At Narses’s suggestion, the Rosa’s Venetian crew loosed fire arrows into the hulls of the fishing boats moored in the harbor. They did the same to Kitezh, but the Khazars doused the flames with buckets of seawater, then flashed their rear ends and taunted the Latins, asking them to come aboard again for one more fight. Doge Ziani, however, gave orders to sail west.
“I think we’ve had enough of this land of death,” he said.
As the three Venetian ships left Trebizond, the Latins watched the flames turn the city to ash. Black pillars of smoke rose high into the cold gray clouds, and were still visible long after the fire itself had vanished behind the hills.
Never liked Trebizond anyway, Narses thought.
Yet he realized, aboard the crowded Rosa, that His Majesty would be furious when he learned what had happened here. He had ordered the Latins to destroy the uprising and capture the city—not destroy the city and release the criminals! Narses would explain to His Majesty that the criminals could never survive the winter in such a place, and that soon nothing would remain of them save rotten, half-eaten corpses, since hunger would doubtless make the wretches reveal their true natures as anthropophagi.
That is what happens when you defy the sacred order.
Still, Narses could hardly believe that he had destroyed Trebizond, even if, as he thought about it, this action was in keeping with his character. How many cities lay behind him? How many cities lay ahead?
He tried to tell himself that everything would be fine, but it was impossible to suppress the dread he felt at the prospect of meeting His Majesty when the Venetian fleet reached Konstantinopolis. Paul had said something earlier, too, about how His Majesty was so furious that he had erased every mention of Narses from all documents and historical records. It made him wonder if he should return to Konstantinopolis at all.
Perhaps instead I should continue onward with these Latins. That was what Sikelgaita wanted.
Narses tried to avoid thinking about that unfortunate woman. Yet the idea of living in Latin lands disgusted him. He had never seen them, of course—in all his life he had barely ever thought about them—but he knew what they must be like.
Mud. Starvation. Laziness. Cowardice. What is the Latin west except a faint shadow of Rome, the greatest country in the world?
Paul must have been lying. His Majesty had sent Narses to destroy the revolt, and now the revolt was destroyed. It was unfortunate that multiple cities had been lost, but they would be rebuilt and repopulated soon. Now Narses and His Majesty could focus on the true enemy threatening Rome—the Turks. Destroying the criminals was itself a blow to these Sarakenoi, since they must have been working with the criminals to undermine good Christians.
Yet Narses was a man of action, incapable of spending all his time dwelling on the past or future, intolerant of splitting philosophical hairs. To preoccupy himself during the long journey, he pressed through the crowds and searched the Rosa’s upper and lower decks for Paul. Yet he never found him. All Narses found of interest, in fact, was a printing press which the Venetians had taken from Trebizond. The worm must have slithered into another ship, or he had slunk off to some lair in Trebizond’s ruins.
Otherwise it was difficult for Narses to find anything to do. Both the Gauls and Venetians ignored him. The latter group, in particular, seemed to think that burning down Trebizond was a mistake, and a terrible waste.
All they care about is money. They know nothing of spirit.
The fleet passed Marianos’s signal tower, high up on the snowy cliffs above white seagulls flitting past. It looked like the place was abandoned. Narses told himself that he would find Romanos one day, wherever he was, and set him right. The boy also still had Almaqah, without which Narses was incomplete.
One way or another, I’ll find him.
Next came Sinōpē, modest and unremarkable, though all cities looked that way—at best—to Konstantinopolitans. Fishing villages could also be found here and there. They had resisted the Turks only due to the sheltering Pontic Alps and the barbarians’ traditional fear of the sea. Otherwise these cities and villages would have all been lost years ago, and their children would be bowing to false idols.
Plenty of men are in the City, Narses thought. We must bring them into the army, train them, equip them, and then send them to take back what is ours.
No one spoke with Narses on the trip. The Venetians were busy, the Gauls were depressed, and only a few were intelligent enough to know how to speak proper Roman in the first place. That was what Narses told himself, anyway. Even their young duke Bohemund was unworthy of talking with someone like Narses—who was Domestikos of the Scholai, second only to His Majesty, who was himself Equal of the Apostles. What was Bohemund, in comparison, except a petty barbarian chieftain, an old Roman foederatus?
For the first time Narses could remember, he had nothing to do. He watched the passing waves, the snowy cliffs, and the seagulls soaring on the sea breeze, and he brooded over his return home. By now he had convinced himself that there was nothing to fear—His Majesty would reward him for his achievements. Many months had passed since he had left the City with the Hikanatoi Tagma as well as Orban’s Basilik and engineers. All these were lost, now, thanks to the criminals, but the sacrifice had not been in vain.
Narses wondered about his apartments in the Great Palace, and his slaves. He hadn’t thought about them in ages. Had they kept everything clean, like he had ordered? Probably not. They were lazy, foolish, and conniving, every one of them stretching out and relaxing the moment Narses turned his back. Doubtless they had done nothing since his departure. The men had gotten the women with child, every room was trashed and buzzing with flies.
Now that he thought about it, there was also His Majesty’s daughter, whom Narses had until now forgotten. What was that seductress’s odd name? Erythro. Red. The courtesan who was a Master Charismatic (8/10). She had frightened him—the way she toyed with him just to alleviate her boredom. Anyone who touched her risked losing his head, for her womb might birth the heir to the Throne of Solomon. And yet as the Venetian fleet drew nearer to the City, Narses felt his confidence increasing. Perhaps His Majesty would even reward Narses for his troubles, and give him Erythro’s hand. His bloodline would strengthen the imperial House of Komnenos. The only problem was that he would have to sleep with her. The idea of doing this with any woman disgusted Narses.
There was little to eat on the voyage save hard bread, and nowhere to sleep except the deck, huddled with the shivering Latins. Many of these were so useless without their servants that they had forgotten to bring blankets for the trip. Thus, for the thousandth time, Narses found himself cursing the criminals. Even though they must have been starving and eating each other by now back in Trebizond, they still managed to make him and many others miserable.
It took almost twelve days for the Venetian ships to reach Konstantinopolis. His Majesty must have heard from his watchtowers that they were coming, for when they sailed down the Bosporos past the towns glowing along either side—the broken white marble ruins of ancient temples, the defensive castles, and the two ominous Towers of Oblivion which served as prisons—a fleet of dromons escorted the Venetian vessels to Galata across the Golden Horn, where the great chain was lowered for their entry, and the Latin churches newly constructed there rang their bells, a sound Narses found unearthly and terrifying in comparison to the usual rattling wooden semantrons. Bells had been rare in this place the last time he had been here.
Yet this was the moment he had awaited for months. Through the march across Anatolia, the siege, the flight to the mountains, and the occupation of that wretched city whose name he longed to forget, he had tended the burning light of Konstantinopolis and His Majesty like an ikon in his heart. Now, after departing the City in the summer an ignominious Agamemnon, he had come back in the winter an achieving Achilles. Soon enough, His Majesty would praise Narses for his gallant deeds, grant him titles and triumphs, and send him out at the head of a new model army to cast all the Sarakenou men, women, and children back into the hellfire from whence they had come.
And yet the soldiers waiting for them on the pier were Turkish mercenaries. In broken Roman they announced that, while the Venetians were permitted to disembark onto Roman lands, only Duke Bohemund and Doge Ziani were allowed to enter Konstantinopolis itself, and these would be escorted by Roman troops.
Right after these soldiers had finished declaring His Majesty’s commands, Narses walked down the gangplank—he was the first off the Rosa—and approached them to announce his return. They responded by arresting him.
“What is the meaning of this?” Narses said.
No answer came from the Turks. Perhaps they did not understand; their Roman was so poor. They chained Narses’s wrists behind him and, when he kept shouting, gagged him with a greasy rag. In his anger Narses tried to take their pneuma and escape, but the men must have been been warned, for they wore gloves and evaded his touch. This made the Latins watching from the ship laugh. Some even cheered and applauded the Sarakenoi as they arrested a good Christian. None stood up for Narses. None breathed a word of resistance. Paul the Chain—who had emerged from a different Venetian ship—was among them, clapping and laughing.
“I’ll get you,” Narses growled. “All of you.”
While Bohemund, Ziani, and Paul were ferried across the Golden Horn to the fantastic metropolis, Narses was manhandled through the streets of Galata—itself overrun with slimy Latin merchants from far-off shitholes like Venetia, Genova, Pisa, Ragusa, and Amalfi—the foreigners always busy either squeezing nomismas from good Roman men, dishonoring Roman women, or simply brawling in the streets. Galata was also where the Jews lived. They dwelled like rats among the city’s decaying mansions.
Without explanation, the Turks imprisoned Narses in the Great Tower of Galata. This was a tall round structure topped with a conical roof which could be seen for many stadia. Had Narses been trapped with other prisoners, he would have taken communion with their spirits and used these to burst through the walls, but the guards had also prepared for this possibility, as he was confined to a solitary cell. Sighing, he sat against the wall in the pitch darkness. When he reached out his hands, he found that all four walls were close enough to touch.
Paul must have told the truth. His Majesty was unsatisfied with Narses’s performance in Anatolia, to say the least.
Let him find another general, Narses thought. Let him find someone who can do even a tenth of what I’ve done. Let him find someone even a tenth as loyal.
As it turned out, Narses only needed to wait a little. It must have been less than an hour before the guards returned, withdrew him from his cell—they were always careful to keep from touching him with their bare hands—and brought him, just as roughly as before, to the Galata docks, where they ferried him in a rowboat across the Golden Horn to the Sykaean Stairs in Konstantinopolis. From there it was only a short way through the bustling city past the huge dark buildings with their monumental historical weight to the First Hill and the Great Palace. None of the soldiers guarding the various gates along their path bowed to Narses, and many people in the crowded streets stopped to stare. Some even pointed and whispered to one another.
Not exactly the triumph I was expecting, Narses thought.
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At first it was a relief to enter the palace precinct, where far fewer people could be found, as the area was mostly populated by cypress and olive trees, fountains, sculptures, a freestanding column topped by a golden statue of King Byzas the Megarian (the City’s ancient founder), and even a white marble amphitheater for dramatic and comedic performances, at least when the emperor was interested in ancient playwrights like Aristophanes, Sophocles, and Menandros. (His Majesty Nikephoros was not.) Vibrant and colorful in the summer, everything here was now gray and quiet, thanks to the winter weather. From there they walked to the Boukoleon—“Bull Lion”—Palace, which was His Majesty’s primary residence, the labyrinth which the minotaur stalked. Many churches lay along their path, and though these passed almost in a blur, Narses made sure to cross himself each time his eyes fell upon them.
Whatever sins I have committed, O Lord, please forgive me.
Much time had passed since he had prayed like this. No matter. God’s love was infinite, was it not?
He swallowed nervously at the sight of the domes, pillars, and vaulted arches of the Boukoleon rising before him, the brick walls striped orange-red. In addition to the occasional pair of guards warming their hands before flaming braziers of sharp bronze, Narses and his captors passed busy government officials, almost all of whom were eunuchs pacing along the endless cloisters, talking with each other and sometimes gesticulating wildly as they stepped softly in their golden sandals along geometric squares decorated with mosaics.
More than anything, Narses hoped that Erythro wouldn’t see him like this. And so of course, as his captors brought him inside the palace, they passed the imperial library, where she was reading a massive tome by the roaring fireplace. Looking up at the clopping boots, she gasped at the sight of him.
“Narses!” Her voice echoed across the vast cold marble. She set her book aside and chased after him—her red silk dress blazing around her like fire—and commanded the guards to stop.
Wincing, Narses turned and bowed, unable to meet her blue eyes, unable to take in her bushy orange hair, all so bright they could have set dry autumn leaves aflame.
“You never wrote to me,” she said.
“Forgive me, your highness,” Narses stammered.
“Rise so I can look at you.”
Taking a deep breath, he struggled to meet her gaze, then looked away, unable to stand the power of her beauty.
“You have been through a great deal,” Erythro said. “You’ve aged, Narses. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“I’m only sorry that I have just one life to give Romanía,” he said. “I would give a thousand lives, if I could, your highness.”
“Still trapped as ever in linguistic formality,” Erythro said. “My father is rather cross with you. He’ll be ordering your execution soon, I expect.”
“I shall submit to his judgment, highness, for he is the vicegerent of God, vouchsafed the authority of—”
“Oh, we know we’re in trouble when we start hearing about vicegerents and vouchsafing, don’t we?” Erythro said. “I’ll come with you, and see if I can’t change his mind.”
“You are most kind, your highness.”
“What’s a little help between friends?”
She nodded to the Turks, and they continued toward His Majesty’s private wing of the Boukoleon. Narses was unable to think of anything to say to Erythro on the way, frightened as he was by the prospect of meeting the emperor in one of his moods. Part of him had also hoped, upon being freed from the Great Tower of Galata, that His Majesty had changed his mind for the better upon hearing about the destruction of the criminals.
Erythro, too, confused him. Narses had never understood why she took such a liking to him. He was strong, tall, handsome, and powerful, and even the oldest crones were so overcome with lust that they would be wet at the mention of his name, their thighs trembling, their cheeks flushing, but Erythro was different. Daughter of the ruling emperor, she was beautiful and brilliant, her blue eyes fixed on the Throne of Solomon. Perhaps she viewed Narses as a means of acquiring it, for as a younger member of His Majesty’s brood she was likely to be married off to an elderly bureaucrat before long, a scion of the other imperial houses, the Palaeologoi, the Doukoi, the Angeloi, the Argyroi.
“You’ve seen more of the east than I ever have,” she said as they walked the endless marble hallways decorated with golden mosaics of emperors, six-winged seraphs, mustachioed barbarians with crowns of raven’s wings, and shepherds tending their flocks. Her voice startled him, the air so cold that her breath was visible, like a dragon’s. How she could live here with only that red silk dress clinging to her pale wintry flesh—with no coat or cloak of any kind—confused him.
“What’s it like?” she added. “I’ve never really been there, you know. I’ve barely ever left the City!”
“Dangerous, your highness,” he said.
“Dangerous,” she said, getting closer to him and almost whispering. “Is that all I get? Have you no interesting stories? What of your conquests, Narses, romantic or otherwise?”
“Sorry, highness,” one of the Turkish guards said, stepping between her and Narses. “You must keep distance by order of His Majesty.”
“Silence, Sarakenou,” Erythro growled. “I can walk where I wish—”
“It is order of His Majesty.”
Erythro rolled her eyes. “Very well. It would seem the Sarakenoi haven’t just defeated us in battle across the homeland—they’ve also done so right here in this very palace!”
Narses hardly heard her. In his growing terror, his desire to flee this place by any means—mental or physical—he just wanted her to free him. She was his way out. The world had faded from his mind, and now nothing existed save his own sweating, trembling body, and this woman who never ceased flirting with him, toying with him. He stood in a dark tunnel, and she lay at the end, and he was unable to keep from falling toward her, his body not his own, a ringing in his ears growing louder as he approached her burning light.
Then they were standing in His Majesty's audience chamber. Emperor Nikephoros was sitting on the Throne of Solomon, the chair wrought of every precious metal and studded with more gems than a mine, all glittering like a galaxy, the lions carved into its armrests ready to puff steam from their gaping fangs and flash their ruby eyes, the vast tree behind him decorated with birds that would flap their wings and sing as the golden boughs around them fluttered in a breeze no one else could feel.
Narses had seen them terrify barbarian dignitaries who themselves had probably never seen a book or even a painting—let alone a mechanical contrivance—in their lives. But His Majesty had no interest in putting on a show. The bald stocky man dressed in a Tyrian purple tunic fringed with gold only stared at Narses, as the two Turkish guards took their places at the entrance. Erythro kept close to Narses, but his hands were still bound. Even if he could take her pneuma, Narses wondered if he would be strong enough to fight the emperor. All Narses’s martial knowledge came from His Majesty.
To Narses’s chagrin, Paul was also standing beside His Majesty, smiling—as ever—like he knew all the world’s secrets.
“So.” His Majesty raised his shoulders. “You’re back.”
Narses had already bowed, with difficulty, on one knee. At these words he fell to his chest on the hard cold marble—not an easy thing to do with your hands tied behind your back. Then he pressed his forehead to the floor, which was cold as ice.
“Look at you, writhing on the ground like a worm,” His Majesty said. “A big fat juicy worm stuffed to the gills with bullshit. You know, I gotta wonder what I gain from having you around. What’s the point? Tell me again, Paul, how many cities did this guy wreck?”
Paul counted on his fingers. “Nikomedeia, Nikaia, Ankara, Trebizond. They call him ‘Town Destroyer’ for a reason.”
“Ankara was not my fault,” Narses said, rolling over a little so he could address His Majesty. “I had been captured by the Turks. I only barely managed to escape with my life. And you forgot Niksar, which I restored to—”
“You know,” His Majesty said, “when the slaves got here from all those cities you destroyed, we didn’t even know what to do with ‘em. They were so cheap and miserable, and they told us all they’d done was close their city gates to you. They were loyal subjects of the empire, and look what you did to ‘em. We ended up freein’ a bunch—the ones who could prove they had some money, anyway. Most were citizens before you had ‘em enslaved.”
“They committed treason, Majesty,” Narses said.
“You barely even talked with ‘em,” His Majesty said. “You barely made any arrangements with the guys in charge of those cities. Instead, you just fought, fought, fought, killin’ good people, destroyin’ good cities, and givin’ the criminals even more reason to oppose us. Every time you killed or enslaved someone, it’s like you were waterin’ the ground with their blood, and makin’ ten more criminals rise up like beanstalks.”
“The criminals are destroyed, Majesty,” Narses said. “We left their base of Trebizond in ruins. There can be no survivors.”
“Every time you try to put out this fire, the sparks just spread farther and wider on the wind,” His Majesty said. “On all the hot air blowin’ out of that trap of yours.”
Narses pressed his forehead to the floor once more, and spoke to the marble. “You asked me to destroy the criminals, majesty, and that is what I have done.”
“Like talkin’ to a brick wall,” His Majesty said to Paul. “The question is, what are we supposed to do with this guy?”
“He must simply be executed, majesty,” Paul said. “To placate all those who blame him for the catastrophes which have befallen the politeía.”
“You know, you’ve done real well,” His Majesty said to Paul. “Are you up for a promotion? How’d you like to be parakoimomenos?”
Paul fell to his knees and kissed the golden signet ring around Nikephoros’s pinky. “Grand Chamberlain. Thank you, your majesty. Thank you. I’ve been dreaming of this moment all my life.”
“Means you can finally take a break from traveling all over the place,” Nikephoros said. “Anyway, you’ve earned it.”
Paul stood and faced Narses. “In the mean time, what are we to do with him?”
“He’s definitely to blame for all our problems, that’s for sure,” His Majesty said.
“Father.” Erythro stepped forward. “You can’t do this. Narses has been at your side for his entire life. He risked everything for you so many times. He’s always been there for you—and for our family.”
“Aw, come on, what am I supposed to do, sweet pea? You want me to pack him off to a palace somewhere, so I can wait for him to hatch a plot against me? Everyone who hates me in the whole City will head straight for this guy’s house. They’ll all try to convince him to overthrow me. Eventually, he’ll listen. He might even pull it off!”
“We can’t very well return him to active service, either,” Paul said. “The Anatolian campaign was an unmitigated disaster. If we send him out again against the Turks, why should we expect a different result?”
“You set him up for failure, daddy,” Erythro said. “How was he supposed to stop an insurgency with only a few hundred men?”
“They were good men,” His Majesty said. “Some of the best. I should know, I trained ‘em. And he had the Basilik, too, don’t forget. That big ass basilik, remember? The weapon that was supposed to make everything easy for us again. But he lost that, too. And now I hear that the criminals figured out how to build little basiliks of their own.”
“They’ll no longer be a problem,” Narses said. “They’re starving to death even as we speak.”
“We’ve already talked about this,” His Majesty said. “If you don’t see the bodies, then you can’t know if they’re dead. We’re just goin’ around in circles here, Narses. There’s no point in lettin’ you stick around. None of what I say gets through that thick skull of yours. It’s time to pass the torch, if you know what I mean.”
“Who else, majesty?” Narses said. “Who else can command the loyalty of the Roman army?”
His Majesty glanced at Paul.
Narses snorted with amusement. “The eunuch only knows how to criticize. How can he please Rome, if he cannot even please a woman?”
“You question Paul’s manhood?” His Majesty said. “I guess that’s understandable, but he wouldn’t be the first eunuch in Rome’s history to lead armies into battle. We can make him stratopedarches, army commander. Some of our greatest generals were missin’ their balls.”
Paul bowed. “I prefer to think of it as gaining a life, majesty.”
His Majesty waved his beefy hand studded with jewels. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got business to attend to, and I can’t waste any more of my time with this shit. We gotta deal with these Latins in Galata before they revolt and burn down the whole fuckin’ City.”
“Shall we have him publicly executed, then?” Paul’s tone was growing more excited.
“No.” The emperor stood and approached Narses. “He don’t deserve that. My daughter’s right—he’s been with us a long time. He’s been a good little servant. But not good enough. Still, he deserves better than public humiliation. I trained this guy for years, you know. I taught him all about the farr. He was going to be the greatest warrior Rome had ever seen. Instead, what did we get? One disaster after another. But I put so much energy into this guy. It’s time I recouped my investment.”
Narses looked up, his gut twisting. “No, majesty.”
“Why not?” The emperor smiled down at him. “You’ve taken how many souls since I showed you how? Live by the sword, die by the sword, ain’t that how the old sayin’ goes?”
“Father, you can't do this.” Erythro stepped between His Majesty and Narses.
“Don’t make a scene, sweet pea,” the emperor said. “Don’t make me have the guards take you away.”
“He’s like a son to you.” It sounded like tears were in Erythro’s eyes, but Narses couldn’t see.
“What, you wanna marry this guy?” His Majesty said. “It’s not gonna happen. You know where he comes from—”
Erythro lunged toward His Majesty, who pushed her aside and laughed.
“Guess we’re in for a little excitement today.” The emperor knelt down and touched his warm fingers to Narses’s skin.