Narses had been trapped inside with Romanos and Marianos for days. At this point his two companions were beyond getting on his nerves; Narses was ready to kill them. Romanos, almost fully recovered, was moving about the house and snapping at Narses whenever he opened his mouth. The boy had neither decency nor respect, and yet Narses found himself unable to respond. Had his officers quipped at him like this, Narses would have hacked their heads from their shoulders and drunk their souls. But with Romanos, all Narses could do was answer his rudeness with silence.
Marianos, meanwhile, bickered with them both, yet continued to feed them with his dwindling food stores, often hinting that Narses could repay him by spending a little time outside in the freezing cold watching the other signal towers. At first Narses refused, but he was getting so tired of this place that almost anything would have been better than lying on that fetid couch, arguing with a surly youth on one side and an old man set in his ways on the other.
Stuck in the middle with you, Narses thought. That was the name of a song in the old world, wasn’t it?
To make matters worse, none of the snow outside had melted. Narses and Romanos were trapped in Marianos’s house. And once the snows did melt—many months from now—how difficult was leaving going to be? The Kerasos Signal Tower was built here to be isolated and inaccessible. It was a miracle Narses and Romanos had found it to begin with.
A sign, perhaps, that God has not forsaken me.
Now Narses was standing at the top of the tower, wrapped in almost every robe and cloak Marianos possessed, shivering and cursing all the fools who had ever betrayed him while the frigid wind whipped past. His only consolation was the vast surrounding landscape. The sky and sea were blue, the mountains were white, and Narses could just discern the two other distant signal towers. One lay eastward, the other westward, and both were built on impossible cliffs of the Paryadres Mountains that overlooked the Pontic Sea. Neither of the other towers had flared to life since Narses’s arrival. Marianos had said to shout if they flashed with flames.
Back in Konstantinopolis, guards on duty would have fires burning in braziers to keep warm, but such things were forbidden here; the other signal towers might mistake the flames for messages.
The signal and the noise. That was what the old world called it.
The signal lighters were so vigilant that they could confuse sunlight flashing off polished steel armor many stadia away for news of an invasion. They were specially chosen, too, for their sharp eyes, though sometimes these eyes could be too sharp—and indeed, in Narses’s opinion, much sharper than the minds of the men they belonged to.
Behind Narses at the center of the tower was a strange sort of iron kiln. As large as a person, it was filled with firewood, though its inner walls were lined with polished brass—for reflecting and intensifying the light inside—and the little door used for stoking it could be rapidly opened and closed using a lever. The kiln could also be rotated to face any direction, day or night, cloudy or sunny. This was how Marianos relayed messages across Romanía. Narses was tempted to use the kiln to warm himself, but Marianos had threatened to kill him if he mocked his life’s purpose like this.
It had been years since Narses had done guard duty. In Narses’s previous life as palace excubitor, he had been bored of dozing off beside locked doors, leaning on a spear or a shield half as heavy as he was, snapping to attention whenever Good Emperor Anastasios or his family or officials or any of the scheming eunuchs walked by. They almost always ignored him, like he was a part of the palace decorations, a vague shape in the background. Since then, they had learned their lessons.
The background had come to life.
And now, just like in the palace, Narses was dozing off again, leaning on the tower’s cold kiln. To sleep standing at attention with one’s eyes open was a skill cultivated by all guards, but Narses was so out of practice that he had forgotten this crucial ability. Plus, the cold kept him awake.
He was getting close to giving up on his duty here. What was the point of this—of anything? No matter what he did, he failed. All his men save Romanos were dead. He had even lost Xanthos, his beloved war horse, in the Siege of Trebizond.
Narses was so weary…so much time had passed since the farr had surged in his veins. He felt like he had quit drugs or alcohol cold turkey. More than once he considered throwing himself off the tower and into the sea. It seemed to loom up around the horizon and beckon him with its sweetness. A quick, terrifying plunge past the seagulls soaring among the cliffs and laughing at him, then the waves would break him, and he would sink into that liquid ice, losing consciousness in its embrace.
No. He stood back up again. I will work harder. I will perfect my skills. I will triumph over all my adversaries. I will crush them. And His Majesty will praise me above all others.
He yearned more than anything to get back to Konstantinopolis and see His Majesty again—to prove his worth.
That was when Narses spotted the sail. Though at first it appeared as no more than a white point at the intersection of cliff, sea, and sky to the west, he soon saw that it was a Latin galley, of that he was certain even from a distance. Narses had good eyes—good everything, great everything, as a matter of fact. The ship was hugging the coast so closely the sailors aboard could have jumped from the deck to the cliffs. They must have been more frightened of the open sea than the dangerous shoals hiding beneath the waves.
Were they merchants? Narses had not seen a ship in weeks. It was too cold, and clear sky could turn to storm at any moment. Sailing at this time of year was madness. And besides, the wind was blowing the wrong way. It blew from east to west in wintertime. You could only proceed in the opposite direction by tacking against it. And as Narses watched, the Latin ship drifted away from shore. They were zigzagging. Tacking.
It’s tiring to sail like that, Narses thought. Most merchants don’t bother. These ones here must really want to get to wherever they’re going.
As the vessel came closer, he noticed that its white lateen sail was painted with a huge red crucifix. A pennant waved from the top of the mast.
Christians, he thought. A relief. But of what kind of Christian they are, whether right or schismatic, I cannot say.
Then he spotted more ships tacking behind the first—an endless line of enormous galleys. It must have been the Latin armada Marianos had mentioned. Narses had barely believed the old man, thinking that he had been rambling about this nonsense in order to avoid dwelling on Romanía’s troubles. But Marianos had been right. A fleet was coming to destroy the Trapezuntine criminals. The ones who had murdered Narses’s brothers would finally pay.
He descended the watchtower’s wooden ladder, so excited he almost leaped a distance of twenty paces in his ill-fitting boots, which he had borrowed from Marianos. Then he struggled through the snow and crashed through the door to the house. Romanos and Marianos were inside, huddled over the roaring fireplace. They both looked at Narses and shouted: “Close the door!”
“The fleet has come,” Narses said.
Both the boy and the old man came outside with Narses, forsaking the scalding air of that well-built house for the biting winds that cut through their flesh and chilled the marrow in their bones. They were barefoot and clothed in plain garments; Narses still wore Marianos’s only pair of boots. Now they all climbed the ladder and stood there peering westward, too distracted to notice the cold.
“Latins,” Marianos mumbled.
Both Narses and Romanos looked at him.
“The light of Christendom,” Marianos continued, “of peace and justice, luminous and pure like the white snow in the sun, like the avenging archangels, they’re coming to send these black demons of Trebizond, these slit-eyed ogres back to the hell from whence they came! God will that they stay true to their just cause!”
“You’ve seen nothing like this in all your life, old man?” Narses said.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Marianos blinked and then looked at him, as though waking from a dream. “What was that?”
Narses repeated his question.
Marianos smiled as though drunk. “Not in all my days. No, I have never seen a fleet so magnificent. May all the world quail before the approach of such a sacred host.”
“Numbers don’t matter if they don’t know how to fight,” Romanos said, turning to Narses. “Didn’t you learn that last time you fought these criminals you hate so much, these weak pathetic idiots who keep beating you for some reason?”
“We had too few men for a proper siege,” Narses said. “I can see that now. The logothete Paul Katena warned me of such things, may his soul rest in peace.”
“You mean that creep who was always cracking jokes about you behind your back?” Romanos said. “I thought you hated that guy.”
“I have forgiven him his trespasses,” Narses said.
“Did you see him die?”
“No one could have survived such a calamity,” Narses said. “Or have you already forgotten? I barely escaped. A metal ball was embedded in my shoulder. You had fallen on the battlefield. Paul Katena and all the rest must have perished. And I am sorry for it. I could use his advice now.”
“I don’t know, it seemed like you were about to kill that guy pretty much every time you talked with him,” Romanos said.
“You’re mistaken,” Narses said. “You foolish, misguided child.”
“Hey, speaking of mistakes, last time I checked, I wasn’t the one in charge of an entire army that got destroyed by a few hundred peasants last summer.”
“Be silent,” Narses growled. “Learn from your elders.”
“All I’m learning from you is what not to do,” Romanos said.
As they watched the approaching armada, Narses realized that this was his way to escape. This was the way out of Marianos’s home as well as Narses’s wanderings through the mountains. Months of failure were about to end. This was the turning point—if only Narses could join the Latin fleet. But how could this be done? By the time he figured out how to descend the cliffs to the sea, the armada would be gone. They might not even see him.
“I must light the signal fire,” Narses said.
Marianos turned to him. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“I must signal them,” Narses said.
“You can just wave your hands and shout!”
Narses looked at Marianos, then climbed down the ladder and rushed to the other side of the house, where a sturdy wooden crane held a rope connected to a large bucket that could be lowered all the way to the bottom of the cliffs. This was how Marianos was resupplied every few months. By now the ships were passing beneath Marianos’s house, though they were so far down Narses was unsure if he could even see the sailors. He screamed at them as loudly as he could, but there was no way they heard him over the white waves roaring against the cliffs.
Yet another terrible idea from Marianos, he thought.
Narses again considered lighting the signal fire, but the Latins would never see it. They were too far down. Besides, even if they noticed the flames, would they understand that someone was signaling them? Narses also had no idea how to send these kinds of messages. The work was for commoners, not important renaissance men with superior intellects and achievements like Narses.
This left one choice. Marianos needed to lower Narses and Romanos to those ships in the large bucket attached to the rope.
Narses returned to Marianos—who by now was back inside his warm house with Romanos—and told the signal lighter his idea.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Marianos said.
Narses frowned. “You enjoy refusing requests, do you not?”
“It’s madness,” Marianos said. “Sheer madness. Either the rope or the crane will break. There’s no way I can support such a weight as yours.”
“Old man, have you not told me a dozen times about how you use that device to lift your food from the supply ship into your home?”
“You weigh much more than that,” Marianos said. “I also do the lifting in installments. Small loads. It takes a long time to get all the food up here, what with my arthritis.”
Narses groaned. I will never escape this place.
Romanos looked back at the two older men while warming himself by the fire. “I agree with Marianos. It’s a terrible idea.”
“Of course you agree,” Narses said. “Anything to denigrate the man who saved your life.”
Romanos laughed. “You ruined my life. You didn’t save it. You destroyed my home, kidnapped me from my family, and enslaved them—remember?”
“Now wait just a minute.” Marianos eyed Romanos. “I may have to reconsider.”
Romanos seemed to be holding his breath, like he was restraining himself for some reason.
Marianos turned to Narses. “We can try to lower you with the crane. But I warn you—I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“It is better than languishing here for the rest of the winter.” Narses picked up his sword belt and wrapped it around his clothes. “Come, let us go.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something, domestikos?” Marianos said.
Narses ignored him.
“My clothes. My boots. I need them.”
Narses paused. “You must understand—”
“I’m not lowering you to those boats unless you give me back my clothes and boots!”
“You remember the state we were in when we came here,” Narses said. “We have no clothes of our own.”
“How is that my problem, domestikos?”
“I will have the sailors send up clothes or money after you lower me down.”
Marianos laughed. “You are a fool for thinking me such a fool, old boy!”
“I cannot return to my men without clothes, Marianos.”
“Once more, I dare to ask: how is that my problem?”
“You are a citizen of Rome,” Narses said. “All good Romans must work together to destroy the traitors at home and the barbarians seeking to invade us from foreign lands. Both groups work together to destroy Romanía and replace the Roman people with their own savage hordes. And I cannot stop them if I lack shoes, old man!”
“I mean no offense, but it seems as though Rome is getting along just fine without you, domestikos. Witness the Latin armada outside my door!”
Yet again, Narses wanted to kill Marianos. But then who would lower him and the boy to the ships? It was a terrible dilemma.
Then an idea occurred to him.
Narses stepped toward Marianos, drew his Almaqah blade, and stabbed him—hard—in his eye.
Critical hit! the game voice shouted, seeming surprised. Narses was already a master swordsman, so the XP he gained from the successful attack made little difference.
Marianos screamed and fell to the floor, covered in blood, clutching the sword stuck in his face. As he writhed there like the pathetic vermin that he was, Narses got on top of him and drank his soul. Then Marianos was still and silent.
The Mother of God ikon on the shelf seemed to watch with disapproval.
Narses stood to his full height, flexed his muscles, and groaned with pleasure. It felt good to have the farr flowing through his veins again.
Your farr has been recharged to 50/100, the voice said.
Looks like the old man didn’t have much soul left, Narses thought. Still, it’ll suit our purposes.
Romanos, meanwhile, had gasped and stepped back, too shocked to speak.
Narses extracted the sword from Marianos’s face and wiped off the blood on the old man’s clothes. Sheathing the blade, he looked to Romanos, who took another step back, trembling while he stared wide-eyed at Marianos.
“Do you know how to fly?” Narses said.
Startled, Romanos looked at him. “What?”
“I tire of repeating myself.”
“I don’t—I don’t know how to fly—”
“Have you no quips for me now, boy? No criticisms or complaints? No jokes at my expense?”
Narses seized Romanos by the wrist and pulled him toward the door. Romanos, however, pulled back, and yelled for Narses to let go. Then, much to Narses’s surprise, Romanos drew much of his farr through his flesh, and broke free.
Narses, your farr is down to 5/100! the voice shouted.
How does the boy know?
In the same movement, Romanos swung his leg around and kicked Narses’s face. Narses slammed onto the floor next to Marianos’s body, soaking himself in the expanding pool of warm blood, but then he rolled away and stood back up. By then Romanos had grabbed the water pitcher on the table at the room’s center and hurled it at Narses, who drew Almaqah in time to bat it away. It shattered and the pieces rained down on Marianos’s corpse. Before Narses could react, Romanos had picked up the table itself—his eyes flashing—and hurled it at Narses. Narses dropped Almaqah and caught the table, but it was so heavy that he fell back into the fire and shrieked as the flames burned him. Tossing the table aside, he rushed through the door and threw himself into the snow, rolling back and forth until the flames covering his clothes were extinguished. By now he was lying on his back, staring at the blue sky and the wisps of smoke that were rising from his body—just before the wind blew them away.
How could he do this to me? Narses thought.
Romanos charged out of the house clutching the Almaqah blade in both hands. Narses shouted for Romanos to stop—there was an unusual pleading tone in his voice—but the boy stabbed at him as he rolled away and then, suddenly, fell over the mountain’s edge and plunged past the cliffs and the gliding seagulls. With the last of his farr, Narses leveled out his descent, and ran upon the waves until he leaped over the side of a Latin galley, landing on the wooden deck so hard he almost smashed through.