Love, look like the third time is the charm. Why Dyrrachion, why not Avlonas one province south with strait crossing? Great Update!
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OK so I've been writing but I've also been distracted by a few other projects which I've begun and, as is my want, underestimated the time and effort they might take to do, so that's why I'm back to being late again. I'll have a post up tomorrow though, sorry for the delays
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As the year 782 became 783, the Frankish army marched across the northern mountains. As much of this territory was recently occupied by the Bulgars, they passed largely unmolested once the locals realised they were there to bring an end to the Romanion civil war, rather than as the advance of a Roman army to re-take the territories that had been lost recently to the Bulgar.
“Nevertheless, I have plans for them” Eirene informed Karloman as they rode.
“In addition to the Iconoclasts, rebuilding the capital properly and dealing with the Abbasids, you’re going to be busy.” Karloman replied.
“It will take several campaigns,” Eirene admitted, “But once I’m back on my throne and the capital is secured, it will begin.”
“Assuming you don’t get toppled again.”
Eirene gave him a glare. “They got to me faster than I could prepare last time,” she murmured. “I won’t be making that mistake again.”
Something about the way she said it twisted a worm of fear into Karloman…
Constantinopolis, 782.
“I will not wait behind the walls for them to arrive.”
“Emperor, you must-“
“I MUST do nothing” Christophorus snapped, “But if I cower behind high walls while a barbarian army loots and burns it’s way through the countryside, how long until I lose all credibility? What do we gain from being besieged in here? Time?”
“Time to bring in more men,” Maximos answered, “Time in which-“
“Time in which Eirene will be building support,” Christophorus interrupted, “Time in which she will be swaying neutrals and army officers and towns over to her side with bribery and promises. Time in which the Frankish army will tighten the noose, and now you tell me they have Venetian ships as well?”
Maximos shook his head, moved to speak, but the Emperor cut him off again.
“We cannot wait, we must at least try to fight in the field first, lest we hand the initiative to Karloman.”
“What good will his initiative be against the Theodosian Walls?” Maximos demanded incredulously, “You would throw away our best advantage.”
“An advantage that will only slip away, with time,” Christophorus answered, “The Empire is still in flux, it’s arms depleted, it’s treasury low. I am not confident in the ability of this city to withstand a siege as well as it did the last time it came under assault.”
And THAT was a startling admission. The city’s formidable fortifications and highly strategic position has saved it frequently in the past. That the Emperor of Constantinople felt he could not comfortably defend the city…
“There are alternatives…”
“None that are as good!” Christophorus shouted, “Do you know what’s coming our way Maximos? Do you know what this Frankish army brings with it? Do you know what it’s done?” He paced around the room, agitated, “This army smashed the Saxons along the Rhine. This Frankish King made himself the arbiter of a Blood Court, do you know what happened?” His eyes blazed with fright now, “He took thousands of prisoners, lined them up along the dais and butchered them, one after the other after the other, for hours! When it was done, the blood ran down the edges and pooled beneath the feet of the executioners, as a hill of head rose as high as the platform itself! He butchered thousands of Saxons, and what makes you think a barbarian of this nature sees any differences between them and us?” Christophorus shook his head. “No, we confront him in the open first.”
Once the Emperor had made his judgement, there was no swaying him from it, so Christophorus got what he wanted, and the garrison of Constantinopolis, some six thousand strong, prepared to be mustered and marched west…
Exactly where Christophorus had planned to meet Karloman’s force along the route to Constantinople became clear in the few following days, as more forces were mustered from nearby towns. He marched south-west, and it became clear to his commanders that he planned to go to ground in a town with which they were all familiar. One whose name carried great resonance to the Romans…
Phillipi.
Karloman and his force exited the Bulgar lands around December of 782, as the winter had begun to set in. While he was well aware of the risks, he also knew that engaging in large-scale marches during winter was a fool’s proposition, and the enemy already knew he was coming, so he had nothing to gain from advancing further. Once they were back on Romanoi territory, he ordered a semi-permanent camp be constructed, sent out foragers to find more food, and sent out emissaries to ask for the allegiance of nearby towns. The third group, the one mounted on the swiftest steeds, were the scouts, for Karloman did not trust the enemy would simply leave them alone throughout the winter off-season.
Nor did they, his scouts reported enemy harassment of nearby settlements that were attempting to aid his army and, more worryingly, reports of an army massing at Phillipi. Once again, that ancient battlefield was play host to a struggle for the fate of Europe.
It was a brief, relatively tame winter, which suited the increasingly impatient Karloman and Eirene, who took the opportunity provided by the lull in the campaign to tackle some correspondence. Karloman had dispatched orders to Dyracchium, ordering the Venetian ships to begin their sail to the Hellespont, where they would be ordered to move to the Golden Horn when Karloman gave the command…
But first, he had an enemy army ahead of him, it’s numbers swelling day by day. While Karloman’s scouts reported the enemy force growing, it was increasingly clear that many of these soldiers were raw recruits, or inexperienced conscripts, and thus not good soldierly material. Karloman’s troops were generally more experienced and dedicated, and he had not permitted them to lax from discipline or drill during the winter, well aware that an army afflicted by boredom was a force more dangerous to its leader than it’s enemies.
It was against this backdrop that Karloman moved his force east towards Phillipi in late January 873, and where Christophorus, whose scouts had noticed this movement, moved to block the road to Constantinopolis through the region.
It was on the morning of January 26th that the two were directly opposed to one another on the plain near the town of Phillipi. It was not the first time that battlefield had played host to forces from east and west, but neither the classically literate Karloman nor the classically lacking Christophorus had time to ponder the historical irony of the situation and surroundings. The Emperors of East and West instead readied their forces for battle.
OOC: I thought I'd be mean and end it on a cliffhanger... muhahaha!
Have the Byzantines made a mistake in assembling this motly force to meet Karloman in the field? Or was this the only way to face Karloman credibly, since Christophorus's political position is still weak? We shall see.
“Nevertheless, I have plans for them” Eirene informed Karloman as they rode.
“In addition to the Iconoclasts, rebuilding the capital properly and dealing with the Abbasids, you’re going to be busy.” Karloman replied.
“It will take several campaigns,” Eirene admitted, “But once I’m back on my throne and the capital is secured, it will begin.”
“Assuming you don’t get toppled again.”
Eirene gave him a glare. “They got to me faster than I could prepare last time,” she murmured. “I won’t be making that mistake again.”
Something about the way she said it twisted a worm of fear into Karloman…
Constantinopolis, 782.
“I will not wait behind the walls for them to arrive.”
“Emperor, you must-“
“I MUST do nothing” Christophorus snapped, “But if I cower behind high walls while a barbarian army loots and burns it’s way through the countryside, how long until I lose all credibility? What do we gain from being besieged in here? Time?”
“Time to bring in more men,” Maximos answered, “Time in which-“
“Time in which Eirene will be building support,” Christophorus interrupted, “Time in which she will be swaying neutrals and army officers and towns over to her side with bribery and promises. Time in which the Frankish army will tighten the noose, and now you tell me they have Venetian ships as well?”
Maximos shook his head, moved to speak, but the Emperor cut him off again.
“We cannot wait, we must at least try to fight in the field first, lest we hand the initiative to Karloman.”
“What good will his initiative be against the Theodosian Walls?” Maximos demanded incredulously, “You would throw away our best advantage.”
“An advantage that will only slip away, with time,” Christophorus answered, “The Empire is still in flux, it’s arms depleted, it’s treasury low. I am not confident in the ability of this city to withstand a siege as well as it did the last time it came under assault.”
And THAT was a startling admission. The city’s formidable fortifications and highly strategic position has saved it frequently in the past. That the Emperor of Constantinople felt he could not comfortably defend the city…
“There are alternatives…”
“None that are as good!” Christophorus shouted, “Do you know what’s coming our way Maximos? Do you know what this Frankish army brings with it? Do you know what it’s done?” He paced around the room, agitated, “This army smashed the Saxons along the Rhine. This Frankish King made himself the arbiter of a Blood Court, do you know what happened?” His eyes blazed with fright now, “He took thousands of prisoners, lined them up along the dais and butchered them, one after the other after the other, for hours! When it was done, the blood ran down the edges and pooled beneath the feet of the executioners, as a hill of head rose as high as the platform itself! He butchered thousands of Saxons, and what makes you think a barbarian of this nature sees any differences between them and us?” Christophorus shook his head. “No, we confront him in the open first.”
Once the Emperor had made his judgement, there was no swaying him from it, so Christophorus got what he wanted, and the garrison of Constantinopolis, some six thousand strong, prepared to be mustered and marched west…
Exactly where Christophorus had planned to meet Karloman’s force along the route to Constantinople became clear in the few following days, as more forces were mustered from nearby towns. He marched south-west, and it became clear to his commanders that he planned to go to ground in a town with which they were all familiar. One whose name carried great resonance to the Romans…
Phillipi.
Karloman and his force exited the Bulgar lands around December of 782, as the winter had begun to set in. While he was well aware of the risks, he also knew that engaging in large-scale marches during winter was a fool’s proposition, and the enemy already knew he was coming, so he had nothing to gain from advancing further. Once they were back on Romanoi territory, he ordered a semi-permanent camp be constructed, sent out foragers to find more food, and sent out emissaries to ask for the allegiance of nearby towns. The third group, the one mounted on the swiftest steeds, were the scouts, for Karloman did not trust the enemy would simply leave them alone throughout the winter off-season.
Nor did they, his scouts reported enemy harassment of nearby settlements that were attempting to aid his army and, more worryingly, reports of an army massing at Phillipi. Once again, that ancient battlefield was play host to a struggle for the fate of Europe.
It was a brief, relatively tame winter, which suited the increasingly impatient Karloman and Eirene, who took the opportunity provided by the lull in the campaign to tackle some correspondence. Karloman had dispatched orders to Dyracchium, ordering the Venetian ships to begin their sail to the Hellespont, where they would be ordered to move to the Golden Horn when Karloman gave the command…
But first, he had an enemy army ahead of him, it’s numbers swelling day by day. While Karloman’s scouts reported the enemy force growing, it was increasingly clear that many of these soldiers were raw recruits, or inexperienced conscripts, and thus not good soldierly material. Karloman’s troops were generally more experienced and dedicated, and he had not permitted them to lax from discipline or drill during the winter, well aware that an army afflicted by boredom was a force more dangerous to its leader than it’s enemies.
It was against this backdrop that Karloman moved his force east towards Phillipi in late January 873, and where Christophorus, whose scouts had noticed this movement, moved to block the road to Constantinopolis through the region.
It was on the morning of January 26th that the two were directly opposed to one another on the plain near the town of Phillipi. It was not the first time that battlefield had played host to forces from east and west, but neither the classically literate Karloman nor the classically lacking Christophorus had time to ponder the historical irony of the situation and surroundings. The Emperors of East and West instead readied their forces for battle.
OOC: I thought I'd be mean and end it on a cliffhanger... muhahaha!
Have the Byzantines made a mistake in assembling this motly force to meet Karloman in the field? Or was this the only way to face Karloman credibly, since Christophorus's political position is still weak? We shall see.
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Pardon my long absence but it turns out that a doctorate is time-consuming, who knew?
I very much enjoyed the Karloman-Irene talks and they promise a great future. Might there be a chance to marry Pepin with Irene's eldest or is that too incestuous to be accepted?
Pepin is getting to know the big bad world but hopefully, he'll learn well from Betrada. It's going to be a shame when she goes...
I'm interested in where the Spanish alliance will take us especially since, in-game terms, the Umayyads rarely fracture with a good Fitna.
I hope that Christophoros is going full Justin II, chicken noises and all.
Good to know that Karloman and Eirene get along well enough for a child. Nicolas is going to have plenty of dynastic questions, and perhaps a dagger in his future; I look forward to his progress.
I like how Pepin is coming along bit by bit, it will take time for him to become Emperor but marching on Constantinople is a good traditional way to come into the role. As for the Venetians, let's hope they don't get any ideas.
Nestore is a cocky one; even as an ally, I would always keep a close eye on him.
Ooh, the eastern side has not had much luck at Philippi, I don't like their chances very much.
I very much enjoyed the Karloman-Irene talks and they promise a great future. Might there be a chance to marry Pepin with Irene's eldest or is that too incestuous to be accepted?
Pepin is getting to know the big bad world but hopefully, he'll learn well from Betrada. It's going to be a shame when she goes...
I'm interested in where the Spanish alliance will take us especially since, in-game terms, the Umayyads rarely fracture with a good Fitna.
I hope that Christophoros is going full Justin II, chicken noises and all.
Good to know that Karloman and Eirene get along well enough for a child. Nicolas is going to have plenty of dynastic questions, and perhaps a dagger in his future; I look forward to his progress.
I like how Pepin is coming along bit by bit, it will take time for him to become Emperor but marching on Constantinople is a good traditional way to come into the role. As for the Venetians, let's hope they don't get any ideas.
Nestore is a cocky one; even as an ally, I would always keep a close eye on him.
Ooh, the eastern side has not had much luck at Philippi, I don't like their chances very much.
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Pepin with Irene' daughter: CK2 and Byzantine world, the question is not whether it is too incestuous but rather whether it is incestuous enough to be acceptable.
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@slothinator
Nice to have you back! As someone whose just done a full year-long thesis, I sympathise
Always glad to hear you're enjoying things. I won't give away Pepin's marriage future yet suffice it to say that it will get some attention... very soon. So far Karloman and Eirene plan to keep the Empire's separate so we'll see if that holds.
And yes, hilariously, the Umayyad's are still around as of the 900s in-game. Though whether they're in quite the same state I will not say. There is another big, blobbing Empire that falls apart before then (Not Karloman's) which I shan't give too much away about. Suffice it to say there will be interesting times when it happens...
I'm also not sure if I'd count Nestore as an ally so much as a necessary evil for now...
I'll have another post up tomorrow, detailing Phillipi and the first stage of the Siege of Constantinople. Look for it here!
Nice to have you back! As someone whose just done a full year-long thesis, I sympathise
Always glad to hear you're enjoying things. I won't give away Pepin's marriage future yet suffice it to say that it will get some attention... very soon. So far Karloman and Eirene plan to keep the Empire's separate so we'll see if that holds.
And yes, hilariously, the Umayyad's are still around as of the 900s in-game. Though whether they're in quite the same state I will not say. There is another big, blobbing Empire that falls apart before then (Not Karloman's) which I shan't give too much away about. Suffice it to say there will be interesting times when it happens...
I'm also not sure if I'd count Nestore as an ally so much as a necessary evil for now...
I'll have another post up tomorrow, detailing Phillipi and the first stage of the Siege of Constantinople. Look for it here!
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January 26th, 783, Battle of Phillipi,
Karloman was rather delighted to see the army drawn up ahead of him to block his road to his prize.
“Christophorus has blundered!” he declared to those who questioned his exuberance before battle, “he should have remained behind those high walls and let us try to batter ourselves to death against them, conserving his forces for the day our break-through came! Instead he has led them like goats to slaughter by mountain tribesmen.”
In any event, the battle was hardly worthy of the epics told of Antony and Cassius, of Brutus and Octavian on that field, it was a disappointing affair. The two forces skirmished before noon, and then withdrew for two hours. A second clash followed in the late afternoon, with Karloman’s Frankish infantry carving a path through the Romanoi light foot and the Frankish cavalry forcing them to fall back by menacing their less well-guarded right flank.
It was in the late afternoon that Emperor Christophorus was taken ill to his tent. Unbeknowest to most in the army, he had suffered another attack, and it was the strategos Maximos who took command, intent on extricating the army from the death trap in which Christophorus had placed them…
Karloman, for his part, harried and harassed the enemy through the afternoon, attempting to tempt them into committing to an open battle, but the enemy refused.
“Ye god! He is a slug!” Karloman exclaimed of Christophorus, “Will nothing persuade him to fight?”
Since the Emperor did not know that the other Emperor had taken ill and was no longer in command of his troops, he was unaware that he now faced the more cunning and capable Maximos, who had prepared his forces for a withdrawal in the night, and begun to shore up his weakened flank that Christophorus’s folly had left exposed.
As nightfall fell, the two armies withdrew into camp…
But Karloman was awoken by a sudden shout, and his men rousing him into action…
The camp was under attack.
In a state of dazed confusion, Karloman rallied his horse, somehow had his page summoned to put his armour on, and mounted up with his bodyguard to go searching for the assailants. A few broken, scattered skirmishes broke out as men ran desperately to and fro to put out fires and douse down flames, but almost as suddenly as it had begun, the attack was over, the surviving assailants melting away into the dark..
By dawn, the enemy had slipped away. Maximos had realised that Phillipi could not be defended, and had withdrawn back towards Constantinopolis, using the nighttime raid of his light horse to distract the Franks while the bulk of his army slipped away… and leaving the town of Phillipi virtually undefended.
“Never mind,” Karloman said through gritted teeth to his war council. “Never mind, we came off the better of yesterday’s engagements, and we know there’s now nothing between Constantinople and ourselves. We march for the city today.”
And so they did, as soon as Karloman had received the surrender of the now virtually undefended Phillipi and coastal town of Serrae. The Venetian ships would now have safe harbour, and the magistrates of both towns acknowledged Eirene as the rightful empress of the East.
As soon as it had been confirmed, Karloman marched further east, onto the city of the world’s desire.
February 13th 783, Constantinople.
Karloman had heard of them many times of course, but even he had to whistle in polite astonishment at the sheer scale of those Thedosian Walls when they first came into view.
Spanning around six miles around the city’s walls, protecting it on three sides while the fourth was protected by the waters of the Golden Horn, with the town of Galata on the other end of it, the city of Constantine was one of the most formidably fortified constructions known to man. Not for nothing had it been said that those walls were impregnable. Even if that was an exaggeration, as it surely was, it wasn’t completely untrue. The city’s walls had saved it in the past, many times, even from that mighty barbarian Atilla…
Even with the Empire’s present weaknesses, Karloman had no illusions that this siege would be easy. Swallowing the quick burst of fear that wormed it’s way into his head to tell him he had made a terrible mistake, he set himself grimly to the task of preparing his men to besiege that formidable city…
The task of overcoming that huge ditch that lay before the walls was the first task. The way to cut the city off from re-supply by sea was the second. Fortunately, the Emperor had already begun to make his preparations to do both. Within a day, he had sent a courier off to the Venetian captains, instructing them to make the moves he had ordered accordingly before his arrival in the city. Then he set his men to work on preparing their siege engines and fortifications.
Within a month, Karloman had his siege weapons up and circumvallation constructed. He was aware that the main eastern army was still in the field in Epirus, and he hardly wanted them to take him by surprise in the rear should their commanders decide to grow some spines and march to relieve the capital. The defenders made no serious attempts to sortie, content now that they had learned the lesson on the folly of attempting open battle with the Franks, content to sit behind their walls and ditches and wait them out, content in their six-mile long walls and well-dug trench lines protecting the wall from any attempt at siege towers or sapper assault.
Karloman, for his part, also ordered some of his men to cross over the Golden Horn further to the west, with the hopes of securing the north bank… and then besieging the fortified town of Galata, from which he could secure the river passage and allow the Venetian ships access to the city.
With them went his son Pepin, under the command of a captain Berengar De Valois…
Inside Constantinopolis.
“We caught three Senators attempting to slip outside the walls and make their way into Eirene’s lines…”
“The siege has it’s first major traitors,” Maximos mused, nodding to the guardsmen who had entered. “String them up along the road from the Golden Gate. Publicly. Let it be known that even Senators are not immune from the penalty for treason. Let it be known that the command came from the Emperor.”
It didn’t, of course. Emperor Christophorus had fallen into another of his fits of raving madness. He had been committed to bed again after trying to scratch the eyes out of the last servant who tried to dress him. It was Maximos who ruled in Constantinople, ruled in all but name…
And when the war was done, and the Barbarian King and his whore outside were beaten, he could ease the Mad Emperor off his throne… A word to the Senate here, a few bribes to the Imperial guard and into the hands of the demes and the mob would lift him up on their shoulders to acclaim him Emperor… Basileus Maximos, Saviour of Constantinople.
It would have to wait for the defeat of the Franks and Eirene first however. Christophorus’s mismanagement of the army and the Empire had made that task more difficult, but Maximos was not without resources. The navy still commanded the waterways, bringing in supplies through the Golden Horn. They had the Theodosian Walls, they had the river under control… and they had their Greek Fire, the secret weapon that had helped to break the Moslems Great Siege of the city over fifty years earlier. It would be no different for this new barbarian, the puppet Karloman, dancing on the strings of the Athenian seductress and an upjumped Latinate bishop.
That Karloman was more clever than the Umayadd’s had been during their own siege was quickly apparent, he had waited out the winter before beginning his siege of the city, giving him a full year to work without before the weather might wreak havoc upon his forces. Furthermore, Maximos had received word that a Frankish contingent had crossed the river further west, and emerged on the north bank of the Horn, and was preparing to lay siege to Galata.
“They plan to take the town first, and then use it to open the Horn to whatever ships they have brought,” Maximos told the council. “It makes sense. And because they wintered before starting the siege, they have more time to make it work.”
Thrasekios did not reply, merely nodded. The man had been quiet since Christophorus had fallen ill again and Maximos had assumed command, and was following loyally without complaint. This made Maximos suspicious. They were both strategoi, both commanded the loyalty of troops, why would he not make his own play for power?
Perhaps he was merely biding his time, Maximos had decided, and had resolved to keep a close eye on his erstwhile partner in this enterprise. Once the barbarian siege had been broken, he could turn his attention to domestic rivals that stood between him and the imperial purple.
For now, the plans discussed were more mundane, as they discussed sending stockpiles to Galata to fortify the town and bolster it’s defences against the Frankish attack that would likely come there soon.
If they could not hold off on fighting one another within the walls for long enough to deal with the enemy outside it, none of them would live long enough to hold the purple…
Outside the walls of Galata.
“You see that there lad?”
Berenger de Valois pointed it out for Prince Pepin, one long, spindly finger painting the picture for the boy’s eyes until he was what was being pointed out.
“Ah, yes.” The boy replied smiling, “I see them now.”
What he had pointed out was the gathering of the defenders atop the walls of Galata. Clearly their move to cross the Golden Horn downstream had been unexpected initially, but Karloman’s plan to take Galata first was essential in the plan to secure control of the Horn… and thus have the dominance needed to take Constantinople itself. Clearly, the defenders were now alert to this stratagem.
“They know what we’re trying to do, that’ll make it harder, but hopefully the men your father gave us will be good enough to do the job lad.”
At that, Pepin nodded. He knew full well that the men under Berenger’s command were highly experienced, veterans of the Saxon and Lombard wars. Berenger himself was a curious oddity among them, a man of very low nobility, he had distinguished himself during the battle outside Pavia and had been raised to a higher distinction in his father’s eyes. Karloman was always happy to cultivate new military talent, and Berenger’s fortunes had risen as his esteem in the Emperor’s eyes had waxed.
As for Berenger, he knew that further advancement was conditional upon the Emperor’s favour, for both himself and his children. Their name was not famous, nor illustrious, but Karloman still had some room for raw talent, and Berenger was a man with plenty of that. His military skill had been to fruition during the Lombard campaign, and now he was being given a chance to show it off again… and ensure the safety of the Emperor’s son in the process.
“Treat him like any other pair of hands, don’t coddle him too much,” Karloman had instructed, “he needs to learn to see the battlefield the way a rank and file man does before he commands them.”
Despite this command, Berenger knew full well it was also his duty to keep the boy safe. If something happened to Karloman’s precious heir on his watch, his head would be on a spike before sundown, no matter what instructions the Emperor had given beforehand.
And besides, Berenger, originally reticient, had found he rather liked the child, who was inquisitive, smart and fast to pick up the tricks. He had found to his surprise that they were getting along well.
“You have a plan I take it?” Pepin asked,
“Aye lad,” Berenger grinned, “I do, and tomorrow, you’ll help me and the boys put it into action. First Galata, then Constantinople.”
Pepin could hardly sleep that night for excitement…
Karloman's siege of Constantinople began in February 783, how long would it last? and more importantly, how would it end?
Karloman was rather delighted to see the army drawn up ahead of him to block his road to his prize.
“Christophorus has blundered!” he declared to those who questioned his exuberance before battle, “he should have remained behind those high walls and let us try to batter ourselves to death against them, conserving his forces for the day our break-through came! Instead he has led them like goats to slaughter by mountain tribesmen.”
In any event, the battle was hardly worthy of the epics told of Antony and Cassius, of Brutus and Octavian on that field, it was a disappointing affair. The two forces skirmished before noon, and then withdrew for two hours. A second clash followed in the late afternoon, with Karloman’s Frankish infantry carving a path through the Romanoi light foot and the Frankish cavalry forcing them to fall back by menacing their less well-guarded right flank.
It was in the late afternoon that Emperor Christophorus was taken ill to his tent. Unbeknowest to most in the army, he had suffered another attack, and it was the strategos Maximos who took command, intent on extricating the army from the death trap in which Christophorus had placed them…
Karloman, for his part, harried and harassed the enemy through the afternoon, attempting to tempt them into committing to an open battle, but the enemy refused.
“Ye god! He is a slug!” Karloman exclaimed of Christophorus, “Will nothing persuade him to fight?”
Since the Emperor did not know that the other Emperor had taken ill and was no longer in command of his troops, he was unaware that he now faced the more cunning and capable Maximos, who had prepared his forces for a withdrawal in the night, and begun to shore up his weakened flank that Christophorus’s folly had left exposed.
As nightfall fell, the two armies withdrew into camp…
But Karloman was awoken by a sudden shout, and his men rousing him into action…
The camp was under attack.
In a state of dazed confusion, Karloman rallied his horse, somehow had his page summoned to put his armour on, and mounted up with his bodyguard to go searching for the assailants. A few broken, scattered skirmishes broke out as men ran desperately to and fro to put out fires and douse down flames, but almost as suddenly as it had begun, the attack was over, the surviving assailants melting away into the dark..
By dawn, the enemy had slipped away. Maximos had realised that Phillipi could not be defended, and had withdrawn back towards Constantinopolis, using the nighttime raid of his light horse to distract the Franks while the bulk of his army slipped away… and leaving the town of Phillipi virtually undefended.
“Never mind,” Karloman said through gritted teeth to his war council. “Never mind, we came off the better of yesterday’s engagements, and we know there’s now nothing between Constantinople and ourselves. We march for the city today.”
And so they did, as soon as Karloman had received the surrender of the now virtually undefended Phillipi and coastal town of Serrae. The Venetian ships would now have safe harbour, and the magistrates of both towns acknowledged Eirene as the rightful empress of the East.
As soon as it had been confirmed, Karloman marched further east, onto the city of the world’s desire.
February 13th 783, Constantinople.
Karloman had heard of them many times of course, but even he had to whistle in polite astonishment at the sheer scale of those Thedosian Walls when they first came into view.
Spanning around six miles around the city’s walls, protecting it on three sides while the fourth was protected by the waters of the Golden Horn, with the town of Galata on the other end of it, the city of Constantine was one of the most formidably fortified constructions known to man. Not for nothing had it been said that those walls were impregnable. Even if that was an exaggeration, as it surely was, it wasn’t completely untrue. The city’s walls had saved it in the past, many times, even from that mighty barbarian Atilla…
Even with the Empire’s present weaknesses, Karloman had no illusions that this siege would be easy. Swallowing the quick burst of fear that wormed it’s way into his head to tell him he had made a terrible mistake, he set himself grimly to the task of preparing his men to besiege that formidable city…
The task of overcoming that huge ditch that lay before the walls was the first task. The way to cut the city off from re-supply by sea was the second. Fortunately, the Emperor had already begun to make his preparations to do both. Within a day, he had sent a courier off to the Venetian captains, instructing them to make the moves he had ordered accordingly before his arrival in the city. Then he set his men to work on preparing their siege engines and fortifications.
Within a month, Karloman had his siege weapons up and circumvallation constructed. He was aware that the main eastern army was still in the field in Epirus, and he hardly wanted them to take him by surprise in the rear should their commanders decide to grow some spines and march to relieve the capital. The defenders made no serious attempts to sortie, content now that they had learned the lesson on the folly of attempting open battle with the Franks, content to sit behind their walls and ditches and wait them out, content in their six-mile long walls and well-dug trench lines protecting the wall from any attempt at siege towers or sapper assault.
Karloman, for his part, also ordered some of his men to cross over the Golden Horn further to the west, with the hopes of securing the north bank… and then besieging the fortified town of Galata, from which he could secure the river passage and allow the Venetian ships access to the city.
With them went his son Pepin, under the command of a captain Berengar De Valois…
Inside Constantinopolis.
“We caught three Senators attempting to slip outside the walls and make their way into Eirene’s lines…”
“The siege has it’s first major traitors,” Maximos mused, nodding to the guardsmen who had entered. “String them up along the road from the Golden Gate. Publicly. Let it be known that even Senators are not immune from the penalty for treason. Let it be known that the command came from the Emperor.”
It didn’t, of course. Emperor Christophorus had fallen into another of his fits of raving madness. He had been committed to bed again after trying to scratch the eyes out of the last servant who tried to dress him. It was Maximos who ruled in Constantinople, ruled in all but name…
And when the war was done, and the Barbarian King and his whore outside were beaten, he could ease the Mad Emperor off his throne… A word to the Senate here, a few bribes to the Imperial guard and into the hands of the demes and the mob would lift him up on their shoulders to acclaim him Emperor… Basileus Maximos, Saviour of Constantinople.
It would have to wait for the defeat of the Franks and Eirene first however. Christophorus’s mismanagement of the army and the Empire had made that task more difficult, but Maximos was not without resources. The navy still commanded the waterways, bringing in supplies through the Golden Horn. They had the Theodosian Walls, they had the river under control… and they had their Greek Fire, the secret weapon that had helped to break the Moslems Great Siege of the city over fifty years earlier. It would be no different for this new barbarian, the puppet Karloman, dancing on the strings of the Athenian seductress and an upjumped Latinate bishop.
That Karloman was more clever than the Umayadd’s had been during their own siege was quickly apparent, he had waited out the winter before beginning his siege of the city, giving him a full year to work without before the weather might wreak havoc upon his forces. Furthermore, Maximos had received word that a Frankish contingent had crossed the river further west, and emerged on the north bank of the Horn, and was preparing to lay siege to Galata.
“They plan to take the town first, and then use it to open the Horn to whatever ships they have brought,” Maximos told the council. “It makes sense. And because they wintered before starting the siege, they have more time to make it work.”
Thrasekios did not reply, merely nodded. The man had been quiet since Christophorus had fallen ill again and Maximos had assumed command, and was following loyally without complaint. This made Maximos suspicious. They were both strategoi, both commanded the loyalty of troops, why would he not make his own play for power?
Perhaps he was merely biding his time, Maximos had decided, and had resolved to keep a close eye on his erstwhile partner in this enterprise. Once the barbarian siege had been broken, he could turn his attention to domestic rivals that stood between him and the imperial purple.
For now, the plans discussed were more mundane, as they discussed sending stockpiles to Galata to fortify the town and bolster it’s defences against the Frankish attack that would likely come there soon.
If they could not hold off on fighting one another within the walls for long enough to deal with the enemy outside it, none of them would live long enough to hold the purple…
Outside the walls of Galata.
“You see that there lad?”
Berenger de Valois pointed it out for Prince Pepin, one long, spindly finger painting the picture for the boy’s eyes until he was what was being pointed out.
“Ah, yes.” The boy replied smiling, “I see them now.”
What he had pointed out was the gathering of the defenders atop the walls of Galata. Clearly their move to cross the Golden Horn downstream had been unexpected initially, but Karloman’s plan to take Galata first was essential in the plan to secure control of the Horn… and thus have the dominance needed to take Constantinople itself. Clearly, the defenders were now alert to this stratagem.
“They know what we’re trying to do, that’ll make it harder, but hopefully the men your father gave us will be good enough to do the job lad.”
At that, Pepin nodded. He knew full well that the men under Berenger’s command were highly experienced, veterans of the Saxon and Lombard wars. Berenger himself was a curious oddity among them, a man of very low nobility, he had distinguished himself during the battle outside Pavia and had been raised to a higher distinction in his father’s eyes. Karloman was always happy to cultivate new military talent, and Berenger’s fortunes had risen as his esteem in the Emperor’s eyes had waxed.
As for Berenger, he knew that further advancement was conditional upon the Emperor’s favour, for both himself and his children. Their name was not famous, nor illustrious, but Karloman still had some room for raw talent, and Berenger was a man with plenty of that. His military skill had been to fruition during the Lombard campaign, and now he was being given a chance to show it off again… and ensure the safety of the Emperor’s son in the process.
“Treat him like any other pair of hands, don’t coddle him too much,” Karloman had instructed, “he needs to learn to see the battlefield the way a rank and file man does before he commands them.”
Despite this command, Berenger knew full well it was also his duty to keep the boy safe. If something happened to Karloman’s precious heir on his watch, his head would be on a spike before sundown, no matter what instructions the Emperor had given beforehand.
And besides, Berenger, originally reticient, had found he rather liked the child, who was inquisitive, smart and fast to pick up the tricks. He had found to his surprise that they were getting along well.
“You have a plan I take it?” Pepin asked,
“Aye lad,” Berenger grinned, “I do, and tomorrow, you’ll help me and the boys put it into action. First Galata, then Constantinople.”
Pepin could hardly sleep that night for excitement…
Karloman's siege of Constantinople began in February 783, how long would it last? and more importantly, how would it end?
- 1
Berenger seems like an interesting fellow and, if he gains Pepin's favor, I can see him going far.
This siege will not be an easy matter but, if other civil wars are to be followed, the walls may yet be defeated by betrayal.
This siege will not be an easy matter but, if other civil wars are to be followed, the walls may yet be defeated by betrayal.
- 1
The Greeks will kill themselves to keep another from getting credit for saving the empire.
February, 783
The plan hinged on an aqueduct.
“An aqueduct? This is the plan?”
“Aye,” Berenger grinned at Pepin, “Your father’s idea naturally, though I suspect his wife gave him the idea.”
“We wouldn’t have known about this if it weren’t for her I take it?”
“No,” Berenger smiled, “Clever boy, we wouldn’t have. See what an advantage inside knowledge of enemy workings can be during a siege or battle?”
“Aye, I see,” Pepin smiled,
“Help me with this grate would you?” Berenger asked, gesturing Pepin and the two burly men who were accompanying them to assist him.
They were about half a mile from the walls of Galata here, the sight of the top of the walls of that suburb obscured by a small hilltop that jutted out above the Golden Horn. They stood now at the bottom of the far end of that slope, where the ruins of one of the city’s old aqueducts was perched. At the end of those ruins, a grate, leading to a small, dank tunnel, the purpose of which had been described to Karloman by Empress Eirene in the days leading up to the beginning of the siege as he formulated his battle plan.
“It’s a secret path for members of the imperial family, an escape route, of sorts.” She had said, “Christophorus will be unlikely to know about it, since it was a secret that his brother would not have shared with him, and unless he had his men searching Galata very thoroughly, it’s unlikely they would have found the entrance to where it leads into that suburb.”
There was however, one major problem with this “secret route” into Galata,
“It’s narrow, very very narrow,” Karloman had told Berenger, “too narrow for anything more than a few men at once. I’ll need someone to get a good look at it, explore it, find the entrance, and the exit, or exits, if there are more than one.”
“How long does it stretch for?”
“At least two miles, according to Eirene,” Karloman replied, “It’ll take you a few days to explore it thoroughly, but if we’re careful and lucky, we’ll have a route to sneak a small group of men into Galata.”
“I assume you have some plan for what to do with that group Majesty?”
“All in good time Berenger,” Karloman had replied, with a smile, “First, find me that passage, and the route to Galata, when you report back, then we’ll see what we have.”
The four men pulled open the grate, and revealed the opening into that small rounded tunnel,
“Torches,” Berenger said shortly, and the two burly men who assisted him strode over to where they had laid those wooden torches along the ground, ready to be ignited.
“It looks like it’ll be hard to see in there, even with the light” Pepin ventured,
Berenger grunted, clearly a little nervous by how small and cramped a space the tunnel looked, “Well let’s be glad we’ve only got a couple of miles to cross then.”
They began to venture in, that narrow passage beckoning them onward into the darkness.
“Let’s go then,” Berenger stated, and Pepin thought he heard a hint of unease, and even fear in him.
They spent the next hour in that tunnel, to Berenger’s increasing irritation. Progress, as it turned out, was rather slower than anticipated. The passage was so narrow that in most cases it was only possible to enter it single-file, and it was so disused that there were obstructions that either made the going perilous, or forced them to remove some obstacle that barred their path further before going.
“I think this is far enough for one day,” Berenger finally said. “I can report to your father that we’ve found the spot, but that the going will be longer and harder than we might have thought, he can send a few extra men over to clear the obstructions, and once we start venturing in we’ll get a good glimpse of where it leads… and if we can sneak a force into Galata through it.”
So began the real work of the next few weeks. While all the usual trappings of siege warfare were put up, the ongoing work of finding that secret entrance through the old sewer grate. Aside from his twice a week excursions into that small, cramped dark old sewer path, Pepin had discovered the biggest enemy one faced during a siege was sheer boredom. That soldiers had all sorts of ways to amuse themselves to prevent from sucumbing to that boredom also became abundantly clear to the boy.
“Now you see why your father the Emperor doesn’t like sieging towns as much as he does a pitched battle Prince Pepin,”
“Why?” the boy asked, “Does it bore him too?”
“Him?” Berenger snorted, “your Father can’t be bored by anything lad, no, it’s the men I mean. A bored and inactive army is as dangerous as a hungry and mutinous one if not kept properly drilled and instructed. A siege is the worst way for a man of action to while away his time, for boredom is a bigger killer than any blade for an army.”
As Pepin later discovered, it wasn’t just the soldiers who felt boredom. On the rare occasions he encountered his father over the next two months, he bore witness to some of his increasing frustration. The walls were too high, the ditch dug before it too deep, progress on the Galata tunnel too slow. His father the Emperor was not enjoying himself, such was obvious.
But as March moved into April, they finally had a breakthrough…
“We found the entrance into Galata.”
Karloman’s head snapped up from his map, “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Berenger nodded, grinning, “It’s absolutely certain. The tunnel leads us directly into Galata, just a few streets away from the gates where our forces lay outside.”
“How many men can you get into the tunnel and through it into the streets?”
“If they go single file through the tunnel, maybe four.”
“Four?” Karloman chewed his lip thoughtfully, “that’s not very many… Perhaps this isn’t a good idea.”
“Four men in the dead of night, popping out of nowhere? I’d say it’s entirely possible for that to succeed father,”
Pepin’s boldness surprised those present, but his father did not chastise him.
“It’s risky,” Karloman responded, carefully. “If you get caught before you reach the gates, if there are more guards than anticipated… If the Venetians assault does not work, or is timed poorly…”
“With all due respect Sovereign, we knew it was a risk when we created the plan,” Berenger replied.
Karloman looked at him sharply, and then surprisingly, gave a short bark of laughter, “Aye, it be true that I had known the risks when I planned it, yet now, on the threshold of the victory, I find myself hesitant,” he gave a short bitter laugh, and shook his head, and said almost to himself, “This is what children growing up does to one’s mind.”
“You are of course right Berenger, and you Pepin,” Karloman responded, “The plan must go forth as proposed, and Galata must fall if the Venetians are to be able to complete the blockade of the city, and thus ensure it’s fall. You will carry this out on the morrow, and I will ensure there are plenty of distractions on this side of the Horn to prevent the city’s defenders getting wind of what’s happening, with luck, Galata will fall before they even know it’s under assault” he finished grimly.
On the conclusion of the war council, Karloman dispatched riders to the Venetian captains who would begin their assault on the Golden Horn on the morrow… The success, or fall, of the siege would be decided by the result of the assault on Galata.
OOC: Sorry it's short, but people were probably waiting for an update so I thought I'd release what I had while I continue writing up the assault on Galata and the attack on the Golden Horn, which will be the features of the next post. It should be up in a few days As always, commentary is welcome
The plan hinged on an aqueduct.
“An aqueduct? This is the plan?”
“Aye,” Berenger grinned at Pepin, “Your father’s idea naturally, though I suspect his wife gave him the idea.”
“We wouldn’t have known about this if it weren’t for her I take it?”
“No,” Berenger smiled, “Clever boy, we wouldn’t have. See what an advantage inside knowledge of enemy workings can be during a siege or battle?”
“Aye, I see,” Pepin smiled,
“Help me with this grate would you?” Berenger asked, gesturing Pepin and the two burly men who were accompanying them to assist him.
They were about half a mile from the walls of Galata here, the sight of the top of the walls of that suburb obscured by a small hilltop that jutted out above the Golden Horn. They stood now at the bottom of the far end of that slope, where the ruins of one of the city’s old aqueducts was perched. At the end of those ruins, a grate, leading to a small, dank tunnel, the purpose of which had been described to Karloman by Empress Eirene in the days leading up to the beginning of the siege as he formulated his battle plan.
“It’s a secret path for members of the imperial family, an escape route, of sorts.” She had said, “Christophorus will be unlikely to know about it, since it was a secret that his brother would not have shared with him, and unless he had his men searching Galata very thoroughly, it’s unlikely they would have found the entrance to where it leads into that suburb.”
There was however, one major problem with this “secret route” into Galata,
“It’s narrow, very very narrow,” Karloman had told Berenger, “too narrow for anything more than a few men at once. I’ll need someone to get a good look at it, explore it, find the entrance, and the exit, or exits, if there are more than one.”
“How long does it stretch for?”
“At least two miles, according to Eirene,” Karloman replied, “It’ll take you a few days to explore it thoroughly, but if we’re careful and lucky, we’ll have a route to sneak a small group of men into Galata.”
“I assume you have some plan for what to do with that group Majesty?”
“All in good time Berenger,” Karloman had replied, with a smile, “First, find me that passage, and the route to Galata, when you report back, then we’ll see what we have.”
The four men pulled open the grate, and revealed the opening into that small rounded tunnel,
“Torches,” Berenger said shortly, and the two burly men who assisted him strode over to where they had laid those wooden torches along the ground, ready to be ignited.
“It looks like it’ll be hard to see in there, even with the light” Pepin ventured,
Berenger grunted, clearly a little nervous by how small and cramped a space the tunnel looked, “Well let’s be glad we’ve only got a couple of miles to cross then.”
They began to venture in, that narrow passage beckoning them onward into the darkness.
“Let’s go then,” Berenger stated, and Pepin thought he heard a hint of unease, and even fear in him.
They spent the next hour in that tunnel, to Berenger’s increasing irritation. Progress, as it turned out, was rather slower than anticipated. The passage was so narrow that in most cases it was only possible to enter it single-file, and it was so disused that there were obstructions that either made the going perilous, or forced them to remove some obstacle that barred their path further before going.
“I think this is far enough for one day,” Berenger finally said. “I can report to your father that we’ve found the spot, but that the going will be longer and harder than we might have thought, he can send a few extra men over to clear the obstructions, and once we start venturing in we’ll get a good glimpse of where it leads… and if we can sneak a force into Galata through it.”
So began the real work of the next few weeks. While all the usual trappings of siege warfare were put up, the ongoing work of finding that secret entrance through the old sewer grate. Aside from his twice a week excursions into that small, cramped dark old sewer path, Pepin had discovered the biggest enemy one faced during a siege was sheer boredom. That soldiers had all sorts of ways to amuse themselves to prevent from sucumbing to that boredom also became abundantly clear to the boy.
“Now you see why your father the Emperor doesn’t like sieging towns as much as he does a pitched battle Prince Pepin,”
“Why?” the boy asked, “Does it bore him too?”
“Him?” Berenger snorted, “your Father can’t be bored by anything lad, no, it’s the men I mean. A bored and inactive army is as dangerous as a hungry and mutinous one if not kept properly drilled and instructed. A siege is the worst way for a man of action to while away his time, for boredom is a bigger killer than any blade for an army.”
As Pepin later discovered, it wasn’t just the soldiers who felt boredom. On the rare occasions he encountered his father over the next two months, he bore witness to some of his increasing frustration. The walls were too high, the ditch dug before it too deep, progress on the Galata tunnel too slow. His father the Emperor was not enjoying himself, such was obvious.
But as March moved into April, they finally had a breakthrough…
“We found the entrance into Galata.”
Karloman’s head snapped up from his map, “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Berenger nodded, grinning, “It’s absolutely certain. The tunnel leads us directly into Galata, just a few streets away from the gates where our forces lay outside.”
“How many men can you get into the tunnel and through it into the streets?”
“If they go single file through the tunnel, maybe four.”
“Four?” Karloman chewed his lip thoughtfully, “that’s not very many… Perhaps this isn’t a good idea.”
“Four men in the dead of night, popping out of nowhere? I’d say it’s entirely possible for that to succeed father,”
Pepin’s boldness surprised those present, but his father did not chastise him.
“It’s risky,” Karloman responded, carefully. “If you get caught before you reach the gates, if there are more guards than anticipated… If the Venetians assault does not work, or is timed poorly…”
“With all due respect Sovereign, we knew it was a risk when we created the plan,” Berenger replied.
Karloman looked at him sharply, and then surprisingly, gave a short bark of laughter, “Aye, it be true that I had known the risks when I planned it, yet now, on the threshold of the victory, I find myself hesitant,” he gave a short bitter laugh, and shook his head, and said almost to himself, “This is what children growing up does to one’s mind.”
“You are of course right Berenger, and you Pepin,” Karloman responded, “The plan must go forth as proposed, and Galata must fall if the Venetians are to be able to complete the blockade of the city, and thus ensure it’s fall. You will carry this out on the morrow, and I will ensure there are plenty of distractions on this side of the Horn to prevent the city’s defenders getting wind of what’s happening, with luck, Galata will fall before they even know it’s under assault” he finished grimly.
On the conclusion of the war council, Karloman dispatched riders to the Venetian captains who would begin their assault on the Golden Horn on the morrow… The success, or fall, of the siege would be decided by the result of the assault on Galata.
OOC: Sorry it's short, but people were probably waiting for an update so I thought I'd release what I had while I continue writing up the assault on Galata and the attack on the Golden Horn, which will be the features of the next post. It should be up in a few days
As always, commentary is welcome- 1
Will Pepin be sent through the tunnel? Greeks should remember trickery!
- 2
That's quite the devious plan there; it's always best to not face the Theodosian walls head-on but just bypass them. It would be very risky to send Pepin in for the assault but, if it succeeds, it would be a great boost to his public profile.
- 1
OOC: Funny you should mention...
IC:
The Next Morn,
Down they went into the darkness of that disused old sewer path, their way lit only by the torch Berenger carried. The four men, or rather three men and one on the cusp of manhood, the Prince of Francia, Pepin Karling, carried their way in relative silence, the full enormity and difficulty of their task now firmly settling itself upon them.
They had now only to do their part, and act in the hopes that the other elements of Karloman’s plan came to fruition as well. If the Venetians were too late… or the army outside the city was not able to cause enough of a ruckus at the walls… or one sentry from Galata happened to gaze in the wrong direction at the wrong moment…
Pepin swallowed, and forced the doubts from his mind. All war was a risk, his father had said, and the only way to know for sure which ones were right was to take the ones you liked and see who won out in the hand. Only God, and fortune, and the actions of himself and these three men in the tunnel here with him, could decide the fate of the siege now…
On and on they went, forced to their hands and knees in some sections, as the crumbling sewer tunnel became too small for a fully upright man to walk through. Only the light of Berenger’s torch guided them through the dankest, darkest pits of the disused tunnel through which they traversed.
One more step… and then another… and then another, flinching at the sound of a stick breaking beneath a man’s boot… relaxing as it becomes obvious it was one of their own retinue… forward again… flinching at a shadow here… and then another step…
On and on and on…
The Golden Horn, Constantinople
At dawn, the drums began to sound, booming over the waves of the Bosphorus that lapped against the shores of Constantinopolis.
The Venetian ships had come.
Approximately two hundred vessels, crewed by some of the finest captains and crews throughout the Mediterranean had answered Karloman’s call… and his purse, for the hiring of such men was not an inexpensive endeavour.
But the men of Constantinople were ready for them. The Golden Horn would be protected at all costs, and the city’s vital sea supply line would remain under Greek control. The drums ceased…
The ships of Byzantium lobbed their first volley.. Large jars were thrown towards the Venetian ships…
The first jar ignited with a boom that jarred the ears and split the sky like a thunderclap as it tore through that too easily flammable wooden hull...
The use of Greek Fire at the Siege of Constantinople in 783 tore through many of the Venetian Ships. Depicted is an artists reconstruction of the detonation of the flame.
Entire ships and crews disappeared in a burst of fire that spread across the water, rapidly expanding outward, the timber of the wooden ship’s hull being the kindling that ignited the waters of the Golden Horn…
But not enough Venetian ships were caught in the first blast for it too be over that easily…
Walls of Constantinople, landward side.
“Movement!”
Strategos Maximos’s head snapped around to where the shout had come from.
The soldier who had called had been right, the Franks land force outside the walls were on the move. Clearly they intended to coordinate the Venetian assault on the Horn with a large-scale assault upon the walls.
Shouts emerged, as a group of Frankish men were seen breaking from their formation. Together they held a large, wooden object that had been hammered together over several weeks. On the outside of the little group, they were shielded by a group of heavily-armoured individuals, who raised their shields over the heads of the men carrying the flat wooden object to cover them from arrows or projectiles…
The purpose of that flat wooden beam became abundantly clear to a horrified Maximos as the men ran towards the ditch before the city walls… and began laying the flat beam down over the top of it…
“Set it alight! Set it alight!” he screamed, and the men atop the wall scrambled to find flammable materials to set the tips of their arrows alight…
While they scrambled, a group of sappers began making their way to the city walls from the Frankish lines, now with a clear line of movement due to the wooden beam that formed a bridge right over the defensive ditch.
The first ignited arrows began to fire, they struck the beam, but then the flames sputtered and died…
Watching from afar, Karloman could not suppress a satisfied smile.
“Now you see why we had the planks soaked with water before we started this morning?” Karloman asked “If they try to set it alight, the flames will douse themselves out before they have any chance to burn the bridge.
“And the ladders, sovereign?”
“Yes yes,” Karloman gestured impatiently, “Start sending them forward now as well, the more attention we draw off the Venetians… and away from Galata, the better.”
Galata, Constantinople
The tunnel seemed to stretch on. One foot in front of the hour, for another hour.
And then… the light went out.
A banging sound suddenly was heard ahead of Pepin. He rushed forward, confident he knew what it was.
Berenger was banging his fists on the walls, face streaked with sweat, eyes widened with wild panic.
“The light!” He hissed, “The light went out!”
“Keep it down or they’ll hear,” Pepin half-whispered and half-shouted, trying to grab Berenger’s wrists before they pounded the wall again, “Get that torch lit again!” he snapped, as one of the men scrambled for the torch the panicked Berenger had discarded.
“Quiet!” he snarled again, as Berenger began to whimper loudly.
Hands shaking finally sparked the torch again, Berenger’s breath began to rattle harshly, and Pepin realised his hands were hurting from how hard he’d been gripping the man’s shoulders.
“Pass it to me,” he commanded.
The torch came to his hands. He thrust his arm under Berenger’s shoulder and pulled, hard.
“Come on!” he insisted, and began to drag the panicking man further forward. Though he noted he looked less crazed now the torch had returned.
Further and further they went, but Pepin’s companions had began to notice the marks that were leading them close to their destination.
“You hear that Berenger?” he asked his stricken friend, “We’re nearly there.”
“Pepin…” the man licked his lips, as though he were a parched man dying in the desert, “I’m sorry, the light… confined corridors… I’ve never dealt well with them.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Pepin replied brusquely, “We’ll be out of here soon. Are you fit to fight?”
“I will be,” Berenger replied, and Pepin noted with relief that a little strength had come back into his voice, and his face was beginning to look less pale.
“Good, because we may have to.”
They strode a few more metres, Pepin realising his arms were burning from the weight of pulling Berenger along.
“I’m fine now little Prince,” Berenger replied, “You may release your grip.”
Pepin did so, suddenly realising just how tired he felt. Berenger stumbled slightly, but then managed to steady himself.
“This is our exit.”
One of the men was gesticulating to a small causeway just a few metres ahead, and from there… they had a clean route into the suburb.
“Ready?” Pepin asked,
“Aye,” Berenger replied, giving a strained smile. “Ready.”
And up they went…
The Battle of the Golden Horn.
The naval battle as it was proved messy and chaotic, individual boarding actions and the ramming of triremes alike sunk over a dozen vessels, but no decisive victory was won within those waters. The Venetians knew full well that so long as Galata was taken, the enemy would lose their main port of safe harbour and re-supply, and the main city on the south side of the Horn could then be blockaded with impunity.
The fighting nonetheless continued for two hours, the amount of time Karloman had told the Venetians they needed to continue the fight before beginning to withdraw. The signal went up, and the ships began to pull back, short several dozen of their best vessels and a couple of hundred sailors.
But if the Greeks cheered this seeming victory, the joy would soon turn to fear and dust when what awaited them at home became clear…
Galata
After the tension and difficulty of the trip through that long dark tunnel, the route through Galata proved surprisingly simple. Dressed in ordinary civilian clothing, and hurriedly making their way towards the gates, the four Frankish men arrived unimpeded to their destination, the northern-most gate that blocked the Franks from access through Galata’s wall.
“Through here!” Berenger hissed, directing them through a sturdy wooden door that obviously served as a guard tower and barracks. “They’ll have a mechanism to open it up in here!”
The four arrived, and after a few moments of searching, Berenger found it.
Just as it was pulled, the door burst open.
“Anfred, do you ha- what? Guar-!” the Greek soldier’s cry for help was cut off as one of Berenger’s burly compatriots slashed him across his throat, reducing his vocals to blood-soaked burbling as he pitched forward.
“Don’t look child,” Berenger told Pepin quietly, who had seen the exchange.
“I appreciate the thought captain, but I am no child.”
As the gate opened up and the four men began to grin as they saw their task complete, only Berenger turned to face the son of Emperor Karloman with a wearied gaze.
“No, I suppose you’re not, are you?”
Then he smiled, and hugged the boy firmly…
The fall of Galata was swift and sure after that. The opening of the northern gates brought the Frankish forces into the suburb, at which point they overwhelmed the surprised garrison, who were outnumbered, and whose focus had been directed towards the river in case the Venetian ships had breached the Horn…
And when the Greek ships returned to port, it was their own turn to be set ablaze, as the Franks overturned caches of Greek fire into their own ships, or rained flaming arrows down upon the wooden hulls of those triereme’s whose bronze rams were so devastating below the water.
By evening, the orange glow of dusk was amplified by the burning waters of the Golden Horn, but Galata had fallen, the Venetians now occupied the Horn, and their ships were moving into the Galatan docks while others blockaded the mouthof the river… and the first major obstacle to the fall of Constantinople was gone…
OOC: So... yeah, a costly victory in terms of ships, but Galata now in Frankish hands and the enemy firmly blockaded. Not to mention Pepin saved the day when the claustrophobic Berenger started to freak out.
I took some inspiration in the writing of this from a bunch of sources. Obviously the Byzantines used Greek fire a lot, but it's use as a way to destroy enemy ships was very common. The decision to target Galata first before striking at the city itself is based on the Crusaders siege tactics in the Fourth Crusade in 1204, though the method by which it falls is different. Constantinople was an ancient city and it's water and aqueduct systems were extensive, as was it's sewer systems. It would not have been beyond the realm of possibility that some disused element of it could've been used to travel the city secretly, or at least parts of it, but obviously the specific entrance I use here is fictional. But what can I say? Real medieval sieges were mostly very boring and don't make great story fair unless you spice them up a bit, so I did!
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A great victory for our Western Emperor and Pepin has a story to tell in his own throne room!
Now Eirene only needs to claim her throne and it will all be over with the promise of Karlings on both thrones
Now Eirene only needs to claim her throne and it will all be over with the promise of Karlings on both thrones
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Berenger reported to Emperor Karloman the following day, and did not spare himself in his retelling of the tale through the tunnel.
“I… failed you, sovereign. I allowed my fear to get the better of me.”
“You think that a successful measure to open the gates and enable my army to enter Galata was a failure?” Karloman shook his head, “I beg to differ Berenger. You did exactly as was expected.”
“But my fear-“
“No man lives without fear Berenger, myself included.” Karloman replied firmly, “You accomplished your task despite it all, and that matters more than all the rest of the details.” He smiled, and then turned to face Pepin “Though I am pleased to hear my son acquitted himself so well during the task to open the gate. Pleased beyond measure.”
“I- Thank you father,” Pepin replied, and lowered his head, face flushed with pride.
“Nevertheless, there’s still a siege to be won.” Karloman continued, “And I will not rest until Constantinopolis has fallen and returned to the rule of the rightful Empress Eirene.”
And so they went on and on. Though the situation within the city was now changed dramatically…
Constantinopolis, April 783.
“Quiet!”
Strategos Maximos’s shouted commands broke through over the recriminations and accusations that flowed around the room. The fall of Galata and blockade of the Horn had sent the city’s ruling elite into a panic… and there was plenty of blame to go around.
“With Galata lost…” That was Thrakesios, but Maximos quickly cut him off.
“The siege is not done,” the strategos interrupted him. “We still hold the Thedosian Walls, the largest and grandest fortifications known to man, and while the river is blocked, we still have supplies to hold out for months.” He gazed around the room, defiantly, “it is a setback, but we are not dead yet.”
A few murmers of discontent told him that his fellows did not entirely agree…
“We need the Emperor.”
“The basileus is… indisposed” Maximos replied. Christophorus had fallen into yet another bout of madness and been confined to bed, and had indulged in a loud rant accusing Maximos of trying to steal the Empire from him in the process…
Not that these officials needed to know that, it would only complicate his plans for the future.
“I want to see for myself,” this one, a eunuch called Eutropius was glaring at Maximos now, those pale eyes sizing up the strategos.
Murmurs of agreement there, while Maximos carefully suppressed his irritation. He despised eunuchs and castrates of all kind, considered them to be less than men, barely above women, or animals in what they were worth, but Eutropius was a bureaucrat through and through, and had made himself fabulously wealthy in the process. He had no loyalty, but he had money, and money bought loyalty just as well as anything.
So Maximos needed this man, at least for now.
“Very well,” Maximos sighed, “I’ll have you brought to the Emperor tomorrow morning, so you can see for yourself.”
That’ll give me enough time to drug him before the meeting, so he endorses whatever course of action I choose to take.
“Agreed,” Eutropius nodded, “We need the Emperor’s command to lead us through this crisis. With Galata having fallen, the Empire is in more danger now than when it was under siege by the Caliphate.”
“And if there’s anything that proves that bitch Eirene should never rule Constantinopolis, it’s that she’s brought an army of Frankish barbarians onto our doorstep.” Thraskeios rumbled,
And they’re only barely a bigger collection of barbarians than the motley bunch I have assembled here. What a group of saviours the Empire has!
Unfortunate then, that he couldn’t sling them all out of the city for Eirene and Karloman to deal with…
Constantinopolis, April-May 783.
The siege dragged on. On April 15th an attempt to re-take Galata by the Greeks was repulsed by the Frankish garrison, now firmly ensconced within the suburb. By late April, the city’s granaries were finally beginning to empty. Emperor Christophorus remained concealed, hidden away from his subjects and officials by a screen of bodyguards and drugs to keep his regular outbursts of insanity under control.
Then the rioting began. A small protest at spiking food prices first, put down violently by the Scholae Patinae… then another, larger one the next day, dispersed with aid from the demes.
Outside the city, Karloman continued to refine the tactics he’d used during the diversionary assault on the main walls that had distracted from the fall of Galata. Larger and larger sheaves of wood were used to construct those makeshift bridges that had been used to cross the ditch before the walls in the initial assault. More projectiles were thrown into the ditch itself to fill up the hole before the wall, and the Franks took to lobbing stones to the top of and over the walls in the hopes of inflicting further damage and casualties…
In May, word came of sickness. Karloman’s army heard of a disease that had spread through the livestock of the local farmers. At Eirene’s insistence, one of the local farmers was hauled into the Frankish camp for questioning.
“This disease has affected your livestock?” Karloman asked, through one of his translators.
“Yes Sovereign, goats primarily, drops em dead like a stone,” the man emphatically nodded.
“Any problems with the crops,”
“Nay sire, only the animals affected by it,” the man’s head bobbed upon his large bulbous neck precariously, as though if it wobbled too much it might fall off and go rolling away.
“It’s the armies sire, the polluting the water means the animals get sick when they drink it!” the man’s words rushed out before he could stop himself, and then he covered his mouth in terrible fear as he realised what he had just said. By implication, he had blamed Karloman’s army, and by extension Karloman himself, for the disease that had spread through his stores of livestock.
Karloman did not scream and call for the man’s execution, instead, he turned to confer briefly with Eirene, seated next to him, in a muffled voice. When he spoke, his words were transcribed clearly for the farmer’s benefit.
“Empress Eirene has agreed to compensate you for the loss of your goats once she comes into her throne,” Karloman responded, “I personally, am prepared to pay you a stipend against that day in compensation.” The farmer’s face lit up as Karloman’s words were relayed to him. “For you however, I need you to do something for me first…”
The man’s face fell, and grew more suspicious. “What be that?”
Karloman smiled, “Do you, perchance, happen to have the bodies of any of these diseased goats?”
May, 783.
When the corpses of the first goats were tossed over the wall, even a city on the brink of famine did not seem to sink to eating them at first… at first.
But hunger has a way of tormenting men’s senses as much as their bellies, and before long, the dead goats were roasted as much as any good calf in the attempt to stave off starvation for another day.
So one pestilence was replaced with another, as famine became disease, and the disease spread into plague, first in the poor quarter, where it spread virulently, but by late May, even the richer quarters were falling sick of the virulent illness.
For Strategos Maximos, this was not how he had planned things to go, not at all. At night, as he tried to sleep, the worm of fear crawled into his mind, whispering that he had made a terrible mistake, that he was doomed, that the Empire would fall to Eirene, and his head would adorn a spike atop the Golden Gate.
He would never be Emperor now… And Thrakesios? Eutropius? They would all go over to Eirene in a heartbeat, fall on their knees, pledge fealty and beg for mercy, back her puppet Patriarch, whomever that proved to be… They would desert him, and he would be left holding the bag.
He needed a bath, that was what he needed, a bath and then dinner, and then a new plan to break the siege. But dinner yes, that would help him clear his head. Without a clear head, he couldn’t think…
He made his way to his private study, which he had been making use of to run the Empire. Technically it belonged to the Emperor, but in Christophorus’s illness, nobody had seen fit to bother Maximos about his use of it.
Perhaps it was time to contact Heraklios? Yes, the strategos who had been commanding the war in Epirus, time to recall him… time to bring him back. Surely he would support them over Eirene, religious sentiments notwithstanding? He couldn’t come back to support a woman who had brought disease and famine into the capital, and a Frankish army to its gates, surely he could not?
As he ate, his mind calmed, nearly oblivious to the movement of the fearful servants around him. Yes, he had a plan now, a solid plan coalescing, and a way out. Of course, once Heraklios was back he’d get rid of Eutropius and Thraskeios. No need to have them around waiting to stick a blade in his back. Heraklios was an honourable man, not given to brazen power plays, he might have to share power with him briefly, but once the danger to the Empire was passed, he’d be able to bring him down as well.
I have time, time to do it all Maximos thought, and a broad grin spread across his face.
Noticing one of his fearful servants for the first time, he snapped, “Get me some wine!”
The servant, who had been slinking towards the door stopped, eyed him fearfully.
Maximos stood, glaring now, face red and angry.
“You deaf? I said bring some wine, I’m in the mood for a celebration tonight!”
The servant hesitated, foot hovering on the threshold of the door.
“What are you waiting for!” Maximos was shouting now, oblivious to the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching behind him, as the fear spread further across the servant’s face, “Do as I command!”
He felt the first blow strike him across the back of his neck, and a second, a sharp, shooting pain in his back. Wincing, he moved his hand behind himself and felt the warm gush of hot blood rushing from a wound.
“Wha-“ he turned suddenly, and then more were upon him, blades and daggers aloft, all his servants, all his cooks and dressers and courtiers and foot rubbers and the like. All who he had made to treat him like the basileus he never was.
Within a few minutes, the deed was done, Strategos Maximos lay dead in a pool of his own blood, gushing from more than a dozen stab wounds. The eight servants who had participated, seven who had struck the blow, and the one waiting by the door who had given the signal, removed the dead man’s rings and symbols of imperial office, being careful to tiptoe around the growing puddle of their master’s blood, and began to slowly file out of the Palace…
Strategos Thrakesios received the rap on his door late at night.
“What?” he asked irritably.
“It’s done.” A voice replied through the flap in the door. “You can come to the Palace now.”
He smiled, satisfied to himself, the courtiers had done their work well. Maximos was dead…
He wasn’t the only one summoned to attend to the palace that fateful night. Eutropius was there too, as was Loukas, the reigning Patriarch, more terrified than ever of Eirene’s wrath, he had been praying publicly for deliverance for weeks, and been met with naught but terror and starvation and disease for his entreaties.
“Maximos is dead. The servants did their jobs well,” Thrasekios reported, unprompted, “The would-be usurper was dead before he knew what was happening.”
“And now we must see to the health of the Empire,” Eutropius replied, “The army outside our gates has brought us to the brink of death and decay. Those outside our walls wait to see whom will emerge the victor before they commit themselves. Those within are beginning to feel that surrender may be the best course.” Fear flitted across the eunuch’s face. “Perhaps it would be.”
“Surrender isn’t an option for me,” The Patriarch said, “Eirene will want to replace me with her puppet, and her Iconodule sympathies mean I will be consigned to hanging at best.”
“And I can’t surrender. My head will be on a pike within a minute of her capturing me,” Thrakeios responded.
“I will survive.” Eutropius broke in now, “I have the money to finance reconstructions, and the demes leaders will be able to vouch for my ability to finance projects if I am kept alive. I don’t… plan to surrender, but I could survive it if it came to that.”
“And what of the Emperor?” Thrakeios asked. He was finding it much easier to have a frank conversation about the dire situation they found themselves in now the increasingly deluded Maximos was out of the way.
“We need his consent to proceed, obviously,” Loukas replied.
And therein lay the problem, as all present knew. The Emperor was in no fit state to consent to anything, surrender or fight. He was barely in a fit state to eat the mush he was given to prevent him starving, let alone actually lead or command his forces.
All those present recognised the irony. Had Maximos been here, he would’ve taken charge of the meeting, organised a plan, distributed orders, organised logistics that were necessary. But Maximos was dead, and those who had been playing second to his pretensions at Emperorhood suddenly felt curiously rudderless after months of his firm guidance. Even if his plans were often wrong, at least he’d had them.
“Well then we’d better pray for his recovery,” The Patriarch continued, “I’ll prepare a sermon to be delivered from the pulpit in the Hagia Sophia if…”
“Yes, you go do that, prayer is the best contribution you can make to our cause.” Eutropius sneered.
“Do you have a better idea?” the Patriarch rounded on him, “Because I don’t see your vaunted wealth being much use against the force arrayed outside our walls. Be careful whom you insult castrate! I have half a mind to-“
“Enough!” That was Thrakesios, being very clear what he thought about this outbreak of squabbling. How had it all fallen apart? They had all been united on the need to be rid of Maximos, and here his corpse was barely cold while they began to turn on each other. We can’t defend the Empire if we tear ourselves down first.
“First we’ll attempt to see to the basileus’s recovery,” Thrakesios said, “And failing that…” he trailed off, unable to think of anything. “Failing that, we’ll think of something else.” He decided.
“And who left you in charge of everything?” Eutropius asked,
“Your inability to cease your infernal squabbling with the barbarians at our doors!” Thrakesios snapped.
And the relationship between the Empire’s de facto ruling council did not improve in the days to come. No relief came from any other Greek army. No attempt to break the blockade of the Horn was successful, nor any land assault on Galata. The soldiers were growing deprived of food as well, some barely having the strength left to raise weapons.
By June 1st, the situation had deteriorated further still. Even those charged with ruling the Empire were beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, the gnaws of which were only worsened by the growing fear, not of starvation or pestilence, which were already taking their toll, but the fear of defeat and surrender continued to prey on the minds of those with the most to lose. They would not be treated mercifully if the city fell.
But it was outside the city that the final plans for the assault that would bring down an Empire were made.
OOC: OK! So, this post was longer than I originally thought, but I confess I really wrestled with it for a while and wasn't entirely happy with it, particularly the second half for a while. Siege Warfare is just not my thing to write about compared to more fluid battles, character struggles and political plays and intrigue, so I tried to mix those things in without it just becoming a boring one-dimensional thing of two armies staring at each other for months. I hope Maximos's death feels alright to my readers, given his ambitions it felt right for him to end up getting burned for flying too close to the sun. But I now see why Hollywood directors prefer to make sieges very, very different from the way they actually were!
I think it worked OK, but it felt like more of a struggle to squeeze it out than usual. The next post should wrap up the siege of Constantinople as the final assault begins with the city on the verge of falling, and begin to deal with the political fallout of the conflict's end, so hopefully I'll be back in writing territory that's more comfortable for me and flows more fluidly from my brain to the page than I felt some of this did. While I certainly hope this is working for people and they're still reading and enjoying, I wanted to upfront about the fact that this part felt like more of a struggle to push through than some of the others. I hope it still turned out OK! Let me know what your thoughts have been! Constructive feedback or ideas as welcome as always.
“I… failed you, sovereign. I allowed my fear to get the better of me.”
“You think that a successful measure to open the gates and enable my army to enter Galata was a failure?” Karloman shook his head, “I beg to differ Berenger. You did exactly as was expected.”
“But my fear-“
“No man lives without fear Berenger, myself included.” Karloman replied firmly, “You accomplished your task despite it all, and that matters more than all the rest of the details.” He smiled, and then turned to face Pepin “Though I am pleased to hear my son acquitted himself so well during the task to open the gate. Pleased beyond measure.”
“I- Thank you father,” Pepin replied, and lowered his head, face flushed with pride.
“Nevertheless, there’s still a siege to be won.” Karloman continued, “And I will not rest until Constantinopolis has fallen and returned to the rule of the rightful Empress Eirene.”
And so they went on and on. Though the situation within the city was now changed dramatically…
Constantinopolis, April 783.
“Quiet!”
Strategos Maximos’s shouted commands broke through over the recriminations and accusations that flowed around the room. The fall of Galata and blockade of the Horn had sent the city’s ruling elite into a panic… and there was plenty of blame to go around.
“With Galata lost…” That was Thrakesios, but Maximos quickly cut him off.
“The siege is not done,” the strategos interrupted him. “We still hold the Thedosian Walls, the largest and grandest fortifications known to man, and while the river is blocked, we still have supplies to hold out for months.” He gazed around the room, defiantly, “it is a setback, but we are not dead yet.”
A few murmers of discontent told him that his fellows did not entirely agree…
“We need the Emperor.”
“The basileus is… indisposed” Maximos replied. Christophorus had fallen into yet another bout of madness and been confined to bed, and had indulged in a loud rant accusing Maximos of trying to steal the Empire from him in the process…
Not that these officials needed to know that, it would only complicate his plans for the future.
“I want to see for myself,” this one, a eunuch called Eutropius was glaring at Maximos now, those pale eyes sizing up the strategos.
Murmurs of agreement there, while Maximos carefully suppressed his irritation. He despised eunuchs and castrates of all kind, considered them to be less than men, barely above women, or animals in what they were worth, but Eutropius was a bureaucrat through and through, and had made himself fabulously wealthy in the process. He had no loyalty, but he had money, and money bought loyalty just as well as anything.
So Maximos needed this man, at least for now.
“Very well,” Maximos sighed, “I’ll have you brought to the Emperor tomorrow morning, so you can see for yourself.”
That’ll give me enough time to drug him before the meeting, so he endorses whatever course of action I choose to take.
“Agreed,” Eutropius nodded, “We need the Emperor’s command to lead us through this crisis. With Galata having fallen, the Empire is in more danger now than when it was under siege by the Caliphate.”
“And if there’s anything that proves that bitch Eirene should never rule Constantinopolis, it’s that she’s brought an army of Frankish barbarians onto our doorstep.” Thraskeios rumbled,
And they’re only barely a bigger collection of barbarians than the motley bunch I have assembled here. What a group of saviours the Empire has!
Unfortunate then, that he couldn’t sling them all out of the city for Eirene and Karloman to deal with…
Constantinopolis, April-May 783.
The siege dragged on. On April 15th an attempt to re-take Galata by the Greeks was repulsed by the Frankish garrison, now firmly ensconced within the suburb. By late April, the city’s granaries were finally beginning to empty. Emperor Christophorus remained concealed, hidden away from his subjects and officials by a screen of bodyguards and drugs to keep his regular outbursts of insanity under control.
Then the rioting began. A small protest at spiking food prices first, put down violently by the Scholae Patinae… then another, larger one the next day, dispersed with aid from the demes.
Outside the city, Karloman continued to refine the tactics he’d used during the diversionary assault on the main walls that had distracted from the fall of Galata. Larger and larger sheaves of wood were used to construct those makeshift bridges that had been used to cross the ditch before the walls in the initial assault. More projectiles were thrown into the ditch itself to fill up the hole before the wall, and the Franks took to lobbing stones to the top of and over the walls in the hopes of inflicting further damage and casualties…
In May, word came of sickness. Karloman’s army heard of a disease that had spread through the livestock of the local farmers. At Eirene’s insistence, one of the local farmers was hauled into the Frankish camp for questioning.
“This disease has affected your livestock?” Karloman asked, through one of his translators.
“Yes Sovereign, goats primarily, drops em dead like a stone,” the man emphatically nodded.
“Any problems with the crops,”
“Nay sire, only the animals affected by it,” the man’s head bobbed upon his large bulbous neck precariously, as though if it wobbled too much it might fall off and go rolling away.
“It’s the armies sire, the polluting the water means the animals get sick when they drink it!” the man’s words rushed out before he could stop himself, and then he covered his mouth in terrible fear as he realised what he had just said. By implication, he had blamed Karloman’s army, and by extension Karloman himself, for the disease that had spread through his stores of livestock.
Karloman did not scream and call for the man’s execution, instead, he turned to confer briefly with Eirene, seated next to him, in a muffled voice. When he spoke, his words were transcribed clearly for the farmer’s benefit.
“Empress Eirene has agreed to compensate you for the loss of your goats once she comes into her throne,” Karloman responded, “I personally, am prepared to pay you a stipend against that day in compensation.” The farmer’s face lit up as Karloman’s words were relayed to him. “For you however, I need you to do something for me first…”
The man’s face fell, and grew more suspicious. “What be that?”
Karloman smiled, “Do you, perchance, happen to have the bodies of any of these diseased goats?”
May, 783.
When the corpses of the first goats were tossed over the wall, even a city on the brink of famine did not seem to sink to eating them at first… at first.
But hunger has a way of tormenting men’s senses as much as their bellies, and before long, the dead goats were roasted as much as any good calf in the attempt to stave off starvation for another day.
So one pestilence was replaced with another, as famine became disease, and the disease spread into plague, first in the poor quarter, where it spread virulently, but by late May, even the richer quarters were falling sick of the virulent illness.
For Strategos Maximos, this was not how he had planned things to go, not at all. At night, as he tried to sleep, the worm of fear crawled into his mind, whispering that he had made a terrible mistake, that he was doomed, that the Empire would fall to Eirene, and his head would adorn a spike atop the Golden Gate.
He would never be Emperor now… And Thrakesios? Eutropius? They would all go over to Eirene in a heartbeat, fall on their knees, pledge fealty and beg for mercy, back her puppet Patriarch, whomever that proved to be… They would desert him, and he would be left holding the bag.
He needed a bath, that was what he needed, a bath and then dinner, and then a new plan to break the siege. But dinner yes, that would help him clear his head. Without a clear head, he couldn’t think…
He made his way to his private study, which he had been making use of to run the Empire. Technically it belonged to the Emperor, but in Christophorus’s illness, nobody had seen fit to bother Maximos about his use of it.
Perhaps it was time to contact Heraklios? Yes, the strategos who had been commanding the war in Epirus, time to recall him… time to bring him back. Surely he would support them over Eirene, religious sentiments notwithstanding? He couldn’t come back to support a woman who had brought disease and famine into the capital, and a Frankish army to its gates, surely he could not?
As he ate, his mind calmed, nearly oblivious to the movement of the fearful servants around him. Yes, he had a plan now, a solid plan coalescing, and a way out. Of course, once Heraklios was back he’d get rid of Eutropius and Thraskeios. No need to have them around waiting to stick a blade in his back. Heraklios was an honourable man, not given to brazen power plays, he might have to share power with him briefly, but once the danger to the Empire was passed, he’d be able to bring him down as well.
I have time, time to do it all Maximos thought, and a broad grin spread across his face.
Noticing one of his fearful servants for the first time, he snapped, “Get me some wine!”
The servant, who had been slinking towards the door stopped, eyed him fearfully.
Maximos stood, glaring now, face red and angry.
“You deaf? I said bring some wine, I’m in the mood for a celebration tonight!”
The servant hesitated, foot hovering on the threshold of the door.
“What are you waiting for!” Maximos was shouting now, oblivious to the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching behind him, as the fear spread further across the servant’s face, “Do as I command!”
He felt the first blow strike him across the back of his neck, and a second, a sharp, shooting pain in his back. Wincing, he moved his hand behind himself and felt the warm gush of hot blood rushing from a wound.
“Wha-“ he turned suddenly, and then more were upon him, blades and daggers aloft, all his servants, all his cooks and dressers and courtiers and foot rubbers and the like. All who he had made to treat him like the basileus he never was.
Within a few minutes, the deed was done, Strategos Maximos lay dead in a pool of his own blood, gushing from more than a dozen stab wounds. The eight servants who had participated, seven who had struck the blow, and the one waiting by the door who had given the signal, removed the dead man’s rings and symbols of imperial office, being careful to tiptoe around the growing puddle of their master’s blood, and began to slowly file out of the Palace…
Strategos Thrakesios received the rap on his door late at night.
“What?” he asked irritably.
“It’s done.” A voice replied through the flap in the door. “You can come to the Palace now.”
He smiled, satisfied to himself, the courtiers had done their work well. Maximos was dead…
He wasn’t the only one summoned to attend to the palace that fateful night. Eutropius was there too, as was Loukas, the reigning Patriarch, more terrified than ever of Eirene’s wrath, he had been praying publicly for deliverance for weeks, and been met with naught but terror and starvation and disease for his entreaties.
“Maximos is dead. The servants did their jobs well,” Thrasekios reported, unprompted, “The would-be usurper was dead before he knew what was happening.”
“And now we must see to the health of the Empire,” Eutropius replied, “The army outside our gates has brought us to the brink of death and decay. Those outside our walls wait to see whom will emerge the victor before they commit themselves. Those within are beginning to feel that surrender may be the best course.” Fear flitted across the eunuch’s face. “Perhaps it would be.”
“Surrender isn’t an option for me,” The Patriarch said, “Eirene will want to replace me with her puppet, and her Iconodule sympathies mean I will be consigned to hanging at best.”
“And I can’t surrender. My head will be on a pike within a minute of her capturing me,” Thrakeios responded.
“I will survive.” Eutropius broke in now, “I have the money to finance reconstructions, and the demes leaders will be able to vouch for my ability to finance projects if I am kept alive. I don’t… plan to surrender, but I could survive it if it came to that.”
“And what of the Emperor?” Thrakeios asked. He was finding it much easier to have a frank conversation about the dire situation they found themselves in now the increasingly deluded Maximos was out of the way.
“We need his consent to proceed, obviously,” Loukas replied.
And therein lay the problem, as all present knew. The Emperor was in no fit state to consent to anything, surrender or fight. He was barely in a fit state to eat the mush he was given to prevent him starving, let alone actually lead or command his forces.
All those present recognised the irony. Had Maximos been here, he would’ve taken charge of the meeting, organised a plan, distributed orders, organised logistics that were necessary. But Maximos was dead, and those who had been playing second to his pretensions at Emperorhood suddenly felt curiously rudderless after months of his firm guidance. Even if his plans were often wrong, at least he’d had them.
“Well then we’d better pray for his recovery,” The Patriarch continued, “I’ll prepare a sermon to be delivered from the pulpit in the Hagia Sophia if…”
“Yes, you go do that, prayer is the best contribution you can make to our cause.” Eutropius sneered.
“Do you have a better idea?” the Patriarch rounded on him, “Because I don’t see your vaunted wealth being much use against the force arrayed outside our walls. Be careful whom you insult castrate! I have half a mind to-“
“Enough!” That was Thrakesios, being very clear what he thought about this outbreak of squabbling. How had it all fallen apart? They had all been united on the need to be rid of Maximos, and here his corpse was barely cold while they began to turn on each other. We can’t defend the Empire if we tear ourselves down first.
“First we’ll attempt to see to the basileus’s recovery,” Thrakesios said, “And failing that…” he trailed off, unable to think of anything. “Failing that, we’ll think of something else.” He decided.
“And who left you in charge of everything?” Eutropius asked,
“Your inability to cease your infernal squabbling with the barbarians at our doors!” Thrakesios snapped.
And the relationship between the Empire’s de facto ruling council did not improve in the days to come. No relief came from any other Greek army. No attempt to break the blockade of the Horn was successful, nor any land assault on Galata. The soldiers were growing deprived of food as well, some barely having the strength left to raise weapons.
By June 1st, the situation had deteriorated further still. Even those charged with ruling the Empire were beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, the gnaws of which were only worsened by the growing fear, not of starvation or pestilence, which were already taking their toll, but the fear of defeat and surrender continued to prey on the minds of those with the most to lose. They would not be treated mercifully if the city fell.
But it was outside the city that the final plans for the assault that would bring down an Empire were made.
OOC: OK! So, this post was longer than I originally thought, but I confess I really wrestled with it for a while and wasn't entirely happy with it, particularly the second half for a while. Siege Warfare is just not my thing to write about compared to more fluid battles, character struggles and political plays and intrigue, so I tried to mix those things in without it just becoming a boring one-dimensional thing of two armies staring at each other for months. I hope Maximos's death feels alright to my readers, given his ambitions it felt right for him to end up getting burned for flying too close to the sun. But I now see why Hollywood directors prefer to make sieges very, very different from the way they actually were!
I think it worked OK, but it felt like more of a struggle to squeeze it out than usual. The next post should wrap up the siege of Constantinople as the final assault begins with the city on the verge of falling, and begin to deal with the political fallout of the conflict's end, so hopefully I'll be back in writing territory that's more comfortable for me and flows more fluidly from my brain to the page than I felt some of this did. While I certainly hope this is working for people and they're still reading and enjoying, I wanted to upfront about the fact that this part felt like more of a struggle to push through than some of the others. I hope it still turned out OK! Let me know what your thoughts have been! Constructive feedback or ideas as welcome as always.
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I liked the portrayal of Maximos' death, very well written and very Byzantine. I understand that siege warfare is not the most exciting thing to describe but I think you've done a good job of portraying the feeling of the noose tightening around Christophorus' neck.
I feel that Maximos might have led a better defense of the city but he clearly underestimated his opponents. In any case, Eirene will have a lot of cleaning up to do once she regains her throne.
I feel that Maximos might have led a better defense of the city but he clearly underestimated his opponents. In any case, Eirene will have a lot of cleaning up to do once she regains her throne.
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June 783
On June 2nd the Franks moved their catapaults into Galata, mounted them atop the walls, and began firing…
On June 3rd, Karloman gave his final approval to the plan to launch an assault upon the gates of the weakened city. He had chosen one of the smaller gates, the Golden Gate being deemed too large and too formidable, even with such a vast tactical advantage and a weakened defence force.
On June 4th, the assault was launched. A number of larger, bigger wooden sheets of the sort used in the diversionary assaults on Galata were now employed directly. They were used to create mini-bridges over the ditches outside the walls, while Frankish men carried over them ladders which they then used to launch assaults upon the wall. The battering ram also began it’s work, Karloman ordered the wood atop the ram soaked with water before the assault began to dampen the effects of any fire the enemy might rain down upon it.
Though the day ended without a successful breakthrough, several groups of Frankish soldiers fought their way atop the walls and inflicted serious casualties on the defenders before the retreat was called. An increasingly distressed Thrakesios plumped out the now depleted defenders on the wall by conscripting elements of the demes, and even the occasional servant whom it was felt could be trusted with a weapon.
June 5th saw Karloman give orders for further preparations for a second assault. Pepin had been ordered out of Galata now, and was back with his father, overseeing the preparations for the assault with rising excitement. Karloman was calm, unflappable, methodical in his preparations, and Pepin did wonder how his father’s nerves seemed to little frayed, even after months of gruelling siege warfare.
June 6th began the next assault. The ladders went up atop the walls once more, and the gates began to groan under the repeated battering of the ram. The men in Galata began to bombard the walls from the other direction as well. Stone fell and gaps began to emerge within the wall by nightfall as fighting erupted in several breaches.
On June 7th Thrakesios and Eutropius made their decision. The Emperor needed to be evacuated, spirited away from Constantinople. The city was lost, and the Empire would be lost to Eirene with it. They needed to ensure that the existing Emperor still lived.
“If we can spirit him away somewhere safe, then Eirene’s throne will never be secure. It will be easier to undermine her from within.”
“She’ll never let you do it,” Eutropius replied, shaking his head at Thrakesios’s optimism. “She’ll execute you when the city falls.”
“Aye,” Thrakesios nodded sadly. “I betrayed Maximos, so it seems I am to be forsaken in turn, but you, she’ll spare, if you go before her and beg pardon.”
Eutropius did not seem so sure.
“She will,” Thrakesios assured him, “Your businesses will be needed to keep the gold flowing into the treasury and rebuild the city. If you surrender to her, you will be spared.”
Eutropius stopped, suddenly finding himself staring at this man as if he’d never seen him before. He hadn’t always gotten along with Thrakesios well, but… he didn’t want to abandon him.
“What if I don’t want to surrender?” he asked, in a small voice.
Thrakesios smiled a sad grin. “I wasn’t giving you a choice my friend, you’ll be needed, and when the Emperor returns to Constantinople, you’ll be here, ready to take advantage of it to topple Eirene.”
“Has the Emperor’s escape been secured?”
“Aye,” Thrakesios nodded, “The Patriarch has arranged it, he’s not staying in the city either, Eirene will kill him.”
“Then…” He trailed off, “Then I will leave the city and surrender myself to Eirene today.”
“Good man,” Thrakesios smiled, “It’s for the best, though I hope you know I cannot surrender. I will fight till my own end.”
“Someone must, since the rest of us are cowards,” Eutropius replied.
“Aye,” Thrakesios gave a short bark of bitter laughter, “Someone must.” If Eutropius wondered whether the defeat had stung Thrakesios more than he let on, he did not doubt anymore.
The fighting continued sporadically throughout the day, as more and more magistrates and city officials began to leave the city to surrender to Eirene and Karloman. The Emperor of the West and Empress of the East accepted most surrender’s levelly, with promise of pardon for loyal and undiminished service in future.
By dawn of the 8th of June, the city had been properly breached and Frankish troops poured through the gaps into the lines. The sack of Constantinople was fairly mild, all things told, but for the prestige of the people of that starved, disease-ridden and desperate city, the blow to their pride was one they would not soon forget…
June 9th, Camp of Emperor Karloman Karling.
His father had done it, Pepin thought, for once overawed by the scope of the achievements. Those mighty Theodosian Walls, so firm and impenetrable just months earlier, had broken and bent before his father’s will. Constantinople, so proud and mighty in her defiance, had been reduced to a quivering mess of disease and frightened surrender, as his father rode through the Golden Gates of the city, which this time opened for his advent, and surveyed the streets of Constantinople in triumph. Beside him rode his wife, Constantinople’s restored Empress, and on his other side, his son Pepin, future heir to the Empire in the West, just as Eirene’s sons were the heirs to the east…
Eirene wanted to get on with the work of restoring the city quickly, but felt she could not overrule Karloman’s desire for a triumphal-like procession through the streets of the captured city. She had taken back her throne with his armies after all, and if he wanted one day to bask in the obeisance of his conquest, well, let him.
Eutropius freely surrendered to the Empress, who accepted, with bad grace. But she knew she needed the traders who lived still to play their part in restoring the Empire’s depleted finances, so she had little choice.
But one nagging matter still negged the Empress as she watched her husband parade his honour guard through the streets of Constantinople. The usurper Christophorus was yet to be found… and the puppet Patriarch had also vanished from the city. Logic presumed they had likely fled together, though how and to where she did not yet know.
The following days made for gruelling rebuilding. Eirene re-instated Patriarch Ioulianous as the leader of the Eastern Church and accepted the fealty of the remaining strategoi who surrendered to her. She exempted the city’s hard-hit traders from taxes for two years and began the process of filling appointments to many of the city’s officials who had been killed or fled their posts.
As for Karloman, he sent the bulk of his army home, ready to disband them and return to their homes and farms when they returned to Frankish territory. Around 2000 troops remained with him, and his son Pepin, whom had taken the time to see the sights in Constantinople with his father, including the magnificent Hagia Sophia, that grand building project of the great Emperor Justinian.
The city’s siege ended, the patching of stone walls began, and food began to move into the city and into the granaries. For Karloman, the weeks with Eirene proved enlightening, as she began to take cautious steps to win over the new supporters in her Empire. Bribes changed hands, as did trade concessions, such was how things were done in Byzantium, and such would never change.
On June 2nd the Franks moved their catapaults into Galata, mounted them atop the walls, and began firing…
On June 3rd, Karloman gave his final approval to the plan to launch an assault upon the gates of the weakened city. He had chosen one of the smaller gates, the Golden Gate being deemed too large and too formidable, even with such a vast tactical advantage and a weakened defence force.
On June 4th, the assault was launched. A number of larger, bigger wooden sheets of the sort used in the diversionary assaults on Galata were now employed directly. They were used to create mini-bridges over the ditches outside the walls, while Frankish men carried over them ladders which they then used to launch assaults upon the wall. The battering ram also began it’s work, Karloman ordered the wood atop the ram soaked with water before the assault began to dampen the effects of any fire the enemy might rain down upon it.
Though the day ended without a successful breakthrough, several groups of Frankish soldiers fought their way atop the walls and inflicted serious casualties on the defenders before the retreat was called. An increasingly distressed Thrakesios plumped out the now depleted defenders on the wall by conscripting elements of the demes, and even the occasional servant whom it was felt could be trusted with a weapon.
June 5th saw Karloman give orders for further preparations for a second assault. Pepin had been ordered out of Galata now, and was back with his father, overseeing the preparations for the assault with rising excitement. Karloman was calm, unflappable, methodical in his preparations, and Pepin did wonder how his father’s nerves seemed to little frayed, even after months of gruelling siege warfare.
June 6th began the next assault. The ladders went up atop the walls once more, and the gates began to groan under the repeated battering of the ram. The men in Galata began to bombard the walls from the other direction as well. Stone fell and gaps began to emerge within the wall by nightfall as fighting erupted in several breaches.
On June 7th Thrakesios and Eutropius made their decision. The Emperor needed to be evacuated, spirited away from Constantinople. The city was lost, and the Empire would be lost to Eirene with it. They needed to ensure that the existing Emperor still lived.
“If we can spirit him away somewhere safe, then Eirene’s throne will never be secure. It will be easier to undermine her from within.”
“She’ll never let you do it,” Eutropius replied, shaking his head at Thrakesios’s optimism. “She’ll execute you when the city falls.”
“Aye,” Thrakesios nodded sadly. “I betrayed Maximos, so it seems I am to be forsaken in turn, but you, she’ll spare, if you go before her and beg pardon.”
Eutropius did not seem so sure.
“She will,” Thrakesios assured him, “Your businesses will be needed to keep the gold flowing into the treasury and rebuild the city. If you surrender to her, you will be spared.”
Eutropius stopped, suddenly finding himself staring at this man as if he’d never seen him before. He hadn’t always gotten along with Thrakesios well, but… he didn’t want to abandon him.
“What if I don’t want to surrender?” he asked, in a small voice.
Thrakesios smiled a sad grin. “I wasn’t giving you a choice my friend, you’ll be needed, and when the Emperor returns to Constantinople, you’ll be here, ready to take advantage of it to topple Eirene.”
“Has the Emperor’s escape been secured?”
“Aye,” Thrakesios nodded, “The Patriarch has arranged it, he’s not staying in the city either, Eirene will kill him.”
“Then…” He trailed off, “Then I will leave the city and surrender myself to Eirene today.”
“Good man,” Thrakesios smiled, “It’s for the best, though I hope you know I cannot surrender. I will fight till my own end.”
“Someone must, since the rest of us are cowards,” Eutropius replied.
“Aye,” Thrakesios gave a short bark of bitter laughter, “Someone must.” If Eutropius wondered whether the defeat had stung Thrakesios more than he let on, he did not doubt anymore.
The fighting continued sporadically throughout the day, as more and more magistrates and city officials began to leave the city to surrender to Eirene and Karloman. The Emperor of the West and Empress of the East accepted most surrender’s levelly, with promise of pardon for loyal and undiminished service in future.
By dawn of the 8th of June, the city had been properly breached and Frankish troops poured through the gaps into the lines. The sack of Constantinople was fairly mild, all things told, but for the prestige of the people of that starved, disease-ridden and desperate city, the blow to their pride was one they would not soon forget…
June 9th, Camp of Emperor Karloman Karling.
His father had done it, Pepin thought, for once overawed by the scope of the achievements. Those mighty Theodosian Walls, so firm and impenetrable just months earlier, had broken and bent before his father’s will. Constantinople, so proud and mighty in her defiance, had been reduced to a quivering mess of disease and frightened surrender, as his father rode through the Golden Gates of the city, which this time opened for his advent, and surveyed the streets of Constantinople in triumph. Beside him rode his wife, Constantinople’s restored Empress, and on his other side, his son Pepin, future heir to the Empire in the West, just as Eirene’s sons were the heirs to the east…
Eirene wanted to get on with the work of restoring the city quickly, but felt she could not overrule Karloman’s desire for a triumphal-like procession through the streets of the captured city. She had taken back her throne with his armies after all, and if he wanted one day to bask in the obeisance of his conquest, well, let him.
Eutropius freely surrendered to the Empress, who accepted, with bad grace. But she knew she needed the traders who lived still to play their part in restoring the Empire’s depleted finances, so she had little choice.
But one nagging matter still negged the Empress as she watched her husband parade his honour guard through the streets of Constantinople. The usurper Christophorus was yet to be found… and the puppet Patriarch had also vanished from the city. Logic presumed they had likely fled together, though how and to where she did not yet know.
The following days made for gruelling rebuilding. Eirene re-instated Patriarch Ioulianous as the leader of the Eastern Church and accepted the fealty of the remaining strategoi who surrendered to her. She exempted the city’s hard-hit traders from taxes for two years and began the process of filling appointments to many of the city’s officials who had been killed or fled their posts.
As for Karloman, he sent the bulk of his army home, ready to disband them and return to their homes and farms when they returned to Frankish territory. Around 2000 troops remained with him, and his son Pepin, whom had taken the time to see the sights in Constantinople with his father, including the magnificent Hagia Sophia, that grand building project of the great Emperor Justinian.
The city’s siege ended, the patching of stone walls began, and food began to move into the city and into the granaries. For Karloman, the weeks with Eirene proved enlightening, as she began to take cautious steps to win over the new supporters in her Empire. Bribes changed hands, as did trade concessions, such was how things were done in Byzantium, and such would never change.
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