It took two months for Alexios and the Fifth Century of the Workers’ Army to trek back across wintry Anatolia to Trebizond. Weeks were lost traveling from city to city, gathering and trading the necessary supplies for the arduous march. Everyone in the century learned the farr as best they could along the way.

Few settlements—whether Turkish, Kurdish, Jewish, Laz, Assyrian, Armenian, or Roman—could be found north of Melitené. These were debatable lands fought over by the different powers in the region. Fearful of raiders, the century often traveled by night, guided only by the light of the moon and stars glinting on the snow.

The morning finally came when—after ascending snowy mountains, descending valleys, and ascending mountains again—they sighted the gleaming sea. Through the stunning peaks lay the Satala Road, and beyond was Trebizond. Herakleia was there, as was Gontran, Diaresso, Queen Tamar, and all their other friends.

Safety, rest, peace, Alexios thought. I only hope they fought off the Latins. Months of waiting, traveling, and working end now.

Yet the Fifth Century found something unexpected. The city was a waste. Black ruins leaned at odd angles from white untrammeled snow. No smoke rose from cooking fires, nor did fishing boats flit along the sea. Only a cold wind moaned through broken walls.

The Fifth Century walked among the ruins, cupping their hands around their mouths and calling out for anyone to answer. Even the citadel was cold and abandoned. Its vast pantry was empty, and not a speck of grain remained in the granary. Alexios found the gruesome remains of a skeleton in the kitchen’s bread oven. The blacksmith’s shop was destroyed, as was the school and the hospital. Wrecked fishing boats could be seen beneath the surface of the water near the wharf. The monks in the nearby mountain monastery of Soumela—who had never wanted anything to do with the uprising—had also packed up and left. No miners could be found in the mines. Even the Laz villages in the nearby valleys were empty.

The citadel was the least damaged of all the buildings, since it was made of stone. Using their supplies—they had prepared for a long journey, and a longer siege, with a nearly endless train of mules burdened with food and fodder following them north—the Fifth Century heated the building. They closed the doors and windows and blocked the gaps in the walls as best they could. Soon the fireplaces were alive, and everyone was resting. The remains in the oven were removed and buried, though no one was willing to cook there, since the place was tainted. Until the oven could be replaced, they cooked in the courtyard.

Night had already fallen by the time everyone was settled in. With a watch set, Alexios found himself in Herakleia’s room, sitting at her table, nursing a cup of wine. No note or message had been left anywhere.

Where is she? What happened here?

Alexios stood and threw the chair against the wall. Screaming, he overturned the table and stormed into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. Then he walked the palace, searching every room for some clue the Fifth Century might have missed.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. Always everything for nothing.

Unable to sleep, Alexios dismissed the watch—Amina’s husband Jafer El-Hadi was on duty—and took his place on the citadel wall. There Alexios and the Workers’ Army had fought off two sieges. Now he was alone with no company save the stars.

What are we supposed to do?

At sunrise, Za-Ilmaknun relieved Alexios, who then returned to his old room in the citadel and fell into dreamless sleep. When he woke in the late afternoon, as the red sun was setting between the gray clouds and sea and mountains, the dekarchs called a meeting in the citadel’s banqueting hall. Alexios noticed, as he entered, that a distinct Latin scent still lingered in the air. It was hard to say that it smelled like body odor, wine, or cheese, because everything smelled like that almost whenever medieval people were present, but a distinct foreign flavor nonetheless hung in the air, one unrelieved by the evening’s dinner of fish caught that day at the wharf. The Latins must have spent a lot of time here, and they had even fled in a hurry, leaving plates of frozen, half-rotten food and, on the floor, piles of dog shit which the Fifth Century had cleaned up the day before.

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Here at the meeting everyone was present: Miriai the immerser witch, Amina the young Domari mother with her husband Jafer El-Hadi, Isato the shape-shifting Aethiopian princess with her chaperone the dabtara Za-Ilmaknun, as well as the children Kassia and Basil—along with Alexios. Many others sat at the table or on the carpets, where they rested their backs against the walls. None could agree on what to do. If they stayed, they risked another attack by Romans or barbarians. If they left, there was nowhere to go.

Many were frustrated with Alexios, who had never mentioned the chance that Trebizond might be abandoned. At the same time, they were relieved that no one was here to fight. Za-Ilmaknun, in particular, spoke of how Trebizond was in a good location along ancient trade routes, and he also appreciated all the old churches in the area. He wished to repopulate the city and restore its former glory. But Alexios argued that with only one century, they could never maintain control. Romans or barbarians would take it sooner or later.

The meeting adjourned with all motions tabled. Alexios volunteered once more to take the night watch. Others protested, saying it was unfair, but he told them it was better than staring at the ceiling or wandering the citadel all night.

“That’s what I’d be doing otherwise,” he said.

As they were about to leave, Alexios asked them to stop. Then he looked at each of them, and said that he was sorry.

“Sorry for what?” Amina said. “We are Domari. We wander the world. We can return to our old ways when the snow melts, if we choose.”

“We can resume our pilgrimage,” Isato said, always watching Alexios with her shining blue eyes.

“I can return to my caravanserai if I must,” Miriai said. “Dawid bar Taomá is still watching it, I presume.”

“And you are welcome to join us,” Za-Ilmaknun said, addressing Alexios, Basil, and Kassia. “Any of us, I should think.”

“Until the snows melt,” Jafer El-Hadi said, “we can live here without paying rent, or worrying about rats, fleas, or slavers. It’s not so bad.”

Alexios nodded. They watched him, unsure of how to react.

“On the journey here we knew exactly what to do,” Alexios said. “We had all kinds of plans. Yet this situation was the last thing we expected. You’ve elected me your leader, but I have no idea what action to take.”

“There is no hurry, lad.” Miriai approached Alexios and hugged him. “No need to worry. We’ll figure something out.”

The others joined her, and together they hugged Alexios.

“You’ve led us this far,” Jafer El-Hadi said. “It could’ve gone worse.”

“We shall find out what happened to your friends,” Isato said. She was the only one who stood apart.

Soon enough, Alexios returned to the cold starry night by himself. There was nothing left for him to do save stare at the snow extending into hills and mountains, the dark wavelets on the sea splashing all the way to the horizon.

Nothing to be done.

He walked the walls, stopped, listened, walked again. The citadel behind him was dark. All the fires had gone out, and everyone was asleep, cozy and warm, trusting he would keep them safe. The stables rumbled with the dreams of the drowsing mules and horses, Rakhsh among them. Anyone approaching Trebizond would have to cross plains of thick hard snow, and the crunching boots and hooves would be loud enough to wake the sun. As for the sea—who sailed at night, especially without torches? It was madness to consider. Whoever did such a thing risked losing their ship and being marooned in a strange land…

He couldn’t stop thinking. Would he ever find out what had happened to his friends? Where could he even begin to look for them? Had the Latins taken them to Konstantinopolis? But then why abandon Trebizond…?

Sunrise was long in coming. At first Alexios was unsure the colors of the night were changing. Yet soon the million blazing stars melted into the blue dawn, until none remained. The sky blushed, and the red shining sun gashed his vision like a scar. Warm red light glowed everywhere, overwhelming the land, gleaming in the waves, filling the gaps in the city masonry, firing the crystals of snow and ice so that they turned to water.

Out of this light on the sea came a shape that stopped Alexios and his thoughts and made his eyes narrow. He watched its vast darkness emerge from the fog, its prow cutting curtains of cloud, its hundreds of oars rising and falling, together splashing the sea as a breeze puffed the sails. It was a ship of an impossible size. Already a rowboat had left with a small crew oaring toward Trebizond’s wharf. Alexios rang the alarm bell, and when he saw Fifth Century rushing out of the citadel, he went to the wharf to meet these newcomers, whoever they were. He saw, when he arrived, that Herakleia was among the rowers, as were Gontran and Diaresso. His friends had returned.