After crossing a courtyard of grass and mud, the soldier took a torch from another guard and entered the palace, guiding them along its cold, dark, ornate corridors. They passed Roman statues and mosaics, as well as a giant globe representing the world—its oceans and continents unrecognizable blobs to Gontran’s eyes—in addition to Mediterranean maps in gilded frames mounted to the walls. Even the ceilings were covered with paintings, the floors herringbone brick. Only a few guards were present. Most of these were leaning against their spears when the crew approached; the guards straightened to attention when they heard sandals shuffling on the floor.

They ascended marble flights of stairs, the bannisters’ shadows shifting on the walls which were covered with golden, cream-colored paintings, the subjects depicted there already trying to escape the weighty Middle Ages so they could soar into the airy clouds of the Renaissance.

On the top floor were the doge’s apartments. The doors opened as the Paralos crew approached, and an old man with white eyes stood there, watching them with an unusually serene facial expression. Loredan and the guard stopped and bowed on one knee, though the Paralos crew remained standing.

“Somehow I knew this day was coming,” the man who must have been the doge said as the amazons drew their swords and pointed them at the guard, who—glancing back and forth, his mouth wide—raised his hands into the air.

Everyone entered the apartments. Ra’isa locked the door, Zaynab bound and gagged Loredan and the guard, and Zulaika al-Jariya took the torch and checked the other rooms to ensure that no one was hiding there. The doge found his way to a table in the dining room and sat, gesturing to Gontran—who had followed him—to do the same. But Gontran remained standing.

“You should have known better than to think that you could bargain with a Venetian,” the doge said. “And not just any Venetian, mind you. I am the Venetian—the elected leader of the Serenissima.”

“You were at Trebizond, weren’t you?” Gontran said. “Herakleia mentioned you. Enrico Ziani.”

“Yes, I met the barbarian queen once or twice,” Ziani said. “I was lucky the Concio didn’t sack me for what happened there. They were more understanding than might be supposed. They knew that with any bold actions—and we Zianis are notorious for our boldness—there comes a certain risk. They are likewise confident that we will soon more than recover our losses.”

“That’s what we’re here to talk about.” Gontran eyed the amazons. Ra’isa was looking out one of the leaded glass windows to the crowded piazza, Zaynab was watching the two bound prisoners, and Zulaika was keeping an eye on the door. With his merchant’s gaze Gontran noticed that the glass in the windows was of an unusually fine quality—each pane was worth its weight in golden nomismas.

He turned back to Ziani. “We have a proposal.”

“Must I hear it?” Ziani blinked his milky eyes. “Do I have a choice?”

“We wanted to come here more politely.” Gontran turned to Loredan. “But he wouldn’t let us. He stopped our ships in the middle of the Adriatic and enslaved us.”

With wide eyes Loredan grumbled behind his gag, but nobody took it off.

“It is the Venetian way,” Ziani said. “You must understand, my good signore—I didn’t catch your name—we are at war. And we are also a conservative people. I’m sure you’ve heard of our many rules—how, for instance, no one is allowed to leave the lagoon without permission, on pain of death. This is to ensure that we retain our work force, on the one hand, and the secrets of our merchants, on the other. The notion of Trebizond’s lower orders freeing themselves, you must understand, it was quite frightening to the leadership here. This is one of many reasons for our joining the crusade against you.”

“Right,” Gontran said. “Well, listen. We’re here to tell you that we’re willing to let you do business. Sooner or later, we’re going to take over Rome. When that happens, we’re willing to let your ships come and go and do as much business as you want. We can even make sure you recoup your losses from Trebizond. When we take Konstantinopolis, all the money you need is yours.”

“I suspect I know where this is going,” Ziani said.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“But we need you to help us first,” Gontran said. “We need the Venetian armada to blockade Konstantinopolis while our army besieges the city from the land.”

Ziani laughed. “You know so little about us, my good sir. This city was founded by Romans. They are our ancestors—and have been our allies for a thousand years. Now you wish us to turn against them for a pot of gold?”

“Isn’t that what Venice is all about?”

“Of course,” Ziani said. “But what guarantees can you make that this alliance you propose will be a worthwhile investment? If your project fails, what stops the Romans from taking revenge upon us by allying with our rivals in Genova, Pisa, Amalfi, or Sicily, thereby shutting us out from the eastern trade we rely upon?”

“It’s a risk,” Gontran said.

“Oh, you’re just a bunch of banditti, aren’t you?” Ziani said. “Last time I checked, there were only a few hundred—maybe a few thousand of you. We destroyed your home city. You would need hundreds of ships to blockade Constantinopoli from the sea—and an army of at least a hundred thousand to attack from the land, to say nothing of the food required to feed such an army, the supplies and so on. And you know those walls have never been breached, not since Costantino il Grande built them.”

“We have weapons that have never been used against them,” Gontran said. “And you know how much wealth is locked up in that place. As much in one church as you’d find in the whole of Venice.”

“Nonsense. It can’t be done.”

“Fortune favors the bold,” Gontran said. “Your mistake was to attack Trebizond. We’re stronger than we look, and Rome is weak. You must already know how much they rely on mercenaries to do their fighting for them.”

“We, too, hire mercenaries, finicky as we are about land wars. Regardless, you could never take the city without us.”

“Then we’ll go to Genova,” Gontran said. “Pisa. Amalfi. Sicily.”

Ziani laughed. “Even united, they could never hope to fight us. Altogether they have a tenth the ships we do—and less than a tenth the skill at using them.”

Gontran sighed and looked at the amazons. They were growing tense; time was running out. How long had they even been here? It must have been close to half an hour. He turned back to Ziani.

“What can I say to get you guys to join us?”

Ziani smiled. “There’s nothing you can say. The lower orders are fit for work, not command. Your place is beneath us, not by our side. The mind orders and the body obeys. You are the body and we are the mind.”

Your attempt to convince the doge to ally with Trebizond has failed, the game voice said.

Even as a Journeyman, my charisma wasn’t enough, Gontran thought.

Steel boots were clomping along the hallway outside the door. Beyond the windows, the crowds milling about had vanished, replaced by columns of armored soldiers who were marching toward the doge’s palace from several directions.

Can’t get out that way, Gontran thought.

He nodded to the amazons, who were watching him. All three of them barricaded the door with Ziani’s gilded couches, chairs, and tables as the soldiers on the other side pounded it and demanded that they open up—“in nome della Repùblega!”

Gontran turned to Ziani. “This was all just a distraction, wasn’t it? You were never going to ally with us.”

Ziani pouted. “It was madness to think so.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told them. But they never listen to me. Sorry about this, by the way.”

Despite Gontran’s low strength, he picked up the table before Ziani and, with a grunt, hurled it through the window. The beautiful glass exploded and, with the table, fell to the soft courtyard grass and mud below. By now all the soldiers there were gone; they had entered the palace and were stomping and shouting everywhere inside.

Removing the rope from his bag, Gontran gestured to the amazons. “Come on, that’s it.”

They sheathed their weapons and followed him to the broken window, climbing out carefully onto the ledge outside. Gontran tied the rope to the base of a statue of a nude, bearded, muscular man holding a spear—it must have been Neptune—and flung the other end down to the courtyard. Climbing over to the other side of the statue, he waved to the amazons behind him.

“You first,” he said. “Head straight for the ship. Don’t wait for me.”

“You are no hero,” Ra’isa said. “You go first!”

“I’m going to stay here and make sure the statue can hold you,” Gontran said. “Now come on!”

Ra’isa was the first to climb down. When she reached the courtyard, she looked back up at the palace for only a moment, then sprinted through the gate and out onto the deserted piazza, running at full speed toward the mooring posts. Zulaika and Zaynab swiftly followed. By then, the Venetian soldiers had burst through Ziani’s barricaded door. They charged through his apartments and screamed at Gontran as he descended the rope. When he was only two stories away from the ground, one soldier climbed out onto the ledge and drew his sword.

No!

The soldier cut the rope with one swipe, and Gontran plunged into darkness.