Fallen Eagle

2nd Week of April, 1460

“That went better than I thought,” Sir Silvanus commented as he eased himself onto his folding stool. His legs crossed with a lazy grace, but the slight hunch in his shoulders betrayed the hours of interrogation they had pushed through with the captive nomads, trying to make sense from disparate and terrified accounts.

“Which part are you referring to? The ambushes or the blockades?” Theodorus asked, lifting his cup for another sip of the warm herbal infusion he’d had prepared to carry him through the tedium. Parchment lay spread before him, columns of cramped notes where he had been cross-referencing the scraps of testimony.

“The information gathering,” Sir Silvanus said, lips quirking. “Everything, really.” He let out a low, satisfied chuckle. “We’ve come away with a clearer picture of our enemy than I’d dared hope for - and a clearer picture of their plans.”

“The most interesting point I believe to be the slight cracks in the leadership showing through,” Theodorus replied, tapping the side of a smudged parchment with an ink-stained finger.

“What do you mean?” Silvanus asked, one eyebrow climbing.

“The presence of mercenaries in the base despite the Principe’s public outcry is telling,” Theodorus said. “If he truly held power, his outrage would have carried weight. The fact they’re still there is a clue that he’s a puppet - and probably an unhappy one at that.” He flipped a page, skimming a line. “Exiling the nomads was a concession thrown to him to keep him content and playing his part, which signals they still need him as a figurehead. But the discrimination is bound to have upset the foreign mercenaries under their employ. Which are numerous."

Theodorus's eyes glinted as he walked through the rationale he had seen through the conversation with the nomads. "Their leadership is not united. And that disunity may prove the greatest weakness of all.”

“One we have no good way to pry at just yet,” the Doux rumbled from his heavier chair, voice like distant thunder, eyes closed as if in contemplation. “So, for now, it remains a theoretical advantage, not a practical one.”

Theodorus conceded the point with a small nod.

“It’s a pity they won’t follow us into the western passes,” Sir Silvanus sighed, tone light but eyes thoughtful. “But expecting them to oblige us by stumbling into an ambush here would have been asking too much of fortune.”

“That’s why we have been preparing the southern ambush site,” Theodorus reminded him of their backup plan. “The terrain is not as favourable as the western cliffs, it is true, but with the extra week of time we bought ourselves with these manoeuvres, the engineers and carpenters should be able to rework the ground enough to manage a proper ambush.” He set his quill aside and wiped a smear of ink from his fingers with a handcloth.

The other captains had long since gone back to the necessary duties of overseeing camp routines and tightening the perimeter. At some point, almost without noticing, Theodorus had become the one left to jot down the key points from each interrogation - the natural choice as he was the junior of the three commanders.

“We’ve bought ourselves time.” The Doux rumbled from his armchair, eyes closed, as if weighing something heavy behind that carved, unreadable face. “And we’ve made them blind to our movements. That was the bare minimum.” His fingers tightened once on the armrest. “Now we must move to the southern staging ground.”

“How do we know they’ll still head for Kalamita after all of this?” Sir Silvanus asked. “Couldn’t they simply lay siege to the capital instead?”

The Doux opened his eyes. Dark slits fixed on his commander, steady and unblinking. “I’ve known Philemon a long time. He is convinced that my family’s support for the Crown is one of the main reasons the diadem has not already fallen into his grasp.” His gaze drifted past them for a moment, to something only he could see. “Our struggle has been a long one. We have crossed one another at every turn, blocked each other's advances again and again. In his mind, once my house falls, the capital will follow soon after.”

He exhaled, and the sound seemed to carry years in it. “And he is not wrong,” the Doux admitted. “But this is more than that. This is a vendetta that has been ripening for a very long time.” His eyes sharpened, all the weariness gone in an instant. “He will come south. I am sure of it.” He rose from his chair with the slow inevitability of stone shifting, like a mountain heaving itself upright.

“We’ve set the stage for a miracle,” he said. “But we still have to bring it about.” His gaze settled on Theodorus for that last line. “We cannot fail.”

“We won’t,” Theodorus answered, the words coming out calmer than he felt. He caught the unspoken weight beneath them well enough.

His own position was precarious, and he knew it. Being named a subcommander of the Crown army had trodden on more than a few toes. The Principality, small as it was, still held a relatively sizeable pool of officers and men with real military experience. Years of petty wars with their Genoese rivals and constant raiding from the Crimeans had forged a hard core of veteran captains and sergeants. Even with some of the better officers poached away by the rebels, there were still plenty who could reasonably have expected promotion before him.

Passing over those older, more senior men in favour of Theodorus had been seen as a slight and a gamble on the part of the Megas Doux. It was true Theodorus had two notable victories to his name, a solid reputation at court, and had shown a clear head for strategy during the war councils before the rebellion. But even so, he had leapt several rungs at once over the established order of seniority in the Principality, and that kind of leap always left resentment behind it like a wake.

Both his reputation and the Doux’s were now tied to the outcome of this campaign. If the southern gamble failed, it would not be forgotten that the Megas Doux had staked part of his plan on an upstart younger man. Under other circumstances, that might have meant disgrace.

But with the Principality staring down its own likely destruction, the usual calculations of where rank and favour were meaningless to the Doux. What did it matter whose honour survived, if the state that granted that honour burned?

The Doux stomped out of the tent, heavy steps shaking the rugs underfoot, and the night air rushed in through the lifted flap. Silvanus and Theodorus followed him out, each peeling away after a few paces to vanish toward their own duties in the camp.

Theodorus made his way along the central lane, past rows of sagging tents and smouldering cookfires, watching the militia pack away spears and shields for the night, their movements slow, they were walking the fine line of being tired enough to be less unruly and start building up proper endurance, and not being exhausted enough to breed resentment and sloppiness.

A young scribe hurried up to him out of the half-dark, clutching a folded sheet of paper in ink-stained fingers, breath misting in the chill air.

Scribes were a precious commodity in their camp. Stealing even three from the capital had been a struggle, and their services were in constant demand. Under the new model of strict order they were trying to impose on the army, scribes were needed to record misconducts and misdemeanours, to track captains and sergeants as they applied due punishment and to keep a written leash to stop any abuses on part of their officers. They were giving a great deal of leeway to individual leaders in the decentralized system of organization they’d adopted so written oversight was essential to ensure adequate standards and fairness.

On top of that, they were attempting the herculean task of logging most of the army’s inventory and keeping those lists up to date. Every spear, every hauberk, every half-rotting mule. So far it had been an uphill struggle. Standardising requisitions, teaching men how to properly request equipment and note its use, had proved harder than drilling them to hold a shield wall. With only three full scribes, much of it fell back onto Theodorus’s shoulders. He had to supervise the system closely, correct ledgers, chase missing tablets, and, more often than he liked, pick up the quill himself.

But it was thanks to that drudgery that they knew just how close their supplies were to running out and had been able to requisition additional loads from the capital as they passed through. Without the figures, hunger would have been a nebulous, non-quantifiable enemy that would have struck them long before any enemy.

“Commander, the requisition supplies letter from Mangup.”

The scribe was as thin as the strip of parchment he held, all elbows and angles, with a shock of dark hair that matched the prominent shadows smeared beneath his eyes.

“Thank you, Stylianos. We should last until they arrive?” Theodorus asked the camp’s senior notary.

Unlike the grand campaigns of old Rome, medieval armies rarely carried great stores of food and equipment all at once. They trailed their sustenance behind them in a ragged chain of carts, grudging villages and foraging, but the Doux hadn’t wanted to push already strained villages lest their loyalty collapse.

“Yes, if barely,” the man muttered. “These peasants eat as much as my late wife.” Stylianos somehow managed to curse his late wife in nearly every exchange.

“Your work is appreciated,” Theodorus said.

“Not paid nearly enough for it…” Stylianos grumbled under his breath as he stalked off toward the general supplies tent, off to wage his own quiet war on parchment and ledgers. Theodorus did not mind the man’s rudeness. Stylianos always put the work in, and that was what mattered.

Theodorus unfurled the scroll that had arrived and began to read.

To His Excellency, the Megas Doux,

By the grace of God and the diligence of your servants, the wagons you requested have been laden with enough grain, vegetables, and salt meat to last you another week. Barring mischance of weather or road, they shall reach the appointed crossroads two days hence, where your quartermasters may take full receipt. Know that Mangup labours with you in spirit, though her walls lie far behind your banners.

In loyal service,

Zeno Makris

Now that was a name he had not heard in some time.

Not since his own dealings with Zeno, back when Theodorus had been a nameless minor noble arriving in the capital. He had not forgotten the bargain struck under that gnarled oak, with posset in hand, nor the favour that still hung over him like a note come due.

He had already thought it strange that Zeno had not been summoned to sit in on the war councils. Zeno was the only other truly promising, up-and-coming military mind Theodorus had encountered among the Principality’s officers. In a way, though, it made sense. Instead of riding with the field army, Zeno had been given the second most important task of the entire war: holding the capital and maintaining order with a garrison stripped near to the bone.

From what Theodorus understood, Zeno was effectively babysitting a clutch of older, less capable senior officers who had been left behind to “oversee” the city. They were competent enough to keep order, but would be a burden on the battlefield.

One could only hope he was holding down the fort well enough for them all. Someone as capable as Zeno could certainly do so. And certainly wouldn’t forget the debt Theodorus owed him.

Theodorus knew that when it came time to cash it in, it would come with an extra dose of interest.

“Master Steward?”

The knock on the door to Theophylact’s perpetually cramped study made him jump, quill skidding a blot across the margin. He had been buried so deep in the weeds of his texts that, for a moment, the world beyond the parchment barely existed.

“A supply requisition has come through for you.”

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“Ah, y-yes.” Theophylact hurriedly dragged a loose sheet over the open tome in front of him and snapped shut the other volumes he’d been consulting. “C-come inside.”

The servant obeyed, slipping through the door with a low, practised bow before crossing to the desk. He laid a folded paper missive on the only clear space available. The red wax seal of the Nomikos stag stared up imperiously from it.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” the servant asked, eyes flicking over the chaotic scrawl of papers that covered Theophylact’s too-small desk where an assortment of ledgers and notes were stacked like a paper fortress.

It amused Theophylact, in a bitter sort of way, that no one had ever addressed him with such deference before he was handed the keys to the castle. For years he had been treated like a common clerk, but now that he was their de facto superior, they suddenly laced their words with respect. This particular boy was a minor, distant relative of the Nomikos line, pushed into service as his assistant following that snake Iadeus’s departure. Theophylact knew better by now than to blindly trust anyone connected to Lord Adanis in any way.

“N-No, I am q-quite fine, thank you. Y-you can return to your t-task in the a-archives,” Theophylact said.

The boy could not quite hide the weary look that crossed his face. Theophylact did not blame him. He had set the young man to scouring the archives and grouping the books in a fixed order by rough topic, then noting their position on each shelf onto a master sheet for future consultation. The idea had come from some whimsical, radical notion Captain Theodorus had once shared with him, but which Theophylact had initially dismissed as he was busy drafting the forgery for Lord Adanis.

Cataloguing the books was commonly done in distant Arabic libraries to make it easier to access knowledge, Theodorus had claimed. It was a task that would take almost a week merely to arrange the books, particularly since the boy was not familiar with the archives in the first place. And that was without even touching on the other, more fantastical notion Theodorus had proposed of ‘indexing’ the books, as he’d called it, marking key subjects so they could be found at a glance.

For now, it was glorified busywork. It kept the boy occupied and, more importantly, away from Theophylact while he pursued his own, far more dangerous studies.

Once the servant had shuffled out, Theophylact barely spared the letter more than a cursory glance to ensure the amounts were sizeable. The mercenaries currently in the Lord’s employ apparently expected to eat decently while on campaign if the large order of grain, fine meat, and wine was any indication.

The only detail that snagged his attention was that the supply caravans were to be delivered to the army via the eastern roads, passing through the Makris domain, likely to circumvent the capital’s zone of control. He made a quick notation on a scrap of parchment, then rang for a runner and ordered the immediate dispatch of the latest batch of goods to the location described in the missive.

With that formality dealt with, his thoughts leapt back to the text that had been consuming him.

He had gone into the Lord’s private study only to retrieve the formal signet ring needed for official correspondence. While searching, he had noticed a singular book placed almost carelessly along one of the shelves. That, in itself, had been enough to raise his suspicions. If there was one thing Theophylact knew about Lord Adanis, it was that the man did not read. In fact, he despised the activity, often calling it ‘scribework’.

Yet here, among the dust and ornaments, lay a volume bound in respectable leather: Of Casus Belli and Rights of Land. It made for an exceedingly dry read, all cramped script and legalistic Latinisms, marking its presence even more confounding. There was something hidden there, he knew it.

And he had been right.

Now, back in his cramped study, Theophylact’s hand trembled slightly as he gripped the volume with feverish strength and found again the passage he had marked.

Know that a vassal prince may in certain cases be loosed from the tighter bonds of obedience, if it be proven before God and men that his claim to the land is older and more just than that of the present lord, and that he hath administered that land with unspotted stewardship. For as a tree well-rooted endureth when the graft withereth, so too may a rightful house stand apart when the greater stock decays. Thus did the Komnenoi of Trebizond, long vassals in name to the Empire of the Romans, yet by ancient right and faithful governance were suffered to order their own principality upon the Euxine shores, paying honour yet not yielding all command.

Theophylact’s eyes widened, the words swimming slightly as the implication sank in.

Lord Adanis did not mean to revolt merely to co-rule the Principality alongside Lord Philemon. He meant to betray him outright and break away entirely, seizing the North for himself not as a rebel baron to be brought to heel, but as the founder of a new realm carved out of the old.

The days seemed dimmer now, for all that the sun climbed higher and lingered longer in the sky. Cassandra had stopped cloistering herself in her bedroom and had instead transitioned to drifting through the castle halls like a pale echo of herself, feeling more spectre than living girl.

The keep felt wrong without her family in it. Without her brother’s sheepish apologies after some unintended occurrence that was not his fault whatsoever, without her cousins’ constant spats and reconciliations, without the bustle of rowdy men and militia cluttering the corridors. Even without her father’s heavy, soothing head pats, though that thought curdled in her mind as soon as it rose.

And of course, without the strange, infuriating puzzle that was the Captain.

At night, Cassandra lay awake staring at the ceiling beams, counting each crack as if they were beads on a rosary. Her thoughts circled the same track.

Would her family come back alive? Would her Captain return home safe? Or were they, at that very moment, butchering one another senseless on some muddy field to feed the crows and stain the soil for no reason other than power and gold?

It was a cruel fate to leave the waiting to those who could do nothing. Too cruel.

She was passing by the empty inner courtyard when she spotted a familiar black mop of hair on the opposite side. Hilda. Cassandra stiffened. Instinct made her lean back into the shadow of a pillar, as if the stone itself might swallow her.

But Hilda had always been sharp-eyed. Cassandra saw the girl pause, head tilting just a fraction, and then begin moving in her direction with quiet determination.

Cassandra’s heart lurched into a faster beat. She did not want to speak with anyone, not when she felt so frayed and raw. She slipped from column to column, dodging and weaving through the arcade as if she could outrun conversation itself. She cut through a side passage and into one of the corners of the common hall, pressing her back to the cool wall. For a moment, she let out a slow breath, certain she had gotten away scot-free.

“You should know you can’t run away from me,” a bright, uplifted voice sounded behind her, making Cassandra jump. “You never won at hide and seek.”

Cassandra turned to see Hilda leaning in the doorway, wearing that particular mischievous smile that belonged to her alone. It was all thirteen years of contained rascalry.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Cassandra said, giving a little sniff, trying - and failing - to make the whole thing sound accidental.

“I know you, Cassa. You’ve been avoiding me.” Hilda’s smile thinned at the edges, turning down into something softer and a touch sad.

The sight hurt more than Cassandra expected. She had not truly thought about what her silence would feel like from the other side. Of course Hilda would be upset if Cassandra suddenly stopped talking to her. If Hilda had turned away from her without a word, Cassandra knew she would have been just as wounded.

“I’m sorry, little sister,” Cassandra murmured, using their old nickname. She reached out and ruffled Hilda’s black shock of hair, the way she always did.

Hilda leaned into the touch immediately, a small, familiar weight. The gesture sent a sharp pang through Cassandra’s chest. It was too close to the way her father’s broad hand would muss her own hair.

“Let’s go to the tree?” Hilda asked after a heartbeat, voice turning hopeful. Only now, looking at her properly, did Cassandra see that the little Nomikos girl was tense, shoulders drawn tight, eyes a touch too bright. Of course she’s worried, too, Cassandra thought. She’s wondering whether the family she had left would come back safe.

Guilt washed over her, hot and sudden. How self-absorbed she had been.

“Of course,” Cassandra agreed.

They slipped out together, climbing the familiar path to the old oak that crowned the rise overlooking the walls.

They spread their cloaks on the ground and settled with their backs against the rough bark, the world stretching out below in sloping roofs and distant fields. Time seemed to loosen its grip there. They talked, at first about nothing important, letting their worries spill out in sideways fragments.

Soon enough they were reliving smaller, brighter memories, snatching at them like fireflies. They laughed over the day they had hidden Apostolos’s shoes and watched from behind a curtain as he searched the castle from cellar to battlements, panicked and fretting over something so unimportant. Then there was the time they had snuck away to the upper gallery for the best view of the courtyard, stifling giggles as they watched the soldiers and militiamen sweat through their drills below, well out of sight so no one could scold them for such ‘unladylike’ entertainment.

The sun kept sliding across the sky, and even the most determined chatter could not hold back the tide forever. As the light mellowed into late afternoon and the shadows lengthened across the roots, the conversation turned quieter, almost of its own accord.

They spoke less of old pranks and more of what might be waiting on those far-off fields. Cassandra found her gaze drifting to the spot where she and the Captain had once sat side by side. Hilda stared at the distant road that led south, a look no thirteen-year-old child should have on her face.

“He used to bring me the strangest snacks,” Cassandra began, her voice small.

“With the blanket, yes? You told me,” Hilda replied, giggling. “That’s so weird. Is eating outside in the cold of winter truly so wonderful?”

“Oh, yes. It made for a good diversion.” Cassandra’s lips twitched at the memory, then flattened as her thoughts landed on that last, strange afternoon beneath the tree.

“What’s the matter?” Hilda asked, catching the change at once.

“Well… the last time we met here was on the day of the competition,” Cassandra said quietly.

Hilda’s expression sobered at once. “The day he murdered cousin Kyriakos?” she asked, voice dark. She had, of course, only been told the official version of events.

Cassandra’s throat tightened. She did not have the heart to tell her that it had been Apostolos who’d killed on her father’s orders. So she let the question pass.

“We were having snacks beneath the tree, like usual,” she said instead. “Just wasting away the hours, and then…” Her words trailed off.

“What?” Hilda pressed, curiosity pricking through her worry.

“That’s the thing. I do not remember.” Cassandra swallowed. “The whole morning… it is a blur.”

“A blur?” Hilda frowned.

“I confess I had quite a bit of wine.” Cassandra admitted, colour rising to her cheeks. “He had to carry me back to the common room.”

Hilda’s eyes narrowed. “He went inside the common room?”

“Well, just to lay me on the couch,” Cassandra said quickly, flustered. “And only for a little while.”

“No one but a Nomikos is supposed to enter the common room,” Hilda hissed. “And the captain who betrayed our trust to the Crown was led inside?” She spat the last words out. “Do you not find that strange?”

“What do you mean?” Cassandra asked, her tone more than a little defensive, she did not like where this was headed.

“I mean it is restricted for a reason, Cassa,” Hilda said, eyes narrowing further. “It leads straight into the Lord’s study.”

“What are you saying now? That he carried me there to reach the study? That is quite preposterous.” Cassandra tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out thin. She could not quite believe what she was hearing.

“Is it?” Hilda stood, little chin lifting with that familiar stubbornness. “Because if there is one thing I know about it is mischief.” She crossed her arms with an imperious expression that would have made Cassandra laugh were it another time. “And this smells a great deal like mischief. He entered our sanctum on the very day he fled.”

“But it seems very convoluted to assume something like that,” Cassandra protested. “He could not have known we would end up in the common room.”

Even as she said it, the reasoning felt fragile, like thin ice beneath her feet.

“You got drunk, you said?” Hilda pressed. “Did you truly drink so much? He must have poisoned you!”

Cassandra frowned at the insinuation. Her cousin was a child who would naturally think of such outlandish tales, but something in the thought struck some chord Casssandra felt true. The more she thought about it, the more she frowned.

Then her eyes widened.

She stood there, struck dumb, colour draining from her face. The world around her seemed to sway.

The wine… what did you…

She remembered saying so, in her dreams. A plea to the captain as he poisoned her.

“No. No, no, no, no,” Cassandra whispered, the words tumbling out in a frantic rhythm.

It had been there all along, hidden in the hazy dreams that stalked her every night, locked in the darkest corner of her mind where she had refused to look too closely. The blurred laughter, the warmth in her chest, the way the world had tilted.

“Cassandra, where are you-” Hilda’s voice faded behind her as Cassandra lurched to her feet.

She snatched the weathered scrap of verse from the swing on the tree, the little poem she had written to her mother, clutching it in one hand as she fled. She barely saw the courtyard, the servants, the grey stone walls. She ran as if she could outrun the memory forming in her mind, the pattern snapping into place.

I’m sorry, Cassandra,

The words from his letter burned in her thoughts.

She had been a fool all along, blinded by her own heart. She had done the very thing she had sworn she would never do: she had betrayed her house.

I have to save us all.

She had let herself be led astray by the silver in his eyes, by the puzzle she had been so desperate to solve. And in the end she had ruined everything - for herself and for her family.

I must be the villain in this story. And you, its victim.

Cassandra reached the door to the Nomikos common room and shoved it open with more force than necessary. The familiar chamber yawned before her, quiet and dim. In her hands, she held the letter and tore through it with shaking fingers, as if the ink on the page might finally yield up the truth she had tried so hard not to see.

Dear Mother,

I hope you have been well, up there above. I am writing, as I always do each year, to wish you a happy birthday and to tell you the latest news.

You will not believe it, but Papa has finally bestowed the title of Hypo-Strategos on someone else. On Uncle Hypatios, of course. I cannot say I am pleased. He always has those fishy eyes, and I have seen him look at Father nastily when he thinks no one is watching. I do not like him at all. I wish Uncle Kostakis were still here, and I miss him dearly. I still do not understand how he could die to a fabled beast on an ordinary hunting trip of all things.

Brother Apostolos and Father remain the same. You would be sad to know they still do not get along. Brother tries so hard to impress Father, but Papa is always too harsh with him.

The most exciting news is that a new captain has joined our garrison. He is supposedly a war hero from the frontier, and he is almost my age. Since arriving, he has done nothing but strange things, and I have yet to understand him. He barely seemed to notice me at first, but now I find our eyes meeting more often than not. I must learn whether he is friend or foe. There is a calculating glint in his eyes that frightens me as much as it intrigues me. I must find out whether he comes as ally or with some hidden plot. I might do something foolish soon, so please watch over me when I do.

With much love,

Cassandra.

She knew he was a puzzle. She had seen the glint in his eyes on that first night. She had planned to approach him only to determine if he was a danger or not. And yet…

Cassandra’s tears splashed onto the ink, blurring her own careful lines. “Liar,” she whispered, then the word tore out of her, raw and louder. “Liar. Liar. Liar!” The letter shook in her hands.

He’d betrayed her, played her like a fiddle. She'd thought she could crack this puzzle, and uncover the truth beneath, but instead, she'd just been buried beneath the lies.

All that was left was the knowledge that she’d betrayed her family for love. The ultimate sin she'd sworn she'd never commit.