Boucher stumbled, but caught himself before he fell. He was standing in a sunny field of golden wheat beneath a large tent billowing in a warm breeze. Other tents were nearby, roomy and almost Mongolian in their design, and these were full of ancient or medieval soldiers. Many wore leather boots and tunics plated with steel. Long curving swords were belted to their sides. Most were also mercenaries from barbarous tribes to the east and west. His own people disdained the practice of arms and preferred either the pleasures of the City or to withdraw themselves within monasteries.
A moment ago he had been playing that board game with those losers in detention. Now he was here, wherever here was.
He shook his head and blinked.
Chests full of armor and weapons surrounded him—swords, spears, knives, bows, arrows, helmets, cuirasses. Men were leading horses everywhere. Some of the beasts were draped in chainmail, as were their riders.
Beats detention, Boucher thought.
Other horses were galloping in the distance. He turned to the sound’s source: a low mountain covered in green forest, from which a long line of riders emerged. Somewhere a trumpet blasted, and men cheered. Leading the line of horses were two people on one mount. The first person was slung over the front, almost like a sack of grain, except she was dressed in purple glimmering silk. As she came closer, Boucher saw that she was hot, but bloody, and covered in bruises. The second person on the mount was keeping her from falling off.
Soon the horsemen arrived at the camp. Soldiers carried the woman down from her mount and laid her on the trampled wheat before Boucher. By then everyone had gathered. They were cheering and looking at Boucher and the soldier who had been riding with the woman. They kept saying the word “Hikanatoi!” Some were bashing their shields with their swords. The sound was so loud that Boucher winced and covered his ears. People were talking about how they could finally go home.
“General Narses,” the soldier who had been riding with the woman said, bowing on one knee. “We have captured Princess Herakleia Angela. We wounded her partner Vatatzes, but he hasn’t been found yet.”
Boucher looked around. Was this guy talking to him? The cheering and sword-banging had stopped, but dozens of soldiers standing nearby were watching.
Boucher turned back to the man speaking to him.
“Uh, good work,” Boucher said, surprised at how deep his voice sounded. “Good job.”
“Thank you, Domestikos.” The man rose to his full height, which was a head shorter than Boucher. “Shall we begin interrogating her, sir?”
“Yeah,” Boucher said. “Sounds good.”
The soldier bowed and picked up Princess Herakleia. Most of the soldiers followed as the rider carried her toward another tent.
“Won’t the Domestikos of the Scholai be joining his men?” said an ironic voice to Boucher’s right.
Boucher turned. A pale, bald, beardless man was standing by his side. Dressed in a jeweled silk tunic belted around his waist, he was softer than everyone else, and his blue eyes darted back and forth like he was thinking up ways to trick everyone.
His name is Paul Katena, a voice said from somewhere. Katena is an old Latin word which means chain.
Boucher looked around. No one was talking to him or looking at him. Where had the voice come from?
He is a logothete, the voice continued, officially one of the emperor's finance ministers, but he really works as his personal agent—the emperor’s eyes and ears beyond the palace, chaining up the emperor’s enemies, finding chains between conspirators.
“Did you hear me?” Paul the Chain said. “Won’t you be joining them?”
Boucher nodded. “After you.”
“Very well, Domestikos,” Paul said, still speaking with that tone which hinted at his pompous, educated contempt for Boucher. Something else was strange about Paul’s voice, though Narses had trouble putting his finger on it.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
They both walked toward the other tent, Paul seeming to float above the ground, so light and elegant was his step. Inside, the unconscious Princess Herakleia sat with her hands tied to a tent post behind her. Someone splashed her dirty face with water, and one man cracked a joke which made everyone roar with laughter, although Boucher didn’t understand the man’s foreign language.
They went silent as Boucher approached. Their fear excited him. He was powerful, tall, muscular. Everyone here was smaller than him.
They were evidently waiting for him to do something, so he crossed his brawny arms—noting that his right arm had a scar shaped like the letter B on the underside—and nodded.
The rider who had captured Herakleia—he had a thick black unibrow and was named “Dekarch Mourtzouphlos”—slapped her face. She didn’t react.
“We may be chastised for this,” said Paul. “Even traitorous members of the imperial family are supposed to be treated respectfully.”
What is going on right now? Boucher thought.
You are Narses, a voice said from somewhere. Domestikos of the Scholai, Supreme Commander of the Roman Army, General of the East and West. You are currently leading the Hikanatoi Tagma, Rome’s elite battalion, which consists of four hundred men.
I don’t understand.
You must destroy the traitors and criminals before they destroy the homeland, the voice said. You must restore the law, fight for what is right, and protect the emperor. That is your main quest.
Before Boucher could react, Paul stepped forward, pulled a vial from his pocket, and waved it under Herakleia’s nose. She coughed, opening her bloodshot eyes to the smirking soldiers.
“Where is your partner?” Paul said. “Where is the manual?”
“What?” Herakleia’s eyes fluttered as her head swayed.
“Tell us everything.” Paul drew a thin gleaming scimitar from Mourtzouphlos’s side and pressed the blade to Herakleia’s neck. “Tell us before we make you. It’s easier that way.”
“I don’t know what I’m even doing here!” Herakleia shouted. “A moment ago I was in—”
Paul withdrew the sword and backhanded her across the face. Boucher noticed, as Herakleia slumped, that her forearm had the same B-shaped scar as his own. Nobody else had them. Maybe she was also from detention. It had been that Chinese girl—whatever her name was. Well, she was a lot hotter now. Boucher had barely noticed her back at Pemetic High. She wasn’t his type.
He must have been inside some kind of game. If that was true, what exactly could you do here? How far could things go?
Only one way to find out, he thought.
Paul struck Herakleia, yelled at her, and even revived her after she passed out again, but the soldiers were getting bored. Boucher, meanwhile, sensed his own command of the situation. He recalled memories that belonged to someone else. Interacting with these people somehow brought them into his mind. The Hikanatoi Tagma had been riding for weeks after this woman, starving and exhausting themselves, longing to return home, chasing her across a land called Romanía, and battling traitors, iconoclasts, heretics—whatever you wanted to call them. These criminals used wooden farming implements to fight Boucher’s men, who themselves were coated in steel and riding horses that were like medieval tanks.
Herakleia was their leader—a traitor who had learned strange fighting techniques from a faraway land. Capturing her meant delivering a mortal blow to all those who hated Rome.
But this person wasn’t just Herakleia. She was also somehow that girl from detention.
“She doesn’t know,” Boucher grumbled, surprised again at the thundering power and authority in his voice.
Everyone looked in his direction. An intoxicating mix of fear and love shone in his men’s eyes, all save Paul’s.
“We are searching for her partner now, Domestikos,” Dekarch Mourtzouphlos said. “He couldn’t have gotten far. I shot him with an arrow myself.”
“You are to receive a commendation, Dekarch,” Boucher said, the words coming naturally to him.
As a general, your charisma skill is high, the voice said. As a Professional Charismatic (Level 7/10), you easily inspire the people around you. Actually, many of your skills are high, which is why you may find it easy to adjust to this place.
Mourtzouphlos smiled, but kept his eyes down. “Thank you, sir.”
“We should send her back to the City,” Paul said. “The emperor’s men are far more talented torturers than I. They have better equipment, too. What do I have out here, after all, beyond a few knives and my own bare hands?”
“Agreed,” Boucher said. “Everyone else must search the woods for her partner. Do not stop until you find him.”
Almost before Boucher had finished talking, Mourtzouphlos and the other officers were relaying his orders to their men—all of whom shouted acknowledgements, rushed about the camp, donned their armor and helmets, strapped swords to their sides, and mounted their horses. Soon they were riding toward the forest in squads of four and five.
Boucher returned to his tent and put on his black armor with the help of his slaves, who also gave him his sword and shield—the latter emblazoned with the letters X and P on top of each other for some reason—and placed a heavy helmet with a red tassel over his head. Before long, a slave boy brought his war horse Xanthos, which Boucher mounted as naturally as if he was walking. The voice told him that he was also a master rider (8/10).
He was good at everything. Whatever he did came easily to him.
Then he was galloping after his men, feeling exhilarated. This was just like football, only without the annoying rules and referees. Now he could crush whoever got in his way—or just crush people for fun—and see what his body was capable of.