Stories Thread

[00jebus]

Bithynia, Black Sea Coast, Caesar Ioannis’s camp, 1101

Captured side

Omar Al-Jeziz was sweating uncontrollably, not for fear of death, he had been true to the word of the prophet, praise be upon him.
Yes he was true to the prophet, Zhiznomir would have been proud of him.
Instead, he was filling this miserable tent he was being kept in with the horrid stench of sweat and urine due to him being kept drunk and deprived of a chamber pot, and Zhizomir made sure all his followers knew that alcohol was created by the gods for cleaning and purifying metals, not drinking like the Christian heathens or the payed guards that took him and others around the local villages, but here he was, every half hour, three men clad in chain mail would enter, force his throat back and pour some sweet alcohol down it all the while with odd pained expressions on their faces, as though they wanted to hear what he had to say, so he tried to tell them every time they came in.

He had not betrayed the garrison at Sinop, he knew it, and it was safe, like the prophet.
The three men came back in, this time there were the usual questions, the usual punishment for preaching the word of the gods as one man poured warm ale down his throat.
Their leader stopped them before they left, asking him about Sinop again and something else he didn't hear properly, Omar replied with a rude hand gesture and the words “I’ll never betray them!”.

Next thing he knew he was falling, When he woke again, he was quite sober, but also realised at once he was also naked, in a garden, could this be paradise?
maybe the gods would forgive him since his alcohol consumption was unwilling.
There they were, all three gods, all old men, with mighty grey beards and clothes of the whitest silk.
He kneeled before them, mumbled “Oh blessed fathers, thank you for forgiving me, I swore I would never betray the 800 at Sinop, nor the payed guards we were using to bolster the numbers, or tell them your prophet was in the wilderness, or that we were still having problems converting the locals to your word, even after the priests had been disposed of… wait… wha?”

Omar finished suddenly, as the smiling face of the leader of the three men who had been forcing him to drink was bobbing its way to him with a look of arrogant pleasure.

Before they could restrain him, he had lifted a dagger from his captor’s belt and stabbed himself in the heart.




Captor’s side

Lisas Attaleiatis was at a loss, in a wagon trailing behind his guard was an unconscious cult leader, he had to extract information on Sinop’s defences and the extent of the cult from him, that had been the whole point of the raid on Bozkurt, but how to do this, was a much harder feat than the raid itself.

Torture was out, Lisas though it was a barbaric practise, and his tutor back in Constantinople always said torture was too slow and unreliable anyway.
In the end, he settled on getting him drunk, an idea inspired by the fact that the most quiet and insular soldiers in the camp opened up about themselves when they had a few measures of ale down them.

On the hour, every hour, 4 men would go into his tent with Lisas, restrain him, and lift a cup (why waste good glass on prisoners? Lisas thought) of sweet wine to his lips, at first they had to pour it down, but after two hours he was hooked on the stuff.

After two days of this, and unfortunately no use of the pot that had been provided for his own relief, he really did start to smell, even the Alan mercenaries in the camp decided his tent stunk too much to venture nearby.

Still all they’d got from him so far was drunken slurring about his cult, before he greedily drank the wine that was brought.

Getting sick of the sight and especially the smell of this man, Lisas decided to ask him one last time about the defences of Sinop, warning that unless he received an honest answer about what he was asking, the wine would stop, and he’d use the bitterest of meads instead. In response, the idiot tried to punch him, but fell over and knocked himself out on a guards knee.

When this happened, Lisas volunteered three old members of the militia, giving them white silk clothes, and telling them not to cut their beards, had them take the cultist to a small wood not three miles out from camp, and told them to act like Zeus of the old gods.

There, his “gods”, a writer and his guard waited for the cultist to wake up, when he did, he rocked back a forth a few times before telling the “gods” everything they needed to know.

A smiling Lisas strode out to him, about to tell the cultist he was free provided he not preach to anyone, but before he could, the cultist darted for Lisas’s belt, withdrew a knife he kept for skinning game, and stabbed himself in his chest.

”Sir?” someone enquired to the side of him “is that all, or would you like to add anything?” it was the writer.
”Yes, 1200, seems like too many for me, unless the Caesar is both very good and very lucky, add my recommendation that we should hire more mercenaries.
He’s at the Princess’s, his sisters wedding right now, but as soon as he’s back, give it too him”
”Yes Sir” the writer bowed and left to fetch his parchments from behind a nearby tree.
He looked at the militiamen
”go back to your unit, you can keep the clothes, we are leaving” he added to his guard.
”No burial sir?”
”Suicide is a sin, if you kill yourself you deserve no dignity, no burial, especially when you do it with my best game knife” he added in an annoyed and slightly put out voice
”shame too, I think if he could be brought into the orthodox faith, he would have made a good priest, ahwell, Im sure some animal will make more use of him in death than he was in life.”

Though adopting a somber expression, Lisas was excited at the thought of finally seeing a proper battle on the walk back to camp.

[_Tristan_]

A sponsor
Belgrade, 1101

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

This is a co-op story written with Zim to try and justify IC Methodios' adoption through MoH

As Kosmas and his retinue entered Belgrade they were shocked at the sights that awaited them. If he hadn't known better, Kosmas would have assumed the town had taken by the rebels. He was not so much surprised to see empty farms outside the city, as many of the farmers might have still been seeking refuge inside the castle walls in case the rebels returned, but Belgrade itself seemed depopulated. Many of the homes and shops were damaged, some burnt to the ground. Others were still standing but appeared completely uninhabited, and appeared to have been looted. The townspeople Kosmas did see shied away from him and his men, and efforts to question them proved fruitless.

“What happened here? Plague or something more sinister?” Kosmas wondered.

Finally directions to where Methodios was staying were gathered from one of a number of bands of poorly armed and poorly clothed "soldiers", presumably the peasants that had been raised quickly to protect the town. Kosmas was led to a large house in the center of town, guarded by two more peasant soldiers armed with makeshift weapons. Unlike the roving band of armed townspeople who had been somewhat deferent towards him, these two raised their weapons as Kosmas and his men drew near. One looked frightened as Kosmas approached and would not take his eyes off of the ground, but the other, presumably the leader, stood straight and glared defiantly at the noble.

"Is this where Strator Methodios Tagaris is staying?" Kosmas questioned the guard he took to be the leader.

The guard spat "Who wants to know?".

Several of Kosmas' retinue put their hands on their swords, but he waved them back. Kosmas then dismounted from his horse to face the guard. If it weren't for the tenseness in the air it would have been an amusing sight, Kosmas, a noble of the Empire and dressed head to toe in armor, forced to look up to meet the eyes of the peasant guard, nearly half a head taller than him. Kosmas smiled at the man. "What might your name be, young man?".

The guard looked suspiciously at Kosmas. "Eudaemon".

Kosmas leaned slightly closer to the soldier. "Well, Eudaemon, to act in such a manner towards a noble I imagine you must be an important man, entrusted with the vital duty of protecting the temporary home of Methodios Tagaris, a strator of the Empier and hero. Would I be correct in this assumption?"

Eudaemon stood shocked for a moment, having expected to be threatened, before nodding.

Kosmas' smile grew broader. "In that case I would also expect that you know that Methodios has agreed to meet with Strator Kosmas Mavrozomis, that is, me. I was already delayed by some bad weather on my way here, and he has expecting me to come for the past few days. Now, a choice lays before you, young Eudaemon. You can delay me further, forcing your lord to wait until such a time as he sends someone out here to find out what is going on, or you can keep him from waiting further by letting me in to meet him. Which do you think Methodios would prefer?"

Without a word in reply, the guard turned to open the door, allowing Kosmas to enter.

Once past the door, Kosmas found himself in a moderately affluent house. He was greeted by a man of noble breed, though clearly not Byzantine. He extended his right hand to Kosmas, his left resting on the pommel of his sword, visibly lacking two fingers.

“Strator Mavrozomis, it is an honour… I am Giuliano Strozzi, aide to Methodios Tagaris. Welcome in Belgrade. Would you please follow me ?” Giuliano said, turning around.

Kosmas was led to what was clearly a study. Papers littered the desk. Maps decorated the walls. Most pro-eminent among those was one of Croatia, with many annotations around Zagreb. The room was devoid of any presence.

“Please have a seat, strator… Methodios will be with us shortly… We didn’t expect you at this time and he has been making a tour of the countryside, trying to collect all farmers that fled in the wake of the taking of the castle. I’ve sent someone to fetch him, he’ll be there shortly. Make yourself at ease. I’ll have some refreshments brought.”

Giuliano left Kosmas in the study. Kosmas went to the map of Croatia, considering the markings made around the city.

A short knock on the door preceded a serving girl bearing a tray with a steaming pot of tea and some delicacies. Laying it down on a console, she quickly bowed to Kosmas, saying a “My Lord” in a whisper before exiting the room and closing the door behind her.

Kosmas fetched himself a cup of the honeyed tea and settled himself comfortably to wait for his host.

A few minutes later, the door opened and a figure out of some Viking saga strode into the study. Tall, blond with piercing blue eyes, Methodios was the counter-point to Kosmas’ small frame and dark hair.
He was dressed in what could pass for peasants’ cloths, with cuffed boots on his feet, dust from his ride still covering him. A warm smile was directed at Kosmas.

“Kosmas… Will you excuse me for making you wait ? We thought you had changed your mind about coming this way…” Methodios said, shaking hands with Kosmas.

“I understand… We had some bad weather on the way that forced us to seek shelter for some days, hence our delay.”

“How’s your health ? I heard you had been struck down by disease…” Methodios continued, while washing away the grime, splashing water upon his face from a basin on a side table.

“Getting better day by day… Though in this foul weather…”

“Good to hear…”

Settling himself behind his desk, Methodios considered Kosmas, who had resumed his seat. “Sorry about receiving you without the proper decorum, but Belgrade is such a backwater place and with the atrocities committed here, there is a lot to do to bring it back into working order… I can’t even find a decent blacksmith… The last one was killed during the capture of the town, one of many to die that day… And all for nothing, if you ask me… Useless bloodletting by your man, Neoskaisareitis… House Asteri is not too well considered in these parts, as you may have noticed…”

“You mean that all this destruction was not done by the rebels ?” Kosmas was taken aback.

“No rebels never set foot in Belgrade… Anastasios and I cut them short before they launched their assault… For his all his failings, I have to admit he is a damn good fighter… If only he was not so sanguinary and cruel… Don’t misunderstand me : I have killed my own lot of men, more than I care to remember, but soldiers only… Men that knew what was at the end of the road… But never I have raised my sword against an innocent, as Anastasios is wont to do…”

“I see… Anastasios is a man of faith and I believe he can get carried away some times…”

“I’ll admit I do not share the same fervour… But you didn’t come here on some inspection tour, I believe… The letter announcing your coming told of grave matters you wanted to talk about.”

Kosmas leaned back slightly in his chair "Grave? Well, it is a matter of some importance, although I hope also a cause for some joy. Strator, by rescuing Belgrade from the rebels you have done a great favor to House Asteri. More than that, your stunning victory over the catholic rebels, against overwhelming odds, has made you a hero, especially here in Belgrade. Unfortunately, since my fall from power in my House, I lack much of the influence and power to reward you for your act."

Sensing Methodios is about to interject, Kosmas motions that he would like to continue. "I know, Strator Tagaris, that you did not put the rebels to flight out of any hope for a reward, but rather out of a wish to serve the Empire and its' citizens. Still, your selfless actions in saving Belgrade and the resultant acclaim among the people of the region deserve some response. Belgrade already belongs to another, and I lack any land or title to bestow, but there is one thing”. Kosmas leans forward towards Methodios. "As a member of the Imperial nobility, I have the ability to sponsor others to join, should they have enough public acclaim or other backing. I believe you possess the former in more than enough abundance Tell me, Methodios, does this idea sound pleasing to you?"

Shock left Methodios mute. Surprise was written all across his face.

“Me ? A noble ?” Methodios answered, finally recovering “But I am not even of full Greek blood…... My father served as a Varangian when he met my mother and though her Greek blood flows through my veins, there are some who would object to my being raised to the nobility… I am not worthy of such honours…I already owe everything I have to the Empire…”

"It is not just a matter of personal worthiness, although I believe you would easily pass by such a standard" Kosmas interjected "It is also a matter of timing. Right now your influence is high. You have won a spectacular battle despite minimal resources, and saved a settlement belonging to the Empire. The people of Belgrade regard you as their savior, and your name and the tale of your victory are on the tongue of many throughout the Empire. The people are fickle, however. War with the Turks is imminent, and the front is far from Belgrade, where you may not be able to participate in time. There will be other victories, other heroes, whose names instead will be on the tongues of the people."

Kosmas leaned back in his chair and smiled. "This is an opportune moment, in which your influence will force the Emperor to accept you into the nobility. None can deny you now. It will not make things easy. Some will accuse you of opportunism, as if choosing the right moment to do such a thing is something to be ashamed of. You may gain new enemies, although you will also have access to new allies, and new opportunities. So what do you say to my proposal ? Will you accept my sponsorship ?”

Methodios remained silent. He stood up and began pacing the room. He then stopped before one of the window and remained watching out. Finally he turned and faced Kosmas.

“I cannot refuse such honours though I feel I do not deserve it… All I did, I did for the Empire and not for some vain glory, whatever others may think. Strator Mavrozomis, I thank you most sincerely for coming here and offering so much.” Methodios said, offering his hand to Kosmas. “I hope you will remain here and enjoy our hospitality, though I fear the town is a little bleak right now… What Anastasios did to this town has left it marked for a long time, I fear.”

Kosmas shook his head. "I am sorry, Methodios, but I have a wedding to attend. My friend Ioannis Kalameteros and Princess Anna Komnenos marry this coming week, and I must depart quickly if I am to make it time. I hope to talk to the Basileus about my sponsorship of you there. Perhaps we will meet there."

******

[GeneralHankerchief]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Co-op between myself and Ramses II CP, mostly Ramses. Posting this now because it's already past 1108.

Cairo, 1108

Vissarionas ek Lesvou was returning to the Palace for yet another stimulating tutoring session with the Caliph's favorite concubine, Aliya. The two had known each other for just over a year, and their relationship had been an extraordinairy influence on the young man's life. At his request the girl had moved the meeting to a more central room; though his time with the girl consumed and occupied him, was often the focus of his thoughts for days at a time, he had not forgotten his mission. His redemption rested on securing a place close to the power structure here and this was the best possible avenue. The concubine was mercurial and impossible to deal with on some days, but she was a devoted friend as well, and for all the years of work making contacts this was the closest Vissa had come to the true center of events in Cairo. Walking down the hall Vissa knew he would pass mere feet from the Caliph's most private chambers.

At last, after so many years, Vissa had arrived: The Caliph's inner sanctum beckoned. And the timing was perfect, too, for the master of Egypt was deep in conversation with his trusted viziers and other advisors. Vissa listened like he had never listened before in his life. After all, this was what the Patriarch had wanted him to do. This was to be his penance for Antioch.

"...the ancient monasteries?" a voice came, drifting out of the elaborate, alien chamber. "How interesting. Are we sure we want to proceed with this?"

"Absolutely," came another voice. This one was deeper and richer, and much more self-assured; the voice of someone used to being listened to and respected. There was little doubt that this man was definitely the Caliph. "I cannot allow this sort of thing to happen, after all. Yes, the ancient monasteries are to be destroyed immediately, the ones that are still standing. I've left them up for far too long as it is. This land, Allah be praised, has long been purged of heathen control."

The ancient monasteries! Vissa shuddered in disgust. These were ancient Christian holy places - somewhat overlooked, especially with nearby Jerusalem, but holy places nonetheless - and the Caliph meant to destroy them! Every good Christian scholar knew the names of such figures as Paul the Hermit, Saint Macarius, and Anthony the Great! It was these early figures and their places of worship that allowed the Christian faith to initially grow. Orthodoxy itself rested on the backs of such great figures, and yet they were in great danger.

Vissa crossed himself, silently thanking God and the Patriarch for sending him on this mission. Evil was clearly at work here in Cairo. After this ritual was completed, he continued listening carefully.

"I think it's time I finished the job," the Caliph continued. "Clearly, any Christian influence in these lands, even a weak one, is blasphemous and ultimately detrimental to the good Children of Allah. It's time that we start following Sharia more closely."

"What do you suggest, Your Excellency?"

"Expel some Christians from Cairo. Kill the rest. And make certain we expel those after we kill the others, so that the expelled know never to return. From now on, there will be no place for Christians of any denomination in Cairo."

Vissa was astonished to hear this from the Caliph. The Christian quarter in Cairo was a rich and diverse area, and though the Coptics have been played against the Gnostics of late there was no warning of such a storm coming. Some sort of religious fervor must have overtaken the leadership. It was time to go. There was much to be done. His retainers had to be gathered back in, a way out secured, and as much of his amassed resources and wealth as possible carried off. Briefly Vissa was distracted by the thought of Aliya languishing in the office down the hall, wondering what could have kept him, but duty must come before pleasure!

It was now evening, back in the familiar neighborhood. A runner had been sent to the docks, and as much as could be salvaged in haste from the trading business had been gathered. Vissarionas had told his men of what he heard and now they were all packing as fast as they could, not to mention checking the streets roughly every two seconds for any signs of soldiers. Duty for the Patriarch or not, it was time to get out of Cairo while they still could. Besides, he was sure that Nicholas would want to hear about this as well.

"Vissa." Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Stephen, one of his retainers helping to pack. He pointed down the street, where five soldiers were making their way down. They did not seem to be aimlessly walking, passing the time by; nor were they looking around. These were men who knew were they were going. There probably wouldn't be time now to warn any of Vissa's Coptic allies.

It couldn't be the opening of the suggested slaughter, the Caliph would send more than five for that, but still Vissa uttered a brief prayer in their names. No, it must be him that they came for, must be his name on their scroll. Perhaps Aliya had mentioned his failure to appear to someone. Perhaps the new route had been mapped, and the timing figured out... Perhaps Vissarionas' luck had run out.

The soldiers, one of them carrying a piece of parchment, stopped right in front of Vissarionas's quarters. The one with the parchment looked down at it, looked up, and then nodded to his men. Just his luck, they approached Vissarionas as he was securing his saddlebags to his horse.

"Vissarionas ek Lesvou?" one of them asked.

"Yes?" Vissarionas replied, figuring honesty was the best policy.

It wasn't. Upon hearing confirmation of their man's name, the soldiers all drew their swords, without a word, and made for him. From up the street there came a vibrant TWANG and a crossbow bolt took the front guardsman in the throat. The others halted and hesitated, looking for the source of the fire, giving Vissa and his men time to mount their horses. Vissa drew his sword, twirled it expertly in the air to draw the Egyptian guard's attention, and then reached down and a gave Rafi his free hand to help him up onto the horse behind him after the boy ran clear of the alley the shot had come from.

"Ride!" At his command the horses leapt into motion, carrying him and his three retainers down the quiet streets towards the dock. Their speed was somewhat hampered by Rafi's extra weight, but his stallion was up to the task of adding the boy's slight weight to his load. As they passed down the roads locals scattered out of their path, and they glimpsed groups of guards moving along parallel streets. None of them were mounted, but word had clealy passed ahead of them. The Cairo dockyard was packed with ships of all sizes and shapes, the the dock workers were moving cargo of every on every side. Fortunately Vissarionas had been operating in the slave trade for years, and had ample contacts among the ship captains, so as soon as he rode up he knew instantly which ship to seek.

"The Golden Grape lads, and be quick!"

The captain was a massively fat Venetian whose ship was laden with spices and a few select slaves of particular value. Vissarionas knew the man was preparing to depart today already, and wouldn't be shy about accepting a large commission for a small detour in the direction of Constantinople. There was a considerable commotion in the dockyards as the Palace guards attempted to move in and the general chaos of the scene restricted them from coming in force. By the time they had cleared a path the ship was already setting out at sea under a favorable wind. The journey would be long, but at last redemption was within Vissa's reach!

Once the city was well out of sight, though, Vissarionas kept wondering about the chain of events that had led to his premature departure. Two questions burned: What had set the Caliph to take such drastic measures and how did the guards find out about him?

These were two questions that he would long ponder as the Venetian ship slowly made its way to the Byzantine capital.