Chapter 655: Genoese?
In the shadowed halls of power, Elassona basked in what he perceived as the zenith of his life. His ambitions had swiftly materialised into a tangible force; a two thousand strong army stood ready, a mix of eager recruits, seasoned veterans, and conscripts drawn from the breadth of Thessaly. The barracks, once echoing with silence, now thrummed with the lifeblood of an impending campaign. Venetian allies, true to their word, had stealthily delivered the armaments necessary to equip a battalion, their vessels a frequent shadow on the Thessalian shores. All the while, the emperor to the North remained blissfully unaware of the storm brewing at his doorstep.
Elassona’s primary concern was the Varangians, the elite guard under the direct command of the emperor. Calculatingly as he believes, he had chosen a moment when these formidable warriors were entangled in the distant mountains of Bulgaria dealing with the Ottoman remnants, leaving the heartland relatively undefended. This strategic timing afforded Elassona a dual advantage: the audacity to contemplate a direct assault on Constantinople itself or, should fortune falter, to retreat and fortify his dominion within Thessaly’s stout walls and keep his wealth.
With a cup of mead in hand, Elassona wandered to the windows of his stronghold, observing the martial parade below. The sight of his forces, marching in a messy but still ordered rows, was a testament to the effectiveness of Constantinople’s mobilisation system—a system he had now turned to his advantage.
His nephew stood silently behind him, with his blade in his hands, watching Elassona’s back.
He has achieved every possible step in his plans on the path to satisfy his own ambitions. But that is still far from enough.
Elassona has no son, and so the moment this old military man dies from whatever cause, it would inevitably be him who will take over the lead, and the leash over the armies that his uncle has assembled. By then, he would have the liberty to either stay here as the king of Thessaly or flee to the republics with all the wealth that his uncle has gathered for years.
But now, he is yet hoping that his uncle would live, for he believed that there is still an inch of possibility that the armies from Constantinople. What if? Everyone has the freedom to live in one’s dream, and to the mind of the young man, that goal did not seem to be that... out of reach from his hands.
A guard came reporting in.
"Your highness, there arrived a fleet of cavalries, approximately a hundred and fifty of them, entering the fort a while ago, claiming that they are mercenaries from the Cherson, here to aid us by their Genoese master’s orders."
"Genoese? A hundred and fifty Cherson cavalries?" Elassona’s brow furrowed in disbelief, his mind wrestling with the unexpected news. The Genoese, though allies on paper, were often unpredictable, their support never guaranteed without significant gain. "I’ve heard no whisper of such a force being dispatched in our aid. This is most...unusual."
"Perhaps it is because the Serene Doge wish to look neutral in this conflict?" Suggested the nephew.
He turned to his nephew, a calculating look crossing his face. "Go, check out on that cavalry force, make sure that they are contained within a corner of the camp with all activities restricted, and then check on three things. First, who their leader is, second, do you bear any insignias or proves of their order from Genoa, and third, check out if the majority of their troops are Mongols from Cherson, go."
The nephew masked the flicker of ambition in his gaze with a practiced bow. "At once, your highness," he replied, his voice steady, betraying none of the machinations swirling in his mind.
...
Meanwhile, within the confines of the makeshift cavalry camp, Alexios and his lieutenant surveyed the scene. The lieutenant, a man seasoned by the rigors of command yet unprepared for the current web of intrigue, sought guidance.
"What do we do next, lord Alexios?"
His eyes swept over the conscripted troops arrayed before them, understanding dawning. No strategist in his right mind would amass such a force without clear directives from Constantinople, confirming the suspicions planted by Alexios’s revelations.
"We wait," Alexios responded, his posture commanding atop his horse. His gaze was fixed on the distant outline of Elassona’s fortress, a testament to the turmoil within him. Commanding an army in this chess game of loyalty and deceit was far removed from the court intrigues he was accustomed to. "Our presence here will not go unnoticed. It’s only a matter of time before they respond, look, my friend, focus yourself on that gate, we need to get through that gate of the fortress, no matter what."
"Aye, your highness."
Before long, a flurry of activity heralded new arrivals. Several riders approached at a gallop, the banner of Elassona billowing boldly against the sky. The sight of the advancing emissaries set a ripple of tension through the ranks, a silent herald of the confrontation to come.
As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the fortress gates, a proclamation cut through the tense air. "I stand before you as the envoy of His Highness, the honourable Strategoi of Thessaly, Elassona! We extend a warm welcome to our brethren of the army into our stronghold. May I inquire as to the identity of your commander?"
Alexios nodded slightly and rode forward with pride all over his face, his head high up looking down at the incoming men, speaking in an influent Greek, accompanied with occasional Latin in his words, yelled at the top of his lungs. "I am Condottiero Leonio Renno, in charge of protecting Genoese trade between the Mongols in Crimea, and the prestigious republic on behalf of the Serene Doge!"
The nephew, scepticism etched into his features, moved closer, scanning the sea of faces for any sign of the Mongolian warriors his uncle mentioned. Yet, Alexios was not to be deterred, his challenge resonating from the high ground, demanding recognition.
"Your highness, forgive my intrusion, but where are the insignia of the Serene Doge, the symbols of your commission?" the nephew inquired, his tone laced with a mix of curiosity and doubt.
"You freaking dumb?" However, instead of receiving an instant reply, the nephew received a direct slap in the face verbally. The nephew, with an obvious frown in the face, slowly realised the treatment that he has received. His face beamed with redness, for he has always been the one dominent, and it is the very first time that he has received such treatment by others. He clenched his fist, tried his best to restore that professional smile on his face, though a tight one, and asked. "If that is the case, please, follow my lead, I shall guide you towards your designated camp site, where you shall receive the best care we can offer."
The supposed lieutenant of the cavalry, observing the nephew’s youthful visage, couldn’t suppress a smirk. "And what station do you claim, young envoy, to dictate the placement of our camp? We shall parley only with those of noble blood—a prince, perhaps."
"I am the nephew of his highness the governing general of Thessaly. Please, your highness, follow my lead."
Yet his words seemed to vanish into the evening air, lost amidst the murmurs and diverted gazes of the cavalrymen. They remained engrossed in their own world, indifferent to the nephew’s status, their attention fixed on anything but the young man standing before them.
The unfolding scene between Alexios’s disguised force and the nephew of Elassona began to ripple through the assembled troops, igniting a whirlwind of curiosity and speculation. Veterans and conscripts alike clustered around, their interest piqued by the sudden appearance of purported Genoese mercenaries in Thessaly. Questions swirled among them: Why were mercenaries from Genoa arriving on the Serene Doge’s orders, especially when their explicit command was to bolster the northern front against the burgeoning threat of Ottoman and Latin pirates?
The presence of Genoese soldiers, ostensibly there to confront Latin adversaries, sparked a paradox that did not escape the crowd’s notice. Murmurs spread like wildfire, pondering the implications of this anomaly.
Would this unusual alignment not stir the pot of intrigue among the ports, catching the keen eyes of espionage-laden merchants from rival city-states?
As the nephew observed the growing tumult, he couldn’t help but notice the peculiarities surrounding this mercenary band. His encounters with Genoese military figures—often a blend of sailor, merchant, and mercenary—taught him that their leadership thrived on negotiation, diplomacy, and the art of deal-making, rarely resorting to overt displays of authority. Yet, here stood a group claiming allegiance to the Serene Doge, devoid of any conventional proof of identity.
The nephew took this in mind.
With this revelation simmering in his mind, the nephew donned a diplomatic smile. "If that’s the case, your highness, allow me to escort you to Strategoi Elassona," he offered, hoping to navigate the delicate situation with tact.
The lieutenant, harbouring further objections, was silenced by Alexios’s authoritative gesture. "Inform your revered leader Elassona to ready his finest wine," Alexios declared, a touch of command in his voice. "And bring milk and cheese! Our journey from Crimea has been long and arduous. A soldier marches on his stomach, after all."
"Yes, yes, of course."
With a subtle signal from Alexios, Nikolaos and the lieutenant began to follow the nephew, escorted by two of Elassona’s men. The nephew, teetering on the brink of further inquiry, found himself cut off by the lieutenant’s curt interruption. "His highness requires rest after our lengthy journey. I will represent him in discussions with your governor."
