An Age of Miracles III: The Romans Endure
- Thread starter Basileus444
- Start date
Looks amazing. Is this AI generator capable of creating a TTL Imperial Crown Jewels? Would be amazing to see a more modern Roman crown.
It sounds like Sophia is going to have to go all Catherine the Great on Herakleios‘ Peter III in order to save the Empire.
Would they still retain the same Timurid banner? They did embrace the Roman way. It would be pretty boss for the imperial crest to be it though.
Rhomania's General Crisis, Part 11.1: Ladies of the House of Iron, Part 2
I did read all the comments; I just couldn't think of responses to most of them without giving spoilers.
White Palace, Constantinople, September 28, 1661:
Gyranos looked up from his desk as Irene entered his office, her face grim. “I assume you know why the next few days are going to be an imperial pain in the ass,” he said.
She nodded. “News travels fast. As for how accurate, that’s a different story.”
There was silence for a moment, which might have been filled with a question, but Irene already knew the answer. He’d had nothing to do with this bomb, because if he had, he would’ve told her about it beforehand.
“The Lady Athena set off a single large-yield bomb in her bedroom, killing two officers and four soldiers. Two survivors. They might find some pieces of her body, but I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Probably because she didn’t feel like being arrested for treason. Can’t blame her, although she was a bit sloppy with the explosives.”
“How so?”
“One large-yield blast is dramatic, but not as efficient. The chambers are trashed, but the building is sound. I can think of a few different distribution points for smaller bombs placed under load-bearing structures that would’ve brought the whole wing down with a similar amount of explosives. That does leave issues of concealment and coordinating ignition, but…” He shrugged.
“You seem to be giving a lot of thought to how to blow things up,” Irene observed.
“You’ve been spending more time practice shooting.”
A pause. “These next few days are really going to be an imperial pain in the ass.”
“And maybe longer. Nobody knows where the Empress Sophia is.”
“I think we both need to keep up our practicing,” Irene said. He nodded in agreement.
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, Constantinople, September 28, 1661:
“This is a lovely place you’ve brought us to,” Alexeia muttered as she sat down, along with Sophia, Maria, and Zoe. All of them were wearing dark brown hooded cloaks, which mostly covered their clothing. To be on the safe side, Alexeia had had them all change into less fine garments so as to not attract attention.
On the opposite side of the table, set in one darkish corner of the tavern, were two men, both dressed identically in dark gray shirts and black pants. “Going to a more respectable establishment suitable to your station would be an obvious place to look. And any genre-savvy inspector would know that and assume we’d do the opposite, which rules out the absolute dumps. This is the nice compromise.”
Alexeia grunted noncommittally. “I’m not sure if that’s genius or nonsense,” Sophia said.
“Probably both,” the speaker said. “I’m Kentarchos Leo Kalomeros and this is my Protokarabos Andronikos Lukaris.” Sophia’s eyes, now better adjusted to the gloom, could now get a better look at them. Leo was short, with a triangular face and a chin that was perhaps a little excessively strong, but was covered by a salt-and-pepper beard. His hair ran long, to the nape of his neck, also salt-and-pepper, but with a bit more of the salt. His skin was dusky, almost as dark as her mother’s.
Andronikos was taller and rounder and looked slightly younger, his skin also leathery and tanned. Neither of them fit in well with her or Zoe and Maria, pale and smooth-skinned ladies with long brown hair, currently bundled up and covered.
A waitress came over with a tray and set down six wooden bowls of chili and the same number of rough pewter cups of cheap wine. “I took the liberty of ordering for us,” Leo said as Andronikos passed the food around.
Sophia looked into her bowl. Her stomach was in knots. She didn’t know what her mother had planned back in her rooms at the White Palace, but she worried. Sophia knew that she, along with her mother, were the greatest political barriers to the Tourmarches, but their position meant that the Tourmarches didn’t dare move against them openly unless they had solid evidence of treason. If that was the case, and it seems so, it was impossible to guess what they would or could do. And sometimes Sophia wondered exactly how her little brother’s last moments had truly gone. “I’m not hungry,” she said.
“Eat,” Leo ordered. “Nobody turns down the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell chili. It’ll look suspicious. And you’ll need your strength.”
“There aren’t any spoons,” Zoe said.
“You have to provide your own,” Andronikos replied. “Please tell me you have some.” Not knowing to bring a personal spoon would be a clear sign they didn’t belong.
“Here,” Alexeia said, handing out spoons to the young women. Thankfully they were also pewter and not a conspicuous silver or something like that. “And do eat.”
Sophia took a bite. “It’s actually pretty good,” she said.
“It is,” Leo replied. “Eat more. You will need your strength.”
“Why?” Alexeia asked.
“Your timing is terrible. Apparently, Englishmen don’t consider sobriety a required virtue in a helmsman. The Theseus was in a collision and is in for repairs.”
“We can’t use it?” Maria asked.
“Not if you want to actually get away. Right now, my grandmother doing the backstroke could outrun her, and she’d be less likely to sink in the process.”
“Which is really saying something considering that she’s dead,” Andronikos added deadpan.
“Do you have another plan?” Alexeia asked. “We don’t have time to waste.”
“We can’t take a ship. A Kentarchos on his own ship is near to a god. But a Kentarchos on somebody else’s ship will draw a lot of attention, which we don’t need. We’ll have to go by land. Fortunately, Ali the Snotty owes me a favor.”
“Ali the Snotty, the man who sneezes on people and it’s supposed to be good luck?” Sophia asked. [1]
“Yes,” Leo replied.
“Why?”
“Don’t ask,” Andronikos answered.
“And if I answered, that would be telling,” Leo said.
“Right,” Sophia replied. A pause. “This place is weird.”
“That’s why we’re regulars,” Leo said. Another pause. “But we should get going. Andronikos and I are going to have to get a little familiar. We’ll walk out here, each of us with our arms around the shoulders of two of you. We’ll look like some men about to have a fun but expensive night. Men might be envious, but not suspicious.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Zoe.
“But he’s right,” Sophia said. “And if they’re too familiar, we can always have them castrated later.”
Andronikos looked at Leo. “She does have us there.”
“Yes, she does,” Leo responded. “But that’s good. It’ll make the trip more entertaining, and profitable in the end.” A pause. “Now hurry up and finish the chili.”
As they finished and started getting up, Maria asked Leo a question. “Why is this place called the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell?”
“You’re asking,” Sophia said. “And if he answered, that would be telling.”
“She’s quite right,” Leo responded. A moment. “It has to do with what’s actually the meat in the chili.”
Maria froze. “You can’t be serious.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Are you now?”
“Another ask; I’m not telling.” Another pause. “And by the way, make sure that when Ali sneezes on you, you thank him for it.”
The White Palace, Constantinople, September 28, 1661:
Anastasia Laskarina looked at herself in the mirror, and then at the maid who was steadily combing her hair, which when straight stretched down nearly to her waist. “Eudoxia,” she said. “When you’re finished here, arrange with Giorgios for another hair-dyeing appointment.” More gray was creeping back into her black hair.
From the adjacent room came some murmuring and the noise of water sloshing around. Her younger lover-sovereign, Herakleios III, was in there being washed by a couple of her male servants. It was a rule she imposed, a prerequisite he had to do before they spent the night together.
Another of her manservants entered the chamber. “Your highness,” he said and handed her an object.
“Thank you, Hektor.”
She examined what he handed her. It was a plain silver chalice, with no adornment and with one large dent in the side of the bowl, but it was intact and still usable. It had been found in the wreckage of Athena’s apartment and one of the survivors, although badly wounded, had said that a vessel like this had been next to Athena when the bomb went off.
Anastasia wasn’t sure what Athena was thinking when she did that. She’d certainly had to have been preparing that bomb for a long time. Perhaps it was simply a preference for going up in flames rather than going down in chains; Anastasia could appreciate that sentiment. But it didn’t matter. Athena was now out of the way. Sophia could be a problem since she was still at large, but she had to get away from Constantinople without getting caught first before she would be a problem.
Anastasia held the chalice in her hand as Eudoxia continued combing her hair. For a moment she considered giving it to Herakleios when he emerged from his bath. She had no claim on the chalice, while it had been his aunt’s, and then his father’s, and then his grandfather’s before him. But only for a moment. She certainly had much fancier drinking ware, but the symbolism, the chalice’s long association with the Imperial dynasty, appealed to her. She would keep it for herself.
[1] See Slimy Hüseyn from OTL Istanbul earlier in the 1600s, who claimed his snot had healing powers.
Very purple-y; I like. Thank you for making these. I may use these in the future but will certainly credit you if I do.
I haven't given any thought to that. The Sideroi are definitely Roman, but they do make the occasional callback to their dread ancestor. Perhaps an Imperial eagle on a black background with the three red orbs around it somehow?
* * *
Rhomania’s General Crisis, part 11.1-Ladies of the House of Iron, Part 2:
Rhomania’s General Crisis, part 11.1-Ladies of the House of Iron, Part 2:
White Palace, Constantinople, September 28, 1661:
Gyranos looked up from his desk as Irene entered his office, her face grim. “I assume you know why the next few days are going to be an imperial pain in the ass,” he said.
She nodded. “News travels fast. As for how accurate, that’s a different story.”
There was silence for a moment, which might have been filled with a question, but Irene already knew the answer. He’d had nothing to do with this bomb, because if he had, he would’ve told her about it beforehand.
“The Lady Athena set off a single large-yield bomb in her bedroom, killing two officers and four soldiers. Two survivors. They might find some pieces of her body, but I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Probably because she didn’t feel like being arrested for treason. Can’t blame her, although she was a bit sloppy with the explosives.”
“How so?”
“One large-yield blast is dramatic, but not as efficient. The chambers are trashed, but the building is sound. I can think of a few different distribution points for smaller bombs placed under load-bearing structures that would’ve brought the whole wing down with a similar amount of explosives. That does leave issues of concealment and coordinating ignition, but…” He shrugged.
“You seem to be giving a lot of thought to how to blow things up,” Irene observed.
“You’ve been spending more time practice shooting.”
A pause. “These next few days are really going to be an imperial pain in the ass.”
“And maybe longer. Nobody knows where the Empress Sophia is.”
“I think we both need to keep up our practicing,” Irene said. He nodded in agreement.
* * *
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, Constantinople, September 28, 1661:
“This is a lovely place you’ve brought us to,” Alexeia muttered as she sat down, along with Sophia, Maria, and Zoe. All of them were wearing dark brown hooded cloaks, which mostly covered their clothing. To be on the safe side, Alexeia had had them all change into less fine garments so as to not attract attention.
On the opposite side of the table, set in one darkish corner of the tavern, were two men, both dressed identically in dark gray shirts and black pants. “Going to a more respectable establishment suitable to your station would be an obvious place to look. And any genre-savvy inspector would know that and assume we’d do the opposite, which rules out the absolute dumps. This is the nice compromise.”
Alexeia grunted noncommittally. “I’m not sure if that’s genius or nonsense,” Sophia said.
“Probably both,” the speaker said. “I’m Kentarchos Leo Kalomeros and this is my Protokarabos Andronikos Lukaris.” Sophia’s eyes, now better adjusted to the gloom, could now get a better look at them. Leo was short, with a triangular face and a chin that was perhaps a little excessively strong, but was covered by a salt-and-pepper beard. His hair ran long, to the nape of his neck, also salt-and-pepper, but with a bit more of the salt. His skin was dusky, almost as dark as her mother’s.
Andronikos was taller and rounder and looked slightly younger, his skin also leathery and tanned. Neither of them fit in well with her or Zoe and Maria, pale and smooth-skinned ladies with long brown hair, currently bundled up and covered.
A waitress came over with a tray and set down six wooden bowls of chili and the same number of rough pewter cups of cheap wine. “I took the liberty of ordering for us,” Leo said as Andronikos passed the food around.
Sophia looked into her bowl. Her stomach was in knots. She didn’t know what her mother had planned back in her rooms at the White Palace, but she worried. Sophia knew that she, along with her mother, were the greatest political barriers to the Tourmarches, but their position meant that the Tourmarches didn’t dare move against them openly unless they had solid evidence of treason. If that was the case, and it seems so, it was impossible to guess what they would or could do. And sometimes Sophia wondered exactly how her little brother’s last moments had truly gone. “I’m not hungry,” she said.
“Eat,” Leo ordered. “Nobody turns down the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell chili. It’ll look suspicious. And you’ll need your strength.”
“There aren’t any spoons,” Zoe said.
“You have to provide your own,” Andronikos replied. “Please tell me you have some.” Not knowing to bring a personal spoon would be a clear sign they didn’t belong.
“Here,” Alexeia said, handing out spoons to the young women. Thankfully they were also pewter and not a conspicuous silver or something like that. “And do eat.”
Sophia took a bite. “It’s actually pretty good,” she said.
“It is,” Leo replied. “Eat more. You will need your strength.”
“Why?” Alexeia asked.
“Your timing is terrible. Apparently, Englishmen don’t consider sobriety a required virtue in a helmsman. The Theseus was in a collision and is in for repairs.”
“We can’t use it?” Maria asked.
“Not if you want to actually get away. Right now, my grandmother doing the backstroke could outrun her, and she’d be less likely to sink in the process.”
“Which is really saying something considering that she’s dead,” Andronikos added deadpan.
“Do you have another plan?” Alexeia asked. “We don’t have time to waste.”
“We can’t take a ship. A Kentarchos on his own ship is near to a god. But a Kentarchos on somebody else’s ship will draw a lot of attention, which we don’t need. We’ll have to go by land. Fortunately, Ali the Snotty owes me a favor.”
“Ali the Snotty, the man who sneezes on people and it’s supposed to be good luck?” Sophia asked. [1]
“Yes,” Leo replied.
“Why?”
“Don’t ask,” Andronikos answered.
“And if I answered, that would be telling,” Leo said.
“Right,” Sophia replied. A pause. “This place is weird.”
“That’s why we’re regulars,” Leo said. Another pause. “But we should get going. Andronikos and I are going to have to get a little familiar. We’ll walk out here, each of us with our arms around the shoulders of two of you. We’ll look like some men about to have a fun but expensive night. Men might be envious, but not suspicious.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Zoe.
“But he’s right,” Sophia said. “And if they’re too familiar, we can always have them castrated later.”
Andronikos looked at Leo. “She does have us there.”
“Yes, she does,” Leo responded. “But that’s good. It’ll make the trip more entertaining, and profitable in the end.” A pause. “Now hurry up and finish the chili.”
As they finished and started getting up, Maria asked Leo a question. “Why is this place called the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell?”
“You’re asking,” Sophia said. “And if he answered, that would be telling.”
“She’s quite right,” Leo responded. A moment. “It has to do with what’s actually the meat in the chili.”
Maria froze. “You can’t be serious.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Are you now?”
“Another ask; I’m not telling.” Another pause. “And by the way, make sure that when Ali sneezes on you, you thank him for it.”
* * *
The White Palace, Constantinople, September 28, 1661:
Anastasia Laskarina looked at herself in the mirror, and then at the maid who was steadily combing her hair, which when straight stretched down nearly to her waist. “Eudoxia,” she said. “When you’re finished here, arrange with Giorgios for another hair-dyeing appointment.” More gray was creeping back into her black hair.
From the adjacent room came some murmuring and the noise of water sloshing around. Her younger lover-sovereign, Herakleios III, was in there being washed by a couple of her male servants. It was a rule she imposed, a prerequisite he had to do before they spent the night together.
Another of her manservants entered the chamber. “Your highness,” he said and handed her an object.
“Thank you, Hektor.”
She examined what he handed her. It was a plain silver chalice, with no adornment and with one large dent in the side of the bowl, but it was intact and still usable. It had been found in the wreckage of Athena’s apartment and one of the survivors, although badly wounded, had said that a vessel like this had been next to Athena when the bomb went off.
Anastasia wasn’t sure what Athena was thinking when she did that. She’d certainly had to have been preparing that bomb for a long time. Perhaps it was simply a preference for going up in flames rather than going down in chains; Anastasia could appreciate that sentiment. But it didn’t matter. Athena was now out of the way. Sophia could be a problem since she was still at large, but she had to get away from Constantinople without getting caught first before she would be a problem.
Anastasia held the chalice in her hand as Eudoxia continued combing her hair. For a moment she considered giving it to Herakleios when he emerged from his bath. She had no claim on the chalice, while it had been his aunt’s, and then his father’s, and then his grandfather’s before him. But only for a moment. She certainly had much fancier drinking ware, but the symbolism, the chalice’s long association with the Imperial dynasty, appealed to her. She would keep it for herself.
[1] See Slimy Hüseyn from OTL Istanbul earlier in the 1600s, who claimed his snot had healing powers.
Oh, that chalice will definitely be a Cursed Object for Anastasia. I can't wait to see what happens.
Also, I know it's literally what "Sideros" means, but "House of Iron" is rad as hell.
Also, I know it's literally what "Sideros" means, but "House of Iron" is rad as hell.
That's pretty fly. To be fair is was a shower thought.
I am hoping the chalice end up in Sophia's hand, but at Anastasia's lips.
Is this a different Theseus? The original was sold to the Russian navy after helping transport Elizabeth to Narva. Or did the Romans get it back somehow?
If this is a different ship also named Theseus I feel like there's some potential for in-universe Ship of Theseus jokes among the crew.
Cryostorm
Monthly Donor
For peak hatred from future college students, Leo should name every ship he commands the Theseus.
The most fearsome of all academic debates is whether Leo's ship at a certain year is which Theseus.
"He commanded the Theseus IV in 1661, not the Theseus V!"
"But this diary says it was the Theseus V!"
"We all know they're an unreliable narrator!"
It originally started off as just a background prop, but it has become fun for me to have it as this object... Eventually someone's going to go "I have no idea where this came from, but considering its provenance, there is no way I'm keeping it around."
It will stay away from Sophia (see above).
In 1661, he is 45 years old. At this point he's still a minor figure; his rank is equivalent to Captain (naval). He has some famous, but still small-scale, exploits to his credit. This really marks the turning point where he starts becoming a big name.
The original citation is from Global Crisis: War, Climate Change, and Catastrophe in the Seventeenth Century by Geoffrey Parker, Kindle location 5173.
On a slightly different note, after reading about the wreck of the Batavia and the Lehi/Stern Gang (fascist Jews who tried to ally with the Nazis during WW2 against the British in Palestine), I decided that pretty much anything goes in alternate history, considering how crazy OTL can be at times.
It's a different Theseus to replace the one sold to the Russians. To be honest, I originally wrote the line and only afterwards remembered that it had been sold, but then just decided to keep it and use the replacement as an explanation if anyone asked.
I wonder how the Maronites are doing right now. Never really crossed my mind until now.
Almost certainly they were in a privileged position and well armed before the most recent treaty between Rome and Persia—question is, how many of them escaped the reprisals in the wake of Ibrahim’s invasions of Palestine?
Rhomania's General Crisis, Part 11.2: Ladies of the House of Iron, Part 3
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:
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.
Methinks the royal family is going to embrace absolutism after this.
Well, that's an interesting start to a new Roman Civil War. Unless Demetrios comes back to the Roman Empire, Sophia is the only person that can keep the anti-Tourmarches faction together with the death of Athena. I pray that they all survive this exchange so the Romans can be purged of these mad bureaucrats once and for all, though I suspect Alexeia could potentially die judging from this post.
I hope not. The Romans becoming just another European absolute monarchy would be a bit boring.