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- Herausgeber: Patrizio Corda
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
*An Italian bestseller*
1430 A.D. - Csaba has no memory of his childhood when he is given as a gift by David of Trebizond to
Constantine XI Palaiologos, the last basileus of the Eastern empire. However, a centuries-old legend is attached to his name, which will lead the emperor to take him with him, making him a pillar of the resistance against the Ottomans. And even when everything will collapse, it will be impossible for him to forget his loyalty
to the last legacy of Rome's millennial history. He will then begin a peregrination that will lead him to fight alongside
some of the most important and valiant lords of the last years of the Middle Ages.
In the hope of bringing back to life an empire born one thousand and five hundred years earlier, and now doomed to darkness.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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Patrizio Corda
Gladius. The Last Rome
Table of contents
GLADIUS. THE LAST ROMA
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CXLIII
CXLIV
CXLV
AUTHOR’S NOTES
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Literary property reserved ©2022 Patrizio Corda
GLADIUS. THE LAST ROMA
Patrizio Corda
I
The gift
Trebizond, March 1430 A.D.
David II stood with his head languidly supported by his right hand looking at his interlocutor, his raven beard unable to conceal the oblong, wispy form of his face.
A man just as young as he was, and occupying the same position as him in the respective court. Despot.
Constantine XI Palaiologos, a member of the dynasty that ruled the Eastern Roman Empire. Or rather, what was left of it.
The situation of their domains was also similar.
If the East was now limited only to the capital Constantinople and the Morea, the very area over which Constantine ruled, even the Trebizond empire in his family's hands was in no more egregious condition.
Inside, David found that they had much more in common than he thought. Starting with the enemy that was gradually encircling them, threatening to submerge everything giving way to a new era, a future in which the Muslims would overpower every people.
Sultan Murad II's Ottoman Empire.
Suddenly, that bitter realization of the reality in which they lived and would live reminded them how hollow and almost pathetic that meeting of theirs, originally convened to discuss some trade relations that Trebizond and Constantinople could strengthen.
It was Constantine himself who voiced those thoughts.
"Lying would be foolish and unworthy of us, David. The days when our empires controlled the whole world are long gone. And I won't hide from you that often, thinking about the fact that you and I might one day come to dominion, an anguish assails me that is impossible to banish. So let us take this occasion for what it is. A mere exchange of pleasantries."
This was how they differed.
Constantine already behaved as if he was emperor, acting and speaking with extraordinary transparency and dignity for a 25-year-old. Even his appearance was lying.
His thick brown beard, along with his deep but polished gaze and square face already seemed proper to a regent.
Making him, three years younger, look like a ridiculous imitator of what he already seemed convinced he was.
And for that he could not stand him.
Nevertheless he smiled at him.
His long, opulent robe rustled as he rose.
He also cast a fleeting glance at the man standing next to Constantine. His inseparable friend and adviser, George Sfranze. David read in his cerulean eyes distrust and a hint of disapproval, children of years spent at court juggling treachery and plots to get to power.
Let him continue to look at him. He didn't care about him at all.
"You worry too much, my friend," David said then, flaunting a friendly but toothy smile as he walked around the room. "The sultan is chasing a utopia, an empire so vast that it cannot but be doomed to implode, even if it saw the light of day."
"The problem is that it will see it," replied Constantine, lapidary but also disconsolate. "And to our detriment."
"We cannot resign ourselves like this!" blurted out David in an almost joking tone. "Both you and I are growing up in the shadow of our brothers, who hold the power. To indulge in such negative thoughts would mean not having confidence in their actions."
It was a dangerous hint.
Constantine caught it, and preferred to nod while sketching a smile.
David smoothed his white, well-groomed hands.
"However, I'm afraid it's time to say goodbye," he sighed. He was actually thrilled to put an end to the insulting charade.
"Yes. We need to hit the road," said Sfranze, who had been silent until then.
"But before we say goodbye, I cannot allow you to leave without receiving a gift worthy of you," David resumed. He beckoned to some of his guards, who disappeared behind a heavy purple curtain and then re-emerged from the darkness holding by the elbows a silhouette shorter and slimmer than themselves.
Constantine leaned back a little from his seat, and was interjected.
A child had been led in front of them.
He took a closer look at him. He was quite tall for his age, and with long, unkempt blond hair that did not, however, conceal a detail far more interesting than his large green eyes.
A wide, deep wound ran across his forehead.
He looked lost and confused. Surrendering to the grip of the guards, he looked ahead without caring about anything else.
"Do you want to tell me what this means?"
"As you well know, the Balkans are crawling with peoples who still elude any identity. They engage in all sorts of raids and crimes, wandering aimlessly. Well, a large herd of them was recently captured on the borders of our empire. Unfortunately, in the skirmish the child was unintentionally wounded and seems to have lost his memory ever since. He does not speak, nor does he react to any stimulus."
"And...what would I have to do with all this? Where did this poor boy come from?"
"You know the most fascinating thing about all this? When we questioned the oldest of these brigands, they called themselves Huns!" David burst out laughing boisterously. "Could you believe it? Huns!"
"But the Huns have been gone for centuries."
"Maybe they just originated in Hungary, and by tradition they prefer to associate with that ancient people," observed Sfranze.
David nodded, agreeing with him.
"But anyway, what should I make of the child?" asked Constantine again without taking his eyes off him.
He was dressed simply, but his clothes were worn.
He must have traveled a long way. He felt great pity for him.
"Now that you are entering court life, my friend, I think it is only right that you begin to thicken your following. You could make of it what you will. Scribe, bodyguard, or simply slave."
"I do not believe in slaves," replied Constantine indignantly. "It is a vile practice and one that deserves to remain in the past."
David raised his hands, amused.
At that point, Constantine looked at Sfranze. The latter answered him with an unequivocal grimace. This did not seem like a good idea to him.
But Constantine knew David, and he knew that if he did not welcome the little one the latter would make who knows what of him.
"Know also," continued the despot of Trebizond, "that we have been told that this child is also of noble birth. A sort of prince of their tribe, if you can call it that."
Sfranze's suspicious expression soon ceased to have any effect on Constantine. By now he no longer saw the little Hun, if such he really was, as a bargaining chip. But only as a poor soul to be saved above all else.
He shook his head.
"Agreed," he said with a hint in his voice.
"Just imagine, Constantine. He has lost his memory. With you he will be reborn in every way, oblivious to his wandering life and ready to embrace the splendid Byzantine culture. You can only give him a gift by welcoming him."
This he already knew. But he wanted to know more.
"And what was his name before?"
"So..." reflected David. "Oh, yes! Csaba! Her name was Csaba, if I'm not mistaken. That, too, by virtue of her noble status, if I'm not mistaken."
Determined to make that choice, Constantine nodded without turning back to Sfranze. He knew that the latter could not agree.
And not because he feared that the child might one day oust him. But because he, from the height of his experience, saw more in that gift David was giving him.
It was symbolic of the decline of those two dying empires.
And that now, they could only fall back on such exchanges to fool themselves that they were still living in those long gone days.
II
A glorious name
Surroundings of Trebizond, March 1430 A.D.
"Why did you do that?"
That tedious and uncomfortable journey had made Constantine lose track of time. So when he heard Sfranze's voice reach his ears, he turned towards him almost frightened.
He was not much older than he was, but he seemed to be.
Not yet in his thirties, Sfranze was already losing his blond hair although he persisted in keeping it long, sometimes gathered into a tail that looked like a bundle of horsehair. His early wrinkles on still milky skin made him look like an old philosopher.
"What are you talking about?"
"The baby's name. Why did you want to know? And why did you change your attitude once you found out?"
"Oh, you meant that," smiled Constantine, getting comfortable again. "I was simply curious."
Sfranze exhaled through his nostrils, like a teacher growing impatient with his pupil's inattention.
"Still think I don't know you?"
Regaining the delicate sunny disposition that had made him beloved throughout the Morea, Constantine laughed amiably.
"All right, I confess. I must admit that the moment I found out his real name, I definitely matured the choice to take that little one with us. If you want, and I know you do, I will explain in detail why."
The wave of his hand that Sfranze gave him was clear.
Let him speak.
"I would seriously offend you if I asked you if you know Attila."
"Certainly. The king of the Huns, who almost a thousand years ago made the now defunct Western Empire tremble."
"Exactly. The threat that he was to Roman civilization is still unparalleled, and only God knows how it was possible that he did not burn everything to the ground and erase us from history. But beyond that, you will also know that his sudden death caused the disintegration of the Hun empire itself."
"True. His sons were unable to pick up their father's legacy, just as it was for the Mongols once Genghis Khan died."
"However, the Mongol power states survived for quite some time, albeit fragmented and in different forms. For the Huns it was different. As if they had returned to the darkness from which they had emerged, vanishing forever. That's why I was so surprised to hear them mentioned again."
"Traditions and legends are passed down through the centuries from father to son," observed Sfranze. "There is nothing surprising about this. And now, do you want to tell me what's on your mind?"
"How impatient!" joked Constantine. "All right, now I'll tell you everything."
Sfranze relaxed, his hands joined on his lap ready to listen to what his young lord was about to say.
"Upon Attila's death, what was his went to his sons. Among them the youngest was, indeed, one named Csaba. And the life of this one is surrounded by mystery, suspended between legend and reality. You should know that one of the last historical mentions of the Huns is about a war against the Franks, when Csaba was, however, already dead. Honestly, I do not even remember where I read this. In any case, on the eve of the final battle the Franks taunted the Huns by telling them that without the late king they would have no hope. But legend has it that from the starry sky Csaba himself then reappeared, descending to earth at the head of a heavenly army thanks to which the Huns routed the enemy. Thereafter he returned several times, always to save his people. Although with time, the traces of this people were finally lost."
Sfranze looked at him without understanding.
"Don't you get it?" asked him Constantine.
"Frankly, no, my lord and friend."
"Beyond the improbability of this story, the name that child bears means something to his people, to the extent that it has survived the succession of centuries. What could be more noble than that? To that people, such a name is a symbol of heroism and loyalty. So I have come to think of one thing."
"And what?"
"Wouldn't it be nice if the Byzantines, too, one day had a hero willing to protect them?" he asked dreamily.
"If anything, that will be you in the future," said Sfranze trying to bring him back to reality, snatching him from his youthful fantasies.
But Constantine shook his head.
"Perhaps it will be so, as you say. But when in doubt, it is always better to have someone of noble birth with you. The child will grow up to all intents and purposes as an imperial citizen, and will become a true Byzantine. And God knows, Sfranze, how much we need to be as many as possible in these times."
A veil of bitterness descended on the kindly face of the Morean despot, and Sfranze searched within himself for words to comfort him.
Terrible presages hovered over them. The shadow of the sultan seemed at times almost tangible, his aims of conquest impossible to oppose.
But then Constantine came to his senses.
"I have also already found him a name," he said.
"But how? You spoke so fervently just now, and now you wish to change it for him?"
"Yes, I wish that for him. So that he can start a new life, but keeping his original dignity."
"Tell me, then."
"I think it may be a good omen," vague Constantine, looking outward. "To wish him a good life and welcome him among us, I will give him a name that recalls the ancient glory of the empire that gave birth to all of us."
Sfranze fell silent, eager to hear.
"Anicius," Constantine then said, quivering with excitement. "I will call him Anicius."
III
Rebirth
Mistra, May 1430 A.D.
Who were those people?
Why was he on that wagon, surrounded by strangers?
Feeling a multitude of thoughts stirring in his mind, now resembling a hornet's nest over which he had no control, Csaba abandoned himself on the wooden wall, laying his aching head on it and looking out. They were ascending a bristling slope, where the dense vegetation was crisscrossed by a dirt path that forced the vehicle to raise volutes of dust as it passed.
Then, the mountain revealed itself to him in all its grandeur.
It was surrounded by cypresses so tall and numerous that they looked like a precious green mantle that adhered with incredible elegance to that very mighty silhouette, daughter of the inimitable creativity of nature.
On top of it stood a palace. So large that it looked like a whole city with its colonnades, porches and surrounding walls.
Trees abounded there too, almost happy to share that space with human creations. Immense blocks of stone were laid perfectly on top of each other, going to make up the bulk of the residence of who knows what very powerful man.
Unable to resist the impulse, Csaba ran his hand over the wound that continued to burn terribly even days later. When he looked at his fingers, he found them smeared with dried blood.
He tried to remember the moment when he had gotten that cut, but he could not. It was as if the spilled blood had taken away all his memories. By now, all he had left were a few hazy images, which were repeatedly elusive, shrouded in an indistricable fog.
But among them were not the moments immediately preceding that journey he had been forced to take.
Instead, before his eyes were wind-swept grasslands, and mountain ranges far higher than the one he was admiring. Along with that vision was the sound of a thousand and more horses galloping together, heading who knows where.
The exhaustion of his small body also reminded him of something else.
Hunger.
The same hunger that had perhaps brought him, along with those who wandered with him, to that dark place where his whole life had changed.
A life of which he no longer remembered anything.
There was only the present.
And it was scary, facing that with nothing left behind. Not a happy memory to cling to before falling asleep, not the slightest clue that could help him rediscover who he had been. He was simply there in that moment.
Alone, stripped of everything.
And therefore vulnerable.
Yet, he had been treated well until that moment.
No one had used violence on him, nor had he been denied water and food. A respectful indifference seemed to animate those well-dressed people who had taken care of him until then.
But why?
His incessant thinking confronted him with a number of doubts he had never contemplated until that day.
He realized that he did not even know in what language he was formulating that tormenting dialogue with himself.
His feeling of being lost sharpened, to the point of making him tremble as he clutched himself in his own arms.
He again sensed an intense burning sensation on his forehead.
But he also realized that this, while annoying, was definitely fading from when he had woken up in a bloodbath, unable even to stand.
It would pass.
That was his only comfort.
Whatever experience he was going through, or was about to go through, would pass.
And with it, the soul's suffering, confusion and fear would at first fade and then vanish completely when he was able to immerse himself in reality again.
A new and unseen dimension, as well as that mountain so beautiful and fascinating if also new and therefore awe-inspiring.
It was like that.
It had to be.
His wound would heal first, and it would be followed by the healing of his spirit, with the acquisition of a new self-awareness. He would understand who he was, where he was.
What awaited him.
Though with the mind of a child, Csaba understood.
Something had ended, and was about to give way to something else.
He would have to start again, day after day.
And then that total absence of memories would turn into an opportunity to find happiness again, even if he felt nothing now.
Maybe, tomorrow he would start smiling again.
Just like that noble gentleman who, a few days earlier, had held his hands and spoken incomprehensible words to him.
But which, even if only for a moment, had made him feel alive again.
IV
Clouds
Trebizond, December 1431 A.D.
"Years may pass, but the Black Sea is still a beautiful sight. Even in a storm."
It was a statement of fact. David knew it. But then again, whenever he was alone with his brother John, the emperor, he had sensed sharply how different they were.
And since the latter had ascended to the throne, effectively making him his subject as well as his brother, that uncomfortable feeling had deepened.
John smoothed his unkempt brown beard, letting the wind mess up his hair and float his robe, which garroted all around him like a flag.
From the top of Trebizond's walls they stood watching the darker-than-usual sea as swollen clouds of rain flowed over it. Waves loaded with foam were rising on the horizon and then following each other unceasingly, ready to hit the coast.
Yes, a storm was looming.
But it was not the only one that seemed imminent.
"We have but a few thousand soldiers, guarding these walls we believe unshakable," John said suddenly, keeping his gaze fixed toward the horizon.
David turned sharply, trying to understand the origin of his sudden outburst.
John sensed her curiosity. But he did not turn away.
"We must stop taking refuge in reassuring lies and groundless conjectures, my brother. The truth is that we too, like Constantinople, are surrounded. I have the impression that until now we have survived only because other factors have taken over, distracting the Ottomans from their real goal."
Those were harsh words, which had the effect of knocking out even David's effervescent personality, who often appealed to his temper to see reality through different eyes.
Indeed it was true. The only things that had prevented the Ottomans from taking Constantinople but also Trebizond from them had been Tamerlane's interference and the internal civil war that had followed. But now, Murad had no one standing in his way. Perhaps, the decisive moment was really coming. For all of them.
"Will Murad be capable of so much?" he asked.
"He always has been, as well as those who came before him. Simply, as I told you, it was coincidences that protected us when we could not have done it ourselves. And the same goes for Constantinople, which long ago managed to drive the threat out of the capital but at the cost of losing Thessalonica, thus ending up even more isolated."
The emperor's mood was bad.
And his sentences confirmed it.
David felt compelled, even as a brother, to hearten him.
The only idea he came up with was to downplay.
"If God really loves us, he will help us. Peace and salvation will come, and who knows, maybe that will happen with the union of the two churches," he ironized. He then became serious, analyzing it.
"Besides, this is the only scenario in which the West could agree to come to Constantinople's rescue and thus ours as well."
John was in no mood for joking or smiling, however.
"Catholic and Orthodox churches will never be able to be one," he replied gloomily. "Even if an attempt was made, it would be the people themselves who would rise up in outrage. It would be humiliating, moreover, for the Palaiologos to see themselves forced to bow their heads to such an extent in order to receive protection. Although, using logic, it would be the wisest thing to do."
He was right, David thought.
Believing he was lifting his spirits, he had done nothing but go along with her cold but truthful dissertation, which had only had the effect of making his joke seem silly.
And immature.
A despot such as he was should never have held such an attitude. He was ashamed of himself.
Silence descended again between them.
And if David lingered in self-loathing, with the exasperation typical of young men who already aspire to be men, John had made his own brother the object of his thoughts.
Agitation gripped him, if he only imagined that in the future Trebizond might end up in David's hands. And not because of his age. He found him infinitely childish, at the threshold of stupidity.
And that pitiful attempt to amuse him had been yet another proof of that. Perhaps making him a despot at such a green age had been a mistake.
It was not possible for him to see the essence of things and events around him, victim as he was of his superficiality.
The title he bore was almost a game to him.
As if, in its current state, the despotate counted for anything.
The reality was quite different, and soon David would realize it, too. Something terrible was upon them.
And the time they were passing, close but distant, and would continue to spend was not to him the bearer of hope or positive change.
If he looked at tomorrow, John saw only one thing.
Clouds, and the quiet uncertainty that precedes the irreparable.
Just like the spectacle they were admiring, standing on the walls of Trebizond.
V
Fatherly affection
Constantinople, June 1432 A.D.
It was a wonderful summer day.
And knowing Constantine's love for the beautiful season in Constantinople, it was not at all difficult for Sfranze to understand why the latter was so enthusiastic about walking together with him through the gardens of the Blachernes Palace, the imperial residence.
What continued to enchant him, however, was the accessibility of his lord. Not one of the servants swarming busily through the manicured green spaces had been ignored.
Each had received a polite greeting from Constantine.
For, as the young despot of the Morea used to say, every Byzantine was worthy and indispensable to the cause.
Everyone had to feel appreciated, part of something immense. It was as if inside himself Constantine perceived the empire as something boundless, however much he was aware that the situation was quite different.
They were living the last years of a dying dominion.
Perhaps for that very reason he hoped for greater cohesion between the royal family and the subjects, starting from the court.
One day, they would all fight together to protect their future. And then the bond he so cherished with each person with whom he crossed his gaze would prove decisive, infusing everyone with unhoped-for energy.
It was these thoughts, perhaps naïve but incredibly noble, that made Sfranze feel so proud to stand alongside a man of such a pure spirit, still extraneous to the lusts that assailed people who obtained or gravitated around power.
Wouldn't it have been wonderful if he had remained like this forever?
His hope was that Constantine, of all his own brothers, would one day come to wear the purple. And it was not certain that this would actually happen.
"With such a pleasant day," said Sfranze as he contemplated a flock of birds soaring from a cypress tree, "even the servants are working harder than usual."
Constantine nodded, with his arms behind his back.
"True, although I don't like them being called servants. Rather, humble and faithful collaborators."
That clarification of his reminded Sfranze of his lord's harsh reaction before David of Trebizond's offer, when the latter had suggested that he make the child he had given him as a gift his own slave.
And, as if by a mocking twist of fate, his gaze rested precisely on a tree in the shade of which stood little Anicius.
It was impossible for them to know what his real age was, but at a rough guess he must have been ten years old despite a considerably more athletic physique than his peers.
These played freely on the adjacent lawn, chasing each other and filling the air with their crystalline laughter.
All of them, minus Anicius.
It was a very sad sight.
Although he had always been treated with dignity, the latter had never been able to integrate. Perhaps, even he would not have known how. He kept his back resting against the sturdy trunk, his knees to his chest belted by his clasped hands. He did not swing, nor did he try to become conscious with what was around him.
He did not pluck blades of grass, did not hold a twig.
Nothing.
He looked ahead, as if enclosed in his own world. His gaze lost in the void, perhaps searching vainly for lost memories.
The long fringe of gold-colored hair covered the scar that disfigured his forehead, the only memory of an unknown past.
Sfranze knew that scene would have grieved Constantine immensely, eventually weighing him down.
He would have blamed himself for the child's unhappy existence. He therefore tried to prevent him from noticing it.
"Basileus John has hence embarked on his diplomatic mission. He seems quite determined, this time, to find allies in the West in order to counter the possible offensive brought by Sultan Murad," he said in one breath, mentally recalling the most recent events.
But he soon realized that Constantine had noticed Anicius.
And he saw in his eyes great displeasure.
The heartbreaking loneliness of the little one had moved him to compassion.
He had no one, and he was incapable of caring for himself just as he did not seem strong enough to cope with that world into which he had not asked to be taken.
His was a state of abandonment, Constantine thought, that was paradoxically comparable to that of the Eastern empire itself. The empire that his mother, the basilissa Helena Dragases, had always predicted would one day be his.
And he would have wanted to protect it, his empire, just as he would have wanted to defend Anicius from any threat.
Sfranze realized that he no longer listened to him now.
And he wondered why, given his good nature, Constantine had not yet had children. He would have been a great father.
They remained like this, motionless, watching Anicius' suffering.
Until, suddenly, Constantine turned toward him.
He read determination in his eyes.
And a desire to make it right.
The latter moved a few steps forward, leaving him behind.
But then he stopped, turning again.
"Make sure the child is assigned a Greek teacher, Sfranze," he said without the slightest uncertainty.
Then, he resumed walking.
VI
News
Constantinople, February 1435 A.D.
Had his brother gone mad?
Curving over the letter, Constantine forced himself to read it again more carefully. He must have misunderstood.
But after a few seconds, he realized bitterly that it was all true.
So basileus John had decided to humiliate himself for good, turning to a last resort in order to guarantee the empire a minimal defense against the expansionist aims of Murad's Ottomans. His journey, initially described as an ambitious political mission, had soon turned into a fruitless wandering, punctuated by the lapidary sound of doors being constantly shut in his face.
No one was willing to compromise for Constantinople.
The Eastern Empire was now seen by all as close to disappearing, submerged and eaten up by the sultan's hordes that were about to erase the last remaining traces of Romanity in the world.
After all, even the point of view of those who had denied themselves was understandable. Why risk, drawing the antagonism of the all-powerful Murad, by agreeing to rescue a kingdom that had nothing left to offer? What negotiation could have possibly arisen if there was nothing on their side to give in return?
Nevertheless, John had refused to return to the Bosphorus empty-handed. And after long sleepless nights, as he had written to them, he had therefore resigned himself to bow his head, to prostrate himself before the only power that could have shown the slightest interest in dealing with them. Obviously, for their own benefit.
The Church.
What had never been realized, and had long been labeled as a mere utopia, would become reality.
The basileus and the pope would come to an agreement, finally creating a single Church in which Catholicism and Orthodoxy would converge in exchange for much-needed military aid to Constantinople.
What a disgrace!
Constantine took his head in his hands.
What would people think of that?
He realized that that question was useless, since the news he had received had spread just as quickly through the city.
And the people, strongly attached to their religious beliefs, had immediately become enraged by that choice, which for them was a real humiliation.
Soon the first riots would start, and it would be up to him and his mother, in John's absence, to calm the waters.
But he did not feel like placing too much blame on his brother.
His was a foolish choice, but it was also the only one he had been granted.
The miracle had happened once before. And it was not certain that in the future Theodosius' massive walls that protected Constantinople would hold up against the fury of the Ottomans.
One could not overcome a siege by relying on luck alone.
Men, and weapons, were needed.
And the Eastern Empire had none of these.
From bewilderment, he went on to feel compassion for John.
To agree to kneel before the Pope as a common supplicant must have hurt him deeply.
It was not his fault that he had been forced to do this.
So, soon they would receive reinforcements.
But he could not see the slightest positivity in this.
He therefore put the letter away, sighing soundly.
He had pondered for a long time, with such intensity that his temples had begun to tingle causing him great discomfort.
So much had been his concentration that he had ended up completely abstracting himself from reality, ignoring even the fact that he was not alone in the room.
Someone was standing there, head bowed, waiting for his orders.
Finally free of his thoughts, Constantine looked distractedly at that silhouette.
He forced himself not to show too much distress. There would be time to give vent to his emotions, presumably in private conversation with his mother.
He therefore lifted a hand, sketching a smile to bid farewell to the servant who had brought him the missive.
"You may go."
"Thank you, sir," replied the latter in a stunted, almost guttural Greek. But in a boy's voice.
Hearing this, Constantine immediately lifted his head.
He recognized the blond hair, kept short except for the long fringe that covered the forehead. And not haphazardly.
Anicius.
Constantine mirrored his iridescent eyes, and took a better look at him.
He had not seen him in a long time. He had grown so much, not only in height but also in musculature. Yet his face was still fresh and soft. Certainly more vital than how he remembered it.
So the lessons he had been taking had been worth something.
At last that boy of mysterious origins was interacting with the world again.
With a nod, Constantine let Anicius walk away, noting his obvious embarrassment.
But when the latter disappeared, he could not help but feel relieved.
His commitments had kept him away, but he had never forgotten. It was a great thing that the latter was managing to find the strength to live again, even if in a foreign reality.
That surprise had the power to instantly make his day better.
Settling down more comfortably, Constantine smiled.
And looking at the window, from which he could see Constantinople unfold below him, he felt a renewed confidence.
At least in children, the light endured.
And by following it, hoping for a better future could be less arduous and painful.
VII
The talent
Constantinople, April 1435 A.D.
He was not used to smile.
Yet, in that instant, it came naturally to him. And it was like a wonderful awakening. Anicius felt something unlock inside him, breaking the chains of pain that had plagued him for a very long time. It was as if a previously dormant energy had been released, ready to burst forth and shine like never before spreading from his chest to the outside.
He was happy.
What surprised him the most was that he was rediscovering that feeling by doing what he had refused to do ever since he arrived in that city so beautiful but felt foreign.
Interacting with others, having fun.
Like the little boy he was.
He had accepted the invitation of Sophia and Emanuel, the children of two court servants, with relative uncertainty. Why had they been interested in him?
No one ever had.
Except for the nobleman who had taken him in, and whom he had then seen only a few times. He remembered everyone saying great things about him.
But he could not consider him a friend, at most a benefactor.
Those two blond children like him, on the other hand, seemed genuinely delighted to enjoy his company.
He saw them chasing each other around the small room where they were gathered to eat, under the sweet and condescending gaze of their parents.
Their father took care of the horses of the imperial guard, while their mother was in charge of keeping their uniforms impeccable at all times. He felt grateful toward them as well.
"Come on, Anicius! Play with us!" Sofia called him back in a ringing voice, smiling at him and showing her small white teeth.
She had a conspicuous gap between her incisors, but instead of making her unpleasant to the eye, it gave her a friendly look. Interdicted, Anicius turned toward the two adults. He knew little about good behavior, but he was sure he had to ask their permission to move freely about their home.
Both, as soon as they met his intimidated gaze, nodded without another word. Permission granted.
He smiled again.
And again he was stunned.
The sadness and fear were fading every time he did it. He told himself he would need to do it more often.
With short, indecisive steps he moved toward Sophia, who, however, quickly escaped by hiding behind one of the humble pieces of furniture that made that home all in all respectable.
"You have to find us!" suggested Emanuel, much slimmer and shorter than him. Anicius looked at him as if inebriated.
"Meaning?" he asked, trying to speak with a pronunciation that wouldn't aggravate his already deep tone despite his young age.
"We will hide, and in the meantime you will count with your eyes closed," Sophia said as she returned to the open, her fists on her hips. "After the count, you can come and find us! But it will be very difficult for you, since we are unbeatable at this game!"
A little confused, he merely nodded.
"Now go to the other room, and count," Emanuel did. "But be sure to keep your eyes closed, otherwise it doesn't count!" she admonished him.
Nodding again, Anicius put his head against the wall in the next room. He counted for an indefinite time, eyes closed, hearing the laughter and cackling of his new friends.
"Now you can!" called Sophia, her voice muffled and coming from who knew where.
Scratching his head, Anicius returned to the dining room. His parents were still there, watching him curiously and amused.
He looked around. The furniture was almost all leaning against the walls.
They could not be behind them, nor inside of them. They were too big to be able to.
Nor could they have passed him while he was counting.
He would surely have noticed.
But then, where were they?
He looked above himself, and then at his feet. And he realized that the beautiful solid wood table, perhaps the most valuable object in the entire house, was covered by a somewhat old but exquisitely crafted flap of cloth that reached to the floor.
Once again, he smiled.
They could only be there.
Feeling his chest tingle with excitement, he slipped under it.
And in the darkness, he did what seemed most normal to him.
"Hey, what the...watch out!"
Upon hearing that call, Anicius relieved himself completely. And he met the stunned gaze of the children's father, still seated.
But with no longer a table in front of him.
And that was because he was the one who had lifted it without the slightest effort, with still all the dishes and crockery on top of it.
A hallucinating test of strength for a boy of his age, considering that piece of furniture must have been so heavy.
Sophia and Emanuel were astonished for a moment, then stood up and began to applaud him, jumping around him.
Anicius looked around mortified but also pleased.
"But how did he do it?" the mother of the little ones asked her husband.
"I...have no idea. It would take at least two men to lift that table."
Without saying anything, Anicius put the table back where it was, kneeling down and then emerging from underneath. A strange quiet descended into the room, and feeling embarrassed he returned to his seat with his head bowed.
He had always known he was different from other children, so lost in chasing his past that he could not enjoy the present.
But only now that he was facing the reality, he was beginning to really discover something about himself.
Realizing, at that very moment, that he was truly different from any of his peers.
Without, however, understanding whether this could be a good thing or not.
VIII
Shadows over the Bosphorus
Constantinople, November 1435 A.D.
"I share your fears, my son. But we also have to think as people of power that we are, and not as ordinary people. And that is why I can only agree with John in what he decided to do. Neither your brother nor we have the slightest fault for the situation that has arisen. The basileus did the only possible thing, and he made this decision putting aside his pride and good name, preferring to think first of the safety of his subjects."
The calm words of his mother, the basilissa Helena Dragases, gave Constantine a little peace of mind. And they also made him feel guilty for all the times that, speaking to himself, he had raged at his brother John for the choice he had made that would subject the Eastern Empire to unprecedented humiliation.
It still did not seem real to him.
The emperor on his knees before the Pope, ready to trade the faith of his people in order to guarantee him a chance of survival. But would it really have value, that hypothetical future life, without the right to profess one's beliefs anymore?
What was the point of living if in order to do so one gave up one's identity, stripping oneself of the most important thing?
He stayed silent for a moment.
Then, thoughtfully, he looked into his mother's eyes.
Although she was over sixty years old, she was still a beautiful woman. There was not a single wrinkle that outraged her rosy skin, and her hair was still thick and delicate, a thousand or more golden strands gathered into a perfect tail. Yet her look also suggested a determined personality, tempered by a life dedicated to being a wife and mother of emperors.
No other woman could have filled that role with the same dignity as she did.
Helen adjusted the sleeves of her robe, in gold and black diamond patterns, waiting for Constantine to say something.
"Now we will have to deal with the fury of the people, even before the Murad attack we so fear."
"True. It is our task, being the most important personalities now that the basileus is absent, to ensure peace and serenity within the walls of Constantinople. He will take care of the rest."
Constantine nodded.
But he was not convinced at all.
The fury of the people would have been irrepressible. And he was certain that they would rather die in war than bow their heads helplessly before the head of the Church of Rome.
It was a matter of principle, and self-love.
He felt the need for reassurance, and sought it again in his mother's face.
"But what future will it be, ours?"
The basilissa sighed, looking down.
Even a woman like her, who had seen everything in her life, seemed to suffer the weight of those tragic circumstances.
She lingered a little longer, searching for the right words.
Or perhaps, judging by her stalling, those that might prove less painful. She seemed to give up on them.
"I wish I knew, Constantine. But even my experience does not allow me to predict it. May I tell you what I really think, wishing not to upset your young soul?"
"Of course, mother."
"For the first time in my life, I fear the inescapable. The empire has been so many times close to collapsing during its existence. But never have we contemplated the end so closely. It doesn't really seem possible for us to rise again this time."
Helena's frankness left Constantine speechless.
The very person to whom he had turned to regain hope was ending his last enthusiasms.
"We have survived for over a thousand years our twin empire, the one that was the West. And that in itself is incredible. But now that I truly realize what is about to happen, I find with dread that history seems destined to repeat itself, cyclically, and for everyone. Even for us. The West, in its time, perished at the hands of the barbarians who infested it without meeting any resistance. And that situation seems ready to recur now, destined to change forever the world we have known."
Upset by that bitter confession, Constantine paradoxically found the inspiration to ironize about it.
And to think that he himself years ago had welcomed a small fugitive to court, allegedly a descendant of those same barbarians of whom Helen spoke.
But it was not these that froze the blood in their veins.
It was Murad's Ottomans, the knights of the Antichrist about to overwhelm the last stronghold of Romanity.
Erasing it forever.
In light of the immense threat hanging over their heads, he resolved to absolve his brother John of any responsibility. Anyone in his place would have done the same.
They were helpless and isolated.
Sacrificial victims.
Remaining silent before his mother, he asked himself what he would ever do if he found himself in that situation.
And if by chance, in the future it would be his turn to take the reins of that empire with such an uncertain future.
He preferred not to give himself an answer.
Because probably, that day would never come.
IX
Instinct
Constantinople, July 1436 A.D.
The heart of the Holy City.
This was the Mese Street, although for Anicius it would have been more appropriate to call it the artery of the capital, the point from which it was possible to reach any attraction of the place that with time seemed to him more and more magical. Especially when the sun was shining high in the sky, covering Saint Sophia and all the other wonderful points of interest that surrounded it with gold. The Hippodrome, the Forum of Constantine and the Forum of Theodosius, just to name the most well-known among them.
But that day it was possible to distinctly sense the tension in the air, even on that street usually buzzing and full of life.
No one, not even a servant like him had been unaware of what had happened at an incredible distance from the Bosphorus, and which would soon have terrible repercussions for all of them.
For the Byzantines' last shred of pride had been sold out, in the course of a vile and sordid negotiation in which the basileus John had found himself so ill-favored that he had promised the Pope the union of the Churches-and thus the renunciation of his people to the Orthodox creed-in exchange for protection from the Ottomans.
Anicius had initially struggled to understand the outrage of the people around him. From his own, pared-down and innocent point of view, John had done the sensible thing.
But he could not understand.
A thousand plus years of glorious history could not be erased like this, moreover irrevocably sanctioning the decline of the Eastern Empire, now reduced to begging in order to survive.
He came from other places, obscure even to himself.
Perhaps, had he been born among them, he would have been just as furious.
He had been sent there to buy supplies to supply the canteen of the imperial guard. How many times had he paused to admire those mighty yet elegant men in their official vestments! One day, it would have been great to be able to join them and faithfully serve the empire.
He lingered among some of the stalls where merchants were displaying an abundance of vegetables, meats and spices. But even on their faces, resentment and bitterness were evident.
He tried to smile shyly at the woman standing in front of him on the other side of the stall. But the latter did not deign him a glance. At first Anicius was disappointed at her vain attempt at socializing, but then he saw her turn her eyes away.
With a grimace of sheer terror.
Suddenly all the merchants rushed, cackling for no apparent reason, to collect their goods and get to safety.
Without having the slightest idea why these were acting the way they were, Anicius turned around recoiling his long blond hair.
And he finally saw the cause of that general hysteria.
From a side street, like an overflowing river, dozens and dozens of people from the most diverse walks of life emerged. There were wretches, barefoot and wearing few rags, but also tradesmen with their families in tow and even a few men who appeared to be of noble extraction. They all ran like madmen, brandishing whatever came their way. They were hurling insults, profanity and infamy at someone. But who?
Feeling his heart leap into his throat, Anicius thought about what to do to escape the fury of those lunatics who threatened to destroy anything in front of them. He knew very well what the riot was about. The union of the Churches.
It had happened before that armed men had had to quell protests, but this was the first time he had seen one live.
He moved a few side steps to his right, noticing that not far away was a store selling ancient books and scrolls.
The owner was so engrossed in taking in the shelves filled with volumes that he did not notice a silhouette hurling itself frantically into the premises. However, attracting the attention of the troublemakers. Their shouts intensified, and Anicius realized that he must be one of the potential targets.
He paused for a moment before entering in his turn. It seemed to him that he had seen him before. The longish silhouette, the pale, stern face, the close-cropped hair....
Then he remembered.
He lived for a second time that remote day in Trebizond, when his life had been placed in Constantine's hands.
The man he had just seen was the same man who had stood by the despot as he accepted him as a gift.
So, he was a loyal servant of the Palaiologos dynasty.
In a cold sweat, Anicius entered the store almost stumbling, holding on to the confusingly stacked goods and looking around. Thunderous footsteps resounded around him, crashing on the wooden floor with the roar of a waterfall.
"Please, not here!" pleaded the bookseller. "This is all I own!"
"There it is! It's there!" shouted a young man, among the most exaggerated.
With a rusty hoe he pointed to the man who had uselessly hidden behind a chest. The latter stepped back with his eyes wide, soon ending up back against the wall.
"Filthy pig!" they apostrophized him.
"The worthy servant of a dynasty of criminals!"
Those insults infuriated Anicius.
He, who owed the dynasty the life he was finally learning to appreciate, could not bear to have the good name of the imperial family smeared with such impunity.
Nor could that noble man pay by spilling his own blood for faults not his own.
He felt fear for himself as well. But something erupted in him, far stronger. A desire to repay himself. And perhaps even a sense of duty.
He did not even realize that he had taken to running.
X
Gratitude
Constantinople, July 1436 A.D.
Would it really have ended like this?
Was he going to serve the punishment for the emperor's recklessness after deciding to devote his life to serving the dynasty?
Sfranze tried to swallow, but he felt a knot clogging his throat and making it difficult to breathe. He imagined he was flushed with agitation, though he had never seen himself of any other wax than the chronically pale one that had always distinguished him.
With arms outstretched, he searched for a foothold as that shapeless mass of ordinary citizens transformed into executioners slowly approached, relishing their futile revenge.
He found nothing but books, dropping them ruefully to the ground and raising small clouds of dust.
"The faithful slave of the Palaiologoss," growled a middle-aged man, a battered blade in his hand. "Do you now think it was really worth it to humiliate the people in this way?"
But Sfranze was too terrified to answer.
Were it up to him, he would have refused to accept the merger of the churches. He had first brought to the dynasty's attention the dangers behind such a decision.
And now, he would be the first victim of the people's wrath.
A mocking fate he felt he did not deserve.
A few steps now separated him from his executioners.
He would have liked to pray, to appeal to the God who had become a dispute in the empire and in whose name he would be slaughtered.
He failed to do so.
Feeling his legs give way, he crouched down in an almost pitiful manner.
Before he closed his eyes, however, a movement of air caught his attention.
He saw a shadow, like that of a wild animal, make a portentous leap and grapple with the very man who had spoken to him moments before. A light suddenly flashed.
The edge of the same blade that should have torn his flesh apart.
Then a dry, crash-like sound overpowered the chaos that had come to the workshop.
And when it was over, cries of dismay rose into the air.
The gunman lay on the ground, still alive but obviously dazed. And with his arm bent unnaturally, unquestionably fractured. Such was his astonishment that he had not even cried out in pain.
But the shadow had not finished its work.
This one quickly turned around, just enough time to notice that other attackers were preparing to attack him in order to get at the intended target.
Yet, none of these managed to get the better of him.
Two sturdy young men, perhaps twins, ended up on the ground in the blink of an eye, annihilated by the tremendous punches they received.
And even a woman who had tried to hit him from behind with a brick had to surrender to his might.
Within a few convulsive moments more and more rioters came to terms with that force of nature, that being that appeared out of nowhere to protect him. It seemed to have been born to fight.
He moved without making the slightest sound, the thuds of his opponents who fell unconscious the only testimonies to his indescribable strength.
One old man, however, was cunning enough to evade his attention. Slipping slowly behind him, he came up to Sfranze appearing to his right.
"For a moment you thought you were saving yourself, minister," muttered the latter. His mouth was toothless, and his bald head was surrounded by a few greasy hairs stuck to his temples.
Trembling, Sfranze looked at him with wide eyes.
But then an arm, powerful and vigorous, came between him and the latest threat. A dagger thrust into the wall with a snap, standing as a barrier between him and the would-be assassin.
Then another lightning-fast, barely perceptible snap.
And the old man also collapsed soundly to the ground.
The groans of his companions sanctioned their rancorous retreat.
When the bookstore was cleared of ill-intentioned Sfranze let himself go to the floor, visibly shaken.
He could not believe it. He had been saved by a miracle.
But thanks to whom?
"Forgive my impetuosity, Sir. I hope you are well," said a deep voice, but one that betrayed a still young age.
Opening his eyes again, Sfranze was stunned.
A boy with very blond hair, tall and muscular, was kneeling in front of him with his right hand over his heart.
He sought his gaze, and was mirrored in two large green eyes surmounted by a fringe of golden threads. Eyes filled with a gentleness that left him dumbfounded, considering the ferocity with which the boy had fought until moments before.
And solely to defend him.
With outstretched hand, Sfranze asked him for help to rise.
Then he lingered again, observing him better.
He knew him well.
He could never forget that day.
Still, it was unbelievable that he, of all people, had snatched him away from a horrible execution in public.
He did not know what to say.
He was grateful, he felt indebted. But he was still scared to death.
The boy barely smiled at him. A nod of humanity of which he would never have believed him capable, but which made him feel even more esteem for him.
It was then that Sfranze suddenly recovered his composure.
He laid his hand on his savior's shoulder.
"Follow me," was all he could say.
XI
Forever
Constantinople, July 1436 A.D.
"Lift your head, Anicius. Only those with guilt and regret do not have the courage to look into the eyes of those talking to them. And as far as I am concerned, you have only merit."
With lips trembling with emotion, Anicius obeyed.
And he crossed Constantine Palaiologos' compressed but also good gaze. The despot of Morea was not covered in purple; that honor still belonged to his brother John.
But such was his majesty, seated on the throne that was his until the basileus would return, that he seemed to see him already intent on ruling the empire.
For that was his destiny. He was certain of it.
The soft lights of the candelabra, in that great hall concealed from outside light by the heavy draperies, gave his seat even more vivid golden hues, giving it an almost surreal aura.
But it was really happening.
He was not dreaming.
Bewildered, Anicius looked around. And he found George Sfranze beside him, his hands behind his back and a smile sketched under his shaggy beard. It was he who had rushed him to the Blachern Palace after he had rescued him from the fury of civilians.
And in no time at all, from wandering around looking for supplies he had found himself facing the most powerful man in the entire empire.
He had to say something, however.
Constantine had addressed him, after all.
"Being here before you honors me, my lord," he said in an uncertain voice, realizing he could not stand still.
It was all so similar to that distant day when Constantine himself had taken him in.
Something incredibly important was about to happen.
But what?
"I remembered you as little more than a child, and now here you are. Almost a man. You were shy and frightened then, very introverted. But it was obvious, given the circumstances. What I hear in your words, however, is not shyness. Not anymore. It is humility, a rare and most precious gift that seems to be lost these days, even among the most honorable men."
That digression by Constantine was not accidental.
In fact, there were strong tensions among his own family. More than one among his brothers had become indignant at John's wandering around seeking support for the empire, assuming that he could handle power better than he could.
But Anicius could not see that far.
He was too shaken and excited, disbelieving to the point of feeling an irrational worry stirring in him.
But Sfranze had to be grateful to him for rescuing him...there could be no extremes for anything negative.
He struggled to remain lucid.
"Did you know Sfranze, Anicius?" asked Constantine, rising and descending until he was next to him, who was on one knee.
"Certainly," nodded Anicius, turning right toward Sfranze.
The latter had now become more serious.
Was this a bad sign?
"Mine is a rhetorical question. Of course, you know him. He was with me when I received you as a gift from David of Trebizond. What I mean is, do you have any idea who the man next to you really is, and his importance?"
That question seemed like a trap to him.
Undoubtedly, Sfranze was a powerful man if he was part of the royal court. But he could not really give an exact answer.
Not knowing what to do, and feeling himself a victim of agitation, he shook his head. Hoping he had not made a terrible mistake.
But Constantine smiled.
"George Sfranze, for me, is everything. He is my most trusted adviser, a minister like there are no more now, but above all he is a loyal and sincere friend. And that is his most important attribute. Now get up."
Anicius sprang to his feet. He forced himself to breathe deeply as his legs trembled.
"Whoever saves Sfranze, saves me too. The deed you have done, perhaps unknowingly, is of incalculable value. But one thing I know: your courage is worthy of the highest honors."
Sfranze himself, faced with that declaration of affection, indulged in a broad smile bringing his hand to his heart.
"My friend and lord," said the latter, "I will never find the words to thank you for your affection and esteem. Therefore I will speak only to pay homage to our young friend, who even before he was in body proved himself a man in spirit. With ardor worthy of the ancients, he fought a number of ill-intentioned men in order to save my life while risking his own. I beg you, therefore, to reward his loyalty. From me as well."
Anicius looked at him dumbfounded.
The man had spoken like that, and in his favor?
He had never heard anyone speak good words for him.
He had no idea how he should feel about it.
For a little while, the echoes of Constantine's footsteps were the only sounds to spread through the air.
The despot wandered thoughtfully around them, as if looking for the perfect sentence to say. Then he stopped.
And he looked straight into Anicius' eyes.
"Are you loyal to the dynasty?" he asked him point blank.
There was an indefinable light in his eyes.
It could have been bonhomie, but also sternness.
In the face of all those signs so difficult to interpret, Anicius simply decided to follow his instinct.
So he bowed again.
"Yes, my lord."
"And do you think you will continue to be?"
"Always. You have saved me, and given me the opportunity to live in this wonderful city. I have only tried to repay you."
He marveled at the fluency of her speech.
The lessons then had really paid off.
At that point, Constantine stopped staring at him and focused on Sfranze. Anicius understood immediately. They were talking to each other with their eyes.
The nod the minister gave him in response was proof of their agreement on what was to come.
"In this complicated world we need loyal people, ready to give their lives for the empire and the dynasty that rules it. And I would be happy, Anicius, to be able to count on you as well."
The latter, widening his eyes, faltered.
"Me? How can I be useful to you, my lord?"
"From tomorrow you will officially be part of the imperial guard," replied Constantine, laying a hand on his shoulder.
He feared he would faint.
In one day, he was about to go from serving the chosen body that protected the basileus and his family to literally being part of it.
He would wear the armor he had been forced to polish, ride those same marvelous steeds, fight to the death for the survival of the dynasty that had given him a second life. No, it was not fantasy. Constantine was there before him.
And he had said just that.
Silent tears streaked his face.
"I will arrange for you to be conferred accommodation here immediately. But you, in return, promise me one thing."
"Anything," sobbed Anicius, collapsing to the ground. "Anything."
