the largest Roman host mustered since the beginning of the Great Civil war, 15 years before. The vast host would be supported by an immense supply train, as well as half the imperial battlefleet furnishing succor via sea. The soldiers were ready, eager even—they were a part of a massive host, led by a seemingly undefeatable emperor.
Yet despite these advantages, there had been many that'd counseled against the expedition still—chiefly the Emperor's own mother. She favored sending a subordinate, like Roland du Roche, to head the expedition with a smaller portion of the empire's resources. Romanion's borders were quiet, but not secure by any means. Sbyslava's homeland had been laid low, yes, but it could rise again. Persia was a growing threat. The von Frankens could turn back east. Andronikos' imperial kin could turn their eye on the Queen of Cities. Andronikos' plan was an all or nothing gamble. If, by some unforseen disaster, a smaller host led by du Roche was lost, the blow would not be nearly as calamitous to an empire still surrounded by enemies...
Mama would love nothing more than to see the Megoskyriomachos swinging in the wind by his neck...
Most alarmingly, Persia was regaining her strength. The great nemesis of Konstantinopolis had been laid low by the death of Alexandros III as well as the loss of his great army to Leo, but Alexandros' able younger brother was spinning dark webs of his own. Romanion's self-destruction gave Isaakios plenty of time to rebuild his forces, and Persian forays into Konstantinopolis-friendly territories were on the rise. The previous year a Persian a small contingent of Persian troops, along with a governor, had arrived in the ancient princely lands of al-Jazira, north of Mosul, and squarely claimed by Konstantinopolis, though no princely family had ruled there since Prince Aladdin had thrown his lot with Alexandros III only to fall at the Halys. Then, only six months ago, Persian troops seized Madaba, formerly a prized part of Arabia. Already that little hornet's nest was screeching and screaming about its violated sovereignty to any larger power on Persia's borders—Arabia's ambassador in Konstantinopolis made weekly appearances at the Great Audience Hall to howl, and both the Dowager Empress' and
Megoskyriomachos' networks reported ambassadors doing the same in Samarkand, Zaranj and Alexandria. Egypt had responded by increasing her garrisons in Jeddah, and there were reports of an army marshaling in the Delta.
Persia was stirring—and with no
Levantikon, and the Syrian Komnenoi on their knees, there was no regional power that could stop them. A reborn Persia, built to the same power of Gabriel and Alexandros, was a nightmare come true for Andronikos and all of Konstantinopolis. All other powers outside Romanion's rightful borders could harm her, but only Persia, it seemed, had the power to
take the Queen of Cities, and usurp the throne.
“Al-Jazira, then Madaba. What is next?” Andronikos remembered his mother worrying at that dark council meeting.
All the more reason to stop Taymiyya now, and rebuild my father's realm. Once I've rebuilt the empire, Andronikos had decided long before,
I'll turn my sword east, and end that pest once and for all.
It would all start with Syria. It
had to start with Syria.
The plan was simple.
Hit Taymiyya, wherever he was at, with everything the Empire had.
The entire rebellion was dependent on that man. His heart was the rebellion's heart, his soul the rebellion's soul. With him, they were a seemingly unstoppable horde, barreling through every Roman army sent their way. Without him, there was no doubt the rebellion would wither and die away, torn apart by apathy and splintering factions. Both the
Oikoi and the Dowager Empress' own assassins had tried to fix the Taymiyya problem since the destruction of the Syrian armies, but to no avail—apparently his followers were impervious to Konstantinopolis coin.
All the better, Andronikos had remembered saying,
We'll solve it the way it should be solved—on the field, as men.
As a result, the first target of the vast imperial invasion was Antioch. The city was massive, wealthy, and the center of Christian civilization in Syria—all facts that made it the greatest target for Taymiyya to strike personally.
A true leader is at the front, at the greatest point of danger, showing courage and strength by example. Andronikos had taken those words to heart—he led his men on campaign, fought in the center of battle, reveled in the blood and chaos of war, and they loved him for it.
Ibn Taymiyya must be the same way. He will be at Antioch, the point of greatest danger, the key to Syria.
The imperial army would smash, destroy Taymiyya at Antioch.
The host was as varied as it was vast—professional standing
tagmata,
thematakoi and even
politikoi filled its ranks. Andronikos had marshaled the backbone of the
Palatinoikoi to form 15,000 of his cavalrymen, as well as du Roche's Mongol mercenaries, the Danish horse
tagma as well as
thematakoi cavalry from throughout Anatolia. The infantry was even more heterogeneous--
skoutatoi tagmata from Greece and Anatolia, Cilician archers, Armenian hill men, several
tagmata of Varangian and Serb descent, as well as the newest
tagma in the imperial army—the
Lofoandroi under their commander—Guillaume d'Ockham.
Andronikos smiled at the hilarity of the moment, beside him. To say that
Strategos Guillaume d'Ockham looked like a fish out of water was an understatement—he was more akin to a great whale, beached on a desert mountain, sand blasting his face, fins and tail. The armor he'd commissioned was specially fitted, bronzed greaves, gauntlets and green enameled mail flashing in the sun, but he slouched in the saddle, drooping like a flower caught in a parched land. His sword hung limply off his belt, and his brand new scarlet cloak—the mark of his new, illustrious rank—hung limply across the back of his horse.
“This is torture!” d'Ockham complained. “This armor chafes, and I feel like a crab just before dinner!”
“Oh stop!” Andronikos laughed.
“How much further?” the unwilling commander moaned.
“We've been marching for half a day, so I'd say we're... five miles from Chrysopolis. Ten from Konstantinopolis,” Andronikos beamed wickedly.
“God save my broiling ass,” d'Ockham grunted from behind the grimacing steel of his helm.
“I warned you to not wear your heavy parade armor,” Andronikos chuckled in his much lighter silk and velvet tunic. “Someone, I shall not say who, wanted to look dashing for the young maidens of Chrysopolis as the army left town! Besides, you've impressed your men,” Andronikos nodded to just behind the imperial charger. The Scots, clad in their riot of
leinens and marching to their droning pipes, were watching the Emperor and their commander. None of
them had their mail hauberks on—not for a simple march!
“Bugger them.”
“Now they just need to see some battle, and who better to lead them than their illustrious commander,
Strategos d'Ockham!”
“I didn't want a red cape!” Guillaume ripped open his face helm and looked positively petulant.
“But now you have one,” the Emperor grinned, looking his age for once. “Besides I need you on campaign. You have an eye for information, and a talent for finding facts where others see fiction.”
And I know you have bought several of du Roche's Oikoi and my mother's Filoi. You clearly have a more devious mind than they think “Taymiyya is a wily sort—he uses tricks and strategems that have fooled everyone he faces. I'll need you,” Andronikos tapped a finger against his friend's metal encrusted chest, “to help me sniff out those traps. Besides, it's not as if the city won't be ably run,” the Emperor smiled wryly at what he was about to say. “I trust Lord du Roche will do well as co-Regent...”
“...though your mother chafes at sharing her old position,” d'Ockham's voice grew serious.
“It is the way of things,” Andronikos' smile disappeared as well. He'd heard how his mother felt—for several hours. She'd called her son all manner of things, but above all, she accused him of being a fool, for failing to see how ambitious the
Megoskyriomachos was, and how he wanted to become the power behind the throne. She'd demanded—yes,
demanded--that he be stripped of all offices and sent into exile, if not executed!
Her, demand? Andronikos felt his lip curl slightly at the thought.
I am Emperor! I rule! No one rules me! Her demanding things of me is like the moon demanding the sun abandon the sky, or the mouse roaring at the lion! It shall not happen, it shall never happen! he wanted to snarl. Instead, he forced a pleasant smile on his face.
Guillaume is merely worried. Calm, Andronikos. He's to be trusted. Only him and abd-Hinnawi. They, and they alone are your true friends.
The
Megas Komnenos smiled thinly.
Ruthless. Cunning. Deadly.
“Andronikos, please do not be offended when I ask this...” Guillaume began.
“I trust you to to say what I need to hear, not what I want to hear,” Andronikos said back. It was true—there were many syncophants, people eager only to make him smile, earn his praise. They were of no use. Guillaume and abd-Hinnawi, though, they spoke what needed speaking—even if sometimes it went against what Andronikos wanted, or was difficult to interpret...
“Was it wise leaving them jointly to run The City?” Guillaume asked, rubbing his painful arm once more. “They are cordial on the surface, but the Watch has investigated numerous deaths, both intentional and suspicious, involving followers of...”
Andronikos frowned as the litany of evidence came. This was why he brought Guillaume—the young man was ambitious, and his whores and barkeeps knew as much about The City as the
Oikoi knew of the provinces and other realms. Both du Roche and his mother were becoming increasingly desperate—or increasingly sloppy. Men now openly spoke after a few drinks of how they slew the friend of a support of one Regent or the other. Some of the plots were outlandish—one blabbered to one of d'Ockham's whores how he was supposed to sabotage the beams that held up the roof of the Dowager Empress' apartments. Others were brutally effective—one assassin before his arrest openly bragged about killing the assistant grain monitor for the
Augusteon, as well as his entire family.
The knives were out and spreading, while Andronikos was desperately trying to rebuild what was lost. It could not last—and it would not last.
I have spent scant yearsof my reign in my capital—I've been on campaign all other times! I need stability while I am gone, else I won't be able to campaign! One of the two co-Regents will have to be dealt with, he'd decided long ago. Yes, this had gone on too long. Yet another item on his docket when he returned to the capital.
“They have worked together for ten years,” Andronikos interrupted his friend.
Ruthless, cunning, deadly. “I don't see any reason why things should be any worse on my return in a year. However,” Andronikos looked at Guillaume somberly, “I do want to tell you now that, in a year's time, I have promised Theophilos Angelos the position of
Megoslogothetes. It's...” he frowned, as d'Ockham looked away. “It's not that I don't think you're capable.”
“Then what is it?” was all Guillaume looked back, eyes blank.
He's fuming Andronikos thought.
“Oh, nothing,” the Emperor allowed himself a sly smile. “I'll have other, more important things for you to do when we return is all...”
“What?” d'Ockham grimaced.
Ruthless, cunning, deadly... Andronikos let his grin go wider. “Let's just say it will involve you divesting yourself of the tawdy status of 'bachelor...'”
“I...what? No, I...”
Andronikos laughed loud enough that several
Hetaratoi turned and looked. “Oh, for this to work you'll need a title as well. The Prince of Abydos died last year without issue...”
“...and his lands reverted to the crown,” d'Ockham finished the statement, his brewing tirade set aside for a moment. Andronikos smiled—d'Ockham held wealth, and a few estates, but a princely title?
Guillaume looked down, pondering, before looking up with a thin, tense smile of surrender.
Ah, Guillaume. Gold always holds your eye, Andronikos smiled.
“You are an evil man, Andronikos,” the future Prince of Abydos sighed.
May 21st, 1313
The walls were speaking to him.
Taqi a-Din ibn Taymiyya blinked, staring at the mighty rampants of Antioch climbing high up the slopes of Mons Silipius. The original defenses of the city had been formidable enough, but the Roman Emperor Thomas III had built an additional ring of towers and bastions around the city, as well as supervised the re-dredging of the Orontes, allowing the metropolis to be resupplied by sea—all of which meant that Antioch was by far the most formidable fortress Taymiyya had ever faced.
The
Amir was not taking any chances. The Antioch campaign had received the lion's share of the
Jayshallah forces in Syria—30,000 men in five
qabbatin, compared to the 15,000 sent to invest Emessa, or the 20,000 sent to Edessa. Taqi and his men had spent the previous five months digging trenches, building siege works, and most importantly, building an earthen motte, surmounted by a wooden palisade, on either side of the Orontes River downstream from the city. Already, the men of the
Jayshallah[i/] were creating catapults and trebuchets to threaten, perhaps even sink, any ship that attempted to reach the beleaguered city.
Yet, despite all his careful planning, it seemed the walls kept taunting him, reminding him of how Antioch had broken two great Turkish armies long before.. We have seen mightier than you, those stones called, and we ground them to dust!
Allah give us the patience and strength, Taymiyya prayed, watching as miners stumbled out of yet another tunnel under the defenses. Taymiyya had planned for six tunnels just below the slopes of Mons Silipius, and...
“Amir, a letter.”
Taymiyya kept squinting at his men working, even has he held out his hand for the letter in question.
“Da'ud, faster,” he whispered as the messenger laid the parchment in his hand. Da'ud's men had worked as miners in the Zagros before the formation of the Jayshallah--at Damascus and Palmyra they'd been, by far, the speediest of his mining teams. Yet today for some reason they were lagging... why? Who knew? Taymiyya pulled his eyes away from the siege lines, and down to the paper between his fingers, and smiled. It was doubly sealed, with beautiful calligraphy in wax denoting its sender: Abdas al-Rustami, Vizier of Mesopotamia, and Taymiyya's eyes and ears back in Persia.
My old friend, Taqi smiled, slicing off the seal with his dagger. Eagerly, his eyes tore into the letter. Abdas, as usual, was full of personal questions before he arrived at business: how was Taqi feeling? Abdas' sons were just granted their first posts in Baghdad, his wife was well. Finally, the Vizier arrived at darker news—men were trying to turn the Khalifa against him.
Taymiyya had expected this for a long time—he knew some of his ideas were not popular amongst many imams, nor was he loved by the Muslims who had grown rich off the Roman occupation.
“While these evil men seek to twist the ear of the Khalifa, rest assured my old friend, Vizier Abdas is doing the same to great effect. The Khalifa believes my words, that you condemned the men who did such things, and you only seek to be a humble and true servant to God,” the letter went on. “Al-Mutawakkil has decided to come out of his contemplative seclusion, and will issue an important proclamation on the 1st of June—the start of Ramadan. I have all the confidence in the world that the Amir al-Muaminin will call for all Muslims to stand with you in your fight against our oppressors!”
Taymiyya read the rest of the letter—it was full of promises and news. Several key imams in Baghdad had openly said that Taymiyya's reforms to Islam were right and true with their own understanding of the Q'uran and hadith. A few other imams joined the ranks of those who opposed. The promised Persian coin was set to be sent under guard within days. Abdas' family was well and in good spirits, and he prayed and hoped for the best in Taymiyya's expedition. When he reached the bottom, however, his eyes went wide.
“And finally, my friend, I hope that Damascus is prepared. The Khalifa's household has been buying dry foods in quantity, and His Highness has also purchased a slew of fast horses. I am entirely confident he plans to leave Isfahan, in the dead of night, and ride to Damascus to raise the banner of the [Ummah over the city. I can think of no better way to start this new, holy era than to have the Khalifa and his Amir meet in the Ummayad Mosque, a symbol of Islam reborn!”
Most men never saw the entire focus of their life's work, a goal they have strove for since they were a youth, just within their reach. For a moment, Taqi a-Din ibn Taymiyya, the man whose words raised up a people, stood speechless, his eyes re-reading those precious words again and again.
The Khalifa will be in Damascus...
Years of planning, fighting, praying and hoping, and now this. The return of the Caliphate, the rise of Islam, like a phoenix, from the ashes of its own destruction. God, I thank you for friends as loyal as these, Taqi prayed quietly, setting the letter aside. Good Abdas, loyal Abdas! From when this great campaign was no more than a mustard seed, Abdas has been behind me, supporting me! Without him... Taymiyya glanced up at the siege works encircling Antioch's mammoth walls, and shook his head.
“What did it say, sahibi?”
Taymiyya looked up into Qubtan Muhammad ibn Abu Bakr al-Qayyim's radiant smile. Sweat covered his old friend's brown, the red soil of Syria covered his hands and boots. Al-Qayyim might have been a qubtan, but he toiled building siegeworks like his men when time permitted. It kept him in contact with his men, and allowed him to see what they saw and feel what they felt.
Taymiyya beamed. “I ride to Damascus to await the Khalifa!” Taymiyya hugged al-Qayyim tight, sweat, dirt and all!
“He... blessed be God!” Al-Qayyim laughed. “And blessed be you, Amir! That's great, wonderful news! I...”
“...I don't know what to say either!” Taymiyya laughed as well. “This... this is a great day! A great day!” Taymiyya wanted to say more, to say everything that would sum up how important this day was, but nothing would come out. Only laughter, and tears. Blessed be God! Blessed be God!
For several more minutes the two merely hugged and laughter, the only language that was needed. Finally, al-Qayyim pulled back. “If you're going to Damascus,” he said, “what are your orders here?”
“Man the fort while I am gone?” ibn Taymiyya replied, giddy as a schoolboy. “Take Antioch! Hold the north! When the reinforcements from Persia come...” Mecca will be ours! And with the Khalifa backing us, Iraq and al-Misr will soon follow! From there... With Mesopotamia and Egypt under the banner of the Caliphate, the possibilities were endless. Perhaps even Konstantinyye will fall, as in hadith...
“We'll have the walls and be in Tarsus by the time you return,” the Qubtan smiled.
“I look forward to hearing that, and all the other heroic exploits you'll have while I'm away!” Taymiyya laughed.
Good, loyal friends are a boon at all times...
“And if the Roman should come?” Seriousness won over al-Qayyim's good humor. “My people have heard word that the Romans in Cilicia are organizing, and that their Emperor is drawing together a huge army outside Konstantinyye...”
It would actually be to our advantage, Taymiyya thought to himself. The whole purpose of the Antioch siege was to give the Jayshallah a bastion to hold off the Roman emperor long enough for it to organize. If he was obliging, and came to it...
“Abandon the siege,” Taymiyya said in an instant. It would be a tragedy to lose what gains we've made here, but it would be an even greater disaster to have the army dispersed when the Roman emperor comes. “Fall back to me in Damascus. I'll send riders to the contingents in Edessa and Emessa to do the same. Here, we fight on his ground, so we'll pull him south, into Galilee...”
“Our ground,” al-Qayyim's grin returned.
“And there, inshallah, we'll break him like we have all the other Romans that have come our way,” Taymiyya said. And, inshallah, we'll have more reinforcements from Persia. The Roman will be facing twice as many as he thought. “Warfare is trickery, the Prophet said. Let us keep fulfilling his word!”
==========*==========
So Andronikos finally comes south, while the situation in Konstantinopolis seems to be growing worse. Taymiyya seems confident the Caliph will side with him, and leaves al-Qayyim to take Antioch. Can Andronikos catch al-Qayyim unprepared? Will the situation in Konstantinopolis become untenable? Will the Caliph side with Taymiyya, and ride to Damascus as he hopes? More to come, when Rome AARisen continues!