Chapter 51

Once Upon a time in a Dungeon II

Twenty years earlier it had been Stephen and Andronikos imprisoned in the Anemas dungeon. Stories were told in the dark between the doors of the prison cells. The wretch in the next cell told the sad story of his plight, and wept at the injustice of his upcoming punishment. In his cell Andronikos told boastful stories where he was always the hero.

“When I finally returned to Constanitinople with my fellow captive, Theodore Dasiotes - the fellow who was captured with me on our hunting trip - it would have been, let me think… in the spring of 1144. Was I angry? Sure, I was angry. How could I not have been? I was held hostage for the entire year in which Manuel became Emperor. The whole year. For no reason. Simply to save his dignity and his purse. Of course, by the time Sultan Masud released us - all the top positions in the army, in the navy, in the palace - everything was taken by those who had been on hand when he became Basileus. Ha. Stepped over his elder brother to become Basileus.”

Andronikos paused as he paced his cell and assumed the classical rhetorical pose for the stabbing cut of his last remark. His listener in the next cell could not see him, but it was nice simply to have a listener. The boredom was excruciating, so it was enjoyable to be able to recount his youthful travels and adventures to someone. Usually Andronikos had only himself to talk to, so now with an audience (of sorts), he walked through the paces as if he were Cicero arguing in front of the Senate. The silence from the cell near the stairs left him to conclude the other prisoner had either fallen asleep or was too absorbed in his own problems to pay attention. No matter.

He crossed his own cell and lifted the book of prayer from where it sat on his writing desk. From the binding he removed a long, thin, iron nail which he had hidden there. Earlier he had asked his wife to bring him the nail when she came to see him on her almost daily visit. A dutiful woman, she had done so without question. Their visits, on opposite sides of the barred door, were not supervised, so it was simple and indeed permitted to pass any object. As befit his station Andronikos had candles, a brazier for cold nights, quills, ink, and parchment for his correspondence. He had his father’s copy of Homer, as well as a book of prayer, and other things to read. Servants came into his cell to empty his chamber pots and to clean and barber him daily. His viands came as leftovers from the emperor's own kitchen.

Andronikos moved to the middle of his cell, dropped to his knees, and using the nail, began to pry along the side of a metal grate set into the brick floor of his cell. The grate covered a drainage passage which ran under the cell. He did this simply to while away the endless hours. There was nothing else to do except talk to the unseen man in the cell along the passage - Stephen… whatever his long name was.

“Sultan Masud's initial peaceful overtures were but a ruse. He launched an attack on our major fortified staging area in Bithynia. Do you know Malagnia? The closest one to Constantinople itself?”

“Never visited,” came the reply.

Aah, so he is still awake.

“We responded quickly and in force.” Andronikos continued both with his scratching on the floor and his story. “Once we reinforced Malagnia, we pushed on to the walls of Iconium itself. Sultan Masud was so fearful of capture he retreated, but he left Iconium behind with a brave - and polite - defender.”

Andronikos paused in his scratching and sat back on his haunches. “My own brother. I saw him on the walls and we spoke briefly at a distance. We didn’t have the siege engines or supplies needed to take the city. I am glad of that. I would have hated to kill my own brother. Still his forces harassed us as Manuel marched the army back towards Antioch again.”

There was a tiny crevice starting to form between the brick and the floor grate. Could he get the tip of the nail under the metal grate? Perhaps he could pry the grate up. Was there something in his cell he could use as a fulcrum? Could he lay his chair on the floor and use the leg. He tried. Awkward. The chair leg was too thick. What would be better? Ah yes. A spool. His wife had dropped one on a visit while she sat darning his stockings while they chatted. Where was it? Andronikos stood up and began to rummage among his desk. Ah. There.

“Where was I? Ah yes. I was held high in the friendship of the Basileus. We were like brothers. Once I personally drew steel to defend him - from his own brother. Do they talk about that at the palace? I doubt it, but it is true. Over dinner one night an argument flared up about how to proceed. As you know, when Manuel took the throne his older brother, Issac was still very much alive. What Manuel should have done was blinded him so he would never again be a contender and shuffled him off to a quiet monastery somewhere to live out his days. He did not. Instead he took the ass on campaign with us.”

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

The spool was working as a fulcrum. The grate was starting to rise. Andronikos exerted every bit of pressure he could muster on the fingertips of one hand as he raised the metal further - hair’s breadth by hair’s breadth, while quickly giving the nail better purchase with the other.

“We were all sitting around in the command tent on campaign against the Turks, when John the Persian had the audacity to challenge Manuel’s military judgment - said he was not fit to bridle his father’s horse. Can you imagine? Born a slave and saying this to the Basileus. When I say John the Persian of course I mean John Auxox. Did you know the fellow - John Auxox?”

“Never met.”

“He was ennobled. Egad. Of course he is dead now, but his son married my cousin Maria. My cousin - the Emperor, made him a general and he is commanding an army in the field right now while I sit here in this cell. My wife says Maria is due to calf out another half-slave brat any day now. What is the world coming to?”

The grate raised enough for Andronikos to get his fingers under it and lift. “Where was I? Oh yes. The argument in the campaign tent. Was John the Persian drunk? Sure he was drunk. We had all been at the wine pretty good. We were all in our twenties - not that old general of course. Still Manuel was gracious and patient to endure these scornful words. Out of respect to his late father’s best friend he did not order the man’s head off. I think he would have let the old man sleep it off and apologize in private the next day. End of the matter. Only at this point his brother Issac opened his stupid mouth and wholeheartedly agreed with John the Persian. I drew my sword and challenged Issac to back his word with his blade, but the coward relented. Do they tell that story about me in the palace anymore?” (In the palace the story differed. In that version of events, the Emperor himself drew his blade and deflected the lunge which Issac had aimed at Andronikos’ heart.)

The grate came free and Andronikos moved it out of the way. “No. They probably do not. No doubt they all chuckle about what they call my attempt to murder Emperor Manuel. Fools. Stay-at-home soft mamma’s-boy tit-suckers. How many have ever been on campaign?”

He peered into the drainage channel. It dropped off into the darkness. How wide was it? Was it big enough? Could he fit? He returned to his desk to get a candle, but continued talking. “On campaign, is where you can discover a man’s mettle. On my first solo command I was given charge of over ten thousand men to bring the surviving sons of Leo, the Lion of the Mountains, to heel. They were looking to break Cilicia away from the empire just like their father had done. A number of nobles from western Armenia who supported alliance with Constantinople accompanied me on the campaign along with their own levees of troops.”

The aperture in the floor was large enough. He could fit. Andronikos dangled his legs in the hole. “They assured me infighting among the Lion Cubs had caused a rift. Their spy said one cub was holed up alone in the city of Mamistra. Thoros. The Lion Cub’s name was Thoros. I knew him. We were of an age. My brother had once been married to his sister or half sister. I cannot recall her name. He divorced her or annulled the marriage after crafty old King Leo cheated him out of the girl’s dowry. Thoros offered a truce, but my allies urged me to reject it and lay siege.” (Had they urged that?) “Not a long siege mind you. We were betrayed.” (Had they been?) “Still, I rescued a princess from an attacking army.”

To be sure Andronikos did rescue a princess. He did not describe the moment. He was savoring it in his memory. The low fellow in the next cell would not have appreciated the majesty: The white charger with black bridle, reins, and saddle adorned with silver work; Andronikos, clad in black suede - trimmed with tiny pearls - from his boots, to his gauntlets, to his collar - with a helm, crested by a plumage of snowy swan’s feathers. He swept the royal, nubile, young woman up and set her on the saddle before him. He then laid on the spurs, his black cloak streamed, scant seconds ahead of a hail of arrows which fell short in the mud.

The mud was the result of rain which had provided cover for the Lion Cubs' midnight surprise attack on Andronikos’ camp. The arrows came from archers of the Lion Cubs who had grown claws, fangs, and hunted together as a pride. They were not divided. Andronikos let his ill-informed Armenian allies die, buying him the time to stylishly outfit himself (and his mount) and bolt with the princess.

In the next cell Stephen Hagiocharistophrities worried about his own fate. How long before they severed his nose? A week? A month? Andronikos’ self serving story only dimly entered his consciousness, but even he was brought to awareness by the obvious dissonance in the tale. He interjected two questions. “Who was the princess? And why was she in need of rescue on a rainy night in a siege camp?”

Silence was his only reply.

Stephen lost interest and drifted off into fretful sleep.

He was awoken the next morning by the sound of smashing crockery. The servant assigned to the dungeons had dropped Prince Andronikos’ breakfast tray. They boy ran shrieking up the stairs.

“What is going on? Something is happening.” Stephen hissed to Andronikos. Silence.

After a moment guards clattered in. Exclamations of surprise. The servant was sent to fetch the Papias, overseer of the entire palace.

Despite the door still locked, Andronikos had vanished overnight from his cell.