Clutching Makrenos’s body, screaming and crying, Narses neither cared about the victory over Galata, nor about ransoming the surviving barbarians. For them, death was an easy escape. Their punishment needed to be worse. He searched his memories; what was the most gruesome fate he had ever witnessed?

  Father Kosmas, he thought. Back in Nikaia. Outside the walls. An awful way to go. We never learned who did it. Though we suspected Paul.

  Narses was barely coherent, but he ordered Iwannis to bring a casket of fresh pinewood from Konstantinopolis. The slave nodded and ran back down to the pier. Since Galata was not secure, Narses shouted for Sigurdsson and Ironside to go with him. These two men were daubed in gore from head to toe, and they were still out of their minds, which meant that they ignored Narses, and charged after the fleeing barbarians. Iwannis was forced to go alone.

  The slave survives while my friend perishes.

  While awaiting Iwannis’s return, Narses clutched Makrenos’s body close, wailing into his chest. Narses pulled the bolt from the boy’s neck, and so much warm blood gushed out, his flesh turned cold and white—almost blue-green—in an instant. Narses tried to wipe the blood from the boy’s face, but his own hands were covered with it. Even when he sent Axouch and Sulayman to find towels, clothing, handkerchiefs, anything to clean up Makrenos—leaving himself unguarded in a war zone—it turned out that nothing could keep the blood away. The boy needed to be cleaned by the corpse-washers back in Konstantinopolis, his clothing and armor removed, the wound bound up.

  At last, Iwannis returned with a group of slaves who were carrying a wooden casket. Sulayman and Axouch guarded them, holding their scimitars, eyeing the streets of Galata as if they expected to be attacked at any moment. They were also distracted by the growing pile of treasure the soldiers were gathering.

  “This is only temporary,” Narses said to Makrenos, whom he gently placed in the casket. It still smelled of pine resin.

  His countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars.

  Narses turned his bloodshot eyes to Iwannis. “Once the Spatharios is cleaned and dressed, bring him to Hagia Sophia. There he will lie in state until his entombment at the Church of the Holy Apostles in the coming days, following a hero’s funeral which the entire City will attend.”

  “But sir,” Iwannis whispered, leaning in to Narses’s ear.

  For saying these two words alone, Narses wanted to draw his rhompaia and sever Iwannis’s head. But the slave was one of the few people the emperor could rely on, so he forced himself to listen.

  “The graveyard in Saint Apostoloi has been full for years,” Iwannis continued. “Other emperors from times long gone by rest there. And the Spatharios, may God rest his soul, is not the only soldier to have given his life in this battle—”

  “Do as I say!” Narses shouted, turning every head in the maidan. “I did not ask for your opinion on these matters. If there are problems, deal with them, or I will find someone else who can. You can spend the rest of your days mining iron from the mountains for all I care!”

  Iwannis stumbled back, then bowed. “Yes, sir.” He gestured to the waiting slave laborers, who lifted the casket and carried it down to the pier.

  “What are you looking at?” Narses said to a group of exhausted soldiers who had been gathering treasure—though they had stopped to stare at him. Now they looked away. Regardless, Narses kept talking. “Every time, no matter what I do, no matter what I accomplish, everyone is always questioning me, always telling me that what I desire cannot be done. Yet we are here in Galata. We have taken Galata. I have an army, a fleet, artillery. I am the emperor. Months ago, who would have said that any of this was possible?”

  One soldier turned toward him. “No one, o autokratōr.”

  “You.” Narses pointed to him. “What is your name and rank?”

  The soldier stood, swallowed nervously, and stiffened. “Dekarch Demetrios Kalothetos, o autokratōr!”

  His squad mates looked away. Some even covered their faces with their hands as if they wanted to hide.

  “Congratulations, Kalothetos,” Narses said. “I’m promoting you kentarch of Athanatoi Tagma’s third century.”

  Kalothetos looked at Narses, then bowed. “Thank you, o autokratōr!”

  “Have third century round up the barbarian survivors,” Narses said. “I don’t care how difficult or impossible or dangerous it is. I don’t care how tired the men are. Just make it happen.”

  “As you command, o autokratōr!” Kalothetos shouted.

  The new kentarch turned to his squad, promoted a squad mate to dekarch to take his former position, and then ordered his men to come with him as he jogged along the streets, relaying Narses’s orders. The men went to work without complaint despite their exhaustion and their focus on gathering treasure. Kalothetos also spoke with the Stratopedarches (quartermaster) Leichoudes, ordering him to procure sufficient rope and chains to bind prisoners.

  “How many prisoners are we talking about?” Leichoudes asked.

  “Thousands,” Kalothetos answered.

  Leichoudes saluted Kalothetos, then found some legionaries to help him.

  “Third squad, you’re with me,” Leichoudes said.

  These men followed him to the pier, smiling at each other. Rather than chasing furious, armed, half-feral women and children, they would be helping the quartermaster haul rope.

  Yet all of that rope will cost money. As always, a vast amount of supplies is needed to do anything. Wrong of me to think about this while Makrenos is dead. But I will avenge him.

  Speaking of costs, Paul, in the mean time, was marching up to the maidan with his retinue of logothetes, as well as his own band of hired Turkish and Varangian guards. They passed Stratopedarches Leichoudes and the third squad while they were walking wearily down to the Golden Horn.

  Paul smiled at the treasure. Then he saluted Narses. “Ave Kaisar. I have come to begin my accounting. And to congratulate you on your victory, of course.”

  “What victory?” Narses said. “We lost Makrenos.”

  “Who? I mean—ah, yes, of course, terrible tragedy, the man—Makrenos—he is irreplaceable, one in a million, may God rest his soul.” Paul crossed himself, then studied Narses’s reaction.

  But Narses barely noticed. By then his men were bringing the first prisoners into the maidan, their wrists and ankles bound with whatever the soldiers could find. Some prisoners were writhing on the cobblestones among the rubble, struggling, screaming threats and insults at the tired soldiers, who warned them to shut up. Others cried for their parents. One prisoner conversed at length with a soldier who politely listened to him, only speaking to the prisoner to say things like “that’s a fair point,” or “I really see where you’re coming from.” The prisoner went through all the different, incontrovertible, logical, and evidence-based reasons for why he should be freed. He was just a bystander caught up in the chaos, he supported Rome as much as anyone, he believed that peaceful petitions were a better way to gain government redress. Then he asked the soldier to release him and his family. In response, the soldier punched the prisoner so hard that blood gushed from his nose. The soldier’s buddies laughed, while the prisoner’s wife held the bleeding man close.

  “Never talk to pigs,” she said, glaring at the soldiers.

  Other prisoners stared into space. Still more were resigned to their fate, already working to commend themselves to eternity, a few praying to their gods. They had fought so hard in the first place because they knew that defeat meant either death or enslavement—itself a living death, a social death. Jews, Latins, Turks, and Romans were among them.

  Not Romans anymore, Narses thought.

  Paul, meanwhile, was searching their ranks for Doge Ziani or any members of the Venetian rich. Ziani would be easy to discover, since he was old as Tithonos, and even resembled a man-sized cicada dressed in Venetian clothing. He was also blind, to boot. The parakoimomenos offered to free any prisoner who directed him to the doge.

  “Where is the doge?” Paul kept saying, switching from Roman to Lingua Franca and back again. “Who can bring me the doge? Is the doge alive?”

  But Paul’s search was fruitless. Few prisoners would even look at him, and some spat in his face. It seemed all Galata’s rich had bravely abandoned their countrymen and fled on that single ship which had escaped to Venetia months ago following Narses’s coronation.

  “That really is quite a pity.” Paul was speaking to Narses while wiping the saliva from his own face with a silk handkerchief. “We were counting on earning tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands of nomismas from this little overseas expedition of yours, far more than the treasure gathered here in the square, in order to repay the churches we ransacked, and allay their growing frustrations with regard to—”

  “Have the men sharpen wooden stakes,” Narses said.

  “Majesty? You’re giving orders to me, a civilian?”

  “The kentarch’s left. You can pass the orders on to the men.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Might I be so bold as to inquire why the men should be sharpening stakes when most seem as though they can barely stand?”

  “We will impale the prisoners. All of them.”

  Paul stared at him. “Forgive me, sire, but that seems a little on the harsher side. Some of these prisoners could still be ransomed. And besides, who is going to live and work in Galata if we, em, impale all the surviving inhabitants? Branding them or slitting their noses would probably be a sufficient punishment, and mark them for the rest of their lives, during which time we could ensure that they remain loyal and productive—”

  “Do as I said.”

  “There are Roman citizens among them, majesty, people who have a right to be tried—”

  “I will strip them of their citizenship.”

  “You can’t do that,” the man with the bleeding nose said. “No one has ever done that.”

  Narses turned to the man. “I’m doing it now.”

  Paul cleared his throat. “Majesty, there are children among the prisoners, some of them quite young. I almost hesitate to ask, but are they to be impaled, too?”

  “If you continue to question my commands, you will be among them, Paul.”

  The parakoimomenos bowed. “Majesty.”

  Soon enough, the hundreds of prisoners gathered in the maidan had grown to thousands, to the extent that they were now crowding the side streets. When Stratopedarches Leichoudes and third squad returned with a train of dozens of mules whose backs were piled with coils of rope, Narses instructed these men—the instant he spotted them—to order thousands of sharpened wooden stakes from the City’s carpenters. Each stake needed to be as tall as a man.

  Holding the lead mule’s halter in his hand, Leichoudes bowed. “I beg the emperor’s pardon, but it has already been difficult for us to pay for this rope, having to utilize a secretary to issue promissory notes—”

  Narses nodded to Paul. “The logothetes will see to the financial details.”

  When Narses turned away, Paul looked up with wide eyes and raised both arms, as if to tell God that it was impossible to work under such conditions.

  By then the entirety of third century was soaked in blood, and the sun was going down, soaking the sky in blood of its own. Second century arrived to watch the prisoners until morning; Narses ordered third century to return to the Hippodrome to rest. They carried the gathered treasure in their arms, some men holding so much that they kept dropping it and then picking it up again. A printing press which the Venetians had brought here all the way from Trebizond was also among the spoils. Narses ordered this special device to be secured inside the palace.

  It was so late, by the time they got back, that they needed to wash themselves and their armor in the harbor by torchlight, blood spreading from their flesh into the sea. Slaves brought them changes of clothing and took their armor and weapons, while first century protected them and congratulated them on their victory. In the Hippodrome the rest of their comrades congratulated third century, and hundreds of Konstantinopolitans—mostly young men—had even gathered in the Mese to cheer them.

  “Did you organize this little patriotic gathering?” Narses asked Paul.

  Paul shook his head. “It appears to be a spontaneous celebration, majesty. The people cannot help but appreciate victories.”

  “You were never much of a liar, Paul.”

  “I swear on my honor, majesty.”

  “Honor? Eunuchs have none.”

  As Narses waved to his supporters, he realized that this was the first time anything like this had happened to him. For his entire career as domestikos and emperor, he had needed to encourage people to support him. Sometimes his men would do so, but how many of these had smashed their swords on their shields and shouted his name only to advance their careers? The military was packed with ass-kissers. Kissing ass was how you earned more pay and escaped guard and latrine duty—it was often the only way to do so. But until now, civilians had never turned out on their own to cheer him. They had no reason, except genuine approval and pride.

  The legions march to victory thanks to me.

  Third century spent little time enjoying their fame, however. Most of the men, Narses included, barely possessed the energy needed to climb into bed. (Narses himself was still unable to sleep in beds and just lay down under a blanket on the ground.) Oblivious to all light and noise, they slept straight through the night, clutching their treasure close to their chests.

  Narses dreamt of Makrenos. They were back in Galata, fighting the ogre hordes, and Makrenos was screaming for Narses to help him—the masses were pulling him away. Narses hacked through the disgusting ranks, but too many traitors blocked him, it was impossible to get through. And so he was forced to watch as the barbarians—these so-called “innocent” women and children, these so-called “peaceful” protestors—set upon Makrenos like starving wolves, stabbing with knives and swords, bashing his skull with hammers, devouring his flesh, hissing and growling like monsters.

  “No!” Narses screamed.

  Soaked in sweat, he bolted upright on the ground where he had been sleeping, reaching forward to save Makrenos. But his companion was gone. Galata, too, was gone, and the ravening mob, all replaced by a sun-drenched tent canvas, the scraping of sandals on sand outside, the conversations of men gambling away yesterday’s winnings.

  It was midmorning. Speaking with Iwannis, Narses learned that second century had already rotated back from guard duty in Galata, to be relieved by first century. Everyone else in the Hippodrome was continuing their training. Logothetes had even set up tables by the main gate to sign up new recruits, of which there were more than a few. Word had spread of the riches to be found in Narses’s Defense Force.

  He was amazed that the men were doing what they were supposed to without being told. Narses was so used to ordering everyone around—so used to everyone else’s physical and mental laziness and incompetence—that he was shocked. His Defense Force was gaining a momentum all its own.

  But he could not forget Makrenos. His murderers needed to pay. And Narses himself needed to prepare. How does one impale a man? The ancients knew, but the medieval Romans—in their charitable Christian softness, in their slave morality—had forgotten how to do this centuries ago, perhaps because impalement reminded them too much of the Lord’s time on the cross. Even barbarians thought this punishment severe. Prisoners captured in war were used as labor in mines or fields if no one paid their ransom. Muscle was always needed everywhere, technology being so inefficient that one man working a farm barely produced more food than he consumed. Prisoners of war who worked hard and regarded their new masters with a positive attitude were often turned into serfs, with homes, families, implements, plots of land, and even juries and governing councils all their own. Sometimes they even became yeoman farmers, answerable only to the Roman government. So long as these farmers turned over the correct amount of grain at season’s end, they were left alone. Serfdom, as it turned out, was a more efficient way to farm than slavery—since serfs, being allowed to keep half their produce, had an incentive to work which slaves lacked. This was one of many reasons why almost everyone in this society was a farmhand. Outside of battle and the occasional murder of passion, execution as punishment was actually a rarity compared to the old world. Branding a particularly rebellious man on the hand or exiling him was often as severe as punishments got, though the most intransigent heretics—the ones who challenged all that was holy, rather than this or that ruler or emperor—would sometimes suffer an auto-da-fé of fire in the Hippodrome.

  Narses therefore needed to send Paul to the imperial library to consult ancient texts regarding the practice of impalement. The emperor did this because he wanted to get it right, few things being more embarrassing than a botched execution. Paul was busy accounting for the royal fifth of the treasure, and this new command visibly frustrated him. He took several hours to perform this task, until Narses sent Iwannis to bring the parakoimomenos back. Paul was doubtless delaying his return in the belief that Narses’s burning rage would cool with time. But Makrenos was unforgettable. The poor boy was lying in his casket in Hagia Sophia, his clothes changed, his body wiped clean, awaiting sacred burial.

  While Paul was away, Narses searched third century for the most reliable men—the ones who would obey any command, no matter how distasteful. At chow he walked among third century with Iwannis, who carried a list of the men who had fallen in yesterday’s battle, as well as the squads they belonged to. Narses searched for their friends—the ones who were still angry about their fallen buddies, and still willing to punish the ones who had taken their lives too soon. Once chow was finished, Narses brought the angriest men with him back to the Galata maidan, along with Stratopedarches Leichoudes and his cartloads of wooden stakes. These stakes had been sharpened at both ends.

  The prisoners were still lying on the cobblestones, their wrists and ankles bound. No food or water had been distributed, in accordance with Narses’s orders; exhausted prisoners would go more willingly to their doom. The mothers and their children were so listless they needed to be screamed at multiple times before they got up and walked to the southeastern shore just outside Galata, where they would be visible both to Konstantinopolis and to ships sailing along the Bosporos.

  “This task will take all day,” Narses told his men. “We will work until the job is done, sparing no one, not even the youngest child.”

  Without hesitation, every man saluted him.

  Following Paul’s instructions, Narses directed the impalement of the first prisoner, a Venetian soldier who struggled, argued, and pleaded for mercy to the end. Soldiers held the prisoner down, sliced open his buttocks, and hammered the stake inside with a mallet. Since the stake pierced the prisoner’s inner gut, he died within seconds, though Narses had ordered the soldiers to keep him alive as long as possible.

  Paul looked up from the notes on his wax tablet. “You must do your best to follow the line of the spine,” he told the men. “Avoid vital organs.”

  “We’re soldiers, not surgeons,” one man said.

  The body was propped up on the Galata shore facing the Bosporos, the stake hammered into the ground, its top having pierced the Venetian’s shoulder.

  This entire process was gruesome for everyone involved. Even Narses himself wondered if he had gone too far. The prisoners saw what had happened, and now they were all struggling to escape, forcing the soldiers to keep them assembled. Some prisoners even tried rolling themselves to the shore, drowning being a more preferable fate. Mothers screamed for their children to get away however they could. But there was no escape.

  The impalement proceeded. So exhausting was the process that Narses ordered every tagma to join him in Galata. When they arrived, he insisted that every soldier under his command impale at least one person; committing such terrors would bind them to him like blood cement. Within hours, thousands of people were impaled on Galata’s shore, most of them still alive and groaning for death. Some were Sarakenoi, and these cursed Narses’s Turkish bodyguards Axouch and Sulayman, shrieking that it was absurd for Muslims to murder Muslims at the behest of a polytheist.

  “You are not real Muslims,” an impaled woman cried, coughing blood as the bodyguards hammered her stake into the earth. “You are hypocrites, and you will suffer the hypocrites’ fate!”

  Sulayman and Axouch looked away from her as she said this. Narses dismissed them until tomorrow, mindful of how many emperors had perished on the swords of their own bodyguards. In contrast, the Varangians Sigurdsson and Ironside had no problem executing the barbarians. This was one reason Roman emperors paid Varangians so well. They were disconnected from local politics, and would follow any command, even if it led to their deaths.

  As the day progressed, crowds gathered across the Golden Horn in Konstantinopolis to watch the impalements. Crews of ships sailing along the Bosporos stared.

  The prisoners remained that way for days. Swarms of crows, magpies, and vultures gathered to devour both the living and the dead, using sharp beaks to pry eyeballs from sockets. Many victims were too exhausted to resist. Some birds were so engorged with flesh that they could barely fly.

  Soon the stakes were surrounded by piles of bleached bones, though many bones still hung like necklaces on the stakes. Narses refused to allow the remains to be buried, nor did he let priests pray for the souls of the condemned, declaring that all those who opposed him would be punished both in this life and the next. Regardless, the priests from poorer parishes snuck over at night to bury what they could without arousing suspicion. Because it was impossible to tell which bones were Christian, these priests—so the rumor went—even asked blessings from Allah and Yahweh, in addition to Christ.

  Narses remained in Galata until the last prisoner was dead. Paul came only to inform him that more basiliks had been constructed and were being positioned along the City walls facing the Bosporos in order to guard against a Venetian invasion. Additional dromons had likewise been constructed. Things were really coming along.

  And then, when Narses finally returned to Konstantinopolis, everything had changed.