Of course! It's the best narrative TL in Pre-1900, by my reckoning, and the best Byzzie TL as well...
The Mauricians: A Medieval Roman novel
- Thread starter Pururauka
- Start date
- Status
Of course! It's the best narrative TL in Pre-1900, by my reckoning, and the best Byzzie TL as well...
Chapter 16 -IV-
“The news could not be better, my dear Gundulf!” she exclaimed, exhausted with the niceties of the past hour, yet with an imperceptible hiss in her words. “Paris is ours! And now Landeric is on the run!”
The Austrasian glanced casually at her as he resumed his pacing, some distance ahead, and his message. “Yes, yes. But the news coming from the south are most distressing…why would the Visigoths be raiding north of the Pyrenees at this time?”
She sought out his eyes until they met, but did not answer. Bastard. Come out and say it.
He did not wait. “Would the Queen Mother, perhaps, care to enlighten me?”
Never one to mince words, she let him have it. “Don’t be coy with me, Mayor. The Goths are but abusing our temporary weakness. Meanwhile, Clothar is returning and, whether he survives the Avars or not, the nobles in Neustria have not yet bent their knees! That is a bigger problem!”
Gundulf stopped, and turned to face her fully, while he stroked his greying beard. “Surely, her majesty doesn’t doubt the martial abilities and the prowess of her allies?”
She grinned, tilting her head slightly to the left. “They aren’t in question. But the future of my great-grandson is. And the influences that may poison my grandson’s feeble mind are as well. Loyalty hasn’t been a trait that’s been abundant in the realm as of late.”
Gundulf narrowed his eyes, in that fashion of his, and clasped his hands behind his back. “The Neustrian nobles are deserting by the day. Clothar’s support weakens with every town we capture. We will prevail. Furthermore, the eastern dukes are due to arrive anytime in Paris now, fielding another ten thousand men. Should they just continue on to Aquitaine?”
She twiddled her fingers. “To what end?”
He nodded slowly to himself, and shrugged. “The Goths are a cowardly and divided race. They will not withstand the full and united might of the Kingdoms.” He paused, cleared his throat, as if expecting her to say something, and continued. “But they can always be brushed off later... Now, on to matters of greater importance. What will become of the captured children?”
She smiled to herself, as she leaned back on her seat comfortably, patting the arm rests on both sides. “Ah, Gundulf, there’s but one predestined fate for the line of Fredegund.”
“That is a most unchristian thing to insinuate, my lady…”
Does this idiot always say “most” to make his point? “Paris is on Theudebert’s hands. Surrender them to me; they are inconsequential to the war effort. At worst, they are potentially dangerous and shall become a liability, if suffered to exist.”
“Dagobert, Clothar’s youngest is still at large.”
“We’ll deal with him when he’s found.”
“My Queen, let’s be frank. I have brought the children because the situation has changed. When the war plan was first discussed, you offered my lord Aquitaine as well. It seems now that the Goths are violating our borders, and the province needs protection. It is only right that as King of all the Franks, Theudebert controls the greater share of the kingdom.” Gundulf licked his lips, and, without awaiting a response, resumed his pacing, turning his face away.
She was livid. She had known the Austrasian mayor was a vile snake from the moment he appeared on her grandson’ court, and it was evident that he only pushed to increase Theudebert’s power as a screen for his own aggrandizement. Even worse still, she seemed impotent to stop him. The last assassination attempt on him had failed and, although blamed on Clothar, she knew he held her suspect, whether he would care to admit as much or not. Now, once more, he had pushed the line, and revalidated her belief he needed to be done away with. Nevertheless, in any case, priorities were priorities. Clothar’s spawn needs to be obliterated first. Then, by God, I’m after you.
“Very well, mayor. I trust you will not be leaving for the north so quickly. My great grandson’s mayor Protadius will have arrived this evening and be ready to review the details of the new agreement on the morrow. In the meantime, make yourself at home,” she replied, in as much a dignified tone as she could muster, before adding, “and, please, turn over the children. Now.”
The old Frank spun on his heels and clapped twice, slowly. “You are truly wise, my lady. Clothar was a terrible fool to have pitted wits against you!”
She fixed her icy gaze on his eyes, and leaned forward once more. “The children. Now.”
Gundulf smirked, and assented.
***
It was the noise on the scaffold set up on the court below that was really the focus of her attention, for the main event was about to begin. Without much ceremony, and following a dry thud, cleaving the bone, Prince Merovech’s right foot was severed and brusquely kicked away. The young boy cried helplessly, as he clutched at the gushing stump, between the two bearded guards who stood by, in utter silence. It was amusing; but it wasn’t as gory as she would have liked.
“Go on!” she ordered, anxious.
At her command, two restless mares were led onto the courtyard, past the wounded boy, who now looked up at Brunhilda in terror. She smiled, searing the image of Clothar’s crippled son into her mind. Then, out was brought young Emma, with a long, thick bearskin shielding her from the chilly October breeze. The girl, a simple teenager, tried hard to keep her composure at first, while she strolled on towards the mounts. But then, coming across her whimpering brother, she cracked under the horror of her impending fate. She began to cry and fell to her knees, dropping the fur on the ground and half revealing her naked figure.
“Seize the traitor and continue with the execution!” the Queen shouted, impatiently. She was not to be denied her triumph. Not a minute longer.
Minutes later the head and left arm of the nude young princess were tied to the neck of one of the mares, while her right foot was fastened to neck of the other, which faced on an opposite direction. Two expectant riders mounted on their beasts and one of them, after a reassuring, and edgy, nod from the monarch, whipped his mount and began pulling, as the other did the same.
Brunhilda enjoyed every single anguishing cry, raspy scream, and gurgling shrill that emanated from Emma’s throat. By God Almighty, Fredegund, I’ve outdone you! At last! Years of this tragic feud are now brought to an end, by destroying this bitch, her womb, and your whole damn line.
In less than half an hour it was over [1.] A portion of the princess’ split corpse lay inert on the bloody cobblestones, as her ripped arm and head were unfastened from the tense mare’s rear. And still atop the scaffold, seized with revulsion and pain, lay Merovech, cradling his right leg, paler than his dead sibling.
She laughed, uncontrollably, her life work realized. It was now just a matter of time before Clothar, or his head, arrived and she could also do away with the lame boy on the scaffold, once and for all.
_______________________________
[1] IOTL, after being seized by Clothar in 613, this was how Brunhilda herself was put to death.
Awesome, I like how the ATL situation doesn't differ much in the level of resulting overall human misery in Mediterranean compared to OTL, at least short-term. If anything, it's worse so far. Poor Italy...
I also loved the description of Theodosius' near-death vision.
I also loved the description of Theodosius' near-death vision.
Getting so hyped for the eventual Roman, Lombard, Avar clash. Hope you don't leave us blue balled 
Chapter 17 -I-
Priscus, the Comes Excubitorum for Phocas, had been an odd one. The entire exchange had been a rigid, halting, and cold affair, regardless of its objectives been achieved. Still wondering if the gossip that had reached him regarding this old soldier had been true, as he shifted on his seat, Dioskoros plucked another grape from the bunch in the bowl set before him, and set about to write his report to Theodosius.
***
Since he had never imagined, and after Maria’s passing, frankly cared to think about Constantinople, when he first arrived in The City, he had no idea what to expect. The overland trip from Anatolia had been rather uneventful, with plenty of hills, dust, and farms. Perhaps, the only memorable moment that would stay with him had been near the end; during the boat ride crossing the Propontis the waters had been a little choppy, as it was usual in the cooling fall, but nothing to get too worked up about. Still, he could help himself but burst out laughing when a certain Eusebius, an Armenian clerk attached to his party, had turned pale halfway through, and promptly vomited all over the deck as the craft softly swayed left and right, under the annoyed gaze of its captain and the bewildered expression of the Prasinos deme’s representative, a man of sea through and through, to be certain.
With the scent of barf mingling with the salty air, and the tall turrets of the metropolis looming ever larger, he could notice that the crowd that had assembled to greet him, as the much publicized herald of the House of Justinian, was large and growing. When the ship neared the Harbour of Sophia, which had been cleared of all other vessels, not only the impassive gaze of the marble effigies of Justin, Sophia, Narses, and Arabia greeted them, but also hundreds of pairs of eyes of citizens, and even holy icons, which had been brought out to welcome his and his party.
At the head of the gathering, and amongst the few notables left in town, had been expecting him a certain Demetrios, demarch of the Prasinoi, who after exchanging pleasantries, quickly offered him to meet with the sole remaining civil authority in the capital: the Comes Priscus. Dioskoros, having been notified of this previously while in Chalcedon, and only wishing to complete his mission as soon as practically possible before turning to personal matters, acquiesced instantly.
It was obvious that Constantinople still bore the scars of war. There were blackened, burnt walls left, and in in many cases the side streets were quieter than would have been expected in the heart of the Empire. Even the Forum of the Great Constantine, as the train made its way to the Bouraidon quarter wherein Priscus resided, was surprisingly deserted, with seagulls alone accompanying the saintly founder of The City atop his column, and below. But the residence of the general was yet intact, and well-guarded. On sight of the cortege, the Comes’ bucellari silently opened the gates of the mansion and stood at attention, while Dioskoros and Demetrios were led in by the head slave, and finally brought to Priscus himself, who apathetically sat by a fire in his private chapel.
And the conversation had been difficult. The words had not flowed easily, and the demarch had had to fill in the gaps left by Priscus. Nevertheless, all the points had ultimately been agreed on: every official was to swear fealty to the Emperor, before an icon of Theodosius and Dioskoros’ own presence; the bodies of Maurice and Constantina, and their dead children were to be recovered and brought to the Imperial Palace until the Augustus’ impending arrival; the Patriarch Cyriacus was to be released of the virtual home arrest in which he was being held for his “collaboration” with the former regime and send a representative back with Dioskoros’ report to meet with Theodosius himself; and finally, agree to the release and transport to Constantinople of Maurice’s brother, Philippicus, from the monastery in Chrysopolis where he had been locked away.
“Forgive the Comes, legate,” the demarch had quietly requested, as they boarded their litters once more at the conclusion of the conference. “He has recently lost his woman…Phocas’ spouse...”
***
The day after the ceremony at the Hippodrome, and having dispatched the letter, he quietly set out to do what he had been pondering during the long, unremarkable trip from the imperial headquarters in Tarsus. Throwing another tunic over his garments, he stepped out, and asked to be carried east, to the very heart of the capital. He avoided the Mese, which had seemed to be regaining its liveliness rapidly since his arrival, and continued to admire the damaged, yet still impressive architecture wherever possible.
He could only guess, which areas had been visited when his grandfather had come, so many years before, as he stared at the columns, statues, and churches scattered about. At every holy place that was passed, he would cross himself over, out of deference. After a while, this ritual and the soft rocking of the litter’s movement gently carried him back to his own thoughts, and as he let the curtain on the side drop, he sat back. Since becoming an imperial official, the nightmares had decreased, but not ceased. And the distraction he had so desperately sought before while in Egypt had now managed to leave him still unfulfilled. Still empty. It had been for that reason, and after much prayer, he had determined to appeal to God himself directly once more from within the greatest church in Romania, and ask for clarity and a sign on a decision that had been making itself present in his considerations, with an increasing recurrence.
“Kyrie, Kyrie! Please!”
The sound startled him. “Halt!” he ordered instinctively, as he parted the curtain.
A boy, three or four years of age perhaps, stood peeking timidly from around the upcoming corner. The dirt on his clothes betrayed the neglect he had been suffering , while that on his face, and the trails the tears had left, betrayed his actual suffering.
“Kyrie…hungry…”he started.
“Go away, filthy dog!” shouted the front bearer, with obvious disgust.
“Hey!” Dioskoros shouted. “Do not address the child like that, and lower this damn thing now!”
The bearers complied. As he stepped out, the boy cowered with fear, and was about to turn around, to flee Dioskoros imagined, when he quickly seized him by the shoulder. “Why are you here by yourself?” he asked, intrigued, as he kneeled before the little one. “Where is your mother?”
The kid said nothing, as his eyes scanned Dioskoros’ face and those of the two bearers, nervously.
A wave of understanding, and dread, swept over the man from Aphrodito, but he managed to ask the next logical question. “Where do you live?”
Silence.
“He’s probably one of the brats left homeless with the happenings of the last months,” started the grumpy bearer. “There’s been scores of them, that the churches and the monks have tried to take in…but haven’t…uhm…been able to…”
Dioskoros did not even turn around, but instead focused his gaze on the boy’s evading eyes. “Tell me, son. Where are your parents?”
The kid hesitated, shaking his head anxiously.
He reached out with his other hand and grabbed the orphan boy by the shoulders. For an instant, he pondered, and wondered if he was to be presented again with another answer from above. Four years old…What’s your name?
“What is your name?”
The child hesitated again, looking down, but this time he answered. “Proterius, Kyrie.”
A chill shot through his spine. Dioskoros Psimanobet knew then that Christ himself had touched him, again. Becoming a monk, as he had contemplated for some time now, was no longer an option. For God had given him his unborn son, four years gone, back in another form, and named him after the pagarch who had taken him in the first place, and on whom he had long sought revenge.
Kyrie Iesou Christe, Yie tou Theou, Eleison me ton amartolon!
Don't be a bad person. Don't bump asking if the author will update. Your forum thanks you.
This message brought to you by TL Readers For The End Of False Hope of Updates.
5-year anniversary update.
With his left arm placed around the wooden empty bowl of soup, giving the impression that he was still eating from it, Menander kept a close watch on who came and left the tavern. Though quite certain that he would not be recognized by the average peasant, he hated to be boxed in; it was an annoying feeling of uncertainty that was an unfamiliar. And depending on how the rest of the evening went, feelings of uncertainty could give way to much worse. If the men he was waiting for did not show up, the only other alternative to his current plan would be far, far riskier. A trip overland through Illyricum, and then the barbaricum…
He took a break from his watch, to quickly glance out the window at the full moon casting a pale light on the castle built by Justinian on a hill by the Vodias. Atop its turrets, the fires glowing showed the purple banner of Theodosius fluttering in the cold winter air, reminding him of the recent defection of Patras to that side, along with all of the Peloponnese. Oh, how things had changed in these last few months, he thought to himself. He had fled Constantinople rather abruptly, taking with him just as much of anything as he thought that could be of any use during his journey, along with his unforgettable stylus and as much papyrus as he could physically carry. When reaching Thessalonica he had heard of the fall of Jerusalem, along with Phocas’ demise and the defection of the Eastern armies to the son of Maurice. The first set of news had triggered a massive wave of discontent and backlash against any overt supporters of the dead Emperor together with massive religious parades invocating the protection of the heavens and the restoration of the holy city to the Empire; the second set of news seemed to the masses like a response to their pleas and brought with it a swift and unanimous decision from the municipal authorities to change sides. And then, it was time to for him move on.
As he arrived in this westernmost port city of Hellas, his best hope remained to flee to Italy, and try to blend in among the soldiers of Domentziolus until he had an opportunity to slip into obscurity somewhere in southern Italy, or perhaps better, Sicily. Then, while he let his mind retrace his previous steps and ponder on the next ones, he spotted two men walking in. One, tall and clean shaven, yet sporting a dirty cloak over his attire; the other, his face covered with stubble, tanned and plump, and wearing a light tunic of fading brown. They were the ones he had been waiting for: Andreas, his one remaining man and contact at the port, accompanied by whom he supposed to be a sailor.
Inconspicuously, they proceeded to his table and sat directly in front of him. “Boat’s at the wharf,” said Andreas, point blank, with a low voice. Menander assented silently and looking at the mariner, added in in the same tone. “I take it you’ve found us a discreet place below deck?”
The brown man, licking his lips as he looked about, in an oafish way Menander thought, responded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve emptied a compartment and threw down a couple of blankets for you to sleep on. I will have to lock the door at all times, though…to keep anyone from wandering in. Oh… and I’ll bring down buckets for your needs once a day, at night.”
Menander leaned forward on his seat, placed his elbows on the table, and pulled his hood along, lest more of his face was revealed. “And the food?”
“We’ve got some olives, and bread. We plan on fishing for a few days as well…it’s not a long trip…” Yet the sailor caught himself, as if he had left an important detail out, and finally looked at Menander in the face with an idiotic grin. “But that’ll be extra…”
Andreas narrowed his eyes and began explaining, somewhat apologetically. “The man we had paid the deposit to earlier today was nowhere to be seen, but his friend here volunteered to…” He ran a hand over his face. “…Help us instead. He does want a few more nomismata, however.”
Menander knew that bumpkins such as this descendant of helots were like dogs, and would not leave until one threw a bone down. Unlike a dog however, this animal could speak and get them into enough trouble if deprived from his bone. “How many more?” he asked, impassively, while taking a closer measure of the man.
“Two!” he blurted out, as he gestured the same amount with his right hand.
“I will give you one now and the other once we’ve made it safely to our destination,” Menander retorted. “That is more than what you will make in the next three months, you can take it or leave it.”
The man sat back, and crossed his arms, while looking slightly up, in a somewhat confused way. But Menander knew how to be patient and waited for the rustic to finish adding his income up to arrive at the same conclusion. In any case, he was not going to waste anymore gold on anyone. Once in Bari, if this thing in front of him dared to ask for the other nomisma, he would get a dagger in the gut instead.
“I guess…it’ll be fine…”
“Good decision,” answered Menander, smiling slightly as he reached for his pouch and retrieved one of the gold pieces. “Here you go.”
“Well then, let’s go,” said Andreas, as he stood up.
Menander left a silver piece atop the table, grabbed his bags, and followed the two men on the short walk to the harbor. In twenty minutes, having made their way through sleepy, darkened alleyways and streets, they were there. They would get on board immediately and hide as they were set to depart in the early hours of dawn.
Hopping off the pier onto the ship itself, they were led down to a darkened corner room below, with broken pieces of pottery and darkened bits of corn scattered on the floor; and along the wall to the right, as promised, were a couple of sheepskins with some hay below. The sailor took his leave and left them with a single candle, cautioning them to put it out within the hour. As he closed the door, they could hear him placing a lock on it.
“What kind of boat was this anyhow?” he asked as he tried to find a place to sit atop the bedding.
Andreas, as he knelt to place the candle on the floor between the two of them and put down the three bags he was carrying by his bed, replied quickly. “He mentioned it was a boat that would haul wheat from Egypt and sometimes olive oil from here to there. Since the war had led to shortages now, they’ve changed their routes and are bringing in foodstuffs from the West instead.”
“Hmmm…”Well, it won’t be for long if the Avars and the Sklavenoi get there, Menander thought. “I will be doing some reading for a while longer, if you would like to go to sleep.”
“Thank you, Clarissime. I do need to catch up on some rest after the last few days.” With this, his soldier lay down and turned to face away from the light, saying no more.
Menander then returned to his plans, as he searched through the two bags he had carried in. Landing in Bari, they would have to travel overland towards Naples and assess the situation. Having heard of Phocas’ death, he reasoned that Domentziolus would have switched sides in exchange for immunity, as he commanded the only Roman force left in Italy with any strength. And once they found his army, it would be easy to blend in. Even if he had to dispose of Andreas to insure his own anonymity.
Nonetheless, as he was evaluating these possibilities, a new idea began to bloom in his mind and he started to dig for a particular manuscript. Alexander had not done badly for himself, in spite of his now evident madness. He had risen from a low rank in the army, favoring Phocas’ ideas and staying close to the court until he had gained enough power. In short, playing the lackey. If he managed to find his way into Tiberius’ court, he could play the same role, sure that he would not be recognized by anyone there; in fact, he could surpass Phocas’ lapdog’s performance as he thought he had a copy in his possession of a document that could cement his credibility in the Western court and sway the opinion of the teenage Caesar, far from the intrigues of Priscus and the rabble of the metropolis.
Once he found what he was looking for, before putting out the candle, he decided to read what he could over, and have the first batch of the work ready, in case he needed it as soon as they reached Bari.
“Let Word and Deed be guided by the All Holy Trinity, our God and Savior, the steadfast hope and assurance of divine assistance, who directs important and beneficial undertakings to a favorable conclusion…”[1]
[1] Beginning of the introduction to Maurice’s Strategikon
Chapter 17 -II-
With his left arm placed around the wooden empty bowl of soup, giving the impression that he was still eating from it, Menander kept a close watch on who came and left the tavern. Though quite certain that he would not be recognized by the average peasant, he hated to be boxed in; it was an annoying feeling of uncertainty that was an unfamiliar. And depending on how the rest of the evening went, feelings of uncertainty could give way to much worse. If the men he was waiting for did not show up, the only other alternative to his current plan would be far, far riskier. A trip overland through Illyricum, and then the barbaricum…
He took a break from his watch, to quickly glance out the window at the full moon casting a pale light on the castle built by Justinian on a hill by the Vodias. Atop its turrets, the fires glowing showed the purple banner of Theodosius fluttering in the cold winter air, reminding him of the recent defection of Patras to that side, along with all of the Peloponnese. Oh, how things had changed in these last few months, he thought to himself. He had fled Constantinople rather abruptly, taking with him just as much of anything as he thought that could be of any use during his journey, along with his unforgettable stylus and as much papyrus as he could physically carry. When reaching Thessalonica he had heard of the fall of Jerusalem, along with Phocas’ demise and the defection of the Eastern armies to the son of Maurice. The first set of news had triggered a massive wave of discontent and backlash against any overt supporters of the dead Emperor together with massive religious parades invocating the protection of the heavens and the restoration of the holy city to the Empire; the second set of news seemed to the masses like a response to their pleas and brought with it a swift and unanimous decision from the municipal authorities to change sides. And then, it was time to for him move on.
As he arrived in this westernmost port city of Hellas, his best hope remained to flee to Italy, and try to blend in among the soldiers of Domentziolus until he had an opportunity to slip into obscurity somewhere in southern Italy, or perhaps better, Sicily. Then, while he let his mind retrace his previous steps and ponder on the next ones, he spotted two men walking in. One, tall and clean shaven, yet sporting a dirty cloak over his attire; the other, his face covered with stubble, tanned and plump, and wearing a light tunic of fading brown. They were the ones he had been waiting for: Andreas, his one remaining man and contact at the port, accompanied by whom he supposed to be a sailor.
Inconspicuously, they proceeded to his table and sat directly in front of him. “Boat’s at the wharf,” said Andreas, point blank, with a low voice. Menander assented silently and looking at the mariner, added in in the same tone. “I take it you’ve found us a discreet place below deck?”
The brown man, licking his lips as he looked about, in an oafish way Menander thought, responded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve emptied a compartment and threw down a couple of blankets for you to sleep on. I will have to lock the door at all times, though…to keep anyone from wandering in. Oh… and I’ll bring down buckets for your needs once a day, at night.”
Menander leaned forward on his seat, placed his elbows on the table, and pulled his hood along, lest more of his face was revealed. “And the food?”
“We’ve got some olives, and bread. We plan on fishing for a few days as well…it’s not a long trip…” Yet the sailor caught himself, as if he had left an important detail out, and finally looked at Menander in the face with an idiotic grin. “But that’ll be extra…”
Andreas narrowed his eyes and began explaining, somewhat apologetically. “The man we had paid the deposit to earlier today was nowhere to be seen, but his friend here volunteered to…” He ran a hand over his face. “…Help us instead. He does want a few more nomismata, however.”
Menander knew that bumpkins such as this descendant of helots were like dogs, and would not leave until one threw a bone down. Unlike a dog however, this animal could speak and get them into enough trouble if deprived from his bone. “How many more?” he asked, impassively, while taking a closer measure of the man.
“Two!” he blurted out, as he gestured the same amount with his right hand.
“I will give you one now and the other once we’ve made it safely to our destination,” Menander retorted. “That is more than what you will make in the next three months, you can take it or leave it.”
The man sat back, and crossed his arms, while looking slightly up, in a somewhat confused way. But Menander knew how to be patient and waited for the rustic to finish adding his income up to arrive at the same conclusion. In any case, he was not going to waste anymore gold on anyone. Once in Bari, if this thing in front of him dared to ask for the other nomisma, he would get a dagger in the gut instead.
“I guess…it’ll be fine…”
“Good decision,” answered Menander, smiling slightly as he reached for his pouch and retrieved one of the gold pieces. “Here you go.”
“Well then, let’s go,” said Andreas, as he stood up.
Menander left a silver piece atop the table, grabbed his bags, and followed the two men on the short walk to the harbor. In twenty minutes, having made their way through sleepy, darkened alleyways and streets, they were there. They would get on board immediately and hide as they were set to depart in the early hours of dawn.
Hopping off the pier onto the ship itself, they were led down to a darkened corner room below, with broken pieces of pottery and darkened bits of corn scattered on the floor; and along the wall to the right, as promised, were a couple of sheepskins with some hay below. The sailor took his leave and left them with a single candle, cautioning them to put it out within the hour. As he closed the door, they could hear him placing a lock on it.
“What kind of boat was this anyhow?” he asked as he tried to find a place to sit atop the bedding.
Andreas, as he knelt to place the candle on the floor between the two of them and put down the three bags he was carrying by his bed, replied quickly. “He mentioned it was a boat that would haul wheat from Egypt and sometimes olive oil from here to there. Since the war had led to shortages now, they’ve changed their routes and are bringing in foodstuffs from the West instead.”
“Hmmm…”Well, it won’t be for long if the Avars and the Sklavenoi get there, Menander thought. “I will be doing some reading for a while longer, if you would like to go to sleep.”
“Thank you, Clarissime. I do need to catch up on some rest after the last few days.” With this, his soldier lay down and turned to face away from the light, saying no more.
Menander then returned to his plans, as he searched through the two bags he had carried in. Landing in Bari, they would have to travel overland towards Naples and assess the situation. Having heard of Phocas’ death, he reasoned that Domentziolus would have switched sides in exchange for immunity, as he commanded the only Roman force left in Italy with any strength. And once they found his army, it would be easy to blend in. Even if he had to dispose of Andreas to insure his own anonymity.
Nonetheless, as he was evaluating these possibilities, a new idea began to bloom in his mind and he started to dig for a particular manuscript. Alexander had not done badly for himself, in spite of his now evident madness. He had risen from a low rank in the army, favoring Phocas’ ideas and staying close to the court until he had gained enough power. In short, playing the lackey. If he managed to find his way into Tiberius’ court, he could play the same role, sure that he would not be recognized by anyone there; in fact, he could surpass Phocas’ lapdog’s performance as he thought he had a copy in his possession of a document that could cement his credibility in the Western court and sway the opinion of the teenage Caesar, far from the intrigues of Priscus and the rabble of the metropolis.
Once he found what he was looking for, before putting out the candle, he decided to read what he could over, and have the first batch of the work ready, in case he needed it as soon as they reached Bari.
“Let Word and Deed be guided by the All Holy Trinity, our God and Savior, the steadfast hope and assurance of divine assistance, who directs important and beneficial undertakings to a favorable conclusion…”[1]
________________
[1] Beginning of the introduction to Maurice’s Strategikon
- Status