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.”