“Whatever shall we do, Domestikos?” Paul the Chain said, riding alongside Narses just over a bowshot from Nikomedeia’s massive walls. These were protected at regular intervals by sturdy towers as well as a moat. The city was almost like a miniature version of Konstantinopolis. In short: impregnable.
“We must punish them for refusing us entry,” Narses said.
“I fear the men are too tired,” Paul said. “You have pushed us too far, Domestikos. I find myself wondering if we even possess the strength to construct a proper camp. Without the usual defenses, we’ll be vulnerable to nocturnal ambush. Then there is disease, you know. That always kills so many more men than the enemy.”
“God will watch over us.”
“God watches over those who watch over themselves.”
“If you wish to construct defensive fortifications, be my guest. But that would mean doing manual labor. Those soft pink hands of yours might get their first callouses.”
“Are my interrogation techniques not a form of manual labor, Domestikos?” Paul said.
Narses ignored him and turned to Kentarch John.
“I have need of a competent man,” Narses said.
John bowed. “Sir.”
“We must camp by the road tonight. Tell the brothers they may rest. We begin the siege tomorrow.”
“They’ll be happy to hear it, sir.” John rode off relay his orders, and within moments Narses missed him.
I’m alone here except for that man, Narses thought. But it would be awkward to tell him because of our difference in rank.
Stamina is dangerously low, the voice warned. Rest immediately or you will begin losing health. Already your mood and intelligence are affected. Soon it will become more difficult to make decisions.
I know!
Narses dismounted from Xanthos and gave the black war horse to an attendant. His brother immortals set up camp nearby, as the voice urged Narses to begin base-building, though he was too tired to understand.
Long after the century had started eating their rations, Orban and his team arrived. The engineers collapsed in the grass, and the long train of oxen lowed for feed and rest.
“We came quick as we could, Domestikos,” Orban said, lunging with his hunched gait, his long curly white hair flying behind his bald head as he rubbed his hands together. “We were in such a hurry when we left that we only packed the food we had with us at the time…”
“What does this have to do with me?” Narses said. By now he was chewing fresh bread which outrider Philippikos had brought him from a portable bakery which Nemanjos had stolen from a street vendor in Chrysopolis.
Orban peered at Narses, his eyes bulging from behind his hooked nose. “The other men fear you, Domestikos, but I do not. You will address me with—”
“It would be wise to fear me.”
“His Majesty the Emperor commanded you to be of assistance. I grow tired of reminding you of this. Many hundreds of witnesses here can confirm any mistreatment you visit upon us.”
“Speak with the quartermaster,” Narses said.
“Where might I find him?”
“You don’t know where the quartermaster is?”
“Such is the implication of my previous question, Domestikos. This is my first time on campaign.”
And hopefully your last. Narses pointed to a group of wagons at the camp’s heart. This would have been hard for most people to miss, which made Narses suspect the engineer a fool. As Orban bowed and left, Narses thought he must be milking Romanía like that fool Kourtikios, draining resources needed to return the cities and armies to their former glory, to put good Romans back to work on the black and fertile land, stuffing the granaries to bursting…
Narses continued munching his bread, which replenished his stamina slightly. It was true that the immortals had left in such haste that they were unprepared for a siege so close to the capital. He had hoped that nearby thematic armies would join them before they reached Dorylaeum, swelling their ranks so they could deal with almost any eventuality.
Nikomedeia’s doux was better prepared, having already posted the city’s militia to the walls. Their mail, spears, and plumed helmets glinted in the evening light, and many were clutching large powerful bows. Though Narses’s brother immortals could take the city, at least a few would die in the process. If every city acted like this at Narses’s approach, all his brothers would be dead within months. The criminals would still be at large, the revolt stronger than ever.
They make me look like a fool, he thought.
Narses felt so angry he almost couldn’t eat, but his hunger was too great to ignore. As he chewed his bread, he glared at Nikomedeia’s walls. They could only be reached by crossing the usual narrow bridge over an empty moat. Aside from the Basilik, the immortals had brought no siege equipment.
His Majesty set me up for failure, Narses thought.
But he repressed this painful notion so thoroughly he forgot that it had ever occurred to him.
When he finished eating, Narses stood and searched the camp for Orban. He found the engineer bringing bread loaves from the quartermaster Nemanjos to the engineers. Next would come feed for the oxen. Perhaps then Orban would have time to eat and rest. At the moment he seemed ready to collapse from exhaustion.
“Engineer,” Narses said.
Orban stopped and looked at him for a moment, rolled his huge bulbous green eyes, then returned to handing out loaves.
“How long will it take to assemble your weapon?” Narses said.
“What does it matter?” Orban said. “We engineers are just slowing you down.”
“I have killed better men for saying less.”
“Respect flows both ways, Domestikos.”
Narses stepped toward Orban, but the engineer met his gaze without flinching, and even tensed his muscles as though to fight.
What’s wrong with this man? Narses thought.
“It takes one day,” Orban said. “Once we’ve set up the Basilik, it can launch three stone projectiles between dawn and dusk.”
“Only three?”
“One is often quite more than enough, Domestikos, especially for people who have never encountered the Basilik before. It’s an effective weapon of terror. Entire armies have fled after just one shot. To the ignorant rabble it sounds like the very gates of hell are opening.”
“You will assemble the weapon in the morning,” Narses said. “We will test it on Nikomedeia.”
“Here? So close to the capital?”
“No city in the past would have refused entry to an imperial army,” Narses said. “We must remind them that we are in charge.”
“Does His Majesty the Emperor approve of this policy of yours? Nikomedeia is one of the most beautiful cities in the—”
“Keep questioning me, engineer, and I will return you to His Majesty in a hundred pieces. Perhaps then you can see for yourself if he supports my policies.”
Orban paused. “I understand, Domestikos.”
In the mean time, the drinking had begun. If Narses had been stronger, he would never have allowed his brothers a drop of alcohol during the campaign. Yet in the real world it was impossible to expect men to spend every waking moment packing up camp, crossing these dusty plains, devouring stale bread, guzzling water that gave them dysentery, shitting on the roadside, and—sometimes—slaughtering other men, all without any reward or relief. Yet liquor transformed them from disciplined soldiers into monsters who were like the hooligans who brawled at chariot races.
To sate the immortals’ various needs, merchants had bribed their way through the city gate and were now selling food, women, and wine. Narses’s brothers were soon so busy carousing within and without their field tents that the night watches Narses organized either fell asleep or wandered back to the party.
We learned how to fight, he thought. But not how to maintain discipline. In better times no Roman army would have set up camp without constructing a palisade and digging a trench as well as latrines.
Narses considered punishing his men and driving off the merchants, but he was too tired. Paul the Chain, meanwhile, had disappeared inside his tent with his two slaves. The one with curly black hair was a Syrian named Zaynab; the Frankish one with long blond hair was Clotilda, and had once belonged to Princess Herakleia.
Maybe Paul isn’t gay after all, Narses thought.
Nemanjos, Doctor Asklepiodoros, and Ignatios were also impossible to find. Father Kosmas was drinking with the men and declaring that, by his beard, he loved them all.
Narses's brothers roared with laughter deep into the night while he kept watch, pacing around the camp. How long could he continue? His stamina had declined again and now the voice was subtracting one health every few minutes, making Narses wince with pain. Even Orban’s engineers joined the immortals, bashing together their drinking cups and horns, spilling wine into the grass.
The traitors are in their own country here, Narses thought. They must have no issues with morale; they believe they’re fighting for their freedom. As for my brothers, they depend on the capital for supplies. Why should they have any interest in making war on complete strangers? None of them know anyone from Nikomedeia…
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Hours after sunset Narses was down to 65 health, fighting to keep his eyelids open while leaning against an apricot tree at the edge of the camp that was closest to the city. Most of his men were snoring in the grass alongside the horses and oxen. Nearly every fire had been reduced to a few orange sparks glowing in the darkness. The last merchants were bringing sacks of ringing coins, empty baskets, and tired whores back through the city gates, which creaked open and then slammed shut, startling some sleepers, who turned over, mumbled, and smacked their lips. Only Kentarch John had done his duty, keeping watch on the camp’s far side. Narses was so grateful he had thanked him a few minutes ago.
I must remain awake, Narses thought. They will kill us if I fall asleep. It’s Nikomedeia's only chance. The merchants will tell them we’re sleeping. It was their plan all along.
But thoughts escaped the grasp of his consciousness. Visions of the past flickered inside his skull. Once he had held something called a football—for some reason his father’s face lay inside it—and he hurled it as hard as he could through the air toward a man wearing odd clothing at the end of a field with low-cut grass on which white lines were painted at curiously mathematic intervals. Crowds sitting in a kind of steel amphitheater were cheering. Women in profoundly short dresses were jumping and chanting in an inappropriate and un-Christian manner. Strong youths were sprinting across the field and hurling themselves into each other and groaning.
A twig snapped. Narses’s eyes flashed open.
All was dark. Thousands of crickets were screeching. Everyone was asleep. The torches in the city ahead—the city luxuriating behind its powerful walls—were doused. Yet Narses felt danger everywhere, as though the jaws of an enormous beast were closing around him.
Someone seized his hair and pulled his head back. In that instant Narses summoned the farr, and time slowed to a near-standstill. In the darkness a sword drifted toward him, its razor-sharp edges reflecting a million stars.
Narses drew his Almaqah blade and swung into the side of the man who clutched the drifting sword. The man was wearing chainmail, which saved his life, though the blow flung him against the apricot tree, where he dropped his weapon. Narses cut his throat and drank his psyche.
Health and farr percentages restored to 100/100, the voice said.
But Narses was barely listening. The man belonged to Nikomedeia’s militia. As the Domestikos had predicted, the Nikomedeians had snuck out of the city when the Roman army fell asleep. They attacked Narses first because he was at the camp’s edge. Thanks to the farr, he also sensed that Kentarch John was the only other man the traitors had gotten to thus far.
They were covering John’s mouth and holding him down, and they were about to slit his throat. It was a horrible way to die, with that cold steel slicing your flesh.
No!
Desperate to save John, Narses rushed toward him with the farr electrifying his muscles. One by one he stabbed the enemy, screaming at the same time for his brother immortals to wake. Soon the traitors were fleeing to the walls. Narses chased them over the bridge that crossed the moat, hacking down some, moving so quickly that the terrified defenders on the walls shut the gates before their comrades made it through. Left outside, the stragglers pounded the doors and begged for them to open. Soon they turned to face Narses, though he was too fast, appearing as a dark blur—a gust of wind—that tore them apart and then drained their life force, adding it to his own.
But behind him in the camp one of his brother immortals lay in a pool of black blood shining with starlight, his body already cold and stiff.
99/100 men remain in the Immortal Century, the voice said.
It was John. Narses had lost him.
The one good man. He growled, and tears burned his eyes. I’ll make them pay. I don’t need the army. I can take this city all by myself.
Narses dashed up the city walls, even as his farr ebbed away—the more superhuman the feat, the more it exhausted him—but an archer had already taken aim, and the arrow was loose and twisting through the air, the string twanging behind it. Narses caught the arrow in his shoulder, wincing at the thump of the steel arrowhead piercing his skin and muscle.
Critical hit! the voice shouted, almost as though it was excited. You have taken catastrophic damage! Only 25 health remains!
Plummeting down, his arms and legs flailing, Narses slammed onto the dirt, cushioning his fall with the last of the divine farr. Then, with a grunt, he tried to tear the arrow from his flesh, but it was stuck. As more arrows swooped past him and stabbed the dirt, he fell into the moat, then climbed back up onto the other side and staggered to camp, dripping filth, clutching his bleeding wound. Soon his immortals were carrying him to a cloak lain on the grass. This was the closest thing to a bed they possessed.
“No!” he shouted, pointing to the city. “That’s my real wound—over there!”
“I beg your pardon, but you are delirious, Domestikos,” said one of his brother immortals, a Laz named Tzanichites, the hekatontarch in command of the third platoon. “We cannot assault that city—”
“Did Alexander quail before the walls of Gaugemela?” Narses said. “Did Caesar falter before—”
“Domestikos,” Tzanichites interrupted. “One immortal is dead. We just don’t have the numbers to take this city. The rest of our brothers are half-drunk. You yourself—if I may say so—appear to be intoxicated.”
Narses tried to grab Tzanichites, but the hekatontarch backed away, and Narses fell into the grass. Before Narses could do anything else, the camp doctor Asklepiodoros—trailed by his assistant Ignatios carrying a medicine bag in one hand and a torch in the other—shouted for everyone to back up. Mumbling orders to Ignatios, who cut Narses’s black cloak with scissors, Asklepiodoros instructed the immortals to hold their general down. Father Kosmas joined them, mumbling prayers for Narses’s soul with tears in his eyes.
“Have we no alcohol?” Doctor Asklepiodoros said, looking around with his bulging eyes. “No wine?”
“We drank it all.” Tzanichites hung his head.
“Of course,” the doctor said.
Leaning forward, Asklepiodoros repeated his command for the immortals to keep Narses down. One man needed to hold each limb to stop the giant from attacking everyone. Then the doctor used pliers to tear out the arrow. Narses wailed like a pig being slaughtered. The doctor, meanwhile, was already bandaging the wound. His hands gleamed with blood.
“It went in and came out clean.” Asklepiodoros wiped his hands on a towel in the torchlight as the immortals released Narses. “It only nicked the bone. But you need rest. At least three days.”
“Doctor—”
“No arguments,” Asklepiodoros said. “You push yourself too hard, Domestikos. What are you trying to prove? And to whom? Now listen to me: you’ll kill yourself if you get up to do anything but piss or shit for the next three days.” He met the eyes of the immortals who were watching him. “If you love your general, make him follow my instructions. He should sleep as much as possible.”
Some immortals nodded. Others just stared.
“They never listen.” The doctor stood, then turned to Narses. “My assistant will change your bandages by midmorning, Domestikos.”
Ignatios and Father Kosmas followed Asklepiodoros to the next man who was wailing and writhing in the grass field. Narses groaned and lay back on his blanket.
“This is a disaster,” he heard Hekatontarch Tzanichites say.
“The general is incapacitated,” said Dekarch Michael Kaballarios, one of Tzanichites’s subordinates. “We've lost our kentarch. John is gone…”
“You are kentarch now,” Narses gasped to Tzanichites.
Tzanichites gaped at him for a moment, then bowed. “Thank you, Domestikos, but I’ll only be in command until you’re back on your feet—right?”
“Set a watch,” Narses gasped.
Tzanichites nodded to Kaballarios. “Congratulations, Kaballarios, you're promoted to hekatontarch of the third platoon.”
Narses was feeling confused about who was who.
“Organize a watch,” Tzanichites continued. “Have the men relieved every hour until dawn. Keep an eye on that city. And for God’s sake—don’t let them surprise us again!”
Kaballarios nodded. “Understood, sir.”
As the new hekatontarch ran off, Tzanichites sat beside Narses.
“We had no idea the treachery ran so deep,” Narses whispered. “We’re barely one day from Konstantinopolis.”
“I heard Nikomedeia already sent riders around our camp to the capital,” Tzanichites said. “They want to protest our presence here.”
Narses laughed, then clutched his shoulder and winced from the pain. “They tried to kill us for camping outside their walls.”
“They must have known we would attack,” Tzanichites said.
“The traitors will pay, Domestikos,” said a peculiarly high-pitched voice from the darkness. It was Orban. “My men are disturbed by what has happened here. They have asked if we can begin constructing the Basilik now rather than tomorrow morning.”
Narses nodded to the shadow speaking to him. “Do it!”
“My request was but a formality.” The shadow stepped away through the grass. “We have already begun.”
Oxen were lowing, carriages were creaking, the engineers were calling to each other. They must have been unloading and assembling the different pieces of the weapon. Orban had explained this device to Narses, but he barely listened. It would achieve nothing, and Nikomedeia's walls would embarrass him a second time. Nikephoros would demote him. Posted to some frontier outpost, Narses would die with an arrow in his back—loosed by a Skythian horseman galloping across yellow plains serrated with rock.
Called by all the responsibilities related to reorganizing the camp’s defenses, Kentarch Tzanichites left. Narses’s thoughts drifted. His dreams were tormented by the Nikomedeian archer’s face glaring at him. A hundred times the arrow struck Narses, and he flailed through the night, screaming into the ground—again and again.
Ignatios woke him in the morning while he was changing his bandages. The weather was hot, but something was blocking the sun. At some point his men had set up a tent to protect him from sunburn. Narses was nonetheless bathed in sweat. Ignatios felt Narses’s forehead.
“You’re babbling and you don’t even realize it,” the assistant said. “You should drink a decoction to lower your fever.”
Narses glared at Ignatios and swallowed one mouthful of the bitter drink—it tasted like tree bark—but Ignatios told him to drink it all. Two more times Narses drank. Then he turned over onto his side and vomited into the dust.
“Domestikos,” a voice said.
Narses’s eyes opened. Where was he? In the tent. It was later. Late morning. His whole body ached. Orban was standing over him.
“Domestikos,” he repeated. “We’re ready to fire.”
“Fire?” Narses said.
“We’re ready to fire the weapon,” Orban said. “We’d like you to see.”
Narses ordered his men to carry him outside his tent to a cherry tree, from which he had a good view of the weapon and the city. All the engineers had assembled nearby. The immortals were in their black cloaks, mounted on horses commandeered from Chrysopolis, their flags fluttering on their spears.
Narses’s men let him stand by the tree for a moment, but he fell to the grass and groaned.
“We can take revenge,” Orban said.
Narses nodded. “Help me up.”
Servants, aides, immortals—including Kentarch Tzanichites—helped Narses sit against the tree. Though this was near the weapon, the bright sunlight obscured everything. To Narses’s eyes the Basilik was a great iron tube as long as an Egyptian obelisk was tall, and as wide as a house. Dozens of engineers were standing around it, watching him and awaiting his command. Father Kosmas was busy blessing the weapon, bowing and chanting with his bejeweled Bible open in his hands. He had even sprinkled the soldiers and engineers with holy water.
The tube faced Nikomedeia’s main gate, where Narses—as his eyes adjusted—discerned the militia helmets and tassels flickering between the battlements.
Orban knelt beside him. “Give the order, Domestikos.”
“Use the weapon,” Narses gasped, his head lolling against the tree.
You have gained favor with Orban the Engineer, the voice said.
Orban turned to his engineers and shouted: “Fire!”
They nodded. A man standing on a scaffold overhanging the vast metal tube lowered a torch to a dark hole on the top.
What happened next was difficult for Narses to understand. Later he had trouble untangling his memories.
The ground shook so hard that men were knocked down, and the tree behind Narses trembled, the leaves shivering, the horses screaming and throwing off their riders. A white cloud of smoke flashing sparks puffed out of the tube and blocked the sun with hot, acrid-smelling fog. Narses’s ears rang. He began to cough so hard he worried he would vomit again.
When the breeze had dissipated the smoke, dead engineers were lying in the grass near the Basilik. They were bloodied, their bodies shredded. Still clutching his Bible with one hand, with the other hand Father Kosmas was trying to hold the purple guts inside a crying man’s belly. In the distance, Nikomedeia’s main gate had collapsed. Men were lying among the broken bricks, but some women and children were also with them; they had been carrying supplies to their husbands, brothers, and fathers in the city militia. All the bodies were now charred black and bleeding red. Behind the smoking gap in the wall, houses had been knocked aside, and more rubble and bodies filled the streets. Fires wavered in the summer heat. Nikomedeia’s wall was shattered.
Orban was jumping and shouting about a direct hit. Narses stood from the cherry tree and drew his Almaqah blade—feeling strong, healthy, vigorous—and ordered his destrier Xanthos brought, and then mounted him. His brother immortals joined him, galloping on their own steeds over the bridge. Once inside Nikomedeia, they killed everything that moved.