Gauzy, translucent curtains fluttered in the warm, salt-tanged breeze blowing through the ornate window above the bed, waking the wounded man resting upon it. His head was bandaged, as was his deep barrel chest, as though he had been thoroughly beaten and left to die. An elderly woman of indeterminate nationality was sitting in the corner, quietly embroidering a torn piece of a once-regal purple sash, glanced at the patient and with a stifled gasp, rose quickly and left the room. The scrap, unheeded and unnoticed, fell to the ground, an ancient design of the Roman Eagle in cloth of gold,ancient talons clutching the crescent and star of the Ottomans in outline upon it in fresh new thread.
The man stirred, his eyes bleary, weak as a babe in swaddling, his ineffectual attempts to free himself from the bedsheets only serving to further tangle him. The woman reentered the room, trailing a great, bearded bear of a man whose warm, friendly eyes peering from the cavernous deaths of magnificent bushy eyebrows and wrinkled traceries of swarthy skin, somehow calmed the man, though he spoke a tongue the other did not understand, ceasing his struggles and the woman helped him sit upright in the bed.
The old bear reached down, holding the man's chin to the light, looking deep into his eyes, feeling his skull along the edges of the bandage, and with a gentle hand, manipulating his arms and legs before drawing up a chair. Settling himself down with a relieved sigh, he looked inquisitively at his patient, with a cough and a gesture sending the nurse away.
“So. I see you have lived. I knew you were a strong one, blessed by Allah with a constitution proof against all ills save the sword.” The big man chuckled at his own joke. “But where are my manners? I am Abdul Al-Shifa, personal physician to his lordship Zaganos Pasha. He bid me to gather all of my art to save your sorry hide, and so it was. It was a close run thing I'll have you know, not many survive opening their skull to the bitter humors and sharp blades of a battlefield, and even fewer the burning fevers that inevitably follow. I am told you were a man of some standing among the Greeks, though I know not who. Would you tell me? I am insatiable for good secrets, a failing for which the Lord Pasha is most pleased.”
The man drew slightly back, the rapid-fire patter of the doctor's speech startling after what felt like eons of silent sleep. He searched his mind, surprised when an answer to the question was not immediately apparent to him. He decided to tell the truth, given that he was within the man's complete power. “I do not know. I know what you say is true, but I remember not even the faces of my parents, nor of the home I grew up in.”
A bushy eyebrow rose, then fell to its accustomed place. “I was afraid that would be the case, and its honestly not uncommon in those suffering from head wounds, not to mention those who suffer from high, sustained temperatures such as those you held. I guess then, we should find you a name. Something Greek perhaps? Maybe Latin? Even my own humble tongue?” he smiled widely and clapped his hands. “A name is a wonderful thing to get to choose for yourself, in the flower of intellectual maturity. Is it not exciting?”
The man looked around the comfortable room he was in, seeking inspiration and security in the search for a name. The walls were bare stone, but potted plants and warm-colored patterned rugs brought life to the room, and in the corner an elegant desk with a well-padded chair sat before a large bay window, through which sunlight fell, chasing the gilded titles on a stack of texts in light. The titles drew his eye, The Alexiad of Anna Comnena, 26 Dialogues with a Learned Persian, The Timarion, and, at the bottom of the pile, its battered, well-thumbed cover striking a chord within his mind, a whispered shred of memory among the haze. Digenes Akritas, it read. A name that reminded him of another that seemed fitting. “Basil”,he said with surety, “I will be Basil. Basil Akritas.”
Abdul smiled knowingly. “A strong name, fit for a lord out of the bygone days. Well chosen, my boy, though not very Turkish, Zaganos Pasha will be most amused, for in his wisdom, he knew that you would choose such a name.” Basil strained, attempting to move off of the bed, before the strong but gentle hand of Abdul pushed him back down on the bed and held him. “Does your master know who I am? Will he tell me? Please! I would have no need for this name then!” His face grew red and stricken, his breathing labored as he grasped at the sleeve of the other man.
Abdul's normally genial face grew troubled, genuine regret plain to see. “Basil, my friend, my master will not see you, and should you seek him, your life would be forfeit. The best thing for you to do would be to forget that life, be grateful to my master for his benevolent care of your person and his word that upon your full recovery, of safe passage beyond the City.
For you shall be the only Greek noble, if you are as you seem, living now in the City of Constantine. The Sultan, in His infinite wisdom, saw the potential for rebellion amongst all of such lofty standing, and had them all killed, starting with the eminent Minister Loukas Notaras, right hand of the so-called Emperor.”
Basil leaned back onto his pillows, spent from his struggles, as tears fell unacknowledged from his eyes. He felt grief, a mighty tower crushing upon him, taking the joy from the sunlight and the sweetness from the air. Loukas, though I remember You not, I still grieve you. May your soul rest in peace. Abdul patted his hand before rising, stretching massively.
“Basil, I think that is more than enough exertion for today. You should rest and regain your strength, I will come and see you again tomorrow, and I expect to see a healthy and alert patient, not a damn fool on the floor.” He smiled to take away the sting of his words, and rang a small silver bell retrieved from his tunic. The old woman entered and introduced herself, “I am Aramî, I shall be watching over you while you are here, and assist you with your recovery, you have been bedridden too long and will need exercise.”
Basil nodded, still distraught, yet incredibly, the weariness took him even before Abdul's great bulk had disappeared down the stairs. He slumped boneless,and as Aramî recovered her lost scrap, drifted into a troubled sleep, punctured with bouts of sobbing and moaning, as a man tortured. Aramî dried his wet cheeks with infinite tenderness, and covered him with his coverlet. A feeling struck her at that moment, an Almighty hand upon her shoulder, urging her to look once more upon what she had started. The purple scrap, wet with tears, shone brighter than before, its age seemingly washed away.
In a flash of insight that she never would be able to explain later, she placed the small scrap in Basil's hand. Aramî sat in her chair once more, quickly dismissing the strange occurrence, and began work on a new project, humming softly.
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“Basil! Abdul roared in greeting. “You look much better, and your color has improved! You look as if you may be up for getting out of this stone box for a while.” Basil looked up from his book at the older man, visibly brightening. He pulled himself upright, and with a little effort, managed to take a few tottering steps before stumbling into the older man, who caught him and handed him a finely carved wooden cane. It had been a week since he had awoken, and he was itching to finally be doing something physical, but he followed the doctor at a sedate pace, making sure he placed his cane on a stable surface as he made his way down the short stair, emerging into an open-ended courtyard facing a harbor, one of many, or so he was told. A pair of pristinely dressed Janissaries in the colors that Basil had come to associate with the servants of Zaganos Pasha took up positions several paces behind the hulking doctor and his patient as they proceeded down the cobbled streets. At first, all was whole and fair to his eyes, exquisite ancient stonework and soaring architecture, fine murals and statuary. This continued for a short while, before the first signs of damage became apparent. Missing courses of cobblestones, burnt out shells of homes,and businesses, missing doors or windows, began to appear, the stink of unburied bodies was heavy where they lay awaiting the undertaker’s cart between large alleys and courtyards, neatly stacked like cordwood.
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Basil's brow clouded, and he looked every one of his 49 summers as he turned stormy eyes on Abdul. “This place has seen much death… I would ask that you explain what has occurred here.” Abdul looked pained, and Aramî would not meet his eyes. “Well?” Basil exclaimed. The taller of the minders responded, rounding on him, surprising Basil with the fire in his words, though they were spoken softly. “I will speak plainly, sir, and bid you listen carefully and to contain further eruptions during your stay. This city has fallen for refusing the will of Allah and of His servant, Mehmet II, may His name be glorified. These…misled fools defied the Sultan's order to surrender, even after he graciously ended the customary desolation after but a single day. For this, they died, and good riddance to them. I would bid you to hold your tongue, unless you wish to join them”.The guard spat, hitting the boot of one of the deceased, before returning to his position ahead of the group.
Abdul rested a conciliatory hand on Basil's shoulder, turning him slightly. “Though rough, he has the way of it, my friend. Now, let us return, you need to rest. This city is no safe place now for noble Greeks such as yourself to be making a spectacle.” The small group traced its way back through the diminished, but still heavy crowds of the city, eventually disappearing as they left the avenue. Unseen, a hooded man rose from his seat and, flipping a coin to the apple seller, headed with urgency towards the looming edifice of the Hagia Sophia.
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“Grand Vizier Zaganos, so good of you to come. I would have words with you on a matter close to My heart.” Mehmed II, the New Caesar of Rome,The Sultan of two lands and the Khan of two seas, Defender of the Faithful, and 7th Sultan of the Ottoman Turks said with a welcoming flourish. From His throne, brought from Adrianople to his temporary palace just west of the mighty Hagia Sophia, the young Sultan beckoned his new Vizier closer. Zaganos approached, the echo of his progress like the armies which he had led, strong and implacable. Mehmed stood, walking over to a well appointed table laden with food,and selecting a fine red apple before proceeding to his campaign table, upon which was spread a map of Constantinople and the surrounding regions.
So he has heard nothing yet, good. Just a strategy meeting.
Zaganos sighed silently in relief, grateful that for now at least, his most problematic secret had not yet reached the Sultan's ear. He bowed deeply, kissing the Sultan's hand, before rising and examining the map. Annotations in Mehmed's clear, graceful hand clustered around the Morea, stubbornly still resisting demands to surrender despite the Ottomans overwhelming superiority.
“They are plotting something, Zaganos. I know it. The damn Palaiologos are deeply entrenched in those lands, and the brothers of Our late subject still live and remain defiant. Furthermore, the population of Greeks within the city itself is still restive, despite the purges of the nobility, the defection of Gennadios, and the crackdown on the armed peasantry. The short-sighted fools keep fighting a battle they cannot hope to win.” Mehmed turned a sharp eye towards his Vizier. “And you, my Vizier? How does the effort to find the body of Constantine go? I have received many Greek heads, yet none have been my enemy. I tire of mounting nameless soldiers and feckless Bashi-Bazouk irregulars better used expanding the empire on pikes.
Zaganos stood straighter and faced his lord.“It is as if he were never there, a djinn-formed mirage fighting us this entire time. The only things that were found were the ornaments of his station, abandoned within an easy walk of the St.Romanos gate. It is as if some devilry has obscured his passing, for while his Varangian Guard litter the field, he is not among them. He has either evaded us and escaped ,or crawled into a hole and died like the animal he is.”
Mehmed took a bite of the apple, juices flowing down his chin, chewing with relish. He pointed the apple at Zaganos, quirking an eyebrow inquisitively. “My Vizier, I had almost forgotten, but one of My little birds reported a most interesting thing to Me. He says he observed a member of your personal janissaries speaking covertly with a man of Greek origin in a very animated fashion. He was most cooperative in his detailing of what he called ‘a most assuredly noble Greek’, yet should not all such be slain by your hand, by My order?”
Shit.
Zaganos bowed reverently, an uncharacteristically stern expression on his face. “My Lord, I shall see to it that the traitorous fool within my house is summarily dealt with, the Grand Vizier must be above reproach in all things. I beg you to give me leave to handle matters in a manner that reflects well upon our empire. I will bring you this Greek, should I find him, that you may have surety.” He waited in the ensuing silence that stretched before them, bent almost to the waist.
He heard Mehmed's sigh, felt his hand upon his head, the heavy golden rings clacking against his scalp. “I will grant you this, my friend, in recognition of your mighty deeds. Do not fail me. Then, when this is done, return to me, we have an empire to build.” With his pronouncement finished, he dismissed the bowing Zaganos with a careless flick of his hand before turning to his campaign table. Zaganos straightened to his full height, backing from the presence of his liege, though not before noticing the map Mehmed placed over the Grecian one.
Italy. He intends to take Italy. The birthplace of the Caesars, the wellspring from which legitimacy flows. Constantine must be moved, soon, or else killed.
Breaking free from the gloom of the palace, Zaganos breathed a sigh of relief before turning towards his own quarters. There was much to do, and little time.
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Basil awoke to the darkness of a moonless night, his mind unsettled by the incoherent visions of half glimpsed men and bloody battles that he did not remember. He sat up against his pillows, breathing heavily, listening to the night sounds, the endless crash of surf against stone. He lit the oil lamp by his bedside, seeking for some outlet for his nervous energy, before a weight in his pocket reminded him of the unexpected gift he had received on his first night among the conscious. He drew out the scrap , its golden eagle seeming to glow in the light of the lamp. It seemed familiar to him, a sight seen often, through a veil of awe and respectful honor.
He ground his fists into his forehead, lamenting his lost memories, as well as all of those who must have been left behind. Hot tears etched lines of wetness down a face that was youthful still yet burdened with too many cares. His grief did not cease, even when his loneliness was interrupted by a voice heavy with years and weighted by much hard-earned wisdom.
“You weep as if all were lost, as if the sun was to rise no more, even if you should live to see many years after it, long enough perhaps to see it come again.” Basil paid the voice no mind, lost in self-pity and recriminations for the part he was sure he had played in the fall of the city. He swiped angrily at his eyes, the silk cool against his skin, before an idea blossomed in his mind. He rose from the bed, crossing to the desk with lamp in hand, tracing the titles of the books contained within its bookshelf until he came to a large book, its gilding faded by the many hands which time had passed it through. Epitome Historiarum it read, and with growing certainty, Basil pulled it from the shelf, flipping the crackling pages until it fell open to the image of a man who appeared lordly and regal, though his body was marked by cruel pockmarks where skin was shown.
Imperator Caesar Flavius Petrus Sabbatius Justinianus I, Vir In Lustris read the inscription, and upon the figure’s shoulder rested a golden eagle on his purple silk toga, identical to the one in his hand. “Yes, that is I, though I doubt extremely that I was ever so regal, or so stoic in my deformity.” Basil froze, realizing he was not alone, unless this was some feverish madness he was not yet strong enough to overcome. He turned, and there, though spectral and pale, he saw before him Justinian. Law-giver, the architect of the Renovatio Imperii Romanorum, the Novus Augustus, the titles were many for a man that was, as he said, outwardly fairly average in every way. It was his eyes that froze Basil, even as a shade, they demanded instant obedience and deep wisdom resided within their depths. They were cold, colder than a Russian winter, and yet somehow warm, full of gratitude and thankfulness, even meekness.
“Blood of the Romans, I come to you now. You are lost within yourself and your enemies circle close around you, yet your destiny will not be decided here. If you follow my words and do not tarry, you shall live, refuse, and we truly do end with you.” In a distinctly undignified manner, the ghostly Emperor plopped into his chair and sprawled, leaning over the chair back and gazing up at the baffled man from below.
“I cannot compel your obedience, only offer you advice. It is your choice. I am merely the specter of a man who lived to see most of his greatest triumphs crumble half-finished before his eyes because I could not trust the loyalty of one who would have died for me.” The shade turned to regard his portrait, giving Basil time to think.
Is this madness? A message from Heaven? Something darker, perhaps? A daemo– “ I am no daemon, a relic only, torn from my eternal rest by the greed of rabid Anatolian peasants.” Justinian barked sternly. Basil looked up in wonder and a tinge of fear.
“You can read minds?”
“Yours, as we are of the same blood, though not kin.” Justinian replied. “Have you decided? Time grows short and thwarting the hand of the grave grows taxing even for one as laden with recriminations as myself.”
Basil sighed wearily, and looked away. “Tell me one thing, are these two who cared for me among my enemies?”
Justinian smiled fondly and patted his knee with an ephemeral hand. “No, Basil, they are good people in service to an honest, though cunning, man. Fear not of returning their hospitality and care with death and suffering. They will survive the days that are to come.”
Basil reached for his boots, and lacing them quickly, looked intently at Justinian. “I have decided. I will go as you bid, God give me strength. Lead me not astray, ancient one. Though where shall I go? I cannot stay in our lands, nor that of our Slavic peoples of old, and all of the West reject me as an oath breaking heretic. Shall I flee to Arabia? Africa? My enemies are many and my allies few.”
Justinian steepled his long fingers, his compelling eyes drilling into Basil’s. “To the East, blood of my blood. To where your destiny will be decided.” He soundlessly clapped his hands and rose from the chair. “But first, I have a gift for you, if you have the courage to risk acquiring it.”
“Gift? What gift can a shade millennia dead give the living?” Basil asked incredulously.
Justinian’s smile grew downright predatory, and a fire was in his eyes.
“Crocea Mors. The sword of Julius Caesar himself.”