Half Moon (2): The Deaths of Anno II and the Archbishop of Bremen
The deaths of Anno II and the Bremen Archbishop. Shocked by this sudden turn, the Holy Roman Empire declared its complete withdrawal from the war. Keroularios was stunned by their abrupt action, but he could say nothing when Rudolf, appointed as interim commander, produced the culprits.
"The Bremen Archbishop passed away suddenly yesterday. We happened to catch these men skulking around the camp and arrested them on the spot."
Their identities were none other than Michael and Constantinos. Neither truly followed Keroularios, but on the surface, they belonged to the noble faction. From the Holy Roman Empire's perspective, this left them no choice but to suspect that Keroularios, leader of the nobles, was plotting something sinister.
"Calm yourself, General. This seems like a misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding? Not only the Regent but also His Excellency the Bremen Archbishop died here in Constantinople. How could such a coincidence happen twice in this place?"
Rudolf's protest rang true. It was absurd for such an incident to occur not once, but twice.
"I understand fully. But there's no proof it was our doing, is there? For instance, perhaps the Bulgarian mercenaries were dissatisfied with their pay..."
"Those barbarians were quartered in separate barracks from us."
"Or maybe Rogerius sowed discord among us?"
The general snorted in disbelief.
"A man across the sea sneaking into Constantinople to assassinate? Does that Rogerius fellow have God's own blessing?"
"He could have planted someone in advance."
At the continued counterarguments, the general glared at Keroularios with exasperation.
"If so, your head would have rolled first."
Rudolf's rude remark cut deep. But he was right—if an assassin had been planted beforehand, there would have been no need to kill Anno II or the Bremen Archbishop. Rogerius's target was Keroularios himself.
The rumor that Keroularios had ordered the assassination of Basil II wasn't widely known. Even without that knowledge, anyone understood that eliminating the enemy leader was the most effective move in a power struggle. To Keroularios, it was Rogerius; to Rogerius, it was Keroularios. With such clear motives, Rogerius had no reason to bother killing allied commanders.
Ioannikios instantly grasped Rudolf's implication. Rage boiled within him, but he couldn't show it. He still needed these men to stop Rogerius—or rather, the Bulgarian army.
"I understand it's a hassle. But we are allies. An alliance is as good as gold. My house and the Salian house of the Holy Roman Empire..."
At that moment, Rudolf suddenly pulled out a parchment. He read it aloud in a booming voice for Ioannikios to hear.
We dispatched a great host out of alliance, yet two commanders have perished. The Holy Roman Empire is profoundly shocked, whether this stems from internal East Roman affairs or not, and shall intervene no further. As of this moment, the alliance is dissolved. The responsibility lies with the Magistros who failed to manage such dangers.
"...The merciful Emperor shall not hold East Rome accountable for these two unfortunate incidents by dissolving the alliance."
The emperor's final warning. Mentioning the alliance again would invite dire consequences—a silent pressure. In short, no more persuasion was possible. Ioannikios fell silent.
"Take this as the final courtesy to the alliance from His Majesty."
Rudolf gestured to the imperial troops, who released the bound Michael and Constantinos.
"We withdraw."
With that, Rudolf and the imperial army stormed out of the audience chamber. Once they were gone, only Ioannikios, seething with murderous intent, and Michael and Constantinos, sensing death, remained.
* * *
"There will be no more war. Thus, the Holy Roman Empire will not fulfill the promised payments."
Rudolf's declaration ignited fury among the mercenaries.
"You can't just cancel unilaterally like this!"
"That's insane!"
"After dragging us all the way here!"
The mercenaries vented their rage. Rudolf raised his hand, ordering the imperial troops forward. Though outnumbered, the imperials' superior arms and skill overwhelmed them. As spears pressed in, the mercenaries retreated.
"This is His Majesty's sovereign decree. Step forward if you have complaints."
A clear threat to make an example of any who advanced. The mercenaries could do nothing.
Thus, the Holy Roman Empire severed all contracts. Having wrapped up affairs, they began their return home. The mercenaries and conscripts could only watch.
Most conscripts followed, but many could not. Recruited from across the vast Holy Roman Empire, they had to disperse separately. Left stranded with the mercenaries.
"Hah."
"Heard contracts get canceled unilaterally in mercenary work, but experiencing it... mind's blank."
"What now..."
The mercenaries had lost their livelihoods; the conscripts, their way home. Despair gripped them all.
"Plunder this place, and we'd have coin to live on, right?"
A mercenary's murmur, soft but audible to all.
"Yeah... that's an option."
"Heard Constantinople has few soldiers left."
"Might work."
Cornered, greed flickered in their eyes. But some clung to reason.
"We're not professional soldiers... can we really?"
"Even if few, they're trained pros."
"And cavalry too."
Valid points. Records told of one trained cavalryman routing fifty infantry. Foot against foot, numbers might prevail—but cavalry demanded strategy they lacked.
An awkward standoff. Then a Bulgarian mercenary shouted.
"The Bulgarian army!"
"Bulgarians?"
"Yeah... heard they have that ace general, Nestoric."
"Join them, and we're set?"
Nestoric, spotting the opportunity, stepped forward as if waiting, bellowing to the desperate souls seeking leadership.
"No coin to survive? No way home without it? Follow me!"
His blunt call—no flowery rhetoric, just their raw needs—drew cheers.
"We need it!"
"Wanna get rich!"
"I'd sell my soul for gold."
The mood ripened. Nestoric drew his sword, roaring.
"Follow me! I'll make you all rich!"
Rich. To these lifelong starved wretches, no word stoked desire more.
"Woooaaah!"
"Follow Nestoric!"
"Join the Bulgarians!"
Mad with greed, they swept into Constantinople under Nestoric's lead.
* * *
"Gaaahhh!"
A man screamed, half-stripped, blood streaming from his eyes. It was Michael, adoptive son of imperial steward Leonus—noble among nobles. Yet before Ioannikios's wrath, his status offered no shield. Both eyes gouged out.
Normally, noble trials preceded execution, but the near-dictator skipped it all to vent his fury.
"Hah... hah. One eye out feels better already. Next, I'll castrate you like your father."
Ioannikios drew his sword for the empire's cruelest punishment. Cutting off manhood with a blade was madness—specialists used precise methods, or infection killed. Far from executioners, Ioannikios meant a filthy, agonizing death.
Michael trembled in terror, Constantinos's corpse hanging beside him.
"Now then!"
As the blade swung, the torture chamber door burst open. Devgoros and Alexios rushed in.
"Excellency! Disaster!"
"The Bulgarians are armed, plundering Constantinople!"
The Bulgarian looting was inevitable once the Holy Roman army left. But Ioannikios hadn't expected it so soon, unaware Nestoric had absorbed their mercenaries and conscripts. Shock gripped him.
"Damn it! Assemble the troops now! Don't let those Bulgarians into the palace!"
Abandoning the torture mid-act, Ioannikios fled the chamber. Alone, Michael sensed his miraculous survival.
"But the Bulgarians might kill me soon."
One eye socket mangled, vision blurred. Escaping Constantinople like this was impossible.
"Hah... hah... then... this is my only path to live."
Tearing Constantinos's clothes for a makeshift eyepatch, Michael staggered toward the palace where Constantine VIII was confined. To survive.