The Mauricians: A Medieval Roman novel

Status
Not open for further replies.
Chapter 5-I- Wamba
Chapter 5 -I-

He was a bit apprehensive and tense, certainly more than he would like to admit. This was to be the first operation that he carried out in this fashion; he had never, ever, in his whole life imagined himself going to fight in faraway Egypt. He had heard about the place; it was hot, dry, like many of the southern valleys in Baetica, but full of sand. A desert. He tried not to show his anxiousness, he did not want to perturb his men. They are probably about to wet themselves, anyway.

His presence, and that of his men, aboard the ship he was in now was due to the diplomatic maneuvers of the Romans, who had offered king Witteric [1] the occupied territories of “Spania” as they called them, for him “to administer in the name of the Emperor,” with the exception of the coastal capital, Carthago Spartaria. The Visigothic king, whose hold on the throne was still rather shaky, thanks to the distrust of the Catholic factions, had gladly accepted. But the Romans, being Romans, had put a hefty condition on the trade; they wanted military help to continue their civil war. Witteric’s intent in complying with their demands had its own hidden purpose: he assembled a large army of three thousand men, which greatly satisfied the Romans, and in it he placed as many of the disgruntled and discontent members of the opposition against him as he possibly could. With one stroke he had honored the bargain, and cleansed the kingdom of insidious venom. Needless to say, there were real soldiers in the force; in fact, most of it was comprised of warriors, and luckily he had some of them with him. Thank God.

“Lord Wamba the city is in sight” informed him one of his aides.

Although Witteric himself had tasked him with the command of the entire Visigothic force, the Romans had immediately dispersed some of the men into their own regiments, or removed command of large portions of the army and reassigned them to the command of other individuals. He had not complained; after all if the troublemakers did not return home, all the better.

“Men! Get ready!” he ordered, unsheathing his sword. The rest of the troop on board did likewise. The Roman ship continued to sway gently as it approached its destination.

Before leaving Carthage, he had been present at the briefing by Theodosius, along with Agila, another of the Goths chosen by the Romans to lead one of the Visigothic divisions, on how their offensive would proceed. So far, all of the major cities along the way had surrendered voluntarily; Leptis and Ptolemais, and all the smaller towns in between. The two forces, the one that had advanced by sea with him and the Italian magister Heraclius, and the larger one marching by land with Theodosius, had been meeting regularly at predetermined locations, in order to synchronize their assault against the Egyptian capital as best as possible. At their last stop, Paraetonium, the Western forces had rested for two days before departing again, slightly reinforced by volunteers and some of the local garrisons; but whose numbers did not contribute greatly to increase their overall manpower. Well, any help at this point is welcome, he had reasoned then. The plan now in execution called for Wamba, along with one thousand of his Visigothic troops and aided by Heraclius and some Romans, to disembark in the outskirts of Alexandria and negotiate with the local garrison; soon after Theodosius himself would arrive with his land army and invest the city if necessary. The Egyptians were expected to give in; Phocas had not proved to be highly popular with his recent persecution of the Jews, and with his vocal opposition to local Monophysitism. His magister, Alexander, had made it as far as Pelusium on his way to enforce the new “imperial” inquisition, when word reached him of the proximity of the Western forces, and he stopped in his tracks.

Though Wamba was imbuing in the memories of these events, trying to calm himself, his gaze soon brought back his attention to his surroundings. Good God! he thought to himself. Spread out before him stood the megalopolis of the Diocese of Aegyptus. Cyclopean walls extended from the shore to a far distance to his right, deep inland; beyond them lay a small patch of greenery, and further behind the turquoise waters of Lake Mareotis. The other end of the fortifications ran parallel to the beach until the area where the ports were, somewhere along the middle of the city. The Imperial banner flew high on the city walls, waving over the battlements. He could see some troops scurrying high on the ramparts. But, the most imposing sight in the horizon was the colossal Pharos, which seemed to rise up from the very depths of the sea to the edge of the sky, spewing smoke towards the heavens like the ancient turibula, burning votive offerings to the pagan gods. There was nothing like this back in Spain. Nothing at all. A cold shiver ran down his back; a seasoned warrior though he was, this was otherworldly. Nonetheless, his stupefying amazement was quickly broken by the bump of the ship hitting the grimy shore; it was in fact, a soft thud. In an instant, the board was thrown over the side and down he went, followed by his men, onto the wet sand.

They had landed west of the city, on the tract of land between the sea and the lake. He mentally recalled their objective; to cut off the area quickly and not to attempt any unnecessary assaults. After unloading, the transport ships would position themselves to blockade the harbor.

The ships with the cavalry landed shortly after, a little further down the beach, and the horsemen quickly fanned out under the leadership of Heraclius, as they tried to circumvent the walls, on their way to the southern end. “Let’s get moving!” Wamba shouted mounting his own horse, as his infantry began to unfurl towards the south. Within a couple of hours all of the men were in position.

He then knew that he had to offer Theodosius’ terms. The Emperor would not be arriving for at least another six to seven hours, and his worst fear was that the Alexandrian troops would sally out and scatter his small army. If he could get them to surrender, it would surely be better to wait for the Roman ruler enjoying refreshments, inside the city.

Surrounded by a small guard, he rode to the western gate, while one of the Romans who had sailed with them, shouted to the defenders: “We have come by order of Theodosius Augustus, to free you from the yoke of the tyrant! Send a delegate to confer with us!”

Sweat was dripping down from Wamba’s forehead. He had already removed his helmet, but to no avail; the wearisome heat of the desert did not suit him well at all. Damn, all we need now is for them to say no and we have to wait here in the fucking sun for Theodosius. He ran his hand over his face, wiping some of the perspiration off. There was no answer from the men in the battlements; they had only been observing mutely as they had landed, deployed, and now approached them. The tense silence continued.

“Well?” he asked the Roman translator.

“I don’t know. I guess they must be deliberating who to send…”

What took place next was so sudden, that he did not expect it at all. Perhaps no one did. In the back of his mind he had known it could happen, he knew it very well, but the easiness of their landing, and the lack of opposition, coupled with the annoying heat, had dulled his senses to the possibility.

The Roman interpreter had been shot dead, falling off his horse; the slender body of an arrow sticking out of his left eye socket. Seconds later more missiles started raining down on Wamba and his escort. “Retreat! Fan out!” he shouted, as he frantically spurred on his horse and raced back toward his lines.

“Shit! What the fuck just happened?” he screamed at Nepotianus, the Roman commander who traveled with his troop, as he got back to the tent that had just been set up, and dismounted.

“I…I don’t…I don’t know…” babbled the Roman. “They must… they must …”

“Shut up already! Witiges, we are now on high alert, send a courier to the detachment in the south end, and warn them that the Romans are not friendly. If there is a sally Heraclius knows not to engage; but should they have to scatter tell them to regroup here. Do you understand me?” he commanded, addressing the younger Goth officer who had approached him on being called.

Witiges nodded his assent and left trotting. “Now you. I want you to send some men to look for the Emperor. Take one of the ships, I don’t care” he ordered Nepotianus.

The Roman had by now recovered from his initial surprise. “What ? I am the one in charge here you impertinent…”

He did not get to finish. Nepotianus landed on his back with a bleeding nose, as Wamba lowered his right arm, having punched him dead in the face. Some of the Romans moved their hands to their swords; all of the Goths present did the same. “If they want to, they can kill us all. All they have to do is venture out, and then where do we run to? The lake over there?” asked the Visigoth pointing to the south, as he turned to look in that direction. On second thought…

The Roman commander stared in disbelief at the Goth, still on the ground, while holding his right hand up to his face. “No…”

“Then shut the fuck up, and leave me in charge if you want to last the night” Wamba concluded. He turned around and ordered one of the junior Roman officers, “Go send the message to Theodosius.”

The Roman assented, silently and left, in a hurry. Now all I have to do… The bellowing of the trumpets interrupted his thoughts. He turned to face the city again. The gates were opening.

Nepotianus was finally getting back on his feet, no one helping him to do so. “Oh Christ Almighty…”

Yes, Christ Almighty indeed. The Alexandrian cavalry was deploying in front of the city; light cavalry on the flanks, the famous cataphractoi in the center. “Pull back! Pull back to the marshes on the lake shore! Get the cavalry back over here!” he commanded as he jumped back on his horse.

The orders and shouts in Greek, Gothic, and Latin followed in quick succession. The Romans began to draw up their squadrons and the Visigoths started to marshal their own as well. “Send a message back to the Heraclius to ride back around the city and meet us at the lakeshore. We all need to regroup here now!” he ordered to one of the messengers by him. He quickly studied his possibilities; his best shot was to rally his forces to the marshy, soft ground at the edge of the Mareotis, where the heavy Roman cavalry would be useless. Everywhere else they would be in an open field, making them an easy prey for the Alexandrian horsemen. All right, now to make sure I still have my head in its place by sundown, Wamba thought, as cold sweat ran down his face.

______________________________

[1] Witteric, King of the Visigoths (603-610 A.D.)
 
Interesting update- we're finally in Egypt! :D If you want any guidance on Egypt, do drop me a PM, as it's the subject of my undergrad dissertation, and I'm currently reading an article or two on the subject of the province in late antiquity per day!

My instinct is that Egypt should be fairly simple to take out, if Theodosius and Heraclius are sensible about it. Its armies worthy of the name are largely located in the southern part of the diocese (Thebais), to fight off attacks from the desert nomads living between the Nile and the Red Sea, and it'll take some time for these to get north to reinforce the northern provinces of Aegyptus and Augustamnica (centred around Alexandria and Pelusium respectively). The Limitanei of Egypt were clearly quite sedentary by the sixth century, and I doubt many of them will have much experience in battle beyond maybe dealing with the occasional riot.
 
Chapter 5-II- Heraclius
Chapter 5 -II-

As he rode with his band of men, the young magister militum per Italiam, Heraclius continued to admire the defenses of the Egyptian capital. Though he was familiar with the urban defenses of Italy and Africa, here the bulwarks were of an older, more elegant kind. Impressive and beautiful. One had to try to make the best of any situation; he had been sent to this end of the world on a mission, he might as well enjoy the scenery. To the southeast spread the rich, green, and bountiful, Nile delta; to the southwest the greenish waters of Lake Mareotis. Arriving at their destination, he had positioned his men to block the southern gate, and now settled down to wait. The fortifications on this side seemed to be lightly guarded; apparently most of the men were either guarding the docks, or patrolling the western wall in front of which Wamba and Nepotianus were encamped. A shame we don’t have more men to exploit the opportunity...

He thought briefly of his new wife Fabia, daughter of Rogas, whom he had hastily married before leaving home. Amusingly enough, his own mother Epiphania had been adamant on his marrying his betrothed before his departure. He knew very well why; since both of her sons were leaving, and in case he did not make it back, a grandchild would always be a joyful keepsake of his presence in this world. His friendly relationship with Theodosius had secured an early leave from Italy, and he had remained in the African capital until the Imperial party arrived a month later to prepare for their offensive. He also thought of how much his father, the elder Heraclius, was pleased at his good relationship with the Emperor, and truth be told, Heraclius and Theodosius had indeed become good friends. Ironically, when the first news had arrived of the overthrow of Maurice, he had posed to his father the possibility of launching their own bid for the throne, in a fit of youthful ambition. But the old Exarch had dismissed his ramblings and stood by Theodosius, not long after the rash episode had quickly been forgotten by the father; Heraclius certainly was now glad that he had as well. If they won the war, an outcome which was still undecided, he would certainly end up among the highest ranking members of the new government, without anyone addressing him as another usurper.

The sudden, strident, notes from the trumpets made him look back in the direction of the city, recalling him from his memories. With a puzzled look his brother Theodorus addressed him:

“Those are not ours, are they?”

“Didn’t sound like them…” he answered softly. “Stay here. I need twenty men to come with me!”

With the volunteers having rallied to him, the magister retraced his steps, returning towards the beach. But he did not go far before a scene of utter chaos unfolded before him, as he shuddered atop his horse. The Alexandrian horsemen had deployed in front of the city; the cataphractoi observing passively by the gate, as the mounted archers of the light cavalry began to harass Nepotianus’ detachment. Archers from the high on the walls also fired back at the fight Gothic archers that had decided to make a stand, while the rest of the infantry was trying to retreat, in the best orderly fashion possible, towards the swamps of the Mareotis. The bodies of those who had not been fast enough littered the field. Trying to keep the Egyptian light cavalry from advancing, was Wamba and the few horsemen that he had available, perhaps about forty of them; and one of them was now approaching Heraclius at full speed.

“Magister Heraclius!” he shouted from a distance, as he continued riding. “We need you at the camp!”

Heraclius observed the ongoing situation with consternation. The Egyptians were not supposed to attack; so far they had been welcomed with open arms wherever they had gone. Evaluating the situation quickly, he only had four hundred riders with him, not one of them had armor enough to take on the cataphractoi. Their heavy cavalry was at that very instant marching with Theodosius. The Alexandrian forces deployed against them should perhaps number around a thousand, not including the infantry and archers still in the city. Numbers alone were not on his side. The best he could do was to stall until the arrival of the Western army, which was precisely what Wamba seemed to be attempting to do. By relocating his forces to the marshy shore of the Alexandrian lake, the cataphractoi would be unable to attack, lest they get bogged down by their own weight, neutralizing them. What a clever Goth…

But the rest of the cavalry posed a problem; the magister quickly realized that he had to cover the retreat of the infantry, and if possible distract the enemy heavy cavalry from even attempting an assault. He turned to one of his own men, “Get Theodorus and the rest here now!”

Within minutes the rest of his force was by him. Stall, stall, stall, he reassured himself. “Heraclius, what do we do?” asked him his brother.

“Ride with the men to support Wamba and Nepotianus. I will need fifty men with me” he ordered his sibling. “I need fifty of you with me!”

Soon after he had his small band of men, as his brother rode at the head of the rest of their cavalry to scatter the mounted archers. “Now all of you will follow my orders; we are not to engage, we are not to attack. I do not want stupid heroics. I will ride at the front, and if I am killed you will return to Theodorus! Understood?”

“Yes magister!” came the unanimous response of the men.

“Let’s go!”

He directed himself towards the cataphractoi. Further ahead, the infantry had reached the lake and had set themselves up in the mud, shields at the front, to face the Egyptian mounted archers. Wamba had joined Theodorus, and together they began to chase the harassing bands of mounted shooters, who now rode away from the Western army. Another thunderous blow from a trumpet from the city made Heraclius turn his gaze in that direction one more time; the heavy cavalry was readying for an attack against his own lighter horsemen.

“Romans!” he cried out from a distance as he came closer to them. “Romans! Why do you attack your brethren, the men of your Emperor? Why do you fight for the interest of the faithless tyrant?”

A few of the men turned their heads to look at him, not one of them moved. As soon as the second call from the trumpet blew its notes through the air, they charged. Six hundred men, wrapped in steel from head to toe, as were their beasts, lowered their lances towards the magister militum per Italiam, and his fifty men. Heraclius stopped dead in his tracks; he was in the middle of the prairie, to his right the city wall, the lake to his left was a considerable distance away, but there was nowhere else. Shit…

“To the lake!” he ordered, as he turned his horse left. “To the lake!” All of the men followed.

Theodorus and Wamba had apparently had better luck against the light cavalry. The numbers there were about even, and the Gothic horsemen had made good of their reputation. Still, there would be little they could do against the cataphractoi. Suddenly, among the usual cacophony of battle, mixed in between the shouts of men, the whistling of arrows, and the thunder of charging cavalry, Heraclius sensed something very different as he fled from the nearing enemy. Cries of not only men, but women, reached his ears, and oddly enough, the smell of smoke also penetrated his nostrils. He did not recall either of the two sides using flaming arrows. He turned his head slightly back towards the battlefield and the city and saw them clearly; rivaling the pillar of smoldering ashes rising from the Pharos, were three, perhaps four, other columns of smoke, but from inside the city. A riot had broken out.

In any case, that did not help him; the Egyptians were still behind him and his men. A few more trumpets blew their calls in the distance, sounded like his own, but Heraclius did not turn. I’ll have to get in the water; we’ll have to get in the water… “Men! Ride into the water!” he commanded as they came upon the shore of Lake Mareotis.

The horses slowed their pace but continued to move into the body of water. The magister dismounted immediately, landing waist deep on the lake floor, and began to swim towards the deeper end, as he continued to tug at his horse’s bridle. Some of his men had not made it soon enough and had been caught by the cataphractoi; but the enemy did not dare to enter more than a few feet into the water. It did not matter; an order was issued in Coptic, and all of them put away their lances, drawing bows instead.

The men in the water gasped. God almighty, Christe eleison Heraclius thought, as he swam. This is it…

In that instant of desperation, he caught sight of a small shape. From the direction of the city, where the battle appeared to have died down, came a lone rider, shouting in Greek from a distance. The captain of the Alexandrian cavalry raised a hand to stop his men from firing the arrows they had already aimed at the soldiers in the lake.

“Stop! By command of the Patriarch and the Prefect!” the rider yelled, as he came closer. “The Emperor Theodosius has arrived!”
 
Last edited:
Does Theodosius have much military ability? There is relatively little information on him OTL but he is the son of Maurice.........

It might be too early to tell. We’re somewhere in the first half of 605 now, he’s about 22, and the only real battle he’s been to was the one at Pavia; which was actually not commanded by him. The earlier minor campaigns in southern Italy would not have had him present; he was more active on the diplomatic field there. Embarrassment from the disaster at Dyrrachium, however, has made him go personally to the front, and now he’s willing to gamble his life now in order to not be seen as a coward. We’ll have to see, if fate puts him in a situation, if his abilities turn out to be good…
 
Last edited:
Chapter 5-III- Khosrau
Chapter 5 -III-

He held his right hand over his mouth, as he stared at the map spread out on the table, leaning over it, pondering, thinking, planning. He ground his teeth slightly, as his eyes scanned every part of the parchment, moved from left to right, up and down; from the far waters of the Adriatic to the tropics across the Indus; from the steppes beyond the Oxus to the Arabian vassals of the Eranshahr and the sea to the south. Several wooden blocks were placed over different areas of the map; some were green, some were red. Many of the green blocks marking his own divisions lay scattered across the former Roman border; the foremost two, representing Shahin Vahmanzadegan in Anatolia, and Farrokhan Shahrbaraz in Syria, were the ones to which his eyes were drawn to the most. Shahin had successfully completed the occupation of Armenia, Iberia, and Lazistan in a period of just over three months, before descending into the Roman heartland. His position located him in a perfect place to thrust forward and deny the enemy a most vital source of foodstuffs and manpower. Constantinople can starve, and rot; it’s always easier for the rotten apple to fall off the tree, instead of breaking your neck climbing, attempting, to get it before it’s ripe…

Farrokhan had now also moved from Mesopotamia, into Syria, and had split his forces in two; one was conducting a siege at Beroea [1], while the second force, under the spahbod himself was marching to Antioch, where coincidentally, the Jews had rebelled and were calling on the Iranians openly as liberators. Although the Romans had clamped down on the initial revolt, several disaffected Hebrews had fled to the Iranian lines, reinforcing them, and those who remained in the city could surely be counted on to behave the right way when the time came.

He straightened up. Without turning, he made a gesture with his left hand, upon which the servant standing by the doorway left the room immediately. He crossed his arm over his stomach, a hand holding his right elbow in place as he continued to cover his mouth with the other hand. His fourteen year old son, Kobad, across the table from him, seemed to be intent on observing the map with the utmost attention as well, as he fiddled with a short golden cane.

“What do you think we should do?” Khosrau finally asked, somewhat amused.

The teen looked up at him, briefly, before returning his gaze to the blocks on the parchment. “We should consider the fact that the son of Maurice has now entered the field. Perhaps we should begin to conduct direct negotiations with him while we still hold the upper hand; secure Armenia and Mesopotamia, and allow the Romans to finish each other off.”

The Shah’s eyes instinctively moved to the red block on Egypt. Theodosius. He had met the son of Maurice during his brief stay at the Roman capital, some fifteen years before. Then, Theodosius had been but a seven year old child, whom obviously did not capture much of his attention. Khosrau truly knew very little of him. He had heard of his residence in the far regions of the West, and that he had been one of the only two remaining members of the Roman royal family, that had survived Phocas’ carnage. Had they all died then, the Shah could have, truly and safely, had some impostor pose as the young Qaisar, as he conducted the war “to avenge his friend and father.” But the public and official goal remained as such, to remove Phocas and restore a Maurician on the throne, even his own men had been told that much. Now, however, the speed of the Iranians’ success had surprised and staggered even him; as a result, no attempts had been made to coordinate a plan with Theodosius, and Khosrau’s willingness to share the spoils diminished daily.

“And why should we do such a thing?” he taunted Kobad.

“If we suffer a reverse at the hands of, or a difficult victory over, either of the two Emperors, we might be too weak to face whoever remains untouched” the prince answered, still not looking at his father.

Inexperience, how candid. “My son; you are aware that our victories have now matched those of your great-grandfather, the first Khosrau, and we have yet to suffer a setback at the hands of the Romans. Remember always to take advantage of a divided, and weakened, enemy…” he rebuked, as he began to walk slowly over to where the teen was, still observing the map. “Our war in the West has been a struggle as old as any. But very few times in history, one comes across opportunities such as the one Ahura Mazda now presents to us.”

The boy had a point. But the chances of things turning against them, in the face of such astounding success, were slim. The Romans had been vanquished in almost all the battles of the war; ever greater streams of captives arrived every week; and the areas of contention for the last three hundred years were now almost totally occupied by his soldiers. Khosrau had waited for too long: living with the whispers and the gossip, that he was but a mere puppet of Maurice, had certainly made him resentful and eager to pounce on Rome as soon as the chance presented itself. Now it had and, like a tidal wave, he was sweeping everything before him.

The footsteps of the men approaching echoed down the hall. Soon after, the servant reappeared, letting in two men in military attire, before retiring again. One of them seemed distinctively older, with a long black beard, neatly trimmed; the other, a younger man, sported only a thick mustache.

“Shahanshah, you called” the older one said, as they both prostrated themselves on the floor, with their heads touching it.

“Rise Shahraplakan” Khosrau ordered, not looking at them. “I have a new plan; you must get ready as you will be leaving for the front shortly.”

The bearded man stood up, while the other remained on the ground, and approached the map. “Your orders Shahanshah?”

Khosrau took the short golden staff that Kobad was holding, and pointed to the map with it. “The Romans have mobilized a large force that is now approaching Shahin. First, you will advance into Armenia with the new levies from the East, and recruit ten thousand horsemen among the naxarars [2]. Take a month to do so. If Shahin prevails, you will proceed into Syria and complete the conquest of the seacoast; mop up anything that Farrokhan has not occupied by then. Immediately, put the Romans to work at the docks. Nevertheless, should Shahin fail, you must continue the push into Anatolia, and reach the Aegean coast before the Romans can transfer more troops from Europe.”

“Yes Shahanshah!”replied the spahbod as he bowed down quickly.

Kardarigan, on your feet” Khosrau called.

“You will lead the troops sent by the Arabians and reinforce the Shahrbaraz at Antioch. Then, you will march south, into Palestine. Make sure that the entire country is pacified” the Shah explained, as the man came closer, nodding silently.

Kobad looked at his father, opened his mouth slightly as if to say something, but stopped once Khosrau’s eyes found him. Keep quiet boy. He addressed his soldiers again: “Your regiments arrived last week. Both of you will leave on the morrow. Be gone.”

Shahraplakan and Kardarigan bowed down once again before leaving the room. The Shah kept his eyes on them as he pondered things over. Shahraplakan was a good, reliable warrior; he had been the one that brought back the Lakhmid dog, Al Nu’man, when the latter refused to give Khosrau his daughter. The Shah could have cared less about the girl; he had plenty in his harem. The principle of insubordination however, was a different story. Unacceptable. And the fact that the Lakhmids had allowed Christians to live amongst them in these times of war…even Al-Nu’man had been one…

“You must learn to keep to yourself” he reprimanded the prince. “You did not speak with words, but you did with your face!”

“I…thought…I…I am…sorry, father…”babbled the boy.

Khosrau slapped him hard with the back of his hand, making Kobad take a step back as he covered his reddening cheek with his hands. “Get out” lashed the Shah.

His son was gone in an instant. What am I doing all of this for if it’ll all fall to him? Khosrau thought. He turned to his map again, taking a deep breath. With Syria occupied, Theodosius would either stop in Egypt, or take to the sea and attempt an assault on the Roman capital. In either case, he would not come across Iranian troops; and the Shah would try to avoid a confrontation with his casus belli for the moment. By defeating that last army in Anatolia, he would be free to slowly invest and take any remaining cities in the peninsula; the countryside could be his long before that. And then again, there was the idea of a navy he had been toying with, in order for his successors to carry on…

He smiled, alone in the chamber, and in silence. Let us then, go back to the times of Kurus… [3].

______________________________​
[1] Aleppo.
[2] Armenian noblemen.
[3] Cyrus the Great, Achaemenid King of Persia (559 BC – 530 BC.)
 
Last edited:
Hopefully Khosrau's arrogance will cause his over-extension and down falll as in OTL. By the way any plans on how long this excellent timeline will go to? Hopefully modern times? :p
 
This is awesome; keep it up!

Glad you're enjoying it. :)

Hopefully Khosrau's arrogance will cause his over-extension and down falll as in OTL.

I guess someone doesn't like the Shah that much...

By the way any plans on how long this excellent timeline will go to? Hopefully modern times? :p

:eek: :eek: :eek:

That'd be a looooooong term project if I ever did something close to that...
So far I'm burning through the "cushion" of entries that I had previously worked on way back; I've got just a few left. After that I have about 20-some others that are just first drafts, and then the main points of a straight up TL that extends into the 640's.

If this proves popular enough, I'll surely make arrangements to go past that point. ;)
 
Chapter 5-IV- Domentziolus
Chapter 5 -IV-

The bishop strode furiously into the strategos’ quarters, his robes fluttering as he trudged on; just the look in his eyes kept the sentinels from barring his way. His steps resonated heavily against the stone slabs, making his approach known in the conference chamber. What now? Domentziolus thought, sighing heavily, as he turned his head in the direction of the nearing noise.

“Domine Domentziole; I demand that the plunder taken from the innocent citizens be returned. God will not stand for such travesty!” the cleric demanded as he burst in the room. The bucellarii on either side of the door remained paralyzed, looking at their leader for orders.

The strategos looked away briefly, rolling his eyes. Fine then. “Domine Marcelline, it is most pleasant to see you; but truly regretful that it must be under the current circumstances…”he started as he turned to face him again with a wide smile.

“You will do very well to do as I have asked. You have sent back all of my messengers empty handed! The people here want no quarrel with anyone, they just want to live in peace!” the bishop protested, stomping his right foot to add emphasis to his point.

Domentziolus knew well that it would not be wise to antagonize the priest. To do so would be to further alienate the population of Syracuse against him and his troops. Not that there was that much love lost either; taking into consideration that he had allowed his men to sack, or as he had termed it “to confiscate rebel wealth,” in order to appease them. Were he in charge of a half decent force, he could have cared less about popular opinion. But they were on an island in the middle of enemy territory. He had only been given four thousand men: they were few and they knew it, and as a result morale was at an all time low. The capitulation of Syracuse had included among its clauses the specification that all private and church property be respected. But he had needed to galvanize his men in some fashion, lest they desert their posts. And since his brother had not been able to foot the bill so far…

“I fully understand Domine. I assure you that it was but a small confusion which led to this most unfortunate incident. It gladdens me greatly to know that the property of God and His Holy Church was unaffected, thanks to divine providence, no doubt. I guarantee you that those responsible will be found, arrested, and dealt with.” He concluded his promise, as he tried an even bigger smile.

“And when can such wonderful events be expected to take place?” questioned him the bishop ironically, and still defiant.

The strategos stood up from the couch, approaching Marcellinus while he continued to address him. Domentziolus, be patient. “Your Excellency; I beg you to comprehend that these are most trying times for the Empire…the enemies of Christ and Rome assail us from every side, and we are only trying to do what is right. But in the course of a war things are bound to happen…”

“Stratege, do not take me for a fool. Your empty promises cannot deceive us. Return the stolen property first and then deal with your brigands!” The bishop’s face had turned a bright red with his irritation.

Domentzilus had had enough; he had bigger, much more important, things to worry about. Shit. His expression hardened. “Listen to me, you fat bastard!” he yelled out as he wagged a finger in the priest’s face. “Jesus Christ himself would have had cast you from his side for denying Caesar his due! You were in open rebellion against the Emperor, aligning yourself with that boy and now pretending to come lecture me on what to do! Take him into custody!”

The two bucellarii at the door approached them, nervously, and seized the bishop by the shoulders. Marcellinus put up no resistance, only as he was led out of the room he shouted: “You will see impertinent child, that the Lord will cast you and your sibling down, and both of you will be next to Judas and Brutus on the day of the resurrection!”

Lunatic, the strategos thought to himself, returning to his seat. When Priscus had first introduced the idea of this mission to the high command, he had done so in a “joking” manner. While Domentziolus himself had initially considered it as potentially effective, and as a way for them to regain the initiative, he had despaired once he was fully aware of the logistical difficulties, as well as the ridiculously low number of men that he would be given to accomplish it. Opposing Phocas in any case would not have been wise, even for a family member. Emissaries from The City had informed him of Theodorus and Gennadios' failed coup, and he also knew that the Emperor was beginning to drink heavily ever since news of the Egyptian capitulation reached him; as a result, the paranoia and the famous fits of anger had led to some of the slaves and eunuchs to desert the palace in fear of their lives. Needless to say, once found, these sacrificial lambs had to endure the ever worsening sadistic punishments that the strategos’ brother had devised for them, before death became a welcome deliverance. His state of mind is really starting to be questionable…Domentziolus reasoned. He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head lightly in order to dispel his thoughts. Back to work. Landing in Sicily had gone fairly well, as had the seizure of the island’s capital; with no opposition. And luckily, he had a decent naval force of sixty dromons available in order to continue with his operations. His first task now was to cut off African supplies from reaching Egypt and secondly, this part was up to his own discretion, attack whichever of the two principal Western provinces he deemed to be the most vulnerable. At this point, Italy had no substantial troops to speak of; some small garrisons had been left in place mostly to serve as police forces, especially in the southern areas. Worthy of consideration, was the fact that also temptingly in Rome, Theodosius had left his wife, siblings, and newborn child, and less significantly, his puppet Pope, Boniface. Seizing them would present a great leverage with which he could be pressured into quick negotiations. The problem was getting there, without overstretching.

On the other hand, Africa was where the greater number of Theodosius’ supplies and funds came from. And Carthage was also virtually defenseless, since most of the men had been sent off with their leader. Yet most importantly, Domentziolus rationalized that he would only need to seize the provincial capital in order to disrupt the supply lines considerably; the exarch could flee to the desert. Seizing the African metropolis would deprive Theodosius of funds, and if Phocas was successful at the other end of the Mediterranean against the Persians, the young man would find himself far from his one remaining province; a bankrupt and powerless Italy, and within reach of Constantinople.

“Theophilos!” he called. A young doryphoros approached him. “Gather the men; have them sharpen their swords, that we’ve got work to do! Once we are done here, we’re going to Africa.”

“Will do sir.” His beardless subordinate assented slightly, and left the room.

He would have to micromanage each and every one of his men in order to not be wiped out in a definitive engagement. If old Heraclius in Africa could call on the savages from beyond, total defeat could very well be a possibility. But he tried to think positively. Maybe God has something in store for me. If Phocas manages to hold on and win all the better. But if he doesn’t…then at least I’ll have a powerbase of my own to carry on…

From the outside the uproar of the rioting rabble began to slowly penetrate the room, seeping through the walls, and flowing in through the windows. Domentziolus stood up, while rubbing his bearded chin. But like David, I might have to beat Goliath first.
 
Last edited:
This is quite interesting- Domentziolus isn't exactly doing terribly to get a rich province like Sicily to swing behind him. An army of four thousand isn't large, that's true, but it isn't notably small either, if we follow the suggestions of the Strategikon. Now, if I were him, I'd make great play of the "heretics" of the East falling behind the Easterner Theodosius, and portray himself and Phocas as two decent Latin brothers, fighting to save Rome's inheritance from the wicked East.

That should certainly do a lot to sooth the nerves of the Western Church...

Now I'm just waiting for Priscus to make his bid for power. ;)
 
It looks like this civil war will end up being a bigger mess than OTL.......

Ha! And we still don’t have a side gaining a clear upper hand…;)

This is quite interesting- Domentziolus isn't exactly doing terribly to get a rich province like Sicily to swing behind him. An army of four thousand isn't large, that's true, but it isn't notably small either, if we follow the suggestions of the Strategikon. Now, if I were him, I'd make great play of the "heretics" of the East falling behind the Easterner Theodosius, and portray himself and Phocas as two decent Latin brothers, fighting to save Rome's inheritance from the wicked East.

That should certainly do a lot to sooth the nerves of the Western Church...

That might get sticky later. Especially if the Monophysites do rally behind Theodosius...
But he'd do well to heed your advice; seizing Marcellinus isn't precisely a good start.
[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]
Now I'm just waiting for Priscus to make his bid for power. ;)

http://www.dramabutton.com/
(Just hit play once you’ve pulled it up.) :p


What year is it now? I'm often confused what's going on without any mentioned dates...

We are in late May-early June of 605. Only 2 and a half years after the death of Maurice.
 
I would have thought that having the legitimate heir + Italy + Heraclius + North Africa would have resulted in a more decisive outcome....guess not.

I suspect you're cheering for Theodosius. If that is the case, let not your heart be troubled; he's just seized Egypt (or at least Alexandria,) the richest province in the Empire. That's gotta count for something!
 
I suspect you're cheering for Theodosius. If that is the case, let not your heart be troubled; he's just seized Egypt (or at least Alexandria,) the richest province in the Empire. That's gotta count for something!

I do hope that Theodosius and Heraclius aren't going to be too Mary Sue-ish! Even now, historians portray Heraclius as being quite the Mary Sue, even though his reign was undoubtedly one of the most disastrous of any Roman Emperor at any point in its history. It'd be nice either to see Theodosius having to make some nasty decisions and get his hands dirty, or else have his seeming "niceness" coming round to bite him on the bum.

Being a contrary bugger, I'm supporting Phocas and his family for now. This could change if/when Priscus steps into the ring. ;)
 
I do hope that Theodosius and Heraclius aren't going to be too Mary Sue-ish! Even now, historians portray Heraclius as being quite the Mary Sue, even though his reign was undoubtedly one of the most disastrous of any Roman Emperor at any point in its history. It'd be nice either to see Theodosius having to make some nasty decisions and get his hands dirty, or else have his seeming "niceness" coming round to bite him on the bum.

Being a contrary bugger, I'm supporting Phocas and his family for now. This could change if/when Priscus steps into the ring. ;)

Crap, I'll have to scrap this and rewrite the whole TL again...


JK. There is plenty of blood, sweat, and tears to come for all involved in this mess. After all, it is a "novel" and set in the Middle Ages. ;)
 
Last edited:
Chapter 6-I- Navid
Chapter 6 -I-

He rested his spear on the ground for a few moments, hung his shield on the saddle, leaning it against his leg, and proceeded to rub his sweaty palms against the back of his Nisean horse. He was scared to death, again, that he might lose his life. But running away is surely a death sentence, he had deduced. Not only would he have had to make it past the rest of his regiment, but also past the other divisions behind his own, and past the siege engines, but even more importantly, past Shahrbaraz himself. No way. He exhaled slowly some of the air in his lungs, and grabbed his weaponry again.

Surrounding the spahbod the guard of Zhayedan cavalry, which he was a part of, had advanced quite far towards the front. And now, Navid found himself just a short distance away from the battered walls of Antioch, the capital of Roman Syria, awaiting the expected orders for a general assault. The Iranians had been besieging the city for a month, during which all of the attempts made had been unsuccessful; but the day before, the silent work of the sappers had yielded excellent results, as a large area of the southern portion of the wall, to the right of the southernmost gate, collapsed. The Shahrbaraz had ordered the catapults to expand on the opening, and the ensuing gap had been temporarily closed by the dead men who fought over it earlier in the day. However, with this second assault about to be launched, the Iranians had their orders to hurl themselves against the Queen of the Orontes and take it, with no excuses.

“Get ready!” Navid heard some distance ahead, when a huge shadow obscured the sky overhead. He looked up; it was a giant boulder on its way to the walls. The bombardment had resumed again. The massive stone shattered on hitting the edge of the crack, taking a chunk of the wall down with it. Immediately, more rocks followed. The war drums began to roll, the trumpets to blast. “Men, march!” came the dreaded order for the foot soldiers. The regiments of paighan and dailamite infantry began to stride forward, surrounded by the kamandaran [1], who carried their large wattled shields along.

There they go. We are next…

“Men! Prepare to ride!” came the command from their leader. Farrokhan Shahrbaraz himself was but a few men down the line, to Navid’s right, outfitted with a dazzling golden cuirass and next to the green banner with the red boar impressed on it.

He tightened the grip on his spear. This was not the first battle he had been in. But the sensation before any of them was always the same. Although nervous now, he reminisced briefly of how he had felt when the news of Maurice’s overthrow had been announced in Tysfun [2] in order to fortify his spirits. Excitement and enthusiasm had run high among the population in general, but specially in the ranks of the Spah [3], when the Shah had voiced his intent of launching his war against Rome. Never mind that it was to seat the son of the murdered Qaisar on the throne; what really mattered was that Iranian honor and superiority could, and would, be restored. As he felt a knot in his stomach tightening, he reassured himself: Calm the fuck down; you’ve made it this far, you’ve got a nice bit of gold from all of this, and don’t forget the two Roman bitches you had back in Dara … See? War is not that bad…

Trying to see if anyone else betrayed any signs of anxiety, he glanced at the soldier to his left. He did not personally know him; from what projected beyond the helmet, he could notice the man had his eyes locked on the struggle ahead; he did not even turn while Navid studied him. He was older; some of his beard showed signs of greying, and some wrinkles had cut a few lines across his visage. He surely had someone waiting for him back home. By comparison, with only thirty springs on him and single, Navid felt sorry for the man. This shit is for us, younger folk. Hopefully, they’ll let him go home to his family if we win here…

His gaze returned to the front. The bombardment had stopped, and as a result the breach was now almost twice as big as it had been on the previous day. The infantry had already entered combat; the ululating mass of men that waved and swayed back and forth at the foot of the ramparts reminded him of the high tide in the Caspian during summer afternoons: to and fro, crashing against the rocks, and bouncing back against the waves coming to the shore.

The strident call of a trumpet brought him back to reality; the banner of the spahbod had been raised. Here we go, here we go…“Forward!” roared Shahrbaraz. The order was echoed by his subordinates down the line.

Navid tapped his horse on the sides with his heels, and the beast commenced to trot. All around them, he witnessed the glorious scene unfolding, of the Iranian Spah on the attack. The siege towers looming close, not far behind him; some distance to the right, small detachments with scaling ladders; yet more vast shadows covered them from above, as the bombardment had not stopped, since the catapults had only been recalibrated. Now, the stones were being shot past the fortifications, into the city itself. The Romans on the walls were throwing everything they could down on the incoming attack; rocks, arrows, flaming missiles, even launching pieces of debris with their own catapults from within the city. The kamadaran had reached the edges of the wall and constructed a barrier of their own, interlocking their shields, and were firing up at the defenders on the parapets, and at those men who rushed to defend the gap.

His heart began to race. Calm down dammit! You wanted to be here! “That’s right! I wanted to be here” he muttered to himself out loud. With the distance between the Zhayedan and the melee closing fast, he picked up speed. He knew that soon a trumpet would be blown, and the infantry present would have to scatter, opening the way for them to charge. And since the Shahrbaraz himself had decided lead the attack, Navid had to be at the fore with him.

Suddenly, the unexpected call of another trumpet disconcerted him. He quickly looked around; the banner on the far left had been raised, the signal proceeded from that direction. The Eran spahbod himself started shouting: “Veer to the left! To the left!” Stupefaction overcame Navid for a few seconds while the horse continued to gallop; they were ordering them to ride away from the breach, and further down the wall. He quickly picked himself up; questioning orders was never wise.

He pulled on the rein turning his steed to the left, as did the entire regiment. Farrokhan had now rushed ahead of them, riding gallantly on a large black stallion, towards the Orontes and away from the mountains on the east. Has he lost his mind? The breach is there for the taking! Navid thought to himself as they continued to ride on. Although afraid at first, he now felt cheated that he might be denied an appropriate share of the spoils, which would follow the capture of Antioch. But he had not noticed that the Roman troops on the walls were all rushing to defend the gap, neglecting the rest of the fortifications.

Not far ahead, the waters of the river glistened cheerfully under the scorching Syrian sun. Although they were not excessively thirsty, they silently welcomed the cool humidity of the stream that refreshed the air. All Zhayedan riders took deep breaths of it, enjoying the chilled breeze blowing against their sweaty faces. Navid had just finished doing so as well, still hurling imaginary blasphemies at the Shahrbaraz, when the distant shapes came within sight. Ten men or so were standing by the riverbank, Iranians he realized, guarding a slender makeshift pontoon. A small burner, carried by one of them, held a flickering flame alight, while the rest were armed. On the approach of the cavalry, they lined up along the river, ready to welcome their leader.

“Everything is still in order?”Farrokhan asked the one holding the blaze, as he arrived.

“Yes spahbod! The signal was given last night. Should we reply?” said the man, standing dutifully straight by the Shahrbaraz’s horse.

“Do it.”

One of the soldiers took an arrow from his quiver and wrapped its head in a cloth, while another poured a blue powder over it. Finishing seconds later, the arrow was given to a third man, who had drawn a longbow. He placed the shaft across the side of the bow, the neck against the string, and directed the clothed head over the fire from the burner, which instantaneously lit up an azure flame. The soldier stretched the string as he pulled the arrow back, took aim, and released it in the direction of Antioch. As it rose, the projectile left off a trail of bluish smoke, which continued as it fell beyond the walls, into the city. Navid understood now: Farrokhan’s plan had not been to smash his way through at the gap. He had had a trick planned long before.

“Let’s go!” shouted the spahbod, without wasting an instant.

The trumpet sounded one more call, as the force of five hundred Zhayedan crossed the provisional overpass, and reached the road leading to another of the city gates, on the western wall, which apparently remained shut. Intrigued, Navid awaited further orders, when a louder noise overcame the trumpet. It was the neighboring gates creaking open; the sound of the wood and the hinges reminding him of the cries of a dying war elephant.

Led by Farrokhan himself, they charged on, and rushed in the direction of the now wide open doorway. Not a man seemed to be in the towers beside it, guarding it. However, the street leading off of the gates was now visible, as were some of the houses. Several of the inhabitants seemed to be running in different directions, shouting in terror at the sight of the approaching horsemen. With a strenuous charge, the Iranians went over the actual stone bridge at the end of the road and leading into the city itself, and spread out having made it to the other side. “Everyone charge! Rush to the breach!” resonated the order. As Navid himself crossed under the gateway, he felt the knotting sensation in his entrails once again. But his fears seemed to be unfounded; no opposition was encountered while the horsemen flooded into Antioch. With his curiosity tempted, he turned his head to look and try to see, if possible at all, who had opened the gates for them.

Lined up by the entrance, next to the bodies of a few dead Roman soldiers, stood some men and women in plain clothing; to him, they were almost indistinguishable from the rest of the populace, but were cheering the Iranians on. Traitors? Roman traitors? he asked himself in silence, turning his head back. He could not tell, and had more, much more, important matters at hand. As the Zhayedan dashed onward, and turned slightly towards the right, amidst the cries of running women and a few men, the tenacious battle raging at the foot of the walls came into view. Navid squeezed his lance tighter, and lowered its tip forward, as the horse neighed loudly. The Shahrbaraz was already ahead of them, entering the fray, and shouting obscenities at the Romans.

Here we go, here we go, here we go…

_______________________________________​
[1] Archers.
[2] Ctesiphon.
[3] General word for all branches (cavalry, infantry, etc.) of the Sassanian army.
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
Top