Berkyaruq kept them moving at a canter, and stopped only to camp at night. The next day, as they passed along valleys between dark green mountains roofed by perpetual cloud, they encountered no one. Even the bandits had abandoned Chaldía; caves ceased to pockmark the cliffs. At some point they entered the theme called Koloneía. The dirt path that was once a Roman highway even brought them through dusty hills into the ruined city of Satala, where roots and vines ensnared the last broken pillars and pediments jutting from the grass. Reminded of the monster’s tentacles, Gontran shuddered at the sight.

“Satala,” Berkyaruq said as they passed through the ruined city. “Very nice before. No good now!”

Gontran chuckled. Nice to have a Turkish warrior on your side in Turkish land, he thought. No telling when a steppe horde is going to attack. Plus, he seems like a good guy. A good attitude makes all the difference.

Almost nothing lived in Satala but pigeons. These filled the interiors of the last surviving buildings with the sound of their flapping and cooing, and the reek of their droppings. Gontran stopped himself from meditating on the frailty of civilization or the passage of time.

Everything ends eventually. How profound.

There might have been extensive farmland here in the past, and irrigation dams and ditches shunting water to thirsty grain fields, but the grass had reclaimed almost everything, and little remained of most buildings except their foundations. Iconoclasts, whether Christian or Saracen, had knocked down several statues, and they still lay shattered where they had fallen, with thin green snakes slithering and amber scorpions skittering over their perfect proportions. One marble bust of Emperor Hadrian—whose statues Gontran found many times in his travels, the man recognizable by his curly hair and philosopher’s beard—had a Christian cross carved into its forehead.

Somehow I feel like that’s not what he looked like in real life, Gontran thought.

He even spotted the remains of an old Roman fort. A broken tombstone nearby stated in Latin that this was the Fifteenth Apollinaris Legion’s castra.

“Berkyaruq people.” Berkyaruq pointed to his chest with his thumb, breaking the quiet and startling Diaresso and Gontran. Then with both arms he made a wide gesture to the surrounding mountains and valleys as well as the overgrown fields. “One day all Rûm is Seljuk land.”

“Long as you keep the money flowing,” Gontran said.

“Verily the armies of the One True Faith cannot be stopped,” Diaresso said. “They have already swept over much of the rest of the world.” He looked at Gontran. “Only your homeland, Faransa, remains beyond the grasp of the faithful.”

“Soon.” Berkyaruq waved his finger.

Once they had passed through Satala’s ruins, the road turned westward to Amasea, running alongside the Lykos River. A milestone poking through yellow grass stated that Konstantinopolis lay 3,250 miles away.

“Great,” Gontran said. “Only three thousand miles to go.”

It took two uneventful days to reach Koloneía, the town for which the theme was named. This place lay below a massive mountain which rose from a wide green valley extending in every direction for miles. A small, impregnable tower—the Mavrokastron, or Black Fortress—was built above the vertical cliffs. White flocks of sheep ran over the fields near the tents of Kurdish shepherds whose baggy pants hung down to their knees, while the town’s few dozen houses were occupied by the usual mix of Armenians, Jews, Romans, and Turks. Everyone came to meet the travelers, babbling questions in multiple languages, Turkish women in their vast white burqas, Greek peasant men wearing huge white sashes over puffy blue blouses and pants, an Armenian priest in a black robe and cap, and Jewish women in colorful striped dresses. Gontran and Diaresso had trouble understanding the heavy Pontic Greek accents, but Berkyaruq knew enough of the various tongues in this part of the world to satisfy the villagers’ curiosity. Both Gontran and Diaresso astounded the villagers, who rarely encountered people they called “Latins” or “Aethiopians.” They—grandparents, parents, and children—insisted that the travelers stay at a two-room caravanserai, where they were soon fed thick loaves of warm bread which came straight from a stone oven glowing with heat. This was accompanied by cheese pudding, stuffed grape leaves, and hazelnut cakes drenched in mulberry syrup, all served with the usual river of wine flowing from a clay pitcher.

“Ah.” Berkyaruq settled in before the carpet that was strewn with plates and bowls of food. “Koloneía cuisine is very famous.”

Gorging himself on the food and groaning in ecstasy at the varied flavors, Diaresso was also enchanted with the women, who fluttered their eyelashes at him from the narrow gaps in their translucent veils, whispering jokes and laughing as the coins draped across their foreheads flashed.

Gontran—bored and annoyed and even jealous of Diaresso’s popularity—looked away from the Turkish peasants and their white turbans which were almost as large as the bodies beneath them. He and his partner had decided to stay with Berkyaruq for as long as possible, thinking it safest to remain in the company of someone who knew what he was doing.

Berkyaruq, for his part, was glad to have their company on what would have otherwise been a dull journey. He learned, as he spoke with the locals, that the mountain fortress above the town was abandoned, its garrison busy warring in Persia. At this news he feigned a gasp, and pretended to faint, explaining that to traverse such a great distance would kill him. The villagers laughed, as did Gontran, despite his sour mood.

“But is relief,” Berkyaruq said in Greek, sipping a goblet of sweet wine. “No soldiers in fort, no problem.”

Diaresso soon declared that he wished to spend his life here. Growing excited, he played his lute for the villagers; they responded by singing, dancing, clapping, and bringing their own instruments. As minutes turned to hours, Diaresso learned their songs and even sang the words in their languages, which made them cheer, shout his name, hug him, bow, dance with him, shake his hand, and insist that he stay at their homes, all while Berkyaruq acted as amused translator. Yet Gontran warned Diaresso that if he touched any women here—

“Can I be blamed if I enchant them?” Diaresso shouted over the raucous music, which even the cloaked pastoralists from the surrounding countryside had joined, no doubt curious about the racket echoing across the valley.

Yet in the morning the travelers departed westward, Diaresso cursing his fate again.

“How I am condemned to love and lose every livelong day,” he declared, shaking his head.

The travelers crossed mountains and plateaus full of beech, pine, and spruce forests. These were bursting with so many rabbits, partridges, deer, and ducks that sometimes foxes and even lynxes were darting through the green shadows. Night was punctuated with howling and laughing wolf packs. This put the travelers on edge. They always kept their camp fires blazing.

“Shouldn’t we be worrying more about people than wolves?” Gontran peered into the dark. “What if someone spots us?”

Berkyaruq shook his head. “For many parasangs, no people. And no people mean more animals.” He hefted his composite bow. “I want to hunt, but is too busy.”

“Perhaps you can hunt when you return to Tarabizun,” Diaresso said.

“I am busy in Trabzon also. Many guards die from plague last winter.”

“So there’s a high workload,” Gontran said.

Berkyaruq nodded. “Yes, that is so.”

“You can come with us, if you wish it,” Diaresso said. “Once you have honorably completed the task with which the doux has burdened you.”

“You’re a useful guy,” Gontran added. “Especially around here.”

“Thank you, but I have the wife and children.”

Gontran stretched out with his hands behind his head. “That’s why the bachelor life is best.”

“No, wife is good,” Berkyaruq said. “Children are good. I love and miss very much.”

Tears were in Diaresso’s eyes as he stared into the flames. “How I understand.”

“Not this again.” Gontran sat up and patted Diaresso’s back. “It’s alright. You’re doing your best. You’ll get back to them soon.”

“Never again shall I behold them,” Diaresso said. “They shall die long before I can rescue them. Even their fates shall be unknown to me. They shall vanish into the dust.”

“Your family is lost?” Berkyaruq said.

Diaresso wiped his tears and nodded. “Sold into slavery to pay debts.”

“He’s on his way back to Tomboutou now,” Gontran said. “That’s his home. He wants to free them with his reward money. But it’s a dangerous trip. Thousands of parasangs or farsakhs or however people measure distance here.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Ah, doonya,” Diaresso said.

Gontran and Berkyaruq looked at him, uncomprehending.

Diaresso smiled. “Oh, it is just an expression. One we often use in Tomboutou. It means ‘such is life.’”

“I will help,” Berkyaruq said. “By Allah, we travel together until Roman army. Until then, we fight as brothers.”

He reached his hand forward, and Diaresso and Gontran took it.

“As brothers,” they said together.

“Thank you,” Diaresso said, as they leaned back.

“A pleasure,” Berkyaruq said.

It took two more days to descend to the poplar- and willow-strewn lowlands surrounding Niksar. This was the next city, and it belonged to the Danishmendids, a Turkish rival to the Seljuks. Though at this point the travelers were still too distant to see the city, Berkyaruq kept his scimitar drawn, turned his eyes right and left, and lamented his lack of Danishmendid clothing. Gontran could barely tell the difference between these Turkish tribes. They all dressed with vibrant, complicated, sumptuous patterns, and even the children were covered in what were to him ridiculous amounts of clothing.

“Danishmendid dangerous,” Berkyaruq said. “Is very problem.”

“Worse than that death worm back there?” Gontran said.

“Death worm is kitten to Danishmendids,” Berkyaruq said.

Gontran and Diaresso looked at each other, then armed themselves. The former filled the barrel of his pistol-sword with black powder, noting that only enough remained for a few more shots; the latter placed a bolt in his crossbow, though he refrained from winding it, since that would have strained the string.

“I am happy you are here,” Berkyaruq said to Diaresso and Gontran.

Gontran, eyeing their surroundings, told Berkyaruq the feeling was mutual.

“I agree,” Diaresso said. “I shall watch the left. You, Gontran, watch the right. And Berkyaruq—”

“—watch front,” Berkyaruq said. “I am not fool.”

“My apologies,” Diaresso said.

“Do not mention it.” Berkyaruq pronounced the phrase as if he had practiced it many times.

“Your wife,” Gontran said later. “Is she a Seljuk?”

“A Roman,” Berkyaruq said. “A Christian.”

“A believer married to an infidel,” Diaresso said. “As if there is not already enough to argue about in a marriage, now I must argue whether one god is lord of the universe, or three.”

“Usually it mean more holidays and more tasty food,” Berkyaruq said.

“Verily this fellow is a Christian for the food!” Diaresso exclaimed. “Shall you have your children marry Jews, so you can eat their food as well? When has any other ever expressed such an absurd notion?”

Gontran narrowed his eyebrows. “I thought you liked Christian food.”

“I appreciate all food.” Diaresso patted his belly. “So long as it is halal.”

“Right, of course. Goats are fine. But pigs? Too dirty.”

“I would not expect a giaour to know the difference between that which is clean and that which is dirty,” Diaresso said. “The giaours are a dirty people.”

Gontran turned back to Berkyaruq. “What about your children? Are they Christians or Saracens?”

“We go to jami on Friday,” Berkyaruq said. “And church on Sunday.”

“Sounds annoying,” Gontran said.

“It is good idea,” Berkyaruq said. “It satisfy Allah. Maybe he in jami, maybe he in church. I cannot see.”

Gontran laughed. “So you’re hedging your bets. When you die, if it turns out Christianity was right—”

“Yes, that is so,” Berkyaruq said.

“Why not also attend the temple of the Jews?” Diaresso said.

“The Armenian church is separate from the Roman one too, isn’t it?” Gontran said. “There’s a lot of ground to cover.”

Berkyaruq nodded. “Many faiths.” He smiled and stretched out his arms. “Berkyaruq is friendly to all.”

Gontran looked at Diaresso. “That seems like an enlightened perspective.”

“I have no quarrel with the infidels so long as they have none with me,” Diaresso said. “For it is said in the Holy Recitations that the faithful must respect the People of the Book. And as Allah right well knows, I have already spent far too much time on Earth among swine-eaters like yourself.”

Gontran laughed. “I can’t believe you still call me that.”

“When you cease to devour the flesh of those foul beasts, I shall cease to refer to you as such.”

“It true,” Berkyaruq said. “Berkyaruq no eat pig.”

“Do your kids eat pork?” Gontran said.

“Sometimes they hungry, and nothing else to eat in house. Wife cooks, so wife decides.”

The path swung north and crossed the Lykos River over a spectacular new Turkish bridge which, on the bottom, resembled an arch, while the top resembled the two legs of an equilateral triangle. It was a mystical geometric unity, a squared circle uniting land and water before the travelers’ eyes. Beyond the bridge lay the Saracen-style temples and towers of Niksar.

Outside the city walls were hundreds of men dressed in black. They were all doing something—though what this something was, Gontran had trouble comprehending. He was distracted by other men fleeing across the bridge or spurring their horses as they trampled anyone in their way, eyes white and bulging, teeth bared, spit flying. The travelers moved off the road and concealed themselves behind a boulder which was low enough to allow them to observe the carnage.

One horseman charging across the bridge knocked a mother and two children into the river, which was so shallow at this time of year that they smashed their heads on the rocks. Blood stained the waves as their motionless bodies drifted downstream.

“Danishmendids,” Berkyaruq said.

“Which ones?” Gontran said. “The guys running away, or the guys in black?”

“The runners,” Berkyaruq said.

The Danishmendids wore iron helmets on their heads and chainmail draped over the green clothing that covered their bodies. Several had arrows stuck in their shoulders or even piercing their cheeks, though their terror was such that these wounds failed to slow their flight. Many women were dragging children along. Gontran spotted a woman in a flowing burqa clutching a bleeding sword with one hand and a screaming infant with the other.

That’s a new one, he thought.

The Danishmendids fled past the three travelers and scattered into the surrounding hills, fields, and forests. They even climbed the mountains, so frantic that they scaled jagged cliffs with their bare hands while still armored, too panicked to see nearby paths which they could have hiked. Many, however, were throwing down their helmets, swords, and shields, and pulling off their chainmail so they could run faster and hide. It was strange to see these expensive armaments left on the ground.

Gontran looked at Diaresso. “Maybe these Danishmendids aren’t so dangerous after all.”

“They are in the prime of life,” Diaresso said. “I fear whatever it is that so affrights them.”

“Romans scare them,” Berkyaruq said. “Strange. Romans usually not good fighters. They like churches, monasteries, books. Always writing.”

“The ones in black, you mean,” Gontran said. “Those are the Romans.”

“Yes,” Berkyaruq said.

“Romans don’t usually dress in black.”

“No. These Romans different.” Berkyaruq sheathed his sword and pulled a white handkerchief from one of his bags. “I deliver message.”

Gontran was about to urge his horse to follow, but Berkyaruq stopped him.

“We’ll come with you,” Gontran said.

Berkyaruq shook his head. “Is too dangerous. Only I need go. It is job. My Lord Doux—”

“Come on, that’s crazy,” Gontran said. “It’s our way of paying you back.”

“I go alone,” he said. “I fear no man.”

“Are you certain this is a good idea?” Diaresso asked. “The blood lust has taken these Romans—”

“All men respect white flags,” Berkyaruq said. “Risk only one life.”

Gontran and Diaresso looked at each other, then shook Berkyaruq’s hand.

“God be with you,” Gontran said.

“And Allah,” Diaresso said.

“Very good, thank you.” Berkyaruq bowed.

Waving his white handkerchief, he rode across the bridge, which was now clear. Before Niksar’s walls, the black-clad Roman soldiers had returned to formation. Most were on foot, which Gontran thought strange—almost all warfare was mounted these days—but one man was riding among them on an enormous black horse, maybe their captain or general. Something was familiar about him, but Gontran couldn’t place him.

“It is the wretch from the harbor in Konstantinopolis!” Diaresso exclaimed. “The one who commanded the ship that we split with Greek fire!”

“How can you know that?” Gontran said.

“Oh infidel, you have not my eagle’s eyes. Truly, Allah favors not those who are lacking in faith!”

Gontran smirked. Both then watched Berkyaruq approach the distant Romans, who by then were marching inside the city, pounding their drums and singing. Berkyaruq raised his white handkerchief and spoke to the guards, who then escorted him to the general. There Berkyaruq bowed, placing his right hand over his heart. Retrieving a scroll from the leather bag slung over his chest, Berkyaruq kissed the sealed parchment and presented it. The general bowed, accepted the scroll, kissed the seal, then read the parchment. The other soldiers stopped to watch, though their officers yelled to keep going and brandished their riding crops. Even the music stopped.

The general rolled up the parchment, handed it to a guard, and then drew his sword and swung it through Berkyaruq’s neck. Head and body toppled to the grass. His horse bolted.

Gontran crossed himself. Diaresso swore.

Still moving in the same motion, the general flipped his sword around and sheathed it, the metal flashing. Then he dismounted and knelt before Berkyaruq’s body, almost like a pig at a trough. Sunlight flashed there. Or it resembled sunlight, whatever it was, though it must have been something else because nothing reflective lay between the general and Berkyaruq’s body.

“What the fuck?” Gontran said.

“I swear by Allah I will have vengeance for this murder,” Diaresso said.

The general stood, remounted his horse, and urged his men inside the city. Though they had ignored their officers, they followed his commands. Soon the music started again. At the general’s command, one infantryman leaped all the way from the field to the wall. Then he walked along the parapets, with none of the Romans taking note of his spectacular abilities.

Diaresso and Gontran hid behind the boulder.

“Did you see that?” Gontran said.

“Of course—”

“No,” Gontran said. “I mean that general. The soldiers. They’re like Alexios. They know about that magic the old man was talking about—”

“The farr,” Diaresso said. “Dionysios spoke of the farr.”

“These ones know how to use it too, I guess.”

“Tarabizun shall certainly be destroyed,” Diaresso said. “They shall have no inkling that they are dealing with a magian army, certainly not until it is far too late. Nothing lies in this army’s path save a road, one town, and some ruins. The only question, then, is: what shall we do?”

Gontran sighed. “We have to go back to warn them.”

“Very good. For once, giaour, you speak the truth. Even a broken sundial can sometimes be right. I will pray a moment for Berkyaruq, and then we will depart.”