Chapter 645: The Spring of 1466
Inside the Palace, on top of the throne, seats a man, an emperor, loomed in a dark aura, with his hands steadily placed on the armrest, while before him stands two lines of troopers, each in glistering finest armours with blades by their waist, all finest soldiers handpicked by Antonius himself in service to protect their sovereign.
For so long Antonius have been acting like he is the friendly Tom in the neighbourhood rebuilding this city trying to befriend every single faction and appease the population, with his iconic smile and gesture hanging on his face, so far until now that people, some people have forgotten on how he managed to seize power. He is a conqueror, a man whose achievements are built on blood, whose power are consolidated by purges, and his land acquired mostly through the use of force. His hands are stained with blood and his throne is built with the skulls of the conquered.
He can choose to your friendly neighbour, or can be a tyrant, as said by this ’Plutus’, if he wish.
"Are all the senators under custody?" Antonius inquired, his voice betraying no emotion, face a mask of dimmed stoicism.
"Aye, your Majesty, all two hundred and thirty of them." Affirmed Cerberus.
"Good."
"And the conspirator? Has he confessed his accomplices?"
"He kept on insisting that he did this at his own free will your Majesty, we are not making progress. That man is truly a tough one to deal with, keeping on insisting that he has no other accomplices no matter what ever method we have tried on him."
"Too slow, call Apostolos here." Antonius commanded, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword, a symbol of his readiness to act.
Soon, Apostolos entered, his aging face creased with worry. He bowed deeply, his voice trembling with emotion, with the tears from his eyes almost going to gush out from his eye socket in anytime sooner . "Your Majesty, God be praised you’re safe! The fear we endured..."
"Stop it, Apostolos, I have serious task for you to do." Antonius responded, with no emotions on his face, still holding his sword. "I want you to separate our current intelligence service which prioritises towards the outside threats, form a new branch that targets on any internal threats inside the state, with a division that specialises in protecting the imperial family on the outskirts of the Varangians in the crowds – I will double your department’s budget from now onwards."
The heart of Apostolos is soon filled with joy, but his face transitioning from sorrow to solemn determination as he maintains his bowing posture and vowed right before the emperor. "Yes, right at your wish, your Majesty, may I know how much permission does this new branch have?"
"Full authority,"
Antonius halted for a moment.
"For now."
But still he pondered for a moment, and added on.
"Inside Constantinople."
"Yes, yes, your Majesty." Apostolos bowed.
"I want you to make sure that all factions, associates, people, who are affiliated with this assassination is being pulled out from the city and persecuted, we gave them too much mercy when we enquired this city by force... But remember! I gave you a blade, that is sharp enough, but you can only wave it on the evil to cleanse the city of the dark aura, do not impact anyone innocent!"
"Yes! Your Majesty!" Apostolos, imbued with a newfound energy making him almost unlike an old man in his seventies, accepted the symbolic blade from Cerberus. He departed with an uncharacteristic swiftness, a man on a mission.
Antonius gazed at the old man as he walked towards the direction of the sunshine, and gripped his blade even harder.
Antonius watched the old man stride into the sunlight, his grip on his blade unyielding. A flicker of doubt crossed his mind – had he unleashed a force, a beast, a dragon, a wyvern too potent to control, and might go onto a frantic madness at any time sooner? But the memory of the assassination attempt banished such thoughts. He had made his decision.
As noon approached, the citizens of Constantinople were met with an unsettling sight – all seven city gates were heavily guarded by armed personnel. These men, who are clearly not from the army, devoid of armour or identifying banners, blocked all passages in and out of the city prohibiting anyone from passing, with absolutely no clear reason provided at all, creating an air of ominous restriction. The citizens of Constantinople who had things to do outside of the city tried arguing with them initially, but only to be persuaded to stand away as these men plucked out the blades by their waist.
Initial attempts by the citizens to negotiate passage quickly escalated to heated confrontations. At the Prodromos Gate, tensions boiled over. An agent of Apostolos, formerly a marine, lashed out in rage, his blade fatally wounding a persistently provoking citizen who kept on pushing the agent away. This act ignited a fierce protest, waves of citizens clashing against the unyielding line of agents.
The agents, fortified by shields, stood as an impenetrable wall. The air was filled with the sounds of conflict – the thud of rocks hurled by the citizens and the clanging of shields. Powered by both fury and a belief they were safeguarding the state, the agents’ restraint dissolved. They viewed the protestors as potential conspirators against their one and only, revealed emperor, who is their God, the man who elevated them from humble beginnings into the positions and prestige they have now. What issue can they possibly have! These men before them are simply a bunch of rogues!
Armed with batons, the agents charged into the ill-prepared crowd. The scene at the Prodromos Gate descended into chaos, marked by brutal close-quarter combat. In under half an hour, the area transformed into a battlefield stained with blood and marred by violence. The ground was littered with the injured and unconscious, evidence of the agents’ relentless assault.
Even as the crowd dispersed, the agents, driven by a relentless pursuit of perceived justice, continued their pursuit through the streets and alleys. Their determination to apprehend anyone who dared challenge the state’s authority was unyielding, leaving behind a trail of fear and turmoil in the heart of Constantinople. Wide spread violence haunted the city and all of her citizens, who are yet just about to prepare themselves for another day of labour and packed schedules, no one expected this sudden blood shed of their own people right in front of their own door steps.
In other parts of Constantinople, Apostolos’s agents were busy patrolling the neighbourhoods, especially around senators’ estates and areas known for past violence. They were pulling people with a history of theft or violence out onto the streets for interrogation, documenting their activities over the past week. With hundreds detained for questioning in a city of only tens of thousands, the tension was palpable. Amidst this climate, a joke began circulating among the populace:
A Roman, a Serb, and a Turk were debating about the happiest moment in life. The Turk declared that it was during Eid al-Adha, when families, friends, and neighbours come together for a feast. The Serb contended that true happiness came with spending a night with a blonde beauty. But the Roman disagreed, saying the happiest moment was when Apostolos’s agents came knocking late at night, calling out, "Ivan Ivanovich, you are under arrest!" And he could gleefully respond, "No, comrade! Ivan Ivanovich lives next door!"
In these troubled times, the joke might have seemed in poor taste, yet it captured the growing sense of dread pervading Constantinople. The citizens lived under the constant shadow of Apostolos’s Sword of Damocles, an ever-present threat that could strike at any moment, dropping onto their head, accusing them of being a fellow ’traitor’.
It wasn’t until the second day that Emperor Antonius, freshly crowned and facing his first major crisis, addressed the public. His message was clear: the nation’s security was being undermined by traitors within and foreign spies without. He urged his citizens to brace themselves for a period of hardship, and it will be over soon.
The city’s jails were overflowing, cramped like sardines in a tin. Each hour, guards would remove a prisoner, their fate unknown. Were they being released, or did a darker destiny await them? As the days wore on, the relentless cycle of interrogations continued, but Menelaos stood firm, insisting on his lone guilt. This stubborn assertion only deepened the mystery, as the numbers reported by Apostolos failed to align with Menelaos’s claims.
Amidst this backdrop of fear, the city’s vibrant life was overshadowed by a palpable sense of paranoia. Every citizen grew wary of their neighbours, and the once-bustling streets of Constantinople were now rife with whispered suspicions and furtive glances. The empire, known for its grandeur and culture, found itself grappling with an undercurrent of distrust, as the pursuit of potential traitors continued unabated.
Welcome to Constantinople, in the Springs of 1466.
