The Empire Strikes Back 114 - The Brothers' War

1 Febrauary 1936

Alvértos sat and waited before heading over to the conference room. A poor excuse for Senate chambers still, but better than a month ago. On the table beside him were three newspapers. Father had always made sure important papers ended up in the archives, though his choices were often inscrutable. Alvértos hoped that his choices would be more clear, both now and in the future. And he wondered how the past month had treated the senators and other notables who had joined him. He would find out soon.

---

News of the civil war over at the Imperial heartland quickly spread its way internationally, and as such it quickly made its way to Aotearoa. Though preparations had been made already, the official statement released on the 2nd of January would be noted as slightly rushed, as to avoid running against the 4 Day Forefeast of the Nativity of Christ and the incoming Christmastide season. Both Kyrene and Nestorius would be present.

“Today, a most shocking revelation has hit our shores. The Imperial heartland finds itself in conflict once more, not by the hands of a malicious third-party wishing upon it destruction, nor by those seeking to tear it apart and/or carve it into their own dominion, but as a result of familial infighting. Princes Alvértos and Konstantinos have rendered the heartland in two, in a struggle for dominance over whom will take the Imperial succession,” Kyrene began, with Nestorius looking visibly exhausted beside her. He had barely been convinced to read the report by colleagues and family, and one could see in his eyes that he was still mentally processing everything going on.

“However, as it stands, the conflict appears to be contained to the heartland. Though we are Imperial subjects too, an example of not just Foederati excellence, but an example for all Foederati to follow,” Kyrene spoke, invoking not just the 1915 Imperial policy of federation that led to the Exarchate’s creation along with the other first early states, but also Aotearoa’s history up to this point, “we cannot allow the spread of violence across the Empire. Just as my fellow peers among the Foederati had done, Aotearoa too will follow a policy of neutrality in this conflict. Though we in government, my own and Mesazon Papadopoulos’s, may have our personal stances on the matter, we cannot allow them to influence any path other than anti-militarism. We can only hope and pray in this coming season that this conflict will see a quick end, not just for the sake of the Empire, but for all those living in the zones of conflict in the heartland.”

Kyrene moved to the side, allowing her husband to take the stage and speak his part. Nestorius struggled to start for a bit, a contrast to the man most at home would recognize as their cheery, stately grandpa.

“…I cannot speak a lie to you all, the words I wish to speak on all this escape me. I had suffered through conflict in the region before. At about age 5, I witnessed an attack on the City, secluded and in fear of what was to come. That fear returned to me at age 61, when the City once more suffered an attack. The fear was near paralyzing, and were it not for Kyrene and her tenacity, I am sure that I would have died that day. And now, at age 83, I feel the same way once more. Sickly at the thought of what is to happen to my motherland. Terrified at what damage and trauma it may induce in those stuck in the middle. And now, standing here before you all, I feel as secluded from my home as I had at age 5. Unable to aid, unable to stop what will happen… it pains me.”

Nestorius paused for a moment, as those present and those listening from the radio pondered his comments: “…the only thing that has brought me peace is knowing that some of my peers and colleagues, whether they be Senators as I am, or those ‘working under me’ at the Aotearoan Representative HQ, had managed to get away from the active front - with many I know personally escaping to Trebizond with Prince Alvértos. Though I too will take part in the policy of neutrality, I can only ponder as to why so many, including those representing you all here back in the heartland, would flee as well,” he stated, leaving the implication obvious for all to see; he may go with neutrality, but his heart supports Alvértos.

Kyrene approached the stand, putting her arm around Nestorius as to comfort him, knowing how he’s struggling. “May this incoming holiday season remind in us all to love our neighbors, and be at peace with them. Thank you all for joining us today,” Nestorius finished up, with Kyrene joining in on the thank you at the end.

Those in attendance applauded the two as they made their way away from the podium, with the press quickly approaching and subsequently being rebuked by security in their attempts to ask the two for follow-up questions. The only thing they were told is that they would have to wait until after Christmastide for further elaboration.

---

The holidays had proven stressful for all involved with the Thaddai, whether it be the impromptu Aotearoan Representative HQ in Trebizond, the Thaddai estate back in Komnenion, or those working with either in the country. The HQ worked steadily to improve their efficiency and living standards, while Timon and Kyrene did their best to celebrate holiday cheer for Nestorius’ sake, as to distract him from what was going on back home.

Timon bemoaned the situation, having wanted to confront his father over the fact that, from his research, ministerial and (more importantly) senatorial positions were not supposed to be functionally hereditary according to Imperial law, wanting to imply his anxiousness over getting the position from his father in a roundabout way, but he couldn’t find the will in him to stress him out over that. It did not help that soon after Christmastide and Epiphany was the Thaddai family saint day, the 20th of January for John the Baptist, and how this would be one of the rare times Nestorius wouldn’t return back home to visit what little family he still maintained connections to (having effectively broken off from the Septiadis family, and cut off his ties with most once he began accruing notoriety in the Senate).

Holiday celebrations in Trebizond were similarly limited, though at least the comfort from being family aided in reducing much anxiety. Franco maintained his reports as things continued to settle in, and those at the HQ began building up connections in the city, were they to ever need them, as well as find folks to hire, as they needed new blood to compensate for the fact that many of them were getting on in age by now. One prospective hire, one Halia Thisavropoulos, daughter of a mariner and partaker in the local women’s street pankration scene, was noted down for potential review.

The death of the Emperor only served to increase tensions after the holidays. Kyrene would make another public statement, to express her sorrow, but also to express Nestorius’ sorrow too, for he wouldn’t join her this time. Nestorius seemed more stressed than ever, incentivizing more extreme measures from Kyrene, Timon and co. to relax him, with trips around the Aotearoan countryside to see the silent beauty of nature, while Franco and co. found themselves concerned how the last opportunity for a quick peace had seemed to be dashed. None would realize in just how far the Emperor’s death would impact them.

The rest of the month flew by in a flash. After the interview concluded, Theodora had stayed at the MSI to continue her work, while Irene left early.

Nothing much happened the rest of that day. Irene went to the newsreel theater and consulted the paperboy near her place as often as she could, but there were few developments. Notably, the Prince had followed through on his plans and called for his father to intervene in the crisis. Other than that, nothing that really concerned her. There was a new movie that looked great, but they weren’t showing it in Trebizond, unfortunately.

Apparently, it was too difficult to get a copy of the film through an active warzone. Oh well. She hoped the library had some of the classic adventure or detective novels she liked.

The Dardanelles - January 4, night

“One! Two! One! Two!” Theodoros’ men whispered as they pulled on their oars with rhythmic precision. Their boats lurched forward through the dark waters of the Dardanelles. In the distance, they could see the lights of Gallipoli, the town on the other side. Their goal was not the town itself but the naval base next to it, which controlled maritime traffic heading to Constantinople. They would sneak in, capture its guns, and then signal for the rest of the force—crossing in larger motorized boats to carry their horses—to join them.

They reached the shores of Gallipoli without any issues, disembarking about half a mile south of the town proper. There was little there other than a few roads leading to outer villages, which made it the perfect landing ground. Once they had settled back onto solid ground, they grabbed their guns and approached the naval base. There were more lights here, coming from watchtowers and patrolling vehicles. Seemed Konstantinos had gotten to this base early and shored it up with new defenses. A pragmatic decision, as the Dardanelles was about two miles wide here and Gallipoli was well within range of their own artillery. He would rather not order them to fire, as that would likely destroy the guns they needed, but he banked on Konstantinos’ men not knowing that.

The attack began at about 11 PM. They first took out the patrols, using knives to quietly dispatch their targets. Next, they donned the uniforms from the patrols, rolled up to the entrance, and tried to bluff their way inside. When that didn’t work, they simply pulled out their guns and opened fire. The base was pretty small, and they overwhelmed it within an hour. Most of Konstantinos’ men were killed, and a handful were captured. What was more important, though, was the base itself. The classified documents stored in the commander’s office and the radio station would give them a good look at troop movements in the area for the next couple days. Most importantly, the naval guns were theirs. At 1 AM on January 5, the rest of the force crossed the strait. More reinforcements arrived three days later, and they immediately began shoring up the base’s defenses. Theodoros knew he didn’t have enough troops to go further, so he would have to focus on purely defensive operations.

The counterattack began on the 10th. By then, the orders seized from the base had long since been executed or were no longer valid, but Theodoros had expected this to happen. Konstantinos assaulted Gallipoli from the south, west, and north, relying heavily on infantry forces. There were few aircraft or armor aiding them, which meant they were either unavailable or sent elsewhere. With that in mind, Theodoros felt safe enough to order his troops to dig in and hold the line.

Over the next two weeks, Konstantinos’ men struck at Gallipoli, only to be driven back each time. The trenches dug around the town and base served Theodoros well, allowing him to minimize his own casualties while maximizing his army’s destructive potential. His infantry hit any enemies approaching the trenches, while the cavalry launched hit and run attacks at the back of the enemy formation, sowing chaos and disrupting supply lines. He was vastly outnumbered here, but he couldn’t call for more reinforcements from Anatolia. They were already stretching the limits of what Gallipoli could support with the troops he had. This would boil down to a war of attrition. He had to outlast the enemy or at least make it so the cost of taking Gallipoli was too high for them.

He hoped that cost was much closer to the current casualty rates than he feared.

Trebizond - January 21

The news everyone feared finally arrived on the 21st. His Majesty was dead. Theodora got the news earlier than most people, one of her few contacts still in the capital reporting as much within two hours of the event. So she got to watch as the rest of the city gradually shut down and ground to a halt later that morning as the news spread. First it was the cable cars which halted service. Then the cars stopped as well. After that, the pedestrians all stopped where they were and took off their hats. For several somber minutes, the entire city stood still, the silence only broken by the playing of taps somewhere in the distance. On one of the street corners, Theodora saw a military veteran turn to a flag and salute reverently.

The Emperor was gone. He had been reigning for 26 years. Theodora remembered the circumstances surrounding the start of his reign. The assassination of Konstantinos XX together with her father, the beginning of the Time of Troubles, and her first days in the Senate. That seemed like so long ago now. She remembered how bright-eyed she was the first time she stepped into the halls of the Great Palace as a senator. She remembered meeting the other senators and getting to know them over the next two decades. All of it was under His Majesty’s reign. Now that was over. She thought he would have more time. She thought he could at least have helped out with this crisis, but that couldn’t happen now.

What concerned her most was how people would react to this. Would Konstantinos blame Alvértos, or vice versa? Would the people point at the Cult or the communists? Would the rebels and their other enemies use the opportunity to attack? They had to find the truth quickly, before the rumors could spread. Though she was already certain at least three rumors involving the Cult had already entered the public consciousness.

In any case, she had a lot of paperwork ahead of her. She sipped her coffee and put down her newspaper crossword.

Nicaea, Opsikion - February 1

The air strike came early in the morning. Dive bombers from Konstantinos’ side crossed the Dardanelles, ignoring the siege of Gallipoli, and put themselves on a course for Nicaea, the capital of Opsikion. They were spotted by fishing boats in the straits, who reported their course to the nearest military authorities. Ioannes, in nearby Nicomedia, immediately scrambled aircraft to intercept and neutralize the incoming targets.

The two sides had solidified enough that Ioannes could act quickly now. Three weeks ago, numerous land and air raids by Konstantinos’ forces had caused numerous casualties because they were still transmitting authentic ID codes, claimed to be loyal to Alvértos, or had been part of units under Trebizond’s control. But now Konstantinos’ men had firmly sided with him, and the same went for Alvértos’. What’s more, they had devised their own impromptu identifiers.

As the enemy aircraft entered Nicaea’s airspace and dove down to begin their bombing runs, the first thing people on the ground noticed was that they were emblazoned with the insignia of an eagle set against a chi-ro and a black background, not unlike the symbol spouted on the black armbands of the blackshirt goons in Constantinople. The dive bombers released their payload, and bombs fell on two vehicle manufacturing factories on the outskirts of downtown. Fortunately, the advance warning had given Ioannes enough time to evacuate the factory workers and everyone else in the immediate vicinity, but the damage was not insignificant. It would take weeks to repair everything and another month to get back to normal production levels. Still, nobody had died, and help was already on the way.

As the bombers ascended again to prepare for another run, a radio broadcast came through their receivers.

“This is the imperial airship Scipio, commanded by General John-Loukas Picardie. Abandon your bombing run and turn back, or you will be destroyed. This is your first and final warning.”

The bombers refused to heed the warning and instead dove down for another run. In that instant, the skies became filled with lead as a squadron of fighter planes dove out of the clouds and strafed them. One bomber immediately began trailing smoke, its propellers sheared off and engines shattered by the bullets. Another fired back with its secondary gun, but it couldn’t hit the more agile fighters. Bullets tore through its tail and caused it to go into a downward spiral. A minute later, the two downed bombers crashed into the ground outside Nicaea and exploded. The rest pulled out of their bombing runs and retreated to the west.

With the battle concluded, the Scipio’s air squadron did a low altitude fly-by over Nicaea. The townspeople emerged from their bunkers to cheer on their saviors, waving Roman flags and shouting their thanks at the pilots as they flew overhead and returned to the Scipio to dock.

The townspeople saw a different insignia painted on the wings and sides of Alvértos’ fighters. The old imperial eagle remained set against bright red, but another symbol had been added: SPQR.

For the Senate and people of Rome.

January 7th

From Lieutenant Nikos Stavros’s journal “The last week has been excruciatingly exhausting. The news of the civil war got to us quickly thanks to radio and the telegraph - such wonderful technologies, but the radio isn’t as widespread as it could be. Officially Sicilia has declared to be a neutral party in the conflict, which I understand given who we have to face to the north. What I don’t understand is the incompetence of the senior officers left in the province. Given the extraordinary nature of the situation, they gathered for a conference in Napoli, to decide the defensive stratagem for the near future. However, it appears that no one there really knows what to do. My, and my unit’s, orders keep getting changed from day to day, sometimes even a few times during the same day. ‘Hold your position!’, ‘Pull back here’ or ‘Pull back there’, in the end, it only introduces more chaos. If this keeps up I will have no choice but to make my own decision. And as important as orders are, I think there are more important matters, like the fate of the capital. I’ve already contacted some old friends from the airforce, and if this keeps up my good friend will make sure I’m on the next cargo plane to Thrace, and one of the last ones to make the trip for the time being. Thinking about abandoning my post brings me great shame, but I can’t sit idly by while the empire burns and fools squabble in Naples.”

January 11th

That was it. The point of no return. Nikos has prepared his baggage, bringing only the necessities with him, and a pistol for self-defense, walking around with a rifle would be far too conspicuous. All that was left to do was to bid his men farewell, maybe try to convince a few to join him in his insane mission to fight the Anatolian rebels. At 12 o’clock sharp he gathered his men in their camp, waited for everyone to calm down, and delivered his farewell address.

“My fellow soldiers, I stand before you today, not as your commanding officer, but as a proud Roman warrior. We have all heard the news from the capital, of how our nation got torn apart by infighting. That is why - with a heavy heart - I wish to inform you all that I shall be deserting my post…”

Gasps and murmurs could be heard in the crowd, the men in disbelief at what they were hearing. Lieutenant Stavros wasn’t a man to just leave his posting, did he go insane?

“…I know it’s a cowardly act, some may call it treason, that by picking this path I am throwing away my honor. However when the heart of our great land bleeds, when enemies from within threaten our very way of life is it not the duty of a soldier to pick up arms and defend his fatherland? We have been entrusted with the duty to protect our nation, to ensure that future generations can live in peace and prosperity, the world is watching, and it is our duty to show that we are a force to be reckoned with, that we are the protectors of our nation and our people. I call upon each and every one of you to join me, to stand together and defend our fatherland, to make the journey to Constantinople and fight the traitorous forces of the Second Son. However, I will not force any of you to follow my lead, each and every one of you needs to make this decision on his own. I know that this may not be an easy decision, and by deserting your post you are making a great sacrifice. But I also know each and every one of you is a great soldier, I’ve seen it myself. You’ve all seen the chaos caused by this conflict, the fools in Naples don’t know how to handle the new situation, and we keep receiving conflicting orders, changed every day. All this while the Empire bleeds from within. So once again, I ask you to join me, we shall make our way to the capital and join the Crown Prince’s forces in order to show that we are a force to be reckoned with, that we are the protectors of our nation, and our people. The future of our nation is in our hands, and it is up to us to ensure that it remains bright and prosperous.”

As soon as Nikos finished, a heavy, uneasy atmosphere descended upon his men… No, they were no longer his to command. He waited a bit before moving out, and ultimately only a handful followed him. That was still more than he expected. His heart was heavy as he led his band of traitors toward the airstrip from where they’d be picked up, but there was no turning back now, not after that speech. He must move quickly, the chances that one of the soldiers who stayed behind informs the Legio command was high, and then he would be hunted as a criminal. Only time could tell if he made the right choice.

January 15th

The journey was tough, but ultimately they made it. The flight was uncomfortable, and with the additional weight of so many men the plane certainly struggled, perhaps without the cargo it wouldn’t be as strained. As much as technology advanced, there was still a long way to go. They arrived in Thrace on the 12th, however, they were still far away from Constantinople and it took a few days of traveling to get there. Many people, those who were capable of it at least, were fleeing the city to avoid the conflict. Rag-tag military and blackshirt paramilitary formations were moving around, deploying, and redeploying as they were needed. Finally, Nikos and the few who dared to follow him could see the city. But the closer they got, the ugly it looked, reminding him nothing of the stories he was told about the glory represented. He couldn’t help but wonder how much of it had to do with the fighting and shelling inside the city walls, and how much of the splendor was propaganda. The time to ponder over that question would come later, however, as a blackshirt patrol stopped them, and an “officer” came forward, a brutish, muscular man of a large build with a scar across his eye.

“Who are you, people? In the name of His Majesty Emperor Konstantinos XXI, I order you to identify yourselves!”

Nikos sighed heavily, it was a wonder it took so long for anyone to take interest in them, and he would’ve preferred to meet a regular soldier, not a thug masquerading as one, but it couldn’t be helped, with the ongoing crisis every man capable of bearing arms was needed. The only real shock was his claim of Konstantinos was the Emperor. No news of death have reached Nikos, none of the refugees knew anything, and something like that would’ve spread fast. But perhaps the blackshirt was just a bit overzealous, and who could blame him?

“I’m Lieutenant Nikos Stavros of the XXXXIV. Legio, II. Cohort, DVI. Infantry Maniple. Well, I was. The men with me are soldiers under my command. When we heard the news we decided it is our duty to join the forces of His Majesty and fight against the rebels.”

The brute scratched his head, the numbers and unit names meant little to him, he had no way of knowing where that unit would’ve and should’ve been stationed. He squinted, looking Nikos up and down, suspicious of his intent.

“You don’t look like one of ours, sorry, but I’ll have to take you all in for some… Interrogation. Just a friendly chat to make sure you’re not spies of any kind. Only a formality really.”

The blackshirt leader smirked and glanced over towards his men who exploded in a hearty laugh. There was no other choice but to oblige this man. They outgunned Nikos’s small squad, and fighting them would go against the reason they came here in the first place. Nikos nodded and ordered his men to gather up and form a single file and follow the blackshirts into the city. They finally arrived. Not in the way or style he wished to, but once everything was sorted out he would feel the heat of battle and the rush of adrenaline again. That is as long as these zealots don’t have their way with him and his men.

Trebizond - January 31

Her workday was over, but the work never ceased. Even though Theodora had finished her paperwork today, there was one more thing she still had to do. For that, she took a taxi to the military base. Once she arrived, she showed her credentials to the guards on duty and entered. The base had changed significantly since she first arrived in Trebizond, having been expanded and overhauled as the primary command center of Anatolian military operations. Nicaea and Nicomedia would probably complain they weren’t given priority, but she couldn’t dictate where Alvértos chose to set up shop.

What concerned her today was the inner wall of the base, blocking off several buildings with a perimeter of barbed wire and electrified fencing. The guards here were given authorization to shoot any unauthorized individuals approaching. Fortunately, she had the required clearance—since she had issued it to herself. Only a handful of others, like Ioannes, had the same clearance. Not even Irene was allowed in.

She showed her credentials to the guard at the main gate, who let her in. Officially, this inner complex was a detention center for high profile informants and defectors from Konstantinos’ side, kept here for their own safety. In a way, that was technically true. But there was only one resident here, and she wasn’t exactly a defector from Konstantinos.

Theodora stepped into one of the buildings and was instantly greeted with the fragrant smell of saffron in the air. The rooms inside had been decorated richly, unlike what one would expect out of a prisoner’s cell or informant’s temporary hiding place. A Persian rug covered the floor of what was supposed to be the living room. Persian cultural iconography adorned the walls. A phonograph in the corner played soothing traditional Persian music at a low volume. Next to it was a bookshelf covered in books about various topics, focusing on philosophy and religion. Her host, Kira, was currently meditating on the rug.

“Theodora.” Kira’s eyes remained closed. “I’ve been expecting you.”

One of the main benefits of visiting a foreseer was that she did not have to announce her visit in advance—Kira already knew.

“You are here about my ability again,” Kira said.

“Yes,” Theodora said.

“What would you like to know?”

“If we can use it for tactical benefit,” Theodora said.

Kira opened one eye. “Use it for the military?”

“Yes,” Theodora said, “You can significantly help us in this fight. Imagine if we knew where the enemy was going and what their goals were. We could take back Constantinople and defeat Konstantinos.”

“You know my ability isn’t that specific,” Kira said, “I can influence what I see, but I can’t control the details. And even then, you might not have the context for what I see.”

“But still, what little you see can still help us.”

Kira opened her other eye. “You’re starting to sound like Ignatieff. Wanting to direct the future however you want, and only seeing me as a means to that.”

“I really think I’m not as bad as some deranged cultist who wants to wipe out all of human civilization.”

“Yes, but you could end up like him,” Kira said, “I’ve seen a handful of possible futures where you do.”

Theodora was curious. “And what do I do there?”

“You want that future?”

“No! God no! I don’t want to be like Ignatieff!”

“Then why are you making use of me the same way he is?”

“I just thought…” Theodora said. “That you could help us.”

“I can help you,” Kira said, “I never said I wouldn’t. That’s why I defected in the first place. But we must do it on my terms. Where I am treated like a person, not as a vessel. Can you at least do that much?”

“I’ll try.” Theodora nodded.

“Alright, then,” Kira said, “I do have something you might be interested in right now.”

“What is it?” Theodora’s interest was piqued.

“An upcoming operation involving the Scipio. You’ll know it when you see it. The details are hazy, but you should be watching this one closely.”

Theodora scribbled down the revelation in a notepad. “Got it. Thanks, Kira. That’ll be all for today.”

“It was nice talking to you.”

“Likewise.”

Theodora turned and headed for the door.

“Next time, you don’t have to show up unannounced. I’ll call in.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Theodora said as she left.

Somewhere outside Venice January 1936

Artemisia Favero hopped out of the back of the truck at a crossroads somewhere outside Venice. She had hitched a ride with a friendly farmer who was returning to his home. It was unfortunate that his farm was not closer to her destination, but this was close enough. She estimated that she was only a few kilometres away. She wasn’t adverse to a brisk walk even in this chilly winter afternoon. She waved at the farmer as he pulled away and then turned down the other road and started on her way.

It only took a few minutes before Artemisia regretted her decision. She had underestimated how cold it was. She had just spent the last few months in Valencia and grown used to the balmy weather. She had thought Italy would be just as pleasant, but Venice must be far enough north and close enough to the Alps to see colder weather than elsewhere in the Mediterranean. Perhaps it would have been better to rent a car, although she had hesitated due to the unwanted attention it would have drawn. Renting a car would have required her to provide identification, which would have revealed her to be a Roman citizen. In a young country floundering to form its own identity separate from the empire, it was only natural that there was hostility towards imperial citizens. It was best to keep that to herself.

The purring of an engine drew Artemisia’s attention as a sleek roadster drove up next to her in the other lane. The gentleman driver cranked down the window and leaned his head through the opening. With a smile, he said, “Can I offer you a ride, miss?”

Artemisia flashed him a smile back, hiding her wariness. Accepting such offers from strange men was a good way for a young woman to get killed. She had to stifle a chuckle though as she acknowledged that in all likelihood it would be this man who would end up dead in a ditch if he tried make an improper advance on her. She was more than capable of defending herself. Still, it was awfully cold. Deciding it was best to remain somewhat cautious, she said, “Perhaps, if we are heading in the same direction.”

“Well where would you be heading, miss?” the man said, watching her with his dark eyes. His black hair was cut short and he had the faintest hint of stubble growing on his face. She estimated him to be in his early 30s. He continued to watch her, a patient look rather than anything conveying a more sinister intent.

Figuring it didn’t matter if this man knew where she was headed, Artemisia said, “I’m heading to the old Favero estate. I… knew someone who once lived there.”

The man’s smile widened. “Why, that’s where I’m heading too. I’m visiting some old friends. Hop in and I’ll give you a lift.” The car gave a creak as he put it in park and leaned over across the passenger seat, opening the door for her.

Artemisia stepped around the vehicle and slid into the passenger seat, closing the door behind her. Now that she was in the vehicle, she got a closer look at the driver. He wore a business suit, one that seemed well-worn but of fine quality. More noticeable was the medal dangling from the breast pocket. Clearly the man was former military and quite proud of his achievement. He must have done well to afford such an expensive car.

“Giuseppe,” the man said, extending his hand.

It took a moment for Artemisia to realize that the man was sharing his name. She awkwardly took his hand and shook it. “Artemisia.”

“Ah, that’s a lovely name,” Giuseppe said, cranking the car into gear and driving on. “Named after the Greek goddess of the hunt, I presume.”

Artemisia smirked. “Actually, I’m named after Artemisia Gentileschi, the famous Baroque painter. You see, my family has a thing for artists, God knows why.”

“Ah, beautiful and cultured, a combination rarely found in women these day.”

Artemisia refrained from rolling her eyes. Just what she needed, a lovesick puppy. She expected Giuseppe to continue making advances, but he seemed content to keep driving while admiring the scenery. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was a hard man to read, seemingly content and pleasant at first glance, but something in his eyes betrayed that there was a lot more going on in his head than he wanted to let on.

“There’s the estates up ahead,” Giuseppe said, breaking the silence. He pointed off to the side of the road to the rolling hills covered in grapevines. Artemisia’s father had always told her that the estate had been destroyed, the fields torched, but it looked as though the vineyards had been regrown. It made sense rather than leaving land barren for decades. As they turned off the road into a long driveway, she finally got a look at the building itself. She had never seen the original manor other than in photographs, and it had burned down before she was born. Yet looking at it now, she couldn’t help but notice the stark resemblance to the images her father had shown her. Walls of white stone and marble, pillars in old Roman style, now blended with modern architecture in a grand display. A fantastical fountain of plump cupids and satyrs spitting water. A grand chapel with beautiful stained glass windows stood next to the manor, the reworked remains of the cathedral built by its brief papal owner. And while she didn’t remember her father mentioning one, she swore she say a hedge maze next to the manor.

Giuseppe pulled the car up to the front of the house and a servant rushed outside to open the door for Artemisia. She thanked the servant and stepped out of the car. He then sped around the car to open Giuseppe’s door, but the driver had already exited the car. When the servant saw the driver, he stopped in his tracks, straightened his back, and gave a stiff salute.

Giuseppe gave a slight chuckle and waved the man away. “At ease, soldier. We’re not in the military anymore.” The servant relaxed but diligently walked back to the front door and opened it for the guests. With a grand voice, he announced inside to no one in particular. “Sir, Mr. Lombardi and a guest are here to see you.”

Artemisia was halfway up the front steps when she pulled together what the servant had just said. She had spent her entire life hearing about the great evils the former king of Italy had wrecked on her family to not recognize that name. She spun on her heels, facing Giuseppe who was just approaching the steps. “Excuse me, but did that man just call you Mr. Lombardi, as in Giuseppe Lombardi, the former king of Italy? Didn’t he pass away years ago?”

Giuseppe gave a wan smile as he stepped up beside her. He gently grabbed Artemisia by the arm and guided her to the front door. She was so shocked by the realization that she let him guide her around without protest. “He did,” Giuseppe said with a nod. Looking Artemisia in the eyes, he added, “He was my father.”

Artemisia was not sure how to process all this. Here were the children of two men who had destroyed each other’s lives meeting by happenstance. She knew that she should hate this man, that her father would want her to plant a knife between his shoulder-blades, but the reveal of his identity didn’t inspire any such emotions in her. Her father’s vendetta was not her own, and she had longed for him to give up the hatred he had carried for so long. It was partly why she was here. She had thought seeing the remains of her father’s home, or at least what she thought would be remains, she would be able to better understand her father.

“Does that bother you?” Giuseppe asked, drawing Artemisia back into reality. She must have remained silent for far too long. They had even entered the entrance hall without her noticing, a grand open room with white marble floors and two curved staircases leading up to the second floor.

Artemisia chuckled, a bit too awkwardly for her liking. “No, not at all. It’s just, well, our fathers did not have the best relationship.”

“Your father?” Giuseppe said. He opened his mouth as if to say more but was interrupted by a side door swinging open and a jubilant man prancing into the room.

“Giuseppe, my dear friend!” the man said, the owner of the manor based on his extravagant smoking jacket and excessive amount of jewelry he wore. His hair was long and flowing, constantly brushing in front of his face as he moved. He opened his arms and wrapped Giuseppe in a warm embrace. Stepping back, he eyed Artemisia and said, “And who is this? Your lover?”

Artemisia’s cheeks reddened and she resisted slugging their host in the face. Giuseppe wisely stepped between them before anything happened. “This is Artemisia,” he said, waving his hand at her. “I met her on the road here and offered her a ride.” He frowned a bit, looking back at her. “She said she knew the owner.”

Based on the narrowed eyes she was receiving from both men, Artemisia realized she better explain herself before she got booted out of the manor. However, she couldn’t hold back her temper entirely. “I said that I knew someone who once lived here, not the current owner. My father once owned this estate before it was stolen from him by separatists and burned to the ground.”

Giuseppe’s eyes widened, perhaps now realizing what Artemisia meant by her earlier comment about their fathers. Their host just continued to stare at her, squinting his eyes. Then he suddenly smiled and open his arms. “Cousin Artemisia, it’s so good to see you.” He rushed over to her, wrapping her in a hug so quickly that she couldn’t push him away. He pulled away just as quick, and clapped her on the forearms. “You must forgive me for not recognizing you. I’ve only ever seen you in pictures, and you were a lot younger in those.” He scanned her body up and down, a bit too closely for her liking. “A lot younger.”

“Well it’s good to meet you,” Artemisia finally said, gently pushing him away. “And you are?”

The man looked stunned, and shook his head. “Your father never told you about me?” He placed a hand on he chest and said, “I’m Paolo, your second cousin.”

Paolo stood there, an expectant look on his face. If he thought she would recognize the name, he was going to be disappointed. Her father had never mentioned any relatives other than her aunt Elisabetta. She didn’t even know there was another branch of the Favero family.

Eventually Paolo just sighed. “I suppose I’m not surprised Uncle Donatello never mentioned me. He apparently had quite the spat with my father about ownership of these estates.”

Artemisia rubbed her forehead. Not only did she have relatives, but they were the ones that owned her father’s old estates. Why had he never mentioned that? “I thought the estates were destroyed. How did they get rebuilt?” Looking at Paolo with a sneer, she added, “And how did you get them?”

Paolo scrunched his face up in annoyance, a biting retort about to escape his lips. Giuseppe beat him to it though, sensing the tension in the air. “I helped with that.” When Artemisia turned his way, he continued. “I had some family friends in government who were willing to do me some favours. I thought it was the least I could do for your family after my father confiscated the property during his reign.”

“And why then was it not returned to my father, the rightful owner?” Artemisia said, putting her hands on her hips.

Paolo let out a snort, drawing an indignant look from Artemisia. “As if the Italian government would hand over such valuable land to a traitor.”

“Traitor!?” Artemisia said, her voice raising in volume. “You should be glad my father is not here or he’d have strangled you for uttering such words.”

Paolo shrugged, and Artemisia was starting to imagine how pleasant it would be to punch her second cousin in the face. “It’s a matter of perspective. Your father sided with the empire and lost. Mine sided with the Italian separatists and won. Your family was deemed traitors and had your property confiscated; ours were rewarded for our loyalty with said property. You should be glad it wasn’t given to random strangers but instead stayed within the Favero family.”

Artemisia was about to utter something quite unladylike when Giuseppe gently grabbed her by the arm and guided her towards the room Paolo had entered from. “Perhaps we should go sit down.” He glanced over his shoulder at Paolo. “If you wouldn’t mind asking your servants to prepare some tea, that would be appreciated.”

Paolo blinked his eyes a few times before nodding. “I’ll go ask them, and make sure they make it properly.” He shuffled away, perhaps somewhat relieved to be able to excuse himself.

Artemisia allowed herself to be guided to a cushioned armchair. She sat down in a huff, crossing her legs and slouching in the chair. Giuseppe sat down on a nearby sofa, sitting up straight and perfect. He eyed Artemisia but said not a word, giving her the chance to speak when she was ready. She noticed and appreciated the silence. At least here was a man who knew how to show proper respect. She opted to remain in silence, stewing in her own thoughts until Paolo returned.

Theodora Doukas’ estate, Athens

Igor’s car stopped in front of a gate guarded by two blackshirts. His blackshirt escort opened the door and motioned for him to get out. He didn’t need to see the pistol in the militiaman’s hand to know it was a bad idea to refuse. The guards pulled open the gate, and Igor followed the blackshirt onto the property. The main house was just up ahead, at the end of a moderate-sized front yard filled with neatly organized flowers and trees. It was clearly a noble’s estate—orderly gardens were a popular trend among the upper class, showing mankind’s superiority over nature through bringing order to chaos. Of course, that meant little to non-nobles, who were more concerned about their next paycheck for the most part. Igor personally was more fortunate than most. Perhaps that was why he was here. They had noticed his talents.

Two more blackshirts stood guard at the door. These were armed with full submachine guns, unlike the riflemen at the gate and the pistol-toting militiaman. Igor shuddered at the sight of the large guns. What—or who—was so important here that they needed all this firepower?

Compared to the ornate exterior, the interior was completely barren. All of the furniture was gone. The walls were bare, with dust-free squares showing where paintings once hung. No carpets covered the cold wood floors. The militiaman jabbed him in the back with the pistol, pushing him into one of the offices. There, he got his answer. Prince Konstantinos sat behind a desk, hands clasped. He wore the same uniform he always appeared with. When he began speaking, it was with that same slick smile he showed at public events. Igor never expected to be meeting the prince in person, but here he was.

“Good morning, my guest.” He didn’t mention Igor’s name. Perhaps he already knew it. “I apologize for the lack of furnishings in my new vacation property and the circumstances of your trip here. I had to take appropriate security measures.”

Like abducting me from my house at 6 in the morning? “It is…okay, Your Highness.”

“Thank you for your respect and understanding,” Konstantinos said, “It is something many of your kind lack towards us Romans.”

“That is most…regrettable.” Igor held back the urge to wince. He had immigrated to the Empire in search of better business opportunities, but the downside was he had to put up with this. “I can only hope that my countrymen will eventually…come to an understanding. But know that I am first and foremost an imperial citizen, loyal to the Empire despite my country of birth.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Konstantinos said, “In the dark times ahead, what the Empire needs is unity and strength. You can break a single stick with your bare hands, but tie ten, twenty, forty of them into a fasces, and they will be unbreakable. No matter what our enemies—be they separatist traitors, communist saboteurs, or our national rivals—throw at us, we will bend but not break.”

Igor didn’t care much for that kind of talk. He would rather go to church than talk politics. That was for other men to handle. “Yes, yes, of course.”

“Now, on to why you are here,” Konstantinos said, “The Empire requires unity and strength. But it is not enough to simply have the spirit of unity, the appearance of strength. One must always back up their words and ideas with blood and steel. Guns win wars, not paperwork. And we need every advantage we can get. Not only to defeat my rogue brother, but to restore the Empire to its former glory afterwards. And that is where you come in.”

“What can I help with?” Igor said.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Konstantinos said, “I know what you are capable of. You have built military aircraft for the last 25 years. Some of your designs were used in the fighter wings of the Veronica-class airships during the Sack of the Capital. You’ve designed later airships, such as the one the Anatolian rebels stole. And we know about your new project—a rotary wing vertical-takeoff design. I am not asking for your help. I am requiring your work in service of the Empire. Am I perfectly clear?”

“Uh…yes, Your Highness,” Igor said.

“Good,” Konstantinos said, “Starting tomorrow, you will report to the Kodima Barracks in downtown Constantinople, where you will begin working on prototypes with a team I have picked out for you. I expect results from you soon. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Dismissed,” Konstantinos said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Sikorsky.”

The blackshirt pushed Igor out of the room. As he returned to the car, he could only think to himself, Why did he only say my name once?

Trebizond,

A set of footsteps echoed through the lobby of the hotel. It was a walk accompanied by the thump of a wooden cane. The sound was familiar, so familiar that the concierge barely raised his head from the guestbook to check who was approaching.

“Good evening, sir.” the concierge said, trying to hide the drowsiness of his own voice. The man simply walked past the desk and down the hall towards various meeting rooms, where 4 Imperial guards stood at attention behind a small desk with a equally small man seated in it. “Papers please” the small man said with a yawn. After looking over the various parchments presented, the small man looked back towards one of the guards and nodded. The guards proceeded to part, opening the rest of the hall.

“Thank you for your cooperation Mr. Varangios” sighed the seated man. Justinian continued his hobbled walk down the hall until reaching one a storage closet. Through the opaque glass he could see the “reception area” lights were still on. Justinian didn’t think there would be anyone here at this hour, in fact that would make this easier. With a swift inhale he turned the handle and opened the door. Irene was at her desk, typing away on a writer while reading a stack of documents to her side.

“I was about to ask if you planned on just looming on the other side of the door all night.” Irene said without taking her eyes of the various forms on her desk. Justinian smirked. “If you’re here, Theodora must be too. Is she available? I have something she needs to approve.” “One moment, please.” Irene walked over to the door, knocking before sticking her head inside. The conversation was quiet, Justinian could not even make out any of the words being exchanged.

“Or maybe it’s the Tinnitus…” he thought to himself. “Probably the Tinnitus.”

Irene opened the door fully. “She will see you now.” she said flatley. Justinian tried to give her a courteous smile before entering the room.

Justinian entered the room and laid his files in front of Theodora. “Here is what I have…”

OPERATION LIGHTHOUSE: HAVING IDENTIFIED AN OPENING INTO THE MAINTENANCE AND HOUSEKEEPING STAFF OF THE PATRIARCH, AGENT TETRAITES WILL INFILTRATE PRIVATE QUARTERS IN DISGUISE AND LEAVE PARCHMENT ADDRESSED TO PATRIARCH. PARCHMENT CONTAINS FUTURE PARAMETERS FOR COMMUNICATION BETWEEN PATRIARCH AND MSI. ESCAPE ROUTE IS LEFT TO AGENT’S DISCRETION. RENDEZVOUS POINT HAS BEEN DETERMINED. EXTRACTION TEAM AND AGENT HAVE FULL AUTHORITY TO CREATE ALTERNATIVE EXTRACTION PLAN IF NEEDED.

The folder continued to list minor aspects of the mission.

“All we are missing is your seal in invisible ink.” Justinian said sliding a paper across the table.

“Something to confirm this isn’t a test of loyalty by Konstantinos. As soon as you stamp it, we can expect the note to be in the Patriarch’s hands by the end of tomorrow. Maybe even speaking with him directly before the end of the week.” Justinian continued as Theodora read through the papers.

“Once we get in contact with the Patriarch, we can move onto setting up in Constantinople. I have a few ideas in mind, but we should see how to Patriarch responds first.”

Justinian took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept in how long? Ah, maybe if this gets approved he can at least go to sleep tonight.

“Is there anything you would like to add to the current operation?”

Theodora looked over the papers. Everything seemed in order. “No, I don’t have anything else at the moment.”

She picked up her pen and signed. “Operation Lighthouse is a go.”

Early morning, 21st January 1936 - Constantinople

“Excuse me, could you say that again?”

The Crown Prince looked distinctly annoyed at having been interrupted, but given it was the Patriarch of Rome who had spoken, he had to answer.

“The Emperor is dead.”

“This has been announced publicly?”

“It will be in the morning papers, yes. What-”

He paused as the three churchmen sharply breathed in as one.

“What?”

“Who was his confessor?” Alexander asked, after collecting himself. Seeing the confusion on the face of his distant cousin, he snapped. “Which priest was with him on his deathbed?”

“I’m sure I-that is…”

“Good God,” the Rector quietly expressed, raising a hand to his face. “There wasn’t one, was there?”

The Prince had gone through embarrassment remarkably quickly and now had reasserted to anger. “Now see here,” he blustered.

“You fool!” the old Patriarch roared. “The Emperor of Rome requires a sanctification in the last days of life, and immediate anointing after death, by the highest authority in the Empire. Did you carry this out? No, you did not – for Alexander was here under guard. The Emperor could also be prepared by the next highest authority should he be too far away from the Ecumenical Patriarch. Did you do that? No, because I am the said authority. Having given the due respect and decency of Christian rites to the Father of the Nation, it is then incumbent upon the Church to announce His Imperial Majesties death, reassuring all that his last rights were carried out. You have just made clear to the entire Orthodox world that the Emperor was left to die alone, without Christian aid, and that your representatives are taking responsibility for his death. Were we not in a time of civil war, this would be an absolute scandal. As it is, it is tantamount to treason, publicly confessed!”

“That will do, Franciscus,” Alexander quietly said, touching the older man’s arm to sit him back down from where he had half-risen in fury. He glared at the ashen face of the Crown…the new Emperor. “You have behaved most foolishly, Konstantinos. This places the Church in an incredibly awkward position. We must see your father’s body immediately.”

“I had hoped to move on from it quickly and speak on my coronation,” the former Prince said sulkily.

Alexander grasped the Patriarch’s arm again to stop him speaking out, and thus could do nothing but groan when the Rector slammed his palm onto the desk.

“Listen here, boy! There will be no coronation unless and until we can satisfy to everyone else in the Church that the Emperor has been taken care of. He must be anointed. He must be carried to this cathedral and held in state for a period of no less than three days. He must then be buried with all the honour and dignity due to a great and noble man. To do otherwise would see riots across the Empire and the vast majority of the Church looking to crucify everyone in this room!”

Konstantinos worked his jaw but no words came out for several seconds. “Alexander?” he said, weakly.

“I’m sorry, Konstantinos but they are correct for the most part. This has the potentially to split the Church at a time when we can ill afford it. I, personally, must go and perform the last rites on your father’s body, preferably with multiple church witnesses. We will then make all arrangements for the funeral and care of the soul…and only then, can we think on your own coronation. It will take months to prepare and plan regardless.”

“My advisors-”

“-in this instance, they are incorrect if they have told you anything but that which we have discussed today. No one within or without the Empire will accept such a rush, a disrespect or an unholy disorder of a succession. Please, sire,” he leaned forwards letting all his worries show, “the Empire cannot take this blow.”

The new Emperor sat back and nodded dumbly. “Yes…yes, of course you are right. I will…hmm…could the body be sent here, rather than you go to the palace?”

Alexander closed his eyes briefly and then nodded. “If we must. But I caution you that any further delays will make us all look worse in the eyes of the Christian world. I speak now not only of the Empire but the lands beyond.”

“What can we do to hurry this along?”

Alexander stared him down. “If you want it done at all, you had best think of several offerings of forgiveness to the Church, so that we might at least waive this off as difficulties during the current crisis rather than the new Emperor’s complete lack of faith or respect-”

“I take your point,” he waved them off. “I shall think of something. And my father’s body will be here within 48 hours. Will that suit, gentlemen.”

Alexander glanced to his left and right. “It will have to do.”

The Emperor strode out of the Cathedral with his ego rapidly recovering, whilst behind him in the office, the three holy men slumped in their seats.

January 17th

To say that Nikos and his men were held in abhorrent conditions would be an understatement, being stuffed in a damp basement, filled with rats and a rotting corpse - presumably, someone found guilty of being a traitor - and the goons’ “interrogation” dragged on longer and longer. Some of Nikos’s men returned in one piece, some came with clear signs of beatings, bruises, cuts, a broken arm, or a leg. It all was quite upsetting, but there was little Nikos could do from this position, especially after they had their guns confiscated “for the cause”. So Nikos waited. He waited for his turn to answer whatever questions the fascists would have for them, and he wouldn’t wait long - within the next 10 minutes he was forced to stand up and practically dragged up the stairs and through the street to a now abandoned cafe down the road. The two goons who so graciously “escorted” Nikos over here forced him to take a seat at a table across which sat another black shirt. However, this young man, perhaps half of Nikos’s age, maybe a bit older, with sharp steely eyes that could pierce a tank, an equally sharp chin, well-kept short black hair, a proper black pressed shirt, nice leather strap crossing his chest and going down to hid hip, surely leading to a holster.

“Come, come, sit down Lieutenant! I do hope my friends didn’t cause you much trouble.” The man’s voice was overly friendly and sweet, it wasn’t hard to tell that he was putting up a facade.

“Well, they’re no worse than Russians during the great war.” Nikos retorted, already getting tired of this conversation. But he felt like this would go on for quite a while, so he steeled himself, reminding himself that he wasn’t in control here and one wrong move could cost him and his men their lives.

“Ah, I’m terribly sorry to hear that. But I hope that you won’t hold this against me, or my men. Surely you understand the circumstances we find ourselves in. Everyone’s on edge. Would you like some tea, Lieutenant Stavros? Ah don’t be so shocked, I’ve had the pleasure of seeing your file Lieutenant, I’m quite curious to know what you’re doing here.” The young black shirt drone on, keeping up a very unpleasant, forced smile as if trying to fool Nikos into thinking this is a conversation between good friends who are reuniting after a long time spent apart.

“No thank you, I’m more of a coffee person rather than a tea person. And before I answer any of your questions… Sir…? I have a question of my own, and I will not speak a word more until it is answered.” And now the Lieutenant waited for a response, his eyes darting around the room to gauge the atmosphere and properly analyze his situation. The pair of thugs who brought him in was behind him, guarding the entrance, those two only had batons. There was the creepy young one, right in front of him, and further back two more, in proper uniforms, one with a submachine gun, one with a pistol carbine. Nikos felt himself sink into the chair at that moment, no matter how he’d approached this, the situation was hopeless, he could only try to talk his way out.

“Very well, if that’s all it’ll take for you to cooperate - what is your question?”

“I’d like to know the reasoning behind the violence committed against some of the men under my command.”

The blackshirt leader chuckled, as if in mockery of the question, or perhaps imagining Nikos’s reaction. “It’s quite simple actually. They weren’t Romans. Well, not true Romans. Anyway…”

The old soldier couldn’t believe that he was hearing, how could the soldiers of the Empire not count as true Romans? He heard rumors that some of these fascists held extreme views, but this was simply outrageous, these people had no shame, no human decency in them. The young man clasped his hands, resting his elbows on the table to support himself as he leaned forward. “I believe that answers your question, you didn’t specify how detailed of an answer you want. Regardless, you’re a traitor, I’m showing you some kindness by acknowledging your question. Now, now, don’t be so shocked. I’ve taken the liberty of reading your file, I know you shouldn’t be here, and yet you’re right in front of me - in the flesh. So now humor me and answer the few queries I have on my mind. If your answers aren’t satisfactory, well, it could cost you your life.”

For a brief moment, the thick atmosphere in the room became even denser, everyone, including the blackshirt soldiers tensing up, raring to go at the slightest of movements, the quietest of sounds. Nikos tried his best to keep a straight, unaffected face, but his eyes darted around the room, he could feel his heart speeding up adrenaline pumping. But this deadly silence was quickly broken by a burst of laughter from the “host” who looked back to his men, the two armed guards following suit with nervous, shaky laughs of their own. “Oh, you should’ve seen the look on your face Lieutenant.”

At that moment everyone collectively sighed in relief before the young man continued. “Ah well, I’ve had my fun, so let’s not waste any more time. I’d like to know why you’re here, instead of your post, how you got here, and on whose orders did you make your way here.” a sly smirk formed on his face, he smacked his lips and added “And just so you know, I know how to spot a liar, there’s no point in hiding the truth. I’ll know. So I highly advise you to not try any tricks with me.”

Nikos took a moment to calm his breathing, and collect his thoughts. It was hard to know what the radical in front of him wanted to hear, and he must’ve heard the story from all the men questioned before Nikos. “I’m sure my men told you the same thing. I gave the order, we wanted to join the fight against the Anatolian rebels. Whatever was left of the command structure in Sicily was left in chaos, the indecisiveness was worse than inaction. We boarded a cargo plane, and we arrived at an airstrip near the town of Komotini about 3 days ago, around 10 a.m. After gathering our equipment we marched towards Constantinople, the journey itself was quite uneventful. That is God’s honest truth, and there isn’t anything worth hiding. I was fed up with the chaos in Sardinia, both the civil government, and the military not being able to decide what path to follow, and concluded the best course of action was to join the fight to squash the rebellion. The men who followed me did it out of their own free will.”

“Mhm. I see.” The blackshirt nodded his head and began writing in a notebook in front of him. The silence felt like it dragged on forever, the only noise coming from the pen leaving its mark on the paper, no one daring to make a sound. Finally after finishing the leader clapped his hands, and a beaming smile spread on his face. “While I appreciate your eagerness to fight the good fight, it was quite irresponsible to abandon your post like that. And a crime cannot go unpunished. It just so happens I have a task in mind for someone like you. You see, there are many… Undesirables on our side, people who under normal circumstances would be of little use. Of course, we have everything under control, however, the traitor prince’s forces are proving… Tougher than expected. Thus as penance for your crime, you’ll be given command of a special force made up of those… less strategically important. You will learn the details later. However as a sign of goodwill, I will allow you to take your wounded men to the Cathedral, I believe the priests organized a relief station there. While some of your men may not be true Roman citizens, they still have valuable experience which we’d like to use. Take them there for treatment, then tomorrow report here with the rest of your men, those still fit for combat, and you shall be instructed about your new task, as well as meet your other subordinates. Now, take this scoundrel back.”

That was a lot to take in. But at least Nikos was spared from the worst. He stood up from the chair, walked outside, and waited for the two goons that took him here in the first place to escort him back. Just as they were leaving the blackshirt officer called out. “Oh, and I’m sorry I couldn’t treat you to some coffee, Lieutenant! Maybe some other time!” As Nikos and the thugs slowly walked away, he could only hear the young fascist’s cackling laugh. What a long day it was, and it wasn’t over just yet. Now to gather his men and make his way to the Cathedral, even if those radicals saw some of his men as lesser, he was still responsible for them, and it was his fault they ended up beaten and bruised. Hopefully, the priests still left in the city were kinder towards their fellow men.

“Good God,” the Rector exclaimed at the sight. “What’s all this?”

“Deserters from the Italian Border,” the guardsman replied, holding up one of the imperial soldiers as a dozen others were escorted or carried towards the medical wing. The hospital and medical chapel of shelter had of late been overflowing, and thus two more locations had been converted into places of rest and care, and a third into a rotating soup kitchen for the infirm, and the poor of the city.

“And they just walked into the city?” the Rector said, hurrying over to one of the unconscious men on a stretcher. He was no older than seventeen. His rank and service regs sewn onto his filthy uniform indicated he’d been in the army for less than a year.

“Apparently, they were looking to fight the good fight.”

The Rector looked up sharply at the guard’s scoff, but privately agreed. That was an extraordinarily foolish thing to do.

“Did they have a leader?”

“He’s being interviewed by the Guard-Captain now. The gate sentry’s impression was he was a naïve patriot. Must have had a hell of a shock when he led those fellows to the black shirts.”

“Monsters,” the Rector murmured. The young solider had been badly beaten about the face and chest. One of his legs was broken and he had been bound at the hands for hours at least. “Get them to the doctors. I’ll check in with the Captain.”

“Sir,” the guardsman shifted slightly as the man he was supporting fainted outright onto his shoulder, “is everything…alright, with the Prince?”

“Unfortunately, my son, I fear not.”

…

Nikos was far more intimidated by the Άγιος Guard than the fascists. The infantry spoke often about them, and the Varangians. They were elite forces, every one of them with at least two tours of service and a personal invitation to join their special ranks.

They were not best pleased to see imperial soldiers at their doorstep, especially when he told them what had happened.

“You deserted your posts at a time of war, reported to a non-military official and volunteered to command an illegal outfit of private forces to commit war crimes.”

Nikos winced at the Guard-Captain’s tone. Put like that, it really didn’t seem like a wise course of action. A messenger had entered and left before he looked up again.

“Your men are badly hurt. Most of them will not be leaving on their own two feet for some weeks, if at all. Fortunately or unfortunately, we have no facilities to detain criminals for if we did, you will be in a cell facing charges against the Empire and Emperor’s Regulations right now.”

Another knock at the door followed, and the terrifying older man leant back to admit an ancient priest in robes.

“Rector,” he said respectfully.

“I see you have been talking to our latest guest,” the old man said, looking over Nikos.

“A fool. An honest fool, if that helps him some.” The commander of the guard leant back in his chair. “Get out and go get that cut looked at. Do not make any trouble here, or the black shirts will be the least of your worries.”

Nikos did not need to be told twice. He leapt out of his seat and through the door, only to find himself utterly lost in the cavernous halls and confusing maze of halls and passages.

“Come with me,” the old man, the Rector, said, tapping him on the shoulder. “And tell me everything.”

“That’s not-…” “I didn’t-…” After telling the guard captain his story, every attempt to correct the misunderstandings ended up futile as Nikos kept getting cut off before getting his word in. It was infuriating, he felt like a child being berated, and just like a child, he could only wallow in his frustration. Of course, the Guard-Captain wasn’t completely wrong, and Nikos was well aware of it all, and it felt pointless to argue, even if the guard was wrong on some details.

“Thank you. Taking care of the wounded is all I ask, not for my sake, but for theirs. None of them deserve what they’ve gotten.”

A sudden knock on the door and an old priest entered the room. Even from his position, Nikos felt it was someone worthy of great respect, so when the Rector entered Nikos saluted the clergyman. As soon as he was dismissed, Nikos didn’t waste time in an attempt to get out, but the Cathedral was vast, far larger than he ever imagined it to be, and the architecture inside was quite beautiful, captivating, even for a simpler, less religious man like himself. A tap on the shoulder brought the Lieutenant back to his senses.

“Ah, uhm, yes sir. To be quite honest this conflict is tearing the empire apart, and even in Sicily things descended into a form of chaos. Not quite anarchy, but the local government, the local military, they’re all confused, unsure of what to do, like a blind man in a vast open space, left alone to search for a path home. I imagine the same is happening in other provinces.”

As the two walked through the corridors of the great temple, Nikos pondered if the cathedral was this… marvelous at a dreadful time like this, how breathtaking could it be at a time of peace? How captivating was it during its best of times? Nikos once again returned from his thoughts, he wasn’t sure if the Rector responded anything, he didn’t pay attention as he wandered through his thoughts. Regardless he continued to tell his story.

“I did my best to fulfill my duty, for roughly two weeks of the conflict. But every day, sometimes every hour I kept getting new orders, and sometimes two contradictory orders came at the same time. The senior officers didn’t know what to do, they squabbled over what line on the map held without any regard for the troops on the ground. So a few times just as we were prepared to move to a new position, we received orders to dig in right where were. It all was infuriating. And it all felt futile. This is the reason I couldn’t take it anymore, the nobles who kept squabbling over a line in the sand, those simply born into their position without earning it, without any experience were causing more troubles than they were fixing. I couldn’t do anything from Italy, so I thought if I come here I’ll at least be able to do my tiny part in ending this madness quickly.”

Nikos sighed, his heart felt heavy, and the vastness of this war, the absurdity, and insanity of the conflict weighed the old soldier down.

“I didn’t order any of those men to come with me. I would’ve come alone if they didn’t willingly choose to follow me. And had I known what would happen, I would even order them to stay back. But now I’m stuck here, caught in this quicksand of hysteria, trapped by the fascist’s paranoia. I didn’t want any of this, but if I don’t follow the orders of the blackshirts, I fear the worst will happen to those soldiers. I don’t care what happens to me, I fully deserve whatever fate awaits me. But the men who came with me deserve none of it. I wanted to join the army forces, but I’ll be stuck with whoever the blackshirts assign to me.”

As soon as he was dismissed, Nikos didn’t waste time in an attempt to get out, but the Cathedral was vast, far larger than he ever imagined it to be, and the architecture inside was quite beautiful, captivating, even for a simpler, less religious man like himself.

The leader of these men was typical of the imperial lower ranks, of the imperial lower classes even, to the mind of those who should know better. He looked to be middle-aged and yet had not risen above the rank of lieutenant. A man lacking both family and talent, it seemed.

“Ah, uhm, yes sir. To be quite honest this conflict is tearing the empire apart, and even in Sicily things descended into a form of chaos. Not quite anarchy, but the local government, the local military, they’re all confused, unsure of what to do, like a blind man in a vast open space, left alone to search for a path home. I imagine the same is happening in other provinces.”

The Rector sighed. It probably was the same all over, more the pity. The power of Rome was in its unity of purpose and spirit. The provinces, already seeing some of their number leave a scant few decades ago, were now being left to fend for themselves yet again. Certainly, all the allies and client states of the Empire would be running wild and free, and really, who could blame them?

In a civilized world in which the citizens lived in, no order meant utter chaos and confusion, not so much a return to Eden as to Babel.

As the two walked through the corridors of the great temple, Nikos pondered if the cathedral was this… marvellous at a dreadful time like this, how breath-taking could it be at a time of peace? How captivating was it during its best of times?

The Rector noticed his wondering gaze and smiled slightly. At least the temple was back to its proper glory and restoration…albeit in time for another host of vandals to ruin it all anew.

The solider seemed to be in a revere of confession, and thus the Rector kept mum and continued to listen.

Nikos once again returned from his thoughts, he wasn’t sure if the Rector responded anything, he didn’t pay attention as he wandered through his thoughts. Regardless he continued to tell his story.

“I did my best to fulfil my duty, for roughly two weeks of the conflict. But every day, sometimes every hour I kept getting new orders, and sometimes two contradictory orders came at the same time. The senior officers didn’t know what to do, they squabbled over what line on the map held without any regard for the troops on the ground. So a few times just as we were prepared to move to a new position, we received orders to dig in right where were. It all was infuriating. And it all felt futile. This is the reason I couldn’t take it anymore, the nobles who kept squabbling over a line in the sand, those simply born into their position without earning it, without any experience were causing more troubles than they were fixing. I couldn’t do anything from Italy, so I thought if I come here I’ll at least be able to do my tiny part in ending this madness quickly.”

“I didn’t order any of those men to come with me. I would’ve come alone if they didn’t willingly choose to follow me. And had I known what would happen, I would even order them to stay back. But now I’m stuck here, caught in this quicksand of hysteria, trapped by the fascist’s paranoia. I didn’t want any of this, but if I don’t follow the orders of the blackshirts, I fear the worst will happen to those soldiers. I don’t care what happens to me, I fully deserve whatever fate awaits me. But the men who came with me deserve none of it. I wanted to join the army forces, but I’ll be stuck with whoever the blackshirts assign to me.”

“Your men will be staying here, as they have all been unfortunately too injured to leave,” the Rector said calmly, once the soldier had clearly said his piece.

“But-”

“They are far too injured to leave,” the Rector insisted, compelling the younger man to understand.

“I…I see.”

“Good.”

They walked together till they reached the infirmary. Nikos saw a flurry of activity but it barely registered as his attention quickly fastened to the fate of the soldiers.

“Will they be alright?”

“Broken bones and wounds, we can heal sure enough. The damage that has been done to them goes beyond the body, however. Torture is never so lightly brushed off the soul.”

Nikos gulped and looked away, then started as a chaplain approached them.

“You have two large cuts on your face and head that need cleaning,” the Rector said quietly. “And some quiet reflection to recover from the shock. At least a day of rest.”

“The…they said to come back with the men by tomorrow morning.”

The Rector looked at him. “Indeed.”

“They might come looking for us.”

“They might.”

The old man seemed distinctly nonplussed at the idea of the fascists showing up at the gates, and so Nikos decided to trust he was safe. For the moment.

Unfortunately, the stress and stimulant of the situation had been thus far keeping him upright and pain-free, and so, having accepted hospitality, the man promptly keeled over in a dead faint.

“Take care of them,” the Rector said to the waiting medical staff. “I wish…” he tailed off and walked away before finishing.

He nodded to the patrolling temple guards and made his way through to the Patriarch’s offices.

“I hear we have new arrivals?” Alexander said, looking up from some papers he and the Patriarch of Rome had clearly been discussing.

“Yes, Holy Father. From southern Italia.”

“Any problems?”

“Nothing that needs concern you.”

Alexander peered over his reading glasses for a moment, before letting it go. In all honesty, they all had far too much to be getting on with.

“Any headway?”

“Some,” Franciscus replied. “Believe it or not, this has happened before in the millennia of Roman rule. But not so flagrantly as this since the troubles in the classical empire.”

“We cannot refuse to crown him though?”

“No, the Emperor in Constantinople is the supreme governor of the Orthodox Church…although we are looking through the proclamation of Saint Konstantinos the Holy of 1511. The Unam Sanctum does declare the Ecumenical Patriarch the Sovereign Head of the Orthodox Church and the Christian world, and this is backed up by his later orders to separate the legal code and courts into secular and ecclesiastical jurisdiction. The Emperor is the secular head of the empire, the law, and it could be said, the Church. However, the All Holy is the ultimate sovereign of religious matters throughout the Empire and the Church as distinct from the Empire. “

“And?”

“All legal and political matters since then have relied upon this wording and the opinions of this Emperor, and have never since been changed or diverged, more added to and agreed upon.”

The Rector sat down. “So we could actually tell him no?”

The two patriarchs looked at each other.

“Yes, but it would be opening such an almighty legal and liturgical mess that the Church and State have never wished opened.”

Franciscus explained: “It would be to highlight and make issue of the separation of Church and State. With so many of the Faith outside the Empire now, this would be popular amongst many, but for the hierarchy of the Church, it would open us up to questions about our position on governing bodies, councils, the Senate, the Province Parliaments, our tax status, etcetera.”

“It would also place the Church leaders outside the Empire in a difficult position, as many of them hold important offices in their own lands. Brazil and the former provinces have no end of Archbishops serving in government and in their parliaments and senates.”

“These are questions worth raising…”

“But not now, and not like this.”

The Rector nodded. “So, what do we do?”

“Pray for divine intervention,” the Patriarch of Rome said.

“Pray also that we can handle the Crown Prince and his minders. And hope whoever wins this civil war is smart enough to share our fears.”

It was a brisk, cloudy morning in Constantinople. Four Άγιος Guards stood in front of the main door to the Patriarch’s Quarters. The quarters themselves a pleasant villa next to the Hagia Sophia. The guards stood in complete silence, however it was soon broken up by the light pitter-patter of rain.

“Have you seen the price of Italian wine?” one asked, just loud enough so that only the others could hear him.

“Shhh!” hissed back another guard, with the same volume.

“I haven’t even seen any wine from the peninsula. Hell, any wine at all.” whispered a different guard.

“What did I just say!?” the second guard said through clenched teeth.

“Sir, permission to speak.” the fourth guard said.

“What is it?!”

“Housekeeping is approaching, I hear their van.” meekly responded the 4th.

The leader let out a sigh.

“Also, Italian wine is shit compared to Anatolian, Sir.”

The officer chose not to react to that, much to the disappointment of his 3 underlings.

The usual group of nuns approached the guards, followed in tow by a group of actual laborers. “Good day, gentlemen.” The first nun said as they approached the guards. They deftly stepped aside, allowing the posse to enter. Half-way through the captain stopped the group and pointed towards one of the women in the labor group.

“I do not recognize her face, who is she?” the officer asked the first nun. The old sister adjusted her glasses and walked up to where the guard was pointing.

“Ah, yes! This is Sister Phoebe’s cousin. She came to the abbot just this morning seeking shelter. A few of our other helpers haven’t reported in this morning, so we are bringing some of the volunteers from the shelter today.” she said in a voice with an elderly quiver.

The officer looked back at the nun. His face showing that he did not like this story. The nun then beckoned him to lean closer to her.

“She told me her story. Her husband and her house burnt down in the ongoing street battles. The poor girl just needs something to do. Something to keep her occupied.” she whispered to him. The nun saw the slight concern pierce the officer’s steely gaze. “Don’t worry my son, she will be with me the whole time.” The officer finally relented with a sigh. “Fine… as you were.” “Thank you sweetheart.” the old sister said with a smile. Even the officer repricated with a stifled smile of his own.

“Come along now. We have much work to do!” the elderly nun said with surprising enthusiasm.

AGENT TETRAITES HAS ENTERED THE OPERATION ZONE. OPERATION LIGHTHOUSE IS GO.

January 20th

The last few days were mostly a haze, Nikos remembers confessing to the old Rector at the Cathedral, walking to the dedicated hospital wing, and then promptly collapsing, all the borrowed energy finally running out. Then he remembers waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, panicking and uneasy, but once he realized he was in no danger he went back to sleep. After regaining his strength, or as much as he could, he reported to the high-ranking blackshirt in the repurposed cafe, the exact details of the meeting were a blur, but it was during that meeting that the old soldier received his orders, and was introduced to his new subordinates, mostly older men too old to serve in the army, and young boys, too young to be accepted into the Imperial forces, but zealous enough to don the fascist’s attire. Besides those, there were also men deemed “lesser” by the fascists, those of “impure” Roman heritage. It was with these men, roughly two squads worth, designated the XXXVI and XXXVII Volunteer Infantry Squads, that he was to cross the Bosphorus and eliminate a mortar encampment that was shelling this side of the city. The difficulty of the mission didn’t lie in the complexity of the task, but this rag-tag force was scarcely equipped, with old, leftover rifles, hunting rifles, pistols, and a few grenades, but it had to do. And somehow they did it, with minimal losses. And now came the boring part of documenting the action. With a pen in his hand and a piece of paper, Nikos began writing the after-action report.

Record of Events, XV Volunteer Infantry Platoon January 19th- January 20th

The XXXVI and the XXXVII Volunteer Infantry Squads, under the command of Ypolochagos Nikos Stavros, gathered at a wharf located on Flavius Belisarius street. at around 1:30 a.m. Upon checking all the equipment both squads boarded 10 wooden rowboats and began crossing the strait. Upon disembarking on the opposite shore, both squads proceeded on foot in search of the target - an enemy mortar emplacement.

There was a surprising lack of enemy patrols near the shoreline, however, the numbers increased once the squads marched further into the city. Both the XXXVI and the XXXVII avoided confrontation with the enemy forces by allowing the patrols to pass through and by staying behind cover, in buildings, and behind piles of rubble. At roughly 2:10 a.m. enemy forces noticed the presence of friendly troops and a brief exchange of fire occurred. XXXVI Squad suppressed the enemy while the XXXVII maneuvered around to outflank and eliminate the threat.

The confrontation resulted in minor wounds for five of the soldiers participating in the operation, which were treated on-site. During the treatment of the wounded, the remaining troops scavenged the enemy corpses for supplies, supplementing their own fighting force with two S1-100 Machine Pistols, a Breda Model 30 light machine gun, and six fragmentation grenades. After consolidating the supplies and treating the wounded, both squads proceeded on foot toward the target.

Upon reaching the target location at 2:37 a.m., the squads found the position heavily fortified with sandbag barricades, barbed wire obstacles, and a machine gun nest in one of the windows, overlooking the entrance to the emplacement. In order to limit possible casualties, the XXXVII squad was detached and ordered to cause a distraction a few blocks down to pull away enemy forces while the XXXVI squad prepared for the assault. At 2:58 a.m. sounds of a firefight and explosions could be heard a few streets down, and a large section of rebel forces left the encampment to investigate. After waiting for a few minutes to give the enemy forces time to move away the XXXVI squad launched the attack and was able to push through and overrun the defenders, securing the emplacement. The mortar crew attempted to flee but were quickly killed. Explosive charges were placed and detonated, causing significant damage to the structure and rendering it unusable, as well as destroying the equipment of the mortar battery.

The XXXVI squad then withdrew from the area, reconnected with the XXXVII squad, avoided enemy patrols, and made their way back to the wharf where they had originally disembarked. Upon arriving, they boarded the rowboats and made their way back across the strait to friendly territory.

Results:

The raid was a resounding success, with the enemy mortar emplacement destroyed and the crew killed. The successful execution of the diversionary tactic ensured that the enemy was caught off guard and unable to mount a significant defense. Friendly troops suffered minor casualties during the raid, with one soldier sustaining a minor shrapnel wound, and six soldiers suffering non-fatal gunshot wounds. All casualties were treated on-site and remained in combat condition.

Lessons Learned:

The use of diversionary tactics proved to be an effective means of achieving surprise, and should be considered in future operations. The quick and decisive action taken by our troops was instrumental in the success of the raid, and further training should be conducted to ensure all soldiers are able to respond appropriately in high-stress situations. Furthermore, the flexibility offered by the use of small-scale units provided the tactical advantage to achieve success with such a low casualty ratio, and deployment of further units of similar size should be heavily considered.

Submitted by: Ypolochagos Nikos Stavros Commanding Officer, XXXVI, and XXXVII Volunteer Infantry Squads.

Somewhere outside Venice January 1936

Artemisia Favero had calmed down somewhat by the time her second cousin Paolo and a servant returned with the tea. She had spent the last ten minutes sitting in silence, while Giuseppe Lombardi read a newspaper one of the servants had brought for him. At times she had thought to speak up, but decided against it. Giuseppe seemed content to keep reading, acknowledging that Artemisia needed time to process her thoughts. She had come to the Favero estates expecting to find ruins, not her family home restored and in the hands of relatives who had sided with the Italian separatists. Part of her was still indignant, seeing her cousin prosper while her father suffered from being separated from his home for so long. Yet another part of her could not fault him. Paolo had not even been alive when the Favero estates had been seized. She knew more than most that the grudge of a father did not need to be held by their child. Why should she fault this man for something that had not been his decision to begin with? And she supposed she should not blame part of her family for siding with the separatists. It would not have been easy to give up everything and go into exile like her father had. Not everyone was willing to give up everything for principles.

The servant handed Artemisia a cup of tea, which she took with a word of thanks. She took a small sip, enjoying the hint of ginger as her cousin Paolo plopped down into an armchair across from her. He watched her carefully, appraising her temperament, seeing as they had been about to butt heads before he left the room. Deciding to be the better person and move on, she let out a content sigh at the pleasant taste of the tea and said to her cousin, “Thank you for the tea.”

A grin spread across Paolo’s face and he relaxed in his chair. He let his two guests enjoy their tea for a moment, eyeing them both. “I must say that I was surprised to have a relative visit so unexpectedly, even more so in the company of a good friend.”

“As I said before,” Artemisia said between sips, “I came here to see my father’s old estates.” She glanced over at Giuseppe. “How do you two know each other?”

Paolo grinned again, admiration in his eyes as he looked over at Giuseppe. “Why Giuseppe here is an up-and-coming politician and I am his most dedicated supporter. He’s going to fix this country and I am doing everything in my power to ensure that he has the chance to do just that. Isn’t that right, Giuseppe?”

Giuseppe nodded as he looked down into his cup of a tea with a smile, reminiscing on some distant memory. “I wouldn’t be here without Paolo. We met just as I was entering politics. He shared my vision and has generously funded my campaign ever since. Italian politics is riddled with corruption these days and you’d be surprised how difficult it is to get anywhere without either the backing of the elite or a lot of funding.”

“You’re underselling yourself,” Paolo said. “You had plenty of supporters before I showed up.” He looked over at Artemisia. “Giuseppe is quite popular amongst the lower ranks of the army these days.”

“They support me because I was one of them and understand their plight,” Giuseppe said matter-of-factly. “The army was overrun with foreign elements controlling the highest positions in the military. They used their position to keep the average Italian in their place, even going so far as to coup the government. While the army’s control of the government has been removed, it is understandable that there is still foreign influence in both the army and government that must be purged. The hardworking Italian soldier can sense this and desires nothing more than throw off these shackles and gain control of their own destiny. I intend to see the nation reforged to best serve the Italian people first and foremost.”

Artemisia had watched Giuseppe carefully as he was speaking. She couldn’t help but notice the passion in his eyes as he spoke of the army and his vision for Italy. It was perhaps the first time she felt she saw somewhat into the mind of this man she had just met. He meant every word he said, and he fully intended to carry out his plans for Italy. It was a deep-seated ambition that she hadn’t noticed until now. Men with such ambitions could prove dangerous, but if he truly had the best interests of the Italian people at heart, then perhaps this would benefit them all in the end.

“Well said,” Paolo said, lifting his cup to acknowledge the truth behind Giuseppe’s words before taking a sip. He crossed his legs, eyeing Giuseppe with a half-smile. “Don’t forget though who it is who got you here. There are those in this country other than the working man who would see a reborn Italy unified under a strong leader, preferably one of a more regal nature.”

Giuseppe gave a wan smile. “I have not forgotten, my dear friend. I will see Italy freed from this mire it has found itself stuck in and reborn in its newfound glory. How that is best achieved will be decided by the people who are willing to take up the call.”

“Well here’s hoping that they take up the call sooner rather than later,” Paolo said, “before the turbulence of the current government drags us all under.”

Giuseppe gave a stern nod. He then glanced over at Artemisia, seeming to assess her reaction to all this. A hint of concern on his face, he said, “I hope this talk of Italy does not bother you, what with your father’s position on Italy’s fate.”

Artemisia couldn’t help but smirk at that comment. Of course they would want to tiptoe around this topic, with her father being the most diehard supporter for the restoration of Italy to the empire. A strong unified Italy would not be a good thing if her father ever wanted his goals realized. Yet that was her father’s vision, not hers. Having grown up in a generation that had never known a fully unified and stable empire, she had acquired varying opinions on the matter, ones she refrained from sharing in the presence of her family.

“I am not bothered at all,” Artemisia said. “It is only natural for the people of any country to want to seek what is best for themselves. If that requires an independent Italy separate from the empire, then so be it.”

Paolo nearly dropped his teacup at that statement, while the only reaction from Giuseppe was the subtle raising of an eyebrow. Artemisia shrugged. “Did you expect me to be a diehard imperialist like my father, demanding that the empire be restored at all costs?” She let out a chuckle, shaking her head. “I may be young, but I have learned enough to know that the empire has become decadent and out of touch. Resting on its laurels, and with such a massive empire ruled by a single distant figure, it is only natural that certain parts of the empire felt they were not receiving the attention or respect they deserved. And when they finally aired their grievances, rather than addressing them the imperial government decided the best course of action was to force them back into the fold. Should the parent who neglected and ignored their children be surprised when those same children decide to leave the home and never turn back?”

When Artemisia finished, silence filled the room for a good minute. Paolo’s mouth remained agape, while Giuseppe gave her a respectful nod, admiring her principles. Eventually Paolo broke the silence once he regained his senses. “Well that was not the response I was expecting, especially from the woman who was berating me earlier for calling her father a traitor.”

“I am not my father,” Artemisia said, adjusting the folds of her dress. “I can view the empire with a critical eye and see its faults. I mean, we are seeing the empire dragged into yet another civil war. Is that the sign of a strong and stable empire worthy of ruling the civilized world? The imperial family does what it wants with impunity and with a lack of accountability. Perhaps that was fine a few centuries ago, but it is no longer feasible in this modern age.”

Giuseppe ever so subtly leaned forward in his seat. He placed his teacup down on the table and stared into Artemisia’s eyes. “Perhaps we share a similar vision.”

Artemisia met his gaze with cold determination. She could sense him assessing her, judging her worth. All men did that, no matter what they claimed. She had always had to prove herself. Yet there was something different here. She could see that same passion from earlier in Giuseppe’s eyes, not directed at her but the words she had spoken. This was a man who did not have time for superfluous flirtations when he was already married to a cause. That ambition sent chills down her spine more than if he had been interested in her for less honourable purposes. Eventually she leaned forward and said, “Perhaps we do.”

Paolo looked back and forth between his two guests, trying to figure out what was going on between the two. Lacking the awareness to grasp it in the end, he let out a light-hearted laugh and said, “Why don’t we discuss something other than politics. It becomes such a droll topic after a while.”

The three remained in conversation for another hour or two, discussing their lives and other details. Artemisia slowly let down her guard, although she still had difficulty tolerating her cousin’s smugness. When it became late, Giuseppe gave Artemisia a ride back to her hotel. The car ride was a bit more lively than the one to the Favero estate, with the two continuing their discussion from the manor. By the time he dropped her off, she felt that she had a much greater understanding of this complex man, although she could still sense there was something being held back that he was not willing to reveal. She brushed it off as she entered her hotel room, her mind wandering to another topic. Perhaps it was time that she let her father know that she was alive and safe before he died of stress. She took up a pen and paper and wrote a short letter to her father.

Patriarch’s Quarters

The young woman pushed a cart with the nun throughout the lavishly dressed villa. The small courtyard contained all manner of plants from the familiar to the exotic, all of them beautifully maintained. A monk was tending to one in particular. She saw it was a smaller plant, one with a bloom of a deep purplish, red. The flower itself looking like the maw of a mythical monster.

Above them were articulately designed stained-glass windows, each one depicting an Apostle or a Saint. Some were in the old Byzantine style, while some where modern, having incredible similarities to real people. The vibrant colors of the windows seemed to glow, despite the gray weather outside.

Each pillar the two walked passed were wrapped in a meticulously kept ivy that somehow made the columns seem rustic and pristine at the same time.

They walked past a clock, the time was almost noon.

“Quite an exquisite place isn’t it dear?” The old nun mumbled. “A true testament to the enginuity the Lord blesses us with.”

“Indeed.” the woman replied meekly, still taking in the architecture.

“I’ve always enjoyed tending to these quarters. Each piece of this place is from somewhere the Empire calls or used to call its domain.”

The lady listened silently.

“The marble in these columns were from Tuscany. The older stained glass came from Acre. The newer ones from Barcelona. Even those plants come from everywhere, from the New World to East Asia.”

“The Church is rather influential.” is all the lady could muster.

The nun chuckled “I suppose you could say that dear. I prefer to think of it as a testament to God’s domain. While the basilicas and cathedrals maybe grandiose and bodacious monuments to God’s grace.” she paused and caught herself staring at the impressive garden. “This is the closest thing to the true wonder of the Lord. The closest we can get to a Garden of Eden. The closest we can come to being true stewards of God’s Domain… maybe if others could see that. Maybe there wouldn’t be rebellious provinces, maybe there wouldn’t be this royal feud. Maybe there wouldn’t be war.” the nun said, her kind face slowly turning to a frown.

Almost on cue, a low, deep chanting began to echo through the breezeway. Byzantine Chants the woman assumed. “Ah, it must be noon. Come dear, we still have quite some work to do.” the sister said, snapping herself out of her dour mood.

After a few minutes, the two entered the chambers of the Patriarch of Constantinople. It was remarkably well kept, he must not have been here much recently. “Ah he must still be busy,” whispered the nun “Oh the boundless energy of youth!” she continued with a chuckle. “We shall just dust the furniture and change the sheets dear. Best not disturb his business too much.”

The younger woman proceed to dust off the various types of tables, dressers and so on in the room. The older woman proceeded to walk over to the bed and remove the sheets.

They were done in a relatively quick amount of time. Finally the nun walked over to his desk and pulled out a drawstring bag.

“What is that?” asked the other.

“During the time of the troubles, the Patriarch of that era drank a special type of wine from the coast of Sicily during his nightly business. I had noticed the bottle one day and decided to leave one in his chambers once a week for the entire time of the troubles. Even when we had to flee the city, I still made sure he could enjoy one glass a night.” The nun remained silent for a moment. “It might sound strange, but I like to believe that the wine he had was lucky and helped bring the Empire out of those dark times. Maybe the new Patriarch can enjoy this beverage too. Or it can least bless him with any luck, something I’m sure he’ll need in these trying times too.”

“I would have never expected that kind of superstition from someone of the cloth.” the woman said in return, making sure not to sound ungrateful for the help she had received.

The nun let out another chuckle “Believe me dear you don’t become as old as I am without some wine, luck, and a little bit of superstition.” she said coyly with a wink.

The nun turned to the service cart and proceeded to lead it out of the room. “Are you coming dear? We have more quarters to attend to.”

“Coming!” said the other woman, walking up to help her push the cart.

Trebizond

Justinian stood next to Irene’s desk. His cane leaning on the side of her desk.

“I’m just saying IF I fall, I know you are going to help me up.” Justinian said, his grip tight on the edge of the desk.

“Can’t you bother anyone else about this?” Irene said back, not looking up from her typewriter.

Justinian took that as confirmation and let go, putting his full weight on his injured leg. It stung, but it was much more manageable. He was about to try walking when the telephone in his office began to ring

“Looks like I’ll have to keep my audience in suspense for a little longer.” Justinian said looking back just in time to catcher Irene rolling her eyes.

Grabbing his cane he hobbled over to his desk and answered the phone. The operator started immediately.

“Priority 1 message, confirm?” The operator asked.

“Confirm.”

“Message reads: Agent Tetraites extract equals successful. Operation Lighthouse equals success. Full after action tonight. 17:00 hours.”

“Thank you operator.”

Justinian ended the call and leaned back in his chair. Smiling smugly to himself.

“The first brick has been lain, on the road that leads to Rome.”

Nicomedia - January 20

Ioannes looked over the paperwork Paul had sent him.

“There’s no sugarcoating it, Megas Domestikos,” Paul said, “Those blackshirts got the drop on us.”

“So, you’re telling me that a bunch of untrained men, with nothing to their credit but their radicalism, managed to cross the Bosphorus from Diplokionion, take out an entire mortar crew that was aiming at that part of the city, and then cross back with no fatalities?”

“Yes.” Paul didn’t hesitate. “I must take full responsibility for this. The crew was Navy, and the mortar was one of our coastal batteries we moved from the northern coast—”

“Admiral, it’s just one mortar,” Ioannes said, “We can replace it, eventually. And you still have your ships, right?”

“But the crews can’t be replaced as easily.”

“We’ll make do, Paul. I know we will.”

“How do we prevent future incursions like this one?”

Ioannes looked over the report. “The way I see it, it seems our organization on the capital East End was lacking. We lacked patrols on the shoreline, having assumed any major offensive would come across the bridges. The enemy strike force then proceeded to avoid the patrols they did find, showing our existing coverage is lacking. They then created a diversion to lure away any reinforcements that could have protected the mortar crew. Clever, for blackshirts. Didn’t think they had it in them.”

“The blackshirts in the city aren’t organized or competent enough to carry out such a sophisticated operation,” Paul said, “Conventional military troops and officers had to have been involved.”

“Which is worrying. That means Konstantinos is already deploying his regular troops in the capital, while our defenses are lacking.”

Ioannes laid a map of the city on his desk and drew a circle around the location of the destroyed mortar. “Here is their target. The mortar.” He next circled an area a few blocks away. “The distraction, here.” He then drew a line back to the mortar, and from there he drew a line back to the waterfront. “If they meant to draw away forces from the area, they wouldn’t lure them closer to their extraction point. This route here might not be the exact one they used, but it’s the one I’d use to avoid my own patrols. I’m going to double the patrols in this area. Add more machine gun nests on the waterfront, as well as patrols there. Paul, can you move your smaller ships into the strait and conduct your own patrols?”

“What, like the Limitanei?”

“Yes, the Limitanei. Didn’t you temporarily absorb them into the Navy?”

“Yes, but we only have a few patrol boats in the Bosphorus right now—”

“I want them to begin regular patrols of the straits ASAP. Make sure to cover all hours of the day. Especially nighttime. If you come across any enemies attempting to cross, you are clear to shoot on sight.”

Paul nodded. “Of course, Megas Domestikos.”

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened,” Ioannes said, “We’re all at fault here. But God willing, we’re not going to let it happen again.”

Trebizond - January 31

Justinian was bothering her again. Irene did her best to ignore the man, instead focusing on her typewriter. She had dealt with men like him before. He was no different.

“I’m just saying if I fall, I know you are going to help me up.” Justinian kept his hand on her desk, way too close for comfort.

Irene sighed and rolled her eyes. “Can’t you bother anyone else about this?” Go bother the women in the computations department down the hall. Lord knows they love a man with a war wound.

Fortunately, Justinian took that as his cue to leave. I guess he does know when to stop. At least for now. He straightened up and returned to his office, where his phone had started ringing. “Looks like I’ll have to keep my audience in suspense for a little longer.”

Irene made sure that Justinian noticed her subsequent eye-rolling. Then the man returned to his desk and picked up the phone.

“Confirm.”

Seriously, what did Auntie see in this guy? I’d have thrown him into field duty, leg injury be damned.

“Thank you, operator.” Justinian hung up and leaned back in his chair, grinning widely. “The first brick has been lain on the road that leads to Rome.”

Must be his work. I don’t deny he gets results, but seriously, can I just get my own office? I’ll have to ask Auntie about it later.

Aotearoa, South Island - January 23rd

For the Thaddai and Waata families, the past two days had been spent in as much peace as much as stress. An excursion out to the Aotearoan countryside, away from the hustle and bustle of Komnenion and Otago, witnessing the silent beauty of nature, was bound to be of some help, but everyone present, from Timon and Kyrene, to the Waata in-laws, couldn’t help but wonder what Nestorius was thinking.

Much of Ol’ Ness’ usual jolly had vanished at this point, and while he seemed to enjoy the sights, everyone noted how he kept looking in one direction. Looking above the sights, far beyond the horizon, as if attempting to look towards the one place truly on his mind - home. For all involved, it seemed surreal in some way.

Whenever they returned back to the Waata home to rest, Nestor would always ask for his favorite station, known for soothing jazz, to be played over the radio, before sitting down in the living room lounge chair and just… remaining there, listening to the music. This pattern continued on until the 23rd.

That Thursday evening, another long day had been spent out in nature, yet it seemed nothing would help. Nestor returned to the chair to listen to the music which seemed to at least serve as another coping mechanism. Kyrene’s family requested her aid around the back of the home, and Timon found himself joining his father in the living room.

The two sat quietly as the music continued playing, before abruptly, Nestor seemed to stand up without reason. Before Timon could ask him what was going on, he spoke: “…I could use a snack.”

Timon watched as his father left the living room, following him soon after into the kitchen. Timon seemed to note that his father seemed familiar to the fact that the pantry there had biscuits, presumably the ones he enjoyed snacking on back home at the estate in Komnenion.

“…lend me that stool,” Nestor pointed, with Timon swiftly bringing it over to him. He watched as his father ascended the stool, using his cane as a balancing aid.

Timon stood by as he watched his father began reaching into the pantry, breathing heavily as he attempted to locate the biscuits. As the seconds passed by, Nestor seemed incapable of finding them, struggling to reach for anything resembling them. Timon began looking increasingly concerned as it seemed his father was exerting himself far beyond what he should.

“H-hey, m-maybe we can wait until the others are back until-“

“I can find them!” Nestorius yelled back at his son’s attempt to stop him, in an almost confused tone. “Why can’t I find them? he thought to himself. Were they not there anymore? That can’t be right… right??!

And in one sudden motion, just as Nestorius thought he had finally found them, an awful cough erupted from his mouth, forcing him to bend forward, nearly losing his balance on the stool.

“FATHER!”

Timon just barely stopped his father from falling over from the stool, though Nestor would drag his body weight from parts of the pantry, causing foodproducts to fall over onto the floor, making a mess. Timon could hear his father struggling to maintain steady breath, as he clutched at himself in pain. He leaned him back onto the stool and against the wall, rushing to the nearby window. He yelled out for his mother to come quickly, as Nestor looked upon the broken package of biscuits on the floor.

Thereafter, Kyrene called for an ambulance, to get him to Otago as quickly and discreetly as possible. They needed to keep what had just happened on the downlow, at least until they figured out what was ailing Nestor. But unfortunately, as they moved him from Otago to Komnenion, the news would spread.

At both HQs, at home, and at the hospital in Komnenion, as the days passed, Hindemith’s Trauermusik would play, to mourn now not just the Emperor, but the ill Nestorius Thaddas.

Constantinople, January 21st

“Looks like your little raid stirred the hornet’s nest, Lieutenant!” The overly sweet, fake voice shook Nikos awake from his deep rumination. He’s gotten used to the blackshirt’s commander voice. He didn’t like it one bit but hear someone enough and become numb.

“Yes, at this rate another raid like that won’t be possible. Not with those patrol boats about.” A rational reaction. By the book, not very imaginative. Probably a high-ranking officer, someone who doesn’t always see the chaos of a battlefield, Nikos thought. “But I already have an idea of how to deal with them. Well, some of them, I doubt they’ll keep falling for the same trick once they suffer the initial losses.”

“Oh? And what that might be?” Hook line and sinker, just like that Nikos managed to gain a bit of leverage over that bastard. It might’ve not been much, but it was the first time Nikos could feel in control of the situation when dealing with this man. And once he would be fully in control, he’d make sure this twisted radical gets brought before the court-martial. Surely the military would understand. Surely once the Crown-… No, he’s now the Emperor, when he hears of the atrocities, he’d do something.

“Yes, but I’ll need to go visit one of the men who came with me in the Cathedral hospital. A sapper, you know. I need to get his opinion on the matter.” The blackshirt commander raised his brows in a questioning manner, gesturing with his hand to Nikos to continue his explanation. “But the gist of it is - we take a look back in history, we rig some of the rowboats with explosive, prepared bomb ships. Once the patrol craft gets close - kaboom. Scratch one PT boat.”

“Yes, yes that’s very lovely. But they’ll sink your little rowboats before they get close.”

“I’m willing to take that risk if the boat has some decoys-…”

“They’ll still shoot until it sinks, but you know, Lieutenant, you gave me an idea. I can help you with your little plan, so you worry about your part. I’ll handle mine.”

And just like that the black shirt left, leaving Nikos with a knot tied in his stomach. Whatever that man had planned sounded ominous, twisted. But it waslatelater to stop him. If Nikos could even do that. The soldier mulled over those dark thoughts while he headed to the Hagia Sophia. The guards thoroughly checked him, and he could feel them looking at him with disgust. He came to accept that feeling, the best way to redeem himself was through merit, he’d do everything in his power to clean the name of the Imperial Army and detach it from the fascist militants. Finally arriving at the bed of the wounded soldier, Nikos sat down and waited a moment in silence for his subordinate to sit up before giving him a firm handshake and a salute.

“You feeling okay well, Diakos?”

“Aye, still hurting all over, Lieutenant, but I’m getting better. And what brings you here? I thought you’d be busy running errands.”

“Well, that’s partially why I’m here. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to know how much explosives you’d need to take down a Limetani patrol boat. And how long the detonator cables can be, can they survive underwater?”

The sapper pondered for a moment, stroking his bushy beard, the only noise coming from other patients and a clock ticking away seconds. “I think I know what you’re planning. It could work. 250lbs or so worth of TNT should do. Easy enough to come by. The cables should be able to take it if they’re kept shallow enough and the boat is slow, distance shouldn’t be an issue as long as you have enough wire.”

“Thank you, Diakos. That’s all I needed from you. Now focus on resting and getting better.”

And with a plan in his head, the old soldier headed back to inform his… Supervisor about the details, and what he’d need. It would take until the evening, nearly nighttime for them to meet again. At which point Nikos was greeted with a disgusting sight - tens of men, women, and children tied up, gagged, and kneeling on the ground.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Nikos roared in fury, his face turning red. This man, no, this rat is truly despicable, whatever plan this black shirt scum has come up with was surely truly disgusting. “These are imperial citizens! It’s our duty to protect them, not whatever you’re doing to them!” And just like that the Lieutenant turned on his heel and was ready to leave until two fascists strongarmed him into staying.

“Oh don’t you worry, Nikos, my friend. These aren’t Romans, they’re disposable. At least this way they’ll serve the Empire in a useful way. Do you want to know why they’re here? Don’t answer that.” The black shirt leader snickered, clasping his hands before pointing towards one of the men tied up on the shore.” “That man - he’s a communist. That woman? Italian. She sought a better life. Like Rome would ever accommodate a traitor and her spawn. And they’re all like this. Not a single pure Roman among them. So we’ll send them to those who welcome them.”

“No!”

“Oh yes, they’ll surely be treated much better on the other side. If they make it of course. Alright men, commence the operation!” Signaling with his hand, the fascists began to load some of the tied-up people onto boats. But not all. Some of them were cut loose before being shot in the back of their heads and sat in the tiny wooden rowboats. It was a massacre, a disgusting act of mass murder. And when the many, many boats were prepared, they were sent off towards the other end of the strait, with both the alive and the dead - but all heading towards the same destination - sure death at the hands of the rebel troops. But at this moment Nikos truly began to doubt he picked the right side to fight for.

January 22nd

Whatever the rebel’s reaction to yesternight’s operation was, Nikos knew without a doubt that every single one of those soldiers on the patrol boats would think twice about shooting. But the thought of so many innocent lives lost lingered in the Lieutenant’s consciousness. He could only hope that at least a few made it safely to the other side. But it was a war, and the enemy still needed to be defeated. So Nikos prepared to launch his gambit, to make the rebels hesitate to patrol the strait this heavily. Nikos ordered his “volunteer” troops to prepare some more wooden boats, drill a hole in the bottom and connect the detonator cables to a prepared explosive on the boat, then seal up the hole to ensure it stays afloat long enough. Then decoys were put in, to make it look like the boats are full of people, at least at a glance - at night it’ll be harder to tell, even with a searchlight directly illuminating the boat, and with the events of yesterday? Some of those crews surely would sail close enough to get caught in the blast. And so at exactly midnight, the bomb ships were launched into the middle of the straits, at various points of the shore. It took some time, but eventually, Nikos could hear some explosions going off, be it from his soldiers detonating the charges, or the patrol craft shooting and detonating the explosives from afar. One, two, three, four, six, ten, elev-… A loud ringing pierces Nikos’s ears as the bomb ship nearest to him blew up. The Lieutenant turned toward the source of the sound only to see a burning patrol boat in the middle of the strait, illuminating the dark night, and he could hear the screams of the burning crew. Poor bastards, they were just following orders. But that’s at least one down. Soon men charged with detonating explosives started arriving to give their reports - failed to destroy the target, failed to destroy the target. Most of the reports he heard that night were like this. Most of the bombs failed to sink the enemy crafts, either by not detonating, by being disarmed in time, or simply by being gunned down after being examined from a distance. But two men reported something different, one claimed to have sunk another ship, a big gaping hole being left in the hull, and one claimed minor damage, which while not ideal was still a better result than most others. Now to wait for the rebel’s response, thinning out the patrols is all he needed to see, leaving him an opening to exploit to conduct another raid. But Nikos couldn’t stop wondering - where are the heavy machine guns, where’s the allied artillery to strike those pesky patrol craft? Why are so many soldiers here so pathetically underequipped? Do the Imperial forces care so little about the Capital?

((Private))

Private Journal of Donatello Favero January 21, 1936

After three weeks, we have finally received the news we have all been dreading: the Emperor is dead. Assuming this news is true and not a machination of Konstantinos to cement his position, this has dealt a great blow to our cause. As long as the Emperor lived, we could accuse the Crown Prince of overstepping his father’s authority and demand an end to this conflict to allow the Emperor to mediate. Now with his death, we must acknowledge that the matter of succession may work against us. As the eldest son, Konstantinos is next in line for the throne. This conflict has now changed from a fight between two princes to a fight between the new emperor and crown prince. This change in dynamic will only aid Konstantinos’s cause, for now he has the power of the crown backing him, and can accuse Prince Alvértos of attempting to supplant him. We must tread carefully moving forward or risk losing what support we have left.

Our options are limited in how we can undermine Konstantinos’s position. We could claim that his actions against his own brother and the senate constitute acts of treason. However, this is a dangerous path, for unless we can justify that his actions constituted treason against the crown, we could instead end up damaging the institution of the crown. We would instead be claiming that Konstantinos is unfit to rule because of his actions or temperament, and thus oppose the principle that the emperor is appointed by God through divine right. Even implying that the people have a say in who rules over them will undermine the crown irreparably. I do not believe this worth the risk, for we may never be able to recover from the damage that would be caused to the crown.

The best path forward then seems to be to raise doubt around the circumstances of the Emperor’s death. While I despise the idea of using the Emperor’s death to our advantage, it is our best way to undermine Konstantinos’s position and dispute his claim to the throne. Suggesting that Konstantinos is responsible for the Emperor’s death would provide one of the few legitimate excuses for removing Konstantinos from succession, for the murder of one’s sovereign is inexcusable, let alone one’s own father. The difficulty comes with not knowing whether the Crown Prince is responsible for the Emperor’s death and not having access to the body to prove it. For now all we can do is suggest the idea and hope that enough people believe it.

Even as I contemplate this strategy, I find myself hesitant to consider the possible implications if the Crown Prince is not responsible for the Emperor’s death. If the Emperor died of natural causes and the current conflict was just a matter of bad timing, then this would mean that Konstantinos remained the heir and thus the crown is his by the laws of succession. This would mean that we now oppose the lawful emperor and our movement loses all legitimacy. How am I to reconcile my personal feelings against Konstantinos’s actions with the fact that God chose him to rule? I have always dedicated my life to serving the crown, and now I may find myself working against it. I feel deep regret that I find myself desiring that the Crown Prince is actually responsible for his father’s death. It will make the coming days that much easier to tolerate knowing that our cause is truly just and we are not all opposing the will of God to put a madman on the throne. And even if he isn’t responsible, I find myself now committed towards perpetuating a lie for the sake of the empire and the crown. May God have mercy on us all.

• Donatello Favero

---

Private Journal of Donatello Favero February 1, 1936

The last month has been most trying, but I have finally received news that has put my mind at ease. A letter from my dearest Artemisia arrived yesterday. It gladdens my heart to know she is alive and unharmed, although I still fear for her safety. She remains abroad and seems intent to continue to do so. I suspect the reason she sent a letter rather than attempt to reach me by phone is to avoid the inevitable conversation where I attempt to persuade her to return to her family. I would be much happier if she was in Valencia with Caterina, but she has always been a stubborn child and I am not surprised that she uses this opportunity to avoid her duties and responsibilities. I can only pray that she uses common sense and does not put herself in danger during these difficult times. If anything were to happen to her, I do not know if I would be able to forgive myself.

• Donatello Favero

Kontoskalion Harbor, Constantinople - January 21, late afternoon

Gavrilo drove the forklift into one of the storage buildings on the wharf and unloaded a crate. Although the controls were slightly different, the dimensions of the vehicle were off from what he was used to, and the labels were solely in Greek, the basic mechanics of a forklift were just as he remembered. He had driven forklifts in his old factory in Vrhbosna, but he had never moved ammunition before. The dockworkers’ union grumbled about arming the blackshirts, but nobody wanted to move against them after what happened to the last union leader after he picked a fight with them during the New Year’s Day chaos. So when management transferred all of the dockworkers to Kontoskalion’s naval shipyard, they obliged, for now. They would skim off as many weapons as they could without alerting the blackshirts, then wait for the perfect moment to strike.

Gavrilo personally wasn’t a revolutionary like the rest of them. He didn’t care much for the talk of revolution and wealth redistribution that was thrown around during lunch break. It was nothing new to him. Plenty of colleagues in Vrhbosna had chatted about the same thing, but they never actually did anything. Maybe it was because most people saw what was happening in Russia, Yavdi, and North Eimerica and reasonably feared the same would happen in the Reich. This Empire was notably less stable, though. Even without Angelos, this place was falling apart at the seams, and ideologues and opportunists were coming through the cracks. Gavrilo, though, was more concerned about his paycheck.

He couldn’t rely on Wilhelm too much. He was currently sleeping. He had been doing it a lot lately. Something about his grace still needing time to integrate. Wilhelm estimated it would take many years to return to how he used to be before Gabriel. Ah yes, Gabriel. Of all of the archangels he could have been named after, why was Gavrilo named after him? What was that archangel doing back at home? Hopefully nothing involving Vrhbosna. Natalia…Mihailo…please be safe. Though he had no way of knowing how much time had passed since he had left. On his end, it had been 17 years, but it was 1936 here, and it was 1941 there. Over there, it would have been three weeks since the angels fell and Gabriel tore out Wilhelm’s grace. Gavrilo spent the next five years sharing his body with Wilhelm’s soul, which was, to put it lightly, mentally tiring. They eventually figured out a way to reduce the strain by taking turns controlling the body, but that caused issues in Gavrilo’s life. Not that there weren’t before, when Gavrilo first became the angel’s vessel, but Wilhelm had almost no idea how to live as a regular human, for obvious reasons. He was a bit better now, but he still had a lot to improve on.

A whistle blew, signaling the end of the shift. Ending his contemplation, Gavrilo drove the forklift to the designated parking spot and left it there. He got out and headed to the exit, where the foreman waited with a stack of cash, handing out a few bills to each worker as they passed by.

“Here, Gavrilo. 9 hyperpyra.” Nine bills, each bearing the face of Emperor Michael VII, fell into Gavrilo’s palm. Even after 17 years, he was still surprised by a one hyperpyron bill. Obviously the face wasn’t anything he remembered from home, and he was used to seeing dual German and Greek instead of only Greek, but there was also something about the texture itself that felt off. Only the pocket change he had brought with him from home felt right. It was useless here, though. Effectively foreign currency, only there was no country that would accept them as legal tender.

Donning his usual trench coat, Gavrilo exited the docks through the main gate and turned down the sidewalk towards the nearest tramcar stop. He didn’t get far before he got the feeling he was being watched.

Heads up, Wilhelm’s voice echoed in his head, Someone’s following you.

I can tell, Gavrilo replied.

It was a feeling Gavrilo was all too familiar with. It was like that in the trenches and forests outside Kyzyl Char in 1915, only the crunchy snow under his feet was now replaced with hard concrete.

“You,” one of his followers said, in a heavy Constantinopolitan accent, “Stop right there, German.”

Gavrilo ignored him and kept walking. But then a blackshirt rounded the corner and blocked his path. Gavrilo looked back and saw two other blackshirts closing in from behind. All carried what looked like batons. One had a pistol. From the looks of it, an old civilian model. Old six-shooter. Fully loaded.

“Come with us, German,” the pistol wielder demanded.

“And why would I do that?” Gavrilo said.

“We are the ones making the demands.” Seemed the pistol wielder was the leader of this little group.

“Why do you call me German?”

“Because of your accent. Did you think we wouldn’t notice? Or that you were safe with the commies on the piers? We’ve got some true Roman patriots there, fighting the good fight.”

Gavrilo was a bit amused. He wasn’t even German by the standards of his home. “Where would we go?”

“That is none of your concern. You’re starting to ask too much.” The blackshirt pointed his pistol at Gavrilo. “We can bring you in hot or cold. Your choice.”

“Well, if you can bring me in cold, then is it really that important that I go willingly?” Gavrilo asked. “The answer is no. I’ve got to get home.”

The blackshirts all stepped in closer.

“Yes, you should probably go home,” the leader said, “Back to Germany.”

Gavrilo couldn’t resist anymore. He laughed. “It’s funny you think I’m German.”

“Well, we don’t have to think. We know.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong,” Gavrilo said, “Because…Ja nisam Nemac.”

Before they could respond, he grabbed the blackshirt’s gun and wrenched it out of his hands. Then in one quick motion he pistol-whipped the blackshirt behind him, shot the second one in the knee, and then shot the leader in the upper leg. All three were down and screaming in pain within five seconds. Gavrilo popped out the cylinder and ejected the remaining 4 bullets, then tossed the empty gun into the midst of his would-be abductors.

“Next time, don’t assume you know everything about me,” he said.

Fortunately, the tram had arrived by now, so he got on it—the driver, thankfully, pretended nothing had happened—and left the area as soon as possible.

It really is getting worse here. Just like at home.

The Bosphorus, later that night

Ensign Manuel Gavras stood watch on the deck of the patrol boat, scanning the dark waters of the strait with his searchlight. The steady hum of the engine as they continued on their patrol route kept him company while the rest of the crew were elsewhere. Officially, they were doing other tasks as Admiral Angelos ordered. But Manuel knew his colleagues were most likely playing cards below decks. What else could they possibly do? Not much was going on. And with this many patrol boats moving through the Bosphorus, the enemy would be stupid if they tried another raid on the East End.

Of course, as he said that, Manuel noticed a shape heading through the water and immediately swung his searchlight around to illuminate them. As the light fell on the shape, he saw what appeared to be a large rowboat packed to the brim with people. Not soldiers, but civilians wearing various attire. He saw men, women, and children all crammed into the boat. When they saw the light, they immediately lit up, shouting something in a variety of languages that weren’t Greek. He did catch some Greek being thrown around: “Voíthisé me!”

Help me.

Manuel knew what his orders were. The admiral had issued a shoot on sight order to anyone crossing the straits. But surely he meant enemy combatants, right? Not civilians. He couldn’t just leave them there. As a sailor in the Limitanei, he had a duty to protect his fellow citizens.

“Don’t worry!” he shouted. “We’re coming to help!”

January 23, night

They spent the rest of that night fishing civilians out of the straits. All of the patrol boat crews had come to a consensus about holding their fire until all of the civilians had been evacuated. The rowboats kept coming until dawn, and then the straits emptied of traffic again. Perhaps the civilians didn’t want to risk crossing in broad daylight, Manuel reasoned.

The next night rolled around, and Manuel and the rest of the crew prepared for another few hours of civilian rescues. It didn’t take long before the first boat to appear in Manuel’s searchlight.

“Don’t worry!” he shouted at them. “We’re here to help!”

No response. Weird. Usually they would have said something. They would have to get closer to see what was the problem.

“It could be a trap,” another crewman said, “We should keep our distance.”

“No, if there are civilians in need, we are obligated to help them,” Manuel said.

“Gavras is right,” the captain said, “I’m taking us in closer.”

They drew closer to the rowboat, and Manuel walked over to get a rope ladder. At that moment, they came up alongside the boat, and then everything exploded.

What happened next was a blur. His eyes glossed over. His perception of time sped up and slowed down simultaneously. Everything felt like it was on fire. Or maybe it was. He didn’t know. He couldn’t think. He wasn’t sure if it was him screaming or someone next to him. The deck under him was slanting at increasingly steeper angles until it was gone and he was tumbling through the air before hitting the cold water, upon which he blacked out.

Manuel’s next recollection was being hauled out of the water and tossed onto a deck, his flailing limbs pinned down and a hand covering his screaming mouth. His eyes focused, seeing he was surrounded by another patrol boat crew.

“Calm down! We’re getting a medic!”

His mind still reeling, all he could do was continue screaming through the hand.

Nicomedia - January 23, early morning

“I should have known. I take full responsibility.” Paul sounded like a broken record.

One patrol boat had been sunk. The bombs had blasted its hull apart and set the entire boat on fire, burning all but one of its crew to death. That lone survivor was in no shape to testify—whatever he had seen that night had scarred him immensely, and not just physically. Another patrol boat was heavily damaged and would need a few weeks to be repaired. Another one suffered some light damage, but nothing major. The rest caught on quickly and detonated their bombs from a distance.

“This is an utter skatachaos.” Ioannes poured another glass of wine and downed it quickly. “Frak this.”

“My fault,” Paul said, “I issued the shoot on sight order.”

“I should’ve expected them to do this,” Ioannes said, “Use civilians to lull us into a false sense of security, then send bombs. What madness.”

“Once again, I offer my resignation,” Paul said, “If word of this gets out, they’ll once again blame me.”

“Just because you lost one patrol boat and got another disabled doesn’t make you the second coming of Markos,” Ioannes said, “What happened last night was a failure on all of our parts. We underestimated just how brutal the enemy can be. And the enemy perfectly exploited our compassion.”

“As a result, dozens of my men have been injured, many more have been traumatized, several of my captains have handed in their resignation letters, I spent hours telling them why I couldn’t accept their resignations, and we are down two patrol boats. The enemy will likely make their move this coming night, taking advantage of the hole in our formation.”

“Then we’ll plug the hole,” Ioannes said, “I think I know how. Tell me, where did the attacks happen?”

Paul pointed at three locations on the map. They were closer to the west shore than the east. He circled those locations and then marked several more. “Here are other sightings of potential suicide bomb boats. The vast majority were neutralized before they got close. Some were duds. Others we shot and sank. Others we managed to disarm with specialized teams once we realized what they were. But a few still detonated without hitting our boats.”

“Tell me about those detonations.”

He marked down the detonation locations Ioannes wanted. “Each detonation took place with one PT in the vicinity. But they were too far away, so no damage was sustained. Weird. Why would they detonate before our boats entered the blast radius?”

“Because they’re using detonator cables,” Ioannes realized, “They can’t use timers because they can’t predict when our boats would intercept the bombs. Someone on the west shore had to be spotting for the bombs and detonating them when they were close enough. I think those false detonations were because they ran out of cable length and had to at least try blowing something up.”

“So if we pull the patrol boats a little bit back to the east shore, we can stay out of their range,” Paul said.

“Exactly,” Ioannes said, “Though there’s nothing saying they can’t get longer cables. But I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“One of your destroyers,” Ioannes said, “The Talos, was it? Deploy that one alongside the patrol boats. At the same distance from the west shore as the old routes were. I doubt improvised explosives can take out an entire destroyer.”

“They can still damage the propellers, though.”

“I know that. But they’re welcome to try. If that happens, have the Talos shell the west shore. They can’t spot for bombs if they’re forced inland.”

“Shouldn’t we just, you know, invade the west shore?”

“We wouldn’t be able to hold it, at this rate,” Ioannes said, “We have to wait until the main force pushes across Skoutarion Bridge and Kyparades Bridge, then hit the west shore in tandem. Otherwise they’ll just push us back into the sea just like we did to them. Though I wouldn’t be against sending in a few fireteams to neutralize important targets later on.”

“And what if actual refugees do decide to cross?”

“You know Megarevma, right?” Ioannes pointed north of downtown.

“Yeah. That’s the one with all those fishermen and seafood restaurants, right?”

“The blackshirts barely control that district. Not much support for them there. The ferry operators are already sympathetic to our cause. Have the operators announce that all who board the ferry unarmed will be guaranteed safe passage to the East End—let the news spread by word of mouth. We’ll set up a refugee processing center in Skoutarion and protect the ferries with more patrol boats. Local police will provide security on the west shore and ensure nobody brings a weapon onto a ferry. If Konstantinos’ men still attack the ferries, then it’ll be abundantly clear it was them.”

“That won’t last, you know. Eventually the blackshirts will hear of it, and they’ll shut the whole thing down.”

“The cops and the local dockworkers will hold them off a bit longer. Hopefully by then everyone who wants to leave will have left, and we won’t have to worry about more innocents being set adrift in the straits. Or we just land some troops in Megarevma. Maybe I’ll do that anyways, to tie up troops who would otherwise be on the bridges.”

“How much you want to bet whoever planned yesterday’s operation is going to try to one up us again?”

Ioannes grinned. “Oh, I’m counting on it. Let them try sinking a destroyer and firing on a refugee evacuation convoy. It’ll just make their prince look even worse when the destroyer’s still there and civilian bodies float past downtown into the Sea of Marmara. Let them do their worst. I’m not giving up.”

“So are we betting or not?”

“You’re serious?” Ioannes took out his wallet. “Okay…five hyperpyra says the blackshirts will try something.”

Paul nodded. “Five hyperpyra it is.”

Trebizond

For the first time in a long time, Kira dreamed.

First, she was falling. Then she was flying. She wasn’t a bird or bat or even anything at all. Waters raced past underneath her as she flew over a sea. Looking up, she recognized the skyline of Constantinople coming up. Her attention was drawn to the eastern half, and her vision zoomed in. An explosion boomed and a fireball went up on one block. She heard gunfire coming down below, followed by screaming. Descending to ground level, she found herself on a street as panicking civilians of all ages ran past. Finding she now had her body, she walked in the opposite direction, towards the gunfire.

Rounding a corner, she saw what appeared to be tents set up on the street, with red crosses on them. But the nurses and doctors were long gone. Soldiers crouched behind sandbags and cars, firing at unseen enemies. Kira walked past them, bullets zipping by so close she could feel the hot air they left in their wake. She wasn’t afraid. This was just a dream, after all. The bullets were being fired by other soldiers, these ones wearing black armbands. Their faces included those of the relatively young and old, not the kinds that would normally be soldiers. Their uniforms were also ill-fitting for the most part, if they had them at all.

Kira heard a man groaning nearby. Her attention drawn, she turned into an alley and walked behind a car, where she found an old man in a general’s uniform lying on the ground, bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound to the stomach. Despite the severity of his wound, he still attempted to raise his pistol at approaching blackshirts.

“I’m…not…giving…up…” he muttered.

The last thing Kira saw before the old general opened fire and the dream ended was the name on his uniform: Dalassenos.

Kira shot awake and immediately dialed the secure MSI number she had been given. “Operator, patch me through to Minister Doukas as soon as you can.”

…

30th January 1936

…

The Guard Captain finished his examination of the room.

“Well, they didn’t leave anything here except the wine and the message. We’re sweeping the rest of the house now, but I doubt they had time to place or take anything from elsewhere.”

Alexander nodded; arms folded into his robes. “And the woman?”

“Knew only that she was to place the letter with the rest. And that it was from the Rebellion. The rest of her story is true.”

Alexander hummed to himself. “Anything else?”

“Just…be careful. I doubt it is anything particularly incriminating, and it is doubtful either side of this war want to make an enemy of the Church…all the same, be suspicious of anything it says.”

“And what does it say?”

The Guard Captain handed the folded letter over. “Both sides already know the Church wishes to stay neutral, and that we are in communication with the rest of the Orthodox Hierarchy. Thus, Theodora wasn’t looking for information. More…a backchannel in case there is something they need to know promptly, or in case we need to make our escape across the Bosphorus.”

“Leave the First Hill?” Alexander dismissed it.

“We cannot afford to dismiss it. We are too close to the centre of power. You are too important to not be under the…Emperor’s control. And we have an army and a secure, walled base in the middle of his capital, across the street from the Senate Palace. This is…it is too unstable. It will come to head soon, it must. Especially with the discussion the Pentarchy had about the Coronation.”

Alexander grimaced. The Five Fathers had been unanimous; Konstantinos would not be crowned Emperor of Rome without the respect due to his predecessor. It was an unthinkable heresy to leave things as they were. The Church, generally neutral in such political disputes when they occurred in the Royal Family, had rather shifted away from the Crown Prince (as they officially saw him) with his impious and arrogant behaviour.

“I cannot fall in with the fascists, not unless they substantially revert their behaviour and follow the teachings of God and His Church. Nor can we afford to throw our lot in with a rebel Prince who avoids the Abbot and Archbishop of his resident city like the plague.”

It was a somewhat sensible decision, he supposed, if the Rebellion was not sure where the loyalty of the Church lay. But it made rotating the position of the Faith towards the as of yet still unlawful rebel prince all but impossible.

“Maybe you should tell them that, at least. You can hardly openly call for him to get in touch.”

“No…but I can call for both sides to meet in good faith. At the very least, it would allow me to officially contact both men again.”

The Guard Captain shifted. “It is up to you, Holy Father. But I must beg you to consider the safety of yourself and the people in this compound. My men and I will lay down our lives to keep you alive and the most holy of sites secure. But there will be consequences the longer we remain here.”

Alexander sighed. “I agree, my friend. But we cannot retreat at the first sign of trouble. The world is watching us, and our faith, as well as the Faith, is being tested.”

“What then do you intend?”

The Patriarch drew forth pen and paper, and wrote a brief note, after some consideration.

“That should suffice. They know their mission was a success, their agent will not be harmed, and that we are willing to hear them out.”

The letter thus read:

‘Theodosia,

We remain resolute upon our purpose to maintain and hold the Faith in Constantinople, and in the Lord’s Church. We will be inviting all sides to an open and peaceful meeting, in good faith. This is not in anticipation of such a event coming to pass, but at least would allow more open communication between myself and your leader. In that regard, I urge you to impress upon the Rebel Leader that he must trust in God and the Church, lest his cause be tarred with the same brush his brother currently is.

We shall continue to instruct the Holy Orthodox Church in neutrality and peace, and trust you shall continue to respect that sanctity, and all that entails both for us and for you. We offer no judgement and will take the communion and confession for all whom wish it. I trust you shall also impress THAT to the Rebel Leader.

[A pause appears as thought a pen halted for too long on the paper.]

I wish to express my personal regret to the Prince that his father has not been granted the rites and respect he is due. It is the intention of myself and the Church in its entirety to correct this unjust and impiety as soon as possible. The Emperor was a good and just man, and we all mourn his passing, and send our love to his family.

Go with God,

His Most Holy, Alexander, Patriarch of Constantinople’

---

1 February 1936

It was time. Alvértos stood and entered the conference room. There weren’t many more people than a month ago, but this was no surprise. Just as the things he said in this meeting would be little surprise, as he had been meeting with people all month. Still, it was good to have a meeting to ensure everyone shared the same knowledge. And it would establish a good precedent for if, when, they won the war.

“Welcome, everyone,” he began. “To start, the treatment of my father by my brother is completely unconscionable. That he was denied the appropriate rites is unprecedented. The thought of making this a political issue is distressing, but this is the best opportunity of showing my brother to be illegitimate. When we win militarily, it may be enough to force him to abdicate.”

“Since I mentioned it, here is the military situation. The Bosporus remains at a stand-off. Both sides have forces deployed across the strait, and any large-scale assault would have to cross the channel before it even could start fighting. It would be a near-impossible battle. There have been raids, but a full-scale assault is impossible without something changing.”

“On the other hand, we currently hold both sides of the Dardanelles, giving us control of the sea of Marmara. General Laskaris’ forces were able to cross with minimal opposition, and have spent the last few weeks defending this foothold.”

“They are fighting with great tenacity, but the attackers are able to attack and rest in turn, while Laskaris’ men have no chance to rest. At this rate, they will be forced to retreat before next month.”

“I had understood that more forces would not be able to be supplied. Thus, I changed the production orders for the last month to build trucks instead of artillery. The factories have had to be creative to source the necessary rubber, but they have produced sixty-one trucks suitable for supply transport. I hope that will be sufficient, as I have ordered a full infantry division to join the defense.”

“In any case, this seems to have thrown Konstantinos off guard. So far his only counter has been to send bombers to harass logistical movement throughout Opsikon. The damage has been minimal, but it’s a strike against civilian infrastructure. That Konstantinos would be willing to harm citizens of the Empire in such a futile gesture shows just how depraved he has become!” Alvértos realized his voice had been raised at the end and took a few breaths to restore himself to calm .

“In any case, that’s the current military situation. The MSI now has a headquarters, and is building some sort of operative training facility.”

“However, you are all no doubt more interested in my diplomatic efforts. My first area of effort has been with the provinces of the Empire. That has not gone well. None have agreed to work with Konstantinos, but none have agreed to work with us. Indeed, many have completely lost faith with Constantinople. Others are led by men who seem to have ambitions completely outside the Empire. We aren’t as different from the feudal Empire as we might like, and this does make us prone to fracture. If people desire, I can go into more detail on the individual breakaway states, but I fear it’d just be a dry list. Suffice it to say, they aren’t a source of outside help to this war, and once the war is ended, picking up the pieces of the Empire will be a task consuming us for a while.”

“As for countries outside the Empire, they are wary of sending aid. They fear getting dragged into another Time of Troubles, and seem to instead be taking a ‘wait and see’ attitude before engaging in deep diplomacy. Some are friendly if we win this war, but are unwilling to commit.”

Alvértos paused. This was disheartening, if not surprising, news. He allowed everyone a moment to process.

“My efforts have not been entirely futile, however. While no states are willing to back us, there are plenty of individuals who are. I am in talks that should see some International Legions join us before the month is out. Between them and the forces being trained in Iconium, we should be able to defend the Mediterranean coast against attacks from Konstantinos.”

“There’s also general world news. No doubt you’ve already heard of the peace between Hindustan and Tibet. Hindustan has taken the state of Bhutan and placed what they consider a friendly government in charge of Tibet.”

“You’ve likely also heard of the capitulation of the Kingdom of Norway. The breakaway from The Scandinavian Federation has been reintegrated.”

“The civil wars in Hayti and the Kingdom of Hedjaz are still ongoing.”

“As is England’s invasion of Tawantinsuyu. For the moment Tawantinsuyu and Anahuac have been pushing England back, and Anahuac has landed an assault on Adal to make them stop supporting England.”

“There is no other notable news in world affairs. Are there any questions about anything I’ve presented?”

---

Constantinople, West End, January 24th

Nikos scouted the strait, his neck aching from turning his head like a swivel, looking for any kind of opening after the last night’s operation, any kind of weakness in the patrol pattern that’d allow him to slip in and cause some havoc behind the enemy lines. He put down the binoculars for a moment, rubbing his tired eyes and sighing in frustration. He had to find the chink in the defenses today, no other day would work. Whoever it was that led the rebels was cautious, the opening made yesterday wouldn’t be left open for long, something would plug the gap soon, so no other day than today would work. His gaze crossed the Skoutarion bridge, and then suddenly an idea struck him.

Of course. It was so obvious! He once again looked through the binoculars, paying close attention to the PT boats sailing near the bridge to confirm it was what he was looking for. One boat, 5-6 men at most, could sneak through there, that was it! Using the bridge itself as cover from light, it’s just in a blindspot of the shoreside searchlights. And the patrol boats linger on either side for a while before moving to the next position. It’ll be a one-way trip, but with enough chaos caused an opportunity to get back might arise. Once the boat reached the other end the infiltration team could use the bridge structure to climb up and move into the city, and from there search for better targets, supply storages, high-value targets, or anything to disrupt the enemy. Yes, this was it, today or never. And it could buy enough time for the Imperial Army to move in more proper units. It’s insane that the Emperor’s forces still have not deployed any artillery to shell the ships. Just what was going on in high command?

Nikos gathered the few unharmed soldiers who followed him here originally. They were the only ones with proper training and thus had the highest chance of success and survival on a longer mission like this. He briefed them on the situation and the plan, pointed out the possibly important targets, and instructed them to focus their efforts on enemy officers, weapon crews, pilots, and anyone who can’t easily be replaced. Just as the old soldier was about to finish and send his men off, the bane of Nikos’s existence appeared - the blackshirt leader. He wasn’t too happy hearing about the lieutenant wanting to send his men out without some… supervision. So the fascist “suggested” sending one of their own with the rest of the squad. Nikos wasn’t in a position to reject, despite his utter contempt for the idea. And if that wasn’t enough, the “attache” was just a kid, couldn’t be older than 21, young enough to be Nikos’s son. But the fascist’s ideological roots were already deep in the boy’s mind, it was unquestionable he was dedicated to their cause, and he was especially proud of his name - Julius, named after one of the old Rome’s greats, how ironic.

Constantinople, East End, January 28th

Sergeant Demetriides thought about the past few days. After crossing the strait with a lot of luck on their side, the squad under his command managed to stay uncaught. They mainly raided supply dumps in the Amikos district, stealing and destroying crates, sabotaging the grenades, and damaging tools and weapons, it all was minor, but they lacked the means to fully destroy the depots, and even if they had enough explosives, it’d draw too much attention. Guns jamming, or grenades turning out to be duds was far less conspicuous. They also were able to strike down a few lower rank officers, but ultimately none of what they did would have a large impact. However one of the young officers revealed some interesting information. A high-ranking officer was meant to visit the frontlines today, a perfect opportunity to deal a big blow to the rebel cause, and even detailed the route the general would take. All of this was way too lucky. Demetriides was a man who believed that luck was a finite resource, and so far he’s been using a lot of it -the crossing, the days of partisan activity, the general’s visit. But it would be foolish not to use this chance.

The time to strike would be soon. The general for sure would be escorted, so they’d blow up the buildings near the road, destroying the escort car ahead and behind, trapping the one with the general between them. Then, in the panic of the firefight, a sharpshooter would take out the general, once that was done they would disperse and meet up at the agreed safehouse. Simple, elegant, what could possibly go wrong?

And so they waited, split into 3 teams, two ground ones that’d detonate the charges, and their blackshirt “guest” up on the second floor with the perfect vantage point to take out the general. It was cold and damp, but the adrenaline kept them all warm. Demetriides checked his watch, his heart pounding in his chest. The moment of truth had arrived. The first team set off the charges, but something went wrong, and the explosion was much weaker than they had expected, merely sending the car into a slip and crashing into a nearby building. The second team tried to detonate the charges but there was no explosion, the wire must’ve gotten damaged, and so both the ground squads laid suppressive fire trying to keep the enemy troops down.

But the soldiers guarding the general’s car were able to react quickly and return fire. The young fascist on the second floor took aim, but a, grenade explosion shook Julius’s hand she missed hir shot, only hitting the general’s shoulder. It was only a minute or two, but it felt like an eternity, Demetriides saw that the rebel soldiers were closing in on their position rapidly, and he knew that they had to get out of there. He ordered a retreat, and five men on the ground were quick to retreat in various directions, saying in cover and tossing grenades to slow down their pursuers. But Julius wasn’t so lucky. The moment he tried to run down the stairs they collapse, leaving him trapped in a pile of rubble. The general’s guards were quickly surrounded and captured by the soldiers.

A few hours later Demetriides and his men regrouped mostly safe and sound, short one fascist, but they knew that they had failed in their mission. The general had only been lightly wounded. Their luck has run out and the best they could do for the next few days was scavenge for food and lay low. Demetriides couldn’t help but feel a sense of disappointment. They had been so close to success, but their luck had run out. He resolved to do better in the future, to plan more carefully, and minimize the risks for his team. The fight for their cause was far from over, and they couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes.

(( So, Ioannes is only lightly wounded, and he has captured a young fanatical black shirt, do with him as you please. The rest of the raid squad is still on the East End, but for the time being, they won’t be conducting any sabotage, so things will be mostly calm behind the lines. ))

Franco listened intently to Theodora speak as he jotted down what she said. What she suggested about calling on Konstantinos to permit the Church to carry out the Emperor’s last rites was a valid proposal, visibly nodding in agreement to it. And he continued that nodding as he suspected that Nestorius would agree with Theodora’s commentary on the state of the Empire…

Thinking about it clearly, it was likely Theodora had heard the news, given her position, though whether or not she did was unclear to him. They were still fine-tuning things at the temporary HQ, and in turn wouldn’t be receiving messages that would’ve otherwise been received at the Thaddai estate in Constantinople. The only ones who’d know anything would be those in Komnenion. He hoped everything was going well there.

---

Though today was a Saturday, it meant little for those in Komnenion. In one of the many rooms of the most prestigious hospital in the capital, lay one Nestorius Thaddas. The personnel at the hospital had been spending much of their time since the 23rd just attempting to figure out what was wrong with him, while doing their best to stabilize his situation. Though they had managed to do the latter, no progress was made when it came to the former. Though some ideas were being formed, nothing conclusive has been reached so far.

In his room he was always joined by two people - the nurse that had been assigned to him, and Father Erasmos - who were watching over him the most intently. Kyrene had her work cut out for her, having to deal with state affairs, the media asking questions, and attempting to find the time to come and visit him for as long as possible. Timon, meanwhile, found himself by his lonesome with the staff back at the estate, with his son seeming somewhat uncomforted by this whole situation. So, he found himself catching up with his old friend Erasmos.

He had known Kalogeropoulos since childhood, but lost touch with him in their teens, as he shifted to becoming a monk. It was only after the Sack of Constantinople, with the ‘head’ branch of the family in need of a priest and confessor in the city, that he sought out his old friend Klimis, now known as Erasmos. Even years since, with the man receiving permission to transfer to Aotearoa to join him when he moved, the two of them still had much to talk about - that is, whenever he wasn’t having visitations.

From Mesazon Papadopoulos and the many political leaders of the country, from Mokauiti Motors head Piripi Hamaraha to Aotearoa Broadcasting Company (AEM) head Dimitrios Exadaktylos, from Yanagizawa Wakaba representing the Japantowns in Aotearoa, to Archbishop Angelarios of the Orthodox Church of Aotearoa early today, many have come to see him, and even more have sent him letters, including the neighboring leaders in Australia and Indonesia… as well as a message from his old friend Theodora Doukas. He wasn’t sure what resources she could offer that would help at this time, but he was glad that a friend was thinking of him, even with prayer.

Trebizond - January 23

“And you’re sure you saw his face?” Theodora said.

“Yes,” Kira said, “I am certain that General Dalassenos will be shot and killed in the next few days.”

Theodora shook her head and downed another cup of coffee. “Skata…any other details you can tell me?”

“It was at a medical clinic,” Kira said, “For wounded soldiers, I think. Dalassenos was shot in the stomach and surrounded.”

“I’m going to double the security at all of the field hospitals,” Theodora said.

“That might not work,” Kira said, “These visions don’t always happen exactly as they do. He could be shot near a clinic, not just inside it.”

“I hope that’s the case,” Theodora said, “Then that means we can still save him.”

I’m surprised he’s still alive to begin with. Irene tells me he stayed behind in the West End to buy her and the others time to escape. But he made it to Nicomedia. So why’s he not coming here? Is he as stubborn as Theodoros?

“You’ll have to do a lot more than moving troops around to avert Dalassenos’ death.”

“This isn’t all I’ll do.”

There was a pause. Then Kira continued, realizing what Theodora meant. “You’re going to tell him.”

“How better to avoid fate if you know what is in store?”

Kira sighed. “‘A man often meets his destiny on the road to avoid it’.”

“I know, but it at least gives him a chance of avoiding it,” Theodora said, “If we don’t do anything, he’ll walk into that ambush and die. We can’t lose Ioannes. He’s our best general.”

“How do you know he’s going to act on the information you’ve told him?”

“I don’t. I just have to hope.”

Nicomedia

Ioannes patiently listened to everything Theodora said, from the deal with Kira to the vision to his own alleged fate. Once Theodora was done, he realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled.

“Okay, that’s a lot to take in,” he finally said, “But if you say this is going to happen, then I’ll believe you.”

“You do?” Theodora sounded surprised.

“Ma’am, when you were a teenager, I was fighting vampires in Transylvania. This is nothing new to me.”

Theodora sighed. “Seriously, Ioannes, can you just drop the vampire story?”

“But it’s true!”

“Okay, we are not having this discussion again, old man. Save it for when you arrive in Trebizond.”

“Theodora, you know I’m not going to Trebizond right now,” Ioannes said, “Not when the capital is right there.”

“And so is your death.”

“I’ve already scheduled the visit, though.”

Theodora whispered what sounded like a curse, then she continued in a panicked voice. “Then frakking cancel it!”

“I can’t, Theodora! You can’t just have me change my schedule and that of the army on a whim!” Ioannes had to raise his voice in response. “I know you’re trying to protect me, but if I were to change everything now, it would mess up a lot of things. It would seem as if I got cold feet and fled. My troops would lose morale. The enemy would be emboldened. And the situation in the East End is fluid. I need to be there. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of myself. I’ll call you when I’m back in Nicomedia.”

He hung up.

If it seems like I could die in the East End, I might as well be prepared…

January 24

Preparations for the visit were underway. Ioannes had spent yesterday going over the itinerary and handing it out to the local commanders, then organizing a security detail both for Amikos District in general and himself. He was well aware he could be a target for the blackshirts. They’d be idiots not to try taking him out while he was on the front lines. And there were probably blindspots in his straits patrols. If the enemy did try to attack and then flee back to the West End, he could use their route to cover those holes. Also, he didn’t want to pay Paul five hyperpyra.

He received regular updates from Constantinople as he packed and got everything in order. Some troops on the Kyparades Bridge barricades reported a higher rate of guns jamming and grenade duds. The supply depots that delivered the faulty weapons were being checked for possible sabotage, but it was unlikely they’d find any incriminating evidence. The best they could do was to increase security around the depots and resupply the troops with working weapons from other depots. Unless those other depots were also hit.

January 26

Two days later, Ioannes’ suspicions were confirmed when a couple field commanders were found dead. None were high ranking enough that their deaths would throw the entire formation into chaos, but it was now clear that the blackshirts were actively operating in the East End. They had likely come through the blindspots in his straits patrols sometime in the last two days. Ioannes wasn’t quite sure where exactly they had crossed. He had a few likely routes marked down, but there was no way of knowing which one they had taken. However, he didn’t need to. Against Paul’s judgment, Ioannes ordered the patrols to maintain their current routes, without any changes. With any luck, the blackshirts would grow tired of meddling in the East End and try to return to the other side. And when they did so, they’d go through one of the blindspots. He just had to figure out when that would be.

The fact that they had gone from sabotage—they were clearly behind the sabotage now—to assassination was an expected but worrying change in mission. That meant the blackshirts would probably escalate further before retreating. If they could take out random commanders, then they might get cocky and start hitting higher ranking officers. And then they’d try going higher and higher up the chain of command until they reached…oh.

Maybe that’s what that girl saw in her vision.

Constantinople - January 28

The day of the visit came. As soon as the train from Nicomedia pulled into Chalcedon Station—without incident, thank goodness the blackshirts’ activity seemed to be limited to Amikos and Skoutarion—Ioannes got to work greeting his soldiers and officers. He shook hands, said the obligatory words, thanked everyone for their service and dedication, and handed out a few medals and promotions. Then he got into his car and headed up to Amikos. It was a clear provocation. Bait, more like. No general would be stupid enough to visit such a volatile front, especially after the enemy had shown the capability to strike behind the front lines. But he went anyways. He wanted to lure the blackshirts out and expose the blindspots. If he had to become the bait in his own trap, then so be it.

Theodora didn’t have to worry. He hadn’t forgotten what the girl had foreseen.

A part of him, though, feared his hubris would get the better of him.

His motorcade consisted of two escort cars, one in front and the other behind. Each had a soldier manning a machine gun turret in the back. His own car was an armored four-seater, and riding with him were some MPs, all heavily armed. They would head through Skoutarion up to Amikos, where the refugee field hospitals were. That was where the girl said the attack would happen, right? He had already evacuated all of the hospitals, moving their staff and patients to Chalcedon. The only people who would be caught in the crossfire would be soldiers. And himself.

It was the anticipation that was the most nerve-wracking. The feeling that something terrible was about to happen, yet he would not avoid it. He was walking right into the lions’ den, and he knew it. The only question was when the lions would pounce.

The answer came sooner than he expected. He was the first to notice a flash of light in the lobby of a hotel to his right, followed by the windows shattering and the glass spewing out into the street. The building swayed slightly, looming over the street far enough for all three drivers to hit the brakes. It seemed they meant to collapse the hotel in front of them and block their path, but apparently the charges didn’t fully destroy the foundations.

The next thing he knew, the ground underneath the front escort car exploded, taking out one wheel. Having not come to a full stop, the car went into a spin and crashed into a cafe. Ioannes spun around, expecting another mine to take out the other escort, but nothing happened. The second escort car sped up and pulled up alongside his own, revealing a charge hidden in between the cobblestones. A dud, or the wires were cut.

Then the shooting started. Bullets pinged off the street cobblestones, shattering Ioannes’ windows. One struck Ioannes in the shoulder, and he fell back. The MPs immediately took action. One pushed him down and began putting a tourniquet on the wound, while the others pulled out their guns and returned fire. When the machine gunners joined in, the sound of the blackshirts’ gunfire was almost completely covered.

Within minutes, the secondary escort motorcade had arrived and brought its own firepower to bear on the ambushers. Ioannes’ driver shifted into reverse and sped away from the chaos, this time with four escort vehicles surrounding them. Once they were back in Chalcedon, Ioannes was rushed into a hospital—a proper hospital, not one of the improvised field hospitals—and had his wound treated. The bad news was that a bullet wound to the shoulder was normally very dangerous. Blood could be lost extremely quickly, and infections could spread to critical organs just as fast. Even if the wound healed, there was a risk of losing arm function, either partially or fully.

However, Ioannes was incredibly lucky in that not only did the bullet not dig too deep, but it had also missed all of the major bones and blood vessels.

When he awoke from his operation, noticed his shoulder wrapped in bandages, and was told the news, all he could do was laugh. “See, Theodora? I told you I’d be perfectly fine! And God? I’m not done yet!”

January 29

Paul paced around the hospital room, clearly displeased with what had happened.

“Paul, you better not say you’re taking responsibility again,” Ioannes said, “I swear, sometimes it feels like you got some dynatos’ daughter pregnant when you were in naval academy.”

“Oh, no, nothing that crazy,” Paul said, “Or stupid. I was just going to say I hope you’re happy with yourself. Was getting shot in the shoulder and putting at least three squads in danger part of your plan?”

“If you put it that way, then yes,” Ioannes said, “That was entirely my plan.”

“Are you sure you’re not just taking credit after the fact?” Paul said. “Because the way I see it, you willingly walked right into a dangerous district that has been contested by the enemy literally in the last three days.”

“I don’t regret it at all.” Ioannes handed Paul some files. “Take a look at these files.”

Paul read the files. “Prisoner of war captured?”

“We captured one of their men, Paul,” Ioannes said, “Some young radical. He’s being shipped off to an MSI facility for interrogation as we speak.”

“What about the rest of them?” Paul said. “That kid didn’t act alone. For God’s sake, they tried blowing up an entire hotel just to trap you! We need to stop them before they blow up a bigger building! Where’s the rest of his team?”

“Probably lying low somewhere in Amikos or Skoutarion,” Ioannes said, “We’ll flush them out eventually. Either they try to hit another target or go after me again, or they’ll book it for the West End. The first option’s suicide, they’d only be signing their own death warrants. The second option…once their supplies run out and our patrols become more through, they’ll try to sneak back across the straits.”

“And they will get back across because you refused to change the patrols!”

“On the contrary, that’s my plan,” Ioannes said, “If they do try to cross, they’ll have to take the same route they went through. They’ll reveal the blindspots in our patrols and allow us to cover them up.”

“You really want to let the same team which shot you to go free?!” Paul said.

“Once they’re gone, they won’t come back for a long time,” Ioannes said, “Time we can use fortifying the East End and preparing for a full-scale assault on the West End.”

“You’re playing with fire, Ioannes, and you know it.”

Ioannes tried to shrug, but that only made his shoulder hurt. “So what? I got lucky yesterday. And I don’t think my luck’s running out anytime soon. The cards are in our deck now, Paul. We’ve forced their hand. The blackshirts’ next move will only weaken them further.”

Paul sighed. “And you know all this…how?”

Ioannes smiled. “Call it a little…foresight.”

“You know, maybe I should just let you rest. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Paul turned to leave.

“Oh, and one more thing, Paul.”

“What is it?”

“You owe me five hyperpyra.”

“Oh goddamnit!”

Trebizond - February 2

Irene, Theodora, and Heraclius ate their dinner quietly. The food was nice, and the living room had been decorated as best as they could, but the atmosphere remained sterile and cold, almost like the office. Perhaps it was because Theodora was still reading files and writing down notes and responses even as she ate.

“Auntie, can you at least take a break?” Irene asked. “It’s dinnertime.”

“I can’t,” Theodora said, “There’s so much going on in such a small timeframe…I have to keep up.”

“Can’t it just wait for an hour?” Irene said. “Let’s just eat dinner like we used to.”

As soon as those words left her mouth, Irene realized she was asking the impossible. Two chairs at the table would always stay empty.

Heraclius joined in at that moment and changed the subject, thankfully. “Mom, please. What is so important that you have to work at the dinner table?”

“You know my work, Heraclius. It’s important.”

“But you’ve never been this stressed out. Did something happen yesterday?”

“No.” Theodora shook her head, but Irene could tell she was just putting on a front. “The session went fine. That’s all you need to know.”

“The session went fine. That’s all you need to know.” That’s what they said after Konstantinos’ address. “You’re not telling us the full story,” Irene said, “We deserve to know the truth, Auntie. We’re family.”

“Please, Mom,” Heraclius said, “What happened?”

Theodora hesitated. Then she relented. “It’s Senator Thaddas. He had an accident and is in the hospital.”

Senator Thaddas…Auntie’s friend. I worked with his colleagues last month, but I haven’t seen him in person. Auntie always speaks so highly of him. “I’m sorry.”

“I already sent a letter expressing my condolences and offering to help.” Theodora became more candid. “But honestly, I don’t know how to help. I have too much on my plate right now. What with Gallipoli and Amikos and Dalassenos and all that. It feels so frustrating, knowing I’m stuck here while one of my friends is in pain on the other side of the world. It’s just like when Alexios and Belisarius…”

“Why don’t I go instead?” Irene said.

Theodora looked up from her papers. “You go?”

“I could go too,” Heraclius said, “His doctors could use some help.”

“And I’ll be there in your place,” Irene said, “I know it’s no substitute for you actually being there, but I’ll do my best.”

“But you’re needed here, both of you,” Theodora said.

“I’m not exactly doing much at the hospital here,” Heraclius said.

“Let’s face it, Auntie, the most I’ve done for the last month is sit at my typewriter typing up notes and reports,” Irene said, “I haven’t done much since January’s session. You can continue your work, but I’ll be there for Senator Thaddas. I helped out his colleagues during the escape from Constantinople, so it’s only natural to go to Aotearoa.”

“You do know if you go there, you’re not coming back anytime soon,” Theodora said.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Heraclius said, “Anatolia isn’t exactly the safest place right now, while Aotearoa is far from the fighting. We’ll lie low, help Senator Thaddas, and hopefully we’ll return when things have calmed down.”

“Are you sure?” Theodora said. “Because once I’ve chartered the flight and spent the money, I can’t back out.”

Irene looked at Heraclius. “You sure you want to go with me? I was expecting to go alone.”

“There’s a patient in need, and I can help him,” Heraclius said, “I can’t turn my back.”

They both looked at Theodora.

“Fine,” she said, “I’ll charter the flight.”

Kira’s place - February 3, late at night

Kira shot awake, panting heavily. “Damnit!” I have to stop waking up like this. Wait a minute, why did I wake up like this? …oh.

Suddenly, she remembered the dream she was experiencing. It wasn’t as clear as the previous one with Dalassenos. Everything was murky. The most she could make out were shapes, as if accounting for multiple possibilities. Perhaps the future she had seen wasn’t as set in stone as with Dalassenos’. That was both a relief and a concern. What point was her foresight if she couldn’t accurately see the future? At least she could make out a few faces, which allowed her to narrow down who was involved in this premonition.

She picked up the telephone. “Operator, I need to talk to Minister Doukas.”

“One moment.” There was a click, and then Theodora’s voice came through. “Kira? Did you have another dream?”

“Yes,” Kira said, “It’s about Timon Thaddas, Irene, and Heraclius. I think something’s going to happen to them.”

There was a pause. “SKATA!”

“Theodora?”

Theodora quickly recollected herself. “Goddamnit…of all the times you could’ve gotten a dream about that…”

“Why’s that?” Kira asked.

“Because I just sent Irene and Heraclius on a plane to Aotearoa, and I can’t reach them!”

Trebizond February 1, 1936

Donatello Favero remained silent throughout the entirety of Prince Alvértos’s address, much like every other makeshift senate session he had attended this past month. He was out of his element here, deprived of his influence and resources. As the other senators discussed military strategies that were beyond his expertise or the seemingly hopeless diplomatic situation, he felt he had nothing of use to contribute. The decisions of the military were better left to the high command. As for diplomacy, despite his early career as a diplomat, he had been out of the game for too long and no longer possessed the necessary demeanor for such work. His input might just as likely jeopardize their position as help it. It was better not to get involved.

There was one matter that he felt compelled to provide his input, for the very survival of this movement depended on it. While the other senators seemed content to oppose Konstantinos for his beliefs or actions, Donatello felt at times he was one of the few who was considering the full implications of such opposition. Legitimizing Alvértos’s cause, or de-legitimizing Konstantinos’s, was just as important as defeating Konstantinos on the field of battle. Without that legitimacy, the movement would collapse and the empire with it. They had to tread carefully or their support would slip away.

During a gap in conversation, Donatello cleared his throat and stood up. “The news that the emperor was denied the proper rites is indeed deplorable. While I agree with the prince that making it a political issue feels immoral, I believe that we have no choice but to use it as ammunition against Konstantinos. Due to his actions, our gracious and benevolent emperor may have passed without the chance for a final confession, his immortal soul forced to carry sins he could not unburden. To deny this to any man is a sin in itself, but to deny this to an emperor and risk condemning his immortal soul is an abomination. Konstantinos must be made to answer for his crimes against both the emperor and the faith. I believe it is in our best interest, and the late emperor’s, that the world be made aware that the crown prince is an impious and godless man that would cast his own father into the fires of Hell so he could snatch the crown from his barely lifeless body.”

Trebizond - February 1

“I second this,” Theodora added, “While I do have my reservations about politicizing this matter, I acknowledge we have little choice but to do so. If our situations were swapped, I have no doubt Konstantinos wouldn’t hesitate to do the same. We must let the rest of the Empire, if not the world at large, know of this affront to His Majesty without delay. The MSI is ready to help spread the news, should its services be requested.”

Hyderabad - February 19

Irene had thought that taking a plane from Trebizond to Komnenion would be much faster than taking a ship out of Smyrna or Damascus. In a way, it was faster, but it was still pretty slow.

First was a flight from Trebizond to Baghdad. She spent her time in between flights in downtown Baghdad, searching for a good restaurant to eat local food at. Heraclius, as usual, had gone off to the medical library at Hikma University. After that, their next flight took them to Isfahan. The restaurants were better here, in Irene’s opinion, but Heraclius complained about a lack of medical libraries. They next caught a flight to the eastern town of Zahedan, which seemed to have been entirely designed around being a stop for connecting flights and trains between the Mediterranean and India. As a result, there was nothing to see there, just railroads and airfields and other bored passengers. Heraclius had bought a chess set at the Grand Bazaar in Isfahan, but neither of them were that good at chess, so they got bored quickly. Eventually, they made up funny stories about the fancy hats worn by high class passengers. Finally, their next flight was ready, and this one took them to Jaipur, in Hindustan. Irene finally found a copy of The Return of Herlock Sholmes in a local bookstore there, which helped her pass the time. After that, they were in the capital, Hyderabad. It was a bustling city that was constantly stuck in traffic jams, the honks of annoyed drivers mixing with calls to prayer echoing out from minarets. The food was a bit too spicy for Irene’s liking. She preferred the stuff they served in Isfahan—it tasted a lot like home.

Hyderabad was where Theodora had apparently given up trying to charter a flight. Normally, the air routes would go through Burma, Siam, and Malaya, but that whole area was a mess currently, and no sane pilot wanted to go there, even though the hazard pay had been raised to 50 hyperpyra per trip. An insane amount, even Theodora can’t pay me that much per day. So the only alternative to get to Aotearoa was by zeppelin to Australopolis. The local company, Daksina Air, knew this. A ticket to Australopolis usually cost about 400-450 hyperpyra, but lately the fares had gone for over 600. Theodora had made quite the fuss about it when she called Daksina Air’s office in Trebizond and learned the news. Thankfully, she had negotiated a “government discount” that lowered the price to…450 hyperpyra. I better get good service, Irene thought.

The boarding process was similar to that of the Scipio during the escape from Constantinople, only way more orderly. The passengers gathered on the side of the runway at Hyderabad’s main airport and formed a line in front of the ramp. A flight attendant checked everybody’s tickets and then waved them onboard.

Fortunately, the Lemuria had better furnishings than the planes Irene had taken to get here. It was almost like a fancy train or an ocean liner. The cabins were as she expected—small and basic—but it seemed as if the designers wanted the passengers to only go there to sleep. On the port side, there was a dining room, where paintings on the walls portrayed exotic locales the Lemuria had previously visited. On the starboard side, there was a lounge and a writing room. The lounge had several large and comfortable sofas, a bookshelf with both classics and the latest bestsellers, and a large world map (accurate to 1935). The writing room was decorated in the style of Hindustani mosques, with beautiful geometric patterns and Arabic calligraphy covering the walls. Long slanted windows allowed natural light to illuminate the rooms. Hindustani jazz played from somewhere else in the zeppelin. Irene loved it, and so did Heraclius.

“Wow,” Heraclius said, “Now this is travel!”

Irene slumped into a sofa and stretched. “Aaaah…that hits the spot. Time to curl up and read more Herlock Sholmes.”

“Seriously, Irene, is that all you care about?”

Irene rolled her eyes. “Not like you’d understand. You’re always lost in your books, Herac.”

“Hey, I might need to treat a patient in two days! I need to know everything I can to help!”

“Take a breather, Herac,” Irene said, “It took us two weeks to get here. We should’ve at least spent it relaxing.”

“I am relaxing!”

“Am not!”

“Am too!”

As they continued bickering, neither of them noticed a suspicious man sitting on the other side of the lounge, watching them…

Venice Late January 1936

Artemisia Favero had noticed a growing commotion in the city as she got ready in her hotel room in Venice. Large groups of people were moving through the city, heading towards the Piazza San Marco. She had intended to spend the day touring the city, perhaps indulging in some shopping, but clearly something more interesting was occurring. As she left her hotel, she fell in behind a group of men dressed in black suits as they made their way to the plaza.

When Artemisia finally reached the Piazza San Marco, it soon became clear that she had ended up at some sort of rally. Italian tricolour banners were strung everywhere and a stage with a podium had been set up in front of the Basilica di San Marco. The crowd gathered in the square was quite large and growing rapidly, consisting of a wide mix of people. The men she had followed were not the only ones in black suits, and she even noticed a few men in uniform. Quite a few younger people, in their early 20s like Artemisia, were milling around near the stage. Unsure of what they were gathering for, Artemisia edged around the group and found an empty seat at the Caffè Florian, not an easy task since it was filled with well-to-do couples eyeing the stage. They weren’t quite of the same class as the working men and women gathering in the square, but they seemed just as interested by the event transpiring before them.

Just as the waiter dropped off a cup of coffee for Artemisia, murmuring started to spread through the crowd. A figure stepped up on the stage, and soon a chant began, starting in the front and spreading. The wealthy patrons sitting around her did not join in, but seemed to nod their heads in approval. At first she wasn’t sure what they were saying, but then she finally made out the man approaching the podium and the chant no longer sounded foreign to her.

“Lom-bar-di! Lom-bar-di! Lom-bar-di!”

Giuseppe Lombardi stepped up to the podium, almost marching with his stiff gait. He clasped the edges of the podium, staring out at the crowd for a moment. A dull buzzing filled Artemisia’s ears as the crowd’s murmuring seemed to reach an excited crescendo. Then Giuseppe raised his right hand up, his arm held out straight almost in a salute, and silence enveloped the square. He held it there for a few seconds before snapping it down against his side. The crowd remained deathly silent. Artemisia took a sip of her coffee and received several dirty looks from the fellow cafe patrons as she slurped a bit more loudly than intended.

“My fellow Italians,” Giuseppe said, his voice booming out through the square. “It is with great pleasure and pride that I stand before you, to witness the many hardworking men and women that strive to make this country great. From the patriotic soldier protecting our nation to the diligent businessman fueling our economy, from the proud fathers and sons providing for their families to the dutiful mothers and daughters raising the children of the nation in good Christian values, all of your have contributed so much to this nation. Truly, the Italian people are capable of anything, for we must remember that the greatest empire known to man was birthed within our nation, although the Greeks will be quick to tell you otherwise.”

Chuckles spread through the crowd while Artemisia awkwardly sipped at her coffee, eyeing those around her. They seemed enraptured in every word Giuseppe was saying, and he hadn’t even said that much. It was as though he was a magnet and they were all made of metal, the attraction so clear in the air. Perhaps she had been denied too much of her Italian roots to appreciate the sentiment Giuseppe was trying to share.

Giuseppe raised a finger and the chuckles died down instantly. “We must not forget this greatness that resides within all Italians, nor allow it to be stifled. Our current consul, Ugo Saletta, would see us stifled. He is a man who would bow to Constantinople if they bribed him enough, who fills the ranks of our military high command and administration with lackeys and toadies, and who cavorts with communists and socialists to steal from the hardworking man and bury him beneath taxation.” Giuseppe slammed his fist down on the podium. “He is a man who cannot be trusted, a man who will bring ruin down upon us if given the chance.”

Giuseppe clasped the edges of the podium again, pausing to take the time to make eye contact with various faces in the crowd. At one point he looked over at Artemisia, although she was likely too far away to recognize. It was only a brief moment, but she saw that passion she had seen when she first met him, the unbridled ambition lurking beneath. Now unleashed before this crowd, she bore witness to all this man intended to accomplish. He would see Italy remade, but turned into what she did not know. That lack of knowing made her involuntarily shiver, and she chided herself for giving in to such emotions. What did she care what happened with Italy? Perhaps Giuseppe would lead Italy to greatness as he intended, or perhaps he would bring about its death and destruction. Regardless, the world would move on.

After it felt like his gaze had swept across the entire crowd, Giuseppe continued with his speech. “What Italy needs is a strong leader. One who is unwilling to bend to foreign pressure. One who will make the necessary sacrifices to see Italy reborn in the glory she deserves. One who will fight to their dying breath for the Italian people. I am willing to commit myself to that cause and give everything to Italy and its people.” Giuseppe raised his right hand up in salute again. “A strong leader for a strong Italy!”

Artemisia watched as arms shot up across the plaza, returning the salute of Giuseppe, even from the wealthy patrons sitting nearby enjoying their coffee and the waiter who had served her earlier. Not wanting to feel out of place, she quickly put down her coffee and raised her arm in salute like the others. Soon the chant from earlier began again as Giuseppe kept his hand held high and watched the crowd like a proud father.

“Lombardi! Lombardi! Lombardi!”

As Franco wrote down his notes in response to Donatello’s comments, he thought briefly on the issue of the Emperor’s last rites a bit more, and considered an aspect mentioned in Theodora’s monologue. He decided to speak up.

“Though I doubt anyone within the borders of the Empire, whether it side with you or Konstantinos, would likely oppose such a call, it would be worth also considering the wider Empire as it was prior to all this occurring,” he commented, “after all, what breakaway provinces would care about something such as one’s last rites if they are currently lead by communists? Though none are choosing a side in this conflict, on an issue such as this, having even the breakaway provinces agree with us would serve as a major blow to Konstantinos’ credibility, as just like you, he would also have to contend with them if he were to win. So it might be prudent to consider them.”

---

Mid-February 1936

Kyrene finalized preparations for the arrival of Irene and Heraclius Doukas, anticipated to arrive on the 19th or 20th by boat from Australopolis, New Smyrna to Komnenion. To so suddenly send them their way was a surprise, but the message they received from Theodora, indicating that they would be safer in Aotearoa than in Anatolia right now, and how Heraclius could provide his own medieval expertise for Nestorius, were reason enough. She ensured that there would be a group waiting for them at port for their arrival, with the respect deserving of a Doukas family member, with the plans for them to stay at the Thaddai estate in Komnenion for the time being. Though their estate was modest, it can accommodate two more people at a time like this.

As she looked over her work table, she thought about whether she had forgotten to tell someone that they were having guests over. Last time she saw Nestorius, she let him know the two were coming. The staff at home are anticipating their arrival too. And she’s fairly sure she told Timon… she thinks.

Before she could double-check and call the estate to ask her son, the phone rang. Something had come up again. She really needed some rest…

---

Alvértos waited a few moments to process the feedback. Everyone was aligned on military strategy, that was good. But not pushing harder on Father’s mistreatment… how had he missed the strategic angle there? He really needed to stop thinking in terms of family and reconciliation and start thinking in terms of winning. Of course, his lack of church attendance since escaping wouldn’t make him look good while making those accusations. And more — if not quite so obvious — was bad for his soul. That could be corrected easily enough though.

“Thank you everyone. I will make sure to publicly speak out against my brother. Theodora, please do spread the news. And better yet, evidence for it. Make sure there are rumors of all kinds throughout the Empire.”

“Are there any final concerns? If not, we can all go about our business.”

---

Alvértos changed into his most simple garments. It would not do to return to the church in a prideful manner. A part of his mind noted that it would send the right image given the accusations he would soon make on the radio. He disliked this dual thought, but such was the nature of rulership. He would have to learn to live this way and do it well.

Dressed appropriately, he walked to the city’s church and asked for the priest. He did not wait long, showing the priest was eager to meet him.

“Father, I know this is outside usual procedures, but we are in exceptional circumstances. Will you take my confession?”

---

Venice Late January 1936

Artemisa Favero cut off a piece of steak as she admired the canal. She had spent the day shopping and enjoying the sights, and had decided to take an early dinner before the sun set. She bit into the tender piece of meat and let out a content sigh at the juicy texture. Just how she liked it. A gondola passed by with a young couple cuddling each other, further brightening Artemisia’s mood. Truly this city was wondrous. Perhaps she could understand why her father missed Italy so much. There was no other city quite like Venice.

“Mind if I join you?”

The voice cut into Artemisia’s revelry and she reluctantly turned her gaze away from the canal, ready to berate whatever fool had decided to disrupt her meal. Her temper dissipated the moment she spotted Giuseppe Lombardi. The corner of her lip curling up into smile, and she beckoned to the seat across from her. “Of course. I’m afraid I already ordered and am part way through my meal, but you are welcome to keep me company.”

“I would love nothing more,” Giuseppe said with a warm smile as he took the seat across from her.

Artemisia cut off another piece of her steak, but before putting it in her mouth she said, “What brings you to my table?” She held the slice of steak before her, admiring the pleasant mix of brown and red, not too cooked but not too raw. God, she was hungry.

“Well I happened to be passing by and noticed you,” Giuseppe said, leaning back in his chair, perhaps the first time she’d seen the man relax his posture since meeting him. “You’re not a hard woman to miss, Artemisia.”

“You can call me April,” Artemisia said, biting into her steak. Giuseppe cocked his head, obviously curious about the name choice. After finishing her bite, she continued. “All my friends and family call me April.”

“So we’re friends now,” Giuseppe said, the firmness of his tone making it clear that this was a statement and not a question. He rested an arm on the table and watched her for a moment as she took another bite of steak. “So what brings you to Venice? Still exploring your father’s birthplace?”

Artemisia went to answer, but got distracted by a clatter off to the side. A disheveled man in a heavy coat had bumped into a waiter and made him spill some silverware. The two apologized profusely to each other as the waiter quickly collected the spilled silverware and the man awkwardly sat down at the table behind Giuseppe. With that distraction finished, she returned her attention to Giuseppe. “Just enjoying a little sight-seeing. This city is unlike any I’ve ever visited.”

“Indeed, it is truly a wonder,” Giuseppe said, the two of them turning to look at the canal. They sat in silence for a minute, giving Artemisia some time to get in a few more bits of steak. It was Giuseppe who eventually broke the silence. “I saw you at my rally yesterday. I never took you for someone who would be interested in Italian politics.”

Artemisia let out a light chuckle, covering the surprise that he had managed to spot her at the rally. There had been so many people there and she had been far from the stage. The man must have eagle vision to have made her out in that crowd. “I’m afraid that I’m not. It seemed like the whole city was there so I felt compelled to see what was going on.”

Giuseppe nodded before leaning forwarding over the table and fixing Artemisia with a thoughtful look. “So what did you think? I would love to get the opinion from someone with an outside perspective.”

Faced with such a daunting question, Artemisia took another bite of steak to bide herself some time. He was giving her that passionate look, one that unnerved her more so than if she knew that it was directed at her. This man’s political ambitions were all-consuming.

Once her bite was finished, she couldn’t avoid the question any longer. Artemisia said, “I can’t say much regarding your goals, since I am not all that familiar with the domestic politics of Italy. You certainly have a loyal following though. The crowd was practically eating out of your hand yesterday.”

Giuseppe gave a confident grin, pleased by Artemisia’s word. “It is good to have such faithful followers, and their support is appreciated. I have managed to gather together brave men and women from all walks of life with a shared vision for Italy.” He paused for a moment, before fixing Artemisia with an intense stare. “Unfortunately, not everyone is so pleased with me. The godless communists and their ilk would gladly see me dead if they could get their hands on me.”

Attempting to avoid his gaze, Artemisia looked over his shoulder instead. That’s when she spotted the disheveled man from earlier. He was still sitting at the table behind Giuseppe, but he was sitting there without any food and was just staring daggers into the back of Giuseppe’s head. She watched as he riffled his hand through the inside of his jacket before he drew something metallic out of the folds. It took only a moment for her to recognize it as a pistol.

Running on pure instincts, Artemisia snatched up her steak knife and hurled it with surprising accuracy at the unknown assailant. The man had started to aim his pistol at Giuseppe when the knife lodged itself into his arm. He let out a pained yelp, his arm twitching to the side as he accidentally fired the gun. The shot rang out through the air, the bullet firing into the side of a building across the canal. A woman at the restaurant let out a shriek at the gunshot and people started to scatter. Giuseppe, with the instincts of a trained soldier, had watched the knife fly over his shoulder without flinching, and after the shot went off, he immediately rolled out of his chair and pushed the table down behind him, turning it into an improvised shield between him and the attacker. Artemisia immediately ducked out of her chair and put her back up against the table to shield herself, Giuseppe already sitting beside her.

“I think I owe you my life,” Giuseppe said casually as he pulled a pistol from a holster at his side. “Now just give me a moment to deal with this traitorous pig and we can resume our dinner conversation.”

Giuseppe was already leaning towards his side of the table, ready to jump out and fire a shot, when Artemisia saw the assailant’s shadow off to her left. The man was coming around her side of the table. Instead of warning Giuseppe so he could prepare to shoot the perpetrator, she decided to take matters into her own hand. She grabbed her fork that was lying on the ground nearby and sprang out just as the man was about to round the corner of the table. She rushed straight at his chest, butting her head into him in an attempt to knock him over. She put her full weight behind her as she collided with the assailant, and with a forceful push she knocked him to the ground, temporarily stunning him as the wind was knocked from him. He desperately tried to raise his pistol to shoot at her, but with a grunt she stabbed the fork into his hand. He screamed in agony, dropping the pistol. She didn’t give him a moment to recover. She pulled the fork free and immediately went for the jugular. The attacker, who she only now noticed could not be more than 20, was completely unprepared for her brutal assault. This man clearly had no combat experience. She felt a moment of regret as the prongs of her fork pierced the man’s jugular and blood sprayed everywhere. Within seconds, the man was dead, his blood covering the ground and Artemisia.

The air felt heavy as Artemisia got back to her feet. She took a moment to grab a napkin and wipe some blood droplets from her face and hair. Her dress was absolutely ruined, absolutely covered in blood, a lost cause. She let out a sigh. It was one of her favourites.

The sound of footsteps behind her reminded Artemisia that she had not been alone. Giuseppe walked up beside her, coldly staring down at the man that had just moments before tried to take his life. He squatted down in front of the body, doing his best to avoid the pooling blood, and started checking the man’s pockets and the rest of his clothes. Artemisia watched him in silence, neither seemingly fazed by the fact that she had just murdered a man and he was inspecting a freshly killed corpse.

Giuseppe letting out a sharp hiss of breath was the only sign he had found something. He slowly pulled loose a red bandana that had been tied around the man’s neck. He held it up so Artemisia could see. “Communists sometimes use these to help identify each other.” Giuseppe spat on the corpse and gave it a dirty look. “It’s unfortunate that you died before I could force some answers out of you.”

Giuseppe rose back to his feet and tossed the bandana back at the corpse. He clenched his fists as if not even death could stop him from beating some answers out of the communist. It took a few deep breaths for him to calm himself, and then he looked over at Artemisia, smiling as if the whole episode had never happened. “You handled yourself admirably there. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman handle herself so well in a fight. Where did you learn to do that?”

A smirk spread across Artemisia’s face. “My father made sure I was taught how to defend myself.” Tilting her head up and standing up straight, she added, “I just took those lessons a little more seriously than he intended.”

The two shared a smile before they were interrupted by the sound of marching boots. Half a dozen men in black uniforms stormed into the restaurant, pistols at the ready. They seemed ready to shoot on sight, but the moment they saw Giuseppe, they lowered their pistols and raised their right arms in a salute. “Lombardi, sir!”

“At ease, gentlemen,” Giuseppe said, and the men noticeably relaxed. “My friend and I were just attacked by this communist scum.” He motioned to the nearby corpse and the men immediately scowled. The one closest to it spat at it.

“How can we help, sir?”

Giuseppe placed an arm on Artemisia’s shoulder. Her skin warmed at the touch, although his hand was quite clammy. “Could two of you please escort Miss Favero back to her hotel room.” Artemisia snapped a cold look at Giuseppe. She had surely proven she was not some defenseless woman who could not walk alone through the city. She was about to open her mouth in protest when Giuseppe interjected. “April, it’s best that you return to your hotel to change. You might cause quite a stir walking around covered in blood, and these gentlemen will ensure you don’t get questioned or harassed on the way back.”

Artemisia immediately shut her mouth and looked down at her dress again. She had almost forgotten about the blood. “Perhaps you’re right,” Artemisia said as two of the uniformed men stepped up on each side of her, beckoning for her to lead the way. She went to leave, but looked back at Giuseppe. “But what about the police? Shouldn’t I stay around to explain what happened?”

Giuseppe let out a laugh, and the uniformed men shared in his mirth. Apparently the law enforcement around here was a joke. “Don’t worry about that. I will handle everything. Just go back to your hotel room and get some rest.”

Artemisia paused a moment before nodding. She turned and started to walk away. As she left the restaurant, she heard Giuseppe call after her. “Next time we meet, April, I hope there will be less bloodshed and more of our pleasant conversation.” She couldn’t hold back a smile as she started back to her hotel, escort in tow.

A Report on Recent Breakaway Provinces in the Imperial Core

The provinces are listed using their choice of titles for simplicity.

Kingdom of Aragon (Absolutist)

Yahyah al-Jayyani, with the backing of the Phoenix Party, has taken complete control of the government. He is claiming to be a Dictator to prepare to defend the province against aggression from the Iberian Empire. If they do survive that crisis, no doubt there will be another to protect against, meaning he will never need abandon the title.

Armenia (Neutral)

Adamantios Kanaris has gathered the Nationalist Party for the last month and is expounding something to them. He has maintained effective secrecy thus far though.

Kingdom of Azerbaijan (Absolutist)

Stylianos Charalambis has complete control of the province via his lackeys in the Nationalist Party. He is using his rich supply of oil to experiment with aviation tactics, though it’s mysterious what he hopes to accomplish.

Carthage (Absolutist)

Dux Anastasios Typaldos-Alfonstatos is making a bid to become King, but thus far has open support from only one-in-six people. The political shifts of the province should be monitored.

Cyrenaica (Absolutist)

Alexandros Vassos is backed by the Royal Faction despite no clear ties to any Imperial Royalty. This may be his best attempt to distract from the fact no legions nor ships had been assigned to the province. If that is unclear, he has no military whatsoever.

Dalmatia (Neutral)

Ilias Papadiamantopoulos, leader of the Freedom Party, has remained non-committal about his goals, but has promised elections in 1940 to choose the leader of the province.

Autonomy of Egypt (Absolutist)

With their control of the Suez Canal giving them an income from trade, it is no surprise that Dux Konstantinos tel Elladas is focusing on empowering his navy. Indeed, he may have the strongest navy in the Empire. His Pharoahnist Party is pulling in every direction, so he seems unlikely to try for greater authority in the near future.

Kingdom of Georgia (Absolutist)

Dux Anastasios Typaldos-Alfonstatos remains in control of the Caucausus and the plains to the north. But his government is fractured and Russia is still claiming Kuban as theirs. He will likely remain focused on internal affairs and on defending against Russia.

Dominion of Guiana (Absolutist)

In war-torn South America, the Guiana Patriotic Front party has put forth a military dictator to prepare a defense, lest England get any ideas.

Iberian Empire (Fascist)

A fascist state under Cristobal Miaja’s Partido Moderato. Looks to its Castillian heritage as the ‘correct’ form of Romanitas. Claims all of Iberia, meaning a war with the Kingdom of Aragon, which would no doubt lead to the abuses of the Andalucian people there.

Israelite Commune (Communist)

The Miflaga Progresivit, which is known for organizing the kibbutzim — communal religious communities — in the province have taken control and put forth Mose Abramovitch as their spokesperson. They are concentrating on the well-being of Israeli people specifically, and seem wary of anything that would distract them from this single-minded mission. Despite this focus, non-Israeli Romans are not being abused in any way, and access is still being given to religious sites

Kingdom of Marrakesh (Absolutist)

Had he a navy, Dux Evripidis Papadopoulos would be well positioned to control access to the Mediterranean. Lacking one, he instead is redirecting industry to make consumer goods establishing his bona-fides. No doubt like many others, he is making a bid to become a King.

Moesia Inferior (Neutral)

Benizelos Charalambis’ Partidul Radical is rapidly building their armed forces, seemingly worried about Hungary and Konstantinos.

Moesia Superior (Neutral)

Anastasios Mavrocordatos’ Anarcho Liberal party is taking the opportunity to overturn worker protections and increase the output of the economy. Their political goals are unknown.

Numidia (Neutral)

Adamantios Tsolokoglou is the representative of the business owners of the province, who are rapidly tooling up their factories for greater profit.

Pannonia (Neutral)

Augustinos Zymvrakakis’ Radical Party is organizing their political efforts, but their platform is unclear.

Sicily (Neutral)

Spyros Sarafis has emerged as the spokesperson for a group of leaders running the region. They seem to have brought the military under control and again guarding the border with Italy, but their goals are unclear.

Autonomy of Syria (Absolutist)

Dux Pavlos Charalambis has expressed sympathy for Konstantinos. But he has also deployed his military away from the border with us, so it seems he does not plan to do anything active to support Konstantinos.

Further reports will cover sub-saharan Africa, Asia, and Oceania.

Trebizond - mid-February

“Come on, pick up,” Theodora muttered, “Damnit, why is it so hard to make an international call…”

Finally, there was a click, and a woman’s voice came through the receiver. “Hello, Thaddai residence here.”

“Kyrene?” Theodora said. “That you?”

“Theodora?” Kyrene replied. “Yes, it’s me. How are you?”

“Listen closely,” Theodora said, “There isn’t much time. You remember Kira? That girl who can see the future? Well, she saw something bad.”

“Hold on, slow down—”

“It involves Timon.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Timon?”

“Yes, and Irene and Heraclius.”

Kyrene’s voice grew serious. “Tell me exactly what she saw.”

“Not much, other than they could be in trouble soon,” Theodora said, “Damnit, if only we could have seen any details…at least beef up security until I learn more.”

“Okay, Theodora, this is a lot to take in,” Kyrene said.

“Kyrene, I have a bad feeling about this,” Theodora said, “I’m going to talk to Kira some more and call you if she sees anything else. But in the meantime, can you at least increase security and make sure nothing happens?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks. And, uh…I’m sorry I can’t be there in person.”

“It’s okay,” Kyrene said, “Nestorius understands. If it’s any consideration, it’s nice that Irene’s coming to visit.”

Theodora sighed. “Some consolation that is. Why did Kira have to foresee what she did when she did?”

“Don’t sweat it,” Kyrene said, “We’ll figure something out. I know we will.”

After the call ended, Theodora immediately picked up the phone again. Just in case Kyrene’s security isn’t enough, I need a backup plan. “Operator, patch me through to…”

Komnenion - February 19th

With the arrival of the Lemuria in Australopolis, New Smyrna, Irene and Heraclius would briefly find themselves with some free time prior to their ship departing for Komnenion, time spent fairly uneventfully. Soon enough, their ship would arrive, the mighty Tyche, helmed by Captain Vikéntios Kaísarídis and his crew. It was currently on its route to Aotearoa, from where it would reverse course and go through the entire Orient Line to either the Mediterranean through the Suez, or through the Persian Gulf to Kuwait.

Arriving in the early hours of the 19th, Irene and Heraclius departed from the ship and found themselves looking around the port, before noting what appeared to be government workers holding up the Imperial banner. The two approached and greeted the workers, before being asked if they were the Doukai set to arrive. Upon confirmation, the younger Doukai found themselves escorted to an Exarchate-owned car, bearing the iconography of the country, prepared for guests of honor. After seating themselves in the back, the car made its way out of the port and into the city. The chauffeur would begin talking:

“We would like to apologize for Exarchess Kyrene’s absence at this time. Recent state affairs have proven increasingly distracting. She had requested we bring you two to the Thaddai estate, where you will be staying during your time here. If all goes well, she will come to see you around the afternoon, after which point we will make our way to the hospital,” the chauffeur explained, as the Doukai recognized that the car itself seemed large enough to house more than five people.

As they made their way to the Thaddai estate, at the estate, Timon, utterly unaware that they were receiving guests that day, was hanging out with his friends. They had invited themselves over to ease his mind.

“Com’on, Tim, whazzall this?” one such friend, Vitous Georgiades, remarked, as he motioned towards Timon’s pile of books, all of which have bookmarks in them.

“Whatsa problem with that?” Timon responded casually.

“Tim, you’re such a dag,” responded Viviana Ihaiades, “finish your novels for once!”

“Yeah, nah,” Timon said on beat, “they just carked it hard. I’ll finish ‘em later.”

“That the case? No problem with me borrowin’ one for myself?” Maaka Kauwhata asked.

“Sure, but if my bookmark ends up lost, I’ll be right dischuffed. Sound good?”

“Sounds sweet, chur,” Maaka responded to Timon, helping himself to the pile as he checked out what he could pick out for himself.

Timon had been consumed much by the anxiety of his father’s stay at the hospital. He hadn’t gotten any worse, but he has been losing weight, which concerned him greatly. He was glad he had friends like Vitous, Viviana and Maaka who’d drop everything to hang with their pal Tim, though it’s not like he didn’t have other friends either. The four of them were planning to go out and see Naiti Neho and their cousins on the weekend, along with Mabry Carrig and Eus Perim Skaldson.

As Maaka was looking through the books, suddenly everyone heard the front door open. Timon seemed surprised. “…who’d be back home now?”

He looked at the others, and gave them a nod, and they returned it back to him; he was going to go and check. Heading to the front door, he found himself surprised to find two faces he absolutely did not recognize, along with the chauffeur, bringing what seemed to be their things in.

“Kia ora,” Timon greeted the chauffeur, before turning his eyes to the newcomers. They seemed to be Greek, but they don’t seem to be from around here. “Whozzis?” he asked in Aotearoan Greek.

The chauffeur put their gloved fist to their mouth, and coughed into it while staring into Timon’s eyes, indicating to him that now was not the time for the local dialect. “Timon, sir, we have guests of the highest order,” the chauffeur responded in common Greek.

Timon’s eyes widened as he looked at the newcomers, before repeating the same action as the chauffeur: “Apologies for my rudeness,” he responded in turn.

“I, uhm, was not told we would be having guests over, Ingo,” Timon stated, feeling left out of the loop, “I even have my friends over at the moment.”

Ingo the chauffeur seemed surprised at this, as Timon wondered who else knew, before the staff at the estate appeared to come and help the guests with their things. Timon felt incredibly ill-informed.

Komnenion - February 19

Australopolis looked great from the air, but Irene didn’t get a chance to actually explore the city. The city’s airport was right next to the harbor, or at least the part with service to Komnenion. So as soon as they departed, they were ushered over to the docks where the Tyche awaited. Still, they had some free time, so Irene left to explore the neighborhood. Everything felt so different down in the south. For one, it was swelteringly hot. It was winter back in the Empire, but in the southern hemisphere, it was summer. Irene had packed appropriate clothes, but it still took some getting used to. When the Tyche was ready to go, she and Heraclius embarked. Captain Kaísarídis was nice enough to personally greet each passenger as they got on. The ship’s furnishings were nothing like those of the Lemuria, but they were still comfortable. Definitely better than the planes she was on. Once they were settled in, the Tyche set sail for Aotearoa.

They arrived in the early hours of the 19th. The dock they disembarked on looked like just about any other dock, which confused Irene at first. Huh, didn’t Auntie say someone would be picking us up? Then she noticed a few men in suits—probably government employees—holding up an imperial banner.

“Excuse me, are you with the Thaddai estate? I’m Irene Doukas.” She took out her passport. “This is my cousin, Heraclius.”

Heraclius waved. “Uh, hello. I’m a doctor.”

“Ah, Ms. Doukas,” one of the workers said, “Mr. Doukas. Welcome to Aotearoa. Your car to the estate is waiting for you.”

They were led over to a fancy-looking car, emblazoned with the symbols of Aotearoa. Once Irene and Heraclius had taken their seats, the workers drove off, heading through the city. While Heraclius reviewed some medical files, Irene looked out the window, taking in the sights. Komnenion was different from Australopolis. It was smaller, but there was more…she didn’t know how to describe it, style? There was heavy Maori influence in a lot of the buildings outside the Japantown. If she rolled down the window when they were waiting at a traffic light, she could hear people talking in a variety of languages, even Japanese. The smells of food were also unlike anything she smelled in Constantinople and Athens. She wanted to try it out sometime.

None of them noticed the mysterious man from the Lemuria getting into another car and driving after them…

“It’s fine,” Irene replied, “I understand that the Exarchess is quite busy lately. I do apologize for adding more to her schedule.”

“I have to apologize as well,” Heraclius said.

“Herac, you don’t have to,” Irene said, “You’ll more than make up for it when you show up at the hospital and provide your expertise.”

“Yeah, haha,” Heraclius nervously chuckled, “I’ll try my best.”

“Getting cold feet?”

“Admittedly, yes,” Heraclius said, “I’ve treated soldiers and refugees before, but a senator? Especially Senator Thaddas? I’m worried I might mess up.”

“Just do what you can,” Irene said, “And don’t worry more than you have to.”

Heraclius nodded. “I guess so. Hold on, why aren’t you scared or flustered or something?”

“I’m there as a representative of Auntie Theodora. Nothing I haven’t handled before.”

“Are you sure?” Heraclius raised an eyebrow. “Because from what I’ve seen, the way politics goes these days is not exactly ‘handled before’. Especially in your record.”

“Come on, that was just one session! I couldn’t have expected that to happen!”

“Why don’t we make a bet?” Heraclius said. “Something unexpected happens, you pay me one hyperpyron.”

“One hyperpyron?!” Irene said. “Do you know how much money that is?”

“Good for a bet, right?” Heraclius said. “Hey, if everything goes fine on your end—and let’s face it, it probably will—then you’ll be one hyperpyron richer. Come on, Irene, just humor me!”

Irene glared at him. Then she sighed. “Fine. I’ll bet.”

Heraclius beamed. “Great!”

Irene had seen the Thaddai building in Constantinople, but the Komnenion estate was on a different level. It was like Theodora’s estate in Athens, but it had far more Maori influences. It meshed well with the imperial architectural styles, all things considered. By comparison, the buildings in Constantinople, Athens, and Trebizond looked…basic? Was that the world Konstantinos wanted? If his troops reached Aotearoa, he would certainly have this building burned down for being “culturally impure,” or whatever those blackshirts called it. Those idiots didn’t know what good architecture was.

They walked up to the door, and their driver rang the doorbell. Irene fidgeted in place for several seconds, waiting nervously for it to open. Who was going to answer? Kyrene? Another of Nestorius’ inner circle? Another government worker? The suspense was—oh, the door opened. Her eyes first saw a man who looked like a chauffeur. That was to be expected for the Exarch’s estate.

Then she saw the other boy, and her face went red. She immediately suppressed it, but that only made it more obvious. Damnit, of all the times, why now?! Heraclius noticed and immediately snickered. Goddamnit, even worse, Herac noticed! This doesn’t count!

“Kia ora,” the boy said to the chauffeur. He then turned his eyes on Irene and Heraclius. “Whozzis?” He spoke with some kind of local slang. Kind of cute—WAIT WHAT AM I THINKING?! Irene couldn’t help but get lost in observing his face. He looked a lot like Nestorius and Kyrene. Could this be…

The chauffeur cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to remind the boy of who had just arrived. “Timon, sir, we have guests of the highest order,” he said in a more…appropriate dialect. So this is Timon. Interesting.

Timon’s eyes widened, and then he cleared his throat the same way the chauffeur did. “Apologizes for my rudeness.”

“Uh—um, ah, er…” Irene stammered. “Noworriesnotatallyou’refine—” She clamped her hand over her mouth to stop embarrassing herself more.

Oh God, he has his friends over too?! I literally just got here and everything’s going to hell. She felt herself reddening again.

Heraclius couldn’t help but snicker and jab her side with his elbow. “One hyperpyron, please.”

“Not now, Herac!” she hissed back.

Nevertheless, she discreetly slipped a one hyperpyron coin into his hand. A bet’s a bet.

She composed herself and put on a dignified air. “Not to worry. Thank you for welcoming us, uh, Mr. Ingo? Apologies if I addressed you incorrectly. And as for you, uh, Mr. Timon Thaddas…it’s nice—er, I mean, it’s an honor to meet you. My aunt has spoken very highly of you before.”

Ingo the chauffeur gave Irene a thumbs up to show that he doesn’t mind it. Frankly, the only ones who refer to him as anything other than chauffeur when he’s on the job are the Thaddai family and those at work. The staff doorguard, Taiko, seemed confused at how Irene had looked at him, as if she was looking at him like a chauffeur. Ingo patted him on the back, as the two continued helping the menial staff moving the Doukai’s things in.

Timon still had little idea of who these two were aside from them being important guests of some sort. The vague mention of an aunt didn’t exactly help. He was more concerned about who these two were to notice how red Irene had gotten, as he didn’t want to embarrass himself.

“Pleasure to meet you two, but, ehm, who might you two be?” Timon tried to ask as politely as he could. But before Irene or Heraclius could answer, a third party brushed up Timon’s hair with their hand.

“Madame Irene Doukas, and Sir Heraclius Doukas, a pleasure to be receiving you!” said Mihi Rameka, the head of the menial staff at the estate, “It seems your mother forgot to tell you, ay, Tim?” she said as she continued to brush Timon’s hair.

Timon seemed to be getting incredibly flustered, first with the hair brushing, something Mihi has done since he was a young boy, and now him realizing who these two were… Doukai. They couldn’t be directly Imperial, so his best next thought went to that lady he had met once before a couple of years ago when visiting the senate, Theodora. That must be their aunt. Still, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t been told, especially with all this in mind.

“Mihi, please, lemme go and rark up my friends if we’re dealing with Doukai!” Timon said with bluster. Rameka just chuckled.

“Go then, haha!” Rameka said, removing her hand from his hair, and allowing him to rush back to his room, “he’ll never cease being adorable, I swear.”

“While we wait for him, let me tell you about your rooms. The two of you will each have a room here to rest in. For the time being, consider this your home!” Rameka explained to the two Doukai.

Before either side could continue the conversation though, Timon returned with his friends in tow.

“…hope the plans for the weekend won’t be changed because of this,” Vitous could be heard saying as they made their way into earshot.

“Wouldn’t wanna miss the grilled kumara and that,” Timon could be heard responding.

Soon, all four of them were visible, and the three friends immediately caught sight of the two Doukai. Timon hadn’t explicitly said they were Doukai to his friends, but they could all tell these two were from beyond the isles.

“Oo, look at that choice lass,” Viviana openly expressed referring to Irene, “no wonder you wanted to rark us out, eh, Tim?”

“Don’t be a hard-case Viv,” Timon responded, looking further flustered.

“Imagine needin’ books now, haha,” Maaka chuckled, book in hand.

Timon looked increasingly red. “Com’on, don’ spin yarn now, you.”

Timon swung his arms and motioned for them to get out. “Make for the shingles!”

The three of them made their way out, chuckling. “See ya on the weekend, kia kaha, haere ra,” Vitous said with a smile.

As the three leave, Timon visibly sighs and looks at the two Doukai.

“Sorry that you had to see that,” he remarked tiredly, “should we show them to their rooms?” he asked.

Rameka clapped her hands: “Of course! I’m sure they could rest a bit before your mother comes back.”

Irene knew she had messed up when she realized she had addressed the doorguard instead of the chauffeur. Her face continued to redden like a tomato, which didn’t help Heraclius stop laughing. In any case, she quietly handed her suitcases to Ingo—the proper one, that is. Then she realized she had held out the suitcases to Timon instead.

Well, this is going to be a complete disaster. Auntie’s going to throw a fit.

Irene eagerly opened her mouth to answer, but her mind raced, trying to choose between either a casual answer or a formal one. The formal one would have gone along the lines of “Irene Doukas, niece to Senator Theodora Doukas, Minister of Security and Intelligence.” The casual answer would have just been “Irene Doukas,” but knowing her luck she would have tripped a dozen times over the first “I.”

Fortunately, another staff member—Mihi, from how Timon addressed her—saved her from that agonizing choice by steering the conversation another way. She introduced herself, made some jokes, and brushed Timon’s hair like he was a little boy. Timon protested, his face also growing a bit red. Irene involuntarily let out a giggle.

“Look, Irene, the more you keep this up, I might as well ask for another hyperpyron,” Heraclius said.

Irene shot daggers at him.

Rark? Irene thought. Must be local slang. Irene wondered what it meant. She needed to hear him say it more to figure it out.

“He’ll never cease being adorable, I swear,” Mihi said in Irene’s direction.

At that, Irene snapped to attention, as she had been barely paying attention. “Eh, yeah, haha, definitely…” She nodded agreeably.

“While we wait for him, let me tell you about your rooms. The two of you will each have a room here to rest in. For the time being, consider this your home!”

Irene nodded. “Thank you.”

“I get my own room?” Heraclius said. “Been looking forward to this.”

“Bet you one hyperpyron it’s not going to be as big as your room in Athens,” Irene said.

“You’re just trying to get back that hyperpyron, aren’t you?”

“Just bet on it!”

“Jeez, fine!”

Timon soon returned with his friends. They seemed to be talking about weekend plans, local delicacies, and the usual stuff people her age did when off work.

The girl in the group looked directly at Irene, then said a few words, probably about her. Choice lass? Was that a good or bad thing? Best not to dwell on it. No wonder you wanted to rark us out, eh, Tim? Another use of “rark.” Perhaps that meant “get rid”? She didn’t want to risk embarrassing herself further. Also, they called him Tim…interesting.

“Imagine needin’ books now, haha,” the book-holding friend said.

While Timon reddened and tried talking his friends into leaving, Irene quietly took out The Return of Herlock Sholmes from her personal bag. Maybe he likes books?

Finally, the friends left, saying a few more words in both Maori and slang. She sighed with relief. Three fewer unpredictable variables to deal with. Good. I was starting to get tired.

“Yes, of course, lead the way,” Irene said.

Mark my words, Herac, I’m getting my hyperpyron back!

Ingo passed the suitcases naturally over to the menial staff present, with Irene hearing some chatty Maori before Ingo left, presumably to rest up until Kyrene comes back. Rameka led Irene, Heraclius, Timon and the present staff to the second floor.

As they made their way through the second floor, the group passed by an open door. Within, on a table one could see a stack of books, before Timon closed it. Presumably that was Timon’s room.

Further down the hall, they stopped. Rameka pulled out two keys, and unlocked two side-by-side rooms.

“Well, choose which one you want, either the left or the right,” Rameka presented. Each room was average-sized, guest rooms through-and-through, though prettied up to appear more professional given the arriving guests. Each had a window with an ok view of the city, and all the usual furniture one would expect was present.

Once the two had chosen their rooms, Rameka handed each of them their respective key.

“If you ever want some private time, you can always lock the door from the inside. We’ve also got locks for the keys on the windows too, just in case,” Rameka remarked.

Pointing down the hall, Rameka commented: “Down the hall is the toilet and the bathroom, and if either is occupied, you’ll find another set downstairs next to the resting room.”

The staff brought the Doukai’s luggage into their rooms, as Timon rested his back against the wall and watched the two of them look at their rooms. Meanwhile, he noted Rameka looking through the window next to him. He wondered why she would be doing that.

Once everything was brought into their rooms, Rameka spoke once more: “Now, we could show you the dining room, the resting room, the study, and that, or you could choose to rest from your weary travel,” she said, raising her tone near the end of the sentence, making it nearly sound like she was asking a question, whilst also sounding slightly sarcastic, given they also traveled by zeppelin.

Next, Irene and Heraclius were shown to their rooms. They took what seemed like a scenic route across the second floor. One of the doors they passed by was open, and Irene stole a look inside. It looked like someone’s room. Her attention was drawn to a table on which a large stack of books had been hastily tossed together. Yep, definitely Timon’s. She clutched The Return of Herlock Sholmes tighter.

They continued down the hall and arrived at two guest rooms. Rameka pulled out two keys and unlocked the doors. Inside, Irene saw two averaged sized rooms with the usual furnishings one would expect from a guest room.

“It’s definitely smaller than your room in Athens.” Irene held out her hand. “One hyperpyron.”

Heraclius sighed. Defeated, he slipped the coin back into Irene’s hand.

Irene felt herself reddening when Rameka said that. WHY AM I REDDENING AGAIN?! STOP! THIS IS A DIPLOMATIC VISIT! WE ARE NOT GOING THERE!

Heraclius chuckled again.

STOP IT, HERAC, OR I’LL BREAK YOUR JAW!

Okay, I think it’s time we leave this place before I go off the rails even more. “Yeah, sure, let’s continue on with the tour. I’ve got enough energy.”

She really was tired, though. The staterooms on the Lemuria were cramped by design, and even though the Tyche was more comfortable, she couldn’t forget that. No, no, I can’t show weakness here. Got to put my best foot forward.

Rameka clapped her hands. “Alright, follow me then!”

The group continued around the house, with Irene and Heraclius being shown basically every space in it that would be relevant to them - on the second floor, they were shown where Kyrene, Nestorius and Timon’s rooms were, along with the study, which itself held many books, and the toilet and bathroom; on the first floor, they were shown the dining room and the kitchen, the toilet and bathroom, a hallway which leads into a chapel (where another door leads to the room of the family priest), the garage, the menial staff rooms, and so on, until the tour reaches the resting room.

“…and that should be all then!” Rameka finished off with another clap. “It seems Kyrene hasn’t returned yet, so how about we all rest up here and listen to some nice music on the radio?”

“Sounds great!” Irene said. “I’d love to hear what’s on the radio here.”

Everyone takes a seat in the living room, with Rameka turning on the radio.

“…the weather for today,” the first words echoed. It seemed they just missed the weather report.

“Mesazon Ieni Papadopoulos has once more gained the ire of the public, following comments made during his visit of Hilandaris the day prior,” the news reporter on the radio remarked, “Papadopoulos, as per KEA party policy, continues to maintain his critique of the state’s involvement in church affairs following the establishment of the Exarchate, in quote, ‘the Archbishop had apologized and asked for forgiveness, there was no reason for the state to aid in cleaning out the church’s closet of skeletons,’ a comment that had even prompted Archbishop Angelarios to vocally disagree, stating that ‘the church had willingly asked for help in this, with all permissions in doing so, for even my predecessor would not had been able to fully deal with the sins our church carries with it by himself; the Exarchate represents the people, and without the people, we would be nothing.’ At least several members of the public continue to refer to Ieni as, quote, a ‘twit’. Exarchess Kyrene and the EKA have expressed their disappointment in Ieni’s comments,” the reporter over the radio said.

“That is our morning program, now we move over to the daily tunes,” the reporter finished, before jazzy music began playing. Rameka and Timon looked at one another, sighing, before just making themselves comfortable as the music began playing.

Timon noted that Rameka looked over to the hallway, as footsteps could be heard. Timon tried glancing over, noticing what appeared to be a new guard. Were they buffing up security at the house? With Doukai present you’d think they would’ve done so before they arrived, unless they didn’t want to alarm them. He decided not to think about it, and looked over to Irene and Heraclius, wondering if they got anything out of that news report prior to the music finally beginning. At that moment, he noticed that Irene had in hand a book…

“Irene, is that a copy of Herlock Sholmes?” he decided to break the ice, “‘s good choice, always been a fond of the stories featuring him.”

Trebizond February 1, 1936

Donatello Favero meandered around the docks of Trebizond following the senate session, lost in thought and with nothing better to do. The session had been more of the same: the empire in shambles, Konstantinos desecrating the memory of the emperor, and a military deadlock at the straits. He questioned why he even bothered to attend the sessions at times. it was not as though he could single-handedly bring about the downfall of Konstantinos. He hadn’t even wanted to be here in the first place. If he had been a bit more tight-lipped or Konstantinos had not had his phone tapped, he would still be in Constantinople, pretending this god-awful catastrophe of a war wasn’t happening.

Coming to a lone pier outside a warehouse, Donatello sat down at the edge, dangling his feet above the water. He stared out at the Black Sea, taking in the scent of salt water on the breeze. It was a tad chilly out, but Donatello didn’t mind. It was almost soothing having the cold wind nip at his face. He just sat there for what felt hours, swaying side to side with the flow of the wind. Every so often a dockworker would pass by behind him, carrying a crate or something else, but they paid him no mind. He imagined they saw quite a few wandering strangers around these parts as refugees made their way into Anatolia.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you okay?”

Donatello looked over his shoulder to see one of the dockworkers standing down the pier, staring at him, the crate he had been carrying left on the ground behind him. He looked to be in his mid-20s, unshaven and wearing some worn overalls. He approached cautiously, his hands in his pockets. The senator waved him off, not wanting the company. “I’m fine. No need to interrupt your work on my behalf.”

The dockworker gave a polite half-smile, halting his approach. “Are you sure? It’s just that the last time I saw someone sitting out here, I found his body the next day in the water beside the pier with a brick tied to his ankle.”

Donatello’s eyes widened and he looked down at the sea before him. Fortunately there were no bodies floating there. Realizing now what the dockworker was thinking, he sputtered out a response. “I’m not planning to end my life. I just needed a quiet place to think.”

“Don’t we all,” the dockworker said with a nod. Not waiting for an invitation, he sidled up beside Donatello and sat down next to him. He looked over at the senator, a kind smile on his face, and extended his hand. “The name’s Damianos.”

After a few moments of contemplation, Donatello finally decided to take the man’s hand. He gave him a firm shake, hoping that that would satisfy the man and he’d leave. “Donatello.”

“Ah, an Italian,” Damianos said. “Don’t get many of those around here. So what’s on your mind? It might be helpful to talk about it with someone.”

Donatello remained silent for some time. What did some dockworker know of his struggles? He didn’t feel inclined to share either. Despite that, Damianos stayed beside him, looking out at the Black Sea and swinging his feet over the water. When it became clear that this man wasn’t going to leave, the senator let out an exasperated sigh.

“It’s just this whole civil war. It’s ruined everything for me.”

Damianos nodded. “I imagine it’s that way for a lot of folk. My brother just joined up to fight against Konstantinos and I worry for my cousins and their families in the Peloponnese.” He looked over at Donatello. “Do you have family caught up in the war?”

Donatello closed his eyes, picturing his wife and daughter. He knew where they were at least, but they felt so far away from him. He wished that he could be with them, but he would only be putting them in danger if he brought them here. “My family is elsewhere in the Empire, out of harm’s way but also away from me. I miss them dearly.”

A hand on Donatello’s shoulder startled him. He had even noticed that Damianos had edged closer, and now he was almost embracing the senator in a side hug. “At least they’re safe,” Damianos said, patting Donatello’s shoulder. “It could be worse and they could be in Constantinople instead.”

“I actually came here from Constantinople,” Donatello said, memories of his impromptu escape from the capital rushing through his head.

Damianos pulled back, giving the senator and incredulous look. “How did you manage that? I heard they locked down city soon after the war started.”

Donatello couldn’t help but smirk. “Would you believe an airship.”

The dockworker took a moment to look Donatello up and down and then a spark of recognition appeared in his eyes. “Wait a moment, you’re one of the senators. I heard that a group had escaped the capital by airship.” Damianos looked down at himself and then wiped at some dirt off his shirt, realizing that he was in the presence of someone important in the Empire.

“Yes, that would be me,” Donatello said with a sigh. “A senator.”

A grin started to spread across Damianos’s face. “So that means you must be helping lead the war effort? How are we doing so far? Will we have Konstantinos’s head on a spike by March?”

Donatello looked over at the dockworker with a glazed look. Such youthful enthusiasm. It was unfortunate that he could not muster such emotion towards this cause. Best not to dampen the man’s spirits. “It’s much too early to tell.” He looked down at the planks of the dock and ran his left hand along the wood. “I’m afraid I’m not that involved in the actual war effort. I’ve been finding it difficult to contribute since this is all so far out of my realm of expertise.”

The grin slowly faded from Damianos’s face as he realized Donatello didn’t have more to say than that, eventually nodding in acknowledgement at the vague answer. His head bowed down, and Donatello worried perhaps he should have put on a braver face for the man. Before he could muster up a follow-up comment, Damianos pointed at Donatello’s left hand and asked, “What happened to your finger?”

Donatello instinctively withdrew his left hand and cradled it with his right, feeling the gap where his missing pinky should be. At times he forgot it wasn’t there, and other times he couldn’t help but feel the loss. At first it had been a reminder that the Cult was always watching, but over the years that fear had faded and he had found more pressing matters to focus on. What was the Cult in comparison to a mad prince dragging the Empire into war?

“I lost it in an accident,” Donatello said, conjuring up a simple lie. “A result of a mistake on my part.”

“Sometimes our mistakes can be made into opportunities,” Damianos said. Donatello didn’t even try to decipher that cryptic answer, and the dockworker didn’t seem bothered to explain. He slowly got to his feet, looking down at the senator for a moment. “I’m confident enough now that I won’t find your body in the sea tomorrow morning, so I’m going to leave you to your thoughts.”

“Thank you for the conversation,” Donatello said, the corner of his lip curling up into a smile. Despite his desire to be alone, the man had helped ease his mind a little. “It is nice to know that there are still some decent people out there who care about their fellow man.”

Damianos merely nodded and began walking back down the pier. He picked up his crate and said over his shoulder, “If you’re open to all opportunities, perhaps you will find a way to help the war effort.”

Donatello merely shrugged, not seeing any way he could possibly help fight this war at the moment. He let out a sigh and returned to looking at the sea.

“Praise Chernobog.”

The words were said like a whisper, yet carried all the way across the docks to Donatello’s ears. He bolted to his feet the minute he heard the words, nearly tumbling into the water in the process. He spun around, expecting to see the dockworker nearby, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He instinctively clutched at his left hand, massaging the joint where his pinky once was. It would seem that the Cult had taken an interest in him again and had decided to remind him that the Cult was always watching.

They had tuned in to the radio just in time for the local news. Seemed the political shenanigans here were the same as in the Empire, at least from before Konstantinos did what he did. Irene had no opinion on what was happening here. She wasn’t a local, so she didn’t understand the trends and power dynamics. Though if Kyrene didn’t like what this guy said, then he probably was, as she said, a ‘twit.’

Next was the music. The jazz was catchy. There was a certain flair to it that Trebizond’s jazz didn’t have. She couldn’t exactly describe it.

Just when she thought she was going to get lost in the music—her foot had started tapping, and her head was about to bob—she heard a voice behind her. Timon’s voice. “Irene, is that a copy of Herlock Sholmes?”

Her face reddened, and her eyes widened. HE’S TALKING TO ME?! Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Heraclius stifling yet another laugh. HERAC, HELP ME OUT HERE!

“‘s good choice,” Timon said, “Always been a fond of the stories featuring him.”

“R-Really?” Irene stammered. “I love Herlock Sholmes! Read all of the books, huge fan, yeah, and that showdown with Joriarty was amazing! I just love mystery novels a lot. Same with you?”

Timon gave a bit of a smile as Irene gave her comments.

“Less so mystery novels, though you can never go wrong with a good mystery and corresponding deduction, but more so,” Timon paused as he tried to think of the right word, twirling his hand as he thought, “character novels? Herlock Sholmes and Joriarty wouldn’t be as interesting if they weren’t characters you enjoy reading about, right? Mavridis’ Migrations or Andreadis’ novellas, for example,” he tried to name examples, though he wasn’t sure how well known either author he just namedropped were… which ends up flustering him.

“I-if you don’t know them, that’s fine…” Timon tried to remind himself that not everyone may read the stuff he finds time to read.

Ever briefly, Ingo pops into the room, speaking towards Rameka in Maori. It seemed she was needed, as she got up and followed him out of the room.

Ah yes, he seemed to really like characters, not just overall genres. Of course, the characters were the main draw of Herlock Sholmes. After all, no other mystery novel series had Sholmes, just other detectives with their own quirks.

Also, he brought up some rather…obscure names. Fortunately, she had read both of those books. Unfortunately, it was because Aunt Theodora forced her to read them for “homework.” Something to do with the Time of Troubles, for the Mavridis book, and a deconstruction of traditional heroic tales or something, for the Andreadis book. She enjoyed the books, for what it was worth. But it wasn’t exactly something she would seek out on her own.

Somewhere in Trebizond, her aunt was probably laughing at the fact that the homework she made Irene do was now coming in handle.

“I-if you don’t know them, that’s fine…” Timon stammered.

Irene acted fast. “Oh, no! I did read them, actually! It’s been a while, but I did read Migrations, and, uh…I think it was the one with the bridge? Sorry, the title’s slipping my mind.”

Please don’t ask me to go into detail, I don’t remember too much…

Timon waved his hand in an embarrassed fashion. “N-no, no, it’s fine! You mean the one Andreadis wrote about Oratios Monophthalmos, right? Defending the Pons Sublicious, right? That one’s really interesting, how he uses Oratios to deconstruct the tropes of the traditional mythical hero, that you’d typically see associated with Heracles! And Migrations’ use of the War of Three Emperors, concentrating not on the battles but instead on the common soldier’s relationships with one another, especially with the three protagonists, was very novel in my opinion, really showed the author’s own feelings after the Time of Troubles,” he rambled on.

As he babbled on, suddenly knocking could be heard from the doorway of the room. Timon looked over and saw who it was.

“Mother!” Timon exclaimed, with Irene and Heraclius turning their heads towards the doorway, seeing the Exarchess herself having finally arrived. She seemed slightly exhausted, but happy to see the three of them.

“I hoped I didn’t make any of you wait, but it seemed you are all enjoying yourselves,” Kyrene smiled, “it’s a pleasure to meet you two in person. My name is Kyrene Thaddas,” she said as she approached to politely greet the two Doukai present.

After allowing the two to introduce themselves, Kyrene continued: “I see you two have already acquainted yourselves with Timon, glad you’re all getting along.”

“We were just talking about books,” Timon added.

“I heard! I hope I wasn’t intruding,” Kyrene responded, unaware that Irene was likely thanking God himself at this moment for her intervention.

“Not at all!” Timon responded with a smile.

With a brief familial pause shared between the two, Kyrene’s happy expression became more subdued, as she faced Irene and Heraclius once more.

“Well, I imagine you two are fairly tired, but if you’re able, we can head for the hospital all together and see Nestor,” Kyrene asked the two, with Timon seeming surprised.

“Wait, they’re here because of father?”

“Y-yes,” Kyrene stuttered, realizing that she had, in fact, forgotten to tell Timon if that’s the question he has, “Theodora had asked us to take them in for the time being, given everything going on back in the mainland, but Heraclius here is also a doctor, so he might be able to add to the medical expertise of the staff watching Nestor over right now,” she explained to him.

Timon nodded slowly, his expression getting sadder. To the two Doukai, it seemed that the topic of Nestorius gives Timon mixed emotions.

“We’re all ready to head over,” Kyrene turned again to Irene and Heraclius.

Just as Irene feared, Timon jumped right into the details, mentioning long names that she had little context for. It had been way too long since she read those books. But the themes? She knew what the themes were. Auntie had drilled that through her skull when she assigned those books. She steeled herself, trying to remember one of the thematic analyses she had done on Migrations a couple years ago. Hopefully it would be enough…

Suddenly, Kyrene stepped through the doorway. She looked just like the photos Irene had seen in Trebizond, but she looked far more exhausted in person. Oh thank goodness you’re here…

Irene and Heraclius both shook her hand.

“It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am,” Irene said, “My aunt has spoken very highly of you.”

“Same here,” Heraclius said, “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

OH THANK GOD THANK GOD THANK GOD

What, Timon didn’t know? Maybe since Kyrene was so busy…Irene didn’t dwell on it. Now that they were talking about Nestorius again, Irene settled back into her usual demeanor, putting on an air of dignity and poise just like she had seen Auntie do.

“Yes, please,” she said, “Let’s head over as soon as we can.”

“Alright then, get dressed if you need to and grab anything you want to bring with you for Nestor,” Kyrene nodded, as Timon departed to get into his outside clothes.

“I hope you two will enjoy your time here with us,” Kyrene said as they waited for Timon, with a smile.

With Timon returning ready, the four of them headed out. As they headed over to the car, where Ingo was sitting ready, the younger three noticed that there seemed to be a bit more security on the property, for whatever reason. With Kyrene getting into the front passenger seat, and the other three getting into the back, Ingo on beat began to drive out.

“I’m sorry for not having been back sooner, to greet you two when you arrived,” Kyrene spoke, “I’ve been dragged left, right and center for the past while.”

After hearing them being understanding, and even apologetic for adding more things to her schedule, Kyrene waved her hand in dismissal: “Oh, don’t worry about it! At least it’s only something extra on one day’s schedule,” she explained.

“I’ll try to hang around when possible, but understand that I’ll put ‘state affairs’ and ‘seeing Nestor’ above you two,” she stated quite bluntly, “I’ve already asked Madame Rameka to prepare for you two pamphlets and folded maps, so you know what great sights, in our opinion at least, there are to see, as well as have a general understanding of where things are, including the public transit networks for Komnenion, Tamaki, Hilandaris and Otago. In ideal circumstances, you should be able to experience and enjoy the public transit,” she elaborated, though having put a strange emphasis on ‘ideal circumstances’.

“We should be coming up to the hospital just about now. Heraclius, after introducing yourself to Nestor, I’ll guide you over to where the staff watching over Nestor is in the building, so you can look over what they have and hear their current hypothesis on his current situation,” she turned to look at Herc.

Soon, with a turn around a corner, the hospital was plain to see. Ingo parked the car, and soon, everyone got out. Kyrene spoke with Ingo in Maori, with Timon explaining to the other two, who wondered briefly, that it’s just her telling him he can go get himself lunch, so he doesn’t needlessly wait in the car - they’d be here for a bit.

After reporting their presence at the front desk, Kyrene and Timon led the two Doukai to Nestor’s room. With a polite knock, she opened its door and looked within.

Nestorius lied there in bed, covered under sheets. To his side, per usual, Father Erasmos sat there, watching him over. The two looked at the guests, and smiled. When compared to when he had been hospitalized nearly a month ago, Nestorius appeared somewhat more thinner than he did previously. His breathing, though stable, seemed slightly erratic. But one could tell there was still an immense amount of energy behind his eyes.

“Kyrene, Timon!” Nestor raised his arms towards the two, as if wanting to hug them, with the two prompting coming over and giving him one. As they hugged it out, Irene and Heraclius came into view for him.

“Ah, the two young Doukai have arrived!” Ness proclaimed, to Timon’s surprise, who seemed to realize he was the only one out of the loop… “I hope you two didn’t have any issues traveling over. I’m Nestorius Thaddas, a pleasure to meet you and for us to host you during your time here. And let me introduce you too to our family priest, Father Erasmos,”

Erasmos merely nodded, “Warmest greetings.”

With the hug finished, it became apparent that there were only four chairs in the room, one already occupied by Erasmos. Timon, recognizing this first, opted to instead stand, with his back resting against the wall where the windows were, allowing Irene and Heraclius to take a seat. Herc would leave the room at some point, but at for now, they probably just wanted to chat a bit.

“Now, you two are Irene and Heraclius, yes? How are you two doing?” Nestor asked.

Getting up from her chair, Irene straightened out her dress. Having expected a lot of introductions today, she had already put on the most appropriate one back when she was on the Tyche.

“I hope you two will enjoy your time here with us,” Kyrene said.

I sure hope so.

After Timon returned, they returned to the car, where Ingo was already prepared to drive. Irene took notice of the heavy security presence around the estate. Interesting. There’s as much here as for the government buildings in Trebizond. Perhaps the assault on the Thaddai headquarters in Constantinople spurred Nestorius and Kyrene to increase their own security. A wise decision.

“I’m sorry for not having been back sooner to greet you when you arrived,” Kyrene said, “I’ve been dragged left, right, and center for the past while.”

“It’s okay,” Irene said, “I understand things are hectic here.”

“if anything, we should be apologizing again,” Heraclius said, “We added more to your workload.”

Thankfully, Kyrene was understanding of their situation. Irene didn’t want to ask too much of her. Even though she lacked most of the context, she knew Kyrene had much to handle at the moment, and there were priorities higher than herself and Heraclius. Rameka handed pamphlets and maps to the two of them, marked with great sights and useful information for getting around the exarchate. There were some really interesting places Irene would like to visit, but she doubted she would have the time to see them all. After all, this was a business trip, not a vacation. And she was first and foremost a representative for her aunt.

“Got it,” Heraclius said, “I’m looking forward to meeting the team.”

Finally, they reached the hospital. Kyrene said something to Ingo in Maori. Timon quickly noticed Irene’s confusion. “She’s saying Ingo can go get himself lunch. We’ll be here for a while, so there’s no need for him to wait here.”

“Ah, I see,” Irene said, “Makes sense.”

They went inside, not noticing the mysterious man from the Lemuria casually loitering on the other side of the street…

Finally, it was time to meet Nestorius. Entering the room, Irene first noticed the priest sitting at bedside, keeping a constant vigil. Then she saw Nestorius himself, lying in his bed. He looked thinner than he did in the official photo Irene saw. His breathing was normal, but occasionally it became a little inconsistent. But his eyes still had the same fire as in the photo. This was Aunt Theodora’s old friend, her partner in the KRA and through many crises over the last few decades.

Kyrene and Timon went over and hugged Nestorius first. Irene stepped aside to give them room, not wanting to intrude on the family moment. Once they were done—or at least Nestorius thought so, since they were still hugging—the old senator looked at Irene and Heraclius.

“Ah, the two young Doukai have arrived!” Timon looked surprised. Irene thought about who could have known they were coming. Obviously Kyrene knew, since Theodora had directly contacted her. The staff did too. And Nestorius definitely knew, as demonstrated just now. Was Timon the only one who didn’t know? That’s rough, buddy. “I hope you two didn’t have any issues traveling over. I’m Nestorius Thaddas, a pleasure to meet you and for us to host you during your time here. And let me introduce you too to our family priest, Father Erasmos.”

Erasmos nodded. “Warmest greetings.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Senator Thaddas and Father Erasmos,” Irene said.

“Likewise,” Heraclius said, “Our trip here was slow, yet it was without incident.”

“If you ignore the time we were haggling over the price of the tickets for the Lemuria,” Irene said.

Heraclius laughed. “Yeah, but that’s nothing to worry about.”

The Thaddai family finished their hug and pulled back. Timon leaned against the wall by the windows, giving off an air of cool in Irene’s opinion. Shut up, me! Irene and Heraclius sat down, intending to continue their conversation with Nestorius.

“Now, you two are Irene and Heraclius, yes? How are you two doing?”

“We’re doing fine,” Irene said, “Things are a bit rough in the homeland, but my aunt and the Senate are working on it. I convey her apology for not being able to make it here. She is quite busy these days. I hope I can more than make up for her absence.”

“Same here,” Heraclius said, “I’m looking forward to working with your team.”

“Don’t worry about making up for absences, the fact Theodora even thought of me at a time like this was gift enough for me,” Nestorius responded, “a true friend, she is.”

Nestorius paused slightly, breathing included, as if the thought of the conflict back in the homeland weighed heavily on him. But soon, a smile returned to his face.

“It is nice to have folks visiting who care about me as an individual though, not as a political figure or what have you. Trust me, I’ve had enough visits like that for the past mouth,” Nestor chuckled somewhat strained-like.

“I do hope that while you’re here you’re able to take your mind off of what’s going on back home, or at least more so than me…”

Kyrene grasped Nestorius’ hand. “It’s been hard… knowing there’s nothing I can do to help,” Nestor continued, “to go to Constantinople, confront Konstantinos, somehow end this peacefully…” he remarked, his expression getting sadder. “I can’t imagine what everyone back in Trebizond is going through.”

“My friend, please,” Erasmos spoke up, with a knowing look. It seemed that dwelling on the issue wouldn’t help Nestor at this time.

“…the nurses and doctors watching me asked Erasmos to make sure I don’t get too down,” Ness added.

“The very best in this country, they are” Kyrene supplemented.

Nestorius smiled at Heraclius. “I’m sure you’ll learn a lot from them, and be able to share your expertise with them too.”

Kyrene released Nestor’s hand, and got up. “Speaking of, you should meet them. Follow me to their office.”

It was nice hearing Nestorius talk about Theodora like that. Made coming all the way here worth it. Well, it was already worth it because of—DON’T GET AHEAD OF YOURSELF! It seemed like so many others had visited Nestorius recently, but they had their own goals in mind. Perhaps it would be prudent to lay off on the politics. Talk to Nestorius the man, not Nestorius the politician. Is that what Auntie would have wanted?

Irene continued patiently listening to Nestorius.

Heraclius nodded. “Let’s get going, then. Lead the way.”

Kyrene nodded in turn, and began walking out of the room, Heraclius in tow. As they made their way to the office, a nurse passed the two by and entered Nestorius’ room.

Arriving at the office, Kyrene knocked on the door, and a few seconds later, it opened.

“Hello? Oh!” the older man reacted, “Madame Thaddas, pleasure to see you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Doctor Hohaia,” Kyrene bowed slightly, “here’s the doctor I mentioned to you a while back.”

Doctor Hohaia looked at Heraclius. “Ah, Heraclius Doukas, correct? I’m Doctor Ipu Hohaia,” the doctor reached his hand out for a handshake, “nice to finally meet you.”

After handshakes and introductions, the good doctor continued: “We were actually about to have our regular meeting on Ol’ Ness, so if you would like to join us, come in.”

Kyrene gave a maternal smile to Heraclius. “I’ll leave you to it then,” she said with a nod, as she departed for Nestor’s room and left Heraclius with the staff.

Meanwhile, at Nestorius’ room, after receiving water from the nurse, he continued on talking,

“Timon, everything going well on your end?” he asked his son.

“Y-yeah, I have plans on the weekend to be with my friends,” Timon answered, not expecting to be suddenly asked.

“Aa, that sounds nice. Going somewhere specific or hanging out with someone specific?”

“We’re going to Neho’s.”

“Oo, they always made the best grilled kumara whenever we’re over. I hope you all have a lot of fun,” Nestor beamed as much as he could.

“T-thanks, dad…”

Feeling satisfied with his son, Nestor turned his sights on Irene. “And what about you? What are you and Heraclius planning to do while you’re here? I can’t imagine it’d be much fun just coming to see me every other day, haha,” he chuckled roughly, prompting a swig of water.

Heraclius shook Doctor Hohaia’s hand. “Thank you for welcoming me. It’s an honor to work with you.”

He joined them in the meeting that was about to begin, and they discussed the details of Nestorius’ treatment. The terms thrown around were familiar to Heraclius, and he found himself fitting in quite quickly. Soon, he was providing his own suggestions.

“Well…” Irene racked her brain, trying to find something she could answer with. She found nothing. “I really…don’t have any other plans at the moment? I organized everything around my official business here. I didn’t expect free time, so…”

Nestorius chuckled at her response. “Well, let me ask you this then - what sort of ‘official business’ were you expecting to do?” he asked, as his expression got somewhat more serious.

“You may be here in her stead, so she could have someone offer me condolences in person, and Heraclius may be the physical embodiment of the help she wanted to send me, but what else were you expecting to do? You’re not here on Imperial terms, you’re not about to deal with the pains of talking with important Aotearoan figures that aren’t myself or Kyrene, like I have to do,” he stated somewhat seriously, as he tried to lean in somewhat.

“When Kyrene told me you and Heraclius were coming, aside from his being a doctor, the main reason Theodora gave us for having you come was for you two to be safe from the conflict back home.” he continued, before slowly lying back and getting a smirk on his face, “I don’t know about you, but to me that reads like ‘I’m going to have tons of free time’! Especially since, you know, neither you, nor I, nor Theodora, none of us know when all of this is going to end,” his smirk slowly vanishing, as if highlighting his upset nature regarding the current Imperial affairs, emphasized by the radio’s music, which Irene would realize had been playing Trauermusik on loop.

“You have to think realistically, Irene. Unless something happened that necessitated you having to shadow someone important here, you were always going to have free time,” Nestor punctuated his point, before giving her a smile, “so, live a little, alright? You never know how time will pass you by,” he finished with a paternal tone.

Timon watched as his father showed his prowess once more, sighing. He couldn’t imagine having to do what he does. Erasmos, meanwhile, had switched to reading some holy book.

Before Irene could respond, Kyrene returned to the room. “Did I miss anything?” she asked.

“Oh, no, we were just talking and it seems Irene doesn’t have any plans!” Nestor revealed.

“At least she and Heraclius have those pamphlets we had prepared for them,” Kyrene replied, Nestor chuckling in response.

“Now, isn’t that nice? Having the free time to enjoy yourself…” Nestor commented, as Kyrene took her seat. She patted his arm, as if they’ve gotten used to consoling one another.

Timon, noticing that Heraclius hadn’t come back, uses the opportunity to take a seat. “…and we wouldn’t have that free time if it weren’t for you two, mom, dad,” he decided to abruptly add, prompting wide smiles from his parents.

“If anything, I definitely have a lot of free time on my hands.” Irene looked over the pamphlet. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to look around the area.”

The conversation shifted away from the serious tone it had previously had, back to a cheerier one as the topic of where to spend one’s time was raised, Irene asking about various things brought up in the pamphlet and any combination of Nestorius, Kyrene, Timon and even Father Erasmos if the topic concerned the city of Hilandaris, no matter if the area in question concerned sights, food, or what have you. Time flied by, with the music in the background shifting to something more jazzy.

Eventually, a knock could be heard on the door. It was Heraclius, having returned from the meeting, with a somewhat muted expression. Makes one wonder what had been discussed.

Nestorius noted the time on the clock: “Aa, it’s getting late now, it might be high time for you all to head back,” he commented, “wouldn’t want to deal with the evening traffic, haha.”

Kyrene nodded with a slight smile. “I… I suppose you’re right,” she commented somewhat sadly, “I still have things to deal with back at the office too before the day ends.”

Timon looked conflicted, as if he wanted to say something, but finding himself unwilling to do so. “Y-yeah, let’s get going…” he managed to muster.

“Thank you two for coming here,” Nestor referred to the two Doukai, “genuinely, I’m glad. You two still have a lot to grow, but I already see so much good in you two. Don’t let yourselves be bogged down by me, rest up!” he said with as best of a hearty chuckle he could do, before coughing.

Timon patted his father on the back, to help steady his breathing, before coming in with a hug. Kyrene joined soon after. “I’ll see you on Friday, alright?” Kyrene said.

“Of course! I know tomorrow’s going to be especially busy for you, I’ll be fine…” Nestor responded.

With the hug released, everyone gathered their things. Everyone said their goodbyes, both to Nestor and to Erasmos, and made their merry way out of the hospital.

Returning back to the car, Ingo was seen reading the newspaper, or rather, as they got closer, doing the crossword puzzle.

“Sorry to bother, Ingo,” Kyrene said to him, with him merely waving his hand, wrapping up his newspaper, and starting up the car. It seemed she and Ingo have had this interaction many times before.

“Be sure to leave me over at the office, I need to finish up a few more things,” she told him, with him merely giving an affirming nod.

Stopping at the office, Timon joined his mother out of the car, to give her a hug and a see-you-soon, before entering back into the car in the front passenger seat.

Soon enough, they arrived back at the Thaddai estate. Dinner would be held with neither Nestorius or Kyrene present, though the latter’s dinner was prepared for when she comes back. Timon would head to bed early that day.

---

Komnenion - February 21st

Two days had passed since the arrival of the Doukai. For Timon, Thursday was a typical day, just with two extra people present, for whom he answered questions for alongside Rameka. Heraclius would opt to head for the hospital, to continue meeting with the medical staff watching Nestorius over his condition. Rameka, Timon and Irene would meanwhile go out (with a bodyguard in tow, oddly enough) to see the city a bit more, visiting spots Irene had found interesting.

This Friday morning, based on what he was seeing, was looking to lead to more of the same, at least until they visit his father in the afternoon. They were enjoying breakfast, though mother had already had hers and departed before they had woken up.

“So, Irene, Heraclius, you have any plans sorted up to the afternoon?” Madame Rameka asked the two Doukai.

The rest of the conversation covered lighter topics. Irene asked about places to go, what were good restaurants, and other things she should see during her time here. Even the priest chimed in at times, though Irene doubted she would need to visit Hilandaris. Probably if something involving the Church happened in the heartland and Theodora somehow needed to involve the clergy in Aotearoa.

After a while, Heraclius returned, but he was noticeably less talkative. Irene didn’t want to ask what was going on. It was probably going to be some medical jargon she didn’t understand anyways.

“Once again, thank you for having us,” Irene said, “We’ll make you proud, sir.”

Heraclius merely agreed with what his cousin said. There wasn’t much else for him to add.

Dinner passed, though neither Nestorius nor Kyrene were present. The food was great, but Irene couldn’t help but feel something was missing without both of them. Kyrene came home a little later and ate separately, but by then Irene and Heraclius had finished.

Irene hoped this was the exception, not the norm.

The next day, Heraclius headed off to the hospital to help with Nestorius’ care. Irene felt a little alone once they dropped her cousin off. After all, they had been crammed into the same lodgings and transportation for the last few weeks, so him being gone the whole day felt off.

Fortunately, Timon was there. She almost swooned when she realized he would be around instead of Herac—oh thank goodness he wasn’t around—and then stopped herself when she found Rameka and at least one bodyguard would be going with them. Goddamnit, why can’t they just—SHUT UP, ME! They went around and visited the spots she found interesting, which mainly consisted of good restaurants, bookstores, major landmarks, and cultural sights, both colonial and Maori. By the end of the day, she believed she had started to pick up on some of the local slang.

“Not really,” Irene said, “I was thinking we could do the same thing as yesterday. Look around the place again.”

“I was hoping to continue working on Senator Thaddas’ treatment,” Heraclius said.

Timon remained largely oblivious of Irene’s swooning over him, as he had been thus far, seeming slightly confused whenever he caught glimpses on it on Thursday, leading to him getting flustered over the potential that she actually didn’t find Aotearoa interesting. The presence of Rameka embarrassing him like a step-aunt didn’t help. But the day had gone by smoothly enough, with everyone enjoying himself. He chuckled when she used some of the local slang.

Rameka nodded. “Solid plans! No issues for you, Timon?”

Timon nodded in response. “None whatsoever. Though I won’t be available for that on the weekend. Promised my friends to hang out and all.”

Rameka giggled. “Why don’t you bring Irene with you?”

Timon frowned. “Mihi, you know how my friends are!”

Irene reddened the moment Rameka made her suggestion. “Wait, what are you—”

“She would love to,” Heraclius interrupted, flashing a wink at her, “Right?”

I hate you, Herac. “Uh…yeah, definitely.”

Timon didn’t seem to be fine with this. “I don’t know, I think it would be rather overwhelming.”

As they talked, the phone rang in the hallway.

Rameka got up. “I’ll handle that,” she said as she headed out of the kitchen.

A minute or so later, Rameka yelled from the hallway. “Timon! Erasmos is calling you on the phone!”

“O-oh! C-coming!” Timon responded in surprise, as he got up and headed over to the phone, with Rameka returning to the kitchen.

“G-good morning, Father Erasmos! Why are you calling for me at this hour?” Rameka overheard Timon respond on the phone, as she moved away and entered the kitchen.

“Certainly odd, but it’s not like this hasn’t happened before. Erasmos seems to always call at odd times,” Rameka told the two Doukai.

“What about you, Heraclius? You can’t go every day to the hospital, can you? You could also join Timon!” Rameka continued on with the conversation.

Damnit, shot down, what an utter disaster! It took every bit of her willpower to make her face look absolutely unchanged.

Then Timon went away to answer the phone. It seemed to be Father Erasmos calling from the hospital. Rameka turned back to Heraclius and Irene and continued their conversation. “What about you, Heraclius? You can’t go every day to the hospital, can you? You could also join Timon!”

“I wouldn’t be against that,” Heraclius said, “But I’m not sure about leaving the hospital team like that. Maybe I should get in touch and let them know.”

Rameka nodded. “That would be the best move, if you wanted to join, that is!” she said with a smile.

As they continued eating breakfast, the three of them noticed something peculiar…

Timon hadn’t returned yet. It didn’t seem like he was talking on the phone anymore, yet he was still there. It had been several minutes already.

“…Erasmos doesn’t typically do long calls unless they’re with Nestorius…” Rameka looked over at the two Doukai with a worried expression, “I wonder what’s going on.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” Heraclius said, “I’ll send a message to the team first chance I can.”

They continued eating breakfast. Soon, Irene’s plate was empty, but Timon was still gone, his plate remaining half full. Weird. Was he still talking?

“…Erasmos doesn’t typically do long calls unless they’re with Nestorius…” Rameka said. “I wonder what’s going on.”

“Same here,” Irene said, “I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

Several minutes more pass, and Timon still hadn’t returned. Rameka had become genuinely visibly concerned by this point.

“I’m going to go check on him,” she told the two Doukai. She got up and left the kitchen to go find Timon.

When she arrived back at the phone, she found Timon, just standing there. He had already put the handle down, but he just kept his hands on the phone. He seemed unmoving, and yet she could also hear… crying.

“T-Timon, is everything alright-“

“He’s dead,” Timon responded.

Rameka paused. She didn’t mishear him, did she?

“D-dad’s….” Timon began to tremble on the spot, as if he were about to collapse.

Rameka rushed over to Timon, giving him a hug. “Timon…” she told him, allowing him to cry as he tried to comprehend the situation herself, as it took her a bit before she also began to start crying.

Unbeknownst to Timon, Erasmos had chosen to call him first among all others to find out what had happened. The morning of February 21st, 1936, his nearly 87 year old father had passed away, having had the chance to do his last rites. Shortly after him, Erasmos called Kyrene, hoping to catch her while she wasn’t busy yet. A week of mourning would be declared, expanded from the originally intended day of mourning, after public support.

Rameka went off to see what was with Timon, leaving Irene and Heraclius alone. They patiently waited for a few minutes. Then Irene noticed Rameka wasn’t coming back.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Beats me,” Heraclius said, “You want to go see?”

They got up and went to where Rameka had gone. They didn’t go far before they found Rameka and Timon gathered at the phone. Timon was…crying.

In that instant, Irene knew exactly what had happened.

“No…” was all she could say before she also burst into tears, followed by Heraclius.

19th February 1936

Life went on.

Alexander reflected as much in his latest sermon, in front of the majority of the population of Constantinople. For the past few weeks, for various reasons, the cathedral had played host for mass, for everyone. It was…somewhat tense. Whilst the fascists as a rule were as Christian as the rest of the Empire, in practice, they had rather chosen a different idol to worship, that being their idea of what the state should be.

It was all the more bewildering that their avatar of that fantasy was the Crown Prince.

And yes, he remained Crown Prince. Despite nearly four weeks passing between the death of the old emperor and now, Konstantios refused to budge on the issue of having a priest bear witness and give rites to the body. He also had not given the vows required to defend the Faith and protect the Church as Supreme Governor.

In short, whilst he certainly presented himself as Emperor, he had abdicated the responsibility spiritually. As desperate as the Church was to avoid getting involved in what was still largely seen as a family squabble, Alexander’s position was becoming increasingly untenable. It was very difficult to remain neutral when one of the factions treated the Faith, the Church and the Office with such disdain.

Thus…today’s sermon.

He had noted a few confused and a few angry faces amongst the fascist hierarchy as he continued and knew that at least some of them grasped the undertone of the message.

Well. Good.

Despite himself, Alexander was afraid. He had responsibilities in this city outside the Church. There were several hundred people within the Temple District, which encircled the Holy Mound, the millennia old churches, monasteries, hermitages and cathedral of the old city. All would be placed in imminent danger by his actions today.

However, it could not be helped. Not this time.

He concluded with prayer, and steeled himself for the quiet, desperate, last chance he would offer the Crown Prince.

---

Domingo and Achilles shared a glance as they dutifully followed Konstantinos and the Patriarch to the latter’s private office.

That had been the largest warning shot of the past month that the Orthodox Church was losing patience with their monarch. All that talk of the Christian Martyrs, the greatness of faith in adversity, goodness in the face of cruelty, and humility before the Lord…

Now, though their emperor seemed not to realise it, Alexander was beginning to fashion a net. Or a noose.

Alexander fixed all three of them with a beady eye.

“I shall be brief, gentlemen. Almost one month ago, the Emperor of the Romans died alone and without respite. Since then, and despite frequent and polite requests from all manner of officials within and without the Church from across the Empire, and two from Archbishops from across the seas, you have failed to account for his body or his disgraceful treatment at your hands-you will be silent!” He raised his voice suddenly as Konstantinos opened his mouth.

“You have made your opinion on the duties of any good Christian clear. You have made your own wickedness quite clear. I’m going to make this easy for you, Konstantinos. Either you immediately recant from this path you have decided on, release your father’s body over to my custody and swear your vows within the day, or you will be excommunicated from the Orthodox Church.”

Achilles’ face grew quite red and he seemed to be biting down on his tongue. Domingo on the other hand stared icily at Alexander, waiting for him to finish, and calculating how to survive his removal.

“I see no reason for you to linger or discuss this, as your options seem quite clear to me. Kindly escort these gentlemen out, Guard Captain.”

Domingo shifted, suddenly aware there were three men at his elbow. So…war it was to be.

“But-but,” the Crown Prince stammered, white in shock and deeply perturbed, whether at the tone or the content of the generally affable Patriarch in front of them.

“Out. Now.”

And they were gone.

Alexander turned around to face his now empty office, and slumped into a chair. The die had been cast.

---

The previous day

Prince Alvertos glanced up from his writing and had to doubletake upon seeing Father Joseph, rather out of breath, being shown through into his office. He had grown quite fond of the old man after, quite by chance, wandering into his confessional booth. Over the past few weeks, the calm, quiet and thoughtful air, and occasional advice of the priest had been a comfort in a troubling time.

This was something new, however. Joseph had never come to his office before, nor ever seemed so excited or emotional before.

“Is everything alright?” the prince asked in concern.

“I fear not,” the old man said, regaining his composure and sitting in an offered seat. “You recall I had to send a request for approval when Your Highness began to regularly take confession with me?”

Alvertos frowned and nodded. He for one was glad of the long established boon of the clergy that gave them various exemptions from having to bow, kneel and generally lavish the Royal Family with praise at every turn. That being said, he reminded himself, the Emperor Himself had his own special position within the Church hierarchy…oh bother.

“I was wondering, my friend. Apologies,” he said, shaking himself. Father Joseph would not have come without cause.

“I received a writ today from His All Holiness, the Ecumenical Patriarch himself.”

Alvertos nodded again. “Yes, that is who would have to approve it, from what you told me?”

“Indeed, sire, but…not like this.” He slid over the message onto the desk, and the prince peered down at it.

“What are these markings?” he asked, pointing a various circles and scribbles in a different hand to the somewhat familiar script of the Patriarch.

“My own notes. The Holy Father sent an encoded message within the letter, I am sure of it. I checked my work a dozen times and had two scholars I deeply trust look it over. This is a genuine message for your eyes.”

“I see,” the prince said, not particularly reassured. What possible reason could there be for this sort of subterfuge, and to him of all people? He picked up the letter and focused on the code key and additions made, then paused, re-read from the start, and then again.

And again.

“Are you certain of this?”

“I ran from my rooms to the archbishop first, and he confirmed there had been rumblings for the past week, and was not surprised, though worried, at the news. I believe it is genuine, yes.”

“Good God…” the prince said to himself and smiled despite himself when the man across from him nodded in agreement. “This is…” he tailed off and reached for the telephone. “Get me the security minister and the War Cabinet at once. Within the next fifteen minutes or less. Yes, at once!” He glanced up at the old priest after reading through the missive once more. “I hesitate to ask but…”

“What do I think?” At the prince’s nod, Father Joseph sighed. “It has been a long time coming. It will mean a great evil is about to be done upon the Holy City. I fear, perhaps the whole Church. But it cannot be helped. Tyranny must be opposed, evil must be faced. The Holy Father is right to act as he does.”

“Still…I do not know whether we can help them.”

“That you will at least try, puts you in better staid than…others.” Father Joseph suggested. “I take my leave. Be well, and go with God, Prince Alvertos.” He reached the door just as two bodyguards and Theodora came round the corner. He walked away and shut his eyes when he just about heard the conversation drift from the office behind him:

“Alexander is going to excommunicate Konstantinos. He needs an evacuation, immediately.”

Trebizond

As soon as she received the summons, Theodora dropped everything she was currently working on. She halted her interrogation of their prisoner from Ioannes’ attempted assassination and made her way to the imperial estate. Once she was there, Alvértos wasted no time getting to the point.

“Alexander is going to excommunicate Konstantinos. He needs an evacuation, immediately.”

So Konstantinos had finally managed to piss off the Church itself. Theodora couldn’t help but silently laugh. The Church was the one institution that could utterly destroy one of the princes if it wanted to, and now it was about to. Konstantinos, being who he was, would probably attempt to avoid that fate by arresting the Church, or something like that. Which meant His Holiness and other high ranking clergymen needed an evacuation. The emergency escape route Justinian had established a while ago was now coming in handy.

“I’m on it,” Theodora said, “I’ll inform my operatives about this development. Rest assured, we will get His Holiness and other at risk individuals out of harm’s way.”

Her mind raced with potential contingency plans. Konstantinos wouldn’t stop with going after the Church. If His Holiness escaped to Trebizond, Konstantinos would likely try to go after them. A full-scale assault on Constantinople’s East End in retaliation was likely. It didn’t matter if Konstantinos didn’t have the manpower to take and hold any territory. He would try it, just to give the appearance of strength. She would have to warn Ioannes.

((Activating the escape route, feel free to write the clergy escaping through it.))

20th February 1936

Patriarch Franciscus looked up at the façade of the Hagia Sophia, still visible in the darkening sky, wondering if he would ever see it again.

“I’m glad we finished putting it right,” the old rector said, also looking up. “Whatever happens next.”

“We did our duty, stood firm against evil, and protected the innocent,” Alexander looked down. “It was not enough. This is a retreat, as much as it is defiant.”

“The cathedral will survive. It always has. How many men have tried to tear it down, or the Church it represents over the millennia? This place, this city, is sacred for a reason. It embodies the human spirit to survive and go on, despite all the world throws at us. Evil may rise but it will never prosper.” Franciscus looked over at the Ecumenical Patriarch. “I voted against your anointment, as I believe I told you once before. But I have never misjudged a man so wrongly as you. No matter what happens, the Church will navigate through this crisis with clean hands and no blemish upon its soul. That is your influence and legacy. Not what happens here tonight.”

“They are going to force me to come with you.”

“As well they should. If the Latin Rite cannot afford to lose me, the world cannot afford to lose you before your time.”

“The Άγιος go to their deaths.”

“That is their purpose. The Temple District and Acropolis will not fall without a fight. The Holy Mound will see blood unjustly spilt defending its sanctity…but the helpless will live, and these men will lay down their lives to ensure we can fight on in their name.”

The Guard Captain came up to them, ready for war. Now he was dressed in the common dressage of every other solider who had volunteered to remain. None of them would live to see the sunrise.

“We are ready, gentlemen.”

Alexander took one more look at the cathedral, and then at the men who were busy readying themselves for what was to come. In a sudden gasp of inspiration, he understood that it was the latter that was far more important than the former.

“I once again order you to all come with us.”

The Guard Captain smiled slightly. “I once again disobey and will suffer whatever consequences ensue.”

“I had hoped to never write another name onto the history of Christian Martyrs. Let alone meet and know a hundred of them.”

“We’ll be alright, sir. Please, go now.”

“Philip…good luck, and God be with you.”

“God be with us all, Holy Father.”

He saluted and gestured to the escorting guardsmen to lead the holy men away. Just to ensure they actually left.

“The only respite in my soul is that we are taking most with us.”

“We would rather stand and fight, sir,” the young guardsman, Joseph, replied.

“Not on your life. I would rather this entire place be burnt to the ground than waste a man being slaughtered by the fascists who call themselves Roman.”

“Sir!”

“It can be rebuilt. I have done so once already. But enough…if you are insistent upon kidnapping us-”

“Peace, Alexander,” the rector said, touching his arm. “They are not at fault.”

“You are right…my apologies. To the boats then.”

The rebel ships had begun to show in the Straits in force yesterday, and would tonight be acting as both an escort and a distraction from the Crown Prince’s minions. They had already shelled the emptied dockyards (the workers by this time had numerous rebel agents spreading information and warnings) and were engaged in firefights up and down the waterfront.

With luck, even if anyone happened to spot the refugees escaping, they would have no means of response before it was too late.

The women and children went first, and unfortunately, there were quite a lot of them. Not only the nuns and the child members of the Church but also the vast majority of orphans in the city resided within the Temple District, and thus had to be evacuated. There were also families of servants, laypeople, and assorted others. Everyone in the hospitals and infirmaries were next. Then the evacuation of the major church officials (including the Abbesses and Mother Superiors, who had universally vetoed their seats on earlier boats).

All the while, the Άγιος Guard and everyone else was on tenterhooks as to when they would be discovered, when a shout or a spotlight would ring out and the fight would begin. The fascists would have to breach the walls of the district, fight their way through the Guard through the entire complex and then reach the water in order to do anything…but they had the numbers.

Still, Alexander hoped they would not be discovered at all, and the entire population of the place, including all the volunteer defenders, could retreat across the river.

He would not leave himself until they were either discovered, or on the last boat.

It was after midnight, closer to 1am on the 21st February, when the shooting started.

They had very nearly made it.

The water by now was enshrouded in mist and fog, such that once underway, any boat would be hidden from view and simply had to keep going. Thus, Alexander ordered everyone to go, right then and there. With little regard for overcrowding now return journeys had become that much more perilous, just over half of all remaining people on the riverbank were gone. There was now a tense dozen or so minutes wait to see if they could come back in time.

“You really should have gone with them.”

“I will abide. We have been given grace enough that almost everyone is safe already.”

“Not everyone.”

The shooting was beginning to be intermixed with yelling and screaming. It was still quite far away, but that only made the volume of the noise more ominous.

Suddenly, the boats emerged again through the mist, as an explosion shook everyone on the shore.

“That’s the wall gone,” the Rector said dimly, rather louder than he meant to say. Everyone was a little deafened after that.

“Go! Go!” Alexander encouraged everyone, the Guards and the priests, onto the waiting boats. He spared one last look behind him. From this angle, all seemed well, aside from the occasional flare of gunfire and a worrying amount of thick, black smoke rising in the distance beyond the buildings.

“That everyone, sir?” the boatman said as he went aboard, seemingly the last to do so.

“I’m afraid not, but it is everyone who will be leaving.”

“Right sir.”

The rebel, or perhaps just a brave civilian? In any case, he turned the boat around and made his way into the mist.

“Have you had any trouble so far?” shouted the Rector over the sound of the engine and the waves.

“Not too much. This fog is a blessing and a curse. Have to keep her straight, but also means we won’t be shot!”

“Mixed blessings indeed,” muttered the Patriarch.

As Constantinople, and the men he left behind, vanished from view, he uttered a quiet prayer for their souls, as the mist enveloped them all.

Constantinople February 20, 1936

As the residents of the Temple District made their way to the docks, a lone figure shadowed them from the rooftops, remaining silent and out of sight. As they waited for the boats, the figure remained unseen above, watching and waiting. As they began loading onto the boats and departing out into the straits, the figure remained motionless, an imperceptible fixture above. It was only after the first shots rang out that the figure moved again, unsheathing two sets of claw-like blades.

The Ripper had been patient, observing the flight of the last bastion of Christian strength within the city. They had taken careful notice of the Ecumenical Patriarch and his entourage. It would have been a simple matter of slipping into their ranks and dispatching the Holy Father, although an escape would have been much more difficult. There were surely followers of Chernobog who would have done so if presented with a similar opportunity, seeing it as a gift of the Black God to take out the head of a rival faith. The Ripper was not one of them. Zeal was for short-sighted fools, and often got one killed. A pragmatic approach was preferred, even if it seemed somewhat contradictory to the edicts of chaos espoused by Chernobog.

So the Ripper waited. For what, they did not know. Master Sliver had given them the freedom to decide their own approach to this mission. Let the Ecumenical Patriarch escape or eliminate him before he could? Intervene or observe? The patriarch’s death would certainly plunge the church into chaos, perhaps even with both sides of the civil war trying to influence the choice of successor. Then again, the patriarch leaving the city to flee to the rebels would only stoke the flames of war even more. It was a delicate balance, one that needed to be carefully maintained to maximize the chaos of this conflict. Ultimately they favoured to let events proceed as they were, perhaps because it was easier to choose inaction over action when faced with such a dilemma. There were also other factors they needed to consider, tied to deep-held beliefs that they kept buried and hidden from others of the faith for they could often times run counter to the edicts of Chernobog.

The evacuation proceeded rather smoothly considering how many people were involved and how strongly guarded the city had been the past few months. Perhaps God was showing his favour to his faithful. Or perhaps he wasn’t as the Ripper noticed a half dozen fascists, armed with sub-machine guns clearly meant to do maximum damage without consideration for who was in the crosshairs. They were sneaking through an alley towards the docks. They had somehow managed to avoid the Temple Guard, who continued to fight their comrades elsewhere in the district. The Ripper made note of their path, which after a few more blocks would lead them right to the refugees. The closest group of refugees consisted of women and children who had missed the first batch of boats, possibly because they were latecomers or had opted to let others go ahead of them. The Ripper watched the fascists slowly approach, only three blocks between them and the refugees. Their eyes glinted mercilessly, anticipating the bloodshed they surely meant to inflict. The chaos that would ensue would be unimaginable. Chernobog would surely be pleased. The Ripper, however, would not.

As the fascists walked past below, the Ripper dropped down from the rooftop with barely a sound. They landed in the middle of them, startling the ones in the back who suddenly found an armoured and cloaked figure amongst their ranks. One of the men tried to cry out, but his throat was ripped out by the Ripper’s claws before he could speak. He stared at the Ripper’s masked face as the life drained from his eyes. He then clutched at his torn throat and collapsed to the ground. Another could only let out a surprised grunt as a set of claws pierced into his chest. He spat out blood and then slumped down onto the street.

The rest of the fascists had finally taken notice of the intruder. One of the men tried to bring his sub-machine gun to bear, but the Ripper kicked another of the goons into him, knocking them both back. Of the other two, one who looked barely eighteen was staring in horror at his dying comrades, while the other aimed his gun at the interloper. The Ripper rolled to the side, dodging bullet fire that sprayed the wall behind where they had just stood. They weren’t close enough to get the shooter with their claws, so they opted for a ranged alternative instead. A throwing knife suddenly appeared in their hand, and a quick flick of the wrist sent it flying at the shooter. He let out a scream as it plunged into his left eye.

By now the two fascists who had been knocked into each other had gathered their wits. The Ripper quickly closed the gap before they could aim their weapons, going in fast with their claws. One of the soldiers used his gun as a shield, blocking the blow intended for his chest. Sparks flew as the blades cut into the gun, leaving deep scratches. The other man managed to get his gun up and was ready to fire. Twirling through the air, the Ripper continued through with their initial attack, striking again at the first soldier, managing to slice into their left arm. They then manoeuvred around the man, pushing him out between them and the other combatant. Before the second soldier could realize his mistake, he let loose a burst of fire into his comrade. The first fascist collapsed to the ground, bleeding heavily from the bullet wounds in his chest.

Without giving time for a follow-up attack, the Ripper lunged at the armed soldier, stabbing both sets of claws into his chest. They hoisted the man into the air and tossed him off the blades, his body lifeless before it even hit the ground.

An angry roar pulled the Ripper’s attention to the side, where the man with the throwing knife in his eye had finally overcome the pain enough to attack. Before he could let off a shot, the Ripper tossed another throwing knife, this one lodging into the man’s right eye. He let out a pained squeal as he unleashed a barrage of sub-machine gun fire. The Ripper dropped low and rolled towards the man, avoiding the gunfire as the blinded man fired wildly into the air. They kicked out the man’s legs, dropping him onto his back and knocking the wind out of him. The gunfire stopped as the Ripper lodged their claws into the underside of the fascist’s jaw.

Rising to their feet, the Ripper flicked the fresh blood from their claws as the action finally came to a halt. The sounds of the refugees a few blocks away and gunfire in the distance could be heard, but the alley remained silent except for the sobbing of the one remaining fascist.

The Ripper stood silently, watching the one enemy that remained. He had dropped his gun earlier in the fight and was now on his knees, his head bowed down and hands clasped in prayer. He was barely even a man and certainly no longer a threat, so the Ripper did not hasten to eliminate him. They listened as the teen whispered prayer after prayer to God, as though He would descend from the heavens and save him. The Ripper let out a deep chuckle, an ominous sound that reverberated through their metal mask.

“God will not save you,” the Ripper said, stepping closer to the fascist. Sensing the armour-clad figure approach, the whimpering boy bowed his head further and more fervently whispered his prayers. The Ripper grabbed his chin and jerked his head up, their claws sticking out on both sides of his neck as a clear reminder of the threat they presented. “You were ready to murder innocent woman and children, and even men of the cloth. Why would God save you?”

“I was only serving my emperor,” the boy said, his voice cracking, a mixture of tears and snot streaking down his young face.

It was pathetic and sad how easy it was it was to manipulate the young into believing anything. A smirk spread across the Ripper’s face, hidden by the mask and only noticeable by the Ripper themself. There was a great irony in that thought, seeing as they served an equally troublesome cause. Yet there was a difference between blind faith and allies of convenience, and often the two were indistinguishable when the latter put on a show of seeming committed to the cause. This was something the Ripper had learned early on, and this boy clearly had not.

Careful not to accidentally slit the boy’s throat, the Ripper forced him to his feet and pushed him away. They pointed back down the alley in the direction the fascists had come. “Go, and rethink your purpose in life.” They walked around the boy and gave him in kick in the rear, forcing him to stumble back down the alley. “Do not make the same mistake again or you will find me less forgiving the second time.”

Without hesitation, the boy scrambled off down the alley. He looked back only once, just as he started away, but the Ripper was already gone. He quickly picked up his pace and fled as fast as he could. The Ripper watched him go from the rooftop above until he he was out of sight before returning to observe the evacuation. They would need the time to devise an excuse for their recent foray against the fascists when they reported back to Master Sliver.

Trebizond - February 19

Theodora briskly strolled down the hallway of the MSI building. She had been in a rush ever since she received the news from Prince Alvértos. Every minute counted—she needed to get a message out to her contacts in the capital as soon as possible. Every minute that passed meant another civilian dead at the hands of the blackshirts. Konstantinos wouldn’t be above targeting the clergy if it gave him a short term political advantage. But in the long term, it would only push the Church onto Alvértos’ side by necessity, Hey, nobody said those guys had great long term planning.

She reached the communications room. Normally, Justinian would be here as the point of contact for the MSI’s undercover operatives in Constantinople, but he had been recalled to Australia and wouldn’t be around for a while. So Theodora decided to do it herself. She sat at one of the specialized telegraphs the MSI had developed specifically for secure communications. It had an extra unit attached to it, an encryption device. The specific encryption code could be changed with a dial on the side, and it was standard practice to change it every day. Once all codes on the dial were exhausted, the dial was replaced and a new set of codes was installed. That was the job of the cryptography department. She personally only had to type normally, like with any other telegraph.

“EXECUTE OPERATION LIGHTHOUSE CONTINGENCY PLAN 4”

Fortunately, before his departure, Justinian had left extremely detailed instructions as to the specifics of Operation Lighthouse. So all she had to do was type those words, and the operative on the other end would know what to do.

Even if “what to do” amounted to, if Justinian wasn’t lying, “figure it out yourself.”

Nicomedia

“Let me get this straight,” Paul said, “You want me to deploy the Talos and the patrol boats in an attack formation?”

Ioannes nodded. “That’s right.”

“Even though we are in no position to actually attack?”

“Yes. That’s not the objective.” Ioannes pointed at the wharfs of Galata. “We just need to cover for the evacuation.”

“You really want us to go right into the Golden Horn for an evacuation?” Paul said.

“I’d have done it at Megarevma, like with the previous evacuation,” Ioannes said, “But the people we’re extracting can’t make it that far. Galata is even a distraction.”

“A distraction for what?”

Ioannes lowered his voice. “The historic center, Temple District, that general area.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“That should tell you just how delicate the situation is. Theodora’s activated a lot of her people in the city.”

Paul shook his head. “Did she even tell you who the evacuees are?”

“She said something about a need-to-know basis,” Ioannes said, “Yeah, I’d have liked to know too. So can you do it?”

“Yes,” Paul said, “The Talos probably can’t go into the Golden Horn, but I can put it at the mouth and provide cover fire. The patrol boats will escort the transports to the shore.”

“Good,” Ioannes said, “Let’s get it done.”

Constantinople

The dockyard was abuzz with activity. Apparently, there had been an MSI operative embedded within the union leadership. He activated one of the union’s contingency plans. It wasn’t the main one—that would be executed whenever the troops in the East End decided to cross the bridges—but it was still important. The MSI requested the union’s help with evacuating certain high profile individuals—among others—to Skoutarion. The workers weren’t given any names or identifying information, other than they would be gathering the next day. There were some complaints about helping out capitalists and aristocrats who likely wanted to evacuate more of their own, but then several hundred hyperpyra coincidentally appeared in the union’s donation box. Management looked the other way. The MSI had probably dropped another few hundred hyperpyra onto their desks.

Officially, the dockworkers continued their jobs as usual. But the union deployed them over a much larger area of waterfront in addition to the regular work in Kontostaklion. Gavrilo and his team were assigned to the wharfs on the Golden Horn. There was another union branch there which had “requested” their assistance repairing docks in Galata. Fortunately, Management hadn’t sent any inspectors since the whole crisis started, having deemed the city too dangerous for them. If they had, they would have found that the Galata docks were perfectly fine. In fact, they looked much better than Kontoskalion’s docks, Gavrilo thought.

That’s because they are, Wilhelm said, Galata has commercial docks. Kontoskalion is primarily shipping and military.

Why’d we decide to work at Kontoskalion, then?

You said the pay and union benefits were better.

True, the Galata branch isn’t as generous. No matter the universe, some things just don’t change.

The union’s main goal with Gavrilo’s team was to provide security at the extraction point. They were to clear out the area under the guise of construction, letting through only civilians trying to escape. To that aim, they would go around the surrounding blocks and asking people to evacuate inland. Ships from the East End would then shell the empty docks and buildings to eliminate any enemy military presence. If all went according to plan, the evacuees—and anybody else who chose to go with them—would board the ships and be ferried to the East End. Then Gavrilo and the other dockworkers would return to Kontoskalion, with nobody the wiser.

“Say, Gavrilo.” One of the dockworkers adjusted the wooden railing of one of the wharfs. “Who do you think we’re evacuating tomorrow?”

“If I had to guess, probably some defectors,” Gavrilo said, “This is too high profile of an operation to get spies out.”

Those two Inquisitors came to mind.

“I bet it’s some fancy purpleshirt.” That was apparently the local slang referring to aristocrats, but it was increasingly being applied to those who sided with Alvértos in general. It made no difference to these dockworkers. “Those guys only look out for themselves.”

“Purpleshirts think we’re cannon fodder.”

“Do we have a choice, though?” Gavrilo said. “The only other alternatives are the blackshirts.”

“Black, purple, they’re all the same in the end. Only difference is which one kills you faster.”

“I’m tired of choosing the lesser of two evils. What’s the point if nothing will change for ourselves?”

“Perhaps they will change,” Gavrilo said.

“How do you know?”

Gavrilo actually didn’t know. In Vrhbosna, things seemed to stay the same no matter what. The union at his factory said the same things for as long as he could remember. But Management was much stricter there. He remembered one time there was a strike, and Management retaliated by calling in a favor from Berlin. Angelos’ men marched into Vrhbosna and shot several dozen of his colleagues. His pay was cut in half that year. He never got his full salary back, because the next year Angelos drove out the Kaiser and attempted to seize ultimate power. Much like what happened here with Konstantinos and Alvértos. So why would he say things would get better if they didn’t?

Gavrilo, Wilhelm’s voice came, It may not seem that way, but these times won’t last.

What do you mean?

There will always be bad times. But they end eventually. Surely, people living through the Thirteenth Century Crisis or the Fifty Years’ War believed the Apocalypse was upon them. But those ended, and better times began.

Those times didn’t have modern technology and ideologies making things worse.

Gavrilo, humans are still the same at their core. Technology and ideology only amplifies what’s already within you. You all have a potential for evil, which is justified with ideology and made destructive with technology. But there is also a potential for good. Technology can be used to destroy, but it can save as well. Just think of all of the medical advances you’ve seen in recent years, both here and at home. Same with ideologies. Fascism and equalism may still exist, but there will always be ideologies to oppose them, to defend the freedom of the people.

So what you’re saying is…as long as there’s evil, there will be good to oppose it?

Yes. Through the many generations I’ve watched over, that has not changed.

Gavrilo worked up the strength to say something. “Maybe it’s faith.”

One dockworker scoffed. “What, you still go to church?”

Gavrilo shook his head. “Not exactly. It’s more like a…personal faith. No matter how bad things can get, we can still pull ourselves out of it the same way we got into it.”

February 20

Gavrilo made himself comfortable on one of the docks with a view of the Golden Horn. He was alone now. The rest of the team had left, since it was after hours. But Gavrilo wanted to see the whole thing up close and make sure things went smoothly. If anything went wrong, he could always rely on Wilhelm.

You do know I have to draw on my grace to heal you ever time, right?

I’m counting on it.

There was a feeling in his head that was like a sigh, but it went by without Gavrilo’s mouth moving. I’ve already used a lot of my grace to slow your aging. If you get really hurt, I don’t know how much longer it’ll delay reintegration.

Then make sure to keep me away from that.

It gets harder if you rush into danger.

What, you haven’t before? Isn’t that why you’re here?

For the record, that was Gabriel tricking us all.

Have you ever thought about what you’re going to do when you meet him again?

…you know what? I don’t think I have, yet.

Why?

BECAUSE I’M TOO FOCUSED ON KEEPING THIS OTHER GABRIEL ALIVE!

Okay, okay, fine! I get it!

The battle began. Flashes appeared from the guns of the destroyer at the entrance to the Golden Horn, and seconds later, shells struck an empty dockyard that the MSI had marked as an enemy asset. The union had been told to evacuate Galata’s waterfront as if preparing for an attack. Next, patrol boats advanced into the Golden Horn and deployed rowboats filled with marines, who secured beachheads on various parts of the waterfront. Gavrilo heard some gunfire from the areas where troops had landed. There seemed to be some blackshirts resisting.

The first of the evacuees should be arriving soon. I should make my way there.

Do you even know where the rendezvous point is?

…it’s here, isn’t it? Galata makes the most sense.

Were you listening when they said the historic center? Galata’s just a diversion.

…prokletstvo! You know what, why don’t you take over? I did my part, now you should do yours.

Okay.

Gavrilo closed his eyes and rested. Wilhelm opened his eyes and took in a deep breath, stretching his arms out. Then he looked across the Golden Horn at Hagia Sophia’s iconic dome.

It looks just like I remember.

There was the sound of flapping wings, and suddenly he was on a dock on the waterfront just outside the temple district. Nobody noticed him. Most of the people in the area had probably left for safer areas long ago or were indoors, preparing for the evacuation

Okay, then. Let’s get to work. Wilhelm mentally constructed a map of the district in his head, taking into consideration where the evacuees presently were and the likely route they would take to the dock he was on. Good. It’s more or less a straight line with few detours. Though the number of people involved will be pushing it. He took out a notepad and pencil. On five pages he wrote the word “trajectio.” The sounds of flapping wings were obscured by the waves lapping against the rocks under the dock. He reappeared in a quiet alley behind a hospital and slipped one page under a trash can. More flapping wings, and he put the next page in between two bricks in the district wall. Another, and the third was put in the belfry of a bell tower. The fourth went in a schoolyard, under some swings, and the fifth went on a buoy just offshore from the dock. That one required speed and precision so that he could set down the page without it falling into the water while also teleporting away before he too fell in. Wilhelm returned to the dock and barely managed to stay on his feet, panting heavily.

I have to stop doing that. That was too tiring. Too many teleports at once.

What did you do? Gavrilo asked.

A basic protection spell over the parts of the district the evacuees will likely take. I don’t have enough energy to cast the full spell as I learned it, but it should suffice for now. Wilhelm snapped his fingers. “Trajectio.” He saw a slight flash from the buoy in the distance. Okay, it’s active now. If anybody fires a gun, they’ll have a higher chance of missing.

What, not 100%?

I said it wasn’t the full spell. It was the best I could do right now.

How long does it last?

About twelve hours. Probably sooner if one of the pages falls out of the magic circle. But it should last.

We should have brought tape.

“Hey!” someone shouted.

Wilhelm looked up and saw who appeared to be a soldier in ceremonial armor. Probably a Church guardsman.

“Uh, hello,” he said.

“State your business.”

Wilhelm held up his hands. “I sought refuge with the Church earlier today. I came down here for spiritual contemplation.”

The guardsman approached. “Are you armed?”

“No. I generally abhor violence.”

I beg to differ.

Can you let me sell it?! “If you are unsatisfied, you may check.”

The guardsman did so, checking Wilhelm’s pockets and anywhere else he may have concealed a weapon. “Alright. You’re clear to go.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wilhelm said.

“By the way, what group are you in?”

“What do you mean by group?”

“For evacuation,” the guardsman said, “We’re evacuating the district.”

He pointed at the destroyer in the distance and the patrol boats off Galata’s shore. Later on, the patrol boats would cross the Golden Horn and probably dock around where Wilhelm was.

Gavrilo caught on. Oh, so that’s what it is. They’re evacuating the Church.

“I don’t have a group,” Wilhelm said, “I just got here. But is there room for one more within your ranks?”

February 21

Wilhelm knew the Church wouldn’t turn away an unarmed man seeking refuge. They didn’t officially take him in—which was fine in his book—but neither did they make him leave. He remained where he was on the docks for a long while. The evacuees began arriving after dinner. First it was the women and children. There were many wards of the Church, as well as the nuns who raised them, but there were also the disheveled faces of the orphans the Church had taken in too. After that came the staff and servants of the Church, as well as laypeople and their families. They crammed against the riverbank, patiently waiting for salvation, some chanting hyms and whispering prayers while others played games and ate leftovers from dinner. The injured were given the best ground to stand or lie on, while the ill were kept away from the rest of the crowd for everybody’s safety. In the back, Wilhelm saw more guardsmen standing watch in case the blackshirts got this far or some of Konstantinos’ men had infiltrated the crowd. These guards were armed with various melee weapons. Well, I should’ve thought that one through more. My spell isn’t as effective for melee weapons.

Once everybody had gathered on the waterfront, Wilhelm no longer stood out as much. He was now just one among many evacuees gathered there.

A light mist rolled in as the sun set, which helped the patrol boats pull away from Galata and approach the temple district. The first rowboats docked on Wilhelm’s side a little after sunset. The women and children went first. Then the injured and ill, followed by the laypeople, staff, and servants. The actual clergy, especially the higher ranks, had refused to go first, and the guardsmen had chosen to stay behind in case Konstantinos’ men broke through the walls.

The crowd slowly thinned over the next few hours as the rowboats returned to the patrol boats, dislodged their passengers, and went back to the docks to pick up new ones, with the patrol boats taking on passengers and then heading to Skoutarion in shifts so that at least three were available at any moment. Still, it took hours. Wilhelm kept deferring his seat to everybody else. They needed it more than him.

Now there were few on the docks other than some laypeople and the higher ranking clergy. From the garbs they wore, they appeared to be extremely important. One young man in the middle of the group—looking a little younger than Gavrilo was in 1939—seemed to be held to a higher degree of respect than the others. Perhaps this was the Ecumenical Patriarch. Gavrilo had heard about him in the news before. In person, he gave off a different impression. A humbler one.

After midnight, the shooting began. It started with some bursts of semiautomatic gunfire in the distance, with shouts and screams accompanying them. The blackshirts were beginning their assault, and the guardsmen were doing their jobs. Some hushed cries went up from the crowd. Wilhelm looked around, trying to see who was left. There was Alexander, the Ecumenical Patriarch, and those around him. There were a few civilians. Most of the guardsmen had been committed to the defense of the walls, so if they fell there, their only line of defense would be the few guardsmen left and the marines piloting the boats. No doubt his spell was already activating, but he had no idea how effective it would be. For all I know, it could end up making people on the same side shoot each other, and it’s not going to do anything if they start stabbing each other instead. I should’ve studied the Inquisition archives more thoroughly when I had the chance.

What about escaping, then? The buoy he had went to earlier was now barely visible in the fog, illuminated by the lights from the patrol boats. If they could all get onto the water, the fog could hide them.

“Everybody, into the boats!” His Holiness had apparently come to the same conclusion. “Go!”

The marines understood what he wanted and immediately pulled all of the empty boats alongside the dock and waterfront, in the latter case as close to the shore as possible without running aground.

“Organize into lines!” The clerics kept the crowds organized, using only their hands and voices to prevent a stampede. “Women and children first! The rest of you wait for your turn!”

Will we have enough time? Gavrilo asked. We’re cutting it a bit close.

I hope so.

From the sounds of the gunfire, the blackshirts are heavily armed. Submachine guns. They’d mow us all down in seconds.

Then we should get going before they get here.

What if we can’t? What are going to do?

Wilhelm hesitated. I’ll have to think of something.

The boats were filled, and they cast off. Now they just had to wait for them to return. Wilhelm caught snippets of a conversation nearby.

“You really should have gone with them.”

“I will abide. We have been given grace enough that almost everyone is safe already.”

“Not everyone.”

The shooting intensified, along with the shouting. It was getting closer.

They’re getting closer, Gavrilo said, Oh no, damnit. It’s just like Grodno.

As he said that, Wilhelm’s mind was filled with dark images. Artillery shells rained down around him. Men in Lithuanian uniforms charged a trench, while Gavrilo kept his finger glued on the trigger of a machine gun. One hand methodically fed ammunition into the gun as soon as it ran out, keeping him firing as often as possible. Crouching behind him were several wounded soldiers, including one general. His name was Potierek. A decent commander, but he had been too hasty and exposed them to a Lithuanian counterattack. Gavrilo knew that if he stopped firing, every single one of them wouldn’t live to see Ludendorff’s reinforcements arrive.

An explosion rocked the dock, and more screams came from the crowd.

“That’s the wall gone!” someone said.

Fortunately, the boats returned, coming out of the mist and pulling alongside the waterfront.

“Go! Go!”

“Form a line! Women and children first! You know the drill!”

Wilhelm could now see flashes of gunfire from among the churches, monasteries, hospitals, and orphanages. Smoke rose from further out. They were getting closer. But as the remaining evacuees boarded the boats, a ray of hope emerged. There were now few enough of them to fit on the next wave. Once that realization set in, everybody scrambled onto the boats in a surprisingly safe manner. Wilhelm patiently waited his turn. One by one, the boats filled up and cast off, disappearing into the fog in the direction of the patrol boats’ lights. Eventually, there was one left. And there were only a few people left to board. Wilhelm turned to the man next to him, beckoning to the boat. “You first—”

He then realized who he was talking to. Alexander beckoned back. “No, you should go.”

“I’m but a humble traveler,” Wilhelm said, “I shouldn’t go before you, Your Holiness.”

“Please,” Alexander insisted, “Don’t let my station get in the way. You should go on ahead of me.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” the boatman said, “We’re running out of time! Just get on!”

In the end, they boarded simultaneously.

“That everyone, sir?” the boatman asked Alexander.

Wilhelm looked back at the now empty waterfront.

“I’m afraid not,” Alexander said, “But it is everyone who will be leaving.”

“Right, sir.” The boatman fired up the engine and turned the boat into the fog.

“Have you had any trouble so far?”

“Not too much. This fog is a blessing and a curse. Have to keep her straight, but also means we won’t be shot!”

“Mixed blessings indeed.”

They continued into the fog. Ahead of them, Wilhelm saw the fog lights of the patrol boats growing brighter. The engine was going as fast as it could, but it still felt too slow. Or maybe that was a trick of the mind.

“Almost there!” one of the other passengers said.

As if to prove him wrong, another light turned on, forcing everyone to shield their eyes. Squinting, Wilhelm saw it came from another ship. It seemed to be a small freighter, but two machine guns had been installed on its decks. Konstantinos’ imperial eagle had been painted on the hull.

It looks just like Angelos’ insignia, Wilhelm noted.

Damn, they found us! Gavrilo said.

“Skata!” the boatman cursed. “Should’ve expected them to sneak up in this fog!”

“What do we do?!” one of the clergymen said.

The blackshirts relayed a demand via loudspeaker. “Surrender at once, or we will fire!”

“Like hell I will!” the boatman grabbed his sidearm.

“Shouldn’t we be focused on escaping?” another passenger asked.

“At this range? We won’t have enough time to get out of range of those guns.”

Another passenger shook his head. “Of all of the boats they could have stopped, they stopped this one.”

The other passengers clasped their hands and bowed their heads in prayer, hoping for the best. The boatman’s eyes darted between the ship, his engine, and his sidearm as he tried figuring out what to do. But Wilhelm knew it was pointless. They couldn’t match up to that ship’s firepower or get away from it. That only left surrender. Wilhelm could heal Gavrilo’s body, but the others wouldn’t be as fortunate. But what could they do? They didn’t have any weapons.

Wait a minute, Gavrilo said.

What do you mean?

It’s like Grodno, right? Outnumbered, outgunned, nowhere to go?

Gavrilo, are you sure you want to talk about Grodno right now?

I’ll deal with that later. But reflecting on that day got me thinking. Potierek and his men were all injured and unable to fight. The Lithuanians were charging us. Only I was in fighting condition. So how did I win?

Wilhelm had been with a different vessel at the time, so he wasn’t at Grodno. So he had to rely on what Gavrilo had told him and shown in his memories later on. The machine gun.

We had a machine gun and enough ammo to at least hold them off until reinforcements arrived.

So our goal is to find a way until our own boats come to the rescue?

In a way.

Same issue, the patrol boat will take too long to get here.

But what if we make the time? In Grodno, I had a machine gun to push back the Lithuanians.

We don’t have a machine gun here, and that’s a whole freighter.

On the contrary, we have something better than a machine gun.

Wilhelm initially didn’t understand what he meant.

Does the word “grace” mean anything to you?

It suddenly dawned on him. No. I can’t do that, while there are so many people here. And the reintegration…

What’s another few years of delay? We’ve already been here for a while, we can stay a bit longer.

But the others!

Just tell them to shield their eyes. As long as you direct yourself at the freighter, it should be fine. With any luck, we’ll have bought ourselves enough time to get to the patrol boat.

I’m more concerned with how they’ll react.

There was a feeling almost like a scoff. Wilhelm, you’re a freaking angel. These aren’t just any clergymen, they’re the top brass of the Church. It’s the same here as at home. I’m sure they’ll find some way to spin it. Or dismiss it. You never know.

Wilhelm didn’t usually do this. He had only done it a handful of times since he had arrived here. Before, he had also largely stopped doing it a while ago. There was no need for it in an increasingly secular society, and he would prefer not to harm innocents that way.

Wilhelm, just do it. I promise you, it’ll be fine.

Wilhelm nodded. Fine.

He immediately began calculating a plan. Not only did he have to neutralize the blackshirt freighter, but he also had to preserve the “veil,” as the Inquisition called it. There was a growing debate within that organization over reducing its profile in a mundane world that had seemingly grown beyond the need for magic. Wilhelm was not an Inquisitor, nor was he in that world at the moment, but veil doctrine was perfectly in line with his activities during his time here. The plan came together within a fraction of a second, his thinking having been done in hyper-attenuated time. Now it was time to act.

He stood up, startling the other passengers.

“What are you doing?!” the boatman said. “Don’t make yourself a target!”

“Don’t worry.” Wilhelm adopted a serious and somber yet gentle tone. “Be not afraid.”

“What do you mean, be not afraid?!”

Wilhelm didn’t directly answer that question. “Please look away.”

He stepped off the boat, provoking another round of shouts and gasps when he didn’t fall into the water. His feet remained steady just above the surface. Wilhelm took one step, and then another. The crew of the freighter had noticed him by now and were similarly panicking. Wilhelm stretched out his arms like a cross, as if beckoning them to fire on him.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

One machine gun opened fire on him. Wilhelm snapped his fingers, and all of the bullets pierced the water around him.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

Another snap of his fingers, and the next salvo of gunfire was redirected back to where it came from, reducing the machine gun to useless scrap metal.

“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the Earth.”

He took another step closer. A second machine gun opened fire on him, its operator spewing profanities and fascist slogans.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.”

The bullets similarly missed.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”

The second machine gun was destroyed by its own bullets.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.”

Wilhelm stopped in front of the freighter and looked up at the deck. Some of the blackshirts had pulled out pistols.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the Sons of God.”

There was the sound of wings flapping, and he was on the dock, much to the blackshirts’ surprise.

“Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

The blackshirts all opened fire at point-blank range.

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.”

When they stopped fire, they realized Wilhelm was still standing where he was, without a single scratch on him. All of them staggered back in fear, eyes wide with terror.

“Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you…”

Wilhelm grinned, because he was out of lines from the Beatitudes to recite. But he did have another line to say.

“Forget not to show love unto strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares!” Wilhelm raised his voice, as if wanting everyone in the area to hear what he had said.

And with that, Wilhelm revealed his true form, bathing the entire freighter in blinding white light and a piercing ringing. Gavrilo had retreated into what was equivalent to a nap at the moment, but he still heard the thuds and screams as the blackshirts fell to their knees and clutched their heads in pain, having not looked away. Despite the ringing seemingly filling every bit of space around him, Wilhelm could perfectly hear everything else around him. He only heard the cries of the blackshirts, though. That meant the passengers in the boat heeded his warning.

Okay, that’s enough. Wilhelm reverted to his mundane form, and the light and noise disappeared back into Gavrilo’s body. He straightened out his coat and shook off some water that had soaked into the bottom of his pants. The deck around him was completely scorched black, except for two areas where his wings’ shadows had gone. The blackshirts were all sprawled on the deck and clutching their eyes, their screams having given way to muted groans. They were lucky he was in his true form for only several seconds. Any longer, and their bodies would probably have been incinerated by the holy energy radiating off his angelic form.

The ship was effectively disabled now. With any luck, the other passengers could get away. But he wouldn’t be returning to the boat. They would inevitably ask questions he didn’t want to answer. Nor could he stay here. There were probably a few blackshirts below decks who hadn’t been injured, and he had to leave before they came upstairs.

“Well, make of that what you will, Your Holiness,” Wilhelm whispered, even though he knew nobody would hear him.

Wings flapped, and he was back in the temple district. He alighted on a random rooftop he picked out because it was the easiest to see in the fog. Back on solid ground, the first thing he did was sit down on the tiles and stretch out his legs.

“Man, I’m tired…” he muttered.

It was then that he sensed he wasn’t alone on this rooftop. He slowly turned around and saw someone else on the rooftop, observing the disappearing evacuation boats and the fog lights of the patrol boats. Most of the lights in the temple district had gone out, so he couldn’t make out that many details without casting a spell—and he felt too tired to do so—but he did notice what seemed like bladed gauntlets on his arms.

The other individual turned to face Wilhelm.

“Uh…” Wilhelm said. “Hey…nice evening we’re having…”

He concentrated, preparing the necessary calculations he needed for an emergency teleport just in case.