Rhomania’s General Crisis, part 6.0-The Other Players:
The White Palace, Constantinople, October 6, 1660:
Athena set down her quill, adjusting her cloak more tightly around her body, and looked at the window. Sunlight reflected off the Bosporus, the sheen cut by the two bulks of massive grain haulers working their way to the Golden Horn. Aside from the pair, she could count at least thirty other smaller craft in her view, including a Russian ship flying the Cross of St. Andrew. The latter was probably carrying either furs or metal ingots.
Furs sounded good to her. The chill of approaching winter was already in the air and ever since the assassination attempt, keeping warm was a harder and harder task. The warmth of summer had aided her health, but as the sun’s rays weakened, she could feel her own constitution declining. Were it just herself, she would decamp to Alexandria and enjoy the rays of Egypt, but that was not an option.
The metal ingots undoubtedly sounded good to other people. The Tourmarches had announced the start of the eastern war yesterday, although she’d known about it for some time beforehand. The mood of the capital had been rather indifferent; the Persians weren’t the scary boogeymen the Latins were. The Tourmarches’s hopes for the war would rise or fall based on how well their performance in the war went.
Athena had known about the war plans, but hadn’t done anything to avert them. She might’ve been angry at the destruction of her brother’s legacy, but she had more personal reasons for her rage, and more personal concerns as well.
Setting up a conspiracy was hard, especially if one wanted to make a clean sweep of things and not set off a civil war. The Tourmarches had done quite a good job of securing the capital and environs for their supporters. The one fly in that ointment was the Father and the Bishops Pair as she called them, but while they might be able to stir up a mob, a mob was hardly a precision implement and most unlikely to succeed if that was it. And she considered the Father to be the epitome of a loose cannon.
Athena thus looked to the provinces. Her hope was to build up a massive base of support in the provinces big enough to overawe the war hawks in the capital and end things before they got messy. She had Michael backing her, and strong bases of support in the Macedonian, Helladikon, Thrakesian, Anatolikon, and Syrian themes, which was a good start, but 5 of 11 themes hardly constituted an overwhelming base. It was enough to start a civil war, but not necessarily enough to end one.
But it was proving most difficult. The Tourmarches were being very careful to keep everything legal by ensuring Herakleios III signed off on anything important. That made opposing them treason, and naturally many balked at that, preferring to just follow the proper chain of command. Athena was finding it harder and harder to recruit more supporters, which also ran into the usual problem of conspiracies. The more backers meant a greater chance of success, but also more opportunity for someone to talk beforehand and blow the whole thing.
Manuel Doukas was vital. With the position of Domestikos of the Center vacant, he and Michael were the two Domestikoi in the field, disregarding the Megas Domestikos in the capital. Having them both on her side would do much to sway many over to her, and Manuel had many friends and comrades in important postings even outside his command. With his support, Athena thought she could have 8, maybe even 9, of the 11 themes. That was what she wanted.
But she couldn’t get a good approach on him. She had no personal connection, and the one supporter with best access, Theodoros Sarantenos, the Strategos of Syria, did not get on that well with Doukas. The man was notoriously prickly. An approach to win his support, if he took it as an insult to his loyalty or honor, would make him an implacable enemy. And again, the Tourmarches had legality on their side. Asking him to turn traitor would likely offend him. Essentially, Athena needed the Tourmarches to do something to irritate Doukas, making him more amenable to her offers.
There was a potential opportunity here. She knew Doukas had been promised command in next year’s campaign, but by Doukas’s light that was simply what he was due as Domestikos of the East. He wouldn’t be grateful simply for getting what he was owed. But Athena did know that the Domestikos was not enamored of the surprise plan, which he felt had too many downsides. He would’ve preferred a mass buildup of the typical style, which he could lead himself. Doukas hadn’t pushed the issue this year, focusing instead on recuperating, but if he had to start his command next year by cleaning up a big mess caused by Tourmarches being too clever by half, that might be the irritation Athena needed. But for now, she had to wait.
She might’ve increased the odds of a mess by warning Iskandar, but she hadn’t; it was much too risky. If even a whiff got out that she had connived with a foreign potentate with the goal of killing Romans, she certainly forsook any chance of winning over Manuel. And the loyalty of many of her already-established supporters would become questionable in such an event. Athena needed to avoid being too clever by half as well.
Athena had another reason for moving carefully, three to be precise. Her supporters were in the provinces, but her daughter Sophia and Michael’s two daughters were both here in the capital. She wanted vengeance for her son, but not at the price of her daughter. When the time came, she needed to be able to get them out of Constantinople to safety. Unfortunately, her original contact for this was getting into trouble for gambling debts; she needed another and better option.
Athena looked again out at the window. The sea scape had changed slightly, with ships moving, some disappearing out of view and others entering. One of the newcomers was a finely trimmed Roman naval fregata, smartly making its way south. Athena pulled out another piece of paper and dipped her quill in the inkwell. It was time she renewed her acquaintance with Leo Kalomeros.
* * *
Southern Isauria, October 7, 1660:
Andreas resisted the urge to shiver. It wasn’t that cold, provided one was moving, but he had been stationary for a time, for quite a long time. He wasn’t sure how long exactly, but enough that he was getting tired of this. But he was curious to see, to experience, these visions of which Konon spoke, hence all the preparations he had undergone with Konon’s supervision.
The only sound Andreas could hear in the stone cell, save that of his own body, was the gentle rhythm of Konon’s breath. The holy man was in the corner, standing motionless, mostly in shadow. Flickering candles gave out a little light, but not nearly enough to illuminate the chamber.
Wait…
“Did you see that?” Andreas asked, his body stiffening. The biggest two toes on his left foot cramped angrily, and he reached down to massage them.
“I did not, my Lord Karaman,” Konon replied.
Despite that answer, Andreas knew he wasn’t imagining this. “I see flames.” As he spoke the fire surrounded him, covering most of the room. Konon seemed enveloped, yet the man did not even twitch. “Do you not see them?”
Konon chuckled. “Of course not. Each vision is a gift of God, and each gift is for the pilgrim alone. This vision is your gift, not mine.”
“I see…someone else. He’s coming towards us.”
Konon smiled; the fire lit him enough that Andreas could easily see that. “I do not need a detailed account. This vision is your gift. Learn from it without distractions, and then tell me later what you wish to share."
Andreas stood up as the third figure approached him. “Hello, brother,” the figure said in a deep male voice, the voice of a commander of men in battle.
“Who are you?” Andreas asked. The man stepped forward. Andreas’s eyes widened and then he dropped to his knees.
“Rise, brother.” Andreas rose. “Look at me.” He did.
“Why do you, of all people, call me brother?” Andreas asked.
The man smiled. “Those who share the same father are brothers. And are we not all children of God?”
* * *
They were seated around a fire now, in Andreas’s home. He was tearing ravenously into some chicken while Konon slowly ate some bean soup with a side of cheese. “You’ve met him before?” Andreas asked. Konon had told him of his visions, and he’d believed him, and yet hadn’t truly believed him until Andreas had seen him as well.
“Indeed. It is a pity; if he were alive our task would not be necessary. But all men are mortal, and so this falls to us. But we need a third.”
“Why?”
“The best of anything comes in threes. Ravens, stooges…”
“Stooges?”
Konon’s mouth clicked shut. He cocked his head and thought for a moment. “I admit, I have no idea how to explain that one.”
“Right…but you said we need a third. Are you thinking of the same man as I am?”
“If we are speaking of your cousin, then yes. Now a groundskeeper at the tekke of St. Ioannes, but once a Megas Dekarchos, with over forty years of experience in turning shepherds and farm boys into soldiers. Who better to build an army?”
* * *
Patriarchal Apartments, Constantinople, October 8, 1660:
“I don’t know; this still feels premature,” Manuel Rekas said.
Andronikos Hadjipapandreou set his current ball of cheese down on the table in front of him. “And why is that?”
“We don’t know how the war is proceeding,” Ioannes Grozes answered.
“What does that matter?” The priest looked across the table at the silent Patriarch, whose wrinkled vein-strewn hands were clasped around a cup of kaffos for warmth. “Is a crime suddenly made righteous if it is successful? Is a theft not a theft if the robber managed to get away with his gains?”
“Lady Athena does not think it is wise to act just yet,” Manuel said.
“The time to act against wrong is now, not to wait for some special better time that curiously has a tendency to never show up. How many will die, on both sides, for the sake of a few men’s fear and greed? How many will die if we delay? The time to act against wrong is now.”
“What you ask is a risky thing,” Adam said.
Andronikos looked at the Patriarch, his hard gaze softening. The Patriarch looked like a tired old man, which he was. “I know. I know the dangers. But this is why we are here, now. If not us, who? And if not now, when? If we will not act, salvation will come to the Romans by another means, but we and our house will be destroyed.”
There was silence, and then the Patriarch spoke. “I do not have your strength, Father.” He looked at the pair of bishops. “And I do have your fears. But he is right. A shepherd that does not guard his sheep against a wolf, even one dressed in purple, is a bad shepherd. And evil must be opposed.”
* * *
On the first Sunday after the invasion of Mesopotamia, the Emperor Herakleios III and his entourage (which includes his mistress but not his wife or aunt, who travel in a separate group) approach the Hagia Sophia for services, as is normal whenever the Emperor is in the capital. But the path is barred, blocked by the Patriarch and supporters, including Father Andronikos Hadjipapandreou.
The Patriarch makes his position quite clear. The Emperor is living in a state of sin, and unrepentant. Clearly only the most extreme measures will make him mend his ways. He must abandon this unjust war, undertaken not to defend the Romans but to steal the lands and lives of others. He must forsake his mistress and undertake proper marital relations with his wife. Until he does these, the Emperor and his advisors encouraging him in such sins will be barred from the Hagia Sophia, a most public rebuke for their crimes.
