I wonder how the Maronites are doing right now. Never really crossed my mind until now.
There will be a Syria-focused update down the line, since the next few years will be significant in the area's future development.
* * *
Rhomania’s General Crisis, part 11.2-Ladies of the House of Iron, Part 3:
Near Likodromio, Western Thrace, October 5, 1661:
Sophia sighed silently in relief as she slid off the saddle, clods of dirt crumpling under her boots. She looked around at the rest of her group. They all looked haggard, although Alexeia looked the least worn of them all. Leo and Andronikos hid it, but she could tell that the naval men were not used to riding horses for long stretches. Unfortunately, while they’d been essential for getting out of Constantinople unnoticed, their naval experience was hardly helpful in the backwoods of Thrace. Mercifully, Alexeia was originally from this area.
The direct route between Constantinople and Thessaloniki, the first and second cities of the Empire, was the most pleasant and developed land route in the Empire. They had not been able to take it. It was the obvious place to look for them, which had also ruled out the use of a passenger coach. So, they’d been forced to travel via the backroads of Thrace; Leo and Andronikos had been most useful here too as four women traveling by themselves in these parts would’ve been most unusual. Accommodations at the local inns had also been appalling; Sophia was certain that that rat that had woken her up in the middle of the night by sticking its face in her cleavage had been the size of her thigh.
The six of them, now dismounted, were in the middle of a tourma that was encamped along the stretch of road on either side. Dust kicked up from the road whenever anyone rode along it, but it was better than the mud slick Sophia expected it was in wetter climes. The spread of the camp was irregular, but it kept the road clear and minimized the troops encroaching on the wheat fields and olive groves that surrounded them. They were not at war, yet.
A dekarchos took the reins of her horse while a droungarios walked over, the insignia of the 2nd Macedonian apparent on his shoulders. That had been an immense relief when the six of them had run into a cavalry patrol an hour earlier. These were unquestionably Uncle Michael’s men, not the Tourmarches’, but it was a surprise. The Nestos River marked the border between the Thracian and Macedonian themes, and they were still over ten kilometers east of it.
The droungarios gestured at a large tent, set up underneath some olive trees fifty meters north of the road. “If you’ll follow me, the Tourmarch will be with you shortly.” The insides of the tent were spartan. A canvas sheet prevented direct contact with the soil, but dirt had been tracked inside. Two cots were in separate corners, with a pair of portable writing desks occupying the others. A chest took up part of one wall, with six chairs surrounding a table in the center. The table was a series of planks tied together, set atop some wooden posts supported by crosspieces. The setup looked ugly but was designed so it could be broken down for easier movement. A flagon of wine was on the table with six wooden cups. Leo started pouring.
He'd just finished handing out all the cups when the tourmarch walked in, followed by a different droungarios from the first. He was tall, with dark green eyes and a chiseled jaw that would’ve looked in place on an ancient statue of Apollo. His trimmed dark brown beard contrasted with the slightly lighter shade of hair on his head, the ends of which were just starting to curl. He was followed by another, slightly shorter and grayer individual.
“Uncle Michael!” Sophia exclaimed.
“Father!” Maria and Zoe shouted. All three of them shot up, hugging the Domestikos.
He wrapped his arms tightly around them. “It’s good to see you. I was getting worried,” he rasped.
Sophia broke the embrace. “It’s really good to see you too, but what are you doing here? You can’t have known we were coming here.”
“Luck mainly. There was no word of major warships leaving the capital, which made me suspect you’d have to travel by land.” Since lone male couriers could more easily travel incognito, they could use the main routes and travel faster than groups, so he had more up-to-date information on doings in Constantinople than they did. “I set up posts in the likely places to hopefully catch you before the Tourmarches did.”
“You are in Thrace,” Sophia observed.
“I know. But while there are a lot of different backroads in Thrace, there are only a couple of places one can safely cross the Nestos. Those are obvious places to catch you, so I wanted to get to you first.”
“It’s still risky.” As Domestikos of the West, the Thracian theme fell under Michael’s command, but since it also contained the capital, it was a special case. Moving non-Thracian troops into Thrace during times of peace required prior approval; the Domestikos wasn’t even allowed to keep maps of the Thracian theme at his headquarters. Those had to be requested, and then transferred, from the archives in the White Palace.
“I know, but now is not the time to play it safe.” Michael then looked at the Tourmarch. “Get the tourma prepared to move out to the Nestos, and send couriers to the others ordering them to do the same.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, leaving the tent. As he did, the six travelers returned to their seats.
Michael looked at the two naval officers. “Kentarchos. Protokarabos. Thank you for what you’ve done. I know it’s not what you had planned, but I’ll never forget it.”
“You’re welcome, Domestikos. It was our pleasure. Although I hope you have a warship we can use in Thessaloniki; I doubt we’ll be able to get back to our own.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” A pause, then he gestured at the Droungarios who’d been silent in the corner so far. “Empress Sophia, this is my secretary, Droungarios Grivas. If you require anything and I’m not available, contact him and he will see that it is done.”
“Thank you.” A pause. “What news do you have of my mother?”
“I…I thought you knew.”
“Suspected, but did not know. I take it she is dead.” Michael nodded. Zoe squeezed Sophia’s forearm, and Sophia squeezed her hand in response. “How?”
“She set off a bomb in her apartments.”
“Who did she get? Plytos? Nereas?”
“Neither. Just Tourmarch Arules. I guess she didn’t have the opportunity.” Sophia’s eyes narrowed. Or her mother had a more personal reason for settling for Arules. If her little brother’s death had not been an accident…
Horn calls bellowed from outside, making all their heads jerk up. Alexeia swore. “What is that?” Sophia asked.
“Hot contact,” Michael snarled, heading for the tent flap.
Alexeia stood up. “Meaning that we’re going to have a lot of unwelcome company much sooner than we’d like.”
“That’s the problem with being in Thrace; they know the ground much better than we do,” Michael replied. “See to it they get out safely. I’ll assemble an additional escort.”
“No,” Sophia replied.
“What do you mean, no?” Michael protested.
“I mean no. They’re looking for me, the Empress. If a Thracian or guard unit crashes into you here, there’s likely to be shooting. I might be able to talk them into backing down.”
“You aren’t thinking of going back?!” Zoe protested.
“Absolutely not. But I make it quite clear I’m not going back, and there’s a Macedonian tourma right behind me, they may be willing to back off without a fight. And I would like to avoid shooting if it is at all possible. And if there has to be shooting, I want it to be absolutely clear that they were the ones starting it.”
“I don’t like it,” Michael grumbled.
“I know, but I’m also the Empress,” Sophia replied.
“Yes, yes, you are. And I recognize that look from your mother. I’ll make the arrangements. Now if you’ll excuse me.” The sounds of movement outside had gotten noticeably louder.
After he and Grivas left, Sophia looked around the tent. “I thank all of you for what you’ve done over the last few days, but I would like to be alone for a moment.”
“Of course,” Alexeia replied. The rest all left the tent, granting her wish.
She sat there, staring, thinking. About what to say, about what to do. About what she was doing. Wondering if it was treachery, or madness, or necessity. And who was to say those categories were mutually exclusive.
But as the thoughts twirled and tumbled in her mind, there was a constant in the background. Rage. Rage at the death of her mother, at the death of her brother. Rage at those responsible, and for what? To save Romans, by killing Romans? The thought that this was how her mother felt right before she died only fueled it.
Sophia took three deep breaths. The rage might be useful, but she needed to control it. And she would need some other things as well. She got up and looked out of the tent flap. There were some guards there, snapping to attention when they saw her. “Dekarchos…”
* * *
The landscape tilted upward as one went south to north. South of the road were a series of wheat fields, while the rougher northern side was a mix of olive groves and scrub. A nearby hillock to her left had an outpost on top with at least a battery of light guns, as well as a detachment of signalers with their flags, although Sophia had no clue what they meant.
The Macedonians were formed into line, with their center on the road, the right wing moving into now trampled fields, with the left intermingled in the scrub and trees. In front was a skirmish line and behind at least a droungos posted in reserve. The left wing had an anchor on that hillock, although the right seemed to be hanging in midair.
Sophia was mounted on a fresh horse and rode over to Uncle Michael, who was conversing with Grivas and the Macedonian Tourmarch. “If we do have to fight, what do you think of this place?”
“I’ve seen better, and seen worse. Would’ve preferred to deploy all in the woods north of the road, and ambush them in the flank as they come down the road, but you’re right. We shouldn’t start a war, if we can avoid it.”
Horns sounded. Anna looked to the horizon. The dust clouds had been rising, but now men were cresting into view, marching in column down the road. They continued along briefly as if nothing was the matter, but then halted. She could hear drums beating and the men began to deploy from column to line, as more men came up.
Hooves crunched on hard ground behind her. Alexeia, Maria, and Zoe had arrived. All were mounted and had changed into surplus army uniforms, gray coats and pants, which fit Alexeia well but looked baggy on Maria and Zoe. The martial look of the two sisters was somewhat comprised by their long hair hanging down in ponytails, while Alexeia’s was stuffed under a hat. Maria and Zoe were also unarmed, in sharp contrast to the older woman. She had four kyzikoi strapped to her ribs, a musket strapped to her back, a string of grenades dangling from the pommel, and a cavalry saber.
Alexeia looked at the forces approaching, squinting. “The 4th Thracian,” she whispered, her voice pained. “Why does it have to be the 4th?” Alexeia, during the Great Latin War, had served in the 14th, one of the new tourma recruited for the war. It was common practice for new tourmai to be corseted with a regular one, which often created strong bonds between the units as the war progressed. The 14th had been corseted with the 4th.
Michael looked at his two daughters. “What are you doing?”
“Where Sophia goes, we go,” Maria replied.
“Not here.”
“Our duty is to attend our Empress. Only she can release us from that.”
Michael looked at Sophia, who shrugged. “You know how well arguing with them goes.”
He smiled ruefully. “Alright, but be careful.”
The Thracians had fully deployed now and were marching forward, progressing in good order. They were now in musket range but both sides held fire.
Leo and Andronikos came up. Neither of them was on horses, but both carried a pair of rifles each along with pouches of ammunition. Leo looked up an olive tree next to the group. “Good of place as any.”
“What are you doing?” Sophia asked.
“We’re no good as cavalry, but a tree is like a mast, and both of us are well-used to sharpshooting from masts.”
“They’re signaling for an embassy,” Grivas said, his voice deep and gravelly.
Michael looked at her and she nodded. “Signal them we accept.” Banners flapped and the Thracians halted. “And pull the skirmishers back. They’re pointless at this range.” More banners flapped, and the thin screen retreated, with noticeable relief. In some place they’d been only ten meters or so from the Thracians; the main lines were only fifty meters distant from each other. There was some disgruntled murmuring from the Macedonians; letting a hostile force get this close without being softened up by skirmishers and artillery was anathema to army doctrine. The Thracians weren’t hostile, now, but…
An officer rode out from the center of the Thracian line, accompanied by half a dozen others. Sophia took a deep breath. “Domestikos Pirokolos. Droungarios Grivas. Alexeia. Maria. Zoe. No one else.” Michael nodded.
She looked over at Leo and Andronikos, who looked set to climb the tree. “I hope you don’t feel left out.”
“Not at all. But don’t worry. If that officer lays a hand on you, I’ll blow his brains out.”
“I may call you on that.”
“Fine by me. Good luck, Empress.”
“You too, Kentarchos.”
The six of them rode forward and met the Thracian envoy in the middle of the ground between their lines. The air was silent, too silent. It made Sophia nervous, and she tried not to think about the thousand muskets behind her and the thousand muskets in front. She had no idea what battle was like, but she doubted this horrid waiting and wondering was much better.
The officer spoke up as they approached. “I’m Tourmarch Giorgios Akropolites of the 4th Thracian. Domestikos Pirokolos, you know the regulations. Only the Thracian or guard tagmata may be deployed inside the Thracian theme without prior authorization, which you do not have.”
“I am also allowed, in the event of emergency, to act as I see fit to ensure the security of the Roman state, Tourmarch,” Michael replied.
“I’m not sure your definitions of such match the standard form.” Giorgios looked at Sophia and smiled slightly. “Empress Sophia, this is a pleasant surprise. My orders are to escort you back to your husband, the Emperor, in Constantinople.”
“By whose orders?” she asked.
“The Emperor’s, and your husband’s, of course.”
“He has hardly acted as a husband. As for Emperor, he is incapacitated. His will is not his own. Others use him, illegally, for their will. His orders are illegitimate.”
“That is not for you to say.”
“The Emperor is incapacitated. His younger brother Demetrios is in Peshawar, at last report. My mother…” she swallowed. “My mother is dead. As the closest free heir to the Emperors Demetrios III and Odysseus I, it is absolutely my right to say.” There were sharp intakes of breath beside her.
“You don’t know what you say,” Akropolites protested.
“
We know quite well what
we say.”
“You should be more careful what you say. If I were to attack you as the traitor you are acting, you would not survive.”
Alexeia reached for one of her kyzikoi, but Sophia put her hand on her arm to still the older woman. Then Sophia trotted her horse forward until her mount’s head was next to Akropolites’s horse’s head. “You are quite right. We would not survive your attack.”
She pulled back the dark blue cloak she’d been shrouded in, revealing a belt wrapped around her waist. Strapped there were a string of grenades. Most were normal, with the match that served as the fuse, ideally with a five-second burn time. But one lacked this. It had been replaced with a flintlock mechanism. Sophia’s left hand pulled the flint back. If she let go, it would strike, and spark, and explode immediately, no delay. “And you would not survive ours. Shall we die together?”
Color seeped from the Tourmarch’s face. “You’re crazy.”
“Did you think the blood of Timur is spent?
We are Sideroi. We were born mad, and mad we will die. So, again I ask you, shall we die together?”
Silence.
“I think not,” Akropolites finally replied. “I will convey your words to your husband, to your Emperor. We will then see what he desires. This isn’t over.”
“It is for now.”
The Tourmarch turned around and headed back to his lines, followed by the rest of his group. Sophia gently relaxed the flintlock back into place and returned to hers, and they started to move back to their own lines. “I think you scared him off. But we were in the blast radius,” Michael said.
“I know. The grenades were empty. But the manner of my mother’s death would help concentrate minds where I wanted them.”
“Good bluff,” Maria said.
“The grenades were bluff,” Alexeia said. “The rest wasn’t.” Sophia looked at her. “You aren’t the first Sideroi I’ve known.”
“That bit about being the closest free heir to Demetrios III and Odysseus I,” Michael said. “It will probably need some polishing, but it’s the best we have.”
“Agreed,” Sophia said. They were now behind their own gun lines. Both sides were still staring at each other, waiting for the other to start withdrawing first.
Somewhere, a musket went off. “Wait, who fired?”
Alexeia’s eyes were clenched tight. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. She opened her eyes and looked at Sophia. “Thank you for trying.”
Sophia could barely hear her second sentence. The crash of musketry from both sides was simultaneous.