Fallen Eagle-Chapter 11: A Flock of Sheep

The adrenaline of the moment was a blade, honing Theodorus’s mind to a razor’s edge. He did not have the luxury of shock. Shock was a sentiment, and sentiment, as he had told the Megas Doux, costs lives.
“Sergeant Leonidas,” he snapped. The giant, whose face was a mask of professional disgust at the sight of the ruin, turned his full attention to his commander. “You and your men will unload the supplies. Grain, tools, medicine - everything. The garrison will assist and direct you to the storerooms.” No one from the garrison reacted, their stationary bodies more akin to corpses than soldiers..
He raised his voice, a drill sergeant’s bark that carried across the courtyard, startling the listless men into something resembling attention. “You heard me! Move!” A few of the Probatofrourio men shuffled sluggishly toward the wagons, goaded into motion by the sheer force of his will.
“Sergeant Orestis.” Theodorus turned to the wild-looking man, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Give me a full tour of this fortress. Now.”
“The fort, Captain?” Orestis gestured with his axe at the pathetic scene. “There’s not much to see… the walls, the well, the lean-to for the animals, and the tower.”
“I will see it all, Sergeant.” Theodorus fixed him with an unblinking stare. “The armory. The storerooms. The barracks. I want a count of every man, every weapon, every bushel of grain, and every waterskin. Demetrios,” he called to his loyal servant. “Accompany us. Write down everything.”
The brusque, no-nonsense tone was a splash of cold water in the stagnant air. Theodorus was imposing order by sheer force of will, and the garrison, long adrift, began to stir.
Orestis led them to the base of the central watchtower. It was a single, large, open space, its shadows cluttered with a sad miscellany of junk.
“Here is our armory, storage room, and barracks, all in one, Captain,” Orestis said, a grim, humorless crack in his voice.
“An accounting, Sergeant. Now.” Theodorus answered, deadpan.
“Every man has his own weapon, Captain. Whatever his family could spare.”
“That tells me nothing,” Theodorus’s voice was ice. “I need numbers. What are the soldiers' primary armaments? Spears? Axes? How many men have swords? Do we have bows? How many arrows are fletched and ready?”
The sergeant stroked his tangled beard, his gaze distant. “You’d have to ask them, Captain. I can’t speak for the men.”
Theodorus stopped dead. Demetrios, stylus poised over his wax tablet, looked up, sensing the sudden shift in temperature. “You are their Sergeant. It is your duty to know these things.”
Orestis seemed completely unaffected, his calm disinterest a fortress against the boy-captain’s assault. “The previous officer… he did not see much need for it, Captain.”
Theodorus stared, and Orestis stared back. This wasn’t a challenge to his authority. It wasn’t a rebellion. The problem was infinitely worse: the man simply did not care.
The tour continued in the same vein. When Theodorus asked how many lengths of rope they possessed, Orestis shrugged and said, “Some.” How many pairs of spare boots? He thought one of the recruits had complained that his sandal was frayed last week. Was the men’s equipment in good repair? Orestis had no idea. He didn’t even know how many barrels of water the garrison consumed in a day, or how many bushels of wheat it took to feed them. The rot was deeper than a collapsed wall. It was in the very heart of the command. The worst, however, was yet to come.
As they climbed the worn stone steps to the second floor, a wall of heat and stench struck them with physical force. It was a cloying miasma of stale sweat, unwashed bodies, and the sharp, coppery odor of blood mixed with the foulness of evacuated bowels. It was the smell of a plague pit, and beneath it, a low, continuous chorus of soft moans and delirious whispers provided a hellish soundtrack.
Theodorus stepped into the long, dim room that served as the barracks and froze. In it, he saw hell. Men, pale and gaunt, lay shivering on their cots, their eyes sunken and glassy with fever. Their bedding was stained with the bloody evidence of their sickness. But they were not isolated. Right beside them were dozens of cots, presumably for the men he saw outside. To house malnourished, immune-compromised individuals just a breath away from the contagion… To have the sick and dying festering in the very heart of the living quarters was not just a failure of command; it was sentencing the entire garrison to a slow, miserable death. How did the men sleep? Hearing their fellow comrades slowly dying right next to them? Smelling the disease seep into them and wondering if tomorrow they would feel the same?
“What… is this?” Theodorus asked. The question was a whisper of such profound, controlled rage that Demetrios, who was fighting the urge to gag, felt as a chill colder than any winter wind. He had never heard that tone from his master, neither before, nor after Lord Konstantinos’s death.
“Pardon, Captain?” Orestis replied, his expression as placid and unconcerned as if he were discussing the weather.
“I asked,” Theodorus said, his voice dropping even lower, the whisper hardening into something as sharp and cold as a glacier, “What is this?” It was a blizzard, masked as a question.
“Our infirmary, Captain,” Orestis stated, straight-faced. “The men came down with the bloody flux a few days ago. These are the ones bedridden, but the others are starting to show the signs.”
Theodorus’s gaze swept over the sick. They were shells, their skin stretched parchment-thin over their bones, dry as dust, as if every drop of life had been squeezed from them. Their breath came in shallow, labored gasps.
“And I am asking you why these men are sleeping and dying in their own shit in the very place our soldiers are meant to rest.”
“Because their cots are on the first floor, Captain,” Orestis replied with the simple, irrefutable logic of a man who has stopped thinking entirely.
Theodorus was rendered utterly speechless. For a moment, he simply stared, the sheer, cavernous stupidity of the statement echoing in his mind. Demetrios, seeing the look on his master’s face, felt a surge of alarm and stepped forward.
“Sergeant, couldn’t they at least be moved downstairs?” Demetrios pleaded, appalled. Even the most basic precepts of health, known for centuries, dictated you separate the sick from the healthy. “The ground floor is empty…”
“Captain Arion didn’t want diseased men spoiling the supplies with their foul humors.” As he spoke the dead captain’s name, Orestis flinched, a barely perceptible tremor. His gaze went distant, his eyes unfocused. “When we protested, he had us whipped. All of us.” He looked away, his hand drifting unconsciously to his side. “Since then… this is what we have done.”
“But Captain Arion died in the raid,” Demetrios pointed out gently.
“This is what we have always done,” Orestis repeated. The words were not an explanation, but a mantra.
Theodorus took a step toward the nearest cot. A young soldier, no older than himself, was muttering deliriously, his hand feebly reaching out. Theodorus felt the boy’s skin; it was shockingly hot, dry, and burning with fever.
“Is no one watching them?” Theodorus asked, his voice quiet again.
“The men are afraid of catching the sickness, Captain,” Orestis said, his tone still maddeningly detached. “I bring them water when I can.”
Theodorus had heard enough. He turned, the movement so sharp and violent that Orestis took an involuntary step back.
“
You. Come. Now.
” He pointed viciously at the Sergeant.
Demetrios caught a glimpse of his master’s face in the dim light, and the sight of it stopped the breath in his chest. The polite, calculated mask he had so carefully worn had not just slipped, it had shattered into a thousand pieces. The boy’s features were contorted into something utterly savage. His lips peeled back from his teeth, not in a mere grimace, but in a feral, wolflike snarl that promised violence. The cold, analytical intelligence in his eyes was gone, burned away and replaced by the pure, undiluted malice of a predator. It was the face of a man who was not about to rebuild, but to utterly annihilate the rot he saw before him.
He exploded from the tower into the courtyard, his face still a mask of savage rage. “ASSEMBLE!” The roar was a physical force, a thunderclap that shattered the courtyard’s lethargic quiet. “EVERYONE ASSEMBLE HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANCE!” Men fumbled with crates, a soldier quenching his thirst nearly fell into the well, everyone instantly in high alert.
“I want every single man that is stationed at this fort gathered before me immediately! Form a line! Now! ” The garrison scrambled, their movements clumsy with fear. They shuffled into a pathetic, wavering line.
Leonidas and his men approached, their expressions thoughtful. They had only been with Theodorus for two days, but this behaviour was a stark departure from what they had come to expect from him. He had always been a mask of unnatural calm, even when confronting Leonidas back in Mangup.
A worried Demetrios and a now visibly unnerved Orestis trailed behind Theodorus like debris in the wake of a storm. Leonidas understood the coming catastrophe and positioned himself and his men to the side, waiting to see what the wreckage would look like.
Theodorus stalked before the assembled men, his eyes burning with a fury that made them flinch.
“I have been in this fortress for less than an hour, and I have already seen enough!” he thundered, his voice cracking with contempt. “This is not a garrison, it is a disgrace! You have idled here in a state of utter apathy while your walls are breached! You have made no attempt to plug the gap! Any Tatar scout could see this weakness, and you would be slaughtered like cattle before you could even draw your swords!”
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, the infringement.
He paused, letting the weight of their failure settle on them.
“But that is not your greatest shame! You sleep next to your dying comrades! You leave them to rot in their own filth because you are afraid! They are at death’s door, and you have abandoned them!”
The accusation landed like a physical blow. The men of the convoy gasped, their eyes wide with horror at the news. Leonidas and his soldiers exchanged looks of grim disbelief.
“This all changes. Now.” Theodorus’s voice dropped, the volcanic rage receding into a terrifying, glacial calm. His face smoothed back into the perfect, cold mask of command. “Sergeant Orestis. Step forward.”
The sudden shift in tone was more frightening than the shouting, finally breaking through Orestis’s carefully constructed apathy. He stepped forward, trembling, his eyes wide with the certainty of the brutal whipping which was to come. The men of Probatofrourio braced themselves, a collective, resigned sadness in their eyes.
“You are hereby stripped of your rank.” Theodorus’s words were clipped, each one a chip of ice. “You are no longer a Sergeant of this Principality. You do not deserve such a title.”
A collective gasp rippled through the garrison. Even the tyrannical Captain Arion had never publicly demoted a man.
“From this moment, you are a common soldier. The men of this garrison are now under the direct command of Sergeant Leonidas and his men.” He gestured to Leonidas, whose eyes widened at the sudden promotion. On a surge of inspiration, he moved with decisive instinct, positioning himself behind Theodorus. His men understood the intention and followed suit. Together, they presented a solid, unified wall of steel and authority.
“As for your punishment…”
“Please, my lord,” Orestis fell to his knees, his voice a choked sob. “Mercy…”
“Silence.” Theodorus’s tone was devoid of pity. The rugged, bearded Orestis - a decorated army veteran of the Principality’s army - whimpered quietly, his head hung low in abject defeat. It was a pitiful sight. “From this day forth, you are personally in charge of caring for the sick. You will bring them food and water. You will clean their bedding. You will hold their hands and listen to their fevers. You will fix your mistake that has doomed them, and perhaps, in that service, you will find redemption with God.”
Orestis’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. Not a whipping. Not the stocks. Not even a beating. He completely forgot about his demotion for a second. But Theodorus did not let him savor the moment.
“It was your leadership, not Captain Arion’s, that allowed this to happen. If those men die, it is your soul that will be forever stained by their passing.”
The words struck Orestis harder than any lash. The vacant look in his eyes was replaced by a dawning, creeping horror, as if he were awakening for the first time to the true weight of his failure.
“As for the rest of you.” Theodorus swept his gaze over the garrison, men still reeling from the shock of Orestis’s demotion and unorthodox punishment. “You will form a single file. You will present yourselves to me, one by one, and you will answer every question I ask. Am I understood?”
A weak, hesitant chorus of nods and mumbled “yes, captain” met his command.
“I SAID, AM I UNDERSTOOD?” he roared, the sound echoing off the broken walls.
“YES, CAPTAIN!” The bellow was instantaneous, a unified shout of pure, terrified reflex. Even Orestis, still on his knees, joined the chorus.
“Good.” Theodorus turned to Leonidas, his imperious tone a stark contrast to the fury of a moment before. It was a performance, a necessary display to forge discipline from this shambling mess. “Sergeant. See to your previous duties and unload the supplies. Ilias and Pothos will assist you.”
The unspoken order was clear: Lazaros and Nikos would remain, their grim, professional presence a silent reminder of the new authority. By publicly eviscerating the old command and elevating Leonidas’s men, Theodorus had inexorably linked their identity and reputation to his own. They were now symbols of his new order. Leonidas understood this perfectly.
“Yes, Captain.” He and the two designated men gave sharp, precise bows and strode toward the convoy, their purposeful movements a lesson in themselves for the wavering garrison. The men had to believe help had arrived. They had to believe that help was Theodorus.
What followed was not the harangue the men expected, but a quiet, penetrating interrogation. One by one, they stepped before their new commander. He asked not just about their military experience, but about their lives before it. Their age, their birthplace, their family. Was their father a stonemason? Was their brother a farmer? Did they know the woods? Could they track game?
Demetrios’s quill scratched furiously across the cheap parchment, his small, neat script capturing every detail. They had bought a whole ream in Mangup for a single stavraton, a purchase that now seemed like the most crucial investment of their lives. They were building the foundations for the fort’s survival, though not a single stone had yet been moved.
When the last man had spoken, Theodorus toured the premises with a newfound intensity. He inspected the ground floor where the goods from the caravan had finished being unloaded, neatly stacked into corners based on their function, as per his orders. He triple checked everything, ensuring nothing was unaccounted for.
When it was all said and done, the sun was low in the sky, but they finally had their accounting of the Probatofrourio. And it was stark.
The garrison’s total manpower was a paltry thirty-three souls, a number that included Leonidas’s own five veterans. Of the original garrison, five men were in the grip of the bloody flux, two of them critically so, while another two remained bedridden from wounds sustained in the last Tatar raid. The rest of the original force had either perished or recovered, with two men unaccounted for after the raid, likely having fled or been captured as slaves. More damning was the composition of the force: only eight were professional soldiers. The other twenty-three were rotational militia - farmers and herders from the surrounding lands serving a seasonal levy. They were a temporary fix, a force that would melt away with the coming harvest, when the needs of their farms would inevitably call them home.
The supply situation was a logistical nightmare. The fort’s larders were bare; all the food they now possessed was what the relief convoy had carried. The grain might last a month if stretched. Beyond that, they had only a few kilos of dried beans, turnips and peas, some onions and garlic, and five barrels of salted mutton. The tools needed for the critical repairs - shovels, pickaxes, hammers - were not even provisions, but loans from the state, to be returned after the work was done. Even linen for bandages was gone, used up on the wounded, forcing the men to use their own rags and the dwindling supply of spare wool. Conventional medicine was nonexistent.
Their capacity for war was the final insult. The fort did have weapons, contrary to what Orestis had proclaimed: three pitted spears and a handful of daggers stashed in a chest on the upper floor. Only the professional soldiers carried swords; the militia fought with family hunting spears or, in one desperate case, the sharpest billhook the boy’s family could spare. Their armor offered little more protection. While the men-at-arms wore proper brigandines, most of the garrison relied on poor man’s gambesons - thick woolen coats that would barely turn a blade. The equipment itself was in a tragic state of disrepair, with splintered spear shafts and rotting, barely-padded coats being tragically common.
The final accounting confirmed Theodorus’s initial assessment. This was a tomb, a flock of sheep waiting for the next raid to be slaughtered.
The merchant Petros approached, completely unaware of his commander’s grim inner monologue. “The supplies have all been delivered, Captain Theodorus. We must make tracks while there is still daylight. We will depart, with your leave.” It spoke volumes of the merchants’ transformation that they now sought permission to leave, where before they had offered bribes to depart from Mangup late.
“I will not give it. Not yet, Kyr Petros.” Theodorus was seized by a sudden, brilliant thought. An opportunity. A predatory smile touched his lips as he saw the path forward.
“Pardon, Captain?” Petros asked, his face a mask of confusion.
“Gather all the merchants in the courtyard. I wish to make some purchases.”
A few minutes later, the merchants stood assembled before the ramshackle tower, the entire garrison watching from the periphery. Theodorus stood before them, his posture radiating an authority that belied his years.
“As you have seen,” he began, his voice ringing out for all to hear, “The state of this fortress is dire. My men lack the most basic of necessities. This is unacceptable.” He let his gaze sweep over the watching soldiers, who shifted uncomfortably. “The Principality has sent what it can, but it is not enough. Therefore, I will be purchasing additional supplies for this garrison with my own funds.”
A wave of stunned silence rolled through the garrison. They had been berated, terrified, and seen their sergeant demoted. Now this boy-captain was spending his own fortune on them? It was unthinkable.
Theodorus began to move through the merchants’ carts, his selection as unorthodox as the sale itself. Demetrios followed, tablet in hand, to log the purchases.
“Every bolt of linen and wool you have,” he declared to the first merchant. “My men will have clean bandages and warm blankets.”
To the next: “Every block of soap you carry. And those fishing hooks and lines.”
From a third, he selected two quality whetstones for sharpening tools, along with a bundle of cured leather thread and needles for equipment repairs. The men watched, astonished, as a pile of practical goods grew. But then his choices turned strange.
“And seeds,” he said to the final merchant, Mikhail, the very man he had humiliated at Mangup’s gate. “I will take all your vegetable seeds. Peas, beans, turnips, kale, onions, cabbages. Everything.”
Mikhail saw his chance. The boy was a fool, buying seeds for a dying fort. This was his moment for revenge. “Of course, Captain,” he said, his voice slick with false deference. “For such a… varied collection, and given the risk of the road, the total for all the selected goods will be… ten gold hyperpyra.”
A gasp went through the crowd. It was an extortionate price, nearly half of what Theodorus had received for his entire estate.
Theodorus laughed, a short, sharp, dangerous sound. “Ten hyperpyra? For some cloth, soap, and a few bags of seeds? I am a noble’s son, Kyr Mikhail, not a fool.”
“It is the price, Captain,” Mikhail insisted, puffing out his chest.
“No,” Theodorus said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a low, carrying intensity that made the merchant flinch. “Let us speak of the real price. I am an officer of the Crown, provisioning a vital border fortress for the defense of this Principality. It is your patriotic duty to assist me. These goods are not for my comfort, but for the survival of the men who protect your caravans. Furthermore, thanks to my command, you made this journey in record time and turned a handsome profit in every village. Profit you would not have seen otherwise.”
He let his gaze drift to Leonidas and his men, who stood with their arms crossed, watching the exchange with undisguised menace. Their imposing presence both a reminder and a threat.
“So this is my offer,” Theodorus continued, his voice pure steel. “You will give me these goods for a fair price, and you will be known as a patriot who aided the realm in its time of need. Or, you can be known as the war-profiteer who tried to fleece a Captain of the Theodoran army in full view of his men. I wonder which story the Megas Doux would find more interesting.”
Mikhail’s face turned pale. He was trapped.
“Three hyperpyra,” Theodorus stated. “For everything.”
“Three! But… that is robbery!”
“It is an investment in your own safety. The final price is four hyperpyra, and that includes the two finest horses in your possession for my scouts. Demetrios, pay the man.”
Mikhail sputtered, utterly defeated, as Demetrios, with a grimly satisfied expression, counted out the four gold coins. The deal was done. Theodorus had not just bought crucially needed supplies for his enterprise; he had planted a seed in every man watching the exchange. A seed of hope.
It was a fragile thing, this newfound hope, but it was palpable. It was in the way they stood a little straighter, their shoulders no longer slumped in resignation. They had witnessed a commander who moved with a frantic, terrifying competence, a man who could fleece a cunning merchant with the same cold strategy they prayed he might one day turn upon the Tatars. They had seen him admonish a subordinate not with the familiar sting of a whip, but with the heavy, unexpected weight of responsibility.
This was a different kind of authority, a different kind of power. Hope was a more valuable currency than gold, a sharper weapon than steel. And as Theodorus surveyed the men,
his
men, he already had plans on how to wield it.