The Mauricians: A Medieval Roman novel
- Thread starter Pururauka
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I don’t think I can apologize enough to all of those who read this story with any regularity for my absence.
Thing is, I don’t really have an excuse. I knew where the tale was headed, so it wasn’t writer’s block, and work/rl have remained at a normal, steady pace. I guess I just lost my je ne sais quoi…
About a week ago, however, as I was brushing dirt off of Maurice’s face on a follis from Antioch I had purchased earlier in the year, I had another “moment of inspiration.” It was as if the Emperor’s plump face gave me a look and said: “Hey bum, I’m not going to pick up the slack…”
Thus, I obediently went back to the laptop, and started typing. And now, I guess we’re back on the saddle.
Thing is, I don’t really have an excuse. I knew where the tale was headed, so it wasn’t writer’s block, and work/rl have remained at a normal, steady pace. I guess I just lost my je ne sais quoi…
About a week ago, however, as I was brushing dirt off of Maurice’s face on a follis from Antioch I had purchased earlier in the year, I had another “moment of inspiration.” It was as if the Emperor’s plump face gave me a look and said: “Hey bum, I’m not going to pick up the slack…”
Thus, I obediently went back to the laptop, and started typing. And now, I guess we’re back on the saddle.
Chapter 14 -II-
It was unbelievable, unthinkable, preposterous. The news of Shahin’s intervention in the final battle between the two contenders for the Roman throne had left him thunderstruck. What did it mean that the Iranians had not played an active role during the hostilities? What if they had struck only at fleeing, routed remnants? Nonsense! The Surenian [1] had effectively ended the enemy’s civil war and unified their otherwise scattered vestiges against him. Against me.
“Spa…Spahbod Shahin’s men…killed the Qaisar Phocas, Shahanshah…” stated once more the prostrated messenger, his voice cracking with fear.
That son of a bitch! “How dare he act without my command, in contravention of my explicit orders! He aided the enemy in spite of me!” he hollered, standing up with a jolt, causing the ornate chair he had been sitting on to wobble backwards. “That canny son-of-a-whore Pahlav [2]!”
All around him, the celebration had suddenly fizzled out. At his own table, his sons Mardanshah, Javanshir, even young Farrukhzad Khosrau, all remained silent, with their heads bowed deferentially, and their eyes fixed on their unfinished plates. Beyond, all of the Wuzurgan [3] held their breath with uneasy trepidation. And even further out, near the women’s elliptic silver dining table, where his daughters Azarmidokht and Borandukht sat alongside his favorite wife Shirin, the musicians froze in terror.
“This cannot stand! Off with his head! Off with his head!” he bellowed pointing at the innocent emissary, his blood boiling.
Before the echoes of the royal thunderous voice had died down, the two Zhayedan warriors who had escorted the messenger into the dining hall, bent down to lift the sobbing man who, unable to pick himself up on his trembling legs, now seemed resigned to his fate.
The Shah fell back on his throne wearily, closed his eyes and, almost immediately raising his hands to his temples, massaged them. Even with the ridiculous explanation that the half read letter, now laying upside down on his chilled bowl of faloodeh [4], gave the pretention of being the truth, it just could not be possible. He had formally opened hostilities with Theodosius, when the Roman emissaries became uppity. Then, almost before these left the Shāpūr-Khwāst, he had dispatched riders to Shahrbaraz and Shahin both, informing them of the developments and the immediate resumption of hostilities. Certainly, Shahin had received the message before Theodosius arrived and begged for aid. And if that’s the case, the Surenian is a fucking traitor.
Opening his eyes, he realized the whole room was still in silence, and expectant of his orders. With contempt, he made a dismissive gesture with his right hand, and the music and chatter slowly, and timidly, resumed. But at his side, his sons would still not move. He sighed.
“You may continue,” he growled, without looking at them.
Two of the children nodded quietly, and returned to their desserts. But the oldest, Mardanshah, spoke.
“Father, may I have a word?” he asked, his gaze still on the table.
With his own mind racing through his options, and while he decided how to best make Shahin pay for his betrayal, he hastily dismissed the boy’s question. “Not now, boy…”
Shahraplakan was still attached to the conspirator’s staff, and he had proven himself to be a reliable soldier in the past. Certainly something could be arranged; perhaps, a private letter promoting him and relieving Shahin of command, ordering his immediate arrest and deportation to Tysfun.
“Father, may I have a word?”
He glanced to his right; it was Mardanshah again. His two brothers shot their older sibling a puzzling look, as if asking whether he was really insisting on upsetting their already irate father further.
What is it with these kids? How are they this bold? “Speak!” Khosrau finally said, annoyed. He was unwilling to have another embarrassing scene, like what had happened with that disgrace that regrettably happened to be his son, Kobad.
The boy cleared his throat and began, with his eyes still on the table. “You must punish the Spahbod. That is true. But the Surenians will not be content about you making an example out of their leading general…You ought to keep them in mind as well…”
As his son’s still high-pitched voice trailed off, the Shah could not help but smile. If only Kobad had had half the nerve this kid did, he would not be locked in a dungeon at this very moment. There’s a reason why I found Shirin attractive, after all. Her pup’s a brave one. “Interesting points, Mardanshah. They will be considered.”
Satisfied, his son nodded in silence, and kept quiet the rest of the evening.
The dinner continued after that point as planned, with the nobles and acolytes clustering about the table at times like flies, heaping their words of praise upon him and lauding the victorious Iranian armies in drunken stupors. Numb to it all, he was busy plotting his retribution.
It would not be until later in the night, however, well past midnight, when the third set of exotic female dancers from India entered the chamber that he finally stood up, and signaled Abarsām, his Wuzurg Framadār [5], to join him. With another prearranged nod he authorized the celebration to continue in his absence, and stepped into the dark outer hall, rejecting both the escort and the torches offered.
“What do you make of the letter?” he asked his premier, once they were trudging the gloomy passageway.
Abarsām, keeping a respectful distance by walking behind his lord, was quick in his reply. “Shahanshah, Spahbod Shahin acted outside of his powers; he was to wait. The Shahrbaraz, on the contrary, showed impeccable restraint, chastising even the Jews fighting on our side when they acted without your command. Shahin’s actions betray ineptitude at best but, more likely, an ill intent.”
Khosrau kept silent for a moment, pondering, as they neared their destination. Minutes later, the door to the chamber was opened by an expectant, silent guard. “Has he grown proud of his victories?” he asked rhetorically as they stepped in. “He has not even accomplished them on his own! He had to wait on the Armenians to save him!”
“Shahanshah, he has indeed grown proud, and if I may be allowed to say so, his affront might inspire others to act likewise.” The older man stopped and glanced at his sovereign, measuring him with his eyes. “The memory of the last treacherous dog is still fresh in the minds of many…”
Wahrām Chōbēn [6].
The Shah sighed heavily, his chest falling with a flicker of anger at the allusion of the usurper’s name. Uttering the renegade’s name was outlawed in his presence; but Abarsām, and his son, had a valid point. “Say your good-byes to your family tonight, Wuzurg Framadār. You said the forbidden name aloud,” he teased.
The vizier paled, and then blushed in quick succession, full of uncertainty. He robotically fell to his knees and, letting his forehead touch the floor, begged for his life, with an almost inaudible sob. “My lord… I am guilty, and I must pay for my offense…”
He chuckled softly, amused at the man’s fear, and took a seat by the wide table where he had his maps and charts outstretched; the desk whence he controlled his war.
“Tonight, I learned who the traitors amongst us are, Abarsām. But I also learned, after the embarrassment that Kobad proved to be, who amongst my children seems to have the spine to rule when the time comes. And that, friend, has lightened my mood. You can get back on your feet!” he added, jovially.
The minister lifted his head incredulously with a timid simper, as a few silent tears still flowed down his cheeks, and attempted to kiss the Shah’s feet. “Thank you, master! May Ahura Mazda bless you always, Great Lord!”
“Enough!” Khosrau said, gesturing him to stop, and turning his gaze to the vast map detailing his deployed forces. With the resumption of hostilities, the Anatolian armies, regardless of their leader, where poised to strike at the heart of Cappadocia, and move in on Bithynia shortly after. In Syria, the Shahrbaraz had not been idle and, much to the Great King’s own delight, had put the Romans to work on the piers, laying down the first keels of the newly resurrected Iranian navy. Though unable to battle his enemies in open water, a number of vessels were soon to be ready to patrol his new conquests and, possibly, raid enemy ports.
And then, there was Palestine. The rebelling Jews had pushed hard towards Jerusalem, and even his Eranspahbod had had to pull the leash back on them at times, lest they risk the then ongoing negotiations. Yet now, he had given them permission to march on, and the news, when they were made public in Tysfun, bolstered several other battalions of Hebraic volunteers, who were clamoring to be allowed to depart West. Greatly pleased at their patriotism, he had arranged for their speedy transfer to the front; and thus Jerusalem was soon to be won for the Ērānshahr, without a single drop of Iranian blood being spilt.
Yes, success feeds on success. One man is irrelevant; Shahin’s time has come.
“Wuzurg Framadār,” he announced with his eyes still fixed on the green wooden blocks representing his forces. “Tomorrow, you and a body of two thousand Zayedhan will depart and seize the Surenian states in Āturpātakān, and a body twice as strong is to be sent to their lands in Sakastan. I want you to see to it; that no one directly related by blood or by marriage to [FONT="]Shahin Vahmanzadegan is left alive, and those who you deem [/FONT][FONT="]potentially [/FONT][FONT="]danger[/FONT][FONT="]ous are to be brought back to Ty[/FONT][FONT="]sfun, to be judged by me.”[/FONT]
[FONT="]
With the monarch’s supposed wrath being diverted, the elation on the old premier’s face was obvious. “Yes, [/FONT][FONT="]Shahanshah!”[/FONT]
[FONT="]
But then t[/FONT][FONT="]he [/FONT][FONT="]unexpected [/FONT][FONT="]soft [/FONT][FONT="]knock[/FONT][FONT="] on the door, so late into the night, startled them both. [/FONT][FONT="]I[/FONT][FONT="]t did not take long for [/FONT]Abarsām to jump to his feet, and race to the doorway, cracking the gate open with caution, and exchange hushed whispers with someone concealed in the darkness of the evening. And the grand vizier’s paling visage, upon turning back to face Khosrau, bode ill news.
What now? the Shah thought. “…Well?”
Abarsām fell to his knees once more, and buried his face on the rocky floor, avoiding even a glance from his monarch. “Shahanshah, it seems…Oh Great King, forgive me! … Prince Kobad has… fled…”
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[1] Shahin was a member of the House of Suren; one of the leading Parthian clans that retained considerable power in the Sassanian era.
[2] Parthian.
[3] Members of the Sassanian nobility.
[4] A traditional Iranian cold dessert made of thin noodles.
[5] The “Grand Lord.” A post rather similar to latter Islamic viziers.
[6] Or Bahrām Chobin. A Spahbod who usurped the Sasanian throne from young Khosrau, and ruled for a year until defeated by Maurice and Sassanian loyalist forces.
It's great to see this back! Hopefully this time wont be leaving us on massive cliffhangers 
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Following the earlier comments: fantastic to see the return of my favourite TL!
It's great to see this back! Hopefully this time wont be leaving us on massive cliffhangers
It's great to be back!
Let’s not be pessimistic about the Great King’s prospects; after all, this was, IOTL, the Ērānshahr’s greatest hour.
History isn’t kind to losers, most of the time anyway. But I do think that Khosrau’s temperament, like Phocas’ alcoholism, though perhaps exaggerated, has to be based on some truth.
It's always great to have new readers! Feel free to ask about anything you'd like!
Another update should be coming out soon. It's already in the works.
Chapter 14 -III-
Lowering his gaze from the celestial spectacle overhead, Navid Magundat saw the awaited black smoke rising higher from a point beyond the besieged parapets, signifying that the Jewish saboteurs had succeeded. Shrieks and curses in Syriac, a language still largely incomprehensible to him, faintly reached his ears, as he watched the regiments of Daylamite infantrymen pouring into Jerusalem through its eastern “Beautiful Gate.”
His own Nisean warhorse neighed in eager anticipation below him, while the dying throes of an obstinate city rang about the entourage of the Eranspahbod Farrokhan Shahrbaraz and Nehemiah ben Hushiel, son of the Jewish Exilarch, who beheld in utter delight the last moment of his city as Christian. With a distant pat on the thick neck, he easily calmed his mount. Easy there, boy; we’re about to march in unopposed, he whispered to himself.
When the dispatch from the Shah had arrived from Tysfun ordering the Shahrbaraz to march on, the Jews had been the most pleased. The rebellious ones from Syria had not waited for the Iranians to advance south, but had instead lunged themselves on Nazareth, where a substantial force of insurgents from Galilee, numbering close to ten thousand, under the leadership of Binyamin ben Doran from Tiberias, awaited them impatiently. Not long after, the Eranspahbod, amused at their zeal, followed behind them, relieved of the need of garrisoning already friendly towns. As a result, within a week of the resumption of hostilities, the Derafsh Kāviān fluttered triumphant in the wind outside Aelia.
To make their own matters worse, the Romans had been unnecessarily stubborn. Dogged old Isaac, the Roman Patriarch of Jerusalem, who was backed by the local prefect, resolutely rejected with contempt the one offer for a peaceful surrender extended by the Iranians. “Christ, his Holy Church, and the Emperor Theodosius will not bow to fire-worshippers and Pharisees,” he had declared haughtily. Then and there, the Shahrbaraz commenced the city’s siege for three weeks, while Binyamin’s connections within Jerusalem worked incessantly. And now, at dusk on the day that the Qaisar Maurice had decreed as the Dormition of the woman the Christians worshipped as the God-bearer [1], the Iranians were first setting foot in Jerusalem.
“Men, ready to march!” The Boar of the Kingdom’s order was sudden, but precise, as it was often his style. Navid tightened his grip on the reins, readying his horse. All around him, the rest of the Zhayedan did the same.
“The Christian dogs have contemptuously rejected the generous overture that the Shahanshah extended!” the Shahrbaraz bellowed. “Let us show them how the Spah treats those who attempt to resist its unstoppable march!”
The ensuing war cry deafened them all shortly, and elevated their spirits, inspiring them for the approaching carnage. With an almost casual trot, the general’s bodyguard, suited in full battle armor, marched towards the gaping gate, the scene of dwindling combat, behind the eager ranks of infantrymen. Directly above, on the gate tower, the scarce remaining Roman archers fired at will, in erratic and frantic volleys, hitting almost no one. Instead, well aimed and skilled barrages from the veteran hands of the Kamandaran inexorably extinguished their lives, one by one.
The sight within the violated walls was one already familiar to Navid. He had seen it numerous times as he rode across Mesopotamia, into Syria and now in Palestine; every city that resisted the Iranian advance was punished for their obstinacy and had loyalty branded upon them with burning iron. The corpses of soldiers sprawled about; the valiant, but hopeless, defenders still fighting; and fleeing civilians fanning out in confusion through the streets, followed closely by their conquerors.
“Remember!” their leader barked. “The Roman Cross is to be seized intact and brought directly to me!”
The Zhayedan’s mission had been decided even before the start of the blockade. To crush the enemy’s morale, Khosrau had expressly demanded that the Immortals fetch the holiest of Christian relics and transport it speedily to the Royal Capital. [2] With this, the Shah hoped to prove his superiority not only over Iran’s mortal enemies, but over their tutelary deities as well.
Upon crossing the gate, Navid turned left immediately, skirting the imposing Temple Mount before him, the first of the expected landmarks. The Jewish spies had disclosed the location of the Church where the artifact was stored to the Shahrbaraz, but, in any case, the grand structure should not be too difficult to find, he reasoned.
He did not have to fight his way through the fleeing throngs, as there was no further organized opposition. Instead, most people, Romans and Iranians, were “flowing” in the same directions, as a massive river; some towards some unknown point of escape out to the west, others in search of captives and booty.
Within the hour, his detachment was stopping before the ornate iron fence of a towering edifice. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was a vast complex that extended well beyond the main church itself, built atop the hill where the Christian God was killed. It included an extensive inner courtyard, two ancillary chapels, and the large Anastasis hall, where the tomb of Jesus lay. Altogether, the compound was the largest religious structure in all of Palestine.
A silent nod on their general’s part was sufficient for four of the men to tie ropes to their saddles, pull the gate open, and set about occupying the vacant courtyard. It was not long before the patio was full of not only the Immortals, but also groups of Paighan infantryman, Jewish irregulars, and mounted Turkish auxiliaries. Amidst the turmoil, the Shahrbaraz unceremoniously dismounted, climbed up the few stone steps, and banged his steel wrapped fist three times on the bronze wrapped wooden doors.
“Open the gates!” he barked in Greek. “Open at once, or this building and everything in it will be considered fair spoils of war!”
Navid focused his gaze on the portal, half expecting a band of Christian zealots to usher out, willing to die in defense of their hallowed shrine. But the entrance remained shut. Instead, a handful of desperate Roman soldiers, who bore all the signs of having fought near the breach, charged against them from the street, shield-less and swords on hand.
They did not make it far. With a quick spin, another Zhayedan mowed down two of them, and dispatched a third with a rapid thrust of his blade to the neck. The rest were mobbed by the Paighan foot soldiers and the Jews, in a less elegant, but just as efficient, manner. In all, within two minutes, all the enemy soldiers lay dead, without a single Iranian being hurt.
The Eranspahbod, who had remained indifferent to the small skirmish, pounded on the gates a second time, and repeated his warning, with the same results. Livid, and climbing back upon his charger with a snarl, he waved to the axe men at the ready to force entry open.
Under repeated blows the doors shuddered and, ultimately when they crashed open, the Iranians burst into the building as if it were an open space. Within, amidst the vesper services, frightened Christian nuns, monks, and priests, alongside common citizens who had sought refuge in their temple, tried to scatter, visibly frightened, and flee beyond the main shrine into the buildings beyond the inner courtyard. With the onset of panic, some of the newer, auxiliary horsemen, who had arrived alongside the recent Jewish levies, quickly dismounted and chased after the fairer maidens there present. For his part, Navid, whose strict discipline forbade him to act in a similar fashion, and who could always purchase comparable pleasures afterwards, focused on the task at hand. Spurring his steed on, he advanced towards the far end of the sanctuary, where the golden table with the reliquary was allegedly placed, in front of a baroque silver iconostasis.
However, unlike many of the churches he had encountered in other cities that were captured, he came across a peculiar scene on reaching his destination. The officiating priests, excepting a couple who did flee, remained and continued with the ceremony, seemingly unperturbed. The Zhayedhan, and himself included, stopped and gaped at the scene with no small degree of astonishment. But their commander was undeterred.
“Arrest those men!”
The Christians persisted and continued on until they were apprehended one by one, bound, and carried off to the outer patio. Yet, the object they sought did not await the Iranians in the sanctuary; a thorough search revealed no sign of the ornate silver chest that carried the “True” Cross within. With a flustered sight, the Shahrbaraz ordered them to move out into the inner courtyard and into the Anastasis pavilion beyond, where the priests were sure to have hidden the prize.
By now, all was chaos in the church. The terrified Christian women kept up their wailing, as they had either been left abandoned by those with them, or watched powerlessly the death of those who did attempt to defend them. Simultaneously, the little discipline of the Jewish and barbarian auxiliaries, and the newer Paighan recruits, deserted them altogether. Icons were hacked to pieces and the valuable frames and incrustations taken. The sanctuary’s treasures, the candelabra, even pieces of the altar itself, were being pried apart and seized in eager anticipation to hoard as much treasure as possible before order was restored.
“Fucking rabble,” Navid muttered to himself with disgust, turning his gaze back in the direction of his comrades. They now followed, still somewhat cautiously, those who had fled, through a large portal which had been left wide open, and immediately a large atrium surrounded by an ornate colonnade opened up before them. To the left, rose a towering cross on the spot on the rock where, purportedly, the Roman Man-God himself had been put to death, with another, smaller chapel close by. Similarly, another lesser sanctuary existed to the right. And a short distance ahead, on a slight elevation to the west, rose the Anastasis rotunda, where the “Holy Sepulcher” lay. Upon laying eyes on it, the Zhayedan scattered, no doubt, in eager anticipation at being the first to find the sought-after treasure.
Curiously, on an impulse, unlike the rest who headed towards the Anastasis, he diverted towards the ignored sanctuary on the right, accompanied by two Turks who had managed to remain with the elite soldiers. As they approached the building, however, an unexpected well-aimed arrow killed one of the barbarians instantly, hitting him flawlessly on the face, and startled the mounts, causing his own Nisean stallion to rear back and toss him onto the cobblestones.
Looking up, he noticed the culprit was a spirited, lone Rome who, from the roof of the chapel, was readying himself to loosen another projectile on the ambushed warriors. Without thinking twice, Navid picked himself up, and darted forward into portico of the building, while the Turk turned his horse in a gutless attempt to flee, only to be shot in the back, and fall dead a short distance ahead.
Barbarian coward. He unsheathed his long blade and, kicking the door open, ventured inside. The place was deserted and darkened, as no candles or lamps had been lit, and its rocky walls were mostly bare, with the exception of the odd niches, which always housed an icon. Ever cautiously, he threaded slowly, readying to finish off any would-be attackers lurking in the shadows; with each step he took, he made an effort to catch any sounds that might reveal hidden enemies lying in wait. Nevertheless, he quickly resigned to relying only on his sight, as the random noises of combat from beyond permeated even the thick walls of the chapel.
Coming into the nave, at the end of which another sumptuous altar was placed, he noticed a closed door off to the far right. The madman on top chose to make a stand here for a reason…Or maybe not… Tightening his grip on his blade, he quietly continued his search of the main body of the building, as well as the side aisles, but found nothing. He then approached the door, leant slightly against it, realized it was locked, and raised his sword in anticipation, as he forced the entrance open with another powerful kick.
Nothing…
An abandoned passageway, with two wardrobes and other useless supplies that were used during liturgy at one end, and some windows at the other, was his reward. Sighing, he almost turned to leave, before a muffled stirring sound somehow reached his ears, in spite of the commotion audible from the neighboring outside alleys. He stopped, turned around, and began to walk in slowly, determined to search the corridor.
Stopping before the first wardrobe, he readied his weapon and pulled the door open suddenly. Nothing, again. With a surveying look, he tried to determine if the noise could have come from the nearby street. Approaching one of the covered windows, he softly moved the curtain aside and, in the twilight, watched how a band of irate Jews dragged a couple of women, more than likely Romans, by their hair to some unknown destination. Exhaling loudly, he dropped the drape, and turned his attention to the second closet, before identifying yet another door at the other end of vestibule, should he need to continue with his search. Sword at hand, he proceeded to swing the cabinet’s door open.
But what he found inside disconcerted him, somewhat. Amidst shelves of unused candles, two young girls, the oldest could not have been older than ten, cowered wide eyed in terror in a corner of the crammed bureau. One clutched firmly a darkened wooden plank, whose surface was covered with several characters in different languages, amongst which Navid was moderately able to make out the Greek: Iēsûs ho Nazōraêos ho basileùs tôn Iudaéōn. The other child clung tightly to the first girl, and sat atop a silver-gilt casket whose contents were no mystery to him.
He had found what he was looking for, but was not under the circumstances he had expected. As a trained soldier of the Zhayedan, he was tasked with guarding the Saphbod’s person in battle, and thoroughly instructed in finishing off adult enemy combatants. Unsure of how to proceed, he lowered his weapon, without dropping it, and tried to remember his conversational Greek. “You…give…me?” he stuttered, as he pointed at the chest with his free hand.
The two girls broke down and began crying, puzzling the Iranian Immortal even further. Testing another approach, he removed his steel helmet and chainmail mask, revealing his face, and with a shy smile repeated his request.
But the loud thud overhead reminded him of where he was; the lone archer had been killed.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Reacting instinctively, he whirled to his side and raised his sword at the furious voice, before he realized it was speaking to him in Parsig. It was the Eranspahbod himself, accompanied by a detachment of ten men, some holding torches, standing at the hallway’s entrance.
He instantly dropped his weapon to the floor and lowered his head in deference. “My lord ...I believe the Cross has been found.”
The Shahrbaraz said nothing, as two of the soldiers approached the wardrobe and seized the girls, along with the sign and the coffer. The children screamed and even tried to fight off the soldiers, with kicks and punches, in a pointless attempt to hold onto the relics. But the King’s Boar was not having it. He gestured with his head to one of the Daylamites at his side, and the mercenary quickly drew a short dagger from his belt, which was then buried callously in each of the girls’ napes in quick succession. Within seconds, the cries had stopped, and the two lifeless bodies were placed on the cold, stony floor of the Prison of Christ.
“We’ve got what we came for,” the general said, as he turned to leave, followed by his entourage. “Make sure these trinkets leave for Tysfun tonight.”
By now, night had fallen. Left alone, Navid Magundat stood aghast, a muted protest stuck in his throat, and with and his stomach turning in revulsion, as he looked into the glazing eyes of the two dead girls lying on a pool of their mingled blood. This was an utmost alien and sickening feeling that had come over him. He was no innocent man; he knew this very well, having done his share of killing, and even raping, since the war started. But he was a professional soldier of the King of Kings; he had never personally partaken in the killing of children. And how those two little ones went down fighting, knowing fully well how they were likely to end up, sickened him even more.
Without helping himself, he dropped to his knees, and vomited.
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[1] The Dormition of the Theotokos, traditionally held on August 15th.
[2] The complex of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher was said to house all the relics of the Crucifixion: the True Cross, the Crown of Thorns, the INRI title, and the stone pillar to which Jesus was tied during his flagellation, amongst others.
Poor Jerusalem sacked- and I'm sure pious Christian Theodosius is going to be furious at the desecration of the Holy Sepulchre.
Only bit that jumped out at me in error was the use of "Turk"- considering the ethnic makeup of the steppe at the time, that's probably an anachronism or at least a term an Iranian of the time wouldn't use.
Only bit that jumped out at me in error was the use of "Turk"- considering the ethnic makeup of the steppe at the time, that's probably an anachronism or at least a term an Iranian of the time wouldn't use.
Echoing the thoughts above, Mohammed should come into play at some point, correct? He was alive by the time of the POD…
Overall, this is not a bad idea, albeit a little slow moving.
Overall, this is not a bad idea, albeit a little slow moving.
Yep, he sure will be. Though there is going to be other, more pressing issues to worry our newly resurrected Emperor.
With regards to “Turk”: Navid is applying the term liberally; all he knows is that they are barbarians from beyond the Oxus, recruited from amongst the subjects of the Turkic (Göktürk) Khagan.
How come all of my new readers get banned?
Thanks. As for Muhammad, he is indeed alive; and I said mentioned before (without any intention of offending anyone) I do believe that the “revelation” happening OTL around the time when Syria was being occupied by the Iranians, thus disrupting the established trade routes – and his livelihood – might have been an influential part in his change of vocation. Take that as you will.
Just been rereading this TL, and it's still as good as I remember it. One question I have though (my apologies if it's been answered already) is how you are deciding the age of Maurice's children, seeing as the only one we know for certain is Theodosius.
From what I've read so far, it goes:
Theodosius - b. 583/585
Tiberius - b. 592
Petros - b. 596
Anastasia - b. 595
Theoktiste - b. 598
Please correct me if I'm wrong. Still, it's just five out of nine, and TBH, I'd have thought some of them would have been a bt older. Regardless, it's your TL and I'm just being nitpicky.
From what I've read so far, it goes:
Theodosius - b. 583/585
Tiberius - b. 592
Petros - b. 596
Anastasia - b. 595
Theoktiste - b. 598
Please correct me if I'm wrong. Still, it's just five out of nine, and TBH, I'd have thought some of them would have been a bt older. Regardless, it's your TL and I'm just being nitpicky.
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