Barisbakourios is gone. To think- I called him loyal. Many men from the military district of the Opsikion with him. And some of the Thrakesians. And some of the Bulgars, too. The ship sinks. The rats dive into the sea. Fools. No safe harbor near. Can the ship float? Does it matter?
I am forty-two. I think I am forty-two. My father did not live so long. Nor my grandfather. Nor my great-grandfather. I am old. I burn hard. I burn fast. Now I burn out.
Theodora beside me. She does not weep. She cuts her cheeks. Blood flows, not tears. Nomads mourn so. She forgets she is a Christian. God forgets I am a Christian.
Scouts must go forward. Rebels between us and Chalcedon? Followers of the usurper? Must know. Can we get to Chalcedon? Get to boats? Get to Constantinople? Must try. Mine.
Scouts back. Enemy soldiers not far west. I call the men together. I order the attack. The men stare. They mutter. They do not form by companies. Not by troops. They do not attack. I should kill them. How?
They do not seize me. They do not give me to Bardanes, to Helias, to Mauros. They stay with me. They will not attack. Maybe they will defend. Maybe they will defend and win and then attack. Maybe maybe maybe may-
Morning again. More men gone. Not so many. When I come out of my tent, Myakes orders a cheer. The men shout. The ones who are here. Not the others. A better cheer than the last one. A good cheer? A better cheer.
Maybe they will defend. The usurper's men do not attack. Maybe they fear me. They should fear me. If I can go forward, I will beat them. I order the men forward. They will not go.
More of the usurper's men about. Fewer of mine. Again, fewer of mine. They forsake me. God forsakes me. Five generations, all in ruins. The sixth generation, cut down in ruins. God forsakes me. I do not forsake God. I pray. Let me go on, I pray. Let me slay my enemies, I pray. I have enemies left alive. It is not right. How can I die with enemies left alive?
Avenge me, God. If it be Thy will that I die without slaying Ibouzeros Gliabanos, avenge me. I read once of a bishop who was a heretic, who suffered what the physicians called an abdominal obstruction and died vomiting shit out of his own mouth. If I must die, give the Khazar this death, I pray Thee.
Bardanes' men spying on the camp. Trying to see what I have left. My men shoot arrows at them. They ride away. A cheer, almost, that sounds like a cheer. My men can fight. They have fought. Will they fight? For me? How to make them?
Dead. Barisbakourios dead. The best of the ones from Kherson. Dead. Loyal. Loyal as could be, till these last days. Dead. Hunted down. Killed. Dead.
Do the rebels lie? No. They shout at our camp. They know. I have heard lies. I have told lies. I know lies. They tell the truth. A staff I hoped to lean on. First fled- now dead.
My men melt now like snow in spring. They trickle away. They dribble away. They stream away. Myakes comes to me. "Emperor," he says, "run away. Hide somewhere. Hole yourself up. Bardanes is nothing much. He won't find you."
"I never run away," I said. "I never did. I never will."
"What about when the Bulgars hit us outside Ankhialos?" he says.
"Not the same," I answer. "I never run away from the Queen of Cities."
He bows his head. "Never a dull moment around you," he says at last.
"Go on." I clap him on the back. "Save yourself. Go on. No one will look for you."
"I wouldn't know what to do without you," he says. "Maybe, some kind of way, we'll beat the bastards yet."
Someone stays loyal. A small miracle. One more miracle, God?