Empire of the South Slavs

[Benjamin]

My first AAR!

Game info: version 1.03b, bugfix 4, SECKs, Khan's portraits, settings normal/normal.

Start as Count of Rashka in 1066, part of Duchy of Dioclea, Balkans region. Nice Orthodox province to avoid crusade problems!

No multiple save games and no autosaves, so no going back to change history. No cheats. Character based writing. Sorry no pics - maybe next time.

 

[Benjamin]

Empire of the South Slavs part 1

Petrislav walked along the battlements of his hill fort, looking out into the surrounding snow-covered mountains. The chill air turned his breath into a cloud about his head that quickly vanished into the night air. It was New Year’s Eve 1066, a night for reflecting upon one’s deed throughout the past year. As he did on each New Year’s Eve, Petrislav walked alone in the dark hours late at night, brooding. This past year, as for the many years he had been Count of Rashka, he had done nothing. He had been sent here in exile from his father’s court. The memory of it flooded back easily.

* * *

“But father, I don’t want to leave Zeta! Make Konstantin or Vladimir go!” begged Petrislav. “They are older than me! I want to stay here with momma!”

“No. Your brothers are too valuable to me here helping run the realm. Besides, your mother doesn’t need you around – you are grown now, so stop behaving like a child. It is my command, and you will obey it if I have to tie you to a chair and have you carried to Rashka!” With that, Majhailo turned and walked away, leaving Petrislav, just turned 16, standing alone in the hall.

Petrislav chocked back his tears and bit his lip. “Yes, father,” he managed weakly to the back of his retreating father, wishing to God that he could say something else. But Majhailo was not a man to be trifled with, especially when he was set in his ways.

“Oooh, baby gonna cry?” said a voice behind him. “No, he’s gonna run to his mama,” said another. Petrislav spun around, quickly rubbing away the tears from the corners of his eyes. He faced his two older brothers – half-brothers, he reminded himself – Konstantin Bodin and Vladimir. Although they had the same father as Petrislav, they utterly different from him in all other regards. “Go on, little baby. Run to mama!” said Vladimir. Both burst into laughter, doubling over, clutching their stomachs. “But daddy, I don’t wanna go,” teased Konstantin, forcing both to laugh even harder. Petrislav ignored them, stomping past them, clearly headed to his own rooms, his hands clenched. “One day I will show you,” thought Petrislav as he marched past them. “Just you wait.”

The next day, Petrislav, lead by a small contingent of guards, left Zeta to the mountains to take up lordship of Rashka and Hum, his father’s two mountain provinces of little regard. Everyone knew he was being exiled simply so his father could force Petrislav’s mother to obey him more. Zoe of Constantinople was a very distant cousin to the Emperor of Rhomaion, brought up in luxury and used to most men obeying her and catering to her wishes. After she married Petrislav’s father, she was rudely awakened by the relative quaintness of the court and Majhailo’s insistence of being in control of everything. Zoe had done her best to assert herself over the years, only to be met with her husband’s stubbornness and patriarchal traditions. She and Majhailo had only had one son, and sending him into exile was Majhailo’s way of punishing her for all her attempts to take some control. The servants said she was so upset that she was unable to even wish her only son farewell. Petrislav road away, listening to the jests and laughter of his brothers as he passed through the gate. “When next I return to Zeta,” he swore to himself, “I will be Duke.”

* * *

Petrislav jerked awake from his trance full of memories at the sound of a nearby sentry slipping on the icy walkway. His hand flew to his sword without thought before Petrislav realized what had jarred him back to the present and realizing he was safe. Out here in the mountains, all kinds of dangers awaited, and a man caught unawares often ended up dead. With a growl, Petrislav spit over the wooden palisade and marched towards the Great Hall. “Next year will be different,” said Petrislav to himself. A nearby guard, not sure if he was being addressed, responded, “M’lord?” “Nothing. Carry on. Take care of the ice, I can’t afford it if you slip and break your neck. And stay warm – it’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.” “Yes, m’lord,” responded the guard, returning to his rounds.

Back to his thoughts, Petrislav again said to himself, ‘Yes, this years will be different.” He continued walking to the main hall.

Just a few days past, a new priest, Father Aleš, had given the Christmas mass. The old priest, Father Vulk, had died just a week before, and had been quickly replaced. Father Aleš, young and full of vigor, was not much for theology and dogma, but was clearly an academic of history. He filled the sermon not only with the standard litanies of Christ’s birth, but also of the birth the Slavic people. He spoke of a time, in Petrislav’s grandfather’s grandfather’s time, when a great Slavic realm ruled over a vast area to the north. That realm was destroyed by the Hungarians who now claimed most of the territory, but the priest, in discussing the birth of Christ to save all man, countered that with the birth of a Slavic realm to save all Slavs. Currently most Slavs were ruled by foreign people, and most abhorrently, by Papists. Only a few Slavs true to God’s own Holy Orthodox Church remained.

The sermon and Father Aleš had caught Petrislav’s imagination. When Petrislav had first come to these mountains, he had hated every moment. Only after Father Vulk had taken Petrislav on a few rides and had long talks did Petrislav begin to see the beauty of Rashka and Hum. Over the years Petrislav had become enamored with his lands, hunting and roaming widely. Hardly a single person didn’t know him by face. That didn’t mean, though, that Petrislav had attempted to rule. The mountain people were a strong-willed and fierce people, happy to be left alone. Plus, Petrislav’s father had sent him here to take control, and Petrislav had no desire to please his father.

Now, though, Petrislav had a new idea. The memory of his private oath, taken so many years ago, coupled with the idea of a Slavic realm, fueled a new vigor in Petrislav. Starting this year he would take up the reins of state and forge his own destiny. For too long he had sat by, idling away the days, months, years. Henceforth, he would be a man of action.

* * *

Petrislav marched into the grand hall, listening to the joyful noise around him. His wife and their children huddled near the largest fire in the center of the room, watching a few peasant entertainers. Petrislav rolled his eyes, remembering what entertainments he enjoyed as a youth, but here in Rashka, this was the best he could get. He stole a glance at the hours candle along the wall. Only just over an hour remained until the new year began. With his deep voice, Petrislav called out to all in the hall, most of whom were deep in their drinks. “Branislav, Ekaterina, and Zavida – accompany me, please.” He walked through the grand hall to his private sitting room immediately at the rear. Those he had summoned quickly appeared, questioning looks upon their faces.

Petrislav, suddenly unsure of himself, looked at them all, then turned to the small brazier. “Uhm, I have something important to say. To you. All of you. Starting tonight. I want you… Rashka needs some… I mean, it’s important that… hh, blazes!” Petrislav cursed, smacking his hand against the wall loudly. “You,” he said, turning and pointing at Ekaterina, “from now on, you are my Steward. And you,” he said, pointing at Branislav, “are my Spy Master. Zavida, you will serve as Chancellor of the realm. Any questions?”

The trio simply stood in silence, shock clearly visible on their faces. “Good. Then go out there and enjoy yourselves.” Ekaterina and Branislav quickly took their leave, Zavida staying behind. “My love, why this sudden change of mind? You never mentioned this to me before. In fact, you’ve always said Rashka can run itself, and doesn’t need our help.” “I know, dearest. But Father Aleš has got me to thinking. He is a good man, you know. A great man. Simply wasted in the monastery.” Petrislav quickly crossed himself, looking about in fear that someone may be listening in. “I mean, he is a good priest, but his ideas! He should be an advisor to a King. And I should be that King.”

Zavida looked at her husband, shock clearly in her eyes. Her face, though, showed no emotion, and her eyes quickly followed suit. That ability of hers to hide emotion was why he had chosen her to be Chancellor. “Yes, I think that is true,” Zavida said slowly. “Tomorrow – next year – I will do my utmost to assure this dream. Our children deserve nothing less. She turned and left, leaving Petrislav to his thoughts. “Yes, our children do deserve better,” he thought. He slapped his leg, a smile spreading across his face. He walked into the great hall, then let out a loud whoop, bringing everyone’s attention. “It’s New Years!” Petrislav yelled. “Let us all be merry!” For weeks, everyone spoke about how grand a party was thrown in the fort that night, and those who had stayed away were sad to have missed it.

* * *

The following evening, Petrislav gathered together his advisors to discuss the future. Even though the sun was setting, everyone still suffered from the after effects of the previous evening. Ekaterina spoke first. “M’lord, the realm’s treasury is in a terrible state. We have only 25 imperial crowns left in the treasury. Fortunately, though, I have been able to decipher the old records, and can see many ways to improve the stewardship of the realm. To begin, we can reduce the tithe to the Church. The priests are constantly busy with their holy relics, and won’t miss the small reduction. It isn’t much money, but it will add up in time. Otherwise, simply taking a hand in governance will improve our realm’s productivity.”

Petrislav, nursing his aching head, spoke quietly. “Very well. Zavida? What can you report?”

His wife, never much for excesses, grinned at her obviously uncomfortable husband. It had been her idea, said to Petrislav in such a way as to make him think he had thought of it, to gather his advisors so quickly. Clearly Petrislav was regretting ‘his’ idea, but Zavida knew it was important to begin things on the right foot. “Well, our relations with your father, though not good, are not bad. He holds no ill-will towards us, and the people are not unhappy with you. Alas, as we are simply a small county in the mountains, no one has ever accepted any offers of allegiance with us. But that is of no concern now – our primary concern is Zeta, and how to inherit those lands. Right now your two half-brothers stand ahead of you in inheritance, as your father holds to sallic primogeniture. You, though, have wisely chosen semi-sallic consanguinity so that your strongest son may inherit. May that be far in the future!”

Petrislav simply nodded in agreement.

“Your father has not been idle in the past years, m’lord,” said Branislav, the Spy Master. “He has forged an alliance with the Kingdom of Croatia, as well as the Count of Napoli in southern Italy. His army stands at around 330 men. Our other neighbors all have much larger armies, though, and secure lineages. We must wait for a moment when things change before we can strike out and benefit from others’ weakness.”

Ekaterina spoke again. “M’lord, may I make a suggestion? Many of our realm’s brightest people have heard of your desire to improve our lands, and I have received people all day who are willing to help out. Many have ideas of ways to help. I suggest we focus our research on crossbows, which seem to be a promising method of weaponry, farming techniques to improve our crops and income, and noble customs to improve the strength of the landed gentry. Other than that, though, I agree with Branislav – we simply must wait until we have more money.”

“Certainly, that sounds good. You know what is best.” Petrislav sighed heavily, holding his head. Because of the state of his treasury, he was forced to wait again. However, he vowed he would work at ruling the realm, and set his mind to that. With nothing more left to be said, he dismissed his advisors and went in search of a quiet room to rest his aching head. “Tomorrow,” he said, rising slowly, “we will meet again and discuss option.”

Throughout the rest of the year, Petrislav maintained his daily meetings with his advisors. As the years progressed, the treasury slowly grew. In 1068 he was finally able to build the first new structure in Rashka in years when he ordered construction of a mine. The people welcomed the change in their liege, and supported him fully.

In late 1069, Petrislav again ordered the construction of a mine, this time in Hum. He didn’t want the people of that realm to feel unwanted, and told Ekaterina to make sure that whatever was done in Rashka was immediately done in Hum. She agreed entirely with him.

* * *

1070 was another year of waiting, but now Petrislav didn’t mind as much. He could see his realm beginning to prosper. In fact, the towns and villages of Rashka grew considerably, making the province prosperous. The treasury grew slowly but steadily, and Petrislav was already beginning to make plans for building a library in Rashka.

Then bad news arrived from the west. First, Zeta suffered from an epidemic of dysentery, creating misery and woe throughout the province. Petrislav pursed his lips when her heard the news. “Serves my father and half-brothers right,” he said coldly, “but I hate to know how many others suffer with them.” Just a few days later, the Republic of Ragusa announced that it once had ruled Zeta, and thus was the rightful government of the territory. “That is a lie!” yelled Petrislav, smashing his fist on the grand hall table. Everyone in the hall grew silent, and those closest to him slowly moved away except for his advisors. “Those swine never controlled Zeta! It has been in my family’s heritage for centuries!” growled Petrislav. However, no matter his statements, surrounding realms accepted the lie and soon acknowledged the Ragusan claim.

“Branislav, does this mean war?” Petrislav demanded of his spy master a week later. Ragusa had called up it’s army, and begun training them. “Well, m’lord, I believe it does,” he replied. “Your father’s army is still much smaller than Ragusa’s. Ragusa is currently allied with Croatia as well as Venice, both of whom accept their claim on Zeta. I think it is only a matter of time before war is declared. Our forces are ready, but, as you know, we do not have anyone suitable to be a marshal to help you lead the armies. Due to the size of the Ragusan army, it would be suicide to fight them anyway. Your father is not a fool to declare war against a foe he can not defeat, but the Ragusans have all the benefits to them. It is only a matter of time. Until then, we must wait.” Petrislav glared at Branislav and his other advisors. Wait, wait, wait. That is all he ever heard. Would he ever hear “Yes, m’lord, we can do it now?” He wished for that day to arrive soon.

In July, the worst of Petrislav’s feared came true. Ragusa declared war on Zeta, quickly followed suit by Venice. Croatia, allied with both sides, remained neutral. “At least they have some decency,” Zavida said in council. “They didn’t declare war on their Slavic brothers. They should have helped your father, though.” Although Petrislav disliked his father immensely, he agreed with Zavida. “Call out the armies. We must be ready to strike when the time is right.” Ekaterina sent the summons that night, and by the end of the week the levies had been called up.

 

[Benjamin]

Empire of the South Slavs part 2

In August, the army of Ragusa marched into Zeta, quickly sending his father’s army fleeing. They set up siege of Zeta, but not before some messengers were able to get through to Rashka. “Lord Petrislav, your father requests immediate aid,” said a courier, weary from the long ride and covered with dirt from the road. “He demands that you call out the army and place it under his command immediately.”

“Oh, he does, does he?” countered Petrislav. “My dear, beloved father demands that I grant him command of MY armies? After all these years of not even sending me wishes at Christmas, he demands I bend knee to him in his time of need?” Petrislav turned to his wife, acting as if she were whispering in his ear, before turning again to the courier. “As my dear wife has just reminded me, my armies are currently out searching for vagabonds and thieves in the northern mountains, and are quite busy at that. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to reach them by courier for, oh… at least a month. And then a month of more before they could return here, then resupply, then prepare for the march… I’m afraid my father’s IMMEDIATE summons are just impossible to achieve. Do give him my regrets.” The courier quickly returned westward, passing through the camp of the combined armies of Rashka and Hum, wondering who’s troops were camping along the road if the Count’s armies were in the mountains. He didn’t have time to stop and ask, though, as he had to hurry back to Zeta with the news.

A week later, another messenger arrived from Zeta, repeating the same demands, and demanding to know who’s army camped outside. Petrislav sent his eldest son, Marko, who was in military training, to send the courier away. “My father and mother are too busy… enjoying each other’s private company… to listen to you. Perhaps if you wait a few days they will come out of their room long enough to hear you out? They went in yesterday, and typically seclude themselves for a week at a time. My father claims it strengthens him and my mother says it is good for her soul, and Father Aleš says that a large family is an honor to God. My parents are very devout, and wish to serve God in all ways.” The courier, red-faced and sputtering that a teenager would speak thus to him, turned and stormed out. Petrislav and Zavida, listening from behind a heavy tapestry along one wall, had nearly given themselves away laughing, but were able to hold it in just long enough for the courier to leave. “Well done, my son!” Petrislav was finally able to say after the pain in his stomach resided.

In September, Branislav brought even more bad news. “M’lord, the army of Venice has landed in Zeta. Over 2000 strong. Zeta will surely fall now.” And it did, just a few weeks later, to the Venetian lord. As soon as the Venetians took the castle, they immediately began looting the province, hauling away boat loads of wealth before their army also packed up and went home. The Ragusans, bereft of their victory, could only stand by and watch. Majhailo, though, was a crafty statesmen, and only a few days later managed a peace with Venice. Not only did Venice regret the war, for over 400 had died at the walls of Zeta, but Majhailo convinced the Doge to pay Zeta 51 imperial crowns for invading in the first place! Petrislav gasped when he heard the news, and merely shook his head. “My brother is certainly a good chancellor, to manage such a peace. Venice paid more in indemnities than they stole when looting the city!”

* * *

The first snow began to blow in late 1070 when news of the renewed Ragusan siege reached Rashka. The Ragusan army had immediately renewed the siege of Zeta after Venetians announced they had signed peace agreement, much to their dismay. The Ragusans, though, seemed happy, as now they had the opportunity to conquer Zeta without fear of interference.

“The Ragusan’s are down to half strength, m’lord,” Branislav reported in council. “The walls of Zeta are strong. However, the people of Zeta, after the Venetian siege and looting, are starving. Your half-brothers are reported to be ill, and the city is on the verge of surrendering to the Ragusans. I suggest we march to their aid now, with our fresh troops.” Petrislav sat back in his chair, pondering to himself. He looked at his closest advisors, seeing the faith they had in him. When he looked at his wife, she nodded slightly, giving him the final push to make a decision. “Sound the trumpets!” cried Petrislav. “We march to Zeta!”

The whole population of Rashka turned out the next day, screaming and waving towels to the marching army. Spirits of the mountain folk were high, for they knew they were marching on a good cause. At the last minute, though, Petrislav decided to stay a few more days with Zavida, who had stayed in her rooms, fearful of sending her husband away. “Branislav, I am making you Marshal now. Now, don’t argue! I know you have no military training, but you are the best man I have, and the only man I trust. Just get to Zeta, but don’t engage the enemy. Just watch! I will arrive soon, and then we can determine what to do. I don’t want to throw the lives of my men away in a useless fight!” Branislav reluctantly took his new command, and marched away. As he was almost out of hearing, Petrislav bellowed after him, “Don’t fight them until I get there!”

A few days turned into a week, weeks turned into a month, and then longer. News from Zeta was that the Ragusan siege was going badly, with their army suffering casualties daily. Petrislav’s army, though, was being well supplied by the local people who refused to aid the Ragusans in any way. With the poor condition of the siege, Petrislav was willing to wait even longer before he began a fight. “I do wish that Branislav would stop being a general for just one day and send me a decent report about what is going on there,” complained Petrislav. “All he does is write about troop positions, troop movements, troop morale, troop readiness, troop supplies. Damn him! Doesn’t he remember he was spy master for a few years?”

Ekaterina replied, “You assigned him to be the marshal, m’lord. You know Branislav, he takes his roles seriously. He is only doing what he thinks a good marshal would do. If you want him to give you better reports, you should make him spy master again.”

“You know I can’t do that!” said Petrislav, tossing the reports on the table. “There is no one else to command the army in my absence until Marko is of age. I know he is only doing what I ordered him to do, but fiery hell! I wish he wouldn’t try so hard!” Zavida and Ekaterina simply smiled. Reading the report one more time, Petrislav said, “Send to Branislav to wait some more. We’ll wait until the Ragusans are nearly broken before we attack, which appears to be a few more weeks. No one there is going anywhere, and I’m used to waiting. Besides, I don’t mind letting my father suffer a bit more. I swore I would never return to Zeta unless I was Duke, and I hate to break my vows.” Ekaterina and Zavida stole glances at each other, but said nothing, and Petrislav, knowing how women are, decided it wasn’t worth trying to find out what that was about. “When did you swear that?” asked Zavida demurely, “you’ve never mentioned that to me.” Petrislav stared at her, as he had never heard her speak in such a way. Clearly the two women were up to something.

“I swore it when my father exiled me here. Back before I learned to love Rashka and Hum, before I knew what being a Count meant. But if I can’t honor oaths to myself, how will anyone expect me to honor oaths to them?” Neither said a word, and Petrislav ended the council to play with his younger children.

* * *

It was very late at night in spring of 1071 when Petrislav awoke suddenly. Winter had been exceptionally harsh, and snow still laid thick upon the ground outside. The fire had gone out long ago, the few coals supplying just a faint glow to see by. Petrislav, sensing something wrong, grabbed the knife from under his pillow and listened carefully. Then he realized what it was – Zavida wasn’t there. Petrislav sat up, looking about. “Are you using the chamber pot?” he asked quietly, but there was no response. Nervous, Petrislav climbed out from under his blankets and began to dress when suddenly there was a loud knock at the door. “My Grace! My Grace! Wake up!” called Ekaterina called urgently, “My Grace! Hurry! Wake up!” Petrislav, fearing something terrible, leapt to the door half dressed, throwing it open. Ekaterina, clearly not expecting him to respond so quickly, jumped back. “My Grace! Word just arrived that Branislav engaged the Ragusans and drove them from the field!”

Although half asleep, Petrislav flew into an instant rage. “He what?! How dare he! I ordered him to stay put, that bastard!” Petrislav began marching toward the grand hall, where he always went when he had to give orders. As he went, Ekaterina hung a heavy cloak over his shoulders, the fur edging rubbing warmly against Petrislav’s neck. Petrislav grunted in thanks, then continued, “I’ll have his head on a stake!” he bellowed Petrislav. “Send a courier immediately! I want him back here now!”

“Yes, my Grace, immediately,” chimed Ekaterina, following behind.

“And find Zavida! I need her…” Just then, Zavida stepped out of one of the children’s rooms ahead of him, cutting off Petrislav’s sentence. “I am here, my Grace,” she said, “I had to look in on the children. Be quite or you will waken them!” Petrislav sheepishly bowed his head, knowing his wife was correct, and kept marching down the hall, his wife and steward in tow.

“Oh, and there is more news, my Grace,” said Ekaterina. “Your uncle Radislav is here, with your cousins Branislav and Dobroslav, waitingin the great hall for you. They only just arrived from Zeta with news of the victory.”

“Radislav? Branislav? Dobroslav? What in the name of God are they doing here?” asked Petrislav, his mind not fully functioning yet from being awakened such a short time ago.

“They fled the city as soon as the siege was lifted, MY GRACE,” said Ekaterina, a bit of exasperation in her voice. Petrislav stopped in his tracks, frozen. Zavida collided with him, and Ekaterina barely avoided doing so, but Petrislav didn’t seem to notice. Instead, his hands came up to feel the rich fur cloak at his neck, and he turned to face his wife and steward. “My Grace?” he stammered, his jaw hanging down. “Yes! Yes, my love!” cried Zavida, hurling herself upon him and hugging him tightly.

“But how? How is this possible?” asked Petrislav, holding on to his wife. Ekaterina rolled her eyes, showing how surprised she was it took Petrislav so long to realize what had happened, then smiled warmly, saying, “We received news that your half-brothers died of illness during the siege. There wasn’t enough food nor medicine, and people were dying by the hundreds. Your father, seeing your army so near but doing nothing, lead a sortie from the fort against the Ragusans, hoping to reach Branislav and safety. He was slain in the attack, but your uncle and cousins managed to make it to Branislav. Hearing of your father’s death, he ordered the army to attack the Ragusans, who were in some disorder from the sortie, and drove them from the field.”

Petrislav, Zavida and Ekaterina stepped through a door into the grand hall, where the fires had been lit and Marshal Branislav and Petrislav’s relatives stood standing along with the entire population of the fort. The marshal continued where Ekaterina left off, “And I immediately rode like the devil’s own were chasing me to bring you news of your victory, my Grace! Hail Duke Petrislav of Dioclea!” he cried, quickly to be followed by all the assembled cheering, “Hail Duke Petrislav! Hail Duke Petrislav!”

Petrislav simply stood there in shock, listening to the cheers of his people. His uncle and cousins quickly stepped forward and dropped to their knees, each saying, “Duke Petrislav, I swear upon my life to serve you with faith and honor until death.” Still in shock, Zavida answered for him. “Rise, dear cousins! We welcome to Rashka, and accept your fealty with great happiness!”

The next weeks were are flurry of activity. With the siege, then looting, and then another siege of Zeta, the entire court fled to Rashka, filling the fort to the walls with courtiers. With Zeta in near ruin, Rashka became the capital of the Dioclea. Petrislav’s uncle Radislav, who had taken ill during the long sieges, died of his illness, but not before knowing that the Ragusans had accepted a peace with Petrislav after paying their entire treasury of 15 imperial crowns as indemnity. Although his previous courtiers had served him well, Petrislav quickly sorted out all the new ones and made new appointments to serve his Duchy, allowing Ekaterina and Branislav to retire in honor. For the first time ever, Petrislav had both a spy master and a marshal serving him.

In addition to his new title, Petrislav also inherited a tidy sum of gold, which when combined with his own treasury allowed him to build a mine in Zeta. “We must rebuild as soon as possible,” Petrislav told his advisors. “Dioclea must have all it’s provinces strong.” His advisors agreed, and so it was done.

One night at dinner, while the people were still in a celebratory mood from the recent victories and changes, Zavida made a suggestion that the others soon supported. “My Grace, with Ragusa’s army destroyed, we should ask them to yield to your benevolent leadership and serve you as counts of Ragusa. They are weak, and need protection. We should offer that protection before they are destroyed or vassalized by another realm.” Petrislav nearly gagged on the ale he was drinking as Zadiva spoke. “But we just were at war with them, not a month ago!” he said, wiping the spilt ale from his face and shirt. “They would be mad to agree to such a thing.”

“Not so, my grace,” spoke up marshal Dobroslav, Petrislav’s cousin. “Lady Zavida is right. After our destruction of their army, even a band of pagans could conquer them. They would be mad not to agree to such an offer.” Petrislav shook his head in disbelief, but nodded to his wife. “Very well, handle the matter. But if they disagree, I’ll be the first to gloat!”

One month later, Zavida entered the grand hall during dinner, carrying a large rolled parchment, followed by a well-dressed man. “My Grace, I present you with Aleksander of Ragusa!” The hall went suddenly silent as the man walked forward to the high table, then dropped to his knee. “I, Aleksander of Ragusa, Magistrate of the Republic of Ragusa, do hereby swear allegiance to Petrislav, Duke of Dioclea!” The loud cheers of rejoicing could be heard echoing off the mountains for nearly an hour. Zavida, a gloating smile upon her face, simply kissed her husband and patted him on the head.

* * *

In early morning on a hot summer day in 1072, Petrislav woke in a sweat. The summer was damnably hot, which made sleeping difficult. As he rolled over in bed, his hand nudged the arm of Zavida, lying next to him, but it was strangely rigid. Sitting upright, Petrislav looked at his beloved wife, only to realize that she had passed in the night. A state funeral was held in her honor, and the whole realm turned out to pay her respects, as she was much loved by the people. Petrislav thought about taking another wife, but just couldn’t bring himself to do so, and so entered a long period of mourning.

Although he was loathe to do so, he appointed a woman who had fled with the court from Zeta to Rashka to be chancellor, as the realm needed one. She was very skilled in financials, and immediately made an impact on the productivity of the realm. However, she looked quite similar to Zavida to Petrislav, and working with her only made him sad. Although he maintained the daily advisor sessions, his heart was no longer in it.

 

[Benjamin]

Empire of the South Slavs part 3

The next few years of peace brought much growth to Dioclea. Zeta recovered from being looted, but suffered from poor seed selection and remained in a poor state of affairs. Ragusa was in a similar poor state, the previous war having slain so many farmers and young men that the survivors were unable to properly manage the lands. Duke Petrislav continued his building programs, ordering Rashka to build a forestry, then a training ground, and next a library. True to his word to maintain balance, Hum received the same buildings. Zeta obtained a foresty and library, but then the treasury ran dry for a while.

In 1076, Petrislav’s oldest son Marko came of age, completing his military training. He was quite successful in his education, having grown up in time of war, and was known as a knowledged tactician, a fact that made Petrislav proud. Petrislav immediately granted him Zeta as a fief, hoping Petrislav would learn valuable skills as a count before he became Duke.

As soon as the treasury was strong enough, Petrislav ordered construction of a sawmill in Hum. Then, the same in Rashka, followed by a tile factory in Hum again. The people of Rashka, as the capital of Dioclea, prospered more than the rest of the realm. Already a prosperous province, the towns and villages grew once more, making it rich, greatly increasing revenue of the realm.

“My Grace,” said Matilda von Eselberg, steward of the realm, “I am proud to say that everything is going quite well in Dioclea. I can not find any room for improvement in our operations. Everything is running at peak capacity.”

“I agree, my Grace,” chimed in marshal Dobroslav. “The armies are slowly recovering from the war with Ragusa, but should soon be at battle strength. I hear the heretic catholics have been called on crusade by their pope, but as we have no need to listen to him, we don’t have to worry about sending our forces into useless battles. If you do wish it, though, we are ready to march at your command.”

The new Chancellor, who reminded Petrislav so much of his lost Zavida, spoke next. “While Dioclea may be prospering internally, My Grace, we need allies to balance with external growth. Our realm is growing stronger, but we do not have anyone who will support us. Alas, all my attempts to forge alliances in Croatia and the various princes in Russia have failed. Perhaps we should turn to Rhomaion for allies? I know you are loathe to lean on such a powerful neighbor, but if they are the only ones who will help us, then we must lean on them.”

“God will protect us!” said Father Branislav, a wandering priest who had been accepted into the court recently, loudly in protest. “If God tells those we ask to be our allies to say no, then it is God’s wish that we not have allies!”

Petrislav sighed heavily to himself, then coughed. Blast this summer cold he developed! He wiped his nose on his sleeve, then turned back to his advisors, who were arguing over the point of allies. How he wished for the early days when arguments were unheard of and Zavida sat at his side. Those days of peace and joy are gone, now, filled with endless arguing in his circle of advisors. Could none of them agree?

“Enough! I am tired of hearing you fighting. We should be fighting enemies, not each other,” chastised Petrislav. “Perhaps it is our lack of them that causes you to fight each other. If you must fight, go into the courtyard and draw weapons.” Both the marshal and priest looked sufficiently humbled by his statement that Petrislav. Just then, there was a knocking at the door, and a guard opened it up. “My Grace, visitors from afar.”

Behind the guard moved three men, all dressed in fine clothes, if a little dusty from the trails through the mountains. They came forward, bowed, and presented scrolls to Petrislav, you handed them to his chancellor as his head cold made him miserable. She quickly read them, a large smile forming on her face as she did. At the completion of her reading, she turned to Duke Petrislav, saying, “My Grace, I am happy to say that these three couriers represent the Prince of Galich, the Prince of Kiev, and the King of Hungary.” The respective couriers bowed when referred to, barely obtaining a glance from Petrislav who sat sickly in his chair. “Each are requesting that we enter into an alliance with them!” She shot a glare at the diocese bishop, who simply rolled his eyes and leaned back into his chair. “I suggest we accept them all!” Petrislav, tired of hearing arguments over alliances, nodded his agreement. Each of the couriers stayed for a few days to be refreshed before carrying news back to their lieges about the success of their missions.

When the council ended, Petrislav stayed in his seat, waiting for dinner. He was too tired to move to his room, and decided to nap in his large, comfortable ducal throne. As Father Branislav left, Petrislav overheard him grumbling, “Dear God, I accept your lessons, but three in one day?” Petrislav fell asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

A month later found Petrislav feeling much better. As there was nothing new to discuss in the realm, Petrislav decided to bring up a different subject.

“As you know, my second son, Vlkan, is currently in a monastery for his education. I fear what to do with him once he finishes. His hunchback almost guarantees that he will be shunned by society. To make matters worse, he has turned into a cruel young man, taking pleasure in the hurting of animals and others. He is clearly not meant for the church, but I do not see any room for him here. What shall we do with him?”

His advisors, having known of this problem for years and thinking of it on occasion, all sighed heavily. Even though they had worried it for years, none had been able to determine a useful solution. “He could always suffer an accident.” Everyone turned to stare at the spy mistress who had dared make such a suggestion. “Oh, please. You know you have all thought of it at one time or another, as it would surely simplify things. I’m just the only one brave enough to say it aloud.” Father Branislav began praying, whether for himself or the spy mistress’s soul, no one could tell.

“I have thought about this, too, I must admit,” said Petrislav. “But the thought grieves me greatly. I will not be known as a kin slayer. We must find another way. Continue to think on this, and if you have an acceptable means to ease our problems, please speak of it. Now, is there anything else to discuss?”

Petrislav looked at his council, all of whom suddenly looked as if they had swallowed a frog. His chancellor looked the most guilty, so it was she he questioned. “What? What idea have you now? By the way you are all looking, it must be something brazen indeed. So speak your mind! I will not have my advisors not speaking what they wish.”

“Well, my Grace, it is a rather delicate subject. You see, I only arrived here, as did the rest of us, shortly after your father was killed and you became Duke. Thus we only barely knew… your wife. However, we spoke much with Ekaterina, for she worked closely with her, and we feel we know her better than we did.” Petrislav did not like the way this was heading, and scowled mightily. “My dear beloved wife was very special to me. You may have not know her, but I loved her.”

“Yes, of course! And that is why we are concerned for you. Haven’t you noticed how easily you have taken ill the past few years? Whenever the seasons change, you become sick. True, you always recover, but the servants said you never were ill before.”

“It’s just that I’m getting old. Nothing more!” said Petrislav, more forcibly than he had intended. He was getting aggravated, and felt he knew what they meant to say. And he didn’t want to talk about it.

“My Grace, you aren’t that old! You are less than 50! Many nobles of your rank live well into their 60s. Thus, we your advisors, unanimously, I may add, believe it is only right that you take another wife.” There, it was said, and Petrislav didn’t feel any better for hearing in the open. For years now, since his dear Zavida’s death, the servants had been whispering the same behind his back. Oh, they didn’t know he heard, but Petrislav had good hearing, and the ability to act like he was deaf. Thus, just over a year after Zavida’s death, he began hearing the whispers. At first, some servants took his side, saying “Let the Duke mourn, she was his true love.” But now, years later, no one supported that idea anymore. Everyone thought it was time. And now, so did his advisors, and they believed themselves to be so right as to tell him so.

Petrislav growled at them with his eyes closed, not even giving them the benefit of a look. “You must have someone in mind already, else you wouldn’t have brought this up now. Who is she?” Father Branislav answered, quietly. “My Grace, we only suggest this because we believe it is in your best interests. You know that God wishes us to have large families in His honor, and you have only two children. But you are right, we do have a woman in mind. Actually, a girl, since she is only 12. She is the daughter of the Prince of Vidin. She currently has two older brothers, but a third died young, and we believe the rest are not very healthy, either. If you marry her and have a son, he would inherit Vidin, as well as the vassal Count of Naissus.”

“But more importantly, my Grace, is this,” said the chancellor, “with Vidin and Naissus combined with your currently realm, your son could claim a royal title. Your son could be a king, and fulfill your dream!”

Petrislav sat brooding, thinking over their logic. Truly they meant well, and the offer did have some merits. As much as it hurt to think he would marry another woman, he knew deep inside the Zadiva would have wanted it this way. She hated to see him sad, and would only want him to be happy. Slowly his reservations melted away, and his face relaxed from a scowl into that of submission. “She is 12, you say? So I have to wait a few years, yet.”

“Yes, my Grace. But we felt it important to bring the idea to you now, so you could prepare yourself for the time,” said Father Branislav.

Petrislav nodded in agreement. He had chosen his advisors well, for they were wise. “Very well. Begin negotiations with Prince Vidin. And hope that neither of us die in the meantime!” Petrislav cracked a grin at his own joke, but none of his advisors even smiled. “Heaven forbid!” whispered Father Branislav, crossing himself. Petrislav rolled his eyes. “Zadiva would have laughed!” he thought to himself.

* * *

The next few years passed uneventfully. Petrislav seemed to gain new energy and ordered preparations throughout the realm for his impending marriage. Long talks with Father Branislav convinced Petrislav that remarrying was acceptable, and in fact, necessary for him to remain happy. The past few years of residing in sadness and mourning had done little good for Petrislav. With his renewed vigor, he ordered the construction of churches in Rashka and Hum, as well as roads throughout the provinces. Both provinces also experienced a great deal of learning, developing and accepting new technologies. Petrislav nodded his head thoughtfully, knowing that the libraries he had built were paying off quickly.

Eventually, Petrislav’s son, Vlkan, came of age. Petrislav’s advisors still had no idea what to do with him. The monastery must have affected Vlkan in some way, for upon his graduation the abbot pronounced him a master theologian. However, simply because he was able to remember things didn’t make him a good priest. Vlkan was not only cruel, but had become arbitrary and selfish as well. Petrislav utterly despaired at what to do with him.

Then one day in council, his chancellor spoke up. “My Grace, I have a plan. The Duke of Apulia, just across the Adriatic, has a daughter the same age as Vlkan. She is quite unattractive, although she has many various skills. Perhaps we could convince Duke Roger Borsa to grant her hand to Vlkan. We have taken great cares over the years to hide his misfortunes, and as far as I know, they are not spoken of outside the court. I think if we act quickly, before Vlkan arrives here from the monastery and people begin speaking ill of him, we may be lucky.”

None of his other advisors could find fault with this idea, for if it worked, it would provide Vlkan with someone to think about constantly, for better or for worse. Hopefully, though, it would be for better. Petrislav gave permission to attempt the marriage entreaty, and a courier was sent.

Just a couple weeks later, the courier returned to the court. “Oh, heavens!” said Petrislav, learning of the courier’s return. “Someone in Apulia knows of our terrible secret, and the Duke threw out our courier without even listening to the offer. Now what do we do?” His advisors, believing Petrislav knew more than he did, sighed in despair, and began thinking of a new plan. When the courier entered, though, he called out, “My Grace! Good fortune upon us! Your son, Vlkan, is to marry!”

The entire council gasped in surprise, then broke into wide smiles, none more than Petrislav. “Open the cellars, and bring out the best stocks! We have a grand wedding to plan!” Elizabeth de Hauteville arrived a few weeks later for the wedding, and was quite hideous in looks. However, Vlkan simply took one look at her and said, “She will do. It is the best I can expect, in my state.” For her part, Elizabeth, upon being presented to her future husband, demonstrated her skills of diplomacy. “Well, no one said you would be handsome, nor did they say you had a hunchback. But together we make a fine pair, unfit for the rest of the world, so I hope our marriage can be a joy to us both.” Those who overheard this were quick to step away, fearing Vlkan’s reaction, but he simply smiled and agreed.

Because of his deformity, Petrislav felt it necessary to keep Vlkan close to the court where he could be watched and protected. Thus he dismissed Father Branislav from service, allowing him a quiet retirement, to be replaced with Vlkan. After all, Branislav had been serving Petrislav for over 20 years, first as spy master, then as marshal for a while when no other was available, and lastly as diocese bishop for a number of years. It was time for Branislav to relax, and he welcomed the opportunity.

* * *

Petrislav woke early on the morning of his second wedding, nervous and anxious. His hands were sweaty and shaking, something that Petrislav noticed with dismay. “I’m old enough to be her father! I have two sons older than her, and a daughter her age! Why am I fretting like an old hen?” He paced his room for a while, attempting to calm his nerves, then called for ale from his servants. He downed two tankards quickly, then went outdoors to walk along the battlements, allowing the fresh breeze to blow his hair wildly. After a while, the combination of the drink, the wind and the view calmed his nerves sufficiently that he returned inside to dress. As he entered the fort, his advisors were waiting for him, clearly anxious as well. “My Grace, I mean no disrespect, but you must hurry! The weddings are about to take place!”

 

[Benjamin]

Empire of the South Slavs part 4

Petrislav grunted at them, then smiled sheepishly. “How is Agata doing? Is she ready yet?” His steward responded, saying, “Yes, she is ready, and already in the church, praying. Where you should be, too. I’ve already informed Vlkan to delay the services for a bit, but the Count of Naissus, being so young, is eager to wed your daughter and take her to their chambers!”

Petrislav shook his head at the energy of youth, and smiled. “Well, I am not so anxious as he, so perhaps an old man will keep him waiting some more.” He entered his rooms, his marshal following closely, and dressed. “Dobroslav, what do you think of all this? Two weddings in one day. I’ve never heard of such fanfare to unite two realms.”

Dobroslav, always a warrior first, a diplomat second, grunted before speaking. “My Grace, this is a great day. Not only do you wed the eldest daughter of Vidin, thus securing your son to inherit those lands, but you also wed your eldest daughter to Vidin’s only vassal, Count Naissus. Today you will bring under your influence a great many Slavs, taking one more step towards your dream. And not a single battle will be fought for your victory!”

Petrislav wondered, though, if the battles were yet to be fought. Although he had grown to accept his second marriage, he wondered if the great difference in age between he and his intended bride would cause problems. His daughter Agata, just a month older than his new bride Stammatike, was a handful. Petrislav had been forced to teach her not to throw money away, and to moderate her wild parties. If Stammatike was the same way, Petrislav knew he was in for many sleepless nights. But Dobroslav was right; the alliance he was forging today was too valuable, and so he must accept what would come. That, and the gold he obtained from both Vidin and Naissus from the marriages was very welcome. In fact, immediately after the ceremonies, Petrislav ordered his steward to begin construction of extensive road networks in both Hum and Rashka.

True to his word, immediately after the service, Petros of Naissus and Agata vanished to the suite prepared for them, and did not reappear for 2 entire days. The servants who brought food to the antechamber reported that both were in good spirits, and when they finally presented themselves again, they had smiles from ear to ear. They left shortly afterwards, and Petrislav soon received notice that they were expecting a child.

Petrislav, though, was much more moderate with his new bride. First of all, he had to maintain relations with her father, the Prince of Vidin, and so remained in the grand hall until late at night, seeing to the festivities. Petrislav awoke early each day, too, in order to ensure all his guests were taken care of. “No one will say that the Duke of Dioclea does not provide for his guests!” Petrislav said to his steward, complaining of the costs. “Damn the costs so long as everyone is pleased!” Even after the last guests had left, Petrislav was careful around his new bride, allowing her time to become accustomed to him and her new home. However, within 6 months of their wedding, she was expecting a new child. For nine months, Petrislav and his advisors held their breath, worrying about the birth. When the day came, though, the midwifes quickly scurried out to announce a healthy son was born, and rejoicing was heard throughout the province for a day.

When he wasn’t busy with affairs of state, Petrislav doted upon his young wife and their son. He took cares not to disregard his other daughter Adriana, but clearly spent most of his time with his young family. In time, a second son was born to Petrislav by Stammatike, but this child was sickly, and died soon after. But as these things often happened, neither parent gave up hope for more children, and surrounded themselves with the other children of the fort, of which there were many.

* * *

When Adriana came of age, Petrislav took her aside and asked her directly if she wished to stay in Rashka and marry a courtier, or find a husband elsewhere. She looked her father straight in the eyes, and said, “If you will send me away, I will be the happiest person in the world. I want to see Rhomaion, or France, or Italy! I want to be a part of something great, and this tiny mountainside hill fort is hell to me!” He was so shocked by her response, Petrislav didn’t even have the ability to become angry. “I’m sorry, my dear, I truly am. I can’t imagine how hard it has been on you since your mother died. I’ve tried to be a good father to you, but clearly I’ve failed.”

“No, father, you haven’t failed, it’s just… Rashka! It is so provincial here! There is nothing to do! Send me away! Please, father!” she begged. Petrislav nodded to her, a great sadness in his heart. “Oh, thank you, father!” cried Adriana, giving him a big hug and kiss, “Thank you so much!” Days later, couriers were sent to various princes in across Europe, seeking a husband for Adriana. However, before they could return, a courier in unknown livery arrived at the fort. He presented himself as a messenger from the Prince of Laodikea, and asked for Adriana’s hand in marriage. Before Petrislav could answer him, Adriana ran over to the courier, full of questions.

“Laodikea? Where is that? What is it like there? Is it a large city, or near one? Is it cold in winter? Are there mountains, or plains? Rivers? Forests?”

“Adriana!” said Petrislav sternly, trying to rein in his daughter. “This is not your place! Go immediately to your room.” “NO!” Adriana said, stomping her foot down. Her act of defiance brought immediate silence to the hall and gasps could be heard throughout. Petrislav, holding back his temper, nonetheless turned red-faced. With a deep scowl, he continued, very quietly. “Adriana… I’m warning you. Return to your room this instant.”

“Uhm, your ladyship, Laodikea is located in Asia Minor. The prince is a vassal to the Emperor of Rhomaion. Our winters are fair, and the summers hot, and the lands are hilly but fair.”

Without looking at her father, Adriana said, “Very well. I accept the Prince’s request for marriage. I will accompany you on your return. I will be back shortly.” With that, she turned and ran from the hall towards her rooms. Petrislav, sitting in his throne, sputtered angrily, cursing his daughter’s actions. Whispering to his wife, he said, “What in heaven’s name has she done? What do we know of this Prince of Laodikea? This may not be a worthy marriage, even with his title! God forbid, he could be catholic!”

“Dear, I’m afraid it is too late for us to stop this. You know your daughter, and she has made her decision. I suggest you give your blessing, and we learn as much about her husband as we can.” Petrislav grumbled at his wife, but knew she was right. He sat upright, and spoke loudly so that the entire court could hear. “After consulting with our advisors, we have decided that the request of marriage to our daughter Adriana is a worthy one, and assent to grant our blessings upon it. Please send our blessings and warmest regards to the Prince. Also, you will stay with us for supper. We would ask you to stay longer, but due to the lateness of the year and the impending snows, we will send you on your way tomorrow morning, with an escort and the princess, to ensure the wedding can take place immediately.”

The courier bowed deeply, and the rest of the court applauded politely, as all nodded at Petrislav’s wise handling of the situation. Everyone completely ignored the fact that he really had no decision at all, but talked about how good a duke he was to find such a worthy spouse for his daughter. The courier as well did not acknowledge that the Duke had been tossed over a barrel, and diplomatically carried himself throughout the evening. On the morrow of the next day, Adriana and her escort left. “I will thank God if I never have another daughter!” said Petrislav to his wife when the departing party vanished from sight from their bedroom balcony “You women are such a pain!” Stammatike turned and poked Petrislav hard in the ribs. “Just you wait! You haven’t seen what pain I can cause you!” she said, pulling him inside and barring the doors to their chamber. Petrislav grinned widely. “Oh, really? I don’t think you have it in you, dear heart.” The next day, Petrislav walked very slowly throughout the fort, and servants joked about his arthritis behind his back.

* * *

As his third son grew, Petrislav began to have dark thoughts. “What if Prince Vidin’s sons live to inherit? Dmitar will have nothing, and my dream of a kingdom will be ruined!” In council, Petrislav finally voiced his concerns. “Damn it! I want to be a king so bad, my stomach hurts! What can we do to speed things up?”

“Well, my Grace, there are always assassins,” said the spy master casually. “I know you have never used their sort before, but in this case, they would be rather fitting. Prince Vidin’s two sons appear to be healthy, and the eldest will turn 16 quite soon. If we are to strike, it must be now.”

Petrislav frowned, a bad taste in his mouth from the suggestion. However, it held merit. Looking at the rest of his advisors, he could see that they agreed. “Very well. Implement a plan, and make it happen. Spare no cost. Dmitar will be Prince of Vidin!”

Days later an assassin in the guise of a wandering entertainer entered into Vidin. That night he played before the Prince and his court, acting a fool and capering about madly. As far as entertainment went, the Prince had seen better, but the assassin’s costume and actions were not aimed at the Prince, but his two sons. His childish acting drew raucous laughter from them both. “Oh, father! Can we hire him? He is so funny! Let us keep him for a while!” Prince Vidin, not known to spare his children anything, quickly relented, and the assassin was given quarters near the two boys. Late that night, the assassin struck, first entering the room of the youngest boy who was slain in his sleep. The assassin then moved on to the eldest son, who unfortunately was still awake in his darkened chamber. Hearing the intrusion, he grabbed a knife and fought off his attacker, calling for guards. The assassin, much more skilled in combat than the young heir, quickly dispatched the son, but the castle guards apprehended him before he could escape. Under torture the assassin told his story, and Prince Vidin immediately dispatched an assassin of his own to execute Bishop Vlkan.

Petrislav’s spy master, fearing the worst in his plans, had all the ducal family under close guard, and so the Vidin assassin was caught. However, the damage to Petrislav’s prestige and honor was done. Stammatike, hearing of her brothers’ assassinations, threw plates and pitchers at Petrislav, screaming and cursing as bad as any soldier. From henceforth she slept in a separate chamber, and cursed the day she wed Petrislav. As much as he tried to explain his actions, she refused to listen, only knowing that her husband had murdered her two brothers. And so the marriage, so bright at one point, became dark and bitter. At first Petrislav was concerned, even going so far as naming his wife as chancellor. She persisted in her hatred for quite some time, but as she was a forgiving person, eventually forgave Petrislav for his actions.

* * *

“All together now, pull!” The voice of the construction foreman bellow throughout the fort, which had been turned into a vast area of chaos, dirt and stone. Petrislav, careful where he walked less he be in the way of some worker, picked his way across the courtyard towards his temporary home. He stopped to admire the work, watching stone walls being erected all about him. After so many years of a simple wooden fort, he had finally gathered enough gold and began construction of a small castle. It was nothing like those of Rhomaion, but it was a start.

“Daddy, can I play on the walls with the other boys?” asked Dmitar, Petrislav’s youngest son. Petrislav hesitated, looking at the half-built walls and all the workers wandering about. If he let Dmitar play, he might fall and hurt himself, or even worse, die. But children will be children, and if he refused, he may turn out lazy. Even though he was only 4, Dmitar was showing signs of becoming a good leader. “Very well, then. But you mind yourself, and be careful! If you get hurt, your mother is going to make you hurt even more!” Petrislav admonished the child. “Yes, daddy!” Dmitar cried, quickly running away to join his playmates in scaling the new walls. Petrislav sighed, wondering where Dmitar got such energy.

These days Petrislav never seemed to have much energy. In his youth, he had never been that energetic, and it was beginning to show. His stomach had grown to quite a large girth, and his hair had been turning gray. Although his wife never complained, Petrislav was sure she couldn’t find him attractive anymore. “Perhaps that’s why we haven’t had more children?” Petrislave thought to himself. Again he sighed, patted his stomach, and continued on into the wooden building erected to house his court while the castle was under construction.

“Ah, my dear! There you are!” said Stammatike, holding a stack of papers. “There is news from abroad that you may find interesting.” “Oh? What is it, then?” said Petrislav, lowering himself into a comfortable chair and grabbing a flagon of nearby ale. “Adriana sends news of her husband, Prince of Laodikea. Seems he has been quite successful in warfare recently. He conquered a nearby county that had rebelled against the Emperor, and has taken two other counties from the Muslim realm of Azerbaijan. His court is growing quickly, as is his prestige. When you married Adriana to him, he didn’t even warrant a seat in the Imperial Council. Now, she says he is second in line to inherit the entire empire!”

Petrislav, who’s head had been nodding down towards his chest, suddenly jerked wide awake. “Second in line to inherit the empire?!” he gasped. “My Adriana? She could be Empress?!” Stammatike nodded, a wide smile on her face. “If that happens, your grandson could be Emperor!” Petrislav jumped up from his chair, grabbing away the letter from his wife to read it himself. “How is this possible? Her husband isn’t even related to the Emperor!” Petrislav asked Stammatike after finishing.

“It’s the way the Rhomaions have their system set up. Instead of the son of the Emperor inheriting, the next Emperor is selected by vote of the Imperial Council, with the most powerful vassal of the Emperor being selected. Now that he has conquered some additional territories, Adriana’s husband is the second most powerful lord in the empire. If he conquers a couple more, then it is likely that he will become most powerful, and will be able to obtain enough votes to become Emperor when the current one dies.”

Petrislav shook his head in wonder. The Rhomaion Empire, the most powerful realm in all the world, sure had a ridiculous method of selecting who would lead it. “If an Emperor’s son could not inherit, what good was it to be Emperor?” he thought to himself. Of course, there were many benefits to be Emperor, and hopefully Adriana would discover them for herself. Petrislav smiled to himself. When he had sent her to Laodikea, her new husband truly had been no one of concern. Petrislav had merely accepted to that particular marriage because the Prince had been the first to ask for her hand. But look at him now! He surely had ambition equal to Petrislav’s, even greater. Petrislav merely intended to become a king, or see his son as a king. Prince Laodikea aimed to be Emperor! “Praise Holy God!” cried Petrislav, returning the letter to the table. “His ways are beyond our understanding, and we must thank him for the blessings he bestows upon us. He has surely blessed this family!” Petrislav stepped over and gave his wife a kiss before walking to another chair near a window to fall asleep, basking in the sun.

* * *

 

[Benjamin]

Empire of the South Slavs part 5

More years passed by with Petrislav continuing his efforts to build up the realm. One day, his son Vlkan came to see him, sitting close but very quietly. “Yes, my son?” asked Petrislav, knowing that Vlkan must surely need to say something, but didn’t know how to start. “Father, I know I am not perfect. God has tested me since birth, giving me this ugly body, and through my life I have made bad decisions. But I have decided that I want to serve the Church better that being a simple diocese bishop. I wish to have a bishopric of my own. I know you don’t have many lands available, so I am loathe to request any, but I know I could be a good bishop of Hum, and I want to be, as well. Discuss the matter with your other advisors, and if they agree, consider it, please.” Vlkan placed his hand on his father’s shoulder, squeezing it tight, before he left.

Having kept his son close for so many years for fear of what the world would think, Petrislav felt he knew him very well. Vlkan had been a good diocese bishop, serving the castle well. If he felt the call of the church, though, perhaps this was in everyone’s best interests. Petrislav went to his desk and took out some papers, quickly writing. That evening, at supper, Petrislav arose at his position at the head of the great hall, and signaled everyone to silence. “This evening, I have an announcement to make. As of tomorrow, my son Vlkan is to be Bishop of Hum.” Shocked whispers sprang up throughout the hall, and Petrislav’s advisors were quick to join them, bowing their heads together. Vlkan stood up and gave his father a hug before sitting again to complete dinner, sitting closely with his wife and children, explaining to them what had just happened. “Well done, my dear,” whispered Stammatike, “I think you have chosen wisely.” Petrislav’s old companion Branislav was brought out of retirement to serve as diocese bishop once again. “Seems like old times again,” said Branislav, “except that we are both old and frail!” Both he and Petrislav laughed quietly together, old men sharing times long gone.

Now, with all his provinces turned over to vassals, Petrislav suddenly had very little to do. Rashka had all the improvements possible with the sciences available, leaving simple mundane governance. Petrislav, though, was generous with his money. At the end of each year he divided his treasury up among his three vassals, helping them to build new things in their provinces. “What benefits my vassals benefits the realm as a whole,” Petrislav told his council, who had to agree to his wisdom.

One day, Stammatike came running into the gardens, calling anxiously for Petrislav. “Here! I’m over hear!” he called, moving as quickly as his old bones could carry him. “What is the matter?” “Dmitar has inherited my father!” Stammatike said quickly between heavy breaths from running so fast. “Dmitar is now Prince of Vidin!” Petrislav smiled, then frowned. The boy was only 7, and now must rule a realm of his own. Knowing how much he was disliked in Vidin, Petrislav knew he would not be able to send anyone along to serve as regent. The Vidinese would see to it that he was trained in their fashion, and taught to hate him for what he had done. But there was nothing that could be done – Dmitar must take Vidin. “Very well, we will send him on the morrow. Tonight we will have a feast!”

After Dmitar was sent to Vidin, the castle seemed much quieter. The other children grew up, some of them becoming skilled enough to become Petrislav’s advisors in their own right. The realm ran smoothly, and all the provinces prospered.

* * *

In late early November 1096, Petrislav became ill with a high fever. For nights he thrashed about in delirium, calling out to his dead wife Zavida, his father, and many others who had passed on before him. All the servants whispered among themselves that it was God’s own punishment brought upon their liege. Stammatike stayed by his side, and in his few lucid moments, Petrislav forgave all her faults, and begged forgiveness for his own. Vlkan and Marko both came from their provinces to be near their father, who spoke at length to them about his dreams and plans for the realm. Then, just a few weeks later, in late November, after a long night of feverish dreams, Petrislav awoke with the first sun.

Sitting up suddenly in bed, staring at the far wall, Petrislav cried, “Look how beautiful the mountains are! And how the sun rises over them!” Stammatike, sleeping in a chair, awoke quickly, taking his hand. “It is time, my dear,” said Petrislav, “all is prepared for me!” With that, Petrislav collapsed into his bed and was no more. Vlkan and Marko quickly arrived to find their step-mother crying over the body of their father. For a moment both did nothing, then turned away to start the funeral rites.

Father Branislav, as Petrislav’s oldest living friend, performed the funeral ceremony, telling the story of Petrislav’s life and explained his goals. All were taken to tears by the eulogy, and Petrislav was laid to rest in the church that he had built, overlooking the mountains and valleys that he had so loved.

A week later, a large column of people were seen approaching, bearing the flag of Dioclea. When they arrived at the castle, a young man of 11 rode forward, announcing “I am Dmitar, Prince of Vidin and Duke of Dioclea! I have come to claim my birthright!” Dmitar was brought into the castle, and installed in his place. Branislav anointed him Duke of Dioclea before the gathered host, but fearfully, as a number of Vidinese were present. No one knew how Dmitar had been raised in the few years he had been ruling Vidin. However, he soon set about making his own changes.

“I need a court worthy of my position. As I am born of Rashka, and my mother lives here still, my advisors shall be of Rashka. My followers from Vidin are welcome to stay in my court, but from henceforth, this castle shall be my capital.” The courtiers of Vidin were incensed, but could do nothing. Stammatike could only weep, as her son had returned, and had not been taught to hate his heritage. At least, if he had been taught it, the teachers had failed. “Do not cry, mother,” Dmitar said, taking his mother’s hand. “Rejoice, for I am home. Oh how I have hated living in Vidin, where everyone around me attempted to control me! Although it grieves me that my father has died, I am finally home, and happy to be so.”

Stammatike was glad her son was home, too. Although she was sad that her husband was dead, the differences in age between them had definitely been a rift that was hard to overcome. Now she welcomed her son home, and although she had no official duties, was often seen in his company, serving as an unofficial advisor and helping him make decisions. The council of advisors appointed the chancellor as the official regent, but everyone knew that Stammatike was the true regent of the realm, for Dmitar supported all her decisions fully. Stammatike was proud of her son. He had been an energetic child since the age of 4, but the young man who returned from Vidin was also zealous. She knew he would be a good Prince. She wasn’t too happy that Dmitar had now forced Dioclea to be a vassal of Rhomiaon, but hopefully that would soon change. She also had the desire to see her son become a king, the sooner the better, and doing so would throw off the Greek shackles.

Shortly after assending to the ducal crown, Dmitar summoned both of his diocese bishops, one from Rashka, the other from Vidin, to announce his plans to declare himself King of Serbia. “It is my right, and my birthright. My father worked for over 30 years to realize this dream. I shall realize it!” Both bishops, though they were concerned at the response from Rhomaion, agreed to perform the service. Before the entire court and landed nobility of the realm, Dmitar, Duke of Dioclea and Prince of Vidin, was also crowned King of Serbia. The celebrations carried on for days.

However, Dmitar’s happiness was soon to end. First, only 9 months after Petrislav died of illness, his own mother died in her sleep. Although she was young and healthy, she had not been the same after her husband’s death. Dmitar mourned her passing, but knew she was in a better place. In fact, representatives from the Patriarch in Rhomaion soon arrived to announce that Stammatike, being a worthy representative of Christ, had been canonized by the church. This assuaged Dmitar some, but now he was left alone in the world. Fortunately, his half-brothers, Marko and Vlkan, both counts in their own right, made themselves available to help him whenever he needed it.

In order to distance himself from the people of Vidin, King Dmitar appointed one of his younger cousins as Count of the province. The people grumbled strongly that a 3 year old boy was not worthy to be leader of a once proud Principality of the Rhomaion Empire, but King Dmitar stood firm. Although not a vengeful person, this was his was of putting those who had once tried to mold and control him in their place, relegating them to a small, insignificant region of the Kingdom ruled by a child.

Then came the first challenge to King Dmitar’s rule. The Magistrate of Ragusa, who’s temperament and style were radically different from Dmitar’s, decided he would declare war against his liege. The Ragusan army marched upon Rashka, where marshal Dobroslav readied a defense in the mountains. After a long battle, the Ragusans were forced to retreat, but Dobroslav chased after them, harrying them constantly along the way. The Ragusans reached their city with the Rashkan army close at hand, with the the forces of Hum and Zeta approaching from the east and south, respectively. Another battle ensued, routing the Ragusan army due to Count Marko of Zeta’s flanking attack, and siege was laid to the city. Realizing his mistake, the Magistrate attempted to make peace many times, asking for no indemnities, but not offering to pay any, either. “Ragusa is a rightful part of my Kingdom,” replied Dmitar. “Only by acknowledging my rule over it’s people will I accept peace.” The Magistrate refused such demands, and so the siege continued until the city was taken. The Magistrate, tired, hungry and weak, was brought before Dmitar in court, where he begged for mercy. Dmitar’s terms were finally accepted, and Ragusa became a part of the royal demesne.

For his bravery and aid in the retaking of Ragusa, King Dmitar named his uncle Marko as Duke of Dioclea. This action had the unexpected result of placing Dmitar’s uncle Vlkan as a liege of Marko, but the two brothers had no animosity between them, and so accepted the situation freely. Due to political maneuvering by those few Vidinese left in his court, Dmitar also named his cousin the Count of Vidin to be a Duke, mollifying any hurt feelings that remained there.

For two years, Dmitar was content to build up Ragusa and repair the damage done to it by the war. Finally, after it was rebuilt, he turned over administration of the province to another cousin. Again, he only controlled the province of Rashka. But with his high abilities of stewardship, greatly aided by his steward, Dmitar was fully capable of ruling more provinces. He simply awaited the age of his majority so that he could lead his armies in conquest, for he already knew his target: the Pecheneg tribe on his northeast border. Pagans all, Dmitar, in a zealous anger, had decided to bring them into the One True and Holy Orthodox Church, either by the sword or by baptism. The choice would be theirs.

When Dmitar reached his majority, he was ready to go to war. However, his council advised him against it. “Your Majesty, while we agree to your goals of conquering the pagans and converting them to the faith, to do so without first having an heir is foolhardy. Should you die, the realm will revert to your cousin, the Duke of Vidin. As you know, he is not the most capable of rulers. You must marry and have a son!” Dmitar, faced with the united opposition of his advisors, agreed. “Very well! Find me a bride so I can discharge my duties quickly!” Dmitar said, smiling widely. “No better time than the present!” His advisors were both amused and shocked by his energy.

For two long years the Kingdom of Serbia searched for a worthy bride. From time to time one was found, but her father always refused to marry his daughter off to a small kingdom. Not disheartened, Dmitar forged on, marrying off some of his cousins, bolstering his reputation throughout the world. Eventually, though, the King of Norway agreed to marry his eldest daughter Homlaug to Dmitar, and so the union was made. Six months after the wedding, Homlaug announced that she was pregnant, and the realm waited with baited breath for the birth. When the day came, in mid April 1104, the entire court was on edge, waiting to hear if the child were a boy, and if it lived. Finally King Dmitar strode into his great hall, and announced, “The child is born, and is healthy. My wife fairs well, and should recover quickly. Our first child is a boy, named Hasian!” The court broke into cheers, and marshal Dobroslav, after downing an ale, quickly ran to the courtyard. “Light the signal fires! Prepare the armies! We are off to war!” he shouted to the soldiers, who burst into action.

The war was quick and fierce. Dmitar took direct control of the armies of Rashka as well as Zeta and Vidin, marching quickly into Pecheneg territory. Dmitar’s allies, the Kingdoms of Croatia and Georgia, quickly declared war, too, as did the Republic of Venice. Dmitar was gracious for their assistance, but knew he would have to strike fast to ensure they did not share in the rewards of conquest. As he already had his troops in Pecheneg territory when he declared war, Dmitar was able to capture two provinces before they could receive any help from their allies. As other Christian armies reached Pecheneg territory, Dmitar wisely followed their armies, allowing the enemy to break the enemy armies and initiate a siege, then joining up with them with his numerically stronger armies to capture the provinces for himself. By August 1105, the last Pecheneg province fell. Dmitar smiled fiercely at his marshal, slapping him loudly on the back. “Dobroslav! We’ve done it! We captured 8 provinces from the pagans with minimal losses of life, and we stole most of those provinces from right under the noses of our allies! You are a genius! I swear to you now that I shall appoint you as a Duke! Just choose your province, and it is yours!” Dobroslav thanked his liege mightily, and chose Oleshya, the former Pecheneg capital, as his own. “Done! Now let us celebrate!”

Upon returning home, Dmitar claimed the titles he had conquered, becoming both Prince of Moldau and Prince of Wallachia. Knowing he had a promise to fulfill, though, Dmitar immediately set about building up the conquered provinces so that he could give away the appropriate titles. That, and he had to convert the populations. Luckily, even as the war was being fought, the provinces of Severin and Turnu both converted to Orthodoxy, bringing much pleasure and piety to Dmitar. “Our cause is righteous if the people converted so quickly!” he proclaimed, leading his armies on to victory.

One year later, Dmitar was out hunting with his cousin the Prince of Vidin when they were surrounded by a large group of soldiers bearing the shields of Belgrade. “What business do you have in Belgrade, King Dmitar? Why do you trespass into our territory with an armed force?” said their commander. “Be gone at once!”

“These lands are not part of the Principality of Belgrade!” cried Dmitar, supported by his cousin. “They are well within the borders of the Kingdom of Serbia.”

The Belgradian force, greatly outnumbering the King’s hunting party, tightened its ranks and pointed their weapons in the King’s direction. “No, you are mistaken,” said their commander haughtily. “These are Belgradian lands. Now be gone!” Furious, but powerless to argue, King Dmitar lead his troop away. “Cousin,” he said, to the Prince, “prepare your troops. Tomorrow I will press claim against the Prince of Belgrade, and we will march together to conquer his lands.”

 

[Benjamin]

Empire of the South Slavs part 6

True to his word, Dmitar immediately made a claim on the title of Prince of Belgrade. He again gathered the armies of his direct allies, and marched them into the mountains of Belgrade, keeping them hidden from his enemy. Once all his troops were gathered into an army, he sent news to the city that he was declaring war. The Belgradians immediately declared war in response, supported by their allies the Empire of Rhomaion and Principality of Chernigov. White-faced, Dmitar’s chancellor relayed the news of the other combatants. “My liege! Both Rhomaion and Chernigov have declared war upon us! We are ruined! They outnumber us more than 10 to 1!” Dmitar simply laughed. “Bah! A small inconvenience, that is all! Rhomaion is busy fighting muslims in Persia or someplace, they do not want to fight us as well. And Chernigov is far away! Let us ride for Belgrade!” Dmitar’s army caught the Belgradian force outside the walls by surprise as they were marching to the mountain passes to hold them against him. “Ah ha! We’ve got them now! Archers forward, fire at will! Knights, to the left flank, prepare to charge to cut off their retreat into the city! Hurry now, men! Ride like the wind!” The battle was quickly over, with the Belgradian army destroyed, leaving more than 75% of it’s force dead on the field, while Dmitar’s army took barely a scratch.

The city soon fell under the siege, and the Prince of Belgrade sued for peace, recognizing Dmitar as the Prince of Belgrade and paying 267 imperial crowns in indemnities. Dmitar graciously accepted the terms, leaving the former prince to rule the province as a count. “Your majesty is most gracious for sparing my life, and the life of my family,” said the new count. “I swear my undying faith to you.” “I accept your vow, and swear to defend you against all enemies,” replied Dmitar. To himself, though, he thought, “I am certain you will obey me now, for I showed you that I can crush you in an instant if you resist.” Finally, all the lands of the heart of Serbia were united under the crown.

* * *

For a couple of years, there was peace. Dmitar built up the province of Pereschen, which he held as a royal demesne to give to his successor. His vassals, and their vassals, slowly built up their realms, adding new structures whenever they could afford it. But then Dmitar began to be bored. He missed the excitement of battle, and thrill of victory that he experienced when fighting the pagans, knowing he was bringing them into the true faith. After a few long talks with his diocese bishop, Dmitar made an announcement that shocked everyone. “Today I am taking up the cross! I feel the call of God, and am answering it to become a crusader! All who wish to join me are welcome! I head to the Holy Land to free it for the True and Holy Orthodox Church!” Preparations were quickly made, and the armies gathered.

Dmitar combined the armies of Belgrade, Vidin, Zeta, Ragusa and Rashka in the port of Zeta, then sailed towards Jerusalem, controlled by the Emir of Jerusalem. While enroute, Dmitar sent a fast ship ahead to declare war on the Emir, who returned the favor, along with most o his vassals. Upon landing in the Holy Land, Dmitar waded ashore, crawling the last few meters through the water to reach dry land. There, he prostrated himself upon the ground, swearing, “Oh Lord! Hear my prayers! I am here to serve thee, to free your lands from the infidels! If I am worthy, grant me victory in your name!”

The war in the Holy Land was brutal. The blazing sun, the parched landscape and the people themselves all conspired against Dmitar’s armies. However, he was driven by his zealous nature and his crusader call, not stopping his marches nor long line of battles. Although technically outnumbered by the Emir, Dmitar never allowed him to gather his strength against him. Instead, Dmitar attacked vassal after vassal, taking their lands and destroying their armies before running away from the larger forces. The Emir, faced with numerous conquered territories, was forced to split up his army in an attempt to reconquer those lands, as well as bottle Dmitar’s army. Dmitar, though, was a much superior military leader, even though he did not have a useful marshal, and was able to escape the Emir’s traps continuously.

Eventually, the Emir’s armies were worn down to the size of Dmitar’s, and Dmitar allowed the Emir to gather his army for one, final battle in Ar’ar. Dmitar gathered his army, worn, tired, dirty, hungry and thirsty men who had marched across the width and breadth of the Emirate numerous times, to speak to them one last time before the ensuing battle.

“Men of Serbia! Proud Slavs! Mighty warriors of the mountains! Today I stand before you, your King, but also your brother in arms! I have bled with you, I have killed with you, I have held my friends in my arms as they died, just as you. We arrived in this forsaken land nearly a year ago, badly outnumbered, not knowing the terrain, and hated by the people. You have followed me through hell and back, time and again, and I have done what I could to keep you safe. Those of you who stand here today have witnessed one of the greatest events in the history of mankind! Never before has the Holy Land been conquered by Christians. For hundreds of years the holiest of holy cities, Jerusalem, had been held by infidels. No more! You, who have given so much, took that from them. You then took back lands between Jerusalem and the sea, giving Jerusalem life by trade. You have then taken back all the lands around the Holy City, fighting bravely each step! Thanks to you, your strength, your sacrifices, the Holy City is free at last! But there is one last battle to be fought here, let us not forget it. Over that hill stands the army of the so-called Emir of Jerusalem! Yes, that heathen devil dares call himself lord of a city that YOU have freed. His army, once huge and strong, is now equal in size to ours. But you men, you are stronger! You are braver! You have the cause of righteousness upon you! Today we can not fail! Today we will slay those who oppose God, and give peace to the Holy Land! Onward, Serbia, onward! To victory! For God!!”

The battle was fierce, for the Emir had lost all his other lands, and was making his last stand. His army knew that defeat meant death for them all, and so they fought as if possessed by demons. However, the Serbians, knowing they were fighting for the greatest cause, fought even more fiercely than ever before. Archers rained down arrows upon the enemy like hail, decimating their lines as the Serbian heavy infantry smashed against them, driving them back. Light infantry moved quickly to flank the Emir’s army, attacking the rear and cutting off lines of retreat. Then, lead by King Dmitar himself, the assembled nobility of Serbia and all her knights rode forth, the sun casting blinding reflections from their polished armor and weapons. The line of knights, hundreds strong, held formation and slowly moved across the field, and irresistible wave of death. Gathering speed, they hurled onwards towards the Emir’s army. The Emir, seeing them coming, bravely gathered together his guard, and turned to meet them, leading a counter charge. Dmitar’s army, on cue, quickly opened a wide hole in their ranks, allowing the knights to charge through, headlong into the enemy, who stood against the knights only for a moment before they were cut down and trampled beneath the hundreds of heavy knights. The Emir, fighting to the end, died upon Dmitar’s sword, and the muslims were routed. Chasing them across the terrain, Dmitar’s army slew every last one. The war was over, peace at last had come to the Holy Land.

Dmitar, tired and worn from his battles, returned to Jerusalem to recover. He quickly hired a few men, one who offered himself as a steward and two who offered themselves as commanders, and granted them fiefs in the smaller provinces in the region. Dmitar’s army had conquered a vast territory, and it was beyond his capabilities to effectively rule. Dmitar wished he had more men available, but his court was heavily drained of people, and there simply weren’t enough people to grant vassals to. Instead, Dmitar claimed for himself the titles of Prince of Palestine, Prince of Ascalon and Prince of Galilee.

As he wanted to show the peoples of the lands that he had just conquered, Dmitar began a construction unrivaled construction spree. He ordered the building of libraries in every conquered province. Those few that already had a library instead received a church. The city of Jerusalem received a monastery. The completion of all those structures brought much prestige and piety to King Dmitar, and he was joyful of this endeavors.

While he was still in Jerusalem, Dmitar received a courier from home who was wearing black, and handed him a scroll with a black ribbon. Dmitar, immediately dismissed his aides, and retreated to his private chambers to read the missive of ill fortune. While he was busy fighting the muslims in the Holy Land, it seemed that his cousin Dobroslav, the former marshal of the armies, had taken it upon himself to follow in his liege’s example and declare war. He chose, though, an enemy much too strong for him, and they had conquered all his territories, including his vassals. Dobroslav survived the slaughter and defeats, but became crazed. He now resided in Rashka with all his children, dependent upon Dmitar’s graces and support. Upon reading the news, Dmitar flew into a rage. “Damn you, Dobroslav! You are Prince for just a few years, with armies barely capable of forming ranks, and you declare war on a foe vastly superior to you?!” Dmitar smashed his hand on a table, sending cups and papers flying. “You have lost me the entire Principality of Moldau! And with my armies battered and weak, I can’t even attempt to retake them!”

Dmitar, his crusading desire satisfied for now, returned to Rashka, disbanded his armies, and began looking for more suitable people to appoint as vassals in the Holy Land. Crazed Dobroslav had a number of children who would be worthy, but they were all much too young, and so Dmitar was forced to wait until they reached a sufficient age to appoint them. In the meanwhile, he did his best to rule his widely flung realm, even though he was quite inefficient at doing so.

Eventually, though, thanks to hiring new courtiers from afar and marshal Dobroslav’s sons coming of age, Dmitar was able to appoint a few vassals to lesser provinces in the Holy Land. This helped improve his efficiency greatly. Then, his own sons began to come of age. First was Kasian, who Dmitar deemed as best to inherit the Kingdom. Dmitar appointed him as Count of Jerusalem, Tiberias, Acre, Amman, and Kerak, then granted him the titles of Prince of Palestine, Prince of Oultremner, and Prince of Galilee. Under the current semi-sallic consanguinity laws, this would absolutely ensure that Kasian would inherit. This left Dmitar ruling only Rashka and Pereschen as his personal demesne, making him quite happy.

Alas, his joy was not to continue. In midsummer, the Empire of Rhomaion declared war on the Emirate of Tripoli. “Ah, my dear brother, the Emperor of Rhomaion, seems to have over extended himself! He requests our immediate assistance against the Emir of Tripoli. What do you think, then? Shall the brave men of Serbia march again?” cried Dmitar to his court. “Shall we once more take up the cross?” Shouts of support rang out, as Dmitar knew would happen. “Very well, then! Send out the summons! Alert Kasian in Jerusalem, and his vassals, that his armies are needed. Gather the men, we go to war for God!” The crusader spirit in Dmitar was still strong, and he wasted no time in demonstrating the fact.

Dmitar and his armies sailed to Acre as fast as they could. There they were met by Kasian and all the armies of the Holy Land loyal to Serbia. The army of nearly 7,000 men marched northward into infidel lands, conquering all the lands of Tripoli before the beleaguered Rhomaionans could act. In the battles, Dobroslav, even though an old man of 66, lead the forces gallantly, gaining much prestige and improving his military skills a number of times. “Well done, Dobroslav!” proclaimed Dmitar after the third time Dobroslav had lead major assaults against their common foe. “If you continue learning new tactics at this rate, God himself will begin to fear fighting you!” In just one year, the lands of Tripoli had been added to the Serbian crown.

Returning to Jerusalem with his eldest son and marshal, Dmitar met his wife and assembled nobles. The Patriarch of Rhomaion and a representative of the Pope were also present, and in a great ceremony held in the Temple of Jerusalem, the Patriarch crowned Dmitar King of Jerusalem, Prince of Tyre and Prince of Tripoli. During the service, filled with pomp but also a multitude of religious artifacts, Queen Holmaug made an announcement that stunned everyone present. “My dearest husband, I must confess a sin! Here, in the holiest city of Christiandom, before all these holy relics, and before the Holy Church, I am moved by God to tell you that I committed adultery with the Prince of Dyrrachion! I beg of you to forgive me! I swear upon these holy relics that I shall sin no more!”

Dmitar was stunned into silence. Finally, he stood, bowed deeply to the Patriarch, and left the temple, followed closely by his advisors. “Sire, what shall we do?” Dobroslav asked when no one else would. “Shall you forgive her?” “God knows I have not been a vengeful man in all these long years. I have stayed faithful to her, fought battles for her, and reaped honor and prestige upon her at all times. Then she betrays me like this! And announces it to the world before the Patriarch!” Dmitar smashed his hand on a desk, breaking it’s legs toppling it’s contents to the floor. He marched around the room, his advisors shrinking away whenever he drew near them.

Pointing to Dobroslav, he said, “Go, summon my wife. Bring her here immediately.” Next, pointing to his chancellor, he said, “Find the Patriarch, and bring him here, too. After that, announce that I have forgiven my wife her sins. Tell the nobles that, here, in the City of Christ, I am moved to be Christ-like.” He dismissed his other advisors, but gave the secret sign to his spy master to return unseen. When he did, Dmitar said in a very quiet voice, “Holmaug said she wanted to be buried in the Holy Land when I first took up the cross. See to it that her wish is fulfilled. Make it look like suicide.” The spy master nodded silently and stole away before anyone else arrived.

All was done as he asked it, and Dmitar was hailed by the people for his forgiving nature. The Patriarch and the Pope’s representative both proclaimed Dmitar to be a man of God for his actions. Holmaug was deeply moved, and was seen crying frequently in public. Kasian especially was moved by his father’s actions, swearing undying faith and loyalty to him. A week later, after she had been seen performing a long penance inside by many, Holmaug climbed to the highest tower of the Temple of Jerusalem and threw herself from it. All the witnesses proclaimed that she had climbed the tower alone, and had thrown herself to her death, not even screaming as she fell. Dmitar entered a state of shock and mourning, withdrawing from public life, leaving the realm in the capable hands of his advisors. Everyone, especially his children, believed his father was emotionally crushed by the events, and had great sympathy for him.

After an appropriate but slightly longer than normal period of mourning, Dmitar began making more and more public appearances, finally retaking direct control of his realm. He seemed like his old self once again, and everyone was glad to see him return to normal. “What the King needs,” people whispered, “is another wife to keep him occupied.” Dmitar’s spies must have reported this to him, for when a pretty young courtier arrived in the court, Dmitar took her as a mistress. A son was soon born of the relationship, but Dmitar tired of his mother and sent her away, keeping the child to be raised at court.

Although he was not a vengeful man, Dmitar still harbored ill-will towards the Prince of Dyrrachion. The Prince had married young, but his first wife had born him nothing but girls. The oldest was 15, and approaching an age fit for marriage. The Prince had remarried, though, and his new wife had given him two sons. They were both young, though, and fit to die of illness, whether natural or induced by an assassin. Dmitar set his plans in motion, preparing his offers to the Prince for the hand of his eldest daughter, his representatives acting as if it were a sign of Dmitar’s forgiveness of the Prince. When the princess came of age, her father eagerly granted Dmitar’s request for marriage. Nobles from across the realm assembled for the grand wedding held in Rashka. “Father, you seem so happy today. It pleases me to see you smile again,” said Kasian to his father just before the service. “Yes, Kasian, I am very happy today, happier than I have been in a long time,” Dmitar replied. He failed to tell Kasian, though, that his happiness was due to his plot of revenge being fulfilled.

 

[Benjamin]

Empire of the South Slavs part 7

Dmitar made it his goal to spend all his free time with his new wife, and soon they were expecting a child. Fortunately for Dmitar’s plans, a son was born, who became third in line to inherit Dyrrachion. Dmitar threw a lavish party to celebrate, making some who remembered the births of his other children, wonder what was going on. None of the previous children had such lavish celebrations upon their birth. “Perhaps, now that he isn’t marching off to war any time soon, he is getting soft,” said some, while others thought perhaps this new wife was a flamboyant spender. No one expected Dmitar’s real reasons. Dmitar spent every effort to pamper the child, giving him extra time to learn to speak, whereby the child became both lazy and develop a stutter. At this point, the servants all knew that Dmitar was going weak in the head. He continued to spend all his free time with his new wife, and she soon bore him a daughter as well.

At the end of September, 1129, Dmitar set his plan in action. The Prince of Dyrrachion held an annual festival to celebrate the good harvest. During this festival, the Prince and his family would mingle with the common people and celebrate with them. Dmitar sent an assassin to hide among the crowds and slay the two sons of the prince. On the first attempt, the assassin’s poisoned dart missed the child, instead sticking into a watermelon a farmer was displaying. Fortunately, among the chaos, no one noticed. The next day the assassin placed himself for another attempt, but it also failed when the child suddenly tripped on a paving stone just as the poisoned dart was thrown. This time the dart flew landed in the road and was tread upon by the masses, and again was unnoticed. The assassin, by now becoming quite anxious and nervous, feared for trying again. However, Dmitar’s spy master, also at the festival, forced him to act.

The next day it was raining, and crowds were forced to stay within large tents set up for the festival. Because of the numbers of people, though, each tent was packed with people, making it almost impossible to move. Of course, the prince’s guard kept an area clear in their tent, but the masses pushed against the guards to see the royal family nonetheless. The mass of people, though, gave the assassin an idea. In the turmoil, the assassin was able to ‘accidentally’ tip over a barrel of lamp oil which spread underfoot entirely unnoticed by the crowds. The assassin then lit the oil, and the flames spread quickly. The masses of people panicked, running in all directions screaming. The thick crowd around the royal family crushed the ring of guards in their attempt to escape the fire. The assassin was able to force his way through the crowd and rip each of his intended victims away from their guardians and knock them down where they were trampled to death in the stampede.

News of the deaths of the prince’s sons spread quickly, as the situation was so horrid. Dmitar’s wife, step-sister of the two children, sent an especially long letter of condolences. The tragedy of the situation forced the prince to cancel the festival before it’s end, and a week later he announced that it would no longer be held, much to the dismay and anger of his people. Dmitar, though, laughed loudly in private. “So, now the prince feels my wrath. If only I could tell him I was responsible! I would give anything to see his face, knowing that his affair with my wife caused him such pain. That would make me a happy man.”

After a few months, the spy master whispered to the King’s ear one evening during dinner, “Your Majesty, shall I arrange an accident for the Prince of Dyrrachion to hasten your son’s inheritance?” “No, not yet. I wish him to suffer a bit longer.” “As you wish, sire, but his wife is still young, and has born him another male heir. The child is sickly, though, and will not likely live. There is a chance for more sons, though.” Dmitar grunted, then grabbed his glass of wine, taking a careful drink. “Hmm, very true. Well, do as you please.” “Very well, your Majesty.” With that, the spy master slide away, leaving the grand hall and the typical dinner festivities. “What was that about, dear?” asked his wife. “Oh, there are some thieves in the north that need taking care of. Nothing important, really, dearest!” He picked up a piece of meat with his fingers, feeding it to her gently. Then, in a sweet, playful voice, he added, “Nothing at all for my deary deary to worry about.”

True to the spy master’s word, the Prince’s third son died soon after. However, Dmitar’s son, the heir of Dyrrachion, was also a seemingly lost cause. Not only had he developed a stutter and lazy habits, but he also became stressed. Then, his stress became insanity. Dmitar was forced to lock him in his chambers. “My love, it is God’s punishment for our sins,” said Dmitar to his wife. “I know not how I have sinned, but we must pay penance for our deeds!” His wife agreed, and began spending more and more time in the church, praying and doing penance. To make her think he was doing the same, Dmitar would tell his wife he was going to the church, but would instead sneak away to meet with his advisors to discuss aspects of the state.

Then news of the Prince of Dyrrachion death from a riding accident arrived. Dmitar’s wife was stunned, for now her 4 year old, insane son was to rule the Principality. “It is God’s will, my dear,” said Dmitar with a straight face. “Perhaps the sin is not ours, but the sin of Dyrrachion. Two of your brothers died in the fire, your other brother died of illness, and now your father of an accident. It seems God has cursed your family.” Dmitar’s wife, stricken by all the news, retreated even further into her religious devotions, vanishing for days on end. Dmitar simply smiled, and devoted more work to ruling his realm. To his advisors he spoke freely. “Our plans have come to fruition! It can only be a matter of time before my crazed son is killed by his own court or kills himself in his insanity. Then Dyrrachion will be mine as well, and my revenge complete!” His advisors, seeing how greatly Dmitar enjoyed this, set about finding new realms to conquer in this insidious manner.

Alas, though, Dmitar would hear none of it. Even when his new spy mistress mentioned assassinating his son, the current Prince of Dyrrachion. Instead, Dmitar devoted his time to running the realm. He constantly checked up on all his vassals, and their vassals, to see if things were going well for them. When he found a vassal with an undeveloped territory, he sent them large gifts of money to assist them in building. By doing this over the years, his realm quickly grew more powerful. Soon most of the provinces in his realm had every structure they could build, and Dmitar was happy to know this fact.

However, Dmitar, energetic as always, did not devote all his time to running the realm. He still spent some time with his young wife, who by now was know for her zealous behavior. During these years of peace, she bore Dmitar two more daughters. Dmitar also was ensnared once again by a pretty young courtier who gave him a bastard son. Alas, the child died young, just as his previous bastard. Dmitar, having two bastard sons die young, was certain that someone else was behind the events, but could not figure out who. “It is probably best that I do not know,” he said to himself, “otherwise I might have to take action against a son of mine.”

Thinking it was time to look in on his sons in the Holy Land more closely, Dmitar gathered his advisors and sailed to Acre. In a deal years before, Kasian had given Acre to his Dmitar in exchange for Hebron. This allowed Dmitar a port to land troops at, should they be needed, and provided Kasian with a buffer around the city of Jerusalem. Once in the Holy Land, Dmitar summoned his vassals to him. Kasian and Dragshan both brought their children, as did their cousin Kresimir, Prince of Ascalon. Dmitar was happy to see so many strong children to carry on the family line. Of particular joy, though, was a secret that Kasian had harbored for over 7 years. The current King of Croatia, despite being married twice, had only had a single daughter. When Kasian’s first wife died, Kasian managed to obtain the hand of the heiress of Croatia for his own wife, who then bore him a son! Kasian had purposely kept this information secret from his father, hoping to surprise him with the news.

“Surprise me!?” cried Dmitar, sitting back into his throne. “Why, I’m nearly having a heart attack! You mean to say that your son, my grandson, is heir to Croatia?! And you never, not once, in all these years, mentioned this fact?! If I weren’t so proud, I’d have you whipped!” Dmitar leapt from his throne to embrace his eldest son and heir, then grabbed the child, named Sermon, and picked him up, standing him upon the royal throne. Staring into the child’s eyes, Dmitar measured him. “Do you know who I am, boy?” he asked. “Yes, your Majesty. You are my grandfather, and King of Serbia.” “And do you know who your other grandfather is?” “Yes, he is the King of Croatia,” the boy replied, strongly. “I am his heir.” “Oh, indeed!” said Dmitar, “you are of royal blood from all sides. But you are Serbian, are you not?”

The boy thought, grabbing his chin and stroking his lips. “I am partly Serbian, Majesty grandfather. I am also party Croatian. But as I was born and raised here in the Holy Land, I am also part Arab, I suppose.” Dmitar turned to look at his eldest son. “You have your hands full with this one. You better take care to teach him properly.”

After his visit in the Holy Lands, Dmitar returned by way of Dyrrachion, to visit his son there. Amazingly, the court had not had the boy killed, but had taken every step possible to keep him safe from himself. They had not been that successful, for when he had arrived, he was only crazed, lazy and had a stutter. Now, though, at age 13, he had developed a multitude of terrible habits. Now Dmitar’s son was lazy, honest, cruel, proud, zealous, reckless, coward, heretic, depression, crazed, and had a stutter. Dmitar was amazed that he still lived. However, Dmitar could see the cold calculating looks in all the courtiers and realized that they hated him. They somehow had figured out what his plans were, and were resisting him with every breath. Dmitar quickly left Dyrrachion, fearful for his life.

His trip to the Holy Lands reminded Dmitar of his younger years, when he had waged crusades against the infidels. Only one of his crusades had failed – that against the Pechenegs in Moldau. Although he had conquered the provinces of Belgorod, Olivia and Oleshye, his uncle Dobroslav had lost them within just a couple short years while Dmitar had been busy fighting in the Holy Lands, conquering the lands necessary to be King of Jerusalem. Now, though, Dmitar’s crusading spirit was lifted up once again. Gathering his personal force in Rashka, plus those of a couple vassals, Dmitar marched to Pereschen. “I miss Dobroslav,” Dmitar said to no one in particular while riding towards his crusade. “My uncle was at my side, aiding me in every conquest I have made. Now I must rely upon young, untried men to lead he armies.” While only half way to his intended conquests, a courier entered the camp, coming immediately to Dmitar’s tent. “Your Majesty, I have ill news for thee. Your wife has died.” Dmitar didn’t even flinch. “Very well, send word to see to a funeral. I shall not attend.”

Upon arriving in Pereschen, Dmitar saw to the organizing of his assembled army. Then he declared war to retake his lost provinces, quickly marching into Belgorod and routing the enemy. The walls of the city, though strong, were no match for the numbers of siege engines he brought with him, and it fell within days. Olvia and Oleshye quickly followed suit, but Dmitar called his armies to a stop, not wishing to go onwards. While still covered with blood and dirt from the battle, Dmitar proclaimed himself Prince of Moldau.

The Princes of Dioclea and Wallachia joined their King in his crusade, and together they quickly swept aside the remaining armies of their common enemy. Dmitar’s vassals conquered the remaining 8 provinces of their foe. Alas, though, as his Princes conquered, they granted the territories to vassals who were granted independence upon the conquest of the last enemy stronghold. Of all the conquered provinces, the Count of Zeta was left with only one, and the Prince of Dioclea only one as well. The rest became free counties in their own right. The Prince of Wallachia, who’s army had conquered 5 provinces, lost them all to independence Dmitar, though, being more intelligent about these matters, held personal control of his conquered lands. He was glad, though, that so many provinces were lost, for they were far from Serbia, and would be hard to defend. He wish that the two provinces newly added to his realm would also go independent, but they did not.

At the end of the war, Dmitar again initiated vast construction projects in his conquered provinces. “After nearly 40 years, I welcome these lands back into the Kingdom of Serbia. Those of you who convert to the Holy and True Orthodox Church will be given many benefits. Those of you who do not shall suffer greater taxes. I am a forgiving man to those who embrace the true faith!” The people of Belgorod immediately accept his word, and converted to Orthodoxy, but the other provinces remained belligerent. This did not stop Dmitar’s orders to build, though, and workers were brought in from all over to build new castles, churches, war academies, ports and the like.

“So chancellor, what brings you to Oleshye? I thought you would be busy assisting the steward in running of Rashka.” “Your Majesty, I bring you news of great importance that I could not trust to a mere courier. The Duchy of Slavonia, the largest and strongest vassal of the King of Croatia, recently died. His heir is a boy of only 15 who is unhappy with the treatment his late father received from the King. Your spy mistress’s agents inform me that he is willing to listen to offers of vassalage outside of Croatia in order to spite his current liege. He also has a sister who is 16, and ready for marriage. I took the liberty of discussing with the young Duke a matter of alliance. If you agree to marry his sister, he will swear vassalage to you.”

Dmitar listened carefully to his chancellor over the banging of hammers and shouts of workers. “You know my grandson is to inherit Croatia. Why should I weaken his position?” “Your Majesty, pardon me if I insult your heritage, but your grandson is not the man you are. In fact, he may die before he inherits, and then the Kingdom will go to a junior branch of the current ruling family. It is best to act now and secure at least part of the realm for your family. If your grandson inherits, then you or your son can simply give the duchy back.”

Dmitar looked at his chancellor, then nodded his head. “You are right! That is why I pay you the large sums of money that I do! See to it that this treaty is signed immediately. I will return to Rashka to attend the wedding immediately!” Dmitar dismissed his chancellor, then turned back to his construction plans. A cough behind him made him turn back, though, to see his chancellor still standing there. “Well? I thought I sent you away?” “Sire, there is another matter of importance you must know about. Your son, the Prince of Dyrrachion, still rules. However, his only vassal, the Bishop of Orchid, has revolted against him. The Emperor of Rhomaion has declared war on Orchid, and even now besieges the land with a huge army. It is only a matter of weeks before the Emperor adds that territory to his own demesne.”

Dmitar slammed his hand down on the table. “Damn! I should have taken care of that crazed son of mine years ago. I’ve grown soft in the heart and the head. Now I stand to lose an entire province because of it! We must send word to my spy mistress immediately to arrange for me to salvage the situation.” Just then, the door opened and in stepped the spy mistress herself! “Your Majesty summons me?” Dmitar stared at her, then at his chancellor. “You!” he said pointing, “you are a damn fine chancellor! You knew I’d need her, didn’t you?” Smiling, he replied, “Yes, sire, so we both rushed her as fast as we could.” “Sire,” said the spy mistress, “I’ve already set steps in motion to remove your son from power. It may be done already, and will surely be completed before you arrive in Rashka for the wedding. With the chancellor’s and steward’s assistance, we have also sent a representative to Dyrrachion to stand as regent upon your son’s removal. The regent has orders to revoke the title of the Bishop of Orchid immediately. This should stop the siege by your ally Rhomaion and keep the province in your hands.”

 

[Benjamin]

Empire of the South Slavs part 8

Dmitar looked at his two advisors, then slapped his leg, laughing. “Where would I be without such loyal and good advisors?” he cried. “I will repay both of you for your service!” The spy mistress responded to his question, answering so that only the chancellor could hear, whispering, “He would still be a Prince of a mountainous province, I think.”

Before he left for Rashka, Dmitar appointed new counts of both Belgorod and Olvia. He also granted his son Vlad both the County of Oleshye as well as the Prince of Moldau. “Listen to me, son! Your great uncle held the same lands and title as you, and he lost them both by fighting foes much stronger than he. It drove him crazy, knowing how much he lost, but he eventually recovered. I never trusted him to rule another territory again, always keeping him as my marshal. If you lose these lands, I’ll do even worse to you!” Vlad swallowed hard, but nodded to his father, afraid his young voice would crack from the sudden stress he felt. “Good, then. Rule wisely here, and convert the infidels!” Dmitar rode like the steppe winds from the lands he had just conquered, riding hard to Rashka.

When he arrived, his advisors were waiting for him at the gates to the castle. “Your Majesty, we have good news!” said the spy mistress. “My agents in Dyrrachion were successful in removing the insane tyrant from power there,” she added quietly so that no one else overhead. “Good!” said Dmitar. “What of Ochrid?” The chancellor responded to this question, saying, “Well, when you inherited your son, you also inherited the war against his vassal. Although the province had already been conquered by the Emperor, I had previously sent a peace agreement to the Bishop whereby he would give up his lands to you, as well as surrender all claims against other territories you rule. When the Emperor’s men entered the city and captured the Bishop to put him in chains, I was with them. He pointed out the signed agreements, whereby I immediately took them to the Emperor himself, who had lead the siege. Although the Emperor was greatly angered that the Bishop had surrendered to you, he acknowledged the capitulation and withdrew his armies without quarrel. I think, though, that our action may have cost you a friendship with the Empire.”

“Well, he can complain all he wants,” said Dmitar, “I have what I wanted. Appoint my youngest son as Prince of Dyrrachion, and someone else as Count of Ochrid. I have a wedding to attend to and can’t be bothered with those details.” “Yes, sire,” said his advisors in unison as they withdrew.

* * *

The remaining years of his life, Dmitar simply relaxed, telling stories of his youth to whomever was close at hand. “My dear,” he said to his latest wife one day, “did you know that I inherited my father’s Principality before I was even of age? Then, at just age 18, I went to war for the first time. Oh, how I was so eager to go! My advisors wouldn’t let me leave the castle until I had an heir, though, else I would have left as soon as I turned 16. They were afraid I would die and leave the realm to some foreigner! But once Kasian was born, Dobroslav and I marched northeast and brought religion to the pagan Pechenegs. Good old uncle Dobroslav! Now he was a marshal! Yes, indeed!” Dmitar laughed to himself for a bit. “There was a time when Dobroslav was so tired, he fell asleep on his horse while we were waiting for battle. He actually fell asleep on the battle field! Can you believe that? So I grabbed a horn, dismounted and walked up behind his horse where I blew it as hard as I could. His horse bolted as if I had stabbed it in the flanks! You should have seen it! But old Dobroslav, I don’t know how he managed it, but he stayed on the horse, drew his sword, and shouted out a battle cry, not slowing down a single whit! Every knight in the army, seeing their marshal ride at the enemy like a demon, charged along behind him. I was nearly trampled in the mass! By the time I was able to recover my horse and join the battle, it was done, and Dobroslav got all the credit! Aftewards, Dobroslav told me he didn’t know what had happened, only that here he was with a horse gone wild, and he figured he had best make the most of it!” Dmitar fell back into his chair, laughing to himself and shaking his head. “Those were the days, my dear! Those were the days!”

The Kingdom, in this time of peace, ran itself smoothly. Dmitar granted gold to various lords of the realm to improve their provinces, keeping his treasury nearly empty. “Rashka and Acre don’t need the gold,” he would say to his advisors who constantly complained about his actions. “Give it to those loyal vassals who do!”

The only bad incident in his old age, though, was that Kasian became ill in the Holy Land and died. His son, Iosif, inherited Kasian’s many titles. While he had lost other children in his long life, this blow crushed Dmitar. “Oh, my dear boy!” he would say, over and over, staying up late at night in his cups, crying himself to sleep. Because of Kasian’s death, Dmitar’s other son Vlad was now set to inherit the Kingdom. “Bah! Vlad would be a terrible king!” said Dmitar to his advisors. “I sent him away to Moldau where he couldn’t cause trouble! I never expected Kasian to die before me! It is the curse of my old age. What can we do to ensure Iosif inherits? Now he has the makings to be a fine king! He is the best warrior the realm has ever seen, is a proven diplomat, and is a fine steward to top it off! Intrigue is his only weakness, but he is even better at that than me!”

“Sire,” said the chancellor. “We can change the rules of succession. If we changed to primogeniture, away from consanguinity, then Iosif would inherit.” Dmitar thought about this for a while, then nodded. “The laws have been unchanged since the time of my father, when he was simply Count of Rashka. Perhaps it is time to change them. See to it. And then send gifts to all my vassals to ensure they remain loyal. I am too old to fight another war, and I shall give Iosif a whole realm when I die.” Thus the laws were changed, and Iosif, Prince of Palestine, Jerusalem and Galilee became the new heir to the Kingdom of Serbia and Jerusalem.

* * *

“My dear, put more wood on the fire. I am so cold!” Dmitar’s wife looked at him worriedly, for the fire already blazed high in the fireplace. “Are you ill?” she asked him. “Shall I summon the doctor?” “No, no, I’m not sick at all. Hardly been sick all my life. It’s just so damn cold this winter, and my old bones feel it. I can’t wait for spring time and warmth again.” His wife threw more logs into the blaze, and pulled more blankets tight around her husband. “Let me go check on the children. I’ll be back in a bit.” “Yes, kiss them for me,” replied Dmitar. “And send for some wine.”

A few minutes later, a shrieking scream rang out through the castle from the royal chambers. Guards quickly responded, as did Dmitar’s wife and advisors. When they arrived, they found a servant sobbing in the hallway. “The King… he’s… he’s… he’s dead!” she blubbered, sobbing. “Everyone back!” cried the marshal. “Guards, seal the castle! Look for anyone suspicious, in case there is an assassin here!” The guards ran to obey. The he, along with the steward, chancellor and Dmitar’s wife, entered the chamber, finding the king in his seat, his head leaned back against the chair, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, one arm dangling to the side. The marshal carefully checked the king, then slowly closed his eyes, shaking his head to the others. “I don’t see sign of foul play, he likely just died of old age. Send a courier to Jerusalem. King Iosif must be summoned at once!” And so, on the 29th of January 1152, King Dmitar the Conquerer lost his final battle.

* * *

King Iosif was entirely different than any could have expected. He was forgiving, just and wise in addition to being a brilliant strategist. Where Dmitar, full of energy, would become angry, Iosif was calm and quiet, often listening to all the options before retiring to make a decision. The only change he made to his grandfather’s group of advisors was to appoint a slightly better marshal, but other than that, left things unchanged.

His first point of business, though, was to appoint a cousin of his to be Countess of Kerak as a wedding gift to her. She married another distant cousin, and Iosif felt it was important to ensure the various provinces were lead by members of the family. Then he turned to constructing war academies in Jerusalem, Acre and Rashka, as well as a church in Tiberius. “I do not intend to wage many wars,” said Iosif to his advisors. “I am a man of peace. Where the sword brings victory through blood, I intend to conquer through intelligence and diplomacy. My half-brother now rules Croatia, and thus our family unites most of the south Slavic lands. I intend to obtain the rest, though, to fulfill the dream of both my father and his father before him. There will be a great Slavic Kingdom!” His advisors quickly grew to realize that Iosif was a highly intelligent man, and missed very little.

After the ceremonies and celebrations of his ascension had ended and daily life had returned, Iosif summoned his advisors for a meeting. “I wish to know how the realm fares. What alliances do we have? What enemies? What is our greatest weakness? Our strengths? What is the state of our military? I need to know these things, now that I rule a much larger realm than Jerusalem and the surrounding areas.”

His marshal started. “Your Majesty, the armies are currently strong. The treasury pays the troops well, and they train often. If anyone should think Serbia is to be bitten, they will find themselves bitten in response!” Iosif nodded at the report, then turned to his steward.

“Sire, for the first time in many years, the royal demesne consists of more than 2 provinces. However, they are prosperous lands, and our treasury is strong. The realm as a whole is prosperous, and the people are happy with your rule.” After a more thorough report, Iosif turned to his chancellor.

“Sire, your grandfather had maintained an alliance with the Empire or Rhomaion, the Kingdom of Croatia and the Kingdom of Sicily for many years. Upon your brother’s ascension to Croatia, he did not renew that alliance. However, Serbia is currently allied with Rhomaion, Sicily and Germany. Two are very strong, though Sicily does have it’s moments. We have no enemies, but you do hold claims to a few or our neighbors. Should you wish, I can push those matters more forcibly, with the marshal’s help.” Iosef took careful notes, but frowned at the last phrase, and turned to his spy mistress.

“I was trained as a warrior, and took my lessons to heart. But I know that diplomacy is a greater weapon than warfare ever will be. However, diplomacy often only succeeds when the proper persuasion is applied to the other party. Thus, you and I will spend much time together, spy mistress. You shall be my second conscience, thinking as I think, and then acting upon thought. I can be merciful, but I am strong. So what can you tell me now, on this, the first day of our future?” His spy mistress blushed slightly at the sudden attention she was getting, for she never received such from King Dmitar. “Actually, I have important news for you, sire. Your half-brother Sermon, King of Croatia, has recently collapsed under the stress of ruling the realm and become crazed. He is unfit to rule, and his court barely maintains the realm. I have someone close to him, so should you think it appropriate, I can have him removed, and thus supply you with another royal title.”

The chancellor, upon hearing this news, gasped, then said, “Sire! I have no news of this! We must verify it before we act, else we will be committing a horrible crime!” Iosif shook his head only slightly, his stare driving the chancellor to silence. After a few moments of thinking, Iosif responded. “Killing my half-brother is nothing less than kinslaying, which is a terrible crime no matter how you justify it. It was the dream of my father, my grandfather, and his father before him, to create a great Slavic kingdom. Our family has accomplished this in less than 100 years, through force and the will of God. Thus I will not lightly take action against my brother. Chancellor, see if the remaining vassals of my brother will swear loyalty to me. Try very hard. We will discuss what to do with him later. You are all dismissed, except you,” he said, signaling the spy mistress.

After the others had left, she spoke. “You have further need of me, Majesty?” “Yes, a promise. Madness has struck in my family many times. If it should take me for more than a year, which is about how long I think the realm could manage with a mad king, then you are to execute me. Here, this warrant makes my wish a royal order, and should protect you from my heir’s wrath if you are discovered. Now go, and find me secrets I can exploit.”

A few months later the depressive and crazed King of Croatia was found dead in his chambers from suicide. The door had been bolted from the inside, and all the windows shuttered and locked. When the door was finally chopped down, the King was found hanging. The court quickly announced the news, then moved to Rashka to acknowledge Iosif as their king. He graciously and benevolently accepted the courtiers, and moved to distribute his new lands to loyal followers. He appointed counts to all the provinces but Zadar, and made two of his children Princes of Croatia and Dalmatia. Iosif then settled down for a period of peace, ordering construction in the lands of his newest vassals, and paying for it with the inherited treasury of Croatia. “My brother, had he lived, would have done the same, and the people of Croatia paid these taxes that I now give back to them. We hope they use these gifts wisely, and prosper.”

All was going well in the Grand Kingdom of Serbia, Jerusalem and Croatia. The people were prospering, construction was being done from one end of the realm to another, and wars were fought by foreigners on foreign soil. The people praised King Iosif the Wise, and his name became popular to use among the peasantry for newborn sons. Then disaster struck, as it is bound to do, unexpectedly. For centuries the Church had been preaching that the second coming was near, and that Christ would soon judge all the living and the dead. While most believed this, no one expected it to happen in their lifetime. But who are men to question the likes of God? And so the Second Coming arrived, the world was destroyed, and all those true believers were raised into heaven, while the unbelievers were cast down into the pits of hell. As no one was left to write the history, none know if Iosif was raised up or cast down. And so ended the sage of a south Slavic empire.

 

[Benjamin]

Empire of the South Slavs - end note

Writer’s Note:
ARGH!!!! I updated the game to 1.04 to end CTDs, then continued playing. Instead, now matter what I do, the game crashes when I reach a certain date in 1154. My last saved game starts about 1 week before this date, so I can play for about a minute before BOOM! End of the world. I’ll keep the saved game, and maybe revert to 1.03 to continue. If I do that, and the game doesn’t crash, I’ll continue this. Otherwise, to quote REM, “It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine!”

 

[Solmyr]

Nice.

Btw, I do suggest you keep two copies of your save just in case. And post some piccies if you continue this.

 

[LordScod]

Very Good.