“This time you’ve gone too far.” Paul was unable to even look Narses in the eye. “So many cities lie ruined in your wake. I suppose you needed to add Konstantinopolis to the list, eh, Town Destroyer?”

Narses passed him and gestured for Axouch and Sulayman to follow along the hallway back to the Great Palace. The two Turks held their ground, however.

Narses stopped and looked at them. “Come with me.”

“You blame Turks for your problems?” Sulayman said. “When you cannot even control your own people?”

“I did not mean all Turks,” Narses said. “You two are some of the good ones.”

Sulayman slumped in his armor.

“We are sworn to protect the emperor,” Axouch said. “Except our contract stipulates that we must protect only the previous emperor, Nikephoros Komnenos. We are not sworn to you.”

Narses laughed, then showed them the imperial signet ring on his left pinky finger. It was merely a golden ring marked with reverse Greek text.

“Did you forget that I wear this?” Narses said.

“Takes more than a ring to make a man powerful,” Paul grumbled. “Takes more than a throne.”

“Many different people must acclaim you as emperor,” Axouch said. “The patriarch, the military, the people—”

“Are you a lawyer?” Narses said. “Have you been reading your Justinian? Have you been attending law school in your spare time?”

“Actually, I have, aphéntēs,” Axouch said. “I’ve been going to the one on the palace grounds. All you need to know is that if you want us to remain at your side, you will stop blaming Turks and Muslims for Rome’s problems.”

Narses glared at Axouch, and considered taking his pneuma, but then realized that he would be left without supporters if he killed everyone who questioned him.

Later, he thought. When I’m stronger. When I don’t need him anymore.

“Very well,” Narses said. “The Latins are more of a problem in the City anyway.”

“They are People of the Book,” Axouch said. “They have a right to live in peace.”

Paul scoffed.

“Even if they work with the Jews to oppress good Christians and Sarakenoi?” Narses said.

“Muslims have warred with both the Latins and Romans for many years,” Axouch said. “But Jews are merely traders, tanners, doctors, and silk-weavers who keep to themselves. What problems do they cause?”

“They trade Christians as slaves,” Narses said.

“And you don’t?” Axouch said.

“There are certain rites,” Narses said. “Rumors about secret Jewish blood ceremonies. That they leaven their bread with the blood of Christian babes to grant themselves immortal youth and power. The Latin knights who came to Trebizond spoke of such things.”

“Have you proof of these accusations?” Axouch said.

Narses waved his hand. “I do not have time to teach you. The mob may soon begin ransacking the palace. We must defend what is ours by right. Come with me—and I will ensure you both possess a share of the riches we manage to save.” This left them unconvinced, so Narses turned to Sulayman. “I will grant you titles. Have you not desired to become protospatharios?”

This was the title for the emperor’s sword-bearer. It was as far as a bodyguard could go in his career (aside from seizing the throne itself). Sulayman looked to Axouch.

“They’re only words when no one cares about them,” Axouch said.

“Now we venture into philosophy,” Narses said, walking away. “I don’t have time for this.”

“This man pays us only in empty promises,” Sulayman said to Axouch.

Paul winced. “Be glad that’s all he gives you.”

Without waiting for them, Narses paced along the dark hallway back to the emperor’s apartments, his jeweled purple toga flying behind him. Soon enough, the guards followed, leaving Paul behind. Though the eunuch evidently realized that it was unsafe to be alone in a war zone without weapons, armor, or protection of any kind, and so before long he was chasing his three companions, shouting for them to wait.

They found Erythro, Doctor Shabbethai Donnolo, and several old women decked in jewels and silk hiding in the emperor’s apartment. Narses assumed that these old ladies were matriarchs from the imperial houses—the Komnenoi, Argyroi, Palailogoi, Doukades, Phokades, Angeloi, Dalassenoi, etcetera.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Two members of the Varangian guard—muscular Viking warriors covered with Arabic tattoos—had thrown themselves against the doors, which were already locked, barred, and braced with chairs, tables, and bookshelves (themselves packed with dusty paper books, papyrus scrolls, and mouldering codices). Something bashed the doors, knocking the Varangians back. Muffled shouts came from the other side. The crowd was already here.

The Varangians hurled themselves back against the doors. “We cannot hold them forever!” one said. Narses remembered him—his name was Harald Siggurdson. They had worked together back when Narses was just a lowly excubitore.

“You must hide in some other place!” cried the second Varangian, a Kelt from Ultima Thoúlē named Edmund Ironside. “Climb out the windows if you must!”

The old ladies groaned in terror, and clutched one another. Glaring at Narses, Erythro guided them into the bedroom, but Axouch told them to hide in the tunnel to the emperor’s hippodrome box. Once everyone was inside this tunnel, the door would be closed behind them and then concealed with bookshelves. As the old ladies left with Donnolo, Sulayman bowed to Narses and presented him with a sheathed rhomphaia blade—a long, curved, two-handed broadsword, the sacred weapon of the Emperor of Rome.

“Someone’s already had a change of heart,” Narses said.

Sulayman was silent.

Narses took the rhomphaia, belted it around himself, drew the shining mirror blade from its ringing scabbard, and aimed it at the doors—just as the rioters burst through with a bench they were using as a battering ram, knocking the tables and chairs aside and hurling the bookshelves down, which spilled ancient texts everywhere. The first rioter who leaped through stomped on a dusty manuscript entitled Aristotle’s Second Book of Poetics. Edmund Ironside was about to split this man’s skull with an axe when Narses ordered him to stop. As soon as the rioter spotted Narses—and especially the famous, unmistakable rhomphaia sword—he bowed on his knees and lowered his head.

“Forgive me, o despota mou,” he cried. He was a middle-aged man, a business owner, the kind always trying (and failing) to reach the top, forever frustrated by his lack of royal titles, the lack of interest even the lowliest aristocrats showed in marrying their children to his.

Yet dozens of other rioters in the hallway behind him saw that he was bowing to Narses and did the same. All was suddenly silent. The two Varangian guardsmen glanced at each other, then joined them, as did Sulayman and Axouch, who had just returned from the bedroom with his scimitar drawn.

Narses gained charisma XP from pulling this off. His professional level charisma (7/10) definitely wasn’t hurting.

“Rise.” Narses sheathed the rhomphaia. “We have much work to do.”

As everyone stood, the Turkish and Varangian guards glared at the rioters. The businessman who had asked Narses’s forgiveness glared back.

Narses looked at Paul. Everyone knew it was improper for the emperor to issue commands to the lower orders. Already Narses had been forced to sully the imperium by interacting so closely with this scum. Yet Paul had no idea what to do, forcing Narses to speak instead.

“All rioting inside the Great Palace must end,” Narses said. “Outside the Great Palace, rioting is to be confined to Galata. All ethnoi save the Latins are to be spared. As for the Latins, their lives and property are forfeit. Any survivors will be sold as slaves to the Turks.” He glanced at Sulayman and then at Axouch.

“Some volunteers must spread the word throughout the City,” Narses added. “As for the rest of you, we require your assistance in securing Hagia Sophia.”

The business man stepped forward and bowed. He was careful to keep his eyes averted from Narses’s. “Begging your pardon, o despota mou. My name is John Goudeles, I’m a member of the Tavernkeepers’ Kollegion. I own the Swan Inn and Tavern located in the Fifth Region, we have a selection of fine Kretan wines you’ll find nowhere else for such affordable prices, it’s a family business founded over a century ago—”

Why is this man talking to me? Narses looked to his two Varangian and two Turkish guards.

“Enough.” Harald Sigurdsson stepped between Goudeles and Narses. “Now is not the time to advertise your pathetic business, innkeeper. His Majesty has issued his commands. All of you know what to do.”

“Some must accompany me to Hagia Sophia,” Narses said. “We have business there with the patriarch.” He looked at Paul. “I need to be coronated in the proper fashion.”

“I will come with you.” Goudeles bowed again. “If you will permit it, o despota mou.”

Narses sighed. “Very well.”

All the rioters wanted to come with Narses, so he needed to promise those who volunteered to fan out across the City to stop the rioting that he would remember them in the future. When enough had stepped forward, Paul took down their names on his wax tablet, then dispatched them. The rest—including the annoying Goudeles—accompanied Narses, his four guards, and his eunuch as they made their way through the palace, gathering the other rioters and stopping them from smashing statues and stealing whatever they could carry. Paul picked up the royal buskins, scepter, diadem, gold-embroidered kabbadion cloak, and diamond-studded orbis terrarum from a closet in the imperial apartments on his way out. His hands were full, and he struggled to keep from dropping everything.

While Narses was leaving the palace he noticed that, whenever the rioters saw him, a mysterious force took hold of them, one that had nothing to do with the farr or even with his high charisma skill. They would stop, stare, fall to their knees, and almost cry with shame, like children afraid of their father.

I am their sacrosanct father, Narses thought.

Soon enough, he had gathered hundreds of men. Most were variations of Goudeles: moderately wealthy fools. Yet they had reasonably functional legs and arms (as well as the occasional sword, baton, or mace), they were willing to fight for Narses even if he sent them to die in pointless battles, and he had no one better, so he brought them along.

They made their way through the vast doors and torchlit sanctums of the marble Chalkē Gate, another structure of vaulted domes, its interior covered with golden mosaics of Justinian and Theodora and the triumphs of Belisarius. This structure was topped with a gleaming golden dome, itself topped with a huge golden cross as well as an ikon of Christ, both of which shone coldly in the winter sunset. Several guards here challenged them, but the guards then bowed to Narses when they saw his signet ring and the rhomphaia as well as the royal finery Paul was carrying. After all, so far as anyone knew, no one else was claiming the Throne of Solomon at the moment, and Nikephoros had died without a male heir, so it was risky to deny the only claimant to the imperial purple.

Past the steaming Baths of Zeuxippos on their left, they walked a short way along the Mese Ordos—the City’s central thoroughfare—then turned right, and strode through the Augustaion’s outer portico—draped with red and purple tapestries—to the deserted square inside. There they walked around the massive towering golden pillar topped with Justinian’s equestrian statue. Old Sleepless was raising his right arm to hail victory, a crown of peacock feathers shining on his head.

No doubt the old man’s smiling up at us from hell.

Narses tried to move as quickly as possible while looking regal at the same time. Soon enough, he and his companions were passing through the gate to Hagia Sophia.