Fallen Eagle-Chapter 6: Symptom Diagnosis

The path to Mangup began on a meandering goat trail that crisscrossed the valleys nestled between the rugged hills that dominated much of the Principality’s landscape.
Demetrios guided Theodorus with an unerring sense of direction, setting a surprisingly demanding pace. The old man, whom Theodorus estimated to be in his late fifties, moved with a spry energy that the teenager’s body could barely match. Whether that spoke more of Demetrios’s vitality or his own body's weakness was a question that nagged at Theodorus. In his previous life, he’d never cherished exercise, but had always understood its necessity - a grim ritual to keep the body’s machinery from failing. This machine he inherited would have to change. A military career was not kind to the frail.
“Indulge me, my Lord,” Demetrios said, breaking the rhythm of their travel. “I understand your reasoning for leaving the estate, but why a soldier’s life? Surely a post in the Prince’s administration, a clerkship, would be more in line with your talents.”
It was a logical question for the boy Theodorus had been. “My reasoning is threefold,” Theodorus replied, having rehearsed the logic in his mind. “First, ease of entrance. As you know, the Principality is fighting on two fronts. The Genoese to the south, and Tatar raids from the north-”
“We are technically at peace with the Crimeans,” Demetrios interjected, a bitter smile touching his lips. “The Prince pays a handsome annual tribute to the Horde to avoid any large-scale incursions.”
That was a detail Nikos the historian had not known. A sharp reminder that he could not rely solely on the broad strokes of history he remembered. He wasn’t an expert on the Crimean Peninsula in the 15th Century.
“That does not seem to impede the smaller raids, as we well know." Theodorus regathered himself. "It means the army is stretched thin. They are more likely to accept the unproven third son of a disgraced noble if I offer them a sword." He tasted the fresh open air, unclouded by pollution, drinking in the sight of a skyscraperless horizon. "Father was known for his martial prowess; they will hope the apple did not fall far from the tree.” He offered a small, knowing smile. “For all they know, I am a military genius in disguise. They have no reason to suspect I am actually a poet.”
Demetrios chuckled softly. “And the second reason?”
“Autonomy. As a minor noble’s son, I will not be granted a prestigious position. But in the military, that can range from junior aide to a captain in the capital to a commander of a remote border fort. And there is a vast difference between commanding a remote border fort and sitting at a desk as a junior scribe. Both are low starting points, but the former offers far greater freedom. And it keeps me away from the capital, where our father’s name may be a disadvantage.”
“Didn’t you promise Iohannes you would restore the family’s reputation
in
the capital?” Demetrios arched an eyebrow. Theodorus had briefed him on the deal, an uncomfortable act of transparency he was unused to, but one that his promise demanded.
“And I will,” Theodorus said. “Which brings me to my final reason: advancement. A clerk’s life is safe, but his ascent is glacial. In the army, merit can be proven in a single battle. What great prestige is won by reforming administrative procedures? But a decisive victory against a band of raiders? That is a story that travels. That is the kind of prestige that can be leveraged for real influence at court.”
“And being his ‘eyes and ears’ in Mangup?” Demetrios pressed, his memory as sharp as ever. Damn if the old man wasn’t astute.
Theodorus offered his best charming smile. “A slight stretch of the truth, I will admit. But it helped me secure a better deal.” He glanced at the old man beside him. “And it got me the best guide I could have asked for.”
The blatant flattery earned a shared laugh, the sound echoing briefly in the quiet valley.
“That leaves one small problem, my lord,” Demetrios said, a flicker of wry amusement in his eyes. “You have a grand plan to join the army, but how do you intend to secure the command of a fort? Even an ignoble, far-removed border fort is too high a station to be easily granted to an unknown teenage noble. Plus, a man of your newfound ambition does not typically beg for exile to a remote border outpost. Some might find that… suspicious.”
A slow, wolfish grin spread across Theodorus’s face, the one Demetrios was coming to realize was a sign of a scheme already in motion.
“One does not ask for a position, Demetrios,” Theodorus said, his voice a low, confident murmur. “One simply makes it the only logical choice for those who make the decision. As for how…” His eyes took on a predatory gleam. “The devil, as they say, is in the details.”
The journey to Mangup was a crash course in the chasm between history as an academic subject and history as a lived, visceral reality. Their path wound through a starkly beautiful landscape, but the villages and hamlets they passed were pockets of grim survival. The people were thin, hardy folk, their faces etched with a weariness that seeped into the very soil. Filth was heaped near the packed-earth hovels, and the laughter of children was a rare sound, most of them already bent to labor alongside their parents. Each settlement they passed darkened Theodorus’s mood. This was the world he had promised to protect, and it was a miserable one. Demetrios noticed his Lord’s silence, but chose not to comment.
Then, they saw it. Rising from the barren countryside like a promise of power was a sprawling fortification of stone that crowned a vast plateau. Mangup. Theodoro’s crowning jewel.
Situated on a vast, elevated plateau surrounded by 70-meter cliffs, it stood as a King would, looking down on his subjects. Vast and thick stone fortifications enveloped its three main approaches into the promontory - gentle slopes that gradually increased in gradient and narrowed in scope, winding down into narrow passageways as they reached the walls. It was a daunting structure, one of the most impregnable castles of its time and a marvel of medieval engineering.
It was also, Theodorus knew with cold certainty, an utterly feeble defense against the Ottoman cannon batteries that would one day blast it into submission.
A long, slow-moving line of people snaked from the city’s northern gate. Exhausted serfs, dusty merchants, and wary travelers all waited under the insolent gaze of the gatekeeper, a petty tyrant who made a great show of inspecting every cart and bundle.
When their turn finally came, he turned his perpetually suspicious scowl at them, grunting. “Your business in Mangup?”
Demetrios, unperturbed, held up the letter from Iohannes, its dark wax seal prominent. “We bring an urgent missive from Lord Iohannes Sideris.”
“Lord who?” The gatekeeper shot a thick stream of phlegm onto the ground beside him. “Never heard of him.” It was his job to know all the Lordies this side of the mountains, and to sniff out any spies from fake ones.
“First son of the late Lord Konstantinos Sideris,” Demetrios clarified patiently.
The gatekeeper’s face split into a ghastly, gap-toothed grin. “Hah! Konstantinos? That slave-lover finally kicked the boot, did he?” He seemed to relish the news, preening for the other guards.
Demetrios and Theodorus exchanged dark looks. An icy calm settled over Theodorus. In his old life, he would have ignored the crude insult. But here, honor was currency, and his father’s name was the only capital he had. He could not let it be devalued at the very gate. And he could not deny the cold thrill of power that came with his new station. Back in the 21st Century he would have never gotten away with what he was about to do now. But being a noble came with its own privileges.
He spurred his horse forward a single step, his voice ringing out over the din, clear and sharp. “Yes, my father, Lord Konstantinos Sideris, a decorated captain of the Royal Guard, has perished defending this Principality from the very raiders who steal your countrymen for slaves.”
The gatekeeper’s smirk vanished. The nearby crowd, sensing a confrontation, had gone quiet. The man’s eyes darted around nervously. To publicly insult a noble, even a disgraced one, in front of his son, was a dangerous mistake.
“Ah- yes, my lord. No offense intended." The gatekeeper seemed to realize his predicament after the fact. "My condolences for your loss.” He gave an awkward bow.
“Your condolences are unnecessary,” Theodorus said, his tone cutting. “What is necessary is our immediate and unimpeded passage into this city. We carry word of a loyal lord’s death to his Prince. I trust you will not delay us further.”
The gatekeeper practically scrambled to wave them through, muttering apologies under his breath.
As they rode into the city’s heart, Demetrios guided them toward one of the few sturdy-looking inns. The fading light cast long shadows down the narrow streets.
“As you see, my lord,” Demetrios said, his voice low. “Your father’s story has become a common tale to be mocked by common men. You can expect more of the same. Those in the higher circles will simply be less… direct with their scorn.”
“I’m aware, Demetrios,” Theodorus said, his face grim. “You don’t have to worry.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” Demetrios countered, a faint twinkle in his eye, “It is my job to worry.”
The inn was a modest affair, a place Demetrios knew was frequented by couriers and junior bureaucrats - a good place to be seen without being scrutinized. They checked in, with Demetrios insisting on a shared room for two copper folles while Theodorus took a private one for five. Theodorus wanted to argue against it, but Demetrios didn’t let him. It would be unseemly for a nobleman to share a room with his servant.
They paid another three copper folles apiece for their meals, a price that had Demetrios mumbling about how much it had risen, calling it 'the capital's shameless extortion'.
Stolen from NovelFire, this story should be ed if encountered on Amazon.
They sat at a rough-hewn wooden table. Demetrios, clearly famished, dug into his broth with gusto. “There is a great cobbler I must show you tomorrow, my lord. He was the one who fashioned my travelling boots and-”
“Demetrios,” Theodorus interrupted, dipping a small piece of bread delicately into his own bowl. As soon as they’d stepped through the gates, his performance had already begun. “Tell me, what are the virtues most esteemed by the Theodoran nobility?”
Demetrios paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. He sighed, a sound of fond exasperation. “Ah, so we are to speak in riddles tonight, are we?”
“Piety?” Theodorus asked, his tone that of a curious scholar.
“Certainly.”
“Loyalty?”
“Of course,” Demetrios said, wondering where this was leading.
“Humility?”
“Oh, yes,” Demetrios scoffed into his bowl. “Though you are as likely to find a truly humble noble as you are to catch a falling star in your pocket.”
“It does not matter if they truly embody these ideals,” Theodorus said softly. “What matters is that it
appears
that they do.” He gestured with his spoon to his own neatly arranged plate, a stark contrast to Demetrios’s, where breadcrumbs lay scattered. “And that, my friend, is the greatest virtue of all to the people we must impress.
Appearance
.”
He leaned forward. “We must cultivate an image of unimpeachable piety, unwavering loyalty, and profound humility. We have until my petition is granted to build a reputation that not even my father’s staunchest opponents can denigrate. That is how I'll land a position as a border commander.”
“As I said before, my Lord, we only have a few weeks at most. It is too little time for such a task.” Demetrios countered.
“Then we shall delay the petition. We have the funds.” Theodorus waved the worry away with nonchalant ease.
“That is not prudent,” Demetrios said, his tone turning serious. “A noble from the frontier, lingering in the capital for weeks on end for no reason? This is not a large city. Word travels. They will whisper that you are a spy. Especially,” he added, lowering his voice, “Given your father’s reputation.”
Theodorus frowned, his confidence faltering for the first time. “I was not aware of this complication.”
Demetrios shrugged. “You did not ask for my opinion when you unveiled your ‘master plan’.”
A brief silence settled between them. Theodorus pushed his bowl away, his appetite gone, but his resolve intact. “It is no matter. A week will have to be enough. It must be.” He fixed Demetrios with a determined stare, one that mirrored his own. The work started now.
The very next day saw the beginning of Theodorus’s careful campaign. He attended the Saturday Liturgy at the grand cathedral, dressed in a simple but well-made tunic in the grey and black of House Sideris. The garment, combined with the quiet dignity of Demetrios at his side, marked him as a noble and allowed them a prominent spot near the front, among the city’s elite. He approached no one, his face a mask of humble piety, his head bowed. He stayed until the very end, a silent, devout figure who was, by his very unobtrusiveness, becoming noticeable.
After the service, he approached the presiding priest, the Metropolitan of Gothia himself - Father Damianus, a man whose tenure had begun before Lord Konstantinos was even exiled.
“Your Eminence,” Theodorus said, bowing his head. “A beautiful sermon.”
The old priest’s eyes were sharp but kind. “God’s word is always beautiful, my son. Forgive me if my old eyes deceive me, but I do not recognize you.”
“My apologies, Your Eminence, for not introducing myself earlier.” Theodorus gave a precise bow. “I am Theodorus, son of the late Lord Konstantinos Sideris. I have only just arrived in the capital.”
A flicker of understanding crossed the Metropolitan’s face. “Ah. My condolences, young one. It is a heavy thing to lose one’s parents, but we must remember we always have a Father in Heaven. ‘There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain-’”
“-For the old order of things has passed away." Theodorus completed softly. During his studies as Nikos Karagiannis, he had dissected various ancient religious texts extensively. “John, Revelation.”
A look of pleasant surprise touched Damianus’s weathered features. “A learned young man. Allow me to welcome you to Mangup, Master Theodorus. May your stay be pleasant and devout. Any new sheep is welcome into God’s flock.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Theodorus saw a small group of nobles watching the exchange.
Perfect.
He bade farewell to the Metropolitan and, with Demetrios, knelt in a quiet corner of the church. To any observer, they were lost in fervent prayer. In reality, Theodorus was mapping a battlefield. He let the hushed conversations of the elite wash over him, sifting fact from rumor.
“…the Genoese demand higher tariffs on wine, the Prince will never agree…”
“…a marriage contract for his daughter to the son of a spice merchant. A poor match, but the dowry is substantial…”
“…Lord Mikael’s petition for the southern pasture has found favor, a blow to the Alexios family…”
He noted who spoke to whom, who deferred, and who postured. They emerged from the incense-hushed cool of the cathedral into the raw, wind-whipped expanse of the great central courtyard. Underfoot, a vast mosaic of the Byzantine double-headed eagle sprawled across the square. Its black and white tesserae were worn smooth and dipped in places; the ancient stone was now the stage for a bustling marketplace - a chaotic tableau of shouting vendors, bleating goats, and the sharp, competing scents of raw wool and foreign spices. The scene was cradled by Gothia's rugged peaks. Mangup was a city carved from the mountain's bones.
“The woman who approached the Metropolitan after we did,” Theodorus spoke to Demetrios, his voice low. “She had three attendants and a constant circle of men fawning over her. She was watching us throughout the liturgy. Who is she?”
Demetrios’s face darkened. “Not here, my lord.” He scanned the bustling courtyard. “Too many ears.” Demetrios drew Theodorus away from the bustle of the crowd.
Once they were on a quieter side street, Demetrios explained. “That, my lord, is Lady Anastasia. She is consort to Lord Panagiotis, the Megas Doux. The second most powerful man in the Principality.”
Theodorus absorbed this, then met Demetrios’s gaze. There was more. “And?”
Demetrios hesitated, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And she was rumored to have had a… close friendship with your father. Back when he was still considered a hero of the realm. Before his marriage.”
“
Rumored?
”
Demetrios’s silence was the only answer Theodorus needed.
Gods, another one.
It seemed his father's romantic misadventures were a relentless shadow, a curse he was doomed to inherit at every turn. The old servant’s eyes hardened.
“Yes, my lord.
Rumored
,” he repeated with sharp emphasis. “And you would do well to remember this. Matters of infidelity, real or imagined, are taken very seriously here. Men have lost their heads for speaking lesser things aloud.”
After the Saturday morning liturgy, Theodorus and Demetrios made their way to the castle keep proper. They delivered their missive to a pair of bored-looking guards, provided the name of their inn for the reply, and then turned back toward the city. The first move had been made. Now, it was time to take the city’s pulse.
Theodorus knew his theoretical knowledge of history was useless without concrete data. If he was to be the physician to the diseases that plagued this rump Byzantine state, he first needed to diagnose its symptoms.
“What would you say is the lifeblood of a state, Demetrios?”
The old servant was growing accustomed to his lord’s philosophical turns. “The quality of its ale, my lord?” he quipped, a wry smile on his face.
“I don’t ask riddles to annoy you, Demetrios,” Theodorus replied with surprising seriousness. He looked squarely at the old man. “I made you a promise. I need allies, not servants. I want you to see the world as I do, and to correct me when I am wrong.”
Demetrios looked taken aback, struck by the depth of the boy’s words. Few lords would ever treat their subjects as their equals. “Forgive me, my Lord.”
“The question?” Theodorus pressed gently.
Demetrios considered it more seriously this time. “Its people.”
“Correct, in many ways,” Theodorus said, pleased. “A state is like a great body; the Prince is its head, the army its arms, but its true health can only be read by examining the state of all its parts, down to its smallest toe. To learn what ails the body, we must start by looking for the symptoms. Have Genoese tariffs gone up? Are Tatar raids more frequent? What do the merchants whisper about?” He gestured to the animated market stalls around them, a chaotic tableau of farmers, weavers, and peddlers. “That is what we will find out.”
They spent the remainder of the day walking the marketplace, asking seemingly innocuous questions in exchange for the purchase of a few cheap goods. A process that humbled Demetrios. He had always prided himself on being a keeper of secrets.
Theodorus, he realized, was their master.
He watched as Theodorus bought a whetstone from a smith, asking casually if the price of charcoal had risen. He saw him ask a woman selling goat cheese if the flocks were giving good milk this season, and whether she had to travel farther to find decent pasture. Each question was a key, each answer a new door unlocked.
Their last stop was the cobbler’s shop, a cramped space that smelled richly of leather and wax. An aging man with long, dark locks and skin tanned like hide stooped over a half-finished boot, his posture a testament to a lifetime spent bent to his craft. While the man measured Theodorus’s foot for a pair of sturdy new high boots, Theodorus made his move.
“I have noticed many in the city walk with poor shoes, or none at all,” he remarked casually. “It is a shame when you have such fine work on display.”
The cobbler sighed, not looking up from his task. “Times are harder, my lord. A good pair of boots is a luxury many cannot afford these days.”
“Those seem like an exquisite pair,” Theodorus said, nodding toward a pair of delicate leather sandals on a high shelf, their straps adorned with exquisite silver-thread embroidery.
A flicker of pride crossed the cobbler’s weary face. “Ah, thank you, my lord. They are a special commission for Lady Irini.”
As they left the shop, the new footwear tucked under Demetrios’s arm, Theodorus spoke quietly. “The farmers can’t afford shoes to work the fields, but the nobility can still commission embroidered sandals for leisure. The sickness in this state is not felt by all parts of the body equally.” Demetrios nodded, his eyes wide with new understanding.
They retired to the inn as evening fell. The common room, quiet the night before, was now packed, the air thick with the smell of stew and cheap wine. As Demetrios had noted, the clientele was a cut above what one might find in a rougher tavern. These were garrison clerks, junior scribes, and middling courtiers - men whose conversations were held in hushed tones, not boisterous shouts.
“The marketplace showed us the health of the Principality,” Theodorus murmured to Demetrios over their meal. “But it is here that we will find its nerves. The capital, as you so aptly said, is a viper’s den. Positions are not handed to those with the most merit, but to those with the best connections. It is a deep web of nepotism, social status, and curried favours. Our performance at the liturgy was a start, but we must forge connections with those close to power. We cannot approach any great noble directly. To do so would be to arrive as a petitioner, desperate to climb.”
“So if we cannot approach the lords,” Demetrios surmised, gesturing with his cup to the surrounding tables, “We approach the men who stand behind them.”
“Precisely.” Theodorus nodded, satisfied with Demetrios’s assessment. He was learning fast. “But first, we must identify our targets. To move so quickly after arriving would look suspicious.” He gave Demetrios a knowing look, a silent acknowledgment of his earlier warning about lingering in the capital. “Furthermore, approaching everyone is expensive and inefficient. It telegraphs our intention.”
They finished their meal with a quiet dignity, their performance of piety and humility continuing. Afterward, they separated, each taking a corner of the room, listening and observing. They began the slow work of building a silent ledger of the city’s overlooked men: cataloging their roles, their friendships, their vanities, and, most importantly, their vulnerabilities. The groundwork was being laid, one brick at a time.
The next morning, a messenger from the castle arrived, delivering a small, unadorned scroll. It was the reply from the Megas Doux. Theodorus broke the simple seal and read.
The Office of the Megas Doux has received the petition of Theodorus, son of Konstantinos Sideris.
An audience is granted. Be present at the Citadel one month from this day.
A slow smile of relief spread across Theodorus’s face. “A month. This is good, Demetrios. It gives us ample time to prepare.”
But Demetrios’s expression was grim. “No, my lord.”
Theodorus looked at him, his smile fading. “What do you mean?”
“A man of good standing would be seen in a week. A stranger of no consequence might wait for two.” Demetrios looked worried. “A month is not an audience. It is a message. The Megas Doux has not forgotten your father. Nor his past transgressions.”