With no idea of what to do, Herakleia returned to the Northeast Gate and dismissed her guard, who bowed and said oui, mademoiselle la princesse. She walked away, then looked back and saw him with his friends, who were laughing as he thrusted his hips and, with his hands, mimed the act of fucking her. Herakleia was disgusted.
I’ve been naive about men, she thought. In the old world, I was a man. I had heard stories about men catcalling prepubescent girls, teenagers, and women, but it’s one thing to hear about it, another to experience it.
Slowly wandering the city, she found herself back inside the citadel. The banqueting hall was roaring so loudly with conversation and laughter she could hear it from the courtyard. Although she told herself to stay away, she was unable to resist the urge to see who was there, and to find out what they were discussing. Maybe if she spied on them, she could pass on important information to the underground.
What underground? she thought. There is no underground! Or if there is, they’re keeping away from me.
The banqueting hall doorway was flanked by two guards, who bowed their heads at her approach. She stood beside one, doing her best to keep the banqueters from seeing her. Robert was sitting at the head of the table, carousing as always while clutching his favorite fluted glass goblet sloshing with wine, making such violent motions with his enormous hands that he spilled onto Terrible and Horrible, who were sitting nearby, watching his every movement while wagging their tails.
Bohemund and Sikelgaita sat at his sides looking glum. Sometimes Robert would declare that he loved Bohemund and Sikelgaita, and couldn’t be happier or more proud of them. His wife and son, in response, thanked Robert repeatedly for his kindness. Within moments, this cycle would then repeat.
Bishop Herluin—sitting next to Bohemund, and dressed in a plain black cassock—was, meanwhile, expounding on the pointless stubbornness of the schismatics.
Do colonizers talk about anything except how much they hate the colonized?
When Robert once again mentioned how proud he was of his family, Herluin spoke to him in Gaulish with a warning tone.
“Immodest!” Robert exclaimed. “But my good bishop, there is no reason for either of them to be modest! And no reason for me to be modest, either!”
Herluin clasped his hands together as if in prayer, then said something.
“I have no regrets,” Robert said in Roman. “I love life, and everything in it.”
Bored by these exchanges, Herakleia turned her attention to Doge Enrico Ziano. A gaunt nonagenarian whose eyes were like glowing white marbles, he sat across from Herluin. Although he was blind, Herakleia suspected that he saw more clearly than most people. He was also a contrarian, and so anxious for debate that he could barely wait for anyone to utter a word at the table before he jumped in to explain why they were wrong, regardless of what they said. Sometimes he would even mention that he was arguing out of boredom. One minute he would support an idea, but if it gained majority support, he would then change sides.
The old man was sharp, but annoying. Herakleia wondered if he had debated his way to the top of the Venetian oligarchy, their councils of ten, twenty, one hundred and twenty, and on and on. All he wanted was to show off his logical skills.
Ra’isa was sweating as she brought in an enormous platter of food and took another empty platter away, doing her best to avoid the attention of the dogs. Robert thanked her by patting her rear. She was assisted by Joseph the serving boy, whose every movement was followed hungrily by Bishop Herluin’s eyes. The bishop never looked away whenever the serving boy was present.
I can’t take any more of these dinners, Herakleia thought. My life has been nothing but dinners and conversations since the defeat.
It was clear, too, that none of the Latins had the slightest interest in her opinions. You could either gossip with them, or support their ideas. That was it. If you disagreed, they would change the subject. And if you persisted, they would throw you out—at the very least.
Having nothing better to do, Herakleia returned to her cold gray room of stone.
Here again.
It used to be a cozy place where she would study, do paperwork, rest, sometimes see her friends. Looking through the window, she had been able to see the amazing progress the city was making outside, one brick and beam of wood at a time. The people out there would even occasionally be singing. What was that beautiful song the Jewish Trapezuntines sang about Moses when they were hanging the laundry outside? “Moses went out of Egypt, fleeing King Pharaoh…”
Now she hated her room. What did this place mean except inaction? What did it mean except stewing in self-hatred?
Freed from the physical prison, still in the mental prison.
She was trapped. Since the defeat she had found herself standing like a fool in this room multiple times, unsure of whether to light the hearth, lie down in bed, or sit at her table.
None of it mattered. Her people were in chains. Her pain made it difficult to think of anything other than how much she despised herself. She also suspected she had forgotten important things, but—naturally—had no idea what they were. It all exhausted her.
There must have been a way out of this situation, but it was beyond her knowledge. Everything had an antithesis. For every disease there was a cure.
Someone knocked at the door. Herakleia opened it to Ra’isa.
“His Grace wants mademoiselle la princesse in banqueting hall.” Ra’isa curtsied.
“Ra’isa.” Herakleia eyed Hilduin Venator, the guard who had taken Chlotar’s place by her door. “Come here—I need you to clean something for me. There’s a terrible mess.”
“But mademoiselle—”
“How dare you argue with the lady of the castle?” Herakleia pulled Ra’isa inside and shut the door.
“I want to help you,” Herakleia whispered. “I want to be on your side.”
“Sorry,” Ra’isa whispered back, “I don’t know what mademoiselle la princesse speaks of—”
“Don’t do this to me! You know exactly what I’m talking about!”
Herakleia glared at Ra’isa, who kept her eyes low. Again the temptation arose within Herakleia to have Robert punish her—but Herakleia suppressed it.
“What do I have to do?” Herakleia said. “How can I prove myself to you?”
Ra’isa looked up, and for a moment her eyes gleamed like a warrior’s.
“Something that makes them hate you forever,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You must kill a Latin.”
“I’ve already killed Latins! Or did you forget? I was in charge during the siege! We could have surrendered without a fight, but I—”
“That is past,” Ra’isa said. “Now, in this new situation, you act confused, when the path is clear. Many think you a traitor. You must prove yourself.”
“But if I kill one of them—they might kill me!”
Ra’isa laughed. “That is revolutionary suicide. That is how to live forever. It is as the Christians say. One seed, if it dies alone, does nothing. But if it dies in the ground, it brings much fruit—a thousand seeds, and each of those brings forth a thousand more. A man who loves his life dies forever; a man who hates his life lives forever. Are you afraid you will find yourself in hell, when you finally perish, or will your actions merit the reward of paradise? And do not forget: there are many Trapezuntines, and not many Latins. If we kill one Latin, it is a greater loss to them than if they kill ten, a hundred Trapezuntines.”
“More Latins will come,” Herakleia said. “More are already on their way.”
“They do not come here to labor. They come here to steal our labor. If they kill us all, they have no reason to come to Trebizond.”
“Ra’isa—”
“The Latins are lazy. They are fools. Look at how they let us talk like this alone in your room—because they think themselves gods, when they are only men. To kill one Latin soldier will be easy for you. The real difficulty is in your mind. It is not just fear of punishment that stops you. You are tempted by all this wealth and finery. Who would not be? But you must know that if you surrender to temptation, you will always be a traitor. The Latins will always think you beneath them. Even if you bark when they say ‘bark,’ even if you heel, even if you do tricks, you are still a dog in their eyes—no different from Robert’s hunting dogs. And to us, you will always be a traitor if you stay here whining about your fears. You cannot win unless you join us. Your comforts mean nothing if you have lost your honor. Right now you think you are rich, but the truth is you have nothing to lose, and a world to win, a real paradise, an earthly paradise to regain.”
Herakleia’s shoulders fell.
“You thought it will be easy?” Ra’isa said. “No, it is hard. And as you destroy them, you will also destroy this new self, this miserable mademoiselle la princesse. They use violence to hold us in chains. Only violence can break them. We must meet their violence with violence, with risk. I take a risk—I risk my life—just telling you. Already you have forgotten. Already the charms of the Latins have changed you.”
“I had no trouble fighting before,” Herakleia said. “I’ve killed before. I’ve been in situations where I almost got killed. But nothing has ever been this hard. In the past, the Romans tried to break me with torture…but here the Latins are trying to break me with pleasure.”
“It is an illusion,” Ra’isa said. “The bread you eat is worker flesh. The wine you drink is slave blood.”
Herakleia looked at her. Had Ra’isa read her thoughts?
“Now you must come with me,” Ra’isa said. “The duke will beat us if we are late. He will grow suspicious. We speak here too long.”
Nodding silently, Herakleia followed Ra’isa back to the banqueting hall. Yet a thought came to Herakleia, and she stopped in the cold dark stone corridor, where they were alone save for the echoing laughter, and the howling of the hunting dogs.
“I’m sorry,” Herakleia whispered to Ra’isa. “Sorry that he hurt you.”
Ra’isa turned and looked at her.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“I saw you.” It took all Herakleia’s strength to utter the next sentence. “He raped you.”
Ra’isa nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Herakleia said.
They hugged each other tightly.
“You’re my sister,” Herakleia whispered. “I’ll die for you.”
“Easy to say, hard to prove.” Ra’isa pulled back. “He raped me, yes, but I have kept my honor. I will take revenge. I will make him wish he had never looked at any woman. And the true rape, sister, is the rape of our city. Our people.”
Herakleia looked at Ra’isa, unable to believe how strong she was.
Maybe she should have been our leader, Herakleia thought. I would follow her into hell…
You, too, are strong, Ra’isa thought. And we are already in hell. Have you forgotten the farr?
Herakleia gaped. Of course! That was what had escaped her grasp! Her farr had fallen to 1/00—so low that it had weakened her both physically and mentally, to the point where she was unable to recall her own abilities. But now Ra’isa had reminded her. This mere act made Herakleia’s power grow. The game voice announced that her farr was ticking up to 6/100.
“Now we must go,” Ra’isa said.
Herakleia nodded. They both wiped their eyes, took deep breaths, fixed their hair, and checked one another’s appearances. Then they entered the banqueting hall. Robert and Bohemund cheered at Herakleia’s entrance and asked where she’d been. Sikelgaita was quiet, and Bishop Herluin scowled at her. Ziani nodded and smiled.
Herakleia sat at the table, eating, drinking, talking, and listening—all politely—as Ra’isa served the Latins their food and drink.
When the long lunch ended, Robert brought Herakleia to his room and slept with her. As all of this happened, she kept thinking of what Ra’isa had said. Even while Robert was mounting her and kissing her ear, Herakleia thought of how she needed to kill him.
It would throw the Latins into chaos, she thought.
Robert himself was so overcome with hunger, thirst, and lust that he never noticed how absent she was, though this must have been partly because she had become a better actor. It took little to please a man—a moan here, a caress there.
Yet after all this miserable wandering in her mental prison, Herakleia had finally found—thanks to Ra’isa—a way out.
When Robert had finished, and was lying beside her, she was thinking of how this would be the perfect moment to break his neck. No guards were present. The problem was his strength. Even if she used the farr, he could overpower her. And so she began to think of how she might poison him, though this thought horrified her and seemed dishonorable.
Let me attack him quickly, she thought. Let me make sure he knows that I was the one who killed him.
For a moment, she hesitated, unsure that she was really going to do this. Was it wrong to kill a man like this? No. If he lived, he would kill more people, all in the name of being able to wine and dine and talk all day, every day.
But she also had no escape plan. She would need to leave quickly and quietly, telling the Latin guards to let Robert sleep. That might give her a head start. Then she could hide somewhere in the city.
“…ah, but that was quite lovely, quite wonderful.” Robert’s eyes were shut with bliss. How long had he been talking? “I do so love this place. It is like heaven, where the women throw themselves at you wherever you go. They are insatiate cormorants, these women. How I love them so. You know, what that eunuch—Paul, his name was—what he said about you when first we met in the courtyard during the siege—it is true. You have put a spell on me, you enchantress.”
Suddenly she climbed on top of him, and placed him inside herself. His eyes flashed open.
“Oh, so you would care for more?” He seized her hips with his huge, strong hands. “I am more than happy to oblige you as often as you please! It seemed today your mind was elsewhere, but perhaps I was mistaken to think as much…”
“It was elsewhere.” She ground her pelvis against him and groaned with delight as he grew harder. “I was thinking all day about how to take back Trebizond.”
Robert laughed. “Ah, but what a funny woman you are! These comments of yours, they are très amusant!”
“The good thing is,” she leaned forward to kiss him and felt the most powerful orgasm of her life building within her, “I finally found a way, Robert, to take revenge for all you’ve done.”
Before he could react, the orgasm made her scream as she gripped his body and rocked her thighs against his. Worried that she would lose her nerve even as the waves of pleasure rolled over her, she grasped his head, and began to twist it on his shoulders. Sensing the danger, Robert tried to shove her off, but she held on with her strong legs, and resisted with the farr swelling her muscles, using up one point, leaving her with only 5/100.
“This is for me,” she gasped. “This is for Ra’isa. For my sister Zoë. For my father. For Qutalmish. And for all the people you hurt when you came here.”
“Princess—”
“Never forget, when you are burning in hell, that I was the one who sent you!”
Herakleia twisted all the way, her strength surging with the farr, and Robert’s neck bone cracked beneath her hands. Instantly he went limp, and his eyes faded.
Herakleia fell away and gasped beside his body, feeling better than she had in a week. Nothing was more satisfying than slaying a monster. The game voice announced that her mêlée combat skill had leveled up to Beginner (2/10). She turned to look at Robert, sorry that such a beautiful man needed to die.
If only he hadn’t been such a bastard, she thought.
With no time to lose, she got up, pushed him onto his side so that it looked like he was sleeping, and covered him with his blanket. Then she dressed herself and walked out, closing his bedroom door. In the office she again noticed the unguarded sacks of gold, and stuffed the pockets of her mink coat with coins.
They’ll come in handy later! In her nervous excitement, she almost cackled with laughter.
She returned to the corridor and told Hilduin Venator standing outside that monsieur le duc was sleeping and should be left undisturbed. His answer—oui, mademoiselle la princesse—made her feel so happy she almost jumped for joy.
What is this new empowerment? she wondered. This new strength?
On her way out of the palace, Herakleia ran into Sikelgaita, who was walking somewhere with three ladies-in-waiting—all of whom looked like less-beautiful versions of Sikelgaita herself, but with differently colored hair and dresses, and less muscle.
“Where are you going?” Sikelgaita said, blocking Herakleia’s path.
“Oh, uh, I was just looking for you, actually,” Herakleia stammered. “Duke Robert told me he needs to talk with you about something.”
“About what?” Sikelgaita glanced at her ladies-in-waiting.
“I think he mentioned something about how you’ve been spending too much money on clothes,” Herakleia said.
“On clothes,” Sikelgaita said. “Absurd.”
She walked past Herakleia, and her ladies-in-waiting followed.
When they had gone, Herakleia sighed with relief.
Hopefully now Sikelgaita will avoid him, she thought.
Herakleia approached the citadel entrance, and saw the courtyard beyond, the open gate that led to the Upper City, and freedom. Just a few Latin guards stood in the chilly gray air blocking her way. Spotting them made her pause. What would they do when they learned about Robert?
Ra’isa doesn’t know I offed him, she thought. And the boy in the kitchen, Joseph—he doesn’t know, either. When the Latins find out, they’ll go into a killing frenzy.
Herakleia needed to find Ra’isa and Joseph. She returned to the citadel’s dark bowels, even though with every step she felt terrified that the Latins would discover Robert’s death. In the hot kitchen she found the journeymen and apprentices cooking twenty meals at once. Thrusting food into the oven or pulling it out, they stirred stew in an enormous cauldron that bubbled atop a whirling fire, chopping or sautéing onions, flipping sizzling ingredients in a pan above leaping flames, plucking feathers from chickens whose blood had already drained away through slits in their necks. As the apprentices and journeymen worked, light flickered on dark walls, flashing in steam and smoke.
The only difference now was the presence of Bishop Herluin, a man who seemed to avoid getting near workers whenever possible. Something special had brought him to the kitchen, however. His hands rested on the young boy Joseph’s shoulders, and he was arguing with Guillaume le Chef in Gaulish, sometimes lifting one hand from the boy to make a point, though he never lifted both hands away. Joseph’s resigned facial expression reminded Herakleia of Ra’isa in Robert’s chambers.
The bishop is trying to take the boy.
Herakleia stepped forward, having no idea of what she was going to say, especially because neither man understood Roman. Her Intermediate Charismatic skill was almost useless in a situation like this. But should she fight? The kitchen’s fires blazed in the metal reflections of the knives that were dangling everywhere. Guillaume’s assistants might have resented him, but would they join a random woman attacking him out of nowhere?
Doubtful.
Somehow she needed to distract both of these men and then rescue the boy. But what could she do? Shouting, ordering food, pretending to faint—none of that would work. And she was starting to look even more foolish than usual, standing in the kitchen staring at them as the workers bustled about their tasks.
Just then Terrible and Horrible strode in through the entrance with the haughtiness of kings. They sat politely behind Guillaume, turning their heads in tandem with his waving hands as he shouted in Gaulish at Bishop Herluin. Herakleia, thinking fast, leaned over and grabbed a hunk of roasted salt pork from a nearby table and threw it at the huge cauldron boiling atop the fire. The bone rang against the metal, and the dogs leaped toward the meat—yapping, rolling over each other and pushing the cauldron to the side so that it spilled boiling stew onto the floor.
“Non!” Guillaume shouted. “Ah, non, ma soupe du jour!”
He ran to the cauldron, but it was too late. Still fighting over the meat, the dogs knocked over the cauldron entirely this time—yelping as they touched the hot iron—and all the stew spilled onto the flames, dousing them and filling the kitchen with even more smoke and steam. Guillaume was yelling and kicking the dogs, who howled with pain, their tones and facial expressions seeming to say: how could you do this to us?
The apprentices and journeymen, meanwhile, were grabbing oven mitts, righting the cauldron, and swearing. Tabernacle was one oath Herakleia could distinguish.
In the chaos, Bishop Herluin lifted both hands from Joseph’s shoulders and clutched his head, saying: “Ah, mondieu, mondieu!” At this moment, Herakleia rushed in, snatched the boy’s hand, and led him out of the kitchen.
“Hey, lady,” Joseph said as they ran along the hallway past several guards, all of whom were moving the other way to the kitchen. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace safe,” Herakleia answered.
“Aren’t you the strategos?” Joseph said.
“I was,” she answered.
“You really messed up,” he said. “I hate my job. I want to go back to school!”
“You’d be right at home where I come from.”
The next step was to find Ra’isa. There were other Roman slaves in the citadel, but helping these two was the best Herakleia could do for now. Every moment that passed increased the chance that Robert would be discovered.
As she rushed through the citadel corridors searching for Ra’isa with Joseph, the coins she had stolen rang in her pockets, making her feel self-conscious.
“Are you rich?” Joseph blurted.
She stopped and looked at him, and was about to answer his question, but then realized that he might know where Ra’isa was.
“Have you seen Dekarch Ra’isa by any chance?” she said. “She’s the serving girl with the tattooed hands.”
“I know who you mean. She might be in the stables. I see her there sometimes when I’m carrying wood.”
“That’s as good a guess as any. Come on!”
They rushed out of the citadel and into the courtyard, then walked quickly toward the stables, Joseph complaining all the while that he was cold and had no coat. Herakleia kept her eye on the guards, anxious to avoid drawing attention. In the stables, she found Ra’isa sweeping horse dung in one of the stalls. Other servants—all Latins—hung around the entrance, staring at Ra’isa and elbowing each other.
“Good job,” Herakleia whispered to Joseph.
“Why are you whispering?” he said.
“Quiet!”
Still clutching his hand, Herakleia approached Ra’isa.
“Hey,” she murmured, eyeing the Latin servants behind them. “We have to go.”
Ra’isa looked at her. “What are you—”
“I did it.” Herakleia leaned in close so that no one else could hear. “I killed Robert.”
Ra’isa’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“Still think I’m a traitor?”
“Who else knows?”
“You’re the first. But the longer we stay here—”
“The guards will not let us go.” Ra’isa looked at the Latin servants. “They are also guards.”
“Follow me,” Herakleia said.
Together with Joseph they left the stables, with the Latin servants watching. At the gate to the Upper Town, the guard standing there blocked their way and then spoke Gaulish, finishing with the words mademoiselle la princesse.
“Uh, I’m taking my friend to the apothecary,” Herakleia said. “She isn’t feeling well. Please let us pass.”
The guard repeated what he had said a moment earlier. The Latin servants, meanwhile, were emerging from the stables and shouting at them. A woman also screamed from a window high up in the citadel. It sounded like Sikelgaita.
She’s found him!
Herakleia pulled a fistful of coins from her pocket and threw them on the ground behind her. As they rang and flashed, the guard rushed over to pick them up, and was soon fighting off the other Latin servants. Clutching both Ra’isa’s hand and Joseph’s, Herakleia led them through the gate, even as horns from the citadel blasted warnings across Trebizond.