March 19th, 1212AD. Arkadioupolis.
As promised, here's a short story from the IE universe. This is the first thing I've done in storybook format for years, so I'd really appreciate some feedback on this!
This stank.
All through Alexander’s life, he had dreamed of the moment that now awaited him. He had been brought up on the tales of his father’s military greatness, how the great George Kantakouzenos had come to the attention of the Emperor John himself during the Ladies’ War, at the age of just sixteen. As a small boy, Alexander had played at battle with his brother in the great palace of the Kantakouzenoi that sat proudly upon the flat plain of Troy. But it had always been Theodosios who shone in battle, Theodosios who earned the approval of his father, Theodosios who had gone on to lead the shattered remains of the Army of the East away from Manzikert and be treated to an ovation in the streets of Antioch for bringing the soldiers home. Six years ago, their father had died beaming at the successes of his heir, and Theodosios had claimed leadership of the family too.
It would be unfair to say that Alexander hated his brother. Theodosios had always been kind to him, eager to help with whatever small problems his brother had confronted. When Alexander had come close to descending into a life of wine-soaked indolence, Theodosios had been on hand to guide his brother out, to intercede with their shocked father and the disapproving imperial authorities. When Alexander had been discovered in bed with the young priest from Sardis, Theodosios had made sure the story was discreetly hushed up, and the priest was safely sent somewhere where his story would never be told. Alexander’s brother had always been eager to lend a little of his natural talent to those in the family who stood in his shadow. And he never demanded anything in return.
Alexander ground his teeth, shifted in his saddle, and shivered against the chilly spring rain.
His own career had been a considerably more chequered one. He had discovered, in the aftermath of the incident with the priest, that his father had always intended for his younger son to take up a career in the clergy, and it was only the tearful intercession of his mother that had saved the infant Alexander’s balls. Maria the Cretan had been low born, a pretty peasant girl who had the good fortune to catch the eye of the newly promoted Governor of Chandax when George Kantakouzenos was still young and passionate. The marriage had caused a small scandal at the time: a rising star marrying so below his rank. It had been, so far as Alexander was aware, a happy union though. Maria had duly delivered four Kantakouzene children- Anna, Theodosios, Theodora and finally (after a delay of some ten years) Alexander. He would not have been the youngest, but Maria had died in childbirth the day before the old Emperor John died. The little boy that had survived her, was thereafter named a child of ill-repute: some of the servants even had whispered that his birth had been a sign of the innate disloyalty of George Kantakouzenos, who, it was said, had prayed to God and all the saints for the death of his Emperor in exchange for the life of his son. For that George had the servants flayed and blinded and thrown into the sea, but the boy died regardless. Alexander would be the last child of the noble Patrician George Kantakouzenos. He did not recall his mother.
But that was not to say his life had been free of strong female figures. When his father and brother had brought him to the City for the first time, it was not his namesake the Emperor who had truly ruled, but rather the Empress-Consort Eirene. Six months had passed since the great bloodletting that had claimed the life of the Empress Dowager and half of the imperial House of Komnenos, and the early snowdrifts that were already piling up that October seemed to act as an eloquent metaphor for the savage winter that had come for the old ruling classes. Eirene had been charmed by the young Alexander’s singing voice, and insisted he spend more time in the company of the little princess Theophano, a sweet child of four. At the time, Alexander had been thrilled. At nine, he only saw that the Empress favoured him, not that she was in effect claiming a hostage from one of the strongest supporters of the old order. For ten years, Alexander had enjoyed the comforts of the palace, the favour of the Empress, and the company of the imperial children. But then Theodosios, well meaning as ever, had proved the loyalty of the Kantakouzenoi on the march back from Manzikert, and Alexander was no longer needed. He had gone back to the family estates, and there the drinking had begun. He did not remember there being a sober moment in the next five years. Certainly, when the news came that the City was enrounded by barbarians, he had been drunk, and when the news of liberation came, he was drunker still, and got his young nephews (for by now, Theodosios’ perfect marriage had yielded two perfect sons) roaringly drunk for the first time. Eusthatios Kantakouzenos, just thirteen years old, had spent a week vomiting after that. Anna Maleina, their mother, had never spoken to Alexander again. On reflection, though, this was probably more down to the descent of the Bulgarian Plague the following month than any lasting enmity. Theodosios’ wife had always been much too understanding for that.
In any case, though the wine had faded, Alexander’s favour with the Empress had not recovered. He’d held a couple of desultory offices in the inner provinces, rising at one point to be the Governor of the Islands the year after his father’s death, but of course that had come too late for him to have been anything other than a slight disappointment to George Kantakouzenos. He was, so everybody said, a carbon copy of his father at his age, but the thirty year old George had had the favour of an Emperor. The Empress Eirene had never spoken to Alexander after his departure from the court. Until now.
The news of the Italian revolt had been initially greeted with a shrug of resignation in the City. David Bringas was yesterday’s man, old enough to be Alexander’s grandfather. Besides, the Italians had risen in revolt before, to say nothing of the revolt of Joseph the Arab. It was not until the news came through that the young lord of the Bulgarians had thrown his weight behind the rebels that Eirene belatedly realised that Bringas’ rebellion was the greatest threat to her hold on the Empire since the great bloodletting twenty five years before. All the dominoes had then begun to collapse rapidly. Christmas found the frontiers in a state of confusion: Bringas’ outriders were descending on Thessaloniki, so some said, to seize Greece, while others claimed the rebel had sailed for the Chersonese to enlist the support of the savage Rus. When the real news had come through six weeks ago, though, it was one to chill the blood. All had expected attacks upon the flanks, but few could have predicted that the centre would not hold. Constantine Doukas, Grand Domestic of the West, had defected to the rebels. Panicking, Eirene sent for Theodosios, but he was snowed in in the Cappadocian highlands, and it would be weeks before he and his armies could move. Theodosios, though, helpful as ever, made a suggestion. His little brother was a perfectly adequate commander, and a loyal friend of the Empress. Why not promote him to command? Eirene had agreed: and here Alexander found himself, supreme commander of the Western field armies of the Empire of the Romans. It was a triumph: at a stroke, he had leapt to a position his father could only have dreamed of. Confronted, though, with the reality that the army of the West had now shrunk to just a few thousand men, triumph seemed for Alexander distinctly hollow.
“The men are in formation, Domestikos” reported his second in command. Isaac Palaiologos was a distant kinsman of Alexander’s, a nephew of his aunt Angelina Palaiologina on her own side of the family. Before this battle, the two had only met briefly: Alexander had been present at the baptism of the infant Isaac, and had occasionally exchanged words with him at court. Isaac had always chosen Theodosios as the better distant cousin to ingratiate himself with, though. For this, Alexander could not blame the boy. And boy was the right word for Isaac: one of the most senior generals in the Empire was yet to hit his twentieth birthday. He did, at least, have enthusiasm, although his attempts at growing a beard struck Alexander as laughable.
“Thank you, cousin. Go and take up your pla...”
He had meant to send Isaac further down the wall, to keep an eye on the unruly men from the Thracian provincial levy, but at that moment, from out of the rain he heard the sound of shouting and screaming, alongside the trumpets and drums of the rebel army. Below him, his mare whickered nervously, pawing the ground in fright at the sound. And it was a fearful din if Alexander had ever heard one, like half of hell had been emptied onto the muddy Thracian plain. Somewhere down below he vaguely saw a gatekeeper break and run, before one of the mounted archers of his own bodyguard put a stop to that. If I’m going down, he thought grimly to himself, these peasant scum aren’t abandoning me to meet the Devil all alone.
The screaming stopped as soon as it had begun, but the drums continued to pound. The rain was now coming down more heavily, soaking the vast cloth icon Alexander’s standard bearer clutched in a shivering arm. Looking up at the icon, Alexander briefly wondered whether he had ever seen a gloomier looking Virgin Mother. The face of the Christ-bearer seemed to be drained of her colour, alongside the rest of the world. Was it this grey when you died in a puddle of bloody piss, father?
Still. They held the town, and no amount of screaming could change that. The gatehouse he stood on was stoutly equipped and newly built, to better protect against the incursions of the Bulgarians. Bringas’ men would struggle to launch a successful siege in this weather, and Eirene had hoped that the rebellion would be washed away with the rain and drowned in the mud. It was an optimistic strategy, but one, Alexander considered, had at least half a chance of success. Joseph the Arab had seemed formidable for a while, but his revolt had come to a quiet end when the old barbarian had choked on a grape. Why should David Bringas have been any different?
It was the last hopeful thought Alexander Kantakouzenos ever had.
Around him, he heard the sounds of swords being unsheathed. What’re they doing? The enemy’s not in sight yet!
“Come off your horse, cousin. I’m sorry. It’s over now.”
Alexander heard the words coming from the lips of Isaac Palaiologos, he even saw the boy’s lips moving. But he did not register things, until he was lifted bodily from the saddle by one of the burly Englishmen that made up his escort. The barbarian- was it Edward, or Edgar?- seemed barely to notice the weight of Alexander’s grand ceremonial armour, and placed him on the floor. The Grand Domestic tried to splutter out a few words of enquiry, but his mouth had gone oddly empty. All that came out was a faint gargling noise.
“I’m going to surrender the town, cousin, but Bringas needs some sort of trophy to show to his men: I’ve heard there are troubles in the ranks, and they’re struggling for glory like rats in a sack. I need to give the old man something to reassert his authority, and I need to show him I can be trusted.” Isaac gave Alexander a look that was clearly supposed to convey sadness. “You do understand don’t you?”
Alexander could do little but splutter and blink. The rain was still coming down, and the drums continued to boom. Somewhere, somewhere entirely separated from him, Isaac Palaiologos was speaking to one of the Englishmen.
All of a sudden, Alexander found himself. Spinning round, he thrust his great sword from its sheath, and plunged it into the belly of an Englishman, sending the guard to his knees with a surprised shout. The mare now shrieked in terror and rose, kicking another Englishman full in the face, and sending Isaac Palaiologos slippering to the ground. Alexander backed away and shouted something to the peasants, anything to rouse their attention to treachery. Another Englishman came at him roaring, but Alexander had been trained for this even if Theodosios had won most of the praise. The Englishman’s ornate axe was unwieldy, and the man’s balance was not what it could have been. Quick as a cat, Alexander ducked the blow and his sword bit into the Englishman’s thigh, causing the barbarian to drop to the floor screaming: screaming until Alexander finished him with a quick blow to the throat. For a second he felt exhilaration, his heart pounding as loudly as the oncoming drums of Bringas’ army.
But then the arrow punched him, square in the chest. Alexander Kantakouzenos grunted, slipped, and fell flat onto his arse, smacking into the stone with a splat. He looked up, and all around him were the glowering faces of the Englishmen, their savage weapons raised. For an eternity, he glanced at them, considering his fate, and musing on the rank unfairness of life. He swallowed. He sighed. And the blade of an axe bit into his neck.
March 19th, 1212AD. Arkadioupolis, Thrace.
This stank.
All through Alexander’s life, he had dreamed of the moment that now awaited him. He had been brought up on the tales of his father’s military greatness, how the great George Kantakouzenos had come to the attention of the Emperor John himself during the Ladies’ War, at the age of just sixteen. As a small boy, Alexander had played at battle with his brother in the great palace of the Kantakouzenoi that sat proudly upon the flat plain of Troy. But it had always been Theodosios who shone in battle, Theodosios who earned the approval of his father, Theodosios who had gone on to lead the shattered remains of the Army of the East away from Manzikert and be treated to an ovation in the streets of Antioch for bringing the soldiers home. Six years ago, their father had died beaming at the successes of his heir, and Theodosios had claimed leadership of the family too.
It would be unfair to say that Alexander hated his brother. Theodosios had always been kind to him, eager to help with whatever small problems his brother had confronted. When Alexander had come close to descending into a life of wine-soaked indolence, Theodosios had been on hand to guide his brother out, to intercede with their shocked father and the disapproving imperial authorities. When Alexander had been discovered in bed with the young priest from Sardis, Theodosios had made sure the story was discreetly hushed up, and the priest was safely sent somewhere where his story would never be told. Alexander’s brother had always been eager to lend a little of his natural talent to those in the family who stood in his shadow. And he never demanded anything in return.
Alexander ground his teeth, shifted in his saddle, and shivered against the chilly spring rain.
His own career had been a considerably more chequered one. He had discovered, in the aftermath of the incident with the priest, that his father had always intended for his younger son to take up a career in the clergy, and it was only the tearful intercession of his mother that had saved the infant Alexander’s balls. Maria the Cretan had been low born, a pretty peasant girl who had the good fortune to catch the eye of the newly promoted Governor of Chandax when George Kantakouzenos was still young and passionate. The marriage had caused a small scandal at the time: a rising star marrying so below his rank. It had been, so far as Alexander was aware, a happy union though. Maria had duly delivered four Kantakouzene children- Anna, Theodosios, Theodora and finally (after a delay of some ten years) Alexander. He would not have been the youngest, but Maria had died in childbirth the day before the old Emperor John died. The little boy that had survived her, was thereafter named a child of ill-repute: some of the servants even had whispered that his birth had been a sign of the innate disloyalty of George Kantakouzenos, who, it was said, had prayed to God and all the saints for the death of his Emperor in exchange for the life of his son. For that George had the servants flayed and blinded and thrown into the sea, but the boy died regardless. Alexander would be the last child of the noble Patrician George Kantakouzenos. He did not recall his mother.
But that was not to say his life had been free of strong female figures. When his father and brother had brought him to the City for the first time, it was not his namesake the Emperor who had truly ruled, but rather the Empress-Consort Eirene. Six months had passed since the great bloodletting that had claimed the life of the Empress Dowager and half of the imperial House of Komnenos, and the early snowdrifts that were already piling up that October seemed to act as an eloquent metaphor for the savage winter that had come for the old ruling classes. Eirene had been charmed by the young Alexander’s singing voice, and insisted he spend more time in the company of the little princess Theophano, a sweet child of four. At the time, Alexander had been thrilled. At nine, he only saw that the Empress favoured him, not that she was in effect claiming a hostage from one of the strongest supporters of the old order. For ten years, Alexander had enjoyed the comforts of the palace, the favour of the Empress, and the company of the imperial children. But then Theodosios, well meaning as ever, had proved the loyalty of the Kantakouzenoi on the march back from Manzikert, and Alexander was no longer needed. He had gone back to the family estates, and there the drinking had begun. He did not remember there being a sober moment in the next five years. Certainly, when the news came that the City was enrounded by barbarians, he had been drunk, and when the news of liberation came, he was drunker still, and got his young nephews (for by now, Theodosios’ perfect marriage had yielded two perfect sons) roaringly drunk for the first time. Eusthatios Kantakouzenos, just thirteen years old, had spent a week vomiting after that. Anna Maleina, their mother, had never spoken to Alexander again. On reflection, though, this was probably more down to the descent of the Bulgarian Plague the following month than any lasting enmity. Theodosios’ wife had always been much too understanding for that.
In any case, though the wine had faded, Alexander’s favour with the Empress had not recovered. He’d held a couple of desultory offices in the inner provinces, rising at one point to be the Governor of the Islands the year after his father’s death, but of course that had come too late for him to have been anything other than a slight disappointment to George Kantakouzenos. He was, so everybody said, a carbon copy of his father at his age, but the thirty year old George had had the favour of an Emperor. The Empress Eirene had never spoken to Alexander after his departure from the court. Until now.
The news of the Italian revolt had been initially greeted with a shrug of resignation in the City. David Bringas was yesterday’s man, old enough to be Alexander’s grandfather. Besides, the Italians had risen in revolt before, to say nothing of the revolt of Joseph the Arab. It was not until the news came through that the young lord of the Bulgarians had thrown his weight behind the rebels that Eirene belatedly realised that Bringas’ rebellion was the greatest threat to her hold on the Empire since the great bloodletting twenty five years before. All the dominoes had then begun to collapse rapidly. Christmas found the frontiers in a state of confusion: Bringas’ outriders were descending on Thessaloniki, so some said, to seize Greece, while others claimed the rebel had sailed for the Chersonese to enlist the support of the savage Rus. When the real news had come through six weeks ago, though, it was one to chill the blood. All had expected attacks upon the flanks, but few could have predicted that the centre would not hold. Constantine Doukas, Grand Domestic of the West, had defected to the rebels. Panicking, Eirene sent for Theodosios, but he was snowed in in the Cappadocian highlands, and it would be weeks before he and his armies could move. Theodosios, though, helpful as ever, made a suggestion. His little brother was a perfectly adequate commander, and a loyal friend of the Empress. Why not promote him to command? Eirene had agreed: and here Alexander found himself, supreme commander of the Western field armies of the Empire of the Romans. It was a triumph: at a stroke, he had leapt to a position his father could only have dreamed of. Confronted, though, with the reality that the army of the West had now shrunk to just a few thousand men, triumph seemed for Alexander distinctly hollow.
“The men are in formation, Domestikos” reported his second in command. Isaac Palaiologos was a distant kinsman of Alexander’s, a nephew of his aunt Angelina Palaiologina on her own side of the family. Before this battle, the two had only met briefly: Alexander had been present at the baptism of the infant Isaac, and had occasionally exchanged words with him at court. Isaac had always chosen Theodosios as the better distant cousin to ingratiate himself with, though. For this, Alexander could not blame the boy. And boy was the right word for Isaac: one of the most senior generals in the Empire was yet to hit his twentieth birthday. He did, at least, have enthusiasm, although his attempts at growing a beard struck Alexander as laughable.
“Thank you, cousin. Go and take up your pla...”
He had meant to send Isaac further down the wall, to keep an eye on the unruly men from the Thracian provincial levy, but at that moment, from out of the rain he heard the sound of shouting and screaming, alongside the trumpets and drums of the rebel army. Below him, his mare whickered nervously, pawing the ground in fright at the sound. And it was a fearful din if Alexander had ever heard one, like half of hell had been emptied onto the muddy Thracian plain. Somewhere down below he vaguely saw a gatekeeper break and run, before one of the mounted archers of his own bodyguard put a stop to that. If I’m going down, he thought grimly to himself, these peasant scum aren’t abandoning me to meet the Devil all alone.
The screaming stopped as soon as it had begun, but the drums continued to pound. The rain was now coming down more heavily, soaking the vast cloth icon Alexander’s standard bearer clutched in a shivering arm. Looking up at the icon, Alexander briefly wondered whether he had ever seen a gloomier looking Virgin Mother. The face of the Christ-bearer seemed to be drained of her colour, alongside the rest of the world. Was it this grey when you died in a puddle of bloody piss, father?
Still. They held the town, and no amount of screaming could change that. The gatehouse he stood on was stoutly equipped and newly built, to better protect against the incursions of the Bulgarians. Bringas’ men would struggle to launch a successful siege in this weather, and Eirene had hoped that the rebellion would be washed away with the rain and drowned in the mud. It was an optimistic strategy, but one, Alexander considered, had at least half a chance of success. Joseph the Arab had seemed formidable for a while, but his revolt had come to a quiet end when the old barbarian had choked on a grape. Why should David Bringas have been any different?
It was the last hopeful thought Alexander Kantakouzenos ever had.
Around him, he heard the sounds of swords being unsheathed. What’re they doing? The enemy’s not in sight yet!
“Come off your horse, cousin. I’m sorry. It’s over now.”
Alexander heard the words coming from the lips of Isaac Palaiologos, he even saw the boy’s lips moving. But he did not register things, until he was lifted bodily from the saddle by one of the burly Englishmen that made up his escort. The barbarian- was it Edward, or Edgar?- seemed barely to notice the weight of Alexander’s grand ceremonial armour, and placed him on the floor. The Grand Domestic tried to splutter out a few words of enquiry, but his mouth had gone oddly empty. All that came out was a faint gargling noise.
“I’m going to surrender the town, cousin, but Bringas needs some sort of trophy to show to his men: I’ve heard there are troubles in the ranks, and they’re struggling for glory like rats in a sack. I need to give the old man something to reassert his authority, and I need to show him I can be trusted.” Isaac gave Alexander a look that was clearly supposed to convey sadness. “You do understand don’t you?”
Alexander could do little but splutter and blink. The rain was still coming down, and the drums continued to boom. Somewhere, somewhere entirely separated from him, Isaac Palaiologos was speaking to one of the Englishmen.
All of a sudden, Alexander found himself. Spinning round, he thrust his great sword from its sheath, and plunged it into the belly of an Englishman, sending the guard to his knees with a surprised shout. The mare now shrieked in terror and rose, kicking another Englishman full in the face, and sending Isaac Palaiologos slippering to the ground. Alexander backed away and shouted something to the peasants, anything to rouse their attention to treachery. Another Englishman came at him roaring, but Alexander had been trained for this even if Theodosios had won most of the praise. The Englishman’s ornate axe was unwieldy, and the man’s balance was not what it could have been. Quick as a cat, Alexander ducked the blow and his sword bit into the Englishman’s thigh, causing the barbarian to drop to the floor screaming: screaming until Alexander finished him with a quick blow to the throat. For a second he felt exhilaration, his heart pounding as loudly as the oncoming drums of Bringas’ army.
But then the arrow punched him, square in the chest. Alexander Kantakouzenos grunted, slipped, and fell flat onto his arse, smacking into the stone with a splat. He looked up, and all around him were the glowering faces of the Englishmen, their savage weapons raised. For an eternity, he glanced at them, considering his fate, and musing on the rank unfairness of life. He swallowed. He sighed. And the blade of an axe bit into his neck.
