One moment, Jackson was tied to that wooden pole in the tent, surrounded by laughing soldiers. Most were dressed in red, but one wore black, and was much taller and more muscular than the rest, with the most masculine face she had ever seen: square and sturdy, with a black beard staining his tanned cheeks, and blue eyes blazing from either side of his straight nose.
Then the eunuch in silk slapped Jackson and yelled. Jackson had never seen a eunuch before, but this was what he assumed a eunuch was—a flabby man with a haunting voice, though as he was to learn later, medieval Romans considered any man who was unable to procreate—even a man with a vasectomy—a eunuch. Regardless, this person sounded like a man and a woman at the same time.
Although the eunuch was beating Jackson, he empathized with him. Just as Jackson had never chosen to be a woman here, the eunuch’s parents must have castrated him as an infant or a child; it had almost certainly not been his choice. That was what Jackson assumed, in any event.
With the game voice telling him that he was losing health and stamina, he passed in and out of consciousness. Someone spoke, and then Jackson was on a horse again. Night had fallen; everything was blue. His wrists were tied to the saddle, as were his legs, while a soldier riding ahead of him—a dark shape rising and falling in the gloom—gripped a rope lashed to Jackson’s horse.
Jackson seized the horse beneath him, terrified of falling.
He stayed there, holding the horse and feeling sore, filthy, and sweaty. The voice repeated that his stamina and health were low. On the other hand, it wasn’t easy to ride a horse while you were tied up, and so this added XP to his Journeyman Rider skill (6/10).
When Jackson looked up, they were riding along a road that crossed vast fields of grain. More stars were in the sky than Jackson had ever seen, the entire galaxy glowing like one of those long-exposure night shots from astronomy websites. He could even make out the glowing yellow galactic core. Every part of the sky was filled with stars.
Then, ahead on the horizon, Jackson discerned even more stars, but they were actually little fires. Torches. Lamps. Candles.
It was a city. A mountain of a city.
He must have passed out again because now he was lying in a boat that rocked back and forth in the tide. People were rowing; oars sloshed water. Someone held a fluttering torch and whispered a song Jackson had never heard; the word “Stamboul” was prominent for some reason. The sky was pink, and dawn was shining on a wall of gigantic marble pillars whose capitals were garlanded with golden chains, while ocean waves flashed. Soldiers cracked jokes about someone named Herakleia returning home after her little jaunt abroad.
Because he could barely walk, his guards guided him along cool corridors of stone, past fountains of glimmering water. Gardeners were already bent over the hyacinth patches, rose bushes, and oleander, snipping at their green stalks with gigantic iron scissors.
He was then loaded into a carriage which clattered along the streets. Veiled women were setting up market stalls, and vendors were even selling fast food breakfast gyros for workers, slaves, and peasants. Other workers shoveled horse dung into carriages, though there was less than Jackson might have expected, and a cool wind blew most smells away. Through church doorways clouds of incense flowed outward along with sparks as priests with black robes and gigantic beards sang and bowed and lifted gilded codices before altars bedecked with multicolored gemstones and holy mosaics that glowed through the smoke. Bells were ringing in the distance, and he could even hear the Muslim call to prayer, but the biggest churches rattled with an odd rhythmic wooden sound that seemed almost Japanese to Jackson’s ears.
He must have been in Constantinople, what people here called Konstantinopolis.
It sucks being captured, he thought. But I always wanted to see Istanbul.
He was brought through another gate in the walls—guarded by armed soldiers—to more parks. The massive brick buildings reminded him of the Alhambra. It was like a giant keep, but with lots of domes, big and small, and long dark ovular windows, as well as an almost Moorish design—those red and white striped curving bricks rising in arches over white pillars—although the Byzantines had actually inspired the Moors, not the other way around. This must have been the Great Palace. It was so colorful, and so much more sumptuous than anything Jackson had seen in his life.
A bald, stocky, middle-aged white man was waiting at the entrance to the palace interior. He was flanked by two guards, both of whom were pale muscular men with red beards and long braided red hair. Their tattooed arms were crossed, they held massive axes, and their eyes shone blue. Jackson noticed that some of their tattoos were inscribed in Arabic.
The stocky, bald man—dressed in a purple tunic fringed with gold—raised his arms, smiled, and said: “Hey, welcome back, princess! Thalestris, queen of the amazons, the prodigal daughter—she’s back!”
Jackson glanced back and forth, still unable to believe that these people thought he was some woman named Princess Herakleia from the House of Angelos. If he wasn’t careful, he’d start to believe them.
The man frowned. “Are your hands tied? Guards, get that shit off her!”
“Yes, your majesty.” The guards bowed to the man and then removed the rope around her wrists.
“Get out of that carriage,” the man said. “Come on, get out. Let your old uncle have a look at you. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! And I’m sorry about the way my men brought you here. Bunch of slaves. Are you alright? Did anyone hurt you? Because if anyone touched a hair on your pretty little head, we’re gonna slit some noses, let me tell you.”
Jackson stared. The two ax-wielding guards glanced at each other.
“Well?” the man said. “What have you got to say for yourself? Did they hit you on the head too hard?” He laughed hoarsely and looked at his guards, who laughed with him.
Jackson climbed out of the carriage, wincing from the pain of the bruises covering his body. He was lucky to be alive, and shuddered at the memory of that massive horse trampling him.
“You’ve been out there way too long,” the man said. “Where are your manners?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jackson said.
“Look. I may be your uncle, even if we come from different houses, but I’m also your good old Emperor Nikephoros Komnenos—I’m God’s motherfucking vicegerent on Earth! I was raised up on the army’s shields! There’s a whole shitload of formalities, but it looks like you forgot ‘em, living so long with the barbarians. You gotta genuflect!”
What’s that mean? Jackson thought.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
You are at risk of leveling down from Professional Charismatic to Journeyman, said the strange voice Jackson had been hearing. You must maintain your skill.
What was that? Jackson glanced back and forth. Did anyone hear that?
“You know, technically I’m not even supposed to leave the palace to meet anyone,” Nikephoros said. “They’re supposed to come to me. But when I heard they’d found you, I couldn’t resist. Now you’d better bow so you don’t embarrass me in front of all my men here. They work hard to protect us. They’re the salt of the Earth, these guys!”
The soldiers who had brought Jackson here were already bowing on one knee with their heads lowered. Sighing, Jackson did the same.
“Is that as low as they go in Sera?” Emperor Nikephoros said. “They must be animals out there!”
Jackson lowered his other knee.
“Did you forget everything?” Nikephoros said. “Do you even remember your own name?”
Jackson got down on his hands and knees. But this was still unsatisfactory. Eventually he was lying on his face with his hands stretched straight ahead, his palms down, while his legs were stretched all the way behind him. Everyone else was also bowing like this. He felt ridiculous and humiliated.
Charisma skills have been maintained, the voice said.
Satisfied at last with Jackson’s genuflection, Nikephoros guided him inside the palace along massive marble hallways to the private imperial dining room. His two axe-wielding guards remained at his side. The other soldiers disappeared.
“I’m sure you won’t mind the lack of ceremony.” Nikephoros gestured with a meaty hand to the three ornate couches oriented around the dining table. “Seeing as how you’ve pretty much forgotten everything that matters. But we’ve simplified a few things in the palace since I took over. Every minute of my life as emperor I’m supposed to be doing some sort of ceremonial thing. But I put a stop to that. A few people complained, so I put a stop to them, too.” He chuckled.
Jackson and Nikephoros reclined on different couches as servants brought gold and silver plates of Kretan cheese, fresh-baked loaves of bread, cold slices of meat, glass goblets of wine, and crystal bowls of grapes, complete with a bowl of salt. His stomach turned over, and he ate like a starving animal, oblivious to the discomfort of doing so while reclining on a couch. That strange voice told him that he was replenishing his health and stamina, which made him want to eat more. Jackson’s hunger excited the amusement of Nikephoros, who smiled at his two guards. They smiled back.
“Didn’t the soldiers feed you?” Nikephoros said.
Jackson shook his head. Obviously not.
“Heads are gonna roll.” Nikephoros waved a large pointer finger. “Let me tell you. And I mean that literally. They can’t treat a member of the royal family this way, no matter how fucked up she is.”
Shit, Jackson thought. He’s going to start asking me about the revolt again. Or that manual—whatever they were talking about.
“Still,” Nikephoros said. “You’ve gotta know about how fucked up everything is. The lawlessness, the anarchy, the godlessness. Of course you do. You were behind most of this shit to begin with—helping these traitors, working with foreign powers to undermine your own country.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So we got a little Frank lover here. We got a little Persia lover. A little Arab lover. Alright, foreign agent. Now that you’re here, I think you need to think about a few things—your future and the future of Romanía. They’re kind of the same thing, if you know what I mean.”
Jackson stared at Nikephoros.
“Now listen to me,” Nikephoros continued. “We’re prepared to make you a generous offer in exchange for the information we’re after. This manual we’ve heard about is pretty dangerous. We destroy that shit wherever we find it. I can’t understand why you got involved in any of that nonsense. Only a few people know anything about the manual in the first place because it’s so volatile, you know? If regular people found out about it, there’d be chaos. It’d threaten order, stability, prosperity, even God himself would get pissed. Chaos has destroyed so much of the world. We can’t let it fuck us here.”
Jackson was already tired of this man.
“Give up the manual,” Nikephoros said. “Tell us where it is. And tell us where the violent rabble is hiding. Once you do that, you’re free to go. You can marry whoever you want. I don’t care. And if you give birth to a masculine child, I’ll make him heir to the throne. I’ll even go that far.” He gestured to the dining room walls as if to encompass everyone living in Romanía, and gave Jackson a winning smile, although malice lurked beneath it.
Jackson kept from speaking, since telling the truth only infuriated these people, while lying would probably get him in more trouble. All he wanted was to escape.
“I don’t know why you do this,” Nikephoros said. “We’ve captured you. It’s over. And you aren’t going anywhere. So if you refuse to work with us, you’re just going to make everything harder for yourself and your friends. As we’re talking right now, my men, they’re all over Romanía stopping these riots. You can save all kinds of lives if you just tell the truth.”
“I already told your friends,” Jackson blurted. “How many times do I have to keep repeating myself? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Nikephoros’s face grew more rigid, and even started shaking. Then he picked up his wine glass—which he hadn’t touched until that moment—stood, and threw it against the wall—where it shattered, covering the marble with glass shards and wine.
Jackson jumped. Nikephoros was glaring at him.
“Why should I waste my time?” Nikephoros said. “Your father—God rest his soul—his idealism has infected you like a disease. It got him killed, and if you keep lying to me, it’s gonna get you killed, too.” He pointed at Jackson. “The only reason you’re still alive is your royal blood, you know that?”
Jackson kept quiet.
“Guards!” Nikephoros yelled. “Get over here!”
The two guards bowed and stepped forward.
“Get this piece of shit out of my sight,” Nikephoros said. “Lock her inside her apartment. Except for meals, no one comes in or out without my permission. She only gets to leave if she wants to speak with me.”
“Yes, o despota mou,” the guards said in unison.
“Get her out of here.” Nikephoros waved his hand.
The guards lifted Jackson from his couch. He struggled out of their grasp and told them he could walk by himself, but they ignored him, and grabbed his arms with hands of stone.
“Leave me alone!” Jackson shouted as they guided him along hallways and up flights of stairs. “I’m going, I’m going!”
They came to a door, opened it, threw him inside, and locked the door behind him. On that cold floor of checkered black and white marble tiles, Jackson came close to crying. What was going on? Where was he? And how was he supposed to escape?
Eventually he calmed down, stood, and wandered his apartment. One room had a low wooden table at the center surrounded on three sides by comfortable couches which lacked backs. You were supposed to recline on them while eating from the table. Another room was walled with the kinds of racks used for wine bottles, except instead of wine bottles in the interstices there were scrolls and codices—early books. He opened one. It was handwritten boustrophedon style, with one line read left to right and the next right to left, like the way an ox ploughs a field, back and forth. The language was Greek, but he understood it, and it even felt natural and beautiful to him.
Because your class is princess, you are an Educated Master (Level 8/10), the voice said. To read, write, and understand complex texts is a relatively rare skill in Romanía, especially outside of cities or monasteries. You know things that others do not because you can listen to the words of the ancients.
It’s what I’ve always wanted, Jackson thought sarcastically.
By accident he had picked up part of the Iliad, and was astounded to see how it rhymed not only at the ends of each line, but also multiple times within the lines themselves. The rhythm, as he read aloud to himself, sounded like rap music. It had a strong beat even without any musical backing.
He sat on a couch by a window overlooking Konstantinopolis. Several stories below, slaves were weeding the gardens with their bare hands. Farther away, marble buildings and gold-tiled rooftops were waking to the morning sun. Beyond all of that, the ocean was blowing in the wind, and the faraway green shores were shimmering—their lands covered in forests and gardens and marble cities of their own—while puffy white clouds sailed along the deep blue sky.