“Hey, shitheads,” a familiar voice said. “Wake up.”
Helena—Gontran—whoever he or she was—had been dreaming. In her dreams she had worn a stylish gray pantsuit worth hundreds of dollars complete with black pumps that made loud clopping noises which echoed along the hallways of whatever building she was in—some kind of government or corporate tower where people made important decisions.
Her corner office at the top of the skyscraper was stylishly decorated. Behind her gleaming mahogany desk was an executive chair that rolled across a huge geometrical Persian carpet. On the table were several rare fountain pens as well as the most perfect paper for jotting notes. Just to press one of those pens against that paper meant that she was guaranteed to come up with amazing ideas. They would flow out of the pen in the most beautiful swirling dark calligraphy as she looked through her walls of windows at the vast city of towering spires below. It was an endless metropolis where storms were always hurling wind and rain against the vast curving towers. Lightning flashed in the raindrops beading on the glass, and arteries packed with shining cars throbbed—forward, forward, forward—like glowing blood cells.
She drove an Audi, one that brought her along busy highways to her apartment, a loft with exposed brick walls, a small Buddha statue with incense ash caked to it, and big thick unread books about art and ideas packed into long low wooden shelves.
She was important. People respected her. When she spoke, they listened. Her decisions changed things. For her to sign a document could mean knocking down a thousand old buildings and erecting a thousand new ones in their place. In the mirror she looked perfect—with flawless makeup, lipstick that women asked about, and shining black hair pulled back tightly.
When that old monk had told her to wake up, it had all faded like the screen of a television being unplugged. Now she was inside a man’s body, stumbling around a dark room, yearning to return to the dream of the tower, of high school, of anywhere but here.
She once again found herself in that dim tavern munching yet more Greek food. He—his name was Gontran—was swaying with exhaustion until he sucked food and water into his stomach, replenishing his stamina.
But so many urges overwhelmed him, far more than the urge for food, rest, or water. Even as his companions discussed their plans to rescue some princess in a palace, his eyes strayed to the princesses in the tavern: the waitresses. In the Hippodrome women apparently danced between the horse races. They were supposed to wear tight clothes which exposed their whole bodies.
Does everything always have to be about sex? he thought. Must women be objectified and dehumanized?
What was he even doing here? He needed to make some money and get away from these losers. They owed him big time. He had already fulfilled his end of the bargain, but they kept asking for more—kept promising that they just needed to rescue the princess, and then the rest would take care of itself.
“Gontran,” the youth named Alexios said. “Are you listening?”
“How much money did you say she had?” Gontran said.
“It’s a lot,” Dionysios said. “She’s a fucking princess. Her dad was an emperor.”
“We’ll take as much out of the palace as we can carry.” Alexios nodded to Gontran and Diaresso. “Then we’ll deliver your payment.”
“You intend to rescue a princess,” Diaresso said, “and plunder the Great Palace at the same time?”
“It’s ten nomismas for the help you guys gave us coming here,” Dionysios said. “And then another ten for helping us get Herakleia outside the city.”
“We should be able to find twenty gold coins in the palace.” Alexios looked at Dionysios. “Right?”
“Yeah, of course,” Dionysios said.
“The only question is,” Alexios said, “once we get Herakleia, should we take the horses through the Land Walls and ride into Thrace, or should we take a boat across the sea and back into Asia?”
“That’s where all the action is,” Dionysios said. “Most of the uprisings, anyway.”
“We have no boat,” Diaresso said. “Nor do we have a crew. We should take the horses through the Golden Gate. After we put some distance between ourselves and the City—and you have made your payment—we may go our separate ways, inshallah.”
“What could go wrong?” Gontran said. He laughed, though no one laughed with him.
“We will wait outside the palace with the horses,” Diaresso said. “You two will rescue Herakleia—somehow—and bring her to us. Then we will escape.”
Dionysios shrugged. “That’s the idea.”
“Forgive me for asking,” Diaresso said, “but are you sure this can be done? I mean no offense, but Dionysios, you seem somewhat aged for such a dangerous task, while Alexios—you seem too young.”
“This little fucker’s got some experience now.” Dionysios rubbed Alexios’s hair. “We trained all day.”
“That is hardly enough for battling the emperor’s personal bodyguards.” Diaresso glanced at Gontran. “Both of you are placing yourselves at risk. We likewise have no desire to kill or be killed. All we wish is to finish this job successfully.”
“We don’t want to pull any violent shit either,” Dionysios said. “Ideally, we’d just break in, get Herakleia, and break out without anyone even knowing.”
“Yet you yourself do not even know if she is inside,” Diaresso said.
“If it turns out we’re wrong,” Alexios said, “you two can take all the horses for yourselves.”
“What is to stop us from taking them while you sneak within the palace?” Diaresso said.
“The fact that you’re better than that,” Alexios said.
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Diaresso laughed. “We shall see, boy.”
They finished eating, paid the bill, packed their belongings, and retrieved their horses. Thanks to his eavesdropping skill as a rogue, Gontran overheard Alexios whispering to Dionysios that they still didn’t even know where Herakleia was.
Gontran looked at them. “I’ll find out. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got lots of stealth, remember?”
“Who’s worried?” Alexios narrowed his eyebrows. Such a youthful gleam shone in his eyes, he seemed almost too young to shave.
“I’ll take care of it,” Gontran said. “Just stay with the horses in the Milion Square. I’ll be back before you know it.” He looked at Diaresso. “You want to stick with them or me?”
“Someone must keep them from malfeasance.” Diaresso eyed the teacher and his student.
This was Gontran’s calling—his specialty. As he made his way through the evening crowds, he checked his Seran fire lance, and armed it as best he could. You needed to light it with a fuse in order to fire—and if the fuse went out, you were finished. It would be awkward if he had to use his flint and steel to strike sparks into the fuse while a mob of Roman soldiers assailed him. Even if things went well, he could only fire one shot.
Gontran took in the details as he wandered the Square. An Italian Renaissance-style fountain with winged cherubs featured statues pissing water out of their penises. Buskers played folk music with instruments unknown to Gontran. The group consisted of three people. One man was playing a kind of violin that he held vertically away from his body with one hand; with the other he pushed a squeaking bow over the strings. Another man, sitting on the cobblestones with his back to the fountain, played a sort of proto-piano, striking the taut strings with a pair of tongs. A woman, meanwhile, was singing beautiful rhythmic lyrics about someone named Basil who was adventuring in the eastern borderlands—throwing himself off mountains, battling dragons, and rescuing ladies from emirs. She was also clacking castanets in her hand. An audience had gathered in the dark to listen; some were clapping or even singing along, while others danced.
Gontran stopped to watch, unable to pull himself away. In his old life he’d barely ever listened to the pop songs people sometimes referenced. Even now as a merchant he had few faint memories lurking in his skull where music hummed and instruments flashed. Helena wanted good grades, while Gontran wanted money; yet the music here was so good it rooted him to the spot. It took time to extricate himself and make his way to the Bronze Gate of the Great Palace.
The gate was closed and guarded by two soldiers. Gontran needed to find a knowledgeable man who was alone. But as he walked around the palace walls, he found that the other smaller gates were likewise guarded by pairs of guards. Each guard must have been meant to watch the other.
He drifted about the square, unsure of what to do. A group of Cumans passed him arguing in accented Greek about whether the Holy Spirit proceeded from the Father alone or from both the Father and the Son. The nearby Hippodrome blazed with torches which flickered against the statues installed in the decorative alcoves, and the throngs inside shrieked into the night while chariots rumbled on the track, the horses neighing as their hooves pounded the dust. The noise was so great that sometimes Gontran had trouble hearing the buskers’ music. Sparks whirled up from the torches and joined the stars.
Drifting back to the Chalkē Gate, he leaned against the wall near one guard and yawned and stretched out his arms.
“Step off,” the closest guard said, speaking with an Armenian accent.
“Sorry.” Gontran stood and held up his hands in defense. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Get the fuck out of here,” the guard said.
“Hey,” Gontran said. “I was just wondering. I heard that Princess Herakleia was back from her little adventures—”
“Keep talking.” The guard pulled his sword halfway out of its sheathe so that Gontran could see the torchlight flickering in the polished steel.
I guess being a Journeyman Charismatic isn’t enough, Gontran thought. Let’s try out my mercantile skills. Maybe I can combine those with my charisma to bribe this guy.
Gontran showed the guard a golden nomisma which flickered in the torchlight.
“I’m just wondering if you’ve heard anything about Princess Herakleia and where she might be,” Gontran said.
The guard looked at his partner.
“There’s a gold piece for each of you if you can give me the information I need.”
“Give us the gold first,” the guard said.
Gontran obliged them both.
“The little whore’s in the dungeon,” the guard said. “In the Palace of Boukoleon.”
“Thank you,” Gontran said. He turned and walked away.
50 charisma experience points earned, the voice said. 20 remain in order to level up to Professional Charismatic.
Gontran pumped his fist. He needed to do this sort of thing more often.
With nothing to lose and no better ideas, Gontran asked random people if they knew anything about Princess Herakleia. He wanted to make sure the guards had told the truth. Most people ignored him and kept walking; all of these failed attempts resulted in him losing some of the XP he had just gained. The people here were too busy, even at this late hour, to answer questions from strangers. Even in medieval Konstantinopolis city-dwellers must have assumed that strangers speaking to them were scammers. But not everyone was like that. A grannie who spoke with Gontran claimed she’d never heard of Herakleia. A young girl said she was some troublemaker who ran off east a long time ago. A bronze-caster said she was stirring up problems in the countryside out of jealousy for the throne. That was all he knew. No one said she’d been captured. But why would the emperor keep her capture a secret? Was she more popular than she seemed? Or had she even been captured at all?
Gontran started back to his companions. It was impossible to find out if this project was a waste of time. If only he hadn’t run into those Turks, if only he hadn’t dropped Maleïnos’s money in Anatolia. It was infuriating. Normally he and Diaresso never would have taken a job like this—one with little profit and less chance of success. But desperation makes people fools.
“Any luck?” Alexios asked when he got back.
Gontran shook his head. “The guards say she’s in the dungeon, but I couldn’t confirm what they told me. The only way you guys are finding out for sure is if you go inside.”
“That’s fine with me.” Dionysios leaped to his feet. “I’m tired of waiting around in this fucking place. Let’s bag us a princess.”
Diaresso and Gontran exchanged looks. Then, together, all of them walked around the Milion Square to the Great Palace walls.
“Remember,” Dionysios was saying to Alexios. “Follow my lead. Don’t make any noise. And stick close.”
“Got it,” Alexios said.
“We aren’t here to fight, sad as it makes me to say. If they spot us, we run.”
“I have but one question,” Diaresso said. “How long should we await your return?”
“If we aren’t back by sunrise, they’ve either caught us or killed us,” Dionysios said. “Now stay here. We’ll be back as soon as we can. And hey: if we never see you again—thanks for your help.”
“You aren’t welcome,” Gontran said.
Dionysios looked at him like he was joking, but Gontran was serious. Part of him wanted to take the horses and leave as soon as this kook and his little hanger-on were out of sight. Speaking of which—how were they even planning to get into the palace in the first place? They didn’t have a ladder. Were they planning to tunnel under the walls with a spoon?
Dionysios and Alexios moved to a point in the wall that was as far from the guards and the torches as possible. Plenty of people were still walking nearby, but this was the most isolated spot the teacher and student could find. Then Dionysios grabbed Alexios’s hand, and the boy trembled so much he almost fainted.
Bending their knees, the teacher and student bounded over the walls in a single leap, sailing into the night. Diaresso soared, but Alexios stumbled a little. Gontran stared, open-mouthed.
“Did you see that?” he asked Diaresso.
“I told you they were djinn,” Diaresso said.