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The prince Bohemond, Alexios thinks in the silence of the imperial chamber, is dangerous.
Oh, he bows and coats his speech in niceties, but his eyes gleam sharply when he says ‘oh emperor of the Romans’, as if it is a joke among them: and in a sense it is, for it has only been ten years and five since they fought at Dyrrachion. That was autumn and Alexios - emperor not even for a year and the realm falling apart in his hands - watched his Varangians fall like leaves, cut down by the Sicilians’ left flank. Bohemond led the charge.
So it is a joke, but it’s not a very amusing one: and Alexios turns the page in his Bible and prays, for the Latins have come to Constantinople and will not go further. It is too soon and too late: the Diogenes boy has only recently been subdued, and the city hums like a swarm of flies gathering above a freshly-slain corpse, all while the Turks strike from the East, snug in the castles they have robbed his empire from not too long ago. He asked for brave men and soldiers to fight the Saracens: he got vicious rabble and false prophets, and now their masters have come too, with their crosses and smug faces, asking him for things he can’t give. It is too late and too soon: Nicaea has fallen and his throne trembles and Bohemond watches him with his light, sharp eyes, and Alexios shivers.
Rome has stood for almost two thousand years. Alexios can’t let it fall.
---
‘Raymond will not give in’, Bohemond says, sweetly, lightly. His voice has a barbarian tint to it, the roughness of his foreign tongue skirting the edges of his words, and Alexios raises his head.
The throne room is almost empty - the other crusaders have left, and the eunuchs stand silently in the shadows. The candles shine softly, illuminating the carefully sculpted bodies of lions rising from his throne, and Bohemond smiles.
‘Why should he not?’ Alexios says, authoritatively. ‘I shall give him his diamonds and gold, clothe him in purple and send dozens of fine horses his way: the treasures of Constantinople are mine to command, and the count is eager to get his hands on them. He will: it is only a matter of finding what his price is.’
‘Give him horses, give him gold, give him the damned Holy Lance - doesn’t matter. He serves only one Lord, for whom he left his paternal land: he bears the Cross for him alone, not you.’
‘You presume too much, my prince,’ Alexios says, involuntarily tightening the grasp on the armrest of his throne. Bohemond bows his head ever so slightly.
‘Do I? My apologies, oh high and mighty emperor. Nevertheless, I have to reiterate: he will not give in.’
‘And you?’ Alexios says, tilting his head. The room gleams softly, gold and dark. ‘Will you ‘give in’, prince Bohemond?’
‘Depends,’ he says, softly, dangerously. ‘What will you give me, oh emperor?’
Alexios stays silent: you should never open the negotiation with an offer, he knows, his mother had taken so much care to have him know, but Bohemond is still smiling, crouching in the shadows, and he finds that he does not know what price to put on him.
‘You’ve sought my land before,’ he says, instead. ‘At Dyrrachion, and Larissa, and Corfu. You failed.’
‘That I did,’ Bohemond acknowledges. His smile flickers, ever so slightly.
‘You are a warrior, prince Bohemond: I could offer you fine horses and good swords, a splinter of the True Cross to bear on your heart as you seek to conquer your enemies, and grain and wine for your jouney. But what you want is not to be given things, is that right? No - you want to take. You want to conquer.’
He pauses for a few seconds.
‘So be it: go and conquer. Win my lands back for me, and let your men lead the Romans to the cities they had to flee from. Take what I have and turn it into victory, carving your legacy into the bodies of my enemies. You have sought my land before: now, take it, with my support.’
Bohemond stays silent, his terribly blue eyes unreadable.
‘You don’t have a commander,’ he says, then.
Alexios doesn’t answer: the disaster of Dristra has not yet faded from anyone’s memory, least of all his, when his dear Adrian still stalks the palace in forlorn silence. He was a sweet, rambunctious child, always hanging onto Alexios’ arms: and he led the charge against the Pechenegs bravely, only to run away when they overcame them.
‘Give it to me,’ Bohemond says, then. ‘Give me your horses and swords and the True Cross, but most of all, give me your men: and I will lead them to Antioch.’
‘Like you led yours to Dyrrachion? The first time or the second - or the third, perhaps?’
Bohemond tenses up, and Alexios watches him, carefully. The wounded lion is always the most dangerous one.
‘Show me that you can lead them,’ he says instead. ‘Get Raymond of Toulouse to pledge his fealty to me, and the rest of them, too. I will consider it.’
‘So is that what I am worth, then? Grain, horses and a promise?’ Bohemond says, finally.
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Show me what you are worth, prince Bohemond. You will find I can be a very generous man indeed.’
Bohemond measures him, something dancing in his awfully light eyes, and he quirks a corner of his mouth.
‘I am sure, oh emperor. By your leave,’ he says and bows.
Alexios watches him go, tall and powerful, and thinks whether he made a mistake.
---
Raymond of Toulose pledges his fealty in three days. The others come soon after.
Bohemond smiles and bows and cajoles and finally threatens in a finely choreographed dance, until the count yields: overcome by seemingly endless energy and conviction of the prince from Sicily, he capitulates and sullenly makes his vow to Alexios, who sits motionless on his throne of mechanical lions. They roar approvingly when the count rises from the floor.
Bohemond makes his pledge smiling, as if it is a finely executed joke, and Alexios takes great care not to stumble on words as he names him his beloved son. It feels strangely intimate, in a way it doesn’t for scowling Raymond of Toulouse or fidgeting count Godfrey, who submitted to his authority before, and he sits carefully straight and leaves his face pleasantly blank.
There is a feast, of course, and the eunuchs cut open a mighty deer felled by the emperor himself, and as his belly opens, doves fly out, terrified, scattering around the dining hall, and the Latins gawk and laugh rambunctiously and sputter incredulously at the feat, and Alexios nods benevolently and watches the translators assure the men that everything is perfectly fine. Bohemond, he notices, does not gawk or yelp: he smirks, and watches Alexios even as he takes the first bite into the meat served to him.
---
‘Are the horses to your approval, then?’ Alexios asks as they prepare to march onto Nicaea.
Of course they are: a hundred of the finest mounts from Adrianopolis, delivered to the hands of the prince Bohemond personally, as others watched them with hunger. Horses are expensive, and hard to feed, and easy to lose in battle or on the march: most can afford to keep only two, and now Bohemond has a fine herd all to himself and to his entourage, so when his mounts falter, he will have others to ride.
‘They are indeed, my emperor,’ Bohemond says, gracefully. ‘I am ever grateful for your favour.’
They are standing across each other, Bohemond in his mail and fully armed, Alexios dressed in splendid robes, colourful and shimmering with gold and precious stones, with a crown on his brow: it strikes him, not for the first time, how tall and powerfully built the Sicilian is, so very present with the blue eyes of a corpse or an apparition, a barbarian only loosely bound to his command.
Alexios acknowledges the thanks with a carefully absent-minded nod.
‘You will not lead my men,’ he says, then.
‘I will give you Tatikios, as an advisor, and him an army to take possession of the holdings you will win for me: and I will send you food and supplies as you go, even beyond the Taurus mountains. You will give me Antioch: and after you’ve won it, you can carve out your own realm beyond, with my coin and steel and grain. I will lead an army of Rome to Antioch and fight with you on the battlefield: but I will not give you my men, prince Bohemond, for you are dangerous. You’ve fought me at Dyrrachion and won and lost the war and yet you are here, asking to be my general: you’ve promised that Raymond of Toulouse has no lord but God, yet he swore to me when I asked you to make it so. If I give you my army, I am giving you the keys to Rome - and I find, my beloved son, that I fear for myself and for Her when I think of doing so.’
Bohemond stays silent, and then he suddenly marches forward, steel glistening in the dimness of the imperial tent, and Alexios almost jerks backward, but stands his ground. And Bohemond - reaches out with his hand, with the metal softly clinking, and grasps Alexios’ face, tenderly, carefully.
‘Do I scare you?’ he says.
Alexios measures him, his face calm, his heart racing.
‘You terrify me, prince Bohemond,’ he says simply.
Bohemond smiles.
‘I will conquer your lands for you,’ he says, softly, savagely. ‘I will slaughter your Turks and drag their women and children into your slave markets, and I will torch their temples and burn their ships and fill the sky with smoke until they cry for help from their savage god and I will smile, because no one will be able to deliver them from my sword. I will give you Nicaea and Antioch and Edessa and perhaps Jerusalem as well: and you will come, with your mighty Roman army and your gold and grain, and take them from my hands, personally.’
‘I’ve always wanted to conquer Constantinople,’ he says, then. ‘Perhaps I will settle for her emperor.’