Chapter 720: Constantinople Wept As One
"His Imperial Majesty, Antonius De’Ricci, Emperor of the Romans, has passed from this world," the physician declared, his voice heavy with finality. "God has called him to His heavenly kingdom. May he now protect all Romans from the heavens above."
The weight of those words sent a fresh wave of sorrow through the room. Tears flowed freely from men who had never once wept on the battlefield. Some nobles fell to their knees in grief, while others buried their faces in their hands. Their emperor, their general, their leader, and for many, their friend — was gone.
The emperor’s body was washed, his wounds cleaned, and his face gently wiped free of blood and dirt. He was redressed in royal burial robes of deep purple, embroidered with golden thread and bearing the double-headed eagle, symbol of the empire. His sword, which had served him faithfully in both victory and defeat, was laid across his chest. His eyes, once so fierce and full of purpose, were closed for the final time.
His body was placed upon a grand, gilded funeral bier, draped with the imperial banner. The bier was lifted by eight Varangian Guards, their faces stoic, their movements slow and deliberate as if bearing the weight of an entire nation on their shoulders. A procession was formed, and the emperor’s body was transported back to Constantinople, the heart of his empire. The journey was slow, solemn, and silent. Word of his passing had already spread like wildfire. By the time they reached the gates of Constantinople, thousands had gathered to witness the return of the emperor.
Women and children lined the streets, clutching icons and crosses. Men bowed their heads and made the sign of the cross as the funeral procession passed. Mothers whispered prayers to their children. Soldiers who had once fought under his command saluted with tears in their eyes. No man dared raise his voice in cheer or call, for grief had overtaken the entire city.
The emperor’s body was carried into the Hagia Sophia, the grandest church in all Christendom. Its vast domed ceiling, which had witnessed centuries of emperors, would now witness one more. The Ecumenical Patriarch, robed in garments of gold and white, awaited them at the entrance. He raised his staff of office and led the procession inside, his every step slow, deliberate, and sacred.
A grand wake was held for Emperor Antonius De’Ricci inside the Hagia Sophia, the echoes of the mourning chants filling the vast, sacred space. Priests and bishops circled the bier, chanting in soft, rhythmic unison, their voices filling the air with a solemn, otherworldly beauty. Candles lined every surface, their flickering flames dancing like the prayers of the faithful rising toward Heaven. Incense clouds swirled through the air, their sweet, sacred aroma carrying prayers upward to God.
The Ecumenical Patriarch delivered a powerful eulogy, his voice steady but laced with sorrow. He recounted the life of Antonius, from a poor harbor boy to an emperor of destiny, from a simple sailor to the defender of Christendom. His words echoed through the arches of Hagia Sophia, reaching the ears of thousands who had gathered inside and outside the church to pay their respects.
Then, as if immortalising his legacy for eternity, a mosaic was unveiled on the wall of Hagia Sophia, just to the right of the Atrium. The mosaic depicted Saint Michael, the Archangel of War, astride a white horse, brandishing his scarlet lion war banner. He stood defending the walls of Constantinople against an evil wyvern — a symbol of the Ottoman threat. Above him, angels watched from the heavens, their eyes fixed on him in reverence. At the feet of Saint Michael, his shield bore the face of Antonius himself, a final symbol of his everlasting role as a defender of the Roman people.
Another icon of Antonius was also created. This one depicted him ascending to heaven, his figure glowing with golden light, as the saints welcomed him home. The Ecumenical Patriarch spoke the words that would forever be associated with the late emperor. His voice, clear and resonant, echoed throughout the cathedral, as he uttered the proclamation in Latin:
"Bellator Dei fortissimus, defensor Christianitatis, salvator ac pater omnium Romanorum, sanctus et exemplar praestantissimus in omnibus rebus."
"God’s mightiest warrior, defender of Christianity, savior and father of all Romans, a saint and a leading role model in every aspect."
The crowd murmured in agreement. Men wiped away tears, women clutched their children tighter, and soldiers tapped their spears on the marble floor in silent respect.
The scene at Hagia Sophia was one of unparalleled sorrow and reverence. Tens of thousands of citizens of Constantinople flocked to the grand basilica to attend the wake, all hoping for one final glimpse of their emperor — their Basileus, their protector, their father in spirit. For many of them, Antonius was more than an emperor. He was a constant, unwavering force throughout their lives. They had been born under his reign, joined the army for him, fought in his wars, and returned home to raise families under his watchful eye. He had been there through it all — a presence as enduring as the city’s ancient walls. But now, that presence had been extinguished.
On this day, Constantinople wept as one.
Merchants shuttered their stalls. Bakers halted their ovens. The streets that once bustled with life and laughter now echoed with the sounds of soft prayers, sniffles, and quiet sobbing. To the people, it was as if the sky had fallen, and the great city that had withstood so many sieges now found itself conquered by grief.
The news of the emperor’s passing swept across the empire like a gust of wind before a storm. The Ecumenical Patriarch declared the news from the ambo, his voice carrying through the Hagia Sophia and beyond to the crowds gathered in the forum. The announcement was soon carried by fast riders to every city, town, and island within the empire. In every province, the people responded the same way. Church bells rang mournfully, shops closed, and lords and peasants alike knelt in prayer. The emperor was gone.
Yet there was one great sorrow beyond the emperor’s death. Antonius had passed outside the city walls, beyond the reach of the clergy, and thus he did not receive the Sacrament of Holy Unction (the anointing of the sick) or Holy Communion before his death — rites that were believed essential to prepare the soul for the afterlife. This was seen as a great misfortune, a blemish on his passing. In response, the Ecumenical Patriarch called upon all clergy across the empire to chant the Trisagion Hymn, a plea to God to accept the emperor’s soul and grant him divine mercy. Priests gathered at every major church and cathedral, their voices rising in harmonious supplication.
As the emperor’s body was carried back to Constantinople, the air of the capital was filled with the rhythmic chants of the Trisagion. Clergy bearing censers walked before the funeral bier, their swaying movements releasing clouds of sweet-smelling incense into the air. The Varangian Guard, stoic and unmoving, carried the emperor’s body into the Hagia Sophia, where a solemn procession awaited him. As they entered, the priests of Hagia Sophia began a slow, steady chant.
"Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us..."
The ancient hymn echoed through the cavernous space, its haunting melody filling the air with divine reverence. The sacredness of the moment was palpable, and the sobs of the gathered courtiers could barely be heard over the ethereal chant.
The emperor’s body was laid upon a stone table in the center of Hagia Sophia. The priests surrounded him with care, their hands steady and deliberate. They gently washed his body, wiping away the grime of battle and the dust of his final journey. His bruises were treated with ointments, and his wounds were carefully covered with linen wrappings, each one softened with sacred oil. Every move was slow, meticulous, and filled with reverence, as though they feared to disturb him.
Once his body was cleaned and prepared, the priests adorned him with the imperial garments that had been laid aside for this very moment. They dressed him in the rich purple silk of the Roman emperors, embroidered with golden threads in the shape of double-headed eagles. Around his head, they placed the Diadem, the crown that symbolised his ultimate authority over the Roman world. At his side, they placed his scepter, a sign of his divine right to rule, and across his shoulders, they draped the Loros, the long embroidered scarf worn only by emperors and senior members of the imperial family.
As he lay there, he no longer resembled a man worn down by the weight of war and age. He was once again an emperor — regal, proud, and adorned in splendor. He was no longer Antonius the man. He was Antonius, Basileus of the Romans, the 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘰𝘴 (born in the purple) and God’s chosen defender of Christendom.
The grand funeral ceremony began. Hundreds of priests, bishops, and deacons stood in a circle around the emperor’s body, their voices rising in the Kontakion for the Departed. Their chant echoed in the great dome of Hagia Sophia, carrying their prayers up to the heavens:
"With the saints, give rest, O Christ, to the soul of Thy servant, where there is neither pain, nor sorrow, nor sighing, but life everlasting."
