Basil stood at the rail of the Poignard, the Ming-owned brigantine cutting through the waves, its lateen sail catching the wind. The sailors were playing dice games in the shade of rigged canopies, cackling maniacally and groaning in turn as fortunes waxed and waned at each throw.
Something that surprised Basil immensely were the number of the sailors, the crew almost entirely commoners, holding bound books! Chenmo's crew was surprisingly both entirely literate and surprisingly well-paid, a far cry from the norms of the naval profession.
The Bosporus was clear and bright today, the favorable winds moving the ship quickly towards the opening of the Black Sea. Basil considered himself lucky that the Ottomans had not seen fit to pursue him, the sea almost unnaturally empty of their navy despite their proximity to the fallen Constantinople. In fact, the only ships he'd seen in the last several hours were a few of the great war galleys of the Venetian Navy, the beat of drums echoing faintly across the water as they rowed against the wind.
Caesar's unmistakable presence descended on him then, weighty and almost stifling in its intensity.
Basil. It is time we speak of the future.
Basil discreetly checked that he was alone at the rail, leaning forward and bowing his head.
“In that we are agreed, Lord Caesar. I would like to know why I am being chased from the only place I know, by people who are supposed to have nursed me back to health at some expense to their own purses, not to mention their safety.”
Gaius. I had more than enough of “Lord this” “Consul that” in life for it to still hold relish for me now.
“As you wish then, Gaius. I wonder though, where is Justinian? Should he not participate in our discussion?”
He will not. He cannot. Basil heard an ethereal sigh. He has never realized I am a man. I am his God, Basil. He cannot believe I am the same as he is, and he has avoided me for the last millennia of our shared undeath because of it, unless his need was dire. You do not understand what he saw in us, the great “demigods” of the Republic. To a sheltered bureaucrat of a good family, we were measuring sticks, icons of virtue and toughness and virility.
Imagine what he felt when he realized that I was just an extremely clever butcher with a talent for delegation. I was lucky, and I was good. That is very different from being the Imperator he convinced himself I was. The spectral voice turned introspective, almost melancholy.
I think it was Brutus who told me one night, "Time clouds even the brightest lights, even Alexander has passed into shadow and myth, though he sleeps for all to see in Alexandria.” I think he might have been trying to warn me that I was going too far, but at the time I was tired of playing politics with a bunch of sanctimonious old shits who only cared about the law when it could be used to strangle me. I decided that if the system would not submit to reorganization within the law, then the only sensible course would be to do as Sulla did and impose reorganization from the outside. I failed, and the people paid the price, even my daughter paid the price.
A sense of smug satisfaction passed fleetingly from Gaius.
"At least I was right about Octavian, bless him for a bloody minded soldier, to turn out so deft a politician and so canny a tyrant.”
Basil blinked. Then again, and once more for good measure. The sun had shifted a handspan from where it had been what felt like mere moments ago. Rubbing his forehead, he stood straighter, grasping the rail.
“Gaius, what does any of this have to do with the future? Need I remind you that I am a fugitive, and the last thing I need is a maudlin old man locking me in place while I am running for my life from those who seek my head! What does you have to say about the living world right now?”
Testy, aren't we? Fine, we'll start with the brass tacks. You are on your own, starting in the city of Sinope, capital of the Candar Emirate, a small strip of land that the Ottomans haven't bothered to crush yet. You have three real choices from there, South into Anatolia, and into the heart of Ottoman territory, where you will be quickly recognized, captured, and summarily executed. West to the coast, cutting across Ottoman territory, where you could hope to be taken onto a ship and thereby sail to Europe.
Finally, East into the remains of the Timurid Empire, into Armenia and Georgia, where the people are currently subject to the rule of another Turkmen confederation known as the Qara Qoyunlu. This is the course I'd recommend, as the power of either this group, or the Timurid remnants under Abu Sa'id Mirza is currently enough to dissuade an Ottoman pursuit.
“How do you know this, Gaius?”
I'm dead, Basil, not deaf. I spent every day sitting in the central plaza of what was one of the largest cities in the world for a millennia until you fished me out of there. I watched, learned names, associated tidbits of minutiae, and thus built a picture of the modern world, all to stave off the ennui of being trapped in that forum. Justinian’s power to project himself is truly outstanding, allowing him to travel more widely and manifest himself, but we ARE limited. If you lose the relics, you lose us.
“I don't have a relic of Justinian though, he just appeared to me in the tower. Or…” Basil patted at a pocket on the leather jerkin he wore over his new Chenmo-provided robe and withdrew the scrap of purple silk.
That would do it, silk, Imperial purple, eagle iconography, just enough for a man like him to focus his being around. I advise you to take care with that, its a devil of a thing, to hold onto existence for your mission for as long as we have and to lose your anchor before you achieve your goal.
To resume our discussion, I must stress that while the road leading east would be the best, it will not be easy going for you. The Candari are lapdogs of Mehmed and will hunt you if you are identified. Furthermore, you face crossing the lands of the Trapezontines of the Komnennian dynasty, they are both cunning and resourceful and will not appreciate the arrival of a Greek noble of Nicaean birth such as yourself.
“Why do you call it best then, would not the best path be to flee to the West and begin anew, forget the life that I may have had before and just be Basil?” Basil exclaimed, drawing curious looks from the gambling sailors. He motioned to them, a gesture of negation, and they turned back to their game.
“Why Gaius, why must I head to a war zone just to live without pursuit? What is this “destiny” Justinian speaks of? How does one addled Greek matter to the world?”
You should ask him and his God, I have no use for the babble of prophets or divine missions. I merely understand that you desire freedom from Ottoman pursuit and have devised the most likely path to your achievement of that goal. Keep your head on straight, Basil, and you'll survive. I will leave you now, he wishes to speak with you.
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Caesar's presence lifted, and he felt the gentle blanket of Justinian’s essence settle amidst what he could've sworn was a faint scent of persimmons.
Basil. You have much to do, so I will keep this brief. It is God's will that you head east to recover at least some of what you have lost. I cannot compel you, yet I prevail on your sense of curiosity and self preservation. There are said to be healing waters in Armenia, a balm to the affliction of Lethe set upon you. Heed me, and travel to the lake of Sevan, and you may start to understand your destiny, or at least why you are hunted. Tarry not along your way, for not all remnants in the East are servants of the Lord. There is another war brewing, and I would have you ready for it. I have great expectations for you, Basil.
Now go, your friend is coming.
“Basil, we are doing better than Yan Mo predicted! We should be in Sinope by nightfall!” Chenmo shouted from the entrance to the ship's hold. Basil nodded and carefully made his way over to the wiry Cathay. As he crossed the crowded deck, a large bird swooped in from the direction of land, barely visible off the starboard side, alighting on Chenmo's outstretched arm.
Chenmo calmed the bird with a piece of jerky from a pocket, removing a small slip from a container around the bird's leg. He passed the hawk to an anxious young crewman, who gingerly lowered a hood over the raptor’s head. Basil leaned forward to see the message, but was disappointed to find it contained what looked to him like a dense profusion of lines and squiggles.
Chenmo balled up the paper and tossed it into the water, smiling reassuringly at Basil. “ We've got accommodations and the agreed upon items awaiting your arrival. My masters are pleased with our progress, though not so much our engagement with the Ottoman Navy.”
“Will you be okay? I assume that this ship will no longer be able to properly access the ports of Anatolia and Greece without harassment. If the Venetians hear of this…” Basil trailed off, realizing the level of loss incurred by a single action. He was shocked to notice that Chenmo still wore a sunny smile.
“How can you smile so freely? The loss of a covert ship and its crew must be immense, not to mention the diplomatic costs, even if your masters were as rich as Crassus and more powerful than Caesar.”
“Crassus is a beggar and Caesar a local petty lord before His Excellency.” Chenmo declared, walking up to Basil and placing a hand on his shoulder. “In fact, you will soon understand how great His grasp actually is, his agent, my direct superior, wishes to speak with you. It is a great honor.”
Basil looked at him, the thought of betrayal, of grasping hands in a crowded city street flitting across his mind in an instant. He was hunted, and had seen the dust of pursuit whenever the ship had been forced to approach closer to land. Maybe this was a good thing, an opportunity to gain the protection of a mighty lord, or maybe… this was just the mouth of a spider's web, seeking to entrap him in a deadly game between faraway kings.
Basil sighed wearily, and decided to trust in Chenmo. “ I hope so, friend Chenmo, there is only so much running one man can do before he must either give up or stand and fight. Though I doubt it is your intent that I feel this way, I am in your power and will meet with them as you bid.”
Chenmo nodded understandingly, his face growing thoughtful. “You have a point, but with our engagement against the sovereign forces of the Ottomans, we are all just as much hunted as you are, especially myself and Yan Mo. If you fear betrayal, fear it not from my hand nor that of His Excellency, we wish you to be our ally in this endeavor, and corpses do not make for able companions.”
Chenmo paused, shading his eyes and peering towards the northeast. “There would be Sinope. It'll be interesting to see what has changed since my last visit.”
Basil let the change of topic pass without comment, turning towards the northeast, getting his first glimpse of the ancient city. It stood on a promontory that boasted a wide harbor in which fishing boats and small sail-rigged craft jostled for space with great trading vessels under the flags of Christian and Muslim nations alike at the crowded, raucous marina. In stark contrast, solidly built homes of local stone and roofed with colorful tile marched in organized lines up to the ancient, half ruined fortress of Mithridates IV in which the Emir resided along with the oldest of the city buildings. Beyond the city, green hills marched inland beyond his sight.
“It's beautiful, peaceful, yet also steeped in history.” Basil remarked, yet some of his admiration faded when he was able to make out the pennants snapping in the breeze on the turrets of the keep. The Ottoman moon and star flapped above the Seal of Solomon in the fading light, the emblem of the Candar obviously in a subservient position.
He turned to Chenmo, indicating the flags.
“Are we too late? The flag of Mehmed flies here already.”
“No, friend Basil, the Ottomans hold only nominal suzerainty here, a small garrison of a hundred young men and a few bored old beys who have been banished from court. They focused so much upon your city that they were willing to take mere lip service and tribute of the lesser states in order to realize the capture of their “Red Apple” the sooner.”
The crew burst into a renewed frenzy of motion, stowing all non-essential gear before taking their places at the banks of oars, several trimming the sails to ease the rowers' burden so long as the favorable winds continued. Yan Mo stamped around, shouting in Chinese and Georgian, posting a handful of armed sailors at strategic points along the gunwales.
“Trouble?”
“Not likely, merely a precaution against stupid or desperate men. All of these ships do so upon entering a port, it keeps onlookers at bay and tightens the tongue of a talkative excise officer.”
The drum started its time, and the sailors drew in the sail as the rowers backed, slowing the sleek ship. Yan Mo barked another order as the open berth neared ,and with a practiced motion, the portside rowers withdrew their oars,and the brigantine nestled against its hide fenders with barely a bump. Several rowers jumped to the dock, making the ship fast to several iron cleats.
Basil picked up his rucksack before lightly jumping to the dock as Chenmo did the same. “Come Basil, the city awaits, and though he is patient, my superior is not overly fond of being so close to the bleeding edge of operations even in the best of circumstances.”
“Lead me to him then, the faster I can leave here, the more distance I gain on my pursuers. We do have a deal, and I expect to see it upheld no matter the final decision.”
Chenmo nodded curtly, before setting a swift but inconspicuous pace through the crowds of barkers, spice merchants, textile makers, and the like that thronged the harborside hawking their wares. The press increased as they proceeded inland, an open plaza packed with onlookers sported a play from the Thousand and One Nights, while another sported a circle of learned men debating on the words of the Prophet, their flurry of heated words bringing both cheers and mutinous mutterings in turn.
So it was, until finally the fracas was left behind, and Chenmo left the main road, climbing a flight of steep stairs to where a fine, well-tended home sat back from the others, preceded by a small walled courtyard with an open, circular entrance devoid of a gate. Chenmo knocked three times, then once, on a small strip of wood inscribed with more of his indecipherable mother tongue that was embedded next to the opening.
Two men, hands on hilts, stepped from either side into view, motioning them towards the house without a word. Thus it came as a shock when they had nearly reached the door, Basil found himself standing rigid and still, a knife point in his back and an arm like iron around his neck.
“Chenmo!” he grunted before the arm tightened further, cutting off his air supply. When the vice-like grip loosened,Chenmo appeared no better prepared for his assailant, bleeding from a hairline cut across his scalp and both his hands bound with a fine rope. “Peace, Basil! Peac–!” The other man kicked him solidly in the stomach, cutting off his words as he doubled over in breathless pain.
They were roughly dragged into the house and manhandled into an austere room set with an ornate mahogany chair of foreign make, thronelike in size and opulence across from two plain backless stools, where they were forced to sit.
The men retreated to the wall behind them, sheathing their blades and relaxing into patient readiness. They did not have long to wait before a tall, gaunt man with aristocratic features and pronounced Han ancestry strode into the room speaking arrogantly in formal court Chinese to a large man with the bearing of a soldier.
Basil noted with confusion the elaborate blue silk robe, the exactingly arranged coiffure woven through with a golden chain, and the highly polished black boots chased with silver. He risked a glance at Chenmo, only to get a subtle headshake of negation.
The well-built soldier speaking with him glanced over towards the prisoners, eyes widening with genuine shock as he recognized Chenmo's bruised and bloodied state. His responses grew more heated as the aristocrat indecorously plopped into thronelike chair, his responses defiant, yet cold and dismissive.
He seemed…different compared to his colleague,in more than just his general appearance and demeanor. His mannerisms and motions, his stance seemed somehow alien, yet familiar to Basil, though he knew not where he had seen such before. It was he that spoke first to Basil, at a languid flourish from the other.
“You have caused me quite a bit of trouble, my friend, and not a trivial sum into the bargain.” He spoke flawless Greek, with no trace of an accent. “As you are probably aware, I am Xi Jian, the representative of the Zhāoshou faction of the Ming court of His Imperial Majesty Zhu Jianru. Chenmo's actions were at my request, given your value as a Christian monarch of significance, towards our objectives in the West.”
Basil looked at him, utterly confused by the statement, while a low-level migraine started pounding in his head. “What do you mean, ‘A Christian monarch of significance’ ? I don't remember ruling over anything beyond myself, and so far, I've done that fairly poorly.”
Xi glanced at Chenmo, and at his nod, turned back to Basil. “You truly remember nothing, Emperor of the Romans?”
Basil gasped in pain as waves of pain coruscated from his healed wound. “Please…stop saying such things, they pain me…most severely…”
A malignant glimmer kindled in the lounging aristocrat's eye. He rose, stalking imperiously towards the stricken man, raising Basil's chin with a folded fan produced from a sleeve. “If that causes you such pain, then good sense dictates that we explore this affliction most thoroughly. Wouldn't you agree, Con…Stan…Tine?”
The pain was excruciating, it felt like molten iron being poured directly onto his brain, he couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. He soiled himself and yet the shame was flayed away by incandescent pain. Pain became his only sensation, the simple sounds of that cursed word brought new waves of torture, until with a feeling of spring rain on dry fields, the presence of Justinian settled over him, lifting him from his pain. Into darkness. Into peace.
I must do something for which you will not thank me. Forgive me, I shall be quick as I might be. Your time has not yet come. Sleep.