It was midmorning when Herakleia climbed onto the Paralos deck and found Diaresso sleeping with his back to a mast, clutching his lute and smiling. She shook her head, vowing never again to trust this man with her life. Then she peered at the pines and spruces thrashing in the warm morning gales, worried bandits were hiding in Paphlagonia’s shadows.
He was supposed to watch us. She shifted her gaze to the sea. We could have been killed.
Herakleia’s spotted two distant galleys, each many stadia apart from the other, their sails heavy with wind, their hulls swaying on the waves. At first she thought them warships, and her heart pumped harder, but she soon determined that they were merchantmen—too small to be military—and gasped with relief. Herakleia had almost expected to see the Roman armada bearing down on them.
Now she had the unenviable task of waking the men. Because she only trusted Alexios, she roused him first so he could see their sentry sleeping through his watch. After the groggy youth climbed out of his hammock and checked Diaresso, he said they should take turns during the night from now on. Asking one person to stay up alone was too much.
The idea that they would all have to exhaust themselves each night frustrated Herakleia, but she agreed with Alexios. She was taken with his beauty, and admired his bravery, his growing if rudimentary fighting skills, and his seeming lack of interest in money—a contrast to Gontran, who cared for nothing else, while Diaresso stuck with his friend. At best, Diaresso would make excuses for Gontran, whom Herakleia was finding more intolerable. Though the two merchants were good fighters, the uprising would be better off without them, since they might sell their knowledge to the Romans the moment they left Trebizond with their reward money. The Workers’ Army would probably force Gontran and Diaresso to remain in Trebizond until the danger passed, if it ever did. And who knew? The peasants and workers had been radicalized. They might even execute Gontran and Diaresso.
Herakleia shuddered. She disliked these two men, but appreciated that they had freed her. The uprising would never succeed if it mistreated its friends. But were Diaresso and Gontran friends? If Herakleia was too kind to these sorts of people—too nice to mercenaries—the uprising might pay the ultimate price. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake she’d made in the Paralos’s hold with those officers two nights before.
This was when despair creeped up on her—the result of being forced to choose between terrible options. If she spared Diaresso and Gontran, and the merchants betrayed them to the Romans, the movement would collapse.
The fugitives ate breakfast, taking turns at the steering oars. Alexios and Herakleia were both wary of Gontran. To Diaresso’s credit, he ordered Gontran to apologize.
“You were an embarrassment the previous eve,” Diaresso added.
“What about falling asleep in the middle of your watch?” Gontran said. “You don’t call that an embarrassment?”
“I have already apologized,” Diaresso said. “Besides, I only fell asleep at dawn. I remained awake the entire night, but I did not wish to bestir anyone. I thought it not likely that marauders would attack us at such a time.”
“Somebody always needs to be awake,” Gontran said. “I thought you knew—”
“You can take tonight’s watch,” Diaresso said. “Now apologize to the princess and the boy. They did not deserve your ire the night before.”
Gontran looked away and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t even remember what I said.”
“You called her a whore,” Alexios said.
“I said that’s what the Romans call her.”
“So I guess you do remember.”
“I tire of this pettiness,” Diaresso said. “We cannot continue in this manner. Apologize or our partnership ends.”
Herakleia raised her eyebrows. He’s more independent than I thought.
Gontran sighed. Then he looked at Alexios and Herakleia. “Sorry.”
“Don’t speak like that to me again,” Herakleia said. “Don’t speak to anyone like that.”
“I won’t.” Gontran bowed to her, then stretched out his right hand to Alexios. After looking at it and hesitating, Alexios shook it.
“Sorry for punching you last night,” Alexios said.
Gontran rubbed his jaw. “You’ve got a nasty right hook.”
“Only for people who deserve it.”
They laughed. Herakleia was watching them with her arms crossed.
They think this is some kind of joke.
Gontran stopped smiling, then knelt and asked her forgiveness.
“This is your last chance,” she said.
He stood to his feet. “Thanks. You won’t regret it.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
When they finished breakfast, they untied the Paralos, pushed it back into the sea, and continued sailing along the coast, which had been growing more mountainous as they approached Iberia. Trebizond—Romanía’s easternmost outpost—was close. Coastal villages started appearing again, and the fugitives spent more time maneuvering the ship around fishing boats. Some fishermen raised their anchovies into the air and—with smiles, gestures, and incomprehensible speech—tried to sell them. The fugitives even passed a huge Latin galley laden with sacks of spice. Its entire crew stared at the Paralos.
Merchants of Venetia, Herakleia thought, though these words disturbed her for some reason.
A man on the ship—the captain, perhaps—cupped his hands, and shouted with his thick accent: “The Lord’s blessings be upon you! Who might you be, and where might you be going?”
Herakleia almost told him. Now that they were drawing nearer to Trebizond, she could taunt these merchants—who, like Gontran, allied themselves only to money. Who cared if they knew her identity? Life was short. You had to lick the honey from the leaves while one dragon snapped at you from above and another did the same from below. She would enjoy the shock on the Latins’ faces—these petty merchants who were notorious for wringing everyone as hard as they could, hiding safe in the Venetian lagoon where no army could touch them. They were so greedy they could almost squeeze gold coins from the very rocks! Herakleia was, in fact, opening her mouth to shout her name when Gontran interrupted her.
“We’re nobody!” Gontran yelled.
Herakleia slapped her head. Taunting the Latins had seemed like a good idea until Gontran did it. Diaresso pulled his partner aside and told him to shut up.
“Ah, but how interesting it is,” the Latin captain yelled, “to see nobodies sailing a Roman ship of war! And a woman at the helm!”
“They have ordered us to transport it to Tarabizun,” Diaresso yelled. “We are but a shipping crew!”
“Oh, I’m sure of it!” the Venetian shouted back.
As soon as they were some distance away, Herakleia scowled at Gontran.
“I know what you’re going to say,” he told her. “But there’s no harm in messing with those bastards.”
“They’ll tell the Romans,” she said.
“Tell the Romans what?” Gontran said.
“There’s a naval vessel near Trebizond with a woman dressed like a man aboard,” Herakleia said. “That’s all the Romans need to know.”
“It won’t matter,” Gontran said. “They would have told them anyway.”
Herakleia glared at the three men. Alexios was working the other steering oar; Diaresso and Gontran had been taking a break.
“Listen,” she said. “Each of you needs to understand something. I am in command here. You will do what I tell you, or you will leave.”
“Excuse me, but who put you in charge?” Gontran glanced at the others. “Doesn’t the uprising elect its military leaders?”
Herakleia crossed her arms. “Do you want to hold an election now?”
“Sure,” Gontran said. “I’m running for captain.”
“I shall not vote for you,” Diaresso murmured.
Gontran glared at him. “Then who are you voting for?”
“I refuse to vote,” Diaresso said. “We should work together as equals.”
“That’s your choice,” Herakleia said. “I’m running for captain, too. Alexios, will you vote for me?”
Alexios nodded. “I will.” He cleared his throat. “Your highness.”
“Whipped,” Gontran coughed. “Every dick has a price.”
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“What a refined thing to tell us.” Herakleia rolled her eyes. “Right after apologizing for your piggish behavior the night before. So that’s two votes for me and none for you.”
“I vote for myself,” Gontran said.
“Fine,” Herakleia said. “One vote for you, two votes for me, one abstention. Looks like I’m in charge.”
The voice announced that this minor feat added XP to Herakleia’s leadership skill, which was already at the level of a professional (7/10).
“Come on,” Gontran said to Diaresso. “You can’t do this to me after all we’ve been through. You don’t think I’d make a good captain?”
Diaresso shook his head. “God knows, you have already furnished abundant proof to the contrary.”
“What do I have to do to earn your vote?” Gontran said.
“You have already done too much to take it away!” Diaresso said.
“Traitor,” Gontran said. “You’re a traitor, she’s a traitor, and so is Alexios. The only one who hasn’t betrayed anyone here is me. That’s why I should be in command.”
“Nobody cares,” Herakleia said. “I’m in charge, and that’s the end of it. From now on, you don’t talk to other boats without my permission. Is that clear? If you don’t like it, call another election and actually win for a change.”
“Sure thing, your highness,” Gontran said with a sarcastic tone.
“We can always count on you to do what’s wrong,” Herakleia said. “The question is: how much longer will we tolerate it?”
“Only as long as you have to.” Gontran walked to the other side of the ship and gestured for Diaresso to follow. This time his partner acquiesced, leaving Herakleia and Alexios to steer the ship.
Still furious with Gontran, Herakleia glared at Alexios, who raised his hands and eyebrows.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “You know I’m with you.”
“But for how long?” she said.
“Where else can I go?” he said. “I’ve lost everything. My home, my family, my teacher. You’re all I’ve got.”
Herakleia felt sorry for him. “So you’ll stay?”
Alexios nodded, his eyes flashing in the sunlight. “If you’ll have me.”
“Of course we will. We’d love to.” She kissed him. “If the uprising was made of people just like you, the war would be over in a few months.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“That’s my job, I guess,” Herakleia said. “The peasants sent me away so I could learn how to teach them about the farr.”
“Good luck,” Alexios said. Something caught his eye ahead, and Herakleia turned to see.
“Trebizond,” she said.
Their arguing had distracted them so much that the ship had drifted, and they had nearly lost sight of the coastline. But the land was curving back toward them again out of the cool fog, green and beautiful. From a distance Trebizond emerged like a ghost. It was a city spilling down green hills from the forested mountains. At the center, between two valleys, rose a steep promontory of ochre cliffs surmounted by a town which was itself surrounded by thick walls and towers, their bricks covered in green moss, lichen, and dangling creepers. Two sturdy Roman bridges and even an aqueduct connected this citadel to the surrounding hills. On either side of the promontory, the hills were filled with houses, gardens, cherry and apricot and pomegranate and orange and lemon orchards, olive groves, and farmland. Trees and flowers of all kinds were in bloom everywhere. Geometric churches and monasteries with orange rooftops surmounting gray walls were also visible. The deep throats of the Latin bells in the campaniles echoed across the golden waves.
The Paralos crew stared. None could speak.
Aside from Konstantinopolis, Trebizond was the most beautiful city any of them had ever seen. Spectacular did not begin to describe it. This place was like a poem, an architectural landscape of ecstasy. And yet as the eye wandered beyond the suburbs, the region took on even more unique qualities. Something was different about the farmland in these more distant regions. It was enclosed with hedges or low rock walls in rectangles and squares, each so even they were almost Cartesian. On green hills and grasslands bright herds of sheep were running. On top of that, mines pierced the nearby mountains. Storehouses were also constructed near the mole which guarded the city’s harbor.
These were signs, Herakleia realized, that Trebizond’s economy might be more advanced than any other place on Earth. The city had served as the crossroads between east and west, north and south, for centuries—between Rome and Persia, Skythia and Arabia. It was an entrepôt for silk and spice, horses and slaves, carpets and fruit, but now there was a commodity far more precious than any of those: labor.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands of wretched tents covered the hills. These belonged to refugees who might have come from parts of the world so far they were beyond the knowledge of any native Trapezuntine.
Trapezuntines, Herakleia thought. Sounds like ‘trapped Byzantines.’
Many must have been driven here by Nikephoros’s coup. They had lost everything, and now they were transforming into an urban proletariat—working in the mines, tending the sheep and the farmland, working looms inside primitive factories called fabrica.
The survivors of Anatolia’s disasters were always searching for hiding places. Most had seen their homes destroyed, their friends and family consumed—snapped up, left and right, wherever they went, as though hungry animals were snatching them in fields and forests while they ran for their lives.
Trebizond’s fame as a faraway sanctuary of almost mythical wealth and beauty was even known in the old Exarchate of Carthage in Hispana, where novelists wrote about the princesses dwelling in its towers. The city’s current ruler, Doux David Bagrationi—a scion of an Alanian dynasty—had encouraged this reputation, seeing the propertyless refugees as a source of manpower for his army, his imperial ambitions, his iron mines, and his industrial workshops.
Since the city was isolated from Konstantinopolis, Trebizond had been growing independent, minting its own currency and allying itself with nearby polities, Christian or pagan, nomadic or settled, whatever was convenient. Nonetheless, taxes were shipped to Konstantinopolis every year, and Trebizond was still liable to supply Romanía with soldiers.
Because so many refugees lived here, crude rowboats and skiffs filled the sea—more than the Paralos crew had seen since fleeing Konstantinopolis. From the forests the thwock-thwock of axes echoed as men felled trees to build new ships and homes. Sawing sounds rose from mills, and wheelbarrows—a new technology imported from Sera—creaked as children pushed them from the mines. Trebizond had never been large, but the refugees would make it more important if they became soldiers and workers. The last time Herakleia had come here, Dionysios was teaching Doux Bagrationi how to develop the forces of production by using better machines and tools to increase the output of human labor. The surplus would then be reinvested for public rather than private benefit. If the Trapezuntines made the leap from Romanía’s slave mode of production to the ultramodern workers’ state, they might become unstoppable.
But as Herakleia got a better look at the people onshore, she suspected that few could fight wars, or work in nascent factories. Most were mothers and grandmothers whose children were almost too young to walk. Many of their husbands and sons must have been killed, enslaved, or conscripted. It came as no surprise that the fishermen rowed away from the approaching Paralos, some frantically.
“Hey, wait!” Herakleia shouted. “There’s only four of us here! We’re on your side!”
She had no idea what else to say. It hardly mattered, since no one listened; her leadership and charisma skills could only do so much. Could the people here understand? By the time the Paralos sailed past the harbor wall that was built on the mole and approached the piers, the refugees were gathering their children and fleeing. Everyone was screaming and crying. The fugitives had induced a panic. On top of that, even after Herakleia’s year-long absence, it smelled like the doux had neglected to construct proper sanitation. And the refugees, so upright and bold and full of ideas and commands when she had left, were now cowed into submission.
To her surprise, Bagrationi and the usual retinue of medieval flunkies were waiting at the quay. Somehow the doux must have learned that she was coming. At the sight of the tall young handsome broad-shouldered potentate standing in his long silk tunic shimmering in the sun, Herakleia recalled her own appearance. She was dressed in old sailor’s clothes, she had been unable to bathe since escaping the ketos, and she was still covered in scratches and bruises from her week of torture in the Great Palace. But it was too late to make herself look better.
Gontran tossed a rope to a dockworker, who tied it to a mooring post. Diaresso was busy packing his possessions—checking his crossbow and scimitar, taking great care with his lute, and stuffing as much food as he could fit into his sack.
Alexios looked at Herakleia. Their journey was over. Her rescuers had succeeded. The voice announced that their current quest—arrive at Trebizond—was complete.
Defend the city, the voice told them. Build up Trebizond to protect it from Rome. This is your new quest.
Now what would happen? Alexios moved close and reached out to touch her, but she told him to keep away.
“The doux,” she said. “I never told you—he wants to marry me.”
“What?” Alexios said.
“I have to keep the possibility of marriage open.” Herakleia looked away from Alexios. “We must sacrifice everything for the uprising. By surrendering our lives to the revolution, we find eternal life.”
Alexios gulped.
“Welcome home, Princess Herakleia!” Doux Bagrationi raised his long arms. “We are overjoyed that you have safely returned!”
The four travelers jumped onto the quay. Butterflies fluttered in Herakleia’s stomach as she examined Doux Bagrationi. It was hard to deny that he was one of the most gorgeous men she had ever seen. The Kaukasos was famed for producing beautiful people, but Bagrationi came from a long line of Iberian, Armenian, Greek, Jewish, and Roman nobles and emperors, claiming descent from King David himself. His dark, almost feminine eyebrows led to his nose, which was straight and angular and just the right length above his lips. In his eyes lived the dreams of all the people on Earth, and somehow they were always gazing into the future beneath his rolling waves of thick dark hair. His beard was trim, in contrast to most men, who grew their beards so long and thick they were more like beards with men rather than men with beards.
Long before Herakleia’s journey to Sera, this man had enchanted her. Educated in the palace library, he dreamed of greater things than a ducal appointment at Romanía’s frontier. When the uprising began, he sent agents to every city to inform Anastasios’s partisans that Trebizond would welcome them on one condition: that they swear him fealty.
Doux Bagrationi bowed to her, and the entire retinue—even the two Venetians in yellow, red, and green striped tights—got down on their knees and lowered their heads.
Out of habit—she told herself—Herakleia extended her hand, and Bagrationi kissed it. Electricity seemed to surge from his lips across her body.
I’m in trouble. She was unable to take her eyes away as he lifted his head and released her hand.
When she turned back to Alexios, Gontran, and Diaresso, they all looked tired and filthy, dressed in their plain tattered clothing stained by how many battles. They were staring at the doux—almost as smitten as Herakleia—and she needed to tell them to bow on their knees. They did this in a hurry as Bagrationi’s retinue stood.
“Welcome, friends,” he said to the three men. Then he turned to her. “Would you mind introducing us, your highness?”
“Yes, sorry,” she stammered. “These are the men who rescued me from Nikephoros.”
Bagrationi glanced at his advisors. “Is that so? I never knew you had been captured.”
“I was on my way back from Sera,” Herakleia said. “The Romans…they would have killed me if not for them.” She nodded to her companions, who stood. “The first is Alexios Leandros, who hails from Troas in the Opsikion Theme. Next to him is Gontran Koraki, a merchant from a city called Metz in Gallía.”
Bagrationi’s two Latins exchanged glances. It was rare to meet people in Trebizond whose origins lay farther west than Venetia.
“The third is Kambine Diaresso,” Herakleia said. “He’s from a place called Tomboutou, in Afrika beyond the Libyan deserts.”
“The Black one comes from Afrika? Who would have guessed?” Bagrationi smiled at his flunkies, who chuckled. Diaresso stared at them.
“We have heard of Tomboutou,” one Latin said to the doux. “A rich city with much in the way of gold, salt, and slaves. Its university is supposed the best in the world.”
“It is not so great as many tell,” Diaresso said.
“A pleasure to meet you all,” the doux said. “I must thank you from the bottom of my heart for rescuing Princess Herakleia. Now—I assume you are much fatigued from your travels.” He nodded to a pair of servants, who took Gontran and Diaresso’s heavy bags. “If you will follow us, we would be happy to lead you to the palace, where you will find food, drink, and rest.”
He took Herakleia’s hand, and led her along the pier toward the city. His retinue followed, while Alexios, Gontran, and Diaresso looked at each other, then trailed after the retinue .