Until the next day, Herakleia and Alexios tossed the rich out of their homes. Growing numbers of workers not only helped the two Zhayedan, but even took control of the operation themselves. Some of the rich, however, had heard about Gabras and were ready. They barricaded their doors or attacked their expropriators with clubs. In response, Herakleia and Alexios leaped over walls, kicked doors to splinters, disarmed the rich, and bound their wrists with ropes—tying them tight so that they groaned, swore, made threats, called them children, and asked if they knew who they were dealing with. Then the workers hauled the rich to a wagon driven by Samonas, who brought his prisoners to the palace, where Qutalmish and Berkyaruq locked them in various guest rooms with Tamar’s assistance. Her serving girl Theophano had joined the workers in the Daphnous suburbs to the east of the city walls, which meant that Tamar needed to keep the keys and lock and unlock every door in the palace on her own.

The matronly Queen of Trebizond had never gotten along with the local panjandrums. At first she was delighted when they pounded against the locked doors and threatened her if she refused to open them. Soon she told her son Bagrationi that she felt sorry for them, however. He reassured her that they would be released when it was safe.

Other wealthy Trapezuntines had fled the city the night before, taking their chances on the road south to Satala which led to Turkish lands beyond, to cities of silk and carpets like Tabriz. As for the farmers in the nearby valleys, the monks in the mountains, or the sheepherders deeper in the hinterland, they would flee to the steep forested mountainsides when they sensed there was trouble. Some even went by sea, piling their fishing boats with their belongings, though since it was summer they could only sail east around Pontos to places like Mingrelia or even all the way north to the Khersonesos and the lands of the Rus. Fearful of losing their property, the city’s smiths had also fled, taking their tools with them. This meant that Trebizond was unable to produce swords, armor, arrowheads, or even nails, at least for now.

“This greatly complicates our plans,” Bagrationi told Herakleia.

“We’ll find a way,” she said.

Nonetheless, with the rich gone, thousands of refugees found new places to live. By opening up the city storehouses, Bagrationi supplied them with food. He paid for this by melting down the gold and silver plates and decorations in the palace and in the churches, sparing holy ikons and the relics studded with gems, and buying food and other supplies from the towns and cities around Pontos. Bagrationi only did this to a limited extent at first, but as the workers regained their strength, they insisted that every golden object in the city be melted down in order to feed the children. This sacrilege enraged Sophronios the Metropolitan, but Bagrationi said—at a meeting in his palace chambers with Herakleia—that if Sophronios publicly complained, he would join the rich in the locked luxury apartments.

“This is tyranny,” Sophronios said. “I must be allowed to speak my mind wherever it pleases Holy God!”

“Only the ruling class can speak,” Herakleia told him. “Here in Trebizond, the workers and peasants are in charge.”

“God rules over all.”

“Then he can speak for himself.”

“You think your opinion is the only right one,” Sophronios sneered. “That there’s no room for debate—”

“Is there room to debate gravity? Evolution? Are human societies magically excluded from scientific understanding?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just another oligarchy you’re building here. You’re in charge of the filth instead of Nikephoros. You’re just using them. It’s nothing new. And besides, you’re both children of the richest families in Romanía. You’re just frustrated you couldn’t enjoy the same power as the other dynatoi. Your faction got thrown out by Nikephoros—”

“That may be part of the reason, I won’t deny it,” Herakleia said. “Although I think the workers are using me, not the other way around. And anyway, if I were satisfied with our society, what reason would I have to oppose it? But when members of the ruling class openly argue with each other and join up with the exploited classes, that’s a problem for the people in charge, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, but—”

“What has the usurper done to allay our concerns?” Herakleia said. “All he does is kill or imprison anyone who opposes him. What choice do we have?”

“This isn’t an uprising or a revolution,” Sophronios said. “This is mutiny.”

Bagrationi cleared his throat. “Use whatever word you want. Just remember to stay out of our way.”

That same morning, Herakleia called an all-refugee assembly in the Maidan Square, located in the Daphnous suburbs to the east of the city walls. Standing with Alexios beneath a ruined statue of the Emperor Hadrian, she shouted to thousands of people that Trebizond was now a free city and could elect delegates, whom the refugees could likewise vote out of power whenever a majority wished. The two armed Turkish guards, Qutalmish and Berkyaruq, stood at attention before her.

“Do you approve of me as your strategos?” she cried. “Do you approve of Bagrationi as your doux? Would anyone else care to take these jobs? If that is so, let them step forward!”

Some refugees grumbled—especially those whose relatives had died here during the miserable winter—but none answered. Perhaps they thought this was a trick, that Herakleia might execute or imprison anyone bold enough to challenge her. They had also seen her running along walls, kicking people’s faces, and moving her hands faster than eyes could follow. At the same time, they may have remembered that she was on their side, and that even while living in the Great Palace of Konstantinopolis she had always been trying to strengthen them.

Regardless, the silence continued. Herakleia waited anxiously.

“Does this mean we are breaking the law?” said a skinny, intellectual-looking middle-aged man with a flat, ovular face and eyes and lips which were like horizontal lines. He was dressed better than the others, and also seemed healthier.

Herakleia looked back and forth. “How can you betray a law that has done nothing but betray you? How can you betray a man like the usurper, one to whom you have never sworn allegiance?”

“But are we not Romans?” the man said. “Do we not love our homeland?”

“Would you mind my asking your name, sir?”

“Bryennios,” he said. “Now listen. If we’re all Roman patriots, we should refer these proposals of yours through the proper channels.”

Herakleia rolled her eyes.

“We should check with imperial magistrates to make sure that everything we’re doing here is legal and has that official imprimatur,” Bryennios said. “Taking short cuts like this is at least morally wrong, and it might even be wrong on a procedural level also with regard to bylaws and so on and so forth. Moderation is always best, since in extremes lie their opposites. That’s what I learned during my time at the university in Konstantinopolis. I myself was a member of the Tzanicha village council for many years, so I know all about this. You might even say I’m an expert. You should feel free to consult me anytime. I’m happy to help.”

People nearby Bryennios were frowning. Some were growing more visibly angry and insisting that someone should get rid of this man. Alexios had already forgotten what he was talking about. Herakleia nonetheless made an attempt to answer him.

“What we’re doing here is legal,” she said. “It’s the usurper who has broken the law and thrown you all out of your homes. We’re within our rights as Roman citizens to overthrow a government which has made a mockery of us—”

“Then we need to appoint committees,” Bryennios said. “And we need to refer the proper questions to them. When I was younger, during the revolt of Doukas, which came very close to succeeding—if it hadn’t been for those Latin mercenaries—anyway, as I was saying, we had a great deal of success with appointing large committees to deal with separate issues, with a diversity of viewpoints—”

“Perhaps we should discuss this once I’ve finished,” Herakleia said.

“But what does that even mean?” Bryennios said. “To discuss something. Is it even advisable to be having these kinds of discussions? What might the consequences be? I’m not even sure what we’re talking about is within our jurisdiction—or even if we have any jurisdiction at all!”

No way this guy isn’t a wrecker, Alexios thought. If he isn’t getting paid by Nikephoros, he might as well be.

Bryennios was opening his mouth to speak more, but Herakleia stopped him.

“Mr. Bryennios,” Herakleia said. “May I please continue?”

“I just mean that it’s important to discuss the propriety of—”

“Enough!” Herakleia shouted.

The perils of democracy, Alexios thought. Although I suppose any system has its weaknesses.

“Workers of Trebizond!” Herakleia turned away from Bryennios. “Should you change your minds about anything we have voted on, we will meet here every morning. Anyone who wishes can discuss public projects, make proposals, or implement policy.”

“But that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Bryennios began.

“Does anyone believe that Mr. Bryennios here should have more time to speak?” Herakleia asked.

Silence. Thousands of faces—framed with beards, veils, turbans—watched her and glanced at each other. People near Bryennios were slumping. A few glared at him.

“No,” someone said.

“Definitely not,” another said.

Murmurs grew into a roar. Just as the workers were emerging from the chaos of Nikephoros’s usurpation and the long winter in Trebizond—just as one of their comrades was returning to help them end hunger and homelessness—this random man named Bryennios was demanding that everything be stopped in the name of bylaws.

“This is absurd!” Bryennios shouted over the roaring workers. “This is a sham! What kind of toleration is this? You’re even more tyrannical than Nikephoros! If you don’t allow every opposing viewpoint to express itself fully, why—”

“Workers of Trebizond!” Herakleia yelled. “Please raise your hands if you believe Mr. Bryennios should be silent!”

Almost every hand went up.

“I will not be silenced!” Bryennios screamed. “You will let me speak, otherwise this entire endeavor is doomed to tyranny! Everyone must be free to speak their minds!” He turned to the workers. “You slaves, you farm animals, you don’t know what you’re doing, none of you can even read, this revolution is pointless, it’s being sabotaged already by bureaucratization and collaborators—”

Herakleia looked to Qutalmish and Berkyaruq, who had been watching her. They nodded, approached Bryennios, pulled him out of the crowd, and dragged him toward the palace. He shouted for a long time even as the meeting continued; he struggled against his guards every step of the way.

Some people in the audience clapped.

“Does anyone object to what I have done to Mr. Bryennios?” Herakleia asked the crowd.

None answered.

Workers teaching and guiding workers, Alexios thought. We are the subjects of history. The heroes of history. The underdogs of history, like titans locked in Tartarus, always struggling to break free. Now it’s finally happening. And we’re going all the way.

Herakleia sighed. “Where was I?”

“You were asking us to re-elect you strategos!” someone shouted.

“That’s right,” she said. “Thank you. Now, everyone, do I have your support? Please raise your hands.”

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A majority of hands went up. These were followed by many latecomers. Herakleia beamed.

“Thank you, Trebizond!” she said. “I swear to defend the uprising with my life! And if I ever fail you, may you replace me with someone better!”

The workers cheered.

“With that matter settled,” Herakleia said, once the noise had died down, “the time has come, people of Trebizond, to inform you of a dire threat. I ask you to remain calm as I speak to you.”

Everyone was silent.

“The pretender Nikephoros, who calls himself emperor, and who murdered my father, has sent an army from Konstantinopolis to destroy this city and kill everyone inside. They will arrive here in a month at most.”

A gasp went up from the crowd. Everyone began talking.

“We have little time,” Herakleia said. “That’s why I’ve called you here today. We need people to continue mining metal, forging weapons and armor, and weaving textiles. But we also need an army. Kentarch Leandros and I can’t fight the Romans by ourselves.”

“What do you propose?” a man near the wall shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. He spoke hesitantly, and people nearby stared at him, worried he was another Bryennios.

“We propose,” Herakleia said, “to add volunteers to the Workers’ Army. Anyone may join. We must also ensure that the children and elders are looked after and that we can continue producing textiles for export in order to pay for food, housing, medicine, supplies, and to develop the forces of production.”

“What are the forces of production?” the same man said.

“The term refers to tools we use to make things,” Herakleia said. “If we have better tools, we can make more things, and prosper. I mean iron rather than wooden ploughs, using water wheels and windmills for grinding grain, that sort of thing. But we also need to research improved production methods.”

“Will the lord in his palace be taxing us, then?”

“Everyone in Trebizond will share equally in the profits,” Herakleia answered. “Regardless of rank, gender, age, language, religion, occupation, or other artificial division. All of us here are working for each other only. Voting therefore extends to all who wish to participate. All elected officials are included in these calculations—we will live no more richly than the poorest person in Trebizond. The enrichment of one means the enrichment of all. Does that answer satisfy you, sir?”

The man nodded. “For now. Thank you, strategos.”

“I believe that the men,” Herakleia continued, “who have gained much experience in their labor, should continue working in the mines and workshops unless they choose not to.”

“What if nobody wants to work in the mines?” the man said. “That’s got to be one of the hardest jobs there is here.”

Herakleia nodded. “An excellent point. Incentives can be given. People can also take turns doing those tasks which seem most disagreeable. Those who do the dirtiest and most dangerous jobs are the greatest heroes. Managers of all workplaces should likewise be elected by the workers, the same as in this assembly.”

“Just like a big family, eh?”

“A big family of workers. Kentarch Leandros and I also believe that the women here should constitute the core of our new army.”

“Women soldiers,” the man said. “An army of mothers!”

Thousands of people laughed, talked, shouted—men, women, and children all gathered below.

Voting for their leaders may not be so strange for medieval Romans, Alexios thought. But putting women in the army definitely is. The prospect intrigues them.

“It doesn’t matter what you are,” Herakleia said when things were quieter. “What matters is what you do—and what makes you do what you do. Look at you. A few months ago, you were farmers living and working peacefully on your ancestral land. Then, when the troubles started, you became refugees. Now you are workers and Trapezuntines.”

They said nothing. Alexios was unsure if her words were having any impact.

“Those who wish to fight, please join us,” she said. “If you don’t want to fight, there’s still plenty of work to be done—domestic chores, mines, or workshops. Does everyone approve? Please raise your hands if you do.”

A moment passed. The refugees were looking at each other. Then a hand went up. It was followed by another. More joined. Soon almost everyone was raising their hands.

Herakleia pumped her right fist, and smiled at Alexios.

“Everything here will be democratic from now on,” she said. “In every workplace and home, every tent, every gathering of people, the majority—regardless of who they are—will rule on every decision.”

Murmurs came in response.

“Now,” she said to the crowd. “Is there any further business which needs to be discussed before we get to work?”

Some asked about the housing construction, since many refugees still lacked shelter. Other questions came regarding the latrines (when would they be finished?), textile manufacture (was it necessary to continue seeing as how things were so dangerous?), and repairing the walls.

Herakleia answered as best she could, remarking multiple times that the workers made good points. Then, with the help of palace eunuchs—who called prospective soldiers to one location in the maidan, domestic workers to another, and miners and craftsmen and farmers to a third—the workers organized themselves in the camp below. Alexios was shocked at the crowd’s orderliness. He had been raised to believe that pure democracy meant chaos. The only sensible thing to do, back in the old world, was to let business owners control everything through the politicians they owned in the government. As Bryennios had said, the workers were too stupid to be in charge. And yet here they were uniting to challenge the Roman Empire.

“So far so good, I guess,” Alexios said to Herakleia.

“Now all we have to do is win the war,” Herakleia said.

“I just have one question,” Alexios said. “Where did all these ideas of yours come from?”

“You think a woman isn’t capable of thinking up anything new?”

Alexios sighed. “No, it wasn’t that—”

She pushed him. “I’m kidding. The answer to your question is that I read a lot of Mazdak back when I lived in the palace. I talked with workers whenever I could. I listened. And when I lived in the outside world, I read a lot of other people, too. I can’t remember their names. But I remember what they said. ‘Let the ones who do the work call the shots.’ For some reason, it was apparently evil or misguided to think this…”

“I remember,” Alexios said. “People thought that was bad. Or at least they didn’t talk about it.”

“Now we have to beat Nikephoros at his own game,” Herakleia said. “What we lack in strength, we can make up for in organization, training, economics.”

“The only problem,” Alexios said, “is that we have maybe a month before the Romans get here.”

She looked at him. “Then there isn’t a moment to lose.”

While the workers continued to organize, Herakleia and Alexios joined about two hundred mothers (as well as a few fathers who had opted to leave the mines) outside the double gate in the citadel walls on the southern road through the Pontic Mountains to Satala. This was where Diaresso and Gontran had left the city the day before. At first Alexios tried not to think about them, but feelings of betrayal nonetheless crept into his consciousness. Diaresso and Gontran had been like his older brothers—fighting and adventuring together. But then as soon as they got their money, they left. Alexios had even caught them trying to escape without saying goodbye.

The two hundred waiting refugee students distracted him from these thoughts. It was already revolutionary just to have so many women gathered together outside like this in a society as gender-segregated as Rome, where many women were unable to leave their homes or interact with men who were outside of their own families.

Yet Alexios realized that he had never formally instructed anyone before, let alone such a large group. The game voice even told him that he was an Uninitiate Teacher (0/10). He decided he would teach the way Dionysios had taught him—minus the swearing. But then remembering Dionysios, too, was like being stabbed in the gut. The old man had been dead only six days. What had the Romans done to his body? And his sword? Did Dionysios’s murderer steal it?

Alexios took a deep breath. “Everyone can sit and get comfortable.”

The refugees looked at each other and then sat in the sunny grass. This was part of a field which had been left fallow for this season. Many refugees were already fanning themselves in the midmorning heat.

Herakleia stood by his side near a bow and some arrows as well as a few swords which she had brought for class. She was content to let him take charge, at least until he messed up.

Here goes, Alexios thought.

“Alright,” he said. “First things first. My name is Alexios Leandros. I was just appointed kentarch in the Workers’ Army. I know a little about the farr, but I’m not an expert. Does anyone here disagree with me teaching this class?”

No answer. He looked to Herakleia, and she nodded to him.

“Does anyone object to me being in charge of this century?”

Again, no answer.

“What’s the farr?” a man shouted. This was the second man who had questioned Herakleia back at the assembly. Now that Alexios could get a closer look at him, the man appeared to be a miner. Though he had tried to wash himself, dirt still clung to his skin and his old tunic.

“Hang on,” Alexios said. “The first thing we need to do is agree on some ground rules. Here we raise our hands before we speak. When I have time, I’ll call on you. That way everyone who needs—”

“Like this?” The man raised his hand.

Alexios nodded. “Yes, like that. Alright. To answer your question. First—what’s your name, sir?”

“Ioannes.” The man crossed his arms.

“Alright Ioannes. My teacher, who passed away just a few days ago, may he rest in peace—”

“Get to the point!” a woman shouted from somewhere Alexios couldn’t see.

“Sorry,” Alexios said. “The farr literally just means luck. If you help fellow workers, you can become lucky enough to do lots of cool things.”

His students stared at him.

“What are you talking about?” Ioannes said.

A few women sitting nearby Ioannes whispered for him to shut up.

Alexios sighed. “Listen. You’ve seen Herakleia using it, haven’t you? I can show you how it works. Do you want to fight me?”

Ioannes looked back and forth. Some students nodded to him; others ignored him or frowned.

Ioannes stood, stretched, and cracked his bones.

“Yeah.” He met Alexios’s eyes. “I’ll fight you.”

“Alright,” Alexios said. “What are you waiting for?”

Ioannes walked toward Alexios, whose pose remained relaxed. Herakleia moved away, however.

“Are you a professional soldier?” Ioannes said.

Before answering, Alexios examined him. The man was a worker or a peasant. A lifetime of poverty had removed many teeth from his mouth and turned the rest yellow. His face was old, leathery, and tired, though Alexios would have been unsurprised to discover that the man was in his late twenties. All he had going for him was his size. He was bigger than Alexios.

“Can you knock me down?” Alexios held his hands behind his back.

Ioannes nodded. “Only one way to find out.”

Bending his knees, Ioannes swung his right fist at Alexios, who ducked out of the way. The left hook came next, and Alexios likewise dodged. Ioannes tried to kick him, but this time Alexios evaded his attack and then kicked behind Ioannes’s knee. The refugee collapsed to the field.

Some students clapped. Alexios gained dexterity XP, but no teaching XP. He offered Ioannes his hand.

“Enough?” Alexios said.

Growling, Ioannes grabbed Alexios’s hand and tried to pull him down, but the teacher surprised him by tumbling forward, yanking his hand free, and then leaping back into the air.

Applause came again. Having gained more dexterity XP, Alexios turned to Ioannes, who was drenched in sweat and struggling to his feet.

“I can teach you everything I’m doing,” Alexios said. “If you fail to surpass me, the failure is mine.”

“A child teaching a man,” Ioannes grumbled. “Who ever heard such nonsense?”

“Thinking in old ways has nearly gotten us killed,” Alexios said. “We need to think in new ways if we’re going to survive. That means teachers teach students, and students teach teachers. All workers must help each other.”

Ioannes threw a rock at him. He must have found it on the ground when Alexios wasn’t looking. At first Alexios thought—as the rock hurtled toward him—about drawing Gedara and slicing the projectile in half. But the two halves sparking against the white-hot sword might have flown into the crowd and hurt people, so instead he plucked the rock from the air and stuffed it into his pocket. For Alexios, this was a casual and almost effortless maneuver, but people in the crowd whispered that he moved “like a demon.” Many other students gasped.

Ioannes attacked Alexios again, and Alexios threw him to the ground once more, taking care to harm him as little as possible. This time the refugee lay on his back and groaned.

“Are you alright?” Alexios asked.

“There you are.” Ioannes held up his hand with all his fingers extended—as though to express the number five—at Alexios. Some students in the audience clacked their tongues.

Alexios looked around. “Does that mean something? What does that mean?”

“It’s very rude,” said a woman sitting nearby. “He should not say such things to you.”

“Alright,” Alexios said. “Can I continue with my class, now?” He glanced at Herakleia, who looked bored and frustrated. “I’m not sure we have time for this.”

“We aren’t here to beat them up or show off,” Herakleia said. “We’re here to educate them.”

Alexios gestured to the refugees. “Be my guest.”

Herakleia rolled her eyes.

Alexios helped Ioannes to his feet and brought him back to the crowd of sitting students. This time Ioannes acceded. All the refugees stared. Alexios’s farr had decreased during this fight. The voice explained that this was because he was beating up a fellow worker rather than helping him.

Have to teach them. He looked at the refugees. Then maybe I can get that farr back.

“Among many other benefits,” Alexios said to the students, “the farr can slow your perception of time. I have almost no training or experience in martial arts—I mean fighting techniques—but I can perceive things much more quickly relative to a normal person.”

The same woman sitting nearby who had spoken a moment earlier raised her hand. Alexios called on her.

“So how do we do it, then?” she said.

He gestured to her. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”

“You promise not to beat me up?”

Some refugees laughed.

Alexios smiled. “Promise.”

Glancing back and forth, she stood and approached. Like the other refugees, she had a rough, careworn face, but a childish energy and openness shone in her eyes. Alexios likewise had trouble telling her age. In this place one was either an infant, a child, a youth, an adult, or an elder. The last group was so rare it could be difficult to find. The old world was full of old people; in the Middle Ages almost everyone was young.

He asked the student her name.

“Anna,” she said.

Huge surprise, Alexios thought. Everyone here is named Anna.

“Can I take your hand, Anna?” he said. “This is how my teacher taught me. It’s going to feel a little strange, but I promise I won’t hurt you.”

She nodded. “Alright.”

When he took her hand, he pushed a small amount of farr through his fingers into hers.