If they're smart. But how smart is the Crusader Kings 2 Umayyad AI?
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April, 781. Paris.
“Bring them in,” Karloman sat, tall and terrible atop that throne on the raised platform. Beside him, standing next to the throne for today’s business, was Eirene, who was for the moment, for all intents and purposes, Queen of the Franks.
The emissary entered, carrying the olive branch upon his standard. A symbol of parley, of truce. He was there to talk, or to make demands, more likely.
The emissary spoke, and Eirene’s purpose in attending this session of court made itself known to the watching onlookers who had gathered. The emissary opened up in Greek, making a brief supplicant gesture towards the throne.
“The Emperor in Contantinople bids you greetings,” Eirene translated, “and requests your pardon for sending a courier to bring you this request.”
The messenger suddenly became agitating, gesturing towards Eirene and babbling angrily,
“He says I have no right to be here,” Eirene spoke, keeping her tone calm, “That what his master has sent him to say is for your ears, and not mine.”
“Tell him he does not get to dictate whom I allow into my own home,” Karloman replied, clearly irritated, “That I receive him as a courtesy to his master, and if he must speak, he does so on my terms, not his own.”
She relayed that, the messenger’s face clearly flushed with anger, but the look on Karloman’s face was enough to dissuade him from attempting to push his luck.
“My master Christophorus, Emperor of Rome, demands that you renounce your false coronation as Emperor,” Eirene translated the messenger’s angry words, “And that you hand over the false Empress, Eirene of Athens, to stand trial for crimes against the people of the Empire.”
“I see,” Karloman responded, neutrally.
He would not entertain the demand of course. He could not.
“My answer is no,” Karloman replied, allowing Eirene to translate, “Tell your masters that Eirene of Athens is the rightful Empress of Romanion, and that they must abdicate and restore her to her place. If they do not, they shall be met with spear and blade to put her there.”
That threat clearly agitated the messenger, and a few growls of assent came from the watching lords, who were displeased by this Greek messenger and his arrogant threats.
“Let him go,” Karloman held up a hand and the growls subsided, the messenger gave a perfunctory gesture of respect, and then left the hall of the castle, and the doors were shut behind him…
The stage was set…
June 781.
Under his father’s watchful eye, Pepin continued his gruelling drills in the field with the other boys being trained by Balduin the Strong. His father had insisted upon it, he must know how to fight if he was going to command, even if he never wanted to lead from the front later.
Pepin had been pleased to discover that his muscles were getting stronger, and he lifted the heavier sword with far more ease now than he had done when he begun. By evening, he practiced sword and pike and halberd, honing his body and mind into one that fought and thought like a soldier. By day, his lessons were less physically exerting, but he still found enjoyment in them, as he was beginning to excel in issues of arithmetic and money. This pleasantly surprised his tutors, given his father’s indifferences to issues of finances was rather well-known.
And speaking of finances, his father Karloman, was handling a rather unpleasant meeting with certain figures in his court.
“Regardless of your wishes Majesty, we simply don’t have the finances to sustain and supply such a campaign at this time, especially if it goes on for longer than a year or two, the wars against the Saxons and Lombards were costly in treasure, despite our victories, and our taxation has not been fully replenished in the latter regions which are newly ours.”
“Then get it done and restore it,” Karloman shrugged, “surely that’s not beyond your formidable capabilities?”
Berengar, the Count of Vendome grimaced, and gave a slight sigh, the same one he always gave as a prelude to his slightly stuffy lectures on matters of economics to the Emperor, “Majesty, it will be done, but it takes time. If you want this campaign to set out before the end of the year, then the loans are the only option.”
“And from the Jewish traders, Bah!” Karloman’s dismissive wave of the hand made clear what he thought of that gesture.
“Unless you have a Catholic lord who’d be prepared to finance credit to underwrite the venture, yes” Berengar replied, completely missing the Emperor’s sarcasm. Off to the side Duke Guillame grinned, Berengar was a rather good financier, but his grasp of the intricacies of Karloman’s sometimes mercurial mood was a little lacking. It was rare that two people so different could tolerate one another as well as they seemed to do, but it was funny to watch.
“Nobody else will finance a venture like that,” the Emperor replied, treating his own remark as if it had been a serious complaint, “They will think it slightly mad, marching on the east, marching against the Thedosian Walls to place a Greek Empress back on her throne. It will have to be the traders. And why not?” he asked nobody in particular, “They finance the ventures of half the merchants in the city.”
Indeed they did, Paris’s Jewish community, though small, and grown increasingly wealthy off the backs of such financing in recent years. No doubt the Emperor deciding to seek support from them would only add to their wealth.
“Very well,” Karloman sighed, “if it has to be done, it has to be done. Invite them in and draw up the necessary contracts Berengar.”
“Will your Majesty be present for the signing?” the steward asked, with a grin, knowing full well Karloman’s boredom with counting coppers.
“I would rather,” the Emperor dramatically declared, “fling myself from the ramparts of Constantinopolis.”
“If you don’t get the financing for this venture, you may have to,” Berengar replied, answering Karloman’s glare with an even broader grin, leading to guffaws from the other councillors.
But it was Berengar who was leading the negotiations, and Berengar who pulled through, signing the relevant documentation on the Emperor’s behalf, at which Karloman glanced only lazily before affixing his seal.
“I’m glad someone finds all this so very stimulating,” he grumbled after doing so.
Duke Guillame laughed, “Takes all sorts Majesty,”
“Fortunately for me,” Karloman complained, but there was no sting in it.
They were all used to him complaining by now…
Constantinopolis, 781.
With the news that there would be no peace with the West, the Empire’s leaders (sans the mad emperor, whose behaviour continued to deteriorate to the point where he no longer appeared in public), stepped up their recruiting efforts. Maximos had continued his efforts to fortify the city’s defenses and raise new levies, while the Iconoclastic Patriarch’s fiery sermons attracted a host of new volunteers. Citizens suspected of iconodule or pro-Eirene sympathies were rounded up and detained and food was stockpiled from across the Bosphorus.
But most of the regular imperial army remained deployed in Epirus, laying siege to the towns of that kingdom. Maximos resisted the entreaties of concerned Greek magnates to recall the army, and the protostrator to the city, confident in the strength of his preparations of the city’s defences, and its ability to withstand any siege from the Franks.
For other cities and towns in the empire, dividing lines became clearer. Some prepared for siege to resist a barbarian conqueror, while those who had been sympathetic to the deposed Empress where preparing to open the gates to the invader. Some remained nervous at what a foreign army of barbarians might do when they arrived, even if they were not fond of the new regime in Constantinopolis, or had iconodule sentiments.
The East held it’s breath, and awaited the march of the Western Augustus…
OOC:
Update today, just giving some info on how the East is preparing and some of the divisions still latent in the Empire, as well as some of Karloman's preparations. Karloman is also devoting some time to domestic reforms, while preparing for his campaign in the east, and Pepin is getting ready for his role in it as well.
Next update will be focusing on the beginning of Karloman's march east, the Byzantine's response, and Eirene's role in the conflict to come.
“Bring them in,” Karloman sat, tall and terrible atop that throne on the raised platform. Beside him, standing next to the throne for today’s business, was Eirene, who was for the moment, for all intents and purposes, Queen of the Franks.
The emissary entered, carrying the olive branch upon his standard. A symbol of parley, of truce. He was there to talk, or to make demands, more likely.
The emissary spoke, and Eirene’s purpose in attending this session of court made itself known to the watching onlookers who had gathered. The emissary opened up in Greek, making a brief supplicant gesture towards the throne.
“The Emperor in Contantinople bids you greetings,” Eirene translated, “and requests your pardon for sending a courier to bring you this request.”
The messenger suddenly became agitating, gesturing towards Eirene and babbling angrily,
“He says I have no right to be here,” Eirene spoke, keeping her tone calm, “That what his master has sent him to say is for your ears, and not mine.”
“Tell him he does not get to dictate whom I allow into my own home,” Karloman replied, clearly irritated, “That I receive him as a courtesy to his master, and if he must speak, he does so on my terms, not his own.”
She relayed that, the messenger’s face clearly flushed with anger, but the look on Karloman’s face was enough to dissuade him from attempting to push his luck.
“My master Christophorus, Emperor of Rome, demands that you renounce your false coronation as Emperor,” Eirene translated the messenger’s angry words, “And that you hand over the false Empress, Eirene of Athens, to stand trial for crimes against the people of the Empire.”
“I see,” Karloman responded, neutrally.
He would not entertain the demand of course. He could not.
“My answer is no,” Karloman replied, allowing Eirene to translate, “Tell your masters that Eirene of Athens is the rightful Empress of Romanion, and that they must abdicate and restore her to her place. If they do not, they shall be met with spear and blade to put her there.”
That threat clearly agitated the messenger, and a few growls of assent came from the watching lords, who were displeased by this Greek messenger and his arrogant threats.
“Let him go,” Karloman held up a hand and the growls subsided, the messenger gave a perfunctory gesture of respect, and then left the hall of the castle, and the doors were shut behind him…
The stage was set…
June 781.
Under his father’s watchful eye, Pepin continued his gruelling drills in the field with the other boys being trained by Balduin the Strong. His father had insisted upon it, he must know how to fight if he was going to command, even if he never wanted to lead from the front later.
Pepin had been pleased to discover that his muscles were getting stronger, and he lifted the heavier sword with far more ease now than he had done when he begun. By evening, he practiced sword and pike and halberd, honing his body and mind into one that fought and thought like a soldier. By day, his lessons were less physically exerting, but he still found enjoyment in them, as he was beginning to excel in issues of arithmetic and money. This pleasantly surprised his tutors, given his father’s indifferences to issues of finances was rather well-known.
And speaking of finances, his father Karloman, was handling a rather unpleasant meeting with certain figures in his court.
“Regardless of your wishes Majesty, we simply don’t have the finances to sustain and supply such a campaign at this time, especially if it goes on for longer than a year or two, the wars against the Saxons and Lombards were costly in treasure, despite our victories, and our taxation has not been fully replenished in the latter regions which are newly ours.”
“Then get it done and restore it,” Karloman shrugged, “surely that’s not beyond your formidable capabilities?”
Berengar, the Count of Vendome grimaced, and gave a slight sigh, the same one he always gave as a prelude to his slightly stuffy lectures on matters of economics to the Emperor, “Majesty, it will be done, but it takes time. If you want this campaign to set out before the end of the year, then the loans are the only option.”
“And from the Jewish traders, Bah!” Karloman’s dismissive wave of the hand made clear what he thought of that gesture.
“Unless you have a Catholic lord who’d be prepared to finance credit to underwrite the venture, yes” Berengar replied, completely missing the Emperor’s sarcasm. Off to the side Duke Guillame grinned, Berengar was a rather good financier, but his grasp of the intricacies of Karloman’s sometimes mercurial mood was a little lacking. It was rare that two people so different could tolerate one another as well as they seemed to do, but it was funny to watch.
“Nobody else will finance a venture like that,” the Emperor replied, treating his own remark as if it had been a serious complaint, “They will think it slightly mad, marching on the east, marching against the Thedosian Walls to place a Greek Empress back on her throne. It will have to be the traders. And why not?” he asked nobody in particular, “They finance the ventures of half the merchants in the city.”
Indeed they did, Paris’s Jewish community, though small, and grown increasingly wealthy off the backs of such financing in recent years. No doubt the Emperor deciding to seek support from them would only add to their wealth.
“Very well,” Karloman sighed, “if it has to be done, it has to be done. Invite them in and draw up the necessary contracts Berengar.”
“Will your Majesty be present for the signing?” the steward asked, with a grin, knowing full well Karloman’s boredom with counting coppers.
“I would rather,” the Emperor dramatically declared, “fling myself from the ramparts of Constantinopolis.”
“If you don’t get the financing for this venture, you may have to,” Berengar replied, answering Karloman’s glare with an even broader grin, leading to guffaws from the other councillors.
But it was Berengar who was leading the negotiations, and Berengar who pulled through, signing the relevant documentation on the Emperor’s behalf, at which Karloman glanced only lazily before affixing his seal.
“I’m glad someone finds all this so very stimulating,” he grumbled after doing so.
Duke Guillame laughed, “Takes all sorts Majesty,”
“Fortunately for me,” Karloman complained, but there was no sting in it.
They were all used to him complaining by now…
Constantinopolis, 781.
With the news that there would be no peace with the West, the Empire’s leaders (sans the mad emperor, whose behaviour continued to deteriorate to the point where he no longer appeared in public), stepped up their recruiting efforts. Maximos had continued his efforts to fortify the city’s defenses and raise new levies, while the Iconoclastic Patriarch’s fiery sermons attracted a host of new volunteers. Citizens suspected of iconodule or pro-Eirene sympathies were rounded up and detained and food was stockpiled from across the Bosphorus.
But most of the regular imperial army remained deployed in Epirus, laying siege to the towns of that kingdom. Maximos resisted the entreaties of concerned Greek magnates to recall the army, and the protostrator to the city, confident in the strength of his preparations of the city’s defences, and its ability to withstand any siege from the Franks.
For other cities and towns in the empire, dividing lines became clearer. Some prepared for siege to resist a barbarian conqueror, while those who had been sympathetic to the deposed Empress where preparing to open the gates to the invader. Some remained nervous at what a foreign army of barbarians might do when they arrived, even if they were not fond of the new regime in Constantinopolis, or had iconodule sentiments.
The East held it’s breath, and awaited the march of the Western Augustus…
OOC:
Update today, just giving some info on how the East is preparing and some of the divisions still latent in the Empire, as well as some of Karloman's preparations. Karloman is also devoting some time to domestic reforms, while preparing for his campaign in the east, and Pepin is getting ready for his role in it as well.
Next update will be focusing on the beginning of Karloman's march east, the Byzantine's response, and Eirene's role in the conflict to come.
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November 781, Paris, Court of Emperor Karloman
The ongoing work of an Imperator was never done, as Karloman Karling was quickly discovering.
He had sent out orders for his courtiers to begin making their move to Aquileia, where the levies would arrive and the army to march east would begin to assemble. He had issued the orders for stockpiling of weapons and food. But planning for his campaign had occupied only about half of his time since his return from Italia.
Karloman had thrown himself into the work of Empire with surprising vigour. Since the deposition of the little Augustus, never before had the West been as much united under a single political entity as it was now. The Frankish kingdom of his father and grandfather had given way to an enormous Empire that far outstretched the bounds of Francia itself. Karloman himself had completed the conquest of Pagan Saxony and defeated their traditional Lombard enemies, bringing Northern Italia to heel under the Frankish boot. The Empire now encompassed multiple peoples, united under on faith, one Emperor, one God.
Or at least it would have one God, once the conversion of the remaining Pagans over the Rhine was completed. That process had continued apace since the end of the Saxon Wars, though minor flare-ups of violence continued, Karloman had ordered the acceleration of the process, content with the pacification of that barbarian land. Two new roads had been added from the east bank of the Rhine to the new Frankish trade towns that were springing up in Saxony, and the Emperor had ordered construction of a permanent bridge to aid river traffic and trade.
Closer to home, the old decaying Roman infrastructure had been undergoing repairs.
But it was in the system of justice and administration that the new Emperor’s time had been most occupied since his return from Italia. Frankish law for the past few generations had been a mish-mash of custom, old tribal rules, newer ad-hoc developments created by officials for purposes of ease and convenience, or arbitrary developments that took no note of precedent, local needs or consistency. In response, the Emperor had ordered the creation of the office of the scabini. Professional experts on the law, these officials were tasked with codifying and streamlining the legal systems of the Empire. By the end of the decade, the Emperor planned, every count in the Empire would have the assistance of at least seven scabini, qualified men educated in the ways of the law who would have knowledge of every law in the Empire, and who could assist their lord in making necessary judgements on disputes.
For this, the Emperor had ordered new schools to be built. The Emperor was well-aware of his own childhood and the unusually good education with which he had been endowed. He was well aware of how well he had been served by it, and equally aware of how few men, even among the nobility, were similarly well-endowed with such things. By the end of the decade, he hoped all noble children would be able to read and write, at a minimum, and serve the Empire, and future Emperors, well as a consequence.
But this program of reforms had not prevented the Emperor’s personal life from being equally productive. Empress Eirene was with child…
“This will force us to alter the plan, you won’t be able to travel while pregnant,” Karloman frowned.
“Indeed,” Eirene agreed coolly. She took no offense, he was correct, travelling the long-distances necessary to march to Constantinopolis would be impossible by the time the army set out. “I will be able to go with you as far as Aquileia, to the army’s staging ground, but likely no further.”
“That might complicate things with your supporters,” Karloman warned her. The intention was for him to have had Eirene travel with the army, building support for her claim and to emphasise that the Frankish army came not as conquerors, but on behalf of an unjustly deposed Empress to restore her to the throne.
“I’ll give you a seal to act on my behalf, and send some of my staff to represent me in my stead in your army in any negotiations you might need to make.”
“You trust me to make representations on your behalf?” Karloman was surprised by that. They had been getting along well with one another since the wedding, but he was rather surprised that she would place that much trust in him.
“Since you know my terms and what I need yes, if need be, I can have written instructions couriered to my staff while I remain in Aquileia, but suffice it to say, by the time the child is born, I will likely be able to charter a ship to Constantinopolis to return if needs be.”
“By which point our army will either be victorious or dead,” Karloman replied grimly, “Yes, that makes sense. Once we’ve won, the child will already have arrived.”
“If it’s a son, may I have it to raise in the east?”
He paused, considered.
“Very well, I am prepared to allow that,” He assented, “Pepin is my sole son and heir, and I’d rather not follow the old practice of splitting my realm between multiple sons upon my death,” he ground his teeth at the memory, “Such practices have led to civil war and strife in the past of our people, so I’d rather Pepin be the sole heir.”
“Can the boy handle it?” she asked. Eirene genuinely liked Pepin, thought he was bright and kind, but sons of great men were seldom the equal of their fathers.
“Who can say?” Karloman cast his hands wide, “It’ll be up to him how well he does. He’s clever, somewhat handy with a blade and quick to make up his mind. Whether he has the temperament and wisdom to do things well, and the patience to learn what he doesn’t know, those are unanswered questions so far.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then I pray I can help him before my own time comes,”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then I simply pray.”
On November 15th, the Emperor and his court began to depart from the fortress at Melun and move towards Aquileia, with the Emperor’s military retinue in tow. Accompanying the military retinue for the first time was Pepin, now a teenager, riding towards his first campaign. His father had been adamant that it was time for Pepin to see firsthand how a military campaign was conducted, instead of learning it from his books and his tutor’s tales.
And so it was that they began the march to Aquileia, where the first elements of the Frankish army were already beginning to gather, Duke Guillame of Tolouse, Karloman’s trusted Chancellor, had begun to organise the groups that had arrived already, and the Emperor’s own retinue due to arrive by early January. With the army to be gathered by May of the following year.
Karloman’s course was now set. For the first time, he had ordered he be accompanied by a local chronicler, one who would record the events of the campaign for the purposes of posterity. If the first Western Emperor in three centuries planned to take the mighty City of the World’s Desire, he planned to have his achievement recorded for the ages.
But how to do so, and how to breach those formidable Theodosian Walls, which Eirene had told him were the grandest in the world, and the toughest fortifications ever built by man? On that point, Karloman would need help…
Karloman had gathered a force of nearly thirteen thousand men in Aquileia, on the edges of his Empire, to prepare for the march into Byzantium. But the formidable walls of Constantinopolis were a massive obstacle, along with the city’s key strategic position on the Bosphorus, and he would need more than a veteran army to surmount these challenges, despite the weakness of the East.
It was on the march south that the Emperor discussed the conundrum with his son, riding alongside him in the retinue.
“The problem will be in attempting to siege the city itself,” Karloman told his son as they rode. “The walls of the city of Constantine are some of the most formidable structures ever built, and while the fleet controls the Bosphorus, a direct assault by land or sea is impossible. Eirene says that a man could assault the city for years with a million men, and never take it.”
“So we try to draw them out from behind the walls?” Pepin guessed, but his father was already shaking his head.
“If they have any brains, they won’t take the bait, those walls are the city’s strongest defenses, and they won’t be expecting us to be able to take them. They’ll also be right, all our siege weapons will be nothing against those walls, if half of what Eirene told me is true.”
“Then how to take it father?” Pepin asked, genuinely curious as to his father’s plan.
“Well now, that’s the question isn’t it?” Karloman asked the boy, smiling, “I could throw away thousands of men assaulting the walls. I could beat the army that’s fighting in Epirus in the field, but then I’d have the same problem, how to assault the walls, when I don’t have an army large enough, siege weapons good enough, or a fleet large enough to block them off from re-supply.”
“Then what’s the solution father?” Pepin asked again, starting to get nervous.
Karloman shrugged, “I don’t know yet Pepin. Nothing in war or life is certain to work. I have ideas, and by Aquileia I will have a plan, but right now, I’m planning for some things that I might try.”
“And… can I help you plan and think it through?” Pepin asked, wondering if he had read his father’s intentions in speaking to him correctly.
“Yes I think so,” Karloman regarded him with a measured look, “I expect you to mostly sit and listen to myself and the senior commanders, but if I ask for your input, I’d welcome you to give it. Mostly, I want you to listen and have a think about the problem and the ways it might be solved.”
“What’s the reason for that?”
“War is as much a thinker’s game as a man of action’s game,” Karloman told his son. “You’ll never know what you might encounter, but if you’ve prepared, and built a solid plan that you’ve communicated to your army, you’ll fare a lot better than if you’re making things up on the fly. And remember this, if nothing else son, simple plans are better than complex ones. The fewer things can go wrong, the better the chance of success.”
An example of what his father meant by that made itself clear to Pepin in the coming days, when his father told him that he was thinking that he needed to breach Constantinopolis’s walls not by brute force, but by strategy.
“The empire is divided right now, and unrest is rife both from Eirene’s coup and subsequent deposition,” he explained, “Cut the capital off from the rest of the Empire, strangle it’s supplies, separate the capital from the army, fighting in Epirus, and force the population to yield to Eirene’s claim.”
“But you said yourself that the city is well-supplied by the Bosphorus father,” Pepin objected, “How do you intend to cut it off without ships?”
“I intend to get some, obviously.” Karloman replied, with a ghost of a grin.
Quite where he intended to get some Pepin didn’t know, until he joined his father in the war tent with his other senior commanders that night.
“The ships are the key,” his father was saying to Balduin the Strong, the Marshal who had served him since Maurad’s exile had been ordered. “Once we have a fleet, we’ll be able to block the city off from any resupply by both land and sea.”
“We don’t have the ships required, and I doubt Eirene’s supporters in the Empire will be numerous enough, or forthcoming enough, to provide us with very many.” Balduin had raised that objection.
“Correct,” Karloman nodded, “Which is why we need our ships from a place closer to home.”
He gestured the audience to gather around the war table, including Pepin, and pointed one long, spindly finger down to a dot on his map.
“Venice!” Balduin exclaimed, “Majesty, I don’t doubt they have ships, but it’s a fools errand! The Doge of Venice is sympathetic to the Eastern Emperors, he’s still technically their vassal, and furthermore, he’s a heretic! He has cast off the Latin and Greek churches, and follows the doctrine of the Fraticelli! We cannot deal with him.”
“The question is whether we can afford not to deal with him” Karloman replied firmly, He raised his hand to forestall Balduin’s further interruption, “You said yourself Marshal, we do not have the ships we need to blockade Constantinopolis, and we cannot rely upon allies to provide them for us. Therefore we must seek them from elsewhere, and the Venetians are the best and closest source of them, heresy or no heresy.”
“His Holiness will not approve!”
“His Holiness may not,” Karloman admitted, “But he will likely approve far less if we fail to defeat the usurper in the East and cause a permanent breach in the Church between east and west. He needs his actions in the coronation in Rome legitimised, which means we must succeed in our venture. His Holiness will understand it, I am sure.”
“So the question then becomes how do we get their ships?”
“I’ll ask the Doge if we may hire his ships and crews for the venture to Constantinopolis, and for the blockade. In exchange, well” Karloman grinned, “We’ll agree to let him and his little heretical band maintain control over Venice, and not oust them from the city they conquered the moment we’re done with the Eastern Emperor.”
“I hope you’ll put it more diplomatically than that,” Duke Thomas grumbled, “He won’t take kindly to threats.”
A flash of irritation crossed Karloman’s face, but he held his tongue and temper. Not all his commanders were there on merit. Some had an expectation that they would be in the war councils purely on matters of blood or on how many troops they had contributed, and the Emperor had to accommodate them. Thomas was one such, no military sense whatsoever!
“I shall of course be diplomatic,” Karloman grinned, “But the Fraticelli who conquered the city a few years ago know full well His Holiness might well turn his wrath on them soon enough. If I offer to forestall that wrath, in exchange for their help in the east, they might well see the long-term advantage to them in breaking from the Emperor in Constantinopolis and helping to restore things to their proper order in the east.”
“Then I suppose you’ll be meeting Doge Nestore.” Thomas stated.
“Aye,” Karloman nodded emphatically, “I’ll send him a message once we near Aquileia, inviting him to negotiate with us. We’re not there to use our army to attack him of course, but he won’t necessarily know that, and a force of fifteen thousand good god-fearing troops outside a city ruled by heretics will provide him the impetus necessary to meet.” The Emperor parted his lips in a thin, cold smile. “And then I’ll be sure to explain to him the benefits of assisting in our plans to restore the Eastern Empire… and the consequences of his refusal to cooperate.”
“Politely, of course,” Duke Thomas reminded him, and this time, Karloman did not grimace.
“Of course, politely.”
Constantinopolis
Emperor Christophorus Isauros awoke as if sharply driven from a deep and ponderous sleep.
He stood up straight, his aching muscles feeling increasingly atrophied of late. He had been… not well, not well at all since he came to his throne.
It was in vengeance for his murdered brother that he had marched his armies from their posting to the capital, seeking to depose the usurper Empress who had put out his eyes, and then his innards. Leon had been a good man, who hadn’t deserved the grisly fate she had meted out to him. His own soldiers had been insistent on punishing the usurper, and avenging their murdered Emperor, and she had fled like a whipped dog in the night rather than raise the city up to defend her actions. He had occupied the city unopposed, confirmed by most strategoi, who either sympathised with his actions or were too wearied by internal strife to raise much fuss, or too focused on their own objectives.
Then the headaches had started…
A stabbing pain, a fall, and then he remembered being lifted onto his bed. He remembered babbling incoherently, and rising later….
And then nothing…
He shook his head, and rubbed his temples. Was his mind going? Why couldn’t he remember whether his wits had wandered?
“Servants! Servants!” he shouted suddenly, hoping that one was nearby. The Imperial bedchambers were adjacent to the rooms in which his servants usually dallied.
One came running, bursting through the door and nearly tripping over his own feet as he saw the Emperor up and awake. His swarthy brown face dropped as he fell to his knees. Syrian, Christophorus remembered, he’d been sent as a gift by the governor of Antioch some years before the city had fallen back into the hands of the infidel.
“Majesty! It is good to have you back! Shall I-“
“Get me the councillors,” was Christophorus’s only command.
“At once Majesty, at once!” The servant leapt to his feet as though he were a dog bounding up to the waist of it’s long absent master, and practically sped from the room.
A thundering pain overtook Christophorus again, and he doubled over as his head swam, feeling ill. He rubbed his temple wearily, and then, when the pain subsided, rose to his feet again, stumbling towards the nearest available mirror.
He looked dreadful, his normally dark hair streaked with grey patches, and his beard matted and unshaven. His fit physique had begun to decline and his form had begun to sag from disuse. A military man he had been, but his body had begun to betray him of late.
I will not cower under the coverlets while others rule the Empire I saved! He thought grimly, gritting his teeth as another bout of pain rolled over him like a roiling wave. My flesh will not give out, by God, it will endure!
And, by a labour worthy of Hercules, he managed to regain control over himself, the pain ebbed and subsided, and he felt his limbs beginning to cooperate properly again.
“I must see the physician,” he mumbled to himself “Isakios will know what to do,”
It was Isakios who came into the room first, the greasy-haired but brilliant doctor whom had served as his personal physician for many years.
“Majesty! You are awakened, this is joyous news!” the nervous little man bounded up upon seeing him, “Please sit Majesty, you are only just recovered from a long illness.”
“Isakios,” he mumbled, feeling like his words were not forming correctly, “What has happened.”
“You were ill Highness,” Isakios replied, leading him to a nearby chair and helping him sink gratefully into it. “Strategoi Maximos and Nikephorus have taken charge of the defense of the city in your absence.”
“Defense? Defense from whom?”
A look of mingled pity and a touch of fear crossed the doctor’s face. “Perhaps it is best if I allow them to inform you Majesty. Events have moved quickly while you were… incapable of assuming command.”
As if on cue, Strategos Maximos entered the room as well. In his usual brisk style, he informed the Emperor of the newest developments. Eirene’s marriage to a Frankish pretender, and his threats to raise an army and march eastward.
“I have been absent too long,” the recovered Emperor murmured. “I must see to the city’s defenses.”
“Majesty-“ Isakios began, but the Emperor cut him off.
“No excuses,” he said firmly. “While I am able to command, the people must see me do so, Maximos” he addressed his strategos, “I will require your presence in the war room. Five minutes.”
The martial man nodded, and left the room, his feather embroidered cloak trailing behind him as he left the room.
“My armour, Isakios,”
“Majesty- I must protest,”
“I am Emperor, and I will rule,” Christophorus gritted his teeth, ignoring the throbbing in his head as he rose to his feet. “My Empire will be preserved, against both the Franks… and against those who sought to keep me sedate while danger claws at our borders.”
“You think someone..”
“Yes, I do,” Christophorus glared, bluntly, “There are many servants of that bitch in the city, and any one of them would’ve gladly eaten my flesh with half a chance. I shall not let them. Fetch my sword.”
And with that, Isakios did his bidding with a hurried bow, and the true Emperor of Rome girded himself to plan the defense of his Empire…
OOC: Good long one today! Because it's not a march to sack Contantinople unless the Venetians are involved (hehe!). That said, they've been usurped by a Fraticelli Doge and ruled by heretics in this timeline, and since they were technically still Byzantine vassals at this time in history, it's an interesting ploy by Karloman to get them involved.
Also, Christophorus seems to have returned to lucidity... Will he approve of the plans presently made? And how will his health hold up, and how will it affect the Empire? Who can say! And what will happen with Eirene's child? So many questions! And I'm going to be mean and say the answers will come... but not yet. muahaha.
A note on some of the reforms mentioned in the early part of the post. Obviously, much of this can't actually happen in game mechanics, but some of the reforms are reflective of those that occurred in the real Carolingian Renaissance and during the imperial period under Charlemagne historically, so I had fun doing some research and seeing how I might incorporate some of those into the story. Obviously, there will be differences as well, but I like incorporating those references for my more historically aware readers, and for the rest, they add some detail and flavour to the world that would otherwise not be in there. Plus, I learn heaps as well from the research needed! Let me know if you like it when stuff like that happens and I'll incorporate more into the story as is possible.
Happy reading!
The ongoing work of an Imperator was never done, as Karloman Karling was quickly discovering.
He had sent out orders for his courtiers to begin making their move to Aquileia, where the levies would arrive and the army to march east would begin to assemble. He had issued the orders for stockpiling of weapons and food. But planning for his campaign had occupied only about half of his time since his return from Italia.
Karloman had thrown himself into the work of Empire with surprising vigour. Since the deposition of the little Augustus, never before had the West been as much united under a single political entity as it was now. The Frankish kingdom of his father and grandfather had given way to an enormous Empire that far outstretched the bounds of Francia itself. Karloman himself had completed the conquest of Pagan Saxony and defeated their traditional Lombard enemies, bringing Northern Italia to heel under the Frankish boot. The Empire now encompassed multiple peoples, united under on faith, one Emperor, one God.
Or at least it would have one God, once the conversion of the remaining Pagans over the Rhine was completed. That process had continued apace since the end of the Saxon Wars, though minor flare-ups of violence continued, Karloman had ordered the acceleration of the process, content with the pacification of that barbarian land. Two new roads had been added from the east bank of the Rhine to the new Frankish trade towns that were springing up in Saxony, and the Emperor had ordered construction of a permanent bridge to aid river traffic and trade.
Closer to home, the old decaying Roman infrastructure had been undergoing repairs.
But it was in the system of justice and administration that the new Emperor’s time had been most occupied since his return from Italia. Frankish law for the past few generations had been a mish-mash of custom, old tribal rules, newer ad-hoc developments created by officials for purposes of ease and convenience, or arbitrary developments that took no note of precedent, local needs or consistency. In response, the Emperor had ordered the creation of the office of the scabini. Professional experts on the law, these officials were tasked with codifying and streamlining the legal systems of the Empire. By the end of the decade, the Emperor planned, every count in the Empire would have the assistance of at least seven scabini, qualified men educated in the ways of the law who would have knowledge of every law in the Empire, and who could assist their lord in making necessary judgements on disputes.
For this, the Emperor had ordered new schools to be built. The Emperor was well-aware of his own childhood and the unusually good education with which he had been endowed. He was well aware of how well he had been served by it, and equally aware of how few men, even among the nobility, were similarly well-endowed with such things. By the end of the decade, he hoped all noble children would be able to read and write, at a minimum, and serve the Empire, and future Emperors, well as a consequence.
But this program of reforms had not prevented the Emperor’s personal life from being equally productive. Empress Eirene was with child…
“This will force us to alter the plan, you won’t be able to travel while pregnant,” Karloman frowned.
“Indeed,” Eirene agreed coolly. She took no offense, he was correct, travelling the long-distances necessary to march to Constantinopolis would be impossible by the time the army set out. “I will be able to go with you as far as Aquileia, to the army’s staging ground, but likely no further.”
“That might complicate things with your supporters,” Karloman warned her. The intention was for him to have had Eirene travel with the army, building support for her claim and to emphasise that the Frankish army came not as conquerors, but on behalf of an unjustly deposed Empress to restore her to the throne.
“I’ll give you a seal to act on my behalf, and send some of my staff to represent me in my stead in your army in any negotiations you might need to make.”
“You trust me to make representations on your behalf?” Karloman was surprised by that. They had been getting along well with one another since the wedding, but he was rather surprised that she would place that much trust in him.
“Since you know my terms and what I need yes, if need be, I can have written instructions couriered to my staff while I remain in Aquileia, but suffice it to say, by the time the child is born, I will likely be able to charter a ship to Constantinopolis to return if needs be.”
“By which point our army will either be victorious or dead,” Karloman replied grimly, “Yes, that makes sense. Once we’ve won, the child will already have arrived.”
“If it’s a son, may I have it to raise in the east?”
He paused, considered.
“Very well, I am prepared to allow that,” He assented, “Pepin is my sole son and heir, and I’d rather not follow the old practice of splitting my realm between multiple sons upon my death,” he ground his teeth at the memory, “Such practices have led to civil war and strife in the past of our people, so I’d rather Pepin be the sole heir.”
“Can the boy handle it?” she asked. Eirene genuinely liked Pepin, thought he was bright and kind, but sons of great men were seldom the equal of their fathers.
“Who can say?” Karloman cast his hands wide, “It’ll be up to him how well he does. He’s clever, somewhat handy with a blade and quick to make up his mind. Whether he has the temperament and wisdom to do things well, and the patience to learn what he doesn’t know, those are unanswered questions so far.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then I pray I can help him before my own time comes,”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then I simply pray.”
On November 15th, the Emperor and his court began to depart from the fortress at Melun and move towards Aquileia, with the Emperor’s military retinue in tow. Accompanying the military retinue for the first time was Pepin, now a teenager, riding towards his first campaign. His father had been adamant that it was time for Pepin to see firsthand how a military campaign was conducted, instead of learning it from his books and his tutor’s tales.
And so it was that they began the march to Aquileia, where the first elements of the Frankish army were already beginning to gather, Duke Guillame of Tolouse, Karloman’s trusted Chancellor, had begun to organise the groups that had arrived already, and the Emperor’s own retinue due to arrive by early January. With the army to be gathered by May of the following year.
Karloman’s course was now set. For the first time, he had ordered he be accompanied by a local chronicler, one who would record the events of the campaign for the purposes of posterity. If the first Western Emperor in three centuries planned to take the mighty City of the World’s Desire, he planned to have his achievement recorded for the ages.
But how to do so, and how to breach those formidable Theodosian Walls, which Eirene had told him were the grandest in the world, and the toughest fortifications ever built by man? On that point, Karloman would need help…
Karloman had gathered a force of nearly thirteen thousand men in Aquileia, on the edges of his Empire, to prepare for the march into Byzantium. But the formidable walls of Constantinopolis were a massive obstacle, along with the city’s key strategic position on the Bosphorus, and he would need more than a veteran army to surmount these challenges, despite the weakness of the East.
It was on the march south that the Emperor discussed the conundrum with his son, riding alongside him in the retinue.
“The problem will be in attempting to siege the city itself,” Karloman told his son as they rode. “The walls of the city of Constantine are some of the most formidable structures ever built, and while the fleet controls the Bosphorus, a direct assault by land or sea is impossible. Eirene says that a man could assault the city for years with a million men, and never take it.”
“So we try to draw them out from behind the walls?” Pepin guessed, but his father was already shaking his head.
“If they have any brains, they won’t take the bait, those walls are the city’s strongest defenses, and they won’t be expecting us to be able to take them. They’ll also be right, all our siege weapons will be nothing against those walls, if half of what Eirene told me is true.”
“Then how to take it father?” Pepin asked, genuinely curious as to his father’s plan.
“Well now, that’s the question isn’t it?” Karloman asked the boy, smiling, “I could throw away thousands of men assaulting the walls. I could beat the army that’s fighting in Epirus in the field, but then I’d have the same problem, how to assault the walls, when I don’t have an army large enough, siege weapons good enough, or a fleet large enough to block them off from re-supply.”
“Then what’s the solution father?” Pepin asked again, starting to get nervous.
Karloman shrugged, “I don’t know yet Pepin. Nothing in war or life is certain to work. I have ideas, and by Aquileia I will have a plan, but right now, I’m planning for some things that I might try.”
“And… can I help you plan and think it through?” Pepin asked, wondering if he had read his father’s intentions in speaking to him correctly.
“Yes I think so,” Karloman regarded him with a measured look, “I expect you to mostly sit and listen to myself and the senior commanders, but if I ask for your input, I’d welcome you to give it. Mostly, I want you to listen and have a think about the problem and the ways it might be solved.”
“What’s the reason for that?”
“War is as much a thinker’s game as a man of action’s game,” Karloman told his son. “You’ll never know what you might encounter, but if you’ve prepared, and built a solid plan that you’ve communicated to your army, you’ll fare a lot better than if you’re making things up on the fly. And remember this, if nothing else son, simple plans are better than complex ones. The fewer things can go wrong, the better the chance of success.”
An example of what his father meant by that made itself clear to Pepin in the coming days, when his father told him that he was thinking that he needed to breach Constantinopolis’s walls not by brute force, but by strategy.
“The empire is divided right now, and unrest is rife both from Eirene’s coup and subsequent deposition,” he explained, “Cut the capital off from the rest of the Empire, strangle it’s supplies, separate the capital from the army, fighting in Epirus, and force the population to yield to Eirene’s claim.”
“But you said yourself that the city is well-supplied by the Bosphorus father,” Pepin objected, “How do you intend to cut it off without ships?”
“I intend to get some, obviously.” Karloman replied, with a ghost of a grin.
Quite where he intended to get some Pepin didn’t know, until he joined his father in the war tent with his other senior commanders that night.
“The ships are the key,” his father was saying to Balduin the Strong, the Marshal who had served him since Maurad’s exile had been ordered. “Once we have a fleet, we’ll be able to block the city off from any resupply by both land and sea.”
“We don’t have the ships required, and I doubt Eirene’s supporters in the Empire will be numerous enough, or forthcoming enough, to provide us with very many.” Balduin had raised that objection.
“Correct,” Karloman nodded, “Which is why we need our ships from a place closer to home.”
He gestured the audience to gather around the war table, including Pepin, and pointed one long, spindly finger down to a dot on his map.
“Venice!” Balduin exclaimed, “Majesty, I don’t doubt they have ships, but it’s a fools errand! The Doge of Venice is sympathetic to the Eastern Emperors, he’s still technically their vassal, and furthermore, he’s a heretic! He has cast off the Latin and Greek churches, and follows the doctrine of the Fraticelli! We cannot deal with him.”
“The question is whether we can afford not to deal with him” Karloman replied firmly, He raised his hand to forestall Balduin’s further interruption, “You said yourself Marshal, we do not have the ships we need to blockade Constantinopolis, and we cannot rely upon allies to provide them for us. Therefore we must seek them from elsewhere, and the Venetians are the best and closest source of them, heresy or no heresy.”
“His Holiness will not approve!”
“His Holiness may not,” Karloman admitted, “But he will likely approve far less if we fail to defeat the usurper in the East and cause a permanent breach in the Church between east and west. He needs his actions in the coronation in Rome legitimised, which means we must succeed in our venture. His Holiness will understand it, I am sure.”
“So the question then becomes how do we get their ships?”
“I’ll ask the Doge if we may hire his ships and crews for the venture to Constantinopolis, and for the blockade. In exchange, well” Karloman grinned, “We’ll agree to let him and his little heretical band maintain control over Venice, and not oust them from the city they conquered the moment we’re done with the Eastern Emperor.”
“I hope you’ll put it more diplomatically than that,” Duke Thomas grumbled, “He won’t take kindly to threats.”
A flash of irritation crossed Karloman’s face, but he held his tongue and temper. Not all his commanders were there on merit. Some had an expectation that they would be in the war councils purely on matters of blood or on how many troops they had contributed, and the Emperor had to accommodate them. Thomas was one such, no military sense whatsoever!
“I shall of course be diplomatic,” Karloman grinned, “But the Fraticelli who conquered the city a few years ago know full well His Holiness might well turn his wrath on them soon enough. If I offer to forestall that wrath, in exchange for their help in the east, they might well see the long-term advantage to them in breaking from the Emperor in Constantinopolis and helping to restore things to their proper order in the east.”
“Then I suppose you’ll be meeting Doge Nestore.” Thomas stated.
“Aye,” Karloman nodded emphatically, “I’ll send him a message once we near Aquileia, inviting him to negotiate with us. We’re not there to use our army to attack him of course, but he won’t necessarily know that, and a force of fifteen thousand good god-fearing troops outside a city ruled by heretics will provide him the impetus necessary to meet.” The Emperor parted his lips in a thin, cold smile. “And then I’ll be sure to explain to him the benefits of assisting in our plans to restore the Eastern Empire… and the consequences of his refusal to cooperate.”
“Politely, of course,” Duke Thomas reminded him, and this time, Karloman did not grimace.
“Of course, politely.”
Constantinopolis
Emperor Christophorus Isauros awoke as if sharply driven from a deep and ponderous sleep.
He stood up straight, his aching muscles feeling increasingly atrophied of late. He had been… not well, not well at all since he came to his throne.
It was in vengeance for his murdered brother that he had marched his armies from their posting to the capital, seeking to depose the usurper Empress who had put out his eyes, and then his innards. Leon had been a good man, who hadn’t deserved the grisly fate she had meted out to him. His own soldiers had been insistent on punishing the usurper, and avenging their murdered Emperor, and she had fled like a whipped dog in the night rather than raise the city up to defend her actions. He had occupied the city unopposed, confirmed by most strategoi, who either sympathised with his actions or were too wearied by internal strife to raise much fuss, or too focused on their own objectives.
Then the headaches had started…
A stabbing pain, a fall, and then he remembered being lifted onto his bed. He remembered babbling incoherently, and rising later….
And then nothing…
He shook his head, and rubbed his temples. Was his mind going? Why couldn’t he remember whether his wits had wandered?
“Servants! Servants!” he shouted suddenly, hoping that one was nearby. The Imperial bedchambers were adjacent to the rooms in which his servants usually dallied.
One came running, bursting through the door and nearly tripping over his own feet as he saw the Emperor up and awake. His swarthy brown face dropped as he fell to his knees. Syrian, Christophorus remembered, he’d been sent as a gift by the governor of Antioch some years before the city had fallen back into the hands of the infidel.
“Majesty! It is good to have you back! Shall I-“
“Get me the councillors,” was Christophorus’s only command.
“At once Majesty, at once!” The servant leapt to his feet as though he were a dog bounding up to the waist of it’s long absent master, and practically sped from the room.
A thundering pain overtook Christophorus again, and he doubled over as his head swam, feeling ill. He rubbed his temple wearily, and then, when the pain subsided, rose to his feet again, stumbling towards the nearest available mirror.
He looked dreadful, his normally dark hair streaked with grey patches, and his beard matted and unshaven. His fit physique had begun to decline and his form had begun to sag from disuse. A military man he had been, but his body had begun to betray him of late.
I will not cower under the coverlets while others rule the Empire I saved! He thought grimly, gritting his teeth as another bout of pain rolled over him like a roiling wave. My flesh will not give out, by God, it will endure!
And, by a labour worthy of Hercules, he managed to regain control over himself, the pain ebbed and subsided, and he felt his limbs beginning to cooperate properly again.
“I must see the physician,” he mumbled to himself “Isakios will know what to do,”
It was Isakios who came into the room first, the greasy-haired but brilliant doctor whom had served as his personal physician for many years.
“Majesty! You are awakened, this is joyous news!” the nervous little man bounded up upon seeing him, “Please sit Majesty, you are only just recovered from a long illness.”
“Isakios,” he mumbled, feeling like his words were not forming correctly, “What has happened.”
“You were ill Highness,” Isakios replied, leading him to a nearby chair and helping him sink gratefully into it. “Strategoi Maximos and Nikephorus have taken charge of the defense of the city in your absence.”
“Defense? Defense from whom?”
A look of mingled pity and a touch of fear crossed the doctor’s face. “Perhaps it is best if I allow them to inform you Majesty. Events have moved quickly while you were… incapable of assuming command.”
As if on cue, Strategos Maximos entered the room as well. In his usual brisk style, he informed the Emperor of the newest developments. Eirene’s marriage to a Frankish pretender, and his threats to raise an army and march eastward.
“I have been absent too long,” the recovered Emperor murmured. “I must see to the city’s defenses.”
“Majesty-“ Isakios began, but the Emperor cut him off.
“No excuses,” he said firmly. “While I am able to command, the people must see me do so, Maximos” he addressed his strategos, “I will require your presence in the war room. Five minutes.”
The martial man nodded, and left the room, his feather embroidered cloak trailing behind him as he left the room.
“My armour, Isakios,”
“Majesty- I must protest,”
“I am Emperor, and I will rule,” Christophorus gritted his teeth, ignoring the throbbing in his head as he rose to his feet. “My Empire will be preserved, against both the Franks… and against those who sought to keep me sedate while danger claws at our borders.”
“You think someone..”
“Yes, I do,” Christophorus glared, bluntly, “There are many servants of that bitch in the city, and any one of them would’ve gladly eaten my flesh with half a chance. I shall not let them. Fetch my sword.”
And with that, Isakios did his bidding with a hurried bow, and the true Emperor of Rome girded himself to plan the defense of his Empire…
OOC: Good long one today! Because it's not a march to sack Contantinople unless the Venetians are involved (hehe!). That said, they've been usurped by a Fraticelli Doge and ruled by heretics in this timeline, and since they were technically still Byzantine vassals at this time in history, it's an interesting ploy by Karloman to get them involved.
Also, Christophorus seems to have returned to lucidity... Will he approve of the plans presently made? And how will his health hold up, and how will it affect the Empire? Who can say! And what will happen with Eirene's child? So many questions! And I'm going to be mean and say the answers will come... but not yet. muahaha.
A note on some of the reforms mentioned in the early part of the post. Obviously, much of this can't actually happen in game mechanics, but some of the reforms are reflective of those that occurred in the real Carolingian Renaissance and during the imperial period under Charlemagne historically, so I had fun doing some research and seeing how I might incorporate some of those into the story. Obviously, there will be differences as well, but I like incorporating those references for my more historically aware readers, and for the rest, they add some detail and flavour to the world that would otherwise not be in there. Plus, I learn heaps as well from the research needed! Let me know if you like it when stuff like that happens and I'll incorporate more into the story as is possible.
Happy reading!
I enjoyed the historical references. I am not sure how you will get Venetian ships in game. Maybe hire some mercenaries and say they are from Venice. I never use navel mercenaries.
Oh and thanks for complementing my AAR! Reader feedback like this keeps me from giving up.
Oh and thanks for complementing my AAR! Reader feedback like this keeps me from giving up.
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Funny thing... you don't actually need any ships to conquer Constantinople in the game itself, so I didn't hire any in fact. But in the real-world, armies can't just walk across the Bosphorus and real-world Byzantium's big advantages included near comprehensive naval dominance which helped them withstand siege after siege, so ignoring that in the AAR would've felt like cheating considering how massive an advantage it gave them. The game can't show this aspect of things, but I feel it would be making things too easy for Karloman story-wise if I ignored it.
This whole thing with the Venetians is an invention for the AAR, though it does help to establish how things are different in Venice in this timeline, which is the other reason why I did it in the AAR, but in reality, no need for ships...
And you're welcome re: feedback. Ditto for me, it really helps me clarify my writing when I read people's thoughts on it.
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Could you maybe give me more specific feedback on my AAR? What do you like and what do you think can be improved?
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Sure. Have sent you a message with some. Feel free to let me know if it's useful. I hope it was
Next post should be up in a day or two
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How large a fleet from your Italian vassals? Wonderful planning detail! The ships, the money!
Getting ships from Venice for an attack on Constantinople while money is tight? No way this could go wrong!
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May, 782. Aquileia, Italy, War camp of the Frankish Empire.
“Impossible,”
“Why?” Karloman asked, pouring the courier his wine with a glare.
“The Doge cannot safely leave the island without risk of harm or death,” the messenger pointed out, as Karloman slid the cup across the table to him. “He has been branded a heretic by the Bishop of Rome, the Bishop who crowned you as Emperor. He cannot be sure of his safety.”
“Why can he not feel sure of his safety?” the Emperor asked plainly, seating himself down now that his guest was attended to, “Does he expect that I would do an emissary with whom I am engaged in negotiations harm?”
“He cannot take the risk,” the messenger insisted stubbornly. “He must meet with Your Majesty, or your chosen representatives, inside the city or not at all.”
“And what guarantees do I have, for the safety of my ambassadors should I choose to delegate them?” Karloman asked, “You can’t very well expect me to trust the Doge’s assurances when he has proven himself unwilling to trust mine.”
“I-“
“And if the fact that I sit almost directly upon his borders with a force of nearly thirty thousand men doesn’t impress upon him the importance of the need to meet with me, what will?” Karloman was exaggerating his numbers for effect, but he was also guessing that this portly, slightly stiff-looking fellow was not the kind of person who would think to do a quick count of how many soldiers were in his camp before he entered it. “How else am I to view such inattention as anything other than an insult?”
“I assure you, I assure you, it is not meant as an insult!” The emissary raised his hands, in a near-panic. “The Doge is just uncertain as to why he must come to meet with you!” he gulped the wine nervously, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“If all else fails, I’m perfectly willing to have him send a representative to meet with me on his behalf.” Karloman added reasonably.
“His Grace cannot trust that a mere representative will adequately represent his position!” the emissary flapped his hands, agitated, and took another swig of the wine. “He must ensure that nothing is agreed to that is against the interests of our city, and our Republic.”
“And how far against the interests of the Republic would it be for an army of thirty thousand Franks to be unleashed upon it?” Karloman asked. The threat was delivered quietly, but his tone hardened slightly, making the threat plain.
“V-Very,” The Messenger agreed, taking another panicked gulp, “That wouldn’t be to our advantage at all.”
“Of course not,” Karloman agreed soothingly, “More wine?”
“Yes,” the ambassador gulped down another mouthful, and held out the cup to be refilled.
“Since we agree that such a course of action would be detrimental to Venice and it’s interests, let’s discuss again how best for you to serve them.”
“I-I cannot consent to the Doge…”
“The Doge himself must understand that he must be willing to give a little trust to be shown a little.” Karloman interrupted, “My army is not here for him, it has a task to perform elsewhere. But if he makes decisions that obstruct my army’s course, then I must take all necessary steps to remove those obstructions. I would prefer those obstructions be removed peacefully, calmly, but I cannot simply be held up because of your Doge’s discomfort. The tasks I have to accomplish are pressing, and I cannot accomplish them sitting on the Gulf of Venice,”
He leaned forward slightly, as the now increasingly sloshed emissary took another sip from his cup.
“Will you help me accomplish that? And spare poor Venice the prospect of prolonged war with a superior foe?”
“I-I,”
“You could be a hero,” Karloman pressed him. “The Man Who Saved the Republic, stopped a war, saved the city from siege. Who else could convince the Doge to speak to the Franks, if you could not?”
“I-I see.” Another gulp of the wine.
“So you have decided? Will you advise the Doge to come and speak with me?”
“I-I will,” the emissary’s shoulders slumped, he drank the mulled wine again.
“Splendid,” Karloman replied, keeping his tone calm, though his heart leapt at the success of the meeting. “I shall wait for him two days from now, at the tree glade on the south path out of my camp. Please advise him to be present. My men will be restless if they have to remain here longer than necessary.”
He sent the emissary off then, watching the figure slugglishly mount his horse and ride back towards the distant torchlight of that city on the water.
Karloman wandered his way over towards the mud-brick dwelling in which his mother and her leading agents had cloistered themselves, plotting and sorting through her information, as she regularly did.
“Did it work?” Bertrada asked, not looking up as he came through the door.
“Aye, it worked, had him mumbling assent within a few moments of drinking it, and the mull in the wine seemed to help.”
“As it should,” she replied, gazing at him evenly, “It wasn’t a substance easy to acquire, but it should hopefully dull his wits for long enough for him to convince the Doge to come and meet you.”
“I’ll tear the city down brick by brick if he doesn’t,” Karloman stated, face hardening dangerously, “We cannot afford delays, and if Venice declares herself my enemy, then she will be treated as one. I will have the ships I need, one way or another. Even if I have to swim my men over the Adriatic to get there.”
His mother, knowing him well, did not doubt that he meant it…
Two Days following.
“Is he coming?” Pepin raised a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the burning Italian sunlight as he did so, raising slightly higher in his saddle so as to catch any glimpse of movement down the road from the city.
“Patience,” his father urged him. “He’ll be nervous no doubt. He might take an hour or so to emerge.”
Pepin marvelled at his father’s confidence. He sat, unperturbed by the prospect that they might be wasting their time for a meeting with a figure who would never turn up.
“Do you expect the Doge to be willing to cooperate?”
“I have an army of twenty thousand troops on his doorstep,” Karloman replied, though he answered it calmly, telling Pepin his father was not irritated by his questions. “If he doesn’t come to meet me when I request talks, he is more foolish than I have been led to suggest.”
“And do you plan to drug his wine too?”
“What?” Karloman snapped his head to gaze at his son, “Where did you hear about that?”
“Your captain, Massilio, has a big mouth,” Pepin grinned, “He was bragging about it in his mess yesterday.”
“Hmm, I’d rather that story didn’t get spread around,” Karloman frowned.
“Best not deny it father,” Pepin advised, “leave it in the realm of rumour and speculation, and it’ll die on its own like other unconfirmed slurs.”
“Ha! The son advises the father,” Karloman gave a short bark of laughter. “Very good! Where’d you hear that one?”
“I just came up with it, is it good?” The boy grinned,
“Better than I might have thought,” Karloman smiled, “You did very-Ah! Here they come!”
He pointed down the road, and the clear sun had begun to glint off the distant metal. A small cluster of riders had emerged within eyesight and was moving at walking pace to the small glade in which the emperor and the prince had reined in to wait.
The riders had above them a standard, held at rest and bundled with an olive branch, the well-understood signal of parley. Even if Karloman had not seen this, he would’ve recognised them as the embassage that had arrived from Venice to negotiate.
And as the riders drew closer, the man in the centre of the cluster emerged to their head, riding a fine bay mare, large podgy feet falling loose onto the horse’s flanks.
This was Doge Nestore the Just, Conqueror of Venice, Hessereich of the Fraticelli. Ruler of the Republic.
The man’s slick black hair was adorned by a simple gold-banded circlet, nothing unusual for the average lord in the Frankish realms. Yet it was his finery that really distinguished him from his small retinue, posh red and grey silks from the farthest east, that glittered with coloured patterns. Upon his face, a fine aquiline nose perched above a thin, curved mouth and below a rather noble forehead, chiselled like that of a particularly stubborn and bullish farm goat.
Oh my, Father might have trouble with this one. Pepin thought, impressed in spite of himself.
Nestore 'The Just' had conquered the Republic of Venice in 775, and ruled the city as a de facto autocrat since that time. He was, incidentally, a Fraticelli, and was thus in rebellion to both the Latin and Greek Churches. A formidable and flamboyant figure,
Neither man moved to speak as the Doge’s retinue drew up short just several metres away from where he and his father sat. Karloman seemed unmoved by the display of finery, obviously designed to impress the Doge’s status as a conqueror who had won his city by force.
“I greet you, Karloman of the Franks,” came the first words, not from any in the Doge’s retinue, but from the man himself, a clear, beautifully spoken spate of words, in the Francian language, spoken without even a hint of accent or flaw.
“And I greet you, Nestore, Doge of Venice, Protector of the Republic,” Karloman replied, “Thank you for arriving here so promptly.”
In fact, he hadn’t arrived promptly at all, but the Doge, wisely, chose to ignore that sally. “I could hardly ignore the presence of many thousands of armed men on my doorstep.”
“I would not be able to do so either, Your Grace,” Karloman responded, and Pepin did not miss the note of relief that crept into his father’s voice as he realised he was dealing with a sensible man.
“Of course, I am concerned as to what you intend to do with them.”
“Fear not Your Grace, I do not intend to threaten your Republic,” Karloman replied smoothly, “My destination is further east, to Constantinople, to topple the usurper and restore the rightful Empress of Rome.”
“And which one is the rightful one again?” The Doge asked, raising an eyebrow, “I’ve lost count of late,”
Strangely, Pepin saw his father smile at that, “Aye, they’ve not won any points for consistency of late,” and the Doge gave an answering grin, “But I married Empress Eirene on the condition that she be restored to the Eastern Empire, and that I rule the West, as decreed by His Holiness, Pontiff Honorius II,”
The Doge’s face hardened, “We have not accepted Pontiff Honorius’s will for some time. As you are well aware.”
“Aye, I am,” Karloman replied, “Which puts us in a more awkward position than we would otherwise be, since I am undertaking my venture east in part at his request.”
“Topple the usurper, and then Empress Eirene doesn’t squash the Bishop of Rome like a bug for daring to usurp the perogatives of the Patriarch in Constantinople?” The Doge asked, arching those formidable eyebrows again, “Oh yes,” he replied, in response to Karloman’s look of surprise, “We are familiar with your agreement,”
Rarely did Pepin see his father lost for words, and even here, he recovered quickly, but the Doge’s knowledge of the agreement had thrown him. “You are well-informed,” his father grunted, “I’ve no doubt you’ve been busy gathering information on our intentions since then.”
“Since my city sits in an island in the Adriatic, with the Patriarch of Constantinople to the East, the Latin Pontiff to the south, and two supposed Emperor’s ordained by two different clerics on either side, I can hardly do otherwise,” The Doge Nestore replied.
“Quite” Karloman agreed, gesturing placatingly “Your city is a gnat sandwiched between elephants, and if either one moves too far to one side, it’ll crush you underfoot.”
“An apt analogy,” the Doge replied, “So what does this elephant want of me today?”
“Ships, primarily,” Karloman replied, figuring there was no point in dissembling with this man, “I seek to hire two squadrons of your Venetian galleys to serve as mercenaries for my upcoming war. I shall pay them their fee, of course , and offer them their equivalent share of spoils to my own men.”
“I see no reason why my captains would oppose such an offer,” Nestore admitted, “But the Republic technically remains a vassal to the Emperor in Constantinopolis,” the Doge spread his arms wide, “How am I to explain to him if my ships are used in an attempt to take from him his city and Empire?”
“Hopefully by the time he realises, he’ll be dead,” Karloman replied firmly, “And when Empress Eirene takes the throne, imagine how she will reward the one whose ships helped her to do it? Imagine what protection she might provide from the threat of invasion or attack to the city that helped her in such a way.”
“Protect Venice from attack? Hmm..” The Doge smiled, “Use one elephant to contain the other. Tempting, but of course, all this depends on you winning, which I have no guarantee that you will do.”
“I am not a man to be undone, Your Grace,” Pepin’s father replied, “Take my word on that.”
“I have no doubt you mean what you say,” The Doge replied calmly, “And no doubt you will do whatever you feel you must to achieve your victory,” he gestured back to his city, “my drugged messenger made that quite plain,”
For the second time in one conversation, Pepin saw his father thrown off balance, “Wha-“
“You think you’re the only one who has access to courtiers who have knowledge of such things?” the Doge asked, scornfully, “You underestimate us. I did not conquer this city and this Republic by being foolish, Karloman of the Franks. And what you ask of me today is a risk, a foolhardy risk, with no guarantee of pay-off.”
“And what of the pay-off if you refuse me and my men storm your city?” Karloman asked, now genuinely peeved that he had lost the initiative against this man, while Pepin watched, fascinated. He had rarely seen his father bested.
“You are welcome to try,” the Doge scoffed, “But of course, without ships, it will be rather hard to cross into the city, unless your men have suddenly become Christ himself, and started being able to walk upon the water.”
“I’ll swim them over if I have to,” Karloman grumbled,
“And lose half of them?” The Doge asked, “Sure, you might take my city, but then you won’t take your next one.” He laughed at the fuming look on Karloman’s face. “You have never seen those Theodosian Walls, Karloman of the Franks. I don’t doubt your new bride has told you of them, but hearing and seeing are not the same thing. You will need every man you can get to take them, and then some.”
“Which is why I seek to hire ships, I offer fair price and fair profit,” Karloman replied, trying to calm himself and steer the conversation back into familiar territory, this was not going the way he had planned, at all. “And what better way to guarantee that I have no reason to accede to his Holiness’s requests to re-take your city for Holy Mother Church then to ensure you are still useful to me?”
“What better way indeed?” the Doge grinned, amused, “That would be true if I trust you to uphold any bargain you make with me, but I cannot, Karloman of the Franks.”
“And why not?” Karloman asked, feigning insult, “I have not broken the terms of any agreement I have made with you or anyone thus far, I am a man of my word Doge, ask anyone.” He delivered those last two words with an air of threat.
“So is Emperor Christophorus, if what I hear of him is true,” Doge Nestore replied, “Why risk angering him, who has been my traditional support, when I could anger only you, who has done nothing for me?”
“Things are changing Doge, Christophorus and his clique are not long for the world,” Karloman had some confidence back in his voice now. “And my men may not be able to swim across water, but neither can any of his. And your city is far away from Constantinopolis. If we were to fall, I have little doubt your city could be protected from it’s wrath.”
“I could guarantee it as well” Pepin suddenly spoke, before he had time to consider the words coming out of his mouth.
“What?” both the Doge and his father had turned to stare at him.
Swallowing hard, forcing himself to go on, the boy replied, “I could guarantee you were protected if we failed. If my father were to fall, I would be Emperor after him, and Emperors should not forget their friends. Should we fail, and Constantinopolis seek vengeance upon your fair city, I would make a promise to use our armies to shield you from it’s wrath.”
The Doge was looking at him, shocked, while Karloman was gazing at him with a mixture of… distaste? Pride? With his father, it was hard to tell.
“And does the boy speak with your authority?” the Doge asked Karloman, calmly.
“He does,” his father replied softly. Pepin let go a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
“Hmm… Then I see little risk to the venture, so long as my captains are agreeable to your price. And so long as your boy is prepared to keep his word.”
“My son is many things Doge, but a liar he is not.” Karloman replied.
And what his father meant by that, Pepin did not know.
Later, in the war tent of Karloman Karling,
“So we’ll have our ships?”
“Aye,” the Emperor replied.
“Pleased to hear it father,” Pepin replied.
“It was not my doing, but yours,” his father looked at him, “What possibly possessed you to give him such a promise?”
“I-I don’t know.” The boy shrugged, “I just thought of it on the spot.
“Hmm,” Karloman grunted. “I suppose I should be grateful that you had a way to minimise the risk to him, elsewise he wouldn’t have let us hire any ships. This way, we get our ships, and he’s ensured that he and his city are safe, regardless of who wins or loses. Bah!”
“I’m sorry father,”
“That’s not your fault son,” Karloman replied quickly. “I walked myself into that. Should’ve known he would realise it was a bluff he might call, learn a lesson from that son,” he told Pepin warningly, “There’s always a chance that a plan might go wrong. People aren’t predictable, and sometimes the way you want them to act or think they will act is not the way they will. Leave yourself other options, lest you get trapped in a web of your own making as I did.”
“Yes father,”
“There’s a good lad,” his father smiled, but then frowned, “In future though, don’t make promises without checking with me first.”
“I won’t father.”
“Good,” His father nodded, satisfied. “We’ll be departing in a few weeks for the east then, the army will march overland, while the Venetian captains prepare to sail.”
“We’re not going by ship?”
“Not most of the army, no,” Karloman shook his head, “I’ll explain when we’re on the move.”
And with a wave of his hand, Karloman dismissed his son and heir from his presence once more.
OOC: So Karloman got his ships, thanks to Pepin salvaging that meeting on the spur of the moment. Karloman seems to have met his match in the Doge though! I really enjoyed writing their interactions, because it's rare a character can get the better of our protagonist in such a way, but the Doge arranged things very nicely for himself either way and I thought he was a fairly cool character to have in the story in that way. So they both get what they wanted, but the Doge has probably got the better of the exchange either way.
Next post, it's off to the Byzantine Empire! Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoy writing for you all.
May, 782. Aquileia, Italy, War camp of the Frankish Empire.
“Impossible,”
“Why?” Karloman asked, pouring the courier his wine with a glare.
“The Doge cannot safely leave the island without risk of harm or death,” the messenger pointed out, as Karloman slid the cup across the table to him. “He has been branded a heretic by the Bishop of Rome, the Bishop who crowned you as Emperor. He cannot be sure of his safety.”
“Why can he not feel sure of his safety?” the Emperor asked plainly, seating himself down now that his guest was attended to, “Does he expect that I would do an emissary with whom I am engaged in negotiations harm?”
“He cannot take the risk,” the messenger insisted stubbornly. “He must meet with Your Majesty, or your chosen representatives, inside the city or not at all.”
“And what guarantees do I have, for the safety of my ambassadors should I choose to delegate them?” Karloman asked, “You can’t very well expect me to trust the Doge’s assurances when he has proven himself unwilling to trust mine.”
“I-“
“And if the fact that I sit almost directly upon his borders with a force of nearly thirty thousand men doesn’t impress upon him the importance of the need to meet with me, what will?” Karloman was exaggerating his numbers for effect, but he was also guessing that this portly, slightly stiff-looking fellow was not the kind of person who would think to do a quick count of how many soldiers were in his camp before he entered it. “How else am I to view such inattention as anything other than an insult?”
“I assure you, I assure you, it is not meant as an insult!” The emissary raised his hands, in a near-panic. “The Doge is just uncertain as to why he must come to meet with you!” he gulped the wine nervously, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“If all else fails, I’m perfectly willing to have him send a representative to meet with me on his behalf.” Karloman added reasonably.
“His Grace cannot trust that a mere representative will adequately represent his position!” the emissary flapped his hands, agitated, and took another swig of the wine. “He must ensure that nothing is agreed to that is against the interests of our city, and our Republic.”
“And how far against the interests of the Republic would it be for an army of thirty thousand Franks to be unleashed upon it?” Karloman asked. The threat was delivered quietly, but his tone hardened slightly, making the threat plain.
“V-Very,” The Messenger agreed, taking another panicked gulp, “That wouldn’t be to our advantage at all.”
“Of course not,” Karloman agreed soothingly, “More wine?”
“Yes,” the ambassador gulped down another mouthful, and held out the cup to be refilled.
“Since we agree that such a course of action would be detrimental to Venice and it’s interests, let’s discuss again how best for you to serve them.”
“I-I cannot consent to the Doge…”
“The Doge himself must understand that he must be willing to give a little trust to be shown a little.” Karloman interrupted, “My army is not here for him, it has a task to perform elsewhere. But if he makes decisions that obstruct my army’s course, then I must take all necessary steps to remove those obstructions. I would prefer those obstructions be removed peacefully, calmly, but I cannot simply be held up because of your Doge’s discomfort. The tasks I have to accomplish are pressing, and I cannot accomplish them sitting on the Gulf of Venice,”
He leaned forward slightly, as the now increasingly sloshed emissary took another sip from his cup.
“Will you help me accomplish that? And spare poor Venice the prospect of prolonged war with a superior foe?”
“I-I,”
“You could be a hero,” Karloman pressed him. “The Man Who Saved the Republic, stopped a war, saved the city from siege. Who else could convince the Doge to speak to the Franks, if you could not?”
“I-I see.” Another gulp of the wine.
“So you have decided? Will you advise the Doge to come and speak with me?”
“I-I will,” the emissary’s shoulders slumped, he drank the mulled wine again.
“Splendid,” Karloman replied, keeping his tone calm, though his heart leapt at the success of the meeting. “I shall wait for him two days from now, at the tree glade on the south path out of my camp. Please advise him to be present. My men will be restless if they have to remain here longer than necessary.”
He sent the emissary off then, watching the figure slugglishly mount his horse and ride back towards the distant torchlight of that city on the water.
Karloman wandered his way over towards the mud-brick dwelling in which his mother and her leading agents had cloistered themselves, plotting and sorting through her information, as she regularly did.
“Did it work?” Bertrada asked, not looking up as he came through the door.
“Aye, it worked, had him mumbling assent within a few moments of drinking it, and the mull in the wine seemed to help.”
“As it should,” she replied, gazing at him evenly, “It wasn’t a substance easy to acquire, but it should hopefully dull his wits for long enough for him to convince the Doge to come and meet you.”
“I’ll tear the city down brick by brick if he doesn’t,” Karloman stated, face hardening dangerously, “We cannot afford delays, and if Venice declares herself my enemy, then she will be treated as one. I will have the ships I need, one way or another. Even if I have to swim my men over the Adriatic to get there.”
His mother, knowing him well, did not doubt that he meant it…
Two Days following.
“Is he coming?” Pepin raised a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the burning Italian sunlight as he did so, raising slightly higher in his saddle so as to catch any glimpse of movement down the road from the city.
“Patience,” his father urged him. “He’ll be nervous no doubt. He might take an hour or so to emerge.”
Pepin marvelled at his father’s confidence. He sat, unperturbed by the prospect that they might be wasting their time for a meeting with a figure who would never turn up.
“Do you expect the Doge to be willing to cooperate?”
“I have an army of twenty thousand troops on his doorstep,” Karloman replied, though he answered it calmly, telling Pepin his father was not irritated by his questions. “If he doesn’t come to meet me when I request talks, he is more foolish than I have been led to suggest.”
“And do you plan to drug his wine too?”
“What?” Karloman snapped his head to gaze at his son, “Where did you hear about that?”
“Your captain, Massilio, has a big mouth,” Pepin grinned, “He was bragging about it in his mess yesterday.”
“Hmm, I’d rather that story didn’t get spread around,” Karloman frowned.
“Best not deny it father,” Pepin advised, “leave it in the realm of rumour and speculation, and it’ll die on its own like other unconfirmed slurs.”
“Ha! The son advises the father,” Karloman gave a short bark of laughter. “Very good! Where’d you hear that one?”
“I just came up with it, is it good?” The boy grinned,
“Better than I might have thought,” Karloman smiled, “You did very-Ah! Here they come!”
He pointed down the road, and the clear sun had begun to glint off the distant metal. A small cluster of riders had emerged within eyesight and was moving at walking pace to the small glade in which the emperor and the prince had reined in to wait.
The riders had above them a standard, held at rest and bundled with an olive branch, the well-understood signal of parley. Even if Karloman had not seen this, he would’ve recognised them as the embassage that had arrived from Venice to negotiate.
And as the riders drew closer, the man in the centre of the cluster emerged to their head, riding a fine bay mare, large podgy feet falling loose onto the horse’s flanks.
This was Doge Nestore the Just, Conqueror of Venice, Hessereich of the Fraticelli. Ruler of the Republic.
The man’s slick black hair was adorned by a simple gold-banded circlet, nothing unusual for the average lord in the Frankish realms. Yet it was his finery that really distinguished him from his small retinue, posh red and grey silks from the farthest east, that glittered with coloured patterns. Upon his face, a fine aquiline nose perched above a thin, curved mouth and below a rather noble forehead, chiselled like that of a particularly stubborn and bullish farm goat.
Oh my, Father might have trouble with this one. Pepin thought, impressed in spite of himself.
Nestore 'The Just' had conquered the Republic of Venice in 775, and ruled the city as a de facto autocrat since that time. He was, incidentally, a Fraticelli, and was thus in rebellion to both the Latin and Greek Churches. A formidable and flamboyant figure,
Neither man moved to speak as the Doge’s retinue drew up short just several metres away from where he and his father sat. Karloman seemed unmoved by the display of finery, obviously designed to impress the Doge’s status as a conqueror who had won his city by force.
“I greet you, Karloman of the Franks,” came the first words, not from any in the Doge’s retinue, but from the man himself, a clear, beautifully spoken spate of words, in the Francian language, spoken without even a hint of accent or flaw.
“And I greet you, Nestore, Doge of Venice, Protector of the Republic,” Karloman replied, “Thank you for arriving here so promptly.”
In fact, he hadn’t arrived promptly at all, but the Doge, wisely, chose to ignore that sally. “I could hardly ignore the presence of many thousands of armed men on my doorstep.”
“I would not be able to do so either, Your Grace,” Karloman responded, and Pepin did not miss the note of relief that crept into his father’s voice as he realised he was dealing with a sensible man.
“Of course, I am concerned as to what you intend to do with them.”
“Fear not Your Grace, I do not intend to threaten your Republic,” Karloman replied smoothly, “My destination is further east, to Constantinople, to topple the usurper and restore the rightful Empress of Rome.”
“And which one is the rightful one again?” The Doge asked, raising an eyebrow, “I’ve lost count of late,”
Strangely, Pepin saw his father smile at that, “Aye, they’ve not won any points for consistency of late,” and the Doge gave an answering grin, “But I married Empress Eirene on the condition that she be restored to the Eastern Empire, and that I rule the West, as decreed by His Holiness, Pontiff Honorius II,”
The Doge’s face hardened, “We have not accepted Pontiff Honorius’s will for some time. As you are well aware.”
“Aye, I am,” Karloman replied, “Which puts us in a more awkward position than we would otherwise be, since I am undertaking my venture east in part at his request.”
“Topple the usurper, and then Empress Eirene doesn’t squash the Bishop of Rome like a bug for daring to usurp the perogatives of the Patriarch in Constantinople?” The Doge asked, arching those formidable eyebrows again, “Oh yes,” he replied, in response to Karloman’s look of surprise, “We are familiar with your agreement,”
Rarely did Pepin see his father lost for words, and even here, he recovered quickly, but the Doge’s knowledge of the agreement had thrown him. “You are well-informed,” his father grunted, “I’ve no doubt you’ve been busy gathering information on our intentions since then.”
“Since my city sits in an island in the Adriatic, with the Patriarch of Constantinople to the East, the Latin Pontiff to the south, and two supposed Emperor’s ordained by two different clerics on either side, I can hardly do otherwise,” The Doge Nestore replied.
“Quite” Karloman agreed, gesturing placatingly “Your city is a gnat sandwiched between elephants, and if either one moves too far to one side, it’ll crush you underfoot.”
“An apt analogy,” the Doge replied, “So what does this elephant want of me today?”
“Ships, primarily,” Karloman replied, figuring there was no point in dissembling with this man, “I seek to hire two squadrons of your Venetian galleys to serve as mercenaries for my upcoming war. I shall pay them their fee, of course , and offer them their equivalent share of spoils to my own men.”
“I see no reason why my captains would oppose such an offer,” Nestore admitted, “But the Republic technically remains a vassal to the Emperor in Constantinopolis,” the Doge spread his arms wide, “How am I to explain to him if my ships are used in an attempt to take from him his city and Empire?”
“Hopefully by the time he realises, he’ll be dead,” Karloman replied firmly, “And when Empress Eirene takes the throne, imagine how she will reward the one whose ships helped her to do it? Imagine what protection she might provide from the threat of invasion or attack to the city that helped her in such a way.”
“Protect Venice from attack? Hmm..” The Doge smiled, “Use one elephant to contain the other. Tempting, but of course, all this depends on you winning, which I have no guarantee that you will do.”
“I am not a man to be undone, Your Grace,” Pepin’s father replied, “Take my word on that.”
“I have no doubt you mean what you say,” The Doge replied calmly, “And no doubt you will do whatever you feel you must to achieve your victory,” he gestured back to his city, “my drugged messenger made that quite plain,”
For the second time in one conversation, Pepin saw his father thrown off balance, “Wha-“
“You think you’re the only one who has access to courtiers who have knowledge of such things?” the Doge asked, scornfully, “You underestimate us. I did not conquer this city and this Republic by being foolish, Karloman of the Franks. And what you ask of me today is a risk, a foolhardy risk, with no guarantee of pay-off.”
“And what of the pay-off if you refuse me and my men storm your city?” Karloman asked, now genuinely peeved that he had lost the initiative against this man, while Pepin watched, fascinated. He had rarely seen his father bested.
“You are welcome to try,” the Doge scoffed, “But of course, without ships, it will be rather hard to cross into the city, unless your men have suddenly become Christ himself, and started being able to walk upon the water.”
“I’ll swim them over if I have to,” Karloman grumbled,
“And lose half of them?” The Doge asked, “Sure, you might take my city, but then you won’t take your next one.” He laughed at the fuming look on Karloman’s face. “You have never seen those Theodosian Walls, Karloman of the Franks. I don’t doubt your new bride has told you of them, but hearing and seeing are not the same thing. You will need every man you can get to take them, and then some.”
“Which is why I seek to hire ships, I offer fair price and fair profit,” Karloman replied, trying to calm himself and steer the conversation back into familiar territory, this was not going the way he had planned, at all. “And what better way to guarantee that I have no reason to accede to his Holiness’s requests to re-take your city for Holy Mother Church then to ensure you are still useful to me?”
“What better way indeed?” the Doge grinned, amused, “That would be true if I trust you to uphold any bargain you make with me, but I cannot, Karloman of the Franks.”
“And why not?” Karloman asked, feigning insult, “I have not broken the terms of any agreement I have made with you or anyone thus far, I am a man of my word Doge, ask anyone.” He delivered those last two words with an air of threat.
“So is Emperor Christophorus, if what I hear of him is true,” Doge Nestore replied, “Why risk angering him, who has been my traditional support, when I could anger only you, who has done nothing for me?”
“Things are changing Doge, Christophorus and his clique are not long for the world,” Karloman had some confidence back in his voice now. “And my men may not be able to swim across water, but neither can any of his. And your city is far away from Constantinopolis. If we were to fall, I have little doubt your city could be protected from it’s wrath.”
“I could guarantee it as well” Pepin suddenly spoke, before he had time to consider the words coming out of his mouth.
“What?” both the Doge and his father had turned to stare at him.
Swallowing hard, forcing himself to go on, the boy replied, “I could guarantee you were protected if we failed. If my father were to fall, I would be Emperor after him, and Emperors should not forget their friends. Should we fail, and Constantinopolis seek vengeance upon your fair city, I would make a promise to use our armies to shield you from it’s wrath.”
The Doge was looking at him, shocked, while Karloman was gazing at him with a mixture of… distaste? Pride? With his father, it was hard to tell.
“And does the boy speak with your authority?” the Doge asked Karloman, calmly.
“He does,” his father replied softly. Pepin let go a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
“Hmm… Then I see little risk to the venture, so long as my captains are agreeable to your price. And so long as your boy is prepared to keep his word.”
“My son is many things Doge, but a liar he is not.” Karloman replied.
And what his father meant by that, Pepin did not know.
Later, in the war tent of Karloman Karling,
“So we’ll have our ships?”
“Aye,” the Emperor replied.
“Pleased to hear it father,” Pepin replied.
“It was not my doing, but yours,” his father looked at him, “What possibly possessed you to give him such a promise?”
“I-I don’t know.” The boy shrugged, “I just thought of it on the spot.
“Hmm,” Karloman grunted. “I suppose I should be grateful that you had a way to minimise the risk to him, elsewise he wouldn’t have let us hire any ships. This way, we get our ships, and he’s ensured that he and his city are safe, regardless of who wins or loses. Bah!”
“I’m sorry father,”
“That’s not your fault son,” Karloman replied quickly. “I walked myself into that. Should’ve known he would realise it was a bluff he might call, learn a lesson from that son,” he told Pepin warningly, “There’s always a chance that a plan might go wrong. People aren’t predictable, and sometimes the way you want them to act or think they will act is not the way they will. Leave yourself other options, lest you get trapped in a web of your own making as I did.”
“Yes father,”
“There’s a good lad,” his father smiled, but then frowned, “In future though, don’t make promises without checking with me first.”
“I won’t father.”
“Good,” His father nodded, satisfied. “We’ll be departing in a few weeks for the east then, the army will march overland, while the Venetian captains prepare to sail.”
“We’re not going by ship?”
“Not most of the army, no,” Karloman shook his head, “I’ll explain when we’re on the move.”
And with a wave of his hand, Karloman dismissed his son and heir from his presence once more.
OOC: So Karloman got his ships, thanks to Pepin salvaging that meeting on the spur of the moment. Karloman seems to have met his match in the Doge though! I really enjoyed writing their interactions, because it's rare a character can get the better of our protagonist in such a way, but the Doge arranged things very nicely for himself either way and I thought he was a fairly cool character to have in the story in that way. So they both get what they wanted, but the Doge has probably got the better of the exchange either way.
Next post, it's off to the Byzantine Empire! Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoy writing for you all.
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Pepin has been hanging around his grandmother. As for the Venetian emissary not doing a quick count, people will see what they want to see. The cautious man will see 1K around every campfire and every log is a siege weapon. The aggressive man will under estimate troop count and quality.
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The emissary was a bureaucrat sent to parley. He's not the kind of guy who would've thought to do a quick head count.
The Doge, as you can see, is a much tougher customer.
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Intresting that the Doge was able to pull one over Carloman with only five intrigue. I see you prioritise traits and story over stats.
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When it makes the story more interesting, yes. Traits are more interesting for character purposes, usually. Stats are also obviously massively affected by traits. And people who are very good at something can be beaten by someone who is generally less good at it because they underestimated them in a specific instance, which is what Karloman found out here. You saw how he treated the messenger with bluff and contempt, but when the Doge showed up he wasn't as easy to browbeat, which meant Karloman was trying to switch tactics mid-stream.
Basically Karloman's threat to burn the city down was one big bluff, he was just hoping the Doge didn't know it. But the guy was someone who'd gone and conquered Venice in his own right, he knew what you needed to do to do it, he knew Karloman didn't have it, and basically his goal was to A) Get the army off his doorstep and B) Arrange things so that, whatever happens in the war in the east, his city and position are preserved. That's why until Pepin gave his guarantee, the answer was going to be 'no,'. Now he gets to ensure that whoever wins, so does he. There's always a danger of having your protag be too invincible in this sorts of stories, and it does need to be impressed (again!) that while Karloman's a fairly smart guy, he can be beaten when his plans don't accord with reality. He's not a great improviser off the battlefield.
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The army had departed Aquileia in late May of 782. It was Karloman’s insistence that the army depart once his agreement for the Venetian ships had been made.
Left behind in Aquileia was the now heavily pregnant Eirene, Empress of the east. Once the child was born, it would travel with her on one of the hired Venetian galleys, captained by a man named Piero, who had accepted the Emperor’s offer of increased pay for the transport of his wife and the Empress. The Doge’s officials had assured him Piero was one of the most reliable of the captains for hire… so long as he was paid what he was promised.
As the army marched east, the main force of the Eastern Empire remained on campaign in Epirus. Karloman’s plan aimed to bypass the most significant forces of the Eastern Empire and march directly to Constantinopolis, take the city from the garrison that remained. As they passed through the cities and towns of the Empire, Karloman planned to attract as many new supporters for Eirene’s claim in the outer regions of the Empire as possible.
Consequently, the Emperor rode with Eirene’s two attendants Andronikus and Hiero, in his retinue. Both were empowered to speak on the Empress’s behalf, and represent her in all relevant state engagements.
They travelled through the Balkan regions and it was here, north of Epirus, that the Emperor faced his first military challenge…
“A thousand men you say?” Karloman asked,
“Aye sire, coming from the south and riding hard to intercept us,” the tired scout had babbled out these words quickly, clearly exhausted from his ride.
“Good work son,” the Emperor smiled, “We’ll take it from here,”
And so they did, the war tent made it’s plans to deal with the one thousand cavalrymen whom the generals in Constantinopolis had sent against them, a quick redeployment of troops from the Epirote front to the south.
Guarding his position at the northern end of the Illyrian pass that would take them further south, the Emperor positioned his trap.
If the Romanoi riders had hoped to surprise the Frankish force, they were wrong. As they charged from the north end of the pass toward the Frankish camp in the middle of June, they found the Frankish horse, already mounted up and counter-charging in their wake. The Emperor was in their midst, exhorting and directing his riders. With the momentum of the riders blunted, the Frankish pikes and halbardiers cut them to pieces on both flanks, leaving only a few dozen shattered Romanion survivors to flee back towards their city in a shambles.
Despite the over-confidence of this charge, Karloman knew his foes would not be so careless again. As word came that the Imperial army in Epirus was remaining firm in it’s engagements there and not moving north to intercept him, the Emperor advanced cautiously. Several of the Illlyrian territorial possessions yielded supplies and recruits to him, after negotiations conducted with Andronikus and Hiero. The major settlements of the Empire had always been divided in their loyalties, and with an army marching to restore Eirene to the throne, few in the path of said army were prepared to offer major resistance.
In August, the Emperor found his first major obstacle to the advance of his forces. The town of Dyrrachion had been a hotbed of Iconoclast radicalism for years, and had strenuously opposed Eirene’s coup. When she was toppled, their allegiance to the new regime had been swift and forthcoming. They were not about to let Karloman’s army pass again now.
The townspeople and garrison had rapidly dug themselves a trench in front of their walls to prevent the Frankish siege engines from coming atop their wall.
Within days, it was clear how substantially they had miscalculated, Karloman did not simply attempt to fill in the ditch, or lay siege to the walls, instead, he had his own men dig a series of circumvallation’s around the town, and then, when that was done, dug a number of ditches to divert the town’s water supply away from it’s walls. When the panicked townsfolk realised what the Franks were attempting, they responded by sending out sorties to attempt to disrupt construction. But these efforts were repulsed, and within two weeks, the city was cut off from it’s supply of fresh water, and its reserves began to dwindle rapidly.
On day twenty, a number of civilians attempted to escape under cover of darkness, when they were caught and brought before Karloman, they begged to be allowed through the lines. Karloman refused, instead, the heads of each escaped person was struck off, and thrown back over the walls of the city from a catapaul, both to spread pestilence and to lower the morale of the defenders. Without surrender, the message said, there would be no mercy.
Dyrachion fell in early August, giving the Emperor a clear base on the east coast of the Adriatic and the ability to ferry in new supplies. He sent riders north, ordering them to dispatch the Venetian vessels at the earliest possible time while he began his march east towards Constantinopolis. Technically much of the territory through which they marched would be controlled by the Bulgars, but Karloman was confident that the Bulgar leadership would see the army as reflective of an internal struggle in Constantinople, and not choose to interfere.
By mid-September, the first of the Venetian vessels had arrived, as did the Empress Eirene, with a smiling, squalling package of joy in toe.
“I call him Nicolas,” she replied, handing him over to Karloman,
“Strong Greek name”, her husband nodded. He never quite knew what to do with newborns. “I approve.”
“I had hoped you might,” she kissed him softly then, and Karloman was surprised by the tenderness of the gesture. They had been getting along well since they married, but he was not a man used to easy physical affection, nor receiving it, for that matter, for his own tastes inclined toward the prudish and conservative in matters of the flesh.
“All’s well with whatever arrangements it please you to make,” Karloman shrugged, “It’s your Empire, or it will be again soon.”
“You march on Constantinopolis then?”
“Tomorrow, if you are well to travel,”
“I am,” she smiled that enigmatic smile that had fascinated him since he first met her. “That will be welcome.”
“And then we march for the Thedosian Walls.”
“You are fortunate then,” Eirene replied, “For I know them well.”
Karloman could only hope she knew them well enough to help him beat them…
OOC: So Dyracchion is taken and Karloman has been joined by Eirene and the first of the Venetian flotilla. So far, the war goes well, with the Byzantine main army still further south and the road to Constantinopolis seemingly open. But how will the attack upon the City of the World's Desire go?
Left behind in Aquileia was the now heavily pregnant Eirene, Empress of the east. Once the child was born, it would travel with her on one of the hired Venetian galleys, captained by a man named Piero, who had accepted the Emperor’s offer of increased pay for the transport of his wife and the Empress. The Doge’s officials had assured him Piero was one of the most reliable of the captains for hire… so long as he was paid what he was promised.
As the army marched east, the main force of the Eastern Empire remained on campaign in Epirus. Karloman’s plan aimed to bypass the most significant forces of the Eastern Empire and march directly to Constantinopolis, take the city from the garrison that remained. As they passed through the cities and towns of the Empire, Karloman planned to attract as many new supporters for Eirene’s claim in the outer regions of the Empire as possible.
Consequently, the Emperor rode with Eirene’s two attendants Andronikus and Hiero, in his retinue. Both were empowered to speak on the Empress’s behalf, and represent her in all relevant state engagements.
They travelled through the Balkan regions and it was here, north of Epirus, that the Emperor faced his first military challenge…
“A thousand men you say?” Karloman asked,
“Aye sire, coming from the south and riding hard to intercept us,” the tired scout had babbled out these words quickly, clearly exhausted from his ride.
“Good work son,” the Emperor smiled, “We’ll take it from here,”
And so they did, the war tent made it’s plans to deal with the one thousand cavalrymen whom the generals in Constantinopolis had sent against them, a quick redeployment of troops from the Epirote front to the south.
Guarding his position at the northern end of the Illyrian pass that would take them further south, the Emperor positioned his trap.
If the Romanoi riders had hoped to surprise the Frankish force, they were wrong. As they charged from the north end of the pass toward the Frankish camp in the middle of June, they found the Frankish horse, already mounted up and counter-charging in their wake. The Emperor was in their midst, exhorting and directing his riders. With the momentum of the riders blunted, the Frankish pikes and halbardiers cut them to pieces on both flanks, leaving only a few dozen shattered Romanion survivors to flee back towards their city in a shambles.
Despite the over-confidence of this charge, Karloman knew his foes would not be so careless again. As word came that the Imperial army in Epirus was remaining firm in it’s engagements there and not moving north to intercept him, the Emperor advanced cautiously. Several of the Illlyrian territorial possessions yielded supplies and recruits to him, after negotiations conducted with Andronikus and Hiero. The major settlements of the Empire had always been divided in their loyalties, and with an army marching to restore Eirene to the throne, few in the path of said army were prepared to offer major resistance.
In August, the Emperor found his first major obstacle to the advance of his forces. The town of Dyrrachion had been a hotbed of Iconoclast radicalism for years, and had strenuously opposed Eirene’s coup. When she was toppled, their allegiance to the new regime had been swift and forthcoming. They were not about to let Karloman’s army pass again now.
The townspeople and garrison had rapidly dug themselves a trench in front of their walls to prevent the Frankish siege engines from coming atop their wall.
Within days, it was clear how substantially they had miscalculated, Karloman did not simply attempt to fill in the ditch, or lay siege to the walls, instead, he had his own men dig a series of circumvallation’s around the town, and then, when that was done, dug a number of ditches to divert the town’s water supply away from it’s walls. When the panicked townsfolk realised what the Franks were attempting, they responded by sending out sorties to attempt to disrupt construction. But these efforts were repulsed, and within two weeks, the city was cut off from it’s supply of fresh water, and its reserves began to dwindle rapidly.
On day twenty, a number of civilians attempted to escape under cover of darkness, when they were caught and brought before Karloman, they begged to be allowed through the lines. Karloman refused, instead, the heads of each escaped person was struck off, and thrown back over the walls of the city from a catapaul, both to spread pestilence and to lower the morale of the defenders. Without surrender, the message said, there would be no mercy.
Dyrachion fell in early August, giving the Emperor a clear base on the east coast of the Adriatic and the ability to ferry in new supplies. He sent riders north, ordering them to dispatch the Venetian vessels at the earliest possible time while he began his march east towards Constantinopolis. Technically much of the territory through which they marched would be controlled by the Bulgars, but Karloman was confident that the Bulgar leadership would see the army as reflective of an internal struggle in Constantinople, and not choose to interfere.
By mid-September, the first of the Venetian vessels had arrived, as did the Empress Eirene, with a smiling, squalling package of joy in toe.
“I call him Nicolas,” she replied, handing him over to Karloman,
“Strong Greek name”, her husband nodded. He never quite knew what to do with newborns. “I approve.”
“I had hoped you might,” she kissed him softly then, and Karloman was surprised by the tenderness of the gesture. They had been getting along well since they married, but he was not a man used to easy physical affection, nor receiving it, for that matter, for his own tastes inclined toward the prudish and conservative in matters of the flesh.
“All’s well with whatever arrangements it please you to make,” Karloman shrugged, “It’s your Empire, or it will be again soon.”
“You march on Constantinopolis then?”
“Tomorrow, if you are well to travel,”
“I am,” she smiled that enigmatic smile that had fascinated him since he first met her. “That will be welcome.”
“And then we march for the Thedosian Walls.”
“You are fortunate then,” Eirene replied, “For I know them well.”
Karloman could only hope she knew them well enough to help him beat them…
OOC: So Dyracchion is taken and Karloman has been joined by Eirene and the first of the Venetian flotilla. So far, the war goes well, with the Byzantine main army still further south and the road to Constantinopolis seemingly open. But how will the attack upon the City of the World's Desire go?
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Nicholas could cause trouble for both Pepin and Konstantinne if his parents wish to merge their holdings.
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