Prologue - The Roman Empire
1204 A.D.
How do you unite that which divides against itself? How do you preserve that which has lived for two thousand years already? How do you give life to that which is already dead?
It was a great Crusade, perhaps even the last of its name. A host of knights descended onto the streets of the city that bore the name of a warrior-saint, only to see the walls shatter, the gates fall open, dying screams of the Varangian Guard filling the air. Thousands of men of the cross fought, died, advanced, scattering blood of their victims on the fertile harvest of death.
It was a blasphemy.
None have succeeded here. Not the Persians, not the Arabs, not the Slavs. Even great Barbarossa himself shuddered at the thought of assaulting the great walls, the most heavily fortified defenses in the world. And still the Franks and the Venetians redoubled their efforts, until there were no more defenders left.
This was the city of Constantinople, the jewel of Christendom, the glittering prize of the East full of treasures collected over a millenium. And this city was about to fall to those who professed the heretical cross, the hated Latins, whose greedy eyes have targeted it many times, failing again and again only to strengthen their desire for rape and plunder.
Theodore Lascaris was not a man of faith, yet even he uttered a prayer. Many urged him to leave the city, and yet he decided to stay against the advice of his family, his friends, his once comrades in arms... They were cowards, but perhaps they were sensible cowards. There was little hope here but that of ruin, and once the last of the defenders fell... Theodore did not want to think what would happen.
His regiment - or, rather, whatever troops still had some kind of fighting spirit left, was around him, many battered, bleeding from small cuts, wounds of every stripe, their faces covered with bruises. This was going to be their last stand. If the Latins penetrated here, all was going to be lost.
Theodore asked himself again why the God would allow this to happen. He prayed with redoubled strength, as he had all along... and all was for naught. His prayers were not answered; he could tell that his men were just as desperate.
Are we not Romans, he thought? The very same Romans whose legions once ruled over the known world? The same Romans who vanquished the Persian, held back the Arab, crushed the heretic and the barbarian alike under their iron heel? The same Romans whose spirit spread the faith of Christ’s apostles through all of Europe and beyond? Were they really about to fall to the barbarians who wore his very symbol on their armor?
It was as if the God himself abandoned them, instead choosing to side with the heretics, the traitors, the barbarians...
Theodore’s vision was blurred with sweat, and yet there was some kind of terrible clarity to it all. The same God that the Roman Empire has once served has betrayed him, betrayed them, betrayed them all. The end was near, and all of a sudden, the cross he wore under the armor felt like a heavy burden instead of a symbol of reassurance it has always been to him and his like.
He felt as if there was some kind of a pulse vibrating through his entire body; his sword felt like it was thirsty for blood. If this was a feeling of approaching death, he did not mind it much.
And then, his lips mouthed the words, and it was not the name of Christ that he was invoking. If the Lord of Heaven was not listening... then perhaps someone else was. And perhaps, that someone else also longed for battle, vengeance, and blood Theodore’s blade was going to spill. It was as if there was a voice inside of him, and this voice commanded him and his blade.
It was a voice more ancient than time itself, and for a moment, Theodore found himself in its thrall. Then, he pointed his sword at the advancing Latins.
“Give them hell.”
And so it was done.
1204 A.D.
How do you unite that which divides against itself? How do you preserve that which has lived for two thousand years already? How do you give life to that which is already dead?
It was a great Crusade, perhaps even the last of its name. A host of knights descended onto the streets of the city that bore the name of a warrior-saint, only to see the walls shatter, the gates fall open, dying screams of the Varangian Guard filling the air. Thousands of men of the cross fought, died, advanced, scattering blood of their victims on the fertile harvest of death.
It was a blasphemy.
None have succeeded here. Not the Persians, not the Arabs, not the Slavs. Even great Barbarossa himself shuddered at the thought of assaulting the great walls, the most heavily fortified defenses in the world. And still the Franks and the Venetians redoubled their efforts, until there were no more defenders left.
This was the city of Constantinople, the jewel of Christendom, the glittering prize of the East full of treasures collected over a millenium. And this city was about to fall to those who professed the heretical cross, the hated Latins, whose greedy eyes have targeted it many times, failing again and again only to strengthen their desire for rape and plunder.
Theodore Lascaris was not a man of faith, yet even he uttered a prayer. Many urged him to leave the city, and yet he decided to stay against the advice of his family, his friends, his once comrades in arms... They were cowards, but perhaps they were sensible cowards. There was little hope here but that of ruin, and once the last of the defenders fell... Theodore did not want to think what would happen.
His regiment - or, rather, whatever troops still had some kind of fighting spirit left, was around him, many battered, bleeding from small cuts, wounds of every stripe, their faces covered with bruises. This was going to be their last stand. If the Latins penetrated here, all was going to be lost.
Theodore asked himself again why the God would allow this to happen. He prayed with redoubled strength, as he had all along... and all was for naught. His prayers were not answered; he could tell that his men were just as desperate.
Are we not Romans, he thought? The very same Romans whose legions once ruled over the known world? The same Romans who vanquished the Persian, held back the Arab, crushed the heretic and the barbarian alike under their iron heel? The same Romans whose spirit spread the faith of Christ’s apostles through all of Europe and beyond? Were they really about to fall to the barbarians who wore his very symbol on their armor?
It was as if the God himself abandoned them, instead choosing to side with the heretics, the traitors, the barbarians...
Theodore’s vision was blurred with sweat, and yet there was some kind of terrible clarity to it all. The same God that the Roman Empire has once served has betrayed him, betrayed them, betrayed them all. The end was near, and all of a sudden, the cross he wore under the armor felt like a heavy burden instead of a symbol of reassurance it has always been to him and his like.
He felt as if there was some kind of a pulse vibrating through his entire body; his sword felt like it was thirsty for blood. If this was a feeling of approaching death, he did not mind it much.
And then, his lips mouthed the words, and it was not the name of Christ that he was invoking. If the Lord of Heaven was not listening... then perhaps someone else was. And perhaps, that someone else also longed for battle, vengeance, and blood Theodore’s blade was going to spill. It was as if there was a voice inside of him, and this voice commanded him and his blade.
It was a voice more ancient than time itself, and for a moment, Theodore found himself in its thrall. Then, he pointed his sword at the advancing Latins.
“Give them hell.”
And so it was done.
