Fallen Eagle-Chapter 27: Right the Past

Theodorus pushed the heavy oak door inward and stepped into a cave of shadows. The last, wounded light of a setting sun bled through a tall, narrow window, turning the figure seated behind the massive desk into an imposing black mountain. The air was thick with the faint, metallic tang of oiled steel mixed with the stale taste of old parchment.
As his eyes adjusted, the details emerged from the gloom, painted in the flickering, predatory light of a single large brazier. This was not a courtier’s study; it was a warlord’s den. Rolled maps and campaign charts were stacked in corners, a single wooden cabinet stood sentinel against one wall. If he’d forgotten the severity of the man he would deal with now, the room was a stark reminder of his character.
At its center sat Panagiotis Papadopoulos. He was not dressed in silks, but in the same dark lamellar armor he had worn in the training yard, as if he had just stepped from a battlefield. The firelight glinted off the polished curve of his shaved head and caught in his eyes, turning them into two obsidian black holes. He was utterly still, a figure carved from granite, his heavy, calloused hands resting flat on the desk before him, waiting.
“Sit.”
The Doux did not rise. He simply watched Theodorus cross the room, his gaze as heavy and unyielding as the stone walls around them. His spatha leaned against the desk, a silent promise of the authority he wielded. It was a look that stripped away pretense and demanded truth. Theodorus felt the familiar, cold knot of apprehension tighten in his gut. He had been outplayed by this man once before, a masterclass in psychological warfare he had not forgotten.
He eased into the hard wooden chair, its unforgiving angles a deliberate promise of unease.
“You have been busy in the north, Captain,” the Doux stated, his voice a low, grating rumble of teeth ground on rock. “And you have won a great victory. I want to know how. .”
Theodorus met the piercing gaze, his own resolve hardening into a shield. He would not be cowed. He stood before the massive oak desk, a small, travel-worn island in the spartan vastness of the study, and delivered his with the clipped, dispassionate cadence of a soldier.
“The Crimeans came, a hundred strong, through the north eastern corridor near Kerasia. We ambushed them in a wooded vale southeast of the town. They burned several outlying hamlets before we engaged, but we managed to recoup most of the stolen valuables and acquire more of our own. In total, we lost ten men. They suffered at least forty confirmed casualties.”
The Megas Doux said nothing, letting the relentless, grating measure of the silence work on Theodorus.
“Explain your strategy,” Panagiotis said at last, his eyes never leaving Theodorus’s. “How did you know they would wander into that vale?”
Theodorus schooled his expression, letting some of his long-rehearsed calculations show through. “Our goal was never to stop them at the border, my Lord. It was to shape their invasion.” He moved to a large map of the northern territories tacked to the oaken desk, the hide cured so dark the river lines looked like pale veins. “We employed a strategy of strategic retreat, fortifying one household in each outlying hamlet. The objective was not to hold ground, but to make any attempt at plunder a time-consuming and unprofitable endeavor, luring them deeper into our territory.”
His finger traced a path from the border, a serpent’s route that coiled inevitably toward the valley of the Giant’s Tear. “I stationed signal pyres across the frontier. At the first sign of the raid, they were lit in succession, a predetermined signal for an evacuation protocol. The villagers fled on prepared wagons to rally points, and I had my men stationed at their village of origin to help organize the retreat and with the harvest. They then gathered at one of two pre-selected mustering grounds. This sidestepped the issue of stripping the garrisons or pulling men from the harvest as is custom.”
“An unorthodox approach,” the Doux grunted, his gaze noncommittal, hiding the depths of his thoughts beneath. “If your men hadn't gathered in time, or if the signal had come late, the fort would have been left undefended against a foreign invasion.”
“It was a calculated risk, my Lord.” Theodorus turned from the map, standing his ground. The Doux’s critique was not just about tactics; it was a test of his nerve. “This way, the harvest didn’t suffer. And the villages were on board with the evacuation, the early reconnaissance system, and the self-help coalition we established. It was a necessary concession, and one that ultimately benefited the state.”
“Ah, yes.” The Doux leaned forward slightly, the firelight catching the dangerous gleam in his eyes. “The ‘Shepherd System’.” He was perfectly informed, of course. “I am aware of your… coalition, Captain.” Panagiotis steepled his thick fingers, his face a mask of stern disapproval. “I will be frank. What you have built is akin to a sovereign state. It is a flagrant overreach of your authority and borders on an act of sedition against the Crown.”
Theodorus waited, his own expression a placid lake. He knew this was another test. If the Doux truly believed him a traitor, this conversation would be happening in a dungeon. “Tribute to the Crown remained unimpeded, and my requisitions for supplies actually decreased,” he stated, his voice even. “We were operating in a nearly self-sustaining state. Fostering cooperation between the fort and the land it protected created a unity that made the militia more invested in defending it, and the villagers more willing to supply it. It is a more efficient system, my Lord.” He met the Doux’s gaze, adding a final, deliberate concession. “If used with no ulterior motives, of course.”
Panagiotis listened, his countenance enigmatic. He reached back into his cabinet and poured himself a cup of wine from a simple earthenware jug, the sound loud in the pregnant silence. He took a slow, deliberate sip. “It worked.” When he finally spoke, his voice had softened into a low, pragmatic growl. “And that is more than I have been able to say about our skirmishes on the northern frontier for a decade.” He set the cup down with a sharp, definitive tap. “Politics is a luxury for peacetime, Captain. Here, results are the only currency that matters. And you have paid in full.”
It was as resounding an endorsement as the Doux would ever give. Theodorus fought the urge to let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“But.” Panagiotis’s eyes narrowed, and the room was filled with a tension that cut through the air. “Your brother established himself as an informal leader and meddled in affairs beyond his capacity. That ends. Now.”
“Of course.” Theodorus bowed his head in acquiescence. It was too much to hope for the informal structure to remain; the Crown wouldn’t let one of its vassals rise to prominence in such a way. But the soft power and prestige he’d won had not been curtailed, and no retaliation would be meted out. It was a reward all of its own for Iohannes’s contributions to stop the retaliatory raid.
“Walk me through the battle and how you goaded the Crimeans,” Panagiotis demanded, his tone shifting from politician back to commander. “In depth.”
“As mentioned, our fortified hamlets lured them deeper,” Theodorus began, moving back to the map. His finger traced the path of deception. “At the hamlets, we left valuables in the open, bait to convince them we were not poor. When they arrived at the first real village, they found it deserted. They were angry, until they found fresh wagon tracks leading away. In their evacuation, the villagers had been… careless.”
A predatory smile touched Theodorus’s lips. “The tracks were heavy, the wagon filled to the brim. Halfway through the woods, a wheel snaps off and is left by the roadside. The tracks turn chaotic.
They are right ahead.
This is what they are thinking. Our planned site was a vale we had cleared to create a killing field. We tried to make it seem natural, but any intelligent commander would spot the signs. So, we had villagers feign a panicked retreat. The raiders thought they had caught them. They didn’t think to look at their surroundings. When they finally did, it was too late.”
Panagiotis stepped back from the map, crossing his thick arms. “A dramatic play to lure them into the killing field. Plenty could have gone wrong. They might not have followed the trail at all.”
“And if they didn't, there were contingencies,” Theodorus replied without hesitation, his own hands now moving across the map, illustrating the ghost armies of his alternate plans. “The frontier was evacuated, with men stationed only at the pyres. Had the raiders ignored the tracks, we would have known their new approach. We would have pincered them between the fortified estates and our own troops while a rider was sent to the capital. We would have cut off their advance, employing scorched-earth tactics to deny them loot as we lured them deeper. The advance notice would have given you time to muster a reactionary force while we cut off their escape. The result would have ended up with an ambush all the same.”
The Doux was silent for a moment, processing the layers of preparation. He stared at the map, then back at Theodorus. “With your ‘wagon forts’?”
“Exactly. They are mobile and could be set up within two hours. They just need a defensible position and the men to man them.”
“How are they built?”
Theodorus picked up a piece of charcoal from the brazier’s edge and, on a spare piece of parchment, sketched a crude but clear diagram. “The wagons carry their own building materials. We mounted pre-fabricated wooden crenelations and an upper parapet for archers directly onto the chassis. The design could be improved, of course. We did what was possible with the resources available.” He set the charcoal down, meeting the Doux’s gaze as he delivered the final, quiet blow. “None of which came from the capital.”
Panagiotis looked from the simple, ingenious sketch to the face of the boy who had conceived it. His silence was all the acknowledgment Theodorus needed.
“You are clever, Captain. I will admit that much. That can be an asset to the state.” Theodorus recognized the mild tone - it was the tremor before the earthquake. “It can also be a danger. I know of your ambition; you cannot hide it from me. You are likely contemplating the best plans to leverage your victory for a newfound position and prestige. But you forget one thing: I am the one who grants it. And I can see right through you.” The pressure seemed to increase tenfold. Theodorus struggled to maintain a level eye contact and a straight back. The Megas Doux stood, dropped his heavy hands on the desk with a resounding thud, and leaned forward, his eyes boring into Theodorus’s. “So answer me this: are you an asset? Or are you a danger?”
The next day.
The doors to the Sky Chamber were not merely wood, but a statement of power - two massive slabs of dark, polished mahogany, banded with iron and carved with the double-headed eagle of a fallen empire. Great vines, thick as a man’s arm, climbed the marble columns that framed the doorway, their ancient leaves a living testament to the palace’s age. On each side stood a Royal Guard, their polished bronze cuirasses catching the light, their faces impassive and still as the stone they guarded.
A slight knock from the other side was the only signal. The two guards exchanged a sharp, practiced look, then turned to the doors. With the help of two more guards from within, four trained bodies strained against the behemoth, their muscles cording as they pushed the great doors inward with a low, groaning sound that echoed like the first note of a solemn hymn.
Theodorus forced his heartbeat into a steady, disciplined cadence as the world opened before him. A great length of violet velvet carpet, its pile worn thin by the tread of centuries, stretched toward a distant dais. On either side, low benches of dark, carved wood were filled with the silent, watchful nobility of the Principality. He felt their gazes settle on him, a physical weight. His eyes swept the room in a single, swift appraisal, cataloging the key figures he recognized: Zeno Makris, his face a mask of neutral appraisal; Lady Anastasia, her expression unreadable behind a silk fan, but her eyes following his intently; Sir Silvanus, who offered a subtle, almost imperceptible nod of encouragement.
The chamber itself was a cavern of faded glory. A vaulted ceiling soared so high that the upper reaches were lost in shadow, while the few high, tinted windows cast a soft, violet-hued light onto the scene below, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the incense-thick air.
A young herald with a clear voice and a shock of blond hair stepped forward, his voice ringing in the sudden, profound silence. “Presenting to the Court of His Majesty, Prince John Gabras, Lord of Theodoro: Captain Theodorus Sideris, son of the late Lord Konstantinos. Newly appointed Commander of the Probatofrourio Garrison, returned victorious from the northern frontier, having defeated one hundred Crimean raiders with just a garrison of thirty brave Greeks.” It was a stretch of reality; there were thirty more hunters and men-at-arms present at the battle, but Theodorus understood the theatricality. “Would you please step forward?”
At the far end of the hall, upon a raised dais, sat the heart of the Principality. The throne was not gilded but carved from a dark, ancient wood like bog oak, its arms worn smooth and inlaid with yellowed ivory. Seated upon it was Prince John, a man in his fifties who seemed worn down and polished by the sheer weight of his office. His fine purple silk robes, the imperial color of a bygone age, could not hide the weary slump of his shoulders or the deep, etched lines of worry on his face. His dark hair was thinning, and his eyes, though intelligent, held a profound, tired sadness.
Beside him, on a slightly smaller, less ornate chair, sat his wife, Princess Euphrosyne. She was a woman in her thirties, her beauty a startling splash of life in the somber room. Her gown of emerald-green silk shimmered in the violet light, and her hazelnut hair was a complex masterpiece of braids woven with pearls that caught the light with every slight movement. She held her head high, her face a mask of serene, practiced neutrality.
Standing to the Prince’s right was their son and junior co-ruler, Principe Alexios. He was a thin, pale figure, having inherited not his father’s dark hair but a light caramel brown from his late mother. It did little to soften his features, which were sharp to the point of being unsettling. Yet as Theodorus began his long walk down the violet carpet, a small, keen smile touched the Principe’s lips, his eyes fixed on the approaching captain with a soft, perfunctory interest.
Theodorus went down on one knee, the metallic scrape of his greave loud on the worn marble floor. He bowed his head. “Your Majesty.”
“Please, Captain, rise.” Prince John’s voice was weary, the sound of a ruler carrying a weight too heavy for one man, but he made a gesture with a thin, blue-veined hand that was less a suggestion and more a gentle command. “You have won us a great victory. Share the details with the court.”
Theodorus rose, his travel-worn but immaculate Sideris livery a stark, martial presence in the hall of silks and velvets. He gave a sharp salute. “Your Majesty. A force of one hundred Crimeans made an incursion into our sacred land. They burned the outlying hamlets they passed, though by the grace of God, no Greeks were harmed. We lured them with the promise of plunder to a place of our choosing. There, the men of Theodoro fought with a valor that saw them inflict ten casualties for every one they suffered, despite being heavily outnumbered.”
He paused, letting the raw numbers land. A ripple of impressed, disbelieving whispers spread through the assembled nobles, though Theodorus had no doubt half of them already knew the details of the raid and knew he was exaggerating the . But they played to the tune of the spectacle all the same. This was as much about propping up the state as it was him.
“Valor won the day, Your Majesty,” Theodorus continued, his voice hardening. “And I shudder to think what might have happened if it had not. A force of this size was not meant to merely harass the frontier. They were headed for our breadbaskets and our vineyards.” The whispers turned to sharp, audible gasps.
“From the survivors, we have learned they planned to burn the harvest. Our crops. To cripple the state. The perpetrators have been brought to justice, and I trust your own men will get to the bottom of who sent them and what their true intentions were.” Theodorus thus finished his very perfunctory . The fact that there was a direct tie to the Khan he did not mention, as its divulgence would depend on the accord and deal struck with the Crimeans. If Prince John did agree to a quiet exchange of prisoners to preserve peace, the common people did not need to know that the Principality was letting their raiders and tyrants off the hook so easily.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; any sightings.
The Prince let the taste of victory, a flavor long absent from his court, wash over the hall. He allowed the nobles and dignitaries to savor it, to feel a flicker of pride where there had so long been only weary resignation. “You have done well, Captain,” he said at last, his tired eyes fixing on Theodorus. “You do your blood proud. Such an accomplishment - to defend our homeland with so few lives lost and our harvest intact - is a feat of profound strength. Name your reward. If it is within my power and reason, I will grant it.”
Theodorus stood imperiously, his back straight, his chin high. He looked every inch the conquering hero. “I require no reward, Your Majesty.”
The silence that followed was absolute, a sudden void where the murmurs of the court had been. Then the whispers erupted, a wave of shock and disbelief. The beautiful Princess Eleni leaned forward on her seat, her emerald eyes alight with a sharp, sudden interest. Beside the throne, Principe Alexios, who had been observing with a detached amusement, now seemed to truly see him for the first time. And in Prince John’s weary eyes, a calculating gleam appeared.
“No reward, Captain?” the Prince asked, his voice carefully neutral. “Did I hear you correctly?”
Theodorus met his gaze, his expression a mask of unwavering sincerity. And he was sincere. He had no need of land or gold when the true prize was influence. This was his trump card, and he played it now, leveraging his own honesty. “I merely did my duty, Your Majesty. I defended our land not for wealth or prestige, but for my country, my Principality, and my Prince.”
The words were a public declaration of fealty, cementing the chivalrous reputation he had so carefully cultivated. He saw the corner he was backing the Prince into. The Prince
had
to grant him something, or risk looking ungrateful to a hero who asked for nothing.
A hero with a stellar reputation and the Doux’s tacit backing. In truth, this wasn’t a gamble. The result was already guaranteed.
The Previous night.
In the flickering candlelight and the heavy gloom, Theodorus struggled to think how he would lie under the Doux’s intense, masterful pressure. Thankfully, he had no need to lie. “An asset, my Doux.” He answered, voice ringing with sincerity. “Everything I do is for the Principality and its people.”
The Doux recognized the sincerity in the tone as clear as day. He sat back down, and the pressure vanished, the heavy air dispelling on a moment’s notice.
“The banner you secured and the prisoners you took have given this Principality a position of strength in the coming negotiations.”
“I do what I can to serve the realm, my Lord,” Theodorus said, the humble words a stark contrast to the audacity of his actions.
“Indeed.” The test over, the professional curiosity of a master strategist taking its place. “Now, explain to me how you turned a handful of farms, a demoralized militia, and a collection of reticent nobles into a weapon that could break a Tatar çapul.”
The candle burned low, its light guttering in the pre-dawn chill, but they talked on. Theodorus left little out, detailing how he had used his own men as ambassadors to the villages, forging trust where decrees would have bred resentment. He explained how he had requisitioned raw goods from the nobles and skilled labour from the villages, tailoring his demands for each, and how his brother Iohannes had helped him by serving as the master logistician who held it all together. He laid bare the brutal, relentless training that had forged a shield wall from a mob, and the psychological warfare that had convinced them they could win.
Panagiotis listened, a silent, unmoving mountain of a man, his only reaction a series of sharp, insightful questions that cut to the heart of Theodorus’s strategy.
“I’ve heard enough.”When the candle was threatening to gutter out, the Doux let a silence hang in the room before he spoke again.
“I want to implement this system across the northern frontier.” The words surprised Theodorus. He hadn’t expected such an emphatic proclamation from the Doux. “But its logistics will be headed by the crown, not some frontier noble.” He lent emphasis on that last part. The Crown wanted to commandeer the system of mutual aid Theodorus had developed, but to use it to maintain an iron grip on the frontier.
“And I know you want greater responsibility,” Panagiotis stated, his voice a low rumble that seemed to absorb the light from the flickering brazier. “The truth is, the Principality has little gold to hand out. With the bloating of the administration and the endless byzantine exiled families from the south, land is a rarer commodity still.”
A flicker of something passed through the Doux’s obsidian eyes. “Which is why you’re going to be promoted. The details are not finalized, but you just have to put on a proper showing at tomorrow’s audience,” The Doux muttered the word in distaste. “Something I am sure you can do quite handily. I will nudge the Prince in the right direction, but you must be the one to give him the final push.” The Doux looked intense, his eyes dancing in the firelight.
Theodorus’s mind raced. “Is this why you summoned me here tonight? To inform me of my new post?”
“I wanted to get your take on the events in the north, and to once again take a measure of your person.” The Doux stated plainly. “Time away from the capital and near his family sometimes has a way of changing a man’s loyalties.”
“But most importantly,” he continued, rising from his chair to stand before the window. “I wanted to inform you of your new task.” The moonlight cast his heavy frame in a stark, imposing contour. He glanced toward the door, ensuring it was sealed, and his voice dropped to a serious, conspiratorial whisper.“There are whispers of resentment building up against the crown in the nobility.”
Theodorus sat bolt upright, the air in his lungs turning cold. To share this level of intel with Theodorus was a great level of confidence being given.
“The Principe?” Theodorus had, through regular correspondence with Zeno, a rough idea of the privateer plan and the tensions in court. It was also how he had known the court was stalling the increased tribute to the Crimeans that had given him the time to execute his plan on the frontier.
“The Principe is the puppet,” the Doux confided, turning from the gloomy night to fix Theodorus with a gaze that was heavy with the weight of secrets. “The true danger is the one pulling his strings.” The unspoken question hung in the air between them. By staying, by listening, Theodorus was choosing his side.
“We know who it is?” Theodorus was in too deep, his ascent now tied to his allegiance to the Doux and, by extension, the Prince. He knew which side he’d choose.
“Of course,” The Doux scoffed, refusing to share any additional information. “You will be posted as aide to Lord Adanis in Suyren.” Suyren Fortress was the main fortress in the north, and its commander was responsible for the whole of coordinating the northern frontier defenses. This was not a step up; it was a catapult leap.
“You are to be his model adjutant,” the Doux continued, his voice leaving no room for interpretation. “You will follow his direction to the letter. You will conduct yourself with honor. You will oversee the implementation of your ‘Shepherd System’ across the entire frontier. And,” he leaned forward, placing his heavy hands flat on the desk, his face a mask of severe, uncompromising authority, “You are to any and all inconsistencies directly to me.”
Theodorus’s eyes widened a fraction with cold, shocking comprehension. This was his true mission. He was not being sent as an aide. He was being sent as a spy, a piece to be maneuvered in the great, shadowy game being played out in the heart of the Principality.
“Am I clear?” It was a loaded question, a command disguised as an inquiry. To decline now would be to undo everything, to cast himself out as a traitor to the very power that was elevating him.
He had been handed a title, but he had been given a dagger.
“Yes, my Lord,” Theodorus said, and with those three words, he sealed his fate. He was no longer just a captain of the army; He was an agent of the Prince and a player in the most dangerous game of all. The game of thrones.
The Sideris boy bowed his head, a final, perfect flourish of humility. “It was by the great will of God that good triumphed over evil. I was merely His conduit. I dedicate this victory to Him, and to you, my Lord.” He looked up, his eyes shining with a sincerity that was flawless in its execution. “If there is to be any reward, I ask only for compensation for the families whose homes were destroyed in the raid and whose sons perished in defense of their home. They were the true heroes. Not I.”
It was a masterful performance, a checkmate delivered with a saint’s piety. John wanted to scoff. He had seen a generation of ambitious, pretty little boys put on their shows in this very hall, their honor as polished and as fragile as glass. He had also seen the court chew them up and spit them out, leaving them hollow-eyed and broken.
“I have witnessed the valor of your actions and the humility with which you conduct yourself, Captain Theodorus Sideris.” The Prince’s voice was a weary but resonant proclamation that filled the hall. “Your wish is granted. The people of the frontier who have suffered in this incursion will be duly compensated by the Crown.” With what coin, John wasn’t sure yet. But Damianus would chew him out if he didn’t promise at least this much. The recompense, of course, was his to determine, and the deadline for its delivery might prove… flexible.
“But I would be a poor ruler indeed if I did not reward such an able servant of God and this Principality.” He rose, a ripple of anticipation moving through the court. Panagiotis had pushed for this, had insisted this was the only logical move. “In recognition of your singular service and proven leadership, and to best utilize your talents for the defense of the realm, we hereby appoint you as adjutant to the most noble Lord Adanis Nomikos, commander of the Suyren Fortress and warden of our northern march!” Trouble was brewing in his realm, and the boy would be one of many tools he’d use to exercise the cancer growing in his realm. One he held low hopes for, but which his Doux was convinced might yet bear fruit.
The boy continued his play pretend and went down to one knee again. “You honour me, you Majesty.” The court, half vipers and half fools, erupted in thunderous applause, as if witnessing the appointment of the age. John looked out at their beaming, devious faces and cursed every last one of them in the silence of his own heart.
Theodorus rose, bowed once more to the throne, and then excused himself, his exit as dignified and understated as his entrance. The great mahogany doors boomed shut behind him, sealing him out from the theatre of the court.
Czcibor, his young herald, stepped forward, his voice cutting through the fading applause. “Next, presenting a petition from the most esteemed Lord Mikael, concerning a dispute of pasture rights with the lands of the venerable Lord Iason…”
The rest of the day was a tedious, grinding descent into the mundane realities of rule. The high drama of Theodorus’s audience gave way to a parade of petty grievances and intractable problems. Lord Mikael presented yet another exhaustive, mind-numbing argument over a strip of land barely wide enough to graze a single herd, his third attempt at claiming it. A traveling Genoese merchant, sweating in his fine woolens, delivered a long-winded complaint about road tolls, his Greek thick with a barely intelligible accent. An abbot from a southern monastery requested a royal grant to repair a roof that had been leaking for, by his telling, the better part of a decade. To each, Prince John listened with a practiced, weary patience, dispensing judgments that satisfied no one completely but kept the fragile peace of his realm from shattering for one more day.
“And so, the council meeting for today is hereby adjourned!”
Czcibor’s voice, youthful yet polished as if by years of formal pronouncements, echoed in the cavernous Sky Chamber. A collective, rustling sigh of relief went through the assembled nobles as they rose from the hard wooden benches, the tedious procedure finally at an end. Prince John remained seated on his throne, a prisoner of his own station, as the court thankfully began to file out. He endured a final, droning conversation with a pair of foreign dignitaries about some nonsensical shipping dispute, his nods timed with a practiced, weary precision. When he finally managed to hurry them along and was preparing to rise himself, a quiet voice stopped him.
“It was an astounding victory, was it not, Father?”
Alexios stood at the foot of the dais, his hands clasped within the sleeves of his plain, dark tunic. He spoke in his usual mild, singsong voice, an affectation that scraped on John’s nerves like sand on steel. “Surely God smiled upon us to grant this grand victory over the infidels.” If one day there was one conversation where his son didn’t mention his precious God at least once, John was sure the world would end.
“It was not faith that won the day, son,” John replied, his voice flat. “It was bravery. It was Roman discipline.”
“Don’t you mean ‘Greek’ discipline, Father?” Alexios asked, a faint, infuriatingly pious smile touching his lips. “The Roman Empire is no more.”
The slight barb found its mark. A cold stillness settled over the Prince’s features. “Rome is eternal,” he said, his eyes narrowing.
“Rome is Catholic,” Alexios shot back, smoothing the front of his dark robes. He looked more like an Orthodox monk than a prince of the realm. “And it sides with our enemies now.”
John turned his head a fraction, a silent command that conveyed a thousand words to his wife. Euphrosyne took their son and daughter away without another word. The silent escape an increasingly familiar procedure.
As the heavy double doors boomed shut, the temperature in the vast, empty chamber seemed to drop exponentially.
“What is it you want?” John said without any preamble, utterly tired of the posturing and grandstanding that his work necessitated of himself.
“Why are you always so aggressive, Father?” His son, however, loved it. Always dancing around topics, too scared to face them head-on. “I was merely making conversation.”
John fixed him with a heavy look, refusing to play his game. Silence was often a powerful weapon against pretty words. Dainty men with little substance often found ways to impale themselves upon it. Naturally, Alexios was the one who broke first.
“Appointing a junior captain from a disgraced household to such a prestigious position?” He mused, tilting his head. “Military adjutants are generally men of a higher pedigree.”
“Why is it you care?”
“Because I care for you Father, I worry how you will be seen.” Was he fishing for information? He had no reason to suspect the appointment as anything but a political appeasement.
“Perhaps you should worry how I would have been seen had I not granted a valiant hero of this Principality any reward at all,” John countered, his patience wearing thin.
“Surely another reward would have-”
“Either strained our already empty coffers or made poor use of a proven commander. He performed well in the northern frontier, so I gave him greater responsibility to let him use his proven capabilities to our benefit. That is all.”
Alexios seemed to be given pause by the ironclad logic. The boy still had much to learn about the game of politics and oral discourse. He hadn’t cared much for it before, despite John cramming as many tutors into his schedule as he could afford. A lot of good that did him. He’d still turned out a petulant, ignorant brat.
“He’s still under supervision. No one had to be demoted. It was a win-win solution.” John’s voice was flat, devoid of patience. “A ruler must see the entire board, son. A skill you are sorely lacking.”
Alexios’s pious mask contorted into a grimace. “I only wonder how you can show such decisiveness in this appointment, yet I hear the first strike against the Genoese is delayed until next year?”
Ah
, John thought, the pieces clicking into place with a familiar, weary sickness.
So that’s what this is about.
“These preparations take time.” He said patiently, as if explaining a simple concept to an ignorant child. “Targets must be chosen. The corsairs must be clear on the rules of engagement.”
“What rules?” Alexios’s voice rose, taking on the reedy, righteous tone of a man reciting a speech. “The Genoese have none for our hapless merchants, yet you never address their crimes. Now you dally. Our fleet is ready. The enemy is vulnerable. Now is the time to strike.”
John looked at his son and felt a shame so profound it was a physical weight; he had made some mistakes along the way, that much he could now admit. That his eldest son was spouting things he didn’t even think of for himself, like some marionette in a theatre play... it was his greatest disgrace. His son was his greatest disgrace.
“The time to strike is when I say it is.” John rose from the throne, his shadow falling over his frail son. His voice was a flash of thunder in the cavernous hall. “Your little proposal may have passed the court, but like everything else in this Principality, I will have the final say.”
His son couldn’t even meet his eyes. Pathetic.
“You do not rule as one man,” Alexios mumbled to the floor. “A king who betrays his subjects may find himself isolated—”
“I AM THE STATE!” The roar was a thunderstorm of rage, a lifetime of frustration unleashed. To be lectured by this fop. How low he had fallen. “You can tell your little
patron
that.”
“My only suzerain is God!” Alexios shrieked, every bit the insolent child.
John laughed. A harsh, bitter sound that held no mirth. It was simply too absurd.
“You laugh at God! When I am Prince, heathens like you will rue the day they belittled His name!”
“You are not Prince.”
The words, cold and absolute, finally made Alexios look up. His crystalline azure eyes, a remnant of his mother’s beauty, burned with a chilling, unfamiliar fire. “I will be,” he promised.
John stepped down from the dais, closing the distance until he towered over him. “Over my dead body,” he spoke, his voice dropping to a whisper of pure, incandescent rage. He leaned in, the final words a venomous secret meant only for his son. “I should have killed you then. And if I have to, I will right the past.”
The fire in Alexios’s eyes was extinguished in an instant, doused by a cold wave of shock and horror. His face crumpled, the carefully constructed mask of the pious prince dissolving into the trembling features of a little boy. Tears blossomed in his eyes. Without another word, he turned and fled, his hurried footsteps a frantic, fading echo in the sudden, profound stillness of the Sky Chamber.
John stood alone, the thunder of his rage spent, leaving only a hollow, aching void. His gaze drifted to the far wall, to a grand, painted fresco, dominating the ceiling. Saint George’s brave visage as he slayed the dragon had faded with the weight of time. Growing from the heart of the great beast, a spiderweb crack in the ancient plaster reached for the foundations of the castle itself.