In the Great Palace of Konstantinopolis, Narses bowed to Emperor Nikephoros, acknowledged his command, and rushed outside his apartment. The new quartermaster Nemanjos caught up with him, and together they descended a vast mother-of-pearl stairway.
“Assemble the immortals,” Narses said to Nemanjos. “Have them meet me in the Julian Harbor now. We also need a dromon to bring us to Chrysopolis.”
“As you command, Domestikos.” Nemanjos ran ahead of him down the stairs.
Soon Narses entered his own apartment. His slaves were still asleep. Euphrosyne and Simonis were in his bed, the eunuchs Oromazdes and Konstantinos were on the carpets under linen blankets. He barked for them to get up, and they rushed to their feet, blinking bleary eyes as he ordered them to pack clothes and supplies for a long journey. But since they, in their grogginess, barely understood him, he needed to supervise, and was likewise anxious to hurry, terrified of displeasing Nikephoros again, growing so angry with his lazy slaves that he yelled at them, struck them, and threatened them with flogging.
Suddenly he stopped, distracted by the window, and through it the sight of the City, the sea, and Anatolia. In a few hours he would be there again. Unlike on his previous expedition, he and his men would penetrate the interior, where it was harder to travel and stay in touch with the capital than if they stuck to the coast.
Could be exciting. Narses picked up a small ikon of the Virgin from his altar as his slaves rushed around him. Getting away from the palace and all this moral corruption. His Majesty was right, like always. We can solve our problems in the country. Always nice to be around nature.
“Going somewhere?” an ironic voice said from the apartment doorway.
Narses’s shoulders fell. It was Paul the Chain.
“You can’t very well bring your entire life with you, you know.” Paul nodded to the frantic slaves. “The army has simply got to be mobile. Otherwise the enemy will always slip away. This means baggage has got to be kept to a minimum. Only bring what you yourself can carry. You shan’t even have room to bring that little ikon of yours. Which—I shouldn’t have to remind you—you aren’t supposed to touch in the first place. It’s honestly a bit of a sacrilege.”
Paul was right, but Narses would never admit it. As he struggled to think of something to say—gripping the ikon in his hands harder—the minister stepped inside his apartment, his soft sandals treading the cold marble.
“You can’t even bring these slaves with you. They’ll excite jealousy among the ranks. How fair will it seem for one man to possess so many beauties, while so many men go months without so much as touching a woman?”
“If I want the opinion of a logothete on these matters, I’ll—”
“Indeed. It’s absurd for a logothete to be teaching a domestikos how to catch a band of thieves—or fight a war. And yet it seems oddly necessary. You remember your curious episode near Troas, where you seemed to forget who you even were, do you not?”
“I have no need for your lectures, Katena.”
Paul’s busy gaze flicked about the room. “That’s unfortunate, as it seems we’ll be spending a great deal more time together in the coming months—perhaps even the coming years. I have been ordered to join your little escapade.”
“What about your writing project?”
“His Majesty the Emperor, in his wisdom, changed his mind after you spoke with him.”
Narses looked away, the ikon trembling in his hand.
“Leave us,” he said to his slaves.
They bowed and fled to the kitchen, still carrying his things.
“Though as a logothete my place is in the palace by His Majesty’s side,” Paul said, pacing around the atrium, “he no longer trusts you. I must therefore come along to watch over things. After all, much rides upon your shoulders, Domestikos.”
“It can be dangerous so far from the city,” Narses said. “People can get hurt. They can even disappear.”
“His Majesty the Emperor is aware of your jealousy. Should anything happen to me, he has stated that the same will happen to you.”
“You may leave.”
“Don’t speak to me like that. You can’t order me around like one of your whores. As logothete I outrank any military officer.”
Narses approached Paul and came so close his face almost touched the minister’s.
“When we are far from home,” Narses said, “and it takes a month to send a message overland to the palace, will His Majesty remember his promise to avenge you?”
“I’ll see you at the harbor, you incompetent.” Paul left without waiting for Narses’s response.
The minister’s soft footsteps echoed along the marble hallways. Narses’s slaves’ breathed quietly in the kitchen.
Paul the Chain, he thought. By my side. Every day.
Screaming, he hurled the ikon at the wall.
You have lost 65 Piety XP, the voice said. You are in danger of leveling down to Intermediate Believer (5/10).
What does that matter?
This is a Christian culture. People respect a man who believes.
Narses took a deep breath. Still trembling with rage, he replaced the ikon—gaining back a little of his lost piety XP. The ikon’s face had been scratched. No matter. It was Paul’s fault. God would understand.
Next, Narses walked to the kitchen. Euphrosyne, Simonis, Oromazdes, and Konstantinos were all huddled there, averting their gazes at his approach.
“You will wait in the palace for my return,” Narses said. “You will pray for me in the Church of Holy Wisdom every day.”
All the slaves bowed and said: “Yes, lord.”
“Please don’t leave us, lord.” Euphrosyne fell to her knees and clutched his feet. She was one of his favorites, an expensive acquisition who even resembled Princess Herakleia, with her long black ringlets and her ample figure. Though he often found her (and all women) annoying, this display of affection was almost touching.
“Remain true to me,” he said.
“Of course, lord.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “May God protect you.”
He turned to Simonis, Oromazdes, and Konstantinos, all of whom were bowing.
“When I return,” he began, “my home must be clean. If a single mote of flour is missing, I will sell all of you to the salt farms of Venetia.”
“Yes, lord,” they said, bowing deeper than before.
Narses left the kitchen. In the atrium he snatched a large bag and filled it with one blanket and a few changes of clothes, most of them meant for cold weather, since the campaign season was almost over. He would have to pick up a tent from the quartermaster.
Narses returned to the kitchen. As the slaves watched, he packed the usual Roman soldier’s food: ham, cheese, and bread, stuffing as much as possible into the bag. Then came a flask with sweet watery wine. That was all. The army would provide the rest.
Before long, he was walking with his hundred immortal warriors, who were leaving the palace garrison. Everyone was dressed in black. He passed Erythro, Nikephoros’s daughter, and stopped and bowed, his heart pounding. The immortals followed along, and she laughed.
“These formalities will have to stop someday, Narses,” she said. “We should be friends.”
“As you command, your highness.” He kept his head down.
“Oh, come on, get up!” She extended her hand. Reluctantly, he took it, shocked by the softness of her skin. “Get up, all of you!”
The men stood, but kept their gazes averted.
“May God bless your great mission,” she said. “You will be in my prayers. I will personally ensure that your supplies depart the city storehouses every day.”
Narses bowed once more. “Thank you, your highness.”
“It’s the least I can do.” She watched him for a moment. When he met her gaze, pangs of fear flashed like lightning across his abdomen.
“Farewell,” he said.
She laughed. “I told you, stop being so formal! Will you write to me?”
“If you request it, your highness.”
Erythro smiled. “I demand it!”
“All shall be done as you command, highness.”
“God be with you.” She made the sign of the cross over him.
“And you.”
She stepped back, and Narses suppressed a gasp of relief as he walked past her toward the doorway that led to the palace’s outer gardens, his men following.
The only person more terrifying than His Majesty, he thought.
City people stared as Narses and his immortals left the palace and entered the Milion Square, passing the domes of Hagia Sophia always rattling with semantrons, the Baths of Zeuxippos wreathed in clouds of steam, and the roaring Hippodrome. Narses told himself he cared for none of it, and was glad to leave, walking with his men. The great immortal kentarch John—just John, with no surname or nickname—was by his side, where he belonged.
“A beautiful day to do what needs to be done.” John smiled in the sunshine.
Narses hugged the man close and patted his back.
As they continued walking, Narses looked away from the workers on wooden scaffolds constructing new buildings or tearing down old ones, the crowds of all the world’s people milling about, laboring, arguing, cracking jokes, eating. Some chickens pecking about the straw and manure on the street almost tripped him; he kicked them out of his path. Only the occasional statue—of an intellectual Apollo or a Hercules with perfect muscles and pure white marble golden ratio proportions—distracted him. Though these were pagan gods, they were ideals to emulate, heroes who battled the entire world by themselves—and won.
He couldn’t stand Konstantinopolis. The churches he liked, but he hated all the different barbarians mixing here, the annoying cultures that refused to speak Greek. If only a disease specific to their own kind would wipe them out. The Armenians particularly got to him. They were everywhere, and so many put on airs. They liked to pretend that if they’d lived in Rome long enough, they could become Roman, but in reality they would always be Armenian and prone to crime no matter what. Their own quarters in the City were always crime-ridden hellholes.
It also enraged him whenever a woman did man’s work, or even walked by herself without a male escort. Some women were so unhinged they even went outside without covering their hair! It would be good to return to the country, where people kept apart from each other and knew their proper place. You didn’t find eunuchs in rural areas either. They were always a sign of oriental decadence and corruption. Everything needed to be pure, geometric, and logical. Nothing could stick out.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
Still, Narses felt weary. His day had begun in the dark before sunrise when the fugitives escaped. Now it was afternoon, and Narses’s farr was almost depleted. As Nikephoros in his practical wisdom had suggested, Narses needed to take communion.
“Forgive me, Domestikos,” said Nemanjos, who was waiting at the Julian Harbor amid the groaning ships and laughing seagulls. “We had to requisition a merchant vessel. All the dromons departed in pursuit of the Paralos hours ago.”
Narses walked past him. The immortals followed, climbing aboard the merchant galley without waiting for Narses’s command, guided by Kentarch John. Paul the Chain was standing beside the gangplank arguing with the ship’s owner.
“Well then,” Nemanjos said from behind Narses. “May God be with you, Domestikos—”
“I will require your services during the campaign,” Narses said.
Nemanjos stared at him for a moment. “But—Domestikos—I’m just a—”
“Men of organizational talents are rare. Since we are departing without slaves or even a baggage train, we will need to requisition food from the countryside. As quartermaster, you will ensure that my men are supplied with two weeks’ rations at all times.”
“But Domestikos, you appointed me to oversee the City’s supplies—”
“I am changing your appointment.”
“Sir—with respect—I’ve not even had time to pack, or to inform my wife, my children—”
“You will find what you need along the way.”
Nemanjos stared at him, then swallowed and bowed. “As you command, Domestikos.” Hesitating a moment, he crossed the gangplank, went aboard the ship, and sat on an empty rowing bench, carrying nothing but his stylus and wax tablet. Kentarch John approached him, smiled, bowed, and said he was at the quartermaster’s service. Nemanjos thanked him.
The kentarch’s the best among them, Narses thought. The most dependable. He comes from the fields. He’s so talented, one day he’ll surpass me.
Narses was about to cross the gangplank to join his men—as well as Xanthos, his gigantic war horse, who was being brought aboard—when the merchant arguing with Paul the Chain stopped him.
“Good,” the merchant said to Narses, turning away from Paul. “I’ve been wanting to speak to the man in charge. Tell me, sir—what is the meaning of this? What right do you have to just seize random vessels whenever it pleases you?”
Paul looked at Narses. “All yours, Domestikos.” He went aboard the merchant vessel followed by two slave girls who were struggling to carry his baggage.
Didn’t he say that slaves are too much of a luxury for this campaign?
“This is my ship, sir,” the merchant continued. “I’m afraid I must protest. We’ve just hauled a massive shipment of grapes and olive oil all the way from Kriti. Do you have any idea how long that journey is? All of our cargo will have to be thrown away if there is any further delay. This will cost us, sir. Does His Majesty the Emperor intend to make up the difference? Does he intend any form of compensation at—”
Narses drew his Almaqah sword and hacked the merchant’s head from his shoulders in one stroke. This was one of Narses’s special moves. The head fell into the sea while the body tumbled to the pier, with blood spurting in a fountain that rose and fell from the neck stump with the last convulsions of the merchant’s heart, his limbs and fingers trembling.
Narses knelt to the body and took communion with the merchant’s psyche before it could escape.
You were a good Christian, Narses thought, as he seized the screaming vapor and clasped it within his chest. Narses digested its consciousness, restored his farr, and rejuvenated his body with spirit.
He stood to his full height and flexed his muscles. Then he glared at the merchant ship’s crew. They were all staring at their boss, whose decapitated body was still spurting blood and quivering.
“Does anyone else wish to discuss our requisitioning?” Narses said.
They shook their heads.
“Good,” Narses said. He wiped his sword on the merchant’s clothes, sheathed it, then went aboard the ship.
A doctor named Asklepiodoros and his assistant Ignatios (weighed down with a supply chest in his arms and a massive pack over his shoulders) followed without even glancing at the corpse. Father Kosmas, the century’s chaplain, also came aboard and also ignored the corpse, having been hurried to the harbor with no more than the bejeweled cross around his neck, the black robe and hat over his pudgy flesh, and a large Bible covered in rubies and emeralds clutched in his hands. Narses greeted him by kissing a diamond-studded ring around his finger. In return, Kosmas bowed to Narses.
“Domestikos, it is a pleasure to serve alongside you.”
“Thank you, Father,” Narses said. “I pray we will have little need of your services on this journey.”
“God willing.” Kosmas crossed himself and looked to the sky. “Yet I will minister to the men’s spiritual needs as best I can, that we might restore the Word to Romanía before the Almighty grows displeased with us.”
Narses nodded. “Amen, Father. God bless Romanía.”
“Thank you, Domestikos. It is good to know that we have holy warriors on our side.”
The jittery sailors cast off, unfurled the sails, and heaved the oars, steering toward Asia. As the hull soared over the waves, and as Father Kosmas blessed the troops—giving each immortal a small farr boost at the expense of his own spiritual energy—Narses turned to look at the Great Palace one last time, even as he told himself that he was happy to escape, with images of Euphrosyne his beautiful slave girl and Erythro Komnenē flashing in his mind.
To stay with them forever, he thought.
Narses imagined himself on a farm in the country surrounded by these women and the beautiful children they would produce. The act of coupling Narses found displeasing, but it was important for a man to have a wife and children. During the day he would till the fertile soil, fling his arm outward to scatter seeds into the furrows, and wipe the sweat from his brow. They would have a pomegranate tree in the garden, olive orchards, milk and cheese and eggs from their own cows and chickens, and fish from the sea. At night he would recline with his family on couches and dine on food they had raised themselves, far from the crime and corruption of the cities. His farr would vanish, and he would kill no more. They would forget their ranks and live as equals, with Euphrosyne playing the santur, and Erythro reading aloud the histories she herself had written.
You must focus on the matter at hand, the voice said.
Sometimes it’s hard to keep from wondering about what might have been, Narses thought.
Jarred from his daydream, he noticed a tiny figure—it must have been Nikephoros—standing in a palace window watching the immortals leave. Narses went rigid, and bowed.
“Your approach to conflict resolution certainly has its uses,” Paul the Chain told him. “I shall have to take up swordsmanship.”
“I can teach you,” Narses said.
Paul smiled and nodded. “Perhaps I’ll learn with someone more savory, no offense.”
I will kill this man, Narses thought.
Emperor Nikephoros will become your sworn enemy if you lay a finger on Paul the Chain, the voice said.
What do you care?
You must save the empire. Otherwise it will be lost forever. Think: no more Romanía, church, or Emperor.
Tears came to Narses’s eyes, and he wiped them away. Forgive me.
Let your actions be your apology.
It took an hour to cross to Chrysopolis. As the immortals disembarked at the quay, the engineer Orban the Dacian met them. Somehow old and young at the same time, the inventor was bald, but possessed long white hair growing down the sides of his head. He wore traditional Ruthenian clothing—white tunic and pants trimmed with red—and walked with a vigorous stride, though he was hunched over.
“Ah, greetings, Domestikos,” he said, his voice peculiarly high-pitched. “I have been commanded to design and maintain the Basilik, and am at your service.”
Narses was too busy to listen, however, as he was ordering Nemanjos to procure horses, mules, carts, and guides for the long journey ahead. Paul the Chain also joined the quartermaster. The plan was to strike Dorylaeum, a suspected traitor hideout in Anatolia’s heart. One of the criminals there might lead them to the traitor’s secret capital, wherever it was.
Orban, however, jogged after Narses, who was already leaving Chrysopolis on Xanthos at the head of the immortal century. They were taking the road to Nikomedeia, a pleasant and loyal city on the way to Dorylaem, and one which they might reach by nightfall if they hurried. Their mounts—which Nemanjos was still gathering back in Chrysopolis—would have to catch up with them.
“Domestikos,” Orban said. “Apologies, but I was ordered by His Majesty the Emperor himself to—”
“This secret weapon,” Narses said without looking back. “This ‘Basilik.’ Will it slow us down?”
“Ah, yes, well, I’ve designed it to be easy to assemble and disassemble, sir,” Orban said. “It’s simple and convenient to carry to the farthest regions of Romanía.”
“How much did you charge His Majesty the Emperor for your services?”
Orban cleared his throat. “All prices are at cost, Domestikos. We are good Christians and would never dream of profiting off the Roman people.”
“Your weapon can join the baggage train. You and your men will be responsible for feeding yourselves and your draft animals.”
“Hmmm, forgive me, sir, but that wasn’t quite what His Majesty the Emperor told me at all. It will slow us down if we have to spend time scrounging for food. As a matter of fact, it will be impossible for us to advance if we have no access to your supplies. Each ox needs at least thirty pounds of hay per day.”
The engineer kept babbling while Narses lost himself in thought. Whenever anyone even looked at him the wrong way, the urge to kill would seize Narses. Because he was tired and had lost the criminals he was in an even worse mood than usual. His fellow immortals knew never to question him. The engineer would have to be taught. Yet Nikephoros would be furious if anything happened to Orban.
For the second time that day Narses questioned his superior, the man placed on the throne by God.
One God, One Emperor, One Romanía.
Why was His Majesty wasting time and money with this babbling idiot and his useless contraption? No matter. As the voice had explained, Narses needed to obey. Nikephoros was Romanía’s soul, and everyone needed to obey him just as different body parts obeyed the heart, as children obeyed their father. Otherwise all order broke down, and there was chaos and anarchy and thugs looting and burning and protesting and rioting. It was intolerable. Narses would do anything for Nikephoros. The man was like a father to him. To fail him was worse than death. At the very least, he was better than any of the alternatives.
Some criminals in the uprising were even unbelievers. They had lost their minds, and ceased to worship God, and even smashed His holy ikons, and betrayed Rome and allied themselves with foreign powers, the Skythioi and Sarakenoi, the Latins and Franks. Some dressed like women, while their women dressed like men, practicing sexual perversion and property destruction. How could they make sense of the world? Everything belonged in its proper place! Men were men and women were women, and those who questioned God, order, and the Great Chain of Being were doing the devil’s work, and deserved death. The whole world needed to be purified, and every rough edge smoothed over. Nothing could stick out.
“…and so as you can see, Domestikos,” Orban continued, “it is necessary for us to—”
“You may access our supplies,” Narses said.
Orban stopped and smiled, though Narses kept moving.
You have gained favor with Orban the Inventor, the voice said.
“Thank you, Domestikos,” Orban said. “You won’t regret it.”
“Don’t slow us down,” Narses said without turning. “We won’t wait. You can deal with the Skythioi on your own.”
Orban stared after Narses riding along the cobblestone road, followed by his marching immortals, all of whom were dressed in the same clothing and light armor. Then the inventor turned toward Chrysopolis to retrieve the secret weapon. There he found Paul the Chain and Stefan Nemanjos seizing people’s horses, mules, carriages, and servants—sometimes at swordpoint—and sending them ahead.
Before long, the immortals were mounted, clutching their flagged spears, and cantering in front of supply carriages, which were trundling along as fast as possible, clattering over the road with their drivers cracking whips over the rumps of the poor dray horses, whose mouths were foaming. At such speeds, the carriages’ wooden axles were guaranteed to snap sooner or later.
Following Narses’s commands, Kentarch John dispatched a few immortals at full gallop to nearby cities with instructions to send their thematic garrisons to muster at Nikomedeia. Auxiliaries would be needed.
Orban and his secret weapon soon joined the century as well. Forty oxen were hauling ten carriages loaded with what looked like huge black iron sculptures. It had taken hours to dismantle and pack this weapon. Two hundred engineers and assistants were also coming along, and these were men who needed food, water, wine. What was an army, after all—even an army as small as Narses’s—except a vast roaming belly?
In the evening the outrider and sole member of the century’s quartering party, who was named Philippikos, returned to inform Narses that Nikomedeia lay just over the next hill. This was a relief. Narses’s stamina was almost at zero. He was nearly slipping off his horse, and Nikomedeia was famous for its comforts.
What’s its nickname? Nikomedeia, the city of gardens—the city of peace.
Word was already spreading through the ranks that they had arrived.
“Nikomedeia,” some men were saying. “We’re saved!”
Father Kosmas was crossing himself and thanking the Almighty. Doctor Asklepiodoros and his assistant Ignatios, riding along in a carriage, smiled at each other, while Stefan Nemanjos was already jotting down plans in his wax tablet.
“I’m afraid there’s also bad news, sir,” said Philippikos. “The doux, well, he’s closed the city gates, sir. He says he’s well within his rights since there’s a danger that our cooking fires will burn his lovely old city down.”
“Rights,” Narses said after a moment. “His only right is to do what he’s told.”
“Yes, sir,” Philippikos said.
It took all of Narses’s strength to dismiss Philippikos without harming him. Soon the ranks were groaning in frustration. Narses wanted to kill anyone who looked at him.
Traitors, he thought. Everyone turns against us. We have no friends. The first city we encounter in our campaign refuses us entry. A terrible sign of things to come.
“Domestikos,” someone said. It was Kentarch John, riding beside him. “Sir, are you alright?”
Narses turned. “Yes, thank you.” He leaned in and spoke more quietly: “At times you seem to be the only one I can depend on. You’re the only one who cares about the mission.”
“Sir, if this is an issue of discipline—”
“No.” Narses reached over and took John by the shoulder. “It’s just good to have you here. You’re a good man.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve been meaning to tell you—it was good to train with you.”
“It was. And you know I don’t talk this way to many people.”
John smiled. “Oh yes, believe me, sir, I know.”
Soon they came within sight of Nikomedeia’s massive walls. Only then did Narses allow himself to contemplate the fact that he possessed just one hundred fighting men to besiege this vast city.