The Purple Phoenix - 8. Chapter 8

“Come on, Démétrios, for the fifth time, your arm isn’t high enough,” Constantine said, frustration seeping through his voice.

Démétrios’s shoulders slumped. He was trying his best but couldn’t get the angle of his elbow right as he pulled the bowstring. “Sorry, Uncle,” he mumbled.

Constantine moved behind his nephew, gently guiding his arm as the boy drew the string. “Now, hold your breath and release when you’re ready.” Démétrios let go, and the arrow soared through the air, striking the hay dummy square in the head. “Good. Now do it by yourself.”

Once again, Démétrios picked an arrow from the ground, raised the bow, aligned the projectile, and pulled the string, struggling to keep his elbow at the correct angle. The arrow flew past the dummy, missing entirely. “Fuck,” he muttered, throwing the bow to the ground in frustration.

Constantine sighed, resigning himself. For some reason, Démétrios couldn’t focus on the training—whether it was archery, sparring, or even running, the boy seemed completely out of it. “Alright, this isn’t working. Let’s stop for today.” He patted his nephew’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go take a bath.”

It had been a few days since the burial, and Démétrios had spoken little, keeping to himself. What worried Constantine most was how little the boy had eaten; only that afternoon had the regent managed to get him to eat a full meal. It was also the first time he had taken his nephew to the training grounds since John’s passing. Constantine had hoped physical exercise would lift Démétrios’s spirits, as it always did for him, but after hours of the boy failing at nearly every task and clearly wishing to be anywhere but on the grounds, it was evident the effort had failed. The regent had one last idea to help his nephew feel better. If exercise didn’t work, perhaps relaxation might. Instead of leading Démétrios to the imperial family’s quarters, he guided him to a secluded building adjacent to the barracks. An old man, well over sixty with a beard reaching below his chest, sat on a small stool outside. Upon seeing Constantine, he stood and bowed gracefully.

“Your Highness, I gather you want me to heat the water?” he asked.

Constantine nodded, watching the man disappear behind the building. He placed both hands on Démétrios’s shoulders. “Have you ever been in a Roman hot bath?” he asked his nephew.

Démétrios tilted his head back to look at his uncle, surprise crossing his face. “No, never. I thought they stopped being used when the aqueducts broke down.”

Constantine smiled warmly. “Then I guess this will be your first. Come on, go in.”

Démétrios’s demeanor transformed. The weight of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders, replaced by the excitement of a child given the best gift of his life. “Yes, Uncle!” he exclaimed, rushing to open the door.

Constantine followed his ecstatic nephew inside. The spacious room was lined with stone benches along each wall, its ceiling and walls adorned with colorful mosaics depicting varied scenes: soldiers in battle, ancient gods, and pastoral countrysides. One mosaic, however, caught Démétrios’s attention, starkly different from the rest; a vividly graphic erotic scene between a man and a woman. His face reddened as his eyes lingered on the artwork.

“Isn’t that… immoral?” he asked his uncle, his voice hesitant.

Constantine chuckled. “Ancient Romans had a different view of such things. They were far more open about it,” he explained. “Now, get out of your clothes and put them in this box,” he added, pointing to a wooden chest beside a door leading to another room.

Démétrios nodded, tearing his gaze from the provocative mosaic. He began removing his clothes one by one, growing increasingly uneasy as the thought of being naked with his uncle hit him. He hesitated when only his breeches remained, but seeing Constantine slip out of his own clothes without a care gave him the courage to follow suit. He placed his clothes in the box, one hand awkwardly covering his crotch to preserve some modesty. Turning back, he saw his uncle had wrapped a towel around his hips and was holding another out to him. Démétrios gratefully took it, quickly wrapping it around himself. Constantine opened the second door, leading into the bath room. At its center, a spacious pool was surrounded by ornate pillars, with arches carved into the walls. Lush plants of every variety lined the space, mingling with wooden benches and tables, creating an oasis of tranquility.

“Was this place always here?” Démétrios asked, his voice filled with awe.

Constantine settled onto a bench, resting his head against the wall and closing his eyes. “Yes, but it didn’t always look this good. When I discovered it, I scoured the city for someone who could renovate everything, including the heating system—which was no easy task, to say the least,” he explained.

Démétrios wandered the room, examining each mosaic he could find. But when he reached one nearly hidden by the leaves of a hanging plant, he froze. Slowly pushing the foliage aside, he revealed a scene that nearly made him lose his balance. Like the earlier mosaic, it depicted a sexual act, but this time between two men.Bewildered, Démétrios’s confused gaze drifted to his uncle. “Is that… what I think it is?”

Constantine winced as he saw Démétrios uncover the mosaic, knowing what he’d find. “It’s exactly what you think it is,” he said, striving to keep his tone calm.

“But it’s forbidden,” Démétrios said, his voice caught between disgust and surprise.

Constantine stood and joined his nephew in front of the mosaic. “If you follow the Bible’s word, yes, it is. But the Romans and Greeks were here long before Jesus came to us,” he said, his voice steady but thoughtful.

Démétrios looked at his uncle, confusion etched on his face. “And they believed being a sodomite was fine?”

Constantine crossed his arms, his tone gentle but measured. “The Greeks more than the Romans. The Romans, for instance, thought it was acceptable as long as you weren’t on the receiving end. The Greeks, especially in their armies, were more open. There was even an elite squad in the army of Thebes composed entirely of pairs of male lovers.”

Démétrios tilted his head, struggling to process his uncle’s words. “Really?” he asked, incredulous.

Constantine nodded with a small smile. “Indeed. They were called the Sacred Band of Thebes.”

Démétrios tried to make sense of the explanation. “Then why does the Bible condemn such behavior? Did something happen in between?” he pressed.

“That, only God knows, my nephew,” Constantine said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Démétrios looked at Constantine with a curious expression. “What do you think about it?”

Constantine hesitated, his tone cautious. “I might not be the best person to ask,” he said, trying to steer the conversation away before it went too far.

Démétrios pouted, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Come on, Uncle.”

Constantine sighed, his face turning serious. “I think aligning your entire way of thinking with words written in a book over a thousand years ago is misguided. Every man and woman on this earth should question things and find answers for themselves, not just follow a text.” He paused, then let the dangerous words slip out. “Two men can love each other if they choose. They’re not hurting anyone by doing so.”

Démétrios’s gaze drifted away, his brow furrowed. “Hmm,” he mumbled, struggling to find words. “But… ugh…”

Constantine smiled gently. “Forget the holy scriptures for a moment and listen to your gut. Deep down, what feels right to you?”

Démétrios fell silent, grappling with his uncle’s advice. “I guess I find it more weird than anything. I don’t understand why they’d feel attracted to other men,” he admitted hesitantly.

Constantine felt a surge of pride for his nephew; years of guidance seemed to be paying off. “The same way some people aren’t attracted to the opposite sex. I don’t know why it happens, and I doubt we’ll ever have all the answers. Sometimes, not knowing everything is fine.”

Démétrios nodded thoughtfully. “Do you know any of them?” he asked.

The regent shook his head. “If I did, I wouldn’t say, out of respect for their privacy,” he explained.

“Yes, of course,” Démétrios replied, then turned toward the bath and glanced at his uncle. “Is it ready?”

Constantine walked to the pool and dipped a toe into the water. “Yes, come in,” he said, removing his towel and slipping into the steaming bath.

Démétrios caught a glimpse of his uncle’s body before it disappeared beneath the water, his well-defined muscles tensing as he sank in. The boy hoped he’d look even remotely as impressive as Constantine when he grew up. As a curious teenager, he couldn’t help but compare their tools, and quickly realized he still had plenty of growing to do.

“Come on, stop staring and get in the water,” Constantine said, amusement in his voice.

Démétrios turned bright red at his uncle’s remark. “I wasn’t…”

“Yes, you were, and it’s perfectly fine,” Constantine interrupted, chuckling. “I was your age once, you know. Don’t worry—just let time work its magic.” He gestured for Démétrios to join him in the water.

Démétrios regained his composure and dropped his towel, forcing himself not to cover up. He dipped his feet into the hot water, instantly feeling a wave of comfort wash over him. As he fully submerged himself, leaving only his head above the surface, his muscles relaxed completely. “That feels so good,” he sighed.

Constantine closed his eyes and sank deeper, letting the water lap up to his chin. “Indeed it does. And you have nothing to be ashamed of, my young nephew,” he said warmly.

Démétrios felt a swell of pride at his uncle’s words. “Have you found a wife?” he asked suddenly.

Constantine’s eyes snapped open, flicking to his young nephew, who had sunk into the water until it reached just below his eyes. “No. Nobody wants to marry the emperor of a doomed empire,” he said, his tone half-joking but tinged with bitterness.

Démétrios nodded slowly, falling silent as the water seemed to wash away the dark clouds that had gathered in his mind over the past days. Constantine, however, wondered if he’d made a mistake, revealing too much of his guarded thoughts to his quick-witted nephew, who was sharper than most gave him credit for.

He splashed water at Démétrios’s head. “If you start feeling weak, get out, alright?”

The boy raised his head from the water. “Yes, Uncle.” His gaze drifted to the mosaic-covered ceiling. “Why is Uncle Theodore so mean?” he asked softly.

Constantine’s entire body tensed, hoping his brother hadn’t done something unforgivable. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low but urgent.

Démétrios looked down into the water, his expression troubled. “Well, he keeps glaring at me and bumping into me in the hallways. He even told me some people might want to hurt me now that Father’s gone.”

The regent clenched his fist, anger surging within him. “That insufferable bastard,” he muttered under his breath. He slid through the water to sit beside Démétrios, placing a reassuring arm around his shoulder and pulling him close. “I’ll deal with Theodore. And I promise, nothing will ever happen to you as long as I’m here, alright?”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Démétrios murmured softly.Constantine pulled away and sank back into the hot water, relaxing slightly. “Now enjoy yourself. If you do better in your training, I’ll bring you back here,” he said with a warm smile.

Démétrios smiled back, closing his eyes and, for a few minutes, letting the warmth wash away the weight of the past week. Constantine, however, couldn’t quiet his racing thoughts. His mind spun around the problem of Theodore. Killing him was out of the question—he refused to stoop to his brother’s level. Exile seemed the best option, but for that to happen, Constantine would need to be crowned and find undeniable proof of Theodore’s treason—both of which could prove difficult.

As he mulled over the problem, he noticed Démétrios nodding off, his head swaying dangerously close to the water. Constantine quickly placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Hey, Démétrios, don’t fall asleep. Let’s get out,” he said gently but firmly.

Démétrios’s eyes fluttered open. “Yes, Uncle,” he said, slowly pushing himself out of the water.

Constantine walked a few meters to a corner of the room where a bronze bell rested on a table. He rang it, the metallic chime echoing through the chamber. Moments later, the same old man who had been outside the building appeared, his arms laden with clothes. He set them down beside Constantine, bowed silently to the regent, and disappeared without a word. Constantine gestured for Démétrios to follow him back to the changing room, where he handed his nephew a set of clothes.

“Do you feel up to riding your horse for a bit?” he asked Démétrios as he slipped on his boots.

Démétrios struggled with his belt, his fingers fumbling. “Yeah, I can. I feel like I could take on the world right now,” he said with a grin.

The regent stepped over to help him with the belt. “Then let’s head to the Great Palace. I want to show you something.”

Démétrios’s eyes widened in surprise at the mention of the Great Palace. He had visited it a few times on occasion but had never truly explored it. Unlike some of Constantinople’s buildings, like the Church of the Holy Apostles, which were at least partially maintained, the Great Palace had been largely abandoned by the Palaiologos dynasty. Now falling in ruins, it served only to house prisoners in its vaults. The two men exited the building and headed toward the stables. As always, Constantine took the time to saddle his horse himself. The imposing stallion, named Herakles, was growing old, but despite his squire’s pleas, Constantine refused to replace him. He’d rather charge into battle on foot than ride another horse. As he secured the saddle, he gave Herakles a gentle rub, his mind drifting to the day his father had gifted him the horse, on which he had ridden in every battle and hunt. When he was ready, Constantine leapt into the saddle with practiced dexterity and urged his horse out of the stable. He paused beside Démétrios, whose young, white horse stood in stark contrast to Constantine’s weathered Herakles. It had been John’s final gift to his son, a steed the late emperor never had the chance to see Démétrios ride through forests or fields. Constantine’s mind drifted to a night when John, in a rare moment of clarity, had confided in him. The emperor had said he wished for only one thing: to see Démétrios grow up.

The regent smiled. “Hey, Démétrios.”

“Yes?” his nephew replied, rubbing his horse’s back gently.

Constantine placed a hand on Démétrios’s shoulder, gripping it firmly. “Your father would be proud of you, just as I am,” he said reassuringly.

Démétrios paused, his hand stilling on the horse as he turned to his uncle with a faint smile. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Constantine gave Herakles a light tap with the back of his boots and rode out from the walls of the Blachernae Palace, the imposing Theodosian Walls looming to their right. Démétrios followed, and the two rode in companionable silence toward the city. They took the Mese, one of Constantinople’s two major arteries leading to the peninsula’s tip, passing the Church of the Holy Apostles and other landmarks before reaching the Forum of Theodosius. There, the ancient Column of Theodosius and the Triumphal Arch stood proud above the bustling square. As they rode through the forum, passersby bowed to the regent and his nephew, some even kneeling. Constantine acknowledged each with a gracious nod or a word of thanks for their reverence.Continuing along the Mese, they left the forum behind until the silhouette of the Hippodrome emerged, not far from the towering domes of Hagia Sophia. They finally reached the Milion, the forum nestled between these architectural marvels. Adjacent to the Hippodrome, the Great Palace sprawled—a labyrinthine cluster of former administrative buildings separated by overgrown, untended gardens where once-manicured greenery had given way to chaotic tangles of plants. The buildings themselves were weathered, some partially collapsed, bearing the scars of centuries of neglect.

Leaving their horses in the local stable, Constantine and Démétrios strolled toward the center of the Great Palace complex, where Démétrios paused, taking a moment to look around. “Why did we move to the Blachernae?” he asked.

Constantine stopped in his tracks, considering how to explain. “Well, it’s a combination of things,” he began, searching for a clear explanation. “When the Komnenoi took the throne, they wanted to overhaul the empire’s administrative structure. Centuries of factionalism and powerful bureaucrats had led to dynasties being overthrown every century or so.” He resumed walking, gesturing for Démétrios to follow. “They drastically reduced the bureaucratic apparatus, introduced new titles, and moved to the Blachernae because it was cheaper to maintain and easier to control the bureaucracy by tying it to the imperial army there. It was also simply more practical.”

Démétrios, trailing his uncle as they entered the main hall, let his eyes dart around, searching for anything of interest. “That didn’t work too well, did it?” he remarked.

Constantine sighed. “No, and it still doesn’t.”

As they ventured deeper into the corridors, a man in voluminous robes rounded a corner and bumped into Démétrios, sending a cascade of scrolls and books tumbling to the ground. The man scrambled to pick them up, mumbling, “I’m terribly sorry, I wasn’t looking.”

Constantine chuckled, recognizing the voice without needing to see the man’s face. “Excused? You’ll be sent to the dungeon for disrespecting your future emperor, Stefan,” he said, feigning anger.

Stefan looked up, confusion giving way to recognition. “Oh, I’m sorry, my regent! I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, flustered. “I assure you it was not intentional, please don’t punish me!” he begged.

Constantine laughed softly. “I’m not going to punish you, Stefan,” he said, giving the young council member a hearty slap on the back. “But I’m glad to see you. I need to discuss important matters with you. Are you heading back to the palace soon?”

Stefan stumbled forward slightly from the force of the slap. “I’m on my way there now, actually,” he replied.

“Great. I’ll meet you there later, keep yourself available,” Constantine said with a smile. “Come on, Démétrios, I still have something to show you.”

Stefan bowed to the two before excusing himself and heading toward the Blachernae. Constantine led his nephew deeper into the labyrinthine corridors until they turned left into a staircase descending to the vaults. As they reached the bottom, voices of guards and prisoners echoed from further within. Démétrios followed silently, glancing nervously at the branching corridors, his heartbeat quickening as he wondered what his uncle wanted him to see. At the end of a corridor, Constantine stopped before a damp stone wall, running his hand over its surface.“What you’re about to see, only emperors and a few trusted individuals have witnessed,” he said, his hand pausing on a smoother stone brick.

Démétrios watched as his uncle pressed the stone inward a few inches. A rumbling sound echoed, and part of the wall slid back, revealing a secret passage. “A secret passage!” Démétrios exclaimed.

Constantine gestured toward the dark entrance. “After you.”

The nephew stepped cautiously into the darkness, nearly slipping on the stairs. As he took his first steps, torches along the walls flared to life, illuminating his path. They descended for what felt like an eternity before an archway appeared, separating them from a room shrouded in darkness. Démétrios took a few awkward steps forward, and, as before, light flooded the chamber, revealing a vast circular room. Its domed ceiling was adorned with pristine biblical mosaics that glinted in the torchlight. The walls were lined with shelves and cabinets filled with high-quality weapons—swords, maces, spears, and more. The floor was a stunning mosaic of alternating gold patterns, untouched by time.

Démétrios was speechless, awestruck by the room’s pristine condition, as if frozen in history. “What is this place?” he managed to ask.

Constantine smiled, recalling his own awe when his brother had brought him here years ago. “Constantine’s Room.”

Démétrios’s eyes darted to the array of swords, maces, spears, and other weapons displayed around them. “Why are there so many weapons here?”

“Relics,” Constantine explained, unfastening the sheathed sword at his hip. “Weapons collected over a thousand years by the emperors of the East.”

The kid noticed his uncle’s gesture. “That’s my father’s sword. Does it come from here?”

The regent walked to an empty cabinet and placed the sword inside. “Yes, as does mine. And yours will.”

Démétrios’s face clouded with confusion, barely containing his excitement. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Constantine joined him at the center of the room, placing a hand on his shoulder. “When a new emperor is chosen, he brings his heir here to select a weapon to carry until death.”

Démétrios’s eyes widened as the weight of his uncle’s words sank in. “But I’m not your son,” he protested.

“No, you’re not,” Constantine said solemnly, gripping his nephew’s shoulder. “But the day your father fell ill, I made my choice. You are my heir, Démétrios, now and forever.”

Démétrios shook his head, daunted by the responsibility thrust upon him. He’d been too young to grasp such weight when his father was well, and after John’s illness, he’d assumed Constantine would have a son to name as heir. “But you could still have a son, and…”

“No, I won’t. It’s too late, and even if I did, it wouldn’t change anything,” Constantine interrupted firmly. “Now choose. Choose the weapon that will follow you until death.”

Démétrios stood frozen, his thoughts warring within him. When his father was healthy, he was too young to understand such a burden; after John’s illness, he never imagined bearing it. It took him a few seconds to muster the strength to move. His eyes scanned the relics until they settled on a spear. He approached it, examining it closely. Towering at eight feet, its shaft was crafted from Damascus steel, intricately carved. The butt was adorned with two large jade pearls tied with a red cord. The tip resembled an inverted arrow, with a long central blade like a sword’s, flanked by two shorter, conventional spear tips.

He grasped the shaft and lifted it, nearly dropping it from its surprising weight.“Ugh, heavy,” he muttered, struggling to find a proper stance.

Constantine stepped closer. “Interesting choice,” he said, extending a hand. “Give it to me for a moment.”

Démétrios handed it over with difficulty. Constantine held the spear effortlessly in his right hand, flexing his legs before lunging forward, swinging it sideways. Satisfied with its balance, he launched into a series of slashes and thrusts, flipping the spear between both hands with each strike. The jade pearls clinked together, their sound resonating in the chamber. He increased his speed, sweat beading on his forehead as he moved with intense focus. Démétrios watched, mesmerized by his uncle’s fluid movements, cutting through the air with unparalleled grace and flawless technique. In that moment, the young heir envisioned himself in Constantine’s place, fighting for the empire on a battlefield.

As Constantine gradually slowed, coming to a stop, Démétrios approached. “I didn’t know you could use a spear so well,” he said, awestruck.

The regent caught his breath before responding. “Besides the sword and flail, it’s the weapon I wield best,” he explained. “It’s a fine choice, Démétrios, but you’ll need to build your strength to use it well.” He handed the spear back to his nephew.

Démétrios nodded, taking the spear from Constantine, its weight feeling lighter as determination surged within him. “I’ll train until I can wield it with pride beside you on the battlefield,” he vowed.

Pride enveloped Constantine at his nephew’s words. “I’m sure you’ll master it in no time,” he said, a broad smile spreading across his face. “Now, let’s go, people are probably wondering where we are.” He headed toward the exit, closely followed by his nephew, their figures disappearing into the staircase.