What shocked Herakleia, above all, was that she enjoyed kissing him. Robert worked hard to ensure that the object of his affections was in the mood. When he noticed that Hilduin Venator made her nervous, Robert dismissed him. After Robert then saw that Herakleia was still tense, he dressed in a patterned silk robe from Sera and ordered breakfast brought up by none other than Dekarch Ra’isa. Herakleia hardly noticed, since she was too busy struggling to understand the warring forces inside her—the mind and heart’s dedication to the uprising versus the body’s eagerness to be free from misery, failure, hunger, thirst, and emotional and physical exhaustion.
Let everything go!
A storm of butterflies whirled inside her stomach. The mind said it was betrayal even to speak with Robert in his room. All the horrors of war Herakleia had beheld, all the sorrow she had felt, was it for nothing?
Years ago the uprising had started when Nikephoros dismembered her father Anastasios and even desecrated his body, parading it around Konstantinopolis to the delight of the rich and powerful dynatoi and their supporters. Had Herakleia’s father died for nothing? She had fled the Great Palace all the way across the world to Sera, turning a youth of reading into an adulthood of action, and she had grown close to her loyal bodyguard Vatatzes, the only person who stayed by her side and helped her every step of the way—until Nikephoros’s men shot him in the back with an arrow. Vatatzes fell from his horse and bled out in the wilderness, drowning in his own blood, gagging, coughing, choking, crying in terror as death stalked him.
Was it for nothing?
Herakleia watched Robert as he launched into his fifth long-winded speech of the day, and she felt so disgusted she almost retched. Now they were sitting in a table in the office—which was beginning its transformation into a kind of sitting room—and Ra’isa was serving yet another endless banquet of Latin food. There was the soft bread they called brioche, buttery and made with eggs. They ate this with a thick creamy cheese they called brie, washing it down with wine or even a sort of extra-distilled wine called brandywine. Then there was the meat dish called paupiette, which consisted of strips of duck meat rolled in vegetables and then cooked in stock. This arrived with an enormous omelette, the only dish that was familiar to Herakleia. (Romans called omelettes foustoron.) Finally came something Robert called dessert. This consisted of an apple pie, which Robert requested to be served with cha—the single eastern influence on this meal.
A dozen people could have satisfied their hunger with the dishes Ra’isa kept hauling all the way up from the kitchen, where Robert’s personal chef was no doubt working up a sweat. The duke gorged himself, groaning in ecstasy at the medley of flavor. Herakleia, meanwhile, forced herself to eat for the uprising, and even though she just sampled each dish, she still soon felt like she was about to explode. And, on top of that, with every bite she believed she was betraying everyone she had ever known. As she ate, she noticed sacks of gold coins on nearby tables, left among papers and codices.
Robert accepts money from the man who murdered my father.
But her betrayal was more than just personal. The refugee children who now must have been cold and hungry in the unfinished homes outside Trebizond's walls, who would grow up without even learning to read, and their parents who would toil all their lives just to make these bluebloods a little comfier, just to give them more jewelry to make each other jealous, more meat at their feasts, more firewood in their hearths, more gold they would hoard and never spend to clothe the naked or heal the sick—had they all struggled for nothing?
Ra’isa finished her duties and Robert dismissed her at some point—Herakleia had been too distracted to notice. Now she was dining with him, forcing herself to drink, eat, nod, laugh, speak, though she tasted, heard, saw, felt nothing. The numbness returned, the decision was made. She had killed people for the uprising. Now she would murder her own soul for the uprising.
She used wine to dull the pain. Never a heavy drinker, she sucked down cup after cup of the fermented grape juice which tasted like cough medicine from the old world—sweet black Trapezuntine wine, prized across Romanía—and soon everything spun around her so fast she almost needed to grip the table. Robert grew handsome and even seemed to glow as the wine numbed her numbness. She laughed at his jokes, and he at hers; she hung onto every word of his monologues, and his pompous accent quickened the blood in her veins so that she began to sweat. Licking her lips, she looked at him deeply and wanted to kiss him. His face was chiseled, square, strong, and his shoulders were broad, his arms, chest, and legs hard and muscular from decades of wearing heavy steel armor and chainmail into battle atop screaming war horses.
You could do worse.
Soon she and Robert stood and walked to the bed. She pushed him down, and when he fell to the covers she attacked him, forcing her tongue into his mouth, grinding her crotch against his. A warmth in her pelvis spread across her body to her fingertips. They pulled off their clothes and she clutched his beautiful body, shuddering and groaning as he kindled a flame inside her and helped it consume her flesh so that she burned with pleasure. Light blinded her, and a woman was screaming joyously in the room somewhere—it was her. All at once she released the tension of the last few months. When she had finished, she was laughing, drenched in sweat, and he was lying beside her and holding her hand beneath the blanket.
“These Greek women.” He shook his head. “Ah, these Greek women, they are too beautiful, it is quite outrageous.”
Herakleia was too satisfied to think, and could only breathe and enjoy the tingling which permeated even her mind.
Some time later, who could even say how long, the first thought that formed was: What if he’s right?
By then Robert had gotten out of bed to unlock the door to the office and—fully nude—shout for more wine. Within moments, Dekarch Ra’isa returned, bowed to Robert, and refilled his glass cup with a clay amphora which she left on his bedside table. She refrained from even glancing at Herakleia.
Wait! Herakleia thought, sitting up and burning another point of farr, leaving her with 3/100. Ra’isa—it’s not what you—
Do not speak to me, Ra’isa thought.
Herakleia climbed out of bed, threw on her silk dress, and ran after her.
“What are you doing?” Robert grabbed Herakleia’s arm.
“I need to talk with her!”
“She is but a common servant,” Robert said. “If she displeases you, I would only be too happy to—”
“Let me go!” Herakleia struggled free from his grip.
She ran into the office and tried to stop Ra’isa, who continued into the hallway, where a pair of armored guards stood at attention.
“You will halt when the lady commands it,” Robert said from the bedroom.
Ra’isa stopped. Her shoulders slumped, and she turned, keeping her eyes to the floor. “Sorry, monsieur le duc.”
Robert turned to Herakleia. “It is quite unheard of, you know, for servants to disobey their masters. For behavior like this, your little friend here would be taken outside and whipped—especially since we were magnanimous enough to give her this job inside the palace in the first place, knowing full well that she is a Saracen. I suppose that explains her incivility.” He pointed at Ra’isa. “This will not happen again.”
“No, monsieur le duc, not again.” Ra’isa kept her eyes low.
“You will do as the princess commands,” Robert said. “At all times.”
“Yes, monsieur le duc.”
Robert returned to his bedroom, threw himself on his bed, and sipped more wine. He said something about how he couldn’t get enough of this Greek stuff, and he was really learning to enjoy the east, if it weren’t for all these easterners. Jews, Armenians, Greeks, Saracens, who could possibly tell the difference? They were all but a horde of rabble…
Herakleia barely heard him. Eyeing the guards standing in the hallway outside the office, she whispered that she was sorry to Ra’isa.
“No apology needed,” Ra’isa said coldly. “Mademoiselle.”
Herakleia stepped back in shock. “Don’t call me that.”
Ra’isa bowed her head.
I’m doing it for the uprising, Herakleia thought. 2/100 points of farr now remained. I have to earn his trust if we’re going to organize—
Can I disagree? Ra’isa thought. Or will your newest dog attack me?
Herakleia stared at her. He was going to keep me locked in my room forever.
You have leveled up to Beginner Telepath (2/10), the game voice said.
Shut up!
Ra’isa cleared her throat. “Do you need anything else, princess?”
There’s the uprising, Herakleia thought.
The uprising is finished, Ra’isa thought. It ended when you made love to the man who destroyed it.
You told me we should wait until the Latins became weak and lazy. That’s exactly what I was doing—
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“Thank you, mademoiselle,” Ra’isa said loudly and politely, turning and leaving before Herakleia could respond.
Herakleia gaped in shock. And for a moment, to her surprise, she was tempted to tell Robert that Ra’isa the serving girl had disrespected her again.
Already Herakleia’s newfound wealth, power, and privilege was corrupting her, for it went beyond anything she had known in her youth in the Great Palace, where her father had never allowed anyone to mistreat servants. But even as Herakleia turned to speak to Robert, she suppressed the temptation to fulfill her new role as lady of the castle.
I’m a leader of the uprising, she thought. One day Ra’isa will understand. I did what needed to be done.
Oh yes, the game voice said. You really took one for the team.
Your job is telling me stats, Herakleia thought. Not commenting on the game.
Smoothing her silk dress—trying to look nice for Robert, then hating herself for feeling this way—she re-entered the bedroom. He was lying in bed drinking wine from his curiously fluted Gallic goblet, which he must have shipped all the way here from far western lands.
“Good day, mademoiselle.” He smiled at her and nodded.
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and she blushed and grabbed her hands.
What the hell is wrong with me? she thought. It infuriates me when Ra’isa says it, but delights me when he says it!
“I was just wondering about what’s next,” she said.
“Oh? Whatever do you mean, ma chérie?”
“What am I supposed to do with the rest of the day?”
He leaned back and laughed. “Oh, princess, whatever is the matter with you? Must I continue to remind you of your royal pedigree? Pure noble blood flows in your veins, not the black sludge of the commoners! You are a descendant of Julius Caesar, are you not? And he himself was a descendant of Venus, which still shows even in you. But you have been among these wretches forsaken by Holy God for far too long, so much so that you have forgotten who you truly are! You have no duties, now. You are free to do whatever it is that pleases you. Including me, as a matter of fact.”
Her blush deepened. “Am I free to leave the citadel?”
“I should think so. I would like to send Sikelgaita to watch you, but it seems that she has already become quite tired of her responsibilities, such as they are.” Robert waved his hand. “So I let her go, too, gracious man that I am. A house full of women cannot be happy if even one of them is not. And this is a happy house. Or that is what God wants it to be.”
“So I can go outside? Even beyond the walls?”
He nodded. “Wherever it is that pleases you.”
She hugged and kissed him. “Thank you, Rober—I mean, thank you, monsieur le duc.”
He bowed. “The pleasure is all mine, mademoiselle la princesse.”
She leaned back. “Is it like this every day?”
“We dine together. We entertain guests. We pray. We drink, sing, laugh, love. We live! We tell each other stories. Occasionally we give a little money to the poor. Sometimes we joust or hunt or fight in wars, but that is all the work of men. You can weave, raise children, and supervise the servants in the house. That is your duty as a woman. But even if one does all of that, it often leaves one with a great deal of time.”
“I just want to go outside,” she said. “It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve been able to go out and enjoy myself…”
As she thought about it, she recalled that she had last felt that way with Alexios when they were running out of Jamshied’s blazing hot blacksmith shop to start preparing for the siege—out into the chilly romantic night. It was shocking to realize that she had barely thought of Alexios since yesterday. Merely recalling his name was like stabbing herself in the chest.
He'll find out I slept with Robert, she thought. Ra’isa will tell everyone.
“Princess?” Robert said. “You are very absent-minded.”
“Sorry.” She looked at him. “Thank you again.”
“Perhaps you should take a mare,” he said. “And some retainers—some ladies-in-waiting. It ill befits a person of noble parentage to walk about the filth in the street all by herself like a vagabond. Normally I would not have to remind a princess of this, but it seems you are quite the special case.”
She nodded, though she had little idea of what he was talking about. “Of course.”
“You cannot sully our image, otherwise the commoners will think ill of you, and plot against us. Make sure that you go to the stables and find a mare to ride. Stallions are only for men.”
“Yes, monsieur le duc.” She stood and walked to the doorway.
“There is another thing,” he said.
She turned. “Yes?”
“If you betray my trust, there will be no forgiveness. I am of the belief that all traitors should die. Nothing matters to a lord or lady more than the truth. That is what separates us from this common filth that is everywhere.”
“I understand,” she said.
“You are the only exception to this belief,” he said. “And I only let you go because of your unique status—and loveliness.”
The butterflies were fluttering again despite her fear. She couldn’t stop them. All her emotions were beyond her control.
You fool no one but yourself.
“Now enjoy yourself,” Robert said. “And be careful. Perhaps later I’ll join you. I can only drink wine by myself in bed for so long.”
Herakleia released a peal of laughter, then stopped herself by turning and leaving his room. As she walked the hallways in search of a coat and spoke with the servants, she sensed that all of them knew. They all bowed to her and addressed her as mademoiselle la princesse, even the Romans and Sarakenoi, in addition to the guards. She also sensed that they were grinning at each other the moment she turned her back. Their tones sounded ironic. Even the hunting dogs Terrible and Horrible looked at her with a newfound recognition.
It was no different in the city. She had ignored Robert’s advice and gone on foot, since in her opinion the streets were too narrow and crowded for horses, and the citadel’s Latin ladies-in-waiting all said they were too busy to join her—almost certainly because they belonged to Sikelgaita. In the citadel courtyard where the workers had fought the last battle for the uprising, the foreign soldiers bowed to her, as did her own comrades, who were now serving the new regime, and looking far more tired and miserable than when they had drawn swords by her side.
It was snowing. She shivered, and clutched her new coat—warm glorious mink so expensive it could purchase half a city—close to the blue satin dress that clung to her body.
Beyond the citadel gate in the Upper Town, Trebizond seemed a different place. Inside the doorway to the former hospital—now Notre-Dame de Trabzon—monks were chanting Latin, and warm fires were roaring. Outside the church doorway, however, wounded beggars clad in rags shivered as they stretched out their hands and bowed their heads, with many Romans and Latins walking by and ignoring them. Even old Gabras was among these; his mansion, across from the church, had been given to Ziani and the Venetians, and was no longer a school. Herakleia also recognized some beggars from the Workers' Army. One looked like Qutalmish, but turned out to be someone else. She thrust her hands into her pockets in search of coins, but she had none. Not to be stopped, she returned to the citadel and looked for money to give the beggars. None could be found anywhere except in Robert’s chambers—the sacks of coins she had spotted earlier in the office.
Yet when Herakleia threw open the office door, she heard someone in the bedroom groaning. Behind the bedroom door, which she opened quietly and only a crack, she saw Robert gritting his teeth, his face reddening, his muscles flexing and his veins bulging as he fucked Ra'isa. She was still wearing her serving clothes—he had lifted her dress—and her face was dull, like she was trying to forget her pain, telling herself that it would last only a little longer. Herakleia had thought the same when Paul the Chain was torturing her.
I can make it just a few more minutes, she had thought for hour after hour, day after day. A few minutes from now it'll be over…
Yet the first emotion that came to Herakleia was not horror that Robert was having sex with her friend. Instead, to Herakleia’s surprise, she felt jealousy. For a moment, she stared at Ra'isa and Robert, and clutched her fists, but neither person noticed. Herakleia had forgotten why she had even come here, but she forced herself to remember—if anything, to keep herself from killing them both. She closed the door, and with tears burning her eyes thrust her hands into the nearest sack of coins, stuffing the money stamped with the usurper’s face into the pockets of her mink coat. Then she was outside again giving it to the beggars, who thanked her and blessed her, crying out for joy so that everyone walking by turned to see. People even poked their heads out of doorways and windows to watch. Helping the beggars distracted Herakleia from her anger.
Entering the scalding hot church—the heat from the fires rushing out the open doorway like dragon’s breath—she gestured for the beggars to join her. The moment they entered, the singing stopped. Bishop Herluin of Bayeux, decked in all the finery of his office, pointed his crozier at Herakleia and shouted in Latin or Gaulish or some other barbarous language. She ignored him, but he kept shouting, and his priests and monks rushed toward Herakleia and the beggars and forced them toward the doorway. When she refused to leave, some priests left to get help, but even when guards arrived she held her ground, telling the beggars to keep together. She hugged them as best she could, which prevented the guards from hurting them. They were afraid to touch her, since they knew Robert favored her. Everyone knew.
Hilduin Venator left to get Robert himself. Robert arrived within minutes, his hair messy, his face still flushed, his breath reeking of wine. He had thrown on a few clothes before running out.
“What is the meaning of this?” he said to Herakleia.
“Forgive me, monsieur le duc,” she said. “I was just trying to—”
“I cannot trust you with anything. I set you free, I am magnanimous, and this is how you repay me.” He stepped closer, and whispered to her. “If you embarrass me further, I will return you to your room. I can fuck any woman I desire. I have already fucked you. You are not so special. I have tasted finer grapes.”
She gaped at him. His words were like a punch in the gut.
“You need me,” she whispered back. “You need me to take the throne—”
“The emperor is weak,” he said. “Marriage is but one path to greatness. Many more lie open to me.”
“No, Robert—”
“I swear by Holy God, princess,” he whispered. “One more act of disobedience is all it takes. I have been so patient with you. Now apologize to the good bishop and then leave this place with me. You will not get another chance.”
She looked to the bishop—with his mitre, chasuble, and crozier—horrified at the idea that she would ever have to apologize to anyone who dressed like this.
“In French or Latin,” Robert said. “Not in Greek.”
“I don’t know how.”
“It’s désolé,” Robert said.
Swallowing drily, Herakleia met Bishop Herluin’s eyes, then bowed. “Désolé, monsieur le bishop.”
He pursed his lips. Herakleia stepped away from the beggars. The guards hurled them out the doorway and onto the icy street. There they groaned, and their coins fell ringing from their pockets. Before the beggars could pick them up, ragged children rushed in, grabbed the coins, and ran off. Too weak to give chase, the beggars cried and smashed the pavement with their fists.
Robert saw all of this as he walked out with Herakleia, Hilduin Venator, and the other guards by his side.
“You provided them with this currency, did you not?” he said to her.
She bowed her head in silence. Back inside the church, the priests and monks resumed singing as though nothing had happened.
Robert chuckled. “Ah, but you are quite absurd. Just look at the confusion you have caused! My dear princess, how many times will I have to explain? You must let the natural order assert itself! If you disrupt the way things are, all you receive is chaos!”
Herakleia remained silent, but tears were burning her eyes. Before long she found herself back in her room, though the door was unlocked, and a fire was in the hearth. She sat by the window and stared at the city, furious in her disappointment, yet still planning revenge.