This document is, I believe, an authentic memoir prepared by the Emperor Andronicus I Comnenus. The manuscript indicates that it was begun in the late summer of 1180, just prior to the death of Manuel I Comnenus, while Andronicus was settling into his new position as Governor of Pontus. Andronicus made additional entries to the manuscript over the course of the following five years. The last entries were written just days before his death in September 1185. The manuscript presumably was retrieved by some loyal retainer with other family papers from the Great Palace after Andronicus's execution, and was later bequeathed to the monks of Sumela for safekeeping. -- A.J.

Oinaion
The Governor's Palace

These are the memoirs of Andronicus Comnenus, currently Governor of Pontus, formerly Governor of Cilicia and Duke of Belgrade and Branicevo, and (less loftily) for many years the most distinguished resident of our Empire's most terrible dungeon, the Prison of Anemas. I am the grandson of the Emperor Alexius I Comnenus, the nephew of the Emperor John I Comnenus, and the first cousin of the reigning Emperor Manuel I Comnenus. I am now in the sixty-third year of what everyone would agree has been an adventurous life. (My enemies – including my cousin Manuel, I suspect -- would add "reckless and dissolute" to that description, but I shall leave you to judge that for yourself.)

I was raised in the Great Palace of Constantinople; I have been a prisoner of the Turks and my own Emperor; and I have been an honored guest of Turks, Arabs, Hungarians, and the horsemen who ride the vast plains of Galicia. I have commanded imperial armies in the field and raided the imperial frontiers as a brigand. I have loved and taken into my bed several high-born princesses (Georgian, Greek, and Latin) and a widowed Queen of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. And now that I have finally come back to a place of honor in my own country after many years of exile, I have decided to set down my recollections, so that men (and perhaps women, too) in days to come may understand my life and the times in which I lived from some perspective other than that of a monkish chronicler.

As I look back over my more than three-score years, it seems that for all its color and adventure, and for all my willful independence of temperament, my life has always been defined in relation to my cousin Manuel. He was the inseparable friend of my youth; the boon companion of my young manhood; and later, my jailer and my enemy for a quarter of a century. Yet what I have now – my position, my dignity, my standing in the State – come from his hand, and are a product, men say, of Manuel's "mercy" and "forgiveness." But as I look back over the years in which our lives were defined in opposition to each other, I must ask: who was more the sinner, and who was the more sinned against? With whom does the power of forgiveness really rest, and which of us bears the greatest burden of evil-doing?

Manuel is dying now: that is clear. I will be surprised if he lasts out the autumn. One day, and I feel it shall not be long, an agitated messenger will arrive from the City on a lathered horse, with tidings that will bring grief and uncertainty to many men's hearts. Of course, I will join in the obligatory display of lamentations, for I am no mean actor. And yet . . . what will I really feel? Will I be able to forgive him even then, or will the hatred and the fierce desire for vengeance that courses through my soul survive even his disappearance from this world?

I was born in the year 1118; Manuel came two years after. I was the third son of the sebastocrator Isaac, who was himself the younger son of the Emperor Alexius I; Manuel was the fourth son of the Emperor John, Alexius's oldest son. You will see at once the significance of these facts. Neither I, as one of the youngest of the reigning Emperor's nephews, nor Manuel, as the youngest of the Emperor's many sons, grew up with the expectation of playing anything more than a secondary role at court or in the life of the Empire. That freed the two of us to enjoy an essentially carefree youth and young manhood. We competed in athletic competitions, wrestled together, hunted together, discussed the comparative merits of the unattached ladies of the court, and competed for their favor. For the first twenty-five years of my life, I had no closer companion.

But all that changed quickly in the year 1142. Illness unexpectedly carried off Alexius and Andronicus, the two eldest sons of the Emperor John, within a few months of one another. And the following year, when John himself died on injuries received in a hunting accident, he left the Empire not to Isaac, his third son, but to Manuel.

At first, I was happy for the companion of my youth. But his sudden elevation to the greatest office in the state was not good for Manuel as a man. Surprisingly, he seemed to see his elevation not as proof of the unpredictability and randomness of life, but as confirmation that he had been selected by God, owing to his great merit, for an extraordinary destiny. He had always had a tendency towards self-righteousness and priggishness, and it is hardly surprising that his inheritance of supreme power simply served to magnify both flaws.

I came to conceive it as my role to remind him of who he really was, and to try and prevent that free-spirited youth I had loved from being entirely lost inside the heavy cloak of imperial dignity and court ceremonial. But over time, I came to realize that Manuel did not appreciate my chivvying him, and that my good-natured barbs were taken by him as disrespectful reminders of the lesser status that had characterized his youth. Even after I realized I was irking him, however, I could not make myself stop. To have done so would have been to accept his newly grandiose and vaunting self-conception, and I could not bring myself to treat this unpretentious lad I had always considered my equal as a lofty superior whose vanity, self-righteousness and occasional pomposity were not to be punctured or deflated.

I had my first sense of how different our relationship had become shortly after his father's death. We had all been campaigning in Cilicia when the Emperor John died, and Manuel of course felt it was essential for him to return to the capital as soon as possible to make certain of his position there. As we were marching back through the mountains, I had gone out one day hunting game with Theodore Dasiotes when we were ambushed and captured by a band of Seljuk Turks. Rather than send an emissary immediately to the Seljuks to arrange for our ransom, Manuel huffily announced that if the two of us couldn't exercise more prudence, perhaps a spell in a Seljuk prison would be a useful lesson for us. And so he marched away, scurrying on back to Constantinople, and left us to the Turks as if we had been individuals of no consequence whatsoever – I, his first cousin and boyhood friend, and Theodore, who was married to the daughter of Manuel's beloved brother Andronicus!

But the lesson didn't play out quite as Manuel intended. My older brother John had taken refuge with the Seljuks several years earlier, after he had quarreled with Manuel's father. John had adapted quite well to life in the Seljuk capital of Iconium, converting to Islam and marrying a daughter of the Sultan Masud. Once John learned I was in captivity, he immediately went to the Sultan and arranged for us to be given the liberty of his capital while we waited for Manuel to arrange for our ransom. That never happened, of course, but in the meantime I studied Turkish and managed to make myself quite agreeable to the Sultan and the young worthies of his court. Masud eventually decided to release Theodore and I even without a ransom, and he sent us back to the imperial lands with many costly presents and promises of eternal friendship! So the "lesson" Manuel had intended to make of us turned out very differently than he anticipated. I had a good laugh at the time about how foolish we made Manuel look – but I would learn that Emperors do not like being shown up as self-important prigs, no matter how much they may deserve it.

The years passed. I married – a Georgian princess named Maria who was the younger sister of their King George III. Manuel married too – a Swabian princess named Bertha, a good woman, but somewhat plain and deeply religious. In time, he came to appreciate her other qualities, but for the first ten years of their marriage he chased after every comely young thing that appeared at court. He was full of a sense of entitlement, and utterly shameless – no more so than when he took Theodora, one of the daughters of his brother Andronicus, as his mistress. The woman was his own niece, for crying out loud! Even by the indulgent standards of the imperial court, this caused quite a scandal.

Manuel continued to find various uses for me, although our relationship had cooled significantly. I was a part of the family, after all, and I daresay I am not without administrative ability. Because we had been so close as youths – and because I have never been a man willing to hide my light under a bushel – I was always outspoken in council, and I did not hesitate to speak out when I thought that Manuel was wrong. I don't deny that he was smart and able, but he had that kind of quicksilver intelligence that sometimes is a little too clever for its own good, and someone needed to be willing to rein him in on those occasions when his originality outran his better judgment. And if he sometimes seemed to take my interjections with bad grace – well, I saw that as his problem, not mine. I was satisfied that my counsel usually stood the test of time and often proved its value by the cold light of second thought – or of subsequent events, when Manuel was too puffed up with pride to listen to my advice.

Over time, I learned that there were those about the Court who thought they could advance their own positions by undermining mine. These silver-tongued flatterers whispered to Manuel that my pride and arrogance would be satisfied by nothing less than the throne. They postured as his guardians and protectors, pretending to sniff out subversion when in fact there was none. Foolishly, I felt that it was beneath me to take much notice of these cunning deceivers. I enjoyed high positions of honor in the State; I was included in the key councils of Empire; and I had a happy and fruitful marriage – why would I want the unique cares and fears that are an inevitable part of the supreme office? I found it hard to believe that the friend of my youth could fail to understand how keenly I appreciated the absence of ultimate responsibility.

Some ten years after Manuel's accession to the throne, I fell into an adulterous liaison with Eudocia Comnena, one of the Emperor's nieces. It was one of those unconsidered acts of passion that has consequences you could never have imagined. I loved my wife Maria, and while I have certainly not lived a celibate life, I have generally been faithful to the women who meant the most to me. But Maria and I had been married for almost a decade at that point, and while my affection for her remained undiminished, the urge for variety and new experience can be difficult for a vigorous man to resist. (This was particularly true, I can't help saying, when I had the constant example of the Emperor's own dalliances incessantly before me.) And Eudocia . . . oh, she was something.

She was a hot little number, and she reeled me in like a fish on a baited hook. She was somewhat short, but her figure was lush and inviting, wholly unspoiled by her few years of marriage to a westerner who had died young. She had raven hair, skin that was flawless and almost translucent, and bewitching blue eyes: direct, saucy, taunting, alluring. Eudocia had known the marriage bed just long enough for her natural sensuality to come to full flower, and once those impulses were unleashed, there was no way to cork them again. She was not made for the life of a prim and demure young widow – knitting circles, daily mass, visits to hospitals and children's orphanages.

It started as a flirtation like so many others I have conducted in my life, but before I knew it, I was mad for her. She was in her mid-twenties and had relatively little experience with men, but she played the game of seduction with the zest and elan of a polished courtesan. We played out the chase through the colonnades and garden paths of the Great Palace, in the shaded bowers and the secret places. We began with kisses – her breath was intoxicating, like a sweet flower – and then began to explore each other's bodies more boldly. Eventually, I became convinced that the only way to break her spell was to possess her completely – Hah!

What a fool I was. That first night I spent in her chambers remains one of the most vivid and memorable couplings of my incelibate life. It was twenty-seven years ago, and yet I can remember every detail, every move, the way she invited me with her eyes, her gestures, her touch . . . the breeze through the windows . . . the sound of the Bosphorus wavelets slapping against the sea walls . . . seeing her flawless body completely undressed for the first time by moonlight . . . and the ultimate consummation of our lovers' passion.

I was hers. Nothing else mattered to me, or to her. Neither of us cared about – or were capable of – concealing what we felt for each other, what we experienced together. Manuel dared to lecture me – the hypocrite! Eudocia was the younger sister of his own mistress Theodora! She was merely the daughter of my cousin – he was bedding the daughter of his own elder brother! "Two specimens from the same lot are normally deemed equally satisfactory," I shot back. I thought it a deft riposte (and so did others – it has become a permanent part of my legend). But it seems to have been the final straw for Manuel. Soon, I found myself "promoted" to a position of great dignity and responsibility, but hundreds of miles from the court and Eudocia – Duke of Belgrade and Branicevo, responsible for the fortresses guarding our Danube frontier with the Hungarians.

It was a hard leave-taking. But once I was on the Danube, I found there were compensations. The fires that Eudocia had raised in me became banked somewhat once we were apart. And I enjoyed the Hungarians – hard-riding horsemen, skillful hunters, and good comrades around a fire: hearty drinkers who loved a coarse joke or a good tale. They were potential enemies, of course, but it seemed to me I was serving the Empire by getting to know them so well. King Geza and I developed quite a rapport, and such bonds can be useful in ameliorating differences and the inevitable tensions that periodically arise between powerful neighboring states.

Again, however, my open and gregarious nature was turned against me. My enemies in the Court began whispering to Manuel that I was seeking Hungarian support for an attempt upon the crown. It was nonsense, of course, but Manuel decided he should look into the situation more closely. In the fall of 1154, I received orders to join him and the army in winter quarters at Pelagonia, in Macedonia.

When I reached the camp, I had a major surprise. Eudocia had followed the army and the court to the encampment. No sooner had she fixed me once again with her eyes than I was a slave of love once more. She was equally heedless, responding saucily to the soldiers' jibes as she made her way openly to my tent.

Her brothers, the protovestiarios John and his younger brother Alexius (yes, the very one who today rules the palace and the Empress as the protosebastos) were wild with rage and humiliation. They had almost concluded an agreement to marry Eudocia off to Michael Gabras, heir to another distinguished noble family, and now Eudocia's and my behavior threatened to ruin everything.

Again, however, I dismissed their anger. Eudocia was no longer a child, but a woman who obeyed the dictates of her own passions. They were foolish to think they could tame her by marrying her off to a foppish dandy like Michael Gabras – that would be as futile as trying to dam the sweeping flow of the Danube. And so I did not realize how dangerous their anger had become. . . . until Eudocia came to my tent one night near the end of that winter.

She acted at first as if it were a night like any other. I remember shaking out her shining black hair, the whiteness of her flesh beneath her linen shift . . . and, again, for that night, I remember all the details that followed as if it happened yesterday. Particularly the moment, as we lay there sated in the furs, when she sat back on her haunches, smiled down at me in her insouciant, unself-conscious nudity, and then said with sudden seriousness, "You must prepare yourself. They intend to try and kill you tonight."

Well, that roused me in a hurry – and in a very different way, as you can imagine, from the way I had been aroused earlier that evening! A quick reconnaissance established that there were indeed armed men lurking in the darkness outside – John, Alexius, and their friends and retainers. I quickly dressed, grabbed my sword, and considered my options. Eudocia proposed that I should don a woman's clothes, and then she would loudly command one of her maidservants to go forth and fetch a lantern, whereby I could make my escape. I considered the plan, envisioned myself run through with sword thrusts by John and Alexius while wearing a woman's skirts, and instantly vetoed that plan. Instead, I resolved to rely on surprise and audacity to make my escape.

I drew my sword, and with a sudden great stroke I slashed open one side of my circular tent. Without even pausing to look I broke through the great rend in the canvas, took a few quick running steps and then vaulted over the wooden enclosure surrounding the tent. I sailed through the men plotting my doom like a mighty forest stag, bounded away through the encampment, and found security at the campfire of a friend. The episode added much to my personal legend – but it left the protovestiarios and the protosebastos seething with even greater rage and humiliation.

And I should not have treated them so disdainfully. John was one of Manuel's chief officials, and Alexius was his favorite nephew. They had his ear – and soon they were able to persuade him that I had plotted treason with the King of Hungary. Early one morning in the spring of 1155, when the mists still shrouded the camp, I was roughly pulled from the warm bed I shared with Eudocia, bound with chains, and sent back to Constantinople under heavy guard. When we arrived, I found myself consigned without further ado to the darkest and most sinister of the Empire's dungeons: the Prison of Anemas. And there I remained for the next three and a half years of my life.

[To be Continued]

Principal Source:

Harry Magoulias, ed. O City of Byzantium, Annals of Nicetas Choniates (1984), at 30-31, 58-61