The Mauricians: A Medieval Roman novel

[Pururauka]

This is a pre-published version of my short novel: The Mauricians. Being a pre-published work, there may be changes in its content without previous notice.

© 2012 Daniel Rodriguez
All rights reserved by the author; not intended to be released for common use. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author."



Prologue:

The cool morning mist had already begun to dissipate, and the ocean was more visible with each passing minute; not bad for one of the first days of spring. The Imperial ship had been loaded and provisioned during the previous night, and the four escort ships were already waiting ahead in the distance, in the calm waters of the Propontis.

“Pope Gregory must be impatient boys, let’s not keep him waiting” said the cuirassed individual on the milk white mare.

“Yes father” was the quick reply from the two boys standing before him. One of them was distinctively older, but could not have been more than nineteen years old. The other merely a child, at best ten.

“Goodbye mother” said the younger of the two, to one of the finely dressed women at the fore of the crowd that had gathered to see them depart. She could not contain her emotions, her reddish eyes bearing witness to such a weakness, and hugged him one more time. ”I love you son, take good care of yourself. And of your brother.”

While the mother kept on talking to the boy, the opportunity was seized by the cuirassed man to dismount, take the older of the two slowly by the arm, and walk him somewhat closer to the boarding plank. He looked right into his eyes. “Theodosius, now listen to me. Although I’ve said it a thousand times, do not forget to tell Gregory that the help is coming. He must be patient; the Emperor does not forget his subjects. One more last campaign and I will have the Danube secured for at least a generation. We should be seeing each other by Christmas. Give him the gold, and that should keep him quiet for a while. And remember that you are also Emperor, act like one.”

“Yes father” Theodosius meekly replied.

“Now give your wife a last look and get going.”

Theodosius directed his steps to another of the women in the small crowd. She was slender and young, couldn’t be older than seventeen. Her dark black hair, arranged and held in place by a golden band, contrasted sharply with her pale skin. “Take care of yourself” she said softly as he came closer, followed by a smile: “My father won’t always be there.”

A chuckle came from the man behind her, her father the patrician Germanus. Theodosius also chuckled, quickly remembering how his father-in-law had saved him a few months earlier from the crowd that almost sent him to the Lord’s embrace. Constantinople could get rowdy at times, especially lately. “I will send for you soon” he said gently, while she hugged him. A short kiss followed and he turned to the ship again.

His brother Tiberius was already on board. His father Maurice, his mother Constantina, and his seven other siblings had already lined up by. More embraces followed. “I love you son, and please be careful” his mother begged one last time as he climbed on.

He turned briefly, nodding to her. His father waved, and so did everyone else in the crowd. Minutes later the board was raised, and the port workers untied the ropes securing the vessel; before long the oars began to creak, and the ship slowly pulled out of the harbor. With each row, the familiar shapes began to grow smaller. He took one last look at The City and then turned. God please keep us safe. All of us.


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The POD for the whole story would be here, late March of 602. In OTL Theodosius and Tiberius never leave Constantinople.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 1 -I-​

The pain was unbearable; he was paralyzed and could barely move. Lord, please forgive my family, he thought once again. Spare them. They had not made it far at all since they fled Constantinople, the boat they had escaped in had drifted all the way to Nicomedia, and in three days they had only made it to Chalcedon. The monks there had agreed to give them sanctuary while his praetorian prefect Constantine Lardys had fled to Persia. He had just given in to his wife’s demands; he had saved Chosroes once; now it was time to return the favor.

Constantina had also suggested fleeing to Italy instead, but he realized the impossibility of making that trip under the circumstances. In fact if his daughter-in-law Irene [1] and his oldest daughter Anastasia could make it out of Thessalonica would be a miracle indeed. Indeed it was already a miracle that they were not in The City at all when the rebels began to march on it, having left just two weeks before on a pilgrimage to the church of the Panagia Theotokos.

The loud noises and shouts interrupted his thoughts. At last they’ve come. Someone began pounding on the door. “Maurice. They’ve founds us!” It was his wife.
He couldn’t move. He tried to straighten up, to get up from the makeshift cot, but to no avail. Then the door opened. Constantina stared at him in despair. Overcoming her initial paralysis she ran up to him to help him sit up. “Where is he?” someone shouted from the corridor. “This is a house of God. You cannot barge in here with your swords unsheathed, stop!” someone else protested. No further protests were heard.

The sound of the sandals against the rock slabs on the floor approached. Then they saw them; five soldiers, two of them swords on hand, walked in the room. Constantina broke into tears. “Flavius Maurice Tiberius you are under arrest by order of the Emperor” said the one at the front. Two of the men walked up to him and hauled him to his feet. He felt as if a sword had split his spine open. He cried out in pain. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.

The two captors thrust their arms between his own arms and his ribcage and carried him along. His feet dragged on the slabs. Another soldier grabbed his wife by the arm and dragged her along. As they left the room he saw yet another soldier holding a monk against the wall his sword up to the holy man’s throat; he was surely the one that had uttered the futile remonstration.

He put his head down again, closing his eyes. You are just oh Lord, and just are your judgments. They came out into the courtyard of the monastery. His children were already there, crying. The wind rustled through the branches of the nearby tree, making the leaves whisper. Constantina would not stop crying.

“Flavius Maurice, you and your cursed seed have been condemned to die for your crimes against the empire and the Roman people, by order of our Lord Phocas Augustus” he heard. He looked up and saw a young man standing there in an officer’s uniform. He recognized him as Alexander [2], one of the officers that had come to Constantinople to petition on the rebels’ behalf. You are just oh Lord, and just are your judgments.

“Any last words before I carry out the sentence?” Alexander inquired, sardonically.

“Please have mercy on my children!” screamed Constantina, hurling herself at the officer’s feet. “Please they are innocent, they had nothing to do with this!”

Alexander took a step back with a look of disgust in his face. He signaled to two of the men standing on the sidelines. They came and lift her up, carrying her back to her husband’s side.

“Let us begin!” Maurice heard. The soldier holding him up to his left grabbed him by the lower jaw, holding his head up.

He saw his sons Petrus, Paulus, Justinus, and Justinianus dragged to the middle of the courtyard, close to a wooden block. Yet another soldier walked up, sword drawn. All of them crying, a sad spectacle indeed; Petrus, the oldest, was only eight years old.

One of the guards holding the children brought Petrus up to the block and made him kneel before it. “No, please!” Maurice could hear his son pleading. “You are just oh Lord, and just are your judgments” he said out loud impassively.

Down went the sword, and in an instant the child’s life was extinguished. Constantina screamed in horror struggling to break free from her captors. Maurice closed his eyes. “Open your eyes, you coward” said the same soldier holding his head up as he kneed him in the back. Once again he felt as if a sword had split his spine open. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.

The same gruesome execution took place three more times. “Your wife and your daughters will be spared provided they dedicate their lives to almighty God” announced Alexander, “Phocas is merciful.”

“You are just oh Lord, and just are your judgments” Maurice replied.

“Bring him over” the officer ordered. The two men that had been holding him up hauled him to the chopping block. The sun shone on the fresh blood gathered nearby, making him narrow his eyes. He was made to kneel, his head was pushed onto the block. In the background Constantina continued to cry out “No, no…”

He felt the rustic monastic tunic he was donning rub against his pain-wrecked shoulders. The wind rustled the leaves in the nearby tree again; he took a deep breath of it. You are just oh Lord, and just are your judgments. The executioner raised the sword. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison.

He heard the whistle of the blade cutting through the air on its way down. He felt the blood of his children on his neck. Kyrie eleison. Theodosius may God bless you.

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[1] We don’t know what the name of Theodosius’ wife was IOTL.
[2] IOTL Alexander was one of the rebel commanders that supported Phocas. He was later tasked with executing Theodosius and Constantine Lardys personally. When rumors spread about Theodosius possible escape, Phocas had him executed.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 1 -II-​

The morning was as cloudy as any during winter time. The sea breeze whipped its brine air against his face, while four seagulls cackled overhead. He could actually taste the salt in the air. He remembered for a while how once when he was seven, he had spent a few days with his father, walking on the beaches by Cyzicus, while he was on his way east, inhaling that same air. You need to know Theodosius; if I don’t come back you need to take care of your mother. And of baby Tiberius. He remembered Tiberius then. ‘Yes father’ he had said then, like many other a time. But how have things changed now.

Until recently Carthage had proven to be just more of what he had already grown used to in The City, and this had not been the first time he was in the African capital. Interestingly, this last trip had been of his own accord, not planned by his father. Not only had he begun to look after Italy’s problems; his diplomatic expeditions to the Moorish tribes had actually paid off: the prestige of a Roman Emperor dealing directly with them had certainly been an advantage. But now he had hurried back to the city. And if he had not known any better, it could have been just any other day. The forum was bustling with merchants, the streets were packed with the ragged masses, the courtiers adulating as ever at the municipal palace, all of this, familiar. The port was once again lively with activity; ships from the East and the West; camels and wheat going one way, silk and clothing coming the other way. As always.

“Domine they are here, we must hurry” he heard next to him. Procopius’ [1] horse was breathing heavily, standing next to his own horse. The city had been tense since the first news of the revolt had arrived. With each new ship, came tidings of the worsening situation. Trusting on anyone had become a nerve-wrecking liability. The Carthaginian patrician had been on watch for an entire week now, keeping him informed of any news that would arrive.
Irene, thank God. He sighed with relief as he galloped following Procopius’s own horse.

By the time they got to the docks, the two merchant ships had already been safely fastened to the pier and the passengers had begun to get out; the men looking nervously around, the women crying on seeing relatives and friends.

“Make way! Make way for the Emperor!” shouted Procopius. The guards were already at their posts by the ships, and began to shove the refugees to the sides on hearing their orders. Theodosius jumped off his horse and ran to the boarding plank of the closest ship, followed closely by the patrician. On seeing him on board one of the sailors mumbled something in Coptic, and pointed to the cabin. Theodosius walked right past him, ignoring him, and he stopped by the cabin door. Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison! time and again in his head. He knocked.

The door creaked open, and an old woman peeked out, through the crack. “Imperator!” she shouted as she flung the door open. He could hear the sobs inside, and stepped in, past the woman.

“Theodosius!” the girl cried on seeing him and before bursting into tears once again. Her dark black hair down, unkempt; her eyes red and swollen, quite a contrast from the last time he had seen her before leaving. Irene. “They’re all dead! He killed them all! I could only save Anastasia! I’m so sorry!” Although she kept crying, sobbing, she stopped talking once he hugged her. “Calm down” he whispered, “you’re with me now.” He kissed her. Her cries continued.

“Theodosius?” he heard the little voice, from around the corner of the doorway. Procopius went around and came back smiling, holding little Anastasia by the hand. On seeing her brother she broke into tears as well. “Ani!” he said, letting go of his wife for a moment. The seven year old girl ran up to him, and hugged him. “I’m so glad to see you!” “Me too!” he said. You’re safe now. “Procopius, please take them to the palace; I’ll be there shortly, after I speak to John [2].” Procopius nodded, and taking Anastasia by the hand went out of the room. After kissing him one more time, Irene followed, still looking at him as she departed. “I’ll be there shortly, don’t worry” he reassured her. She nodded quietly. Only then he noticed the other three, younger women in waiting that had been in the room with them. They all followed Irene.

“Kyrie, it is good to see you” the voice seemed to come from the dark corner of the room, but to him it was familiar ever since childhood. “Are there any more ships coming John?” Theodosius asked dryly, turning in the direction of the voice.

“None that I know of. The other two that were supposed to follow us haven’t been seen for a week. They must have overtaken them near Crete.” John said as he stepped into the light, still wearing the characteristic outfit of an excubitor. “The entire empire is in utter chaos, there is talk that the Persians might attack…”

Theodosius remained silent, submersed in his thoughts, as the ship rocked slightly.

“Kyrie, your father was arrested near Nicomedia. When we left Thessalonica there was word that our August lord was dead. That the usurper had him beheaded, and your mother is being kept prisoner.”

“So I heard…” Theodosius clenched his fist. Fucking bastard. It was only a miracle that the West had not accepted Phocas as of yet. It seemed that the rest of the world had. But men can test God’s patience. “If it’s so let’s stop wasting our time. My brother is still in Italy and I don’t want to risk him falling in the wrong hands. The Exarch Heraclius is waiting for us at the palace.” He remembered his father. And remember that you are also Emperor, act like one.

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​

[1] One of the fictional characters that I will be introducing.
[2] A second fictional character.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 1 -III-

​

“One can never know what these fucking Romans will do. Romans against Romans. And here we are, in the middle.” Godepert spat on the ground, as he concluded. The Lombard opposite to him, across the fire, looked passively on, listening while he was gently tugging on his long blonde beard. “I don’t even understand how Agiluf could have betrayed us, he sold us like dogs!” he continued. “Be quiet” was Euin’s smooth reply, still tugging on his beard, as two Roman soldiers walked past them, not stopping.

“What for? These dogs wouldn’t even know what we are saying!” was his answer, as he prodded the fire, while the flames danced on. A soft wind began to blow on the field, combing the long grass of the fields. The setting sun colored the sky with a light purple tone.

But Godepert had had a good reason to despise the so-called king of the Lombards, Agiluf. Had he not betrayed the cause? Thanks to him the duchies of Beneventum and Spoletium were lost. Theodelap had gotten too caught up fighting that stupid brother of his, as if the duchy was their own kingdom. May they both rot in hell. Theodosius and his Roman troops had isolated them and made short work of them, with no forthcoming help from the king.

However, Agiluf’s lowest point had come later. The Emperor Theodosius had sent his new magister militum per Italiam, the younger Heraclius, son of the African Exarch, to present evidence of a “plot” by Arechis, duke of Beneventum, to overthrow him and make himself king of all the Lombards. Why would he ever believe the Roman lies? But believe he had. And it would be a sin to lie and say that the Roman help defeated Arechis, no, it had been Agiluf’s own Lombards. The damned Catholic king. The power vacuum in Beneventum had then been quickly filled by the Roman Caesar.

“Euin, the scouts have returned and reported large columns approaching from the east. Nicetas orders that you move your men into the city” said a voice interrupting Godepert’s thoughts. “Will do” answered the older Lombard to the Roman that had walked up to them.

“Why can’t we go out and meet them in the field like men!” Godepert cut in. Such cowardice is astounding. The Roman turned to look down at him. “That’s difference between Romans and savages” he answered arrogantly.

Godepert stood up slowly, breathing in as he did so, and then before the soldier could react, he punched him right in the middle of the face, knocking him down. He could feel the crunching sound the Roman’s nose made on encountering his fist. “The difference between men and women rather, you bastard.”

The Roman crawled back, and got up, holding his right hand up to his bleeding nose, then ran towards the city gate. All around them the men, Romans and Lombards, had started to do the same, albeit in a slower manner. “We better get going” said Euin, pushing dirt onto the fire with his right foot, chuckling; “Faroald get your men going!” he shouted to the smaller group of Lombards close by. One of them stood up and waved.

Taking Dyrrachium had been relatively easy. They were simply not expected, since Phocas’ troops had imagined Theodosius too weak to do anything except guard his own borders. Thus, when the western Romans disembarked and appeared before the walls, with a Lombard contingent thanks to Agiluf, and demanded in the name of the rightful Emperor that the city surrendered, no great carnage ensued; the city gates were opened. Some men had fled, perhaps to let Phocas’ men know. But no army had come to present fight so far, and since the first set of supplies and reinforcements had already arrived, preparations were being made by Nicetas, commander of the force and nephew of the Exarch Heraclius, to continue the advance inland, with the goal of reaching Thessalonica, before summer’s end. Shortly after their departure the young Emperor would arrive with a smaller force for mop up operations.

The dust clouds began to materialize in the horizon, to the east. “You wanted a fight Godepert? inquired Euin, smiling, as they both got up and started to walk towards the walls, fastening their swords to their belts.

“About damn time” he replied as he turned to see the enemy advancing. “All we’ll need to do is pack a couple of punches like the one I gave that girl earlier and the war is won.”

Euin tittered slightly. “Ah” he said.

“For all I care we can forget about Agiluf and goddamn Italy, we got enough men here to create our own duchy, right?” Godepert rebutted in an ironic tone.

“Right…”said Euin thoughtfully as they approached the gate and gave the ever larger approaching force a last look. “Right…” he repeated once more.

The Roman force had by then become fully visible, marching in neat ranks, their banners waving in the air, their helmets and weapons glistening golden with the setting sun. Behind the infantry, surrounded by the cavalry, the shapes of the siege engines were dim. “This is a bad idea. Walls are a bad idea” Godepert continued once inside. We’re caged in.

They continued walking on, beginning to navigate the narrow streets, but before long they were intercepted. “Euin, your detachment will guard the southern gate, and arrange for group of a thousand men to be well rested. We’ll sortie out in two days and clear the fields.” The Lombards looked in front of them, and saw the leader of the expedition mounted on a horse, Nicetas surrounded by his guard, addressing them directly. Euin and Godepert were both under the command of Arioald, a Lombard who had proven his loyalty to Theodosius during the fall of Spoletium. If the Roman supreme commander was speaking to them … then things might get complicated… oh shit…

“Don’t worry dux, we’ll be ready as loyal soldiers of the Emperor” informed him Euin in Latin, with a straight face. Godepert couldn’t hold back a grin, his black mustache rising slightly to reveal his uneven-toothed smile. He caressed the handle of the sword that hung from his belt. Well Romans, let’s see how well you can fight.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 1 -IV-

​

The stench of burning flesh still permeated the area. Some of the courtiers quietly continued to stare in disbelief. The Empress smacked her red lips in disgust. “Are we done here?” she asked, yawning, her golden robes fluttering as she reached to cover her mouth. Down in the arena under the gaze of the Emperor’s bronze statue, the charred corpse was still smoldering, tied to the black stake behind it. She was right. Good God this is such a bore.

“He is not going anywhere. Let’s go.” Phocas got up from the throne at the imperial box, and began to lead the parade back to the great palace. The crowd that had assembled there began to disperse, as far as they were concerned they had come to watch one more spectacle at the Hippodrome, but with many less cheers than usual, mostly of all them coming from members of the Blue deme. Nonetheless, burning Narses [1] at the stake had been necessary, Phocas was Emperor now. No need to be loyal to a dead man. Or a child.

The situation was beginning to worry him. His general Germanus [2] was dead, and Narses had had the nerve to come to Constantinople on behalf of the Persians, and purportedly of Theodosius, after betraying him. Betraying me, the one Augustus. King Chosroes had initiated an offensive to avenge his “friend and father Maurice” and soon after, thanks to Narses’ defection, Edessa had been turned over to the Persians and Mesopotamia had been overrun, with only some strongholds, like Dara, resisting. Now Armenia, the Anatolian provinces, and Syria were threatened. The fact that half his armies were along the Danube did not help either. Africa had rebelled against him, and then Italy. Even the footholds leftover in Spania had followed suit. Theodosius’ forces had soon landed and taken Dyrrachium earlier in the year, against all of his own advisors’ predictions, but had been annihilated shortly after when Phocas’ veteran army arrived from Illyricum. It was a bluff that had paid off; the Avars did not make a move, while they very well could have. And Nicetas’ head, or rather skull now, still adorned the Forum of Constantine. Nevertheless, when he tried to take the initiative his luck had proven just as good as the rebels’. His hastily assembled navy was shattered by a sudden storm along the way and then defeated by the African fleet when trying to cross the Adriatic; then a small army sent overland towards Italy was wiped out by the Avars, who were also getting restless, in spite of the subsidies he had given them. Furthermore, the Lombards had begun to negotiate with the “child:” Lombard troops had been with Theodosius’ men at Dyrrachium. Christe eleison! he thought.

Maurice had been a terrible ruler. He never understood the men, he just could not have. Asking them to winter in the middle of nowhere? His tightfistedness served him right in the end. But why would there be anyone still loyal to his house then? Hadn’t his easy downfall been proof enough of his illegitimacy? Of God’s displeasure? Phocas knew that he had now set things right; after all of the back pay and gratuities he had handed out to the armies; there could be no doubt of their loyalty to him. Having arrived at the palace, traversing the passageway which linked it to the Hippodrome, his thoughts were broken up. “Kyrie, the ambassador awaits” the bowing guard by the Palace gate informed him. Phocas looked at him briefly, while he was still down. Dirty peasant. That could have been him however. That was me, a year ago. He had barely had any time to ponder on his personal success with the war and all. Now an Emperor. Another guard pushed open the golden twin doors.

But now he thought he had finally an opportunity to secure the throne and wipe out Maurice’s memory forever. To deal with the child and even his damned Langobardi. Or at least distract Theodosius long enough to stabilize the east. When war fails, there is always diplomacy. “Ave Caesar!” saluted the excubitors in Latin as Phocas entered the audience room, walking past the porphyry pillars on his way to the twin throne, his wife Leontia following closely behind. “Let the Frank in” he ordered as he sat down.

The doors were opened and in came a blonde man with rather long hair tied on the back; long mustaches, seemingly intent on trying to compete with his hair in length, clung around his upper lip. The bluish tunic he sported seemed altogether too small for him; obviously a rash purchase once he arrived at The City. Perhaps he had deemed his original garments inappropriate for the occasion.

“Hail Emperor!” saluted the Frankish ambassador in heavily accented Greek, bowing down. “My lord Theuderic [3] send his greetings.”

“May God bless your king, Our vassal” answered Phocas.

The Frank lost no time. “My lord know of the issues the Emperor have in Italy and he want to be of assistance to the Empire. In exchange for small tribute, token of gratitude, as it be…the King know he be needed…” he proposed as he straightened back up.

“How dare you dirty animal! We’ll have you flogged and send your head to your king stuffed with our reply. We do not need his meager help, nor his blackmails!” The Emperor had jumped to his feet before he even noticed it, bellowing all those words. The scar on his face, turned a slight purple, and the color in his reddening face seemed to compete with his red hair and beard. The pendilia hanging from the crown continued to sway, back and forth. Softly his wife tapped his hand. He glanced at her. Her hazel eyes pierced his. She nodded gently. I know. The Frankish ambassador continued to observe him, anxiously.

He sat back down. “Nonetheless We are graceful, and We would gladly concede Our blessing on Frankish efforts to bring Italy and the West back to a state of rightful obedience. Loyalty always has its rewards.”

The Frank’s face lit up. “Indeed mighty lord. And the Franks be the Empire’s very loyal allies.”

“We shall seal our bargain with ten thousand solidi. Tell Theuderic that thirty thousand more will come once he begins operations and 150,000 when he sends Us Theodosius’ head. Be gone.” Phocas stood up to leave.

“Your will b...be...be done Emperor we will advance with the onset of spring and the clearing of the Alpine passes” stuttered the Frank, stupefied, as he took a few steps back.

Phocas left the audience room, the Empress next to him, and both followed by a small detachment of excubitors. These savages should stick to their tongue and seek out Roman translators. “Now that Narses has been disposed of, you should have Alexander deal with the rest of them” Leontia suggested, interrupting his thoughts once again. He assented, nodding silently. Alexander, yes. And nevertheless the Franks might prove useful. Hopefully enough savages could be mustered to quell Theodosius’ little revolt and allow him to refocus on the east. The East, damn!

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​

[1] Commander of the Mesopotamian armies. IOTL he led a rebellion against Phocas, from the city of Edessa, which was supported by Khosrau II; after defeating troops sent against him, he was lured by treachery back to Constantinople, where he was burned alive. In this TL he does likewise.
[2] The general whom Phocas designated to fight Narses; he was defeated in a battle near Constantina (modern Viranşehir) and died a few days later from his wounds.
[3] Theuderic II, king of the Burgundy (595-613) and of Austrasia (612-613.)

 

[Pururauka]

For a better audio-visual experience while reading the first half of this update I suggest you play this in the background:

http://youtu.be/WhP654dN3Ww
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Chapter 2 -I-
​

Inveni David, Servum Meum…

The final chant of the funeral mass echoed through the nave and the down the aisles of Saint Peter’s Basilica. The Emperor Theodosius, his magister militum Heraclius, the Exarch of Ravenna Callinicus, and the patrician Procopius were on the first row.

…oleo sancto meo unxi eum…

A few feet in front of them, below the mosaic of Christ enthroned, stood the golden cross of Justin. At the foot of the cross lay a lavish casket; in it was the body of the soon to be Saint Gregory.

…Manus enim mea auxiliabitur ei…

With the death of Pope Gregory Theodosius had lost a most valuable ally. Ever since his arrival to Italy two years before, with the exception of Procopius that is, no one had looked after his, and thus imperial, interests so faithfully. Maybe the Pope had hoped to influence heavily the mind of the future emperor, for his own benefit. Perhaps he wanted to be in a better standing with Maurice. Possibly, it was that Theodosius had wholeheartedly supported the Pope’s innovative reforms. But maybe, just maybe he had been just happy to see some gold.

…et brachium meum confortabit eum…

While Theodosius had traveled to Carthage, and at the time of Phocas’ rebellion, Gregory had personally looked after Tiberius, and the Pope’s loyalty had been crucial in ensuring Italy’s allegiance and the precarious neutrality of the barbarian west. He had even helped broker the peace between him and Agiluf (surprisingly the Lombard king was a Catholic,) which had led to the consolidation of the imperial recovery of southern Italy.

…Nihil proficiet inimicus in eo…

Theodosius continued to ponder his options. The defeat of his force at Dyrrachium the year before had been a severe setback. In fact, he had pinned all of his hopes on it. Twelve thousand men from Africa and Italy, along with the auxiliary Lombard and Berber troops had been miserably lost. He had no hope of assembling a comparable force for years. It was a miracle that the hastily combined naval force had been able to stop Phocas’ own navy in spite of it being scattered by a storm. Actually, Gregory had helped then too; by offering a thanksgiving mass after the victory. In his last days, sensing death on him, the Pope had done the last thing he could have, to aid Theodosius’ cause: he excommunicate Phocas, and absolved all of those who rose in revolt against him. Theodosius still thought it to be a final, vindictive farewell from the Pope; Phocas had refused to chastise the Patriarch of Constantinople, Cyriacus, for assuming the title of oikoumenos, and had failed to attribute it to Rome instead. The Pope had been a loyal friend indeed. Gregory please intercede before God for me.

…et filius iniquitatis non apponet nocere ei.

The mass ended. Following the procession of church officials, Gregory’s casket began to be carried towards the catacomb in which a marble sarcophagus awaited at the end of one of the aisles, well past the altar’s Solomonic columns. Quietly, Theodosius followed with his retinue. In an hour it was over. The emperor exited the church, and the throngs that had assembled outside of it were already dispersing. Procopius approached him, uttering in a soft tone “Domine, I understand that you are still grieving Gregory. We all are, but Heraclius must confer with you at the palace.” Theodosius directed a glance at the magister. He assented. “Very well then let’s go.”

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​

Whenever he stopped at Rome the urban prefect’s palace had become Theodosius’ unofficial residence. After they had arrived from the church and settled down in one of the ample rooms, with a balcony view of the old forum, the four men gathered around on resting couches to hear Heraclius’ points.

“Imperator, although the entire Christian world grieves for the loss of our Pope, the war against Phocas continues. He has not moved against us in almost a year, and word has reached us that Chosroes has almost succeeding in seizing Mesopotamia, after Narses’ failed revolt in your favor. With the death of Narses we have lost an important potential supporter, but the tyrant is also running out of men; his newest general Leontius has been defeated, and Germanus is dead. My father, however, proposes a new plan, ready for your Excellency’s approval.” The magister proceeded to unroll on the center table the parchment that he held in his hand. It was a map.

Silence followed in the room. “Well?” Theodosius asked.

“He proposed a deal with Witteric, the new king of the Visigoths. In exchange for troops he suggests we yield Carthago Spartaria and the rest of Spania.” Heraclius was visibly shaken at this point, while everyone turned eyes to Theodosius. “Go on” was all he said, his eyes still fixed on the map.

“In combination with whatever other troops we can manage we should launch a two pronged assault. An overland force supported by a small fleet should advance towards Egypt from Carthage. The threat of losing the province should incite popular revolts in the capital. A second force should then head to Crete, and secure it as a base of operations against Constantinople. We expect that Phocas efforts will be concentrated on the East, Syria perhaps, now exposed by the loss of Mesopotamia.”

“How many men are we asking the Visigoths for?” inquired Callinicus.

“Well, in exchange for the whole province we can ask for no less than twenty thousand.”

“Ha! That’s impossible, even if they had that many they would prefer to throw them against our cities there rather than send them to the other end of the world on our behalf!” retorted the exarch. Ever since Heraclius had been created magister militum, Callinicus had been annoyed. He felt that there was an overlapping of their military functions in Italy. What for?

“Heraclius, what if we don’t get that many troops from the Visigoths? How many could we muster on our own?” Theodosius asked, finally looking up.

“Levying the Italians, and exhausting all the African garrisons perhaps, ten thousand, but it would expose us to the Lombards and the Berbers, and if they wish so, they could easily destroy our existing bases” responded the magister.

Theodosius got up from the couch, and started for the balcony, taking slow, long steps. “Spania is as good as lost. We can give it to the Visigoths and pull the troops stationed there, giving us an additional couple of thousand men. But I would like to keep Spartaria, for the future. I don’t expect them to give us over ten thousand auxiliaries, thus we must plan with those figures. I will go see Agiluf myself and perhaps we can ask him for some troops as well; after all the Lombards lost at Dyrrachium were mostly captives from Beneventum and Spoletium.”

“Domine, the Lombard king will want Ravenna in exchange for that kind of help” Callinicus objected.

“We’ll just have to find a way around that, maybe for a more modest contribution on his part” interjected Procopius. A few more moments of silence followed.

I have to win this war: for my father, my mother, Tiberius, Anastasia, and now that Irene is expecting…

“Heraclius, tell your father to begin assembling the maximum amount of troops he can spare without endangering the border towns. Carthage itself can have its garrison cut down; for now the sea is ours. Callinicus, I want you to do the same. Naples and Tarentum can be emptied, concentrate the remaining men in Spoletium, Beneventum, Capua and Rome. Ravenna and Perugia are to remain as they are, and I want you to arrange for a personal meeting with Agiluf.”

Both of the addressed men replied with their consents, when suddenly a hurried knock was heard on the heavy oak door, and as it creaked open, in came the Emperor’s friend, John the excubitor, gasping for breath.

“What’s the matter with you?” bawled Callinicus.

“Kyr…Kyrie…Theo…Theodosius…Agiluf has sent…urgent messages. He requests…”A sudden cough kept him from completing the sentence. All of those present ran to him, Theodosius helping him sit down on the floor, “what did you say John?”

“Agiluf wan… wants to see you. Theu…Theuderic and his Franks are besieging Milan.”

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 2 -II-

​

Doryphoros Menander gave one last look to the group of bucellarii that was with him. The night was clear, with a full moon; they probably would not have needed the torches. But precautions never hurt. He felt satisfied that their face denoted a serene confidence. He knew very well what could happen with men who lost their nerve.

The City had calmed down since the initial euphoria that had followed Phocas’ coronation and entrance. The spirit shown by the crowds then could still ring in his ears when they were shown the heads of Maurice and Constantine Lardys, to the shouts of “Tu vincas Phocas!” over and over.

Nonetheless, the fact that one of the deposed emperor’s children still lived caused some complications. And there were always opportunists who would take advantage of times of crisis, and it was because of that, that he had to carry out missions such as this. His troop turned onto a minor street off of the Makros Embolos, towards the Perama quarter, and came upon one of the one of the most affluent areas of The City. Of course. With him at the front, the troop of thirty men marched towards the front of the home in an orderly fashion. Before the two guards at the gates could react, the bucellarii’s swords were pointing at them. Realizing the futility of a fight, they laid down their spears and shields. Not a word was said; by the pale moonlight and the oscillating torchlight, Menander could distinguish their confusion.

He gestured to one of the men behind him, and the soldier approach him with a pot with dirt in it. The men were set; four waiting at each corner, and six more had already entered the side gardens. “Now!” ordered the leader while the men with him busted the main door open. From inside the house came the shouts of women, perhaps three or more, following the hard footsteps of his men. Noises of convulsion, something shattering, perhaps an antique. What a shame.

A heavy set man dashed in from the hallway. “My master is not home!” he exclaimed while trying to block the access. The doryphoros had no patience for him, let alone believe him. With a strong push he shoved the man aside and continued running in, followed by five of his men. Once he made it to the inner courtyard they spread out opening each door that they found.

“Doryphore!” he heard one of the men calling.

He left the darkened room he was in, headed to where the shout came from. In it a man was struggling with his soldier while a little further ahead, in the fireplace there was smoke and a small flame that had just started. Why do they ever think they can get away? He ran past the two of them and dumped the dirt on top of the nascent flames. By then more of his men had entered the chamber and had the man subdued. Menander approached him and punched him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him; his will to fight evaporated.

Once he had calmed, the men pulled a chair out and sat him down, still restraining him. Menander observed the surroundings, browsing through the books there present.

“You have quite an impressive collection of military history general” he told him after a few minutes.

“Fuck you, Greek motherfucker!” answered the strategos John, the so-called Mystacon, in Latin. “This is an outrage and you know it!”

Menander exhaled, loudly, while he put back a volume, also in Latin, of Julius Caesar’s Gallic wars. Let us dance then, he thought to himself. He went to the fireplace and began to pull out whatever parchments remained of the fire, and to spread them out. It was enough.

“You are absolutely right my Stratege, this tyrant will lead us to perdition…” he read in a loud voice, switching the conversation back to Greek again, “…make contact with the exarchs and Theodosius himself…” He paused for a moment. “I don’t know, sir from what I can tell there are too many compromising things here...”

“It doesn’t prove anything!” protested the Mystacon, defiant.

The doryphoros exhaled heavily again, and walked up to the balcony. He then walked back in and pulled out one of the sitting couches there present and placed it closer to the strategos. He rested his elbows on his knees and crossed his fingers in front of his face. “I don’t understand stratege. You were a man loyal to the empire, the senate, and the people. Thrace, Persia, Blarathon.”

“Right, and while I was out there exposing my life, you were surely playing turncoat, plotting against your Emperor and terrorizing innocent civilians.”

The soldier opened his hands and pointed to the wall, where there was fastened a long Avar sword, following which he pulled his left sleeve up, to expose a long, thick scar. The strategos looked on, and kept quiet. He knew what that meant. Menander was no stranger to carrying the empire’s banners to distant lands.

He got up again. “We have witnesses that have sworn on God and his holy Mother that you were planning to betray the empire…”

The strategos recovered some of his vigor. “I will not allow you to say that! There is nothing more patriotic than to fight for the one and true Emperor and to cast that mad tyrant from power!”

Menander walked back towards the strategos and slapped him hard. The men kept John restrained. “Please have the appropriate manners when talking about our Emperor. After all he has brought us victory after victory; did he not free us from the real tyrant Maurice, who ignored the men and starved the people?”

Mystacon could not contain a laugh. “Victory? Don’t tell me that you believe the nonsense that they have been announcing during the races.” He stopped to spit some blood. “We did not land in Italy, and the army of the north was annihilated by the Avars. And the Persians have overrun Mesopotamia, and already have their sights set on the rest of Anatolia.”

Another slap. “Stratege, that is called defeatism and to spread lies. As it were, that should be reason enough to take you to a dungeon. But insurrection…” Menander paused letting him know what would come.

“No...”

“I am sorry stratege but that is the way it is. But it wouldn’t be good for the morale of the men that one of the best of their leaders in the Persian wars was tried and beheaded publically. It wouldn’t be proper.” Mystacon breathed out, relieved. What a shame. “That is why my commander Alexander is giving you an option to save your honor” he added as he placed a small glass vial with a dark liquid on the small table, within the reach of the strategos.

Mystacon went pale again. “This can’t be happening…”

“We are not evil men stratege. We will announce that you died from wounds received during combat against the Avars. You will be buried with full honors. You can even say goodbye to your wife.” He pointed to another man, who left the room immediately.

“I will not do it. Fuck you” said John.

“Think it over stratege. Your son is in the detachment guarding Antioch. Thanks to the Persians it is now a dangerous place and it would be a tragedy if something happened to him. Aside from losing all of your goods, your wife would be devastated from losing you both. Look at her.” Brought into the room by one of the men, she broke down into tears on seeing her husband. Menander waved his hand again and the men restraining the general allowed him to hug her.

The rest would only require a little patience. He knew that the strategos was a rational man and that he would try to minimize his loses. The soldiers made sure that there wasn’t anything in the room that he could use as a weapon, and took some steps back to give them some privacy. After some passionate kisses and some tears, they both nodded with their heads. Menander and the men came closer.

The light from the torch held by one of the soldiers cast strange shadows on the walls. The strategos had the vial in his hand and was hugging his wife with the other arm. “Theodosius tu vincas, death to the tyrant” he said after he finished drinking it. A few seconds later blood gushed from his throat splattering everywhere as the body fell to the floor with a loud thud.

“Why?” screamed the inconsolable woman, “he had already drunk the poison!”

“Those who commit suicide don’t go to the Lord’s grace upon death, madam. You should thank me, I just saved his soul” Menander rebuked her as he tried to wipe the blood off of his dagger. Theotoke Parthene, now please save mine.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 2 -III-
​

The field was green, a deep green, which reminded him briefly of his trips around the Rhone valley; the only striking difference being that this one was also dotted by small groups of bright yellow dandelions. The cool mountain air was a welcome refreshment to balance the heavy summer heat, and the winds that morning brought continuous, soothing drafts of it. It was truly a beautiful day to be outdoors. Unfortunately for his enemies, it would also be a beautiful day to perish.

“My Lord, we have word that the Romans have their Emperor in their midst” informed him one of his aides.

“Excellent, it seems that will be able to complete the bargain with Constantinople after all…” was the reply that Theuderic gave, gently scratching the back of his left hand against the stubble on his chin.

The Italian expedition was to be the last step before he retook the struggle against his longtime enemy; his uncle Clothar[1.] He had decided on accepting the Emperor’s offer since there was not really anything for him to lose and a lot of gold and prestige to gain. In fact, it could also be said to keep his men busy during the times of peace in Gaul. And that’s always good. It had not been a bad spring for him. The Alpine passes had opened up early in the year; in late February surprisingly. His personal army had been reinforced by volunteers from all over the Frankish kingdoms, and from his brother Theuderbert’s [2] specially. Success had followed success. The Lombards had been caught completely by surprise and the army sent to meet him had been literally wiped out. On he had gone to besiege and take both Turin and Milan, with the contentious support of the Catholic populace, and Pavia had fallen barely a month after that. Ironically for Agiluf all of his efforts at internally reorganizing the kingdom, given the peace with the Romans, had been almost wiped out with the conquest of his two main cities. To top it off, as if it were not enough, treason was in the air with Gaidoald, the duke of Trent officially siding with the Franks and with Gisulf, the duke of Friuli, standing passively on the sidelines. Not bad indeed.

Now here they were him, his men, and his Lombard allies, meeting whatever men Agiluf could have mustered alongside his Roman allies for a last stand. But what could the Romans have fielded? He had also heard of the disaster at Dyrrachium. So the poor king and the child emperor have come. Let’s have us a battle then, he had thought.

“Berthoald, sound the second charge.”

The king’s mayor of the palace gave the signal and the horns started to sound. Their deep bellow continued as more units of the Frankish infantry began to advance, trotting, franciscas on hand. Only a successful ambush by the weaker defenders could stop him now. But he had it all planned out; the field where they stood outside Pavia was level with no room to hide ambushes, with the river Po behind them to guard their rear. The superior moral of his men, with a little help from his cavalry would give him the day; he would annex the western duchies and give the rest to Gaidoald; send Theodosius’ head to Phocas, and get his gold. And we all go home happy.

The combat had started about an hour earlier. There had barely been any skirmishing, as he ordered his archers to stand down; he was anxious to get the battle over with and continue on. The opposing forces were apparently composed mainly of Lombard infantry, at the head of which was Agiluf himself supposedly, although he could not distinguish him; coupled with a few Roman detachments. His infantry and Lombard king’s had engaged and neither side seemed to gain an advantage thus far. Not to worry, hence the second wave.

The enemy had begun to show signs of movement as well. As the Frankish infantry marched forward, arrows started to rain down on his men, and the Lombards. “Get the horses moving and scatter their archers” he barked at Berthoald.

“My lord they don’t have archers in sight, unless they’re hiding behind the infantry that is now engaged…” commented the mayor.

“Well then have the horses outflank them and hunted them down!”

With another signal from Berthoald, the horns were blown again to a different note. His cavalry began to maneuver and charge towards the back of the enemy formation; but the arrows continued to come down, and he still could not see the archers. He hated having to play with his cavalry so early on, especially since the enemy’s was still waiting, but the lack of armor on his men worked to the benefit of the Lombards and their allies.

“Damn it Berthoald, let’s get those damn archers ourselves!”

Impatiently, he spurred his horse and began to lead his own guard towards the left flank of the Lombard infantry, sure that the archers were behind them. “My king, the Romans have archers riding on their horses!” shouted Berthoald as they continued the charge. “What?” he yelled back. Nonsense. Suddenly, a terrible pain shot through his back, right below the left shoulder, and he began to fear a warm trickle, like sweat, run down his back. An arrow. “Charge, damn it, charge!” He continued to roar in spite of the arrow wound. And then he saw it; the larger part of the Roman cavalry were indeed mounted archers, in fact there were even camels in their midst. They had been the ones shooting at his infantry, stationed as they were mixed with the rest of the enemy mounted troops; they had been undetected from afar. He witnessed how on the approach of his riders they fanned out and began to encircle his horsemen and even his own detachment, and kept on shooting his men down. Now… this is new.

As they continued to chase the enemy archers, he discerned that the combat between his men and the Lombard infantry continued, with his men now getting the upper hand, as some Lombards had turned tail. Now we’ve scattered the archers too…good, he reasoned. Incidentally, as he turned his head back to continue the chase, a gleaming ray caught his right eye. He had had a glimpse of the small detachment in the enemy lines that was still mounted, and had not dispersed, with riders and horses that were heavily armored. Aside from the obvious guards there were a few other men in somewhat adorned cuirasses. Certainly not Lombards. Romans. But one of them had the most elaborate cuirass of all. With golden insets. A young man. Theodosius.

“Berthoald continue the chase with some of the men. The rest, follow me!” he commanded.

He pulled on the reins, turning his horse and began to charge towards the mounted enemy party. “Men! To me!” he cried out. Even with just half his horsemen behind him, he should still outnumber them by about three to one. The enemy had seen him coming, and had turned to face him. They also had bows, as seemed to have every damn Roman horseman, and started firing. As Theuderic rushed trying to close the distance between them, some of his men began to fall, dead. Damn it! “Come on ladies! Charge!” he roared, as loud as he could. With the Franks closing in, the Romans stopped their fire and started to charge at him as well, lowering their spears.He continued to lead the charge, sword in hand. Idiots, what’s the jewelry on your animals going to do against a Frank with balls?

The shock of both forces charging at each other was abrupt and tremendous. Many of the horsemen on both sides flew far ahead of their animals. He hacked at the first of the Romans that came towards him, before the enemy could even react, killing him right away. But then the second rushed forward, running his own armored horse into his and impaling Theuderic’s left thigh with his spear in the process. Shortly after, the king’s own horse was on the ground, dead, while he was trying to get up. The Roman that charged at him had continued on, unsheathing a sword. All around him his men had engaged the armored cavalry, some of them with results similar to his. “Shit!” he screamed as he pulled the spear off and struggled to his feet. But to no avail; his left leg was a holed mess, which now overpowered the pain from his back. He fell to the ground, resting his head on his still warm horse.

“To the king!” he heard in the distance in Frankish. He saw that some of the men that had charged with him were trying to rally around him. He tried to sit up, but could not; he just could not hold himself up and once again fell beside his dead horse. He tried to look around him. The arrows from the Roman riders continued to rain down. Their armored cavalry had regrouped for a second charge and had begun to bring down some of the men coming to him. He couldn’t see Theodosius. Hopefully the bastard is dead, Theuderic thought to himself.

What in the world had just happened? His men could perhaps still win the battle with him dead. But what for? The thought made him smile. He had personally led charges all over the Frankish kingdoms during his wars with Theudebert and Clothar. His example had only emboldened the men behind him. God helps those who help themselves. He began to feel numb. It was harder to breathe, and he tasted blood with the back of his tongue after every breath. The grass by his left leg was red all over. The balminess of the sun was less and less warm. The shouts of his men and the Romans began to fade. Even the characteristic odors of combat; the smell of shit, urine, and blood, were becoming milder. He closed his eyes for a moment. Fuck, of all the places to die it had to be Italy. Abruptly, a shade obscured the sun shining on his face. He opened and focused his eyes. “And who the fuck are you?” he babbled in Latin.

“Heraclius, a soldier of the rightful Emperor Theodosius” answered the bearded man, still on his horse. “Your force is beaten Theuderic, surrender.”

“Fuck you, and your rightful Emperor.” Uttering those words had taken a superhuman effort. And now he felt his mouth filling with blood.

“Very well then, as you please…” answered the Roman. The soldier next to him dismounted, carrying his sword, and without saying a word plunged it into the Frank’s chest. He felt no pain, only the coldness of the steel inside him.

Pater noster qui es …

Theuderic II of Burgundy was dead.
__________________________________

[1] Clothar II, King of Neustria (584-613) and king of all Franks (613-629.)

[2] Theudebert II, King of Austrasia (595-612.) IOTL Theuderic defeated him in 612 and annexed Austrasia to his own kingdom in 612.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 2 -IV-

​

The smell of incense still lingered in the air. It was not particularly repugnant to him; he considered it one of the few, actual good things about the Christians. From on high, the mosaics of their holy men, angels, and their man-god himself stared on, wide eyed at him, as they glittered in the afternoon sun that filtered through the high windows. Well, so much for divine protection.

The struggle for Dara had been long and tedious. The bastion had endured a tiresome, attritional siege of nine months, but in the end the Iranian soldiers had overwhelmed the exhausted defenders. With it, he had extinguished the last Roman military presence worthy of any mention in all of Mesopotamia, while his comrade Shahin had already departed towards Armenia. He continued to admire the church. It was a strange yet interesting building. The so-called naves ran parallel to the main aisle; and in each of them there were small niches where religious icons had been placed. The mosaics overhead had a golden background, while the painted scenes further down had been made with vivid colors. Quite a contrast with his Zoroastrian temples. He thought about their simplicity, their transparency, with only their secret and sacred fire inside. Their sacredness compared to this material aberration.

To play a part in the perennial wars between the Shah and the Roman Qaisar had not been his life goal. But when the wars had come, he proved to be a good, reliable soldier. He had fought hard against the Romans, then with the Romans, and now here he was against them again. It was not for him to question the Shah’s motives, whoever the Shah might be. Such is the life of men. And thus far he had proven to be the most successful Eran Spahbod of the war.

“Spahbod, a small Roman force approaches” he heard from behind him. It was one of his aides.

He turned and looked at him briefly. “Who commands?”

“We hear that it is Domentziolus, nephew of the Roman Qaisar Phocas” answered the younger man. “He wants to parley.”

“Ah” Farrokhan replied, as he got up from the seat he had taken near the altar. “Very well then, let’s go see how we can be of assistance; get my horse ready. And soldier… burn this place down.” His subordinate assented, bowing down quickly as the Shahrbaraz walked past him.

Dara had been a torn in the Iranians side for over a hundred years at this point. Taken once before, it had been returned to Maurice by Khosrau almost fourteen years to that day. And that was a bloody mistake that his men had just finished paying for. Nonetheless, their obstinate resistance had cost the citizens and the garrison dearly; those not killed during the siege had been executed, or were already bound towards Ctesiphon, to be sold as slaves. The man that the spahbod was now to address had perhaps watched, impotent, from the surrounding countryside, as the victorious Iranians had poured into Iustiniana Nova. Moments later outside the city gates, Farrokhan was riding a black Arabian stallion, and surrounded by a guard of thirty Aztan horsemen, approached the Roman detachment of roughly equal numbers. The crest on the Roman leader’s helmet gave him away.

“My lord Domentziolus, we meet again. I hope that we depart in better terms this time” uttered the Iranian in a slightly accented Greek.

“General Farrokhan, it is quite good to see you indeed” the Roman replied, with a plainly false smile on his face. He must have remembered the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the spahbod some months back. The Shahrbaraz still did remember it clearly; the poor Roman was lucky to get away with his life then; his men then had not shared his luck. “In light of the recent developments, I have come to present the terms of the Emperor” continued Domentziolus.

“Excellent, let’s hear them” the spahbod replied in a jovial tone, clapping his hands three times.

“The Persian armies will vacate Mesopotamia; custody of Armenia will be divided equally according to ancient custom; a free exchange of prisoners; and the Emperor promises to pay 300,000 nomismata to King Chosroes” concluded the young Roman. He perceived the sudden silence with which the officer followed his terms; he noticed how the Roman began to study him for any signs that might give away his thoughts. Why don’t you just ask us to forget about the whole thing?

“My dear magistros, the Shah is a reasonable man, but he is also a loyal man” he had placed a distinct, deliberate, emphasis on the word. Domentziolus began to show his embarrassment; his cheeks blushed. “It is only natural for him to react in the way he has in the light of the vile assassination of his father and protector the Qaisar Maurice. An offense which the Shah feels has been compounded all the more, by the base exile imposed on his brother the Qaisar Theodosius.”

Domentziolus’ face had gone from red to a white pallor. The rest of the Roman guard bore obvious signs of sharing his feelings of awkwardness, as the men exchanged looks. “But I do not think that we cannot deal with each other, as sensible and reasonable human beings” the Iranian concluded. Instantly, the face of all the Romans lit up.

“Thus as direct representative of the Shah I know I have his confidence to enforce the terms that he seeks and upon acceptance of such terms, to sign and enforce a treaty of perpetual peace, if you wish to do so.”

Now, Domentziolus could not hold back a smile. “But of course my friend, peace and prosperity are the only objectives of the Emperor Phocas; let’s hear them” he replied nervously.

“First, the Romans must vacate all of Mesopotamia to a distance of 50 miles west of the Euphrates; second, they must deliver sole custody of the Armenian kingdom to the Shah; third, they must pay war reparations and an indemnity of 300,000 nomismata at once, and then deliver 100,000 more every year for the next twenty years; and finally, and most importantly for the Shah, Theodosius must be restored to the throne of Constantinople.” Farrokhan had taken a thoughtful long time to spell out his last request. This is like a good chase: you corner the animal, then give them some room, then move in for the kill.

With his smile gone, the Roman looked appalled. It was not that he was not expecting harsh terms. After all his ‘Emperor’ was not having the best of times; but the fact that the “Persians” as the Romans called them, knew entirely that they were in a position of superiority, and pretended to dictate who should rule them and at the same time wipe out all of the Roman achievements of the previous twenty years with one stroke, had finally dawned on him with its full might.

“Ahem...mmhh...” Domentziolus cleared his throat. He seemed hesitant to answer, but he did it anyway. “The Emperor will certainly consider all of those terms, if we would but agree to cease hostilities while an embassy departs for Constantinople…”

Is that so? Let’s finish the hunt then. The spahbod knew a dirty lie when he heard one. “Lord Domentziolus, I offer you peace and you offer us to stall for time for your usurper-king to gather whatever treacherous Romans he can find. Those are the terms of the Shahanshah; since you were offering terms, I entrust you are empowered to accept mine as well right now.”

Domentziolus was silent. He had lowered his eyes, but Farrokhan could distinguish them shifting nervously from left to right. Come on boy, just say no and let’s get it over with. In the end the Roman answered: “The best that I can offer is to take the terms to the Emperor. Given their importance and their effects on the empire I cannot assume the responsibility of deciding. If you would but allow it, I will personally escort an embassy of your choosing to the capital to see him and I will ensure their safety with my life, I swear it by God and his Holy Mother.”

Farrokhan had coldly studied Domentziolus’ demeanor as the Roman had given his reply. He knew that he was just testing the waters. Enough is enough, he thought. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, deliberately slowly, before giving his reply. “Promises made over your crucified god are of no concern to us, Roman. You have chosen to reject the Shah’s terms. Hostilities will continue then. I will allow you to depart with your men, to allow them to return home to their wives, and children; and to prepare to receive their conqueror Shahanshah Khosrau. I will see you then in Constantinople” he announced triumphantly.

“So it is then…” answered Domentziolus with an empty look. He gave a tug to his horse’s bridle and turned it around slowly. So did his men. The spahbod kept his eyes fixed on the Roman leader, as he returned to the rest of his small force, assembled nearby. A brave boy indeed, coming in person. Unfortunate for him however; Khosrau doesn’t want peace with the Romans. He was loyal to Maurice and his family but now that he is dead, there is no reason for him to hold back. And Theodosius surviving is nothing but a small technicality; or rather, a good excuse for us to carry on.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 3 -I-

​

“I understand your concerns, but you also know that this cannot be allowed to continue. All Emperors since Constantine himself observed the will of God and the rule of law. Phocas barged in like the barbarian he is, and has the blood of innocents all over his hands. That’s why things are the way they are. Theodosius will win by just staying put, because the Persians will shatter our flank, unless Phocas moves the Danubian armies to the east, and if he does so, the Avars will devastate all of Europe, maybe even overwhelm us here in The City…either way by doing nothing we are done for” the patrician Gennadios finished with a whisper, still looking over his shoulder. The enormous nave of the largest Church of Christendom could magnify the softest whisper and transport it across its great distance.

“I know… I know….” the prefect Theodorus replied, as they continued walking towards the exit, thinking those words over.

“And we need to move quickly, otherwise Chosroes will have occupied all, and then…it won’t matter how grateful to Maurice he once was…”

Theodorus knew indeed that they had to move quickly. The Persians had launched their invasion of Armenia; Domentziolus had been unable to keep them out. The young boy has proven useless. Now, the newest levies and the small garrisons of the cities in the Peloponnese and the Aegean coasts had been sent to Bonosus, the Emperor’s newest creature, who was said to be preparing a counteroffensive to retake Mesopotamia and outflank the Persians in Armenia. He knew that Domentziolus’ task at this point was only to delay and harass the Persians. But even that was proving difficult; Phocas had taken even more men away from his nephew to reinforce the counterattack. Gennadios was right, the situation was about to reach a critical point; with the Persians deep in Armenia it would prove much more difficult to reach a satisfactory peace treaty, and worse still, as the patrician had just stated, Phocas might try to gamble it all and denude the Danube of its regiments in order to push Chosroes back.

“Tell me something Gennadios” he asked, turning to face him one more time. “When we seize Phocas, Constantina is supposed to be regent until Theodosius arrives, but how reliable is the connection you have with her now? You haven’t addressed her personally have you?”

“A trusted servant of the Empress is aiding us; all communication thus far has been secure.”

Like shit, that’ll be so for long. “Look, we need to find an alternative channel, not all of our communication can be through one individual” he suggested, quickly scanning his surroundings as he did so.

“Don’t you see that we’d be exposing ourselves? The less people involved in this stage of the planning, the better!”

“What about Cyriacus?” insisted Theodorus, trying to move the conversation along.

“The Patriarch will be presented with a fait accompli; indirectly we’ve learned that he is of the opinion that if things change that’ll be God’s will. But personally I think that he is not too unhappy with Phocas around…”

Theodorus reflected on that point for a moment. Cyriacus had had it pretty good since Phocas, enraged at the Pope’s support of Theodosius, had legitimized all of the dubious claims of supremacy that the Patriarchate had held. If he did not accept Phocas’ removal, then they might have to plan in replacing him too. But that’ll come later. “Well, Alexios should be pretty easy to convince. Leave him to me” he said, as they stepped out into the Church’s courtyard, exiting through the western gate.

Gennadios locked eyes with him, revealing his surprise. Came trying to convince me, and I’m already two steps ahead of him. “The count of the walls?” the patrician asked him.

“What will you do if the excubitors don’t sail with the wind?” he asked him, raising his left eyebrow slightly.

“You’re right. Right. I’m sorry…but we are just trying to minimize our exposure…”

“Well, hired thugs won’t do to carry this out. No need to apologize here” he answered. He thought everything over one more time. Theodorus really had no reason to betray Phocas. He had seen firsthand the unpopularity of Maurice during his last days; and had felt personal disgust towards the former Emperor particularly after his refusal to ransom the men seized by the Avars. Like many in The City, he had welcomed the new regime with open arms, but had also witnessed how severe Phocas could treat his “enemies.” He personally recalled what had been said about the execution of the young princes, an act which did not resonate with the most conservative factions of the populace. And soon after the demise of Constantine Lardys, he himself had been yanked out of the senate and named praetorian prefect by the Emperor. What tumultuous last years for an old man…

Whatever fantasies and illusions might have remained in his mind however, and in that of the people, were vanishing fast. Not only had Chosroes ravaged everything that Maurice had recovered and gained for the empire, but closer to home the Sklavenoi, while the Avars conveniently looked the other way, had begun to launch small scale raids again. Back in The City, gossip had magnified these raiding parties into titanic armies of hundreds of thousands bound directly for Constantinople. And to top things off; the price of grain had begun to go up. The cost of the demand in itself had only been minimally affected by the loss of African wheat, but the Emperor had added a “temporary tax” to finance the war effort. The plebs would have complained in any case, but given the times, things were bound to happen. The revolts of the previous week, inspired by the Green deme, had burned down several public buildings, and some of deme’s members had even dared to throw manure at Phocas’ statue in the Hippodrome. Moreover, the fact that statues of the Emperor’s son-in-law Priscus, and of his own daughter Domentzia, had been set up next to his own shit covered effigy drove the crowds into a wild frenzy, resulted in even further chaos. Needless to say, the Emperor had reacted in kind, and savage reprisals had plagued the entire City for three days before things calmed down. But things could get out of hand, again.

Overall, the plan that Gennadios had presented was a good one. After the races following the feast of the Epiphany, the men that Theodorus would hire would begin to cause a riot. Phocas would retire to the palace, through the passageway linking it to the Hippodrome, accompanied by members of its retinue, including the prefect himself. Upon their return to the palace they would find the place besieged by Gennadios and his men, and if the Empress Constantina was not there already, she would surely be in the way. If the excubitors had not thrown in their lot with them by then, and helped them to seize the Emperor, Theodorus would quietly lead him to a “safe” ship, on which he would be arrested and seized. It would be necessary however to remove Priscus, who besides being a relative of Phocas was also head of the excubitors, and Alexander, leader of the scholai, in order to successfully cause the necessary commotion to seize Phocas. And once again, that was where Theodorus’ role as prefect would come in handy: some troop inspection could be arranged for Alexander in Asia; some review of the riparian armies for Priscus.

He directed his gaze out, looking at the equestrian statue of Justinian on the column ahead. “Very well my friend…you’ve forced my hand” the prefect announced.

The patrician Gennadios could not contain his emotions. “You will see that God will bless our enterprise with success, and hopefully we can awaken from this nightmare” he said as he grasped Theodorus’ hand to shake it with gratitude.

Please God, do help us. This man knows I could open my mouth and have him and his progeny extinguished. But the same could happen to me next time the crowd goes wild…better to get a move on while we can…

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 3 -II-

​

He had not been this nervous in a while, he remembered as he paced back and forth. In fact, since he had faced Theuderic and his Franks a couple of months before; it had been his first battle. Ever. He started to notice how the scar in his right arm stung due to his nervousness. Such scar was also a memento of that wild day. He recalled how the Frankish soldier had killed his horse, flinging him onto the ground, and how he had barely rolled off, before the Frank was able to hack at him and cut a gash on his forearm. What a day. But God had helped the Romans in the end. Although the Lombards had swayed once their king Agiluf fell fighting the enemy infantry, the successful charge by the Roman cavalry, who had just dispatched Theuderic himself and carried his head high on a pike as they charged, finished with any thought of resistance. The returning Frankish cavalry scattered, abandoning their comrades on foot. They returned as they best could to their land led by Berthoald, and now Theodosius found himself in the strongest position in Italy that any Roman Emperor had been in since the death of Justinian himself; the Franks power was broken; the opposing Lombard nobles who had sided with the them were dead; Gisulf, duke of Friuli had sworn a personal oath of loyalty to him; and the infant king Adaloald, the two year old son of Agiluf, was securely allied with him under his regent mother, queen Theodelinda, from whom he had obtained a formal resignation of all the lands the Lombard kingdom had laid claim to south of the Po.

A woman ran past him, down the hallway, pulling him back to reality. He ran after her as he called “Hey! Stop!” As she did so he continued, catching up to her: “How’s my wife? How is she?”

“Pray for her Domine. You have a healthy child. But the Empress… she started to bleed, but… but the physician was able to stop the bleeding… he said that she lost much blood…”

He felt numb all over. The sting in the scar returned as if a thousand insects had been eating it as he stood there, motionless. The nurse stared at him nervously. He ignored her, turning around. He mechanically retraced his steps, returned to the entrance of the chamber, and sat down on the floor, his back against the door, in silence for a few minutes. There was noise inside. He held his head in his hands.

Kyrie eleison. Theotoke Parthene…please don’t take her too…

He tried to clear his head; think of something else. His war against Phocas had apparently reached a stalemate. No sooner had he finished licking his wounds from the disaster at Dyrrachium, than the Franks had kicked the door open. He had had to rush north and, although victorious in the end, the confrontation had done him more harm than his enemies could realize; his manpower base was now almost at an end. Now, the future of the war against the East depended on the “barbarians” of the West. By himself he could do nothing further; Procopius and Heraclius had left two weeks before on an embassy to see Witeric, the Visigothic monarch, and make the offer they had decided on earlier in the year. Even if the king accepted, his original plan had had to be adjusted; he could no longer afford to attack both Egypt and Crete simultaneously. He would have to focus on one target at a time.

The door next to the one he was resting his back on opened rather suddenly; out went two more women, skipping past him with some empty bowls. He stood up. Behind them came the physician Paulus, his face haggard. Encountering Theodosius, he started: “Domine, it was a difficult birth…but the Empress survived…she is resting now...as her condition is still…delicate…”

“Get out of my way!” the Emperor growled as he walked past him into the room. Paulus closed the door quickly behind the Emperor.

Inside the chamber there were two more women cleaning up, another one folding a bloodied sheet, the Pope he had helped “elect” as Gregory’s successor, the Third Boniface, and another midwife holding a small bundle in her arms. On the bed laid Irene, covered by a white sheet up to her neck, sleeping. He could clearly discern her laborious, slow, heavy breathing. Oh God…

“Caesar, you have a son” the Pope addressed him, as the midwife approached him. “What shall we name him?”

He recalled the conversation they had previously had with Irene on the subject, a few months back. She had already chosen a name then. “Maurice… Maurice Justinian” he answered.

“A very good name indeed Emperor” added Boniface, as he smiled.

He took a look at his son, as the midwife handed him the bundle. The baby blinked his greenish-hazel colored eyes twice, and stared back at him wide eyed, without crying. Theodosius chuckled softly as he held the baby. The eyes of his mother, he thought.

“Please look after him” he told the nurse as he handed the child back to her. She nodded her consent. “I need a moment with my wife.”

“Yes Emperor” answered the Pope.

As everyone else walked out of the room, he strolled towards the bed, kneeling beside it. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger as he knelt down. Please God, don’t take her too…

Before he could realize it, tears were streaming down his face as he searched for her hand. On finding it, he kissed it profusely, wetting it with his tears. “Irene…please don’t leave me…”

Aside from his brother and sister, and now excepting his newborn son, Irene was all that remained of his family. She was one of the remaining links to that happier past that he had had as a careless youth, as a capricious prince. But more importantly than that, he knew that he loved her. In contrast to what he had expected from an arranged marriage, the daughter of Germanus, did not only captivate him with her beauty, but had proven to be a companion and a friend during their time together in The City, and a pillar of confidence now in Italy. He had been immensely content at the news of her escape from Thessalonica. She had comforted him following the disaster at Dyrrachium, and had reassured him to come to the Lombards’ aid in the north. Always an Augusta. And now here she was, standing at the gates of Hades…

For Theodosius felt then, that losing her could be worse than having lost to the Franks. Or losing to Phocas.

He held his head again, with his left hand. He continued to hold her hand with his own right hand. He took a deep breath and started to pray. Pater hemon, ho en tois ouranois…

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 3 -III-

​

The room was one of the smallest in the palace, but it had a pleasant view of the lateral gardens and a generous flow of fresh sea breeze constantly invigorating the air. The columns decorating the corners were of exquisite Phrygian marble, as were the floors, while on the sides of the vaulted ceiling small ornate mosaics of a hunting scene glistened with the rays of the morning sun. A beautiful spectacle indeed.

The gaze of the captain of the excubitors, Priscus, son-in-law of the Emperor Phocas, switched from the mosaics back to the Comes Orientis Bonosus’ reddening face, full of impotent anger. The scolding he had just endured had been humiliating indeed. In front of him was the Emperor himself who had just concluded his newest rant , flanked on one side by the praetorian prefect, Theodorus, who seemed to be studying the situation calmly, and on the other by Alexander, the new head of the Imperial scholai, who could not hide his delight at what had just happened. Surrounding Priscus were also the elder Domentziolus, and Comentiolus, both brothers of Phocas.

“Did We make Ourselves clear, Comes?” asked Phocas.

“Yes, Kyrie. But … but you must comprehend that the morale of the troops …” Bonosus started. He would not finish.

“You don’t talk to Us about the morale of the troops. We are the morale of the troops. Have We not done enough to repay the Illyrian armies for their efforts? Did we not come Ourselves from the armies which had been abandoned by Maurice?” Phocas’ words cut through the general’s sentence like a sharp sword, silencing him. Bonosus lowered his head.

A small gush a scented fresh air came in from the gardens through the open doors in the chamber’s balcony, dancing with the curtains as it did so. Priscus knew that John Mystacon had had just some communication with Narses, and he did not know how serious it was; but the extrajudicial manner in which his execution had been carried out had unnerved many of the leading generals. Alexander’s men had just showed up in the middle of the night. One thing was to remove Maurice, whose avarice endangered the men; a different thing was to leave them altogether leaderless and vulnerable.

“Very well then, we have also the matters of the eastern front. The Persian advance in Armenia has slowed, but there are some factors that have been brought to Our attention that We would like everyone to consider. Magistros Alexander…” the Emperor announced as he signaled with his hand for the officer to continue.

“It is matter of common knowledge that sin is the cause of worldly misfortune. Some of the greatest sins that we Romans are committing at the present time, to the immense disgust of the Almighty, are to tolerate the Monophysite heresy and continuous existence of Judaism” Alexander began, as he took a few steps ahead.

“The justice of the Emperor’s cause was demonstrated by God’s willingness to grant him The City and the Empire, but the Devil working in his insidious ways, has made use of his underling Theodosius to harass the Roman people from the west, in order to distract the attention of the faithful. However, to the East lays a greater problem, and the root cause of our inability to dislodge the Persians. Divine favor has been withheld from the Romans because of our toleration of Judaism. We have proof that Jews of Syria and Palestine are conspiring with the enemy to deliver the entire east to Chosroes, under the promise that he will allow them to create their own client kingdom, right where Our Lord Christ lived and preached.” Alexander had by now leaned forward while standing in the same spot; a posture reminiscent of a pedagogos lecturing his students.

The whole room was silent. Alexander’s words bounced in Priscus’ head like a boulder hitting city walls. Who would ever ask him for his opinion? He was but a mere Doryphoros less than two years ago…

“In order to secure God’s favor for this most Christian Empire once again, we must deal with the deniers of Christ. They must be converted and baptized; then not only will their souls be saved, but as Christians they will be more loyally tied to the empire and its God-protected Capital. Those who resist are beyond redemption and must be disposed of as enemies of the state” the magistros concluded.

“Bonosus; you will detach a thema of your men, to reinforce the troops that magistros Alexander will mobilize into Syria in order to secure the success of this plan” ordered Phocas. The comes only nodded silently still looking down.

“Kyrie, is it prudent to dedicate efforts to deal with the Jews at this time, in spite of the Persian threat?” questioned Comentiolus, Phocas’ own younger brother, who had been placed in charge of the Danubian forces.

“We are facing the Persian threat because of Jewish insidiousness!” Phocas thundered, as he slammed his left fist on his open right palm. “The magistros has offered a solution, which We are sure Christ Himself would approve of. Now let’s not waste any more time on this. Domentziolus; how are the new ships coming along?” Alexander took a step back again, while Phocas’ brother, the new “commander of the Imperial Navy” stepped forward.

“Work has stalled for the most part Kyrie. The greater part of the workers and even the sailors has been drafted to reinforce the Eastern armies. But we think we could field about fifty new dromons by the end of fall…” answered Domentziolus, as his right hand curled up in a nervous fist. “We still have not fully recovered from the losses … in the Adriatic…but if Your Lordship allows we could reinforce the new fleet with units from the Aegean … and attempt a move on Italy again…”

The ineptitude was too much for Priscus. “Why not take the whole Home Navy and seize Sicily then, splitting Theodosius’ lands in two?” he interrupted sarcastically.

Domentzilus, looked at him briefly, moved his arms behind him, holding both hands together as he seemed noticeable more relaxed. “Sicily…hhhmmm…” he continued thoughtfully.

“I was only joking magistros. We cannot leave The City defenseless….”

“Enough” Phocas commanded. “Domentziolus, continue the work at the piers and I will see if any additional men can be transferred back to the docks. All of you have your orders.”

All of those present turned to leave, as they had been already standing up, when the Emperor called him back; “Priscus, please stay.” Alexander turned to give him a rather malicious look as he departed. Crazy bastard, Priscus thought to himself. Bonosus continued to walk with his eyes down as he left the room.

He felt a chill run down his spine. He had begun to realize how precarious everyone’s position and indeed their lives had become. The patrician Germanus, father-in-law of Theodosius, had initially been allowed to retire to a monastery; but had then been dragged out and executed after the naval fiasco. The first general that had been sent against Narses, also a Germanus, had been lucky to die at the front, since Leontius the second general, who had managed to return, but defeated, was whipped and thrown into prison. Narses himself had been promised immunity as a Persian delegate, but had been seized and burned at the stake. Along with John Mystacon, several other prominent figures who still had any ties to the old regime had been “disposed of,” as Alexander used to say. Empress Constantina and her daughters until now seemed be in God’s good grace, since they had not been disturbed from the time when they entered the convent adjoined to the church of the Theotokos Panagiotissa. And Priscus had not done badly at all for himself. Son-in-law of the Emperor… but for how long …The memories of the scenes at the Hippodrome from the previous months, when his own life had been at risk, replayed in his head.

“Yes Kyrie.”

“I had actually considered the Sicilian campaign myself; I know that if we succeed and with God willing, we can follow on Belisarius’ steps…” Phocas affirmed grinning slightly, walking up to him.

“Kyrie, as I previously said, it was just a joke. To carry out such an operation we would need a larger fleet, just to transfer troops from the Danube, which in its turn would expose us to the Avars…”

“God works in mysterious ways my son…the Avars didn’t allow us to reach Italy by land but they have not followed up on their victory. The payments seem to be keeping them content” the Emperor continued as he put an arm over the excubitor’s shoulder. They began to walk over to the balcony.

“With all due respect Kyrie, the moment that the Avars notice the reduction in troops they will start to mobilize, and not just them but the Sklavenoi. Should they attack we will be in no position to respond, and should anything happen to the fleet, the troops will be stuck in Sicily, where even in spite of a victory, they will be unable to continue onto neither Africa nor Italy” Priscus answered, staring at Phocas dead in the eyes. “And the Persians…”

“And the Persians seemed to be stuck in Armenia” the Emperor concluded the sentence for him, as he removed his arm from him. “And should we be stuck in Sicily I can always increase the subsidies and surely the Avars will deliver in Italy what the Franks could not. God will not abandon us. God cannot abandon us.”

You can’t be serious. The North will collapse. The Persians are now regrouping for a deeper thrust into Armenia. We are going to have the Jews at our backs. And here we are talking about opening an active third front. “God is indeed mysterious Kyrie. I think that he has certainly inspired you” Priscus smiled, as he directed his gaze out of the window, towards the sea beyond the walls. At a distance he could discern the fishing boats, which dotted the Marmara. Perhaps He has inspired me now as well.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 3 -IV-

​

The familiar heat weighed on him. Surprisingly it was a cloudy day, a most unusual thing for this time of the year, but it was still hot. The march had warmed him up even more, just as it had all of the men in his column, and sweat continued to drip from the cloth he had wrapped around his forehead. They were still winning the war, but at that moment, with his mouth dry, he had other concerns.

“Kurus! Give me some water!” he called, reaching out to the man right behind him. The air in the Anatolian hills was drier, but warmer that what he had experienced during the campaign in Armenia. And the never ending marches, did not allow his body temperature to drop. “Here” his comrade answered, reaching a bulging pig bladder to him.

He grabbed the carrier, untied the string around the cap, and took a big gulp of water. Damn, that’s good. Although somewhat lukewarm it still beat drinking piss; he had done it before. He took another sip. He wished he could pour it over his head, but he knew that he would pay with that very same head for it. For the Iranian army on the march, water was as good as gold. “Thank you” he replied handing the canteen back to Kurus.

The division of paighan infantry he was a part of was perhaps the third in the long line that was marching through the eastern Anatolian highlands towards the central plateau. Their spahbod Shahin had led them on a string of unbroken victories since they left Media three years before. The war seemed to be going their way, and as far as he knew, this was one of the most, if not the most, successful fights that they had ever waged against the Romans. He could already imagine his return home: his whole village would gather up to receive him and celebrate for an entire week; the children would gather to hear his tales of wartime heroism and how he had slain thousands of Romans single-handedly. He remembered his wife Aditi; and thought of the baby he had never met, perhaps a boy, maybe a girl; but now certainly at least two years old.

“Rustam look!” the man to his left said; tapping him on the shoulder. He turned his head in that direction immediately, and saw how some small rocks tumbled down the hill. He looked up; there seemed to be no one there. “Maybe it’s a damn goat or some bird…” he answered. What a nervous wreck, this guy…

“A bird … listen to this man!” his companion answered as the closest men around them chuckled. Quickly, the nascent laughs were cut short by the bellow of a trumpet some distance ahead. In front of them, he discerned the raising screen of dust rising up from the hillsides in both directions towards the Iranian column in at the bottom of the canyon. They looked like big boulders. They are big boulders. He panicked for an instant and froze up. “Move! Now!” he heard Kurus yell behind him, as he finally regained use of his senses. Rustam looked to the hill on his right. Nothing. To his left, three giant boulders were racing down on them. Fuck.

He ran towards the back. All of the men were trying to scatter in any possible direction, but the boulders were being rolled down as far as he could discern through the dust screen. He could see that further down the column, some riders had been dispatched and were beginning to charge uphill; but no such help was forthcoming to the men with him. He was crammed and immobilized; all of those surrounding him had packed closely together in an attempt to evade the rocks. But they continued to roll down. “Let’s climb up the right mountain!” he finally shouted before realizing that he had actually voiced his thoughts. He began to do so, followed closely by Kurus and the rest. As they climbed on, Kurus overtook him, before suddenly stopping in his tracks. His comrade staggered, fell back, and rolled down the hill, dead. An arrow had hit him on the back of the neck. Rustam looked over his shoulder, behind him, and there they were, on the opposing side of the cliff. Damn. The fucking Romans are shooting at us.

They pulled out their wooden shields and attempted to cover themselves from the oncoming enemy fire. Being that the hill they were on was actually less steep than the opposing one had made it relatively easy to climb onto it and now at a distance, he could see the full display of enemy forces across the pass. The Romans had lined up at the edges, and after pushing down all of their boulders, had begun to discharge arrows against the surprised Iranians below. An enemy cavalry charge seemed to be in the works as riders had been for the most part saddled up and were putting on helmets. To his left and to his right he could discern some smaller groups of enemy concentrations. Apparently, they had prepared their main force on the other side.

An arrow impacted neatly on his raised shield. “Ardashir! We need to find better cover!” one of the men called out to another. They all looked nervously around. There was nothing but small clusters of bushes at very spread out intervals.

Ahura Mazda…please let me live; I want to meet my child… Another arrow flew into his shield. Rustam closed his eyes as he held his only protection tightly in front of him; the echoes of the chaos and the battle below reached his ears; the Roman cavalry had charged.

A pierced scream whose provenance seemed much closer made him open them again. Ardashir had been shot dead, blood gushing from the front of his neck, impacted by two arrows. The lifeless eyes seemed to reflect the void, the very darkness whence Angra Mainyu had sprung. It was too much. Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it! He straightened up and ran back down screaming all the way; charging into the gruesome melee taking place below, shield and spear in hand. If I am going to be dead anyway…

Not only had the enemy cavalry charged but their infantry as well. It was against one of those foot soldiers that first he came up. “Die fucker! Die!” he yelled as he impaled the Roman on the back with a quick trust of his spear. The enemy soldier had been caught up fighting an Iranian himself; he never saw Rustam coming. On killing the Roman he turned around. The whole area was in total turmoil; the blood of men and animals was thick with dirt making it a mess to slip on. The Romans had initially surprised the Iranians, but now some sort of organized resistance had started to take place. Through the distance to his left, down the pass, he could distinguish the royal standard waving high. Shahin himself was close. Maybe we’ll pull it together. “Rustam!” he heard, “Wait!” His companions were running down the hill, after two more had been killed.

Together, they plunged into the wild brawl. He could not think; he could not focus. He stabbed with his spear at the unaware Romans as best he could. But he also received blows in kind. His right leg was wounded; his left arm was slashed; one of his ears cut off. And then his wooden shield shattered. Shit. He fell to the ground, the pain on all of his wounds overpowering him. Damn, I’m going to die now. The Roman yelled something in his tongue, ready to finish him off with his sword. But then, the chaos began to dissipate. He heard the gallop of a horse amidst the confusion; an immortal Zhayedan had appeared out of nowhere; with one swift blow he decapitated the Roman, before continuing on. Rustam closed his eyes.

“Forward!” he heard in the distance. A large dailamite regiment now approached swords in hand, their armor glistening in the scorching sun. A trumpet blew its notes far away in the distance; the call for Romans to retreat.

“Get up! Come on, get up man!”

He opened his eyes. It was another Iranian, slapping him on the cheek. He looked around, the enemy was gone, and those remaining would be gone soon enough. “Did we… did we win?” Rustam asked, swallowing his thick saliva, trying to refresh his dry mouth again.

“It was just a damn ambush” answered the soldier, helping him sit up. “Get up; we need to get going as soon as the cavalry gets back from chasing those pigs.”

He stood up and surveyed the field: strewn bodies everywhere, animals and men, Romans and Iranians. “Not bad, ha?” he heard to his left. He turned. Yazdegerd, yet another member of his detachment, was holding up a Roman dagger, with a silver handle. “They’ve got quite a bit of nice things, you should help yourself too.”

“Yeah, maybe I should…” Maybe I’ll get to bring something back with me, instead of my ear, he thought as he reached out to feel the bloody side of his head. He had survived yet another encounter with the Romans forces. With the dust settled, at the end the pass he saw the open plain. Perhaps we’ll win and be done with this damn war soon too. He was hopeful that that would be the case; he knew that victory had come in Mesopotamia and Armenia. The Shahrbaraz was at that very moment penetrating Syria. And Shahin and his forces, well, after all they were on the final leg of their journey towards the capital of their foes: they were now in the Anatolian plateau.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 4 -I-

​

Brunhilda [1] took another sip of water from her golden chalice, and looked at Berthoald once again, as she set the cup down on the table. The Burgundian mayor of the palace swallowed the chunk of chicken he had just bitten off before resuming the conversation.

“It was thus my lord Theudebert that your brother fell in glorious battle; much to the sorrow of all the Franks.” He grabbed the chicken leg one more time and took another bite.

The young Austrasian king looked at Berthoald, with a mix of fascination at the story of the battle, and loathing of his dead brother, as he chewed his own food.

“Theuderic was always a fool” he retorted, spitting a few bits of chewed foodstuff. “Even during our own unfortunate encounters he would always toss himself in the melee; how unfit for a king!”

And you damn boy, you just cower behind your walls, while Clothar prepares to kill us all, Brunhilda thought, raising her eyebrows, as she plucked a grape out of the bunch placed on the small saucer in front of her. Theuderic had indeed been an exemplary man. Or boy rather. He had personally been at every battlefield during all of his wars, and had even led a cavalry charge, albeit protected by his guard, in his war against Clothar at the tender age of fourteen. Furthermore, taking on an enterprise such as the Italian affair at seventeen, was if anything, highly commendable, especially by Frankish standards. His men, in love with his courage, had followed him blindly to disaster. “Berthoald, we share in the great pain that comes with the departure of the young king; but we know that there are some other pressing issues to be discussed…” Gundulf, Theudebert’s own mayor cut in.

See now, this sly bastard knows we need them. The whole reason for their visit had to be presented now. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. “Gundulf, as you know, young Sigebert [2] has already been acclaimed by the Burgundian dukes; but the confusion ensuing from the Italian debacle has left the kingdom in a somewhat vague state. We would very much like to present the opportunity to offer a united front should Clothar sense any weakness on our part and behave aggressively” she finally said, focusing her blue eyes on the mayor’s.

“Somewhat vague? Forgive me queen, but it seems to me that Clothar is ready to wage war on Burgundy at a moment’s notice” the Austrasian mayor replied, before drinking some of his wine.

Berthoald blinked quickly, before starting to blush, as he continued to devour his meal. Brunhilda kept her stare up, defiant. She might not be as young as she once was, but all of her character still held up.

“But in any case, I am more than certain that my lord Theudebert would gladly support the righteous self-defense of his nephew Sigebert” Gundulf added, as him, and Berthoald turned to look at the young king. Theudebert looked up from his plate, and nodded a couple of times, while Brunhilda switched her piercing look from Gundulf to him. He did not meet her eyes, as he returned his gaze to the food below.

“Excellent” the queen hastily replied, focusing again on the Austrasian mayor. “We actually have a plan in the works. The best defense is always a good offense, right?”

“Indeed, my lady.”

“I will personally offer Clothar the Burgundian crown” she started, “however, with the condition that he must first secure the kingdom from our common enemy, the Romans.”

“But the Romans are not attacking…” Theudebert interrupted, glancing up. His grandmother’s cold eyes quickly silenced him.

“But the Romans will be the aggressors my dear child, you see all they need is some motivation; which I can gladly provide before Clothar arrives in Burgundy, and finds them attacking us in kind. Technically the war has not ended.” She stopped, drank some water again, and continued.

“Once he is bogged down in Italy, we must mobilize all of our available forces and make a move on Neustria. Berthoald here will slip away with the Burgundian armies to join us, abandoning Clothar. If we are lucky enough he’ll be killed there; if not by the time he manages to come back, with us having succeeded, we will make short work of him.”

“Ha! Great!” Theudebert erupted, clapping, delighted.

“A good plan indeed my lady; but would you please tell us who would inherit the Neustrian crown then?” Gundulf asked, in a more calmed manner, leaning back in his seat.

Brunhilda smiled. This dog, he wouldn’t know family loyalty if it bit him in the ass. “The Neustrian crown will be Sigebert’s; but my dear grandchild here, will be able to call himself king of Austrasia and Aquitaine.”

Gundulf grabbed his own goblet and drank yet another gulp of wine, narrowing his eyes as he did so. While he lay down the cup, he replied, “you’ve got a good plan my lady; but you can keep Aquitaine. Give my king Neustria instead. After all, we’ll do most of the fighting.” A drop of wine ran down his greyish beard.

Theudebert looked nervously at Brunhilda, while he stuffed another piece of bread in his mouth. Damn, damn you son of a bitch, she thought. “Listen Gundulf, you are addressing the Queen Mother of all the Franks, not just of Burgundy, so behave properly. And the final arrangements should be made between her and king Theudebert” Berthoald intervened, as he dropped a clean chicken bone onto a now empty plate.

“Berthoald, thank you for your intercession” she answered. “But I think that the point raised by the mayor is valid. Their commitment will be the greater. I wouldn’t have it any other way. The Neustrian crown should be Theudebert’s, and we will keep Aquitaine. We are then in agreement.”

“So we are.”

She grabbed her chalice once again, gripping the thin neck tightly, squeezing it. Directing it to her lips, she took one last look at the Austrasian mayor, while finishing her water. On drying the cup, she pushed her chair back and stood up. “The food’s been delightful, thank you. But I must now excuse myself. Berthoald, please stay and inform them of all details that they might want to know.”

All of the men stood up, as the Burgundian mayor replied with his assent. Once she exited the chamber, her young maid Adelgundein, who had been waiting in the hallway, joined her.

“Did everything go well my lady?” she whispered, as she scanned her surroundings.

“You can say so.” Brunhilda clinched her teeth. “Get me a scribe. A trusted one. I need to start planning, how to rid us all of this dog Gundulf. Protadius [3] will know how” she ordered, coolly.

“Yes, madam. Right away.”

_______________________________

​

[1] Brunhilda (c. 542 – 613) was the wife of king Sigebert I and ruled, as regent, Burgundy and Austrasia on behalf of her sons and grandchildren (Theuderic II and Theudebert II.) She had a famously notorious personal feud with Clothar’s II mother, Fredegund, which IOTL developed into a generational war between the Frankish kings for a while.
[2] Sigebert II; King of Austrasia and Burgundy for one year, 613, and Theuderic’s young son. IOTL he was crowned king on his father’s death at age 12. ITTL at this point he is around 3 years old.
[3] Brunhilda’s lover. IOTL he replaced Berthoald as mayor of the palace after Brunhilda betrayed the former mayor and had him killed.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 4 -II-

​

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He rehearsed the speech in his head again. His first language had been Greek, but his father had seen to it that he received an education which instructed him in the “proper tongue of the Romans,” Latin. His time in the West had helped him improve his fluency. Now, his brother Tiberius had made some real improvements. In fact he had become better at Latin, than in his native Greek. But although his younger sibling was there, it was not Tiberius that was addressing the Roman Senate, it was him. Theodosius, the Emperor.

“Domine, we are ready” Procopius informed him.

“Are you ready, Tiberius?” Theodosius asked, looking at his younger brother.

“Yes brother.”

“We are ready then.” Another deep breath.

John, in full uniform as head of the excubitors, opened the doors of the Roman Curia, with the help of two of his men. The two wooden doors creaked under the weight of centuries, to reveal the inside of a chamber full of men, on both sides of the floor, whose conversations began to die down upon seeing the Emperor. Refurbishing the old building had been one of his primary goals, ever since the return of Heraclius from the west. It was to be the stage on which he would play his role now; the last political act before embarking on his campaign.

“Ave Theodosius Caesar!” said the princeps senatus Justin, an older man, hair already white, wearing an elegant blue cape over his white tunic, as the Emperor entered the floor. The rest of those gathered followed suit with a loud “Ave!”

Theodosius was no overt fan of theatrics. But he understood the significance of history and tradition. Phocas had shattered both, by launching the first successful overthrow of an Emperor since before the days of the Great Constantine. He knew that if his plans failed, all would fall to his thirteen year old brother, not to his own four-month old son. And he planned to leave Tiberius with as much legitimacy as he possibly could. In case of success however, he did not want to have a teenager, such an easy prey to courtesans, holding so much power. He took his place center stage, amidst in the crowd, and in front of the altar of the Cross. The once altar of Victory, oh the ironies of life. To the right was an empty throne, his own; to the left was seated Pope Boniface. He waited for absolute silence; soon enough he had it.

“Patres Conscripti…” he began; reading Cicero had served him well. “…You all know too well of the evils which affect the empire of the Roman people in these dark days. At a time when real peace was established in the East, when victory had been secured in the North, and We had come to the relief of the West, the basest treachery and betrayal in recent memory took place. A man whose perfidy parallels Judas’, whose insidiousness mirrors that of Odysseus, and whose duplicity mimics the combined deceit of both Brutus and Cassius, raised his hand against the Isapostolos…” He had deliberately included the term in Greek, to add to its religiousness.

The crowd remained silent, expectant. He took a deep breath again, still tense. “Rejecting God’s favor and blessings, the Romans in the East preferred war, death, and destruction instead of peace, life, and prosperity. And while Divine Providence, had guided Us to the ancient seat of Empire and We struggled to secure tranquility for Italy, and have fortune smile upon Africa, the centaur in the New Rome, delivers Dacia, Illyricum, Macedonia and Thrace to the heathen barbarians with one hand, and Mesopotamia and Armenia to the fire-worshipping Persians with the other.”

A murmur began to stir across the room. Tiberius and John exchanged looks. Theodosius started to pace across the floor, somewhat relaxed.

“Not content with delivering the Romans in the East to certain death, the tyrant attempted to violate the ancient sanctity of Italy by inviting the Franks to conquer the peninsula. The same Franks that were ejected by the Great Justinian forty years ago, were paid by him, him who calls himself Emperor of the Romans, to destroy Rome and kill the Romans.”

The murmur grew louder. “Death to the tyrant!” someone shouted. “Theodosius, tu vincas!” shouted another.

The Emperor raised his hand, waving it a couple of times, waiting for silence, and then continued.

“But we have prevailed, we have demonstrated our resilience. The great works initiated under Saint Gregory were not swept away by the barbarian flood; we repelled them, and killed their leader: the Frankish threat was scattered to the four winds...” A sudden applause, kept him from going. He waited for a few seconds. “… scattered to the four winds never to threaten Rome again!” The applause continued, louder.

He waited and waved them off once again. “All of you are fully aware of the will of Our late father, the Emperor Maurice Augustus. He had designed to hold Us person as Emperor of the Romans in Constantinople, and to give back the West an Emperor of its own, as it was in the days of the first Leo. For he understood that Rome must have its Emperor.” More applauses and shouts of approval interrupted. Theodosius just waited for a few seconds, without attempting to silence them.

“God our Lord, with his infinite wisdom decided to conduct Our father’s plans on a different direction. He did not forget them, for he is a just God, but he simply altered them; for a better outcome no doubt. It is in accordance with this change that We act today then. As Romans, we must take the fight to the enemy. The Senate and people of Italy and the West again rise up to the occasion, as in the days of Augustus himself, to confront and shatter the traitors of the East!” The entire Senate stood up, clapping for several minutes. Attempts to continue by Theodosius were futile; convinced himself, he just waited for the applause to die down.

“For the struggle that lies ahead is difficult; a repetition of those tumultuous, ancient days. And the stakes are just as high; a continuation of the centaur’s rule will doom the European provinces to fall under the yoke of dark barbarism, and those of the East to endure the cruelest martyrdom, unparalleled since the dark days of paganism, at the hands of the Persians. In this fight We must lead at the head of Our redeeming armies, and We have decided to act in accordance with Our father’s wishes: in our absence Rome shall have a leader. Senators, please join Us in the acclamation of Our brother Tiberius as Caesar!” he concluded, turning back and placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders. John retrieved the silver crown that had been brought in by one of the attendants previously.

“Tiberius Caesar, tu vincas!” was the unanimous ovation from the Senate, as Theodosius lowered the crown on his brother’s head. Applause followed, shouts of “Vita!” trailing the applause. Theodosius clapped with them, smiling, while Tiberius looked nervously about, tickled.

As yet another round of applause died down, the Emperor continued: “And now Elder Rome must come to the rescue of New Rome. The mother to the help of the daughter. Caesar to the help of Constantine. We have proven our might in the waters of the Adriatic, and at the foot of the Alps. The usurper trembles in his throne and our brothers in the east await us in eager expectation. To arms! Romani, Deus nobiscum!”

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 4 -III-

​

Yareb looked carefully at the small Roman column marching on the street below. They were but twenty men. Not a problem, he reassured himself mentally, not a problem. He continued to watch as the soldiers marched on, while he lay flat on the roof of his house, until a small flash caught the corner of his right eye. He looked again, trying to make sure it was what he thought it was, and there it was; coming from the rooftop four houses down. The signal. He took the polished copper piece from his pouch, moved it slowly, tilting against the sunlight and flashed back, towards his left side. Within seconds, replies had come back from the houses behind him, in front, and all around, twinkling like small stars in the daylight.

“Now!” the shout resonated clearly, from a distance.

He grabbed a rock from the stack he had piled up nearby and began to aim them as best he could, trying to hit the soldiers’ heads. All of the others were doing the same.

“Ambush!” the Romans screamed in Greek beneath, some raising their shields, others trying to scatter. Two of them had already been hit cleanly on the head, and due to the lack of helmets, had had their skulls cracked and lay dead on the road.

Yareb continued hurling the rocks, mustering all of his strength. He knew that all the Jews in Antioch, as well as some Christians from the Green deme, had had enough of the despotic commands that had come from Constantinople. The last straw had been the visit of the Emperor’s magistros, Alexander, whose short stay in the city had seen many Jews who had been compulsorily converted to Christianity “by the grace of an imperial decree.” But those who refused had been swiftly put to death. Even my father, he remembered.

By now, Alexander had gone onto Palestine to continue with his itinerant murderous rampage, and as a result the Roman military presence had declined accordingly. But still, he also knew that doing what he was doing now would not guarantee complete success for his people. However, his friend Moshe did know what would; so this ambush was but a means to an end.

The assault ended; six Romans lay dead, three more were still alive, but wounded, the rest had scattered. He ran back downstairs, by which time his companions were already there, finishing the surviving Romans off with their daggers.

“That wasn’t too bad was it?” asked Hed, a young boy of around seventeen, as he wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm.

“No, but we need to get moving, we are not there yet” was Yareb’s quick reply. “Let’s go.”

The gathering point was near the city center, by the great Christian cathedral. As they ran down the narrow streets, they passed the burnt down remains of the local synagogue. He had heard about how Alexander had ordered it to be burnt, with Rab Chizkiyah, and any other men who refused to leave, trapped inside. As if enough synagogues had not by this point been turned over to the Christians. “Bastards” he muttered to himself.

The quick shout from Hed forced him to look to his left. He had only been focused on what was ahead, as they ran towards the central square, and had only glanced at the synagogue in passing. Hed had been running almost alongside him, but suddenly he was not there.

He stopped completely. So did his other five friends. Hed lay on the road, crying, an arrow stuck to his arm, blood flowing from the wound. Before long, more arrows began flying in their direction; upon crossing an intersection they had failed to notice the group of Roman archers that had been headed in their direction. And now they had run into each other.

“Kill those fucking Jews!” barked the one who must have been in command, in Syriac.

Yareb knew that their only chance was to disperse. “Run! Scatter!” The boys did not need to hear the order twice.

He himself, continued on, trying to make it towards the city square. He heard as yet another arrow whistled past his head, and saw it land some distance ahead; but he kept on, ducking his head as he ran. And abruptly he remembered. Zecharya’s bakery! It was but half a block away. He turned right at the next intersection, and there it was. Some distance behind, he could still hear the shouts of some Romans following him. He ran in, and there was the baker.

“Yareb! What in the world?” he asked surprised.

“Zecharya please, just let me hide for a few minutes! Please?” he begged panting, sweat dripping from the sides of his jaw. The Romans were getting closer.

“Get in here!” he replied as he dragged a large empty basket out, next to the other ones full of bread. Yareb jumped in, and Zecharya poured the bread from a neighboring basket on top, covering him completely, finishing not a moment too soon.

“Jew, where is the other heathen?” Yareb heard in the darkness of the basket. Through the weaving of the reeds he could perceive that only two men had followed him. He knew that even breathing might move the bread on top, revealing him.

“My friend, I am no Jew and if you must know, I saw a boy running down the street but he turned left at the next corner, I believe” Zecharya countered, as he pulled the small wooden crucifix, that hung from his neck, from under his tunic.

“You’re a dirty Jew, you probably still deny Christ in secret…”

“If the boy’s not here let’s go” interjected the other soldier, turning to leave.

“Bah…” said the first Roman, kicking down the bread basket next to the one Yareb was hiding in, as he left. The bread scattered across the floor. Please God… he couldn’t hold his breath much longer.

A few more moments of tense silence ensued. With the Romans gone, Zecharya walked up to the doorway, observing them until they turned the corner. “Go ahead and breathe boy.”

Yareb took a big gasp of air with his mouth, before straightening up, as the bread started to fall off the basket. “Thank you so much…” he started as he stood upright.

“You need to get out know. I know what you’re up to and this is not going to end well. The Romans are going to come back son…” the baker replied, sighing as he sat back on the front step.

“Zecharya, they murdered my father and made my mother baptize. You know how they also killed Chizkiyah, and look at you know. Look at you now! They make you call yourself a Christian! Something had to be done.”

“You are much too young Yareb. Too young to know that the Romans will come back, and take revenge with their typical cruelty.”

To Yareb it did not matter, the Romans had become more and more intolerant over time; he did not care if the Emperor was a low usurper as some claimed. He did not care if the “rightful” Emperor was someone else, somewhere else. Past revolts had failed, but times were different now. Waiting for a Messiah had only kept them expectant in the sidelines; now they would not wait. Now we have the Persians. All he cared about was setting things right; his father did not die in vain. He demonstrated to Yareb what was important in life: your faith and your principles. And now as Moshe had promised, they could coordinate actions with the Persians and be free. Truly free.

He turned to face the empty street again. Shouts and cries, echoed from afar; he knew the revolt was now in full swing. From the horizon he could discern the columns of smoke rising. “Very well, Zecharya, your choice. We have lit a flame that won’t be blown off. Freedom has finally come for God’s people.”

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 4 -IV-​

He looked nervously about as they continued to wait at the agreed rendezvous point with the praetorian prefect in the Artopoleia quarter, by the forum of Constantine. Once again, the spring night brought about perfect moonlight, freeing him and his men of the need for torches. That’d have been an added inconvenience, surely.

“Gennadios, is he coming?” one of the men asked him.

“Shhh! Be quiet! He’ll be here…”replied the patrician as he put a raised finger to his lips.

But Theodorus was running late; they had decided to meet almost an hour before. The original plan they had put together had been scrapped after Phocas suddenly called off the traditional races which followed the festivities of Epiphany. Popular discontent had resulted, but Gennadios had vacillated in acting then: Alexios, count of the walls, had then not been contacted yet, and although Alexander was away, Priscus had still been in the city. Furthermore, though the Emperor’s son in law had been initially considered as a co-conspirator, Theodorus had discarded the idea of including him, after Priscus had apparently patched up his tense relationship with Phocas. The new plan was set to take action that very night; capitalizing on the nascent discontent that had followed the news of the revolts all over Syria and the Levant. The prefect had already, supposedly, convinced Alexios, as well as the head of the demes, to intervene in their behalf. The plan would surely succeed with Alexios’ help. Even if he was not actively involved, just by staying out their way would suffice. Moreover, Phocas had sent Priscus with a large detachment of the excubitor guard to Nicaea, were the conspirators had created a “diversion” in order to direct those forces away from the capital. With the comes excubitorum gone, Phocas was virtually left alone; Alexander was in Jerusalem, his brother Comentiolus was still guarding the Danube, his other brother Domentziolus had just left for Sicily, and the younger Domentziolus was still running around in Cappadocia.

“Look Gennadios, something’s wrong. Something’s amiss!” insisted the man.

“Damn it Leo! Theodorus will come, just shut up!” But he did not like the delay either. Not at all.

No sooner had he finished with the phrase that they all heard the sound. Distinctive and unique, although faint at first; it was unmistakably the sound of horseshoes smashing against the cobblestones of the Mese. And they were fast approaching.

“Were they coming with horses? Wouldn’t that be…?”

“No…” Fuck, we’ve been caught… “Run! Everyone run!” yelled the patrician as he turned to leave, pulling the hood of his robe over his head. The group gathered around him spread out; some running towards the adjacent forum, others turning into the neighboring streets. But the horses were gaining up on them.

Gennadios continued to hear them closer and closer. As he turned a corner off of the street he was on, he looked back, briefly as he ran, and saw three excubitors but a few feet away from him. Suddenly, he felt a heavy blow in the back of the head, before everything went black.

____________________________________​

The first thing he felt on waking up was the immense pain, which spread from the top of his head down to his shoulder blades. Before he even opened his eyes, he tried to turn his neck but the action only resulted in a sharp sting which ran further down his back. Fine then…

He opened his eyes. He clearly realized where he was. Even if he was blind he could have known it; feeling the cold stone slabs he was sitting on, and his back was resting on, and just using his nose. His hands had been bound tightly together with some coarse rope; he had not sensed how his wrists hurt before, the pain from his neck being the first thing in his mind.

The small window on the upper reaches of the wall to his left let him know that morning was fast approaching; he could distinguish the purple-orange tones of the sky, in spite of the four iron bars which intersected it.

“How are you feeling?” The voice was unmistakable. Gennadios tried to turn his head abruptly, but soon regretted the decision.

“Theodorus…?” he said, as he managed to sit up somewhat straighter, and to turn his whole body rather than just his head.

“Yes… we messed it up, didn’t we?” The soldiers had not been kind to the prefect either. His bruised face showed obvious signs of “interrogation.”

"What happened? How did they know…?” started the patrician.

“Apparently Germanina, wasn’t as reliable as we first thought…they arrested the Empress, and then they came for me…I’m … I’m … sorry I couldn’t even warn you...” Theodorus barely finished, before his voice cracked towards the end.

This is it then. “I guess we are dead men now … I hope the rest got away” concluded Gennadios as he let out a heavy sigh. He felt empty; his stomach empty, his entrails empty, his heart empty. He knew that he was going to die. He could only hope that it would happen quickly.

“They brought twelve other men with you, I hope that wasn’t all of them…”informed him his cellmate.

“No…that wasn’t all of them…”Trying to rely on as few people as possible for their communication had backfired. Constantina’s servant had apparently revealed everything that she knew of; it had been enough to seize Theodorus before he even left his home. Phocas must have waited then until Gennadios and his men stuck their necks out before seizing them. He was now certain of his fate and of his partner’s. But would they dare execute the Empress? Well, that certainly didn’t matter for Maurice and his boys…

The creaking noise of the old hinges in some nearby door brought him back from his thoughts. Someone was coming. He could hear the steps approaching, before the hoary, greasy, wooden door of their cell swung open.

“Get up you bums! Time for your reward…”grinned the one in front of the group. His accent was somewhat strange, but not to the point of being difficult to comprehend. He was a Syrian perhaps. Four men rushed into the cell and pulled both of them up, placing their own arms between the prisoners’ arms and ribcages. The pain on Gennadios’ neck increased as they yanked him up. Once on their feet they were made to walk, with their guards behind.

As they continued down the corridor, the chuckles from the men behind them annoyed him. They could probably care less who is Emperor; they could care less if it was Chosroes instead. “Will you shut up already!” he yelled before he even realized it. Everyone stopped walking. Theodorus looked at him wide eyed. But the laughs stopped. And then he felt it.

Being unable to put his hands in front of him, he hit the rocky floor face on. Someone had kicked him on the back. He could taste the blood from a busted lip. Before long, someone grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head up. The pain in his neck was unbearable; he felt it was about to snap. He cried out.

“Now you shut up! Shut up fucking traitor!” the soldier pushed his head back down, hitting it on the floor one more time. He felt his nose crack. Fuck; God let it end already. They pulled him back up as they had done in the cell. They continued walking on. He could now clearly see the open doorway to which they were headed. Dawn had already broken outside.

Coming into a walled courtyard, there were arranged long makeshift gallows from which hung some of the men that the prefect told him had been captured, as well as some he did not recognize. Next to the gallows, somewhat closer to the center there was a chopping block, and the bodies of four of his co-conspirators lay piled up to the side, Leo among them. The black robed figure of a priest stood silently nearby. The heads were piled up further to the left, next to an improvised dais upon which had been arranged a seat for the Emperor Phocas, where he was surrounded by a few of his excubitors. The only one Gennadios could recognize was Priscus; he had made it back after all. But the figure which struck him the most, in a heavy contrast to the macabre spectacle he know beheld, was the chained figure of the Empress Constantina, still veiled in the holy robes from the monastery, standing impassively, with a hollow face next to the piled heads, restrained by two men.

Theodorus and Gennadios were brought before Phocas, who looked at them blankly as he leaned forward in his seat, without getting up. “We are not going to waste time trying to secure your repentance; God is a fair judge, and if there’s mercy to be had on you, He will do so. Now tell Us, who else has betrayed the Empire?”

Gennadios looked down. If anyone got away he would not betray them. He did not hear the old prefect utter a word either. He could hear Phocas breathing out heavily. “We would hate to consider that your families have also had a role to play in this whole fiasco…”

At that moment he was glad that, in a moment of precaution thinking carelessly for an instant about what could happen if he failed, he had sent his wife Maria, and his two little daughters, off to their family in Athens. Hopefully, on news of his capture they could make it out alive. He was ignorant as to whether old Theodorus had done likewise. “Do what you want tyrant. Hang me, behead me…in two months’ time, the disgusted people will drag you through the streets when Theodosius enters The City. We’ll settle accounts in the afterlife.” Saying that had actually felt good. He felt free from the emptiness he had felt earlier; free from the overpowering fear that had plagued him for the last months as they planned the coup.

“Bahh…get it over with” was the Emperor’s reply, waving a hand. “Now let me have a word with Constantina.”

The patrician was dragged back from the stage along with Theodorus, who had actually started to cry, silently, and back towards the center of the courtyard. To the chopping block.

“Constantina; We expected better, much better from the daughter of Tiberius Constantine. After all, Maurice was born a peasant, but you…” Gennadios heard from a distance. He could see that the Empress had been brought before the throne, but on being addressed there was no reply from her, only silence.

To his right, Theodorus was punched in the stomach and thrown to the ground, then dragged, and his head placed in the block.

“Eis to onoma tou Patros, kai tou Huiou, kai tou Hagiou Pneumatos…” The priest made the sign of the cross over the prefect, as the executioner raised the huge axe that he had been leaning on. The old man continued to cry.

Gennadios could not look. He closed his eyes and heard the chopping, crunching, noise that the axe made on encountering flesh. He heard a soft thud, followed by another, a harder, one. And then a dragging noise. The metallic smell of blood penetrated his nostrils.

“We gave you and your daughters a chance. We gave you life! And this is how you repay Us! And now you have the insolence to not even answer Us!” Phocas continued in the background. But Gennadios still did not hear a reply.

He thought he knew where he was; a courtyard of the Boukeleon palace by the southern Sea Wall, south of the Great Palace. He could hear the soft roar of the waves crashing against the base of the walls from a distance. He opened his eyes.

Theodorus’ body had been dragged away and placed with the others. He knew he was next. Suddenly, he was on the floor again. Son of a bitch! He assumed that the same soldier had kicked him on the back again, with the same results, as his hands were still tied. He was dragged up and his head placed on the wet block. The pain from his neck now spread all the way down his arms and his legs. He cried out, once again.

“Well then you’ve chosen your fate… We wash our hands from your decision.” Phocas carried on. By now he could not see the usurper anymore, the position of the block forced him to look to the right off the dais, into a wall. But there still was no forthcoming answer from Constantina. It did not matter; Gennadios knew now that she too was going to die. The executioner raised the axe, high over him.

“Eis to onoma tou Patros, kai tou Huiou, kai tou Hagiou Pneumatos…”

The patrician closed his eyes. “Fuck you Phocas! I’ll see you in Hades!” he shouted as loud as he could, while the bloodstained axe came down.

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 5 -I-​

He was a bit apprehensive and tense, certainly more than he would like to admit. This was to be the first operation that he carried out in this fashion; he had never, ever, in his whole life imagined himself going to fight in faraway Egypt. He had heard about the place; it was hot, dry, like many of the southern valleys in Baetica, but full of sand. A desert. He tried not to show his anxiousness, he did not want to perturb his men. They are probably about to wet themselves, anyway.

His presence, and that of his men, aboard the ship he was in now was due to the diplomatic maneuvers of the Romans, who had offered king Witteric [1] the occupied territories of “Spania” as they called them, for him “to administer in the name of the Emperor,” with the exception of the coastal capital, Carthago Spartaria. The Visigothic king, whose hold on the throne was still rather shaky, thanks to the distrust of the Catholic factions, had gladly accepted. But the Romans, being Romans, had put a hefty condition on the trade; they wanted military help to continue their civil war. Witteric’s intent in complying with their demands had its own hidden purpose: he assembled a large army of three thousand men, which greatly satisfied the Romans, and in it he placed as many of the disgruntled and discontent members of the opposition against him as he possibly could. With one stroke he had honored the bargain, and cleansed the kingdom of insidious venom. Needless to say, there were real soldiers in the force; in fact, most of it was comprised of warriors, and luckily he had some of them with him. Thank God.

“Lord Wamba the city is in sight” informed him one of his aides.

Although Witteric himself had tasked him with the command of the entire Visigothic force, the Romans had immediately dispersed some of the men into their own regiments, or removed command of large portions of the army and reassigned them to the command of other individuals. He had not complained; after all if the troublemakers did not return home, all the better.

“Men! Get ready!” he ordered, unsheathing his sword. The rest of the troop on board did likewise. The Roman ship continued to sway gently as it approached its destination.

Before leaving Carthage, he had been present at the briefing by Theodosius, along with Agila, another of the Goths chosen by the Romans to lead one of the Visigothic divisions, on how their offensive would proceed. So far, all of the major cities along the way had surrendered voluntarily; Leptis and Ptolemais, and all the smaller towns in between. The two forces, the one that had advanced by sea with him and the Italian magister Heraclius, and the larger one marching by land with Theodosius, had been meeting regularly at predetermined locations, in order to synchronize their assault against the Egyptian capital as best as possible. At their last stop, Paraetonium, the Western forces had rested for two days before departing again, slightly reinforced by volunteers and some of the local garrisons; but whose numbers did not contribute greatly to increase their overall manpower. Well, any help at this point is welcome, he had reasoned then. The plan now in execution called for Wamba, along with one thousand of his Visigothic troops and aided by Heraclius and some Romans, to disembark in the outskirts of Alexandria and negotiate with the local garrison; soon after Theodosius himself would arrive with his land army and invest the city if necessary. The Egyptians were expected to give in; Phocas had not proved to be highly popular with his recent persecution of the Jews, and with his vocal opposition to local Monophysitism. His magister, Alexander, had made it as far as Pelusium on his way to enforce the new “imperial” inquisition, when word reached him of the proximity of the Western forces, and he stopped in his tracks.

Though Wamba was imbuing in the memories of these events, trying to calm himself, his gaze soon brought back his attention to his surroundings. Good God! he thought to himself. Spread out before him stood the megalopolis of the Diocese of Aegyptus. Cyclopean walls extended from the shore to a far distance to his right, deep inland; beyond them lay a small patch of greenery, and further behind the turquoise waters of Lake Mareotis. The other end of the fortifications ran parallel to the beach until the area where the ports were, somewhere along the middle of the city. The Imperial banner flew high on the city walls, waving over the battlements. He could see some troops scurrying high on the ramparts. But, the most imposing sight in the horizon was the colossal Pharos, which seemed to rise up from the very depths of the sea to the edge of the sky, spewing smoke towards the heavens like the ancient turibula, burning votive offerings to the pagan gods. There was nothing like this back in Spain. Nothing at all. A cold shiver ran down his back; a seasoned warrior though he was, this was otherworldly. Nonetheless, his stupefying amazement was quickly broken by the bump of the ship hitting the grimy shore; it was in fact, a soft thud. In an instant, the board was thrown over the side and down he went, followed by his men, onto the wet sand.

They had landed west of the city, on the tract of land between the sea and the lake. He mentally recalled their objective; to cut off the area quickly and not to attempt any unnecessary assaults. After unloading, the transport ships would position themselves to blockade the harbor.

The ships with the cavalry landed shortly after, a little further down the beach, and the horsemen quickly fanned out under the leadership of Heraclius, as they tried to circumvent the walls, on their way to the southern end. “Let’s get moving!” Wamba shouted mounting his own horse, as his infantry began to unfurl towards the south. Within a couple of hours all of the men were in position.

He then knew that he had to offer Theodosius’ terms. The Emperor would not be arriving for at least another six to seven hours, and his worst fear was that the Alexandrian troops would sally out and scatter his small army. If he could get them to surrender, it would surely be better to wait for the Roman ruler enjoying refreshments, inside the city.

Surrounded by a small guard, he rode to the western gate, while one of the Romans who had sailed with them, shouted to the defenders: “We have come by order of Theodosius Augustus, to free you from the yoke of the tyrant! Send a delegate to confer with us!”

Sweat was dripping down from Wamba’s forehead. He had already removed his helmet, but to no avail; the wearisome heat of the desert did not suit him well at all. Damn, all we need now is for them to say no and we have to wait here in the fucking sun for Theodosius. He ran his hand over his face, wiping some of the perspiration off. There was no answer from the men in the battlements; they had only been observing mutely as they had landed, deployed, and now approached them. The tense silence continued.

“Well?” he asked the Roman translator.

“I don’t know. I guess they must be deliberating who to send…”

What took place next was so sudden, that he did not expect it at all. Perhaps no one did. In the back of his mind he had known it could happen, he knew it very well, but the easiness of their landing, and the lack of opposition, coupled with the annoying heat, had dulled his senses to the possibility.

The Roman interpreter had been shot dead, falling off his horse; the slender body of an arrow sticking out of his left eye socket. Seconds later more missiles started raining down on Wamba and his escort. “Retreat! Fan out!” he shouted, as he frantically spurred on his horse and raced back toward his lines.

“Shit! What the fuck just happened?” he screamed at Nepotianus, the Roman commander who traveled with his troop, as he got back to the tent that had just been set up, and dismounted.

“I…I don’t…I don’t know…” babbled the Roman. “They must… they must …”

“Shut up already! Witiges, we are now on high alert, send a courier to the detachment in the south end, and warn them that the Romans are not friendly. If there is a sally Heraclius knows not to engage; but should they have to scatter tell them to regroup here. Do you understand me?” he commanded, addressing the younger Goth officer who had approached him on being called.

Witiges nodded his assent and left trotting. “Now you. I want you to send some men to look for the Emperor. Take one of the ships, I don’t care” he ordered Nepotianus.

The Roman had by now recovered from his initial surprise. “What ? I am the one in charge here you impertinent…”

He did not get to finish. Nepotianus landed on his back with a bleeding nose, as Wamba lowered his right arm, having punched him dead in the face. Some of the Romans moved their hands to their swords; all of the Goths present did the same. “If they want to, they can kill us all. All they have to do is venture out, and then where do we run to? The lake over there?” asked the Visigoth pointing to the south, as he turned to look in that direction. On second thought…

The Roman commander stared in disbelief at the Goth, still on the ground, while holding his right hand up to his face. “No…”

“Then shut the fuck up, and leave me in charge if you want to last the night” Wamba concluded. He turned around and ordered one of the junior Roman officers, “Go send the message to Theodosius.”

The Roman assented, silently and left, in a hurry. Now all I have to do… The bellowing of the trumpets interrupted his thoughts. He turned to face the city again. The gates were opening.

Nepotianus was finally getting back on his feet, no one helping him to do so. “Oh Christ Almighty…”

Yes, Christ Almighty indeed. The Alexandrian cavalry was deploying in front of the city; light cavalry on the flanks, the famous cataphractoi in the center. “Pull back! Pull back to the marshes on the lake shore! Get the cavalry back over here!” he commanded as he jumped back on his horse.

The orders and shouts in Greek, Gothic, and Latin followed in quick succession. The Romans began to draw up their squadrons and the Visigoths started to marshal their own as well. “Send a message back to the Heraclius to ride back around the city and meet us at the lakeshore. We all need to regroup here now!” he ordered to one of the messengers by him. He quickly studied his possibilities; his best shot was to rally his forces to the marshy, soft ground at the edge of the Mareotis, where the heavy Roman cavalry would be useless. Everywhere else they would be in an open field, making them an easy prey for the Alexandrian horsemen. All right, now to make sure I still have my head in its place by sundown, Wamba thought, as cold sweat ran down his face.

______________________________

[1] Witteric, King of the Visigoths (603-610 A.D.)
​

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 5 -II-

​

As he rode with his band of men, the young magister militum per Italiam, Heraclius continued to admire the defenses of the Egyptian capital. Though he was familiar with the urban defenses of Italy and Africa, here the bulwarks were of an older, more elegant kind. Impressive and beautiful. One had to try to make the best of any situation; he had been sent to this end of the world on a mission, he might as well enjoy the scenery. To the southeast spread the rich, green, and bountiful, Nile delta; to the southwest the greenish waters of Lake Mareotis. Arriving at their destination, he had positioned his men to block the southern gate, and now settled down to wait. The fortifications on this side seemed to be lightly guarded; apparently most of the men were either guarding the docks, or patrolling the western wall in front of which Wamba and Nepotianus were encamped. A shame we don’t have more men to exploit the opportunity...

He thought briefly of his new wife Fabia, daughter of Rogas, whom he had hastily married before leaving home. Amusingly enough, his own mother Epiphania had been adamant on his marrying his betrothed before his departure. He knew very well why; since both of her sons were leaving, and in case he did not make it back, a grandchild would always be a joyful keepsake of his presence in this world. His friendly relationship with Theodosius had secured an early leave from Italy, and he had remained in the African capital until the Imperial party arrived a month later to prepare for their offensive. He also thought of how much his father, the elder Heraclius, was pleased at his good relationship with the Emperor, and truth be told, Heraclius and Theodosius had indeed become good friends. Ironically, when the first news had arrived of the overthrow of Maurice, he had posed to his father the possibility of launching their own bid for the throne, in a fit of youthful ambition. But the old Exarch had dismissed his ramblings and stood by Theodosius, not long after the rash episode had quickly been forgotten by the father; Heraclius certainly was now glad that he had as well. If they won the war, an outcome which was still undecided, he would certainly end up among the highest ranking members of the new government, without anyone addressing him as another usurper.

The sudden, strident, notes from the trumpets made him look back in the direction of the city, recalling him from his memories. With a puzzled look his brother Theodorus addressed him:

“Those are not ours, are they?”

“Didn’t sound like them…” he answered softly. “Stay here. I need twenty men to come with me!”

With the volunteers having rallied to him, the magister retraced his steps, returning towards the beach. But he did not go far before a scene of utter chaos unfolded before him, as he shuddered atop his horse. The Alexandrian horsemen had deployed in front of the city; the cataphractoi observing passively by the gate, as the mounted archers of the light cavalry began to harass Nepotianus’ detachment. Archers from the high on the walls also fired back at the fight Gothic archers that had decided to make a stand, while the rest of the infantry was trying to retreat, in the best orderly fashion possible, towards the swamps of the Mareotis. The bodies of those who had not been fast enough littered the field. Trying to keep the Egyptian light cavalry from advancing, was Wamba and the few horsemen that he had available, perhaps about forty of them; and one of them was now approaching Heraclius at full speed.

“Magister Heraclius!” he shouted from a distance, as he continued riding. “We need you at the camp!”

Heraclius observed the ongoing situation with consternation. The Egyptians were not supposed to attack; so far they had been welcomed with open arms wherever they had gone. Evaluating the situation quickly, he only had four hundred riders with him, not one of them had armor enough to take on the cataphractoi. Their heavy cavalry was at that very instant marching with Theodosius. The Alexandrian forces deployed against them should perhaps number around a thousand, not including the infantry and archers still in the city. Numbers alone were not on his side. The best he could do was to stall until the arrival of the Western army, which was precisely what Wamba seemed to be attempting to do. By relocating his forces to the marshy shore of the Alexandrian lake, the cataphractoi would be unable to attack, lest they get bogged down by their own weight, neutralizing them. What a clever Goth…

But the rest of the cavalry posed a problem; the magister quickly realized that he had to cover the retreat of the infantry, and if possible distract the enemy heavy cavalry from even attempting an assault. He turned to one of his own men, “Get Theodorus and the rest here now!”

Within minutes the rest of his force was by him. Stall, stall, stall, he reassured himself. “Heraclius, what do we do?” asked him his brother.

“Ride with the men to support Wamba and Nepotianus. I will need fifty men with me” he ordered his sibling. “I need fifty of you with me!”

Soon after he had his small band of men, as his brother rode at the head of the rest of their cavalry to scatter the mounted archers. “Now all of you will follow my orders; we are not to engage, we are not to attack. I do not want stupid heroics. I will ride at the front, and if I am killed you will return to Theodorus! Understood?”

“Yes magister!” came the unanimous response of the men.

“Let’s go!”

He directed himself towards the cataphractoi. Further ahead, the infantry had reached the lake and had set themselves up in the mud, shields at the front, to face the Egyptian mounted archers. Wamba had joined Theodorus, and together they began to chase the harassing bands of mounted shooters, who now rode away from the Western army. Another thunderous blow from a trumpet from the city made Heraclius turn his gaze in that direction one more time; the heavy cavalry was readying for an attack against his own lighter horsemen.

“Romans!” he cried out from a distance as he came closer to them. “Romans! Why do you attack your brethren, the men of your Emperor? Why do you fight for the interest of the faithless tyrant?”

A few of the men turned their heads to look at him, not one of them moved. As soon as the second call from the trumpet blew its notes through the air, they charged. Six hundred men, wrapped in steel from head to toe, as were their beasts, lowered their lances towards the magister militum per Italiam, and his fifty men. Heraclius stopped dead in his tracks; he was in the middle of the prairie, to his right the city wall, the lake to his left was a considerable distance away, but there was nowhere else. Shit…

“To the lake!” he ordered, as he turned his horse left. “To the lake!” All of the men followed.

Theodorus and Wamba had apparently had better luck against the light cavalry. The numbers there were about even, and the Gothic horsemen had made good of their reputation. Still, there would be little they could do against the cataphractoi. Suddenly, among the usual cacophony of battle, mixed in between the shouts of men, the whistling of arrows, and the thunder of charging cavalry, Heraclius sensed something very different as he fled from the nearing enemy. Cries of not only men, but women, reached his ears, and oddly enough, the smell of smoke also penetrated his nostrils. He did not recall either of the two sides using flaming arrows. He turned his head slightly back towards the battlefield and the city and saw them clearly; rivaling the pillar of smoldering ashes rising from the Pharos, were three, perhaps four, other columns of smoke, but from inside the city. A riot had broken out.

In any case, that did not help him; the Egyptians were still behind him and his men. A few more trumpets blew their calls in the distance, sounded like his own, but Heraclius did not turn. I’ll have to get in the water; we’ll have to get in the water… “Men! Ride into the water!” he commanded as they came upon the shore of Lake Mareotis.

The horses slowed their pace but continued to move into the body of water. The magister dismounted immediately, landing waist deep on the lake floor, and began to swim towards the deeper end, as he continued to tug at his horse’s bridle. Some of his men had not made it soon enough and had been caught by the cataphractoi; but the enemy did not dare to enter more than a few feet into the water. It did not matter; an order was issued in Coptic, and all of them put away their lances, drawing bows instead.

The men in the water gasped. God almighty, Christe eleison Heraclius thought, as he swam. This is it…

In that instant of desperation, he caught sight of a small shape. From the direction of the city, where the battle appeared to have died down, came a lone rider, shouting in Greek from a distance. The captain of the Alexandrian cavalry raised a hand to stop his men from firing the arrows they had already aimed at the soldiers in the lake.

“Stop! By command of the Patriarch and the Prefect!” the rider yelled, as he came closer. “The Emperor Theodosius has arrived!”

 

[Pururauka]

Chapter 5 -III-

​

He held his right hand over his mouth, as he stared at the map spread out on the table, leaning over it, pondering, thinking, planning. He ground his teeth slightly, as his eyes scanned every part of the parchment, moved from left to right, up and down; from the far waters of the Adriatic to the tropics across the Indus; from the steppes beyond the Oxus to the Arabian vassals of the Eranshahr and the sea to the south. Several wooden blocks were placed over different areas of the map; some were green, some were red. Many of the green blocks marking his own divisions lay scattered across the former Roman border; the foremost two, representing Shahin Vahmanzadegan in Anatolia, and Farrokhan Shahrbaraz in Syria, were the ones to which his eyes were drawn to the most. Shahin had successfully completed the occupation of Armenia, Iberia, and Lazistan in a period of just over three months, before descending into the Roman heartland. His position located him in a perfect place to thrust forward and deny the enemy a most vital source of foodstuffs and manpower. Constantinople can starve, and rot; it’s always easier for the rotten apple to fall off the tree, instead of breaking your neck climbing, attempting, to get it before it’s ripe…

Farrokhan had now also moved from Mesopotamia, into Syria, and had split his forces in two; one was conducting a siege at Beroea [1], while the second force, under the spahbod himself was marching to Antioch, where coincidentally, the Jews had rebelled and were calling on the Iranians openly as liberators. Although the Romans had clamped down on the initial revolt, several disaffected Hebrews had fled to the Iranian lines, reinforcing them, and those who remained in the city could surely be counted on to behave the right way when the time came.

He straightened up. Without turning, he made a gesture with his left hand, upon which the servant standing by the doorway left the room immediately. He crossed his arm over his stomach, a hand holding his right elbow in place as he continued to cover his mouth with the other hand. His fourteen year old son, Kobad, across the table from him, seemed to be intent on observing the map with the utmost attention as well, as he fiddled with a short golden cane.

“What do you think we should do?” Khosrau finally asked, somewhat amused.

The teen looked up at him, briefly, before returning his gaze to the blocks on the parchment. “We should consider the fact that the son of Maurice has now entered the field. Perhaps we should begin to conduct direct negotiations with him while we still hold the upper hand; secure Armenia and Mesopotamia, and allow the Romans to finish each other off.”

The Shah’s eyes instinctively moved to the red block on Egypt. Theodosius. He had met the son of Maurice during his brief stay at the Roman capital, some fifteen years before. Then, Theodosius had been but a seven year old child, whom obviously did not capture much of his attention. Khosrau truly knew very little of him. He had heard of his residence in the far regions of the West, and that he had been one of the only two remaining members of the Roman royal family, that had survived Phocas’ carnage. Had they all died then, the Shah could have, truly and safely, had some impostor pose as the young Qaisar, as he conducted the war “to avenge his friend and father.” But the public and official goal remained as such, to remove Phocas and restore a Maurician on the throne, even his own men had been told that much. Now, however, the speed of the Iranians’ success had surprised and staggered even him; as a result, no attempts had been made to coordinate a plan with Theodosius, and Khosrau’s willingness to share the spoils diminished daily.

“And why should we do such a thing?” he taunted Kobad.

“If we suffer a reverse at the hands of, or a difficult victory over, either of the two Emperors, we might be too weak to face whoever remains untouched” the prince answered, still not looking at his father.

Inexperience, how candid. “My son; you are aware that our victories have now matched those of your great-grandfather, the first Khosrau, and we have yet to suffer a setback at the hands of the Romans. Remember always to take advantage of a divided, and weakened, enemy…” he rebuked, as he began to walk slowly over to where the teen was, still observing the map. “Our war in the West has been a struggle as old as any. But very few times in history, one comes across opportunities such as the one Ahura Mazda now presents to us.”

The boy had a point. But the chances of things turning against them, in the face of such astounding success, were slim. The Romans had been vanquished in almost all the battles of the war; ever greater streams of captives arrived every week; and the areas of contention for the last three hundred years were now almost totally occupied by his soldiers. Khosrau had waited for too long: living with the whispers and the gossip, that he was but a mere puppet of Maurice, had certainly made him resentful and eager to pounce on Rome as soon as the chance presented itself. Now it had and, like a tidal wave, he was sweeping everything before him.

The footsteps of the men approaching echoed down the hall. Soon after, the servant reappeared, letting in two men in military attire, before retiring again. One of them seemed distinctively older, with a long black beard, neatly trimmed; the other, a younger man, sported only a thick mustache.

“Shahanshah, you called” the older one said, as they both prostrated themselves on the floor, with their heads touching it.

“Rise Shahraplakan” Khosrau ordered, not looking at them. “I have a new plan; you must get ready as you will be leaving for the front shortly.”

The bearded man stood up, while the other remained on the ground, and approached the map. “Your orders Shahanshah?”

Khosrau took the short golden staff that Kobad was holding, and pointed to the map with it. “The Romans have mobilized a large force that is now approaching Shahin. First, you will advance into Armenia with the new levies from the East, and recruit ten thousand horsemen among the naxarars [2]. Take a month to do so. If Shahin prevails, you will proceed into Syria and complete the conquest of the seacoast; mop up anything that Farrokhan has not occupied by then. Immediately, put the Romans to work at the docks. Nevertheless, should Shahin fail, you must continue the push into Anatolia, and reach the Aegean coast before the Romans can transfer more troops from Europe.”

“Yes Shahanshah!”replied the spahbod as he bowed down quickly.

“Kardarigan, on your feet” Khosrau called.

“You will lead the troops sent by the Arabians and reinforce the Shahrbaraz at Antioch. Then, you will march south, into Palestine. Make sure that the entire country is pacified” the Shah explained, as the man came closer, nodding silently.

Kobad looked at his father, opened his mouth slightly as if to say something, but stopped once Khosrau’s eyes found him. Keep quiet boy. He addressed his soldiers again: “Your regiments arrived last week. Both of you will leave on the morrow. Be gone.”

Shahraplakan and Kardarigan bowed down once again before leaving the room. The Shah kept his eyes on them as he pondered things over. Shahraplakan was a good, reliable warrior; he had been the one that brought back the Lakhmid dog, Al Nu’man, when the latter refused to give Khosrau his daughter. The Shah could have cared less about the girl; he had plenty in his harem. The principle of insubordination however, was a different story. Unacceptable. And the fact that the Lakhmids had allowed Christians to live amongst them in these times of war…even Al-Nu’man had been one…

“You must learn to keep to yourself” he reprimanded the prince. “You did not speak with words, but you did with your face!”

“I…thought…I…I am…sorry, father…”babbled the boy.

Khosrau slapped him hard with the back of his hand, making Kobad take a step back as he covered his reddening cheek with his hands. “Get out” lashed the Shah.

His son was gone in an instant. What am I doing all of this for if it’ll all fall to him? Khosrau thought. He turned to his map again, taking a deep breath. With Syria occupied, Theodosius would either stop in Egypt, or take to the sea and attempt an assault on the Roman capital. In either case, he would not come across Iranian troops; and the Shah would try to avoid a confrontation with his casus belli for the moment. By defeating that last army in Anatolia, he would be free to slowly invest and take any remaining cities in the peninsula; the countryside could be his long before that. And then again, there was the idea of a navy he had been toying with, in order for his successors to carry on…

He smiled, alone in the chamber, and in silence. Let us then, go back to the times of Kurus… [3].

______________________________​

[1] Aleppo.
[2] Armenian noblemen.
[3] Cyrus the Great, Achaemenid King of Persia (559 BC – 530 BC.)