The Mauricians: A Medieval Roman novel
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15,000 men sounds like a real army to me. Are these all Persian Jews?
I don't see this army revolting against or even deserting from Persian control; they would have families and property as hostages. There is of course the question of how the Persian Jewish community feels about Jewish revanche in the Holy Land. Are they up for it, or do they consider it a sort of indecorous religious overdrive?
This TL continues to impress and intrigue.
I see the TL's august author hasn't been online since the 8th. I hope he will return to us soon!
First, I’d like to apologize to all of you for taking an unannounced leave so suddenly. But, stuff happened lately (computer caught a virus; wife broke her ankle; work…etc. In short, a week, and a couple of extra days, from hell.)
We’re off to Armenia! And thanks for the new honorific title!
I had thought you more of a pre-476 Roman guy. But hey, Romans are Romans, right?
Humbled to know this is your favorite TL. Hope to keep you interested!
I’m quite glad you enjoy it (especially the narrative), and thanks a bunch for reading!
It is a real “army;” however, it still pales in comparison to the forces the Romans and Iranians can field against it.
Now, there’s a couple of things that we need to consider. First, many of these men would be raw recruits, with their usefulness in battle questionable. Also worth noting, is the fact that Khosrau has assembled the force with the express purpose of complementing the revolutionary actions of the Jews in Romania in order to seize Palestine before Theodosius, and is not depending heavily on them as he would on the armies sent to the front under Shahraplakan and Kardarigan, which gives them a slight freedom of action, since they are not so closely watched.
The point on their loyalties is valid. Their families and property remain in Iran, and truth be told, many of the commoners in the Kingdom should not see a reason to be actively involved in a potential revolt against Khosrau if given the chance. But, that je-ne-se-quoi about Judaism and its proto-nationalism when it comes to Israel should not be understated. And if Nehemiah can be made to see things the way Moshe wants him to, a lot of the men already in the Holy Land could stick to the “sacred” cause, which would become whatever the Exilarch-to-be declares it to be. (Then again, some might desert and try to go home.)
Moshe wants to reestablish a kingdom, with or without Iranian help. The Iranians do not care if he succeeds, so long the Jews are malleable puppets. Thus far, there’s no reason for a reborn Israel to be at odds with the Sassanids; but, things can change once the war is over.
Your thoughtful comments are greatly appreciated.
Thanks for the support! Stick around, Heraclius will be with us for a while.
With a readership like this, it is a pleasure to write. I have the next update ready, but I want to double check it one last time. It should be up some time tomorrow!
Hadn't even seen this update! As ever, it's a good one: where next?!
We’re off to Armenia! And thanks for the new honorific title!
I had thought you more of a pre-476 Roman guy. But hey, Romans are Romans, right?
Humbled to know this is your favorite TL. Hope to keep you interested!
I’m quite glad you enjoy it (especially the narrative), and thanks a bunch for reading!
It is a real “army;” however, it still pales in comparison to the forces the Romans and Iranians can field against it.
Now, there’s a couple of things that we need to consider. First, many of these men would be raw recruits, with their usefulness in battle questionable. Also worth noting, is the fact that Khosrau has assembled the force with the express purpose of complementing the revolutionary actions of the Jews in Romania in order to seize Palestine before Theodosius, and is not depending heavily on them as he would on the armies sent to the front under Shahraplakan and Kardarigan, which gives them a slight freedom of action, since they are not so closely watched.
The point on their loyalties is valid. Their families and property remain in Iran, and truth be told, many of the commoners in the Kingdom should not see a reason to be actively involved in a potential revolt against Khosrau if given the chance. But, that je-ne-se-quoi about Judaism and its proto-nationalism when it comes to Israel should not be understated. And if Nehemiah can be made to see things the way Moshe wants him to, a lot of the men already in the Holy Land could stick to the “sacred” cause, which would become whatever the Exilarch-to-be declares it to be. (Then again, some might desert and try to go home.)
Moshe wants to reestablish a kingdom, with or without Iranian help. The Iranians do not care if he succeeds, so long the Jews are malleable puppets. Thus far, there’s no reason for a reborn Israel to be at odds with the Sassanids; but, things can change once the war is over.
Your thoughtful comments are greatly appreciated.
Thanks for the support! Stick around, Heraclius will be with us for a while.
With a readership like this, it is a pleasure to write. I have the next update ready, but I want to double check it one last time. It should be up some time tomorrow!
I know a lot more about the pre-476 and only the basics (though in kearning more) on Byzantine history which is why I hardly ever get into discussions about them. But like you said, Romans are Romans and I always enjoy reading tl's about the eastern empire.
Ahhh! Might we see Rustam, the lowly Iranian footsoldier, make a return?
Chapter 7 -III-
“Let this man stand as an example to all of you!” yelled their Payygan Salar [2]. “As an example of what courage and devotion to your Shah can achieve in the fight against the barbarians!”
“Oh Ahura Mazda, the radiant, the glorious, the greatest, the best, the most beautiful, the most firm, the most wise, of the most perfect form, the highest in righteousness, possessed of great joy, creator, fashioner, nurturer, and the Most Holy Spirit; protect us!” called out the Mobed [3] next to Farzan.
“Protect us!” the assembled men replied aloud, obtusely.
By contrast, for his own bravery during the retreat from Anatolia, to say that Rustam had not been commended in a similar manner would have been an understatement. “Good job, soldier!” he heard in his head as the affair continued. Although initially, the Iranians had bypassed Theodosiopolis and marched directly on Caesarea, in an attempt to gain ground and build on their momentum, they had ended up running head on, halfway to their destination, with the advancing forces of the Roman Bonosus, and had come to a screeching halt. From what he had heard, the enemy then outnumbered them by at least three to one, and the spahbod would not risk them being exterminated, since the nearest reinforcements at the time had not even left Armenia. A defeat there would have meant opening up all of their conquests in the Caucasus to the forces of the Qaisar Phocas. Considering their situation, their leader had ordered a cautious withdrawal in order to meet with the expected allies somewhere near the capital of Roman Armenia, sending messengers out as soon as he could. Shahin, he did care for us, he remembered. For two and a half weeks, they had reversed their course, heading East with the enemy at their heels, resting for only a few hours each day. Needless to say, the sudden reversal of fortunes had been quite disheartening for many of the men. They had been victorious ever since they left home; now they had been forced to stop abruptly, and worse still, retreat.
Yet Bonosus, apparently, had not agreed with their plan. Reinforced by Domentziolus’ ragtag force, he had marched impetuously on, caught up with them, and shattered the rear of the fleeing forces. With the battle underway, only the prompt arrival of the spahbod and his guard of Zhayedan riders, along with all of the heavy armored Savaran horsemen available, had stemmed the tide, and the combat degenerated into a vicious meat grinder, with no progress made by either side. By nightfall, the carnage had softened before finally stopping, allowing the men to return to their respective lines; the Romans to their camp, the Iranians to continue their relentless march, without rest. Fortunately, Rustam and his group had not played a part in this initial engagement, as they were further up the line, almost in the middle of the column. But, the casualties amongst the Dailamite mercenaries, who had been guarding the end of the train and had their numbers shredded by the Roman heavy cavalry, had made it imperative for the paighan divisions to be shuffled around. And there he had gone. To the back, like a dog’s tail.
As dawn broke the following day, the Iranians had made considerable progress; they had circumvented Theodosiopolis while it was still dark, and the only signs of the enemy’s presence were a few riders keeping pace with them on the hills to the sides. By this point he, and all the men, had not cared much for them; they had been marching without a pause for two days, and were tired, thirsty, and hungry. Damn, I was exhausted, he remembered. To complicate matters further, should he had bothered to notice, there had been no sign of the Armenians anywhere on the horizon. But he did recall clearly how Shahin rode up and down the line, to make sure no one was left behind, making even some of the horsemen dismount and carry the wounded on their animals. What a pitiful sight; where were the triumphant armies from earlier in the year? Contrary to his initial illusions, the war seemed fated to continue, and that was what he had feared the most. Aditi! Why? Until when? had been the thoughts, screaming louder with each step, in his head.
With the higher Armenian peaks drawing closer into view to the East, the words of encouragement from the regiment leaders had also increased in volume and frequency: “Move it, you dogs! Do you want to last the day? Then hurry the fuck up!” Nevertheless, with alleged safety within sight, they had been briskly reminded of the ironies of life. Angra Mainyu always struggles with Ahura Mazda, and attempts to dampen the resolve and the will of the forces of light at every turn; and so did the Romans. The few enemy scouts turned into several large divisions of cavalry, which had reached them having left their infantry behind: mounted archers, as well as armored, and light horsemen raced down on the end of the throng; where he was deployed.
The metal wrapped beasts had trampled on the first lines of men that attempted to resist, while the archers raced along the sides of the column, shooting their first volleys at the dehydrated soldiers in the flanks. The kamandaran, pulling out their enormous shields, had attempted to counter the enemy fire immediately. Once again, chaos reigned everywhere. Back at the end of the line, and isolated with a few comrades, Rustam had been caught in a vicious free-for-all, where he had had to discard the cracked piece of wood he used as protection, along with his broken spear, in order to stay alive. Seizing a Roman shield and a Dailamite sword, he had charged at the enemy, accompanied by a few other men, and held his ground hacking blindly at anything that moved. Removed from the heat of combat, he now considered how stupid that had been. But then again, you only get to choose if you stand your ground and get stabbed in the front. Or try to run and get it in the back. At least if you see the bastard face to face, you can try to take him with you.
But just in the nick of time, as the enemy was gaining the upper hand against the few foot soldiers remaining, relief finally arrived when the Iranian horsemen, one more time, rode to the rescue. Under the Derafsh Kavian [4], every mount available to Shahin had been thrown into the melee. And the line had been held; perhaps the enemy had just been teasing them, perhaps the Iranians had fought with more resolve than expected. Whatever the cause, after what seemed an eternity, the Romans gave way and dispersed. Furthermore, and thankfully, Rustam had finally seen some Armenians riders giving chase to the enemy archers, scattering them as well. He had survived yet again. Panting, he involuntarily had touched the side of his head, checking for something before finding it; and luckily, I still have the other ear, he had concluded.
It had been at that moment, that he had heard “Good job, soldier!” through his hand. Shahin himself had acknowledged his effort. Dazed, from the thirst, or from having the spahbod address him personally, he did not know which, he had only nodded, dumbly. The general commended a few more of the surviving men, and rode back to the head of the column; where a larger body of Armenian horsemen was converging. And that had been his only recognition; no ceremonies, no public prayers, like Farzan. But for him, and for all without a doubt, a more cherished reward had been the respite they had finally been given, as they set camp and were allowed to eat, drink, and sleep, while the latecomers kept watch.
“Well then, all of you, dismissed! We’ve all got our orders for tomorrow!” reminded them the Payygan Salar. The ceremony had concluded.
With the event over, the men departed and returned to their quarters within the camp. Rustam walked back slowly to his designated area along with Yazdegerd and Narseh; the first, a friend from earlier battles, the other, an acquaintance from that bloody day.
“What do you think of that fool now?” asked the former.
“Bah…he kills two Romans and he’s the new Shahrbaraz. We kill twenty, and we get to keep our lives in return, and maybe have an extra sip of water, like the good rustics we are…” the latter declared.
“Good job, soldier.” “Well, I wouldn’t say that…” Rustam intervened.
“Oh, I am sorry Shahanshah!” Narseh mocked him, standing straight, at attention.
“Shut up already. Before I carve me another canteen with your scalp” he said pushing the man slightly on the shoulder, as they all continued walking to their tents, cracking casual jokes. Once they reached their precinct, they separated quickly.
“See you both tomorrow” he mumbled. The other two just waved.
His “tent” consisted of nothing more than a large sheet staked to the ground and placed over three wooden poles tied together at the top. Lifting the flap, he stepped into the dark inside. He sat down on a blanket, which had been spread out on the ground, and breathed deeply. Involuntarily, he reached out to scratch an ear that was no longer there, stopping, and chuckling softly, once he realized it. Instead, he felt the scar, a lump of tissue, which had by now healed completely. He did not know yet if he should wear the head cloth once he came home. Would people care? That I look this different?
Still thinking of his abode, of Aditi, and of his child, he turned over and reached into the leather sack he had brought with him thence. He did not need the light to find it; everything was always as he left it. His hand dug its way past his bagged conquests: a Roman dagger, a few silver and gold coins, and an engraved silver plate, which he had taken from one the Armenian palaces during the campaign there; before reaching its goal: a small hairy pouch.
Made from a bit of cow skin, the pouch was slightly smaller than the size of his palm; in fact, he could cradle it in his hand nicely. In it, was his most precious possession; a clump of black earth from the fields of his village. He grasped it tightly, squeezing the contents as he reclined. The simple life he had had was everything he could have dreamed of; all that he had known since birth, and he did like it. Then, as part of the Shahr, he had come across many others who detested country life, and called on their new duties as a deliverance from the boredom and toil they seemed destined to spend their days on. That was until the first battles were fought, of course.
Now, a veteran of three years of campaign, Rustam was more and more a soldier, and less and less a peasant. The fear of death, and the terrors of the battlefield, still clung and clutched at his heart every time they met the Romans; to deny it would be sheer, baseless arrogance. But neither was he a coward anymore. And this, this bothered him. Thinking about killing in the solitude of his tent, he always found it repugnant. In the field, it was a natural reaction, that had kept him alive this far. Even so, he was certain that he would fight against all, and kill all should it come to it, just to return to his plot of land, to his wife, and his child.
Jamshid, like my own father? Or Rokhsana, like her mother? Or something else? He had hoped his wife would have kept the tradition in naming the baby.
Sighing profoundly he put the pouch back in the bag, and turned over, resting on his side. Outside, the noise of conversation by some of the men continued, as he knew it would, late into the night. Closing his eyes, he also knew, or at least hoped, the following day the events would change from the embarrassing course they had taken lately. Now reinforced with the Armenian naxarars, Shahin had ordered them to prepare to invade the land of the Romans once more, to hopefully pick up where they had left the month before, and then continue onto Constantinople.
Tomorrow, we dance with Death. Again.
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[1] A Sassanian army division of approximately 100 men.
[2] Head of a paighan infantry division.
[3] Zoroastrian magus.
[4] Royal standard of the Sassanian kings. It would usually be the army’s flag, and kept close to the person of the spahbod.
Ask, and you shall receive.
It has! I hope not too many of you gave the TL up for dead.Finally an update! It's been a while.
Glad you like.Great story so far. I hope Phocas gets put in his place.
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A nice update, by the way. Will we get a "point-of-view chapter" for Dioscorus the Younger? Or will he remain a character who we see through the eyes of Theodosius?
I do have plans to get in his head. In fact, I have the first of those updates lined up. But, since we have shared custody of him, I was thinking about shooting you a PM before I post it.
I'll send it later this afternoon.
But of course!
No major casualties during the skirmishing in Egypt, so Wamba and his boys are still very much alive. It might be a couple of updates before we get back to them, but we will.
Thanks again for reading.
Chapter 7 -IV-
The deceased child inspired a certain discomfort in Priscus. A seasoned soldier though he was, seeing kids dead in the battlefield was always a disturbing sight. He had come across them many a time before, when he marched into Pannonia, under Maurice, but to no avail; it had been, and still was, something very unpleasant. Who knows if any of the men think the same? He wiped the cold eyelids shut with his hand.
Incidents like this aside, it felt good to be out of Constantinople, and back in the field. The City, as of late, had a toxic air about it, which suffocated him with the abundant paranoia and suspicion; one always had to be looking over one’s shoulder, or sleeping with an eye open. Although the midnight arrests had initially been a sporadic occurrence up until earlier in the year, the abortive coup of the former Praetorian prefect had done nothing but fan the flames. Jokes went around that “the Angel of the Lord” visited a few lucky every night, taking them away “to Heaven.” Additionally, the attempted rebellion alienated Phocas entirely from the aristocracy, to the point that many senators and patricians began relocating quietly to Thessalonica, Nicaea, or Pergamum, in anticipation of the Emperor’s sudden outbursts. Furthermore, many rabble rousers from the plebs had begun to openly voice their discontent throughout the Fora along the Mese, and their audience, encouraged by the cessation of the Egyptian grain shipments and the lack of races, would carry out random acts of violence. Phocas’ own statue in the Hippodrome had been toppled and broken apart the week before Priscus left. Apparently, the Emperor responded by unleashing the Excubitors and the Scholai against the citizens, and yet again, more indiscriminate carnage ensued, which earned him condemnation even from the dying Patriarch Cyriacus, Phocas’ otherwise staunch ally.
Thankfully, before any of those events came to pass, Priscus had been relocated to take command of the forces guarding the lower Danube, while Phocas’ own brother Comentiolus kept charge of the larger Illyrian armies, guarding the upper Danube, and the Sava. Though initially the barbarians, ignored or encouraged by their Avar masters, would cross the river on makeshift ferries and raid the land for whatever could be carried off before returning home, things had only taken a turn for the worse as of late.
Some Sklavenoi had made a few permanent encampments on the southern bank of the river, which they would use as headquarters to receive incoming marauders, or arrange to send back into the woods whatever goods were seized, in an eerie recurrence of the situation fifteen years before. As if the last war here had never taken place. Even more pressing still, was Phocas’, and everyone else’s, constant worry that the Avars might break the truce purchased two years prior, with much of the gold that Maurice had been hoarding. The Khagan Bayan [1] had quietly been biding his time, and continued to do so, recovering from the overwhelming campaign that the old emperor launched against his father, the first Bayan, prior to the coup. The only concern in this regard however, should the barbarians mobilize, was the fact that possible sources of manpower, as well as some of the smaller divisions available, had already been switched over to the war in the East, neglecting much of the potential on hand to defend the Danube with ease.
But, one won’t fix the issue daydreaming about it. Hopefully his presence should be a step in the right direction. He had been receiving news of success against the pillagers almost daily, with some of the encampments being dismantled; and now free from all the cryptic scheming of The City, and its bloody consequences, the Comes Excubitorum even felt up to the task of applying his military skills against the Sklavenoi in person.
“Lord Priscus, we are ready to return” called a voice from behind him.
Priscus got off his knees, stood up, and walked to the horse, that was already bridled and held in place, expectant, by one of his soldiers. Mounting it, he nodded to the attendant holding the reign, who shouted: “Now!” on which order, a crowd of soldiers threw the lit torches they had been carrying, on the piled corpses.
I am a good Roman, John Mystacon was a good Roman… Peter [2] was a good Roman… Maurice…Oh Maurice…Was all of this bloodshed really necessary? Had we not won the war here already? Was Chosroes not a friend then? …Is your shadow laughing at all of us at this very moment?
The horse began to walk slowly towards the road just a few feet ahead. Some of the men marched on foot, others, on their own horses, rode ahead. He reached into one of the small leather bags fastened to one of the horns of the saddle, and pulled out a small sized scroll of papyrus, rolled up with a string held in place by a broken lead seal. Demetrios, the demarch of the Constantinopolitan Greens had personally written this letter to him, two weeks before. A close friend of the disgraced patrician Gennadios, Demetrios seemed to have been blacklisted by the Scholai of Alexander, and was now under close watch. Fear, Priscus deduced, had compelled the demarch to write the missive he now held in his hand.
“…You must take action, lest the Empire of the Roman people collapses about us, never to rise again…”
Demetrios’ assertions certainly echoed with Priscus’ own thoughts. Phocas was proving to be nothing but a miserable failure. A mule could surely have done better. Antagonizing the Jews in the eastern provinces; diluting the strength of his available armies by sending pointless expeditions to the West; unfairly killing off officers deemed to be disloyal; all decisions which were as rational and calculated, as the stand the now burning corpses behind him had decided to make when alive. And then, to top it all off, there were the increasing bouts of drunkenness. The last time he had seen Phocas, the Emperor had been lying drunk on a couch, ordering him with garbled commands to seal the border, and to forget about Domentziola unless the war was won. What a loss that would be; the little bitch isn’t exactly a hot piece of ass, anyhow.
By this time, after much pondering, Priscus had narrowed his possibilities down to two: to make his own bid; or to act, but in the name of Theodosius. The first option did not guarantee success; although he was now in command of perhaps about ten thousand men, Comentiolus could throw almost twice as many against him at a moment’s notice, while Phocas shut himself in behind the walls of The City. And then what? He looked down at his hands, holding the reins and the scroll limply. Besides, I’m not getting any younger. The alternative was hardly better. To operate in the same manner, but in the name of the young son of Maurice; and how is that going to guarantee success?
He put the parchment back in the bag. Inaction, guaranteed nothing but a continuation of the worsening situation, and perhaps his own death, once Phocas had run out of scapegoats in the capital. To march against the Emperor, whether in his own behalf or someone else’s, at least allowed him to move at his own pace, and to be free from Phocas’ suffocating oversight. In either case, Demetrios was right. The Empire needed him to act. Now. Taking a deep breath he made up his mind. He would begin to work on the loyalties of his men, to rally them behind him, so they would be ready when he gave the word.
“Comes, there seems to be a small group of men coming up the road” informed him one of the excubitores riding next to him.
“Are they friendly?” he asked, looking up and focusing his eyes, trying to recognize a face in the distant shapes.
“Most likely; they are flying the Emperor’s banner.”
As the newcomers rode at full speed to meet him, Priscus and his entourage continued to advance at a slow pace. What is this now?
“Comes Priscus!” shouted one of the men, finely attired in the dark cuirass of the Scholai, as him and his band came closer, slowing down. “I am doryphoros Menander of the Imperial Scholai. We have come in the name of the Emperor Flavius Phocas Augustus, and the Comes Alexander.”
“What a welcome surprise…” answered Priscus, in a hardly amiable tone, with a straight face. “What can I do for you?”
“We have been sent to assist you in securing the border. The Emperor and the Senate feel that the task at hand is too great, for the sole handling by your lordship.”
You son of a bitch. “You’re welcome to stay then,” the Comes Excubitorum replied, annoyed at the soldier’s impertinence. If he was to inspire his men to follow him, he would need to watch, and isolate, these men from Constantinople. “We need all the help we can get. I trust that the reinforcements from The City are not confined to the five of you however…”
The doryphoros smirked. “Of course not Comes. The rest of the men are on their way, not far behind; ready to be assimilated into your units.”
Shit. Fucking Alexander…he knows.
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[1] Bayan II. Avar Khagan (c. 602-c. 617.)
[2] Petrus (d. 602.) Maurice’s brother and his Curopalates. He was one of the strategos during the Balkan campaign against the Avars; his insistence on having his troops spend the winter on the northern bank of the Danube, on Maurice’s orders, led to a mutiny and the rise of Phocas.
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