Basil left the ruins behind him, crunching his way down the overgrown path towards where Chenmo awaited him on a small rise.

“Problems?” The wiry Cathay said, straightening from a curious form of stretching that looked fairly painful to Basil's eyes. “You are wet and look like you lost a fight with a bog, I am sorry to say.”

Basil waved his hand in dismissal. “No, just a combination of clumsiness and religious observances. I feel the need of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit tonight, even with such a redoubtable and skilled companion such as yourself.”

Basil stood by Chenmo and beheld his objective, The Column of Constantine. The weathered porphyry column stood proudly, though not unscathed by the many centuries since its dedication, bearing the scars of earthquake, fire, and the greed of Latin crusaders, cruel, but ancient pry marks all that remained of its copper banding wreaths. It was taller than the Pantheon of Rome, a finger of stone pointing towards the heavens. A great cross lay discarded on a heap of rubble, a casualty of the occupying army amidst the assorted detritus of vandalized storefronts.

This late, the Forum was almost empty, despite its status as a major intersection of the city, a fact for which Basil was heartily thankful. Another piece of luck was the apparent lack of Ottoman presence, no doubt a sap to the pride of the remaining citizens, though all was not still, even now. Quiet, purposeful movements here and there around the edges of the mighty plaza, as enterprising merchants began laying out what wares were available on freshly-built trestles and canopied stalls. A few Orthodox monks walked reverently in a line around the plaza, swinging a battered censer, chanting in a low droning monotone.

Justinian? Where do I go, what must I do? Basil thought. The presence descended upon him, along with an impression of a specific direction, a little to the left of the center mass of the pillar. “Soon. We must get closer.“ Came the enigmatic response.

Basil motioned to Chenmo, and the two passed through the broken ring of stalls and into the Forum, their boots slapping quietly against the stone. Thankfully, their passing seemed to be of little interest and they made it to the required location unmolested. A rooster crowed once, then twice in the dark, then was silenced.

Hmmm. It appears shorter than I remember. No matter. You will need to move forward, hands extended in front of you, until you touch the Column. Next, sweep your hands in a growing spiral, out from the center, until you feel two notches with either hand, they may look like cracks. Here Justinian’s tone seemed apologetic. It was just after Theodora died of plague, I knew my duty, but my mind was not fully present at the time, forgive me. The impression of a careworn face, blistered and cratered almost beyond recognition by the ravages of plague, threatened to make Basil's knees buckle and his eyes filled with tears not his own.

Basil leaned forward, his head touching the worn surface. “Justinian, you must control yourself. Now is not the time to grieve. Now is a time to act, and only you can tell me what to do. So please, master your grief before it overwhelms me, for the good of the Roman people, your people.”

He felt a gradual lightening of emotions, and a brittle, hard-edged acceptance of reality that bordered on nihilism imposing itself. It scared him a little, and he began to understand why the courtiers of that day had feared the otherwise rather unremarkable man.

Grip the notches, and reverse the spirals, they should move freely enough, the mechanism was well-sealed. The mechanism will operate, and you will see our prize.

He spoke hesitantly then, as if seeking absolution.

I have grieved for a millennia, yet I still am not whole, forgive an old shade for forgetting his imperial duty.

Basil sighed in relief, the storm of pressure rising from his mind as he found and manipulated the ancient device. The muffled sound of ancient machinery grumbled from the innards of the porphyry drum as he dragged the two spirals to their conclusions with puffs of grit and dust. Flakes of artfully blended mortar chipped away from the hairline opening that now appeared, widening until it was a handspan in width, revealing a cylindrical waxed leather bundle cracked with age.

He reached into the cavity, and with special care, extracted the bundle from its resting place. The leather crumbled away at his touch, exposing a hiltless gladius of ancient Roman make, deeply pitted and scarred by the ravages of time and weather. It was both a disappointing moment and an exhilarating one to Basil. This sword had built an empire that had changed the world, yet it didn't even have a scabbard, it was tarnished and the edge non-existent, too short for a modern blade. Still, his heart thrilled with boyish wonder, for was it not said that in some things, there exists more than the sum of their parts?

Gods above, it's about damn time! Do you know how long I've had to molder in that damn tomb? Now that was AFTER I got buried in the cold, hard ground next to a bloody barbaric savage!

The voice paused, as if out of breath, then resumed in a far more polished, authoritative air.

Well! So you're the one Justinian promised me, a little old perhaps, but I think there's something to work with here.

Basil flinched, reeling from the mental barrage of words projected, as if on a parade ground, within the rather smaller enclosure that was his head. Focusing on minutiae to distract himself from the impending headache he could already feel growing in the base of his skull, Basil placed the sword gently in his bag and reversed the device, closing the opening save for a tiny hairline crack.

“Julius Caesar, I presume? I must say, you're rather louder than I was expecting.”

Shorter too. Don't worry, you'll get used to it. If there's one thing that almost two millennia as a revenant has taught me, it's that most people you admire never measure up to your expectations, even Alexander had insecurities. Silliest thing I ever did in life, crying next to his statue in Alexandria, whining that I would never be able to create a legacy to match his.

However, we will speak later, you must leave, I sense that this time of safety is close to done.

Look to your companion, Basil.

Basil looked at Chenmo, the normally placid assassin shifting uneasily from foot to foot and peering around furtively. Then he noticed the silence, even the quiet preparations of the merchants stilled. The dry crack of approaching iron-shod hooves filled the turgid silence, and suddenly Basil was certain somehow that this was no routine patrol.

“We must go, Basil.” Chenmo tugged on his shoulder, pulling him away from the Column and urging him towards the road leading to the Kontoskalion, the Harbor of Julian. “If you wish to live, we must make it to the Harbor before the pursuit can mobilize the galley captains.”

Basil looked at him, dazed and slightly woozy, but he doggedly followed the man's urging and with a ragged gait, started in the direction presented without complaint. Then a thought occurred, breaking through the clouds of mental fugue. “Chenmo, if you came here legitimately, we should just be able to stash me in a hold, merchant vessels of the Ming have certain rights regarding search and impoundment in Muslim ports, or so says Abdul Al-Shifa, my learned doctor. Is this not true?”

Chenmo grimaced. “So it is, but this vessel was not built nor was it sponsored by His Heavenly Eminence, but rather is a Georgian trading vessel, bought indirectly and registered as belonging to a non-existent Venetian trading concern.

Nevertheless,my vessel absolutely cannot be captured, lest the Ottomans gain certain advances that would prove most troublesome to my masters, and should it be necessary, even if you would have to be sacrificed, I would scuttle it with all hands on board.”

That unsettling tidbit of motivation bothered Basil more than a little, but he put his head down and kept up the punishing pace set by the younger, faster man, sweat flowing as they ran through the heart of the ancient commercial quarter of Caenopolis in the pre-dawn twilight, the even crack of patient hunters mounts driving them on, though still its source remained hidden. A few forlorn pillars reaching for the sky, quickly passed in the dim light, were all that remained to mark the Baths of Anastasia, half-sister of the first Constantine.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Still the chase continued, the first of the riders coming into sight as they entered the Harbor, the weathered Church of St.Thomas the Amantian glowering over the docks, which even so soon after siege and devastation, rang out with the bawdy songs and sea shanties of carousing sailors even in the wee hours of the morning. Basil and Chenmo, acting quickly, ran down the slope of the hill in a barely controlled tumble, one, then the other, falling hard on the rocky ground before reaching the sturdy cobble of the docks.

#################

The Silahdar came into view again, his nimble Arab mare stepping carefully over the uneven ground.

His gear was incredibly fine, edged with golden thread and adorned with the insignia of the Sultan over finely worked mail and polished leather boots. He stood high in his stirrups, dark eyes searching for any hint of movement on the docks below the church. He loosened his saber in its sheath before sitting and with quiet economy, motioning with hand signals to his men, royal Silahdar division veterans to a man, calmly nodded and proceeded in near complete silence to urge their horses in pursuit down the hill.

The Chorbaji (Colonel) stroked his fine moustache, considering the mission his Agha, the commander of the Silahdars, had given him. Forty of the Sultan's best killers for a single Greek and an unknown spy? Preposterous! A waste of fine men and horses better employed in the Morea, fighting through the hell of combat to hang the rest of the Palaiologi or die trying! He looked behind him, the sound of hoofbeats echoing down the street. He spat with feeling onto the cobbles.

And on top of that, he was expected to be under the command of the Grand Vizier himself!

He was a loyal subject of the Sultan, but the oversight chafed, especially by this strange new Vizier, a European and a Greek himself to boot! Something stank, and while he would hold his nose and carry out his duty, he feared duplicity.

“Colonel Ateşin, how goes the hunt?” The new Vizier, resplendent in his finest armor, a gilded saber hanging from his finely tooled leather sword belt, cantered up beside him.

“The targets are fleeing towards the secondary mercantile dock, though no significant amount of activity has been noted among the ships in the area to indicate an exact destination. I have deployed my men to discreetly block the exits from the mercantile docks and sent messengers to the harbormaster and the patrol galleys. I and my companions were awaiting you here to be at your immediate disposal, I trust that my orders meet with your expectations?”

Zaganos nodded distractedly, peering down at the pertinent section of the large harbor as in the distance, lamps flared and were covered from the three galleys at the harbor entrance, communicating the Vizier's orders with shore-based harbor signal stations. The first rosy blush of dawn touched the horizon as if aiding his search for his lost charge. He straightened, his jovial expression firmly in place once more, and turned towards the silahdar officer while gesturing towards the column of Sipahi household cavalry for Al-Shifa to come forward.

“This is Abdul, my servant, tasked with the covert reconnaissance of our target. He may have some interesting insights here, Abdul?” The elderly doctor nodded, advancing his horse.

“My Lord, this man, Basil Akritas, is a noted Greek religious unionist, related distantly to the deposed Comnenus dynasty that fled to Trebizond following the overthrow of Andronikos the First in 1185. He is an experienced fighter, skilled horseman,and competent administrator. I recommend that all pursuit of him be handled with extreme care.” He looked to Zaganos for permission to continue, and at Zaganos's nod, continued.

“Colonel, I would stress most severely the danger posed by this man, he is noted for his ability to escape from almost certain capture and his ability to infiltrate armed agents into hostile cities. I need not speak of the fact that this city is far from secure as of yet. You should be cautious of a trap.”

Ateşin nodded brusquely, shifting in the saddle and motioning to his two aides to approach. “Tell the Boluk-bashis (captains) to hold until I arrive, I will have to take charge of this personally.” The men saluted sharply and took off at a gallop towards the docks. He looked at Zaganos, “By your leave, Lord Grand Vizier? I have a man to catch.”

Zaganos smiled graciously and nodded. “Of course, good Colonel.”

The silahdar saluted, wheeling his horse and starting at a canter down the sloping road leading to where his men waited.

Abdul Al-Shifa tapped his horse forward adroitly, a look of concern plain on his now-haggard face.

“My Lord?”

Zaganos looked briefly at him, then his eyes focused on the horizon. He spoke then in an unsteady voice uncommon to his normal tones.

“I am sorry, my dear friend. You are not meant for this kind of work, despite your clever mind. I was wrong to risk your neck like this in a storm of my own making. Will you forgive me?”

Abdul smiled grandly, a sight that cheered Zaganos's heart. “You had no need even to ask for such a thing, Lord. He is a good man, and will understand why you must do this. Basil will not hold it against you, and in time, may even be able to tell you himself. By the way, who really is he, my lord?”

Zaganos grinned devilishly, his good mood restored as if it had never left.

“Now that would be telling.”

#######################

Chenmo stopped suddenly, and Basil nearly crashed into his back before stopping, gasping from the exertion of their flight. He stuck his hand out warningly at Basil, energetically motioning for silence. Chenmo cocked his head, first one way, then the other, then drew Basil into a cramped alley liberally cluttered with trash and scrap wood.

“We're being followed by the riders, though they've gotten better at hiding themselves, I'd know the sound of an iron horseshoe muffled by felt anywhere.” Chenmo glanced around the edge of the building, before carefully drawing back with a muttered curse. “Silahdars.” He spat with ill-restrained annoyance. “My masters knew this would be a difficult extraction, but to be chased by the personal bodyguard of the Sultan? Mehmed must really want your head.”

Basil leaned against the grimy wall, recovering his breath. “I don't know why, all I've done since I woke up an amnesiac is sit in a tower, read the books in my room, and debate with Abdul on whether I'm up to a swim or a run or a turn about the dockside.” He looked over to Chenmo, to find that the man was working at some spherical contraption of blackened metal and hemp rope that he was adding black powder to from a flask.

“What is that, Chenmo? Some form of metal fire-bomb?”

Chenmo hooked the flask back onto his belt, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and firmly seating the piece of hemp in the ball. “Something like that, but this one produces extremely large amounts of noxious black smoke rather than exploding.

I will go slightly ahead and when we come to the first cross-street, I will throw it at the group of horsemen who think I didn't see them. He sighed. “I'm not sure why they're waiting, the alley is a dead end. The only thing I can surmise is that we're being corralled for capture rather than execution. If so, we've got a brief window in which to achieve our goal and safety.”

He stood, brushing the trash from his knees,hefting his smoke bomb easily in one hand. “Do not stop if you wish to live, after you pass the cross-street, you will see the berth where the ship lies at dock. If I have not rejoined you within seconds, go to the gangway and yell out Xīlà yû, and the sailors will guide you from there.”

“Are you ready?”

“As I'll ever be.”

“Then let us dance with Death.”

###################

They ran for their lives, surprising the dismounted silahdar insufficiently concealed around the corner of a seedy house, who recoiled with a hasty curse and a shout. Chenmo took the lead, easily outpacing the slower Basil, quickly rounding the corner and disappearing from sight, though from the great plume of smoke and the frantic neighing of horses, he was fairly successful in his diversion. Basil ran on, and he pounded down the pier to where a finely appointed brigantine flying Venetian colors sat at anchor.

“Xīlá yû, xīlá y—!” Basil felt a tug at his back, and a sudden draft that made him instinctively duck. Another arrow clattered onto the dock, stymied by the thick hull of the brigantine. Looking towards the shore, he saw Chenmo, by a herculean effort staying mere steps in front of a pair of riders with a net strung between their horses. Cathayan and Georgian sailors swarmed on the deck of the brigantine, a pair peeling off to drag Basil onboard and push him to a seated position behind the stout gunwales.

A shattering crack, then another split the air near Basil, causing him to put his hands to his ears. The screaming of a wounded horse split the morning air amid the shouting of nearby sailors. Basil risked a look over the gunwale, seeing a fallen thrashing horse tangled in the nets, while the other horse ran back to land riderless as Chenmo flew onto the deck. He sucked in a mighty breath, then pushed himself upright, issuing orders to the sailors in his native tongue. He glanced over at Basil, relief plain on his face, then resumed barking orders.

A short time passed, sailors bringing heavy wooden chests full of strange weapons, long barrels of metal with wooden stocks, and barrels of black powder from below. The sailors inserted rope into special holders onto the stocks of the weapons and with the speed of constant practice, poured powder and small iron balls into the tubes before opening small compartments which were filled with more of the powder. Other sailors took up positions at the low benches lining the sides of the ship, running out oars. Others still busily loosed sailcloth and manned positions at the wheel, rudder, prow, and stern, casting off mooring lines and readying the ship for departure.

“Basil!” The shout broke his concentration, and he looked up from his perch on a low bench near the stern, to see Chenmo motioning him over to the wheel. He threaded his way through the busy ship to his side. Chenmo pointed to where a squadron of silahdars were proceeding down the dock towards the brigantine.

“How soon can we leave?” Basil asked.

“Immediately, but they will still be able to get several decent volleys until our rowers get their rhythm, the wind is not amenable to our cause in the shelter of the harbor.” Chenmo shouted to a grizzled man standing near a drum, and the rowers pushed the brigantine out of the berth, the timekeeper pounding a slow beat.The ship moved quickly, turning and making headway towards the mouth of the harbor while scattered volleys of arrows clattered onto the deck and stuck into gunwales.

The volleys tapered off as they reached the center of the harbor, outranging the dock as an alerted Ottoman patrol galley pulled furiously towards the Ming ship. The drumbeat quickened from both ships as they jockeyed for better position in the oncoming brief clash before they passed one another and were out of range. The first blood went to the Ottomans, catching the Ming sailors as they retracted the oars, slaying two with volleyed arrows. The sailors responded, lifting the metal weapons to their shoulders and pulling levers protruding from the bottom. Long staccato bursts of fire and smoke speared from the brigantine, and the Ottoman galley slowed immediately, slewing into a circle as many rowers were felled by the iron hail.

A cheer arose from the sailors, and the brigantine surged forward again, reaching the entrance to the Sea of Marmara in scant minutes. The other patrol galleys, seeing the fate of their fellow galley, stood off at range, peppering the ship with arrow fire. The wind filled their sails as they exited the harbor, and the sailors drew in the oars, trimming the sails to better catch the wind.

Chenmo and Basil descended into the hold, where they sat with the grizzled rowing master in chairs bolted to the floor around a well-made table.

“Basil, this is Yan Mo, my Master of Rowers, you'll have to forgive him, he speaks only Chinese and Georgian, some pidgin Turkish. He says that the wind should hold at least until we reach the Black Sea, but beyond that, he isn't sure. I will brief you on the situation on the ground in Candar territory when we land in Sinope, as well as I know it. For now, relax as you can, unless I miss my guess, it'll be some time before you can again be in relative safety. I need not tell you, you'll be going into a nest of vipers.”

Basil nodded, accepting a cup of dark beer from the stolid old man. Basil lifted his cup for a toast.

“To freedom and friendly seas.”