Fallen Eagle

Chapter 82: A Language He Understood

The days since the battle had been grey in more ways than one. Back when he had been a shepherd, dreaming of running off to the front and making a name for himself, Christos had imagined the aftermath of victory would taste sweeter than the finest wine. He had pictured laughter and pride - a dullness to the pain he had felt every day living under his pops.That bloody ambush had been one such victory. A miraculous one, even.

Yet all Christos felt when he thought of it was a deep-set ache that wouldn’t leave him.

It was the second impossible upset he had lived through, and both times the triumph around him had only sharpened the bitterness in his own chest. Men spoke of glory as if it were something pure. They never spoke enough of the corpses that paved the road to it.

, he thought sourly, .

He wiped himself with the damp cloth rag every soldier had been issued for the purpose, then hauled his trousers back up, fingers fumbling for a moment with the cord at his waist. The pit stank like every foul thing in creation had been left to rot together beneath the planks. He climbed out of it with a grimace and headed for the water basins set along the path back to the camp proper.

A line of men stood there washing their hands in stale water that blessedly got changed thrice a day. Christos grabbed a block of lye and joined them in silence.

Somewhere along the march, and then the battle after it, he had come to understand something he used to be too young and stupid to see. Behind every great victory, every tale worth telling, there was always a mound of dead men. Leonidas. Agapios. Georgios. And countless others. They had given their lives for the Principality, and all they had earned for that devotion was a violent death and a hurried prayer over cooling bodies.

Christos stopped scrubbing when he realised he was crushing the lye block into fine dust.

He forced his hand to loosen and drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Trying to force the anger he felt simmer within him ease just a little.

These days, even that did little.

As he made his way back, his gaze kept dragging toward the great army in the distance, spread across the land beyond them like some iron stain that refused to fade. Bigger than the one they had already bled to stop. Better armed too. Christos wondered what Leonidas would have said if he knew his death had only bought them the right to face an even greater foe. Would he have cursed God? Raged at the world for its cruelty? Or just laughed and welcomed the challenge anyway?

Christos knew what he would have done if it had been him lying dead on that hill.

“Christos.”

The voice yanked him from the dark turn of his thoughts.

Kratos stood nearby, looking as sullen as he had on the day they first met. But there was something heavier in it now. His eyes sat more hollow in his face, and his usual scowl seemed carved deeper, as if grief had settled into the boy’s bones and decided to stay. He was still young, younger even than Christos by a fair bit, but war had a way of reaching into boys and dragging men out of them by force.

“The Sergeant’s callin’ for us,” Kratos said curtly. His country accent clung stubbornly to the words, as it always did.

He looked as though he wanted to add something else. But whatever thought had risen inside him was swallowed before it reached his tongue. He and Christos had barely spoken since the battle, despite being thrown together as usual. Some silences came from comfort. This one did not.

“Let’s go then,” Christos said, sparing him the burden of deciding whether to speak.

Truth be told, he was not in the mood to loosen anything he had worked so hard to keep bottled up.

They entered the camp together, stooped giant and grumpy buzzcut, nodding at the sentries posted by the makeshift gates as the wagons were shifted aside to let them through. Inside, by the southern riverbed that cut through the camp, Stathis was waiting for them. Nearly a hundred men loitered nearby in a loose knot, shifting on their feet and trading low murmurs as they waited for orders.

Stathis gave them a curt nod as they arrived, then turned his attention to the gathered men. There were near a hundred of them, sweaty, restless, and only half-attentive in the way soldiers often were when they suspected an order was coming that would make their day worse. He pitched his voice high enough to carry across the little crowd.

“Diplomatic talks have broken down. We can assume the Genoese may start targeting the camp, and by extension anyone we send out to forage.” His gaze swept across them, making sure the point landed. “So from now on, every forager goes out with armed escort and in pairs, moving around the checkpoints we mark out. Do not wander too far, and keep your eyes open.”

That sobered them well enough. Men who might have grumbled at longer watches or thinner rations had no trouble understanding what it meant to be caught outside the camp with a basket in hand when cavalry or crossbowmen came looking for easy kills.

With the order given, the mass began to break apart and shuffle toward the river crossing. Christos and Kratos moved with them, following the stream of men down toward the guide ropes set up for that purpose.

High command had chosen the shallowest points of the river within the camp and rigged thick ropes low along the waterline. There were only two fords, each narrow enough to bottleneck men into single file. On Christos the water came to the waist. On most others, closer to the belly. The current was not fierce, but it was strong enough that a careless foot could still slip on the stones beneath and be pulled by the current if he didn't know how to swim. Which Christos didn’t, so he grabbed onto the rope as if for dear life.

Men took hold of the ropes and crossed one step at a time, boots scraping against the riverbed as cold water surged around their legs. By the time they reached the far bank they were drenched to the hip, but the late March air had begun to soften with spring, and that took some of the cruelty out of it. Crossing in winter would have been another matter entirely. The thought brought with it a shiver that had nothing to do with the river.

He had heard the Belbek was seasonal, like so many of the smaller streams he remembered from his childhood. In summer it could shrink to little more than a sluggish trickle, but in spring it swelled close to full. For now that small quirk of nature served them well. The Genoese could not hope to rush the deeper crossing and simply ride through. Not without making a mess of themselves first.

Beside the line of splashing men drifted a broad wooden raft, empty for the moment, but meant for the supplies they'd harvest. It was held afloat by inflated skins fastened underneath it. It moved along the crossing by means of a doubled rope arrangement that looked like witchcraft to Christos no matter how many times he saw it. The raft glided across the water with a stubborn steadiness, as if pulled by an invisible hand.

When he waded up onto the opposite bank, he glanced back and saw two men hauling on the bottom side of the rope where it bent around a wooden wheel grooved deep to keep the line from slipping. On the far bank, he knew, another pair would be pulling the upper length where it looped back toward camp again. Simple, maybe, for those who understood such things. To Christos it still seemed the sort of trick a clever monk might hide in a monastery workshop.

“Move out,” Stathis called once enough of them had crossed. He climbed onto the small reinforced palisade guarding the landing place, where a narrow moat had already been dug and crossbowmen stood watch above it. “Mushrooms, greens, anything edible. Firewood goes without saying.”

High command meant to keep its hold on the southern forest, that much was plain. The crossing had been fortified too quickly and too thoroughly for this to be some passing precaution. They were defending their lifeline.

Christos and Kratos set out in full gear with another pair of Kalamita soldiers, the four of them serving as guard for the actual foragers. Those men wore lighter kit and moved with surprising quickness through the undergrowth, stooping here and there to gather mushrooms, wild greens, and whatever else the forest floor offered, tossing it all into the baskets strapped across their shoulders.

Christos and Kratos said little.

They watched the trees, watched the distant approaches, watched each other only when they had to. Agapios’s death had left a wider gap between them than any quarrel ever had. The old man had been the bridge, the one who could turn Kratos’s temper into something almost tolerable and coax a few words out of Christos when he would otherwise keep them buried. Without him, what remained between the two of them felt awkward, felt wrong.

Neither of them was willing to speak first. Both were too stubborn for that.

So they walked on in silence, as if sourness were a contest and the winner would be whoever could hold it longest.

Inevitably, the dull routine of combing through the forest floor for anything useful began to wear at their patience. Men could endure hardship more easily than monotony, at least that was how Christos was. Give him danger, and he might die, but he’d be damned if he fell asleep. Give him hours of damp leaves, bent backs, and watchful silence, and he’d be dead or asleep.

“A lot of crossbows on that damned little fort this side of the stream.”

It was Kratos who broke the silence, which surprised Christos enough that he glanced at him.

“Likely some of the ones taken off the mercenaries who fell in the battle,” Christos said. Usually even brushing against the subject of that fight was enough to shut them both up again, but this time he pushed past it. He was sick of flinching from the memory like it was a wound someone kept prodding. “We got a fair few from them. Enough that arming men with the things isn’t the problem. Whether half the bastards can actually hit anything in front of them is.”

“Really?” Kratos spat to the side. “Funny. Ain’t no one handed me some fancy crossbow after sluggin’ it out in mud and woods.” His scowl darkened further. “They sent us on our merry way straight after that slaughter. Didn’t even let us stay to bury the dead.”

There was real resentment in that, deeper than the usual sourness he carried around like a second skin.

“They kept some men behind for just that, I think,” Christos said. “Were meant to carry them back to Mangup for proper burial and all that. Though that idea’s likely gone straight to the shitter by now.” A crooked laugh escaped him before he could help it. “They probably looted the battlefield after we skimmed over it in our rush.”

“Bastards probably nicked a few pretty coins from under our noses too,” Kratos muttered, as if he wouldn't have done the same in their shoes. “Thieving cockroaches.”

That drew a short chuckle from both of them.

The two foragers ahead shot them sour looks over their shoulders, clearly unimpressed by the noise, and the laughter died as quickly as it had come. Christos let it drop. Kratos, naturally, did not.

“What’re ya lookin’ at? Huh?”

Christos smacked his arm before the mood could turn stupid, and Kratos shut up with an annoyed grunt.

Silence crept back in. For a few moments all there was was the crunch of boots, the rustle of undergrowth, and the faint clink of gear. Christos could feel the dark weight of the quiet threatening to settle over them again.

Then Kratos spoke.

“Are we really not goin’ to talk about what happened?”

He blew out the words like steam from the boiled water pots, as if he had held them in too long and they had begun to burn.

“Nothing to talk about,” Christos said at once.

“Agapios died.” Kratos swallowed hard enough for Christos to hear it. “And we’re just goin’ to pretend that meant nothing?”

“He wasn’t the only one who died that day,” Christos replied, his voice low.

“Well, he’s the only one I care about,” Kratos snapped.

The foragers seemed to sense the shift in tone and drifted farther ahead, giving them space without a word. Kratos went on, freckled face tightening with anger and grief in equal measure.

“Just because you lost your mentor or somethin’ doesn’t mean we should avoid talkin’ about Agapios and all the rest like the plague.”

“Talking won’t bring them back.” Christos’s grip tightened on his glaive until the shaft creaked faintly in his palm.

“Stayin’ quiet won’t either.”

Christos turned on him then, frustration flaring. “Why do you want to talk about it so badly?”

“Because I want to vent,” Kratos shot back, heat rising in him all at once. “I want to curse. I want to name the sons of bitches that did him in and spit on ‘em till my throat goes dry.”

His face had gone red, glowing like a coal fanned back to life.

“How will that solve anything?” Christos snapped.

The words came out harsher than he intended, but he did not try to soften them. He did not want to think about the dead. Not Leonidas, not Agapios, not any of the others whose faces still rose too easily in his mind whenever the camp grew quiet. Thinking of them felt like pressing on a bruise just to prove it still hurt.

“It doesn’t have to,” Kratos said, exasperation bleeding through his voice. “That ain’t the point. I just…” He swallowed, then pushed on with a stubbornness Christos had always found irritating and, now, strangely difficult to meet. “I just want to remember that old idiot. The stupid things he said. The times he made us laugh. The good moments we had with him. To honour him, even now.”

That struck harder than Christos expected.

Kratos, with his endless complaints, his sharp tongue, his boyish temper. The snot-nosed brat who seemed to find fault with everything under heaven was standing there willing to look grief in the face, while Christos had spent days skirting around it like a coward.

The thought made him feel stupid, though that was nothing new. Worse than that, it made him feel craven.

Christos was many things, but a coward was not meant to be one of them.

He drew a long breath, then turned away without another word and strode toward the nearest fallen log. It was a thick, rotting thing lying half-sunk in the forest floor, soft with damp and decay. Useless as firewood. Perfect for his purposes.

“HYEAAH!”

With a raw shout he brought his glaive down in a brutal overhead swing. The blade bit into the wood with a wet, splintering crack. It did not split the log apart, nor even leave more than a gouge in its surface, but Christos barely noticed. He wrenched the weapon free and swung again, harder this time.

“What are you-”

Kratos stared at him, wide-eyed, as Christos hacked at the deadwood like a madman. Then understanding dawned. This was Christos’s answer. What he could not force through his throat, he would drive through wood and bark instead.

A savage grin spread across Kratos’s face. He yanked out a hatchet from his holster and stepped in beside him.

“You fuckin’ bastard!” Kratos roared as he swung. “Why’d you have to die!?”

Christos answered with a blow of his own, teeth gritted as the shock of it ran up through his wrists. “Why you,” he shouted, voice breaking loose at last, memories of Leonidas drowning him, “AND NOT ME?”

Steel bit into dead wood again and again. Chips flew. Splinters scattered into the leaf mould. Pain rang through Christos’s arms with every strike, dull and jarring, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this was idiotic. They were dulling their blades on rotten timber. They were making enough noise to announce themselves to any enemy with ears. It was reckless, childish, and utterly without sense.

But it felt right.

Each swing seemed to tear something loose inside him, some knot of grief and fury that had sat festering in his chest since the battle. It was as if they were trying to hack their way through the pain itself, to wound the world back for what it had taken from them.

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The foragers exchanged glances, then smiled to themselves and gave the two of them space. They understood there were rages that could not be reasoned with, only spent.

By the time they were done, both of them were breathing hard and slick with sweat despite the cool air. The log looked scarcely improved for the effort, chewed and gouged but still stubbornly whole. Yet some weight had lifted all the same.

Neither of them could quite hide the smiles on their faces.

…

The sun had dipped a fair way by the time trouble first made itself known.

The foragers had stuffed their baskets full to the brim, and the regroup trumpet had already sounded to mark the end of the day’s gathering. They were making their way back toward the crossing when Christos heard it.

The measured, menacing plod of hooves.

The first sign of trouble was a shout, ragged and urgent, cutting through the trees from somewhere ahead and to their left. Then another voice took it up, louder this time, calling out the enemy and the fall-back point in the same breath. Christos’s head snapped toward the sound. Through the trunks and brush he caught glimpses of movement. It was another foraging party, four men by the look of it, hurrying back in broken formation, baskets abandoned, weapons half-raised as they stumbled through the undergrowth.

“We have to get to them,” Christos said at once.

Kratos only nodded. There was no argument in him this time, none of his usual contrariness. They had been told plainly enough what to do if one of the scattered parties was hit: regroup, reinforce, keep the enemy from rolling up isolated men one knot at a time. The two foragers with them hesitated for only a second before hurrying on toward camp with their baskets and whatever food they had managed to scrape together. Christos and Kratos turned and ran toward the sound of fighting.

Branches slapped at Christos’s shoulders as he forced his way through the trees. The forest was close here, the ground uneven with roots and damp patches where boots slid if you planted them poorly. Not good ground for horsemen at the very least.

By the time they burst into the clearing, the fight had already gone bad.

One of the guards lay on the ground in a widening sheet of blood, a savage gash opened across his neck. His middle looked caved in as if a horse had gone straight over him, trampling him into the leaf mould. Two foragers were scrambling backward in terror, more concerned with escape than shame, while the lone soldier left standing planted himself before them with a spear clutched in both hands. The shaft trembled so badly Christos could see it from several paces off.

Ahead of him, three cavalrymen were wheeling around for another charge.

Their horses wore quilted protection over chest and neck, enough to turn a glancing cut and make them look larger still in the cramped clearing. The riders themselves sat encased in metal, hard gleams of steel and iron flashing through the gaps in the trees. Even in the forest, even with branches hemming them in and forcing them to turn wide, they looked every bit as dangerous as in an open plain.

Christos and Kratos ran straight into the clearing just as the horsemen finished their turn.

From the opposite side, two more soldiers crashed through the underbrush almost at the same time, drawn by the same shouts. High command had insisted every party keep at least two other squads in sight whenever possible, a tiresome order when men wanted to spread out and forage properly, but now Christos saw it had meant that they could group up that much faster. And that others wouldn’t be far behind, as the other group within eyesight of Christos’s one could follow them here.

“Butt your spears!” Christos bellowed.

He did not think about whether the others would listen. He simply moved, taking the centre without hesitation, and the rest fell in around the first voice that sounded sure. Kratos took his place to one side, face hard and eager, while the other three soldiers scrambled into line. Spear-butts drove down into the earth. Boots shifted. Points levelled.

The formation was rough, but it was enough.

The cavalry came on a few strides more, just enough that Christos felt the ground begin to thud beneath his soles. They saw that they now faced not a single scared man, but a hedge of five spearpoints and the very real possibility that more infantry lurked behind the trees, so at the last moment the Italians veered away.

Then they were gone, swallowed by the forest as quickly as they had appeared.

For a few moments no one moved.

“Looks like they’re gone,” Kratos said. There was an edge of disappointment in his voice, as if some part of him had wanted them to commit to the charge and dash themselves to pieces.

Christos lowered his weapon and went to the fallen man.

The soldier was still alive, though only barely. Blood bubbled sluggishly at the wound in his neck, and his breath came in shallow little catches. Up close, Christos could see there was no saving him.

“Hang in there,” Christos said anyway, kneeling beside him.

The words felt useless the moment they left his mouth.

The man’s eyes found his. There was fear in them, yes, but something else too. Resolve, perhaps. Or just the last stubborn refusal to go quietly.

“Get those bastards for me,” he whispered. “Don’t let them raze my city to the ground.”

“I won’t,” Christos promised. Whether it was worth anything was another matter. He was learning to accept the burden of watching men die, and knew what he had to do.

The man’s gaze softened. His head lolled slightly to one side, and he seemed to slip into unconsciousness, as though he had merely decided to sleep. Christos stayed there, one hand still resting uselessly near the dying man’s shoulder, then pushed himself back to his feet.

“Let’s go back,” he ordered, face set grimly.

Around him, the others gathered themselves in silence. The two foragers from the attacked party stared at the body with hollow eyes. Kratos wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced toward the trees where the Italians had vanished.

As they turned toward the fall-back point, Christos felt the truth of it settle heavier in his gut. The Genoese were not going to let them sit on that hill in peace. If talking wouldn’t break them, then they’d try with steel instead. That, at least, was a language he understood well enough.

“They’ve managed to cross the river at one of the shallow fords,” the scout reported, still breathing hard from the ride back. Mud clung to his boots and the hem of his cloak, and there was a dark streak of someone else’s blood drying on one sleeve. “We lost three soldiers and one forager in today's raid.”

The words settled over the command tent like a fresh layer of dust, bringing with them a frustration that thickened the air.

“Already?” one of the officers blurted out, unable to keep the irritation from his tone. “We expected at least a day at minimum for them to cross with their cavalry.”

Sir Silvanus turned his head toward Theodorus before he answered. “Then we expected too much. They likely had ferried them over before they ever sat down at the negotiation table.” His voice remained controlled, but he simmered beneath, thinking on what Theodorus had told him. “Today’s diplomatic posture was a scheme. They were preparing to squeeze us while they smiled across the table.”

His gaze dropped to the map, to the river and the marked woodlands south of the camp.

“Our foraging efforts are essential if we mean to remain entrenched here for any length of time. Those efforts will now be harried at every turn. And this is only the beginning.”

Theodorus said nothing. He did not need to. Food. Water. Timber. Movement. Rest. All of it could be turned against them by an enemy patient enough to press where it hurt.

Almost as if summoned by the thought, another soldier appeared at the entrance, saluted sharply, and waited to be acknowledged.

“Report,” the Doux said without looking up from the work spread before him.

He had barely acknowledged the news of the foragers’ harassment. They’d expected that as they knew the standoff had become a contest of attrition.

“The river’s water has been fouled.”

That drew a murmur from the men around the table. Heads turned. The Doux finally lifted his eyes from the parchment before him and fixed them on the messenger.

“Speak plainly.”

“The watchers we posted in the trees along the riverbed saw the Italians fouling the water farther upstream,” the soldier said. “They dumped two dozen carcasses into the current. It is near enough that within a day or two the whole stretch will stink of death.”

This time the silence that followed was sharper.

Unlike what had happened at the siege of Theodorus brother’s estate, the Genoese had no need for subtlety here. Then, such an act had required distance and concealment, done far enough upstream that the attackers would not notice until the damage was already done. Here the enemy enjoyed numerical superiority and enough confidence to defend the place openly if challenged. They could poison the river in full view of their opponents, hold the ground by force, and still draw their own water elsewhere without suffering for it.

The Doux’s eyes shifted toward Theodorus.

Nothing was said aloud, yet the exchange between them carried its own meaning. This, too, had been anticipated. Theodorus had already assured the Doux that he had measures ready for it. Now came the moment to see whether those measures would hold.

…

“Water for drinking is only to be drawn from the inner wells from now on.”

Theodorus stood where the order could be heard clearly, watching as sergeants passed it down through their respective squads. The camp hummed with activity around him: men hauling buckets, others setting braziers, others still grumbling under their breath as inconvenience became labour. Nothing made soldiers sour faster than being told that a familiar habit had suddenly become forbidden.

“The river water is foul,” he continued, voice carrying over the camp. “It is not to be used for drinking under any circumstance. If it is used for washing, it must first be boiled. Water taken from the wells for drinking will also be boiled for no less than a minute.”

The inner wells were their best protection. Fed from beneath the earth rather than from the exposed course of the river, they were far less vulnerable to direct tampering. There was still risk, of course. Pathogens could still reach the groundwater, but the danger was markedly less, and less was often enough in war.

Still, Theodorus had no intention of relying on one safeguard alone.

“Additionally,” he said, gesturing toward the filtering stations now being assembled, “all drinking water is to be passed through these barrels of ash and sand, sanctified by the priest himself.”

At that, more than a few soldiers looked up properly.

Father Stelios stood nearby like a hastily erected monument, an unassuming, middle-aged, balding man who seemed deeply uncomfortable with the attention being placed upon him. Men might forget an instruction from a quartermaster. They were less likely to dismiss one that had passed through priestly hands and been framed as protection for both body and soul.

There were moments, Theodorus reflected, when it was useful that all medieval Christian armies dragged at least one or two priests along with them.

“Only drink the sanctified water,” one of the sergeants bellowed to his section. “Any man seen ignoring these measures will have his whole squad fined together.”

That, more than piety or fear of sickness, seemed to fix the lesson in men’s minds.

Theodorus watched as the first buckets were brought to boil and the first barrels prepared for filtration. It was cumbersome, yes. It would slow things. It would breed complaint. But the Genoese ploy had not gone unanswered. Between the wells, the boiling, and the ash-and-sand filters sanctified for the men’s peace of mind as much as their health, the enemy’s latest stroke would be blunted.

In another age, or against another army, it would have been a certain death sentence. In a fifteenth-century context, fouled water was not merely an inconvenience, but sickness with a delayed fuse. Men might laugh off a skirmish, curse a ration cut, or endure a bombardment out of sheer stubbornness, but bad water worked its damage patiently, and it never missed.

The Italians, no doubt, expected precisely that.

They would wait for the stomach pains, the fevers, the endless runs to the latrines. They would wait for strength to leak out of the Theodoran camp and dismantle their state.

But Theodorus possessed knowledge the age itself had no language for, and simple Germ Theory was enough to deny them their victory. The Genoese, thinking this would be an easy avenue by which to wear them down, were in for disappointment.

If they meant to defeat him, they would have to try harder than that.

Christos was dreaming of Agape when the trumpets began.

At first the sound wove itself harmlessly into the dream. He was back in a warmer place, somewhere far from mud and blood and rotting timber. Agape was laughing at him over her shoulder, that laugh of hers that always seemed half challenge and half invitation, and he was just reaching the part of the dream that promised to become very worth having when he was woken with a violent start.

Another trumpet call sounded from outside, shrill and ugly, not the ordered note of one of their own signals but something harsher. Around him men were already cursing and stirring in the cramped dark of the tent.

“What in God’s-”

“They’re attacking!”

That was enough to turn confusion into panic. Christos lurched upright, still half tangled in his blanket, and immediately cracked shoulders with Kratos, who had risen at the same moment with all the grace of a kicked mule.

“Move, you ox,” Kratos snapped.

“You move,” Christos shot back, shoving at him as both of them fought for the narrow gap toward the tent flap.

Then cold night air struck Christos full in the face, and they stumbled outside into chaos.

All across the camp men were bursting from tents in much the same condition, half-armoured, half-awake, clutching weapons and belts and boots. Some had helmets on crooked. Others had clearly not bothered with them at all.

Christos grabbed his glaive and ran with Kratos toward the battlements, boots pounding hard over the cold ground. Men converged from every direction, all dragged from sleep by the same alarm. The whole camp seemed to pulse with that dangerous energy that came when you weren’t expecting to be fighting for your life just a minute ago.

By the time they reached the defensive line, several captains were already there, shouting not for reinforcements, but for calm.

“Back to your tents!”

“Stand down!”

“It’s no assault, you fools, get back and sleep while you still can!”

Confusion rolled through the gathered soldiers. Christos slowed, breathing hard, and saw the Commander standing not far along the line, looking outward into the dark with an unknowable expression

“Commander,” Christos called, still trying to get his breath under control. “What is happening?”

Theodorus glanced back at him and gave a thin, humourless smile.

“They are using the same tactic we used at the Black Estate,” he said. “They mean to deprive us of sleep.”

For a moment neither Christos nor Kratos answered, their faces grim.

They knew exactly how effective such a tactic could be. They had seen what happened when men were dragged from rest again and again until exhaustion hollowed them out.

Another trumpet sounded in the distance, brief and needling.

Kratos muttered something foul under his breath.

Theodorus’s eyes moved over the men crowding the battlements, taking in the unease spreading through them before it could harden into dread. When he spoke again, his voice was calm enough to cut through the tension.

“Do not worry,” he said, having noticed their expressions.

“Unlike my brother,” Theodorus continued, “I know of a solution to this particular form of attack.”

This time the smile he wore was different, real enough in its confidence to steady the men nearest him.

Christos looked at him, then out again into the dark where the unseen Italians sat beyond torch range and trumpet cal. Perhaps they thought the night already belonged to them.

But if the Captain truly had an answer, then the Genoese were about to discover that cleverness, like any other weapon, cut both ways.

“They still have not raised a flag to parlay,” Eraldo observed from Democrito’s side.

Democrito did not answer at once. His gaze remained fixed on the eagle wheeling high above the Crimean sky, its broad wings catching the morning sun as it circled over the camp with effortless majesty. There was something almost insolent in the sight of it, as if the creature itself had come to mock him. It soared where it pleased, untouched by mud, by delay, by the obstinacy of men dug into their hill and refusing to yield when all good sense suggested they ought to.

“Perhaps they have not yet realised their water is fouled,” one of the officers offered, lifting a hand against the glare.

Democrito had insisted that the morning council be held outside. He wanted the enemy in view while decisions were made. He wanted the hill, their fortifications, their stubborn little posture of resistance laid out before him beneath the open sky, so that no one around him might forget the problem that remained unsolved.

“Very unlikely,” Baccio said, cutting through the officer’s pondering.

The old condottiere’s voice was as steady as ever, dry and measured, the voice of a man not easily excited by either success or setback.

“They simply do not wish to show weakness,” Baccio went on. “But the sickness will come. Water fouled like that does its work whether pride permits it or not. And they will also be feeling the effects of broken sleep by now. No man goes close to a week without proper rest and emerges sharper for it.”

“They have not been idle, either,” Aniballe said. There was a spark in him as always, a dangerous brightness that bordered too often on enthusiasm. “They have started noticing patterns in our harassment. They know our horsemen favour the western flank, and they have begun reinforcing the foragers on that side with more guards. They learn quickly.” He sounded almost pleased by it. “And still they have not broken, old man. It is time we switch tactics.”

“You always wish to change tactics the moment boredom takes hold of you,” Baccio replied. “That is why you are predictable.”

Aniballe’s mouth twisted into a boyish pout.

“You cannot chastise me like some green officer anymore. I hold the same rank as you now, old man.”

Baccio only snorted.

Their bickering drifted on in the background, familiar enough that Democrito scarcely heard it after a point. He found himself turning away from their words and into the older chambers of memory instead.

He had been born on the mainland, into the Lecrari family, one branch among many sheltered beneath the broad and ambitious umbrella of the Fieschi . Genoa had filled his lungs before he could properly speak.

He had grown up amid the clink of coin, the murmur of bargains, the shifting lattice of alliances and quiet betrayals that lay beneath the polished face of republican dignity. Trade, office, favour, obligation; those had been the true pillars of the world he understood. Not mountains. Not forests. Not these rough eastern marches forever stinking of damp earth and stubborn peasants.

He had served his well. Very well. He had won profit, secured influence, and sharpened his reputation into something useful.

He had also, in the process, made many enemies.

So they had sent him to Ghazaria as a high official to eventually serve as Consul. A respectable post, once. A worthy extension of Genoese power, once. Then Constantinople had fallen, and with it the illusion that these far-flung possessions remained securely tethered to the old heart of their world.

The colonies had been left adrift on a foreign sea, too distant to hold properly, too valuable to surrender cleanly. In the end the republic had done what republics so often did when principle became expensive: it had sold the burden away. Now the held what the state could no longer comfortably sustain, and Democrito, who had once served Genoa, found himself serving a bank in all but name.

His mouth tightened.

He hated this land. He hated its jagged mountains, its rough roads, its perpetual sense of being only half-tamed. He hated the feeling that every stone here had been laid by men with no appreciation for elegance. Most of all, he hated the people who called it home - dirty, obstinate creatures forever clinging to dead empires and old grievances, as though memory alone could save them from men who understood the future belonged not to crowns, but to ledgers.

“That eagle,” Democrito said at last, as though only half-aware of the stale military discussion continuing around him. His eyes remained fixed on the bird circling overhead. “I want it killed.”

He spoke evenly, but the calmness of his tone did nothing to hide the malice beneath it.

“Killed, messere Consul?” one of the younger Magnifici echoed, still green enough not to know that Democrito had no patience for foolish questions.

Democrito did not so much as glance at him. Instead he turned to the guards standing nearby.

“I want its feathers plucked and its meat roasted for tonight’s dinner,” he said, with the air of a man settling some minor domestic matter.

Then he shifted his attention back to his officers, and several of them straightened instinctively beneath the sharpness of his gaze.

“And I want our friends on that hill more rattled than they are now,” he said, iron coloring his tone. “If we wait for disease alone to finish the work, we may be waiting weeks, assuming they remain stubborn enough. That is unacceptable.” His eyes found Aniballe. “Is the ramp ready?”

At once the younger commander’s expression sharpened into something almost feral. He gave a pleased nod, eager for the chance to test his latest contrivance.

“Messere Consul,” one of the Magnifici ventured in a careful voice, sensing the danger but speaking anyway. “That plan would mean parting with a fair amount of good coin. We can certainly afford it, of course, but would it not be wiser simply to let them wallow in filth and die?”

Democrito might have ignored him. In truth, he was tempted to. But he had always made a point of instructing the lesser fops the republic and the bank alike seemed so fond of sending to assist him. It was, after all, supposed to be part of a Consul’s office to educate those beneath him. Even if he despised the duty, he still performed it.

“War is not static,” he said. “A great deal can change in a few weeks, and a man who underestimates his enemy has already begun surrendering his advantage. They are monkeys, yes, but I will treat them as though they were my equals, because that is safer than treating them as fools.” He spread his hands in a wide gesture for effect. “I do not expect they will lie down quietly and perish with suitable humility from what I've seen of the curs.”

"Besides," His mouth curved into a thin smile.

“This is our chance to send a message, and we have a very large audience for it.” He gestured toward the fortress of Mangup, where countless eyes would surely be watching the relief force below, following each movement with desperate hope. “They must see what resistance earns them.”

His expression darkened, and his hands closed slowly into fists.

“We cannot be content merely to win,” he said. “We must break them so thoroughly that even after we take this land, none of these monkeys will dare dream of rebellion again.” His smile widened, though there was no warmth in it. “Victory is not enough. We must destroy their very spirit.”