In the Lands of the Faithful: BC Hotseat Story Thread

[phonicsmonkey]

This thread is for the players in the Broken Crescent hotseat (https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=99702) game to post creative writing related to the game.

This can take the form of full or partial turn write-ups, battle reports, stories or other creative writing forms inspired by the game, so long as the posts are consistent with and related to events in the game.

[00jebus]

To Merchants traveling along the silk road, the ancient city of Merv was usually a true pleasure and wonder to pass through, not just a respite from the never ending sand of Iran, not so today, it seemed more like Allah himself was sorry, most of the men looked downtrodden, although the bazar was legendary little trade was done, all around the walls flags flopped downwards at half mast, the weather was clear, but felt sticky and lifeless and from the council chambers two messengers and their retinues rode out.
Today, would be considered a very special day by the worlds christians, the 25th of December, but to the people of Khwarezm, it was a tragic one, 2 days ago the shah had died in his sleep.
Nobody suspected foul play, considering his age, and nobody doubted he would be denied passage to paradise, considering his piety and chivalry, but the people were still sorry to see their king go. He did after all take excellent care of them, new civic building projects sprung up all over the shahdom during his reign, and he was responsible for ensuring so far lasting peace with both seljuk and ghanzi

The two messengers that were dispatched had the unenviable task of delivering news of this great man's passing to his sons, Malik and Muhammad.

Malik was first to hear the news, and his part of the will, he was to become Viezier - i - azam, or Grand Vizor, as a budding beaurocrat and efficient taxman, he would be in charge of the peaceful aspects of the shahdom until he died, with his brother and nephew being the next two in line for the throne.
Even though he was older than Muhammah, Malik accepted this anyway, he knew he would be best at this and enjoy it allot more than what Muhammad got upto, it would be important for him to protect the kingdom from his younger brothers occasional moods and odd habits.




The messenger that was sent to tell Muhammad had never seen a seige before, or the aftermath of one, he arrived at Tus early in the morning and was shocked to discover the entire army awake and at work, clearly a battle had happened the day before, and a one-sided one by the looks of things. Ladders were still on the walls, and a large square pit had been dug in which soldiers where throwing corpses haphazadly, they hadn't even been wrapped in cloth, holding back his vomit the messenger was about to ask a passing soldier where his general was, when he heard a loud argument erupt a short walk away

".... I dont give a toss if its against the Qua'ran!" A man in blood soaked armour thundered at a man who could only be the local Iman "Their dead! all of em! and I'm gonna burn them!"

the Iman spluttered to respond "But their souls may not enter paradise!, nobody has even gave them a burial prayer!"

"that would be your job wouldn't it? Im not changing things! the army is in the middle of a campaign, why wait a week to do it all properly? I suggest you do what you can for their souls..." he sneered

The Iman was clearly at a loss for words, a look of shock and frustration upon his face he turned and marched off towards the pit, a look of utter loathing on his face, the messenger stopped him, but before he could speak the Iman said
"Yes thats the so-called Muhammad the mighty, he's killed over a thousand muslims today.. if that deed gives you that title than its one I dont want... He has no idea about Islam at all.... even caught him eating pork yesterday... so if you must speak to him, keep religion out of it" before continuing his march.

The messenger caught the generals attention, bowing he began.
"Excuse me? sir? I have..."

"...if its a problem with attacking a city in the night and killing half the garrison in their sleep, I dont wanna hear about it! nor do I wanna hear about how my wonderful brother is such a saint, and I deffinanlty dont wanna hear that Im going to hell or wherever..."

looking slightly shocked and again holding back his vomit the messenger continued... "no sir, not, er, that.... your father, theres no easy way to say this, but he's passed away"

Muhammad Looked softer and like he was about to cry for a second, but only for a second before he scoffed
"Has my wonderful brother decided whether I can carry on conquering... just like father wanted or has his weaklingness got the better of him? idiot barely knows which end of a sword to hold...."

Bowing again "no, sir, your the new shah",
"god save us all" he added under his breath

"Good, nobodies expecting me to hang around building stuff cause I've got better things to do than look after peasants, and nobody expects me to care about the servant classes all of a sudden? And nobody expects any Hajj or Zaket of me"

"No, Malik will take care of all of that"

the new shah's eyes glinted, smiling he said "father really did take care of everything! great, now if you'll excuse me I have to get some sleep.."

"but sir, its early...." the messenger tried to protest, but quaked under the new shah's gaze.

In a tone that sounded as if it had been practised for the past few years, Muhammad proclaimed "do raise an army in the north for my son... I think now we can afford it," make sure its all infantry, If I have to hear him moan about horse archers again I'll do that christian thing where they hit their kids... only I'll use a mace..."
though the end seemed a spur of the moment thing

and that was how the reign of shah Muhammad the mighty began.






OOC, first ever AAR :yes: much harder than I thought it'd be, but included as many traits as I could.

[rossahh]

Jerusalem, 1175 AD


It was hot, very hot, just as it always seemed to be that way in this Kingdom. The man on the horse wrinkled his nose. The city always smelt terrible when it was hot. It made it hard to think, hard to concentrate - yet he needed to do both at the moment.

Why have I been summoned? Why? he thought to himself. He had carried out his orders, the King's orders, yet he felt apprehensive. Gaza was taken and pillaged, all for the loss of but two knights. Indeed, he had still been carrying out the King's orders - March at best speed with the army to reinforce the army at Damascus - when the summons came.

What had gone wrong? What did I do wrong?






The King's chambers were just as they always were. Dark, cool, forboding. Standing proud and tall in the ante-chamber, the man waited, sweating from more than from just the heat outside.

"Enter" said the soft voice.

Entering through the curtains, the man came into the mix of darkness and candle-light. As always, it took a moment for the eyes to adjust to the drop in light before the figure on the cushioned couch came into focus. The figure was but an outline of a man, except for the eyes. The bright, shiny eyes pierced the newcomer and seemed to be searching him, reading him, judging him with their glance.

Nervously, the man bowed low and whispered in a suddenly dry throat, "My Lord".

For a moment, the figure did not stir. The eyes gazed silently back at the man. Finally, the soft voice spoke again, muffled from the mask, "Please sit down". The man quickly sat down, opposite the couch on which the figure lay. As he did, he noticed for the first time the multitude of papers scattered around the couch. Dozens of papers, parchments and letters, bearing all manner of seals and insignias.

As soon as he had sat down, the man began, "My Lord, I most humbly apologise for any offence which..." The man was stopped midsentence by an upraised hand from the figure. In the hand was a document, a letter, bearing a seal not known to the man. The man's heart began to thud faster and faster as he watched the King unroll the letter. What was in it? Was this the reason I was summoned? Was it his execution?

The soft voice spoke. "Jerusalem will not long survive in a war with the Muslims. Already, the Kingdom is divided. Of the northern states, only Tripoli answers to us. Edessa and Antioch have ceded and the Emir in Aleppo is openly hostile."

The figure paused and the brandished the letter to the man,

"But this is the future of Jerusalem. The Sultan and I have made peace."

The man began to panic. If the King had made peace with the Muslims and I had attacked them, had I violated the pact? Had I destroyed the future of this Kingdom? His heart stopped beating.

Unaware of the man's thoughts, the voice continued,

"Damascus and Homs have been surrendered to us. The eastern borders are secure. Peace has been restored between Christian and Muslim."

Relief flooded the man's body. He was able to breathe again, and his heart pumped blood once more.

"You have played you part well, and we thank you for that. Though peace with the Muslims has been obtained, the future is not yet secure."

The hand dropped the letter it was holding and picked up another. On this one was a seal that the man recognised. It was the seal of Joran, the representative of Jerusalem in the Court of the Caliph.

"News from the court speaks of trouble brewing in the north. Beyond the northern counties, a threat is growing. The Takavor in Armenia, it seems, is pulling away from us and towards the Turks."

The man frowned. The last that he had heard of Armenia was that were to be allies of the Kingdom. Strange that they would be courting the Turks against us. But perhaps I heard wrong. The man nodded to himself, it was quite some time ago that he had heard the stories about Armenia, after all.

"With the situation in the north as is, we have set a task for you."

The man ceased his musings about Armenia and focused on the eyes. Now that he knew his fate was safe, he was anxious to know what was to become of him now.

"It is time to strengthen the northern border. The counties of Edessa and Antioch are to be returned to the control of the Kingdom. It is our desire that you march the army of Jerusalem to the north and reassert our claim on the northern counties. Tripoli will assist you with whatever troops they can spare."

The man smiled at the mention of Tripoli. His uncle was a good soldier and campaigning with him was always a joyous affair. However, he frowned as he thought about what the King had first said. He saw a flaw in the King's plans, and felt he had to say something, yet he didn't know how to phrase it without offending the King. Tentatively, he inquired.

"My Lord, what if Antioch and Edessa reject your demands?"

The King's head tilted to the side. The eyes gazed intently at the man.

"Then you will force the demands upon them."

The voice had not changed in volume but there was an intensity in that sentence that frightened the man. The King is not one to be trifled with, I see the man thought to himself. How appearances can be deceiving.

The man waited for the King to say more, but he did not utter another word and just gazed at the man. The man understood that he was dismissed and so stood up, bowed and said, "It will be done My Lord".

The eyes twinkled back at him and the soft voice said, "Yes, we know it will."

A shiver went down the man's spine, and not from being in the cool room. Suddenly, he felt afraid again. He quickly turned to stride out of the room. As he did, he noticed something strange. The King had a third letter next to him, one that he didn't show the man. Though he couldn't see much of it in the dim light, from his angle it seemed the letter bore the official seal of the Roman Emperor. The man paused and looked back at letter, before leaving the room. Strange that he didn't mention that seeings they are one of our northern neighbors. It must not be important...





And so the army marched north, the man on the horse in the lead, its purpose clear.

The Kingdom would be united again under one banner.




Edit: I'd appreciate some feedback, if you want to give it. I've never done a story before for TW, but I hope you like it. If you do want to throw me some feedback, I suppose a pm is the best way so as to not clutter up the thread.

Edix x 2: Thanks for the feedback guys. We all know where this ends up so I'll do a few more, and be as truthful as possible, to show the path to war.

[rossahh]

Antioch, 1175 AD

The Message Bearer rode hard.

Messengers from Jerusalem were not as welcome in the Principality as they once were. The sanctity of the Bearers was not what it once was either. Though the road ahead in Armenia was no safer, he knew the sooner he was out of the Principality, the better. Besides, the utmost importance had been placed on this message. It bore the seal of the King himself.


Time was of the essence, he was told.


The Basileos was waiting.

[rossahh]

Tartus, County of Tripoli, 1175 AD


Raymond III, Count of Tripoli, sighed. The road below him twisted and turned through the sands like a serpent, leading off to the north, south and east. A cool breeze ruffled the man's hair. It smelt like the sea, that blue haze on the western horizon. For some reason he liked looking at sea and liked its smell, it made him feel calm.

Raymond sighed again, and turned his gaze from the sea, back to the road.

Rumours he thought to himself. Lots of rumours. Too many rumours. What does it all mean?

For months now rumours had flown throughout the County. Rumours of war, rumours of peace, rumours about everything. Some had proven to be true while others were just wild fantasy. He had even seen things himself that he did not understand and fuelled the rumours.

What does it all mean? Raymond asked himself again.

The breeze flowed through the air again. Another man began to climb the hill. His tunic was blue with the golden cross emblazed upon it, and it shimmered in the sunlight as the man picked his way up the hill.

The Count smiled as he watched the man climb.

I think I'm about to find out.




The man in blue reached the top of the hill, panting slightly. For a moment, both men looked at each other without moving, before embracing.

"Uncle!" greeted the man in blue.

"Nephew" replied the Count in his deep, thoughtful tone.

They separated and the Count looked the man up and down, smiled and nodded.

"So, leading the army treats you well I see. I'm glad."

"I see Tripoli is still in good hands" replied the man with a smile of his own.

The Count chuckled and said "Always". His face lost its mirth almost instantly as he gazed back northwards, motioning for the man to do the same. The Count tried to hide his anxiety as he looked down at the road.

"So tell me. What news from the south? I have heard many a strange tale, and they cannot all possibly be true."

The man looked down at the road before looking back at the Count.

"Most of it is true."

"Even Damascus?" asked Raymond quickly.

"Yes" replied the man.

The Count sighed. A self satisfied sigh. A sigh of relief. He closed his eyes.

Thanks be to God that that rumour was true he thought to himself.

For years, the Emir in Damascus had sent raiders into the County, and for years the Count had beaten them back. For the past month, a rumour of the surrender of Damascus to the Kingdom had been heard in the County. The Count had not dared believe such a blessing. Not even tales of Muslims and Saracens marching southwards back into Egypt and that peace had been struck between Christian and Muslim in the south, had been enough to convince him. But now, now he knew it to be true.

The man noticed the relief on his uncle's face. He knew what it meant for the County and his uncle. He knew it meant that the County was safe once more. Safe as the rest of the Kingdom that is.



It was some time before either spoke again. The only movement came from the breeze whistling between them. The man smelt the sea on the breeze and smiled to himself. He'd always like the smell of the sea. However, the man had more to tell, and so finally he broke the silence.

"There is more."

Raymond looked at the man again.

"You have received orders from the King?" asked the man.

The Count nodded gravely.

"Yes, we were assemble the County and prepare to march with the army. That I have done, a thousand men in all." The Count paused. "To where, the King did not say. Many others though, have said." The Count looked at his nephew, square in the eyes. "The rumours said that we were to march north."

He hesitated, "Far north."

The Count gestured to the road running northwards. Northwards into the Principality. Northwards into Cicilia. Northwards into Anatolia.

The man gazed intently back at his uncle, and nodded. "Yes, we are to head northwards."

"How far northwards?" asked the Count hesitantly. He had heard many rumours. Rumours from the caravans coming down from the north and from the east. Rumours from the travellers on the north road. Indeed, he himself had even seen things. Worrying things.

So it's true...

"Antioch" said the man, breaking into Raymond's thoughts.

Confusion flooded into the Count's mind. Antioch? But what about...

"Are you surprised?" the man cut across Raymond's thoughts again. "You of all people know that the Principality no longer answers to the King."

"No," said the Count as he tried to shake the confusion from his expression. Far below them on the road a lone horseman was riding, a plume of sand rising behind him. "I have just heard..." he trailed off.

"Heard what?" asked the man, confusion now on his face.

The Count paused. He turned and faced the man. Hesitantly, he spoke.

"I heard whispers of trouble up north, and I've seen, things."

The man sensed his uncle had something important to say, something secretive. He was determined to find out.

"Uncle, what is it?"


The Count turned away. His eyes went down to the road and tiny figure. For a long time, he did not speak. A strange dark mood seemed to fall over the hill. Finally he began in almost a whisper.

"Traders from the north, from Antioch and afar, have been bringing tales of the people beyond the mountains. They say war is brewing. They say the Levant is threatened. They say messengers have been travelling many leagues along the roads for months. Messengers bearing the royal insignias of many a king."

Raymond stopped for a while, but the man made no move to reply. Eventually, the whisper continued.

"I have watched the roads many times, and I too have seen messengers. Lone horsemen riding at full gallop, following the roads to the south. Like that one," pointing to the rider moving southwards down the road into the Kingdom below them.

The Count lifted his eyes and looked at his nephew.

"Something is going on up north. I feel it."

The man looked back at his uncle. A multitude of thoughts was going through his mind. He could think of nothing to say. On the road north, he had heard nothing. He knew only what the King had told him. He thought it was all so simple - recover the lost Counties. But now? he thought to himself. He felt perplexed and had the feeling, like his uncle seemingly did, that something was happening around them. Something terrible.


Suddenly, a big gust of wind and the smell of the sea struck the hill. The darkness that had been there before abated instantly. The Count seemed to gather himself and briskly said to the man, "Come, we have much to discuss" and set off down the sandy hill.

Surprised by his uncle's sudden change in demeanour, the man was slow to follow the Count. As he turned to obey, his eyes were drawn to the rider on the road, heading southwards. For an instant, a flash of sunlight lit up the figure, and the man was sure that he saw the figure bathed in purple.

Strange. I know that colour, but from where? the man asked himself.

Shrugging his shoulders, he started down the hill, towards the hundreds of tents spread out before him.


His uncle was right about one thing. They had much to discuss.

[rossahh]

Baghdad, 1175 AD


"Why does he say such things?" whispered the first voice.

"It is not him, it is the other one" replied the second voice.

"But he should be our friend!" exclaimed the first.

"Should does not mean is. This is politics" said the second.


The candle flared and the room was given light. The old man sat down at the desk. He grabbed some parchment, dipped his quill in ink and began to write.

The other man nervously paced to room, looking at the old man writing and then looking out the window. The city was dark and the night was in full force. He could stand not doing anything any longer and began,

"Joran, who are..."

"The King" the old man cut him off harshly. "He must be told!"

The other man shut his mouth and resumed his pacing. His thoughts were flying around and around his head.

He should be back by now.

He should be back by now.

The writing continued.



Suddenly the old man stopped writing and put down his quill, frowning. The slightest of noises could be heard outside the door. Silently, the other man drew a long knife with a shaking hand, and reached for the door. A muffled voice came through it before it was opened,

"It's me."

Sagging with relief the other man opened the door. A man, much younger that the other two, entered hurriedly, panting slightly. The other man shut the door quickly behind him, while the old man faced the young one.

"What did they say?" he demanded.

"They said it changes nothing." he said between breaths.

The old man closed his eyes. While the other man's eyes flared in panic. In a gravelly voice, he said,

"So be it."


He turned back to his letter and continued writing. The other men stood awkwardly in the room, waiting for the old man to finish. Eventually he did, sealing the letter with wax and his mark.

Turning to the young man, he handing over the letter and said "To the King. Now."

The young man ran to the door, flung it open and ran out of the room.

Hurriedly, the other man shut the door, and faced the old man.

"What does it mean? What will happen?" His voice was shrill, his face clammy with sweat.

The old man rubbed his forehead with his hands. In a strong voice, he said simply,

"War."

[rossahh]

Camp of the Army of Jerusalem, Siege of Antioch, 1176 AD


The blue banner with the gold cross hung proudly in the air.

The messenger dismounted from his horse, and hurried towards the tent. He had ridden four days straight and was exhausted, but excited to deliver this message. Rarely did anyone see the King, let alone bear a message from him personally. It had been an honour, but still it was tiring all the same. The guards at the tent moved aside to let the messenger past - they saw the ring on his finger, they knew where he was from - and the messenger entered the tent.

The tent was large, spacious even, with maps and papers scattered here and there on tables and chairs, as it was for the commander of the army of Jerusalem. The commander looked up in mild annoyance at being disturbed unannounced - as if he didn't have enough to worry about at the moment.

The messenger bowed quickly, pulled the message from its carry-case and offered it to the commander.

"My Lord," said the messenger, "from the King."

The man in the tent took the message, his annoyance only deepening with the news.

What now? he thought angrily to himself.

Slowly, the man began to read.

The messenger waited and watched the man read. He saw the expressions come and go on the man's face. Confusion, disbelief, anger, thoughtfulness, resignation. Eventually, the man finished reading. Looking up at the messenger, he nodded and dismissed him.

The messenger hurried from the tent. His job was done, the message was read and understood. The rest was in the man's hands. He started to walk through the camp, back to where his horse was.

Where can I find some food around here?







For a long time, the man in the tent thought about the message. He thought long and hard, but still the answers did not come.

Why that? Why now? he questioned himself silently.

To that he could find no answer. Eventually, the man sighed and stood up.

"So be it" he told himself.

He called for his overseer and his most trusted knights. He had orders from his liege, though he did not yet understand them, and he would carry them out. They were not going to like this...







After dismissing his men, the man sat down. He felt suddenly weary, yet he knew that rest would not be easily found on the roads ahead.

"My lord?" inquired a voice from the doorway.

It was his overseer, a trusted friend, who had lingered after the meeting.

"Where are we going?"

The man sighed. It is better they know now, than later he thought to himself. He looked up at his friend and smiled ruefully.

"Cicilia."

For a moment, the overseer looked at man, no expression on his face. The man knew a multitude of thoughts would be racing through his mind, as it had for the man's very own not long ago. The overseer finally nodded and bowed, and hurried from the tent.

The man closed his eyes. Outside the tent, horns were blowing. He opened them again. It was time.


There was so much work to do.

[The Lemongate]

Actually to keep this flowing, ignore this post, and just go read below!

[rossahh]

Jerusalem, 1176 AD



The figure looked out over the city. It was early morning and the city was just waking. The figure took nothing in - its thoughts far away to the north.


They lie, they provoke, but we are on the wrong side?

We are the aggressors?


The figure shook its head slightly.


He was right. They should be silenced.


But what will the others think?


What will the others do?


The figure sighed inwardly at those thoughts.


Only time will tell.




Another small voice appeared in the back of the figure's mind.


You have brought doom upon us.


The figure closed its eyes. These thoughts had haunted him for weeks. The other voice continued.


The others will decend upon us and we shall be powerless to resist. You will be forever remembered as a failure!


The figure shook its head to clear those thoughts. The Kingdom did not need those thoughts, it needed strength now.


We will prevail the figure told himself silently.

We must!


A faint echo of laughter reasonated through the figure's mind.


We fight for ourselces, not for them.

We agreed, and so it shall be done.




The figure bowed its head.


It is too late to turn back now.

[rossahh]

Ceyhan River, Armenia, 1176 AD


They were late.

The messenger had been waiting at the crossing for six days. The meeting was supposed to have taken place on the first of the month. That was four days ago.


Trust the crusaders to be late he thought crossly to himself, only showing up when they want to. The messenger smiled, not that they're going to like this message. He had secretly read the message while he had waited. The Basileos was insane if he wanted the Latins to follow Roman orders. He had also wanted the Latins to take the western part of Armenia, conveniently ignoring the fact that it was the most heavily populated, spread out and defended part of Cicilia. They'll never agree to that unless the Basileos has offered them something in return the messenger thought to himself, something big. He had thought a bit on that subject, but could think of nothing that the crusaders would want in return for giving half of Armenia to the Empire.

"Obviously I wouldn't make a good Basileos," the messenger said out loud to himself with a smile.

"You don't even make a good sentry," snarled a deep voice from right behind him.

The messenger jumped a foot into the air and whirled around, clutching for his sword.

"Looking for this?" a pale, gloating face said, waving a sword around.

The messenger's hand reached his empty scabbard. How the hell...?

The pale-faced man laughed out loud as shock and surprise filled the messenger's face.

The messenger flushed darkly. How dare this pig laugh at a Basileos's message-bearer?

The man noticed the deepening colour. His laughter from before vanished and an ugly expression arose. Waving the sword at the messenger, he said "We've been watching you for a few hours now, so come on. The Count and the Lord are waiting," and started to walk back through the trees.

The messenger gathered his case, anger still flowing through him. THEY'VE been waiting?! What about me?!

"Come," the man said again, not looking around, "we've got much to discuss."

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph dreamed.

He was one of a multitude surging through the narrow lanes of the bazaar in Baghdad.

There were men there of every country in the world, their stalls, carts and trays overflowing with the bounty of the earth.

Exotic dyes, spices and reams of cloth of every hue and texture dazzled the eye. Food sizzled on grills and bubbled in pots, and an array of odours assailed his senses. Music came flooding from every direction, strange and haunting melodies that spoke of foreign lands long distant.

He left the bazaar and passed through the city.

In a square shaded by date palms he saw a throng of holy men engaged in lively debate. There were men of Muhammad and men of Christ, men of the Hindu gods and many more he could not recognise. They smiled and embraced each other as they spoke, and seemed to come to an agreement.

Past the square were the city gates, through which came a procession of carts loaded with freshly harvested produce. The line of carts stretched down the road to the horizon, and flanking the road on either side were fields of green crops and dark, earthy loam which seemed loaded with the promise of an endless fertility.

As he passed through the streets of the city it seemed to him that the people lived their lives in peace and harmony, unthreatened by war, hunger or religious oppression. He saw no signs of sickness or poverty, and no man he saw carried weapons.

Looming over the city was the Royal Palace. Now he was at the foot of the great stone staircase which led to the giant golden doors. Looking up he saw in front of the doors, seated on a dazzling throne the figure of an old man, the Caliph. Surrounding the Caliph were children of the city, seated at his feet and listening intently to his words.

He started to climb the stairs but as he placed his foot on the next step he slipped and, teetering for a moment trying desperately to regain his balance, he met the Caliph’s eyes and fell.

The Caliph awoke in his chamber. As he sat up on his hard cot the room seemed to be very dark and cold.

An unfamiliar rattling sound came from the darkest corner of the room. He heard the chattering of voices in an alien tongue, and harsh laughter rang out.

As his eyes adjusted he saw that there was a gaming table set up in the room, around which clustered a group of djinns. They were casting dice and gambling with pieces of gold.

He rose from the cot and approached the table as quietly as he could, shocked and overcome by the fearsome sight.

As he drew closer he saw that the surface of the table was a map, with the Caliphate and all the surrounding nations marked on it. The djinns were moving small squirming figures around on the map and seemed to be forcing them to fight.

In the part of the table which showed Azerbaijan a tiny knight on a white charger struggled with a giant eagle which tried to bear him aloft.

The djinns cackled and clucked at the sight.

The Caliph was no longer fearful but overcome with rage – he overturned the table in his anger, scattering the dice, gold and playing pieces on the floor, shouting and waving his arms at the djinns to shoo them from his chamber.

With a start they threw open the shuttered window and, grabbing his arms, bore him aloft from the tower and out over the city streets.

Below him Baghdad was aflame - the people rioted in the streets burning effigies, spurred on by the hateful diatribes of Imans. Sick and starving children roamed in packs stealing from beggars and tormenting mothers who wailed after their dying infants.

A host was at the gates, pounding on them with a great battering ram with the head of an ox. Behind them and to the horizon the land was scorched and barren under skies filled with black smoke.

The djinns bore him higher into the air as he struggled and wailed for release. Now he was miles above the earth and looking out into the east across the great desert.

On the horizon he saw gathering dark clouds and flashes of lightning.

Across the desert, from the east towards the city, great twisting sandstorms came, fifteen in number, tearing the palms from the earth and destroying all trace of life in their deadly path.

The Caliph awoke in his chamber which was bathed in the warm morning sunshine.

Interesting, he thought.

He meditated on the dream as he performed his morning prayers on the reed mat by the window. Afterwards he sat in a chair, lost in thought until a knock on the door interrupted his reverie.

The Vizier entered, with a pair of manservants, one bearing a tray of dates and unleavened bread, the other with the Caliph’s robes.

‘My lord Caliph, the Court (https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=99784) is assembling. It is said that the Georgians and the Seljuks will today announce the peace that you have brokered between them.’

‘That is excellent news old friend. I will attend Court presently to hear the announcement (https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?p=1859078#post1859078). Have the palace ghulams prepare a feast for our guests.’

[The Lemongate]

Konstantinopolis, Autumn of 1174

A man is standing on a balcony in the Blachernae Palace, the greatest city in the West sprawling before him. He takes a deep breath inhaling the scent of metalworks smelting iron casts, fisheries fresh from the Sea of Marmara, honeys and spices from Anatolikon being traded in the great markets and wines from the Frankish kingdoms and Italia. The scents of a thousand lands that have all known the touch of Rome, eternal Rome...

He chuckles.

Rome. What was Rome? This city was founded under the name Nova Roma; it’s inhabitants had soon came to refer to it as Roma Konstantinea, Constantine’s Rome. The founder of the eastern half of the roman world had wanted it to become a central capital from which his successors would rule a united world under the peace and protection of Christ. In Hoc Signo Vinces.

It had been ages since that dream had been shattered. Bad imperators in the West, a bickering Senate, lack of virtu, that quintessential roman quality: the valour of a warrior and the wisdom of a philosopher. All had conspired to bring Rome down to its knees, bleed it white of men and women capable of producing a new generation of Romans. Yet here it stood. Rome.

Oh the city had changed. It wasn’t even called Rome anymore. Most people referred to it as Konstantinopolis, Constantine’s City. But the dream that was Rome was still there. The man could feel it in the air, see it in the eyes of the people when he walked in the streets, hear it in the toll of church bells. The Komnenoi had begun to return to the people of Graecia and Anatolikon their pride. Maybe one day the chi rho cross and the eagle would once again float over the old provinces of the East. Maybe one day, the dream of Rome would come back to walk with mortal men and a glorious peace would settle over the world.

But there was still much work to be done until then. The Normans, the Pechenegs and the Hungarians had been pushed back, but Sicily had eluded the Basileos’ grasp. The Popes of Rome had long taken their distances with the Empire, and the warriors they had sent forth into the Levant had their own kingdoms with little regard for imperial authority. Even the Kings of Cilicia dared to refuse roman protection. And then there was the Turks.

“My lord?”

The man turned from the bustling city to look at the courier he had just summoned. The Emperor and his council had at last decided of a course of action in Anatolikon. One that, if played right, would return all of Asia Minor to Rome. He smiled at the thought of Rome.

“You are to bring these orders to the generals in Nikomedeia, Nikeia and Smyrna. They are to assemble their troops and march East. The Basileos can no longer suffer rebellion in his lands. You will then sail to Nikoseia and tell Megas Dux Kontostephanos to take what men he has and recapture Ammoxostos. Tell him he should preserve their strength. The Basileos will not tolerate another fiasco like the one in Aegyptus.”

The courier saluted and left immediately. Leaving the balcony behind, the man walked into his office. On a table lay two sealed parchments. He would have to convey those messages himself. The Basileos counted on his discretion to bring those messages to their respective destination: Tbilisi and more importantly, Jerusalem.

[The Lemongate]

Konstantinopolis, beginning of Winter 1175

Manuelos Komnenos was sifting through reports from all over Asia Minor and Syria. Prospects looked good. Rebellious towns had been captured in central Anatolikon and Cyprus was once again Roman.

“At least this time that fool Kontostephanos hasn’t completely failed me.”

King Baldwin of Jerusalem had also sent his approval for joint operations in Cilicia. A positive step in bridging the gap between the two great branches of the Christian faith. The Empire had given shelter to Armenian refugees when the Seljuks had invaded a century earlier. Since then, relations between liege and vassal had waxed and waned. Though the little Cilician kingdom had helped both Latins and Romans, neither could fully trust them. Their deviousness and willingness to side with the Turks could not be tolerated and so an invasion was underway.

Tbilisi too had agreed to an alliance. Though Rome didn’t need the mountainous kingdom’s support in the immediate, the Georgians, through ingenious use of terrain, could resist for years to pressures from the East. A day might come when they would play a crucial role in Rome’s defense.

Nearly everything had gone according to plan. Nearly.

The Sultanate of Ikonion, Konya as the barbarians called it, had proven very aggressive in its negotiations. Not only did they not recognize Rome’s prior claim to rebellious towns still inhabited by Greeks and Romans, they threatened to storm Konstantinopolis itself while loudly clamoring their peaceful intentions at the court of the Arab Basileos…

“And to think that these mongrels, these barbarians feast only a few days ride from our heartlands in the very city where St-Paul himself gathered the faithful to perform the Eucharist!”

The Basileos was unnerved. He was a pious man. He had vowed to defend the holy places of Christendom whatever the cost to his person or to Rome. In his soul he was as much a crusader as his frankish allies but Turkish might was not to be underestimated. Unlike the Westerners, Rome had weathered the tides of time and had learned the hard way that patience can prevail where rash actions led only to disaster.

A sudden rustling of feet drew the Emperor from his musings. An aid entered his office.

“My lord, the men you requested are here.”

Manuelos answered with a nod.

The aid disappeared and ushered in a trio of eclectic warriors closely followed by four imposing varangian soldiers bedecked in full armor. The Basileos observed the men.

One was a warrior from Rus, a Kievan by the looks of him. His eyes were a pale shade of blue and his blond locks fell in waves from his helmet. He was dressed in an ample brown garment with little decoration. A vicious looking ax hung by his left side, while a byzantine-style sword was at his right hand. A large metal-rimmed shield made of wood was hung over his back.

The second man was from the steppes. A Cuman, or maybe a Turkman. His skin was darker then that of Greeks and Romans and his eyes had the cold black stare of Asia. His face was emotionless. One could barely discern a tiny smile creeping into the corner of his mouth which would send shivers down the spine of lesser men. Manuelos noted that there might have been as many as seven different blades on the mans accoutrement, each of a different and exotic design. The man must have let the small, compound bow for which his kin was known with his horse.

Finally, the last man was a Norman. Towering a foot above his two companions, he was a match in size and muscle even for the varangs which escorted him. His dress was simple for the occasion. He wore no armor and his bare arms showed the scars of many battles. Scars earned fighting Rome no doubt…

The Basileos admired the men before him. Some of the greatest warriors of this age, all come to sell their strength to Rome. And Rome was paying in gold and silver.

“How many men do you command,” he asked?

“Eighty knights from Apulia, armed and armored in the finest norman steel.”

“A hundred infantrymen from Kiev and another hundred from Novgorod.”

The asian looked at his companions and smiled:

“Five hundred horsemen from the steppes armed with bow and javelin.”

Manuelos was pleased.

“I shall take command of the host myself. We are to meet the Roman army at Dorylaion and move to the front at once. If the Turks want war, we shall bring them war!”

[The Lemongate]

Ikonion, on the Ramparts near the Eastern Gate, Early Spring 1176

The man looked at the row of Turkish bowmen perfectly aligned on the wall, their gazes level, fixing some distant point on the horizon. The plain below the city was cluttered with caravans from Cilicia, Georgia and even distant Aegyptus.

All these lands had been Roman provinces once.

He turned around to face his Turkish counterpart.

The Turkish diplomat was dressed in flowing blue and red robes. Seljuk royal blood no doubt. His hands were bedecked in rings of gold and silver. He was small for a Turk, but strongly built. Someone more apt to trust a dagger in your back then to charge down his opponent from horseback. His nonchalant attitude was only betrayed by the slightest tension of his muscles each time he took a step or let out his little, dry laugh. A dangerous man.

“Sultan Killij Arslan has only the most peaceful intentions. We truly wish to make of Rome our friend. But you must understand our concerns. Your emperor has moved up vast armies right on our borders. This very city, the seat of our great Sultan is only a few days ride from your greatest armies. If only you would give us some breathing room, it would prove your good faith. We would then be able to discuss the matter of those rebels, the Armenians and the Kingdom of Jerusalem…”

“We already have our arrangements with the Latins,” the Roman curtly noted.

“Yes. But they are dangerous and have only warlike intentions towards all of Anatolia. If our two kingdoms were to unit in an official alliance we could then move in from the North with the Ayyubids coming from down South. And if you were to land your troops through a naval assault…”

“We will not interfere with your plans in the Levant, but do not count on our military support. We do not wish to fight Jerusalem.”

The Roman’s tone was final.

“We have troops moving into Cilicia as we speak. We will not let the Latins act alone in Anatolikon. I hope this does not interfere in our truce. As for your demands, we shall consider them and perhaps call back our troops to Nikeia. Do not betray the Basileos’ trust, Turk. He does not take kindly to treachery. Just look at the Armenians.”

The Turk smiled broadly: “I believe we have an agreement then.”

[The Lemongate]

Cilicia, Roman Camp on the Kalykadnum River, Early Spring 1176

The Grand Duke was not a lucky man.

Every time he was given an assignement, he was forced to operate in abysmal conditions with the dregs of the thematae.

A few years earlier, the Basileos had put him in charge of commanding the combined Roman and Crusader forces at the siege of Damietta. The armies had been starving, the crusaders would not want to have nothing to do with a Roman general, the Hospitaller Knights had acted like blind fanatics, unswayed by reason or logic and the Fatimids had delayed negociations long enough to make the whole expedition a terrible disaster.

And now, the Emperor had sent him with only a few hundred men to capture all of Cilicia! The Crusaders, one again, were supposed to provide assistance…

“Megas Dux, the men are ready! Do we march on Antioxeia?”

The voice was young and eager. Hah! A green fool who still believed Roman arms never fail!

“I will take two units of cavalry with me and build fortifications along the river. You, captain, can move towards Tarsus with the rest of the men. With any luck, the city won’t be reinforced and should fall within a season…”

His voice trailed off, showing no conviction.

The Grand Duke was not a lucky man.

[Askthepizzaguy]

Wednesday, 10th day of MuHarram 571 Anno Hegirae, the year of the Hijra, التقويم الهجري
July 30, 1175 AD, Christian Calendar

Karaman, central Anatolia

The seige of the rebel stronghold goes well. They have but a few infidel soldiers guarding their wooden walls, but a direct assault will still be costly. These people are outlaws and thieves, and recently bandits from the area were spotted in Konya, the home of our most magnificent Sultan. Kilij Arslan himself, the pious leader of the Anatolian Turks, commands the seige forces.

"Soon they will rejoin the civilized race of men," Arslan said to Allah, with whom he frequently spoke. Allah said nothing in return of course, but Arslan knew that his deeds were pleasing to the lord, and counted only the Almighty among his allies.

But all that was set to change. The negotiations with Armenia had begun. Although we do not trust these people, we do not begrudge them their Christian faith. Indeed, Arslan is a man most pious, but most welcoming of other Men of the Book. And the rumors of an assault on Cilicia would put the young Turkish Sultanate in a very difficult position. Being wedged between three hostile Christian powers, the Roman Empire, the Georgian Kingdom, and the Holy Kingdom of Jerusalem, the Turks were but a struggling outpost of the Great Islamic Civilization.

Yes, truly the heart of the civilized world was at Baghdad, the nursery of the entire world and the center of all learned thought. The radical and heretical teachings of Christian Europe have clouded their scientific advancement, and they have for hundreds of years fallen behind the great Islamic Caliphate in terms of literacy and raw scientific knowledge. They call us barbarians, but do they speak the language of science, Arabic? It is we who have revived the ancient but advanced teachings of the European masters, the Greeks.

Our advancements over the Christians include the inventions of the astrolabe, the parachute, and an ingenious mathematical device known as the analog computer. Our knowledge of astronomy, physics, mathematics, and chemistry is matched by none in the known world. We developed the first true soap centuries ago, and the unwashed Christians still do not possess any. Still they call US barbarians while they battle plagues caused by their lack of sanitation and their severe poverty. The Islamic world is rich and beautiful, and we have no idols scattered around to divert our attention from the one True Faith, as the Christians do. Their sad devotion to that man in the white dress and pointy hat is probably the reason for their apparent lack of forward progress.

However, the Sultan still welcomes Christians in his land. Perhaps under our tutelage, they too will join the race of civilized men. Inshallah, they will prosper under Islamic rule. The Sultan sees great potential in the Europeans, if only they would welcome the teachings of the Prophet as much as we have welcomed the dhimmis; Jews, Christians, Sikhs, Zoroastrians, Mandeans, and, in the far east, Hindus and Buddhists. People of all faiths prosper under Islamic law, and unlike the intolerant peoples of Christian Europe who do not even welcome their brothers of the faith, we welcome Christians, Orthodox and Catholic alike, and their many different churches.

Allah has smiled upon the faithful in this rich and glorious land. The Islamic civilization spans from the distant shores of west Africa all the way to the distant Chin peoples of the far east, and still we are growing and bringing more infidels under the Prophet's enlightened teachings. If only there could be peace between the Christians and the Muslims, the world would be such a wonderful place to live, the Sultan observed. He vowed to bring about such a world, and make friends with the Christians, and spread his philosophy of tolerance and brotherhood to the war-torn peoples of Europe.

His overtures towards the Roman Empire, however, were met with much skepticism. Still, we have reason to believe there might be peace with them, as they are considering our offer of alliance in exchange for a demilitarization of our border, so that we may turn our righteous arms towards the Crusader infidels of the Muslim Holy Land, Jerusalem, who even now advance north towards Syria... for what diabolical purpose, only Allah can know. But we must find friends and allies, or else this land could be torn apart by war. The Sultan hates war... but he is prepared to fight, if the time should come.

A messenger arrives from the north, bringing good news:

"The Kypchak tribes of the North have united! They have pledged their allegiance to us in exchange for a military alliance against aggressors!"

The Sultan smiled. The northern tribes were no threat to us, and they were pagans, but they had great potential as friends and allies to become part of the Islamic civilization. If they would allow our Imams to spread the word of the Prophet, we will back them in battle against all foes. The Sultan dispatched an emissary towards the Georgian Kingdom, which is now allied to the Roman empire. Although these people had declared their intentions to expel the Muslims from Anatolia, our recent peace overtures have been welcomed, and they seem to be holding their swords. All is going according to plan, thought the Sultan. Surely nothing could happen now which would bring war to Anatolia. The Romans have been offered an alliance, and the Kypchaks have joined us, the Armenians and the Georgians are our friends... nothing can stop the peace process now.

Nothing at all...

[Askthepizzaguy]

Tuesday, the 14th of Jumaada al-Thaany 571 التقويم الهجري
December 30, 1175 AD, Christian calendar

Konya

A messenger arrives, bearing important news.

"My Sultan, the Armenians have accepted our offer of an alliance!"

Excellent, the Sultan thought. The peace negotiations have produced much security and prosperity in this land. The Karaman and Amasian peoples have joined our Sultanate and accepted Islamic law, and we now have two allies. What else can go right today?

Another messenger arrives, bearing two scrolls. My messenger must have reached the Abassid Caliphate in Baghdad and Sallahuddin's forces in Egypt. Indeed, written upon the scrolls was the response the Sultan expected. Sallahuddin's forces have staged a coup and he crowned himself the Sultan of the newly founded Ayyubid dynasty. Sallahuddin is our friend, and so we welcome his rule over the Muslims in the former Roman province of Aegyptus.

A small gift was enclosed, but inside the box was something both heavy and valuable. The Sultan knew what it was, and ordered his trusted servants to put it someplace safe. Next, he read the scroll from the Caliph:

Greetings, my faithful brother.

We agree to your terms of open borders for trade and merchants, as well as an exchange of maps. How goes the peace process in Anatolia? The Caliph is most concerned with your situation, as it seems you are surrounded by the infidels who mean you much harm. We cannot commit to an alliance at this time, but if the forces of Christendom prevail against you, the time may come when our neutral stance may change. For now, please accept our apologies, as we cannot commit our forces to secure your borders, and we do not wish to get involved in matters of state between you and your neighbors.

Warm regards,

Caliph an-Nasir of the Abassid Caliphate

The Sultan was mildly disappointed that he did not receive everything he had asked for from the Caliph, but he was glad that the Caliph did not consider his terms of an equal partnership alliance to be an insult. The Caliph is not like his predecessor, who was most belligerent. This Caliph is a man of peace, and is worthy of being the leader of the Islamic world.

The Sultan smiled again. All the rebels in the realm had nearly been brought back into the fold, and there was peace with many nations. The Sultan was beginning to wonder if he had not already died and gone to the glorious afterlife. The only thing missing were Allah's gift of virgins! Another messenger arrived bearing word, this time from the Roman empire.

"The Romans have agreed to the alliance, mighty Sultan!"

"Excellent! All that remains is to ask Jerusalem to keep their forces outside the Armenian border, and peace will be everlasting in Anatolia," thought the Sultan. "This is the happiest day of my life."

Peace and prosperity were finally at hand. No more would there be talk of rumors of an attack on our Armenian friends in Cilicia, for the teachings of Christ are honourable, and the Romans were honourable as well. They agreed to an alliance with us, and since they knew the Armenians were our friends. "Surely they would not put our new alliance in jeapordy by declaring war on their own Christian brothers now."

No sooner had the Sultan muttered these words than a final messenger arrived from the Armenian King.

"Rome has declared war on Armenia! The Kingdom of Jerusalem is at their gates as well!"

The Sultan nearly fell to the ground, his smile wiped from his face, replaced now by a look of horror. What had he done? The alliance with Rome is directly incompatible with the alliance to Armenia in a time of war! Now the Sultan had to choose between two friends... the powerful but aggressive Romans, or the nearly defenseless nation of Armenia. Keeping the alliance with Armenia also meant eventually declaring war on the Kingdom of Jerusalem...

The Sultan could not bear this news at all. Cold sweat poured down his back, and his fingers trembled with fear, confusion, and a tiny hint of rage. Why? Why had the Romans attacked our friends? Why was this war even necessary? Armenia was no threat to anyone... Why would the Christians declare war on a neutral and peaceful people? The Sultan took a long, hard look at the scroll containing the treaty of Alliance with Rome.





After several long, difficult minutes, the Sultan tore the scroll to shreds.

[Askthepizzaguy]

Tuesday, 6th day of al-Hijjah, in the year 572 التقويم الهجري
June 15th, 1176 AD, Christian Calendar

Konya




The Sultan was preparing his forces for war to defend Armenia when a messenger arrived from the treacherous Latin peoples of Jerusalem. "What do these infidels want with us? Surely they do not expect us to surrender before we have even drawn our swords?" the Sultan seethed. Arslan was not a man who smiled much anymore, in fact the scowl on his face seemed permanent.

The messenger trembled before the Sultan and spoke in a tiny voice:

"King Baldwin has offered you peace and trade rights in his lands, and he will even offer you a small token of gold if you will remain neutral in the Armenian war."

The Sultan grabbed the scroll and looked at it incredulously.

"Do they think that we can be bought and paid for like slaves? Do they think so little of our loyalty that we would betray an ally in a time of war for a few tiny pieces of gold? I spit on their offer of peace! I spit on the name of King Baldwin! I spit on their insulting offer, and I spit on the Romans for starting this unholy war!!!"

The timid messenger fled from the room in terror, as Sultan Kilij Arslan tore this offer of peace to shreds and began to upturn the various priceless furnishings adorning his Palace, smashing pots and destroying murals.

His rage was building. He could no longer bear such insulting offers of "peace" from traitors of their own people, and cowards who strike without warning. However, a thought crossed the Sultan's mind...

"I don't have the strength yet to take on both Rome and Jerusalem. I wonder if I can stall the treacherous Latin scum by accepting their pathetic offer of tribute and agreeing to their ridiculous terms of peace?"

More thoughts began racing through the Sultan's mind. What of Georgia? Would they attack us next? Would anyone offer aid and assistance to the Turkish people in Anatolia? How could we possibly defeat the Roman Empire in battle anyway? Their forces are much more powerful than ours!

The messenger from before crept back into the room quietly, and shaking with fear. The Sultan turned to him and said "Come in, my friend. I must apologize for my temper recently. This war has put quite a strain on my patience."

The messenger approached cautiously, and handed the Sultan the scroll, bowed quickly, and fled from the room as fast as his legs could carry him. The Sultan smiled a little bit at this humourous sight... and realized that was the first time he had smiled since the news of the Roman attack on Armenia. The smile quickly faded as he read the news.

Message from the Armenian King

Great Sultan of the Turks, I have terrible news. Our cities have fallen before the might of Roman arms and the invading armies of King Baldwin. We only have one more settlement left, and are in danger of being wiped off the face of the Earth. There is word of the pillaging of our cities, and the selling of our goods, and the burning of homes of those who resist. Fortunately the Latins have not sunk so low as to butcher the entire civilian populace, and they have released what few prisoners that surrendered, and the rest of our armed forces have been killed in battle.

We thank you for honouring our Alliance, as you are the only nation who has come to our aid. Please accept what little remains of our Kingdom's treasury, as we no longer even have a Palace vault to keep it in. Please use it to avenge our deaths.

The Latins are approaching, and I have no more time. I wish I could say more to thank you, but we fear that help will come too late. I am sending this message now, as in a few moments I will be captured by Baldwin's forces.

May God bless your people, and may God reserve a special place in hell for the treacherous Romans and Latins. Good-bye, my Turkish friend...

The Sultan read the final words of the Armenian King and wept bitterly for several seconds. But more than sadness for his lost friend, he felt an almost inhuman amount of anger towards the King of Jerusalem, the lame King Baldwin IV, who he once thought to be an honourable man. He hated the Romans only slightly less.

He became deathly silent for a moment, and all the servants in the palace felt a cold chill in the air. The Sultan drew his curved sword and for a moment began thinking about killing someone in a blind rage... but he held his temper in check and put the sword back down.

"Anger will serve me in battle, but it will not help me think. What can I do for the Armenian refugees who now pour across our border asking for food and shelter? What can I do for my brave friends who have been betrayed by their Christian brothers?"

The Sultan thought long and hard... and finally decided that the Armenian refugees will be given a modest castle in the East, Sivas, which is relatively empty and close to the Armenian border anyway. They can be resettled there, for now, until more appropriate quarters can be prepared for them. The Sultan turned his thoughts of vengeance into thoughts of mercy and compassion. However, the Sultan was not even sure that anyone, even Allah, would be able to save the Armenians now.

He left the duties of preparing shelter for the Armenians to his trusted second in command, Kaikosru. Then he took his mightiest general, Malik, and stormed all his forces to the south, towards the nearly defenseless Roman province of Attalia. There he would make the Romans pay for their insolence and their betrayal, and force the Roman empire to it's knees. For now, Jerusalem would have to be bargained with, pleaded with, and pressed for peace. It was an intolerable situation, but the Sultan handled it well. He ordered his messenger to speak no ill regarding King Baldwin the Tyrant in the Council Chambers of the Caliph, but he vowed that one day he would expose their treachery.


https://i255.photobucket.com/albums/hh137/askthepizzaguy2/AAR1.jpg

Two weeks later, the Turks reached the Roman province and promptly began the seige. The Armenian conflict was nearly over in a crushing defeat for our allies... but the Anatolian War had begun.

In a rare bit of good news, the Sultan received word that certain Muslim states had pledged financial assistance. Truly, the Sultan's war was righteous. It was a war he vowed to win quickly or die trying. Already he began preparing his final will and testament, in case he failed against the might of the Roman forces.

The seige towers were completed, but more forces were still arriving from the north. When winter comes, Attalia will fall.

[Askthepizzaguy]

The Final Day


Sultan Arslan, having captured the town of Attaleia, moves his forces west, with his First and Second Ranks. He personally commands the First Rank infantry forces and seiges Amorium, backed by his heir, the Crown Prince Kaikosru and Malik, his top general, in his all-cavalry Second Rank. His Third Rank, under the command of Toghrul, the shifty but competent general, lies in wait to the north, hidden in the forests of Ankara. The Romans have apparently left their eastern cities to be destroyed by us, and we sent in a small seige force to take Dorylaeum, to goad the Roman commander into attacking us.

If he takes the bait, he will be in range of our forces and we will crush them. Our armies make camp ourside of Amorium, and the Second Rank defends the bridge between Amorium and Attaleia, to prevent any possible counterattacks from the rear. Our strategy is most ingenious, and will not fail.

Night falls... and soon, our forces will emerge victorious. The Sultan Arslan rests comfortably, secure in the knowledge that the next day will result in a great victory for the Turks.

[Askthepizzaguy]

The Final Night

Battle of One Thousand Tragedies

The Romans had already landed on the shores of Attalia, and had quietly marched towards the Turkish encampment. The Roman Emperor had dispatched his finest horsemen to ride the extra distances required to meet with his top General. The Turks were sleeping.

It was well past midnight, and his men were tired from all the marching. But still he ordered his forces into battle.

The Romans, clad in the finest western armour, wielding axes and maces and swords of all kinds, and their mounted knights and Cataphracts had all joined the battle. The Roman Emperor had already dispatched the small seige of Dorylaeum, and was ready for his second battle that week. This time, the Turks would be caught unprepared. The Emperor smiled, as his trap had succeeded brilliantly.

The sound of a loud horn shook the Turks from their rest, and they quickly armed themselves and ran quickly to the battle, but it was already too late. They were surrounded on all sides by Roman forces, and their pathetic unarmoured infantry was no match for the might of the finest western army ever to be assembled in this century.

Records of the battle were lost, and few who survived could even tell the tale, as it was too dark and confusing to know what had happened. Only the Romans know for sure exactly how the battle transpired.

The Sultan Kilij Arslan rode quickly into the melee, and fought gallantly, even while greatly outnumbered. He took as many Romans down with him as he could, chanting the name of Allah at the top of his lungs. An axe struck his horse, and Arslan was knocked to the ground. The armoured Roman infantrymen immediately pummeled him with maces and fists and stomped on his bloodied body, but the Roman Commander called for Arslan to be captured alive. He was smashed over the head with one deafening blow from a soldier's gauntlet, and Kilij Arslan was knocked unconscious. The rest of his men fought on for a while, but when they found out their Sultan had been captured, they began to flee, only to be cut down by the Roman Cataphracts and the horsemen of their General himself.

Many wails of death were heard that night, and few escaped with their lives. But that was only the beginning. The very next morning, Crown Prince Kaikosru's position near the bridge was assaulted, and although many cavalry fled with their lives, they took heavy losses from the surprise attack, and were very much demoralized by their crushing defeat.

[Askthepizzaguy]

The legendary death of the Turkish Sultan, from Turkish lore:

I caution you, it's quite explicit. Do not read this if you have a weak stomach.

The Trial

Kilij Arslan spoke with Allah that night. He asked Allah why he had failed to protect his men... why Allah had saw fit to allow Arslan to be captured and placed inside a dark and wet dungeon. He had been tortured all night, and forced into making a "confession" to his Roman captors. They bound him in chains and took him out in the hot sun, to be brought before the Roman military court, which had assembled that morning. A wooden chopping block had already been prepared. Arslan readied himself for his fate.

But Arslan smiled... for Allah had spoken to him in the morning, before his captors had taken him from the cell. After so many years of prayers and sacrifice, Allah had finally answered him.

Kilij Arslan was to be a martyr... a holy warrior of Islam who fell in battle, the first of many. Allah had asked for his sacrifice and was impressed that Arslan had offered it without hesitation. The death of Arslan would put Allah's will behind the Jihad that Arslan had called on behalf of the Turkish people, and indeed all the people who were threatened by Roman aggression.

The Roman Emperor himself presided over the Judgement.

"So... Kilij Arslan... the 'indestructible' Sultan of the Turkish scum. How laughable. Now that you have led your men to their untimely demise, been bloodied, captured, and are now on trial for crimes against the Roman Empire, what do you have to say in your defense?"

The Sultan looked at the Emperor with a calm smile, and said nothing.

"As we suspected. There is no defense or excuse for your actions against Roman citizens. I find you guilty of murdering innocent Roman civilians, and declaring an illegal war against the Mighty and Righteous Roman Empire. You are also guilty of Treason against your rightful lord and master, the Basileos of Constantinople. Now kneel before me like the dog that you are, and BEG FOR MY FORGIVENESS!"

The Sultan's eyes simply looked past the Emperor as if he weren't even there, not even bothering to acknowledge the demands. He looked as though he were actually enjoying himself. Almost toying with the Emperor.

"Guards, force him to his knees"

The guards at the Sultan's side took thier clubs and proceeded to beat Arslan within an inch of his life, and Arslan fell to the ground, coughing up blood and trembling with pain. The spectacle was satisfying for the Roman Emperor.

"Now, you will open your wretched little mouth and use your forked and twisted tongue to BEG for your miserable life, you pathetic barbarian scum!"

Arslan, arms still tied behind his back, somehow managed to prop himself up onto his knees, blood still pouring from his lips. But there would be no pleading for his life at all. Instead, the Sultan looked past the Roman Emperor again, and smiled as he gazed into the heavens. Allah was calling him.

"You have already confessed your crimes. But I want to hear you repeat that confession here, right now, with the citizens of Amorium as witness to your despicable actions as the leader of a pathetic band of rejects from the once powerful Great Seljuk Empire. Your people are a disgrace, and you are the greatest fool ever to have dared attack the Empire of Rome. Speak your crimes, you pathetic worm!"

Arslan stood up and smiled at the Roman Emperor, and again said nothing.

"Very well. If you refuse to obey your new lord and master, I will have to punish you for your insolence and disobedience. Witness now the awful consequences of being a traitor to the Roman Emperor! Let all assembled here witness the disastrous results of opposing the Roman Empire!"

With those words, the guards grabbed the Sultan and began to drag his broken body towards the chopping block. Here, the Sultan was tied down and stripped of his once majestic robes. He now looked quite frightful, naked and bruised all over, with large black marks all over his body from his constant beatings. The torturer then took out a deadly looking whip, at the end of which was a small piece of jagged metal, with small blades protruding from it.

"Begin the purification of this wayward fool!" commanded the Emperor.

The whip was drawn back, and the lash came into contact with Kilij Arslan's back. The metal edge left a horrifying gash across the entire back of the Sultan's body, which cut at least three inches deep in some places. Blood poured out from these gaping wounds, and Arslan began to tremble with pain and he screamed at the top of his lungs. The terrible lash continued to connect with his body, and large chunks or Arslan's flesh were hacked from his prone form.

This display disturbed most of the assembled witnesses, and some began to cry out in protest. But the Roman King would not hear them. Next, the torturer lifed a large, sharp poker made of iron which had been heating over a flame, and was glowing red hot.

"Now confess your crimes, or nightmarish pain will force the confession out of you. Your sins must be heard before me, before my people, and before God himself. SPEAK, YOU MISERABLE VERMIN!!!"

The Sultan was bleeding profusely and barely conscious, trembling with pain and agony, and his face was bright red with anguish. But still the Sultan said nothing to the Roman scum.

"Do it!" the Emperor commanded.

The Torturer took the sharp, red hot iron poker and swung it lengthwise against the back of the Sultan, crushing his vertebrae and cauterizing his bloody flesh instantly. There he kept it, and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. The citizens of Rome were disgusted by the stench, and many of them began to leave, but the Roman guards stopped them. Many simply turned away from this awful sight, and refused to cheer for this awful torture.

Then the torturer took the sharp end of the metal poker and stabbed Kilij Arslan through the back, impaling him through the kidney, and the metal spike tore through Arslan's body and got stuck halfway through. The torturer tried to remove it, but it had gotten completely stuck. Arslan could no longer feel the pain, and it was a curious sensation.

As the Roman Emperor watched the torturer struggle to remove the object from Arslan's body, even he began to wince at the spectacle. This was becoming far less amusing than it once was. Nausea rolled through his body like a wave, and he lurched forward as if to vomit. Only by turning away was the Emperor allowed to keep his breakfast down.

"Enough" said the Emperor, as the crowd became louder and more restless, some cries for mercy were heard. The Romans like a good death spectacle, in the arena where gladiators fought, and were pleased to fight any battle, but this display of tormenting an unarmed and helpless man did not sit well with anyone. Even the torturer turned away from what he had done.

"He is guilty. Take off his head, and do it quickly for God's sake!"

And so the torturer grabbed his axe and prepared to swing it, but could not bear to look at the twisted body of Arslan, who finally managed to utter something. He moaned loudly, and his words were incomprehensible. The crowd went silent, as everyone listened closely to what this man had to say. They did not even breathe.

"I fought.... for Armenia."

The crowd stood, with white, sickened faces, and realized what they had done to an honourable man. Some of the women were crying, covering the eyes of their children. Even the men could not bear to watch.

"...for Allah." The Sultan said.

And then the executioner swiftly lowered the axe, and ended the Sultan's suffering forever. It was at that point that everyone finally exhaled. They watched the blood pour from the beheaded corpse of Arslan, spilling his essence onto the dusty ground, which became a dark and unpleasant shade of red. The silence was deafening.

Even the Roman Emperor walked away with disgust. "From now on," he thought to himself, "I will simply kill the enemy honourably on the battlefield. I don't want to be remembered as a butcher and a tyrant."


_________________



Word of the brutal torture and execution reached the Turkish people, who became enraged. What happened next only brought every single Turk to thier feet, swords raised in the air. It was the reprinting of the last will and testament of Kilij Arslan the Indestructible, which had been sent to every Turkish city from the desk of the new Sultan, Kaikosru.

Crown Prince Kaikosru himself was astounded by what the former Sultan had wrote...

[The Lemongate]

Oh there will be another version of this for sure :laugh4:

Whenever I have the time.

[Askthepizzaguy]

Crown Prince Kaikosru of the Turkish Sultanate, survivor of the Roman counterattack at Amorium, is handed a scroll from a bloodied soldier. The Crown Prince is told that these are the last words of Kilij Arslan.

The last will and testament of Sultan Kilij Arslan the Indestructible, Holy Warrior of Islam

Friends and brothers of the Council, if you are reading these words then the time of my death has come. But you should not feel sorry for me, because I died doing what I believe was the right thing. I lived my life to support the cause of truth, justice, and freedom, and I never once gave in to imperialist aggressors. Should I die valiantly in such a cause, then my Muslim brothers should not fear, nor should they mourn my death.

Indeed, it is a cause for celebration that a brother of the faith has died defending Armenian freedom, Turkish freedom, and in trying to prevent the forces of imperial aggressors from claiming more lands in the name of greed and avarice. Would you see this day as a defeat, I would ask that you raise your chin, and praise Allah's name. For the same manner of death that befalls the Sultan Kilij Arslan can happen to our enemies as well. Indeed, Allah has willed that no man be immortal...

Some have questioned the use of my nickname, "the indestructible", as if it were to imply that my mortal vessel were somehow eternal. This is not so. Those who strut and smirk and taunt because they managed to defeat a man in battle have much humbling in their future, because they are but mortal men as well. No, "the indestructible" refers to the truth that freedom will always triumph over tyranny. No matter what happens, no man can bend, break, or destroy the truth of our existence, part of that truth which binds humanity together is the fact that given the choice, men would rather stand up and fight against tyranny, instead of stand idly by, or join the cause of evil.

One might look to our current situation. Let us suggest that the Rum Turks have indeed been defeated in battle, and they are either to be vassals or destroyed by the Romans or the Latins. Is the battle of Anatolia over? For now, perhaps it is. But the war is not over.

No, the war against the forces of tyranny is never over. No defeat, no setback, no fear, and no despair can ever stop the forces of freedom from challenging tyrants such as the Roman Imperialists and the Levantine traitors of Christ.

The men who remain in Rum will never surrender, never falter, never waiver, and never accept defeat. They have all taken a solemn vow to stand up and fight against Imperialist aggressors. It is my legacy that the Rum Turks will fight to the last man in the cause of freedom. We will also honour our agreements with the BRAVE men of the council who chose to support our just cause.

The snickering and taunting of the Romans will soon be silenced, for they do not yet realize how hollow their victory is, and how soon death will be at their doorstep. If they think the endless and mighty armies of Islam will stand idly by and watch their fellow Muslims get slaughtered, then they do not understand the concept of brotherhood. If they think that their aggressive and warlike actions towards their own Christian brethren and the council will go unpunished, then, perhaps like myself, they have miscalculated. And just as grave as my apparent miscalculation, the Romans will find their own error to be just as deadly.

Friends and brothers of Islam:

I now declare a Holy Jihad against the Roman imperialist aggressors. The city of Constantinople will fall before the might of the armies of Islam. These cowardly traitors who backstab their own friends and brothers of their faith, who trade loyalties in brothels for coin, and who have declared war on all their neighbors, they will not live to see the day when they can peacefully coexist with the vast and eternal armies of Islam.

The remaining Rum Turks have all joined this sacred quest, upon my death, they are all to summon their courage and march on Rome. I call upon my Muslim brothers, in my absence, to aid them in their cause. For now, I can no longer guarantee that any further tribute can be repaid, but I can guarantee that any further support to the Muslim Turks of Anatolia will bring more warriors of Islam into the fight for justice.

Perhaps you do not all trust one another. Perhaps you have pressing matters at home to attend to. Perhaps you are busy quelling riots in rebellious provinces, and cannot afford to struggle in the name of Allah.

Then you have a choice: You can watch the Turks of Anatolia die bravely in their cause, and do nothing to prevent Imperial Rome from marching towards your homelands...

Or you can stand with my brothers and children this day, and declare in one voice; we will never surrender to the forces of Imperial Rome. We will never vanish into the night, we will not roll over and die without a fight, we will not allow the armies of the infidel to continue killing good Muslims without retribution, we will not allow the great and noble Islamic civilization to fall to backstabbers, traitors, tyrants, and cowards!

Join me, my brothers! Join me!

I bravely accepted this challenge, and I did not waver when staring death in the face! I never backed down from my principles, and neither will the Rum Turks! Join me, warriors of Islam!

My final request to Caliph an-Nasir of the Abassid Caliphate:

Approve my call for a jihad, that the vast and endless armies of Islam would descend upon thy unclean and treacherous foe... Only when Constantinople falls, will the aggressors against Christian and Muslim nations alike finally realize that to attack a Muslim nation without cause is to invite every able bodied Muslim to their doorstep, wielding great assortments of razor-sharp weapons, chanting the Holy name of Allah!

By the death of Sultan Kilij Arslan, the Indestructible forces of truth and justice will swarm upon our treacherous foe, and the vanquisher will become the vanquished!

Let there be no peace with bullies, aggressors, and tyrants! Let there be no peace with those who declare war on their neighbors and brothers! Let there be no surrender, no vassalage, no tribute, no treaty! Let there be no appeasement of tyrants! Let there be no shame and fear in fighting to our deaths to defeat the scourge of the Islamic world! Let there be none who question the just cause of freedom! Let there be an eternal jihad against the treacherous forces of slavery and oppression! Let the proud and holy name of Islam be shouted from the rooftops, from the streets, from the hills, from the mountains, from the Ghorid emirate to the nation of Saladin Ayyubid, from the Khwarezmid nation to the Imamate of Oman, from the vast territories of the Great Seljuk, to the honourable state of Ghazi, from the Abassid Caliphate, to the Rum Turks fighting against Imperialist aggression, let the proud and holy name of Islam declare forever and unending war against injustice!

Let the indestructible cause of truth and justice lead the swords of Islam to the throats of the oppressors and invaders of Anatolia! Let the anger and wrath of Allah for these great injustices and war crimes be swiftly and forcefully dealt in stinging and crippling blows against the infidels who will one day kneel in fear of Islam!

Let my death mark the beginning, not the end, of the eternal struggle against the sinners and heretics, the pirates and criminals, the imperialists and the Crusaders. Let my death clear a path for those to follow in my brave footsteps, to finally put this vicious pack of wolves on their backs, and unapologetically cut off the heads of these serpents.

Let there be war with those who make war, and peace with those who make peace! Let the sons of Islam, and all others who care truly about justice, rise as one and SMITE THE INFIDELS!

I will be at the right hand of Allah to guide your struggle... for now that I have ascended, a proud warrior, into the kingdom of heaven, I am indeed indestructible, and so is the truth of the message I bring, and so is the concept of freedom and justice for those who would fight for it.

LET THE ROMANS HAVE THEIR HOLLOW VICTORIES, FOR THE WRATH OF ISLAM WILL DESCEND UPON THEM AND SHOW THEM THE SAME MERCY THEY SHOW THEIR ARMENIAN BROTHERS!!!

LET THERE BE HOLY WAR AGAINST THE TRAITORS OF CHRIST!!! LET THERE BE....

JIHAD!!!!

Allahlalalalalalalalalalalalalallah!!!

After learning of Arslan's death, Kaikosru vowed to do whatever it took to avenge his former master. He was crowned the new Sultan in a quiet and somber ceremony in the former Roman city of Attaleia.

[rossahh]

Northern Armenia, 1176 AD


The country was in a state of panic.

Months before, the Takavor and the army had marched south to defend against the Roman invaders. Word had come from the south of a great victory for the Armenians. That was six weeks ago.


Four weeks later, the refugees started arriving.


They spoke not of victory but of defeat. The crusaders had come, they said. The roads were thick with Latin troops on the march, both southwards and northwards. The garrison near the river was defeated, the fort burned to ashes.

The army was gone, they said, the Takavor was trapped. Adana's gates had been thrown down - some died during the occupation, while others fled north. The crusaders were hard on their heels, seeking to cripple the last of Armenia's military. It was hopeless, they said, Armenia will fall.


The last Armenian commander of the castle had, at first, been angry with his countrymen. How could they flee when they should fight? he had raged to himself. His anger had grown and grown as he watched more and more of his countrymen run northwards towards the Turk's lands, towards safety. Some of his own men had panicked and taken their families and followed the refugees. The commander had cursed their names into damnation and felt nothing but hatred for the cowards.

Then the crusaders came.


The castle was under siege, its garrison and population were trapped. The only troops marching from the south were Latin ones. The last messenger had come from the north last week. Crusader cavalry have closed the northern roads. No one can help you. You are on your own the scrawled message had said. The commander wasn't angry now. How he wished that he'd fled with his family like the rest of the his countrymen.


Yesterday, the crusaders had demanded his surrender. He had refused. If the Count of Tripoli wants me, he'll have to come and get me the commander had taunted the messenger. He vowed to die fighting like a man. His last wish was that his family would survive.


Far off in the distance, a trumpet blared.



The end was nigh.

[rossahh]

Near Adana, Armenia, 1176 AD


The man on the horse had led the army out of Adana days before. They were on the march westwards. Spread out behind him, the army of Jerusalem shone in the sunlight as it marched in a vast column. The man felt nothing by pride as he looked behind him. Adana had been taken with minimal losses - its 200-strong garrison had been slain or captured easily. Now, the final Armenian army and its ruling family beckoned. The man had never felt so proud, so secure and so eager.

It was then that the attack began.




Takavor Rueben went down fighting, that much had to be said. To challenge 1200 men with 300 would be foolish, to challenge 1200 with just 35 was nothing short of suicidal. The heavily armoured cavalry appeared atop the sandy dunes overlooking the road, and had charged the center of the column so fast that none had a chance to even move before horses slammed into them. Swords swung left, right and center, cleaving man and shield in two. But for all their valour, the horsemen were doomed. For every man they cut down, ten more appeared in their place. On all sides, spearmen clamoured to unseat the riders, while cavalry flanked to the rear, preventing any retreat. For the horsemen, that meant nothing. They never had any wish to retreat. One by one, they fell. Eventually only one remained. The Takavor had fought many wars, but this was to be his last. Around his horse was a scattered circle of bloodied bodies of soldiers. Every man that challenged him fell, but he could not hold on forever. Eventually, his horse was cut down from under him. His body fell towards the ground and the speartips reached out for him. By the time the body, still clasping its sword in defiance, reached the ground, the last Takavor of a free Armenia was dead.





In case you are confused, I was marching my army to attack the last Armenian force when I was ambushed by the king and his bodyguards alone. Needless to say he was a tiny bit outnumbered and was killed. I have screenshots, but they aren't very good. I might just put them up in a spoil tag to give you some visuals. I hope you're liking it so far. There's still a little bit to go in Armenia yet.

[rossahh]

Seyhan River, Armenia, 1176 AD


It was slaughter. The finest soldiers the Kingdom could assemble, challenging the last of the weary troops from Armenia. Out-numbered, starving and trapped, the situation had been hopeless for the Armenians enough already, before the Emissary from Jerusalem had reached them that very morning. He had thrown the Prince a package and then ridden away at top speed, towards the dust clouds of marching feet coming from the east.

The Prince had opened the package and in it was a bloodied finger, cut from the hand of his father. It bore the ring of the king. Along side it, the parchment dripping with his father's blood, was a message. Hail to thee, Takavor of Armenia. May your reign be short. We shall be with you soon.

In the afternoon, the battle had begun. The crossbowen had driven the Armenians back, away from the bridge. Every step the desperate Armenians took backwards was countered by a step forwards by the men from the Kingdom. Men fell in their droves. Horses neighed and threw their riders as the bolts pierced their hides. There was nowhere to run. The Romans were pushing in from the west, and the men from Armenia were trapped. Eventually, when all others had been slaughtered by the hundreds of bolts fired across the river, only the King and some loyal horsemen remained. The men were loyal to end, shielding their king with their bodies until the end.

On the other side of the river the man on the horse waited to give the final order. They were so close to finishing them once and for all. He paused to savour the moment - victory always felt good.Then, in a booming voice gave the command.

"FIRE!"

A hundred iron bolts flew across the river. From a distance, the man on the horse watched in morbid fascination as the final Armenians fell, agonisingly slowly to the ground. Suddenly, there was a deathly silence in the air, and nothing and no one moved on either side of the river. It was over.





Later, the man looked down at the face of the Takavor. The dead eyes gazed back vacantly. A bolt had pierced his throat and two more could be seen in his torso. The man was not put off by the gruesome scene. He kneeled next to the body and gently closed the body's eyes for the last time. He bowed his head and prayed silently. So it must be.

"My lord, a rider approaches."

The man stood up and looked to where the knight was pointing. A rider was coming along the road from the west, cloaked in Roman purple. Excellent the man thought to himself, good news from the west.





This battle really showed how unfair it is to let the AI fight your battles for you. This was a bridge battle where the Armenians had (in units): 1 archer, 1 light spear, 1 heavy axe, 2 heavy cavalry, 1 bodyguard and 1 javelin cavalry. I simply used my crossbowmen, who outranged the archers, to slaughter them without ever having to get close. I did not lose a single man. If a human was in control, I would've lost at least 2 units of my infantry trying to storm the bridge-head.

[rossahh]

Jerusalem, 1176 AD


A tiny feather fluttered off the edge of the balcony, gently floating down towards the bustling city below. The balcony was the one place in the whole city where the King could come and think in peace and tranquility. He had been doing much of that lately.


Word had filtered down from the north over the past months. The Lords had reported nothing but success and victory in the name of the King. In the south, Adana had been plundered of all valuables. Rueben and his son had been killed, their men dead alongside them or fled. In the north, Tripoli had seized both castles with few lost. The entire eastern part of Armenia was under Jerusalem's control. Everywhere, the men had followed the King's explicit orders:

All soldiers are to be released upon surrendering their arms.

All knights and noblemen are to be realised upon the payment or promise of payment from their estates.

No civilians are to be deliberately harmed. Those that resist, however, are to be dealt with as the Lords see fit.

The King was pleased that his order had been followed to the letter. He had feared that it would not be so. The Ibelin family had more cause to hate the crown than any other in all Outremer - more than the Saracens even. The shame and humiliation they had suffered during the succession controversy stilled resonated deeply in their veins. It is such a shame the King reflected sadly, the Count had been one of my greatest teachers. I learnt so much from him. The true path of a man is through chivalry and honour, he once told me.

The King laughed bitterly at himself at those thoughts.

Chivalry and honour? Look where honour has brought us!

The King shook his head ruefully.

Look what my chivalry has been reduced to...

His cheeks burnt slightly as he thought of his final order to the Lords:

All members of the royal family are to be immediately executed upon capture.

It was a travesty to do such a thing to any man, but it was necessary. By shattering Armenia's ruling family, the kingdom would be split into independent provinces, vassal-states in waiting - vassals that would serve to protect the heartland of the Kingdom. The King smiled ruefully to himself, We were so close, but they slipped through our fingers like sand. If only...

The King suddenly banged his hand on the balconies rail in anger. If only they were not so incompetent! If only they could take that town, that one town! If only...

The King stopped himself. A ruler could not dwell on anger. Anger would lead men astray, and a king could not afford to be led astray.

It is done, and cannot be changed now.

The King openly sighed. There was no point dwelling on the past while the future beckoned. What now? he asked himself silently.

Do we pursue them, hunt them down and wipe them out?

Do we force a war that we have no desire to fight?

Or do we let them go, leave them to regroup and one day return?

The King had dwelled on these questions for many a day to no avail, but the answer was due soon. What do we do now? he asked himself again.

Was it all for nothing?




"My lord?" a tentative voice asked in the darkness.

The King's eyes opened. Sunlight still shone brightly onto the balcony. The King's body felt heavy, heavier than usual - he had fallen asleep in the sunlight.

"Are you well?" asked the voice again.

The King's eyes gradually returned to focus. His scribe and servant stood over him, obviously thinking his liege had fallen because of his sickness. The King slowly got to his feet, using the rail as a support. He had no comprehension of how much time had been spent sleeping on the balcony, but he knew one thing - he now had his answer.

"Aswar, please send a message to Lord Ibelin and the Count of Tripoli. Tell them this, and this alone," said the King in no more than a tired whisper, pausing as his scribe hurriedly brought out his quill. The King suddenly felt a fresh wave of tiredness wash over him. This decision had weighed heavily upon him, even in sleep, but it was the right one, he thought..


"Let them go."

[rossahh]

Baghdad, 1177 AD


Joran had always disliked the visitor. He had only met him once before, but had disliked him from the onset. He was too arrogant, too blood thirsty. He was every bit as vulgar and callous as his reputation said he was. He was a foreigner - a European lord in Outremer, no less. And yet he was here, in Joran's own quaters in this Muslim city. The old man sighed, One does not argue with this man and live he reminded himself.

"So, back again are you, old man?" sneered the visitor.

Joran's patience nearly broke then and there, but with false sincerity, he replied, "Of course my lord, this is where the King commands I be."

A smirk appeared at the corners of the visitor's mouth at the mention of the King. "Yes he does, for the moment," he said in a quiet voice that was barely audible. "I am here for your report on what our northern friends say" said the visitor in a much louder voice.

"Yes, of course," motioning behind him, his aid started forward with some papers. "We have prepared some of the transcripts for you, they should make interesting reading."

The visitor visibly became angry. "I have no desire to read their lies, I want to hear what they have to say from your good self," he snarled.

You can't even read, you ignorant fool? Joran thought to himself, hiding the sudden pleasure at the thought. So much the better...

"If that be the case, my lord, let me tell you that they do not deny it. They say they act on behalf of their allies and the people of Cicilia. They blame us for it all."

"They WHAT!?" nearly shouted the visitor, spit flying from his mouth in rage. "They attack us, and then blame us? The heathen devils!" bellowed the visitor, his face red with fury.

"That is what they say." Joran said, with false sympathy for his visitor's outburst.

The visitor's demeanor suddenly changed. He suddenly became cold and silent. A shiver went down Joran's spine. The visitor suddenly seemed like a very dangerous person to be around. I see how he gets his reputation...

"Do they say why?" asked the visitor in an incredibly calm voice. Almost, too calm...

Joran, suddenly wary of where this was leading, but bound by his office and duty, replied cautiously "Like I said, they say they acted on behalf of their ally."

The visitor tilted his head slightly, his eyes piercing Joran. "An ally they would not support when they were needed most?" he asked slyly.

"They say that they could not help their ally during the attack, as it was too sudden for them to respond in time." said Joran, not yet aware of what the visitor was so fixated about.

The visitor laughed out loud. "They said that, did they? Ha! If only their ally knew the truth then!"

Joran was not a military man, but could suddenly understand what the visitor was driving at. If it were true, and if we could prove it was true...

The visitor spoke again, completely changing the subject. "So, did they accept our terms?"

Joran shook his head. "No, my lord, they did not. They blame us for the incident and want nothing but a cessation of hostilities."

"For free? Not a chance!" said the visitor, almost with glee.

"Is that what the King says?" asked Joran cautiously.

The visitor became icy again, his voice menacing. "It's what I say, and that should be enough for you."

Joran quickly nodded his head to appease the brute. A sudden, terrible thought gripped him, What if the King doesn't know that he's here right now? What is this European planning?

The visitor stood abruptly. "I've heard enough, I will take my leave now" and walked out the door closing it with a snap, leaving a very stunned room behind.



Joran remain seated at his desk for some time after the visitor had left, mulling things over. Eventually, he wrote a hurried message, sealed it and handed it to his aide. "To the King, and as fast as possible. Go yourself."

The man nodded and hurried from the room. Joran remained, thinking deeply. What is that animal planning?









The visitor remained hidden in the shadows, waiting. It was not smart to linger in this city. What would the Muslims say if he was discovered and captured? The visitor slowly twirled his dagger between his fingers. If I read that fool right, he should be coming out anytime now... A cloaked figure suddenly appeared from the doorway opposite. Head down, it hurried towards the stables. A cruel smile appeared on the visitor's face. He had read the old mad correctly, all right. He set off down the road, following the figure, the dagger now firm in his grasp. Just one more thing to do before I leave...

[00jebus]

November 9th 1178 cave near Shiraz

A man had built a fire, this fire reflected the man, and the blade he held to his own heart
He would fall in the fire after stabbing himself, remove the one remaining evidence that lead to his paymaster
He had truly, failed utterly
Discretion was key, but he had been seen by hundreds
Secrecy was a virtue, but he had left behind him his sword, It had a pattern on the handle which would surely be traced to Balkh.
Silence was golden, yet he had let a trail of peasants hear his voice and true accent.
Not attracting attention was his true goal, and he had failed utterly, two forts with small garrisons had been built at river crossings, boxing him in, forcing him to return to his masters punishment, better end it now the failure thought
The flame reflected the glare of a lion on a rock, blocking out a blackened part of his skin
it was then he saw it, his chance at redemption, he dropped the blade, tonight he would go
No punishment, the people who saw him would think he was a petty theif
the dropped sword wouldn't matter, the Calph used mercinaries from all over the Islamic world, without him the sword made no sense
the people he spoke to would think he was a shabby diplomat from some Miserable nation of the Kara-Khathi
Another step closer to his goal, another test of the man, but he would have to pass brilliantly......

[phonicsmonkey]

Caliph An-Nasir sat cross-legged on a cushion in the shade of a palm in the courtyard of his palace meditating and watching a line of ants.

The ant-line stretched several meters from a crack in the flagstones, across the paved courtyard, halfway up the wall of the scullery, and into a crack in a wooden windowframe.

Some ants were beginning to return from the window bearing crumbs of bread almost as large as themselves, passing their fellows on their way back to the hill.

He imagined the successful raiders shouting encouragements to their brothers as they passed.

To the Caliph's side, on the ground and fluttering in the slight breeze, sat the scroll he had finished reading some moments ago.

It had informed him that (Praise be to Allah!) the initial stages of his grand plan were now complete, and the Caliphate now stretched from Edessa in the west to Shiraz in the East.

It was hard, however, for him to take this news with the satisfaction it no doubt deserved, for earlier that morning his old friend the Vizier had shared with him the dark tidings that his unruly neighbours the Great Seljuks had declared war on the Khwarezm Shah.

Coupled with the ongoing disaster in Anatolia, which showed no signs of relenting, this created quite a headache for the Caliph.

These were dark days indeed. He recalled his dream: the markets teeming with exotic wares, the coffers overflowing, his people prosperous and contented. This promised bright future seemed further away with each passing day. And each night that passed seemed to drag inexorably closer the nightmare that had accompanied it.

He shuddered as he recalled the snarling faces of the djinns as they bore him aloft towards the darkly clouded horizon and the fearsome cyclones.

The Caliph reflected on his newly acquired title 'the Peacemaker', bestowed on him by the Imans of the Caliphate. Fond as he was of it, he felt it had not yet been truly earned. The Seljuks and Georgians, the Ghorids and Rajputs, all had seemed eager to negotiate and cease fighting.

These arrogant Romans and irascible Turks were a different matter altogether, and to truly live up to his new name he would have to drag them to the negotiating table (https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=102179) one way or another.

He sighed deeply and went back to studying the larceny of the ants.

[Askthepizzaguy]

Kutaisi, Georgia
Shortly after the fall of Arslan

========================================


The rider from the south was tired. He had whipped his mount since before the sun rose, and had only now reached his destination well after midnight. There were only a few places to stop and rest along the way.

He dismounted the horse and opened one of the many bags he carried with him. It was a simple meal of corn and anchovies, though obviously not prepared or heated in the manner fit for his Sultan. The anchovies were not cooked, and the corn was raw. Still, the man was famished from the exhausting ride. And there was much, much more riding to do, into lands far beyond the reach of the average Turk.

"O Allah, would you please ensure my return to my home. If I never taste my wife's fish kebab again, I will die a hungry and unhappy man..."

And he tried to enjoy this simple uncooked meal, which would ensure his survival, and perhaps, the survival of his people. Yes, in dire times such as these, with the death of Sultan Kilij Arslan, the survival of the nation is more important than the niceties of a home-cooked meal, or the company of good honest arab muslims. The rider had travelled very far to meet with the Georgian emissary, and they had much to discuss.

The Georgian guardsmen approached, with a diplomat and an interpreter to open talks. "Salaam alaikoom, friend and neighbor, from the newly crowned Sultan Kaikosru of the Turks. I bring a message to your wise and noble leader, if you are willing to hear it."

The Georgian eyed the Turk suspiciously. "Why should we discuss anything at all with you, Turk? In your short but tainted history, you have done nothing towards Christians which merits peace talks. You have contributed to the Armenian massacre, displaced them from their homelands, and it is we who have rightfully claimed this land in the name of the most Holy Christ. Your Muslim emissaries are not welcome here. Already we are at war with your brothers, the Seljuk Turks, and we do not trust you."

The Turk appeared shaken. This was not a promising beginning.

"Friend, we are not like the Seljuk Turks. We have not attacked innocent Christians. And you confuse us with them again, for it is not the Sultanate of the Rum Turks which caused the first Armenian massacre. In fact, we have made an alliance with the Armenians against the Romans who attacked them."

The Georgian ambassador seemed genuinely unprepared to hear this, and turned to consult with his aide and interpreter. The Turk continued:

"We know you are allied with the Romans at this time. May I ask what aid they have offered you against the Seljuk incursion?"

"It is none of your business what aid the Romans have or have not sent us." The Georgian replied curtly.

"Very well, but the Sultan sends his word that if the Seljuks attack you again, we will send you aid, and whatever intelligence we can offer."

The Georgian delegate was caught off-guard, but he quickly recovered. "Why would you even bother? You are at war with our allies. We are at war with your allies. It is only by God's divine intervention that we have not attacked you as well!"

The Turk continued calmly, "We know that the Seljuks attacked you in an unprovoked assault. It is the policy of Kilij Arslan, and his successor, Kaikosru, that the Anatolian Turks are to side against the aggressors in any war, even if they are our allies. The Sultan does not keep alliances with those who make war upon the innocent."

The Georgian delegate raised a brow, curiously. "That is most noble of you. In truth, the actions of the Romans have not impressed us at all. Attacking the Armenians without cause or warning? And on the side of the unprincipled King Baldwin, whose name is cursed even among the Christian nations for his betrayal and massacre of the Armenians? We find the actions of our allies most unchivarlous and dishonourable as well. But we cannot simply discard the alliance we have signed merely because it is inconvenient. And to side with the Turks, whose brothers the Great Seljuks now make war upon us... that appears unthinkable. Why should we betray our alliance to Rome in favor of one with Turks such as yourselves?"

"May I ask, was your alliance with Rome primarily defensive, or offensive? By that I mean, were you allied for mutual defense, or allied for mutual offense against a nation?" countered the Turk.

"I won't reveal the details of the alliance to you..."

The Turk hesitated for a moment, but pressed the issue.

"Isn't it true that you were once allied against us? The whole point of your alliance was to conquer the Turks."

The Georgian appeared outraged. "How could you possibly know that!? It is not for the Turkish Sultan to tell us why we were allied with Rome! We will not abide by such insinuations!"

The Turk replied calmly "The messengers you send back and forth do ride through Turkish lands. And since they imbibe so much of the spirits forbidden to Muslims while they ride, they tend to tell everyone they meet of your secret plans... to be honest, we were starting to wonder why you continued to employ such drunken men, or why you trusted them with national secrets to begin with. Most of the Muslim world already knows of the intimate details of your alliance with Rome."

The Georgian's jaw was agape. He appeared to be at a loss for words.

"I am here in the spirit of peace and cooperation. We understand your desire to ally with the mighty Roman empire for the defense and glory of your nation. In truth, we sought to be their friends as well before the cowardly attack on Armenia."

The Georgian delegate, the fire gone from his belly, slumped down into the chair his aides had brought for him. It seemed as though he was ready to listen to what the Turk had proposed.

"The Sultan Arslan was a most... unique man. He desired friendship with Christians, both Catholic and Orthodox. He even signed a mutual defense treaty with the pagan tribes of the north. He sees past such trivial distinctions as religion. Though we are descended from arabs and you are descended from europeans, it was the will of Arslan that we become friends, no matter what the cost."

The Georgian considered the Turk's words carefully. "Can there be friendships between Muslims and Christians? We know full well how Arabs treat non-Muslims in their lands. They are called dhimmis, and they are treated as second-class citizens."

The Turk winced painfully at this, but was prepared to set the record straight.

"Sultan Kilij Arslan... died... defending Armenian Christians."

The Georgian nearly fell out of his chair. Such a thing was unheard of. Muslims fighting to defend Christians? Soon the Jews would be fighting to defend Muslims, and the Catholics fighting to defend pagans.

"It is the truth. Our great leader was captured by the Romans, brought before a military tribunal, and beheaded for 'crimes against the citizens of Rome, and high treason against the Roman Emperor', but in truth, he declared war on Rome explicitly because of the alliance with Armenia, and fought to turn back the Roman invasion. Even now, Armenians are within our borders, where they have found shelter, food, and welcoming arms."

The Georgian scoffed. "That only proves that your leader was a poor military commander. Many have come before you in their fight against Rome, and all have fallen in battle. None of them were described in heroic terms."

"Did they die defending men of a different faith from a Roman invasion and occupation? Did they send their sons and fathers to die honouring a defense pact?"

The Georgian could not immediately think of such an example.

"We offer you the same treaty. We will defend YOU against a great empire which has crossed YOUR borders unprovoked. We will fight beside you, and offer any and all assistance you require. If you need safe passage through our lands, you shall have it. If you need money, we will send it. If you need Turkish bows and horsemen, we will send them."

The Georgian delegate looked at his entourage, and seemed impressed by the offer.

"This is... far more than the Romans ever offered us. But... why? Why would you turn your back on your brothers, fellow Turks, to help the ALLIES of your sworn enemy? We are most puzzled by your apparent lack of loyalty!"

The Turk stood up immediately and stared sternly into the eyes of the Georgian ambassador.

"We are loyal to the ideals of justice, peace, and non-aggression. We are all, as Turks, united against imperialists and villians who expand their kingdoms and sultanates through conquest and enslavement, pillaging and mass murder. We are loyal to the concept of human dignity. And we are loyal to our convictions. What good is an alliance with those who do not even serve their own conscience? We would find a knife in our back for our loyalty to them. The Sultan Kaikosru has sent me to serve a greater cause. And our alliance with the Great Seljuks was defensive; it did not include the conquest of Georgia. You are our neighbors and trading partners, and if the Great Seljuks managed to conquer your nation, there would be nothing to prevent them from stabbing us in the back for our loyalty to them, while we are busy fighting two other empires. My Sultan sends me to serve your people, your King, your nation in the cause of justice and mutual survival. My loyalty is to my Sultan, and so long as the Turks and the Georgians live together in peace, then I am also loyal to you, and the cause of your nation. We must stand together as brothers in arms against those who threaten both our nations."

The Georgian stared at the Turk with a furrowed brow. The Turk, having said everything his leader had sent him to say, finally sat down, exhausted. The Georgian sat silently for a few moments, and then began to slowly clap his hands. The Turk could not even muster the energy to look him in the eye.

"Impressive speech, Turk. But how do you propose we ally with you when you are at war with Rome? Are you prepared to declare peace with our allies?"

The Turk, clearly worn out from his travels, simply replied, "No... until Rome is prepared to sign a peace treaty with Armenia, we will not betray our friends the Armenians, even to gain an alliance with you. That is one thing the Sultan cannot offer you."

"Very well... I must say you are not what I expected. I shall deliver your terms to my King. By the way, weary traveller... what is your name?"

The messenger looked up at the Georgian delegate, and said:





..."Crown Prince Malik, heir to the Turkish throne."

[The Lemongate]

Basileos’ camp near Nikeia, Autumn of 1176


The Basileos was furious. He was not a man known for his temper. Indeed he was a most patient man, meticulously governing his empire as the great consuls of old had done for generations. But such blatant treachery was unacceptable by any terms.

“Barbarians! Uncivilized mongrels! They dare attack Rome! ROME! I will see them out of my lands! I will wipe their very names from the memory of mankind!”

A messanger entered the imperial tent. The room was a wreck. Chairs overturned, curtains ripped; it looked like a battleground. And in the middle of it all, the Basileos, christian emperor under God Himself, rightful ruler of the entire world, was smouldring over a large map of Anatolikon. The city of Ikonion was circled in blood red ink. When the Basileos slowly raised his gaze towards the messanger, the man was taken aback. He felt the weight of grim determination in the stare and shuddered at the subtle sign of glee in the Basileos’ smile.

“Kilij Arslan has made a fatal mistake. He has underestimated our will to fight and he will pay dearly for his crimes against the Roman people. Ride as fast and hard as you can. Reach the fleet as it sails along the coast towards Cilicia and tell Strategos Dukas to bring his host to Amorion. We will end this war and those wretched Turks will beg for peace.”

The Basileos’ voice was now calm. Eerily so. As he spoke he stepped closer to the messanger until he was only a few inches from the man:

“Let none escape.”

The messenger stuttered an answer, forgot to bow and walked briskly towards the exit. As he was nearly out of the tent, the Basileos’ flat voice stopped him:

“Should you fail to reach the fleet in time, pray a turkish arrow kills you along the way. Pray.”





Roman fleet anchorage West of Attaleia, a few days later


The messenger had reached a tiny fishing village on the fleet’s designated route. When he arived he was dirty and tired. His clothes were still damp and grimy from the previous night’s rain and his horse below him was nearly dead. He had ridden without rest for days, halting only so his horse could recover somewhat. He knew full well what the Basileos’ threat meant. Failure was rewarded with the best places at the Circus: down on the sand with the lions and other beasts.

The first villagers that saw him did not recognize him as an imperial messenger. His ragged looks did not befit a man of his station, but when life was at stake, looks could wait for another day. The Basileos’ seal however, got him the whole village’s assistance in no time. The local fishermen told him no ships had passed in the previous weeks.

Relief.

He was ahead of time.

When the ships finally appeared on the horizon, he requisitionned a fishing boat to catch up with the great dromonds. The imperial ships were fast, but laden with men and arms, they were easily caught up by the nimbler fishing vessel. The sailors eyed him suspiciously as en climbed onto the deck, but he was hurriedly scuffled towards the Strategos’ cabin.

Ioannes Dukas was an imposing figure of a man. Tall with curly jet-black hair, aquiline nose and piercing green eyes, he was a figure stolen directly from Homer’s Iliad. Though not a young man anymore, he had all the energy and cunning of the Spartans of old. And above all, he was loyal to Rome and it’s Emperor. It was not wonder the Basileos had chosen him to relieve Megas Dux Kontostephanos in Cilicia and given him the command of one of the Empire’s finest armies. He would make short work of the Armenians.

The messenger entered the cabin to find the Strategos sitting at his desk, writing battle orders for the army’s captains.

“I had specifically stated I did not want to be bothered before we reached Attaleia.”

The Strategos was known to be severe but a message bearer of the Basileos was beyond the reach of any man.

“The Basileos wants you to abandon the campaign plans for Cilicia and to transport all your troops to Amorion at forced march. The Sultan has brought his entire warhost to the battle. The Basileos wants none of them to escape.”

Ioannes did not like to modify his plans at the last minute. Looking down at the maps of Anatolikon he pondered what could have justify such a reversal in the Basileos’ decision.

He looked at Amorion.

At Nikeia

At his own position.

A smile slowly crept into his face.

“None shall.”

[The Lemongate]

Amorion, late winter 1177

The morning sky was clear. A slight dew covered the hills around Amorion, the night chill’s parting gift to the sleeping countryside. Even the Turkish army encamped around the city was resting, a few, sparse watch fires slowly dying in the rising dawn.

The Turks had felt no need to post sentries. The city they were besieging was too lightly guarded to attempt a sortie and no Roman army had been spotted in the area. Amorion would fall. It was simply a question of time.

A lone horseman observed the scene from the nearby hills.

He marveled at the efficiency of the Turkish warhost. The men encamped around the city had build large siege towers and mighty rams to turn the Roman fortifications to dust. They had worked for weeks on their constructions and, by morning, a thousand men would swarm out of their tents and over the walls like so many ants on a piece of meat. The great Turkish Goliath, with the slightest flexion of its powerful muscles, would crush the defenseless Roman town much as it had in Attaleia. The result was inevitable.

Inevitable.

Dukas grinned.

Fortune had decided to twist the Turks’ plans. It had placed him, Ioannes Dukas, Strategos of a mighty Roman army, right in striking distance of Rome’s most hated foe, Sultan Kilij Arslan the Indestructible.

It was time the Turks lost their arrogance. Dealing with Rome as though they were the equal of Romans. Insufferable fools!

Behind the general, the banners of Rome were being lifted into position. The army had taken the high ground. Trumpets blared and drums rolled. Hundreds of feet and hooves began rythmically marching down the low hill.

On the plain below, the Turks scrambled for their arms.


The Battle

The battle raged fierce.

The Turks, though isolated and unprepared, were able fighters and zealous in defense of their Sultan. They had formed up two lines of light skirmishers, bowmen and religious fanatics in front of Arslan hoping to hold the Romans at bay, but when the first tide of kavalieroi crashed into them, their formation degenerated into a chaotic melee. Even Arslan himself was caught up in the whirlwind of men, horse, steel and limbs, his knights soon surrounded by hundreds of nimble roman spearmen.

Flaming arrows fell on both sides, Roman kavalieroi charged and charged again into the fray. The Turks had the advantage of numbers and the Roman battle line buckled in places. But wherever the infantry lost ground, Ioannes Dukas rallied his men, waded far into enemy battalions. He felt blood run on the inside of his armor. His own and that of his enemies. He had no way to tell. Slowly he hacked his way through the Turkish infantry making his way to the Sultan.

He knew if the Sultan fell, the Turks would be demoralized.

His eyes were fixed on his target. His arm came down on heads and limbs. He hacked and hacked and hacked.

An axe struck his leg. He crushed the skull of its wielder.

Arrows struck his armor. He pressed forward.

Finally free of the infantry, Dukas charged forward. His retainers were greatly reduced in numbers, but the Sultan’s guards had been weakened as well. Both commanders met head on. The Romans, like true lions, rained blow upon blow on the Sultanate’s elite cavalrymen, but for all their courage, it seemed the Turks were gaining the upper hand. In desperation, the Strategos ordered for all his kavalieroi to abandon their positions along the battle line and to charge the Sultan. The horsemen charged. The Roman infantry, bereft of support soon found itself overwhelmed. Even the archers were caught in bloody hand to hand melee.

And suddenly a horn was blown in the distance. A turkic horn.

The Romans saw a massive wave of horsemen hurtling down the hills towards them. They saw their bows tighten. The arrows fly. And fall upon the Turks!

The newcomers fired three times before their faces could be seen. Asians with eyes as cold as steel. At once they drew their curved swords and ran down the Turkish battle line.

The bewildered Romans rallied to the cries: For Rome! The tide of battle turned in an instant. Everywhere the Turkish infantry was fleeing. Everywhere the Romans captured the runners in great numbers. Even the mighty Sultan was forced to recognize defeat and attempt to escape. But he was not quick enough. Laden with armor and tired from the battle, his horse was cut down from under him and he was knocked unconscious from the fall.

As the Sun finally rose above Anatolikon, the battle was over. Not a single Turk had escaped.

Raising his bloodied sword like the great Roman generals of old, Dukas bellowed:

"ROMA VICTRIX!"

[rossahh]

Seyhan River, Northern Armenia, 1177 AD


There was little left of the fort. It had once been in a clearing, high up on the ground, overlooking the riverbank. Trees and shrubs had began to reclaim the clearing, but the remains of the fort were still evident. Though blackened and partially destroyed from the fire that had consumed it when the Count's troops had departed, parts of the defensive wall was still visible. Equally visible was the simple cross made of the fort's own wall off to one side. It marked the grave of those who had died in the battle.

The wagon slowly trundled past the charred remains. Some of the escorts glanced briefly at it, but many deliberately avoided looking it. The land gently slopped downwards towards the river bank. As the troop moved out of the woods towards the river, their final destination came into sight.

On the western side of the river lay an intact fort. Over its gate fluttered a crimson banner. The troop leader turned to the rider next to him and muttered, "Finally". Over the course of the last week, the army had started its withdrawal from the north. The troop were some of the last soldiers left in Armenia, and though the war was over, they were nervous. The sooner they delivered the packages, the sooner they could start their journey south.

A trumpet sounded off in the distance, the gates of the fort opened and several horsemen began to make their way down towards the river on the other bank. The leader motioned to the man driving the wagon, who nodded and fetched the cases. The man opened each case and checked if the keys were still in their places, which they were. So much for something so small the man shook his head, thinking ruefully to himself. He passed the cases to the leader, who spurred his horse and made his way towards the river, with a single horsemen in tow.




"Greetings" said the leader.

The Roman grunted and in an accented voice replied, "Greetings. You brought the keys?"

The leader was slightly taken aback at the lack of pleasantries on the Roman's part, but managed to compose himself and reply, "Of course," holding up the cases, "and you?"

The Roman waved his hand and one of the mounted soldiers next to him held up two cases. The Roman held out his hand and gruffly commanded, "Now, hand them over."

The leader held the cases out. The Roman was about to pluck the cases from his hand when a sudden shout came from behind him. A rider, clad in royal blue, was racing at full speed towards the delegates. As he reached the party of men, he reigned in his horse and threw a message to the leader, who hastily broke the seal and began reading.

What the...

He finished reading and passed it to the Roman, who handed it off the one of his escorts, who rapidly translated it. When his man finished reading, the Roman gave the message back to the leader and laughed. "We won't be needing those anymore" he said, almost gleefully, pointing at the three cases, still in the leader's hand. Abruptly, he wheeled his horse around and began to make his way back towards the fort. His aide put his two original cases back in the saddle bag and followed the Roman. The riders from the Kingdom looked at each, confused, before shrugging their shoulders and heading back towards the wagon.

As they made their way back up the riverbank, the leader asked "How many?"

"I do not know. I have only seen the banner's in the distance" the messenger responded.

"Does the King know? Will the army return?" the leader pressed the messenger.

"A rider was dispatched to the Prince, he is closer. I do not think the army will be recalled. It has already crossed the river and marches on the Principality" the messenger replied.

The leader sighed. Bloody Turks...

[rossahh]

Antioch, 1178 AD


As Antioch slowly settled down to sleep, few could imagine the horror that would engulf the city that night.

For the third time in as many years, the city was besieged by an army from Jerusalem. However, the city's population had little fear. The other two times the city had been under seige, Bohemund had steadfastly refused the Crusader's demands of surrender and had waited them out. Both times, Jerusalem's army had run out of patience and was forced to depart northwards and fight other wars while the city remained independent. Little did they know it, but this time was different...



As dusk began to fall over the city that night, a man walked slowly down its streets. He looked like any other and no one payed him any notice as they hustled to their homes. His name was Gascon, and he was from the County of Tripoli. It was not all that uncommon from Franks from the south to be in the city, but if any had known his true purpose for being there, his stay in the city would have been payed for by his life. For he served Raymond III, Count of Tripoli, and his lord would be visiting the city that very night...



It was deep into the night when the first blow was struck. At the northern gate, Gascon slowly crept up upon the two guards and with a small but deadly blade, silenced them both. He then, fulfilling his mission, painstakingly opened the gates of the city. As the mighty gates groaned open, a host of shadowy figures filed into the city. The attack had been well planned, and the shadows broke into companies as they marched into the city,then headed off down the city streets as silently as possible to their prearranged positions.

While the host entered the city, the population slept. Inevitably, they were discovered, but it was far too late. On the western wall, a sentry happened to glance at the city below him and saw a flash of silver. Or rather many flashes of silver, moving towards the city barracks at great pace. He gasped in shock at the sight, then recovered his senses and ran, screaming at the top of his lungs to the guard tower and began ringing the warning bell with all his might. In the western part of the city, soldiers were woken with a start by the sound of the bell. They grabbed whatever was within reach and rushed outside to see what the trouble was. As they streamed outside they ran straight into a silver line of death. The fully armed and armoured soldiers from Jerusalem were waiting for them, right outside their places of slumber.

Though the soldiers of the city were experienced and, on the field, equally armed and armoured, they were totally unprepared for a fight. Ill-equipped, unprepared and charging out piecemeal into a fully formed battle-line, they were duely slaughtered. The fight spread as the sounds of battle awoke more and more of the city. However, in nearly every situations, the soldiers of Antioch rushed outside only to face their counterparts from Jerusalem, who were ready for action. Only in the south eastern corner was there proper resistance. It was the furthest place from the northern gates the soldiers from Jerusalem had had to cover, and when they clashed with the soldiers from the city, the battle was somewhat even. The men, awoken by the screams of the civilians and the sounds of battle elsewhere in the city, had time to fully arm themselves for a fight. Man to man, the soldiers hacked and hew at each other, but the battle remained on an even footing. Eventually, Crusader cavalry arrived on the scene and reinforced Jerusalem's forces. Hemmed in on all sides by men and horses, the soldiers of the city were slain to the last man.

As the battle for the city reached its zenith, its conductor, Count Raymond, unleashed his final and most devastating blow. Throughout the city, weaving around the pockets of men fighting their hopeless battles, rode the Knights of Outremer. They brought a terrible weapon - fire. Every second house on every second street was set alight. Unchecked by the terrified and distracted people of the city, the fires spread, destroying entire blocks, burning both empty and occupied houses alike. For hours the fires ravaged the city, even after the last of the fighting was done. When dawn broke on that fateful morning, the sun's rays shone down upon a smouldering and destroyed city. Barely a quater of it still stood, the rest was a burnt-out wreck, and less than half the population remained - some had fled, while many others had died in the fighting or in the fires.


Gathered in the square, the men from Jerusalem watched as the golden cross was raised above the city once more. From the northern gate was strung Bohemund, cut down as he rushed to join the fight, with the words scrawled next to him: Traitors die a traitor's death.

As the Count turned away from the grizzly sight, he made a silent prayer to all those that had died that night.

Forgive me, my brothers.

Be at peace.

[rossahh]

Emir of Aleppo's Camp, Syrian Desert, 1178 AD


For nearly 100 years, the Emirates of Aleppo had been in conflict with the Crusader States. Edessa, Antioch, Tripoli and Jerusalem had all fought against the Emirates, yet Aleppo still stood free. Mustafa, the last Emir of Aleppo - though he didn't know it - had continued the proud tradition of his people by defying the crusaders in the north. He and his people had seen them squabble and fight amongst themselves and the Muslims, yet they had somehow endured. And now they were coming.

The Emir had once ruled a vast and commanding portion of Syria, yet his realm was wanning around him. Though Antioch had broken free of Jerusalem's control, the conflict between the Principality and Aleppo had only increased. Christian raiders struck regularly against Muslim convoys, and for the past decade pushed the Emirates soldiers back beyond the river. The south was no longer safe either, with Damascus and southern Syria answering to Jerusalem now. After the initial surrender, some of the Muslim population had left the city, most heading south into Egypt, but some heading north into the Emirates. Aleppo had been buoyed by their additions, and the ranks of the army had swelled, but the Crusaders and their Saracen allies had followed the exodus and begun raiding southwards. The border town of Hama had been lost to the Crusaders, who had expanded far up the north road until checked by the Emir's men.

The Emir had seen this and been dismayed. His enemies had begun to close in around him, and there was scant help to be found. Though no friend of Jerusalem, Antioch was no friend of Aleppo. The Turks in Anatolia had once been friends, but when the Crusaders closed the mountain passes, the Turkish traders stopped coming. The Emir had hoped that the Abassids would aid him against the marauding Christians, especially when they took the former vassal-state of Jerusalem, Edessa. However, Abassid cavalry had begun raiding the eastern lands of the Emirates, making the lands leading to the Euphraties, once dominated by Aleppo, a dangerous place to be. And so Aleppo was surrounded, but was still strong.

But then Jerusalem came.

When Jerusalem's army had first marched into Syria, the Emir had feared little. Their army was marching northwards at full speed, deep in the desert. An Abassid raid had drawn his attention in the east, but when he had returned to the castle, he had been surprised to learn that the Crusaders had turned around mid-march and were coming back south. Their behavior was perplexing, and little made sense until reports came from the outlying regions of Crusader cavalry attacking their settlements. They called for aid and sent continual reports to the Emir, until suddenly no more reports came. What troops that were sent only found empty patches of desert. Then Mustafa had sent scouts in every direction, tryomg to get a sense of what his enemy was up to, but few had returned. Of those who had returned, their reports were all the same - Jerusalem was everywhere.

Mustafa was defiant until the end. He marched his army to the high dunes west of Aleppo, overlooking the main road from Antioch and the coast, and waited for his enemy to give battle, but they never came.


Then, one fateful day, a messenger arrived.


The man had ridden at top speed into the camp, making straight for the Emir's tent. He was blood-stained and frantic, and when he burst into his lord's tent, he delivered the grim news: the Crusaders had taken Aleppo from under his very nose. They demanded his surrender, or else they would come for him and his men.

The Emir was enraged, but then shaken. The Emirates was doomed, but the Emir vowed he would fight the Crusaders until the very end, and so he waited and watched the road, seeking to bring battle to the infidels.


And so the Emirates died, while Mustafa and his men wait and watch, waiting for their enemies, but they never come.

[rossahh]

Jerusalem, 1178 AD


The court was deadly silent. It had been some years since the last messenger from Armenia had been received in the city, and a lot had happened between the kingdoms since then. Much of the Kingdom's nobility was assembled, including representatives and Knights from the various Crusader orders The King himself was presiding over the discussions, when an attendant had whispered in his ear that an Armenian messenger had arrived, bringing news of "great importance". And so the messenger had been admitted, and the court waited in silence for his news.

The messenger had strolled purposely into court. Clad in brilliant but expensive silk robes, the man seemed to have not a care in the world. Amazingly, not intimidated in the slightest by the dozens of eyes staring intently upon him, a slightly mocking smile playing on the man's face. He marched straight towards the King, though as he reached the throne, his smile faltered slightly. The brilliant eyes behind the mask pierced the messenger and he was momentarily shacken. Composing himself like the diplomat that he was, the messenger bowed low, and in a voice that was full of confidence and carried to all the ears of the court, said,

"Most noble King, I bring a message from Takavor Hetum, and a gift."

Reaching into his pocket, he took out a ring - a ring that was very familiar to the King. A murmur rippled throughout the court as some of the nobles near to the messenger recognised the ring. Surely not... they thought to themselves.

Not disturbed by the sudden murmurs around him, the messenger unfurled his scroll and began reading.

King Baldwin,

I'm both sorry and glad to announce the death at the hands of Armenian soldiers of Count Raymond of Tripoli.

Sorry because there now exists between our Kingdoms a state of war.

Glad because the main perpetrator of the Armenian genocide will finally meet Satan.

Some years ago, we were forced into proposing a ceasefire in the hope to live and fight another day... The day has finally come...

We will meet on the field of battle.

Takavor Hetum I
Survivor of Armenia


As the messenger finished reading, outcry gripped the court. Everywhere the nobles and knights of the Kingdom shot to their feet, many reaching for their swords. The messenger deliberately avoided looking at the menacing faces around him, and focused solely on the figure in front of him. The King sat silently for a moment, while the noises of outrage continued around him. However, with a wave of his, he silenced the court, though few sat down again. The messenger waited, but the King said nothing. Eventually, the messenger broke the silence.

"What response do you give the Takavor, Latin King?"

The King awkwardly rose to his feet. Staring down the messenger, in his soft but commanding voice, said,

"Tell him this.

The Count with be avenged, Takavor.

Mark those words."

The messenger bowed again when it was apparent the King would say no more, and turned to leave. As he did so, the King nodded to the Marshall of Jerusalem, who stepped forward and took the ring off the messenger. The King began to shuffle out of the court, as the messenger began to walk towards the front doors. Already, the court was full of angry voices. Just as the silk-clad messenger was exiting, he heard the Marshall's booming voice behind him,

"Assemble the army!"

If any of the Knights or noblemen had looked at the messenger, they would have noticed a smile lighting up his face. As he walked down the stone steps towards his horse, escort in tow, he couldn't help but hum quietly to himself. Though the road ahead to Baghdad was long, the messenger felt very pleased: his mission had been accomplished.

[rossahh]

Jerusalem, 1178 AD


It had been nigh on ten years since the King had left the city under arms. To do so would mean death for him from his disease, but the Kingdom was under its greatest threat, and so the King marched forth to join the armies in the north. At the head of the column, the King could not help but feel sad as he passed through the city gates. He his city as he loved none other, but as he went through the gates, he knew deep down that he would never see the city again. As he looked back on what he loved for the last time, a tear ran down his face. Turning away, the King began his march north and the last march he would ever take in this world.

[rossahh]

Armenia-Jerusalem border, 1179 AD


Faulk Grenier, commander of the cavalry of the Army of Jerusalem, drove his sword into the fool's chest. The cavalryman cried out in pain, slipped from the saddle and joined the other bodies strewn on the ground below. Wheeling his horse around in a tight circle, sword poised to strike, he found somewhat to his surprise that the swarm of Armenian cavalry that had so recently been pressing against him and his men were gone. The only other mounted soldier left around him was Andrei, who too was looking for enemies but finding none. Looking over at Faulk, Andrei called out, "I think we have done it sire."

Bloodied and exhausted, Faulk nodded and turned to survey the scene around the valley below him. Panting heavily, he gazed upon the same sight that only moments ago had been awash with conflict, but was now almost dead calm. On the hill the banners and men of the main line were still in position, despite the Armenian's best efforts to the contrary. On the slopes leading to the line were hundreds upon hundreds of bodies of men and horses. Prince Guy's archers had made the Armenians in the valley pay a terrible price, while Lord Balian's infantry had held firm despite being outnumbered.

The valley itself was thick with bodies. Completely outmatched, the Armenians had tried to stand toe-to-toe with the finest archers and crossbowmen the Kingdom could muster, with disastrous results. Some fighting was continuing in the valley, with Guy himself leading the last of Jerusalem's cavalry against the remnants of Armenia's army.

Looking past the whirling figures below, Faulk's heart grew heavy. Scattered all around were the remains of the horses, men, banners and arms of his cavalry which had started the battle. Faulk had led 250 of the finest cavalry in the world across the valley against a force five times in number in a strong defensive position. Victory was forthcoming, but at a terrible cost. The Armenian's had been pushed off their hill and were only prevented from being routed by the intervention of the Takavor's army, which had rushed to the battle at full speed. Suddenly, Faulk's entire cavalry force had been in danger of being cut off and slaughtered. He had ordered the withdraw, but so many of his men were cut-off and killed or captured. His own knights had been decimated. Only he and Andrei had returned to Jerusalem's lines, leading naught but 50 men. Looking at bodies of his fallen, Faulk felt the guilt of each and every one of their deaths.


A horn blared on the hill, and a great cheer rang round the valley. Turning away from valley, Faulk looked at Andrei. "We have won a great a victory here today, my friend, but it is only the beginning.

I fear we shall soon need fight more battles like this." Looking back at the valley, Faulk asked himself softly, "But how many more men can we afford to lose?"

Andrei turned to his lord, pointing out a fallen Armenian standard. "The question is sire, how many more can they afford to lose?"

[phonicsmonkey]

Caliph An-Nasir and his son, the Crown Prince Az-Zahir, had been arguing fiercely for some time.

So much so that the Vizier had long since fled and the palace ghulams skulked, fearful, behind drapes and furniture in the anteroom where the two men now stood, glaring at each other.

The Caliph, tired from shouting, spoke quietly and firmly to his son.

"So, you would have me change my policy, the policy of my lifetime, that has served so well in ending the Anatolian war and the conflict between the Georgians and Seljuks, in order to what? To occupy some dusty castle in Syria, beset to the north and the south by belligerents? You would have me risk everything we have fought for and gained? For what? In order to force peace upon fools who do not seek it? Explain to me why I would do this thing."

A note of urgency in his voice, his son replied equally firmly.

"Beloved father, your reign as Caliph has brought unprecedented peace to our lands, and our coffers now swell as they have not for generations. And rightly are you called the Peacemaker, for your diplomacy has reaped rewards and gained you much influence.

But it has not always proved successful - have you forgotten the men of Ghur, who defied you and drew the sword anew even as the ink dried on their agreement with the Hindu? They were men of war and never intended to honour the agreement you brokered.

These Turks, these Armenians, these 'Crusaders', they do not respect you and their tongues are forked like the serpent. This conflict is right on our doorstep, not a stone's throw from the West bank of the Euphrates.

We must show our strength and intervene to secure Syria from further hardship. These men must know our power and that we are not to be trifled with, or no sooner has one of them reached the ascendancy than they will turn on the Caliphate, their armies experienced in war and strong in mercenaries and arms from their sack of their rival's cities.

We must drive a wedge between them and force them to the table to secure peace.

And well you know that these are not my feelings alone. The Vizier, your great friend since childhood is in agreement. The Generals, the men of the army, do not understand your hesitancy and whisper that you become soft and weak as you age. And the people, through the Imans, call for jihad against the infidel, a glorious holy war to restore the Caliphate!"

The Caliph's eyes flashed with anger as he exploded in rage again.

"The Vizier, the Generals, the Imans, the people, serve ME! I am not their slave to do their bidding! They need not understand my reasoning, and I need not explain it to them!"

His son stood firm and said nothing, meeting his father's angry stare with a purposeful gaze of his own.

The Caliph sat down on an embroidered chair, motioning for his son to sit beside him.

"Az-Zahir my boy, you have grown to be a fine man, but there is much you do not understand about the world and the machinations of Kings and Sultans."

He shuddered as he again recalled the twisted leers of the djinns, and heard the echoes of their bone dice on the gaming table.

"Still....I accept your argument and you shall have your intervention. The armies of the Caliphate will cross the Euphrates and seize the castle at Aleppo, and the town of Hama.

Go, tell the Vizier to saddle our chargers and assemble the Caliph's guard. We will ride on the 'morrow to meet the armies at Edessa. I will take a troop of fast horse to Hama, and you will lead the assault on Aleppo.."

The Crown Prince interjected.

"But Father, I had hoped to ride to Hama, to..."

"SILENCE. You have argued with me long enough. It shall be as I have commanded. Then we will see what the great and mighty Allah has in store for us."

His son bowed and left the room, smiling as he did so.

[rossahh]

Antioch, 1179 AD


"You want us to sacrifice ourselves? For you?" the man was on his feet, nearly yelling at the host.

His host was on his feet equally fast, yelling back "I am not asking you to sacrifice yourselves for me. I'm asking you to do it for your people and your Kingdom!"

"The Kingdom which we do not even control anymore!"

"The Kingdom which you still serve apparently!" spat the host.

His word momentarily deflated the man. Questioning one's loyalty so openly, especially one who had done so much for the Kingdom in the past few years, stunned the man. Seizing upon the man's pause, the host continued,

"Look, there is much risk here, most of all to ourselves, but what if we succeed? We can finish them once and for all. Besides, you will not be going alone," the host stood proud and upright, "and nor will I."

The man stopped pacing, and the third figure sitting in the chair stirred slightly. They both gazed at their host, exceedingly surprised, who gazed back as if daring them to challenge his words.

Without another word, the man sat back down in his chair. The host slowly lowered himself into his, before speaking again. "Good. Now that you're ready to listen, shall we go over it?"

Both men nodded to the host, who resumed talking. "I will lead my men into Cilicia over the north bridge, while you," motioning to the man, "shall take your men across the sands to the east. Faulk," motioning at the third man, "you will assist him. Your target is the Takavor and him alone. Kill him and return as fast as you can. That's it."

The man and Faulk shared worried glances, which did not go unnoticed by the host. "We may not live to see the fruits of this endeavor, but we will know that should we die, we will die serving the Kingdom well." said the host, who bowed his head at the men. "I know we have had differences in the past, but through this, I pray that we are united." The host stood, and his guests followed suit.

"We shall not meet again, my brothers, but God be with you." His voice cracking slightly, the host left the tent as great speed.

The two men left in the tent looked at each other, their faces downcast. Faulk smiled weakly at the man, "At least, my lord, will shall die in good company." Balian de Ibelin smiled weakly back, "Yes, we shall."

[Askthepizzaguy]

Baghdad, 1178 AD, 4th day of Safar, 574 Hijri Calendar


Murhaba, trusted one. The Georgian infidels have agreed to become our subjects... err, "allies" against the treacherous Seljuks. The Seljuks on the other hand, are meeting with one of our ambassadors as we speak to discuss our relations and declare our alliance with Georgia. Inshallah they will not be offended by our siding with the Christians in this matter, but tensions have been rising ever since our proposed alliance was put on the shelf. They already distrust us because we rebelled against their rule so many years ago.

It seems likely the two great Turkish Sultans will go to war, but my Sultan desires peace above all else. Perhaps this show of solidarity with our less than pious neighbors will convince them to back off from their assault. So long as the Georgians occupy the lands between us, we should not fear Seljuk arms. Meanwhile, our armies advance against the hated Romans. The Jihad is nearing completion. All that stands between us and victory is the walls of Constantinople. However, I've just received word that the Romans have captured our capital. Fortunately we have evacuated the area and we are massing counterstrike forces in the north.

The Crown Prince, Malik the Dubious, has arrived in Baghdad to discuss matters with our neighbors, and open relations with our most distant of neighbors. Once his mission is completed, he will take his fastest horse and meet us on the front lines.

We have contacted the Rajput emissary, whose territory has been violated by our militant, distant cousins the Ghorids, who have taken a most radical interpretation of the Holy Qu'ran. The Hindus have already allied with the Persian Shah of Ghazni, who stands united with our Georgian vassals against the Seljuk aggressors. Perhaps a multi-state alliance against the aggressors here will strengthen us all. Unfortunately arms cannot be exchanged with our most distant neighbors, but economic and diplomatic solidarity perhaps will prevail here.

As I travel with Crown Prince Malik, I often hear him muttering about how much he misses sitting down and eating a proper Turkish meal with his wife. He also complains about this "foolish mission of mercy" which he claims is a waste of his military genius.

"Why do we bother making friends with infidels and Islamic militants? Why do we care what happens to the Hindus? I've never even heard of a Hindu. Shouldn't we focus our forces against the Romans and wipe them out?"

He is becoming more irritable by the day, and when he talks with other ambassadors, the strain of this journey and the testing of his patience is seen quite visibly upon his face. He has taken to wearing his Islamic face covering even during diplomacy to hide his seething anger.

Meanwhile, I am enjoying this mission, as I've discovered a nasty little secret here in Baghdad... apparently the Caliph has a huge collection of shisha bars right outside his palace, where there are many slave women to satisfy my ravenous desires. Tonight, I'm in the mood for Persian...

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph's son Az-Zahir sat astride his warhorse at the crest of a hill looking north at the mountains of the Kingdom of Georgia. The sun was setting in the west, casting a rosy light on the snowy peaks, which seemed to him to glisten as if they were capped with gold.

To his right, astride a fat pony, sat a hooded, slender figure - Kalil, son of his father's Vizier.

Az-Zahir turned to Kalil.

So my friend, will we have our wish? Will my father in his wisdom sanction this invasion of Georgia?

Kalil sighed, and shrugged.

Your father is a great man, and wise. But as you know there are those who say he has grown soft in his dotage, and over-friendly with the infidel kings of the region.

My father the Vizier has let it be known that he has been visited many times of late by the emissaries of Rome and Jerusalem. The generals are angered that the infidel has such influence over him...there are even rumours that he intends to return the captured territories of Syria to the Latins!

He looked up at Az-Zahir, meeting his gaze from neath his cowl with a firm and meaningful stare.

Indeed, there are many amongst the armies of the Caliphate that would gladly march into the lands of the infidel under the banner of the Prince Az-Zahir, even in defiance of the Caliph...they say the blood of the Prophet runs thicker in your veins, and that...

Az-Zahir's eyes flashed with anger.

Be careful in your words Kalil! I am still my father's son, although I am sometimes like of mind with you.

Kalil inclined his head as the Prince continued.

My father is a secretive man, and as deep as the ocean. He shares little of his thinking with me...but while I long for war against the infidel as much as anyone, and I do not understand many of his decisions, I must put my trust in him. I will not defy his orders to stay our march until word arrives from Baghdad.

Kalil nodded, and changed the subject.

And what of the Turk, great Prince?

The young Prince laughed and, wheeling his horse around and beginning to gallop back down the dusty track to the camp below, shouted out.

The Turk is a dead man!

[Askthepizzaguy]

A peasant man walks on the outskirts south of Damascus, with his camel following behind him. Both the peasant and the animal look exhausted.

A small pool of rainwater had collected last night in a sunken part of the stony road. The camel stops to drink, and is clearly quite thirsty. The man looks annoyed at the delay, but knows not to disturb his mount when he is drinking. He looks up and hears the sounds of hoofbeats against the stone road to the north. An entourage of men on horseback ride past him and his camel, not saying a word.

The peasant man resumes watching his friend drink the rainwater.

After several moments, the man looks up again and notices a group of men standing around him, and he immediately draws his sword.

"Oh, it's a bit late for that... isn't it, old man?" A harsh and ominous voice intoned. The peasant man looked started.

"You.... what are you doing here? Why aren't you on the Latin front?"

An arrow pierces his sword-bearing hand, and he drops his weapon, and down to his knees in pain.

"A better question might be, why aren't YOU on the Latin front?" the ominous voice replied.
Malik delivered a fierce kick to the face of the old man, shattering his jaw. "Another question might be... why did you order me to sign an alliance with the Armenians?" Malik took out his long, curved sword, and delivered a terrible blow to the man's other hand, leaving them both useless and bloodied. "Or how about; why did you order an alliance with the Georgians, who now bow in fear before the Caliphate?" Malik took his iron boot and delivered a swift downward kick to the solar plexus of the defeated man "Or why you bothered to sign an alliance with the distant Hindus?" Malik delivered another kick, this time to shatter the older man's ribs. "WHY did you sign an alliance with the Seljuks?" Another kick to the face of the crumpled man. "WHY DID YOU SIGN AN ALLIANCE WITH THE ROMANS????" A harsher kick to the face of the man. "WHY DID YOU SEND 15,000 GOLD TO THE CALIPH????" An even more vicious kick to the genitals of the man. "WHY DID YOU, FOOLISH AND STUPID OLD MAN, AGREE TO AN ALLIANCE WITH THE LATIN CRUSADERS WHO ARE OUR MOST HATED ENEMIES????"

Malik took his sword and impaled the man through the stomach.

"WHY DID YOU ORDER THE DISBANDING OF OUR GREAT ARMIES??? WHY DID YOU ABANDON OUR PEOPLE TO THE LATIN INVADERS, YOU SNIVELLING WRETCH???"

Malik twisted the sword, causing pain.

"And tell me why, dear Sultan, you decided to make a pilgrimage to Mecca in our most critical hour?"

Kaikosru attempted to speak, but the words could not come... he simply cried in pain.

"You will not be making any more mistakes, you stupid fool. Now die, defeated, once the greatest commander on the face of the earth, now simply a peasant without a country... and without a head."

Malik took an axe and seperated Kaikosru from his body.

[phonicsmonkey]

[Written with Zim, deguerra, Elite Ferret and barcamartin]

Az-Zahir rolled around on the back of his warhorse, his blindfold chafing his eyes after so many hours of wearing it. He was tired and irritable, and wanted nothing more than for this journey to end.

He could tell by the diminishing heat of the sun on his face that it was beginning to set, which meant they had been riding all day since they left the wild and unruly city at daybreak that morning and set off north into the mountains.

He knew his father, the Caliph An-Nasir, was still beside him as he could hear the clink of the Caliphial charger’s ceremonial gold livery as the great steed surefootedly negotiated what must be a narrow mountain trail. Judging by the quality of the echoes of the clopping horses’ hooves and shouts of the Ghulams, the path was hewn out of a cliff-face, with a sheer drop to the right.

Just as he began to imagine how it would feel to be thrown from his horse and fall, blind, into the abyss beside them, the procession halted, and the blindfold was removed.

Blinking in the bright sunlight, Az-Zahir was amazed to see they were at the open gates of a mighty stone fortress, carved from the mountainside and perched on an absurdly elevated spar overlooking a dusty valley below.

His father the Caliph clapped him on the back and chuckled, before dismounting and beckoning to him to follow him inside.

He was led to an austere chamber, and was left alone with his thoughts. His father had refused to tell him the purpose of this journey, saying only that 'a great secret must be revealed' and that Az-Zahir 'must learn the truth' in order that he could assist his father in some great task. He tried to remain calm and patient, but his curiosity was starting to get the better of him..

A few hours later after resting and taking some food and refreshment, Az-Zahir was led from his chamber by a ghulam boy, down a dark stone flight of stairs and to a set of carved wooden double-doors. The slave boy rapped three times and scurried away, leaving Az-Zahir alone in the gloom.

After a moment or two the doors creaked slowly open to reveal a cavernous chamber, lit with a single beam of orange dusken sunlight from a skylight in the high roof. The beam of light cast directly onto a large, circular stone table at the centre of the room, around which sat his father the Caliph, the Seljuk Sultan Arslanshah, the Ghaznavid Shah Khusrau , Muhammed of Ghor, and the Great Mufti Kahlan, son of the aged Imam Murshed of Oman.

His jaw dropped almost to the floor.

[phonicsmonkey]

The ghulam had struggled for a moment or two, eyes bulging and throat making a hissing, crackling sound as he fought for air. With a final, almost desultory kick at the flagstones, he gave up his life and slumped dead at his killer’s feet. The hooded figure dragged the body into a dimly-lit alcove and quickly changed into the ghulam's ornate armour, paying special attention to the face-guard which would protect his identity.

Moving quickly yet determinedly he followed the stone corridor through twists and turns until he came to the small door from which the ghulam guard had emerged some five minutes previously. Passing quietly through the door he found himself in an anteroom, lit by a single blazing torch.

An ornately carved wooden screen was set in one wall, through which he could see light and hear voices. There was a stool in front of the screen on which he sat. Looking through the screen he could see the conference table, and the various heads of state gathered there. The Caliph, his son, the Sultans, the Shah and the Grand Mufti.

He allowed himself a brief moment’s satisfaction as he reflected that his paymaster would be very happy at his success. Then he concentrated on listening to the discussion, and committing to memory every single word….

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph beckoned to Az-Zahir, who slowly walked over to the table and took his seat at his father’s right hand.

“Az-Zahir my son, welcome to the Brotherhood of the Faithful. You will have many questions, and we will answer them all in due course, but for now let me begin by explaining some of the background and why you are here.

Of course you know that in the past the Caliphate of my ancestors stretched from Persia to Al-Andalus. The Caliphs of the past were pious and mighty, but were also arrogant and complacent, and so the Caliphate splintered and broke up amid bitter factional rivalry and fighting. Out of the ashes of the Caliphate rose the new dynasties of the Seljuk Turks, the Ghaznavids, the Omanis and the men of Ghor.

My life’s mission has been to restore the glory of the former Caliphate, but to avoid the mistakes of my predecessors. Once the work of my early years was done, and the lands around Baghdad were secure and prosperous, I started to reach out to our Brothers in Faith that now ruled over our former territories. It took a long time to win their trust, but through my diplomatic efforts a secret alliance was formed between the Caliphate and those leaders you see now around this table. We pledged to work together to create a new Caliphate dedicated to the glory of the mighty Allah, where each tribe of the ummah could have political and even religious freedom, without fear of oppression.”

Az-Zahir interrupted, “But father, if this is a coalition of Islamic nations why is not the Khwarezm Shah present, or the great Salahuddin? And what of the Rum Turks?”

The Caliph nodded his head and sighed.

[phonicsmonkey]

As he drew breath to answer, the Seljuk Sultan Arslanshah interjected loudly, half-rising in his seat in his passion.

"Bah! The Rum Turks! Those rebellious knaves that call themselves our equals aren't fit to parley with us honourable men!"

The Ghaznavid Shah Khusrau placed a hand on Arslanshah's shoulder, who sat back in his chair with his arms crossed, glowering.

"Personal feelings and rivalries aside, what my friend here means to say is that the formation of the Brotherhood was primarily a strategic, not a religious move. It made sense for those of us with contiguous borders to join together in this alliance and protect one another until we grew strong. We were chiefly concerned about getting embroiled in a war with either the Crusaders or Rome before we were prepared, and we saw that a defensive alliance with either the Ayyubids or the Rum Turks would surely lead to a war with the men of the West sooner rather than later. We wanted to avoid uniting the Christian nations against us, and keep them divided if possible while we grew strong in secret, strong enough to counter any aggression from them."

Muhammed of Ghor cut in with a sly grin.

"And in the case of the poor Khwarezm Shah, well, we just had to find something for our Seljuk brothers to occupy themselves with instead of attacking Georgia…the Shah was like a bone given to a dog to distract him from the food on the table."

The Ghaznavid looked slightly embarrassed at this, but the Seljuk grinned wolfishly at Az-Zahir, his eyes glinting with ill-concealed bloodlust.

Az-Zahir gulped, and broke away from his piercing gaze. Clearing his throat, he turned to Muhammed of Ghor, known as the Godfearer, and asked, "But what of the war that has been raging these years between Ghazni and Ghor? And the Ghazni alliance with the Hindoos? For that matter, what of the Turk's 'Coalition of Freedom'?"

[Askthepizzaguy]

Sultan Malik stood watch over the land. Off in the distance, the last of the Turkish resistance was battling for independence.

Malik pondered the mistakes of the past... and the successes. How great were the triumphs, how disastrous the losses. But for certain, Malik knew all along that the only people worth trust were one's countrymen, one's family. In spite of Kaikosru's teachings, Malik could never bring himself to accept the idea of trusting men who covet your land, your wives, your resources, all behind the fake smile of diplomacy.

Kaikosru believed in an ideal... perhaps, a foolish ideal. The idea that if you show someone mercy instead of cruelty, the idea that you fight for the lives of your friends, instead of abandon them, if you should offer the hand of friendship to strangers, and trust those who return your kindnesses, the world would be a better place.

Malik never once believed such nonsense. But he stood quiet, and obeyed his commander. Loyalty, duty, and respect for his commander... Malik could take no more. When trust and kindness had failed to bring about peace and brotherhood between nations... between Muslims and the infidel... when empires were burning, and alliances were broken... when those we trusted turned against us... Malik had enough.

Kaikosru would follow in his father's footsteps, as a failure who could have been great. And now there was no more time. The enemy were at the gates, the people were being butchered, the army was gone, and our security was bought for the price of being the slaves of Roman infidels...

There was no time for Malik to achieve greatness. The war was lost, just as he ascended to the throne. He acted too late. Such hesitation, with so much at stake... cost everyone dearly.

"Coalition of Freedom... HAH!"

Coalition of Fools. Coalition of Cowards. Coalition of Weaklings. Those not brave enough to shout from the mountains their true allegiances. Those rats who hide in fear of brave and honest men.

Well, the snakes had won today. And from now on, the snakes would rule the world. Malik could not turn to the Catholics, for they were sworn enemies and traitors. Malik could not turn to his fellow Muslims, for they have allowed greed to pervert the ways of Islam. The tribes of the north were nothing, and there was no one left to challenge this rising power of darkness and treachery.

Kaikosru had his time. His ideals had a chance. The world had a chance for peace and brotherhood. There would be no more of that. Malik looked East... and saw the rise of the old ideals. The old hatreds. The old prejudices. The old ways.

In war, there are no friends. Only those who have not yet mustered the strength to assault you from the front. And invariably, they will be found wielding daggers behind you. That was the way of things... the world is cruel, after all. Only the cruelest survive.

________________________________


But Malik smiled. If one subscribes to that ideal... then one must destroy everything that is not under one's control. One can never trust anyone. This new... "Muslim Brotherhood"... founded on the very antithesis of trust and honor.

It was only a matter of time before the greediest, and most cowardly of them all, would step forward first and plant the first knife in the back of his Muslim "brother".

Perhaps they would wait until all their enemies were gone before they turned on one another. Malik sincerely doubted that they would be able to turn thier backs on one another without wondering... who would strike first.

Peace and defense... no longer exist. The once fertile crescent is now broken.

______________________________

Let the bloodbath begin.

[phonicsmonkey]

Muhammed shifted uneasily in his seat and glanced across at Khusrau, who nodded.

Muhammed turned to the Caliph, saying “Your boy is most perceptive An-Nasir, I will indulge his curiosity as you have vouched for his trustworthiness.”

In the anteroom the spy leaned forward on his stool, heart racing, and pressed his face against the wooden lattice to make sure to catch every word.

The Godfearer continued, “Az-Zahir, the war between Ghazni and Ghorid has been at all times a sham. When the Turk formed his ‘Coalition of Freedom’ and the Rajput (may Allah curse his house!) made entreaties for assistance against my jihadis, the Brotherhood determined that in order to remain hidden we must trick the world by faking a conflict in our ranks."

Shah Khusrau chimed in. “You see, at the formation of the Coalition of Freedom we determined that one of our number should infiltrate that Coalition, the better to keep an eye on the Turk and his infidel allies the Rajputs, Georgians and Armenians.”

The Grand Mufti Kahlan broke in with a laugh. “We hardly expected that we would ALL be invited to join! The Turk’s Coalition was almost half made up of Brotherhood members, and after the death of the last Takavor we dominated that body altogether, with Khusrau here even elected its ceremonial leader. The Caliph remained publicly un-aligned, the better to use his political influence effectively for our ends.”

Az-Zahir’s head was spinning. He could scarcely believe the sheer scale of the deception his father and his allies had perpetrated upon the unsuspecting world. He sat back in his seat, silent for a few moments before becoming aware of the eyes of all of the Brotherhood upon him.

The Caliph leaned forward, resting his arms on the table and intoned. “My son, do you have any further questions?”

Az-Zahir looked around the table at each of the men, great leaders of their people who held the fates of millions in the palms of their hands. He seemed to see them as gamblers gathered around the dice table, risking all on a single throw of the bones.

“Yes,” he said, finally, “my final question is….why?”

The Caliph threw his head back and laughed, unsettlingly longer than was necessary. He stood suddenly and his chair fell back on the floor with a crash which echoed around the hall. Raising his arms above his head he towered over Az-Zahir, who drew back with a start.

“To take over the world my son! To take over the very world itself for the glory of the mighty Allah!”

[00jebus]

Jeleladin looked at the bare palace around him, it barely deserved the name, its wealth stripped to pay for a long lost war.
The tribes of Ghanzi didn't care about that though, vultures that they were, beseiging the last remaining city of Khwarezm, even merchants had taken to adding the word doomed before they uttered the shahdoms name nowadays.

What a city it was though, almost as rich as Baghdad, in a crossroads between the harsh north and Iran, won by Jeleladin himself, he would see to its defense himself.
He looked at the ghulam strapping on the last of his armoured plates "how many?"
"the scouts report, they outnumber us 4 to 1, mostly steppe cavalrymen"
Jeleladin swore for the first time in his life.

twenty minutes later he was at the head of his army, which also barely deserved the name, mostly a collection of those too brave, honourable, or stupid to leave the militia at an earlier date, and 50 personal guards

"men!" he shouted from his horse
"I wont lie to you... we will see our end today!
but the immans say that defense of the innocent is a sure path to paradise, then what better path than this?
We are outnumbered by four to every one of us!

What an end this will be!
Our chance to scream out into the night our valour!
forward men!
Show these traitors of Islam what it truly means to be doomed!"

then he prepared to die in the saddle, like his ancestors before him.


five hours later

Blood was everywhere, the ground was stained with it, armour of the surviving cavalry was tinted with it and jeleladins own sabre had been rendered dull from overuse.
He stood on the husk of a once mighty indian elephant, his army around him, he raised his sword and shouted

"I was wrong to think I'd enter paradise today when such fine men make up my army"

then, looking around at the blood soaked battleground that was the remains of his shahdom, he swore from the second time in his life.

[barcamartin]

Looking over the battlefield, towards the wooden castle in the distance he shivered with delight. Once again he had defeated the Khawazi wretches.

Having led a large part of the Seljuk forces in the war, his armies had trampled the once mighty Shahdom into dust. All through Transaxonia and Khwarezm, along the northern coast of the Caspian and into the god-forsaken steppes had they fought. He had brought countless acres of land into the Seljuk Empire. In the distance another castle lay before him and his men. It would fall shortly, even though the defenders had held the Khawzi at bay for many seasons according to the reports.

It had been a hard battle, but now was not the time to rest. To bring the entire Caspian Sea under Seljuk dominion this independent steppe people must bow to the Sultan. There was no time to waste. Reports of trouble stirring in the south had reached him from Rayy.

' Move out! '

[Merlox]

Konstantinopolis, beginning of Winter 1183

"Prince Nevoulos...? Prince Nevoulos!?"

Prince Nevoulos would be interupted from his day dreaming, and look at all of the other generals and advisers at the court at Konstantinoplis.

"I am focusing... Tell me how grave the situation is?"

One of them sighed loudly, then one of them continued.

"Well... It is not good, The Emperor only gets worst every passing day, Settlements in the Empire are Revolting due to the Depression, Our Vasselage over Jerusalem is causing the most damage out of all. Total Corruption of the current governers, and the very large troop count needed for the area only makes the situation worst, The Steppe Warlords are now reacting toward our conquest to have an empire that surrounds the Black Sea, The Crusaders have called from reinforcements from the west and now are in the territories now, The Crusaders have demanded back their states or they will call for war if we do not accept, The Turks having no armies now, Will be defenseless, and will be Butchered by the Crusade. So... what are your orders...?"

Prince Nevoulos looked to the men and rested his forehead into his hand.

"Tell me, Can we get any thing back from the Crusaders for this deal, and if not... Would we have a chance of stopping the Crusader armies as they stand now...?"

The Adviser would speak.

"It would be a possible chance of victory, But we have to look at other than this, The Crusader states will attack our lands before we could Mobilize the armies, Some armies being as far away as Russia on their conquest, And even if we do destroy the Crusader armies, They may be funded and sent Reinforcements by the Islam Caliph, and the Egyptian armies... If they to that, We have No chance, As we are already under 10,000 florince in the hole and still growing rapidly..."

Prince Nevoulos would slam his fist onto the table.

"Enough with this, I have been pulled out of the Steppe Conquest to talk of things such as these..? We need to find a way to turn this around... Tell the Crusaders that their current demands will be met If they Give the Castle of Nikoseia, and that we will be neutral of what ever is to come... As for our Conquest, If the Crusaders Accept, I want all forces from Jerusalem Withdrawn and set sail for the Steppes, I want the Army in Konstantinopolis to set sail northward, and to start expanding, They will also be assisted by the Army at Caffa, that will be sent toward the East, An army will be left to defend our nation if Something goes wrong.. Other that that, I want the Army that is near Rhode's island to set sail toward Iraklion, I will set sail with the Army of Konstantinopolis with the Conquest of the Black Sea..."

The Room was queit for alittle, Then another Adviser spoke up.

"What About the Rum Turks? They are nearly defenseless, They will be destroyed if we don't aid them, We have to stop the Crusaders!"

The Prince got up from his chair and walked to his window, seeing Konstantinopolis, seeing the filth on the once glorious city, Seeing many poor people on the street, begging for foods from the soldiers.

"What do you want us to do...? The Turks have attacked us before, and they have interupted our plans to take over the Crusader's lands... Now they are facing the Penalties of destroying Empire's plans to smash the Crusader presense, They signed their own death will, With the Crusaders calling for help of their False Pope, now they come in thousands... With this, They will now be forced to face the beast that they saved from the Empire's Goal, The Empire will not help them defend, If they are worthy, They will defeat the Pope's Armies, And if not, They Will simply Perish.... Ofcourse, By giving the Crusader's back their lands.. and their freedom. May we hope that the Crusader's look at this as a kindness, As they are given a second chance, to prove themselves once more, And if they are Victorous, Stay close, as they are our only friend in this world from now on... If the Rum Turks wish to save them selves of being Exicuted all by the cross or converted, They Will wise up, and ask to Merge into the Roman Empire, Seeing as they are an un-defended nation with large ammounts of Florince, This could be very usefull for us... And if they don't ask for this, They will simply Die under the cross of the Crusaders... Give the King of Damascus what he wants, His freedom and Independence back, and mainly, His holy lands Jerusalem..."

The Emperor would stand up and walk for the door.

"I don't care how you make the treaty with the Crusaders, Make it work!, The Turks are dead now for all I care unless other wise... Friendship with the Crusaders, and Expanding the Empire, and watching of the Islamic World rip itself apart..."

He would walk out, Soon after this meeting the Renewed Titled "King of Jerusalem" Accepted Rome's Deal, and the Troop withdrawl of the Jerusalem Region started to commenced, Soon after that the War between the Turks and The Crusaders started, The Roman Army watched while Crusader Armies marched on with full out victory over the lands of the Rum Turks. The Roman Forces would soon take over the Island of Iraklion, a Long forgotten goal of the Empire, not a fact of truth, The Roman Armies would instead of Send the forces by boat to protect the Rum Turks, would sail up to the Kypchek's Warlords castle by the Georgian border, where they would have full out victory, Though, would call a ceasefire and an alliance with the Kypchek people as the months passed, The Turkish Government, What ever military they had Slain, Came to the Roman's pleading for their protection against the Crusaders, Even if it ment disbanding their government and such, The Roman Armies marched into the Gate opened towns, as the Turkish people cheered, The War was over for them, and now they can finaly rest in peace, and Relations between the Roman Empire and the Crusaders seemed to be almost perfect now, and the Depression ended, With enough Resources to start a massive building project that would help all of the trading partners greatly, Almost every town was to start to build for a Port, The Streets of Konstantinopolis had rid itself of the filth on it's streets, Things were finally settling... Though... What lays in the East?...

[rossahh]

PLAN B Staging Camp

Two dark figures stood whispering to each other, oblivous to the activity around them.

"So you are assembled and ready?" asked the first figure.

"We are ready, but I am slightly...worried...about our mission." the second figure replied hesitantly.

The first figure turned to face the other, his hood rippling in the breeze.

"Your mission is simple." he said flatly.

"But there is much risk to me...to us I mean." countered the second.

"War is risk, and this mission is vital. It must not fail." said the first figure, who began to pace about with his robe trailing behind him.

Still the second figure seemed worried.

"What if they resist?" he asked.

The first figure stopped pacing and stared at his companion.

"Kill them. Kill them all."

[rossahh]

Location Unkown


The horses had thundered over the border days before, yet none dared challenge them. The northward road was empty, and the locals were wisely staying out of the way. Their hold in these lands was tenious at best, and the horsemen weren't here for a fight anyway.


That was until the messenger arrived...


The orders were scrawled but simple:

EXECUTE PLAN B


The Prince read the message but couldn't believe it at first. Were things that bad? he asked himself. Shaking his head to clear those thoughts he summoned the Captains. They had a new road to take now.

[Ramses II CP]

South of Delhi, touring the Ghorid lands that now lie lightly under his hands, the Maharaja of all India pauses a moment to speak to his advisors,

It is good, gentlemen. India will remain for Indians. I am certain now that these invaders will honor their vow to serve our people.

It is less good that our generals, hungry for battles, have pressed the boundries of our lands up against more Muslims west of Sindh lands. Our vassal claims these people are no threat, and perhaps he is true, but then perhaps too he is baiting us into complacency. Either way these generals themselves, with their exposure to the dishonorable battle tactics of the foreigners, are a threat to our history, our way of life, and our honor. We must find them a task, a destiny, that meets the needs of India and the demands of their lust for conquest.

Looking to the setting sun the Maharaja continues,

It is to the west that they must look. I hear rumors of a war brewing in the west. Gather the ambitious ones, give them ships and funds, and send them there. In the west, distant from our own damaged lands, they shall find their destiny. Gods willing none shall return.

:egypt:

[phonicsmonkey]

Crown Prince Az-Zahir of the Caliphate rocked dreamily in his saddle in the center of the long column of cavalry making their slow and easy way through the forests south of Trapezon. It was a fiercely hot mid-summer's day, and as the trees and undergrowth grew thicker and harder to traverse, so the shade became cooler and more of a respite from the burning sunshine, making it a mixed blessing for the men of the Caliphate as they strove deeper into the woods.

So far the holy jihad against the Romans had been less than eventful - Az-Zahir and his men had ridden long and hard at night times for over a week to the ford of the river Halys and spent much time and energy fortifying the ford against possible Roman reinforcements. That job done, they had turned east and proceeded back towards the castle Trapezon, which by now should be under siege by armies led by Az-Zahir's brother and uncle. The plan was to provide field support for the siege armies by taking out any Roman armies coming to reinforce the Kypchak mercenaries who garrisoned the castle.

So far no such armies had been encountered..

On this, the eighth day of continuous marching, Az-Zahir's thoughts turned further South, to the lands held by the armies of the nefarious King of Jerusalem, Baldwin the Impious. He greatly hoped his father's Seljuk allies had successfully begun their assault on the Latin positions. He began to daydream about wild turks on horseback peppering heavily armoured knights with arrows, and was drifting into a kind of slumber when he was brought back to reality by the shouts of alarm of the outriders to his left.

And then the whole world descended into chaos.

Bursting out of the trees to the left of the column came a mass of armoured men, uttering blood-curdling battle cries and wielding sword, spear and axe in their mailed fists. The gold eagle of Rome flew on their standards and glittered on their shields. The air was suddenly thick with black arrows as both sets of soldiers let fly, their bowstrings singing the song of winged death.

Az-Zahir reacted quickly. His force was primarily comprised of Bado archers mounted on Camels. They were backed up by some mercenary Turkomen horse-archers, and small force of spear-armed camel-mounted Bedouins. His Caliph's guard and a unit of junior Ghulams were the only heavy cavalry to speak of.

He realised in a flash that he needed to get distance - his men were engaged in a shooting match and were holding their own, but it would suddenly become a massacre if the Roman spearmen and knights reached his lines and were able to bog down his lightly-armoured troops in pitched battle.

Sounding the retreat, the young prince wheeled and began to lead his men in the opposite direction. Bursting out of the tree line onto a shrubby hillside, he gave the orders for the mounted archers to fan out, taking high ground and maintaining fire. He signalled for the Bedouins and Ghulams to form up with his Caliph's guard unit behind the archer-line.

The Roman spear line advanced into the pocket created by his withdrawing - they seemed to be falling for the bait. Backed up by many Toxitai archers, they attempted to catch the fleeing horsearchers of the Caliphate, who kept up a constant rate of fire.

Suddenly through the Roman lines came a massed cavalry charge. Hundreds of armoured knights piled through the spearline and came at Az-Zahir's mounted archers who, panicking, dispersed and began to become isolated as they withdrew from the glittering lances.

Straight as an arrow a unit of heavily armoured Roman horse came at Az-Zahir's guard. He could see their scaled armour glittering and on their standard flew the Imperial insignia. Could this be? Yes! It was the Imperial guard itself, led by the former Emperor Alexius, who rumour had it was deposed by Nevolous on account of his insanity.

Certainly he seemed insane today, forging well ahead of his troops in a mad charge at the Crown Prince and his men, who withdrew up the hillside to avoid battle. Reaching the top of the hill, Az-Zahir realised he needed to turn the tide of battle. He wheeled his horse about and charged straight back down the slope at the Roman Emperor, signalling for the Guard, the Ghulams and the Bedouins to follow.

With a sickening crunch the two waves of horse met halfway down the hill, and soon were involved in a desperate melee, men on both sides hacking all around them in a struggle to the death.

Az-Zahir fended off the mace blow of a Roman guardsman, before running him through with his spear. All around him the lightly-armoured Bedouin were cut down like corn by the superior Romans. The Ghulams fared little better, their ornate armour and helmets smashed and crushed by the mace blows. All Az-Zahir had in this fight was numbers, and as he struggled to the edge of the throng to get a better look, he prayed this would prevail over the greater strength and experience of the Emperor and his men.

Looking out over the battlefield, he saw his horse-archers overtaken time and again by the pursuing knights, who picked off the slower of them as they in turn were cut down by arrows fired from the backs of the camels and horses they chased.

In the center of the field the Roman infantry huddled, ineffectual as their numbers dwindled with each wave of incoming flighted steel. Advancing up the hill towards him was a unit of the famous Varangian guard, wielding their enormous axes threateningly as they braved the thick arrow fire.

Az-Zahir took a blow to the back of the head and fell from his horse. As he struggled with his foot caught in the stirrup he saw his assailant bested in turn by a member of his guard. He got to his feet just as the Bedouins took up a shrill and triumphant ullulating cry. One of them had run the Emperor Alexius through with his long spear! He looked barely older than nineteen, the young desert boy who held high the helmet of the legendary king, dripping with gore...

And with that the battle was over. The Roman resistance broke immediately and they were cut down in droves as they fled the field, save for the Varangians who perished to the last man, pinned to the floor by arrows in a latter-day small-scale repeat of Carrhae.

After the battle, Az-Zahir sat atop the hill on his horse looking out over the forest to the coast behind, where a Roman fleet was moored offshore. The last of the ambushing Romans had fled to the safety of those boats. He could only hope they would not be followed by more of their kind.

A great victory had been won today, and a young man had become a hero, hoisted on the shoulders of the soldiers for the rest of the day and promised all kinds of rewards in paradise by the Imams of the army.

A chill breeze came in from the sea and he shivered involuntarily..

[rossahh]

"Message from the King, and it's a bit strange."

The man sighed.

"It says: Cancel Plan B, implement Plan C".

The man sighed again, and lent back into his chair. If that's what he wanted.

In a tired voice, the man said "Very well then, prepare to break camp. We march north along the coastal road."

"At once sir!"



******


Six days later


"Message from the King."

The man sighed.

"It says: Cancel Plan C, implement Plan D".

The man stared at the ceiling of his tent, and imagined all the ways he could beat the messenger to death with a stick. Finally he thought to himself, What in the world was the King thinking?

"Very well, preapre to break camp. We march south along the desert road."

"Yes sir!"

[rossahh]

The diary Jean Bourday, soldier of Jerusalem

It had been quite a difficult time for us in the PLAN B army. Orders and counter-orders had resulted in a lot of marching and a lot of fighting. Not a lot makes sense anymore. The banner now reads:


The Army of
PLAN A B C D E F

The campaigns have been just as shambolic. The stirring victory of the Ayyubids at Acre was followed by that disaster on the road to Jaffa, where a single band of peasents routed the entire right flank and would have continued to rout the entire army, but they were overcome by that freak avalanche which had absolutely nothing to do with Pierre-digging-for-gold-on-that hill-the-day-before-the-battle. I suppose all would have been well after that except that battle was followed by the unfortunate friendly-fire incident where the Clerics were mistaken for Ayyubid cavalry. It wasn't until we were searching the bodies that we discovered our error. After taking 9 arrows out of the first cleric, we were able to indentify his robes. Needless to say we left the remaining 13 in him and fled the scene sharpish.

At the moment we're in the pursuit of some Ayyubids who have stolen the King's banner. We know it's the Ayyubids as we stole one of their maps and it says that we are right in the middle of their territory. It's actually quite funny - I'd never noticed that the Muslims use exactly the same alphabet as us, except for some strange reason their's is upside down! Crazy Muslims! When those bastards with the banner make camp tonight, we're gonna sneek in and kill them. We'll ride back to Jerusalem as heroes, mark my words.

[phonicsmonkey]

On the banks of the River Euphrates.

The word had spread quickly through the farming and fishing settlements dotted along the fertile strip which formed the east bank of Al-Furat. Tools and nets had been cast aside and abandoned by their owners, who had rushed to join the growing crowds gathered along the riverbank, straining their eyes across the hazy, lazy brown shallows to catch a glimpse of the strange visitors from the Indus valley.

A small boy who had shinnied up a coconut palm was the first to spot them, his shrill cry of “Fel! Fel!” causing a minor surge by the crowd towards the waters, in which an old woman was jostled and a man lost control of his pomegranates.

Sure enough, through a cloud of dust cast up by their grey, pounding, wrinkled feet, the immense beasts could be sighted making their stately way along the western bank of the river, their loinclothed handlers perched magnificently atop and clearly enjoying the attention they were getting from the villagers.

Everyone could see they were heading West, towards the lands of the infidel where their Caliph and his allies carried out their jihad for the glory of the mighty Allah…but nobody could say why, and all were puzzled and awed by the immense and inconceivable distance these great animals had travelled.

‘God is indeed great!’, many in the crowd were heard to murmur…

[rossahh]

The Castle Homs, northern Jerusalem


"I swear those grey hills have moved since yesterday!"

A chorus of laughter filled the battlements.

"Hills can't move you idiot!"

"I swear it. Yesterday those hills were still near the sands, today they're in the fields."

"Whatever you think, Georges." said a second voice, rife with sarcasm.

"Ok, I'll bet you 100 florins that those hills will have moved by next watch tomorrow." said Georges.

The second man, Javier, turned and winked at the other guards in the tower. "Why not make it more interesting. How about 100 florins from each of us? 600 all up."

"Done" said Georges quickly, holding out his hand. Javier, smirking, shook it.

The rest of the men burst our laughing again. "Where on earth are you going to get 600 florins from you idiot? What do you think you are, a Prince?" hooted one.

"Of course, if you can't pay us our money you will have to pay in other ways, starting off with taking over my latrine duties for the whole year." said Javier. Latrine duty was the worst and most disgusting duty in the whole castle.

"Ok," said Georges. He began to take a stroll around the battlements as the others chatted, laughing now and then. Georges already was starting to imagine what he could do with all of that money. I've always wanted a boat...

[Merlox123]

A Roman Merchant Quickly Comes into the Palace in Constantinople and is panicing. Every one looks at him with odd faces.

"MOVE WEST!... WE HAVE TO RUN! MY FAR EASTERN CARAVAN JUST WAS ATTACKED WITH GIANT.. WAR LIKE BEASTS... THEY SMASHED MY CARAVAN AND EAT MY CARGO!!!"

The Governer of Constantinople had a worried in his face.
"My god... They eat Steel... Silk...and our Spices...? What kind of beasts are these..?"

The Merchant cried again.
"NOOOO... They... they eat my cargo... of Peanuts..."

When the merchant said Peanuts... The whole room gasped... Due to their was only one kind of giant beast... who only eats peanuts... At that moment, a Giant book, dated back to the BC Roman era was brought to the counter, and every one gathered quickly, as pages flipped, turned, When it was finally found, The room gasped again, as their predictions were correct.

"These Beasts of great size, that eat Peanuts.. not people.. are named... Elle... Elleleph... Elephants..?... And... This was the reason why... We used Javevlins over bows...? Quickly! I want another Caravan of Peanuts to come and line a line of peanuts where you last saw them... They will feast and run right into our trap, and when Emperor Nevlous hears about this... I'll be the next in line of to be emperor!"

The whole room was silent.. Knowing that they were very out numbered... but now the governer was only caring about Elephant hunting..

[rossahh]

"Turks, Bedouins, Arabs, Muslims and Hindus all fighting together. How? Where do you come from?"

The figure on the ground was silent, refusing to answer but glaring defiantly at the questioner. One of those standing roughly stood of the figure's open wound, causing him to cry out in pain.

"I said, where do you come from?" growled the questioner.

The figure, eyes more fearful than defiant now, whispered. "India."

The questioner recoiled slighlty. India, what the devil was that? he thought to himself. Recognition finally dawned on him. But no, it can't be. That's the other side of the world from here!

Bending down, the questioner asked the figure, "Do you mean Indus, the far east?"

The figure blinked rapidly, but did not reply.

The questioner motioned to one of the standing, who drew his sword. "East, the far east, Indus?" asked the questioner more forcefully.

The figure looked at the sword and then nodded. "India" he whispered again.

The questioner stood. Lying near the party was a flag, adorned with a giant golden star. The man stared at the flag absently. So many different people, coming so very far, but for what? he asked himself. He wiped his hands, dirty from the battle, on the edge of his blue tunic and turned back towards the castle, picking his way through the dead.


Behind him a scream was cut off abruptly.


At least they die like everyone else...

[phonicsmonkey]

Up on the battlements of the highest tower Jibril removed his helmet and wiped the sweat and blood from his brow, catching his breath finally and leaning against the granite to rest his aching muscles.

It had been in the darkest hours before dawn when the word came that the Caliph's agents had slain the guards and opened the iron portcullis at the main gate of the Castle Homs. The besieging army had been in a state of readiness for some three nights waiting for just this moment, and when the attack finally came it had been swift and merciless.

Now, as the first rays of the rising sun were seen on the horizon, as if sent by the Caliph himself from Baghdad to acclaim their victory, Jibril looked down upon the carnage in the courtyards and along the winding walls, where the Faris guards and Abna spearmen had wrought their bloody work against the sleepy and ill-prepared men of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

There, just outside the gate, amongst the piles of elephant dung, lay the armoured bodies of the Latin general and his bodyguard, who had bravely yet vainly sallied forth to meet the attackers. They had fought like lions, but had been cut down at the last, mobbed by the zealous jihadis and overpowered.

Now he looked out westwards, far into the distance, where in the dawn light he imagined he could see the dust cloud thrown up by the steeds of the Caliph's noble Seljuk allies, storming the Latin fort on the Orontes that represented the last line of King Baldwin's defence.

If all had gone according to plan, the Levant now lay wide open to the armies of Islam, and the end would come swiftly now for the infidel.

He rejoiced in his heart at the thought that the holy cities of Jerusalem and Damascus would now surely be reclaimed by the people of Islam - and if Baldwin were to see sense, and Allah willed it, perhaps he would relent without further bloodshed.

At his feet he became aware of a fallen Crusader, a spear in his back. In his dead hand he clutched a large and seemingly heavy leather pouch. Jibril was intrigued, and prised it from the dead man's grip.

Looking inside, he found 600 gold coins and a crude drawing of a boat...

[Askthepizzaguy]

AH! There's those elephants I ordered.

Since you're late, you don't get a tip. And you forgot my chicken wings.

[Redemption]

Furthest reaches of the Empire, beginning of August 1189


The fortress stood watch over the entrance to the Maeotian Lake, a gray tower encircled by a makeshift palisade. Surrounded by miles upon miles of featureless plains to the north and the unsoundable depths to the south, one could hardly find a more desolate place. It was a forlorn settlement, barely mentioned on most maps. In ancient times, Rome had built a colony here, and even before the Romans, the Greeks of Antiquity had built a thriving civilization on these shores. But the men who had assembled there had more pressing concerns then to reminisce on the glorious days of the past.

They were a handful of man from all over the Empire. Generals, judges, petty administrators, local governors, allied kings and tribal leaders; men from all walks of the hierarchy and from every ethnicity. They had all been invited to this remote locale to discuss the situation facing the Empire. A dire situation. Rome had never felt so tightly the icy grip of the furies grasping at her throat. The dreaded Caliph An-Nasir had carved his placed among the most terrifying enemies of Rome and easily ranked as an equal to Brennus, Hannibal, Boiorix, Chosroes, Alp Arslan and even mighty Attila, the Scourge of God. In the days of old, selfless heroes had risen to deliver Rome from her peril, but the age of heroes was long past. Today, it was up to men to turn the tides of darkness from the shores of civilization.

The man who had called them there stood a few steps away from the group. He was old. He had been old in the days of Megas Menuelos and time had not eased its hold on him since the great Basileos’ passing. The white hair of his beard and the deep scars covering his face said much about his experience both as a strategos and as an accomplished administrator. If something could be done for the Empire, it would be Ioannes Dukas who would see it through.

As the last of the guests found seats at the plain tables haphazardly drawn into the room for the meeting, their host turned to them, his piercing green eyes fixed in a resolute gaze.

“Noble friends, distinguished allies, we have seen first-hand the destruction wrought by the murderous armies of the Moslems. They have poured through the Levant, shattering the Crusaders aegis and burning every church along the way. They have once again invested the towns of Armenia Minor and brought with them misery and death. Where were the soldiers of Rome when their shields were needed to repulse the invaders? Where was her arm when women and children implored her help? When priests and nuns were herded in the streets and butchered by blood drunk Moslems? Where was our illustrious Basileos when news reached us of this unholy alliance of heathens bent on the destruction of glorious Rome? I will tell you where: he was in Konstantinopolis, oblivious to our peril, and there were no soldiers to defend our frontiers because in his blind hubris he left our defences in the hands of weaklings, incompetents and traitors! He disbanded our great armies and left our lands to stagnate! His complacence has cost us dearly and his continued reign only puts Rome closer to the pit of history from where none return.”

The attack on the Basileos was direct, but few were shocked. Word had spread for some time in the upper reaches of the Empire that Nevoulos was much to blame for the lack of preparation of Rome’s defences. A few heads nodded here and there, wearied glances going left and right. An Armenian prince raised his voice:

“What should we do? What can we do? We would need an army to march on Konstantinopolis but we do not even have the men to defend our homes!”

“His own guards loath him,” Ioannes replied. “With your support, we can restore the porphyrogenita to the Komnenos. If the blood of Aleksios and Manuelos still runs in their veins, surely they can lead our great nation back to its days of glory. Let us get rid of the wretched Nevoulos and raise the great armies he would not! Let us fight and die for Rome! For GLORY!!!”

The room erupted in cheers: “VICTORY OR DEATH! VICTORY OR DEATH! VICTORY OR DEATH!”

[Redemption]

Rajput Siege of Attaleia, December 1189


Having set sail from the port-city of Smyrna with a mighty host of warriors, Romanus Sophianos arrived near Attaleia at the beginning of winter 1189. Reports abounded concerning an army of beast from the Far East that was rampaging through the countryside, warriors mounted on elephants such as those of Hannibal himself. The Roman army was well equipped with machinery and horses and all the panoply of war, and Sophianos was sure that his brave soldiers could overcome any artifice the Moslems decided to try on him.

It took the entire day and the better part of the following day’s morning to disembark the Roman host. Scouts had been sent early to investigate the enemy’s position. Their haphazard observations were more than disconcerting for the general.

“Strategos! They have monsters! Dark beasts of immense size carrying towers on their backs! And men scurry on their backs with bows and javelins and slings and lances! Hundreds of them! The town stands no chance against such creatures! No man can go against such a demon and hope to live, we should…”

“Silence yourself! And get out of my sight, coward!”

As the man left his tent, Sophianos signalled his guards to follow him to make sure he didn’t spread the word of “invincible monsters” around the camp. It was bad enough that the Moslems could call on men from the ends of the world, he didn’t need a camp full of cowering weaklings… or worse, to have his mercenary troops desert him. He needed to make preparations quickly. More scouts would return and it would be impossible to silence all of them. He had to attack immediately and rid Anatolia of these beasts and their savage masters.

~~~~~

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Courage and determination in the face of adversity were the central belief of any Roman soldier. Valor and good swordplay were his qualities. Sharp steel and thick armor his tools. But very little had prepared the men of Rome for the horrors that they would face on that day.

Sophianos could see the hesitation in their eyes. It was palpable. Like a slick musk that hung heavy in the air. It disgusted him. The beasts before him were more terrible to behold than anything could have prepared him for, but duty and honor refused any sign of cowardice. Galloping before his assembled host, he ordered horns to be blow and flags unfurled and raised his sword:

“Comrades! I look at you now and I see fear in your eyes! But I tell you: be courageous and have faith! In front of us stands evil, and where I see evil, I see a chance to prove myself before God, a chance to write our names in the histories like the numberless heroes of Rome before us! Are we not the descendants of Scipio who vanquished the wretched Hannibal and his elephants? Are we not the proud sons of Megas Alexandros who rode to the far Indus and forced the barbarians and their vile elephants to surrender to him? I say fear not brothers, for YOU ARE ROMANS!!!

TO BATTLE MEN!!! CHRIST IS OUR SHIELD!!!”

The enemy had taken up position on a small hill some distance of Attaleia, but Sophianos was able to lure them from their defensive position through a cunning use of his catapults as well as sending some 150 horsemen with bows on the enemy’s right flank.

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The enemy answered by trying to outshoot the Romans, but eventually gave up and charged downhill where they were met by a line of light spear infantry supported by over a 100 cavalieroi as well as a complement of experienced varangian warriors. The Roman infantry was supported from the rear by continuous catapult fire as well as flaming arrows from its Armenian auxilia.

The fight was fierce. The monstrous beasts mauled the Roman infantry, sending men flying in the air and crushing horses under their enormous feet. Axes bit deep in their flesh but to no avail. Still, the Romans relentlessly assaulted the monsters, killing their riders and wreaking havoc in their supporting cavalry. Valiant cavalry charges by Sophianos and his bodyguards rallied the wavering infantry line whenever it threatened to buckle and the strategos drove deep into the ranks of the savages until eventually their commander was felled by a hail of flaming arrows.

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The beasts and their masters then turned and ran, leaving many dead and bloodied in their wake, both barbarians and Romans.

The price exacted had been a terrible one, but the Romans were victorious. Sophianos had a sigh of relief. Turning to his lieutenant, he ordered the surviving enemies be executed.

[Redemption]

Taurus Mountains, spring 1190


Various commanders in Central and Northern Anatolia had brought moderate victories for the Roman Empire. Ankara, Kaesarea Mazaca, Laranda, Ani and Dvin had all been reclaimed by imperial forces. There had been some fighting over Trapezon, but nothing serious. The Moslems were passive. As if something had stalled their push forward. At first, Aleksios Pikernes could not fathom what. The enemy had superior manpower, superior resources and was fighting for their damnable religion that commanded them to overwhelm those who did not submit.

And Rome did not submit. Aleksios was proof of that.

Standing in the recently captured fortress of Seleukia, he was the first Roman to set foot in Kilikia since the Seljuqid Turks had flooded through the Kilikian Pass. After all the Empire had been through to capture the region, its loss had been harshly felt.

But after a few weeks in Seleukia, the reason for the Moslems’ apparent inactivity became clear. Soldiers were dying left and right. Nearly every village in the surrounding mountains had been abandoned. Seleukia itself looked more and more like a ghost town with each passing day. In the end, even Aleksios himself was bed stricken by the terrible disease. Plague had slowed the Moslems’ eagerness. Now plague was devouring the proud defenders of the Empire.

It is while the army was shrinking visibly through the disease's power that a messenger rode into town, demanding to see the army’s commander. After a while he was ushered into the keep.

The room was very large. High windows let in very little light, but brought in the fresh breeze from the mountains. Sitting behind a series of veils, the figure of Aleksios Pikernes could barely be discerned. His breath was heavy and interspersed with a dull, wet cough.

The messenger waited for the strategos to speak, but was greeted only by a low, bubbling groan. After a while, he began to read his missive. It was a report from garrison commanders in Anatolia. Ikonion had fallen. Imperial armies were converging on it to retake it, but their position had become compromised by the discovery of a large cavalry force encamped in a remote location in the Taurus Mountains. The only army in range of the Seljuqid camp was the army at Seleukia.

Aleksios wheezed the messenger away. Coming out of the shadows, two large Armenian soldiers in traditional garb helped the sickly man to his feet. Aleksios Pikernes was Roman. His honor knew no obstacles that could keep him from his duty. He was helped to the keep’s courtyard. He flinched in the cold light of the sun. His eyes were little shrunken red pits. He skin was gray with large blotches of white. He looked more like a corpse then a man. But he was standing, his head tilted upwards in defiance.

The sight of their commander still standing despite his terrible illness sent a wave of grim determination to his troops. They departed the same day for the Taurus Mountains.

Aleksios Pikernes did not take part in the battle. He lay in his tent during the whole day. He expired his final breath only after hearing that every last Seljuq had been slain. He died knowing the Seljuqid had reached the final extent of their conquest and were finally being pushed out. Forever.

[Redemption]

Blachernae Palace, Novermber 1190


The halls of the Blachernae Palace were silent these days. The war was mainly handled by local commanders acting in their own interests with whatever troops their personal finances could buy them. Long had Rome ceased to send its own citizens and soldiers to war. Even the Blachernae Palace, center of the government for the greatest city in the world, was only guarded by a motley crew of varanginoi and Normans. It was a far cry from the glory days of the Komnenian dynasty.

Sitting at a table of Lebanese cedar wood in the western wing of the palace, a young man was listening to an old, overweight general. The young man was no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, but already his eyes had a look of eagles about them, the stare of a Komnenoi.

“…as you already know, a year and a half ago, your great uncle, Ioannes, gathered all the notables of the Empire in Hermonassa were they decided to oppose the Moslem invasion in spite of Nevoulos’ apparent lack of interest in the war. That town has fallen to a Seljuqid sneak attack, as has Nikoseia, but all things considered, the Moslems are being driven out of most of Anatolia and Kilikia. That is the Empire which you have to lead, Artemios! We are at war and the Empire…”

The boy cut him short:

“What Empire? This collection of rubble you call an Empire is a hollow shell! War with the Anatolian Turks, war with the Seljuks, with the Arabs of Mesopotamia and the the ghulams of Aegyptus! Our cities lie in ruin, trade has dried up in the few ports we have left and our soldiers are anything but Roman!”

Looking away, he sighed:

“Even you Ioannis, you haven’t aged well.”

The young man walked dreamily to an open window.

“I remember, when I was maybe only four or five years old, my father had brought me to the parade grounds. You were riding atop a white mare, leading our armies that would join the war against the Turks. You looked like one of Megas Alexandros’ companions, like the hetairoi of old. So proud and mighty, clad in polished clibanarii armor. I wanted to pick up a sword and be a soldier then. Now look at yourself. You’ve become an over-decorated guard captain. My father died in Jerusalem, far from his people, and not long afterwards Alexios was killed in battle, foul play planned by Nevoulos so he could seize power. The Empire died with them.”

An uneasy silence filled the room, the busy sounds of the city forming a low murmur in the distance. Ioannis Vatatzes silently cleared his throat. Looking away he said:

“Ioannes Dukas died yesterday. The messenger just came in from Amorion.”

“Dukas…”

“He passed away in his sleep. He was an old man. Old wounds and such… Anyways… I’ll leave you to your studies. I’m sorry to have bothered you my lord.”

Vatatzes had started towards the door, but the young man suddenly caught up with him, putting his hand on the old general’s shoulder.

“That is why you came to see me. With Ioannes out of the way, you fear Nevoulos could return, and then…”

“And then all we have fought for would have been for nothing.

The pretender, Nevoulos is still alive, under close guard, his every action dictated to him by his supposed retainers. Some Lords at Hermonassa thought it was bad for morale to have an emperor die in the middle of a war, even an emperor so reviled as Nevoulos. And so we need you, Artemios. You are the last of the Komnenoi. You are the heir to Megas Manuelos.”

Artemios stood, pensive. It was true, he was the last of the Komnenoi, having survived miraculously the purges executed by the fiend Nevoulos because old friends of his father, friends like Vatatzes and Ioannes Dukas, had managed to keep him out of sight of the mad pretender. He was the last Komnenoi, but right then and there he felt very much like a young boy unprepared for the task that God and Fortune had set before him.

He heard himself say:

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

And then the weight of the world came crashing down on his shoulders.

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph had not spoken for some minutes, sitting back in his chair with his steely gaze fixed on the maps and scrolls laid out before him on the conference table, evidently deep in thought.

The tension in the room was building steadily as the various Generals and Imams, the Vizier and the Crown Prince waited nervously for his reaction to the latest grim news.

The Levant had fallen once more to the infidel, the holy cities of Jerusalem and Damascus seized from under the noses of the feeble garrisons left to defend them.

The Georgian cities of Ani and Dvin had fallen to the accursed Romans, causing the Georgians to declare their independence of the benevolent rule of the Caliphate.

The Seljuk Turks had been defeated over and over again in Anatolia, and their positions there hung by the tiniest of threads in the face of the Roman advance.

The Ayyubid Sultan of Egypt had failed to hold his regained lands and was once more on the defensive, fighting for his very existence against the armies of the traitorous infidel Baldwin.

And the plague – the accursed Levantine plague! – still raged on throughout the lands of the Caliphate, with bodies heaped high in the streets of Baghdad, families decimated and armies destroyed by its unwavering pestilential progress.

Years of struggle in the cause of holy jihad had produced precisely nothing – all the glorious gains of the war reversed, the coffers depleted, the armies demoralised and the people frightened, grieving and desperate.

As if to accentuate this, the silence was broken by the Caliph’s long, wracking coughing fit, demonstrating to all that the hellish disease still had hold of their mighty leader.

When he recovered his breath, An-Nasir looked up and around the table, meeting the eyes of each in turn with a defiant gaze, as if to test their resolve and loyalty.

“Brothers,” he said, “the mighty Allah has indeed tested our courage and faith in recent months. Many mistakes have been made in the carriage of the jihad, and we have also been beset by misfortunes not of our own making. We must gather our strength and resources and commit everything we have to the defence of our heartlands. This plague will pass on, and we will be left decimated, but we must not descend into despair and fear. If we demonstrate our faith to Allah once more he will protect us.

Send Imams into the villages to help tend the sick and wounded, send troops to dig wells and clear the bodies.

And review the border defences. I fear the infidel will be greedy enough to test them in the coming years.”

[Redemption]

Kilikian coast, summer 1191, near Juliopolis


The waves gently rocked the Roman fleet anchoring off the Kilikian coastline. Even at a distance, the wind brought the acrid smell of burning bodies like a blanket over the ships, remnant of the previous day’s battle. From the deck of the flagship, Romanus Sophianos observed the freshly recaptured city of Juliopolis. The war with the Seljuqid was nothing more than a series of never-ending skirmishes. Except when surprised in their fortifications, the Turks had refused every opportunity for battle. They moved their soldiers inland to escape from the Roman naval assaults and sent raiding parties to capture vulnerable settlements which the Romans retook in the following months. In a single season, Kilikia had been stolen from Rome only to see Sophianos’ armies march all the way back to Flaviopolis. The strategos had even devoted a fraction of his forces to chase the Abbasids out of their last Syrian hideouts. He had no illusions that the current borders were anything but temporary. Large enemy forces were holed-up in Seljuk Valley and further East within the immense borders of the bloated Seljuk Empire. Still, for Sophianos, money always filled his pockets and mercenaries flowed in great numbers to his banner. If anything, his armies were even more experienced and battle-ready then when he had been hailed a hero for repulsing the barbarous Hindi from the siege of Attaleia, not to mention more numerous. He had even managed to be awarded the command of a few true Roman soldiers, a rarity in the army these days.

When the captain of his ship approached to inquire about their next destination, the strategos sighed:

“We’ll pick up some western mercenaries in Kyprus before returning to Megas Antiochia. And I imagine we’ll be back for a winter campaign in Kilikia…”

[Redemption]

Blachernae Palace, late 1191


Konstantinopolis, greatest city of the know world, was rejoicing. Rich and pauper alike knew that the young prince regent, Kaesar Artemios Komnenos Porphyrogennetos, soon to be crowned Emperor of all the World, was getting married to an upcoming young noblewoman from Monemvasias. Finally, the Komnenoi would be restored to their throne and with them Rome would rise once again to tower over its rivals and extend its glorious dominion to the far reaches of the earth. The cream of roman aristocracy was gathered in the Haggia Sophia for the wedding and an entire week of festivities had been declared in the capital. Gossip about the imperial wedding and the recent signing of peace with the Moslems had spread like wildfire through the population and a feeling of exultation and relief could be heard in the raucous chants of revellers all over the city. Guards had donned their ceremonial armor, priests were celebrating mass in gratitude to the Lord and even merchants were offering their wares at generous prices. It was truly a grand day to be a Roman.

But in the cool corridors of the Blacharnae Palace, Ioannis Vatatzes’ thoughts were far from the celebrations. Though words had been exchanged with the Moslems, no treaty had yet been signed, and peace was but a fleeting idea in the history of Rome. To insure the survival of the Komnenian dynasty, the imperial couple had been secreted to a secluded location as soon as the patriarch had blessed their union. Generals had been ordered with their men to advanced positions in Anatolia and new regiments of artillery had been made available to them. Though the Saracens had been chased out of the Levant and the Turks had once again been scoured from Kilikia, the Crusaders had yet to solidify their hold on their kingdom and their war in Aegyptus was raising tensions in the entire region. The Moslems would never admit the existence of a powerful Latin Kingdom and never allow their great city of Cairo to be in Christian hands. The Empire had to ready forces in the Levant and bolster its borders in Anatolia. Troops had to be deployed in the Caucasus to prevent any incursions by Moslems and to give Rome the ability to pre-empt any hostile actions its enemies might undertake. So many crucial details had to be decided with so little foreknowledge, and the fate of the world hung in the balance.

Vatatzes' brow was furrowed in an expression of dread apprehension. The orders he was signing without his Kaesar’s authority could doom Rome. Or they could make her great.

“Alea jacta est.”

[Quirl]

New Arrivals

The Sultan struggled to breath as the bowstring around his neck twisted tighter into his jugular. His eyes widened as things finally began to dawn on him. This was it. This was how he was going to die. Frantically, he looked around at his Khassaki, those men who were entrusted to guard him. They all watched. They did nothing. It would have been a macabre scene for any bystander to observe. To the Sultan, it was simply terrifying.

His hands stopped batting at the assailant behind him. They slowly fell to his sides, as worthless as his legs which had been cut out from underneath him. He looked one last time at his guards, like a sad puppy wanting to be rescued. But in their faces he saw only indifference if not open hatred. Right then he realized what Allah had been trying to tell him all this time: that he had grown cold, that he had become evil, that somewhere along the path he had lost his way. How unfortunate that he would realize this now, when everything came crashing down around him.

Togrul continued to twist the bow tighter around the Sultan's neck. As he watched the man, he saw the Sultan’s thoughts within his eyes. They stopped bulging. They stopped looking for help. For the first time since the Mamluk had known the Sultan, he saw his eyes look into himself. But it was much too late now. He had lived like an animal and now it was time to die like one. To let him live would be too dangerous. And besides, if he did not kill him, his people would.

He had driven Egypt into the ground since the very day he had first taken office. Like his grandfather, Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn, he had lived a life for himself. Perhaps, in another existence these men would have served their kingdoms and their God well. But in this life, they were a fractured roof which the Egyptians had been forced to support all these years—and which now did nothing to shelter them from the arrows which the Crusaders launched at them. No. This man had to die. Togrul had risen an army of Ghulam and Mamluk slave warriors who thirsted for the Sultan's blood. Their bloodlust had to be sated. His crimes had to be punished. Then they, the slaves, would rule in Egypt—a second Mamluk empire to fight the tide of the Latins—and they would save Egypt.

But Togrul pitied the Sultan now. He saw what Allah might see when he looked upon all His children who had turned away from Him. And for the first time, the hell which he couldn’t wait to send the Sultan to all these years he no longer wished upon him. He saw the remorse in the man’s eyes—that regret which only a man who is about to lose everything could have. He saw him make his peace with God and he truly hoped then that one day he would see him in Paradise.

Togrul twisted the bow one final time and he heard the snap in the Sultan’s neck. His eyes told no more stories as they slowly began to close. He was dead. His head fell over the bowstring and his tongue fell out of his mouth, drooling. Some of the guards around them already began to shout curses at the Sultan. Some began to cheer Togrul’s name. I merely stood there and watched as the man I had followed all this time—the man who had cursed the Sultan for so many years, who had conspired to kill him and send his soul to hell, and the man who wanted to feel the Sultan’s life leave his lungs beneath the string of his bow—grab the head of his former master, shut his eyes, close his mouth, and lower it slowly to the marble floor.



“It is an amazing story, father. And to think, it has happened within my lifetime.”

Quirl nodded, but didn’t turn his head away from the desert night which he had been looking at the entire time. The sands and rocks moved past their carriage as they continued onward. One of the horses sneezed and he suddenly remembered himself. He sighed, “such stories occur within everyone’s lifetime, son; and it is a sad thing that they must.”

His son became quiet, hearing the sadness in his father’s voice. He looked away also into the night, somewhat ashamed of what he had said—but also, still, a little excited.

His father smiled, looking at the boy. How brazen is youth. “Forget my sorrowful mood, my son. We are heading to Baghdad to see the Caliph! What a momentous occasion which I would be foolish to spoil now. But remember what I have said. Remember what is at stake. We ride to plead our case before the court." He laughed. "You will keep me sane, I suspect; as the court is too pristine for a former slave such as myself.” His son smiled at his father and Quirl returned the glance.

As Quirl watched his son, he thought of how glad he was that he could afford the boy more than slavery. He was glad to be a part of this new order in Egypt. Yet, having the freedom, Quirl found himself wondering what kind of choices his son would eventually make. There were so many wrong paths and so few right ones. He looked into his son’s eyes which were staring outside. What stories would they one day tell when his son laid on his deathbed—or when a rebel strangled him? Only time would tell. But, in the end, all that mattered was that, when the time came, he wished to also see him in Paradise.

One of the riders outside kicked one of the horses, pushing him past a ditch which had been laying in the middle of the road. They continued on to Baghdad. They would arrive in the morning...

[Redemption]

Nikoseia, early spring 1192


Night had settled over the Pedios Valley. A light breeze flew down from the mountains leaving a layer of dew over the ground. Sergios had been returning from the fish markets in Kyrenia and making good time, but when he saw the sun go down over the mountains, he had grudgingly made up his mind to the idea that he would probably have to spend another night outside the gates until the Frankish guards reopened them in the morning. The Franks had very little regard for the common folk of Kyprus more interested as they were in the islands rich vineyards and wealthy ports. Great was Sergios’ surprise then when, arriving way past midnight, he found Nikosia’s gates invitingly open. Giving a small prayer to God for his luck, he quickly made for the doors. It wasn’t until he had walked into the city proper that the full realization of what was going on dawned upon him. A dozen dead Franks lay scattered about the gates and cries of “Nika! Nika!” could be heard coming from the city barraks. “After years of domination by Turks and Franks, was it even possible…?” As if to confirm his hopes, a detachment of kavalieroi rounded a corner, rushing to join the fight against the remaining Latins entrenched in their barracks.

~~~~~

Ammoxostos, the following day


Romanus Sophianos was observing the small town from an elevated position where his camp had been built. Ammoxostos had never been an important community, but still, it had never looked as desolate as it did now under Latin rule. Rundown hovels, bleached white by the cold winds from the sea. A scant few peasants milling around under the harsh gaze of the watch. Kyprus was clearly far from the Crusaders’ preoccupation in Syria and Aegyptus.

Sophianos’ musings were interrupted by a wracking fit of cough. The plague still had its icy grip on the land and no one was beyond its reach, not even the great strategos of the Empire. Sophianos retreated to his sella curulis. His malady prevented him from staying up for long, but he insisted in overseeing the ongoing siege.

“Strategos!” and aid called out, “Strategos, captain Hypastos has succeeding in routing the small garrison left in Nikoseia. He found the gates unbarred as you said and quickly dispatched any resistance.”

“Good. And what news from the mainland?”

The soldier squirmed in place, his eyes trying to avoid Sophianos’ piercing stare but to no avail.

“There were a few setbacks m’lord. Tyros fell quickly, but captain Athanasios was slain in the siege of Ake. Our forces managed to seize the city and continue to Joffa, but we were forced to steer away from the most holy Hierosolyma…”

“Hmmph! No matter. Have our troops recalled. We will face the Latins on our terms.”

The soldier stood at attention, waiting to be dismissed. Sophianos simply stared at him, his breath wheezing in the cold air. After a moment, the soldier made a movement to leave but was cut short by the slightest gesture from Sophianos’ hand.

“Have the incompetent who lead our forces away from the Holy City executed. Let his death be an example to his replacement.”

[phonicsmonkey]

The Vizier pulled his cloak about him as he strode through the chill night air, deep into the mass of winding streets and courtyards of the Baghdad bazaar. Down a narrow alley he found the small wooden door, and passed through it into the hazy atmosphere of a shisha den, where at a small circular table, smoking an apple-scented shisa, he found his son Khalil.

'Mar'harba, your eminence.' said Khalil with a mocking sneer,'It has been some time since you deigned to grace me with your exhalted presence.'

The Vizier scowled angrily, tugging nervously at his beard as he sat on the cushioned stool opposite Khalil and irritably waving away the veiled attendant with her tray of mint tea.

'Khalil, you do not need me to remind you that the Caliph wishes you dead, along with everyone else who accompanied his son to Georgia. Az-Zahir was a fool to roam so deep into Roman lands in search of glory, and his death has caused great disturbance. The Caliph suspects treachery, and only my good auspices have prevented him from sending his agents to search you out.'

Khalil snorted with derision. 'Let them come and try to find me! I have spent enough time among the hashashim that I know their dark arts better even than the agents of An-Nasir. Those amateurs don't stand a chance.'

The Vizier glanced quickly around him, his tongue darting across his lips like that of a lizard testing the air. 'Do not be such a fool Khalil, your youthful pride will have us both strung up. The situation is gravely perilous for us both. The fool Abu-Bakr now pretends to succeed to the Caliph's throne, with the old man's indulgence, and he is no friend of yours or mine. When the Caliph passes, we will both be for the executioner's block, make no mistake, and all we have worked for will be as nought.'

Khalil leaned in closer and drew a wickedly sharp curved dagger from inside his robes, toying with it in his hand, 'Then we shall have to work to ensure that never happens...'

The Vizier grinned deviously, but shook his head. 'The time is not yet ripe for that. Should Abu-Bakr...suffer an unfortunate accident, it would be unclear who would succeed him as Crown Prince. The Caliph's only son is of course dead, and he has not adopted any others since our pompous pretender. No, we must do some more work before this comes to pass, to ensure that we have influence over the succession. Az-Zahir's death took us by surprise, but Abu-Bakr's need not. I want you to travel to Shiraz to meet with our friend there, and deliver him this. He will know what it means.'

He handed Khalil a small, heavy object wrapped in a leather bag, and hurried out of the shisha den into the night.

Khalil leaned back into his chair and drew long and hard on the shisha. Looking into the bag, he found a gold coin of eastern origin, bearing an unfamiliar emblem.

[rossahh]

The extraordinary meeting was held in Cairo, recently returned to the Kingdom's control. The men at the table waiting patiently, casually glancing from time to time towards the silent figure at the head of the table. Despite his illness and the foes arrayed against the Kingdom, the King radiated strength. After all of the war wrought on the Levant, the Kingdom and King remained, unlike their foes, whose rulers had crumbled like their armies and come and gone like the tides. The seat to the left of the King remained empty. The Prince had been the Kingdom's greatest soldier - his loss was a blow the nation had not fully recovered from yet.

A few of the men fidgeted slightly. The forerider had said the representative would arrive before dusk, and outside the sun was setting for the day. The forerider was standing behind the table near the door next to the two bodyguards of the King, impatient as the rest for the representative, his master, to arrive.


A muffled tap came from the door. An attendent opened the door as the forerunner hurried forward. A wispered conversation later and the forerunner returned. The noble on the seat to the right of the King asked, "He is here?" The forerider bowed slightly towards the doorway as the representative entered, and in a heavily accented voice replied "Ja".

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph dreamed.

He dreamed that he awoke in his bedchamber at the palace in Baghdad. He was bathed in a warm light, but slowly became aware that it did not come from the shuttered window, but instead from the doorway, in which a silhouetted figure stood.

As his eyes adjusted he was amazed to realise that it was his son, Az-Zahir, who stood over him, dressed in a simple white cotton robe. Az-Zahir showed no signs of the wounds which had slain him, and his eyes burned with a strange fire.

The Caliph was at once overcome with great joy at the sight, and terrible grief at the memory of his loss. He opened his mouth to speak to his son, but words would not come, only a slow exhalation of breath.

Az-Zahir smiled, and put his finger to his lips as if to silence his father. He beckoned to the Caliph, turned, and passed through the doorway, disappearing into the bright light.

An-Nasir rose from his bed, amazed that the weakness in his limbs brought on by his sickness seemed to have left him.

He stood up tall, stretched, and followed his son into the light.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Vizier Marshed knocked three times on the Caliph's door, as he always had, before entering with An-Nasir's morning tray of bitter medicinal tea.

He was surprised to find the room still shrouded in darkness. Even in his sickness, the Caliph was wont to rise early..

He approached the bed with a feeling of utmost dread, and his worst fears were immediately confirmed.

The Caliph was dead.

Dropping the tray on the flagstones with a loud clatter, he turned tail and fled for his life.

[Quirl]

The Ill Facade

Quirl left the court around dusk. The other ambassadors flocked out with him. A few stopped, turning to talk with him. The Roman scribe delivered some scroll. Quirl tucked it underneath his robe and thanked him, continuing onward. Some other nobles greeted him, wishing to know more about the now infamous happenings in Egypt. He made conversation as best he could—he was a diplomat; wasn’t that his job? But he ended these chats as quickly and politely as possible.

Two guards flanked him as he made his way down the streets of Baghdad. The roads were clustered with people. Some old, some young. Some rich, some with not a coin in their name. There was a man with no teeth but a wiry beard heading down to where Quirl knew the shisha den was. There was a noble who brushed past him, looking as if just touching these people might give him some sort of disease—and it just might. The sounds, the smell: they all soon overwhelmed him.

“Stop,” he told his guards. The two men looked at each other, then back at their master. “Stay,” but he couldn’t even finish his sentence. He ran down into a seemingly empty alleyway. He puked next to some discarded baskets there, supporting himself on the decaying wall above him. Some flies which haunted a nearby fruit stand sensed the act nearby. They darted down the alleyway, encircling the bile which Quirl had just extolled.

Still hunched over, he watched the flies settle there, rubbing their legs together in some frantic madness they didn’t even understand—but continued all the same. Their wings and bodies buzzed in a nonsense language as they held court in the chunks of Quirl’s old lunch.

How ironic, Quirl thought. This made him laugh a little.

This man was not made for court. It was all too much for a mere slave. Only a desperate nation would send such a man—only a kingdom stretched to its very limits. But Quirl knew the kind of desperation which plagued Egypt now. It was that same kind of desperate, mad sense of survival which kept Quirl going in the courtroom. He used that madness to exert an impossible calm there. On the surface he was ice, but underneath there was blizzard.

He heard the winds howling in his stomach again, and he let out one final, gut wrenching purge.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, wiping his sleeve in turn on the wall. He walked out to where his guards where. They had heard the noises but had not intervened—this hadn’t been the first time.

“Come on,” he commanded. The two men nodded, robots in chainmail, then continued with him down the Baghdad streets.

[Quirl]

The Ill Facade (Pt. 2)

In an alleyway directly across from Quirl, a single fly had not joined the pack. It rested on a broken jar, watching the others congregate on that bile the Egyptian diplomat had thrown up. The image of Quirl in his klidascope eyes refracted like dozens of tiny mirrors in a fun house. Then there stood the man. The man in black. The man who had been following this slave ambassador all these past few weeks.

He watched as Quirl vomited up that doubt, that fear, and everything else which he always had kept under that mask of calm and restraint. In court, the man in black watched as he wore that mask. But outside, he noted, the mask wore him.

The dark man smiled, a big toothy grin. There were too many teeth inside that wide maw of his. They were yellow, decaying, and still his baby teeth. It was a deformity he had had forever, one he kept always hidden under that black hijab. He wasn’t above dressing as a Muslim woman. Indeed, it bettered his disguise. He had a lean figure, and so passing as one was easy. He had a soft step and so, as he walked by, no one thought anything of him—if they noticed him at all.

The man in black relished this agony of the Egyptian diplomat. He had become one particularly fun to watch these past few weeks. It was the life of a Hashshashin to watch the world. But this man did more than watch; he enjoyed what he saw. Occasionally, he even poked his finger into the events, like a fly landing on the water, causing ripples but so small that he could always fly away unnoticed, afterward.

But this time would be different. This time, the ripples would be waves. He would come as a swarm and the ripples would be terrible. There would be plenty of carcasses afterward—plenty to feed on and plenty to lay his eggs in. Behind the bars of that deformed grin, his tongue was wet with the thought of it. Wet to the taste of it.

The man in black tied the veil over his grin again. He turned around to whence he came and headed back into the dark alley.

[phonicsmonkey]

Al-Qahir, Wali al Shiraz and brother of An-Nasir, sat back in his gilded throne and tried to think through the drunken haze that fogged his mind.

When had the young man Khalil arrived from Baghdad? Some weeks ago now, just days ahead of his father the former Vizier Marshed, with the news that the Caliph had died of the pestilence, and that the adopted Abu-Bakr had succeeded in his place.

Khalil and Marshed had brought him more than just ill tidings – they had brought a slew of messages of support and wild suggestions which had raised both his interest and his suspicions.

Could it really be true that the Imams were unhappy at the succession of Caliph Abu-Bakr, and the appointment of his younger brother Sulayman as Crown Prince? And were the Generals almost ready, as Marshed had said, to back an uprising to reinstate the true blood of the prophet (in the shape of balding, drunken, middle-aged Al Qahir) to the throne of the Caliphate?

These things he did not, could not know for sure.

Exiled as he had been for most of his adult life, to this sandy backwater in the East, where there was nary a fight to be had or any glory to be won, and only the comfort of the grape to turn to, he had lost touch with the intrigues of the Court. A great success his exile had been, at least from the point of view of his pompous ass of a brother An-Nasir (curse his rotten name for all eternity!).

But what he did know, knew for absolute certain, was that he had very little to lose and much to gain by going along with this plan of the devious Marshed. The Eastern Army were as bored as he was, and would relish the chance of a fight and some booty. And he was far, far from Baghdad and any reprisals by the usurper Abu-Bakr and his fop of a Grand Vizier…at the very least, he would be able to swell his coffers and keep the Eastern Army busy, and more importantly, loyal.

He turned over in his hand the gold coin that Khalil had brought him as a token from Marshed and the Generals. He knew well what it meant, what the crossed scimitars on its face signified.

The next day, Al-Qahir would give the order, and the Eastern Army would descend on Firuzabad to surprise and defeat the Ghorid garrison there. If Marshed was right, with the spoils of the sack of that city, and the prestige it would win him with the Generals at Baghdad, he would be on his way to securing the support he needed to cast out the odious Abu-Bakr and claim the throne for his own.

And then Marshed could wear his Vizier's turban again, if it should please him..

[Redemption]

Levantine Coast, autumn of 1192


"I got a bad feeling about this..."

Romanus Sophianos was the greatest general in the Empire. He had exterminated the elephant hordes of the Raj, he had crushed the Seljuqid advance at Ikonion and driven them back from Kilikia, twice, and he had triumphantly walked through the gates of Megas Antiochia, recapturing the great city from the grip of the dreaded Caliph An-Nasir. He had even survived the hellspawned plague that had snuffed the life from thousands of lesser men. He was, on all accounts, a true Roman, like the great consuls and imperators of Rome's glorious past. And now, he was reduced to the state of a lowly pirate captain heading a battered squadron of ships and a rag-tag band of mercenaries whose military prowess were limited to raiding unprotected fishing villages. Oh and he had been named Megas Dux of Kyprus. Yar...

Sophianos knew full well the fate of the last man to bear that title, Andronikos Kontostephanos: a knife in the back, courtesy of some Armenian royalist or Turkish fanatic. It seemed the position wasn't a lucky one.

Staring at the burning city of Ake from the deck of his flagship, Sophianos muttered again: "I got a bad feeling about this..."


~~~~~


Nikaea, autumn 1192


The announcement of a new crusade had taken Konstantinopolis completely by surprise. When the German princes showed up under the walls of the greatest city in Christiendom, Roman commanders had to scramble up an army in haste to meet the new threat. The greatest knights of the german states, the so called Holy Roman Empire, had made the journey from Europe to relieve the pressure put on the crusader kingdom by the forces of Rome.

Kaesar Artemios Komnenos, who had spent the last year in hiding to escape the blades of his enemies and the ravages of the plague, rallied his kataphrakts abd varangian guards in the hills of Thrace before meeting en route with the forces of the Capital commanded by Ioannis Vatatzes. Armenian auxiliaries were recruited along the way, and the combined armies descended upon the besieged fortress of Nikaea.

Over one third of the crusading army under the command of Frederick von Swabia was entrenched around the castle, their proud banners flapping in the wind. The flower of european chivalry, spearmen in heavy armor, trained swordsmen and crossbowmen all filled with religious zeal and a sense of divine entitlement were assembled. The odds looked grim for the Romans.

Only the varanginoi actually seemed eager for a fight. When the trumpets sounded the charge, they were the first to throw themselves a the enemy, striking right in the center of the line, aiming for the brightly colored fanions of the enemy general.

The light roman infantry followed them as well as the armenian auxilia who were ordered to fight in hand to hand.

The kataphrakts stayed behind.

Everywhere the Latin line was holding, inflicting terrible losses upon the Romans. Then another trumpet sounded. The doors of Nikeae opened and a stream of red-clad kavalieroi thundered out, catching the enemy in the back.

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They were followed by heavy roman infantry and mercenaries and the winds of battle started to turn in Rome's favor.

Seeing his army caught in a vise, Frederick ordered his knights to disengage the varangian warriors, surely planning to charge the freshly arrived Roman forces with the devastating power of his knights.

That was all the kataphraktoi had been waiting for. Frederick's knights had been the anchor of the crusader line. With him gone, the kataphrakts tore through the infantry like they were ragged dolls.

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When Frederick's knights were ready to charge anew, there wasn't an army left to save, only a few groups of men trying desperately to fight for their lives.

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Frederick attempted to escape but was caught up by the kataphrakts. The brave German, accepting his fate as unavoidable, commended his soul to God and steered his horse about. Drawing his sword, he met the aging but terrible Vatatzes in single combat to the battlecry "JERUSALEM!!!" But his wounds and the strain of the heavy fighting left him no chance. When the rest of Vatatzes' bodyguards caught up with them, Frederick von Swabia was already dead.

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[rossahh]

Placeholder for when I finish my reports.



The succession of Stephen, Lord of the Templers and Jerusalem.

[phonicsmonkey]

Caliph Sulayman had a pounding headache.

No sooner had been elevated to the Caliphate following the death of his brother Abu Bakr than he had discovered his uncle Al Qahir was leading an unauthorized mission against the Ghorids in the east.

At least he didn’t have the plague…so far.

He and Vizier Tariq had been discussing the situation for some time now, and he was starting to feel like Allah had it in for him and his adopted family. After all, although he was technically in line to the throne, the succession was supposed to pass him by completely, from An-Nasir to Az-Zahir to Al Mustansir, in stately progression as it had done through the ages.

Now the heavy mantle had fallen on his shoulders, and he was obliged to try to keep it there.

Tariq interrupted his reverie with a polite cough. Sulayman looked up and met his eye.

“So Tariq, it’s all a power play by Al Qahir? And you say I have the Imams with me, but the army is wavering?”

“Yes your Highness. It’s a dreadful mess, and quite ironic really, as your brother had the opposite conundrum. He, having spent time in the army, had the unquestioning loyalty of the troops, but there were those in the clergy who spoke darkly of his adopted status and hinted that the crown should pass instead to An-Nasir’s youngest, Sayeddin, who had not yet come of age, or indeed young Al Mustansir, son of Az-Zahir. No-one seemed to care a fig for Al Qahir, at least not until now..”

“But I too am adopted, and everyone knows my father was An-Nasir, through his long affair with my mother, after Az-Zahir’s mother died…”

“Yes, yes, but you have spent your life in the madrassa with the holy men, and they are convinced of your piety, at least enough of them are to shout down the doubters….for now at least. If Al Qahir keeps this up we may have a problem on that front too. After all, no-one can prove that An-Nasir was your father, although of course we all know it to be true, just as we did with your brother Abu Bakr.”

Sulayman smarted at this – as if it wasn’t enough that he had had to suffer through his childhood the taunts and barbs of ‘Bastard’, and the smutty jokes at the expense of his mother, now that it might actually be useful to him to be the lovechild of the old goat, it suddenly came into question!

“So what do we do?”

“Well, the first thing, the most important thing indeed, is to pretend at absolutely all times that your brother Abu Bakr ordered the assault on Firuzabad, and that Al Qahir was simply loyally following his wishes.”

“And after that? What if he does something else? I don't want a civil war on my hands.”

“We’ll have to put a stop to that. Al Qahir is a stupid old fool, and quite incapable of coming up with this scheme on his own. I sense the baleful hand of my predecessor Marshed in all this…”

[Quirl]

The Ill Facade (pt. 3)

In the morning, Quirl was up early—he hadn’t slept much. His servants dressed him, Nubian men. In times past these men would have been slaves. Now they were brethren, a part of some slave empire on the brink, hiding out in Africa with them. Quirl shivered and one of the Nubian men felt this. He held Quirl’s hand and the two men started to pray—a Christian prayer. Their two cultures weren’t too different anymore.

Quirl patted his son on his head as he headed out the door, kneeling down and kissing his forehead. He signaled his guards and the three of them left. He was off to the court again.

He had heard of the death of the new Caliph early last night and he knew there would be mention of it today. Somehow in between, he would have to mention his King’s concern over the Caliph’s invasion of the men of Ghor. He didn’t look forward to today. He never looked forward to any day anymore.

But as he walked, he noticed someone in the crowd. His eyes narrowed, attempting to catch a better look through the haze of the early morning sun. It was a woman. She was dressed in a black hiijab. She was crying, it appeared, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Is this how they treat their women in this damned city?

He looked closer and noticed a part of her clothes were ripped. Her hands were over her face and she was weeping bitterly into them. She turned the corner, past a street vender who was shouting at the top of his lungs about his fruit—all the merchants, Quirl noticed, seemed this desperate and aggressive lately; it was no secret: there was a financial crisis in their government. And when the woman turned the corner she disappeared into an alleyway, her shadow running desperately down the wall of the nearest building until even that could be seen no more.

His guards straddled beside him as he made his way to the area the woman had disappeared. He peered into the narrow alley. She was gone.

Seeing her torn clothing made him worried that she had been mugged or, worse, raped. Not wishing to shame her, had she been molested, he held out his hands to his guards. The robots in chainmail stopped. They looked at their master and waited for further orders.

“Wait here,” Quirl said, lowering his fingers and heading down into the alley.

He approached the alley with caution, unsure of what he would find inside. He wanted to call out to the woman, but something inside him told him otherwise. Above him some clothes whistled on a clothesline, casting shadows on the walls like lonely ghosts driven mad by isolation.

In the dusk, the alley had a kind of haunting aura to it. It seemed no one had treaded through here in decades, but Quirl knew that couldn’t be true. The clothes above him were fresh. He could see a pail of water nearby, not too old. But something was wrong, though he couldn’t quite place his finger on it. Had he been listening, he would have heard the flies.

“Hello?” He finally gained the courage to call out to the woman. “Hell...” then he saw her. As he turned the corner to a dead end flanked by four lonely houses, she was there. She sat next to some discarded jars and baskets. She didn’t turn to face him. It was as if she didn’t know he was there. She still wept bitterly into her hands.

“Woman?” Quirl asked, he took a step forward. “Woman, are you alright?” Still no response. Her weeping continued, sounding like a wraith echoing in the narrow corridor of that alleyway. He took another step towards her. His sandals kicked up some sand and the lady heard this. “Are you al…”

Then the woman turned around in a flash. In her hand she held what looked like a cow’s severed leg. She gripped the bone the meat still leached onto, the blood tracings its path in the air as it whirled to Quirl’s head. It smashed across his temple, making a sick sound in his ear like a mace filled with water. It spurted dry blood into his hair. He spurted fresh blood in return. And before he knew it he laid on the ground, the morning sun like a blur and the woman like a fogged image, or ghost leaning over him.

“Hello,” the woman said. But she was no woman. The voice was that of a man, but whether of a Human man, that was still uncertain. His voice shrilled and seeped its words like rotten frankincense. The tone stuck to Quirl’s skin and he could actually feel it as it seeped into his ear. He shook his head but he still couldn’t see the man clearly—only that wide maw which might be mistaken by a fool as a grin. “Don’t scream,” the man said. Quirl didn’t scream.

Through the haze and blur that was ringing in his throbbing head he could see the man in black pull something out of his robes. “Take this,” he said, holding out what looked like an envelope. “I want you to put your seal on it and deliver to Marsal Shadi in Dongola.”

Finally, Quirl managed to speak. His head ringed at the sound of his own voice, but he forced the words regardless. “Why would I do that?” He asked.

The man in black leaned closer, pressing that spring trap maw near Quirl’s bleeding ear. Quirl thought he was close enough to lick the blood or bite off what remained. Instead, he only whispered, “because I know the secret, Quirl.” The diplomat flinched. “I know the secret that threatens to swallow up your entire nation!” The man in black leaned away. He held out the envelope a second time, flapping it in front of the Egyptian ambassador.

Quirl took the envelope, resentfully. He got one last good look at that wide grin before it disappeared, running off in the direction Quirl had come.

When Quirl made it out of the alley, his guards noticed him bleeding and rushed to him. "The woman... man." Quirl muttered. "Did you see him? He came out this way."

"We saw no one," one of the guards said.

Quirl frowned and pulled the envelope to him. He smashed his finger through the paper, tearing the thing and breaking its spine. Inside there was a letter. He fumbled it aside and noticed something else underneath-- a man's dry thumb.

[The Lemongate]

Muhammed the Godfearer reflected upon the events of his life - the war with the heathen men of India, the early successes, the reversals, his involvment with the Brotherhood of the Faithful. There was much to ponder.

Where had it gone wrong? When had he made the fatal mistake that had led him down this sorrowful path? The answers were many, yet none were satisfactory to the sultan who had always expected clear and immediate answers from his ghulams.

A tear nearly came to Muhammed's eye.

His ghulam. His children. So many had lost their lives on the path of the Holy Jihad. And what for? Not only was India still in the sway of the barbaric Hindi, but the people of Ghor had been chased from their homes and forced to fight for their very survival. The path of the righteous was indeed beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.

Allah was testing him, of this Muhammed was certain. A few of his captains, in desperation, had bewailed that the God of the Prophet had forsaken them to the vile deities of the Rajput Hindi, but Mohammed's faith was unshakable. He could not doubt his God. He must not. Or else...

Muhammed had ordered the sceptics buried up to their neck and left to the tender mercies of India's ravenous swarms of insects. He had to remind everyone that the current struggle was a test from Allah, a trial. And that by His will they would triumph.

He had to remind everyone.

He had to remind himself...

[phonicsmonkey]

Karim Al-Husayni, leader of the Ismaili Federation of the Hashashin, gazed upon the iron-banded chest full of gold with a quiet satisfaction.

The leader of Caliph Sulayman's spy network had brought it to Alamut earlier that day, as a downpayment on the assassination of the former Vizier Marshed, believed to be at Firuzabad with the Caliph's exiled uncle Al-Qahir.

He clapped his hands twice and two of his men bore the chest away to his treasury, where it would sit next to the larger chest of Firuzabadi gold brought to him a few days before by Khalil, Marshed's eldest son, and a former Hashashin himself.

This was exactly the kind of work he liked best: getting paid twice for doing precisely nothing.

He smiled and rubbed his hands together.

[The Lemongate]

The court was deadly silent since the Seljuk destruction of Georgia. In the waning hours of a baghdadi day, as most diplomats have left the audience chamber of the Caliph and the vizier himself has retired, the Roman ambassador is tarrying with his scribe, finishing some proclamation for the following day's session, adding some pomp and self-righteous extolation of roman virtues to his otherwise stale declarations. It was probably a bad idea, but he did it nonetheless. Self-inflated pride tends to make others think twice before attacking you. There was always the possibility that some truth hid behind such grand claims. It was a good shield. For a while at least.

Sweat rolled down the ambassador's face. He had never gotten use to the terrible heat of the Mesopotamian valley. One should've seen his notes! all covered in little sweat-mark stains that they were. Far from the profesionnalism he always tried to affect.

He wiped his brow on his sleeve.

So much work poured into diplomacy. And for what? Neither the current ambassador nor his predecessor had made any friends in this distant land. Indeed, since nations answered the Caliph's call, Rome has struggled for its very existence. Of military successes there were many. The great strength of Romans was their indomitable will to defend their lands, their homes and their way of life. Christ smiled upon them on the battlefield and the graves of their enemies were many, all vanquisehd in honorable battle. Numerous as well were the Roman heroes whose blood had fed the land. The Empire, even at its zenith was supported by the sacrifices of its noble soldiers, never knowing peace yet always fighting gloriously in victory as in defeat. But on the horizon, dark clouds gathered. The greed of the eastern heathens and mongrels. The envy of the depraved latin invaders. A sudden chill passed through the ambassador's spine; a chill which no blasted desert heat could counter.

There was no victory to be had. Not in this age. There was only defeat.

[phonicsmonkey]

Caliph Sulayman was furious.

'He did WHAT?!'

Vizier Tariq calmly repeated the news.

'It seems, your eminence, that the Eastern Army, led by your uncle Al Qahir, has....invaded Oman, seizing Hormuz and Chabahar."

The Caliph screamed with rage, throwing a tray of mint tea and dates across the antechamber, narrowly missing an armoured ghulam standing by the wall.

"But this...this is a full blooded insurrection, a direct challenge to my authority! The Omanis are our friends and allies! We should send the Western Army after him, bring him back in irons and feed him to the desert lions!'

The Vizier looked pensive.

'I'm afraid.....it's not as simple as that. You see, he has the full support of the generals in the Eastern Army and, indeed, some of those in the Western Army are leaning towards his side. They see him as strong and decisive, acting for the greater glory of Allah and the Caliphate....besides, they are somewhat busy guarding the Western front against any surprise attacks by the infidel."

Sulayman shot back, "But what of the Imams, you said I had their full support? Can we not declare him in breach of religious doctrine for rebelling against his Caliph? Surely the generals could not continue to support him then?"

With a pained expression, Vizier Tariq continued, "I'm afraid, again your Highness, not so clear cut as all that. You see, Al Qahir has let it be known amongst the Imams that his action against the Omanis is a righteous jihad against their heretical Ibadi beliefs, that he is spreading the righteous and true word of the prophet amongst their faithless people."

"But.."

"..you see", Tariq forged ahead, "the Ibadis believe that any man may become Caliph, that the title of Khalifa should not be confined to those of the blood of the prophet, but should be bestowed on the most righteous Imam available at the time."

Sulayman could not hide his confusion, it was written all over his face, "But what relevance has that?"

Patiently, the Vizier explained, "Sir, your own provenance is in some doubt among the Imams - as I have said to you before there can be no proof that you are indeed An-Nasir's son. Only respect for the laws of the succession and your own piety keeps the bulk of the Imams behind you. If you were to challenge Al Qahir's actions, it could be interpreted that you have some sympathy for the Ibadi beliefs, and that this is because you know that you are not in fact of the prophet's bloodline. Such thoughts could sap away your remaining support."

It appeared to have finally sunk in with the Caliph. He was trapped by the cunning of the devilish Marshed. He let out a long, slow, exhalation of breath.

"So what are we to do?"

[The Lemongate]

Blachernae Palace, Summer of 1193

The young Emperor let out a long sigh that ended in a terrible fit of cough.

"What a grand way to begin a reign," he wheezed trying to catch his breath. The plague that had gripped Mikra Asia was not abating in the least. Worse then that, it had reached the walls of Constantinople and succeeded were all other enemies had failed: it had breaches them. Now the jewel of Christiendom was ravaged by malady and the high hopes of the Komnenian Restoration had faded like fleeting dreams at the coming of dawn.

Ioannis Vatatzes, ever at attention, looked even more defeated then his young master. The old man's hopes had entirely rested on his young protege, and now that the throne was once more into the hands of the Komnenoi, it seemed as if fate had again conspired to bring Rome low. Even the ambassador in Baghdad had sent letters claiming the situation was beyond repairs.

Basileos Artemios lifted himself from his chair. Slowly he walked up to Vatatzes, steadying himself on the older man's shoulder. "Send them a message..." His voice was ragged and tired, "Send them a message and give them what they want."

Vatatzes stuttered, "M-my lord, wha-whatever do you mean? I, I ca..."

"DO IT!" hawked back Artemios. He lifted his hand to emphasize his point, losing his grip. Servants rushed to the young sovereign, catching him mid-fall and bringing him back to his chair.

"Rome is falling my friend. I will not let old prejudices bring forth our doom before its appointed time."

There was a long pause.

Vatatzes looked upon Artemios, his Emperor. His skin was livid, eyes half-closed even in the darkness of the room. Sweat rolled down his cheeks in viscus, heavy drops and his breath gurgled up in his throat and chest. He was still clad in the imperial regalia he insisted to wear in front of guards and servants even though he could barely support his own weight.

Vatatzes saluted and quickly turned away realizing for the first time the terrible burden he had entrusted to this young man whom he cherished above all. A tear rolled down his cheek, lingering on his chin.

"And Ioannis," Artemios' voice was just a whisper, "have the ships ready."

"It could kill you Artemios."

"I know."

The tear rolled off the old man's flesh, suspended for just a second in mid-air, and disappeared silently in the dust of the Imperial Palace.

[phonicsmonkey]

Al Qahir reflected on the latest message from Caliph Sulayman.

He had decided to accept the offer. After all, with the Western Army now occupied in fighting the Romans in Syria and Anatolia, it was now unlikely they would come over to his side, and as for the wavering Imams, well they now had plenty of reason to support Sulayman as Caliph.

He had to admit he had been outfoxed, both by the Caliph and his new Vizier, and by the Omanis who were putting up more resistance than he had expected.

He wasn't all that disappointed - after all, he didn't really want to be Caliph anyway. Who needed all that stress? Let Sulayman deal with the bickering generals and holy men while he whiled away his remaining years on the coast of the Persian Gulf, a good flagon of wine by his side and plenty of gold to line his pockets.

The Omanis would fall in due course to his Eastern Army, and being the Sultan of Arabia would suit him just fine: Marshed be damned.

[The Lemongate]

The Oracle of Zeus-Amon


The sun shone with angry violence over the Egyptian Sand Sea, a terrible circle of fire scorching away all hope from the desolate landscape. This was not a place meant for men. Here, the weight of the endless dunes and eternal blue sky would crush the soul of the meek and sap the resolve of all but the hardiest traveler. Only scorpions and blood flies dwelt here. Only the desperate or the mad attempted this journey. If Hell existed, it could not be worse.

The rag-tag company slinking through the featureless sands certainly looked as though it had been through Hell. Their once glorious armours were battered and bloodied, unwashed for several days and most of the heaviest pieces had already been discarded. Vacant eyes told the tale of men broken by fate. When a human being is made to witness so much death and suffering, something snaps within his soul and he loses a part of his humanity. The grave sites that dotted their trail were a testament to the hellish pestilence that hounded them and the evils of the scalding desert sands that were rapidly swallowing any trace of their passage. No one could've guessed by looking at them that this company was all that remained of the Roman Imperial Guard.

At the center of the formation, a lone, sickly horse, harnessed in tarnished gold finery, strained to pull a small, closed cart. There was a severe dread surrounding it, and no one dared lift his voice for fear of disturbing the man inside. The soldiers would cast worried glances in its direction, wondering if the poor beast wasn't trailing the cask of a long dead corpse. Only the varangians kept their grim watch, their resolve impervious to the doubts that plagued lesser men.

Sometimes, at night, when the tyranny of the heat abated, a form would stir within the darkness, and a pale hand would beckon strategos Vatatzes. In hushed whispers he would converse with his young Basileos, and inform him of their losses, progress or lack thereof.

After many gruelling days of travel, the small Roman band finally made its way to the Siwa Oasis, deep within the Egyptian Sand Sea. A paradise lost in the immensity of the desert. There was a slight scuffle with the local sheiks, but a ragged imperial flag soon flew from the tents set up near the waters of Zeus-Amon.

The lush air of the oasis was reinvigorating for Artemios. There was something in the waters of this ancient place that soothed the pains of the soul and body. Hesitantly, the young Basileos left the confines of the cart that had brought him through the desert sands and took a few steps in the cool night air.

"My Lord Artemios, I am relieved to see you walking again, but you should preserve your strength for the return trip. Rome needs its Basileos now more than ever."

Vatatzes was sitting on some rugs near the ashes of a dying campfire. He stirred the last ambers with the tip of his sword, producing a short-lived flame. The fading glow added years to his already venerable age. His features were drawn and tired, his belly sagging. His snow-white hair had receded to but a thin line surrounding his scalp.

Artemios looked upon the old man, his mentor, a general who had served four Basilei and fought countless battles for the Empire. In him, he saw the fate of Konstantinopolis.

"I have come here to seek answers, old friend."

He paused, hearing the distant laughter of children playing in the waters of the oasis. It reminded him of his own youth on the coasts of the Black Sea. Happier days.

Two varangs passed by bearing a cart willed with the dead. Plague victims.

"What must a ruler do when the whole world conspires to bring his people to ruin? The Seljuqs have rejected all the deals we have offered them. Even the Saracens of Egypt whom we called friends have thrown their lot behind the treacherous Caliph!"

The young man's voice had rose to a shrill peak but he broke down into a raucous cough.

"Artemios!"

Vatatzes was up in a bolt, catching his Basileos by the arm to steady him.

"Come now, lie down. There will be time tomorrow to find this Oracle of yours. The men can..."

Artemios, sweating profusely, was shivering, but his fingers dug into the older man's flesh.

"No! Tonight. I..." He felt blood rise up his throat, "I must go. Tonight. I can... walk. Let me go! I must... I..."

"My Lord, I... Artemios! You cannot die! You're the Basileos! You are Rome! I... I raised you as my own. You're a son to me! I'll carry you to the fountains! If you must go tonight, I'll go with you see that blasted Oracle! But I won't let you die here! Not here. Not like this."

Vatatzes picked-up the near catatonic young man and began marching towards the largest pools at the center of the oasis, not waiting for an escort to catch up with him. All he could think of was that he had to find that Oracle of Zeus-Amon if she existed at all.

"And if she does exist," Vatatzes muttered to himself," she better remember some of her heathen medicine tricks or else..."

In Siwa, as in everywhere else where Rome had ruled, the temple to the old gods had been cast down and destroyed centuries ago, but rumors abounded that the ancient rites were still practiced in the shadows. Vatatzes however, had no time for games. He wasn't a supplicant bringing an offering, he was Roman general, he was angry and desperate and he wanted to find this witch now. He ran through the oasis, his voice booming everywhere he went:

"Where are you blasted mystic? Show yourself! Don't make me look for you under every damned rock in this water hole because I will do it and I will find you! Come out, damn it!"



The old woman had been observing the Roman general’s antics for quite some time now. She was sitting quietly below a great black palm tree, very much pleased with herself. Though she had known it all her life (such was her gift), she had never quite fathomed what it would feel like to have a Christian emperor begging for her help. Now that it was happening, she couldn’t help but bear a wolfish grin.

Slowly, deliberately, she stood up, stretching to her full length. She was thin like a twig, but her voice rang loud and clear:

“Ioannis Vatatzes, Kouropalates, you are not long for this world. Worry not however, for your emperor will outlive you by many a year.”

Vatatzes stopped dead in his tracks. He could barely make out the old woman from the shadows, but her very presence was oppressive. She was tall, taller than him. Her skin was dark like that of the Berber who inhabited the oasis, parched and crackled; incredibly old. But it was her eyes that held his attention. Her eyes were pure blue pools without pupils and reflected perfectly the moon and stars of the desert night. Eyes the likes of which Vatatzes was sure could not belong to any mortal human being.

Before the stunned general could utter a word, Artemios stirred in his arms. The old woman jumped a few steps forward with disturbing grace and alacrity for her apparent old age.

“Aaah yes! The boy-emperor that would seek my aid. What can this poor old midwife do for you my liege?” She mimicked an overly respectful bow. “You are the mighty Basileos of Rome and I am but a simple village wise-woman.”

“Oracle…” Artemios panted, “Tell me… tell me what is to become of Rome? What is to become of my people?”

“Aaah! You have come for the wisdom of Zeus-Amon!” Her voice grew terrible with menace, “But what would a Christian make of the words of a false idol? Have not the great and mighty Romans forsaken the old ways in favour of the martyred God? Is it not the wise and powerful Romans who burned down the temples in Olympia and Delphi and condemned their priests to exile and death?

I have no prophecy to impart to you, little emperor. The Gods are silent on your fate.”

“Answer him! You have to answer! Or I’ll skewer you were you stand, witch!”

Vatatzes’ dropped a hand to his sword but Artemios stopped him short. Their eyes met, the young man still barely able to stand, in the arms of his mentor. Vatatzes wanted to rid Artemios of this crazy heathen woman torturing him so, he wanted to protect him, to save him. He would’ve even gone alone to fight the entire Seljuq army had it any chance of helping the boy recover. But Artemios silently pleaded with him for restraint. His stare was intent, and Vatatzes understood.

The Oracle cocked her head in surprise. She had expected the emperor to be vain and haughty, overbearing with his Roman manners and culture, and easily riled. Instead, he was just a lad trying bravely to cope as best he could with a situation of inhuman proportions.

Suddenly, her presence lost some of its force. She even seemed less tall and her eyes returned to a simpler shade of blue. It was as though she had willed herself back into the form of an old woman, dulled her spark and become mortal.

She sighed.

“Konstantinopolis will fall.”

Artemios, leaning heavily on the older man, slowly got to his feet, wheezing heavily.

“It is in the nature of things to come to a conclusion. We are born, we live, and when our time is passed, we die so that new roots may thrive in the soil we leave behind. It is the eternal cycle of things until the end of days, and even the Gods must accept it. Amon was revered in Siwa for thousands of years before the Greeks dethroned him for Zeus, my patron. Now Zeus has given his final oracle and he will fade away forever before the tides of Christianity and Islam. Rome has lived a good life. But now it is over. You can resist it. You can fight back. But in the end, the time has come for your people to fade into the pages of history alongside your glorious ancestors. The old Imperial Eagle, in all his majesty, will fall to the younger, more vibrant Eagle of Seljuqid Persia who will rule for a time.”

Artemios took an unsteady step forward.

“Then it is over.”

“It is never over. There are still many battles to be fought before the end, but Rome’s light grows dim.”

Vatatzes shook his head.

“The heathen Seljuqids have won…”

“There are many people who live under the eternal blue sky, Ioannis Vatatzes. The Seljuks shall meet their challenge soon enough. But they are a young people and their fate is hidden from me.”

“Thank you Oracle.”

Artemios bowed deeply.

“I will heed your wisdom. But I must still get back to my homeland. To fight for my people. To fight for my city.”

The Oracle returned his bow with a sad smile.

“Go to the waters here. The sources of Siwa are pure. It may help cure your illness.”

With that, she took her leave, fading back into the shadows.

Artemios stood for a long moment under the black palm tree, Vatatzes a few steps behind him. Slowly, the fresh air of the oasis cleared his lungs. He could breathe again.

“Tomorrow I shall drink from the fountains of Zeus-Amon, and the next day we shall head back home. To Rome. Ready the ships, we have one final battle to fight. We are the sons of Greeks and Romans. We will not go quietly into the night. We will not die without a fight. We must show the barbarians how true heroes fight and die with honor!”

OOC: Credit goes to 300, Independence Day and Constantine XI off whom quotes or parts of quotes are stolen.

[The Lemongate]

placeholder for part II - whenever I have time to write it down

[phonicsmonkey]

Somewhere in the mountains north of Firuzabad, a tired old mule staggered onwards and upwards along a narrow and perilous mountain trail, carrying a hunched, cowled figure who rolled exhausted in the saddle.

The mule was followed by an emaciated pony, bearing a taller, younger figure who shivered in the long shadows cast by the peaks as the desert sun set behind them.

Marshed grumbled and muttered to himself as the bony mule stumbled, it's shoulderblades cutting into his bruised and sore knees.

The indignity of it!

Cast out by that idiot the treacherous Al-Qahir without so much as a word of gratitute, still less any payment for his services. Rightly did his son Khalil call him 'Al-Qahol' - the old fool caved in at the last, his goal within reach, for the sake of a meaningless title and a boundless supply of wine.

Now where could he turn? He deserved so much more than this - he, Marshed, who had once been Grand Vizier to An-Nasir himself, reduced to penury and exile in the mountains.

The disgrace of it!

There was just one last refuge, which they should reach by morning: the mountain citadel of Alamut, where he and Khalil would throw themselves on the mercy of Karim Al-Husayni, leader of the Hashashin. Marshed believed Al-Husayni was a man of vision, and such men could see the value of an inquiring mind such as his...

A few metres back, Khalil stopped his pony for a moment and looked out over the deep valley through the snowy peaks to the desert plains of the north-east, the former home of the ill-fated Khwarezm.

'Looks like a storm is gathering out there father..'

'Shut up Khalil.'

[tusinict73]

sry to bug diego, but how do you get the items/etc to add 300 attribute to your weapon. wouldnt mind a 300 element walk through for dummys. :P