No crowds greeted him in the City this time. People on the Mese no longer got out of his way or bowed in silence; now they fled his presence before he could even see them. Except for the occasional scurrying rat or chirping sparrow or swift, the Mese was abandoned in midday, all the storefronts shuttered.
Spring had come to Konstantinopolis in the meantime. The sun was shining, the air was warm and soft, and the birds were singing, but no one seemed to be enjoying it. Normally young couples would be on promenade here, clutching each other arm-in-arm, telling anyone who challenged their morality that they were just cousins. But now, nothing.
Returning to the palace, Narses went straight to the Throne of Solomon. This was where he felt comfortable; this was where he felt strong. He had won a battle, bringing victory to Rome, and had truly become emperor now.
I am the emperor.
From the throne he sent Iwannis to find Paul. When the parakoimomenos arrived, he greeted Narses and bowed to the floor, stretching his arms forward, his face pressed to the marble.
“Makrenos’s funeral is to take place tomorrow.” Narses’s voice trembled at the mention of the boy’s name. “Have the criers announce that the entire City is to attend the funeral march from Hagia Sophia to the Church of the Holy Apostles. The priests must also examine his body before we depart, in order to determine if there are any miraculous sweet essences issuing from his flesh. Makrenos would therefore merit consideration for sainthood.”
Paul climbed to his feet and cleared his throat. “Majesty, all of us are sorry for—em—Makrenos’s death. With respect, I would advise against that—em, about everyone being forced—asked—to attend the funeral march, I mean.”
“As always, I am not asking for opinions—”
“Majesty, there will be trouble. The people are horrified by what you have done to their churches, and they think your treatment of the prisoners distinctly un-Christian.”
“They are correct,” Narses said. “The church weakens us; the army strengthens us. It is not enough to rebuild the army, Paul. We must also rebuild the Roman way of life. And that means more slavery, and no rights of any kind for those who oppose us. That in itself requires punishments which may appear severe, but they keep people in line.”
“Majesty, there is a reason for the relative rareness of slaves in Rome today compared to ancient times. Christians, for one, are not to be enslaved, in accordance with the wishes of the church. They also hate their masters, and can so easily escape that they are not worth the trouble. Compromise must often be found between those who work and those who live off of workers.”
“Are you saying that I do not work?”
“Of course not, majesty, you work harder than anyone who has ever lived. But I also thought you had said earlier that you wished to do away with the aristocrats in favor of populating the countryside with small farmers. Now it seems you have changed your mind, and favor creating the old latifundia owned by aristocrats?”
“I told you, I’m not interested in your opinion. What I’m interested in is you obeying my commands. If there are riots, my men and I will handle them.”
Paul eyed Sulayman and Axouch, who were guarding the throne room entrance. "But can your men be trusted, I wonder."
“You doubt their loyalty, Paul?”
“Of course not, majesty. I would never—”
Narses gestured to the guards. “Come here.”
The two Turks approached Narses, bowing only on one knee but keeping their heads down.
“The parakoimomenos here doubts you,” Narses said.
Paul rolled his eyes. “You didn’t need to tell them…”
“Would you die for me,” Narses said to Axouch and Sulayman, “if I asked it?”
“We have sworn to kill and die as you command, aphéntēs!” The Turks said in unison.
“Then prove it to our little doubting Thomas here,” Narses said. “Use your swords to open the arteries in your forearms. Let the blood flow until you perish.”
Paul’s eyes widened. “Majesty, this isn’t necessary—”
“Silence!” Narses roared.
Sulayman and Axouch had already stood, drawn their scimitars, and rolled up their sleeves, moving as nonchalantly as if they had been ordered to stand at ease. Just as they were about to cut their forearms, Narses stopped them.
“Convinced?” he said to Paul.
“Yes, majesty,” Paul stammered.
Narses looked to his two guards. “Sheathe your weapons and return to your stations.”
They saluted and then went back to the entrance, which they flanked like statues.
“You see?” Narses said to Paul. “They are as loyal to me as my limbs are to my mind.”
“Yes, majesty. I will have the criers make their announcements, as his majesty has commanded.” Bowing, Paul left the throne room, walking as quickly as he could without breaking into a run.
Next day, the funeral began at the second hour. Together with his retinue of guards and logothetes, all dressed in black robes—including black hoods—Narses visited Hagia Sophia first. The great church was packed with officials, eunuchs, priests, senators, and other notables. Even Erythro made an appearance, still in mourning due to her father’s passing months earlier.
Makrenos had been moved into a more ornate wooden casket, and he was now wearing a white robe. Narses viewed the cold, pale body, and noticed the distinct reek of what smelled like sewage and rotting meat hanging in the air. He looked up to the golden mosaics on the wall—to Christ All-Ruler with his misshapen face, one side seeming to melt from the other—and cursed him.
The casket was closed. Narses—together with five of Makrenos’s buddies from third century—carried it slowly along the nave toward the open Silver Doors, to mournful pipe organ music. Rows of legionaries lined their path, drawing their swords and raising them into the air so that their tips almost touched, forming a sort of tent of sharpened steel above their heads.
Once they reached the Augustaion just beyond the Palace of the Patriarch, the casket was loaded onto the back of a splendid carriage drawn by four white muscular horses. Narses had considered carrying Makrenos all the way across the City to the Church of the Holy Apostles, but he was already sweating—his bones and muscles aching—just from hauling Makrenos down Hagia Sophia’s nave.
Narses nodded to the army musicians, who were watching him, and their funeral dirge began. Athanatoi Tagma marched ahead of the carriage, while the Hikanatoi and Exkoubitoi brought up the rear. Narses walked directly behind Makrenos’s carriage, guarded on every side by his Turks, Varangians, and most trusted soldiers. Together they proceeded along the Mese at a slow pace. As Narses had commanded, the colonnades were lined with thousands of people, all of them dressed in black, crossing themselves, bowing their heads, and removing their hats in silence when they caught sight of the hearse. Erythro and the senators had remained in Hagia Sophia, however.
Paul was wrong, Narses thought, eyeing the parakoimomenos, who was walking beside him with Patriarch Garidas. There is no danger. Makrenos was popular with the men, so why wouldn’t he be popular with the people? They don’t mind taking a break from their boring lives to honor a fallen hero.
The emperor relaxed, finding the funeral cathartic. All the semantrons in the City churches were rattling. Soon the procession turned right at the Philadelphion Square and reached the many-domed Church of the Holy Apostles, Hagia Apostoloi. Makrenos was to be entombed in the graveyard outside the church, not far from the porphyry sarcophagi of Megas Konstantinos, Julian the Apostate, Justinian and Theodora, and Herakleios the Savior of Rome. So many emperors and empresses were buried here, in fact, that no room remained for anyone else. To deal with this problem, Narses had ordered the tomb of the emperor Jovian emptied and the dusty bones quietly dumped in the Bosporos in the middle of the previous night. This porphyry sarcophagus—which looked just as fine as the others—was now the one into which Makrenos was moved, his wooden casket closed and then placed inside one of stone. If anyone asked how the sarcophagus came to be empty, they were to be told that it was a miracle. Jovian had only reigned for a few months, but he was an important emperor, having come to the throne after God struck down the apostate Julian. Jovian then undid all of the apostate’s satanic reforms, and for that the people had never forgotten him.
When the music had ended, Patriarch Garidas delivered the eulogy to the soldiers and notables assembled in the graveyard. The streets behind them were still packed with people dressed in black. Narses caught sight of one man yawning, and wanted to kill him. In fact, Narses tried to use his farr vampire skill to take the man’s pneuma, but he was too far.
“Today we honor Spatharos Angelos Makrenos,” Garidas said, reading from a wax tablet. “He was an upright warrior of the faith and a regular church attendee who gave his life that all of us might live freely in Christ. His is an example that all of us should follow. While speaking with those who knew him in preparation for this celebration of his life, I was told repeatedly that no one had ever heard him take the Lord’s name in vain.”
Narses had known Makrenos for months, and could not recall the man mentioning anything even remotely religious. No matter.
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“Spatharos Makrenos, before joining the military, had led a quiet life working in his uncle’s tavern in the Fifth Region,” Garidas continued.
Narses searched the crowd for Goudeles and found him bowing his head nearby. For once the man was refraining from advertising his godforsaken tavern.
“When His Majesty the Emperor Narses announced that strong young men were needed to save Rome,” Garidas went on, “Makrenos bravely answered the call. Distinguishing himself in training, he quickly advanced through the ranks. His fellows knew him as a sharp, strong, dependable friend who could solve almost any problem. So impressive was Makrenos that he quickly attracted His Majesty’s attention, and was appointed spatharos within weeks of volunteering to train in the Hippodrome.”
Narses nodded. A tear came to his eye as he remembered the first time he had seen Makrenos running on the sand, far ahead of the fastest runners among the recruits. And yet Narses was already trying to forget this man. Makrenos was too painful to think about.
“Cruelly and treacherously ambushed by barbarian fanatics in Galata,” Garidas continued, “Makrenos fought hard to protect his fellow soldiers, and died saving countless lives, including that of His Majesty the Emperor himself. The good spatharos will never be forgotten, because the Roman army—and Rome herself—never leaves anyone behind. Now let us pray.”
Narses shrugged. Good enough, I suppose, though they left me behind when I was captured in Anatolia.
Everyone murmured the Lord’s Prayer together, their heads bowed, their eyes closed. Laborers brought the casket inside the tomb, sealed the entrance, and that was the end of it. Makrenos was laid to rest. Narses sighed with relief.
The crowd dispersed. Some bowed to Narses, offering their condolences. But the vast majority avoided him, doing their best to get out of sight as quickly as possible. Sometimes Narses heard their thoughts. A common refrain was the question: is he going to impale me, too?
An hour before the funeral had started, Narses sent his tagmata along the procession’s path, closing all shopfronts and ordering everyone they encountered to dress appropriately and assemble in order to pay their respects to a great man. Now, as he and his men walked back along the Mese toward the Great Palace, turning left at the statues of the Philadelphion, the thoroughfare was deserted once again. Patriarch Garidas and his priests had stayed back at the Church of the Holy Apostles.
“The City is not acting like itself,” Narses growled.
“They are upset over the impalement, majesty.” Paul eyed the windows overlooking the Mese and the side streets. “Many had friends and relatives in Galata.”
“Barbarian friends and relatives?” Narses said. “Ridiculous. We did them all a favor—”
Something hard and heavy struck his head. Pain burst across his skull, and he clutched the wound, groaning as he fell to the street, the game voice warning that he had lost five health. Rocks were flying through the air. His men surrounded him and raised their shields as his bodyguards helped him stand. Blood was pouring all over his face, and rocks were clanging against the steel shields. Narses felt dizzy. The world was spinning. He was going to pass out. His health continued to decrease as blood dripped from the wound.
As his guards carried him, his men fought along the Mese. Narses was unable to see over their heads, but a crowd had attacked them from every side, seemingly out of nowhere. It was Galata all over again, and Makrenos was lying on the filthy cobblestones with a crossbow bolt lodged in his neck, the dark red blood pouring from the wound as the boy reached out for him and begged for help, his mouth brimming over with blood. Narses screamed.
“Come along, your majesty, we’re almost there.” Paul ducked beneath the shields. “That’s it.”
Whistles were blowing, trumpets blasting, legionaries grunting and swearing as they thrust their swords into the mob.
“Kill the Narsites!” the mob shouted. “Kill Narses!” It was becoming a popular slogan.
Among the faces waving between the helmets, shields, and swords, Narses spotted many big-bearded black-cowled priests, all scowling with fury.
He laughed, even as he tasted blood on his tongue. “Of course it’s the priests. We pushed them so hard, they’re finally pushing back!”
“Yes, majesty.” Paul ducked as a brick flew over his head. “As it turns out, these gentle nonviolent lambs of god get rather cross—no pun intended—when you take their ikons. They really were very precious, holy objects, ones we touched at our peril. Emperor Leo the Isaurian learned this lesson centuries ago—the hard way, as we are currently learning. Recall that I attempted to warn you about this danger on multiple occasions.”
“Oh please, eunuch, everyone knows it was I who warned you.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course, majesty, how could I have possibly forgotten? What a fool I am! Sometimes I can scarcely remember my own name!”
“But we had to take the ikons. We couldn’t pay for anything otherwise. We have ships, now. An army. Basiliks on the palace walls facing the Marmara. Without these things, sooner or later the Turks and Latins would have conquered the City—and all the churches in it! Make the people understand.”
“They don’t appear to be in the mood to listen at the moment, majesty. Ow!” A rock had struck his head, though not so hard as the one that got Narses.
“Somehow I must make them understand,” Narses said. “Somehow they must know that we are working together to defeat all who would threaten Rome.”
“You are the one taking their ikons at the moment, majesty, not the Turks!”
“We may have to return the ikons.”
“Now you say this? They were already melted down weeks if not months ago!”
“You always have an answer for everything, don’t you, Paul?”
“I see reality as it is, majesty, not the way I want it to be!”
Narses, Paul, and the soldiers fought their way back to the palace, climbing over bloodied bodies that had fallen in the street, until at last everyone was safe behind the Chalkē Gate. This was closed behind them, locked, and then barred. The mob roared behind the palace walls.
“Animals,” Narses said.
Now he was sitting against the inner side of that same wall. How had he gotten there? He couldn’t remember.
In his bones he felt the mob’s sandals pounding the cobblestones, their fists beating bricks. Cheering, swearing, screaming for his blood, they would have torn him to pieces, had he lacked three tagmata as escort.
Some spirit seems to animate them, he thought. Some puppetmaster behind the scenes. Someone put them up to this. The senators, the priests, Erythro, Paul, the Turks, Latins, someone. Satan himself.
“Majesty,” Paul was saying. “You must go to the palace hospital and see Doctor Donnolo.”
“They are unworthy of me.” Narses climbed to his feet and regarded his soldiers, most of whom were sitting against the wall or drinking from water skins brought by slaves. The men were sweaty, scratched, and bruised, their armor dented, their swords dripping blood, but they had proven themselves in combat. Until now, only Athanatoi Tagma’s Third Century had seen battle, but now everyone had done so.
The dekarchs and kentarchs, meanwhile, were doing a headcount. Soon their tone and appearance grew anxious, and they counted and re-counted, calling out names, marking lists on wax tablets. As it turned out, three men had been left behind. No one knew where they were.
Yet we still have almost two thousand, Narses thought. Two thousand battle-hardened soldiers.
“You have done well.” Narses climbed to his feet and walked among his men. “As I always say, there is no training like combat. The worst combat veteran is more useful to the army than the best trainee.”
The men watched him.
“Yet I swear to you,” Narses continued. “We will find out who did this. They will be punished for what they have done today.”
Clutching his bleeding head, he felt dizzy again, and stumbled. People gasped and stood. His bodyguards caught him before he could fall to the pavement.
“Majesty,” Paul said. “I told you. You must go to the hospital.” He whispered in Narses’s ear: “You are making a fool of yourself in front of your men. They will turn against you.”
Narses looked to the soldiers of the tagmata he had made. Many were either staring at him, or trying not to. As soon as he met their gazes, they looked away.
Narses wiped the blood out of his eyes and turned to Paul. “Start an investigation. Find out who did this. Do whatever must be done.”
“Only if you go to the hospital now, majesty.”
“I give commands, I do not take commands.”
“That is why this has happened. You listen to no one. During the disasters in Anatolia, it was the same, majesty.”
“I did what I could with what I had at the time. There is so much resistance to a great man trying to change history…all history turns against him. Like Xerxes, I war alone against the tide.”
“Xerxes.” Paul narrowed his brow. “Wasn’t he the one who failed in his great invasion of Greece?”
“He achieved victory after victory, and still failed. Death by a thousand cuts.”
“What are you talking about, your majesty? Why do you insist on having these conversations while you are bleeding everywhere? Now come, let us go to the hospital, you and me, then we can talk about Xerxes.” Paul stretched out his hand.
Narses looked at it. “Time was when my hand alone would terrify you.”
“Times change. We’re yoked to the same chariot now, majesty. Win or lose, we do it together.”
Narses looked at Paul’s hand, then nodded to him, and took it. His Turks and Varangians brought him to the palace hospital. Soon he was lying in a hospital bed, and his guards were holding him down as Shabbethai Donnolo doused his wound in wine and then stitched it up. Narses gritted his teeth and groaned.
“Hey, listen, your majesty, you really gotta be more careful,” Donnolo said.
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” Narses said. “You think I wanted to be set upon my a ravening mob?”
“You gotta take care of yourself.” Donnolo was gesturing wildly. “What, do you think you’re a god or something? You’re flesh and blood like the rest of us.”
Narses almost punched him for that comment, but his guards held him down. Was there no one else in the City who could heal a wound? Besides, Donnolo would probably mess it up. Narses would be scarred on his forehead for the rest of his life. He would be disfigured. Ugly. Worthless.
When Donnolo finally finished, he ordered Narses to rest.
“I’m fine.” Narses stood and then stumbled. Once again, his men caught him. He sat back on the hospital bed, even though he couldn’t stand beds.
“Clearly that ain’t the case,” Donnolo said. “You’re exhausted and overworked. You gotta stay in bed, your majesty—if not here, then back in your apartment, and for a few days at least. You gotta take a break from all this nonstop work you’ve been doing. Otherwise, I’m warning you, your condition could get worse.”
“Not all of us can live off the work of others,” Narses said.
Donnolo stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Some of us have to work for a living,” Narses said.
Donnolo held up his hands, which were still red with Narses’s blood. “What do you think I’ve been doing here for the last hour? You think this is how I relax?”
“Of course you’re a Jew, you argue and whine just like one.” Narses turned to his men. “Bring me to my apartments. I’ve had enough of this riffraff.”
Vaffanculo, Narses heard Doctor Donnolo think.
Narses’s men bowed and acknowledged his command. He limped—but was mostly carried—down marble hallways, up flights of stairs, along balconies overlooking halls, past golden mosaics of winged angels drawing swords, and statues of chalcedony emperors staring into eternity with huge spiritual eyes. Not so long ago Narses would have run into the beautiful Erythro here. She would have been reading a book—looking up at him, smiling as she bit her lip and her eyes flashed. Emperor Nikephoros would have been sitting atop the Throne of Solomon, raising his ruby scepter to terrify some barbarian chieftain, clutching his diamond-studded orbus terrarum.
Now they were all gone. Narses was alone in his apartment, lying on his couch with his slaves Oromazdes and Konstantinos bowing to him, awaiting orders. Outside the huge windows, smoke was rising, stones were smashing—was the mob knocking down statues?—and screams were echoing across the sky.
