Small numbers of refugees had been filtering into Trebizond every day since the usurper had murdered Herakleia’s father and thrown the entire region into chaos. Yet from the Republic''s extended patrols word soon came of entire caravans of hundreds and sometimes thousands of peasants walking the Satala Road toward the city, huge numbers of people driven off their ancestral lands by war, poverty, drought, or the consolidation of feudal estates—tired mothers clutching babies to withered breasts, chewing the last of their food and forcing it into their little mouths.
Terrible!
Husbands and older children walked alongside the mothers, taking turns carrying the babies or whatever personal items they possessed. They always went out of their way to pick up good strong sticks if they ever saw any near the road, since these were their only weapons. Their lords had kept their iron plowshares, spades, and pitchforks. The migrants used these sticks against night attacks by wolves, though sticks could also be burned to keep from freezing to death, or even gnawed and eaten when the stomach could take no more dirt.
“They wear dull expressions,” the signal towers said, relaying the news from a distant patrol, flashing the Morse code taught by Herakleia. “And little else.”
The refugees’ rags—which they called clothes—were slipping from their gaunt limbs as they trudged through the muck, guided only by rumor of a place called Trebizond, a city by the sea, a beacon shining in the dark like a lighthouse in a storm, a place where people said there was food, medicine, work, shelter, where you could be your own master, where the houses were made of glass, and wizards built contrivances that breathed fire, and moved of their own volition, and argued with people, and even defeated knights in battle. Most unbelievable of all was the claim some refugees made, that Trapezuntines taught children to read.
But while the refugees walked, their clothing was so worthless that, after it fell off, no one picked it up. Within days it had disintegrated into its constituent elements, tramped by bare feet, ground against pebbles and mud, unfit to be used even in birds’ nests. As a result, many refugees were dirty and nude, sweating during the warm days, shivering in the rain that fell in the dreary Pontic spring.
“These poor wretches look like souls escaped from the Hell of the Damned,” the signal towers said.
They need to be a little less literary in their communications, Herakleia thought. The consequences of building a literate society. Everyone’s a poet. Once peasants learn to read, they spend all their free time glued to books, talking about books with their friends while sipping cha late into every evening.
Regardless, it would take time for the refugees to walk to Trebizond. The first caravan, consisting of about a hundred souls, was coming from a small city called Erzincan, which lay a day''s journey south of the Satala ruins. Others were coming from Ani, the lost Armenian metropolis.
Herakleia planned to help these people. Standing in the citadel’s ducal chamber over a table piled with papers, scrolls, and books, she told Samonas she wanted to dispatch food, medicine, water, clothing, blankets, and transportation, this last for the old, sick, and very young. Samonas warned that Trebizond could only do so much.
“If the productive forces aren’t built up to their proper strength,” he said, “the whole thing could collapse. We could be fatally weakened if we waste too many resources on useless people.”
“No one is useless,” Herakleia said. “Once we help these refugees, they’ll grow strong, like tigers. If we save lives, if we save children, they’ll be loyal to us forever. They’ll fight for us harder than the Seljuk levies fight for—”
“But my dear strategos, these refugees must first survive before they can fight for us,” Samonas said.
“I really hate when you talk like that.”
“We must first survive. If we provide them with everything, nothing will remain for us. We shall be as sitting ducks! How can we ever hope to survive a siege if we send half our food and medicine to bands of miserable peasants who are far too weak to so much as pick up a shovel, much less a sword? Our rations are already meager enough as it is! Trebizond has so little farmland to begin with—”
“We can fish,” Herakleia said. “We can buy more food.”
“People are getting tired of herring and black bread. And our currency reserves have already dwindled enough. Soon we shall not have so much as a single nomisma to rub between our fingers!”
While Herakleia was opening her mouth to respond, Nikolaos the citadel steward stepped into the ducal chamber and cleared his throat.
“Sorry,” he said.
Herakleia’s shoulders drooped. “Yes, Nikolaos, what is it?”
“Two separate delegations have just arrived from the cities of Niksar and Koloneia. They are requesting an audience with you immediately.”
Herakleia and Samonas looked at each other.
So much for one problem. On to another.
“I didn’t notice anyone arrive.” Narrowing her eyebrows, Herakleia walked to the balcony and looked down to the distant courtyard, where amazons were always swirling in the dust, their armor gleaming, their weapons clanging.
“Perhaps you were too busy losing yet another argument with me,” Samonas said.
“Exactly, that’s the reason right there, of course!” Herakleia looked back at Nikolaos. “Show them in.”
“Don’t you want to make them wait a bit?” Samonas said as Nikolaos left. “It makes us look desperate otherwise.”
“No games,” Herakleia said.
“Well, Niksar and Koloneia.” Samonas looked at a crude map of Anatolia on the table. “Both lie but a few days’ journey to the southwest. They’ve changed hands several times in the last few months, from Roman to Danishmendid to Roman again. Now finally they are under Seljuk domination.”
“Why do you think they’ve sent their people here?” Herakleia said.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“That’s a change.” She spoke with a sarcastic tone.
Escorted by a pair of armored amazons—aggressive new recruits named Euphrosyne and Simonis, the former a Roman dekarch, the latter her Armenian pentarch—the delegates consisted of three men. The first was a white beard, the second was a gray beard, the third was a black beard. Their colorful robes were dusty and sweaty from their long journey. The black beard was also a black-robed monk, while his two elders were laypeople. Nikolaos brought them cups of sherbet cooled with ice which itself had been hauled to Trebizond from the Pontic Alps. The delegates sat at the table cluttered with books, scrolls, papers, with Samonas hurriedly moving the more sensitive documents out of the way. When the delegates sipped the sherbet, they groaned, their eyes widened, and they looked at Nikolaos like he was Apollo incarnate. As they drained their cups, he refilled them, then brought olives, bread, wine, cheese, and even steaming hot cha to warm them up, after the sherbet had cooled them down. Herakleia hoped, meanwhile, that all this food—much of it a luxury in the city—would not be wasted. Why were these men even here?
The delegation accepted everything with gratitude, even crossing themselves and muttering thanks to God. Since they seemed so hungry and tired, Herakleia asked Nikolaos to bring an early dinner. He left the ducal chamber for the citadel kitchen.
Looking at each other, the three delegates chose the graybeard—named Isaakios Tzykandeles, who hailed from Niksar—to speak first.
“To begin, I thank you for hosting us.” Tzykandeles bowed to Herakleia and Samonas. “It was kind of you to allow us an audience so quickly, for I know you must have been busy.”
“We’re always happy to speak with our neighbors,” Herakleia said.
“Niksar has heard much about the fabled city of Trebizond.” Tzykandeles nodded to his companions. “Koloneia feels the same. We have also heard much about the changes which have taken place here. We have begun to look to Trebizond as a force capable of freeing these lands from the Skythian yoke, from the deluge that has been sweeping over Romanía.”
Herakleia and Samonas exchanged glances.
“We come from separate cities,” Tzykandeles continued. “Both alike in dignity, and both having reached the same conclusion. For when we heard of the humiliation of Chaka Bey, the great terror of the south, we at once knew that our time had come.”
“If his own wife had left him,” said Nikodemos Iagaris, the white-bearded delegate from Koloneia, “all of us here reasoned in our own separate ways that perhaps the time had come for his subjects to leave him also. That lone rider, sumptuously attired, who had galloped across Anatolia and Armenia, all the while moaning ceaselessly of his wife’s betrayal at the hands of bandits and peasants—he has cast doubt on all those things which, until then, had seemed permanent facts of life. The Skythian marauders roving these lands for so many years had seemed, until then, as unmovable and unshakable as the very mountains.”
“All that is solid melts into air,” said the black-bearded monk, who was named Sabas and from Niksar. He spoke with a strong Assyrian accent.
Tzykandeles gestured to his two companions. “The people of our respective cities drove out our Seljuk garrisons. The slaves have all likely fled to the Seljuk city of Erzurum—”
“Forgive the interruption,” Herakleia said. “But I must remind you that Trebizond is run by slaves.”
Tzykandeles cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, forgive me. It is but a common pejorative in Rome. I should have called them what they are: cowards and fiends.”
Herakleia nodded. “All of us have had to learn a great deal since the uprising began.”
“Indeed,” Tzykandeles said. “Now where was I? Er, um, Erzurum, yes, that’s it—what we used to call Theodosiopolis, once upon a time, before the disaster at Mantzikert, and the Skythian deluge that has swept over these lands ever since.”
Herakleia sighed with frustration. “I must also ask you not to speak that way. Many Skythians—many Turks—are our comrades here in Trebizond. Our enemies are not Turks themselves, just as they are not Romans or Arabs or any other culture. Our enemies are based on class: feudal masters, slave masters, regardless of what language they speak, or whether they wear a turban or a cross. Whoever exploits human beings is our enemy.”
“Forgive me, strategos.” Tzykandeles bowed and placed his right hand over his chest. “And so, as I meant to tell you before I misspoke, once we were free, we decided that since Konstantinopolis is faraway, weak, and oppressed by a tyrannical emperor who has already betrayed and murdered men and women from our own families, who has shown little interest in protecting his fellow Romans—Niksar decided to seek aid and strength from the great and noble Republic of Trebizond.”
Herakleia watched him. “What are you saying?”
Looking at his companions once more, Tzykandeles said: “We wish to join you. We wish to join the uprising.”
“We will learn your ways,” said Iagaris. “Swear you allegiance. Grow strong as you have—strong enough to terrify the sultan’s very brother.”
“Really?” Herakleia cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, it’s just that no city has ever done this before. I mean, plenty of people have walked hundreds or even thousands of stadia to join Trebizond, but for the rulers of cities to seek us out? It’s unheard of.”
“We are not like the ones who used to rule Niksar and Koloneia,” said Iagaris. “The Roman decadents, the tax collectors and political appointees and distant cousins of the emperor who lost our cities to the Skythians—they were killed, or they fled like cowards, as did their guards and most of their supporters. They hide now behind the walls of Konstantinopolis, ever plotting their return, ever searching for money and mercenaries to take our cities back, ever telling lies about Trebizond. As for those of us left behind in the countryside to bow beneath the Skythian whips, we are common people like you who have risen up at last.”
“We need to talk about this with the workers’ council,” Herakleia said. “But this is extremely positive news, and I believe they’ll welcome it.” She turned to Samonas, who seemed to be trying to contain his excitement, his earlier bickering with Herakleia forgotten. “What do you say? Should we call an emergency council meeting?”
“I should think their arrival warrants it.” Samonas nodded to the three Romans. “Will you join us? Or would you prefer to rest and eat?”
Tzykandeles glanced at his companions. “I believe I speak for all of us when I say that we came here to help our cities first.”
“We can wine and dine when we’re dead!” Iagaris exclaimed.
Nikolaos was returning to the ducal chamber with a huge, heavy platter of steaming food. Herakleia spotted soutzouki, or sausage—since no Jews or Muslims were present for this meal. (The cooking implements used for Muslims and Jews also needed to be kept separate from those used for everyone else). There were bowls of honeyed yogurt, plates piled with lalanga (a kind of Byzantine french toast), the usual mountains of warm lavash, and side dishes of pickles. Yet Nikolaos almost dropped it all when Herakleia, Samonas, and the three delegates rushed past, trailed by the armored Simonis and Euphroysne.Stolen novel; please report.
“Sorry Nikolaos, you’ll have to save it for later!” Herakleia cried over her shoulder.
Nikolaos swore as he struggled to lower the platter onto the table without disturbing the piles of documents there. Ultimately he was forced to place the platter on the floor, then organize the documents on the table and return them to the shelves.
Soon the bells in the People’s Hospital—formerly the Church of the Goldenheaded Virgin—were ringing the signal for emergency assembly: three rings, long silence, three rings. (To keep from panicking everyone, the signal for “we are under attack” was one ring, long silence, one ring.)
It was the end of another cold, cloudy, rainy day, and everyone was tired from work, but the rebuilt Northeast Gate Community Hall was soon packed with Trapezuntines. Dirty and sweaty like seemingly everyone else these days, grumbling about how they needed a bath, some food, and rest, people stood and sat and passed word of the deliberations (translating into many languages) to those who were on the street and even watching from the windows of nearby buildings. Herakleia spotted Recruit Ay?e, Ibrahim Hummay, and their retinue of ex-slaves, still sticking together.
The elected leaders of the city’s different unions sat on stools on a raised wooden stage inside the crowded Community Hall. This group was called the Central Committee. As strategos, Herakleia had been elected by the entire city, while Kentarch Al-Din was elected by members of the soldiers’ union. Artemia the old witch and knowledgeable midwife had once led the medical workers, but she had perished during the Latin siege, and so now this union was represented by a young Alanian woman named Rusudan, who was one of Artemia’s apprentices. Jamshied al-Tabrizi was still in charge of the union of blacksmiths, engineers, and craftsmen, while Ghiyath the old Arab overseer led the miners’ union, Samonas the union of scribes, Queen Tamar the teachers. The last siege had aged her, a shock of white hair shining now among her lustrous black curls, though she was still so vigorous that people usually regretted challenging her opinions. Diaresso, her boyfriend who was half her age, had recently broken up with her.
Trebizond’s growing complexity and relentless, rapid economic development also meant that more unions were needed to keep the contradictions between the different segments of the working class from tearing the city apart. If one group of people thought they were being treated unfairly, they would be likelier to side with foreign powers in a conflict—likelier to open the gates at night during a siege. Dyers and weavers, therefore, were separately represented on the stage, as were fishermen and carters, peasants, cooks, cleaners, laundresses, students, women, refugees, construction workers, the elderly, and children. The Central Committee was a big group. Due to the city’s increasing diversity, minority ethnic groups likewise had elected representatives: one for Turks, another for Armenians, a third for Assyrians, a fourth for Jews, and Amina bint Hamza al-Ghuraba of the Bani Murra for the band of Domari acrobats Alexios had guided here from the Arabian deserts. The city was growing so much that the workers’ council was also discussing representation for different neighborhoods.
“I apologize for the interruption.” Herakleia stood, spoke loudly and clearly, and gave the translators time to translate. “Thank you to everyone for coming. I’ll keep this as brief as possible. We have two items of business to discuss, but both are related.”
She explained the arrival of the delegates from Niksar and Koloneia, then the caravans of Erzincan refugees headed toward Trebizond. On the first matter, the city was unified, and spoke with one voice: accept the two new cities into the Republic. Representatives from Trebizond should also travel with the respective delegates to Niksar and Koloneia in order to establish workers’ and peasants’ councils there and begin integrating and organizing the three cities as rapidly as possible.
As for the refugees, there was more of a debate. Many workers and union representatives took Samonas’s side, arguing that there were too few resources to allow such large groups of people to join Trebizond so suddenly.
“We’re happy to let these two cities join the Republic.” Herakleia gestured to the delegates from Niksar and Koloneia, who were seated among the audience near the front of the stage. “But we’re not happy to let in refugees.”
“These cities can presumably feed themselves,” Samonas said. “The refugees cannot.”
“We can’t survive fighting with strength alone,” Herakleia said. “Even if we defeat Great Seljuk, even if we defeat the Romans, there are greater powers out there, and also greater powers inside ourselves. We need to lead by example. If we betray these refugees, won’t we also be betraying ourselves? How will it look to us, how will it look to the world if we pull up the ladder of heaven right after climbing it, so that no one else can follow?”
Once the translators had finished translating, the Community Hall was silent. This surprised Herakleia. In the old world, people would argue endlessly about everything. But in Trebizond, things were different. Workers, peasants, slaves, women, children, refugees, ethnic minorities—these were all different factions of the feudal underclass. Though they might disagree sometimes, or contradictions among them might intensify, they were in general united against oppressors who were seeking to re-enslave them. Herakleia was still unused to the way that people here could be persuaded to do what was right. With memories of the old world lingering in her consciousness, she was shocked that everyone generally agreed to work toward the destruction of slavery, feudalism, colonialism, and imperialism. If anything, they were the ones who pushed her.
Herakleia broke the silence. “It’s going to be hard when the refugees get here. There’s going to be even more of a strain on our resources. All of us are going to have to work even harder. But it’s all going to be worth it. When people find out what we’ve done, more are going to join us. Maybe we’ll even get more cities sending delegates our way. Who knows? We might not even have to worry about being besieged by the Seljuks. Maybe we’ll be the ones besieging them.”
At this point, some workers and peasants were leaving the Community Hall to get their dinners elsewhere. Only the ones who cared about the issue remained. This is when the real arguments began. The debate ended up going back and forth for hours into the night. As with many different struggles, it became more about endurance than anything else. Whoever cared more would fight harder and longer. Some people even returned to the Community Hall after they had eaten and rested. Others fell asleep in their chairs or on the floor, telling their companions to wake them when it came time to vote.
First the union representatives would vote, then the people in the hall. If the two groups disagreed, debate would either continue, or the issue would be tabled. Though in this case, it seemed too important to do anything except decide the matter now, since the refugees would be arriving soon.
Politics.
At midnight, Herakleia motioned for a vote. Samonas seconded. As it turned out, the workers’ council was tied. When the people’s turn came, they lined up to vote using white or black painted stones, casting them behind a curtain. The stones were then counted in their presence.
It turned out, at dawn, when all was said and done, that the refugees would be welcomed to Trebizond. A slim majority of the people supported their arrival. And, as always, the spirit of democratic centralism prevailed here: the will of the majority needed to be respected. People could complain if they lost these elections, but to complain about the process itself, to complain about the republic itself, that could mean exile. Times were too desperate to allow bellyachers to sow discord, and, as it turned out, it was unnecessary to allow everyone to speak as much as they wished. One could cross a line from criticism into treachery. The workers’ council had even declared, at the start of this recent slew of troubles, that comments or actions directed against Turks or Muslims would be met with severe penalties.
The decision made, Herakleia motioned for a relief convoy to be sent to the refugees, stating that she would lead the convoy herself. Everyone else in the Community Hall was nodding off by then, or doing their best to slip out unnoticed. Samonas, his eyes fluttering, groaned that she should get some rest. But if she rested for a few hours, if the convoy was delayed for a few hours, how many people in this caravan would lose their lives? It was a rare privilege, to have the chance to actually help people, and Herakleia was still young and strong. She got the Community Hall to grant her the authority to gather the resources needed for the convoy. Once they had chosen Samonas to lead the city in her absence, she left the Community Hall for the citadel and the stables, waking the stable boys, getting the horses ready, organizing carters, and having sleepy laborers bring her supplies from the different quarters in the city. Simonis and Euphrosyne joined the convoy for its protection, gathering other amazons who were barely finished with their training. This included a young Roman woman named Melissene, two Jewish Arabs named Amat al-Aziz and Nazar al-Sabiyya, a Syrian named Umm Musharrafa, a pale Georgian with a long black ponytail named Kata Surameli (who claimed descent from Goliath-killer King David though she was a Christian), and a blue-eyed red-haired Kipchak cross-dresser named Jiajak Jaqeli, who had fought alongside the Turks as a man for so long that he no longer knew which gender he belonged to, and didn’t really care what pronouns people used to refer to him. Simonis was one of Euphrosyne’s pentarchs; Jaqeli was the other. This meant that eight amazons, not including Herakleia, would defend the convoy. Euphrosyne would be their commanding officer, answering directly to the strategos.
Should be enough.
As for the carriage drivers, they consisted of Jafer El-Hadi, Alexios’s acrobatic Domari friend from the Arabian deserts, a family man whose wife Amina would remain in the city with their enormous toddler Ibrahim. El-Hadi would drive the first cart with Herakleia sitting by his side. Then there was Isma’il al-Saffar, a young rebellious man from a coppersmith’s family who had no interest or ability when it came to smelting copper—to hammering soft metal into shape again and again. He hailed from a small dusty mercantile city in southern Persia named Siraf, its cubical houses of mud brick perched over the cliffs and the splashing white waves of the windy sea, its dhows sailing the monsoon winds to Sindh and Hind and beyond to Sera and even south to Aethiopia and Mogadishu, the mythical lands of Punt where the Queen of Sheba dwelt alongside Prester John at the Nile’s source, itself a massive spring bubbling up from the depths of Mount Kaf.
Then there was Jabir al-Mamlūk. He was an Aethiopian ex-slave with fair skin who had escaped Arabia—his mother a slave, his father an Arab noble who would have laughed at the idea of marrying her—and who was now addicted to devouring theoretical texts printed for Trebizond’s growing libraries. Herakleia had been forced to write many of these books as best she could from memory, and Jabir was excited to travel with her, having never gotten the chance to speak with her at length. He had a terrible past, one full of whips and degradation, but he was good company these days.
The last driver had the unusual Persian name Hurmuzdyar bin Wandarin Bawand. He was a Zoroastrian mobad (priest) from Shirvan in the eastern reaches of Greater Persia, the blurry liminal edge of the Persian cultural sphere, where his fellow fire-worshippers had fled centuries ago following the conquest of the Sarakenoi, sprinting nonstop across the burning rocky desert which was once called Gedrosia in the time of Cyrus the Great and the Achaemenids, the fiery furnace of black volcanic rock whose ravenous dunes had nearly devoured Alexander’s retreating army. Most Zoroastrians now resided south of the River Oxus in the green well-watered lands of Hindh, the endless rice paddies that grew under curtains of hot mist, where these ancient worshippers chanted to Zarathustra beneath the gilded jeweled scepter of the Chollas. But Bawand had somehow found his way to Trebizond. There, like all the faithful of every religion, he was permitted to practice his faith so long as he respected the beliefs of others. He wished, more than anything, to build a fire temple, and to have it staffed with priests who would keep the flames inside burning forever. Resources were limited, of course: satisfying everyone’s immediate material needs—food, water, medicine, shelter, defense, education, community—came first. Nonetheless, in gratitude for the peace of mind the uprising gave him—a step above what he could find in most countries—he often volunteered for difficult and unpleasant tasks like this one. Though he was an aging man with long white hair and an enormous white beard, he would drive the fourth cart.
All of this organizational activity gave Herakleia a great deal of leadership XP, but since she was already a leadership professional (8/10), it was too little for her to level up.
Just after Herakleia had gathered all of these characters for her expedition, recruit Ay?e ran up to the citadel gate and begged to join them. Dekarch Euphrosyne, her commanding officer, refused. Her pentarch, Simonis, stood beside her.
“It’s too dangerous,” Dekarch Euphrosyne said. “You’re just a trainee! You don’t know how to fire a basilik, wield a sword, or use the farr.”
“I will learn,” Ay?e said.
“There could be raiders, wild animals, demons, who knows?” Simonis added. An Armenian, she had long brown hair, looked like a thin and fragile Latin princess, and spoke with a high sweet voice, yet she was a woman you didn’t want to mess with. Holding a shovel, she pointed it at Ay?e. “You aren’t ready.”
“But I want to fight,” Ay?e said. “I want to help. The city has done so much for me—”
“How much will you be helping if you get killed?” Euphrosyne said. “We need you to stay here and become a better fighter so you can help us in the future.”
Ay?e sat on the ground in front of the gate, crossed her arms, and looked down. This made it impossible for the convoy to leave.
“Recruit,” Euphrosyne said. “Get up.”
“I’m not leaving.” Ay?e looked at them. “Let me come with you.”
Euphrosyne and Simonis exchanged looks.
“Sink or swim,” Ay?e added. “Is that not the best way to learn?”
“Not if the swimmer drowns.” Simonis glared down at her. “You’re wasting our time. We must leave!”
Herakleia had stopped to listen. Now she approached the three women.
“You just escaped from your husband, didn’t you?” Euphrosyne said to Ay?e. “He could still be out there. He probably wants to hunt you down, catch you, and take you back to his harem!”
“I won’t let him,” Ay?e said. “I’ll fight him.”
Simonis raised her shovel into the air, as if to strike Ay?e. “Sometimes I really wish we could hit the new recruits. We aren’t even allowed to raise our voices. There’s no punishment, no way to maintain order, nothing!”
“Simonis, Euphrosyne,” Herakleia said. “It’s alright. I’ll vouch for her.”
“Strategos?” Euphrosyne said.
“You’re the commanding officer, aren’t you?” Herakleia said to Euphrosyne.
“I’m the dekarch for our squad, yes, strategos,” Euphrosyne said.
“I’ll take responsibility for whatever happens to our new friend here.” Herakleia looked at Ay?e. “You need a servant, don’t you? She can do that.”
Ay?e jumped to her feet, beaming. “Oh, thank you, strategos! Thank you so much!”
“We’ll be her servant instead,” Simonis murmured to Euphrosyne.
“Let me know if there are any problems with her.” Herakleia turned from Simonis before she could complain and addressed Ay?e. “From now on, do as your commanding officers say.”
Ay?e saluted awkwardly. “Sir. I’m ready to do my duty.”
“You can start by mucking out the horse’s stalls before we depart.” Simonis handed her shovel to Ay?e.
Ay?e stared at them.
“You heard her!” Euphrosyne added. “Get to it, recruit!”
Ay?e bowed and walked toward the stables.
“Faster!” Simonis shouted. “Faster! Move, recruit!”
Ay?e jogged in her awkward, courtly way, with her arms by her sides, saying it wasn’t like this in the stories she had read. Euphrosyne and Simonis laughed.
“Don’t know if we’ll ever make a soldier out of her,” Simonis said.
“What, is there a problem with her star sign?” Euphrosyne said.
Simonis punched Euphrosyne’s shoulder and told her to shut up. Then they both noticed that Herakleia was still watching, and acted more formal and rigid. She thought it strange for two soldiers of different ranks to behave so comfortably together. Simonis was a pentarch, a corporal, only two ranks above recruit, while Euphrosyne was her dekarch. Recently Herakleia had even overheard them talking about Ibrahim Hummay.
“Where is he from?” Simonis had whispered.
“He is from heaven!” Euphrosyne responded. They both laughed and punched each other.
“But he is a eunuch,” Simonis said. “How much of a eunuch is he?”
“Looks like everything you need is still right there. Maybe he’s just cut a little.”
“That means he can fill you up like a cream pastry as much as you want!”
They laughed and punched each other again. Yet their conversation went on and on like this, very unlike an officer and a subordinate.
But the Workers’ Army was an all-volunteer force, one which relied on organization and training like any other army, but without the screaming and physical abuse or ass-kissing that was typical of armies in Romanía and also the old world. Everything in the Workers’ Army was based on merit, democracy, and expertise, a stark contrast to the Roman army, where leaders were appointed based on connections and brown-nosing rather than ability, and where the officers were psychopaths who cared more about their careers than their men.
After everything was organized, not a moment was wasted. Sacks of freshly baked bread, barrels of water, jars of honey and yogurt, bags of bandages and medicinal herbs were all piled aboard the four carriages. Though Herakleia had been awake and busy since yesterday morning, she was soon leaving Trebizond on a rattling carriage, nodding off beside her driver, Jafer El-Hadi.