1628: Spending the winter in the capital, Andreas decides that he wants to make a progress through his western domains just as he has done the eastern. Some have argued that this decision is purely for the sake of getting away from his wife, who is now so loathsome to him that he refuses to even be in the same room as her.
He does have a strong desire to arrange a divorce. Unfortunately the Patriarch is in the Empress’ corner which doesn’t make anything easier. It is public knowledge that the marriage between the two was consummated so that option is out the window. Ideally the divorce would be arranged on terms that would concur with Catholic tradition too, just to make things a little more palatable for Theodor.
Nothing comes of it for now due to the intervention of the Megas Logothete, who is mortified by the turn of events. He talks Andreas out of doing anything rash before he returns from his western progress. Autoreianos’ hope is that things can calm down and maybe they’ll make up. (Some historians characterize Autoreianos as out-of-touch for his efforts to salvage the marriage, but Demetrios Sideros does report that in an unguarded moment the Logothete muttered that if he were in charge he’d “lock them up in a room and feed them only bread and water until they did it.”)
Another argument for the delay is that Patriarch Isidore III is 78 years old and not in the best of health. Extremely popular with the population of Constantinople and many in the European themes for charity initiatives he has spearheaded over his tenure, he would not be the easiest prelate to dislodge. It’s possible he could be bought off but his price would be more church tax exemptions. In the late 1560s Helena I tried to increase church taxes and close exemptions but only had limited success due to the then Patriarch Matthaios II. Andreas is unwilling to roll back the progress made by his great grandmother in that regard and in fact the Eparch’s tax reform plan has pushing that progress forward as a component.
Therefore it makes sense to Andreas to simply wait the Patriarch out until he dies. Then a more agreeable cleric can be appointed, one who won’t cause difficulties when Andreas divorces Elizabeth and marries Maria. The fact that Andreas now has the aim of marrying Maria and producing legitimate offspring by that marriage also means that any plans Andreas has of making Odysseus his official heir end up on hold, although his cousin is still his constant companion.
While Andreas is in Chalcedon, Maria of Agra goes into labor and is soon safely delivered of yet another boy, who is known as Nikephoros of Trebizond (presumably where he was conceived). Elizabeth is not in the capital when it happens. She is out overseeing her newest purchase, a massive estate, one of the largest private estates in the whole empire, which stretches along the Black Sea coast south of Mesembria.
She makes it clear she intends to be spending much of her time there, spending over 70,000 hyperpyra on new construction, furnishings, and hiring gamekeepers, attendants, and servants for the area. Recently she’d had an argument with her husband when she wanted the members of her guard to be replaced by her own appointees. As the Empress she was guarded by units of the Vigla, more commonly known as the Imperial Guard, but their membership was chosen by the Emperor.
However only units of the Vigla and the Athanatoi (who’d been the original guard but had been transitioned to battlefield use in the War of the Five Emperors) are allowed to be guards on the White Palace premises. The fact that Elizabeth wants Saxons to be her personal guards means an exception is not happening. The compromise worked out is that Elizabeth while at the White Palace is guarded by the Vigla, but has her own choice of guards whilst outside. Hence the attraction of Mesembria, as there she is surrounded solely by men loyal to her.
Adramyttion, Opsikian Theme, May 19, 1628:
Odysseus looked down at his work on the canvas, up at his subject matter, and frowned, nibbling at the end of his paintbrush. The ball for the Emperor was being held on one of the local dynatoi’s estates, that of Nikolaios Mangaphas, a distant descendant of the man who’d tried and failed to take the city from Henry of Flanders in 1205. He’d been known as ‘the Fool’ for his repeated and failed attempts to take power, ending his life in a Laskarid dungeon. The family fortunes had rebounded though after Konstantinos Mangaphas served with distinction under Demetrios Komnenos in the War of the Five Emperors, being rewarded with the kernel of this very estate. Over the last two centuries the Mangaphas family had gradually grown that kernel to the point that they were the second-largest landowners in all of the Opsikian theme.
He was at the end of the dance hall, the doors at the other end open to admit a light sea breeze, showing a splendid view of the Gulf of Adramyttion, the orb of the sun moments from kissing the surface of the sea. The light of the setting sun refracted through the Bari chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, the light bathing the Prokonnesian marble colonnade in a warm orange glow. The geometry of the glass plates was designed so that the light focused on a bronze plaque set above Odysseus’s head. It said “Rewarded for exemplary valor at the Battle of Manzikert, by decree of Emperor Demetrios I and Emperor Manuel III.” It was the prize possession of the House of Mangaphas.
The setting though wasn’t what was giving him problems. No, that was the people. Maria of Agra was still in Chalcedon looking after her two sons, the plan that she would meet up with them at Smyrna in time for his fifteenth birthday. She’d asked him to make a series of small paintings so that she could see what she had missed. The guests at the Adramyttion ball seemed like a perfect subject, but the multiplicity of costumes was giving him some problems. He nibbled some more at the end of his paintbrush, then made a few brush strokes.
He looked up again as a new couple entered, the herald announcing them as somebody-and-somebody. He wasn’t paying attention. For some reasons the girls here were unusually fascinating, in their bright-colored outfits that left their calves and forearms bare and in several cases showed cleavage too, a few of them more than a little.
His eyes followed two of the most attractive girls. He thought they were sisters; they had come in together and were dressed identically in tight dark blue dresses that went down only just past their knees and that showed more of their breasts than most. They had pale skin and raven-dark hair that went down to their waists, the hair shimmering in the sunset glow. They were fairly tall too; Odysseus bet they were half a head taller than him. Considering his short stature though that wasn’t too impressive a feat. Alexios I was short too.
His eyes kept following them, for some reason his mind imagining them sitting on him, their legs wrapped around his body…He shook his head. Where did that come from? Focus on getting this painting done for Maria. You don’t want to disappoint her. But the thought of Maria then made him think of her dancing for Andreas, her swaying hips, her long dancer legs twirling as she spun…
Don’t go there.
He started in his chair, glancing around. Nobody seemed to be talking to him. He noticed that he was breathing heavily. Alright, Odysseus, calm down. Just focus on the painting. He looked up, his eyes locking on one of the sisters. No, focus. He looked at the canvas. Focus.
He tried to use his brush but it wasn’t in his hands. Where is it? He glanced around, not seeing it, then realizing where it was. He’d bitten it so hard that his teeth were wedged into it. He gave it a yank, pulling it loose, and then got to work on the painting.
Alexandros Drakos stood in the shadow of one of the marble columns, about halfway along the south wall looking out at the finely dressed crowd. Even though he was in dress uniform, with its gold and silver lace and cuffs, and the gleaming new insignia of a droungarios at his collar, he was still one of the drabbest occupants of the room. As an officer in the 2nd Opsikian tourma, which had its tourmatic capital in Adramyttion, he’d been invited. He sipped absentmindedly from his glass of malmsey and then ate the last bit of cheese in his hand. He frowned.
I want more.
You’ve had five.
Just one more.
No.
Fine.
Odysseus Sideros was in a corner of the hall, facing towards the entrance. He was hunched over a canvas, frantically working at it as if his life depended on him finishing right this second. Sweat beaded on his forehead, some trickling down his cheek. I wonder what’s going on there.
The Emperor was on the opposite side of him along the north wall, talking with Nikolaios Mangaphas, Alexandros’ tourmarch Michael Mikrulakes, another tourmarch he didn’t recognize, and the Strategos of the Opsikian, Iason Tornikes. Tornikes was another of Andreas’ new appointees, filling the strategoi with distinguished veteran tourmarches who’d served through the wars of Demetrios II, in this case both against the Marinids and the Idwaits.
He continued looking across the room, for a moment his eyes looking at one young woman, for a second their gazes locking and then flitting away. That had been the third or fourth time in the last twenty minutes or so. She was a short blond, with frizzy hair that only went down to the base of her neck, rather unusual for a Roman girl. He would guess she was Circassian but wasn’t sure.
You could go over and talk to her, he thought. And say what? His stomach fluttered a bit at the thought. This is dumb. I’m the bravest of the brave, but can’t muster up the courage to talk to some random girl. Come on, think of something clever…
Cheese?
You’re the only one who thinks cheese is sexy. So no. Try again.
Fish?
No. And unoriginal.
Fish…sticks?
Am I supposed to be impressed? Because I’m not.
I could talk to her about fish…she might be interested.
Well, the conversation will probably end with you being hit by a fish. There’s even some handy pieces on the buffet table. How convenient…
Shut up.
“That’s really good.” Odysseus jumped in his seat at the voice. He looked up at the speaker. Andreas looked down at him, a half-empty wine goblet in his hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s…, it’s alright,” Odysseus mumbled.
“Looks like somebody needs to relax. Come on, have a drink.” He handed the goblet to Odysseus.
“I…I can’t.”
“Drink. You need it.” When he still hesitated, Andreas continued. “Don’t make me pull rank.”
Odysseus squinted at his cousin. “You wouldn’t.”
“Hey, I’m the Emperor. Being a petty despot is part of the job description. Come on, you need a drink.”
“Alright,” Odysseus muttered, taking a swallow. He put the goblet down, then took another swallow, and then another just for good measure. “Hmmm, that is good. Malmsey?”
“Yup, Monemvasia’s finest. Come, I’ll get you some more.”
Odysseus stood up eagerly. “There’s also a pair of Pontic sisters I want you to meet. Apparently they have a thing for artists.”
Odysseus swallowed. He didn’t want to think about girls, because then he thought about Maria. “So they don’t like you is what you’re saying?” he said after a moment, trying to cover up the awkward flutter in his stomach.
Andreas mock-scowled at him. “Quiet you. Come on, let’s get you a drink.” They started walking towards the buffet table, people stepping to the side to let them pass. Off to the side were large silver bowls placed in basins filled with ice that were full of wine. Andreas nodded toward Nikephoros Vatatzes and then at the basins; he signaled two of the guardsmen to reposition themselves there.
“You should show them your Sunrise in the Pontic Alps. That’s your best in my opinion, plus it’s from near where they live,” Andreas said.
“Eh, it’s not that good.”
Andreas snorted. “Don’t be modest. You’re terrible at it. No, your landscapes are great. How many have you made, seven?”
“Eight actually, if you include this one.” He gestured back at his stand and then looked at a man standing near it. If he knocks that over, I will kill him…
“Well, it’s good practice for Persia and India.”
“Wait, what? Persia and India.”
They reached the basins, a servant ladling a glass full for the Emperor. “You heard me. When it’s time for a rematch with the Persians, I’m thinking we should march through the entire country length to length, Alexander style. Just to make it clear not to mess with us.”
“That’s ambitious. You do need to crush the Persian army first though.”
“I know that. Do you think I’m an idiot?” Odysseus opened his mouth. “Don’t answer that. But in five years, between us, the Georgians, Egyptians, Ethiopians, and Omani, we can put two hundred thousand men into the field. Considering how close Nineveh was with half that and Iskandar, the Persians won’t stand a chance.”
“Omani? They went for the treaty?”
“I got word from Sarantenos this morning. Sixty ships in exchange for Hormuz, Yemen, and the Hedjaz.”
“That’s Persia but what about India?”
“He also sent word that the Triunes have taken Sutanuti from the Spanish. Already most of the vassal states have accepted their over-lordship.”
“Ugh. Just what we need.”
“Exactly. So I’m thinking that after marching through Persia, a nice seaside break at Thatta, and then a march up to and then down the Ganges to Sutanuti where the Triunes can get some long-overdue throat punching.”
Odysseus grinned wolfishly. “Sounds like fun.”
Constantinople, May 24, 1628:
Demetrios Sideros sneezed as he pushed open the door to his apartments in the White Palace, thinking about which book he should read first. In his bag he had the complete biography of Ioannes Kourkouas, Arrian’s history of the Diadochi and of the Parthians, the history of Carthage by Claudius, and the Complete Lives of Plutarch [1], which he’d just rented from the White Palace library. It was one of the perks of working here in his opinion as the list of those eligible to borrow from the Imperial archives was limited.
Then he looked up. Shit. Triple, quadruple, mega-epic gigantic flying bananas shit. Jahzara was sitting in her favorite armchair sewing a seam on one of his shirts. Next to her on a couch was Eudoxia of Chios, knitting something. There was a small kaffos table between them, with two matching silver kaffos cups, both empty, atop it. They seemed to have been chatting amiably when he walked in. His wife and mistress on apparent good terms with each other…this could end very very badly. Germans, now would be a very good time to invade. He took a breath. No courtier ran screaming down the hallway raising the alarm. Worth a try.
“Hello, husband,” Jahzara said, smiling at him. She had some crow’s feet around her eyes and some silver in her long black hair, the latter giving her a more distinguished air to her beauty rather than subtracting it.
“Hello, wife,” he replied. He nodded at Eudoxia who bowed her head in response but didn’t say anything as she kept at her knitting. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have some work to do.” He had some letters that needed drafting, but it was nothing that couldn’t wait till tomorrow. Not that he was going to admit that.
He headed over to his study, resisting the urge to run, pushing the door closed with his elbow as he entered. This was his inner sanctum. In the middle of the room was his desk, a finely carved work from one of the most illustrious shops in Arles, although the plush reading chair behind it was a product of Nicaea. There was an empty inkstand, a box of quills, a case of paper in the center of the desk and two unlit lamps on each corner closest to him. The ceiling above was a painted map of the world from Lisbon to Lahore.
The back wall of the room was mostly window, covered at the moment by silk curtains that strained out some of the light of the setting sun, but the rest of the walls save for where room had to be made for the door was covered in bookshelves. These were his personal collection, 1,272 in total, not the ones he’d borrowed from the Palace library. The ones in his bag brought that total up to 459. One stretch of shelf though, at chest height in the far left corner, did not contain books. There instead was a meter-long wooden box, also finely carved but not by an Arletian but by some craftsman from the Zagros. Around the center was a golden band four centimeters wide, with silver inlaid in Arabic calligraphic.
He set his bag down on the top of the desk and started to pull out materials. Aside from the library books he did have some memorandums from work, including one way too-detailed paper on the activities of the fishmongers of the city.
He had his back to the door but heard it creak open. Apparently he hadn’t pushed it enough to close it. He didn’t need to look to know that it was Jahzara; Eudoxia had never been here but she wouldn’t have disturbed him in here. Jahzara on the other hand… He continued taking stuff out of his bag and arranging it on his desk, the muscles in his back tensing as he waited to be stabbed. He’d been half-expecting something like this ever since he’d somehow talked himself into taking Eudoxia to that ball, but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it.
He heard the rustling of her clothing as she moved, his muscles tensing even more. He felt the touch of her hands as she placed them on his shoulders right on either side of his neck, and then the hard pressure of her thumbs…as she started massaging the muscles next to his spine at the base of his neck. He sighed a little; she was good at this and it did feel really good, although part of him couldn’t help thinking that this was just to soften him up.
“You’re really tense today,” she observed after about half a minute, moving her hands so that she was applying pressure with all her fingers on either side of his spine. She slowly started to work her way down. “Hard day?”
“You, you could say that.”
She didn’t respond, both of them staying in silence for a few minutes. Demetrios had his palms on the desk, hunched over a little, while Jahzara continued the massage. She was getting down to the bottom of his back when she finally spoke again. “She’s a very beautiful woman.”
He didn’t need to ask who. “Uh, yes, yes she is.” This is how it ends.
Two seconds. “Good, I’d be offended if she wasn’t.” Wait, what? “Oh, that’s really why you’re so tense.” There was some snicker in her voice. “Don’t worry. I’m not like Elizabeth. You can go do your thing, have your fun. I don’t mind.” She paused, then suddenly reached around him to grab a part of him that had Demetrios standing very still. Tightening her grip a bit, she leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Just remember that at the end of the day, I’m your wife.” She squeezed a bit more, then let go and marched out of the room.
Demetrios wiped the sweat from his brow with a slightly shaking hand and looked at the books around him. “Should’ve become a monk.”
[1] These didn’t survive to the present IOTL, with a partial exception to Plutarch. The conceit here is that manuscript copies survived to the POD IOTL and managed in this timeline to escape the destruction that befell them in ours.
He does have a strong desire to arrange a divorce. Unfortunately the Patriarch is in the Empress’ corner which doesn’t make anything easier. It is public knowledge that the marriage between the two was consummated so that option is out the window. Ideally the divorce would be arranged on terms that would concur with Catholic tradition too, just to make things a little more palatable for Theodor.
Nothing comes of it for now due to the intervention of the Megas Logothete, who is mortified by the turn of events. He talks Andreas out of doing anything rash before he returns from his western progress. Autoreianos’ hope is that things can calm down and maybe they’ll make up. (Some historians characterize Autoreianos as out-of-touch for his efforts to salvage the marriage, but Demetrios Sideros does report that in an unguarded moment the Logothete muttered that if he were in charge he’d “lock them up in a room and feed them only bread and water until they did it.”)
Another argument for the delay is that Patriarch Isidore III is 78 years old and not in the best of health. Extremely popular with the population of Constantinople and many in the European themes for charity initiatives he has spearheaded over his tenure, he would not be the easiest prelate to dislodge. It’s possible he could be bought off but his price would be more church tax exemptions. In the late 1560s Helena I tried to increase church taxes and close exemptions but only had limited success due to the then Patriarch Matthaios II. Andreas is unwilling to roll back the progress made by his great grandmother in that regard and in fact the Eparch’s tax reform plan has pushing that progress forward as a component.
Therefore it makes sense to Andreas to simply wait the Patriarch out until he dies. Then a more agreeable cleric can be appointed, one who won’t cause difficulties when Andreas divorces Elizabeth and marries Maria. The fact that Andreas now has the aim of marrying Maria and producing legitimate offspring by that marriage also means that any plans Andreas has of making Odysseus his official heir end up on hold, although his cousin is still his constant companion.
While Andreas is in Chalcedon, Maria of Agra goes into labor and is soon safely delivered of yet another boy, who is known as Nikephoros of Trebizond (presumably where he was conceived). Elizabeth is not in the capital when it happens. She is out overseeing her newest purchase, a massive estate, one of the largest private estates in the whole empire, which stretches along the Black Sea coast south of Mesembria.
She makes it clear she intends to be spending much of her time there, spending over 70,000 hyperpyra on new construction, furnishings, and hiring gamekeepers, attendants, and servants for the area. Recently she’d had an argument with her husband when she wanted the members of her guard to be replaced by her own appointees. As the Empress she was guarded by units of the Vigla, more commonly known as the Imperial Guard, but their membership was chosen by the Emperor.
However only units of the Vigla and the Athanatoi (who’d been the original guard but had been transitioned to battlefield use in the War of the Five Emperors) are allowed to be guards on the White Palace premises. The fact that Elizabeth wants Saxons to be her personal guards means an exception is not happening. The compromise worked out is that Elizabeth while at the White Palace is guarded by the Vigla, but has her own choice of guards whilst outside. Hence the attraction of Mesembria, as there she is surrounded solely by men loyal to her.
Adramyttion, Opsikian Theme, May 19, 1628:
Odysseus looked down at his work on the canvas, up at his subject matter, and frowned, nibbling at the end of his paintbrush. The ball for the Emperor was being held on one of the local dynatoi’s estates, that of Nikolaios Mangaphas, a distant descendant of the man who’d tried and failed to take the city from Henry of Flanders in 1205. He’d been known as ‘the Fool’ for his repeated and failed attempts to take power, ending his life in a Laskarid dungeon. The family fortunes had rebounded though after Konstantinos Mangaphas served with distinction under Demetrios Komnenos in the War of the Five Emperors, being rewarded with the kernel of this very estate. Over the last two centuries the Mangaphas family had gradually grown that kernel to the point that they were the second-largest landowners in all of the Opsikian theme.
He was at the end of the dance hall, the doors at the other end open to admit a light sea breeze, showing a splendid view of the Gulf of Adramyttion, the orb of the sun moments from kissing the surface of the sea. The light of the setting sun refracted through the Bari chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, the light bathing the Prokonnesian marble colonnade in a warm orange glow. The geometry of the glass plates was designed so that the light focused on a bronze plaque set above Odysseus’s head. It said “Rewarded for exemplary valor at the Battle of Manzikert, by decree of Emperor Demetrios I and Emperor Manuel III.” It was the prize possession of the House of Mangaphas.
The setting though wasn’t what was giving him problems. No, that was the people. Maria of Agra was still in Chalcedon looking after her two sons, the plan that she would meet up with them at Smyrna in time for his fifteenth birthday. She’d asked him to make a series of small paintings so that she could see what she had missed. The guests at the Adramyttion ball seemed like a perfect subject, but the multiplicity of costumes was giving him some problems. He nibbled some more at the end of his paintbrush, then made a few brush strokes.
He looked up again as a new couple entered, the herald announcing them as somebody-and-somebody. He wasn’t paying attention. For some reasons the girls here were unusually fascinating, in their bright-colored outfits that left their calves and forearms bare and in several cases showed cleavage too, a few of them more than a little.
His eyes followed two of the most attractive girls. He thought they were sisters; they had come in together and were dressed identically in tight dark blue dresses that went down only just past their knees and that showed more of their breasts than most. They had pale skin and raven-dark hair that went down to their waists, the hair shimmering in the sunset glow. They were fairly tall too; Odysseus bet they were half a head taller than him. Considering his short stature though that wasn’t too impressive a feat. Alexios I was short too.
His eyes kept following them, for some reason his mind imagining them sitting on him, their legs wrapped around his body…He shook his head. Where did that come from? Focus on getting this painting done for Maria. You don’t want to disappoint her. But the thought of Maria then made him think of her dancing for Andreas, her swaying hips, her long dancer legs twirling as she spun…
Don’t go there.
He started in his chair, glancing around. Nobody seemed to be talking to him. He noticed that he was breathing heavily. Alright, Odysseus, calm down. Just focus on the painting. He looked up, his eyes locking on one of the sisters. No, focus. He looked at the canvas. Focus.
He tried to use his brush but it wasn’t in his hands. Where is it? He glanced around, not seeing it, then realizing where it was. He’d bitten it so hard that his teeth were wedged into it. He gave it a yank, pulling it loose, and then got to work on the painting.
* * *
Alexandros Drakos stood in the shadow of one of the marble columns, about halfway along the south wall looking out at the finely dressed crowd. Even though he was in dress uniform, with its gold and silver lace and cuffs, and the gleaming new insignia of a droungarios at his collar, he was still one of the drabbest occupants of the room. As an officer in the 2nd Opsikian tourma, which had its tourmatic capital in Adramyttion, he’d been invited. He sipped absentmindedly from his glass of malmsey and then ate the last bit of cheese in his hand. He frowned.
I want more.
You’ve had five.
Just one more.
No.
Fine.
Odysseus Sideros was in a corner of the hall, facing towards the entrance. He was hunched over a canvas, frantically working at it as if his life depended on him finishing right this second. Sweat beaded on his forehead, some trickling down his cheek. I wonder what’s going on there.
The Emperor was on the opposite side of him along the north wall, talking with Nikolaios Mangaphas, Alexandros’ tourmarch Michael Mikrulakes, another tourmarch he didn’t recognize, and the Strategos of the Opsikian, Iason Tornikes. Tornikes was another of Andreas’ new appointees, filling the strategoi with distinguished veteran tourmarches who’d served through the wars of Demetrios II, in this case both against the Marinids and the Idwaits.
He continued looking across the room, for a moment his eyes looking at one young woman, for a second their gazes locking and then flitting away. That had been the third or fourth time in the last twenty minutes or so. She was a short blond, with frizzy hair that only went down to the base of her neck, rather unusual for a Roman girl. He would guess she was Circassian but wasn’t sure.
You could go over and talk to her, he thought. And say what? His stomach fluttered a bit at the thought. This is dumb. I’m the bravest of the brave, but can’t muster up the courage to talk to some random girl. Come on, think of something clever…
Cheese?
You’re the only one who thinks cheese is sexy. So no. Try again.
Fish?
No. And unoriginal.
Fish…sticks?
Am I supposed to be impressed? Because I’m not.
I could talk to her about fish…she might be interested.
Well, the conversation will probably end with you being hit by a fish. There’s even some handy pieces on the buffet table. How convenient…
Shut up.
* * *
“That’s really good.” Odysseus jumped in his seat at the voice. He looked up at the speaker. Andreas looked down at him, a half-empty wine goblet in his hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s…, it’s alright,” Odysseus mumbled.
“Looks like somebody needs to relax. Come on, have a drink.” He handed the goblet to Odysseus.
“I…I can’t.”
“Drink. You need it.” When he still hesitated, Andreas continued. “Don’t make me pull rank.”
Odysseus squinted at his cousin. “You wouldn’t.”
“Hey, I’m the Emperor. Being a petty despot is part of the job description. Come on, you need a drink.”
“Alright,” Odysseus muttered, taking a swallow. He put the goblet down, then took another swallow, and then another just for good measure. “Hmmm, that is good. Malmsey?”
“Yup, Monemvasia’s finest. Come, I’ll get you some more.”
Odysseus stood up eagerly. “There’s also a pair of Pontic sisters I want you to meet. Apparently they have a thing for artists.”
Odysseus swallowed. He didn’t want to think about girls, because then he thought about Maria. “So they don’t like you is what you’re saying?” he said after a moment, trying to cover up the awkward flutter in his stomach.
Andreas mock-scowled at him. “Quiet you. Come on, let’s get you a drink.” They started walking towards the buffet table, people stepping to the side to let them pass. Off to the side were large silver bowls placed in basins filled with ice that were full of wine. Andreas nodded toward Nikephoros Vatatzes and then at the basins; he signaled two of the guardsmen to reposition themselves there.
“You should show them your Sunrise in the Pontic Alps. That’s your best in my opinion, plus it’s from near where they live,” Andreas said.
“Eh, it’s not that good.”
Andreas snorted. “Don’t be modest. You’re terrible at it. No, your landscapes are great. How many have you made, seven?”
“Eight actually, if you include this one.” He gestured back at his stand and then looked at a man standing near it. If he knocks that over, I will kill him…
“Well, it’s good practice for Persia and India.”
“Wait, what? Persia and India.”
They reached the basins, a servant ladling a glass full for the Emperor. “You heard me. When it’s time for a rematch with the Persians, I’m thinking we should march through the entire country length to length, Alexander style. Just to make it clear not to mess with us.”
“That’s ambitious. You do need to crush the Persian army first though.”
“I know that. Do you think I’m an idiot?” Odysseus opened his mouth. “Don’t answer that. But in five years, between us, the Georgians, Egyptians, Ethiopians, and Omani, we can put two hundred thousand men into the field. Considering how close Nineveh was with half that and Iskandar, the Persians won’t stand a chance.”
“Omani? They went for the treaty?”
“I got word from Sarantenos this morning. Sixty ships in exchange for Hormuz, Yemen, and the Hedjaz.”
“That’s Persia but what about India?”
“He also sent word that the Triunes have taken Sutanuti from the Spanish. Already most of the vassal states have accepted their over-lordship.”
“Ugh. Just what we need.”
“Exactly. So I’m thinking that after marching through Persia, a nice seaside break at Thatta, and then a march up to and then down the Ganges to Sutanuti where the Triunes can get some long-overdue throat punching.”
Odysseus grinned wolfishly. “Sounds like fun.”
Constantinople, May 24, 1628:
Demetrios Sideros sneezed as he pushed open the door to his apartments in the White Palace, thinking about which book he should read first. In his bag he had the complete biography of Ioannes Kourkouas, Arrian’s history of the Diadochi and of the Parthians, the history of Carthage by Claudius, and the Complete Lives of Plutarch [1], which he’d just rented from the White Palace library. It was one of the perks of working here in his opinion as the list of those eligible to borrow from the Imperial archives was limited.
Then he looked up. Shit. Triple, quadruple, mega-epic gigantic flying bananas shit. Jahzara was sitting in her favorite armchair sewing a seam on one of his shirts. Next to her on a couch was Eudoxia of Chios, knitting something. There was a small kaffos table between them, with two matching silver kaffos cups, both empty, atop it. They seemed to have been chatting amiably when he walked in. His wife and mistress on apparent good terms with each other…this could end very very badly. Germans, now would be a very good time to invade. He took a breath. No courtier ran screaming down the hallway raising the alarm. Worth a try.
“Hello, husband,” Jahzara said, smiling at him. She had some crow’s feet around her eyes and some silver in her long black hair, the latter giving her a more distinguished air to her beauty rather than subtracting it.
“Hello, wife,” he replied. He nodded at Eudoxia who bowed her head in response but didn’t say anything as she kept at her knitting. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have some work to do.” He had some letters that needed drafting, but it was nothing that couldn’t wait till tomorrow. Not that he was going to admit that.
He headed over to his study, resisting the urge to run, pushing the door closed with his elbow as he entered. This was his inner sanctum. In the middle of the room was his desk, a finely carved work from one of the most illustrious shops in Arles, although the plush reading chair behind it was a product of Nicaea. There was an empty inkstand, a box of quills, a case of paper in the center of the desk and two unlit lamps on each corner closest to him. The ceiling above was a painted map of the world from Lisbon to Lahore.
The back wall of the room was mostly window, covered at the moment by silk curtains that strained out some of the light of the setting sun, but the rest of the walls save for where room had to be made for the door was covered in bookshelves. These were his personal collection, 1,272 in total, not the ones he’d borrowed from the Palace library. The ones in his bag brought that total up to 459. One stretch of shelf though, at chest height in the far left corner, did not contain books. There instead was a meter-long wooden box, also finely carved but not by an Arletian but by some craftsman from the Zagros. Around the center was a golden band four centimeters wide, with silver inlaid in Arabic calligraphic.
He set his bag down on the top of the desk and started to pull out materials. Aside from the library books he did have some memorandums from work, including one way too-detailed paper on the activities of the fishmongers of the city.
He had his back to the door but heard it creak open. Apparently he hadn’t pushed it enough to close it. He didn’t need to look to know that it was Jahzara; Eudoxia had never been here but she wouldn’t have disturbed him in here. Jahzara on the other hand… He continued taking stuff out of his bag and arranging it on his desk, the muscles in his back tensing as he waited to be stabbed. He’d been half-expecting something like this ever since he’d somehow talked himself into taking Eudoxia to that ball, but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it.
He heard the rustling of her clothing as she moved, his muscles tensing even more. He felt the touch of her hands as she placed them on his shoulders right on either side of his neck, and then the hard pressure of her thumbs…as she started massaging the muscles next to his spine at the base of his neck. He sighed a little; she was good at this and it did feel really good, although part of him couldn’t help thinking that this was just to soften him up.
“You’re really tense today,” she observed after about half a minute, moving her hands so that she was applying pressure with all her fingers on either side of his spine. She slowly started to work her way down. “Hard day?”
“You, you could say that.”
She didn’t respond, both of them staying in silence for a few minutes. Demetrios had his palms on the desk, hunched over a little, while Jahzara continued the massage. She was getting down to the bottom of his back when she finally spoke again. “She’s a very beautiful woman.”
He didn’t need to ask who. “Uh, yes, yes she is.” This is how it ends.
Two seconds. “Good, I’d be offended if she wasn’t.” Wait, what? “Oh, that’s really why you’re so tense.” There was some snicker in her voice. “Don’t worry. I’m not like Elizabeth. You can go do your thing, have your fun. I don’t mind.” She paused, then suddenly reached around him to grab a part of him that had Demetrios standing very still. Tightening her grip a bit, she leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Just remember that at the end of the day, I’m your wife.” She squeezed a bit more, then let go and marched out of the room.
Demetrios wiped the sweat from his brow with a slightly shaking hand and looked at the books around him. “Should’ve become a monk.”
* * *
[1] These didn’t survive to the present IOTL, with a partial exception to Plutarch. The conceit here is that manuscript copies survived to the POD IOTL and managed in this timeline to escape the destruction that befell them in ours.