The Mauricians: A Medieval Roman novel
- Thread starter Pururauka
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I’ve gone with a birthdate of 583 for Theodosius (which is what John of Ephesus, a contemporary historian provides.)
For Tiberius, I chose 592 (but it really could have been ’91 or ’90, or ’93 for that matter) since Maurice’s supposed will written in 597, and reported by Theophylact Simocatta, only mentions him as a “young child.” At 5 years old, that seemed as good a guess as any.
Petrus, I had b. 594 – but he’s dead now.
Anastasia, b. 595.
Theoctiste, b. 598.
Cleopatra, b. 600.
IOTL, by the time Theophanes reports on the riots in 601 that nearly killed Maurice, all of his children had been born.
Chapter 14 -IV-
Thus far, the news filtering from the front were contradictory, at best. Theodosius dead, Phocas dead, and all of Anatolia in uproar, Heraclius reminisced. What are we really heading into? In a similar fashion, closer to their nearest destination, it was rumored that Stephanoz, the ruling lord of Iberia, had abandoned the pro-Roman policies of his predecessor and had struck a deal with Chosroes, allying the reunified principality with the Persians. Should this prove to be true, it would force Heraclius and his group to remain hidden, after initial hopes of reaching a friendly region.
He looked behind him casually, yet another time, making sure that his “guests” were keeping close. They were. Pulling up on his reins, he slowed his donkey and allowed the most important amongst them to catch up to him.
“How are we managing?” he asked softly, on an impulse, with his gaze still on those in front.
His companion, in his antiquated and thickly accented Greek, was quick with his reply. “We should still be wary…we are not beyond the reach of my father’s lackeys.”
Heraclius’ eyes scanned the reactions from those immediately ahead of them all the way to the head of the caravan. No one seemed to care about their conversation but, although they were leaving northern Persia just now, Kobad’s point was still valid.
“We should still keep quiet, until we are somewhere more … private,” added Gordiya, the one Persian matron who had accompanied the prince on his exodus, with a cautious whisper.
With a silent nod to himself, Heraclius acquiesced. Providence had been kind to him, and his mission, it could be said, had been entirely successful; it would be foolish to risk anything now. The honest peace overture that he had brought with him had been brazenly rejected, yet Theodosius had planned for such a possibility. Thus, as a contingency, he had been instructed to identify dissenting elements in the Persian court, and evaluate the possibility of financing a rebellion against Chosroes. Kobad’s ensuing arrest had been a true godsend. At a stroke, he had a legitimate individual, around whom discontent with Chosroes’ rule could be rallied without major financial concerns, presented on a silver platter. Immediately, he had sent Dioskoros on his way back to Palestine, along with the majority of their retinue, keeping only one man of his trust, and remained behind in the eastern capital to put the gold he had brought along to good use. Before long, he had located the prison where the prince was held, but before he could act, Maria, Kobad’s mother, found him.
During her short visit one evening, the woman, a Christian jewel in the sea of heathen wenches that inhabited the King’s harem, shared the story of her son’s birth, and made Heraclius promise that her child would be removed as far away as possible from his father’s clutches and, if possible, be introduced into the True Faith she had been unable to impart to him. Prey of disbelief, and once again overtaken by events, Heraclius could only submit and comply.
The prince’s tale, as told by Maria, began during very turbulent times. When the coup at the beginning of his reign, forced Chosroes to flee into Roman territory, his wife Shirin was left behind in Ctesiphon. The toppled monarch, having arrived in Syria, sent emissaries to Maurice pleading for help and, as the messengers traveled on and an answer journeyed back from Constantinople, the Persian king could do nothing but idly pass his time by. It was then, that he came across a young Syrian girl, from the flower of the local aristocracy. Taken in by her physical charm and her passive deference, he courted the girl, much to the alarm of her parents, who were fearful to act as they otherwise would have, lest they anger their Emperor and the ongoing negotiations. Ultimately, the answer and permission for the King to visit on Maurice arrived. But before he left for Constantinople, Maria was heavy with child.
The boy, Chosroes’ firstborn, would later be brought into the world in northern Syria, as the Roman force to restore the monarch to his throne was moving into Mesopotamia. By then, the Persian ruler had already married Maria in an inconspicuous Christian ceremony in the outskirts of Antioch, if only to please his Roman supporters, and had been allowed to depart with the girl. Nevertheless, out of political concerns, he hid the newborn until the border had been crossed, and once they were in Persian Mesopotamia, Kobad’s birth was announced to his Kingdom and the Roman Empire.
“The prince is half Roman, and should be a Christian then!” Heraclius had declared to Maria, who only nodded in bleak silence.
The next morning, as had been promised, three women visited on him and his guard again in the early afternoon, and they all left Ctesiphon in the early hours of dusk, in total silence. They led Heraclius safely out of the capital and towards the northerly road into Assyria, where they were met by another man and his “wife.” Together, the group marched off further north, guided by the three women from Ctesiphon, until they reached the city of Shahin [3], where two remained, instructing the rest to continue across Armenia and into Romania. There, the man’s “wife” revealed himself to be Kobad, clean-shaven and disguised in female garments. The following day, while Kobad’s “husband” departed, they purchased a large quantity of silk form the local suppliers, and joined a caravan from the Far East as it trailed its way to Albania and Armenia.
Nevertheless, in spite of his success, and having learned the Christian origins of the boy, Heraclius could not help but feeling the sorrow that was all but unspoken and weighed heavily on Kobad’s face. It was obvious that he was concerned for his mother and her future. It made him think of his own relationship with Fabia. He had left her so suddenly back in Carthage. What if I am a father as well now?
“Do not despair, prince. Your mother’s faith will protect her, and should our Lord deemed it necessary, she will rest her soul amidst the angels,” he remarked, somewhat oddly, attempting to comfort him.
“Roman, be quiet!” Gordiya added in a hushed, but irritated voice.
Shaking his head Heraclius with huff, Heraclius resumed his quiet watch; and not a moment too soon. The slow moving riders ahead of them stopped rather suddenly, and began to utter what were clear complaints coupled with annoyed exclamations. A quizzical look to his companions went unanswered, but as Kobad fastened the female dress that he continued to wear, Heraclius noticed the small band of Persian soldiers that marched closer and began to inspect the cargo of those ahead in the train.
Damn…
In a matter of minutes, they were before Heraclius and his group. They addressed a question in their language to him, but he and his man only lowered his eyes, as they had rehearsed, while Gordiya took over. Some other words were exchanged in a dry, monotonous tone, all while he vigilantly glanced whenever an opportunity presented itself, and planned for the worst.
Rather suddenly, however, a loud shout caught his attention. One of the Persians, ironically the shortest of the group, questioned the maid in an overtly aggressive tone, and pointed at Heraclius and the disguised prince while doing so. But Gordiya, to her credit, never lost her nerve. She replied in an unperturbed voice, and the argument continued for a few more, tense minutes.
“Bah!” the short one finally cried out, with obvious disgust, before turning to him and, with a slight jump, punched him hard on the jaw, knocking him unceremoniously off his mount. “You, you Romans finally be where you ought!”
Heraclius looked up at Gordiya, with an obvious expression of surprise, but she did not even meet his eyes. Kobad and the other Roman remained in place, frozen with uncertainty. Unsure as to what was to happen next, he slowly moved his right hand towards the dagger, hidden under his tunics, pretending to be getting up. But the matron cut him short.
“Stay!” she exclaimed in Greek, with a tone of voice that betrayed her skill commanding serfs. A hearty laugh from the stocky soldier and his comrades followed, while he was unsure of how to proceed.
Heraclius, play along. She’s saving Kobad and that means saving you as well…
It was then, that things moved quickly; perhaps too quickly for him to understand, at the time. The sounds of echoing hooves had barely reached them before a tall Persian, atop a magnificent and richly adorned black horse, pulled up beside them and berated the men, as they quickly fell into a disciplined formation, and bowed their heads. As the officer continued barking what were his orders, Heraclius guessed, Gordiya’s eyes widened perceptibly, and her lips tightened. Likewise, Kobad lowered his gaze, and hunched, seemingly wanting to disappear.
But just as suddenly as he had appeared, the leader rode off, and the startled Persians resumed their search of those who remained, with an obvious, negligent haste. And ten, or fifteen, minutes later, the caravan was on the move, once more.
With obvious relaxation in all of their faces, while he rubbed a reddening chin, Heraclius dared to voice his feelings. “That was close…too close. What was that all about?
“The King is seizing the states of a traitor,” Gordiya retorted in a normal tone of voice. “And it seems, he is looking for an unnamed runaway prisoner.”
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[2] Trebizond
[3]Zanjan, in Iran.
His actual support at this time doesn't amount to much, beyond the immediate court. His daddy-o is the King, victorious on all fronts.
I kept the royal name as he was already Khosrau's "announced and public" successor (the royal name, more than likely, would have already been chosen.) For the Romans, who are now looking to him as an ally, it'd only make sense to make use of it.
Perhaps I'll include the given name if we end up having a Kobad POV, at some point.
Chapter 15 -I-
Following the final acclamation for the deceased’s eternal rest at the end of the last panikhida, the congregation began to depart. Those few aristocrats, who had remained in The City for one reason or another, having made their show of presence, were among the first. On their heels followed the masses, mostly Prasinoi, who attended the services following the exhortations that their demarch had given in the aftermath of the revolution’s success. Confusing though Demetrios’ message to the people might have been, praising Phocas’ dead wife for her role in the liberation of Constantinople, it had been enough to at least keep him from being alone.
In a matter of minutes, however, Priscus was alone. The officiating priests dared not disturbed him, and had left him in an empty church with the marble sarcophagus. He could not understand why he remained, standing motionless before the casket, as the fragrance of the incense dissipated, and the light of the candles danced on the icons and holy images that looked down on him without pity. A heavy, thick cloud of overwhelming nothingness, or possibly emptiness, had seized him. It was an eternity before a coherent thought half-formed in his mind.
…What do I wait for, anyway? For a miracle from the saints, like the one that snatched Justinian from the jaws of death?...A bit too late, she’s already dead.
Involuntarily, his eyes rose to meet those of Saint Cosmas and Damian, whose effigies rose over the altar at the foot of which Leontia’s coffin had been laid. Could you? Would you? [1]
Another several silent minutes went by, and still he remained standing, his gaze fixed on the martyrs’. He knew it was Alexander himself who had murdered her; choked her to death with his bare hands. Still, the anger he initially felt, had long since vanished. It had evaporated. He had bellowed at the top of his lungs with rage, on marching into the room where she had been left, and had searched for Phocas’ Comes for days, as had several hundred other men, but to no avail. He had fled, as had the Caesar Constantius, his grandmother, and Priscus’ own ex-wife, Domentziola. Where to? He shrugged, without noticing it.
He had long known that Phocas was not only descending into lunacy, but also alcoholism, which further clouded his judgement. The persecutions in the East, the diversionary actions in the West, the giving up of Italy to the Avars, all had been clear signs, obvious milestones on the road to madness. That he ended up surrounding himself with such cretins like Alexander was no surprise. But he had never expected them to retaliate against her: even in his wildest rants, Priscus had never seen the red haired psychopath turn on her. It doesn’t even matter now. He is dead too…
“Domine Prisce.”
He turned to his left, somewhat startled, as his reveries had had him so imbued that not even his ears had warned him of a stranger’s presence. Keeping a respectful distance behind him, stood a young boukellarios, one of those that had joined his ranks since the revolt. Priscus stared at him with empty eyes, unresponsive.
“Domine Prisce, the Demarch Demetrios has been waiting for you as there are news you must hear.”
A small flame was rekindled, inside. “Did they find Alexander?”
“No, Domine, but…”
“Then, I don’t care,” he cut in, dryly, turning back towards the coffin.
The man insisted. “Domine, there might be a lead on his whereabouts. The Demarch asks that you please hear him.”
He ignored the soldier. Alexander was no fool. With Phocas dead, the snake really only had two choices: form some sort of government in exile with Constantius as a figurehead, or flee to his dead master’s Avar allies. With the all of the provinces in Greece and Macedonia devoid of troops, the only possibility for said government remained with Comentiolus’ army, based in Sirmium. And if instead, he had sided with the Avars, they would have the perfect case to abandon the march to the West and return with a vengeance. To undo all of my work. Shit, all of Maurice’s work. He smiled to himself quietly, in bitter irony.
“Prisce!”
The voice was not the soldier’s anymore. He turned once more, and there stood Demetrios, flanked by the irritating guard.
God damn them. “Can’t we at least wait until she’s in the ground?” Priscus shouted, pointing to the casket.
Demetrios took a step closer, boldly. “By God, I guarantee you that you will have more than enough time to partake in the burial, man! But the cause why she is dead still hangs in the balance! And you know the war continues!”
Priscus turned back and sighed, attempting to ignore him.
“Prisce, the men need you! You are the face of the new government now. And frankly, spending any more time here will only make the people question your motives in switching your allegiance!”
Demetrios really knew how to piss someone off. The flame inside was lit again, and it grew quickly into a wildfire. Priscus turned on the Demarch as fast as he could, with a careless punch. Yet the head of the Green Deme, having measured him before, dodged the blow easily, and reacted in kind, hitting him in the face. Priscus caught himself before his head hit the ground, and sighed once more, defeated.
“What the hell is it?” he asked, sitting down.
“Comentiolus has declared himself Emperor. He claims that without him the Avars will wipe us out, and it seems the majority of the riverine provinces believe him.”
He did not bother getting up, but remained seated on the floor. “He has five thousand men. If Bayan really wants to, he will ride over all of them in a day.”
“Well, there’s that,” added Demetrios, as he abandoned his pretentious tone and took a seat beside him, on the floor. “But there is also the fact that the cities in Greece and Macedonia are pledging allegiance to Theodosius and us, now.”
“They can offer no practical support.”
“But at least they aren’t against us…”
Rubbish, Priscus thought. “The Danube border guards are not a very steady foundation for Alexander and his pawns to rebuild their powerbase.”
“My agents in Thessalonica sent a message by ship that just arrived recently. He tried to land there, along with the rest, but was turned back as word had spread of what was happening,” Demetrios said, with a content grin.
Priscus raised an eyebrow. “Is he trying to reach Domentziolus, then?”
“Perhaps. Or Praejecta might be taking them all back to Egypt.”
He kept quiet for a moment. The seas belonged to the Mauricians, now. Constantinople’s home fleet had defected to the revolt, and the rest of the Mediterranean had long been abandoned to the western fleets, as far as he knew, thus effectively isolating Phocas’ brother in Italy. The second option was an even unlikelier choice. Theodosius had already seized Egypt and it remained firmly in his camp after the execution of the Chalcedonian patriarch. In spite of the Apions’ power in the Diocese, heading back to their home was a sure death sentence.
“Either way, you can see which way the wind is blowing. The war is effectively over,” he finally replied, before adding, “it’s clear to us all where Heaven’s favor always lay.”
Demetrios stared at him in silence, for a brief instant. “What are you planning on doing now, then?” he asked after the pause, his eyes narrowing inquisitively.
Priscus looked down, and shrugged unceremoniously. Then, as he started picking at his tunic’s golden embroidery, he answered, in a soft voice. “The die is cast, Demetrie. I’ve sinned and turned against my God-given Emperor…” With his hands still tinkering with his clothing, he looked up at the images of the saints, in whose honor the church they were in had been built. “…I can only pray, and ask Christ for forgiveness…a monastery sounds better, each time I think of it…”
Once more, the Demarch said nothing, studying Priscus’ body language instead. Priscus himself, noticed it, but barely cared. Perhaps now more than ever, he was convinced that this was his just punishment for turning on Maurice. Maurice…whose shade lurks just beyond my dreams and mocks me at every turn…even forcing me to bury her here, outside the walls, lest I provoke his divinely-appointed son.
“I’m sure the Emperor will agree to your retirement,” asserted Demetrios, as he began to get up. “But in the meantime, you are the face of authority, so I will be needing you.” Back on his feet, he dusted himself off, and as he turned to leave, stopped on his tracks and resumed. “After the funeral, there is someone you ought to speak with.”
Priscus did not bother to reply, so Demetrios continued. “In case you are wondering, it’s an emissary from Theodosius. Some Egyptian, his name is Dioskoros Psimanobet, I believe.”
______________
So Emo Priscus has to scramble against crazy Alexander and Comentiolus... and he'll be meeting our favorite Egyptian...
Uf. Finally got to the end... Or rather "present" times 
It's awesome writing and story.
So... What's the deal with "Phokanides" on last map? After Priscus took Constantinople over and most provinces defected to Theodosius, there shouldn't be any problems (aside from Alexander and Comentiolus), right?
What's state of Italy in terms of population? I know that Gothic wars were devastating, but not being able to scrap more than 1000 men? How is it possible? During Punic wars Romans were able to create one army after another (granted- it was different kind of government, but still) and now they can't rebuild one? It seems like there's enough civilians to arm and put on walls, why not conscript them then? It looks like Romans have more than enough money to equip more troops, as they're spending them like crazy.
What's state of empire overall? Could You post map with military units and their size? It appears to me, that Byzantium doesn't have more than 50k troops at this point, and they're stretched throughout whole their territory (6-7k in Italy, same on Balkans- together with Comentiolus forces, maybe 20k in Anatolia, maybe 10k in Egypt...). How Persian forces look in comparison?
Last but not least- why did Heraclius left Persia with pretender? Wouldn't it be wiser to find someone to back him up start an uprising? Or are they going to meet Shahrbaraz and inform him on developments in his estates?
It's awesome writing and story.So... What's the deal with "Phokanides" on last map? After Priscus took Constantinople over and most provinces defected to Theodosius, there shouldn't be any problems (aside from Alexander and Comentiolus), right?
What's state of Italy in terms of population? I know that Gothic wars were devastating, but not being able to scrap more than 1000 men? How is it possible? During Punic wars Romans were able to create one army after another (granted- it was different kind of government, but still) and now they can't rebuild one? It seems like there's enough civilians to arm and put on walls, why not conscript them then? It looks like Romans have more than enough money to equip more troops, as they're spending them like crazy.
What's state of empire overall? Could You post map with military units and their size? It appears to me, that Byzantium doesn't have more than 50k troops at this point, and they're stretched throughout whole their territory (6-7k in Italy, same on Balkans- together with Comentiolus forces, maybe 20k in Anatolia, maybe 10k in Egypt...). How Persian forces look in comparison?
Last but not least- why did Heraclius left Persia with pretender? Wouldn't it be wiser to find someone to back him up start an uprising? Or are they going to meet Shahrbaraz and inform him on developments in his estates?
Better start soon!
Hey, give the guy a break!
Uf. Finally got to the end... Or rather "present" times
Thanks!
[FONT="]The news from Phocas’ death did take a while to spread out. With Constantinople being seized at the time the Emperor was losing the battle at the banks of the Halys, the Balkans, western Anatolia, and parts of Sicily were still nominally answering to Phocas’ rule.[/FONT]
Italy is getting the short end of the stick here. Theodosius secured a peace arrangement with the Lombard king Agilulf, in order to rush at Phocas, shortly after Maurice was killed. But the majority of the Italian professional troops, along with small detachments of Lombard auxiliaries, were wiped out at Dyrrachium in mid-603, by the Danubian field armies. Shortly after, Phocas engineered an invasion of Italy by one of the Frankish monarchs, further depleting Theodosius’ reserves and killing off the allied Lombard king.
[FONT="]
There are civilians, but that’s all they are, civilians. They can be handed a sword and a shield, but when faced with Lombard soldiers, or Frankish warriors, or even worse, the Avar hordes, there really isn’t much they can contribute.[/FONT]
[FONT="]
The state of the empire is close to what the last map revealed, minus Jerusalem and the last of Palestine. I’ll try to work on a military map; it should be fun.[/FONT]
Heraclius left Iran because his mission was to secure an individual to sponsor future revolts. Although this is to be revealed later, Theodosius plans to use a plan similar to his father’s, and a domestic revolt, against a King who does nothing but win might not even get off the ground.
Also, the Shahrbaraz is in charge of the armies of the Levant and doing quite well. It was one of Shahin’s men in Anatolia, Rustam, who killed Phocas and got the general in trouble.
Ah, ok. So civil war is more or less over, aside from single pretender who has no more than 5k troops? What's his plan? 5k isn't enough to try anything else than causing troubles- but he surely can't take Constantinople...
I get it, I just wanted to know why they aren't being actively pressed into army and trained as a field forces. It's been a while since Dyrrachium, it should be enough to train more than 1000 men. If there's enough bodies of course.
I've been actually thinking about internal affairs. Byzantium is hard pressed, civil war and war with Persia and it was most likely quite ravaged in certain places. Question is- how much?
Ok, it'll be interesting...
I know, but since his estates were unlawfully taken from him and king is clearly going nuts and he is capable of claiming power for himself (as seen otl)... Well, I guess it can get off the ground.
Who knows about Constantinople, but he might still run wild in the Balkans. A five thousand-man army was a decently sized force in the early 7th century.
They are being drafted, like in Ravenna and the levies that Phocas gathered before setting out for the East. But again, not a game changing factor, thus far.
Again, I think there is a bit of confusion here. It is Shahin Vahmanzadegan, commander of the Iranian forces in Anatolia who is having his estates seized and is being recalled to Ctesiphon; not Farrokhan Shahrbaraz who who is now in Palestine, and was who eventually rebelled IOTL.
Chapter 15 -II-
“It is true, isn’t it?” asked Kardarigan, hesitantly, from his seat.
“It is,” he answered, with an emotionless face.
“So…”
The Shahrbaraz considered his words carefully, before uttering a reply. Though without a doubt, he was the most capable Spahbod of all, and therefore a vital asset to all of the Spah, Khosrau’s thousand ears were everywhere. And any deed, no matter how noble, could always be misconstrued by the sycophants back in Tysfun. “So, nothing. The Shah’s already decided on the matter. We just carry on.”
His subordinate made a face, but did not say anything else. Instead, he stood up, walked over to the chamber’s door, and sent the guards posted outside on a useless errand. Turning back, he walked past the table, brooding, and stopped before the window, cracking the curtain open to peek into the night. Outside, Gaza was dead quiet. Outside, by the moonlight, only the sporadic patrolmen carrying torches were the only clear signs of life. The local inhabitants had locked themselves in their homes since the arrival of the Iranian forces, and the Eranspahbod had proceeded to leave them largely alone, as the city was soon to be handed over to the authority of Nehemiah and the Jewish puppets.
“You know this sets a precedent, right?” began Kardarigan, while tugging at his beard, thoughtfully. “Even when my uncle suffered that temporary setback during the last war, Hormizd [1] did not dare treat him like this…” [2]
Farrokhan rested his elbows atop the table, and crossed his fingers in front of his face, staring into the flickering yellow flame from the melting candle. This does set a precedent… but it also presents alternatives.
The other Spahbod went on. “Besides, this affront will upset not just Shahin’s kin, but the whole house of Suren and even that of Karen.”
“Khosrau reacts, or perhaps overreacts, to events but he does so energetically,” Farrokhan finally said, still focused on the blaze. “Yet, I trust that he knows when to stop; while he is victorious, the clans won’t react against their King, nor against the Spah.”
Kardarigan gave off a testy grunt, acknowledging the validity of the point being made, and grew quiet.
“There are some things that ought to be considered, however. Through no fault of his own, Shahin finds himself on the wrong side of the sword, and if he reports to Tysfun, as he is being commanded, he might not see another sunrise thereafter…” the Shahrbaraz ended, his voice trailing off.
By contrast, his own position could not be more secure. Not only was he the Eranspahbod, but his own assaults against the Romans, had been nothing but wholly successful. He had partaken in the conquest of Mesopotamia, and it was under his command alone that Syria and Palestine had been conquered. And, as if it were not enough, he was making headway on putting together the first sea-worthy Iranian fleet in the Mediterranean in centuries. The Boar has run wild, indeed. Yet his trump card was the certainty that Banu [2] would never allow her brother to ever suspect him of treason.
“On the other hand,” he resumed, suddenly, and now looking up to Kardarigan, “this only strengthens our position, my friend. Shahin was good at what he did, I hate to admit, but if Shahraplakan is not able to keep up the pace, then the Romans will regain the initiative.” He made a deliberate pause, and then delivered his conclusion intonating each word slowly and emphatically. “And then we come in, to save the day, and win the war.”
Kardarigan chuckled once, and then walked up to the table, leaning lightly against it. “Very well, then. I take it so long as I can count on you, I am safe.”
“You can, indeed.”
They stared at each other in silence, not without some tension. But, perhaps realizing his own weaker position, Kardarigan quickly folded. “You know that I would follow you to the ends of the earth, Farrokhan. Your aptitude and skill has brought us here, and whatever success I’ve achieved or might still reach in the future, I owe it to you, alone.”
It was good to have trustworthy men behind him, at all times, and the Shahrbaraz knew it. Abruptly, and thoroughly pleased, he stood up, and embraced his subordinate. “Lighten up, man!” he exclaimed jovially, patting him on the shoulder. “Not only do we look better in the eyes of the Shah with each hamlet we capture, but we are about to present him with another Roman civil war!”
Kardarigan smiled, relieved, and returned the embrace. “Let’s hear that dog now then!”
________________________________
The enemy envoy had arrived earlier in the evening, and as a way to stress their evident position of strength, the Shahrbaraz had kept him waiting for hours. Now, finally, the guards had returned to the chamber, and proceeded to introduce Alexander, newly-named Kouropalates for the self-proclaimed Qaisar Constantius. As the conversation began, the Iranians remained seated. The Roman, on his feet.
“Speak!” Farrokhan commanded in Greek, assertively.
The Kouropalates, studied the room quickly, and without his face betraying any emotion, spoke. “In the name of Constantius Apion, son of Phocas, Emperor in Christ, I have come to present Romania’s terms for an alliance with the Persian Basileus, the Great Chosroes.” He stopped, cautiously, but realizing that Farrokhan and Kardarigan would not interrupt, continued. “As your Basileus remains at war with the son of the tyrant Maurice, who strives to drag the Roman people back under his oppressive rule, the rightful Emperor sees a common cause to be made with lord Chosroes.”
The Shahrbaraz also studied the emissary, as he presented his offer. He was a soldier, not a bureaucrat disguised in uniform, he could easily tell, from the way the man carried himself, and the lack of needless and ostentatious ornaments on his armor. Yet perhaps more interesting, purportedly, this was also the man that had engineered and pushed for the persecution of the Jews all across the Levant, inadvertently aiding the Iranian advance, and had murdered Phocas’ own wife before fleeing Constantinople. We’re either dealing with an utter idiot, or a ravenous madman.
As agreed, Kardarigan was the first to speak. “Your Emperor, yourself, and your whole ship at port are under arrest right now. What’s to prevent us from just marching you off into captivity?”
Alexander remained unmoved. “The Emperor’s family is extremely influential across Egypt. Should the alliance be consolidated, the entire Diocese can join efforts with your cause, and supply your armies as they carry the fight to the tyrant.” As he concluded his statement, the Roman’s blue eyes met his own, directly, daringly. Farrokhan could feel how he was being measured.
The other Iranian pressed on. “Fine, and possibly true. But, at the rate we keep moving, Egypt will fall to us in a matter of days; with, or without, you.”
Without his gaze vacillating, the Kouropalates responded. “But resistance will bog you down, and in the meantime, Theodosios will attack, with the united might of Asia and all of Europe. He will tear through Anatolia, and eventually into Persia itself. You will have to scramble and run home just to face him.” He stopped, snickered, and continued. “I am offering you a chance to secure your flank, and win this damn war. Once we are victorious, an arrangement worthy of the Emperor and the Basileus can be reached regarding territorial adjustments.”
He knew it was time to intervene. “You speak of grandiose future plans, Kouropalates, but what strength do you have to back your words? Is Egypt not held by Theodosios?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat somewhat.
Alexander licked his lips, and leered. “Lady Apion’s agents have been at work in Alexandria for a number of days already, finding true Christians who repudiate the deal the spawn of Maurice reached with the heretic bishop now enthroned. They know the innocent blood of Eulogios, rightful upholder of the Chalcedonian creed, cries out for vengeance. As goes Alexandria, so goes Egypt.”
There he had it. It would be the nonsensical theological debates, utterly incomprehensible to the Iranians, that would turn the Romans against each other, in a way that had turned them against the Jews before and would now deliver to them the wealth of Egypt. Constantius and his clique, could always be dealt with later, or have a Spahbod appointed to watch over them. Still, at the very least, as he had told Kardarigan earlier, he was about to give Khosrau his civil war back.
He rubbed his hands together, slowly. “Kyrie Alexander, I believe you might need to head for Ctesiphon, and present your credentials.”
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[2] There was another Sassanian general named Kardarigan as well, who fought during the Roman-Persian wars of 572–591, and was overall a solid commander, until he suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of Phillipicus, who will be making an appearance in our story soon. It is uncertain whether the older Kardarigan was still around to fight during the war of 602, and a nephew of his is documented in 586. Here, I have this Kardarigan as a different individual altogether, the nephew of the older general.
[3] The Shahrbaraz was married to one of Khosrau’s sisters whose name, sadly, is lost to history. The name selected for her here is entirely fictitious.
Ah, I see... some scheming among the Spah, Khosrau still moving against Shahin... and crazy Alexander scheming to get Egypt via the Apions.
This is really a total clusterfuck for the Romans; I wouldn't be surprised to see Rome left only with Africa by the end of this if things go totally belly up, because of the Avars in Italy and the thus-far-unblunted Persian assault.
This is really a total clusterfuck for the Romans; I wouldn't be surprised to see Rome left only with Africa by the end of this if things go totally belly up, because of the Avars in Italy and the thus-far-unblunted Persian assault.
He, he. As mentioned in the update, the Shahrbaraz feels pretty cozy where he is, but Spah politics always seemed to revolve around outdoing your peers, and towards the very end of Sassanian rule, it really turned into a wild game of musical chairs on steroids. Knowing that Kardarigan is firmly behind him, at least for now, surely does help him focus on the Romans.
And speaking of the Romans: absolutely, just because Theodosius remains alive doesn’t mean they are out of the woods.
Any other questions, or comments, are always appreciated.
Chapter 15 -III -
“Behold these impious dogs!” bellowed Rhahzadh, the man who had brought the Shah’s deadly missive, as he stood in front of the ornate Fire Altar before the bejeweled Derafsh Kavian , flanked by four straight-faced Hērbads [1]. “May Mithra, Saroosh, and Rashnu spit on their souls and discard them at the Bridge of Judgement!” [2]
Oh, Aditi! A silent tear streamed down his face.
Just a month earlier the mood at camp had been entirely different. The Roman war seemed all but over with the death of the Qaisar Phocas. Who would have known he, a Median rustic, was destined to be the one to strike the decisive blow? In the aftermath of the battle, after the Qaisar’s corpse was found, Rustam had been tracked down and summoned to the Spahbod’s tent where, to his own surprise, Shahin embraced him and placed at satchel full of gold on his surprised hands before the Romans also present therein did the same. It had all been overwhelming, and he had initially feared the worst, as he had failed at his orders, but had allowed his men to take the plunder, even keeping a piece of the imperial armor himself. Then the body was found, and the culprits were located. And richly rewarded.
Alas, the celebrations were not to endure. For two days later arrived a confirmation of the Shahanshah’s wish to continue the war against all Romans. The letter had caused a certain discontent to rumble amongst the troops, but Shahin, by restating his own personal allegiance to Khosrau, had been quick to put it down. And as they had prepared to resume hostilities, and march beyond Theodosiopolis, the bringer of death appeared.
Rhahzadh arrived attired in full military regalia, accompanied by a personal guard of five hundred Zhayedan, and without wasting an instant, he had set out to fulfill his deadly orders. Shahin had been arrested on the spot, and humiliated before the whole assembled army by having his military tunic ripped from his shoulders. When voices of disapproval rose from the formed ranks, the hecklers, and possibly some others who were innocent, were seized and skinned before the intimidated troops. Once this was done, Rhahzadh took over official command from their Spahbod, and even had Shahrplakan flogged and imprisoned, for ‘not keeping Shahin from killing Phocas.’ And now, all of those even remotely involved in the incident were to die, and their former leader was to be carted off to Tysfun to face their Lord.
“No, please!” screeched the first man, a soldier whose name now eluded Rustam, as he was shoved towards the chopping block set up before the army. With a kick to the back of the knees, he was forced to kneel, and then held down on the slab by two other men as he struggled to break free. In a minute, his chilling screams were over, and the headless corpse was pushed to the side, with palpable disgust. Thus followed four others; seized, dragged, beheaded, discarded.
Eventually, they grabbed ahold of Narseh, and Rustam could not help himself from taking a spontaneous step towards his friend, as his mouth opened to utter a protest. But a blow to the back of the head prevented the words from leaving his mouth, knocked him down face first, and he tasted dry dirt, before he felt himself being pulled back up onto his feet amidst the terrified shouts of his comrade. The only comfort that could be said he felt was that Narseh’s death was quick, as had been the others’.
Then suddenly, his muscles tensed up, his lips became loose, and his mind started racing. Without intending to, he began to mutter the Patet prayer to himself: “Az hamah gunah patet pashemanoom; Az harvastin duzhmata, duzhhukhta, duzhhvreshta mem pa geti …” [3]
But as he prepared to face the executioner, a loud tumult in the barracks became obvious. Heads began turning, and some men murmured as a cloud of dust rose form the eastern side of the camp. Seconds later, a sweaty messenger darted from beyond the formed ranks, and headed straight for Rhahzadh. Upon reaching him, he dropped to his knees and blurted out his report which, was obvious to all from the expression on the general’s face, greatly surprised the Spahbod. Rustam struggled to hear what was said, but the increasing rumble of mumbles and the isporadic frantic shouts prevented him from doing so, until the storm had already broken out.
“The Romans!” he heard. “No! Not the Romans!” cried others. “Treason!”
In amazement, he turned his head to both sides, and realized that there was indeed the now-familiar dissonance of combat in the air, yet indistinct with regards to its exact origin. As he looked about in shock, however, he felt himself being pushed forward by his guards, and the order was barked behind him to move along. A stone’s throw ahead, Rhahzdah, already on his horse, was vociferating commands and curses, as he rode in the direction of the scattering dust, and towards the breaking ranks. All the same, Rustam knew he was being led back to the camp’s prison, to an unknown end. Am I being spared a quick death, only to fall upon the hands of a vengeful pack of Romans? Or will it be a dark and sudden execution now, without further humiliation? he wondered, despairingly.
“I knew this would happen,” he heard from the voice behind him, as they marched on. “I knew this would happen! I knew it!” It was the guard pushing him along, repeating the same phrase over and over. The others said nothing, but their glooming faces betrayed their dark thoughts. It was obvious that there was an attack underway, but strangely, some of the men seemed to be running from, rather than running to, the commotion. This odd behavior extended across all ranks, and could not be written off as the cowardice of raw recruits. What was happening?
“Forget it! He looked after us!” the beleaguered guard finally exclaimed, letting go of Rustam, and turning away from the marching column, losing himself amidst the uproar.
He, now, truly did not know what to expect. Once more, images of Aditi, the village, and even his parents flashed in his head, in quick succession. Still, when they dissipated, he found himself standing amongst the rest of the condemned, while those entrusted to watch them were swiftly deserting. The cloud of dust continued to blow closer but now, surprisingly, the cacophony of a raging battle was rapidly dying down. There was barely clanking of swords meeting, no shattering of shields, but perhaps more telling, no cries no agony.
“Iranians!” ultimately thundered a voice in Parsig, amidst the dusty veil. “Lay down your weapons! We are not against you!”
The other prisoners and himself exchanged looks of surprise, as the few remaining guards threw down their spear and shields. Who…?
Dashing from the haze, at first looking like a band of heavenly yazatas [4], a handful of Armenian heavy horsemen charged on, clean swords unsheathed and glinting in the sunlight that seeped through, towards the rest of the camp, skillfully bypassing the stunned prisoners and their custodians. There were dozens, then scores, then hundreds of them.
Rustam was at a loss. Are they rebelling? What…? Yet as he stared dumbly in amazement, he felt his tied arms being grabbed, and the chains slipping from his wrists, falling on the ground with a dull clatter. Turning his head with a delayed reaction, he realized it was another, unknown Iranian setting him and the others free. Then, amidst all the confusion, a trickle of understanding began to reach his mind.
“These are the men, aren’t they?” asked someone else, from behind.
He whirled around once more and noticed a group of horsemen gathered about them, as the rest of the riders continued on. He barely recognized only one of them, dressed on simple tunic, his hair and beard disheveled and unkempt. It was the Spahbod Shahin, studying the astonished bunch with a fleeting glance.
Then, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, Shahin addressed one of the men beside him. “Yes, they are. Saharuni [5], though this is rash… I’ve no choice but to thank you.”
The melee, or whatever struggle had actually taken place, was now over. Just the muddled reverberation of horse hooves racing down unseen paths broke the now dawning silence that overtook the small gathering, as those who found themselves on the wrong side of the fight were chased away.
“Don’t thank me, Spahbod,” the man replied, reaching out and patting him hard on the back, with a smile. “I’ve word from reliable sources that the Bagratuni are seizing up all of our lands in Armenia with possible royal consent, and the Shah is even toying with the idea of tearing off pieces to reward his lapdog Stephanoz. Rome, Theodosius, and should the rumors prove true, the Prince, might, at this point, be the lesser of two evils.”
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[2] In Zoroastrian belief when one dies, the soul is judged by these 3 “angels” before it is permitted to move onto heaven or hell.
[3] Prayer uttered by Orthodox Zoroastrians on Pateti day (Zoroastrian New Year’s Day). Also said by those who are about to die, sometimes in the company of a priest. The first two lines roughly translate as: “From all my sins with contrition I turn back; from every evil-thought, evil-word, evil-deed, I have in this existence…”
[4] “Good spirits” or “divine sparks.”
[5] David Saharuni. A medieval Armenian lord of the House of Saharuni, which remained at odds with the Bagratuni, who would later emerge triumphant IOTL.
Another great update! Please let the tide start to turn in Anatolia for the Romans, Persia has been having its way for far too long.
Finally caught up on this, and, wahey! An excellent update
Glad to see my suggested Egyptian characters have still got a role to play. I hope we'll be seeing more of them all!
Glad to see my suggested Egyptian characters have still got a role to play. I hope we'll be seeing more of them all!
obviously there is somewhat less collapse of urban life in this alt, so what are the populations of these (formerly) major cities?
Colonia (colonge)
Maniz
Treverorum (trier)
Paris
Massila
Lugdungunum (lyon)
Tolousa
Carthagena (Carthago nova)
Lisbon (don't know its roman name)
Corduba
Rome
Naples
Tranto
Genua
Brisindi
Reggio (in calabria)
Milan
Verona
Ravenna
Salona (Split)
Durres (Dyrrachium)
Thessaloniki
Corinth
Adrinople
Constantinople
Ephesus
Trazabond
Tarsus
Antioch
Tripoli (both the Lebanese and Libyan one)
Sidon
Tyre
Acre
Jerusalem
Gaza
Petra
Alexandria
Memphis (Cairo)
Cyrene
Leptis magna
Carthage
Algiers (I don't no if it existed in roman times)
Ceuta/Tanger (don't know their roman names)
Hopefully I spelled them right
) major cities?Colonia (colonge)
Maniz
Treverorum (trier)
Paris
Massila
Lugdungunum (lyon)
Tolousa
Carthagena (Carthago nova)
Lisbon (don't know its roman name)
Corduba
Rome
Naples
Tranto
Genua
Brisindi
Reggio (in calabria)
Milan
Verona
Ravenna
Salona (Split)
Durres (Dyrrachium)
Thessaloniki
Corinth
Adrinople
Constantinople
Ephesus
Trazabond
Tarsus
Antioch
Tripoli (both the Lebanese and Libyan one)
Sidon
Tyre
Acre
Jerusalem
Gaza
Petra
Alexandria
Memphis (Cairo)
Cyrene
Leptis magna
Carthage
Algiers (I don't no if it existed in roman times)
Ceuta/Tanger (don't know their roman names)
Hopefully I spelled them right
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