Before Narses knew what was happening, someone was pressing a cold steel blade to his throat. Narses raised his hands and looked up, though he was so exhausted from his farr depletion—and from Romanos’s betrayal—that he was almost too weak to move.
Standing over Narses and shining in the sunlight beneath the blue sky and the white clouds was the most magnificent man he had ever seen. A barbarian—much like the palace’s Varangian guards—the man was taller, broader, and more muscular than even Narses himself. The barbarian wore a bright red tunic lined with gold, beneath which was a coat of mail. His ruddy face was concealed by a gilded steel helmet with a nose guard.
They sail in armor, Narses thought. These Latins are madmen.
Narses shuddered at the barbarian’s blue eyes, which shone in the sun like broken glass, and at the goatee that was red, blond, and brown all at once—each individual hair flashing with rainbows. His curled mane, glimmering like flax, descended from his helmet down his back.
A crowd of similarly gigantic armored barbarians had gathered around Narses on the deck, babbling to each other in their absurd language.
“Stand back, all of you!” shouted a familiar, ironic voice, one which seemed to belong to a man and a woman at the same time.
Narses’s shoulders fell. No. It can’t be.
“Keep your distance from this man!” shouted the same voice. “He is exceptionally dangerous!”
Paul Katena, also known as Paul the Chain, shoved through the barbarians until his bald, pale face emerged. He was at least a head below everyone else.
“Don’t let him touch you!” Paul shouted. “Your grace—my lord duke, it isn’t safe. For the love of God, keep away!”
“But do you not realize,” the duke said, “that God’s love is all that keeps this fellow among the living at the present moment?”
The duke spoke Roman with a strong accent, one Narses found preposterous in its haughtiness, the syntax influenced by barbaric patterns, Venetian mixed with Varangian mixed with something else—Gallic, perhaps.
The duke pressed his longsword so deep into Narses’s neck that the tip sliced blood from his flesh. Each drop represented the loss of one health, according to the game voice.
“How do you call yourself?” the duke said. “And how did you move upon the waves in such fashion? You skimmed upon them as a cormorant. My men have seen nothing like it, not in all our long days upon the Earth.”
A special move His Majesty taught me once, Narses thought. Water-walking. I’m only at Apprentice skill level.
“It is sorcery, your grace.” Paul bowed pathetically. “Of a kind which has proven itself quite flashy, but ultimately useless, and, one might even say, detrimental toward any practical purpose. It is closer to vulgar magic tricks than—”
“Let the good fellow speak for himself, eunuch.” The duke leaned in toward Narses, keeping the blade pressed to his neck. “You must understand that in Normandie, the terrain from which I originate, none have even heard of such things as these geldings, not even in song, nor in the parables told us by priests. My men and I find them quite a profound example of the womanly decadence of the east, one which extends beyond our imaginations, like many other sights we have discovered in our journeys in these exotic lands. Should I ever return home to tell my family of these sights and sounds, none will believe me. They shall think I have been possessed by a devil, even to speak of the triple walls of Constantinople, which are of such size and strength that they would confound even the giants of myth—yet that place, too, positively swarms with eunuchs!”
Narses had no idea what to say. He could only stare at the duke, whose attention seemed to be drifting, as his blue eyes flicked up the white waves roaring against the passing cliffs.
The duke looked back down at Narses. “Now tell me your name, if you will.”
“I am Narses,” he gasped, so hungover from Romanos’s treacherous theft of his farr that he could barely open his lips to speak. “Domestikos of the Scholai, General of the Roman Legions.”
“Ah.” The duke released rich, warm laughter. “So this fellow here before us is the reason we have come so far, leaving kith and kin, braving death and temptation, traveling thousands of miles over land and sea!”
The duke turned to his men and spoke in their barbarous tongue, presumably translating what he had just said. All of them laughed—except Paul.
“Lower your sword,” Narses said.
“You should remember your manners in my company,” the duke said. “I lack the strength to tolerate those knaves who are ignorant of the most basic precepts of knightly courtesy. Such folk seem quite common here in the Empire of the Greeks, a land where precious few know their proper place. It was the same for all those long years I spent in Italía, for that is where I learned your tongue, if you would like to know.”
Narses winced at this term, Empire of the Greeks. Romans almost never thought of Latins, except to complain about how many Latin traders plagued Konstantinopolis these days, and how Latin mercenaries were always starting tavern brawls and mistreating Roman women. Yet Romans still hated whenever Latins called them Greeks. This was because the Latins considered the King of Germany—who styled himself something called the Holy Roman Emperor—to be the world’s rightful ruler. Calling Romans “Greeks” was therefore not only disrespectful—it delegitimized them, and also hinted at what everyone already knew. The Latins desired the sacred Throne of Solomon in Konstantinopolis. If they ever succeeded in seizing it, they would transform Romanía into a mess of petty baronies and fiefdoms owned by the armored landlords who called themselves knights, cavaliers, gentlemen.
“Address the duke as ‘your grace,’ Narses,” Paul said.
“Ah, but this is quite an amusing incident, wouldn’t you say?” The duke looked at his men, then returned his gaze to Narses. “The monks who write our histories will never believe it. They will say this meeting is but an invention, an impossible coincidence, for you to drop right into our laps like a confused fish from the sea! And yet what could we conclude except that Holy God means for the Town Destroyer to join our company?”
The duke translated for his men’s benefit once more, and they laughed.
“Forgive me, your grace,” Paul stammered, bowing deeply, “but you cannot take your eyes from this man, not even for an instant. I have seen him kill so quickly, his foes perished long before they knew that he had struck them.”
“How can he harm me, eunuch? I have placed my sword at his throat.”
“His sorcery, your grace, is of a most unholy kind.”
“Did you not just say, moments ago, that it was useless?”
Paul glared at Narses. “It ruins only those who use it. It destroys only the innocent.”
The duke turned back to Narses. “Then we have nothing to fear! You are a kind of paladin, are you not, dear Narses? But you must nonetheless understand, my good general, all of us thought you long since deceased. You had become quite the legend, marching from Constantinople to the ends of Christendom only to lose an entire army of elite warriors to a handful of peasant wretches. Or so the eunuch here has told us.”
Narses wanted to warn the duke that underestimating the Trapezuntines could be fatal. After all, the Latins, for all their foibles, were still fellow Christians, while the Trapezuntines were the devil’s playthings. It was the duty of all good Christians to unite in order to destroy them, lest their spiritual pestilence infect the world.
But at the same time, Narses was so furious that he almost hoped that the Trapezuntines would destroy this army of hubristic mercenaries instead—just to prove that his temporary setback before those walls had been beyond his control.
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“Now that we know you to be among the living, my good General Narses,” the duke said, “it seems your employers have some scores to settle. They are, how shall I put it, dissatisfied with your performance, as of late.”
“Yes, thank you, your grace,” Paul babbled. “We must place this man under arrest. He should be chained up in the ship’s hold. Anyone who comes within a few paces of him risks death.”
“I still cannot understand how such things can be, eunuch.” The duke kept his gaze fixed on Narses. “He appears a most pathetic sort to my eyes. I would think him a common wretch if not for the miracle I just beheld. Leander himself, diving across the Hellespont like a dolphin in the name of love, would have been most moved by the good general’s performance.”
“His powers exceed those of most men,” Paul said. “But they are mere extravagance when turned upon our enemies. He is partly sorcerer, yes, but mostly charlatan. He is uneducated and unqualified. Just a few years ago he was no more than a palace guard—and an orphan of unknown parentage, to boot. He has used his powers only to lead us to disaster—despite all my warnings. I was with him, at the time, and advised him repeatedly to change course. He ignored me, and now hundreds of good Romans are dead because of him.”
“That’s a lie!” Narses said. “I did all I could for my brothers! I tried to save them!”
“His Majesty the Emperor has ordered all references to this man removed from the histories and records,” Paul continued, ignoring Narses.
“That can’t be true,” Narses said.
“But there is a practical problem here,” the duke said. “How are we to arrest this fellow, if none can get within a few paces of him?”
“If I may, your grace, you must keep your sword to his throat while someone else—who is wearing gloves—binds his hands. If the man before us even moves his head, you must kill him immediately.”
“Ah, but I am un homme simple, eunuch. Though you have now explained it many times, yet I cannot understand why this man merely turning his head would endanger anyone.”
“He will drink the spirit of the man binding him and use it against us.”
The duke looked at Paul. “How can such things be?”
“The world is far more wondrous than any of us could ever comprehend.” Paul waved his hand vaguely. “The sun rises and then sets every day, for what purpose? The wind blows south, then north, whirling about continually. Rivers run into the sea, which is never full, its waters vanishing into the place from whence they came, then returning again.”
“You are drunk on poetry, Paul,” Narses said.
“Is God’s Earth itself not a miracle?” Paul continued. “Think of how every Sunday in church, when the priest consecrates the host, the bread turns to Christ’s flesh, and the wine turns to Christ’s blood. Is that not miraculous?”
“But of course,” the duke said. “Thus do the Sarakenoi deem us anthropophagi, blood-drinkers. I have heard them say as much a thousand times in the two Sicilies. And you Greeks are fond of using leavened bread for the host, are you not? I have seen such practices in the Greek churches of Calabria. They are quite a sacrilege—akin to a sensuousness of which the good Lord never would have approved.”
“Let us remain focused on the matter at hand, your grace,” Paul said. “If the former general drinks the life force of anyone on this ship, he will kill us all.”
“It is folly to duel a Normand. None have ever bested me in combat, eunuch.”
“This man can,” Paul said.
“I should like to behold such a thing, for I know not how to lose.”
“Your grace, please listen to me. You will not survive. He is a poor general but an excellent fighter in one-on-one matches.”
“Any man so talented deserves a position of leadership,” the duke said. “That others might learn from him. If he is so gifted a warrior, perhaps his defeat in battle was God’s will. Perhaps even the greatest strategists would fail as he has. For as the philosophers say, one skill often bleeds into another.’’
“That is what happened,” Narses said. “That is—”
“His strength is both unnatural and unholy,” Paul said. “It drove him to madness. Multiple cities now lie in ruins because of him, and many good Romans are dead. He slew our own people without care. He devoured Romanía just as he devoured the souls of the men around him. He is cancer. We gain nothing by helping him, nothing but catastrophe.”
Your recommendation is appreciated, Narses thought.
He was soon tied to the mainmast, where the duke called him “Ulysse avec les Sirènes,” and joked that he needed honey to stuff in his ears. Before the duke sheathed his sword, he cleaned it by wiping the blood on Narses’s clothing.
Narses was also now able to get a better look at Paul. The short, pudgy eunuch looked ludicrous, draped in chainmail like the barbarians who surrounded him. Every one of these people was so weighed down with armor they would sink to the bottom of the sea like stones if Narses could only push them over the side. They must have been fearful men at heart, dressed like this on the Paphlagonian coast, expecting to be attacked at any moment.
The barbarians still surrounded Narses and stared at him. Only a handful were sailing the ship.
“You have not asked my name,” the duke said to Narses.
“One barbarian is like another.”
A man standing beside the duke—who looked like a younger version of him—stepped forward and drew his sword, but the duke pulled him back by the shoulder.
“Certainly he is a Greek,” the duke said to this man. “Nothing could be more droll than a people which does not know that its time in the light of history has come and gone. Would you not agree, my dear eunuch?”
“Yes, your grace,” Paul stammered.
“He is Robert de Hauteville,” the younger barbarian said. “Duke of Apulia, Calabria, and Sicily, and Prince of Benevento. You will address him properly whenever he speaks to you, or you will die.”
“What absurd airs barbarians put on these days,” Narses said. “You must be one of the cattle rustlers who has been raiding Italía for years.”
Now it was the turn of a woman to shove through the crowd and lunge toward Narses. Had Robert failed to hold her back—shouting: “Sikelgaita, my love, please!”—she would have severed Narses’s head with her gigantic axe.
Sikelgaita struggled with the duke, and nearly threw him aside, but when he begged her to stop, she relented—after spitting in Narses’s face.
“You have quite the talent for making friends,” Paul said.
Narses was unable to wipe the spit away since he was bound to the mast. He could only glare at this woman, who despite his anger seemed like a warrior angel descended from the sky. As tall and broad as the duke, and nearly as muscular, her long blond hair—shining in the sun like silk—was tied in two long braids which swayed with her movements. She wore a special cuirass over her chainmail.
“Barbarian women also do not know their place,” Narses said.
The younger version of the duke stepped forward again, drawing his sword from its sheathe, and once more the duke pulled him back.
“Bohemund,” Robert said to the young man, “it is quite alright. This one I can easily handle. I have never met a Greek general before, not at least so close as Monsieur Narses here. They have a habit of fleeing the battlefield the instant they catch sight of me coming toward them. It is always trés amusant.”
He translated his joke into his own barbarian tongue, and laughter rose from the crowd.
“I’ve never been to Italía,” Narses said. “We’ve been so busy elsewhere I never got a chance to deal with the petty brigands who trouble good Christians there.”
“Do not speak to his grace like this!” Paul snarled.
“His Majesty the Emperor sees things quite differently now,” Robert said to Narses. “All the world has heard of the disaster in Trebizond. We were most affrighted by rumors of a peasant rebellion there, and agreed to assist His Majesty when he requested our aid. We mean only to stop here and free this place on the way to Holy Jerusalem, troubled as it is by the desolation of Turkdom.”
“How much did His Majesty pay you?” Narses said.
“We must bind his mouth, your grace,” Paul said. “Nothing but poison drips from it. He will cast a spell on us.”
“Perhaps you’re right, eunuch,” Robert said. “I shall take your advice, where the poor benighted Narses did not. Perhaps we’ve had enough of this repartee.”
Paul disappeared from Narses’s sight, then returned a moment later with a dirty cloth which he tightened around Narses’s mouth. Narses scowled at Paul as he did this.
“He is somewhat more agreeable now,” Robert said. “Somewhat more easygoing, don’t you think? Now the only question is: what to do with him?”
“Kill him,” Sikelgaita said. Her Longobard accent was so strong it took Narses a moment to realize that she was speaking Roman.
“I agree,” Bohemund said.
This man’s Roman, in contrast to the other barbarians, sounded natural and refined. Had Bohemund dressed in Roman clothing, only his long blond hair would have betrayed his origins.
Where do these Varangians even come from? Narses thought. Ultima Thoúlē?
“This Narses is of no use to us,” Bohemund continued. “The eunuch has been true since first we met in Constantinople. Therefore let us throw the disgraced general over the side and be done with him.”
Sikelgaita nodded. “Yes.”
I will kill them all, Narses thought. And especially this woman, this battle goddess. It wouldn’t be the first time a beauty perished by my hands.
“And yet you all forget,” Robert said, “that aside from the good eunuch Paul, this General Narses here is the only man present in our entire armada who has even lain eyes upon Trebizond. Our scout whom we dispatched to reconnoiter the city by land in advance of our armada, the good Sire Ursio de Coucy, has neither signaled nor returned. Narses here likewise knows the capabilities of these peasant scum who dare defy the natural order. Therefore he might be useful in our efforts. I have no desire to meet the same unfortunate fate as his lost army. We must learn from his mistakes that we may avoid repeating them.”
“But father,” Bohemund said, “the eunuch told us we can learn nothing from this man.”
Paul nodded. “Nothing I have not already explained, your grace. I have full confidence in you and your men—”
“No.” Robert stepped close to Narses and peered into his face. “There is a better use for him I have in mind.”