The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

  Marcus split from the crowd and stepped toward a street that was little more than an alley. He left the splendor of the square behind and moved through the shadows, a faded memory his only guide. A few blocks down, he found what he was looking for.

  Wedged between its neighbors stood an old church, brooding in the darkness. The stone fascia was worn and cracked, as were the two partial gargoyles that clung to a granite ledge. High above, moonlight reflected off the dull surface of an ancient clock. Several of the numerals were missing, and the iron hands stuck at five minutes to midnight.

  There was no sign, but those welcomed at this church didn't need one.

  Marcus climbed a set of granite steps and pulled open the heavy wooden door. As he stepped from the cool evening into the warm interior, the door creaked closed behind him. A soft radiance leaked from the tall archway that led further into the building. He moved through the opening and down a long, narrow chamber whose ceilings were lost somewhere in the darkness above. Hundreds of small candles cast their light onto the faded plaster walls but failed to pierce the alcoves spaced evenly along the perimeter of the room. An enormous mural that towered above a stone sarcophagus dominated the front wall.

  The image portrayed a crimson dragon locked in mortal combat with a winged angel, the latter wielding a sword high above its head as it prepared to strike the fiery serpent. The two stood upon a mound of twisted, writhing bodies. Behind the beast, a host of the other creatures waited to engage the embattled champion. Marcus sympathized with the hero's eternal struggle and sank into the misery of the illustration. The more he studied the painting, the more visceral the experience. He could smell the simmering brimstone that surrounded the pile of bodies and could feel the dragon's fiery breath as it consumed the angel. The ground beneath him quivered as this mountain of flesh churned in anguish. With a monumental effort, Marcus broke free from the trance and found himself standing in front of the sarcophagus, heart pounding.

  "Can I help you?"

  Startled, Marcus turned toward the nearest alcove and said to the dark figure, "Yes, I'm looking for Brother Bennucio."

  A slender figure stepped out from the darkness. He wore a black habit that hung upon his hunched and bony frame. His shambling steps were deliberate as he moved forward. He stopped only a few feet from Marcus and glanced at the Roman's collar. His soft brown skin was free of wrinkles, but the serenity in his watery eyes spoke of his maturity.

  "Very few people know who Brother Bennucio is—and even fewer ask to speak with him."

  "I know."

  There was a lengthy stillness as the priest studied Marcus in the faltering candlelight.

  "Very well, follow me." He moved back toward the alcove, speaking back over his shoulder. "I thought they banned your kind from this place—"

  "They did." Marcus followed as the man stepped into the dark nook, then through an opening and into a tiny room beyond. "But these are extenuating circumstances."

  "They always seem to be."

  Marcus watched as his guide opened a door leading down into the bowels of the building. A faint light from deep in the stairwell guided their progress. They had carved the cavernous walls from rock, the surface rough and glistening with moisture. They reached the bottom of the stairs and stood beneath a single bulb that hung from the stone ceiling, a plain wooden door barring their advance. Marcus waited as his escort knocked several times. He paused for a long moment, and then he knocked again, this time pounding on the heavy panel. A few moments later, they heard the click of the lock, followed by the door swinging back.

  "Brother Bennucio," the guide spoke through the doorway, "there is someone here to speak with you."

  A low, muffled voice said, "Tell him to go away."

  The door started to close, but Marcus stepped forward to hold it open.

  "Brother Bennucio." Marcus shifted so he could see the monk, "I must speak to you. My name is Marcus—we met several years ago."

  A shadowy figure leaned into the light as he studied Marcus. As he squinted, the pale skin crinkled around his shallow eye sockets. Thick black hair, cropped short, clashed with his pasty complexion. He was taller than Marcus and much thinner. He wore a dark-brown robe sewn from a coarse material, its hood dangling across his bony shoulders. The thin rope tied around his waist sported a large ring of keys that jingled as he moved. After a few moments, a look of recognition crossed his face, followed by a smile.

  "Yes, yes, Marcus!" He extended his hand to Marcus. "It has been a long time."

  "Yes, it has." Marcus returned the grip, surprised by the strength in Bennucio's wiry limb.

  "Well, now you are in excellent hands." Marcus's escort started back up the stairs. "Please call on me if you require my help. I am Brother Ubertino."

  Before Marcus could reply, he had faded into the darkness.

  "Come in." Bennucio stepped back, opening the door wide. "Please excuse the mess—I rarely have visitors."

  "I understand." Marcus stepped through the door and into the living quarters beyond.

  The square room was chiseled from the stone, like the stairwell, but the walls were not as rough. The ceiling was barely a foot above their heads and held a solitary fixture, connected to a hidden power supply by a thin metal conduit that ran to the farthest wall and then disappeared into the rock. The wall opposite the entrance had two identical openings, both dark, empty voids. A bookshelf filled the space between the apertures, extending from floor to ceiling. Most of the shelves were crammed full of leather-bound tomes of varying sizes. The empty spaces on the shelves accounted for the volumes strewn throughout the room, some open and others stacked haphazardly in uneven piles. A simple cot, heavily cluttered, was in the nearest corner, next to a round nightstand upon which sat a glass pitcher and wooden cup. A table filled the rest of the wall with a wooden chair shoved beneath it. One sheet of paper covered the entire length of the table with a book holding down each corner.

  "I'm sorry for showing up like this, but I wasn't sure how else to contact you," Marcus said.

  "There is no other way." Bennucio shrugged his shoulders. "It's how I like it—it leaves me undisturbed to do my work."

  "How's that going?"

  "Wonderful!" The monk moved to the nearby table. "I completed all the common chambers and tunnels five years ago." He pointed at the top of the sheet. "I have since been going deeper—I am not sure I will ever find the end."

  "And the church? Have they complained?"

  "Well," Bennucio twisted his lips into a sly grin, "they cannot complain about what they do not know."

  Marcus grinned and leaned over the map, studying the intricate drawing. The monk illustrated each level with astounding detail. He documented every curve, angle, and nook. How the levels were connected was captured on a table occupying the map's left side. As far as he could tell, it had seven levels.

  "The Vatican worked with a local university to map—poorly, I might add—the top three levels." Bennucio leaned over, running his skinny finger along the third floor. "I give them too much credit when I say they mapped the third level. They have identified seven or eight tunnels and three or four burial chambers."

  "Why haven't they gone any further?"

  "They don't know any more rooms exist." The monk pointed to a dotted line near one intersection. "This is a massive stone door—it looks just like the wall. Without knowing how to open it, you would never know how to get to the other part of this level."

  "How did you find out about that?"

  Bennucio looked at Marcus, a shy smile creeping onto his face. "I'm not sure I want to answer that."

  "Why not?"

  "Marcus, we have only met once. If I remember correctly, you seem to be a powerful member of the church."

  "I was, but things have changed."

  "Of course. But you know, the Vatican has tried several times to destroy my religious order. They call us heretics and send their inquisitors around the world to stamp us out. Why should I trust you
?"

  "Because I don't play Vatican politics. I have supported—even protected—you and your brethren for many years. But most importantly, if I wanted you gone, it would've already happened."

  Bennucio studied Marcus, then shrugged. "My predecessor told me I could trust you, so I will. However, there is one thing that still bothers me…"

  "What is that?"

  "It's been twenty years, but you look exactly the same. I don't believe you have aged one day."

  "Everyone ages."

  An uncomfortable moment passed before Bennucio realized Marcus was not going to elaborate.

  "Well, it seems we both have our secrets."

  "Yes, we do." Marcus nodded, "And I've come to take advantage of yours—if you are so inclined."

  "You want to sneak into the Vatican." It was more a statement than a question.

  Marcus did not respond, but the expression upon his face told Bennucio all he needed to know.

  The Italian beamed from ear to ear, a twinkle glimmering in his eyes. "That can be arranged."

  Twenty minutes later, they were twisting through a narrow tunnel, following the bouncing beam of a flashlight. Bennucio led him past two gates, down several flights of steps, and then stopped just before a solid wall. He pushed a single stone and waited as the slab moved aside. He stepped through the opening and motioned for Marcus to follow. He aimed his flashlight down the pitch-black tunnel and handed Marcus a smaller flashlight.

  "Welcome to the Holy City."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Life is to be lived, not controlled,

  and humanity is won by continuing to play in the face of certain defeat.

  — Ralph Ellison

  April 1453 A.D.

  Constantinople

  Marcus and Isabella didn't speak during the journey back across the harbor. The boat pulled alongside an empty dock, and the two helped secure it to the posts. Marcus jumped out of the craft, waited for Isabella to join him, and then headed back toward the gate leading into the city. He was the first to speak.

  "The city will fall."

  "Perhaps."

  He glanced over at her. "It will fall."

  She only shrugged.

  "So, you'll stay?"

  "Yes."

  "Me too."

  They had left the docks behind and were moving toward the city walls.

  "Marcus, I'm sorry about what I said, about you leaving…"

  "No, you were right." His expression was somewhere between a grimace and a grin. "I do it because I think I'm protecting those around me. But actually, I'm just protecting myself. I'm no different from Thomas."

  She stopped and took his arm. "You're not like Thomas."

  "Maybe not, but I have my flaws."

  "We all do. You're here today, and that's enough for me."

  He nodded and together they walked through the city gate.

  Two days after they visited Thomas, a swift brigantine disguised as a Turkish vessel sped off to locate any relief force that might be approaching the city. It returned several days later, sealing the city's doom. The western nations had mounted no expedition, and so no hope remained for the beleaguered capital. Despair settled upon the citizenry as they stubbornly prepared for the closing act of the siege. The sultan could sense the hopelessness that gripped the city, and for two days, the Muslims worked around the clock to prepare for their final assault. At night, the campfires stretched around the city like a gaping maw closing in upon its dying prey.

  The following Sunday afternoon, Marcus joined Isabella in what many thought would be the last Christian service in the Church of Holy Wisdom. Soldiers, priests, and citizens—Greek, Genoese, and Venetian— packed the cathedral, all resigned to their inevitable fate.

  After mass, the pair rode west to a hillock that overlooked the Golden Horn and watched as the blood-red sun settled into the distant mountains, its rays shimmering across the polished surface of the bay. Isabella broke the stillness of the fading twilight.

  "These people don't deserve this."

  "They never do. They're pawns in a massive power struggle, one that will never end."

  "Maybe Thomas is right." She turned toward him, doubt gripping her elegant features. "Maybe there's another way."

  "No, I don't think so. There's a flaw in his plan. What if he could destroy Christendom? Something else would take its place. Islam? A tyrant? Some other religion? No, his hatred is misplaced. Which means, someday, it will find another outlet."

  "Let's hope I'm around to see it."

  "You will be."

  "I'm glad you're here." She leaned over and kissed him.

  At first, Marcus was reluctant to return the kiss. Something deep inside begged him to pull away. But he ignored the impulse; he gave himself over to the kiss. Her lips felt warm, tender, and welcoming. He looked into her eyes, his hand pushing the hair back from her face. Her beautiful green eyes were filled with doubt and begged him for reassurance.

  "We're going to be alright." He leaned forward and kissed her again, and then he sat back down on his horse.

  "Not the best timing," she said.

  "No," Marcus' gaze shifted to the city walls, "and we should get going."

  "Before the night is over, you may regret coming here." Isabella spun her horse toward the trail.

  "Not if I live another thousand years," Marcus replied and followed her.

  The night was cool and misty as they made their way along the ramparts. Beyond the wall, thousands of campfires scattered across the horizon. As Marcus turned back to follow her, the distant toll of church bells echoed throughout the city and marked the end of another day. As the forlorn peals gave way to a peaceful calm, the Muslim camp vanished into the night. It was as if God himself had snuffed out the twinkling fires.

  They moved on to the Adrianople Gate, a section critical to the city's defenses. As they reached the top of the steps above the gate, a group of men gathered around a towering figure, dressed in a scarlet tunic and dark purple cape. His expression was unassuming, but his dignified bearing betrayed his nobility. Marcus assumed he was about to meet the Byzantine Emperor. His muscular build broke with the history of his predecessors, whose corpulence was matched only by their greed. A dozen members of the royal court surrounded Constantine, all of whom stepped aside when Isabella joined the group.

  The Emperor was smiling as she arrived. "Good evening!"

  "Your excellency." She bowed her head.

  "Is this the famous envoy from the Pope?" He looked at Marcus, forcing a smile. "I asked for an army, and he sent one man."

  "Your excellency." Marcus nodded. "My name is Marcus Gracchus."

  "Well, I watched the sea battle from the walls. If the Pope had sent a hundred men like you, this city would never fall."

  "There are not a hundred men like him," Isabella said.

  "You're both too gracious."

  "Well, no matter." Constantine looked to the surrounding men. "I have 4,000 brave souls. And though I need three times that many to defend my city, we'll give those Turks more than they can handle."

  "That we will," Marcus agreed.

  "You must join me for dinner tomorrow," a grin creased his lips, "if we make it through the night."

  Without a response, he disappeared down the stairs leading to another section of the wall. Marcus looked to Isabella.

  "Now that's a man I can fight for."

  An eerie silence settled upon the defenders as the hours crept by.

  Marcus was standing with one of the Genoese mercenaries when the darkness erupted with a cacophony of trumpets and drums. He rushed to the wall and watched as the Muslim camp suddenly reappeared, campfires blazing anew. In the flickering glow, they could see the entire Turkish army before them, the mass of soldiers waiting beneath the slight drizzle that ushered in the predawn hour.

  Marcus had faced the Turks twice before, and as expected, Mahomet had arranged his army with the weaker Bashi-Bazouks in front, followed by the stronger Anatolians
. The final line consisted of the Janissaries, who many thought were the finest foot soldiers in the world.

  Then it began. The Bashi-Bazouks charged down into the moat and up the opposite side in a frenzied rush, throwing their ladders against the walls. Motivated by the promise of endless plunder, the Bazouks were nothing more than a motley assortment of beggars and thieves. As he expected, the defenders met them with a steady downpour of arrows, boiling oil, and Greek fire. As the attack wavered, he could see Turkish masters, known as Chaoushes, beating the Bazouks with chains and clubs to keep them moving. But few made it to the top of the ladders and even fewer onto the wall. They suffered horrific losses, their bodies heaping along the base of the outer wall. The screams of the wounded filled the air, joining the acrid stench of burning flesh.

  Marcus believed that battles along fortifications were the most violent. In open battles, one army would usually break and flee. That is not the case in most sieges, where flight for the defender usually meant death in defeat. Since the point of attack was fixed, the dying combatants collected in heaps at the base of the wall or on the ramparts. He had been both attacker and defender, and neither role was enviable.

  As he expected, the Bazouks could not endure the carnage and fell back, overrunning the Chaoushes. As Marcus watched them flee, Mahomet immediately ordered the Anatolians into the melee. These provincial troops were more disciplined than the Bazouks, but just as poorly armed. They crossed the tangled moat, now slippery with blood and crammed with the bodies of their fallen comrades. The defenders were fatigued from the initial assault and hard-pressed by the subsequent wave. The fighting grew fierce along the entire wall, with the Turks breaching the defenses in a dozen places.