BOOK TWO:
Five Against Rostov
Prologue
1120.
The court room was one of the oldest buildings in the palace. Around its walls lay the banners of the King, all emblazoned with symbols of both Portugal and Georgia to signify his ancestry.
The room was large, as was the great table in its centre. It was often used by the King of Georgia for grand banquets and state occasions.
But there were only five men in the room on this day. All of them were sitting at the head of the table, deep in thought.
First was the man at the head of the table. His hair was thick, quite long, and as black as coal, but his skin was almost as white as milk. He was young- only about twenty- and he was clean shaven. But his most distinguishing features were his eyes. The irises were a deep red colour, the colour of blood.
His face had a fierce and a dark expression, as his eyeballs darted around the table, looking at the others gathered there. He was a powerful man, one of the most powerful figures in all the chaos of the East. He was King Affonso of Georgia, known as the Merciful, or sometimes as the Red-Eyed Prince.
Affonso was a strange individual. He'd been brought up the same as any crown prince would, being taught in the arts of kingship and combat. But Affonso had rebelled against the systems of nobility. Instead of respecting the other members of the Georgian court, he had learned to hate their racism, their prejudice, their arrogance.
He believed that all the people under his rule should have equality. He longed for the day when nobody cared who your family was, or whereabouts you came from.
But even as a king, he could not accomplish this. He did not want any kind of conflict with the powerful landowners- they wouldn't hesitate to depose him if he overstepped his mandate.
And so, his reforms, although vicious and far-reaching, failed to achieve what he truly desired. But he was confident that all things would come to pass in good time.
He turned to the man on his left. "Akakide. What do you have for me?"
The man he addressed had the same dark hair, though it was cut a lot shorter on him. He was getting on in years- now about fifty years old- and was covered in scars and bruises. He had grown a short beard, which he loved to stroke in deep thought.
This man was the last of the old court of King David to remain in the employ of the current ruler. He was Affonso's great-uncle, Akakide Bagratuni, the Grand Marshal of the armies of Georgia.
A long, long time ago, he had killed Affonso's father and grandfather, in order to stop them tearing the realm apart. After this, he had descended into a bout of madness that lasted many years, from which he had only recently recovered.
"General Kommenus has routed the Azeri armies, sire, on the outskirts of our province of Tao. Our troops only suffered minor casualties, especially when compared with the many Azeri dead. We hope to have this war finished by the winter, my liege."
Affonso nodded, satisfied. "Good. That should be one less problem we have to deal with, and will add a significant chunk of land to our realm. Romanos, will the Turks have anything to say about this?"
The man to the left of Akakide was in his mid-thirties, with brown hair and blue eyes. Originally a Byzantine nobleman, Romanos had fled Constantinople when the Seljuks had come knocking on the door of the Hagia Sophia.
He was a master diplomat, and had helped Georgia out of many a tight spot. Sometimes honourable and kind, other times ruthless and contemptuous, he could be difficult to work with. But it was worth it- he was the best.
"I doubt they'll kick up too much of a fuss. The Turks have too many problems of their own, what with the fragmentation of their realm. Besides, they bit off more than they could chew the last time they attacked us."
Affonso nodded. "Excellent. Does anybody else have anything to report?"
"I am concerned about our finances, Affonso. We are quite heavily in debt..."
Pereyaslava, the Queen and Steward of the realm, was blonde and stunningly beautiful. As Affonso's wife, she was one of only of a tiny number of people who ever addressed him by his first name. She had grown to love him deeply, having betrayed her family and her principles to save his life.
She was a Rurikovich, and that always meant trouble. The Rurikovichs were more like a finely oiled machine than a family- a typical Rurikovich would have no morals, be frighteningly intelligent and unquestioningly loyal to Papa Rurikovich, the head of the strange Russian clan.
But Pereyaslava had foiled one of their plans and had cut all her ties with them. Affonso, fearing for her life, had made sure that her security was very, very tight. But there had been no attempts on her life in the three years since the... incident involving a group of Navarran assassins and Affonso's mother.
Affonso was always pleased when he thought of the Navarrans. After Cristina's arrest, he'd personally gone to visit them. As they were all fanatical Georgian patriots, they had always supported whoever was in power at the time. And when Affonso had taken over properly, they simply switched sides to support him.
Affonso now had Demon's Peak on his side. With that asset, he hoped that things would be a little easier for him.
"I'll see what I can do." He smiled at her briefly, before looking at the final member of the little circle.
Clad in black bandages, nobody could see his face. A strange pagan from the east, the Whisperer was a mystery to the Georgians. He was about thirty, and seemed to know a lot about the workings of the European world. He was in charge of all the espionage activities in the court.
"I have nothing to report, King. The Rurikovichs remain quiet, and there have been no other disturbances."
Affonso was a little unsure about what to make of the Whisperer. He quite liked him personally, but was a little wary of him nonetheless. There were certain questions which the Whisperer had never answered- like how he knew about Demon's Peak before he'd met any of the people who were involved with it.
"In that case, I have other business to attend to. I hope you will excuse me."
The council dispersed. Affonso walked away, thinking.
In three days time, his son would have his second birthday. He wondered what would become of Sancho. Would he be a great king or an ignorant wastrel? A mighty warrior or a devious trickster?
But that was not important right now. Affonso had other matters to attend to. His son was not a king yet.
Stuyvesant- His own Rurikovich will be a tremendous help. Pereyaslava will be able to provide the kind of moral-less evil which is sadly lacking in Affonso, and is imperative for him to keep his grip on power.
