In the Lands of the Faithful: BC Hotseat Story Thread

[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 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. 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!”