In the Lands of the Faithful: BC Hotseat Story Thread

[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.