Anxiety is at maximum, the voice said.
Narses awoke. Something was wrong. He lay in the dark trying to tell himself it was nothing, but the feeling refused to go away. His body ached; he had been training alongside the immortals for days. In his huge bed, Simonis and Euphrosyne were sleeping with him, and for a moment he listened to the breath wheezing through their nostrils. Their soft bodies kept him warm beneath bear pelt blankets. Yet no matter what he did, he was unable to feel any kind of attraction for them. Women just annoyed him. Why were they even here? The men expected it, did they not? Rumors would spread if he spent every night in bed alone. He was supposed to sleep with as many women as possible, and ultimately to marry one, though the reality was that Narses was a virgin. The idea of sex disgusted him. Anything related to genitals disgusted him. He sometimes prayed to purify any unclean thoughts.
Mother of God and Virgin, rejoice, Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, for thou hast given birth to the Savior of our souls.
Meanwhile, his anxiety was growing more urgent. Narses needed to check the palace. He climbed over Euphrosyne, who groaned as he elbowed her.
“Shut up and go back to sleep.” He spoke at a normal volume, which woke Simonis. Both women sighed and turned over, but he didn’t care. They spent days or weeks doing nothing but waiting for him to come home.
At first Narses only strapped on a sword and threw on a robe.
You need armor, the voice said.
Armor? Why?
There are intruders in the palace. They are attempting to rescue Herakleia. This is why you feel anxious.
What?
The voice was silent.
Growling, Narses lunged back into his bedroom, used his flint and steel to kindle a torch, jammed it into a sconce in the wall, and climbed into his armor in the firelight. When Simonis asked what he was doing, he told her to help him. Bleary-eyed, both Simonis and Euphrosyne rushed out of bed to strap him into his black cuirass, greaves, gauntlets, and boots. His helmet and sword belt came last.
Armor stats are at maximum, the voice said. Health is at 200/100, though this has reduced your Speed and Agility by 20 points each. The farr can help compensate.
Good to know, he thought.
Taking the torch from the sconce, Narses left his apartment without speaking to Euphrosyne or Simonis. Before long he was jogging through the palace. This cost more stamina than he might have expected, but he continued regardless. At the dungeon entrance he found a dead guard lying in a pool of blood that gleamed in the light from Narses’s torch. Swearing, he threw open the door to the dungeon so hard that it came off its hinges. Since the guard had slumped in front of the stairs, Narses kicked him out of the way and descended the dark pit.
“Your highness!” he shouted. “Your highness, are you down here?”
The dungeon was empty. Narses examined Herakleia’s chains, which were still hanging from the wall. They were so hot that he dropped them and gasped. They were also black, as though someone had blasted through them with a welding torch.
That piece of technology was from the world he barely remembered—high school. Whoever had freed Herakleia couldn’t have used a welding torch here. Then what was it?
Narses—the real Narses, the one who lurked in the depths of Boucher’s soul—said it was an aerolith blade, of the kind only the Abyssinian smiths make, built from sky-fallen rock, always trembling with energy. One of those swords could have done this. And the only people who who wielded such weapons were Zhayedan.
So an immortal was somewhere in the palace. The man was trying to escape with Herakleia. But she would be weak. The intruder would have to carry her—so he would be slow and vulnerable. Narses needed to hurry.
He climbed back up to the palace’s ground floor, and found the nearest guard station, a small house next to one of the gates. The soldier inside was asleep. It was the dekarch from the Hikanatoi tagma—Dekarch Mourtzouphlos. He must have been sent here from the Hebdomon.
Narses drew his sword from his scabbard, and the sound woke the dekarch. Then Narses pressed the blade to the man’s neck.
“Sorry, Domestikos,” Mourtzouphlos stammered, lowering his gaze. “It’ll never happen again, sir.”
Narses hesitated. Should I kill him?
If you do, the men will fear you, the voice said. If you spare him, they will love you.
All I want is respect.
Both fear and love can lead to respect. You must choose.
I need him, Narses thought. As useless as he may seem.
Narses lowered his blade and looked into the dark. “Capital punishment is the penalty for sleeping on watch. I will kill you if you ever do this again.”
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“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Sound the alarm, dekarch. Someone is trying to steal Princess Herakleia.”
Dekarch Mourtzouphlos acknowledged the command and rang the bell hanging outside the guardhouse door. Then he picked up a loudspeaker and screamed: “Everyone search the palace! Block the exits! Princess Herakleia is trying to escape!”
Before long, soldiers were running everywhere and shouting, their armor clanking as they waved their torches. The shadows of pillars shifted back and forth along the inner gardens and courtyards as torches flew about like enormous fireflies. Narses, meanwhile, had jumped onto the rooftops—a useful trick the immortals had taught him. Now he was running over the tiles. From the top of the palace he saw the entire City sleeping under the stars, with the Golden Horn and the Propontis gleaming in the moonlight.
Then he spotted them running through the garden at the edge of the palace grounds. There were two men—two shadows—with one carrying someone over his shoulder. Narses leaped down and blocked them before they could escape.
Once he was in the garden, the men looked at him and stopped. One was old, the other young. They spoke to each other, and the youth left with Herakleia slumped over his back—jumping onto the wall behind Narses.
Two immortals. Not one. And Herakleia was escaping. But what did it matter? Nikephoros been planning to execute her in the morning, and they had tortured her so severely that she no longer spoke. The criminals could have her, as far as Narses was concerned. She would just slow them down. Then it would be easier to kill them.
Narses had never seen the youth before. But the older man he recognized. What was his name? These were Narses’s deeper memories, the ones that belonged to the man who had lived here before Boucher’s arrival. The old man was short and stocky, with a massive head of black curly hair, and a curly black beard that was even bigger. Narses reviled him. They had known each other a long time ago.
Dionysios.
That was his name. Dionysios had tried to teach him, but then Narses had learned so quickly he had gone beyond the teacher’s knowledge.
Once Narses had worked with the uprising. But they had been too exacting—too critical. Nothing was ever good enough for them. He had grown tired of being criticized all the time for every last little thing by know-it-alls like Dionysios. They kept telling him to read Mazdak, but Narses found his books difficult. He had spied for them as a palace excubitor. But with the emperor’s guidance, Narses had realized that the Romans were the true upholders of order and justice.
“I’ve waited so long for this moment,” he said.
“Narses.” Dionysios stepped closer and examined him with a concerned expression. “Is that really you? My god—we thought you were dead!”
“I’ve never felt more alive,” Narses said.
“What? How can you talk like this?”
“He’s my teacher now.”
“Who? Nikephoros? That piece of shit? All he knows how to do is rape, murder, and steal.”
“Don’t talk about His Majesty like that.”
“You can’t silence the truth,” Dionysios said.
He swung his blade at Narses, who deflected the blow, scattering sparks into the flowers that bobbed in the dark winds blowing through the garden. Soldiers were gathering around the courtyard to watch the two master swordsmen fight, their armor clattering. Some sheathed their blades and nocked arrows on their bows.
“Wait!” Narses screamed at them. “He’s mine!”
The soldiers lowered their bows and arrows. Narses raised his blade, intending to sever Dionysios’s head in one swipe, but the old teacher blocked him. Both swords were shining and trembling in their hands.
They hacked at each other, swung and parried, and even chased one another along the walls. Narses was planning to leap across the rooftops all the way to the palace garrison so he could gather his immortals to kill the old man, but Dionysios pulled him into the courtyard. Then he held Narses’s blade down with his own, and kicked the general’s face hard enough to throw him back onto the ground. Narses growled and rolled out of the way before Dionysios could stab him.
“Is this tolerance?” Narses said. “Is this compassion?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Dionysios said.
Their blades met, but Dionysios’s wrists were so strong that he twisted Narses’s Almaqah sword out of his hands and flung it into the garden. Flames sprung up where it fell.
Narses raised his hands and backed away. For the first time, he felt afraid. Dionysios’s move had surprised him. But would the old man kill him?
Scowling, Dionysios pointed his scorching blade in Narses’s face, forcing him to back away.
“How many people have died because of you?” Dionysios said. “How many more will die if I let you live?”
“You won’t kill a defenseless man.”
“Watch me.” Dionysios’s eyes bulged and his lips trembled. He kept close, making it difficult for the soldiers to aim their bows and arrows.
You cannot fight him with strength, the voice said. Use charisma.
Looking back and forth, Narses fell to his knees and clasped his hands together. “I swear to you, Dionysios, if you let me live, I will never pick up another blade. I will be your prisoner. I will do charitable works for the poor. Please have mercy upon me.”
“Did you show mercy to the people of Troas? You must have slaughtered hundreds of them. What did any of them ever do to you?”
“It was my men.” Narses forced tears from his eyes. “They were enraged by so much battle. I tried to stop them—”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. You ordered them to commit mass murder.”
“Let me atone for my sins!” Narses pleaded, lowering his head to the ground. “Please, Dionysios! I’ll do anything! I’m so sorry! You were right and I was wrong! The people are the majority—let them rule! Down with the usurper Nikephoros! He is unworthy of Rome!”
Dionysios was silent. Narses had squeezed his eyes shut in terror; he sensed somehow that the old teacher had raised the sword above his head.
“Let me be your student again!” Narses cried. “Help me learn, Dionysios!”
After a moment Dionysios slid his searing blade back into its scabbard. Then he got down on his knees and helped Narses to his feet.
“Come with us,” Dionysios gripped Narses’s shoulders. “I’m sorry too, you know. I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job as a teacher. I never should have let you go.”
Narses met his eyes, then shoved the old man’s arms aside. He pulled Dionysios’s sword from its scabbard and plunged the weapon straight into his chest. Dionysios gasped and fell to his knees, clutching the blade as Narses twisted it into the wound. Blood gushed onto the ground and hissed against the scalding blade. By the time Dionysios fell, he was dead.
“No!” the youth screamed from the wall. He was about to jump down and fight Narses, but Herakleia stopped him. The soldiers in the courtyard raised their bows and loosed their arrows, but the youth and Herakleia had already jumped down onto the other side.
Narses was too happy to notice—gasping with joy—because he had taken revenge for all the humiliations. He had proven his teacher wrong.