Chapter 54
Betrayal or Another Siege Camp on Another Rainy Night
Andronikos, his white stallion, and Princess Evdokia fled east from the arrows of Thoros the Cilician to Antioch. From there he was recalled to Constantinople where he was immediately dispatched again to act as governor or Doux of Belgrade. Manuel was already on campaign in the west against rebellious Serbs.
With the Emperor away there was no one to prevent him from taking his mistress along - openly this time. The happy couple and their caravan had only gotten as far as Thrace before Evdokia’s brothers, and a brother-in-law, caught up with them. Those previously issued challenges to duel were still outstanding and were now being enforced. Boldly they shouted for Andronikos to come forth, stand, and bare steel.
Fortunately the caravan master had set up a proper camp for the night. In his tent well back from the picket posts, the sentries’ cries of, “Who goes there?” and the replies, had given Andronikos ample time to dress and arm himself. He kissed Evdokia, drew his blade, cut through the canvas at the rear of the tent with two slashes and slipped out. Evdokia went out the front to delay her brothers. Andronikos slunk to where the horses were tied and chose what he thought was a fast one. Riding bareback he sped away into the dark knowing once he assumed his command he would be untouchable. As soon as he was military governor their challenges would be moot. To attack him would be treason.
Arriving in Belgrade he realized this was not a serious posting. It was an insult. A muddy track leading to a muddy fortress town on a muddy hill overlooking a bend where two muddy rivers joined. The fortifications might once have been something to look at, but now they were in a dilapidated state.
He was being punished. He was sent here to freeze on this hill watching for an attack from ‘the Huns’ which would never come. A man with his talents should be Megas Domestikos - commander in chief of the armies, Megas Droungarios - fleet admiral, or Proto Sebastos - head of the bureaucracy, at the very least. Why, someone with his talents should be… Emperor.
He was in this frame of mind when King Geza of Hungary sent envoys bearing gifts. King Geza did not care which twit born in a room with purple columns ruled in Constantinople. Geza was funding the Serbian revolt which Manuel was currently quelling. He also backed Roger, the powerful Norman King of Sicily, as he carved a good sized slipper off of the boot which was Italy. A nice Byzantine civil war between bickering cousins was to be encouraged. The gifts did much, the compliments did more.
Over as lavish a dinner as could be mustered, the envoys reminded Andronikos that Emperor Manuel could fall off his horse, be carried off by disease like his brothers, scratch himself on a poisoned arrow like his father, or most likely of all - be slain in combat. In battle Manuel led from the front not from the command tent on a hill in the rear. So brave, but so dangerous. What then? What would happen if the Emperor were to die? Manuel had no son, no heir. But Andronikos did.
Andronikos’ coup against his cousin fell apart before it even started.
It should have begun with Andronikos turning Belgrade over to Geza, and having his own forces (with the right amount of coin) hail him as Emperor. Together Andronikos and Geza united would take Manuel from the rear as he fought the Serbs.
Instead, on the night before the coup was to begin - a cold and misty night with fog rising from the Danube River - a rider appeared at the gates of Belgrade. He ordered Doux Andronikos Komnenos to present himself. The guard captain could tell by the man’s bearing, garb, and the quality of his mount and its trapping, this was not a person to take lightly. He did have the presence of mind to ask who was calling at this late hour.
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The name Ionnes Kantakouzenos meant nothing to the captain of the guard, but it made Andronikos smile. Here was the offended brother-in-law, husband of darling Evdokia’s eldest sister Maria. Here alone - without the brothers. Andronikos would not need to slip out the back of a tent this time. The man had no authority here, and if Andronikos recalled correctly Ionnes Kantakouzenos was one handed, having been wounded in a battle. Should it come to a duel… a duel it would be. Andronikos, magnificent in his magnificence, went down to the gatehouse to see what the wayfarer wanted. Lodgings for the night? A warm fire, perhaps?
Arriving, he discovered an entire cohort of Varangians had emerged from the fog and taken the gatehouse once the captain had left. His own forces were disarmed. Seized and taken into custody he was charged with treason. Ionnes Kantakouzenos, Imperial decree in half-a-hand (two fingers missing, not the whole hand - rumor always exaggerated), was now Doux and would take immediate command. The Verangians were to remain to strengthen the local forces should Geza try anything - except for a guard of ten men, on mounts, who would escort a chained and walking Andrnikos to the Emperor's camp to await his pleasure.
Someone had talked. Someone always talks.
After days of walking, chained to a stake at night, he arrived at the siege camp outside the hill town of - where in the hell was he? Andronikos had no idea. Ushered into an adequately appointed tent he was then chained to a heavy iron ball. There he was left completely alone. For days.
Andronikos could carry the ball, barely - and shuffle from one side of the tent to the other, or he could drag it slowly. Meals, simple soldier’s rations, were brought to him by silent servants. Time dragged slowly. There was nothing to do in a siege camp, surely Manuel had time to come by and chastise him, yet nothing but silent indifference.
On a rainy night he held one link of the chain a finger’s breadth above the flame of a candle, heating it until it was white hot. Then, biceps flexed, veins straining on his forehead, he pulled. He was not just one of the largest men in the Empire, he was also one of the strongest. Patiently repeating the heating and pulling process he wore the metal and stretched the link thin. Once it broke he was free of the iron weight. Working a tent peg free, he lay down, and rolled out the back into lashing rain and mud.
Andronikos lay there letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The camp was laid out in the format of every Roman army camp. He got to his feet knowing where to go. The pelting downpour had forced every soldier to seek whatever shelter they could find. The ‘streets’ of the camp were deserted. Tent after tent receded into the darkness in each direction. At an intersection he paused to listen. Arguing and listless complaining in one tent, softly recited prayers in another. A third held groaning and a fourth snoring.
The sleeping soldier held the promise of equipment. Andronikos crept to the tent flap, quietly felt inside and found boots - far too small, and a dagger. Perfect. On towards the command tent. He would end it tonight and after killing Manuel be hailed by the cowering generals as Emperor. Better to die trying, blade in hand.
Only.
In the trench behind the Emperor’s tent his bowels betrayed him. Instead of slashing through the back of the tent - and his cousin's throat, he collapsed as his intestines spasmed. He tried to stifle a groan, but could not stifle the almighty gastric release which tore forth along with the warm gush of diarrhea. He slipped in the mud completely befouling himself and making an almighty splash. He was captured by Varangians before he could even regain his footing.
The barbarian guardsmen laughed and joked in their guttural language. They shoved and prodded him forward. They grimaced, waved their hands in front of their faces, and made farting sounds. Thrown forward, he fell on the rugs of Manuel’s tent, brightly lit by oil lamps and candles. His cousin stood there.
“My stomach… I went out to find a latrine and relieve myself.”
“There is dysentery in the camp. Smells like you did not make it in time.”
One of the Varangians tossed the dagger they had seized near Manuel’s feet.
“Have a swift rider sent to our capital. A guest room in the Anemas dungeon is to be prepared with a locked door and barred window. My cousin Andronikos will be bound again - by master smiths this time - for his transportation.”
It was the lowest point of his life.
At that point.
He could do worse.
He could suffocate in a drainage pipe under the dungeon.
The laughter from the guards at his sides faded. No, not at his sides. He was surrounded by bricks. From above, beyond the grate. No, not men’s rough laughter - a woman weeping.