In the Lands of the Faithful: BC Hotseat Story Thread

[rossahh]

The Castle Homs, northern Jerusalem


"I swear those grey hills have moved since yesterday!"

A chorus of laughter filled the battlements.

"Hills can't move you idiot!"

"I swear it. Yesterday those hills were still near the sands, today they're in the fields."

"Whatever you think, Georges." said a second voice, rife with sarcasm.

"Ok, I'll bet you 100 florins that those hills will have moved by next watch tomorrow." said Georges.

The second man, Javier, turned and winked at the other guards in the tower. "Why not make it more interesting. How about 100 florins from each of us? 600 all up."

"Done" said Georges quickly, holding out his hand. Javier, smirking, shook it.

The rest of the men burst our laughing again. "Where on earth are you going to get 600 florins from you idiot? What do you think you are, a Prince?" hooted one.

"Of course, if you can't pay us our money you will have to pay in other ways, starting off with taking over my latrine duties for the whole year." said Javier. Latrine duty was the worst and most disgusting duty in the whole castle.

"Ok," said Georges. He began to take a stroll around the battlements as the others chatted, laughing now and then. Georges already was starting to imagine what he could do with all of that money. I've always wanted a boat...

[Merlox123]

A Roman Merchant Quickly Comes into the Palace in Constantinople and is panicing. Every one looks at him with odd faces.

"MOVE WEST!... WE HAVE TO RUN! MY FAR EASTERN CARAVAN JUST WAS ATTACKED WITH GIANT.. WAR LIKE BEASTS... THEY SMASHED MY CARAVAN AND EAT MY CARGO!!!"

The Governer of Constantinople had a worried in his face.
"My god... They eat Steel... Silk...and our Spices...? What kind of beasts are these..?"

The Merchant cried again.
"NOOOO... They... they eat my cargo... of Peanuts..."

When the merchant said Peanuts... The whole room gasped... Due to their was only one kind of giant beast... who only eats peanuts... At that moment, a Giant book, dated back to the BC Roman era was brought to the counter, and every one gathered quickly, as pages flipped, turned, When it was finally found, The room gasped again, as their predictions were correct.

"These Beasts of great size, that eat Peanuts.. not people.. are named... Elle... Elleleph... Elephants..?... And... This was the reason why... We used Javevlins over bows...? Quickly! I want another Caravan of Peanuts to come and line a line of peanuts where you last saw them... They will feast and run right into our trap, and when Emperor Nevlous hears about this... I'll be the next in line of to be emperor!"

The whole room was silent.. Knowing that they were very out numbered... but now the governer was only caring about Elephant hunting..

[rossahh]

"Turks, Bedouins, Arabs, Muslims and Hindus all fighting together. How? Where do you come from?"

The figure on the ground was silent, refusing to answer but glaring defiantly at the questioner. One of those standing roughly stood of the figure's open wound, causing him to cry out in pain.

"I said, where do you come from?" growled the questioner.

The figure, eyes more fearful than defiant now, whispered. "India."

The questioner recoiled slighlty. India, what the devil was that? he thought to himself. Recognition finally dawned on him. But no, it can't be. That's the other side of the world from here!

Bending down, the questioner asked the figure, "Do you mean Indus, the far east?"

The figure blinked rapidly, but did not reply.

The questioner motioned to one of the standing, who drew his sword. "East, the far east, Indus?" asked the questioner more forcefully.

The figure looked at the sword and then nodded. "India" he whispered again.

The questioner stood. Lying near the party was a flag, adorned with a giant golden star. The man stared at the flag absently. So many different people, coming so very far, but for what? he asked himself. He wiped his hands, dirty from the battle, on the edge of his blue tunic and turned back towards the castle, picking his way through the dead.


Behind him a scream was cut off abruptly.


At least they die like everyone else...

[phonicsmonkey]

Up on the battlements of the highest tower Jibril removed his helmet and wiped the sweat and blood from his brow, catching his breath finally and leaning against the granite to rest his aching muscles.

It had been in the darkest hours before dawn when the word came that the Caliph's agents had slain the guards and opened the iron portcullis at the main gate of the Castle Homs. The besieging army had been in a state of readiness for some three nights waiting for just this moment, and when the attack finally came it had been swift and merciless.

Now, as the first rays of the rising sun were seen on the horizon, as if sent by the Caliph himself from Baghdad to acclaim their victory, Jibril looked down upon the carnage in the courtyards and along the winding walls, where the Faris guards and Abna spearmen had wrought their bloody work against the sleepy and ill-prepared men of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

There, just outside the gate, amongst the piles of elephant dung, lay the armoured bodies of the Latin general and his bodyguard, who had bravely yet vainly sallied forth to meet the attackers. They had fought like lions, but had been cut down at the last, mobbed by the zealous jihadis and overpowered.

Now he looked out westwards, far into the distance, where in the dawn light he imagined he could see the dust cloud thrown up by the steeds of the Caliph's noble Seljuk allies, storming the Latin fort on the Orontes that represented the last line of King Baldwin's defence.

If all had gone according to plan, the Levant now lay wide open to the armies of Islam, and the end would come swiftly now for the infidel.

He rejoiced in his heart at the thought that the holy cities of Jerusalem and Damascus would now surely be reclaimed by the people of Islam - and if Baldwin were to see sense, and Allah willed it, perhaps he would relent without further bloodshed.

At his feet he became aware of a fallen Crusader, a spear in his back. In his dead hand he clutched a large and seemingly heavy leather pouch. Jibril was intrigued, and prised it from the dead man's grip.

Looking inside, he found 600 gold coins and a crude drawing of a boat...

[Askthepizzaguy]

AH! There's those elephants I ordered.

Since you're late, you don't get a tip. And you forgot my chicken wings.

[Redemption]

Furthest reaches of the Empire, beginning of August 1189


The fortress stood watch over the entrance to the Maeotian Lake, a gray tower encircled by a makeshift palisade. Surrounded by miles upon miles of featureless plains to the north and the unsoundable depths to the south, one could hardly find a more desolate place. It was a forlorn settlement, barely mentioned on most maps. In ancient times, Rome had built a colony here, and even before the Romans, the Greeks of Antiquity had built a thriving civilization on these shores. But the men who had assembled there had more pressing concerns then to reminisce on the glorious days of the past.

They were a handful of man from all over the Empire. Generals, judges, petty administrators, local governors, allied kings and tribal leaders; men from all walks of the hierarchy and from every ethnicity. They had all been invited to this remote locale to discuss the situation facing the Empire. A dire situation. Rome had never felt so tightly the icy grip of the furies grasping at her throat. The dreaded Caliph An-Nasir had carved his placed among the most terrifying enemies of Rome and easily ranked as an equal to Brennus, Hannibal, Boiorix, Chosroes, Alp Arslan and even mighty Attila, the Scourge of God. In the days of old, selfless heroes had risen to deliver Rome from her peril, but the age of heroes was long past. Today, it was up to men to turn the tides of darkness from the shores of civilization.

The man who had called them there stood a few steps away from the group. He was old. He had been old in the days of Megas Menuelos and time had not eased its hold on him since the great Basileos’ passing. The white hair of his beard and the deep scars covering his face said much about his experience both as a strategos and as an accomplished administrator. If something could be done for the Empire, it would be Ioannes Dukas who would see it through.

As the last of the guests found seats at the plain tables haphazardly drawn into the room for the meeting, their host turned to them, his piercing green eyes fixed in a resolute gaze.

“Noble friends, distinguished allies, we have seen first-hand the destruction wrought by the murderous armies of the Moslems. They have poured through the Levant, shattering the Crusaders aegis and burning every church along the way. They have once again invested the towns of Armenia Minor and brought with them misery and death. Where were the soldiers of Rome when their shields were needed to repulse the invaders? Where was her arm when women and children implored her help? When priests and nuns were herded in the streets and butchered by blood drunk Moslems? Where was our illustrious Basileos when news reached us of this unholy alliance of heathens bent on the destruction of glorious Rome? I will tell you where: he was in Konstantinopolis, oblivious to our peril, and there were no soldiers to defend our frontiers because in his blind hubris he left our defences in the hands of weaklings, incompetents and traitors! He disbanded our great armies and left our lands to stagnate! His complacence has cost us dearly and his continued reign only puts Rome closer to the pit of history from where none return.”

The attack on the Basileos was direct, but few were shocked. Word had spread for some time in the upper reaches of the Empire that Nevoulos was much to blame for the lack of preparation of Rome’s defences. A few heads nodded here and there, wearied glances going left and right. An Armenian prince raised his voice:

“What should we do? What can we do? We would need an army to march on Konstantinopolis but we do not even have the men to defend our homes!”

“His own guards loath him,” Ioannes replied. “With your support, we can restore the porphyrogenita to the Komnenos. If the blood of Aleksios and Manuelos still runs in their veins, surely they can lead our great nation back to its days of glory. Let us get rid of the wretched Nevoulos and raise the great armies he would not! Let us fight and die for Rome! For GLORY!!!”

The room erupted in cheers: “VICTORY OR DEATH! VICTORY OR DEATH! VICTORY OR DEATH!”

[Redemption]

Rajput Siege of Attaleia, December 1189


Having set sail from the port-city of Smyrna with a mighty host of warriors, Romanus Sophianos arrived near Attaleia at the beginning of winter 1189. Reports abounded concerning an army of beast from the Far East that was rampaging through the countryside, warriors mounted on elephants such as those of Hannibal himself. The Roman army was well equipped with machinery and horses and all the panoply of war, and Sophianos was sure that his brave soldiers could overcome any artifice the Moslems decided to try on him.

It took the entire day and the better part of the following day’s morning to disembark the Roman host. Scouts had been sent early to investigate the enemy’s position. Their haphazard observations were more than disconcerting for the general.

“Strategos! They have monsters! Dark beasts of immense size carrying towers on their backs! And men scurry on their backs with bows and javelins and slings and lances! Hundreds of them! The town stands no chance against such creatures! No man can go against such a demon and hope to live, we should…”

“Silence yourself! And get out of my sight, coward!”

As the man left his tent, Sophianos signalled his guards to follow him to make sure he didn’t spread the word of “invincible monsters” around the camp. It was bad enough that the Moslems could call on men from the ends of the world, he didn’t need a camp full of cowering weaklings… or worse, to have his mercenary troops desert him. He needed to make preparations quickly. More scouts would return and it would be impossible to silence all of them. He had to attack immediately and rid Anatolia of these beasts and their savage masters.

~~~~~

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Courage and determination in the face of adversity were the central belief of any Roman soldier. Valor and good swordplay were his qualities. Sharp steel and thick armor his tools. But very little had prepared the men of Rome for the horrors that they would face on that day.

Sophianos could see the hesitation in their eyes. It was palpable. Like a slick musk that hung heavy in the air. It disgusted him. The beasts before him were more terrible to behold than anything could have prepared him for, but duty and honor refused any sign of cowardice. Galloping before his assembled host, he ordered horns to be blow and flags unfurled and raised his sword:

“Comrades! I look at you now and I see fear in your eyes! But I tell you: be courageous and have faith! In front of us stands evil, and where I see evil, I see a chance to prove myself before God, a chance to write our names in the histories like the numberless heroes of Rome before us! Are we not the descendants of Scipio who vanquished the wretched Hannibal and his elephants? Are we not the proud sons of Megas Alexandros who rode to the far Indus and forced the barbarians and their vile elephants to surrender to him? I say fear not brothers, for YOU ARE ROMANS!!!

TO BATTLE MEN!!! CHRIST IS OUR SHIELD!!!”

The enemy had taken up position on a small hill some distance of Attaleia, but Sophianos was able to lure them from their defensive position through a cunning use of his catapults as well as sending some 150 horsemen with bows on the enemy’s right flank.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The enemy answered by trying to outshoot the Romans, but eventually gave up and charged downhill where they were met by a line of light spear infantry supported by over a 100 cavalieroi as well as a complement of experienced varangian warriors. The Roman infantry was supported from the rear by continuous catapult fire as well as flaming arrows from its Armenian auxilia.

The fight was fierce. The monstrous beasts mauled the Roman infantry, sending men flying in the air and crushing horses under their enormous feet. Axes bit deep in their flesh but to no avail. Still, the Romans relentlessly assaulted the monsters, killing their riders and wreaking havoc in their supporting cavalry. Valiant cavalry charges by Sophianos and his bodyguards rallied the wavering infantry line whenever it threatened to buckle and the strategos drove deep into the ranks of the savages until eventually their commander was felled by a hail of flaming arrows.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The beasts and their masters then turned and ran, leaving many dead and bloodied in their wake, both barbarians and Romans.

The price exacted had been a terrible one, but the Romans were victorious. Sophianos had a sigh of relief. Turning to his lieutenant, he ordered the surviving enemies be executed.

[Redemption]

Taurus Mountains, spring 1190


Various commanders in Central and Northern Anatolia had brought moderate victories for the Roman Empire. Ankara, Kaesarea Mazaca, Laranda, Ani and Dvin had all been reclaimed by imperial forces. There had been some fighting over Trapezon, but nothing serious. The Moslems were passive. As if something had stalled their push forward. At first, Aleksios Pikernes could not fathom what. The enemy had superior manpower, superior resources and was fighting for their damnable religion that commanded them to overwhelm those who did not submit.

And Rome did not submit. Aleksios was proof of that.

Standing in the recently captured fortress of Seleukia, he was the first Roman to set foot in Kilikia since the Seljuqid Turks had flooded through the Kilikian Pass. After all the Empire had been through to capture the region, its loss had been harshly felt.

But after a few weeks in Seleukia, the reason for the Moslems’ apparent inactivity became clear. Soldiers were dying left and right. Nearly every village in the surrounding mountains had been abandoned. Seleukia itself looked more and more like a ghost town with each passing day. In the end, even Aleksios himself was bed stricken by the terrible disease. Plague had slowed the Moslems’ eagerness. Now plague was devouring the proud defenders of the Empire.

It is while the army was shrinking visibly through the disease's power that a messenger rode into town, demanding to see the army’s commander. After a while he was ushered into the keep.

The room was very large. High windows let in very little light, but brought in the fresh breeze from the mountains. Sitting behind a series of veils, the figure of Aleksios Pikernes could barely be discerned. His breath was heavy and interspersed with a dull, wet cough.

The messenger waited for the strategos to speak, but was greeted only by a low, bubbling groan. After a while, he began to read his missive. It was a report from garrison commanders in Anatolia. Ikonion had fallen. Imperial armies were converging on it to retake it, but their position had become compromised by the discovery of a large cavalry force encamped in a remote location in the Taurus Mountains. The only army in range of the Seljuqid camp was the army at Seleukia.

Aleksios wheezed the messenger away. Coming out of the shadows, two large Armenian soldiers in traditional garb helped the sickly man to his feet. Aleksios Pikernes was Roman. His honor knew no obstacles that could keep him from his duty. He was helped to the keep’s courtyard. He flinched in the cold light of the sun. His eyes were little shrunken red pits. He skin was gray with large blotches of white. He looked more like a corpse then a man. But he was standing, his head tilted upwards in defiance.

The sight of their commander still standing despite his terrible illness sent a wave of grim determination to his troops. They departed the same day for the Taurus Mountains.

Aleksios Pikernes did not take part in the battle. He lay in his tent during the whole day. He expired his final breath only after hearing that every last Seljuq had been slain. He died knowing the Seljuqid had reached the final extent of their conquest and were finally being pushed out. Forever.

[Redemption]

Blachernae Palace, Novermber 1190


The halls of the Blachernae Palace were silent these days. The war was mainly handled by local commanders acting in their own interests with whatever troops their personal finances could buy them. Long had Rome ceased to send its own citizens and soldiers to war. Even the Blachernae Palace, center of the government for the greatest city in the world, was only guarded by a motley crew of varanginoi and Normans. It was a far cry from the glory days of the Komnenian dynasty.

Sitting at a table of Lebanese cedar wood in the western wing of the palace, a young man was listening to an old, overweight general. The young man was no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, but already his eyes had a look of eagles about them, the stare of a Komnenoi.

“…as you already know, a year and a half ago, your great uncle, Ioannes, gathered all the notables of the Empire in Hermonassa were they decided to oppose the Moslem invasion in spite of Nevoulos’ apparent lack of interest in the war. That town has fallen to a Seljuqid sneak attack, as has Nikoseia, but all things considered, the Moslems are being driven out of most of Anatolia and Kilikia. That is the Empire which you have to lead, Artemios! We are at war and the Empire…”

The boy cut him short:

“What Empire? This collection of rubble you call an Empire is a hollow shell! War with the Anatolian Turks, war with the Seljuks, with the Arabs of Mesopotamia and the the ghulams of Aegyptus! Our cities lie in ruin, trade has dried up in the few ports we have left and our soldiers are anything but Roman!”

Looking away, he sighed:

“Even you Ioannis, you haven’t aged well.”

The young man walked dreamily to an open window.

“I remember, when I was maybe only four or five years old, my father had brought me to the parade grounds. You were riding atop a white mare, leading our armies that would join the war against the Turks. You looked like one of Megas Alexandros’ companions, like the hetairoi of old. So proud and mighty, clad in polished clibanarii armor. I wanted to pick up a sword and be a soldier then. Now look at yourself. You’ve become an over-decorated guard captain. My father died in Jerusalem, far from his people, and not long afterwards Alexios was killed in battle, foul play planned by Nevoulos so he could seize power. The Empire died with them.”

An uneasy silence filled the room, the busy sounds of the city forming a low murmur in the distance. Ioannis Vatatzes silently cleared his throat. Looking away he said:

“Ioannes Dukas died yesterday. The messenger just came in from Amorion.”

“Dukas…”

“He passed away in his sleep. He was an old man. Old wounds and such… Anyways… I’ll leave you to your studies. I’m sorry to have bothered you my lord.”

Vatatzes had started towards the door, but the young man suddenly caught up with him, putting his hand on the old general’s shoulder.

“That is why you came to see me. With Ioannes out of the way, you fear Nevoulos could return, and then…”

“And then all we have fought for would have been for nothing.

The pretender, Nevoulos is still alive, under close guard, his every action dictated to him by his supposed retainers. Some Lords at Hermonassa thought it was bad for morale to have an emperor die in the middle of a war, even an emperor so reviled as Nevoulos. And so we need you, Artemios. You are the last of the Komnenoi. You are the heir to Megas Manuelos.”

Artemios stood, pensive. It was true, he was the last of the Komnenoi, having survived miraculously the purges executed by the fiend Nevoulos because old friends of his father, friends like Vatatzes and Ioannes Dukas, had managed to keep him out of sight of the mad pretender. He was the last Komnenoi, but right then and there he felt very much like a young boy unprepared for the task that God and Fortune had set before him.

He heard himself say:

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

And then the weight of the world came crashing down on his shoulders.

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph had not spoken for some minutes, sitting back in his chair with his steely gaze fixed on the maps and scrolls laid out before him on the conference table, evidently deep in thought.

The tension in the room was building steadily as the various Generals and Imams, the Vizier and the Crown Prince waited nervously for his reaction to the latest grim news.

The Levant had fallen once more to the infidel, the holy cities of Jerusalem and Damascus seized from under the noses of the feeble garrisons left to defend them.

The Georgian cities of Ani and Dvin had fallen to the accursed Romans, causing the Georgians to declare their independence of the benevolent rule of the Caliphate.

The Seljuk Turks had been defeated over and over again in Anatolia, and their positions there hung by the tiniest of threads in the face of the Roman advance.

The Ayyubid Sultan of Egypt had failed to hold his regained lands and was once more on the defensive, fighting for his very existence against the armies of the traitorous infidel Baldwin.

And the plague – the accursed Levantine plague! – still raged on throughout the lands of the Caliphate, with bodies heaped high in the streets of Baghdad, families decimated and armies destroyed by its unwavering pestilential progress.

Years of struggle in the cause of holy jihad had produced precisely nothing – all the glorious gains of the war reversed, the coffers depleted, the armies demoralised and the people frightened, grieving and desperate.

As if to accentuate this, the silence was broken by the Caliph’s long, wracking coughing fit, demonstrating to all that the hellish disease still had hold of their mighty leader.

When he recovered his breath, An-Nasir looked up and around the table, meeting the eyes of each in turn with a defiant gaze, as if to test their resolve and loyalty.

“Brothers,” he said, “the mighty Allah has indeed tested our courage and faith in recent months. Many mistakes have been made in the carriage of the jihad, and we have also been beset by misfortunes not of our own making. We must gather our strength and resources and commit everything we have to the defence of our heartlands. This plague will pass on, and we will be left decimated, but we must not descend into despair and fear. If we demonstrate our faith to Allah once more he will protect us.

Send Imams into the villages to help tend the sick and wounded, send troops to dig wells and clear the bodies.

And review the border defences. I fear the infidel will be greedy enough to test them in the coming years.”

[Redemption]

Kilikian coast, summer 1191, near Juliopolis


The waves gently rocked the Roman fleet anchoring off the Kilikian coastline. Even at a distance, the wind brought the acrid smell of burning bodies like a blanket over the ships, remnant of the previous day’s battle. From the deck of the flagship, Romanus Sophianos observed the freshly recaptured city of Juliopolis. The war with the Seljuqid was nothing more than a series of never-ending skirmishes. Except when surprised in their fortifications, the Turks had refused every opportunity for battle. They moved their soldiers inland to escape from the Roman naval assaults and sent raiding parties to capture vulnerable settlements which the Romans retook in the following months. In a single season, Kilikia had been stolen from Rome only to see Sophianos’ armies march all the way back to Flaviopolis. The strategos had even devoted a fraction of his forces to chase the Abbasids out of their last Syrian hideouts. He had no illusions that the current borders were anything but temporary. Large enemy forces were holed-up in Seljuk Valley and further East within the immense borders of the bloated Seljuk Empire. Still, for Sophianos, money always filled his pockets and mercenaries flowed in great numbers to his banner. If anything, his armies were even more experienced and battle-ready then when he had been hailed a hero for repulsing the barbarous Hindi from the siege of Attaleia, not to mention more numerous. He had even managed to be awarded the command of a few true Roman soldiers, a rarity in the army these days.

When the captain of his ship approached to inquire about their next destination, the strategos sighed:

“We’ll pick up some western mercenaries in Kyprus before returning to Megas Antiochia. And I imagine we’ll be back for a winter campaign in Kilikia…”

[Redemption]

Blachernae Palace, late 1191


Konstantinopolis, greatest city of the know world, was rejoicing. Rich and pauper alike knew that the young prince regent, Kaesar Artemios Komnenos Porphyrogennetos, soon to be crowned Emperor of all the World, was getting married to an upcoming young noblewoman from Monemvasias. Finally, the Komnenoi would be restored to their throne and with them Rome would rise once again to tower over its rivals and extend its glorious dominion to the far reaches of the earth. The cream of roman aristocracy was gathered in the Haggia Sophia for the wedding and an entire week of festivities had been declared in the capital. Gossip about the imperial wedding and the recent signing of peace with the Moslems had spread like wildfire through the population and a feeling of exultation and relief could be heard in the raucous chants of revellers all over the city. Guards had donned their ceremonial armor, priests were celebrating mass in gratitude to the Lord and even merchants were offering their wares at generous prices. It was truly a grand day to be a Roman.

But in the cool corridors of the Blacharnae Palace, Ioannis Vatatzes’ thoughts were far from the celebrations. Though words had been exchanged with the Moslems, no treaty had yet been signed, and peace was but a fleeting idea in the history of Rome. To insure the survival of the Komnenian dynasty, the imperial couple had been secreted to a secluded location as soon as the patriarch had blessed their union. Generals had been ordered with their men to advanced positions in Anatolia and new regiments of artillery had been made available to them. Though the Saracens had been chased out of the Levant and the Turks had once again been scoured from Kilikia, the Crusaders had yet to solidify their hold on their kingdom and their war in Aegyptus was raising tensions in the entire region. The Moslems would never admit the existence of a powerful Latin Kingdom and never allow their great city of Cairo to be in Christian hands. The Empire had to ready forces in the Levant and bolster its borders in Anatolia. Troops had to be deployed in the Caucasus to prevent any incursions by Moslems and to give Rome the ability to pre-empt any hostile actions its enemies might undertake. So many crucial details had to be decided with so little foreknowledge, and the fate of the world hung in the balance.

Vatatzes' brow was furrowed in an expression of dread apprehension. The orders he was signing without his Kaesar’s authority could doom Rome. Or they could make her great.

“Alea jacta est.”

[Quirl]

New Arrivals

The Sultan struggled to breath as the bowstring around his neck twisted tighter into his jugular. His eyes widened as things finally began to dawn on him. This was it. This was how he was going to die. Frantically, he looked around at his Khassaki, those men who were entrusted to guard him. They all watched. They did nothing. It would have been a macabre scene for any bystander to observe. To the Sultan, it was simply terrifying.

His hands stopped batting at the assailant behind him. They slowly fell to his sides, as worthless as his legs which had been cut out from underneath him. He looked one last time at his guards, like a sad puppy wanting to be rescued. But in their faces he saw only indifference if not open hatred. Right then he realized what Allah had been trying to tell him all this time: that he had grown cold, that he had become evil, that somewhere along the path he had lost his way. How unfortunate that he would realize this now, when everything came crashing down around him.

Togrul continued to twist the bow tighter around the Sultan's neck. As he watched the man, he saw the Sultan’s thoughts within his eyes. They stopped bulging. They stopped looking for help. For the first time since the Mamluk had known the Sultan, he saw his eyes look into himself. But it was much too late now. He had lived like an animal and now it was time to die like one. To let him live would be too dangerous. And besides, if he did not kill him, his people would.

He had driven Egypt into the ground since the very day he had first taken office. Like his grandfather, Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn, he had lived a life for himself. Perhaps, in another existence these men would have served their kingdoms and their God well. But in this life, they were a fractured roof which the Egyptians had been forced to support all these years—and which now did nothing to shelter them from the arrows which the Crusaders launched at them. No. This man had to die. Togrul had risen an army of Ghulam and Mamluk slave warriors who thirsted for the Sultan's blood. Their bloodlust had to be sated. His crimes had to be punished. Then they, the slaves, would rule in Egypt—a second Mamluk empire to fight the tide of the Latins—and they would save Egypt.

But Togrul pitied the Sultan now. He saw what Allah might see when he looked upon all His children who had turned away from Him. And for the first time, the hell which he couldn’t wait to send the Sultan to all these years he no longer wished upon him. He saw the remorse in the man’s eyes—that regret which only a man who is about to lose everything could have. He saw him make his peace with God and he truly hoped then that one day he would see him in Paradise.

Togrul twisted the bow one final time and he heard the snap in the Sultan’s neck. His eyes told no more stories as they slowly began to close. He was dead. His head fell over the bowstring and his tongue fell out of his mouth, drooling. Some of the guards around them already began to shout curses at the Sultan. Some began to cheer Togrul’s name. I merely stood there and watched as the man I had followed all this time—the man who had cursed the Sultan for so many years, who had conspired to kill him and send his soul to hell, and the man who wanted to feel the Sultan’s life leave his lungs beneath the string of his bow—grab the head of his former master, shut his eyes, close his mouth, and lower it slowly to the marble floor.



“It is an amazing story, father. And to think, it has happened within my lifetime.”

Quirl nodded, but didn’t turn his head away from the desert night which he had been looking at the entire time. The sands and rocks moved past their carriage as they continued onward. One of the horses sneezed and he suddenly remembered himself. He sighed, “such stories occur within everyone’s lifetime, son; and it is a sad thing that they must.”

His son became quiet, hearing the sadness in his father’s voice. He looked away also into the night, somewhat ashamed of what he had said—but also, still, a little excited.

His father smiled, looking at the boy. How brazen is youth. “Forget my sorrowful mood, my son. We are heading to Baghdad to see the Caliph! What a momentous occasion which I would be foolish to spoil now. But remember what I have said. Remember what is at stake. We ride to plead our case before the court." He laughed. "You will keep me sane, I suspect; as the court is too pristine for a former slave such as myself.” His son smiled at his father and Quirl returned the glance.

As Quirl watched his son, he thought of how glad he was that he could afford the boy more than slavery. He was glad to be a part of this new order in Egypt. Yet, having the freedom, Quirl found himself wondering what kind of choices his son would eventually make. There were so many wrong paths and so few right ones. He looked into his son’s eyes which were staring outside. What stories would they one day tell when his son laid on his deathbed—or when a rebel strangled him? Only time would tell. But, in the end, all that mattered was that, when the time came, he wished to also see him in Paradise.

One of the riders outside kicked one of the horses, pushing him past a ditch which had been laying in the middle of the road. They continued on to Baghdad. They would arrive in the morning...

[Redemption]

Nikoseia, early spring 1192


Night had settled over the Pedios Valley. A light breeze flew down from the mountains leaving a layer of dew over the ground. Sergios had been returning from the fish markets in Kyrenia and making good time, but when he saw the sun go down over the mountains, he had grudgingly made up his mind to the idea that he would probably have to spend another night outside the gates until the Frankish guards reopened them in the morning. The Franks had very little regard for the common folk of Kyprus more interested as they were in the islands rich vineyards and wealthy ports. Great was Sergios’ surprise then when, arriving way past midnight, he found Nikosia’s gates invitingly open. Giving a small prayer to God for his luck, he quickly made for the doors. It wasn’t until he had walked into the city proper that the full realization of what was going on dawned upon him. A dozen dead Franks lay scattered about the gates and cries of “Nika! Nika!” could be heard coming from the city barraks. “After years of domination by Turks and Franks, was it even possible…?” As if to confirm his hopes, a detachment of kavalieroi rounded a corner, rushing to join the fight against the remaining Latins entrenched in their barracks.

~~~~~

Ammoxostos, the following day


Romanus Sophianos was observing the small town from an elevated position where his camp had been built. Ammoxostos had never been an important community, but still, it had never looked as desolate as it did now under Latin rule. Rundown hovels, bleached white by the cold winds from the sea. A scant few peasants milling around under the harsh gaze of the watch. Kyprus was clearly far from the Crusaders’ preoccupation in Syria and Aegyptus.

Sophianos’ musings were interrupted by a wracking fit of cough. The plague still had its icy grip on the land and no one was beyond its reach, not even the great strategos of the Empire. Sophianos retreated to his sella curulis. His malady prevented him from staying up for long, but he insisted in overseeing the ongoing siege.

“Strategos!” and aid called out, “Strategos, captain Hypastos has succeeding in routing the small garrison left in Nikoseia. He found the gates unbarred as you said and quickly dispatched any resistance.”

“Good. And what news from the mainland?”

The soldier squirmed in place, his eyes trying to avoid Sophianos’ piercing stare but to no avail.

“There were a few setbacks m’lord. Tyros fell quickly, but captain Athanasios was slain in the siege of Ake. Our forces managed to seize the city and continue to Joffa, but we were forced to steer away from the most holy Hierosolyma…”

“Hmmph! No matter. Have our troops recalled. We will face the Latins on our terms.”

The soldier stood at attention, waiting to be dismissed. Sophianos simply stared at him, his breath wheezing in the cold air. After a moment, the soldier made a movement to leave but was cut short by the slightest gesture from Sophianos’ hand.

“Have the incompetent who lead our forces away from the Holy City executed. Let his death be an example to his replacement.”

[phonicsmonkey]

The Vizier pulled his cloak about him as he strode through the chill night air, deep into the mass of winding streets and courtyards of the Baghdad bazaar. Down a narrow alley he found the small wooden door, and passed through it into the hazy atmosphere of a shisha den, where at a small circular table, smoking an apple-scented shisa, he found his son Khalil.

'Mar'harba, your eminence.' said Khalil with a mocking sneer,'It has been some time since you deigned to grace me with your exhalted presence.'

The Vizier scowled angrily, tugging nervously at his beard as he sat on the cushioned stool opposite Khalil and irritably waving away the veiled attendant with her tray of mint tea.

'Khalil, you do not need me to remind you that the Caliph wishes you dead, along with everyone else who accompanied his son to Georgia. Az-Zahir was a fool to roam so deep into Roman lands in search of glory, and his death has caused great disturbance. The Caliph suspects treachery, and only my good auspices have prevented him from sending his agents to search you out.'

Khalil snorted with derision. 'Let them come and try to find me! I have spent enough time among the hashashim that I know their dark arts better even than the agents of An-Nasir. Those amateurs don't stand a chance.'

The Vizier glanced quickly around him, his tongue darting across his lips like that of a lizard testing the air. 'Do not be such a fool Khalil, your youthful pride will have us both strung up. The situation is gravely perilous for us both. The fool Abu-Bakr now pretends to succeed to the Caliph's throne, with the old man's indulgence, and he is no friend of yours or mine. When the Caliph passes, we will both be for the executioner's block, make no mistake, and all we have worked for will be as nought.'

Khalil leaned in closer and drew a wickedly sharp curved dagger from inside his robes, toying with it in his hand, 'Then we shall have to work to ensure that never happens...'

The Vizier grinned deviously, but shook his head. 'The time is not yet ripe for that. Should Abu-Bakr...suffer an unfortunate accident, it would be unclear who would succeed him as Crown Prince. The Caliph's only son is of course dead, and he has not adopted any others since our pompous pretender. No, we must do some more work before this comes to pass, to ensure that we have influence over the succession. Az-Zahir's death took us by surprise, but Abu-Bakr's need not. I want you to travel to Shiraz to meet with our friend there, and deliver him this. He will know what it means.'

He handed Khalil a small, heavy object wrapped in a leather bag, and hurried out of the shisha den into the night.

Khalil leaned back into his chair and drew long and hard on the shisha. Looking into the bag, he found a gold coin of eastern origin, bearing an unfamiliar emblem.

[rossahh]

The extraordinary meeting was held in Cairo, recently returned to the Kingdom's control. The men at the table waiting patiently, casually glancing from time to time towards the silent figure at the head of the table. Despite his illness and the foes arrayed against the Kingdom, the King radiated strength. After all of the war wrought on the Levant, the Kingdom and King remained, unlike their foes, whose rulers had crumbled like their armies and come and gone like the tides. The seat to the left of the King remained empty. The Prince had been the Kingdom's greatest soldier - his loss was a blow the nation had not fully recovered from yet.

A few of the men fidgeted slightly. The forerider had said the representative would arrive before dusk, and outside the sun was setting for the day. The forerider was standing behind the table near the door next to the two bodyguards of the King, impatient as the rest for the representative, his master, to arrive.


A muffled tap came from the door. An attendent opened the door as the forerunner hurried forward. A wispered conversation later and the forerunner returned. The noble on the seat to the right of the King asked, "He is here?" The forerider bowed slightly towards the doorway as the representative entered, and in a heavily accented voice replied "Ja".

[phonicsmonkey]

The Caliph dreamed.

He dreamed that he awoke in his bedchamber at the palace in Baghdad. He was bathed in a warm light, but slowly became aware that it did not come from the shuttered window, but instead from the doorway, in which a silhouetted figure stood.

As his eyes adjusted he was amazed to realise that it was his son, Az-Zahir, who stood over him, dressed in a simple white cotton robe. Az-Zahir showed no signs of the wounds which had slain him, and his eyes burned with a strange fire.

The Caliph was at once overcome with great joy at the sight, and terrible grief at the memory of his loss. He opened his mouth to speak to his son, but words would not come, only a slow exhalation of breath.

Az-Zahir smiled, and put his finger to his lips as if to silence his father. He beckoned to the Caliph, turned, and passed through the doorway, disappearing into the bright light.

An-Nasir rose from his bed, amazed that the weakness in his limbs brought on by his sickness seemed to have left him.

He stood up tall, stretched, and followed his son into the light.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Vizier Marshed knocked three times on the Caliph's door, as he always had, before entering with An-Nasir's morning tray of bitter medicinal tea.

He was surprised to find the room still shrouded in darkness. Even in his sickness, the Caliph was wont to rise early..

He approached the bed with a feeling of utmost dread, and his worst fears were immediately confirmed.

The Caliph was dead.

Dropping the tray on the flagstones with a loud clatter, he turned tail and fled for his life.

[Quirl]

The Ill Facade

Quirl left the court around dusk. The other ambassadors flocked out with him. A few stopped, turning to talk with him. The Roman scribe delivered some scroll. Quirl tucked it underneath his robe and thanked him, continuing onward. Some other nobles greeted him, wishing to know more about the now infamous happenings in Egypt. He made conversation as best he could—he was a diplomat; wasn’t that his job? But he ended these chats as quickly and politely as possible.

Two guards flanked him as he made his way down the streets of Baghdad. The roads were clustered with people. Some old, some young. Some rich, some with not a coin in their name. There was a man with no teeth but a wiry beard heading down to where Quirl knew the shisha den was. There was a noble who brushed past him, looking as if just touching these people might give him some sort of disease—and it just might. The sounds, the smell: they all soon overwhelmed him.

“Stop,” he told his guards. The two men looked at each other, then back at their master. “Stay,” but he couldn’t even finish his sentence. He ran down into a seemingly empty alleyway. He puked next to some discarded baskets there, supporting himself on the decaying wall above him. Some flies which haunted a nearby fruit stand sensed the act nearby. They darted down the alleyway, encircling the bile which Quirl had just extolled.

Still hunched over, he watched the flies settle there, rubbing their legs together in some frantic madness they didn’t even understand—but continued all the same. Their wings and bodies buzzed in a nonsense language as they held court in the chunks of Quirl’s old lunch.

How ironic, Quirl thought. This made him laugh a little.

This man was not made for court. It was all too much for a mere slave. Only a desperate nation would send such a man—only a kingdom stretched to its very limits. But Quirl knew the kind of desperation which plagued Egypt now. It was that same kind of desperate, mad sense of survival which kept Quirl going in the courtroom. He used that madness to exert an impossible calm there. On the surface he was ice, but underneath there was blizzard.

He heard the winds howling in his stomach again, and he let out one final, gut wrenching purge.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, wiping his sleeve in turn on the wall. He walked out to where his guards where. They had heard the noises but had not intervened—this hadn’t been the first time.

“Come on,” he commanded. The two men nodded, robots in chainmail, then continued with him down the Baghdad streets.

[Quirl]

The Ill Facade (Pt. 2)

In an alleyway directly across from Quirl, a single fly had not joined the pack. It rested on a broken jar, watching the others congregate on that bile the Egyptian diplomat had thrown up. The image of Quirl in his klidascope eyes refracted like dozens of tiny mirrors in a fun house. Then there stood the man. The man in black. The man who had been following this slave ambassador all these past few weeks.

He watched as Quirl vomited up that doubt, that fear, and everything else which he always had kept under that mask of calm and restraint. In court, the man in black watched as he wore that mask. But outside, he noted, the mask wore him.

The dark man smiled, a big toothy grin. There were too many teeth inside that wide maw of his. They were yellow, decaying, and still his baby teeth. It was a deformity he had had forever, one he kept always hidden under that black hijab. He wasn’t above dressing as a Muslim woman. Indeed, it bettered his disguise. He had a lean figure, and so passing as one was easy. He had a soft step and so, as he walked by, no one thought anything of him—if they noticed him at all.

The man in black relished this agony of the Egyptian diplomat. He had become one particularly fun to watch these past few weeks. It was the life of a Hashshashin to watch the world. But this man did more than watch; he enjoyed what he saw. Occasionally, he even poked his finger into the events, like a fly landing on the water, causing ripples but so small that he could always fly away unnoticed, afterward.

But this time would be different. This time, the ripples would be waves. He would come as a swarm and the ripples would be terrible. There would be plenty of carcasses afterward—plenty to feed on and plenty to lay his eggs in. Behind the bars of that deformed grin, his tongue was wet with the thought of it. Wet to the taste of it.

The man in black tied the veil over his grin again. He turned around to whence he came and headed back into the dark alley.

[phonicsmonkey]

Al-Qahir, Wali al Shiraz and brother of An-Nasir, sat back in his gilded throne and tried to think through the drunken haze that fogged his mind.

When had the young man Khalil arrived from Baghdad? Some weeks ago now, just days ahead of his father the former Vizier Marshed, with the news that the Caliph had died of the pestilence, and that the adopted Abu-Bakr had succeeded in his place.

Khalil and Marshed had brought him more than just ill tidings – they had brought a slew of messages of support and wild suggestions which had raised both his interest and his suspicions.

Could it really be true that the Imams were unhappy at the succession of Caliph Abu-Bakr, and the appointment of his younger brother Sulayman as Crown Prince? And were the Generals almost ready, as Marshed had said, to back an uprising to reinstate the true blood of the prophet (in the shape of balding, drunken, middle-aged Al Qahir) to the throne of the Caliphate?

These things he did not, could not know for sure.

Exiled as he had been for most of his adult life, to this sandy backwater in the East, where there was nary a fight to be had or any glory to be won, and only the comfort of the grape to turn to, he had lost touch with the intrigues of the Court. A great success his exile had been, at least from the point of view of his pompous ass of a brother An-Nasir (curse his rotten name for all eternity!).

But what he did know, knew for absolute certain, was that he had very little to lose and much to gain by going along with this plan of the devious Marshed. The Eastern Army were as bored as he was, and would relish the chance of a fight and some booty. And he was far, far from Baghdad and any reprisals by the usurper Abu-Bakr and his fop of a Grand Vizier…at the very least, he would be able to swell his coffers and keep the Eastern Army busy, and more importantly, loyal.

He turned over in his hand the gold coin that Khalil had brought him as a token from Marshed and the Generals. He knew well what it meant, what the crossed scimitars on its face signified.

The next day, Al-Qahir would give the order, and the Eastern Army would descend on Firuzabad to surprise and defeat the Ghorid garrison there. If Marshed was right, with the spoils of the sack of that city, and the prestige it would win him with the Generals at Baghdad, he would be on his way to securing the support he needed to cast out the odious Abu-Bakr and claim the throne for his own.

And then Marshed could wear his Vizier's turban again, if it should please him..

[Redemption]

Levantine Coast, autumn of 1192


"I got a bad feeling about this..."

Romanus Sophianos was the greatest general in the Empire. He had exterminated the elephant hordes of the Raj, he had crushed the Seljuqid advance at Ikonion and driven them back from Kilikia, twice, and he had triumphantly walked through the gates of Megas Antiochia, recapturing the great city from the grip of the dreaded Caliph An-Nasir. He had even survived the hellspawned plague that had snuffed the life from thousands of lesser men. He was, on all accounts, a true Roman, like the great consuls and imperators of Rome's glorious past. And now, he was reduced to the state of a lowly pirate captain heading a battered squadron of ships and a rag-tag band of mercenaries whose military prowess were limited to raiding unprotected fishing villages. Oh and he had been named Megas Dux of Kyprus. Yar...

Sophianos knew full well the fate of the last man to bear that title, Andronikos Kontostephanos: a knife in the back, courtesy of some Armenian royalist or Turkish fanatic. It seemed the position wasn't a lucky one.

Staring at the burning city of Ake from the deck of his flagship, Sophianos muttered again: "I got a bad feeling about this..."


~~~~~


Nikaea, autumn 1192


The announcement of a new crusade had taken Konstantinopolis completely by surprise. When the German princes showed up under the walls of the greatest city in Christiendom, Roman commanders had to scramble up an army in haste to meet the new threat. The greatest knights of the german states, the so called Holy Roman Empire, had made the journey from Europe to relieve the pressure put on the crusader kingdom by the forces of Rome.

Kaesar Artemios Komnenos, who had spent the last year in hiding to escape the blades of his enemies and the ravages of the plague, rallied his kataphrakts abd varangian guards in the hills of Thrace before meeting en route with the forces of the Capital commanded by Ioannis Vatatzes. Armenian auxiliaries were recruited along the way, and the combined armies descended upon the besieged fortress of Nikaea.

Over one third of the crusading army under the command of Frederick von Swabia was entrenched around the castle, their proud banners flapping in the wind. The flower of european chivalry, spearmen in heavy armor, trained swordsmen and crossbowmen all filled with religious zeal and a sense of divine entitlement were assembled. The odds looked grim for the Romans.

Only the varanginoi actually seemed eager for a fight. When the trumpets sounded the charge, they were the first to throw themselves a the enemy, striking right in the center of the line, aiming for the brightly colored fanions of the enemy general.

The light roman infantry followed them as well as the armenian auxilia who were ordered to fight in hand to hand.

The kataphrakts stayed behind.

Everywhere the Latin line was holding, inflicting terrible losses upon the Romans. Then another trumpet sounded. The doors of Nikeae opened and a stream of red-clad kavalieroi thundered out, catching the enemy in the back.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

They were followed by heavy roman infantry and mercenaries and the winds of battle started to turn in Rome's favor.

Seeing his army caught in a vise, Frederick ordered his knights to disengage the varangian warriors, surely planning to charge the freshly arrived Roman forces with the devastating power of his knights.

That was all the kataphraktoi had been waiting for. Frederick's knights had been the anchor of the crusader line. With him gone, the kataphrakts tore through the infantry like they were ragged dolls.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

When Frederick's knights were ready to charge anew, there wasn't an army left to save, only a few groups of men trying desperately to fight for their lives.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Frederick attempted to escape but was caught up by the kataphrakts. The brave German, accepting his fate as unavoidable, commended his soul to God and steered his horse about. Drawing his sword, he met the aging but terrible Vatatzes in single combat to the battlecry "JERUSALEM!!!" But his wounds and the strain of the heavy fighting left him no chance. When the rest of Vatatzes' bodyguards caught up with them, Frederick von Swabia was already dead.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

[rossahh]

Placeholder for when I finish my reports.



The succession of Stephen, Lord of the Templers and Jerusalem.

[phonicsmonkey]

Caliph Sulayman had a pounding headache.

No sooner had been elevated to the Caliphate following the death of his brother Abu Bakr than he had discovered his uncle Al Qahir was leading an unauthorized mission against the Ghorids in the east.

At least he didn’t have the plague…so far.

He and Vizier Tariq had been discussing the situation for some time now, and he was starting to feel like Allah had it in for him and his adopted family. After all, although he was technically in line to the throne, the succession was supposed to pass him by completely, from An-Nasir to Az-Zahir to Al Mustansir, in stately progression as it had done through the ages.

Now the heavy mantle had fallen on his shoulders, and he was obliged to try to keep it there.

Tariq interrupted his reverie with a polite cough. Sulayman looked up and met his eye.

“So Tariq, it’s all a power play by Al Qahir? And you say I have the Imams with me, but the army is wavering?”

“Yes your Highness. It’s a dreadful mess, and quite ironic really, as your brother had the opposite conundrum. He, having spent time in the army, had the unquestioning loyalty of the troops, but there were those in the clergy who spoke darkly of his adopted status and hinted that the crown should pass instead to An-Nasir’s youngest, Sayeddin, who had not yet come of age, or indeed young Al Mustansir, son of Az-Zahir. No-one seemed to care a fig for Al Qahir, at least not until now..”

“But I too am adopted, and everyone knows my father was An-Nasir, through his long affair with my mother, after Az-Zahir’s mother died…”

“Yes, yes, but you have spent your life in the madrassa with the holy men, and they are convinced of your piety, at least enough of them are to shout down the doubters….for now at least. If Al Qahir keeps this up we may have a problem on that front too. After all, no-one can prove that An-Nasir was your father, although of course we all know it to be true, just as we did with your brother Abu Bakr.”

Sulayman smarted at this – as if it wasn’t enough that he had had to suffer through his childhood the taunts and barbs of ‘Bastard’, and the smutty jokes at the expense of his mother, now that it might actually be useful to him to be the lovechild of the old goat, it suddenly came into question!

“So what do we do?”

“Well, the first thing, the most important thing indeed, is to pretend at absolutely all times that your brother Abu Bakr ordered the assault on Firuzabad, and that Al Qahir was simply loyally following his wishes.”

“And after that? What if he does something else? I don't want a civil war on my hands.”

“We’ll have to put a stop to that. Al Qahir is a stupid old fool, and quite incapable of coming up with this scheme on his own. I sense the baleful hand of my predecessor Marshed in all this…”

[Quirl]

The Ill Facade (pt. 3)

In the morning, Quirl was up early—he hadn’t slept much. His servants dressed him, Nubian men. In times past these men would have been slaves. Now they were brethren, a part of some slave empire on the brink, hiding out in Africa with them. Quirl shivered and one of the Nubian men felt this. He held Quirl’s hand and the two men started to pray—a Christian prayer. Their two cultures weren’t too different anymore.

Quirl patted his son on his head as he headed out the door, kneeling down and kissing his forehead. He signaled his guards and the three of them left. He was off to the court again.

He had heard of the death of the new Caliph early last night and he knew there would be mention of it today. Somehow in between, he would have to mention his King’s concern over the Caliph’s invasion of the men of Ghor. He didn’t look forward to today. He never looked forward to any day anymore.

But as he walked, he noticed someone in the crowd. His eyes narrowed, attempting to catch a better look through the haze of the early morning sun. It was a woman. She was dressed in a black hiijab. She was crying, it appeared, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Is this how they treat their women in this damned city?

He looked closer and noticed a part of her clothes were ripped. Her hands were over her face and she was weeping bitterly into them. She turned the corner, past a street vender who was shouting at the top of his lungs about his fruit—all the merchants, Quirl noticed, seemed this desperate and aggressive lately; it was no secret: there was a financial crisis in their government. And when the woman turned the corner she disappeared into an alleyway, her shadow running desperately down the wall of the nearest building until even that could be seen no more.

His guards straddled beside him as he made his way to the area the woman had disappeared. He peered into the narrow alley. She was gone.

Seeing her torn clothing made him worried that she had been mugged or, worse, raped. Not wishing to shame her, had she been molested, he held out his hands to his guards. The robots in chainmail stopped. They looked at their master and waited for further orders.

“Wait here,” Quirl said, lowering his fingers and heading down into the alley.

He approached the alley with caution, unsure of what he would find inside. He wanted to call out to the woman, but something inside him told him otherwise. Above him some clothes whistled on a clothesline, casting shadows on the walls like lonely ghosts driven mad by isolation.

In the dusk, the alley had a kind of haunting aura to it. It seemed no one had treaded through here in decades, but Quirl knew that couldn’t be true. The clothes above him were fresh. He could see a pail of water nearby, not too old. But something was wrong, though he couldn’t quite place his finger on it. Had he been listening, he would have heard the flies.

“Hello?” He finally gained the courage to call out to the woman. “Hell...” then he saw her. As he turned the corner to a dead end flanked by four lonely houses, she was there. She sat next to some discarded jars and baskets. She didn’t turn to face him. It was as if she didn’t know he was there. She still wept bitterly into her hands.

“Woman?” Quirl asked, he took a step forward. “Woman, are you alright?” Still no response. Her weeping continued, sounding like a wraith echoing in the narrow corridor of that alleyway. He took another step towards her. His sandals kicked up some sand and the lady heard this. “Are you al…”

Then the woman turned around in a flash. In her hand she held what looked like a cow’s severed leg. She gripped the bone the meat still leached onto, the blood tracings its path in the air as it whirled to Quirl’s head. It smashed across his temple, making a sick sound in his ear like a mace filled with water. It spurted dry blood into his hair. He spurted fresh blood in return. And before he knew it he laid on the ground, the morning sun like a blur and the woman like a fogged image, or ghost leaning over him.

“Hello,” the woman said. But she was no woman. The voice was that of a man, but whether of a Human man, that was still uncertain. His voice shrilled and seeped its words like rotten frankincense. The tone stuck to Quirl’s skin and he could actually feel it as it seeped into his ear. He shook his head but he still couldn’t see the man clearly—only that wide maw which might be mistaken by a fool as a grin. “Don’t scream,” the man said. Quirl didn’t scream.

Through the haze and blur that was ringing in his throbbing head he could see the man in black pull something out of his robes. “Take this,” he said, holding out what looked like an envelope. “I want you to put your seal on it and deliver to Marsal Shadi in Dongola.”

Finally, Quirl managed to speak. His head ringed at the sound of his own voice, but he forced the words regardless. “Why would I do that?” He asked.

The man in black leaned closer, pressing that spring trap maw near Quirl’s bleeding ear. Quirl thought he was close enough to lick the blood or bite off what remained. Instead, he only whispered, “because I know the secret, Quirl.” The diplomat flinched. “I know the secret that threatens to swallow up your entire nation!” The man in black leaned away. He held out the envelope a second time, flapping it in front of the Egyptian ambassador.

Quirl took the envelope, resentfully. He got one last good look at that wide grin before it disappeared, running off in the direction Quirl had come.

When Quirl made it out of the alley, his guards noticed him bleeding and rushed to him. "The woman... man." Quirl muttered. "Did you see him? He came out this way."

"We saw no one," one of the guards said.

Quirl frowned and pulled the envelope to him. He smashed his finger through the paper, tearing the thing and breaking its spine. Inside there was a letter. He fumbled it aside and noticed something else underneath-- a man's dry thumb.

[The Lemongate]

Muhammed the Godfearer reflected upon the events of his life - the war with the heathen men of India, the early successes, the reversals, his involvment with the Brotherhood of the Faithful. There was much to ponder.

Where had it gone wrong? When had he made the fatal mistake that had led him down this sorrowful path? The answers were many, yet none were satisfactory to the sultan who had always expected clear and immediate answers from his ghulams.

A tear nearly came to Muhammed's eye.

His ghulam. His children. So many had lost their lives on the path of the Holy Jihad. And what for? Not only was India still in the sway of the barbaric Hindi, but the people of Ghor had been chased from their homes and forced to fight for their very survival. The path of the righteous was indeed beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.

Allah was testing him, of this Muhammed was certain. A few of his captains, in desperation, had bewailed that the God of the Prophet had forsaken them to the vile deities of the Rajput Hindi, but Mohammed's faith was unshakable. He could not doubt his God. He must not. Or else...

Muhammed had ordered the sceptics buried up to their neck and left to the tender mercies of India's ravenous swarms of insects. He had to remind everyone that the current struggle was a test from Allah, a trial. And that by His will they would triumph.

He had to remind everyone.

He had to remind himself...

[phonicsmonkey]

Karim Al-Husayni, leader of the Ismaili Federation of the Hashashin, gazed upon the iron-banded chest full of gold with a quiet satisfaction.

The leader of Caliph Sulayman's spy network had brought it to Alamut earlier that day, as a downpayment on the assassination of the former Vizier Marshed, believed to be at Firuzabad with the Caliph's exiled uncle Al-Qahir.

He clapped his hands twice and two of his men bore the chest away to his treasury, where it would sit next to the larger chest of Firuzabadi gold brought to him a few days before by Khalil, Marshed's eldest son, and a former Hashashin himself.

This was exactly the kind of work he liked best: getting paid twice for doing precisely nothing.

He smiled and rubbed his hands together.

[The Lemongate]

The court was deadly silent since the Seljuk destruction of Georgia. In the waning hours of a baghdadi day, as most diplomats have left the audience chamber of the Caliph and the vizier himself has retired, the Roman ambassador is tarrying with his scribe, finishing some proclamation for the following day's session, adding some pomp and self-righteous extolation of roman virtues to his otherwise stale declarations. It was probably a bad idea, but he did it nonetheless. Self-inflated pride tends to make others think twice before attacking you. There was always the possibility that some truth hid behind such grand claims. It was a good shield. For a while at least.

Sweat rolled down the ambassador's face. He had never gotten use to the terrible heat of the Mesopotamian valley. One should've seen his notes! all covered in little sweat-mark stains that they were. Far from the profesionnalism he always tried to affect.

He wiped his brow on his sleeve.

So much work poured into diplomacy. And for what? Neither the current ambassador nor his predecessor had made any friends in this distant land. Indeed, since nations answered the Caliph's call, Rome has struggled for its very existence. Of military successes there were many. The great strength of Romans was their indomitable will to defend their lands, their homes and their way of life. Christ smiled upon them on the battlefield and the graves of their enemies were many, all vanquisehd in honorable battle. Numerous as well were the Roman heroes whose blood had fed the land. The Empire, even at its zenith was supported by the sacrifices of its noble soldiers, never knowing peace yet always fighting gloriously in victory as in defeat. But on the horizon, dark clouds gathered. The greed of the eastern heathens and mongrels. The envy of the depraved latin invaders. A sudden chill passed through the ambassador's spine; a chill which no blasted desert heat could counter.

There was no victory to be had. Not in this age. There was only defeat.

[phonicsmonkey]

Caliph Sulayman was furious.

'He did WHAT?!'

Vizier Tariq calmly repeated the news.

'It seems, your eminence, that the Eastern Army, led by your uncle Al Qahir, has....invaded Oman, seizing Hormuz and Chabahar."

The Caliph screamed with rage, throwing a tray of mint tea and dates across the antechamber, narrowly missing an armoured ghulam standing by the wall.

"But this...this is a full blooded insurrection, a direct challenge to my authority! The Omanis are our friends and allies! We should send the Western Army after him, bring him back in irons and feed him to the desert lions!'

The Vizier looked pensive.

'I'm afraid.....it's not as simple as that. You see, he has the full support of the generals in the Eastern Army and, indeed, some of those in the Western Army are leaning towards his side. They see him as strong and decisive, acting for the greater glory of Allah and the Caliphate....besides, they are somewhat busy guarding the Western front against any surprise attacks by the infidel."

Sulayman shot back, "But what of the Imams, you said I had their full support? Can we not declare him in breach of religious doctrine for rebelling against his Caliph? Surely the generals could not continue to support him then?"

With a pained expression, Vizier Tariq continued, "I'm afraid, again your Highness, not so clear cut as all that. You see, Al Qahir has let it be known amongst the Imams that his action against the Omanis is a righteous jihad against their heretical Ibadi beliefs, that he is spreading the righteous and true word of the prophet amongst their faithless people."

"But.."

"..you see", Tariq forged ahead, "the Ibadis believe that any man may become Caliph, that the title of Khalifa should not be confined to those of the blood of the prophet, but should be bestowed on the most righteous Imam available at the time."

Sulayman could not hide his confusion, it was written all over his face, "But what relevance has that?"

Patiently, the Vizier explained, "Sir, your own provenance is in some doubt among the Imams - as I have said to you before there can be no proof that you are indeed An-Nasir's son. Only respect for the laws of the succession and your own piety keeps the bulk of the Imams behind you. If you were to challenge Al Qahir's actions, it could be interpreted that you have some sympathy for the Ibadi beliefs, and that this is because you know that you are not in fact of the prophet's bloodline. Such thoughts could sap away your remaining support."

It appeared to have finally sunk in with the Caliph. He was trapped by the cunning of the devilish Marshed. He let out a long, slow, exhalation of breath.

"So what are we to do?"

[The Lemongate]

Blachernae Palace, Summer of 1193

The young Emperor let out a long sigh that ended in a terrible fit of cough.

"What a grand way to begin a reign," he wheezed trying to catch his breath. The plague that had gripped Mikra Asia was not abating in the least. Worse then that, it had reached the walls of Constantinople and succeeded were all other enemies had failed: it had breaches them. Now the jewel of Christiendom was ravaged by malady and the high hopes of the Komnenian Restoration had faded like fleeting dreams at the coming of dawn.

Ioannis Vatatzes, ever at attention, looked even more defeated then his young master. The old man's hopes had entirely rested on his young protege, and now that the throne was once more into the hands of the Komnenoi, it seemed as if fate had again conspired to bring Rome low. Even the ambassador in Baghdad had sent letters claiming the situation was beyond repairs.

Basileos Artemios lifted himself from his chair. Slowly he walked up to Vatatzes, steadying himself on the older man's shoulder. "Send them a message..." His voice was ragged and tired, "Send them a message and give them what they want."

Vatatzes stuttered, "M-my lord, wha-whatever do you mean? I, I ca..."

"DO IT!" hawked back Artemios. He lifted his hand to emphasize his point, losing his grip. Servants rushed to the young sovereign, catching him mid-fall and bringing him back to his chair.

"Rome is falling my friend. I will not let old prejudices bring forth our doom before its appointed time."

There was a long pause.

Vatatzes looked upon Artemios, his Emperor. His skin was livid, eyes half-closed even in the darkness of the room. Sweat rolled down his cheeks in viscus, heavy drops and his breath gurgled up in his throat and chest. He was still clad in the imperial regalia he insisted to wear in front of guards and servants even though he could barely support his own weight.

Vatatzes saluted and quickly turned away realizing for the first time the terrible burden he had entrusted to this young man whom he cherished above all. A tear rolled down his cheek, lingering on his chin.

"And Ioannis," Artemios' voice was just a whisper, "have the ships ready."

"It could kill you Artemios."

"I know."

The tear rolled off the old man's flesh, suspended for just a second in mid-air, and disappeared silently in the dust of the Imperial Palace.

[phonicsmonkey]

Al Qahir reflected on the latest message from Caliph Sulayman.

He had decided to accept the offer. After all, with the Western Army now occupied in fighting the Romans in Syria and Anatolia, it was now unlikely they would come over to his side, and as for the wavering Imams, well they now had plenty of reason to support Sulayman as Caliph.

He had to admit he had been outfoxed, both by the Caliph and his new Vizier, and by the Omanis who were putting up more resistance than he had expected.

He wasn't all that disappointed - after all, he didn't really want to be Caliph anyway. Who needed all that stress? Let Sulayman deal with the bickering generals and holy men while he whiled away his remaining years on the coast of the Persian Gulf, a good flagon of wine by his side and plenty of gold to line his pockets.

The Omanis would fall in due course to his Eastern Army, and being the Sultan of Arabia would suit him just fine: Marshed be damned.