Capítulo 63: The Virtues of Rome
Dear Anna,
I trust that this letter finds you in robust health and buoyant spirits, with the blessings of the Lord shining upon you.
You might wonder about the intention behind this letter, and I must confess: a profound yearning for your presence weighs heavily upon my soul.
To recount the journey so far, it has unfolded without misfortune, yet with each league traversed, an unsettling premonition bothers me—akin to a blade poised at my throat.
Whether this ill omen stems from superstition or legitimate apprehension, I have yet to decipher. What I do know, however, is that our voyage grows increasingly ominous.
Though I understand the folly of excessive fretting and comprehend that the disturbances we might encounter would be nothing more than civic unrest, I fear the worst. At a time when the Empire needs to recover its course, uncertainty threatens to derail its future.
Rumors, often dismissed as mere hearsay, possess an uncanny tendency to harbor morsels of truth when echoed with unwavering conviction by those we encounter along our path.
As we press onward, the verdant splendor of the landscape wanes, supplanted by an encroaching gloom. Our inaugural stop, the bastion town of Arcadiopolis, stands as a testament to resilience in the face of adversity.
Much like the beloved capital, Arcadiopolis has withstood the ravages of time, steadfast amidst the trials that imperiled its existence. Though my travels have yet to lead me far enough to glean the far reaches of the Empire's dominion, my sojourn here has engendered profound contemplation.
Despite the vicissitudes wrought by the Turks' dominion, the fortress town is remarkably well-preserved, a testament to the fortitude of its denizens amidst tumultuous epochs. I am awestruck by the resolve exhibited by the populace of Arcadiopolis, leaving me with ample fodder for thoughts. After all, what I envisioned the Empire to be was akin to this resilient fortress—solid and immovable.
As the future steward of this domain, I glimpse a flicker of promise emanating from my prospective governance over these souls, offering a glimpse of a nascent era that would embrace me once it comes.
Truthfully, this vision underpins the principles I hold sacrosanct.
Unfortunately, the current reality diverges starkly from this lofty vision of mine. It pains me that prejudice runs rampant in these lands, festering wounds borne from enmity toward the subjects of erstwhile overlords.
As anticipated, the embers of animosity have ignited and begun to threaten the very peace that I must maintain for the people. Therefore, I must quell them before my departure, lest all be lost and the seeds of rancor spread beyond recompense.
The measures I am compelled to undertake shall undoubtedly court disdain among the masses and thus be reviled in the annals of history yet to come.
Anna, there exists a plethora more I yearn to convey, particularly to you personally. But circumstances dictate that I must withhold them for now, lest they gnaw incessantly at my conscience upon our imminent reunion in the fortunate future.
May this forthcoming leg of our journey nurture rather than poison my spirit. I beseech you to hold me in your supplications as fervently as I have you in mine.
Lastly, permit me to express my profound gratitude for the cherished gift you bestowed upon me. Your portrait has served as a tether to sanity amidst these trying times, and for that, I am deeply indebted.
May the blessings of our Lord keep you forever in good health and pour upon you immense love.
Amen.
John.
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About five hours later, the convoy finally crossed over Brysis County, entering the border of Constantinople-Selymbria and Selymbria itself, a bishopric under the Patriarchate of Constantinople.
It took another 6 hours to finally arrive in the town of Selymbria itself.
At this point, the convoy rested and resupplied in the town for about five hours before continuing their journey northward, this time towards the border of Selymbria-Bizye, en route to Biyze, a town John had visited just recently.
It took 7 hours to cross the border into Bizye. From the border to its provincial center, which is the town itself, the convoy had to march for another 7 hours.
Since the town was under lockdown by John's order, the convoy resumed its journey into Arcadiopolis, which took about 6 hours.
From Constantinople to their current journey, passing through Bizye into the Arcadiopolis border, the entire journey took about a day, almost into the second day.
It was at that point that John and his convoy decided to take another resupply run after Selymbria.
They marched for three hours before the sight of Arcadiopolis came into their view.
Once the final bastion of the Byzantine Empire, Arcadiopolis had fallen to various enemies numerous times, often serving as a staging ground for sieges against the capital itself.
It acted as both a shield and a poison for the Empire throughout its existence.
Recorded history is often vague about this ancient town, but John, who had been reborn as the future emperor, knew its importance.
In the original timeline, Mehmed II utilized the town as a rallying point before proceeding to besiege and eventually occupy Constantinople.
However, now that the past has changed, thanks to John's intervention,
The town would not be used as an arrow to pierce the Empire—at least, that was what John had hoped.
Nevertheless, Arcadiopolis maintained a semblance of its former glory, with its walls bearing the scars of time yet still echoing the grandeur of Rome.
Despite almost a century of Ottoman occupation, it still largely retained its Roman heritage.
There had been no changes despite the tumultuous times faced by the fortress town, likely because of the Ottomans' incessant neglect as they struggled to assert dominance over the region, which ultimately caused them little time to assert any efforts of assimilation.
"Your Highness," a soldier saluted.
"We've dispatched someone to the town to prepare for your imminent arrival."
John nodded slightly, though a sense of foreboding lingered.
He couldn't shake the feeling that something unpleasant loomed on the horizon; he could not put a finger on it yet, though.
'What is this sudden feeling of unease? Am I going to be sick or something?' he murmured to himself but dismissed it immediately after that.
Thus far, the journey has been decent. No accidents happened throughout their march.
Finally, to rest in a comfortable condition after such a long time after Selymbria was a delightful change for the convoy.
As the convoy began to unpack their belongings, they were approached by a robust man whose presence rivaled that of John's own retinue.
His appearance suggested more of a battle-hardened mercenary than a seasoned soldier, with a distinct aura of someone hardened by relentless hardship.
A prominent scar marked his left cheek, and his right eye, partially obscured by a patch, spoke volumes about the trials he had endured to reach his current position.
Clad in heavy lamellar armor—typically worn by senior officers in the Byzantine army at the time—he clearly held the highest command amongst the garrison troops.
Despite his rugged appearance, John noted that the man maintained a level of professionalism fitting for a commander of the town's garrison.
"The Sun of the Empire! I bid thee a hearty welcome to our humble fortress!"
Spoken in a relatively coarse Greek, the man greeted John, who immediately replied
"At ease, droungarion. I trust my arrival has kept your duties the same. Is the Archon available? I'd like to discuss matters with him."
"Of course, Your Highness! Lord Archon Kosmas will be honored to receive you. Follow me, and I shall lead you to his residence," the commander offered, gesturing for John to follow.
"Excellent! Lead the way, droungarion." John said with a grateful smile before instructing his convoy to dismount and find lodgings. Accompanied by a few guards, he followed the commander.
It was then….
Bong! Bong! Bong!
As they approached the town, the tolling of the bell atop the gatehouse disrupted the peace, its erratic clang echoing through the air and causing a momentary pause among those present.
The commander swiftly turned, his voice authoritative as he queried the guards on the walls about the unexpected disturbance.
"Why is the bell tolling?"
"Commander! There's been a riot near the town square! The mob has flooded the streets!" shouted the guard from his vantage point atop the tower above the wall.
"Damnit!" The commander's frustration slipped out in a muttered curse, his demeanor tense with rage.
John, sensing the urgency, questioned, "Commander, what's happening?"
"I apologize, Your Highness," the commander began, his nervousness evident as he met John's gaze. "It appears some troublemakers are inciting unrest. But rest assured, we'll quell it soon."
John, noticing the lack of conviction in the captain's response, pressed further, "A riot? Shouldn't you, as the captain of the guards, take immediate action?"
"Of course, Your Highness. But trust me, it's under control. It will be resolved shortly," the commander assured, though his reassurance seemed strained.
Before further discussion could unfold, a young guard burst onto the scene, his sudden appearance casting a shadow of unease over the already tense atmosphere.
As the frustrated commander braced for the news, John maintained a calm demeanor, silently assessing the gravity of the situation.
"Droungarion! Urgent news!" the guard exclaimed, his breath ragged from his frantic sprint.
"The townspeople are attacking the Turkish refugees! The guards are overwhelmed! We need immediate reinforcements!"
As the words hung heavy in the air, John's expression hardened, his jaw tightening at the cause of the entire debacle.
The young guard, sensing the shift in the co-emperor's demeanor, quickly averted his gaze, unwilling to meet John's eyes as he relayed the distressing news to his superior, the town's commander.
Recognizing the severity of the situation, the commander erupted in frustration, his face flushed with anger as he lashed out at the young guard.
"You incompetent fools! The Despot is present! What impression do you think he'll have if you deliver such ominous tidings?"
The young guard cowered under the force of the captain's words but managed to muster some courage to respond.
"But... sir! The situation is dire! The townsfolk are armed, and the guards we dispatched were outnumbered from the outset..."
"Enough!" John interjected sharply, his tone brooking no dissent. His eyes blazed with righteous anger as he turned to the commander, issuing his orders with unwavering authority.
"Droungarion, quell the riot immediately. Round up every guard at your disposal. I will not allow senseless bloodshed to stain this town."
The captain's initial frustration ebbed into a resolute determination. "Your Highness, consider it done," he replied before pivoting to address the young guard.
"You muster the remaining guards. We'll put an end to this madness."
"At once, sir!" The young guard saluted and sprinted off while the commander turned back to John with a nod of gratitude.
"Thank you, Your Highness. Forgive my unsightly disgrace."
John's expression softened as he acknowledged the commander's words. "That I must do, and you should always mind your position amongst your subordinates," he replied before they both set off to face the turmoil head-on.
As they approached the town square, the mob's clamor grew louder. John steeled himself, knowing that decisive action was needed to restore order and prevent further chaos.
In the heart of the square, the townsfolk clashed fiercely with the outnumbered guards, their desperation palpable in the air.
Behind them, a group of Turkish refugees huddled together, their faces etched with fear, haunted once again by the specter of horror they had fled from Adrianople, only to find it lurking in their newfound refuge.
"Hold your ground, men! Hold until reinforcements arrive!" shouted the captain of the guards, his voice strained with effort as he tried to rally his comrades.
"Die, you filthy Ottoman scum!"
"Burn in the fury of my fallen kin!"
"Relish your fate, infidels! Be cursed!"
"In the name of God! These streets belong to us; you devilkin are not welcome here! Expel the spawn of the Devil into the pit whence it came!"
The crowd's dissenting voices reverberated with hatred and vengeance, drowning out all other sounds. It was evident that if the battered line of guards fell, the terrified group behind them would face a grim fate.
Death awaited them.
Screams. Shouts. Clashes.
Screams. Shouts. Clashes.
"Cease your tumult, you rabble! Clear a path for His Highness, your co-emperor and Lord!"
As if summoned by fate, the tumultuous clamor abruptly hushed at the unexpected arrival of John VIII Palaiologos, his entrance reminiscent of a seasoned general stepping onto the battlefield.
Flanked by his hetaireias, John strode forward, positioning himself between the beleaguered guardsmen and the bewildered mob.
"Stand down," one of John's hetaireia directed firmly, his voice slicing through the tension. "Kneel before the---"
"Let them be, Markus," John interjected, halting the hetaireia mid-sentence. "I take no pleasure in being worshipped by these people."
His tone was measured, yet an unmistakable disdain reverberated, casting a shadow over the gathering.
Stunned by John's sudden appearance, the bewildered crowd exchanged perplexed glances and murmurs.
"The co-emperor? What brings him here?" they whispered, their confusion escalating.
"Silence!" Markus, John's hetaireia captain, roared, sending the crowd recoiling in surprise.
"Enough of your insolence!" he continued sharply.
Amidst the commotion, a young man stepped forward from the crowd, his pitchfork in hand and his voice a mixture of gratitude and apprehension.
The hetaireias immediately positioned themselves in front of John, shields at the ready. Still, the young man continued his approach until he was about ten paces from John.
"It is an honor to have you here, Your Highness."
Slightly bowed, the young man humbly greeted the person before him.
"Why you----"
Sensing the disrespectful gesture the youth had shown towards John, Markus, who had been reeling his anger, almost exploded before John raised his hand.
"Speak your mind," John said indifferently towards the youth.
"Your grace is immeasurable." The youth replied before continuing.
"As you might've guessed from this assembly, today is a day of reckoning for the people of this town, a long-held grudge festering within our hearts against this vile spawn of the Ottomans."
These are strong words, but John did not immediately reply. Instead, he allowed the youth to say his piece before saying anything else.
"What I want to say, and all of us unanimously agree, is that are indeed delighted to have you here, as well as gratitude for liberating us from the clutches of hell-like misery that plagued this place, which felt like an eternity."
The tone was measured, and a sense of gratitude was felt from those words, but the next one was not.
"However." The youth's tone changed slightly, this time filled with hatred, not towards John, but directed towards the refugees hiding behind the almost battered guards.
"We implore you that you don't interfere in our own battle of grievance. While it is good that you are here today to grace us with your presence, I must request Your Highness to not intervene on this matter."
"For generations, our land has borne the weight of the Empire's struggles. My forefathers—my father, grandfather, and great-great-grandfather—have shed tears and blood in the quest to regain the freedom stolen from us."
"We demand justice and retribution! These wretched Turks shall face our wrath, and by God's grace, it will be tenfold!"
Determination etched upon his face, the young man raised his pitchfork—a symbol of defiance—high, ensuring it was visible to all present. The crowd roared in unity, fueled by the young man's fervor.
John remained composed amid the fervent chatter, his guards cautiously poised for any potential escalation.
"An impassioned speech, young citizen,"
This time, it was John's turn to close the distance between him and the young man. Markus, who realized what was happening, tried to stop him, but John reassured him.
Now that both John and the youth were about a breath away from each other, he asked,
"What is your name, young citizen?"
"I am Klaudius, son of Thaddeus," the young man replied vigorously.
"Klaudius Thaddeopoulos," John addressed the youth. However, the next question stirred something from the square, especially amongst the crowd, intensifying the tension.
"What I ask of you is this: Your quest for revenge."
"Would it give you peace or merely satisfy your appetite for more bloodshed that might've spilled if you continue on these baseless acts of vengeance?"
Silence enveloped the square as John's words hung in the air, intensifying the tension.
"While your eloquence is indeed commendable, it is laden with contradictions."
The youth did not immediately muster any reply; instead, his eyes were bewildered and confused.
"Allow me to elucidate further."
"While it may seem justifiable to seek retribution for the grievances you have suffered in the past, the path of vengeance only leads to a perpetual cycle of violence, blinding us to our shared humanity, which we now risk losing sight of."
"Consider this," John continued, taking another step forward, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the youth before him.
"With each life taken, what solace does it truly bring to the souls of your ancestors? Does it not, instead, bind you to the very oppression you seek to avenge?"
"By embracing the very plight you seek to end, you risk becoming that which you despise, perpetuating a cycle of hatred that spans generations once more. Is this truly the legacy you wish to leave behind for the future?"
John's voice rose in intensity, its weight settling upon the square, stirring contemplation among the gathered crowd, particularly within Klaudius himself.
Turning to address the crowd behind the youth, John made a case for those assembled in the square.
"Listen closely! While I indeed played a role in driving the Ottomans from these lands, understand this: my actions were directed at those who wielded power, not towards the innocent amongst them. They bear no responsibility for the tyranny caused by the villains I fought."
"Consider this," he continued, his words resonating with authority.
"What purpose does it serve to spill the blood of those who have not wronged you? Would that not align you with the very oppressors you seek to condemn? No, we are Romans! And as Romans, we must conduct ourselves with utmost civility and dignity."
"Our strength lies not in the barbaric pogrom you are about to commit but in embracing those who are different from us and showing them Rome's hospitality. This, my fellow Arcadiopolitans, is the essence of civilized Romans, long forgotten."
"Do not descend into savagery as the barbarians do, for we are not of one mind. Instead, let us recall the teachings of our Lord: 'Love your enemies.' If indeed we are chosen by God, then let our actions be a reflection of this divine decree bestowed upon us by Christ himself!"
A profound silence enveloped the entire square, the only sound the soft whisper of the wind. John's words seemed to penetrate deep into the hearts of those gathered, reaching even those stationed behind the town guards.
Klaudius Thaddeopoulos, the young man who had brandished his pitchfork moments earlier, now stood in quiet contemplation, the fervor that had animated him slowly fading.
"Whether Greek, Turk, Arab or from the distant barbarian lands of the West, I pledge to extend to all the respect they deserve, regardless of their station," John declared with unwavering conviction, his words stirring a newfound sense of hope among the people.
"My vision for a prosperous Rome knows no bounds, and I am steadfast in my determination to see it realized. As we stand at the edge of uncertainty, shall we continue to spiral into darkness, succumbing to the temptations of the Devil? Are we not, above all, the chosen children of God?"
"Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love," he proclaimed, his speech now taking on the cadence of a biblical sermon, resonating with the solemnity of ancient scripture that had shaped the Empire for centuries.
"These are the teachings of our revered Saint Paul, written in 1 Corinthians. Do you not hear his words echoing through the pages of our holy book? Let us cast aside the chains of hatred, for they belong to the realm of the worldly, not to us, the faithful servants of our Lord."
He paused, then turned his gaze once more towards the young man.
Klaudius, who now stood with his head bowed low in contemplation, heard John repeat the questions he had asked earlier.
"Now then, Klaudius, son of Thaddeus,"
John addressed him almost as if in a whisper but still loud enough for the people to hear,
"I ask you again: What profit doth a man gain from seeking retribution? What kind of future do you seek and offer to your descendants?"
With those questions, a ripple of hesitation spread through not only Klaudius but also the gathered crowd behind him.
And so, starting from a single individual and spreading to ten, then twenty. Eventually, every member of the mob began to come to their senses, lowering their weapons and relinquishing them to the very ground as the clattering sounds of metal began to fill the town square.
Klaudius, who had been the focal point of John's discourse till now, finally raised his head once more to meet John's hazel eyes.
In that moment, he found not condemnation but a profound serenity that washed over him.
Soon, Klaudius lowered himself before eventually kneeling before John, who observed with solemnity. Equipped now with a sense of humility, Klaudius gently laid his pitchfork on the ground before uttering,
"Truly, you are the Sun of Rome itself. Forgive us for our transgressions, my Lord, Symbasileus."
Witnessing this act of contrition, the rest of the crowd followed suit, mirroring Klaudius' gesture of submission and due loyalty.
Even the Turks hiding behind the town guard and the guards themselves joined in until, in the end, John remained standing, a solitary figure amidst the sea of repentance and reverence.
At that moment, John had genuinely ascended to the position of Basileus in the hearts of the Arcadiopolitans, a legacy foretold for generations yet to come.
Despite delivering the speech, John's words seemed directed as much at himself as to the young man kneeling before him.
"Civility and Dignity of Rome," he murmured, his gaze drifting towards the night sky.
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