ã€ŠByzantine Wars 3: The Farawayã€‹


 1. The Raid

    They were hunting him. The fire towers along the coast were flashing, each flame flickering like a star. Talking about him. Chatting.

    Scramble the fleet, every light said. Alert the legions. The criminals are here. They must not escape.

    Soon all Rome would know.

    Gontran Koraki, captain of the Paralos, wiped a drop of seawater from his lip, and turned from the fire towers to his crew. They were sailing south along the Bosporos narrows that flowed between Asia and Thrace. Their mission? Reach Venice¡ªa thousand miles away, on the other side of a thousand islands, a thousand fortresses, a thousand ships, and a thousand thousand murderers¡ªto forge an alliance against Rome.

    It was a daunting task. Yet for the first time in all his days aboard this unusually fast dromon¡ªa two-master with forty oars¡ªGontran possessed a full crew of ninety-three men and women. They were here to row the oars, furl the sails, swab the deck, and pump blinding naphtha from the bronze dragon spout at the bow straight into the faces of anyone foolish enough to oppose them. Trebizond¡¯s engineers had even equipped the Paralos with a small cannon called a basilik, as well as a steel battering ram¡ªwarning the crew to use the latter only in emergencies, for the shock of two ships coupling like animals could split the ribs of both, dragging their hulls beneath the waves as the crews battled across the decks.

    A red flag¡ªthe uprising¡¯s standard¡ªwhipped aft.

    The crew was mostly Khazari: a mix of Jews, Turks, and Varangians who babbled to each other in a Euxine pidgin Gontran would never understand. He was inexperienced in commanding such a large crew, yet in the last few weeks he had gained enough XP to level up to apprentice leader (4/10).

    As for the ten amazons aboard, they were Greeks and Saracens, plus one fellow Frank¡ªClotilda, a serving girl who had escaped Roman captivity to join the Republic of Trebizond, along with her friend, a Syrian named Zaynab. An Arab named Zulaika al-Jariya was also with them. She was a runaway harem slave and survivor of many battles. Their commanding officer¡ªcalled a dekarch in Greek¡ªwas a Kurdish peasant woman named Ra¡¯isa, who was always clad in armor. Fierce and bright, she intimidated Gontran, along with everyone else.

    Aside from them, two other crew members remained. Both were¡ªlike the rest of the crew¡ªunusual to Gontran. One was the ship¡¯s pilot, a coal-powered automat?n made of bronze named Talia. She possessed the strength of a dozen men, though she was shapely as a Greek statue and just as disdainful of clothing, her sharp metal skin blinding in its luminousness, her eyes flaring blue gas jets, her voice powered by an unearthly pipe organ sequestered in her throat.

    The final crew member was Gontran¡¯s second-in-command and long-time business partner, Kambine Diaresso. He hailed from a faraway place called Tomboutou. This lay beyond the Libyan deserts in the Sahel, where the sand sprouted with green grass in the spring rains, and the great river bent its course in the shade of curving acacias as Fulani herders¡ªEarth¡¯s most beautiful people¡ªguided their cattle to pasture. Diaresso was tall and muscular, dressed in white robes which shone in the sun and fluttered in the spring winds. Turning his geometric features to Gontran, Diaresso¡¯s golden scimitar belted at his side glittered and clanged against his long legs.

    ¡°I told you we ought to have braved the straits by night,¡± Diaresso growled. ¡°Now all the uncircumcised dogs in R?m will be baying for our blood.¡±

    ¡°I was getting bored anyway,¡± Gontran said. ¡°I¡¯m in the mood for a race.¡±

    ¡°If a race is what you desire, they shall exhaust us in relays. They shall blockade the Dardanelles with a hundred ships¡ª¡±

    ¡°Look, I¡¯ve told you a thousand times: don¡¯t borrow trouble. You¡¯re in charge of the fire crew, so get to work. Keep us alive, Diaresso.¡±

    ¡°By my beard, it shall take a miracle.¡±

    Glaring at Gontran, Diaresso stalked across the deck, shouting orders in Arabic and Greek at a handful of young Khazari idlers who were hiding behind the foremast to play a quick game of dice. Bowing to Diaresso and exclaiming ¡°¨¹zg¨¹n¨¹m, effendi!,¡± they snatched their spotted wooden cubes and scrambled to toss roped buckets overboard, then drew them back again brimming with seawater. These buckets were left all over the deck in order to douse any possible conflagrations.

    The fire arrows were coming. Gontran shuddered at the memory of those meteors whistling toward him in the storm-tossed darkness, slamming into the masts and wreathing them in flames.

    Next, he approached Dekarch Ra¡¯isa. Not only clad in shining mail, she was also veiled in a jade hijab, and waiting for him, her hands clasped behind her back.

    ¡°Artillery crew is ready, katapan.¡± She bowed at his approach. ¡°Basilik is loaded, and naphtha spout, too.¡±

    Keep your shirt on, Gontran wanted to say. He found Ra¡¯isa humorless and uptight, but dependable, to the point where he had trouble recalling the last time he had needed to give her an order. She anticipated his commands. A self-educated peasant warrior and a survivor of the Trebizond sieges, she was rumored to have experienced unspeakable injustices before joining the uprising. Gontran struggled to treat her professionally¡ªto do otherwise endangered the mission¡ªas she was so beautiful it sometimes seemed like the sky, the clouds, the waves in the sea, the rocks and grass and trees and ruins on the land, the floorboards in the deck¡ªall sighed with longing to be with her. It did not help, either, that this Saracen maiden walked with a straight back, spoke with confidence and fearlessness, and had proven that she would knock any man who disrespected her to the ground¡ªonce even smashing a hapless Varangian deckhand with the absurd name of Igor Bryachislavich straight through the floorboards and down into the hold beneath.

    Ra¡¯isa was also Zhayedan. She could run upon walls, leap across rooftops, and slice speeding arrows in half with her ringing blade.

    In other words, she¡¯s high-maintenance.

    The Paralos had now reached the Towers of Oblivion. These were two brick prison-fortresses constructed on either side of the Bosporos almost within sight of Konstantinopolis. The thick crenellated towers touched the shore at the narrowest point of the straits, and were meant to strangle this neck of sea flowing from the Euxine to the Aegean and beyond. Already the soldiers inside the towers were blasting trumpets which warned the Paralos to halt for inspection. The Paralos, of course, ignored these warnings, and sliced the blue waves as the wind surged in the sails and the crew oared to the beating drum¡ªplayed by Joseph ben Solomon, a boy who, like Ra¡¯isa, had also survived the Trebizond sieges. Eager for adventure, he had begged to join the expedition, but the workers¡¯ council had forbidden it, saying he was too young. And he was. Stowing away among the sacks of bread and cheese and the barrels of wine and olive oil and potable water belowdecks, he had revealed himself only when it was too late to turn back. Gontran was furious that the boy was here, and terrified for his safety, but the crew made the best of it, and Joseph had become their unofficial mascot. As he pounded the drum, Gontran rubbed the boy¡¯s orange hair.

    ¡°When the fighting starts,¡± Gontran told Joseph, ¡°go belowdecks and stay there.¡±

    ¡°But you need someone to keep time for the rowers, sir.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll find someone else. We were taking turns drumming before¡ª¡±

    ¡°But katapan,¡± Joseph began.

    Gontran raised his finger. ¡°No arguments. And if we don¡¯t make it, if we get captured, either surrender to the Romans or run for your life. Don¡¯t get yourself killed. Live to fight another day.¡±

    Joseph rolled his eyes. ¡°Aye, sir,¡± he said sarcastically.

    Gontran looked to the Towers of Oblivion, thinking the boy liked sailing out here too much. It was going to get him killed. Even if he surrendered, the Romans would enslave him, and do many other unspeakable things besides. Joseph knew. Like so many in the uprising, he was a survivor, he had been through all of this before. Still, he didn¡¯t belong here. He should have been studying in school, not beating a drum in a war zone. Yet taking care of him had increased Gontran¡¯s parenting skill to Initiate (1/10).

    As he watched the Towers of Oblivion, two Roman galleys left their piers to pursue the Paralos.

    ¡°Steady as she goes,¡± Gontran told Talia.

    ¡°There is no need to say as such,¡± her voice box hummed. ¡°For I am fully aware of our primary mission objectives.¡±

    ¡°Touchy for a robot,¡± Gontran said.

    No one reacted to this comment. This was because no one here knew the word robot, which originated in a place called ¡°the old world.¡± Gontran and his friends Alexios and Herakleia came from this ¡°old world,¡± though it actually lay a thousand years in the future on the planet¡¯s far side. While rotting in a classroom in that place, they had played a magical board game which had transported them here last summer, giving them new bodies and identities. Herakleia had also learned, during Trebizond¡¯s second siege, that the Roman general Narses the Town Destroyer¡ªthe butcher of Anatolia, the mass murderer, war criminal, rapist, and slave driver¡ªhailed from the same place. This monster was now rumored to be emperor of Rome thanks to a recent coup d¡¯¨¦tat. He had been a jock and a lobsterman¡¯s son back in the old world.

    This is what happens when you take someone like that and put them in charge of an army, Gontran thought. You get a slave empire.

    As the crew oared away from its two pursuers, Dekarch Ra¡¯isa ordered her amazon artillery crew to position the ship¡¯s basilik at the stern. They acknowledged her command. The artillery crew of four had been training back in Trebizond for months. They stuffed black powder into the metal tube, loaded the ball, and took aim beneath the red flag which was whipping in the wind.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    ¡°Prepare to fire!¡± Ra¡¯isa shouted.

    Gontran plugged his ears. Everyone turned away.

    ¡°Fire!¡±

    One amazon touched a burning fuse to the firing hole. The basilik exploded and lunged back on its creaking wooden wheels as the crew leaped out of the way from the acrid smoke laced with sparks. With his eyes Gontran followed the black ball as it swooped across the sea and burst into the closest Roman ship, splintering its hull, setting it aflame, and letting the gushing saltwater inside its hold. Before long, the ship was sinking into bubbling foam, and its crew was leaping into the waves.

    Everyone aboard the Paralos cheered.

    ¡°Nice shot!¡± Gontran shouted.

    Ra¡¯isa and her amazons were too busy taking aim at the second ship, which was now turning away to retreat, the enemy captain waving his arms and yelling commands. But turning his ship to the side like this made his vessel a wide target, one even easier to strike. Although the basilik was hot enough to melt the skin from your bones, Dekarch Ra¡¯isa¡¯s artillery crew loaded and fired again within sixty seconds. Dry smoke puffed from the basilik. Gontran tasted it on his lips as the blast rang in his ears and shook his bones, and a pillar of fire leaped into the sky from the enemy ship¡¯s deck, blackening the sails. The Roman crew members clasped their hands as if in prayer and dove into the sea. Their ship went down fast.

    Another cheer rose from the Paralos crew. ¡°Amazons,¡± they chanted. ¡°Amazons!¡±

    ¡°Amazing,¡± Gontran said to Ra¡¯isa. ¡°Good work, dekarch.¡±

    She bowed. ¡°Thank you, katapan, but we work hard for this day. And without uprising, we are on family farms, our husbands or parents are beating us, or we are dying in childbirth.¡±

    ¡°Really makes you wonder.¡± Gontran wanted to change the subject, since he disliked politics. He eyed the countryside, noticing the ruined state of the buildings dotting the coast, the broken white marble temples to Apollo, the fortifications that Xerxes might have built.

    ¡°You know,¡± he added. ¡°One ship with a basilik can do a lot of damage when there aren¡¯t any other basiliks to stop it.¡±

    ¡°That is not mission, katapan.¡± Ra¡¯isa¡¯s excited tone had grown more stern. ¡°Workers¡¯ council order us to¡ª¡±

    ¡°You aren¡¯t in the mood for a little raid?¡± Gontran said. ¡°Romans are always messing with people in other countries. Maybe it¡¯s time people from other countries started messing with Rome, right in their capital? What do you think?¡±

    ¡°Then mission is at risk. Even if we destroy some buildings, we gain only risk. We cannot destroy Rome alone. ¡®Think, act, speak only to advance the uprising.¡¯ Plus, we only have thirty-five shots.¡±

    Gontran laughed. ¡°Only thirty-five shots. Who knows? The way you and your amazons shoot, you might be able to take off Narses¡¯s head.¡±

    ¡°Some other rapist will replace him,¡± Ra¡¯isa said.

    Diaresso approached them and said something in Arabic to Ra¡¯isa. She didn¡¯t speak Arabic, yet knew many quotations from the Koran, and even answered Diaresso with a quote of her own, which made him nod and smile knowingly. It was unusual to see him in a good mood these days. Back in Trebizond, he had broken up with his old flame, the beautiful Queen Tamar, who had barely survived the Latin occupation. Now it seemed that little tied Diaresso to the uprising save his business partnership with Gontran.

    It also bothered Gontran to see his crew speaking foreign languages¡ªit always made him suspect they were plotting against him¡ªbut he couldn¡¯t force them to speak Greek. Only a handful knew it. And besides, the uprising insisted on democratizing everything, even the military, which meant that Gontran served at his crew¡¯s pleasure. If he displeased them, they would replace him.

    A few enemy scouts rode galloping horses along either coastline, doing their best to keep up with the Paralos. No more vessels pursued the dromon, but the sea was growing crowded with Varangian longships, Arab dhows, Italian galleys, Greek barges, and even the occasional Hanseatic cog. Straight ahead, just above the blue waves, rose the striped walls of Konstantinopolis, the domes and towers swelling from the Earth. Even the statue of Konstantinos Magnos was visible from this distance. He bestrode a marble pillar that towered above all the jumbled rooftops of red and orange tile, clutching Neptune¡¯s golden staff in one hand, his head crowned with the sun¡¯s rays.

    Gontran shook his head at the sight. He hadn¡¯t been here in almost a year. Since then, the dickheads that ran Rome had tried to kill him more times than he could count.

    ¡°Still,¡± Gontran said to Ra¡¯isa. ¡°Still feel like we should give them a volley or two.¡±

    Her expression asked if he was serious.

    ¡°We¡¯ll be passing the Great Palace,¡± Gontran said. ¡°It¡¯s right on the coast. It¡¯s huge. You can¡¯t miss it.¡±

    She watched him for a moment. ¡°One shot. As we move.¡±

    ¡°Infinitely better than nothing.¡±

    He instructed Talia to pilot the ship toward the palace precinct, which¡ªas they neared the Marmara Sea¡ªappeared to occupy most of the City, taking the form of grass lawns, forests of cypress and pine, and white marble churches, apartments, fountains, and offices beyond counting. The gardens were still gray in the spring, but they would be glorious in the summer. That was when the City smelled like nectar, though you could always catch the deep musty scent of incense pouring out of the churches and monasteries, rattling as ever with their eerie wooden semantrons, a mesmerizing sound Gontran never got used to. Only the Italian churches in Galata tolled bronze bells.

    ¡°Keep us out of bowshot,¡± Gontran said to Talia. ¡°We¡¯ll be alright.¡±

    Talia nodded. ¡°I acknowledge your command.¡±

    ¡°You tempt fate, giaour,¡± Diaresso whispered to Gontran. ¡°What need have we for such dangerous hijinks as these? What is it that you seek to prove?¡±

    ¡°Girls just want to have fun,¡± Gontran sang. ¡°Oh yeah, girls just want to have¡­fun!¡±

    Diaresso shook his head as if to say that Gontran was so disappointing, it went beyond words.

    Ra¡¯isa¡¯s artillery crew, meanwhile, had wheeled the basilik forward, propping it¡ªawkwardly¡ªatop the naphtha spout. With the cool wind billowing everyone¡¯s clothes, the artillery crew loaded the basilik and took aim as Talia worked the steering oars, swinging the ship toward the towering masses of domes.

    Where¡¯s the emperor hiding? Which window in the palace is it?

    It was so exciting, Gontran almost wanted to whip out the Seran pistol-sword belted at his side and fire it into all that architecture, the mountains of pillars and arches, though he knew it was pointless. The wind was so strong, the bullet was bound to plop into the sea, there to be gulped down by some wandering mullet, and found in its stomach ten years later by an astounded fisherman.

    But the Paralos was so close! Even the great church of Hagia Sophia was in sight, seeming to bask in the clouds above the sea walls, its blue dome topped with an enormous gilded cross, its white walls glimmering in the sunlight reflected from the waves.

    Guards on the thick massive sea walls aimed their bows between the battlements and loosed arrows. These splashed the sea.

    Gontran pouted. ¡°Oh, too bad! Try again!¡±

    Dekarch Ra¡¯isa aimed the basilik herself this time, and (while wearing mitts to protect her hands from the scalding metal) lifted it as high as it would go. It looked like she was aiming at the cross that topped Hagia Sophia. Before Gontran could ask her to avoid committing a war crime¡ªChristians were also aboard the Paralos¡ªshe fired, and the ball hurtled above the City, pulling behind it a tail of smoke and fire, an ominous comet zooming into the distance out of sight. He worried that it would land in a school or a house, that it would decapitate a child, but he told himself that, in all likelihood, the ball had buried itself in a field somewhere beyond the walls. A farmer would stop his plough horse, stare at the crater, cross himself, and mutter a Hail Mary to the sky.

    ¡°Is that all you¡¯ve got?¡± Gontran said to Konstantinopolis. ¡°A couple of ships, and a few arrows?¡±

    Talia turned the Paralos southward again, and they sailed away from Konstantinopolis and into the Marmara, the cities of Chrysopolis and Chalkedon falling behind them on their left, the Italian churches in Galata back to their right ringing their warning bells. All the hundreds of merchant vessels which crowded the sea were sailing or rowing away from them now. The Greeks deployed no more warships to stop the Paralos.

    Maybe the emperor really does have no clothes. Maybe this whole thing will be easier than I expected.

    As the artillery crew secured the basilik, and as the rowers pulled the oars from the waves and stored them under their benches¡ªstretching their muscles, groaning, laughing¡ªRa¡¯isa approached Gontran.

    ¡°Now they know we are here,¡± she said. ¡°Everyone in Konstantinopolis will hear basilik. They will taste our fear.¡±

    ¡°See?¡± Gontran said. ¡°One shot didn¡¯t hurt anyone. If anything, it felt pretty good!¡± He turned to Diaresso, who had crossed his long muscular arms. ¡°I told you it would work.¡±

    ¡°The cat possesses but nine lives,¡± Diaresso said.

    ¡°We showed them,¡± Joseph said. He had stopped drumming. ¡°We took a little revenge for what they did to my family.¡±

    Gontran drew in a deep breath. It was shocking that one so young had already experienced such terrible things. Narses himself had enslaved the boy back in Nikaia, turned him into a child soldier, and murdered his family. Gontran hugged Joseph close.

    ¡°We should have dropped you off at a fishing village or something,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Somewhere sympathetic to the uprising. You could have found your way back to Trebizond.¡±

    ¡°But I want to stay with you,¡± Joseph said.

    Am I going soft for this kid? Gontran wondered as he looked at Joseph¡¯s orange hair and his warm eyes.

    ¡°We got lucky,¡± Gontran said. For a moment, he was horrified that he had attacked the capital of the Roman Empire with a child aboard his ship.

    We should have dropped him off. But there¡¯s nowhere to put him! Everywhere¡¯s too dangerous!

    ¡°You keep trying to get rid of me,¡± Joseph said. ¡°But I¡¯m here to stay.¡±

    What happened next occurred almost too quickly for Gontran to understand. For an instant, he heard a deep swooping sound above him, and when he looked up, a hole had been torn in the foresail. Then came a roaring crack from behind. He turned to look, and a pillar of gray smoke was rising above the City¡¯s sea walls. This was followed by a nearby red flash, then another smoke pillar.

    And another.

    And another.

    ¡°Get down!¡± Gontran dove to the deck with Joseph. ¡°Everybody down!¡±

    I¡¯ll keep him safe, he thought, covering Joseph with his own body.

    As the City¡¯s walls lit up with flames¡ªbelching smoke, vomiting heat and light¡ªiron balls darted around the Paralos, swooping, whistling, screaming. To port, starboard, fore, and aft, blue columns of foaming water surged into the air higher than the two masts, which shook as the projectiles hurtled around them.

    With the volley over, the rowers rushed back to work¡ªGontran and Diaresso joined them¡ªbut an iron ball smashed through their oars, sending splinters into their eyes. They shut them, cursing in different languages, and Joseph beat his drums faster as the rowers dropped their wrecked oars into the sea and pulled up their only spares from under their benches.

    ¡°Get belowdecks!¡± Gontran yelled at Joseph. ¡°This is no place for a kid!¡±

    ¡°The rowers will never keep time without me!¡± Joseph yelled back.

    Gontran turned around and stood up to climb off his rowing bench. He was about to carry Joseph belowdecks, but then the drumming stopped. He felt something wet on his back. Gontran turned, and saw Joseph¡¯s little body lying headless on the deck, red blood gushing from his neck stump.

    Gontran felt sick. The groan of anguish he released from his throat sounded like it had come from an animal rather than a person. But now the sailors were rowing for their lives, and he needed to help them. Though he was afraid to look back, when he did, he saw that several enemy ships were leaving the huge harbors on the City¡¯s southern flank, their sails taut with wind, their banks of oars rising high into the air and plunging back down into the sea. As his eyes narrowed, he discerned basiliks at their bowsprits, their artillery crews loading them and aiming at the Paralos.

 2. Submit To Allah

    Evening. Sunset reddened the marble sea, gracing the waves with light. The Paralos¡¯s crew had been rowing their long heavy oars since mid afternoon, each man resting only a few minutes per hour by beating the drum to keep time for everyone else. All of them were sad about Joseph, whom Ra¡¯isa had wrapped in a white burial shroud. Sometimes the crew members lacked even the strength to reach the drum, and, stumbling aft, they would fall to the deck and sprawl there, groaning, clutching their arms, pleading for help from the Virgin, from Allah, from Adonai, from Perun. Then the air would split with a basilik roaring from one of the pursuing Greek ships, a deep splash would surge up from the sea close enough to drench the sails, the rowers would row harder, and the man on the deck would crawl to the drum and pound it.

    Bum, bum, bum.

    Gontran had never felt so weary. Unable to speak, desperate with sadness for the loss of Joseph, barely able to think, he had told himself many times that it was impossible to go on. Then the Greeks would fire, and a second, third, fourth, or fifth wind would rush within him.

    Joseph would not have wanted us to stop. He would have told us to keep fighting.

    Mercifully, the wind continued to blow southward, but this also meant that the Greek ships continued to pursue.

    No torches lit the Paralos¡¯s deck. Soon it would be too dark to see. Then, perhaps, they could rest. But the Greek crews knew this, too, and so the torches on their decks blazed with a demonic intensity, since they could never return home without their quarry¡ªfor their incompetence the emperor himself would whip the flesh from their bones. To inaugurate his reign, he had impaled thousands of people on the seashore near Konstantinopolis as a warning to all who would oppose him, their corpses rotting on the wooden stakes, the flesh picked clean by carrion feeders. Some stakes were even surrounded by piles of bleached bones that could be seen from miles away.

    Thanks, but no thanks.

    Pure sweet blackness ascended from the east, chasing the last tinges of sunlight into the west. Stars and planets coalesced from the night while the white crescent moon rose from the horizon, almost like it was a prop being hoisted in a stageplay. Now the Paralos was adrift. The crew sprawled on their oars like corpses¡ªonly Talia¡¯s blue eyes shining like two liquid flames¡ªbut the Greeks were still converging on them, their drums pounding like heartbeats, growing louder, the enemy captains calling out to each other in the night, coordinating.

    How can we fight them? Gontran thought. I can¡¯t lift my arms!

    Indeed, he could hardly even hear as Dekarch Ra¡¯isa whispered for her amazons to prepare to repel boarders. Armed with spears, swords, and shields, they hid below the wales. The ship¡¯s basilik was propped aft again, and aimed down. They would only fire when the enemy ships were too close to miss, targeting the lowest points of their hulls.

    Ra¡¯isa withdrew Gontran¡¯s Seran pistol-sword from its sheathe and pulled his powder and ammunition bags from his pockets, though she left his hundred and twenty nomismas. Gontran loved his pistol-sword¡ªit had saved his life many times¡ªbut he was too weary to even look at Ra¡¯isa, let alone ask if she knew how to use it. Diaresso, by his side, seemed to have passed out, for he was murmuring to himself about Queen Tamar and the grapes of paradise.

    One moment Gontran was ready to surrender to his fate. The next, the basilik was exploding, and Greeks were screaming ¡°for the cross!¡± A vast hulking mass crashed into the Paralos, which rocked so far to the side that Gontran gripped his oar out of terror that he would plunge into the sea. Boots slammed onto the deck as metal clanged and men fell into the waves, yelling and gurgling. Gontran¡¯s pistol-sword made a crack sound that was loud enough to startle him, and the amazons screamed: ¡°for the uprising!¡±

    More ships slammed into them, soon too many to count. It was a battlefield in the middle of the sea, and the ground beneath the soldiers¡¯ boots and sandals was wood rather than earth or stone. Steel clashed, men grunted and screamed in the dark. Gontran wanted to avenge Joseph, but when he got up to fight, he fell to the deck and was unable to rise again. The game voice told him his stamina was down to single digits, and affecting his health, which had decreased to 90/100.

    Though the amazons were great warriors, and even darted about in blurs, ten weary battle maidens could never hold off hundreds of furious marines. The Greeks, however, were unprepared for an automat?n. Gontran sensed somehow, as dreams and reality mixed, that Talia was whirling across the decks, dousing the torches, snatching the enemy¡¯s swords with her metal hands and stabbing their eyes. For most marines, the last thing they ever saw were two blue flames lunging toward them in the dark.

    When Gontran woke, the warm sun was overhead. He was surprised¡ªas ever¡ªto be alive. Lying under his bench, his body ached so that when he turned his head to look around, it was all he could do to keep from shrieking in agony. Every muscle was strained, every bone ready to snap. Some of his stamina was restored, but he had lost a lot of health. His pistol-sword was in his hand; Ra¡¯isa must have given it back.

    Memory of yesterday¡¯s battle returned. Gontran recalled Joseph¡¯s fate, and he slumped with sadness.

    Talia stood nearby like a statue, every inch of her bronze skin drenched in blood save her flaming blue eyes. Drip, drip, drip, the blood pooled beneath her fingertips. Greek ships had rammed the Paralos from every side, and their decks were piled with red corpses. Talia had slaughtered them all.

    ¡°Do you still believe,¡± Diaresso whispered in Gontran¡¯s ear, ¡°that it is a good idea, a safe idea and a worthwhile one, to fire our unholy basilik upon that great monster of a city?¡±

    Gontran was too downcast to answer.

    Talia turned her head, then her body, to face them. ¡°I have dispatched the slave masters.¡±

    ¡°Mashallah,¡± Diaresso said. ¡°For I am glad that you fight by our side, Artifice of the Artificer, and not that of the enemy.¡±

    ¡°Only so long as you fight for universal liberation,¡± she said with her pipe organ voice. ¡°Turn against that ideal, and I shall turn against you.¡±

    ¡°As you have so often said.¡± Diaresso turned to Gontran, and whispered: ¡°She was the miracle I spoke of¡ªa miracle of golden handiwork. Without her, we would all be dead, or worse.¡±

    ¡°Not everyone made it,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°Yes, the boy was martyred.¡± Diaresso eyed Joseph¡¯s body, still wrapped in a white shroud by the wale. ¡°Yet only fools think that war is like unto a banquet in the countryside. Even when fought for a just cause, as our war is, much needless suffering is incurred. I shall pray for Joseph¡ªfor all the days that remain to me.¡±

    As the Paralos¡¯s crew revived, they took turns thanking the automat?n. Ra¡¯isa offered to wash the blood from Talia¡¯s metal skin¡ªit being inappropriate for the men aboard to do so, though technically Talia¡¯s gender was an open question. She accepted Ra¡¯isa¡¯s offer.

    ¡°Only, with the water, proceed sparingly,¡± Talia added. ¡°Too much will extinguish both my inner and outer lights.¡±

    ¡°Bad for us, then,¡± Ra¡¯isa said.

    Gontran, meanwhile, got to work counting the dead. Of their original crew of ninety-three, they had lost Joseph, plus four sailors and one amazon. This left eighty-seven. Every survivor save Talia was wounded, three grievously so. The ship¡¯s doctor, Abu Ubayd¡ªa man with a black turban and a forked beard who had trained in Isfahan¡ªwas forced to amputate. One by one, rags were stuffed in the mouths of these three unfortunates. One was Varangian, named Dmitri Anatolyevich, another was a Turk named Ibn Ismail, while the third was a Trapezuntine named Athanasios. Crowds of men held them down, and Doctor Abu Ubayd sawed off their wounded limbs, tossing them into the sea¡ªwhere they splashed and floated, a free meal for sharks¡ªhis arms red with blood as his patients shrieked like madmen.

    Two men with one leg each, Gontran thought. One man with a single arm.

    Next, Gontran examined the ship¡¯s damage with Diaresso, assigning the rest of the crew to search the enemy vessels for useful supplies. The Paralos needed to move quickly. Already merchant ships from how many different nations were sailing past, all of them keeping their distance from this mid-oceanic battlefield of tangled ropes and interlocked spars. Word of the Greeks¡¯ defeat would soon reach Konstantinopolis.

    On the deck, in the hold, even dangling over the side with ropes tied to their waists, Gontran and Diaresso hammered with wooden mallets every plank the ship was made of. All held firm. Not a nail was loose.

    ¡°The second miracle of the day,¡± Gontran said to Diaresso, after both were convinced of the Paralos¡¯s seaworthiness.

    ¡°There shall not be another,¡± Diaresso said. ¡°Though you may thank Allah if you wish, for He is all-wise, all-merciful.¡±

    Gontran held his hands palm-up to the sky, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. ¡°Thank you, Allah.¡± He opened one eye and looked at Diaresso. "How do you say ''thank god'' in Arabic? Is it ''alhamdullilah?''"

    ¡°Do not tempt Him with your irreverence.¡±

    Gontran opened both eyes and lowered his hands. ¡°I was serious!¡±

    ¡°If you were truly serious, you would recite the Shahada, submit to Allah, and join the community of the faithful.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s just no winning with you.¡±

    ¡°Truly.¡±

    ¡°Alright, Diaresso, but if I convert to Islam, will you at least be a little nicer to me?¡±

    ¡°To merely do one''s duty merits no reward. To declare that there is only one God, and He is God¡ªthat is its own sweetness, its own reward.¡±

    Next, the question was whether to bring any of the abandoned Greek vessels with the Paralos to Venice. Even one more ship would make a difference, but the problem was the lack of manpower. To take one Greek vessel and divide the Paralos crew meant that the next time there was a battle, both ships would be operating at only half strength.

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    And so the Paralos¡¯s crew burned the enemy ships. Having taken spare arms and armor, a great deal of money, many iron balls and much powder, they pushed the Paralos away with their oars. Then it was Ra¡¯isa, running about the enemy decks with a torch, who set them aflame. Once she had finished, she dove into the sea, swam to the Paralos, and was pulled onto the deck with a rope around her waist, like a mermaid drenched in ocean. The reflections of the liquid flames seemed to oil the sea, flashing in the waves and troughs, acting as a funeral pyre for the Greek dead. This they would have hated, since it would prevent their bodily resurrection on Judgement Day.

    The final task before departure was the sea burial of the Paralos¡¯s dead. For those who had perished, some were popular, others less so, but the entire crew was distraught over Joseph''s death. Only Talia¡¯s eyes were dry as different crew members, acting as priests for their respective faiths, bid the fallen farewell. Joseph¡¯s Jewish comrades had a minyan and said a kaddish, while Diaresso begged God to forgive the deceased Muslims, doing his best to face Mecca. The remainder of the dead sailors were Christians, including Clotilda, the Frankish amazon. One of the deceased sailors was a devotee of Perun, whose body was lowered onto a plank, which was then set aflame. The others were dumped into the ocean. Joseph¡¯s little body was the last that fell into the sea.

    Gontran cried. He was shocked by how emotional he was, and in his embarrassment wanted to hide himself from his crew. But where could he go on a ship like this?

    I always liked Joseph¡­I can¡¯t believe he¡¯s gone. If I hadn¡¯t seen his body, I wouldn¡¯t have believed it. My life was an adventure until someone close to me got killed.

    A southward wind kicked up. Soon they were on their way, the Greek armada burning behind them, the flames fluttering against the sky like curtains of searing light. Gontran threw himself into his work to avoid thinking of Joseph. Everyone else did the same, laboring without conversation or laughter, even focusing on unimportant tasks. Gontran gave no orders that day; the ship ran itself. In the evening, when all the crew save Talia was sleeping in blankets or hammocks, he cried again for Joseph.

    Any of us can die like that. None of us is safe. At least it was quick. He probably didn¡¯t even know what happened. ¡®Didn¡¯t even know what hit him¡¯¡ªstupid saying. Poor Joseph. I¡¯m sorry I didn¡¯t keep you safe. The uprisers, these fucking nuts, all they ever say is that when you commit yourself to the uprising, you¡¯re already dead. You¡¯re already a marked man. And that, ironically, the only way you live forever is by giving your life to the uprising. What did Herakleia say? ¡°To make excuses for the status quo is a living death. By dying for the uprising, we live in glory forever.¡± Fucking cultists. I can¡¯t tell myself that for Joseph. He¡¯s gone. That¡¯s it. And his death was meaningless. He should have lived a long life, should have had a spouse and kids if he¡¯d wanted. He escaped the carnage in Nikaia, and even survived being turned into a child soldier and marched across Anatolia like a slave. Then he survived two sieges¡ªat least two battles, probably more. Only to have his head taken off by a basilik. It makes no sense. There¡¯s no purpose to it, none at all. If the uprising fails, he''ll have died for nothing.

    In Gontran¡¯s half-dreams, a comet streaked through the night, sparkling in the void.

    He''ll flash like that forever.

    The Paralos exited the Marmara and plunged into the Straits of the Dardanelles, this being the narrow passage to the Aegean. ¡°If the Bosporos is the Marmara¡¯s throat,¡± a sailor said, ¡°then the Dardanelles is the ass.¡±

    Here Leander swam the sea for love of the priestess Hero, drowning on the way; here for ten years the Greeks besieged the ringing plains of windy Troy. Ruins were scattered everywhere on the two coastlines, the broken marble shining white against the earthen fields like the bleached knucklebones a barbarian shamaness tosses to consult the fates. These days the Dardanians were mostly farmers, fishermen, and merchants who counted on the mountains to shield them from the Turks to the east and west. Rome had little presence here save its signal towers, always flickering.

    The Paralos passed several cities. Among them was the small run-down port of Abydos, where Gontran and Diaresso had first met Alexios and his teacher, the wild old wizard Dionysios.

    ¡°Thus the deep misfortune of my fate.¡± Diaresso slumped on the wale before the passing quays and storehouses, themselves slumping toward the sea.

    Gontran was afraid to speak, and almost wanted to hide belowdecks. In Abydos lurked Demetrios Male?nos, the unsavory doux who had lent him and Diaresso hundreds of nomismas¡ªGontran wanted to forget the specific amount¡ªto finance a trading expedition to the Seres. That project, like many others, had come to nothing. Akinji raiders had attacked Gontran and Diaresso while they were departing the Greek Empire. Dropping their sacks of coin¡ªalong with almost everything they carried save their weapons, clothes, and skins¡ªthey had kicked their spurs deep into their horses, whose sides were soaked with blood as their galloping legs thundered against the blurring land, gasping as foam bubbled around their lips, their black eyes wide with fright, their muscles rippling and gleaming in the alternating light and darkness of day and night. Diaresso and Gontran returned to Abydos, there to beg Male?nos for one more chance, since the crime lord had agents everywhere, even as far as the burning city of Bakuya in Shirvan, the orderly Seran capital of Dongjing, the Cholla capital of Tanjore.

    In Abydos, Gontran and Diaresso had run into Alexios and Dionysios in a tavern before their planned meeting at Male?nos¡¯s palace. Even now, Gontran was tired of always having to watch his back. He felt tempted to abandon the uprising and abase himself before Male?nos, paying all the money he possessed¡ªa hundred and twenty nomismas, sequestered at all times in his pants pockets¡ªto show that he meant business.

    And that I don¡¯t deserve to be turned into a statue, Gontran thought.

    This was a reference to Male?nos¡¯s favorite way to punish failure¡ªencasing people in Roman cement. He had an entire garden of these grotesque statues outside his palace.

    Abydos lay on the left side of the Dardanelles. On the right was Sestos, an old town with a silted up harbor surrounding a fortress whose cobblestone highway led north into Thrace, the Bulgar Khanate, the Kingdom of Diokleia, and lands beyond. With enough time, money, and luck, those roads could even bring you to Metz, Gontran¡¯s home in northern France, where his peasant family still labored beneath the cracking whip of Lord Chlotar. Gontran had sworn that he would return one day to free them, but this goal¡ªand every other¡ª he had set aside for the uprising.

    Sometimes I can¡¯t even justify these actions to myself, he thought.

    Past the Dardanelles rose the isle of Tenedos. Here the warrior Philoctetes was abandoned for ten years during the Trojan War for a poison snake wound which refused to heal, instead festering and stinking enough to drive his Greek comrades away, coughing, covering their noses, waving their hands, exclaiming that Troy was bad, but this was something else. Gontran wanted to stop there; these days the isle was famous for its opium, women, and wine.

    Preferably taken together, he thought.

    Many such isles were spread before them in the Aegean. Each was known for some commodity which would fetch a handsome price the farther one hauled it. Gontran¡¯s merchant¡¯s eyes saw all these isles and their fragrant storehouses stuffed with sacks, barrels, crates, skins, and amphorae of goodly merchandise. Oddly enough, he found himself longing, too, for the annoying scribe Samonas, whose lifelong walking problems had granted him an addiction to knowledge¡ªmostly useless philosophies, though he was also a living navigational chart.

    With Samonas by my side, we''d make a lot of money.

    But the Paralos could stop nowhere. Greek, Italian, and Arab cutters prowled these seas like slavering sharks, the Etesian winds swelling their sails in warm spring months. Thus, Gontran and his crew threaded the needle with regard to the archipelago that reposed upon the gleaming waves, the ship¡¯s course plunging south between the sporadic Sporades on the right and Mytilene on the left, the former famous for its dainty horses, the latter for its poets, its exiled kings and queens, its monasteries. Just south of Mytilene lay Chios, notorious for medicinal gum that was spiced like molten lead, and weeped in tears from its trees like drops of rain from eaves of reeds. In Paris a handful of such mastika could be exchanged for a handful of gold coin.

    Standing on the Paralos¡¯s deck, watching out for pirates, Gontran ground his teeth in frustration as though chewing that medicinal mastika.

    Farther south cycled the Cyclades, a yellow spatter of paint floating on the silver sea, each isle close enough to be seen from the others, their signal towers flickering. From these the Paralos could not hide. Yet as days passed, no Aegean monks, fishermen, or merchants stopped them. Gontran eyed the harbors full of fishing boats, the rolling peaks and valleys running with sheep, the farmland scattered with farmers who were themselves scattering seeds into the rich dark furrows, the monasteries rattling with wooden semantrons, and the mountain chora towns clustered like white lambs around brick castles which were only the size of guard towers on Konstantinopolis¡¯s Land Walls.

    If only I could pick up some silk on Andros! he thought. Some marble on Naxos or Paros!

    The quarries here were titanic, and from their living rock one could carve glittering white statues whose tops would breach the clouds. To the south lay the cheese and wine of Crete, where the azan could still be heard from the old days of the emirate, and then past Crete were the slave markets of Egypt. Gontran, as a former peasant, had never traded slaves, and never would. But few merchants saw any difference between trading unlucky animals versus trading unlucky people. The only difference merchants really saw was that the latter option usually made more money.

    As for Gontran, every minute he spent here, he lost money. On the uprising''s altar he had sacrificed his possible future as lord of a knightly realm¡ªsafe behind thick walls, warmed by fires roaring beneath the flue, entertained by the songs of wandering troubadours, enriched by thousands of peasants laboring in town upon town, all of it secured by a stamped and signed vellum parchment testifying to his enfeoffment of these lands in the name of the king.

    Instead of resting, I work, Gontran thought. Instead of winning, I lose.

    Yet he had no regrets. He did not buy entirely into the uprising¡¯s ideals. But he would never live off the stolen labor of others. He had never made his peace with feudalism or slavery, as so many ostensibly good people did. Instead, he had decided that the path to women, wealth, and wine¡ªall that he desired¡ªled through the uprising.

    Following the ship¡¯s portolan map, the Paralos turned west. It darted between Andros and Chalkis along the narrow Kafireas Strait, both isles lowing with snow white heifers of the sun. Here were busy shipping lanes. Every vessel was armed not only for defense, but also to take advantage of opportunities, since everyone was either a potential pirate or victim of piracy. The most common barques were Venetian, distinguished by their striking flag: on a red background, a winged lion of gold rested its paw upon an open book. But other flags were also present. Here was the Greek chi-rho, there the rearing knight on his steed for Ancona, alternating blue and red stripes for the young and semi-independent republic of Ragusa, a blue background with a diagonal slash checkered red and white for Sicily, and crosses for Pisa and Genova. Occasional Saracen ships sported black or white flags scrawled with Arabic. All of these flags were defensive, in a way, since to attack a ship flying the Ancona flag (for example) meant attacking the whole city and armada of Ancona. Yet Venice was the only flag the entire sea feared. No one wished to incur the wrath of the Serenissima, a growing power, and therefore the most aggressive.

    But Trebizond¡¯s red flag was unknown. Sometimes passing sailors would ask, in Mediterranean pidgin¡ªa non-inflected mix of Romance, Greek, Arabic, and Touareg¡ªwho they were.

    ¡°Trebizond and Kitezh!¡± the Paralos¡¯s crew would respond.

    Kitezh the other sailors knew¡ªit was the northern power of the steppe, swallowed up long ago by Varangians and Turks.

    ¡°But Trebizond,¡± the other sailors asked, ¡°is independent?¡±

    ¡°Yes, independent!¡± the Paralos¡¯s sailors cried. ¡°We got rid of our bosses, so watch out!¡±

    Here always the captains of the passing vessels would swallow nervously, mop the sweat from their brows with a shirtsleeve, dart their eyes back and forth, and chuckle awkwardly as their crews looked at them. ¡°We¡¯re all friends, aren¡¯t we, boys?¡± the captains¡¯ actions said. ¡°Aren¡¯t we?¡±

    Yet the red flag¡¯s obscurity didn¡¯t just invite curiosity. It also invited violence. The Paralos was a fast ship, big, strong, and sturdy, which meant that single passing vessels refrained from aggression. Gontran also possessed a Seran luopan, a small wooden geomantic device scrawled with obscure symbols which always pointed south, thereby enabling safe travel per peleggio¡ªi.e., in open seas, and not along the coasts, as most safer captains preferred.

    But two weeks after the Marmara battle, the Paralos encountered something that was not safe. When they swung north toward the Adriatic and passed through the narrow Strait of Otranto, they encountered a trio of two-masted Venetian war galleys guarding this body of water. The Venetians surrounded the Paralos, blew their horns, and shouted¡ªin Venetian, not pidgin¡ªto surrender.

 3. A Pig In Filth

    Past the Ionian Isles, when the three Venetian ships appeared on the horizon¡ªeach flying the red-gold pennant of San Marco, the sails swollen with wind, the oars rising and falling like swan¡¯s wings¡ªGontran put the question to the crew.

    ¡°Fight or run?¡±

    Contrary to expectations, the crew quickly decided that, since Trebizond and Kitezh were seeking allies, it was best to pursue diplomacy with these Venetian pirates who called themselves merchants.

    ¡°Even if they arrest us?¡± Gontran asked.

    ¡°Even if they arrest us,¡± the crew said.

    ¡°Much as I hate to admit,¡± Diaresso added, ¡°there is little reason to fight. We must submit¡ªfor the better or the worse.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s probably going to be for the worse,¡± Gontran said. ¡°There¡¯s no way they¡¯ve forgotten the siege. They must have lost nearly their entire investment back in Trebizond.¡±

    For the first time since the voyage had begun, Diaresso laughed. ¡°Yes, I heard that only a handful of their vessels escaped the burning of the city. Perhaps at most one or two dozen, out of the five score which they deployed to enslave Tarabizun. What fools these Venetians are¡ªlike fish out of water, like big fish leaving their little lagoon.¡±

    ¡°Last I heard, they were making the emperor melt down all the gold tiles on the rooftops of Konstantinopolis¡¯s churches to pay for it.¡±

    ¡°Thus should be the fate of all the golden idols in that teeming hive of idolaters,¡± Diaresso said. ¡°Turn their pretty statues into plowshares that the hungry might be fed.¡±

    ¡°Does that include turning me into a plowshare, too?¡± Talia¡¯s blue eyes blazed.

    Diaresso turned to her. ¡°I would have said so earlier, Artifice of the Artificer. I would have considered you an idol, a clever contraption, not a being of mind and soul. But you have proven yourself one worthier by far than most men, if not all. Even now, I wonder¡ªcould you bring all these haughty Venetians to an early grave at sea?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re trying to make friends with them, remember?¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°Of course,¡± Diaresso said. ¡°We make friends with one enemy to bring another to annihilation. But this Artifice, she is our secret weapon, is she not? Who could stop her when she whirls about like a darwaysh of steel, but a Zhayedan?¡±

    When the Paralos was surrounded, and the Venetians yelled for the ship to stop¡ªspeaking their nasally dialect, like Italian if you pinched your nose¡ªGontran and his crew acceded to their demands. Oars were stowed, sails were reefed, and guns were hidden belowdecks. Talia lurked there in the darkness, her eyes shining like blue candle flames, her engine gently pounding in her brazen chest.

    ¡°I am Capitano Giustiniani Loredan,¡± said a man attired in black standing with arms akimbo aboard the lead Venetian ship. (Gontran understood him¡ªwith some difficulty¡ªthanks to speaking French, Greek, and Mediterranean pidgin.) ¡°Who might you be, signore, and what might be your purpose to entering the Golfo di Venezia?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re on a diplomatic mission to the Serenissima,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°To treat? On behalf of whom? I do not recognize your flag, signore.¡±

    ¡°The Republic of Trebizond,¡± Gontran said. ¡°In alliance with the¡ª¡±

    ¡°Trebisonda?¡± Loredan sputtered, looking to his men. ¡°Seize these scoundrels at once!¡±

    ¡°Hold on a minute, let me explain!¡± Gontran shouted.

    Grappling hooks clanked onto the Paralos¡¯s deck from all directions, and the three Venetian ships pulled themselves close enough for their crews to leap aboard. Gontran and everyone else stood and raised their hands above their heads. Before they knew it, their swords were torn from their scabbards and flung to the deck. Their wrists were roped behind their backs¡ªand then, soon, chained, for Venetians never left port without piles of iron manacles in the bellies of their galleys. Even the smallest one-masted pinnace was always ready to take on slaves.

    Gontran rolled his eyes. After all, you never know when you¡¯ll stumble upon a bunch of people who are just aching to be enslaved.

    ¡°In the name of the Signoria,¡± Loredan said, climbing aboard, ¡°I hereby take possession of this most piratical vessel, by the Grace of Holy God.¡±

    The entire Paralos crew looked at Gontran as if this was his fault, but Diaresso and Ra¡¯isa seemed especially furious. Gontran himself blamed Herakleia.

    Just surrender to our sworn enemies without a fight, he thought. What could go wrong?

    The mission had been an act of desperation. But the workers had voted in favor of it, as had the Paralos crew.

    In minutes, Loredan had ordered some of his crew members to take over the Paralos and sail her back to a place called Rivoalto, meaning ¡°Highstream¡±¡ªpresumably Venice. In the Venetians¡¯ investigations belowdecks, they announced that they had found reams of Seran silk, sacks of Indian spice, wood boxes of Arabic sukkar, in addition to a gorgeous, life-sized statue of a woman cast in bronze, this last more expertly crafted than anything made by the ancient Greek sculptor they called ¡°Fidia.¡±

    ¡°To touch her skin, uncle,¡± said a handsome blond youth clad in a black doublet and tights, speaking to Loredan. ¡°You would swear she was flesh and blood, like Galatea come to life. Her skin seems warm to the touch. It even seems to quiver¡­one can almost feel blood pulsing inside.¡±

    Gontran sighed with relief. Talia had shut down. She, too, had submitted to the Venetians¡ªat least for now.

    Maybe nobody told her they¡¯re slave traders, he thought, recalling her searing hatred of such people.

    ¡°Kill slave owners,¡± Talia had once said to him, the flames in her blue eyes burning. ¡°Kill landlords. Kill gangsters. Kill merchants.¡± She had paused, and the bronze segments of her eyes had focused on him. ¡°Present company excepted.¡±

    Trebizond¡¯s red flag was lowered; a standard of Saint Mark was raised in its place¡ªto cheers from the Venetian crew. Most of these returned to their ships, including Loredan. Gontran attempted once more to speak with him; in response, Loredan drew a whip from his belt and cracked it across the deck. The sound was shockingly loud, and turned every head.

    ¡°I warn you but once,¡± Loredan said. ¡°Do as you are told, and keep your mouths shut. Now you are slaves, and you belong to me¡ªall of you.¡±

    Gontran lowered his head, and glanced at Ra¡¯isa and the other amazons. As Zhayedan they could have broken free and destroyed the Venetians, but they avoided his gaze.

    Biding their time, Gontran thought. Maybe it¡¯ll be easier to retake the Paralos once most of the Venetians are aboard their own ships. We decided not to divide our crew back in the Marmara, but the Venetians are greedier and take more risks.

    ¡°This has been a most profitable venture.¡± Loredan patted the shoulder of the young, handsome, and pompous-looking Venetian who was dressed in gleaming black velvet. ¡°A bevy of slaves, not to mention a finely built dromon from the Empire of Greece¡ªall this has fallen right into our lap, by the grace of God, who, in His wisdom and glory, has seen fit to grant us this boon. You will sail them back to the Dogado, Annibale, and I will return to the Liona to escort you. The Vendramina and the Panthea will remain on patrol here in the Canale d¡¯Otranto until our return.¡±

    ¡°Molto bene, uncle.¡± Annibale bowed.

    ¡°Such slaves as these must work in le saline of Comacchio,¡± Loredan added, half to himself, as he looked at his prisoners. ¡°We shall even find work for those three cripples. But they are all too dangerous to make use of as galley slaves, for ships and seas are their environment naturale. You must be cautious, Annibale. I would not want to lose you, especially to such scum as these banditti. We are so close!¡± He squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his hands together. Then he looked at Annibale. ¡°Oh, we are so close to attaining our own estates in terra firma, I can almost taste them on my tongue. Soon I shall have titles, lands, peasants, and slaves, all of which you shall inherit¡ªthese shall all be the subjects of your future kingdom. The Loredan family shall be as firm and secure as the rock of Gibraltar, as constant as the northern star. We shall be rich, safe, comfortable. We shall want for nothing, and we shall fear less. Every problem shall be solved, and we shall be at peace forever. One day soon, all Venetians shall address you as ¡®Vostra Serenit¨¤.¡¯¡±

    ¡°I understand, uncle.¡±

    ¡°Now take heed, young one,¡± Loredan warned. ¡°For this is your first command. ¡®Spare the whip and spoil the slave.¡¯ These slaves are not your friends. They are foes only. To treat them with kindness invites their contempt. And do not forget to keep them in chains. Do not unchain them for any reason. They are insatiate as cormorants, only they pretend to be loyal and honorable¡ªuntil they see their chance. Then they will tear out your throat before you can say ¡®Ave Maria.¡¯ I have seen it happen too many times.¡±

    ¡°You need not tell me, uncle.¡±

    ¡°Fine, fine, you think this advice unnecessary, you think these words but the ramblings of an over-cautious old man. Very well, but I speak from experience, and you ought to listen, young buck.¡±

    ¡°I always have, uncle.¡±

    ¡°Once we reach the Dogado, follow my lead in the Liona. I will guide you through the porti that lie ¡®twixt the isles of the lagoon. It is much too perilous for a young pup such as yourself to navigate those dangerous shoals, currents, and sandbanks for the first time. Verily, like a second Charybdis, they will swallow you up!¡±

    Annibale bowed. He seemed to be waiting for his uncle to leave.

    ¡°Very well,¡± Loredan said. ¡°I will depart, and leave you to it. For now, you are Capitano of your first nave¡ªand a most magnificent one, at that.¡± He eyed the Paralos for a moment. ¡°We must learn from its clever construction and design, but we must also reconsecrate it, and have a priest scatter holy water upon its benighted beams, for it reeks of the stench of the Saraceni. There are too many upon this ship¡­they must be converted to the One True Faith. The Moors are not to be trusted. The hellspawn Normans in Sicily use them in their armies to defy the Holy Father in Rome, for those diavoli care not if they are excommunicated or under papal interdict, living as they already do in open sin¡ª¡±

    ¡°Uncle, we lose precious time,¡± Annibale said.

    ¡°Yes, yes, of course. Well, on that note, arrivederci, my dear boy. Farewell, Capitano Loredan, and buona fortuna. I shall miss you. You must take care of yourself.¡± Loredan kissed Annibale¡¯s cheeks, shook his hands with both of his own, hugged him tightly, watched him for a moment, then returned to the Liona.

    Jesus, his uncle really loves him, Gontran thought. He almost empathized with Loredan due to his own loss of Joseph.

    Only five men from the Venetian armada remained aboard the Paralos. One¡ªwho was dressed in filthy rags, his legs chained together, and who had hair so blond it was almost white, with crystal blue eyes, puffy cheeks, and a sharp nose¡ªpounded the drums. The other four men consisted of Annibale and his friends, who looked and dressed just like him, though they were more muscular, their hands thick and calloused. They watched the Trapezuntines and Kitezhi row the ship northward after the Liona, the slaves¡¯ chains rattling with their movements. Each of these four men kept his right hand on either his whip or his sword at all times, their bodies tense.

    Born rich, Gontran thought. Working out here so they can get even richer¡ª

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    Gontran! shouted Ra¡¯isa¡¯s voice, echoing in his mind. Can you hear me?

    He was so surprised to hear an alien voice in his consciousness (other than the game voice) that he forgot to help Diaresso¡ªsitting beside him¡ªrow the oar. For this, Diaresso scowled at him, though he was too afraid to even mutter his usual imprecations, aware of how the Venetians watched him even more closely than they did the other slaves.

    Gontran! came Ra¡¯isa¡¯s voice again.

    I can hear you, Gontran thought.

    You cannot answer, Ra¡¯isa thought. I cannot hear you. But you must hear me. It is because you do not have farr. It is alright. We will free crew tonight when the pork-eaters are tired and asleep.

    Gontran glanced at Ra¡¯isa and nodded only slightly. She was staring at him, even as they both rowed.

    Never look to me again! said her voice in his mind. Uncircumcised dogs will see!

    Sorry, Gontran thought, forgetting that she couldn¡¯t hear.

    We amazons will fight the Veneti. You must light Talia¡¯s fires. Maybe we need her help. But I think not. For they are weak, like all men.

    Gontran rolled his eyes. Ra¡¯isa was beautiful, but a little strong for his tastes.

    ¡°Cane.¡± Annibale pointed at Gontran with his whip.

    Gontran looked at him, raised his eyebrows, and pointed to himself.

    ¡°Come here, cane.¡±

    Gontran stood and lifted his hands so that another Venetian could unlock him from his bench, though his wrists were still chained together. He approached Annibale and forced himself to kneel.

    ¡°You were capitano of this barque, were you not?¡± Annibale said.

    Gontran nodded. ¡°I was.¡±

    Annibale slammed Gontran¡¯s face with the butt of his whip so hard that white light flashed everywhere in his vision. The game voice told him that he had lost five health. He cried out and clutched his cheek, his chains ringing.

    ¡°You will address all Venetian men as ¡®signore¡¯ or ''maestro'' at all times,¡± Annibale said. ¡°Capitano Cane.¡±

    ¡°S¨¬, signore,¡± Gontran stammered, gaining XP for his linguistic abilities. ¡°Mi dispiace, signore.¡±

    Annibale stared at him with frightening green eyes, took a deep breath, then pointed to the basilik, which the amazons had left behind the bowsprit. ¡°This is a new Roman weapon, cane, is it not?¡±

    Gontran hesitated. It was bad enough for the Romans to have basiliks. For the Venetians to have them¡ª

    Annibale struck Gontran with the whip again, this time on the other side of his face. He lost another five health, leaving him at 80/100, since he had yet to recover from the Marmara battle. The three Venetian companions laughed.

    ¡°S¨¬, signore,¡± Gontran said, doing his best to control his growing hatred for this man.

    ¡°You will demonstrate the method of its operation, Capitano Cane.¡±

    Standing and bowing, Gontran approached the basilik and armed it, explaining how to do so as he worked, always finishing his sentences with the word ¡°signore.¡± He was tempted to tell Annibale that it was best to stand right in front of the basilik when it was fired, but he suspected that the Venetian was too sharp for this obvious trick.

    ¡°Point this ¡®basilisco¡¯ of yours away from the Liona,¡± Annibale said. ¡°Then ignite.¡±

    Gontran bowed. ¡°It¡¯s going to be pretty loud, signore. I suggest covering your ears, signore.¡±

    ¡°Fear not, Capitano Cane, for we are men, and neither the fires of Etna¡ªnor the thunderings of Zeus about the peak of Olympus¡ªwill frighten those such as us. Besides, will it not be beautiful, to behold such weapons as these? With this iron and fire, we shall subdue the world.¡±

    ¡°Alright, don¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn you, signore.¡±

    Annibale raised his whip. ¡°Do not command me, cane, neither grow familiar, even in jest.¡±

    Gontran bowed. ¡°Mi dispiace, signore.¡±

    ¡°Proceed.¡±

    Gontran bowed again, then turned the basilik, ignited the fuse, ducked to the side, and plugged his ears with his fingers. Annibale looked down at him with contempt. Suddenly the basilik blasted the air, wreathing the deck in acrid smoke and sending a black ball into the sea. In response, the four Venetians threw themselves to the deck. The drummer stopped drumming and cowered, then prayed to God, muttering in Slavic-accented Greek that the basilik was of the devil¡¯s making, for it reeked of unholy brimstone.

    Annibale climbed to his feet. Feigning nonchalance, he gently applauded Gontran. ¡°Well done, Capitano Cane. Now quick, return to your station, this vessel cannot row itself! And look, your friend, there, the Moro, he would appear to miss you. How longingly does he cast those rolling white eyes of his upon you, like two full moons in blackest night.¡±

    As Annibale and his three companions tittered, Gontran went back to his bench and sat beside Diaresso, who had never stopped glaring at him. Soon Gontran was locked to his bench and rowing again. Before long, his muscles were on fire, his bones ached, and he groaned in agony. The rest of the Paralos¡¯s crew was doing the same.

    We have to get out of here.

    The oars splashed, the men groaned, and the ship creaked as the sails were unfurled and the wind spilled inside, the prow slicing the waves. Evening could not come soon enough. Gontran never forgot the position of the sun, always telling himself that he only needed to keep rowing a little longer, and then everything would be alright. He told himself that Ra¡¯isa would free the crew. She would take care of everything.

    So stupid it seems desperate, he thought. ¡®Forge an alliance with the Venetians,¡¯ the workers¡¯ councils said. ¡®It¡¯ll be no problem,¡¯ they said. No, guys, it¡¯s a problem. The Venetians know which side their bread¡¯s buttered on. We should just head home after we escape, maybe ally with other cities in the area, who knows.

    Yet with each pull of the oar, Gontran felt himself growing angrier. It would be nice to throw these Venetian bastards into the sea and burn their city to the ground.

    Smash their dikes and flood their precious lagoon so that no one can build anything there ever again.

    Venice, he recalled, was a beautiful city in the old world¡ªperhaps the most beautiful. Bello, bello, bellissima! But he had never thought about the labor that had gone into all those duomos and campaniles, the black gothic arches and white marble fa?ades decked with statues of saints and angels. And he wasn''t even talking about the laborers and architects that had built those places. He was talking about the slaves who had earned the money necessary to build them.

    Just find me one Western city that wasn¡¯t built by slaves, he thought. I¡¯m begging you.

    Gontran wanted to talk with Diaresso beside him¡ªshoot the shit like in the old days, which were only a few hours in the past¡ªbut the man from Tomboutou was even more sullen than usual. Rowing these oars was unpleasant, but the Paralos crew was paid a wage, with an equal share in whatever spoils they took (whether via trade or piracy) as well as a vote in the ship¡¯s assembly. Anyone aboard could be elected katapan; a majority could vote Gontran out of office at any time. And so, wanting to save their strength, the Paralos crew only rowed when they were becalmed or during combat; oared ships were faster and more maneuverable than sailboats. But now the crew was enslaved, and their new maestri wanted to get home, which meant that the crew rowed continuously for hours, lowering their stamina to dangerous levels. If the crew slackened out of step with the beating drum, whips cracked behind them; if they needed to piss or shit, there was no time to be unchained and escorted to the side¡ªthey went where they sat.

    Disgusting.

    Thanks to this lack of sanitation, disease was guaranteed to wipe out the crew sooner or later. Doctor Ubayd was rowing along with the rest of the crew¡ªwould the Venetians even respect a Saracen as a doctor? And how could the man even help, under these conditions?

    But if a bunch of people died on the voyage, it was no big deal. The Venetians could always find more slaves, and it was probably better to get rid of your old stock and replenish it with fresh blood. Fresh, vigorous, ignorant, perfect. The instant any slave aboard showed the slightest sign of sickness, the maestri would toss them over the side. It was safe, convenient, efficient. The weak needed to make way for the strong; blood lubricated the Venetian economy.

    Gontran was worried, in particular, about his disabled comrades Dmitri Anatolyevich, Ibn Ismail, and Athanasios. Each had lost a limb during the Marmara battle. The Venetians were tolerating their presence for now, but Ibn Ismail, in particular¡ªwith his one arm¡ªwas having a hard time keeping up with rowing, while Dmitri Anatolyevich and Athanasios, with one leg each, had trouble balancing as they sat on the benches. How long until the Venetians just dumped these men over the side?

    Gontran gritted his teeth with rage, focusing on the Venetians because he wanted to think about anything other than how he had ended up in this situation. Yet accusations crept back into his mind.

    You agreed to do this. Those cultists, those idealists told you to play nice with the Venetians. Nobody forced you. You knew it was suicide, but you went with it anyway.

    He soon found that the only escape was to row so hard that he lost himself in the agony of slave labor. This made all thought impossible. What was thought, after all, except another way for the world to wound you? It was bad enough to be a slave, and even worse for your own mind to remind you of that fact.

    As Gontran worked harder, Diaresso rasped that he was a fool and a bootlicker for putting in more than the minimum their owners required.

    ¡°Just trying to make the best of a bad situation,¡± Gontran whispered, speaking so quietly that he could barely hear himself.

    The whip came hard and fast, and like a lightning bolt it knocked Gontran to the deck beneath the bench, where the slaves¡¯ piss and shit was already gathering. A pig in filth, he rolled in it for the instant it took him to climb back to his oar, so shocked he felt numb. He had lost another five health.

    Now all he could do was row. Those slaves nearest to him, Diaresso included, either wrinkled their noses in disgust at the reek rising from his body, or they glanced at him with pity. Soon enough, Gontran could not help pitying himself.

    The lowest I¡¯ve ever been, he thought. The worst day of my life. Worse than being a peasant on Chlotar¡¯s plantation. They never whipped anyone there. You did your job and you went home, that was it. Half the time you worked your own land for your own family. But here¡­

    He looked to his crew laboring in the afternoon light. Each sweaty face wore its own unique expression of misery. Whenever the black-clad Venetians walked past, everyone looked down or away. To meet their eyes¡ªas blue-green as the drowning sea¡ªinvited death.

    What if we never escape? Gontran thought. What if it¡¯s like this for the rest of our lives? No¡ªof course we¡¯ll escape. Ra''isa and Talia will break us free. The Venetians don¡¯t know who they¡¯re dealing with. But what about all the other slaves who are out there right now, the ones who have been laboring for years without any hope of escape? Where are you even supposed to go? Trebizond¡¯s the only place that¡¯s anti-slavery, and it¡¯s practically on the other side of the world. It¡¯s half-mythical, it might as well be on another planet, most people don¡¯t even believe something like that can exist. They believe slavery only ends in the afterlife. Think about those people, then think about the millions of slaves who labored for their entire lives for centuries before now, all the ones who never got away.

    The whip cracked in the air behind him. Gontran tensed up, rowing more furiously, his jaws grinding together hard enough to break his teeth. Annibale Loredan strode past in his haughty way, his hands held behind his straight back, a carefree smile on his handsome face, his long blond hair gleaming in the sea breeze. A perfect body, a life of no worries, never a meal missed, his belly full of good things, everything always taken care of. If he gambled away one mansion, don¡¯t worry, his relatives had a hundred more, and they were always happy to help out.

    As soon as Annibale turned away, Gontran glared at him so hard it was a wonder he didn¡¯t burn holes in the man¡¯s back.

    Yes, many slaves never escaped. But some did. And some even killed their masters, not caring that there was nowhere to go. Not caring that they were doomed.

    The four Venetians kept the Paralos crew rowing until it was too dark to see. Clouds had gathered, the night was black, and their escort, the Liona, was only a candle flame flickering in the void. Sternward, the Venetians had ordered the amazons to set up a red tent, one tied to the wales. They called this tent the tenda di comando. Now they were lounging underneath the tent on blankets, heating themselves before the fire whirling in a bronze brazier, ordering the amazons about, and feeling them up. These warriors they had taken as personal servants. The amazons were still chained, but Annibale had torn off Ra¡¯isa¡¯s green hijab and thrown it over the side, as well as the headscarves belonging to Zainab and Zulaika al-Jariya, muttering that no Saraceni could taint ships which belonged to good Christians. This shocked Gontran¡ªhow could Annibale do this to them? Yet the temptation to see Ra¡¯isa without her hijab was too great. Gontran stared at her gleaming brown hair for a moment in disbelief, then averted his eyes. It was wrong. Losing your hijab was like being stripped naked. Now he felt sorry for her¡ªangry for her¡ªbut also angry at himself. It was a break from this endless misery to look, even for an instant, at one so beautiful. How could he have never noticed? And yet it was wrong to delight in the sight of her, since she must have been ashamed.

    Gontran went back and forth like this for several minutes. His emotions were all over the place. But sadly for Ra¡¯isa, she had more to worry about than emotions. Losing her hijab was only the beginning of her troubles. Annibale would order her to pour more black Trapezuntine wine into his cup; then, as she did this, he would stare down her shirt with wide eyes and raised eyebrows to amuse his three companions. (Gontran had learned that their names were Marco Morosini, Agustin Ludovici, and Giovanni Battista.) Then Annibale would down the wine in one gulp and order her to pour more, and stare at her chest again as she bent over for him.

    Why does she tolerate this? Gontran thought. What¡¯s she waiting for?

    She could have knocked them all to the deck too quickly to see. Walking through a city crowded with men leering at her, telling her to smile, catcalling her, Ra¡¯isa could have killed them all with her hands and feet alone. But here on the Paralos she hesitated.

    Why?

    Gontran was so weary that he was leaning on Diaresso, who was himself leaning on the wale and too tired to shove him off. Caked in dried sweat and god knew what else, his back throbbing from Annibale¡¯s lashing, his muscles torn and aching, Gontran had never thought such misery possible, nor had he known that he could row so hard for so long, the drum always pounding behind him, the maestri¡¯s whips splitting the air.

    ¡°Is it not good?¡± Annibale said to his three friends. ¡°Good to get a good rhythm going?¡±

    On top of all this, the temperature was dropping, and people were shivering. What did the Venetians care? Wrapped in warm thick blankets and coats lined with wolf pelts before brazier flames that lapped at the night, they were too busy drinking, joking, laughing, reciting poetry, singing.

    They win, we lose.

    Gontran wanted to keep awake to see Ra¡¯isa and the amazons take revenge, but he was so tired that his eyes closed by themselves and refused to open.

 4. Candle Flame

    Someone was grunting. When Gontran opened his eyes, all was dark save the fire flickering in the braziers beneath the stern''s red tent. Every Venetian was asleep except for Annibale, who had mounted Ra¡¯isa beneath the red canvass fluttering in the firelight. She lay on the blankets on her back, her face turned away.

    Now Gontran felt only disgust. Before he knew what he was doing, he stood to his feet and lunged toward her, his chains ringing. Annibale stopped humping Ra¡¯isa and looked toward Gontran, but what could he see from the bright stern except darkness? In an instant, Ra¡¯isa whirled around, wrapped her strong legs around Annibale, and wrestled him to the deck. There, before he could make a sound, she strangled him with the manacles chained to her wrists. He stuck out his tongue, and his eyes bulged.

    Gontran wanted to cheer, but he restrained himself. His heart throbbed in his chest as he glanced back and forth into the darkness, wondering if anyone else was seeing this. Adrenaline surged in his veins, and his muscles and bones forgot their exhaustion, especially since sleep had restored some of his stamina.

    It was finally happening. They were finally breaking free. They had only been enslaved a day, but that had been long enough.

    Ra¡¯isa whispered into Annibale¡¯s ears, loosening her grip so he could breathe. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a keychain, and unlocked her manacles, though she kept them tight around his neck. Once freed, she pulled the whip from his belt and tossed it over the side¡ªit splashed gently into the sea¡ªthen drew Annibale¡¯s sword and held it to his throat as he locked himself in her manacles. He unlocked the other amazons sleeping nearby, fastening their manacles to his three friends'' wrists. The four Venetians were then chained to the mainmast. All but Annibale were so drunk that they remained asleep. Ra¡¯isa flung their whips into the sea and gave their swords to her waking comrades. Then she whispered for Zulaika al-Jariya to unlock the galley slaves. Gontran was the only one among these who was awake. When he was free, he thanked Zulaika, and stepped quietly to Ra¡¯isa, kneeling before her in gratitude¡ªsomething he had sworn he would never do for anyone. Then he bowed, touching his forehead to the deck and whispering his thanks.

    ¡°It is my job,¡± she whispered.

    Gontran stood and looked at her, wondering in all seriousness if she was human, or divine. Then his eyes fell on Annibale, sitting with his back to the mainmast, a wrathful expression on his face. He spat toward Gontran.

    Gontran lunged toward Annibale and raised his fist to punch him. Before he could strike, Ra¡¯isa pulled him back. She was shockingly strong.

    ¡°We still need them,¡± she said. ¡°We still have mission.¡±

    ¡°What mission?" Gontran said. ¡°Who cares about the mission? You still want to go to Venice, a place crawling with these guys, this filth?¡±

    ¡°You should know of filth, Capitano Cane,¡± Annibale said. ¡°It¡¯s your element, is it not?¡±

    This time Ra¡¯isa was unable to restrain Gontran¡ªor she let him go¡ªand he punched Annibale as hard as he could, knocking the Venetian to the deck. Gontran¡¯s fist hurt, and he even lost one health¡ªhe was only an Apprentice Brawler (3/10)¡ªbut that didn''t stop him. He kicked Annibale¡¯s belly, forcing the wind from the Venetian¡¯s lungs so that he gaped on the wooden floorboards like a fish plucked from the sea. Then Gontran dragged Annibale to the nearest pile of shit on the deck, shoved his face in it, and even grabbed it and stuffed it into his mouth.

    ¡°You like that?¡± Gontran growled. ¡°You want some more?¡±

    Ra¡¯isa pulled him back. ¡°Enough,¡± she said. ¡°You cannot treat prisoner like this. Even prisoner you hate.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll make him row in the morning,¡± Gontran said. ¡°We¡¯ll whip him hard the instant he slows down. We¡¯ll see how he likes it.¡±

    Annibale spat out the shit in his mouth. ¡°Do whatever pleases you, Capitano Cane. I will always be a bright Hyperion, and you a dark satyr¡ª¡±

    ¡°I think he¡¯s talked enough for one day,¡± Gontran said to Ra¡¯isa. He picked up a Venetian cutlass lying on the deck and, before anyone could stop him, cut a strip of cloth from Annibale¡¯s fine black velvet doublet. Then he tied this strip around Annibale¡¯s mouth. For a moment the Venetian glared at him and spoke more, but his voice was too muffled to understand.

    ¡°Big improvement,¡± Gontran said to Ra¡¯isa, tucking the cutlass into his belt. ¡°Make shitheads shut the fuck up forever.¡±

    She smiled, and in response he felt something flicker within him, a sweetness he had forgotten. He wondered again: how could he have never noticed her?

    She was just a warrior, he thought. A brutal peasant woman. Too manly for my tastes. One of the cultists who gave her life to the uprising, who would have done anything for Herakleia. I didn¡¯t personally like her, but I respected her. And now¡­

    Gontran recalled that he was still covered in filth. Though it was night, and sharks were prowling the sea, their serrated jaws gaping wide into the sloshing brine, he needed to wash himself, and he knew how to swim thanks to learning back in the old world. At once he left Ra¡¯isa, went belowdecks, and found soap, a towel, a flask of fresh water, and a change of clothes. Back on deck, he explained what he was up to, and apologized to the amazons, who were the only ones awake. They turned away as he stripped off his disgusting clothes and tossed them over the side. Then, dangling a rope into the sea, he lowered himself into the freezing brine for just a moment, and scrubbed his flesh hard, worried that a shark would lunge from the deep and bite his feet off.

    Pulling himself back on deck, he sudsed his skin with soap, rinsed off the saltwater with some fresh water, toweled himself dry, and pulled on his new clothes, conscious of his nudity, afraid to see if the amazons were watching. This improved his health by one point, leaving him at 75/100. Shivering, he wrapped himself in the blankets beneath the red tenda di comando, where the amazons were already waiting. The rest of the crew was still asleep, unaware of their freedom.

    ¡°Should we wake them?¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°Let them rest,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°They need strength tomorrow.¡±

    He remembered that there was another Venetian ship prowling nearby, the Liona. Forgetting the cold, he bolted out of the blankets and looked into the distant darkness for the candle flame he had seen earlier. It was still in the same spot. His shoulders fell, and he sighed with relief.

    ¡°Jesus,¡± he whispered, falling back into the blankets.

    ¡°We come to Venice in morning,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°Maybe afternoon.¡±

    ¡°How¡¯s that possible?¡± Gontran said. ¡°We sailed halfway up the Adriatic in just one day?¡±

    ¡°We work hard, make good time,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°Annibale tells me.¡±

    ¡°What are we going to do?¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°You are katapan. You decide¡ªCapitano Cane.¡± Ra¡¯isa laughed, as did the other amazons.

    ¡°Captain Dog,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Very funny. Still.¡± He looked at Annibale, who was sitting slumped against the mast in the darkness, his head turned away. ¡°Still, getting enslaved for one day was enough. I¡¯m not getting enslaved again.¡±

    ¡°Now we take hostages,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°Annibale and his friends¡ªGiovanni, Marco, Agustin¡ªthey are important. They are, how do you say in Yewnan?? Big shots. We return them to Venice in exchange.¡±

    ¡°In exchange for what?¡± Gontran said. ¡°You think the city¡¯s going to ally with us if we threaten their little golden boys?¡±

    ¡°In exchange for respect,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°The chance to speak.¡±

    Gontran shook his head. ¡°No. I¡¯m not going there. They¡¯ll kill us, enslave us, steal the ship and drown us. There¡¯s no reason to go. We¡¯ve seen what they¡¯re like. They¡¯re just as bad as when they came to Trebizond. Nothing has changed. The words that¡¯ll change their minds don¡¯t exist, Ra¡¯isa. They don¡¯t care about words¡ªthey just care about money.¡±

    ¡°Sounds familiar.¡± She smiled at her friends.

    ¡°No¡ªnot like me,¡± Gontran said. ¡°They can¡¯t be trusted. There are other cities. We can try the Normans in Sicily. There¡¯s¡ª¡±

    ¡°We vote in morning.¡± Ra¡¯isa looked at her fellow amazons, all of whom were falling asleep. ¡°When crew wakes.¡±

    Gontran clutched his head. ¡°Right, let the crew decide.¡± He thought, but did not say: let the morons decide.

    ¡°You think we want to die?¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°You think we like the living death of slavery?¡±

    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    The image of Annibale on top of Ra¡¯isa flashed in Gontran¡¯s mind. ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°I have given more to uprising than you know. We have duty, all of us. We must all sacrifice.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡± Gontran watched her, remembering how intimidating she could be, afraid of telling her that it was simplistic to divide the world into us versus them. ¡°Still, it¡¯s strange. Evil never seems like it has to work that hard. But good always has to do so much.¡±

    Ra¡¯isa shrugged. ¡°For Venetians, it¡¯s easy. They have money¡ªlots of money. They pay soldiers. And those soldiers have choice. They can be bad, and get money now. Or they can be good, and maybe get money later. Many choose money now. It¡¯s easy. Simple. As for us, what do we have? Only people. Many people. And to have many people, it is hard to organize. Money tempts us. Tempts us to betray. For us, everything is harder. But there is difference: we are right.¡±

    Gontran thought that they sounded like cult members when they talked like this, splitting the world into black and white, good and evil.

    Yet this is what science teaches, Ra¡¯isa said in his thoughts. Some things in nature are true, others false. Gravity is not up for argument.

    ¡°Where did you learn about gravity?¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°At uprising school. Strategos taught me.¡±

    ¡°Alright, but look. Human societies aren¡¯t as simple as nature.¡±

    ¡°Humans are part of nature,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°You cannot separate them when it is convenient for you. And do you not speak of ¡®human nature¡¯¡ªthis simple human nature that is always greedy, that is always cruel¡ªonly when we speak of destroying slavery, feudalism, wage labor? Does this not excuse injustice? If human nature is always same, why do we not live in caves or forests, like first men, first women? We are on ship in middle of sea!¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to talk about this anymore,¡± Gontran said. He was feeling angry, frustrated, confused. Despite the fact that, as a rogue, his intelligence was at Journeyman level (6/10), this happened whenever he argued with Mazdakists. You could never change their minds. They always had an answer for everything.

    ¡°Of course not, katapan,¡± Ra¡¯isa said.

    Gontran had the sense that she was toying with him. Yet her eyelids were trembling, and she was struggling to keep them open. She must have been exhausted. Unlike Gontran, she had never gotten a break since their capture. Yet she was still strong enough to smoke him in an improvised debate¡ªin her second language.

    ¡°You can sleep,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll keep an eye on our prisoners and make sure the Liona doesn¡¯t sneak up on us.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°Wake us at dawn. The Liona will be watching.¡±

    ¡°Right. Then we¡¯ll have to argue about our next moves in a committee.¡±

    ¡°Democracy makes us stronger, even if it seems inconvenient.¡± Ra¡¯isa shut her eyes, lay back in the blankets, and stretched out her limbs like a cozy cat. Gontran wanted to keep arguing with her, but she was snoring before he could think of a rebuttal.

    He chuckled. It was funny that she had fallen asleep so fast.

    Such a true believer, she passes out in the middle of lecturing me about democracy.

    Gontran had no problem with voting every year or two for representatives in the government. But to make everyone vote everywhere all the time? It was so chaotic, obeying an emperor almost would have made more sense! Still, he had already talked about this with Mazdakists. What had Herakleia told him? ¡°The way you think about worker democracy is the way feudal lords and slave masters think about liberal democracy.¡±

    He scoffed. Might work in theory, but not in practice.

    Yet he could even hear Herakleia¡¯s response. ¡°If something is good in theory, it¡¯ll also be good in practice. Nobody says the theory of relativity, for instance, is good in theory, but not in practice.¡±

    But this was an effective way to stay awake¡ªjust keep thinking about politics. Gontran could argue with his memories like a madman all night. The best thing about this was that, unlike in real life, he always won. His rhetorical abilities always rendered his mental opponents speechless.

    His eyes fell on Annibale, barely visible in the brazier light. The Venetian¡¯s eyes were closed, and his head was tilted to the side, the black velvet rag still tied around his mouth, his face smeared with shit. Gontran had never in his life thought he could stuff shit in a person¡¯s mouth. But these Venetians made him so angry, they pushed him to new extremes.

    I thought I knew who I was. ¡®Know thyself¡¯¡ªit¡¯s such a basic concept. But I had barely scratched the surface.

    Being here had taught him about his own nature. It was always changing. It changed depending on circumstance. For instance, at this point he could hardly remember his name in the old world. Back there, a thousand years in the future, across what the Arab navigators called the Green Sea of Darkness¡ªthe Atlantic¡ªGontran was a girl named Helena Lee. She was a Sere. That¡¯s what people here might call her. A lonely, mousy girl dedicated to her studies in a strange place where everyone spent many years in school. That was there. When he had been transported here¡ªsomehow¡ªhe had changed. Bit by bit, he had stopped being Helena Lee, and had transformed into Gontran Koraki, the rogue Frankish merchant and runaway peasant who had gotten caught up in a slave revolt in Roman¨ªa. It was like that story from the old world¡ªthe one about going to the planet Mars. (People in that place told each other these kinds of fanciful tales.) These characters went to Mars, and then slowly transformed into Martians, to the point where they became unrecognizable both in their appearances as well as their thinking. That story had terrified him when he had read it, but the same thing was happening to him here.

    This place is changing me.

    Dawn lightened the darkness. This, as usual, presented problems. What was the Paralos crew supposed to do about the Liona? The latter ship would sail for Venice the instant the blinding forehead of the sun peaked above the horizon. Even now, the sun was tinging the night with the deepest shades of blue, and the stars were beginning to fade. If the Paralos followed the Liona, they would need to keep up their brutal pace, and spend another day oaring like¡ªwell, like galley slaves. But if the Paralos showed the slightest sign of trouble, the Liona would attack, forcing the Paralos to fight or flee.

    What do I do?

    He shook the crew awake, one by one, bringing them bread, cheese, and watery wine. It was amazing to see their reactions as he told them they were free. Each had been too tired to wake when their manacles had been unlocked; they had slept on the benches piled atop each other. Now it was the sweetest thing for them to learn that they were no longer enslaved. Some men sprang up, shouted, pumped their fists, grabbed each other¡¯s hands, and danced in circles, improvising entire songs, startling the others. All were exhausted, but their fatigue vanished when they realized that they were now working for themselves rather than for their masters. Quickly they cleaned the deck and returned to their usual tasks, though most took a moment to spit on the four chained Venetians and curse them. The fifth man, the drummer who seemed to be a slave¡ªhe had been chained up since his arrival onboard, his skin filthy and clothed in rags¡ªbowed to Gontran on one knee and swore him allegiance. Gontran rolled his eyes, helped him up, and asked his name.

    ¡°Drosaik, my lord,¡± he said, looking to the four Venetians chained to the mast. ¡°Do not mistake me for one of those kurac. I am from Lastova. They captured and enslaved me many months ago. They burned my village, and anyone they did not enslave they killed¡ª¡±

    ¡°That was a pirate¡¯s nest,¡± Annibale said, having woken up and struggled free from the cloth gagging his mouth. ¡°Lastova, the last refuge of the Narentani. We only gave you and your bastard friends what they deserved, Narentano. I would do it again, a thousand times I would. Pagan scum Sclaveni like you are fit only to be slaves, or to be impaled upon my rapier like chunks of meat roasting over an open flame¡ª¡±

    Drosaik walked past Gontran, seized Annibale¡¯s black velvet collar with one hand, and punched him hard with the other, splashing the air with blood. He was winding up for another punch when Gontran pulled him back.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Drosaik cried. ¡°Take your hand away!¡±

    ¡°Sorry.¡± Gontran eyed Ra¡¯isa, who was watching him while sipping water from a flask. ¡°She stopped me from killing this guy last night. But we need to keep him fresh.¡±

    ¡°Fresh? Fresh for what?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the question.¡± Gontran let Drosaik go. The Narentine pirate glared down at Annibale as if about to spit on him again.

    ¡°No,¡± Drosaik said. ¡°You are not good enough for my spit.¡±

    Annibale the witty poet could think of no response. He just turned away.

    Gontran looked over the side of the ship to the Liona¡ªstill visible in the distant murk of early morning.

    He turned back to the crew. ¡°Everyone, we need to make up our minds. Do we continue onward to Venice, or should we go someplace else?¡±

    ¡°To Venecija?¡± Drosaik said. ¡°Why would you go to such a place? What will they do except put you in irons once more?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s only what you deserve,¡± Annibale said.

    Gontran told him to shut up, then replaced the gag around his mouth, and tightened it.

    ¡°The council want us to go to Venice,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°To Venice, then, we should go.¡±

    Much of the crew nodded their assent, though some were speaking with one another. Diaresso was leaning over the side, looking to the west, almost as though he wanted to dive into the sea and swim all the way back to the Libyan shore, to the orchards along the Maghreb coast. He had been silent and sullen since regaining his freedom.

    ¡°Well?¡± Gontran said to him. ¡°What do you think?¡±

    These words startled Diaresso. He glared at Gontran, then looked back to the sea. ¡°Each adventure you drag me into is worst than the last. I have been thinking for some time of going my own way.¡±

    Gontran shrugged. ¡°I know this trip hasn¡¯t been easy for you. But you can¡¯t go it alone. Nobody survives out here by themselves.¡±

    ¡°And yet to be with you is worse than being alone. I swore I would never be enslaved again¡ªand look at what happened to me! What if the Venetians had slain the warrior women? Then where would we be?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re lucky they didn¡¯t.¡±

    Diaresso scoffed. ¡°Luck is all you have, not skill, not intelligence. And luck, as they say, has a habit of changing.¡± He looked to the crew. ¡°They seek to travel to Venice. That is their folly. I shall not join them. I shall not risk a third enslavement. Once was a horror, twice a tragedy. The third time shall kill me, and doom my family to unspeakable torment for the rest of their days upon this Earth. Days? Ha! They shall not be days. Even with the sun blazing in their faces, they shall know only night for the rest of their lives, if such an existence can even be called life.¡±

    ¡°Diaresso¡ª¡±

    ¡°Do not speak to me again. I am not yours to command. Should we sight land to the west, all I ask of you is that you let me go ashore. By the grace of Allah, I shall find my way home.¡±

    Gontran looked at him, almost too sad to speak. ¡°If that¡¯s what you want.¡±

    ¡°I know not wants, only needs, giaour. I need to survive. And here¡­¡± He looked down to the waves swirling in the darkness beneath the ship. ¡°There is no chance of that. This expedition is doomed. It was folly from the very first.¡±

    ¡°Katapan!¡± shouted David Halevi¡ªrebellious son of a rabbi, and now a Kitezhi sailor¡ªpointing to the bow. ¡°Look!¡±

    All the bustle on the Paralos stopped, and everyone turned toward the direction Halevi was indicating. It was the Liona. Her crew must have noticed that something was amiss with her prize. Now the Venetian ship was rowing toward the Paralos.

 5. Our Partnership Is Over

    The Paralos crew decided to feign their continued enslavement in order to capture the Liona. This would be difficult, and it could mean fighting hundreds of sailors. Drosaik warned that the Liona¡¯s crew was mostly Venetian, adding that even the rowers worshipped the lion of San Marco.

    ¡°Soon they worship god of the death,¡± Ra¡¯isa said.

    To prepare for the engagement, the Paralos crew first chained up Annibale, Morosini, Ludovici, and Battista (who were also gagged) in the hold. Since Annibale¡¯s clothes were torn and disgusting, Gontran took a different black velvet doublet and tights from the drowsy, depressed, and hungover Marco Morosini¡ªat sword point. Just as Gontran was finishing putting on his new clothes, which reeked of wine and sweat, he noticed the figure of Talia shining in the darkness like a bronze statue beside a pile of swords and miniature basiliks which the Venetians had stolen from his crew.

    ¡°I forgot about her,¡± Gontran said to himself. ¡°Maybe we aren¡¯t so screwed after all.¡±

    Morosini tried to speak through his gag to Annibale, who shook his head¡ªonce¡ªso angrily it was a miracle he didn¡¯t break his own neck.

    Gontran approached Talia, opened her firebox, and with his flint and steel smashed sparks into the piles of coal inside her. Once flames were leaping in her chest, he closed her firebox back up again. Two blue flames ignited in her segmented metal eyes, which focused as her head turned to face him, startling the Venetians, whose shouts of fright were muffled by their gags as they struggled to escape, their manacles ringing against the wooden pillar to which they were chained.

    ¡°Trouble?¡± Talia said to Gontran with her pipe organ voice.

    ¡°You said it.¡± Gontran picked up his pistol-sword from the nearby pile and tucked it into his belt. ¡°Slave masters.¡±

    ¡°I hate slave masters.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°Slave masters and merchants are all scum, reaping where they do not sow.¡±

    ¡°Hang on, let¡¯s not tar everyone with the same brush.¡±

    The Venetians watched, transfixed, as Talia and Gontran climbed back to the deck, the latter explaining the plan to the former. At first Gontran and the amazons thought they could position Talia by the mainmast and have her pretend to be a bronze statue, but¡ªsince statues usually lack flaming blue eyes and steam hissing from their segmented limbs¡ªthis was soon found to be impractical. She hid, instead, behind the red tenda di comando among the steering oars. Gontran smoothfed his hair and clasped his hands behind his back¡ªwhich he straightened, pacing back and forth in the most Venetian way he could manage, as his crew returned to their benches and clasped themselves in their manacles, though this time these were kept unlocked. They hid swords at their sides. Since Dmitri Anatolyevich and Athanasius would have difficulty moving around, given that each was missing a leg, they were equipped with miniature basiliks. Ibn Ismail, with his one arm, had a sword. Doctor Ubayd, in the mean time, got his medical supplies ready.

    ¡°We let them come aboard, then seize them,¡± Ra¡¯isa explained. ¡°If they are problem, we will shoot basilik and sink them.¡± She nodded to the basilik, which was still leaning over the prow.

    ¡°That could jeopardize the mission,¡± Gontran said. ¡°There¡¯s almost no way Venice will work with us to begin with¡ªand if we kill any of their leaders¡­¡±

    ¡°If we are slaves again, then mission is failure,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°If Venetians win, they kill us amazons, thinking us too dangerous. Then you, Gontran Koraki, they send to salt mines. You are soft man, soft like flower, so there you last not a day.¡± She checked his body up and down, a smile tinging the edge of her pursed lips.

    ¡°So we don¡¯t have much of a choice,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°We never do,¡± Ra¡¯isa said.

    The amazons hid belowdecks and armed their miniature basiliks while Gontran walked back to the red tenda di comando, as far from the bowsprit as possible. With a little luck, the Venetians wouldn¡¯t recognize him until it was too late. In the mean time, the rest of the crew had gotten to work oaring the ship, though everyone¡¯s muscles were still sore from yesterday. Now they were headed for the Liona, which soon pulled up alongside them. A crewman aboard the Liona tossed a rope, and Drosaik caught it, his chains ringing, as both ships rowed in reverse to slow to a stop.

    Capitano Loredan climbed aboard with no one else save a brown-cowled monk, presumably his secretary, who was sunburned almost to a crisp, the white skin peeling from his nose and bald pate.

    ¡°Well.¡± Loredan smiled, his hands on his hips as he looked at the Paralos crew. ¡°Well, well, well. We had worried there was some trouble aboard this fine ship, but it seems you¡¯ve quite squared everything away, my dear Annibale.¡± He looked to Gontran¡ªwho was still standing as far off as possible in the red shade of the tenda di comando¡ªand narrowed his eyes. ¡°Annibale?¡±

    ¡°¨¦ un pirata!¡± the monk shouted, pointing at Gontran with a soft hand.

    The Paralos crew threw off their chains, drew their swords, and seized Loredan and his secretary. Diaresso aimed his crossbow at the Liona¡ªthe enemy crew was still only staring at them¡ªwhile the amazons climbed up from the hold clutching their miniature basiliks. Gontran drew his pistol-sword and also took aim at the Liona.

    ¡°Venetian crew!¡± he shouted. ¡°In the name of the Republic of Trebizond, surrender or die!¡±

    The Venetian crew members looked at each other for a moment, and then¡ªstanding from their rowing benches and drawing their swords¡ªthey screamed: ¡°Viva San Marco!¡±

    Hundreds leaped aboard the Paralos, and their swords clashed against those of the Kitezhi and Trapezuntines as the ship swayed. Both sides fought hard. Bodies that looked like they¡¯d been drenched in red paint tumbled to the deck, and men missing limbs crawled on the blood-soaked wood crying for acqua or voda or ner¨® as sailors¡¯ bare feet stomped their faces and crushed their hands. Gontran fired his pistol-sword into the chest of an old bald toothless man who was charging him, waving a sword¡ªwhose white beard stretched down to his chest, now red with blood as he fell to the deck, clutching his spurting wound.

    Critical hit! the game voice shouted, granting Gontran additional XP for his dexterity skill.

    He folded the pistol-sword¡¯s blades around its barrel¡ªthe metal scalding his fingers¡ªjust in time to deflect a blow from a spear wielded by a boy who looked like Joseph. Gontran froze, staring at him, unable to believe his eyes. Growling, the boy stabbed at him again, but Gontran seized the spear in his spare hand, pulled it loose, and smashed the boy¡¯s face with the blunt end, knocking him to the deck. Holding his bruised face with one hand, the boy crawled away and hid beneath a pile of bodies. Gontran watched him for a moment before returning his attention to the battle.

    Things went as expected. Though the Liona had greater numbers, the Paralos had amazons, while Talia swept through the enemy like a screaming buzz saw, their bodies thumping to the deck around her, their red blood spraying everywhere. They had never seen anything like her. What was she? A knight who was armored, head to toe, in bronze? But how could a woman fight like this¡ªhow could these women move too quickly to see? Earlier they had surrendered without complaint; now they were like lions attacking a flock of sheep.

    Soon enough, the enemy crew was either fleeing to their ship or falling to their knees, dropping their weapons, and begging for mercy. Different voices cried ¡°piet¨¤!¡± across the Paralos deck.

    The enemy survivors were manacled using the chains stored in their own ship. As for the enemy dead, they were dumped over the side, their comrades crossing themselves and murmuring prayers. They had lost dozens, most of them to Talia¡ªwho was drenched in gore, the blood dripping from her fingertips. As for the Paralos crew, seven had perished¡ªincluding Doctor Abu Ubayd¡ªwhile fifteen were wounded.

    Eighty crew members left.

    Ra¡¯isa, Zaynab, and Zulaika al-Jaryia were bandaging their wounds while the other two amazons searched the Liona with Talia for Venetian stragglers.

    Capitano Loredan and his monk secretary, who was named Brother Domenico Malatesta¡ªtruly a bad head in every sense of the term¡ªhad survived. Gontran brought up Annibale and his friends from belowdecks, removed their gags, and chained them together with the Capitano and the monk under the tenda di comando. They were given water, as were the captured enemy sailors, though Annibale had the audacity to demand wine, as only befit his noble station. Gontran held the cup of water to his lips, but Annibale turned his head away.

    ¡°Suit yourself.¡± Gontran gave the water to Annibale¡¯s father Loredan, who drank, and then nodded his thanks. Soon he was staring at Talia as an amazon washed the blood from her bronze armor.

    ¡°What¡ªwhat is that?¡± Loredan said.

    ¡°Good question.¡± Gontran turned to Talia. ¡°Hey, what are you?¡±

    ¡°I am an automat¨­n,¡± she said with her pipe organ voice. ¡°By Hephaistos built.¡±

    ¡°How can that be?¡± Loredan said. ¡°Hephaistos¡ªwasn¡¯t he a pagan deity?¡±

    ¡°He is the master craftsman, and he constructed me,¡± Talia said.

    ¡°Blasphemy,¡± Brother Malatesta said. ¡°She is but a demon animated by the spirit of Satan, nothing more.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s one way of putting it.¡± Gontran winked at Talia, though he was unsure she understood.

    He next searched for Diaresso, who was by the Paralos¡¯s bowsprit, keeping away from everyone for some reason.

    Turning back to the captured Venetian leadership, Gontran asked: ¡°Listen, is there anything else we can do?¡±

    Brother Malatesta cleared his throat. ¡°Grant us our freedom, and throw yourselves into the sea.¡±

    He looked to his friends to see if they would laugh at his joke, but they were silent.

    ¡°We¡¯ll be freeing you soon enough,¡± Gontran said. ¡°We don¡¯t plan on hurting any of you.¡±

    ¡°It would be better to kill us,¡± said Marco Morosini, one of Annibale¡¯s friends, still hungover from last night. ¡°For the shame of losing to a pack of women.¡±

    ¡°Try not to feel so bad,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Lots of people made the same mistake. You¡¯re just the most recent.¡±

    Morosini was unable to say anything in response.

    Gontran turned to Capitano Loredan. ¡°Now are you willing to listen to our proposal?¡±

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    ¡°We do not speak on strictly honorable terms,¡± Loredan said. ¡°Not as equals, I mean.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, equality, my favorite word,¡± Gontran said. ¡°But is it really possible for any two people to be perfectly equal?¡±

    ¡°In the eyes of the Lord,¡± Brother Malatesta said.

    ¡°Shut up,¡± Annibale growled.

    ¡°Listen,¡± Gontran said. ¡°You can hear us out, if you want, or you can just wait here until we drop you off in Venice. It¡¯s your choice.¡±

    No answer came from the Venetian officers.

    True believers, Gontran thought. God himself couldn¡¯t change their minds.

    He turned to the other prisoners, who were sitting all over the deck in the morning sun, their hands chained behind their backs, including the child with Joseph¡¯s face who had attacked Gontran during the battle. Drosaik had already identified the few Liona crew members who were slaves and who could be relied upon to join the uprising; one slave, he said, was a kurac who lapped at the boots of his masters like a thirsty dog¡ªJacopo Orlandi, an unransomed Pisan captured in a forgotten sea battle near Cyprus, always hopeful that his captors would release him if he just worked hard enough, always eager to rat out his fellow slaves.

    As for the few other slaves who had been trapped aboard the Liona, they were from across the Mediterranean, and wanted nothing to do with Venice. These might be persuaded to join the uprising. There was a Touareg from Sicily, Hassan Ali, bereft of his black and blue veils for months, and anxious to cover his face now that he had a chance to do so. He was joined by two Kretan Arabs. One was simply named ¡°the Cordoban,¡± though he had apparently never even been to Cordoba. ¡°It is just a family name,¡± Drosaik explained. ¡°That¡¯s all I know.¡± The other Kretan was named Abu Hafs. Diaresso spoke with all three, relieved to have found more fellow Saracens. Finally, there came four Sclavenians from Servia and Dalmatia¡ªStjepan, Kulin, Krva?, and Radoje, all Drosaik¡¯s friends, young men, thin and tired. Such people the Venetians always assumed were Narentine pirates, which meant that they were killed or enslaved on sight.

    ¡°Lot of new names to remember.¡± Gontran met their eyes. ¡°Welcome aboard, everyone. You can fight for us if you want, or we¡¯ll drop you off somewhere along the way¡ª¡±

    ¡°You fight the Veneti?¡± the Cordoban said.

    ¡°We¡¯re trying to make friends with them, but they aren¡¯t making it easy,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°I will join you if you fight them,¡± the Cordoban said. ¡°And fight you if you join them.¡±

    ¡°It might be easier if we dropped you off on the way,¡± Gontran said. ¡°The Narentine islands aren¡¯t far from here.¡±

    ¡°Yes, you can drop us off.¡± Drosaik looked away from his Sclavenian friends. ¡°We would so appreciate it. Any of the outlying islands would be¡ª¡±

    ¡°This ship is not public service.¡± Ra¡¯isa looked up from bandaging the wounded. ¡°We have mission to destroy slavery. No time for drop-offs.¡±

    Drosaik looked at her. ¡°But it might only take you a few hours, it¡¯s hardly out of your way at all¡ª¡±

    ¡°Slavery does not wait. How many will die, even as we argue here?¡±

    ¡°So you ally with slave masters to destroy slavery?¡± Drosaik looked at Gontran. ¡°Is that it? Is that your plan?¡±

    ¡°A mission to death,¡± said Hassan Ali. He had cut a black cloth from a dead Venetian, sliced a slit for his eyes, and wrapped the rest around his face. ¡°If you sail north, you shall surely die.¡±

    ¡°Rome is a greater threat than Venice,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°We focus on one foe, allying with others in the mean time.¡±

    ¡°You do not know your true enemy,¡± the Cordoban said. ¡°Rome is weak, while every day the Veneti grow stronger.¡±

    Hassan Ali nodded. ¡°You join with a rampant lion to kill an old ailing dog.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s your opinion,¡± Gontran said. ¡°We have a different perspective. Take it or leave it.¡±

    ¡°We leave it,¡± said Stjepan, who until then had been silent. ¡°All of us.¡±

    Ra¡¯isa stood. ¡°Then will you be our prisoners, too? Our passengers?¡± She gestured to the Paralos. ¡°Is this warship or pleasure cruise?¡±

    ¡°Hang on a minute,¡± Gontran said. ¡°You always like putting things to votes, so let¡¯s put it to a vote with the crew. These guys want to go home. I think we should let them. It could bring about a lot of good will around here. It doesn¡¯t sound like the Venetians are too popular in these parts.¡±

    Ra¡¯isa eyed him. ¡°Democracy works only when it suits you, flower.¡±

    Gontran checked with the rest of the Paralos crew members. Most, at that time, were busy tending their wounds; a few were giving the prisoners water. When Gontran explained the situation with the Venetians¡¯ freed slaves, the crew¡¯s reaction was almost unanimous: drop them off on the Narentine Islands. Visibly amused, Ra¡¯isa had been watching Gontran speak with the crew¡ªwhat he was doing was called canvassing, wasn¡¯t it?¡ªand she smirked and nodded when he told her the results. He had gained leadership XP, in the meantime, and was getting close to leveling up to Intermediate (5/10).

    ¡°These islands are like a hornet¡¯s nest,¡± Capitano Loredan growled. ¡°The Narentini pretend to be fishermen, but they become sharks the moment they are aroused by the scent of blood. They will kill us all, take our ships, and¡ª¡±

    ¡°So they¡¯re Venetians, basically,¡± Gontran said. He looked at Ra¡¯isa. ¡°It¡¯s always projection with these guys. They think they¡¯re angels, meanwhile all the terrible shit they do to the rest of the world, they say the rest of the world is actually doing to them.¡±

    Loredan sat up. ¡°The Rep¨´blega follows rules, laws, regulations. We have an assembly much like that which you utilize aboard this fine vessel of yours, called the Concio in our tongue, in which all citizens choose the doge, the highest and most powerful office in ?a Rep¨´blega de Venesia. We only take the most reasonable, moderate actions. Really, we are more similar than you realize¡ªnot like these barbarians without culture, these thieves.¡± He sneered at the freed slaves.

    ¡°Yeah, I know all about that,¡± Gontran said. ¡°It sounds pretty familiar. The citizens get to choose from a few rich candidates to explain the decisions of the rich to everyone else. That¡¯s how it works, isn¡¯t it? And meanwhile, half the people living in your country are disenfranchised. They either don¡¯t vote, or they can¡¯t vote.¡±

    Why do I always instantly become a Mazdakist the moment I find myself arguing with aristocratic shitheads? Gontran thought. The Mazdakists take things too far¡­all we need is a liberal democracy that doesn¡¯t get corrupt, that has good checks and balances.

    ¡°That¡¯s preposterous,¡± Loredan said. ¡°Anyone is welcome to vote if they wish¡ª¡±

    ¡°Do the slaves vote?¡± Gontran said. ¡°The prisoners? The peasants on these plantations you want so badly? The women? The children?¡±

    Loredan laughed nervously. ¡°Ridiculous. Shall we ask newborn babes their opinion of political matters as well? What about the birds in the trees? The fish in our nets? Shall we pause our process of decision-making to consult the fish?¡±

    ¡°And they only vote once every few years, don¡¯t they?¡± Gontran said. ¡°The real decisions are all made behind the scenes.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s only natural that those men with property, those with the most to lose, should have the greatest interest in the Rep¨´blega¡¯s political affairs. We cannot let the majority tyrannize the rest.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard enough.¡±

    ¡°But they will kill us,¡± Loredan said. ¡°If you bring us to the Narentini¡ª¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll keep you safe,¡± Gontran said. ¡°We need you for our own purposes.¡± He looked to the freed slaves. ¡°That¡¯s the deal. We let you guys go, but you also need to let the Venetians go.¡±

    ¡°I would cut all their throats, given the chance,¡± Drosaik said. ¡°After seeing what such men have done to their fellows.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t do that,¡± Gontran said.

    Drosaik looked to the other freed slaves. After conferring with one another, they nodded their agreement to Gontran.

    ¡°The Narentines cannot be trusted,¡± Loredan said. ¡°They will kill us in our sleep!¡±

    ¡°Yeah, well I¡¯m going to kill you while you¡¯re awake if you don¡¯t shut up,¡± Gontran said.

    The Paralos crew was divided among the two ships, which then set sail eastward to the Narentine Islands. The Liona¡¯s crew had wanted to elect Diaresso katapan, but he had refused¡ªperhaps out of modesty¡ªso instead they chose David Halevi the Kitezhi, a man from among their ranks. As they departed, the crews made sure to pull down the Venetian flags on the two vessels, storing them belowdecks. The Paralos still had its red flag, but the Liona sailed behind it with no flag at all. The sailors considered this a bad omen.

    ¡°We should make a new red flag for you.¡± Drosaik eyed the prisoners. ¡°We can use their blood to dye a white sail canvas.¡±

    ¡°No offense, but that¡¯s insane,¡± Gontran said. ¡°And, like, not in a good way. The Venetians might have been bastards, but they never made flags with our blood.¡±

    ¡°Their entire city is built with blood,¡± Drosaik said. ¡°Its walls and rooftops are wrought from the congealed blood of slaves.¡±

    Gontran laughed uneasily, unsure of how to react. Part of him started to wonder if maybe these Narentines were right.

    ¡°Is it true?¡± Gontran whispered to Ra¡¯isa. ¡°Are we wasting our time with these Venetians? Maybe we should be trying to ally with all these other people here.¡±

    ¡°They are weak,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°That is why. Venice works to conquer the world, and what do these Narentines do? They fish, they fight among themselves, they steal what they can from passing ships. They have no vision, no organization. We can be friendly with them, but they are useless to us.¡±

    ¡°Ra¡¯isa¡ª¡±

    ¡°You are more familiar with these parts, are you not?¡± she said. ¡°You traveled and worked in the Adriatic, the Gulf of Venice, with your friend Diaresso for years before coming to Trebizond, is that not so? Tell me, did you ever think of the Narentine pirates?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Not really. I was actually thankful that the Venetians mostly cleaned things up. It made working out here so much easier, at least as long as you played by the Venetians¡¯ rules.¡±

    ¡°You see?¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°You argue for me.¡±

    It wasn¡¯t long before an island was sighted. Sansego, the freed slaves called it¡ªa small northwestern outlier in the Lussino Archipelago¡ªa patch of curving green forest and sand recumbent on the languid blue sea. It had only one small fishing village, an abbey of quiet brick, and a few fishing boats lying on the white beach, but one of these would be enough for the slaves to find their way home. As it turned out, Sansego was even Radoje¡¯s birthplace, which naturally meant that he invited everyone aboard¡ªsave the prisoners¡ªfor dinner in his village. The Trapezuntines and Kitezhi politely declined.

    ¡°You do not want to eat the food on Sansego,¡± Drosaik whispered to Gontran. ¡°It is no good.¡±

    The two ships rowed as close to the beach as they dared, as villagers emerged from their huts of mud and thatch to see what the fuss was about, shading their eyes in the setting sunlight and shouting questions to the sailors in Mediterranean pidgin. A few answered while Gontran and Ra¡¯isa bid the freed slaves farewell, and asked them to put in a good word for the uprising among their countrymen.

    ¡°I will do what I can,¡± Drosaik said. ¡°But you must know, if you succeed in making common cause with Venice, all these islands here will swear themselves your enemies.¡±

    ¡°Well, what are you gonna do?¡± Gontran said.

    They shook hands, and the freed slaves leaped over the side and waded to shore. To Gontran¡¯s surprise, Diaresso was among them. Gontran grabbed Diaresso¡¯s arm before he could go and demanded to know what he was doing.

    Diaresso shook him off. ¡°Touch me again and I shall kill you where you stand, giaour.¡±

    Gontran stepped back. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you? Why are you¡ª¡±

    ¡°I tire of this place. I tire of your folly. There is more to my life than working with you, Gontran.¡±

    ¡°But you don¡¯t even know these people!¡± Gontran cried. Tears were suddenly burning his eyes. ¡°You have no idea how they¡¯ll treat you¡ª¡±

    ¡°At this point, I will take the devil unknown to me, rather than the devil I know too well. Besides, they are going.¡± He nodded to the two Kretan Arabs and the Touareg from Sicily. ¡°I have spoken with them. They have vouched for the honor of the Narentines.¡±

    ¡°Diaresso, you can¡¯t do this.¡±

    ¡°Our partnership is over, giaour. I will not give up my family for you.¡±

    ¡°But Diaresso¡ªyou¡¯re like my brother.¡±

    Diaresso wiped tears from his eyes. ¡°¡®Like¡¯ is the most important word in that sentence. I will choose my true family over those who are ¡®like¡¯ my family. I will choose my true family over those who risk my true family¡¯s lives.¡± He leaped over the side.

    ¡°Diaresso!¡± Gontran shouted. ¡°But what about Tamar?¡±

    ¡°We are no longer lovers,¡± Diaresso said over his shoulder as he waded to shore. ¡°She is strong, and will find another man to care for her, if she even needs one. Besides, she was fond of you, was she not?¡±

    ¡°Diaresso!¡± Gontran shouted.

    Everyone was staring at Gontran. Ra¡¯isa restrained him as he struggled to leap over the side.

    ¡°It is his choice,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°Diaresso is not your pet. He is a man.¡±

    Gontran turned away from the freed slaves walking to the beach, where Radoje was already embracing those villagers who were presumably his family members. They were celebrating, leaping and crying out for joy, clearly having never expected to see each other again¡ªwondering even if they were still alive.

    First I lost Joseph. Now I¡¯ve lost Diaresso. By the end of this mission, will I have anything or anyone left?

    ¡°We¡¯ve been together for years,¡± Gontran said. A tear ran down his cheek; Ra¡¯isa wiped it away with one of her long dark elegant tattooed fingers. ¡°Since I came to the Mediterranean, he¡¯s been with me. He¡¯s always been by my side. It¡¯ll never be the same without him.¡±

    ¡°This is his path.¡± Ra¡¯isa looked to the sea. ¡°He has his own way. As for us, we have ours.¡±

    Before long, orders were given to sail north. The crews of the Paralos and the Liona rowed away from the island of Sansego, turning their prows north to Venice, the wooden beams creaking in the wind, the hulls tearing the placid waves.

 6. Highstream

    Night. The number of stars shining in the darkness never ceased to stun Gontran. He had been trapped in this game almost a year, and each clear night left him feeling the same¡ªnot only amazed at the sight of so many galaxies and nebulae, the planets so clear you could almost see their moons and rings, the clouds scarring their atmospheres, the green cat scratches in Venusian skies, the red staring cyclops eye of Jupiter, the sandstorm seasons of Mars. No, it wasn¡¯t only that. The Earth orbited the sun, and not the other way around, and this fact was staring everyone in the Middle Ages in the face, and yet almost none of them even thought about it. Except for a few philosophers who had been dead for centuries, and whose copied manuscripts were being gobbled by worms and moths in the archives of one or two frigid Swabian monasteries, nobody knew. The way medieval people thought about things worked well enough¡ªthe sun and moon were planets, too, in their minds, since planet meant ¡°wanderer,¡± and what did these lights do but wander? You planned the seeding, manuring, weeding, and harvesting by keeping an eye on them every now and then; what they were actually doing didn¡¯t matter. In Gontran¡¯s time, there were cloudless, moonless nights when you couldn¡¯t even see Venus thanks to all the light pollution, yet people there generally knew that the Earth was moving around the sun. All the same, most were too busy to care that they were standing on the surface of spaceship Earth. Gontran didn¡¯t blame them.

    So much is obscured, he thought, looking at the silhouette of Ra¡¯isa leaning over the side of the Paralos in the darkness. She was watching the starlight curve, flash, and bend in the dancing sea. Even when the universe is practically screaming in our faces, we can¡¯t hear.

    For a little while the Paralos and the Liona had stopped, and they were swaying as the Adriatic¡¯s wavelets gently slapped their hulls. The crew ate a quiet dinner in the starlit dark, keeping the torches doused for fear of Venetian warships lurking in the night. The only light aboard was Talia¡¯s two shining blue eyes.

    Food was shared with the prisoners. The Venetian stores in the belly of the Liona were little different from Greek fare, or even the food in Gontran¡¯s hometown of Metz in northern France. Absent the miracle of indigenous cuisine¡ªthe tomatoes, potatoes, squashes, jalape?os, peanuts, avocados, and corn of the New World; plus all the saffron spices of the East¡ªmedieval Christian cooking was bland at best, and often disgusting to Gontran¡¯s tongue. Pickled fish, eel pie, and other nauseating monstrosities were the norm from London to Latakia. Salt was expensive, pepper rare, and sugar almost unheard of. The plainer fare was better¡ªcheese, bread, roasted meat, all washed down with black Trapezuntine wine. Gontran was drinking more of it than ever these days to cope with the stress of being here. And yet as he thought about it, he wouldn¡¯t have it any other way. Fighting for something that mattered wasn¡¯t easy, but it was better than fighting for nothing at all. That¡¯s the way it was back in the old world. Just going through the motions. Living¡ªif it could be called that¡ªthrough a slow-motion zombie apocalypse, one that was taking years to unfold. Never like in the movies. Reality was so much less dramatic, yet at the same time much harder to believe. You felt like you were alone even in the company of your closest friends and family, if you were lucky enough to have those to begin with. Everyone competing with each other in the rat race. What did Buddhists call it? Samsara, the game of life. Moksha meant breaking free from the karmic chains of the past¡ªswelling your muscles, bursting out of the manacles, bending steel like it was soft as butter. It seemed so similar to Mazdakism, what Herakleia wouldn¡¯t shut up about, ¡°the key to not only understanding the world,¡± she said, ¡°but changing it.¡±

    Some Venetian prisoners thanked the Paralos crew for feeding them; others took the food without speaking; the officers refused to eat.

    ¡°Suit yourself,¡± Gontran told them. ¡°We¡¯re almost there. We should be back by tomorrow.¡±

    ¡°Might I inquire,¡± Capitano Loredan said, ¡°what is it, exactly, that you intend to do with us?¡±

    ¡°We give some scratches here and there,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°Then we give you back to your friends.¡±

    The Venetians¡¯ eyes widened. Gontran and Ra¡¯isa laughed together.

    ¡°Strange to feel so powerless, isn¡¯t it?¡± Gontran said. ¡°In the future, maybe you¡¯ll think twice about enslaving everyone you can get your hands on?¡±

    ¡°Perhaps,¡± Loredan said.

    ¡°He will return to his old ways,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°The instant he goes to Venetian land.¡±

    ¡°And we haven¡¯t even made you work,¡± Gontran said. ¡°All we did was make you sit here.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s been quite painful enough, thank you.¡± Loredan eyed Ra¡¯isa. ¡°And rather terrifying to see a woman like this¡ªif you can even call her a woman¡ªthe way she has quite forgotten her place. You let these women control you¡ªand that is your problem, you see¡ª¡±

    Ra¡¯isa roared and swiped at him like a cat, and Loredan cried out in fear¡ª¡°oh, Jesus Christ, save me!¡±¡ªthough she never actually touched him. Once more, Ra¡¯isa made Gontran laugh. Brother Domenico Malatesta gulped deeply and then crossed himself, his chains ringing with his movements.

    ¡°There¡¯s no use in talking to them, uncle,¡± Annibale said. ¡°They live only to torture us like demons.¡±

    ¡°Yes, very demonic,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°Certainly I am.¡±

    ¡°Verily, thus has always been the way of the Saraceni,¡± said Brother Malatesta. ¡°They have always been a blight upon this Earth, a confused mass of dark rabble.¡±

    ¡°We aren¡¯t all Saracens, you know,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°The rest of you are heathens,¡± Malatesta said. ¡°Heathens, schismatics, and apostates, all destined to burn in eternal hellfire.¡± He laughed maniacally at Gontran. ¡°You think you¡¯ve won, heathen, but your torment is just beginning!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure.¡± Gontran smirked at Ra¡¯isa.

    Some members of the crew with better eyesight had noticed an orange glow on the horizon. It was too early for sunrise, and besides, the light lay to the north.

    ¡°Venesia,¡± said Agustin Ludovici, one of Annibale¡¯s friends. This was the first word he had spoken since being chained up.

    ¡°Should we attack?¡± Gontran said to Ra¡¯isa. ¡°What do you think?¡±

    ¡°We can surprise them,¡± she said. ¡°They never expect us at night.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s the trouble of navigating the lagoon,¡± Gontran said. ¡°I hear it¡¯s hard enough by daylight.¡±

    ¡°I can see.¡± Talia¡¯s blue eyes suddenly blazed in the dark beside him. ¡°I will guide you.¡±

    ¡°We can head straight for the doge¡¯s palace,¡± Gontran said. ¡°I¡¯ve never been there, but I¡¯ve seen pictures. I might be able to guess where it is. Maybe we¡¯ll be able to talk with the doge when he¡¯s going to bed¡ªor something.¡±

    ¡°You think we will fail,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°You have felt like this since we left Trebizond.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a fool¡¯s errand, the whole thing,¡± Gontran said. ¡°And I¡¯m the biggest fool of all, because I know it, and I don¡¯t have to be here, and yet here I am, helping you out.¡±

    ¡°A fool and a flower at the same time,¡± she said, watching him.

    Ra¡¯isa then came close to him and did something strange, when it was too dark for anyone else to see. Drawing her face close to his, she blew on his lips, and then left before he could say or do anything.

    Butterflies fluttered in Gontran¡¯s stomach. What was that?

    ¡°You may have seen the sun,¡± he suddenly found himself singing in English, ¡°but you ain¡¯t seen it shine!¡±

    ¡°What is this song?¡± Zaynab whispered to Zulaika al-Jariya. ¡°What are these strange words?¡±

    ¡°They come from another world,¡± Zulaika said.

    The officers cleared their plan with the crew, with various members suggesting more details. Once they arrived in Venice, a small team would leave the Paralos to search for the doge. The Paralos, meanwhile, would be kept ready to sail, while the prisoners would be transferred to the Liona. Once the small team returned to the Paralos, it would depart for Trebizond. In the morning, after the Paralos was long gone, the Venetians would find their friends in the Liona.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    ¡°They will tell awful stories about us.¡± Zaynab pouted. ¡°How we fed them our own food, gave them clean water, treated them honorably, and made jokes at their expense.¡±

    ¡°The horror,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°It is better than going in there by day,¡± Halevi said. ¡°Most of the crew can stay aboard the Paralos to keep it ready to sail at the first sign of trouble.¡±

    ¡°If only the Narentine called Drosaik were still with us,¡± said Zulaika al-Jariya. ¡°He was the only one among us who has been to Venice, aside from the prisoners. And they will tell us nothing, if we ask them.¡±

    ¡°So a small team will go inside,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Me and the amazons. Talia, you¡¯re going to have to stay here¡ªyou¡¯ll attract too much attention. No offense.¡±

    ¡°I take none,¡± she said.

    ¡°Somehow we get into the doge¡¯s palace,¡± Gontran continued. ¡°We convince him¡ªor the senate, or whatever¡ªto ally with us in exchange for¡ª¡±

    ¡°Trade,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°When we destroy Rome, we let the Venetians trade.¡±

    ¡°And we pay them back for all their losses,¡± Halevi added.

    ¡°They¡¯ll never go for it,¡± Gontran said. ¡°They¡¯re just going to attack us. They already did attack us, remember? Twice! Once in Trebizond, and again, right here! I tried to make friends with these guys.¡± He jutted his head at the Venetian officers. ¡°They wouldn¡¯t listen. Don¡¯t ask me why their bosses would be any different. They¡¯ll probably be worse.¡±

    ¡°We have orders,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°The council gave us.¡±

    ¡°And if we fail, we find allies someplace else,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Sicily, where the Normans will kill us. Pisa, Genoa, Ragusa, and Amalfi, where they¡¯re all too busy killing each other to listen. Either that, or they¡¯re too weak. They¡¯re too terrified of the Venetians and the Normans to do anything outside their little corner of the Mediterranean.¡±

    ¡°There is Fustat,¡± Ra¡¯isa said.

    ¡°As likely to ally with Christians as Christians with Saracens,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°We are not all Christians,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°We could be useful to them.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡± Gontran turned to the crew members and chained prisoners watching him in the darkness, their eyes flickering blue in the light from Talia¡¯s two flames. He found Capitano Loredan. ¡°We¡¯ll take him. He¡¯ll be our hostage and our guide. He should be able to show us straight in to wherever the doge is. You hear that?¡±

    Loredan nodded nervously. Annibale, sitting beside him, rolled his eyes.

    ¡°Once you get us to the doge, we¡¯ll let you go,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Mess around with us, and we¡¯ll cut your throat and kill your son. Is that understood?¡±

    Loredan nodded rapidly. ¡°Yes, yes, of course, anything.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll talk to your fellow Venetians once we set foot in the city,¡± Gontran said. ¡°You¡¯ll tell them what¡¯s going on¡ªand tell them to let us through.¡±

    Loredan nodded again.

    ¡°He is big shot,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°The Veneti will do as he tells them.¡±

    Gontran turned to his crew. ¡°So is that it? Anyone want to add anything else? Is everyone ready to go to Venice?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± a few of them said.

    That was pretty weak, Gontran thought.

    ¡°No one on this ship want to come here,¡± Ra¡¯isa said, standing in front of Gontran. ¡°We never wish violence on these people, these Veneti. Before they come to Trebizond, I never hear of them. I never in my life hear the word ¡®Venice.¡¯ Yet they come to me and make me slave¡ªnot once, but twice. We should fight them. We should kill them for this. After all, what they do to us, they have already done to many more. But we are better. We need their help. We will do something very hard tonight. We will make Venice from an enemy into a friend.¡±

    Another faint cheer.

    ¡°This is first step,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°We make friends with Venice, then attack Konstantinopolis. With Venice fleet, and Trapezuntine-Kitezhi army, the Romans cannot stop us. We will take the great city and rule there. Peasants and workers will take Rome and never let go. There will be no more emperors and no more slave masters. And it all starts here! We will change the world here!¡±

    This time the cheer was louder.

    ¡°We are fast,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°Smart. Strong. And we fight for what is right. We will win. And what we do tonight will make a better world¡ªeven if not all here live to see it.¡±

    ¡°For Trebizond!¡± Gontran shouted.

    ¡°For Trebizond!¡± the crew shouted.

    One by one, they transferred the prisoners to the Liona, leaving only a skeleton crew aboard. Capitano Loredan and Annibale remained on the Paralos. The sails of both ships were unfurled, and the wind filled them.

    ¡°You¡¯ll never get away with this, you dogs!¡± Annibale shouted. ¡°Our friends will kill you all!¡±

    Just then, David Halevi the Kitezhi gagged him. Soon enough, this was the case for every prisoner except Capitano Loredan. Aboard the Liona, the prisoners¡¯ chains were fastened to wooden pillars in the ship¡¯s hold.

    Talia stood at the Paralos¡¯s prow with Capitano Loredan beside her, using her arms to signal instructions to navigate the lagoon. Gontran kept far behind them at the port steering oar, with Ra¡¯isa at the starboard. The Liona was sailing so close to their stern that the bowsprit almost poked Gontran¡¯s back, the ship¡¯s meager crew doing their best to follow the Paralos.

    The orange glow in the night coalesced into little flickering stars on the horizon. These grew into torch flames shining against buildings and islands, the light wavering in the sea in long graceful columns that stretched all the way to the Paralos¡¯s hull. In the faint light Gontran saw Talia raise her right arm, the signal to pilot the ship to starboard. Ra¡¯isa lifted her oar from the waves as Gontran worked his own oar, the Paralos¡¯s dark bowsprit swinging against the fire-illuminated architecture that lay before them.

    Even from this distance, and even at night, Gontran saw that the Venice lying before him was a different city compared to the one he knew from the old world. All its Gothic and Baroque domes, arches, and campaniles had yet to be built. Plenty of houses and towers were present, to be sure, but these looked like they belonged to any medieval castle and village you could find in France. Venice was only unique in that it seemed to float on the water, like the kelp on the Sargasso Sea.

    A floating city, he thought. A city on the water.

    After the Paralos worked its way through the first porto¡ªthe Lido inlet, according to Loredan¡¯s whispered instructions¡ªTalia ordered them hard to port. Gontran lifted his oar, and Ra¡¯isa paddled. Now the wind was blowing against them, so the crew reefed the sails and rowed without a drum, the oars sloshing through the sea, the water dripping from the paddles¡¯ ends making Gontran wince.

    Wanting to see more, he peered into the blackness. At this point Venice was a nightmare of murky shapes looming out of the dark, for there was no moon. When the Paralos swung to starboard once again¡ªnow heading northwest¡ªthey faced the island called Rivoalto, or Highstream, at the lagoon¡¯s heart. Here torch flames flung sparks into the sky, which flitted among the stars like fireflies. At Rivoalto¡¯s core, more buildings were clustered together¡ªthick, heavy, seeming to sink into sludge like old matrons overburdened with pearls. Gontran also made out churches, the larger ones looking like they¡¯d been gouged from Konstantinopolis, hauled across the Balkans, and dropped here, the domes piled atop each other like mushrooms on rotting trees. The sea was also covered with long narrow gondolas, which themselves were loaded with mounds of fruit, fish, and vegetables¡ªnot to mention barrels, casks, boxes, and sacks of who knew what.

    Even at this time, Gontran thought. Must be around midnight.

    Many gondolas carried so many people that they sank into the sea up to the oarlocks, forcing the passengers to bail out the fetid water spilling over the sides. The lagoon was so crowded here that some gondolas were forced to make way for the Paralos and the Liona. Someone on the piazza was plucking a lute in a style that sounded Spanish or even Arabian to Gontran¡¯s old world ears; a show of some sort was also taking place there with the actors wearing white masks.

    Gontran swallowed nervously. Far more people were around than he had expected. As the Paralos approached the mooring posts before the castle at what must have been Saint Mark¡¯s Square, the rowers lifted their oars, and Gontran and Ra¡¯isa guided the ship to the piazza¡ªwhich was a grass field rent by a stream where several apple trees were growing. On every side of the piazza¡ªsave the one facing the sea¡ªrose towers, fortresses, and churches. It was crowded there, too, and the mooring posts were also nearly all taken by empty gondolas. A soldier watching the mooring posts by the piazza strode over to the two dromons¡ªwhich were large compared to most of the other vessels present¡ªand, shaking his head and waving his hands, shouted something in thickly accented Venetian that Gontran was unable to understand, though he could guess at the meaning: ¡°You can¡¯t park that here!¡±

    By then, Gontran was with Loredan at the bowsprit. Talia had hidden herself belowdecks, and the amazons were behind him and keeping out of sight of the piazza, having loaded their miniature basiliks and sheathed their swords at their sides.

    Gontran jabbed Loredan¡¯s back with his pistol-sword. ¡°Make this happen. Get us inside the doge¡¯s palace.¡±

    Loredan cleared his throat. ¡°I am Capitano Loredan returning with part of my war fleet. I must speak with Monsignor el Doge. It is quite the emergency, I assure you.¡±

    ¡°Capitano Loredan.¡± The soldier by the mooring posts bowed. He then added something in Venetian, speaking too quickly for Gontran to understand.

    Loredan answered in even faster Venetian, and spoke with an increasingly angry tone. The soldier bowed once more, then stepped back.

    ¡°Now we go,¡± Loredan whispered to Gontran.

    A plank was lain from the ship to the pier, and Gontran, Loredan, and the amazons descended it. Behind them, the crew had already armed themselves, spreading buckets of water across the deck in case of fire arrows. The skeleton crew on the Liona, meanwhile, climbed aboard the Paralos, leaving only Halevi the Kitezhi behind to keep any nosy Venetians from discovering the prisoners tied up in the ship¡¯s hold. Gontran saw Ibn Ismail flip the Paralos¡¯s hourglass using his one arm.

    ¡°If we don¡¯t get back in half an hour,¡± Gontran had told the crew, ¡°you guys sail out of here, understand? They attack, you leave. Don¡¯t wait for us. You¡¯ll never be able to fight them off.¡±

    The Trapezuntines and Kitezhi had agreed. Halevi was in command, now. Gontran liked him well enough, but he wished that it had been Diaresso.

    Only a few people who were milling about the piazza noticed Gontran, Loredan, and the amazons crossing the grass and the little stone bridge over the stream, with the soldier who had originally tried to stop them now escorting them and even announcing their arrival to the two guards who stood at the gate to the doge¡¯s palace, which was made of iron carved with winged lions rearing on their hind legs and roaring. These guards opened the gate for Loredan and his captors, who entered the palace with what could even be called nonchalance.

 7. The Lower Orders

    After crossing a courtyard of grass and mud, the soldier took a torch from another guard and entered the palace, guiding them along its cold, dark, ornate corridors. They passed Roman statues and mosaics, as well as a giant globe representing the world¡ªits oceans and continents unrecognizable blobs to Gontran¡¯s eyes¡ªin addition to Mediterranean maps in gilded frames mounted to the walls. Even the ceilings were covered with paintings, the floors herringbone brick. Only a few guards were present. Most of these were leaning against their spears when the crew approached; the guards straightened to attention when they heard sandals shuffling on the floor.

    They ascended marble flights of stairs, the bannisters¡¯ shadows shifting on the walls which were covered with golden, cream-colored paintings, the subjects depicted there already trying to escape the weighty Middle Ages so they could soar into the airy clouds of the Renaissance.

    On the top floor were the doge¡¯s apartments. The doors opened as the Paralos crew approached, and an old man with white eyes stood there, watching them with an unusually serene facial expression. Loredan and the guard stopped and bowed on one knee, though the Paralos crew remained standing.

    ¡°Somehow I knew this day was coming,¡± the man who must have been the doge said as the amazons drew their swords and pointed them at the guard, who¡ªglancing back and forth, his mouth wide¡ªraised his hands into the air.

    Everyone entered the apartments. Ra¡¯isa locked the door, Zaynab bound and gagged Loredan and the guard, and Zulaika al-Jariya took the torch and checked the other rooms to ensure that no one was hiding there. The doge found his way to a table in the dining room and sat, gesturing to Gontran¡ªwho had followed him¡ªto do the same. But Gontran remained standing.

    ¡°You should have known better than to think that you could bargain with a Venetian,¡± the doge said. ¡°And not just any Venetian, mind you. I am the Venetian¡ªthe elected leader of the Serenissima.¡±

    ¡°You were at Trebizond, weren¡¯t you?¡± Gontran said. ¡°Herakleia mentioned you. Enrico Ziani.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I met the barbarian queen once or twice,¡± Ziani said. ¡°I was lucky the Concio didn¡¯t sack me for what happened there. They were more understanding than might be supposed. They knew that with any bold actions¡ªand we Zianis are notorious for our boldness¡ªthere comes a certain risk. They are likewise confident that we will soon more than recover our losses.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what we¡¯re here to talk about.¡± Gontran eyed the amazons. Ra¡¯isa was looking out one of the leaded glass windows to the crowded piazza, Zaynab was watching the two bound prisoners, and Zulaika was keeping an eye on the door. With his merchant¡¯s gaze Gontran noticed that the glass in the windows was of an unusually fine quality¡ªeach pane was worth its weight in golden nomismas.

    He turned back to Ziani. ¡°We have a proposal.¡±

    ¡°Must I hear it?¡± Ziani blinked his milky eyes. ¡°Do I have a choice?¡±

    ¡°We wanted to come here more politely.¡± Gontran turned to Loredan. ¡°But he wouldn¡¯t let us. He stopped our ships in the middle of the Adriatic and enslaved us.¡±

    With wide eyes Loredan grumbled behind his gag, but nobody took it off.

    ¡°It is the Venetian way,¡± Ziani said. ¡°You must understand, my good signore¡ªI didn¡¯t catch your name¡ªwe are at war. And we are also a conservative people. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard of our many rules¡ªhow, for instance, no one is allowed to leave the lagoon without permission, on pain of death. This is to ensure that we retain our work force, on the one hand, and the secrets of our merchants, on the other. The notion of Trebizond¡¯s lower orders freeing themselves, you must understand, it was quite frightening to the leadership here. This is one of many reasons for our joining the crusade against you.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Well, listen. We¡¯re here to tell you that we¡¯re willing to let you do business. Sooner or later, we¡¯re going to take over Rome. When that happens, we¡¯re willing to let your ships come and go and do as much business as you want. We can even make sure you recoup your losses from Trebizond. When we take Konstantinopolis, all the money you need is yours.¡±

    ¡°I suspect I know where this is going,¡± Ziani said.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°But we need you to help us first,¡± Gontran said. ¡°We need the Venetian armada to blockade Konstantinopolis while our army besieges the city from the land.¡±

    Ziani laughed. ¡°You know so little about us, my good sir. This city was founded by Romans. They are our ancestors¡ªand have been our allies for a thousand years. Now you wish us to turn against them for a pot of gold?¡±

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that what Venice is all about?¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± Ziani said. ¡°But what guarantees can you make that this alliance you propose will be a worthwhile investment? If your project fails, what stops the Romans from taking revenge upon us by allying with our rivals in Genova, Pisa, Amalfi, or Sicily, thereby shutting us out from the eastern trade we rely upon?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a risk,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°Oh, you¡¯re just a bunch of banditti, aren¡¯t you?¡± Ziani said. ¡°Last time I checked, there were only a few hundred¡ªmaybe a few thousand of you. We destroyed your home city. You would need hundreds of ships to blockade Constantinopoli from the sea¡ªand an army of at least a hundred thousand to attack from the land, to say nothing of the food required to feed such an army, the supplies and so on. And you know those walls have never been breached, not since Costantino il Grande built them.¡±

    ¡°We have weapons that have never been used against them,¡± Gontran said. ¡°And you know how much wealth is locked up in that place. As much in one church as you¡¯d find in the whole of Venice.¡±

    ¡°Nonsense. It can¡¯t be done.¡±

    ¡°Fortune favors the bold,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Your mistake was to attack Trebizond. We¡¯re stronger than we look, and Rome is weak. You must already know how much they rely on mercenaries to do their fighting for them.¡±

    ¡°We, too, hire mercenaries, finicky as we are about land wars. Regardless, you could never take the city without us.¡±

    ¡°Then we¡¯ll go to Genova,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Pisa. Amalfi. Sicily.¡±

    Ziani laughed. ¡°Even united, they could never hope to fight us. Altogether they have a tenth the ships we do¡ªand less than a tenth the skill at using them.¡±

    Gontran sighed and looked at the amazons. They were growing tense; time was running out. How long had they even been here? It must have been close to half an hour. He turned back to Ziani.

    ¡°What can I say to get you guys to join us?¡±

    Ziani smiled. ¡°There¡¯s nothing you can say. The lower orders are fit for work, not command. Your place is beneath us, not by our side. The mind orders and the body obeys. You are the body and we are the mind.¡±

    Your attempt to convince the doge to ally with Trebizond has failed, the game voice said.

    Even as a Journeyman, my charisma wasn¡¯t enough, Gontran thought.

    Steel boots were clomping along the hallway outside the door. Beyond the windows, the crowds milling about had vanished, replaced by columns of armored soldiers who were marching toward the doge¡¯s palace from several directions.

    Can¡¯t get out that way, Gontran thought.

    He nodded to the amazons, who were watching him. All three of them barricaded the door with Ziani¡¯s gilded couches, chairs, and tables as the soldiers on the other side pounded it and demanded that they open up¡ª¡°in nome della Rep¨´blega!¡±

    Gontran turned to Ziani. ¡°This was all just a distraction, wasn¡¯t it? You were never going to ally with us.¡±

    Ziani pouted. ¡°It was madness to think so.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s what I told them. But they never listen to me. Sorry about this, by the way.¡±

    Despite Gontran¡¯s low strength, he picked up the table before Ziani and, with a grunt, hurled it through the window. The beautiful glass exploded and, with the table, fell to the soft courtyard grass and mud below. By now all the soldiers there were gone; they had entered the palace and were stomping and shouting everywhere inside.

    Removing the rope from his bag, Gontran gestured to the amazons. ¡°Come on, that¡¯s it.¡±

    They sheathed their weapons and followed him to the broken window, climbing out carefully onto the ledge outside. Gontran tied the rope to the base of a statue of a nude, bearded, muscular man holding a spear¡ªit must have been Neptune¡ªand flung the other end down to the courtyard. Climbing over to the other side of the statue, he waved to the amazons behind him.

    ¡°You first,¡± he said. ¡°Head straight for the ship. Don¡¯t wait for me.¡±

    ¡°You are no hero,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°You go first!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to stay here and make sure the statue can hold you,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Now come on!¡±

    Ra¡¯isa was the first to climb down. When she reached the courtyard, she looked back up at the palace for only a moment, then sprinted through the gate and out onto the deserted piazza, running at full speed toward the mooring posts. Zulaika and Zaynab swiftly followed. By then, the Venetian soldiers had burst through Ziani¡¯s barricaded door. They charged through his apartments and screamed at Gontran as he descended the rope. When he was only two stories away from the ground, one soldier climbed out onto the ledge and drew his sword.

    No!

    The soldier cut the rope with one swipe, and Gontran plunged into darkness.

 8. Abbandonato

    Joseph!

    Not so bad to die¡­it means we can be together again¡­

    A man was murmuring prayers in the dark. ¡°Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum¡­¡±

    When he had finished, a woman answered: ¡°Amen.¡±

    The man asked questions in Venetian about a patient¡¯s name, when he had arrived in the hospitale, the cause of his malady. Something was said about the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn as well as the harmful miasmas wafting from the marshes on the nones.

    A fire crackled. People were coughing, and the sound echoed off moist stone walls.

    ¡°What is the patient¡¯s temperament, sister?¡± the man said.

    ¡°Nobody knows, signore,¡± the woman answered. ¡°We tried asking, but he couldn¡¯t answer. He is to Venesia a stranger.¡±

    ¡°A grave case,¡± the man said. ¡°Yet also a simple one. A fall from the doge¡¯s palace, a punishment by God for many sinful transgressions. Yet he is lucky he struck the grass and mud. Otherwise he would have passed long ago.¡±

    ¡°We pray for the Lord¡¯s forgiveness, signore.¡±

    The man laughed. ¡°Better to die, I should think. He must have a sanguine temperament, due to his adventurousness, no? We shall let blood to cool his inner fires, making an incision on the forearm below the elbow.¡±

    Medieval European medicine. Rusted tools. No disinfection.

    Gontran¡¯s stomach twisted. ¡°No,¡± he groaned, turning over in the darkness. ¡°Get away from me.¡±

    Gontran opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed in a dim hall of stone. Many other beds lay against the walls, and people were lying in all of them¡ªsometimes multiple people to a single bed. A fire burned in a brick hearth at the room¡¯s center, the smoke and sparks whirling into a square hole in the ceiling which glowed with cloudy sunlight.

    A bald man in a brown cowl and a nun were leaning over him. Both faces were drawn with concern. They looked to be in their fifties, but Gontran would have been unsurprised to learn that they were half that age.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± Gontran sat up against the wall to keep away from the monk and the nun. ¡°Really. You both did a great job. It¡¯s amazing. I¡¯m cured.¡±

    The monk and the nun looked at each other. Gontran suddenly felt his head pounding. He winced, but resisted the urge to groan and clutch it. At this time, he also noticed that a cold and heavy iron manacle was wrapped around his wrist and chained to his bed. Frantically he felt for his pistol-sword and his hundred and twenty golden nomismas. They were gone. The Venetians had even taken his shoes.

    Fuck!

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s good to hear,¡± the monk said to Gontran. ¡°God is good.¡± He turned to the nun and stood from his seat. ¡°Let me know if the patient¡¯s condition deteriorates. In the mean time, fortify him with the usual mutton and gallon of ale per day.¡±

    ¡°S¨¬, signore.¡± She bowed, then picked up the stool for him as they moved on to the next patient.

    ¡°Wait,¡± Gontran said. ¡°How long have I been here?¡±

    The nun turned. ¡°Only since prime or so. But a few hours.¡±

    ¡°My ship, did it escape?¡± Gontran said.

    The nun glanced at the monk, then looked back to Gontran and whispered: ¡°S¨¬, signore.¡±

    He grinned and pumped his fist. ¡°Yes!¡± As the nun was moving on, he asked her one more question¡ªif he was still in Venice, using the Venetian word for this place: Venesia.

    ¡°Certo che s¨¬,¡± she said.

    Sounds like ¡®claro que s¨ª,¡¯ Gontran thought. His high school Spanish teacher was always saying that¡ªit meant ¡®of course,¡¯ didn¡¯t it?

    Gontran was unsure if he had phrased his questions correctly in the little Italian he knew, and wondered if the nun was just humoring him. He felt confused, like his thoughts were turning into nonsense when he spoke them aloud. The monk and the nun, in the mean time, tended to the next patient, a man who was coughing and hacking so ferociously¡ªlike most of the patients in the stone hall¡ªthat Gontran pulled his sweaty shirt over his nose. Then he examined his manacle and chain. Naturally it was impossible to break free, at least for now.

    Won¡¯t get far dragging a bed behind me through Venice, he thought, eyeing the doorway. He would have needed to prop the bed up on its side in order to have any chance of making it to the next room. Yet the bed was wooden. At night when everyone was asleep, maybe he could saw through the frame with the chain¡ªassuming he was even allowed to stay here. There was no telling when the guards would drag him away. He shuddered to think of where they would take him. Loredan had said something about saline, hadn¡¯t he?  Was that something to do with salt?

    Gontran lay back in his bed. How much time had passed since he¡¯d really slept? A day or two at least. His stamina was still low, and his health was down to 25/100 after that fall. He could have died out there¡­

    On the bright side, the sheets were clean. He¡¯d never gotten used to sleeping in his hammock on the Paralos, but sometimes you were so exhausted you fell asleep wherever you were, regardless of your discomfort. It was nice to be in a bed again, and one softer than Anatolia¡¯s rope beds.

    The memory of Ra¡¯isa blowing on his lips flashed in his mind. He felt her sweet breath on his mouth, and he groaned, clutching his head, which was pounding again. She had probably escaped¡ªthank god¡ªbut he still wanted to be with her. Why had she even blown on him like that in the first place? Was she just drunk on exhaustion, like the rest of them? She was so beautiful. If only they could have been free from all this craziness, in a villa overlooking the sea, with orchards, fields of grain, fishing nets flung into the water, no fear of barbarian invasions. Stability, that¡¯s what he needed. A break from adventure. The chance to lie on a beach all day¡ªfor just one day, without any guilt. Back on that island, what was it called? Sansego.

    Sooner or later, though, he¡¯d be back to dreaming of traveling again, to voyaging to faraway places no one had heard of.

    Can¡¯t help getting into trouble.

    Gontran woke to metal boots stomping the tiled floor. A mountainous weight of drowsiness was crushing him, but it drained away the instant he opened his eyes to the unwelcome sight of Capitano Loredan and Annibale marching toward him with grim expressions on their faces, which they had washed clean. They were also wearing clean black clothing. The father and son were flanked by three armored guards; two were clutching the short swords that were sheathed at their sides; one held a torch. It was amazing how these guards resembled Roman soldiers from Konstantinopolis, complete with crested helmets, scale armor shirts that made them look almost like birds or fish, metal skirts, red undergarments, and even purple capes. They seemed out of place in Venice, too weighty for a city floating on the waves.

    One soldier unlocked the manacle fastened to the bed, then both soldiers seized Gontran and stood him up. Feeling dizzy, he stumbled, but they caught him, swearing loudly enough to wake the other patients, who soon restarted their usual chorus of coughing and retching. The nun from earlier rushed through the doorway and said something about how the patient wasn¡¯t yet ready to leave, but Loredan, Annibale, and the soldiers pushed past her and brought Gontran¡ªbarefoot¡ªthrough dark corridors to the nave of a church, which was attached to the hospitale. Then they dragged him over the pavement and muddy grass outside, shoved him into a boat, and rowed him away. Except for the flaming torch one soldier clutched, the darkness surrounding them was absolute. Vague shapes of curved Venetian houses rose from the gloom, and the fetid lagoon water warped the torchlight as the soldiers rowed. Gontran stared into the canal and contemplated throwing himself inside.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    ¡°You thought you¡¯d won, Capitano Cane,¡± Annibale said, startling everyone in the boat. Until then he had been watching Gontran almost without blinking. ¡°You were wrong.¡±

    ¡°Be silent,¡± Loredan said.

    ¡°Uncle, I¡ª¡±

    ¡°I said be silent.¡±

    Gontran might have laughed under better circumstances.

    No escape, he thought. Once the Venetian state gets you, they never let you go.

    Aside from their boat, the canal was empty at first, but soon the water grew more crowded with gondolas, rowboats, and even some pinnaces, their sails tucked to their masts. Gontran thought that only Konstantinopolis was so busy after dark; most town and city dwellers went to bed at sunset. Since this could be early in the winter, they would rise again at midnight to putter about their homes before passing out once more for their second sleep, which lasted until sunrise. But Venice was sleepless.

    Crowds murmured and lutes twanged as Piazza San Marco drifted into view, the buildings and nettle trees glowing in the firelight. Gontran noticed how the city was more ornate¡ªmore of a work of art¡ªin the old world. Here in the eleventh century, it was still a lump of matter being shaped into its final form. Aside from the occasional Byzantine church, the houses could have been transplanted from anywhere on the Italian mainland. They were mostly plain cubical structures¡ªmany built of wood¡ªwith rooftops that sloped so far from their walls that they almost met above the narrow streets and canals.

    Their boat was moored to a vacant mooring post, and Gontran was dragged across the square toward the doge¡¯s palace. Everyone stared as the soldiers hauled Gontran inside. Gates and doors were opened and closed by guards, the corridors more brightly lit this time, until Gontran found himself standing barefoot in a large but near-empty chamber before a judge who was sitting behind a raised table that was covered with carved wood on all sides. Dressed in red robes, this elderly man murmured in Latin for a few minutes and then banged his gavel. Capitano Loredan, Annibale, and the soldiers bowed and thanked the judge¡ª¡°grazie, Vostro Onore!¡±¡ªand the judge nodded and waved his hand like it was nothing. Gontran was then dragged along the corridors once again.

    ¡°Now that¡¯s what I call a fair trial,¡± he said.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been declared an enemy of La Rep¨´blega, Capitano Cane,¡± Annibale answered. ¡°Persona non grata.¡±

    ¡°The legal situation was a little complicated, as it were,¡± Loredan said. ¡°Under normal circumstances, if we had captured you abroad, no formalities would have been necessary, you understand. But since you were apprehended in the doge¡¯s palace, virtually in the act of murdering the doge himself¡ª¡±

    ¡°And just as he was in the midst of planning our revenge for Galata,¡± Annibale interrupted.

    Loredan shushed Annibale and glared at him. Then the capitano turned back to Gontran. ¡°The situation was somewhat more complicated. Thankfully, however, the situation has been resolved in our favor. You¡¯ve been remanded to us, to do with as we wish, just as if we had apprehended you ourselves on the high seas.¡±

    ¡°Venetian justice,¡± Gontran said.

    Annibale punched Gontran¡¯s face, lowering his health to 23/100.

    ¡°Do not speak ill of La Rep¨´blega,¡± Annibale said.

    ¡°Why not?¡± Gontran spat blood from his mouth. ¡°What do I have to lose?¡±

    Annibale wound up to punch him again, but Loredan stopped him, then said to Gontran: ¡°A great deal more than you can imagine. Your teeth, for starters.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯ve always been a problem,¡± Gontran said. ¡°I had to wear braces for years. I could never get them as white as I wanted.¡±

    Loredan and Annibale looked at each other, confused.

    Gontran was brought one story downstairs, which made it seem as though they had gone beneath the lagoon waters and underground. Through a locked door and then along a dark, dripping tunnel they passed prison cells walled with rusted iron bars. Lying on the dirt floors of these cells were living skeletons coated in filth. They were breathing. Some had rags wrapped around their pelvises; most were nude. The smell was thick, heavy, oppressive, an airless indoor latrine which made Loredan wrinkle his nose. None of the living skeletons stirred as Gontran and his captors entered.

    ¡°Humane,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°Silence, fool,¡± Loredan said.

    ¡°You¡¯re lost, Capitano Cane,¡± Annibale said. ¡°Now among the abbandonato.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯ll be no escape for you,¡± Loredan said.

    At the tunnel¡¯s end was a small chamber with a wooden beam stretched from wall to wall. This was only just above their heads, and nearly touching the low ceiling. A rope hung from the beam. The soldiers unchained Gontran, but then tied the rope around his wrists behind his back.

    ¡°You are familiar with this, Capitano Cane?¡± Annibale said. ¡°We call it the strappado.¡±

    ¡°Another amazing innovation from the Republic of Venice,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°If you¡¯ll be so kind as to answer our questions,¡± Loredan said, ¡°there¡¯ll be no need to use it, and we can be on our merry way.¡±

    ¡°Where are we going?¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°You¡¯re much too dangerous to be made into a galley slave,¡± Loredan said. ¡°There we mostly employ workers, you know, and only the most trusted slaves, particularly those who have been promised their freedom in exchange for so many years of service. No, you¡¯ll be sent to le saline.¡±

    ¡°Le saline,¡± Gontran said. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°Salt pans,¡± Annibale said. ¡°You¡¯ll be making our table salt for the rest of your miserable life.¡±

    Gontran¡¯s head fell.

    ¡°Whenever we need some flavor on our food, we¡¯ll think of you, to be sure, dear signore,¡± Loredan said. ¡°But you never know. Depending on how cooperative you are, things can proceed more easily. We might even let you buy your freedom¡ªshould you perform your duties adequately.¡±

    ¡°Tell us where your ship is going,¡± Annibale said.

    Gontran spat in his face. ¡°That¡¯s where it¡¯s going.¡±

    Annibale wiped the spit from his face, then grabbed the rope and hoisted Gontran up. The pain made him scream like he had never screamed before. It felt like his arms were being torn from his sockets, though his toes were still touching the floor.

    ¡°I ask again,¡± Annibale said. ¡°Where is your ship¡ª¡±

    ¡°Fuck you,¡± Gontran groaned.

    Annibale hoisted Gontran higher, and he shrieked for all he was worth.

    ¡°We can only do it for a few minutes at most,¡± Loredan said. ¡°Otherwise his arms will never work again.¡±

    ¡°What does it matter?¡± Annibale hoisted Gontran higher. ¡°He¡¯s just a slave.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯ll be easier for him,¡± Loredan said, ¡°if he dies here. If we let him live, he¡¯ll work for years on the salt marshes.¡±

    Annibale released the rope, dropping Gontran to the filth. The soldiers picked him up by his arms, which exploded again with pain. Gontran groaned. His health had ticked town to 17/100.

    ¡°Listen to me,¡± Loredan said. ¡°When you are willing to cooperate, to answer our questions, we can make things easier for you. We might even release you, in exchange for a vow to never return to the Rep¨´blega, and to never take up arms against us again.¡±

    Bullshit, Gontran wanted to say, but he was unable to speak.

    ¡°Time¡¯s short,¡± Annibale said. ¡°Before you know it, we¡¯ll have captured or destroyed that ship of yours, Capitano Cane. If we don¡¯t kill the crew, we¡¯ll enslave them. And who knows? You might even meet some friends out in the salt pans in the coming days. Perhaps you haven¡¯t seen the last of those beautiful women of yours.¡±

    Gontran was unable to even give the Loredani a dirty look.

    They untied him, chained him again, and dragged him up the stairs, through the palace, out into the square, and then back into the rowboat. Gontran was delirious¡ªshocked from the pain. By then a faint blue light glowed everywhere, and as the soldiers rowed through the morning gloom Gontran saw passing islands, many of which were covered in orchards or farmland rather than buildings. Loredan had left at some point, saying it was past his bedtime; now Gontran was alone with Annibale and the soldiers.

    They rowed away from the islands and toward the marshes of the mainland. At the pier, Gontran was brought to a carriage waiting on a dirt road.

    ¡°Watch out for this one,¡± Annibale said to the driver. ¡°Keep his ankles chained. Under no circumstances are you to remove them.¡±

    The driver nodded and said: ¡°s¨¬, signore.¡±

    Annibale turned to Gontran. ¡°This is where we part ways, at least for the time being, Capitano Cane. Know only that I¡¯ll be out there on the sea hunting for your ship¡ªand that I¡¯ll do my best to take your compagni alive, that they might enjoy all the pleasures of Venesia. Know also that every day you work on il saline, you¡¯ll be working for me. Making me richer¡ªand you poorer, your life wasting away as I live my own to the fullest. What¡¯s that? I think I feel a poem coming on. Your blood will drain into my veins, until nothing of you remains.¡± He laughed.

    Gontran was unable to lift his head. He barely heard Annibale.

    Annibale stepped back and nodded to the driver, who whipped the draft horses¡¯s reins. The carriage lurched forward, and Gontran slammed onto the floor. Annibale laughed with the guards.

    ¡°You¡¯re off to a great start, Capitano Cane!¡± he shouted.

 9. Le Saline

    The dirt road led to an old Roman highway that was in good repair. This took them south along the lagoon and past several bustling towns, many of them walled, all of them flying the lion of San Marco flag, which made Gontran shudder. Their gates released farmers, carriages, horses, and mules, all of which crowded the highway enough to cause the occasional traffic jam, at which point Gontran¡¯s driver cracked his whip and yelled in an Italian dialect so thick it seemed he was unable to understand even himself.

    Venice, Sicily, Konstantinopolis, Cordoba, Baghdad, Aleppo, Fustat¡ªthese were the Mediterranean¡¯s prosperous cities, Gontran remembered. Aside from different clothes, languages, religions, and governments, it seemed like little had changed since Roman times in these areas, the paesani of Italy as eternal as the fellaheen of Egypt, still raising grain from the Nile muck in the pyramids¡¯ shadows. But if you moved a little inland, just out of sight of rivers and the sea, what did you find? Wasteland. The encroaching forest. Abandoned villages devoured by trees, strangled by vines as strong and thick as anacondas, all working so quickly they grew before your eyes. Paved highways became dirt paths, which themselves became game trails, which vanished into forests so thick you couldn¡¯t pass between them. Pretty, picturesque nature became as deadly as a burning desert, an ocean miles deep, a mountain range miles high. It was a wonder anyone survived out here at all.

    Yet it was Gontran¡¯s home. Farms could be found, each with its own church, priest, tower, lord, and peasants, all speaking dialects that were incomprehensible the next town over. From here in the Veneto, if you took the imperial highway, the road swung north through a gap in the Alps and then continued along hundreds of miles of wilderness, eventually coming to Metz, Gontran¡¯s hometown, where his peasant family was almost certainly still alive¡ªif ¡®toiling your whole life harder than any animal¡¯ could be called living. Wolves prowled those wilds, and in colder winters they ventured into the towns and even broke into people¡¯s homes, eating whoever they could get.

    It took hours for the driver¡ªnamed Zuan Boscolo¡ªto bring Gontran south along the lagoon¡¯s edge to a town called Clugia. This was a square island built on reclaimed land just inside the lagoon at the tip of the Sottomarina peninsula, itself practically an island bound on the southern flank by the muddy Brenta River. Out of boredom, Boscolo had explained this, though Gontran hardly understood and could barely nod in response to the man¡¯s words.

    From a distance, across the marshland, Gontran saw that Clugia was packed with shops, storehouses, steepled churches, and even a couple of small sturdy fortresses built of stone. Houses were constructed on a grid, the buildings interspersed with dark humps of farmland where peasants were seeding their crops and bent over their vegetable gardens in the spring sun. Rowboats and sailboats were moored to the island¡¯s edges like the decorative fringe to a carpet. And then along either side of a narrow causeway connecting the island of Clugia to the Sottomarina peninsula, salt pans had been raised from the lagoon¡¯s shallow muck. These, too, were square, with square grids inside them.

    Mathematical Venetians.

    By now the sun was up, the beech trees were parting, and Gontran¡¯s captor was driving his carriage across the causeway to Clugia. They stopped, however, at a little fortress about halfway along the causeway, built upon a small island of reclaimed land. This place, Boscolo said, was called the Isola del Buon Castello. Goodcastle Island. To the left and right, salt pans stretched for miles, all tended by figures raking the muck. The salt pans stopped only where the water was too deep, or where canals had been dug to allow ships to pass along the coasts of the islands and the peninsula.

    ¡°Le saline.¡± Zuan Boscolo smiled at Gontran and pointed to the brown squares with his whip. ¡°No ¨¨ bello. Tu morirai presto.¡±

    Gontran had seen enough. The salt pans were depressing. He would be trapped here forever, and his friends would never rescue him.

    They¡¯ve abandoned me. Ra¡¯isa. Diaresso. All of them. They can¡¯t come back and get me. A good ship and crew aren¡¯t worth one guy. Our mission was to build alliances with Italian cities. All of us knew we were expendable.

    He looked at his aching wrists, which were sore and red from the rusted iron manacles. These also clasped his ankles. So long as they were fastened there, he could never run away. He would have to shuffle. Had he been less miserable, the thought of fleeing like this¡ªwith the maestri¡¯s hounds baying behind him while, up ahead, vipers slithered in the marshes¡ªit might have made him laugh. The best he could manage at the moment was a grin so faint, he could only feel it. Even if he could have looked into a decent mirror, the tinge at one edge of his lips might have been invisible to him.

    He thought about Diaresso, who had barely smiled in weeks, since he was so unhappy with the mission and the uprising. Gontran¡¯s lungs flexed, and something like a laugh forced its way through his nostrils.

    Diaresso. He was right to get off with the Narentines. If he¡¯d stayed on the ship, he might have been captured in the doge¡¯s palace, too. He can still get home.

    The thought of Diaresso continuing to be free, sailing across the world¡ªit was encouraging to Gontran.

    At least one of us made it. Even if I get killed, the fight goes on.

    The fortress on the Isola del Buon Castello consisted of a watchtower, a dormitory, a barn, and a storehouse, all built from brick and bound within four walls. After passing through the gatehouse, Boscolo brought the horse and the cart into the barn, giving them to a stableboy who reminded Gontran of Joseph. The thought was like a stab to the gut. Boscolo, meanwhile, pulled Gontran from the carriage, brought him to the dormitory, and locked the manacle around his left wrist to an iron bar that was sunk into the brick wall. Then Boscolo left.

    The chain was so short that Gontran could only move a few feet. If he sat on the floor by the wall, he needed to hold up his arm, which still ached from the bastinado. Lying on the thin gray ragged blanket on the dirt floor was only possible if he kept his arm by the wall.

    He looked at the cold, dark dormitory. A few other blankets were scattered on the floor. The doorway was open to the sun, the swaying beeches that were greening with spring leaves, the cicadas just starting to rattle, the endless brown salt pans, the thin figures bent over them.

    He woke to a man punching his face and screaming. This brought his health down to 16/100. Gontran rolled away and covered his eyes, which made his chain rattle. Someone pulled the blanket out from under him, leaving him with only the bare wall and the dirt floor. A man said something in what might have been a Slavic language, and a few other men laughed. When Gontran opened his eyes and peaked through his fingers, he saw that four sunburned slaves had entered the dormitory. They were all drenched in sweat¡ªdespite the evening cold¡ªand lying on blankets. One slave had taken Gontran¡¯s blanket and wrapped himself in it. They must have already eaten dinner, since it seemed so late, and they were burping at one another and chuckling.

    I slept through the whole day, Gontran thought. I even missed dinner!

    Nonetheless, he kept still and silent, wanting only to be invisible. Gontran noticed that none of the slaves wore chains. Were they actually workers? Their masters, bosses, lords¡ªwhatever they were called¡ªseemed to trust them to remain here.

    Gontran felt hungry. Although it was probably impossible to fill his stomach at the moment, he told himself it was nonetheless good to feel this way, uncomfortable as it was, since it probably meant that he was no longer ill, and had survived his brush with medieval European medicine. He kept his eyes shut, only peeking through the lashes of one to ensure that none of his new companions attacked him again. At the same time, he was tempted to ask if they had some food, or even if any knew Drosaik. It was a small world. Already Gontran had forgotten the names of the other Slavs the Paralos had rescued from the Liona. If only he could remember¡­

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    Thinking about them also made Gontran realize that he had heard no news about the Paralos. This was probably a good thing. Annibale might have come here himself, had he destroyed the uprising¡¯s best ship; he certainly would have sent any crew members he had captured this way in order to prove, again and again, that he had defeated Gontran. The man was infuriated that a peasant had bested him in a fight. Maybe no act in Annibale¡¯s mind was too extreme in his search for revenge. Yet to kill Gontran was nothing compared to enslaving him, along with everyone he cared about.

    As daylight faded, the temperature dropped, and to keep warm Gontran tucked his hands into his armpits and sat cross-legged so he could press his cold bare feet inside the creases behind his knees, all while moving slowly and carefully to keep his chains from ringing. Yet he was soon shivering in the dark. There were no candles or torches. How could he sleep like this? The other slaves were already snoring. They might be trapped here while they were awake, but one or two blankets kept them warm enough to let their minds roam free through dreams.

    Outside were screeching bugs, howling wolves, hooting owls. Through the doorway the sky was blue with starlight¡ªwhole galaxies speckled the gap¡ªand the silhouettes of oaks shook in the wind, their leaves silvering like schools of fish, making a rushing sound like forest brooks. At one point, a shadow with glowing red eyes stalked the darkness. What really frightened Gontran, however, were the spiders. Nasty big ones had made spiderwebs in the corners of the dormitory. The mere thought of spiders, let alone the sight of them, was almost too much for him. Although even the word ¡°spider¡± on its own could make him feel like he was suffocating, he did his best to avoid thinking about them¡ªtelling himself that he would smash any that came near.

    Gontran couldn¡¯t sleep. It was too cold, he needed to lie down, and he had already slept all day. The slaves, on the other hand, must have been exhausted from working the salt pans. They could have been almost as uncomfortable as Gontran in this dormitory, the difference being that their exhaustion outweighed their discomfort. Tomorrow Gontran would join them, and he felt stressed over how weak he would be before even starting. They might kill him if he failed to work hard enough. He wouldn¡¯t be worth the upkeep. Barring that, exhaustion might get him. Working on the salt pans was no joke. Only being sent to the mines or a cheap brothel was worse.

    Deciding on a new strategy, Gontran imitated the snoring of the closest slave, inhaling when the slave inhaled, exhaling when the slave exhaled. In the next instant, Boscolo was returning the other manacle to his left wrist, and the doorway was blue with dawn.

    I slept! Gontran thought.

    Yawning, smacking their lips, rubbing their eyes, the other slaves climbed to their feet and marched outside. Gontran followed. Behind him, Boscolo clutched his whip. A short sword was also sheathed at his side. Gontran avoided staring at it.

    At the barn, the slaves picked up rakes and broad-brimmed hats. Boscolo indicated, via growls and gestures, that Gontran should take the shovel and wheelbarrow that were stored there. Having done this, Gontran followed the slaves to a beached rowboat, though the manacles around his ankles slowed him down, even with Boscolo shoving him from behind.

    Gontran and the four slaves loaded the wheelbarrow into the rowboat, climbed aboard, and rowed a little distance across the canal to the closest salt pan. Climbing out, the slaves started raking the pans. These were really just walls of mud, dirt, and sand enclosing square-shaped pools of seawater. The seawater was let in through a hole to the lagoon. Once the pan was full, the hole was plugged, and the sun evaporated the water, leaving a mixture of salt and dirt. The slaves separated the dirt and raked the salt into piles, which Gontran shoveled into the wheelbarrow. This he placed in the rowboat, which he then oared back to the Isola del Buon Castello, depositing the salt in the storehouse, which was protected by a single armed guard.

    Boscolo, who had been guiding Gontran this entire time, gestured to the white mounds of salt glowing inside the storehouse. ¡°Oro bianco!¡±

    White gold.

    Gontran worked with the other slaves, and Boscolo sat on a wooden stool in the shade of some nearby oaks on the Isola del Buon Castello. The sun had yet to rise, and Gontran¡¯s stomach grumbled. On top of the fact that he hadn¡¯t eaten in three days, he also needed to deal with the way medieval people rarely ate breakfast, instead gorging themselves on enormous lunches and dinners. Soon enough he saw, as he shoveled, that Boscolo had fallen asleep. Gontran eyed the slaves as they raked salt from the water, then looked to the other salt pans extending into the distance around Clugia, and the other slaves working there.

    Why don¡¯t they run?

    The real question was: where could they go? Towns and cities were often hostile to strangers. In the feudal world, everyone had their place, which meant that loners had probably been expelled from their communities for good reason. Although neither the police nor modern surveillance technology existed, people would still view you with suspicion if you were wandering the roads on your own without any kind of obvious excuse. Pilgrims, merchants, and barber-surgeons were common enough, but they had a distinct appearance, often carrying plenty of supplies and moving in groups for safety. In contrast, escaped slaves and peasants carried nothing, being so impoverished that they sometimes even lacked clothes. They were also usually alone. Gontran could pretend to be a holy fool¡ªa raving madman wearing a few different coatings of mud, and nothing else¡ªbut that would be difficult to pull off. And plus, if he ran away, Venice would be looking for him. Soldiers and slave catchers on the hunt would stop any men walking the roads by themselves, regardless of their appearance.

    As Gontran worked, and the sun rose over the misty lagoon, and he watched the slaves raking the salt pans, he knew that if Herakleia were here, she would already be hatching plans to radicalize the slaves, and either escape, or establish a slave republic right here in the Veneto, in the heart of Venetian territory. A maroon, that¡¯s what such things were called in the old world. But Gontran started thinking that he had given enough to the uprising. It was always so demanding, it was like an infant, ceaseless in its needs, perishing the instant you neglected it¡ªbut how many times had he had risked his life for it? On this voyage alone, he had been captured and enslaved twice.

    Enslave me once, shame on you. Enslave me twice¡­

    To be here in the Veneto likewise meant that he was physically closer to his family than he¡¯d been in years. They haunted his dreams and waking thoughts. Always he wanted to return to Metz to convince them to join him, though at this point he had no idea what he would even say. He couldn¡¯t tell them to come to Venice, so he would have to tell them to come to Trebizond, and none of that was possible until he got these damn manacles off. Already they were tearing at his flesh, which the thick salt water wasn¡¯t helping. The cuts stung.

    The slaves worked in silence in the sunny heat, their sweat stinging their eyes and dripping into the water, their mouths gaping for breath. It was bright, oppressive, miserable. Before long, Gontran¡¯s muscles and bones were all back to aching. It was a miracle he could work at all after experiencing the strappado.

    He labored in silence. More than ever, he missed his friends from the Paralos. Hard work was inescapable in this time and place, but with friends you could make the hours fly by, almost commanding the sun to flash across the sky quick as a sparrow, at least as long as the conversation flowed. With people like Diaresso and Ra¡¯isa, you could talk about anything¡ªany thought that popped into your mind they would listen to, chew over, and comment on, to the point where they were now almost a part of Gontran¡¯s own personality. He knew how they would act if they were here with him now. Diaresso would be grumbling¡ªrightfully¡ªabout infidels, and longing for his lute, his crossbow, and the company of Queen Tamar. Ra¡¯isa would be using her terrifying psychokinetic abilities to make mincemeat of the slave drivers.

    In the long hours and days aboard the Paralos, almost everyone had revealed everything there was to know about each other. They all knew about friends and family members they had never met as well as home villages they had never seen. Diaresso had told Gontran so much about hot sandy Tomboutou, he felt like he had lived there, fishing in his long narrow dugout canoe in the wide river Jeliba under the Harmattan haze, growing rice in the floodplains, feasting and singing and dancing at the festivals beneath mosques and shrines made of mud. Ra¡¯isa came from a small group of nomadic herdsmen who lived in the yellow hills in the al-Akrad around Mount Judi, where Noah¡¯s ark came to rest, and where Noah¡¯s tomb was itself now just a ruined monastery. Gontran felt like he had walked with her herds of goats and fought off the hyenas that were always troubling her family. Ra¡¯isa and Diaresso, too, could have navigated Metz with their eyes closed, Gontran had told them so much about it.

    There was almost nothing left to reveal about themselves. This forced them instead to consider hypotheticals. If Emperor Narses were chained up here right now, what would you do with him? Inside jokes that made everyone laugh were ceaseless. There was camaraderie. They were a family, a tribe, friends drunk on each other¡¯s company¡ª

    ¡°Mezzogiorno!¡± Boscolo shouted from the shade. ¡°Pranzo!¡±

 10. Shit Ass

    Together with Gontran, the slaves returned to the barn, dropped off their tools, and sat on the ground in the shade of an oak, where a peasant woman had lain out loaves of bread on a cloth, and poured them each a huge cup of ale. The slaves ate and drank ravenously. Even the bread here was different from in the old world¡ªone bite could distend your stomach¡ªbut Gontran tore into his food, not only because he was bent over from hunger, but also because he feared the other slaves would steal it. His stamina was slightly replenished, and his health recovered a little to 20/100. Yesterday evening had been so dark that he was unsure of which slave had taken his blanket. They all looked the same. Each was a thin, strong, sweaty young Slav in need of a trim for his beard and hair and a bath for his dirty limbs.

    Everyone was too hungry to speak. Gontran heard only smacking lips, chewing teeth, and slurping mouths, though he was so hungry he barely paid attention to anything save his own food and drink.

    Bread, he thought. Ale.

    The meal vanished in minutes. Now Gontran needed to use the bathroom.

    He stood to his feet and stumbled, surprised by how the ale had gone to his head. It was stronger than most old world beer¡ªand in his old body, he¡¯d never been a heavy drinker, only sipping from red plastic cups at the occasional party to keep up appearances¡ªbut he¡¯d also stood up too quickly, and without enough breath in his lungs. To avoid falling, he grabbed the oak trunk and gripped it almost as though he was holding a mast in the midst of a storm and struggling to keep from being blown out to sea. His brain was so oxygen-deprived that his vision and hearing suddenly became cinematic, like in an old, cheap unsolved murder mystery show. The eating sounds around him grew choppy, and the film of his life which he viewed through his eyes seemed to seize up, start again, then seize up again. He was amazed by this experience¡ªso this was why those crappy shows were like that¡ªbut he also wondered if and when it would end. Thankfully it cleared up after he took a few breaths. No one else had noticed. They were finishing their meals, chewing and burping, stunned by the odd lavishness of the bread and ale after hours of work.

    Gontran asked Boscolo about the bathroom, using the only Italian word he knew for it¡ªbagno, bath¡ªwhich the maestro failed to understand. Then Gontran clutched his stomach, and Boscolo pointed at him and laughed, said something to the Slavs¡ªwho also laughed, all except for one, who looked at Gontran with pity¡ªand then gestured to an outhouse in the woods that had been out of sight. Closing the door behind him, Gontran sat on the wooden bench inside, pulled down his undergarments, and voided the contents of his stomach into a dark hole which reeked of filth. It must have been deep, for it took a disturbingly long time¡ªseveral seconds at least¡ªto hear his shit smack the bottom. This induced a dizzying feeling which was compounded by his drunkenness.

    Were medieval people just kind of drunk all the time? he wondered.

    He needed to be careful, drinking that ale. Water would have been better, but water from around the marshes was dangerous, and shit from latrines could seep into well water. Being here more than a few days would make him an alcoholic.

    Next, his problem was cleaning his ass. There was no toilet paper, nor was there a hose or bidet. What to do? He couldn¡¯t go back out there with shit all over his ass. People here could be dirty, but they weren¡¯t that dirty.

    He looked around the dark outhouse, searching the same wooden walls over and over for salvation, but there was nothing.

    How do I clean my ass?

    Finally, he decided he would peek through the door, make sure no one was looking, then sneak outside, keeping his tunic and undergarments from touching his ass all the while. He could make it into the woods, find some leaves, hope they weren¡¯t poison ivy or poison oak¡ªdid that even grow here?¡ªand clean himself¡ª

    Someone pounded the door and growled a few Slavic words.

    Gontran swore. But then he had an idea, and said: ¡°Hey, could you get me some leaves or something?¡±

    The answer came in Slavic, and sounded negative, repeating words with which Gontran was familiar¡ªnyet and neechayvo. Gontran wondered if Slavic language speakers just said neechayvo all the time, or if he only noticed this because it was one of the three or four words he knew from those languages.

    The pounding came again. Gontran got up, opened the door, and did his best to sneak outside without showing anyone his bare ass. But the other slave noticed immediately, of course, and pointed at him and laughed like Boscolo.

    You are losing charisma XP, the game voice said.

    The slaves and their maestro¡ªsitting together on the blanket in the shade like a happy picnicking family¡ªroared with laughter, except for the one slave who felt sorry for Gontran. He shook his head and crept into the woods, noticing that, as that first slave entered the outhouse, he was carrying a handful of leaves.

    Gontran found some fresh leaves¡ªfearful of using old ones¡ªand, to make sure they wouldn¡¯t leave a rash on his ass, he rubbed one on the underside of his forearm, then waited a moment. When nothing happened, he shrugged, cleaned himself, then tossed the dirty leaves under a nearby bush.

    Taking a shit in the Middle Ages is complicated, he thought. In some ways he still had yet to get used to this time and place. There was also nowhere to wash his hands.

    Pulling up his undergarments, he noticed that he was alone, and that he was out of sight of the slaves and Boscolo. He couldn¡¯t even hear them; he must have gone farther into the forest than he¡¯d realized, shuffling out here with his pants around his knees. His high stealth skill as a Master Thief (8/10) must have helped. Looking around into the bushes and leafy trees rushing in the cool spring wind and sun, he thought immediately of escape. But where could he go? And what would Boscolo or the Loredani do if they caught him?

    Gontran looked down at the manacles around his ankles. He¡¯d never make it wearing those things. And he couldn¡¯t take them off. His stealth skills weren¡¯t high enough to remove iron manacles with nothing but his bare hands and some twigs. Someone would find him, assume he was an escaped slave, and turn him in for a reward. But what if Gontran only traveled by night? Then he wouldn¡¯t be able to see! And he would still need to steal food now and then. Without being able to run, he would never make it. He needed speed, not just stealth. Maybe he could find a blacksmith who would remove the manacles. That was a big maybe¡­and why should anyone risk their life to help?

    While Gontran was stressing over what to do, he heard raised voices, and what sounded like people calling: ¡°Capitano Cane!¡± He hated that nickname, but Annibale must have told them to call him that. Sighing, he crept out of the woods, waved to Boscolo, and rejoined the slaves just as they were returning to the salt pans. Now Boscolo and his three cronies called him ¡°culo di merda¡±¡ªshit ass¡ªin addition to Capitano Cane.

    Boscolo fell back onto his stool in the shade. There he sucked down a mouthful of wine, every now and then, from his wine skin. The slaves continued raking salt while Gontran shoveled it. This time, however, one slave spoke with him as they worked, introducing himself as Istv¨¢n.

    ¡°Are you the one who took my blanket?¡± Gontran blurted, though he recognized at the same time that Istv¨¢n was the slave who had pitied him earlier.

    ¡°No,¡± Istv¨¢n said with his thick accent. ¡°Sorry. That B¨¦la K¨¢roly.¡± He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at a slave who was indistinguishable from the rest¡ªa thin white man, of indeterminate age, dirty and tired-looking, with taut muscles, and brown hair in need of a trim. ¡°He nobleman, but the family make no ransom.¡±

    ¡°Why not?¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°He is not nice.¡±

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    ¡°No.¡± Gontran smiled. ¡°He definitely isn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°You sound Frankish.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±

    ¡°Are you truly the ship captain?¡± Istv¨¢n said after a moment.

    Gontran nodded. ¡°I was. My name¡¯s Gontran Koraki.¡±

    ¡°Where is crew?¡±

    ¡°I think they escaped.¡±

    Istv¨¢n laughed. ¡°Not for long. No one escape Velence when they want you. Look at us.¡± He gestured to the closer slaves, but also to the others in the distance who were raking the salt pans under the maestri¡¯s watchful eyes. ¡°Long ago, we think: ¡®Yes, aha, I escaped.¡¯ But Velence wants us. And so they catch us like the fish in big net.¡±

    ¡°Could be worse.¡± Gontran looked to the sunny sky and the haze billowing through the marsh, rippling in the lagoon water. ¡°Is it always like this?¡±

    Istv¨¢n shook his head. ¡°In summer is bad. Very hot. Like the furnace, all day long. People die. And water.¡± He pointed to his bare feet, soaking in the salt pan. ¡°It hurts skin. Blisters. Gives disease. You need remove those.¡± He nodded to Gontran¡¯s manacles.

    ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± Gontran said. ¡°I¡¯m a flight risk.¡±

    ¡°You keep them, you die, one week. First comes cut, then sick, then death. It spread fast. You must remove.¡±

    ¡°How?¡±

    ¡°Be nice to Boscolo.¡± Istv¨¢n smiled in a peculiar charming manner. ¡°Ask permesso.¡±

    They both returned to work, keeping an eye on Boscolo, though from a distance it looked like their maestro had again fallen asleep in the shade, his whip slipping from his fingers, his sword at his side.

    Prison guards are fundamentally disadvantaged compared to prisoners, Herakleia had once said during one of her endless lectures. The prison guard is bored and tired, he wants to be anywhere else, sometimes he even empathizes with his prisoners, and he is certainly less clever than they are¡ªsince he can see that there is no logic to the law save that of power, and he understands that the criminals who run society are making far more money than he can ever dream of, yet he fails to take advantage of this because he has been transformed into a coward thanks to decades of parental and societal abuse and neglect. In a fair fight, the prisoner will almost always overcome the prison guard. Every prisoner also possesses a nobility which the prison guard can never have. Despite the inevitable empathy, the prison guard cannot help viewing the prisoner as a fool for being captured. The prison guard thinks him lazy and worthless. This makes the prison guard lose his edge. He becomes careless. He assumes that the prisoner can never escape. And then in contrast to the bored, tired, and cowardly prison guard, the prisoner is obsessed with the idea of escape. For years he can think of nothing else. Ceaselessly he works toward this goal mentally, physically¡ªexercising, reading, planning, organizing¡ªall while the prison guard alternately envies him or thinks him lazy and stupid¡ªunable to see him for who he really is. This is why the liberation of the world¡¯s exploited peoples is inevitable. The world is a vast prison, but no prison is perfect. There is always a way out.

    With the bread and beer in Gontran¡¯s stomach, his thoughts drifted. He felt oddly content, and wondered how bad staying here would be once he got his manacles off. Then he rebuked himself for thinking that way. He was Gontran Koraki, the rogue adventuring merchant, and no one controlled his fate.

    Sooner or later he would fool these Venetians, who thought they were so smart. He would never lose sight of his goal. He would break free.

    His odd contentedness was brief. Soon it was replaced with fatigue, boredom, frustration. For a little while, having no control over his life had almost seemed nice, since no control meant no worry.

    It¡¯s all out of your hands, so why trouble yourself?

    So far slavery here could have been worse, at least compared with what he had read in the old world about the antebellum south, where being whipped, raped, mutilated, worked to death, bred like cattle, and separated from your family was an everyday occurrence. Gontran had only been in Venice a few days, but he had yet to see anything like that here. Slavery was different in the past. Slaves could even command armies and rule empires. Wasn¡¯t the vizier of Fustat a slave¡­?

    But freedom had its own frustrations¡ªthe struggle, for one, to figure out what to do when you weren¡¯t enslaved by need. Poverty itself was a different kind of slavery. But still, having some control¡ªor at least the illusion of control¡ªwas always better than no control at all.

    Gontran¡¯s growing exhaustion soon turned to anger. This was directed against the slaves that had mistreated him, to Boscolo who had chained him and who napped all day in the shade of the leafy trees like a figure in a Renaissance landscape painting. Then there was Venice, the Loredani, and also himself.

    If only I hadn¡¯t fallen off that ledge.

    Had Gontran escaped the doge¡¯s palace, he would now be adventuring across the sea with Ra¡¯isa by his side. More than anything, he longed to touch her. The thought almost made him cry as he shoveled salt in the Venetian lagoon that reeked of rotting fish, bubbling clams, and bird shit. He had never gotten a chance to touch her smooth, electric skin. And if they were ever reunited, what would he look like? After just a few months or years of slavery, Gontran would be unrecognizable. His teeth would fall out. He¡¯d be little better than the living skeletons he¡¯d seen in the Venetian dungeons.

    By now the Paralos must have gone to another city and tried to forge an alliance again. The Republic of Ragusa was closest. This old nest of the Narentine pirates was not yet ensnared in Venice¡¯s tentacles, and also just a day or two away in Dalmatia, as long as the wind was at your back. Then there were Amalfi, Pisa, Genova¡ªall on Italy¡¯s far side, sheltered from Venetian depredations by the land, always happy to take up arms against the Serenissima.

    There were so many places for the Paralos to go, so much for the crew to do. The Roman Empire and their Mediterranean hangers-on¡ªthe Normans and Venetians¡ªhad made so many enemies that uniting different powers against them was far from hopeless.

    Now, shoveling thick fat gleaming salt crystals in the marshes, Gontran grumbled swears, gritting his teeth and growling. Grumbling to yourself¡ªwasn¡¯t that something people only did in movies?

    Guess not.

    In the evening, Boscolo and the slaves returned to the Isola del Buon Castello, and had their bread with a little salted pork and wine. Once they had finished eating and drinking, and everyone was sitting back and burping, Gontran knelt before Boscolo, but before he could even ask for his manacles to be removed¡ªbefore he could explain that Annibale probably wanted him to live a long life as a miserable slave¡ªthe maestro struck him across the face with his whip and bellowed a torrent of swears. With his health dropping to 19/100, Gontran backed away and apologized. Boscolo, his breath reeking of wine, his sword clanging against his leg, brought Gontran to the dormitory and threw him against the wall.

    ¡°Culo di merda,¡± Boscolo growled.

    He staggered back to dinner, though he had forgotten to chain Gontran to the wall.

    Gontran sat his weary, aching body against the cold dark wall, doing his best to make it look as though he was chained against it. Had Istv¨¢n lied in some Machiavellian attempt to get rid of him? Machiavelli himself would one day live not far from here. Northern Italy was the land of Machiavelli, wasn¡¯t it?

    No, what Istv¨¢n had said made sense. The manacles around Gontran¡¯s ankles were time bombs. When an infection began, nothing would stop it. Amputation would follow, and there were few if any anesthetics available. If Gontran got lucky and found a barber-surgeon, the man would saw through his bone¡ªand need several other men to hold him down. The unsterilized saw would poison his blood, and death would follow.

    Trebizond had started producing small amounts of antibiotics for only the most desperate cases. Culturing the fungi was a complicated, labor-intensive process in the absence of scientific knowledge and equipment. It required modern factories. Then you needed to take a lot of penicillin for it to work, and it needed to be ingested as a pill, because if you just ate the blue mold on cheese, your stomach acid would destroy it before the fungi could get into your bloodstream.

    In short, his prospects were poor. The manacles were a death sentence.

    Beyond Trebizond, antibiotics were unknown. Gontran was going to die here if he couldn¡¯t break free. There were no tools to saw through the manacles. Was he supposed to gnaw them with his teeth, or cut them with his nails? Of course not! He needed to strike when Boscolo came to unchain him in the morning. It wouldn¡¯t be hard to choke him to death¡ªRa¡¯isa had almost done the same to Annibale.

    She should have finished him off.

    Then Gontran could take Boscolo¡¯s key and break free. But how would the other slaves react? Istv¨¢n might leave him alone, at least, but what about B¨¦la the blanket thief, and the other two slaves who had never missed a chance to laugh at him?

    They can rot here for all I care.

    Then the eternal question returned: where would Gontran go? Should he walk all the way back to Trebizond? But that must have been thousands of miles, and it took him straight through Konstantinopolis, where agents belonging to both the emperor and Demetrios Male?nos would be looking for him.

    Everyone was always looking for Gontran. Everyone was always hunting him. He was like a rabbit in a forest full of wolves.

    It didn¡¯t matter. If he broke free, he might live. If he stayed here, he would die soon. More than anything he wanted another chance to kill Annibale, but Gontran would have to settle for escape. Besides, when the Venetian golden boy got wind of what had happened, he would be furious. Too bad Gontran wouldn¡¯t be there to see it.

    Exhaustion took him, and he slept despite the cold, his hands tucked into his armpits again. In the morning, when Boscolo entered the dormitory to unchain him from the wall, Gontran seized his chance.

 11. Via Imperii

    Gontran smelled Boscolo coming long before he heard or saw him. The reek of wine proceeded the maestro like a specter. He was already drunk when he stumbled through the doorway in the blue morning. Gontran was waiting with his eyes closed and all his muscles tensed, though he was careful to breathe regularly, and even to move his eyeballs beneath their lids as though he was deep in REM sleep.

    ¡°Svegliati, culo di merda,¡± Boscolo slurred. The wine stench pouring from his open mouth was so overpowering, Gontran worried it would suffocate him.

    As Boscolo knelt to unlock him, Gontran leaped up, tackled the maestro to the floor, pulled the short sword from his scabbard, and stabbed his chest. Blood spurted everywhere, and Boscolo groaned, waking the other slaves. Wasting no time, Gontran tore the sword free from Boscolo¡¯s chest and stabbed him repeatedly until he stopped moving. Then he found the key in Boscolo¡¯s pocket and unlatched the manacle around his ankle. He was free.

    Gasping, Gontran wiped the sword on Boscolo¡¯s clothes, then donned the overseer¡¯s belt and sheathed his sword there. Seeing that his hands were covered in blood, he wiped them on Boscolo¡¯s pants¡ªthe corpse¡¯s only item of clothing which was still relatively clean.

    Gontran was drenched in blood and sweat. It had felt cold when he first woke to the darkness¡ªthinking that this was it, this was the morning he would break free. Now he was roasting hot, though his sweat felt chilly against his flesh as blood throbbed in his ears and pulsed in his forehead.

    He looked at the four slaves. They sat against the wall, cowering. Before Gontran could speak, one of them¡ªit was B¨¦la the blanket thief¡ªstood and sprinted through the doorway. Was he running to get help, or just trying to escape? Gontran watched him go, thought of pursuing him, then turned back to the three remaining slaves.

    ¡°Come with me, stay here, or run away,¡± he said.

    Two shook their heads. Istv¨¢n stared at him.

    ¡°You were the one who told me I needed to get those manacles off,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°Yes, but I did not mean¡ª¡±

    Someone was shouting in the distance. Dogs were baying.

    He was running to get help.

    Gontran picked up one of B¨¦la¡¯s blankets and stuffed it into his pocket as best he could. Then he ran through the doorway and out past the gate to the mainland. Sprinting along the mud causeway past the marshes and salt pans where herons were already spearing frogs with their long sharp beaks, he heard someone running behind him. When he looked back, he saw that it was Istv¨¢n.

    ¡°Change of heart?¡± Gontran gasped.

    Istv¨¢n said nothing, and quickly caught up to Gontran. They crossed the stone bridge arching over the brown sluggish Brenta River, then turned west, taking the old Roman road to Verona. This was at Istv¨¢n¡¯s insistence.

    ¡°There I have the friend,¡± he said between breaths. ¡°They help.¡±

    Hopefully better than your other friends, Gontran thought, too breathless to speak.

    Horses were galloping behind them. Gontran made the mistake of looking over his shoulder. He saw, on the causeway, two horsemen clutching lanterns¡ªit was still cloudy and dim¡ªriding so fast that their mounts¡¯ legs had vanished into a thundering blur, as though they were floating torsos hurtling over the morning mist. Loping beside them and barking as though their lives depended on it were two mastiffs the size of lions.

    Gontran was too out of breath to say anything to Istv¨¢n. Instead, he tapped his shoulder, then pointed to the wooded marshland.

    Istv¨¢n shook his head. ¡°Snakes.¡±

    ¡°Who cares about snakes?¡± Gontran gasped.

    ¡°Some have the poison.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll take poison snakes over slave owners any day.¡±

    Gontran ran off the road and plunged into the woods. Shrugging, Istv¨¢n followed. By this time, it seemed like the horses were pounding Gontran¡¯s ears, while the screaming mastiffs were spattering his neck with saliva.

    He was so out of breath he felt like he couldn¡¯t get enough air into his lungs. His mouth gaped so wide it seemed his lips would tear. The game voice warned that his stamina was collapsing, even if, as a Professional Runner (7/10), he could outpace almost every other person.

    I¡¯m too out of shape, I¡¯ll never make it.

    The woods were so thick, they made running impossible. Gontran and Istv¨¢n slowed down. This would either make the horsemen give up or dismount. Nothing would stop the dogs, however¡ªsave Boscolo¡¯s sword.

    You already came through for me once, Gontran thought as he drew the sword and hacked through the bushes. Don¡¯t let me down.

    Growling and snarling, the mastiffs hurled through the brush like cannonballs made of fangs and muscle. Gontran turned and clumsily raised his sword just in time, clutching it with both hands as one mastiff knocked him down and impaled itself on the blade. Burning hot blood gushed over Gontran¡¯s hands and covered his chest, but the mastiff kept roaring and snapping at his face, its weight crushing the breath from his lungs. Nearly all the dog¡¯s blood had drained through its massive gaping wound before Gontran could push off its body, its lifeless eyes like enormous gleaming marbles staring up past the swaying tree trunks to the sky. Gontran¡¯s ability with m¨ºl¨¦e weapons was low (3/10), but this lucky critical hit boosted his XP so much that he almost leveled up.

    As for the other mastiff, it had seized Istv¨¢n¡¯s ankle, drawing blood from its fangs, and the poor man was screaming for it to let go, although whenever he moved, the dog sank its jaws in deeper and snarled.

    Gontran staggered up from the leaves and the underbrush and¡ªcovered in blood, as though soaked in red paint¡ªlurched toward the mastiff. It growled at him while still holding Istv¨¢n¡¯s ankle in its jaws, which were foaming with blood and saliva. Istv¨¢n kicked its head; the mastiff bit him harder, making Istv¨¢n cry out.

    Gontran hesitated. This mastiff was even bigger and nastier than the other one. How was he supposed to stop this thing? It was at least as big as he was!

    Men were shouting in the distance. Gontran lunged forward and stabbed the mastiff with all his strength. The dog howled, released Istv¨¢n, and attacked Gontran¡ªwho pinned its neck to the ground with his leg. There, just as with Boscolo, Gontran withdrew the sword, stabbed, then withdrew it again¡ªrepeating this until the dog stopped breathing. At this point, he leveled up to Apprentice with m¨ºl¨ºe weapons (4/10).

    Getting the hang of this, Gontran thought.

    He fell off the monster, exhausted beyond belief, but Istv¨¢n helped him up, thanking him as they limped together through the woods¡ªcovered in blood, saliva, and leaves, an obvious red trail behind them. Two glowing lanterns were hovering between the trees at their backs, and the sun had yet to rise. Looking back, Gontran saw the two dead mastiffs lying in the undergrowth like humps of meat. Mosquitoes were already swarming around their gleaming wounds.

    ¡°I hate dogs,¡± he whispered.

    Istv¨¢n released a quiet laugh.

    Gontran cut through the woods ahead, crashing through leaves, fighting his way over the ground that turned to muck, then streams, then solid earth, then muck again. The Veneto couldn¡¯t make up its mind. It was land, river, mud, island, sea, forest, field, marsh¡ªeverything except mountain¡ªall at once.

    They both ran so hard they lost track of time and space. Trees, bushes, and other plants surrounded them.

    Cut through some leaves and branches, find more leaves and branches, then cut through those.

    Eventually Gontran was so out of breath that he quietly asked Istv¨¢n if they could stop. Both threw themselves against an enormous, ancient oak and breathed as silently as possible, listening for their pursuers. Aside from the peeping insects and crying birds and the blood thundering in their ears, they heard nothing.

    Gontran noticed the red bite marks on Istv¨¢n¡¯s ankle. Pulling the blanket from his pocket, Gontran tore a strip away and bandaged the wound. Istv¨¢n nodded his thanks.

    This poor guy¡¯s dead if that dog had rabies, Gontran thought.

    Both men were too afraid to speak. The slave catchers might have been close, but moving quietly and patiently, like cats stalking prey.

    Gontran gestured to Istv¨¢n to get his attention, then mouthed the words: ¡°Where are we?¡±

    Istv¨¢n mouthed back: ¡°I do not know.¡±

    Gontran looked around, but the sun was still too low, and trees and plants were everywhere. It was impossible to get his bearings. For all he knew, he and Istv¨¢n could have been a few feet or a few miles from the road.

    He shook his head. I¡¯d give anything for a cup of water¡­all we can do now is rest.

    It took a few minutes for him to get his wind back. He wasn¡¯t in such bad shape as he¡¯d thought. Living in the Middle Ages for almost a year had toughened him. Back in the old world, he could barely finish a single lap around the high school track. But here he ran fast, and for a long time. He had run through the woods like an animal.

    By now, Gontran and Istv¨¢n were sitting with their backs to the giant oak, their legs stretched out in the brush. Both men had caught their breath and were slapping the mosquitos whining around their ears.

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    No cure for malaria in this period, Gontran thought. No medicine.

    An enormous brown scaly snake slithered over Gontran¡¯s legs, then Istv¨¢n¡¯s, flicking out its tongue. A pair of what looked like peacock feathers sprouted from behind its ears.

    Both men held still as the snake passed over them. Gontran calmly picked it up and tossed it aside, where the snake continued into the brush.

    ¡°It¡¯s just a snake,¡± Gontran whispered.

    Yet Istv¨¢n was terrified. ¡°Maybe we go back.¡±

    ¡°Over my dead body,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°But Boscolo¡¯s men come with more dogs. They find our smell. Their Capitano Annibale Loredan. They never stop hunting us.¡±

    ¡°That B¨¦la guy turned out to be a real asshole. He was an asshole from the moment I met him.¡±

    ¡°In some days he is free. He is the prisoner.¡±

    ¡°What was he in for?¡±

    ¡°He work in Murano. Making glass. One day he leave without permesso. He want to see family in Magyarors¨¢g.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s it? You need permission to leave?¡±

    ¡°Murano glass is secret. Venice has many secret. He is lucky to live¡ªmore lucky with short prison term.¡±

    ¡°Must be good at making glass.¡±

    ¡°He very good.¡±

    ¡°Didn¡¯t do much for his personality, though.¡±

    ¡°No. His personality is not good. I work with him in Murano. I am glassblower.¡± He coughed. ¡°I first learn from my uncle Orban. He engineer in Rome. But glassblowing, it not good for, how do you say?¡± He gestured to his chest.

    ¡°Your lungs? Are you also in prison because you tried to run away to protect your lungs?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Istv¨¢n sighed. ¡°I have very long sentence.¡±

    ¡°What for?¡±

    ¡°Someone tell I want to sell trade secrets to other cities.¡±

    ¡°Well? Did you?¡±

    Istv¨¢n scowled. ¡°It does not matter. Venetian merchants cannot control my thinking or my moving. I am free man. I go where I want.¡±

    Sounds like this guy would like the uprising, Gontran thought. But he decided not to bring it up.

    Having caught their breath, they stood, looked around, then continued through the brush as quietly as possible, though soon enough they found themselves fighting through the woods, just as before. The forest¡¯s density amazed Gontran. He knew that in the old world, northern Italy was developed¡ªwith towns, cities, factories, farms, roads, and railways all over the place. But he was in the dark ages. The rich had fled to Venice; almost everyone else had died thanks to plague or war. This meant that for centuries, nothing had stopped the forest¡¯s growth. Gontran and Istv¨¢n could have been walking through the remains of ancient Roman towns without even knowing it; every trace of those places had vanished. It was post-apocalyptic. The few people who remained behind could only rely on themselves, and probably had no defensive armaments save a few rusted swords and spears. Isolation was their defense.

    The land here¡ªit was either the March of Verona or Friuli, Gontran was unsure¡ªwas well-watered. Rivers, streams, and ponds were everywhere. With almost every other step, Gontran¡¯s bare feet sank into mud. He and Istv¨¢n were thirsty, but it was hard to find water that looked or tasted clean. It was almost all sludge, but even when they found a clear stream flowing in a gully between bushes and trees whose roots stuck out from the dirt, it sometimes tasted salty. They were still too close to the sea, which only needed to rise a little to flood these plains. Nonetheless, clean water could sometimes be found, and after drinking their fill Gontran and Istv¨¢n washed the blood and filth from their flesh and clothes as best they could.

    It was late afternoon when they emerged into a field of tall grass rattling with cicadas. Gontran almost wanted to collapse after wrestling with so many trees. Yet Istv¨¢n stopped him. In the distance, above the green wavering stalks¡ªtall for so early in the season¡ªwas a gray rectangular tower of stone. It rose from a forested mountain, its single dark window stained brown from centuries of snow and rain.

    The instant Istv¨¢n spotted it, he pulled Gontran down in terror.

    ¡°Faszom!¡± Istv¨¢n said. This was apparently a swear.

    ¡°Look familiar?¡± Gontran whispered.

    ¡°It Monselice,¡± Istv¨¢n whispered back. ¡°We run very far. Many miles. We are halfway to the Verona.¡±

    ¡°Monselice, never heard of it. Is it good or bad?¡±

    ¡°It depends on you. It is as good or bad as you make it.¡±

    ¡°Will they kill us if we try to drink some water or get some food?¡±

    Istv¨¢n shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know. This is not Venetian land. Now we are in N¨¦metorsz¨¢g¡ªGerman Roman Empire land.¡±

    ¡°Jesus, how many Romes are there? One was enough.¡±

    Istv¨¢n chuckled. ¡°Yes, that true. There is pope city of the Rome in Italy. Then there is German Roman Empire in many places. Then there is Romagna, the impero orientale of Greeks. Too many Romes.¡±

    ¡°But the Venetians just control the coast, huh?¡±

    ¡°Yes. They have no land legs.¡± Istv¨¢n nodded to the tower. ¡°This is Monselice watch tower for Via Imperii. First the road goes from Velence and Clodia to Verona, then south to Rome, or north to the Germany.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Gontran said.

    He had taken the road south when he had first fled Metz. But the word ¡°road¡± was a bit generous when it came to the Via Imperii. The Roman paving was stomped by thousands of feet and hooves every year, but hadn¡¯t been maintained for centuries. This meant that it was mostly mud in warmer months, and snowbound when it was cold.

    ¡°Where you go?¡± Istv¨¢n said. ¡°North to Germany?¡±

    ¡°No idea. Just trying to get away from the Venetians at the moment.¡±

    ¡°Many people feel same these days.¡± Istv¨¢n smiled, though he did so wearily. His face gleamed with sweat, and his eyes were hollowed with exhaustion. Gontran assumed that he himself looked either the same, or worse.

    What I¡¯d give for a shower, he thought. A change of clothes. Some bread and cheese. A cup of wine. Even a hammock on my ship. My friends.

    ¡°What about you?¡± Gontran said. ¡°Are you just going to Verona?¡±

    ¡°Verona first, then my homeland¡ªMagyarors¨¢g. I think you call it Hungary.¡±

    ¡°Hungary.¡± Gontran nodded. But he was drawing a blank.

    What¡¯s Hungary? A country with a funny name¡ªeveryone there is always very hungry. Not to generalize, of course. Did the name come from the Huns? No. It¡¯s something else, the ten tribes or arrows or something. The Austro-Hungarian Empire. And what was that? Land of the inbred Habsburgs, the hapless Habsburgs always dragging their massive overgrown chins behind them. Their chinny-chin-chins.

    Is it ableist to make fun of the genetic diseases of royalty? No, because fuck royalty.

    The Habsburgs conquered by marriage¡ªmarrying cousins again and again for hundreds of years and expecting that to cause no issues. Weird. Did all those cousins look sexy, with their big fat heaving dowries? Habsburgs rubbing their hands together and licking their lips whenever they see their cousins. ¡®I could produce so many purebred offspring with my hot cousin over there.¡¯ First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes genetic disease.

    Getting back to Hungary. A country in central Europe¡ªfunny how the concept of Europe just like doesn¡¯t exist in the Middle Ages. Can¡¯t remember anyone saying the word ¡®Europe¡¯ in the game. They talk about Rome or Christendom, but Europe? Never. Where did the word ¡®Europe¡¯ even come from? Europa? A beautiful maiden carried off by Jupiter in the form of a bull from the sea. That¡¯s it. Europe is really just Northwest Asia. A subcontinent. A growth. A tumor swollen to bursting with cancerous cells it smeared all over the old world, letting every last little town grow cancers of its own.

    But we were discussing the Austro-Hungarian Empire. They had powdered wigs. Amazing to think that something so old-fashioned once looked cool to people. They probably wore them because they didn¡¯t want to bathe. Too much trouble when you need to heat up the water with a fire under your bathtub. But some Native Americans thought Europeans were disgusting, didn¡¯t they? Maybe some still do. Europeans also had silk shirts. Austro-Hungarians had Mozart. Amazing music transformed into background noise from being overplayed.

    Austro-Hungarian Empire balkanized after the First World War. Austria more interested in music than world domination. But it was still Hitler¡¯s birthplace. He lived in cosmopolitan Vienna, rubbing shoulders with Jewish soldiers until his twenties or thirties, didn¡¯t he? A land of anti-semitism. Hitler the poster child for growing up under bad parents¡ªan abusive dad, a coddling mom¡ªin a backward society, but Europe was (and still is) overrun with all kinds of people who grew up and live and think just like Hitler, except instead of Jews they hate Muslims, Roma, and Russians now. Whoever the empire says is bad, they hate, and then they act like they¡¯re so brave and smart for repeating whatever nonsense they heard in the corporate media.

    Anti-semitism. Scapegoating minorities of all kinds, not just Jews, to protect an unjust collapsing system. But Jews had a place in the feudal world. They were merchants and moneylenders. The Old Testament said it was okay to lend to the goyim; the New Testament forbid Christians to lend or borrow. Everybody knows that. Jesus himself had no property at all. He was basically a wandering healer, revolutionary, and philosopher. He whipped the money-changers with a rope in the temple. When modernity came along, the goyim figured out that actually, it¡¯s okay to borrow and lend money. They didn¡¯t need the Jews anymore¡ªbut the goyim definitely needed their stuff. And so came pogroms and death camps. Herakleia had some weird term for it. Primitive accumulation. The same as the witch hunts and the religious wars and the genocide of indigenous people and slavery and colonialism and imperialism and Nazism. The reason people look up to ancient Rome but not medieval Europe. They like the slaves, they like the money that buys all that fine art, that powerful military full of handsome muscular Italian dudes in skirts, nothing gay about that at all. Medieval Europe sucks, but it¡¯s kind of a compromise between the peasants and landowners. In ancient Rome, there¡¯s no compromise. The slave owners work their slaves to death.

    But what¡¯s Hungary to me now? The Pannonian Plain. The Carpathians¡ªthe mountains of Vlad Dracul as yet unborn, still lurking in the genes of nearby Romania¡¯s nobility. Rivers winding through golden grain fields interspersed with green trees. A Romantic landscape painting everywhere you look. Plains thundering with horsemen who wear single feathers sticking straight up from the fronts of their gleaming steel helmets as they loose arrows in every direction¡ªparticularly behind them as they gallop away from you, luring you into a false retreat. A few old Roman fortresses built in the¡ª

    ¡°Gontran,¡± Istv¨¢n said.

    Gontran blinked. ¡°Yeah. Sorry. We should check it out.¡± He nodded to the tower, which was just barely visible over the green grass stalks glimmering in the breeze as the late afternoon¡¯s colors deepened to golden-red. ¡°See what we can find. I¡¯m starving.¡±

    Istv¨¢n nodded. ¡°Me too.¡±

    They did their best to sneak through the fields to the tower, but it was impossible to do this without being seen. Monselice rose above plains which stretched for many miles in every direction, interrupted only by the occasional forest, stream, or field. As Gontran and Istv¨¢n drew closer, they encountered more signs of cultivation: forests had been cleared to make way for farmland interspersed with paths and ditches. Yet no one was around.

    In the distance, deep sonorous bells were ringing from the little church that lay in the town beneath the tower.

    ¡°I think it is Sunday,¡± Istv¨¢n said.

    ¡°Don¡¯t church bells ring all the time?¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°Of course. But nobody here. It is the Lord¡¯s day. Day of rest. But Moneslice is different since last time I am here. There is more farmland. More houses. More people.¡±

    ¡°Italians, they breed like rabbits.¡±

    As Gontran and Istv¨¢n crept closer, they heard music¡ªfifes, drums, lutes, singing. Church was over¡ªif the villagers had even gone to church¡ªand now groups of people were heading into the countryside to picnic. Thankfully, they were headed in the opposite direction from Gontran and Istv¨¢n.

    It was dark and quiet by the time they reached the village that lay beneath the tower on the mountain. The huts here were walled with mud and thatched with straw, and all were huddled so close to the cliffs that you could run up along a path into the tower¡¯s walls in a few minutes. Only a few houses of wood or stone were present in the town center, near a small church.

    Gontran and Istv¨¢n stopped just outside the town, ducking behind an oak. The peasant huts were barely visible in the darkness, and there were no torches or candles. Everyone seemed to be asleep.

    When Gontran stood to see if he could find anything in the village, Istv¨¢n pulled him back. ¡°Dogs,¡± he mouthed, glancing at his wounded ankle.

    Gontran shoved Istv¨¢n off, then whispered: ¡°If I don¡¯t get some food, I¡¯m going to die.¡±

    ¡°Peasants dangerous, too. They don¡¯t like the soldiers. They pull off your skin.¡±

    ¡°We aren¡¯t soldiers.¡±

    ¡°How do they know?¡±

    ¡°So what are we supposed to do?¡±

    Istv¨¢n had no answer, so Gontran stood and entered the village.

 12. Larder

    Gontran crept along the outer walls of the huts in silence. He kept an eye on the narrow, shadowy gaps between the buildings, thinking he¡¯d hide there if anyone spotted him. Wooden carts were also parked in front of some homes, and he was soon planning his movements around these carts¡ªlunging from cart to cart with the intention of ducking down behind one if a dog barked, or if someone suddenly asked: ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± But his high stealth skill kept him concealed.

    At one point he found a well, and guzzled cool fresh water from the bucket he hauled out of the depths. He felt so gross¡ªhis skin was caked in dirt and salt from a day of running for his life¡ªthat he wanted to take off his clothes and bathe right there. He would have done so, had circumstances been less hostile. All he could do was quietly rinse his face.

    Gontran moved toward the town center. He meant to steal some food from the church. As he drew closer, he looked back to the gnarled oak where he had left Istv¨¢n, but only saw darkness.

    His heart plunged. Had Istv¨¢n left?

    He¡¯ll betray me, Gontran thought. Turn me in for the reward. That¡¯s the real reason he came with me. Machiavelli. Just building me up so he can let me down. The Venetians will pay him and even free him in exchange for torturing me like this. Nothing hurts a man more than hope. That¡¯s what Annibale wants. Make me think I¡¯ve made it. Then, the moment I¡¯m celebrating¡ªcatch me again.

    You¡¯ve become a little more paranoid since your imprisonment, the game voice said.

    Shut up.

    Gontran arrived at the piazza that was in front of the church. For a moment he checked to see if anyone was around, but no one seemed to be. Here were richer homes of wood and stone, two or even three stories high with windows of thick smudged glass which¡ªwho knew?¡ªIstv¨¢n or B¨¦la may have even made back in Murano. These were open to the cool humid spring night. The snoring of smug, self-satisfied burghers rattled their windowpanes. Like Annibale, none of them had ever missed a meal. None of them needed to worry about running for their lives or getting chained up or whipped. Regardless of what happened, tomorrow was going to be another wonderful day for all of them. Gontran could tell from their snoring alone that their sleep was deep and dreamless, since they had no need to dream. For them, reality was the dream. It was a living dream. And they didn¡¯t want to wake up.

    Taking a deep breath, Gontran snuck along the buildings facing the square until he was as close to the church as he could get without exposing himself in the open. Looking back and forth one last time, he darted across the piazza to the church entrance, his feet squishing in the wet muck¡ªchurned into buttery softness for who knew how long by rain, sweat, and innumerable wheels, shoes, paws, and hooves. Once he arrived, he tried the door, but it was locked.

    Fuck! House of God my ass!

    Before he knew what he was doing, he was checking his pockets for anything he could use to pick the lock¡ªhe was a rogue, after all, and a Master Thief (8/10) with a corresponding Master Lockpicking Skill (8/10)¡ªbut all he was carrying was a sword. Then he peered into the darkness. He needed two metal pins. Where the hell was he going to find two metal pins in the middle of the night in Monselice? Nowhere!

    What about sticks or twigs? No! They''ll snap!

    He tiptoed around the church, found a rear entrance, tried it. Locked. The priest, the father, the abb¨¦, the padre, whatever you wanted to call him¡ªit seemed he had some experience with thieves, and perhaps even his own fair share of escaped slaves. They must have been coming through here all the time. Venice was the slave capital of the world. Some slaves inevitably got loose.

    Now Gontran was really starving. The game voice said his hunger had gotten bad enough to affect his health. There was a vegetable garden in the rear, and he fell upon it, but it was spring, and the seeds had yet to sprout from the earth. They were still germinating. Gontran swore silently.

    Yet aside from the tower¡ªprobably guarded by at least a few burly knights, bristling with razor-sharp swords and armor¡ªthe church must have contained the most food in the village, especially if there was a monastery attached, even a small one with only a few fat monks tucked inside, safe and snug in their warm beds, snoring through dreams of Jesus on the Cross, God the Father in the clouds, and the heartwarmingly amusing antics of Brother Francesco and Brother Leonardo.

    Wait. They didn''t dream about those things. They dreamed stress dreams about messing up monastic duties, chanting the wrong words during mass, ripping an uncontrollably deafening (plate-rattling) fart during an otherwise quiet dinner, arriving for confession naked, or failing to love god hard enough. Those were monk stress dreams. But the larder must have been stuffed with sacks of communion wafers and barrels of communion wine at the very least.

    Mmm, the body and blood of Christ.

    Gontran tried the doors of the other houses of the rich, but all were locked. No wonder even the dogs were asleep. There was nothing to worry about. The doors and locks were strong. It would take a band of at least five, ten, maybe even twenty guys to break into one of these places.

    Gontran heaved his shoulders. He was out of ideas. As he thought about what to do, he realized that the peasants¡¯ houses were probably unlocked. Peasants lacked even the money to brace their doors with anything but big stones on the ground, if that. They also lacked anything that was worth stealing. But although Gontran was ravenous, he had yet to reach the point where he would take bread from the mouths of destitute people¡ªwhom the lords and ladies and priests had already bled to dry husks.

    Out of options, he crept back to the oak in defeat. What the hell was he going to do now? Gontran was starving! He¡¯d been running, hiking, and fighting since early in the morning without even a breadcrumb! Yet along the way back to the oak, he spotted a blacksmith¡¯s shop he''d somehow missed. Listening and looking around, he snuck closer. It was so dark he could barely see, but he felt around for anything he could use to pick a lock, careful at the same time to avoid cutting himself on sharp objects. The blacksmith and his assistants had locked away anything of value, but a couple of nails might be all Gontran needed. These would be thick and heavy¡ªlike the nails driven into the flesh of Our Lord on the cross¡ªbut medieval locks were also correspondingly large. Two relatively thin nails might do the trick.

    Slowly reaching into a bucket, Gontran found that it was full of nails. Jackpot! He stuffed two of the thinnest he could find into his pocket, then returned to the church. Within moments, the door lock was open, and his lockpicking XP had increased.

    Piece of cake.

    It creaked as he opened it, snuck in, then closed it. Once inside, he shoved the nails back into his pocket, as cold darkness enveloped him. The building was no Renaissance masterpiece¡ªthe Renaissance lay two centuries in the future. Instead, the church was a plain brick structure with a bell tower, and no windows. Its architecture was probably Byzantine-esque, but Gontran couldn¡¯t tell. Forced to feel about in the dark, he worked his way toward the altar, stepping carefully, pausing constantly to listen. Nothing. Even his own dirty footsteps were silent to him.

    Once he reached the altar, he got confused. Never much of a churchgoer, he lacked knowledge of basic church design. He knew that there were things around the altar¡ªstructures which were used in various ceremonies, for the choir to sing, and the priest to swing the smoking censer about, chanting quietly about nostrae pater quid est in caelio, amen. Doorways opened to other rooms here and there, but as to their name or purpose, he was clueless.

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    Where do these assholes store their food? They have to eat sometimes, don''t they?

    It was in the ciborium, wasn''t it? The tabernacle? Didn¡¯t ciborium mean dinner or something in Latin? It was at the back of the altar, in the center, a big metal container where they stored the consecrated wafers and wine. Maybe. Gontran did his best to find his way there, but he also needed to keep his bearings and avoid getting lost. Presumably he could find a wall and then use that to guide him back to the entrance, but who knew?

    When he arrived at the back of the altar, he found it: a sort of ornate metal barrel, its insides sloshing with wine, with a drawer for the communion wafers on the bottom. He was ready to stuff himself to bursting with holy bread and drink himself halfway to death with holy wine. It was a sacrilege, and God would never forgive him, but fuck that guy.

    There was just one problem. The container, also, was locked.

    Fuck! Everything is locked in this fucking place! Monselice! More like Mon-se-locked-e!

    Clutching his head, he was ready to smash the metal container onto the floor. Then the whole village would hear, and they¡¯d all come and attack him like sprites in a video game. His lockpicking skills were also useless, here: the local father had splurged on a nice new lock that was too small for the big nails Gontran had plucked from the blacksmith¡¯s.

    He stumbled into a room adjoining the altar. Here with his hands he found plain wooden tables and chairs, some parchments, a thick book which was probably a bible; he also felt robes hanging along the walls. But no bread. No wine.

    Cursing the church, God, Christianity, Jesus, and everything within and without the universe, Gontran left the dark building in defeat.

    Monselice, the world¡¯s shittiest little town. Monselice: a slice of the Hell of the Damned. Of leeches. A food desert.

    Once he was outside, he noticed that the clouds had cleared a little in the night, and that the promontory and the tower appeared as dark shapes obscuring the stars.

    That was his last choice. There must have been food in the tower. It was locked, to be sure, but that was no problem for him. The only issue was climbing up and down the mountain at night without falling, tearing up his feet, breaking his ankle, or getting stabbed through the chest by Signore Roderigo Dickfacio de Monselice.

    Suppressing a groan from the hunger that was threatening to turn his stomach inside-out, Gontran found the path that led up the mountain. The starlight made the climb easier then he¡¯d expected¡ªuntil he realized that the stars were actually getting a little too bright. It wasn¡¯t the stars that were lighting his way¡ªit was the star¡ªthe sun¡ªthe dawn. The sky itself was brightening. He needed to hurry; he¡¯d been messing around in this godforsaken hellhole all night. Soon the cows would be mooing to be milked, the cocks would be crowing, the swifts chirping, the cicadas rattling, the frogs croaking, and choral ensembles of dogs would be barking at nothing at all¡ªcomplete with distinct alto, tenor, and basso profundo sections, each putting all their energy into the performance, while their owners screamed at them to shut up. Finally, when the sky turned orange, and the sun dripped upward from the horizon like a blob of molten lava, the farmers would trudge off to work, dragging their carts behind them, the vast majority too poor to own even a single spavined Rocinante. They¡¯d spot Gontran and shout at each other in whatever impossible dialect they spoke. Then the knights would ride him down, net him like a fish, and drag him back to Venice in exchange for a sack of ringing golden solidi.

    No thanks.

    At the promontory¡¯s top was a splendid countryside view, one worthy of a panorama shot, a five-star rating on the internet that did not exist. In the faraway blue-gray mist Gontran even spotted the Venetian lagoon, and the towers and domes rising like a plague of mushrooms from the Venetian isles, and even little sailboats flitting back and forth along the channels between the shoals. At this distance the ships looked like white-winged butterflies perched on the waves. Some were headed into the Adriatic, which was where the Paralos was, if it hadn¡¯t been sunk¡ªif its crew still lived. Gontran sighed.

    In other directions lay other cities whose names were beyond him. Vicenza, Padua, Ferrara, Mantua¡ªwho knew which was what? Yet each had Romantic connotations. In the old world, rich Americans would have spent a thousand dollars a day lounging around these places, sipping coffee in the morning and wine in the evening, bumbling around historic town centers and taking selfies in front of curving church facades weighed down by hot sleepy afternoons, heading to the Lido to sunbathe (scandalized by the topless sunburnt crones who had the same idea), stuffing their faces three times a day with food that was nothing like the Italian food back home.

    Can¡¯t say I blame them. Man, that would be nice. A nice little Italian vacation.

    The Roman road led westward across a great deal of cleared farmland to a decent-sized urban agglomeration of some kind. That must have been Verona¡ªfair Verona, where Gontran hoped to lay his scene. He could even make out what looked like a miniature coliseum there, one covered with trees and vines, a living Piranesi sketch, Mother Nature collecting on the debt she was owed. There were other cities, too, in other directions, but he only looked around for a moment. His principle concern was the gate and the wall in the path ahead.

    Monselice, come for the walls, stay for the locks.

    Quickly opening the locked gate as though he was using a key rather than two nails, he entered the fortress. Inside was a small courtyard with shovels, wheelbarrows, and ladders. There was also a stable with a horse which nickered when it saw him; Gontran put his index finger to his mouth. Then he crept inside the quiet tower, its door being the only one in Monselice he had encountered which was unlocked. Past a small stone lobby for scraping your shoes¡ªGontran didn¡¯t have any¡ªwas the usual enormous dining hall with a vast wooden table surrounded by chairs as well as a fireplace with embers glowing inside. Yet another monstrous hound was sleeping on a carpet on the floor, but the beast remained asleep.

    You have one job, Gontran thought, shaking his head¡ªthough his right hand gripped the hilt of Boscolo¡¯s sheathed sword. Gontran considered slaying the dog outright, and although he hated dogs, he didn¡¯t hate them that much. He couldn¡¯t kill a poor cute little poochie in cold blood, even if this ¡®poor cute little poochie¡¯ was the size of a couch. Besides, the noise would wake whoever was sleeping in the tower.

    Larder, larder, where¡¯s the larder? Where¡¯s the pantry?

    The kitchen adjoined the hall. Keeping an eye on the dog, Gontran crept inside. There he finally found what he needed: sacks of bread, salt pork, cheese, meat pies, plus barrels of wine, oceans of wine, rivers of wine to float upon.

    Piles of apples from last season were even stored in the pantry. These medieval people used some trick to keep them from rotting in the absence of modern refrigeration techniques. The pantry itself was cool, dark, windowless.

    Gontran took all he could carry, stuffing an old rancid rasher of bacon into his pocket in case he needed to distract the dog by the front door. But would that even work? This was a game, yes, but was it that kind of game?

    On Gontran¡¯s way out through the doorway to the hall, he ran into a small child¡ªboy or girl, impossible to tell¡ªwearing only a heavy woolen night shirt. As with every child Gontran encountered, this one looked like Joseph. Gontran froze. The child did the same. They stared at each other for a moment that lasted forever. As with the horse in the courtyard, Gontran held his index finger to his lips. This gesture was apparently understood in the medieval world, because the child nodded quietly in response. Gontran mouthed the word ¡°grazie,¡± then walked out through the front door, saddled the horse in the stable, piled it with everything he had stolen, and rode out quietly through the front gate and down the path to the town. Everyone was still asleep¡ªincluding Istv¨¢n, who was snoring against the gnarled oak¡¯s far side. Gontran shook him awake, and together they mounted the horse, which was a good strong charger, and perfect for a knight. Just as they were riding out of town, shouts came from the tower. A muscular young man was sprinting down the path in his night shirt, clutching a sword that was as long as he was tall, screaming for all he was worth. Groans came from the village as people woke up. Then the church bells rang.

    Gontran urged the horse to a canter. The man¡ªpresumably the tower knight¡ªchased them as far as he could, though even at a canter an Olympic runner would have had a hard time keeping up with a horse. Eventually the man gave up. He was so out of breath he lacked the strength to keep shouting.

    Gontran looked at Istv¨¢n. ¡°Might be the only horse in Monselice.¡±

    Istv¨¢n bit into a loaf of bread, then offered the loaf to Gontran. ¡°Perhaps true.¡±

    Once they had put some distance between themselves and Monselice, they rode off into a secluded wood, threw themselves onto the ground, and devoured their food and guzzled their wine, too tired and content to speak. Monselice¡¯s frantic bells were still ringing, and even the bells of other cities and towns across the march were answering. Neither Gontran nor Istv¨¢n cared. The instant they had packed their bellies with food and drink, they passed out, exhausted beyond what they had believed possible, not even caring if the stolen horse rode off, or if anyone found them.

 13. Death Worm Tavern

    Joseph.

    The stolen horse nuzzled Gontran awake. He bolted upright. It was evening, the birds and insects were screaming as though trying to deafen one another, and he was still somehow alive. His head pounded, and his bladder felt like it was about to burst. Standing and staggering a few steps from the little secluded glade he had found with Istv¨¢n¡ªwho was snoring in the grass¡ªGontran unleashed a gushing flood of piss, one so profound it threatened to drown the world like a second biblical deluge. Both Lemuel Gulliver and Noah himself would have exchanged looks, had they seen this thundering urine¡ªfar more powerful than any firehose or opened floodgate, the jet strong enough to cut steel.

    Having emptied his bladder, Gontran next realized that he also needed to relieve his bowels. The resulting mountain of dung shocked him. Even a fully grown diplodocus plodding by would have stopped and stared. A first-time mother¡ªhaving just given birth to healthy cherubic octuplets¡ªwould have told Gontran that his achievement was greater. An entire acre of farmland could have been fertilized with this load of shit¡ªfertilized so thoroughly that nearby seeds as yet unplanted would have burst into green life at the mere thought of being scattered into such voluminous, nutrient-laden night soil. He could have fed the world like a living Ceres with his horn of overflowing plenty, a living god of shit.

    Damn, I had to go.

    His health and stamina ticked upward as a result.

    The road was impossible to see from the glade. Gontran and Istv¨¢n could have been in the middle of the woods, a thousand miles from the nearest hut. This was why no one had found them.

    Gontran ate dinner with the satisfaction of a free man, fed the horse with a bag of oats he¡¯d stolen from the stables¡ªthe satisfaction of a thief¡ªthen shook Istv¨¢n awake. Soon they were off. And before long, the Roman road was passing increasingly busy peasant hamlets. Forests had been cleared and marshes drained, and now farmland stretched for miles, all of it plowed and sown with crops. The houses, too, were changing, the mud walls turning to wood or stone, the thatch roofs becoming tile. These houses looked cozier than the wretched, smoke-filled hovel Gontran had known in Metz. Something was waking this place. A dark age still reigned in Monselice, but here people were already moving toward the light of the Renaissance.

    ¡°It is weather,¡± Istv¨¢n said, when Gontran asked about all the activity here. ¡°Every year good. Even the grandparents say it never so good when they are child. Every season perfect. Right amount of rain and sun, cold and heat. Every season mild. So for once, farming easy. Even the peasants do well. They have time and strength to build homes. And they have children, many children. Now everyone always hungry for land, always looking, always clearing.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s funny,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Where I come from, the weather¡¯s crazy. Huge storms wipe out entire cities every few months. Half the people can¡¯t get enough water, half the people have too much. But here I guess it¡¯s nice and stable.¡±

    ¡°Better than you think. Italiaorsz¨¢g, it land of passion. Women here are beautiful, and they love you like they want a chain for you and them, and then they throw away key. And their brothers and fathers¡ªthey kill you. If you look at pretty daughter, pretty sister, then brothers and fathers draw the swords.¡±

    ¡°¡®We work hard and we play hard,¡¯¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°What?¡±

    Gontran shook his head. ¡°Sorry, just some of the nonsense I had to deal with where I come from.¡±

    ¡°In Franciaorsz¨¢g, you mean?¡±

    ¡°No. Someplace else.¡±

    Istv¨¢n asked more, but Gontran refused to elaborate. He was getting tired of explaining the old world. They always asked the same questions and reacted the same way. It had been interesting, when he had first arrived in the game, to explain something like an airplane to people who believed that you needed to flap your arms like a bird in order to fly, but the novelty had worn off, especially since so many of them refused to believe him. He was frustrated, too, because he knew that in the old world, people would react the same way. They would look at him like he was insane if he even mentioned that he had once ridden a horse to medieval Verona. The effect of all this old world skepticism¡ªperfectly reasonable from their point of view¡ªwould be so powerful, continuous, and omnipresent that he, too, would suspect that he had lost his mind, even though all his senses told him that at this very moment, he was riding a horse to medieval Verona.

    Gontran and Istv¨¢n came to the city from the south. Built on the curving River Adige, its sturdy Roman walls hugged a jumble of rectangular gray towers and brown-red campaniles. Dozens of these rose above the rooftops, and the bells from some of the old square churches were clanging so loudly that nothing else could be heard.

    Gontran and Istv¨¢n entered Verona through a tall white Roman gate of arches, pillars, and triangles just before it was closed for the night; the tired guards leaning on their halberds barely glanced at them before waving them inside. The paved streets were lain out in a regular Roman grid, and crowded with the medley of people that could always be found in more important medieval cities. Old world films would have depicted the people here as painfully white¡ªso as not to upset the more sensitive viewers¡ªbut Gontran quickly found many Arab merchants, Jews, and even Africans. This latter group was a sign that your city mattered: only backwaters were monocultural. Some Africans were slaves sweating under sacks of heavy merchandise¡ªslave masters in this time period did not discriminate: they were equal-opportunity enslavers who believed firmly in inclusion, and would therefore manacle and abuse anyone they could find regardless of skin color, usually prisoners of war fleeing lost battles, mostly women and children snatched up in sacked cities, who themselves worked out of sight of the streets as domestic servants and sex slaves. Other Africans were freemen. These went about their business like regular Italians, dressed in the same plain clothes, shouting the same boisterous language, and gesturing in the same ridiculous manner. Gontran could almost hear them saying: ¡°Ey, come on, whaddya gonna do?¡± For whatever reason, old world movies depicted Italians or Romans as British or American, but when you went back in time and saw them in action, they tended to remind you of Italians. A few Africans were pilgrims from Aethiopia or merchants or ambassadors dressed in diamonds and saffron. One was even being carried through the city in a palanquin chair held by four white slaves, their muscles bulging from the strain, the sweat pouring from their matted hair, for their master was fat. Gontran wondered how long it had been since he had seen a fat person. In the medieval world, fatness was a sign of wealth; in the old world, it was a sign of poverty.

    Chuckling, Gontran also imagined the ghosts of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X smiling down with approval from the sky on the Black master with white slaves. Though in reality, Talia and Herakleia and the uprising also did not discriminate, and would destroy slavery wherever they found it, regardless of skin color.

    Then Gontran and Istv¨¢n passed the usual medieval sights and smelled the usual medieval smells. Butchers whacked hunks of red meat with axes while flies buzzed animal corpses dangling on black iron hooks greased with blood and fat. Children were playing everywhere unsupervised.

    All day, every day, for ten years or so, Gontran thought. Rolling around in the dirt with animals, some children wearing no more than a cloth shirt, truly free range kids. The school of hard knocks.

    An enormous red brick church with a more ornate style was surrounded by wooden scaffolds, although the construction workers had already left for the day. Most shops were closed or closing¡ªthey advertised their wares with carvings and paintings rather than written words¡ªbut the taverns were open and shining with torchlight, roaring with conversation and song and laughter, and reeking of ale, wine, piss, and vomit.

    Good old medieval city life, Gontran thought.

    Istv¨¢n stabled the horse, telling the sleepy stableboy they¡¯d pay in the morning.

    ¡°With what money?¡± Gontran whispered to Istv¨¢n as they walked away.

    ¡°Do not worry,¡± Istv¨¢n said, limping beside him and wincing from the pain of his wounded ankle. ¡°I take care of everything. You free me from slavery, Gontran, and so now I free you from slavery of hunger, slavery of need.¡±

    Gontran asked Istv¨¢n what he was talking about, but got no answer.

    Next, Istv¨¢n guided him to a tavern marked with a large wooden sign depicting what he could have sworn was a death worm¡ªthe gigantic monster which had nearly devoured him back in Trebizond, an experience he had been struggling to forget ever since. Gontran shuddered. Although the image was quaint, it was disturbing enough to make him hesitate, but Istv¨¢n urged him to continue.

    ¡°What is matter?¡± Istv¨¢n said.

    Gontran shook his head. ¡°Nothing.¡±

    Inside the Death Worm Tavern were roaring drunkards, men and women clutching each other, and everyone¡ªsave the grumpy barmaids¡ªhaving a good time. Istv¨¢n pulled Gontran straight over to a dark table in the corner where three skinny white men were sitting. The instant these spotted Istv¨¢n, they threw themselves onto the floor¡ªcovered with fish and chicken bones gnawed clean amid wads of phlegm¡ªand bowed repeatedly, repeating the word uram, crawling toward him, seizing his hand, and kissing it.

    Bunch of weirdos, Gontran thought.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    As it turned out, Istv¨¢n was the scion of a Hungarian nobleman. Captured in battle by the Venetians and subsequently enslaved and forced to work as a glassmaker, his father¡ªLord Emeric of Esztergom¡ªhad sent men to scour the Veneto for his poor son. Istv¨¢n himself had been told, in the event of his capture, to make his way to Verona, then to the Death Worm Tavern¡ª¡°you can¡¯t miss it!¡±¡ªand then to a specific table in the back, where some of his father¡¯s servants would always be waiting.

    They bound up Istv¨¢n¡¯s wound, and found him some clean clothes, as well as clean clothes for Gontran. They drank. They partied. Gontran lost himself. He had stopped caring. Life was short and could end in an instant for the most laughable reason, the equivalent of an anvil dropping on your head from the sky, so what did anything matter?

    Just enjoy yourself as best you can. Don¡¯t think.

    The wine flowed in rivers¡ªin fuming fiumi¡ªand he devoured the usual medieval fare¡ªpies stuffed with meat and cheese. Without tomatoes, Italian cuisine was difficult to distinguish from that belonging to France, Germany, Spain, or England. It was all the same shit wherever you went. Pork pies, pigeon pies, fish pies.

    Pies, pies, pies, you want ¡®em, we got ¡®em.

    They laughed, drank, talked, told stories. In Hungarian, Istv¨¢n explained Gontran to his servants, who subsequently bowed, thanked and congratulated him in broken Italian, and then procured anything he desired. Gontran was supposed to be disgusted with this kind of feudal behavior, but he no longer cared.

    I gave everything to the uprising, and what did it get me? Chains around my ankles on a salt farm. Whips on my back on the deck of my own ship. I¡¯m done with all this idealistic bullshit.

    When it was almost morning, Gontran and his new friends¡ªIstv¨¢n, Benedek, Gabor, and Csaba¡ªstaggered along the dark streets, pissing and vomiting everywhere, singing Hungarian battle tunes, dancing drunkenly before a folk band that was playing in the torchlight before a fountain in the city¡¯s old Roman forum. Someone dressed in clashing colors was juggling what looked to Gontran¡¯s eyes like bowling pins.

    Somehow he found himself hugging a sex worker or a sex slave¡ªsomeone whom poverty forced to tolerate his clumsy advances and his breath which reeked of wine, at least so long as he paid. Gontran buried his head between her soft beautiful breasts, and annoyed her by crying¡ªin his profound drunkenness¡ªfor Dekarch Ra¡¯isa. The sex worker¡ªa pale Greek beauty dolled up in lead rouge, black eye shadow, and white powder, her black curly ringlets pouring all the way down to her thighs like a waterfall of hair¡ªjerked his penis to give him an erection and get it over with, all in vain. He was flaccid. His life¡ªhis very existence¡ªwas flaccid. Living like this led only to death, misery, destruction, but it was easier than sticking your neck out, just for someone to cut it off.

    ¡°We¡¯re only human,¡± he babbled.

    She nodded, pretending to understand.

    ¡°Can¡¯t we get a break sometimes?¡±

    Gontran collapsed in bed beside her and puked on the floor. That was all he remembered.

    Gontran woke up in a bed that was in a room somewhere, feeling as though he had been poisoned. It wasn¡¯t just the predictable headache that seemed to ax his skull in half like it was a watermelon the instant he made the mistake of opening his eyes to the golden afternoon gleaming outside his window and the medley of bells ding-dang-donging from the ornate campaniles rising into the spring clouds as if to warn him of the second death that awaited him in the fires of the Hell of the Damned for his betrayal of the uprising and all it stood for. No. It was the way a rotten essence permeated his flesh, muscle, and blood. His mouth tasted disgusting. He stank of vomit, piss, and alcohol, and was drenched in sweat.

    For some time he was unable to even think. All he could do was lie in bed¡ªin an inn or brothel, who knew?¡ªand stew in misery as the world went by outside his window. At some point he climbed out of bed, splashed his face, rinsed his mouth using water someone had poured for him in a ceramic bowl, and even took advantage of the mint leaves left in a little wooden box on the bedside table. Someone had even cleaned his vomit from the floor. It might have been Maria, the woman he had failed to sleep with last night.

    Maria. Everyone¡¯s named Maria. And why wouldn¡¯t they be? She was Jesus¡¯s mom. A woman so hot, God himself couldn¡¯t resist her.

    Gontran looked out the window to get his bearings, but he had never been to Verona, and so the sight before him¡ªcrowds milling and donkeys braying beneath stone and wood buildings lost in the shadows of towers¡ªwas meaningless. As he was looking around like a miserable fool, someone knocked on his door. He opened it to one of Istv¨¢n¡¯s servants¡ªthis one was named Benedek¡ªwho bowed and guided him downstairs to the Death Worm Tavern. Gontran never got tired of this place. He never got tired of being reminded of that one time a giant tentacle monster almost ate him.

    Istv¨¢n, Gabor, and Csaba were gathered at the same table as before. When Gontran and Benedek arrived¡ªIstv¨¢n and his cronies had been polite enough to wait¡ªthey had dinner. This time Gontran, however, was unable to drink anything but water, and unable to eat anything but a few mouthfuls of bread. The Hungarians, in contrast, were eating and drinking as though they had just crawled out of a desert.

    Istv¨¢n slapped Gontran gently across the chest. ¡°Hey, you listen. We go to the Magyarors¨¢g soon. Maybe tomorrow morning. You should come with us.¡±

    ¡°Me?¡± Gontran said. ¡°You want me to come with you?¡±

    ¡°So I say!¡± Istv¨¢n looked at Benedek, Gabor, and Csaba, who were politely watching. ¡°I am son of a lord. Many years ago my ancestors ride in and kill some people and take some land. Ever since, we live in comfort. You should come. We live as kings.¡±

    ¡°Peasants do all the work though,¡± Gontran said.

    Gabor, Csaba, and Benedek exchanged looks.

    Istv¨¢n frowned. ¡°They always lazy and stupid. But we never see them, except for servants in father¡¯s castle, so it¡¯s no problem. And peasants in castle behave. It not easy in there, but it better than field work.¡±

    ¡°You were just a slave for how long?¡± Gontran said. ¡°And you¡¯re telling me you¡¯re looking forward to living off a bunch of peasants?¡±

    ¡°We have many thousands on our land. So we live like the kings. Even if they lazy, we live well. We eat, sleep, drink, fight, fuck. That¡¯s how we live. It good life!¡±

    ¡°You know where I came from,¡± Gontran said. ¡°You know my friends are against all that.¡±

    ¡°In Franciaorsz¨¢g?¡±

    ¡°No, I mean in Trebizond. Have you heard of the uprising?¡±

    Istv¨¢n shook his head.

    ¡°It¡¯s a slave revolt,¡± Gontran said. ¡°They¡¯re the ones who own that ship I was commanding.¡±

    Istv¨¢n looked at his servants. ¡°It not go well I think.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Not exactly¡­¡±

    ¡°You see?¡± Istv¨¢n spread his long arms wide, then lowered them. ¡°It way of world. It cannot change. And you know this city¡ªthe Verona¡ªits nickname is ¡®Little Rome.¡¯ There is little coliseum here¡ªactually it very big, it is just small compare with coliseum in Rome¡ªand did death fights there. Many buildings here built using slaves. Things always bad, ever since Adam and Eve fall out of garden.¡±

    Gontran had argued like this many times with Alexios and Herakleia. Somehow it grossed him out to hear the same thoughts from a nobleman, because Gontran hated noblemen. He had only tolerated Istv¨¢n out of ignorance of his status. Now that Gontran knew the truth, if he¡¯d possessed his pistol-sword, he might have drawn it right now under the table and blown Istv¨¢n away.

    ¡°If you try to change the things,¡± Istv¨¢n continued, ¡°you just make the things worse. Like Spartacus, you know? He and all his friends die. Many thousands. Maybe it better if he just bow to Rome. Then everyone live.¡±

    ¡°He couldn¡¯t,¡± Gontran blurted.

    Istv¨¢n, Csaba, Gabor, and Benedek looked at him.

    ¡°What you mean?¡± Istv¨¢n said.

    ¡°You think they had much of a choice? You think they didn¡¯t try everything they possibly could to avoid bloodshed?¡± Gontran shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s not how it works. The moment you throw your lot in with an uprising, it¡¯s victory or death. And a lot of people only get to that point by kicking or screaming. They know what fighting back means. Endless work, misery, bloodshed, boredom, all for an uncertain future. They know there¡¯s no going back. That they¡¯ll probably never live to see the world they want to build. But it¡¯s better than the prison they live in. The uncertain future is better than the certain present, one where they have to watch everyone they know suffer and die needlessly. They start to think that maybe things don¡¯t need to be the way they are. They start asking questions nobody can answer. And you know how the authorities answer?¡±

    His Hungarian friends shook their heads. Gontran was getting worked up. He had been living around idealists for too long. He had reached the point of quoting the Bible, a book he hated.

    ¡°¡®They say what is right is wrong and what is wrong is right,¡¯¡± Gontran said. ¡°¡®That black is white and white is black; bitter is sweet and sweet is bitter.¡±

    Istv¨¢n said something in Hungarian to Csaba, Benedek, and Gabor. They laughed.

    ¡°Listen,¡± Istv¨¢n said to Gontran. ¡°Forget history, ideas, society. Just think about you. Back in Velence, you lucky. You like Bible? Well, guess what? God bless you. You go free in days because of the drunken Boscolo.¡±

    ¡°One day working out there was enough for me,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°Many other slaves,¡± Istv¨¢n continued, ¡°they work years, decades, if they live. They never escape. Le saline are tombs. Salt tastes like blood for a reason. I am there for months, you know? Boscolo, he not always drunken. That day, he drinks a lot. He celebrating because you good expensive slave. He think maybe he can retire. Now he dead. He make one mistake, and he dead. And think about this. We still in Verona. Velence not far. One or two days on horse. Maybe Venetians find you. Maybe they take you to le saline again. This time, they give you special chains with no lock. You need blacksmith to get them off. And then you never escape. For years you think about me. You think about beautiful Magyarorsz¨¢g, beautiful Magyar ladies. You think about the life you maybe have there. It like a sword in your brain.¡±

    Gontran covered his face with his hands. He isn¡¯t completely wrong.

    Istv¨¢n rubbed his shoulder for a moment. ¡°You are fun in party. You are good man. You help me find friends and family, and you ask nothing in return.¡±

    ¡°Believe me, that¡¯s not the way it usually is,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°But you free right person, Gontran. I am not regular person. I am like a god that is testing you. Well, you pass the test. I repay you a thousand times. For your entire life, you can live in Magyarorsz¨¢g. You never worry about anything again. It is safe place. Our warriors are fearsome. All Christendom fears them. My father, he grateful for your help. Maybe he even knight you. Then you get peasants, plus you get a lady for a wife, title to lands that last forever. And so? Nothing to worry about the rest of your life. Your only trouble is boredom. Is asking: what do I do today? Hunt? Read? Drink? Sleep?¡± He laughed, and his servants laughed with him.

    Gontran snorted. It¡¯s tempting. I¡¯m tired of the uprising. Tired of losing, of running for my life and losing good people. Joseph¡¯s gone, and for what? Diaresso, Ra¡¯isa, Alexios, and Herakleia are all still out there, but they can get along fine without me. I did my part. I tried my best. It didn¡¯t work out.

    ¡°So?¡± Istv¨¢n said. ¡°What you think?¡±

    ¡°You make a good case,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°Good!¡± Istv¨¢n exclaimed. ¡°Then you come with us?¡±

    Gontran nodded. ¡°Yeah, I think so.¡±

 14. Relax Forever

    That night, everyone turned in early. Gontran dreamt he was in a house with all the doors and windows bolted shut. Someone was still knocking, then pounding on all the doors and shutters, shouting to be let in. Gontran yelled for the someone to go away. But the pounding just got louder and stronger. Soon the fists would burst through, and a tempest would consume the house, destroying everything, remaking everything.

    Gontran opened his eyes. Morning. Sparrows and swifts were chirping outside the window. Chanticleers were chanting clearly. Nobody was trying to break in. He was in a bed above the Death Worm tavern in Verona in the eleventh century. Milling crowds murmured in the paved streets that were already clop, clop, clopping with horse hooves. A blackbird sang, reminding him of an old world song.

    After a quick breakfast, Istv¨¢n¡¯s servants procured supplies for the journey to Magyarors¨¢g. These included horses, weapons, armor, blankets, coats, changes of clothes, new shoes, food, water¡ªeverything required to journey along the Via Imperii. This august path of trammeled muck would bring travelers through the Alps via the Brenner Pass. Once they reached the little town of Innsbruck, they would swing east through the Duchy of Carinthia, take ship at the River Danube, and sail until they reached the twin fortresses of Buda and Pest, facing each other on opposite sides of the great river.

    ¡°There we relax forever,¡± Istv¨¢n explained.

    Everyone by then was mounted on expensive horses which were prancing out of Verona.

    ¡°All troubles end,¡± Istv¨¢n continued. ¡°We tell same war stories over and over, again and again, until we are old men, and our grandchildren say: ¡®Stop! Enough! No more!¡¯¡±

    Istv¨¢n laughed, and Benedek, Gabor, and Csaba laughed with him, although it was unlikely they had understood. Gontran forced himself to laugh also.

    He regretted that he had barely seen Verona. With his stamina and health mostly recovered, he was feeling more like his mercantile self this morning. Part of him wanted to stay a little longer to sniff out deals, since almost anything you bought here you could sell for two or three times as much once you made it past the Alps. And then on top of that, always¡ªthe instant he was rested, fed, free of danger¡ªa wide silk canvas would waver in his mind as if across the eastern sky, glimmering in his thoughts like a red sunrise, blowing in a warm lustrous breeze scented with cinnamon. He would hear the twang of the peculiar lutes they played in Dongjing mixed with the women¡¯s chatter filtering out from the doorways. Rice wine would foam on his tongue as he conversed with the philosopher-administrators, floating on skiffs along artificial rivers built within palaces where the rooftops always curved up at the lower edges as if amused.

    But Istv¨¢n wanted to leave. He reminded Gontran that there was no telling when the Venetians would come looking for them. Only when the travelers made it past the Alps could they stop fearing entanglement in the Venetian web. The Serenissima was a watery Antaeus: dangerous on the sea almost wherever you went, but harmless on land¡ªfor now, at least.

    And so Istv¨¢n and his servants left Verona¡ª¡°my sharona,¡± Gontran quietly sang, not even knowing why. Behind them, gray stone towers rose into spring clouds soaked in gleaming buttery sunshine. Gontran kept silent while the Hungarians around him conversed excitedly. He was unable to hear them over the single phrase echoing in his mind.

    This is it.

    This was the end of the life he had been living for the past year, ever since meeting Alexios in that dingy Abydos tavern. Whether Gontran went to Hungary or Metz¡ªthe Via Imperii stretched to the Baltic shore, after all, where blue waves unrolled glowing chunks of amber electrum on the sand¡ªhe was turning his back on the uprising. He¡¯d had enough. It would never trouble him again.

    One person can¡¯t make a difference, he thought. My friends¡ªcan¡¯t even call them that anymore¡ªthey¡¯ll win or they¡¯ll lose without me. Ra¡¯isa, Diaresso, Alexios, Herakleia, you¡¯re on your own. I¡¯m sorry.

    Sadness crept up his throat like a soreness, but he swallowed it down. Then he raised his eyes as he finished crossing the old Roman bridge that arced across the Adige River, which was swollen with purling meltwater. Ahead¡ªbeyond acres of brown farmland and tall thin cypresses burning like dark green torch flames¡ªlay the snowcapped Alps, a wall of monster teeth sheltering warm Italy from wintry Germany.

    When the sun had raised itself directly overhead and was cooking the backs of the travelers¡¯ necks, Istv¨¢n made them stop at a nameless fishing village next to Lake Garda. Just outside a tavern overlooking the vast gleaming waters, Istv¨¢n gestured for Gontran to sit with him at one of two tables. The other was unoccupied. Csaba, Gabor, and Benedek, meanwhile, took care of the horses, ordered food¡ªfish fried in batter, butter, herbs¡ªand procured wine before joining them, sloshing it from a clay pitcher into clay cups. Another group of travelers soon sat at the nearby table: four young men with swords belted at their sides, all so close they were nearly rubbing elbows with Istv¨¢n¡¯s crew. Without looking at the newcomers, Gontran listened to their conversation. They were speaking Venetian.

    He covered his face with his hand. Just once I wish I could do something or go somewhere without running into Venetians. I could travel all the way to the South Pole, trudge across the tundra for weeks without seeing a single living thing, arrive at Lake Vostok¡ªfrozen solid for a hundred miles down¡ªand what would I find? A bunch of Venetians. They¡¯d even be waiting for me on the other side of the moon. You can¡¯t scratch your ass without bumping into twenty fucking Venetians.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Istv¨¢n and his servants watched him with concern, as though they expected him to blow their cover at any moment. They had also stopped speaking Hungarian. The Venetians must have been listening for the peculiar shushing sounds of the Hungarian tongue, especially for the one word Hungarians loved above all others: Magyarors¨¢g.

    Istv¨¢n¡¯s group instead struggled to converse in Venetian. They praised the lake, the fish, the scenery, the food. Each man present at Istv¨¢n¡¯s table spoke with exaggerated Italian accents and mannerisms. Words like ¡°molto bene,¡± ¡°bellissimo,¡± ¡°delicioso,¡± ¡°pesci,¡± and¡ªyes¡ª¡°mamma mia¡± were shouted repeatedly while they gestured to one another, holding their thumbs to their forefingers while pretending to guzzle their wine. This was the only way to mask their accents; to have kept quiet would have looked suspicious. Gontran recalled how Italians often frowned at him for his Frenchness the instant he said words like ¡°buongiorno¡± or ¡°grazie,¡± so he did his best to seem as Italian as humanly possible.

    In order to defeat monsters, we must become monsters.

    Amidst the fake conversation at Istv¨¢n¡¯s table, it was easy to eavesdrop on the Venetians. When Gontran discovered what they were discussing¡ªanimatedly¡ªhe stopped talking and slumped in his seat.

    ¡°It is astonishing that they captured it!¡± the first Venetian said. ¡°A ship, a fine ship worth at least a thousand golden solidi, and in perfect condition, as though they had sailed it straight out of the shipyards of Romagna and into our hands!¡±

    ¡°A goodly load of merchandise was aboard as well,¡± the second Venetian said. ¡°The finest women you could ask for. Asses like this, tits like this.¡± He made cupping signs with his hands. ¡°So lovely, even Christ on the cross would have popped a chubby.¡±

    The Venetians laughed.

    ¡°And they had a statue made of bronze,¡± the first Venetian said. ¡°A peculiar contraption seemingly powered by steam, most remarkable in its ingenuity, very much like the inventions of Archimede, but shaped in the form of yet another gorgeous woman.¡±

    ¡°Romagna is full of them,¡± a third Venetian said. ¡°Positively bursting at the seams with them. Gorgeous Greeks and Slavs. I tell you, I¡¯m saving up for a villa stocked with such women. I¡¯ll have a big garden with a fountain and a wall, a real paradiso, a real garden of earthly delights, and when I¡¯m a rich old man, all I¡¯ll do is frolic with naked slaves all day.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s how the Great Turk lives,¡± the first Venetian said.

    Horny bastards, Gontran thought. Why don¡¯t you squeeze one off instead of making fools of yourselves?

    ¡°Yes, I¡¯ll be the Great Turk,¡± the third said. ¡°I¡¯ll sleep each night on beds made of women. I¡¯ll eat every meal off the bellies of women. I¡¯ll drink wine from the mouths of women.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll take five shits a day from the asses of women,¡± the second said.

    More laughter. Gontran was disgusted.

    ¡°The Loredani were hunting the ship for days and days,¡± the first said. ¡°They¡¯d had some trouble with it. It seems they captured it before, but then it slipped out of their grasp. The second time¡¯s the charm, as they say. Now there¡¯ll be no escape. The ship¡¯s been towed into the Arsenale, the crew chained up in the ducal palace. They just have to find their captain, a Frank who ran off from le saline de Clugia a few days ago. He might even still be in the area. The guy abandoned his crew. Can you believe it? What a coward!¡±

    Gontran was trembling with rage.

    ¡°He could even be nearby.¡± The second nodded to Garda. ¡°Frogs love lakes, don¡¯t they?¡± The man leaned over to Gontran and nudged him with his elbow. ¡°Hey amico, seen any frogs lately?¡±

    The Venetians laughed. Gontran glared at the second one.

    This man clapped Gontran¡¯s back. ¡°No need to be sour! I¡¯m just messing with you! It was just a joke! Lighten up! Have a sense of humor! Be more sociable!¡±

    It was over before Gontran knew what had happened. The Venetians were spasming on the ground, choking on the fountains of blood welling from their throats, which they were clutching. Their eyes bulged for a moment, but soon the Venetians were silent and still as black pools expanded around them, the blood trickling from their necks, the game voice shouting about critical hits and telling him he had leveled up to Intermediate Brawler (5/10). How had he even done this? Gontran approached the lake and cleaned his blood-drenched sword, clothes, and hands in in the water. He was trembling. Only a faint memory of what had happened flashed like lightning in the storm clouds of his mind.

    ¡°Are you mad?¡± Istv¨¢n exclaimed. ¡°I cannot take you anywhere!¡±

    He and his servants had leaped from their seats and drawn their swords. Now they were staring at Gontran as if at a rampant lion. Something crashed in the tavern doorway. Everyone looked: the serving wench had dropped a platter of dishes and then fled inside.

    Gontran walked to the horses. ¡°I¡¯m going back to Venice,¡± he said to Istv¨¢n.

    ¡°Velence?¡± Istv¨¢n said. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Situation¡¯s changed,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°I¡¯m not going there,¡± Istv¨¢n said. ¡°It is mouse trap, and we are the mice. It is city of death. I return to the home. I return to Magyarors¨¢g. To the life.¡±

    Gontran went back to Istv¨¢n. They shook hands, wishing each other luck, fortune, God¡¯s grace. Then Gontran nodded to Benedek, Csaba, and Gabor, and they to him. After he searched the dead Venetians¡¯ pockets for coins¡ªso focused on his new mission that he neglected to count them, though the men had been rich¡ªhe left a golden solidus stamped with Charlemagne¡¯s face on the table, mentally apologizing to the serving wench for the mess. That left thirty-six solidi for Gontran, a small downpayment on the hundred and twenty golden nomismas the bastard Loredani had stolen from him.

    Soon enough, Gontran was riding a horse along the road east to Venice.

 15. The Second Death

    You may try to escape the uprising, Herakleia had once told Gontran. But it will follow you like your own shadow to the ends of the Earth. Some people flee merely in their minds, infuriated by the slightest reminder of its existence, telling themselves it¡¯s all just a bunch of nonsense and nothing to fear. ¡®Guillotines? They couldn¡¯t possibly build them downtown! Not where I live! I¡¯m a good person! My workers could never do that to me!¡¯ But Louis never saw it coming. Nor did Nicholas. Nor did tens of millions of others. They all thought they were just as smart and just as lucky as you. They all thought the uprising could never happen.

    Others flee in other ways. They flee to faraway places where they think the conflict can never touch them. They hide in fortresses with a thousand protections. Machine guns. Robot guards. Enough food stored underground to last years. But no human lives alone. We are all connected, like cells in a body the size of the world. Where there is economic exploitation, there is class struggle¡ªsometimes hidden, sometimes in the open. Sometimes it¡¯s just a worker turning away and raising his eyebrow when his boss makes a request. Other times it¡¯s a riot torching a city¡ªa rebellion that seizes entire nations and engulfs the world.

    Gontran had believed he could escape. The choice to leave the uprising had been hard, but he had made it. And then, at almost that exact instant, the uprising had pulled him back. His mind had changed¡ªit had been a sea change¡ªwith the oceanic force of his unconsciousness. All the frustration of these past weeks of failure and loss had built up within him to the point where a nudge from a fool had set him off. After blinking once, Gontran had found bodies lying on the ground, his bloody sword swinging in his hands, his skin bursting with sweat, his muscles strained, his companions gaping in awe. It was hard to believe he had done this. Yet memories of bloodshed pulsed in his mind as he rode past peasants working their fields to Vicenza and then Padova, this last city so close to Venice that the Serenissima¡¯s campaniles could be seen on the eastern horizon, basking in the pink sunset through the tangled trees.

    Ugh.

    In Padova he found a stable for his horse and a tavern for his flesh. He ate, drank, rested, asking himself all the while¡ªeven as he requested a room, ordered dinner, sucked down his tasteless repast¡ªhow he could have let this happen. How could he have betrayed them? He must have lost his mind, that was the only explanation. They were his crew. Each life aboard the Paralos was his responsibility.

    Live and learn. Not used to being katapan over so many people.

    Now he would return to Venice, that awful place, and either free his crew, or die trying.

    I¡¯m sorry, Ra¡¯isa, he thought, surrounded in the tavern by conversation, laughter, and singing which he was unable to hear. I¡¯m sorry.

    It was impossible to go back to his old life. Impossible to just be a merchant again, chasing earthly pleasures. He¡¯d been with the uprising too long. It had changed him. He¡¯d gone from Gontran the merchant to Gontran the katapan. Giving up now would also dishonor Joseph. If the uprising failed, then the boy died for nothing.

    I¡¯m an upriser now. There¡¯s no going back.

    Gontran stomped upstairs to his room and threw himself into bed. It was hard to sleep¡ªhard to shut his eyelids¡ªthough he had been riding almost since dawn. He either slept dreamlessly, or failed to sleep at all, he was unsure. Almost the instant the first sunlight began tinging the sky, he was at one of many busy piers sunk in the Mirano shore muck, paying a lighterman a stolen solidus to ferry him and his horse across the lagoon to Rivoalto.

    Thirty-five solidi left.

    The shallow waves vibrated in the breezes¡ªthat blew between the rustling marsh grass¡ªand danced with the wakes of passing ships. With little interest, Gontran watched leaning sailboats whose canvasses were full of wind, galleys raising and lowering banks of oars, rowboats rowing, fishing boats piled with reeking mounds of silver fish that swarmed with laughing gulls, ferrymen plunking their long wooden poles through the surface of the waters and into the muck beneath, the swirling silt. A few of these men were bellowing songs that sounded like opera, the proto-opera they had learned from the muezzins of the Mediterranean emirates.

    Busy place.

    The odd thing was that, as Gontran drew closer to rescuing his friends, he felt more like himself. For five days he had been so caught up in either being enslaved or escaping slavery that there had barely been a moment to think. Always chasing after food, always getting chased by Venetians. All this frenetic activity meant that, at the moment, he not only lacked a plan, but also a disguise. Any of the passengers on the lighter¡ªmostly peasants who reeked of body odor, men and women and children heading to work in the Serenissima¡¯s fabbriche¡ªcould have recognized him, seized him, and presented him to the Loredani for a reward. Gontran would have given anything to have Diaresso and Ra¡¯isa at his side. Talia could have swept through Venice like a whirlwind of razor sharp steel. Gontran longed, too, for his pistol-sword. He assumed the Loredani had stolen it¡ªwas there anything they hadn¡¯t taken?¡ªbut he really had no idea.

    The lighterman brought his passengers to Cannaregio, the Venetian district closest to the mainland. These were Venice¡¯s working-class slums, where pigs, chickens, and naked children wandered mud paths covered in slop, horse dung, and sewage. Gontran wrinkled his nose; even with the lagoon breeze, the smell was appalling. Almost every imaginable kind of medieval building was present here: from peasant shacks to lordly manors walled with stone to worker tenements leaning into the lagoon sludge, from ancient madonnina shrines to elegant new churches covered in scaffolding, from vegetable gardens to orderly farmland to a few remains of Dante¡¯s dark and savage forests of the self, from taverns to guild halls, from mills to bakeries, and on and on, a teeming hive of feudal activity. The canals were crowded with piers and boat workshops, some manufacturing only rowboats, others building three-masted galleys that were almost too large to squeeze through the lagoon¡¯s shoals. It seemed like every other man was hammering wooden boards into place. Salt warehouses¡ªwhich made Gontran shudder¡ªjostled with bell foundries where workers poured white molten bronze into cold iron molds. Bells that might have been lathed here were ringing from campaniles across the city.

    After stabling his horse, Gontran made his way to the doge¡¯s palace, crossing crowded bridges over canals, some looking as though they had been constructed only yesterday. The streets were packed, as were the canals themselves, where from gondolas merchants hawked fish, bread, pasta, the usual meat pies, and sad chickens and ducks and geese trapped in wicker cages.

    Where they trap animals, they also trap people.

    Deeper inside the city he found a campo. This was an unpaved piazza, a field surrounded by plain multistory buildings of wood and brick sinking into the mud. In this particular campo, white men had set up a wooden stage to sell white women and children. Adult male slaves were the exception here, not the rule, for the maestri preferred to enslave women and children, as most slavery in the city was either domestic, sexual, or both. The factory-like slave plantations of the future Americas¡ªwhere entire nations would be thrown into the maw of industrial machinery, which would grind their flesh and blood into capital, there to circulate in the arteries of empire to the present day¡ªthis was only the faintest dream in the hearts of these maestri. Women and children were also popular due to the lack of mechanization here. In the eleventh century, there were no mechanical washing machines to save labor, which meant that doing the laundry for even a small family took hours of dull exhausting work each day. A female slave, too, was almost the same as a wife, but without the threat of infuriating her family and losing her dowry from beating her too much. If you had the money, you could purchase a pretty Slavic woman and do whatever you wanted with her for as long as you liked merely because you were lucky and she was not. That¡¯s what Herakleia would have said.

    The market brings forth these treasures. The market enslaves us like a god. When we make the excuse that ¡®if I don¡¯t do it, somebody else will¡¯¡ªthat¡¯s how you know that the market is far more powerful and divine in your own mind than any other god has ever been for anyone else.

    Being in a place as merciless as Venice meant that Herakleia¡¯s dicta were never far from Gontran¡¯s thoughts.

    All the slaves for sale were nude, and prospective buyers climbed onto the stage to stick their grimy fingers into their mouths to examine their teeth. After all, when you bought something as expensive as a slave, you wanted to make sure you were getting your money¡¯s worth.

    Gontran also noticed, among the crowds, priests and monks watching with interest, and sometimes even bidding.

    Burn this place to the ground, he thought.

    Gontran¡¯s wrists and ankles still ached from the iron manacles which had shackled them only days ago. He nervously examined the faces of the crowds, afraid that among all these capped and robed people lurked the Loredani or their hirelings.

    Part of him wanted to liberate the slaves on the stage right now. He almost tried to induce another blackout, like what he had experienced back at Lake Garda, where all the strain of the last few days exploded, where merely blinking would transform all the buyers and sellers of slaves before him into corpses. But hundreds of people were here. Gontran was not a machine like Talia, nor was he an immortal like Alexios or Herakleia. He was just a rogue, just a merchant who was rarely more than a step or two ahead of a whole swarm of enraged sleaze bags. After all, a katapan was nothing without his crew.

    The question was: should he stay here and somehow try to help the slaves, or continue onward to the doge¡¯s palace?

    Help myself, or help others?

    Most people would have thought: don¡¯t intervene. They always talked about how tough and noble they were, at least until the moment of truth arrived. It was often easier to just walk away and tell yourself that nothing could be done.

    But Gontran was furnished with an answer to his questions when Dekarch Ra¡¯isa¡ªnude save for the manacles clasping her wrists and a metal chain wrapped around her neck which a handsome young merchant held like a leash¡ªstepped onstage. Gontran was ashamed by the sight of her nudity and looked away immediately, but the image was still burned in his mind. She looked clean and unhurt; the Venetians must have captured her while considering how much money she would fetch unsullied. They had treated her well, but the sight of her humiliation¡ªher social death, her living death¡ªdisgusted Gontran. He even felt physically ill. Yet her dark beauty contrasted startlingly with the white women who surrounded her, many of whom were captive goddesses in their own right. She also struggled with her owner, who responded by tightening the chain around her neck. This made her fall to the stage, where she clutched her throat and gasped for breath.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    ¡°Giovane ¨¨ vitale!¡± the auctioneer shouted, chuckling to himself. ¡°Bella come Frine. Feconda ¨¨ selvaggia¡ªbut also a bit hot to handle. Do I have a bid for ten golden solidi? Which lucky farmer among you will plough these fields tonight? Who will sow his seeds in such dark, lush, and yielding soil?¡± He forced Ra¡¯isa to turn around. ¡°Now look at this! This right here is the ass that launched a thousand ships!¡±

    Gontran stepped forward with his hand gripping his sheathed sword, unsure of what he was even doing, but the crowd was so dense he was unable to take another step. Some even shoved him back. At that same instant, hands shot up everywhere. The auctioneer spoke faster and with growing excitement as Ra¡¯isa¡¯s price climbed. In response, only a few hands fell¡ªtheir owners whining that Fortuna was against them. Many were nonetheless willing to pay the value of two, three, even four slaves for Ra¡¯isa.

    Why isn¡¯t she using the farr? Gontran wondered.

    He stuffed his hand into his pocket, felt the two thin metal nails he had used as lock picks back in that shithole, what was it called¡ªMonselice. Then he hauled out the bag of money he¡¯d stolen from the Venetians he¡¯d slaughtered by Lake Garda, and recounted.

    Thirty-five.

    He raised his hand. By now only two other men were bidding. As the price climbed, one hand fell with a groan. The bidding was now between Gontran and an older nobleman dressed in bright red silk cap, cloak, doublet, tights, and boots. Zuan Partecipazio, they called him¡ªil Procuratore Rosso, the Red Procurator. Surrounded by lackeys, he wore a golden necklace, golden bracelets, golden rings¡ªgolden everything¡ªand he never stopped smiling, nor did he even look at Gontran. A long life of privilege, luck, and good health had led the Procuratore to this moment.

    Gontran rolled his eyes. Limited by the sum in his pocket, he was never going to beat Procuratore Partecipazio. The man could flex the sinews of infinite wealth¡ªof trade routes stretching across the Mediterranean like arteries that flooded his flesh with gold coins, as though the man was a walking, talking moneybag, a spider plucking the strands of a web that extended all the way to fiery Baku in Shirvan, to the thalassocracy of the Chollas in southern Hind, to the great city of Dongjing in Sera. Gontran was a Professional Merchant (7/10), but even high skills could only take you so far when you didn¡¯t have any money. That was at least what he told himself.

    ¡°No slave has ever fetched so high a price as this one,¡± said a man near Gontran in the crowd.

    ¡°She has the strongest, widest hips I¡¯ve ever beheld.¡± This man¡¯s friend licked his lips. ¡°You could bear so many children with a woman like that. A whole army could come from such loins. Labor problems on your farmland would end for good!¡±

    ¡°It is these Saraceni of the orientale.¡± The first man gestured with his fingers pressed to his thumb. ¡°They breed like mice. Now we know why!¡±

    ¡°She¡¯ll bear children like a golden goose,¡± the second said. ¡°A few months from now, I bet you a solidus we¡¯ll hear she¡¯s having twins. They¡¯ll grow up strong as tigers.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a bet,¡± his companion said. They shook hands.

    At times like these, Gontran recalled that deep underneath his skin, he was a woman from the old world. Men sometimes horrified him. They viewed women as a means to making money, no differently than they would look at machinery in a factory.

    ¡°Sold!¡± the auctioneer shouted. ¡°For the price of thirty-six golden solidi!¡±

    You have lost mercantile XP, the game voice told Gontran.

    Someone threw a cloak over Ra¡¯isa. The Procuratore pumped his fist and chuckled to himself as his lackeys patted his back and congratulated him. After signing off on the sale before a notary and snatching a receipt¡ªVenetians worshipped paperwork¡ªthe Procuratore was soon yanking Ra¡¯isa by the chainlink leash around her neck away from the campo. Many envious eyes followed, but the Procuratore was escorted by six guards who bristled with swords and armor. This was in addition to an indeterminate swarm of black-robed yes-men.

    Gontran swore. Many others in the crowd were in a similar mood, though for different reasons.

    ¡°I will never make it,¡± sighed another man near Gontran. ¡°I will never succeed. Fortuna always smiles upon others, never upon me.¡±

    ¡°Not to worry, miei buoni signori!¡± the auctioneer cried. ¡°There¡¯s still many a fine and affordable bella here¡ªmany pleasant means by which you all may sire a whole battaglione of the most handsome bastardi!¡±

    The audience laughed. Gontran felt like he was going to throw up.

    He was already following the Procuratore, keeping behind the street corners until Partecipazio and his guards crossed a bridge or turned left or right. Then Gontran ran through the crowds after the red cloak, and stopped to watch again. Even from a distance, Gontran saw the Procuratore trembling with lust. Ra¡¯isa also missed no chance to struggle against him, but this only seemed to excite the Procuratore further. There was no way to win. And yet Gontran refused to leave her.

    As they drew closer to Piazza San Marco, buildings grew taller, wider, sturdier. The mud huts at Rivoalto¡¯s outskirts gave way to houses of wood, then brick, and then a few palazzi with two or three stories faced with marble pillars, ornamented with elegant quadrifora¡ªgroups of four arching windows¡ªand topped with curving roofs. Into one of these structures¡ªa red one, of course¡ªthe Procuratore strode, its wide entrance flanked by a pair of roaring winged lion statues. Two of the Procuratore¡¯s guards stopped and stood by these lions, turning to face the crowds with the strength and confidence of well-trained men clad in heavy steel and mail, the brims of their helmets sharp. Gontran was left standing alone in a campo of mud and grass, clutching his fists as busy Venetians shoved past, more than one muttering about stupid Franci slowing everyone down.

    What now?

    Herakleia would have called it adventurism, for Gontran to attack¡ªon his own¡ªa building like the Procuratore¡¯s palazzo.

    Without organization, without the people¡¯s support, there is no chance of victory. Antaeus is nothing without his native land; we are nothing without the people.

    Gontran would never make it past those guards. He had nothing but a blade, some mail under his clothes, an empty stomach, a bag of money, and a couple of nails. If only Diaresso were here! The pistol-sword could have dispatched one guard¡ªit was always strange when you pointed a loaded gun at people and they reacted with indifference because they had never encountered a firearm¡ªbut there was also the problem of the Venetian crowds. At first glance, these hundreds of busy people walking back and forth in the muddy grassy campo¡ªtheir step quicker than peasants lumbering about the mainland¡ªmight have seemed neutral, since none would ever possess anything like the Procuratore¡¯s wealth. But their identity as Venetians was strong. They lapped up the crumbs from the Procuratore¡¯s table like dogs, wagging their tales and slobbering all over the maestri¡¯s boots. This meant that even regular Venetians would consider an attack on one rich man the same as an attack on their own bodies, even if many were too poor to own a wooden fishing rod. Gontran didn¡¯t just have to fear the palazzo guards. Venice itself was a fortress packed with guards. Any one of the people walking past could transform instantly into a hostile and violent opponent.

    While Gontran stood here thinking about his powerlessness, the Procuratore was doubtless violating Ra¡¯isa. Like a panther trapped in a cage, Gontran paced back and forth through the crowds, clutching his head and periodically glaring at the red palazzo and whispering to himself in an attempt to figure out what to do¡ªbehavior which was sooner or later guaranteed to attract attention from the guards. Some Venetians who were forced to step out of Gontran¡¯s way cursed him. A ragpicker called him a ¡°stronzo,¡± and a bonegatherer even exclaimed the usual medieval blasphemies¡ª¡°porcodio¡± and ¡°Madonna puttana,¡± among others, always making sure to gesture. One longshoreman even uttered the colorful ¡°pota de Ges¨´!¡±¡ªJesus¡¯s cunt. This stopped a potbellied monk and made him frown, but when the longshoreman told the monk to ¡°vaffanculo,¡± the monk looked to the sky, crossed himself while murmuring an Ave Maria, then walked away, fingering his rattling wooden prayer beads.

    To avoid starting a riot, Gontran kept to the campo¡¯s edge. But as he found himself standing near a miller who was busily grinding grain while humming what sounded like Gregorian chant, Gontran wondered about his chances of working the crowd into a frenzy, then getting them to attack the red palazzo. In the confusion, he might have been able to rescue Ra¡¯isa. Then he scoffed at the idea¡ªrabble-rousing was Herakleia the politician¡¯s job. Gontran had always thought she looked ridiculous when she harangued crowds. But this was his medieval self speaking. Back in the old world, when Gontran had been Helena¡ªan overachieving studycat who rarely got a question wrong on any test¡ªshe had won student council elections, given speeches about norms and civility at peaceful protests and candlelight vigils, helped register people to vote, and gotten good roles in school plays. But things were different now. He was a different person. Almost every time he spoke with these people, they commented on his French accent, even if he¡¯d noticed his Italian improving a lot since getting stuck here. Still, they¡¯d never listen to some random foreigner telling them to attack a member of the city¡¯s ruling class.

    It was easy enough to incite a riot¡ªat least one directed against himself. If he just punched and kicked people at random, soon enough he¡¯d have this entire campo turned into a battleground. In some video games, that was all it took. You punched one person, then ducked out of the way as he accidentally punched someone else. Before you knew it, everyone was punching each other. But that would never work here. This place was too real.

    He decided, after all this useless thinking and pacing, to wait for nightfall. Then he would sneak into the red palazzo. As a rogue, it was all he could do. Gontran was afraid of poking about these kinds of buildings after falling from the doge¡¯s palace and waking up chained to a bed inside a church masquerading as a hospital, but what choice did he have? He would never leave Ra¡¯isa.

    Even if she herself left me in Venice, chained up almost the same way she was chained up now¡­

    But he didn¡¯t want to think about that. Maybe circumstances had been beyond her control. She might also know where the rest of the crew was.

    After forcing himself to eat, he found a room above a nearby tavern and tried to sleep to recover his stamina so he could be alert in the evening. By then it was late afternoon. At first he was unable to even close his eyes, and kept looking through the window at the Procuratore¡¯s palazzo, worried that the man would bring Ra¡¯isa somewhere else without Gontran¡¯s knowing. Rescuing her at night was all he could think about.

    First get up and have some water. Then cross the campo along the edges. Listen for any activity. Try the front doors. Pick the locks with the nails¡­

    To his surprise, exhaustion soon overcame him, and he fell asleep. And this time for some reason his sleep was mercilessly bereft of the nightmarish man pounding on all the windows and doors of Gontran¡¯s soul. Yet Joseph also failed to make an appearance.

    That¡¯s the second death. First you die in real life. Then you die a second time when everyone forgets you. Or if they remember you, all they remember is a shadow of whoever you actually were.

    When Gontran awoke at night, he found no candles or torches troubling the campo. It seemed like an ocean of ink had flooded the world outside his window. All was silent.

    Gontran climbed out of bed fully dressed and checked the sword at his side. It still pissed him off whenever he found that his pistol-sword was gone. That weapon had become a part of him, but Annibale was probably using it for purposes Gontran had no desire to think about. Next, Gontran felt the heavy chainmail under his shirt and the two nails from Monselice in his pocket (along with his bag of thirty-five golden solidi). After drinking some water, he crept out of the tavern.

 16. Arsenale

    No one was present as Gontran snuck across the silent campo and, with the two nails from Monselice in his pocket, picked the locked doors of the Procuratore¡¯s red palazzo, gaining a small amount of lockpicking XP that made little difference to his Master Lockpicking Skill (8/10).

    Easy peasy, he thought as the lock clicked open.

    Gontran snuck through the heavy doors of oak carved to resemble the lions and peacocks that guarded paradise. The doors quietly groaned on bronze hinges with their green patina of rust. Inside, he found a stone hallway which was somehow even darker than the campo behind him.

    Darkness of the tomb. The darkness of death. But when you¡¯re dead, you don¡¯t see anything. You don¡¯t perceive. There¡¯s no darkness to see. It¡¯s not a darkness or an absence of light. It¡¯s an absence of sense. Of mind. A senselessness, a thoughtlessness, even as your body just lies there, and the world goes on around it like in one of those movies where the camera holds still in the middle of a city and everything speeds up and blurs past something that doesn¡¯t move. One of those mondo movies. No different from sleeping dreamlessly for hours and remembering nothing.

    Gontran felt his way along the hallways and parlors, keeping his feet silent, almost holding his breath, listening for people snoring on the other side of closed doors. These doors were only distinguishable by their wooden textures and ornate handles, all of the finest craftsmanship, the most unbelievable opulence. Rich Venetians, what did they love except beauty?

    Beauty built upon the backs of slaves.

    Any door here could have imprisoned Ra¡¯isa, but to open one risked rousing the guards. Where was she? It was so frustrating! Gontran was so close to finding her and getting out of here. He would have given anything¡­

    Gontran stopped. I am a rich piece of shit. I own a beautiful, expensive new slave. Where do I put her? As far from the street as possible. Away from prying eyes and ears and fingers. I want her all to myself in the safest part of my house.

    In the olden days like the ones in which Gontran was trapped, people rich enough to own multistory homes usually lived on the ground floor in case of fire. Their servants lived higher up. The question was: had the Procuratore sequestered Ra¡¯isa near his bedroom, or was she among the servants¡¯ quarters? He must have been married¡ªexcepting monks and nuns, almost everyone above the age of thirteen was married¡ªbut his wife would probably be jealous of someone as lively and beautiful as Ra¡¯isa. There was even a risk that the Procuratore¡¯s wife would hurt Ra¡¯isa or even sell her in secret. Plus, you didn¡¯t want to sleep near a dangerous slave, even if she was chained up, since she might escape and then kill you while you were dreaming of fucking her. That meant she must have been locked upstairs. Did the Procuratore have a eunuch or two to guard her? No, eunuch guards were an eastern thing. In Venice, they just used eunuchs in choirs.

    Gontran found a wide marble stairway and climbed it as noiselessly as a cat stalking a mouse. On the second floor, he was afraid to try any of the doors. More than likely, these rooms were full of guards, servants, flunkies. No Important Person could be complete without a gaggle of paid fools swarming him wherever he went, pretending to do vital work on his behalf.

    One door even had golden light glowing around its edges. The instant Gontran noticed this, someone rumbled about inside. As Gontran darted out of the way, the door creaked open, and an armored guard stepped out holding a torch. Yawning, smacking his lips, the guard squinted with exhaustion and stumbled along the hallway, so tired he missed Gontran, who was pressed against the wall, holding still and keeping silent in the darkness. His stealth XP ticked up.

    When the guard went downstairs, Gontran ascended to the third floor with the silence of a panther. There he went to the hallway¡¯s end and unlocked the only door he found there, slipping inside just as the guard checked that floor on his patrol. Thankfully, the guard tried none of the doors. It was apparently enough to check the hallways. Gontran heaved a quiet sigh of relief as the guard returned to the second floor. The guard could be heard shutting the door to his own room and groaning as he fell into his bed.

    A chain rattled in the darkness and tightened around Gontran¡¯s throat. He tried to pull it off, but he couldn¡¯t breathe, and whoever gripped the chain was too strong.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± a familiarly accented voice whispered into his ear.

    ¡°Gontran!¡± he rasped, expelling the last breath in his throat.

    ¡°Gontran?¡±

    Ra¡¯isa released the chain, and Gontran fell to his knees, rasping for breath and clutching his throat.

    ¡°Gontran,¡± Ra¡¯isa whispered. Her muscular calloused hands helped him up and felt his face. ¡°Is it you?¡±

    He lunged into the darkness and kissed her, feeling her amazing body beneath her cloak. She kissed him back. His charisma XP increased to 80/100. It always increased whenever you could get anyone to like you. Soon he might even level up to Professional Charismatic (8/10).

    ¡°Just thought I¡¯d stop by,¡± he whispered to Ra¡¯isa, forcing himself to pull away. ¡°See if you wanted to get some coffee, maybe catch a movie¡ª¡±

    ¡°Finally!¡±

    He picked the lock to her chains in the dark and freed her, gaining a little XP as he did so. They crept out of the house and into the night¡ªwhich was turning to day. Gontran was unsure of where to go, but his room above the tavern was too close to the Procuratore¡¯s red palazzo, and he worried at the same time about creeping through Venice, since people were already up and about, and they would remember a mysterious man and woman running together along the narrow streets. It was a city, but one full of spies and nosy busybodies who were all eager to find any excuse to report on one another. When the Procuratore realized that his precious cargo had escaped, and announced a hefty reward for any information leading to Ra¡¯isa¡¯s safe return, the thought of getting rich would transform any Venetian, even the cutest child, into a hunter. The safest thing was to find Gontran¡¯s horse in the stables in Canareggio and get to the mainland¡ª

    ¡°Where are you going?¡± Ra¡¯isa whispered, stopping him after they had put some distance between themselves and the campo. ¡°We must help the others.¡±

    ¡°Where are they?¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°The Arsenale. That is where I saw them. The ship is there, too.¡±

    ¡°Convenient.¡±

    ¡°Gontran¡ªwe do not leave Venice until we find every crew member, do you understand? We do not leave anyone behind.¡±

    ¡°Listen, I don¡¯t know who you think you are, but I don¡¯t take orders from¡ª¡±

    She kissed him and, for a moment, even grasped him inside his pants. The breath caught in his throat. Then she pulled back and looked straight into his eyes with nothing but light shining in her own.

    ¡°Alright,¡± he sighed. ¡°Whatever you say, boss.¡±

    She smiled. ¡°I thought you will change your mind. You are a good man, even if you are bad sometimes. Now we must hurry. The monster soon awakes.¡±

    She turned and, taking his hand, guided him to the Arsenale. This was the open-air factory occupying the eastern edge of Rivoalto. It was huge, actually, and took up about a tenth of the city. Workers swarmed this place even early in the morning, the sound of their conversation mixing with hammers pounding wood or clanging metal as saws rushed up and down through enormous logs. The older garzoni (journeymen) sawyers standing on top of the logs, the younger apprendisti (apprentices) below, their eyes blinded, reddened, torn by the sawdust pouring from the blades¡¯ steel teeth, which glowed red from the friction.

    Everything could be heard over the walls, towers, and gates that guarded the Arsenale from prying eyes, its trade secrets protected from other Italian city-states. Piles of plywood rattled. Bells rang¡ªnot for church, but to announce shift changes, as the appointed watchers eyed the sand flowing in their hourglass bulbs. Black tar glop bubbled in iron cauldrons above whirling infernos as garzoni caulked ships with gummy pitch, building these vessels up from mere plans to keels to ribs to galleys which, upon completion, slid from their moorings into the dirty canal water. No cheers rose when this happened. The Arsenale¡¯s craftsmen could build one ship per day so long as the materials kept coming. Rivers of fresh water and whole countrysides of grain were needed for their gullets alone; thousands of latrines flushed their waste into the sea with the tides. How many blacksmiths forged their tools, how many weavers made their clothes and blankets, how many alewives brewed their beer and allowed their grape juice to ferment into wine? And then, at the end of every day, the craftsmen used barracks-like dormitories to rest their weary bones.

    The Arsenale hungered. Right now, the Slavic nations were axing entire pine forests in Dalmatia and the nearer woods of Montello along the Piave, rolling trees down hills and mountains, loading them into galleys, and shipping them here across rivers and seas. Hemp for rope came all the way from a new Venetian trading post established on the other side of the world, near the Sea of Azov. Thousands of slaves were likewise chained in the Balkan Mountains, hacking iron ore that was then blacksmithed here into nails, swords, armor. The cotton woven into sailing canvases was drawn like silkworm silk from the eternal Egyptian fellaheen, who had lined the Nile¡¯s shores with fields and irrigation ditches since before the days of Pharaoh, guarding their flesh from the lash of the sun with headdresses worn over their heads and shoulders like the hoods of white cobras.

    As for the Arsenale guildsmen¡ªcalled the Arsenalotti, ¡°the sons of the Arsenale¡±¡ªthey lived in crowded parishes surrounding the Arsenale itself. Though there were thousands of them, everyone knew everyone else, and thanks to the feudal guild system, no new apprentices were signed on unless current guild members died or retired, with their own male children first in line to replace them. Outsiders would therefore be spotted immediately. Sneaking in would be difficult if not impossible.

    Inns and taverns were only present on the Arsenale¡¯s outskirts. Gontran and Ra¡¯isa hid themselves inside one of these after purchasing as much food as they could carry from the market. They were on the second floor, and the room¡¯s windows came with a decent view of narrow streets, canals, even the Arsenale itself, just visible over the towers and crenellated walls. It looked like masts tangled in nets of rigging, their long spars leaning at odd angles, almost like fishing poles dangling over the sea. The wooden bellies of ships rested like beached whales on huge piers, piles of rope were coiled about them like snakes, and yards were stacked with lumber.

    Herakleia, me, and Alexios all came from the future, Gontran thought. When we got here, we tried to modernize this world, each in our own way. But the Venetians had already built a huge modern factory without any help from time travelers. They built the future deep in the past. You have to wonder if there¡¯s anything like this anywhere else on Earth. Not outside of Sera. Still, you can see how the Arsenale isn¡¯t quite modern. The guild system holds the Venetians back. Venice still has its feet stuck in medieval mud. Division of labor here isn¡¯t as intense as in modern times. Guildsmen and even peasants have more protections than modern workers. Profit maximization and reinvestment also isn¡¯t as intense here. The market doesn¡¯t dominate every aspect of existence, like in the old world. Eleventh century Venetians don¡¯t have banks, they don¡¯t have insurance, they don¡¯t have limited liability companies or patent law, they don¡¯t have a state that¡¯s willing to bend over backwards to help every businessperson succeed¡ªwith fire departments, for instance, public sewage departments, police departments to keep workers under control at home, and professional militaries to keep them under control abroad. You don¡¯t find that shit all together in one place until the nineteenth century¡ªDid you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    ¡°So,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°What now?¡±

    She was leaning against the window¡ªher back to the dawn¡ªwatching Gontran. Her words startled him. As a merchant, he had been more impressed with the Arsenale than he had realized, losing himself in the details of its construction and operation. For a moment, he even wondered if he was fighting on the right side. No one in the eleventh century was better at making money than the Venetians.

    ¡°I guess we should wait,¡± he said. ¡°They¡¯ll probably sound the alarm when they figure out you¡¯re missing. Then we have to lie low until things cool down. Then¡ª¡±

    ¡°No.¡± She stepped closer, her eyes fixed on his. ¡°I mean, right now.¡±

    They held each other, kissed, and fell into bed. Ra¡¯isa still wore only the shift the auctioneer had thrown over her broad muscular shoulders the previous afternoon, but Gontran had shoes, pants, mail, a shirt, and a belt with a scabbard. All their clothes they pulled off and threw onto the floor, Gontran¡¯s sword clanking on the wood. Then they lay together and held each other, Gontran kissing Ra¡¯isa¡¯s body, feeling her, and staring at her¡ªunable to believe her beauty.

    ¡°I wish we do this sooner,¡± she whispered. ¡°Twenty times we almost died.¡±

    ¡°Better late than never,¡± Gontran said.

    After some time, she asked: ¡°When did you first notice me?¡±

    ¡°The moment we met,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Everyone notices you. Every man wants you the instant he sees you. What about you? When did you first notice me?¡±

    ¡°Maybe a few minutes ago.¡±

    Gontran laughed. ¡°Come on.¡±

    ¡°You are a dangerous man, and very handsome and charming. Many women want you. And even some men.¡±

    ¡°Too bad for them.¡±

    When they finished and Gontran was cleaning up, he offered Ra¡¯isa a drink of water. She accepted, and he poured her a cup from the ceramic ewer on the nightstand. As she drank, he made the bed for her, then fell in beside her with his own cup of water. Lying there, he watched the golden clouds curl outside the window, rising like castles in the air, and listened to the chirping swifts. A couple of people were talking in low murmurs in the street just outside. Gontran heard them mention the phrase ¡°prezzo del sale¡±¡ªsalt prices. He shuddered. His own blood and sweat lay in those salt prices.

    Ra¡¯isa took his hand and examined it. Tell me she isn¡¯t going to do palmistry. But she had noticed the marks from the manacles on his wrists.

    ¡°You too,¡± she said.

    He looked at her. ¡°At least one of us rescued the other.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°After we ran into the doge, when I woke up, I didn¡¯t even know where I was¡ª¡±

    ¡°I cannot believe you are doing this now.¡±

    ¡°What? What am I doing?¡±

    ¡°You are not the only member of my crew. There are eighty-seven of us. We have mission. You knew the risks.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, but¡ª¡±

    ¡°It is true what Herakleia said about you. You are so individualistic, you care only for yourself.¡±

    ¡°Sometimes that¡¯s the only way to get ahead.¡±

    ¡°Maybe so¡ªmaybe for you in the past. But now, Gontran, it will destroy you and everyone around you if you do not change. Can you not see what happened?¡± She held up his wrist. ¡°How many other people are chained like this right now? How many more are chained to their lords by the debts of their ancestors? We cannot escape by doing what they tell us¡ªby working harder and hoping for the best. And we cannot escape by becoming them. No. There is only one escape. Through each other.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t come here for another political lecture.¡±

    ¡°Like I said, you must learn, or next time you will not be so lucky.¡±

    ¡°I got captured because I was helping the uprising. I escaped on my own¡ªwithout the uprising¡¯s help.¡±

    ¡°Again I say, millions of others have not been so fortunate.¡±

    ¡°You know, I expected a little more gratitude from you. I risked my life back there to¡ª¡±

    ¡°You have my gratitude. You saved me. In return, I gave you my body¡ªthe one that cost thirty-six golden solidi. These breasts, this ass, these legs¡ªlike chicken parts¡ªeveryone wanted them, and I gave them to you. Now you give something to me. Now we free the crew and leave this evil place.¡±

    ¡°What about us?¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Once all the excitement dies down, we could leave¡­¡±

    ¡°Without the crew?¡±

    Gontran nodded. ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°Idiot,¡± she scoffed. ¡°That is Roman word, is it not? Idi¨­t¨¥s. Someone who only cares about himself. That is what it means. When crew is free, when we are back on the sea, I will not be your lover, if you talk like this again.¡±

    ¡°Hey, wait a minute. I thought I was your katapan. You can¡¯t talk to me like that. You take orders from me.¡±

    ¡°You got captured. We had an election. I won. I am your katapan now, Gontran Koraki, and you will do as I say.¡±

    He was opening his mouth to answer when frantic bells clanged in the distance. Ra¡¯isa and Gontran looked at each other. Wordlessly they climbed out of bed and dressed. Gontran checked his sword, then the door lock. As for Ra¡¯isa, she had nowhere to hide save under the bed. By then shouting and crashing had engulfed the city. Gontran peaked out the window just in time to spot soldiers running, screaming, knocking over carts of produce, harassing anyone foolish or unlucky enough to still be out there, and going inside every building and yelling about ¡°la schiava oscura¡±¡ªthe dark slave, or ¡°la puttana del Procuratore,¡± the Procuratore¡¯s bitch. They pulled a Slavic woman outside a mill by her hair and, as she struggled to answer their questions in her thickly accented Venetian, they threw white powder in her face, then shoved her into the canal, where she struggled and gasped, barely able to keep her head above the disgusting water. When she grabbed the shore, one soldier raised his steel boots to stomp her fingers. She flung herself back into the canal just in time and swam to the other side. Breathing heavily, drenched in filth, she clung to the shore, and looked back at the soldiers as they destroyed whatever they could find on the street. One kick from a steel boot was enough to kill an unfortunate hen which had been clucking in the muck.

    Soon the soldiers were stomping up the tavern stairs, their steel boots shaking the floor and walls so hard it seemed the whole building might collapse. Now they were on the second floor, throwing open doors and attacking whoever they found inside. They pounded Gontran¡¯s door, wailing like demons, barking more like dogs than men. Gontran threw himself into bed and shut his eyes just as they burst inside. He sat up, pretending to be startled out of sleep, and the soldiers screamed at him¡ªthree men, flushed red and drenched in sweat. They hauled Gontran to his feet, shrieked in his ear as loud as they could, and even pressed a sharp knife to his throat. Shaking his head, he answered in Greek, babbling that he didn¡¯t understand. They told him to speak Venetian, and so he repeated¡ªin the vague broken Tuscan dialect¡ªhe didn¡¯t understand.

    ¡°Io non so, io non so!¡±

    Infuriated, they threw him to the floor and left him, slamming the door with such force that it bounced back from the frame and banged against the wall, marking the wood. Then they stomped down the stairs and returned to the street. Gontran stayed where he was, listening as they trashed other homes and shops and interrogated other unfortunate people. Then Gontran turned to Ra¡¯isa, who was hiding under the bed and watching him with wide eyes.

    Once it seemed the soldiers were gone for good, Gontran silently got up and closed the door.

    ¡°Some lock,¡± he whispered.

    ¡°Quiet,¡± she whispered back. ¡°We do not know who listens.¡±

    He peeked out the window. The narrow unpaved passageways below the tavern were silent, as were the canals and the birds. Even the Arsenale had stopped. But every church in Venice was ringing its bells as if a soldier was pressing his sword into the back of every sacristan.

    ¡°You¡¯d better stay down there for now,¡± he whispered to Ra¡¯isa.

    She answered by sticking her hand out from under the bed and giving him the thumb¡¯s up.

    They waited. The bells were ceaseless. ¡¯Tis the sound of your doom. The holy rapture. Gontran feared doing anything, going anywhere. He was a man of action, and so being stuck in a small room frustrated him. To his surprise, he even found himself longing for books. A good way to pass the time¡ªhe needed something difficult to break his brain, something you could really lose yourself in. Look down, you¡¯re in a different world, and when you look up again, it¡¯s a few hours later. Dante¡¯s entire Divine Comedy, in keeping with the current Italian theme of Gontran¡¯s life. A novel like Ulysses or even Finnegans Wake, something that would never stop challenging you, never stop rewarding you for taking the time to roll each word on your tongue, grind the potpourri on your molars and inhale the reeking perfume. That was what Herakleia or Alexios would have done. You could keep them in a room like this for weeks, but as long as they had food, water, and books, they¡¯d be fine, they¡¯d even throw in a little daily exercise, jogging in place for an hour a day. Diaresso would have been happy with a Koran. He would have treasured it¡ªtreated it like a princess or a queen rather than an inanimate object, losing himself in the gorgeous cursive, the poetry so intense it had conquered half the world. La illaha Allah illaha. That¡¯s what it sounded like. Undeniable beauty.

    But Gontran had never much liked books. In the old world, he must have read hundreds¡ªhe was a studycat back there¡ªbut with the exception of the boy wizard series, books were a source of torture and annoyance, something to get out of the way for a reward that never came, a carrot dangling always out of reach. Although as he thought about it, he realized the reward had been more vague than any carrot. Your reward for working is¡ªmore work! No rest. You study hard, pass the tests, do extracurriculars, go to a good college, network, get a good job, and work, work, work until retirement, and even beyond. Your boss texts you nonstop outside work. Don¡¯t complain¡ªthere¡¯s thousands of people lined up to take your job. You have a family. Not only that, but you need to do family things whenever you¡¯re free, even if you¡¯re miserable and exhausted, and then you need to exercise on those rare occasions when you have neither work nor family. Keep up with appearances. Look healthy, fashionable, rich, or else you¡¯re a failure. Adopt an attractive, ironic detachment to your futile existence. Take nice vacations, upload photos of beautiful cakes and beaches, your smiling family doing all the right things, your kids winning awards at school. Keep up with current events, which depress you, but don¡¯t connect the dots, don¡¯t ask deep questions, don¡¯t question the corporate media. Watch popular TV shows and force yourself to read the occasional popular novel so you can participate in water cooler conversations at the office, a gray fluorescent labyrinth of smalltalk, where minotaur-like management is always hunting for people to fire. You wonder why everything everywhere is so fucked up all the time, then tell yourself to stop thinking about it, things will work themselves out like they always have, it¡¯s not survivorship bias. Bring up this odd concern of yours, like a white midlife crisis movie from the 1990s, and your closest friends and family will think you¡¯re insane and recommend yoga, mindfulness, or some therapy app.

    Then you get back to work. Spreadsheets. Grant applications. Emails. Agonizing over the proper word choice to avoid getting fired.

    He wasn¡¯t even there yet, but he knew what to expect. Back in high school, to even have a chance of attaining that paradise of paperwork and business casual known as an office job, he had memorized so many textbooks, answered so many questions, written so many papers, passed so many tests in so many subjects, pretended to like so many mediocre teachers and authority figures. If he¡¯d stopped for even an instant to wonder what the hell he was doing, the whole world would have collapsed around him like in a disaster film. Crumbling buildings, streets split by fissures, mountains exploding with lava, the moon crashing into Earth.

    Just keep going. Don¡¯t look back. Don¡¯t stop. Don¡¯t think.

    He¡¯d only gotten some perspective by being trapped in the year 1082, when his frantic life had slowed down a little. It had surprised him to feel so free here, to have at least some desire to stay. Time travelers stuck in the past never want to stay. Reactionary thinking, Herakleia would have called it. 1082 had plenty of serious problems. Never idealize the past. But most of the time he had thought it strange, as he¡¯d traveled across the medieval world¡ªwhich consisted almost entirely of either wildernesses or small villages, cities being a rarity¡ªto think that 1082 would one day lead to 2022. But in Venice it was easier to see the future of factories, merchants, and police that was even now growing in the womb of time.

    He sighed, whispered to Ra¡¯isa to tell him if she needed anything. Another thumb¡¯s up came from under the bed.

    Usually it¡¯s monsters hiding under the bed, not the most beautiful woman you¡¯ve ever seen in your life.

    Hours passed. The bells kept ringing. The soldiers kept ransacking the city. And soon enough, Gontran¡ªwith his eyes on the Arsenale, where his crew was enslaved¡ªstarted planning his next steps.

 17. Get A Job

    Venice kept quiet for the rest of the day and into the night. Everyone was waiting for something to happen. It seemed each building and canal was holding its breath. Would Ra¡¯isa and Gontran escape capture? People also must have feared being picked up on the street, or of finding themselves in the middle of a brawl. There were no oars rowing in the canals, no singing gondoliers. No one even dared to whisper. Candles and torches remained unlit in dark windows. Children stayed inside. The dead hen still lay where the soldier had kicked it. Even the church bells had finally ceased ringing, the metal reverberations melting into air.

    Ghost town.

    By then Gontran and Ra¡¯isa were both exhausted and starving, especially because they had been awake since early morning. Just before arriving at the inn, they had bought all the food they could find in the neighborhood, and now they ate. Ra¡¯isa remained under the bed, lying on her side and eating the hunks of bread and cheese Gontran handed her. Meals usually went with wine, but they had both decided to stick to water to keep their heads clear.

    When they finished, Ra¡¯isa told him she needed to take a piss. Those were her words, and there was nothing impolite about them, though Gontran still winced, like he was Queen Victoria reborn. He had noticed that in the Middle Ages, blaspheming upset people. Insulting family upset people, and so did comparing people to dogs, or calling them liars. To declare a man of equal social stature ¡°false¡± meant making the confrontation physical. But shitting, pissing, and fucking¡ªand talking about these things¡ªwas normal. It rarely bothered anyone. Medieval people were as comfortable with these words and what they represented as most moderns were with blasphemy. The 21st century liked to pretend that it was above the past, that it was progressive and looking to the future, but Gontran had realized, since spending nearly a year in the 11th century, that 21st century people were prudes. Medieval people would have thought of them that way. Actually, in the 2020s in some ways it seemed like the 19th century had never ended. The surface was different, but the core was unchanged. People in the 21st century had cars, phones, internet, and different clothes, rockets had left the solar system, women were free to work the same dead-end jobs as men, and people of all kinds could vote for different political candidates¡ªall of whom were owned by the rich¡ªbut other than that, what was new? Queen Victoria¡¯s spirit ruled Britannia¡ªshe still reigned supreme over the empire where the sun never set¡ªeven as her corpse rotted in its cold marble tomb.

    Ra¡¯isa crept out from under the bed to squat over the chamber pot on the room¡¯s far side, pulling her shift aside to release a hissing stream of piss. But Gontran was the one who needed to empty the chamber pot over the street, since Ra¡¯isa¡¯s dark beauty stood out so much. He ensured no one was wandering around below the window, then showered the earth with piss, moving his arm left, right, up, and down as he mouthed the words: ¡°In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, amen,¡± thereby reserving a spot for himself in the Hell of the Damned.

    It¡¯s a real relationship milestone, he thought, looking at Ra¡¯isa as she crawled back under the bed. When you empty your partner¡¯s chamber pot into the street.

    As he replaced the chamber pot, doing his best to keep any remaining drops of piss from getting on his hands, Gontran realized that the whole city must have smelled like urine¡ªthat almost every medieval city must have smelled that way. He had gotten so used to it that he barely noticed anymore, always watching his step for turds whenever he entered a city¡ªa pointless endeavor¡ªand keeping away from the windows overlooking the street. You could be having the best day of your life¡ªlaughing arm-in-arm with the romance of your dreams, your pockets stuffed with gold coins, in the bloom of health and youth¡ªbut if you got splashed with some of that slop, the moon would eclipse the sun, daylight would turn to darkness, happiness to despair, warmth to frigidity, love to hatred, laughter to tears¡­

    It was illegal to dump piss out of your window, too. Every town and city government warned against it. But because sewage systems barely existed if at all, people did it anyway.

    Ra¡¯isa remained under the bed. As the temperature dropped, Gontran wanted to give her his blanket, but she said it was too dangerous. If the soldiers returned, they would ask why he was sleeping without a blanket on such a chilly night. How could he explain himself? So Gontran said he would look for another.

    ¡°Be careful,¡± she whispered.

    ¡°I always am,¡± he whispered back.

    ¡°A week ago, you fell out of a window. We thought you were dead.¡±

    Gontran left the room without answering, closed the door quietly behind him, and tried the other doors in the hallway outside. All were locked. The proprietor¡ªa rounded aging alewife¡ªmust have locked them after the soldiers¡¯ raid; no one else was staying here now. Should he pick one of the locks? No. It would arouse suspicion if the alewife found out. Difficult as it was, he needed to act normal.

    Downstairs, the tavern was silent and empty. Gontran walked among the tables and even went to the cookhouse in the courtyard out back, but no one was present. Luckily, he found a closet with piles of linen folded inside, and brought up a spare blanket and pillow for Ra¡¯isa. She was shivering when she thanked him. More than anything, he wanted to help keep her warm, but she said it was too risky.

    So close, yet so far, he thought as he fell into bed, careful to keep to his own side to avoid crushing her.

    He wondered if anyone should stay awake to keep watch. What were they supposed to do if the soldiers found them? They would have to jump out the window. Well, it was nothing he hadn¡¯t done before. He¡¯d fallen from the doge¡¯s palace here in Venice, and he¡¯d also thrown himself out a window with Diaresso back in Abydos when this whole adventure first started, and Male?nos¡¯s goons had been after them. Here and now, the ground outside this particular inn was earth, mud, and grass, so Gontran and Ra¡¯isa would be alright, aside from rolling around in their own piss, not to mention everyone else¡¯s.

    Still better than rolling around in our own blood, gutted like pigs.

    As Gontran was wondering whether to spend the night fighting to stay awake, listening for the soldiers¡¯ return, he passed out, waking to the golden light and warmth of a Venetian morning. Instantly he recalled that a gorgeous person was sleeping under his bed. He checked to ensure she was still there, and found her snoring softly, wrapped in her blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon, even more beautiful asleep than awake.

    He lay back in bed, luxuriating in the fact that, at least for now, no one in his immediate vicinity was trying to kill him. Outside the window, Venice was making noise as though yesterday had never been. Horses clopped, carts rumbled, people talked. Yet Gontran had noticed that Venetians were often guarded in their speech. They murmured, they whispered, but they rarely raised their voices (unless they wanted to kill you). Everyone must have been reporting on everyone else. Istv¨¢n had mentioned that the Murano glassmakers could be sentenced to long prison labor terms or even death if they were caught leaving the island without permission. Trade secrets. Probably the same was true for the Arsenalotti. This place was one of those insulated safe family-friendly ¡°communities¡± where everyone was trash-talking everyone else behind their backs.

    Wanting to let Ra¡¯isa sleep, he crept to the window, his eyes on the forest of spars beyond the rooftops, walls, and towers of the Arsenale, where hammers were already hammering, and the gasoline smell of pitch was in the air.

    Today¡¯s the day I try to get a job in the shipyards. The shit-yards.

    He would need to find the guildhalls, and pray they were hungry for apprentices. As he thought about it, he realized he had no idea how the guild system even worked. Would he be paid a wage? They offered room, board, and knowledge, but was that all? Maybe there was also companionship? Good references? Experience? Exposure? The guild was almost like a union and a corporation combined, but less efficient than either. You had one guild for making rope, another for tying it together, a third for carrying rope¡ªand only rope¡ªto wherever it was needed. That sort of thing. And they always kept their trade secrets secret. This arrested technological progress in the name of ensuring that the guild members could feed themselves. It was similar to the old world patent system, but less efficient, since enforcing patents was impossible here.

    Ra¡¯isa, in the mean time, would have to remain in their room. She was too beautiful, turning the heads of men, women, children, animals, and even plants and inanimate objects and the air itself wherever she went. This warrior goddess needed to stay here. After Gontran snacked on some bread, he got down to the floor and whispered for her to wake up.

    ¡°Hey, Ra¡¯isa, listen. I¡¯m going to try to get a job in the Arsenale so I can find the crew.¡±

    She nodded, her eyes shut, and started stretching like a cat. Once again, Gontran was astounded with her beauty, even as he caught a whiff of her morning breath. He couldn¡¯t stop thinking about it. He was obsessed to the point of annoying even himself.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to play ¡®House,¡¯¡± he added. ¡°I¡¯ll be the husband going out to bring home the bacon. And you¡¯ll be the housewife¡­laying low at home to hide from the police.¡±

    ¡°I am spouse only to the uprising,¡± she said. ¡°And Muslims do not eat pork. It is haram. Disgusting.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just an expression.¡±

    ¡°Bring home something tastier. Like chicken or lamb. ¡±

    He winced at the thought of the poor hen kicked by the soldier yesterday. Then he took Ra¡¯isa¡¯s meaty hand¡ªthe top soft, the palm calloused¡ªand kissed it. ¡°I will, darling.¡±This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    He uttered this archaic term of endearment with an ironic tone in order to conceal his appreciation for her, out of fear that it would repel her, if she realized how much he liked her. With every moment he spent in her company, he worshipped her further. Sometimes she annoyed him¡ªoften they disagreed¡ªand yet he suspected he would soon find himself bowing on his hands and knees before her muscular naked body like he was a supplicant before a Greek statue of Athena which had come to life.

    ¡°That reminds me,¡± he added. ¡°I¡¯ve been meaning to ask¡ªwhy aren¡¯t you using the farr?¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t have power here,¡± she said. ¡°The Venetians, they only work for themselves. They are all competing with each other. It is like a footrace that never ends, and which has no prize.¡±

    ¡°What are you talking about? The Venetians work together. They have a huge shipyard just outside the door¡ª¡±

    ¡°But why do they work? What is the shipyard for? To get slaves. I have no comrades here, and that means no energy. You are a merchant, working only for yourself. Any Venetian here would betray the world if he could become leader of this place. Each is just a little emperor, a less-fortunate emperor, a traitor to humanity. The air here is heavy. It hurts me, it is hard to fight, I almost cannot even breathe¡ª¡±

    ¡°Alright, alright, I got it. You stay here and keep quiet. I¡¯ll be back as soon as I can. If I¡¯m not here by morning, it means I¡¯m in trouble.¡±

    ¡°When are you not in trouble?¡±

    He leaned forward and kissed her. Then he left.

    As Gontran made his way along the earthen streets and over the bridges of wood or stone crossing the canals to the Arsenale gate, he found himself in the company of growing numbers of guildsmen. They were young, thin, and short, with more variety in their skin tones and hair colors than might be expected, their noses and eyes often noticeably large.

    Jews, Arabs, Greeks, Italians, French, Spaniards, Slavs, even Turks, Arabs, and Touaregs¡ªall more similar than they¡¯d like to admit, Gontran thought. Mediterranean people. If they dress the same and keep their mouths shut, it¡¯s hard to tell the difference.

    Their clothes were worn, but clean, and they themselves were not covered in dirt or mud. Each had at least rinsed his face before coming here. Farther from the Arsenale, they greeted one another, conversed, cracked jokes; closer, however, they kept quiet. In the busy campo before the Arsenale, they formed¡ªwith militaristic discipline¡ªa single line to enter the Main Gate. This structure was built alongside a pair of stone towers overlooking a canal, the gate doors open but guarded by several ancient maneless lion statues which were covered in red runes which must have been left at some point by rioting Vikings drunk on mead. The standard of Saint Mark billowed above the gate, and a single black-clad Venetian official sat at a small wooden table before an hourglass and a massive book. Each guildsman presented himself to this official, stating his name, guild, and parish. The official licked his fingers, then flipped through the book¡¯s pages, located the guildsman¡¯s name, and checked it with a quill dipped in ink. Then the official said: ¡°entra,¡± and the guildsman stepped through the gate and into the industrial maw beyond. A pair of armored soldiers flanked the official¡¯s sides, looking alert, as though violence was a normal occurrence here.

    The line moved fast. Gontran swallowed drily when his turn came.

    ¡°Nome?¡± the official said without looking up.

    ¡°Uh, I don¡¯t work here,¡± Gontran said. ¡°I was wondering if¡ª¡±

    ¡°The Palazzo delle Corporazioni is there.¡± The official indicated a small, castle-like structure at the other side of the campo, through whose doors many people were coming and going. A sign hanging above the door, of finely wrought glass, depicted a cord of rope.

    ¡°Next.¡±

    Gontran stepped aside just in time; had he hesitated, the guildsman at his back might have shoved him out of the way. Entering the Palazzo delle Corporazioni¡ªthe guildhall¡ªGontran found a large room, paneled in wood. On the right, the room was full of tables and chairs for meeting and community events. On the left was a raised wooden desk which reminded Gontran of the judicial bench from when the Venetian judge had confirmed that he belonged to the Loredani. Behind the bench sat a long-haired Venetian elder who was stooped over yet another massive book and scrawling there with a quill dipped in ink. Shelves stuffed with musty scrolls in a variety of materials¡ªpaper, vellum, and what might have even been papyrus¡ªlay behind him. Large glass windows let in the morning light, illuminating the elder¡¯s sunken features. Gontran had seen no other medieval city with so much glass.

    An orderly line of supplicants¡ªall women and children¡ªwere speaking with the elder. Respectfully they bowed, curtseyed, clutched their hands, and used polite words in sweet tones¡ª¡°buongiorno,¡± ¡°signore,¡± ¡°per piacere,¡± ¡°grazie.¡± When it was Gontran¡¯s turn to speak, he planned to imitate them¡ªhe always needed to struggle to be polite in these situations¡ªbut before he could even open his mouth, the elder said, without even looking up from his book: ¡°no openings.¡±

    ¡°Signore¡ª¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re holding up the line.¡± The elder stopped scrawling, struggled with his trembling bony gnarled hand to lower his quill as though it weighed a hundred pounds, and hauled his filmy eyes up from the depths of their leathery sockets¡ªas aged as the parchment pages of his book¡ªto regard Gontran. ¡°What kind of fool are you? We take only child apprentices. And you have no donation, I presume? Fool of a Francese! Do they not have corporazioni in the muddy French shithole you crawled out of?¡±

    Under other circumstances, Gontran might have reached for his pistol-sword¡ªhis beloved, long-lost Seran pistol-sword¡ªeven though it was ridiculous to attack a man so bent with age he seemed to be transforming, Tithonus-like, into a giant cicada before Gontran¡¯s eyes. But because Gontran was surrounded by Venetians, and needed to lie low, he left the ropemakers¡¯ guild and stepped outside. The hot sun had climbed a little higher in the whitening sky, and the line into the Arsenale had vanished, along with the black-clad official, his book, his hourglass, his table, and his two guards. The gate beneath the winged lion flag¡ªfluttering in the hot humid sea breeze¡ªwas shut, and men were rowing a galley along the canal into the Arsenale, presumably for repairs. Bells rang across the city.

    Focusing on the task at hand, Gontran needed to walk only a little before he found the shipwrights¡¯ guild, but here the story was the same. ¡°We only take bambini.¡±

    Child labor. Completely normal. Even praiseworthy. They can learn valuable marketable skills.

    At the sailmakers¡¯ it was the same. And at the sawyers¡¯. The blacksmiths¡¯. The stonemasons¡¯. Only at the carpenters¡¯, an hour later when Gontran was growing hungry, frustrated, sweaty, and tired, did he find success. This was the busiest guildhall he had seen, and the maestro he spoke with¡ªa man notably younger than the other maestri Gontran had encountered¡ªoffered him a garzone contract on the spot.

    ¡°You arrive at sunrise and depart at sundown every day but Sunday,¡± the maestro said. ¡°You do as you¡¯re told. Wages start at one soldo per day.¡±

    For a moment, Gontran needed to remind himself about the different monetary values here. They changed depending on which town or city you were in. In Venice, a lira was roughly the equivalent of a golden solidus or nomisma. It was twenty silver soldi to the lira, and twelve silver denari (or pennies) to one soldo. Translating into his old world brain, one soldo was about ten cents.

    Ten cents per day.

    Gontran almost accepted, but he forced himself to ask questions to look less desperate. ¡°Any benefits?¡±

    ¡°Sunday dinners and funerals are on the guild,¡± the maestro said. ¡°Any male children you have receive preference in hiring. There¡¯s widows¡¯ compensation. And also opportunity for advancement. After seven years, if you perform well, you can complete a masterpiece. If my fellow maestri approve, you become one of us.¡±

    ¡°If I sign now, can I start today?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll get half wages,¡± the maestro said. ¡°Another thing. There¡¯s to be no organizing of any kind. No formation of groups, no combinations, no sindacati di garzoni undermining the authority of the maestri. We are one big family here, and don¡¯t need interference from quarrelsome outsiders trying to stir up trouble and turn good people against each other. If you hear any talk of this, you¡¯ll receive ten soldi for reporting it to the maestri, so long as your accusation can be proven with two additional witnesses. Is that understood?¡±

    Gontran bowed. ¡°S¨¬, maestro.¡±

    The maestro smiled and reached across his table to shake Gontran¡¯s hand. ¡°Benvenuto.¡±

    Once Gontran had signed a paper contract in duplicate¡ªwriting an ¡®X¡¯ for his name to conceal his literacy¡ªa younger maestro who introduced himself as Nicol¨° Calafado guided him over the rickety wooden bridge that crossed the Arsenale canal to the lumber yard. By then it was past noon, which meant that Gontran got to work on an empty stomach carrying heavy logs over his shoulder to a sawmill, where the sawyers sawed them into planks. There was nothing more to this job. Gontran was brute muscle and bone, to be used like an animal until breaking point, though animals he suspected were more difficult to replace than garzoni. He was ¡°over it¡±¡ªto use an old world expression¡ªby the time he had delivered his first log. Wage labor was awful enough on its own, since the wages the boss paid you always ended up back in his class¡¯s pockets sooner or later.

    Gontran remembered seeing some story from the old world about an Ohio pizzeria owner who had once decided to divide up the day¡¯s profits evenly among all his workers. Each worker ended up making a ridiculous sum, something like $80 per hour. If you did the math, it meant that the owner of some random pizzeria in Ohio was easily pulling in tens of thousands of dollars in profit per month. All he needed to do was reinvest most of that money in real estate and he would never have to worry about anything again¡ªbarring a revolution, of course. This knowledge was alienating enough. On top of Gontran¡¯s exhaustion¡ªon top of his body¡¯s destruction¡ªwas the awareness that he was helping his class enemies at his own expense. With every log he delivered to the sawyers, he was helping the Venetian ruling class build more ships to enslave more people.

    He saw no more of the Arsenale that day, and encountered no one from the Paralos. No one even mentioned it. Among his fellow garzoni, conversation was limited. They were too tired and miserable to speak, but Gontran also sensed the eyes of the maestri burning holes in his back. No conversation, no idling. The structure of exploitation here was so flimsy that a few words might bring it all crashing down.

    All he could look forward to was seeing Ra¡¯isa in the evening. This soon became the sole reason he continued working. He forgot the Paralos and his crew. At the same time, Ra¡¯isa would be disappointed if he gave up and walked off the job on day one, especially after spending so much time looking for a boss who would give him a chance in the first place. All he wanted was to go home and see her. As the hours passed, memories of Ra¡¯isa gained a saintly glow in his mind, and he felt his heart aching. She was on the deck of the Paralos, and wind was blowing her hair. She was kissing him as they stopped in a side street while fleeing the Procuratore¡¯s goons. She was naked in bed with him. He was describing how difficult his day had been, and she was listening, telling him she was sorry, that everything was going to be alright.

    By the time the vespertine bells were ringing, Gontran was almost too broken to even return to the inn where she was waiting for him. He picked up the day¡¯s wages¡ªsix silver denari, the equivalent of about five cents¡ªand staggered back across the rickety wooden bridge and the Arsenale Campo and along the narrow streets crowded with indifferent strangers, the garzoni around him parting ways¡ªstill without speaking to one another, though the maestri and signori were gone¡ªand melting into the masses. Many went to packed taverns, where they converted their soldi into wine.

    Gotta stay away from those places or I¡¯m fucked.

    Gontran was ready to collapse by the time he found the inn. With the last of his strength, he climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, and fell into bed, drenched in sweat and sawdust. Yet he soon found that there was a problem. Ra¡¯isa was gone.

 18. Drunk At Work

    Had the Venetians found Ra¡¯isa? Gontran was too tired to get up, splash his face, or even find a hunk of bread to force down his throat¡ªlet alone look for his katapan. His stamina was gone. Even turning over in bed was too much. Thought itself became difficult. He could only wallow in his own filth and misery, his exhaustion so great that¡ªwith growing horror¡ªhe realized that he was unable to sleep. And if he couldn¡¯t sleep, how was he supposed to rest for tomorrow? He only had a few hours of freedom before he needed to return to the Arsenale, yet he only felt dread.

    Babies sometimes acted like this, didn¡¯t they? They became so tired that, like the grapes of Tantalus, sleep receded beyond the reach of their little fingers, leaving them no choice but to scream and cry and drive their caregivers out of their minds. Yet Gontran was too weak to make so much noise. Groaning was the best he could do. Had he even closed the door behind him?

    I was only at the Arsenale for a few hours. Just a few hours of carrying trees did this to me.

    But he knew that carrying trees wasn¡¯t the problem. He could have done that back in Trebizond all day without a complaint¡ªcarrying trees to help people build homes to live in. No, the issue was working for a wage. That¡¯s what did it. In the old world, rich people disdained wage labor. You didn¡¯t get rich from being employed. You got rich from employing others. From investments. Entrepreneurship. Parasitism. Grifters called it passive income.

    Those who do all the work have nothing, while those who do no work have everything. That¡¯s what Herakleia had said. Gontran hated wage labor. So he was a merchant. He bought goods cheap in one place, carried them to another, then sold them for a profit. That¡¯s all, folks. Nothing to it, at least as long as you knew how to use a sword, and join up with bigger caravans moving through the more dangerous parts of the world, where bandits lurked behind every huge shadowy gnarled tree encroaching on the muddy path.

    At some point in the evening, when all was dark and silent, he started¡ªhad he fallen asleep?¡ªat footsteps falling on the stairs. Someone crept along the hallway just outside the door to Gontran¡¯s room, feeling their way through the blackness. Gontran tried to find his sword. Where had he put it? He¡¯d left it under his bed before heading out to work. But the footsteps were already inside his room and locking the door. Something soft was set down on the floor. A basket?

    ¡°Gontran,¡± Ra¡¯isa whispered.

    ¡°Here,¡± he managed to answer, struggling to sound strong.

    Clothes fell on the floor. Ra¡¯isa climbed into bed, hugged him for a moment, then stopped.

    ¡°You haven¡¯t washed,¡± she said.

    ¡°Sorry. I was tired.¡±

    ¡°You smell bad. The bed will stink!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Ra¡¯isa, I¡¯m so sorry¡­¡±

    Using fire strikers, she lit a candle from the basket she had brought into the room, then helped Gontran from bed, removed his sweaty clothes, and managed to wash him with the soap and water left on the room¡¯s small table. These materials were meant only for hands and faces, but she used them for his entire body, whispering complaints about how men always acted like infants¡ªtreating her like she was their mother practically the instant she first looked at them.

    ¡°We must find an apartment,¡± she said. ¡°This inn is not for workers. Yes, we need an apartment with a¡ªhow do call it?¡ªa large bowl, a basin for washing after work. Each of us needs another change of clothes¡­¡±

    Gontran was too tired to respond. By then Ra¡¯isa had blown out the candle and returned him to bed, minus his clothes. She climbed in next to him, commenting that she was finished sleeping under the bed, and she touched him and kissed him, but he was too tired for sex, even with this naked goddess lying beside him. All Gontran felt was relief that she had returned. His thoughts were flying apart in the darkness of his mind, a prelude to unconsciousness, as he reverberated back and forth from awareness to unawareness.

    ¡°You are just going to leave me like this,¡± Ra¡¯isa said, frustrated. These words drew him back from sleep.

    ¡°What?¡± he groaned.

    ¡°I do not know how to say this¡­I want to make love with you, but you are too tired.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m so sorry¡­¡±

    ¡°Sorry for what?¡±

    ¡°You can use my body,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°You mean¡­¡±

    ¡°Yes. Even if I fall asleep.¡±

    The last thing he felt, as he lost consciousness, was Ra¡¯isa climbing on top of him. Then bells were ringing in the darkness. He opened his eyes to morning light filling his room, and a blurry swarm of swifts rushing past his window.

    A swarming blur of rushes swifting past his window.

    In another time, if he had been a tourist, these sights and sounds would have delighted him. But because he was a worker, they filled him with dread.

    I don¡¯t want to go to work. I don¡¯t want to go to work. Just a few more minutes¡­

    Ra¡¯isa was lying beside him, snoring softly. Distantly he recalled what had happened the night before, as though his memories belonged to another person¡ªsomeone much luckier than him. Had she fucked him in his sleep? He felt his crotch. Yes. She had cleaned up, but you can¡¯t get everything unless you wash. Chuckling, he kissed her cheek, and she turned away, sighing. A sweet sound. Sweet paradise to lie in bed with this woman, though an inferno surrounded them.

    He hauled his aching body out of bed. Ra¡¯isa had prepared his clothes the night before, and even breakfast and lunch. Ravenous, he stuffed his face with the food left out for him¡ªthick heavy moist focaccia this time, dipped in olive oil, with goat cheese and salami, a gourmet meal!¡ªeven as he recognized garzoni from yesterday walking to work along the street below his window. He needed to get moving.

    He kissed sleeping Ra¡¯isa goodbye, and then he was off, wondering how she had left the inn yesterday and seemingly even bought things at the markets without being spotted. Maybe the Procuratore had given up on searching for her. His big investment had vanished, but he might have been so embarrassed he just wanted everyone to forget it.

    Then the sights in the street distracted Gontran. Everyone was either going to work, or already there. Woolcombers combed their wool, cordwainers worked on shoes, bakers were hauling the first fresh bread loaves of the day from their ovens using their wooden peels, and pork butchers butchered their pork, the red meat hanging on hooks and buzzing with flies in the warm air. The sight was unpleasant for Gontran, but it would have disgusted Diaresso. ¡°Swine eaters,¡± he would have muttered. Gontran wondered what his old friend was up to, if he was even still alive. Was he on his way back to Tomboutou, or had he gotten into trouble somewhere? Ra¡¯isa probably would have reacted in a similar way. It was funny, no matter what Gontran did, he always ended up around Saracens. Why was he so attracted to them? Well, they were attractive people. Diaresso and Ra¡¯isa were both good in a fight. Dependable. Fun. Intelligent. Hardworking. What was there to dislike? It was like Ovid said: ¡°If you want to be loved, be lovable.¡± Whatever that meant. Lovability depended on context. To be lovable in Nazi Germany meant something very different from being lovable in the Soviet Union. Gontran was now at the point of mentally quoting the ever-popular Publius Ovidius Nasso. Did he actually feel good? How could he? It was the rush of food in his body, the rush of bodies around his own body. Everyone was getting started with their day. And he himself was, for the first time in ten days, part of something bigger. The creature that was Venice¡ªthe octopus-like islands of Rivoalto¡ªwere waking up.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    Gontran returned to the Arsenale¡¯s Main Gate. He checked in with his guild, entered the lumber yard, set his lunch aside in the workers¡¯ cubby, and got to work carrying trees.

    In the beginning, as he worked, he marveled at the industrial process on display, thinking that even Trebizond could learn a thing or two from Venetian efficiency. He would deliver a tree to the sawyers, return to the pile of logs, pick one up, and bring it to the sawyers again, all within minutes. By that time, they would be ready for another log to saw. It went on like this all day. The logs themselves were replenished by the city¡¯s longshoremen¡ªanother important guild¡ªwho unloaded them from the big merchant galleys (called navi tonde or ¡°round ships¡±), which themselves docked as close to the Arsenale as possible. Trees, hemp, iron, and labor went into the Arsenale, and ships came out.

    Still, this particular workplace was on the colder side. There was no Istv¨¢n to befriend Gontran and help him escape¡ªnor were there workers, like in Trebizond, chattering endlessly about history, politics, or philosophy. Here in the Arsenale there was little conversation and less camaraderie among the garzoni. Gontran suspected it was because everyone wanted to advance. Everyone wanted to be a maestro as soon as possible to escape this labor. But how many maestri were there? Probably only a few hundred people¡ªin a city of tens of thousands¡ªwere wealthy enough to spend their days relaxing rather than working. Venice was ostensibly a republic with a senate to which any male citizen could be elected by his fellow male citizens, but most if not all of Venice¡¯s rulers had probably been born into their positions of power and wealth. And even if you worked your way up to that point, look at what happened. You turned into the Procuratore, so overwhelmed with ennui that you blew thirty-six nomismas¡ªthe equivalent of about two years¡¯ of Gontran¡¯s wages¡ªon a slave girl who ran away at the first opportunity.

    In the mean time, there were other ways to escape the misery here. Gontran noticed the smell of wine on everyone¡¯s breath. Most work in Venice required little thinking, so you could spend the whole day drunk if you wanted. It made things easier. Sawyers needed to worry about sawing off their fingers, of course, and haulers like Gontran risked throwing out their backs¡ªand missing work and pay for several days at least¡ªwhenever they picked up another log. You could also crush your hand when you set the logs down. The trick was to get drunk enough to dull the pain, but not so drunk that you were puking your guts out, collapsing, picking fights with your coworkers, or stumbling into the blurring saws. Finding the happy medium of drunkenness and safety was difficult, however, especially as the alcohol waxed and waned in your bloodstream. It seemed like everyone except Gontran had already gotten hurt. One man¡¯s thumb had been flattened almost like a pancake. Gontran reflected that this disturbing sight stuck out like¡ªwell¡ªa sore thumb.

    Wage labor was already alienating enough, since the maestri were alienating surplus labor from the garzoni, but the garzoni themselves intensified that alienation by drinking, which only further separated their minds from their bodies. Was this then the true origin of Cartesian mind-body duality? As the maestri dominated the garzoni, so did the minds of the garzoni dominate their own bodies. With the help of wine, your mind could retreat and relax in an imaginary palace¡ªreclining on a gilded couch while a beauty hand-fed you grapes¡ªas your body in the real world groaned like an ox beneath the yoke.

    Workers could only dwell in imaginary palaces which were so fragile that the slightest interruption would make them vanish. Thus did these people guzzle wine in taverns; thus did they pray fervently in temples or gamble whenever they got their hands on any money at all. The ruling class alone lived in palaces of the real, thereby having no need for escape.

    Gontran at first told himself that he would refrain from drink. Even a drop of wine was dangerous in a place with so many roaring saws, swinging hammers, and fetid canals. But time passed with such an aching slowness, it almost seemed to go in reverse. To be a day laborer was like falling into a singularity in the far reaches of space. Minutes here passed in hours, while days passed in minutes, as wage labor turned time itself inside-out. Gontran checked the nearest hourglasses, pleading with the sand inside the upper bulbs to fall faster into the lower ones, even as the glittering grains fell in slow motion, as if they were infinite. The sun, too, hung in the sky like it had been fixed there by God to torment the human race burning underneath. He held it above the Arsenale¡¯s workers like in the Battle of Gibeon. Gontran would also make deals with the world. If I carry five more logs, please make another half an hour pass. He would tell himself that a lot of time had gone by since he had last checked the hourglass, he had been working forever, lunch must be close, he had lifted twenty logs, hadn¡¯t he? Then he would check the hourglass, and it would look the same as before.

    Lunchtime finally somehow came, and he wolfed down the food Ra¡¯isa had packed.

    My angel Ra¡¯isa.

    A small flask of wine came with the cloth bag she had given him, since it was normal even for children to drink at least a little wine now and then, but he wondered about the implications of drinking. Gontran had a weakness for alcohol. He always tried to keep away from it, since even one drop felt so good, it led to rivers pouring down his throat¡ªseas, oceans, entire worlds of gushing wine drowning his mind. Then he would be singing, crying, fighting, puking, and¡ªfinally¡ªblacking out. He would wake up and have no idea where he was. Sometimes strange women would be lying in bed with him, snoring with their mouths open.

    Why did he do this to himself? Everything in his life¡ªnot just working at the Arsenale¡ªwas too painful to deal with. Leaving his family behind in Metz, annoying Diaresso so much that he had left, losing the Paralos, failing the uprising, never getting home¡ªjust thinking about any of this was a labor too great even for Hercules. And so as Gontran finished his bread and meat, he stared at the wine flask, telling himself he should dump it into the canal or give it to someone else. With Gontran¡¯s luck, if he drank one mouthful, he would stumble into a saw and cut himself in half. He loved wine, but couldn¡¯t stomach it.

    Yet the pouch kept talking to him. Even as he knew that wine tasted like cough syrup, his desire imbued the pouch with mesmerizing power, like it was an idol come to life, Galatea for Pygmalion.

    It was the thought of returning to work that did it. Many hours remained until sunset, but the shift bell was ringing, and the garzoni were already getting up to return to their labors. Gontran¡¯s morning had taken forever, but lunch had passed in almost an instant. It was so unfair.

    Wine would even the odds a little.

    Before he even knew what he was doing, he had opened the flask and downed every drop. Wiping his mouth, he stuffed the empty flask into his cloth sack, set them aside in their cubby, and looked around to check if anyone had noticed. Nobody cared. All the garzoni were shuffling back to work in silence under the maestri¡¯s watchful eyes. Even during lunch, the workers had kept to themselves, doubtless fearful of losing their jobs due to too much idle conversation. And here, even a word, a hand signal, or a raised eyebrow could count as idle conversation. The maestri wanted the garzoni to act like cattle. Slaves would run away or even kill you, but workers might stay and work hard as long as you dangled the possibility of advancement before their eyes. You could also get a few soldi for reporting on your fellow workers, so everyone was watching everyone else. This place was a panopticon made of living flesh, living eyeballs.

    Venice: the beautiful nightmare.

    The alcohol took a few minutes to hit him. As Gontran picked up the first tree and grunted under its weight, wondering if this was going to be the one that snapped his back, he likewise worried that he had somehow downed a flask of grape juice rather than wine. But then the warmth in his stomach began to seep through his veins and into his mind. He felt dizzy and lightheaded. His muscles stopped aching, his bones stopped grinding against each other, and he squinted and smiled with a blissful foolishness. It was a miracle.

    Yet the flask had been small, and so the effect only lasted minutes. Soon he was back to raw-dogging reality, only this time with no way out. Now he felt even more tired and sullen than before. He told himself he would find his way to a tavern after work and spend his wages there, even as he recalled that he had barely possessed the energy to stagger back to his inn the evening before.

    Why had he even come to this awful place? To find the Paralos. To free his crew. Well, neither were here. They had all vanished so completely it was as though they had never existed. And even as he groaned under the weight of entire trees, he thought of how the Arsenale was absorbing him and changing him just as it absorbed and changed wood into ships. Gontran had walked through the Arsenale Gate a free man, a merchant and adventurer and former katapan who had seen the world, but the Arsenale was transforming him into just another garzone, one who would undertake no more journeys, except from home to work and back again. If he wasn¡¯t careful, the sack of money he had stolen from those Venetians at Lake Garda would run out, and soon he and Ra¡¯isa would forget that they had ever come from Trebizond. They would transform into just another couple, raising Venetian children who had never known anything other than Venice, speaking Venetian even at home, thinking of themselves as citadini de ?a rep¨´blega. They would accept their new lives.

    Lotus eaters.

    Gontran would not die a violent death, as he had always expected. He would not find the Paralos, nor would he find his crew, nor would they escape. He would never return to his home in the old world. Instead, he would wither away in Venice, like a flower in a vase.

    It took forever, but the vespertine bells rang, and Gontran picked up his one soldo and returned home. On his way there, his legs carried him into the first tavern they found, where he bought a round of wine for himself and everyone around him. Soon enough he was drinking and singing, and even flirting with the barmaids. Rivers of wine poured down his throat, until he was no more.

 19. Mission Control

    Golden light and ringing bells.

    Gontran groaned, turned over, and tried to cover his eyes and ears. The sound was blinding, the light was deafening, his head pounded, and each ring of the bells seemed like it would shatter his skull. The hammers hammered the bells, and they also hammered his cranial bone, cracking and crushing it like an apothecary grinding it into medicinal powder and selling it in little sacks of cure-all for one soldo an ounce. Just mix with water, and¡ª

    Bang! Clang! Dong!

    ¡°Oh!¡± Gontran yelled, turning over again, but his voice was too weak to challenge the bells. Why were they so loud?

    He needed to get to work, but he couldn¡¯t even stand. Where the hell am I? No memory. He couldn¡¯t open his eyes. He couldn¡¯t do anything. Even squinting one pair of eyelids open sent searing light and stabbing pain into his mind. The light rays were like long needles injecting his eyes with acid. Bee stings. Bee abdomens flexing and throbbing as they pumped his eyes full of pollen-laced venom, corroding them, making them disintegrate. His mouth also tasted like acid. His throat burned. He must have been vomiting earlier. Disgusting!

    Trapped in a labyrinth of my own making.

    Gontran needed to figure out where he was. As the bells slammed him back and forth, he realized that he could only use a few of his senses, touch being the most important. Alright, so what could he feel? He was lying on the ground. It was cold, hard, and wet¡ªwith what? He didn¡¯t want to know. But was he outside?

    Must be.

    There had been a tavern. Warm light, thick hazy atmosphere, cheeks red and smiling, everyone drinking and singing like in La Traviata. Libiamo, bello, bello! He had drunk so much wine, and it had tasted so good¡ªit had been such a release.

    Laughter, alcohol, and good company, it¡¯s better than sex.

    Now he was here. The wine had teleported him through time and space. Magic in one¡¯s cups. No matter what he did, he just fell deeper into one hole after another, like a dreamer lunging back inside an endless sea of nightmares.

    Why do people repeat? Why do they keep hurting themselves when it seems so unnecessary? Like a panther pacing back and forth inside a cage, except there is no cage.

    Finally the bells were quieting down. They were still ringing, but the sacristans had evidently tired of bursting their own eardrums. Even with wax stuffed inside their ears, the noise would have permanently deafened them, replacing the glories of music, birdsong, and conversation with an endless piercing ringing. But now Gontran heard something else. People were singing. And their songs were different from the bawdy ballads he had bellowed at the top of his lungs the night before. This singing was more gentle, angelic, holy, uplifting.

    It¡¯s Sunday.

    Gontran fell back and gasped with relief.

    No work. Thank God for the Lord¡¯s Day. Thank THE LORD!

    His mission now was to stand, open his eyes, and figure out where he was. The difficulty here was roughly equivalent to sending people to the moon. Mission control, in his mind, struggled to make the systems across his body operational.

    ¡°Brain?¡±

    ¡°Go.¡±

    ¡°Heart?¡±

    ¡°Go.¡±

    ¡°Eyes?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a go.¡±

    ¡°Muscles?¡±

    ¡°Go.¡±

    ¡°Motivation?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re still waiting on Motivation. Looks like Thanatos is overpowering Eros in Gontran¡¯s soul. We¡¯re going to need to increase Eros and decrease Thanatos to get him moving.¡±

    ¡°Copy.¡±

    Somehow, at some point, Gontran climbed to his feet. He needed to bend over and hold his arms out as he did this, worrying in his dizziness that he would plunge into a canal and drown. Then, as he stood and swayed and squinted like a centenarian, he slowly opened his eyelids, letting the light into the dark Platonic cave of his soul like fingers pressing apart Venetian blinds. Such was the sunlight¡¯s intensity at first that the blinding white shafts cooked the cave walls, turning cold rock into red molten glop.

    Then images condensed in his consciousness. Mission control announced that the data was coming through. Gontran saw medieval buildings of wood and stone. Straight lines were difficult to produce in the pre-industrial world, so architecture tended to be softer and curvier, especially in a place like Venice, which was half-sea.

    There was a fetid street. An even more fetid canal. Morning sun fell over green vines which were constricting and cracking the ancient masonry with their muscles of chlorophyll. It was spring. Soon flowers would burst from the vines, their thick soft folds of blossom flesh pressed together and soaked in gleaming dew, reeking of sweet intoxicating nectar as they shed their snowy petals.

    Gontran was alone, standing like a fool, staring at a random alley in Venice.

    He needed to get his bearings.

    Clutching his aching head and muttering swears in several languages, he walked the empty streets, passing churches packed with people, the naves echoing with choral music. He had never thought Venetians particularly religious¡ªespecially by medieval standards¡ªbut on Sundays at least it seemed like church was the place to be. There were few if any sermons, just singing, just the most beautiful music. Except when he was drunk, Gontran had little interest in music¡ªthis was another bone of contention with Diaresso, who was miserable if he lacked a few minutes each day to pluck out some tunes from his lute. But Gontran found himself stopping, listening, and even thinking that he might like to sit down inside one of these churches to enjoy the melodies. Doing this would annoy the parishioners; they would consider him just another tourist, even if he had been terrified the day before at work that he was transforming into a Venetian.

    The problem of global Venicification.

    But Ra¡¯isa must have been worried about him. There would be time for music later¡ªright? He forced himself to walk around until he figured out where he was, thinking at first that he couldn¡¯t be far from the inn where Ra¡¯isa awaited him like Calypso in her isle of curving marble. But he soon found that he was all the way in San Marco¡ªhe even passed the square and the doge¡¯s palace where he had fallen¡ªand it took him some time to find his way back to the inn. His drunken Mr. Hyde self must have explored a fair amount of the city the previous evening. Gontran shuddered to think about what else he had done.

    No one was in their room when he returned, but Ra¡¯isa¡¯s basket was lying near the bedside table, upon which was placed the basin and the water pitcher. His sword was gone for some reason. The bed was also made. Had Ra¡¯isa even slept there? Gontran leaned over the bed and sniffed, but he couldn¡¯t smell her. The most beautiful smell he had ever known had vanished.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    She must have gone out looking for him. He turned to leave, thinking that he would find her, but then he told himself¡ªas he glanced at the bed¡ªthat she would return soon, and that it would be better to wait for her. She was strong, she could take care of herself.

    Stripping off his clothes, he washed his disgusting body as best he could without soaking the floor too much, dried himself with a towel from Ra¡¯isa¡¯s basket¡ªshe had thought of everything¡ªand threw himself into bed. Soon he fled the world¡¯s problems and returned to sleep.

    He woke sometime later, sensing that something was wrong. Conversation, birdsong, rowing oars, and a light warm humid breeze flitted in through the window. This was his life. A window looking out on Venice. A weary body and mind that refused to do what needed to be done.

    Looking around, Gontran saw a woman in dark clothing standing near the bed, watching him with her arms crossed, the hollows around her eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

    ¡°I do not know if I should kill you or kiss you,¡± she said.

    He widened his arms. ¡°I know which one I¡¯d pick.¡±

    She looked away.

    ¡°Ra¡¯isa, I¡¯m sorry¡ª¡±

    ¡°Where were you? All night I was searching for you!¡±

    Since she wasn¡¯t coming to bed, Gontran struggled to his feet, wincing from the lingering effects of his hangover, trying to hug her even as she stepped away from his nudity. But she had noticed his wincing.

    ¡°You were drunk. You partook of al-khamr. It is haram!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Ra¡¯isa, I¡¯m so sorry¡ª¡±

    ¡°I do not want to hear that you are sorry! I want to see you improve! But every day you only get worse!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s this place, it¡¯s so hard, I had such a hard time at work¡ª¡±

    ¡°As hard as me? I was a sex slave! Do you see me getting drunk?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re right, I¡¯m so sorry, it¡¯ll never happen again¡ª¡±

    ¡°You have no control! How can I live with a man who cannot control himself? I should leave you forever!¡±

    ¡°Forgive me.¡± Gontran fell to his knees and stretched out his hands. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Ra¡¯isa. You are my goddess. I¡¯ll worship you forever!¡±

    She watched him in silence, yet almost seemed amused by his bowing.

    I find that romantic relationships between men and women only work if they look like this, Gontran thought, as he stretched out his arms and legs and pressed his face to the floor. Partly he wanted to kiss her feet, but he was worried she would kick his face.

    ¡°You are so beautiful!¡± he cried. ¡°You are so beautiful!¡±

    ¡°You would say that to any woman.¡±

    ¡°Never!¡±

    ¡°You are just like that other man, the Procuratore. You want me only for sex.¡±

    He dared to look at her, then remembered himself and looked down. ¡°No, Ra¡¯isa! I would do anything for you!¡±

    ¡°Then never drink another drop of alcohol. And do your job. Stop making trouble for me.¡±

    ¡°I swear,¡± Gontran said. He almost added that she was the one who had given him that wine flask for lunch in the first place, but he kept his mouth shut.

    ¡°You are not acting like yourself,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°Before, you were such a tough guy. A bad boy. But now¡­¡±

    ¡°I can change.¡±

    ¡°You must. Or I will get rid of you. I can find nicer men than you¡ªhandsomer men, men with more money and power, men who will treat me better, who will always do what I say. It will take me only a few hours. I know how they feel. They look at me everywhere I go. I can have any one of them.¡±

    Hesitantly he stood. Then he reached out to hug her, but she pushed him away. He tried again, and this time she allowed him to touch her. Her smooth electric skin was more intoxicating than an ocean of wine. Gontran reached inside her clothes so he could feel the small of her back with one hand while touching her breast with the other, her nipple hardening beneath his palm, and he pulled her close, clutched her rear, and kissed her soft beautiful lips. Groaning, she pushed him away.

    ¡°Every day you smell bad!¡± she said. ¡°You must wash!¡±

    Quickly he did so, using soap on his body and drinking some water and rinsing out his mouth. She gave him mint from her basket, and he rubbed it over his teeth. Once he was clean, she allowed him to touch her. They climbed into bed. At first she seemed hesitant, but her anger turned to joy, and soon she got loud, clutching him close with her powerful legs as she screamed and made noises so absurd he needed to fight to stop himself from laughing, fearful of upsetting her. There was no way the people outside couldn¡¯t hear. They must have even stopped to listen, looking at each other, pointing and making obscene gestures, but the goddess was too busy soaring above the clouds to notice. She even spoke to Gontran, and said the most ridiculous things.

    ¡°You¡­are getting¡­handsomer!¡± she cried.

    Then her body went limp. He finished, and she was so sated and exhausted that she asked him to move her arms away, adding that she couldn¡¯t lift her head. He lay beside her, also feeling tired and relieved, and kept his hand near her side so he could keep touching her. Ra¡¯isa was like a phoenix that would incinerate you if you got too close, but if you propitiated her in just the right way¡ªand if you were lucky¡ªshe would let you worship her.

    This then was the pattern of Gontran¡¯s life. Work. Get into trouble. Get yelled at by Ra¡¯isa. Make up. Sleep with her. Go back to work. Repeat.

    Eventually they climbed out of bed, cleaned up, got dressed, and for dinner ate the food she had picked up at one of the markets. As they ate, Ra¡¯isa told Gontran¡ªangrily¡ªthat she had been out looking for him the entire night and most of the day. Nobody had seen him, nobody knew anything about him, especially because he had spoken with no one at the Arsenale and tried to keep a low profile. How to even describe a man like Gontran? Thin but strong, a self-hating Frank of average height, handsome, charming when he wanted to be, sometimes scatterbrained, of questionable ethics, not the best fighter, not the best merchant either (although he considered himself one first and foremost), always searching for the golden goose and then fleeing when his latest scheme inevitably fell apart. He also acted like a bad boy all the time, but this was only a protective exterior, one he had developed as a result of living a rough life. Like an insect¡¯s hard armor carapace, it barely concealed his soft, caring, vulnerable, and¡ªcould she even say it?¡ªsweet soul. On the inside, his heart was made of gold.

    ¡°But it is time to get serious,¡± Ra¡¯isa said.

    ¡°Serious?¡± Gontran said. ¡°What are you talking about? I work all day at the Arsenale, I¡¯m so tired I can barely¡ª¡±

    ¡°But we are no closer to our goal than when we first arrived. You are getting lazy, accepting your fate in this place as though it is carved upon your forehead. But our destiny is not to remain here. We are not Venetians. You have already forgotten. What is that phrase they always repeat here? ¡®Ships are safe in the harbor, yes, but they are not meant for the harbor. They are meant for sailing the open sea, dangerous though it may be.¡¯ We must find the Paralos and our crew and escape.¡±

    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t see you getting us any closer to that goal¡ª¡±

    ¡°Do you forget yourself? I am your katapan. Do not speak to me in this way.¡±

    Gontran bowed his head. ¡°Sorry, sir.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t even know what I¡¯ve been doing these past few days. You know nothing of my work. We were beginning to run low on money, so I got a job. Did you even realize?¡±

    He looked at her. ¡°Really?¡±

    ¡°I am a seamstress now.¡± She held up her hands so he could see how her fingertips were covered with callouses and scratches. ¡°Though it barely pays anything, just six denari a day, I am almost working for free¡ªI lose money by going to work. Still, job prospects for women here are limited. It is either seamstress or courtesan.¡±

    ¡°You might make more money as a courtesan.¡±

    ¡°If a man ever offers me money for sex again, I will cut off the hand that holds the coins.¡±

    ¡°Note to self: don¡¯t offer Ra¡¯isa money for sex.¡±

    ¡°I have also been looking for better lodgings, in case we need to stay in this city a long time, though the truth is that I cannot stand this place and I would leave now and never return if I could. There has been no news from Trebizond. Our mission here is a failure. We must salvage what we can of our ship and crew and return home.¡±

    Gontran¡¯s body went rigid, and he bowed once more. ¡°Yes, katapan.¡±

    ¡°I took over command of the ship because you lost your way. You forgot what you were doing. You are not suited to this kind of work. You like to have adventures alone with your friend Diaresso. If you ever succeeded in getting rich, it would only make you miserable. All your newfound wealth you would dissipate, poisoning yourself with al-khamr, sating your desire with so many women they would become meaningless and even invisible to you, each fling in bed indistinguishable from the others. This in-between state of always searching for wealth but never finding it¡ªthis is difficult and at times miserable, yes, but it is also your only happiness.¡±

    Gontran looked back and forth. ¡°Are we on the clock? Should I be paying you for this therapy session?¡± As soon as he had spoken these words, he regretted them, and worried that she would yell at him. But thankfully she seemed to be barely listening.

    She turned to him. ¡°Tomorrow morning you¡¯re going back to work. This time there will be no excuses. You will focus on the mission at hand, even if it means taking risks. Gontran, you will find the Paralos.¡±

 20. Ive Found Her

    It was becoming an almost automatic process. Upon waking to the bells and the morning clouds, Gontran decided that he would act like a machine. There was so much that needed to be done, and none of it matched his desires. This meant that he needed to force himself to act, but also to shut down his consciousness, in a sense¡ªto retreat inside his mind, and act like he himself was just a tiny pilot inside his skull, pressing buttons, shoving levers, kicking pedals, turning wheels, gripping control sticks, eyeing readouts. His body became a giant contraption which obeyed its tiny pilot¡¯s commands, with all the pain and frustration and fatigue showing up as indicator lights rather than physical sensations.

    And so although he wanted to lie in bed with Ra¡¯isa and go back to sleep, he got up. Although he wanted to stay home, he got dressed and had breakfast. And although with every step he took, he wanted to turn back, he continued onward to his destination. The infant¡ªwho cares only for his own desires¡ªlearned about the needs of those around him, of family, friends, society, the world. Thus did he become an adult.

    When he arrived at work, it was like a movie of his life playing before his eyes, each scene rapidly cutting to the next. Here he was coming to the Arsenale, checking in, and putting away his sack of food¡ªwith a flask of water instead of wine this time¡ªyet again. There he was getting to work hauling lumber, his muscles and bones straining, the computer alarms in his cockpit wailing, their screens reddening. Then other indicators flashed, reminding him of his mission objectives and ordering him to explore the Arsenale without arousing suspicion. Otherwise the mission would be a failure. He would be absorbed into Venice. And so, awkward as it felt, he forced himself to talk with his coworkers. None wanted to speak¡ªeyes were always watching, and ears pricking up¡ªbut sometimes the workers would murmur without even looking at one another, shielding their mouths with their hands (pretending to wipe the sweat from their faces) so no one could see their lips moving, even as they continued to labor without interruption. Gontran managed to communicate to one man, named Bartolo (whose name sounded too much like Boscolo), that he needed someone to cover his shift for the next hour. If Bartolo covered for him, Gontran would do the same for Bartolo¡ªwho could take a break. Bartolo agreed.

    The next task for Gontran was to look like he belonged. Any lone garzone wandering the Arsenale would look suspicious. Each Venetian citizen reported unusual behavior by stuffing anonymous paper notes into the mouths of lion statues built specifically for the task. The citizenry likewise knew that with the city¡¯s growing wealth, outside powers¡ªundeveloped, flailing, backward, and incompetent as many were¡ªnonetheless longed to penetrate the Serenissima and learn its secrets in order to seize its accumulated treasures.

    Gontran therefore needed to look the part. The maestri were the ones who owned the tools, and they only shared with the garzoni when necessary, but some older dull broken rusted hammers, hatchets, gimlets, chisels, saws, braces, and other means of production had been discarded here and there in the lumber yard. All were useless¡ªthus their abandonment¡ªbut Gontran picked up the least-damaged ones, tucked them into his belt, and carried the rest, careful to avoid cutting himself, having no need to contract tetanus. The medieval European treatment to this disease of fatal muscle spasms involved drinking enough wine to make himself sweat while coating his wound in manure.

    Probably not effective.

    As for his clothes, black was often the uniform of the Venetian ruling class, with garzoni forbidden to wear this color, and so to make up for his lowliness Gontran needed to walk with a straight back and a confident step, like an upwardly mobile garzone¡ªone favored by the maestri and assured of his success, trotting about like the boss¡¯s favorite dog. One, in other words, who would soon be wearing black.

    I belong here, he thought as he left the lumber yard for the Arsenale interior, his nervousness growing. There is nothing unusual about me being here. I¡¯m comfortable. In my element. Thriving.

    He had no idea where he was going, but he forced himself to walk with purpose, and did his best to keep from staring. Past the lumber yard and the carpenters¡¯ workshop was a second yard full of finished materials¡ªthe masts, spars, bowsprits, and beams which were ready for assembly into ships. The ground here was dirt, and the canals were crisscrossed by narrow wooden footbridges which could be raised with ropes. The canals connected big square pools¡ªwhat else to call them?¡ªwhich were filled with rowboats, galleys, Hanseatic cogs, Arabian dhows, and any other imaginable kind of seagoing craft from the world of the Inland Sea. Nearly every vessel was either damaged or unfinished; many of the newest ships lacked sails, masts, or hawsers, for instance, while the older ones suffered from shipworms which had devoured their hulls almost like living corkscrews, reducing them to the lamentable state of Swiss cheese. Independent docks or piers, Gontran was unsure of what to call them, floated among the ships¡ªwooden platforms which enabled the maestri and garzoni to pull their tools and spare parts and piles of coiled rope right up alongside various vessels.

    Many ships were also under construction in the drydocks. They began there as mere piles of wood. Some were just wooden ribcages propped up on stilts, surrounded by men coated in sweat, their muscles almost bursting from their flesh as they hammered beams into place. But as Gontran progressed, he found ships which were closer to completion, the caulkers slathering the hulls with boiling pitch, and he even saw one vessel being slid out of its flooded dock. Though these ships had all been slammed together with hammers, all were delicate works of art which, while pleasant to look at, were sea terrors.

    Yet Gontran likewise knew enough about ships to recognize that their designs¡ªexcellent as they were¡ªfailed to match that of the Paralos. His baby outclassed them all. With her longer, narrower keel and her broad deck, she was faster and sturdier than any vessel here. For all their faults, the Romans still knew a thing or two about shipbuilding.

    But naturally, the Paralos was nowhere to be found. In fact, it seemed like every ship on Earth was present here except the Paralos. Gontran also did his best to check the swarming garzoni for familiar faces, but none were present.

    Gotta put the crew back together.

    Each member of the Paralos crew was probably in some random part of the city. Zulaika al-Jariya had been forced into sexual slavery, like Ra¡¯isa, and was now sitting in a brothel, waiting for johns. David Halevi the Kitezhi was washing dishes at a tavern the next parish over. Down the road, a Trapezuntine was drenched in the stinking liquids from a tannery. Across the canal, a Varangian was baking bread. A Khazari Jewish warrior had even found his way to the merchants confined to the Ghetto, passing the stonemasons with their clinking mallets and chisels, where his comrade, the Cordoban, had been captured and re-enslaved¡ªnot far from his fellow rower Hassan Ali, who was now working as a food porter. As for one-armed Ibn Ismail and one-legged Dmitri Anatolyevich and one-legged Athanasios, Venetians had no use for disabled slaves, and had dumped them on the churches, for the weak needed to make way for the strong.

    And on and on. It would have been too easy if everyone had been in the Arsenale. Gontran would have to search the entire city, into which his crew had been scattered like dust in the wind. By the time he was finished, it would be the year 2022 again. This made him realize that finding Ra¡¯isa had been a miracle. Had he passed that slave auction five minutes earlier or later, he would have missed her, and she would still be trapped in the Procuratore¡¯s ca¡¯, or house. Although as Gontran thought about it, he began to suspect that no ropes, chains, or locks could hold her back. Ra¡¯isa was too powerful even for death itself. After her body expired, her soul would burst free from the dungeons of Hades and return to the world to live again.

    Yet as he walked about and did his best to look purposeful, he discovered an unusual part of the Arsenale, one which made his heart beat harder. It was a huge brown tent erected above a drydock, and covering it on all sides. The only entrance was flanked by a pair of armed guards standing at attention.

    Bingo.

    Unsure of how much time would pass before he could return to this place, Gontran realized that he needed to try to get inside. Crossing the wooden footbridges, he made his way to the tent. When he approached the guards, both reached their right hands over to the swords belted at their left sides and drew them halfway from their sheathes. In movies, this action would always make a metallic shing! sound, but here the movement was silent, which was more frightening.

    Gontran stopped and bowed. ¡°Forgive me, amici. I¡¯m just here to deliver tools. I was sent by Maestro¡ª¡±

    Gontran searched his memory.

    ¡°¡ªNicol¨° Calafado.¡±

    ¡°No nota, no permesso,¡± one guard said.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°Oh, mi dispiace.¡± Gontran searched his pockets. ¡°Where is it? I must have forgotten. I¡¯ll go get it.¡±

    As he was turning to leave, he peeked inside the entrance for an instant, and not only recognized the Paralos hull, but saw Talia standing on the deck, still as a statue. The clever Venetians could never guess that the statue was actually a living being. Black-robed men were everywhere inside the tent, examining everything, talking with one another, measuring with compasses and squares and rulers, scratching notes into old wax tablets.

    I''ve found her.

    Gontran returned to the lumber yard with a spring to his step. His excitement was deadened, however, by the next logical question, especially as he noticed the huge pools of water crowded with half-finished ships, the piers mobbed with gangs of workmen careening hulls, and the single narrow canal which led to the sea.

    One way out.

    When he returned to the lumber yard, it was his turn to cover for Bartolo. Gontran was soon working twice as hard as before, with barely a moment to think. And yet in those rare times when he recalled his own existence, he thought that he could do almost anything so long as it had purpose¡ªso long as he was working toward a positive goal. In the past, this had only meant working for himself. He had always thought that he could get rich first, enjoy his money a little, then help humanity. But now he had begun to understand that this was never going to happen no matter how hard or smart he worked. That ship, for lack of a better metaphor, had sailed. Everything that could make money was already making it, and the small group of people who owned these money-making things would kill anyone who threatened them. The only way to escape the prison they had built was to work together with the prisoners. Normally Gontran would have thought this was impossible, but he was part of the uprising. Ra¡¯isa was his katapan. Though this labor was exhausting, he was indeed working toward a positive goal. He would find the crew and liberate them all.

    Despite his exhaustion, when Gontran picked up his soldo and walked home at workday''s end, he was still smiling. The exhaustion in his limbs was a good one. Ra¡¯isa would be excited when he told her he had found their ship. He needed to ask her to pick up some writing materials in order to get past those guards or anyone else who challenged him during his little excursions around the Arsenale. But just thinking about this woman who had given him everything filled his mind with warmth. It seemed nothing could bother him. A scullery wench could have dumped a bucket of slop and god knows what else from a third-story window straight onto his head, and he would have thanked her, smiling as though taking a hot clean shower.

    May the honeymoon phase never end. Let the moon be soaked in honey so that it can drip down on the world forever.

    Ra''isa, in the mean time, had found them a small apartment in the nearby parish of S. Martino. Even more importantly, she had found them a metal cauldron for washing. Both had worked hard that day, and so they stood in the cool water and sudsed each other''s bodies with soap. He asked if she could pick up some paper, a quill, and some ink next time, and she told him she would try.

    ¡°This is reward for good work,¡± she said a little later.

    Standing behind her, pressing her body close to his, he said: ¡°Just doing my duty, sir.¡±

    She looked at him. ¡°Would you like promotion?¡±

    He kissed her. ¡°I¡¯m happy where I am.¡±

    ¡°I can see that.¡±

    ¡°But an award of some kind would be nice, if you know what I mean.¡±

    ¡°I understand.¡±

    Toweling one another off, they climbed into bed and were soon making too much noise. The neighbors must have been annoyed by the creaking bed and their grunts and groans, but Gontran and Ra''isa were too lost in each other to care. Each time he kissed her neck, cupped her breasts, gripped her rear, or graced her belly, he recalled how he had spent so many days aboard the Paralos longing to do exactly this¡ªwatching her body sway beneath her clothes as she swayed across the deck, wondering what it was like beneath her dress. And now he knew that it was glorious, that he could never get enough, that he would be her slave forever if only she would allow it.

    ¡°You know, this isn¡¯t appropriate,¡± he blurted, not even knowing why.

    ¡°What?¡± she said.

    ¡°Sleeping with a coworker, a superior officer. Usually a bad idea. Could produce a toxic workplace environment.¡±

    ¡°Quiet.¡±

    ¡°See?¡± He kissed her. ¡°This is what I¡¯m talking about.¡±

    When they had finished, Gontran realized, as he lay beneath the covers, how unfair it was to expect Ra''isa to work so hard¡ªto find them an apartment and a metal bathtub, to labor all day as a seamstress, to buy the day''s food at the market, and then to prepare dinner, clean the dishes, and have their clothes and lunch packed for tomorrow. His workday began and ended when the bells rang, and he had Sundays off, but when did Ra¡¯isa get a break? Women were just expected to do the work of at least two people, and often more, without complaining or asking for pay. And so Gontran summoned what remained of his strength. Ra''isa had drained nearly everything from him¡ªshe was so drenched in sweat she complained that she needed another bath¡ªbut he still had enough stamina to perform the last of the day''s domestic chores. Though he was an Uninitiate Cook (0/10), he did his best to prepare dinner, breakfast, and lunch for both of them. His XP rapidly increased, but Ra¡¯isa was unimpressed with the quality of the food, and said she would take care of it next time. Nonetheless, Gontran scrubbed their clothes and hung them up to dry.

    Ah, domestic bliss. Family happiness.

    Their apartment was almost the same as their room at the inn. A plain room, undecorated and almost completely unfurnished save a bed, a table, two chairs, the metal tub, Ra¡¯isa¡¯s basket of goods, and an empty wooden chest. One door led forward to the street, another to a grassy courtyard shared by other tenants as well as the landlord; there you could find a cistern, a cookhouse, and people¡¯s clothes drying on laundry lines. There was no bathroom. Venetians did their business in outhouses overhanging the canals. The tides took care of the mess, but it was a good idea to stick to the land, and drink and wash using only rainwater cisterns.

    Gontran had barely noticed his new apartment when he first arrived, since he was too busy noticing Ra¡¯isa¡¯s broad shoulders, her elegant hands, the roundness of her beautiful eyes that shone like lights in dark tunnels. And yet as he sat with her at the table munching dinner, with the sun going down, both of them almost too tired to speak, he thought it odd to view her this way, as an assembly of different parts. Ra¡¯isa was a soul, a mind, a history. There was a unity to her that would be lost the instant her life ended. At that point, the whole universe would suffer from her absence, and never be the same¡ªnever be as rich. He almost compared her to a work of art, but she was so much greater, since no statue, painting, or building¡ªno inanimate object¡ªwas worth even the most wretched human life.

    The game voice warned that he was losing mercantile XP thinking like this¡ªand gaining empathy¡ªbut Gontran didn¡¯t care. It was his skill as a rogue that had broken Ra¡¯isa free, not his skill as a merchant. Being a merchant was pointless when you didn¡¯t have any money.

    Looking at Ra¡¯isa, he thought that, although she could be prickly, she was a gift to the world, a treasure, a fully realized person¡ªa full human being, what a human was meant to be. Not like the myriads of stunted people from the old world¡ªrich, poor, and middle class alike¡ªwho were all so wounded by society it was as though their eyes had been removed along with the part of their brains that would make them aware of this fact. The result was that they bumbled about like zombies from childhood to old age, never waking, always infuriated if anyone told them the truth, unable to see beyond their own immediate problems, unable to connect the dots. And they could be all kinds of zombies¡ªfrom the homeless person who exclaims that what the world really needs is a nuclear holocaust, to the worker who votes against unionization at his workplace, to the intellectual cranking out superficial academic works which do nothing except reinforce the status quo. All of these people were zombies¡ªsophisticated intellectual zombies who were missing chunks from their brains, wounded souls wounded by a wounded civilization. Gontran had been like this once. In many ways, he still was. But coming here had changed him. It was still changing him. Every day he learned more. And it was Ra¡¯isa, now, who was his teacher, this full human being who shone like the sun in the darkness, whose vision pierced every veil.

    They finished eating, and Gontran cleaned up. Then they went to bed. At first they held one another, but then this became too hot and uncomfortable, so they turned away. Gontran recalled that in the old world he would never go to sleep without reading something until it was impossible to keep his eyes open anymore, but books were as expensive as cars here¡ªeven in a city as literate as Venice¡ªand so he contented himself with touching Ra¡¯isa¡¯s back. This was enough to soothe him into sleep.

    ¡°Men are babies,¡± he heard her say at some point. ¡°Big strong angry babies.¡±

    It seemed like Gontran fell through a whirling tunnel of darkness, one which led to a garden with trees where glittering crystalline fruit swelled on the branches. Then he woke to bells ringing in golden light.

    With Ra¡¯isa sleeping beside him, it was like paradise. And with his awareness of the day that lay ahead, it was like the inferno.

    He got up with Ra¡¯isa. They dressed, ate, and kissed each other goodbye.

    ¡°Find the crew,¡± she told him. ¡°Get ready for our escape.¡±

    How am I supposed to do that? he thought, nodding to her and saying: ¡°Yes, katapan.¡±

    ¡°Do a good job, and I will give you another reward tonight.¡± She kissed him, then grasped him inside his pants.

    His breath caught in his throat, but he managed to bow and say: ¡°Sir.¡±

    She walked away along the crowded street, and he watched her move inside her dress, unable to believe that such a woman had even looked at him. Once she had reached a street corner, she turned back, blew him a kiss, and disappeared.

    Gontran swallowed drily. He was tempted to return to his apartment to squeeze one out. But he controlled himself.

    Eyes on the prize. Find the crew. Escape on our ship. And maybe do a little damage to the city. Take a little revenge. All we wanted was to be friends, and this was how they repaid us!

    There was work to be done. And so Gontran went to work.

 21. Labor of Love

    Returning to work at the lumber yard, Gontran made the same deal with Bartolo as before, and soon was off to the Paralos again. He checked the ship¡ªit was still tucked under its vast tent, although who knew how long it would be there. Then he resolved to explore the rest of the Arsenale. He told himself that he would keep searching until he found another crew member. Hopefully this person would know where everyone else was. And if not¡­

    One problem at a time.

    Baby steps. That was always his mother¡¯s advice in the old world. Even if you were on the cusp of death, you just needed to take it one step at a time, and everything would be fine. Right?

    He searched the faces as he passed, wondering how he was ever going to find his crew among all these thousands of sweaty, ragged, muscular, sunburned or suntanned people. The Arsenale was a factory¡ªalbeit one still separated into different feudal guilds¡ªbut it also reminded him of an old world mine, with countless people and draft animals working both inside and outside. An ant hill looked just as chaotic at first, unless you followed a specific ant for a long time, finding in the individual that the whole was directed toward monumental tasks that could never be accomplished alone. There was method to the seeming madness if you just looked a little deeper.

    As Gontran searched the passing faces for anyone he knew from the Paralos, he marveled at how such subtle differences in people¡¯s features produced massive results. Many people resembled his crew members, and yet were not his crew members.

    Little differences can make big differences.

    A slightly elongated nose, a slightly curved pair of eyes, and slightly sensuous lips¡ªslightly raised cheekbones¡ªslightly this, slightly that¡ªif all were combined in just the right way, he would recognize these slight differences assembled together as someone from his ship, one face moving among the medley of thousands. Was the flesh burned or tanned beneath the remorseless star that shone like a white-hot furnace in the sky? Was the skin rich, dark, and strong enough to absorb the sunlight? How old was it? Rubbery, hallowed, and wrinkled, or was it young and smooth and fresh?

    So many strangers. Souls seeming to float through the air like fish swimming in the sea. And none cared about him. The right one was not here. It was like searching for your beloved, like a child crying for his mother in an indifferent crowd.

    Someone must be here!

    Like a computerized camera, Gontran checked every face. The eyes that passed were almost always too tired and busy blinking away the sweat¡ªbloodshot from drink, shadowy from a lifetime of backbreaking labor¡ªto notice his examination. To these people he was worth less than a breath of wind. A breeze they would have welcomed, since it would have granted a respite from the heat¡ªspring was beginning to simmer into summer¡ªbut a garzone wandering with broken rusted tools tucked in his old belt was so invisible, he needed to watch his step; people often came close to knocking him over.

    Sooner or later, a maestro would notice Gontran gumming up the works. Another Franci slowing things down. Either that, or Gontran would run out of time, and poor Bartolo¡ªbreaking his back as he awaited his freedom¡ªwould keep hauling as much timber as two people. And then when Gontran finally returned, Bartolo, in his anger, would refuse to make another deal with him.

    I¡¯m not leaving until I find someone.

    Gontran was worried it was never going to work out. He was never going to achieve his goal. He would just end up doing the same thing, again and again, into eternity. It seemed that finding a Paralos crew member here was about as likely as getting struck by lightning. And yet there were ways to increase your chances of getting fried by a lightning bolt, if that was what you wanted. In the old world, all you needed to do was get to the top of a skyscraper and hold up a metal rod in a thunderstorm, and you would probably be good. The lottery was another example. The lottery was objectively a tax on the poor. Rich people didn¡¯t even bother playing because they knew that the odds made participating pointless. You had a much better chance of getting struck by lightning than winning a significant sum from a lottery ticket. And yet you had no chance at all if you didn¡¯t bother to purchase lottery tickets in the first place. Even a small chance was infinitely higher than no chance at all, wasn¡¯t it? But some things¡ªmany things¡ªwere actually harder than getting struck by lightning or winning the lottery. Like finding Paralos crew members in the Arsenale.

    And then there he was: David Halevi the Kitezhi. Impressive David, David the katapan of the Liona, a dependable ambitious crewman with leadership potential, the rebellious son of a rabbi, now reduced in captivity to picking up horse dung. This material could be used for fuel, tanneries, or in book-binding. To accomplish this task, the Serenissima, in its magnanimity, had granted David a rusted shovel and a splintered wooden cart. As he was a slave, most Arsenalotti ignored him, but some would wrinkle their noses, wave their hands, or even spit when he passed. Unlike Gontran, they noticed Halevi, and kept out of his way. His reek of filth and sweat preceded him like an ominous cloud. It had soaked into the rags that covered his loins, and now it permeated his flesh.

    Gontran had always been focused on enriching himself at the world¡¯s expense¡ªhe had always looked for excuses to justify the poverty and misery of the poor¡ªthey¡¯re lazy, they have a victim mentality, the wrong mindset, genetic stupidity, they¡¯re spendthrifts, they¡¯re uneducated¡ªbut even he was shocked by the sight of David. Apollo had been dragged from heaven, hurled into the dust, and forced to build the walls of Troy, a whip lashing bloody welts from his soft marble flesh. Thus turned the dharma wheel for this untouchable.

    Now the only question was: what to do? Gontran had already stopped to stare at the pitiable sight of David, and doing this was dangerous enough, but he needed to keep from seizing the poor man by the arm¡ªfilthy as it was¡ªand fighting his way out of here. Always they needed to be strategic, quiet, stealthy. Always their enemies were stronger. It was like an endless battle between insects and titans, and Gontran always somehow found himself with the insects. The underdogs. Yet even viruses, so small they were invisible to all but the most powerful microscopes, could hurl down entire civilizations, the tallest strongest towers¡ªbuilt of adamant¡ªcollapsing into dust.

    Gontran needed to talk with Halevi, that was certain. And so, withdrawing an old hammer from his belt, he approached Halevi, turned away, and pretended to examine it, murmuring the man¡¯s name at the same time.

    Halevi stopped, glanced at Gontran, then resumed shoveling filth. Gontran continued to pretend to examine his hammer, an absurd distraction¡ªwhat else could he do?¡ªthough in reality he was watching the garzoni swarming around them to make sure no one noticed. It was also a struggle to keep from coughing too much from the stench.

    ¡°Katapan,¡± Halevi whispered. ¡°You are alive! But we were certain that you were dead, after that fall!¡±

    I¡¯m not katapan anymore, Gontran almost said. But he needed to speak as quickly as possible. ¡°Where¡¯s the crew?¡±

    Halevi gulped. ¡°They are everywhere, katapan. Many are enslaved here. We are quartered inside the walls near the iron forge in the northeast corner of the Arsenale.¡±

    As far from the Main Gate as possible, Gontran thought.

    ¡°I¡¯ve found Katapan Ra¡¯isa,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°The katapan? Is she alright?¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s fine. I managed to rescue her. Do you know where the other two amazons are?¡±

    ¡°The Venetians have taken them. Rumor had it they were sold as sex slaves. I have not seen any of them in days, nor have I heard anything else.¡±

    Gontran winced. He had achieved his goal, but everything was just getting harder like it always did.

    ¡°We¡¯ll find them,¡± he said, doing his best to appear strong. ¡°We¡¯re not leaving anyone behind. Tell the others Ra¡¯isa and I are working on a way to get us out of here. In the mean time, keep your heads down and stay safe. Try to keep everyone together.¡±

    ¡°Sir.¡±

    ¡°No idle chatter!¡± yelled a maestro dressed in black, shoving past. ¡°Back to work, or you¡¯ll be written up!¡±

    Gontran and Halevi bowed to the maestro and separated. Soon Gontran had returned to the lumber yard, much to Bartolo¡¯s relief. And although Gontran was eventually back to doing two men¡¯s work, the flame of hope was kindled in his breast, and he hauled the heavy logs with a smile so foolish, his fellow garzoni shook their heads and asked what was wrong with him. One even remarked that Gontran must be in love.

    Not in love, he thought. But I¡¯ve got a plan. Besides, it¡¯s a labor of love, isn¡¯t it? To break free from the prison of society. The way you scoop your way out of your prison cell one spoonful at a time, hacking at the cement with a little stainless steel, it¡¯s no different from obsessing over a beauty.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°Every day you bring home a new smell,¡± Ra¡¯isa said, grimacing when he returned to their apartment in the evening. He had wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shout in her face about Halevi, but he hadn¡¯t realized that the poor man¡¯s stink had rubbed off on him¡ªalthough they had never even touched. This meant that Gontran needed to tell Ra¡¯isa what had happened while he scrubbed himself.

    ¡°Good work.¡± Her eyes flashed at the sight of his naked body, which was now clean and smelling better. ¡°Now should I¡ª¡±

    ¡°No.¡± He climbed out of the bathtub, soaking the floor. ¡°This is serious. We don¡¯t have time. We need to make plans¡ªwe need to figure out how to get out of here.¡±

    ¡°I thought you didn¡¯t care. You just wanted to run off with me and forget everyone else.¡±

    Gontran looked at her, and for an instant he scowled at the idea that she could even think this¡ªyet his anger came from the fact that what she said was true.

    ¡°Never,¡± he said.

    He toweled himself off, put on his other change of clothes, and then washed the filth from the clothing he had soaked with sweat and god knew what else at the Arsenale that day. Soon he found himself working hard, in spite of his exhaustion, while at the same time he got nowhere. No matter how hard Gontran scrubbed and washed, no matter how he flexed his muscle, Halevi¡¯s stench gripped the clothes. Gontran considered throwing them away, then wondered if Halevi could ever clean the filth from his own flesh. Would it taint him forever? Would it taint his children?

    Ra¡¯isa sat at the table with their food, waiting, glimmering like Venus in the evening, but growing frustrated.

    ¡°We can just throw those clothes away,¡± she said. ¡°It is easy to find more at my job. We still have money¡ª¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Gontran scrubbed harder. ¡°I¡¯m going to clean them.¡±

    His hands were turning red and raw. Even if he washed them in the ocean, the water would redden instead, to the ends of the Earth, and the bottom of the sea. The glowworms in the deep would drown in the blood on his hands.

    David. Joseph.

    Gontran hauled the tub outside¡ªhis back protesting¡ªand emptied the disgusting water into the street. A man sitting in a nearby doorway yelled and gestured at him, telling Gontran to dump his filth someplace else. Gontran ignored him, rinsing the tub with the water jug. Then he brought it back inside, refilled it with water, and went back to washing today¡¯s work clothes¡ªbreathing harder, his teeth gritting as sweat dripped from his face.

    ¡°Gontran,¡± Ra¡¯isa said.

    ¡°I have to clean it,¡± he whispered.

    He heard nothing, saw nothing but the clothing, his hands, the soap, the water, the tub. If he could just clean the clothes, everything would be alright.

    Halevi is a slave in the Arsenale because of me, Gontran thought. Herakleia ordered me to Venice, but I agreed to go. I could have refused. Maybe Joseph would be alive if I had refused.

    Gontran scrubbed harder. Now the fabric was fraying. The shirt was tearing. Yet the smell remained. It overpowered him, filled his lungs like smoke, threatened to knock him to the floor¡ª

    ¡°Gontran, stop!¡± Ra¡¯isa stood from her chair.

    He kept working. ¡°Halevi is a slave because of me.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Ra¡¯isa stepped toward him.

    ¡°He called me ¡®katapan.¡¯ He was my responsibility. It was my job to keep him safe.¡±

    Ra¡¯isa grabbed him, but he pushed her away and glared at her. ¡°It was my job to keep them safe!¡±

    ¡°He still lives!¡± Ra¡¯isa yelled back. ¡°He is not yet dead!¡±

    ¡°What about the others?¡± Gontran was shaking with the torn clothing in his hands dripping water on the floor. ¡°The crewmen are slaves. And the amazons¡ªhow many men are lining up to rape them right now just because they have the money to pay their owners? And Joseph¡­¡±

    ¡°It is not your fault!¡±

    ¡°Whose fault is it?¡±

    ¡°We will free them. We will make this right.¡±

    ¡°We can¡¯t. It¡¯s impossible.¡± He went back to work scrubbing the rags. ¡°Even if we make it out of here, this city¡¯ll still exist. They¡¯ll keep doing the same thing to thousands, millions of more people. And you don¡¯t even know what¡¯s coming in the future. It¡¯s going to make all of this look like nothing!¡±

    Gontran dropped the rags, fell onto the floor, and cried as he had never cried in his life. All the frustration and suffering he had endured was released at once. But this was also combined with his awareness of the future¡ªthe millions upon millions who would perish or be enslaved or treated worse than animals around the world. They were all connected to the blood flowing from his hands. This small taste of the genocide that lay in their collective futures was enough to last him the rest of his life, to change him utterly. The sight of Halevi had shocked him, but his feelings had remained damned up until Ra¡¯isa released them¡ªuntil she wrinkled her nose at the stench of slavery emanating from Gontran¡¯s flesh. Until then, he had even felt excited about the possibility of breaking free from this place. But now in his exhaustion he wailed like an infant at the thought of the natives welcoming Columbus with open arms, who then clasped them in chains.

    It begins here.

    Ra¡¯isa was hugging him, and he was crying into her shoulder and shouting that she didn¡¯t know.

    She grabbed his head and forced him to look at her. Then she kissed him and wiped his tears away.

    ¡°We can do anything,¡± she said. ¡°We can change anything. The future may not be as you tell. But we must work together. Will you do that? Will you work with me?¡±

    He watched her for a moment, then nodded.

    ¡°It is alright.¡± She hugged him and rubbed his back. ¡°Everything will be alright, Gontran my love, Gontran my dear, Gontran my fool who is pretty like a flower. You have come so far and learned so much. But we still have work to do.¡±

    Gontran pulled back and wiped the tears from his eyes. Then he laughed in embarrassment. ¡°Sorry.¡±

    ¡°Words mean almost nothing. Deeds mean everything. Now come and have dinner with me. I have missed the man I love. All day I thought about you. All day I was looking forward to this.¡± She gestured to the table, where she had already laid out their meal.

    Gontran stood, apologized again, and sat with her. Then they began to eat. He realized that part of his misery had come from simple hunger¡ªhe was famished. Yet he also knew that he had changed, that his old way of living had become impossible.

    ¡°I think I liked you more when you were a fool,¡± Ra¡¯isa said as they cleaned up together.

    ¡°You prefer stupid men?¡± he said.

    ¡°Only if they are also beautiful. Then it is alright, at least for a little while.¡± She pushed him onto the bed and pulled off his clothes.

    In the morning, they returned to the old routine. Bartolo covered for Gontran, who then found Halevi. Both men whispered to each other while pretending to work.

    ¡°We¡¯re only missing the two amazons, katapan,¡± Halevi said. ¡°And Talia.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s still on the deck of the Paralos, as far as I know. I just have to find Zaynab and Zulaika al-Jariya. I¡¯ll look for them tonight.¡±

    ¡°Do you have a plan, sir?¡±

    ¡°Are you chained up at night?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡±

    ¡°Alright. One night soon, once I¡¯ve found the amazons, I¡¯ll sneak in and pick your locks. We¡¯ll activate Talia, push the Paralos into the water, and sail out of here.¡±

    ¡°Can it be so simple, sir?¡±

    ¡°You have any better ideas?¡±

    ¡°There are too many ships in the way, sir. Too many bridges. And there¡¯s only one canal that leads to the sea. And once we get there, we¡¯ll have to¡ª¡±

    ¡°Believe me, I know,¡± Gontran said. ¡°We¡¯ll have to run. But it¡¯s not like we haven¡¯t done that before.¡±

    ¡°Will we be going home, then, sir?¡±

    ¡°I think so.¡±

    And then, in spite of all his immense troubles¡ªthe world of misery which would have broken many men¡¯s backs¡ªHalevi smiled.

    ¡°I¡¯m looking forward to it, sir,¡± he said.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to get you out of here, David. You just have to hold on.¡±

    ¡°I will, sir.¡±

    Gontran hesitated. Then he said: ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°For what, sir?¡±

    ¡°I got you into this mess.¡±

    Halevi looked at him. ¡°You can make up for it by getting me out.¡±

    Gontran laughed. He wanted to clasp this man¡¯s hand and hug him. It was amazing to see his spirit blazing with such incandescence, swallowed up as he was within mountains of filth. Halevi was like the Earth¡¯s core burning through thousands of miles of rock.

    But to even look at each other would arouse suspicion. Gontran whispered his farewells, then returned to the lumber yard. As he worked, he realized that this might be his last day in this awful place. They just needed to find the other amazons, and then they could escape, and they would be back on the sea, free amid the wind and sun and stars, on their way past the thousand islands and peninsulas to Trebizond, where their comrades waited. He was tempted to walk off the job right now, but it would attract too much attention. It was funny¡ªhe had only lasted a few days, working the first wage slave position in his life. He suspected it wasn¡¯t so different even with a cushy office job. The body slumped in those soft chairs, muscle turned to fat, the organs withered as cancer expanded its tendrils, and the mind remained in chains, so alone that the chains themselves became weightless and invisible and sweetly numbing, the mind wondering at the same time if it was to blame for its peculiar feelings. Alone, telling itself that everything was alright, that it was normal to feel this way, that one couldn¡¯t be happy all the time, repeating a thousand clich¨¦s. Happiness was impossible to understand without misery, wasn¡¯t it? And yet to carouse with his comrades, to roll in the hay with Ra¡¯isa, to drive the slavemasters into the sea¡ªthese were joys of such intensity, they threatened to make him crazy.

    We spend all our lives eating junk food when a banquet is right in front of us.

    Time somehow passed. When evening came, the bells rang, and the whole city¡ªeven the buildings¡ªsighed with relief, and seemed to slump in sleep. Gontran returned to Ra¡¯isa once more¡ªto her broad smile baring her teeth, to her wide arms, her kind thoughtful questions about his day. She had brought the paper, quill, and ink, as requested, and at great expense. He and she washed, ate together, made plans, made love¡ªuniting like the creatures imagined in Plato¡¯s Symposium¡ªand slept.

    In the morning, Ra¡¯isa began the search for the amazons. Gontran had opted to return to the Arsenale¡ªto hunt in the lion¡¯s den for the armory so he could find weapons. The time had come to break free.

 22. Salt of the Earth

    This time Gontran was up and about before the bells rang. Purpose woke him. But his absorption in planning silenced and darkened the world, numbed his body, made it move as automatically as Talia¡¯s. He had woken from sleep, yes, but by the time he woke from his thoughts, the memory of kissing Ra¡¯isa goodbye that morning was floating like a glowing cloud in his mind, his hands reaching under her dress to hold her bare sides as he clutched her close, always wanting to take her wherever he was, needing to make up for all the years he had spent without even knowing about her existence.

    Now he was searching the Arsenale for the armory. It must have been locked and hidden, but also vast, and packed with sharpened blades of every description¡ªlong, short, wide, thin, some for chopping, others for stabbing, still more for throwing or loosing from bows or crossbows. Perhaps even his pistol-sword was there. But the Loredani must have stolen it. No¡ªthis was a case of pearls before swine. Beauty and skill meant nothing to those men. They could have tossed the pistol-sword into the sea for all Gontran knew. He would need to return to Dongjing in Sera¡ªquite a long haul¡ªto get another one. No one west of the Oxus could even imagine such weapons.

    He kept his rusted tools with him, his means of tetanus, but this time he also carried a note. There was no seal¡ªhe had been afraid to ask even the cheapest tinsmiths to make a fake official seal¡ªbut he was counting on the illiterate person¡¯s natural fear of letters. In the old world, he had seen that one could similarly intimidate people using mathematics. Numbers and equations frightened people¡ªthe word ¡°math¡± was frightening just by itself¡ªand so like an incantation, you could chant it to move people out of the way. If they sensed that your understanding of math was strong, they would defer to you, as long as you spoke to them with confidence. He had made sure to scrawl the note¡ªit said something about granting Gontran Koraki, loyal and reliable garzone, to do as he willed, in the name of Capitan Giustiniani Loredan, the Signoria of the Serenissima, Christ, the Father, the Holy Ghost, this, that, and the other thing, in the year of our lord MLXXXII, in the month of Aprile, a most delightful and endearing time of year, the beginning of spring, when the LORD rose from the dead that all of us might be redeemed and dwell in eternal splendor. It was all written in nearly illegible cursive. His Arabesque scrawl he had learned in the old world, where calligraphy had captivated him for a few weeks, and he had practiced writing his signature as elegantly as possible as a schoolgirl, one who wanted to know how her name would look if she married her crush at the time. The note was also wordy enough to fill an entire page. Few garzoni possessed anything like this. It almost glowed with its own golden light like a sacred text imbued with the mysteries of god.

    As he was asking Bartolo to cover for him again, the man asked him what he was up to as he walked about the Arsenale. Gontran¡¯s heart froze.

    ¡°Oh,¡± he said. ¡°I just like to poke around.¡±

    ¡°For what purpose? You do not wish to steal the Serenissima¡¯s industrial secrets, do you?¡±

    Gontran opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, Bartolo had clapped him on the back and exploded with laughter.

    ¡°Solo un scherzo!¡± he said as nearby garzoni glared at him. ¡°Go on, go on, you are free! Fly like a little butterfly! Fly!¡±

    As Gontran left, he wondered why Bartolo was in such a good mood. Until now, the man had been barely verbal. Had he reported Gontran and earned a little extra money? Was he excited about finally having enough coin to start his own business? The Venetians were experts at spying. They could keep an eye on people without arousing suspicion. They might even have been watching Gontran now.

    Have to get out of here, he thought.

    Dozens of buildings were in the Arsenale, many made of brick, and¡ªin typical Venetian style¡ªthe windows were boarded up, and the entrances were guarded by soldiers. Everything was a secret, everyone was a spy, and entering any of these buildings was risky, especially since their true purpose was beyond him. Even with his magic note, the guards might suspect him of spying for foreign powers. He began to wonder if an armory was even present here. One was probably close to the doge¡¯s palace. But if a war started, wouldn¡¯t you want your armory in the Arsenale, to equip ships while they were sailing into battle? Gontran didn¡¯t know. Yet he needed to find the armory, wherever it was. The Paralos crew could never escape this place without weapons. The ship would almost certainly be boarded on their way out.

    Taking a deep breath, and unsure of where to start, he approached a large open warehouse, telling the two guards before the entrance that he was here to examine the building for structural defects on behalf of the signoria. He then presented his note. Both guards examined it, narrowed their eyes, pretended to understand, nodded, then handed it back and allowed him to pass. Inside were incredible amounts of sails and ropes of all sizes¡ªropes that would bind the wrists of titans, along with vast white sails marked with red crosses¡ªbut no weapons. The ropes were coiled like giant prehistoric snakes, and the sails hung high in the air on hangars to keep them dry, and to make it easier to bat hungry moths away with long wooden flyswatters.

    Thanking the soldiers out front, Gontran tried the next building. This turned out to be an office, not a warehouse, where black-robed Venetians were hunched over tables, drawing schematics for new ships. Other rooms contained prototypes of different sizes: some ship models they knocked up here were small enough to hold in your hand. Gontran peeked inside only briefly, since these men were literate and therefore dangerous. But they were too busy to notice him.

    Now he was getting frustrated. It was like looking for David all over again. You achieve one goal, and then the next one is so much harder that you forget you even achieved the previous goal in the first place. That¡¯s your reward. The treadmill, the dangling carrot of existence. Was he going to have to examine every structure in the Arsenale? What was he even doing here? It was all a waste of time. He would never get anywhere. The slaves would never go free. Venice was too powerful. And in the end, none of it really mattered regardless of whether he won or lost. All of this would one day turn to dust. The remains of everything and everyone Gontran loved would be swallowed up billions of years in the future when the sun went nova. One day, as the universe expanded faster than the speed of light, every star would go out. Even the black holes would evaporate, countless years in the future. All work¡ªin the thermodynamic sense¡ªwould end. Time itself would cease, since atoms would be as distant from one another as galaxies. The temperature of the universe would be absolute zero.

    Cold endless dark.

    So why bother? Why not forget the world¡¯s troubles, and instead indulge in sensual pleasures at everyone else¡¯s expense?

    He wondered for a moment if he was sick. Maybe some disease had infected him here, and was now weakening his soul. He would never be able to do anything ever again, he would be bedbound for the rest of his miserable life, everyone would need to take care of him, he would become a burden to the world and to himself, Ra¡¯isa would tire of him and fall for another man, someone who made her laugh, someone who excited her so that she trembled with lust the first time they gave in to their desires, someone who provided for her and never caused any trouble.

    Gontran would never accomplish anything, never achieve success, never break free. All his enemies would be right. He was so worthless they didn¡¯t even waste their time thinking about him.

    These emotions swirled within him, weighing him down like cement bricks encasing his feet, but he forced himself to continue, to plod onward through the storm.

    At the next building, he was unsure of what he would discover inside. He almost expected to find men and women dressed in masks and lingerie engaging in a surreptitious mass orgy. One really could find these things sometimes just by opening random doors. But instead, with a burst of excitement, he realized that he had found the armory he was looking for. Wooden racks and shelves inside were loaded with weapons and armor. The blades were sharp enough to cut the dust motes whirling in sunlight shafts, and no rust could be seen.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    Exiting the building, he took his bearings, memorizing the nearby structures and ships, anything unique about his surroundings. He needed to be able to find this place at night¡ªwithout torches, stars, or the moon¡ªand to guide some crew members here so they could carry weapons to the others.

    He returned just in time to Bartolo, went back to work, then walked home. There he was surprised to find that Ra¡¯isa was not alone: she had brought back Zaynab and Zulaika al-Jariya, both of whom were sleeping soundly in the room¡¯s only bed, their exhaustion evident in their stillness and silence. They could have been dead, save for the fact that their chests occasionally rose and fell.

    ¡°You freed them?¡± Gontran whispered.

    ¡°I bought them,¡± Ra¡¯isa answered, hefting Gontran¡¯s sack of stolen coins. Now it was almost empty.

    He was tempted to make some kind of quip¡ªyou oppose society, yet you participate in it. This was a widespread belief in the old world among philosophers of all kinds¡ªranging from the aging owners of car dealerships who had not picked up a book since graduating high school to professors at famous universities¡ªwho believed that nothing could ever really change. They lived in houses that would have astounded their cavemen ancestors, they indulged in pleasures undreamt of only a few years ago, they learned of scientific discoveries that would have driven to madness the greatest thinkers from previous ages, the richest kings of Renaissance Europe would have salivated at the wonders inherent to being middle class in the year 2022, people in that time dwelled in a world that was far stranger than any work of fantasy or science fiction. But no. Many maintained that nothing could ever truly change. Whales were still land-dwelling creatures, after all. Nothing had changed.

    The reality was that anything could change. To free slaves, sometimes it was simpler just to buy them¡ªand then to feed them, clothe them, train them, and organize them so they could kill their masters later.

    That night, Gontran and Ra¡¯isa slept on the floor. She told him that Zaynab and Zulaika al-Jariya had experienced unspeakable things and needed time to recover.

    ¡°I was only with the Procuratore for a few hours,¡± she whispered. ¡°They were with him for days.¡±

    ¡°You mean¡ª¡±

    ¡°Yes. The man likes Muslim women. He buys them for almost any price. He always searches the city for them.¡±

    Gontran shrugged. ¡°Can¡¯t say I blame him.¡±

    Ra¡¯isa punched him¡ªhard¡ªand he groaned.

    ¡°Wasn¡¯t Pontius Pilate also a procurator?¡± Gontran later said, half to himself. ¡°Procurators. Always bad news.¡±

    ¡°I do not know what you are talking about,¡± Ra¡¯isa said. ¡°And I do not care.¡±

    The next day at the Arsenale, Gontran and Halevi discussed their plans. In two nights it would be moonless, and with a little luck, the clouds would sweep in and cover the stars. Gontran would sneak inside the Arsenale long after sundown, when the the guards were yawning and leaning on their spears in the pitch darkness. Perhaps they would even indulge in little naps, since no one would see.

    After Gontran freed the prisoners, most would move the Paralos out of its tent and into the pool. In the darkness crowded with ships, they would then need someone with good eyesight to stay at the bowsprit with a torch. Just like when they had first arrived in Venice, the crew would need to relay messages to the pilot across the deck just by whispering. It would require discipline to keep from crashing into other ships on their way out. At the same time, Gontran would bring a group to the armory to liberate weapons and armor. Ra¡¯isa would do her best to stock up on as much food and water as she could buy in the marketplace without arousing suspicion. They would store it in their apartment until the proper time, then all meet together at the Arsenale entrance. Once the entire crew and all their supplies were aboard the Paralos, they would flee the lagoon, and keep sailing until they reached Trebizond.

    Gontran and Halevi discussed this while turned away from one another and murmuring. As Gontran spoke, he tried to examine every person he could see. Hundreds were busily laboring in almost every direction, and yet none seemed to be paying attention to them. No one even looked their way.

    We are nothing. We are dirt. And yet the dirt can come alive and swallow you up.

    ¡°The next step is to just cross our fingers,¡± Gontran said. ¡°To rub our lucky rabbit¡¯s feet. To pray to as many gods as we can think of.¡±

    ¡°We will all of us pray together to our different gods,¡± Halevi whispered.

    ¡°One of them¡¯s gotta be listening.¡± Then, as Gontran returned to Bartolo, he thought: if our luck changes.

    He had wanted to clap Halevi on the back, to hug him and apologize for everything, but doing this in front of all the garzoni was impossible. It would have to wait for their success¡ªwhen the Paralos was on the open sea in the morning, and the domes and campaniles of Venice were behind them with no ships in pursuit, the gap between the city and the Paralos growing with every second.

    As Gontran worked in the lumber yard, he wondered how Herakleia would react once they returned to Trebizond. Would she be angry, disappointed, sad, apologetic? Anything could have happened back there, in the mean time. The Romans might have even sent another invasion army. Trebizond could have been destroyed¡ªagain. But he put this disturbing thought out of his head, telling himself to focus on what he could control. Then he wondered if it was even possible to control anything at all. Didn¡¯t the existence of the unconscious negate the possibility of control? The idea of the individual was squeezed between society and unconsciousness¡ªand squeezed tightly.

    Sparkling, bursting, borne away.

    When Gontran returned home, he found all three amazons awake in his room. They were washed, wearing clean clothes, and hauling sacks of bread and meat into the apartment, having told the curious prying merchants at the market that they were hoping to make a little money starting an import-export business. This statement had the unfortunate effect of arousing the suspicion of these merchants, since no business could be founded without the approval of a dozen different governing councils (not to mention the guilds), and foreigners were forbidden to have independent interests operating within the city. Thinking fast, Ra¡¯isa told the merchants that they had a Venetian partner, and their application had just been approved¡ªthat must have been why no one in the market had heard about it¡ªbut the documents were still being finalized by various notaries. One fishmonger found this ridiculous. There were already plenty of merchants, he said. Profit margins were so narrow already, what with the competition, the need to maintain a just price in the eyes of God, and the growing cost of equipment and labor and the decreasing returns on farming and fishing. It was impossible to make any money these days. The soil was exhausted, the garzoni were forming sindacati, and the doge and his most trusted councilors were all corrupt and conspiring with the blood-drinking Saraceni against hardworking salt-of-the-earth types like himself. Taxes were out of control. The church gave away too much money to the poor¡ªyou could probably get as rich as Croesus just by begging! All kinds of beggars these days were hiding piles of money in underground vaults!

    As this fishmonger continued babbling, Ra¡¯isa nodded and pretended to listen, telling herself that it would only be a few more minutes at most before she had purchased the fish she needed. Then she could escape this unbearable man forever.

    ¡°While we escape,¡± she told Gontran, ¡°we will burn this place to the ground.¡±

    ¡°It won¡¯t be easy burning down an island crisscrossed by canals,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°We must try.¡±

    ¡°But there are plenty of innocent people here,¡± Gontran said. ¡°Women, children¡ª¡±

    ¡°Would they wait to kill us? Enslave us? ¡®Oh, we must stop, there are women and children¡¯¡ªwould they think like this?¡±

    Gontran shook his head. ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Whoever wants to win more will win. Whoever cares less about problems will win. It is all or nothing. And if we fail, at least we can take some of them with us.¡±

    Gontran nodded, realizing as he did so that he was speaking with his katapan, and not with his girlfriend.

    Some people say you can¡¯t understand pleasure unless you also understand pain, he thought. That¡¯s the answer to the problem of evil, how a good god could create a world with evil, since good itself cannot exist without it. The old clich¨¦ says that you can¡¯t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. Then the rejoinder is: ¡®I see the broken eggs, but where¡¯s the omelette?¡¯ If we manage to build paradise, does that mean all the horror and suffering before was worthwhile? If a workers¡¯ uprising takes over the world and fulfills its promises, does that mean that all the holocausts and genocides in the past¡ªall of which led inadvertently to the revolution¡ªwere necessary? No. It would have been better for all the pain and suffering to have never happened.

    Gontran went through the motions of existence as he thought about these things. Then, at last, the day of escape dawned.

 23. City of Amber

    This was the key to success: don¡¯t get arrested. Paradise itself could be unlocked so long as Gontran kept his wrists away from the bite of Venetian shackles for just one more day. And so far as he knew, the Venetians had no idea that the Paralos crew was planning to escape that night. He just needed to act normal for a few more hours. This was, however, a real struggle, one so difficult it almost made him tremble, tense his body, and sweat like a strung-out madman. After all, how could a rogue like Gontran Koraki avoid attracting attention wherever he went? The poor man could barely take a step without bumping into twenty mafiosos, Roman soldiers, Venetian procuratores, and frighteningly beautiful femmes fatales tumbling out of the ether to chase after him, waving weapons, shouting for their money.

    Act normal, he thought.

    Gontran traded his hour with Bartolo, using the time to check Halevi¡ªwho, while shoveling filth, whispered that the crew was ready.

    Gontran then went to the western portion of the Arsenale wall and paced its inner edge, eyeing the masonry as casually as possible as it rose above him, averting his eyes whenever a bored guard came into sight.

    Just going for a stroll along your defensive armaments, he thought. Nothing to see here.

    All he needed to mount the wall was a long rope with a strong hook. The metal would clang when it struck the brick, but then he would climb up and over. With a little luck, and an indulgent smile from god¡ªand maybe a break from the devil¡ªno one would notice.

    Who am I kidding? There¡¯s always a problem. Things never go right.

    Gontran knew where to find what he needed. He returned to the huge warehouse packed with sails and rope, once more showed his note to the guards outside, and then¡ªamong all the different kinds of rope¡ªfound the thin sturdy kind used for boarding ships. It even very conveniently came with an iron hook attached to the end. Tugging the knot, Gontran was so impressed he thought, with a nervous chuckle, that he was ready to record a commercial for this place. Every tough guy knows: Venetian rope is the strongest, most durable rope around! One line is guaranteed to seize at least twenty ships, or your solidi back!

    It was too bad he needed to leave Venice so soon¡ªhe was starting to get used to it. Almost. This place even felt a little like home. A tiny part of his mercantile self was tempted by the Venetian dream.

    Work hard, save up, and you too can own slaves of your very own. Have a manor in the countryside. Towns packed with hardworking serfs laboring in the fields from sunup to sundown. Passive income. Entire fleets sailing the seven seas, buying and selling slaves, silk, and spice in your name.

    Checking to ensure no one was watching, he hid as much rope as possible under his shirt. For the rest of the day he labored in the lumber yard, picking up timber, carrying it, and setting it down as coils of rope bumped against his bare belly, soaked up his sweat, weighed him down. This was their physical effect, though their spiritual one was more uplifting. His fatigue and misery combined with hope, to the extent that he almost felt like belting out a tune. A phrase like labor in the lumber yard had a good rhythm to it, one even a non-musician like Gontran could recognize. He could be a real bluesman, strumming his guitar on a street corner, singing about his troubles. Diaresso might have liked it.

    Diaresso. Wonder what he¡¯s up to. Hope he¡¯s doing well.

    But singing here was forbidden. Happiness was forbidden. The slightest relief from suffering went against the grain. Venice was hell, which meant that you could either experience torture, or join the torturers. There was no other way.

    Gontran was therefore forced to grip reality tightly¡ªas hard as possible¡ªwith his teeth, as if his head was strapped to a vice, his eyelids pried open with hooks. He could never look away from the show. You are miserable and you are going to die soon. This was Venice¡¯s message, blasted from every direction at every moment with blinding sound and deafening light. He never got used to it. And somehow the message was always shocking, like he could never stop experiencing it for the first time.

    On second thought, maybe Venice isn¡¯t home after all.

    With an aching slowness, one which seemed to laugh in Gontran¡¯s face, the sun reached the zenith and then began its descent, rolling ever onward like a wheel of destiny wreathed in nuclear flame. Shadows shortened, vanished, then lengthened out again in a different direction, and such was the power of the sun¡¯s heat that steam and dust rose wherever the light touched. In the warped mirage, pebbles seemed to float in the air by themselves, as though mystical forces were at work.

    What else is gravity but a mystical force?

    Gontran lugged his lumber. He was followed by a trail of dark sweat droplets¡ªsprinkled from his flesh¡ªwhich the Earth drank, and which the seeds in the soil drank also, taking the water and rejecting the salt, swelling to shoot out brown roots. Green stems snaked up from the ground, and little red flowers blossomed from their tips.

    Somewhere in the Arsenale, David Halevi labored like a clod of dirt brought to life, a pile of shit molded into human form and then imbued with something resembling a soul. Electrical impulses, autonomic responses, and a billion years of evolution packed his frame. But most men ignored him. The rest scowled, coughed, turned away, covered their noses and mouths, and cracked jokes at his expense, speaking incomprehensible countryside dialects with their chums.

    Ra¡¯isa, tucked away in her medieval sweatshop, sewed shirt after shirt, pricking red dye from her thumb when the thimble slipped off and rolled away on the floor, unwinding the thread from the bobbin as the heavy wooden looms cranked and creaked, and sweaty feet pushed the pedals.

    In the rented room in the parish of S. Martino, Zaynab and Zulaika al-Jariya ate, drank, rested, and gathered their strength, keeping quiet lest the nosy neighbors report them.

    As for the rest of the Paralos crew, who knew what they were up to? And yet whatever it was, it couldn¡¯t have been good. It probably involved chains, hard labor, whips, relentless insults.

    Time ached past. And this was not a subjective phenomenon. Even the Venetians noticed the slowness. The maestri flicked the hourglasses with their fingers¡ªting ting ting¡ªunsure if the glimmering golden sand inside had gotten stuck. Sacristans shook their heads at their sundials, then squinted up at the sun. What in Christ¡¯s name¡­? Fear arose that time itself would end. All the city would be encased in invisible amber, the living beings within turned to statues, and navigators on passing ships would keep their distance, terrifying the cabin boys with stories of how anyone who strayed into Venice in search of buried treasure soon became just another decoration among the thousands of unfortunate souls inside.

    City of Amber.

    At last, the white sky blued, yellowed, reddened. Evening bells clanged. And Gontran, returning home, struggled to look miserable. He would not turn his frown upside-down. He was unhappy, there was no hope, he would always be here earning money for the bosses, and nothing could stop that. He had accepted his fate. He had said yes to life, even if that life sucked, and even if¡ªby joining hands with his fellow workers¡ªhe could upend it. Venice was a banqueting table piled with stolen treasure, and they could flip it if they wanted, they could scatter the gold and silver vessels into the air, send them ringing onto the floor as the red wine splashed.

    Back in the rented room, Gontran, Ra¡¯isa, Zaynab, and Zulaika al-Jariya ate dinner. The latter two amazons told both katapanoi¡ªformer and current¡ªto rest, that they would wake them in the dark when the city was cool and silent. And yet how could anyone sleep under such circumstances? Lying in bed, Gontran was almost too excited to shut his eyelids. He was finally getting out of here, one way or the other, in a coffin or a boat. There was a chance that he could return to the sea, to the freedom of the wind and the waves and the stars and the sand, the songs of sailors dancing barefoot on the deck.

    Then they were shaking them awake. It was here. The time had come. Gontran got up, dressed, checked the rope under his clean shirt, and tucked his stolen sword into his sheathe. If he ever found the pistol-sword, he would toss Boscolo¡¯s blade away¡ªchuck it into the sea and mutter good riddance. But any sword was better than none, especially when freeing slaves from the clutches of a merchant republic.

    He kissed Ra¡¯isa goodbye, touched her again beneath her clothes, wondering if this was the last time he would see her alive. What could they even say to each other? Yet there was work to be done. Everything that had happened between them he would always carry in his heart.

    Next, he wished Zaynab and Zulaika al-Jariya luck, but they were too busy murmuring prayers to Allah while standing, facing Makkah with their hands held out, palms up. As they bowed on their knees with their shoes removed, he opened and closed the door in silence, and snuck through the dark, almost counting his steps to keep track of where he was.

    It was a starless moonless night, just as he had wished. But in the absence of torches and candles, the dark was absolute, and he almost felt like he was trapped in a room without windows or lights. Gontran needed to tread carefully. Otherwise he¡¯d plunge into a canal and drown in the sludge, his lungs packed with other people¡¯s shit. He wished he¡¯d brought a cane so that he could navigate the night like a blind man, tapping back and forth. As it was, he needed to feel about with his hands, sometimes gripping buildings and coasting along their sides like a baby learning to walk. Other times he was so confused about his location he needed to get down on his knees and feel ahead. Once, when he did this, there was nothing in front of him, nothing but a dark silent abyss.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Hell I can deal with, he thought as he moved on. I could get along with demons eventually. You¡¯re down there for an eternity, so there¡¯s plenty of time to work things out, to psychoanalyze them. ¡®Did you wake up this morning telling yourself that you were going to impale an infidel with a steel pike sticking straight through his ass and out his mouth so you could spit-roast him over an erupting volcano?'' ''Yes.''

    Sooner or later you become numb to even the most unimaginable tortures. The fire, the whips, the blades, the whatever¡ªit all stops hurting. When they say the nastiest things they can think of, you just laugh, you tell them they need to work on their material. They talk about torturing your mom, your sister, your wife, your grandmother, your kids, and you ask: ¡®is that all you¡¯ve got?¡¯

    That I can deal with. But a dark and silent abyss forever, maybe that¡¯s the true hell. Satan, the adversary of god, you could have some interesting conversations with. But to be alone forever? The mind would collapse in on itself. Trapped like that in eternity with nothing else to do, we would build our own paradise, our own hilly green fields to bound across like Greek gods, our harems of houri, with leopards purring in walled gardens, their eyes glowing in the night, and spice-laden trees singing with phoenixes.

    Even then, heaven would get boring eventually. You''d grow numb to every last pleasure in paradise, just as you¡¯d grow numb to torture in hell. So the ideal thing would be to live on Earth, where heaven and hell are mixed like two ocean waves, one above, one below, like the yin-yang whirl¡ªto have your unconscious throwing real challenges, real problems your way. A mix of pain and pleasure, heaven and hell, that''s the only way to fight eternity, the inevitable numbness that comes with the heat death of the universe. God¡¯s just trying to pass the time.

    Maybe we¡¯ve already done this. Maybe we can¡¯t prove we aren¡¯t doing this right now. All of us have already died, we just don''t know. We can''t accept it. But there¡¯s no escape. Death is just another step as we unwind the winding path.

    Thinking like this could paralyze people or turn them into reactionaries: nothing is real, nothing matters, so why bother helping anyone? But this was how Gontran entertained himself as he worked his way to the Arsenale, found the wall, pulled himself up with the rope, climbed down to the other side, and even found his crew and picked their chains. It all happened quickly, quietly, efficiently. Soon they were free, wasting no time on embraces or celebrations. They had been waiting for him in the night, their eyes open to the pitch blackness, like moons with no sun to make them glow. All were prepared. All knew what to do. Gontran led a small team to procure weapons from the armory while Halevi worked on pushing the Paralos into the water. They had pulled down the tent that concealed the ship, they were handing out weapons, and they were about to shove the Paralos into the waves¡ªwith Halevi on the deck working on igniting Talia''s inner fires¡ªwhen torches suddenly flashed to life everywhere around them. These were the true demons: Venetian archers with arrows nocked on their bows, so many that several at least were aiming at each individual member of Gontran''s crew.

    The escapees stopped, swore, raised their hands. What else could they do?

    Gontran''s heart sank. We were so close!

    The crowning infamy came when the two Loredani¡ªalong with the Procuratore¡ªemerged from the shadows. They had already captured Ra''isa, Zaynab, and Zulaika al-Jariya, and shoved them forward, their hands bound behind their backs so that they stumbled and grunted.

    ¡°Capitan Cane,¡± Annibale Loredan said, his blond hair and black velvet gleaming in the firelight, along with the hilt of the Seran pistol-sword sheathed at his side. ¡°You¡¯ve been quite busy, it seems.¡±

    Gontran said nothing. His contempt for this man was restrained by the awareness that if he blinked, every member of his crew would die. By now the archers were trembling from the difficulty of aiming nocked arrows at everyone for so long. Sooner or later one would slip.

    ¡°We were watching you,¡± Annibale said. ¡°All of you. For every moment. In every place. Even the flies in your food were writing reports for us.¡±

    Gontran scoffed. Even the flies in Venice are traitors.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t see you,¡± he blurted.

    Annibale smirked. ¡°You weren¡¯t meant to. But now the question is: what to do? It¡¯s hard to profit from slaves who won¡¯t face the facts. Punishment doesn¡¯t work, either. What do you think, father? What are your thoughts on the matter, Procuratore?¡±

    ¡°Death,¡± the older Loredan said.

    ¡°Death?¡± Annibale raised his eyebrows. ¡°Seems a bit harsh.¡±

    ¡°Kill them,¡± the Procuratore said.

    ¡°Well then, death it is. There¡¯s no need for a trial. All of us can see that you¡¯re trying to steal Venetian property¡ªour ship, our weapons, our bodies. Such behavior cannot be tolerated, as I¡¯m sure you understand, Capitan Cane. We must make an example of you.¡± He looked to the two older men standing at his sides. ¡°Can you imagine what people would say, if we didn¡¯t meet this lawlessness with the maximum punishment?¡±

    ¡°I want the girls.¡± The Procuratore nodded to the three amazons.

    ¡°But my dear mister Procuratore, forgive me for speaking plainly, but do you not understand that they will eventually escape again? They will kill you in your sleep.¡±

    ¡°I will enjoy them until then,¡± the Procuratore said. ¡°They will suck my tongue.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Annibale said. ¡°I¡¯m afraid we can¡¯t do that. For as the saying goes, a leopard cannot change its spots. There are other beautiful women in the world, after all¡ªones whose spirits are not quite so strong. Ones who are more pliable. More prone¡ªupon beds, if you understand.¡± He glared at Gontran. ¡°These people wish to be free, so it is our duty to free them¡ªto free their spirits from their mortal flesh.¡± He looked to the archers, then raised his hand into the air. ¡°Men, you will loose on my command.¡±

    ¡°Sir!¡± the archers screamed in unison, making the slaves flinch.

    ¡°We will make their deaths beautiful,¡± the elder Loredan said. ¡°We will kill them all at once.¡±

    Ra¡¯isa turned her anguished face to Gontran. He whispered that he was sorry. And she almost seemed to smile at him, as if to say: ¡°Sorry does not pay the bills.¡±

    But now the end had come. Gontran looked at Ra¡¯isa, the greatest beauty he had ever seen. He realized now that he had wanted to marry this girl, have children with her, grow old with her. A whole lifetime had lain ahead of them, but now it was being snuffed out.

    ¡°Oh, I must savor this moment.¡± Annibale shut his eyes and breathed deeply through his swelling nostrils. ¡°It is so sweet.¡±

    Sweat poured down his archers¡¯ faces. All the muscles in their bodies were shaking violently.

    Annibale opened his mouth to speak, and filled his lungs with air.

    At that moment, Talia¡¯s blue eyes flashed to life. While hiding from everyone else, Halevi had ignited her. He gasped and stumbled away as she clanked across the deck, the steam fissuring from her bronze armor, her power plants chugging in her chest. Every archer cried out in terror, for in their minds Talia had been no more than a pretty statue, one too heavy to move off the ship. Now she was a demon come to life. They aimed at her instead of the Paralos crew and loosed their arrows without waiting for Annibale¡¯s command. Most whistled into darkness; the few which struck her clanged away and then clattered on the deck.

    ¡°Slave masters,¡± she said with her pipe organ voice, her blue gas fire eyes glaring at the Venetians. ¡°I hate slave masters.¡±

    ¡°Vaffanculo!¡± Annibale said.

    Talia jumped off the deck, landed on the ground¡ªher body so heavy the nearby buildings trembled¡ªand launched herself into the Venetians, whirling through firelight and darkness like a storm. The Paralos crew got to work fighting off their enemies while also pushing the ship into the water. In the chaos, as the Paralos slid into the pool, bells began to ring across the city. One Venetian must have escaped and sounded the alarm.

    But before long, the entire company of Venetians were either dead or fleeing, all save Annibale Loredan. His father and the Procuratore had nearly escaped, but Ra¡¯isa had caught them, and with the help of Zaynab and Zulaika al-Jariya, she cut off their balls, stuffed them into their mouths, and allowed them to bleed to death.

    In the mean time, Gontran had shouted for everyone to get aboard the Paralos. Now even Talia was there, though Gontran himself remained behind, clutching Boscolo¡¯s stolen sword with both hands, its blade dripping blood.

    Gontran nodded to the pistol-sword Annibale was holding.

    ¡°That¡¯s mine,¡± Gontran said.

    ¡°If you want it, come and get it,¡± Annibale said.

    As the Paralos worked its way through the pool that was full of ships, Gontran swung his sword at Annibale¡ªwho parried, the blades striking blue sparks that leaped in their faces. Gontran stabbed forward, and Annibale darted out of the way, laughing at him.

    ¡°You¡¯ll never escape,¡± Annibale said. ¡°Not even with that bronze monster of yours.¡±

    Annibale cut Gontran¡¯s back. Gontran cried out, fell away, then raised Boscolo¡¯s sword to deflect another blow¡ªbut the Seran blade sliced through. Half the blade clattered on the ground, leaving Gontran with little more than a hilt.

    Always knew this sword sucked, he thought.

    Dropping what remained of Boscolo¡¯s sword, Gontran lunged forward and seized the Seran blade¡¯s hilt. Both men wrestled, grunted, fell to the ground. Annibale was bigger and stronger than Gontran and had been training for this moment all his life. He was superior, he was a poet, a warrior given numerous gifts by god. But there was something here he could never have anticipated. Gontran turned the blade toward Annibale, then flicked the switch that sprung it apart, revealing the gun barrel inside. The only question was: was the powder and ball still loaded after all this time? Or had it fallen out? Would the powder even ignite without a flame?

    Only one way to find out.

    ¡°Goodbye, Annibale,¡± Gontran said.

    Annibale looked at him, grunting with confusion. He was still strong enough to keep the blade from his flesh, and he was even slowly pushing it back toward his adversary. But Gontran, with one last burst of strength, aimed the barrel at Annibale¡¯s heart, then pulled the trigger. The lock was dry from disuse, and so the two metal parts sparked, combusting the black crystalline powder within. The gun exploded into Annibale¡¯s heart, bursting blood out through his back. His whole body went limp, and he sighed his last.

    Gontran pushed Annibale¡¯s body away and stood. Then he tucked the hot blades of the pistol-sword back together and flipped the weapon into his sheathe.

    His comrades were shouting for him to join them. Running along the docks in the early morning light, he leaped aboard as the Paralos made its way along the last canal to the open sea.

 24. Demonic Face

    HERAKLEIA

    When the emissary came to Trebizond, he was wearing the most beautiful silk anyone had ever seen. His caftan was gleaming yellow, and patterned with blue symbols which resembled clouds or water fountains. In his thirties or forties, his fearsome¡ªalmost demonic¡ªface was framed by a sharp black beard and mustache with white tips. His turban also matched his silk caftan. Vigorous, proud, muscular, his name was Chaka Bey, and he had come from the Seljuk regional capital of Erzurum, only a few days'' journey away, approaching Trebizond on an enormous white steed, accompanied by twenty mounted slaves of many different nations who were attired in red silk, their shining scimitars strapped to their sides, one among them holding aloft the black standard of the Sultanate of Great Seljuk. A princess was with Chaka Bey, too. She was entirely covered in a green shimmering silk burka with only a slit cut in the fabric for her eyes, which flashed like two diamonds in the dark.

    Trumpets blasted as this train wound around Mount Minthrion along the imperial highway and crossed the Mill River bridge, their horses¡¯ hooves clopping along new paved streets in the Daphnous suburbs which were lined with new apartment buildings of wood, as well as small factories of brick, their chimneys churning smoke as river water turned their groaning mill wheels. Crowds of Trapezuntines made way and stared at Chaka Bey and his retinue as they stopped at the Maidan, where the city¡¯s Laz inhabitants had organized a welcoming party¡ªsinging, banging drums, blasting bagpipes, and holding hands and dancing in a Horon circle that contracted and expanded, the dancing master at the center soloing with some of the Domari acrobats, Alexios¡¯s friends Jafer El-Hadi and Amina bint Hamza al-Ghuraba of the Bani Murra flipping through the air.

    After Chaka Bey and his entourage had watched the dancing for a little while, the Northeast Gate opened and they entered Trebizond proper¡ªwhat was still called the Lower Town, located alongside Hadrian¡¯s Harbor. This was within sight of the city-ship of Kitezh, floating some distance away on the sea. The new arrivals stared at Kitezh, pointed, and made remarks. Only the princess and her two ladies-in-waiting¡ªwho were also wearing silk burkas¡ªseemed unimpressed.

    Chaka Bey and his retinue ascended to the Middle Town, past the People¡¯s Hospital and the Gabras School. Strategos Herakleia, Supreme Commander of the Workers¡¯ Army, welcomed them in the citadel courtyard, located at the city¡¯s highest point. The emissary, the princess, her ladies-in-waiting, and the slaves dismounted from their horses¡ªwhose reins the stable boys took¡ªand bowed before Herakleia on their left knees. As they rose, a handsome Aethiop slave with a round face who was clad in silk and jewels presented Herakleia with a paper scroll bound with silk, which she then handed to an Arab eunuch named Samonas, who limped to her side and examined the cursive scrawl.

    ¡°Signed by Malik-Shah Jal¨¡l al-Dawla Mu¡¯izz al-Duny¨¡ Wa¡¯l-Din Abu¡¯l-Fath ibn Alp Arslan,¡± Samonas read, speaking at a regular speed without the slightest difficulty. ¡°Exalted Sultan of Great Seljuk, the august shahanshah, King of the East and the West, Lord of the Arabs and Persians, Master of Nations, Pillar of Islam, Destroyer of the Infidels and Polytheists and Hypocrites, Commander of the Faithful. Cosigned by his vizier, Nizam al-Mulk.¡±

    Are they sure they got everything? Herakleia thought.

    The slave bowed. Speaking refined Roman, he said: ¡°My master is Chaka Bey, son of Sultan Alp Arslan and brother to Sultan Malik-Shah.¡± He gestured to the princess, who bowed. ¡°This is his wife, Ay?e Khatun.¡±

    Herakleia smiled. ¡°Trebizond welcomes all of you. If you will follow me, we have guest rooms set up for you to refresh yourselves after your long journey. A banquet will follow.¡±

    The slave translated for Chaka Bey, who murmured a gruff response in Seljuk. Then the slave turned to Herakleia and bowed again. ¡°My master Chaka Bey wishes to know where your husband is, that he might speak with him.¡±

    Herakleia cleared her throat. ¡°I have no husband.¡±

    ¡°Then who is ruler of this city?¡± Chaka Bey said through his slave.

    ¡°Nobody told you?¡± Herakleia glanced at Samonas. ¡°The people rule. They have elected me their leader.¡±

    Chaka Bey growled something. The slave winced, then translated. ¡°My master Chaka Bey wishes you to know that a woman cannot rule. For as the Prophet, peace be upon him, has told us: ¡®Never will succeed such a nation as makes a woman their ruler.¡¯¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s alright, that¡¯s not a problem,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Since I just told you, I¡¯m not the people¡¯s ruler. The people are. And besides, wasn¡¯t the Prophet¡ªpeace be upon him¡ªmarried to Khadija bint Khuwaylid, a prominent merchant, trusted advisor, and early supporter of Islam? Was this not likewise the case with his third wife, Aisha Abu Bakr, general in the Battle of the Camel?¡± She nodded to Ay?e Khatun. ¡°Your namesake, if I¡¯m not mistaken, my lady?¡±

    The slave made a pained expression, as though he knew it was a bad idea to argue with his master. Then he translated for Chaka Bey, who snarled a response.

    ¡°Really, why not discuss this later?¡± Samonas raised his arms before the slave could translate. Then, in Seljuk, Samonas spoke directly to Chaka Bey: ¡°You and your people must be quite tired, my lord. Please enter our citadel that you might rest and refresh yourselves.¡±

    Chaka Bey watched Samonas for a moment, then bowed and allowed himself and his retinue to be led inside the palace by Trebizond¡¯s workers. Samonas and Herakleia remained outside. They exchanged looks the moment the guests¡¯s backs were turned.

    ¡°I thought we already talked about this with them!¡± Herakleia whispered, her eyes wide. ¡°We already agreed to respect our differences, that we just want to unite against a common enemy¡ª¡±

    ¡°Whatever are you looking at me for?¡± Samonas raised his shoulders. ¡°Evidently the bey was not privy to these discussions! I¡¯m really not his superior, strategos, and can¡¯t answer for his behavior¡ª¡±

    ¡°A little touchy today, aren¡¯t we?¡±

    ¡°All of us are under quite a bit of pressure, as it were. Much depends upon this embassy.¡± Samonas took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment. ¡°But I shall endeavor to look on the bright side, as the saying goes.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with being stressed in a stressful situation.¡±

    ¡°Forgive me, strategos, but you aren¡¯t helping.¡±

    ¡°Sorry for trying to be a friend.¡±

    ¡°Excuse my boldness, but you aren¡¯t my friend, strategos. You¡¯re my boss.¡±

    Herakleia raised an eyebrow. ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯ve clarified our relationship. Maybe once I lose my next election, we can be friends.¡±

    ¡°Then I won¡¯t bother with you at all.¡±

    Herakleia laughed, to her own surprise. They entered the palace, and checked the banqueting hall, but there was little for them to do. Trebizond¡¯s workers had taken care of everything. Even now, Chef Aemilia and her assistants in the kitchen were finishing dinner, timing everything so that the food would come out steaming hot just as the guests came down from their rooms.

    Herakleia turned away from the flurry of activity around her, struggling to avoid thinking about what had happened in the palace kitchen during the Latin occupation. A horrible death had taken place. Someone had locked the previous chef in the oven and cooked him alive. She shuddered.

    Awful way to go.

    Since the Trapezuntines had retaken their city, they had replaced almost everything inside the kitchen, especially the oven. Priests, rabbis, imams, and even a few shamans and mobads had blessed the room and exorcised its ghosts. The previous chef¡¯s remains had been given a proper burial. All the workers knew, and only volunteers worked in the palace kitchen. Yet everyone believed the place was tainted. Herakleia considered herself a scientist, only concerned with what she could see and conceive of, but it was impossible to use this kitchen without thinking of what had happened here.

    We should have torn the entire palace down or just abandoned it¡­moved our capital somewhere else.

    There was so much history here, she could barely take a step without memory overcoming her. Ghosts haunted every stone. To brush her finger against one brick meant bursting the portals of the Hell of the Damned and unleashing a deluge of specters, enough to consume the world, to overwhelm the horizons with darkness like an eclipse. In this banqueting hall, during an unpleasant dinner with her Latin captors, she had lunged forward and nearly slit Domestikos Narses¡¯s throat. How many lives would have been saved if she had succeeded? Upstairs in the doux¡¯s chambers, she had fucked Duke Robert the Crafty to death. Blinding him with lust, rocking her thighs against his, he barely noticed when she lunged forward and snapped his neck, even though it was thick and sturdy as an old oak.

    To free my people, the best orgasm of my life.

    So much had changed in Trebizond since. Trebizond was change. When she had first fled here two years ago following the murder of her father, Good Emperor Anastasios, this city had been the Roman Empire¡¯s last redoubt, perched at the northeastern edge of its territory at the confluence of nations and peoples. The Varangian Rus plied the rivers of the northern steppe with longboats, Iberian and Armenian kingdoms arose in the Kaukasos, Persians and Seljuks expanded their empire beyond all knowledge to the Earth¡¯s eastern ends, and Arabs and Kurds and Assyrians and Jews and Domari and Mandaeans and god knew who else farmed the banks of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers to the south, down to the green silvering reeds of the Arabistan marshlands and the Persian Sea, whose monsoon winds blew dhows laden with spice from Arabia Felix to Sindh and Hind and back again every year.

    Those were the good old days. At that time Trebizond was garrisoned with kataphraktoi¡ªhorses and horsemen draped in mail and razor-sharp plated steel that in the sunlight gleamed so brightly it could gash people¡¯s vision with black and purple welts, blinding them from miles away. Yet the uprising was still in its early stages, supported not just by the workers and peasants and women and children and criminals, but also disaffected members of the Roman ruling class. There were a few fatcat tax collectors, priests (including a mosquito-like fellow named Sophronios the Metropolitan), landlords, nobles, and a lot of laboring peasants and fishermen, some Roman, many in the mountainside villages Laz.

    The city¡¯s doux, David Bagrationi, had fallen for Herakleia. Who could blame him? Hers was a lively beauty, utterly self-actualized, such that even the grass and flowers and trees followed her movements¡ªeven the sun was unable to keep from peeking through the clouds to watch her. Living music, living fire, she used her beauty as a weapon, and had manipulated Bagrationi into welcoming all the empire¡¯s refugees, who were then fleeing the devastation unleashed by the palace coup against her father by Nikephoros the Usurper. She had even convinced Bagrationi to let her leave for Sera, a semi-mythical land far to the east, where with her friend and bodyguard George Vatatzes she had learned the farr from the monks of Tiger Mountain, intending to bring an instructional manual on the subject back home to help her people fight.

    A new weapon against the enemy.

    Upon her return to Anatolia, the Romans killed Vatatzes and captured and tortured her, keeping her alive only because the usurper needed her to legitimize his rule. She would have been lost forever in the Imperial Palace¡¯s dungeons, but her old mentor Dionysios somehow organized a rescue, perishing at the hands of the usurper¡¯s henchman, Narses, in the process.

    Herakleia nonetheless escaped with her new friends Alexios Leandros, Gontran Koraki, and Kambine Diaresso, who sailed together on their stolen imperial dromon, the Paralos, all the way from Konstantinopolis to Trebizond. There they found the city swarming with more refugees than Doux Bagrationi knew what to do with. These people had come from every corner of the empire, and even beyond, hearing that in Trebizond they would be free from landlords and tax collectors. As she and Alexios struggled to train a new army of amazons using the farr, and as everyone else built up the city¡¯s defenses in preparation for the inevitable Roman invasion, Narses and his army of immortals struck, assaulting Trebizond with an enormous cannon called a basilik which the defenders had only barely destroyed in time.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    Thereafter Trebizond underwent a rapid transformation; victory intensifies contradictions. Doux Bagrationi was deposed, and fled, never to return. The city was taken over by workers, peasants, criminals, women, and children of all kinds. These elected Herakleia their strategos. Freed from the shackles of slavery and feudalism, they built up the city¡¯s manufacturing base, exporting so much clothing and iron so quickly that they destabilized the economies of regions as faraway as Gallia and Thule. Threatened by the idea that peasants and slaves could be free, the Romans, Venetians, and Normans united to conquer Trebizond in a crusade invasion. But the survivors fought back. Trebizond was devastated in a fire, but the Trapezuntines drove out the invaders. Many lives were lost.

    New allies had arrived, in the meantime. Gontran and Diaresso brought the city-ship of Kitezh, the last relic of Khazar civilization, along with Talia the Automat¨­n, supposedly built by the god Hephaestos himself. Alexios also retrieved a small army of friends he had found in the Arabian desert, including Domari acrobats, Aethiopian witch-doctors and were-women, and an elderly Mandaean alchemist who could drown the world in rivers flooding from the galaxies in the night.

    That was months ago. The city was restored and expanded. Dozens of refugees eager for work arrived every day, with the result that Trebizond was now bigger and stronger than ever. Still, it was vulnerable. Its ancient walls only protected a small portion of its territory; new apartment buildings and factories went up in the growing suburbs every day. If invaders returned, they would set this place aflame. And this time they might succeed in destroying the uprising forever.

    Trebizond was therefore always searching for allies. Thus the arrival of Great Seljuk¡¯s emissary, Chaka Bey. Thus the departure that very day of Herakleia¡¯s friend, Gontran Koraki, on a mission aboard the Paralos to forge an alliance with the Venetians¡ªenemies who might be convinced to switch sides for the right price. And thus the flight at the same time of Alexios Leandros to Serindia, to search for friends and armies in lands unknown. He had gone with his two adopted children, Basil and Kassia, and had also taken Sedko Sitinits, the merchant of Novgorod, with him as his guide, along with his wife, Vasilissa the Wise. Isato the shape-shifting Aethiopian princess, too, had gone with Alexios.

    So many have left. So many are gone.

    Chaka Bey¡¯s chief slave¡ªhis chamberlain, or kapuji-bashi¡ªdescended the stairs to announce that his lord would soon arrive for dinner. Herakleia seized this moment to ask the slave his name.

    ¡°Forgive me, my lady, but my name is irrelevant.¡± He bowed. ¡°You may address me merely as ¡®chamberlain.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Your name isn¡¯t irrelevant to me,¡± she said. ¡°Please tell me.¡±

    ¡°I am Ibrahim Hummay.¡±

    ¡°May I ask where you come from, Ibrahim Hummay?¡±

    He raised an eyebrow. ¡°I was taken from a faraway place you may not know, for no one here has heard of it. It is called Kanem, a land of great cities hidden deep within Saharan dunes and mountains. I dwelled alongside the shore of a place the Christians sometimes call the Lake of the Hippopotamus.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re right, I¡¯ve never heard of it, I¡¯m sorry. Not many people here know what¡¯s on the other side of the Sahara.¡± She thought about her friend Diaresso, who came from Tomboutou, itself at the Sahara¡¯s southern edge. ¡°But it must have been a long journey. How did you cross the desert? Isn¡¯t that hundreds, thousands of miles?¡±

    Hummay winced. ¡°It was not easy, my lady.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t need to address me that way.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s simply old habit, my lady, forgive me. But I served the Fatimids in Fustat and the Abbasids in Baghdad for some years until I was sold to the court of Chaka Bey.¡±

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m glad you¡¯re here. We¡¯ll do our best to make this alliance work. Can I ask¡­do you know if your master was aware of the way we do things here?¡±

    Hummay smiled. ¡°My master knew. We all did. Rumors of Trabzon have no doubt spread even as far as to the sultans of Mogadishu and the Isle of the Idolaters in Serendib. But we could scarcely credit such reports. A city without lords and nobles¡ªit seemed easier to believe that Trabzon was inhabited by dragons and phoenixes! I suspect my master was disappointed to learn the truth. He is a warrior of traditional tastes, uninterested in the struggles of the poor and weak.¡±

    ¡°I hope you don¡¯t feel the same.¡±

    Hummay bowed. ¡°I am but my master¡¯s servant.¡±

    We¡¯ll see about that, Herakleia thought.

    Already she was dreaming of radicalizing Chaka Bey¡¯s entire retinue, even as she knew that this would destroy any chance of an alliance with the Great Seljuk Empire. But what if this nation was also Trebizond¡¯s enemy, and one even fiercer than Rome? Caesar¡¯s empire, after all, had been in trouble since the Battle of Mantzikert ten years ago, with Seljuks flooding Anatolia almost to the walls of Konstantinopolis. But it was hard to imagine a world without Rome. Everyone¡ªeven the Seljuks¡ªwondered if there would one day be a resurgence, if Caesar would wake from his eternal sleep beneath the fabled Seven Hills and march his legions from wintry Hibernia all the way to the green mountains of Baktria.

    By then, Chaka Bey was descending the stairs with his slaves. His wife, Ay?e Khatun, was now unveiled, revealing herself to be a Seran woman of such astonishing beauty that Herakleia¡¯s breath caught in her throat. She wondered immediately if Ay?e Khatun was the woman¡¯s real name. If she was Seran, she must have possessed a Seran name. But was it impertinent to ask, if the Seljuks had renamed her? People always said you should never ask monks about their past, since they now belonged only to god. Was it the same with princesses married off to foreign potentates in faraway lands?

    Ay?e Khatun¡¯s beauty was so intense it was almost frightening. It seemed that with a single glance from those green-blue eyes lined with kohl she could stop a man¡¯s heart forever. Her skin was powdered white, her lips were red. Herakleia recalled how rare lipstick was in this time and place.

    Chaka Bey and his retinue took their seats, with the bey himself sitting at one end and Herakleia at the other of the long table. The guests seemed awkward in their chairs; Herakleia guessed that they were more used to sitting on cushions on the floor. Samonas joined them, as did Ay?e Khatun, but Hummay was forbidden to sit, instead standing beside Chaka Bey and translating while everyone else ate. The same was true for the other slaves and Ay?e Khatun¡¯s two ladies-in-waiting, Selcan and Aykiz, who would eat the leftovers later, out of sight. Herakleia found this reprehensible, but she reminded herself that she was working for the uprising. Beggars could not be choosers; it was impossible to make everything perfect instantly.

    Great Seljuk can keep Trebizond safe. We¡¯ll deal with the Romans first, then worry about the Seljuks later. The Romans have attacked Trebizond twice, while the Seljuks never have.

    As a local Roman musician named Stephanos Georgiadis strummed folksy tunes from a lute which sounded a great deal like a mandolin, workers brought out dinner. The first course consisted of Varangian borscht with sour cream and generous helpings of warm thick flatbread fresh from the iron satz pans in the kitchen. The second course was mythopilavon, a rice pilaf with mussels and herbs, along with the usual Roman salad. The third course was dolma: grape leaves stuffed with chicken and beef spiced with curry. This particular course had Chaka Bey raving with delight. Herakleia was stuffed at this point¡ªas stuffed as the delicious dolma¡ªbut the courses kept coming. Next were the mantia dumplings packed with anchovies, fried in butter, and served with a pesto dipping sauce. By now even Chaka Bey was claiming that he was full.

    ¡°You are trying to kill us!¡± he said through Hummay. ¡°We will burst like wine grapes!¡±

    ¡°There is still dessert,¡± Herakleia said.

    This consisted of baklava with apricot compote. Plenty of black Trapezuntine wine was also served during the evening. The guests were Sarakenoi, but they drank freely as Christians. Mere mention of pork would disgust them, and as for all the other Islamic duties, they would bow to Mecca five times each day, travel there to touch the black Kaaba once in their lifetimes, give constantly to the poor, fast from sunrise to sunset every Ramadan, and with all their hearts believe that God was one and that Muhammad (peace be upon him) was his prophet. All this they would do, rarely complaining, often enjoying the brotherhood and sisterhood of Islam. Even the thirst and hunger in the blazing heat of Ramadan would delight them. As the world took on a holy glow during this time, they would wish that it lasted all year, eating at night, napping in midday. Their house was built with all five pillars of Islam. As for wine, Allah was all-wise, all-merciful, and would forgive and understand the sin of enjoyment. Good works would make up for a few sips of al-khamr, that delicious poisonous medicine. Herakleia had been surrounded by Muslims ever since she had joined the uprising, and her piety ability had been growing ever since. She was now an Intermediate (5/10).

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I have to ask.¡± Herakleia directed her gaze to Ay?e Khatun, then Chaka Bey. ¡°Your wife seems too elegant to have come from these lands.¡±

    The game voice warned that her charisma skill¡ªwhich was Intermediate (5/10)¡ªwould decline if she kept singling people out by asking where they were from, a faux pas she had already committed with Ibrahim Hummay.

    Hummay translated Herakleia¡¯s question. Chaka Bey mostly resembled a sculpture designed to terrify evil spirits, even when his mood was mellow. But here his facial expression softened for the first time Herakleia had seen, and he even released a peal of deep laughter, nodding and raising his bronze cup of wine to Herakleia before sipping it.

    ¡°My master wishes you to know that he thinks you very observant.¡± Hummay bowed, speaking with pleasant, refined tones. ¡°For his wife Ay?e Khatun is indeed what he calls a Seran beauty, and is a daughter to the King of China¡ªan eastern princess.¡±

    ¡°Can she speak for herself?¡± Herakleia said, eyeing Ay?e Khatun.

    ¡°I can.¡± Ay?e Khatun smiled. Her voice was sweet and high-pitched. ¡°One of my husband¡¯s eunuchs in Erzurum has taught me to speak both Roman and Seljuk.¡±

    Hummay translated for Chaka Bey, who watched his wife with pride.

    ¡°I come from a city called Dongjing.¡± Ay?e Khatun spoke the city¡¯s name using the Seran language¡¯s musical tones. It sounded like she was singing when she said it. ¡°Have you heard of it?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been there,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°You¡¯ll find a lot of people here know about Sera. Trebizond is an entrep?t¡ªlike Isfahan. Trade from all directions flows here. Or most directions, I guess. There¡¯s not much from the west that we need.¡± She looked at Samonas. ¡°Do we import anything from the west?¡±

    Samonas put his fork down on his plate. ¡°Really strategos, forgive my impertinence, but I should think you would know better. Everything of value comes from the east. The west has little to trade save gold and silver. And even that is dwindling these days. They have spent so much specie on our goods that they are running out, and their money is becoming worthless. We have, at the same time, invested the money they have given us in improving the productive forces here, providing necessities to all, which means that we need the west even less than before.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± Herakleia said. As an Educated Master (8/10), she had consulted the relevant Mazdakist texts on these subjects and even worked with Trebizond¡¯s Workers¡¯ Council to implement these policies.

    Hummay continued to translate for Chaka Bey, who was sipping his wine and watching the discussion with amusement. He murmured something. Hummay said: ¡°My master wishes to comment upon the eunuch disrespecting his sovereign.¡±

    Samonas looked nervous, but Herakleia said: ¡°We all speak freely here as equals.¡±

    Chaka Bey lowered his wine cup. ¡°My master says this goes against the will of Allah. Some are born to rule while others must serve.¡±

    Herakleia¡¯s couldn¡¯t stop herself from rolling her eyes. ¡°Not this again¡ª¡±

    ¡°You know Dongjing?¡± Ay?e Khatun said to Herakleia. ¡°You have been there?¡±

    This question broke the tension in the banqueting hall. Even the slaves had been looking uneasy, but Ay?e Khatun made everyone forget what they had been talking about. Samonas resumed his dainty way of eating anchovies by spearing them one by one with his fork, Chaka Bey shrugged and sipped his wine, and Herakleia discussed her favorite restaurant in Dongjing¡ªMa Yu Ching¡¯s Bucket Chicken House¡ªrevealing that she had traveled to Sera to learn the farr.

    ¡°Ah, but this is a thing forbidden.¡± Ay?e Khatun looked back and forth dramatically, as though someone was spying on her. ¡°For Tiger Mountain is in open revolt against the Son of Heaven.¡±

    Herakleia assumed that Ay?e Khatun was referring to the emperor of China. The princess was too polite to call the man ¡°dad.¡±

    ¡°They taught me a lot.¡± Herakleia nodded to Ay?e Khatun. ¡°It¡¯s likely that the entire uprising would have failed without their help. The odds are stacked against us.¡± She turned to Hummay, who was translating for Chaka Bey. ¡°How can peasants hope to fight highly trained armored knights? Across history, there are all kinds of peasant and slave revolts. Spartakos in Rome is probably the most famous, but there are others. None lasted more than a few years. Sometimes it seems like the slaves almost didn¡¯t even know what to do with themselves. If they had even managed to defeat the Romans, what kind of society would they have built? How could they hope to build a society without slavery? But we¡¯ve found that it¡¯s possible in this day and age, at least with the help of the farr.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m pleased with your success,¡± Ay?e Khatun said. ¡°Zhongguo¡±¡ªthis was what she called Sera, once again using her singsong tones¡ª¡°gives freely to the world, and expects only reverence in return.¡±

    ¡°Sounds like a good deal to me.¡± Herakleia looked to the others at her table, then raised her wine cup. ¡°To Zhongguo!¡±

    Everyone at the table smiled, raised their cups, clinked them together, and repeated Herakleia¡¯s words. Chaka Bey said what was presumably the word for ¡°cheers¡± in Seljuk¡ª¡°?erefe!¡± Ay?e Khatun laughed.

    ¡°I hope we can be friends,¡± she told Herakleia. ¡°Even after this embassy ends.¡±

    ¡°I hope so, too,¡± Herakleia said.

    Yet for the rest of the meal, Herakleia did her best¡ªwith Ay?e Khatun¡¯s help¡ªto avoid all mention of business and official diplomacy. Chaka Bey¡¯s earlier comment on how equality went against the will of Allah¡ªnonsense from a theological perspective¡ªhad confirmed her worst suspicions: the embassy was a waste of time. Great Seljuk would soon ally with Rome to destroy Trebizond. Was it really so hard to believe? Already most of the Roman army¡ªwhat remained of it¡ªconsisted of Turkish mercenaries. These two sworn enemies would put aside their differences to focus on Trebizond. Chaka Bey himself had probably come here to spy. He would soon tell his brother Malik-Shah that the rich city was ripe for the plucking.

    For hours, then, as one course was brought in after another, and as rivers of black Trapezuntine wine and steaming Seran cha flowed down their throats, Herakleia sat with her future enemy. Chaka Bey laughed with Ay?e Khatun, delighted in her beauty, and held her hand and even dared to kiss it sometimes¡ªin defiance of his own machismo. But one day soon this man would charge Trebizond¡¯s walls on his war horse. His demonic face would drip with blood as he raised his sharp gleaming scimitar to cut Herakleia down.

 25. Levers of Power

    What happened to Alexios?

    The question came out of nowhere, but this was what Herakleia wondered as she lay in bed the morning after the banquet with Chaka Bey. Alexios had been gone for months after the Second Siege of Trebizond, returning to the city from his forays in the south with an entire century of battle-hardened soldiers, all warriors of farr whom he had seemingly conjured out of thin air. Yet that was what he had sworn to do, the last time Herakleia had seen him.

    I¡¯ll come back with an army, he had said while the Latins were seizing Trebizond. I promise.

    In the mean time, he had changed. Now a faraway look was always in his eyes. He was silent and meditative when before he had been full of jokes and stories. The youth she had known even in the old world before they had arrived in Byzantium had skipped becoming a man and was now an elder, though on the outside he still looked young.

    Herakleia had confessed, upon reuniting with him, that for months she had been too busy fighting Trebizond¡¯s Latin occupiers to even think about Alexios. During his long absence, she had believed she would never see him again. And in a sense, this was true.

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen things, been places,¡± he explained, after he came back to Trebizond. ¡°Places I can¡¯t explain.¡±

    Yet Alexios¡¯s return awakened old feelings in Herakleia. She always found herself feeling wonderful around him, and had trouble focusing on anything else, though she was the busy strategos of Trebizond. Yet as she struggled to spend time with him, she began to realize that his old self was gone. Instead of the adventurer, teacher, commander, and friend she had known, he had become something like a monk, someone with little use for the world, a man indifferent to his own death, perhaps one who was even indifferent to the deaths of those he loved.

    ¡°To love one is to love all,¡± she told him once, weeks ago, as they had been walking through the city and nodding and smiling and saying hello to almost everyone they saw. ¡°To really love someone, I mean. It makes you fall in love with the universe.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t love the universe anymore,¡± he said. ¡°Not after what I¡¯ve seen.¡±

    ¡°You won¡¯t tell me what it was.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t. I wish I could. But it¡¯s not something I can explain.¡±

    It had something to do with someone called Hermes Trismegistos. That was all Alexios would reveal. He was so frustrating. If Herakleia had never met him before, she would have thought him cold, distant, pretentious, maybe even useless. Yet she remembered who he used to be, and still hoped that she could somehow bring back the old Alexios. Taking him to her room, she removed her clothes and his, and slept with him. But the experience was empty. He put in no effort. Whatever love he had felt for her was gone. And what was the point of making love to someone who didn¡¯t care about you?

    He had helped guide hundreds of people across the wasteland between Trebizond and Meliten¨¦, and he had even kept his two adopted children Basil and Kassia in good health, but it had cost him.

    You can change the world, but the world is also going to change you.

    Now that Alexios¡¯s mission was fulfilled, he had released himself from his earthly duties. He hardly spoke at Workers¡¯ Council meetings, spent too much time alone, and made no effort to see Herakleia, Gontran, Diaresso, and all his other friends¡ªthe witch named Miriai he¡¯d brought back from the Iraki marshes, and Amina and her family of Domari acrobats. The only ones he cared about were Kassia and Basil, and the Aethiopian Isato of Zagwe, who even seemed to love him, and who was always cold toward Herakleia.

    When at last Alexios requested to be sent on another mission, ranting about some bad dreams he was having, how could Herakleia deny him? The Workers¡¯ Council granted him a leave of absence and appointed Fatima the Amazon¡ªa rising star in the uprising, and a young mother besides¡ªto lead the army in his place. At dawn the next day, he was gone, riding one of Sedko Sitinits¡¯s dromons to a distant place on the other side of the Euxine called Mingrelia, Alexios¡¯s family joining him for the voyage.

    Herakleia barely even understood why Alexios had wanted to go to this place. Perhaps he didn¡¯t understand, either. But with real desperation he insisted that he needed to leave, so she let him.

    Herakleia had worked hard yesterday with Chaka Bey to make herself forget Alexios¡¯s departure. But last night, she had dreamed about him¡ªhe was simply there, that was all she remembered¡ªand she woke up thinking of him, wondering where he was, what he was doing, what it would be like to be with him again when he was his old self.

    It would be wonderful.

    But there was always duty. Blink and the Romans would be crucifying Trebizond¡¯s entire populace outside the walls, including the children. The usurper Narses was rumored to have brought back the old practice, though the church had banned it centuries ago.

    Speaking of the Romans¡ªas Herakleia lay in bed, she thought of something Samonas had told her late last night, after all the guests had left.

    ¡°We must find Chaka Bey¡¯s levers of power,¡± he said. ¡°We must push them.¡±

    That phrase, levers of power, stuck in Herakleia¡¯s mind. Perhaps the idea of forging an alliance with Great Seljuk wasn¡¯t so pointless after all. She had felt distraught after Alexios¡¯s departure yesterday¡ªso much so that she had hardly noticed Diaresso and Gontran leaving aboard the Paralos. She had put on a brave face despite the suspicion that she was wasting her time with Chaka Bey. But after sleeping all night, she had more energy, and felt more hopeful.

    Maybe we can really pull this off if we just focus on what we have in common. If we find Chaka Bey¡¯s ¡®levers of power.¡¯

    Herakleia got up, washed, dressed, ate. Soon she was in the ducal chambers with Chaka Bey, Hummay, and Samonas, all sitting around a table discussing the alliance, each nursing a celadon cup of steaming hot Seran cha. A young Trapezuntine steward of the citadel named Nikolaos¡ªa man obsessed with cleanliness¡ªhad poured this for them before joining them at the table, to Chaka Bey¡¯s chagrin, for it was unseemly for servants to sup with their masters.

    ¡°My master wishes to relate something,¡± Hummay began, after Chaka Bey had spoken to him. ¡°When first he came to Trabzon, he thought the people deeply unimpressive. The buildings were impressive, yes, and especially that magnificent ship of yours, but it seemed as though someone else had built these things¡ªa race of giants. And then to treat with a woman on military matters, diplomatic matters, matters of state¡ªthat was the height of ridiculousness. To even entertain such a possibility meant inviting all of our enemies to attack us, for they would think us weak for allying with a people foolish enough to choose a woman as their master.¡±

    Herakleia sipped her Seran cha to keep herself under control. Ibrahim Hummay continued.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    ¡°My master Chaka Bey cannot lie. You know full well that he is not just here as a diplomat. Great Seljuk is curious about this place, and has heard much about it. Frankly, the military here seems too weak to defend it. The walled portion of the city is small, with too little room for the growing population¡ªwhich has many cultures, languages¡ªtoo many divisions, in other words¡ªand too many women, children, elders, cripples, and beggars. And the army seems hardly present. There are few guards, and they are all women! All mothers with whining babes clinging to their arms and legs!¡±

    ¡°We haven¡¯t shown you the army yet,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°But a demonstration, even a parade, could be arranged.¡±

    Hummay translated for Chaka Bey, who nodded, slurped at his Seran cha, and then gestured for more. Nikolaos stood and refilled his cup, the steaming liquid darkened and enriched by the tea leaves inside the celadon teapot. As instructed, Chaka Bey then placed a small chunk of sugar on his tongue¡ªone which Nikolaos had earlier hacked from a sugarloaf¡ªand slurped loudly at his near-boiling hot tea.

    ¡°Mmm, g¨¹zel!¡± he exclaimed, his face reddening. ¡°?ok g¨¹zel!¡±

    Chaka Bey then continued speaking, and Hummay translated. ¡°An alliance on equal terms, you must understand, would be ridiculous. This is a small city with a smaller population, army, and navy. You have only survived so long because of the protection afforded by the mountains and the sea. You are not equal to Great Seljuk. Great Seljuk, in fact, could swat this place away, as one swats a fly. We have heard tell of how the Romans invaded this place, and then even the infidels of Farangistan, and how both were beaten. You must understand that were Great Seljuk to come here, there could be no victory for you. For we too have crushed the Romans and Farang many times¡ªand their armies were far greater than the ones which attacked Trabzon. Indeed, much of our endless lands and many cities were won from your foes in battle. Few of their former subjects have missed them, for we ask little and give much. It would be the same here, if we attacked. Everything would be destroyed, the survivors enslaved, and then those survivors would curse your names, if they dared to think of you at all.¡±

    Herakleia and Samonas kept silent.

    ¡°Yet you have not attacked us,¡± Hummay translated. ¡°And despite our many differences, you have expressed the desire to ally with us¡ªin order to destroy the Romans once and for all. We cannot deny that your boldness intrigues us. My master Chaka Bey likewise appreciates the humanity you have shown his consort, the beautiful and lovely Ay?e Khatun. But the alliance cannot be on equal terms. Instead, we are prepared to allow Trabzon to swear loyalty as vassal to Great Seljuk. You will fight for the Exalted Sultan Malik-Shah when called upon, and you will pay yearly tribute. In exchange, you will be granted a portion of the booty won in those battles in which you participate, and your ways here in Trabzon will be respected¡ªon the condition that you do not seek to turn our own slaves, peasants, women, and children against us. There have been problems in our lands, with women leaving husbands, and tillers of the soil their masters, that they might live, work, and fight instead for Trabzon. From now on, when these people arrive here, you will send them back to their proper place, on pain of death.¡±

    ¡°Impossible,¡± Herakleia said.

    Samonas glared at her, but Herakleia ignored him.

    ¡°To become your vassal is to lose our independence,¡± she said. ¡°It means losing who we truly are, and seems little different from being conquered. It seems like surrendering without a fight.¡±

    Chaka Bey spoke, and Hummay translated.

    ¡°My master wishes to inform you that this place will be conquered by Great Seljuk one way or the other. The tides of history cannot be resisted forever. Should you become our vassal, no one would need be hurt, and your ways would be respected. We have many Christians in our lands, and Jews besides, and even people of which you likely possess no knowledge¡ª¡±

    ¡°You would respect our ways,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°At least until you decided to change them. And you would use our army as a human shield, wouldn¡¯t you? Isn¡¯t that the traditional Seljuk tactic? Deploy the levies in the front and center¡ªpeasant soldiers who have been just called up, who have little training and less armor¡ªand let the enemy exhaust themselves slaughtering them. Then the Seljuk cavalry¡ªcalled sipahis, aren¡¯t they?¡ªswoop in from the sides and destroy the enemy. That¡¯s how you would use my amazons. As bait. Meat for the grinder. Then, with them out of the way, Trebizond would be defenseless. Nothing could stop you from leaving a garrison here to keep the people under control. In time Trebizond would become just another city in the sultanate.¡±

    ¡°My master wishes to ask if that would really be so terrible,¡± Hummay said. ¡°In Seljuk cities, taxes are low. People can believe and do almost whatever they wish, so long as they respect the established order. This is an improvement on Roman government, is it not? I hesitate to even use the term ¡®government¡¯ to describe what the Romans do. Their ¡®government¡¯ is more like a system of organized theft undertaken at the point of a sword, one very much out of step with the times. And you cannot even raise an eyebrow in Roman lands without enraging the Roman government, for it is so insecure, so close to toppling.¡±

    ¡°Seljuk government is only a minor improvement,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°And one far behind what we have established here. We are happy to be your allies, but we can never be your vassals.¡±

    ¡°As my master has said, only equals can be allies, and you are far from that.¡±

    Herakleia raised her hands. ¡°We¡¯re at an impasse.¡±

    Chaka Bey was grumbling more loudly now, and Hummay was struggling to translate. ¡°My master wishes to ask the reason for his coming here. What is the purpose of speaking with one another if there can be no compromise?¡±

    Herakleia¡¯s body was tense. She struggled to control herself, and even thought of drawing her sword, though of course she was unarmed.

    ¡°Compromise for you means surrender for us,¡± she said.

    Just then, Ay?e Khatun entered the ducal chamber. Tended by her two Seran ladies-in-waiting Selcan and Aykiz, she bowed, smiled, apologized, and took tiny steps. This was the first time Herakleia noticed the princess¡¯s peculiar manner of walking. Herakleia worried that Ay?e Khatun¡¯s feet had been bound, but the princess¡¯s shoes¡ªred, black, turned up at the toes, almost like boats¡ªwere of a normal size.

    Ay?e Khatun¡¯s clothes had also changed. She was clad in glimmering silver-blue silk, her face powdered white, her lips rouged, her eyes lined with kohl, her black hair done up in a large bun that seemed to hover behind and above her head. Now she looked as though she had just arrived from Sera¡ªthat a flying serpent had carried her straight from a Seran palace to the ducal chamber. Nothing about her looked Seljuk at all. She had transformed.

    She also transformed the grimace on her husband¡¯s face. Herakleia almost expected Chaka Bey to growl something about how women were forbidden to interrupt this manly business, but instead he seemed to melt at the sight of her. He smiled and squinted, his eyes shone, and he leaped to his feet to help her into a seat at the table, which Nikolaos brought for her, at the same time pouring her a cup of Seran cha. She thanked him in Roman, and the servant bowed, blushed, and then sat back down. Herakleia reflected¡ªwith not a little jealousy¡ªthat this woman enchanted everyone. One glance from her could overthrow a city; another could overthrow a nation. Wherever she went, all eyes fell on her and lingered.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to interrupt,¡± Ay?e Khatun said. ¡°I only wished to join my husband. Please pretend I am not here.¡±

    ¡°That is quite impossible, my dear,¡± Samonas said.

    Silent until now, Samonas had nonetheless said what everyone was thinking. And although he could never touch Ay?e Khatun, Herakleia believed he was curious about the ladies-in-waiting, Selcan and Aykiz. She caught him eyeing them; Selcan even blushed and avoided his gaze. Samonas was a eunuch, but he was only cut. So far as Herakleia knew, everything else was intact.

    The room was silent. No one even joked about how there was nothing to say.

    ¡°Please do not tell me I have spoiled the mood,¡± Ay?e Khatun said.

    ¡°You haven¡¯t,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°The mood was spoiled before you arrived.¡±

    ¡°Whatever do you mean?¡± Ay?e Khatun said.

    Herakleia looked at Chaka Bey, then explained the diplomatic impasse to Ay?e Khatun. Her husband permitted this.

    He¡¯s sexist except for his wife, Herakleia thought.

    ¡°My husband is pushing you too hard,¡± Ay?e Khatun said. She spoke sternly in Seljuk to Chaka Bey, who blushed, looked away, and stuttered a response.

    Whipped, Herakleia thought.

    Ibrahim Hummay bowed to Herakleia. ¡°My master wishes to apologize for his earlier behavior, and states that Great Seljuk would be delighted to conclude an anti-Roman alliance with Trabzon.¡±

    Herakleia¡¯s leadership XP increased, and her mouth opened. She looked at Samonas, thinking: levers of power.

    Yet after lunch, when Ay?e Khatun asked Herakleia for a tour of the city, the strategos would begin to think that her feeling of triumph here in the ducal chamber had been premature.

 26. I Cannot Go Back

    After lunch, Ay?e Khatun asked Herakleia for a tour of Trebizond, and what could the strategos do but oblige? ¡°The princess takes what she likes,¡± Ay?e Khatun explained, waving an ornate paper fan. As they walked, and worked off the banquet they had devoured, they met practically everyone in the city, and saw all the sights. Ay?e Khatun abandoned the tiny polite Seran princess steps she had used earlier and¡ªadapting to circumstance¡ªinstead took the same broad strides as Herakleia.

    ¡°I used to be a princess too,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Is that so?¡± Ay?e Khatun said. ¡°Can one ever stop being a princess?¡±

    ¡°Seems like it.¡±

    ¡°What a pity.¡±

    Herakleia observed how Ay?e Khatun needed to lift her glimmering silk robe above the dirt and muck on the paved road.

    ¡°We can find some pants for you, if you want,¡± Herakleia said.

    Ay?e Khatun bowed. ¡°I appreciate the thought, but I can only take things so far before I anger my husband. To be out here alone with you and unguarded is already quite extreme.¡±

    ¡°You aren¡¯t unguarded. I¡¯m with you, and the people of Trebizond know you¡¯re our guest. They won¡¯t let you get hurt.¡±

    Indeed, almost everyone they passed greeted them, to the extent that it was a little difficult to keep their conversation going. Ay?e Khatun asked Herakleia to talk about her adventures, and she was happy to describe her trip to Sera, her capture by the Romans, and how her friends Gontran, Alexios, and Diaresso had risked everything to free her.

    ¡°I would be so delighted if I could meet these friends of yours,¡± Ay?e Khatun said. ¡°They sound like such adventurous people¡ªlike people in novels!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry you missed them. They left before you arrived.¡±

    ¡°Next time,¡± Ay?e Khatun said. ¡°I will have to wait for next time. I used to tell myself that I could always do the things I wanted to do in my next life, but lately I have begun to suspect that there is no next life. Perhaps this is the only life we have.¡±

    Herakleia kept silent. She was already worrying about how this place was changing her guest. Ay?e Khatun had become the key to the alliance. Small compromises needed to be made in the name of the greater good. This was Herakleia thinking like a politician with a broad constituency.

    ¡°Please tell me more stories,¡± Ay?e Khatun said as they continued walking. ¡°I know you must have more adventure stories.¡±

    Shrugging, Herakleia talked about how she had once been eaten by a gigantic sea monster called a ketos, and how she had defended Trebizond in two sieges¡ªfighting in the first on a sailboat, then in the second in a resistance movement that had expelled the Latin occupation within weeks.

    Ay?e Khatun¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°However did you manage to accomplish such a thing? For some people, it must take years, decades, if not centuries to achieve such feats.¡±

    Memory of fucking Duke Robert to death¡ªhis flushed, sweaty face, his blue eyes rolling with pleasure¡ªflashed in Herakleia¡¯s mind.

    ¡°We got lucky,¡± she said.

    ¡°Oh, do not be so falsely modest with me.¡± She slapped Herakleia gently with her fan. ¡°I suspect that luck had nothing to do with it.¡±

    They met the blacksmith Jamshied al-Tabrizi, who was then teaching his students how to forge hand cannons. Ay?e Khatun called them ¡°fire lances,¡± but remarked that they were more advanced than what she recalled in Sera.

    ¡°The soldiers of Great Song must hold these weapons using their hands and feet,¡± she said. ¡°They are too dangerous to hold with hands alone.¡±

    Jamshied bowed to her. ¡°These weapons are also dangerous, my lady, but we¡¯ve reduced the number of times they explode in our hands. They¡¯re more accurate and dependable now.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s easier to aim when you aren¡¯t worried about blowing yourself up,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Even if they do not explode, the fire lances of Great Song are far too hot to hold,¡± Ay?e Khatun said. ¡°They will burn your hands away.¡±

    ¡°That is no longer much of an issue,¡± Jamshied said.

    ¡°It¡¯s all so very impressive,¡± Ay?e Khatun said as they walked outside Jamshied¡¯s shop and into the sunshine. Soon they were back in the citadel courtyard watching some amazon trainees run upon walls. ¡°These must be the women soldiers I have heard about, doing their amazing feats of acrobatics.¡±

    ¡°Most of our army consists of women,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°The men are too busy building and mining. Without women, we¡¯d have almost no one in our army at all.¡±

    Ay?e Khatun laughed. ¡°These women of yours¡ªthese amazons¡ªthey more than hold their own against the fighting men of this world, do they not?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve taught them the fighting techniques from Tiger Mountain, as I mentioned, and as you can see.¡±

    ¡°An utter mastery of qi.¡± Ay?e Khatun watched with amazement as two trainees raced each other along the walls. ¡°Here you have exceeded all but the greatest fighting monks also. This Trebizond, it is a special place.¡± She turned to face Herakleia. ¡°Many powers would wish to steal its secrets.¡±

    ¡°Two have already tried. They both regretted it.¡±

    ¡°You sometimes call yourselves immortals, do you not? And yet you are not truly immortal, but only made of flesh and blood, heart and soul. Silver coins can fell your people just as silver arrows can. I have also heard legends from these lands of yours.¡± Ay?e Khatun looked to the sunlit mountains that seemed to rise above Trebizond like tidal waves. ¡°In Great Song, we call this place Fulin. You have a legend of a man who flew too close to the sun, do you not? His feathers melted, for they were glued together with honey, and he plunged to his death in the sea.¡±

    ¡°Ikaros. Everyone knows it.¡±

    ¡°I like this legend,¡± Ay?e Khatun said. ¡°I like so much about the cultures in these lands. We consider all those outside Zhongguo barbarians, but I have found that we can learn much from one another. In the past, I would have been frightened to walk outside the palace without armed guards, but here I am only with you. I have learned much from my husband, perhaps too much.¡±

    ¡°You seem to keep him under control.¡±

    Ay?e Khatun smiled white teeth from her red lips, and her kohl-lined eyes squinted with amusement. ¡°He is my dog. But even a dog will tolerate only so much from his master before he fights back.¡±

    ¡°Story of my life,¡± Herakleia said.

    Ay?e Khatun laughed.

    They made their way out of the Northeast Gate, through the Daphnous Suburbs, around Mount Minthrion¡ªwhich had more buildings every day now¡ªand toward K¨¢rbouno Mountain, where the poisonous smell of coal laced the air. Ay?e Khatun had asked to see the mines, and Herakleia had obliged her. In the last few months, thanks to the combined genius of Jamshied and Samonas¡ªas well as the vague memories of the old world lurking in the minds of Herakleia, Gontran, and Alexios¡ªthe workers had constructed an actual elevator, one powered at first by people and animals and later by steam, and which even included a safety mechanism designed to engage if the rope supporting the elevator snapped. This not only made it easier to move workers in and out of the mine, but it greatly increased the rate at which coal was extracted, to the extent that now a large steam-powered water pump was also necessary to keep the groundwater in the depths of the earth at bay. The miners had burrowed so deeply that their tunnels and chambers would have collapsed long ago otherwise. They also lost more time now by ¡°timbering¡±¡ªhammering wood into place to hold up the tunnels¡ªbut safety, not profit, always came first.

    Ay?e Khatun inevitably asked for a tour of the mine. Herakleia was expecting this, and likewise expected the princess to persist even after being warned that going underground was dangerous. They found spare heavy iron helmets in the storage depot. It looked so incongruous to see the beautiful Seran princess dressed in silk with an iron helmet on her head, and Herakleia warned Ay?e Khatun that her clothes would be ruined if she wore them into the mine. Excusing herself into the locker room, she exchanged her silk dress for a miner¡¯s pants and tunic, and was once more transformed. All that remained of her Seran-ness was the white powder on her face, the kohl lining her eyes, and the rouge on her lips. Combined with the silk, the makeup made her look beautiful, but now Herakleia thought she looked like a clown, and she even advised Ay?e Khatun to wash the makeup off, since she was bound to be covered in coal anyway. The princess followed her advice. Without the makeup, she looked even more beautiful, as if that was even possible.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    <i>I have to take it easy with this woman</i>, Herakleia thought. <i>I¡¯m starting to have too much of a crush on her.</i>

    Ghiyath al-Din, having lost a leg to the Latin invaders, now manned the elevator controls, spending much of his time here studying reading and mathematics textbooks printed by the city¡¯s press. Herakleia greeted him, and remarked upon the amazing progress he had made. When he had first arrived in Trebizond as a refugee from Syria¡ªalong with his wife Fatima, who was now Kentarch of the Workers¡¯ Legions¡ªhe had been unable to write his own name. It had been a struggle to get him to memorize the first few letters of the Greek alphabet, especially because his first language was Arabic. But he had kept at it, attending classes alongside children and other illiterate adults¡ªof which there were many¡ªin the Gabras School. At this point it seemed like the man would soon be writing books of his own. After all, the library here was limited¡ªTrebizond was always looking for more books, and forcing ships which carried books to have them copied and printed here before the ships were allowed to depart¡ªwhich meant that there was much that needed to be written, particularly primers on history and dialectical materialism, not to mention medicine, chemistry, engineering, and psychology. These fields impacted workers the most, and such disciplines were in their infancy even in the most advanced parts of the world. And even when history books existed, for instance, they were produced by servants of the feudal or slaveowning ruling class, and therefore rarely concerned themselves with the overwhelming majority of humanity, disdaining it as filth, only focusing on the triumphs and follies of the great men in history¡ªnobles, knights, priests, emperors. This meant that having the time, resources, and know-how needed to conduct scientific experiments and interpret the results could lead to almost superhuman progress. In his spare time away from K¨¢rbouno Mountain Ghiyath al-Din was already interviewing people and taking notes in preparation for a history of Trebizond, one which extended back even beyond the days when the Ten Thousand arrived here with Xenophon, escaping the death of Cyrus, Persian Shahanshah, to the days of Mithridatic and then Roman domination, and finally the coup of Nikephoros and the subsequent uprising.

    Ay?e Khatun found all of this fascinating. ¡°In Zhongguo,¡± she said as they entered the elevator, ¡°only the priests and eunuchs are permitted to read and write. There are some scribes, too, musicians, poets, and entertainers, but it is looked upon as a dangerous thing for ordinary people to know these secrets. The poets themselves are often branded as traitors and meet terrible ends.¡±

    ¡°But do they actually betray the emperor?¡± Herakleia said. ¡°The Son of Heaven?¡±

    Ay?e Khatun blushed. ¡°They are often made the playthings of rival conspirators at court.¡±

    ¡°They don¡¯t fight for the people?¡±

    ¡°It is unthinkable. Why would they? If anything, the poets view the toilers of the fields and the merchants of the marketplaces and the soldiers of the marching armies with even more contempt than do the eunuchs and the Son of Heaven himself. Indeed, the laborers are actually beneath their contempt¡ªin their minds, they are merely dull obstacles if they exist at all. To the intellectuals, manual laborers are no different from draft animals.¡±

    ¡°Intellectuals can be a problem if they aren¡¯t disciplined by the working class,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°It¡¯s the same with anyone. If you aren¡¯t explicitly on the workers¡¯ side¡ªregardless of the demands they make upon you¡ªthen you are aiding slavery and reaction. What we aim to do here involves making workers into intellectuals, and intellectuals into workers.¡±

    ¡°I can see you are already progressing.¡±

    Herakleia smiled. She had expected skepticism from Ay?e Khatun, and was unused to outsiders¡ªparticularly outsiders with royal pedigrees¡ªagreeing with her so easily. Was this a trick? What did Ay?e Khatun want with her?

    Ghiyath activated the lever, and the elevator swung down into darkness. Ay?e Khatun gasped and hugged Herakleia in fear, then laughed nervously and stepped away. Almost nothing could be seen save for the light glowing from the chemical lamps in their helmets. Herakleia showed Ay?e Khatun how to adjust hers. Even at its maximum setting, the lamp gave off only a dim glow, one barely brighter than a candle. But it lasted for hours, and was safe around pockets of gas¡ªsome of which could be ignited by a spark from a pickaxe striking bedrock¡ªso it was the best Trebizond could do for the time being.

    The elevator descended, and the air whooshed in the darkness, but it still took time to get to the bottom, passing many abandoned tunnels along the way. Sometimes the helmet lamp light would glint against the emergency escape ladder¡ªwelded to the rock¡ªas it blurred past. With a shudder Herakleia remembered the days, not so long ago, when workers needed to climb down here using rickety wooden ladders that would creak, groan, snap, splinter, and sometimes step back and forth like stilts at the edges of cliffs that overlooked endless chasms.

    After an eternity, the elevator reached the bottom. Herakleia and Ay?e Khatun stepped out into the darkness, meeting coal-blackened miners who nodded to Herakleia and said ¡°strategos¡± before shoving tubs of coal into the elevator and stepping back¡ªallowing the two passengers only a moment to get out of the way. After tugging a string attached to a bell at the top of the shaft, the elevator vanished.

    ¡°I¡¯m almost afraid to ask.¡± Ay?e Khatun¡¯s voice echoed in the darkness. ¡°But how deep are we?¡±

    ¡°Thousands of feet,¡± Herakleia said.

    At the bottom of the mine, there was little to see. Miners hacked at the walls with pickaxes, shoveled the coal into tubs, and then shoved the tubs along iron tracks to the elevator, always doing their best to keep an eye on cracks in the walls or ceilings or problems with the timber. Water was dripping everywhere. Herakleia explained to Ay?e Khatun that they were planning on building even larger machines to mine this place, even though the price of coal had fallen so low¡ªas a result of their hard work¡ªthat it was almost worthless.

    ¡°Why then do you mine it?¡± Ay?e Khatun asked.

    ¡°It keeps us warm in the winter. It¡¯s also useful for building high-powered machinery. We have plans for machines that the world has never seen before¡ªheavy lumbering titans which can¡¯t move except by the power contained in these stones.¡± Herakleia held up a chunk of gleaming coal into the lamp light. Ay?e Khatun¡¯s shining face¡ªnow smudged with coal¡ªwas only barely visible in the darkness.

    ¡°How beautiful to see,¡± Ay?e Khatun said.

    She entertained herself by joining the miners and slamming a pickaxe against the rock walls, explaining once again that ¡°the princess takes what she likes.¡± Herakleia thought that Ay?e Khatun would only do this a few times, giggle like a schoolgirl, and then satisfy her curiosity¡ª¡°what¡¯s it like to have a real job?¡±¡ªfor the rest of her life. But she was full of surprises. She kept at it, hacking at the mountain heart until the sweat running down her face was black with coal. Again and again she pounded the seam, switching from one arm to the other, grunting swears in a language no one else understood, until even the other miners had stopped to watch. Minutes passed. Soon these turned to a quarter of an hour, then half an hour. Out of boredom, Herakleia joined Ay?e Khatun, unsure of when she would be satisfied, doing her best to gratify her guest, especially since it seemed that Ay?e Khatun controlled Chaka Bey¡ªand perhaps also inadvertently controlled Great Seljuk, or at least had some influence over the family of the Exalted Sultan. Herakleia soon realized that the princess was taking out all her frustrations on the mountain, to the extent that even the mountain itself was almost cowering and begging her to stop. Finally, after one hour, then two, Ay?e Khatun declared that she¡¯d had enough. She was so exhausted that she almost needed to be carried away. Herakleia and a few other miners¡ªincluding Masud, the big Turkish miner who had survived the Latin occupation¡ªhelped her back to the elevator.

    ¡°I have not seen my family in years,¡± Ay?e Khatun explained as she and Herakleia rode back up to the sky. ¡°It took a year to travel from the capital to Erzurum. But my family abandoned me. They practically sold me to Chaka Bey. I understand why they did it, and all my life I had known that it was coming. Yet I did not know that it was possible to live differently, not until I heard about this place, not until I came here.¡±

    These words should have excited Herakleia, but they actually frightened her. Now she was unsure of what to say. Was Trebizond radicalizing the princess?

    ¡°Why should women always bow down to men?¡± Ay?e Khatun said, partly to herself. ¡°Why can we not determine our own destinies? Why must we merely serve as their sows, breeding their children for them that they may profit and pass on their property to their descendants? Are we not more than mere cows? The word in Seran for ¡®slave,¡¯ it is not so different from the word for ¡®woman.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Of course we¡¯re more than that,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°But some of us still have duties, responsibilities. Some of us can help more in certain ways than others¡ª¡±

    ¡°Perhaps I should never have come here,¡± Ay?e Khatun said. ¡°I might have been happier, had I remained ignorant of this place. It will change me forever. I have tasted something I may have never known otherwise. I knew it almost from the moment I first looked down upon the city from the mountains. When I saw how vast it was, how busy and sprawling, how black acrid smoke rose from the buildings, and how the sea was full of all kinds of ships¡­I knew this place was unique. I had never seen anything like it. But I did not know that it would change me so quickly. How could I have? And now tell me, strategos, how can I return to my old life, having tasted of the freedom of this place? Shall I simply live out the rest of my days as a decoration for my husband, giving him children until I die in childbirth, while you adventure across the world?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re called adventures for a reason,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°They¡¯re dangerous and full of misery. There¡¯s nothing fun about hunger, cold, heat, or watching the people you love get killed. Good people lose their lives if they¡¯re unlucky¡ªtheir limbs if they¡¯re lucky. The loss is often meaningless. I know what you¡¯re thinking, princess, and if you mean to join us, it would mean giving up all the comforts of your court. Your beautiful clothing, your servants¡ª¡±

    ¡°What are they except the adornments of a golden cage?¡± Ay?e Khatun said.

    ¡°But there¡¯s another problem.¡± Herakleia squinted as their elevator neared the light. ¡°If you join us, your husband will never forgive Trebizond. He will declare war against it.¡±

    ¡°What does that matter? Great Seljuk cannot stand up to the might of this place.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a vast empire, almost undefeated in battle. We don¡¯t even know how far its borders extend¡­¡±

    ¡°I cannot go back.¡± The elevator stopped, and Ay?e Khatun walked outside into the light on her own. ¡°No one will convince me. You let me work in the mine as a man¡ªyou let me work as a free person. I cannot return to slavery. Consequences be damned, I wish to join your uprising, and you cannot stop me. For the princess, as you know, takes what she likes.¡±

 27. Vipers In My Nest

    ¡°You can¡¯t tell your husband!¡± Herakleia shouted, following Ay?e Khatun as she walked quickly back down into the city along the road, which was crowded with carts and workers. ¡°Please wait. Stop!¡±

    Ay?e Khatun kept going as though no one had spoken, though everyone was turning to stare at her.

    ¡°All of these people depend on us!¡± Herakleia shouted. ¡°Children in the city could die if you go through with this!¡±

    Ay?e Khatun stopped and turned.

    ¡°You want to join the uprising,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Fine. You¡¯re welcome to. Anyone is. We¡¯re happy to have you. But not everyone is meant to be a soldier or a worker. You could help us so much just by continuing to be who you are!¡±

    ¡°The old way of doing things has become quite impossible.¡± Ay?e Khatun looked at her. ¡°¡®Normal¡¯ has become impossible.¡±

    Herakleia watched her, unsure of what to do. Drawing a sword and threatening the princess would only lead to trouble¡ªas would letting her tell Chaka Bey that she was finished with him. The bey would blame the uprisers for twisting Ay?e Khatun¡¯s mind, as though they had consciously desired this, even as it went against all they stood for.

    One princess is not worth the entire uprising.

    But Chaka Bey could never conceive of the possibility that Ay?e Khatun was a human being with thoughts, feelings, dreams. She was a person impacted by the world, but one who could also impact it.

    Although Chaka Bey was unpleasant and frightening, and would¡ªwithout hesitation¡ªslaughter innocents to preserve his exploitative power, Herakleia also felt sorry for him. He had been impolite, but he had harmed no one, and was obviously infatuated with his wife¡ªeven more in love with her after years of marriage. Who could blame him? What was lacking in Ay?e Khatun? Herakleia herself had never felt physically attracted to women¡ªnot since arriving in the game, anyway¡ªbut the sight of Ay?e Khatun¡ªparticularly when she was dressed like a miner¡ªquickened her pulse. Clearly Chaka Bey could not get enough of her. She was his treasure. Losing her to the uprising would devastate him. No army could hope to inflict such a crushing defeat in battle.

    But of course, if Ay?e Khatun truly went through with joining the uprising, it would lead to war. Within months, Trebizond would be facing yet another siege¡ªits third in a year. Thousands of soldiers would surround the walls, burn the suburbs, and kill or enslave or wound her comrades¡ªagain.

    One way or another, Herakleia could not let this happen.

    She raced after Ay?e Khatun, even using a little farr to leap over the grass, leaving her with 99/100. Ay?e Khatun had neither changed her clothes nor washed since exiting the mine; her silk dress was still hanging in the changing room, suspended on a gust of coal-laced air. She too was covered in coal, but so was Herakleia.

    Herakleia grabbed Ay?e Khatun by the wrist and threw her down into the grass beside the road. Everyone had stopped to stare.

    ¡°Get away from me!¡± Ay?e Khatun gasped as Herakleia pinned her to the grass. ¡°What do you think you are doing?¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t let you go through with this,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°I can¡¯t let this happen. You don¡¯t know what¡¯s at stake.¡±

    ¡°I do what I want!¡±

    ¡°Listen to me. You want to join a workers¡¯ uprising, but you¡¯re still acting like a princess. Joining us means that you have to let go¡ªsometimes¡ªof your individual desires in the name of the common good.¡±

    Ay?e Khatun laughed. ¡°Who decides what the common good is? You?¡±

    Herakleia nodded. ¡°They chose me to be their leader! The moment I fuck up, I¡¯m out!¡±

    ¡°Strategos,¡± a worker said from the road. It was one of the Domari acrobats. What was his name¡ªJafer El-Hadi, one of Alexios¡¯s friends he had brought here from the Arabian deserts. He had been a dekarch in the Fifth Century, but he had resigned his commission to raise his family. Now he was holding his fat toddler. ¡°Are you in need of¡ª¡±

    ¡°Please leave us alone,¡± Herakleia said, growling more than she would have liked¡ªtaking out her frustration on this random man. ¡°If you want to help, please keep people from bothering us.¡±

    ¡°Daddy, why are the ladies hitting each other?¡± the toddler said.

    ¡°As you wish, strategos,¡± El-Hadi said, ignoring his toddler, and still speaking more formally than most Trapezuntines. He stepped closer to Herakleia and Ay?e Khatun, turned his back, and then gestured for everyone on the road to continue along their way.

    Nothing to see here, Herakleia thought. Just a catfight between two princesses in the grass.

    Ay?e Khatun struggled against her, but it was useless. A soft princess could never defeat a battle-hardened warrior. Herakleia¡¯s m¨ºl¨¦e combat skills were actually low (Beginner, 2/10), since she had killed only a few people in her time in Byzantium. Nonetheless, she was still much stronger than Ay?e Khatun. Exasperated, Ay?e Khatun spat in Herakleia¡¯s face, but Herakleia deflected the spit with the farr back onto Ay?e Khatun¡¯s forehead.

    Ay?e Khatun gasped with shock. ¡°How dare you? My husband will hear about this!¡±

    ¡°Will that be before or after you tell him you want a divorce?¡±

    ¡°Let me go!¡±

    ¡°Only when you swear allegiance to the uprising¡ªwhich means swearing allegiance to the decisions the uprising makes, even if you disagree, even if these make your life uncomfortable. It¡¯s not all about you. You must look beyond yourself.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t go back.¡± Ay?e Khatun was crying, now. ¡°You don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like.¡±

    ¡°Tears might work on men, but they won¡¯t work on me. One way or the other, you¡¯re going to do your duty. You¡¯re going back to your husband. You¡¯re going to keep him on our side.¡±

    ¡°You want me to whore myself out to him. You¡¯re no different from my father.¡±

    Herakleia paused. These words stung.

    ¡°We all need to make sacrifices,¡± she said. ¡°We¡¯ve all left things behind.¡±

    ¡°Did you whore yourself out, too? Or is this just a duty you force on others?¡±

    Herakleia saw Duke Robert¡¯s flushed face as his neck cracked in her grip.

    ¡°I can¡¯t even talk about it,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s too hard to think about. But if you think you¡¯re the only one around here who¡¯s suffered from sexual violence, you¡¯ve got another thing coming. Building a new world costs blood. It costs pain. Look past yourself and see what you¡¯re going to do. Think about the consequences of your actions.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s all I¡¯ve been allowed to think about my entire life. All I¡¯ve ever been told is to think about others, never about myself.¡±

    It felt, in some ways, like Herakleia was talking with a younger version of herself¡ªthe girl trapped in the Imperial Palace who had yet to discover the forbidden Mazdakist texts.

    ¡°You can have your midlife crisis later when all of this is over,¡± she said.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°When all of what is over? When will it ever be over? Even if you and my husband conquer Rome, who will the next enemy be? You will still need Great Seljuk as an ally¡ªand still need me in my husband¡¯s bed, with my legs spread wide!¡±

    ¡°If that¡¯s what it takes to free humanity.¡±

    ¡°Would you put yourself in my place?¡±

    ¡°I already have. More times than you could imagine.¡±

    ¡°Shall I bear my husband¡¯s children, too? Shall I raise vipers in my nest?¡±

    ¡°They won¡¯t be vipers. They can join us. In time, maybe even your husband will come around.¡±

    ¡°Never. You know nothing about him. You¡¯ve met him for only a few hours, and now you think you know him as I do? Perhaps this uprising of yours is doomed after all, if its leaders think in such ways.¡±

    ¡°I want to let you go. Will you promise to do as I say? Go back to Chaka Bey as his wife, or go back as a comrade of ours. Either way, you¡¯re going back.¡±

    Tears were spattering the coal on Ay?e Khatun¡¯s face. But she pursed her lips, and nodded.

    Herakleia climbed off Ay?e Khatun, helped her up, and even brushed her off. Then Herakleia thanked Jafer El-Hadi, who bowed to her and said it was nothing. His toddler stared at them. Wasn¡¯t the boy named Ibrahim?

    Soon enough, the two princesses were back on the road. Workers greeted them. Some asked Herakleia if she had gone back to work in the mines.

    ¡°Just for the day!¡± she told them, eyeing Ay?e Khatun. ¡°I had to work off some stress!¡±

    The workers nodded. Few envied her. She was the one who, together with the council, made the decisions that were too hard for anyone else to figure out¡ªand she was also the one who took the blame when things went wrong. Many times she had volunteered to step down, since her record was far from perfect, but the workers had begged her to stay.

    As she returned to the city with Ay?e Khatun and snuck her into the citadel bathhouse to wash up¡ªkeeping an eye out for Chaka Bey or any members of his retinue¡ªHerakleia noted that the city seemed to have grown larger even during her time down in the mines. The workers were free to build and direct themselves, which meant that improvement could be seen everywhere.

    It was almost dinner time. Chaka Bey would soon be wondering what had happened to his wife. After Ay?e Khatun had scrubbed herself raw in the baths, Selcan and Aykiz brought her inside the palace. Before long, she was covered in silk and makeup, and sitting in the banqueting hall beside Chaka Bey with Herakleia and Samonas and her two ladies-in-waiting (Aykiz had retrieved the silk dress from the mine¡¯s locker room), all while Ibrahim Hummay stood beside his master, translating.

    Nothing on the outside had changed; everything on the inside had changed.

    Chaka Bey asked about Ay?e Khatun¡¯s day. Herakleia explained everything¡ªexcept, of course, his wife¡¯s radicalization.

    ¡°Actually, I think she enjoyed working in the coal mine a little too much,¡± Herakleia said, as Ibrahim Hummay murmured her translated words into Chaka Bey¡¯s ear. ¡°Most people don¡¯t enjoy it. We rotate everyone out all the time. You need to be careful, Chaka Bey. Your wife is going to turn into a worker and join us before you know it.¡±

    Chaka Bey laughed deeply and heartily, then said something, watching Ay?e Khatun. He drank deeply from his cup of wine. Ay?e Khatun, however, was silent, and even seemed depressed.

    ¡°My master wishes to thank you for being such an excellent host to his wife,¡± Hummay translated. ¡°Indeed, he says, she is a hard worker, and a wonderful and excellent woman, the most any man could hope for.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t doubt it,¡± Herakleia said.

    Samonas was watching Herakleia, his expression saying: what the hell are you doing? But Herakleia ignored him and sipped her wine. Ay?e Khatun forced a politic smile. Few would have suspected that only a couple of hours ago she had been writhing in the grass, covered in coal, dressed like a miner, screaming with tears in her eyes to be allowed to abandon her husband.

    It¡¯ll make a good story to tell Samonas later, Herakleia thought. If it doesn¡¯t freak him out too much. She smiled at her old confidant. But he usually freaks out too much.

    Dinner ended when Ay?e Khatun excused herself, saying she was tired from a long day¡¯s work. After she and her ladies-in-waiting Selcan and Aykiz left the ducal chamber, Herakleia, Samonas, Chaka Bey, and Ibrahim Hummay hammered out the terms of the alliance. Great Seljuk and Trebizond would gather their forces in the summer, rendezvous at the Satala ruins to the south of the city, then march west, taking any cities that were still holding out for the Romans until the combined army reached Konstantinopolis. All captured territory would go to Great Seljuk; in exchange, those who wished to join the Army of Trebizond would be free to do so. Once Konstantinopolis was in Seljuk hands, Trebizond¡¯s independence would be respected.

    ¡°But are we not merely exchanging one great terrifying empire for another?¡± Samonas whispered. He and Herakleia were discussing the agreement away from Chaka Bey and Ibrahim Hummay.

    ¡°The Seljuks have promised to respect our independence,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°The Romans have never made any such promise.¡±

    ¡°How do you know the Seljuks won¡¯t turn on us once the Romans are out of the way?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re asking me this now? They almost certainly will. But I have someone working on the inside.¡±

    ¡°Why not simply let the Romans and the Seljuks fight each other?¡±

    ¡°They could ally against us. We have to stop that before it happens. We can¡¯t fight Rome and Great Seljuk at the same time. When one is destroyed, we can worry about the other. For now, we need to play them off each other. Take advantage of contradictions in order to split them.¡±

    ¡°But wouldn¡¯t it be better if we got some territory and cities out of this agreement? Nearby lands and towns, for instance?¡±

    ¡°No point in taking them if we can¡¯t hold them.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like this agreement.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.¡± Herakleia winced as she said this. People back in the old world had spoken this way to excuse their inaction¡ªwhich was the most generous word one could use to describe their policies.

    ¡°Besides,¡± Herakleia added. ¡°We put in the clause about people joining the uprising. It could mean that we gain a lot of new followers.¡±

    ¡°We need to add in a clause for towns and cities allowing them to join us if they wish. We need to prepare for what happens after the war against Rome is concluded.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know if Chaka Bey will accept that.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s only one way to find out.¡±

    Herakleia asked Chaka Bey and Ibrahim Hummay, and to her surprise, they agreed. She did her best to contain her excitement, then returned to confer with Samonas.

    ¡°They scarcely consider us a threat,¡± Samonas said. ¡°That¡¯s why they grant us so much. They underestimate us. What will they say if all their armies and lands choose to join us?¡±

    ¡°They won¡¯t be able to say anything,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Because they¡¯ll be history.¡±

    When the four negotiators returned to the table, Samonas and Ibrahim Hummay wrote their agreement in Roman and Turkish, each checking the other¡¯s text to ensure that everything matched. When the advisors told their superiors that the duplicate documents were ready to sign, Herakleia and Chaka Bey scrawled their signatures and applied their respective seals. Then they shook hands. At this point the evening was late, and everyone was exhausted. After one last toast with wine, they were off to bed, with the two secretaries rolling up their respective documents for storage.

    In the morning, at the assembly in one of Trebizond¡¯s Community Halls, Herakleia announced to the Workers¡¯ Council¡ªand to the gathered workers¡¯ themselves¡ªthat she had allied the city to Great Seljuk, and that their combined armies would soon march on Konstantinopolis.

    ¡°Rome has sent two armies to annihilate us in less than a year!¡± she shouted to the workers, who were all sitting at the long tables and benches and watching her. ¡°While we may have our differences with Great Seljuk, we have never fought one another. This alliance will keep Trebizond safe!¡±

    She was ready to finish her speech with a rousing reference to victory and glory, but hands began to rise in the Community Hall. People had questions. As it turned out, many had the same concerns as Samonas. But much of this had already been discussed with the Workers¡¯ Council and among the workers themselves. The alliance was imperfect, but it was the best they could do under the circumstances. To follow one¡¯s ideals in this situation would mean antagonizing both powers, rather than just one. And if Rome and Great Seljuk did indeed go to war without Trebizond¡¯s participation, the victor would look poorly on the city when the dust had settled.

    People despise their opponents, of course, but nobody is more despised than the one who sits on the fence and refuses to do anything.

    Some workers grumbled¡ªit was impossible to please everyone¡ªbut the majority ultimately agreed with Herakleia¡¯s actions. They had appointed her to deal with this problem, and she had dealt with it while keeping their interests in mind. Now all that remained to be done was to bid Chaka Bey farewell and prepare the army for war. Trebizond had never gone on the offensive before, and new tactics and strategies would be needed: a scientific approach to conquest. They would relentlessly scout every city before they took it. They would know when the city watches changed, when the city watches took their bathroom breaks, when the city watches picked their noses. The Trapezuntine soldiers would practice taking cities again and again, so that it would become second nature. Those soldiers who did well would be elected officers by their comrades; those officers who did poorly would lose their commissions and return to the ranks.

    Herakleia went back to the citadel, expecting only a brief ceremony before the embassy of Great Seljuk departed for home. She felt good; her act of solidarity with the workers at the council had restored her farr to 100/100. But when she walked into the citadel courtyard, she heard a woman shouting in Seljuk from a high-up window, and saw all the guards and workers and even Samonas staring up at Ay?e Khatun, who was standing at her window ledge and crying. Almost before Herakleia could even react, Ay?e Khatun jumped.

 28. Spyglass

    Burning through the farr, Herakleia soared into the sky and caught Ay?e Khatun before she could bash her life out on the ground. 95/100 farr remained for Herakleia. Ay?e Khatun was crying so mournfully that she hardly even noticed that her suicide attempt had failed. At almost the moment Herakleia set her down in the palace courtyard, Chaka Bey and his retinue of slaves¡ªas well as Selcan and Aykiz¡ªrushed out of the palace. Chaka Bey now wore his demonic face, as well as all his golden armor, which shone almost too brightly to look at. Ibrahim Hummay was bowing beside him and looking smaller than ever, clad in swirling silk and glittering jewels that jingled with his careful footsteps.

    ¡°What¡¯s this all about?¡± Herakleia clutched Ay?e Khatun close. ¡°What¡¯s the meaning of this?¡±

    Before Hummay could translate, Chaka Bey roared at Herakleia, lunging toward her, his right hand trembling as it came close to drawing his damascened scimitar, its hard steel blade sharp as volcanic glass.

    Hummay bowed to her. ¡°Forgive me, strategos, but my master Chaka Bey wishes to inform you that he believes this is not your business. These are his words, not mine. He demands that you return his wife to him at once.¡±

    ¡°Not until he can explain why she just tried to kill herself.¡±

    Chaka Bey screamed like a lion, so that even the air around him seemed to tremble with fear. Ay?e Khatun shook in Herakleia¡¯s grip, and Samonas¡ªstanding nearby¡ªclutched his head in frustration, at the same time murmuring a prayer.

    Hummay, meanwhile, translated Chaka Bey¡¯s words. ¡°My master wishes to inform you that his wife, the illustrious princess Ay?e Khatun, is not acting like herself. This place has filled her mind with ideas that can never be. She has forgotten her duty to her husband as well as to her father and to Great Seljuk. Even to act in this way betrays Trabzon, does it not? For it risks everything¡ªincluding your very lives.¡±

    ¡°She wants to join us,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°She told me. I told her she needed to honor her vow to her husband.¡±

    Hummay translated, but these words only further enraged Chaka Bey. His wailing voice rattled the citadel windows.

    ¡°My master wishes to inform you that from the moment he arrived here, you have been attempting to turn his wife against him. Every word you uttered was meant to trick and seduce her.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not true!¡±

    Chaka Bey¡¯s screaming continued. Hummay, caught between two foes, was tense. He kept his head bowed, and his eyes averted.

    ¡°My master Chaka Bey wishes to inform you that you must return his wife to him immediately, or the alliance with Trebizond ends.¡± Hummay paused. ¡°Great Seljuk will declare war on you, and ally with the Romans and all other powers against you. When this city is taken, every inhabitant¡ªdown to the babes in their mothers¡¯ arms¡ªwill be put to the sword.¡±

    This is a nightmare. Herakleia looked down at the woman she was clutching to her chest. Ay?e Khatun looked up at her with tears in her reddened eyes. All her makeup was running down her face.

    ¡°Please do not send me back,¡± she whispered.

    Herakleia looked at Chaka Bey. ¡°The documents we signed stipulate that anyone who wishes to join us is welcome to do so.¡±

    As soon as Hummay had translated these words, Chaka Bey drew his scimitar and stepped toward Herakleia, his golden armor clanking. The Trapezuntine guards in the courtyard came to her side and drew their own weapons. Chaka Bey stopped, glared at them, and shouted so furiously that he was spitting everywhere, his face red with rage.

    ¡°My master wishes to inform you that you cannot possibly believe that he would give up his wife to this place. He states that it is an obvious violation of the prior diplomatic arrangements which Trabzon and Great Seljuk agreed upon in order to hold this embassy here in the first place. Had no such arrangement been made¡ªone respecting the lives and property of both host and guest¡ªhe never would have come here at all. It is an outrage. It violates all that is sacred.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not my fault your wife wants to leave you.¡±

    Chaka Bey screamed, but Hummay stepped away.

    ¡°Ay?e Khatun is not the only one who wishes to leave,¡± he said.

    Herakleia looked at him. Before she could ask what he was talking about, she was shocked to see the rest of the slaves¡ªas well as Selcan and Aykiz¡ªas they stepped away from Chaka Bey and stood behind Herakleia, leaving the Seljuk potentate alone. He glared at them in shock, and shouted and waved his sword as sweat poured down his face.

    ¡°You want to join the uprising?¡± Herakleia said to Hummay.

    ¡°Thus it is with all of us, strategos.¡± He bowed. ¡°We have all spoken. We are all astounded with this place. Who would choose slavery over freedom, when given the chance to have the latter?¡±

    ¡°But you know we have to let him go.¡± Herakleia nodded to Chaka Bey. ¡°He¡¯ll go back to his brother and declare war on us.¡±

    ¡°Better to fight for freedom and die, than to bow to slavery and live,¡± Hummay said. ¡°To kill or imprison him here likewise means war.¡±

    Herakleia laughed. ¡°So all this careful diplomacy was for nothing.¡±

    ¡°We could have had an alliance with a great empire,¡± Samonas said.

    ¡°No empire has ever been great,¡± Herakleia said.

    Samonas continued. ¡°We could have had hundreds of thousands of Turkmen warriors riding down our foes¡ªnone of whom are capable of fielding an army that comes anything close to that size. Instead, we now have one runaway princess, and twenty runaway slaves.¡±

    With Ibrahim Hummay translating, Herakleia explained to Chaka Bey that he was free to leave the city. In response, he shrieked that he would never go anywhere without his beloved wife. Tears were in his eyes, now, as he dropped his sword, fell to his knees, and begged her to come back. But she refused to even look at him.

    ¡°Was it all a farce, my darling?¡± he asked. ¡°Did you ever truly love me, as I love you?¡±

    Ay?e Khatun was still clutching Herakleia and too terrified to look away, as though she expected at any moment to be returned to slavery. Ibrahim Hummay¡¯s words, meanwhile, continued to echo in Herakleia¡¯s mind.

    Who would choose slavery over freedom?

    ¡°I will be your slave!¡± Chaka Bey lay flat on his face and stretched out his arms, palm-down, to Ay?e Khatun. ¡°I will do anything you ask, if only you come back to me! There is no one else in all the world like you!¡±

    ¡°Never.¡± Ay?e Khatun looked at Herakleia, then stepped away. ¡°All my life I have done nothing but what other people have asked. This is the first time I do something for myself.¡±

    Chaka Bey rolled onto his side, writhing and crying. After he had exhausted himself¡ªwith everyone in the courtyard looking at each other, afraid to approach, yet unsure of what to do¡ªhe seized his sword, stood, and pointed the tip toward his belly. He was shutting his eyes, murmuring a prayer, and about to drive the blade inside himself, but Herakleia stretched out her hand, and with the farr yanked the blade away. 99/100 farr remained.

    Chaka Bey¡¯s eyes widened. He tried to hold the weapon, gritting his teeth and growling and shoving the sharp tip toward himself with his fingers whitened and all his muscles trembling, but Herakleia¡¯s farr was too strong. The sword flew from his hands¡ªpulling him back onto the ground¡ªand swooped through the air, turning end over end, whistling, ringing, gleaming in the morning sun, until Herakleia caught it, whirled it around, and tucked the damascened steel into her belt.

    ¡°What is this sorcerous place?¡± Chaka Bey gasped, looking back and forth at everyone in the courtyard. ¡°What djinni enchants it? What have you done to my wife and slaves?¡±

    Now that he was disarmed, all the Trapezuntine guards rushed upon him. At Herakleia¡¯s command, they placed him on his horse, and shouted for him to ride home. He was soon galloping out of the city, crying, covering his face with his arm whenever anyone looked at him. The Trapezuntine workers were too surprised by his appearance to do anything except get out of his way and stare when he passed.

    When he was crossing the Mill River bridge, he turned back to Trebizond and bellowed that he would have revenge. His voice echoed across the mountains and valleys, and even seemed to sing across the sea, pushing aside the wind-swollen sails of Arabian dhows.

    ¡°I swear I will have revenge!¡± he cried in deafening Seljuk which every person for miles in every direction heard. His voice was so strong that even if you covered your ears, it still pulsed through and shook your ear drums. For days afterward, people would complain of ringing in their ears, even when they were too far away to have even seen Chaka Bey.

    ¡°I curse this place in the name of Allah!¡± he continued. ¡°I swear I shall soon return to take revenge upon every last one of you, slaughtering you all, and burning this place to the ground until not a brick remains! For the rest of time, until the breaking of the world, no one shall speak the name of this place without shuddering in fear! You shall all pay for what you have done to me¡ªI, who came here as a friend! I, who was ready to help you achieve all you wished to accomplish! I, who was ready to spill the blood of my brothers to aid you! This is how you repaid me¡ªby seducing my wife, for whom I would have given the world, and stealing my slaves! May every last one of you burn in eternal hellfire!¡±

    Exasperated and out of breath, he vanished along the Satala Way, trailed by dust.

    Everyone in the citadel courtyard was silent for a moment.

    ¡°Well.¡± Samonas raised his eyebrows. ¡°Who¡¯s ready for breakfast?¡±

    Nobody¡ªexcept Samonas himself¡ªlaughed at his joke. His mood, as a result, soured again. Kentarch Fatima Al-Din had joined them in the courtyard by then. She asked Herakleia what they were supposed to do now.

    Herakleia looked at Ay?e Khatun and the twenty slaves. ¡°There¡¯s nothing we can do¡ªnothing except welcome these new friends to Trebizond, and find them all a place to stay.¡±

    Ay?e Khatun, Ibrahim Hummay, and all the other slaves got down on their hands and knees and bowed their heads in the dust, gasping their thanks. Herakleia told them to stand. When they refused, she helped them up.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    ¡°That¡¯s the last time you bow like that to anyone,¡± she said. ¡°You aren¡¯t slaves any longer. You¡¯re free.¡± She looked to the former slaves. ¡°You¡¯re men. You¡¯re women. No longer property.¡±

    ¡°If that is so,¡± Ibrahim Hummay said, standing to his feet, ¡°then you will permit me to tell you that I was already aware of this fact.¡±

    ¡°Be silent,¡± said an ex-slave named Dogan. ¡°How can you argue with her only a moment after she has risked everything to free us?¡±

    Hummay ignored him. ¡°I wished only to thank you for your help,¡± he said to Herakleia. ¡°And to test this newfound freedom of ours.¡±

    ¡°No need to thank someone who¡¯s just doing their job,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Here we say what we like, so long as it doesn¡¯t hurt people.¡±

    She spent the rest of the day helping Ay?e Khatun and the freedmen find new homes. Samonas trailed after her the whole time, babbling that she couldn¡¯t do this, it would ruin them, they needed to send a rider after Chaka Bey to beg his forgiveness.

    ¡°What¡¯s done is done,¡± Herakleia told Samonas¡ªseveral times.

    Although he was annoying, she was unable to dismiss him. A moving, full-scale model of the whole city¡ªwith all its people coming and going, all the workers doing their different jobs, all the people staying in different homes, all the commodities changing hands and being stored or being exported¡ªsomehow lived inside his mind. Not only did Samonas know where to house these new Trapezuntines, but he also reluctantly asked each of them what they wished to do with themselves. Ibrahim would have to tell Kentarch Al-Din everything he knew about Great Seljuk¡¯s military¡ªwhere the empire¡¯s armies were located, how many men it could field, the state of its supplies, the morale of the cities nearest to Trebizond, and so on. Ay?e Khatun, meanwhile, expressed her desire to join the amazons.

    ¡°You¡¯ve already done so much damage in one day, I guess it doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Herakleia said.

    Ay?e Khatun said nothing, only hugging her in response.

    All the freedmen were told that they could leave whenever they wished. If they stayed, however, they needed to work. In exchange, they could expect housing, medicine, food, water, education, community, entertainment, and power, plus retirement at sixty. Everything would be cheap or free, and always of the highest quality.

    ¡°We focus on heavy industry first,¡± Herakleia explained as they walked through the city together to their new homes¡ªwhich they needed to share with many other people, as overcrowding was becoming an issue despite the relentless pace of construction. ¡°We build up our defenses and our industrial strength, trading grain and iron and textiles for money, and exchanging money for machines we cannot build ourselves. The plan is simple. Once we have built up our productive capacity, and have the ability to defend ourselves, we can diversify, working on light industry to produce consumer items. Perhaps, as our strength grows, we can even permit foreign investment, at least so long as those investors follow certain rules and are kept under control.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard that the Venetians, Genoans, and Pisans have become such a problem in Konstantinopolis,¡± Samonas said. ¡°They¡¯ve practically taken over the city.¡±

    ¡°They provide excellent services,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Yet money alone is never the only thing they¡¯re after. Always they¡¯re looking for control. Opportunity. Land. Slaves.¡±

    It turned out to be easy to find homes for the freedmen, but less easy to find them jobs. They were all house slaves, and had grown used to tending to the needs¡ªand maneuvering around the moods¡ªof Chaka Bey. Most of the time, their job was only to make the bey look more imposing. A man with twenty well-dressed slaves must have been important, after all. This meant that their jobs were, in fact, bullshit. But there were no bullshit jobs in Trebizond. Everyone worked hard at some vital task six days a week. This was exhausting, but rewarding. No one doubted their purpose and no one was insecure about their own value. Each could see with their own eyes how their actions made a difference.

    Yet it turned out to be too much for some of the house slaves. Not everyone was cut out to be a miner, farmer, fisherman, soldier, weaver, teacher, scribe, caregiver, construction worker, chef, entertainer, or blacksmith. These were all real jobs which required real dedication, and each was harder than being on a team of twenty yes-men who were tasked with tending to the bodily needs of one person. Thus, within days, two freedmen left to follow Chaka Bey. Samonas protested this, since he was rightfully worried that they would exchange their updated knowledge of Trebizond for forgiveness, but Herakleia thought that their long-lost master already knew too much.

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± she said. ¡°He¡¯s seen everything already.¡±

    Ay?e Khatun, too, was unused to living without her two ladies-in-waiting. After a lifetime of service, she was shocked to see them abandon her, just as she had abandoned her own husband. Selcan and Aykiz both wanted to become teachers. They both already knew how to read, which meant that the scribes¡¯ union accepted their applications and put them to work. The entire city was full of people who were desperate to become literate, while literate people themselves were hard to find. It also took years to train people in reading and writing before they were ready to even teach the basics to others. Many adults had lived for decades without being able to write their own names.

    The Roman ruling class believes it is as pointless to teach the poor to read as it is to teach animals to read, Herakleia thought.

    Ay?e Khatun threw herself into her new work as a trainee so thoroughly that it was sometimes difficult to remember that she was both the Seran king¡¯s daughter and the ex-wife of the Seljuk sultan¡¯s brother. She had made her choice and now she would stick to it. Because the newest class of recruits had already started training a month ago, she was forced to hit the ground running. Kentarch Al-Din had nearly refused to allow her to do this, claiming that Ay?e Khatun could never catch up to the other recruits, but the princess gave it everything she had. She was free, now, for the first time in her life, and she would do whatever she could to preserve that freedom. She even told people to stop calling her Ay?e Khatun¡ªshe was just Ay?e, now. The word ¡°khatun¡± meant princess or lady in Seljuk. But now she was only Recruit Ay?e, Strateioteia Ay?e.

    The other recruits resented her at first, thinking her lazy and ignorant. They were also angry that she had skipped a month of boot camp. But Ay?e struggled to endear herself to them. The woman who had never lived a day without one servant to dress her, another servant to do her makeup, a third to cook her food, a fourth to clean up her messes, a fifth and a sixth to keep her company and entertain her¡ªthis woman instead became their servant. On top of all the training and exercise Ay?e was forced to do¡ªalways lagging behind everyone else as they jogged outside the city, did push-ups, scaled ladders, learned to swim, practiced with swords and shields and bows and miniature basiliks in full battle dress¡ªAy?e would cook and clean for her fellow recruits and tend to their personal items, always getting up before them and going to sleep after them, listening to their stories, laughing at even their worst jokes, struggling to adapt her refined language to their coarse and near constant swearing.

    More than anything, Ay?e wanted to be accepted. But these were rough women, nearly all of them from peasant backgrounds, having come from the most desperate poverty, the kind pitied even by starving draft animals. Make no mistake: these peasants had been poor. One came from a family which had only one tunic to share among five people: one person would wear it while working outside. Another came from a family which starved one winter because they needed to save the last of the grain in their shack for planting in the next season. A third had been sold into slavery as a young child to pay off her family¡¯s debts, a common story among amazons. A fourth had been rendered a homeless refugee by war, her home village burned to the ground, her family and friends wiped out. They all spoke of satisfying their ravening bellies by drinking bark soup or by shoveling handfuls of dirt down their gullets. They also spoke difficult dialects of Roman, Seljuk, Arabic, Turkish, Kurdish, Armenian, Persian, or even Hebrew. None was literate, and they appreciated when Ay?e tried to teach them to write their names. (The princess was literate in Roman, Seljuk, and Seran.) Having suffered all their lives from malnutrition, many lacked teeth, and all were smaller than Ay?e¡ªwho herself was not tall. None could be called pretty, either, at least in the traditional sense. To be rich sometimes meant marrying the most beautiful people in your country¡ªto be beautiful meant that you were the key to inheriting property. After centuries of marrying in the name of property, the ruling class sometimes seemed to belong to entirely different species from the ruled. They could not necessarily be called more beautiful¡ªsince they were usually forced to marry someone their father chose for financial or political reasons, often a first cousin who would give birth to inbred monstrosities. But to live a life of ease indoors, to sleep in a warm bed every night with a full belly, to have education and entertainment whenever one desired, to fear nothing, to be guarded by loyal, well-paid, heavily armed knights night and day¡ªthis made a difference as years turned to decades, and decades to lifetimes. The rich seemed eternally young. Peasants, in contrast, married whoever they could; as divorce was impossible, peasant women often avoided marrying entirely. Looks were almost never a consideration, and everyone was in terrible health. On top of that, you could see from looking at these new recruits that they had all lived hard lives. They looked old, though they might have been young, and none could even say precisely when they had been born. And while Trebizond was an improvement over their old lives, it was still no picnic. As the clich¨¦ went, these were hard times which demanded hard people. Everyone worked together, and the Trapezuntines had all made a great deal of progress¡ªhaving chased away the parasites in order to share the surplus as fairly as possible¡ªbut they still had much to do. Although some complained about how they were overworked, none would consider going home. Half the reason they had come here in the first place was the fact that they had no home. Landlords had taken everything, and the soldiers and tax farmers had destroyed the rest, killing or enslaving entire villages, cities, extended families. These amazons had all seen unspeakable things. Piles of bodies covered in blood had once been people whom they had known and loved. For the amazons, everything was gone. Trebizond was all that remained.

    Days passed like this. New people adjusted to new homes. Kentarch Al-Din sent out patrols and work teams to construct signal towers at even greater distances from Trebizond. Drills were undertaken. How quickly could the suburban population get within the walls to safety, once the alarm was sounded? Everyone practiced, again and again, despite the economic disruption. Soon enough, the entire suburban population could hide inside the walls within hours, all while carrying supplies and walking, as Herakleia found herself saying, ¡°in a calm and orderly fashion.¡±

    Supplies were gathered and traded for. Rainwater cisterns¡ªmade of iron, not lead¡ªwere constructed on every rooftop. (At first glance, iron and lead looked similar, but if you scratched lead, you would leave a shiny silver color behind, and its melting point was so low you could cook it in bread ovens¡ªunlike iron, which was impossible to melt without a powerful furnace with a bellows and plenty of fuel.) Word went out among the merchants visiting the city that the Trapezuntines would exchange sacks of ringing golden nomismas for even paltry amounts of grain. Food, medicine, and bandages were prime concerns. Trebizond¡¯s walls and defenders had already proven themselves in battle, but in a siege lasting months or years, organization would determine victory. Half the reason Trebizond had survived so long in the first place was due to its isolation, as Chaka Bey had said. Mountains sheltered one side of the city, the sea the other. Any besieger would need to maintain supply lines across hundreds of miles of difficult terrain or rough stormy sea. Trebizond just needed to hold out, and it could win.

    At the earliest, the Seljuks would attack the city within weeks. Yet no scouts had been spotted. Herakleia would scan the mountainsides using a spyglass produced by the new glass grinders¡¯ union, searching for any sign of white turbans or glimmering steel floating above distant mountaintops. She would ride out along the Satala Way, volunteering for guard duty¡ªalways despite Samonas¡¯s misgivings¡ªto search for spies. But none were found, nor was there any evidence of their existence.

    Where are they?

    Trebizond was tense, but focused. No one needed to be reminded of the consequences of failure. The usurper Narses, for instance, was famous for impaling people, and some bands of Seljuk marauders had begun to copy his techniques. As impalement became normalized, Narses in turn searched for new ways to terrorize people: rumor had it that decapitation contests were growing popular in the Hippodrome in Konstantinopolis.

    Thus, from sunrise to sunset, each person in Trebizond moved like a machine. They all told themselves they needed to work together in order to survive¡ª¡°work together¡± was indeed one of their mantras, and people shouted these words across the city. ¡°Work together! Work together! Work together!¡± They got up, washed, dressed, ate, labored, slept, six days a week, seven if they volunteered for more, since it was difficult to relax with such threats looming over their heads.

    Conversation and laughter was minimal. The city was crowded and busy as an anthill, but quiet¡ªsave the neighing horses, the creaking carriages, the blacksmiths¡¯ clanging hammers, and the soldiery tramping, calling out and responding to orders, executing maneuvers, firing basiliks, urging their destriers to gallop. Even children worked in silence. And, difficult as it was to believe, the majority lost interest in alcohol. This was because everyone had a distinct, vital, and positive role to play in the city, and such a fact meant death for alcoholism. For the disabled, the very young or old, there was always work, always purpose. Everyone knew that they could relax and celebrate when the Seljuks were defeated. Until then, the Trapezuntines worked. They were all workers, after all, the protagonists and underdogs of history, and they were preparing to make history here once again.

    Thanks to all of this dedication, Herakleia suspected that the city would soon be impregnable. They would have enough supplies stored in the granaries behind the walls to last six months. In Konstantinopolis, she knew, every resident was commanded to store enough food to last a year. Once Trebizond reached that point, they could send out raiding parties, and scouts could explore surrounding lands for weeks at a time rather than days. For once, the workers could go on the offensive. Plus, the Seljuks were still unfamiliar with gunpowder weapons. The city¡¯s basiliks would terrify them, at least in the beginning, and the Workers¡¯ Army was now more skilled at using these weapons. During the Latin siege, Trebizond had only possessed a few basiliks, each with only a little ammunition. Now the workers had dozens of these weapons, and the new forges were churning out hundreds of heavy iron balls, while the alchemists¡¯ union produced mountains of black crystalline powder.

    A week after Chaka Bey¡¯s departure, Herakleia was feeling more confident and secure with Trebizond than she had in months. That was when the influx of refugees began.

 29. Wine And Dine

    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¡ªtired 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¡ªwhich they called clothes¡ªwere 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¡ª¡±

    ¡°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¡ª¡±

    ¡°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¡ªaggressive new recruits named Euphrosyne and Simonis, the former a Roman dekarch, the latter her Armenian pentarch¡ªthe 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¡ªmuch of it a luxury in the city¡ªwould 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¡ªnamed Isaakios Tzykandeles, who hailed from Niksar¡ªto 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 Roman¨ªa.¡±

    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¡ªhe 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¡ª¡±

    ¡°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¡ªwhat 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¡ªmany Turks¡ªare 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¡ªNiksar 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¡ªstrong 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¡ªthey 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¡ªsince 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¡ªformerly the Church of the Goldenheaded Virgin¡ªwere 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¡ªlikelier 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¡ªthese 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¡ªto 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-Maml¨±k. He was an Aethiopian ex-slave with fair skin who had escaped Arabia¡ªhis mother a slave, his father an Arab noble who would have laughed at the idea of marrying her¡ªand 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¡ªfood, water, medicine, shelter, defense, education, community¡ªcame first. Nonetheless, in gratitude for the peace of mind the uprising gave him¡ªa step above what he could find in most countries¡ªhe 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¡ª¡±

    ¡°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 Roman¨ªa 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.

 30. The Tree of Armenia

    Four horse-drawn carriages piled with food, blankets, clothing, and medicine trundled south along the Satala Road, passing mountains covered with watchtowers and honeycombed with caves. Herakleia slept through that first cold dreary day, sitting at the front carriage, bundled in a warm blanket beside Jafer El-Hadi, who held the reins and also kept her from falling off. The amazons Simonis and Euphrosyne rode horses which scouted ahead of the convoy, sometimes for hours. Ay?e, unskilled at riding, was unable to join them.

    The scouts climbed nearby mountains whenever they could, doing their best to watch for raiders¡ªsearching with Herakleia¡¯s spyglass¡ªthough they spotted none. It was just mountains, valleys, forests, and rivers in every direction. The Romans had names for these places, and had divided them into themes, but most people said they were part of Armenia, since the majority of people living here had been speaking Armenian before the language itself had even been called Armenian. Atop one mountain, Euphrosyne on her horse with the spyglass had surveyed these lands, and, smiling to herself, even used the Roman word for them: ¡°Armeniakon.¡± The weather was cooler than on the Euxine coast. Armenia¡¯s winters were of an arctic coldness and snowiness¡ªa brown, rocky land watered by snowmelt dripping from mountains. Its people blew mournful songs from the deep-toned duduk flute, worshipped Jesus and the sacred fire and even Allah, and lay claim to Ararat, in olden times called Urartu, where Noah¡¯s ark had come to rest after the waters of the flood subsided, the white dove with a sprig of laurel in its beak pierced by a blinding sunlight shaft.

    Armenia. Land of apricots and pomegranates, of ruined chapels and cities, some so old no one knew their names. They were vanishing into the hills. Herakleia remembered that in the old world, the Ottomans marched millions of people living here out of their homes and into the Syrian desert, where¡ªif they survived the journey¡ªthey sat in the heat for days upon days, weeks upon weeks, until they died of heat stroke or thirst.

    Modernity first comes into the world covered in dirt and blood. Primitive accumulation.

    The genocide would so horrify the survivors who escaped that they would rarely even speak of this place. It was too painful. But Armenia existed whenever two Armenians came together. The roots of the tree of Armenia extended deep into the past, far beyond recorded history, and though its limbs might sometimes be felled, the trunk was still strong and full of flowing sap. It would never stop growing.

    Some Laz huts of mud and thatch huddled in Armenia¡¯s mountains, where shepherds led sheep and goats to pasture, but these people had little to do with the outside world. Their more worldly cousins already lived in Trebizond or other cities. A few served the Romans or Turks. Some were famous riders, adventurers, and warriors, their horses always galloping. It was said that their mountains were packed with silver. Verily the mountain hearts throbbed with veins of ore. Each town was Silvertown, Argyropolis, in Lazistan, another name for this place.

    Aren¡¯t they Colchians? Guardians of the golden fleece. Chaldeans, but not the Assyrian kind that was drunk on astrology.

    Herakleia woke, fell asleep, and woke again as the carriage rumbled along the muddy road. Sometimes she wondered what she was doing here. At other times, she leaned against Jafer El-Hadi, and thanked him for his help.

    ¡°It is nothing, strategos,¡± he said. ¡°Already I miss my wife and son. You will have to do in their place.¡±

    ¡°Your driving has kept us from getting stuck in the mud,¡± she said.

    ¡°Only for the moment, strategos, and thanks only to the grace of Saint Sara the Kali.¡±

    ¡°I wonder why there aren¡¯t any other carriages on the road.¡±

    ¡°It is spring,¡± Jafer El-Hadi said. ¡°Roads are difficult. The crop also will not be in for many months. There is little to trade. At least that is what I tell myself. And these lands are dangerous. We might run into a thousand bandits around the next bend.¡±

    She was already falling asleep again, and barely heard him, though he was trying to scare her. Perhaps he was even flirting. Or was she projecting?

    At the first day¡¯s end, the convoy camped at the edge of the Death Worm Marsh, located near a mountain village called Tzanicha. The death worm itself had not been seen since last year, when Gontran, Diaresso, and the heroic warrior Berkyaruq had apparently killed it. The death worm¡¯s body had never been found, but Trapezuntine patrols reported that Laz villagers had returned to Tzanicha and sometimes ventured into the marsh these days. Alexios had also passed through here without incident on his way to Meliten¨¦, so it was probably safe to camp on the marsh¡¯s edge, even if little traffic came this way, aside from the occasional Trapezuntine patrol. Merchants, armies, caravans, whoever¡ªthey all usually tried to go around. Tomorrow the convoy would move through the marsh as quickly as possible.

    Herakleia woke when Jafer El-Hadi stopped the carriage. Her stamina was almost fully restored. Everyone was climbing out, groaning, and stretching, and the amazons were returning from their latest scouting mission, with fatigue shadows under their eyes. Jafer El-Hadi was already unhitching the horses from his carriage when Herakleia joined him.

    ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ll take care of it.¡±

    ¡°Strategos¡ª¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve been working all day. It¡¯s my turn.¡± She looked at the rest of the convoy. ¡°Did everyone hear that? Settle in, sit down, I¡¯ll take care of everything.¡±

    Some members of the convoy acknowledged her, while others glared at them as if they wanted to argue, though they were too tired to do so. Only Ay?e was exempt.

    Herakleia pointed at her. ¡°You¡¯re with me, princess.¡±

    Ay?e¡¯s shoulder fell, but she acknowledged the command with her sweet, polite, refined voice. Soon she was helping Herakleia unhitch the horses, feed and water them, and clean the shit from their asscheeks. This added XP to Herakleia¡¯s rudimentary horse stewardship skill (Initiate, 1/10). The two women then washed their hands with olive oil soap, set up the tents, started the campfire, and cooked dinner¡ªpancakes made from hard tack mixed with water and whatever else they could throw in. Herakleia once more noted that Ay?e worked hard for someone who had been a princess only days earlier.

    ¡°Please, strategos,¡± said Jafer El-Hadi. ¡°I will take care of these chores.¡±

    ¡°Sit and rest,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°It''s no trouble.¡±

    Jafer El-Hadi bobbed his head as if to say: ¡°well, if that¡¯s what you want.¡± Then he sat on the ground. He was so tired he struggled to keep from lying down. Herakleia wanted to feed him as soon as possible so he could sleep. Soon she was sweating despite the cool damp weather and the gray light of the cloudy evening.

    ¡°We¡¯re princesses at work.¡± Ay?e wiped the sweat from her own brow.

    ¡°I told you, I¡¯m not a princess anymore,¡± Herakleia said.

    Ay?e bowed. ¡°Of course not, strategos. Forgive me. I suppose I am not, either.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll stop calling you princess if you do the same for me.¡±

    ¡°Alright,¡± Ay?e said.

    ¡°It¡¯s a work program for former aristocrats,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°That¡¯s what we¡¯re doing. We¡¯ll atone for all the sins we committed back when we each had a hundred servants to do whatever we wanted.¡±

    ¡°It will take a long time to make up for that,¡± Ay?e said.

    As they cooked together¡ªAy?e was in charge of keeping the fire fed with dry wood¡ªHerakleia found that two of Alexios''s friends from the south had joined the convoy. They must have climbed onto the rear carriage when the convoy was leaving Trebizond. Herakleia had forgotten their names. One was an Aethiopian witch doctor who dressed in white linen, wore a backpack stuffed with herbal medicines, and carried a thin wooden staff which was painted like a rainbow and shaped at the top like the Greek letter tau. He also had a crucifix carved into his forehead. The other companion was an old Arab woman, a mystic who was also dressed in white. She had brought a book written in a language resembling Arabic¡ªthe script was similar yet different¡ªand also a bag of medical supplies.

    At first Herakleia was surprised to see these two elders here. She wondered if it might have been better for them to remain in Trebizond. After all, caring for refugees would mean a lot of hard physical labor. Could Alexios¡¯s friends handle it?

    Soon everyone was settled around the fire and eating. Ay?e kept watch. Jafer El-Hadi joked that food never tasted better than when it was prepared by prominent political leaders.

    ¡°The strategos has a very strategic way of cooking,¡± he added.

    Most people either ignored him or rolled their eyes.

    Herakleia needed to eat quickly, since she was up next for watch duty. Ay?e was, at the moment, the only one keeping an eye on the camp, and anxiously waiting her turn to eat. Nonetheless, Herakleia looked to Alexios¡¯s two elderly companions, anxious to talk about her friend and sometimes lover.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°I know you two have been living in Trebizond for the last few months, but we still haven¡¯t been introduced.¡±

    The Aethiopian witch doctor bowed. ¡°Greetings, strategos. I was wondering when you would ask this question. I have heard much about you, and seen you about your work, but what you say is true¡ªGod has not, until now, seen fit to grant us the opportunity to speak. I am Deacon Dawit Tewodros Za-Ilmaknun. I hail from Axum, also called Aethiopia, a great Christian empire that lies to the south of the Mare Erythraeum, beyond the deserts of Nubia and Arabia and the gushing cataracts of the River Aegyptos. I was originally the companion of yet a third princess to dwell in the holy city of Trebizond¡ªthe young and beautiful Princess Isato of Zagwe.¡±

    Herakleia scowled for an instant at the mention of the woman who had stolen Alexios¡¯s heart.

    ¡°But she has departed for the east with Kentarch Alexios Leandros.¡± Za-Ilmaknun was too preoccupied with his own eloquence and self-importance to notice Herakleia¡¯s reaction. ¡°This has left me with little in the way of purpose, and I can¡¯t very well return to my homeland¡ªit¡¯s thousands of farsangs from here, and the journey was dangerous enough the first time! Thus I decided to bring myself and my talents along for this somewhat shorter trip, if you do not mind, for I seek to repair the world, however God may permit.¡±

    ¡°Of course I don¡¯t mind. It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you.¡± Herakleia turned to the old woman, who bowed.

    ¡°Hello, darling,¡± she said. ¡°My name¡¯s Miriai Sabti. I met up with your Alexios when first he came to my caravanserai in Pirin last winter, a real winter of discontent, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡±

    Herakleia laughed. ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Anyway,¡± Miriai continued. ¡°Pirin, it¡¯s a small town in Arabia, on the road between Malatya and Samosata, and it¡¯s got a nice spring. That¡¯s a big deal, when you have one of those things in the desert. So as I was saying, Alexios and I went on a whole bunch of adventures together. He talked a lot about you, at least until he changed.¡±

    ¡°I was hoping I could ask you about that,¡± Herakleia said.

    Everyone else around the campfire was also listening. (Simonis even needed to tell Ay?e to focus on making sure no one attacked while they were eating.) All Trebizond had noticed that their kentarch had changed.

    ¡°Ach, that¡¯s when he became Alexios the Faraway,¡± Miriai said. ¡°He and I, you know, we met the god Hermes Trismegistos, this sort of alchemical uthra, I suppose you could call him. He¡¯s still out there in the desert, near a place called Harran, reading and writing his books, uncovering the secrets of the Worlds of Light and Darkness. He took Alexios and me on quite the little night journey. We visited all kinds of interesting places, passed through the matartas¡ªthe divine toll houses¡ªand saw all sorts of interesting things. It¡¯s hard for me to explain.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what Alexios told me,¡± Herakleia said.

    Miriai nudged Za-Ilmaknun¡ªsitting beside her¡ªso hard he almost dropped his trencher. ¡°Hey buddy, did you know when you go up real high, the horizon starts to curve, until the whole world below turns into a giant glowing ball?¡±

    ¡°She has been calling me ¡®buddy¡¯ for months, even though I am no ¡®buddy¡¯ of hers,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said.

    Ignoring Za-Ilmaknun, Miriai turned her wide eyes to Herakleia. ¡°We went to the end of time and space, my dear. We saw the whole history of the universe, from beginning to end, all in one instant, the way the uthras see it. I suppose I was prepared, as much as anyone can be, but it was hard for dear Alexios. After that, he was never the same. Hermes Trismegistos offered to make him into a god, but he refused, saying he needed to help all of you first.¡±

    This was one of the stranger things Herakleia had heard in her life. Earlier she would have wondered if Miriai was on drugs¡ªthere was a hippy-like vibe to her¡ªthough Alexios had spoken similarly, on those rare occasions when he even attempted to explain his experiences in Harran. It was also sort of Bodhisattva-like, wasn¡¯t it? Weren¡¯t Bodhisattvas like Buddhas who turned back, on the cusp of nirvana, to help other people follow the threefold path? Or something? But it was impious for Miriai to talk like this. Za-Ilmaknun had crossed himself and murmured a prayer at her mention of Hermes Trismegistos. Any god, ghost, or djinn separate from the trinity, the angels, or the saints was a demon in Christian eyes.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°I¡¯m confused,¡± Herakleia said to Miriai. ¡°Let¡¯s assume everything you¡¯re telling me is true.¡±

    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t it be?¡± Miriai said.

    ¡°Couldn¡¯t Alexios have helped us more if he had turned into a god?¡±

    Miriai shook her head. ¡°That¡¯s not how it works, dear. We aren¡¯t just the masters of the universe¡ªwe¡¯re part of the universe, and we change the universe as the universe changes us. When you turn into a god, are you going to care about this?¡± She gestured to the night encroaching upon the camp, the stars emerging from the sunset that glowed like a distant forest fire between the dark mountains. ¡°Many millions died to make us who we are, to make the world what it is, as it progresses toward its destiny. Disasters happened in the past which are beyond reckoning. To become a god is to cease to care¡ªto cease to be human. To accept the past, for all its faults, as part of the present, and to accept the present, for all its faults, as part of past and future. And Alexios, he didn¡¯t turn into a god. But he had a chance, which is more than most of us can hope for. He got a taste. That was enough for him, let me tell you.¡± She nudged Herakleia. ¡°Alexios came back to Tibil, to Earth, after we voyaged to the World of Ideal Counterparts. He helped us get to Trebizond, and then he found out you¡¯d managed to free it without his help.¡±

    Herakleia looked to the cart drivers and amazons, all of whom had fought in the siege and the subsequent resistance to the Latin occupation.

    ¡°It was a group effort,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Over time I think he stopped caring about anything,¡± Miriai said. ¡°Alexios, I mean. Except for that hyena woman, what¡¯s her name, Isato. A bit of a firebrand if there ever was one. Don¡¯t piss her off, or she¡¯ll eat your head!¡±

    Za-Ilmaknun winced. ¡°I must ask you not to speak of the princess like that. If only you knew the riches she stood to inherit, that is, if we could just find a cure for her¡ª¡±

    Miriai waved her hand as if to say, who cares what you think? This shocked Za-Ilmaknun into silence.

    ¡°And Alexios¡¯s kids,¡± Miriai continued. ¡°Those little malaki, Alexios still loves them, too. But as for everything else, he has this almost cosmic perspective, I suppose you could call it. He¡¯s still living in a human body, but nothing seems to matter to him anymore. He views the whole world from the perspective of a god, even though he¡¯s still pretty far from that¡­in certain ways.¡± She chuckled.

    ¡°It¡¯s terribly inappropriate to speak like this in front of the children.¡± Za-Ilmaknun gestured to the drivers and amazons.

    ¡°What are you drinking, old man?¡± Miriai said. ¡°None of them are kids! All of them could marry, if they wanted. They went through more in a few days than you did in your whole life!¡±

    ¡°I mean, really,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said.

    As they bickered, everyone else tried to think of a way to excuse themselves and go to bed. That was when Ay?e spoke. (Amat al-Aziz had volunteered to keep an eye on the camp in order to give Ay?e a chance to eat; Herakleia was not yet finished eating.)

    ¡°Forgive me for interrupting,¡± Ay?e said. ¡°I only wish to know more about what you¡¯re discussing. I don¡¯t know any of these people or ideas you¡¯re talking about, but they all sound so interesting!¡±

    ¡°Believe me, there¡¯s a lot to know,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°A lot of lore to catch up on. But people are usually pretty friendly if you ask.¡±

    ¡°Speaking of lore,¡± Dekarch Euphrosyne said. ¡°Tomorrow we should arrive in the ruins of Satala. They¡¯re in a valley, which will be the perfect place to ambush us, so everyone needs to be rested and on their guard.¡±

    ¡°Maybe that¡¯s why Satala turned into a bunch of ruins in the first place,¡± Simonis said. ¡°It¡¯s in a valley, right on the border with Persia, Skythia, and Arabia.¡±

    ¡°The watchtowers say the first wave of refugees is coming from the direction of Ani,¡± Euphrosyne added. ¡°To the east.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the capital of Armenia, isn¡¯t it?¡± Herakleia said.

    Simonis nodded. ¡°The old capital. But it¡¯s been a shell of its former self for decades. My parents fled the destruction of the city at the hands of the Seljuks many years ago. They were Tondrakians¡ªpeasants who used carved wood spears to fight lords. They settled in Sinope, which is where they gave birth to me.¡±

    ¡°And thank god they did!¡± Herakleia exclaimed. ¡°Are you Armenian, by the way?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s my ethnos, but that¡¯s all,¡± Simonis said. ¡°When my parents arrived in Sinope, they wanted to forget everything about where they had come from. They thought something about our culture contributed to our people¡¯s near total destruction. They embraced Roman ways, speaking Roman even at home, though they¡¯ve never been good at it.¡±

    Almost everyone had finished eating by then. Most said goodnight, wrapped themselves in blankets inside the tents set up around the fire, and were soon snoring. Ay?e stretched, yawned, and was about to join them when Dekarch Euphrosyne spoke.

    ¡°No you don¡¯t,¡± she said. ¡°You wanted to come out here even when we told you it was too dangerous, remember? You need to keep the strategos company¡ªkeep her awake on her watch.¡±

    ¡°Sir,¡± Ay?e said.

    ¡°It¡¯s really alright,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°I slept all day, and I¡¯ve done this before¡ª¡±

    ¡°Begging your pardon, strategos, but are you going to keep interfering with the chain of command?¡± Euphrosyne said.

    ¡°No.¡± Herakleia shook her head. ¡°Of course not.¡±

    ¡°Alright then,¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°Have a good night, you two.¡±

    ¡°Same to you,¡± Herakleia said.

    Euphrosyne joined Simonis in her tent and closed the flap behind her. Herakleia looked at Ay?e, who slumped, shut her eyes, and snored, before she jerked herself back awake again, stood at attention, saluted Herakleia, and said: ¡°Ready to do my duty, sir!¡±

    Some of the sleepers in their tents groaned for her to be quiet. Ay?e frowned.

    ¡°Then let¡¯s get going,¡± Herakleia said.

    They relieved a grateful Amaz al-Aziz. Before long, the rest of the camp was asleep, and Herakleia and Ay?e were alone with the fire, the stars, and some wolves howling in the distance. This last sound made them both tense. Ay?e even huddled close to Herakleia, who whispered that they were just wolves, and the fire would keep them away.

    ¡°Wolves are nothing.¡± Herakleia adopted a dramatic tone. ¡°What we really need to worry about are men¡ªmen lurking in the darkness, waiting for the chance to STRIKE!¡±

    Ay?e gasped and her eyes widened.

    ¡°Sorry.¡± Herakleia rubbed Ay?e¡¯s back. ¡°I¡¯m just messing with you. Mostly. But maybe that¡¯s because you¡¯re so fun to mess with.¡±

    ¡°No one ever spoke to me this way when I was a princess.¡±

    ¡°Well, you aren¡¯t a princess anymore. And it was your choice, remember? We all tried to stop you. But it seems like you don¡¯t listen to anyone.¡±

    ¡°When what they say matches what I want, then I listen.¡±

    Herakleia laughed. Ay?e added some more sticks to the fire, which was burning down.

    ¡°We should probably put out the fire,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°If any bad guys are out there, they¡¯ll be attracted to it¡ªlike, well, like moths to a flame.¡±

    ¡°We could get cold,¡± Ay?e said.

    ¡°If that happens, we can always relight the fire.¡± Herakleia kicked dirt over the flames, plunging the camp into darkness. The peepers grew louder, and the few stars that poked through the clouds brightened.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never been out here like this,¡± Ay?e said. ¡°In the dark, I mean.¡±

    ¡°Must be a lot of firsts for you,¡± Herakleia whispered back.

    ¡°Yes, strategos. Every day is full of new things. It¡¯s almost overwhelming!¡±

    ¡°It was like that for me, here, once. It was like that for all of us. Almost everyone in Trebizond came here from somewhere else and needed to learn completely new ways of being.¡±

    ¡°But it seems it is so natural for you, and so difficult for me.¡±

    ¡°You know, when I first got here, I was even worse than you,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°I was like a baby. I didn¡¯t know how anything worked.¡±

    ¡°Ah, yes, I know how you felt. I now feel exactly the same way.¡±

    ¡°No, I mean, I didn¡¯t know how anything worked. It¡¯s hard to explain. But I used to have two lives. One was as a princess, a lot like you. But another was something else entirely.¡±

    ¡°Pardon me, strategos, but how can you have had two lives? Whatever do you mean?¡±

    Herakleia waved her hand in the dark. ¡°A few friends and me aren¡¯t originally from here. Not from this time, I mean. We come from about a thousand years in the future. We seem to be inside some kind of living game, where everything is very similar but also slightly different. There¡¯s no farr where I come from, for example.¡±

    ¡°I have heard of this farr. I have seen amazons use it. But they say I am not yet ready.¡±

    ¡°Nobody is, the first time. Fighting for what¡¯s right is like cocaine. And like cocaine, it feels great.¡±

    ¡°What is cocaine?¡±

    ¡°Sorry. Forget it.¡±

    ¡°The other things you said, I do not understand, either. What does it mean to come from the future?¡±

    Herakleia laughed. ¡°That¡¯s right, I forgot. Nobody here even understands the concept of time travel. ¡®What¡¯s the point of time travel when history moves so slowly you barely even notice, and everything is supposed to stay predictable and pretty much the same until the end of time?¡¯¡±

    ¡°I still do not understand.¡±

    ¡°When I first got teleported here, I could barely even speak the language. I was also a guy in the old world¡ªthe place I came from, I mean. I was a man, in the traditional sense, anyway. I had a dick.¡±

    ¡°Do you mean you were castrated?¡±

    ¡°I guess.¡± Herakleia felt her own breasts for a moment. ¡°But the surgery was quick, painless, and free, and seems to have gone pretty well. As did the hormones. Nobody knows unless I tell ¡®em. And everything seems to work. All the machinery, I mean. I could probably even crank out a baby if I wanted. It¡¯s interesting, wanting to wear dresses and makeup, and feeling more emotional at times, even if I only feel like that now and then. But having periods is a pain in the ass. That¡¯s how you know god¡¯s a misogynist. It¡¯s so unfair that guys don¡¯t need to deal with that. And it was weird, having to adjust to cleaning myself every time I pee. I miss being able to stand and piss wherever I want. But being a guy is hard in its own ways.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°A lot of the time, women hide our power level. We¡¯re actually much stronger than men¡ªeven physically. A woman can and will beat the best man at any sport, one day. One day we¡¯ll even destroy the concepts of ¡®man¡¯ and ¡®woman.¡¯ People will simply be people, whether they have pussies or dicks or whatever. It was like that in the past, when women ruled the Earth. Men hate to admit it, but they desperately need us. Even men who aren¡¯t sexually interested in women still crave our company. Women could destroy men if we wanted. We could make their lives completely miserable. And we often do, because they often deserve it. They ask for it. They think women are their slaves. But a good man, a strong man, a handsome, kind, intelligent man¡ªthere¡¯s nothing better. A good man is better than silver and gold. Meeting men like that almost makes you forgive the rest.¡±

    ¡°Almost,¡± Ay?e said.

    They laughed.

    ¡°So were you always like this?¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Always a budding upriser, even back in your palace?¡±

    ¡°I always hated when people were cruel to servants,¡± Ay?e said. ¡°I don¡¯t even know why. I was always polite to them. Whenever other nobles weren¡¯t around, I would do my own work, or help the servants with theirs. There was always so much work for them to do. Everyone always thought me strange. But I didn¡¯t care. Back in Zhongguo, or in Erzurum, wherever we were, I always did my best to help as many of the less fortunate as possible.¡±

    ¡°Were your parents nice to you?¡±

    ¡°Very. They encouraged me to learn whatever I wished. They were always kind to me, at least until they married me off to Chaka Bey.¡±

    ¡°He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.¡±

    They laughed again.

    ¡°He wasn¡¯t a terrible husband,¡± Ay?e said. ¡°He gave me everything I wanted. Everyone made fun of him for it, at least when he was not present. Chaka Bey ruled Great Seljuk, but Ay?e ruled Chaka Bey.¡±

    ¡°Then why did you join us?¡±

    ¡°I was a prisoner. I could not be free. I spent all my time reading novels about the outside world, attending plays and performances, listening to stories. Anything about adventurers or sword fighters. When I was a child in Zhongguo, I often dressed like a boy, and begged my parents to have me trained in martial arts. Sometimes they obliged me. I also saw how the concubines and wives and consorts schemed against each other, always murdering, betraying, and bribing each other, anything to put their sons on the throne.¡±

    Herakleia nodded, recalling her own days in the Great Palace of Konstantinopolis. ¡°Sounds familiar.¡±

    ¡°It never ended, strategos. It never went anywhere. And always the poor suffered. Always these people were squeezed harder so that the palace could live easier. Even the servants in the palace thought themselves miniature lords. They would dress themselves like lords in private, as best they could, and lie about their backgrounds, always trying to puff themselves up like false peacocks. It was quite ridiculous, especially because their masters thought them scum, yet the servants despised the peasants even more passionately than their masters did.¡±

    ¡°The question is,¡± Herakleia said, ¡°why were you alone in caring about this?¡±

    ¡°Many people have terrible lives. Terrible childhoods. Even as their bodies age, their souls are not able to grow.¡±

    Herakleia had not known that Ay?e knew anything about this subject. The recruit had seemed so awkward and out-of-place, but now Herakleia was learning from her.

    Ay?e continued. ¡°I do not know how to say it. Rich and poor alike have trouble becoming full human beings, I suppose. Always their minds are stunted, as if they stopped changing when they were very young, only babies perhaps, and never moved on, not for years, not for decades. Even as old men they are still babies on the inside, unable to be friends with people, just as babies are unable to be friends with people. Babies only care about their mothers, about taking, taking, taking from their mothers, but when you are a grown man, you are often separate from your mother, so how are you supposed to live with the world around you? These people are therefore quite hostile to everything, like babies separated from their mothers, but still obsessed with them. These people are always angry and miserable, and unable to even ask themselves why, unable to even realize that there is a problem, always blaming the weakest, always taking out their anger on the ones they already harm and steal from, in order to justify that harm and theft. Their parents abused them to make them fit with an abusive society, they suppressed their natural desires and impulses, and then society continued the abuse, the stunting, so that they live entire lives without ever knowing what it means to be fully human¡ªto work, to love, to learn.¡±

    ¡°Do you think they can be helped?¡±

    Ay?e laughed. ¡°Yes. Whatever can be done can be undone. But it will take a lot of work.¡±

    They kept talking until sunrise, getting up and moving around in the cold damp every now and then to warm the blood flowing around their bones. Herakleia soon realized that there was much more to Ay?e than she had suspected. At first Herakleia had believed that she was just a young, naive, selfish princess, but after talking with her for such a long time and seeing all the progress she had made in just the last week, she realized that there was much more to Ay?e.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry I told you to stay with your husband,¡± Herakleia told Ay?e. ¡°I was wrong.¡±

    Ay?e smiled. ¡°All is well that ends well.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m glad to have met you, glad to have gotten to know you better.¡±

    ¡°I feel the same way about you, strategos. Let us always be friends and sisters.¡±

    Eventually the sun began to shine through the gray clouds. At that point, Herakleia was nodding off, her stamina having declined almost to zero. Ay?e had already fallen asleep. That was when the glowworm appeared.

 31. Glowworm

    When Herakleia first saw it, she wondered if she was asleep. It was like a dream. In the early morning gloom, along the damp dripping mountains that lined the marsh and the road stretching north to Trebizond and south to Satala, there came glowing lights. One line descended a mountain in front of the camp, the other descended the mountain behind, each line consisting of separate flickering lights that shone through the fog, like two long glowworms winding down the cliffs and forests.

    Ignoring the mountain village of Tzanicha, the lights moved in silence. Were they spirits? Demons? At last, when they emerged from the mist, Herakleia discovered that they were something worse. Chaka Bey. And he had brought a warrior band with him, all on horseback. They were unafraid to reveal their positions by holding torches aloft. Now they extinguished these flames, and nocked arrows on their composite bows.

    By then Herakleia had roused the camp. Half asleep, they had circled the wagons¡ªthe metaphor becoming a literal battle tactic¡ªand placed all the people and horses on the inside. The amazons loaded their miniature basiliks, lit their fuses, and took aim. Four pointed at the Seljuks to the rear, which blocked the way back to Trebizond. This group included Dekarch Euphrosyne, Pentarch Kata Surameli, Nazar al-Sabiyya, and Umm Musharrafa. Another four amazons pointed at the Seljuks in front, which blocked the way to the marsh and Satala. This group included Pentarch Simonis, Amat al-Aziz, Jiajak Jaqeli, and Melissene.

    Between the eight amazons were Herakleia, Ay?e, Jafer El-Hadi, Hurmuzdyar bin Wandarin Bawand, Jabir al-Maml¨±k, Isma¡¯il al-Saffar, Miriai, and Za-Ilmaknun. They were doing their best to keep the horses under control. They had also loaded additional miniature basiliks, and were ready to hand them to Simonis and Euphrosyne and the other amazons as soon as they had fired their own weapons, reloading the first set of basiliks as they did so.

    With only four carriages, it was a tight squeeze, but the carriages themselves were also loaded with supplies, which everyone hid behind. The Seljuks watched for some time, evidently unused to this tactic, since they were also unused to the gunpowder weapons which had given rise to it.

    One Seljuk with the group at the rear shouted something in Turkish through the morning gloom. The only words Herakleia could distinguish were ¡°Ay?e Khatun,¡± which led her to guess the speech¡¯s meaning.

    ¡°He says I must return to my husband,¡± Ay?e translated. ¡°If I do so, Chaka Bey will kill everyone here, but he will spare the city of Trebizond, so long as it bows to Great Seljuk.¡±

    ¡°Do you want to go back?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Of course not!¡±

    ¡°Just thought I¡¯d ask.¡± Herakleia looked to the members of the convoy. ¡°Does everyone agree? Are you ready for a fight?¡±

    They nodded and said they were.

    ¡°It needed to be early in the morning,¡± El-Hadi grumbled. ¡°They could not wait until after breakfast.¡±

    ¡°If we kill Chaka Bey,¡± Herakleia said, ¡°the rest will probably leave us alone, won¡¯t they? Isn¡¯t that how these things usually work?¡±

    ¡°Let me warn him first,¡± Ay?e said. ¡°I¡¯ll give him a chance to leave in peace.¡±

    Herakleia nodded.

    Ay?e stood, cupped her hands over her mouth, and shouted something in Turkish. Laughter rose in response¡ªfrom the Seljuks in the front and back.

    They were close enough for the convoy to make out their faces. Chaka Bey was at the center of the rear group, scowling like a demon, clad in heavy golden armor from head to foot. He raised his scimitar into the air and barked commands, and his warriors drew their arrows back on their bowstrings and took aim, when Herakleia ordered Euphrosyne¡ªthe best shot in the whole troop¡ªto kill him. The dekarch pointed her basilik at the golden shadow with the demon face glowing in the fog, and pressed her orange fuse¡ªwith its little wisp of blue smoke curling up into the air¡ªagainst the firing hole.

    Her miniature basilik exploded. Smoke wreathed with sparks shrouded everything. Seljuk horses were galloping, and the Seljuks at the front and rear were shouting. When the smoke had cleared, both groups were gone.

    ¡°Did you hit him?¡± Simonis asked Euphrosyne.

    ¡°Don¡¯t know,¡± Euphrosyne said.

    Jafer El-Hadi handed Euphrosyne a loaded basilik, then took the hot one she had just fired and started loading it. She thanked him.

    The members of the convoy watched the woods, the mountains, the marsh, the road, waiting for the Seljuk attack. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes to half an hour. There was too much fog to see anything. The game voice was also silent.

    ¡°Maybe you got him,¡± Herakleia whispered to Euphrosyne. ¡°His men might have taken him off the battlefield and retreated. The basilik might have frightened them.¡±

    ¡°Or maybe they¡¯re just waiting for us to let our guard down,¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°As soon as we leave the carriages, they¡¯ll attack.¡±

    ¡°Someone needs to go out there and have a look,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°I¡¯ll do it.¡± Without waiting for anyone to stop her, she climbed over the carriage she had been hiding behind.

    ¡°Pardon me, strategos.¡± Jafer El-Hadi pulled her back. ¡°But do you wish to die? Send someone less important¡ªlike me.¡±

    ¡°You aren¡¯t less important,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°You have a spouse and child¡ª¡±

    ¡°Trebizond will take care of them,¡± Jafer El-Hadi said. ¡°If something should happen to me, Amina will find another husband, Ibrahim another father. Saint Sara the Kali will also watch out for them. Trebizond doesn¡¯t need me. It needs you.¡±

    ¡°All of us are important to the uprising,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Everyone is vital to the workers¡¯¡ª¡±

    ¡°Enough, strategos,¡± Jafer El-Hadi said. ¡°Good leaders are much harder to find than good followers. You know that. Why risk losing what you know is good?¡± He turned to the rest of the group. ¡°Does everyone agree? Should I go, or the strategos? Or tell me this: does the enemy send their generals alone on scouting missions in dangerous territory?¡±

    Everyone voted for Jafer El-Hadi to investigate. Herakleia might have been a Leadership Professional (7/10), but she was still just an Apprentice General (4/10), which meant that she could still make mistakes like this and be corrected by others.

    Once Jafer El-Hadi returned safely, the amazons and cart drivers could ready the carriages for departure. One amazon would scout ahead at a time; the rest would be on guard duty.

    Simonis handed El-Hadi her basilik, but he shook his head.

    ¡°I never learned to use it back when I was in the Workers¡¯ Army,¡± he said. ¡°I was too busy caring for my boy. Today is a day of good fortune for me.¡±

    ¡°Then use this.¡± She handed him her sword.

    He took it hesitantly. ¡°I never learned how to use one of these, either. I was a metal worker and an acrobat in my old life before we came to Trebizond.¡±

    ¡°Just wave the sword around and yell,¡± Simonis said. ¡°It might scare them.¡±

    El-Hadi rolled his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m certain.¡±

    He climbed over the carriage and jumped onto the road leading back to Trebizond. This was a narrow path with a few ancient bricks jutting out of the mud like rotten teeth from gums. At either side the road was overshadowed by pine trees that were so overgrown that riders needed to duck when they came here. To the left and right, the branches and pine needles were so dense that, together with the fog, almost nothing could be seen. All was dark.

    Simonis, Euphrosyne, and their fellow amazons at the rear aimed their miniature basiliks to cover El-Hadi. Other amazons watched the front. He crept toward Chaka Bey¡¯s last known position, glancing left and right, holding his sword with trembling hands. Soon he reached the spot where Chaka Bey had supposedly been hit. Taking a careful look in every direction, El-Hadi knelt to examine the cold wet muck. Then he stood and looked back at the carriages.

    ¡°No blood,¡± he mouthed.

    This whole time, Herakleia was expecting El-Hadi to be attacked and killed. She had even taken one of the loaded basiliks for herself, and joined the amazons in aiming their weapons to El-Hadi¡¯s right and left.

    Equipped miniature basilisk, the game voice said. Effective range: 300 feet. Critical hits likelier at closer ranges. High dexterity is required to properly use this weapon.

    Herakleia cleared her throat.

    Which you lack, the game voice added.

    Herakleia was actually an Uninitiate (0/10) when it came to ranged weapons, and only a beginner (2/10) when it came to her m¨ºl¨¦e combat skills. Aside from the time she had escaped Konstantinopolis in the Paralos and helped Alexios burn a pursuing dromon with naphtha¡ªand the time she had fucked Duke Robert to death¡ªshe had done little fighting on her own. She had accepted a long time ago that she wasn¡¯t much of a warrior. Though her character class was ¡°princess,¡± she had spent almost a year in Byzantium training and organizing other people and leading them into battle, rather than fighting on her own. That was her strength. Having no ability with weapons of any kind meant that the miniature basilisk in her hands was almost useless. If she needed to reload on her own, it was going to take her a few minutes at least to get the job done, while a more experienced amazon like Euphrosyne could jam the ball and powder into the basilisk barrel in thirty seconds. It also didn¡¯t help that Herakleia¡¯s stamina was almost completely gone¡ªadrenaline had boosted it a little, and she had also transferred some farr into her energy reserves, leaving her with 75/100 farr¡ªsince she had not gotten a good night¡¯s sleep in over a day. This would affect her aim, pathetic as it already was. But what else could Herakleia do? Each attack¡ªeach action¡ªin the game was a dice roll, and sometimes the goddess Fortuna smiled upon unlikely victors.

    Without a little random chance, unknown even to the divine, the universe would be boring, the game voice said.

    El-Hadi, in the mean time, had shrugged and walked back toward the carriages, moving more casually, even lowering his sword and holding it with just one hand. Herakleia was ready to celebrate. Maybe Chaka Bey had been hit. The spray of blood had just been too fine to see, or it had only struck his golden armor and his horse. Or maybe the flashing thundering weapons had terrified warriors who were unused to such devices. Regardless, the Seljuks were gone.

    As Herakleia was standing to congratulate El-Hadi on his bravery, an arrow whistled from the dark forest into his leg. He groaned, dropped his sword, and fell, clutching the wound as it spurted blood. Screaming riders charged from either side of the road, the horse hooves thundering, the warriors waving their scimitars, heading straight for El-Hadi to tear him apart.

    Now their strategy was obvious. Simonis had been right. This was a siege. They were waiting out the convoy. They intended to hide in the woods and pick off the Trapezuntines one by one.

    Herakleia couldn¡¯t let that happen.

    Everyone in the convoy drew the same conclusion. No orders were given. As Herakleia dropped her miniature basilik, flew over the carriages, and sprinted toward El-Hadi, burning through farr, all the amazons behind her fired their weapons, then exchanged them for loaded ones, then fired those. But the Seljuk horsemen did something unexpected. Some moved their scimitars with an unearthly speed, so that the iron balls meant to burst their hearts sparked away from steel instead. Others dodged the whistling iron balls, moving in blurs while gripping their saddles with their legs.

    They know the farr!

    Such was Herakleia¡¯s speed that she reached El-Hadi before the horsemen exited the woods. It had taken five farr points to move like this, leaving her with 70/100. Since she would lose too much time by stopping, grabbing him, and turning around, she kept going in the same direction, hauled him over her shoulders in one quick motion that strained all her muscles, and leapt into the air¡ªstumbling into a pine tree branch and flying up toward the top. Now 60/100 farr remained. She seized the trunk as best she could, nearly losing her balance, falling, and dropping El-Hadi at the same time. But she kept her grip on the sticky bark covered in dried chalky sap, and even pulled herself behind the tree as arrows thumped into the wood on the far side. A few arrows also swooped close enough for the fletches to brush past her ear. With her stamina down to 0/100 and now affecting her health, she moved another 5 farr there, one point of farr equaling 5 stamina, granting her 25/100 stamina, and leaving her with 65/100 farr.

    Holding El-Hadi close¡ªhe was groaning, the arrows had gone deep and might have been poisoned¡ªHerakleia peered around the tree. The Seljuks were brawling with the amazons and even the cart drivers. Fighters on both sides had leapt off their saddles and were flying through the air, bashing their blades together, then falling back to the ground. Some Seljuks moved so gracefully¡ªstanding on their saddles¡ªthat they seemed to be dancing, as they deflected iron balls and sword thrusts with their own sparking blades.

    Sword dancers, Herakleia thought.

    Only one Seljuk had fallen from his horse¡ªa short, muscular man. Herakleia sensed that the others were toying with the amazons. Chaka Bey was also nowhere to be seen. When she looked back at the carriages, she understood why. She had been out-generaled again, and was even losing generalship XP.

    Only Miriai and Za-Ilmaknun were left at the carriages with Ay?e. Chaka Bey and several of his fellow riders had charged them from the direction of the marsh, leaped over the carriages, and knocked down the people hiding inside. He grabbed Ay?e, punched her face hard enough to knock her out, hauled her onto his saddle, and galloped into the marsh.

    His men got back on their horses and followed. The amazons chased them¡ªbut Seljuk warriors were talented in many ways. They sheathed their swords, drew their composite bows, nocked arrows, and loosed them at the pursuing amazons. Several arrows sank into the pursuers¡¯ horses, flinging their riders into the muck as the horses screamed.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    ¡°No!¡± Herakleia shouted.

    She leaped back down to the carriages, carrying El-Hadi. 60/100 farr remained. Miriai and Za-Ilmaknun had picked themselves up in the mean time and were clutching their heads and groaning.

    ¡°Are you alright?¡± Herakleia asked.

    ¡°Ach, it¡¯s nothing, dear.¡± Miriai¡¯s head was bleeding, but she nodded to El-Hadi. ¡°Leave him. Get your friend, that poor girl.¡±

    Herakleia lowered El-Hadi to the ground and sprinted after the Seljuks, burning through five more farr to move faster, leaving her with 55/100. But even with the farr, she could never catch galloping horses on foot. Thankfully, that short Seljuk warrior was crawling back to his horse, groaning and clutching a bleeding wound in his cuirass¡ªone iron ball had found its mark¡ªand he was getting close, and had almost grabbed the reins, when Herakleia leaped off his head and onto his mount. As he growled and sank back into the muck, she kicked the horse¡¯s sides, and galloped into the Death Worm Marsh after the amazons and Seljuks. She was a riding Apprentice (4/10), and that was good enough.

    Yet she slowed down almost immediately. The marsh was too deep for galloping. Nonetheless, she soon found Simonis lying in the grass beside her horse¡ªwhich was dead, with a bloody arrow piercing the poor beast¡¯s skull through its burst eye. Somehow Simonis had picked up the sword she had given to El-Hadi, and which he had dropped.

    ¡°Are you alright?¡± Herakleia shouted to Simonis.

    ¡°Keep going!¡± Simonis used her sword like a cane to help her climb to her feet. ¡°I¡¯m alright!¡±

    ¡°Head back to camp,¡± Herakleia said over her shoulder as she passed. ¡°The others need your help.¡±

    Simonis nodded, then limped back to the carriages. Herakleia proceeded into the tall grass and the fog, urging on her horse even as the beast¡¯s long muscular legs sank knee-deep into the splashing muck. Flies were soon buzzing everywhere as the rising sun burned the fog.

    At this point, surrounded by tall grass, Herakleia realized that there was no road¡ªnot even a path¡ªand she had no idea where she was. She could get lost.

    She stopped her panting, sweating horse and listened. Nothing. All was silent.

    ¡°Euphrosyne!¡± she yelled, cupping her hands over her mouth.

    The fog swallowed her voice. Herakleia swore.

    Go back, or keep going?

    Ay?e, Euphrosyne, and the other amazons were ahead. She couldn¡¯t leave them. Yet riding a horse was too slow a method to get through this marsh. Herakleia dismounted and leaped through the grass, using more farr. The fog made it almost impossible to see, so that she often landed in muck and was forced to struggle to free herself before she could jump again. She was miserable, cold, and wet, her stamina ticking down to 15/100, her farr at 50/100. Sometimes she yelled for the amazons, but none answered. Where were they?

    It took time, but eventually Herakleia found them. They were returning to the convoy with neither their horses, nor Ay?e.

    ¡°The Seljuks shot our mounts out from under us,¡± Euphrosyne gasped. She was drenched in sweat, and hollowed out with exhaustion. ¡°They escaped with Ay?e. We couldn¡¯t catch them. They were too fast.¡±

    Herakleia sank into the grass and clutched her head. She had lost Ay?e, her new friend. Her sister. Who knew what Chaka Bey would do to her? They needed to go after her¡­but the Seljuks were too fast, they knew this area too well. They had only been living in Anatolia for a few decades at most, yet it seemed they had always been here, like it was their native element. They moved in and out of the rock, the trees, the soil, the grass, whenever it pleased them, striking when they were least expected, retreating into darkness the moment the enemy responded.

    ¡°We need water, strategos,¡± Euphrosyne said.

    Herakleia looked up at her. ¡°Of course.¡±

    She stood and helped the other amazons through the marsh back to the carriages. As they walked, Herakleia¡¯s anger grew.

    ¡°You lost her,¡± she growled. ¡°You left her.¡±

    ¡°We tried our best, strategos,¡± Euphrosyne said.

    ¡°Your best wasn¡¯t good enough. We lost an alliance with a great power for that woman¡ªwe started a war for that woman, she was our Helen of Troy¡ªand now she¡¯s gone!¡±

    ¡°Maybe it wasn¡¯t the best trade, strategos,¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°Maybe you should have forced her to stay with her husband.¡±

    Herakleia stopped and glared at Euphrosyne. ¡°You don¡¯t think I tried?¡±

    Euphrosyne nodded. ¡°You could have tried harder.¡±

    ¡°Then vote me out.¡± Herakleia looked to the other amazons. ¡°Put Euphrosyne in charge instead of me. Come on, I¡¯m incompetent. I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing. Vote me out.¡±

    The amazons kept silent.

    ¡°That¡¯s what I thought,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Now come on. We have to get back to the others and figure out what the hell to do.¡±

    ¡°We know,¡± Euphrosyne said.

    Herakleia looked at the dekarch, her second-in-command, ready to fight her. Euphrosyne was drenched in mud and sweat, yet all her expression said was: you and me, let¡¯s go.

    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Like what?¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°Like this?¡± She leaned in so close to Herakleia that their noses almost touched.

    The other amazons separated them before they could come to blows.

    ¡°Listen!¡± shouted Jiajak Jaqeli, the blue-eyed red-haired Kipchak. ¡°We lost. We did our best. But do you not understand that this is what the Seljuks desire? Even the Emperor in Rome¡ªthis is what he desires! For us to fight among ourselves. They are laughing at us right now!¡±

    Herakleia and Euphrosyne were glaring at each other and breathing deeply, their bodies tensed for a fight.

    ¡°You must reconcile,¡± said Jaqeli. ¡°We cannot continue otherwise.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t have time for this.¡± Herakleia shoved free from the amazons and walked toward the carriages. The amazons looked at each other, then followed.

    When they had finally escaped the marsh, they passed the wounded Seljuk warrior, the short muscular bearded man who was still lying on the ground where Herakleia had kicked off his face. He was alive.

    A problem we can rectify, Herakleia thought.

    She lunged toward him, her hands turned to fists, and shrieked in his face. ¡°Where did they take Ay?e? Where is she?¡±

    Jaqeli and even Euphrosyne pulled her back before she could beat the Seljuk, who responded only with silence.

    ¡°Enough!¡± Jaqeli shouted. ¡°Strategos, what is wrong with you? He is a prisoner! Do we need to bind your hands, too?¡±

    Your reputation with the amazons is declining, the game voice said.

    Herakleia kept silent. The Seljuk regarded her with a forced, placid expression. His lips and eyelids flickered; this was the only hint that he feared her. Now he was alone with the warrior women. They were rumored to slice off the balls of the men they captured before forcing the bloody meat down the men¡¯s throats.

    The amazons checked him for weapons, removed his armor, then brought him to the carriages, tied his hands behind his back, and gave him water before they drank their own. Za-Ilmaknun bound up his wound.

    ¡°Remarkable,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°The iron ball passed through his shoulder, taking a chunk of armor, flesh, and several wads of cloth straight out through his back, all thanks to the grace and majesty of God.¡±

    The Seljuk kept quiet.

    ¡°They steal one of our own, we help one of their own,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°We don¡¯t even get a thank you. All we get is more war.¡±

    ¡°Be patient,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°One day everyone will come around.¡±

    ¡°After they kill us all,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Strategos, you seem tired,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°I recommend you¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± she growled.

    The amazons placed the Seljuk in a carriage. They asked his name, but he gave no answer.

    ¡°We¡¯ll call him Bob,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Until he tells us his real name.¡±

    ¡°Bob?¡± said Pentarch Kata Surameli, the Alanian amazon. ¡°What kind of name is that?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s his name,¡± Herakleia said.

    El-Hadi¡¯s arrow had been removed, in the mean time. Za-Ilmaknun told Herakleia that the wound was bad.

    ¡°He was not quite so fortunate as our Seljuk friend,¡± he said. ¡°The arrowhead separated from the shaft when it struck the poor fellow. During your absence in the marshes, it was most difficult to extract. I fear the consequences.¡±

    ¡°Will you have to take the leg?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°We must wait and see,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°We will change the bandages frequently, re-apply certain salves, and pray that the wound does not get infected.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll stay with him.¡± Herakleia eyed El-Hadi, who was lying in a carriage. ¡°Keep him comfortable.¡±

    Za-Ilmaknun bowed.

    Herakleia approached El-Hadi, took his hand, and asked how he was doing.

    ¡°I have felt better.¡± He was trembling and sweating, but struggling to look good for Herakleia. ¡°I will pull through.¡±

    ¡°What you did today was very brave,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°I¡¯ll be recommending you for the Order of Glory when we get back.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said. ¡°Forgive me, but the Order of Glory¡­is that good?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s one of our highest honors,¡± she said. ¡°Established for soldiers or civilians who risk their lives to help the uprising.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, strategos,¡± he said.

    Taking a deep breath, Herakleia squeezed El-Hadi¡¯s shoulder. Then, stepping away, and keeping her eyes from his bandaged wound, she said a silent prayer. This granted a small amount of XP for her Intermediate Piety Skill (5/10).

    What else can I do? At this point, prayers are all we have left!

    El-Hadi had a family waiting back in Trebizond. There was his beautiful wife Amina, and their fat toddler Ibrahim, who always laughed and smiled at everyone, a real charmer. They were Domari. That was what they called themselves. They came from Hind, and had been wandering arid Irak for generations. Herakleia knew little about them.

    She walked in an almost random direction, forcing herself to appear busy, even as she realized that El-Hadi had been wounded because of her.

    Euphrosyne was right, Herakleia thought. That¡¯s why I¡¯m so angry at her. If I¡¯d forced Ay?e to stay with Chaka Bey, none of this would have happened. Now El-Hadi is going to lose his leg, and for what? A medal?

    Earlier she had directed her anger against others; now she directed it against herself. She was so ashamed she could barely even look at anyone. But there was work to be done. There was always work. They needed to get moving.

    She spoke with every member of the convoy about what to do next. Should they proceed to the refugees, chase after Ay?e, or return home? Their options were limited. They had only one spare horse, now¡ªthis was the one Herakleia had stolen from Bob the Seljuk. The rest of the palfreys, except for the draft horses, had been lost in battle. Scouting ahead or even defending the convoy would be difficult. Because of this, everyone was in danger of another ambush.

    ¡°We¡¯re out here for a reason, dear,¡± Miriai said. She had also been wounded in the battle when Chaka Bey¡¯s horse had kicked her; a white bandage was wrapped around her head. ¡°We ought to finish the job. We should help the refugees, and do what we can to bring poor Ay?e back. Ach, I can only imagine what her husband has planned for her¡­¡±

    Herakleia looked to the amazons and cart drivers for their opinion.

    ¡°They surprised us once,¡± Simonis said. ¡°It will not happen again.¡±

    Taking a deep breath, Herakleia approached Euphrosyne.

    ¡°I told you some things earlier I regret,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Act a fool, be treated like a fool,¡± Euphrosyne said.

    Herakleia reached out her arm, and Euphrosyne shook it.

    ¡°We are all doing our best,¡± Jaqeli said. ¡°We cannot blame each other when things go awry. The situation cannot always be perfect.¡±

    The amazons and cart drivers nodded, saying this was true.

    ¡°So what do you think, dekarch?¡± Herakleia said to Euphrosyne. ¡°What should we do next?¡±

    ¡°We have been blooded against the Seljuks,¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°Having never met them in battle before. But now we know this enemy. We know what to expect.¡±

    ¡°Guess we¡¯ll have to see how many surprises they have up their sleeves,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°I suspect they have taken that which they desired,¡± said Kata Surameli. ¡°We shall not see them again for some time. We must instead focus on the mission¡ªon the refugees.¡±

    The rest of the amazons nodded their assent. The cart drivers Isma¡¯il al-Saffar, Jabir al-Maml¨±k, and Hurmuzdyar bin Wandarin Bawand had the same opinion, as did Za-Ilmaknun and Miriai.

    The last person Herakleia needed to ask was El-Hadi. He was also the last person she wanted to ask. The poor man lay uncomfortably on the sacks of supplies in his carriage, and looked half-asleep.

    ¡°I wish to return home,¡± he said, stirring at her voice. ¡°But I know I¡¯m the only one.¡± Suddenly he seized Herakleia¡¯s arm, and his eyes were wide. ¡°Don¡¯t let the Aethiopian take my leg. I need my leg. I cannot do anything without it. Do not let me become a cripple!¡±

    ¡°At the cost of your life?¡± Herakleia said.

    El-Hadi fell back, released her, and shut his eyes. ¡°What is life without one of your legs?¡±

    ¡°Some people manage to live without one,¡± Herakleia said. The moment these words left her mouth, she regretted them. They sounded so insensitive. But what could she say?

    ¡°Let him take your leg, then,¡± El-Hadi said. ¡°If it¡¯s so easy, see how you like it.¡±

    In her memory, Herakleia saw Duke Robert beneath her, naked and groaning in ecstasy.

    ¡°I¡¯ve sacrificed to the uprising,¡± she said. ¡°If I could have given a leg instead of the other things I gave¡­¡±

    ¡°You will see. That is all I can say. The line between having a normal life and being a cripple is so thin. It can so easily happen to you. It was just one arrow. One lucky shot¡­¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll take care of you and your family, you know that. You¡¯re one of us, leg or no leg.¡±

    ¡°The same as before, less a leg,¡± El-Hadi said.

    ¡°There¡¯s purpose for all of us in Trebizond.¡±

    ¡°I can be the crippled beggar.¡±

    ¡°Do you see many of those people in Trebizond these days? No one begs for anything in Trebizond! We¡¯re on our way to help people like that right now!¡±

    Za-Ilmaknun took her aside before El-Hadi could respond and whispered: ¡°He is very upset, as you can see. Some of the poison may have gotten into his blood, his heart, and mind, you understand. There is no reasoning with such an influence.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what we tell ourselves. I¡¯d be miserable too if I was going to lose one of my legs. It¡¯s not just in his head.¡±

    Za-Ilmaknun bowed. ¡°Of course not, strategos.¡±

    Herakleia looked at him. ¡°You have some experience dealing with angry women, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Believe me, this is nothing compared to what I have known.¡± Za-Ilmaknun crossed himself. ¡°I can deal with bloody hand-to-hand trench warfare, endless bombardment, five-year sieges in which we are reduced to eating each other, thirst in the burning wastes of the Dasht-e Lut, bubonic plague, madness, drowning, getting cooked to death like that poor man in the Trebizond citadel kitchen, attacks by elephants or lions, even the amputation of my own limbs. All this I can deal with¡ªwithout a complaint¡ªbecause none of it compares to the anger of women.¡±

    ¡°Are you talking about Princess Isato?¡±

    ¡°Of course not. I would never defame such an illustrious character. She was always the most peaceable, pleasant, and agreeable traveling companion.¡±

    Herakleia was surprised to find herself laughing. She wanted to ask what it was really like dealing with a young woman who would transform into a hyena if she got angry, but Herakleia refrained. Za-Ilmaknun had already told everyone that he had no desire to talk about it.

    By then the sun was emerging from behind the clouds, illuminating the sweat that bathed El-Hadi. Soon the carriages were hauled into a line. They were then hitched to the draft horses, and the drivers and amazons piled aboard, having voted to eat breakfast on the way. Since El-Hadi was wounded, Herakleia needed to drive the front carriage through the marsh herself. This at first seemed impossible, not only because Herakleia was an uninitiate (0/10) in her cart driving skill, but because it had also been difficult enough to get through the marsh on foot without having to worry about wooden wheels and axles. But Euphrosyne¡ªriding the convoy¡¯s sole scout horse¡ªfound the remains of the old Roman road that led through the marsh. This brought them to the far side within an hour, where they faced more valleys and mountains. But that was Anatolia. Mountains and valleys, some wet, others dry, with the best spots taken by cities that had been there since before anyone could write their names. As a tourist, a landscape like this might have seemed beautiful, but it just meant trouble for the convoy. Seljuks or other enemies could spy on them or ambush them, hiding behind the mountaintops as the slow vulnerable convoy made its way to Satala.

    But there was no sign of Seljuks, Chaka Bey, or Ay?e. They had all vanished as if they had never existed.

    Soon enough, the convoy left the wetter lands by the northern coast, and penetrated the mountain chains in the southern interior, where everything was warmer and drier. They passed the road branching east to Tabriz, then they came to the Satala ruins, and found the refugees.

 32. Daiwa

    Hundreds of refugees were sitting among the broken walls of Satala¡¯s old brick Roman fortress, staring into space. Mostly women, children, and a few black-robed monks, they were too tired, hungry, and thirsty to even complain about the days of walking or the fact that they had already consumed the little food and water they had grabbed before fleeing for their lives. Only the smaller children whined. Some of the babies were too tired to cry, their eyes getting that glassy and otherworldly look which meant that they were approaching death.

    That afternoon, a dust cloud rose over the hills of yellow grass and green thistle on the northern horizon. At first, none of the refugees noticed. It was a child¡ªdirty, thin, small, clothed in rags, his lips chapped, sitting against a brick arch¡ªwho first spotted the four rumbling carriages piled with supplies that rose above the wavering mirage. The boy stood, pointed, shouted¡ªapparently he was the only one on watch. Everyone else turned their heads. The women were older, clad in colorful robes coated in dust, their faces saying that they had led hard lives of poverty, housework, farming, and child-rearing even before the Seljuks burned their homes and led their friends and relatives in chains to unknown lands.

    The refugees stood. For a moment they watched the approaching convoy with its one outrider, whose armor gleamed in the afternoon sun. Then they panicked. Screams rose into the air as they searched for their children, called their names, and seized their hands or carried them, scattering into the surrounding hills, the fields which had been farmland before the Battle of Mantzikert, though now they were choked with thistles whose thorns sliced welts that bled little gleaming rubies of blood that smeared their flesh. The women and children cried in desperation, gasped for breath, running as fast as they could¡ªthey were so tired and overburdened that most people could have caught them just by walking¡ªterrified that it was going to end like this. Dragging their children or carrying them because their little legs were too slow, the peasant women could only run a little before they ducked down to hide behind bushes or trees. Those with crying babies drove themselves half-insane trying to silence them without hurting them¡ªshoving the babies against their withered breasts, clutching them to their chests, kissing them, pretending to be happy and quietly singing lullabies even as tears gleamed in their eyes, begging them to stop. Everyone knew stories of Romans or barbarians getting annoyed with captured infants who screamed too much. The soldiers would hold them up by their ankles and slice them in half.

    But these were the refugees¡¯ fellow peasants and workers approaching¡ªthose who had organized for power. It was Simonis the outrider who shouted in her broken Armenian that the convoy was from Trebizond and that they were here to distribute food, water, and medicine before bringing the refugees to safety.

    But by the time the carriages reached Satala¡¯s ruins, all the refugees with any strength had fled. Only a few babushkas and elderly monks remained. They were crying, struggling to hide in the shadows, and groaning in terror, even as the carriages stopped and the Trapezuntines climbed out and offered them food and water. Until that moment, every stranger on the road had been a threat. The refugees¡¯ experiences meant that even when Herakleia was holding a water skin up to them and begging them to drink, they saw an armored warrior brandishing his scimitar and screaming in their faces. Even when this nightmare vanished before their eyes, the idea that people would help them for nothing in return seemed too good to be true. Men were always looking for women to rape¡ªso maybe men were using these women as bait to catch the refugees.

    ¡°Not what I expected,¡± Herakleia told Simonis. ¡°It doesn¡¯t seem like they understand you.¡±

    ¡°I told you, I¡¯m only an Armenian by ethnos,¡± Simonis said. ¡°I barely even know how to say hello in Armenian. Baref. It was just a secret language my parents used when they didn¡¯t want us to know what they were saying.¡±

    Herakleia squinted at the refugees who were still fleeing into the distance, just dark shapes lunging through bright grass and thistle. ¡°We need to find a translator. We don¡¯t have time for this. We have to get back to Trebizond. Chaka Bey is going to send people to attack the first chance he gets.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll find someone,¡± Simonis said.

    Though the Trapezuntines were tired from their journey and from the morning¡¯s defeat, they fanned out into the ruins and the overgrown farmland, shouting that they meant no harm, that they needed a translator. But even the elderly monks were ignorant of Roman.

    A middle-aged woman with a strange, almost unearthly beauty stepped out of an olive orchard''s shadows. She was dressed colorfully like the rest, and flanked by two dark suntanned youths, one of whom looked shockingly like Hagop, the heroic young Armenian leader who had given his life to defeat the Latin occupation of Trebizond. Herakleia gasped at the sight, wondering at first if Hagop had returned from the dead. The youth¡¯s brother nudged him before he blushed and looked away.

    ¡°I speak some Roman,¡± the woman said. ¡°My name is Katranide.¡±

    ¡°Nice to meet you. I¡¯m Herakleia, strategos of the Republic of Trebizond. Are these your children?¡±

    Katranide nodded, then put her arm around the taller boy who resembled Hagop. ¡°Yes. This is Smbat.¡± She put her arm around the shorter boy. ¡°And this is Ashot.¡±

    ¡°They both look handsome and strong.¡±

    ¡°Thank you. We were in the middle of marrying them off when the Seljuks attacked¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to interrupt, but you all must be famished, and I don¡¯t mean to keep you here. We have plenty of food and water¡ªwould you like some? We can talk and rest in the shade, and when you¡¯ve had your fill maybe you can help convince the others to join us.¡±

    Katranide agreed. They returned to the Satala ruins, where the drivers and amazons had succeeded in distributing bread, water, yogurt, and honey to the babushkas and monks. Some of these were already cupping their hands around their mouths and shouting with their hoarse voices for the others to come back. Katranide, Smbat, and Ashot ate and drank only a little before they all grabbed water skins and bread loaves and rushed out into the countryside to tell the others that it was safe. Herakleia¡¯s farr was fully restored by these acts of solidarity, and since she was still exhausted from two long days of traveling, fighting, and barely sleeping, she diverted the energy into her stamina. Yet at the same time, this ¡°false¡± stamina could be depleted much more rapidly. It was only a temporary expedient, like a shot of caffeine meant to get her through the rest of the day.

    It took the entire afternoon to coax the refugees to the fortress ruins. During this time, the refugees sat in the shade, ate, gave food to the children, and thanked the Trapezuntines. While Jafer El-Hadi remained in his carriage, semi-conscious, bathed in sweat, Za-Ilmaknun and Miriai acted as doctors, enlisting as nurses any drivers and amazons who had the strength to work. Medicinal herbs were rubbed on wounds, which were then bandaged, and broken bones were splinted. Some babies were in a terrible state, but they were too young to be given food or water. They could only be helped when their mothers were rested and nourished enough to produce milk again. Their mothers ate and drank as quickly as possible, weeping as they hugged the babies close to their chests. Everyone else did whatever they could to help. Herakleia and Katranide helped one teenage mother with a small famished baby into the shade of the Roman fortress walls, then brought her bread, cheese, and water. Her baby was gray and unconscious, but still breathing, the heart beating slowly, faintly, arrhythmically. The mother wept even as she ate and drank, rocking back and forth, kissing her baby¡¯s forehead, repeating the same Armenian phrase. Herakleia asked Katranide to translate.

    Katranide looked at her. ¡°She¡¯s saying: ¡®May I go blind if I lose you, my beautiful son.¡¯¡±

    Herakleia¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Is there anything else we can do for her?¡±

    Katranide asked the mother, who shook her head.

    ¡°It takes time for her body to change the food and water into baby¡¯s milk,¡± Katranide said to Herakleia. ¡°We can only wait, and while waiting, help others.¡±

    Herakleia was exhausted by this point¡ªafternoon was turning to evening¡ªbut she took Katranide¡¯s advice. After all, the refugees were in even worse shape than she was. Actually, she had no desire to stay here. Satala had once been a Roman fortress town, one which had fallen partly due to its poor strategic position in a valley surrounded by dusty rolling mountains, the blue curving Lykos River too distant to supply the soldiers and townspeople hiding behind the walls. Alexios had also told nightmarish stories about this place, something involving a giant skeleton in an underground lava pit. Yet it was too late in the day to return to Trebizond. The refugees and Trapezuntines agreed to camp for the night inside the fortress, though the walls were broken and charred from when the Seljuks had conquered it. Inside, the only remains of the fort¡¯s structures were pieces of marble pillars lying in the dirt against the walls. Other travelers must have already moved them out of the way.

    Broken walls still better than no walls, Herakleia thought.

    Fires were started, more food was cooked, and the stars came out. All the babies survived save the one Herakleia and Katranide had seen earlier. This child perished, and the teenage mother had been wailing for hours while people took turns trying to comfort her. The woman¡¯s name was Sahakanuysh.

    We could have saved the baby if we had come sooner. Who knows who the baby might have become.

    Others worked on other things. Carriages were pushed into the wall gaps, and Katranide¡¯s children Smbat and Ashot volunteered to take the night watch. Herakleia thanked them in Armenian: shnor-ha-ka-lu-tyun. By then almost everyone else was wrapped in blankets and asleep, and she was sitting against the wall and doing her best to stay awake as the last few Trapezuntines conversed by the fire. Dekarch Euphrosyne asked her if it was appropriate to rely on two young civilians to keep them safe that night.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    ¡°You want the job?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°No, strategos,¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°But I can take it if need be¡ªas can anyone in our squad.¡±

    ¡°Everyone¡¯s tired,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Those two kids might be the only ones with any energy left. We won¡¯t be able to fight if we¡¯re all too tired to even stand.¡±

    Euphrosyne frowned. ¡°What are your orders, strategos?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll take a nap and check on Smbat and Ashot in a few hours.¡±

    ¡°But all of us slept last night except for you.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the sword of Damocles of sleeplessness. It comes with being in charge.¡±

    ¡°It seems not wise, strategos.¡±

    ¡°Stay up and keep an eye on them.¡± Herakleia waved her hand. ¡°I don¡¯t care. Do what you want.¡±

    Euphrosyne looked to Simonis, who had been listening to their conversation. Herakleia fell asleep soon after, so drunk on exhaustion that part of her would have cared little if she had never woken up.

    At least when I¡¯m dead, I won¡¯t have to worry about any of this. I did my best¡­you¡¯re all on your own¡­

    Even the quiet crying of Sahakanuysh stopped bothering her. A baby was also wailing, but Herakleia didn¡¯t notice. She slept without waking until morning. In her consciousness lurked the awareness that something was wrong. Something was prowling the valley outside the fortress¡¯s broken walls, flashing eyes that swirled like blue galaxies. Miriai appeared in her dreams and warned that a demonic creature she called a daiwi was coming. Nonetheless, Herakleia was so tired that she drifted deeper into sleep. In those realms of exhaustion were dreams of Ay?e. The Seljuks were dragging her away, and Herakleia was fighting them, trying to save Ay?e, who kept begging for help. But no matter how hard Herakleia fought, too many armored soldiers blocked the way. It was impossible to help her. They brought Ay?e across the mountains, rivers, and valleys, all the way behind the curtain walls of Erzurum Theodosiopolis, the city of minarets in the dusty plains. There Chaka Bey was free to do as he liked with her¡ªto shut her up in a dark dungeon, the way Herakleia had once been shut up. To be strapped to a table and tortured, just as Paul the Chain had tortured Herakleia.

    ¡°Ay?e!¡± she shouted.

    Herakleia bolted upright to the morning sun¡ªto the smell of smoke and cooking food, to pleasant chatter in several languages, to nickering horses. Had she actually shouted? She looked around. Nobody seemed to have noticed. Either that, or none of them wanted to talk about Ay?e. It was too awful to contemplate. Herakleia¡¯s heart was still beating, and she was taking deep breaths, her clothes damp with sweat.

    I have to help her. I can¡¯t leave her.

    Smbat and Ashot had done a good job keeping themselves awake; everyone had survived. Herakleia¡¯s ¡°nap,¡± as it turned out, had lasted all night. This time her stamina was truly restored.

    At this point, they all needed to do was pack up and return to Trebizond. There was just one problem.

    ¡°It is poor Jafer El-Hadi, strategos,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°His fever has worsened. If we do not remove his leg, the gangrene will consume him utterly.¡±

    She looked at the driver, lying in his carriage where there was now more room, since many of the convoy¡¯s supplies had been used up. El-Hadi had turned so pale his skin was almost translucent, the stench of death hovering about him. Herakleia helped Euphrosyne carry him out of the carriage and set him on a blanket near the fire, where one of Za-Ilmaknun¡¯s surgical tools¡ªa small metal poker¡ªwas lying on a broken tombstone, its metal glowing in the flames.

    Sensing that something unpleasant was about to take place, the other refugees and Trapezuntines and even Bob the Silent Seljuk Prisoner (whose hands were still tied behind his back) went outside the broken walls. Only Za-Ilmaknun, Miriai, Herakleia, Euphrosyne, and El-Hadi remained.

    El-Hadi was swaying by then, dripping sweat and murmuring with his eyes closed, praying to Saint Sara the Black Kali in an unknown language: ¡°Om Krim Kalikayai Namah¡ªOm Kali, Om Kali!¡± His clothes were soaked, and the wound on his leg had blackened, rotted, turned green. To Herakleia¡¯s eyes the wound looked like makeup for a zombie movie rather than something El-Hadi had suffered in battle.

    ¡°He must drink alcohol,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°Much alcohol. This procedure is quite painful, and it is the only anesthetic we here possess.¡±

    ¡°Not sure he drinks,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Is God not all-merciful?¡±

    Herakleia and Euphrosyne looked at each other, then lifted El-Hadi¡¯s head. Simonis brought a wineskin and tried pouring its contents down El-Hadi¡¯s throat, but he spat it out.

    ¡°Jafer,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Listen to me. You need to drink this wine.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± he groaned.

    ¡°An amputation without anesthetic is pretty hardcore,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Are you sure you want to do this?¡±

    He writhed back and forth and struggled to escape, but he was too weak. Za-Ilmaknun set his rainbow-striped mequamia walking stick against one of the carriages and withdrew his knives as well as a saw from a packet inside his backpack, laying them on a cloth. Then he wrapped a thin rope tightly above El-Hadi¡¯s knee. A blanket was folded into a pillow and set under El-Hadi¡¯s head. Herakleia, following Za-Ilmaknun¡¯s commands, shoved a wooden chew stick into El-Hadi¡¯s mouth. Euphrosyne and Simonis held his arms while sleepy Smbat and Ashot¡ªcalled over from outside the courtyard¡ªheld his good leg. Miriai also stood by, ready to assist, working to avoid bickering with Za-Ilmaknun. In the mean time, the Afrikan doctor had removed his white shirt and tossed it a good distance away, exposing his flabby chest. He announced that he would soon begin. After washing his hands, his tools, and his target with wine, he crossed himself.

    ¡°In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen,¡± he said.

    El-Hadi was too delirious to notice. Za-Ilmaknun took a deep breath, then began to cut. The blood that burst out of the veins looked just like the red wine Za-Ilmaknun had poured over his hands and tools a moment before.

    El-Hadi¡¯s scream was the worst thing Herakleia had ever heard. As a soldier who had combat experience in three major battles, Herakleia was no stranger to sickening noises, but El-Hadi sounded neither human nor even animalistic. He sounded unearthly. His eyes widened, he bolted upright, he struggled to free himself, but Za-Ilmaknun shouted to hold him down, and everyone threw their weight on him, and as his muscles and veins swelled even his fellow cart drivers returned to the courtyard to restrain him. When El-Hadi exhausted himself and realized that there was no escape, he fell back and spat out the chew stick.

    ¡°Do not take my leg,¡± he said. ¡°Please do not take it¡ª¡±

    Herakleia shoved the chew stick back into his mouth. ¡°It¡¯s your leg or your life!¡±

    By then Za-Ilmaknun had cut through the skin, muscles, and tendons, and was now sawing through the first section of bone. The grinding was sickening. El-Hadi was shrieking again, until he passed out. Everyone gasped with relief, but they all continued holding him in case he woke up. Za-Ilmaknun finished cutting through one section of bone, then resumed slicing through the muscle and tendon on the other side, before he sawed through the final section of bone and tossed the dead limb over his shoulder. It thumped in the dust.

    Miriai handed him his red-hot tool from the fire. Using this, Za-Ilmaknun cauterized the blood vessels that were still bleeding from the stump. When the bleeding stopped, he rinsed the wound in wine and sewed the skin flaps around it, which he then bandaged. This took far longer than the initial cutting. Having finished, he washed his hands in water, then wine, then water again, and put his shirt back on. (Wincing, Miriai handed him the shirt, saying that he should cover up for Ptahil¡¯s sake.) Then he disinfected his tools, and replaced them in his pack. His assistants, meanwhile, congratulated him as they released El-Hadi, who was still unconscious, though color had returned to his face.

    ¡°Let him rest for as long as he needs.¡± Za-Ilmaknun retrieved his mequamia. ¡°The smithies of Trebizond will construct a prosthesis for him upon our return.¡±

    Herakleia, Euphrosyne, and Simonis brought El-Hadi to his carriage, laid him on a blanket, and then wrapped him up, placing another blanket under his head.

    ¡°Poor Jafer,¡± Herakleia said. By then the others had already left to help everyone pack up to leave. But when she spoke, El-Hadi opened his eyes and looked at her.

    ¡°My leg,¡± he said.

    She seized his hand. ¡°You were very brave. Very strong. Like always.¡±

    ¡°Is it gone?¡±

    She nodded.

    He looked away, shut his eyes, pulled his hand from hers and covered his face.

    ¡°No more acrobatics,¡± he said. ¡°No more walking. No more working. No more anything! I¡¯m just a cripple now. Just a burden.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll take care of you and your family, always. You¡¯re one of us. And no one is a burden. There are other things you can do.¡±

    ¡°Like what?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll find something you like. Something that matters.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m useless now. I¡¯m nothing.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not true. You¡¯re a brave warrior, and you¡¯ve sacrificed a lot. We¡¯re going to find the ones who did this and make them pay, Jafer.¡±

    ¡°My son will never know me as I was. He¡¯ll always think of me as a cripple.¡±

    ¡°Stop saying that word! No one will think of you like that!¡±

    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t they? All I can do now is sit around all day. While the others walk, run, play, work, I will be trapped in my own body!¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re going to have a prosthesis made so you can still move around on your own. And you will learn new skills.¡±

    ¡°Ah, new skills. Wonderful! Always easy to learn.¡±

    ¡°You can learn to read and write, if you want. You can become a teacher or a scribe. There is so much work to be done, and we¡¯re desperate for your help.¡±

    ¡°All I want is my leg back. And my wife¡­she married a full man, not a man missing a limb. She will hate me. She will search for a new husband.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not true. All of us care about you. We will all take care of you. You are not alone and never will be.¡± She took back his hand. ¡°I¡¯m sorry this happened to you, Jafer.¡±

    He withdrew his hand and looked away. ¡°Sorry will not bring back my leg.¡±

    ¡°Strategos,¡± Euphrosyne said.

    Herakleia turned. Behind her was a small, dark, armored woman, her black curly hair tied behind her head. Her eyes were red with fatigue, and deep tired shadows swelled around them. It was going to take more than one good night¡¯s sleep to recover from this trip.

    ¡°The time has come,¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°We must go.¡±

    Herakleia nodded. ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here. And you need some rest.¡±

    Euphrosyne nodded. ¡°Simonis will be on patrol today. I will sleep beside our patient.¡±

    Herakleia took her aside, and whispered: ¡°You don¡¯t need to do that. He isn¡¯t in the best mood. You should be able to sleep¡ª¡±

    ¡°My fatigue will pass. His leg will never return.¡± Euphrosyne looked to the bloody patch of dirt where the operation had taken place. Someone had already buried the leg while Herakleia was speaking with El-Hadi.

    With everything gathered and packed, the elderly, the wounded, and those mothers with babies were placed in the carriages. Everyone else (save Simonis on Bob the Silent Seljuk¡¯s horse) was forced to walk. Herakleia even gave up her seat to an old tattooed Kurdish lady who had some experience driving carriages. Soon enough, the convoy left the ruined Roman fortress, heading north to Trebizond.

 33. Blue Eyes

    It was an unpleasant journey along the old Roman road through the mountain valleys. Out of fear of giving away their position, nobody spoke. Even the children kept silent. The instant the babies cried, the mothers would shove their faces against their bare breasts¡ªnow swollen with milk, their nipples white with it¡ªto silence them. But one baby named Hovhannes refused to stop screaming no matter what anyone did. He terrified everyone, and his shrieks echoed across the mountains.

    ¡°Oh, the Seljuks will come,¡± muttered the driver Isma¡¯il al-Saffar. ¡°They will hear this boy from the distance of a thousand farsakhs! Even from Sera, the Seljuks will come, complaining about the noise!¡±

    Having been rested, fed, and cleaned, baby Hovhannes still yelled and cried. He had done so the night before, but everyone had been too tired to care, sleeping through his wailing until he exhausted himself and passed out. Perhaps now he was taking revenge for this neglect. His mother, a young woman named Angela¡ªfitting the name in every way with her beauty, warmth, and patience, in contrast to Hovhannes¡¯s unending rage¡ªsang to him, played with him, and hugged him close, never losing hope that he would calm down. Her energy was admirable, but Hovhannes¡¯s crying had made her thin and haggard, and no one could care for this child forever. Others took turns with him. Elders who missed the days when their own children had been young picked him up, tossed him into the air¡ªsafely¡ªsang to him, hugged him, kissed him, and told him they loved him in different languages. Everyone passed him around and tried to cheer him up. Even Sahakanuysh, the mother who had lost her baby, took him and cared for him as though he was her own. This restored her spirits a little, but not his. Hovhannes continued to cry his eyes out. Nothing was good enough for him.

    ¡°Are you sure this is your child?¡± said the amazon Amat al-Aziz to Angela. ¡°I think he may have been switched with the son of a king!¡±

    ¡°All hail Prince Hovhannes!¡± said her friend, the amazon Nazar al-Sabiyya, while bowing deeply to Hovhannes. He kept crying regardless.

    Laughter rose from the four carriages and the hundred refugees walking the broken Roman road, which was turning from dust to mud again as the convoy left the rain shadow of the Pontic alps and wended north to the cooler wetter Euxine region. Here the mountains held back the clouds, which spread either endless mist or rain in early spring.

    Herakleia paid little attention to this amusement. She was almost unable to look away from the forested cliffs and foaming waterfalls that hung over their heads to the left and right like tsunamis about to crash down on them. She was so worried about being ambushed that her eyes played tricks on her. Frequently she saw warriors hiding behind the boulders on the mountaintops, watching them, pointing, planning an assault, though on closer inspection these warriors always turned out to be young pine trees lost in the shadows, swaying in the wind, imitating men, transforming from tree to Seljuk and back again¡ªboth to terrify her and to amuse themselves. A helmet would glint, and Herakleia would come close to screaming that they were under attack, but the helmet would turn out to be a mountain stream splashing in the sunlight¡ªalmost seeming to play¡ªamong the rocks.

    Yet her worry was not entirely selfless. Herakleia also found it difficult to think about what had happened to Ay?e and Jafer, and wanted to distract herself. Sometimes she felt like yelling at Bob the Silent Seljuk Prisoner, demanding to know where Chaka Bey had taken Ay?e. She also wondered about torturing the information out of him, though she rebuked herself for even considering this idea, since she was a victim of torture, and also knew from personal experience that it was useless. It only emboldened its victims. At best, they would just lie to you. Torturers were so sadistic that they sometimes killed their victims¡ªwithout getting any useful information out of them. And so Bob the Silent Seljuk Prisoner walked with them, his hands tied behind his back, looking miserable, refusing to open his mouth except to eat or drink. Even then, he accepted little food or water. Herakleia had explained that she would set him free and even give him a horse and supplies if he told them where Chaka Bey had taken Ay?e, but Bob only responded by averting his gaze, as though there was something evil about a woman offering to make deals with him as though they were equals. Suspecting that he only spoke Turkish, Arabic, or Persian, the amazon Umm Musharrafa translated for Herakleia in all three languages. But Bob still said nothing.

    The convoy moved through the Death Worm Marsh as quickly as possible. At the marsh¡¯s northern edge, beneath the mountain village of Tzanicha, a pair of Laz youths dragged down a carriage laden with jars of milk and sacks of cheese, which they exchanged for old golden nomismas stamped with the face of Christ on one side and Good Emperor Anastasios on the other. The youths only spoke Laz, a Kartvelian language unknown to anyone in the convoy, and too difficult for Pentarch Kata Surameli (who was Georgian) to understand. At least this was what Herakleia assumed. As the Trapezuntines and refugees rested and shared their goods among themselves, the youths pointed south to the marsh and repeated the phrase ¡°lo-mee-katsis-sakhit.¡±

    ¡°Lo-mee-katsis-sakhit,¡± Herakleia repeated back to them. ¡°What the hell does that mean? Are you talking about Seljuks? Seljuki? Turki?¡±

    ¡°Ara!¡± the youths said. ¡°Lo-mee-katsis-sakhit!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°I don¡¯t understand you.¡±

    ¡°Lo-mee-katsis-sakhit!¡±

    Herakleia turned to Za-Ilmaknun. ¡°Seems we''ve got a problem with something called a ¡®lo-mee-katsis-sakhit.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Would I only knew what such a thing was,¡± he said.

    ¡°Could it be the death worm?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°This creature you have spoken of has not troubled anyone in many months,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°It seems likely these two anxious young men speak of something else.¡±

    The youths gestured southward to the marsh, then northward to Trebizond, repeating the phrase ¡°lo-mee-katsis-sakhit.¡± Herakleia wished she could tell the youths to imitate what they were talking about, but she had tried to get over language barriers with this technique before. Even if it had been possible to communicate her desire to interact like this, their language of bodily movements was probably just as confusing to her as their spoken language. Most people had little practice miming or performing. These games of charades, when they took place, often ended up frustrating everyone even more than before.

    Regardless, it seemed the youths wanted the convoy to keep going. Although everyone was tired and hoping to rest, they agreed to continue moving for a few hours more. They were feeling a little better thanks to the break and the fresh food, and baby Hovhannes had screamed himself to sleep again, this time after almost everyone in the convoy (even the old monks) had cared for him. And so the convoy thanked the Laz youths, bid them farewell, and were soon off. The youths were still anxious at this departure, but what could the Trapezuntines do? Herakleia wondered if these were some of the Haldi people Diaresso and Gontran had met in that cave along the Satala Way. These people had attempted to warn Herakleia¡¯s friends about the death worm, but their language had been too difficult to understand.

    The caravan traveled along the meandering road, bones and muscles aching. The carriages stopped at the little rushing waterfalls to splash their faces and refill their water skins.

    Herakleia longed to see the first fire tower in Trapezuntine territory. It must be close. The sight would mean that she was safe. More than anything, she wanted to be behind the city¡¯s massive walls, ensconced in her room in the citadel after washing the last few days¡¯ accumulated crud from her flesh at the Roman bath¡ªthe underground furnace blazing bright and red, the tiled mosaics inside choked with scalding steam. She would rest in her bed sipping cha, and multiple walls of thick stone would lie between her and the outside world. Even if the Seljuks attacked, they would need weeks or months to get through. She would have at least one night of shelter and safety when she could lose herself in sleep.

    Since the night before, a feeling of dread had been growing inside her. It was difficult to explain, but at this point it had eclipsed all her other emotions, even the regret she felt at El-Hadi¡¯s amputation and the loss of Ay?e. The two youths from Tzanicha had been warning them about a real danger. The convoy needed to get to safety, but at the slow pace of the carts and the walking refugees Trebizond was at least another day or two away.

    In these parts of Chald¨ªa, the Satala Road was a band of dirt and broken pavement that wound between cliffs. These sometimes drew so close that, when Herakleia had first come here, she had worried that the convoy would need to leave the carriages behind and proceed on foot, shifting their supplies to their backs. The road widened now and then, and sometimes the caravan crossed old stone bridges that were built in the days of Mithridates Eupator or even Xenophon and his Ten Thousand. Sometimes the trail would go up, and vertical drops stretching a thousand feet would lie over the side. Herakleia tossed a boulder down just to see what would happen, and watched as it seemed to hover in space as it flipped over itself, shrinking slowly until it shattered in the faraway darkness. Boulders sometimes fell from the mountains onto the road, and the caravan stopped sometimes so that people could clear them out of the way. But thankfully these heights were rare. Soon the caravan descended.

    The road rarely allowed travelers space to rest. Hours before sundown, when it was time to find a campsite, set up the tents, cook dinner, and appoint a watch, there was still nowhere for the convoy to stop, except the road itself. No one else was using it, but sleeping here would leave them exposed.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Herakleia also knew, from her years of reading whatever she could get her hands on in the Great Palace library at Konstantinopolis¡ªin this case, a military manual written by the Emperor Leo some centuries ago¡ªthat more than one imperial column had been ambushed in defiles like this. It was too easy, too tempting to push boulders down at one end, then another, trapping everyone inside so that you could pick them off with rocks, arrows, and whatever else you could hurl down on their heads.

    ¡°May we stop, strategos?¡± Katranide asked, walking wearily beside Herakleia.

    ¡°We have to keep going as long as possible,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°We need to find a more defensible position.¡±

    Katranide nodded and looked away. Herakleia wished that she could let the poor woman rest on one of the carriages, but every available space was occupied¡ªmostly by sleeping babushkas and old monks, still exhausted from the last few days. They were in such bad shape that Za-Ilmaknun was checking them constantly; he had told Herakleia that they would collapse if they walked even a little on their own. Once the convoy reached Trebizond, they would have to be carried to the hospital, where they would need days if not weeks to recover.

    They came close to death.

    With baby Hovhannes asleep, conversation in the convoy ceased. Wooden wheels and axles groaned, horse hooves clopped, ragged shoes and slippers and bare feet shuffled, and many people could be heard breathing. In their minds they kept telling themselves to put one foot in front of the other, they were almost there, they only needed to walk a little more and then they could rest. Sometimes they would look up to see if the road had widened, if their surroundings had become more amenable to a campsite for over a hundred people. But the narrow road kept winding between cliffs.

    Only when it was getting dark and Herakleia was thinking that, exposure or no exposure, they needed to rest, did the mountains fall away, revealing a valley of pines.

    ¡°Thank God,¡± she and many others said in several languages. Many also crossed themselves.

    Pulling off to the side, they set up their tents and unhitched their horses close to the cliffs. Few people spoke. Many rolled themselves up in blankets and went to sleep without waiting for dinner. Angela and baby Hovhannes were among them.

    Katranide clucked her tongue. ¡°Those sleepyheads will be starving in a few hours when they wake. Prince Hovhannes will be especially cross.¡±

    By then the amazons, drivers, and refugees who still possessed a little energy had gathered wood, ignited fires, and began cooking whatever they could find in the convoy¡¯s dwindling supplies. Mostly this took the form of more hard tack pancakes: ground up, mixed with water, and then fried in iron pans with fruit, meat, mushrooms, and vegetables. After gobbling down these pancakes with their hands, dessert consisted of yogurt drizzled with honey. The food was plain, but it might have even been considered cozy, given the convoy¡¯s growing camaraderie. Everyone ate quickly, and drank only water. They were too frightened for wine. All eyes were on the deepening dark encroaching on the camp. Herakleia was far from the only one who felt the dread mounting around them.

    Not Seljuks. Something else. The lo-mee-katsis-sakhit.

    No one but the babies and elders had slept that day, which meant that everyone of fighting age was ready to pass out. Herakleia herself felt so tired that she worried her skin would melt from her bones. She was afraid to look at her own reflection, and thankful that mirrors were rare here. Most of the time, if you wanted to see what you looked like, you either checked a puddle of water or a polished metal surface. The shadows and lines she would find on her face would belong to someone two or three times her age. People would guess that she was in her thirties or forties, not that she was nineteen. Strain would transform her into an old woman before she knew it.

    As dinner was dying down, everyone fell into silence¡ªthey had barely said anything to begin with¡ªand looked at each other. Someone needed to keep watch that night, but no one wanted to.

    ¡°I¡¯ll do it,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Strategos,¡± said the Kipchak amazon Jiajak Jaqeli, her blue eyes and red hair flashing in the firelight. ¡°You cannot. You have already done this how many times on this journey?¡±

    ¡°Believe me, it¡¯s not as much of a problem as you think,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I¡¯m going to sleep anyway.¡± That feeling of dread is going to keep me awake.

    ¡°Please, strategos,¡± said the old wizardly Zoroastrian driver Hurmuzdyar bin Wandarin Bawand. ¡°Let us¡ª¡±

    ¡°If I start nodding off, I¡¯ll wake you,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°So you¡¯d all better get to sleep as soon as possible.¡±

    The amazons and drivers looked at each other. They were ready to accept Herakleia¡¯s pronouncement when Miriai¡ªwho had been talking with El-Hadi, who was still lying in his carriage¡ªinterrupted.

    ¡°It¡¯s alright, dear.¡± She patted Herakleia¡¯s back. ¡°I napped most of the day. I can take care of it.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Ach, nobody doubts a young person, everyone doubts an old person,¡± Miriai said.

    Herakleia sighed. ¡°That¡¯s not what¡ª¡±

    ¡°Older people can have a hard time sleeping,¡± Miriai said. ¡°We have to get up and pee twenty times each night no matter how much we drink the day before. Even if we¡¯re dying of thirst in a blazing desert, even if we¡¯ve been cooked on the sands for weeks without a drop of water, we still have to pee twenty times a night. No more, no less. So it¡¯s no problem. I¡¯ll sit beside you, I¡¯ll wake you if I hear anything. And besides.¡± She gently elbowed Herakleia. ¡°We have to watch out for that daiwi. The lo-mee-katsis-sakhit.¡±

    Herakleia, the amazons, and the drivers looked at each other.

    ¡°You trusted yourselves the night before to a couple of children,¡± Miriai said. ¡°Now you¡¯re afraid to trust yourselves to an old lady?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Herakleia said, ¡°it¡¯s just¡ª¡±

    ¡°I spent many months with your Alexios¡ªand we even ascended to your home when Hermes Trismegistos brought us there. I saw the matarta toll houses with my own eyes on the soul¡¯s ascent to the World of Light. I saw where you come from.¡±

    ¡°Konstantinopolis?¡± Simonis said.

    ¡°No, you fool,¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°She¡¯s talking about the old world.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Simonis said.

    ¡°It¡¯s hard to explain,¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°Kentarch Leandros and the strategos sometimes talk about how they come from some sort of other place that¡¯s a thousand years in the future.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± Simonis nodded. ¡°Christ hasn¡¯t returned by then?¡±

    Euphrosyne shook her head. ¡°I suppose not.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s he waiting for?¡± Simonis said.

    ¡°His ways are not our ways,¡± Euphrosyne said.

    ¡°I¡¯m tired of that explanation,¡± Simonis said. ¡°I need something better!¡±

    ¡°Does an ant say the same when a man stomps on his anthill?¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°Now shut up and listen!¡±

    ¡°I managed a caravanserai by myself for many years in Pirin after my sweet husband Zaidun passed away,¡± Miriai was saying to Herakleia. ¡°I¡¯m tougher than I look. I had to be, in order to survive this long. And you know, more than a few people have regretted messing with me.¡± Miriai winked. ¡°The Great Celestial Father is with me. I can take care of things, little missie.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll wake me up if you feel tired,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about a thing!¡± Miriai said. ¡°Now all of you young ones need to get to sleep. There¡¯s a big day ahead!¡±

    Everyone looked at each other. No one trusted Miriai. Yet their exhaustion was more pressing. Soon they had rolled themselves up in their blankets, getting as close to the fire as possible before plunging into sleep.

    Only Herakleia remained awake. For as long as she could¡ªwhich was only minutes¡ªshe lay in her blanket, watching Miriai pace about the camp. The old woman was dressed in white clothing that needed a wash. She had a beauty, a charm, and perhaps what could even be called a sexiness all her own.

    Grannie¡¯s got back. Grannies looking for hookups in your area!

    Alexios had said that Miriai had done incredible things, that she was much more than she seemed. Whatever was causing the dread everyone felt, Miriai could handle it.

    At least I hope she can. Herakleia turned over and fell asleep.

    But she was unsure if she slept at all. She kept opening her eyes, checking the flames of the last campfire whirling against the darkness, and the figure of Miriai pacing about the camp with her hands behind her back, moving in and out of the shadows, oddly content.

    Herakleia sensed that something was out there. But what if it was nothing? It could have been an expression of her own anxieties¡ªsomething to focus on. More refugees were coming to Trebizond. More cities wished to join the Republic. The time could be drawing near when enemies like the Romans and the Seljuks no longer troubled them. The uprising would take so much land, so many towns and cities and people¡ªa huge portion of the Earth¡ªthat the real enemy would become itself. It would need to deliver on its promise to enrich everyone, to uplift everyone beyond the heavens they prayed for and painted on the walls of the chapels that studded these lands. If the uprising failed, its enemies would have no trouble bringing back slavery and feudalism.

    When workers take power, Dionysios had said, you gotta go all the way. With one hand, you gotta drive the reactionaries into the sea. Don¡¯t give ¡®em any time to regroup¡ªany time to think. Chase ¡®em until there aren¡¯t any left, the same way they¡¯d chase you¡ªthe same way they will chase you if you ever take a breath. That¡¯s what you do with one hand. With the other, you build paradise on Earth. You make sure everyone has everything they need. You use machines to eliminate as much labor as possible, starting with the most miserable labor first. You get everyone living in cities. You either make the Earth a garden, or you let it do its own thing. You do national self-determination. You do anti-colonialism, anti-imperialism, anti-slavery, anti-genocide¡­

    Two blue eyes were glowing in the darkness, two bright blue electrified sapphires. Herakleia opened her own eyes. The campfire burned in its pit, shining against the tents where refugees, drivers, and amazons slumbered and snored. Black mountains reached up to a sky that was finally clear of clouds, and full instead of stars, so many stars that no darkness lay between.

    Two blue eyes hovered in the darkness near the camp. Miriai was facing them, her hands clutched to fists. The eyes faded in and out of existence, two galaxies, two infinities, and they were focused on Herakleia.

 34. Sphinx

    Herakleia leaped to her feet, instantly awake, all the fatigue of the last few days draining from her limbs.

    ¡°Wake up!¡± she shouted to the camp, as loud as she could. ¡°Everyone wake up! We¡¯re under attack!¡±

    No one stirred. Katranide, Smbat, Ashot, Simonis, Euphrosyne, Za-Ilmaknun, Jafer El-Hadi, Bob the Silent Seljuk Prisoner, and all the others continued to slumber. Even baby Hovhannes¡ªwho would wake up shrieking if his poor mother Angela so much as thought about him¡ªremained asleep. All the refugees, drivers, and amazons slept silent and still in the dim flickering campfire glow. The horses were asleep, too. Only Miriai was awake¡ªand she, too, was facing the two blue eyes floating in the dark.

    ¡°Ach, it¡¯s no use, dear,¡± Miriai said. ¡°I already tried. It¡¯s cast some sort of spell over the others to keep them asleep. Truth be told, I¡¯m surprised you¡¯re awake at all. It must want something from you. From us.¡±

    ¡°What is it?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°I told you earlier,¡± Miriai said. ¡°It¡¯s a daiwi. A demon. A monster.¡±

    Herakleia rolled her eyes. Obviously.

    ¡°This city of yours,¡± Miriai continued, ¡°you know, this Trebizond, the way it actually wants to help people, it¡¯s a bit rare, wouldn¡¯t you say? Its ideas are spreading, too. It¡¯s gathering strength, and that means it¡¯s also attracting all the monsters from around the world. All the evil, everything that stands to lose from workers and peasants and slaves and women and children being free, it¡¯s coming here to fight us, to nip this blossom in the bud.¡±

    ¡°That would explain a few things.¡± Herakleia thought of the death worm and the ketos, not to mention all the other strange creatures Alexios and the others had been fighting in their various adventures. Sometimes it seemed like the entire universe was conspiring against them. It was a miracle they had made any progress at all.

    Without looking away from the two glowing blue eyes, Herakleia moved closer to Miriai. ¡°How long has it been here?¡±

    ¡°Moments. Although now that I think about it, I suppose I¡¯m not sure.¡± Miriai shrugged. ¡°A few moments, a few eternities, what difference does it make?¡±

    ¡°It wants something from us.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the ¡®lo-mee-katsis-sakhit,¡¯¡± Miriai said.

    ¡°At least we finally found it.¡±

    They watched the blue eyes for a moment, and the blue eyes watched them back.

    ¡°What do we do?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Ghosts and demons cannot speak unless spoken to,¡± Miriai said. ¡°But to speak to one is dangerous. If you invite them into this world, they¡¯ll possess you.¡±

    ¡°What if we just ignore it?¡±

    ¡°Can you really ignore this?¡± Miriai gestured to the eyes. ¡°What are we supposed to do? Everyone¡¯s asleep!¡±

    ¡°Alright, I¡¯m going in.¡± Herakleia had never looked away from the two glowing blue eyes, but now she addressed them directly. ¡°What are you? Stop hiding, show yourself!¡±

    Another pair of eyes appeared beside the first. And another. Soon they were everywhere, even staring down at them from the sky and up from the ground, floating in the darkness around Herakleia and Miriai¡¯s faces, close enough to touch, far enough to fall over the horizon, millions of them. Some were bigger than the moon, others were almost microscopic. They poured around Miriai and Herakleia in a blizzard so thick the two women were unable to see each other.

    A deep, booming voice thundered with laughter, and both women shuddered. Then all the blue eyes faded, save the two original ones hovering in the dark just beyond the fading campfire light.

    The eyes approached. A creature stepped into the glow of the pulsating flames. It was a lion, easily the size of a draft horse, but it had a man¡¯s face.

    A sphinx.

    ¡°Before you even ask us your riddle, I already know the answer,¡± Herakleia said, trying to sound confident. ¡°It¡¯s a man going through the various stages of life. We read the Oedipus trilogy in English class.¡±

    Miriai gave her a side glance. ¡°What¡¯s this you¡¯re saying, dear?¡±

    ¡°Forget it.¡±

    ¡°Women do not belong here,¡± the sphinx growled, baring his teeth. He spoke Roman with a deep voice, and an educated Konstantinopolitan accent. ¡°You have strayed too far from your proper place.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s our proper place?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Anywhere but here.¡± The sphinx¡¯s long strong tail flicked behind his back. ¡°This is the wild. It¡¯s dangerous. You might get hurt.¡±

    ¡°So far we¡¯ve done alright,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°You are women!¡± the sphinx boomed, his voice loud enough to shake the ground.

    Miriai and Herakleia tensed up.

    ¡°A mere variation of men,¡± the sphinx continued. ¡°Ribs from Adam¡¯s ribcage, each a comely helpmeet. You belong in your husbands¡¯ homes, not in the wild¡ªnot playing warrior dress-up like children. Here you have been led astray.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d be home with my husband if I could be, believe me,¡± Miriai said. ¡°I miss my sweet Zaidun more than you could ever know¡ª¡±

    ¡°Your place is not to speak, woman, but to listen!¡± the sphinx said. ¡°You have upset the natural order. This explains your exhaustion and misery, the way you are practically crawling back to that abominable city of yours.¡±

    Herakleia leaned in, narrowed her eyes, and opened her mouth to speak, but the sphinx interrupted her.

    ¡°Oh yes, I know all about that. I know all about your plans to turn everything upside down. It is all doomed to fail. Women can never hope to contend with men. Mentally you are weaker, physically you are weaker. Lesser. The greatest female athlete is nothing to even a mediocre male athlete.¡±

    What¡¯s up with these talkative monsters? Herakleia would have said this aloud, but the sphinx forbade her to speak.

    ¡°In the Hippodrome of Konstantinopolis,¡± it continued, ¡°for a woman to compete with a man in the chariot races is unheard of! But this is to protect your dignity. It is a sign of respect, when everything is in its proper place. You are a mere appendage which deludes itself that it can think, feel, decide for itself, in defiance of all tradition, of all that is sacred, of science and knowledge. You should be having children for your husband, nursing them and nursing him, helping him in his labors, obeying him before he even asks, looking like nymphs all your lives¡ª¡±

    ¡°Ach, I¡¯ve heard enough. He looks upon us with jealous eyes, slavering after slaves. To fight the evil eye, one needs eyes of one¡¯s own.¡± Miriai lifted her right hand into the air, raising fingers and thumb toward the sphinx. To Herakleia¡¯s astonishment, Miriai¡¯s hand began to glow blue, until it became almost too bright to see. A blue eye appeared on the palm, surrounded by flowing geometric patterns, all in different shades of blue. Miriai, in the mean time, had closed her eyes, and was murmuring in a language unknown to Herakleia. The only word she could make out was ¡°khamsa,¡± which meant five in Arabic.

    The sphinx snorted. ¡°It will take more than a few magic tricks to stop the natural order. Don¡¯t kill the messenger. I am here only to remind you of where you belong, and where your happiness truly lies. Let your back and muscle labor for your husband in the field, let your hands nurse him, let your body pleasure him¡ªfor he labors for you in turn, does he not?¡ªand let him invest in your womb, let it bring forth an accumulated surplus of children¡ª¡±

    ¡°This is some of the most fucked up shit I¡¯ve ever heard in my life,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Jesus, man, fuck off and go back to wherever you came from. We¡¯re just trying to get home¡ª¡±

    ¡°You will submit to your proper place,¡± the sphinx said. ¡°Or you will die. Your misguided ideas cannot be allowed to lead good women astray.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d rather live.¡± Herakleia bent her knees and raised her fists. She had little desire to wrestle a man-faced lion the size of a horse, with massive claws and fangs¡ªand she would have given anything for a long sturdy steel-tipped spear¡ªbut sometimes fighting was the only option. Fleeing for her life and leaving Miriai and the sleeping refugees, amazons, and drivers to the mercy of a sphinx was worse than getting mauled to death by the same creature.

    ¡°I will take you both,¡± the sphinx said. ¡°Your bodies will submit, even if your minds revolt. Your flesh knows the truth. It knows your proper place.¡±

    Herakleia rolled her eyes. ¡°Give me a break.¡±

    The sphinx approached her, roared like a lion, and swiped her with his paw. Although Herakleia blocked this attack, the sphinx¡¯s claws were sharp, his muscles strong. This single blow knocked her to the ground and tore bleeding welts into her arm, the game voice announcing that her health was down to 73/100. Her m¨ºl¨¦e combat skills were only at beginner (2/10), so she was no match for this monster.

    Gasping hot breath into her ears, the sphinx held her down with one paw and ripped off her clothes with the other, tearing her skin in the process. Herakleia cried out in pain. Purring, the sphinx licked the lack of her neck. His tongue was sandpapery, like a cat¡¯s.

    ¡°Miriai!¡± Herakleia screamed. ¡°Help!¡±

    ¡°I call upon the alma d-nhura for aid,¡± Miriai was murmuring. ¡°May the ¡®utras help us, draw down the strength of the shkintas, may Manda d-Hiia help us! May Hibil grant me his armor of light!¡±

    As the sphinx¡¯s jaws were yawning around Herakleia¡¯s head, Miriai covered herself in blinding armor¡ªhelmet, cuirass, gauntlets, greaves, boots, everything¡ªits edges long, razor sharp, knifelike. Only her hands were bare. Screaming, the old woman hurled herself into the sphinx, and her knife armor sliced into his flesh. The creature bawled and stumbled from Herakleia, blood pouring down his sides, the blue light in his eyes flickering.

    Herakleia put her torn clothes back on. The sphinx circled Miriai, but it was impossible to attack without hurting himself.

    ¡°My dmuta is too strong,¡± Miriai said. ¡°Too bright for the daiwi of ruha.¡±

    ¡°What is this nonsense?¡± the sphinx said.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    ¡°Let the shuba glow.¡± Miriai looked up to the sky and raised her arms. ¡°Let the trisar glow, and reveal the kushta on Tibil! Let life be victorious! Beings of light and darkness, we bring forth life and love it, we hate death and do away with it! We are the life in death, the death in life!¡±

    The planets were glowing brighter as she spoke¡ªred Mars, yellow Jupiter and Saturn, white Venus, even Mercury shining a beam into the night like a searchlight beneath the horizon. The constellations were shining also, wind was sighing in the pines, the ground shivered, and the sphinx was retreating into the darkness, glancing back and forth, the blue light fading in his eyes. Miriai followed.

    So this is one of her famed smackdowns, Herakleia thought.

    ¡°Death is nothing to life!¡± Miriai lifted her arms, her voice growing loud enough to wake everyone who was sleeping. ¡°We open our doors to life, and glory in its abode¡ªshutting you back into death! The ground will burst with vines, the soil that gives life will also live, the air and water, land and sky, the bones of the dead and the seeds of all those yet unborn, all will quicken and breathe as we do, and killers will be cast away into the void of death!¡±

    As the sphinx shook his head, Miriai threw her arms forward. Both her hands glowed blue, and they were covered on every side with eyes, big and small, all bright and swirling blue.

    ¡°Chain the ones who chain us,¡± Miriai said. ¡°Bind the ones who bind us, force the ones who force us, exploit the exploiters, evict the evictors, make landless the land thieves, gang up on the gangsters, destroy the destruction. If you like marriage so much, we will marry you! Come here and marry me, sphinx!¡± She gestured for the beast to approach, and her sharp armor rang. ¡°Your spouse shall be death, and your parents and grandparents also, let your children be death, your friends and relatives, everyone you know and even those you don¡¯t, let death surround you forever!¡±

    The sphinx pleaded with her to stop, but it was too late. Thorny green vines burst from his flesh all over his body, blossoming with enormous red roses before his eyes¡ªfrom his eyes¡ªtheir petals soaked in dew and blood as the tendrils stretched out and swirled like tentacles, growing and thickening. Screaming as sharp flowers poured from his throat, the sphinx collapsed into the ground, and was soon no more than a rosebush, one quivering with his last movements.

    ¡°Thus does life come from death.¡± Miriai wiped her hands. ¡°And death from life. Thus are light and darkness bound together, the one giving birth to the other, as night gives birth to day, and day to night, the watchful Horus eyes of moon, sun, and stars whirling above and below the land and water, the river and its banks, the creation of Ptahil the Demiurge. What is day without night, or night without day? What is life without death, or death without life?¡±

    She took a deep breath, and the sharp armor folded back into her body, as the blue light and eyes faded from her hands. Miriai then approached Herakleia and helped her stand.

    ¡°Are you alright?¡± Miriai said.

    ¡°That was amazing,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°How did you¡ª¡±

    ¡°We Nasoreans are the ones who know,¡± Miriai said. ¡°And in the soil of minds our seeds of knowledge grow.¡±

    ¡°Uh, okay,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°¡®Okay,¡¯¡± Miriai said. ¡°What is the meaning of this word you use sometimes, dear?¡±

    Za-Ilmaknun staggered over to them with the help of his mequamia, yawning, rubbing his eyes with his free hands. ¡°Did something happen? It feels as though a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. What did I miss?¡±

    ¡°Ach, everything,¡± Miriai said. ¡°You slept through everything again, as always!¡±

    ¡°I can take the rest of the watch if you want,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°I doubt I¡¯ll get back to sleep¡ªstrategos!¡± He took her bloody arm. ¡°You¡¯re hurt! What happened?¡±

    ¡°Almost got eaten by a fucking sphinx,¡± she said.

    Za-Ilmaknun pulled off his backpack, washed her wounds with his usual water, wine, then water again, rubbed a salve on them, and then bandaged them.

    ¡°Yes,¡± he said as he worked. ¡°We have trouble with such beasts in Aethiopia sometimes. They are a terrible nuisance, particularly to women who ask too many questions, to say the least.¡±

    Herakleia and Miriai looked at each other.

    ¡°The kingdom has had its own amazon revolts now and then,¡± Za-Ilmaknun continued. ¡°Its own queens, princesses, and other assorted goddesses who tired of doing all the work all the time. On occasion the men fought back alongside sphinxes. For what is a man, truly, but a sphinx?¡±

    ¡°Which side did you fight on?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°It all happened long before I was born, strategos,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°Sphinxes are, thank god, a rare enough sight in this day and age. Many of the beasts of myth and legend have faded into the background, retreating into caves and shadowy forests, as man has entered the foreground¡ªfor man is the most dangerous, the most terrifying beast of all.¡±

    ¡°He can be an angel or a devil,¡± Miriai said. ¡°Or both at once.¡±

    Za-Ilmaknun continued as though Miriai had said nothing. ¡°But sometimes I think about all these monsters coming here to make their last stand, joining the forces of reaction to stop us. They will not go peacefully. Indeed, they would rather destroy the world than lose it to us. For if we triumph and conquer not only the empires to the east and west, north and south, but also nature itself, what room will there be for creatures¡ªwhether mystical or made of crude flesh and bone¡ªthat prey upon the weak?¡±

    ¡°Ach, he just goes on and on like this,¡± Miriai said. ¡°It¡¯s so annoying.¡±

    ¡°It was a rhetorical question,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°I was finished.¡±

    ¡°Finally,¡± Miriai said. ¡°I¡¯m so old, I don¡¯t have time for all this talk. One of these days I¡¯m going to turn into a corpse in the middle of one of your endless speeches. Then you¡¯ll see!¡±

    ¡°I hate when you talk about how old you are,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°There¡¯s much life in you yet.¡±

    Recalling Miriai¡¯s transformation, only moments ago, into a goddess armored in razor-sharp light¡ªwith glowing blue eyes in her hands¡ªHerakleia was forced to agree.

    ¡°There is no sense dwelling on how close we are to death,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°For such dwelling will spoil the little life that remains. Who is not close to death? One whiff of miasmal disease is often all that separates us from the beyond.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to head back to sleep if that¡¯s alright.¡± Herakleia was struggling to escape this conversation, especially now that Za-Ilmaknun had finished bandaging her wounds. Her clothes were also ripped, but she would have to wait until the caravan reached Trebizond to find replacements.

    Miriai and Za-Ilmaknun kept each other awake that night by bickering in low voices, while Herakleia rolled herself back up into her blanket, thinking that she was glad Miriai was on their side. Alexios had warned about the old woman¡ªwhich might have helped to explain why Za-Ilmaknun had the hots for her. As one grew older, one¡¯s perspective changed. Miriai had white hair, and her skin was spotted, leathery, sagging, but she also possessed an energy, an undeniable attractiveness that went beyond appearance, filling her limbs with strength, turning the heads of men a third her age. Sometimes they would even look away from younger women to watch Miriai instead.

    She¡¯s a GILF. Herakleia laughed to herself.

    Miriai was so unlike the vast majority of people. Where they took, she gave. Where they talked, she listened. Where they hurt, she helped. She was a teacher, a learner, one still hungry for knowledge, but funny and especially kind, in the sense that she was intolerant of abuse, embodying the Cynical maxim that the only right place to spit in a rich man¡¯s house was in his face.

    Children liked her. None needed to be forced to talk with her. She herself would also talk with almost anyone. There was none of the fatigue of life. Herakleia was forced to admit that she had misjudged Miriai, assuming that she was just like old people in the old world. So often they stood in the way of progress, making excuses for the inexcusable, enforcing in any conceivable way the system which had granted them so much wealth at everyone else¡¯s expense. Cool ones had existed in these generations once¡ªpeople like Miriai¡ªbut by the 2020s they were almost all dead, in prison, or in exile. With rare exceptions, only the worst among them had survived into old age. Poor people tended to die young. And too many young people were as backward as these holdovers.

    Miriai was different. The powers she possessed, granted from years of studying ancient texts and applying their ideas, mixing theory with praxis, it all made her attractive.

    In the morning, when Herakleia got up, everyone was packing their blankets and tents into the carriages and finishing their breakfasts. It was sunny and warm. The clouds were continuing to take their break from their usual incessant rain or mist, and Herakleia began to wonder if early spring was ending, and if the famously beautiful Euxine summer was on its way. Sleepy Za-Ilmaknun and Miriai were lying in a carriage to either side of Jafer El-Hadi, who still looked tired and depressed. Baby Hovhannes was once again crying as though he was being prodded with molten steel, even while everyone¡ªincluding his mother Angela¡ªhanded him back and forth, singing to him, hugging and kissing him, talking with him, playing with him, asking him what was the matter.

    Prince Hovhannes, Herakleia thought, yawning and stretching. Anything to keep my mind off of Ay?e.

    Yet Herakleia nonetheless wondered what had happened to the Seran princess. Was she even still alive?

    Should have taught her the farr. It was too early to know if she was ready. People can¡¯t learn how to use it until we¡¯re sure that they¡¯re on the right side¡ªthat they¡¯re Frankensteins, not Draculas.

    The draft horses neighed as they ate their feed and the drivers led them to a mountain stream to drink, passing the rose bush that¡ªonly hours earlier¡ªhad been a sphinx, one that had leapt over entire mountains and horizons.

    ¡°Was that rose bush there before?¡± Simonis said.

    ¡°What a stupid question,¡± Euphrosyne said.

    ¡°It¡¯s not a stupid question at all.¡± Herakleia climbed to her feet and rolled up her blanket. ¡°It¡¯s a long story. But the rose bush wasn¡¯t there last night.¡±

    ¡°See?¡± Simonis said to Euphrosyne. ¡°Told you.¡±

    ¡°So a rose bush just wandered into our camp and settled down while everyone was asleep?¡± Euphrosyne said.

    ¡°More or less,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Unusual behavior for a rose bush,¡± Euphrosyne said.

    ¡°Miriai took care of it.¡± Herakleia nodded to the old woman, who was trying to convince Jafer El-Hadi to have some food. ¡°It was a pretty nasty one. Ever heard of Ovid¡¯s Metamorphoses?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll make sure to keep our distance,¡± Euphrosyne said.

    Soon enough, the convoy got underway. Before noon, Umm Musharrafa¡ªwho was on scouting duty that day¡ªcame riding back to let everyone know that she had spotted the first fire tower at the edge of Trapezuntine territory, and signaled them with a mirror. Everyone cheered at this news¡ªexcept baby Hovhannes, who was still crying, and Bob the Silent Seljuk Prisoner, who kept silent.

    The convoy rounded one bend, then another, passing valleys that sometimes rose up to grassy mountaintops where the occasional boy with a crook could be seen herding a flock of bleating goats. Dirt paths led away from the road through forests that obscured the mountain villages where these children¡¯s families lived, the huts made of mud and uneven rock, the roofs only as tall as your shoulders. In the spaces between each hut¡ªthey could hardly be called streets¡ªRoman, Armenian, Kurdish, Turkish, Jewish, and Laz children played with the manure that had yet to be brought to the fields. Those fields were being plowed at this time of year by oxen teams, the bells around their necks jangling.

    To live in a mountain village, Herakleia thought, knowing nothing of the outside world. Time marked by sunset and moonrise, the changing of the seasons. No knowledge of maps, calendars, books. Even the priest in the little church, the imam in the little mosque, neither one can read. Neither place of worship has books. The only one who can read is the rabbi at the synagogue, and he only reads and writes ancient Hebrew, which only a few Jews understand. The Jews are mostly dyers, tanners, silkweavers, not bankers. That¡¯s their economic niche in Byzantium. So what worries you, living in your ideal mountain village? That one night, you¡¯ll be attacked by wolves or bears. No guns means it¡¯s not easy fighting them when they get hungry in the winter. Your young children might also get sick and die. It might either rain too much, or not at all. That¡¯s it. For century after century. If the village is far enough from the roads, and obscured by a decent forest, you might not even have to worry about raiders or tax farmers. Not to idealize a life of ignorance like that, with so many women dying in childbirth, patriarchy firmly in place thanks to the presence of agriculture, and medical knowledge limited to ¡°rub manure on it,¡± but it¡¯s not all bad.

    As Herakleia was thinking about this, the road rose above the tops of the pine trees, skirting alongside a vertiginous drop past jagged cliffs. One wrong step from the horses, and her carriage would plunge over the side and into the distant depths, hurtling end over end until everything exploded against the boulders below. But neither the horses nor their drivers showed any concern. The refugees kept as far from the edge as possible. Parents held their children¡¯s wrists, forbidding them to step out of line.

    The road descended again, and then the refugees gasped with relief, pointed ahead, and exclaimed that they were saved. From this distance the fire tower looked just like a lump of rock lost in the haze, hardly different from a natural formation sculpted by the wind. Yet it marked the convoy¡¯s return to home and safety. Anyone¡ªanything¡ªwhich wished to attack would also have to contend with Trebizond from now on.

    Umm Musharrafa signaled the tower with her mirror, and the tower responded, asking if they needed assistance.

    We have one wounded, Umm Musharrafa signaled. In stable condition. He lost his leg.

    Who is it? the tower signaled back.

    Jafer El-Hadi.

    After a pause, the tower said: We will alert Trebizond. They will be ready.

    Soon the convoy was close enough to spot the two amazons who were on duty at the tower. One had already signaled the other fire tower to the north.

    ¡°We have good news, strategos!¡± the other amazon shouted, her voice echoing among the cliffs. ¡°After your departure, more cities sent embassies to join us! All Roman¨ªa will soon be on our side!¡±

 35. Antares

    It took another day to reach Trebizond, to the Roman castle descending the slopes in the shadow of Mount Minthrion, and the suburbs always expanding to the east and west along the Euxine shore, the factories churning coal smoke into the sky.

    Smoke is the republic¡¯s breath, Herakleia thought. To people in the old world it''s just pollution, poisonous and ugly¡ªand obviously rightfully so¡ªbut for us, it means power. It means food on the table. It means you don''t have to worry about raiders stealing your children.

    On that morning when the caravan arrived, and when the red and white roses creeping along the walls fronting the streets were starting to bloom, most of the people in the convoy (including Miriai and Za-Ilmaknun) headed straight for the baths, pushing through the crowds which seemed to have already grown¡ªmany people among them asking for news from outside. Stable boys within the citadel walls took care of the carriages and horses, unloading the last leftover supplies and helping the old, sick, and weary refugees onto stretchers, before the city¡¯s medical corps carried them to the People¡¯s Hospital. Herakleia was left with Bob the Silent Seljuk Prisoner, whose hands were still tied behind his back, and Jafer El-Hadi, whom she helped out of his carriage.

    Word had been sent for a pair of crutches, and Herakleia watched as El-Hadi took these from a medical corpsman and thanked him. That was when El-Hadi found Amina and their toddler, Ibrahim. With tears in her reddened eyes, Amina hugged El-Hadi before he could speak.

    ¡°I love you,¡± she said.

    ¡°What happened to your leg, baba?¡± Ibrahim asked.

    El-Hadi hugged him and managed a smile. ¡°Forgive me, but I seem to have lost it.¡±

    ¡°There is nothing to forgive,¡± Amina said. ¡°You were wounded in combat, defending our new home.¡± Her eyes fell on Herakleia.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be recommending him for the Order of Glory to the assembly,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°It¡¯s one of our highest honors.¡±

    ¡°One of your highest honors?¡± Amina stepped away from El-Hadi. ¡°Why is he not getting the highest?¡±

    ¡°Now, darling,¡± El-Hadi said.

    ¡°No, I want to know.¡± Amina crossed her arms and turned to Herakleia. ¡°Explain it to me.¡±

    Bob the Silent Seljuk Prisoner glanced back and forth in his usual sullen way.

    ¡°The highest honors usually go to soldiers who give their lives in battle to save their comrades from certain death,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Your husband has helped us a great deal, and we should celebrate that. But he is still alive.¡± And we still lost one of our own. Ay?e could be dead out there, for all we know.

    Before Amina could continue arguing with her, Jamshied the Blacksmith stepped out of the crowd and bowed to El-Hadi.

    ¡°Salaam,¡± he said. ¡°You might not know me, but I¡¯m Jamshied al-Tabrizi, leader of the Union of Blacksmiths, Engineers, and Craftsmen. I have heard about your troubles, your sacrifice, and I have come to measure you for a prosthesis.¡±

    ¡°A peg leg.¡± El-Hadi glanced at Amina.

    ¡°No, sir,¡± Jamshied said. ¡°Not at all. When we are finished with you, you will ask us to take your other leg as well.¡±

    With El-Hadi¡¯s permission, Jamshied got down on his knees and measured him, noting the information on a wax tablet hung around his neck. El-Hadi was skeptical as he thanked Jamshied, who, when he had finished, rushed off to his blacksmith¡¯s shop. Then El-Hadi, Amina, and Ibrahim left Herakleia and moved through the crowds¡ªalready dispersing¡ªback to their apartment. El-Hadi and Amina said nothing to Herakleia, presumably because Amina blamed her for her husband¡¯s disability, while El-Hadi had no desire to further anger his wife. But Ibrahim waved to Herakleia, and even said: ¡°bye, strategos.¡±

    Despite all the stress of the last few days, Herakleia smiled broadly in response, crouched, and said goodbye to Ibrahim. Then Amina pulled her son away without even looking at Herakleia, leaving her in the unenviable position of being alone with Bob the Silent Seljuk Prisoner.

    ¡°Wait,¡± Herakleia said to Amina.

    Amina continued moving through the crowd.

    ¡°You have every right to be angry.¡± Herakleia trailed after her, pulling Bob by the rope wrapped around his wrists. ¡°We did everything we could for your husband. He volunteered for the job. No one forced him. And we took care of him when he got hurt¡ª¡±

    ¡°I have a right to be angry,¡± Amina growled without looking back. ¡°As you said.¡±

    ¡°People think there¡¯s no price for the things we do,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°If you don¡¯t like it, no one¡¯s forcing you to stay.¡±

    Amina glared at her, even as El-Hadi struggled to keep her away from Herakleia. ¡°Where are we supposed to go? You can¡¯t understand because you don¡¯t have a husband. You don¡¯t even have a family.¡±

    These words stung. Yet Herakleia still managed to say: ¡°You¡¯re my family.¡± She looked to the faces in the crowd. Everyone had stopped to watch except Bob, who was annoyed and looking away.

    Let us always be sisters, Ay?e had said.

    ¡°We are not your family,¡± Amina said. ¡°When you tell us this, it is only further proof that you do not understand. Now go. You¡¯ve already done enough damage.¡±

    They left Herakleia. This time, she didn¡¯t follow.

    Could have gone better.

    She made her way up through Trebizond to the citadel, doing her best to seem positive and calm, greeting everyone she knew, acting as though she had forgotten Amina¡¯s words, though they kept digging deeper into her consciousness.

    I hurt her husband. So now she hurts me. He lost a part of his body. I lose a part of my soul.

    Samonas and Hummay were awaiting Herakleia in the citadel courtyard. Nearby amazons were training so hard and with such focus¡ªwrestling, jogging, sparring with swords, loading and firing miniature basiliks, drilling in formation¡ªthat they hardly noticed her arrival.

    Samonas bowed. ¡°Strategos, welcome¡ª¡±

    ¡°I need a bath.¡± She walked past him and Hummay. The two men looked at each other, then followed. Neither had time to ask why Herakleia was pulling a Seljuk warrior after her. Bob kept his head down, so neither eunuch saw his face. Besides, they had other concerns.

    By then the amazons had noticed her arrival. They all stopped training¡ªbreaking their concentration and the rhythm of grunting wrestlers, clanging swords, cracking basilik barrels, and sandals marching in gravel in response to commands¡ªto salute her. But she told them to keep going. They bowed and resumed training.

    I am going to die if I don¡¯t take a shower, she thought as she made her way to the citadel bath. Don¡¯t care if the whole world sees me naked.

    Multiple layers of sweat, dust, and blood coated her body. Her clothes were torn, and the reek of horse emanating from her flesh almost made her gag. Even the game voice had been warning about the smell subtracting XP from her charisma. Yet Samonas, shuffling after her and Bob, continued his usual babbling, oblivious to the stench. Hummay also kept close, though he wrinkled his nose.

    ¡°We have good news, strategos,¡± Samonas said. ¡°Sinope, Amisos, and Amasea have sent delegations expressing their desire to join the Republic.¡±

    She turned, forgetting the bath. The amazon at the fire tower had mentioned this, but Herakleia had been so busy she had forgotten. These were decent-sized cities, none more than a week¡¯s journey from Trebizond. Sinope was, in fact, Trebizond¡¯s metropolis, or mother city¡ªthe source of the Greek colonists who had come here more than a thousand years ago, displacing the Colchian Laz people who were indigenous to this place. It also belonged to Rome. And it was where a ketos had eaten Herakleia and Alexios.

    ¡°Are you serious?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°You ought to know by now that I¡¯m never not serious, strategos.¡± Samonas was looking at Bob. ¡°But, um, excuse me, I don¡¯t believe we¡¯ve been introduced. I¡¯m not entirely clear why this fellow is trailing after you, strategos, with his hands bound¡­¡±

    ¡°His name is Jalal ibn Talib.¡± Hummay was glaring at the prisoner. ¡°I had not noticed him before. He was keeping his face averted from mine. But I know him. He is one of Chaka Bey¡¯s bodyguards, a dog who would obey any command¡ªno matter how despicable¡ªwithout question. Thus did he advance quickly through the ranks, slaughtering many innocents along the way.¡±

    Bob¡ªJalal ibn Talib¡ªspit in front of Hummay, who growled something in Turkish and then lunged toward the prisoner. Herakleia stopped him.

    ¡°Fantastic, you already know each other,¡± she said. ¡°And now we know Bob¡¯s name. Hey, Bob¡¯s your uncle.¡±

    ¡°He is not my uncle,¡± Hummay said. ¡°What is this you speak of?¡±

    ¡°We captured him in battle. He refused to talk to us.¡± Herakleia blocked Hummay from punching Ibn Talib.

    ¡°Strange that he would be so silent,¡± Hummay said. ¡°He would always speak ceaselessly of his hatred of women and the poor, his conviction that they are the world¡¯s true oppressors. The Seljuks, as you may know, have little issue with men loving one another in an erotic fashion, but this man was always passionately against such things. He possessed a seemingly obsessive hatred of what he called sodomy. This idea comes from the Bible, though he often complained of Jewish influence in cultural life.¡±

    ¡°See if you can find out where Chaka Bey took Ay?e,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°That¡¯s what we need to know. The Seljuks took her.¡±

    ¡°The Seljuks captured Ay?e?¡± Samonas said. ¡°Why, that¡¯s terrible news, just terrible!¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t hurt him,¡± Herakleia said to Hummay. ¡°We don¡¯t do that around here, in case you didn¡¯t know. Treat him humanely. Offer him whatever you can think of in exchange for¡ª¡±

    ¡°Forgive me for interrupting, strategos,¡± Hummay said. ¡°I am sorry to hear the news about Ay?e Khatun. She always treated me well¡ªunlike this cur here, who treated no one well, save his superiors. But there is no need to ask anything of him. Chaka Bey must have brought Ay?e Khatun to Erzurum. That is where his fortress of power lies.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°Are you sure?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°It is his bastion in these lands,¡± Hummay said.

    ¡°And you know this place?¡± Herakleia said.

    Hummay nodded. ¡°I lived and served there many years.¡±

    ¡°Then you¡¯ll guide us there,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°We need to put a team together to rescue Ay?e, now that we¡¯ve brought the refugees to safety. I need you to gather two volunteer amazons and call the council for a meeting so I can get permission to leave. We¡¯ll also need four¡ªno, five horses, plus supplies.¡±

    ¡°Why are we bringing so few people?¡± Hummay said.

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure anyone else will want to come with us,¡± Herakleia said. I¡¯m alone. The fewer people we bring along, the fewer people get hurt.

    Hummay bowed with his right hand over his chest. ¡°As you command, strategos.¡±

    Samonas looked at Hummay, and then glared at Herakleia. ¡°You will keep Hummay safe, will you not? He is a scribe and a scholar, strategos, not a soldier. He is not to participate in combat.¡±

    ¡°Fair enough,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Although he should still bring a sword or some kind of weapon, just in case.¡±

    Hummay nodded to Jalal ibn Talib. ¡°In the mean time, what am I to do with this dog?¡±

    ¡°Should we subject him to the people¡¯s justice?¡± Herakleia said. ¡°To a people¡¯s tribunal? This town could use a guillotine. Does he even understand Roman?¡±

    ¡°He himself was once Roman,¡± Hummay said. ¡°He is a Greek convert to Islam, and is far more passionate about following every last little rule concerning the faith than most believers who are born into it. Oft did we suspect he might have been happier as an imam, quoting as he did so relentlessly the Holy Koran, the Traditions of the Prophet (peace be upon him), and even the fatwas of his preferred mullahs¡ªeven as he committed monstrous crimes. He understands every word we speak.¡±

    ¡°If we free him, he¡¯ll just rejoin his friends and go back to terrorizing us,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°But we can¡¯t kill him. We can¡¯t torture him. That goes against the rules of war.¡±

    Hummay laughed. ¡°Rules? What rules? In the game of life, there is no rule save that the strong rule.¡±

    ¡°We have to be better than our oppressors, even as they devastate us,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Even as they slaughter entire cities, we will treat our prisoners humanely. We¡¯ll hold onto this one until they ransom him back. Or we can use him in a prisoner exchange.¡±

    ¡°He is a rabid dog,¡± Hummay said. ¡°Should we allow him to go about unguarded in the city, young girls will disappear. We will find their rotting bodies in ditches weeks after their vanishing¡ª¡±

    ¡°Keep him locked in a cell in the citadel.¡± Herakleia turned to Ibn Talib. ¡°I don¡¯t know when or even if your people will ransom you. If you want to come out of your cell and behave, you¡¯re welcome to do so. You can take classes, work, make friends, even join us, if you want, so long as you confess to your crimes. Until then, you need to stay inside your cell. Do you understand?¡±

    Jalal ibn Talib responded only by looking away.

    ¡°He would kill you if he had the chance,¡± Hummay said. ¡°Without hesitation or regret. He would happily violate you. He has bragged about it many times. Men, women, children, it did not matter, he liked to rape them before killing them. To burn their crops and houses, to slit their throats, that was not enough¡ªthey needed to be doubly, triply dishonored in his eyes. Even the others among Chaka Bey¡¯s band disliked this man and feared him.¡±

    ¡°Nobody¡¯s perfect,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°I will bring him to his cell, strategos,¡± Hummay said. ¡°And arrange for his care. Then I shall begin making preparations for our departure.¡±

    Herakleia thanked him, then left for the citadel bath, taking long quick strides. Samonas limped after her.

    ¡°Strategos, forgive me,¡± he said. ¡°But this rescue team of yours¡ªit¡¯s to consist of only four people? Against the western capital of Great Seljuk?¡±

    ¡°We just need to get in and get out with our friend,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°But that¡¯s suicide!¡±

    ¡°We aren¡¯t going to liberate the city,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Not yet, anyway. We¡¯re just going to save Ay?e. While we¡¯re gone, I want you to focus on finding more recruits for the army, especially from these new cities that want to join the Republic.¡±

    ¡°Well, the assembly is already ahead of you on that matter, strategos,¡± Samonas said. ¡°Things are moving quickly. Thousands of new recruits will soon be arriving from Sinope, Amisos, Amasea, Niksar, and Koloneia. We¡¯re also doing our best to ensure that they will be properly equipped by the time they finish training in the coming months.¡±

    She stopped and looked at him. ¡°What are your plans, Samonas?¡±

    He smiled. ¡°Oh, we have some rather exciting plans in the works, if you don¡¯t mind my saying so.¡±

    ¡°Tell me.¡±

    ¡°Why, we intend to march on Konstantinopolis, strategos. Once the Seljuks are taken care of, in any event. It¡¯s to be a combined operation. The army will march up-country, swelling with recruits as it goes, while the city-ship of Kitezh¡ªalong with the rest of the navy¡ªwill blockade Konstantinopolis by sea.¡±

    Herakleia continued to the baths. ¡°We¡¯ll need more than a few thousand recruits for something like that.¡±

    ¡°Then give me a precise number. How much will we need?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll never take Konstantinopolis with less than a hundred thousand soldiers,¡± Herakleia said.

    Before he could react, she entered the baths, peeled off her ragged clothes, and tossed them into the laundry bin, all without caring that Samonas was behind her.

    ¡°Merciful God!¡± He turned away.

    ¡°Never seen a naked woman before?" Herakleia poured hot water over herself and scrubbed her skin with olive oil soap. She was unable to keep from groaning at the ecstasy of cleaning the filth from her body, like she was in a shampoo commercial. Yet when she looked down at the tile floor, and saw the dark water swirling into the drain, she thought that some of the blood stuck to her skin must have belonged to El-Hadi, when he had lost his leg, when the arrow had sunk into his flesh, when Ay?e had been taken. Herakleia scrubbed harder.

    Samonas, meanwhile, was still babbling, his face averted. ¡°¡­you know full well that I prefer the company of men. That doesn¡¯t give you license to be completely in the nude in front of me. There is such a thing as professional standards, you know, professional courtesy. I have my modesty to think of.¡±

    Herakleia rolled her eyes. ¡°Sorry, I¡¯ll be more careful next time. Speaking of preferring the company of men, I noticed you¡¯ve been hanging around a lot with Hummay.¡±

    ¡°Pardon me, strategos, but my personal life is none of your concern.¡±

    ¡°He looks like a pretty good catch.¡±

    ¡°Might we change the subject?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing else juicy to talk about. I missed out on all the gossip in the city for almost a week.¡± She felt uplifted by conversing with this man. Earlier she had been feeling so alone.

    ¡°You¡¯ve certainly returned in a peculiar mood,¡± Samonas said.

    ¡°My emotions are all over the place. I¡¯m just trying to have a chat with an old friend before I go back into the meat grinder. Do you know what I¡¯ve been doing for the last four days?¡±

    ¡°Enlighten me.¡±

    ¡°For ninety-nine percent of the time I was out there, I was either sitting on a carriage or sleeping on the ground.¡±

    ¡°And that last one percent?¡±

    ¡°Fighting to the death.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s why I stay inside the city walls. Outside is nothing but trouble.¡±

    Herakleia recalled how she had dreamt about getting back here¡ªand how she would soon need to leave again. ¡°Not all of us have the luxury of choosing.¡±

    Samonas, still turned away, fell into silence. Herakleia immediately thought about El-Hadi and Ay?e again. Now she was washing herself harder¡ªscrubbing her flesh so it reddened, raking her hair with soap. Bits of dirt were always left here and there, she could never get them all.

    El-Hadi lost his leg. I lost Ay?e.

    ¡°Strategos,¡± Samonas said. ¡°Pardon me, but I think you¡¯re done.¡±

    She looked at him. He was watching her with concern.

    Herakleia forced a smile. ¡°Sorry. Haven¡¯t bathed in almost a week.¡±

    He sniffed. ¡°I was not exactly unaware.¡±

    She toweled off, put on a change of clothes, and laced her sandals back up.

    ¡°Are you sure you wouldn¡¯t rather rest in the city for the night, at least?¡± Samonas was trailing after her as she walked at a brisk pace out of the busy courtyard and into the Middle City. He glanced up at the sun. ¡°It¡¯s nearly noon anyway. You¡¯ll only have a few hours of riding time.¡±

    If we¡¯d left a few hours earlier for Satala, we would have saved Sahakanuysh¡¯s baby.

    ¡°Erzurum isn¡¯t far,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°What is it, four days? Every moment I waste here is another moment Chaka Bey will have to torture Ay?e.¡±

    ¡°Pardon me for asking, but why do you care so much about her? She¡¯s just one person, and there¡¯s a great deal of other business to attend to.¡±

    ¡°It seems like the workers are on top of things. As usual. You¡¯ve also managed to hold things together.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just a placeholder, strategos. The workers, you know, they can only tolerate people like me, at best. My own class, the literati, the councilors, we¡¯ve been drinking their blood and sweat for generations¡ª¡±

    ¡°You added how many cities to the Republic while I was gone?¡±

    ¡°Three. And that reminds me¡ªwe have decided to construct a Supreme Workers¡¯ Council to house the new delegates, make decisions, and undertake government business. The community hall and the citadel are no longer large enough to perform these functions. We¡¯ll also be needing larger accommodations for the army. Bigger and better everything.¡±

    ¡°Maybe I should just go to Erzurum by myself. Everyone here thinks it was a mistake to take Ay?e in. It¡¯s a decision I made, and I should pay for it. I¡¯m not even sure anyone else will want to join me¡ª¡±

    Samonas seized her arm. ¡°You¡¯ll die if you go alone, of that I¡¯m certain. Why must I keep explaining this to you? Why do you continue to seek to throw your life away? We¡¯re nothing without leaders, just as leaders are nothing without the people. Each is like Antares¡ªdeprived of the strength of the Earth¡ªwithout the other.¡±

    ¡°My namesake picked him up and beat him to death, didn¡¯t he?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not joking. Don¡¯t throw your life away. We need you.¡±

    She shook his hand off. ¡°I¡¯ll be careful. Besides, it looks like we might actually be able to end this thing.¡±

    ¡°What are you talking about?¡±

    She continued onward to the Community Hall. ¡°Once we defeat the emperor and destroy the empire, we¡¯re out of here, remember?¡±

    ¡°Ah, yes. You, Kentarch Leandros, and the good mister Gontran Koraki will be wending your way back to this fabled ¡®old world¡¯ you so often speak of, leaving the rest of us wretches in the dust.¡±

    ¡°Unfortunately, yes. I can¡¯t say I¡¯m crazy about going back. I barely remember it.¡±

    ¡°Well, who knows?¡± Samonas said. ¡°Perhaps you¡¯ll have a choice.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Maybe you¡¯ll get to stay, if that¡¯s what you prefer.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll see,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°It¡¯s seeming more and more like you guys don¡¯t even need me. I¡¯m just another grunt in the army.¡±

    ¡°Strategos¡ª¡±

    ¡°Right, right, I know, leaders and people, etcetera, etcetera.¡±

    By then they had arrived in the Northeast Gate Community Hall. With so little notice, only a few council members had gathered¡ªincluding Jamshied the Blacksmith, cross about being pulled away from constructing El-Hadi¡¯s prosthesis¡ªbut they still had a quorum. Herakleia was expecting to be alone here, and also thought she would need to order a pair of amazons to come with her. But as she was explaining her plan to the council, Hummay entered the Community Hall with Euphrosyne, Simonis, Miriai, and Za-Ilmaknun¡ªthese last four all still gleaming wet from their time in the baths, looking fresh in their clean clothes. The amazons Kata Surameli, Umm Musharrafa, Amat al-Aziz, Nazar al-Sabiyya, and Jiajak Jaqeli rushed in soon after, asking if they were too late. Herakleia was so shocked at the sight of them she felt tears burning her eyes, and wiped them away. All her companions by then had sat down on empty benches and were watching her.

    ¡°I thought,¡± she began. ¡°I thought you were all tired of me. You don¡¯t need to¡ª¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t even try to argue,¡± Miriai said. ¡°We¡¯re coming with you, dear.¡±

    The council¡ªwanting to get back to work as quickly as possible¡ªsoon approved the mission. Samonas was confirmed as temporary Doux of Trebizond, and instructed to continue adopting a defensive posture: the city would send out patrols, keep establishing signal towers along the imperial highway, and likewise resume gathering all necessary resources, storing grain behind the walls, constructing additional rainwater cisterns, and training as many soldiers as possible. At Herakleia¡¯s request, Jafer El-Hadi would also receive the Order of Glory for his sacrifice in battle, and would be granted a veteran¡¯s pension.

    Within a few hours, the band of amazons¡ªplus Miriai, Hummay, and Za-Ilmaknun¡ªhad found fresh horses, weapons, armor, and supplies. They galloped out of the city to rescue Ay?e from Chaka Bey in Erzurum. Trebizond¡¯s workers and peasants cheered them as they rode out through the Northeast Gate, through the Daphnous suburbs, across the Mill River Bridge, and along the imperial road through the Zagnos Valley, to the Satala Way.

 36. Muck It Up

    They rode as fast as they could without hurting their horses, camping outside Tzanicha and the Death Worm Marsh on the first night, riding at dawn the next day along the Tabriz road that branched east before the Satala ruins. At a point that seemed random to Herakleia, Hummay made them dismount to lead their horses through the woods and up a mountain trail.

    ¡°We near the fortress city of Paiperte,¡± he explained. ¡°A city of gardens and orchards. It lies just within the lands of Great Seljuk. We must keep out of sight.¡±

    Paiperte. Sounds like ¡®pie pert.¡¯ Like a pert pie. Herakleia looked to Hummay. ¡°If it¡¯s a fortress city, do you think Chaka Bey could have taken Ay?e there?¡±

    ¡°It is possible,¡± Hummay said. ¡°The city lies halfway to Erzurum.¡±

    ¡°Paiperte is one of the ancient cities in my people¡¯s homeland,¡± Simonis said.

    Here Miriai butted into the conversation. ¡°What are your people, by the way, dearie?¡±

    ¡°Armenians,¡± Simonis said.

    ¡°Ach, well, they¡¯re certainly well-armed.¡± Miriai squinted at the sunlight reflected off Simonis¡¯s armor. ¡°Some of them, anyway.¡±

    ¡°Do you trust this man to guide us?¡± Za-Ilmaknun whispered to Herakleia. With one hand, he held his rainbow-colored mequamia stick, and used this to help him hike; with the other he pulled his horse (loaded with supplies) behind him.

    ¡°Samonas trusts him,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Samonas even seems to like him a little too much. I trust Samonas.¡±

    ¡°Yet this Hummay character joined the uprising mere days ago, did he not?¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°I too am new to this rebellion, but he is leading us into unknown lands, while I am just tagging along¡­¡±

    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t be the first time,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°If he meant to betray us, I mean. I can¡¯t even tell you how many wreckers we¡¯ve had to deal with. Some were with us from the very beginning. Intensifying contradictions mean that their economic priorities align less and less with ours.¡±

    She was thinking of Doux David Bagrationi, the last ruler of Trebizond. Son of the Iberian Queen Tamar, he had been appointed to rule the city by Herakleia¡¯s father, and was loyal to him. Bagrationi had also been sympathetic to the uprising which had broken out following the usurper¡¯s coup, and had used Trebizond as a rallying point for all the disaffected people across the dwindling Roman Empire. Herakleia had even slept with him¡ªhe was handsome, charming, powerful¡ªto sweeten the deal. But as the uprising had radicalized, uprooting the old society and planting a new one in its stead¡ªnot merely replacing one emperor with another, as Bagrationi had first believed¡ªhe came into conflict with Herakleia and her supporters. Bagrationi wanted to compromise with the invaders. In the end, his own mother had joined Herakleia and the uprising in expelling him from the city. Bagrationi had also left with the annoying, mosquito-like cleric Sophronios the Metropolitan. The uprising had heard from neither of them since.

    ¡°Some of us are older and frailer, strategos.¡± Za-Ilmaknun was watching Miriai as she walked over the rocks and roots, the streams and moss patches, and then into the shafts of sunlight stabbing through the gaps in the gleaming pines that swayed in the wind. ¡°We may not be so fortunate as to survive another battle.¡±

    ¡°Alexios told me you two could hold your own,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°That people should be afraid of you, not the other way around. I saw what Miriai did with my own eyes¡­¡±

    ¡°Only God is infinite,¡± Za-Ilmaknun said. ¡°As for us, we have limits. If Ibrahim Hummay leads us into a trap, we may perish.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll keep an eye on him,¡± Herakleia said.

    Yet she found herself looking more at Za-Ilmaknun as their band hiked together through the woods. From her old world perspective, both he and Hummay were ¡°Africans,¡± yet at this time even the idea of ¡°Africa¡± did not exist, any more than the ideas of ¡°Europe¡± or ¡°Asia¡± existed, aside from a few mentions in Aristoteles. The reality was that these two men came from different parts of the world, and looked, spoke, acted, thought, in different manners. Za-Ilmaknun had skin that was light as an Arab¡¯s, and he was dressed in an ascetic¡¯s white robes, with straight, geometric facial features, plus the cross carved above his nose and between his eyes, which Alexios said glowed orange when Za-Ilmaknun got pissed off. At that point he would throw his magic around and quote scripture. Hummay, in contrast, was so dark he was almost purple, and preferred the finer things in life, dressing in silk with jewelry until Samonas had forced him to wear safer and more practical¡ªyet uncomfortable and ill-fitting¡ªarmor for this mission. Za-Ilmaknun marched with purpose, while Hummay flowed from place to place, almost like he was a mirage more than a being of flesh and blood. Yet despite Hummay¡¯s preference for palace life, he seemed comfortable on the road. He likewise possessed a more rounded, sensuous, and even effeminate figure¡ªin contrast to bony Za-Ilmaknun¡ªand it had taken some convincing to get him to wear one of Trebizond¡¯s factory-produced swords at his side.

    ¡°I have no training in the arts of war,¡± Hummay had explained to Samonas back in the citadel when they had been preparing to leave. ¡°I prefer loving to fighting, divans to saddleback, walking upon my own two legs to riding a horse or donkey, smooth marble hallways to jagged rock-strewn wadis, the dome of a mosque to the dome of the sky, the subtle interplaying flavors of finely cooked cuisine to tasteless camp grub, the jokes and stories of friends to the harangues and scowls of enemies, the music of fountains and lutes to the cacophony of hooves, the culture and civilization of a city to the wasteland of the wilderness in the hinterland, the scents of perfumes and flowers to the reek of sweat and animal dung, the sight of a map to the reality of struggling to follow one, the company of books to the troublesome experience of surviving an actual tall tale, the luminescence of torches and candles and lamps to the blinding sun and the cold indifferent moon, shadow theater to the terror of the darkness that lies beyond the campfire, and on, and on. For travel, as the infidel Frangistanis say, is truly a torturous travail.¡±

    Back in Trebizond, everyone in the expedition had stopped to watch Hummay as he made this speech, all seeming to wonder when he would run out of ideas. Yet he fed off their attention, and looked at each of them as he spoke. When he finally stopped, Herakleia almost clapped. In a world without internet, computers, TVs, radio, or even (most of the time) books, all entertainment was live, and people hungered for stories. Anyone with the slightest eloquence would often be begged to keep talking until he passed out. An itinerant priest could convert entire countries if he was a decent storyteller. The story of Moses leading his people out of slavery had brought entire nations into the fold.

    ¡°Let us hope that this blade, by itself, merely scares your foes away,¡± Samonas had said, strapping the sword to Hummay¡¯s side.

    Herakleia trembled when she heard this. Simonis had said the same to El-Hadi. But she kept quiet.

    ¡°I think it shall scare me more than them.¡± Hummay had held up his arms while nervously eyeing the weapon, so sharp it seemed it could cut things without even touching them.

    Now the expedition to rescue Ay?e had emerged from the woods and was climbing the mountains. Herakleia saw no path, and yet Hummay kept leading them upward around boulders and cliffs. Soon they could even see the imperial highway behind them. No one else was using it, as usual. Endless wars in this region meant that for years only the craziest merchants risked these roads. That¡¯s what Gontran and Diaresso had done, and it had cost them their investments and nearly their lives.

    Diaresso and Gontran, Herakleia thought. Wonder what they¡¯re up to. Hope they¡¯re doing well. They¡¯ve been gone two weeks, haven¡¯t they? Must be somewhere between Kriti and the Peloponnesos by now. Assuming they¡¯re even still alive, and not chained up by Egyptian slavers.

    She shuddered.

    They volunteered to go to Venice, she told herself. I didn¡¯t send them to their deaths. The plan made sense at the time. Back then we had no allies. It was just Trebizond and Kitezh. How could we have known that five different cities would join us after the Paralos left?

    ¡°The citadel of Paiperte lies upon a mountain that overlooks the winding River Akampsis,¡± Hummay explained, as they hiked up in the sun, the sweat dripping from their faces into the dust. ¡°It is quite impregnable. A vast army would need to besiege such a place for many months in order to take it.¡±

    ¡°Where have I heard that before?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°They have never dealt with amazons,¡± said Umm Musharrafa. ¡°Walls cannot stop us. Men cannot stop us. Those who do not work, and who live upon the work of others, cannot stop us.¡±

    ¡°They do not work, but they fight, for certain,¡± said Amat al-Aziz.

    ¡°When the Seljuks came to these regions, many cities surrendered without a fight,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Or with only token resistance.¡±

    ¡°These are the border regions, strategos,¡± Hummay said. ¡°The lands of the ghazis and the akritai border lords¡ªhalf infidel, half Muslim. They have changed hands many times over the years, from infidel to Muslim and back again. Cities open their gates because the other side will probably return to take power the following summer. But the Seljuks also offered a better deal than R¨±m, did they not? Lower taxes, religious freedom.¡±

    ¡°The Romans are partly at fault,¡± Simonis said. ¡°They conquered Armenia only recently, and settled our warrior princes to the west, to give them good careers in Konstantinopolis, so that they would invest themselves in the empire. Emperor Basil¡ªHerakleia¡¯s father¡¯s predecessor¡ªwasted our soldiers in fights against revolting Roman nobles and Bulgars, on the other side of the Aegean, in the empire¡¯s western regions, leaving us defenseless here in the east. The mountainous nature of our lands also kept us divided and bickering, unable to unite to stop the Turkmen raiders, the hundred thousand sipahis who swept over us. Then again, some of us welcomed them. After all, the Sarakenoi did not press the Chalkedonian issue on us, when the Romans would not stop talking about it.¡±

    ¡°The Chalkedonian issue?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Chalkedon the ominous,¡± Simonis said. ¡°We Armenians say that Christ is fully divine and fully human in one nature. The Romans say that he is one person in two natures, human and divine.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°All that matters is that you understand that the Roman and Armenian churches have differing opinions on the nature of Christ,¡± Simonis said. ¡°Small differences can sometimes make big differences.¡±

    ¡°Hang on,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Not all Armenians are Christians. We¡¯ve run into Muslim Armenians who speak only Kurdish. Things can get complicated.¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± Simonis said. ¡°I meant Armenians who follow the Armenian Apostolic Church. This is a majority.¡±

    ¡°So why is that a problem?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°This is a question for priests,¡± Simonis said.

    Herakleia looked back to Za-Ilmaknun. ¡°Deacon? Your thoughts?¡±

    ¡°The Aethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church is in concordance with the Church of Armenia on this most vital issue.¡± Za-Ilmaknun bowed as he walked with his horse and mequamia. ¡°Christ¡¯s human and divine natures are united in one nature of the Word of God incarnate.¡±

    ¡°I think the difference really has to do with the question of money and power,¡± Simonis said. ¡°The patriarch in Konstantinopolis and the pope in Rome both agree¡ªsurprisingly¡ªthat Christ¡¯s nature was partly human and partly divine, while the Armenian, Syriac, and Aethiopian churches, the Church of the East, and the gnostikoi¡ª¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Miriai cleared her throat. ¡°¡®Gnostikoi,¡¯ you mean Mandaeans like myself, dear.¡±

    ¡°They all say that his divine and human natures are united,¡± Simonis continued. ¡°Who knows? This may make it simpler to commune one-on-one with god, especially in lands like these which have been troubled by cataclysmic war for many centuries, before even the days of the Sarakenoi, when the Romans and the Persians practically annihilated the whole region in their great death struggle.¡±

    ¡°The wars of Herakleios,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°One of my namesakes. They took place five, six hundred years ago.¡±

    Hummay cleared his throat. ¡°But their effects are still deeply felt. The Prophet, may peace be upon him, arose to save the world during that catastrophe.¡±

    Za-Ilmaknun nodded. ¡°That time is halfway between us and the days when Christ walked the land of olives and wine, milk and honey.¡±

    ¡°In such chaotic cases it may be difficult to find learned priests who have been educated in the so-called ¡®correct¡¯¡ªor orthodox¡ªview,¡± Simonis said. ¡°It¡¯s therefore up to the individual to draw her own conclusions, as I have, namely that it¡¯s all a lot of nonsense.¡±

    Herakleia rolled her eyes. What a brave stance to be against organized religion.

    But she needed to remind herself that while atheism was relatively commonplace in the old world, there wasn¡¯t even a word for it here. At best, people might call it simple irreverence or impiety¡ªa lack of interest in dying of boredom every Sunday in church.

    Simonis continued. ¡°Probably the debate was just about finding an excuse to keep money in these regions rather than sending it to Konstantinopolis. We wasted so much time and energy on these debates without focusing on the real issues, the way the uprising does. That¡¯s one reason Armenia was lost. But there are others.¡±

    ¡°For instance?¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°The rulers of my people are weak,¡± Simonis said. ¡°They only come to power by inheritance, so they have no skill, and know only one moral code: retain power at any cost. Ally with anyone, betray anyone, say anything, do anything, so long as you remain in power. What does it matter if entire lands and countries are lost to the Turks? If they drive our people from cities we have occupied for millennia?¡±

    ¡°I believe that¡¯s called opportunism,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Our lands are also surrounded by powerful enemies,¡± Simonis continued. ¡°Konstantinopolis has its walls and its oceans, but what does Armenia have? The moment we attack one enemy in the east, another attacks from the west. It is an impossible strategic position, and truly a miracle we have lasted here as long as we have. Yet sometimes I¡¯m ashamed of my past and want nothing to do with it. It was weak, and the Turks enslaved us because of this weakness. To be a Trapezuntine is strong.¡±

    ¡°People are angry,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°A profound statement, strategos,¡± Simonis said.

    Herakleia continued. ¡°No¡ªwhat I meant was: Christians don¡¯t seem fond of being ruled by Muslims.¡±

    ¡°That is what the priests, scribes, and nobles tell us, yes,¡± Hummay said. ¡°Of course they hate being ruled by foreigners. But what do the common people care, so long as they can prosper and live in peace, raise their families, till their soil? They are not so firmly committed to the faith as are the rich and powerful, for they have less investment in such things, and often must be goaded to attend their respective temples each week or to wash and pray five times each day, and can be seen daily breaking the most basic religious rules. What is a church, what is a mosque, what is a temple compared to the pleasant company of a beauty picnicking with you in the countryside for an afternoon? And then there are many kinds of faiths in these regions. The Greeks and Armenians are Christians, for example, but they differ as to the nature of the hypostasis, as you have said.¡± He nodded to Simonis.

    ¡°Sometimes it infuriates me,¡± Simonis said. ¡°In Trebizond, the way different faiths are tolerated. Every temple of every faith should be destroyed.¡±

    ¡°Now, now.¡± Herakleia looked back at the other amazons and at Miriai and Za-Ilmaknun, all of whom were believers. Za-Ilmaknun was a deacon. Miriai was Mandaean. Some people called these people ¡°Christians of Saint John,¡± except they weren¡¯t Christians, they just really liked baptism¡ªin the River Jordan, if they could get to it; other rivers if they couldn¡¯t¡ªevery week. Other even more obscure groups might have been present in Trebizond: Samaritans, Druze, Nestorians, Manichaeans, even some Maniot pagans who still sacrificed to Zeus. At least one Zoroastrian fire-worshipper was there. Umm Musharrafa, leading her own horse as well as the extra they had brought for Ay?e, was a Turkish Muslim. Amat al-Aziz and Nazar al-Sabiyya were Jewish Arabs, Kata Surameli was a Christian Georgian, Jiajak Jaqeli was a lightning worshipper from the steppe cairns. Everyone here was some kind of believer. The Romans insisted that uprisers were spawns of Satan, but in reality they welcomed every religion, though their leaders were rarely pious. Samonas was a Christian, but he neither mentioned his faith nor went to church.

    ¡°You only chastise me because you know so little of what the priests do,¡± Simonis said to Herakleia. ¡°You have so little experience. You come from this ¡®old world¡¯ you speak of, which you have told us is mercifully bereft of the plague of priests, and you have only been here for a few months.¡±

    ¡°Part of me has been here for years,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Another part has only been here since last summer. I know. It¡¯s confusing.¡± She looked at Hummay. ¡°Like the hypostasis. Three persons in one godhead. Or something.¡±

    ¡°You have never seen the monks in monasteries grow fat on the labor of the peasants breaking their backs in the fields,¡± Simonis said.

    ¡°Here we go again,¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°She always talks like this.¡±

    ¡°If you complain,¡± Simonis continued, ¡°the priests bring out their books and say that they were ordained by god to drink your blood.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure that¡¯s exactly how they put it,¡± Za-Ilmaknun murmured.

    ¡°If you keep complaining,¡± Simonis said, ¡°the priests will have you flogged. Or they will place you in the stocks. Persist, and they will have the local magistrate drive you out of your home, and they will steal your land.¡±

    Za-Ilmaknun narrowed his brow and shook his head. But then he shrugged as if he had reconsidered and now agreed with Simonis.

    ¡°I know more about bad people in charge than you think,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Or I should say, exploitative systems that place exploitative people in charge. Where I come from, rulers aren¡¯t ordained by god. They¡¯re ordained by the market¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard you talk a lot about this, strategos,¡± Simonis said. ¡°It¡¯s absurd. When there¡¯s so much work to be done. Everyone has a job here, an obvious purpose. Everyone has their place, for better or for worse, even the beggars. For me, as a woman, my place was worse than a beggar¡¯s, or at least I thought so, otherwise I would not be with you. My parents wished me to marry a rich, a terrible man, so that I could die giving birth to his children. Each woman must have five or six kids if she wants two or three to live to adulthood. Beggars have their own problems, yes, but at least they can live. At least they don¡¯t have to worry about dying in bed, bringing forth the seed of some monster, as though I am myself a field to be plowed. When I heard about the uprising, I took my chances. Better to a have a chance of living than the certainty of dying.¡±

    ¡°The old world is one step forward, two steps back,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°I¡¯m not going to idealize the future, the present, or the past. One shouldn¡¯t negate the other. For all their negatives and positives, each makes the other possible.¡±

    ¡°Yet you are trying to make your future impossible, aren¡¯t you?¡± Simonis said.

    ¡°I want to make it better,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Things can actually change. Everything can change. Nothing is static.¡±

    By then the city of Paiperte was visible in the distance. It was the usual kind of Anatolian valley settlement, beautiful, pleasant, orderly, the white buildings with red rooftops constructed around a winding lemonade river, and green farmland surrounding the buildings for miles¡ªstadia¡ªfarsakhs¡ªparasangs¡ªin every direction, extending into the rising hills and the criss-crossing mountain chains of the Armenian highlands. Orchards, gardens, apricots, pomegranates.

    All of this lay in the shadow of long thick shockingly massive fortress walls rising on a rocky hilltop. A large black flag fluttered above its main gatehouse.

    ¡°I know at least one possible future,¡± Herakleia continued, looking at the fortress. ¡°The Turks will rule these lands for centuries, and do a good job.¡±

    Simonis cleared her throat.

    ¡°For the most part,¡± Herakleia added. ¡°But the Franks are always hungry for cheap land, resources, and labor. As capital¡¯s power grows, it will control the country through the Sultan, if you can imagine that.¡±

    ¡°It is difficult to believe, strategos,¡± Simonis said.

    ¡°It¡¯s mostly German banks, I think, which will squeeze every penny they can out of this place,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°About eight hundred years from now. They¡¯ll force the sultan to take on debts to construct railways, then raise taxes among the poorest people to pay the debts. Missionaries will arrive to set up schools which will westernize Romans and Armenians and anyone else who resents living under the Ottoman yoke. With their western connections, these minorities will grow wealthy and powerful, and the Ottomans will resent them. Some will even be strong enough to form their own nations¡ªthe Greeks and Bulgars and Serbians, closer as they are to the western powers. Finally, when the Great War begins, the Turkish nation will come close to annihilation. Varangian Rus will invade from the east, while the deserts will crawl with spies from Ultima Tho¨²l¨¥, inciting the Arabs to revolt. The Turks will scapegoat the Romans, Armenians, and Assyrians, enslaving them and wiping them out in death marches with the help of the Kurds, who will become their next target. One man alone will save the Turks from losing their country, a military commander who will never lose a battle. For decades, until my own time, his people will look on him as their father, their national god. Monuments to him will fill every town and city in these parts, and often fill every building as well.¡±

    ¡°You sound like a prophet new inspired, uttering these strange words,¡± Hummay said. ¡°As heathenish as it may be for me to say.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just one possibility,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°If the Republic of Trebizond survives, history will play out differently. Things are already different here from the way I remember. Last time I checked, no one in the Middle Ages had the farr.¡±

    To eat lunch, they found a place to rest sheltered by boulders which blocked the view of the city ahead as well as the road behind them. Here, while the others ate and drank, Herakleia kept watch with Hummay, peering over the boulders at Paiperte.

    ¡°They could have taken Ay?e to that fortress,¡± she said.

    ¡°Indeed,¡± Hummay said.

    ¡°We need to find out if she¡¯s inside,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°What if she isn¡¯t in Erzurum? We¡¯ll lose days going back and forth.¡±

    ¡°Yes, someone must investigate,¡± Hummay said. ¡°Yet I cannot, for half the world knows Chaka Bey¡¯s kapuji-bashi. Even the lizards that dart upon the sunny rocks greet me as such.¡±

    ¡°Someone else has to go,¡± Herakleia said.

    She looked at the members of the expedition. It consisted mostly of Middle Eastern women, plus two Black men. Hummay was already excluded, while Za-Ilmaknun could perhaps venture into Paiperte, though he would still attract attention as a sort of exotic Christian dervish who hailed from realms beyond the knowledge of most people in these parts. As for the women, it was unusual for them to travel alone, unless they were beyond childbearing age (which none here were). All likewise had striking appearances; this was one consequence of seizing power for themselves. Jiajak Jaqeli the Kipchak had blue eyes and red hair that turned heads wherever he, she, they went. Kata Surameli was an Alanian¡ªlike Queen Tamar¡ªhailing from a land on the eastern edge of the Euxine Sea where everyone seemingly possessed an unearthly angelic quality, with long thin noses, vast spiritual eyes, and enormous sensual lips. Miriai had her own prettiness, and was too fragile, at least when she wasn¡¯t doing a smackdown. Umm Musharrafa was the typical beautiful Muslim woman who concealed herself beneath a black burka that ended up attracting more attention than if she had simply exposed herself in the same way as Christian women, who allowed their faces to be seen even if the rest of their bodies were covered. Simonis was the typical beautiful Armenian while Euphrosyne was the typical beautiful Roman, while Amat al-Aziz and Nazar al-Sabiyya were two typically beautiful Jewish Arabs. Their femininity acted also as a weapon, for men would underestimate them and then die because it was better to capture and enslave a woman than to kill her. But perhaps Herakleia was biased.

    ¡°None of us can go into Paiperte,¡± she said. ¡°We¡¯ll all attract too much attention. For a beautiful woman to travel alone, it¡¯s unheard of. The most ¡®normal¡¯ one out of all of us is you.¡± She nodded to Za-Ilmaknun.

    He was startled. ¡°Me?¡±

    ¡°You should go into Paiperte and ask around to see if Ay?e is there,¡± Herakleia said.

    ¡°Oh, he¡¯ll just muck it up,¡± Miriai said.

    ¡°I will not ¡®muck it up.¡¯¡± Za-Ilmaknun glared at her. ¡°I never muck anything up, save the mucking up of our foes! But there is a problem. I speak with a Roman tongue, strategos, because I learned the liturgical texts in Axum. But as for the languages of the Muslims who dwell in these parts¡ªTurkish, Arabic, Kurdish, Persian¡ªI know but a few practical traveling terms, that is all.¡±

    ¡°I speak them,¡± Miriai said. ¡°I¡¯ll go.¡±

    ¡°You volunteer?¡± Herakleia said.

    Miriai nodded. ¡°And you don¡¯t have to worry if I get hurt or killed. I know you always blame yourself when things go wrong. So you can rest easy knowing that I choose to go and help you find your little Seran friend.¡±

    Herakleia winced. ¡°If you say so. You can take a horse, and pretend to be a merchant come to the city to sell produce from the countryside.¡±

    ¡°The old ladies selling milk and cheese often use donkeys to carry their goods,¡± Umm Musharrafa said.

    ¡°A horse is the best we can do,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°Ask around, Miriai. If you¡¯re not back by sunset, we¡¯ll have to go into the city to look for you.¡± Herakleia turned to the members of the expedition. ¡°Agreed?¡±

    They agreed. Soon Miriai was on horseback, descending toward the city along a path which Hummay had pointed out. Herakleia watched Miriai until she vanished into Paiperte. Then Herakleia continued watching the bustling streets in the distance, covering herself with a shawl to keep the sun from burning her flesh.

    The expedition spent the afternoon napping, for the most part, with various members taking turns keeping an eye on the two different paths to their mountain hideaway¡ªthe one leading up from the road, the other leading down to Paiperte. When the sun was setting, there was still no sign of Miriai. When the expedition began to discuss heading into the city to look for her, they came under attack.

 37. War Crimes

    ¡°We have to find her,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°She¡¯s been gone too long.¡±

    ¡°We?¡± said Za-Ilmaknun. ¡°No one forced her to leave. She knew the risks. She can deal with them herself.¡±

    ¡°We should at least wait until morning,¡± Hummay said. ¡°Strategos, the Seljuks will capture you if you leave now. Besides, if they meant to kill her, they probably would have already done so.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t know that for sure,¡± Herakleia said.

    For a moment, no one spoke.

    Simonis stood. ¡°I¡¯ll go with you, strategos. I¡¯m always up for a little payback.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be a fool,¡± Euphrosyne said. ¡°You aren¡¯t going to get any payback. You¡¯re just going to get killed.¡±

    The bickering continued in the dark, each person arguing with shadows that obscured the stars and the crescent moon. Their camp had no fire. Flames would have attracted attention from miles in every direction. But this meant that the expedition ate only cold rations, and that the expedition members were shivering under blankets as the evening temperatures plunged.

    ¡°I can bear no more of this.¡± Umm Musharrafa stood beside Simonis. ¡°I will help you, strategos, at least to get the blood flowing through my frigid bones.¡±

    ¡°It may start flowing a little too much,¡± said Kata Surameli. ¡°If you know what I mean.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s three,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°That should be enough, although I¡¯m starting to think maybe we should all go together, because if we also don¡¯t make it back, what are the rest of you going to do?¡±

    ¡°Perhaps we should return to Trebizond and gather reinforcements,¡± Hummay said.

    ¡°You won¡¯t be gathering any reinforcements,¡± Herakleia said. ¡°You¡¯ll just be gathering dust. And kisses from your new boyfriend.¡±

    Amat al-Aziz and Nazar al-Sabiyya chuckled in the darkness.

    ¡°At least there are some among us who have a beloved to return to,¡± Hummay said to Herakleia.

    Nazar al-Sabiyya and Amat al-Aziz said: ¡°Oh!¡±

    It was hard for Herakleia to respond. Since she had seduced and then assassinated Duke Robert de Hauteville¡ªleader of Trebizond¡¯s Latin occupation¡ªshe had been too busy for romance.

    Should have known better than to argue with a scribe, she thought.

    The attack came when she was trying to respond. On the dark rocky mountaintop, from above, left, right, and below, black shapes were screaming right in Herakleia¡¯s ears so close their breath heated her neck, their saliva sprayed her skin.

    ¡°Allahu Akbar!¡± they cried. ¡°Chaka Bey!¡±

    The farr took over, and Herakleia lost herself in the hurricane, feeding off the energy of her comrades¡ªwho were doing the same, all joined together. She rolled out of the way as a man stabbed a scimitar at her, and then she swung her leg around and tripped him, scoring multiple punches to his chest and face as he smashed onto the ground. This knocked the breath from his lungs. While he was gagging, she kicked his face, knocking him out. The game voice announced the XP gain to her m¨ºl¨¦e combat skill, though she was still at Beginner (2/10).

    In the mean time, the cross on Za-Ilmaknun¡¯s forehead was glowing orange brightly enough to cast shadows, and he was chanting scripture in an Aethiopian tongue as he swung his mequamia into the attackers so hard that blood burst from their flesh or blue-green sparks leaped from their armor.

    ¡°The Lord is my shepherd!¡± he shouted in Roman, swinging the swooping mequamia back and forth. ¡°I shall not want!¡± Slam! ¡°He maketh me to lie down in green pastures!¡± Bang! ¡°He leadeth me beside the still waters!¡± Wham! ¡°He restoreth my soul!¡± Crash!

    Yet the wood never splintered. Hummay hid behind him, cowering with his sword trembling in his hands, crying out with fright each time someone got hurt¡ª¡°Allah!¡±¡ªregardless of whether this someone was friend or foe.

    The amazons impressed Herakleia. In her eyes they moved at a normal speed as their attackers slowed to a crawl and then almost came to a complete stop, holding still like wax statues, and just as easy to slice through with blades burning hot from the friction of repeated strikes. But from the attackers¡¯ perspective, they were battling dark gusts of wind that left bloodied, broken, groaning men in their wake.

    The world turned beneath the amazons. Umm Musharrafa chanted ¡°Allahu Akbar!¡± as she pushed off a boulder with her hands and slammed her sandaled feet into the skull of an unfortunate Seljuk. Kata Surameli, meanwhile, shouted ¡°Saint George!¡± with each strike of her blade against her enemies¡¯ scimitars. It sounded like this:

    ¡°Saint George!¡± Clang! ¡°Saint George!¡± Clang! ¡°Saint George!¡± Clang!

    Her bewildered opponents tripped over the boulders behind them, dropping their weapons as their bones snapped beneath the weight of their falling armor and flesh.

    Jiajak Jaqeli was invoking Tengri, and his mace thundered as it swept through the ranks of their attackers, and as his strength grew from one victory after another, lightning leaping from the metal and cooking one man to a black smoking husk that fell to the ground and scattered into a pile of ashes that the wind blew away.

    Now the Seljuks were fleeing, even though dozens had attacked the mountaintop camp from every direction. But the amazons were far from finished. Amat al-Aziz and Nazar al-Sabiyya called upon the aid of the Angel that had once plagued Pharaoh with frogs, locusts, and burning meteors, smashing his pyramids, colossi, and peristyles with earthquakes, until at last the souls of the firstborn of every household without calf¡¯s blood smeared upon the front door were carried away, for Pharaoh had ignored Moses¡¯s demand to let his people go. Thus did these Seljuks also refuse to heed the rumors of the fighting women. Make peace with them, people across Anatolia and even beyond had said, and they will be kind and generous to you. Make war upon them, and they will destroy you utterly. Here the Angel listened, and flowed like a flood of milk through the Seljuk ranks, separating bodies from souls forever.

    Thus did a surprise attack become a rout. The Seljuk survivors abandoned their fallen comrades¡ªmost of whom were wounded, not dead¡ªand fled screaming through the darkness to the candles and torches flickering in distant Paiperte. These flames, too, were doused, as the terrified city looked at the mountain¡ªhenceforth to be named Lightning Mountain¡ªand at the fairy lights flashing on the goatherd trail, the thunder loud enough to shake their bones and knock their cups and bowls from their tables though the battle was miles away.

    Carried away by the thrill of a surprise victory, the amazons followed the Seljuks down the mountain path and into Paiperte. Only a few Seljuks remained by then, and these were banging on the doors of the houses in the outskirts, pleading for the occupants to let them in. None did. Only one Seljuk escaped the amazons long enough to climb the long winding trail to Paiperte Fortress. He was just a stepping stone for Herakleia¡ªwho seized his scimitar and leaped off his shoulders all the way over the gatehouse and the black flag, until she landed in the courtyard.

    We never knew how powerful we had become, she thought as she hurtled through the air that whipped past her. We had suffered so many defeats. But we learned from them, coming back stronger as our enemies grew complacent. We talked constantly with one another, criticized each other¡ªno matter our rank, class, age, culture, faith, no matter our anything, demoting those who failed, promoting those who succeeded¡ªand we developed our abilities scientifically, testing our ideas in the material world, refining our attacks and defenses, a cycle of theory and praxis. We progressed so much in the last few months. As cities joined us, our powers grew.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    It was a good thing she had taken that Seljuk¡¯s scimitar, because it turned out that this, too, was a trap. Attack them on the mountaintop, the Seljuks must have said. If the attack goes awry, draw them inside the citadel. Here the inner walls were surrounded with hundreds of bright blazing torches and archers, every one of whom nocked an arrow on his bow, drew it back on his bowstring, aimed at Herakleia, and loosed. Twang! A storm of arrows whistled at her from every direction, but Herakleia bashed each arrow away with her scimitar, and darted aside, burning through farr. Then her comrades leaped out of the night and into the torchlit courtyard¡ªall except for Za-Ilmaknun, who had yet to learn to use the farr (what he called ¨¡simati) to jump like a human grasshopper. He was presumably caring for Hummay back on the mountaintop.

    The Seljuk archers nocked arrows again. Then they loosed these at the amazons, who sliced the arrows in half or batted them back hard enough to pierce Seljuk armor and flesh so the archers slammed onto the ground or plunged off the walls into the courtyard, coughing blood and clutching their wounds. One unfortunate Seljuk fell to the courtyard and pushed the arrow in his chest through his back.

    Seeing that ranged attacks were useless, some surviving archers dropped their bows and drew their swords as the amazons leaped onto the walls. Other archers fled without knowing where to go. Some dropped to their knees, raised their hands, and begged for mercy, which the amazons granted.

    Chaka Bey was in the courtyard with Miriai and Ay?e. Both women were bound and gagged¡ªone on his left, the other on his right¡ªbut alive. Herakleia charged this demon and his four bodyguards, recognizing them from the raid at the Death Worm Marsh, the strongest and most fearsome soldiers in Anatolia, the terrorizers of Rome, sharp polished steel gleaming in the torchlight, the metal armor covering these veteran warriors like insect carapaces. They were giants, tall and muscular and young, and they stepped in her way, snorting at her and laughing as they drew their weapons.

    ¡°Watch out, honey,¡± one said. ¡°I can¡¯t wait to get my hands on you.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s mine,¡± said another. ¡°No sloppy seconds for me.¡±

    ¡°Time to teach this girl her place,¡± said a third. ¡°In my bed.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll get you once with my sword, then again with my dick,¡± said a fourth. ¡°Suck on my first sword, then my second.¡±

    All spoke Roman. They must have been converts or mercenaries.

    Wholesome characters, Herakleia thought.

    She ducked beneath and around them like a mouse among titans, leaving screaming, bloodied bodies behind her, men whose last thought was I can¡¯t believe a woman beat me, it¡¯s not fair, she cheated! Then they gagged on the blood filling their throats. Herakleia had burned through most of her farr by now to make up for her low m¨ºl¨¦e combat skill, which had leveled up, in the mean time, to Novice (3/10).

    Soon only Chaka Bey remained. He had seized both Ay?e and Miriai by their hair with one hand and pressed his sword to their throats with the other. His eyes blazed rage at Herakleia, sweat dripping from his face, his body heaving with breath that hummed against his heavy damascened armor.

    ¡°I kill them!¡± he screamed. ¡°One more step, they die!¡±

    Herakleia stopped, lowered her bloodied scimitar to the courtyard dust, and raised her hands. She was about to tell Chaka Bey that he could leave, she would let him go if he released the prisoners, but an arrow slammed into him from behind, knocking him down. It was Simonis on the wall; she had picked up a bow and shot him.

    ¡°That was for Armenia!¡± she yelled, nocking another arrow. ¡°And this is for Ani!¡±

    Reckless, Herakleia thought. She could have hit the prisoners, or missed Chaka Bey.

    Simonis loosed the second arrow, striking her target again, though the arrow bounced off his armor. As he was recovering, Ay?e and Miriai rolled away. Herakleia seized her scimitar from the ground and got between the prisoners and Chaka Bey. The other amazons on the wall had picked up bows and arrows and were loosing at him now as he fled, screaming, the arrows punching into his armor and flesh, thumping into the ground and hammering the wooden walls wherever he went. He shrieked, ran, and the arrows followed, and soon he was pierced by a hundred arrows, which stuck out from him like porcupine quills, until at last he collapsed, a puddle of red blood surrounded him, expanding, reflecting all the torch flames burning in the fortress.

    You spend so much time building yourself up to defeat someone, Herakleia thought, looking for a moment at his dead body. He seems like an unstoppable monster. But then when you finally beat him, he seems so pathetic, it was like the fight wasn¡¯t even fair to begin with¡ªlike you were beating up a toddler. You forget him, you don¡¯t even think about him anymore. Yet this man was once the terror of the steppe, the wrecker of cities, the enslaver of nations. Now he¡¯s just another corpse. And you move on to the next challenge.

    Herakleia cut Ay?e and Miriai loose, pulled off their gags, kissed and embraced them, and asked if they were alright. All the women apologized to each other, then announced that there was nothing to apologize for. They hugged, and soon the amazons on the walls joined them¡ªonce they had disarmed and tied up the surviving Seljuks. Euphrosyne opened the gate for Za-Ilmaknun and a flustered Hummay¡ªboth had brought the horses and remaining supplies from the mountain¡ªwhile Simonis, still on the wall, gathered arrows and kept an eye on the city outside, mindful of how torches and pitchforks could besiege the fortress at any moment.

    We don¡¯t even know what the situation is like in Paiperte, Herakleia thought. The Seljuks are relatively easygoing once they conquer you. Alexios told me he passed through several thriving cities of theirs in his wanderings along the northern edge of Arabia. Paiperte might prefer Seljuks to uprisers.

    While Herakleia checked Ay?e and Miriai to make sure they were alright, the other amazons searched the fortress for surviving Seljuk warriors. All they found were the usual workers, servants, and peasants that staffed a fortress like this across the medieval world, from Cipangu to Ultima Tho¨²l¨¥, from Novgorod to Aethiopia. Each servant hid as best they could, having little idea of who was even attacking their masters, knowing only that the attackers were (somehow) mostly women, and that Chaka Bey despised them and had already gotten his hands on two of them, one of whom happened to be his beautiful yet estranged Seran wife. The other was an old lady robed in white.

    The first servants the amazons found were stable boys hiding in the rafters of the stables or behind bales of hay. Second were blacksmiths (some of the most valuable workers, often considered close to sorcerers), who had to be pulled out from behind their anvils. Third was a bushy-eyebrowed Jewish doctor named David ben Aaron, cowering in the little infirmary he had set up with a couple of apprentices. He raised his small soft hands and begged for mercy, claiming that he had been trained in Isfahan by Ibn Sina himself. Ben Aaron and his two assistants who were also his sons, named Joshua and Moses¡ªall three men bearded and clad in black¡ªwere another valuable find. In combination with proper sanitation and the development of antibiotics, inoculation, hand-washing, masking, anatomical knowledge that came from dissecting corpses (always a thorny issue), and the idea that public health came before private profit, Muslim and Jewish doctors like these¡ªdrawing on knowledge accumulated from men and women doctors in Afrika, Sera, and Sindh and Hind¡ªwere as skilled as their twentieth century equivalents. Only cancer, heart disease, dementia, and rarer disorders vexed them.

    They were also an improvement over the traveling barber surgeons upon whom most people were forced to rely. Each was an odd mix of showman, snake oil salesman, and medical professional. But these were still better than the average medieval person, who believed that manure was the answer to most medical problems. Got a wound that¡¯s bleeding everywhere? Smear it with manure. Broke a bone? Manure. Coughing up blood? You guessed it: manure. Headache? Manure. Bad breath? What do you think?

    But in reality, manure was only good for fertilizer or fire. Maybe this was why people thought it might help with medical problems. Manure worked in fields, it worked in hearths, so why wouldn¡¯t it work on lacerations? It was the first thing sick or wounded people turned to. Perhaps it was the only thing they could turn to, since properly trained doctors were so rare here. Most people lived their entire lives without ever meeting a doctor.

    Things were so much better in the old world, Herakleia thought. Rather than never seeing doctors at all, people saw them maybe once or twice in their lives, and went bankrupt as a result.

    Paiperte Fortress was big. Among its many rooms, hallways, and subterranean tunnels were all kinds of hiding places. The amazons found fletchers, bowyers, sawyers, carpenters, cooks, a seamstress, an imam, Chaka Bey¡¯s falcon (complete with falconer), a couple of enslaved councilor scribes to handle the paperwork and accounts, an itinerant darwaysh, a fool who could juggle while playing the santur, and various other slaves who were present merely to make Chaka Bey look important or to carry heavy sacks of supplies up the mountain path that led inside the castle. The amazons told these people they would be left unharmed, though the people doubted these words.

    Hard to conquer a place peacefully, Herakleia thought.

    Paiperte, meanwhile, was getting brighter and noisier. Simonis had already thrown open the fortress¡¯s main gate and was rushing down the mountain, shouting about attacking their attackers. Herakleia wanted to stay with Ay?e and find out what had happened to her¡ªthe poor girl was covered with cuts and bruises¡ªbut she was forced to run after Simonis.

    ¡°Umm Musharrafa and Euphrosyne, you¡¯re with me!¡± Herakleia yelled. ¡°Everyone else, secure the castle!¡±

    The amazons acknowledged her command. Za-Ilmaknun was already tending to Miriai and the wounded Seljuks, the orange light having faded from the cross on his forehead, while Hummay was speaking with Ay?e and his old friends, the enslaved scribes. Doctor David ben Aaron and his two assistants joined them.

    Is Simonis going to commit war crimes in the city? Herakleia wondered. Will she take revenge on the Turks for what they did to the Armenians?

    Herakleia ran down to the city to find out.