The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

  Chios, Greece

  Marcus leaned against the heavy mast and watched the sailors scurry about the deck as they prepared to harness the fickle winds. For the past two weeks, their tiny flotilla had been storm-bound in the harbor of Chios. It was a pleasant town, with its open-air markets and green rolling hills, but the stay had grown tiresome for the crews. Last night, there had been another drunken brawl, marking the third evening in a row that such an incident had occurred. The captain had expressed his concern over dinner, where he also spoke in hopeful tones about the change he somehow sensed in the stubborn breezes. Marcus was never one to question a seasoned mariner, and the captain's intuition had been on point. They awoke to clear blue skies, providing a welcome reprieve from the gale-force winds that had been their steady diet until this point in the journey. The captain, trusting the weather would hold, put to sea immediately.

  Nearly a month ago, while in Rome, Marcus had received news of the danger posed to Constantinople. A letter from Emperor Constantine had described the situation. An army of eighty-thousand Turks was digging in around the city, and unlike previous expeditions, they seemed unwilling to negotiate. In response, Constantine could only muster seven-thousand soldiers, and provisions were scarce, especially gunpowder. The Pope, frustrated by the lack of support from the usual European powers, had asked Marcus to join an expedition bound for the beleaguered city. Their meager force of three ships had set sail at once, but Mother Nature had slowed their progress. In early April, the fleet entered the Aegean, but strong northern winds had driven them into the Greek island of Chios.

  As Marcus stood, a commotion that had erupted near the aft of the ship drew his attention. The captain had given the word, and the crew was springing to action. The activity increased to a flurry, as every able-bodied man helped haul up the anchor. He moved to the bow, watching as the local fishermen waved from their tiny vessels, grateful to be free of their bothersome guests. Soon, the convoy was knifing through the placid harbor and sniffing for the open sea. As they cleared the narrow mouth, the bow tore through the foamy crests and crashed against the rolling swells, drenching Marcus with salty spray. The air was cool and crisp as he watched the massive sails billow beneath the stiffening breeze. Strong as they were, he wondered if they would carry them to the city in time.

  For three days, they burdened the wind and careened across the sparkling Aegean. As they approached the Dardanelles, a strait leading into the Sea of Marmara, a lookout spied a large galley bearing the Imperial Byzantine standard. The fleet Marcus was in sailed under the Genoese flag, a longtime trading partner of the Byzantines. The vessels closed to within spitting distance, and the captains parlayed across the short expanse. The galley was a heavy transport stuffed to the forecastle with Sicilian corn, and despite the odds, her captain had decided to make a run for the capital. The two men agreed to run the gauntlet together, and soon the tiny armada was bearing down upon the narrow strait, ready for anything the Turks could muster.

  The Turkish fleet did not reciprocate their enthusiasm, as it had left to join the siege. Disappointed, they navigated the channel, and sailing on through the night, entered the Sea of Marmora. The crew became subdued as they pondered the fate of the ancient city. A few tried to make the appearance of sleeping, but Marcus doubted many were successful in the endeavor. Eventually, sunrise crept over the dark horizon, exposing the beleaguered city. To their relief, the Imperial banners still fluttered in defiance. Marcus moved to the forecastle, where the captain was shaking his head as he lowered his spyglass. Without a word, he handed Marcus the instrument. Marcus put it to his eye and watched as the massive navy slowly came to life. The Turks were scrambling about their ships like ants on a discarded morsel.

  "Torquini," the captain called to the first mate, "ready the ship for battle. It looks like the Turks want another lesson in seamanship."

  "You didn't think they'd let us sail right in?" Marcus handed him the spyglass.

  "One could hope—" He shrugged. "But then again, who wants to live forever?"

  Before Marcus could reply, the captain was off bellowing orders to everyone in his path. Marcus moved down the stairs and into his tiny cabin. He retrieved a wooden chest from beneath his bunk, opened the lid, and lifted out a breastplate. He removed his coat and placed the armor over his tunic, securing the clasps. Next, he pulled a pair of metal gauntlets over his hands and slipped two iron bracers onto his forearms, using his teeth to tighten the straps. Ignoring the helmet, he reached instead for a sword and main-gauche, a small defensive blade. Standing, he slipped on a shoulder harness that held his scabbard and adjusted the hilt at his waist. The other weapon he attached to his belt. Finally, he slipped a dagger into his boot, closed the wooden chest, and made his way back on deck.

  The sailors were scampering about, trying to look busy, while most of the soldiers had donned armor and occupied defensive positions throughout the ship. Marcus watched three men scramble up a wobbly rope ladder to the crow's nest, amazed at the agility of these sea-born monkeys. He found a crate, and using it as a seat, waited as the brisk morning breeze propelled the ship into the approaching storm.

  Marcus glanced toward Constantinople and saw that many of the citizens had left the city's shelter and settled among the narrow hills at the foot of the great fortifications. He could also make out groups of people perched upon the dilapidated Hippodrome, hoping to catch one last great spectacle. To their right was one of the other Genoese galleys, trailing a half-length behind. The Imperial galley was off to the left, riding keel to keel with the fourth and final galley. Marcus was most concerned about the transport, as it lumbered through the shallow waves, unable to match the nimbleness of the galleys. Nevertheless, he accepted the ship might never make it to the ancient city and turned his attention back to the enemy.

  The Turks had arrayed their fleet in a giant crescent, barring the entrance to the Golden Horn. From tiny sloops to hulking barges, hundreds of boats stood ready to halt their advance. Some were sailing vessels, but most utilized one, two, or even three banks of oars. Makeshift barricades of wood and bales of wool adorned the sides of the ships. Beyond the Turks, he could see the giant chain that barred entrance to the imperial harbor.

  When the two opposing fleets were less than a hundred yards apart, Marcus and the others saw one man standing near the front of the closest craft. He called for them to lower their sails and allow boarding. It was a request that went unanswered. In response to the silence, a single trumpet blast erupted from a massive ship near the heart of the fleet. Moments later, one of the Turkish ships fired its miniature cannons; the iron balls splashed harmlessly around them. One ball, nearing the end of its zenith, bounced off the Imperial transport's hull and disappeared into the dark blue sea, much to the delight of the Christian sailors.

  Marcus stood and moved to a makeshift arsenal where he requisitioned an English longbow, taking a moment to admire the craftsmanship. Nearly six feet long, the shaft was cut from a fine piece of yew wood, caramel-colored with exceptionally long grains. The surface was covered with a mixture of wax, resin, and animal fat. The flax bowstring, reinforced with silk thread, was secured to a pair of ivory pins set into the end of the shaft. He picked up a quiver of arrows, moved back to the front of the ship, and leaned the bundle against the railing. Marcus plucked an arrow from the quiver, slipped the notch onto the string, and drew the bow taut, hearing the heavy wood creak as the feather tickled his ear. He slowly exhaled, focusing his aim on the nearest ship. At the front of the galley stood a fat shirtless man beating a steady rhythm on a large kettledrum, his brown skin glistening; a perfect target. The feather caressed his cheek as the arrow sprung from the bow. Marcus quietly thanked the English as the Turk tumbled forward, the shaft protruding from his shiny back. Those around Marcus erupted in a raucous cheer.

  First blood was theirs.

  As the two sides closed, the Turks tried to board the galleys, but the vigorous breeze made that a difficult task. Any ship
that strayed too close had to deal with a hail of arrows, not to mention the Greek fire spewing from the Imperial galley. But eventually, their persistence was rewarded.

  A heavy barge attached itself to their galley, and soon Muslim soldiers were scurrying up the side of the ship. The familiar sound of battle drew Marcus forward, igniting a fire within his soul that only blood could extinguish. He tossed the bow aside and drew his sword, moving into the thickest action. He arrived in time to drive his sword through the belly of one attacker who had just climbed over the railing. As the flailing body fell back over the side, Marcus pulled out his main-gauche and severed the grapple rope, sending three men plummeting back to their ship's deck.

  Marcus descended upon a furious mêlée near the forecastle between two sailors and a handful of Muslim soldiers. He moved across the ship, leaving a swathe of dying bodies in his wake. Within moments, the tide turned, and they had pushed the last of the attackers overboard. Two sailors stumbled forward with a steaming metal cauldron. Marcus stepped back as they lifted it over the side and poured the contents onto the barge. Another sailor pulled a flaming arrow from the nearby mast and tossed it over the railing. They scrambled back as the Muslim ship burst into flames, and a chorus of painful screams followed the wave of rolling heat.

  As Marcus moved back along the deck, he noticed the Imperial transport had fallen behind the galleys. The Muslims had identified the grain ship as a soft target and concentrated most of their attention on her. Turkish warships now surrounded the galley, and she struggled to repel the hordes of soldiers that clambered up her sides. Greek fire would be suicidal at such close quarters. Marcus looked around and spied the captain atop the forecastle, directing his boatswain. He sprinted across the deck, avoiding two sailors who were busy dousing a small fire. Taking the wooden stairs two steps at a time, Marcus arrived just as the captain finished his conversation.

  "Captain, the Imperial." He pointed to the vessel, nearly lost in the mass of Turkish sloops and triremes.

  "I was afraid of that—she isn't fast enough to keep up." He looked around to the other galleys, both of which had broken free of attackers. "Let's see what we can do."

  He barked several orders to his first mate as he pointed to the various sails and jibs. He placed a hand on his pilot's shoulder and quietly explained his plan, and waited for the man to nod in response. The captain then motioned to a young boy sitting on a nearby crate. Moving to his skipper's side, he listened to the instructions, nodding occasionally, then bolted off toward the ship's bow. The youngster lifted the horn that hung around his neck and shattered the air with a series of short blasts. After a few minutes, there was a reply from the galley to the right, then one from the third vessel. The captain nodded and waved to the boy, who smiled as he made his way back to the crate.

  Marcus could feel their ship slowing as they angled toward the path of the Imperial. She was still struggling but had escaped one of the massive warships. They were twenty yards off the transport and closing quickly when an aggressive sloop slipped between the two. Marcus enlisted a pair of nearby soldiers and pointed down at the Turkish vessel.

  "We're going to board her."

  Nodding, the men searched the deck for rope. They found several coils, and attached the ends to the railings, then slung the rest over the side. Before the ropes had even reached the ship below, Marcus had vaulted over the side, ignoring the heat building in his gloved palms as he slid down the tether. His feet had just hit the wooden deck when two large sailors set upon him with wooden clubs. Marcus sidestepped one attacker, driving his elbow into his chin. As he crumbled, the second one took his shot, sweeping his weapon in a clumsy arc. Ducking, Marcus stepped forward and caught him with a short uppercut. The man's eyes rolled back into his head as he staggered back over the body of his companion.

  By now, the two other soldiers had made their descent. Marcus freed both his blades and focused his attack on the sailors attending the ship while his fellow soldiers moved to engage the Muslims attempting to board the transport. Marcus hacked his way through a small group of sailors, making straight for the captain. The captain saw Marcus's calculated approach, grabbed a nearby sailor, and flung him at the Roman. Marcus bashed the sailor across the cheek with the hilt of his sword, knocking him into a stack of boxes.

  Undaunted, Marcus pursued the captain as he scrambled over crates and barrels until he cornered himself against the railing. His eyes moved from Marcus to the churning sea below. He decided to take his chances with the latter, muttering something in Turkish before leaping overboard. Impressed by his judgment, Marcus moved to the railing tied to the imperial transport and severed the lines that joined the two vessels. As the galley slipped free of the sloop, Marcus motioned for the other soldiers to go back to their ship. Then, sheathing his weapons, he grabbed a dangling line and climbed up onto the deck of the transport.

  Marcus topped the railing and was amazed at how much damage the ship had sustained. The crew members were putting out various fires around the deck, tending to the wounded or tearing down ragged sails and rigging. He wandered around, trying to find the captain among the sailors. Marcus stumbled into him as he bent over to nurse a wounded boy. The lad, a nasty gash in his stomach, begged for water. The captain helped him drink from a small cup and then watched as the lad died in his arms. The captain laid the boy onto the deck, stood, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He glanced at Marcus with glossy eyes before looking back down at the lad.

  "Turkish bastards!" He pointed to an overturned bucket. "He was just bringing water to the others."

  Marcus nodded. War is an indiscriminate killer, but he didn't bother pointing that out.

  The captain was a stocky man of below-average height. His dark olive skin gave way to thin gray hair, matted with sweat and blood. He wore a plain, unassuming tunic, torn and stained in a dozen places. He carried no weapons, though a heavy club lay within reach.

  "I'm Captain Phlatanelas, and I thank you for freeing my ship of that Muslim scourge." He extended his hand. "I saw the action from above—you're quite the swordsman."

  "Thank you." Marcus returned his iron grip. "Marcus Gracchus. I thought I might catch a ride into the city."

  "You're assuming we make the city." The captain peered up into the sagging canvas. "We are at the fancy of the winds."

  "We'll just keep sending these infidels back to God. Perhaps he'll get sick of them and send us back the wind."

  The captain stared at Marcus for a moment before breaking out into a huge grin. "I think we're going to get along just fine."

  As they spoke, the other vessels moved in alongside the transport, two on her port and the other on her stern. They lashed the four ships together, allowing the defenders to concentrate on protecting the two exposed sides of their floating fortress. Soon after, the wind all but ceased, leaving them a good league from the safety of the harbor.

  Marcus could see a colorful entourage gathering on the far shore, led by a man atop a white stallion. The mount was nearly chest-deep in the water and reluctant to advance any further, despite the prompting of its master. He waved his sword above his head, motioning to the ships in the Muslim flotilla. Marcus borrowed a spyglass from the captain and studied the rider.

  He was dark-skinned with a ceremonial turban that covered most of his jet-black hair. He wore a black silk tunic, knee-high leather boots, and brandished a scimitar, its shiny blade flashing in the sunlight. Even from this distance, Marcus could make out the angry expression that dominated his lean, rugged face. As he directed his horse back onto the shore, his entourage scattered to avoid trampling. He galloped down the beach and reentered the water, trying to gain the attention of his naval commander. From previous descriptions, Marcus knew he was witnessing firsthand the leadership skills of the sultan. The epithets that accompanied his name were often the same: cruel, impatient, and unforgiving. Marcus prayed the city would never feel his wrath.

  Marcus scanned the staff that surrounded
him and focused on one man who stood watching the majestic rage, a vacant expression on his handsome face. Heart sinking, Marcus closed his eyes and lowered the glass. Why are you here, Thomas?

  He handed the eyepiece to the captain who ordered his sailors to replace the tattered mainsail, hoping to capture an afternoon breeze. The crew tossed the remains of the dead Muslim soldiers overboard, drawing a school of hungry sharks that transformed the turquoise sea into a bloody froth. Some men wanted to add to the feast by tossing three prisoners into the frenzy, but the captain refused. Instead, he ordered them chained to the mainmast. He gave the somber task of disposing of fallen Christians to a priest and two deckhands, who, one by one, wrapped the bodies in cloth and laid them to rest in the cargo hold.

  Marcus found a barrel in the shade of the forecastle and waited. It took the Turks a couple of hours to muster the courage and resolve to rejoin the fight. When the alarm sounded, Marcus stood and moved to the front of the ship. When he reached the railing, the captain handed him the spyglass and pointed to an odd-looking ship lumbering toward them. Marcus leaned forward and focused on the craft.

  It looked like a standard river barge, except this one had a giant wooden tower jutting from the craft's center. A long bank of oars propelled the awkward beast. She sat precariously low in the water, almost begging a breeze or rolling wave to send her crashing into the sea. A contingent of elite Janissary guards lined the railings, eagerly awaiting a shot at redemption.

  "Now that's interesting." Marcus frowned and handed the eyepiece back.

  "If we had any wind at all, my men would sail circles around that monstrosity."

  "That's why they didn't use it during the last attack."

  When the distance was appropriate, archers from both sides exchanged fiery arrows, the thin black trails crisscrossing the soft blue sky. Marcus ducked as one arrow shot past, burying itself in the mast behind him.