PROLOGUE

  It was already late. Doukas had called for lights out at least two hours ago. Nothing could be heard in the camp except for the snoring of men and the occasional hushed conversation. It was a calm, moonlit night. Nikolaus, gazing at the sky through the opening of his tent, smiled sadly.

  “It will be Pascha in two weeks,” he murmured.

  A short distance away, beside his master’s bed, Simeon stood sharpening swords, arrows and knives, while polishing Nikolaus’ armor too. At the mention of the holiest celebration in Christendom, he sighed. He would have given everything to be back in Constantinople, attending the Imperial Divine Liturgy in the Great Church of Hagia Sophia. Instead, they were stuck here, in this foreign and barbaric land of the Bulgars. The Bulgar rulers were the greatest thorn on the empire’s side. Just when it seemed that, having accepted Christ, they might become a peaceful people, they grew arrogant instead. Their kings sought titles that were never theirs to claim. How could a Bulgar from Slavic descent dare to demand the throne of the Roman Emperor? His blood boiled at the ridiculous thought of a barbarian pretending to be Roman.

  “Slow down, son!” Nikolaus snapped, noticing Simeon grinding the blade with more force than necessary. “You’ll break the edge at this rate”.

  “Forgive me,” the young man apologized, lowering his gaze, still trying to calm himself. “I got lost in thought”.

  Nikolaus gave him a melancholic smile, stepping closer, standing beside him. With some hesitation, he placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Being a soldier is hard – I understand,” Nikolaus said sincerely. “Especially at your age… Witnessing so much death and destruction leaves its mark on a person. But this is the reality of our world. We have a duty to our homeland and those who live within it. We cannot abandon them to the mercy of those who hate us, those who covet our land and our very lives”.

  He paused, gathering his thoughts.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  “Have you heard of Emperor Basil, the one we now call the Bulgar-Slayer?”

  “Of course, I know him,” Symeon answered. “Many poets and bards, even hagiographers and psalmists have mentioned him and immortalized him in their works”.

  “Basil, despite his epithet, was not a man of war. He did not desire war. On the contrary, he detested it. They say that during his campaigns, every night he would shut himself in his tent, sitting for whole hours with his spiritual father, holding the icon of the Virgin Mary in his arms and weeping for the death that war brought. But he had a duty. He had a reason for doing what he did. When the Bulgars entered Adrianople and slaughtered nearly the entire population, he swore a solemn oath to make them pay”.

  He stood up and looked outside the tent, toward the battlefield, which was still smoldering from the destruction of the previous day. The terrain was muddy, but the sky had not poured a single drop of water. Nikolaus shook his head, with sadness evident in his voice.

  “The Bulgarians paid the price, but some of them became even more stubborn. And today, we find ourselves at the point where they once again seek to destroy us and seize what is rightfully ours. That is why we fight,” Nikolaus said, clenching his teeth.

  Symeon slowly nodded, showing his agreement. He knew Nikolaos was right and had accepted the necessity of war. However, the images of death were forever etched in his mind. And they would remain there. He could no longer change that. He had to accept the new reality of himself. Who he was – his very identity – would be altered by this war.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of galloping horses. Nikolaus glanced outside, concerned. The number of horses was too small for a Bulgarian raid, yet it was also too late for the commander to send this kind of a patrol into the dark forest. The only explanation Nikolaus could think of was that the approaching riders were messengers.

  A few minutes later, he saw that the arriving procession consisted of sixteen men from the Imperial Guard – an entire escort. The soldiers, who even in that era still bore the ancient yet glorious title of the Praetorians, stood in formation outside the tent of the general leading the campaign – the man waging war against the barbarian Asen. This Asen, a Bulgar, was the one who had set his sights on the lands of Thrace and the Balkans to establish his new empire. The moon was up in the night sky, its light illuminating on their steel helmets. Although their swords were in their sheaths, the look on their faces looked ominous. A storm was brewing, and no one knew the reason why. Nikolaus looked towards his young squire.

  “Something bad is going to happen”.