Fallen Eagle-Chapter 26: Hide the Stains

It was on the third day after Leonidas’s departure that the dust cloud appeared on the horizon, a smudge of ochre against the pale cloudy sky. The fort, a hive of disciplined labor, did not panic. The sentry on the newly completed wall sounded a single, clear blast from his trumpet, and the men in the courtyard simply stopped their work, their hands drifting to their weapons, their faces turning as one to the approaching riders.
They were not a rabble. Fifteen horsemen moved in a tight, disciplined column. Polished steel caught the few piercing morning rays, each man a perfect, gleaming instrument of state power. The dust of the road was a minor affront to their brilliance, a temporary stain on the pristine plate armor and the rich livery of the Prince’s household. This was not a relief convoy; this was an embassy of force.
At their head rode a man who seemed to embody the effortless authority of the capital. His salt-and-pepper beard was manicured to a perfect line above a square jaw, and his owlish grey eyes, when they took in the rugged, rebuilt fortress, held not contempt, but a keen, professional interest. He reined in just outside the gate, his friendly smile a stark contrast to the grim readiness of the men on the walls.
“Ho, the fort!” his voice rang out, warm and clear. “I am Sir Silvanus, Captain of His Majesty’s Royal Guard. I come on the Prince’s authority to escort Captain Theodorus Sideris and the Crimean prisoners to Mangup!”
Theodorus was waiting for him at the gate, a still point in the quiet storm of his men’s watchfulness. He recognized the name, of course. Sir Silvanus was a fixture at court, a man whose easy charisma and gallant looks had made him a favorite of both the nobility and the common soldiers. He carried himself with a relaxed confidence that was the polar opposite of Remus Nomikos’s brittle arrogance.
“Sir Silvanus,” Theodorus said, offering a precise, formal bow as the knight dismounted. “It is an honor to welcome you to Probatofrourio.”
“Ah, Captain Sideris.” Silvanus returned the bow with a fluid grace, his smile reaching his eyes. “The pleasure is entirely mine. I must say, I had thought the s exaggerated, but I fear I may have been mistaken.” His gaze swept over the solid new wall, the disciplined men, the clean-swept courtyard. “Master Remus has been singing your praises quite loudly in the capital. A most… emphatic .”
A lopsided grin touched Theodorus’s lips. “Knowing Master Remus, I am certain it was. He has a flair for the dramatic.”
Silvanus let out a good-natured snort. “That is one way of putting it. His tale of your victory has the court buzzing. Now, if you would be so kind, my men are prepared to take custody of the captives.”
“Of course. My men are binding them as we speak.”
“I appreciate the haste, Captain. We will assist.”
The royal guards dismounted, producing proper iron manacles from their saddlebags - a luxury that made the fort’s crude rope bonds look pathetic. The transfer of the sullen, hateful Tatars was conducted with a swift, cold efficiency. The wounded were loaded onto a wagon brought for the purpose, their groans a low counterpoint to the sharp commands of the guards.
The upper floor of the watchtower, which had served first as an infirmary and then a prison, was finally empty, and Theodorus’s time here was over. He found Sergeant Orestis overseeing the final preparations, his prized light axe now holstered at his side, his beard trimmed, his posture radiating a quiet, hard-won authority.
“Sergeant.”
“Captain.” Orestis turned, his salute crisp.
“Walk with me.” Theodorus gestured toward the newly established vegetable plots, their neat rows of green shoots a fragile promise of sustenance within the stone walls. Orestis fell into step beside him, his gaze falling on a patch of thriving beans, a luxury the fort had never known.
“As you know,” Theodorus began, his voice low, “My presence is required in the capital. It is unlikely I will be returning. Until a replacement is named, you and Sergeant Nikos are in command of this fortress.”
Orestis stopped, turning to face him. The news was not unexpected, but it landed with the weight of a physical blow. “I understand, Captain. I… I will not fail in my duty again. This fort will not fall back into the state it was.”
“I do not doubt that, Sergeant.” Theodorus met his gaze, his expression serious. “But your duty is more than just maintaining the walls. A garden requires a constant hand, Orestis. It must be weeded, watered, and protected from blight.” He gestured to the rows of young plants. “These men are the same. Their discipline is a tender shoot. It must be nurtured.”
“This fort needs you, Captain,” Orestis said, the words a raw, honest admission. “I am…”
“-Exactly the man this fort needs,” Theodorus cut him off, his voice ringing with an iron certainty that left no room for doubt. “You, more than anyone, know what happens when a commander fails his men. You have felt the weight of that failure, and you have carried it back from the brink. You will not let that happen here again. That is an order.”
Orestis’s jaw tightened. He looked from the earnest, impossible boy-commander to the faces of the men in the courtyard, his men, and gave a single, sharp nod. “Yes, Captain.”
As Orestis finished surveying the men, he turned to Theodorus, his expression shifting from professional satisfaction to a deep, troubled concern. “There was actually something I wanted to talk to you about, Captain.”
Theodorus turned from the wall, noting the change in the sergeant’s demeanor. “What is it, Orestis?”
“It is about Stefanos.” A shadow passed over Orestis’s face, erasing the hard-won peace of the morning. “He has lost an arm, Captain. In truth… I fear for him when he returns home.”
Theodorus nodded grimly, the festive mood of a moment ago forgotten. “Can his family not care for him?”
The sergeant’s expression grew bleaker still, a silent, damning answer that needed no words. “His father is a hard man, Captain,” Orestis said, his voice a low rasp. “He sees only mouths to feed, not sons. A boy who cannot work the fields or tend the flock… he will be seen as a burden.”
“The Principality does not grant pensions to peasant levies,” Theodorus stated, the words a cold, hard truth. “I could petition on his behalf, but with the treasury drained by the privateer initiative, it would be a fool’s errand.” It was the deplorable state of things, one of the many symptoms of the dying empire the Principality had once belonged to. Men were conscripted, bled, and then discarded. “Even if they granted him a few coins, he is in no position to defend it. Gold is a lure for jackals, and he is a lamb with three legs.”
The stark reality of it settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Orestis looked away, his jaw tight with a helpless anger. Theodorus’s own gaze drifted past the walls of the fort to the rugged landscape beyond. This land did not truly belong to the Prince in Mangup, nor to the Khan in Chufut-Kale. It belonged to the desperate people who carved a life from its unforgiving soil, suffering under the twin burdens of distant lords and circling wolves. He had won a great victory, but if he could not protect the very men who had bled for it, what was that victory worth? Was he really honouring the promise made over his father’s dying body?
He turned back to Orestis, a sudden, unshakeable resolve hardening his features.
“A sacrifice made for this garrison will not go unrewarded. Not while I command it.” He said, the words quiet, but absolute.
Orestis looked up, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes.
“If the state won’t care for him, then he will be
my
responsibility,” Theodorus declared, his voice ringing with inspiration. “Stefanos will enter the service of my household. He bled for this fort. He bled for me. I will not let that debt go unpaid. He will not know hunger, nor will he want for a roof over his head.”
Orestis stared, his mind struggling to comprehend the magnitude of the offer. To take a maimed peasant boy into a noble household was more than charity; it was a violation of the natural order, an act of radical, unheard-of loyalty. “You would… take him in? As your own man?”
“He
is
my own man,” Theodorus stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And I will see him rewarded.”
The weight that had been crushing Orestis’s soul seemed to lift in an instant. A slow, disbelieving grin spread across his face, followed by a raw, cracked bark of a laugh that was half-sob. “Thank you, Captain,” he breathed, the words thick with an emotion too profound for simple gratitude.
Before Theodorus could respond, the sergeant dropped to one knee, bowing his head not in the formal deference of a soldier, but with the solemn, heartfelt allegiance of a man swearing a silent oath.
“I will not forget this kindness. This I swear.”
The time had come. In the center of the courtyard, the garrison stood assembled, a silent phalanx waiting to bid farewell to their captain. As Theodorus looked upon them, he saw not just soldiers, but the living history of his time here. He saw it in their faces, the haunted gauntness replaced by a healthy, sun-darkened confidence. He saw it in their gear, the newly forged spearheads and sturdy oak shields a world away from the rust and wicker they had once carried. And he saw it in their bodies; the slackness in their shoulders had been replaced by lean, hard muscle, their forms chiseled into the rugged, functional shapes of true soldiers.
That was the truest prize he would take from this place. Not the victory, not the praise, but this. The quiet, profound joy of seeing men become more than they were. It was the part of him that had once been a professor, who had lived for the moment a student’s eyes lit with understanding, that was now filled with contentment. He had taught them more than how to hold a shield; he had taught them discipline, resilience, and a core of self-respect he hoped would be a harder armor than any steel.
With an awkward and bewildered Stefanos at his left and a proud Demetrios at his right, Theodorus addressed the soldiers of Probatofrourio for what he knew might well be the last time.
“My time here has been short,” he began, his voice clear and steady in the crisp morning air. Sir Silvanus and his royal guard watched from a respectful distance, their preparations paused, their expressions alight with a keen, professional curiosity. “But the journey we have taken has not been. Soon, the harvest will come, and many of you will return to your homes, to your lives. But do not leave what you have learned here behind. If this ordeal has taught us anything, it is that you are the masters of your own destiny. You are the guardians of your own homes.”
He saw the words land. He saw Orestis’s jaw tighten with resolve, saw Nikos’s gaze turn inward, saw the younger recruits stand taller.
“You rose before the dawn, you have trained until your bodies screamed, and you conducted yourselves with a discipline that would shame half the army.” A flicker of surprise, mixed with a hint of affront, crossed the faces of the royal guards at the bold proclamation. “There were no breaks. There was only duty, and the pursuit of excellence. It was hard. It was, at times, hell.” A heavy, heartfelt smile touched Theodorus’s lips. He looked from face to face, at Orestis, at Nikos, at Ilias and Pothos, at Pavlos and Filippos, and at the dozen other men whose lives had become interwoven with his own. “You have made me proud,” He said, the words simple and absolute. He saw men swallow hard against a sudden thickness in their throats. “Farewell, and until we meet again.”
Theodorus turned without another word and walked to his horse. He shared a final, silent nod with his new sergeants, a look that conveyed all the trust and responsibility he was leaving in their hands. As he swung himself into Boudicca’s saddle and the convoy began its slow march out of the gate, Orestis stepped forward, his face a mask of iron. “PROBATOFROURIO!” he roared, his voice a thunderclap that echoed off the new stone wall. “TO ATTENTION!” Instantly, every man snapped into position, a single, unified body. As the last of the royal escort cleared the gate, a second command ripped through the air. Shields crashed against spear shafts in a deafening, rhythmic salute, and from the throats of twenty-plus hardened men came a final, unified roar that shook the very valley. “FOR PROBATOFROURIO! FOR THEODORO! FOR THE CAPTAIN!” The sound followed Theodorus as he rode away, a powerful, fading echo of the weapon he had forged from the ashes.
Stolen from NovelFire, this story should be ed if encountered on Amazon.
The road south was a river of dust, churned by the hooves of nearly twenty horses and the shuffling feet of two dozen captives. The prisoners walked in a sullen, silent column, flanked by the gleaming plate armor of the royal guard, whose riders moved with an easy, swaying grace that spoke of a lifetime in the saddle.
Theodorus rode beside the wagon that carried his small, personal retinue. Demetrios, for the first time in months, simply enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his face, a quiet, profound luxury after the relentless grind of Probatofrourio. Young Stefanos sat opposite him, his anxiety a palpable thing as he fiddled with the pinned-up sleeve of his tunic, his gaze darting toward the unfamiliar, rolling hills as if expecting them to swallow him whole.
From the wagon ahead, where the most seriously wounded captives were being transported, Theodorus felt a pair of eyes on him. He turned to see Mustafa, the captured bey, watching him with a flat, unreadable expression before closing his eyes to retreat into a stoic meditation. The pain from the raw, cauterized stump of his leg was a torment he bore with a silence that was in itself a form of defiance.
It was in this state of weary transit, as they passed a small village whose people poured from their homes to wave and cheer, that a rider detached himself from the main column. A magnificent warhorse, its white coat a stark contrast to the dusty road, trotted over, falling into a perfect, fluid cadence with Boudicca’s stride.
“Quite the popular hero, I see.”
Theodorus turned. Sir Silvanus looked as if he had just stepped from a royal court portrait. A billowing white cape, miraculously free of dust, was draped over his polished steel cuirass. A friendly, knowing smile played on his lips.
“A commander has a duty to the people he protects, Sir Silvanus,” Theodorus replied, his own voice a careful measure of humility as he returned the villagers’ waves, spotting the old stonecutter Manolis among them, watching the proceedings with a quiet smirk.
“So I’ve heard,” Silvanus said, his owlish grey eyes missing nothing. “You seem to have taken that duty to heart. It’s good that we help each other in these trying times.” He flashed a pearly white, mischievous grin. “Forgive me if my numbers are off, but was it six villages and four estates that decided to… cooperate?”
He was not asking a question; he was subtly prying for information. This man was no ignoramus like Remus Nomikos had been.
“Seven villages,” Theodorus corrected quietly, a small smile touching his own lips. After the victory at the Giant’s Tear, he felt no need for obfuscation. Let the capital know. Let them wonder how he did it.
“Well, I’ll be,” Silvanus let out a low, impressed whistle. He reached over and gave Boudicca an affectionate pat on the flank. “You’ve handed those nomads a lesson they won’t soon forget, Captain. You have my sincere respect for that.”
What was his angle? Theodorus wondered. This dance of praise and probing was a language of the court he was still learning to speak. “Thank you for the kind words.”
“Think nothing of it. A man should be recognized for his achievements.” Silvanus’s smile tightened, losing some of its easy warmth. “But you should know, you are no longer just a captain, Theodorus. You are a story. And in the capital, everyone wants to own a piece of a good story. Soon you’ll have plenty of honeyed gloves showering you with presents and praise. Be careful of who you let grow close to you.” The shining knight’s voice dropped to a weary, melancholic tone. “A bond is only as strong as the beating it took to forge it. And gilded chains are often the first ones to break.”
Theodorus did not miss the subtle shift. “Speaking from experience?”
Silvanus’s smile turned bitter, and his gaze turned to the faraway horizon. “Maybe,” Was all he said.
“I appreciate the warning, Sir Silvanus.”
The knight waved a dismissive, gauntleted hand. “Drop the ‘Sir,’ Captain. You’ve earned the right to call me Silvanus. That title is heavy armor for parades, but useless in a dusty journey. I tire of it.”
“Just ‘Copper Sword’ Silvanus, then?” Theodorus asked, a lopsided, challenging smirk touching his lips.
Silvanus’s easy smile faltered, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second in genuine surprise. Then a deep, booming laugh erupted from his chest, high-pitched and utterly without artifice. “Hah! So you already knew who I was.” He clapped a heavy, gauntleted hand on Theodorus’s shoulder. “Then you already have a brilliant example of what not to do in the capital.”
His gaze drifted past Theodorus to the receding village, where the people of Kerasia still waved, their cheers carrying faintly on the wind. “You have a sharp mind, boy. And a good heart.”
“Why do you say that?” Theodorus was caught off guard by the heavy tone.
Silvanus gestured with his chin to the heartfelt farewell. “You cannot command that kind of loyalty if you do not possess a measure of goodness in you. That is what I believe.” His smile brilliantly hopeful and undeniably sad. “Or at least, that is what I choose to.”
With a final, friendly wave, Silvanus retreated back to his contingent. He turned his horse, the charismatic mask of the Royal Captain sliding perfectly back into place, his back straight, his easy grin restored as he fell in with his own men. But now Theodorus could see beneath the performance beneath, the man carrying a weight no armor could deflect. The knight’s immaculate white cape did not mean he had never walked through the mud of the court’s intrigues. It meant he had simply learned how to hide the stains.
Theodorus’s arrival at the gates of Mangup was a chasm between worlds compared to his first one. Three months ago, Theodorus had entered them as a petitioner, an unknown boy clinging to a tarnished name. Now, he returned a victor. But, despite the change in circumstances, some things stayed the same.
The gatekeeper was slouched in his customary spot, idly whittling a piece of scrap wood, his face a mask of profound boredom. He looked up at the sound of approaching hoofbeats, and the block of wood fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers. His jaw went slack. His eyes widened first at the sight of two dozen hard-bitten Tatar captives, their hatred a palpable force, and then they locked onto the slight, commanding figure at the head of the column. The man’s face turned the color of old parchment.
“M-My Lord Captain!” he stammered, scrambling to his feet and executing a bow so deep his forehead nearly scraped the dirt. “I… I had not heard you were returning!” In a shock of inspiration, he fumbled for the fallen piece of wood, dusting it off with frantic hands. “I have a… a gift, my Lord. A token, for your glorious victory!”
He scurried forward, thrusting the small carving into Theodorus’s gauntleted hand as if offering a holy relic. It was a soaring eagle, its wings carved with a surprising, artful grace.
“Did you make this?” Theodorus asked, equal parts surprised at the gift and amused as he watched the petty tyrant squirm under his gaze.
“Y-Yes my Lord.” Theodorus could barely hear the man, so timid was his answer.
Theodorus decided to put the man out of his misery. “It is a brilliant piece, thank you.”
“I-I can make more, my Lord!” The old man positively beamed at the praise. “If you would like them, that is.” He added almost shyly, as if regretting even suggesting it. Surely a fancy noble like the Captain would care nothing for such a worthless bauble.
“Please do,” Theodorus nodded almost automatically, already moving on with the procession into the city proper. The event faded into background noise as he pondered how to approach his audience with the Prince.
He did not need material wealth. In truth, what he most needed was the political capital the victory afforded him to catapult him up the military ranks. His main goal remained to achieve a political position that would let him start steering the drowning slew that was the principality away from the coming shipwreck. He could not remain an ignoble captain forever. But the Prince didn’t hand out important commissions easily. He needed some way to leverage the newfound prestige into a higher station…
As they rode into the city’s familiar cacophony, Theodorus felt a strange sense of dislocation. He saw a peasant family, their faces slack with awe as they stared up at the stone battlements, and the historian in him stirred with a familiar, weary pity. For them, this was the center of the universe, the pinnacle of civilization. Their world was a small, tight weave of family, village, and the occasional passing lord. Even the nobles, draped in silk and carried in litters, knew only their estates, perhaps the port of Kalamita, or the distant jewel of Kaffa. They could not conceive that their grand citadel would be a quaint, provincial town in the world Theodorus had left behind. The thought brought a small pang of pain.
And yet… after months in the wild frontier, where the largest settlement was a huddle of five hundred souls, Mangup felt colossal. The sheer verticality of its multi-story stone houses, the sprawling, arrogant majesty of the Gabras palace complex, the way the great cathedral seemed to claw at the very sky - it overwhelmed him. He now understood the raw, visceral awe of a common peasant. He had forgotten what a city felt like.
This time, their path did not lead to a middling inn. Sir Silvanus guided them directly to the castle keep, the heart of the Principality’s power.
“Ho, the gate!” Silvanus’s voice boomed with the same inexhaustible enthusiasm he had shown at Probatofrourio. “Sir Silvanus returns with Captain Theodorus Sideris for his audience with the Prince!”
One of the two guards, whose boredom seemed a physical weight, stirred with the sluggish reluctance of a man moving through honey. “I’ll fetch the chamberlain,” he announced to the empty air, his back already turned as he shuffled into the keep.
He returned some minutes later, followed by a man who seemed less born and more precisely crafted for his role. He was a creature of sharp lines and severe posture, his every movement a quick, impatient stroke. His faded blue tunic was worn so tightly it seemed to bind his stick-thin frame like the metal ferrule of a paintbrush, and from this rigid body rose a long, narrow neck. His head was topped with a severe, slicked-back wedge of dark hair that came to a sharp point at the back of his skull, like the fine tip of a sable brush ready to apply a final, critical detail.
The chamberlain’s thin, bloodless lips were pressed into a flat line of disapproval as his eyes - dark, critical, and utterly devoid of warmth - appraised Theodorus from head to toe.
“You are Captain Theodorus Sideris?” he asked, his voice a thin, brittle sound, sharp as a fresh cut.
Sir Silvanus offered Theodorus a final, wry look that seemed to say
You are on your own now
, before excusing himself. With a crisp command, he led his honor guard and the shuffling line of Crimean captives toward the dungeons, leaving Theodorus and his small retinue in the sudden, intimidating quiet of the castle’s main gate.
“Yes, I am.” Theodorus stepped forward, his travel-worn but clean tunic a stark contrast to the opulence of the court. The weariness of the road was a heavy cloak, but he shrugged it off, schooling his features into a mask of neutral deference as he offered a precise bow.
“I am Serafeim, Chamberlain of the Prince’s household,” The man said, his name a sharp, clipped sound. “This way.” He turned on his heel, his quick, impatient steps already carrying him into the castle’s interior without a backward glance.
Demetrios and Stefanos exchanged a lost, uncertain look, unsure if they were meant to follow.
“Your servants may attend you,” Serafeim called out, his voice echoing from inside the castle, leading Theodorus to postulate that the man’s pointy hair was some kind of sensory organ. The impatient tone was enough to get all three of them moving.
They stepped from the sprawling courtyard into a space of faded glory. The great hall was a space built for an empire the Principality was no longer part of. Threadbare Byzantine tapestries, depicting epic battles and stoic saints, hung from the high walls, their vibrant colors muted by centuries of dust and neglect. The floor was a masterful mosaic of an Orthodox cross clutched by a sorrowful Virgin, her face chipped and worn by the passage of countless feet. To Theodorus, it felt less like a palace and more like a mausoleum; the bones of a greater age were on display here, a testament to a grandeur the present could no longer afford.
Serafeim navigated the space with the brisk indifference of a man walking through his own cluttered study, barely sparing it a glance. Demetrios took in the decaying splendor with a quiet, melancholic awe. Stefanos, however, was utterly lost. He nearly stumbled on the edge of a fine eastern rug, his head craned back and his mouth agape as he stared at the high, vaulted ceiling. He felt like a peasant boy suddenly thrust into a legend.
“No dawdling,” Serafeim barked without turning. He led them from the great hall into a narrow, unadorned corridor where natural light could not penetrate, the air suddenly heavy and smelling of beeswax and old stone. A series of identical, wooden-framed doors lined the passage.
“The servants’ quarters,” the chamberlain announced, his stride unbroken. He stopped abruptly before one of the doors. “And here are yours.” The words, which might have been a welcome the chamberlain’s standards, were delivered as curtly and quickly as possible; the man already moving, having not broken stride.
Theodorus had only a moment. He turned to his men, his voice a low, reassuring command. “Settle in. I will see you both at supper.”
“We will wait for you there, my lord,” Demetrios replied, placing a steadying hand on the shoulder of Stefanos, who was still reeling, muttering dazedly about the impossible, twisting “cavern system” they found themselves in.
The chamberlain moved with the brisk, scuttling energy of an insect, his thin legs carrying him up the winding stone staircase at a pace Theodorus struggled to match. In the relative quiet of the stairwell, he saw his chance.
“When might I expect my audience with the Prince, Master Chamberlain?” He didn’t know if the title applied to a man who was not of a noble house, but in the capital, courtesy was a shield.
Serafeim let out a derisive snort without breaking stride. “That’s a new one. I was told you’d be seen on the morrow, but given the sluggish pace of this palace, it could be as late as next week.” A dry, mirthless sound that might have passed for a laugh escaped him. “You’ll be quartered in the upper guest wing, with your own view and privy. Count your blessings.”
They emerged into a wide stone corridor, this one lined with faded portraits and a few decorative vases. The air here was colder, and the space was heavily patrolled by guards whose gazes were sharp and suspicious. Theodorus frowned. The layout, the guards, the very feel of the place - he had been here before.
“Here we are.” Serafeim stopped abruptly before an ornate, iron-framed door. Next to it hung a portrait of a stern man in full military dress, his obsidian eyes seeming to follow them. Theodorus’s own gaze sharpened, a cold knot of suspicion tightening in his gut. What game was this?
“Master Serafeim,” he said, and the courteous title drew another snort from the chamberlain. Theodorus’s voice dropped, stripped of all deference. “This is not the guest wing. This is the antechamber to the Megas Doux’s personal study.”
“I am aware,” Serafeim replied, already turning to leave. He glanced back, a flicker of something - malice or perhaps pity - in his dark, appraising eyes. “Good luck.” And then he was gone, his quick footsteps vanishing down the corridor, leaving Theodorus alone before the imposing door.
He stood for a long moment, his mind a whirlwind of calculation. This was no mistake. He took a steadying breath, smoothed the front of his tunic, and raised his hand. His knock was firm, deliberate - the sound of a player announcing his arrival on the board.
A voice from within, like the grinding of stones, answered. “Come in.”