Antioch, 1334

As he pored over a map in his study, Matthias remembered the great fleet sailing, watching it go west until all the sails had disappeared beneath the horizon. The Kaiser and Dieter von Kassel had been on those ships, along with two thirds of the fighting men in Outremer. Elberhard had passed the title of King onto him in a perfunctory ceremony held on the docks. Still, the new ruler considered himself lucky that the Kaiser had not cast the Crown into the sea from his ship, like the former Doges of Venice casting a ring into the Adriatic, forcing Matthias to dive in and fetch it. The two men had cooperated in the defense of Outremer, brilliantly at points, but Matthias was left with the impression that if he had the choice, Elberhard would have given Outremer to someone less. . .defiant.

Granted, if Matthias hadn't been so obstinate, there would be no Imperial Outremer, all of it would have gone to the English, instead of just half of it. Matthias grunted, he was King, but of only two counties and he had no vassals. His title was a legacy of the past, of a Kingdom more powerful and far reaching than the one he now ruled. Outremer, through fate and incompetence, was a shadow of its former self. So much had been lost.

His fist crashed down on the map table. One of the reasons he had stayed was to set that right. To restore the Kingdom to its glory. Mere survival would not suffice. Yet even survival was not guaranteed. After the banner year of 1326 it looked as if the Greeks had been crushed in the Levant, but they had only been biding their time. Two massive armies were attempting to flank and surround him at the Iron Bridge. The Turks were restive and who knew the intent of the Egyptians.

Retreat to Acre, some would say, make a stand there. Matthias shook his head. He had not stayed in Outremer to run, to hide behind walls. It would dishonor the legacy of St. Maximillian and the past Kings, and it would betray the citizens of Outremer who had put their faith in him. They had been sold out too many times for him to do it again.

The Greeks must be repulsed, killed, butchered until they came no more, until that which was lost had been reclaimed, until Adana was Imperial once more. Nikeforos might be dead, but they all deserved to die, and he would be their executioner.

Much better to die fighting in a Holy cause, than live a coward.

"Amen," he muttered to himself, a finger tracing the course of the Orontes on the map, "Amen."