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| Forging the Ring; Tribal Frustration Leading to Armed Advance... and more | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Sep 4 2015, 01:05 AM (109 Views) | |
| Mastropa | Sep 4 2015, 01:05 AM Post #1 |
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Zinovios Mesolongias, Epistatis
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Vasilissa Kaisariani stared out at the landscape in front of her, despising it even as she gave the order for her commanders to take it in her name. In terms of population, it possessed a pittance; in terms of resources, it held nothing that the Serrian territory did not already provide for her, as it had provided for all of her ancestors. But thanks to the policies of Anax Kerameikos, this land alone was left to her… and even before the unexpected invasion of central Suran by Izalith, the vasilissa had been wondering just how long it would take for someone to close this avenue off to her as well. The past few weeks suggested that she wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. Vasilefs Monastiraki’s sudden expansion—seemingly unplanned, even by himself—had forced her to share a border with one of the men she loathed most in the world, while depriving the Serrians of one of their primary labor hunting grounds. What the Argolidans had done with their new population was still a matter of debate in Serres, but given how Monastiraki’s predecessors had purposely turned away from a slave-based economy upon seeing the economic expansion of ‘modernized’ tribes such as Thesprotia and Akarnania, Kaisariani wouldn’t have been surprised if Monastiraki had chosen to employ them as though they were lower-class Achaians. He certainly hadn’t expelled them, or they would have ended up in her hands anyway… where they belonged, as far as the vasilissa was concerned. That had been infuriating enough; the anax’s silence on the matter, or at least his refusal to punish the trespassing vasilefs and his people for their presumption, only reinforced Kaisariani’s easy decision to back the little plot surrounding the other irritating vasilefs of the Achaians, Ymittos of the Kalymnians, to whom Anax Kerameikos had promised his full support and protection in the face of Vasilissa Exarcheia’s violent state of mind. Once Kerameikos realized that none of his vasileis would help him, and that many would outright oppose him, Kaisariani felt certain that the anax would be much more inclined to answer the concerns of his dependents, herself included. As if in response to her frustration with his inaction, Kerameikos sent her a message not long afterward, ‘requesting’ that she host one of the Megaron’s ambassadors for a short while before he set out on a journey into the interior of Suran. Fortunately for Kaisariani, Ambassador Patmos had not been ordered to remain silent about his mission, as he had happily discussed the matter with her while overseeing the preparations necessary to set out from Serres. The answers he gave, however, only irritated the vasilissa still further. Anax Kerameikos had evidently decided to completely ignore tradition, especially tribal tradition, and begin negotiating with the unorganized residents of the interior. This on its own would not have been a problem, had he not insisted that his ambassador negotiate with literally every community he could find, including those closest to Serres—those whose members would be the most likely to stray into a Serrian patrol. As respectful as Patmos had been to his hosts in Serres, he refused outright to deviate from the orders he had received from the anax’s own lips, and warned that the anax intended for all Achaians to respect those with whom Patmos had been sent to negotiate. What peoples had not been taken by the Argolidans, then, quickly fell under the direct purview of the Megaron, and Kaisariani’s Serrians were once again made to halt their traditional and economically-necessary activities at the behest of those who had no legal right to demand it of them. To the Serrians’ west was the Empire of Izalith. Kaisariani couldn’t bear to even imagine the results of attempting to supplement the Serrian labor population with raids into imperial territory. Izalith’s arrival on the Serrian borders had forced her grandfather to turn his attention southward, toward the territories now denied to her; given the drastic reorganization of the Ikarian, Kalymnian, and Thesprotian economies at the conclusion of the related conflict and subsequent Achaian defeat, the Serrians had considered themselves lucky to simply be turned away, rather than assimilated or transformed entirely. Ever since, Izalith’s presence on the edge of Achaian lands had remained the only exception to the tribes’ standard policy of emptying its near neighborhood of all threats, and even the most devoted Achaian nationalist would have balked at confronting the empire that had quickly become one of their greatest international supporters. Now, suddenly, those exceptions were growing in number. The vasilissa had heard the same news as every other Achaian when the Huron Nation began patrolling its old borders for the first time since its civil wars had rendered it a nonentity as far as Achaian policy had been concerned; Kerameikos’s first inclination had been to negotiate. Izalith’s inaction as of late was only now coming to an end, but Kerameikos had taken no advantages from it in the meantime. Random villages and uncivilized peoples were to be protected by Achaian authority and arms, rather than suppressed and subdued to serve Achaian interests. And when other vasileis overstepped their bounds, the anax’s policy always sided with the guilty, and left the innocent to seethe. To the Achaians his story remained the same: In the face of international pressures and censure, the anax worked to strengthen them as a people and as a nation; he sought reconciliation and amity at home, so as to bolster the walls of resistance abroad. But for all of his words, the ‘strength’ he tried to convey abroad was borne of a terrible weakness at home, where servile diplomacy was preferred to any fracture that could turn the Megaron’s attention away from its distant foes. There were, at least, advantages to knowing that the anax felt incapable of responding to trouble close to home. Kaisariani kept her eyes firmly northward as Serrian APCs and IFVs moved forward, covered by tanks and aircraft. She had planned this invasion from the moment that Ambassador Patmos had explained his mission to her and her commanders. The land to her northeast had once been Achaian, of course; their people, in their separate tribes, had subdued the entire Achaian Gulf during the reigns of Vyronas, Lykavittos, and Anafiotika, but time and constant border conflicts among themselves and between Achaians and non-Achaian natives had worn away that dominance, or else outright obliterated some tribe or another over the years. Such a disaster had last occurred during the same conflict that had brought Izalith to the Achaian doorstep and raised the Xenos Dynasty to the anakate, the last visible remnant of which was soon to be under Serrian control. Under no circumstances would another ‘surprise’ like the Huron Nation or the Megaron’s new diplomatic partners in the interior be allowed to occur here. The vasilissa had put a great deal more strength into this endeavor than she had originally planned to, a result of the recent surprise from Izalith to the west. The Serrian militia was no longer tasked with being the first line of the Achaians’ defense in any terrestrial war in Suran, and could be occupied in other pursuits at Kaisariani’s leisure. Kaisariani had been quick to divert them. Almost the entire force of the militia was now pounding into the northeastern unclaimed territories, intent on bringing them under the Serrians’ control within days. The people there, few in number and unlikely to put up any great resistance, had either lived under the rule of some long-lost Achaian tribe, perhaps even claiming descent from it, or else had come to that place after fleeing from other Achaians or from the Izalithian expansion generations before. Once there, they could not have escaped easily: Izalith closed them in from the west, Serres from the south, and to the north Kalymnos guarded the northern Achaian peninsula. To the east of this land there was only the gulf, where the Megaron’s navy protected Achaian trade and prevented tribal industry from breaching the limitations of the Kerkyra Compact. They were caught between three anvils and the Serrian hammer now; there would be no chance for them to become the Megaron’s latest pet project, or Izalith’s next ‘humanitarian’ conquest. The Serrian labor pool would receive its last foreseeable influx, true, but at the same time Kaisariani could finalize once again the firm grip of Achaian arms over the gulf that bore their name. With so much at stake for everyone involved, even conflict-shy Kerameikos would not argue against that. Edited by Mastropa, Sep 4 2015, 01:13 AM.
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![]() MAKARIA to the Achaian People: Be as Many as the Stars | |
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| Mastropa | Sep 4 2015, 07:02 PM Post #2 |
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Zinovios Mesolongias, Epistatis
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“My lord, we have word from Commander Sthenelos that—” Vasilefs Ymittos raised a hand to stop his companion’s speech, being more interested in the view out the limousine window as it passed by the gardens and entertainment complexes that filled this part of Kalolimnos. The vasilefs found it sadly ironic that he and his entourage were leaving as the rest of Kalymnos was flowing in, clogging the sidewalks and the city streets with fancy cars and taxis, but such was the lot of a vasilefs to have to cut short his pleasure should the need require. Of course, it was also a convenient excuse when Ymittos felt the desire to leave early anyway, and this morning he had taken full advantage of it. He had no idea what had possessed his son to recommend such a horrible show to him, but he looked forward to explaining to Psychiko just how questionable his judgment had become. But if he could not find enjoyment in the show, Ymittos decided that he was at least going to enjoy the sights of Kalolimnos’s entertainment district as he passed through. Commander Sthenelos could and would wait. The vasilefs’s companion, for some unfathomable reason, thought otherwise. Sure, he fell silent when commanded, but less than a minute later he opened his mouth again. “My lord, you really need to hear this.” Ymittos turned away from the window and glared at his aide. Normally this would at the very least make the other man cringe, but strangely this time he merely seemed relieved to have the vasilefs’s full attention. “This had better be as important as you claim,” Ymittos threatened. Wasting no time, the aide replied, “Commander Sthenelos reports news that Vasilissa Kaisariani has led the bulk of the Serrian militia into the unorganized territory bordering Kalymnos. He thinks she means to take it.” Ymittos blinked. “Take it?” he repeated dumbly. Then the implications sank in. “Kaisariani on my border?” he growled. “Never. Contact the commander and tell him to mobilize the militia; we will head her off as far from our lands as possible. Driver!” The vasilefs turned to the built-in intercom that linked the passenger compartment to the cab. “Turn on the siren and floor it. We stop for no one.” “Yes, my lord!” Given the traffic and the busy neighborhood, even the best driver in Kalymnos could only go so fast in a limousine. Ymittos’s journey was cut from an hour to twenty minutes, but it was still a very frustrated vasilefs who stormed out of the vehicle as soon as it came to a stop in the front drive of his palace, calling out for Commander Sthenelos and for his son. He strode into the palace to find the other two already together, walking out to greet him presumably, as the commander reported what he knew to the vasilefs’s son. Psychiko was nodding in all the right places, but Ymittos could see that he was too distracted to take in what he was being told, given his uncombed hair and rumpled uniform—attributes that had not been present that morning at breakfast, strangely enough. The vasilefs’s eyes narrowed as Psychiko’s gaze seemed to wander across the hall, never daring to rest on his father’s; whatever he was worried about was making him even more distracted than he had been before, and from the look on his face, Commander Sthenelos knew it. Ymittos decided to spare his son from any more embarrassment and stepped up to the two. “Commander, report.” “My lord, Vasilissa Kaisariani’s advance is focused on the western edge of the territory, cutting the space off from the Izalithian border. The eastern flank ceased its advance an hour ago; our scout planes report that most of the advancing forces are being transferred to the western flanks to fully patrol the more expansive territories there. The western forces are still moving as rapidly as possible, but they’re encountering some light resistance and should be delayed long enough for us to fully mobilize and meet them.” “Good. I want a buffer no less than twenty miles between those bastards and our borders at the end of the day; focus on that first. After that, we will cut off as much of this territory’s access to the sea as possible. Kaisariani might well get whatever slaves she hoped to catch, but her use of the land itself will be drastically curtailed if I have anything to say about it. How soon will we be prepared to move?” “We are prepared now, my lord.” Ymittos nodded sharply. “Move them forward at once, as instructed. I’ll catch up with the main body soon enough. Go.” “Yes, my lord!” The vasilefs watched the commander stride through the palace doors and into the sunlight, snapping commands into a handset, before turning with a glare to his son. “Your inattention was obvious,” he snapped. “Your dress is slovenly and your hair is a mess. What did you get up to after you sent me off to that waste of time?” “I…” Psychiko struggled for words, but the way that his eyes darted toward the far corner of the hall spoke volumes. Ymittos immediately followed his son’s gaze toward a line of guards who appeared to be somewhat relaxed as they stood at their posts… except the woman on the far left, almost hiding in the shadow, whose stiff back betrayed her fear while her rumpled clothes announced her guilt. The vasilefs saw her breathing quicken the moment she realized that his attention had fallen on her, and decided not to confront her directly for fear of sending her into a full panic. Instead, he turned back to his son with a raised eyebrow. “This wouldn’t happen to be the reason that you so highly recommended a late-morning production of some garbage you must have randomly selected from the advertisement section of the newspaper, is it?” he sneered. “You probably don’t even remember where you sent me…” Psychiko, embarrassed, shook his head. “The next time you want me out of the palace for any length of time, do your research,” Ymittos snapped. “Or better yet, find some excuse to leave by yourself and allow me to do my business in my home.” “I’m sorry, Father.” “Yes, I’ll bet.” Ymittos snorted and shook his head. “Well, at least one of us has reason to appreciate this mess Kaisariani has just dumped in our laps.” The vasilefs met his son’s gaze and held it. “I will be in the field with Commander Sthenelos and the militia. I am not about to try to govern the Kalymnians from the wilderness, so consider this your latest test to determine if you’re ready to do more than walk around in my shadow. Until I return, you are vasilefs of this place. I imagine I hardly need to tell you not to ruin my tribe while I’m away.” The words were harsh, but the tone was friendly, and Psychiko smiled at the jibe. “I’ll do my best.” Ymittos snorted again and glanced back at the nervous guard in the corner. “Yes, I’m sure you will,” he said dryly. |
![]() MAKARIA to the Achaian People: Be as Many as the Stars | |
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| Mastropa | Sep 7 2015, 12:08 AM Post #3 |
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Zinovios Mesolongias, Epistatis
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Vasilissa Kaisariani stood on the southern bank of some random river, looking off to the north where her scouts had told her Vasilefs Ymittos was approaching. His response to her advance had come as no surprise, but it was still an annoyance she had hoped she wouldn’t have to worry about. Her swift deployments had ensured that most of the interior territory had already come under Serrian control, and with it the bulk of the population of the territory. But she had known as soon as she had given those orders that they would leave command of the coastline to chance, and Ymittos had been quick to take advantage of the situation while the Serrian militia’s focus remained to the west. Kaisariani reminded herself as her rival vasilefs approached that she had far less to gain from the territory she’d captured than she did from the people she’d taken, all of whom had already been sent back to Serres. The Kalymnians were no doubt rolling over the defenses of several locals themselves, preventing Kaisariani from taking the lot, but the vast majority of the population had fallen to the Serrians, and the vasilissa had no desire to start a war among the Achaians over such a small number of escapees. If Ymittos wanted them, he could have them, and the same was true for the land he’d raced to obtain. As the dust cloud of approaching APCs grew larger in the northern distance, Kaisariani considered how galling it would be to share a border with two unpleasant vasileis instead of just one. It was a distant border, likely to be set on this river where she stood even then; it was nameless, just as the territory as a whole was, and its fate was meaningless to the Serrian vasilissa. If she had to have a border set between herself and one of her most annoying colleagues, Kaisariani really couldn’t think of a better place than this one—and she believed Ymittos, who participated in their mutual dislike, would almost certainly agree. Better this, she thought, than the banners of Kalymnos flying just over the Serrian border; better this, indeed, than Serrian banners so close to Kalymnos, where they could be shot at so easily. A runner came up to the vasilissa from a nearby truck. “My lady, the Kalymnians have confirmed that they have Vasilefs Ymittos among them. He intends to negotiate.” “What do the scouts say about it?” Kaisariani demanded. Why did this man think that she would take the Kalymnians’ word for it? The man grimaced. “Just that the group is large enough to warrant a vasilefs’s presence, my lady,” he replied. “We have no other way of telling.” Kaisariani scowled and waved the useless man away, keeping her eyes on the approaching vehicles. Even from this distance, she could see the modernized technology they boasted, a mark of the Kalymnians’ improved economic status—or perhaps more accurately, an indication of the limitations of the Serrian labor-based economic model. The vasilissa really didn’t need any reminders that her forces would hardly rank as second-level fighters when compared with the armies they were likely to face in the future, and wondered how difficult it would be to obtain examples of the machinery that was rolling toward her from some other modern source, Ikaria or Akarnania or the Peloponnese itself. Her pondering continued as the Kalymnian vehicles finally reached the opposite side of the river and began disgorging their passengers, making entirely sure that no Serrian trick went unpunished. Then, after two full minutes of watching a militia organize itself in the middle of nowhere on short notice, a ripple came from the back of the gathered crowd, which finally resolved itself at the front as a nondescript armored truck. It too stopped at the water’s edge, and immediately the door opened to reveal Vasilefs Ymittos, looking at her just as contemptuously as she was looking back at him. Kaisariani spoke first. “Welcome, I suppose. I have no idea why you were so hasty to reach me, but here we are…” “I hope that wasn’t supposed to be amusing.” Ymittos’s voice was hard. “Be glad that I’m here to discuss this matter with you, considering the disparity between our forces. If I wanted, your militia would be crawling home in tatters… and there’s no telling whether or not you’d be with them.” The Serrians around her bristled, but the vasilissa wasn’t quite as worried about it. “But you are here to discuss it, because you aren’t stupid enough to think that the anax would look the other way when violence erupts in his own territory. Given that fact, quit your posturing so that we can get to business.” She motioned toward the river. “I hereby dub this trickle of water ‘Lykavittos.’ As far as I’m concerned, everything on this side of the Lykavittos belongs to my Serrians. I would have preferred more, obviously, but it was too much to ask that you would mind your own business.” Ymittos spat into the newly-declared Lykavittos. “I assume you think I didn’t notice the sharp northward turn twenty miles upstream? I’m sure I have better maps of this area—or any area, for that matter—than you’d ever see. I’ll accept the boundary at this river from here until it meets the sea, and on the other side until it reaches that bend. After that, you can be content with a straight east-west line to the Izalithian border.” Kaisariani raised an eyebrow. “And do your people intend to hold that much territory indefinitely? How do you plan to integrate that many newcomers into your society? I know for a fact that Serrian planning won’t help you there.” The vasilefs across the river visibly grimaced. “Spare me,” he sneered. “My forces are more than capable of holding this tiny amount of land”—ignoring the fact that he had demanded almost half again the territory already held by the Kalymnians—“and much more capable of actually utilizing it than you or yours. If anything, I should be telling you to back our new border even farther southward, even if you insist on keeping the miserable population.” Kaisariani shook her head slowly. “And I should have known better than to think that you could ever negotiate with civility,” she said. “I had been planning on just ignoring your presence when I learned you were on the move, and now I’m wondering why I didn’t do just that.” Ymittos scoffed. “After you told me that I had come wisely…” He turned back to reenter his truck and called over his shoulder, “My men are already maneuvering in that territory; I’ll be sure that the message makes it through that they are to stop well before our newly-agreed-upon boundary until we have it properly mapped out.” “Can you even call this an agreement?” demanded Kaisariani. The vasilefs spat again. “I answered your objection and you offered nothing else. If you’re that insistent, push me out of it. Until then…” He waved absently and climbed into his waiting vehicle. Kaisariani glared as the vehicle began to slowly push its way back out of view, while the militiamen left behind began to set up their camp for the afternoon. Evidently Ymittos planned to stake his claim on this border by planting himself on it the old fashioned way. Shaking her head in frustrating, the vasilissa turned and stalked to one of her APCs. “Commander,” she snapped, “send out a broadcast to the rest of the militia. We have a new line; I don’t want anyone stepping over it while we’re out in the field.” |
![]() MAKARIA to the Achaian People: Be as Many as the Stars | |
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| Mastropa | Sep 15 2015, 03:04 PM Post #4 |
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Zinovios Mesolongias, Epistatis
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Vasilefs Ymittos tried to relax as his limousine moved through Kalolimnos, but his eyes continued to dart over every building, every street sign, and every person in view, seeking out a visible component of whatever change he’d sensed as soon as his helicopter had touched down at the militia headquarters outside the city. No matter how long he looked for that change in the cityscape around him, it was apparently impossible to see; but the vasilefs’s attempts to relax and ignore the feeling of ‘wrongness’ as his own imagination at work had lasted only as long as he could lose himself in thoughts of and plans for the newly-acquired buffer to the south. Inevitably he came to some question about running the place from Kalolimnos, and that feeling returned full-force to pointedly remind him that something in his city had turned against him. Comparatively, Ymittos had been much more comfortable in the wilderness of his new buffer territory, tentatively labeled the ‘Kalymnian March.’ Over the previous four days, things had progressed extremely quickly there: The Kalymnian militia had constructed a line of camps along the border and occupied the three largest towns, and while their presence hadn’t been welcomed by any stretch, news of Vasilissa Kaisariani’s actions on her side of the new divide had certainly made the locals on Ymittos’s side more appreciative of their new masters, especially as displaced locals began flowing over the newly-defined border in order to escape Serrian ‘labor authorities’ and word spread about just how Kaisariani was running her new territory. Between the overwhelming force of the Kalymnian militia and the knowledge of what exactly the militia had saved them from, the locals’ resistance had dried up almost entirely within two days. Ymittos wondered wryly if the same could be said for the Serrian occupation. Getting the populace to accept Achaian authority had only been the first challenge, though. The vasilefs had spent the last four days with commanders all across the occupation zone, determining the next steps required for the defense and integration of those territories. While the influx of refugees from the Serrian-occupied territories had been convenient for propaganda purposes, it also represented a serious security breach that had to be closed before Ymittos would fully invest in the necessary infrastructure and social improvements that would bring the formerly-independent population into Kalymnian society. That didn’t prevent the vasilefs from planning for the future, however; when he wasn’t touring his new borders, with the Serrians and with the Empire of Izalith, he was taking the measure of the towns and villages of the territory, determining what things needed to be built, repaired, replaced, changed, or removed. Those lists were in the hands of his commanders on site, and Ymittos was hopeful of seeing them put into action in the next couple of months. If there were still security concerns by that time, it would indicate much deeper problems within the militia—problems that Ymittos would excise with extreme diligence, to maintain the continued security of Kalymnos itself. As plans took shape in the newly-acquired March, however, Ymittos became more and more worried about what he was hearing, and especially what he wasn’t hearing, from the capital. It had not been the first time that he’d left Kalolimnos in Psychiko’s hands, and the vasilefs had had no concerns when he’d departed to take what land he could for the Kalymnians. But unlike every other test of Psychiko’s abilities, the vasilefs’s son had failed to send his usual almost-immediate requests for advice and assurance the minute that his father had departed the palace. Initially Ymittos had considered this silence to be a symptom of his son’s embarrassment, given the nature of their parting; after the second day, he had hoped that Psychiko had learned how to handle himself after a day of self-imposed silence and had decided to continue the experiment for another day to see if he could. But the third day of silence was simply too much for Ymittos to bear. He knew his son, and was fully aware that Psychiko was simply not self-assured enough to manage for so long without at least some advice from the vasilefs to guide him. There was no acceptable reason for his silence. Ymittos made it his business to determine what had caused it. After handing command of the newly-acquired territory to a few of his commanders, the vasilefs boarded a military helicopter and flew to Kalymnos proper, landing at the nearest militia base where a fueled jet was waiting to take him back to Kalolimnos. Thirty minutes later, Ymittos was riding in the back of his usual limousine, scowling as he looked out the windows after learning absolutely nothing from the base commander or the staff at the capital’s airport about his son’s activities. As far as the world at large was concerned, absolutely nothing had changed between Ymittos’s departure from Kalolimnos and his return. Only Psychiko’s continued silence suggested otherwise, but that on its own was too damning to ignore, and Ymittos needed to be assured that there was a reasonable answer for it before returning to the March to oversee the opening stages of its integration. It was frustrating, or at the least confusing, that nothing else in the city reflected the strangeness in Psychiko’s silence. There had been no obvious trouble here, and certainly nothing that would cause the vasilefs’s son to ignore his duties and his father’s instructions. As the limousine finally pulled off of the public streets and onto the grounds of the palace compound, Ymittos ran through the list of possibilities, his frown deepening as his thoughts crossed over some of the less pleasant ones. His son could be incompetent on occasion, and his last little stunt had been embarrassing to both of them; that could have been enough for Psychiko to choose not to contact his father. Or Psychiko could be dead. There was no way to tell. And until Ymittos was fully informed, he would take no chances. The column of militia vehicles following his limousine up to the palace entrance was a testament to his determination to prepare for any eventuality. The vasilefs retrieved his own firearm as the limousine pulled to a stop. He waited only long enough for the majority of his militia escort to precede him, before stepping onto the drive and striding toward the door. The guards there, visibly nervous at the presence of militiamen, nonetheless maintained their routine, saluting their lord and throwing open the palace doors for him as he approached. Rather than enter first, however, Ymittos allowed four militiamen to step across the threshold before him, and waited until they turned back to motion him and the rest of his armed retinue inside. As soon as he had that signal, however, the vasilefs strode forward and barged into his palace, determined to learn exactly what had drawn him back here in the midst of operations elsewhere. His militiamen stood at ease just inside the doorway, and those who followed Ymittos inside quickly followed their example as they confirmed that there was no threat in sight. The vasilefs would have snapped at them for the laxity—the lack of an immediate visible threat was meaningless—but he was already distracted by the presence of his son, standing at the base of the staircase leading up to the private quarters. “Ploutos be praised,” he said in relief, striding forward. His anger reasserted itself almost immediately. “You gave me a fright, Psychiko! What did you mean by your silence?” The young man stared at his father and swallowed nervously. Ymittos was in no mood to reassure him. “Damn it, Son, don’t hesitate with me! You’ve known I was coming for the last hour or more; if you haven’t put together an excuse yet, you’re more useless than I’d—” His ears were ringing. His vision was almost blank, but slowly it began to recover. Now if only Ymittos could figure out why he was suddenly on the floor… Someone decided he didn’t need that time, however, and his arms were wrenched behind him and bound together with handcuffs. The vasilefs could tell that something was wrong, but his thoughts were still too jumbled to figure out what. Then the pain hit, and in his agony Ymittos realized that he’d been struck on the head and knocked to the ground… from behind. By his own men. It was a coup. “Psychiko!” snarled the vasilefs, raising his head as far as it would go while the heavy weight of a militiaman remained planted on his back. It did him no good, given that he could still only see his son’s boot. “After all I’ve done for you—” “Save your whining. You’ll have a lot more to complain about soon.” The voice that interrupted him was much more confident than he’d expected it to be, given the nervousness in his son’s expression when he’d walked up to the younger man. Granted, that was less of a surprise than the fact that the voice was clearly feminine, when there had been no women in the room as far as Ymittos had seen only a moment ago. Even more surprising to Ymittos, however, was the fact that he recognized that voice. And it was much less welcome than he’d once thought it would be when he imagined confronting the woman again. “Get him to his feet.” Rough hands grabbed Ymittos’s bound arms and shoulders and hauled him up. His vision swam for a moment before refocusing on a right-side-up world, where he could see Psychiko being hustled away by another pair of militiamen, his own arms bound and weapons stuck in his back. Several palace servants could also be seen walking away from their posts on the periphery of the entrance hall, without any instruction from anyone, but with determined looks on their faces instead of frightened ones; they were clearly a part of the ongoing travesty. Ymittos nearly spat when he noticed that the woman he’d caught out four days prior as his son’s lover was wearing a particularly satisfied smirk as she caught his eye and waved impudently from the other side of the hall. His attention returned to his immediate captors when they turned him about to face the staircase again, where a woman had was descending the stairs to meet him. “My own flesh and blood,” Ymittos snarled. “I should have sold you to a Lakonian slaver when I had the chance, Omonoia.” The woman in question, dressed in a costume that was clearly meant to embody her claim to the title of vasilissa—for what else could she possibly hope to accomplish with this act?—shook her head as she came off the final step and stood in front of her father. “You know, it is exactly that kind of behavior that chased me off in the first place,” she said. “And it certainly didn’t make me think warmly of you when I was trying to determine what to do next with my life. You really shouldn’t be surprised that I would make it my business to see you ejected from your comfortable little throne and left to rot.” At least she wasn’t gloating about killing him. That was admittedly better than Ymittos expected, given his current situation. “None of my actions warranted this kind of response, from you or from anyone,” the vasilefs said with as much dignity as he could manage, given that he was shackled and held in the hands of men he’d thought were his own. “Your actions sent all of my siblings save one into exile, and I was certainly the next on the list,” Omonoia snapped. “Do you even remember where you sent them? Given that I’ve spent four days perusing your records and can’t find a trace of them, I imagine you don’t. Married off, sent abroad… sometimes both at once… stranded and helpless, betrayed by their own flesh and blood… I may not have shared that fate, Father, but you can hardly claim the credit for that.” Ymittos sneered as he remembered the valuables and money his daughter had stolen from him in her flight. “My children were cared for when I sent them away, which is also more than we can say for you. My more obedient daughters could depend on my support, no matter their placement. If they are forced to stand alone now, that is no one’s fault but your own.” “Whatever ‘support’ you extended to them left much to be desired,” Omonoia replied easily. “But I wouldn’t worry about them. Now that I don’t have to worry about rumors getting back to you of any strange inquiries, I should be perfectly capable of tracking all of your children down. Then we’ll see just what support they really need.” The woman sneered at her father. “If you feel the need to worry about anyone, you might want to spare a thought for yourself.” Ymittos glared. “I’d be more worried about you, actually,” he said. “Have you forgotten how the anax protects me? You may take my place now, but it’ll only be a matter of days before Kerameikos is here to put me back where I belong. Or did you expect to withstand the Peloponnese with these mercenaries you have impersonating my militiamen?” Omonoia raised a brow, while Ymittos learned again just what a blow to the head felt like. This one wasn’t as hard, so he was still capable of hearing his daughter’s scoff. “You have quite an imagination,” she told him. “These ‘mercenaries’ are your militiamen—well, Kalymnian militiamen at any rate, though I would be more inclined to call them ‘mine.’ Do you think it was hard to bring them to my side? That so-called ‘protection’ from the Megaron is nothing more than proof of your complicity in the anax’s schemes, if not your outright involvement. The last thing Kalymnos needs is a vasilefs in league with the plots and plans of Kerameikos Xenos. To give you credit where it’s due,” the woman added, “you certainly chose some very intelligent men to guard you. For anyone else, that would be an asset. For you, though, it just meant that your militia was alert to your idiotic actions, and was ready to respond when called upon to act for the sake of their people. “And as for Kerameikos’s response to this,” Omonoia continued, while Ymittos stared at her in confusion and wracked his memory for any hint of these alleged ‘plots and plans’ from the anax, “I’m not nearly as bothered as you would expect. Your sense of self-importance has blinded you, Father. You’ve already forgotten that the anax has a great deal else on his mind right now—an international crisis, first and foremost, beside which a tribal coup is little more than an annoyance. As he’ll be reminded sharply by every other vasilefs when and if he decides to be foolish and move against us; he’ll quickly remember his priorities when confronted with so many objections from so many quarters. All in all,” she finished, “you shouldn’t expect a Peloponnesian miracle to save you from your just reward.” “Which is?” “I don’t know,” Omonoia answered, smirking at her father’s confusion. “It’s not for me to say. But I expect Vasilissa Exarcheia will have something… suitable for you when you arrive.” She ignored the expression on Ymittos’s paling face and nodded to the men holding him from behind. “I think we’ve talked enough. Send him on to Lakonia, and distribute the message as instructed. Our allies will want to know of our complete success here, and our people will need to be reassured.” “Yes, my lady.” Ymittos was again bodily adjusted, this time being turned back to the main palace doorway, before being pushed forward before he could utter a complaint. |
![]() MAKARIA to the Achaian People: Be as Many as the Stars | |
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| Mastropa | Sep 18 2015, 11:39 PM Post #5 |
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Zinovios Mesolongias, Epistatis
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Anax Kerameikos looked up from his paperwork as Logothetis Eleftherios entered his office. “What news do you have for me, Eleftherios?” the anax asked. The logothetis’s expression was not encouraging. “We have a very busy day ahead of us,” he began. Offering up a packet of papers for the anax to take, Eleftherios reported, “We received word earlier this morning that Vasilefs Ymittos has been removed from power in Kalymnos.” Kerameikos straightened in his chair, staring at Eleftherios as the man continued, “The coup occurred yesterday afternoon, but the person responsible had apparently held the reigns in Kalymnos for several days prior, as Ymittos was occupied outside of his capital. The latest report claims that Ymittos was sent to the Lakonians, while his heir remains in custody in Kalolimnos.” “Exarcheia,” snarled the anax. “Did she somehow forget my warnings? I told her more than once that she would not be allowed to upset the peace…” Eleftherios hesitantly cut in: “We have no evidence that Vasilissa Exarcheia was directly involved in this matter, sir. The coup was apparently achieved from within the Kalymnian government; any outside aid was too minimal for my office to determine. I believe that the new vasilissa is attempting to gather allies among the Achaians to prevent any response from the Megaron, and has sent her predecessor to Vasilissa Exarcheia as a gift for that purpose.” The anax sneered. “Perhaps Exarcheia might be tempted into alliance with a usurper, but Lakonia has already earned my ire many times. For the rest, I cannot imagine that the vasileis will be persuaded to confront the Peloponnese.” Logothetis Eleftherios grimaced. “I do not know how strongly they will object, but…” He sighed and motioned toward the communications already in Kerameikos’s hands. “You can see the support the usurper already has. This plot has been long in coming.” Kerameikos stared for a moment, before turning his full attention to the papers in his hands. The number of distinct letters was worrying enough, especially as the anax noted the emblems of several seemingly-unrelated tribes and, within them, the familial emblems of some of the most prominent tribal lines, even within the tribes whose vasileis were considered his staunch allies. Peiraias and Pagkrati had not written, but some of their distant relatives had done; Exarcheia and many of her commanders were only to be expected; Kaisariani had written alone, while Kypseli had accompanied her letter with those of several prominent Ikarian businessmen. Then there was the number of letters from Kalymnians, those who would otherwise be considered the victims of the usurpation. Perhaps the only letter that was missing was that of the usurper herself; no doubt she hoped to avoid giving her identity away through any injudicious words or habits. The anax turned to the letters he did have and looked over them as quickly as he could while still being thorough, but found nothing in that regard from any of her allies. Even the usually-reckless Exarcheia maintained a cautious silence on the identity of the Kalymnians’ new ruler, keeping her overflow of words centered on Kerameikos, his probable decision to punish Kalymnos and/or Lakonia, the lack of wisdom of such an action, the lack of wisdom in many of Kerameikos’s already-established policies, the scandalous behavior he had already revealed thus far… Scandalous behavior? Kerameikos turned to the other letters he received, finding the same ridiculous slander printed in all of them. He had no idea if the vasileis and other tribal leaders actually believed this garbage, or if they were simply using those inexplicable rumors as an excuse for their defiance, but he was not pleased either way. “Eleftherios, I want to know how long rumors to the effect of my ‘secret pleasure palace,’ ‘pure Achaian breeding program,’ and ‘illegitimate use of religion to satisfy imperial ambitions’ have been floating among the tribes. I want to know where they started and how they spread.” Kerameikos glared. “I especially want to know if these fantasies have reached the Peloponnese, so you will tell Logothetis Agesilaos to be on alert for this garbage immediately.” The anax snarled as he looked at the letters in his hands. “They will tear the Achaian people apart with this rumor mongering…” Eleftherios nodded. “And shall I send for Enyalios?” he asked. Kerameikos literally growled, clenching his hands and crumpling the letters he’d received. “With this much support for the usurper? I can destroy her and all her allies, but I will almost certainly dissolve the Compact in the process. I can’t put that much strain on our nation while we remain in crisis from threats abroad.” The anax threw the letters onto his desk with enough force that they slid across to the other side and flapped their way to the floor. “Damn it all,” he snarled. “Damn it all!” The logothetis wisely chose to remain silent as the anax recovered his temper. After several deep breaths, Kerameikos spoke again. “No word of this gets out to the international community. Tell Diaktoros to spin any such rumors as attempts to discredit us. Our national reputation need not suffer here.” The anax’s eyes narrowed. “And perhaps it will even improve if the Compact is eventually dissolved after all…” Eleftherios swallowed nervously. “Shall I alert the logothetai now, then?” “Yes,” Kerameikos replied. “And report immediately should any further information come to light.” The anax’s voice hardened. “I want to know who this usurper is. Find out.” “Yes, sir.” |
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7:51 AM Jul 11