When the criminals fled the Harbor of Eleutherios, Narses stalked back and forth along the mole and screamed at the sky. A few soldiers had survived the naphtha, and were crying for help from the sea, but Narses allowed them to sink beneath the waves.

They are weak, he thought. Armenians and other barbarian vermin among them. Rome will be purer now. Only the strong should live and breed.

Yet to lose two ships and an entire century was embarrassing. Had the kentarch survived, Narses would have drawn and quartered him in the Hippodrome, or boiled him alive inside the bronze bull. Instead, the kentarch’s charred body had sunk into the abyss.

This is how I am rewarded for all my hard work, Narses thought. My men let those bastards escape.

Soon the sun was rising over the balconies of Konstantinopolis. Emperor Nikephoros himself came to the harbor with his retinue. Along with a crowd of onlookers, he was accompanied by bleary-eyed ministers, axe-wielding Varangian guards covered with Arabic tattoos, black-clad priests with enormous beards, and slaves dressed in satin. This last group carried their sovereign on an enormous litter flowing with purple drapes. They lowered the litter onto the mole. A pale hand shining with jeweled rings pushed the drapes away, and two eyeballs glowed within the darkness.

“Anyone who knows how to swim,” growled a voice inside, “send ‘em into the harbor to pull out the bodies.”

A slave with a golden name tag hanging over his chest—he was named Platon—bowed. “My lord,” he said. Then he relayed Nikephoros’s orders.

Narses approached the litter and bowed as Nikephoros climbed out.

“Your majesty,” Narses said. “Forgive me for—”

“I already heard the details on the way over.” Nikephoros stared at the golden sunlight pouring over the sea. Then he covered his face with his hand and wiped his tears away.

“My men,” he said. “My poor, beautiful men. How could they do this to me?”

Nikephoros’s retinue watched Narses. He glared at them, and they averted their gazes.

“Have you all forgotten your place?” Narses said. None answered.

Nikephoros scowled. “I wonder why they could possibly forget?”

Respect from Emperor Nikephoros has decreased, the voice said.

Before Narses could react, he noticed that the crowd of onlookers was growing. Among them were widows and mothers of the deceased, who were wailing, writhing on the ground, and pulling out their hair. Only a handful of enforcers from the Blue faction had arrived to keep them under control.

Flanked by his Varangians and followed by Narses, Nikephoros approached the crowd, oblivious to the fact that they outnumbered his entourage and blocked the only way off the mole.

He raised his hand for silence, and the crowd obliged.

“In God’s name, what’s happened today is a monumental tragedy,” Nikephoros said, raising his voice. “I swear by the Holy Mother of God that the soldiers who gave their lives here to defend their homeland will be avenged—”

“What about the ones who are responsible?” one of the mothers screamed. “What about your incompetent officers?”

Narses stepped toward this woman and was drawing his sword when Nikephoros pulled him back so hard he nearly threw him into the water.

“All those responsible will be punished,” Nikephoros said. “The deceased shall be buried with full honors, their families receiving full pensions.”

A moment passed. The crowd watched Nikephoros in silence. He never should have allowed himself to be trapped on the pier like this—and with so few guards!

“Thank you, your majesty,” said a different mother. She got down on her knees and bowed.

Soon the rest of the crowd followed along. The mother who had screamed at Nikephoros a moment earlier joined them. Narses was astounded. How could they forgive the people in charge? One sentence from Nikephoros had disarmed them. It must have been his charisma. He might have even been a Level 9—an Elder Charismatic. With that kind of power, nonsense words and meaningless hand gestures could enchant crowds of thousands. Narses thought that Nikephoros was such a charming speaker that he himself had trouble resisting him.

Still, at first glance it made little logical sense for a mother—who had lost her son to the government’s incompetence—to continue supporting that same government. But it was easier to direct your anger to some exterior scapegoat than to admit to yourself that you had willingly sacrificed your own child to a gang of fools. Perhaps that was why they loved Nikephoros. That may have also been why Narses loved him.

Those men in the crowd and among Nikephoros’s retinue who could swim, meanwhile, were removing their clothes and leaping off the pier. Like cormorants they hurtled through the air, speared the waves, and vanished into the murk. Moments later they emerged from upwellings of foam clutching burned bones in their arms. As black-clad priests bowed, intoned sacred hymns, and made the sign of the cross in the air while opening and closing vast gilded books above their heads, the body parts were handed to the corpse collectors. These carried the remains past the crowd to carts at the wharf, which would leave for the martial cemetery—located just inside the Land Walls, and reserved for soldiers who had died defending the City.

“It’s a god damn tragedy,” Nikephoros said to Narses, as they left the crowd to watch the divers. “What a god damn waste of human potential.”

“Your majesty,” Narses said. “Does it really make sense to bury these men in the martial cemetery? That sacred place is for honorable warriors—”

“It doesn’t take much to please the people,” Nikephoros said. “You gotta give ‘em something every now and then, or else they get angry. You can’t just take, take, take.”

“Cowards and fools don’t belong there,” Narses said. “Their remains should be left at the bottom of the harbor.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Nikephoros yanked Narses close. “What do you want me to do? You were in charge of the whole operation—we should pull out all the bodies and throw you into the harbor!”

Respect from Emperor Nikephoros has decreased, the voice said.

Narses pursed his lips.

Nikephoros pushed him away. “I’m surrounded by idiots. Nobody knows how to get anything done. I always have to do everything myself.”

In spite of Narses’s frustration, Nikephoros was right. Romanía had been unprepared for infiltration by professional criminals. The legions were garrisoned across the land, with the thundering ironclad kataphraktoi riding down peasants who fought with hardly more than their bare fists. If these hordes overran the garrisons, Konstantinopolis relied for defense on the walls. Inside the walls, the Green and Blue factions—plus a steady bread supply—kept the lower orders from rioting. To deter pirates, a few dromons patrolled the Bosporos, the Golden Horn, and the Marmara; these were now chasing the Paralos. The rest of the imperial armada was scattered across the Pontic, Aegean, and Middle seas. It would take days or even weeks to contact them.

“We have this enormous military,” Nikephoros said. “The City’s a fortress. And a few bad guys managed to slip right in through the front door. Pretty ironic.”

Paul the Chain joined Nikephoros and Narses, apologizing for his lateness. He had overslept.

Too busy with his late-night orgies, Narses thought. No one likes sex more than eunuchs. Perverts all of them.

“Now this is the guy I wanted to talk to.” Nikephoros hugged Paul. “This guy right here.”

“You do me too much honor, o despota mou,” Katena said.

Narses ground his teeth together, glaring at Paul.

Nikephoros released his minister. “Now as I was saying. Nobody thought anyone could get inside the City and rescue Herakleia. And I heard these criminals were immortals. That’s why we had to destroy that manual. We have to destroy all Mazdakist literature. That fucker’s been dead for years, but his ideas are still getting good people killed. The guy’s so hateful, he’s hurting us even from beyond the grave. The Bogomils are buggering us right in our fucking asses!”

“We can spread our own ideas, o despota mou,” Paul the Chain said. “The military may not always be the solution. It certainly was not the solution here.” He glanced at Narses.

“Yeah, right,” Nikephoros said. “Of course we can do that. We gotta nip this shit in the bud.”

Paul gulped. “I heard that even some of the women here spoke out against you, majesty, just a moment ago—”

“That’s true, but I got things back under control, all by myself.” He looked to Paul for approval.

Paul nodded. “We may need to pursue alternative techniques to ensure that the populace remains on our side.”

Is Katena manipulating His Majesty? Narses thought. His Majesty might have high charisma, but low intelligence.

“Do you want to torture the entire population?” Narses asked Paul.

“No, nothing quite so impractical.” Paul turned back to Nikephoros. “We need books and ideas, majesty. They can be far more powerful than any army.”

“That sounds good,” Nikephoros said. “I’ve just got one question. What are we paying the priests for? What’s the church for? What are the City criers for?”

“Yes, your majesty, but—”

“What are the Green and Blue factions for? The people put all their hopes in one party or the other, while we’re the ones who hold the reins of power!”

“We might need to do more, majesty,” Paul said. “We might need to propagate books of our own.”

“Who will write them?” Narses said. “You?”

“I have written more than you realize,” Paul said.

“But won’t that be expensive?” Narses said.

“It’ll more than pay for itself, Domestikos,” Paul said.

“Well, you know, that might not be a bad idea, now that I think about it,” Nikephoros said. “The books can say something like: ‘it’s crazy to question the normal way of doing things. The world’s the way it is because of human nature. The system isn’t at fault; corrupt individuals are. You can rebel however you like so long as you don’t challenge the social order. Mazdakism is a failed ideology that’s gotten lots of people killed for no good reason. Revolutions, you know, they might start with the right ideals, but they always end up destroying themselves. Nobody’s uplifted the world’s poor like us. Plus, Rome’s the best place in the world. Or at the very least, it’s flawed, but it’s still an overall force for good. All those other places, especially the ones that don’t do what we say, they’re bad. They suck. And we won’t even have to lie when we say that. You can always find bad things about other countries. Nobody’s perfect. The whole thing’s pretty fallacious, but it’s actually close to the truth, and easy to defend. The people will fall for it. Anytime anyone complains about this place, some other guy will say: ‘Oh yeah, well at least it isn’t Gallía! People worship the pope in Rome over there!’ And then, boom. Everyone’s confused. Nobody knows what to think. And we keep doing what we’re doing. If we run into a lot of domestic trouble, we just declare war on a smaller weaker opponent. If anyone disagrees, we say he’s a traitor who loves the enemy or that he’s getting paid by their king or something. The craziest thing we let people do is say both sides are wrong, which ends up helping us, since we’re stronger. Or we condemn all violence, even while we’re fighting like eight wars at the same time. ‘I agree with your ideas, I just don’t agree with your methods.’ We portray ourselves as reasonable and logical, while anyone who opposes us is bloodthirsty and barbaric. It always works.”

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“Many excellent ideas, o despota mou,” Paul said. “They sound sophisticated. We must win the war of ideas before we can win the war on the ground.”

“With all due respect, your highness,” Narses said. “We’re discussing books when we need to stop a handful of criminals. Books are hardly even relevant since only people in cities can read—”

“We can drown out all the voices which so much as raise an eyebrow at Romanía,” Paul said. “We can convince them there’s no point in even fighting us—that the war’s over before it even begins. This approach may be more effective than suppressing these people. It allows us to act as though we are encouraging speech, when in reality we are suffocating it.”

“But books are more expensive than armies,” Narses said. “They have to be copied. A single Bible costs as much as three years’ salary for the average laborer—”

“Let the logothete handle financial matters,” Paul said. “Besides, Domestikos, there are new techniques from Sera, new ways of manufacturing books quickly and cheaply which you might not have heard of, busy as you are losing entire ships to criminals.” He glanced at the sea.

Narses’s muscles tensed. If he were any other man…

“Get on it,” Nikephoros said.

Paul bowed. “As you command, o despota mou.”

He walked away, smiling at Narses.

“Still suffering from your funk, huh?” Nikephoros said to Narses. “Where the fuck have you been the last few weeks? You’ve been so out of it—that’s why this goddamn tragedy happened in the first place. You need to take communion with somebody. It'll do you good.”

“I swear I will destroy the fugitives,” Narses said.

“You’re more than just muscle,” Nikephoros said. “You’ve got a soul, too. Don’t forget that. Nothing can stop you but yourself. You gotta have a positive mindset. Hard work will set you free.”

Wonder if the slaves chained up in iron mines think the same, Narses thought.

Nikephoros climbed back inside his litter and waved at his servants to bring him home. They lifted him, their muscles trembling, their teeth gritting as they carried him away.

Narses remained on the pier, his rage deepening. No one in Romanía had been tested by any kind of challenge until then. Almost every Roman except Nikephoros had been sleepwalking for centuries. Now Narses was struggling to rouse them.

The divers took too long to recover the charred bodies; he screamed in their faces. The Blue faction’s enforcers were lax in keeping the gaping citizenry out of the way; he growled—with his hand gripping his hilt so tightly his knucklebones were almost cutting the flesh—that he would replace them with the Greens.

“You will do your jobs, or suffer the consequences,” Narses said.

“Yes, Domestikos.” The enforcers bowed and then pushed the crowds away from the divers and corpse collectors.

Everyone would suffer as Narses suffered until this wrong was made right. All Romanía’s buildings would be burned to their foundations if only to catch these criminals. Herakleia, plus Dionysios’s young student, whoever he was, as well as their two accomplices—all would be tortured to death. For them Romanía’s experts would invent new torments. They would be covered in honey and locked in sarcophagi with swarms of insects.

Back inside one of the Great Palace's marble offices, Narses met with the Opsikion Theme’s quartermaster, a Armenian named Kourtikios. This man was Narses’s opposite in every way. Short and sweaty, with a rat’s sniveling features—puffy sleep bulges swelled under his frantic round eyes, and his scraggly beard joined his bushy unibrow—his soft hands had never in his life held anything heavier than a stylus. Narses despised the way his bejeweled robe swished on the floor.

A civilian, Kourtikios had bribed his way inside the palace to enrich himself at the people’s expense following Anastasios’s removal. Emperor Nikephoros needed bureaucrats to run the bureaucracy—to collect and distribute taxes—and Kourtikios was one of the few men capable of performing this complex task. Narses, in contrast, was tall, strong, and beautiful, and had worked his way from the Orphanage to the palace on his own, teaching himself to read, write, do arithmetic, fight with a sword, ride horses, command armies, and crush enemies in battle. A rational, self-made man, he had no tolerance for the lazy or emotional, and had dedicated his life to purifying Romanía of corruption, building it back up so that it could be powerful like it once was. Narses fought the wars, while men like Kourtikios kept the money flowing, skimming a little off the top in the process. Yet Kourtikios had also graduated from the university and was constantly showing off his education.

“All furloughs must be canceled,” Narses said. “The entire navy must be sent into the Pontic Sea to capture the fugitives alive. Put all Romanía on alert.”

“But Domestikos,” Kourtikios babbled, gesturing to his assistants, who were all scribbling into their wax tablets. “With respect, we have already sent fire signals northward. Both Sinope and Trebizond have responded. All Paphlagonia knows about the, uh, events which took place in the Harbor of Eleutherios early this morning. To put the armed forces on alert will cost an inestimable amount of blood and treasure, and to withdraw the navy from the south—that will leave much of Romanía vulnerable to sea invasion. We must consider the Normans in Sicily, Egyptian corsairs—”

Narses slapped the man’s soft face so hard Kourtikios fell to the floor. There he cried out and clutched his cheek, but Narses was already on top of him.

“We have the walls.” Narses lifted him by the shoulders. “The City is a fortress. We’ve had no news of enemy naval activity in months. Is the fleet supposed to just let the criminals escape?”

“It acts as a deterrent, Domestikos. It’s the glory of Romanía—”

Narses punched Kourtikios’s face. This time the quartermaster’s skull cracked against the marble floor, and his entire body went limp. His face was disfigured and drenched with blood, but Narses punched the man again and again. He just wanted to keep punching him until he broke through the floor, and then the next floor beneath, through the underground chambers, all the way down into the Earth, past the magma of the mantle to the burning core at the world’s heart.

Soon Kourtikios stopped breathing.

More experience points have been added to your strength stats, the voice said. But as your level is already quite high—

I don’t care!

Narses stood and glared at Kourtikios’s assistants as well as the servants flanking the doorways. These people were all watching him open-mouthed. At his glance they looked down; the assistants resumed scrawling notes into their wax tablets.

Narses’s fist hurt. It was smeared with blood.

“Who is the lead assistant?” Narses was breathing deeply, his broad muscular shoulders rising and falling.

“I am, sir.” A man stepped forward and bowed. His head was shaved, and he had a sharp nose and large eyes. He looked ugly.

Ugliness often a sign of crossbreeding.

“You are now the quartermaster for the Opsikion Theme,” Narses said.

“Sir.” The man stepped back. “I—”

“You are familiar with your responsibilities.” Narses looked at the dead Kourtikios.

“Sir—yes, but—”

“You will ensure that the City is prepared for a siege. Enough food must be stored so that the populace can survive for three years if we are cut off. You will also supervise the quartermasters of the other themes, answering directly to me.”

“Yes, sir.” The man bowed.

“What is your name?” Narses said.

“Stefan Nemanjos, sir,” he said.

“A Serbian,” Narses said. “I never knew Serbians could read.”

“Some can, sir.” Nemanjos swallowed nervously.

Narses admired this man’s strength—his ability to stand up for himself despite the way his predecessor had died in front of him for questioning his superior.

“Send the fleet after the Paralos,” Narses said.

“There’s just one thing,” Nemanjos said. “Do you intend to join them, sir?”

Narses glared at the new quartermaster. Did he need to execute everyone in the palace before he found someone who could follow instructions?

“I must discuss the matter with His Majesty the Emperor,” Narses said. “In the mean time, order the Aegean fleet to return to the City.”

“Very good, sir,” Nemanjos said. “I will pass your message along to the droungarios—”

Narses had already left the office, just as the slaves were picking up Kourtikios’s body. Followed by several aides, the general walked quickly along the hallways, passing soldiers who bowed the moment he came into view. Security had been increased following the attack on the harbor; now almost every doorway was guarded.

An immortal would wipe them out, Narses thought.

He quickened his pace so that his aides needed to jog behind him. Soon he was inside the imperial apartment, kneeling before Nikephoros in his gold-fringed purple robes. Nikephoros himself was lying on a couch before a table strewn with golden plates and bowls of bread, honey, and grapes, as well as a blue porcelain cup of steaming hot cha, an expensive Seran import.

“You’re interrupting my lunch.” Nikephoros was chomping a mouthful of grapes.

“Forgive me, majesty,” Narses said.

Nikephoros swallowed his food, then watched Narses, who was still speaking, though he himself hardly knew what he was saying. Then Nikephoros’s face trembled. Suddenly he jumped from his couch—knocking it to the floor—and flung the table against the wall. All the plates clanged against the marble, spilling food; the cup shattered into painted porcelain shards steaming with hot cha. Servants hurried to clean up the mess. Narses remained kneeling, and lowered his head.

Respect from Emperor Nikephoros has decreased, the voice said.

How much lower can it go?

Not much lower.

“I can’t have a single fucking meal!” Nikephoros shouted. “The moment I try to enjoy a little peace and quiet, somebody interrupts!”

“Your majesty—”

“This is your fault! You let Herakleia escape! Those shitheads got away!”

“I killed one, your majesty. An old immortal I used to know—one who taught me much—”

“Yeah, well evidently it wasn’t enough!” Nikephoros shouted, shoving a slave who came too close. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. But you need to get the fuck out of here. You need to leave the palace. Even with all your training—you’ve gone soft.”

“Your majesty?”

“There’s nothing like a little real world experience,” Nikephoros said. “Training doesn’t compare. Take the immortal century and cross to Chrysopolis today. I want you moving fast, too. No pipe organs or bathtubs in the baggage train. Gather as much of the army as you can find in Anatolia, and destroy the criminals city by city, town by town. Sooner or later you’ll figure out where Herakleia is—you’ll find the secret base she’s fleeing to.”

“I’m to take just once century, your majesty.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No, your majesty, it just seems like an inadequate number of men, especially if we’re going to be besieging our own cities. Even one of the cities on the way would require at least ten thousand men for a siege…”

“You know the kind of position we’re in after Manzikert. Almost all our best boys were thrown away in that battle. When it comes to manpower, all we’ve got left are some guards and mercenaries. All I can spare is the immortal century. And that should be enough. One of you is worth a hundred of them. Supposedly. And plus, they’re absolutely loyal. You won’t have to worry about losing half your men to desertions like we do most of the time.”

“But—what about the Hikanatoi tagma?”

“We need them to defend the City, like I said. Now listen to me. This is your last chance. You stay out there until you win.”

“Yes, your majesty.” He stood and bowed, ready to leave.

“There’s something else,” Nikephoros said. “Something I haven’t told you.”

“Yes, your majesty?”

“A secret weapon,” Nikephoros said. “All our soldiers are the best in the world, but sometimes the best isn’t good enough. When you find a big city, the walls can stop almost anybody. Lately these last few years a lot of engineers have been coming by, offering their services. They’ve got all kinds of crazy ideas coming from the East. They say you don’t have to use ladders or wait months or years for a siege to end. You can blow up the walls with a big—what do you call it? A big metal tube.”

“Majesty?”

“Here’s how it works. First you cast the tube at the foundry. It’s almost like a very long bell. Then you stick a shitload of this special powder inside. After that, you stick in a giant rock. You light the powder on fire. And then there’s this big boom. It shoots out the giant rock. If you aim it right, it can knock down a whole city wall. Orban, the guy who designed this one for me, he calls it the Basilik.”

Narses felt he had mentioned something like this before, but he couldn’t remember.

“You want to use this weapon to stop the traitors?” he said.

“We’ll use it against whoever we have to. Orban’s been testing it for awhile now. You might have heard a few booms now and then. He’s waiting in Chrysopolis, packing everything up as we speak. I want you to join him and use the Basilik against anyone who gets in your way. It should make those sieges of yours move a little faster. If it works.”

New quest, the voice said. Kill or capture the fugitives working with Princess Herakleia.

“That’s all,” Nikephoros said. “I have a bunch of appointments this afternoon. I’m playing polo, then I’m checking up on my falcons. But I want you in a boat on the water in an hour or less. Now get the hell out of here. Go and be like Caesar. Cyrus. Anyone but this guy right here who keeps fucking up.”