The Mauricians: A Medieval Roman novel
- Thread starter Pururauka
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Recap and map it is then! (But after 12-IV-!!!)
I hadn't planned in any Kobad POVs truthfully. Perhaps we could incorporate something as he gets a bit older?
Chapter 11 -I-
He rode closer to a mustached blonde man, and passed him on the left. As he did so, with one clean blow of his long sword, he severed his head from the thick neck. The poor dog never knew what hit him. All around, his royal guard was doing the same, slicing off arms, chests, and more heads. Seems the old bitch was right; this is an easy conquest.
The Neustrian armies, fourteen thousand strong, had marched from Burgundy into unstoppable success in Langobardia rather quickly; Mediolanum had been seized within the first two weeks, along with several smaller towns, and now his vanguard found itself encamped in the outskirts of Pavia. At no point in time, had the Lombards come out to meet him in force, and the only two times that halfhearted attempts were organized, such as the one he had just brushed off, Frankish victories had easily followed. For the newly crowned King of All Franks, the Italian expedition, which he had first considered a worthless impediment on his way to the Burgundian throne, was fast becoming a profitable, and glorious, idea.
Having killed another four men, he eased up on the tired steed, slowing it down to a trot. Seconds later, the Burgundian mayor, Berthoald, joined him atop of his own imposing warhorse, congratulating him, on yet another triumph. “My King, all of Italy now trembles before you; the way to Pavia lays open, and thereafter, Rome!”
He had brought the man in order to keep him close, as he did not trust him enough to leave him behind with Brunhilda. And though he reminded himself of the wisdom of his choice, he could care less about the old Frank’s incessant praises. Yet this once, Berthoald’s babbling did penetrate the wall he had built around his ears. Rome…Would it be possible to take Rome, from the Romans? The mere thought of it seemed preposterous, still not quite entirely out of reach. “One step at a time,” he mumbled, more to himself than to the Burgundian. “One step at a time.”
Theuderic had made the fatal mistake of overstretching and paid dearly for it. Since he was toying with the idea of permanent conquests, perhaps, he should try a different approach; if the Lombards were in the way, and he sought to annex their western duchies, he could seek Roman blessings for his undertaking. Perhaps, it would be even wiser to seek out an alliance with them, and save the helpless whelps from the panic they had been thrown onto by the four thousand-strong forces of Gisulf. Perhaps, with Imperial support on his side, to conquer northern Italy, return to Francia to settle scores with Brunhilda, and maybe even knock out Theudebert in Austrasia, would all be given an added air of legitimacy. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...perhaps not.
Having demonstrated his prowess in battle, the King now decided to return to camp, and hammer out this idea. The ride back to the royal pavilion in the suburbs of Pavia was uneventful, and short. Dismounting, he turned the reigns over to an expectant soldier, as he started lazily for his tent. Overhead, a few reddish clouds gathered from the north; the weather had been unusually warm, and though a cold wind would blow in once in a while, he had yet to see the first of this winter’s snow. A shame. Snow was one of those things that he truly appreciated; possibly, a leftover memory of those childhood days in Paris, when he had no cares in this world, and enjoyed the affection of his loving parents.
“My lord!” a voice called out from behind him, as he had almost made it to his destination. Turning his head, he realized it was Berthoald, running somewhat clumsily towards him. “There’s a Roman ambassador awaiting you!”
So? “Bring him over here; just give me a few minutes to freshen up!”
The mayor bowed his head, and turned hurriedly on his heels. Clothar, stepping into his tent, loosened his sword belt, and dropped it, alongside his weapon, near the entrance. On the rustic table by the bed, were a wine pitcher, a silver goblet, and a large copper bowl, full of water. He quickly helped himself to a refreshment, and having gulped it down, splashed some water on his greasy face. Once, twice, thrice he did so, before the call came from the entrance.
“My King, they're here.”
Running a hand over his long blondish hair, and drying his face with a cloth with the other, he answered. “Come in.”
In came Berthoald, followed by three Romans. The foreigners were visibly shorter, and darker, than those of Frankish stock, and two of them sported brightly colored yellow and white tunics. Their leader, a somewhat older man, was slightly taller, wore a pure white cape over his garments, and quickly proceeded to introduce himself in Latin before the Neustrian monarch, after a deferential bow.
“Clotharie Rex, I am Procopius of Carthage, Patrician and Senator of Rome. In the name of Theodosius Augustus, our Lord and Ruler, I thank you for intervention against the insolent Lombard dogs, and for speeding their demise to their rightful eternal punishment in the afterlife.”
Clothar almost immediately lost interest in the old man’s polished rhetoric. His eyes had straightaway been drawn to the decently sized sacks that each one of the visitors carried with them. At least they don’t grovel empty handed. Anxious to get to their contents, he played along. “Welcome my Roman friends! It’s my understanding that Agiluf and a few of his cronies were getting uppity and attempted to bite the hand that fed them…”
“Indeed, King. The Emperor however, already victorious in his just fight in the East, sent orders to reward those who come to his aid.” Saying this, Procopius untied the leather string fastened around the sack’s mouth, and handed it to Berthoald, who gazed at it, before nodding approvingly. The other two attendants approached Clothar in a reverent manner, with their eyes on the ground, and deposited their satchels at his feet. The following hour was spent on the Romans stroking his ego, yet he was fully aware of what was coming when they were done. And he was right. Once they had finished presenting their case, he addressed the Burgundian mayor in Frankish, in order to sidestep them, and make sure they notice it.
“Thoughts?”
“They want you to finish Gisulf off, and then give it all back my lord?”
“You were here all along, weren’t you? What is it with you repeating your damn self?”
“My apologies my King,” replied the older Frank, slightly lowering his gaze in embarrassment before continuing. “But I believe it would be outright foolish to comply with their pleas. They have no force to evict you with. There’s no power in Italy to deter you from marching on Rome itself…”
There he goes again. When he first undertook the Italian expedition, his head had been full of all the things he would accomplish once he got back to Burgundy. Yet, the low hanging fruits he had been able to feast on lately had spurred his ambition on. Here he was, having secured the northeastern part of the country, at the gates of the Lombard capital, with his army intact. What could change back home, should he choose to delay his return for a few months in order to secure a little bit of honor and gold? Brunhilda had already been declawed and could only await his triumphant return, powerless. Maybe, just maybe it isn’t such a bad idea to stick around just a bit longer…
“Patrician!” he called out, switching back to Latin, as he slowly worked his way back to the table. “Tell the Emperor that I appreciate his gifts, and that he is wise to consider us his friends. But as you can see, there’s still work to be done. The Lombards have seized Ravenna, and it seems that I’m the only one that can get them out…” He made a deliberate pause, as he poured himself another glass of wine, in order to carefully observe Procopius’ reaction.
But the Roman, apparently a seasoned diplomat, also knew exactly what was coming. Raising his eyebrows slightly, he completed the sentence for Clothar; “…so you will stay. Rome welcomes your assistance, and prays eagerly for your success King. Still, I trust that once God has granted you your victory over the heretics, the Lord of the Franks will return to his land, to enjoy his merited glory.”
Stubborn like a mule; but two can play at that game, he thought, grabbing his full cup and pacing leisurely towards the entrance. “When that time comes my friend, we shall see. In the meantime, take my regards back to the young Empress; I hear she’s a very beautiful woman, and is as of late somewhat…” He stopped to adorn his face with a lustful grin, and turned to face the ambassador while he lifted one of the side flaps, “…lonely.”
A mild snow had begun falling outside. Not yet sticking to the ground, it floated around the air, with gentle, swaying twirls. Nevertheless, no matter how much he would have enjoyed it, Clothar’s attention was not focused on the snow, but on his Roman guests. Procopius’ face of disgust was evident. The other two exchanged cautious looks of embarrassment. But he had proved his point. The defenseless “Lords of the Earth” could not help but overlook his insult. They knew they needed him; and better still, he knew they needed him.
Nice update from the Frankish POV, not much more to say beyond "I enjoyed it", although I enjoy almost all of your characters! 
Forgive my foolishness though: I thought the Franks had agreed to fight on Phocas' side against the Theodosians?
Forgive my foolishness though: I thought the Franks had agreed to fight on Phocas' side against the Theodosians?
Yes and no. The Franks aren’t lined up behind a monolithic faction. At the POD, you had three “kingdoms,” Austrasia, under Theudebert II; Neustria, under Clothar II; and Burgundy-Aquitaine, under Theuderic II.
It was Theuderic, whose realm bordered Italy, who was officially allied with Phocas, and who was beaten at the battle of Pavia. The other two Frankish polities, handling their own affairs, had not made any contact with Constantinople. Clothar’s Italian expedition derives from his agreement with Brunhilda, Theuderic’s nana and the power behind the Burgundian throne, “to avenge” Romano-Lombard raids on Burgundy.
If I jump around too much, to the point that it’s difficult to keep up with the characters, please do let me know. Though perhaps part of said difficulty is my own fault, with how spread out some of the updates are…
Interesting update, what does the Patrician mean that the Emperor is victorious in the east? Personally I prefer more focus on one theater of war for a while, helps keep things in context.
To an extent, it can be, but I think that's unavoidable. Should The Mauricians ever be enlarged and published as a book, then I think it'd be perfectly possible to keep on top of it all. Maybe you should make a Wiki with a link to individual chapters of the TL, to make it easier?
Nice update! Clothar is a very arrogant fellow, and for some reason, i always think, in every update of his, that he will be assassinated, for a second, i thought the "Roman ambassadors" were Frankish knifes. Still, hope the Romans scrounge up some troops to present some kind of front, soon, before the Avars get there.
Just propaganda. The Eastern war goes on.
A Wiki…hhmmm…if I only knew how…
The “troops” in Italy are hard pressed on all fronts; let’s remember that they just took a nasty punch at Ravenna, which happened to be the biggest garrison in the entire Exarchate. Besides that, there are forces in Rome, and in Naples and Beneventum, but those last two are rather busy guarding against big Dom. Overall, the Western Romans should be extremely lucky if they can mobilize 1,000 men.
Oh yeah the Avars; the clock’s ticking.Awesome update! Best case scenario Avars and Franks wipe each other out.
That's what I'd say.
Yes, yes he is. In fact, he's packing up for Anatolia.
In other news, I've managed to get started on the Wiki. Took a little while, but I think I've got most of it figured out (sorta.) The downside is, that it took up valuable update time. Oh the humanity!
And very nice it is too!
I'd suggest providing links to the chapters on the Wiki page, as I've done on the Wiki for IE. No need to provide names for the various POV chapters, just call them "Theodosius I, Theodosius II", etc.
Alright boss! I think the Wiki looks decent enough to be presented to the rest of the fans now.
Alright boss! I think the Wiki looks decent enough to be presented to the rest of the fans now.
Excellent stuff.
Now I can re-read the whole thing! Have you considered self-publishing onto the Amazon Kindle at some point?
Chapter 11 -II-
Theodosius’ priority upon arriving had been to meet with the Persian commander in Anatolia, a certain Shahin, who had veered south from Theodosiopolis, splitting his forces after having defeated the defending Romans in a pitched battle a few months back. The conference had transpired without any unexpected surprises, which had been enough for the Goth to personally consider it a success. Nonetheless, they had not gotten what they were looking for; or at least completely. The Persian had acknowledged the Emperor and his rank, by prostrating himself on the ground and kissing the tip of the purple cape he sported, but that had been the extent of his accommodation. When requested to formally align himself with them against the forces that Phocas was deploying, Shahin declined, citing the ongoing negotiations with his King, the result of which was still unknown to all parties. Theodosius persisted, haggled, and eventually pleaded, before the Sassanian strategos, still unhappy with his own decision, accepted to remain neutral, and only to engage the forces from Constantinople if directly attacked.
Somewhat discouraged, the Emperor and his band had returned to camp, and made ready for a second meeting the following day, one which Wamba opposed even more. This time with the Comes Orientis, Bonosus, who had seemingly switched his allegiance to Theodosius, and was nearby in charge of a defeated force, which nevertheless, was still the largest of the remaining Roman armies in the East. If the meeting was successful, the allegiance of those regiments would bolster their own numbers, to the point of outnumbering Phocas himself, should he choose to cross into Asia. Still, Wamba detested the idea, as he felt that it was a ruse, a plan to lure them out and to do away with all of them, or at the very least his chief; after all, he had reasoned, Bonosus had been raised from a mere magistracy to the highest military rank in the East by his master’s sole whim. Why would he betray Phocas?
Yet this reasoning did not seem to influence the ‘Autokrator.’ To be a person of faith was certainly a good thing; if anything, God had shown repeatedly His support of the Maurician side. To argue they had made it this far, without His intervention would not only be illogical, but blasphemous and sacrilegious. Furthermore, Theodosius had felt imbued with devotion ever since they had reached Jerusalem, and was now more than ever sure of his ultimate success. The Emperor had humbled himself before the Cross of the Lord at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and as a pledge of his support, the Patriarch of the Holy City had had a fragment of the Cross itself incorporated to the army’s main labarum. All of their past record of successes, bolstered now by the relic of the life-giving wood, should and would guarantee their invincibility Theodosius had proclaimed, and the majority of his men had believed him. But Wamba was still unnerved. To venture into Anatolia, with the ambivalent Persians at their backs in Syria, and to trust the loyalty of the turncoat Bonosus, with Phocas pouring even more men in from Europe, was for him not the best possible scenario. But, what do you do?
“What are you so deep in thought for?” were the words that cut through his reverie. It was the Comes Excubitorum John who had uttered them, sitting across him comfortably atop a wooden chest with his sword laid flat over his knees, as he rubbed a small rock on the edges.
The “Dux Gothorum” chuckled softly. “Don’t mind me; I’m just revisiting some stuff, nothing serious.” John was not like that fool Nepotianus, sporting elegant uniforms and always leading from behind. Though nominally the leader of only the Imperial bodyguards, the Comes had earned the Goth’s respect by proving frequently he knew how to use a weapon.
“Hmmm…let’s see if I can get your mind back on track then. You think I’ll get to use this later? What do you make of all of this?” John continued, grinning, as he kept on sharpening his blade.
“You know I don’t like it; I’ve said it enough times already,” Wamba reminded him, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, tearing another chunk of bread off. “But the Emperor seems pretty certain of it. And we’ve planned as much as we could…I guess we’ll see…”
***
So, on they went. Besides Wamba himself, the Emperor had brought along John; Theodorus, the African Exarch’s son; Agila, the other leader of the Gothic squadrons; and a guard of thirty men. The ride was silent, with each men prepared for the best and the worst. Quietly, every so often he would steal a look at Theodosius, in an attempt to read the young man’s intentions. But the son of Maurice looked straight ahead, undaunted, and his visage betrayed none of his thoughts. He knows that we either secure or lose Anatolia here; tough boy after all, he thought, smiling to himself. In spite of all his public rhetoric, the Emperor had been willing to listen privately to those who had expressed the possibility of a betrayal, and had brain-stormed likely eventualities, in order to plan accordingly, so long as they did not voice their dissent openly. Tough he would only admit it to himself, Wamba had to give it to him: if he was right, there seemed to be a chance that the war would be over soon; and even if it was not, this young Roman seemed to have the shrewdness to see that it did…on his terms.
Slowly, the Comes’ tent rose in the horizon, a white structure with red banners against the green landscape. Outside, there were a few sentries, and several horses tied up. So far, so good. Once they reached the pavilion, several more guards who had emerged from the interior lined up, with their leader in their midst; but curiously, they all seemed unarmed. Bonosus, Wamba observed, seemed to be a rather unimpressive man; like many a Roman, short and stubby, with a thin beard and a receding hairline. And just like Nepotianus, he has a taste for shiny breastplates. The deserter, after throwing himself at Theodosius feet, as had done every other soldier there present while the Emperor dismounted, proceeded to introduce the notables amongst his train: Sergius, the magister militum per Armeniam, Domentziolus, Phocas’ nephew and Curopalates, and a certain Strategius Apion, a tribune.
Wamba could not keep but stay alert throughout the whole affair, remembering what they had planned if a ‘situation’ developed upon their advent. With cautions eyes he attempted to pry and evaluate the odds of an ambush. Should there be one, Theodosius had ordered everyone to be armed to the teeth, with hidden daggers, and wearing additional chainmail under their tunics and outer armor. Just in case.
But nothing happened, after they were asked to turn in their weapons, and they politely refused, since the soldiers simply let them in, unmolested. Ahead, some chuckles were heard, and conversations began to develop in Greek and Latin. With a relaxed hand on his sword handle, he stepped into the tent, studying his surroundings and overhearing Theodosius, who was just a few steps ahead, already engaging the general in discussion: “Let’s get to the point Comes, shall we?”
“…Indeed Kyrie. But I thought refreshments, and toast in your honor, were in order first.”
The Goth’s gaze immediately cut its way across and pinned itself on the served table in the middle of the marquee, upon which, an array of golden cups had been set, filled to the brim with wine. Towering amongst the group, one taller than the rest, encrusted with jewels, seemed to be clearly reserved for the Emperor. Moreover, as if attempting to create a comforting environment surrounding said table, were a dozen reclining couches of different colors, with smaller round stands beside them, topped with fruit arrangements. John, who was already by the large table, seemed to be vaguely scrutinizing the surroundings, also in fear of foul play. Fortunately, they had already thought of such a possibility too; so, he played his role.
“Imperator!” he called out, trying to recapture Theodosius’ attention. But as all faces turned to him for his brusque intervention of the “negotiations,” the Caesar’s calm and only response was a short, “not now Wamba,” making a gesture with one of his hands. A similar approach by his own Comes Excubitorum was equally dismissed.
The Goth’s mouth twisted in a gesticulation, though he was still fully aware of what was to happen next. Theatrics, fucking theatrics. Shit, this is unnerving; why can’t we all just go at it and get it over with? he grumbled to himself tightening his grip on his sword’s pommel, as he watched the son of Maurice grab the chalice, while Bonosus continued on with a tribute. Some minutes later, the rest of the assembly did likewise, seizing their drinks when the harangue ended. As the hosts and the guests raised their goblets to their lips, they all stopped, for the Emperor had remained holding his own, where it had been at the conclusion of the toast.
“Is this toast really necessary now Comes?” he asked, very slowly, stressing every word in his question.
The old man betrayed a certain anxiety for a couple of short seconds, before regaining his composure and replying, “absolutely Kyrie. In honor of your beloved father!”
For a few additional seconds the tension built up in the gathering, as Theodosius remained motionless, while multiple pairs of eyes met quickly between both parties. All of them: Bonosus, John, Sergius, Agila, Strategius, Theodorus, Domentziolus, and the rest of the soldiers stood there, frozen. Wamba himself could feel a thin layer of sweat building up over his brow; a drip taking an eternity on its way to his cheek, as his heart pounded away, louder, and louder. And then, surprisingly, someone in the back, he could not see who, let out a nervous gurgle, shortly before Theodosius smirked.
Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.
Bonosus’ cup fell off his hand deliberately, to reveal a short knife, with which the Comes lunged himself upon the Emperor. Before the metallic clanking of the chalice hitting the floor had died down, the whole tent was engulfed in a raging battle. All of Phocas’ heretofore unarmed loyalists drew weapons from the most unexpected places; under the rugs, the fruit trays, their own forearms and thighs. But, Theodosius’ own men were not caught completely unaware. And Wamba made sure that the short and stubby snobs were fully aware of the damage a pissed off Goth could do.
Releasing quickly the two daggers he held up each sleeve, he dismissed the two men who charged at him from the sides. Clutching his short Spanish sword, he dispatched two more, who had foolishly rushed at him without any shields. Next, he ran to the aid of those on his own band, and lost himself in the confusion of the melee, not bothering to count those he killed. Once, and only once, was one of his shoulders stabbed by a stealthy strategos, who snuck up from behind as he was blocking another man’s wild swings, but John and another Goth made short work of him.
By the time he had no one left to fight, he allowed himself to look around and feel the pain of his wound, gasping, and noticed that yet again his party had triumphed. Bonosus lay dead, on a pool of communal blood with the Emperor’s own sword protruding from his chest, next to a score of his men, as were Sergius, and Strategius. Domentziolus had been injured but captured alive. And the rest of the men left, about ten, had finally surrendered. In spite of their betrayal being half expected, Wamba still burned with anger at their daring.
“Off with their heads! All of them!” he blasted, before his command was intercepted by another voice which added, “Spare Domentziolus!”
It had been John, who was kneeling by the now overturned center table. Somewhat bothered at being overruled, he scowled, while the men complied, amidst the screams of the survivors. Still annoyed, it was when he was walking towards the Comes, that he suddenly realized Theodosius was nowhere to be seen, and momentarily he looked about, seized by apprehension. Can it…be…?
And his mind slowed down. For he soon realized the head of the Excubitors was stooping next to the young Emperor who, laying on his left side amid puddles of poisoned wine, panted heavily and covered the side he was resting on with both hands. All the same, in between his fingers, ran slender crimson streamlets, telling of the success of some traitor’s blade.
“Domine…” Wamba blurted slowly, before realizing it.
But the Dominus just ignored him, his face contorted with pain, babbling out his instructions to his old friend. “Send orders…t…t…to both camps…and le...let… the men know…that their leaders made…made…their choice…”
John attempted to silence him, as he interrupted him spreading his hands about, in an attempt to see the gravity of the wound. “We’ll get you out, just keep quiet, save your strength! Petrus! I need Petrus here now!”
Petrus. Theodosius’ own physician had been amongst those who were brought with his guard, but now laid cold amongst the slain. The only other option was to bring one of the many medics that accompanied the army, some distance away.
“Godammit John!…I…I… need you…you to br…bring them all together…even…if… if I’m dead…y…you can’t… let him…win…”And upon ejaculating those words, though still breathing laboriously, Theodosius lost consciousness. Wamba, dumbfounded and unable to react, only managed to whisper the four words he had come to learn in the Greek language, which brought him comfort before every time he was to gamble his life in a battle of a war that was not his: Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.
No...Theodosius can't die, he's the closest thing to a main character here. Do go George R R Martin on us.
Excellent, tense update. I think the decision to show the chapter from Wamba's POV was the correct one too: seeing the assasination from an outsider's perspective was a good device.
What a mess now, though! It's a great result for the Iranians, who can claim to have been on the verge of coming to a deal with Theodosius and use his death as a pretext for continuing the war. The Romans are going to be more divided than ever, but Theodosius' armies are decapitated: where will they go? If I were Khusrau, I'd be proclaiming Heraclius Emperor right about now, but who knows.
That said, are we sure Theodosius is actually dead? He's lost consciousness, sure, but that needn't mean anything, for now.
Well done on making the plot even messier!
What a mess now, though! It's a great result for the Iranians, who can claim to have been on the verge of coming to a deal with Theodosius and use his death as a pretext for continuing the war. The Romans are going to be more divided than ever, but Theodosius' armies are decapitated: where will they go? If I were Khusrau, I'd be proclaiming Heraclius Emperor right about now, but who knows.
That said, are we sure Theodosius is actually dead? He's lost consciousness, sure, but that needn't mean anything, for now.
Well done on making the plot even messier!
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