To The Strongest - A Hellenistic Resurgence AAR

[RustyHunter]

Thus read Leonidas’s favourite passage from the scholar Masountis’s Meadows of Gold. A shining reminder of what they were fighting for, and of the barbarism of the foe they faced. The Great King had simply smiled at the notion, claiming that – though he was gladdened that the Arabian scholars had acknowledged this truth – he was nonetheless weary of the notions that the Romans were a witless barbaric foe. Dulled though they might have been by their overzealous worship of the Israelite God, Alkaios had warned, these were still the men that had destroyed Antiochus’s Macedon, built the paved roads of marbled Palmyra, and bowed the last of the Ptolemies to their will.

That's very interesting perspective, and there's no way Leonidas will regret underestimating them.

And then Leonidas cursed the poor scout. Because the force that came crashing into his square was nothing like a galloping wall, and rather resembled, more simply, a wall. He counted some two thousand Roman shield bearers – a number near as great as his entire force – and these met his now-halved phalanx with a terrible clashing of steel and crushing of bone.

The Galloping Wall.

Very nice description of cataphracts and a fun battle scene. We'll have to see what happened to Leonidas, but I'm guessing it wasn't good.

the heavy infantry would be armed in the manner of the thorakitai of Hellenistic Persia. These carried an oval, Roman inspired, shield, and would appear none too different from late-Imperial legionnaires (though with a preference for thorax-like armour).

Or Gallic/Galatian inspired shield since the thureos shield arrived in the Hellenistic world before the Romans really started pushing east.

It seemed that, as he was once wont to do, his cousin had fallen in love with his new toy and wished to play with it as much as he could, no matter whether it could break it. Only, in this case, the toy was a fleet carrying some fifteen thousand sailors and eight thousand warriors, and though the captains might have braved the open seas before, Alkaios himself knew nothing of sailing except what he had learned in a book.

It's fun to see how Phil has these pessimistic/realistic perspectives on Alkaios that seem to always be proven wrong. Alkaios continues to be larger than life which makes him so fun to read about.

According to their Egyptian man, King Alcaeus’s fleet should have reached the Cilician shores at least three days prior. And yet, they were still waiting.

It seems good of Alkaios not to trust the Egyptians, and he has done well to avoid their treachery.

Soorry to miss the last couple updates, I wasn't getting notifications for some reason! These chapters were excellent as usual, and I really enjoyed reading them. I wasn't expecting such a bold move from Alkaios, but I suppose it makes more sense to go for his spiritual home, rather than push through Anatolia on cities he isn't overly interested in.

 

[Eludio]

One who Paints Scenes of War​

Alexandra gave the signal by beating the deck of her warship with the butt of her spear. The heavy sauroter dug into the – once waxed and polished, and now covered in sea salt – Egyptian wood, but she could not care less. She had sworn to burn the ship in sacrifice, anyway. The gods would not mind a kink in their offering, she was certain. And at that kink, the ship leapt forwards, breaking formation with the rest of the fleet and turning away from the small bay in which it was supposed to lay anchor. Alexandra turned towards her father’s flagship but could not see his face. She would have hoped to see shock in his eyes. Perhaps a hint of pride. Even disapproval.

Still, there was no time for matters of personal satisfaction. The prow of her ship cut the waves like a knife through linen, and, as the masts of the Egyptian fleet drew further and further, the spears of the Roman scouting party on the beach were fast approaching. As the waters that broke against the keel began to be mixed with sand, the first of the defenders’ arrows plunged amidst Alexandra’s crew. Then it was the turn of stones. She grinned as one bounced against her shield.

“Come, Phloros! Those are the shores of home! Show some more enthusiasm!” the warrior-princess called out, when her friend winced under the hail of projectiles. Even his reaction, she had no time to care for, because soon the beach’s Achaean sands were crushed under the wood of the Egyptian prow, her rowers having picked up speed rather than letting off as they closed in on the enemy. The ship halted with a crack as it smashed into the rocks that jutted in the shoals. One more scar on her divine offering. But one well earned.

If the Romans had foreseen her boldness, they made a good show of hiding it. From the moment she had dreamt up her plan, Alexandra had feared the moment of impact. She knew little of sailing and nothing of naval combat, but even then, she could have guessed that her men would be rocked about as the ship crashed onto shore. Perhaps it was the skill of her rowers, who disobeyed her orders and ever so slightly slowed the galley right before it would crash against the shoals. Perhaps it was sheer luck. But only a couple of Alexandra’s soldiers lost their ground, and she herself did not stumble. The Roman scouts, meanwhile, were scattered, having stood too close to the shore in the hopes of having a shot at the attacking ship.

The princess jumped into the fray, quite literally, leaping from the prow of her ship and landing, with the added weight of two meters of fall, on one of the Roman soldiers. That too, the enemy did not expect. Alexandra had aimed her sauroter at the man’s neck, but it proved to be an unnecessary precaution. The rim of her heavy, bronze-faced, and three-layered shield smashed in the Roman archer’s face, and he went down in a shower of blood. Alexandra had not even seen the light in the man’s eyes before extinguishing it. And she had no time to look back. Already the scout closest to her was dropping his bow to unsheathe a dagger. She stopped him with the tip of her spear, aimed true in the man’s eye. Then she felt a blow on her shielded arm and had to push a Roman soldier back before stabbing again. Her strike only glanced the man, skidding on the mail shirt hidden beneath his tunic, but Phloros was fast besides her, spearing the man right above the clavicle.

Alexandra took a moment to smile at the man, worthy Patroclus to her Achilles, and broke into a chuckle when she saw his deathly focus. She turned back towards the enemy, as Himerios leapt at her right, thrusting again and again and speeding forwards when the Roman scouts ceased their advance towards her. Phloros was flanked by Orestes, Himerios was joined by Pegasios, and soon even young Alexios was in their line. And what a poor line it was, nary a man waiting to feel their companion’s shield at their back before pushing onwards. But it was a line of heroes, their mere appearance having sent the enemy into a rout, so they pushed on and on, their beautiful bronze-faced shields gleaming under the sun like so many altars to the Titan Helios.

In Alexandria, she had ordered them made. Round and curved and three-layered, shaped to harken the arms of ancient hoplites. Once, the entire mass of Alkaios’s hypaspists had worn a similar kit. The whole five hundred of them, when they had defended the flanks of the thousand odd pikemen that had followed her father down from the peaks of the Pamir. Now, most of those men were either dead, or renowned officers and Satraps and wore the shield as a badge of pride. And the thousands of infantrymen carried the thureos. But not her battalion. These would one day be her own officers. Her own Satraps. And for now, they were her proud myrmidons. Because her mother had named her Alexander, but Alexander too sought to be Achilles.

“One who paints scenes of war? Truly, Tychon? That’s the excuse you wish to present to this court? That you would use that money to hire one who paints scenes of war? Pray tell, Tychon… where would this master painter of yours be?”

“Well, Lord Isokrates, I haven’t found the… uh… artist yet…”

“I’ve heard enough. You will pay back the stolen sum and compensate the Kingdom for twenty-five silver talents, half of which sum will go to finance the decorations at the Temple of Apollo here in Seleukeia. I won’t bother with deciding what to do should you not be able to pay the sum, because everyone in this hall know that is not an issue.”

​

Lu-Ling smiled from her post in the upper galleries. Despite their quarrelling, it was always a joy to see Isokrates at work. And, as usual, she would make certain that part of whichever fines were paid to the state would go to Alkaios’s armies in the West. She had received no words from her husband after his fleet had passed the height of Cyprus, but it mattered little. In twenty odd-years of knowing him, Lu’s trust for her one-time golden Prince had only grown. And there were more worrisome tidings away from the front.

“How many agents is this, Nha Nha? Five? Seven?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve?!” Lu-Ling was torn away from the judicial spectacle. Her sister, her eyes and ears into the Persian half of the great Empire, merely nodded. “Twelve agents? Great heavens, at this rate we will have no informants by the end of the year! This is no longer a trifling matter… we need to inform Isokrates.”

​

Nha-Lin frowned slightly. “I never considered it a trifling matter, sister. But as to informing the regent… I have no proof that the murders are correlated. Only my hunch and a few similarities in the manner of the killings. It is no secret that things have been tense between you and Isokrates. Were the wrong people to whisper in his ears, he might fear this tale of conspiracies to be just your play for power.”

“Nonsense…” Lu began, but soon bit her lip and her words. The wrong people. There were plenty of those to go around. Most of the Grecian old guard had followed Alkaios to war, but even amongst the Persian nobility she had her enemies. “Isokrates would put the good of the realm above our petty squabbles, I am certain… but perhaps you are right to fear that his decisions might not be solely his own. Very well. Say nothing for now but keep investigating. If there are snakes hidden amongst the grasses, I wish to see their skins hung from my wall.”

Nha-Lin bowed, perhaps a tad too deeply, and Lu knew that her sister meant to make her smile. But she could not. She could only sigh, and curse under her breath. Curse whatever new enemy was killing amidst the shadows. Curse the fact that this enemy, her husband could not fight with spear in hand. And, mayhap, she cursed her own single-mindedness, that had her so focused on placing Alexandra on the throne, that she had forgotten her duty to ensure that there was a throne on which to sit.

​

Author's notes: little nods here and there, and I got to stir the plot that had once been Leonidas's back up, with the readers being far more informed about the "conspiracy" than any of the characters (and that is saying something). But mostly, the second half of the chapter was there to give the court administration stuff a chance to shine. I owe it to it, after all: most of Alcaeus's wars (and his huge amounts of retinues) have been financed by the constant arrests and ransoming (in universe: fining) of criminal lords in the Empire. Bureaucracy at its finest!

But of course, my own 'scene of war' was the core of this update. I was originally afraid that the in-game Alexandra would not live up to how I'm writing her, but the Warrior Lodge is doing what warrior Lodges are wont to do, and she keeps becoming more and more impressive. She still doesn't hold a candle to her father, of course, but 23 martial at age 18 is not something I'm about to scoff at. And it seemed right to start giving a face to her own little cadre. And so enter Phloros - whose black eye is due to his recent introduction to the warrior lodge, and not a Roman stone - and Alexios - in-game: the posthumous son of Isocrates's first wife's first husband (huh), and Alexandra's ward; who in-story also becomes Isocrates's foster son and Alexandra's hyperetes. Orestes and Pegasios are also in-game characters, but did not exist yet at this specific save.

 

[Midnite Duke]

The back-stabbing at court is just as deadly as the battlefield. Thank you for the update.

 

[RustyHunter]

Interesting to see the plotting come back into sight. I'll be curious to see just what Lu-Ling can figure out.

Alexandra is also quite impressive, and I'm enjoying just how much she is buying into the myths, becoming a larger than life character like her father. I'm also looking forward to meeting her companions since they'll undoubtedly be very important.

 

[JSB217118]

Who was Liu Ling's sister married to? Was it someone we know?

 

[Eludio]

Soorry to miss the last couple updates, I wasn't getting notifications for some reason! These chapters were excellent as usual, and I really enjoyed reading them. I wasn't expecting such a bold move from Alkaios, but I suppose it makes more sense to go for his spiritual home, rather than push through Anatolia on cities he isn't overly interested in.

Glad to have you back, Rusty! I'm sorry to have missed your comment when I first added the new chapter. I've been a bit away from the screen, between summer travelling and curing a nasty case of heatstroke derived from said summer travelling. Greece for Alkaios, but no Greece for me this year...

That's very interesting perspective, and there's no way Leonidas will regret underestimating them. Very nice description of cataphracts and a fun battle scene. We'll have to see what happened to Leonidas, but I'm guessing it wasn't good.

I'm glad it came out well! I once read this description of a charging knight, I think in one of Christian Cameron's "William Gold" novels, as this sort of hulking fortress, that is all but untouchable by the common soldier. Now, the cataphracts of the Byzantine Middle-Ages might not have been as coriaceous, but I can easily see them being the most fearseome sight on a battlefield, especially in large number. For a commander such as Leonidas, who is an infantryman first and foremost, used to seeing the horse as a spearhead or a harassing tool, to face a riding phalanx... if the shock doesn't kill him, truly nothing will!

Or Gallic/Galatian inspired shield since the thureos shield arrived in the Hellenistic world before the Romans really started pushing east.

Very good point about this. I try not too, but often end up falling into a fairly Romano-centric view of History, forgetting that they, too, got their tools from somewhere.

It's fun to see how Phil has these pessimistic/realistic perspectives on Alkaios that seem to always be proven wrong. Alkaios continues to be larger than life which makes him so fun to read about.

I've never hidden a hint of favouritism for "Uncle Phil", and part of it is the unwitting comedy of the character. He is right. By every metric, he is right. He is never maliciously critical or defamatory when it comes to his cousin. He is a man with a pair of eyes, no longer blinded by the whole mythical aura that Alcaeus exhudes, yet close enough to the man himself to not have to rely on second hand guesswork. When he says Alcaeus is doing something stupid... you can bet it is something stupid. And then that something stupid works, in the most unlikely fashion, and he's first in line to hug the man. But the next time, Phil will still be just as skeptical, because no blessing from the gods can make a mortal man that lucky... right?

Interesting to see the plotting come back into sight. I'll be curious to see just what Lu-Ling can figure out. Alexandra is also quite impressive, and I'm enjoying just how much she is buying into the myths, becoming a larger than life character like her father. I'm also looking forward to meeting her companions since they'll undoubtedly be very important.

I'll admit to sometimes wondering how history book authors do it. Even in fake history, there is so much going on that I strain to keep a track on everything. I don't want to be too "sequel-bait(-ey?)", but I have to say that some of the threads I'm weaving in will take a long time to come to a head. Maybe not the best idea for an episodical story but... that's the way (fake) history works!

Who was Liu Ling's sister married to? Was it someone we know?

Sadly, nobody of note. A claimant to one of the northern Khanates that I managed to invite to court, but he died far too early to be relevant. Back when I planned to make Nha-lin and the relationship with their Chinese father's legacy more relevant to Lu's plotline, there would have been some shenanigans with the steppe-lords that included the man. But then Alexandra became all the more relevant, Lu became a much more authoritative character, and Nha was sort of left out in the cold until I managed to work her back in as Spymaster. At some point I thought about introducing some sort of jealousy plot thread that would lead Lu to finally ask Alcaeus to officially marry her, but it really didn't suit Lu's character at all, and so that too got shafted.

 

[Eludio]

In the Fires of War, He was Forged​

The crying. It was the crying he could not stand. To be beset by enemies, to risk death, to have the weight of countless lives on his shoulders, Leon could deal with. All his life, he had been a soldier. But the crying. The crying crept its way under his skin, dug deep into his bones, tore him apart as no man or beast could do; every tear a shining, merciless, dagger; every wail grasping at his very heart. “Will someone shut the prince up?” Leon finally yelled out at the group of wetnurses that were holding little Prokopios. He felt somewhat ashamed when Empress Sophia’s eyes grew wide at the outburst, but she barked at her maids to listen to their commander, rather than chastising him. Good woman, Leon found himself thinking, deeply thankful when the prince finally quieted down, having been handed to a calmer breast. Stubborn, though.

“Empress, the truth is we should have left months ago, when first I suggested it. Bardas, blessed be the man, tasked me with protecting you and the children, not the Peloponnese. The Persian forces have taken the harbour of Patras and set up a blockade on the Gulf. They do have ships in the Aegean, but so does Lord Narses. If we manage to reach his fleet, you and the princes would be honourable hostages. If we stay in Corinth, I cannot speak for your safety. These are pagans, your highness. They murdered our garrison in Messenia to a man, including the captains. We have no assurance that they would treat you or your family with any respect. Mary’s tits, we have no assurance that they wouldn’t simply slaughter us all.”

Leon saw the lady Sophia frown at his blasphemy, but forced himself to steel his expression. He could not afford to lighten the gravity of the situation, whether with an apology or a joke. It had been months now, since last Emperor Bardas had managed to send news of his army’s conditions, and as far as Leon knew, his lord might be dead or forever defeated. As much as he would never admit it, part of his desire to surrender himself to Emperor Narses’s forces stemmed from a need to have some news. To know what had happened to his commander. Perhaps even to intercede in his favour. Not that a snob like Narses would ever care what a caulker’s son had to say…

“For my children…” the Empress began in hushed tones, “for them, and for them only…”

Leon all but let out a sigh of relief. “Of course, your highness!”

“Pray, lord Leon. Pray that I truly am saving them from the jaws of a ravenous dragon. Because you might not be a man of the court, but I am. And I know the maw of Lord Narses to be that of a lion. If truly he will treat us with honour, it will be as an honoured bargaining chip. That man does nothing without reason, and a welcome into his camp might very well signal the end of my husband’s time in the purple.”

“I will be candid, your highness. I’m afraid that signal was given more than a year ago, in the high passes of Cilicia.” Leon swallowed hard, and was shocked to feel a tear making its way across his cheek. The damned crying.

Men had cried, upon seeing the shores of Achaia. Andromachos, Phil’s own hyperete and a man he knew and valued for his stoic professionalism, has broken down on the bridge of his ship and torn out his hair, sobbing. Alkaios had laughed. “Did I not say it would be so?” his cousin had asked Philandros. He remembered not what he had answered. It mattered little, to Alkaios or to the truth. That truth being that his cousin had indeed been right and, as they’d swept through the valleys of the Peloponnese, the Bactrian Phalanx had seemed more akin to a group of children on a visit to the shores of the Aydar. They fought, they looted, they killed… but mostly they preferred lazing in the fields, searching for potential farmland, and above all shocking the locals by asking them to purchase some of their cheeses or wines, in the Koine that their ancestors had certainly shared. Philandros smiled and even chuckled, but sometimes he did not know what to make of the situation. This was not the war he had lived through for the last twenty years of his life.

They had fought skirmishes, of course, with the various Roman garrisons that dotted the landscape of Hellas, but even those the men had taken in stride, going to battle as if though to perform some mythical pantomime rather than risk their lives. All, of course, excepted his Egyptians. They cared little for a return to a land that their bloodlines had never seen, and instead seemed chiefly motivated by the riches that they could plunder from the Peloponnese. Which, in truth, suited Philandros just fine. For twenty years, he had led men who prowled the lands for bountiful loot. He doubted he would have known what to do with starstruck future homesteaders. And his Egyptian phalanx was excellent.

About three days into their training, Phil had given up on teaching his men the ways of the Macedonian pike, on the principle that even Odysseus could not have taught old Argos new tricks, and the former marines were clearly veterans. Instead, he had armed some in shining mail panoply, outfitted others with the pelte and javelins, and had even formed a little cavalry detachment from the men that could already ride. In the end, Philandros had found himself with a – somewhat Hellenistic-looking – force of infantry well suited for the resistance that the Romans were putting up. In the great steppes of the North, or in the large expanses of the Iranian plateau, his men would have been fodder for the arrows of the enemy’s horsemen. But in the valleys of Hellas – and perhaps even in the peaks of the Eastern Kingdoms, should they remain under his command – his force could operate in perfect autonomy, needing no support from either the Agema’s cavalry or the pikes of the foot companions.

Perhaps in too perfect autonomy, as Alkaios had all but officially turned Phil’s detachment into the vanguard of the army, seeing fit to send the Egyptian phalanx onwards whenever there might be any rumour of an approaching enemy force. At first, Philandros had feared for his own life. Had he fallen out of favour with his cousin again, he had wondered, and was this Alkaios’s stealthy way of ridding himself of an enemy? And yet, every victory of his, Alkaios celebrated with great feasting, and as of late he had taken to leading his own detachment of the cavalry to aid Philandros in his battles. And so it had dawned upon him: his cousin might be an unwavering optimist, but Alkaios was no fool. He too must have realised what Phil had feared from the beginning: one harsh engagement with the Romans, one battle worthy of the name, and the idyllic end of their exile would become just another war, in the eyes of the Bactrian phalanx. And farms would be burned, and women would be raped, and children would be murdered, and the Romanised Greeks that so placidly tolerated their quasi-peaceful occupation would become just another oppressed people, to be abused and exploited rather than freed and elevated.

And so, his Egyptians marched onwards, mercenaries looking for pay, in no part emotionally compromised by the warring that had been their companion through life. And so came Corinth, the first city to truly oppose them, the city where all the Roman soldiers that they had not seen in the rest of the Peloponnese had come together to stop the Persian invader. Alkaios would not commit men to assault the walls, because still he held on to the dream of his men peacefully sweeping through their ancient homes like a refreshing breeze, rather than the storm of steel that they truly were. And so, Philandros’s Egyptian phalanx harassed the defenders, until after a month long siege the main garrison surrendered the lower city, and only the nobles in the Acrocorinth yet held against them. Phil’s men were ordered to garrison the moored fleet, so as to ensure that they would not ransack the city, as the Bactrian Hellenes were allowed a stipend to rest and celebrate in Corinth. Rest and celebrate, while the enemy still held the fortress above their heads.

And then the Acrocorinth too fell, and the men of the Egyptian phalanx became marines again. Philandros had paid some attention to the reports that Nha-Lin’s agents brought Alkaios and knew that one of the two competing Roman Emperors had made Corinth his capital, so when he was tasked to take a portion of the fleet and give chase to the escaping Corinthian defenders, he knew what his true task was. “No sinking those ships, lest you wish to join Aegeus with them,” Phil had called out to his men in his accented Arabic, and the Egyptians had grunted their assent. He smiled: tough, coarse, perhaps not entirely loyal, yet they were professionals. Yes, he thought, if I can get you to stand the cold, you will prove quite the asset when I will make my move East.

“Roman ships, lord, from the direction of Attica,” Andromachos reported the words of the lookout.

“Reinforcements for our prey, say you? Enough to trouble us?”

“Nay, lord, some six warships, we still have the numbers.”

Philandros unconsciously caressed his moustache, as he thought. “Call for the wings to double their tempo,” he finally decided. “They can deal with the Roman warships. And tell them that they can try out their new rams, from those ships we need no prisoners,” he added with a smile. Andromachos chuckled cruelly as he went to relay the order. Still, Phil pondered the meaning of such a waste of men on the Romans’ part, but he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. And he had the numbers to play at being an admiral, which brought him no little delight. For all that Alkaios had adored having a fleet, and had gone as far as having numerous books on naval warfare sent from Bagdad to better equip it for combat, the Bactrian forces were yet to engage the Romans in a naval battle. Phil would be the first of the Macedonian successors to achieve a victory at sea in some thousand-odd years. No small feat indeed.

“Increase speed, don’t lag far behind our wings,” he called out to his captain. He was playing the engagement as if though it were a land battle, having his “cavalry” encircle the enemy while his heavier “footmen” formed a wall to seal in the enemy fleet. And yet the roman ships kept advancing, six light warships and a fleeing passenger ship against his thirty heavy warships. The reinforcing ships spread out as if to shield the Corinthian against his fleet, and he realised that they must have been hoping to allow it space to flee. Perhaps sacrificing themselves for the task. A little part of him envied them their suicidal courage.

“Close in,” the other part called out, merciless against the foolishly useless annoyance that those ships offered, and his messengers gave the signals. He looked calmly on as the Egyptian sailors, with a thousand-odd years of seafaring experience over him, timed their manoeuvres perfectly to lock in the small Roman fleet, offering little chance for escape to either the Corinthian ship or its would-be rescuers. For a moment he feared ambush, thinking the battle too simple, but there were no other keels on the horizon. His men were closing in in an orderly fashion, almost methodical in their fighting.

“Eight hells surrounding the Earth!” Philandros cursed out as the flash of magic erupted from the smaller Roman crafts. He had little time to think as the very water around them took flame and the fiery hells of damnation came into the worlds of mortal to punish him for his hubris. The fleet’s captains screamed in disarray, calling for the rowers to back water, but their calls were soon drowned out by the wailing of the men below the bridges, as they burned alive trapped in a cage of wood and tar. Phil looked on, stunned, unable to give orders, as the enemy unleashed foul wizardry against him, and as the fires drew closed to his flagship, he was only saved when Andromachos dragged him above board. As he fell into the water, the realisation dawned on him, like some cruel joke: he would be the first of the Macedonian successors to achieve a defeat at sea in some thousand-odd years. No small feat.

“Fortune has blessed you, cousin, it truly has,” Alkaios smiled reassuringly, offering Phil a bunch of grapes. Philandros groaned as he refused the offer, waving the fruit away with an arm that still suffered from the burns he had sustained. They were alone, for the first time in quite a long time, in one of the many rooms of the Acrocorinth’s fortified palace. “Have it your way…” the King shrugged, pulling a grape for himself.

“Spin whichever tale you will for the officers, Alkaios, but those were good men, and I will carry the guilt of their death, even though I may be spared the shame.”

“The Romans are cunning, Phil, and skilled at covering their martial failures with trick worthy of Odysseus himself. We learned that a thousand years ago, when they broke Macedon’s phalanxes with shots from their ballistae, and we learned it again when they unleashed this magical weapon upon your fleet. I don’t dream myself infallible, and neither do I hold you to such a standard.”

“But as far as shame goes…” Alkaios sighed, pulling a small roll of parchment from his belt, “Apollonios sent this. It arrived shortly after you’d taken Corinth. Feel free to read it yourself, but the gist of it is that our beloved friend the Emir Razin has refused to be subjected to Satrapal authority and is now in open revolt against my authority. So far none of the ship captains have demonstrated any desire to betray our campaign, but I have no doubt that the precious Arabian warrior Razin offered us would have carried different orders.” When Philandros stared at his cousin in disbelief, mute as he held out a hand for the missive, Alkaios broke into another warm, consoling, smile: “I understand the paternal care of a commander. If you truly love those men, then I will recant. They will have died honourably, fighting off the Roman’s new magic. There is no shame in having fallen for such an unthinkable trap. It’s your choice, brother.”

Philandros kept his silence a moment longer, as his eyes darted over the scrawled letters of Apollonios’s damning message. “Well, they were traitors…” he finally conceded. Alkaios said nothing, but he beamed like a child.

​

Author's notes: was supposed to publish this one on Saturday evening, but those three last paragraphs took me the whole weekend to write. As Phil would say: no small feat. Sadly, CK2 does not have any sort of naval battles, so this whole piece was fiction. Wholly fiction? Not really. I had parked Phil in Corinth to lay siege to the city and, as I was distracted with other matters, Narses's loyalist armies rolled up with ten thousand Romans intent on doing exactly the same. Since I was at war against a revolt, this meant that they quite simply wiped the floor with Phil's two thousand odd men. But the game's fallacies need not be my stories, and so this instead became a naval battle, where the Romans shone thanks to their usage of Greek Fire.​

 

[Specialist290]

Out of the galloping wall, into the Greek fire. Alkaios's armies just can't catch a break these days, at least not when he's not around to use his godlike martial skills.

In all seriousness, though, with his armies actually suffering genuine defeats for a change, I can't help but wonder if some of the luster is finally starting to wear off. Maybe not among the veterans themselves, but I have to wonder if men like Razin are perhaps smelling Bactrian blood in the water...

 

[Midnite Duke]

Greek Fire is a heinous trick to be played on the naive. Naval operations in HoI and CK makes one think that Paradox is from a landlocked nation and not the land of Vikings and other masters of the sea. Thank you for the update.

 

[Eludio]

Out of the galloping wall, into the Greek fire. Alkaios's armies just can't catch a break these days, at least not when he's not around to use his godlike martial skills.

All too true. Both player and King have grown a bit complacent, given the character’s extreme skill, and the Romans found a way to make it sting. It’s also a lesson on the value of a structured organisation: Alcaeus’s empire relies almost solely on heroes committing grand acts. When it works, it’s awesome, but even heroes can’t be everywhere at once, nor can they be infallible.

In all seriousness, though, with his armies actually suffering genuine defeats for a change, I can't help but wonder if some of the luster is finally starting to wear off. Maybe not among the veterans themselves, but I have to wonder if men like Razin are perhaps smelling Bactrian blood in the water...

I’ll admit, I was sort of caught by surprise with how quickly Razin acted. I knew the viceroy I’d put in was not in the most stable position… but I didn’t expect it to be THAT unstable. Obviously I requested he make peace with Egypt, but that was just wasted papyrus.

Greek Fire is a heinous trick to be played on the naive. Naval operations in HoI and CK makes one think that Paradox is from a landlocked nation and not the land of Vikings and other masters of the sea. Thank you for the update.

On the one hand, I get it, naval warfare was not as integral to Western Europe in the Middle Ages… but damn, we’ve seen China represented in game, and still no option to blockade ports?

 

[Eludio]

Andromache, Priam, and the Achaean Besiegers​

He would be sentenced to death. That much Leon knew. He ignored the mode of it, but he had been certain of his fate the very moment he had stepped on the deck of Prince Nikephoros’s dromon. Perhaps even before. And yet… “The Empress!” he shouted, as one of the usurper Narses’s officers walked in front of him. “What has been of the Empress?”

“My mother’s doing fine, Caulker, thanks for asking. She’s all the way back in the City, probably drinking some fine golden wine, confident in the knowledge that all rebellion has been quashed, and the noble Emperor Narses’s attentions can finally turn to the treacherous Persians. Or did you perhaps mean someone else?” the lord Merkourios mockingly asked, his northern features easily recognisable once he moved closer to the bars of Leon’s prison.

Red fury boiled inside of his veins for what seemed like the longest of instants, as the braggart Prince’s insulting grin flared in front of him, but Leon’s spirit soon faltered and, as a fit of coughing overtook him, he lowered his head. “You know of whom I speak,” he admitted, as the air returned to his lungs. Merkourios was silent but, as he finally found the strength to look up, Leon found pity in the other man’s eyes, not scorn or ridicule. Another man might have been insulted by that. Not him: freezing in a lion’s cage, forced into chains as if though the most common of prisoners, the man who had stood at the left hand of an Emperor knew quite well that he made for a pitiful sight.

“The Lady Sophia is healthy and untouched. And so are her children, if you feared for them,” Merkourios admitted, in what seemed like almost a whisper. Then he made a face that seemed almost like a grimace: “I won’t lie to you, Caulker. Little Prokopios’s fate was discussed. But my father is not a cruel man, no matter what you may think of him. And the Lady Sophia made quite the appeal. Truly, had the Blessed Virgin possessed her gift of oratory, perhaps our Saviour would have never had to bear the cross,” with that he attempted a smile, or what Leon though to be a smile in the darkness of night. He cared little for the prince’s sympathies, but the news was good, and the caulker’s son allowed himself a long sigh of relief.

“Is that true, what you said before, Lord Tornikes? Is my Lord’s bid for the throne truly over?” a bout of coughing took Leon as he spoke the last word, as if though to distract him from his own embarrassment at having to ask such a question. Merkourios made a moue.

“So? What did you tell him?”

“That he was still a prisoner, and that I was not the town crier, bringing him news. Well,” Merkourios admitted, “I might have phrased it somewhat more nicely.”

At that, his father laughed. “Well, no matter his somewhat unmeasured ambitions, I’m saddened to hear that the Caulker’s son did not live through to see our Empire united once more,” the Emperor Narses bemoaned. He had ridden days on end, to reach his son and Prince Nikephoros’s Greek garrisons, and was now ready to take the reins of the great war beast, as it marched against their treacherous enemy in the Peloponnese. If he still was in the Peloponnese, that is. Sometimes, it seemed to Narses as if though King Alcaeus truly was blessed by his pagan gods, spirited across the edges of the world with his men, like the heroes of the Iliad.

“I’ve met him once, you know? The Caulker’s son, I mean. Bardas held him in high regard, even when he was a loyal general. Too high a regard, I thought at the time. But it seems he’s managed to give both us and the Persians some merry trouble with Corinth, so perhaps it was I who mischaracterised him…” Narses had but look up to realise that he was losing his son’s attention. Again, he allowed himself a chuckle. The Empire was still on the brink, and yet it all seemed so simple now. “Anyway, I regret that I could not meet him again, to make for myself a new impression of the man. What of Bardas’s wife, the lady Sophia? I would have expected her to already be at my door, begging for an audience.”

“Ah… as for that, pater… she is no longer in our camp. Not that she fled, or anything of the sort!” Merkourios was quick to clarify when his father raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Prince Nikephoros simply thought, and both I and the Lady Eparchos herself agreed, that it might be best to remove her from a… chaotic space, such as a military encampment can be. When the Prince removed himself to Athens, to quarter with the fleet, he brought the Lady with him, and gave her to the care of the cloistered sisters of Saint Irene. Under guard, of course.”

“Bardas might appreciate the gesture, if anything…”

“She seems to be appreciating it. I was even told…” Merkourios coughed lightly, as if though to hide his embarrassment. “I was even told that she might be interested in taking the vows, herself, and retiring to the convent for life…”

“That, Bardas won’t appreciate…” Narses said, laughing yet again. They were to be allies once more, but it didn’t mean that he had to like the man. “Still, if anything that makes both our and her position more secure, with regards to her children being used as some rallying banner. And the lady Sophia has shown no sign of the Caulker’s son’s affliction?”

“None whatsoever, as far as I am informed. I would not worry overly, father. By the man’s own admission, these sicknesses occur to sailors all the time. Cold, damp nights, mixed with an already tired predisposition, and our own lateness tending to it. These are the culprits of the man’s death. We are not facing a plague.”

“It would be the last of too many curses, would it not? Yes, you must be right, Merkourios. Now, let us talk of more inconsequential things!” Narses smiled, for truly it seemed to him as if though, now that Rome had begun to rise once more, it could not be pushed down again.

​

He would never have admitted it openly, but Seleukos was somewhat relieved to be back on the front lines. Officially, Lord Pyrrhos had requested his presence there so that his veteran forces might aid the newly appointed Satrap, Lord Leonidas, to pacify the province. When he’d arrived in Cilicia, Seleukos had found that it was well and truly conquered land, with the few Roman nobles that remained having turned traitor to their Empire and bowed down to the Hellenic Satrap without any further resistance. The true issue, he’d found, was the Satrap himself. Or rather, the lack of a Satrap. Because although old Leonidas still struck a somewhat commanding figure from his throne-like chair, whenever Pyrrhos sat him on it, it was hard to deny that there was very little of the soldier left in him. When he’d first arrived, Seleukos had been ushered in the man’s rooms like a mourner and found the once proud General drenched in sweat. Never had he looked so ancient.

Whether Isokrates knew, Seleukos was – as too often happened – only left to guess, but it mattered little. The Great King had made his noble landing in Achaia, and now the Agean sea lay, if not fully open, at least open enough to the Hellene fleet that King Alkaios was contacted and informed. But, until the time that the Great King saw fit to send further instructions, Seleukos found himself one of the most powerful men in the world, having been recruited by Satrap Pyrrhos to replace him, commanding the Cilician army’s Turkic cavalry while Pyrrhos himself had taken over Leonidas’s duties, guarding the passes. As the province was well and truly pacified, and as neither of the older men would dare attempt to break into Asia Minor after the great fiasco that had consigned Leonidas to bed in the first place, Seleukos’s new position consisted mainly of organising the road patrols and tasting the various varieties of wine and olives that grew in the region. Not the glorious war that he had once dreamt of, but now that Leonidas was incapable to lead them, that war would resume shortly enough. Because if there is one thing Seleukos knew, it was the mind of his lord.

​

Author's notes: and, with the end of the Roman civil war, here comes another map! Not all the highlighted player will be actual... ahem... players, in this story, but I felt like we've reached the West enough that it was time to colour some of the other Kingdoms. There is also a Bulgarian powerhouse and a large Sunni kingdom in Lybia which I've decided to hide the disgusting civil wars of keep as a surprise. The world is seemingly moulding into a series of large, centralised, Kingdoms! Add a couple of alliance systems in, and we'd probably have enduring peace... right?

I could have realistically nabbed a few more territories from the Roman Revolt, but I preferred to role-play it a bit and keep my fleet movements to a minimum. And besides, the clock was ticking on the Romans making peace. I actually have no idea whether they white-peaced (which would surprise me, given how close Narses was to 100% war score), but Bardas was running free a few minutes after the revolt ended, so I wrote it down as some sort of agreement. A way for Bardas to save face, while Narses now can concentrate on the Amyntid problem. Georgia and Armenia are... also there. Mostly for very future reference.

 

[Midnite Duke]

Thank you for the update. No civil war in the Eastern Roman Empire, the day must be young, for tomorrow will bring tales of Romans battling Romans as the Empire crumples.

 

[Eludio]

The Good Daughter​

“If anything, I am glad to see you this way. From what your messengers referred, I half expected to find you drooling in a bed!”

Leonidas’s first instinct was to frown and yet something about the image made him chortle. Yes, perhaps thing could truly be worse. “Glad might be too strong a word for my own feelings, my liege, but at least I’m alive. And I will even be able to lead an army again, soon. I’ve already recovered some mobility in my legs, and Khonayn assures me that my situation will continue to improve with time,” he lied merrily, perhaps even to himself, though he could see in Alkaios’s pitiful expression that his words had done little to convince anyone. “Truly, my friend, I’ll be all right,” Leonidas attempted a reassuring smile.

“Indeed. And when you will be all healed, I will rejoice in seeing you holding a shield by my side. But for now, I would rather that see you rest and recover. I am here now, I can hold the field while you manage the rear-guard,” Alkaios reassured him with a friendly hand on his shoulder. “And besides, is it not a Satrap’s duty also to govern? Cilicia is not Aria, my friend. I’m sure you will have your hands full, whether you join us against in the West or not.

“And besides, my brother’s machinations have borne fruit,” the King continued, somewhat with disinterest. Leonidas clenched his teeth at the mere mention of Isokrates, and yet grew curious, as what little Pyrrhos had told him about the Regent’s secret dealings with the Romans had been mangled in his memories by his sickened state. “Phrygia will be far more welcoming to us than it was to Alexander. Perhaps Alexandra is right. It will all come down to one great siege, as it was in our great war against the Trojans. Fitting, I suppose.”

“I’ve heard all about her great escape, from your darling Seleukos. Near broke that one’s heart, she did,” Leonidas laughed hoarsely. “And I’ve heard of her heroics too. Did she land with you, our dear warring princess?”

“Nay! My heroic daughter is now the supreme commander of all our forces in Hellas. Well, Phil is, but she speaks the words. And should my cousin get any ideas on what to do with the ten thousand men he now commands, he will be in no position to do anything, as she holds the reins in name.”

​

Leonidas let the silence hang heavy in the stuffy air of his sick room, content with studying Alkaios’s features as the King’s curious gaze darted around the décor. Around the white sandstone walls, over the blue silken curtains, across the heavy red tapestries, and through the Roman candelabra, gilded and winged to give the impression of a bird carrying the candles. Tarsus was a ruined town, compared to Baghdad or even some of the Arabian and Roman cities on the Phoenician coast, yet the governor there had had an eye for luxury.

“That is quite the command,” Leo finally commented, as the Great King’s curiosity seemed to wander dangerously close to a jewelled box that the general himself had eyed. “Are the rumours true, then? Is it your intent to make her your heir? Some will protest the choice, my liege, I feel as if though I must warn you…”

“Heavens above, is there a conspiracy that you should also warn me about?” the Great King shot back, laughing heartily at what Leonidas could only assume was his own shocked expression. “What is this sudden interest you all have with my inheritance? I’m barely forty… and younger than you, I might add! Not some decrepit old man on his deathbed. Damned it all, I could still father a whole litter of little Princes!”

“Well, you are a bold warrior King, my lord…”

“Aye! And do the Gods not favour the bold? Or did the Roman fool you with their God of reclusion and lethargy?” the Great King had risen from his seat at Leonidas’s bedside, and for a moment the wounded man thought he had truly angered him. But Alkaios controlled himself, turning towards the door with a sigh. “You, of all people, must understand that it is in no measure pleasurable to think of one’s own demise, my friend,” the King admitted in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. “But I am no fool. I have been thinking about it. And yes, Alexandra was by my side as I traced the steps of the Pharaohs, and that was no mistake. Whether that will be her key to Egypt, to the entire Kingdom, or merely to a flattering marriage, will be up to her own strength. But if worse comes to worse, my brother – do not groan, now, he is still the Regent – will be able to manage the Realm until a husband is found for her. As long as you, oh Satraps and friends, honour my legacy, what risk is there?” he asked, speaking those last words like a command and admonition.

“Is this the reason for her command in Hellas, then?” Leonidas kept questioning, rather to sail over the last point than out of real curiosity. “A chance for Alexandra to prove her strength?”

At that, Alkaios finally turned back towards him, with a grin on his face. A grin that, despite the King’s reassurances, was beginning to show signs of age, creasing his cheeks as it shaped his face. “She would love that. I named her Alexander, and so, naturally, she thinks me Philip. But no. We managed to get Phrygia to submit through my sheer presence. So will it be for Hellas. Alexandra is but to hold Achaia until I will have reached the Roman walls with my armies, and then their lords in Thessalia and Attika and Boiotia will follow suit. I do not wish our ancient homeland ravaged by war. The Peloponnese was a necessary fight, but Macedon need not suffer us as soldier. Her lands will welcome us as farmers and shepherds.”

“Are you not the soldiers who conquered the world!?” Alexandra asked, her voice loud yet soft – as her tutors had taught her, to the assembled armies of Asia. Nearly the entire Phalanx, her father had granted her. A poisoned gift, as these were the star-eyed men who had been promised farms and wealth in their ancestral homes, and could stomach no more war. The faithful worshippers of Ares, the noble Companions who saw fighting as their duty, the bloodied veterans who no longer knew anything but the battlefield… those men had sailed to Cilicia with her father, that he might engage in glorious conquest while she held what little of the homeland they had already retaken. Her, and her staff of youths. Proud myrmidons, Alexandra had once called them. Yet the assembled armies of the Achaeans would as soon heed the word of their horses. It had not gone unnoticed that, whenever she sent Alexios to arrange a muster or even a simple assembly, the boy had first to ask Philandros for aid before the Phylarchs would listen to his messages.

And yet… what a figure they cut, those six thousand phalangites! For near two months they’d rested in the idyllic valleys that they knew only from the tales that their ancestors had passed down, and yet they were none the weaker for it, rest having been to them a source of healing and recovery, rather than laziness and weakness. “When I was but a child,” the Princess called out to that majestic assembly, “I remember watching this very force drill for hours on end, as I followed my father across conquered cities. Persian princesses would stare and admire the men who had taken their kingdoms and now took their hearts. My friends, the young boys of the Bactria koine, would look at you with dreaming eyes, for they could not wait until the day when they too could march amongst you.”

“And I know these things to be more than imagined memories, for I see some of those erstwhile boys among you now, and I know for a fact that many of you have Persian princesses for wives!” At that, a scattered rain of awkward laughter swept through the phalanx. Always a good sign, she thought, as she continued: “I’ve heard some of you be thankful, for the gift my father has given you. For these brooks, these vales, and these fields. This piece of Hellas. And it would serve me well, were I not to disprove you of that notion. Were I to rest on my laurels, as the daughter of the man who has broken a thousand years of exile. But that would be a betrayal. Because, Great though the King may be for having guided you here, you fought by his side every step of the way! Alkaios of the line of Amyntor, and the Gods that favour him, might have shown you the path, but they did not gift you the Peloponnese… you took it!”

Flattery worked like magic on any man, and some of the younger phalangites – those less deserving of such words – even shouted their approval. Alexandra’s smile stretched from ear to ear as she forced her pride to grant her back the power of speech for her grand finale: “Now, will you sleep as babes, hoping that real warriors will leave you the scraps of their great conquest… or will you come with me, and take the whole of Hellas for ourselves!?”

​

 

[Midnite Duke]

Alexandra is positioning herself to be the next leader. Her greatest fear must be a baby brother. Different titles: Basileus as king rather than emperor level with Alkaios as Megas Basileus. No Despots and Douxes? Thank you for the update.

 

[Eludio]

Thank you for the update. No civil war in the Eastern Roman Empire, the day must be young, for tomorrow will bring tales of Romans battling Romans as the Empire crumples.

If we give them the chance to battle each other at all…

Alexandra is positioning herself to be the next leader. Her greatest fear must be a baby brother. Different titles: Basileus as king rather than emperor level with Alkaios as Megas Basileus. No Despots and Douxes? Thank you for the update.

It might be interesting to see what she did then. Good, old-fashioned, Macedonia sibling-murder? Would she try to rule through him? A “”co-ruler”” position like the Queens of Egypt? Don’t think the Bactrians would be as friendly to incestuous weddings though.

As for the titles, I mostly made them from scratch for my (still WIP) submod. The idea is to get most of my titulature from (a mish mash and idealised version of) the Hellenistic period. Hence all Kings are “Basileus” with THE Emperor (typically of Persia) being Basileus Megas (or Megas Basileus, since my CK2 won’t register changes made to the localisation file…)

The Douxes (which comes from the Roman title of Dux, like Duke) are replaced by Meridarchs (a mostly Greco-Bactrian but possibly also Seleucid title for the ruler/administrator/governor of a Meris/region) and Comites (again, an originally Latin word) are now Polemarchs (since I couldn’t find a comparable title). Most of my King-level vassals are, however, viceroys, and so get the Satrap title (shamelessly stolen from Persia).

 

[Midnite Duke]

On sibling marriage, Bactria is close to the Mazdan homelands. The bigger problem would be the age difference between Alexandra and her little bubba. But I guess that he could take concubines to further the dynasty.

 

[filcat]

There is no world to let this one slip through the front-page of the kingdom of ck2, so there it is.

Author's notes: was supposed to publish this one on Saturday evening, but those three last paragraphs took me the whole weekend to write. As Phil would say: no small feat. Sadly, CK2 does not have any sort of naval battles, so this whole piece was fiction

Huh. Fiction; but just as you elaborate in the sentences following the above quote, it is more deserving to name it as wonderful creativity to find charming aesthetic in the writing.

Kudos.

 

[Eludio]

On sibling marriage, Bactria is close to the Mazdan homelands. The bigger problem would be the age difference between Alexandra and her little bubba. But I guess that he could take concubines to further the dynasty.

It is always a line I try to skirt carefully. As much as I can go with the "isolated enclave" line, my Bactrians have clearly been affected at the very least by the cultural evolutions of the Indo-Greek kingdom. I do suppose that they would look with greater leniency towards "Oriental Traditions" than their Alexandrine counterparts (being they themselves more Eastern than most Iranians), especially Phil's party, who kept to Buddhism and the shifts that occurred during the centuries. Though I'm afraid the one who would take greatest issue with a sibling marriage are the Satraps themselves. After all, why should the future Great King not marry one of their daughters?

There is no world to let this one slip through the front-page of the kingdom of ck2, so there it is.

Huh. Fiction; but just as you elaborate in the sentences following the above quote, it is more deserving to name it as wonderful creativity to find charming aesthetic in the writing.

Kudos.

Thank you for the kind words, Fil. I take full responsibility for the slip. A most cruel tyrant whose name sounds something akin to Eggs-Hams has recently taken up most of my time, though I am currently seeking to remedy that

 

[Eludio]

The Throne of Peter, the Crown of Caesar​

It was quite the ugly thing, if one were to speak verily. What amounted to an average sized box, its wood cursed by moulds and eaten by worms, its gilded decorations faded and scarred by time and usage and theft. Its back fared no better: once shaped like the entrance to an ancient Basilica, it now lacked two of its columns, and the pediment was marred by what looked like an old bloodstain. Of its armrests, no trace remained, if not for broken hints of the trunnels that had once bound them to the rest of the artifact. It was, all in all, just an old chair. And yet…

And yet, Witiking could not tear his eyes from it. No, Saint Peter’s Throne was indeed an old chair, and an ugly and ill-preserved one at that. Yet it was also so much more. Brother Isidore insisted on telling anyone that would listen that there was quite the slim chance that the Apostle had ever sat on that cushioned seat. Too new, too ornate… well, according to the Isidore, it had once been these things. Perhaps he might even have been right. But how could anyone deny that ugly old chair’s power? For centuries, the Saint’s successors had been enthroned on it, nearly enshrined in it, on their accession. The closest a mortal man could get to sitting at the Lord’s side, with the Patriarchs and the Archangels. No, it might have been an ugly thing to look at, but so were the hands of the carpenter, and yet through them had the world been saved. And now, it needed saving again.

“The sea will not stop this pagan horde from crossing into Italy, on this we do agree. And I do not suggest we stand idly by, as Persia’s armies sweep into the East,” the Preferatus, Cardinal Francisco de Fogaça conceded, much to Witiking’s pleasure. Yet the man had still not spoken a ‘but’, and so these words meant little. “But the Greeks have sealed their fate. And let us not speak of the Mahomeddans. Their fleets have scoured our sea, have terrorised our coasts for untold years. If the scourge of God falls upon them, it is a blessing, not a curse.”

“And so, what, Cardinal Fogaça? Are we simply to pray for our own salvation, hoping that our sins are more menial than the Greeks’, and let those Christian souls suffer under pagan heel? Differences with the Empire or not, it is our duty as shepherds to guide lost lambs back to the flock, not to leave them out to the wolves. Are you so gladdened that the pagan horde has damned the Arabians, that you willingly offer up the souls in Greece, yourself a pagan in front of your bloodied altar?”

“Temper your words, Witiking! I asked you hear to council me, not to trade barbs as bickering dowagers!” Pope Coelestinus finally spoke out, robbed by what the younger Cardinal had assumed to be his own reveries regarding Peter’s Seat. Witiking grew silent, head bowed before his mentor, yet in his heart annoyed that the Holy Father seemed more preoccupied with the manner of his speech than with the content of his words.

​

“No offence was given, I am certain, and none was taken by me, Holy Father,” the Preferatus assured with a smile, a smug perfect paragon of Christian virtue. “I understand your frustrations, Cardinal Esikonen. You know my birth, and so paint over my every word with the belief that I am somehow furthering some secret plot to rid Iberia of the Mahomeddan tyrants. And I will not lie, Holy Father, I do rejoice in the shattering of the Caliph’s kingdoms. But I do so because I see in the Persian horde the hand of providence!”

“Providence!?” Witiking scoffed, appalled at the seeming blasphemy. “Reborn Attila threatens to destroy the Lord’s bastion in the East, and you see providence?”

“Yes, Cardinal Esikonen, I do! The Lord’s justice can be harsh, and harsh it is proving to be against the errant peoples that now suffer under the hooves of the unbeliever. But it is justice, nonetheless. The Greek Emperors refused and yet refuse to acknowledge the authority of Rome. The Arabs blaspheme the Lord with their corrupt worship. And so, as he destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, the Highest now brings their kingdoms to heel. And well you do to mention Attila!” the Lusitanian bellowed, turning the heads of the cloistered monks that went about their business below the papal windows. “For remember you not, Cardinal, how it was that Attila, Scourge of the Earth, indomitable in battle, was finally sent back from whence he came? It was by the word of the Pontiff, not by the might of the sword, that Rome was saved from the monster!”

“What then, my friend? Would you have me take to sea, and land in Embassy on the Greek shores?” the Holy Father asked, his voice calm yet powerful. That, at least, gave the Spaniard some pause. “Or would you have me wait until this providential cleansing has been completed, and only interfere to stop this swarm of locusts when it has reached the gates of Rome, sole remaining bastion of pure and honest Christianity?” Witiking did his best not to chuckle.

“Never, Father! And please, do not mistaken my acceptance of the Lord’s harsh justice as a form of rejoicing. I bear no ill will towards the men of Egypt, or Greece, or Anatolia. I am only gladdened by the toppling of their Empires, that they may return to the flock without the burden of pride weighing on their shoulders. But as for the Persian King, I would never suggest apathy in front of such a threat. Simply, I advise your Holiness be mindful of the teachings that Christ our Lord imparted on Saint Peter, and do not turn to violence with undue hurry. For, should we wound this Persian Malchus, the Lord will not be there to heal him, and we may be dooming our Eastern brothers to further decades of suffering.”

“Decades of suffering are little, when compared to eternal salvation!” Witiking complained, but by the look in his mentor’s eyes he knew that the Holy Father had already made his choice, and that there would be no war.

“You are right, my dear Witiking, you are quite right,” Coelestinus nodded, his expression paternal and placid. “And should it come to it, we must be prepared to fight might with might. But Francisco is also wise in his suggestion of restraint. I would rather err on the side of caution, and see the City of Constantine destroyed by the barbarian, than myself be the cause of its downfall, when still it could be rescued. We should first send embassies to the Persian king, we must first turn the other cheek, and hope that peace might prevail. And yet, Witiking, greatest among my students,” the Holy Father spoke out with all the gravitas that his ageing voice could convey, “you have my blessing to begin your own embassy. Should diplomacy fail us, the Christian princes of Europe must be ready. We follow the way of peace, but we are not weak. Cardinal de Fogança, you will bring the Persians our merciful offers. But you will do so with armoured hand. Cardinal Esikonen, you I task to forge that armour.”

​

It was an item of beauty, verily so. Six square plates of the most delicate gold, enamelled with tiles of viridescent glass and jewelled like the neck of an Eastern Queen. A gift from a Roman Augustus of old, to the faithful vassal that had rescued Italy from the wrath of the barbarian tide. Once, perhaps, they had been the wreath on an Emperor’s helm. Now, they were the crown of a Caesar. One who had not just protected Italia from a barbaric King’s wrath, but had done what countless ancient Emperors could not, and had brought Roman laws and Roman peace to the warring princes of Germania. Truly, of all the men that ever set that crown upon their heads, Rossella’s father Castore had to be the most deserving. Not a foreign King, crowned by a frightened Pontiff in an effort to protect the Eternal City, but a true son of Italy, who now stood as her great defender.

And yet, at times it seemed to Princess Rossella that the true beauty of the Crown of Italy came not from the Greek gold that adorned its sides, but from that simplest of circlets that stood at its heart, that Iron nail that shone almost as silver, that most holy of relics entrusted to the Emperors in the West. A sign of martyrdom, and of Christianity itself. Christianity which now stood on the brink, as a new barbarian tide came from the East and engulfed the Greeks and their sea. And against that tide, the great Emperor Castore offered no shelter. “I have offered my brother in the East the most favourable of terms in exchange for my aid,” he had answered harshly to the Basileus’s envoys, “yet he refuses to acknowledge me as his equal in the West. Rebukes my rightful claim to govern all of Italia. Renounces the authority of the Patriarch of that same Rome whose name he wears as a mantle. No, gentlemen. I have already offered your lord my hand. He spat on it.”

And so, six centuries or so later, the West returned the favour that the East had done onto it during the time of the great invasions and sat silent while its sibling was ravaged and cast down. Rossella saw not the wisdom in this. Thought it foolish and mad, and more than that impious, to let fellow Christians, fellow Romans, suffer under Persian swords due to a slight of honour, no matter how large. But what would she know? She was but a young and wide-eyed princess, and her father was the restorer of the Western Empire. He could not be so horribly wrong, could he?

Author's notes: I'd say "I'm back!" but I feel as if though I've started too many of my notes that way. So, instead, to the meat and potatoes: the Throne of Peter, and the Crown of Caesar. Let's start with the second one: historically, the Iron Crown of the Lombards/of Lombardy. Of doubtful origin, and certainly altered during the centuries, at least part of the golden plaques are dated to around the 5th century. Theories vary as to its nature, ranging from a crown made for a child (I've even read about it being Romulus Augustulus's - but that seems as far fetched as most theories about the kid himself), to it being a gift from the Emperor in Constantinople to Theodoric, first Ostrogothic King of Italy (the story Rossella clearly believes). I personally like the idea that it was originally a set of jewelled plaques removed from a decorative helmet and forged into a crown, simply because of the symbolical value. As for the nail of the True Cross, that Princess Rossella comments "shone almost like silver"? It's actual silver, and it's a safe bet that it was never used to crucify anybody, in Judea or otherwise.

The game did come in my favour, since the Imperatore Castore decided that he would rather the Iron Crown than the Reichskrone, even tough he owns both. I suppose it also did me a huge favour by giving me a HRE that is Italian enough for the Hellenistic enemy to consider them their old Roman enemy. Castore would deserve his own AAR: I have no idea how Otto's HRE formation events work, but he was soundly defeated by our dear Castore (whose family becomes historically very important during the Investiture Controversy) who then formed the Empire. He then defeated some two or three revolts staged by the German princes, took some land from the Byzantines, and managed to look somewhat decent even using the Italian portrait set! All worthy achievements.

But now for the Throne of Peter. Much like the Iron Crown's nail of the "True" Cross, it is a complete forgery, though this fact seems to have been accepted far before anyone thought about trying to date the Crown (hence my mention of a "Brother Isidore"). It's been used in the enthronement ceremony of the Popes in Rome for (at most) three centuries by Witikind's time, and has been conserved in a beautifully crafted bronze reliquary, made by Bernini in the 17th century, which I've had the pleasure of seeing myself when I visited Saint Peter's Basilica. In the eleventh century, no such reliquary existed, but I can imagine it still being kept somewhere private, apt for important conversations between Cardinals.

 

[Idhrendur]

Regardless, it's always nice to see an update.