Prince of Peace (edited) by Faeelin
- Thread starter G.Bone
- Start date
Faeelin
Banned
The revival of Byzantine fortunes would not have been possible, were it not for the reforms of the Staufen monarchs of Romania [188]. It is therefore worth taking a moment to look at how the Empire is governed, as well as an overall view of the structure of the empire.
Phillip deserves credit for restoring the program of reconquering Anatolia begun under the Commeni. Alexius built fortresses on the coast; John built fortresses in the valleys and coastlands, and Manuel, by the 1170’s, planted fortified towns on the Anatolian plateau. This reconquest was aborted under Manuel’s successor, but Phillip was able to continue the reconquest, encouraging settlement of the area by placing Bulgar prisoners there as settlers, and Aleander, by letting the Turks act as a buffer to the Mongols before defeating them, removed the threat posed by the Turks to the Greeks in Asia Minor [189]
By 1241, a chronicler could declare that “roads which have been formerly impassible to Christians have now been thrown wide open to traffic, and already women venture on these roads, who are used to a life of luxury.â€
This does not lead to the plateau being transformed into the land of milk and honey; in the first place, expelling the Turks would be impractical, and in the second place, the Staufens prefer to keep the interior of the plateau as an uncultivated hinterland, to deter invaders [190]
The years of Staufen rule have also been prosperous ones for the Empire. Before we discuss this, however, I’d like to get something out of the way. The assumption that the Italian presence in the Empire was damaging, encouraged by Norwich, is considered by many modern historians to be inaccurate at best, and completely wrong at worst.
First of all, Byzantium was not a city-state founded on trade; it was an empire whose prosperity was based on agricultural productivity, and the vast majority of its revenues came from that. It’s therefore absurd to expect that losing a small portion of revenues would cripple the empire, as is usually implied. A good case can also be made for the argument that the Venetian, Pisan, and Genoese trade was not expanded at the expense of the local Byzantine merchants, but rather a response to a demand that was caused by increasing prosperity in the era. It’s worth noting that a triangle between Thessaly, Euboea, and Sparta in the Pelopennese seems to be have been one of the most active areas for the Italians, and also one of the most prosperous areas in the 12th century.
Furthermore, while it’s true that the Empire did export a lot of agricultural produce and imported finished goods, there’s no evidence that there was any importation of finished cloth and weaponry before 1186. Thessalonica, for instance, apparently had a productive arms industry. And if Byzantium imported Flemish cloth, so did much of Europe, and Byzantium was readily acknowledged to be one of Christendom’s premier centers for silk production.
All of this is based on what, of course, historically happened. What is unique and a marker divergence from the course the empire took historically is, under the Staufen dynasty, the emergence of a local mercantile elite that’s capable of meeting the Italians and all other Europeans on their own terms.
The foundation for this development goes back to the 12th century. There is, for starters, the “enigma†of Thessalonica, and the island of Monemvasia, was excluded from the charters that opened the Empire up to Venetian trade. Monemvasia was, in fact, a major trading city which was semi-autonomous, and was responsible for maintaining a large part of the Imperial fleet.
Furthermore, like in Renaissance Italy (or the classical polis, as men of the Renascare would write), the local gentry, known as archontes, commonly resided in cities, and were commonly consulted about matters by the local commander about the state of the town. Indeed, it is not surprising that these towns had much in Italy, for as Paul Magdalino says in his overview of Byzantium in the age of Manuel Commenus “In Byzantium, the medieval town took shape as a community headed by a bishop and dominated by a small group of closely connected but jealously competitive families who traditionally regarded the pursuit of arms and the pursuit of contemplative leisure as the most honorable form of existenceâ€.
One may therefore ask why the Byzantine towns did not adapt, as the Italian cities did to become the centers of trading, banking, and manufacturing, and why Byzantine aristocrats did not take part in such a system.
As it turns out, they did. Indeed, a 12th century monk could write, when advising the archontes on how to become prosperous, “if you follow another profession, make sure you master it fully and are not found wanting in it. If you can gain experience in another profession, do so, but don’t leave your original occupation and go into another, for it will not benefit youâ€. Repeated laws and edicts forbidding the archontes from performing usury can only confirm, given the fact that it was repeatedly reissued, that they were loaning money at interest, including, according to some sources, for commerce.
Thus, the Empire, by 1180, was a place where, at least in some of the provincial cities, men were dominated by the morals of the marketplace. So what went happened?
A large part of it may very well lie in the fact that traditionally, the Byzantine cities did not succeed in gaining autonomy. Accounts are full of bishops complaining about their unruly flocks who were placing absurd demands on the bishop, and these bear a striking similarity to the earlier complaints by the bishops of Lombardy, before their subjects overthrew them and took over the government of the communes. It may very well be that the Empire was moving towards a system similar to the Italian communes, but had not yet arrived there.
But what almost certainly aborted this development was the 4th Crusade. The sack of Constantinople, the partition of the Empire, and the near destruction of the Byzantine state crippled the Byzantine economy, obliterating the trend towards the commune system as the archontes had to focus on more pressing matters, like preventing their city from being sacked by barbarians from the west or east. The years in which it was an essentially Italian colony did the empire real and lasting harm, and after that the empire never had a chance to recover.
In ATL, however, the 4th Crusade did not happen; if anything, the installation of the Staufen dynasty was ultimately beneficial for the Empire, by removing a dynasty that had caused serious harm to the government and the Empire as a whole. Alone, this may not have been enough.
What was equally important, however, was the charters that Phillip issued to several cities, including Thessalonica and Athens along the lines given to Monemvasia, in order to encourage the development of an Imperial navy. This has a rolling effect, as an increasingly prosperous population in the other cities of the Empires begins demanding from the Emperor the rights held by the bishops over the cities, and seek to follow in the example of other cities. Crucial to a lesser extent is reversal by Phillip of the decision by Alexius Commenus to ban members of guilds from entering the Senate, and it was not uncommon for him to listen to advice from the trading houses of the Empire.
The Romaioi, invigorated by the growing dynamism of its own cities, continue the literary trends that were begun in the 12th century. Satire, comedy, and dialogues continue to be written, and at the end of the 12th century, political satire becomes more common [192].Romantic literature, perhaps influenced by western troubadours, also becomes in vogue. While many of the popular tales take place on the frontier of Anatolia, the tales of Troy and Odysseus are also popular, as is the Romance of Alexander, written in 1234.
The other trend that continues to grow is the nostalgia for Ancient Greece. As early as the 1140’s, writers such as Anna Commena began to explore this trend, and given that it sought an ideal earthy existence in a time without the church and empire, it is no surprise that it was considered by some church leaders to be a threat.
However, as the Emperor of Henry VI and Frederick II began to appear as it truly was the Roman Empire born again, it should not be surprising that the trend to focus on the glory of Ancient Hellas, developed in part as a response to the Westerners claims of universal supremacy, began to blossom. Men compared the Mongols to the hosts of Darius and Xerxes, and Alexander to (obviously) Alexander of Macedon [193].
This trend, of course, has unexpected developments. Perhaps the best example of this are the 12th century writers Zonaras and Glykas, who came to rather shocking conclusions, despite being at heart conservatives.
The world history of Zonaras is important as one of the earliest works that, inadvertently, criticizes Byzantium’s government. Telling the story of the rise and decline of the Roman Empire, it comes to the conclusion that the empire’s rise was due to its republican institutions, and that its decline was due to the perversion of said institutions, notably the senate. This led Zonaras to a shocking conclusion for a man writing in the middle of the 12th century. According to him, Constantinople was not the New Rome, but rather a continuation of the perversion that let the Empire fall in the west. Left unsaid, but implied, is that unless the Empire of the East mends its ways, it too shall fall.
As the spread of printing and paper let every prosperous merchant and archonte own his own copy of Plato’s dialogues and Aristotle, and as Byzantium’s merchants began to catch up with those of Italy, and as the cities of the Byzantium read about the glories of their ancestors, and the victories of their polis, it is not surprising that there were those who could not help but wonder whether or not they should adopt their ancestral government.
One such man, Michael Kiontes, would write a book that would shake the world. But that, as we know, is another story.
[188] Byzantium. I’ve decided it’d make more sense to go with the name that they’d have used, than with the one invented a few centuries later.
[189] IMO, the effect of Manzikert as being the death knell of the Empire is greatly overrated. Consider that Manuel Commenus was able to build Dorylaion, and a chronicler in 1176 could declare that there “are no longer some portions for us and others for the gentiles, but all belong to us.†Furthermore, by the end of Manuel’s reign, the Byzantines controlled the valuable parts of the peninsula, leaving only the mountains and plateaus to the Turks, which would have given the empire negligible returns.
[190] Which, apparently, was a deliberate government policy on the northern frontier.
Reconquering the territory would have been beneficial for the Empire, of course; but losing the central plateau did not signal the end of the empire.
[191] Thessalonica was a large and prosperous city, with a large population of Latins who had become imperial subjects. Yet relatively few Italians traded in the city, despite the fact that it was a hub of trade, including a famous fair. It’s therefore been proposed that it was a city dominated by Byzantine merchants.
[192] This is actually an OTL trend.
[193] With a father named Phillip? The only question in the minds of many is how long it will be before the march on Baghdad
Phillip deserves credit for restoring the program of reconquering Anatolia begun under the Commeni. Alexius built fortresses on the coast; John built fortresses in the valleys and coastlands, and Manuel, by the 1170’s, planted fortified towns on the Anatolian plateau. This reconquest was aborted under Manuel’s successor, but Phillip was able to continue the reconquest, encouraging settlement of the area by placing Bulgar prisoners there as settlers, and Aleander, by letting the Turks act as a buffer to the Mongols before defeating them, removed the threat posed by the Turks to the Greeks in Asia Minor [189]
By 1241, a chronicler could declare that “roads which have been formerly impassible to Christians have now been thrown wide open to traffic, and already women venture on these roads, who are used to a life of luxury.â€
This does not lead to the plateau being transformed into the land of milk and honey; in the first place, expelling the Turks would be impractical, and in the second place, the Staufens prefer to keep the interior of the plateau as an uncultivated hinterland, to deter invaders [190]
The years of Staufen rule have also been prosperous ones for the Empire. Before we discuss this, however, I’d like to get something out of the way. The assumption that the Italian presence in the Empire was damaging, encouraged by Norwich, is considered by many modern historians to be inaccurate at best, and completely wrong at worst.
First of all, Byzantium was not a city-state founded on trade; it was an empire whose prosperity was based on agricultural productivity, and the vast majority of its revenues came from that. It’s therefore absurd to expect that losing a small portion of revenues would cripple the empire, as is usually implied. A good case can also be made for the argument that the Venetian, Pisan, and Genoese trade was not expanded at the expense of the local Byzantine merchants, but rather a response to a demand that was caused by increasing prosperity in the era. It’s worth noting that a triangle between Thessaly, Euboea, and Sparta in the Pelopennese seems to be have been one of the most active areas for the Italians, and also one of the most prosperous areas in the 12th century.
Furthermore, while it’s true that the Empire did export a lot of agricultural produce and imported finished goods, there’s no evidence that there was any importation of finished cloth and weaponry before 1186. Thessalonica, for instance, apparently had a productive arms industry. And if Byzantium imported Flemish cloth, so did much of Europe, and Byzantium was readily acknowledged to be one of Christendom’s premier centers for silk production.
All of this is based on what, of course, historically happened. What is unique and a marker divergence from the course the empire took historically is, under the Staufen dynasty, the emergence of a local mercantile elite that’s capable of meeting the Italians and all other Europeans on their own terms.
The foundation for this development goes back to the 12th century. There is, for starters, the “enigma†of Thessalonica, and the island of Monemvasia, was excluded from the charters that opened the Empire up to Venetian trade. Monemvasia was, in fact, a major trading city which was semi-autonomous, and was responsible for maintaining a large part of the Imperial fleet.
Furthermore, like in Renaissance Italy (or the classical polis, as men of the Renascare would write), the local gentry, known as archontes, commonly resided in cities, and were commonly consulted about matters by the local commander about the state of the town. Indeed, it is not surprising that these towns had much in Italy, for as Paul Magdalino says in his overview of Byzantium in the age of Manuel Commenus “In Byzantium, the medieval town took shape as a community headed by a bishop and dominated by a small group of closely connected but jealously competitive families who traditionally regarded the pursuit of arms and the pursuit of contemplative leisure as the most honorable form of existenceâ€.
One may therefore ask why the Byzantine towns did not adapt, as the Italian cities did to become the centers of trading, banking, and manufacturing, and why Byzantine aristocrats did not take part in such a system.
As it turns out, they did. Indeed, a 12th century monk could write, when advising the archontes on how to become prosperous, “if you follow another profession, make sure you master it fully and are not found wanting in it. If you can gain experience in another profession, do so, but don’t leave your original occupation and go into another, for it will not benefit youâ€. Repeated laws and edicts forbidding the archontes from performing usury can only confirm, given the fact that it was repeatedly reissued, that they were loaning money at interest, including, according to some sources, for commerce.
Thus, the Empire, by 1180, was a place where, at least in some of the provincial cities, men were dominated by the morals of the marketplace. So what went happened?
A large part of it may very well lie in the fact that traditionally, the Byzantine cities did not succeed in gaining autonomy. Accounts are full of bishops complaining about their unruly flocks who were placing absurd demands on the bishop, and these bear a striking similarity to the earlier complaints by the bishops of Lombardy, before their subjects overthrew them and took over the government of the communes. It may very well be that the Empire was moving towards a system similar to the Italian communes, but had not yet arrived there.
But what almost certainly aborted this development was the 4th Crusade. The sack of Constantinople, the partition of the Empire, and the near destruction of the Byzantine state crippled the Byzantine economy, obliterating the trend towards the commune system as the archontes had to focus on more pressing matters, like preventing their city from being sacked by barbarians from the west or east. The years in which it was an essentially Italian colony did the empire real and lasting harm, and after that the empire never had a chance to recover.
In ATL, however, the 4th Crusade did not happen; if anything, the installation of the Staufen dynasty was ultimately beneficial for the Empire, by removing a dynasty that had caused serious harm to the government and the Empire as a whole. Alone, this may not have been enough.
What was equally important, however, was the charters that Phillip issued to several cities, including Thessalonica and Athens along the lines given to Monemvasia, in order to encourage the development of an Imperial navy. This has a rolling effect, as an increasingly prosperous population in the other cities of the Empires begins demanding from the Emperor the rights held by the bishops over the cities, and seek to follow in the example of other cities. Crucial to a lesser extent is reversal by Phillip of the decision by Alexius Commenus to ban members of guilds from entering the Senate, and it was not uncommon for him to listen to advice from the trading houses of the Empire.
The Romaioi, invigorated by the growing dynamism of its own cities, continue the literary trends that were begun in the 12th century. Satire, comedy, and dialogues continue to be written, and at the end of the 12th century, political satire becomes more common [192].Romantic literature, perhaps influenced by western troubadours, also becomes in vogue. While many of the popular tales take place on the frontier of Anatolia, the tales of Troy and Odysseus are also popular, as is the Romance of Alexander, written in 1234.
The other trend that continues to grow is the nostalgia for Ancient Greece. As early as the 1140’s, writers such as Anna Commena began to explore this trend, and given that it sought an ideal earthy existence in a time without the church and empire, it is no surprise that it was considered by some church leaders to be a threat.
However, as the Emperor of Henry VI and Frederick II began to appear as it truly was the Roman Empire born again, it should not be surprising that the trend to focus on the glory of Ancient Hellas, developed in part as a response to the Westerners claims of universal supremacy, began to blossom. Men compared the Mongols to the hosts of Darius and Xerxes, and Alexander to (obviously) Alexander of Macedon [193].
This trend, of course, has unexpected developments. Perhaps the best example of this are the 12th century writers Zonaras and Glykas, who came to rather shocking conclusions, despite being at heart conservatives.
The world history of Zonaras is important as one of the earliest works that, inadvertently, criticizes Byzantium’s government. Telling the story of the rise and decline of the Roman Empire, it comes to the conclusion that the empire’s rise was due to its republican institutions, and that its decline was due to the perversion of said institutions, notably the senate. This led Zonaras to a shocking conclusion for a man writing in the middle of the 12th century. According to him, Constantinople was not the New Rome, but rather a continuation of the perversion that let the Empire fall in the west. Left unsaid, but implied, is that unless the Empire of the East mends its ways, it too shall fall.
As the spread of printing and paper let every prosperous merchant and archonte own his own copy of Plato’s dialogues and Aristotle, and as Byzantium’s merchants began to catch up with those of Italy, and as the cities of the Byzantium read about the glories of their ancestors, and the victories of their polis, it is not surprising that there were those who could not help but wonder whether or not they should adopt their ancestral government.
One such man, Michael Kiontes, would write a book that would shake the world. But that, as we know, is another story.
[188] Byzantium. I’ve decided it’d make more sense to go with the name that they’d have used, than with the one invented a few centuries later.
[189] IMO, the effect of Manzikert as being the death knell of the Empire is greatly overrated. Consider that Manuel Commenus was able to build Dorylaion, and a chronicler in 1176 could declare that there “are no longer some portions for us and others for the gentiles, but all belong to us.†Furthermore, by the end of Manuel’s reign, the Byzantines controlled the valuable parts of the peninsula, leaving only the mountains and plateaus to the Turks, which would have given the empire negligible returns.
[190] Which, apparently, was a deliberate government policy on the northern frontier.
Reconquering the territory would have been beneficial for the Empire, of course; but losing the central plateau did not signal the end of the empire.
[191] Thessalonica was a large and prosperous city, with a large population of Latins who had become imperial subjects. Yet relatively few Italians traded in the city, despite the fact that it was a hub of trade, including a famous fair. It’s therefore been proposed that it was a city dominated by Byzantine merchants.
[192] This is actually an OTL trend.
[193] With a father named Phillip? The only question in the minds of many is how long it will be before the march on Baghdad
Interesting peice Faeelin. Could you clarify the "Romance of Alexander"? Is that simply a tale about the Alexander of old or Phillip as Alexander?
I do appreicate the historical tone in this installment. It really is a marker on how much your style has improved. A couple of more questions:
1. Will there be some effort on making the Staufens into a Greek name (i.e. House of Windsor<= House of Saxe-Gotha) some time down the line or is it by first name basis (i.e. Phillip of XXXX, Zotha of YYYY)?
2. Is political satire encouraged even though it complains of the government's fallicies?
I do appreicate the historical tone in this installment. It really is a marker on how much your style has improved. A couple of more questions:
1. Will there be some effort on making the Staufens into a Greek name (i.e. House of Windsor<= House of Saxe-Gotha) some time down the line or is it by first name basis (i.e. Phillip of XXXX, Zotha of YYYY)?
2. Is political satire encouraged even though it complains of the government's fallicies?
Faeelin
Banned
G.Bone said:
Both. It's a romance of Alexander the Great, but done to portray Alexander Staufen as faorably as possible.
It's been done; I had it osmewhere, but forget where it is. I'll try and dig it up for you, though.
The government would probably like to stop it, but it can't. It's engrained in Byzantine culture, in a way that makes it impossible to get rid of.
Faeelin
Banned
Constantinople, 1204
As everyone knew, Constantinople was a glory to god. The city was adorned with churches and monasteries, convents and shrines. But among all the buildings dedicated to God, the monastery of the Pantacrator was one of the most spectacular. It was not merely a place of beauty, with jewel encrusted frescoes and mosaics, and golden icons. It was also a place of learning, and it gave one monk in particular, Nikephoros Choumnos, a pride that he knew was sinful to reside there.
Nikephoros looked over the books in front of him, and grumbled to himself as he tried to read the titles by candlelight. “Why,” he asked himself, “did the Emperor want to know what works all the monasteries had?” He moved aside a copy of a work by Aristotle on Comedy to look at a book by some one named Galen. “God knows we have enough to do, saving this sinful city from damnation,” he muttered.
Nikephoros looked up through a window at the moon and yawned. God alone knew how much longer this task would take, and he decided that surely God wouldn’t mind if he, a humble monk, took a brief nap?
He sat down in a chair against the wall, put the candle down beside him, and shut his eyes. He had almost dozed off when some one opened the door and walked into the room, startling Nikephoros. “I was just resting my eyes,” said the monk as he rushed to stand up. Unfortunately, in his haste he knocked over the candle, which fell onto one of the books.
The man who walked in merely smiled, although Nikephoros could not know in the dark. “Of course you were, my brother.”
Nikephoros may not have been able to see the man’s face, but he knew well who it belonged to. “Greetings, brother Laonikas. What can I do for you this fine evening?” said Nikephoros through his teeth.
Laonikas smiled. “I merely came to see how you are doing on your cataloging. The Emperor has ordered it himself, you know.”
Nikephoros, still tired, glared at Laonikas. “Why should I care what a Barbarian ordered? He’s just a German.” Only too late did he realize what he had said.
Laonikas continued smiling as he said, “Surely, brother, you do not believe that about our Emperor, appointed by God. As you know, the Abbot would be most disappointed to hear that that was your opinion.”
Nikephoros pretended to cough for a moment so that he had a chance to think. “Well, I think you must’ve misheard me. I would never say that about the Emperor.”
Laonikas still had that grin on his face, which Nikephoros could finally see. He began to wonder what was giving off light when Laonikas smugly said, “You might want to watch that candle.”
“What candle?” said Nikephoros, as a feeling of dread came over him. He looked down, and yelped. The candle was dripping wax on a perfectly good copy of The Works of St. Augustine. Nikephoros frantically knocked the candle off of the book and blew it out.
Laonikas, who to his credit had refrained from laughing hysterically, made a tsking sound at Nikephoros. “You really must be more careful, brother. Think of what would happen if a fire started here and spread across the city.”
Nikephoros, who was, despite it all a pious man, said, “God forbid.” The image that came to his head, of the city burning, was bad enough. But Constantinople was one of the few cities in the world that had never been sacked, and was home to works that may very well have been lost elsewhere in the world. The libraries of its monasteries put even the legendary Library of Alexandria to shame. Were the city burned….. “Such a loss,” said Nikephoros, “would be horrific. Who knows what would be lost?”
Laonikas nodded and picked up a book from a pile. “Think about how valuable these works are. The works of the greatest minds of man, even those born before the birth of our Saviour, reside here.” He picked up one of the works, and squinted to read the title. “This work, by some one called Protagoras, for instance. Have you ever heard of this work called Democracy before?”
Nikephoros grudgingly agreed with Laonikas. “Very well, brother. I shall be more careful.”
“Now I, Protagoras, having these examples before me, am inclined to think that virtue cannot be taught. But then again, when I listen to your words, I waver; and am disposed to think that there must be something in what you say, because I know that you have great experience, and learning, and invention. And I wish that you would, if possible, show me a little more clearly that virtue can be taught. Will you be so good?
That I will, Socrates, and gladly”- Protagoras, in the Dialogue of Plato
Monemvasia, July 1211
The day was bright and pleasant. The weather was fair, the sea was calm, and the Aegean invited a boy to swim and play in its sparking blue waters. One boy, who could look out the window from his classes and see the sea, could not help but reflect on how unfair it was that he was listening to his teacher when he could be out there swimming. A young Michael Kiontes looked out at the ocean wistfully, watching ships pass by as they sailed to far off lands. He smiled pleasantly, and suddenly felt a sharp pain on his hands.
“Michael!” demanded the tutor, who was holding switch in his hands. “What was I saying about Plato’s dialogue Protagoras?”
Michael thought for a moment as his tutor scowled at him. “Well, Socrates asked Protagoras an important question, which Protagoras could not answer.”
The tutor swatted Michael again. “No, no, no!” he said. The professor muttered to himself, and asked another question. “Tell me, if you will, what the Dialogue was about?”
Michael, being a typical, if rather bright boy, of course had no clue, but thought for a moment. If it was a dialogue by Plato, then surely it was about, “Virtue!” he exclaimed.
The tutor reluctantly lowered his switch. “At least you know that much,” he said. “Now tell me, dear boy, what Protagoras believes.”
“That, err, virtue can be taught?” guessed Michael.
The tutor eyed Michael skeptically. “Not bad,” he said at last. “More accurately, he thought that because all men were inherently just, and had the capacity to make moral decisions. The man therefore thought that all men had the capacity to make political decisions, since such decisions are inherently based on morality and wisdom.” The tutor glared at Michael for a second, reflecting on how the boy’s father didn’t pay him enough for this, and said, “what is the flaw in this argument?”
The boy stared at the tutor for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir, but there doesn’t seem to be one, if we look at it as rational Christians.”
The tutor looked as if he was going to use his switch again, and then paused. “Explain yourself.”
Michael thought for a moment. “If all good men are virtuous, then why should not all men have a say? Is that not what happens in the Church?“
The tutor laughed. “Because, imagine what would happen if everybody is free to have a say. Imagine if the carpenter, tinker, cobbler, sailor, passenger; rich and poor, high and low, indeed anyone who wanted to could give advice about things about which they know nothing. How would you know who gave advice that was good, and that which was bad? There would be endless strife and discord as men argued with one another over what is best!”
Michael thought for a moment, and with the innocence of a boy, asked, “But if more than one man helps to make a decision, does that not help avoid men from making the wrong one? Was it not you, tutor, who told me about the disastrous reign of Angeloi? If they were forced to listen to just and pious men, would they not have made proper decisions, and done the Empire much good?”
Michael’s tutor grunted as he thought of a way to answer that question. After a moment, he said, “We are done for the day. Go swim in the sea, if you want to so badly.”
The tutor watched as the boy left, and shook his head. Boys these days, he thought. They’d never talked like that when he had been a child.
Time passed, and the boy known as Michael grew into a young man. As the son of an important member of the aristocracy on Monemvasia, it was not surprising that he would enter Imperial service, serving with distinction as a member of the Imperial armed forces. It was only natural that a man from Monemvasia would serve in the Imperial navy, and he rose with distinction through the fleet [194].
One posting, around 1227, put him in charge of the fortifications around Athens. It was this posting, in most majestic of the ancient polis, that would be influential for the young doux in the Byzantine navy.
Athens, August, July 1225
Athens, even to a provincial like Michael, was a backwater. It was hard to believe that this city had once commanded a mighty empire, for its population was reduced to a few thousand people. For a military commander in the empire, a posting here could, if you looked at the right way, be considered an insult. Given that Michael had only been a commander in the Imperial military for a few years, however, such a posting was to be expected. As the commander of the city’s defenses, it was his duty to explore all sites that would be ideal for fortifications. And in Athens, there was one hill that dominated the surrounding area.
The acropolis.
So it was that Michael Kiontes, doux of Athens, rode up the hill one morning, to see what he might see. The first building he rode up to was Church of Theotokos, an ancient pagan temple that had been converted into a church. It had been, he knew, an important temple for the Athenians, and so, thought Michael, it would be interesting to see, even if the hill proved indefensible. The Church was an impressive building, and its ancient columns seeming to bear the weight of centuries.
Michael walked into the building, and what he saw took his breath away. The ceiling was covered with a frieze of a pagan festival, as men marched in celebration of their pagan gods. The walls were covered of images of gods and monsters battling one another for dominion of the world, between men and monsters, and between the gods themselves. Michael was, of course, a devout Christian. But even he could not help but take a step back.
A voice behind him spoke up. “Impressive, is it not?”
Michael turned around quickly, and spotted a priest who seemed as old as the Church. “Of course, Father, but they are mere pagan superstitions.”
The priest began laughing, as if something was hilarious. “Merely pagan superstitions? Mere pagan superstitions do not produce works just as these.” The priest waved his arm, encompassing the building. “It takes more than pagan superstitions to build something like this. After all, the Turks are pagan, but they still live in squalor and barbarism.”
“No,” said the priest, smiling wistfully, “they had a flair and a passion of their own, a virtue and a wisdom that many so called Christians today lack. They had,” said the priest, as he searched for a word, “Charisma.”
Michael looked at the priest for a moment, intrigued and horrified at the same time. “You seem as if you are in love with the ways of the pagans,” he said at last.
“In love?” said the priest, as he looked up at the ceiling. “No, not in love. They could be awful men. Many were sodomites, many were inhumane, and all were pagans. But how could they not be, before the coming of our lord? Despite being pagan, there were those who sought virtue and found it. We hold dear the traditions of pagan Rome. Why, then, should we not hold dear the traditions of Greece?”
The priest wondered if he had gone too far, and changed the subject. “But you must be thirsty, after your journey up the hill. Would you, Michael of Momnevasia, care for a cup of wine?”
Michael was taken aback. “How did you know my name, Father?”
The priest smiled. “Oh, come now. Of course the Partriarch would send word about the name of the new Doux of Athens. As for myself,” said the priest, “My name is Basil.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “Then you must be,” he said as the implications became clear.
“Indeed,” said Basil, who was still smiling. “I am the Bishop of Athens.”[195]
The months for Michael passed swiftly, as he grew accustomed to his post. He was a just and competent administrator, and from what he had heard he knew the Emperor favored him. But it was not enough to be a competent administrator, especially for one from the provinces. To earn the respect and praise of those in The City, Michael knew he had to show himself skilled in rhetoric and knowledge of the Outer Learning of the Ancients, as well as the Inner Learning of the Church. He had decided, therefore, to compose a work on the city of which he was governor, Athens.
The book, unimaginatively titled the Athenian Dialogues, would be instrumental in the development of political thought in Europe and the world. In the typical Socratic method, it consisted of a series of dialogues between two men, the archon and the grammatikoi [196] about the ideal way to govern a state. Drawing heavily on the Bishop’s library, the work would not only be representative of the ideas present in Byzantium; it would take them to the next level.
What follows is a selection from one of the earliest dialogues, in which the archon and the grammatikoi discuss whether or not men are capable of ruling themselves. It begins, unsurprisingly, with a discussion of the origin of virtue. The tale begins with a discussion of the origin of man.
Archon: Now then, whence came virtue?
Grammatikoi: You jest with me, Archon. You are doubtless aware that since man had free will since creation, man must also have had the capacity to do evil, as Adam and Eve did. If evil is the opposite of good, and man has always been able to do evil since the Fall, then men must surely have been able to do good, gaining closeness to God by obeying his commands. That, my dear friend, is virtue.
Archon: Therefore, all men, possessing the free will that God gave us, have the capacity to do good, and the capacity to sin?
Grammatikoi: Of course.
Archon: And as good Christians, should we not seek to follow the example of those who are virtuous, and spurn following those who are sinful?
The discussion continues, as the two men discuss if virtue can be taught, with the Archon arguing that Virtue can in fact be taught, while the Grammatikoi argues that while you can encourage Virtue, men can only choose to live virtuous lives based on their own decisions. Because the Archon is forced to acknowledge that all men have free will, and he is also forced to acknowledge that men cannot be forced to accept God and Christ, he is forced to acknowledge that Virtue cannot be taught.
Michael, at this point in his life, did not draw the conclusions he would draw later, about what this means for the concept of a Baesilus, who wields nigh absolute power over his subjects. There is silence, in the winter of 1227, as Michael awaits word of response to his writings. Finally, at long last, I the spring of 1227, he receives word from the Emperor.
He has been summoned to Constantinople.
Constantinople, July, 1228
To a mere provincial such as Michael Kiontes, Constantinople was a city of marvels. It was a city of high walls and lofty towers which reached toward the sky, of palaces bursting with riches and hundreds of churches, each to the glory of God. It was a city to which aqueducts almost a thousand years old still supplied the city with water, where the glorious Blues, Greens, Reds, and Whites all raced for glory. It was a New Jerusalem and a New Rome, all at once. While Michael had always expected to see those wonders, he had never expected to receive a guided tour from the Emperor’s own staff.
For a man whose father had been a mere secretary in Imperial Service, to be summoned to the Great Palace was an honor. He had received an audience with the Emperor, who had seemed, as he sat there on his golden throne, to be suspended in air. He had seen the frescoes that adorned the walls, scenes of the history of Rome and Christianity.
And now, in a secluded chamber of the palace, dressed in the finest silks, bathed, oiled, and shaved, he sat down to a personal dinner with the Emperor.
Michael wondered, briefly, what his tutor would have thought of the scene. There was an awkward silence, as the two men sat down together across a table, and Michael considered what the protocol for dinner with God’s anointed sovereign was. One could not, after all, ask him what he thought of yesterday’s races at the hippodrome.
The awkward silence seemed to amuse Alexander, who smirked. “Please, Doux, there is no need for overt formality here.” The Baesilus stretched, and seemed for a moment very human as he yawned. “We had enough of that earlier today.”
As if by some hidden signal, servants came out to pour a pale white wine into golden cups. Michael took a sip, blinked, and took another sip of the wine. “This is excellent,” he said. As soon as Michael said that, he realized how foolish that sounded. It wasn’t as if the Emperor would drink sour wine from Epirus, after all.
The Baesilus, however, seemed complimented. “It’s from a place in Germany, actually, along the Danube. I drink it whenever I can, since God knows that the best you often can get on campaign is horse piss that passes for wine.” Michael blinked at the Emperor’s vulgar language, and then shrugged. He was only speaking the truth, and was of German blood.
They were silent as the servants began to bring out food: honeyed roast pork, lobster, shrimp, and all manner of delicacies. It was, realized Michael, good to be the emperor.
When the servants had stepped away from the table, Alexander asked a simple question. “Tell me,” he said as spread honey on a roll, “what you feel the implications of your belief that virtue cannot be taught on Imperial succession.”
Michael nearly choked on the shrimp he was eating, which gave him a convenient excuse to gulp some wine down while he collected his thoughts.
“It seems to me,” said Michael, “that the Emperor has one essential duty to the People of Rome. Unlike the common citizens, who look to their own petty concerns and change their opinions like a revolving weathervane, he should remain steadfast on a course that is right, even if it is not easy. The Emperor’s duty is to act in the best interests of the Empire, even when there are many who believe that he is acting wrongly. We can see this in the reign of Alexios Kommenus. He demanded much from the church, which many opposed; but had he not done so, the Roman Empire might have fallen to the barbarians.”
Alexander nibbled at a pistachio as he listened. “Perhaps,” he said, “but you haven’t explained the significance of your belief.”
“I was getting to that,” protested Michael. “But as we all know, the imperial throne can be usurped by tyrants, who do lasting harm to the Empire, for they rule for their own benefit, and not for the rule of all. The key then,” he said as he tried to judge the emperor’s reaction, “according to the ancient Athenians, at any rate, would be to have a government ruled by many, democracy. The hope was that the virtue of many would balance out the actions of an impious few.”
Alexander seemed as if he was amused, for he leaned back in his chair and gave an indulgent look to Michael. “You seem to be contradicting yourself. First you argue that the Emperor is necessary to insure the best interests of the Empire, because the people are too small-minded to look at the interests of the entire Empire. But you then argue that it is imperative that the state acts to prevent an impious ruler from arising, by having the virtue of many overwhelm the injustice of the few. Which is it?” he asked.
“Neither,” said Michael, who was still groping towards an answer himself. “Or, more accurately, both. The ideal government what Aristotle would have called a politea, and which we would know best as a Republic.”
Alexander seemed, if anything, intrigued. “You mean such as that of Rome?” he asked as he leaned over the table.
“Perhaps,” said Michael. “I, however, would make a change to such a government. The Republic, of course, existed before the becoming of our savior, and therefore had to make do with weaker men than exist now. I would therefore install an Emperor, a Baesilus, at the head of such a government. If he was wise, he would receive counsel from the citizens of the state and act accordingly. If he were foolish, or hated by God, the citizens of the state could refuse to obey him, and in this way prevent his actions from incurring the wrath of God.”
Alexander grunted. “You are, I must admit, more persuasive than I would have given you credit for. Your grammatikoi must have taught you rhetoric well.”
Michael bowed his head as a servant filled his wine cup again. “You do me honor, Baesilus. I am merely one of many Romans who write for the glory of God and the Empire.”
“One of the better ones, I should think,” replied Alexander. The Emperor began to eat a sweet cake, and paused for a moment. “Your father had served as a praktor [197], had he not?” At Michael’s acknowledgement, the Emperor continued speaking, as if to himself. “And you are from Momnevasia….” The Emperor smiled.
“Tell me, Michael. How would you like to become the Megas doux?”
Michael blinked for a moment, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. Then he gulped, and said, “I would, my Emperor, like that very much.”
The Emperor had just asked him to command the Imperial fleets, and to govern the Theme of Hellas.
Thoughts?
[194] One of the major distinctions in government from the Commenian and Staufen era is the fact that the Staufens rely less on their family for members of their government, simply because they have fewer relatives in the Empire than the Commeni did. The imperial administration is a good deal more open than it was under the Commeni, making it more effective.
And, of course, Michael is from an aristocratic family on Momnevasia anyway.
[195] A Bishop who’s well versed in the history of the Pagan Greeks? Why not, if 12th century monks could compare the virtues of the Republic to the impiety of Christians, and wax nostalgic for Ancient Athens?
[196] teacher.
[197] A post roughly equivalent to a mayor of a city.
As everyone knew, Constantinople was a glory to god. The city was adorned with churches and monasteries, convents and shrines. But among all the buildings dedicated to God, the monastery of the Pantacrator was one of the most spectacular. It was not merely a place of beauty, with jewel encrusted frescoes and mosaics, and golden icons. It was also a place of learning, and it gave one monk in particular, Nikephoros Choumnos, a pride that he knew was sinful to reside there.
Nikephoros looked over the books in front of him, and grumbled to himself as he tried to read the titles by candlelight. “Why,” he asked himself, “did the Emperor want to know what works all the monasteries had?” He moved aside a copy of a work by Aristotle on Comedy to look at a book by some one named Galen. “God knows we have enough to do, saving this sinful city from damnation,” he muttered.
Nikephoros looked up through a window at the moon and yawned. God alone knew how much longer this task would take, and he decided that surely God wouldn’t mind if he, a humble monk, took a brief nap?
He sat down in a chair against the wall, put the candle down beside him, and shut his eyes. He had almost dozed off when some one opened the door and walked into the room, startling Nikephoros. “I was just resting my eyes,” said the monk as he rushed to stand up. Unfortunately, in his haste he knocked over the candle, which fell onto one of the books.
The man who walked in merely smiled, although Nikephoros could not know in the dark. “Of course you were, my brother.”
Nikephoros may not have been able to see the man’s face, but he knew well who it belonged to. “Greetings, brother Laonikas. What can I do for you this fine evening?” said Nikephoros through his teeth.
Laonikas smiled. “I merely came to see how you are doing on your cataloging. The Emperor has ordered it himself, you know.”
Nikephoros, still tired, glared at Laonikas. “Why should I care what a Barbarian ordered? He’s just a German.” Only too late did he realize what he had said.
Laonikas continued smiling as he said, “Surely, brother, you do not believe that about our Emperor, appointed by God. As you know, the Abbot would be most disappointed to hear that that was your opinion.”
Nikephoros pretended to cough for a moment so that he had a chance to think. “Well, I think you must’ve misheard me. I would never say that about the Emperor.”
Laonikas still had that grin on his face, which Nikephoros could finally see. He began to wonder what was giving off light when Laonikas smugly said, “You might want to watch that candle.”
“What candle?” said Nikephoros, as a feeling of dread came over him. He looked down, and yelped. The candle was dripping wax on a perfectly good copy of The Works of St. Augustine. Nikephoros frantically knocked the candle off of the book and blew it out.
Laonikas, who to his credit had refrained from laughing hysterically, made a tsking sound at Nikephoros. “You really must be more careful, brother. Think of what would happen if a fire started here and spread across the city.”
Nikephoros, who was, despite it all a pious man, said, “God forbid.” The image that came to his head, of the city burning, was bad enough. But Constantinople was one of the few cities in the world that had never been sacked, and was home to works that may very well have been lost elsewhere in the world. The libraries of its monasteries put even the legendary Library of Alexandria to shame. Were the city burned….. “Such a loss,” said Nikephoros, “would be horrific. Who knows what would be lost?”
Laonikas nodded and picked up a book from a pile. “Think about how valuable these works are. The works of the greatest minds of man, even those born before the birth of our Saviour, reside here.” He picked up one of the works, and squinted to read the title. “This work, by some one called Protagoras, for instance. Have you ever heard of this work called Democracy before?”
Nikephoros grudgingly agreed with Laonikas. “Very well, brother. I shall be more careful.”
“Now I, Protagoras, having these examples before me, am inclined to think that virtue cannot be taught. But then again, when I listen to your words, I waver; and am disposed to think that there must be something in what you say, because I know that you have great experience, and learning, and invention. And I wish that you would, if possible, show me a little more clearly that virtue can be taught. Will you be so good?
That I will, Socrates, and gladly”- Protagoras, in the Dialogue of Plato
Monemvasia, July 1211
The day was bright and pleasant. The weather was fair, the sea was calm, and the Aegean invited a boy to swim and play in its sparking blue waters. One boy, who could look out the window from his classes and see the sea, could not help but reflect on how unfair it was that he was listening to his teacher when he could be out there swimming. A young Michael Kiontes looked out at the ocean wistfully, watching ships pass by as they sailed to far off lands. He smiled pleasantly, and suddenly felt a sharp pain on his hands.
“Michael!” demanded the tutor, who was holding switch in his hands. “What was I saying about Plato’s dialogue Protagoras?”
Michael thought for a moment as his tutor scowled at him. “Well, Socrates asked Protagoras an important question, which Protagoras could not answer.”
The tutor swatted Michael again. “No, no, no!” he said. The professor muttered to himself, and asked another question. “Tell me, if you will, what the Dialogue was about?”
Michael, being a typical, if rather bright boy, of course had no clue, but thought for a moment. If it was a dialogue by Plato, then surely it was about, “Virtue!” he exclaimed.
The tutor reluctantly lowered his switch. “At least you know that much,” he said. “Now tell me, dear boy, what Protagoras believes.”
“That, err, virtue can be taught?” guessed Michael.
The tutor eyed Michael skeptically. “Not bad,” he said at last. “More accurately, he thought that because all men were inherently just, and had the capacity to make moral decisions. The man therefore thought that all men had the capacity to make political decisions, since such decisions are inherently based on morality and wisdom.” The tutor glared at Michael for a second, reflecting on how the boy’s father didn’t pay him enough for this, and said, “what is the flaw in this argument?”
The boy stared at the tutor for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir, but there doesn’t seem to be one, if we look at it as rational Christians.”
The tutor looked as if he was going to use his switch again, and then paused. “Explain yourself.”
Michael thought for a moment. “If all good men are virtuous, then why should not all men have a say? Is that not what happens in the Church?“
The tutor laughed. “Because, imagine what would happen if everybody is free to have a say. Imagine if the carpenter, tinker, cobbler, sailor, passenger; rich and poor, high and low, indeed anyone who wanted to could give advice about things about which they know nothing. How would you know who gave advice that was good, and that which was bad? There would be endless strife and discord as men argued with one another over what is best!”
Michael thought for a moment, and with the innocence of a boy, asked, “But if more than one man helps to make a decision, does that not help avoid men from making the wrong one? Was it not you, tutor, who told me about the disastrous reign of Angeloi? If they were forced to listen to just and pious men, would they not have made proper decisions, and done the Empire much good?”
Michael’s tutor grunted as he thought of a way to answer that question. After a moment, he said, “We are done for the day. Go swim in the sea, if you want to so badly.”
The tutor watched as the boy left, and shook his head. Boys these days, he thought. They’d never talked like that when he had been a child.
Time passed, and the boy known as Michael grew into a young man. As the son of an important member of the aristocracy on Monemvasia, it was not surprising that he would enter Imperial service, serving with distinction as a member of the Imperial armed forces. It was only natural that a man from Monemvasia would serve in the Imperial navy, and he rose with distinction through the fleet [194].
One posting, around 1227, put him in charge of the fortifications around Athens. It was this posting, in most majestic of the ancient polis, that would be influential for the young doux in the Byzantine navy.
Athens, August, July 1225
Athens, even to a provincial like Michael, was a backwater. It was hard to believe that this city had once commanded a mighty empire, for its population was reduced to a few thousand people. For a military commander in the empire, a posting here could, if you looked at the right way, be considered an insult. Given that Michael had only been a commander in the Imperial military for a few years, however, such a posting was to be expected. As the commander of the city’s defenses, it was his duty to explore all sites that would be ideal for fortifications. And in Athens, there was one hill that dominated the surrounding area.
The acropolis.
So it was that Michael Kiontes, doux of Athens, rode up the hill one morning, to see what he might see. The first building he rode up to was Church of Theotokos, an ancient pagan temple that had been converted into a church. It had been, he knew, an important temple for the Athenians, and so, thought Michael, it would be interesting to see, even if the hill proved indefensible. The Church was an impressive building, and its ancient columns seeming to bear the weight of centuries.
Michael walked into the building, and what he saw took his breath away. The ceiling was covered with a frieze of a pagan festival, as men marched in celebration of their pagan gods. The walls were covered of images of gods and monsters battling one another for dominion of the world, between men and monsters, and between the gods themselves. Michael was, of course, a devout Christian. But even he could not help but take a step back.
A voice behind him spoke up. “Impressive, is it not?”
Michael turned around quickly, and spotted a priest who seemed as old as the Church. “Of course, Father, but they are mere pagan superstitions.”
The priest began laughing, as if something was hilarious. “Merely pagan superstitions? Mere pagan superstitions do not produce works just as these.” The priest waved his arm, encompassing the building. “It takes more than pagan superstitions to build something like this. After all, the Turks are pagan, but they still live in squalor and barbarism.”
“No,” said the priest, smiling wistfully, “they had a flair and a passion of their own, a virtue and a wisdom that many so called Christians today lack. They had,” said the priest, as he searched for a word, “Charisma.”
Michael looked at the priest for a moment, intrigued and horrified at the same time. “You seem as if you are in love with the ways of the pagans,” he said at last.
“In love?” said the priest, as he looked up at the ceiling. “No, not in love. They could be awful men. Many were sodomites, many were inhumane, and all were pagans. But how could they not be, before the coming of our lord? Despite being pagan, there were those who sought virtue and found it. We hold dear the traditions of pagan Rome. Why, then, should we not hold dear the traditions of Greece?”
The priest wondered if he had gone too far, and changed the subject. “But you must be thirsty, after your journey up the hill. Would you, Michael of Momnevasia, care for a cup of wine?”
Michael was taken aback. “How did you know my name, Father?”
The priest smiled. “Oh, come now. Of course the Partriarch would send word about the name of the new Doux of Athens. As for myself,” said the priest, “My name is Basil.”
Michael’s eyes widened. “Then you must be,” he said as the implications became clear.
“Indeed,” said Basil, who was still smiling. “I am the Bishop of Athens.”[195]
The months for Michael passed swiftly, as he grew accustomed to his post. He was a just and competent administrator, and from what he had heard he knew the Emperor favored him. But it was not enough to be a competent administrator, especially for one from the provinces. To earn the respect and praise of those in The City, Michael knew he had to show himself skilled in rhetoric and knowledge of the Outer Learning of the Ancients, as well as the Inner Learning of the Church. He had decided, therefore, to compose a work on the city of which he was governor, Athens.
The book, unimaginatively titled the Athenian Dialogues, would be instrumental in the development of political thought in Europe and the world. In the typical Socratic method, it consisted of a series of dialogues between two men, the archon and the grammatikoi [196] about the ideal way to govern a state. Drawing heavily on the Bishop’s library, the work would not only be representative of the ideas present in Byzantium; it would take them to the next level.
What follows is a selection from one of the earliest dialogues, in which the archon and the grammatikoi discuss whether or not men are capable of ruling themselves. It begins, unsurprisingly, with a discussion of the origin of virtue. The tale begins with a discussion of the origin of man.
Archon: Now then, whence came virtue?
Grammatikoi: You jest with me, Archon. You are doubtless aware that since man had free will since creation, man must also have had the capacity to do evil, as Adam and Eve did. If evil is the opposite of good, and man has always been able to do evil since the Fall, then men must surely have been able to do good, gaining closeness to God by obeying his commands. That, my dear friend, is virtue.
Archon: Therefore, all men, possessing the free will that God gave us, have the capacity to do good, and the capacity to sin?
Grammatikoi: Of course.
Archon: And as good Christians, should we not seek to follow the example of those who are virtuous, and spurn following those who are sinful?
The discussion continues, as the two men discuss if virtue can be taught, with the Archon arguing that Virtue can in fact be taught, while the Grammatikoi argues that while you can encourage Virtue, men can only choose to live virtuous lives based on their own decisions. Because the Archon is forced to acknowledge that all men have free will, and he is also forced to acknowledge that men cannot be forced to accept God and Christ, he is forced to acknowledge that Virtue cannot be taught.
Michael, at this point in his life, did not draw the conclusions he would draw later, about what this means for the concept of a Baesilus, who wields nigh absolute power over his subjects. There is silence, in the winter of 1227, as Michael awaits word of response to his writings. Finally, at long last, I the spring of 1227, he receives word from the Emperor.
He has been summoned to Constantinople.
Constantinople, July, 1228
To a mere provincial such as Michael Kiontes, Constantinople was a city of marvels. It was a city of high walls and lofty towers which reached toward the sky, of palaces bursting with riches and hundreds of churches, each to the glory of God. It was a city to which aqueducts almost a thousand years old still supplied the city with water, where the glorious Blues, Greens, Reds, and Whites all raced for glory. It was a New Jerusalem and a New Rome, all at once. While Michael had always expected to see those wonders, he had never expected to receive a guided tour from the Emperor’s own staff.
For a man whose father had been a mere secretary in Imperial Service, to be summoned to the Great Palace was an honor. He had received an audience with the Emperor, who had seemed, as he sat there on his golden throne, to be suspended in air. He had seen the frescoes that adorned the walls, scenes of the history of Rome and Christianity.
And now, in a secluded chamber of the palace, dressed in the finest silks, bathed, oiled, and shaved, he sat down to a personal dinner with the Emperor.
Michael wondered, briefly, what his tutor would have thought of the scene. There was an awkward silence, as the two men sat down together across a table, and Michael considered what the protocol for dinner with God’s anointed sovereign was. One could not, after all, ask him what he thought of yesterday’s races at the hippodrome.
The awkward silence seemed to amuse Alexander, who smirked. “Please, Doux, there is no need for overt formality here.” The Baesilus stretched, and seemed for a moment very human as he yawned. “We had enough of that earlier today.”
As if by some hidden signal, servants came out to pour a pale white wine into golden cups. Michael took a sip, blinked, and took another sip of the wine. “This is excellent,” he said. As soon as Michael said that, he realized how foolish that sounded. It wasn’t as if the Emperor would drink sour wine from Epirus, after all.
The Baesilus, however, seemed complimented. “It’s from a place in Germany, actually, along the Danube. I drink it whenever I can, since God knows that the best you often can get on campaign is horse piss that passes for wine.” Michael blinked at the Emperor’s vulgar language, and then shrugged. He was only speaking the truth, and was of German blood.
They were silent as the servants began to bring out food: honeyed roast pork, lobster, shrimp, and all manner of delicacies. It was, realized Michael, good to be the emperor.
When the servants had stepped away from the table, Alexander asked a simple question. “Tell me,” he said as spread honey on a roll, “what you feel the implications of your belief that virtue cannot be taught on Imperial succession.”
Michael nearly choked on the shrimp he was eating, which gave him a convenient excuse to gulp some wine down while he collected his thoughts.
“It seems to me,” said Michael, “that the Emperor has one essential duty to the People of Rome. Unlike the common citizens, who look to their own petty concerns and change their opinions like a revolving weathervane, he should remain steadfast on a course that is right, even if it is not easy. The Emperor’s duty is to act in the best interests of the Empire, even when there are many who believe that he is acting wrongly. We can see this in the reign of Alexios Kommenus. He demanded much from the church, which many opposed; but had he not done so, the Roman Empire might have fallen to the barbarians.”
Alexander nibbled at a pistachio as he listened. “Perhaps,” he said, “but you haven’t explained the significance of your belief.”
“I was getting to that,” protested Michael. “But as we all know, the imperial throne can be usurped by tyrants, who do lasting harm to the Empire, for they rule for their own benefit, and not for the rule of all. The key then,” he said as he tried to judge the emperor’s reaction, “according to the ancient Athenians, at any rate, would be to have a government ruled by many, democracy. The hope was that the virtue of many would balance out the actions of an impious few.”
Alexander seemed as if he was amused, for he leaned back in his chair and gave an indulgent look to Michael. “You seem to be contradicting yourself. First you argue that the Emperor is necessary to insure the best interests of the Empire, because the people are too small-minded to look at the interests of the entire Empire. But you then argue that it is imperative that the state acts to prevent an impious ruler from arising, by having the virtue of many overwhelm the injustice of the few. Which is it?” he asked.
“Neither,” said Michael, who was still groping towards an answer himself. “Or, more accurately, both. The ideal government what Aristotle would have called a politea, and which we would know best as a Republic.”
Alexander seemed, if anything, intrigued. “You mean such as that of Rome?” he asked as he leaned over the table.
“Perhaps,” said Michael. “I, however, would make a change to such a government. The Republic, of course, existed before the becoming of our savior, and therefore had to make do with weaker men than exist now. I would therefore install an Emperor, a Baesilus, at the head of such a government. If he was wise, he would receive counsel from the citizens of the state and act accordingly. If he were foolish, or hated by God, the citizens of the state could refuse to obey him, and in this way prevent his actions from incurring the wrath of God.”
Alexander grunted. “You are, I must admit, more persuasive than I would have given you credit for. Your grammatikoi must have taught you rhetoric well.”
Michael bowed his head as a servant filled his wine cup again. “You do me honor, Baesilus. I am merely one of many Romans who write for the glory of God and the Empire.”
“One of the better ones, I should think,” replied Alexander. The Emperor began to eat a sweet cake, and paused for a moment. “Your father had served as a praktor [197], had he not?” At Michael’s acknowledgement, the Emperor continued speaking, as if to himself. “And you are from Momnevasia….” The Emperor smiled.
“Tell me, Michael. How would you like to become the Megas doux?”
Michael blinked for a moment, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. Then he gulped, and said, “I would, my Emperor, like that very much.”
The Emperor had just asked him to command the Imperial fleets, and to govern the Theme of Hellas.
Thoughts?
[194] One of the major distinctions in government from the Commenian and Staufen era is the fact that the Staufens rely less on their family for members of their government, simply because they have fewer relatives in the Empire than the Commeni did. The imperial administration is a good deal more open than it was under the Commeni, making it more effective.
And, of course, Michael is from an aristocratic family on Momnevasia anyway.
[195] A Bishop who’s well versed in the history of the Pagan Greeks? Why not, if 12th century monks could compare the virtues of the Republic to the impiety of Christians, and wax nostalgic for Ancient Athens?
[196] teacher.
[197] A post roughly equivalent to a mayor of a city.
Wow. You'd think that notion would come earlier to the rulers instead of that late. Will the body of advisors resemble more of a cabinet and something akin to the Parliment in the U.K.? I'm not really into philosophical language but it is neatly written and captures the spirit of the thing. I assume that such advancements in culture aren't present in Germany- or is it?
I'm skeptical about any hereditary ruler acknowledging that his power should be limited without said idea being forced down his throat. That said, I could certainly see Alexander applying such a thing to his descendants. They would in turn fight this new governing body every step of the way, but that doesn't mean they'd win... Certainly an interesting idea.
That makes three nations that are toying with ideas of republican government: Italy, England, and Greece. That ought to make the next century or so fairly interesting. I wonder what the reaction against this will be - absolutists maybe?
As always, it's a great read.
That makes three nations that are toying with ideas of republican government: Italy, England, and Greece. That ought to make the next century or so fairly interesting. I wonder what the reaction against this will be - absolutists maybe?
As always, it's a great read.
Faeelin
Banned
Admiral Matt said:
I happen to agree with you; but then again, alexander isn't really interested in it as he is in the mind behind it.
That the mind happens to be of aristocratic lineage from a family that lives in the city that's responsible for maintaining the imperial navy helps.
But yes, Alexander doesn't buy it for himself. This will emerge in the next post as an important issue.
Bwahahah. I have plans along these lines, though mainly for the epilogue.
Faeelin
Banned
The years passed swiftly for the commander of the Byzantine navy. It was he who was responsible for dealing with the Italian merchants, the Italian pirates (who were, of course, one and the same), rebuilding the navy, and showing the flag in the Eastern Mediterranean. If he happened to make a bit of money trading on the side; well, he was no different from any other administrator, Byzantine, Egyptian, or even Muslim. But unlike many, who sold offices as if they were vegetables at the market, Michael was on the whole a just and faithful man. He grew wealthy, and even managed to marry a descendent of the great Alexius, although of course the claim came through one of his daughters.
And, after the victory of 1234, he also owned immense estates on Cyprus.
1234
The island of Cyprus had had a turbulent history. After Isaac Commenus had set himself up as Emperor of Cyprus in the 1280’s, Richard I’s occupation, the Templars, and the rule by the kings of Egypt, the House of Lusignan, few had thought the Roman Emperor in Constantinople would ever rule over the island again.
The population had been reduced to the status of slaves to the Frank overlords; the priests were forced to obey a Latin bishop, and the yoke of servitude had lain heavily upon the Greek subjects. They had waited for the Emperor to free them for decades.
And, at long last, the people had returned to the light of the Empire. The peoples of the interior of the island had always resisted the Franks; with Imperial arms and gold, they had risen in revolt. Famagusta had been taken by a revolt from inside the city, and almost the entire island was now in the hands of rebels and Imperial troops.
Naturally, of course, the King of Cyprus couldn’t allow the Byzantines to take one of his three kingdoms [199] and had called on his Italian allies to help him retake the island. But by the time the combined Italian fleet had arrived, the megas doux was already waiting.
The Byzantine fleet remained in the harbor at Famagusta, and the Italians fleet had remained outside of the harbor. A tense stand off had ensued. The Italians were afraid to sail into the harbor, for fear that the Byzantines would be able to surround them; and Michael Kiontes, commander of the Byzantine fleet, was still hoping to avoid an open war between the Italians and Byzantium.
After several awkward days, the commanders of the two fleets had agreed to come together and discuss why both sides were there.
The two admirals met by mutual agreement insides the castle at Famagusta. Michael had chosen a simple reception, with a minimum number of servants and simple food and drink.
Michael had arrived before the Venetian commander, and was buttering a roll when the Venetian walked in. “Good day,” said Michael mildly. “Would you care for some wine?”
The Venetian commander, one Enrico Dandolo, blinked. This was not what he had been expecting. “I would love some,” he said after a moment. “The vines of Cyprus are famous throughout the world for their bounty.” After a moment, the Venetian added, “and, indeed, love of their fair crop is what brought my fleet to this verdant isle.”
Michael smiled at the Venetian, who was trying to speak Greek like he was from Constantinople. “Oh, please,” said Michael in Latin. “Save the horse shit for your Doge. Let’s discuss why you’re here.” Michael’s comments, although harsh, were said in a genial tone, and Dandolo began to feel as if something was very wrong.
“You have,” observed Michael, “a treaty with the Kingdom of Egypt, in which you promise to assist it in war. This is so, is it not?” Dandolo nodded, and Michael continued speaking. “Yet Venice also has a treaty with the Emperor of the Romaioi to defend it in war.” Neither Michael nor Dandolo mentioned, of course, that the treaty between Byzantium and Venice was directed at the Frederick.
“It does make things a bit… awkward,” commented Dandolo. “We had been hoping to remain neutral between Byzantium and Egypt, and that war would not occur while we were distracted by other concerns. But now that war has erupted between the King of the Greeks and the King of Egypt,” Dandolo smiled. “You see our position. Egypt controls the trade with the East, and were they to stop the spice trade….” Dandolo gestured.
“Indeed,” said Michael sagely. “The spice must flow.” He gestured, and after a few moments servants brought in the text of the treaty between Egypt and Venice. “I had scholars who are familiar with the details of your language read the treaty, and apparently you are obligated to defend the Kingdom of Egypt.”
“So?” asked Dandolo. “Any fool could tell you that. That does not help the situation here.”
Michael smiled for a moment. “But we have no quarrel with the Kingdom of Egypt, or with the man who acts as its King in that capacity. We take issue with the pretender who claims to be the King of Cyprus.”
Dandolo thought for a moment, and Michael could sense that the Venetian was on the edge of a decision. “Purely as a coincidence, it turns out that the Emperor has granted me estates across Cyprus. Apparently I now own the best vineyard’s on the island. But,” sighed Michael, “I simply don’t know who I could sell it to. I was wondering if your family would be interested in shipping the wine for me, to take it off my hands, as it were.”
Dandolo and his fleet sailed away from Cyprus several days later as a happy man. Michael, as he watched the Venetian fleet sail away, could not help but smile fondly as he remembered the Emperor’s words.
“There is a time for iron, and there is a time for gold. Why use iron when a softer metal will suffice?”
Neither he nor the Emperor knew that the time of iron would soon be upon them.
Trebizond, March 1238
There as a certain irony, thought Michael as he led a detachment of cavalry through the lush land that surrounded Trebizond, in the course his life had taken. The supreme commander of the Roman navy was currently leading an army in Asia Minor [200]
The Scythians had been ravaging Asia Minor for over a year, and had wrought destruction to equal that which the antichrist would bring [201]. Olive groves were burned and smashed; fields that were once ripe with grain were empty, the farmers dead or holed up in walls. It seemed to many that the Persian idea of peace was turning the world into a wasteland.
But for all the disasters the Romaioi had suffered, they fought on. The Scythians found fodder burnt, wells poisoned, and an army that could fight them to a draw. If this was the End of Times, then the Greeks were prepared to go to God as matyrs.
But the burden for the war fell heaviest on the Turks, who were trapped between the Romaioi and the Mongols. Many of them had fled as refugees to the areas the Emperor controlled, often only a dozen survivors from tribes that had once numbered in the hundreds.
Michael would meet some of these refugees in the course of his visit to Trebizond, but it was the fate of the refugees he met while commanding a force of cavalry that would have the greatest effect on the future of the Empire.
It began with a message from a scout, who galloped towards the megadoux. “My lord,” said the scout, “we’ve spotted a band of the Turks fleeing towards Trebizond.” The scout spat into the dirt. “The Scythians are probably behind them.”
Michael took a swig of water as he thought. “How big was the band?”
The scout shrugged. “You know how it is with them, sir. They usually have more horses than people, so anywhere between a hundred and five hundred Turks, I’d say.”
Michael swore. “So at least a few hundred Scythians.” That was too large a force to let near Trebizond unopposed. He looked at his scout, and smiled. “I don’t know about you, but by God I’ve had enough of running from horse eating barbarians.”
The scout, as a response, merely smiled.
Two hours later, the Byzantine force reached the Turks, who were engaging in an archery duel with a band of Mongols. The Turks were circling around their carts, containing their possessions and women, while the Mongols rode in to shoot and then withdrew. Michael surveyed the terrain quickly and smiled. The Mongols had been had been pursuing their prey so enthusiastically that they hadn’t realized the Byzantines were upon them. The scout beside Michael screamed. “You’re dead now, blood sucking sons of Camels!”
For the Mongols, their first warning was a great cry they heard from the top of a hill, as the Byzantine cavalry poured down the hill. The Mongols wheeled about and fired volleys into the Byzantines, but to poor effect [202].The Mongols were caught between the Turks and the Byzantines, and by the time the two were finished, the Mongol host had been reduced to a few survivors who were running.
“Ha!” cried one of the Turks. “Like dogs they run!”
Michael smiled. “God smiled upon us today. I am Michael Kiontes, megadoux in the service of the Emperor.”
The Turk smiled politely for a moment, as if he had no idea what the term went, and then he brightened. “Ah, you are one of his generals of the sea!” The Turk bowed as well as one could in the saddle and continued speaking in poor Greek. “My people are in your debt, Michael Kiontes. My name is Egretrug, and I am the leader of these Turks.”
Michael dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I greet you on behalf of God’s anointed lord, the Baesilus.” He looked at the Turks, and at their pitiful possessions. “I can see the Scythians were cruel to you and your people.”
Egretrug spat on one of the Mongol corpses. “They are cruel to everyone, I think. There’s a special place in hell for men such as they.”
Michael nodded and looked to the east. “Then I hope Satan has to make room for many more of them soon.” He tactfully changed the subject. “I would like to make an offer to you. He pulled a piece of bread out of one of his riding pouches. “Will you eat the bread of the Emperor?”
Egretrug paused for a second, then called out a name. “Osman! Come here!” He looked at Michael and nodded. “This is my son, Osman. He and I will take the Emperor’s salt. We will serve Constantinople.”
[198] The Byzantines OTL had a habit of naming their enemies after their classical ones; the Turks, frex, were called Persians in some sources, and Alexius Commenus wrote about the dangers posed by the Celts.
[199] Egypt, Jerusalem, and Cyprus. For more on this, see the coming post, which shall discuss the history of Outremer.
[200] In their infinite wisdom, emperors would often appoint their admirals in command of land forces. In their defense, this is more reasonable than it initially appears, given that naval warfare had a lot in command with battles on land at this point.
And, of course, if the fleet is crucial to supplying the coastal cities, it only makes sense to put the armies that are garrisoning them under his command.
[201] The Byzantines had a habit of naming their enemies after the classical foes of Rome; the Franks were called Celts on occasion, the Hungarians Huns (obviously) the Turks Persians.
I’ve chosen Scythians for the Mongols because I think it’s the most appropriate name that a Byzantine would use, and apologize for the confusion.
[202] I’m operating from the assumption that the composite bows of the Mongols are about as effective as the composite bows of the Turks against European armor. That is to say, judging by Christian accounts, not very. “The arrows penetrated Frankish armour, but often without penetrating the armour of the wearer” ( Crusading Warfare, by R.C. Smith).
And, after the victory of 1234, he also owned immense estates on Cyprus.
1234
The island of Cyprus had had a turbulent history. After Isaac Commenus had set himself up as Emperor of Cyprus in the 1280’s, Richard I’s occupation, the Templars, and the rule by the kings of Egypt, the House of Lusignan, few had thought the Roman Emperor in Constantinople would ever rule over the island again.
The population had been reduced to the status of slaves to the Frank overlords; the priests were forced to obey a Latin bishop, and the yoke of servitude had lain heavily upon the Greek subjects. They had waited for the Emperor to free them for decades.
And, at long last, the people had returned to the light of the Empire. The peoples of the interior of the island had always resisted the Franks; with Imperial arms and gold, they had risen in revolt. Famagusta had been taken by a revolt from inside the city, and almost the entire island was now in the hands of rebels and Imperial troops.
Naturally, of course, the King of Cyprus couldn’t allow the Byzantines to take one of his three kingdoms [199] and had called on his Italian allies to help him retake the island. But by the time the combined Italian fleet had arrived, the megas doux was already waiting.
The Byzantine fleet remained in the harbor at Famagusta, and the Italians fleet had remained outside of the harbor. A tense stand off had ensued. The Italians were afraid to sail into the harbor, for fear that the Byzantines would be able to surround them; and Michael Kiontes, commander of the Byzantine fleet, was still hoping to avoid an open war between the Italians and Byzantium.
After several awkward days, the commanders of the two fleets had agreed to come together and discuss why both sides were there.
The two admirals met by mutual agreement insides the castle at Famagusta. Michael had chosen a simple reception, with a minimum number of servants and simple food and drink.
Michael had arrived before the Venetian commander, and was buttering a roll when the Venetian walked in. “Good day,” said Michael mildly. “Would you care for some wine?”
The Venetian commander, one Enrico Dandolo, blinked. This was not what he had been expecting. “I would love some,” he said after a moment. “The vines of Cyprus are famous throughout the world for their bounty.” After a moment, the Venetian added, “and, indeed, love of their fair crop is what brought my fleet to this verdant isle.”
Michael smiled at the Venetian, who was trying to speak Greek like he was from Constantinople. “Oh, please,” said Michael in Latin. “Save the horse shit for your Doge. Let’s discuss why you’re here.” Michael’s comments, although harsh, were said in a genial tone, and Dandolo began to feel as if something was very wrong.
“You have,” observed Michael, “a treaty with the Kingdom of Egypt, in which you promise to assist it in war. This is so, is it not?” Dandolo nodded, and Michael continued speaking. “Yet Venice also has a treaty with the Emperor of the Romaioi to defend it in war.” Neither Michael nor Dandolo mentioned, of course, that the treaty between Byzantium and Venice was directed at the Frederick.
“It does make things a bit… awkward,” commented Dandolo. “We had been hoping to remain neutral between Byzantium and Egypt, and that war would not occur while we were distracted by other concerns. But now that war has erupted between the King of the Greeks and the King of Egypt,” Dandolo smiled. “You see our position. Egypt controls the trade with the East, and were they to stop the spice trade….” Dandolo gestured.
“Indeed,” said Michael sagely. “The spice must flow.” He gestured, and after a few moments servants brought in the text of the treaty between Egypt and Venice. “I had scholars who are familiar with the details of your language read the treaty, and apparently you are obligated to defend the Kingdom of Egypt.”
“So?” asked Dandolo. “Any fool could tell you that. That does not help the situation here.”
Michael smiled for a moment. “But we have no quarrel with the Kingdom of Egypt, or with the man who acts as its King in that capacity. We take issue with the pretender who claims to be the King of Cyprus.”
Dandolo thought for a moment, and Michael could sense that the Venetian was on the edge of a decision. “Purely as a coincidence, it turns out that the Emperor has granted me estates across Cyprus. Apparently I now own the best vineyard’s on the island. But,” sighed Michael, “I simply don’t know who I could sell it to. I was wondering if your family would be interested in shipping the wine for me, to take it off my hands, as it were.”
Dandolo and his fleet sailed away from Cyprus several days later as a happy man. Michael, as he watched the Venetian fleet sail away, could not help but smile fondly as he remembered the Emperor’s words.
“There is a time for iron, and there is a time for gold. Why use iron when a softer metal will suffice?”
Neither he nor the Emperor knew that the time of iron would soon be upon them.
Trebizond, March 1238
There as a certain irony, thought Michael as he led a detachment of cavalry through the lush land that surrounded Trebizond, in the course his life had taken. The supreme commander of the Roman navy was currently leading an army in Asia Minor [200]
The Scythians had been ravaging Asia Minor for over a year, and had wrought destruction to equal that which the antichrist would bring [201]. Olive groves were burned and smashed; fields that were once ripe with grain were empty, the farmers dead or holed up in walls. It seemed to many that the Persian idea of peace was turning the world into a wasteland.
But for all the disasters the Romaioi had suffered, they fought on. The Scythians found fodder burnt, wells poisoned, and an army that could fight them to a draw. If this was the End of Times, then the Greeks were prepared to go to God as matyrs.
But the burden for the war fell heaviest on the Turks, who were trapped between the Romaioi and the Mongols. Many of them had fled as refugees to the areas the Emperor controlled, often only a dozen survivors from tribes that had once numbered in the hundreds.
Michael would meet some of these refugees in the course of his visit to Trebizond, but it was the fate of the refugees he met while commanding a force of cavalry that would have the greatest effect on the future of the Empire.
It began with a message from a scout, who galloped towards the megadoux. “My lord,” said the scout, “we’ve spotted a band of the Turks fleeing towards Trebizond.” The scout spat into the dirt. “The Scythians are probably behind them.”
Michael took a swig of water as he thought. “How big was the band?”
The scout shrugged. “You know how it is with them, sir. They usually have more horses than people, so anywhere between a hundred and five hundred Turks, I’d say.”
Michael swore. “So at least a few hundred Scythians.” That was too large a force to let near Trebizond unopposed. He looked at his scout, and smiled. “I don’t know about you, but by God I’ve had enough of running from horse eating barbarians.”
The scout, as a response, merely smiled.
Two hours later, the Byzantine force reached the Turks, who were engaging in an archery duel with a band of Mongols. The Turks were circling around their carts, containing their possessions and women, while the Mongols rode in to shoot and then withdrew. Michael surveyed the terrain quickly and smiled. The Mongols had been had been pursuing their prey so enthusiastically that they hadn’t realized the Byzantines were upon them. The scout beside Michael screamed. “You’re dead now, blood sucking sons of Camels!”
For the Mongols, their first warning was a great cry they heard from the top of a hill, as the Byzantine cavalry poured down the hill. The Mongols wheeled about and fired volleys into the Byzantines, but to poor effect [202].The Mongols were caught between the Turks and the Byzantines, and by the time the two were finished, the Mongol host had been reduced to a few survivors who were running.
“Ha!” cried one of the Turks. “Like dogs they run!”
Michael smiled. “God smiled upon us today. I am Michael Kiontes, megadoux in the service of the Emperor.”
The Turk smiled politely for a moment, as if he had no idea what the term went, and then he brightened. “Ah, you are one of his generals of the sea!” The Turk bowed as well as one could in the saddle and continued speaking in poor Greek. “My people are in your debt, Michael Kiontes. My name is Egretrug, and I am the leader of these Turks.”
Michael dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I greet you on behalf of God’s anointed lord, the Baesilus.” He looked at the Turks, and at their pitiful possessions. “I can see the Scythians were cruel to you and your people.”
Egretrug spat on one of the Mongol corpses. “They are cruel to everyone, I think. There’s a special place in hell for men such as they.”
Michael nodded and looked to the east. “Then I hope Satan has to make room for many more of them soon.” He tactfully changed the subject. “I would like to make an offer to you. He pulled a piece of bread out of one of his riding pouches. “Will you eat the bread of the Emperor?”
Egretrug paused for a second, then called out a name. “Osman! Come here!” He looked at Michael and nodded. “This is my son, Osman. He and I will take the Emperor’s salt. We will serve Constantinople.”
[198] The Byzantines OTL had a habit of naming their enemies after their classical ones; the Turks, frex, were called Persians in some sources, and Alexius Commenus wrote about the dangers posed by the Celts.
[199] Egypt, Jerusalem, and Cyprus. For more on this, see the coming post, which shall discuss the history of Outremer.
[200] In their infinite wisdom, emperors would often appoint their admirals in command of land forces. In their defense, this is more reasonable than it initially appears, given that naval warfare had a lot in command with battles on land at this point.
And, of course, if the fleet is crucial to supplying the coastal cities, it only makes sense to put the armies that are garrisoning them under his command.
[201] The Byzantines had a habit of naming their enemies after the classical foes of Rome; the Franks were called Celts on occasion, the Hungarians Huns (obviously) the Turks Persians.
I’ve chosen Scythians for the Mongols because I think it’s the most appropriate name that a Byzantine would use, and apologize for the confusion.
[202] I’m operating from the assumption that the composite bows of the Mongols are about as effective as the composite bows of the Turks against European armor. That is to say, judging by Christian accounts, not very. “The arrows penetrated Frankish armour, but often without penetrating the armour of the wearer” ( Crusading Warfare, by R.C. Smith).
Faeelin
Banned
Constantinople, January, 1240
The streets of The City were thronged with people celebrating the victory of the Empire. Not since the days of Basil the Bulgar Slayer, or even Justinian himself, had the people seen such a victory. Dorylaium resonated in the hearts of the Emperor’s subjects; and the victory that had been won their made the sacrifices and destruction of the past few years worthwhile.
The taverns were overflowing with wine, the vendors were working late into the night, the houses of the rich were sung with banners, and the great churches were jammed with Christians giving thanks to God for their victory.
Needless to say, Constantinople made quite the impression on the Mongol princes who were there to discuss terms. With Subodei dead he had sent his brothers Orda, Siban, and Berke to The City as his ambassadors, while his main force had withdrawn back through Armenia.
The Mongols were escorted through the city by the Emperor’s guards, but that did not keep them from staring when they were toured through it. The Mongols saw houses with vast panes of glass in their windows and marble columns. They saw sacred relics made of gold processed in processions of silk wearing priests. But it was the glory of the Church of the Holy Wisdom, known as Hagia Sophia in the tongue of the Greeks that had the greatest impression on the Mongols.
Orda had asked to visit the church, while the other Mongols had remained at their palace, and the Greeks had agreed. Orda had always been the most thoughtful of Batu’s brothers, and was curious to see how these Greeks prayed.
What happened to Orda became the stuff of legends. He walked into the church as a pagan. But after visiting a monument to God, seeing the rays of light strike mosaics of God looking down upon his flock, in a building which was fashioned with the help of God, he would leave as a Christian. For, as he would later tell Batu, ““I knew not whether I was in heaven or earth. For on earth there is no such splendor or such beauty, and I am at a loss how to describe it. I only know that God dwells there among men, and their service is fairer than the ceremonies of other nations. For I cannot forget that beauty.”
Much would come of Orda’s decision. But that, as they say, is a story for another day.
Constantinople, March 1240
Alexander, after his triumph, had called for a session of the Senate to meet in Constantinople, so that he could discuss the terms of the treaty with them. The only men who attended were those Alexander trusted, and thought would remain quiet. For they were going to discuss news of great import for the Empire.
“Rejoice!” cried a senator. “God has shown favor upon you, Alexander, Emperor of the Romans!”
Alexander smiled as he sat down in the center of the Senate. “How could he not? Am I not the head of God’s Chosen People? God has smiled upon us.”
“Now,” said a senator, “is the time to take stock and rebuild.” He cleared his throat, and continued speaking. “Would you not agree? The Empire has suffered much these past few years.” The senator looked at the emperor uneasily.
Alexander smiled. “On the contrary. The arrival of the Scythians presents us with a new opportunity to restore the Empire to its ancient grandeur. We are going to,” he said simply, “take back Rome.”
The senators stood stunned for a moment, as if they could not believe what they were hearing. Alexander continued to smile. “Allow me to elaborate. The Scythians are going to sweep into Germany and the lands of the Franks around the Black Sea, setting up a state there.” Alexander shook his head. “They’ll probably die, but we don’t need to tell them that, right?”
“In any case,” said Alexander, “while the Franks are fighting the Scythians, we will attack Sicily, Apulia, and Calabria. From there, we can march on Rome as we please.” Alexander leaned back in his throne and sighed. “Venice will be at our mercy, if we control the mouth of the Adriatic. The Italians are exhausted from their wars with Frederick, and will defect to me.”
“And then,” mused Alexander, “who knows?”
At last, a senator spoke up. “Let me see if I understand this. You are allying with a pagan power,” said the senator, “to attack a Christian king. In the process, you are going to attack Italy, and provoke Venice into a war that it will probably feel that it must fight.”
“Essentially, yes,” said Alexander. “I fail to see the problem. They’re just Franks. This is the best chance the Empire has had to retake Italy since the days of Basil. I, for one, am not letting it go to waste.”
“But we were just through a great war,” moaned another senator. “How will we pay for this?”
“Raising taxes,” said Alexander. “The government will borrow money, if it has to.” He looked around, his anger growing. “Come now, I came seeking advice on how best to take Italy, not to be heckled by old women.” He looked at his megadoux. “Come, Michael, tell the senators what you think.”
Michael had been seated in the back, and had been hoping to remain silent. But when pressed, he knew what he must say. Michael stood up, and looked around at the senators. “I think that you are preparing to wage an unjust war against fellow Christians. I think that that because you could beat the Scythians, you can defeat anyone. And I think that an assault on Italy by the Empire is the very thing that would cause the Italians to rally to their German king.”
Michael sighed, and closed his eyes. “In short, I think that this is a mistake, and I pray that God will avert you from this course.”
The room was so quiet that one could hear a pin drop. The only sound was a quill against paper or parchment. The emperor scowled at Michael, and then looked around the room. “The senate,” he declared, “is finished. And you, Michael, are stripped of your post, and banished by Imperial Decree.”
Michael smiled. He had expected this, ever since the Emperor had asked him his opinion weeks ago. He dipped his head, and ran his hand through his hair. “At least now,” he said, “I will have time to write.”
The Dialogues of Michael Kiontes
Archon: To be sure, sir, is it not wise to listen to one who is wise and just?
Grammatikoi: It is.
Archon: And are there not those who are wiser and more just than others?
Grammatikoi: But of course.
Archon: Would you not agree that the Emperor, being God’s sovereign to hold sway over man, is just?
Grammatikoi: Of course. But let me ask you: would you say that all emperors are wise and just?
Archon: But who could say that, when we have had men such as the tyrant Andronikos, or Isaac II Angelos?
Grammatikoi: Would you not agree, then, that those emperors were unjust and foolish, then there were men in the Empire who were wiser and more just than those emperors?
Archon: I cannot disagree with that statement, for we know the piety and knowledge of men such as Michael Choniates. Indeed, so tyrannical were the Angeli that all of the Roman Empire rejoiced when Phillip was crowned, for never was there a Baesilus as just and wise.
Grammatikoi: Would you not agree that it is foolish to listen to thoughts that are unjust and impious?
Archon: Of course, and it is a threat to our salvation.
Gramatikoi: Why then should citizens of the Empire listen to the words of an impious monarch?
Archon: I suppose I must agree that they should not.
Grammatikoi: And you agree that God dislikes that which is impious, surely?
Archon: How can I not?
Grammatikoi: And does he not punish the unjust and the wicked?
Archon: He does.
Grammatikoi: What, then, does he do to those who obey the unjust and the wicked?
The streets of The City were thronged with people celebrating the victory of the Empire. Not since the days of Basil the Bulgar Slayer, or even Justinian himself, had the people seen such a victory. Dorylaium resonated in the hearts of the Emperor’s subjects; and the victory that had been won their made the sacrifices and destruction of the past few years worthwhile.
The taverns were overflowing with wine, the vendors were working late into the night, the houses of the rich were sung with banners, and the great churches were jammed with Christians giving thanks to God for their victory.
Needless to say, Constantinople made quite the impression on the Mongol princes who were there to discuss terms. With Subodei dead he had sent his brothers Orda, Siban, and Berke to The City as his ambassadors, while his main force had withdrawn back through Armenia.
The Mongols were escorted through the city by the Emperor’s guards, but that did not keep them from staring when they were toured through it. The Mongols saw houses with vast panes of glass in their windows and marble columns. They saw sacred relics made of gold processed in processions of silk wearing priests. But it was the glory of the Church of the Holy Wisdom, known as Hagia Sophia in the tongue of the Greeks that had the greatest impression on the Mongols.
Orda had asked to visit the church, while the other Mongols had remained at their palace, and the Greeks had agreed. Orda had always been the most thoughtful of Batu’s brothers, and was curious to see how these Greeks prayed.
What happened to Orda became the stuff of legends. He walked into the church as a pagan. But after visiting a monument to God, seeing the rays of light strike mosaics of God looking down upon his flock, in a building which was fashioned with the help of God, he would leave as a Christian. For, as he would later tell Batu, ““I knew not whether I was in heaven or earth. For on earth there is no such splendor or such beauty, and I am at a loss how to describe it. I only know that God dwells there among men, and their service is fairer than the ceremonies of other nations. For I cannot forget that beauty.”
Much would come of Orda’s decision. But that, as they say, is a story for another day.
Constantinople, March 1240
Alexander, after his triumph, had called for a session of the Senate to meet in Constantinople, so that he could discuss the terms of the treaty with them. The only men who attended were those Alexander trusted, and thought would remain quiet. For they were going to discuss news of great import for the Empire.
“Rejoice!” cried a senator. “God has shown favor upon you, Alexander, Emperor of the Romans!”
Alexander smiled as he sat down in the center of the Senate. “How could he not? Am I not the head of God’s Chosen People? God has smiled upon us.”
“Now,” said a senator, “is the time to take stock and rebuild.” He cleared his throat, and continued speaking. “Would you not agree? The Empire has suffered much these past few years.” The senator looked at the emperor uneasily.
Alexander smiled. “On the contrary. The arrival of the Scythians presents us with a new opportunity to restore the Empire to its ancient grandeur. We are going to,” he said simply, “take back Rome.”
The senators stood stunned for a moment, as if they could not believe what they were hearing. Alexander continued to smile. “Allow me to elaborate. The Scythians are going to sweep into Germany and the lands of the Franks around the Black Sea, setting up a state there.” Alexander shook his head. “They’ll probably die, but we don’t need to tell them that, right?”
“In any case,” said Alexander, “while the Franks are fighting the Scythians, we will attack Sicily, Apulia, and Calabria. From there, we can march on Rome as we please.” Alexander leaned back in his throne and sighed. “Venice will be at our mercy, if we control the mouth of the Adriatic. The Italians are exhausted from their wars with Frederick, and will defect to me.”
“And then,” mused Alexander, “who knows?”
At last, a senator spoke up. “Let me see if I understand this. You are allying with a pagan power,” said the senator, “to attack a Christian king. In the process, you are going to attack Italy, and provoke Venice into a war that it will probably feel that it must fight.”
“Essentially, yes,” said Alexander. “I fail to see the problem. They’re just Franks. This is the best chance the Empire has had to retake Italy since the days of Basil. I, for one, am not letting it go to waste.”
“But we were just through a great war,” moaned another senator. “How will we pay for this?”
“Raising taxes,” said Alexander. “The government will borrow money, if it has to.” He looked around, his anger growing. “Come now, I came seeking advice on how best to take Italy, not to be heckled by old women.” He looked at his megadoux. “Come, Michael, tell the senators what you think.”
Michael had been seated in the back, and had been hoping to remain silent. But when pressed, he knew what he must say. Michael stood up, and looked around at the senators. “I think that you are preparing to wage an unjust war against fellow Christians. I think that that because you could beat the Scythians, you can defeat anyone. And I think that an assault on Italy by the Empire is the very thing that would cause the Italians to rally to their German king.”
Michael sighed, and closed his eyes. “In short, I think that this is a mistake, and I pray that God will avert you from this course.”
The room was so quiet that one could hear a pin drop. The only sound was a quill against paper or parchment. The emperor scowled at Michael, and then looked around the room. “The senate,” he declared, “is finished. And you, Michael, are stripped of your post, and banished by Imperial Decree.”
Michael smiled. He had expected this, ever since the Emperor had asked him his opinion weeks ago. He dipped his head, and ran his hand through his hair. “At least now,” he said, “I will have time to write.”
The Dialogues of Michael Kiontes
Archon: To be sure, sir, is it not wise to listen to one who is wise and just?
Grammatikoi: It is.
Archon: And are there not those who are wiser and more just than others?
Grammatikoi: But of course.
Archon: Would you not agree that the Emperor, being God’s sovereign to hold sway over man, is just?
Grammatikoi: Of course. But let me ask you: would you say that all emperors are wise and just?
Archon: But who could say that, when we have had men such as the tyrant Andronikos, or Isaac II Angelos?
Grammatikoi: Would you not agree, then, that those emperors were unjust and foolish, then there were men in the Empire who were wiser and more just than those emperors?
Archon: I cannot disagree with that statement, for we know the piety and knowledge of men such as Michael Choniates. Indeed, so tyrannical were the Angeli that all of the Roman Empire rejoiced when Phillip was crowned, for never was there a Baesilus as just and wise.
Grammatikoi: Would you not agree that it is foolish to listen to thoughts that are unjust and impious?
Archon: Of course, and it is a threat to our salvation.
Gramatikoi: Why then should citizens of the Empire listen to the words of an impious monarch?
Archon: I suppose I must agree that they should not.
Grammatikoi: And you agree that God dislikes that which is impious, surely?
Archon: How can I not?
Grammatikoi: And does he not punish the unjust and the wicked?
Archon: He does.
Grammatikoi: What, then, does he do to those who obey the unjust and the wicked?
Too bad about Alexander, I had such high hopes for the boy. Anyway, what exactly did he expect Michael to say? He's the only democrat in the room, and Alexander turns to him for support?
"I think that that because you could beat the Scythians, you can defeat anyone."
Pretty sure this is a typo. Michael's other words certainly don't imply that he thinks Alexander invincible.
Looking forward to whatever comes next.
"I think that that because you could beat the Scythians, you can defeat anyone."
Pretty sure this is a typo. Michael's other words certainly don't imply that he thinks Alexander invincible.
Looking forward to whatever comes next.
Faeelin
Banned
Admiral Matt said:
Thanks Admiral. I forgot to post something which I think puts Alexander's actions in their proper context.
Constantinople, February 1240
Michael reclined back in a chair and looked at the board. He hadn’t felt this good in years. “How does it feel,” he asked jokingly as he moved a chess piece, “to be the new Justinian?”
If Alexander thought Michael was joking, he didn’t show it. “It’s no great surprise,” he said genially. Alexander moved a general diagonally [202]. “I’ve thought so for years, ever since I first begin helping the foes of Frederick. And now I finally have the opportunity to move.”
Michael laughed. “Yes, you’ve been scheming for years to move against the Germans.” He moved one of his elephants towards the inside of the circle, and looked up at Alexander. The Emperor remained quiet, and Michael stopped laughing. “You have been, haven’t you?”
Alexander smiled. “Why else play the Lombards off against Frederick, or support that foolish pretender in France? I knew that the Empire could not take on the Germans alone, so it was necessary to bide my time. Now, though….” His voice trailed off. “You’ve met the Scythian named Orda, haven’t you?” When Michael nodded, Alexander continued to speak. “He’s become a Christian.” Alexander’s eyes gleamed as he continued to speak. “Today Orda, tomorrow the rest of his family, who rule an empire stretching from the Black Sea to China. Imagine if that Empire was converted to Christianity. Any Emperor who was responsible for that would not merely be as great as Justinian; he would be as great as Constantine.”
Michael looked at Alexander for a second. “So, you are going to ally with them? Against Frederick?”
“Of course,” said Alexander as he moved a cavalry piece. “Attacked from all sides, my cousin will fall.” Alexander looked at the board for a second, and smiled. “I think,” he observed, “that the game is mine.”
Michael looked at the board, and used his knight to move behind Alexander’s king, checking him. “I would be more careful, my emperor. You should pay more attention to the consequences of your actions.”
[202] Byzantine chess is weird, involving different pieces and a doughnut shaped board.
http://www.chessvariants.com/historic.dir/byzantine.htmlG.Bone said:
My question is what is Alexander doing playing Chess with the guy he exiled the month before?
Faeelin
Banned
DominusNovus said:
A typo?
The exile should be in 1241.
Anyway, I present to you... the beginning of the end.
Lake Balaton, January 1243
There was darkness, and occasional voices. Sometimes he could not make him out, and it seemed as if they spoke in heathen tongues. Other times he listened with clarity as they discussed a wounded knight. Frederick realized, as he painfully regained consciousness, that they were discussing him.
Frederick opened his eyes, and looked around a darkened room. After so long without light, even light from a fire was too much for him, but he could make out shapes standing beside it. He felt cold, although he could feel the weight of heavy blankets on top of him. He tried to move his legs, only to realize that he could not control them. It began to dawn on him that he was dying.
The emperor attempted to lean up in bed, only to collapse back as pain shot through his spine. The emperor gritted his teeth and asked a question. “What word?”
A voice beside him exclaimed at the emperor’s voice. “My Caesar,” implored the voice, “lie down, please. You were wounded by the Tartars, and you are still gravely injured. You must rest.”
The emperor paused for a moment, as he tried to recognize the voice. “More than that, I think. But I will go to God when he wants me, and until them I have my duties to attend to. Now, what news?”
There was silence. “Tell me,” growled the emperor.
“The Tartars have withdrawn from in front of this army,” said a voice to the emperor’s left. He looked over at the shape, and listened as it continued speaking. “But the Danes have attacked Lubeck and Saxony, and from the last things we heard, your son is under siege in Silesia. The Greeks have attacked Sicily, and the French nobles have declared that they owe the Empire no fealty, and will resolve the dispute over their crown on their own.”
Frederick closed his eyes for a moment, as he absorbed the news that his son was almost certainly going to die and the news that the empire was under attack by all of its foes. He leaned back on a pillow, and smiled despite himself. “There is,” he said in a rasping voice, “much to do then, isn’t there?”
Frederick II, King of Germany, King of Italy, King of Burgundy, King of Sicily, Holy Roman Emperor, lay in his bed for a week, dictating orders for the Empire. He did so up until the very end, when the room grew dark again.
The Emperor’s last thoughts, as he looked through a window at the night sky, was to marvel at what eyes the wise men must have had, to see one more among so many.
Milan, March 1243
Ezzelino, Viceroy of Italy, was drafting a letter to the Consul of Naples when there was a knock at his door. “Enter,” he said absently while he continued to write. “What news have you?”
”My lord,” said the messenger. “I bring you news from Hungary.” The messenger looked exhausted, and as Ezzelino snatched the letter out of the messenger’s hands, he feared he knew what it would say.
Ezzelino stood by the fireplace, and read the letter slowly.
“My dear friend,” began the letter. “If you are reading this, then God has finally called me to him.”
Ezzelino put the letter down for a moment as he absorbed the news, and then continued reading. “I want you to grant the Sicilians the communal rights they desire, before news reaches them of my death. You will need them in the struggle with the Greeks.”
The messenger coughed and interrupted Ezzelino. “He dictated this,” said the messenger, less than a hour before he died.”
Ezzelino looked down at the letter, and smiled at the emperor’s last words. “My dear friend, I know that you feel that I have done much that is wrong. Perhaps I have. If so, it is up for God to decide what to do with Frederick, a servant of God, and a sinner in his eyes.”
Ezzelino looked at the letter one more time, and tossed it into the fire. He stood there, and watched it burn. As he stood there, he thought about the different Fredericks that he knew. The boy with whom he’d hunted as a child. The warrior who’d defeated King John, and the tyrant who had sacked Assisi. A man who founded universities, a man who had sought to learn the wonders of the world, and a man who he had fought for years.
What did one say about such a man? Ezzelino looked into the fire, and sighed. “When God made Frederick, he broke the mold. We shall not see his like again.”
Leignitz, November 1242
Henry looked out from the city’s walls at the force in front of them. He could say only one word.
“Scheisse.”
In front of the walls of Liegnitz lay an army of several thousand Tartars, waiting to attack the city. Heavy catapaults lay amidst the Tartars’ tents, ready to fire a barrage against the city if the pagan general willed it. The enemy had stopped firing rockets, and had settled down for a siege after their first attempt to take the city had failed.
Henry looked over at the soldier standing on the war next to him. “What do you think, Abraham?” he asked. “They don’t look like Jews to me.”
The Jew smiled. “I don’t think so either. If they’re one of the lost tribes of Israel, they must have been lost for quite a while.”
Despite the situation, Henry couldn’t help but find the fact that there were fools who thought the Tartars were Jews comical. Jews were an odd people, and probably damned to Hell for not accepting Christ, but horsemen from the steppes of Asia they were not. He wrinkled his nose as the wind brought smells from the Tartar camp to the walls.
For one thing, Jews bathed.
When Henry had retreated to Liegnitz, he had immediately ordered the city to prepare to place its citizens on the wall, and he had stressed that that would include the Jews. Some of the burghers had protested, but Henry had remained adamant. There was no reason to keep men with swords from defending their cities, and if Liegnitz fell the Jews would be as dead as the rest of them.
The Jews, then, had taken their part in defending the city. And when, in the centuries to come, German minnesangers and storytellers told of the heroes of Liegnitz, they would include the Jews, who had fought with the King of the Romans against the legions of Hell.
Henry’s musings were interrupted by a screech as the Tartars launched another volley of rockets at the city. “It’s funny,” he said to Abraham, “how you start to take that in stride.”
Abraham nodded. “Why not? Christian armies have started using rockets lately, and they don’t do much. I’d rather deal with rockets than their damned arrows.”
Henry nodded. He was about to say something, when the catapults began firing. That could only mean one thing. “They’re coming!” he cried.
The crossbowmen on the walls fired into the advancing Tartars as the rocks from the catapults slammed into the walls and the city. Henry stood on the walls, directing fire and reinforcements as he waited for the Tartars to reach the walls. They began running ladders up against the wall, and Henry waited for the Tartars to reach the top. Henry slashed the first Tartar to reach the top, sending him falling back towards the ground. Other men soon joined him, and for a while he lost track of everything around him as he faced the Tartars.
Eventually the Tartars sounded the retreat, and the assault ceased. Henry finally had a chance to look around and take stock of the situation. As he looked around him at the carnage, he saw the body of the Jew Abraham.
As a good Christian, Henry should have believed that Abraham was doomed to go to hell. Looking at the body of a man who had only sought to defend his home against godless invaders who destroyed all in their path, Henry was comforted by the fact that the Hohenstaufens were rarely good Christians.
It would be a long siege.
Liegnitz, February 1243
Batu looked at the city and laughed. The Franks had defied him for too long. Their Emperor, Frederick, was dead. The Emperor’s son was trapped in the walls of the city, and at long last it would fall to him.
“I still say that we should have advanced further west,” said Baidar as they waited outside the city.
“Kadan tried that, remember?” said Batu. “The Franks pretended to retreat, and he fell into their trap [204].” Batu grimaced. “Do you want to try attacking a wall of crossbowmen and pikes again?”
“Oh, and this is much better,” said Baidar. “You’ve spent all of winter outside a pitiful city, hoping to kill Henry. Do you think it will break them?”
”Of course it will,” said Batu. “They’re so confident of victory because their emperor and priests claim that their God will give them victory.” Batu spat on the ground. “They won’t be so confident when the Emperor and his son are dead.”
Baidar thought about mentioning the dead horses, the hungry men, or the growing list of dead. Instead he decided to raise an issue tactfully. “The Franks worship a God that saved mankind by dying horribly. Do you really think that the death of their Emperor will upset a people that insane?”
Batu was about to speak when a messenger arrived, covered in ash and blood. “Batu, we’ve taken the citadel!”
“And the prince?” said Batu. “Did you capture him?” He looked at the messenger.
The messenger looked at the ground. “Not exactly.”
“Did you find his body?” demanded Batu.
“We’ve found many bodies,” replied the messenger.
“Was his among them?” asked Batu.
The messenger shuffled his beet. “Probably. But he took off all signs of his rank before we stormed the citadel, and there are just so many bodies….” He shrugged. “Who’s to say where his is?”
Batu looked as if he wanted to kill some one. “Very well,” he said. “This city will also pay the price of defying me.” He looked at the city, and laughed. “Soon this kingdom will suffer the same fate as Henry.”
Liegnitz would suffer the harshest fate of all the cities in Europe that were conquered by the Mongols. Not only were all the inhabitants slain; not only were all the churches burned, and all the women raped. Every living thing, down to the rats in the streets, were killed, and then the city was burned.
A tradition would continue in Liegnitz to remember the event, a tradition that continues to this day. Every hour on the hour, on February 15, a trumpeter in Liegnitz sounds a call from the four corners of the tower. But the call is never finished; it splutters to an end at the moment when a Mongol arrow struck the trumpeter.
But the defenders of Liegnitz had held off the Tartars for months, and by the time the city had fallen, had slain over twenty thousand of them. Combined with the defeats inflicted by Frederick II, the Mongol army was reduced to twenty thousand men.
As Batu looked at the flaming ruins of the city, he smiled. “With The Emperor and his son defeated, the family of kings is wiped out, is it not?”
Kaidan shook his head. “No,” he frowned. “There is another.”
Aachen, March, 1243
Elisabeth looked around the cathedral, and kept her face emotionless. As she walked towards the front of the cathedral, wearing the symbols of an empire that was older than her faith, she remained a model of composure. Her black dress trailed on the floor, as she walked out of the cathedral, a sign of her mourning, but outwardly she remained calm. No one who saw her realized that she had wept the night before.
Even if they had, few who where at the coronation would have cared. Such a reaction was understandable, for the last of the Staufens. [205].
She was weighted down with coronation robes, as was her husband. Rudolf had performed well, and she smiled when she saw him. He was, she thought, a small mercy from God, to balance out the sufferings she bore.
The two of them continued from the cathedral to the town hall in Aachen, which the nobles had provided for her. The procession through the city was a simple one, as reflected the somber mood of the Empire as the people prayed to God for deliverance. But it was a procession of the daughter of the Staufens and the new Emperor, and it showed the world that the Empire would go on.
Her father, she thought, would have approved.
When the procession reached the hall, Elisabeth and her husband entered the building, to be greeted by the town’s burghers dressed in their finest. Few nobles had come, but that was understandable; they were still warring with the infidel.
The room was hushed as they waited for the emperor to speak, but Elisabeth spoke first.
She looked at the faces of her subjects, and smiled. They still had faith in her and the emperor. They trusted them to keep them safe, in these hard times. It was a duty her father had taken seriously, and she knew that she must do so as well.
“My loving people, the greatest strengths of the empire are the loyal hearts and good will of my subjects. My father knew this, as did my brother. They died defending the good people of Christendom against the infidel, and I can do no less. And therefore I am come amongst you at this time, not as for my recreation or sport, but being resolved to lay down, for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honor and my blood, even my dust. I know,” said Elisabeth, “I have but the body of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart of a king, and of a Caesar too.”
“I think, “she cried, “foul scorn that Valdemar or the King of Greece, or any infidel, should dare to invade the borders of my realms.” “It is to defend these realms that I myself will take up arms. I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. In the mean my husband shall be in my stead, . By the grace of God, and by your valor in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over the enemies of my God, of my kingdom, and of my people. “
“I say this,” said Elisabeth, “in memory of the Caesar, the King of the
Romans, and thousands more who God has called to him since the Tartars invaded. We shall drive the devils back to the wretched land they call home, and may God have mercy on them, for we shall not!”
[204] The Franks were quite familiar with feigned retreats, as Bohemond’s actions in the Crusades shows. See Crusading Warfare, by R. C. Smail.
[205] What happened to the King of Jerusalem? Good question. You’ll probably find out in the next post.