It’s a neat little closing of the loop, in a way, where once Constantine and Methodius had to adopt Slavic equivalents of their names in order to be better received by the Moravian populace, and now, a few centuries down the line, the Moravian royals are increasingly reaching towards Greek/Orthodox names for their children.
Also LMAO at asking the chubby Karling King what his favorite sweets were. For such an otherwise tactful and competent diplomat, that wasn’t Jakub’s finest hour
Well, yeah. It's somewhat understandable given that Dolz isn't Slavic but had to convert to Orthodoxy. On the other hand, Bohodar
slovoľubec is probably rolling in his grave, given all the trouble he went to to ensure Slavic bishops on his territory.
Those random letter-exchange events make very little sense to me. Ctibor, for example, hated Jakub's guts (and for good reason), and it was clear from all of the insulting epithets he used for Jakub. But evidently Jakub was a smooth enough talker to get polite replies out of Ctibor not only once but twice! And with the opinionwise positively-inclined Leopold, on the other hand... he just kind of fell on his face. Maybe there should be some kind of opinion threshold for those letter-exchange events...
The Moravian
zbrojnošov, archers and horsemen had been in position around the fortress on Chios off the Ionian coast for over nine months, since July of the previous year. The castle was surrounded on west, north and south sides, and Chios Harbour on the eastern side of the island was completely blockaded. Now the lean months had come again, and there was every indication that the rebelling garrison within was starving and demoralised. Vratko was overseeing the final touches on the siege ladders to scale the castle walls when Eustach approached him.
‘Is today the day?’ asked Eustach.
Vratko gave him a gesture in the affirmative. ‘Are you ready for it?’
Eustach nodded and gave his gear a pat-down. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be. I suppose no one’s ever really ready to mount a fastness and overcome the resistance within, but speaking for myself I won’t fail you.’
Vratko clapped a hand on the young prince’s shoulder. ‘Good lad. This one’s a Byzantine fort—tough nut to crack. But a fastness is only as firm as her defenders. Soon it will be ours.’
‘Good,’ Eustach breathed. ‘We need a solid victory, particularly after that
desbâcle at Abydos.’
Vratko searched Eustach’s eyes. ‘Interesting choice of words, Stachko. That wife of yours hasn’t been tutoring you in her lingo, has she?’
Eustach blushed. Vratko let out a bark of a laugh.
‘You be careful, lad. That’s always how it starts! I’ve seen enough Khazar men in my family start learning Moravian to suit their ladies. Don’t let her wrap you around her finger.’
‘She’s… she’s not like that,’ Eustach muttered.
‘
Sure she isn’t,’ Vratko smirked. ‘The ladders have been made ready for the scale, and it looks like the engineers have put the final touches on the belfries. We can wheel them into position on the west wall whenever we please. We’re ready to make an attempt on the castle, as soon as your father gives the word.’
‘I’ll let him know,’ Eustach told him.
Jakub himself was in his tent at the siege camp. When Eustach entered, his father’s dark brown eyes were bent over the plans of Chios Castle provided to him by
Despotēs Hypatios. He had marked off the three points along the outer wall where their engines had breached the walls, and was deciding where best to place the mobile belfries for a quick assault with few casualties.
Eustach cleared his throat. ‘
Ocko, Vratko says that all has been made ready. We may begin the assault as soon as you please.’
Jakub favoured his son with a warm smile. ‘Good. I shall give the order soon.’
‘… Is something the matter, Father?’
‘Oh, no – other than the fact that I far prefer talking to fighting. I suppose I was still hoping Kallistos would listen to reason.’
‘He is a rebel against Emperor Staurikios, and thus a rebel against God,’ Eustach answered quietly. ‘We cannot help it if his heart is hardened; but God’s will be done.’
Jakub deeply appreciated his son at times like these. Unfazed, unflappable, and unmoveable in his certitude, possessed of the cool ease and level temper that had been a Rychnovský trait since Pravoslav’s time, yet also every bit as determined as Radomír had been, Jakub could see more than a bit of himself in his and Eirēnē’s son. It also reassured him that the future of Moravia was reasonably secure. As king, Eustach would wield power with matchless grace and self-control.
‘Take your detachment of the
zbrojnošov and wheel your belfry to the northwest breach,’ Jakub ordered his son. ‘Stay out of reach of their crossbows and machines for now. It will not be long before I give the order. And
remember – when you storm the castle, make sure to
take Kallistos alive if at all possible. Capture the
Stratēgos of Boukellarion, and we win the war.’
‘Father,’ Eustach bowed, and left without hesitation to do his bidding.
Jakub stood from his desk and swept outside himself.
The spring weather on Chios was fine. The limpid blue waters of the Middle Sea lapped placidly beneath a flawless sapphirine sky, and the sun brightened the white stone of the prize they were about to take. Jakub took a deep breath of the bracing salt air – something wholly unfamiliar to the Moravian palate in more peaceful times – and made his way to the siege line.
When Eustach heard the blare of the horn, he placed his shoulder firmly against his pillar of the mobile belfry and began to push it toward the wall at the northwest breach. The arrows began flying thickly about him, whizzing and thudding their steel heads into the boards of the belfry or the planks of the shields of his men. Eustach would be lying if he said he didn’t feel nervous at the prospect of being killed in this siege, but such fears existed to be faced and overcome. Eustach did not at all waver or dally in his post, but kept pushing forward right alongside his armigers as they neared the castle wall.
When the belfry was near enough, Eustach leapt onto the rungs and began the climb. It was danger to be among the first into the enemy fastness, as he would at once become a target for every blade and bow in the place. But even so—he had his men to look after and inspire with his action. He scaled the belfry and leapt from the lowered boards into the gap in the wall, his shield and sword already at the ready.
The yells of the Ionian garrison instantly heralded the physical assault that awaited him and the armigers who had followed him in. Eustach pushed forward and met the clash head-on. The ring and squeal of steel, the clatter of boards, the stretching of leather and the bellows of exertion of lung and heart and muscle enveloped the heir-apparent as he stood firm with his boots on the stone. The smell of salt air was soon met with the unmistakeable tang of blood and the pall of smoke. Eustach waded forward into the violent sea of human struggle, ensconced behind the round wooden plank that bore the scratches of blades and the strain of shoving and jostling amid the ruined section of wall. Pain struck him at his side as the business end of an enemy polearm glanced off his armour. The cornerstone of a human wall, Eustach’s senses were scoured raw by the chaos amidst which he stood. But stand he did, and firmly. And he waded forward as his strength allowed, never once allowing his shield to drop or the blade in his strong hand to relax.
And then… the resistance gave out. Eustach barrelled forward and very nearly tripped over a body and off the catwalk of the enemy castle. He had emerged on the other side amid a surging line of dark-haired and dark-bearded Greeks, and found himself forced to pivot where he stood and fend them off now from three sides instead of two. But the Moravians were now firmly in control of that section of castle wall, and were beginning to spread to either side to take control of more.
Amid a gap in the sea of human wrath, Eustach spotted the towers of the belfries at the other two breaches, and his heart surged with hope. The Moravians, marching under the banner of Byzantium, were well on their way to retaking this castle for the glory of God Almighty. As he saw this, Eustach raised Psalm 27 on his breath:
‘
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?
When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes,
Came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell.
Though a host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear:
Though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident!’
And down the stairs he went into the bailey, his sword flashing before him. It was as he was crossing the courtyard toward the keep that he saw – closely guarded by two sturdy retainers – a helmeted man with a salt-and-pepper beard, in fine robes and armour, who could only be the master of the castle. Eustach lunged forward at the trio of men, heedless of his own safety.
‘Stand and fight!’ he shouted to the master.
The retainers at once moved to protect their master with their bodies. Eustach smiled wryly to himself and swore to make them pay dearly to claim his blood. The bodyguards lunged forward with the staid discipline proper to their position. But they quickly found that this bold young lordling threatening their charge, tall and long of reach, firm and nimble on his feet, with his sword wheeling in a youthful wrist, was not eathly overcome. A sudden unexpected slash from Eustach’s blade tore unawares through the neck of one of them, felling him at once. The other at once shifted to a more cautious footing.
Eustach found himself now facing one bodyguard in the midst of the bailey, with the master of the castle standing by. The archers along the walls dared not shoot and risk felling the man they had sworn to protect; and so for all intents this had become a personal duel. Cautiously Greek and Moravian placed their feet and circled each other, before Eustach made bold with the first lunge and pressured his foe on the left side. This bodyguard, however, took no more undue chances, but kept his guard tight and his feet steady, answering Eustach’s strike with a quick riposte.
Eustach circled to the right, not letting down his guard from the bodyguard, but also hindering the nobleman from making an escape. Now it was the bodyguard’s turn to level a strike at Eustach’s flank in the hopes of forcing him back, but the Moravian princeling turned it aside, sliding his blade along the bodyguard’s weapon and unbalancing it within his grip. The blade came loose, and Eustach kicked it back across the bailey where it could not be safely retrieved. By this time, the Moravians had nearly taken the whole length of wall around the courtyard, and some had descended the stairways into the bailey itself. Thus Eustach turned his attention from the disarmed guard to the nobleman.
‘Surrender yourself,’ Eustach ordered him in Greek.
‘I will not,’ the man answered him. ‘Iordanēs Oöryphas does not allow himself to be taken tamely!’
Eustach had little time to be crestfallen that the man before him wasn’t Kallistos, but instead Kallistos’s son, as Iordanēs was clearly well versed in the arts of swordsmanship himself, given the way he positioned his weight, bent his knees apart and shifted his weight in small steps to move in and out of his range.
It seemed now that the entire courtyard was watching Eustach’s single combat with Iordanēs. They matched each other stroke for stroke, step for step. Even though Eustach had height, reach, strength and the vigour of youth on his side, his opponent nevertheless had long experience of war and private quarrel, and knew well where to place his blows so as not to leave himself open to counterattack. Getting past his guard would not be an easy task, Eustach saw that soon enough.
Iordanēs was also quite a bit more flexible than his age let on, Eustach soon saw. He was able to deflect and exert strength in unexpected ways, that left Eustach chasing his own momentum in misaim, and left his guard dangerously gapped. The Moravian prince knew he would have to exercise greater caution and take a different approach when Iordanēs landed a touch that scraped through his mail and gave Eustach a flesh-wound in the fat of his right flank.
Instead of trying to angle in at him from the side, Eustach levelled a number of quick thrusts at Iordanēs’s head, neck and torso, forcing him to spend his energy fending him off and forcing him backwards a couple of valuable steps. Eustach used that space to position himself on the downward slope of a small knoll in the bailey that had lain between him and the
Doux’s son. The added inch or two of reach that gave him was enough to put the Greek nobleman even further on the defensive. On the other hand, he knew that he was taking a risk. If Iordanēs was able to force him back from the knoll, his footing would be uncertain… and if he lost his footing altogether and fell, it would all be over.
Iordanēs evidently realised this too. He recovered his composure and returned a flurry of blows at Eustach’s sides that were meant to do precisely this. Eustach was forced to spend valuable effort with shield and blade just to keep the ground he’d fought to take. The tension between the two as they struggled to manœuvre around each other and past each other’s guards became wire-fine, and sweat was pouring down both of their brows and staining the clothes beneath their armour.
And then, a stumble. It was small, but cost dear. Eustach plunged forward, his blade falling in a clumsy-looking dip to follow Iordanēs off his lost footing. Iordanēs had to swing wide just to fend it away from his unguarded thigh. Eustach stepped confidently into the breach and smashed bodily into the Greek nobleman, with his shoulder braced forcefully behind his shield.
The Oöryphas scion’s sword went flying out of his grasp, and the man himself tumbled into the turf. Eustach spread his shield apart from his shoulder and aimed the point of his sword at Iordanēs’s throat.
Dejectedly, the Greek man pronounced: ‘I yield.’
‘The castle is ours!’ Vratko proclaimed.
‘And so is the master,’ Eustach answered, ‘not of Boukellarion as we’d hoped, but instead his eldest son.’
Vratko clapped Eustach on the shoulder. ‘Still a fine catch you’ve landed, even if it’s not the big fish himself. We also have in hold Boukellarion’s daughter Kyra, as well as his grandson Ioustinianos. We may not even have to take Herakleia before he yields himself.’
As it turned out,
Doux Kallistos 2. Oöryphas of Boukellarion held out for another seven months after Chios and three of his descendants were taken by the Moravians on behalf of
Despotēs Hypatios. But the loss of one of his most loyal supporters in revolt as well as so many of his kin forced him early on to surrender without terms in the first week of Advent in the year 6526. The Moravians returned home. And Eustach, as his wife had wished indeed, returned in glory, covered with the fame of his deeds.
