Almost since the moment Narses had arrived on Duke Robert’s flagship—which was named the Rosa—the barbarians had abandoned him in the hold. Yet because of his status as a general, they had accorded him the privilege of being allowed to sit on the floor with his back to the wall. Only one manacle clasped his wrist; its chain was wrapped around one of the wooden pillars supporting the deck. Yet the manacle was much more tolerable than the other restraint the barbarians had applied to him. That rat Paul had so frightened Duke Robert with tales about Narses that a blacksmith from a different ship had come aboard and forged a special iron collar, one which wrapped around the lower part of Narses’s face and covered his mouth in order to keep him from taking communion with people’s spirits. Narses was only allowed to remove it to eat and drink—separate from other people—at prescribed times.

It was humiliating to be chained up like a dog with a muzzle over his face, sitting in the dark with no company save barrels of wine and sacks of flour and salt pork.

Yet what am I except a dog?

The barbarians had fed him from their stores before leaving him here and returning to the deck. Still, he was so tired—probably from his lack of farr—that he must have slept through the changing watches, when the Latins piled down the ladder to sleep in their rope beds for the night before hurling themselves back to the deck for the day. But if he’d possessed his farr, things would have been different. He would have pulled down the pillar to which he was chained like Samson smashing the Temple of Dagon, ripping the ship asunder and sending it hurtling into the deep along with its whole crew of jolly wine-swilling ballad singers. Then he would have leaped back onto the land and sprinted to Konstantinopolis—to His Majesty, and freedom.

He would understand what happened at Trebizond, Narses thought. His Majesty was always so gracious and forgiving. I could have my old life back. Make things right.

Gray daylight seeped through the gaps in the wooden hull. Seagulls were laughing in the wind outside and men were murmuring on the deck.

It reminded him of the days he had spent living among the Skythioi as their captive, sleeping in their warm yurts, waking to breakfasts of yogurt and honey, and then the sight beyond the tent flaps of the rolling hills, the women milking the goats, the children chasing each other. That woman lived there, too. Zoë. She was Herakleia’s lost, half-barbarian sister, who had tempted him.

Then the light had faded from her eyes. With her last breath, she had asked him why.

Why does the scorpion sting the fox crossing the river? That was Narses’s reply. He had never told her—he had only thought the answer to himself, for traitors to Rome were unworthy of answers to their questions. Even now, her essence coursed through his veins like warm blood. Zoë’s shadow was still trapped in his chest, struggling to break free, as he himself was trapped in this hold. Other souls he had consumed, but Zoë Karbonopsina remained.

Narses felt hopeful. They couldn’t keep him here forever. Soon his time would come.

Other thoughts played in his mind. Since the Siege of Trebizond, he’d been so busy fighting to survive that he’d barely had time to think of anything except the next farm, town, forest, or mountain—moving from one goal to the next. It felt like he was balancing barefoot on a knife’s edge. Marianos’s house was the one exception, but it had been more like a nightmare than a refuge. Being alone and in danger was better than bantering in the comfort of that house with that old fool, who had met a well-deserved end.

Now Narses finally had time to think. He was focused on the youth he had fought at the Siege of Trebizond—not Romanos—how much it hurt to recall the name!—but someone much like him. Who was he, this other youth from Trebizond who also knew about the farr? Narses had seen him on one other occasion: at the Great Palace of Konstantinopolis this youth had helped the warrior monk Dionysios rescue that bitch Herakleia.

What was the youth’s name? At Trebizond, just before that iron ball had lodged itself in Narses’s flesh—the one which had nearly killed him when, with his bare hand, he pried it from the wound, and blood gushed out—someone had shouted something.

Narses shut his eyes and leaned back against the wooden hull as the ship swayed with the wind and sea.

His name, Narses thought. Someone shouted his name. Then came a loud pop, an explosion from a miniature version of the Basilik. I was bleeding on the ground, writhing like a worm.

“Hey, Alexios!” the man with the miniature basilik had called.

Alexios. That was it. The youth was named Alexios, and he was probably still with the criminals at Trebizond. Narses might have a chance to take revenge when the Latins besieged the city. This was the reason behind his hopeful mood.

It’s never too late to make things right, he thought. A positive day starts with a positive attitude. The grass is always greener on the other side…unless you cultivate your own garden. Or something. That man is richest whose pleasures are the cheapest. Mind over matter.

These sayings seemed unfamiliar to him somehow. Had he spoken them to the Latins or Romans or even the criminals, they would have thought him mad. No one spoke like that in Romanía, and Narses had trouble remembering where he had heard such things. The sayings must have come from the old world. He could barely remember this place, and hardly even knew what to call it, and yet its images, sounds, even words sometimes echoed inside the acoustic amphitheater of his mind. These sayings had decorated his home in this place, this other world. His mother, who had owned a kind of tavern called a “restaurant,” had purchased wooden blocks carved with this uplifting wisdom of the ancients before hanging them all over her house. Her cups and plates were decorated in similar fashion thanks to the amazing, even unearthly skill of the old world artisans.

His old world mother—not his faceless mother in Romanía, it was confusing—she was full of sage advice. Always she had told him to think about the here and now. Don’t worry about the past or future. Don’t think about other countries or places. Just focus on the here and now.

And so Narses focused on Alexios. Yet his longing for revenge concealed another emotion: regret. It was impossible for him to sit in the dark—listening to the waves splashing the hull, the wind stretching the creaking sails, and the men up top bantering in their greasy Latin tongue—without thinking of the reason for his imprisonment.

Romanos.

For that boy, Narses had sacrificed everything, risking his own life how many times to save him. Not four days ago, Narses had carried Romanos through a blizzard to Marianos’s house. The poor boy would have frozen to death otherwise! And not only that—Narses had trained Romanos to use the farr. A general of the Roman legions had taken time out of each day in order to raise up a youth—who otherwise would have lived an unremarkable life with his family in Nikomedeia, a city of traitors which Narses had justly chastised for its intransigence.

After all that work, this was Narses’s reward. Betrayal. Romanos had seized the first opportunity to steal Narses’s beloved sword—his Almaqah blade, without which Narses felt naked and defenseless.

Then Romanos had shoved him over a cliff. That fall could have killed him. Without Marianos’s pneuma flashing in Narses’s arteries, he would have plunged to his death. During that fall Narses had almost screamed himself hoarse from terror, and it was only thanks to his knowledge and skill that he’d recalled his near-miraculous ability to walk on water—a feat which even Great Elders could only manage for a few moments. He was only an apprentice water-walker, but that had been enough to save his life.

His mind’s eye was transfixed on that fall. Again and again Romanos shoved him over the cliff, and Narses lost his balance, stumbled, waved his arms, and plunged like a stone to the waves, only this time there was no farr to save him. The water rushed up, and upon striking it everything flashed, as his organs exploded, staining the sea with red blood, yellow choler, black bile, transparent phlegm.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Then he was shuddering in the Rosa’s dark hold, drenched in sweat. All his muscles were so tense it seemed they would rip themselves apart and snap his bones.

Focus on the here and now.

Yet it was impossible to get over the anger. Narses had invested so much hope in Romanos. The youth was his student, his successor, even something like a son. In Narses’s mind, Romanos had been bound to become someone to be proud of—someone of far greater ability than the incompetent fools who plagued the Earth.

Narses had plans for the boy. Together, they would sweep the world clean of rabble, and with proper females of strong bloodlines, he and Romanos would sire a new race of beings, one which would spread beyond Romanía and populate every land, exterminate or enslave anyone who stood in their way, and reign over them as their rightful masters.

Narses and Romanos would achieve a unity of strength and intellect rarely seen in history. They would cleanse humanity, purging it of barbarism in Romanía, Italía, Gallía, Afrika, Skythia, Serindia, Arabia, and the Tourkokratía, restoring His Majesty to his rightful place as father of all Christians, ensuring that all worshipped at the altar of God without a trace of schismatic idolatry in their hearts, singing with the divine chorus of angels as enthusiastically as they now roared over their games of dice and bearbaiting matches. Women, too, would return to where they belonged: home, kitchen, and church. Those wretches who survived the cleanse would bow before the children of Narses and Romanos and serve them in order to learn the ways of enlightened civilization—of reason, logic, civility, thriftiness, and hard work.

That was what Narses told himself in the Rosa’s dark hold. One day he would find Romanos and make the boy see.

On the deck, the babbling barbarians were growing louder. Sikelgaita’s distinct voice, masculine and feminine at the same time, sang among them almost like she was an entertainer performing at the Hippodrome.

Something was happening. Narses wished he could see what it was. He would have made almost any deal, if only the duke had let him fight the criminals!

Seawater rushed around the ship, and Narses lurched forward. Everything had stopped, and everyone on the deck was shouting and running. Wood was clattering against wood. Duke Robert yelled a command; his men assented in a disciplined chorus. What was happening? If only Narses could understand their babble! Something splashed the waves to port and starboard at the same time. The barbarians were rowing backward.

Narses stood and lunged toward the bright ladder that led up to the deck, but his chain yanked him back. With both hands he tried to pull it loose, grunting, straining all his muscles, but the metal chain and the wood pillar were too strong.

I’m nothing without the farr, he thought.

“Release me!” he shouted, the iron collar muffling his voice. “Let me fight!”

No answer. The fools were too busy. Yet they kept saying the word “Trabzon” with their funny accents. It was a wonder they could form any words at all. The barbarians must have arrived at their destination. Yet perhaps they had come too close and lost the element of surprise. That was why they were now rowing backwards.

Narses snorted with amusement. For the first time in months, maybe years, he felt the pleasure of criticizing others who were in command. It was so much easier to complain than to do.

Liked a lion caged at the Hippodrome, Narses paced back and forth, sometimes pulling his chain to see if he could rip out the wooden pillar and free himself. What would he even do if he managed this feat?

Take Paul’s soul and use it to escape to shore.

But would Paul supply enough energy? He was such a wretch—a small intellectual—the thought of consuming his spirit disgusted Narses. The devil himself would reject it. A more appropriate end for that pompous overachiever would need to be decided upon at some point.

“Your grace, please,” came Paul’s effeminate voice. “I must counsel against this course of action!”

Speak of the devil, Narses thought.

Someone was descending the ladder into the hold. It was a long-haired muscular giant clad in armor: Duke Robert. Paul—who had changed back into his usual Roman robes and furs to keep warm in the winter weather—followed him, whining about something. Both were soon standing in the darkness, facing Narses.

“Good day, general,” Robert said. “I am afraid I require your services.”

“Your grace,” Paul said, “I must protest—”

“Silence, eunuch!” Robert raised his mailed fist as though to strike Paul, who backed away and bowed, keeping his head down.

Robert turned back to Narses. “My navigators, who are quite foolish, have brought us much too close to the city. We were supposed to arrive late in the evening, whereupon we would rest for the night behind a sheltering cove and then surprise the enemy at dawn. But you see, by the grace of God, a favorable wind has blown at our backs for many days. We must have been moving faster than we realized, and there are few landmarks to guide our navigators. Thus we arrived early, and the enemy knows.”

Narses crossed his arms, and the chain around his wrist rang.

“As I told you before,” Robert continued, “aside from the eunuch, you, general, are the only one among our company who has any knowledge of Trabzon. A week ago we deployed a pair of scouts on horseback to reconnoiter the position from the south, but they have failed to rendezvous. You also know of the enemy’s most peculiar fighting techniques. And to look at the eunuch, all of us full well know he can scarcely lift his own limbs, let alone a sword.”

Paul shrank back further.

“And so,” Robert said, “I have decided to vouchsafe you a boon few men ever receive: une seconde chance.”

“His life is nothing but second chances,” Paul muttered. “He squanders them all.”

“Should you so desire it,” Robert said to Narses, “I will liberate you from these manacles. You may then fight alongside my son Bohemund and my wife Sikelgaita in glorious battle. We purpose to deploy a small expeditionary force of picked troops to probe the enemy’s defenses and distract them at the harbor. Meanwhile, we will land our main force out of bowshot to the west and attempt to breach their walls with ladders.”

Narses bowed. “A sound plan, your grace.” The iron collar so muffled his voice that Robert and Paul could barely understand him.

“Where the Basilik failed, ladders must succeed,” Paul grumbled. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“Will you join the expeditionary force, advise my wife and son, and guard their lives with your own?” Robert asked Narses.

Narses labored to control his anger. “I would be honored, your grace.”

“You must swear me an oath of allegiance,” Robert said, “as vassal to His Majesty the Emperor, my suzerain and liege lord. Are you prepared for this?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Do you understand the meaning of these words? You will die if you betray me.”

“I understand, your grace.”

“Place your hands between my own,” Robert said.

Narses did so, meeting Robert’s blue eyes.

“In the name of God,” Robert said, “before whom this oath is holy, you will guard my life and property with your own.”

“I swear,” Narses said.

“You will love all I love,” Robert said, “and shun all I shun, according to the laws of God and the order of the world.”

“I swear.”

Paul scoffed.

“Nor will you ever,” Robert continued, “with will or action, through word or deed, do anything unpleasing to me, on condition that I will hold to you as you shall deserve.”

“I swear.”

Robert smiled. “And I will not forget it.”

He withdrew a key from his pocket and unclasped the manacle around Narses’s wrist. Then he shook hands with Narses, who was tempted to drain Robert’s life force, but he controlled himself.

It might be more interesting to see what happens if I let him live, Narses thought.

Paul stepped toward the ladder. “Your grace, forgive me, but you cannot understand how dangerous this—”

“I intend to unlock your collar, now,” Robert said to Narses. “Should you abuse my generosity in any way, I swear before Holy God that you will meet a just end, either by my hand or by the hands of my kith and kin.”

Narses bowed once more, and kept still as Robert released him from the collar. Paul by now was gripping a ladder rung with both hands, ready to spring up to the deck and leap into the sea like a terrified rabbit. Narses wondered—if he seized Robert’s spirit and chased after Paul, could he catch him?

I would find a way, he thought.

It was strong, the temptation to betray this barbarian—who was beneath even the filthiest whore in Konstantinopolis—and yet Narses told himself to be strategic. He would fight alongside this rabble if only to punish Alexios, Herakleia, and the other criminals in Trebizond. Once they were taken care of, Narses would have amassed enough farr in his flesh to deal with the Latins. Soon enough he would find himself standing atop a mound of corpses, and His Majesty would be pleased.

New Quest, the game voice announced. Destroy Trebizond.

Everything is falling into place, he thought.

Following Paul and Robert, Narses climbed the ladder to the deck.