The Mauricians: A Medieval Roman novel

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Chapter 5-IV- Domentziolus
  • Chapter 5 -IV-

    The bishop strode furiously into the strategos’ quarters, his robes fluttering as he trudged on; just the look in his eyes kept the sentinels from barring his way. His steps resonated heavily against the stone slabs, making his approach known in the conference chamber. What now? Domentziolus thought, sighing heavily, as he turned his head in the direction of the nearing noise.

    “Domine Domentziole; I demand that the plunder taken from the innocent citizens be returned. God will not stand for such travesty!” the cleric demanded as he burst in the room. The bucellarii on either side of the door remained paralyzed, looking at their leader for orders.

    The strategos looked away briefly, rolling his eyes. Fine then. “Domine Marcelline, it is most pleasant to see you; but truly regretful that it must be under the current circumstances…”he started as he turned to face him again with a wide smile.

    “You will do very well to do as I have asked. You have sent back all of my messengers empty handed! The people here want no quarrel with anyone, they just want to live in peace!” the bishop protested, stomping his right foot to add emphasis to his point.

    Domentziolus knew well that it would not be wise to antagonize the priest. To do so would be to further alienate the population of Syracuse against him and his troops. Not that there was that much love lost either; taking into consideration that he had allowed his men to sack, or as he had termed it “to confiscate rebel wealth,” in order to appease them. Were he in charge of a half decent force, he could have cared less about popular opinion. But they were on an island in the middle of enemy territory. He had only been given four thousand men: they were few and they knew it, and as a result morale was at an all time low. The capitulation of Syracuse had included among its clauses the specification that all private and church property be respected. But he had needed to galvanize his men in some fashion, lest they desert their posts. And since his brother had not been able to foot the bill so far…

    “I fully understand Domine. I assure you that it was but a small confusion which led to this most unfortunate incident. It gladdens me greatly to know that the property of God and His Holy Church was unaffected, thanks to divine providence, no doubt. I guarantee you that those responsible will be found, arrested, and dealt with.” He concluded his promise, as he tried an even bigger smile.

    “And when can such wonderful events be expected to take place?” questioned him the bishop ironically, and still defiant.

    The strategos stood up from the couch, approaching Marcellinus while he continued to address him. Domentziolus, be patient. “Your Excellency; I beg you to comprehend that these are most trying times for the Empire…the enemies of Christ and Rome assail us from every side, and we are only trying to do what is right. But in the course of a war things are bound to happen…”

    “Stratege, do not take me for a fool. Your empty promises cannot deceive us. Return the stolen property first and then deal with your brigands!” The bishop’s face had turned a bright red with his irritation.

    Domentzilus had had enough; he had bigger, much more important, things to worry about. Shit. His expression hardened. “Listen to me, you fat bastard!” he yelled out as he wagged a finger in the priest’s face. “Jesus Christ himself would have had cast you from his side for denying Caesar his due! You were in open rebellion against the Emperor, aligning yourself with that boy and now pretending to come lecture me on what to do! Take him into custody!”

    The two bucellarii at the door approached them, nervously, and seized the bishop by the shoulders. Marcellinus put up no resistance, only as he was led out of the room he shouted: “You will see impertinent child, that the Lord will cast you and your sibling down, and both of you will be next to Judas and Brutus on the day of the resurrection!”

    Lunatic, the strategos thought to himself, returning to his seat. When Priscus had first introduced the idea of this mission to the high command, he had done so in a “joking” manner. While Domentziolus himself had initially considered it as potentially effective, and as a way for them to regain the initiative, he had despaired once he was fully aware of the logistical difficulties, as well as the ridiculously low number of men that he would be given to accomplish it. Opposing Phocas in any case would not have been wise, even for a family member. Emissaries from The City had informed him of Theodorus and Gennadios' failed coup, and he also knew that the Emperor was beginning to drink heavily ever since news of the Egyptian capitulation reached him; as a result, the paranoia and the famous fits of anger had led to some of the slaves and eunuchs to desert the palace in fear of their lives. Needless to say, once found, these sacrificial lambs had to endure the ever worsening sadistic punishments that the strategos’ brother had devised for them, before death became a welcome deliverance. His state of mind is really starting to be questionable…Domentziolus reasoned. He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head lightly in order to dispel his thoughts. Back to work. Landing in Sicily had gone fairly well, as had the seizure of the island’s capital; with no opposition. And luckily, he had a decent naval force of sixty dromons available in order to continue with his operations. His first task now was to cut off African supplies from reaching Egypt and secondly, this part was up to his own discretion, attack whichever of the two principal Western provinces he deemed to be the most vulnerable. At this point, Italy had no substantial troops to speak of; some small garrisons had been left in place mostly to serve as police forces, especially in the southern areas. Worthy of consideration, was the fact that also temptingly in Rome, Theodosius had left his wife, siblings, and newborn child, and less significantly, his puppet Pope, Boniface. Seizing them would present a great leverage with which he could be pressured into quick negotiations. The problem was getting there, without overstretching.

    On the other hand, Africa was where the greater number of Theodosius’ supplies and funds came from. And Carthage was also virtually defenseless, since most of the men had been sent off with their leader. Yet most importantly, Domentziolus rationalized that he would only need to seize the provincial capital in order to disrupt the supply lines considerably; the exarch could flee to the desert. Seizing the African metropolis would deprive Theodosius of funds, and if Phocas was successful at the other end of the Mediterranean against the Persians, the young man would find himself far from his one remaining province; a bankrupt and powerless Italy, and within reach of Constantinople.

    “Theophilos!” he called. A young doryphoros approached him. “Gather the men; have them sharpen their swords, that we’ve got work to do! Once we are done here, we’re going to Africa.”

    “Will do sir.” His beardless subordinate assented slightly, and left the room.

    He would have to micromanage each and every one of his men in order to not be wiped out in a definitive engagement. If old Heraclius in Africa could call on the savages from beyond, total defeat could very well be a possibility. But he tried to think positively. Maybe God has something in store for me. If Phocas manages to hold on and win all the better. But if he doesn’t…then at least I’ll have a powerbase of my own to carry on…

    From the outside the uproar of the rioting rabble began to slowly penetrate the room, seeping through the walls, and flowing in through the windows. Domentziolus stood up, while rubbing his bearded chin. But like David, I might have to beat Goliath first.
     
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    Chapter 6-I- Navid
  • Chapter 6 -I-

    He rested his spear on the ground for a few moments, hung his shield on the saddle, leaning it against his leg, and proceeded to rub his sweaty palms against the back of his Nisean horse. He was scared to death, again, that he might lose his life. But running away is surely a death sentence, he had deduced. Not only would he have had to make it past the rest of his regiment, but also past the other divisions behind his own, and past the siege engines, but even more importantly, past Shahrbaraz himself. No way. He exhaled slowly some of the air in his lungs, and grabbed his weaponry again.

    Surrounding the spahbod the guard of Zhayedan cavalry, which he was a part of, had advanced quite far towards the front. And now, Navid found himself just a short distance away from the battered walls of Antioch, the capital of Roman Syria, awaiting the expected orders for a general assault. The Iranians had been besieging the city for a month, during which all of the attempts made had been unsuccessful; but the day before, the silent work of the sappers had yielded excellent results, as a large area of the southern portion of the wall, to the right of the southernmost gate, collapsed. The Shahrbaraz had ordered the catapults to expand on the opening, and the ensuing gap had been temporarily closed by the dead men who fought over it earlier in the day. However, with this second assault about to be launched, the Iranians had their orders to hurl themselves against the Queen of the Orontes and take it, with no excuses.

    “Get ready!” Navid heard some distance ahead, when a huge shadow obscured the sky overhead. He looked up; it was a giant boulder on its way to the walls. The bombardment had resumed again. The massive stone shattered on hitting the edge of the crack, taking a chunk of the wall down with it. Immediately, more rocks followed. The war drums began to roll, the trumpets to blast. “Men, march!” came the dreaded order for the foot soldiers. The regiments of paighan and dailamite infantry began to stride forward, surrounded by the kamandaran [1], who carried their large wattled shields along.

    There they go. We are next…

    “Men! Prepare to ride!” came the command from their leader. Farrokhan Shahrbaraz himself was but a few men down the line, to Navid’s right, outfitted with a dazzling golden cuirass and next to the green banner with the red boar impressed on it.

    He tightened the grip on his spear. This was not the first battle he had been in. But the sensation before any of them was always the same. Although nervous now, he reminisced briefly of how he had felt when the news of Maurice’s overthrow had been announced in Tysfun [2] in order to fortify his spirits. Excitement and enthusiasm had run high among the population in general, but specially in the ranks of the Spah [3], when the Shah had voiced his intent of launching his war against Rome. Never mind that it was to seat the son of the murdered Qaisar on the throne; what really mattered was that Iranian honor and superiority could, and would, be restored. As he felt a knot in his stomach tightening, he reassured himself: Calm the fuck down; you’ve made it this far, you’ve got a nice bit of gold from all of this, and don’t forget the two Roman bitches you had back in Dara … See? War is not that bad…

    Trying to see if anyone else betrayed any signs of anxiety, he glanced at the soldier to his left. He did not personally know him; from what projected beyond the helmet, he could notice the man had his eyes locked on the struggle ahead; he did not even turn while Navid studied him. He was older; some of his beard showed signs of greying, and some wrinkles had cut a few lines across his visage. He surely had someone waiting for him back home. By comparison, with only thirty springs on him and single, Navid felt sorry for the man. This shit is for us, younger folk. Hopefully, they’ll let him go home to his family if we win here…

    His gaze returned to the front. The bombardment had stopped, and as a result the breach was now almost twice as big as it had been on the previous day. The infantry had already entered combat; the ululating mass of men that waved and swayed back and forth at the foot of the ramparts reminded him of the high tide in the Caspian during summer afternoons: to and fro, crashing against the rocks, and bouncing back against the waves coming to the shore.

    The strident call of a trumpet brought him back to reality; the banner of the spahbod had been raised. Here we go, here we go…“Forward!” roared Shahrbaraz. The order was echoed by his subordinates down the line.

    Navid tapped his horse on the sides with his heels, and the beast commenced to trot. All around them, he witnessed the glorious scene unfolding, of the Iranian Spah on the attack. The siege towers looming close, not far behind him; some distance to the right, small detachments with scaling ladders; yet more vast shadows covered them from above, as the bombardment had not stopped, since the catapults had only been recalibrated. Now, the stones were being shot past the fortifications, into the city itself. The Romans on the walls were throwing everything they could down on the incoming attack; rocks, arrows, flaming missiles, even launching pieces of debris with their own catapults from within the city. The kamadaran had reached the edges of the wall and constructed a barrier of their own, interlocking their shields, and were firing up at the defenders on the parapets, and at those men who rushed to defend the gap.

    His heart began to race. Calm down dammit! You wanted to be here! “That’s right! I wanted to be here” he muttered to himself out loud. With the distance between the Zhayedan and the melee closing fast, he picked up speed. He knew that soon a trumpet would be blown, and the infantry present would have to scatter, opening the way for them to charge. And since the Shahrbaraz himself had decided lead the attack, Navid had to be at the fore with him.

    Suddenly, the unexpected call of another trumpet disconcerted him. He quickly looked around; the banner on the far left had been raised, the signal proceeded from that direction. The Eran spahbod himself started shouting: “Veer to the left! To the left!” Stupefaction overcame Navid for a few seconds while the horse continued to gallop; they were ordering them to ride away from the breach, and further down the wall. He quickly picked himself up; questioning orders was never wise.

    He pulled on the rein turning his steed to the left, as did the entire regiment. Farrokhan had now rushed ahead of them, riding gallantly on a large black stallion, towards the Orontes and away from the mountains on the east. Has he lost his mind? The breach is there for the taking! Navid thought to himself as they continued to ride on. Although afraid at first, he now felt cheated that he might be denied an appropriate share of the spoils, which would follow the capture of Antioch. But he had not noticed that the Roman troops on the walls were all rushing to defend the gap, neglecting the rest of the fortifications.

    Not far ahead, the waters of the river glistened cheerfully under the scorching Syrian sun. Although they were not excessively thirsty, they silently welcomed the cool humidity of the stream that refreshed the air. All Zhayedan riders took deep breaths of it, enjoying the chilled breeze blowing against their sweaty faces. Navid had just finished doing so as well, still hurling imaginary blasphemies at the Shahrbaraz, when the distant shapes came within sight. Ten men or so were standing by the riverbank, Iranians he realized, guarding a slender makeshift pontoon. A small burner, carried by one of them, held a flickering flame alight, while the rest were armed. On the approach of the cavalry, they lined up along the river, ready to welcome their leader.

    “Everything is still in order?”Farrokhan asked the one holding the blaze, as he arrived.

    “Yes spahbod! The signal was given last night. Should we reply?” said the man, standing dutifully straight by the Shahrbaraz’s horse.

    “Do it.”

    One of the soldiers took an arrow from his quiver and wrapped its head in a cloth, while another poured a blue powder over it. Finishing seconds later, the arrow was given to a third man, who had drawn a longbow. He placed the shaft across the side of the bow, the neck against the string, and directed the clothed head over the fire from the burner, which instantaneously lit up an azure flame. The soldier stretched the string as he pulled the arrow back, took aim, and released it in the direction of Antioch. As it rose, the projectile left off a trail of bluish smoke, which continued as it fell beyond the walls, into the city. Navid understood now: Farrokhan’s plan had not been to smash his way through at the gap. He had had a trick planned long before.

    “Let’s go!” shouted the spahbod, without wasting an instant.

    The trumpet sounded one more call, as the force of five hundred Zhayedan crossed the provisional overpass, and reached the road leading to another of the city gates, on the western wall, which apparently remained shut. Intrigued, Navid awaited further orders, when a louder noise overcame the trumpet. It was the neighboring gates creaking open; the sound of the wood and the hinges reminding him of the cries of a dying war elephant.

    Led by Farrokhan himself, they charged on, and rushed in the direction of the now wide open doorway. Not a man seemed to be in the towers beside it, guarding it. However, the street leading off of the gates was now visible, as were some of the houses. Several of the inhabitants seemed to be running in different directions, shouting in terror at the sight of the approaching horsemen. With a strenuous charge, the Iranians went over the actual stone bridge at the end of the road and leading into the city itself, and spread out having made it to the other side. “Everyone charge! Rush to the breach!” resonated the order. As Navid himself crossed under the gateway, he felt the knotting sensation in his entrails once again. But his fears seemed to be unfounded; no opposition was encountered while the horsemen flooded into Antioch. With his curiosity tempted, he turned his head to look and try to see, if possible at all, who had opened the gates for them.

    Lined up by the entrance, next to the bodies of a few dead Roman soldiers, stood some men and women in plain clothing; to him, they were almost indistinguishable from the rest of the populace, but were cheering the Iranians on. Traitors? Roman traitors? he asked himself in silence, turning his head back. He could not tell, and had more, much more, important matters at hand. As the Zhayedan dashed onward, and turned slightly towards the right, amidst the cries of running women and a few men, the tenacious battle raging at the foot of the walls came into view. Navid squeezed his lance tighter, and lowered its tip forward, as the horse neighed loudly. The Shahrbaraz was already ahead of them, entering the fray, and shouting obscenities at the Romans.

    Here we go, here we go, here we go…

    _______________________________________​
    [1] Archers.
    [2] Ctesiphon.
    [3] General word for all branches (cavalry, infantry, etc.) of the Sassanian army.
     
    Chapter 6-II- Theodosius
  • Before we dive into today's update, I would like to give credit where credit is due. Much of the local information here presented, and the conceiving idea for a character here introduced, are the work of BG himself. Please clap a couple of times for the man before you continue reading.
    ___________________________________________

    Chapter 6 -II-

    “Thanks you Kyrie! Thank you!” moaned the fellow a second time, while he groveled before Theodosius, and walked backwards, on his way out of the room. “Go on your way good man. Be at peace, that God has now returned Us to you” the Emperor answered.

    The business of the day was settling small land disputes, and dealing with abuses by the local Egyptian authorities. So far, this was much easier to deal with, than the meeting he had been in the week before at Naukratis, with Eulogius [1] and Damian [2], the Chalcedonian and Monophysite Patriarchs of Egypt. Then, the air had been charged with tension, as both men had laid their claims before the Emperor, accusing each other of heresy, numerous crimes, and all sorts of immorality. In order to avoid any public embarrassing scenes, Theodosius had restricted the attendance to himself, the two clerics, and Heraclius whom, following the surrender of Alexandria, had been named as his new Kouropalates.

    “You’re a filthy heretic, misleading the people and promoting Satan’s cause!”


    “It has been written, ‘For truly, I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the Law until all is accomplished.’ By changing the Law you are distorting the truth! You are the ornithoboras
    [3] of the armies of Hell!”

    “Gentlemen please! You are in the presence of the Emperor of the Romans! Behave accordingly!"


    He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as he remembered one of the exchanges from the conference. The only remotely similar environment he had encountered before, had been when dealing with the Arian Lombards; but then again, their king Agiluf had been a more amenable Orthodox Catholic, and as their dependence on Roman power increased, the religious differences had mattered less and less. Here however, the state of affairs was quite different. Phocas’ comes scholai, Alexander, had become famous through the diocese before he ever set foot in it. Those who could flee the Levant had poured into Alexandria, and then into the countryside, bearing horrific enough news. The adherents of the single nature had feared for their lives; the few Jews residing in Egypt were even more terrified; and the wealthy Chalcedonian merchants of Alexandria had dreaded with terror, the possibility of their suppliers being dispatched, and their incomes decimated. It should have come as no surprise then, that upon the arrival of Theodosius’ forces, a half-hearted decision was made to oppose him by the local authorities; but it was a decision which was quickly overturned, once the Emperor himself rushed to the capital upon news of the combat. The population of Alexandria, both Monophysites and Melkites, revolted against the Prefect and Patriarch and demanded that their ruler be let in. Such had been the situation in the Egyptian metropolis, when Theodosius made his formal entry, on the feast of Saint Jason of Tarsus, on the second month of his sixteenth regnal year [4].

    Nevertheless, that momentary unity seemed to evaporate by his second day in the city. The upper echelons of the Chalcedonian clergy had quickly appealed to him, to remain in Egypt for a while, and “cleanse” the land of the rampant apostasy. Non-committally, Theodosius assured them of his loyalty to the Church Councils and his willingness to settle the religious dispute in the future. The very next day, the opposing faction made its move; a direct representative of their Pope Damian, came to Alexandria, whence Damian was banned, and appealed to him to meet with the exiled leader, stressing the suffering of his Church, and how the Chalcedonians made everyday life miserable. In a similar fashion, Theodosius listened patiently, and sent him away empty handed.

    Yet, in order to strengthen his forces, and to leave the newly won country in safe hands, he would have to expand his base and following; appeal to the people of Egypt, and win their goodwill, as he had in Italy and Africa. The easiest route to achieve this would be through the heads of the respective Churches, he had reasoned. Not overthinking the situation, and since he felt unwilling to be bogged down by a provincial religious dispute now that he had apparently regained the military initiative, Theodosius summoned both Patriarchs to Naukratis in order to solve the “dispute.”

    “Kyrie, next up is a peasant from Herakleoupolis; he claims the local pagarch unlawfully took some of his lambs as compensation for unpaid tribute. He has unsuccessfully pleaded with the duke of Arcadia [5], and now surrenders himself to your justice” announced the eunuch by the door.

    “Let him in” Theodosius said lifting a hand slightly, and shifting on the throne he was sitting on.

    In came a middle aged man dressed with a long blue chlamys, a white tunic, and golden boots. Like all others, he seemed to be wearing his finest clothing, trying to portray himself as more important than he really was. He knelt before the Emperor in silence.

    “Go ahead.”

    Standing up, the peasant started: “Kyrie, Isapostole, I beg you to please intercede in my behalf! I have always been an honest and God fearing man. My taxes are turned in regularly and on time to Oxyrynchos [6]. I spare whatever I can, and donate it to the Church of Saint Theoclia in Herakleoupolis. And I have most loyally mourned the brutal crime committed in Constantinople against our Lord Maurice.”

    “And what is it that you seek from Us?”

    “Kyrie, in contravention to established law, the pagarch seized twenty two of my best sheep! I am only a humble farmer, and my animals are the only source of wealth and sustenance for myself and my family. The taxes for this year had already been paid…”

    Kyrie; you must understand that God has smiled upon your undertakings so far because of your adherence to the holy creed of the Chalcedonian fathers! Should you desist in your faith, divine intervention might be withheld!


    Autokrator; you should know that the Chalcedonians separate the natures and the essences in a gross misinterpretation of scripture which could damn Your soul to eternal torment on the Day of Judgment!


    The conference had gone nowhere. Apparently, all Theodosius had managed to do was to pour salt over an old wound. The two men had only been kept from killing each other with their vitriolic attacks by the constant interventions of Heraclius. Once he recognized that the Church leaders might not be as amenable as he had initially wished, Theodosius decided to turn directly to the people. Messengers went out in all directions, and four days later, delegations began arriving down the Nile, on their way to Alexandria. This was the third day he had been holding these hearings.

    “We will compensate you in gold for the value of your animals, and deal personally with pagarch…” he said dully, picking the conversation back up.

    “Severus, Kyrie” informed him the pleading peasant.

    “Severus, right…” Theodosius finished, as he turned to the scribe standing to his left, who diligently wrote the name down on the papyrus scroll he was holding. “Now, here’s a nomisma, for your troubles. Go on your way man.”

    One of the attendants standing by the walls stuck his hand in the pouch he was carrying, and approached the peasant. The man seemed more surprised than anything, when the courtesan took out a gold piece with Maurice’s bust on it and handed it to him.

    “Thank you Kyrie! Thank you!” he shouted as he threw himself on the floor, crawling towards Theodosius.

    The guards that were surrounding the room looked expectantly at their commander John, the Comes Excubitorum, who in turn looked to the Emperor for orders. He only nodded briefly.

    John approached the man and lifted him up slowly. “Come on, get going. We’ve got others waiting.”

    “Yes, yes, surely! Thank you Kyrie! God bless you!” he continued saying out loud as he was led out of the room.

    Theodosius only smiled as the man left. With him gone, he let out a heavy sigh. He glanced at the individual to his right, his name was Kyrillos, or so he thought; a civil servant recommended by Patriarch Eulogius, who had been writing down details of the cases presented.

    “That’s quite a bunch for today Kyrie” he commented, with a seemingly forced smile.

    “Yes, quite a few…” Theodosius replied, tamely. “How many more are left?” he asked the eunuch.

    “Just one more for today Kyrie. A certain Dioskoros, from the village of Aphrodito. He contends that his family lands have been unlawfully seized by the local pagarch, and that unjust taxes have been extorted from his father.”

    What the hell is it with these pagarchs?
    he thought. “All right, let’s get this over with. Let him in.”

    The eunuch complied, and in came a man about Theodosius’ own age. His neatly trimmed black beard suited him perfectly, against his dark complexion; it almost seemed another piece of the elegant garments that he wore. His tunic and boots were a light golden brown, with embroidered straps; his chlamys was a bright green, over which he wore a snow white cape; and all was secured in place by an elaborate golden brooch. He actually seemed somewhat more important than the peasants that had been visiting so far.

    He bowed down once, stiffly, and stood in silence, waiting for Theodosius to speak.

    “Go on” the Emperor said dryly, and unimpressed, too caught up in his thoughts to notice the man’s irreverence.

    “My family, the descendants of Psimanobet, has been tragically harassed by the government of Constantinople through their pawns, the local pagarchs, for fifty years. My own grandfather, Dioskoros [7], traveled to The City of Constantine, in hopes of relieving our plight and that of Aphrodito itself. Although his undertaking was successful, our situation only deteriorated with his passing. My father Apollos has now been forced to sell part of our assets in order to meet the ever growing extortions from the pagarch Proterius.”

    A little more aware of the man’s tone, Theodosius narrowed his eyes as he leant slightly forward in his seat. “And who do you hold responsible for the plight of your town exactly?”

    “Tiberius Constantine and Maurice.”

    The expectant crowd gave out a loud gasp. Theodosius felt a cold shudder run down his spine; he had never been put in such a situation. At first, he was perplexed. Then, the irritation set in.

    “Why would you hold Our family hostage to the absurd whims of a mere provincial official? Do you not know that the Emperor has on him the weight of the entire world?” he shouted. Standing on the sides, by the left wall and amongst his men, John watched carefully, slowly moving his right hand over his sword.

    “If a ruler cannot guarantee the safety of his subjects, then it is perhaps God’s will that they be released from his rule. They might fare better on their own. One can draw his own conclusions from the events of the last years” Dioskoros answered calmly.

    Theodosius felt the anger burn inside of him, as he clenched his teeth. His family had been the real victims during these years; his father, had served the Empire selflessly for twenty years, and was stabbed in the back by a stupid barbarian. His mother a princess, locked away like vulgar prisoner. His siblings dead, or caged up. And the oblivious people did nothing.

    “Do you think it is imperial policy to milk the wealth of the people? Do you think that the Emperor sits in Constantinople scheming daily on how to hoard everybody else’s gold?” he asked, now yelling, and sitting on the very edge of his seat.

    “Not all of them. The Great Justinian watched over us. Justin did not bother us. Tiberius did not listen to us. But it was Maurice who did not keep the vultures away from us” the Egyptian responded with a shrug.

    “We’ve had enough! We see no reason…” Theodosius started, pounding the arm of the throne with his right fist. But before he had finished, Dioskoros interrupted him abruptly, shouting, “Look out!” and pointing to the Emperor’s right.

    The secretary Kyrillos had discarded his tablet, which fell loudly on the floor, and was now wielding a knife, holding it just above Theodosius’ neck, with a clear intent of plunging it downward. With a quick reaction, the Emperor rolled off the throne, landing with his back on the floor below. There, with terror overpowering him, Theodosius froze.

    Kyrillos charged at him with a roar, getting closer every second. Theodosius thought briefly, and involuntarily, of Irene and his son Maurice; of his own father and his smiling mother at the pier before he left for the West all those years ago. Kyrie eleison. But the speed of the events unfolding did not wait for his mind to catch up. Before he could realize it, John had tackled Kyrillos, sword in hand. Landing on the floor, somewhat disconcerted, the would be assassin tried to look for his now lost dagger; but then, before he could get far, the Comes plunged his blade deep in the man’s side. The rest of the guard ran up and surrounded Theodosius, who was now getting up.

    The commotion in the room was by this time clear everywhere; the doors swung open, even more soldiers poured in, and begun arresting everyone present. “Who sent you?” shouted John, as he turned over the now moribund secretary.

    “The Pat…the Patri…de…death…to the he…heretic …lover…” Kyrillos mumbled with his last breath, a slender stream of blood pouring out of the corner of his mouth.

    What the fuck?
    Theodosius thought, as he brushed off the dust from his clothes with his hands. Eulogius? That son of a bitch…He knew now beyond a shadow of a doubt that these clerics were utterly dangerous, and he would have to deal with them before moving on. Nonetheless, by now there was also something else in his mind. Instinctively, he looked to the back of the room, searching with his eyes. When he found him, he walked up to him.

    “Release this man at once” he ordered the soldiers, who were tying Dioskoros’ hands behind his back. Looking deep into the Egyptian’s brown eyes and poking him hard in the chest with his index finger, he told him: “I’ve got business to discuss with you.”
    ______________________________


    [1] Eulogius, Chalcedonian Patriarch of Alexandria (IOTL 580-608.)
    [2] Damian, Coptic Pope of Alexandria (IOTL 569-605.)
    [3] Standard bearer. The then equivalent of the Aquilifer.
    [4] May 11th, 605. Theodosius would reckon his “regnal years” from the time when he was crowned by Maurice on March 26th, 590.
    [5] One of the Egyptian provinces.
    [6] Capital of Arcadia.
    [7] Dioskoros of Aphrodito (c.520-585) Egyptian poet and lawyer. His grandson Dioskoros “the Younger,” and son, are fictional, although we can safely assume them to have existed, perhaps with different names.
     
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    Chapter 6-III- Sigibuld
  • Chapter 6 -III-

    Sigibuld pulled the furry pelts over his shoulders once again, huddling, and moving a little closer to the fire, since the spring night was unusually chilly. He continued to slowly doze off, resting his head on the cold stone wall to his side. Guarding one of the palace gates was not such a hard job. If anything, it was the easiest task a soldier could be given in these trying times. Especially the night shift, you get to nap. Feeling the tug on his neck, he awoke, as his head had been gradually tilting forward. Damn, wake up, wake up Sigibuld, look alive. It was an easy job, but boring in extreme too.

    He looked up, behind him, and saw the silhouettes of some of the more “unfortunate” guards on the high walls of the royal residence; the ones who actually had to patrol their areas during their beat. They seemed to be inattentive to his drowsiness and to whatever else the other men below were doing. Poor bastards; bored too, he thought. Having stretched his legs, and pulling the furs over his head, he leaned on the wall once again, and he mumbled to himself: “Well, we might as well rest a bit; we have a long night ahead.” It did not take much, before he was sleep, and dreaming.

    He dreamt of his home; he had had a small plot of land with a “rustic” house, one could have called it, nonetheless it had been something far, far better than what his father would have had, before the Lombards came to Italy. But in his head, he also replayed other scenes from his life. He had been born near Mediolanum, and from a very young age his father had him, and his brother Godepert, introduced to arms. By the time he was around thirteen, he was already enrolled in his local band, and by age fifteen, he had seen his first battle against the Romans. Having grown quite used to the wars against them, he was somewhat shocked with the turn of events once Agiluf took the throne. Not only had the new King forsaken the Arian faith of his fathers, but he had also concluded a peace treaty with the Roman Exarch, Callinicus. Afterward, the Emperor Theodosius himself arrived, and became a friend with the Lombard King. The dismissal of the “rebellious” duchies to the south had not been very popular in Pavia; Sigibuld had personally witnessed some of the disgruntled Lombards talk about Agiluf’s betrayal; Godepert being one of them, and perhaps that was why he had been sent abroad to the east by their monarch, to help in Theodosius’ war, and his brother had never come back. Maybe he was dead; he simply did not know. As for himself, Sigibuld had been soon relocated to the west of Pavia, where as part of the resettlement program he had started, Agiluf had granted lands to several of his men.

    On coming to his new village, a young soldier of twenty six and with his own plot of land, he was a sought after bachelor. Having the “luxury” to choose, he went after a young, small redheaded girl; Helchen was her name, about ten years younger than him. He paid the dowry, by using up most of the money he had had unspent, during his years in the army. Tilling the fields and rearing chickens was barely a soldierly task, but to him, it had a certain appeal. He grew to enjoy it, and a few months later, his firstborn was on the way. However, his tranquil days were destined to be cut short: living within the boundaries of the Pavian duchy, he was subject to be in the service of the King himself, and he was called to battle, once a most fearsome and inhuman enemy had crossed the Alps; the Franks. Agiluf marched with his men and met the invaders by the town of Novara, west of Mediolanum, on the way to the Alps, but it had been of no use. The fierce Frankish warriors stalled for time, Theuderic had sent ambassadors. Sigibuld would not learn the details of the meeting until much later, but apparently the Franks had asked for free passage, into the Roman lands. As Agiluf was on the verge of accepting the proposal, the Lombard infantry, which had been waiting in full formation under the warm summer sun, had the Frankish cavalry fall unexpectedly on them, while at the same time, a large portion of the troops just deserted altogether under the dukes Gisulf and Gaidoald. He had been fortunate not to enter into combat that day; he fled on seeing the forces of the turncoat dukes depart, and Agiluf himself escape with a few of his men, once realizing the futility of resistance.

    Most of the survivors had regrouped in Mediolanum itself; and he had formed part of the defense when the city was invested by the Franks a few days later. More than anything, he wanted to return home, to make sure he could remove Helchen to a better, safer place. But, he was retained in the city. Twice the defenders themselves had to put down revolts from the unhappy populace while watching for movements from the Frankish camp. For three weeks, the Lombard defenders held the city; until some treacherous Romans opened the gates to the enemy. Sigibuld had once again been lucky to be stationed close to the southern gate, and as the Franks poured in from the north, he had been given just enough time to flee. This time, he broke loose from the group he was in, attempting to return to his family. Four days later, he made it back.

    But the Franks had already been there. Their raiding parties had spread wide and far, while the main force was occupied with Mediolanum. His land had been plundered of whatever could be carried, his animals gone, his house nothing but a smoldering ruin. All minor inconveniences; but Helchen was also gone. Hopelessly, he searched for anyone to give him news of any kind, with the hope that she might still be alive somewhere. But, the nearby village had also been wiped out, with only the small church left standing. He had not seen his wife again; nor had he returned to his land.

    Wondering for days, he stumbled on a Roman patrol, whose leader ordered him to join them; seeing that there were already a few Lombards in the group, he did so and was taken to Ravenna. There, he learned from other refugees of the fall of Turin, of the ongoing siege of Pavia, and how Agiluf had sent Queen Theodelinda, and their young son Adaloald, to the very city he was in now, to seek refuge amongst the Romans. By then, he had not a care in the world; if the Lombards won or lost, or the Romans, or the Franks. His brother was dead, and apparently so were his wife and unborn son. But his apathy would not affect royal policy. He was drafted along with all of the other men that the King could muster and, joined by the Romans, met the Franks outside of Pavia.

    The battle was now but a dull shade in his mind: how he had fought, almost instinctively, deaf to the cries of the men around him, impassively stabbing, hacking, and slashing his way through the enemy; they all seemed to be pale events from a past life. Faint were the memories of the men of both sides being shot down by the rain of arrows that issued forth from the Roman archers, and vague were the reminiscences of the exact moment when the Franks broke and fled; perhaps, it had been the instant in which the Roman cavalry and their magister charged on them, carrying the head of Theuderic aloft.

    Anyhow, with the news of the enemy defeat, also came dark tidings. The death of Agiluf during the clash had left two year old Adaloald as legitimate King of the Lombards, and as the Franks pulled back under the command of Theuderic’s mayor of the Palace, Bertholad, the royal family returned to Pavia, under the protection and friendship of Theodosius. Indifferent as to what his destination could be now, Sigibuld had accepted serenely being tasked with guarding the royal palace, the palace on which steps he now sleeping. Good food and alcohol, regular pay, and screwing around with the servant girls, all helped drown his mind, and ignore his memories.

    Feeling the tug on his neck once more he awoke. His head had slid forward again, and waking, he noticed his fire had almost died out, but did not bother with it anymore. After another careless look around, he closed his eyes yet again. Dozing off, he heard the piercing scream in the distance; it had been that of an adult man. Roused and sitting up straight, he looked about for a second time, a little more carefully. Fucking robbers, he thought. But quickly, the situation turned more complicated.

    A volley of arrows issued forth from the darkness of the closest street. Three of the men on the upper levels were killed; the man in the gateway further down to the left was also slain, while Sigibuld and the man to the gate to the right were only injured. The projectile had impacted near his right shoulder; knocking him flat on the steps. Without a doubt, he was fully awake now. “Shit!” he cried out, the pain driving through his chest as soon as he moved his right arm. Pulling himself back, he arrived at the edge of a heavy wooden door; gasping for air, he grabbed, and then pulled the arrow out of his body, letting out a series of other curses as he did so. What the hell is going on? The Romans? Betraying us? He knocked loudly on the gate, “Open up! Open the fuck up!”

    The load battle roar of several men was audible everywhere. Pandemonium had broken out all over the palace with men running about, torches being lit up, and the scream of the service maids piercing his ears. With the few guards around that had shared his surroundings all but dead, he decided to play dead as well, holding his breath and fixing his eyes on the star-studded sky, as a group of the aggressors ran past the bodies, and himself. A chilling nearby shriek notified him that his surviving companion had been finished off; perhaps the man did not think as quickly as he had. Since his gaze was focused elsewhere, he was unable to identify any of the men, and when he finally lowered his look, they were an undistinguishable mass in the darkness. The assailants seemed to be directing their focus to the other end of the regal bastion, past the corner to his left, where the main entrance lay. For a moment Sigibuld was alone, surrounded by corpses, the darkness of the night, and the glowing charcoals left from his earlier fire. He knocked again, without saying a word, and attempting to hide himself in the shade of the doorway. The stinging sensation of the arrow wound continued to bother him, but he knew he could not cry out, or he might give himself away.

    In the midst of the brief silence that enveloped him, he heard a voice from the other side of the door: “Who’s there?”

    “Let me in!” he implored, almost whispering.

    Slowly, and quietly, the gate opened just a bit, but the black shadow from inside the residence hid the person’s face. “Sigibuld! Good God you’re hurt!” finally said a woman’s voice; one familiar to him. The door swung open, and Rodelinda, one of the maids he had gotten to know intimately since posted to the palace, stepped into the night shyly, helping him inside.

    “What is happening?” she asked, tremulous.

    “I don’t know. Someone is attacking us. We got to get the King and the Queen out” he rasped.

    Some Lombards might not have liked the young King, a mere child. And the same individuals might have liked his staunchly Catholic mother even less. But the Romans lacked a reason to loathe either one of them. So, what was going on? In any case, it was not Sigibuld’s place to decide whom to like; he had been given a job, he would perform it. What else do I have left? he reasoned, as Rodelinda helped him up, and they barricaded the thick door with a large wooden beam.

    “The Queen must be upstairs” indicated the domestic, pointing in the direction of the unseen stone steps leading away from the hall. The sound of the attackers attempting to knock down the main gate penetrated his ears, like the ominous trampling of an approaching demon.

    “Get up there, and make sure that they can get out. There’s a way out… right?” he asked the girl, grabbing her by the shoulders.

    “Yes, yes. We might be able to use some of the service entrances on the back…”

    “Good! Now, get going!”

    While Rodelinda disappeared into the darkness, he turned in the direction of the racket. The corridor was obscure, but he clearly saw the glow at the end of the passageway, which led into the main hall, where the attackers must be attempting to break in.

    There’s never a dull moment…

    “All right men! Say your prayers, and make peace with each other, since tomorrow we’ll be before the Almighty!” cried out a loud voice as he neared his destination. Coming up on the gallery, and stepping into the light, he realized that there was to be no large battle here. A handful of perhaps twenty men, swords and axes in hand, stood by the giant gate, whose beams had already been cracked and would be busted open at any moment, by the assailants’ battering ram. Sigibuld stood aghast in the threshold; this was it.

    “You there! What are you doing here?” yelled an older man, whose beard reached all the way to his waist, and pointed at him with his sword. “I told everyone to secure the way for the King to escape! Get your ass to the kitchen and make sure the path is clear, that Gisulf’s dogs will be here any moment!”

    The rough commands of the leader of the small band awoke him to reality. “Yes sir!” he yelled back, as he left, running to the back of the hall. He knew very well where the kitchen, and its passages, were. What he did not know was if, after everything he had been through, he would make it out of Pavia alive this time. So that’s who! Gisulf, Gisulf, why? The Duke of Friuli had been, disloyally, neutral during the war with the Franks; but then, once the conflict was over, had pledged allegiance not only to King Adaloald, but to the Emperor Theodosius as well. And now he was launching a coup. So much for oaths…

    War; it never ends…
     
    Chapter 6-IV- Phocas
  • Chapter 6 -IV-

    While he poured himself more wine on the newly emptied golden goblet, Phocas heard the approaching steps resonating on the marble floor of the adjoined vacant hall, with a martial rhythm all of their own. As they reached the door, the brief silence which followed, was only interrupted by a heavy knock on the thick wooden door. The Comes Scholai had arrived.

    “Come in!” Phocas ordered, watching the bubbles forming on the rising liquid in the cup.

    The door gave off a low, deep creak as it opened slowly, and in came Alexander, attired in a superb military uniform, with brand new pteruges hanging from the waist of the brightly polished silver cuirass. The Comes was every inch a Roman strategos: hailing originally from Thessalonica, he was tall, taller than Phocas himself; broad shouldered; clean shaven, with a head full of thick dark brown hair; and piercing blue eyes, which could command a powerful, intimidating, stare. Although he had recently returned from his mission to the East with rather unsuccessful results, he remained in the Emperor’s good standing. Phocas felt that this man, who had witnessed Maurice’s last moments unfeelingly, was definitively someone to keep close; he had a certain mystical aura about him.

    “Would you like a drink?” he offered, lifting the wine pitcher slightly.

    “Thank you Emperor, but I must decline due to penance” answered Alexander, emotionlessly, standing at attention.

    Suit yourself, Phocas thought to himself, walking towards one of the six reclining couches arranged around the center of the room. As he sat down with his back against the window, he made a gesture with his free hand and said: “please sit down Alexander.”

    “You wanted to see me again, Kyrie?”

    “Yes, yes… Look we need to think things over one more time. I just don’t know what is going wrong here…”

    The Levantine conversion effort had proven to be an utter disaster when it came to its primary goals. As soon as Alexander moved from one city to the next, the Jews would recant their baptisms, with the most daring ones openly defying the Roman authorities. The worst of these incidents had taken place at Antioch, where it culminated with the brutal murder of Patriarch Anastasius [1] by a savage mob of unbelievers. Alexander, by then in Palestine, had immediately turned on his tracks and rushed to the Syrian capital, where he crushed the revolt with unrelenting cruelty. Several of the insurgents were captured, and beheaded or hung publically, but a great deal of them fled and were able to reach the Persian armies occupating Mesopotamia.

    Nevertheless, even more “deniers” made it into Palestine, where the job had been left undone, and then, once the Comes resumed the southward march, many, if not all, of the unconverted Jews poured into Egypt, which had recently been seized by Theodosius. On the heels of the news of the Egyptian capitulation, came the rumors of the sieges of Beroea and Antioch itself, by the advancing Persian hordes. Where was God in all of this? Had he not been pleased with Phocas’ actions? With the punitive measures against heathenism? The Emperor took another sip of his drink; the bitter aftertaste of the wine rasped against the back of his throat.

    “Kyrie, if you must know my honest opinion, I believe the offensive of Bonosus should stabilize the front. Remember that the Persians have retreated from Cappadocia, and abandoned the siege of Theodosiopolis.”

    Bonosus. It was true that the Persian host that descended from the Armenian highlands had retreated before the advance of the army of the Comes Orientis. However, no definite word had reached Constantinople of the ensuing developments there; Phocas did not know if there had been a battle, or if the Persians had simply pulled back. But what if he’s been wiped out? Good God! Whatever the case, south of Anatolia, once Chosroes’ dogs seized Antioch, things would be as good as lost; and with Theodosius in control of Egypt, Palestine would be untenable. It would have to be given up to one or the other.

    “Furthermore, if truth be told; the Persians might come to blows against Theodosius either in the Egyptian border, or if the boy decides to move north, somewhere in southern Syria. And, let’s not forget about strategos Domentziolus” Alexander added, leaning forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his legs, and clasping his hands.

    The Emperor drank a bigger gulp from the chalice. What now, what now? The thought bounced around in his head, while he lowered his gaze onto the floor mosaic. Phocas truly was a pitiful sight to behold, at this moment. Not wearing the imperial crown and the purple robes, but instead a simple dark blue tunic, the former soldier seemed anything but the Emperor of the Romans; rather one might have been observing a common, broken, man sustained only by the constant intake of intoxicating beverages. Shit at the camp, was easier. He sighed heavily, while replying, “Alexander, I don’t know if this war can be won anymore. I’ve thought about it a thousand times… but God seems to resent me for some reason…I stepped in to help us all, to save us from greed, and instead we are now faced with annihilation…” Why?

    Alexander watched him, silently, for a short moment. Then he frowned, and his mouth twisted faintly, in a sardonic smirk, which went unseen by the Phocas. “Kyrie, if there is something that we both know for a fact, is that Christian resolve on behalf of a righteous cause can result only in victory. Abraham overcame the Egyptians, David defeated Goliath, and the Great Constantine crushed the pagan Maxentius” he started, as he stood up.

    The puzzled, red haired man looked up at the Comes, “What do you mean exactly?”

    Alexander began to stroll slowly, towards the window, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. You are Lord of the Roman Empire, the Isapostolos, and God’s vice-regent on Earth! Summon the citizens of Europe to fight the hordes of the infidels! Call on the Chalcedonians to fight the child who is siding with the Monophysite heretics at this very moment! Eliminate traitors, conspirators, and the remaining Jews once and for all! Can you not see that it was our lack of commitment, of devotion, which doomed our efforts to failure in the East?”

    Perhaps that is the problem. I’ve been too forgiving…too merciful…too heterodox…God loves, but He punishes those who wander from his path…

    “Take for instance Priscus; he’s been tasked with protecting Thrace and The City. But the last raid of the Sklavenoi reached the suburbs of Mesembria itself! How can he guarantee Your safety? That of the people? And, let us not forget the episode at the Hippodrome! You took him under your wing, he married Princess Domentziola [2], but then he produces these miserable results? Why does he not deliver? Why does he not succeed?” the soldier’s voice had by now reached a spiteful, venomous pitch.

    Phocas began to feel ashamed at having allowed his subordinate to see him like this; in a state of weakness, so vulnerable. But the man was right. Mercy had not granted him the throne, mercy had not secured his rule, and mercy would not win the war. Priscus could actually be a dangerous man if he chose to. Even though he took no part in the revolt of Theodorus and Gennadios, it was always better to keep his son in law under close watch. In addition, it was also better to prepare the men to face Theodosius, without wavering loyalties; the Egyptian garrisons had taught him that much. Recovering some of his vigor, he got up and approached the table where the wine jug was on, while Alexander remained standing by the large window, staring off into the distant dome of the Great Church.

    “You are right Comes. Perhaps, there is a way to repel the invaders and deal with the seditious traitors after all” he commented, as he poured himself yet another glass. “I will send for word of Bonosus’ progress, and we must work on raising another force to be ready to march into Syria, once the success in Cappadocia has been confirmed.”

    “Excellent Kyrie!” Alexander replied in a more jovial tone, turning towards the Emperor.

    “Go to Hellas; whatever soldiers remain there, are to report to Thessalonica within the month. I want a new army of ten thousand men. Empty the cities and draft peasants from the fields if you have to. Same for Macedonia and Dalmatia” Phocas continued, drinking from the chalice, but still facing the table.

    Alexander stood at attention and answered vigorously: “Yes Kyrie! I shall set out at once!” Having voiced his consent, he started for the door.

    “And Alexander…”

    The Comes stopped suddenly, and slowly revolved, somewhat baffled, perhaps fearful that Phocas might have noticed his earlier look of disdain. The Emperor finished gulping down whatever alcohol remained in the cup, and turned around, leaning against the tabletop.

    “Keep an eye on Priscus, and ensure that the loyalties of the Danubian men are in the right place.”

    Alexander grinned; “Of course Kyrie. I’ve got the perfect man for the job.”
    ____________________________________________

    [1] Anastasius II, Chalcedonian Patriarch of Antioch (IOTL 599-609.) IOTL he dies in the way here described during the riots caused by Phocas’ persecution. ITTL he dies a few years earlier (605) but in the same manner.
    [2] Daughter of Phocas and Leontia, and Priscus’ wife.
     
    Book A Summary
  • So here it is, the summary of things past. A special cookie for God-Eater of the Marshes, for being such a wonderful cartographer. (If anyone would like to see the map in its original resolution, go here.)
    __________________________


    BOOK A

    Chapters 1-6


    On late March of 602, the Roman Emperor Maurice Tiberius sent two of his sons to Pope Gregory in Italy to achieve a twofold mission. Ever since the descent of the Lombards from the transalpine passes, the situation in the former Roman homeland had been deteriorating, as the Lombard advance had, by then, reached deep into central Italy. Gregory, ruling the ancient capital virtually unchallenged, had negotiated a peace treaty personally with the Lombard raiders to safeguard Rome, in direct opposition of Maurice’s, and the Italian Exarch Callinicus’ orders. In Constantinople, this did not go unnoticed; but at the time, the focus of imperial attention was on the northern bank of the Danube. A two decade war against the Avar khaganate had finally started to go well for the Romans, since the transfer of entire veteran armies from a pacified eastern border. With increasing success at home, the Emperor had begun to plan a renewed offensive in Italy, to drive the Lombard tribes out and reunite the country under Roman rule. It was with this in mind that, instead of chastising Gregory for overstepping his authority, Maurice cleverly sent his oldest son, and co-Emperor, Theodosius, with a sizeable subsidy, to appease the Roman Pontiff, and to start to lay the groundwork for his own arrival. At the same time, and in order to familiarize him with what should become his future domain, Theodosius’ younger ten-year-old brother, Tiberius sailed along with the embassy, and his care was personally entrusted to the Pope.

    Enlivened by the arrival of the Roman princes, Gregory grew bold. He pressed Theodosius to make haste, and commence operations against the Lombards at once. But Theodosius, a young man of nineteen, reticent and fully aware that a direct confrontation with all Lombard forces before the arrival of his father’s soldiers would only result in an embarrassing defeat by the numerically inferior Romans, hesitated at first, before yielding to the Pope’s insistence; and even then, decided to try a political approach instead, looking for cracks in the newly built Lombard edifice. Having delivered the entrusted grant to the Pope, he conferred with the Exarch of Ravenna, Callinicus, and agreeing on a strategy, slowly gathered the Italian armies for the upcoming war against the Germanic tribes.

    Under the direction of King Alboin, the rash Lombard invasion had spread deep into the peninsula, and after an initial brutal assault, the Romans had rallied and recovered some lost ground. This outcome had led to the creation, or isolation, of two semi-independent duchies, south and east of Rome, Benevento and Spoletto, and a larger, actual kingdom, to the north. Keenly studying his options, Theodosius, advised by the Pontiff, set his sights on the enemy closest, and weakest, to Rome first, the Spolettian dukedom.

    With the death of duke Ariulf barely weeks after the young Emperor’s arrival, the duchy of Spoletto was thrown into chaos. Two contenders, Theodelap, and one of his brothers, both children of Faroald, the first duke, emerged and battled one another for control of the land. The internal conflict taking place was entirely outside the control of the Lombard royal court at Pavia. Theodosius carefully collected his forces and marched them south, taking full advantage of an earlier truce negotiated between Callinicus and the Lombard King Agiluf in 598. On June 5th 602, in a battle outside the walls of Spoletto, a Roman army of 9,000 strong under the command of the Exarch crushed the forces of Theodelap, and two weeks later those of his brother, before word of the events even reached Pavia. Immediately, while annexing the broken principality, Theodosius dispatched emissaries to Agiluf, chastising him by listing the raids that the Spolettian Lombards were carrying out against the Romans in Latium in violation of the treaty, before endearing him by delivering a subsidy in gold, and meeting him in a personal conference in Perugia, where both assisted mass together. Although initially the situation remained tense, the lack of further action on the part of the Romans, coupled with the fact that Theodelap might have proven to be an unruly, if not outright aggressive “vassal,” assuaged the King.

    Having advanced his father’s agenda without breaking the official truce against the Lombards, Theodosius decided to briefly visit Carthage. He embarked in early July, and was warmly welcomed by the Exarch Heraclius, and his two sons, Heraclius the Younger, and Theodorus. Captivated by the balmy weather, and impressed by the wealth of the provincial capital and its hinterlands, the Emperor remained in Africa for two months. But this would not prove to be entirely a trip of pleasure; becoming slightly more proactive, he personally watched over the diplomatic dealings with the various Moorish tribes. Yet again, taking full advantage of Imperial prestige and majesty, as he had with the Lombards, he held audiences with several of the tribal leaders, renewed their foederati status, and upon his return to Italy in September 602, the African border had been successfully confirmed, and a potential source of auxiliary troops secured.

    Arriving in Rome, Theodosius heard of Maurice’s ongoing triumphs against the Avars; but was frustrated by the possibility that his father’s arrival might be delayed until the following year. Unable, or unwilling to wait until then, and emboldened by his previous experience, Theodosius decided to move on his own again, egged on by Gregory. Once more, he flexed his diplomatic muscles and sent the younger Heraclius, who had come to Italy with him, to Agiluf’s court, with evidence of a plot by Arechis, duke of Benevento, to unseat him. In order to understand the following events however, the religious situation of the Lombard nation, and royal court, must be first examined.

    Initially a pagan, after his coronation Agiluf converted to Arian Christianity, the most popular branch of that religion amongst the Lombards; an event which greatly displeased his Orthodox wife Theodelinda, to whom he indirectly owed his throne, as she had been married to the previous King Authari, and had chosen him as Authari’s successor. Perhaps to compensate for this, and walking a thin line between popular discontent, and upsetting the powerful woman to whom he was indebted, he accepted to the truce with the Orthodox Romans, as well as baptizing his son Adaloald into the Roman Church shortly after his birth in late 602. Needless to say, the Lombard Queen kept in regular close contact with Pope Gregory, who must have used his influence in order to pressure Theodelinda to impose herself on Agiluf. Whatever actions might have taken place behind the curtain, Theodosius’ embassy shocked Pavia. Arechis was “proven” to be plotting to take the crown for himself, allegedly disgusted by the overtly pro-Orthodox policy of Agiluf. Whether the charges were true or not, shall remain unknown; but in October of the same year, led by the younger Heraclius, newly created magister militum per Italiam, Callinicus, and reinforced by barbarian divisions from Pavia, the Roman armies put an end to the young duchy of Benevento.

    Concluding a new treaty of “perpetual peace and alliance” with the Lombard monarch, and fresh from another victory, Theodosius returned to Africa in mid-November, to rest again and, perhaps, continue to cultivate his ties with the Berber tribes. It was during his stay there, that the first tidings of the revolt by the Danubian armies reached him. Unsure on how to react, Theodosius vacillated and wasted a whole month in Carthage until, a week before Christmas, the news of Maurice’s execution, along with those of Theodosius’ own younger brothers’, and Phocas’ acclamation as Emperor arrived. Shortly after, among those ships bearing the dark news, arrived some imperial vessels carrying his wife Irene, his seven-year-old sister Anastasia, and a few other refugees from the Maurician court.

    With the confirmed support of the Western provinces, their Exarchs, Pope Gregory, and bolstered by the African and Italian armies, as well as strengthened by small contingents from his new friend Agiluf and men from his Berber clients, the young Emperor launched a frontal assault against Dyrrachium in April of 603. Inexperienced, filled with youthful pride from his small conquests, and confident that luck still shone upon him, he ordered Nicetas, a nephew of the elder Heraclius, to lead the attack. The city was to serve as a bridgehead for Theodosius’ own arrival with the rest of the troops, and mark the start of an offensive that would carry him to Thessalonica, and then to Constantinople. Rude then was the awakening, when the Praesental and Illyrian field armies moved swiftly against Nicetas, and after a two month siege retook the city, captured the troops, and executed their leader, in July of the same year.

    As the intestine struggle shaped up in the West, the rise of Phocas created its own challenges in the East. Loyal to Maurice remained Narses, commander of the Mesopotamian armies, and the best, and ablest, military leader that the Romans had. He immediately rose up in rebellion against the new Emperor in Constantinople, in the name of Theodosius, and called on Khosrau, the Sassanian King, who owed his throne to the defunct Augustus. The Iranian sovereign, all too eager to shatter his public chains of subservience, mobilized at once, and soon his forces were pouring over the Roman border.

    Meanwhile, Phocas had not been idle. Germanus, dux of Phoenicia, was sent against the rebel, and cornered Narses in Edessa. At about the same time, a fleet sailed from Constantinople towards the West, and a smaller division marched overland through Illyria, to put an end to Theodosius’ adventure once and for all. Fortune, which had carried him from the camp to the palace nonetheless, suddenly deserted the new Caesar. The Iranians arrived swiftly to Narses’ relief, and the combined army crushed Germanus and his men in the vicinity of Constantina. In the West, the Imperial navy was blown apart by a sudden storm in the Adriatic, and its pieces were quickly overtaken by the smaller Italian and African home navies, while the land force was wiped out by the Avars. Undeterred, Phocas ordered a second expedition under the eunuch Leontius to march East and rout Narses and Khosrau. In the West however, impeded by the lack of a naval presence from reaching Italy, he turned to diplomacy. He established a peace accord with the Avars, softened with a hefty tribute, to keep the Danube border stable; and purchased the aid of Theuderic II, King of the Burgundian Franks, in order to deal with Theodosius and the Lombards.

    The year of 604 arrived then, with an uneasy impasse in the West as Theuderic prepared, and Leontius was defeated by the Iranian assisted rebel force. The vanquished eunuch returned to Constantinople, only to be flogged and thrown into prison by an irate Phocas. The distressed Emperor now sent yet another division under his own nephew, Domentziolus the Younger, to deal with the eastern front. But the inexpert youth was bested in the field by one of Khosrau’ finest commanders, Farrokhan Shahrbaraz, and barely escaped with his life. At this point, nevertheless, concerned by the extent of his traditional enemies’ success, Narses offered to conduct negotiations with Phocas personally, in exchange for a safe passage and for his return to the East to be guaranteed. The Emperor quickly accepted, and the general was led to the capital, where upon arrival, was unceremoniously seized and burned at the stake in the Hippodrome. Without Narses, Roman resistance in the East collapsed entirely, and Mesopotamia was overrun.

    At the same time in the West, Phocas’ ally Theuderic II launched his awaited invasion of Italy in March, shortly after the death of Pope Gregory. The Frank obliterated the Lombard field army under Agiluf at Novara, and then proceeded to take Milan, Turin, and Pavia. To complicate matters further, some disaffected dukes joined the invaders, or chose to remain neutral. The Lombard King, appealed desperately to Theodosius for help, and the young Emperor, hesitant at first due to the loss of the larger part of his troops in Dyrrachium, finally came to the aid of his friend, encouraged by the Empress Irene, some would later say. The battle of Pavia, in June of 604, was hard fought, and a grinding affair for both parties, until an allied victory was secured with the death of the Frankish monarch. Among the fallen, however, was also Agiluf. Theodosius, ever the politician, secured extraordinary concessions from the widowed Theodelinda, and at a stroke, Roman authority once again reached unchallenged all the way to the Po. Although smaller Frankish raids would continue, Callinicus and the northern forces of the Exarchate were empowered enough to deal with the situation. With Italy fortified, and aware of the limits of his now small strength, Theodosius sent Heraclius on a diplomatic mission to Spain, to negotiate Visigothic aid to continue the fight against Phocas.

    In the meantime, in Constantinople, Phocas’ men had begun a crackdown of the old guard under Maurice. The Emperor, fearful of a “second Narses” rising, arrested or executed secretly several of the capital’s most prominent civic and military leaders; most notably John Mystacon, general of the Roman expedition that had seated Khosrau on the Iranian throne. These acts unnerved many members of the Senate, as well as other prominent families, and created fertile ground for a secret plot hatched by Maurice’s widow, Constantina, who had been tonsured and locked in a nunnery; the new Praetorian prefect, Theodorus; and the patrician Gennadios. With political intrigue brewing in the Roman capital, the fierce war with the Iranians continued as Dara, the bastion of the East, fell to Shahrbaraz after a siege of nine months in October of 604. An attempted armistice, offered by the younger Domentziolus around this time, was also discarded, as the official goal of the war for the Sassanian monarch remained to avenge Maurice and place Theodosius on his father’s throne.

    Back in the West, the death of Theuderic II caused commotion amongst the delicately balanced Frankish kingdoms. Sigebert, a three- year-old infant and Theuderic’s son, was crowned as King and recognized as lord in all the lands owned by his father. The regency, and real power, however, was exercised by his powerful, and crafty, great-grandmother, Brunhilda, who made no secret of her dislike for the King of Neustria, and child of her hated rival Fredegund, Clothar II. Fully aware of her political liability as a woman, she sought the help of her grandson, and Sigebert’s uncle, the eighteen-year-old King of Austrasia, Theudebert II, for the impending fight against Clothar. A secret treaty was hastily concluded between Theudebert and Brunhilda, and a plan devised, to trick and defeat the Neustrian ruler, by promising him the Burgundian crown in exchange for successfully ending the war in Italy.

    The last significant event of the year took place in December 9th 604, when Maurice II Justinian was born in Rome. The Empress Irene almost died during childbirth, but eventually recovered, to Theodosius’ great pleasure. The child was soon after baptized by Theodosius’ new handpicked Pope, Boniface III.

    The year of 605 opened with new plans by the government in Constantinople to send off a fresh expedition East under the new Comes Orientis, Bonosus; to ship another force West under Phocas’ brother, Domentziolus the Elder; and to sway divine favor on their direction, by bringing about the conversion of the one remaining non-Christian group within the Empire’s borders: the Jews. As the Iranians under Shahin Vahmanzadegan completed the conquest of Armenia, and commenced the advance into Anatolia, revolts erupted all over the largest cities of the eastern provinces, the pacifying of which diverted even more troops from the desperate situation along the front. In the midst of chaos in the East, Theodosius finally decided to make his move. He crowned his brother Tiberius as Caesar, and left for Carthage. Having successfully secured Visigothic assistance in the form of three thousand men, in exchange for almost all of the remaining Roman possessions in Spain, he sailed along the African coast towards Egypt. Although, the majority of stops along the route welcomed him and his men, upon reaching Alexandria, in May of the same year, his troops encountered token resistance, which was rapidly quelled by his personal arrival. Afterward, following the example of their capital, all Egyptian cities switched their allegiance to the son of Maurice.

    For those loyal to Phocas, one disaster seemed to follow right after another. Soon after the capitulation of Egypt, which led to some unrest in Constantinople due to the disruption of the grain supply, Farrokhan Shahrbaraz undertook the siege of the Syrian capital Antioch, and after a month-long blockade, successfully seized it with help from Jewish dissidents. Khosrau, encouraged by the successes of his generals, mobilized even more men to be sent towards the West. With the eastern provinces slipping from Rome’s grip, back home, in The City of Constantine, the coup against the Emperor finally took place. But, as one of the few lucky breaks to be had, Phocas was able to get wind of the treacherous conspiracy, and acted swiftly, arresting, and executing all of those involved, even Theodosius’ mother. The only other bit of good news during this time was the successful landing in Sicily by his brother Domentziolus who, after disrupting Theodosius’ supply lines, had orders to move against Africa. Discouraged by his inability to successfully stop the Sassanians, and the western Romans, Phocas began to fall into alcoholism, which further impaired his judgment, increased his paranoia, and made him more reliable on certain favorites and subordinates.

    Meanwhile in Egypt, although initially eager to continue on as quickly as possible into Palestine, Theodosius was bogged down by the tense religious conflict between the clerics of the Chalcedonian and Monophysite churches. Unwilling to pronounce himself on the issue, he suffered the consequences shortly after, as an attempt was made on his life by a fanatical assassin, hired by the Chalcedonian Patriarch Eulogius. Though he survived the incident, he remained unsuspecting of the gathering storm in the West; since back in Italy, which had been left with barely any men to safeguard the land, and taking advantage of the Emperor’s absence, Gisulf, duke of Friuli and one of the men who stood by the sidelines in the fight against the Franks, revolted against Queen Theodelinda and the young Lombard King Adaloald, both Roman allies, forcing them to flee to Ravenna.


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    The Roman Empire and its neighbors, on June of 605.

     
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