Leo III the Syrian

[kataphraktoi]

Heres the Synopsis of my proposed story:

A peasant boy who becomes a famous warrior and a great Emperor.

A former slave who tries to run from his past only to embrace it.

A young warrior turned monk who would return to his old profession as the forces of Islam threaten the existence of his faith.

All three will be interwhined in the greatest struggle in their lives in the epic conflicts between Byzantium and the dangerous expansionist Ummayad Caliphate in the late 7th and early 8th century.

Based on the “true” fictional story of a dark age campaign mod, which isn’t really true but a composite of what happened on my laptop and what I wanted to happen.

If you like it I will start the story. If not let it die.



A sample:

Around AD 680

Intro: SARACENS
Germanicea

The hardened hooves of the horse pounds the arid surface of the Cilician plain into dust as it thundered across the barren terrain. The rider of the horse forces his mount to ride faster and faster as he wipes the sweat from his eyes stinging in all its furiousness. In the mind of the horse, there is nothing but physical punishment for a purpose which it does not understand. For the rider, only an urgent mission to reach his destination with a message of utmost importance of the incoming storm gathering behind him: the enemy is coming.

As he rides closer to the old Roman town of Germanicea, one word was ringing from his mouth. Although it was barely discernible by the garrison in the town, they recognised it simply because they heard it before, again, and again, and again…………

“SARACENS”

I'm a guy with an avatar of a chick I can handle the punishment.

[The Wizard]

Well, it looks promising to me. Go on tell, have a pint of mead on me

[Ludens]

The idea certainly sounds good, as does the sample. Please give it a try, kataphraktoi.

[kataphraktoi]

Around AD 680

Intro: SARACENS
Germanicea

The hardened hooves of the horse pounds the arid surface of the Cilician plain into dust as it thundered across the barren terrain. The rider of the horse forces his mount to ride faster and faster as he wipes the sweat from his eyes stinging in all its furiousness. In the mind of the horse, there is nothing but physical punishment for a purpose which it does not understand. For the rider, only an urgent mission to reach his destination with a message of utmost importance of the incoming storm gathering behind him: the enemy is coming.

As he rides closer to the old Roman town of Germanicea, one word was ringing from his mouth. Although it was barely discernible by the garrison in the town, they recognised it simply because they’ve heard it before, again, and again, and again………….

“SARACENS”

Chap 1: THE INCOMING STORM
Germanicea

Nicetas Onomagus, officer of the town militia immediately ordered the gates of the town to receive the scout who rode like a man possessed. Upon entry, the scout jumped off his horse and collapsed in the arms of the life-giving water trough a few metres ahead. As his grateful lips rose from its redemptive exercise, he turned to the officer Nicetas and uttered sparingly the fateful words; “By nightfall, and they’ll arrive”

Within a few hours, the word “Saracen” reverberated throughout Germanicea like a ripple. Many of its inhabitants had seen Saracen hordes passing their way in sporadic bands of raiders looking for easy pickings and reconnaissance in recent years but have never been alarmed. This time, however, there was a different feeling. Germanicea of late has been an endangered outpost since the capture of several towns and fortresses near its proximity. The closeness of Germanicea to these cities has made the town a natural starting point for entry into Cilicia with Germanicea in the frontline. Each day the inhabitants live in anticipation. Frozen by fear, escaping to Anatolia has never crossed their mind. Instead, they live in the shadow of the powerful Saracen threat to their existence. As always, there was one thing to do. Flee to the citadel.

By evening, the inhabitants had fled to main citadel in Germanicea on a superbly elevated height overlooking the town. The smarter and wiser citizens of Germanicea had already fled the beleagured town to the neighbouring fortified cities of Anarzabus, Adana and Mopseustia. However, the citadel could not fit all of them. Only the important citizens of the city and the militia and their families were assured entry. A quarter of the town’s citizens were able to make their way inside the citadel. In vain did the masses plea for entry. Similarly, the militia vainly tried to dissuade them with words and by force of arms through arrows and spears. Little comfort was to be found in the exhortations of the priests as they prayed for the deliverance of the town throughout the evening.

Amongst the desperate masses hammering in vain at the gates of the citadel, a small peasant boy of 3 stood silent and observant. He watched in awe as men, women and elderly cried and shouted, praying and cursing at the same time. He could not speak yet. He did not know what to say of this commotion.

“Leo Leo”

Leo’s mother grabbed him and tucked him under her chest and chastised him for wandering around in such dangerous times. Looking up into his mother’s eyes, he saw a fear he did not understand; an urgency he had not learned yet. Ignorant, he cradled himself in the comfort of a mother’s arms and slept restfully while the world disappeared in the cacophony of sound secure behind tall walls.

[kataphraktoi]

Chap 2: “HOW LONG TO GERMANCEA?”
The road to Germanicea

“Mutasim, how long do we reach Germanicea?”

“Soon my Amir”

“When can we draw up our siege engines?”

“I recommend we do so in the morning, I believe it will be too dark”

“Inshallah, may the morning come soon. The slave markets in Dimashaq (Damascus) is waiting for our successful outcome” laughed the Amir as he passed a wry smile to Muta.

Mutasim winced at the haughty and dark humour of his master, the Amir of Aleppo, Mahmud al Matuk. The word “slave market” was a searing wound in opening memories he would rather forget. Mutasim was once a slave from the same markets of Damascus, when he was captured as a boy when the Saracens destroyed his village on the Euphrates. Mutasim was also once the boy called Simeon, after the famous Stylite and a Christian Monophysite. When the Saracens sent him to Damascus, he was bought by his current master for a few paltry bronze coins. At once he was converted to Islam by the Amir and taught the ways of the Prophet and the submission to the God Allah, strangely familiar to his Christian God but more powerful and dynamic in the lives of the Saracens. By the time he was a teenager, he was set free as an adult due to the ruling that Muslims cannot be slaves to a Muslim in consideration of the close brotherhood that existed, in theory, between fellow servants of Allah. With nowhere to go and everything to gain in the service of the Amir he worked his way from personal shield bearer to become a trusted general in all military matters through his valour and energy on the battlefield. Even then, sadness comes upon Mutasim occasionally whenever the word “slave” is mentioned. Teaching himself the art of suppression.. He continues with his life and forgets the past. But the past sometimes will not forget. So while his master jibes him in the name of humour, it is lost on him. The only thing inside him laughing is the inner demon threatening to tear him apart.

In the midst of his reminiscence, a trumpet blares loudly into the night. The cry of “Allahu Akhbar” rises up from the kinetic mass of Muslim warriors rudely awakening Mutasim from his reflections. His demeanour suddenly changes. Before him were the modest walls of the town of Germanicea. Unfortunately, the nightfall is encroaching on the dying skyline making it difficult to prosecute the capture of the town.

Turning to an officer beside him he gives the order for the Saracens to set up camp for the night.

The Amir places his hand on Mutasim:

“Ah Mutasim, I am glad you are always on hand to help me. I am but an old warrior now. Yet the Caliph insists on me fighting his wars for him. I’m afraid he is asking the wrong man”

“No my Amir, it is your reputation that draws the armies of the Prophet. Allah has blessed you as his sword against the Romans”

“Lovely words, but alas, I know what the truth is. You are the great warrior now.”

“If it pleases the Amir”

“I know this to be true, I have seen it. You have grown into a strong warrior. My sons will not appreciate your service, they are busy chasing slave girls and stocking their Harems”

“I will serve them as I have served you”

“I hope so. May Allah, the merciful and the wise deem it so”

“Inshallah”

“Come, let us rest. Tomorrow we conquer Germanicea, perhaps the world if I live to a ripe old age”

“I will have your servants set your tent up my Amir.”

As Mutasim camped for the night before the walls of Germanicea, he returns to the dark prison of his dreams repeating the same mantra as he has done every night.

“There is no past, only the future”

Chap3: GOD FORGIVES ALL
Monastery of the True Cross, south of Iconium

“Sergius, it is time to eat”

“I’m not hungry Anastasius”

“Why? Are you fasting?”

“No”

“Since you came here in your kaballarika uniform I have hardly seen you touch any food, starving will bring you to closer to God, much much earlier”

“Anastasius, you are a morbid fellow, what did you do before coming here?”

“I use to run a brothel”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Free food and place in the afterlife upstairs, besides, the supply of women were dwindling. Most of them are in the slave markets of the Saracens”

“You are a strange fellow”

“Not as strange as you. Tell me what’s really going on Sergius?

“You spend most of your time in the library reading, writing and praying, even sleeping in the library. I fear the abbot will not respond kindly to his books having marks of drool on his precious manuscripts of gold and rich paint from the markets of Constantinople”

“I have been having dark dreams of late Anastasius. I cannot escape it. Peace is elusive. Hope is a fading mirage.

I was hoping to escape war, but war is a demon that is always chasing after me. But then I realised I was that demon”

“Have you learnt nothing? God forgives all sins”

“Forgiveness, for what I have done?”

“What have you done? Defended the Roman state, killed the enemies of Christ and protected its inhabitants?”

“It is not that simple. I enjoyed what I did.”

“We all enjoyed our vices at one stage”

“I still enjoy these same vices, I even long for them. My hands still yearn for the sword and lance. It cries out for a bow and an arrow. It grasps into thin air for a weapon, anything to inflict and spill blood. I have to conquer it”

“You are not a monk Sergius. You are a warrior”

“I am not”

“Yes, you are. There is no demon chasing you, only your destiny. The Roman state is running our of soldiers when warriors like you run away from your duty”

“Why don’t you join the army since you are so keen?”

“Where are your eyes Sergius? I am old, lame and have never handled a sword in my whole life, not to mention a bit fat around the edges from the excellent wines in the refectory cellar and not to mention, the excellent fat dripping meat off the bone”

“Just remember in case you decide to try something like eating for once. God forgives all”

[kataphraktoi]

Chap 4: KYRIE ELEISON
Germanicea Citadel

Nicetas was pacing to and fro across the ramparts. A combination of guilt and anger drove his repetitive exercise to the annoyance of the nervous militia soldiers watching with intent the Saracen host. Next to him was the calm and silent figure of his assistant officer Arcadius.

“Arcadius, how many Saracens are there?”

“I estimate at least 30,000 sir”

“We will never survive”

“We all know this already, so we wait and die?”

“You know I don’t like this at all, what can I do?”

“Fight like a man and die”

Nicetas was about to grab his assistant officer and push towards the floor but realised he was right. Germanicea was his responsibility, he failed. He deserved death, but not the people he was meant to protect.

“Holy Mother of God, forgive me” muttered Nicetas.

Nicetas walked into his office and locked the door. Sitting in his chair he drew out a short sword. He had often read about the old Roman solution to life’s troubles. Upholding tradition, he fell on his sword. In a few seconds, his body slumped across the table. When the militia found him, the table was drenched in blood. On the floor were his insides that spilled out when the sword cut across his stomach.

By the time they buried his body, the morning sun was already breaking across the distant landscape over Germanicea and with it the inevitability of death.

Arcadius, the assistant now commanding officer of the militia uttered the prayer that would soon be echoed in the hollow eyes of the inhabitants of the citadel:

“Kyrie Eleison”

Arcadius then turned to the militia of the citadel:

“We march out; we do our duty and pray for mercy. The Saracens will give us none and we will not give them any”

The desperate citizens of Germanicea that were banging at the gates of the citadel had already dispersed. Disillusioned by the failure of the militia to protect them, they were resolved to inevitable death and manned the walls. To their surprise, however, the militia force marched out and joined the very people they were supposed to protect. It was an embarrassing episode in the history of the town of cowardice and betrayal. But all was forgotten as they directed their attention to the Saracen army setting up their siege and assault machines against the walls of Germanicea.

The first stone was cast.

Chap 5: ATTACK
Germanicea under attack

The Saracen army woke up at the ascent of the sun to prepare their equipment for the day’s assault on the town. It was an awesome array of weapons that was displayed and aimed at the town’s walls. Ballistas, Onagers, Trebuchets and other powerful weapons were present. No expense was spared by the Saracen army, they after all, the armies of Allah. They deserved the best equipment; the wealth of the Caliphate could buy.

Mutasim observed this intimidating display with satisfaction. While his engineers were busy supervising their proud weapons, he ordered the rest of the Saracen army to sort themselves into regiments in preparation to storm Germanicea. Each regiment was provided with a steady core of elite Ghulam infantrymen, handpicked personally by the Amir to be the vanguard of his forces. Despite the size of his army, Mutasim had no illusions about the real quality of his army. Most were light foot archers with little of no armour. Their discipline was appalling but at least they were motivated to the point of invincible fanaticsm which has proved in the past to be a good offensive weapon. Sighing in disappointment, he was at least happy that the Ghulams were competent enough and intimidating to keep the rest in tow and under control.

The Amir, meanwhile, was sitting impassively under the shade of a tent with a few advisors over a game of chess discussing some finer points of theology waiting for the siege to be initiated. When the first stone hit the walls of Germanicea, all eyes were on Mutasim.

Riding backwards and forth, encouraging his men and exhorting them, Muta barked orders in rapid succession as his siege and assault weapons mercilessly pounded the walls of Germanicea. On horseback, Mutasim was able to see the handiwork of his machines. Already, some breaches have been made, but they were too small. He could also see some casualties within the town as men fell from the walls after being maimed by a projectile or two. Suffice to say, it was a horrid affair to witness.

Calculating and processing through his mind, Mutasim estimated that by the afternoon, Germanicea will fall. The Romans will be defeated.

[Ludens]

This is very good indeed. Is this really your first story?

[frogbeastegg]

Quote[/b] (kataphraktoi @ Jan. 15 2004,16:33)]A peasant boy who becomes a famous warrior and a great Emperor.

A former slave who tries to run from his past only to embrace it.

A young warrior turned monk who would return to his old profession as the forces of Islam threaten the existence of his faith.

All three will be interwhined in the greatest struggle in their lives in the epic conflicts between Byzantium and the dangerous expansionist Ummayad Caliphate in the late 7th and early 8th century.

Based on the “true” fictional story of a dark age campaign mod

Good to see I'm not the only one writing something that sounds like the trailer for a movie Just joking, that was a good read.

This comment bought to you by froggy's hopeless comments©

[kataphraktoi]

Yeap, its my first story, been wanting to do it for ages but never got the courage.

Besides, this was always in my mind as some sort of mental movie.

Froggy's comments are never hopeless, mere mortals understand it as hopeless. Giggle.

U remind me of a friend who likes frogs.

Chap 6: FALLING WALLS
The siege of Germanicea

Arcadius watched in horror as the walls of the town slowly crumbled. It wasn’t because he expected the walls to be impenetrable; it was because he didn’t expect it to crumble so quickly. Still, there is hope. He quickly ordered a stockade to be hastily built in the exposed sections of the walls with rubble being used as an effective absorber of missile weapons.

For 3 hours, Germanicea was continually pounded. There was no respite. No pause for breath. The enemy was resolved to take the town. The Romans of Germanicea were resolved to keep it. Every man, woman and child knew the consequences of the fall of Germanicea. They’ve heard the tales, they’ve seen the refugees, and finally, they’ve lost relatives as a result. But by now, a quarter of those men, women and children were now dead under the merciless barrage. And with a quarter of Germanicea’s inhabitants dead were nearly half of the walls. The walls could not be stockaded everywhere, nor could it effectively hold off Saracen projectiles indefinitely. As the last of projectiles were fired at the walls of Germanicea, Arcadius ordered his militia to stand in the breaches and wait for the enemy. Similarly, he ordered the non-combatants and semi-combatants to make a stand and grab any weapon they could. Slowly, Arcadius surveyed the stretch of decrepit walls that once ringed Germanicea in a secure embrace.

“Walls cannot protect us now. The walls of Germanicea will be our shroud. Better to die a free man than a Saracen slave” he uttered to a militia soldier beside him.

Chap 7: “SHOW YOUR DEEDS MEN OF ISLAM”
The assault on the breaches

“GHULAMS PREPARE YOUR MEN” ordered Mutasim

The Ghulams formed the frontline of every regiment. Behind them were the inferior troops. But fierce warriors they are, they reputation is such that men will follow them. And, if men will not follow them, the Ghulams have been empowered to execute men who show sign of cowardice. The soldiers of Islam have no fear. Allah is with them.

Brought up as slaves like Mutasim, the Ghulams were trained exclusively as elite armoured infantry archers. Being the elite of the Caliphate forces, they are superbly equipped in that role: mail shirts underneath strong lamellar cuirasses with arm guards of iron plate. They were also dressed in a scarlet uniform accompanied by finely made leather boots beneath their armour. On their helmets are etched the Shahada: “There is no God but Allah and Muhammed is his messenger” In terms of arms, they were equipped along with their bows high-quality swords made by the metalsmiths of Damascus as well as a fine dagger attached to their belts. However, their favoured weapon after the bow were their battle axes, used to penetrate armour and cause horrific injury with death the desired effect.

“Show your deeds men of Islam” cried Mutasim and then gave the final signal.

With the blow of the trumpet the Ghulams led their regiments against Germanicea. They were placed around the town so as to attack on multiple fronts.
Soon the Ghulams and their regiments reached the walls with the war-cry of “Allahu Akhbar” like the warriors of early Islam nearly a century ago. The militia held firm behind their large shields as the weight and force of the Muslim shock-action smashed into them like a strong current in a river. Armed with a cutting saber, the militias were able to fight through the gaps and cunningly caught some Ghulams in an uncomfortable situation so as to pick them off easily. Suddenly, the militias caved in. The Ghulams were propelled forward by the incoming masses of their men behind them in an irresistible momentum of fanaticism and zeal. The Saracens poured through some of the breaches this way but others were still held up by the desperate actions of the militia. However, they were caught off guard as the rest of Germanicea’s inhabitants fell upon them. The unexpected force of attack by civilians initially had the Ghulams on a backfoot but recovering from this situation, they rallied their men and soon the battle within the walls of Germanicea resembled something to their liking.

The bravery of Germanicea’s inhabitants were undoubted, but even bravery could not stand up against military forces such as the Saracens. With the Ghulams leading them, they stood little chance in the long term. Customary slaughter of a resisting enemy populace was soon setting in. The soldiers of the Caliphate sensed victory. Rejuvenated by the rewards of victory, their efforts were redoubled in the vicious one-sided melee.

Soon, the 30,000 or so Saracen army poured through the city like water, the surviving militias fought to the death. As for the surviving inhabitants it was too late to run to the citadel. The citadel was already closed by the handful of frightened civilians who reached it first. But the slaughter was abruptly stopped when Mutasim rode through the battered walls and raised his right arm and ordered the ceasing of hostilities.

As silence fell through the ranks, only one part of the city was still alive with fighting.

Chap 8: DIE A FREE MAN THAN A SARACEN SLAVE
The last resistance in Germanicea

Arcadius and his surrounding companions were still holding their ground against the overwhelming odds of the Saracens. While defeat was already assured, they fought on.
On a lonely part of the remaining walls of Germanicea, Arcadius swung madly at all oncoming Saracen soldiers. To the surprise of the Saracens, many Ghulams were slaughtered at his feet and by his surviving soldiers. Finally, the death knell fell upon Arcadius. A well aimed arrow pierced the exposed gap between his lamellar armour. Arcadius dropped to his knees, his sword clattered on the floor, his right hand grabbing his neck.
Soon all his men were all killed. Then he fell, his eyes staring vacantly into the afternoon clear blue sky. He died a free man.

Mutasim commenced the three days of looting. But he sternly warned his soldiers about raping women and killing children. They were to be inviolate and spared for the slave markets of Damascus. A hand was placed in his shoulder and he turned around to see the Amir congratulating him on his successful capture of the town.

“Victorious again.”

“As Allah wills”

“Yes, as Allah wills”

“I see there are many survivors, they should fetch a nice fortune in the markets”

“I have ordered the Ghulams to gather them and tie them up. At least 10,000 are in our possession”

“And what off the citadel?”

“I will leave them there. They will not last for long”

“I trust you will do the right thing. As for me I will appoint the necessary men to administer this town as the new property of the Caliphate. New Muslim migrants will soon take their place in this city.”

“Very wise”

“Come, let us enjoy some refreshments. You deserve it. You may be a master on the battlefield Mutasim, but be warned I am the master of chess”

[Monk]

Very good, this has got my interest. Continue on kataphraktoi.

This reminds me though, i should get back to work on my little story. *sigh* it seems to have almost died out due to my Research for that Europa Barbarorum movement. Well back to work as they say

[kataphraktoi]

I will try and post in 2 chapters at a time. I intend to make them longer and try to enhance the narrative of the story.

Sneaky preview of the chaps 9 and 10

- Spoiler

- A little more about the peasant boy Leo
- Mutasim experiences a reversal of roles
- The very first battle between the Saracens and the Romans
on the field of battle

[frogbeastegg]

A congregation of 3 people, all of whom are writing some kind of series. Only one of them is keeping it going at a decent pace - well done kataphraktoi, you got both Monk and myself beat For a first story this is really something. Keep going

And Monk you can't let your latest die unfinished. Firstly I do the unfinished stories around here and there is only room for one person with that bad habit. Secondly I am saving my comments until it is finished so you had better finish it or I will have wasted all that effort trying (and failing) to think up a good comment. Consider yourself threatened

[Monk]

Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ Jan. 16 2004,12:36)]A congregation of 3 people, all of whom are writing some kind of series. Only one of them is keeping it going at a decent pace - well done kataphraktoi, you got both Monk and myself beat For a first story this is really something. Keep going

And Monk you can't let your latest die unfinished. Firstly I do the unfinished stories around here and there is only room for one person with that bad habit. Secondly I am saving my comments until it is finished so you had better finish it or I will have wasted all that effort trying (and failing) to think up a good comment. Consider yourself threatened

Hmm i see your point lady Frog.

:Notices the 5,000 samuri behind froggy waiting to attack:

Yeah I'm just gonna get on that, if i don't i have a feeling the entire .org will have my head.

[kataphraktoi]

Funnily enough Monk's masters of the world got me thinking of having a crack. I loved Monk's riveting pace and storytelling. SO please don't stop Monk. When I need to plagiarise good wrting skills I look to the one and only Monk.

Heres a little outtake that was in the Microsoft Word doc file of my story.

It was after the synopsis.

Inspired by Monk, the greatest storyteller of our time. St. Monk, patron saint of the Mead Hall.

Saint Monk, full of grace and ink,
Lead our pen lest wine seizes our hands,
Help us write good stories so we may impress women,
May our head be filled with storylines instead of lust,
Give us pen nibs so we can write,
Inspire us because the dark ages are boring,
Get a good word in for us at the tavern,
We need free food and free beer cos we’re too cheap,
May we plagiarise your skills and claim them as our own,
In the name of Saint Monk, full of grace and ink

8th century totalwar.org prayer, Attributed to Hermes of Athens

heeheehee....

[kataphraktoi]

Chap 9: EXODUS
The unexpected redemption

The surviving inhabitants of Germanicea were both lucky and unlucky. They survived the rapacity of the Saracens, but on the other hand, they were now their prisoners destined for the slave markets and sold off to either someone’s harem or to the mines to work till they die.

All this was lost on the small boy Leo. His mother died in the recent fall of Germanicea. He stared at her eyes that gave no warmth or response and understood nothing of death despite the carnage around him. Leo was grabbed by the nearest Ghulam and placed with the rest of the prisoners and sat there in silence until the Saracen army marched away from the town. On the long walk into Muslim territory he was accompanied by his uncle who recognised him and immediately brought him in with the rest of his captive family who survived. At the small town of Shameshek, the Saracen army and its human train stopped for a rest and to re-supply themselves. A few captives were sold off to pay for these supplies and soon they were on the move.

The barefooted Leo experienced pain for the first time. The rocky terrain cut deep into soft tender feet like jagged daggers. In better times, his mother would fuss over the smallest nip on his infant skin. But now, in a time of hopelessness, even a gashing wound would be considered an act of divine clemency. To the puzzlement of his uncle, Leo did not cry or reveal any pain in his face, only a blank expression. The peasant boy of Germanicea was distracted by a much more involving matter of his predicament. Why?
For a boy of three to ask “Why?” was indeed an achievement. But to ask “Why?” amidst such calamity is an exceptional achievement. Why mother? Why pain? Why thirst? Why the horrible vengeance of the sun? Why me?

Without notice, Leo fainted. Once again, the world faded. Graven faces disappeared.

Leo’s uncle commented to himself as he picked the fragile body of his nephew:

“For so little a boy, such is the burden of this world. Should he die, it would be a much better place for him. His innocence will be spared the barbarity of this world.

But who is to say what God has destined? May God grant us a little miracle in this hell”

The miserable train of captives marched for hours on end to an uncertain fate until an unusual pause disrupted the proceeding march of the Saracen army. The Saracens suddenly froze in their tracks as they marched through the mountain passes onto a small flat level terrain. The braggadocio of the Saracens was replaced by an uneasiness so sudden that it was felt by the prisoners.
One of the captives managed to align himself at a favourable angle so as to see for himself the reason behind the halt and the subsequent commotion amongst the Saracen soldiery.

Opposite them was a Roman army in battle formation. Behind them was another Roman army. The Saracen army was surrounded. It was an ambush deep in Muslim territory led by an impressive figure on horseback: the Roman Emperor Justinian II. Lord, not only of the Roman Empire, but Lord of the Roman prisoners and the Roman city of Germanicea that had fallen to the Caliphate of the Saracens.

Redemption was at hand, unexpectedly.

[kataphraktoi]

Chap 10: BATTLE OF THE PASSES (Part A)
Annihilation of the Saracen army

The surprise appearance of the Roman army left Mutasim wide-eyed and in shock. He did not expect such an attack deep in the Caliphate’s territory. But seeing as he did a potential disaster, Mutasim ordered his army into a hollow square. It was an impressive sight for the Romans who witnessed the Saracen maneuver into a dense and thick hollow square. The Muslims have, since their invasion of Roman territory, adapted a few Roman tactics and ways of warfare. But such imitation was of partial success. The Romans were vastly superior in discipline and organisation than the Saracens and remained beyond the simplicity of Arab imitation for all their ingenuity.

Again, the Ghulams were in the frontline of Mutasim’s square. Inside the square were the captives, the baggage train and Mutasim himself. The problem for Mutasim was a matter of numbers. The Saracens were left with 22,000 or so warriors after garrisoning Germanicea under the Amir and the casualties of the assault. The Romans had at least 40,000 men with a dangerous body of heavily armoured cavalryman called the Kataphraktoi. Not only was this a problem, but so was half the Roman army. The cavalrymen who made up half the Roman army were the superbly disciplined and trained Thematic Kaballeroi, well versed in missile and shock action tactics in their glorious and pristine armoured self.

However, Mutasim defiantly drew his sword.

“Not while I live will I let a Roman dog win a victory from me.

Allahu Akhbar, Allah is Mighty”

The Saracen army was made up of warriors; they were expected to fight in any situation. To refrain from doing so would be a shame. To win is to revel in its rewards. To die is to gain a greater treasure in the afterlife.

Excitement amongst Germanicea’ captive populace woke Leo from his blissfully ignorant slumber. The visceral momentum of their excitement hardly failed to leave Leo alone. Even his uncle joined in with the crowd to wake Leo. Perhaps his prayers have been answered after all. Perhaps there is a little miracle in this hell. But for now, that prayer is waiting to be fulfilled. Disorientated and disheveled, Leo climbed upon his uncle’s shoulders to look upon this unexpected event of salvation. While not understanding the full significance of it, it absorbed him. Men covered in metal on horses with things protruding through their arms. He’s seen it before and what it does, hurtful things. Will they do it him? Why me?

But destiny has determined that Leo should not die or be sold as a slave. As Justinian’s officers executed their opening moves of the battle, Leo’s path was laid for the future.

[The Wizard]

Well if there is only one person here who can have unfinished stories, then we can consider ourselves to have a problem, Lady Frogbeastegg

Anyways, i like it. Go on, tell us what happens next This will most probably turn out to be very interesting

[kataphraktoi]

I'm gonna take a short..a very short .. don't kill me...pause from writing to figure out some plots, developments, etc, etc. And to see how I can present the battle of the passes better in part B.

Plus some long terms plans to fulfill the synopsis of epic conflicts between Byzantium and the Caliphate.

WHo wants pictures?

Although u have to tolerate my lead squiggles.

But at least there will be no stickmen.

[kataphraktoi]

Chap 10: BATTLE OF THE PASSES (PART B)

Justinian sat in his saddle with ease and comfort. His confidence was as high as the sky itself. Over and over again, he thought to himself what a brilliant plan it was and how only he himself, a gifted military strategist, could think of it. His plan was to split his army into two halves with one following the Saracen army while he swung around to overtake them was executed with precision befitting the discipline and professionalism of the Roman army. Although the fact that Justinian had the help of his senior officers was not considered. He was arrogant, confident and invincible as a young man of 17 could be with the world, or at least the remaining vestiges of the Roman Empire, at his feet.
And yet, for all his naïve and eager spirit, there was a part of him that was level-headed with an incredible intuition for foresight. He understood that all good plans are “good” because they were translated into victory. With the prospect of a victory in the air, he was determined to fulfill it.

With a cadre of officers surrounding him, Justinian gave orders just as calmly as delivering a speech. To his officer commanding the foederati light horse archers recruited from the steppes, he ordered him to harass the static formation of the Saracens and cause as much damage and distraction as possible at the given order. As an experienced officer dealing with horse archers, Damianus of the so-called “Foederati Scythikon” had developed a pattern of skirmish involving the following routine of charging at the enemy, shooting, retreating, feign a charge, retreating, charge back then fire. To prevent the enemy from discovering such a pattern, the pattern is executed from a different position in the routine by several multiple regiments of horse archers that are required so as to cause chaos in the enemy ranks and prevent their generalship from organizing an effective response.

To the officer of the second Roman army cutting off the Saracen army’s retreat, Leontius, he sent a messenger to give the order to split themselves into three segments with one in the center, one of the left flank and the other on the right flank. Each segment was lined with Thematic Kabellaroi behind a strong wall of heavy infantry skutatoi backed up by medium infantrymen and skirmishing Psiloi archers.

On his side of the Roman cordon, he ordered his trusted commanders Michael Lachonadrakon and Vardanes Artabanus to split the provincial militia into two dense formations. Each was to be backed up missile troopers of varying range. Foot archers recruited from the Bulgars were lined up behind them. On the flanks were javelineers and slingers from the lower dregs of the peasantry. To be sure that cohesion was enforced; elite companies of the Emperor’s own regimental guards were present. They were identifiable by their impressive blue plumes on their helmets and their large decorated shields with gold bosses. Not to mention they were also infinitely better armoured than the average militia soldier with their long mail lorica shirts underneath a solid but flexible cuirass of lamellar construction. Their favoured weapon, however, were not swords or axes, but a malevolent looking weapon wielded on the right hand of each warrior known as the “Rhompaia”. Said to be off barbarian origin, it was a falx-like blade with the ability to cleave even armoured limbs. If any Roman soldier thought of cowardice, their fear was consumed by the ever present and watchful gaze of these regimental guards.

As for his own elite regiment of Kataphraktoi, he placed them in the center in wedge formation between the militia formations. Justinian would lead them in the frontline of the wedge. To fail to miss Justinian in plain sight was impossible. Both enemy and friend could see who the Emperor was. Armoured cap – e – pie from head to toe in gilded armour on an equally gilded armoured horse, Justinian stood out like a beacon. His Kataphraktoi were similarly equipped but with less extravagance. Continuing the tradition of missile-shock composite lancers, they were armed with bow, lance and sword and trained to be masters of all three weapons. All were covered by lamellar and mail. The only sign of humanity in their armoured prowess were their eyes. Even then, these same eyes were devoid of humanity, only a cold glare of steely determination and the hardened experience of war.

Raising his arm with an impressive jeweled sword in his grasp, Justinian ordered Damianus to open the onslaught with his horse archers. For an hour or so, the foederati decimated the ranks of the Saracens with their complex and devastating routine of missile barrages. On the other hand, the Saracen army was equipped with plenty of archers who fired back causing a few casualties in the midst of the steppe warriors. Unfortunately, they ran out of arrows so quickly that they resorted to hiding under their shields to wait for their enemy to exhaust themselves. Alas to no avail did this happen for the Emperor had taken with him large amounts of replenishable arrows for his missile troopers. Unrelenting, the exchange of missiles soon became one-sided. The confusing cloud of piercing death that covered the sky like flies soon changed into a deadly plague.

The Ghulams that formed a wall of hardened warriors could not resist the merciless hail. One by one they fell. First as individuals, then in groups, the Ghulams peeled off the Saracen formation like a peeled fruit. Soon, the ranks further in the interior were starting to feel the bite of the foederati’s murderous trade. As the Saracens were tempted by the urge to break and run for their lives, the barrage stopped. A sigh of relief was breathed throughout their lines. Unfortunately, it was only a temporary respite. Both Roman armies were now moving towards the cornered and wounded Saracen animal.

As the old saying goes: “Beware the wounded animal”

[kataphraktoi]

Chap: 10 (PART C)

Mutasim survived the opening of the battle unnerved. Cursing himself, he regretted leaving behind substantial cavalry forces behind in Germanicea with only his small bodyguard mounted. His attention was attracted from almost every direction. The unpredictability, the confusion, the dangers that surrounded his stranded army were too much to handle. As eager as he wanted to fight, he could not simply order his army to charge at the enemy, it would be suicidal. On the other hand, waiting for the enemy to come would be delaying the obvious slaughter that would result.

Suddenly, his eye was drawn to the figure of Justinian leading a wedge of elite Kataphraktoi. Excellent. If the head of the army was captured or kill, the army would melt away. The problem was to draw the Roman Emperor into a compromising position so as to exploit the situation and turn defeat to victory, hopelessness to elation. Grabbing a captive priest near the hooves of his charger, he seized the priest’s crucifix attached to a wooden pole and lifted it up in the air for all to see.

The two armies stopped. All eyes stared at Mutasim’s curious display.

Mutasim broke the cross from its wooden hold and threw it to the ground. Staring at Justinian and pointing to him with his sword he spat on the cross then reined his horse in to trample over the sacred sign. Summoning a Saracen warrior nearby, he ordered the incumbent to defile the symbol by the most insulting of desecrations: that of defecation.

With indifference, or well-disguised outraged. Justinian simply raised his lance and pointed to the enemy. No words were needed to be said. Vengeance was a powerful motivation by itself. However, it was with difficulty that the elite regimental guards and officers kept their subordinate men from rushing headlong into the enemy and even more so for the cavalry officers attempting to restrain impetuous and glory-seeking cavalrymen from charging foolishly into ranks of shaken but desperate warriors.

Nonetheless, the plan failed. The Emperor of the Romans did not seek to right wrongs of his sacrilegious act of disdain by a charge to avenge his religious sensibilities. His assessment of a young, possibly foolhardy and naïve rival general was already proving to be a serious disadvantage. From all sides were highly motivated enemy soldiers keen to bay for his blood and his head. It need not be imagined what they would do with his corpse. For what he did to the cross, he expected no less from his potential captors and possibly executors. Then again, he had nothing to lose.

Within range of the Saracen line, the Skutatoi of the Roman army under Leontius hurled their heavy menaulion javelins into their ranks. The impact of the first hail pushed the Saracens back, as did the second, third, fourth and fifth waves. Behind the Skutatoi were the Psiloi and Thematic Kabellaroi foot and horse archers. They now fired their own volleys against the confused Saracens. Once again, the sky was littered and pierced by the winged fury of their arrows. Collapse was imminent. Lightly armoured with light shields, there was no effective protection for them against the armour piercing weapons used against them. Under better circumstances, their Ghulam officers would have protected them in their armoured state. But they were butchered by the early missile exchanges. Only a few remained exercising a minimal role in the protection of their underlings. Soon the lines were engaged with a fearsome charge by the Roman heavy infantry crying out “The Cross hath conquered” as they rushed into the pummeled masses of Saracens. Imminent collapse became a massacre.

On the other side, the provincial militia advanced towards a certain distance before the Saracens and then halted. With precise execution, the militia placed themselves in a position with sabers presented and shields interlocked in an irresistible and formidable phalanx wall. Without warning, the militia then retreated as if driven off as did Justinian’s elite regiment. The Saracens were surprised and intrigued by this state of affair. Did reinforcements arrive to aid them against the Romans? No. It was a feigned retreat in a deliberate fashion. Before Mutasim could order them to hold their hollow square formation (or what was left), the line facing Justinian’s half of the army broke into a stream of excited warriors chasing after their “fleeing” enemy.

Chasing blindly and furiously, the Saracens failed to see the cunning stratagem. In their disorder, their flanks were exposed after losing cohesion. Stretched out in a long line that narrowed towards the few leading Saracens chasing the Romans, they were vulnerable when the Foederati Skythikon under Damianus charged into their ranks. The timely charge was furious in its execution. Composed as it was from mainly Ferghanese and Khazari Turks, their ferocity in battle was something to behold and fear and hence, their employment. The remaining bulk of the Saracen attack now rallied back to where they were before. The Foederati did not follow for long after breaking the enemy lines. Instead, they retreated and waited on the sidelines for the next opportunity.

Spurring his horse around and his elite cavalrymen Justinian now gave the order for his regiment to deliver a decisive charge against the by-now confused Saracen army which could not hold itself together on all sides. With the rallying provincial militia behind them for the actual attack, the Kataphraktoi under Justinian carved into the shattered hollow square like an inexorable flood unstopped and unopposed. Saracens were thrown left, right and center with many more succumbing to the onslaught of his cavalrymen. Survivors were dispatched by the militias pouring into breach opened by Justinian and all sides were engaged against the resisting Saracens.

A few minutes later, the Saracen army was annihilated.

No mercy was granted. Supplicating Saracens were butchered as they kneeled for mercy. Only a small body remained with Mutasim to protect him. These were his own bodyguards who could be trusted to die for him and die was what they did. One by one, they were killed despite their superhuman courage to fend off the foregone conclusion. Mutasim fought shoulder to shoulder next to his loyal men until he was wounded in the leg and arm which caused him to drop his weapon. He leaned against his mount to catch a breath and drew his mace with his left hand to die fighting. His mount was then shot under him and was deposited on the ground. He fell awkwardly in such a way as to incapacitate him on the ground and leave him in a vulnerable position. Slowly, he closed his eyes waiting for a swift death. Everything went black very quickly. He expected a martyr’s death, nothing less.

The wounded animal was dispatched like game from a hunt.

Chap 11: A BETTER PLACE
Germanicea’s survivors.

The small plain was drenched in the blood of Saracen soldiers, broken spears, broken swords and broken shields littered the place where their multitudes fell in great number. War, however, was like a business. Non-combatants commissioned by the army went through the corpses stripping for themselves any riches or wealth belonging to them and kept it as a small reward for their labours. But their true commission was to strip arms and armour of the dead warriors. Naturally, they completed their task with enthusiasm.

Few Saracens survived the massacre in the small plain ringed by passes. 1405 were said to be held prisoner. The rest: all dead. Those who succeeded to flee were chased down efficiently by a few bands of Thematic Kabelleroi and Foederati Skythikon and dispatched with ease. In a strange reversal of fortune, the tethers that were used on Germanicea’s captives were now placed on those who captured Germanicea. Exultant in their praises of their young Emperor, the remaining populace of Germanicea crowded around Justinian to touch God’s representative on earth as their ruler and saviour. With difficulty was he separated by the walls of his Kataphraktoi. Justinian then waved his right hand in a grand gesture and silenced the crowd. He then proclaimed:

“ ROMANS YOU ARE LIBERATED”

A cheer went up, their joy unrestrained.

“You have suffered. You have lost loved ones. I lament with you. These times are evil ones but they are necessary. Our sins are many and may God through the intercession of the Mother of God grant us mercy and forgiveness. Rejoice Your Emperor has given you a new home where rich fields of wheat are waiting to be harvested, where food is abundant and the weather tolerable and where you, my subjects, will live far away from these dangers. And though you are Monophysites whom the Orthodox and Most Holy Church of the Chalcedonian creed consider heretics, you will be safe under my protection. For those of you who choose to convert, I would be gladly be your sponsor”

With the exception of one Monophysite priest whose crucifix was seized. The Germaniceans agreed amongst themselves that conversion was beneficial and a sign of gratefulness to their sovereign.

“Your new homes will be Thrace”

[kataphraktoi]

If the story sucks, tell me.

I don't want to waste my time writing it and occuping valuable org space.

Katzophrenic

[The Wizard]

Not enough replies, hmmm?

It's quite a good story, imo. Go on, tell more I want to see how little Leo becomes Emperor

[frogbeastegg]

Quote[/b] (kataphraktoi @ Jan. 19 2004,08:04)]If the story sucks, tell me.

I don't want to waste my time writing it and occuping valuable org space.

Katzophrenic

Well I think we can spare the space for a bit longer, even though rents are going up

EDIT: I forgot to say that your paranoia is familiar - I used to do the same thing...well still do a bit. I found I enjoyed writing a lot more when I focused on what I wanted to see and what I thought of my work instead of waiting nervously for comments and assuming people hated my stuff if they didn't post within half an hour. You are more patient than I was

As long as you are enjoying writing then you are not wasting your time, even if you go back and rip your work up then you have learned a little more about what works and what doesn't.

[Monk]

Quote[/b] (kataphraktoi @ Jan. 19 2004,03:04)]If the story sucks, tell me.

I don't want to waste my time writing it and occuping valuable org space.

Katzophrenic

of course you can't just stop posting now, if you did that you'd have an angry mob at your door begging you for another ch. Trust me i have been there . Btw, no it doesn't suck.

So you can stop , we wont

[Ludens]

It does not suck, you just have to give it more time than 6 hours. It is a monday, so most people will get online after the afternoon or in the evening. And since you live in Australia, you've got a huge time difference with a lot of the Org patrons.

It is good, it isn't too long winded, but I hope the plot will speed up from this point.

Else I'll have to wait longer before I know how it is going to end . I hope you'll find time to post more soon.

EDIT: Pictures? Why would you add pictures? So far words have done the work perfectly.

[kataphraktoi]

Pheww, good to know I'm not the only one with paranoia.

I want to see Leo become Emperor soon too. I hate writng about little Leo. I want the Leo who hacks people to death.

Anyhoo, I have think of some convenient way to fast forward the story while establishing a fluid link.

The old farts Mutasim, Sergius and Justinian have alreayd been introduced so I think I can move along quickly. But I can't leave out Leo's teenage years, he gets his first kill.......

[kataphraktoi]

Chap 12: A GRAND VISITOR
Monastery of the True Cross

The monastery of the True Cross was a hive of activity. Monks were running backwards and forwards throughout the complex in preparation for an important guest. But the guest was not an important local, or a magnate, or a lord, or a Strategos or an official. It was the Roman Emperor. For such a visit, an impression must be made upon the visitor. What can be more impressive than the procession and display of the monastery’s greatest treasure and relic, the very relic which gave its name to the monastery in the first place: The True Cross. However, it is not just the Cross, but rather, a piece of it. A few decades ago, the Emperor Heraclius divided the True Cross to prevent the Saracens from desecrating the greatest relic of Christendom. The monastery itself was a recipient of this treasure. Even though the spiritual aspect of the Emperor’s visit was fulfilled, there is much to be said of the secular aspect. As much as the Roman Emperor was the religious head of the Empire, he was also a political leader and sovereign of a state. It was this very aspect that sent the monastery in an upsurge of unorthodox commotion where they were once quiet contemplation.

At the head of the efforts to greet the Emperor, Sergius was placed in charge. It was a curious choice amongst the elderly Monks of the complex.

“He is young, much to learn, must know his place and accede to elderly authority.”

For others:

“He was in the military, they teach them things about order and organisation right? Or was it discipline? No wait, organisation. That’s what we want?”

Unfazed by the background chatter and the secret exchanges amongst the Monks, Sergius did as he was bidden and left a trail of orders, instructions and commands to his lower subordinates.

“This feels a bit familiar” he thought to himself a few times.

“Perhaps I miss ordering soldiers around” a smile wrapped around his face

“Or perhaps I’ve served in the Imperial Palaces myself” nodding his head in agreement

“That must be it” acquiescing to this conclusion.

“Brother Sergius, where does this silk curtain go?”

“Where a curtain goes”

“Where?”

“You may have memorized the Chalcedonian creed and all the writings of the early Church fathers Basil, but you are still as intelligent as a rock. It’s as if you were born in this monastery.”

“I was.”

“Fine. I’ll do it. Go in the corner and roll out the damask carpets”

“What’s a carpet?”

“Maybe I should have stayed in the army after all” thought Sergius as he grumbled his way through his duties.

CHAP: 13 THE FEAST OF THE SOLDIERS OF CHRIST


As the evening sun descended into the jagged mountain landscape, the monks of the True Cross monastery lined up along the impressive heights overlooking the pathway to the flat plan of the complex. Each monk was given a candle to hold, thus, creating a brilliant contrast to the encroaching darkness with the fading light of day. Justinian and his considerable entourage slowly trudged their way to the monastery’s great height.

Beautiful, thought Justinian. He was impressed by the mountain peaks that rose majestically into the sky, almost defiant of their grounded state on the earth. The farther most point of the mountains was capped with snow, forming a smooth and surreal contrast to the rough and uncouth formations of the mountains.

“God makes his place amongst men” he uttered to his officer.

The Roman Emperor decided to walk on foot as an act of humbleness in light of the monastery’s considerable prestige and reputation for its relic. Likewise, did his officers and soldiers. Even his diadem was removed in solemnity to the live-giving cross which bore the King of Kings that Justinian owed his allegiance to. As much as Justinian was impressed by the monastery’s reception of his very person, the monks were impressed by the young sovereign. They had heard only rumours, hearsay and loose snippets of the young Emperor. But when they saw him, they swore that half was not told about him.
To them, the Emperor was a fine example of Roman nobility. Despite being of Armenian descent, Justinian was blond. He was also a tall and impressive figure who captured the attention of the monks.

“Such a young man” they murmured amongst themselves

“Did he win those victories we heard about a few weeks ago?”

“A new David”

“We shall see for ourselves tonight” interjected a serious looking elder.

All 2000 soldiers and officers were seated in a hastily erected hall. In the center was the sacred and highly revered relic of the True Cross. A hush fell upon the warriors as they filed past the relic to take their places at the tables, every single hardened and cold-hearted soldier was moved by its presence. This piece of wood represented their faith and source of strength against the dangerous and energetic Saracens on their borders. It was also the object on whom a ruler greater than their own Emperor was crucified for the world. But, pragmatic men as they were, they were soon absorbed in their engrossing meals. Religious piety is one thing. A hungry stomach to enable that piety is another.

The Roman Emperor was seated on an elevated throne erected on the table where all tables were directed towards. From here the hall was a place of overarching perspective where all could be seen while all could see the incumbent on the throne. Easing himself into the comfortable space provided he took a draught of wine in a jewel encrusted cup and lifted it above his head.

Everyone was standing, monk and soldier alike.

“We give thanksgiving to the one who provides. Amen”

“Amen” came the response from everyone in the hall.

The feast of the soldiers of Christ commenced. Monk and soldier mingled freely with free-flowing conversations helped by a common cause in the consumption of wine and meat. Justinian, strangely, remained aloof from the festivities. He was deep in thought.

CHAP 14: EMPEROR AND THE MONK
A good soldier is hard to find

Justinian exempted himself with the minimum of ceremony from the hall. With only a cup of wine in his hand he filed down the balcony overlooking the star-ridden sky. Admiring the peace and solitude offered, he drank it in for what is was worth. Not even Constantinople at its most peaceful state could offer such quietness and luxury for contemplation. A shuffle of feet suddenly caught his attention. He realised he was not alone. He quickly placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Was it an assassin sent to kill him?

Alas, he could not be more mistaken.

“Don’t be alarmed Majesty. I am a monk of this monastery. Like you, I seek the same peace and solitude you seek”

Justinian relaxed his grip and placed his cup on his lips and drank casually.

“What is your name monk?”

“Sergius”

“From?”

“Constantinople”

“Ah, a native of the capital”

“Yes Majesty. I used to be guardsman of the Imperial palace and a cavalry officer.”

“How long?”

“Five years. Under your late father Constantine”

“I cannot recall a Sergius”

“That is because I was formerly known as Mercurius Apsimarus. Much like your Kataphraktoi bodyguards, I was part of the elite cavalry forces”

“Mercurius? The same Mercurius Apsimarus of the Kaballarika Prima?”

“The same, Emperor”

“The tales they told about Mercurius. Tall ones, short ones, big ones, small ones. Even the most pious of Christians prefer a tale of your exploits over a sermon any day in the Church of the Holy Wisdom”

“They are tales Majesty. Nothing more but tales”

“But every tale has its truth no matter how small that core is”

“Then it is the size of the smallest sand”

“But not the ones about your deeds against the Bulgars, the Sclavinians and the Lombards. They are now written down for posterity. You will be immortal my friend even if you rot away underground” laughed Justinian, allowing himself a little brief respite from the serious issues in his life.

“Those days are over Majesty, I am now a man of vows dedicated to something less exciting than wars, battles and other things that make tales the entertainment they are”

“Good men are hard to find nowadays, Mercurius. In times like these, we need everyone we can. The Saracens have numerous men than we; even their field armies outnumber our entire military force from Italy to Armenia alone. Add to that, their treasury is like a lake supplied by the four rivers of taxation, trade, raids and tribute.”

“Mercurius is no more. I cannot help you. Only God can. Excuse me Majesty I have some duties to attend to. Enjoy your stay as befits such noble company”

With further shuffling of feet, Sergius-Mercurius melted into the dark shadows of the monastery. Justinian was alone, alone to ponder the dark clouds of late gathering in his mind.

CHAP 15: UNEXPECTED CHANCES
Camp below the monastery

The encampment below the monastery was a noisy gathering. With the prisoners guarded by a few handpicked elite regimental guards, the free men, women and children of Germanicea wandered freely and conversed about their new situation. Leo was not amongst them. Curiosity possessed him. Slowly, he crawled towards the Saracen prisoners and observed them. Much like kinsmen, they had a dark complexion complemented with dark eyes and dark hair. But the language they spoke was different. What caught his eye was a lone figure separated from the rest. Next to him were 4 guards surrounding him with stern and watchful eyes. The figure slowly roused himself and moaned as he struggled to gain composure. Leo had seen him before: the conqueror of Germanicea.

Mutasim eyes slowly opened. All was dark. Slowly but surely, they grew accustomed to the dark and the cold air in the night. The last thing he remembered was falling off his horse with gashes and wounds in his arms and legs. He was starting to feel them flare up again. He winced.

“Where am I?”

A regimental guard stared down at his prisoner and answered in typical Spartan fashion:

“Prisoner of the Emperor”

“Didn’t I die” asked Mutasim as he lifted one eye to his overseer
“Too important”

“Important?”

“Important general of Saracen armies”

Mutasim then lay on his back reflecting at the irony of it. The conqueror has been brought low as a prisoner. “What to do now?” he thought to himself. “Nothing much”
He closed his eyes. No martyrdom. No paradise. Allah has destined men in his own way. He must accept that.

[kataphraktoi]

At this point we hurry it up a bit.

[kataphraktoi]

CHAP 16: THE WONDER YEARS (PART A) OVERVIEW
Thrace, Syria and the frontier wars circa AD 680-690 roughly.

9 years later….or more

On a lazy Thracian afternoon with a gentle breeze blowing through, Leo nestled against a tree and slept uninterrupted. Its 9 years since he’s been here with his uncle’s family as they settled near the fortress of Didymotichum. The family had taken up the trade of shepherds and it was this same occupation that Leo took. Partially, that is. For a boy of 12, there were much exciting things to do than take care of sheep, there was the great world to explore and experience. Leo took after his cousins Priscus and Meros who were serving in the army and emulated them whenever he could with mock swords and a small bow for boy his age. Sneaking out whenever there was work to be done, Leo would practise with his mock weapons. The people of his village marveled at his physique and trim size and often his uncle would intervene and explain to them that it was borne from a habit of running away from work that needed to be done. Leo, naturally, expected a scolding. But his uncle, an understanding man, realised the impetuousness of youth and leniently let him off to the chagrin of all the other village boys.
Priscus and Meros would come back for the winter, summer and autumn seasons but never the spring, that was campaigning season. They would come back with their armour and weapons which Leo never ceased to pore over these objects he deemed as sacred as any icon in a church. All it seemed was well. Prosperity and peace reigned in Thrace and the worries of the world was far away from the unsuspecting village.

Life, unfortunately, catches up. All good things must come to an end. The times of troubles began.

The Roman Emperor Justinian II was overthrown by a group of rebellious land magnates in Asia Minor with the support of two Strategos of the Opsikion and the Thracesion. Angered by Justinian’s father - the great Constantine IV who defeated the Saracen attempt to capture Constantinople – who had enacted harsh measures against the depredations of the magnates with suppression by imprisonment and execution they sought to gain their revenge against his son. For years, Justinian had worried over the helpless of his power to rein in these magnates who quickly established themselves with ease in recent years after his father’s unexpected death. With a small army, Justinian brought the rebels to battle and was defeated disastrously by the larger rebel army. The Emperor had his nose slit off by the rebels and was exiled to some far-flung province called the Klimata (Cherson in Crimea). As for the loyalist supporters throughout the empire, there was a bloody purge. Every village, town and city was search thoroughly by the order of Artemianus, the new Emperor of the Roman state. In Leo’s village, a priest was executed in plain sight of everyone. There was no replacement.

Meanwhile, a few survivors did escape from their clutches and raised the flag of rebellion against the usurpers. At the head of this rebellion was a charismatic figure whose name was easily known to all who have heard of his tales and legends. Mercurius Apsimarus.
Mercurius rallied the remnants of former Emperor’s elite guards and recruited enthusiastic volunteers who were raised on the tales of Mercurius and his wars against the enemies of the Roman Empire. With an army of 12,000, Mercurius marched against the Artemian army who were numbered at 30,000 near the city of Calliopolis with its strategic broken terrain. Drawing the commander of the main body of the enemy into a narrow pass, Mercurius quickly sealed both ends of the passes and trapped them indefinitely. With the rest of his army, he confronted and routed the remaining Artemian army attempting to free the main body. For 2 days and nights, the loyalist army reduced the trapped army with boulders, arrows and other contrived forms of devastation. By the start of the 3rd day, the commander surrendered along with his remaining men numbering at the paltry figure of 8000.

Priscus and Meros numbered amongst Mercurius’ victorious army and sent home immense plunder that day. One reward of the plunder, however, was significant. Leo was given a lamellar cuirass and a sword along with a fine composite bow of the hunnic kind. Even he was too small for it, was something he would hold into when he grew old enough to use it. Leo’s dream was to fight alongside his cousins in the army of the famed Mercurius. That was not to be.

After routing the Artemian army, Mercurius marched with due haste to the western frontier of Thrace. The pagan Bulgars of the old Moesian provinces had swept into Thrace threatening Mercurius position in the rear. Sponsored by Roman gold, the Bulgars were recipients of Artemianus’ bribe to occupy the loyalist general. In the fierce battles along the frontier, both sides were mutally exhausted. The Bulgars soon retreated north after a devastating ambush against their camp near the Maritsa River in a daring night attack by Mercurius.

The damage was done. His army was decimated. When Artemianus sent a large army into Thrace consisting of regular Thematic soldiers and mercenaries from the steppes, Mercurius had no chance but to fight a desperate battle against overwhelming numbers. Near Mesembria on the Black Sea coast, Mercurius’ army was annihilated. Mercurius was reported to be dead but no body was found. The surviving soldiers were rounded up and executed. A head was presented to the villages, towns and cities of the empire warning about the consequences of rebellion. Priscus and Meros were among those captured and executed. Through torture and mutilation, they revealed their home as Leo’s village. 3 days later, a messenger rode into the village center, implanted a stake and placed the heads of Leo’s cousins and left with haste. There were more heads to display elsewhere.

From then on, the idyllic world of Leo was shattered. His uncle forbade him to join the army and practise with his weapons. They were confiscated and hidden. The time for play was over, life was serious and there was work to be done. Leo tended the sheep throughout his youth. Despite, the dangers of Bulgar raiders indulging in mild saber rattling along the Thracian frontier, they were largely bought off by a tribute to leave the region alone. Soon, the sheep herd grew in numbers until Leo and his family could live comfortably as a minor lord of some kind. Things were looking brighter for the future. But not yet…..

CHAP 16: THE WONDER YEARS (PART B)
Discovery

Dressed in a familiar looking white tunic, Leo became a notable in the village and assisted in his uncle’s commercial activities. Since the loss of Priscus and Meros, his uncle had treated him like a son. Leo, without a father, accepted without hesitation. Both uncle and nephew had built a formidable business to the point where they now owned at least 1200 sheep. It was a rarity to hear anything about his mother or his father. No one ever bothered to tell him. Driven by an insatiable need to know, he demanded to be told the truth about his mother:

“Tell me about my parents”

“I told you before, they abandoned you. There is nothing more to say. Have we not gone over this before?”

“But each time, you reply with reluctance. There is something you are hiding from”

“There is nothing”

“Don’t lie to me”

“You don’t need to know”

“I do. I demand it. Its my right to know. By Simeon the Stylite, I demand you tell me”

“You don’t need to know”

“If you don’t…”

“Then what? Have we not suffered enough from threats against us these few years?”

“I am suffering more in silence than your good intentions, uncle”

“Very well…..where to start.then. But you must promise not to follow in the footsteps of your father”

“I don’t make ignorant promises”

“Fine”

“Your mother was a prostitute in Germanicea but….”

“A whore?”

“I told you…”

“Continue……..please”

“She eventually became the mistress of a certain soldier by the name of Arcadius, an assistant officer of the militia guard of the town. Both were outcasts, but they kept their tongue. Arcadius was a reputable soldier of good courage. I even had the chance to meet him once. Our family became outcasts too because of our association.

Not a nice background is it Leo?

Leo?”

“A soldier? Arcadius was a soldier?”

“Yes, yes but the important thing is that…”

“He was a soldier?”

“Yes, but….”

“A Roman soldier…..”

“LEO Listen to me; you have a different life now. Don’t look to the past; there is a future before you: a great one. Don’t throw it away by following in your father’s footsteps.”

“I am my own father’s son, uncle”

“But, but..”

“Excuse me, I must be alone”

“What about the sheep, I need someone to…”

“Ask Nicetas.”

[kataphraktoi]

CHAP 16: THE WONDER YEARS (PART C)
The refugee on the shores of Cherson

“Constans, are we near?”

“Yes, my lord, we are”

“Excellent. How long?”

“5 hours, it will be dark by then”

“Just what I had hoped for”

Mercurius seated himself in the small craft that was steered by a local fisherman of Mesembria. For a generous sum of 14 Gold nomismata, Constans agreed to take him to Cherson. The general of the loyalist forces closed his eyes and listened to the ocean’s waves gently pushing against the side of the vessel. Reflecting on his predicament, Mercurius conjured up his memories. So many, he thought to himself.

He remembered his days as a guardsman in the Imperial palace and his origins. He was a gift from a prominent merchant who was invited for a meal with the Emperor Constantine IV, the father of his lord whom he retains loyalty to. It is said that Mercurius was of Gothic extract. The merchant had come across him on his journeys in the lands north of the colony of Cherson called Gothia, where substantial numbers of Goths had stayed after their Ostrogothic and Visigothic cousins had migrated west. Mercurius was the son of minor Gothic chieftain who owed tribute to the Khazari Khanate in the northern shores of the Caspian Sea. To pay tribute, he sold his boy of 10 Eutharic to the merchant in return for a grand sum. The merchant was impressed and paid the great sum for a boy who was tall for his age and of fair and healthy complexion. He had intended to sell him to the Caliphs in Damascus on the look out for young boys to be raised up as bodyguards and elite troops when he was honoured by the rare invitation of the Roman Emperor. To impress him, the merchant gave the boy as a gift. Constantine was pleased with this fine acquisition and raised him up amongst the ranks of royalty and nobility.

Eutharic was subsequently baptized and re-named Mercurius after the warrior saint. His physical talents were noted early and he was placed in the elite corps where young officers were placed strategically for promotion. During the Saracen siege of Constantinople, Mercurius impressed the Emperor by his courage and tenacity in defending the walls and promoted him as the officer the elite cavalry regiment of the Kaballarika Prima, the Emperor’s personal field unit. In a campaign against the Slavs, Mercurius captured scouts belonging to the Sclavinian chieftain Moros who united several tribes against the Romans. With vital information, the Romans smashed the Sclavs and killed Moros breaking the Sclavinian confederation near the old city of Naissus. Against the Bulgars, however, all was not well. Constantine suffered from gout during the crossing of the Danube and left the supervision of the crossing to his officers when a Bulgar dressed as a Roman soldier spread rumours of the Emperor retreating south. Panic spread like wildfire at the news and the Roman was in chaos. The crossing was halted and the Roman army was in flight. The Bulgars watchful of their successful ruse burst out from their hiding places and routed the Romans. Constantine was close to being captured by the Bulgars when Mercurius ordered the men of Kaballarika Prima to execute a suicidal and hopeless charge against the Bulgars to buy time for the Emperor’s escape.

The Emperor was taken to Odessus and waited for news of the disaster. Half his army was dead, a quarter captured including members of the Kaballarika Prima. All were executed except for the cavalrymen of the Kaballarika Prima. Due to their courage, they were spared and ransomed. Mercurius was one of the survivors who was exchanged at the border and returned to Constantinople.

On the eastern frontier, Mercurius’ exploits were well traveled throughout the fortresses of Anatolia. They heard how Mercurius had sacked the Saracen fortress of Zapetra in his campaigns against Saracen raiders based in that region. Over the years, Samosata, Alexandretta, Amida and Theodosiopolis were repeatedly sacked while the annoyed Caliphate continually provided for their reconstruction and upkeep.

In the AD 684, Constantine expired on his deathbed and asked Mercurius to swear to serve his son loyally and to fight his enemies. Mercurius swore to do so. And broke it.

Unexpectedly, Mercurius retired at the young age of 22 and took his vows at a monastery. Once tonsured, he vanished from the daily news of Constantinople and the reports that circulated throughout the empire. The question people asked was why? No satisfactory answer could be found. Only he knew.

“General. We have arrived”

“Cherson?”

“Yes”

“14 gold nomismata it is. There is more if you are….”

“At your service, my lord, I will stay here”

“Thank You. Enjoy yourself while we are here”

“I will”

CHAP 16: THE WONDERS YEARS (PART C)
Son of a soldier

“Son of whore. Son of a soldier. Illegitimate. Bastard.

Who respects one?” repeated Leo over and over again.

“I respect one” answered an unexpected voice

“Uncle?”

“Yes, Leo”

“What happened to the sheep?”

“I asked Nicetas”
“I am sorry for keeping all this from you. But I believed it to be in your interests”

“You always have uncle”

“Your mother was a prostitute but a good mother. You never starved and you were always he jewel”

“And of my father?”

“He was an honourable man. I can remember the look in his eyes when he was near you. He would always inquire about you and drop a few nomismatas our way to upkeep you. But of course, your mother stopped being a prostitute when you were born. She worked as a weaver in our textile business. Anyhow, your father was a brave and courageous man who was the last soldier to die when the Saracens captured Germanicea. He refused to surrender and died a free man as he always told me: ‘better to die a free man than a slave of the Saracen’”

“I cannot deny your roots Leo. Here, I brought you this”

“The cuirass and sword Priscus and Meros gave to me, but how?”

“I had hidden it. I did not want you following them to their deaths. Inside of me, I knew that I could not stop you. You were born with the blood of warrior in your veins. Even when you did not know your parents, you were always training to be a soldier. Here is your chance. I will not stop you”

“I want to be a soldier, but not in the army of Artemianus”

“I know, I have contacts who tell me that Mercurius is alive”

“Alive”

“Yes he is, Mercurius is on a secret mission to rescue the Emperor Justinian in the Klimata at the moment”

“How do you know Mercurius?” waved Leo’s head in disbelief

“A long time ago in Anatolia, I met Mercurius who was then a monk by the name of Sergius. We talked a bit and he broached the subject of where we would be headed. I told him about Thrace and he pondered about my response for while then asked if there was a priest amongst us. I pointed to the Monophysite priest of our faith but informed him that we were new converts to Chalcedonianism. He left and returned the next day and told me he was to be the new priest of our village.”

“Mercurius was once our priest?”

“That is correct. For a few years only before he left his assistant Anastasius here with us. God bless his soul. Anastasius was a good priest.

You were too young to understand religion. Therefore, you did not know Mercurius”

“Where he go?”

“When Justinian was overthrown, the led the loyalist army”

If Mercurius does succeed, there may be a chance for you to become a Roman soldier. But who knows what will happen”