Herakleia was with Samonas and Qutalmish watching the siege from the citadel balcony. The night was black as ink, but the torches flickering across the city provided some illumination for the three overseers. Standing near a brazier whose flames whirled up against the dark frigid wind, they eyed the battle on the western wall. More than once Herakleia looked back to the doux’s chamber behind her, thinking that she wanted to issue a command to retreat or attack—almost like she was playing an old world strategy game—but Qutalmish advised her to restrain herself.
“We trained, strategos,” he said. “Down there, they know. If you often say to them ‘do this, do that,’ it will confusing them. It is no shatranj game. The pieces, they move themselves.”
“It’s so frustrating,” she said. “I feel so powerless. I want to do something.”
“It’s always acceptable to flee or surrender, don’t forget,” Samonas said.
Both Herakleia and Qutalmish glared at him.
“When circumstances permit,” he added. “We must keep the uprising alive, after all. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“The uprising of yourself alone,” Qutalmish said. He turned to Herakleia, indicated Samonas, and added: “He is very problem.”
From the citadel they saw Trebizond’s artillery blast the advancing enemy infantry. Miniature basiliks flashed into the dark charging ranks. Then ladders swarmed over the western wall, and men climbed the rungs.
This was it. This was the moment. When Herakleia’s troops beat back the enemy and spewed fire and hurled naphtha pomegranates into their fleeing ranks, her heart swelled with pride. It looked like Trebizond was winning.
God willing, she thought.
The game voice even obliged her by announcing that her generalship skill was increasing from novice to apprentice.
“It would appear as though the enemy is in retreat,” Samonas said. “Thanks in no small part to my own efforts—and my gem of a stratagem.”
“Yeah, looks like it,” Herakleia said.
“Then we’ve done it?”
“I think so.”
“Bravo!” Samonas clapped his hands. “Well, at least until the next siege, in any event. Maybe now we could take the fight to the enemy for a change? Especially when you consider how feckless and incompetent he appears to be. We ought to procure a jar of wine and celebrate with the troops. I wonder if this party will be as good as the one we had after the last siege—”
“Silence, fool!” Qutalmish rasped, covering Samonas’s babbling mouth. “Listen!”
In the Daphnous suburbs—on the city’s eastern side—men were yelling and metal was clattering. Herakleia froze. Everyone on the balcony turned their gazes to the source of the noise. Qutalmish uncovered Samonas’s mouth after the latter said he would be quiet.
At first they could hardly see anything except for the torches and the fiery braziers regularly spaced along the eastern walls. These marked the positions of the guards posted there. One by one, these braziers flashed into sparks and went out.
Something was knocking them over.
Then new torches were lit in the suburbs. Soon it looked as though fireflies were swarming through the Northeast Gate and flowing through the Lower Town’s streets. It was a luminescent river of lava, a herald of death. Screams rose into the night from the Lower Town, but the invaders were also singing some kind of military march, celebrating as they attacked, their white chests decorated with red crosses.
On the western walls, the kentarchs blew three notes into their whistles, the signal for retreat. They did this before Herakleia had even thought of issuing the command. Still, they must have been tired. It was unlikely they could fight an entire contingent of fresh troops attacking them from behind.
It was a ruse! Herakleia thought. A feint. The attack on the western gate was meant to deplete our strength. The real assault was always going to come from the least likely direction—the east. They really marched all the way around the city in the dark, in total silence, attacking at just the right time…
Now Samonas and Qutalmish were staring at her. On their faces the battle was lost.
Not good, she thought. Everything changed so quickly. We were winning…and then…
“We now need orders, strategos,” Qutalmish said. “This is problem.”
“The situation has certainly changed a bit,” Samonas said. “And not really for the better, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“We need to fight.” Herakleia extinguished the brazier and walked back toward the door that led to the doux’s chamber. “Everyone who can hold a sword needs to be down there—”
“Strategos.” Samonas followed after her with Qutalmish. “I beg your pardon, but at this point I believe we ought to consider surrender.”
“This again,” Herakleia said.
“Who can say, after all, how magnanimous these Latins might be? They are still Christians, even if they are schismatics, but they may be kind if we speak with them with all due civility—”
“Stop telling me to surrender.” She turned and pointed at him. Then her shoulders slumped, and she looked away. “Besides, it’s already too late. We resisted the siege, remember? They think they have a right to kill us all and destroy the city. That’s how it works.”
“We can still at least make an attempt to discuss terms, strategos,” Samonas said. “It’s never too late for dialogue. And who knows? We might be able to find a mutually beneficial compromise—”
“We’re past that point,” she said. “We have to fight.”
“But they’ll kill us all!”
“Then hopefully we can take a few of them down with us!”
Qutalmish grabbed her arm before she could leave the doux’s chamber. “Strategos, why must I explain again and again?”
She shook free. “Take your hand off me!”
“Forgive me, strategos, but you must listen. Others fight. Your job is think. Here we see whole battle. Down there, our soldiers see little.” He looked to Samonas. “From here we see battle is lost. The enemy flanks us. It is over.”
“So you’re with him?” She nodded to Samonas. “The big strong warrior is agreeing with the paper-pusher for once?”
“I resent that,” Samonas said. “I’m much more than a paper-pusher, you know. I’m an important city official—”
Qutalmish groaned. “We should think on surrender.”
“There’s still the Upper Town,” Herakleia said. “The citadel wall. We can resist. The battle isn’t—”
“Strategos, forgive me,” Samonas said. “But you know just as I do that those walls and gates are rather, how shall I say, antiquated. They fell into disrepair long ago and were neglected by the Roman administrators, who were such cowards they would often surrender the city at the first sign of trouble, the first few stray crows flying up over the road, since you know those sometimes herald approaching armies. The Romans would shout ‘we surrender!’ from the walls, even when there was nobody there!”
Sounds familiar. Herakleia eyed Samonas. Now we know where he learned his skills.
“Get to the point!” Qutalmish shouted. “What time we have for this talking?”
“The point is,” Samonas continued, “we never had the proper resources to repair the inner walls. The city’s only real defenses have already been breached by the enemy. We have minutes at most, perhaps an hour before they break through the last gate…”
“I’ll fight them,” Herakleia said.
“You will die!” Qutalmish said.
“It’s better than surrender!” Herakleia cried.
“Listen, strategos,” Qutalmish said. “There is no reason for death. We can save lives.”
“And go back to the old ways,” Herakleia said. “We can live on our knees rather than dying on our feet.”
“Who knows what the future may hold?” Samonas said. “We can live to fight another day.”
“They’ll chain us up.” Herakleia wiped tears from her eyes. “If we’re lucky. They’ll never let us go this time. You don’t know what they’re like. You’ve lived here all your life, Samonas, haven’t you? Pampered, going with the flow, never seeing the horrors of the world. I’ve been captured by them before and I won’t let them take me again. We’ll be deported across Romanía…they’ll enslave us and put us in the mines, the kind that are so awful you’ll wish you could spend the rest of your life underground mining coal here in Trebizond.”
“A man alive can hope,” Qutalmish said. “A man dead cannot. You are the shah on the shatranj board, strategos. We are but sarbaz—footsoldiers. Now is time. Use us to save lives.”
“It doesn’t matter what we argue about here,” Herakleia said. “We have to get down to the courtyard. Now come on!”
They left the doux’s chamber—Herakleia wondering if she would ever again see the tables piled with parchment and the shelves loaded with record books—and jogged through the citadel’s dark hallways and down its cold stairways. The building was packed with elders, caregivers, and children, including some who had fought in the siege, like Basil, Kassia, and Joseph. Every door was open, everyone was asking what was going on; even Queen Tamar, Doux Bagrationi’s mother, was here. All Herakleia could tell them was to remain in the citadel and stay calm.
Bleeding soldiers were everywhere in the courtyard. Some lay on the ground; most were throwing their weight against the locked gate to hold back the Latins, who were already trying to break in. Just as Herakleia arrived with Qutalmish—Samonas had trouble walking and so was farther behind—a large object fell from the night and slammed into the courtyard dust, barely missing a group of wounded soldiers lying nearby. Herakleia gasped. In the light of the fires she saw that the object was Alexios. He noticed her and smiled.
“Just like old times,” he rasped.
She helped him up. “Are you alright?”
“I’ve been better.”
Herakleia frowned.
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Something crashed against the gate so hard all the amazons were knocked away. Alexios, Herakleia, and Qutalmish rushed to help everyone to their feet, while Samonas stayed back to tend to the wounded. (At least that was what he claimed to be doing—really he was waving his arms and jabbering while no one listened.)
Soon Herakleia was at the front of the troops, hurling all her weight—such as it was—against the doors. They were iron, but old and rusted, and through the little holes in the metal she heard men on the other side yelling in Gallic. In the old world she had thought that language beautiful, refined, civilized, poetic; here it disgusted her. If only she knew a few words, she could insult them in their mother tongue, but she was stuck with Roman.
“Fuck off!” she screamed. “Go back to the shithole you came from!”
On the other side, men laughed and cracked jokes. The specific meanings of the words eluded her, but the men’s tone made their intentions clear. They were happy that so many women were in the city, and Trebizond was famous for its beauties.
Demons, she thought. Worse than demons.
The Latins shouted something in unison and charged the door again, striking it with so much force that all the amazons were thrown back into the dust. Herakleia climbed up and lunged against the door before the enemy could open it. She was the first among the amazons to fight back because she was almost the only rested soldier in the courtyard. The rest were so tired they could barely stand. Meanwhile, the gate’s iron crossbar was bending, as were the bolts holding it to the stone walls. Dust puffed from these stones and they even wriggled in their places when the enemy battering ram struck.
They’re going to break through, she thought. I can’t stop them.
Alexios was by her side now, yet he was so tired, covered in dust and blood, his armor scraped and dented, and the light in his sword was gone. Dekarch Ra’isa and Qutalmish joined also, but few other Trapezuntines could keep fighting. Most were groaning on the ground. Samonas had shuffled back into the citadel, shouting that he was going to look for more bandages.
Men’s voices roared on the other side of the gate, and the battering ram slammed against it, knocking Herakleia, Alexios, Ra’isa, and Qutalmish down once more. As they cried out in pain, the doors swelled open, and for a moment Herakleia saw the red beards and black armor and blue eyes gleaming in the torchlight on the other side, but the trembling crossbar held, and the doors closed again as the Latins fell back.
The enemy is close to breaching the final gate, the game voice said.
I know, I know!
Someone helped her up and dragged her away. She lacked the strength to tell them to stop, the game voice warning that her stamina was collapsing. Whoever this person was, he carried her over the stairs that led inside the citadel, then leaned her against the doorway. In the dark she made out Gontran’s face. A moment later, Diaresso brought Alexios.
“We need to get out of here,” Gontran said. “This little experiment of yours is over. We lost.”
“I’m not leaving them,” Herakleia said.
Gontran frowned. “I knew you were going to say that.”
Alexios stood. He was about to run back to the gate, but Gontran grabbed his arm.
“Hey, listen,” Gontran said. “You did your best. It wasn’t good enough. Live to fight another day, huh?”
“Some of us care more about just saving our own skins,” Alexios said.
The doors burst open once more, and this time spears and swords came through. Qutalmish stabbed into the gap and then swung out of the way before they could hit him. He was the only one holding the doors now—which were barely shut—one man against dozens.
Gontran’s right, Herakleia thought. The battle’s over. But there must be something we can do.
“Let me go!” Alexios shouted at Gontran, shaking free from his grip. “I have to help Qutalmish! He’ll never hold them all off on his own!”
“Wait,” Herakleia gasped. “Alexios. Gontran. Diaresso. You can leave. You can go. Find allies. Come back and free us.”
“No,” Alexios said. “I’ve got to save this place—”
“You should stay with us,” Gontran said to Herakleia. “We need to stay together.”
“It’s too late,” Herakleia said. “I won’t leave the people here to die. I’ll do whatever I can to help them. But you all have to leave. You have to come back here with armies. The enemy…it won’t be easy for them to hold this place. They can attack it, they can take it, but they can’t hold it.”
Alexios frowned. “Herakleia—”
“I’m in charge here!” she yelled. “These people chose me to lead them! You’re an officer under my command! This is the only hope we have left! I’m the king on the chess board, just like you said.” She looked to Qutalmish, barely holding back the Latins at the gate, and remembered what he had told her only moments ago back in the citadel. “I’m sacrificing him so that you can go. Now get out of here!”
“Are you mad, woman?” Diaresso said. “They shall torture you so that you beg for death! Now let us go, an ka taa!”
For an instant she was back in the torture chamber with Paul the Chain. He was laughing at her, and she couldn’t fight him off.
Herakleia shook herself free from this vision. He already tortured my body. Can’t let him torture my mind.
“I’m ready to do my duty,” Herakleia said. “Are you ready to do yours?”
Alexios, Gontran, and Diaresso looked at each other, shocked by her spirit of sacrifice. She really would give everything to the uprising.
“I can go south,” Alexios said. “I was planning to go there anyway. There’s someone I’m supposed to meet…some kind of teacher…”
“Diaresso and I can take the Paralos into the sea,” Gontran said. “If it’s still in the harbor…”
“And if, inshallah, the harbor is open to us.” Diaresso looked back to the citadel. “I must find Tamar. I will not leave her.”
“Hate to break it to you,” Gontran said, “but there isn’t any time. You’ll have to look somewhere else if you want to find some—”
“Do not speak of her in such fashion!”
Herakleia was almost disappointed that they had listened to her. They were really going to leave!
Alexios had reached out his hand to shake Gontran's, but soon all four of them were hugging, each telling the other to be careful.
The gate crashed down, flying off its hinges, and the barbarians ran through yelling and waving their swords, knocking Qutalmish aside so that he slammed onto the ground. All the amazons by then were either motionless or trying to crawl away.
“Diaresso, let’s get out of here!” Gontran shouted. Together, they ran off.
Alexios grabbed Herakleia’s hands and kissed her. “I’ll come back with an army. I promise.”
Then he limped away into the darkness.
Some barbarians in the courtyard established a perimeter while others were already tying ropes around the wrists and ankles of the wounded amazons lying on the ground. An enormous armored man had ridden inside on his caparisoned horse and was watching them. Herakleia recognized him. It was the Latin doux who had addressed them beneath the walls yesterday afternoon. What was his odd name? Robertos? Regardless, he had already spotted her. He dismounted, an attendant took his massive war horses’s reins, and now he was stomping toward her with his hand on the hilt of the huge double-edged longsword belted to his side, with his vast cape whirling behind him. She scrambled back.
“Good evening,” the man said in his thickly accented Roman. He bent over and offered his mailed hand. “I think you are Princess Herakleia, no? I am Duke Robert. I could hardly see you in all that armor of yours. You look just like a man!”
Herakleia refused to take his hand, and could do no more than stare at him. She remembered that she was still armed, and wondered if he would be foolish enough to give her a chance to cut him, even if every inch of his flesh was covered in steel, save his face. She knew less about the farr than Alexios, but she still had all her points—even though Robert was now joined by several guards, who were almost as large and imposing as he was.
“Your grace, your grace!” someone shouted from the broken gate.
Herakleia and Robert turned. A small man wearing armor that was far too large for him was jogging toward them, the metal clanking against the courtyard underfoot. Something about this Roman was familiar to Herakleia. She had met him before.
“Keep away from her, your grace!” the man shouted, out of breath by the time he reached Robert’s side. “She is worse than Narses—an enchantress! You must gag her mouth at once or she will ensorcell us! All the effort to take this accursed city will have been for nothing!”
“You are always warning us of these things, my dearest Paul,” Robert said.
Now Herakleia remembered. This was Paul the Chain, the logothete who had locked her in the Great Palace and tortured her. She glared at him for a moment, thinking she would have given anything to kill him—that she was surrounded by people she needed to kill.
“She seems harmless enough.” Robert turned back to Herakleia. “Aside from the intensity of her beauty, of course. But look at her, Paul. She can barely stand.”
“Appearances can be deceiving, your grace,” Paul said. “Please trust me. I have experience with this witch. Forgive me, but you have none at all.”
“Very well.” Robert nodded to his guards, who stepped forward and bound Herakleia’s wrists with a rope which one of them then continued to hold, like she was a dog on a leash. Another took her sword. They were about to gag her mouth, but Robert told them to wait.
“I have need of your services, princess.” Robert leaned down to speak with her. He nodded to the citadel. “I expect that this structure is full of people. The rest of Trabzon, too, has many people hiding within. Will they not listen if you order their surrender?”
“So you can kill us?” Herakleia said.
“You will live,” Robert said. “As will all those people in this city who did not take up arms against us. On my honor as a Christian, I swear.” He placed his right hand on the cross draped over his armor.
Herakleia had spent so much time around Christians that she almost needed to keep from exploding with laughter. She breathed deeply to calm herself.
“What about our soldiers?” she said.
“You must understand, that is a proposition more difficult,” Robert said. “You are outlaws in the eyes of His Majesty the Emperor, all of you. He has never recognized this little rebellion of yours as anything other than a criminal enterprise. You will be treated accordingly.”
“Meaning you’re either going to mutilate us or execute us,” she said.
“I’m not so familiar with the ways of this place.” Robert looked around at the torches flickering in the courtyard. “In my homeland of Normandie, you would be lucky to survive, in retribution for such crimes as those you have committed. Yet you are a noblewoman, and therefore accorded certain rights. As for these misguided followers of yours, I have heard that many are slaves and peasants, are they not? They will be dealt with as they deserve.”
“They’ll be executed,” Herakleia said.
“You and me, we are going to choose a story for these poor souls,” Robert said. “Either we move through this city, killing anyone who resists, or you mandate that they lay down their arms and surrender. I know it is quite difficult, but you will save more lives if you cooperate.”
“They won’t listen to me,” Herakleia said.
“Oh, but I think they will,” Robert said. “They respect you, do they not? The battle is already lost, princess. How many more must perish before you admit it?”
Herakleia’s head fell. Never easy choices. Future armchair historians will blame me for making them. They act like I can just push a button and magically make everything perfect, and that I’m refusing to do that because I’m a psychopath.
“You must decide now,” Robert said. “For we have precious little time. The siege went quite quickly—it was really a most pleasant surprise—but my men desire rest.”
Paul bowed. “All due only to your tactical and strategic brilliance, your grace.”
“But we should like to repose upon the famously soft pillows of this place without fear for our lives,” Robert continued. “All of us here, I am sure, desire only peace. We merely seek to help you.”
To help us cease to exist, Herakleia thought.
“Forgive me, your grace, but some of us,” Paul stammered, “some of us would like to, uh, poke about, as it were.”
“Normally I would have permitted as such, for that is often the way things go, if the besieged resist the besiegers.” Robert looked at the torches flickering against the citadel walls. “And yet this place seems so fantastically wealthy to me, perhaps even more so than Constantinople.”
“Your grace—”
“I mean there is more potential here by far,” Robert continued. “Something is happening here I have never seen before, not in all my days upon this Earth. His Majesty the Emperor called the people of Trabzon criminals, and yet none of us have seen criminals conquer a city, and then change it, within a matter of months, into such a productive enterprise, that even as distant as my homeland, people were thrown out of work.” He turned to Herakleia. “Did you know about the chaos this place has caused?”
“We heard rumors from visiting merchants,” Herakleia said.
“I would like very much to learn from you,” Robert said. “I would like to learn how such things can be. Perhaps we can use the city to our advantage.”
“You must guarantee the safety of everyone in Trebizond,” Herakleia said.
Robert laughed. “Have you already forgotten that you are defeated? You are in no position to bargain, my dear princess. You will do as I say now, or you will suffer the consequences.”
She sighed. “Alright.”
“Ah, bien!” He smiled, and looked to Paul. “You see, she is not so wild as first you claimed. Are you certain you knew this woman?” He glanced at his men, and cracked a joke in Gallic, which made them laugh.
“In the imperial palace, your grace,” Paul murmured. “She was so full of herself, I doubt she ever noticed me. But I noticed her. Back then she was a small, haughty woman who always kept her head up, flitting from room to room like a sparrow. She has changed a great deal.”
“It matters not. God has granted us this great victory, and for that we must be thankful.” Robert look back at Herakleia. “Now, can you walk? You will come with us, street by street, house to house, and announce that the siege is done, and that everyone must come out and surrender. My men, you know, they need peasants, they need lands. As I think about it, perhaps we may spare more of your fighters than you suspect, so long as they return to the fold—or join it—and bend their knees to the order of God.”
Wincing and groaning, Herakleia struggled to her feet. Robert helped her.
“There is no doubt,” he said. “You are quite an interesting woman, princess. I think we shall have much to discuss.”