The Last Maurician
- Thread starter Eparkhos
- Start date
A Brief Intermission: Internal Conflict in the Regnorum Visigothum
Eparkhos
Banned
Sorry about the delay, I kept on meaning to write this but kept getting distracted. This may or may not be historical OTL, I wasn't able to find many sources and so I had to fill in the gaps with my imagination and hunches.
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Regnum Visigothorum and its Duchies, 609 AD (Probably)
The defining issue of the early 7th Century in Iberia was, as it often is, religion. In 587, King Reccared had renounced Arian Christianity and converted to Chalcedonian Orthodoxy. There had been an immediate backlash; Sunna, Arian Bishop of Emerita Augusta, Vagrila, Duc of Baetica, the Lusitanian nobleman Witteric and an Arian demagogue named Segga all rose against the king. They were swiftly crushed, Duc Claudio of Lusitania and Masona of Emerita Augusta putting down the rising before the year was out. Sunna was exiled to Francia, Segga had his hands cut off and exiled alongside Sunna. Vagrila threw himself at Masona's mercy while the rebellion was still being fought, and as such was spared with a significant loss of power and prestige. Witteric fled the country, returning after Reccared's death.
Reccared spent the rest of his reign prosletyzing amongst the predominantly Arian minor nobility. He had some success, and by the time he died in his sleep in 601 roughly two-fifths of the peninsula's populace were Catholic, two-fifths to half were Arian and a small remainder of less than 5% were either Gnostic Christians, primarily in the south, or followers of a pre-Roman pantheon in Vasconia and the far-northwest of Lusitania.
Possibly as a Reccared's son, Liuva II, however, was much more inclined to theology than statecraft. In 602, less than four months before Maurikios was hacked to death by Phokas, he made the ultimately fatal flaw of entrusting the newly-unexiled Witteric with an army of 2,000 to complete the expulsion of the Romans from Iberia. However, upon reaching the border of Vagrila's territory, the two old conspirators turned and marched on Toledo, declaring a restoration of the old Arian Church. Liuva attempted to flee but was captured before leaving the city, had his hands cut off and exiled to Hispalis, where Vagrila could keep a safe eye on him. Witteric was crowned shortly after, assuming control over the crown-lands.
Claudio, now dubbed 'the Old' met with Favilo and Euric, Duc of Tarraconensis, at Emerita Augusta in early 603. Neither Favilo nor Euric was willing to risk their thrones in a rising against Witteric and Claudio was not strong enough to face Vagrila and the king alone, leaving him frustratedly impotent. However, word of this meeting reached Witteric and he ordered Liuva strangled that spring. This caused some protest from the Chalcedonian duces, but little beyond that.
The next major change in Iberian politics occurred in 606. Witteric arranged for his only daughter, Ermenberga, to marry Theodoric II of Aquitaine to cement an alliance. However, Theodoric took her dowry (in both senses of the term) and then exiled her back to Iberia, decrying her as "a heretical whore." This enraged Witteric and his supporters, and over the course of the next year he concluded a quadrupal alliance with Neustria and Lombardy, as well as Theodoric's archival Theudebert II of Austrasia. In 608, Theudebert invaded Alsace, bringing his allies into conflict with Aquitaine. Witteric gathered an army of 4,000 and crossed the Pyrenees, cajoling Euric, Favilo and Gundemar, Duc of Septamania to join him, thus bringing the strength of the Iberian contingent to 6,000.
Vagrila was ordered to stay behind to keep Claudio from getting ideas. Witteric knew that Claudio would refuse to join him and did not wish to cause a civil war while simultaneously warring with the Franks. He also mandated Vagrila to not attack unless Claudio attacked first, as Vagrila would almost certainly be out-generated by the wily old Duc. It would also be impossible to surprise the Lusitanians, as Claudio had kept his militia at partial readiness since 602 and his retainers were already positioned along the border, making any assault suicidal. However, Claudio was also unwilling to strike first as an attack on Vagrila would vex Witteric enough to cause him to return to the peninsula, and likely do so before he could completely destroy the other Duc and take Toledo.
However, this was changed after several of Vagrila's retainers defected after his humiliating loss to the Romans under Iustinianus...
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Regnum Visigothorum and its Duchies, 609 AD (Probably)
The defining issue of the early 7th Century in Iberia was, as it often is, religion. In 587, King Reccared had renounced Arian Christianity and converted to Chalcedonian Orthodoxy. There had been an immediate backlash; Sunna, Arian Bishop of Emerita Augusta, Vagrila, Duc of Baetica, the Lusitanian nobleman Witteric and an Arian demagogue named Segga all rose against the king. They were swiftly crushed, Duc Claudio of Lusitania and Masona of Emerita Augusta putting down the rising before the year was out. Sunna was exiled to Francia, Segga had his hands cut off and exiled alongside Sunna. Vagrila threw himself at Masona's mercy while the rebellion was still being fought, and as such was spared with a significant loss of power and prestige. Witteric fled the country, returning after Reccared's death.
Reccared spent the rest of his reign prosletyzing amongst the predominantly Arian minor nobility. He had some success, and by the time he died in his sleep in 601 roughly two-fifths of the peninsula's populace were Catholic, two-fifths to half were Arian and a small remainder of less than 5% were either Gnostic Christians, primarily in the south, or followers of a pre-Roman pantheon in Vasconia and the far-northwest of Lusitania.
Possibly as a Reccared's son, Liuva II, however, was much more inclined to theology than statecraft. In 602, less than four months before Maurikios was hacked to death by Phokas, he made the ultimately fatal flaw of entrusting the newly-unexiled Witteric with an army of 2,000 to complete the expulsion of the Romans from Iberia. However, upon reaching the border of Vagrila's territory, the two old conspirators turned and marched on Toledo, declaring a restoration of the old Arian Church. Liuva attempted to flee but was captured before leaving the city, had his hands cut off and exiled to Hispalis, where Vagrila could keep a safe eye on him. Witteric was crowned shortly after, assuming control over the crown-lands.
Claudio, now dubbed 'the Old' met with Favilo and Euric, Duc of Tarraconensis, at Emerita Augusta in early 603. Neither Favilo nor Euric was willing to risk their thrones in a rising against Witteric and Claudio was not strong enough to face Vagrila and the king alone, leaving him frustratedly impotent. However, word of this meeting reached Witteric and he ordered Liuva strangled that spring. This caused some protest from the Chalcedonian duces, but little beyond that.
The next major change in Iberian politics occurred in 606. Witteric arranged for his only daughter, Ermenberga, to marry Theodoric II of Aquitaine to cement an alliance. However, Theodoric took her dowry (in both senses of the term) and then exiled her back to Iberia, decrying her as "a heretical whore." This enraged Witteric and his supporters, and over the course of the next year he concluded a quadrupal alliance with Neustria and Lombardy, as well as Theodoric's archival Theudebert II of Austrasia. In 608, Theudebert invaded Alsace, bringing his allies into conflict with Aquitaine. Witteric gathered an army of 4,000 and crossed the Pyrenees, cajoling Euric, Favilo and Gundemar, Duc of Septamania to join him, thus bringing the strength of the Iberian contingent to 6,000.
Vagrila was ordered to stay behind to keep Claudio from getting ideas. Witteric knew that Claudio would refuse to join him and did not wish to cause a civil war while simultaneously warring with the Franks. He also mandated Vagrila to not attack unless Claudio attacked first, as Vagrila would almost certainly be out-generated by the wily old Duc. It would also be impossible to surprise the Lusitanians, as Claudio had kept his militia at partial readiness since 602 and his retainers were already positioned along the border, making any assault suicidal. However, Claudio was also unwilling to strike first as an attack on Vagrila would vex Witteric enough to cause him to return to the peninsula, and likely do so before he could completely destroy the other Duc and take Toledo.
However, this was changed after several of Vagrila's retainers defected after his humiliating loss to the Romans under Iustinianus...
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Update #14 - Characterization and Grim News from the East
Eparkhos
Banned
17 August 609
Outside Malaca
1930
The walls of Malaca came into view as he crested the hill, the normally grey arches and buildings turned hues of yellow-orange by the setting sun. Iustinianus slowed to a stop, staring at the city below. From up here it seemed so small, so...fragile. How the hell could a single large city-let alone one as small as Malaca-fight off an entire kingdom by itself, again let alone one that ruled the rest of Iberia. The Tingitanian ports were either hostile or so depopulated to be useful, and there was no contact with Asidona or Sparteriosis. They were so very, very screwed. His mind turned to what exactly would happen to him if the Visigoths returned before he could come up with and execute his plan. Athalricization...It still wasn’t too late to cut and run. He could go out on a patrol in the early morning, then slip west and south into Berber Tingitania...
“Magister, is something wrong?”
He shook himself out of his sopor, tilting his head back over his shoulder. Dulcitius and the two score of other fledgling cavalrymen that had participated in the day’s exercise were crowded in loose formation on the lower slope. They were all tense, many clutching spears in ways so wrong that it would’ve been funny if it happened to anyone else.
“No, I’m just….thinking.”
One of the riders in the second line grinned, rising in his ansulae. “Well then, we’ll have them running back to the Baetis by Natalias, sir!” The atmosphere immediately lightened, and several of the men chuckled.
Iustinianus forced a smile. He couldn’t abandon them like that. They-the whole city, even-had placed their hopes in him, trusted him to deliver them from the Visigoths. Besides, he’d spent seven years crossing the length of the Mediterranean to get here, and it just wouldn’t be right to leave again while he was winning. The smile became genuine.
“Pre-charge formation! Let’s give the women a show!”
They formed into a rough triangle, Iustinianus in the lead. Spears were held at an acute angle, low enough to quickly couch them but still high enough to not impale the man before them. The men on the leading edge had scuta strapped to their outside arm, offering a small amount of protection from arrows. He scanned the formation once, then ordered advance.
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18 August 609
Malaca
0030
Iustinianus squinted, trying to make out the small characters tightly packed together on the small piece of parchment in the low light. Due to, as always, a lack of resources, he’d been using poorly-made local candles for working at night, the sputtering remnants of which were currently sitting in a small holder on the edge of his desk. Said poorly-made candles were indeed poorly-made and barely cast enough light to see by. This wasn’t helped by his instruction to write reports as small as possible to save parchment, which was currently not helping.
He was able to puzzle out that Lucius Orcivius the Elder, grandfather of the slower Lucius, wished to know what the tax rate would be for garum production as he was planning to re-open an abandoned manufactory on the river. He thought back to his brief stint in Palestine, trying to remember what the tax rate was for garum there. What was it….15% for regular and 35% for Kosher? Yeah, that was probably it. He scribbled those down on the back of the sheet, then set it down in the growing pile beside his chair.
There was a knock at the door, followed by a fit of coughing.
“Enter.” he sighed, surprising himself with how exhausted he sounded.
A pair of miles shuffled through the door, between them a thin and well-groomed man dressed in a priest’s habit. He was carrying a pair of scrolls under his arms, and although his face was tense and shielded, his eyes were constantly in motion, flicking between the guards, the room and Iustinianus. Leontius stumbled after them, doubled over in a coughing fit.
The old soldier wheezed a “Salve,”, then un-folded himself and gestured limply to the priest. “Embassy from (cough) Vagrila, (cough) sir.” He doubled back over in another fit, shaking. Poor #######.
He looked back to the priest, who along with his guards was leaning as far away from the kentarches as he could.
“What does Vagrila have to say to me?” he said.
The other man turned from Leontius to Iustinianus, eyes still darting around the room. The way he surveyed everything in view and assessed it seemingly without giving away any of his feelings was making Iustinianus quite uncomfortable.
“Duc Vagrila….wishes….” he said, a long pause between each word. In most people, it would have been a sign of mental weakness, but given his previous behavior it was apparent that he was carefully choosing each word. “To….know….your feelings….on….submission as a….vassal.”
Iustinianus had to stifle a laugh. Submission to Vagrila? If the Visigoths didn’t immediately turn on them, the Emperor in Konstantinoupoli, whoever it was, would send a fleet to burn Malaca to the ground if only out of spite. Of course, that assumed that the Malacans wouldn’t immediately lynch him the second he bent the knee.
“I am afraid I must say no.” he responded, more diplomatically than he would like to, “Is there anything else your master wishes to discuss?”
“I….believe you are making….a possibly fatal mistake.” the priest said, eyes boring into him. Iustinianus shifted in his seat.
“And why is that?” he responded.
“Because….you are….cut from….reinforcements.” he unrolled both of the scrolls on the table, dramatically sweeping his arm over them. Iustinianus leaned forward, scanning them. He blanched.
“No, this….these have to be faked,” he breathed. The other Romans leaned in, trying to get a look at the papers. He flipped them over, furiously shaking his head.
Something resembling a smirk passed onto the priest’s face. “If….I were….to fake a document such as that….I….any sane person, really….wouldn’t be that….extravagant. You….wouldn’t believe it.”
Iustinianus froze, staring down at the desk with his hands held to his forehead. This….no, Phocas was incompetent but not that incompetent, surely! But then again, it really was too extreme for anyone to reasonably fake. But it had to be fake, surely this couldn’t happen. All the things that would have to fall into place for it to occur.
Leontius broke into another coughing fit, snapping him back. He stared at the priest, a feeling of calm passing over him.
“Leave. I will not throw myself at Vagrila’s feet, not now, not ever.”
The priest turned and walked out, his escort chasing after him after a few seconds. Leontius and Iustinianus watched him recede down the hall into the thick shadows. Iustinianus shook his head, then silently dipped the corners of both scrolls into the flickering candle.
“What was that?” Leontius asked. The magister merely stood and quietly walked out.
The older man snatched what little was left of the second paper out of the candle and quickly beat out the flame. His tired eyes focused in on what little was left of legible text.
‘PERSIANS AT ANKYRA’
Outside Malaca
1930
The walls of Malaca came into view as he crested the hill, the normally grey arches and buildings turned hues of yellow-orange by the setting sun. Iustinianus slowed to a stop, staring at the city below. From up here it seemed so small, so...fragile. How the hell could a single large city-let alone one as small as Malaca-fight off an entire kingdom by itself, again let alone one that ruled the rest of Iberia. The Tingitanian ports were either hostile or so depopulated to be useful, and there was no contact with Asidona or Sparteriosis. They were so very, very screwed. His mind turned to what exactly would happen to him if the Visigoths returned before he could come up with and execute his plan. Athalricization...It still wasn’t too late to cut and run. He could go out on a patrol in the early morning, then slip west and south into Berber Tingitania...
“Magister, is something wrong?”
He shook himself out of his sopor, tilting his head back over his shoulder. Dulcitius and the two score of other fledgling cavalrymen that had participated in the day’s exercise were crowded in loose formation on the lower slope. They were all tense, many clutching spears in ways so wrong that it would’ve been funny if it happened to anyone else.
“No, I’m just….thinking.”
One of the riders in the second line grinned, rising in his ansulae. “Well then, we’ll have them running back to the Baetis by Natalias, sir!” The atmosphere immediately lightened, and several of the men chuckled.
Iustinianus forced a smile. He couldn’t abandon them like that. They-the whole city, even-had placed their hopes in him, trusted him to deliver them from the Visigoths. Besides, he’d spent seven years crossing the length of the Mediterranean to get here, and it just wouldn’t be right to leave again while he was winning. The smile became genuine.
“Pre-charge formation! Let’s give the women a show!”
They formed into a rough triangle, Iustinianus in the lead. Spears were held at an acute angle, low enough to quickly couch them but still high enough to not impale the man before them. The men on the leading edge had scuta strapped to their outside arm, offering a small amount of protection from arrows. He scanned the formation once, then ordered advance.
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18 August 609
Malaca
0030
Iustinianus squinted, trying to make out the small characters tightly packed together on the small piece of parchment in the low light. Due to, as always, a lack of resources, he’d been using poorly-made local candles for working at night, the sputtering remnants of which were currently sitting in a small holder on the edge of his desk. Said poorly-made candles were indeed poorly-made and barely cast enough light to see by. This wasn’t helped by his instruction to write reports as small as possible to save parchment, which was currently not helping.
He was able to puzzle out that Lucius Orcivius the Elder, grandfather of the slower Lucius, wished to know what the tax rate would be for garum production as he was planning to re-open an abandoned manufactory on the river. He thought back to his brief stint in Palestine, trying to remember what the tax rate was for garum there. What was it….15% for regular and 35% for Kosher? Yeah, that was probably it. He scribbled those down on the back of the sheet, then set it down in the growing pile beside his chair.
There was a knock at the door, followed by a fit of coughing.
“Enter.” he sighed, surprising himself with how exhausted he sounded.
A pair of miles shuffled through the door, between them a thin and well-groomed man dressed in a priest’s habit. He was carrying a pair of scrolls under his arms, and although his face was tense and shielded, his eyes were constantly in motion, flicking between the guards, the room and Iustinianus. Leontius stumbled after them, doubled over in a coughing fit.
The old soldier wheezed a “Salve,”, then un-folded himself and gestured limply to the priest. “Embassy from (cough) Vagrila, (cough) sir.” He doubled back over in another fit, shaking. Poor #######.
He looked back to the priest, who along with his guards was leaning as far away from the kentarches as he could.
“What does Vagrila have to say to me?” he said.
The other man turned from Leontius to Iustinianus, eyes still darting around the room. The way he surveyed everything in view and assessed it seemingly without giving away any of his feelings was making Iustinianus quite uncomfortable.
“Duc Vagrila….wishes….” he said, a long pause between each word. In most people, it would have been a sign of mental weakness, but given his previous behavior it was apparent that he was carefully choosing each word. “To….know….your feelings….on….submission as a….vassal.”
Iustinianus had to stifle a laugh. Submission to Vagrila? If the Visigoths didn’t immediately turn on them, the Emperor in Konstantinoupoli, whoever it was, would send a fleet to burn Malaca to the ground if only out of spite. Of course, that assumed that the Malacans wouldn’t immediately lynch him the second he bent the knee.
“I am afraid I must say no.” he responded, more diplomatically than he would like to, “Is there anything else your master wishes to discuss?”
“I….believe you are making….a possibly fatal mistake.” the priest said, eyes boring into him. Iustinianus shifted in his seat.
“And why is that?” he responded.
“Because….you are….cut from….reinforcements.” he unrolled both of the scrolls on the table, dramatically sweeping his arm over them. Iustinianus leaned forward, scanning them. He blanched.
“No, this….these have to be faked,” he breathed. The other Romans leaned in, trying to get a look at the papers. He flipped them over, furiously shaking his head.
Something resembling a smirk passed onto the priest’s face. “If….I were….to fake a document such as that….I….any sane person, really….wouldn’t be that….extravagant. You….wouldn’t believe it.”
Iustinianus froze, staring down at the desk with his hands held to his forehead. This….no, Phocas was incompetent but not that incompetent, surely! But then again, it really was too extreme for anyone to reasonably fake. But it had to be fake, surely this couldn’t happen. All the things that would have to fall into place for it to occur.
Leontius broke into another coughing fit, snapping him back. He stared at the priest, a feeling of calm passing over him.
“Leave. I will not throw myself at Vagrila’s feet, not now, not ever.”
The priest turned and walked out, his escort chasing after him after a few seconds. Leontius and Iustinianus watched him recede down the hall into the thick shadows. Iustinianus shook his head, then silently dipped the corners of both scrolls into the flickering candle.
“What was that?” Leontius asked. The magister merely stood and quietly walked out.
The older man snatched what little was left of the second paper out of the candle and quickly beat out the flame. His tired eyes focused in on what little was left of legible text.
‘PERSIANS AT ANKYRA’
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The plot thickens, and the empire in the East lies in trouble. I wonder just what exactly was up with that priest in speaking so oddly slow - an intentional stylistic choice to intimidate Iustinianus, or signs of him being not that familiar with the language?
Nevertheless, it will be interesting to see how he manages to wriggle out of this situation. Keep up the good writing!
Nevertheless, it will be interesting to see how he manages to wriggle out of this situation. Keep up the good writing!
A Persian Interlude
Eparkhos
Banned
17 August 609
1230
1 Mile NW of Samosata, Sassanid Empire
Farrukhan Mehrani stood rigid and outwardly calm, staring intently across the bridge of boats spanning the Euphrates. More specifically, he was glaring daggers at the large Indian elephant that was currently shuffling towards the far bank of the river, carrying on its back a gilded and bejewelled howdah, the Derafsh e Kaviani[1] flying from its pinnacle. Behind it was a column of the Zhayedan[2], which he estimated numbered about 250, who were in turn followed by what could only be the full strength of the Gond-i Shahanshah, the Shahanshah’s personal army. Riding at a good distance before the elephant was a small group of Gyan-Avspar[3], who carried the personal standard of Aspad Gushnasp. Great, he’d have to deal with both Khosrau and “I-eat-so-much-sh*t-my-mouth-is-brown” Gushnap.
Ahura Mazda, he was going to need a drink.
He walked back to the van, grabbed the first bottle of wine he found (a cheap Meleti apricot that would probably taste like piss) then returned to the left bank. The long column was still on the far side, the Zhayedan apparently having drifted too far up and panicked the great pachyderm. The latter was now laying on its side, a good portion of its flank stained red and the Derafsh having been dismounted and hung on a lance. It was now making its way, the emperor no doubt following, onwards to the bridge. He popped the cork and started drinking.
Fifteen minutes later, the bottle was half-empty and the Shahanshah’s party had just reached the bridge. Farrukhan doffed his helmet and set it on the ground, rolling the bottle beneath it. As the thunder of hooves on the wide planks began to rattle in his ears, he dropped to one knee in a deferential gesture.
“Shahrbaraz.” Khosrau’s voice was icy, giving him a chill that he hadn’t felt since he’d fallen into Dasht-e Nawar in winter as a child. It was never good to anger a man with so much power to such an extent.
He slowly lifted his head, trying not to anger him anymore than he already was. Khosrau sat astride his horse a few feet away, beside him Gushnap. The Gyan-Avspar were arrayed in a circle around him, lances lowered to head-level. “My Shahanshah,” he breathed, watching every word he spoke.
The following seconds crawled by like a crippled ant trying to cross a puddle of dried beer that had hardened over a lake of bitumen. Mehrani was frozen in place, fully aware that twitching at the wrong instant would get him spitted.
“Tell me, Shahrbaraz, are you familiar with the names of Roman provinces?” the Shahanshah said, drawing out every word to seemingly intimidate Mehrani. The general froze, mind racing through his options. If he said ‘no’, he’d be executed on the spot of dereliction of duty. So, he had to say ‘yes’. It was an obvious lead-in to a dressing down or worse, but he could hardly say anything else.
“My Shahanshah, it is part of my duty to know that, and as I dare not to be derelict in my duty I am familiar with them.” he said, all in a single breath.
“Then you should know that we are in Euphratensis,” Khosrau said, anger beginning to creep into his voice, “Which is to the west of Osroene. And I gave you very clear instructions that you were not to advance beyond Osroene while any cities within it remained within Roman hands. And yet Edessa still stands!” he roared the last part, lunging halfway out of the saddle and sending spittle flying into Mehrani’s face.
“My Shahanshah, I was pursuing a fleeing Roman army. If I had remained at Edessa they would have escaped and linked up with the Army of Satrapiae and then they would’ve been too large to fight-”
“DO NOT GIVE ME EMPTY EXCUSES!” Khosrau shouted, veins bulging out of his head. Farrukhan was so dead. He began repeating every bit of the Avesta he knew inside his mind, shaking. Gushnap smirked, rising in his saddle and raising his sword to give the signal to finish Mehrani.
“Do not presume to be my equal, Aspad.”
Mehrani and Gushnap both slowly turned to face Khosrau. The aging man’s voice had gone from furious to terrifyingly placid in a few seconds. He glared at the hazarbed, who slowly wilted under his gaze. The Shahanshah then turned to Mehrani.
“Consider yourself lucky. I will not execute for your treason.” he sneered. “But you will be stripped of your titles. I think I’ll replace you with Pirouz Zikani[4], and your lands will be given to the Zikan. You are no longer Shahrbaraz.” he leaned forward in the saddle, smiling dementedly. “I think….exile is appropriate. Someplace where your talents can still be used to benefit the throne.”
Mehrani was frozen, not daring to breath. He wasn’t going to be executed. Thank Ahura Mazda, he wasn’t going to be executed! Reassignment to almost anywhere would be better than being dead! That was, unless, Khosrau sent him to-
The Shahanshah’s smile widened. “I hope you enjoy Yaman, shahrab.”
[1] Imperial standard of Sasanian Persia
[2] Sasanian Immortals
[3] Most elite Persian cavalry group
[4] Kardarigan
1230
1 Mile NW of Samosata, Sassanid Empire
Farrukhan Mehrani stood rigid and outwardly calm, staring intently across the bridge of boats spanning the Euphrates. More specifically, he was glaring daggers at the large Indian elephant that was currently shuffling towards the far bank of the river, carrying on its back a gilded and bejewelled howdah, the Derafsh e Kaviani[1] flying from its pinnacle. Behind it was a column of the Zhayedan[2], which he estimated numbered about 250, who were in turn followed by what could only be the full strength of the Gond-i Shahanshah, the Shahanshah’s personal army. Riding at a good distance before the elephant was a small group of Gyan-Avspar[3], who carried the personal standard of Aspad Gushnasp. Great, he’d have to deal with both Khosrau and “I-eat-so-much-sh*t-my-mouth-is-brown” Gushnap.
Ahura Mazda, he was going to need a drink.
He walked back to the van, grabbed the first bottle of wine he found (a cheap Meleti apricot that would probably taste like piss) then returned to the left bank. The long column was still on the far side, the Zhayedan apparently having drifted too far up and panicked the great pachyderm. The latter was now laying on its side, a good portion of its flank stained red and the Derafsh having been dismounted and hung on a lance. It was now making its way, the emperor no doubt following, onwards to the bridge. He popped the cork and started drinking.
Fifteen minutes later, the bottle was half-empty and the Shahanshah’s party had just reached the bridge. Farrukhan doffed his helmet and set it on the ground, rolling the bottle beneath it. As the thunder of hooves on the wide planks began to rattle in his ears, he dropped to one knee in a deferential gesture.
“Shahrbaraz.” Khosrau’s voice was icy, giving him a chill that he hadn’t felt since he’d fallen into Dasht-e Nawar in winter as a child. It was never good to anger a man with so much power to such an extent.
He slowly lifted his head, trying not to anger him anymore than he already was. Khosrau sat astride his horse a few feet away, beside him Gushnap. The Gyan-Avspar were arrayed in a circle around him, lances lowered to head-level. “My Shahanshah,” he breathed, watching every word he spoke.
The following seconds crawled by like a crippled ant trying to cross a puddle of dried beer that had hardened over a lake of bitumen. Mehrani was frozen in place, fully aware that twitching at the wrong instant would get him spitted.
“Tell me, Shahrbaraz, are you familiar with the names of Roman provinces?” the Shahanshah said, drawing out every word to seemingly intimidate Mehrani. The general froze, mind racing through his options. If he said ‘no’, he’d be executed on the spot of dereliction of duty. So, he had to say ‘yes’. It was an obvious lead-in to a dressing down or worse, but he could hardly say anything else.
“My Shahanshah, it is part of my duty to know that, and as I dare not to be derelict in my duty I am familiar with them.” he said, all in a single breath.
“Then you should know that we are in Euphratensis,” Khosrau said, anger beginning to creep into his voice, “Which is to the west of Osroene. And I gave you very clear instructions that you were not to advance beyond Osroene while any cities within it remained within Roman hands. And yet Edessa still stands!” he roared the last part, lunging halfway out of the saddle and sending spittle flying into Mehrani’s face.
“My Shahanshah, I was pursuing a fleeing Roman army. If I had remained at Edessa they would have escaped and linked up with the Army of Satrapiae and then they would’ve been too large to fight-”
“DO NOT GIVE ME EMPTY EXCUSES!” Khosrau shouted, veins bulging out of his head. Farrukhan was so dead. He began repeating every bit of the Avesta he knew inside his mind, shaking. Gushnap smirked, rising in his saddle and raising his sword to give the signal to finish Mehrani.
“Do not presume to be my equal, Aspad.”
Mehrani and Gushnap both slowly turned to face Khosrau. The aging man’s voice had gone from furious to terrifyingly placid in a few seconds. He glared at the hazarbed, who slowly wilted under his gaze. The Shahanshah then turned to Mehrani.
“Consider yourself lucky. I will not execute for your treason.” he sneered. “But you will be stripped of your titles. I think I’ll replace you with Pirouz Zikani[4], and your lands will be given to the Zikan. You are no longer Shahrbaraz.” he leaned forward in the saddle, smiling dementedly. “I think….exile is appropriate. Someplace where your talents can still be used to benefit the throne.”
Mehrani was frozen, not daring to breath. He wasn’t going to be executed. Thank Ahura Mazda, he wasn’t going to be executed! Reassignment to almost anywhere would be better than being dead! That was, unless, Khosrau sent him to-
The Shahanshah’s smile widened. “I hope you enjoy Yaman, shahrab.”
[1] Imperial standard of Sasanian Persia
[2] Sasanian Immortals
[3] Most elite Persian cavalry group
[4] Kardarigan
15 - Planning for the Future
Eparkhos
Banned
19 August 609
Malaca
0615
“Leontius!”
Iustinianus rapped on the kentarches’ door again, jumping eagerly from foot to foot as he waited for the old soldier to answer it. He’d found a way out of all of this, or at least he thought he had, and wanted to run it by the garrison commander before he acted on it. It was so brilliant and complex that he wasn’t able to write it all down, and so he was eager to talk before he forgot any part of it. He knocked again, louder this time.
The door flew open, revealing a bedraggled and exhausted Leontius, dressed only in underclothes.
“WHAT?!” he roared, sending Iustinianus half a foot into the air. He then doubled over in a coughing fit, only recovering after several solid minutes of hacking. Iustinianus lightly patted him on the shoulder.
“You alright?” he said, trying to fill the uncomfortable half-silence. Leontius nodded briskly, standing back up.
“I’m fine.” he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Are you?”
“What do– Oh.” Iustinainus became acutely aware that he had slept at best two hours in the last two days and probably looked and smelled like he’d come crawling out of the deepest cave in the Solarums. He took a few steps back to give Leontius some breathing space. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Right then,” Leontius said, “What the hell was so important that it couldn’t wait until after the crack of dawn?”
Iustinianus jumped back into his state of manic excitement. “I’ve figured out how we can beat Vagrila!”
Leontius was remarkably unresponsive, merely leaning back against the doorframe. “Do tell.” he said dryly.
Iustinianus frowned. “I thought you’d be more….”
“Enthusiastic? If I had a follis for every miles that’d ever come up with a brilliant plan to beat the Visigoths I could buy every farm in Aegyptus. Out with it, now.”
Iustinainus shifted his weight. “Well, uh, we make use of the new cavalry legion to strike deep into his lands.” As he spoke the eagerness crept back into his voice, “More specifically, we target the homes of the Visigothic land owners. We either kill or cripple all the men, which’ll eat away at Vagrila as they’re the only people who actually support him. He’ll have to either watch his taxes and levies dry up or come out after us. Since we use the ansulae we’ll be able to outrun and outmaneuver any pursuers, and eventually his impotency will either spark a rebellion or force Witteric to remove him from power, in which case the power shift will alienate the other duces even more. Hopefully, that’ll cause a full-blown civil war.”
Leontius nodded. “Nice plan. One problem, though.”
Iustinianus cocked his head. “What?”
“If Vagrila has more than three atomoi in his heart[1], he’ll envelop Malaca after you burn a dozen or so villas.”
Iustinianus waved it off. “With all the new men, we’ll be able to hold the city easily.”
Leontius stared at him, blinking. “What?”
“I said that with the new men in the garrison we’ll be able to—”
“Stop. Just stop. Think about it for a second.” Leontius said, holding the bridge of his nose.
“With the new soldiers available to us, we will be able to hold off any Visigothic…” he trailed off as Leontius groaned loudly. He dropped his hand to his side, staring at Iustinianus with a look of equal parts annoyance and exhaustion.
“There are one-hundred and thirty-six men of fighting age in Malaca.” he said slowly, as one would speak to a small child or dog, “Got that?”
“Yes, I’ve got that,” Iustinianus bristled, “Which will be more than—”
“How many men are in the cavalry legion?” Leontius growled.
“Fifty-two, but I—. Oh.”
Leontius nodded. “And eighty-four men won’t be able to hold the city against a determined assault by a force ten times their size.”
“I…see.”
There was a moment of awkward silence before Leontius excused himself to get dressed. He returned a few minutes later, saying “It’s not a bad plan, we just need more men to carry it out without dying.”
Iustinianus turned and started to pace up and down the narrow street, hands clasped behind his back.
“The Baleares are threatened by nothing more dangerous than some pirates, so they’re the obvious source to draw from. The biggest problem will be getting enough boats to transfer them to the mainland.”
“That, and they’re in Caesarius’ back pocket.” Leontius interjected.
Iustinianus cocked his head, pausing and turning to face him with a quizzical expression. “Who’s Caesarius?”
Leontius frowned. “No one’s told you?” The magister shook his head. “Well, he’s your stereotypical Italian patrician with his head so far up his own ass that he’s lost his ability to smell. Even better, he’s dumb as a rock and only in power because he’s the Heraclii’s stooge.” He laughed. “Moron tried to get the Visigoths to recognize him as “Imperator of Iberia”. Honestly, I don’t know how he’s not dead yet.”
“And he’s not friendly?”
“Oh, that....Phocas appointed him as magister last year. Granted, he’s not popular here or in Tingitania but if he can convince enough Balearans that your paperwork is fake he would have the power and authority to string us both up without being lynched.”
Iustinianus stared at him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?”
Leontius shrugged. “Thought you knew.”
Iustinianus shook his head and went back to pacing. “So, the Baleares are out and we’ll have to do something about Caesarius, sooner rather than later. That leaves the Tingitanian ports. Septem’s isolated enough we can transfer all but a skeleton garrison, and we can probably take some from Tingis without weakening it too badly.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself again.”
Iustinianus sighed. “Right, the Delii. How the hell are we going to take care of them without starting a civil war?”
“Well, I don’t think that we can leave them in place. You did get Marcus the Elder’s favorite child turned into a porcupine.”
Great, Delius was the paterfamilias’ favorite child. He already felt like shit for getting him killed, the dire political consequences weren’t necessary, God.
“Alright then, so we’ll have to get them out of power more-or-less nonviolently. And we’ll have to do it in a way that doesn’t piss off the locals.”
“That latter part shouldn’t be too hard. As far as I’m aware, Marcus hasn’t been that well-liked since he started confiscating non-Chalcedonian property back in ’05.”
Iustinianus stopped. “There are that many Old Believers?”[2]
“No. Tingis is a trade city, so the confiscations scared away a lot of Visigothic, Vandalic and Berber traders.”
“So, if we can dethrone Marcus and reverse that, the populace will turn for us, or at least whoever we replace them with?”
“Probably.”
Iustinianus nodded. “That’ll probably be amplified if we can find someone who’s popular with them already. Granted, they’ll have to be pretty thick to buy the ‘Appointed-by-Tiberius’ line or a Maurician diehard who somehow survived the purges and is willing to keep his mouth shut.” he laughed hollowly. “Like that’s possible.”
Leontius fell silent, brow furrowed and staring out into space. Iustinianus watched him curiously for a few seconds before breaking the silence. “Leontius? You’re not having a stroke or anything, are you?”
“No,” Leontius said, breaking out of his trance and turning to face the magister, “I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“Let me finish!” he growled. After a beat, he continued. “About an old exarch I served under in the 80s and 90s. Drove the Berbers across the Sala[3] in two seasons of campaigning and they didn’t come back until, what was it, ’04? Yeah, I think it was ’04. Anyway, he was made exarch and consul both by Mauricius, and was one of the few men in Africa who didn’t hate him. Last I heard, he was chased into the Atlases by a mob of Donatists in ’98.
“If he’s still alive, he’s probably our best bet. But it’s entirely possible he’s long dead, he was in his fifties when he left, and a decade in the mountains isn’t wonderful for one’s health.”
Iustinianus was grinning. “Seven years in the Germanic states isn’t great for one’s health either, but here I am.” He paused. “What was his name?”
“Gennadius[4], if I remember correctly. But don’t get your hopes up. Even if he’s still alive, we’ll have to track him down, and that involves getting someone who won’t be immediately imprisoned as a spy by the Delii but still knows enough about both spycraft and Tingitania to not die, in a port large enough to have semi-functioning roads going south.”
Iustinianus paused, mulling it over. After a few minutes, a smile crept over his face. “I believe I may know just such a man.”
He darted down the street, leaving Leontius standing alone on the stoop. The old kentarches shrugged and walked off towards his post, ready for another dull day.
To the east, the sun crested the horizon, beginning a new day.
--------------–
[1] The period equivalent of "Three brain cells"
[2] Pagan holdouts
[3] Bou Regreg River
[4] All this is OTL. Look him up
Malaca
0615
“Leontius!”
Iustinianus rapped on the kentarches’ door again, jumping eagerly from foot to foot as he waited for the old soldier to answer it. He’d found a way out of all of this, or at least he thought he had, and wanted to run it by the garrison commander before he acted on it. It was so brilliant and complex that he wasn’t able to write it all down, and so he was eager to talk before he forgot any part of it. He knocked again, louder this time.
The door flew open, revealing a bedraggled and exhausted Leontius, dressed only in underclothes.
“WHAT?!” he roared, sending Iustinianus half a foot into the air. He then doubled over in a coughing fit, only recovering after several solid minutes of hacking. Iustinianus lightly patted him on the shoulder.
“You alright?” he said, trying to fill the uncomfortable half-silence. Leontius nodded briskly, standing back up.
“I’m fine.” he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Are you?”
“What do– Oh.” Iustinainus became acutely aware that he had slept at best two hours in the last two days and probably looked and smelled like he’d come crawling out of the deepest cave in the Solarums. He took a few steps back to give Leontius some breathing space. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Right then,” Leontius said, “What the hell was so important that it couldn’t wait until after the crack of dawn?”
Iustinianus jumped back into his state of manic excitement. “I’ve figured out how we can beat Vagrila!”
Leontius was remarkably unresponsive, merely leaning back against the doorframe. “Do tell.” he said dryly.
Iustinianus frowned. “I thought you’d be more….”
“Enthusiastic? If I had a follis for every miles that’d ever come up with a brilliant plan to beat the Visigoths I could buy every farm in Aegyptus. Out with it, now.”
Iustinainus shifted his weight. “Well, uh, we make use of the new cavalry legion to strike deep into his lands.” As he spoke the eagerness crept back into his voice, “More specifically, we target the homes of the Visigothic land owners. We either kill or cripple all the men, which’ll eat away at Vagrila as they’re the only people who actually support him. He’ll have to either watch his taxes and levies dry up or come out after us. Since we use the ansulae we’ll be able to outrun and outmaneuver any pursuers, and eventually his impotency will either spark a rebellion or force Witteric to remove him from power, in which case the power shift will alienate the other duces even more. Hopefully, that’ll cause a full-blown civil war.”
Leontius nodded. “Nice plan. One problem, though.”
Iustinianus cocked his head. “What?”
“If Vagrila has more than three atomoi in his heart[1], he’ll envelop Malaca after you burn a dozen or so villas.”
Iustinianus waved it off. “With all the new men, we’ll be able to hold the city easily.”
Leontius stared at him, blinking. “What?”
“I said that with the new men in the garrison we’ll be able to—”
“Stop. Just stop. Think about it for a second.” Leontius said, holding the bridge of his nose.
“With the new soldiers available to us, we will be able to hold off any Visigothic…” he trailed off as Leontius groaned loudly. He dropped his hand to his side, staring at Iustinianus with a look of equal parts annoyance and exhaustion.
“There are one-hundred and thirty-six men of fighting age in Malaca.” he said slowly, as one would speak to a small child or dog, “Got that?”
“Yes, I’ve got that,” Iustinianus bristled, “Which will be more than—”
“How many men are in the cavalry legion?” Leontius growled.
“Fifty-two, but I—. Oh.”
Leontius nodded. “And eighty-four men won’t be able to hold the city against a determined assault by a force ten times their size.”
“I…see.”
There was a moment of awkward silence before Leontius excused himself to get dressed. He returned a few minutes later, saying “It’s not a bad plan, we just need more men to carry it out without dying.”
Iustinianus turned and started to pace up and down the narrow street, hands clasped behind his back.
“The Baleares are threatened by nothing more dangerous than some pirates, so they’re the obvious source to draw from. The biggest problem will be getting enough boats to transfer them to the mainland.”
“That, and they’re in Caesarius’ back pocket.” Leontius interjected.
Iustinianus cocked his head, pausing and turning to face him with a quizzical expression. “Who’s Caesarius?”
Leontius frowned. “No one’s told you?” The magister shook his head. “Well, he’s your stereotypical Italian patrician with his head so far up his own ass that he’s lost his ability to smell. Even better, he’s dumb as a rock and only in power because he’s the Heraclii’s stooge.” He laughed. “Moron tried to get the Visigoths to recognize him as “Imperator of Iberia”. Honestly, I don’t know how he’s not dead yet.”
“And he’s not friendly?”
“Oh, that....Phocas appointed him as magister last year. Granted, he’s not popular here or in Tingitania but if he can convince enough Balearans that your paperwork is fake he would have the power and authority to string us both up without being lynched.”
Iustinianus stared at him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?”
Leontius shrugged. “Thought you knew.”
Iustinianus shook his head and went back to pacing. “So, the Baleares are out and we’ll have to do something about Caesarius, sooner rather than later. That leaves the Tingitanian ports. Septem’s isolated enough we can transfer all but a skeleton garrison, and we can probably take some from Tingis without weakening it too badly.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself again.”
Iustinianus sighed. “Right, the Delii. How the hell are we going to take care of them without starting a civil war?”
“Well, I don’t think that we can leave them in place. You did get Marcus the Elder’s favorite child turned into a porcupine.”
Great, Delius was the paterfamilias’ favorite child. He already felt like shit for getting him killed, the dire political consequences weren’t necessary, God.
“Alright then, so we’ll have to get them out of power more-or-less nonviolently. And we’ll have to do it in a way that doesn’t piss off the locals.”
“That latter part shouldn’t be too hard. As far as I’m aware, Marcus hasn’t been that well-liked since he started confiscating non-Chalcedonian property back in ’05.”
Iustinianus stopped. “There are that many Old Believers?”[2]
“No. Tingis is a trade city, so the confiscations scared away a lot of Visigothic, Vandalic and Berber traders.”
“So, if we can dethrone Marcus and reverse that, the populace will turn for us, or at least whoever we replace them with?”
“Probably.”
Iustinianus nodded. “That’ll probably be amplified if we can find someone who’s popular with them already. Granted, they’ll have to be pretty thick to buy the ‘Appointed-by-Tiberius’ line or a Maurician diehard who somehow survived the purges and is willing to keep his mouth shut.” he laughed hollowly. “Like that’s possible.”
Leontius fell silent, brow furrowed and staring out into space. Iustinianus watched him curiously for a few seconds before breaking the silence. “Leontius? You’re not having a stroke or anything, are you?”
“No,” Leontius said, breaking out of his trance and turning to face the magister, “I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“Let me finish!” he growled. After a beat, he continued. “About an old exarch I served under in the 80s and 90s. Drove the Berbers across the Sala[3] in two seasons of campaigning and they didn’t come back until, what was it, ’04? Yeah, I think it was ’04. Anyway, he was made exarch and consul both by Mauricius, and was one of the few men in Africa who didn’t hate him. Last I heard, he was chased into the Atlases by a mob of Donatists in ’98.
“If he’s still alive, he’s probably our best bet. But it’s entirely possible he’s long dead, he was in his fifties when he left, and a decade in the mountains isn’t wonderful for one’s health.”
Iustinianus was grinning. “Seven years in the Germanic states isn’t great for one’s health either, but here I am.” He paused. “What was his name?”
“Gennadius[4], if I remember correctly. But don’t get your hopes up. Even if he’s still alive, we’ll have to track him down, and that involves getting someone who won’t be immediately imprisoned as a spy by the Delii but still knows enough about both spycraft and Tingitania to not die, in a port large enough to have semi-functioning roads going south.”
Iustinianus paused, mulling it over. After a few minutes, a smile crept over his face. “I believe I may know just such a man.”
He darted down the street, leaving Leontius standing alone on the stoop. The old kentarches shrugged and walked off towards his post, ready for another dull day.
To the east, the sun crested the horizon, beginning a new day.
--------------–
[1] The period equivalent of "Three brain cells"
[2] Pagan holdouts
[3] Bou Regreg River
[4] All this is OTL. Look him up
16 - Intelligence, or lack there of.
Eparkhos
Banned
20 August 609
1000
Tingis
Quintus Orcivius pushed through the crowd that thronged the northern entrance to the market, ducking between a pair of Frankish traders on one side and a Berber sell-sword on the other. The press of bodies was somewhat reassuring, comforting even, a feeling that his five years in exile were over. It felt good to be home.
He sighed. Of course, it wasn’t permanent. As soon as he found this Gennadius person he’d have to go back to Spania and near-certain death. Iustinianus’ song-and-dance might be able to convince others that victory was assured, but he knew. Vagrila’s abatement was a fluke, and Malaca would be reduced to smoking rubble before the year’s end.
“Quintus Orcivius,” an all-too familiar voice drawled in a thick Vandalic accent, “What the hell are you thinkin, comin’ back here?”
His heart skipped a beat and he whirled around, frantically scrambling for the dagger that was cinched at his belt. His hand touched the pommel at the same instant he felt the familiar press of the side of a sword on his side.
“The hell part of ‘Never come back’ didn’t go through?” the voice asked.
Orcivius swallowed. His only hope of getting out of this without being spitted was to talk his way out before more comestabuli showed up.
“Godigisel….” he started, voice trailing off as the pressure on his flank became heavier. He took a deep breath than continued, words running on as he tried to get out as much as possible,.“I’mhereonordersfromthemagisterofSpaniaandunlessyouwanttowindupdancingonairabovetheseawallsyoushouldletmegonow.”
The Vandal chuffed in what he could only assume was the man’s version of a laugh. “Magister of Spania, my ass. Who’d you get the assignment from? One of Caesarius’ secretaries?”
He lightly shook his head. “No. Flavius Iustinianus….” Damn. Had he ever heard Iustinianus’ last name? Shit, he had to make something up. “....Sabbatius. Yeah, Flavius Iustinianus Sabbatius. Appointed by the Emperor a few months back.”
“Oh yeah? Which emperor?”
“Tiberios III.” It was at that moment that Orcivius realized that Tiberios was the name of Maurice’s western kaisar, one who had been dead for at least six years. Shit. God willing, Godigisel was so far out of the loop he didn’t know that.
“Tiberios….No, the emperor is Phocas.” Godigisel said, a slight tone of uncertainty creeping into his voice. Thank you, Iesus.
“Phocas got overthrown last year.” Orcivius said, struggling to keep his voice even.
“I….”
He twisted his head around to face Godigisel directly. “Look, if you don’t believe me, check my left cloak pocket. I have the papers in there.”
The pressure on his side slightly abated as the other man slowly reached forward and tugged his outer layer up, feeling for a lump in the bottom corner. He felt his way to the opening and pulled the wad of parchment out, pressing them against Orcivius’ back in an attempt to smooth them out.
What followed were the most tense moments of Orcivius’ life as he stood as frozen as a statue, Godigisel standing a few strides behind with the sword still pressing into his back as the Vandal puzzled over the papers.
Finally, after a seeming eternity Godigisel muttered something about damn scribes and shoved the papers back into his pocket. “We’re goin’ to the citadel so they can sort this shit out,” he growled, shoving Orcivius in the back. The pressure vanished, but he was quite sure bolting would be suicidal and so meekly shuffled a pace ahead of his captor all the way to the fortress.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
‘Escorting’ a supposed envoy from the Magister of Spania turned out to be a good way to gain a quick audience with the Comes of Tingitania. Less than fifteen minutes after first encountering Godigisel, the former and Orcivius found themselves standing outside the door to Delius’ office. One of the five guards escorting them, a large Germanic man whom Orcivius put as Suebi, pounded on the door.
“Reason?” barked a harsh voice from within.
“Man claiming to be escorting an envoy from the Magister of Spania, sir.” the guard said in a low and rumbling voice.
“Enter!” the man within responded.
He swung the door open and Orcivius and Godigisel were thrust through, two guards following. The inside was spartanly furnished, bearing only a bench on the right wall and a desk. Rising from behind the latter object was a thin, almost skeletal old man whose head seemed almost too large for his body. He was a head taller than either of them, and all four of the men shrank back some.
“Which one of you is the so-called messenger?” he asked curtly. Orcivius trepidatiously raised his hand, afraid that any misstep would get him killed.
“Good. You two,” he pointed to the guard, “Escort the other one out.”
The two men grabbed Godigisel by the both arms and started to drag him out. This snapped him out of his seeming daze and he howled, “Bounty! There’s a bounty on him!”
The old man gestured for the guards to stop, then scrutinized both of the men for a long minute. His head snapped around to Orcivius. “That true?”
He nodded. “Outstanding reward from a few years back, sir.”
Delius nodded, then looked back to the guards. “Give him two folli, then eject him.” The guards continued dragging him out, one stopping and shuffling to the side of the door as they passed by. Orcivius began flicking his eyes back and forth between the two, searching for any sign of the guard drawing the sword that was tied around his waist.
“Your message….I assume the new magister is not so novice as to not send a written copy?” Delius asked, speaking in a sudden and rapid-fire tone. Orcivius jumped, scrambling to find the words for a response.
“What? Oh no, I, uh, I-”
Delius cut him off. “Give it to me.”
Orcivius grabbed at his pocket, nearly tearing the seams off as he tried to get the parchment out as fast as he could. He found it and quickly stuck it out over the desk. Delius snatched it away no more than a second after his hand stopped moving. The old man unrolled the mess and smoothed it out on the desk, bending over the furniture to do so. His tunic slid down the back of his neck, revealing a long and nasty-looking scar running along his left dorsal side and disappearing into both the cloth and his hair. That had to have been painful.
His stare was broken by Delius suddenly snapping up, eyes seeming to blaze with emotion, and sliding the parchment into a sub-section of the desk. He turned to face the guard.
“Batyradz, if any word of this gets out I’ll be coming after you.” he hissed. The guard nodded, sliding sideways on the wall in a gesture of deference. Delius tslid back into his seat, then turned to face Orcivius.
“What’s your name?” Delius asked.
“Quintus Orcivius, sir.”
“What do you know of the contents of this letter?” he asked, his voice terrifyingly placid.
“N-Nothing, sir.” Orcivius stammered, “I’ve only been told to carry it to-” he clamped his mouth shut, realizing he’d said too much.
Delius leaned forward over the desk. “Oh, do tell.”
Orcivius weakly shook his head, frantically looking between Delius, the papers and Batyradz. Delius nodded to the giant man.
“You’re going to tell me, the only changeable factor is how much pain you’ll be in.” His voice was menacing, the sort of voice that was rarely heard outside of childhood night terrors. His face slowly darkened as seconds passed without a response. Orcivius felt a cold sweat bead on his brow. He looked back at the guard, who was slowly rising from the bench.
“Fine!” he spat, “It’s Gennadius! The message was for Gennadius!”
Delius’ face turned thoughtful and he leaned back in his seat. He turned the name over in his mouth a few times, staring off into space. His hand went to his face, massaging his chin as he thought. After a few minutes he looked up and over to the guard.
“Remind me to have that old bastard killed.” he said, then went back to his musings. After a few minutes, he stood and began to pace back and forth along the back wall, occasionally stopping and staring out of a small, circular window. Every few minutes he would shake his head and mutter something about Maurice. After almost an hour, he stopped and sat down again.
“Now, man, I assume you’d prefer to remain alive?”
Orcivius frantically nodded.
“Good. How attached are you to the current magister?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Good.”
Delius leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“Now here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to stay here for the next two weeks, and then you’re going to return to Spania and tell him that you couldn’t find hide nor hair of Gennadius. And then you’re going to start writing me everything that he does. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” Orcivius squeaked.
“Good,” Delius nodded, looking over at Batyradz, “Take him to Ocella and tell him to instruct him in the basics of spycraft and teach him Darai.”[1]
As the door closed behind the two men, Delius sat back in his chair. This was….amazing. He could hardly have asked for a better gift. If he was lucky, played his cards right and Orcivius didn’t mess things up catastrophically, it was entirely possible he would have unrivaled control of all of Spania by the end of the year.
--------------------
[1] Wolof. In this case, Delius is using it as a language for quiet communication due to how obscure it is north of the Sahara.
1000
Tingis
Quintus Orcivius pushed through the crowd that thronged the northern entrance to the market, ducking between a pair of Frankish traders on one side and a Berber sell-sword on the other. The press of bodies was somewhat reassuring, comforting even, a feeling that his five years in exile were over. It felt good to be home.
He sighed. Of course, it wasn’t permanent. As soon as he found this Gennadius person he’d have to go back to Spania and near-certain death. Iustinianus’ song-and-dance might be able to convince others that victory was assured, but he knew. Vagrila’s abatement was a fluke, and Malaca would be reduced to smoking rubble before the year’s end.
“Quintus Orcivius,” an all-too familiar voice drawled in a thick Vandalic accent, “What the hell are you thinkin, comin’ back here?”
His heart skipped a beat and he whirled around, frantically scrambling for the dagger that was cinched at his belt. His hand touched the pommel at the same instant he felt the familiar press of the side of a sword on his side.
“The hell part of ‘Never come back’ didn’t go through?” the voice asked.
Orcivius swallowed. His only hope of getting out of this without being spitted was to talk his way out before more comestabuli showed up.
“Godigisel….” he started, voice trailing off as the pressure on his flank became heavier. He took a deep breath than continued, words running on as he tried to get out as much as possible,.“I’mhereonordersfromthemagisterofSpaniaandunlessyouwanttowindupdancingonairabovetheseawallsyoushouldletmegonow.”
The Vandal chuffed in what he could only assume was the man’s version of a laugh. “Magister of Spania, my ass. Who’d you get the assignment from? One of Caesarius’ secretaries?”
He lightly shook his head. “No. Flavius Iustinianus….” Damn. Had he ever heard Iustinianus’ last name? Shit, he had to make something up. “....Sabbatius. Yeah, Flavius Iustinianus Sabbatius. Appointed by the Emperor a few months back.”
“Oh yeah? Which emperor?”
“Tiberios III.” It was at that moment that Orcivius realized that Tiberios was the name of Maurice’s western kaisar, one who had been dead for at least six years. Shit. God willing, Godigisel was so far out of the loop he didn’t know that.
“Tiberios….No, the emperor is Phocas.” Godigisel said, a slight tone of uncertainty creeping into his voice. Thank you, Iesus.
“Phocas got overthrown last year.” Orcivius said, struggling to keep his voice even.
“I….”
He twisted his head around to face Godigisel directly. “Look, if you don’t believe me, check my left cloak pocket. I have the papers in there.”
The pressure on his side slightly abated as the other man slowly reached forward and tugged his outer layer up, feeling for a lump in the bottom corner. He felt his way to the opening and pulled the wad of parchment out, pressing them against Orcivius’ back in an attempt to smooth them out.
What followed were the most tense moments of Orcivius’ life as he stood as frozen as a statue, Godigisel standing a few strides behind with the sword still pressing into his back as the Vandal puzzled over the papers.
Finally, after a seeming eternity Godigisel muttered something about damn scribes and shoved the papers back into his pocket. “We’re goin’ to the citadel so they can sort this shit out,” he growled, shoving Orcivius in the back. The pressure vanished, but he was quite sure bolting would be suicidal and so meekly shuffled a pace ahead of his captor all the way to the fortress.
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‘Escorting’ a supposed envoy from the Magister of Spania turned out to be a good way to gain a quick audience with the Comes of Tingitania. Less than fifteen minutes after first encountering Godigisel, the former and Orcivius found themselves standing outside the door to Delius’ office. One of the five guards escorting them, a large Germanic man whom Orcivius put as Suebi, pounded on the door.
“Reason?” barked a harsh voice from within.
“Man claiming to be escorting an envoy from the Magister of Spania, sir.” the guard said in a low and rumbling voice.
“Enter!” the man within responded.
He swung the door open and Orcivius and Godigisel were thrust through, two guards following. The inside was spartanly furnished, bearing only a bench on the right wall and a desk. Rising from behind the latter object was a thin, almost skeletal old man whose head seemed almost too large for his body. He was a head taller than either of them, and all four of the men shrank back some.
“Which one of you is the so-called messenger?” he asked curtly. Orcivius trepidatiously raised his hand, afraid that any misstep would get him killed.
“Good. You two,” he pointed to the guard, “Escort the other one out.”
The two men grabbed Godigisel by the both arms and started to drag him out. This snapped him out of his seeming daze and he howled, “Bounty! There’s a bounty on him!”
The old man gestured for the guards to stop, then scrutinized both of the men for a long minute. His head snapped around to Orcivius. “That true?”
He nodded. “Outstanding reward from a few years back, sir.”
Delius nodded, then looked back to the guards. “Give him two folli, then eject him.” The guards continued dragging him out, one stopping and shuffling to the side of the door as they passed by. Orcivius began flicking his eyes back and forth between the two, searching for any sign of the guard drawing the sword that was tied around his waist.
“Your message….I assume the new magister is not so novice as to not send a written copy?” Delius asked, speaking in a sudden and rapid-fire tone. Orcivius jumped, scrambling to find the words for a response.
“What? Oh no, I, uh, I-”
Delius cut him off. “Give it to me.”
Orcivius grabbed at his pocket, nearly tearing the seams off as he tried to get the parchment out as fast as he could. He found it and quickly stuck it out over the desk. Delius snatched it away no more than a second after his hand stopped moving. The old man unrolled the mess and smoothed it out on the desk, bending over the furniture to do so. His tunic slid down the back of his neck, revealing a long and nasty-looking scar running along his left dorsal side and disappearing into both the cloth and his hair. That had to have been painful.
His stare was broken by Delius suddenly snapping up, eyes seeming to blaze with emotion, and sliding the parchment into a sub-section of the desk. He turned to face the guard.
“Batyradz, if any word of this gets out I’ll be coming after you.” he hissed. The guard nodded, sliding sideways on the wall in a gesture of deference. Delius tslid back into his seat, then turned to face Orcivius.
“What’s your name?” Delius asked.
“Quintus Orcivius, sir.”
“What do you know of the contents of this letter?” he asked, his voice terrifyingly placid.
“N-Nothing, sir.” Orcivius stammered, “I’ve only been told to carry it to-” he clamped his mouth shut, realizing he’d said too much.
Delius leaned forward over the desk. “Oh, do tell.”
Orcivius weakly shook his head, frantically looking between Delius, the papers and Batyradz. Delius nodded to the giant man.
“You’re going to tell me, the only changeable factor is how much pain you’ll be in.” His voice was menacing, the sort of voice that was rarely heard outside of childhood night terrors. His face slowly darkened as seconds passed without a response. Orcivius felt a cold sweat bead on his brow. He looked back at the guard, who was slowly rising from the bench.
“Fine!” he spat, “It’s Gennadius! The message was for Gennadius!”
Delius’ face turned thoughtful and he leaned back in his seat. He turned the name over in his mouth a few times, staring off into space. His hand went to his face, massaging his chin as he thought. After a few minutes he looked up and over to the guard.
“Remind me to have that old bastard killed.” he said, then went back to his musings. After a few minutes, he stood and began to pace back and forth along the back wall, occasionally stopping and staring out of a small, circular window. Every few minutes he would shake his head and mutter something about Maurice. After almost an hour, he stopped and sat down again.
“Now, man, I assume you’d prefer to remain alive?”
Orcivius frantically nodded.
“Good. How attached are you to the current magister?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Good.”
Delius leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“Now here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to stay here for the next two weeks, and then you’re going to return to Spania and tell him that you couldn’t find hide nor hair of Gennadius. And then you’re going to start writing me everything that he does. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” Orcivius squeaked.
“Good,” Delius nodded, looking over at Batyradz, “Take him to Ocella and tell him to instruct him in the basics of spycraft and teach him Darai.”[1]
As the door closed behind the two men, Delius sat back in his chair. This was….amazing. He could hardly have asked for a better gift. If he was lucky, played his cards right and Orcivius didn’t mess things up catastrophically, it was entirely possible he would have unrivaled control of all of Spania by the end of the year.
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[1] Wolof. In this case, Delius is using it as a language for quiet communication due to how obscure it is north of the Sahara.
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Weren't the Vandals were gone after Justinian's reconquest of Africa? They disappeared off the historical record after this point too I think.
I'm a bit confused by where things are headed right now. So far what parts of the Empire does Justinian II hold right now? Is Tiberius III the new Emperor in the East?
Aren't the Perisians fighting to restore the Maurician/Justinian dynasty (I think historians consider the Mauricians as part of the Justinians since they were adopted by the Justinians since Justin II had no children).
I'm a bit confused by where things are headed right now. So far what parts of the Empire does Justinian II hold right now? Is Tiberius III the new Emperor in the East?
Aren't the Perisians fighting to restore the Maurician/Justinian dynasty (I think historians consider the Mauricians as part of the Justinians since they were adopted by the Justinians since Justin II had no children).
Eparkhos
Banned
The Vandals, as a society, were indeed gone. However, I felt that having an individual here or there survive would be entirely possible.
Iustinianus has yet to declare himself emperor, and won't for at least a year. He currently has control over Malaca proper and (nominal) control over the small fortress town of Carteia, which is perched on the slopes of Gibraltar. (Note: I just realized I accidentally listed Carteia as abandoned in 14. Sorry.)
Tiberius III doesn't exist. Tiberius, Mauricius' second son, was briefly nominated as Western Emperor before the stabby-stabby times happened. However, due to how slow news traveled during the period Iustinianus was able to pass himself off as legitimate because all your typical Roman knows is that the East is not in a good state and the last long-reigning emperor got the axe, so a new emperor named Tiberius appointing a magister is entirely possible. Orcivius just used it because based on prior experience with Godigisel he knew the latter would likely buy it.
The Persians are nominally fighting for the Mauricio-Iustinianics, however, Theodosius IV, Mauricius' eldest son, died of anaphylaxis after eating a hazelnut in 606. They're currently fighting for Mauricius the Younger, Theodosius' two-year old son by a daughter of Khosrau II, who is essentially the most blatant puppet in human history.
17 - The Couched Lance Charge
Eparkhos
Banned
21 August 609
1100
Malaca
Dulcitius braced his legs against the ansulae and pushed off of the saddle, shaking as he lost the leather’s support. He held himself up for a few seconds before gingerly returning himself to his horse’s back. He paused for a second, then looked to his left where Iustinianus was sitting astride a different horse a few feet across the practice field.
“Well,” he started, trying to figure out a diplomatic way to tell him how stupid this was, “It’s not very comfortable. Or stable. Quite frankly, I’m not sure that any of ‘em will be able to pick it up in a reasonable time.”
Iustinianus shook his head, raising and lowering himself several times. “It’s really not that hard.” he stopped and looked over at him with an eager expression. “They should be able to get it down soon enough, right?”
Dulcitius internally groaned. He’d known the magister for only a little over a month, but he already knew how difficult it was to change his mind after he’d made it up. It looked like he was stuck with this.
“Why do they need to know this? I really don’t see what the point is?” he asked, partially slumping in his saddle. If he was stuck with this harebrained concept, he deserved to at least know why.
“It’s not all that important by itself, it’s more about getting them familiarized with bracing in the ansulae.”
Dulcitius gazed at him with a confused look. “What?”
Iustinianus hunched over in the saddle, miming tucking a spear beneath his arm while he pushed his feet against the ansulae, staying firmly in the saddle. “Like this. If you hold the spear beneath your arm, against your body, it adds your body weight to the force of the thrust. We’ll be much more effective in both an out-and-out charge against formed infantry and pursuing enemy cavalry, and that edge might be enough to give us a win.”
Dulcitius shook his head. “That sounds great, but I don’t think it’ll be as much of a deciding factor as you say it is.”
Iustinianus glared at him before swinging out of his saddle and shoving the reigns into Dulcitius’ hands. “I’ll be right back.”
He watched him speed walk towards the run-down storage building at the far side of the field, into a doorway of which he disappeared after about a minute. He disinterestedly watched the building for a few minutes, idly wondering if he’d be off early enough to try some of the garum from the Orcivii’s new place.
After about five minutes, Iustinianus emerged from the building dragging behind him what appeared to be six large wooden poles and a medium-sized…fascine?[1] He leaned forward, squinting. Yeah, that had to be a fascine. He couldn’t tell whether it was stranger that Iustinainus was dragging them onto the field or that it hadn’t broken up from neglect.
About 250 yards down the field, Iustinianus stopped and roughly shoved four of the poles into the ground in a makeshift chandelier[2] before wedging the fascine between them. He then started back towards him, moving at a faster clip now that he carried a smaller burden. Target practice?
Dulcitius handed the reigns back to him as he reached the horses. Iustinianus paused, beat a film of dust out of his light red-brown hair and then mounted, keeping the rods in his left hand.. He turned to look at Dulcitius, the anger in his gaze much reduced but still present.
“Alright,” he said, “If you don’t believe me, we’ll put it to a test.” He pointed to the fascine. “That has about the same properties as several layers hundafaths’ armor, layered. You,”
“Hold on,” Dulcitius interjected, “A what’s armor?”
Iustinianus cocked his head, giving him a puzzled look. “A hundafaths. Professional Gothic soldier, retainer, et cetera. You don’t know that?”
“No. Never really interacted with any of ‘em, outside of combat of course.” he paused. “Come to think of it, how do you know that?”
“I spent a year with some Goths in Swabia.” He suddenly stopped, as I’d he realized he’d said too much. He quickly waved it off. “Anyway, that’s not important. All that matters is that that,” he gestured back to the bundle, “Is the equivalent of the thickest armor we could realistically run into this side of Konstantinoupoli.”
He handed one of the poles to Dulcitius. “Make a run at it.”
The decurio studied him for a moment, then took the rod. This was rather…strange. The wood was blunt and pointless, so there was next to way that it could punch through the bundle. This had to be a set up of some sort.
He shook his head, spurring his horse into a canter down the field. It was the fastest he could safely go in combat, so it was as fast he would go in this. He raised the shaft above his head and angled it down towards the bundle, as was standard amongst both the Goths and Romans. As he bore down on it, he leaned out towards it and thrust downwards, striking it with a resounding clack. Unsurprisingly, it bounced off and he let go of it, letting it fall to the ground.
He turned and rode off to the side, reigning in a few yards off to the side to watch Iustinianus’ charge.
The magister came barreling down the course, pole tucked deftly into his armpit and feet braced against the ansulae. He was coming much closer to the fascine than Dulcitius had, staying straight on his mount rather than leaning.
With a loud snapping sound, the pole smashed into the fascine. It splintered, briefly vanishing behind the fast-moving horse and rider before they passed. What looked to be about half of the shaft lay buried within the fascine, the jagged stump jutting out of the bundle. Iustinainus turned and rode towards him, thrusting what looked to be roughly a third of the pole triumphantly into the air.
Dulcitius stared at the stick in the bundle, stunned. That much of a difference in impact between the positions was most definitely a major factor. If it had that much of an impact on armor, the force exerted on the poorly armored soldiers that made up the bulk of Gothic armies would be incredible. He looked over to Iustinianus, who had halted a few feet away and was currently inspecting the break in the stick.
“I’ll get them on it right away, sir.”
The magister looked up, grinning almost maniacally as he ran his hand over the broken end. “You do that, decurio.”
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[1] A fascine was a large bundle of sticks held together by cord.
[2] A chandelier was a formation of supports used to brace formations in siege works.
1100
Malaca
Dulcitius braced his legs against the ansulae and pushed off of the saddle, shaking as he lost the leather’s support. He held himself up for a few seconds before gingerly returning himself to his horse’s back. He paused for a second, then looked to his left where Iustinianus was sitting astride a different horse a few feet across the practice field.
“Well,” he started, trying to figure out a diplomatic way to tell him how stupid this was, “It’s not very comfortable. Or stable. Quite frankly, I’m not sure that any of ‘em will be able to pick it up in a reasonable time.”
Iustinianus shook his head, raising and lowering himself several times. “It’s really not that hard.” he stopped and looked over at him with an eager expression. “They should be able to get it down soon enough, right?”
Dulcitius internally groaned. He’d known the magister for only a little over a month, but he already knew how difficult it was to change his mind after he’d made it up. It looked like he was stuck with this.
“Why do they need to know this? I really don’t see what the point is?” he asked, partially slumping in his saddle. If he was stuck with this harebrained concept, he deserved to at least know why.
“It’s not all that important by itself, it’s more about getting them familiarized with bracing in the ansulae.”
Dulcitius gazed at him with a confused look. “What?”
Iustinianus hunched over in the saddle, miming tucking a spear beneath his arm while he pushed his feet against the ansulae, staying firmly in the saddle. “Like this. If you hold the spear beneath your arm, against your body, it adds your body weight to the force of the thrust. We’ll be much more effective in both an out-and-out charge against formed infantry and pursuing enemy cavalry, and that edge might be enough to give us a win.”
Dulcitius shook his head. “That sounds great, but I don’t think it’ll be as much of a deciding factor as you say it is.”
Iustinianus glared at him before swinging out of his saddle and shoving the reigns into Dulcitius’ hands. “I’ll be right back.”
He watched him speed walk towards the run-down storage building at the far side of the field, into a doorway of which he disappeared after about a minute. He disinterestedly watched the building for a few minutes, idly wondering if he’d be off early enough to try some of the garum from the Orcivii’s new place.
After about five minutes, Iustinianus emerged from the building dragging behind him what appeared to be six large wooden poles and a medium-sized…fascine?[1] He leaned forward, squinting. Yeah, that had to be a fascine. He couldn’t tell whether it was stranger that Iustinainus was dragging them onto the field or that it hadn’t broken up from neglect.
About 250 yards down the field, Iustinianus stopped and roughly shoved four of the poles into the ground in a makeshift chandelier[2] before wedging the fascine between them. He then started back towards him, moving at a faster clip now that he carried a smaller burden. Target practice?
Dulcitius handed the reigns back to him as he reached the horses. Iustinianus paused, beat a film of dust out of his light red-brown hair and then mounted, keeping the rods in his left hand.. He turned to look at Dulcitius, the anger in his gaze much reduced but still present.
“Alright,” he said, “If you don’t believe me, we’ll put it to a test.” He pointed to the fascine. “That has about the same properties as several layers hundafaths’ armor, layered. You,”
“Hold on,” Dulcitius interjected, “A what’s armor?”
Iustinianus cocked his head, giving him a puzzled look. “A hundafaths. Professional Gothic soldier, retainer, et cetera. You don’t know that?”
“No. Never really interacted with any of ‘em, outside of combat of course.” he paused. “Come to think of it, how do you know that?”
“I spent a year with some Goths in Swabia.” He suddenly stopped, as I’d he realized he’d said too much. He quickly waved it off. “Anyway, that’s not important. All that matters is that that,” he gestured back to the bundle, “Is the equivalent of the thickest armor we could realistically run into this side of Konstantinoupoli.”
He handed one of the poles to Dulcitius. “Make a run at it.”
The decurio studied him for a moment, then took the rod. This was rather…strange. The wood was blunt and pointless, so there was next to way that it could punch through the bundle. This had to be a set up of some sort.
He shook his head, spurring his horse into a canter down the field. It was the fastest he could safely go in combat, so it was as fast he would go in this. He raised the shaft above his head and angled it down towards the bundle, as was standard amongst both the Goths and Romans. As he bore down on it, he leaned out towards it and thrust downwards, striking it with a resounding clack. Unsurprisingly, it bounced off and he let go of it, letting it fall to the ground.
He turned and rode off to the side, reigning in a few yards off to the side to watch Iustinianus’ charge.
The magister came barreling down the course, pole tucked deftly into his armpit and feet braced against the ansulae. He was coming much closer to the fascine than Dulcitius had, staying straight on his mount rather than leaning.
With a loud snapping sound, the pole smashed into the fascine. It splintered, briefly vanishing behind the fast-moving horse and rider before they passed. What looked to be about half of the shaft lay buried within the fascine, the jagged stump jutting out of the bundle. Iustinainus turned and rode towards him, thrusting what looked to be roughly a third of the pole triumphantly into the air.
Dulcitius stared at the stick in the bundle, stunned. That much of a difference in impact between the positions was most definitely a major factor. If it had that much of an impact on armor, the force exerted on the poorly armored soldiers that made up the bulk of Gothic armies would be incredible. He looked over to Iustinianus, who had halted a few feet away and was currently inspecting the break in the stick.
“I’ll get them on it right away, sir.”
The magister looked up, grinning almost maniacally as he ran his hand over the broken end. “You do that, decurio.”
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[1] A fascine was a large bundle of sticks held together by cord.
[2] A chandelier was a formation of supports used to brace formations in siege works.
18 - A Meeting in Tingis
Eparkhos
Banned
27 August 609
1500
Tingis
Marcus Delius the Elder drummed his fingers on the edge of the table as he paced back and forth across the room, thinking. He’d have to handle this meeting delicately, both to keep word from spreading where he didn’t want it to and to keep any of his allies from getting…ideas. None of them had his full trust, and he had little doubt that several of them would turn on him given any opportunity, so he’d have to keep some of the more advantageous bits to himself. That defeated the purpose of holding a council, but no sane man would actually try to use a council to get anything done. The point of this meeting would have to be finding a course of action that wouldn’t piss them off to the point of rebellion, but also wouldn’t force him to give up any power.
There was a rap at the door. He called out for them to enter, and one of the guards cautiously poked his head through the doorway. “They’re here, sir.”
Delius paused, smoothed out his tunic and forced a serene expression onto his face. He nodded briskly at the man before smoothly gliding through the archway.
He made his way, accompanied by a small knot of guards, through the comes’ compound to the Church of St. Cassianus, where the meeting was being held under the mediation of the local bishop, Petrus. Three of his men took up position at the door of the vestibule, leaving him and Batyradz to proceed beyond.
The pews that normally lined the sides of the chamber were gone, leaving the room bare except for a long, narrow table stretching lengthwise across the room. Six men were seated around it, Petrus hovering nearby with a metal staff in hand. Three of them were dressed in the blue robes of the Mauri, and the other three dressed like proper Romans, even though he knew from previous experience that two of them would bitch for hours about how they weren’t. They were all looking at the opposite end of the room, where Oh, and at least two of the Mauri had what appeared to be and certainly smelled like camel shit smeared on their robes. Great.
Delius suppressed a cough, then strode directly to the table and rapped on it. The eyes of his nominal subordinates drifted over to him, annoyingly slowly.
“Health.” he paused for a second, then continued, “We’re here today to discuss strategy. New information has come into my possession that, if handled properly, will allow us to improve our position within the Exarchate.” He nodded to the Mauri. “Or without it.”
One of the other men began a blatantly fake coughing fit. Delius swiveled to glare at him. Septimus Agricola, consul of the nominally independent port of Sala and the highlight of every council.
“Do you have a problem, Agricola?” he asked, barely keeping his voice civil.
The consul straightened up, looking directly at Delius. “With all due respect, comes, I feel that you infringe upon the honor of Sala by including us amongst the fortresses of the Exarchate.”
Delius had a sudden urge to punch Agricola. Instead, he tucked his hands behind his back and dryly responded “I should think that you would be happy to be included amongst the settled people rather than the nomads of the mountains and desert.” He gkanced over to the Mauri. “No insult intended.”
Yugurta, the emissary from the Ghomaras tribe, responded in clipped Latin “I speak for the three of us when I say that it was not taken as such.”
Delius nodded, sitting down in a chair at the head of the table. He looked to Petrus. “Pater, would you please swear everyone here to silence?”
He did so, then hurried off to the space behind the altar where he was out of earshot but still close enough to see them and intervene if things became violent. Delius watched him go, then turned to face the other men.
“How much do you know about the happenings in Spania?” he asked, carefully selecting each word. He’d have to be very careful with what he said. Although the loyalty of the Mauri wasn’t overtly suspect, the loyalty of the tribes they confederated with was.
There were muttered responses from all of the others, roughly summing to ‘The Goths tried to take Malaca and got their asses handed to them’.
“I didn’t think Caesarius had it in him!” chuckled Paulonius, the sub-comes of Rusaddir.
“It wasn’t Caesarius.” Delius said.
The looks of the other men changed from poorly concealed boredom to confusion. Agricola articulated what they all thought.
“What happened to Caesarius? Is he dead, or recalled to Konstantinoupoli or what?”
Delius steepled his hands. “Sometime around the Gothic siege, Caesarius was run out of Malaca on a rail. He appears to have been replaced in Spania proper with a man named Iustinainus.”
“Spania proper? What about the Baleares?” Paulonius asked.
“I’m not entirely sure, but he’s probably still in power there.”
There was a moment’s pause, after which one of the Mauri, Kaulia, said “You’ve called us here because of a new Exarch? With all due respect, that really doesn’t all that important.”
Delius bit back an invective laden response. It was amazing sometimes how short-sighted the men beneath him could be. He paused for a second to regain his composure, then continued.
“This Iustinianus wasn’t appointed by an emperor,” he said, “So he’s technically committing treason…” he trailed off, trying to seed the minds of his subordinates. Men were always more receptive to ideas when they thought they came up with it.
Urbanus Aurelianus, the sub-comes of Septem, started to nod. “Since he’s committing treason, and it’s our duty to stop him from doing so, we have the justification to invade and sieze Malaca and Carteia. With all of Iberian and African Spania under your control, if something…befalls…Caesarius, you become de facto exarch.”
Delius’ face split in a wicked smile. “Exactly, Aurelianus.”
“That’s perfectly nice, but what does it do for us?” Agricola interjected.
He turned and gave a withering glare to the consul. “If I become exarch, then all of you get promoted to comes.”
A look of comprehension dawned on the man’s face. The other men, bar Yugurta, began to smile and nod. Promotion to comes brought not only status but also an imperial stipend for the Romans and legitimacy within their tribe for the Mauri. Such benefit from something so simple would be very nice.
“We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves,” Delius said, “Iustinianus still has loyal forces—I caught one of his agents here earlier in the week.” he surveyed the room. “I can spare ninety fighting men from Tingis and thirty from Lixus, and ten hips over all."
“That sounds like more than enough…” Agricola began, trailing off as he was struck by several withering glares.
“If we were to attack an open field, it would be more than enough,” Delius continued, “But we’ll be assaulting at least one fortified port, possibly two depending on who Carteia strikes for. Forts are excellent force multipliers, so to be sure of victory we’ll have to outnumber them by about three to one. That’ll be around two-hundred fifty at the highest.”
Paulonius and Aurelianus looked at each other, then at Delius. The latter man spoke first. “Both of our cities’ garrisons are rather hard pressed, but if the Ghormaras are willing to shield the coast from raids we can bring about a hundred soldiers and a half-dozen ships.”
“Good.” Delius looked to the Mauri. “I would not inveigh upon you to send men, but if you would be willing to swear to defend the hinterland while we are absent you will be well rewarded.”
They nodded, remaining typically silent. Delius waved over Petrus.
“We shall swear over the Bible, with the good bishop as our witness.” He paused, scrutinizing the men’s faces. “If you are willing?”
Once again they nodded. Petrus placed the codex of papyrus upon the table and all three men placed their hands upon. They swore before Christus to defend the port cities while Delius was absent, and Delius swore to reward them with titles and wealth in exchange. With that done, Peteus picked the tome off and flitted away yet again. The three men stood, bowed, and quickly left the room.
Delius watched them go, then turned to stare down Agricola. Several seconds passed in silence. Agricola squirmed in his chair, no doubt debating how he should respond to the comes.
“Well, consul, what do you say?” he asked.
“Well, uh, comes, I’ll have to consult with my colleague first before I can answer.”
Delius stood, his shadow falling over Agricola. “Yes or no, consul.”
Agricola’s eyes flicked around the room, trying to find a way out that wouldn’t require a response. After nearly a full minute, his chest fell and he looked back to Delius.
“Sala pledges one hundred men and four ships, comes.”
Delius nodded, smirking. “Good choice.” He turned to Paulonius and Aurelianus. “All of you are free to go. I expect your men here by this time next month.”
All three quickly stood and left the room, leaving Delius alone with the bishop. After they were gone, he waved the bishop over again.
“Well, father, whose side do you think God is on?”
Petrus thought for a moment, then shrugged. “That’s above me, comes.”
Meanwhile, Yugurta rode out from the city gates, thinking as he rode. As he passed over a hill to the west of the city and the great port was lost from view, one thought struck him. How the hell had Delius forgotten that they were Jewish?
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I'm going to be honest. I forgot that the Romans still held Rusaddir, Sala and Lixus. When I get the time, I'm going to go back and edit older updates to show that.
1500
Tingis
Marcus Delius the Elder drummed his fingers on the edge of the table as he paced back and forth across the room, thinking. He’d have to handle this meeting delicately, both to keep word from spreading where he didn’t want it to and to keep any of his allies from getting…ideas. None of them had his full trust, and he had little doubt that several of them would turn on him given any opportunity, so he’d have to keep some of the more advantageous bits to himself. That defeated the purpose of holding a council, but no sane man would actually try to use a council to get anything done. The point of this meeting would have to be finding a course of action that wouldn’t piss them off to the point of rebellion, but also wouldn’t force him to give up any power.
There was a rap at the door. He called out for them to enter, and one of the guards cautiously poked his head through the doorway. “They’re here, sir.”
Delius paused, smoothed out his tunic and forced a serene expression onto his face. He nodded briskly at the man before smoothly gliding through the archway.
He made his way, accompanied by a small knot of guards, through the comes’ compound to the Church of St. Cassianus, where the meeting was being held under the mediation of the local bishop, Petrus. Three of his men took up position at the door of the vestibule, leaving him and Batyradz to proceed beyond.
The pews that normally lined the sides of the chamber were gone, leaving the room bare except for a long, narrow table stretching lengthwise across the room. Six men were seated around it, Petrus hovering nearby with a metal staff in hand. Three of them were dressed in the blue robes of the Mauri, and the other three dressed like proper Romans, even though he knew from previous experience that two of them would bitch for hours about how they weren’t. They were all looking at the opposite end of the room, where Oh, and at least two of the Mauri had what appeared to be and certainly smelled like camel shit smeared on their robes. Great.
Delius suppressed a cough, then strode directly to the table and rapped on it. The eyes of his nominal subordinates drifted over to him, annoyingly slowly.
“Health.” he paused for a second, then continued, “We’re here today to discuss strategy. New information has come into my possession that, if handled properly, will allow us to improve our position within the Exarchate.” He nodded to the Mauri. “Or without it.”
One of the other men began a blatantly fake coughing fit. Delius swiveled to glare at him. Septimus Agricola, consul of the nominally independent port of Sala and the highlight of every council.
“Do you have a problem, Agricola?” he asked, barely keeping his voice civil.
The consul straightened up, looking directly at Delius. “With all due respect, comes, I feel that you infringe upon the honor of Sala by including us amongst the fortresses of the Exarchate.”
Delius had a sudden urge to punch Agricola. Instead, he tucked his hands behind his back and dryly responded “I should think that you would be happy to be included amongst the settled people rather than the nomads of the mountains and desert.” He gkanced over to the Mauri. “No insult intended.”
Yugurta, the emissary from the Ghomaras tribe, responded in clipped Latin “I speak for the three of us when I say that it was not taken as such.”
Delius nodded, sitting down in a chair at the head of the table. He looked to Petrus. “Pater, would you please swear everyone here to silence?”
He did so, then hurried off to the space behind the altar where he was out of earshot but still close enough to see them and intervene if things became violent. Delius watched him go, then turned to face the other men.
“How much do you know about the happenings in Spania?” he asked, carefully selecting each word. He’d have to be very careful with what he said. Although the loyalty of the Mauri wasn’t overtly suspect, the loyalty of the tribes they confederated with was.
There were muttered responses from all of the others, roughly summing to ‘The Goths tried to take Malaca and got their asses handed to them’.
“I didn’t think Caesarius had it in him!” chuckled Paulonius, the sub-comes of Rusaddir.
“It wasn’t Caesarius.” Delius said.
The looks of the other men changed from poorly concealed boredom to confusion. Agricola articulated what they all thought.
“What happened to Caesarius? Is he dead, or recalled to Konstantinoupoli or what?”
Delius steepled his hands. “Sometime around the Gothic siege, Caesarius was run out of Malaca on a rail. He appears to have been replaced in Spania proper with a man named Iustinainus.”
“Spania proper? What about the Baleares?” Paulonius asked.
“I’m not entirely sure, but he’s probably still in power there.”
There was a moment’s pause, after which one of the Mauri, Kaulia, said “You’ve called us here because of a new Exarch? With all due respect, that really doesn’t all that important.”
Delius bit back an invective laden response. It was amazing sometimes how short-sighted the men beneath him could be. He paused for a second to regain his composure, then continued.
“This Iustinianus wasn’t appointed by an emperor,” he said, “So he’s technically committing treason…” he trailed off, trying to seed the minds of his subordinates. Men were always more receptive to ideas when they thought they came up with it.
Urbanus Aurelianus, the sub-comes of Septem, started to nod. “Since he’s committing treason, and it’s our duty to stop him from doing so, we have the justification to invade and sieze Malaca and Carteia. With all of Iberian and African Spania under your control, if something…befalls…Caesarius, you become de facto exarch.”
Delius’ face split in a wicked smile. “Exactly, Aurelianus.”
“That’s perfectly nice, but what does it do for us?” Agricola interjected.
He turned and gave a withering glare to the consul. “If I become exarch, then all of you get promoted to comes.”
A look of comprehension dawned on the man’s face. The other men, bar Yugurta, began to smile and nod. Promotion to comes brought not only status but also an imperial stipend for the Romans and legitimacy within their tribe for the Mauri. Such benefit from something so simple would be very nice.
“We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves,” Delius said, “Iustinianus still has loyal forces—I caught one of his agents here earlier in the week.” he surveyed the room. “I can spare ninety fighting men from Tingis and thirty from Lixus, and ten hips over all."
“That sounds like more than enough…” Agricola began, trailing off as he was struck by several withering glares.
“If we were to attack an open field, it would be more than enough,” Delius continued, “But we’ll be assaulting at least one fortified port, possibly two depending on who Carteia strikes for. Forts are excellent force multipliers, so to be sure of victory we’ll have to outnumber them by about three to one. That’ll be around two-hundred fifty at the highest.”
Paulonius and Aurelianus looked at each other, then at Delius. The latter man spoke first. “Both of our cities’ garrisons are rather hard pressed, but if the Ghormaras are willing to shield the coast from raids we can bring about a hundred soldiers and a half-dozen ships.”
“Good.” Delius looked to the Mauri. “I would not inveigh upon you to send men, but if you would be willing to swear to defend the hinterland while we are absent you will be well rewarded.”
They nodded, remaining typically silent. Delius waved over Petrus.
“We shall swear over the Bible, with the good bishop as our witness.” He paused, scrutinizing the men’s faces. “If you are willing?”
Once again they nodded. Petrus placed the codex of papyrus upon the table and all three men placed their hands upon. They swore before Christus to defend the port cities while Delius was absent, and Delius swore to reward them with titles and wealth in exchange. With that done, Peteus picked the tome off and flitted away yet again. The three men stood, bowed, and quickly left the room.
Delius watched them go, then turned to stare down Agricola. Several seconds passed in silence. Agricola squirmed in his chair, no doubt debating how he should respond to the comes.
“Well, consul, what do you say?” he asked.
“Well, uh, comes, I’ll have to consult with my colleague first before I can answer.”
Delius stood, his shadow falling over Agricola. “Yes or no, consul.”
Agricola’s eyes flicked around the room, trying to find a way out that wouldn’t require a response. After nearly a full minute, his chest fell and he looked back to Delius.
“Sala pledges one hundred men and four ships, comes.”
Delius nodded, smirking. “Good choice.” He turned to Paulonius and Aurelianus. “All of you are free to go. I expect your men here by this time next month.”
All three quickly stood and left the room, leaving Delius alone with the bishop. After they were gone, he waved the bishop over again.
“Well, father, whose side do you think God is on?”
Petrus thought for a moment, then shrugged. “That’s above me, comes.”
Meanwhile, Yugurta rode out from the city gates, thinking as he rode. As he passed over a hill to the west of the city and the great port was lost from view, one thought struck him. How the hell had Delius forgotten that they were Jewish?
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I'm going to be honest. I forgot that the Romans still held Rusaddir, Sala and Lixus. When I get the time, I'm going to go back and edit older updates to show that.
Last edited:
Areas of Control as of 31 August 609
Eparkhos
Banned
Tyrian Purple is under Caesarius' control
Blue-Purple is under Iustinianus' control
Orange is either under Delius' control or under the control of Sala
(P.S. Someone else please comment, I don't want Page 6 to start like all the others)