“It is ready? Everything, because, Theo, if it isn’t I will set my son on you, and little torturer Phelonius would gladly enjoy the chance to drain your life away.” Alexios spoke calmly, but Theo spoke back sounding worried,
“I assure you my lord, it is ready, the eagle hangs from the lectern, and a mighty crowd has gathered.” Theo bowed, “They expect you to arrive any minute sir.”
“Then I will arrive.” The Basil ran his hand over his face, before striding out into the open, raising a hand to acknowledge the cheering, before climbing up onto the lectern. When he raised both hands the entire crowd fell silent, “People of Constantinople, many of you know of my dream, your dream, the Empire’s dream, Roma Redividus, each and every one of you are more civilised than the barbarian Kings of Europe, and also of those you can plot against restoring an empire, those that are currently plotting against me, those that belong to the.” Alexios paused, “To the Byzantine League, many of the City’s greatest families plot against me, but my army is rising, three-thousand men so far, over half of which are the bravest citizens of this noble city, these men seek to undermine the return of the Empire, would you let them do this?” he opened his arms, and embraced the response, a resounding affirmative noise. “Well then, tell all your peasant pals, go home and get your pitchforks, and be the angry mob that stings the Byzantine League’s bum.” He waved his arms, “Away with you!”, the mob scurried away, hallooing and cheering, Alexios turned, smiling, that was a few points on the Basil’s side, and indeed, victory.
Two Hours Later
Three-thousand men now stood outside the Basil’s palace, they were clear what they wanted, Alexios to submit to their wills. MikhailSzekeres looked up at the high window where Alexios peered out, any arrows fired up there were pointless, and they were merely waiting for the Emperor’s force to arrive, no attempt was made to force entrance into the palace. Although a servant that had charged out of the kitchen to try and slay every soldier in a futile attempt to save the Basil, his body was now floating in the Bosporus. And just as the army settled into a long wait, the Basil’s force arrived.
And so began the Battle of the Basil’s Palace
...
The Battle of the Basil’s Palace
One-Eye was a peasant, and having put on a padded leather jacket and having took a spear and shield from the armoury he ran, not to the forum where the ‘mob’ were arranged to meet, but to the palace, where the Byzantine League army was besieging the palace, he had always been an anarchic. Perhaps driven to madness by how he was shunned, having been born with one eye-socket empty, his mother had kept him secret until he was thirteen, when the local priest, Gavriel Branas, had been asked about him. Not only had the priest declared him a ‘son of the devil’ but had been on the verge of stabbing the boy to death before the fanatic priest heard his mothers frantic pleading, ever since he had been spat at on the street, and kicked by boys that should have been his friends. One-Eye thought that if he fought for the Byzantine League they would give him a powerful position in the new aristocracy, and if they lose, well, he had no friends in this world, he’d lose nothing. One-Eye was unusually observant, having spent his life hiding in secrecy from devil-hunters and GavrielBranas, who had luckily passed away earlier that year. And he was lucky, as he saw quickly where the power of the Byzantine League’s army lay, and shoving his way past many heavily armoured men, who spat at him, seeing the empty socket, or crossed themselves. He arrived, panting, and knelt at the feet of the man he perceived to be the leader. The man was tall, with northern looking features and an air of natural command; he broke off giving order to a heavily armoured man leaning on a shining sword and addressed One-Eye in a disparaging manner. “And why is there a smelly one-eyed peasant groveling at my feet?” he seemed to be addressing the general, but One-Eye answered none the less, feeling terribly self conscious, “I’ve come to fight for you, sir, and to inform you that long with the thousand imperial troops there will be maybe five, thousand peasant mob, sir, coming with all haste. The Basil knew who you was and what you was doing, and he told them of it in a speech nigh on two hours ago. He knew, and so the fight will be harder, and as small as my help is, I come to aid you, sir.”
“There is a traitor then, oh well, Manuel, get the men in battle formation, One-Eye, follow Iosif here, he fight with a hundred men from the city. Your information is valued and you shall be repaid.” If I live, thought One-Eye, but he followed Iosif, who silently took him to a regiment of men from the Docklands, he was paired with two men, Ioannes and Dromon, named after the ship, they showed open mistrust and dislike, even from the beginning when One-Eye had been introduced by Iosif,
“Son o’ the devil en’t ‘e Ioannes?” Dromon had sneered as soon Iosif was out of ear and eye sight, he had pushed One-Eye in the gut, unprepared, he had stumbled and fell to the floor, “Weaklin’, in battle you ‘ave be stronger than that, brace yeself this time.” And Dromon had charged again, while Ioannes laughed harshly, this time One-Eye thrust back, and toppled the aggressor, inwardly he threw a party, while outwardly he looked modest. Ioannes had stop laughing, and Dromon’s face, plastered in pig muck, looked up with hatred. “Better not be in front of me in the battle, you might find a spear poking out of you.” He spat at One-Eye’s feet, luckily, before One-Eye was murdered by the two men, orders were issued to face forwards, ten ranks behind the main battle. The were jogging to their position when Ioannes spoke: “Ever bin on a ship?”
“No.”
“Or a battle?”
“No.”
“Well, this’ll be a nice surprise for you then.” Ioannes dropped silent for a minute, but when they reached their position he spoke again, “Ever seen blood and decapitated heads rolling on the floor, injured men coughing up their life-blood, the dead limp on the floor?”
“No.”
“Well then, nothing can prepare you for that.”
“You fill me full of hope.”
“ATTENTION! THE ENEMY IS HERE! FORM UP! FORM UP!” a large, muscled man roared to the regiment, “COME ON YOU ‘AIRY SAILORS! FORM UP!”
And then they heard the Basil’s army chanting:
“OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT WITH THE BYZANTINE! OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT! OUT!”
And they roared back, a primeval sound, like a pack of wolves on the hunt. One-Eye tensed himself as the frontline of kataphracts engaged with the Basil’s men, the sound of dying men’s screams and limbs being hacked off and leaking blood and pain and misery and death. And he saw blood leaking through the pave-stones towards him. He retched, adding the putrid smell of sick to the overwhelming odour of sweat and blood. He saw Ioannes raising an eyebrow out of the corner of his eye. Then:
“CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGE! PUSH THEM! PUSH! PUSH!” the same burly officer was roaring at them to go forwards, and they ran forwards, pushing into the mass of bodies, they felt tension being released as the men in front of them fell, and then One-Eye was in the front-line, he raised his shield and retched again as he saw dead bodies, blood, the stench of carnage, a sword thrust hit his wooden shield and he fell backwards, the men behind him swore and him and pushed him back into the fray. He plunged his spear into the man in front of him’s gut, he fell to the floor, flailing wildly, crying. One-Eye leapt forwards and thrashed about with his shield. He heard a deep whizzing noise. A large catapult rock rolled past him, glancing off his skull. He knew no more.
After the Battle
One-Eye regained consciousness, and his first feeling was that of pain, terrible pain, anguish, torment, agony, torture, he tried to scream but no voice came out, it was a silent cry, but the pain was evident. He rolled in distress and misery, and rolled into a crow pecking at a dead body, he vaguely recognized it, and then with a noiseless gasp he saw beneath the blood- Asca. Asca, the terror of his childhood, Asca, who had thrown stones at him, Asca, whose gang had nearly drowned him, Asca, Asca, Asca who he had known since he had been a toddler. One-Eye didn’t understand why, but a tear trickled down his face. He crumpled to the floor, and sobbed silently into Asca’s body.
“MikhailSzekeres, Basil of New Rome. MikhailSzekeres, liberator of the City. MikhailSzekeres… Mikhail, grandson of a Russian ambassador… BasileusMikhail the First.”
One-Eye heard footsteps behind him, it was the general, he looked up from the bloody corpse of Asca and saw the general, crawling towards him.
“MikhailSzekeres… Mikhail… BasileusMikhail, Emperor Mikhail, aaargh!”
The general puked, a sickly mixture of blood and saliva. He lunged for One-Eye, and deranged, grabbed him by the neck. “You boy! You dirty peasant! You scum! D’you know how we lost? Do you? It was that dirty, scummy, mob! You hear me? The mob! That bloody mob some peasant told us about. Was it you! You look familiar! Ah yes, the one-eyed kid! I’m gonna kill you, it’s your fault, all your fault.”
And with a mad roar he tightened his grip and kicked One-Eye, who, having been dazed before by his madness, came to his sense and bit his assailants hand, fresh blood spurted into his face, and the irony taste spilt onto his tongue. He choked, as Mikhail screamed and leapt back, regaining his breath, curled into a ball Mikhail looked up, “You bloody animal.”
And fell to the floor, unconscious, One-Eye sighed, and fell to the floor, his mouth damp from the General’s blood, but as it dried it felt parched, he tried to force sound from his throat, but all he could muster was a sad croak. He was resigned to death, and when the heavily armoured man came and slew him, he merely accepted death, and even, perhaps, was grateful for it.
FlaviusBalgiarote lent on his sword and smiled a secretive little smile, which graduated into a broad grin, and eventually a maniacal laugh. A head-wound bled profusely down his face, and for a good few minutes he guffawed and chuckled in glee and mad happiness. He looked at the body at his feet.
“Michael Phillipus, perhaps I should thank you for this victory. The man who let the traitor in.”
The Seljuk Siege of Antioch, 1083 Anno Domini
The ramparts of Antioch, Mons Silpius
“If only Taticius were here. We could do with Alexius’ general here.”
“Aye, aye,”
“The Turks are massing, three weeks and they finally decide to attack. The men aren’t ready.”
”What men? All we have are a few levy men, since Anatolia fell at Manzikert there has been little to no news. All we got in the letter from Cyprus that got through was that the Basil crushed a rebellion in Constantinople, we have been abandoned, if men were being sent they would already have arrived.”
“We have men though, we have men, Nicephorus.”
“Scarcely soldiers, more men who see the world as it is, better to die in battle than to be systematically executed by the Turks for the crime of being a Christian! Face it, our time is over Theotokios, our time is over. All we can do is fight for honour.”
Nicephorus peered over the ramparts, “They are coming, Theo, God Bless You.” He grasped his counterparts hand and raising the standard high into the air drew his sword, he turned to the man on the opposite side to Theotokios. “Master Archer, it is time to fire.”
The man nodded and raised an army, “Reload. Aim. FIRE!”
Arrows bit into the Turks ranks, but none of the howling infidels faltered, carrying ladders, running, screaming, howling. Behind them the siege towers and the rams were being lugged forwards, and the miners were running out of their rat holes, but the walls would not fall to the floor, unless the bribe had failed.
“Reload. Aim. FIRE! ... VOLLEY! Reload. Aim. FIRE! ... VOLLEY!”
Nicephorus beat a sinister rhythm upon his legging with his gauntlet, he looked sideways at Theotokios and spoke solemnly:
“And so the battle begins.”
Theotokios nodded, and gulped, but did not reply, arrows bit into the Turk ranks, but they carried on, a relentless tide. Sixty-thousand men, infidel fiends, doom and despair hung over the massed men on the walls of Antioch. They were going to die, the ominous sound of Nicephorus leggings seemed to rise to a crescendo in Theotokios’ mind before it consumed him and battle-fear gripped him, he was in a stupor of terror, but was woken by Nicephorus tapping him on the back.
“Theo, it’s time.”
He had his sword drawn, and the steady look on his old friend face was reassuring. He nodded and drew his sword, one long line of men, stretching around the entire wall. One thin line, Antioch’s hope, Theotokios would have laughed if death hadn’t been so imminent.
The Master Archer looked across to Nicephorus and put down his bow and drew his sword, “Well then, to victory.”
Nicephorus nodded, “The first ladder is here.”
With a roar Theotokios reached out to push the ladder down, and just as a leering Turk face peered over it fell into the abyss.
All along the line men were pushing ladders down, but there was no time to watch, as in the adjacent ladders Turks had come reached the top of the ladders and were hacking and keening harsh war cries. Nicephorus stabbed one in the gut, and he toppled over, taking the entire ladder worth of men with him, it fell sideways, scything through the next ladder. However, Nicephorus had no time to celebrate, as the Master Archer was engaged by one who had made it onto the ramparts, and was losing, as danger of falling onto the paving below was pending. Indeed, as the Master Archer lost his footing Nicephorus plunged his sword hilt deep into the Turk, and as the tip protruded through the enemy’s back he grabbed the Master. He nodded in thanks before engaging the next man. Just as all four ladders were defeated, the siege towers came.
There was only time for a brief respite before the hatch opened, and a swathe of Turks landed on the wall. And they charged. The pressing weight of a mass of sweating bodies. The reek of blood and gore, the screams of dying Turks, Theotokios glanced at Nicephorus, and saw his head, as if in slow motion, fly off his neck and twist, spurting life-blood. It fell, and fell, down, down off the wall. Theotokios uttered a soundless scream, cut short by a Turk scimitar in his heart. The Master Archer, seeing he was left alone, roared in defiance and plunged further into the fray.
Hack. Left. Right. Plunge. Sweep. Punch. Hack. Duck. Left. Elbow. Thrust. Block. Parry. Hack. Chop. Swing. Duck...
And so he fell to the floor, dead.
If you’re going to lose you should go out fighting, Aleksandros thought as his small bunch of men condensed, a small pocket holding out against the Turks. As the women and children hid in their houses, and the horrific sound of those in the adjacent buildings that did not dishearten the soldiers, but fight with more ferocity, they were fighting to avenge the pending doom of the Christian Antioch. Aleksandros looked to the sky as more men fall. Once honest merchants and smiths, tanners or farmers from the area, fighting not out of blood-lust, but out of necessity, Aleksandros remembered Nicephorus Bolanchiantes’ speech:
“Men, we fight not today because we are warriors, we fight not today because we want to, we fight not today because we lust for blood, no men, we fight today because we cherish that which is ours. We fight for our children. We fight for our wives. We fight to save. What do the Turks fight for? What reason? Can anyone tell me what their reason is? No! Because the Turks fight for gain, not for love! Think that for every infidel you slay you save one Christian’s life, put that behind your sword-hand. Put that behind your bow-string. Put that behind your spear-hand.
So Men! Go out and punish these devils!”
Aleksandros punched the air with his sword and beat it on the pommel of his shield, for a decade he had nurtured this city, as a minister and member of the bureaucracy of Antioch, and now he was taking up sword and shield to fight. It gave him pride, and as he watched men hacked down in front of him, and saw defeat, he did not weep. But charged.
And so ended Roman rule over Antioch
And so began...
Roma Redividus
Flavius shifted visibly, “whose information is this? Is he reliable? Inexperienced men often severely exaggerate armies when they see them.”
“No,” Alexius said ponderously, “My best agent, he also reports that the Christian population was decimated, and the remainder forcibly converted. It is terrible, and when we move next spring we will move with such a vengeance as has never been seen before. Taticius will take ten thousand to Rhodes and from there to Milas and Halicarnassus, you are being given five thousand to reinforce Sinope, and I am leading the army over the straits to Nicomedia and Nicaea. Hopefully the land between Sinope and Milas, including Smyrna, will surrender. From there we will march to Iconium and Caesarea, and send you to regain Trebizond and Taticius to Armenia. Then, assuming the plan is faultless we will converge on Syria, at Antioch and march south through Tripoli and Acre. However, that is only the plan and it is liable to go wrong. I know you know this, but it is a long wait of sending assassins and spies into the land that was once ours. Of sending agents on suicide missions to our friends in Asia Minor, I lust, Flavius, I lust for war, to regain, to conquer, to revenge.” Alexios banged his fist on the table
“As good a Casus Belli as there ever was.”
“RomaRedividus. Imagine belonging to the clique that ruled to Empire that stretched from the end of the world to Persia, having the power to govern the lives of men on the opposite side of the world. I would risk anything if the chance is there, those fools in the ‘Byzantine League’, holding back power. Flavius, you saved Rome. Have some more wine.” Alexios proffered the glass,
“Gladly, sir.” He took it and sipped thoughtfully at it, “Here we are, sitting in the capital of the world, next to the HagiaSophia, first and foremost awesome wonder of the world and we still have want for more. Ambition.”
He didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. Flavius was the second most important man in the Empire, almost on equal terms with the Basil, and above even Taticius. His role in suppressing the Byzantine rebellion had been rewarded, not only with revenge on all those who had prosecuted him, and seeing them kneel before him, but by money, and position. FlaviusBalgiarotes, the second most powerful man in the second most powerful Empire in the known world, not that he’d ever admit the Romans were inferior to the Turks, he had Roman pride and Roman ambition.
The House of Mikhail Szekeres, the Parley Room
Nikhita Szekeres had just arrived from travels in Russia, and he listened attentively to Antonina as she reported all that had happened over the last month. His uncle Mikhail leading a rebellion against Alexios’ foolish dreams, the battle of the Basil’s Palace and Flavius Balgiarotes treachery, but also the finer details, the complex political landscapes of the City, Romans, Greeks, the few remaining Byzantines, Macedonians, and of course, the Kievan faction, she spent hours explaining, over the bread Nikhita was ravaging in front of her. However, Nikhita was young and clever, and knew he had to swallow and digest all of this to stand a chance as the new Szekeres family head. He wanted to gather the scattered Byzantine league and work through the realms of treachery to bring down Alexios. Chance would have it, that Nikhita had friends in Kiev, powerful friends. He rubbed his hands in anticipation, and told the widowed Antonina all.
Constantinople
The City
How could her internal feuds ever succumb to Roman desire?
How could the disparate factions meld together as a single one?
Rome
The City
When would an Emperor march down her streets again?
When Roma Redividus
Romanorum Redividus
Roma Rebuilt
The Eastern Mediterranean, 1084 AD
The General’s House, the Barracks, Constantinople, March 12th
Taticius, Flavius Balgiarotes, Basil Alexios, names that held audiences among the upper classes of the Empire captivated when thrown onto the table, gathered in a small, cramped room in the Army Barrack in the City. The Empire’s greatest General, her Basil and her Saviour, the room smelt of power as they spoke quietly over the map, Taticius moving markers around the board:
“We move here, the Turks move the reinforce Iconium and march out of it towards Nicaea…”
the great general continued in the same vein, but Alexios and Flavius remained rapt with attention, listening as Taticius conveyed the information they knew off by heart: Alexios to Nicaea and Nicomedia, Taticius to the south, Flavius reinforcing Sinope, joining together to strike towards Caesarea past Iconium. But with each rendition their heart-rate increased, the drum beat of war resounded through their heads, and they waited. And on March 20th, the Ship Master gave those long awaited words:
“The fleet is ready”
The Marmara, March 22nd
The wind rifled through Flavius’ hair as he leaned over the great ships side, he felt pleasure as his hair was whipped against his face by the wind, he was going to reclaim Asia Minor, he was a worthy son of Rome, he was going to war. Twenty ships, five-thousand men, bound to fight Turks at Sinope. Flavius raised his head and gulped down the sea air, life was good.
Nicaea, March 30th
The Basil looked down at the sniveling, groveling Turk at his feet, he had surrendered with virtually no fight, as they had at Nicomedia on the way, cowardly Turks. But Alexios never let his guard drop, this could be a plot by the Turks to withdraw and lull into a false sense of security, but it wouldn’t work, Alexios was ready, and when all fell before him, be it by surrender or arms, he would not relax, he was ready. He had sent letters for the army to converge outside Iconium, with his thirty-five thousand meeting with Flavius in Galatia, and Taticius arriving as reinforcements, perhaps vital reinforcements. Or perhaps just to make the number fifty-thousand, although still a lot less than the Turk horde, quality would see through, and Rome employed Horse Archers of her own.
Sinope, April 15th
Flavius, a good old Roman name, thought Cassius, like his, his parents having believed in something to the effect of Roma Redividus and chosen a name they had heard often of in texts. Cassius and Flavius, they could be centurions or legionaries, but they weren’t, they were Greeks with Roman heritage striving to reclaim the land they thought rightfully theirs. The land that was rightfully theirs, Cassius found himself thinking. They had driven the Turks from Paphlagonia and Flavius and his army had marched south through Pontus, taking many men with them, but for the first time in ages there was no Turk army outside the city, ever since Manzikert Cassius had been on the edge, and only now could he relax and drink fine wine and eat cheeses and rich meat without fretting about his life. He closed his eyes and remembered sticking his sword through a Turk throat, of the satisfaction of killing these men that had sucked the happiness out of the region, of evil blood perishing by way of his sword. It was going well. Romanorum Redividus.
Rhodes, Isle of Rhodes, May 25th
The Governor’s large face lit up as he saw the army from the walls he had been watching from ever since news of the fleet’s completion had reached him, he had gathered an army of fifteen-thousand from the Greek Islands and Rhodes, trained in sailing and killing they were proud to be serving the Empire, and it gave the Governor pride to have set it into action. Taticius himself had spoken to the Governor, he had commended him on his work and had entered a long discussion on the arts with him, the Governor felt not only privileged, but proud that he could converse with such figures. He had reveled in this glory, and had continued too long after they had left on May 30th.
May 26th, Galatia
Anatolia and Eastern Greece, Strategic Locations
The army had arrived and set camp, Flavius had seen off many small ambuscades and skirmishing parties, and even now the Turks were harassing his men as they put up a palisade and pitched. His detachment of men from Sinope was fighting well, sending volleys back into the Turks, although when Captain Mazakes tried to orchestrate a charge Flavius was forced to intervene, explaining at length why charging horse-archers is a bad idea and the advantages foot-archers have over their mounted counter parts in a shoot-out. Luckily the captain was a good learner, and when Flavius left him to his own devices he coped reasonably well. Although it took Flavius’ own horse-archers to win the skirmish, only fifty men had perished on the journey, but twenty had died and fifteen were injured from the skirmish. An inconsequential number when put alongside the size of Flavius’ army: fifteen-thousand, but still too much for the skirmish. Mazakes knew this, and determined to become a general of Taticius standard. Meanwhile Flavius attended to administration of the camp, guards, palisades, light fortification, rations and even mercenary wages with a group of Alans. However, when the leader’s demands became too extortionate and Flavius stabbed him in the gut there they relented with the fear of death in them. Flavius was a harsh man, but demanded respect from his soldiers.
The Emperor’s Tent, the Camp, May 30th
Alexios had arrived in the morning; it had been hectic after securing Cannakale he had force marched the army to Galatia, sending riders south through Turk territory, and only now could he relax. And now having relaxed in his tent, he took a short stroll. He made sure to have guards posted outside, trusted men who had served him for years, he was entertaining a young guest, at least, Alexios was middle-aged, and he seemed young to him. And while Alexios took a stroll round the camp the guest waited:
But Romanus Phillipus was young and handsome with it, his elegantly curved features carrying heavy hints of his dead father, he also had the natural disposition of ease inherent of the Phillipus family and as he reclined in the soft chair his light scent filled the air. Romanus nodded to the servant as he refilled his wine and said: “Alexios will be here in a minute, sir.” The servant had a painfully nasal voice, but Romanus did not wince, he replied lightly, his elegant voice and his sophisticated accent making the servant pay heed:
“Well the sun is setting in the west, he had better get here soon or I shall too.”
“Of course, sir.” The servant replied whimsically, “Anything I can do, sir?”
“No, you may leave.”
As the first servant left another walked through the hanging curtain guarding the tent, and observing the reclining noble man, feet on a footstall carved from finest ebony imported from Ceylon at great expense, eyes shut luxuriantly, coughed, he too had a nasal voice, presumably something Alexios nurtured a penchant for:
“Sir, the Emperor is coming, and he will not appreciate your feet dirtying the footstool.” Romanus raised an eyebrow, “Servant, I do not expect advice from you, go.”
The tone of his voice had changed dramatically from addressing the first servant, it was flat and harsh, although the refined accent subtly remained in the fore. The servant dropped his eyes and scurried through the same curtain the first one had left through. As soon as he had left though, Romanus dropped his feet from the stool, tonight he did not want to anger the Basil.
Several moments later the Basil walked in, with him he brought not the air of confrontation Romanus had expected, especially after the incident with the Byzantine League, in which his father had been irreparably involved, but an opening, trusting, look, as if he sook for friendship . And it was unbeknownst to Alexios that Romanus had fallen a very long way from the tree, he did not share his father’s sentiments. Indeed, Romanus considered that he had only inherited his father’s better traits, grace, composure, finesse, urbanity. And he was remarkably urbane now as he addressed the Basil:
“Hail, Emperor of Constantinople, I thank you for the fine wine you have seen fit to give me, and ask what it is you wish to ask, if it is permitted?”
The Basil ran his hand through his beard and raised it after a few moments of judgment, “Please, please, Romanus, here you are a guest and I hope to make a friend today, as I see prospect in you, a fine young man as you are. And I wish to prove the truth by extending the hand of friendship, and with it the hospitality of an Emperor of Rome.”
Romanus was taken aback, he was sure his mother had mentioned his father having met the Basil before, during the early stages Byzantine rebellion, and how Alexios had been cold and distanced, he had expected the same treatment, but no, unless this was some façade behind which hid a cold-blooded animal. He bowed deeply and sat again before he replied, his quick mind calculating all the time:
“It is an utmost honour to have the friendship of you, Alexios, I understand you secured Cannakale before moving to here, and I am interested, did the Turks put up a fight?”
“Funny you should mention it,” Alexios lowered himself gently into a padded armchair, “They didn’t, or at Nicomedia, or Nicaea, I suspect something, Romanus, a clever Turk trick.”
“Indeed,” Romanus ran a finger down the olive skin of his left cheek thoughtfully, “We can not afford another Manzikert, I was only six when it happened, but I still remember a visitor storming into the house and having a rage. I trust there are no Armenian generals this time around?”
The Basil smiled, “No, just Taticius, me and Flavius, and we each have our under-generals, captains and lieutenants.”
“All incomprehensible gabble to me sir,” Romanus said, “I am a man of politics not war.”
“A shame, you would have made a good leader of men.”
A silence lay over the tent, Romanus sipped some of the wine, pondering the Basil, as Alexios poured himself some more and lay back. They sized each other up, and Romanus spoke first, “When will Trebizond be taken, as I understand it we are pushing through Central Anatolia and missing Armenia and Trebizond until later.”
“That depends where the Turk army is, to which I have no clue, my agents have lost them, although I do not intend to be surprised as at Manzikert.”
“The Greeks, in particular Andronicus Halacaites, still remember the Norman invasions, they wish to attack Italy and reclaim land there, it would be wise to not spend to long fighting in Asia or you may face another major uprising. And the political machinations of Constantinople are only fathomable to those well experienced in dealing with such things, you must be careful, Basil. And quick, but not hasty, and we must not fail.” Romanus was serious,
“It is only natural for the Greeks to wish for vengeance, but they will have to wait, as will Andronicus Halacaites. I have a plan here, and I will not abandon it before it is finished.” The Basil stood, “God be with you, Romanus, I must leave to converse with Flavius Balgiarote, you are free in this camp to do as you wish, I leave you now.” And he strode out of the room, his elegant cloak flicking at his heels.
Romanus Phillipus whistled and leaned back in his chair, he closed his eyes and sipped some wine, he rested it down on the table before slowly falling to sleep.
June 12th , The road to Iconium, Near Kaymaz
The marching column of sixty-thousand had been marching since dawn, leaving only a thousand men to guard the camp, in high spirits they sang as they marched, of divine retribution upon the infidel Turks, of victory, of their families. Veterans recounted tales of the wars before Manzikert, of the Normans and new recruits were filled with an excitement for their first battle. And it came sooner than expected.
Alexios had been running an advanced forward scouting system, and it was reported to him in the morning that a Turk army was on the way, seventy-thousand men plus five-thousand nobles to the west. The Romans were conveniently in a sloping valley, so they set up a pike-line spanning the lowest curve of the valley. The mass of Alan mercenaries were set up on a ridge to the east and the archers and the catapults to the west, the plan was to funnel the army into a narrow gap to fight the infantry and to charge them with the Alans and rained arrows upon them. But in war, plans rarely go right.
“Romanus Phillipus, you are so unlike you’re father and yet so alike, it is uncanny.” Flavius Balgiarotes cast Romanus a sideways glance, expecting mention of his father to evoke some emotional reaction, but no, Romanus merely smiled and replied:
“I suppose I took the better aspects of him and did away with the… more rebellious parts.”
Upstart kid, cocky little… Flavius thought, but instead changed the topic, “Thank the Lord, I would hate to be anywhere near anyone like your father, no offence meant. Ever been in a battle before Romanus?”
“No.” he said, simply. “And as my first one looms on the horizon I do not quiver in fear, I stand tall and strong and await it.”
He thinks that, wait until some screaming Turk is lunging for his throat with a bloody sword “Can you surmise anything from Alexios’ tactics?”
“All I can work out is that he has kept the force as one except for the scouting forces to avoid a repetition of Manzikert, and that he intends to ‘lure’ the Turks into the bottleneck and enclose them.”
“Like Hannibal at Cannae in the days of the ancients, when our ancestors were defeated by the African general.”
“I have heard of that, my mother kept many books.”
“The books don’t tell of the horrors of war, of battle, when we meet the Turks this afternoon…”
He was cut short by an abnormally tall noble, riding up and tapping him on the shoulder, handing his a slab of meat and a goblet of wine, “With the Basil’s congratulations.” He said, with a hint of sarcasm on his voice. He was more cordial to Romanus, stating: “I knew your father,” before walking off.
After eating and have drunk his wine, Flavius turned to Romanus:
“Do you know him?”
“Indeed, he arrived in Constantinople a week before I left, he is Nikhita, the son of Mikhail Szekeres.”
Early-Afternoon
These were the last moments of peace they would have, and they spent it playing games, eating and drinking, silently psyching themselves up for the battle. But Flavius had other interests, Nikhita Szekeres
He strode casually up to the tall Kievan and tapped him on the shoulder, “I knew your father.”
Nikhita spat in Flavius’ face, evidently he was less of a political face than his slick father, “Traitor.”
“I was acting in not only my own best interests, but the Empire’s and Rome’s.” Flavius replied, serenely wiping the spit off his face.
“You killed my father.” Nikhita stood and drew his sword.
“No, your father caused his own death, and I wouldn’t do that, I may be fifty-one years of age but I am still an adept swordsman.” Nikhita lunged.
In one swift, flowing movement Flavius dodged the blade, drew his sword and knocked it out of Nikhita’s hands. He winked and stood on the sword, “Don’t be so hasty, young man, and don’t even think of stabbing me in the back, he kicked the sword away, among the silently watching nobles, and strode away. He could feel Nikhita’s eyes burning holes in his armour, but he did not turn, a waste of energy on that feisty young man.
The Battle Of Kaymaz
The Turks came at Mid-Afternoon, bringing bows and arrows aplenty, a massive horde riding through the Anatolian mountains. Captain Andronicus of the archers order the first volley, but the Turks struck first, and so began the battle of Kaymaz.
The Alans charged down the hill to skirmish the advancing Turks, mainly unarmoured peasants on foot, armed only with a short knife and a bow. It would be massacre as long as the Alans did not get bogged down.
“It is good to feel the blood of war coursing through our veins once more.”
The Alans turned the Turk advancing left flank, but did not listen to any orders from the generals, and the new mercenary leader Theotokios Alanoi, a Greek, could only hope the Alans did not do anything other than the harry the Turk archers on this flank, and did not charge into the mass of Turkish spears in the centre.
Meanwhile, on the Turk right, the mounted archers are engaged in heavy arrow exchanging between them and the archers, a battle that would continue long until the sun went down, indeed, when the Turk army withdrew to the other end of the valley. Groups of Turks remained on each flank, while the infantry rested. The Roman line relaxed as well, apart from the archers, who retained steady fire against the Turks. The Alans were skirmishing still on the Turk left.
It was not until the last bright hours of the day, when the sun was sinking over the hill in the west that the battle resumed in earnest.
And the Turk infantry was ordered to charge. They were backed up by a force of a thousand experienced Turk riders, who fired arrows into the waiting Roman line.
They were a group of men from Sinope that stood between victory and defeat, led by Captain Mazakes; they had fought before often, although never in a large engagement. And now they stood their ground and waited, while the spears, pikes and sword of the lines were drawn back, shields raised, and they braced themselves.
Mazakes had been given command of the right flank, of men he knew well, and it saddened him to watch Turk arrows find targets among his friends, he yelled an order for his men to stay in line, and prayed he could turn the Turks back. He raised his head and roared a defiant war cry:
“SINOOOOOOOOOOOOOPE!”
His men howled back and beat sword up shield as the Turks approached.
As they came closer Mazakes realized they were poorly armed and equipped, it would be an easier battle than expected, he turned to the hill, and saw in the distance the archers fire a volley. Defiance he thought, and raised his shield.
Mazakes had fought in mêlées before, but never on a scale as huge as this, this was a battle, not a moment of lapse in concentration could be afforded. He swung his sword at an approaching Turk and caught him in the gut, the Turk fell to the floor and clutched his stomach. This was war. After the initial charge the Turks kept their distance, poking the swordsmen from range, it was Mazakes’ turn to order a charge. And the Turks, seeing defeat was inevitable, were turned away on the Roman left, Mazakes set chase.
However, the centre and right were still engaged, but not for long as a detachment of the Sinope soldiers flanked the Turks and ate away the line. This left the entire infantry leaderless, except for Captain Mazakes’ squadron, so the hasty and bloodied soldiers hastened to join the nearest combat.
On the far left, on the hill, the outnumbered Roman kataphracts engaged the Turk heavy cavalry, and although their weapons were superior, they were outnumbered. And slowly but surely were ground into the dust.
“But now would the Varangians save us!”
Flavius was old, but he was a seasoned warrior, he roared back at the Turks, with their vile tongues and God, he fought hard, his noble war horse Gavras fought hard, but they were dying, slowly but surely, there were not enough. Turks, he felt anger, they had taken this land, it would take years to reclaim it, to re-institute the thematic system. And here he was dying! A lion roared in his heart and he lunged at the Turk in front of him, the man attempted to block his sword but failed. Blood swept through the air, behind him he heard the scream of a dying man:
“Flaaavius…”
“I will avenge you.” He whispered, blocking a Turks thrust and kicking the man of his horse, and suddenly, he was thrown of Gavras, and he lay on the floor. He moaned, he was broken, he heard strange, foreign voices above him, he heard footsteps and Greek words: “It is the general, slay him!”
He looked up and say Varangians, they had come. And he saw behind the proud Norse face, a Turk falling…
Through bloodied, crusted eyes, he saw the Turks face scrunched in pain, a silent scream etched on his mouth, he did not know whom the general was, but he croaked in an attempt to cheer, leaderless, the Turks would fall.
The Varangians had come.
Flavius closed his eyes, silently praying for life.
Romanorum Redividus,
An Imperator Somnium
Rome Redividus
Romanorum Specimen
Rome Redividus
Pugna procul Kaymaz
Rome rebuilt
An Emperor's Dream
Rome rebuilt
The Roman Ideal
Rome rebuilt
Battle at Kaymaz
Hic, is ero certus.
Here, it will be decided.
The Alans were engaging the remaining Turkomans, they flooded from the hills, a berserk swathe of death, those Turks that could escaped, ceding defeat to the Romans.
Countless dead lay on the field, Roman and Turk, groaning in agony, it would take a long time to recuperate, for both sides.
Aftermath
Alexios looked at the reporting Captain Exotrochos Vyasaches, “Yes sah, ten thousand dead and two-thousand mortally injured, fifteen hundred wounded but in a state fit to be marching in a week sah. Fifty-thousand Turks dead sah, and five-thousand captured, sah.”
Alexios stroked the bloodied flat side of his sword, “Kill the prisoners.” His voice was soft, yet determined, “Revenge for Manzikert.”
The officer bowed and scurried away, another came forward, “I bring two things Mi Lord. The head of Melik, the general, and news.” He paused,
“What? What is it.” Alexios was still nervy after the battle, “I know nearly all of the archers fell. And that the many of the Alans are reported missing. What is it?”
The man took a deep breath, steadied himself and spoke, “It is with great regret that I report that Flavius Balgiarotes is mortally wounded, and may not survive the night.”
Alexios groaned and buried his head in his hands, his second-in-command was a popular figure, he was needed. He waved the man away, and dealt with the rest of the reports stoically, yet notably less cheerful. He had won a battle and lost a friend.
The Hospitaller Tent, Night of the Battle
Romanus Phillipus clasped his hands and screwed his eyes to block the tears as he knelt beside Flavius’ body. He still had a pulse, but his breathing was fevered and shallow, his brow hot, and the gash in his side. It had been puke invoking to see it, horrific slashes across his chest and the wound above his hip. Blood spilt over the sheets, all around the hospital the horrible sound of dying men’s groans pierced the air as physicians either aided them or eased them on the hard path to heaven. No. He could not accept this, over the past days he had fostered a hope, foolish perhaps that this might politician and warrior, who he had envisaged as a mentor, would tutor him, and treat him as a son. But he was dead, Romanus had gently cleansed his bloodied face, but he was going to die. Barely suppressing a sob he prayed to God that Flavius would be granted a place in heaven. In misery he knelt there, for what seemed like years but was more probably minutes. Head bowed, his face concealed, blood congealing on his armour, he didn’t care, Flavius was dead.
Physicians, they could do nothing, in his silent sad reverie he blamed no-one, but cursed the helplessness of the Physicians, they could do nothing, and as he wept silently one came behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Romanus, I’m going to stitch the wound back together, you can help if you want.”
Shocked, the young man looked up, the physician loomed over him inquisitively, blinking the tears away spoke fiercely: “Yes! Of course!”
“Well then, hold him steady as I work.”
It was gruesome labour, but Romanus was determined to help his friend is anyway he could, he held him still during involuntary spasms, and shut his eyes, but held Flavius still. If he had been awake he would have been squirming in agony, yet it seemed as if he was in his dream. Agony, agony in his fevered sleep, Romanus could feel nothing but Flavius pain, he gasped for him, felt the needles sew back together the bloody sinew for him and felt the flesh burn for him.
But Flavius was dead. No. No. He could not be dead! Flavius was strong, God would save him. He still had a heartbeat. The Physician was working on the cuts swathed across Flavius’ chest now. Please. Please. Please let him live.
The Physician went away, he said he had done all he could, but Romanus didn’t hear him, he cried himself to sleep that night.
Flavius Balgiarotes
Flavius Balgiarotes
A optimus proeliator verus
A noble warrior true
Socius ex suus equus
Fell from his horse
Ictus in ventris
Stabbed in the stomach
Flavius Balgiarotes
Flavius Balgiarotes
Night lay as a heavy shroud around the tent, but the shrieks and cries and moans and groans prevented it truly seeping in through the canvas. Nikhita nodded at the guard and strode past the beds, ignoring the pleading for help he received. Scanning the room he found what he was looking for, Flavius. Lying across the man’s broken body was a boy. Not just any boy. Phillipus, Nikhita had thought the boy would be akin to his father, but he was not, sure he was urbane, clever, handsome and possessed that natural aura of command, but he was obviously malleable to other’s power, and Flavius of all people! Did he not know who had caused his father’s death? He sighed, the boy was asleep, and a small dose of this and the possibility that he’d never be a threat to the Byzantine league would be destroyed forever. Still debating feverishly in his head what to do, he walked confidently over the Flavius, drew back his head, took out the glass phial and…
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you Nikhita.”
A hand clutched at his arm, nails dug into his skin, Nikhita hissed and spat at the boy, “Idiot! I am doing you a service, he would leave you astray, taunt you with dreams of Rome and ‘RomanorumRedividus’, folly! I am protecting you, child, leave me be!”
Phillipus drew blood from his wrist, “No!”
Angered, Nikhita slid a dagger from his belt and pointed it at the boy’s chest. “Let go boy, or I’ll stab you.”
“No!” Phillipus roared and lunged wildly, knocking Nikhita’s hand, the phial flew through the air. Two pairs of eyes followed it. As if in slow motion it spiraled through the air, and fell, ever so slowly…
“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” Nikhita cried
It fell, and fell…
SMASH!
Green liquid splashed all over the tent, a physician ran in,
“What!”
Nikhita moved to run at the physician, but Phillipus drew his close, and drew a dagger:
“How dare you?”
And he stabbed him
And he stabbed him again
And again
He was wallowing in his blood now, laughing maniacally
And again
The Physician cowered in the corner
And again
He laughed once more, and collapsed, unconscious, in the pool of blood and gore.
He wasn’t found until the morning.
The Emperor’s Tent
“Why did you kill him?”
“I do not know.”
“You don’t know?” the Basil’s voice suggested humour, but nothing of Phillipus’ voice seemed to hint at a perceived funny side.
“Something just came over me, like a red veil, blood lust. I remember…”
”Yes?”
Phillipus took a deep, steadying breath before continuing, “I remember, I remember he wanted to poison Flavius, then I stabbed him. Blood. Blood. I am scarred, Alexios, scarred for life.” He put his hands to his face, “I am scarred for life, yet I saved him.”
Alexios stood and looked the handsome young man in the eye, “No, you are not scarred, RomanusPhillipus, son of Michael, son of Iosif, son of Ioannes, son of Michael, but hardened and livened. All your ancestors were honourable men, in intention at least, you have good blood, and have saved a good man’s life. And here I name you: Romanus ‘the vigilant’ Phillipus, for that is what you are, vigilant. Be heartened, young man of Constantinople of the House of Phillipus, for you did a good deed, and FlaviusBalgiarotes lives. The physicians believe he will make a full recovery, although he will not fight again.”
Phillipus raised an eyebrow, “The vigilant?”
“Aye, the vigilant, you woke to save a friend, now go and be proud, Phillipus.”
Phillipus lifted the flap, but before turning spoke: “I will attend MikhailSzekeres’ funeral, it will be an honour.”
Alexios smiled and raised a hand, only when Phillipus had left did he mutter:
“Honour. An empire of honour.”
The Theme of War, June 13th 1084
Following the victory at Kaymaz, the Roman army pushed into central Anatolia, Iconium surrendered and the victorious army paraded into the city on August 2nd.
Roma Victor
Triumphal Mosaic of Alexios I, Iconium
The ancient Roman gates of Iconium swung open, and Alexios Comnenus rode into the city, at the head of a column of triumph marching into the fallen city of Iconium. The heads of the Turk governors hung on the lances of the kataphracts behind him, the imperial banner flew high above him. The army stood proudly on the walls, and lining the streets, cheering, the Greek citizens stood on rooftops, the Turks bodies burned on a pyre. Victory.
A decade ago this city had fallen, but Rome reclaimed her. Alexios reclaimed her, the city bowed before his majesty, and straight-backed on his horse, he smiled.
Iconium revoco,
Alexios eram laurifer,
Tamen tantum parumper etiamnunc.
Iconium had been recovered,
Alexios was victorious,
But only for a moment yet.
Turk Bird Singing
1085, February 15th, Iconium, the Triumphal Halls, Interrogation Chamber
The Torturer pressed the hot irons once more to the Turk’s face, his lips curving as he did so, the foreign cries of the man rending on-lookers ears in two, but the warped mind of the torturer, it was to him as sweet music is to others.
Flavius cringed, and moved his hand to the wound in his chest, not at the cruelty, but at the fervour and joy in the Torturer’s face.
Meanwhile, Romanus Phillipus only remained as he wished to hear what the Turk was saying, he did not know it, but he was just as green as Ioannes, the translator.
Andronicus, Strategos of Iconium, leant against a marble pillar, completely unmoved by the horrific scene in front of him.
Alexios had an arm wrapped around his wife, Irene Doukania, who clutched the one year old child, Anna. They were here only to see the glorious city, but Irene, not having realised the true brutality of war, had insisted to hear the ‘Turk Bird Singing’.
“Aiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Hot irons pressing, burning, Abdullah screamed again, then blurted out the only words that could stop the blame!
“Wait! I will tell all!”
He watched with eyes beaded with tears as the translator yelled at the Torturer to stop, he head a grunt as the irons were lowered, and the Translator spoke:
“Hello, my name is called Ioannes; tell me, what were you going to plan in this city?”
“A rebellion,”
“You blunt are, it would not work, this protected city is well, what does the Sultan planned to be doing?”
His Turkish is awful, thought Abdullah, but he said what he knew: “The Danishmends plan to rebel, and the Great Seljuk Empire has refused to send troops, Rum is weak, we have to many... political divides. ‘United We Are Strong, Divided We are Weak’, my family’s motto, and it has proved right, the Great Seljuk Empire has made a push through Cilicia and is besieging Caesarea, it will be a tough fight, but we will lose, and the Great Seljuk’s crippled.” Lying through my teeth, he thought, but ploughed on relentless, “the Danishmends cannot fight the Great Seljuks, they are not strong enough, they will seek for a pact. And that will be the foe you face. The Sultan is getting desperate, that is why I was stirring rebellion in the few remaining Turkish taverns in the city, in secret back rooms.”
“Na...”
“Gladly, the Turk and the Ostrich, the Mountain Bear, the One Up on Alexios and the Traveller’s Way, also the secret society: ‘Al Jihadi’, meet in the Golden Mountain and the Frank alternately.”
And ambushes wait for you in each of them, “That is all I know.”
“Thank you for I am most gratefully pleased, it is my job not to decided fate, that is for the Strategos. I beg forgive, as you die will probably.”
It was worth it, may many bastards die thanks to me, it was all Abdullah could do not to smile, in his head he prayed that Allah would dole out the punishment the Greek’s deserved. He listened as the Translator babbled at the Emperor, his wife and child, and the three nobles.
“...And the Frank. That is all, Alexios.”
“Andronicus, what do you wish to do with the Turk?” Alexios turned to the Strategos,
the Strategos looked at the Turk, long and hard, and grimaced before turning back to Alexios: “Mi Lord, I wish to hang him.”, he glanced once more to the Turk, a blank look, the bastard couldn’t speak Greek, evidently. Andronicus waved a hand at the Translator, “Tell him.”
The two men spoke in that harsh grating tongue the Turk’s used, and the translator turned to his superiors, “Obscenities, mi lord, befitting better a rowdy tavern brawl than a civilised meeting place, better a peasant than an Emperor.”
Alexios raised an eyebrow, and afforded a fleeting look at the irate Turk rabble-rouser, “Well, I do not oppose you, Andronicus, come, Irene, we must leave.” One arm wrapped around Irene he lead his family out of the room. Flavius cast Romanus a glance and they took their leave.
“You are dismissed, and you.”
The torturer grinned and left, the translator followed,
“Close the door.”
“Of course Mi Lord Andronicus,”
“Right...”
Andronicus leant close to the Turk, breathing on his sweaty, unshaven face, “What do you think about that then matey?”
The Turk spat in his face, Andronicus sighed, regretfully, he’d have to resort to his rudimentary Turkish:
“You really are an obstinate bastard aren’t you?”
”Yeah.”
Andronicus spat in the Turks face, swung on his heels, and left the room.
Fleeing Constantinople
The Lucky Charm of Szekeres
Alexander Szekeres clutched the engraved cross as he stared into the dark night, he heard the hustle and bustle of nightlife in the City, the city he had lived in since he was born. A dozen years, and now he was fleeing under cover of darkness in disgrace. Bred as an upper class Kievan living in a rich fine manor in the most beautiful city in the world. The crossroads of Europe and Asia, the City, he did not deserve this, he was a Szekeres! But mother had chosen to do this, and she was Matriarch and head of the family until he was fifteen, and the Khazars would shelter them in Crimea before they moved to Kiev for Yuletide. It was Nikhita’s fault, his stupid older brother had gone off to kill the Basil, and had failed miserably, he had been caught and killed by Romanus Phillipus. Romanus Phillipus, revenge. He was going to kill Romanus Phillipus, for he had done this. He was young, but he sensed what he needed to do, and that was to kill Romanus Phillipus, which was what he was for. He would grow, and when he was in the inner political circle of Kiev he would come again. Revenge. Rome could fall again.
Never to arise.
Romanorum Redividus
Lords by Right, Lords by Deed
Elias Manachiotes’ Engraving of a Varangian,
The Ikoner’s Room, the House of Flavius Balgiarotes
“You are most grateful to allow an artisan such as me quarters in your house and a studio too, my Lord.” The man bowed, his ugly face the opposite of the exquisite work his hands did, his eyes fixed on Decius’ feet. After a long while he looked up, painfully aware of the stark contrast between his features and Decius’ too. His contorted and uneven, the noble’s elegantly carved, as though he himself had worked the contours. The high proud cheekbones the Balgiarote family was renowned for, the self-assured smile playing across his lips. He was in awe of this man, and truly grateful for the privilege of working within his household. Decius looked right back at the craftsmen, and spoke:
“It is an honour to have you in the house, I have seen you’re work depicting the Varangian, I plan to leave it as a tribute to my father in our solar. I give you no commands of what to make, as long as it retains the beauty of your previous work. You will be the best paid artisan in all of the City.”
“Mi Lord, I do not know what to say.”
“Elias Manachiotes, you need not say anything. We are in awe of each other, I think, me of you for you’re delicacy of work, and you of me for my grace and high manner. I must leave now, but before I leave...”
Decius leant further forward, his breath and the scent of crushed roses light in the air:
“Elias, you have contacts in the Guild of Artisans yes?”
“Yes.”
“You know Evangelos Balacheitas? The potter?”
“Yes.”
“He is in with the Byzantine League, when the Guild next meets can you try to convince him you are against the Basil, and are spying on me. Once he has told you all he knows... he will be dealt with. Can you do this?”
Wishing not to betray his fear, Elias nodded.
“Good, today is the 10th of March, yesterday it was discovered the Szekeres had fled the city, today you take up your quarters in the Balgiarotes household, tomorrow you aid the Emperor.”
Elias smiled, as a boy he had been told glorious tales of the Emperor and his majestic nobles and courtiers. He knew he was campaigning against the Turk heathens across the Dardanelles. He knew Flavius Balgiarotes was with him. It inspired fervour deep within his artisan’s heart to be serving Alexios and quashing the rebellious scum.
“I will enjoy it.”
“Good, I leave you in peace until the morrow. God be With You, Elias Manachiotes.”
“And God be with you also, Mi Lord.”
Elias bowed and Decius nodded before turning to leave the lavish quarters. Elias did not look up until his master had left, and when he did he surveyed the room. A silk curtain surrounding his four poster bed with cotton sheets from Syria, tiles decorated by other skilled craftsmen. And at the foot of his bed a beautiful stained glass window looking out into the Golden Horn.
This was what Elias wanted, this was what he needed, this was what he dreamt of doing, to serve the Emperor and live in luxury as well. He bounced back onto the mattress and reclined, relishing the lavish comfort he felt.
He had peace and prosperity.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Caesarea, the Eagle and the Bow
Mustansir looked down at his spy, Ioannes was translator for the Strategos of Iconium, Andronicus, and had seen the loyal spy, Abdullah, tortured. And had given the false information needed to cause the ambush. Suicide, that was what it was, but worth it, to kill the Greeks. The Danishmends were hiding in their mountain fastness, true the Great Seljuks were a few days away, also true, but the Great Seljuks did not plan to invade. They had a pact, they were to hold of the Roman army, while the Great Seljuks manoeuvred around the back of the Greek forces to quash them, and retake Asia Minor for Seljuks. Under one banner, the Eagle and the Bow.
The banner of Sultan’s, and Caliphs when the Abbasids fell, Mustansir may only be General, but one day he would rule it all.
At least, he hoped so.
And Abdullah had only been the first ‘spy’ willing to sacrifice his life, to tell the lies that would found an empire. The Greeks could never understand the political differences between the race they called Turk, as a political entity they were not. Although the Great Seljuks were the greatest, as the name suggest, the Syrian Sultanate and the Sultanate of Rum were also Seljuk. The Danishmends were also Turks, they may not belong in this land, the last of the great migrations, from the eastern steppes they had swept. A hundred years ago, seizing land from India to Anatolia, the people considered it their home enough to call it Turkey, and one day it would be such. One nation of Turks, one day.
But first he needed to survive this year, and survive the Greeks, Trebizond had fallen and was still in their hands, that was good, although the army that had taken Antioch had declared independence. The Turks were a warrior race, and even though this made them strong, it also made them weak, for they would never bow down before another.
Caliph Mustansir, one day, one day he would be, head of the Islamic faith, but first they needed to win.
And he prayed that the Turks would be Constantinople’s Bane.
To the Rising Sun
Sun Rising over Mountains
“We march east, over Anatolian hills,
We march east, over Anatolian hills,
We march east, to reclaim our land
We march east, to victory!”
The veterans led the army in a marching chant as they set over mountain roads, to Caesarea, to kill the Turks and save the loyal living under the devils. Emperor Alexios I Comnenus knew, though the Turks sought to deceive him, he would not be fooled, never would a Basil of Constantinople be fooled by a few scummy Turkish spies. He had castrated them all before hanging them, except the one who had eventually spurted the truth, he had just hung him. They were only Turks, after all. We would loop over country through the foothills, finding the undefended Caesarea open to him, he would then defend the reclaimed castle, and beat back the bloody Turks. Taticius was fighting hard along the Aegean Coast, where the nobles were more stubborn and had numbers equal to his. But tactical genius would win through, and when Trebizond and Cilicia were reclaimed Anatolia would be Roman once more.
To the Rising Sun
To Caesarea
To Victory
Alexios would win, he knew he would, and the confident smile he often wore played across his face, he looked across at Flavius and Romanus, who had struck up a new friendship. They had their heads together, he smiled again. This was what he was for.
______________________________________________________________________________________
They Knew
“They knew! Who told them?” Mustansir’s eyes bulged threateningly, but the agent wore a heavy black hooded cloak which cast his face in shadow, no emotions were betrayed, if indeed he had any. He was called merely ‘The Agent’, and although he had been pivotal to Mustansir’s plan, he was an enigma. Automaton’s had more personality, and his voice was level, with no tone.
“The spy Amir, he told them after the fifth day of torture, the tavern ambushes didn’t work either. Isaac Comnenus, the Emperor’s brother, is sailing from Thessalonica to aid the Greeks south of Cannakale on the Aegean Coast. We can still accost the Greeks on the field if we can inform the Great Seljuks in time.”
“Send a messenger before you leave.” Mustansir rubbed his face, “How did it go wrong?”
“Not all agents are as skilled as me, Mustansir.”
“Evidently.” He sighed, “Evidently I pushed him too hard, endurance is a virtue, yet not one that all possess.”
“Patently,”
“Shut up, if I wanted a thesaurus I’d ask the Librarian.”
“Indeed.”
Mustansir was irritated by the Agent’s lack of emotion, “We could all die, you as well.”
“A good agent can always find work, we have no loyalties.”
“Yet loyalty is what I need now, when Rum is on the verge of destruction, Hamid will fall, the Aegean Coast will be bled dry by Alexios’ general, we need to intercept the Greeks with all our forces. Guerrilla tactics should whittle them down before, Ceylak pass. Ceylak pass, we will meet them at Ceylak Pass. Tell the Captain to send light horse-archers to harry them as they march, go.”
“Of course.”
The Agent turned and walked out of the room.
“Doomed. Doom. Doomed. There is no way we can survive, no way, they will crush us and our bones into the dust. We will be relegated to a minor footnote in history...”
“Father?”
“Doomed...”
A young boy had walked into the room, he saw his father crying silently, his father never cried, something really bad must be wrong, Father spoke:
“We are going to die, they will crush us, we will die.”
He hadn’t noticed him, it must be really bad, he thought they were going to die, that the Greeks would win, they wouldn’t, father never lost anything:
“We won’t Father, we always win.”
“Oh I wish it were so.”
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Guerrilla
Marching ever on, to the fortress on a hill, marching ever on, never stopping, although the Turks often rode from the hills to harass them, they were on the way. On the way to Caesarea, no Turk ambush would halt their inexorable advance, the Turks had suffered their Manzikert at Kaymaz, Rum was ready to fall, and the Great Seljuks would break like waves upon the walls of Caesarea. Taticius would secure all Asia Minor, the Armenians would accept Roman suzerainty, and if they didn’t their dry bones would be scattered across Cilicia.
Trebizond would rebel against the Turks, and reinforcements from Sinope would arrive and secure the region, and the entire Black Sea Coast would be Roman once more. A mere blip in history, a mere twelve years when Asia Minor was Turk, Alexios would repair it. Border guards would be set up among the passes, castles built, Antioch regained. Perhaps, perhaps even a march south to Jerusalem. To put Her back in Christian hands, to reclaim the Holy Lands, but first, first they needed to secure Caesarea as quickly as possible against the Great Seljuks.
Alexios was lost in his dreams, and he didn’t notice as Flavius organised a defence against the Turk horse-archers that came riding down out of the hills, they were only a small party and were seen of quickly. There had been several raids in the past week, and they could only march on, to Caesarea.
Thracian Dreams
The Kavhalestos were the only truly Russian branch of the Szekeres, and although they had been disowned when they remained loyal to the Emperor, they still held power, and a fabled prophecy. They ruled Adrianople, and had for many years, under Ivan Kavhalesto the city had prospered, and in 1081 a wandering man had come to the city. Given quarters, if not princely at least adequate, he became a pronounced member of the court, and in 1083, when Antioch fell and the Byzantine League was dismantled, he spoke a cryptic prophecy:
Alexander flee, to Kiev where they came from
Alexander flee, from the Empire to a Kingdom
Alexander grow, in another far off homeland
Alexander grow, taught to hate an Empire
Alexander dream, delusions of a victory
Alexander dream, waiting for a calling
And one day,
Alexander come, and crush the Empire awaking
Alexander, bane of an Empire
Alexander cruel, the land beneath his fist
Alexander cruel, woe and misery his
Alexander changing, from evil to goodness
Alexander glad, the life and soul of the City
Alexander glad, so the great man died
At the time no-one understood it, although the wanderer’s quarters became much more lavish, and two years had passed when Alexander Szekeres fled for Kiev, after his family had betrayed the Empire. And in clicked into place, Alexander would destroy the Empire one day. A scroll was sent to Isaac Comnenus, and the wanderer was spent more heavily on. The next prophecy was awaited eagerly.
News of the wanderer spread far across the empire, as did his prophecy, on many ears.
___________________________
The Byzantine League
Elias Manachiotes looked across at Evangelos Balacheitas, one of the few men as ugly as himself, it seemed to run in the profession. Elias was one of the most knowledgeable men outside the upper class in the City, he knew that Asia Minor had fallen easily and the Turks now held a ford north of Antioch. That it was an allied force from all of the Turkish nations and Armenia. He also knew that Alexios would be there by October, with the army, but what he didn’t know was how the Byzantine league still functioned, but he was so close to knowing that. Letting a small smile flick across his face he spoke:
“I hear you work with the Byzantine League...”
He was cut off by a dagger in his chest, Evangelos looked at the dead body slumped over his table, blood pouring over the oak, he raised an eyebrow and spoke wryly:
“I hear you work with the Emperor.”
He had survived many spies and operated on a ‘no trust’ policy, Balgiarotes was getting more persistent, one more time, Evangelos had promised himself, and he would send his own assassin to Decius Balgiarotes. And maybe to Taticius as well, the Byzantine League may now be removed from direct action, but they functioned perfectly well as an underground group. That had been Szekeres’ mistake, all the other families had fled, but they were regrouping, however long it took, Manuel Angeloi would regather the Byzantine League, and overthrow the Emperor. Manuel Angeloi, he was no longer that man, Manuel had been a rich wealthy citizen, not a skulking underground assassin and spy. Evangelos, that was him now, he had better dispose of the body.
Many bodies floated in the Golden Horn, no-one would miss Elias, he had been a tool, no more.
But perhaps one day the wrong would be healed, when
Roma Redividus
Romanorum Redividus
Alexios Comnenus’ Dream
The Battle