Indeed, I too was disappointed. Let's hope that when the update does come, it has been as good as the rest of this TL.
Orient Yourself Correctly: A Komnenian Tale
- Thread starter Kosta
- Start date
Don't play with my emotions like that 
Hope you eventually have the time to write an update.
Hope you eventually have the time to write an update.Excellent news old boy! I'm sure I'm not the only person eagerly awaiting the next update.
Kosta
Banned
Okay, so it took me a bit longer than I said it would to complete my edit. Without further ado, I present the next update. Thank you.
Finally, after six days, six long days of travel day and night, the 46 men had made their way to the gates of Nikaia. Nikaia was an impressive city, even after one has spent time in Constantinople. It had high, nigh-impregnable walls, and was on the shores of a vast, deep lake. Suleiman was smart enough to keep armed guards along the perimetre of the wall. Thank God their mission was not one of espionage, for it would be literally impossible to get into the city alive. They approached the giant, wooden gates of the city. Two masked guards met them immediately, spears pointed directly at the party. The archers along the wall watched attentively, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Surely, dozens of soldiers marching up to the gates of Nikaia in Roman dress looked like a declaration of war and commencement of hostilities.
“Dur! Sz kimsiniz? Konuş!” said the first guard. The party looked extremely puzzled. Alexios, who was leading the group, steadied Sgouritzin and began to speak. He had picked up some Turkish from his days dealing with Turkish mercenaries, but not much.
“Anlamıyorum,” Alexios managed to cough out, unsure of himself. The language of the Turks had so many suffixes, it was hard to keep them all straight.
“Rumca?” The guard said.
“Evet, evet!” Alexios said, excitedly.
“Eh, Rumca bilmiyorum.” The guard said.
The Emperor recognised the suffix at the end of what the first guard had said. It meant that the word was negative, that the guard didn’t know Greek. Alexios began to get worried.
“What did he say?” Barked the Patriarch John.
“Not now!” Alexios turned and hissed to him. John scowled fiercely. This brief argument only made the situation more tense. The Turkish guards clenched tightly on their spears, the Roman ones on their swords.
“Rumcam akıcıdır,” the second guard told the first, lowering his companion’s arm clenched so tightly onto his spear for dear life.
“What business do you have here, friend?” The guard spoke to Alexios in heavily-accented Greek.
“I have come to speak with Suleiman, son of Kutalmish.” Alexios said, with a face of stone. The air seemed charged with his presence: he had straightened up in his saddle and puffed his chest out. He looked down upon the two guardsmen with his dark eyes as he would from atop his golden throne.
Despite his change in appearance, the two guards began to laugh. They believed Alexios to be a lowly messenger sent by the Emperor. Thus, they believed this messenger to be petulant and self-important, for all messengers must go through rigorous protocol before they can seek audience with the General.
“Why do you laugh?” Alexios said, coldly.
“What makes you think a messenger boy like you can see Suleiman the General!” The guards were roaring with laughter at this point. They put their spears at their sides. The archers on the wall began to laugh, too. The mood of the situation began to lighten up.
“I am no messenger, nor am I a boy. I am Sovereign Alexios, Emperor of Rome!” At this point he threw off his black travelling-cloak to display his purple attire. He had been hiding his gold crown, bedecked with gemstones and pearls within his cloak, and in one fluid motion he placed it on his head.
The faces of the guards went pale, their jaws dropped. They raised their spears immediately. The Emperor’s guards reacted by quickly drawing their own swords or lowering their lances. The archers along the wall redrew their bows.
“Now make I seek an audience with Suleiman, son of Kutalmish?” The Emperor said.
The second guard turned towards the enormous doors of the city: the first guard was still in shock.
“Kapıları açın!” He said. At once, the enormous doors opened slowly.
Sgouritzin faithfully led her rider through the opened doors. Everyone subsequently processed in, solemnly.
“For your troubles,” Alexios said, sarcastically. He threw a gold solidus to the feet of the two doorkeepers. Both men were still in shock.
Nikaia was surprisingly much as Alexios remembered it. There were some old signs of struggle in the city; it was good to know that the city had put up some kind of fight. They passed a burned out chapel here, and an abandoned tavern there. However, as people began to notice the Imperial Purple, they began to flock outside to see their former master. Greek and Turk alike, Christian and Muslim both, began to surround the party on all sides. Alexios, man of the people that he was (despite coming from the notoriously elitist but ever-popular House Komnenos), embraced the people of the city, not discriminating between either group. After all, sometime soon, both groups of people would become his subjects, and he understood very much the necessity of growing loyalty now.
They passed by the Metropolitan’s house along the way. He heard the commotion from his study and went out onto his porch to see what was the matter. He saw a proud-looking giant of a man on a dark horse stride up, past his little gate and up towards his humble abode. What struck him about this figure was that he was wearing purple, all purple, and that perched upon his head was a glittering, gold crown. That could only mean one thing!
“Oh Sovereign, my Sovereign!” the Metropolitan Bishop called aloud. He quickly ran down the stairs of his porch, as fast as his aching bones could take him. He came up to the whinnying, bay mare. The Emperor quickly dismounted in one fluid motion. They embraced each other, and kissed each other’s hand and cheek, as was common for a member of the clergy and the Church’s chief protector.
“I’ve been in prayer all morning. Have you taken the city, Lord?” The Metropolitan asked, excitedly.
“Not yet, Bishop, not yet. I have come to speak with the usurper, Suleiman. I am here to try to convert him to the True Faith.”
At this the Metropolitan Bishop raised his eyebrows. On the one hand, he was in awe of his ruler’s faith, but on the other hand, if he did not succeed and instead only offended Suleiman, there might be reprisals for the Christian community not seen yet.
“What would you ask of me, Lord?” The Bishop asked, seeming confused.
The Emperor began to show a bit of excitement at this. “Ah, I’m glad that you asked. I have with me the Patriarch of Antioch, John. I would very much like for you to aid John in preparing to answer any questions that Suleiman might have, and give him a tour of the religious monuments of the city, such as where the Council of Nikaia were held. Can you do this for me, for your nation, and for your God?” The Emperor asked, almost patronisingly.
“I can, Lord!” The Metropolitan Bishop said, excitedly. “I will prepare my books right away for this meeting, and make a list of the city’s churches and chapels.” He gripped his staff tightly in excitation.
“Then, you are dismissed. Go back into your home and start right away,” the Emperor said, matter-of-factly.
They both exchanged bows and the Metropolitan ran back into his house. Truly, this was either going to be the greatest day of the old Bishop’s life, or the worst.
Alexios rode on. He had noticed during his conversation that guards had gathered around him and the house of the wizened Bishop. They formed a circle around him, closing in on him and his horse. Sgouritzin began to back up, in apprehension and fear. Alexios felt his hand close around the grip of his sword. He was just about to draw it when a robed man emerged from the circle of soldiers. He was in an eclectic mix of Greek and Turkish garb; he wore an oversized turban, a goldenrod tunic in the Roman style, an apple-green cloak draped around his left shoulder, and a large belt made of gilded gold that held up a gracefully-curved horseman’s sword.
“You must be the Basilias, I take it?” He asked, drolly.
The Emperor shot him an angry look. He assumed that this messenger was a eunuch— he had a high-pitched voice and was abnormally lanky in stature. Alexios was offended that such a lowly court-figure take a sarcastic tone with him, but he dared not take the law into his own hands in a land that was no longer his. He knew that he would get to Suleiman sooner than if he caused a scene and killed the eunuch for his insolence. This strange man would live—for now...
“Yes. Take me to see your master, Suleiman.” The Emperor said, coldly.
The eunuch began to laugh. “But the Sultan in Isfahan is my master, not Suleiman. The general Suleiman is simply the arbiter of the Sultan’s will, his most loyal servant. The Sultan’s word is law in this city.”
With that, Alexios began to become enraged. This self-mutilated slave was too brash for his own good. Alexios quickly unsheathed his sword, grasped the blade in his gauntleted palm, and bashed the eunuch in the cheek with the pommel of the sword. The eunuch fell to the ground. The guards that had been watching the pair did nothing.
“Take me to your leader before you feel the sting of the other end of this sword, eunuch.” Alexios growled.
The eunuch got up, brushed himself off, and began to laugh.
“Brash young man, aren’t you?” He said, unable to contain his boisterous cackling.
Alexios really became enraged at that quip; just as he was about to raise his sword against the insolent eunuch, he felt two speartips lightly touch the armpits of his extended arms. He froze in the high-guard that he had taken. In his rage, he had blinded himself to the guards who did act this time. His own soldiers, who stayed behind the Emperor closer to the house were also surrounded, their swords and lances raised, unsure as of what to do without their Emperor’s command.
“It would be wise, my Lord, for you to lower your sword slowly and follow me to the General. Please, come this way.” The circle of soldiers immediately broke. The eunuch, using an embroidered kerchief to stop the bleeding, began to walk forward, defiantly facing his back to the Emperor. He clucked Sgouritzin on and squeezed her chest with his legs. She followed the colourful courtier forward, slowly and in a dignified gate. Alexios and his steed marched forward, into an uncertain future.
“Something wicked this way comes...” he muttered to himself.
The courtier led him through the city. The turbaned and veiled heads of Greek, Turkish, and Jewish citizens emerged from the doorways and the windows of the city. After what felt like a silent eternity, he made it to the old governor’s house. At this he began to wonder what fate the Governor of the city suffered. Did he die honourably defending the city? Was he caught by the Turks?
“If the Sovereign would like to dismount now...” The eunuch said. Alexios didn’t trust this man with his horse, but he dismounted, regardless, trying to kick the eunuch with his foot and he swung off the saddle. The eunuch dodged effortlessly. The eunuch took the reins of Sgouritzin: she began to get worried, uncertain about who this man was and why her best friend was allowing him to grab hold of her. She began to buck her head in fear and whinny. The eunuch held the reins tightly, not flinching and not letting go.
“Give me a moment, slave.” Alexios said, bluntly, in his typical fashion. He shoved the eunuch away and took the reins. He put his head up to his horse’s, taking off his crown and putting his head to hers, careful to make sure that he avoided the blindspot of her long muzzle so that she could see him.
“I raised you from a colt, Sgouritzin mou [1]. I remember the day you left your mother at the farm outside of Pera. You were so afraid of me and of leaving your mother, and I was afraid of you. But eventually, my Father had been around horses his entire life and he left me and you in the barn. I don’t how long we were left in there together, but I remember eventually you went up to me and put your fuzzy head onto my shoulder and tried to fall asleep. I grabbed you so tightly, and I haven’t let go since. I have to leave you now, in uncertain hands, for God knows how long. I might not come back to you, and you might not come back to me. I have to do God’s work here, but I’m scared. Be good for the eunuch and remember me if I don’t come back.” At this the Emperor’s heart of stone melted. His eyes welled up, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. Likewise, the eunuch, who had ventured far away, also shed a tear when he heard the young Emperor address his companion. He felt a surge of respect for this Emperor. He had served him and the Governor in Nicea for years, but when it became clear that help wasn’t coming from Constantinople and when the Turks offered him a handsome reward for translating for Suleiman, he accepted the offer to convert to Islam and serve the Turks in his hometown. When it became clear that the petulant Alexios did not recognise him despite meeting him numerous times on military campaigns in the area, anger welled up inside him. Any shred of hope and respect he held for his former ruler was burned off in the fires of rage within in. But now, the hope he once held so strongly days after the siege ended returned in a cool feeling that enveloped his body.
Sgouritzin, hearing the calming voice of her master, pulled her ears back and lowered her head [2]. The eunuch took her bridle and led her away to the stables of the Governor’s mansion.
“Θεός μαζί σας, Βασιλιά.” [3] The eunuch said, solemnly, as he turned the dark-bay mare around towards the mansion’s back courtyard. At this the Emperor cocked his head to take a look at the eunuch.
“Παὐλε;” [4] he called back.
The eunuch began to cry silently as he lead the Emperor’s horse to rest at the stables. There was hope for his people, both old and new, and he felt it. After he brought the obedient horse to her temporary stall, he walked to the small chapel nearby and lit a candle for the fate of the City.
Finally, the Emperor was where he needed to be. He met by several servants who quickly took his rider’s cloak away and led him up to the top floor of the mansion, that overlooked the walls of the city and to the shores of the pristine lake beyond.
As he made his way up the cream-coloured limestone steps. He remembered that on the roof of the palace, there was a small area for entertaining guests. He saw a dark, burgundy, awning was pitched on the roof to shade the two men. There were chairs assembled within the unenclosed tent, and a small table in the centre. And there, facing the small spiralled tower that opened up onto the roof, was the greying but powerful Suleiman ibn Kutalmish, waiting for the young Emperor to arrive.
The Emperor Alexios walked over to the empty, wicker couch strewn with purple cushions.
“Pillows fit for a king,” Alexios thought to himself.
“Come, please, sit down, you must be tired. Eat, have some wine, even.” The Turkish general’s eyes had lit up as he bade the Emperor to sit down. He did not refer to him as a proper general should; there was no “Lord” or “King” attached, nor did he use the correct tense to refer to his better formally. Outraged and eyes flashing with hatred, Alexios sat down, unceremoniously plopping himself down onto the wicker couch. As it would be rude to not accept food and drink from even his arch-enemies, Alexios ate begrudgingly. Before he picked up a small clay pot filled with tiny, black olives, he mockingly asked his adversary why he, as a Mohammedan, was drinking wine. Suleiman looked at him and gave him a wry smirk.
“Oὐ τὸ εἰσερχόμενον εἰς τὸ στόμα κοινοῖ τὸν ἄνθρωπον, ἀλλὰ τὸ ἐκπορευόμενον ἐκ τοῦ στόματος τοῦτο κοινοῖ τὸν ἄνθρωπον.” “It is not what goes into the defiles a man, but what comes out of the mouth that defiles him.” He was quoting the words of the Apostle Matthew in the original Greek to prove his point. Alexios at this point had turned a shade of red that nearly matched his tunic—how dare an Arianesque nonbeliever quote the Word of the Lord at him as a sarcastic quip. He was speechless with rage, but he held his tongue. He had one objective, and he could not afford to let his temper compromise his mission and destroy everything that he had been building. His entire empire hinged on this one moment, this very moment, and losing was not an option.
The General put his feet up onto the table, displaying his crimson leather boots caked in dust with pride. He had taken them from the slain governor of the city, and there was no doubt that Alexios would recognise this. At this Alexios could feel his handle instinctively go for the small knife hidden underneath his cloak. He could end this right now by leaping across the table and slitting the throat of the Turk, and he could attempt to take the city from within with him, his men, and his loyal subjects. But no, he couldn’t possibly hope to win that way. Instead, he would play it cool. He spat the pit of the olive he was eating right onto the shoes perched atop the table, looking Suleiman squarely in the eye. Suleiman simpered and merely twitched his foot, letting the tiny olive pit fall to the ground. No doubt his message made it across to the young emperor.
“Why are you here?” He asked the Emperor frankly.
“I am here to discuss peace with you,” Alexios said matter-of-factly.
At this the general laughed. “Peace, you say? And how do you propose to make peace?”
“I propose to make peace by bringing you to the true faith and by combining my army with your army of Turks. With our joined might, we might subdue the entire enjoining region. You will have access to our own resources, and together we can take the resources of the Franks, the Bulgars, and the Persians themselves!” At this point, Alexios’ demeanor seemed to change. His anger and apprehension had melted away into passion and hope; energy seemed to be crackling from his fingers, fire seemed to be alight in his eyes.
But then his inner fire was extinguished. Suleiman ibn-Kutalmish began to laugh uncontrollably. Yet, on the inside, he knew that this young upstart before him might have a point. All of the upheaval in Anatolia left a people too poor too take from. If order could be restored at the hands of himself and his men, he could benefit more from Roman coffers paying for the salaries of regular soldiers and from the rich lands to the west that had yet to have been raided. Despite seeing the truth in that statement, he had to test this inexperienced leader before him; just how far exactly was he willing to go to win over the loyalty of Suleiman and his people?
“Why do you laugh?” Alexios asked, dumbfounded.
“You think by converting me to your religon, that you could heal your broken Empire and heal a rift between we Turks and you Romans? What makes you think we want a burned husk to settle on? Anatolia is worthless, we have taken all that it had. What makes this burnt shell worth fighting for?” Suleiman knew this to be a blatant lie, but everything was going according to plan. The inner fire of passion he had just seen in the young emperor before him had returned.
“My people have seen worse than the likes of you. Rome has survived hordes of Celts, Germans, Avars, Huns, Slavs, Pechenegs, Magyars, Cumans, and Kypchaks, and has fought with the Empires of the Phoenicians, Egyptians, Persians, and Arabs. What makes you bold enough to say that you and your nomads have taken all there is from such an ancient and noble land? We have seen worse than the likes of you and we will survive you barbarians just as we have survived the combined might of the Avars and Persians pounding on our door!” [5]
At this point, Alexios was panting loudly. He had put all of his effort into that small speech, every once of mental strength that he had. The fire within him was causing him to heat up: his face was a remarkable scarlet and he was sweating. The General was impressed. He sat there, saying nothing, eyeing the out of breath orator.
The Emperor continued. “You know the Scriptures of our Lord—you must be a learned man, General.”
“Are they the words of your Christ, I thought that only four men had written them decades, if not a century later. Certainly the Holy Quran makes no mentionings of the Prophet Isa ever getting around to writing any books,” he said as he took another sip of his wine. The Emperor gave a weak smile. At the moment, his mind was abuzz with everything he could counter with. He began frantically searching the archives of his mind for everything he had read on the Arians, their successor the Mahomedans, the unitarian Jews, the gnostics, the Judaizers, every single heretical he knew about.
“Perhaps you’re being too modest when you call the Risen Christ only a prophet. Certainly the ancient Book of the Old Covenant makes mentioning of the Godhead and that there will be God’s Son on Earth in the future.” The Emperor countered.
Suleiman smirked. “And yet, the Jews, who have read your old Scriptures for thousands of years, never came to a consensus as to whom the Messiah would be. Did not many Jews deny Isa as the Saviour?”
Alexios tensed, his mind running as fast as it could to keep up. “The Jews of Arabia also did not accept Muhammad as the last Prophet, and your people say the same thing, that Muhammad is the successor to Moses. I believe that your current question is irrelevant.”
Suleiman looked impressed. He could tell that the young boy had done his research. “Fair enough.” Now it was Suleiman whose mind raced to think of a new question. He wasn’t a man particularly well-versed in the Quran, but he was a clever one.
Alexios cleared his throat. “Your faith, the faith of Muhammad, it appears to be a faith only for the Arabs. Your holy book may only be written in Arabic, your priests must commune in Arabic, your children must learn to recite your scriptures in Arabic. You are subservient to the Arab, it would appear.” At this point, it was Alexios who was smirking. He seemed to think in his mind that he had delivered a blow to his opponent, but his opponent’s argument was far from over.
“And you Christians seem to be subservient to the Greeks, it would appear. You yourself have persecuted the Slavs and tried to take away their tongue from them and replace it with Greek, for they have told me so. I have passed Slavic villages during my march through Anatolia; they were happy to see me free them from the Roman yoke and some of their men even converted to Islam and joined me on my journey. Certainly they haven't exchanged one master for another, as you think, have they? Perhaps you were their jailor and Islam their liberator?” The General looked genuinely quizzical, unsure of what Alexios’ next move would be.
Alexios was still sweating, but this time he was sweating out of nervousness. Who could he pin the blame on for this? “The actions of some of my generals and administrators run contrary to the freedom for all peoples on God’s earth to worship in their own tongue and in their own way. ‘For after all, there is no Jew nor Greek, no slave nor free, no male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus,’ to quote the Epistle of Saint Paul to the Galatians. And if I may continue, Saints Kyrillos and Methodios once told a Latin bishop who said that the faith could only be preached in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew 'If God sends sunlight, air and rain to all the peoples, this testifies that He loves all people in the same way. Why do you think then that God wants to be praised only in the languages of three peoples'?”
Suleiman rose his finger and began to speak before Alexios quickly cut him off.
“We can translate the liturgy into your language, and our the Gospels and Scriptures, too, so that your people may understand them. The word of God is love, and I simply want to share his love with you all so that we may attain glory in this world before the next. Will you accept me, then, Suleiman, son of Kutalmish, and my Christ?”
Suleiman was stunned. This man clearly had wisdom beyond his years, and was quite a force to be reckoned with. He just might be able to lead the Turkish people to something better. He began to pour the fifth carafe of wine for him and his guest. Their debate had gone on for several hours, as now the sun was preparing to set. An uneasy deadlock had been reached in their debates, and now each opponent would need to depend on more than just words to defend his case and win against the other.
Suleiman felt a great apprehension stirring within him. Could Suleiman really discard what Alexios had promised? He was distrusted by those in Isfahan, for being too soft on the Romans, and was already accused of being a Roman agent by those within court that had the Sultan’s ear. When he gave up all of this warfare and bloodshed, could he really return to the capital and live out the remainder of his days in peace? But treason was more than his old heart could handle. What was his soul worth? Was it worth his own safety and prosperity? Was it worth the safety and prosperity of his people?
“It seems as if now is a good place to stop for the evening, my Lord,” Suleiman said to Alexios as he began to finish his last glass of wine. "I have already taken the liberty of preparing you a bed in the mansion of the former Governor. Your men likewise will be provided for. I bid you a goodnight,” he said, curtly.
“I thank you for your offer. However, I think that first I will meet the Metropolitan Bishop of the city for vespers this evening. I have a lot of thinking to do, you see. Goodnight, General, son of Kutalmish.”
“So do I,” Suleiman thought as he began to swirl the last remnants of wine around in his glass pensively, “so do I.”
[2] When a horse pulls its ears back, it means that it senses danger and is scared. That can be dangerous for anyone around, as horses can be quite flighty. In this situation, Sgouritzin realises that there's a very real chance that she and her master are being led into an unknown situation, which could spell doom for both of them.
[3] "God be with you" is a common way of saying goodbye to someone in Greek before a journey is about to begin.
[4] That's just the Greek word for "Paul."
[5] He is alluding to the Siege of Constantinople during the year 626 when Avars along with their Sassanid Persians and Slavic auxiliaries nearly broke through Constantinople's defences and conquered the city. Truly, this was the Empire's darkest days up to this very moment.
Saturday, 1st of May, 1081, the city gates of Nikaia, along the shores of Lake Askanios
Finally, after six days, six long days of travel day and night, the 46 men had made their way to the gates of Nikaia. Nikaia was an impressive city, even after one has spent time in Constantinople. It had high, nigh-impregnable walls, and was on the shores of a vast, deep lake. Suleiman was smart enough to keep armed guards along the perimetre of the wall. Thank God their mission was not one of espionage, for it would be literally impossible to get into the city alive. They approached the giant, wooden gates of the city. Two masked guards met them immediately, spears pointed directly at the party. The archers along the wall watched attentively, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Surely, dozens of soldiers marching up to the gates of Nikaia in Roman dress looked like a declaration of war and commencement of hostilities.
“Dur! Sz kimsiniz? Konuş!” said the first guard. The party looked extremely puzzled. Alexios, who was leading the group, steadied Sgouritzin and began to speak. He had picked up some Turkish from his days dealing with Turkish mercenaries, but not much.
“Anlamıyorum,” Alexios managed to cough out, unsure of himself. The language of the Turks had so many suffixes, it was hard to keep them all straight.
“Rumca?” The guard said.
“Evet, evet!” Alexios said, excitedly.
“Eh, Rumca bilmiyorum.” The guard said.
The Emperor recognised the suffix at the end of what the first guard had said. It meant that the word was negative, that the guard didn’t know Greek. Alexios began to get worried.
“What did he say?” Barked the Patriarch John.
“Not now!” Alexios turned and hissed to him. John scowled fiercely. This brief argument only made the situation more tense. The Turkish guards clenched tightly on their spears, the Roman ones on their swords.
“Rumcam akıcıdır,” the second guard told the first, lowering his companion’s arm clenched so tightly onto his spear for dear life.
“What business do you have here, friend?” The guard spoke to Alexios in heavily-accented Greek.
“I have come to speak with Suleiman, son of Kutalmish.” Alexios said, with a face of stone. The air seemed charged with his presence: he had straightened up in his saddle and puffed his chest out. He looked down upon the two guardsmen with his dark eyes as he would from atop his golden throne.
Despite his change in appearance, the two guards began to laugh. They believed Alexios to be a lowly messenger sent by the Emperor. Thus, they believed this messenger to be petulant and self-important, for all messengers must go through rigorous protocol before they can seek audience with the General.
“Why do you laugh?” Alexios said, coldly.
“What makes you think a messenger boy like you can see Suleiman the General!” The guards were roaring with laughter at this point. They put their spears at their sides. The archers on the wall began to laugh, too. The mood of the situation began to lighten up.
“I am no messenger, nor am I a boy. I am Sovereign Alexios, Emperor of Rome!” At this point he threw off his black travelling-cloak to display his purple attire. He had been hiding his gold crown, bedecked with gemstones and pearls within his cloak, and in one fluid motion he placed it on his head.
The faces of the guards went pale, their jaws dropped. They raised their spears immediately. The Emperor’s guards reacted by quickly drawing their own swords or lowering their lances. The archers along the wall redrew their bows.
“Now make I seek an audience with Suleiman, son of Kutalmish?” The Emperor said.
The second guard turned towards the enormous doors of the city: the first guard was still in shock.
“Kapıları açın!” He said. At once, the enormous doors opened slowly.
Sgouritzin faithfully led her rider through the opened doors. Everyone subsequently processed in, solemnly.
“For your troubles,” Alexios said, sarcastically. He threw a gold solidus to the feet of the two doorkeepers. Both men were still in shock.
Nikaia was surprisingly much as Alexios remembered it. There were some old signs of struggle in the city; it was good to know that the city had put up some kind of fight. They passed a burned out chapel here, and an abandoned tavern there. However, as people began to notice the Imperial Purple, they began to flock outside to see their former master. Greek and Turk alike, Christian and Muslim both, began to surround the party on all sides. Alexios, man of the people that he was (despite coming from the notoriously elitist but ever-popular House Komnenos), embraced the people of the city, not discriminating between either group. After all, sometime soon, both groups of people would become his subjects, and he understood very much the necessity of growing loyalty now.
They passed by the Metropolitan’s house along the way. He heard the commotion from his study and went out onto his porch to see what was the matter. He saw a proud-looking giant of a man on a dark horse stride up, past his little gate and up towards his humble abode. What struck him about this figure was that he was wearing purple, all purple, and that perched upon his head was a glittering, gold crown. That could only mean one thing!
“Oh Sovereign, my Sovereign!” the Metropolitan Bishop called aloud. He quickly ran down the stairs of his porch, as fast as his aching bones could take him. He came up to the whinnying, bay mare. The Emperor quickly dismounted in one fluid motion. They embraced each other, and kissed each other’s hand and cheek, as was common for a member of the clergy and the Church’s chief protector.
“I’ve been in prayer all morning. Have you taken the city, Lord?” The Metropolitan asked, excitedly.
“Not yet, Bishop, not yet. I have come to speak with the usurper, Suleiman. I am here to try to convert him to the True Faith.”
At this the Metropolitan Bishop raised his eyebrows. On the one hand, he was in awe of his ruler’s faith, but on the other hand, if he did not succeed and instead only offended Suleiman, there might be reprisals for the Christian community not seen yet.
“What would you ask of me, Lord?” The Bishop asked, seeming confused.
The Emperor began to show a bit of excitement at this. “Ah, I’m glad that you asked. I have with me the Patriarch of Antioch, John. I would very much like for you to aid John in preparing to answer any questions that Suleiman might have, and give him a tour of the religious monuments of the city, such as where the Council of Nikaia were held. Can you do this for me, for your nation, and for your God?” The Emperor asked, almost patronisingly.
“I can, Lord!” The Metropolitan Bishop said, excitedly. “I will prepare my books right away for this meeting, and make a list of the city’s churches and chapels.” He gripped his staff tightly in excitation.
“Then, you are dismissed. Go back into your home and start right away,” the Emperor said, matter-of-factly.
They both exchanged bows and the Metropolitan ran back into his house. Truly, this was either going to be the greatest day of the old Bishop’s life, or the worst.
Alexios rode on. He had noticed during his conversation that guards had gathered around him and the house of the wizened Bishop. They formed a circle around him, closing in on him and his horse. Sgouritzin began to back up, in apprehension and fear. Alexios felt his hand close around the grip of his sword. He was just about to draw it when a robed man emerged from the circle of soldiers. He was in an eclectic mix of Greek and Turkish garb; he wore an oversized turban, a goldenrod tunic in the Roman style, an apple-green cloak draped around his left shoulder, and a large belt made of gilded gold that held up a gracefully-curved horseman’s sword.
“You must be the Basilias, I take it?” He asked, drolly.
The Emperor shot him an angry look. He assumed that this messenger was a eunuch— he had a high-pitched voice and was abnormally lanky in stature. Alexios was offended that such a lowly court-figure take a sarcastic tone with him, but he dared not take the law into his own hands in a land that was no longer his. He knew that he would get to Suleiman sooner than if he caused a scene and killed the eunuch for his insolence. This strange man would live—for now...
“Yes. Take me to see your master, Suleiman.” The Emperor said, coldly.
The eunuch began to laugh. “But the Sultan in Isfahan is my master, not Suleiman. The general Suleiman is simply the arbiter of the Sultan’s will, his most loyal servant. The Sultan’s word is law in this city.”
With that, Alexios began to become enraged. This self-mutilated slave was too brash for his own good. Alexios quickly unsheathed his sword, grasped the blade in his gauntleted palm, and bashed the eunuch in the cheek with the pommel of the sword. The eunuch fell to the ground. The guards that had been watching the pair did nothing.
“Take me to your leader before you feel the sting of the other end of this sword, eunuch.” Alexios growled.
The eunuch got up, brushed himself off, and began to laugh.
“Brash young man, aren’t you?” He said, unable to contain his boisterous cackling.
Alexios really became enraged at that quip; just as he was about to raise his sword against the insolent eunuch, he felt two speartips lightly touch the armpits of his extended arms. He froze in the high-guard that he had taken. In his rage, he had blinded himself to the guards who did act this time. His own soldiers, who stayed behind the Emperor closer to the house were also surrounded, their swords and lances raised, unsure as of what to do without their Emperor’s command.
“It would be wise, my Lord, for you to lower your sword slowly and follow me to the General. Please, come this way.” The circle of soldiers immediately broke. The eunuch, using an embroidered kerchief to stop the bleeding, began to walk forward, defiantly facing his back to the Emperor. He clucked Sgouritzin on and squeezed her chest with his legs. She followed the colourful courtier forward, slowly and in a dignified gate. Alexios and his steed marched forward, into an uncertain future.
“Something wicked this way comes...” he muttered to himself.
The courtier led him through the city. The turbaned and veiled heads of Greek, Turkish, and Jewish citizens emerged from the doorways and the windows of the city. After what felt like a silent eternity, he made it to the old governor’s house. At this he began to wonder what fate the Governor of the city suffered. Did he die honourably defending the city? Was he caught by the Turks?
“If the Sovereign would like to dismount now...” The eunuch said. Alexios didn’t trust this man with his horse, but he dismounted, regardless, trying to kick the eunuch with his foot and he swung off the saddle. The eunuch dodged effortlessly. The eunuch took the reins of Sgouritzin: she began to get worried, uncertain about who this man was and why her best friend was allowing him to grab hold of her. She began to buck her head in fear and whinny. The eunuch held the reins tightly, not flinching and not letting go.
“Give me a moment, slave.” Alexios said, bluntly, in his typical fashion. He shoved the eunuch away and took the reins. He put his head up to his horse’s, taking off his crown and putting his head to hers, careful to make sure that he avoided the blindspot of her long muzzle so that she could see him.
“I raised you from a colt, Sgouritzin mou [1]. I remember the day you left your mother at the farm outside of Pera. You were so afraid of me and of leaving your mother, and I was afraid of you. But eventually, my Father had been around horses his entire life and he left me and you in the barn. I don’t how long we were left in there together, but I remember eventually you went up to me and put your fuzzy head onto my shoulder and tried to fall asleep. I grabbed you so tightly, and I haven’t let go since. I have to leave you now, in uncertain hands, for God knows how long. I might not come back to you, and you might not come back to me. I have to do God’s work here, but I’m scared. Be good for the eunuch and remember me if I don’t come back.” At this the Emperor’s heart of stone melted. His eyes welled up, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. Likewise, the eunuch, who had ventured far away, also shed a tear when he heard the young Emperor address his companion. He felt a surge of respect for this Emperor. He had served him and the Governor in Nicea for years, but when it became clear that help wasn’t coming from Constantinople and when the Turks offered him a handsome reward for translating for Suleiman, he accepted the offer to convert to Islam and serve the Turks in his hometown. When it became clear that the petulant Alexios did not recognise him despite meeting him numerous times on military campaigns in the area, anger welled up inside him. Any shred of hope and respect he held for his former ruler was burned off in the fires of rage within in. But now, the hope he once held so strongly days after the siege ended returned in a cool feeling that enveloped his body.
Sgouritzin, hearing the calming voice of her master, pulled her ears back and lowered her head [2]. The eunuch took her bridle and led her away to the stables of the Governor’s mansion.
“Θεός μαζί σας, Βασιλιά.” [3] The eunuch said, solemnly, as he turned the dark-bay mare around towards the mansion’s back courtyard. At this the Emperor cocked his head to take a look at the eunuch.
“Παὐλε;” [4] he called back.
The eunuch began to cry silently as he lead the Emperor’s horse to rest at the stables. There was hope for his people, both old and new, and he felt it. After he brought the obedient horse to her temporary stall, he walked to the small chapel nearby and lit a candle for the fate of the City.
Finally, the Emperor was where he needed to be. He met by several servants who quickly took his rider’s cloak away and led him up to the top floor of the mansion, that overlooked the walls of the city and to the shores of the pristine lake beyond.
As he made his way up the cream-coloured limestone steps. He remembered that on the roof of the palace, there was a small area for entertaining guests. He saw a dark, burgundy, awning was pitched on the roof to shade the two men. There were chairs assembled within the unenclosed tent, and a small table in the centre. And there, facing the small spiralled tower that opened up onto the roof, was the greying but powerful Suleiman ibn Kutalmish, waiting for the young Emperor to arrive.
The Emperor Alexios walked over to the empty, wicker couch strewn with purple cushions.
“Pillows fit for a king,” Alexios thought to himself.
“Come, please, sit down, you must be tired. Eat, have some wine, even.” The Turkish general’s eyes had lit up as he bade the Emperor to sit down. He did not refer to him as a proper general should; there was no “Lord” or “King” attached, nor did he use the correct tense to refer to his better formally. Outraged and eyes flashing with hatred, Alexios sat down, unceremoniously plopping himself down onto the wicker couch. As it would be rude to not accept food and drink from even his arch-enemies, Alexios ate begrudgingly. Before he picked up a small clay pot filled with tiny, black olives, he mockingly asked his adversary why he, as a Mohammedan, was drinking wine. Suleiman looked at him and gave him a wry smirk.
“Oὐ τὸ εἰσερχόμενον εἰς τὸ στόμα κοινοῖ τὸν ἄνθρωπον, ἀλλὰ τὸ ἐκπορευόμενον ἐκ τοῦ στόματος τοῦτο κοινοῖ τὸν ἄνθρωπον.” “It is not what goes into the defiles a man, but what comes out of the mouth that defiles him.” He was quoting the words of the Apostle Matthew in the original Greek to prove his point. Alexios at this point had turned a shade of red that nearly matched his tunic—how dare an Arianesque nonbeliever quote the Word of the Lord at him as a sarcastic quip. He was speechless with rage, but he held his tongue. He had one objective, and he could not afford to let his temper compromise his mission and destroy everything that he had been building. His entire empire hinged on this one moment, this very moment, and losing was not an option.
The General put his feet up onto the table, displaying his crimson leather boots caked in dust with pride. He had taken them from the slain governor of the city, and there was no doubt that Alexios would recognise this. At this Alexios could feel his handle instinctively go for the small knife hidden underneath his cloak. He could end this right now by leaping across the table and slitting the throat of the Turk, and he could attempt to take the city from within with him, his men, and his loyal subjects. But no, he couldn’t possibly hope to win that way. Instead, he would play it cool. He spat the pit of the olive he was eating right onto the shoes perched atop the table, looking Suleiman squarely in the eye. Suleiman simpered and merely twitched his foot, letting the tiny olive pit fall to the ground. No doubt his message made it across to the young emperor.
“Why are you here?” He asked the Emperor frankly.
“I am here to discuss peace with you,” Alexios said matter-of-factly.
At this the general laughed. “Peace, you say? And how do you propose to make peace?”
“I propose to make peace by bringing you to the true faith and by combining my army with your army of Turks. With our joined might, we might subdue the entire enjoining region. You will have access to our own resources, and together we can take the resources of the Franks, the Bulgars, and the Persians themselves!” At this point, Alexios’ demeanor seemed to change. His anger and apprehension had melted away into passion and hope; energy seemed to be crackling from his fingers, fire seemed to be alight in his eyes.
But then his inner fire was extinguished. Suleiman ibn-Kutalmish began to laugh uncontrollably. Yet, on the inside, he knew that this young upstart before him might have a point. All of the upheaval in Anatolia left a people too poor too take from. If order could be restored at the hands of himself and his men, he could benefit more from Roman coffers paying for the salaries of regular soldiers and from the rich lands to the west that had yet to have been raided. Despite seeing the truth in that statement, he had to test this inexperienced leader before him; just how far exactly was he willing to go to win over the loyalty of Suleiman and his people?
“Why do you laugh?” Alexios asked, dumbfounded.
“You think by converting me to your religon, that you could heal your broken Empire and heal a rift between we Turks and you Romans? What makes you think we want a burned husk to settle on? Anatolia is worthless, we have taken all that it had. What makes this burnt shell worth fighting for?” Suleiman knew this to be a blatant lie, but everything was going according to plan. The inner fire of passion he had just seen in the young emperor before him had returned.
“My people have seen worse than the likes of you. Rome has survived hordes of Celts, Germans, Avars, Huns, Slavs, Pechenegs, Magyars, Cumans, and Kypchaks, and has fought with the Empires of the Phoenicians, Egyptians, Persians, and Arabs. What makes you bold enough to say that you and your nomads have taken all there is from such an ancient and noble land? We have seen worse than the likes of you and we will survive you barbarians just as we have survived the combined might of the Avars and Persians pounding on our door!” [5]
At this point, Alexios was panting loudly. He had put all of his effort into that small speech, every once of mental strength that he had. The fire within him was causing him to heat up: his face was a remarkable scarlet and he was sweating. The General was impressed. He sat there, saying nothing, eyeing the out of breath orator.
The Emperor continued. “You know the Scriptures of our Lord—you must be a learned man, General.”
“Are they the words of your Christ, I thought that only four men had written them decades, if not a century later. Certainly the Holy Quran makes no mentionings of the Prophet Isa ever getting around to writing any books,” he said as he took another sip of his wine. The Emperor gave a weak smile. At the moment, his mind was abuzz with everything he could counter with. He began frantically searching the archives of his mind for everything he had read on the Arians, their successor the Mahomedans, the unitarian Jews, the gnostics, the Judaizers, every single heretical he knew about.
“Perhaps you’re being too modest when you call the Risen Christ only a prophet. Certainly the ancient Book of the Old Covenant makes mentioning of the Godhead and that there will be God’s Son on Earth in the future.” The Emperor countered.
Suleiman smirked. “And yet, the Jews, who have read your old Scriptures for thousands of years, never came to a consensus as to whom the Messiah would be. Did not many Jews deny Isa as the Saviour?”
Alexios tensed, his mind running as fast as it could to keep up. “The Jews of Arabia also did not accept Muhammad as the last Prophet, and your people say the same thing, that Muhammad is the successor to Moses. I believe that your current question is irrelevant.”
Suleiman looked impressed. He could tell that the young boy had done his research. “Fair enough.” Now it was Suleiman whose mind raced to think of a new question. He wasn’t a man particularly well-versed in the Quran, but he was a clever one.
Alexios cleared his throat. “Your faith, the faith of Muhammad, it appears to be a faith only for the Arabs. Your holy book may only be written in Arabic, your priests must commune in Arabic, your children must learn to recite your scriptures in Arabic. You are subservient to the Arab, it would appear.” At this point, it was Alexios who was smirking. He seemed to think in his mind that he had delivered a blow to his opponent, but his opponent’s argument was far from over.
“And you Christians seem to be subservient to the Greeks, it would appear. You yourself have persecuted the Slavs and tried to take away their tongue from them and replace it with Greek, for they have told me so. I have passed Slavic villages during my march through Anatolia; they were happy to see me free them from the Roman yoke and some of their men even converted to Islam and joined me on my journey. Certainly they haven't exchanged one master for another, as you think, have they? Perhaps you were their jailor and Islam their liberator?” The General looked genuinely quizzical, unsure of what Alexios’ next move would be.
Alexios was still sweating, but this time he was sweating out of nervousness. Who could he pin the blame on for this? “The actions of some of my generals and administrators run contrary to the freedom for all peoples on God’s earth to worship in their own tongue and in their own way. ‘For after all, there is no Jew nor Greek, no slave nor free, no male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus,’ to quote the Epistle of Saint Paul to the Galatians. And if I may continue, Saints Kyrillos and Methodios once told a Latin bishop who said that the faith could only be preached in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew 'If God sends sunlight, air and rain to all the peoples, this testifies that He loves all people in the same way. Why do you think then that God wants to be praised only in the languages of three peoples'?”
Suleiman rose his finger and began to speak before Alexios quickly cut him off.
“We can translate the liturgy into your language, and our the Gospels and Scriptures, too, so that your people may understand them. The word of God is love, and I simply want to share his love with you all so that we may attain glory in this world before the next. Will you accept me, then, Suleiman, son of Kutalmish, and my Christ?”
Suleiman was stunned. This man clearly had wisdom beyond his years, and was quite a force to be reckoned with. He just might be able to lead the Turkish people to something better. He began to pour the fifth carafe of wine for him and his guest. Their debate had gone on for several hours, as now the sun was preparing to set. An uneasy deadlock had been reached in their debates, and now each opponent would need to depend on more than just words to defend his case and win against the other.
Suleiman felt a great apprehension stirring within him. Could Suleiman really discard what Alexios had promised? He was distrusted by those in Isfahan, for being too soft on the Romans, and was already accused of being a Roman agent by those within court that had the Sultan’s ear. When he gave up all of this warfare and bloodshed, could he really return to the capital and live out the remainder of his days in peace? But treason was more than his old heart could handle. What was his soul worth? Was it worth his own safety and prosperity? Was it worth the safety and prosperity of his people?
“It seems as if now is a good place to stop for the evening, my Lord,” Suleiman said to Alexios as he began to finish his last glass of wine. "I have already taken the liberty of preparing you a bed in the mansion of the former Governor. Your men likewise will be provided for. I bid you a goodnight,” he said, curtly.
“I thank you for your offer. However, I think that first I will meet the Metropolitan Bishop of the city for vespers this evening. I have a lot of thinking to do, you see. Goodnight, General, son of Kutalmish.”
“So do I,” Suleiman thought as he began to swirl the last remnants of wine around in his glass pensively, “so do I.”
__________________________
[1] That means "my Sgouritzin."[2] When a horse pulls its ears back, it means that it senses danger and is scared. That can be dangerous for anyone around, as horses can be quite flighty. In this situation, Sgouritzin realises that there's a very real chance that she and her master are being led into an unknown situation, which could spell doom for both of them.
[3] "God be with you" is a common way of saying goodbye to someone in Greek before a journey is about to begin.
[4] That's just the Greek word for "Paul."
[5] He is alluding to the Siege of Constantinople during the year 626 when Avars along with their Sassanid Persians and Slavic auxiliaries nearly broke through Constantinople's defences and conquered the city. Truly, this was the Empire's darkest days up to this very moment.
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It is finally here! Suleiman is not the Sultan? There is some ambiguity, I'm pretty sure he isnt.
Subordinate to the Great Seljuks based in Iran I would guess.
I have to congratulate you on the great update. You've actually manage to put a lot of flesh on the bones of Alexios, portraying him as someone well aware and rather proud of his royalty sometimes even to the point of foolishness, yet wise and well-learned as well. Suleiman appears to be quite an interesting character as well, though it does appear that his possible conversion will be more the result of political considerations than acceptance in his heart of the one true s savoir, but I guess that will be good enough for the Byzantines.
Kosta
Banned
Thank you, old boy. I better get to work on the next day now!
My good friend Nassir has answered the question perfectly—he is subordinate to the Sultan in Isfahan, and the position of the Sultan of Rûm hasn't been set up yet. The eunuch Paul also mentioned something similar when he first met Alexios (who bullrushed into the situation without proper research), that this man is not the Sultan, but only his most loyal general.
Thank you for your kind words, mate. I found it to be a bit rushed, especially the debate part. Everything up until Alexios judging the colour of the pillows was written in late August, with a few sentences after that being written and subsequently re-edited throughout September to November, and the most important bits being written only last night. It's very hard for me to write something, come back to it, and remember where I was going with it, and I bet that that reflects in my writing.
Subordinate to the Great Seljuks based in Iran I would guess.
I have to congratulate you on the great update. You've actually manage to put a lot of flesh on the bones of Alexios, portraying him as someone well aware and rather proud of his royalty sometimes even to the point of foolishness, yet wise and well-learned as well. Suleiman appears to be quite an interesting character as well, though it does appear that his possible conversion will be more the result of political considerations than acceptance in his heart of the one true s savoir, but I guess that will be good enough for the Byzantines.
This means a lot coming from the man with one of AH.Com's most popular stories! Shukran, old boy, shukran jazilan!
I've been treading lightly with this update. On the one hand, yes, the entire point of this is for a famous Seljuk general to convert to Christianity and set certain events into motion that benefit the Empire. That much is not a surprise and is not a spoiler. But on the other hand, it'd be blatantly biased of me to write about how Suleiman just fawns over Alexios and his new religion and move on. I'm writing an alternate-historical tale here, not religious propaganda. I want to offend neither my Muslim nor my Christian readers, so there's a fine line I need to not cross. Professor Haberl (known here as Leo Caesius) helped me write the dialogue by giving me what an Orthodox Christian perspective would be on Islam, and how to work it into the debate. I've made it clear before, I believe, that this is certainly not an Islam-screw, it's just that the demographics of the Dar al Islam will be very different.
I agree wholeheartedly. Looking forward to the next installment.
Kosta
Banned
I don't think it'd absolutely necessary. Let's just say that Suleiman declined his offer. The Seljuks believed in honour and diplomacy; they wouldn't just kill off Alexios and his entourage because they didn't like his message. If they treated an emperor captured during war as an equal, they're not going to slaughter an emperor who came to them on a diplomatic mission, especially when there's a clear line of succession (Alexios to his brother, in this case) so his death wouldn't benefit the Seljuks too much.
Did I mention the Bulgars at all? I glanced over what I wrote and I didn't see any explicit mention of them. If you're referring to the Slavs that the Seljuks met on the way through Anatolia, that was alluding to the communities of Yugoslavs forcibly resettled in rural Anatolia. One semi-prominent town in Anatolia was even called Gordoservon/Servochoria, the later name even meaning "Serbian village." If you're referring to the brief mentioning of how the Greek-speaking Roman-elite treated the autocephalous Bulgarian Church, then yes at the time, most if not all of Bulgaria was reconquered by Rome in the early 1000's, but forty years later, a bloody rebellion broke out, something which would still be within living memory for the older elite of the Empire.
If that's not what you had in mind when you were pointing out a nitpick, I'd love to fix it, then, whatever it is.
Kosta
Banned
As I said, minor.
Well yeah, they're an oppressed population. The State fears them and it's policy towards Bulgarians during the Komnenos Period was a mixture of coercion for the average citizen and co-option for the elite. Alexios is going to need a strong army to keep dissent within the Empire at bay (whether from Bulgarians or not), and you know how much the Romans love to play super-minority shuffle. You can expect Turko-Bulgars by the start of the next generation, this I guarantee.
Kosta
Banned
One Day More
Alexios had never been more on-edge on his life. He couldn’t focus on the liturgy being celebrated by the Metropolitan Bishop. His mind was computing any and all possible outcomes as to what could happen tonight. He had only one chance to rally this lion of a man to his cause—just one. Failure was not an option. He began to picture how his ancient predecessor, Irákleios, felt as he began to prepare for the final battle between the fire-worshipping [1] Persians. Did that hero of old feel as nervous as Alexios was feeling now? Was it okay to feel fear? At no battle he had ever fought before in his life did he ever feel this nervous. He had a chance to save his Empire, but it was such a small one. He could feel himself sweating through his tunic, and his blanched knuckles had instinctively tightly grasped the grip of his sword.
“My Lord, it’s time for Holy Communion,” the Metropolitan said, chalice in hand. He had completely lost track of the surroundings around him and did not realise that it was time to receive from the chalice. Just how long had he been thinking for?
“Uh, the last shall be first and the first shall be last,” he managed to mumble. “Let the community go before me.” The Emperor was expected to receive prosfora first, so this was a large act of humility for him, but truthfully he was just buying time to continue planning out his strategy.
After the rest of the apprehensive community received the Body and Blood before their sovereign, the beleaguered Emperor received the Heavenly Host. The bread and wine mixed together went warmly down his throat. When he was a child and his father would lift him up and he would receive, he would feel a great sense of wonder of awe afterwards, feeling hopeful. After years of politicking and war making had made him the man that he was that day, he stopped feeling anything when taking communion. But now, at this very moment, he felt a great sense of hope stir within him, that by eating and drinking the flesh and blood of his God, like the bleeding woman who had reached out to Christ and grabbed the fringes of His garments, he trusted in Him and he felt strong. Best of all, he felt healed of his doubt. Maybe, just maybe, he could do it, and he could win this struggle.
Unbeknownst to him, he was being watched. Suleiman and several of his attendants had come to the narthex of the cathedral to watch the spectacle of the Christians’ liturgy disguised as beggars. It all seemed very complex and unnecessary to Suleiman—was not prayer enough for God?
“What do you think?” the hooded general asked his subordinates. One of them took his hood off to speak. It was one of his colonels, a young man named Orhan. His father, Baghatur was a famous general who had won many battles for his people, but he was slain less than a year ago by a contingent of Syriac Nestorians the Turks had stumbled upon on their voyage west. His son was nominated to succeed him, and while this young man had a lot to prove in the eyes of Suleiman, he was still quite capable of strategy.
“Suleiman-beg, [2] I think that we’d be fools not to accept his offer.” At this point, the other three attendants threw their hoods off. Their faces betrayed a sense of shock and even mild disgust that anyone would consider taking up the offer of the enemy of their Sultan. The General bade him to speak.
“If I may, I think that Isfahan has not only forgotten us, but that they have forsaken us. They have sent out people out west into Anatolia to be rid of us from Persia. They see us as liabilities, and they thought that by sending us into the lands of the Rum that they could win twice over—by nullifying us as a threat to themselves and by benefiting from our plundering. I personally hate the Sultan now, with every fibre of my being, I hate him. This man, Alexios, he can offer us a better life in these new lands. I believe in his message of mutual-benefit because he needs us. We can propel his Empire to new lengths, and settle down and prosper. You’ve seen the treasures they have here, and instead of simply stealing from them, he can make them grow and benefit even more. These Rum are clearly wealthy: think of the gifts this man will bestow upon us if we say yes!” This young man, Orhan, was showing the same inner fire that Alexios had shown the day before. If only Suleiman had that inner fire left within him; all he had now were the dying embers of his glory days. He was getting old, but he could feel those embers being re-ignited inside; this young man spoke the truth.
"But the Sultan's grasp is ever-reaching," another attendant countered. "These Romans are not strong enough to protect us from reprisal."
Orhan at this point seemed to get excited, his voice rose in volume.
"But if we can combine forces with the Romans, we can make them a force to be reckoned with. With our help, the grasp of Rome can be ever-reaching. The Romans lack a professional army and are too reliant on foreign mercenaries. We Turks are the professional army that they need, and they'll pay handsomely for us."
Another one of Orhan's contemporaries spoke up. "It's one thing for you to be able to betray the sultan, Orhan, but it's another thing for you to do so, Suleiman-beg. Can you really do it?"
"That's why I'm here, to find out. Let the young Emperor continue his wooing." At this point, Suleiman put on his hood and walked out. His men did the same and followed him out in single file. At this point, the congregation was beginning to file out of the cathedral, none of them sure of the future.
Alexios strode out of the cathedral and waited for the Metropolitan & Monk John to finish up their post-liturgical duties. Six men had been posted to guard the entrances of the church to make sure no harm would befall the Emperor. As he exited the narthex, they fell in and formed a circle around him. One of them had presented him with his straight-edged short sword and dagger that he had taken off before entering church. It was a beautiful sword, with a cedar grip wrapped in crimson leather, a large garnet set in the pommel, and made by the finest smith in all of Constantinople. It had served him well, and the Emperor had placed a great deal of faith in this sword. In a way, his sword was an extension of him: to have faith in his sword meant that he had to faith in himself.
Several hooded figures figures came up to the walled-off Emperor.
"My Lords, have you any alms?" One of the figures said. One of the guardsmen was about to strike him with the butt of his spear when Alexios put his arm on the guard's shoulder.
"That won't be necessary," he said, calmly. "Step aside."
He handed the old man two gold solidi of decent weight [3].
"God sees what you have done here, and He rewards all the good that you do." The old man said. At that point he lunged quickly. The six guards had their spears up; even Alexios had his sword raised in a high guard stance. The beggar had removed his cloak and revealed his true self. It was the General ibn-Kutalmish, in full military dress. The four hooded figures who had remained back followed suit and revealed their true selves, and had raised long, concealed daggers.
At this Alexios began to laugh as he lowered and sheathed his sword. The six confused guards lowered their spears after they determined this was the man Alexios was meeting. The four attendants re-concealed their knives and fell in behind their leader.
"What can I say, Lord—I learned from the best." The Sultan said, standing fully upright and brushing himself off. He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. "Go on," he said, "and find two beggars who really need these. You four are excused for the day afterwards, but report back to me at night." The young men dispersed themselves and made their way out of sight.
"And now the tour may begin, General," the Emperor announced as their clergymen tour-guides came strolling slowly. Alexios was impatient: to him, the old Metropolitan and his priests weren't walking fast enough. He suddenly felt restless as a child would feel, and he began to shuffle in place.
"Feeling restless, a bit?" Suleiman said, eying the young ruler and funding his frustration slightly unprofessional. "Have some respect for your elders: when you're our age someday, you'll understand."
Alexios did not like that retort. "Now then we may begin," he repeated as the Bishop, Archimandrite, and other priests had joined the group. The Metropolitan kissed the Emperor's hand, and the hand of the acting general. Archimandrite John did not.
The Metropolitan led them through the city, discussing the city's pagan and Christian history, and how important the city was both economically and geopolitically. He was a good guide, and he was able to answer all of Suleiman's questions on Christianity, certainly much better than Alexios was. With Archimandrite John's help, Suleiman learned about Christianity's many tenets. He was explained what a sacrament was, what monasticism was (he had previously believed that it was Christianity's Sufism, and was surprised to find out that it was not), how the Church's hierarchy worked side-by-side with the State, and what it meant when Christians consumed the Prosfora [4] during Holy Communion. He seemed perplexed about the idea of the Holy Mysteries, but he was content with learning more about it when the Metropolitan would give him several manuscripts on the manner. The Metropolitan led the party back to the cathedral at the close of his tour, explaining that this Cathedral of Holy Wisdom hosted two Ecumenical Councils—the convention of the world's bishops and the Emperor. When he told Suleiman that this cathedral hosted the Second Council of Nicea where the subject on hand was iconography, Suleiman seemed skeptical.
"Do not the Jews disallow images of any kind?" He asked, perplexed.
"Not quite, no," the Metropolitan explained. "The very curtain of the Second Holy Temple in Jerusalem displayed the six-winged, many-eyed Seraphim, and Solomon's Temple before it portrayed the Angels and Heaven. Your faith seems to think that Christianity is stuck in its iconodule phase, which is certainly not the case. We believe that icons are windows into the Divine you see, they are devotional aids for us. Those that are strong in the faith need not icons, but we weak sinners do need help in our everyday life to be reminded of God and give him thanks."
At this Suleiman furrowed his brow. "Are you not learned priest and scholar in your Church. How could you not be strong in the faith?"
At this the Metropolitan began to laugh. "My dear Lord, we are all sinners: you, me, even God's appointed leader on Earth, Alexios. We have a prayer in our religion; ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner.’ Our Church is a hospital, dedicated to healing spiritual sickness. All are welcome."
Finally, the General seemed satisfied with an answer. "You did very well today, Fathers. I thank you." The Metropolitan and John bowed their heads. "Now, I would like to extend the hand of friendship to all present, including your other guards. My people would like to hold a feast tonight in your honour. We will dine in the former Governor's palace, and the citizens of the city are invited to eat outside. Now it is my turn to ask all present to follow me."
As the sun was setting, the party made its way to the Governor's mansion. Just as they were nearly to the manor’s steps, the eunuch Paul led Sgouritzin out from the stables on a green silk-halter. She was truly being taken care of—she had been washed, polished, brushed, and bedecked in new tack. A sturdy, sienna-coloured saddle sat atop her back and fit snugly above her withers, it pommel was gilded in gold.
“A steed fit for a king!” Paul said, laughing. Sgouritzin could smell her master long before she had rounded the corner to see him, and nearly bolted forward at the sight of him. Paul handed off the mare to her master, who had never before so happy to see her than at the present moment.
“I hope you don’t mind, but these are gifts from my people. Your land has served us well,” Suleiman said. Alexios fought off the urge to be offended and thought for a moment while he was stroking the face of his horse.
“If you accept my offer, then it can be our land that serves us well.” Alexios found himself very clever after delivering that retort, but Suleiman only responded, “Yes, we shall see indeed.”
After everyone had made their way into the house, the festivities began. Two bands had been set up in the main foyer on opposite ends. To left was a Greek band of six, with their lyras [5], small organs, harps, and tsampounas [6]; to the right was a Turkish band, with their drums, strange belled-poles [7], plucked instrument [8], and flat lutes [9]. It was a strange sight; neither band was playing conjunctly with the other. The Greek band was playing an acritic song [10], which was gaining popularity all across Anatolia. Perhaps it was ironic that they chose to play the song of Digenes Akritas, the Two-Blood Border-Lord, who was part Eastern and part Western and lead Rome to glory. Alexios and Suleiman were given the head seats of the largest table set up for the most esteemed partygoers on top of a dais. While Alexios did not like sharing the honour with anyone, even over a seat, he knew it was all for the greater good.
“Tonight, if you do not mind, we will be eating the food of my people. I think that you will find it to be simple fare, but hearty. Enjoy!” Suleiman extended his arm out and displayed the crowd before him. Alexios’ men were seated not too far away, at the closest table just underneath the raised dais, as a sign of good faith. The rest of the crowd was mainly made up Suleiman’s men, his colonels, imams and Quranic readers, advisors, and guards. Several of the city’s Jews were even invited; one of them had saved Suleiman’s life when a Roman arrow had struck him in the shoulder and buried itself deep within his flesh. Several of the finest goats and lambs were chosen for the occasion: the party gorged itself on lamb charred to perfection in a bag made from its own skin [11], and a rotisserie of lamb [12]. The party went long into the new day [13], until the sun was nearly up.
Suleiman stood up to toast his guests. He had nothing prepared, and at this point in the day his mind wasn’t running too quickly. In the crowd, however, one man’s mind was running quickly. Just as his superior was giving a long-winded, wine-fuelled speech, he was never more lucid and on-edge in his life. He was sitting fairly close to the dais. He could bound them in one jump if he was careful enough. Just as he was loosening his dagger from his sleeve, he was noticed.
“General, watch out!” It was Orhan who had noticed the dagger. He had been absent-mindedly looking towards Suleiman when he noticed the person seated next to him was staring so intentively at the speaker and that he was fidgeting and grabbing at something in his sleeve. Just as he had warned his leader, he felt a sharp pain in his left side. Another one of the attendants had stabbed him squarely in the torso. Three men jumped up from their table as the guards scrambled to get their weapons and defend the guests of honour and the host, when Alexios hadn’t paused a moment and leapt down from the dais onto the immediate table below. He ran towards the three would-be murderers, his sword raised above his head. It came down with a sickening crack and buried itself deep within the crown of the nearest killer. He fell to the ground immediately, taking the sword embedded in his skull with him to the ground. The second one was just within striking range of the Emperor when Orhan had sliced at him with a small dagger of his own right in the Achilles tendon as he was running. He fell off the table head first onto the cold stone and began to scream in pain. The third assassin did not even have time to make it beyond standing up on top of the table; he must’ve paused before trying to help his dagger find its mark. Perhaps he had paused out of fear or pressure, perhaps he had paused because in that very moment he had second thoughts about stopping the union of the Turks with Rome. A Roman lance had perforated his back and came clean through his chest; his lifeless, limp body was suspended only by the pole. The guard who had saved his master was even in shock as he lifted the corpse off the table, and let his spear go with an unceremonious thud. At this point, the panic had erupted into a sloppy mess of guards re-arming themselves and the attempt to nullify further threats by surrounding both the Emperor and the General. A great crowd of guards had surrounded the surviving killer who was still moaning like a wounded animal, the metal tips of the guardsmen’s spears slightly digging into his cheeks, hands, and feet. Alexios moved around the mob towards the first dissident who still had his short sword. Without pausing, Alexios removed the sword from his head, which caused several hideous cracking sounds to fill the room and bounce off the stone walls. He motioned for a young wine-pourer to come near him. Confused, the young man who spoke no Greek walked over. Alexios, without saying a word, removed the towel in his hands, dipped it into the water jug he was holding, and began cleaning his sword. Suleiman had at this point already rushed down to tend to Orhan.
“Mordehaio-beg [14], somebody find me Mordechaio-beg!” Suleiman screamed as he held his lieutenant, trying to stop the blood loss by placing pressure and his torn cloak onto the wound. An aging, mustachioed man came running to his side. Mordohaios was the Jewish doctor that had saved Suleiman’s life, and now it was time to save another life.
“Here I am, Lord!” He cried.
“Take this man and save him for me, please, Mordohaio-beg, please!” Orhan was practically Suleiman’s son and he had watched him grown up. They had become especially close after Orhan’s father died in battle.
Mordohaios, his family, and several guards helped carry Orhan upstairs. As soon as he was out of sight. Suleiman got up quickly and made his way to the trapped killer. He placed his boot on his head, his spur digging into his neck.
“Why did you do it!?” he screamed. The guards moved the spears away from his face so he could talk.
“Because you are a traitor to our Sultan, to our people, and to our faith. You think because we're stationed on the border between the righteous and the heathens that we are forsaken by our master and God? It is you who throws away your loyalty for fleeting treasure and forsakes them!” He yelled back. He spat blood onto the General’s boots. The General dug his spur deeper into the man’s neck which made him cry out loudly in pain again.
“Help him up and step aside,” Suleiman said, angrily. The guards did as they were told but kept their spears at the ready. Suleiman slapped the man’s dagger back into his palm. He was injured and dizzy, and could barely keep himself standing straight. Just as the man began to ponder why a dagger was thrust back into his hand, Suleiman had unsheathed his sabre and swung it in a clockwards direction, taking the man’s head clean off. In one fell swoop, he had just decapitated the man. At this point, the Metropolitan Bishop, who had not moved a muscle during the entire encounter, fainted.
“Clean this all up,” Suleiman said, walking towards the stairs. He made his way up to where Mordechai the Doctor was performing an impromptu surgery. Suleiman stayed at the threshold of the main bedroom for several hours and watched the operation, saying nothing the entire time. Eventually, by the time that the sun was shining, Mordechai came out to talk to General.
“He’s awake now. He had passed out several times during surgery, but we stopped the bleeding. If he is properly taken care of and given the right foods, like barley and red meat to slow down the blood flood, then he can live to see the next battle.” At this point, Mordechai dropped all formality and leaned back on the threshold of the door for support. Suleiman nodded his thanks and walked in, kneeling before the young man’s bedside.
“Suleiman-beg, I have something to tell you,” he said, looking up into the eyes of his mentor.
“What is it, my son?” Suleiman said, worriedly.
“We are all Romans now.” After uttering this, he closed his eyes and rolled over onto his good side, and fell back asleep again.
[2]"Beg" or "بگ" means "lord" in Old Turkish. I keep instinctively writing "bey" which means the same and also "mister" in Modern Turkish.
[3]The reigning currency of the day, the solidus, had its value determined by its weight and could vary wildly. A heavier coin was obviously a much more valuable coin.
[4]The bread and wine of Communion
[5]The lyra of Eastern Rome was not a lyre. It was a stringed instrument that would be more similar to a Cretan and Pontian lyra or a kemençe.
[6]A small type of bagpipe.
[7]A Turkish crescent
[8]A qanun
[9]A komuz
[10]A genre of songs started by border guards (the Ακρῖται) that usually had heroes and their love interests as subject matter, with religious themes scattered throughout.
[11]Kuyu Kebab, from the Turkish word for "well." The meat of a goat is put into a bag made from its own skin and cooked in a "well," a sealed, airtight well. It a lot tastier than it sounds, and I think you can even see it being made on the Istanbul episode of No Reservations.
[12]That's çevirme kebap, a lamb rotisserie dish.
[13]The new day started at sundown for the Romans, so although this would be 3:00-4:00 AM for us, for them it'd be late morning/early afternoon.
[14]"Mordehaio" is the Greek name «Μαρδοχαῖος», itself from the Hebrew name "מָרְדֳּכַי", the name "Mordechai," & "Beg" again being the Old Turkish word for "lord."
Note: I seriously miscalculated how old John the Oxite was. He reigned for sixty-five years from 1090-1155 as Patriarch of Antioch. I will have to go back and edit any descriptions of him to fit how old he would really be in the year 1081, which is to say, perhaps even younger than Alexios himself.
Dawn, Sunday, 2nd of May, 1081, Cathedral of Holy Wisdom, Nikaia Town Square
Alexios had never been more on-edge on his life. He couldn’t focus on the liturgy being celebrated by the Metropolitan Bishop. His mind was computing any and all possible outcomes as to what could happen tonight. He had only one chance to rally this lion of a man to his cause—just one. Failure was not an option. He began to picture how his ancient predecessor, Irákleios, felt as he began to prepare for the final battle between the fire-worshipping [1] Persians. Did that hero of old feel as nervous as Alexios was feeling now? Was it okay to feel fear? At no battle he had ever fought before in his life did he ever feel this nervous. He had a chance to save his Empire, but it was such a small one. He could feel himself sweating through his tunic, and his blanched knuckles had instinctively tightly grasped the grip of his sword.
“My Lord, it’s time for Holy Communion,” the Metropolitan said, chalice in hand. He had completely lost track of the surroundings around him and did not realise that it was time to receive from the chalice. Just how long had he been thinking for?
“Uh, the last shall be first and the first shall be last,” he managed to mumble. “Let the community go before me.” The Emperor was expected to receive prosfora first, so this was a large act of humility for him, but truthfully he was just buying time to continue planning out his strategy.
After the rest of the apprehensive community received the Body and Blood before their sovereign, the beleaguered Emperor received the Heavenly Host. The bread and wine mixed together went warmly down his throat. When he was a child and his father would lift him up and he would receive, he would feel a great sense of wonder of awe afterwards, feeling hopeful. After years of politicking and war making had made him the man that he was that day, he stopped feeling anything when taking communion. But now, at this very moment, he felt a great sense of hope stir within him, that by eating and drinking the flesh and blood of his God, like the bleeding woman who had reached out to Christ and grabbed the fringes of His garments, he trusted in Him and he felt strong. Best of all, he felt healed of his doubt. Maybe, just maybe, he could do it, and he could win this struggle.
Unbeknownst to him, he was being watched. Suleiman and several of his attendants had come to the narthex of the cathedral to watch the spectacle of the Christians’ liturgy disguised as beggars. It all seemed very complex and unnecessary to Suleiman—was not prayer enough for God?
“What do you think?” the hooded general asked his subordinates. One of them took his hood off to speak. It was one of his colonels, a young man named Orhan. His father, Baghatur was a famous general who had won many battles for his people, but he was slain less than a year ago by a contingent of Syriac Nestorians the Turks had stumbled upon on their voyage west. His son was nominated to succeed him, and while this young man had a lot to prove in the eyes of Suleiman, he was still quite capable of strategy.
“Suleiman-beg, [2] I think that we’d be fools not to accept his offer.” At this point, the other three attendants threw their hoods off. Their faces betrayed a sense of shock and even mild disgust that anyone would consider taking up the offer of the enemy of their Sultan. The General bade him to speak.
“If I may, I think that Isfahan has not only forgotten us, but that they have forsaken us. They have sent out people out west into Anatolia to be rid of us from Persia. They see us as liabilities, and they thought that by sending us into the lands of the Rum that they could win twice over—by nullifying us as a threat to themselves and by benefiting from our plundering. I personally hate the Sultan now, with every fibre of my being, I hate him. This man, Alexios, he can offer us a better life in these new lands. I believe in his message of mutual-benefit because he needs us. We can propel his Empire to new lengths, and settle down and prosper. You’ve seen the treasures they have here, and instead of simply stealing from them, he can make them grow and benefit even more. These Rum are clearly wealthy: think of the gifts this man will bestow upon us if we say yes!” This young man, Orhan, was showing the same inner fire that Alexios had shown the day before. If only Suleiman had that inner fire left within him; all he had now were the dying embers of his glory days. He was getting old, but he could feel those embers being re-ignited inside; this young man spoke the truth.
"But the Sultan's grasp is ever-reaching," another attendant countered. "These Romans are not strong enough to protect us from reprisal."
Orhan at this point seemed to get excited, his voice rose in volume.
"But if we can combine forces with the Romans, we can make them a force to be reckoned with. With our help, the grasp of Rome can be ever-reaching. The Romans lack a professional army and are too reliant on foreign mercenaries. We Turks are the professional army that they need, and they'll pay handsomely for us."
Another one of Orhan's contemporaries spoke up. "It's one thing for you to be able to betray the sultan, Orhan, but it's another thing for you to do so, Suleiman-beg. Can you really do it?"
"That's why I'm here, to find out. Let the young Emperor continue his wooing." At this point, Suleiman put on his hood and walked out. His men did the same and followed him out in single file. At this point, the congregation was beginning to file out of the cathedral, none of them sure of the future.
Alexios strode out of the cathedral and waited for the Metropolitan & Monk John to finish up their post-liturgical duties. Six men had been posted to guard the entrances of the church to make sure no harm would befall the Emperor. As he exited the narthex, they fell in and formed a circle around him. One of them had presented him with his straight-edged short sword and dagger that he had taken off before entering church. It was a beautiful sword, with a cedar grip wrapped in crimson leather, a large garnet set in the pommel, and made by the finest smith in all of Constantinople. It had served him well, and the Emperor had placed a great deal of faith in this sword. In a way, his sword was an extension of him: to have faith in his sword meant that he had to faith in himself.
Several hooded figures figures came up to the walled-off Emperor.
"My Lords, have you any alms?" One of the figures said. One of the guardsmen was about to strike him with the butt of his spear when Alexios put his arm on the guard's shoulder.
"That won't be necessary," he said, calmly. "Step aside."
He handed the old man two gold solidi of decent weight [3].
"God sees what you have done here, and He rewards all the good that you do." The old man said. At that point he lunged quickly. The six guards had their spears up; even Alexios had his sword raised in a high guard stance. The beggar had removed his cloak and revealed his true self. It was the General ibn-Kutalmish, in full military dress. The four hooded figures who had remained back followed suit and revealed their true selves, and had raised long, concealed daggers.
At this Alexios began to laugh as he lowered and sheathed his sword. The six confused guards lowered their spears after they determined this was the man Alexios was meeting. The four attendants re-concealed their knives and fell in behind their leader.
"What can I say, Lord—I learned from the best." The Sultan said, standing fully upright and brushing himself off. He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. "Go on," he said, "and find two beggars who really need these. You four are excused for the day afterwards, but report back to me at night." The young men dispersed themselves and made their way out of sight.
"And now the tour may begin, General," the Emperor announced as their clergymen tour-guides came strolling slowly. Alexios was impatient: to him, the old Metropolitan and his priests weren't walking fast enough. He suddenly felt restless as a child would feel, and he began to shuffle in place.
"Feeling restless, a bit?" Suleiman said, eying the young ruler and funding his frustration slightly unprofessional. "Have some respect for your elders: when you're our age someday, you'll understand."
Alexios did not like that retort. "Now then we may begin," he repeated as the Bishop, Archimandrite, and other priests had joined the group. The Metropolitan kissed the Emperor's hand, and the hand of the acting general. Archimandrite John did not.
The Metropolitan led them through the city, discussing the city's pagan and Christian history, and how important the city was both economically and geopolitically. He was a good guide, and he was able to answer all of Suleiman's questions on Christianity, certainly much better than Alexios was. With Archimandrite John's help, Suleiman learned about Christianity's many tenets. He was explained what a sacrament was, what monasticism was (he had previously believed that it was Christianity's Sufism, and was surprised to find out that it was not), how the Church's hierarchy worked side-by-side with the State, and what it meant when Christians consumed the Prosfora [4] during Holy Communion. He seemed perplexed about the idea of the Holy Mysteries, but he was content with learning more about it when the Metropolitan would give him several manuscripts on the manner. The Metropolitan led the party back to the cathedral at the close of his tour, explaining that this Cathedral of Holy Wisdom hosted two Ecumenical Councils—the convention of the world's bishops and the Emperor. When he told Suleiman that this cathedral hosted the Second Council of Nicea where the subject on hand was iconography, Suleiman seemed skeptical.
"Do not the Jews disallow images of any kind?" He asked, perplexed.
"Not quite, no," the Metropolitan explained. "The very curtain of the Second Holy Temple in Jerusalem displayed the six-winged, many-eyed Seraphim, and Solomon's Temple before it portrayed the Angels and Heaven. Your faith seems to think that Christianity is stuck in its iconodule phase, which is certainly not the case. We believe that icons are windows into the Divine you see, they are devotional aids for us. Those that are strong in the faith need not icons, but we weak sinners do need help in our everyday life to be reminded of God and give him thanks."
At this Suleiman furrowed his brow. "Are you not learned priest and scholar in your Church. How could you not be strong in the faith?"
At this the Metropolitan began to laugh. "My dear Lord, we are all sinners: you, me, even God's appointed leader on Earth, Alexios. We have a prayer in our religion; ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, the sinner.’ Our Church is a hospital, dedicated to healing spiritual sickness. All are welcome."
Finally, the General seemed satisfied with an answer. "You did very well today, Fathers. I thank you." The Metropolitan and John bowed their heads. "Now, I would like to extend the hand of friendship to all present, including your other guards. My people would like to hold a feast tonight in your honour. We will dine in the former Governor's palace, and the citizens of the city are invited to eat outside. Now it is my turn to ask all present to follow me."
As the sun was setting, the party made its way to the Governor's mansion. Just as they were nearly to the manor’s steps, the eunuch Paul led Sgouritzin out from the stables on a green silk-halter. She was truly being taken care of—she had been washed, polished, brushed, and bedecked in new tack. A sturdy, sienna-coloured saddle sat atop her back and fit snugly above her withers, it pommel was gilded in gold.
“A steed fit for a king!” Paul said, laughing. Sgouritzin could smell her master long before she had rounded the corner to see him, and nearly bolted forward at the sight of him. Paul handed off the mare to her master, who had never before so happy to see her than at the present moment.
“I hope you don’t mind, but these are gifts from my people. Your land has served us well,” Suleiman said. Alexios fought off the urge to be offended and thought for a moment while he was stroking the face of his horse.
“If you accept my offer, then it can be our land that serves us well.” Alexios found himself very clever after delivering that retort, but Suleiman only responded, “Yes, we shall see indeed.”
After everyone had made their way into the house, the festivities began. Two bands had been set up in the main foyer on opposite ends. To left was a Greek band of six, with their lyras [5], small organs, harps, and tsampounas [6]; to the right was a Turkish band, with their drums, strange belled-poles [7], plucked instrument [8], and flat lutes [9]. It was a strange sight; neither band was playing conjunctly with the other. The Greek band was playing an acritic song [10], which was gaining popularity all across Anatolia. Perhaps it was ironic that they chose to play the song of Digenes Akritas, the Two-Blood Border-Lord, who was part Eastern and part Western and lead Rome to glory. Alexios and Suleiman were given the head seats of the largest table set up for the most esteemed partygoers on top of a dais. While Alexios did not like sharing the honour with anyone, even over a seat, he knew it was all for the greater good.
“Tonight, if you do not mind, we will be eating the food of my people. I think that you will find it to be simple fare, but hearty. Enjoy!” Suleiman extended his arm out and displayed the crowd before him. Alexios’ men were seated not too far away, at the closest table just underneath the raised dais, as a sign of good faith. The rest of the crowd was mainly made up Suleiman’s men, his colonels, imams and Quranic readers, advisors, and guards. Several of the city’s Jews were even invited; one of them had saved Suleiman’s life when a Roman arrow had struck him in the shoulder and buried itself deep within his flesh. Several of the finest goats and lambs were chosen for the occasion: the party gorged itself on lamb charred to perfection in a bag made from its own skin [11], and a rotisserie of lamb [12]. The party went long into the new day [13], until the sun was nearly up.
Suleiman stood up to toast his guests. He had nothing prepared, and at this point in the day his mind wasn’t running too quickly. In the crowd, however, one man’s mind was running quickly. Just as his superior was giving a long-winded, wine-fuelled speech, he was never more lucid and on-edge in his life. He was sitting fairly close to the dais. He could bound them in one jump if he was careful enough. Just as he was loosening his dagger from his sleeve, he was noticed.
“General, watch out!” It was Orhan who had noticed the dagger. He had been absent-mindedly looking towards Suleiman when he noticed the person seated next to him was staring so intentively at the speaker and that he was fidgeting and grabbing at something in his sleeve. Just as he had warned his leader, he felt a sharp pain in his left side. Another one of the attendants had stabbed him squarely in the torso. Three men jumped up from their table as the guards scrambled to get their weapons and defend the guests of honour and the host, when Alexios hadn’t paused a moment and leapt down from the dais onto the immediate table below. He ran towards the three would-be murderers, his sword raised above his head. It came down with a sickening crack and buried itself deep within the crown of the nearest killer. He fell to the ground immediately, taking the sword embedded in his skull with him to the ground. The second one was just within striking range of the Emperor when Orhan had sliced at him with a small dagger of his own right in the Achilles tendon as he was running. He fell off the table head first onto the cold stone and began to scream in pain. The third assassin did not even have time to make it beyond standing up on top of the table; he must’ve paused before trying to help his dagger find its mark. Perhaps he had paused out of fear or pressure, perhaps he had paused because in that very moment he had second thoughts about stopping the union of the Turks with Rome. A Roman lance had perforated his back and came clean through his chest; his lifeless, limp body was suspended only by the pole. The guard who had saved his master was even in shock as he lifted the corpse off the table, and let his spear go with an unceremonious thud. At this point, the panic had erupted into a sloppy mess of guards re-arming themselves and the attempt to nullify further threats by surrounding both the Emperor and the General. A great crowd of guards had surrounded the surviving killer who was still moaning like a wounded animal, the metal tips of the guardsmen’s spears slightly digging into his cheeks, hands, and feet. Alexios moved around the mob towards the first dissident who still had his short sword. Without pausing, Alexios removed the sword from his head, which caused several hideous cracking sounds to fill the room and bounce off the stone walls. He motioned for a young wine-pourer to come near him. Confused, the young man who spoke no Greek walked over. Alexios, without saying a word, removed the towel in his hands, dipped it into the water jug he was holding, and began cleaning his sword. Suleiman had at this point already rushed down to tend to Orhan.
“Mordehaio-beg [14], somebody find me Mordechaio-beg!” Suleiman screamed as he held his lieutenant, trying to stop the blood loss by placing pressure and his torn cloak onto the wound. An aging, mustachioed man came running to his side. Mordohaios was the Jewish doctor that had saved Suleiman’s life, and now it was time to save another life.
“Here I am, Lord!” He cried.
“Take this man and save him for me, please, Mordohaio-beg, please!” Orhan was practically Suleiman’s son and he had watched him grown up. They had become especially close after Orhan’s father died in battle.
Mordohaios, his family, and several guards helped carry Orhan upstairs. As soon as he was out of sight. Suleiman got up quickly and made his way to the trapped killer. He placed his boot on his head, his spur digging into his neck.
“Why did you do it!?” he screamed. The guards moved the spears away from his face so he could talk.
“Because you are a traitor to our Sultan, to our people, and to our faith. You think because we're stationed on the border between the righteous and the heathens that we are forsaken by our master and God? It is you who throws away your loyalty for fleeting treasure and forsakes them!” He yelled back. He spat blood onto the General’s boots. The General dug his spur deeper into the man’s neck which made him cry out loudly in pain again.
“Help him up and step aside,” Suleiman said, angrily. The guards did as they were told but kept their spears at the ready. Suleiman slapped the man’s dagger back into his palm. He was injured and dizzy, and could barely keep himself standing straight. Just as the man began to ponder why a dagger was thrust back into his hand, Suleiman had unsheathed his sabre and swung it in a clockwards direction, taking the man’s head clean off. In one fell swoop, he had just decapitated the man. At this point, the Metropolitan Bishop, who had not moved a muscle during the entire encounter, fainted.
“Clean this all up,” Suleiman said, walking towards the stairs. He made his way up to where Mordechai the Doctor was performing an impromptu surgery. Suleiman stayed at the threshold of the main bedroom for several hours and watched the operation, saying nothing the entire time. Eventually, by the time that the sun was shining, Mordechai came out to talk to General.
“He’s awake now. He had passed out several times during surgery, but we stopped the bleeding. If he is properly taken care of and given the right foods, like barley and red meat to slow down the blood flood, then he can live to see the next battle.” At this point, Mordechai dropped all formality and leaned back on the threshold of the door for support. Suleiman nodded his thanks and walked in, kneeling before the young man’s bedside.
“Suleiman-beg, I have something to tell you,” he said, looking up into the eyes of his mentor.
“What is it, my son?” Suleiman said, worriedly.
“We are all Romans now.” After uttering this, he closed his eyes and rolled over onto his good side, and fell back asleep again.
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[1]That's a bit bit of a misnomer of course, that Zoroastrians worship fire, but tell that to someone in the 11th Century...[2]"Beg" or "بگ" means "lord" in Old Turkish. I keep instinctively writing "bey" which means the same and also "mister" in Modern Turkish.
[3]The reigning currency of the day, the solidus, had its value determined by its weight and could vary wildly. A heavier coin was obviously a much more valuable coin.
[4]The bread and wine of Communion
[5]The lyra of Eastern Rome was not a lyre. It was a stringed instrument that would be more similar to a Cretan and Pontian lyra or a kemençe.
[6]A small type of bagpipe.
[7]A Turkish crescent
[8]A qanun
[9]A komuz
[10]A genre of songs started by border guards (the Ακρῖται) that usually had heroes and their love interests as subject matter, with religious themes scattered throughout.
[11]Kuyu Kebab, from the Turkish word for "well." The meat of a goat is put into a bag made from its own skin and cooked in a "well," a sealed, airtight well. It a lot tastier than it sounds, and I think you can even see it being made on the Istanbul episode of No Reservations.
[12]That's çevirme kebap, a lamb rotisserie dish.
[13]The new day started at sundown for the Romans, so although this would be 3:00-4:00 AM for us, for them it'd be late morning/early afternoon.
[14]"Mordehaio" is the Greek name «Μαρδοχαῖος», itself from the Hebrew name "מָרְדֳּכַי", the name "Mordechai," & "Beg" again being the Old Turkish word for "lord."
Note: I seriously miscalculated how old John the Oxite was. He reigned for sixty-five years from 1090-1155 as Patriarch of Antioch. I will have to go back and edit any descriptions of him to fit how old he would really be in the year 1081, which is to say, perhaps even younger than Alexios himself.
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Another update so soon! Thank you for not keeping us in suspense for too long. The narrative is superbly written!
I haven't commented much on this thread, but I wanted to tell you that the last few updates have been wonderful. This is, by far, one of the most innovative Byzantine TLs I've been on the board. Keep up the great work!