Universalis Romana: Betrayed

This is a freebie from my newest work. A 'what if' scenario, more fantasy than history, of what the Roman Empire might have become a thousand years after it historically fell. Enjoy!

An arrow whizzed by, so close Antonio could feel a brief rush of air on his cheek. Throwing his head back, he chased a lock of sandy brown hair from his face and put his shoulder against the butt of his rifle. Horse hooves pounded the ground, stirring up dust clouds all around the wagon train. With careful, practiced aim, Antonio squeezed the trigger. A rider did a backwards somersault off his animal, landing in a heap about fifty yards away. A second arrow, then a third slammed into the wooden barrel he hid behind.

     "Now might be a good time to relocate," Antonio said. The lanky man glanced backwards to make sure no one was about to fire a weapon in his direction – a good fighter made it a point not to be killed by his own allies – and bounded toward the relative safety of a nearby wagon.

     Crouching down to take another shot, a familiar voice called out. "Antonio! Stop playing games and back me up!"

     The recoil of his rifle was like the kiss of an old lover who'd jilted you – jarring and painful. After watching the man he'd fired at stagger and fall, Antonio turned to his left. There, on the other side of the wagon, blond hair swayed gently back and forth against a perfectly formed backside in tight corduroy. A leather vest molded carefully and beautifully to curves that would make a grown man cry. As he pondered the cliché his life with this woman was turning into, her golden voice shattered the quiet moment. "Don't stand there gawking, back me up!" As if to force the issue, she grabbed the two five shooters at her hips and pulled the hammers back.

     Snapped out of his momentary lapse, Antonio gave a glance in the other direction. He couldn't see all the da Milano boys, but Tertio – tall and slender and arrogant in the northern Italian way – and his sister Caterina – demure but sly – were happily blasting away at anything that moved. The pioneer families they were paid to protect were safely tucked away in their wagons, except for the few brave enough to take arms into their own hands and fight for survival.

     Satisfied that everything was going as it should, Antonio nodded to the girl with the long blond hair. "Elsebeth," he said softly so she wouldn't hear, "I know you'll come out on top, but I'm afraid this is the end of the line for me." It was a ritual he couldn't do without when going into a firefight. Pessimism always seemed the way to go for Antonio: if you thought about the worst situation possible, anything that turned out better was a victory, of sorts. Inhaling, he nodded again to Elsebeth and moved toward her, taking a position at her hip and crouching down low again.

     Once he was in position and aiming at the rider of a charging horse, Elsebeth stepped out from behind her cover, pistols cocked. A group of eight or nine riders pounded their way; in a matter of moments, Elsebeth would have to move or be trampled. Coolly, her wrists flicked up and down so rapidly Antonio couldn't tell which way they were going. When she slowed, every horse was without a person on its back. The animals panicked, turned and fled.

     "Did you even fire a shot?" the blond goddess asked, sounding not the least exasperated. Blinking in the mid morning sun, Antonio had trouble focusing on her emerald gaze. He shook his head.

     In the distance, a war cry sounded the end of the fighting. The plodding of horses became distant and quieter every moment. One of the da Milano men - Antonio thought it might have been either Ernesto or Sergio - leapt up from his hiding and ran out to the edge of the circle of wagons. "Cowards! We should go after them and massacre them! Animals such as the Seres don't deserve to live!"

     Someone in the pioneer group called the all clear. As the women, children and older folks tentatively poked their heads out of their wagons, Antonio stood and dusted off his jeans. Slinging the rifle over his back, he silently surveyed the final cost of the encounter. He was sure he'd seen one of the pioneers go down; sounds of feminine sobbing confirmed the idea.

     Scanning the prairie beyond the wagons, bodies were scattered here and there. The largest cluster included the nine Elsebeth expertly slaughtered. Not for the first time, Antonio was glad to have her with him, not just because she was so magnificent in bed. He didn't know her story - Elsebeth would talk about anything current or the times the two had spent together, but she clammed up every time he'd sought to find out why she was driven to the ends of the Empire and why she was such a fantastic shot. In their time together, Antonio had seen some of the fastest gunfighters; none of them held a candle to Elsebeth, and any who challenged her were no longer roaming the plains showing off their quick draw.

     A stiff hand cracked against the back of his head. "You were daydreaming again, nitwit," Elsebeth chided. "We need to get the wagon train organized again and get on the move."

     Commotion drew their attention before Antonio could respond in his usual dry manner. Sergio da Milano - if it was indeed Sergio and not his twin Ernesto - was still ranting and raving about the Seres; he was trying to unhitch one of the horses and get everyone motivated to go after the raiding party. "Come on you slovenly bastards! If we don't ride those dogs down and kill every last one of them, they'll come again and again until they pick us off one by one in our sleep! I say any man who doesn't join me is a coward!"

     Instinctively, Antonio's right hand fell to the wooden butt of his fifty-five caliber Tuccio pistol. He wasn't so slow on the draw either, especially when another man called him a coward. As he was about to step forward and make his presence known, that same stiff hand careened off the back of his head.

     "You men are so cocksure of yourselves as the greatest gift to life," Elsebeth told him. "Give it a rest, Antonio, here comes the cavalry." One of her slender, powder burnt fingers stretched to Antonio's right. "Sergio's uncle will put him in his place."

     Though Antonio didn't care much for the harshness of the da Milano boys, he did have to admit they had a very intelligent and classy man leading them in the right direction. Facio Grassi was as honorable as they came, it was such a shame the boys rarely learned anything. Antonio watched Facio walk calmly out toward Sergio - how Elsebeth knew for certain which brother it was always unnerved Antonio - and grab the boisterous man by the shoulder.

     "Watch what you say, Sergio," Antonio heard Facio say. "One day, your mouth will get you into more trouble than your family can get you out of. Let things be and show some respect to these farmers and prospectors - not everyone wants to be a gunfighter." Antonio thought he detected something in Facio's voice that said the elder man was one of those people who didn't care much for the life of a professional fighter.

     "You're getting to be an old man, Facio," Sergio shot back. "Maybe some day, I take over the family. Then we do things my way." Despite his tough talk, Sergio backed down. However, when he turned and saw Antonio facing him, Sergio widened his stance and spit in Elsebeth's direction. "What are you two looking at? I could kill you both in an instant."

     Although many of the pioneers were now out of their hiding places and attempting to get their wagons moving again, the angry sounds made them stop what they were doing. Most took up their former positions to wait out the next few tense moments. Caterina appeared off to Antonio's left, a twenty-six caliber rifle in her hands. Tertio and Donatello poked their pistols around the edge of a wagon. Not liking the odds, but not willing to back down, Antonio stood his ground, certain that Elsebeth would be able to take care of the two boys to her right and Sergio, leaving him free to take out Caterina.

     Luck was with them, however. Facio stood between Antonio and Sergio - his back to Antonio. "We will have none of this, Sergio! Caterina, Tertio, Donatello, put those guns down, now!" He glared at each in turn until they did as ordered. "And you, Sergio, you will mind me, or by God and the Virgin, I will gun you down myself! This man behind me is too honorable to shoot me in the back, but I don't know about you anymore, Sergio. If only your mother could have lived so long to see you like this."

     Thoroughly enraged and with his lust for carnage clearly unsated, Sergio spat in Elsebeth's direction again and stalked away. It took several long moments, even after Sergio was out of sight, for the thick tension in the air to abate, but once it was gone, life returned to normal. The pioneer families resumed their work - the wagon train had to start up again - and the gunfighters began cleaning weapons for the next possible encounter.

     "You're lucky, Antonio," he heard the beautiful blond next to him say.

     Turning, he gazed longingly into her hypnotic stare. He cocked his head to the side and studied her for a moment. "What do you mean, belissimo?"

     Tapping the butts of her pistols once, then folding her arms across her chest, Elsebeth whispered in reply. "I hadn't had time to reload, dummkopf. I had one bullet left." As Antonio pondered that potentially deadly mistake, she added, her voice now much louder, "So next time you start thinking with your gee-ba, as the locals call it, you can consider yourself on your own." In a quick, reflexive move, she unfolded her arms, swatting him hard in the shoulder. With the fluidity and grace of a dancer, she spun on her heel and walked away. Antonio heard her say, "Schweinhundt" before she hopped up into a wagon and disappeared from sight.

     Turning around, Antonio made for a group of barrels - his original hiding place when the fighting started. His pack was there. Every worldly possession inside was a reminder of what he'd accomplished in life. The golden pocket watch was from his dying father; it didn't matter that the mechanism had long since broken, it was far more valuable than as a timepiece or the few coins he could sell it for. By now, however, the watch would be at the bottom of the pack, beneath the barrel of the gun carried by Mykonos of Crete. Mykonos was the first bounty Antonio ever collected on; after defeating the notorious bank robber and murderer in a saloon, Antonio took the barrel as a souvenir. Of course, the fact that Mykonos was so drunk he could barely stand and didn't even notice the first four shots Antonio got off - has hand was trembling so violently - was never mentioned in the official report.

     An empty bottle of perfume from Arabia was the next trinket Antonio remembered. The whore house he'd visited - before he met Elsebeth, naturally - was as high class as they came. It had to be, for only the highest of nobility were permitted to enter. Antonio had saved the life of the governor of the province through chance; a plot overheard during a game of skill at a dingy bar led to an undercover operation and a series of arrests. One of the whores, a statuesque, tan skinned, green-eyed Persian beauty rubbed the delightful smelling perfume over every inch of his body before treating him like a king. She let him keep the bottle afterward.

     Arriving to find the barrels gone, Antonio expected to find his pack lying on the ground. To his surprise, it wasn't. Before he could question the families whose wagons were nearest his hiding place, the sound of childish giggling filled his ears. "Bang!" The voice was young but strong. A dark brown form darted out from beneath the nearest wagon. "Gotcha!" It was a boy of about ten or so, holding his hands, index fingers extended and thumbs up in the air, as if he was holding guns. He giggled again, possibly unaware of what death meant. Antonio envied the youth if that was the case. After a moment, the boy cocked his head and his smile turned into a flat crease on his spotty, brown face. "I said, I got you; you're dead now, Mister."

     "I know," Antonio answered grimly.

     "Then why don't you lay down on the ground?" the boy - Arab or Kurdish, possibly Turkish, Antonio guessed - asked him earnestly.

     "And who will tell my family that I'm dead?" Antonio replied. "Whose shoulder will my wife and children cry on when they hear that their daddy is dead? Are you prepared to fight and kill those who would seek vengeance for my death? And will you be so willing to kill the next group who seek vengeance for every group before that you kill? When does it stop, my young friend? Your parents are trying to take you away from that kind of life." It was a life Antonio knew all too well, though only in hindsight - foresight was extremely hard to come by, else people wouldn't make so many mistakes they regretted later.

     "Jeez, Mister, I was only playing," the boy answered, rolling his eyes.

     "Playing is fine, but only if you know the seriousness of what you play at." Antonio hoped the lesson would sink in, but didn't fret too much; youth had a way of discovering things for themselves - often the hard way. "Now, have you seen the pack that lain here before the barrels were removed?"

     "I might have," the boy answered mischievously. "What's it worth to you, Mister?"

     Trying not to smirk at the kid's gall, but knowing he was failing miserably, Antonio dug into the back pocket of his jeans. "What's your name, son?" he asked.

     "Saleed; what's yours?" the youngster answered.

     Finding the flat object he sought, the gunfighter removed it from the pocket and glanced at it. "Antonio. It seems I have one bronze coin for which to pay little thieves for information."

     "I'm not a thief!" Saleed protested. "My mom picked it up and took it into our wagon because she didn't want you to lose it!" When Antonio responded only by scowling at the boy, he leapt up into the air and pointed to the nearest wagon. "Mom! The gunfighter's here for his bag!"

     A somewhat attractive, middle aged woman poked her head out of the wagon. "Saleed, what are you- oh, Mister Giuseppe, I didn't realize you were here. I saved your bag when my husband took his barrels back." She disappeared for a moment, only to return with his pack in one well-calloused hand. "Here you are, and please accept our thanks for protecting us this day." In the other hand, she carried something that really caught Antonio's rapt attention. It was somewhat round, red and looked altogether delicious, so delicious that his stomach growled and he didn't hear what the woman said next.

     Forcing a break from his eager stare, Antonio bowed his head slightly. "I regret ma'am, that I didn't catch the last thing you said."

     A genuine smile grew across the lady's thin lips. Had she been of hearty European stock, Antonio noted she likely would be blushing now. "I just asked if you would take this apple to prove our gratitude." She held it out in the palm of her hand.

     Before he even reached for his pack, he graciously took the fruit and sunk his teeth into it. It crunched and immediately the juices flowed over his lips and tickled his palate. "Mmm, mighty fine, ma'am." He doffed his old, tattered hat. "I thank you for this delight."

     Stuffing another bite in his mouth, he took the pack and smirked again at the brazen boy. "It seems I have been proven wrong about you. A man always admits when he is wrong." He flipped the coin toward Saleed, who deftly caught and pocketed it in a swift, fluid motion. "You have my thanks, young sir."

     As he turned away, he heard Saleed say to his mother, "I want to be just like Mister Giuseppe when I grow up!" Hopefully, his parents could change the kid's mind. Though he enjoyed his life well enough, Antonio knew it wasn't for most people. He also knew a few tragic regrets as a result of the life he led. That part, he would wish on no one.

     Since there was still at least a couple of hours more work ahead of the pioneers before they could be underway again - it was far easier to get wagons into a protective circle than to get them out again - he strolled away from the hustle and bustle. When the apple was nothing but core, he dropped it and decided he'd found a suitable place to lie down for a spell. A worn green and yellow blanket unrolled from the top of his pack and he placed it down gently on the warm tundra. He sat down atop it and went through his pack.

     After taking out his only change of clothes and placing them beside him on the blanket, he dug down for his most prized memento. That it didn't immediately meet his touch disturbed him. "Where is it?" he whispered as he searched. There was the pocket watch of his father, but where was his mother's lace? Could Saleed have removed it to get more money in extortion? If so, why didn't he mention it earlier?

     "Looking for something?" The voice behind Antonio was smug and all too familiar and made the hairs at the back of the gunfighter's neck stand on end.

     "Mordecai, what do you know about anything?" Antonio asked. He got to his feet, turned and glared at the man. Mordecai Wierzbekie owned all the cattle and other livestock the pioneers were taking with them. Mordecai owned a great deal more than that, which also made him think he owned people as well. Though the man was as low down as they came, Antonio couldn't figure for the life of him why Mordecai would be out here in the wastes talking to him now about a shred of fabric almost fifteen years old.

     "I know a lot," Mordecai answered him. "I know we've paid you people plenty of money to keep us safe on this journey and what do we have to show for it? Seven men dead since we set out from Tibetum Province. I've personally lost three steer, two pigs and God knows how many chickens."

     "Oh yes, let's not forget the plight of the mighty chicken," Antonio mocked. "So crucial in conquering the virgin territories which lay before us."

     "I can see matters of commerce escape one such as you," Mordecai responded slyly. "Maybe you will understand this. You've cost me money, and that means, I need to make it back somehow. We aren't settled yet, so I can't make it back from the goy- uh, I mean, my pioneer brothers and sisters, so I'll make it back from you."

     Antonio cocked an eyebrow at the ridiculous man. "If you think you can take me, I'll be more than happy to draw against you." He lightly rubbed his fingertips together to increase their sensitivity and narrowed his gaze down into Mordecai's greed filled soul.

     Throwing his hands up in front of him and taking a step back, the herder nearly babbled for a moment before becoming coherent. "Don't be stupid! I'm not here to start shooting! I'm too wealthy to die. I wanted to sell you something."

     Antonio didn't let his guard down for an instant; the other man carried a pretty deadly Qalid manufactured nine gauge shotgun that could blow him to pieces at close range. "You're as greasy as a snake oil salesman. What could you have that I'd pay you for?"

     Slowly and carefully, Mordecai reached into his coat pocket, all the while Antonio studying his every move, ready to pull his pistol. When it was clear the merchant wasn't reaching for a weapon, Antonio softened a bit. But what was the man reaching for? A strand of dingy, moldy white lace slid out of his pocket and flapped in the gentle breeze. "I stole this back from the man who took it from your pack," Mordecai said. "I want payment for it; everything you were paid to guard us."

     "Who stole it?" Antonio asked, not believing Mordecai's statement for a second.

     "Caterina da Milano," Mordecai responded immediately.

     Snake in the grass, Antonio thought angrily. He practiced that so he'd spit it out fast and smooth. Dirty low down sidewinder also picked a perfect target; he knows I can't check out his claims without starting a war against her brothers. Aloud, he said, "What makes you think I care anything about that scrap of whore cloth?"

     "I know a lot, as I said before." Mordecai grinned like one of the great apes in Africa Antonio read about once. Did the pudgy little man actually know more than he was letting on? How could he know what that piece of cloth meant to Antonio. "I know you got this in Kiev, Ukrainus Province," Mordecai added. "I also know what it means to you, because I was there. What was it, Antonio, about fifteen years ago?" He grinned again. No, Antonio decided, it wasn't the grin of a great ape, it was the toothy grin of a wolf.

     Antonio immediately thought of the pocket watch. It was just laying there in the street, a few feet from the body of his father where it had fallen from his pocket and rolled. His mother's body wasn't far away; her dainty hand still clutched the fancy piece of lace made in Paris, Gallia Province. The same piece of lace Mordecai held now. Though it was made in Paris, the bloated pig was right; when Antonio took it from Zaneta's - his mother - hand, it was outside a bakery in Kiev. Both his parents died that day, not quite fifteen years ago. Could Mordecai have worked at that bakery and seen it all? It seemed so unlikely that the bastard would remember something like that; after all, Antonio had never set eyes on the cattle herder until they met in Tibetum Province in May when the pioneers hired Elsebeth and him.

     "Too wrapped up in emotion to respond?" Mordecai's voice was as unwelcome as any plague. "You can have this back when I see those coins."

     Dark temptations grew and twisted in Antonio's gut. "What if I drop you right now instead?" he asked through gritted teeth. "I could say you were going for that fancy shotgun and I had no choice."

     For the first time, in the warm afternoon sun of a balmy July, Antonio saw Mordecai sweat. "You wouldn't," the herder replied. He swallowed hard. "You'd be killing an innocent man. I'm innocent, I swear it; I didn't steal it, I merely got it back for you."

     "An honest man would reckon it right to give someone back their property, not charge them for it," Antonio informed him.

     "That's a difference of opinion," Mordecai answered. "I'm not trying to change your opinion, and I would hope you would respect my rights to have my own opinions. We're not barbarians like the Seres, after all. We're all Roman citizens, equal under the law."

     "Some are more equal than others, or so it would seem." Antonio had said that more to himself, and so he wasn't surprised that Mordecai seemed not to hear it.

     "So, are you going to shoot me, or pay me for this scrap of memory?" Mordecai dared to say. "Because those are the only two ways you'll get it." He was brave when it concerned money, that Antonio gave him.

     The small bag of coins, mostly silver with a couple gold thrown in, jingled when he took it out of the inside pocket of his duster coat. "Here, take it and be gone," Antonio said unhappily. He approached Mordecai, tossing him the bag. The herder giddily hefted the weight and handed the lace to Antonio.

     "A pleasure doing business with you," the herder said before turning tail and heading back to the wagons and his line of livestock.

     "Ass," Antonio muttered under his breath. It was all the money he had left and now as if to punish him for his kindness in not killing Mordecai, his stomach rumbled. "Now I can't even buy a hot meal." Dejected, Antonio ran the lace through his fingers once before returning it to the safety of his pack. Rolling up the blanket, he bundled that with the pack as well and slung the entire thing over his shoulder. Though he'd wanted to, he wouldn't harm anyone who didn't try to reciprocate. "Maybe in New Milan I can find some work," he said as he walked slowly back toward the caravan. "Or maybe I'll get lucky and someone will take a shot at me." New Milan was still a ways off, but it was the last stop the pioneers would make before moving on to the land they purchased from the Empire.


You can order it here in Kindle version: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0052E9ML2

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New freebie

Pope Benedict VII is pompous, pious and sure of himself. Check out more from this character in my book, Orthodox Rising: The End of History, here: https://www.createspace.com/3564520 and check back for more freebies from my novels.

Pope Benedict the Seventh stood at a window of the stately Papal palace, glancing into the heavens. Pondering at the window was a nightly routine for the pontiff, but where he would normally contemplate the Holy Scriptures, this night was different. For over two hundred years, his misguided Christian neighbors in Constantinople had been attempting to spread their false words of the Lord into Catholic territory. They even stubbornly clung to the name 'Roman Empire', as if without the ancient and eternal city of Rome anything so foolish could be called 'Roman'.

The barbarian tribes of the east and south were slowly whittling away Constantinople's land holdings in the Holy Land, however, and this is what most intrigued the Pope. Should he ask the Catholic nations to help Constantinople and thus risk conversion to that unfortunate sect, or merely sit back and watch as the Moslems conquered what was rightly and unquestionably Christian territory.

"Or is there a third alternative?" Benedict said quietly.

"Your Excellency?" Mercutio, the Pope's private secretary asked. "Did you say something, Your Excellency?"

Turning away from the window for a moment, Benedict looked back at the man, dressed in his silk tunica with gold embroidery at the cuffs. "I was considering what to do about the Holy Land and those other Christians."

"Many Christians suffer in the Holy Land at the hands of the Moslems, and under the yoke of those so called 'Orthodox' fools, Your Excellency," Mercutio commented neutrally. "Many in the enlightened kingdoms of Catholicism would love to rescue the crown of our Lord from such heathens."

"Many in the 'enlightened' kingdoms hate each other more than the true enemies of Christ, Mercutio," Benedict reminded him. "The eastern Franks, hate those of the west, and don't forget that our own countrymen poison each other with alarming alacrity."

Seeming to think for a moment, Mercutio hung his head so that his chin almost touched his chest. "If only we had some kind of sign from heaven, Your Excellency."

Returning his gaze out the window, to the stars, Benedict remained quiet for a few moments. "It has been nine hundred, forty-seven years since our Lord left us," he said finally, moisture forming around the corners of his eyes. "In all that time we have heard nothing but the natterings of our own voices." His own faith was wavering in that time. "We are weak in our faith and the Arabs are so strong in theirs; sometimes I wonder..." He trailed off and spoke no more of lessening faith, for at that second, a bright light appeared in the northeast sky. It was whiter than white and intense enough to easily be seen amongst all the light in Rome.

"What is it, Your Excellency?" Mercutio asked.

"Come to the window quickly," the Pope commanded. When the secretary was at his side, Benedict pointed to the light. "What is that you see?" he asked.

"A white light, Your Excellency," Mercutio responded, his voice quavering slightly.

"It is a sign," Benedict muttered. "Record this and we shall wait for a moment to see what happens." Realistically, it didn't matter what happened to the light, the Pope had an ambitious idea brewing that would unite the feuding nations and bring the entire world under the control of Rome once more.

"Look there, Your Excellency," Mercutio marveled as he scribbled on his tablet, "the light is moving slightly to the southeast! What could it mean?"

"Go now, Mercutio," Benedict commanded. "See if the whole of Rome can see this event and record what they say. I must think on this sign and seek an answer from God." When the secretary was gone, the Pope brought up a mental map of the eastern lands. To the north was Kiev, and all current intelligence reported that the Russians had rejected Orthodoxy. A recent war had also taken place between the Rus and Constantinople, further isolating the so called 'Roman Empire'. Benedict snarled at the name the Greeks called their pathetic empire.

If enough of the world saw the star in the sky, he could convince the believers to go to Kiev to preach the true word. The Pope would dispatch missionaries to Poland, for one of his newest, but staunchest allies, Mieszko, Duke of the Polans, would no doubt wish to help. If Benedict could get cooperation from the Russians in the north, he could isolate Constantinople completely, allowing the Arabs to attack, leaving the Holy Land unguarded. Then, an army of his faithful could be gathered and sent to retake and hold Jerusalem. This act could be followed by reinforcements and the Arab lands would be split down the middle. Constantinople may even ask for help, making possible an opportunity to correct their wrong thinking and bring them into the Catholic fold. It might, however, depend on where the white light went. Suddenly, almost as an answer to his prayers, the light shot off at great speed, disappearing to the east.

"The Lord has spoken," Benedict said quietly. "The Lord wishes us to reach out our loving hands and help the peoples of the east to accept the true vision of Christ that only we Popes on earth may hold. The nations under Rome must know of this sign and must act accordingly. Thy will be done, oh Lord."

A freebie from one of my novels

Salvos Angelos is a diplomat in the Byzantine Empire. He is about to stumble on a fantastic secret, one that may save his Empire from destruction, but only if he can convince the Emperor of its usefulness. At the same time, he is haunted by a ghost from his past. Check out this section from Orthodox Rising: The End of History:

    "Don't stray too far, dearest," her silky soft voice caressed his ear. "I'll always be here, waiting for you, my love." She reclined on the couch, extending an olive tanned finger toward him and he felt absolute bliss pulsing through his veins.

    "I won't be long, my plum," he returned. Everything was too good to be true, he thought. It was the wedding day he had always dreamed of, and he, Salvos Angelos, was making a name for himself before the very emperor in Constantinople. The year was nine hundred eighty and before the turn of the millennium, he'd be a minister at the emperor's feet, possibly even elected emperor himself. His bride, political marriage though she was, loved him genuinely and was quite agreeable in temperament and beautiful as well.

    As he walked down the long, misty hallway, for the first time Salvos tried to remember why he had left the warmth and comfort of his bedchamber and his new wife, Etta. As he huffed for air, he realized the atmosphere was suddenly very heavy and acrid, smelling strongly of sulfur. A harsh red glow had replaced the orange firelight and seemed to surround him. A shadow crept up on the fringes of his peripheral vision, but as he turned to confront it, there was nothing but empty corridor and that hazy, red luminescence. "Is there someone there?" he called. Almost immediately, the same words returned to his ears, low and feral, almost like a growl, but undeniably in his own, distorted voice.

    The hair on his arms and at the back of his neck raised as the air crackled around him. Again the echo of his own voice poured through the ever shrinking tunnel. Again and again it returned, growing in ferociousness and volume until it threatened to burst his eardrums.

   Starting at a run, Salvos made his way back to the door to his bedchamber, having to stoop as the ceiling touched the top of his head. Slamming full force into the door, he fell painfully to the ground, his entire weight and momentum unable to break it down. For a moment, he lay there in agony, rubbing his sore shoulder. The echoes ceased abruptly, as did the compaction of the hallway.

    The red light became more intense and Salvos realized it was becoming extremely hot. Sweat beaded and flowed down him, pooling beneath his prone body. The sulfur smell magnified until he was certain he would vomit. The temperature continued to rise and he felt as though he were being cooked alive.

    "My love, Salvos," a welcome and familiar voice slipped into his ears. "Why don't you come to me? You have the power. Think on me, and you shall be with me. Close your eyes, dearest."

    Without any more prodding, Salvos shut his eyelids tightly and tried to allay his fears with an image of his beautiful bride. He pictured her perfect, plump, olive skin. He imagined himself staring into her magnificent, black eyes as she averted her gaze in that come hither way she did in his presence.

    Suddenly, smooth, warm flesh met the back of his hand. Fingers curled gently around, touching his palm. The thrill he felt was all too familiar; it had to be his beloved Etta. "I am here, my love." Her voice was barely a whisper and weaker than before, but laced with the same aesthetic quality he had grown to love in her. "Open your eyes and see me for what I am, Salvos," she said as her grip on his hand disappeared. This time, her words were hardly audible and he doubted he had heard her correctly.

    Without further speculation, he did as she commanded. As his eyes focused he groped out to clasp her hand: it was as cold as ice and stiff, almost brittle. Frozen, pale skin met his stunned gaze. Sunken, dry eyes, wide with a terror unrecognizable in the mortal realm greeted his. Dry heaving, Salvos quickly backed away. Once more, he fell heavily to the ground, shocked by the corpse lying nonchalantly on his bridal couch just as Etta had lain there before. It was clearly Etta, decayed and desiccated, still in her wedding gown.

    "What's the matter, dearest?" The sound that scorched his ears could hardly be called a voice, it was more like a hissing noise and he instantly and totally denied that it had come from the body at all. "Do you forget so easily; you did this to me." In horror, his gaze was drawn down to the dainty hands that so recently had held his; large, sharp wooden splinters stuck out from under fingernails stripped of color. Faint, dried crimson coated the wooden shards with ancient gore. "You did this to me, my love," the hideous croaking noise pervaded the entire room. "Soon it will be your turn!"

    Salvos Angelos sat upright in the plush, purple silk decorated carriage that bore the standard of Constantinople. A bead of sweat trickled down from his saturated brow, stinging his eye, forcing him to blink it away. All was silent, except for the faint sounds of restless horses in the foreground. The slight orange-red flickering of firelight seeped through the violet curtains.

    Grasping at the nearby ottoman, he picked up his handkerchief and generously wiped his wet forehead, running the last few moments over in his mind. It had been a while since his last nightmare; most of his dreams of his late wife were pleasant, but occasionally he would awake like this, not fully able to recall the horrors of his nightmare. This time, however, a few of the horrid images stuck with him, as if burned onto the retina. It seemed as though the dream was attempting to imply that he had buried his beloved prematurely, a thought that made him shudder outwardly.

    "It's only a dream, Salvos," he told himself repeatedly for a few moments as he tried to push the terrible scene from his memory. He had more important things to focus on. The emperor himself had sent him to Trebizond on the eastern fringes of the Roman Empire to negotiate with the Turks, newly arrived from the wastes of central Asia. The Turks were strong but uncivilized and refused God's message in favor of the heathen Moslems. It was Salvos' task to see how reasonable they could be, or how much of a threat they posed to the empire.

    "Have a nightmare?" his friend and traveling companion, Demetrios Kamateros, asked as he rolled over. Demetrios was two years Salvos' junior but every bit as sharp. The old friends had grown up together, although Demetrios was forced to act as assistant to be afforded the luxury of accompanying his friend. Demetrios took to the task with his usual aplomb.

    "No thanks, I just had one," Salvos commented dryly.

    "Funny," Demetrios chided. "You should give up this life of excess and become a traveling jester." Demetrios stood from his small bed of hay on the floor of the carriage and poured out some water in a fancy goblet which he held in front of his parched friend. "Down the hatch," he said, before drinking the water down himself, instead of giving it to Salvos.

    "Some friend you are," Salvos retorted in a raspy voice.

    "Oh, did you want some?" Demetrios answered. "You know where the goblets are."

    "Well, why didn't I pour you something to drink?" Salvos admonished. "Would you like your breakfast in bed? I'd be ever so happy to accommodate you."

    "Now that you mention it..." Demetrios answered, a sly grin upon his face before he took out a goblet and poured some water for his friend. "Here, Mr. Crabby needs something to keep him moist."

    Salvos took the proffered drink but said no more. Thoughts of his upcoming negotiations fluttered through his mind and he absently peered through the break in the violet curtain. A horse brayed softly and several shadows passed by his line of sight, but silence continued to reign as he sat in contemplation. Without warning, a young pageboy crept inside with a sheathed sword and a small satchel clutched in his hands. "What are you-" Salvos couldn't finish because the boy put his hand over Salvos' mouth and put one finger to his lips.

    "The knight in charge of the caravan told me to fetch provisions and give them to you, Master," the pageboy whispered. "He thinks there's trouble afoot."

    "Nonsense," Salvos protested just as a calamitous noise began outside. Terrible screams and yelling in Greek and Arabic erupted almost at once. Daring to take a peek outside, Salvos flinched as a man running toward the carriage gasped, shouted in Egyptian Arabic and fell into the fire, an arrow sticking out of his back.

    "Run, Master; out the back!" the pageboy cried, shoving the sword and satchel into his hands before jumping out the way he'd come in.

    "I guess we'd better do as the youth says," Demetrios said. "Do you want me to carry that pig sticker?" Salvos immediately dropped the sword; he was no skilled fighter and there was at least a slim chance that without a weapon the attackers may only kidnap them. "I'll take that as a 'no' then?" Demetrios remarked.

    "Now isn't the time for jokes, Demetrios," Salvos admonished. "We have to get out of here fast. If we can escape to the city we can get passage back to Constantinople or maybe make contact with the Turks again." Under Salvos' pillow was the royal seal which would prove his identity to anyone. Hastily, he threw the seal into the satchel and hurried out the back - which was in fact the front of the carriage - as the boy had suggested, Demetrios following closely behind.

    Since they were on the opposite side as the fire, it was very dark and the two friends easily disappeared in the commotion. Pausing before slipping into the underbrush, Salvos turned to observe the scene, crouching low to avoid detection. He wasn't fluent in any of the barbarian languages, but he knew more than enough to distinguish one from another. What he had heard was most definitely Egyptian, but what were Egyptians doing so far north?

    "This way, Salvos," his friend said, but the emissary barely heard him. His thoughts spun around the meaning - and reason - of the attack. Suddenly, he saw, but was not truly seeing what was happening all around; a vision of his late Etta returned, a worried look marring her pretty features. She seemed to be peering over his shoulder to his right, her eyes focused on some distant danger. A shrill cry behind him quickly drew his attention. Spinning to his right, Salvos spotted an Egyptian running toward him, his curved scimitar raised high above his head.

    Paralyzed, Salvos could only watch the rapid approach of the heathen, until he was certain he was dead. At the last second, Demetrios stepped out from behind a tree, a sword in his hands. Swinging the weapon like a club, Demetrios struck the target in the midsection so forcefully that the sword seemed to disappear into the belly of the Egyptian. A look of stunned horror overtook the Egyptian's face as he fell to his knees.

    "I thought this thing might come in handy," Demetrios commented, indicating the sword. He extended his hand.

    "You went against my orders to leave that weapon," Salvos replied as he took Demetrios' hand and was soon on his feet.

    "Well, what are you going to do, fire me?" Demetrios responded. Not waiting for an answer, he went on. "Now, before I was so rudely interrupted by your glazed eye look, we have to get out of here and this is the way," he said, pointing to the thick forest.

    As they disappeared into the line of trees, Salvos asked, "Are you sure you know where we're going?"

    "You shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answer to," Demetrios said.

    "I was afraid of that."

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Byzantine confusion

As a history tutor, I am often asked about the Byzantine Empire and how it relates to Rome.

When Constantine established Constantinople as a second capital of the Roman Empire, he essentially split the empire in two, though both pieces worked in tandem until the Goths sacked Rome and killed the Western Emperor in the 5th Century.

The Eastern Roman Empire continued on from there. In fact, the term Byzantine wasn't used for the first time until a hundred years after the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Even then, the term didn't come into common use until the 19th Century. If you took a citizen off the street of a Byzantine city, he would say he was a citizen of the Roman Empire. In law, technology and military, the Byzantine was much Roman as it could be. Only the dominant language (Greek) and culture was different, and the culture of the east had been different from the western part of the empire for centuries before the fall of Rome, so there was little difference at all.

Now, much of Western Europe referred to the Greek Empire, or Eastern Empire, refusing to give it the title 'Roman'. This caused a great deal of friction between ruling parties east and west and also contributed in no small part to the split between Orthodox Christianity and Catholicism. The Byzantine Emperor also objected strongly to the Catholic Pope naming the German states the Holy Roman Empire.

So, really, what am I getting at you might ask yourself. It really comes down to opinion, not concrete fact. Both sides have equally compelling arguments. In my opinion, Rome didn't truly fall until 1453 because the Byzantines continued the law and spirit of ancient Rome with them.

Questions about history and comments are more than welcome. I will try to continue this blog regularly, coming up with historical topics and alternate history scenarios.

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