The antechamber was dim and smelled of smoke. Resin slid down the boards like wax. The heat hadn't reached yet - the stove was not warming. It was storing. As if under the floor lay not heat, but an enemy.
Nikodim sat, elbows on his knees. The air stretched thick, like the anxiety before service. The steam didn't sting - it lingered. Not yet fire, but already weight.
- He agreed too fast. No 'we'll consider it.' No conditions. That's not a decision - that's a step placed in advance, - he said quietly, almost evenly. Only at the end - a half-breath, like a thread had snapped inside. - Χριστός οἶδε, why such speed
He paused, blinked - and pressed his eyes shut hard. Salt burned. He blinked again. It hurt - and so it became clear.
- Young, yes. Maybe he didn't understand what he was agreeing to. Or... - he shook his head, as if chasing off not a thought - a weakness. The word "liked" never came. It didn't fit - not for her, not for him.
- In the hall, he didn't look at her. He looked at the fabric. At the layout. He was bargaining. Too precise for a youth. Too early for sincerity
He spoke like someone who had already been burned. Not by words - by something before them.
- Happens. Youth grabs on impulse - and hits the mark. And we then wonder: was it calculation? But worse than deception is this - if he didn't think at all. Just struck true
He wiped his face - as if trying to erase not sweat, but the picture inside.
- But he saw. The cloth. The shade. Even what wasn't shown. He took everything that could be given. And more - the things not usually offered. A marriage. A title. Passages. Fleet. Church. Not as a supplicant. As someone settling the bill
He paused. Not out of doubt - for precision.
- And the bill - will come. Not in silver. Not in gifts. In what he took. The Empire doesn't grant. It defers. And then - it collects. All. At once. Without return
- It was that way in Melitene. First alliance. Gifts. Seal. A year later - a garrison. Two years - a new ruler. One of ours. The old one vanished without a record
- In Edessa - they accepted help. Accepted the faith. Built a Byzantine temple. By spring - the market spoke Greek, and the courts - canon
- In Samosata - the ruler swore he would not be consumed. And he wasn't. The city simply became a topic. And he - departed. Quietly. Without an arrow
- We don't break. We weave. And when the fabric warms by our hearth - we simply name it ours
Pause - like a scar.
- He can play. Fast. Deep. Even true. But that doesn't matter
He looked toward the stove - where warmth had not yet become fire.
- Because in the end, it's not how you played that counts. It's whose hall still stands
He wiped his forehead. Sweat with salt. As if wiping off not skin - but what had been written on it.
- And still... sometimes I wonder - if only I'd said it harder. Or hadn't said anything at all
He breathed in. His nostrils burned.
- But words don't echo. Only outcomes
From behind the wall - a sound. A woman's laugh, muffled, like it came from a room in another world. A wet splash - someone's foot brushed the edge of a bathing pool. Then - silence. The boundary between two temperatures: there - infusion, here - smoulder.
The door exhaled fresh steam. Lev Komnenos entered - as one walks into a foreign church.
No thunder, no glance. He'd been with Nikodim since morning, but every entrance was a test: what has changed?
- Still warming your head with negotiations, magister? Or have you chosen to partake of the local purification? - his voice landed hoarse, almost resentful of someone else's simplicity.
Nikodim didn't answer right away. Just blinked - and blinked again. The sweat burned his eyes now, down to tears.
He exhaled - as before a word one doesn't say.
- When an enemy agrees without a fight - it's not peace he seeks. He's setting the stage
Lev gave a dry chuckle - as if he understood, but waved it off.
- A pup playing at wolf. Youth loves risk - until it meets a blade face first
- He's not rushing, - said Nikodim. - Not surrender. Camouflage. He left - to lead
Lev stepped to a jug. Poured water. Splashed it into a cup - to cool, not to quench.
- Then strike first. Before the ink dries
- We're in the chamber. Here, the first blow is with a candle, not a blade
Silence. A quiet tap: behind the wall, someone set a bowl on stone.
- No column. No imprint. Just "I'll take it all, to the end." That's not how the weak speak. That's the voice of someone who already prepared another scroll
Nikodim rubbed his temple, slow. It itched - not from pain, but foreboding.
- Or maybe he doesn't think at all. Just floats with the current. And we draw the map around him - as if he holds the helm
Lev clenched a fist. Not in anger - in agreement.
- These Ross still have much to learn. Their shield - a plank. Their word - air. Still living at the level of logs
He spat into the heat. The stone hissed.
- But a plank can block a path. If the pup signs the marriage - it'll be a barrier. Not solid. But better than a hole
Pause. A rasping breath.
- Real enemies come from the south. Sevastia's in smoke. At Harput - bones. A month ago - heads from Zichia. Even the Oghuz hid his sign in the saddle - to avoid being mistaken for one of them
He didn't sit - he dropped. Like a stone at the edge.
- That's when it began. Kapetron (Pasinler). Four armies moved - Georgians, Armenians, ours. The Seljuks withdrew - but not empty-handed
He ran a finger under his eye - the scar paled with blood.
- My brother was there. They didn't kill him. They took him. Returned - a week later. But not whole. Just what was left
He fell silent. Not from pain - from memory.
- Magistros Liparit IV Bagrationi, the Georgian prince, was captured. You remember. All remember. And then - they forgot. Decided: Seljuks left. Didn't reach us. But it wasn't a raid. It was a probe. They were seeking a way. Measuring resistance
He looked toward the fire.
- The Seljuk doesn't want a "yes." He wants to find where it's thin. Where he can pass - and not return
He stood. Solidly. Without sound.
- Rus' is a plank. But a plank can become a door. Or a shield. What matters is - it must hold
Nikodim turned to reply - too late.
Behind the wall - a splash. Quiet, like two youths easing into warm infusion. The door's wood pulled in the steam, as if the bathhouse itself inhaled - before delivering its verdict.
Agapios entered first. Held his mantle with two fingers - from habit. The eyes of an icon-painter after midnight: still praying, already painting.
Next came Kallistratos - precise, like a crossed-out scroll not yet discarded.
Last to slip through - pronovestitēs, βασιλικὸς ἔμπορος of salt, Sebastian Phokas.
A cough under the ribs, the smell of mastic and sweat: the treasury arrived on foot. He scanned the steam like a merchant weighing scales - searching for imbalance.
The stone clicked. As if below, someone had placed a full stop. The air shifted. The count had begun.
Phokas didn't sit right away. He stood, as if catching a tilt. Glanced sideways - like a merchant eyeing goods that had somehow sold themselves.
A pause. A long inhale. A cough clicked in his chest - but held.
- I thought we were sent to count losses. The Great Prince of the North is dead - the border, brittle. Ports - unsealed. Trade - unsigned. Everything hangs on honor, not vow. We came to see: which princes hold the reins, who trades, who whispers to Latins, who seeks a crown not from us
The cough escaped. Dull - like a ledger with no income.
- Turns out, the magister had his own scrolls. No seal. No logothete. No synod. Just pulled them out - and handed them over. Or is he now both logothete and synod?
He didn't look at Nikodim. But it sounded like he was writing a report - not with ink, but breath. Straight into the ear of Emperor Constantine IX Monomachos.
Agapios inhaled the steam - not like a healer, but like a man searching for a sign. And finding none.
- If the alliance had been sanctified - Patriarch Keroullarios would've told me first. Always did. Even secrets - passed through me to the Synkletos. That was the order
He didn't look at Nikodim. He looked at the stove - as if it were an icon that no longer answered.
- But now - nothing. No letter. No mark. No cross. Just silence. As if we're already left behind. Or... as if it was all decided without the Church
His voice dried. As if the words passed through stale incense.
- No τύπος - no formula. No synod - no witnesses. No prayer - no grace. Just an act. Done. But not consecrated
The steam thickened. No answer. No rustle. Just the oven humming - like a belly without blessing.
Nikodim didn't raise his head. Didn't reply. He waited. Not for approval - for order. Who's next?
Kallistratos spoke, not at once. Like a scribe seeing a scroll already signed - but not by his hand.
- The mandate's been checked. Twice. Clean. Like a blank leaf. No title. No heading. No mention of alliance
He passed a finger through the air - like across parchment.
- And now - it's as if a new line's been cut in. Not written - carved. No heading. No witness. No seal. And it's already accepted - without ever asking us
Pause. Long. Not from doubt - from injury.
- You were magister. Now - you're the acting face. We've become margin notes. Commentary on a text you've already sent
The steam didn't stir. But the air pressed in - like when the stove cracks, not from firewood, but from something of its own. Old wood. One that remembers the temple.
Lev snorted. Not outward - inward. Like breathing across hot iron.
Nikodim raised his eyes. Not in defense - in weighing. As if he'd decided: each gets their line.
- Phokas, you assumed: prince dead - port open. Stove cold - tally losses. But we came - and the smoke still holds. And as long as the count's not finished - we can place another entry
He didn't wait for reply - already turned.
- Agapios... the Patriarch is silent not because he didn't know. But because he waited. We are not blessed - we are tested. We are the fork. If Rus accepts - he'll confirm. If it rejects - he'll remain silent. Not heresy. A threat
He turned to the chief scribe - the last.
- Kallistratos. You're right. The scroll is empty. But emptiness isn't deceit. It was a window. Not a text. I didn't write - I entered. While it was open
He exhaled - not collapsing, but deeper.
- Yes. I stepped past the line. But not past the purpose. The alliance wasn't in the command - but it was in the sense. I didn't lie to the Emperor. I simply acted - before it was too late
A breath - and the voice turned dull, like a shield down a slope.
- We had no time for typikon. No Synkletos. No runner. Just fire. A crown - or a hall
The steam held like wrath without exit.
After Nikodim's words - it wasn't a speech that flared. It was the furnace.
Lev exhaled - not into air, into Nikodim. As if slamming a helmet onto his head, knowing: there'll be no other.
He looked at Phokas. No rebuke - but no comfort either. A soldier looks at a treasurer like one who records the battle afterward - not in blood.
Then turned to Nikodim. Not sharply - heavily. Like a shield set into earth.
- Protocol isn't a shield. It's a veil. And you tore it, magister. Not for glory. For impact
He yanked his collar. The fabric split - as if it admitted: too thin. Didn't hold.
He fell silent, then glanced at them all - but especially Agapios.
- We're not in the Holy City. Here, a crown isn't a title. It's a lock. Until others arrive
He faced the rest. The voice - without pressure, but full.
- I wouldn't have signed it. But I wouldn't cancel it either
He looked into the steam - like into a wall already lit from behind.
- If you did this alone - I'll stand with you. Then - let the court judge
He looked at Nikodim.
- Strike while the iron's warm. Better a northern barbarian crowned - than Seljuks at Nicaea
Agapios blinked. As if smoke stung under the lid. Ran a finger across his forehead - not from heat, from a thought he shouldn't have had.
- If this alliance came by the will of the Patriarch... - his voice didn't shake, but passed through incense. - I'd bless it. Now... I pray it won't be anathema
He crossed himself. Quick. Not like a liturgist - like a swimmer before the wave.
Kallistratos rose - not fully, just a shoulder. His face - like an unetched engraving: meaning there, but no lines yet.
- You won't write this in the chronicles, - he said to the steam, as if drawing a line. - No date. No decree. No formula
He sighed. Like the ink had spilled - but not on the right sheet.
- But I'll write it. Because that's how it happened. Let the Emperor decide: whether it was folly... or providence
Phokas snorted. Not in mockery - in cough. Swallowed it, like an extra line in the ledger.
- You took the cost on yourself, - he said, not looking. - Doesn't mean they'll accept it
He stepped - then sank back down. Like a merchant who realized the deal was already done. Without him.
- But if it goes through - the bill comes for all. Us included. Don't forget that, magister
Agapios sat - not forgiving, but staying. Kallistratos adjusted his sleeve - as if already holding the scroll. Phokas wiped his sweat and looked at Nikodim like a document with no seal: can't approve it - but can't deny it either.
Silence.
Beyond the log - a laugh. Soft, girlish - like in the narthex of a chapel. Then - a splash. As if two crowns-to-be had sunk into the warm brew.
One will break loose. The other - drown.
The logs in the stove crackled - not loud, but stubborn, as if someone in the dark was fingering dry bones.
The door-board sighed - not with crack, but with weight. The head bathman entered. Not a boy - a man, in simple but clean clothes. Less a servant than a voice of the house.
- The prince's guests, - he bowed. Quietly, without flourish. - The stone's at zenith. Time to take the steam
He didn't look into their eyes - like in a church. Just gestured - short, unhurried.
Servants brought towels - bleached linen, no gold, but patterned. Stern, but precise. Not wealth - order.
Agapios crossed himself. Quietly.
- Μά τον Θεόν...
The Byzantines removed their daily garb - stood in pale-gray chitons, thin as air before a storm. No belts, no insignia - only body, steam, and cloth. As in the thermae. As in repentance. All markers shed. What breathes remains.
Nikodim stepped in first; Lev behind him, Agapios and Kallistratos slipping after. Phokas froze. Not from heat - there was nothing beneath his ribs. One step, and the cough would speak in his place.
The bath didn't welcome - they entered it like a verdict. The steam lay. Like wrath with no word. The stove droned below - as if a stranger breathed beneath the planks.
The floor - strewn with fir. The board - damp. If it cried under a boot, the choice was made.
Phokas stepped - and folded. The cough turned his chest inside out.
- Not purification... execution, - he rasped, collapsing. Sweat cut his eyes.
Agapios knelt beside. Inhaled - empty, like a censer without incense.
- No sanctifying here. Only testing. Skin - instead of parchment
- Parchment, - Lev cut in. - Write pain on it - it becomes an oath
Nikodim stared into the furnace's burning gut.
- No feast. No wine. Just fire. The message is silent: We see - but we do not bow
He reached for a ladle. Scooped. Poured - slowly. As if drawing the final line.
The stones roared. Steam fell from above - not steam, but blow. As if the air itself had become will.
- And if someone's weak - better to know before the court, - he added, quietly.
Phokas didn't answer. Only shut his eyes - clenched his lips, to choke the cough.
Kallistratos slid down, gripped a log, pulled his hand - the skin pale in silence - then tucked it into his sleeve.
The steam held them, like a seal. The stone below clicked - like a full stop under a verdict.
Agapios, used to the marble thermae of the Holy City, breathed in the scorching air - and still turned to Nikodim:
- Let them have autocephaly, - he breathed. - But will they stand as shield, if what comes from the west isn't faith - but claw? The Franks at the Tomb - no longer pray. They count
March stood at the door of 1054; the cracking stone whispered a fracture not yet named schism.
Salt burned Nikodim's eyes. He blinked - didn't wipe. His voice snapped loose, like ashes exhaled on their own.
- Back then, under the Monomachina's crown stood Prince Vsevolod, with four princely brothers. Yaroslav - alive. And now - one Alexander. One neck. One knot. Already pulled tight
Lev drew in breath, holding steam like a warrior holds a shield. Phokas stayed silent, counting breaths.
Agapios nodded - like answering a hidden choir.
- Ἀμήν, λέγω ὑμῖν... If the alliance is sealed - God is witness. If it's rejected - that too is His will
Lev lowered his head. Glanced at Kallistratos - the chief scribe already fading, like parchment in flame.
- If she accepts - the weight won't be on the crown. It'll be on her throat. Prepare her, Nikodim. So she doesn't collapse under it
The words still hung when Kallistratos gave in. His body stilled. Eyes - clouded.
No gasp. No sway. Just - gone. Like a censer's flame: out, without flicker. He didn't fall - he slipped down. Silent. As if afraid the sound would break the rite.
Lev exhaled, eyes low.
- Let it not end like him. Sat so finely - until he burned
The heat lingered. No shuffle. No cough. Only steam - no longer warming. Choking.
Not breath - a tight noose. Not silence - a sentence with a pause. Someone poured more water. The stones groaned. And all unsaid - rose with the steam.
In every envoy's residence - its own bath. For men - lighter, but still with heat. For women - an infusion pool, where nothing steams, everything steeps. Lavender. Mint. Soft light - not to warm, but not to scare.
Yaroslav the Wise knew: alliances aren't begged for - they're soaked in. In warm water. In gestures of regard. In rooms that feel almost like home - but cleaner. Quieter. Softer.
Polish, Byzantine, Hungarian ladies wouldn't accept harsh steam or bucket-drenching. Where in Rus' they cried out from the heat - they stayed silent in herbs, breathed in incense.
So it became custom: baths as a sign. Not of submission - of recognition. That another's skin is also part of the pact. That Rus' is not only strength - but grace.
The pool smelled of lavender and mint. The steam hung heavy, as if the ceiling was held up by palms of mist.
Sofia sat in the water to her shoulders, hugging her knees. She didn't want to move - lest they think she was shivering. From beyond the wall, a man's voice knocked through:
- The price - will be paid. Not in silver. Not in gifts...
The sentence hissed out, like coal sinking into snow.
A beam cracked in the far wall - short, like someone adjusting a shoulder against timber. Kleo raised a brow but said nothing.
Back in the Imperial City, maids had whispered:
- Ἐκεῖνοι οἱ Ῥῶς boil themselves in steam like iron - until it groans. But for us? They say their prince himself ordered lavender, mint, soft light. So the skin wouldn't flinch - but remember. Here, heat is a sign, not a whip
Another creak. Same beam. Like a shoulder against the wall. Both girls flinched.
- You think the mint's for us? - Kleo lowered her voice. - No. It's to muffle. So no one hears who's with whom - and what they're saying
She looked at the wall - like an ear listening both ways.
Sofia didn't answer at once. Then, as if recalling:
- In the Empire, they rub honey into the walls. So it feels like whispering in a church. So you and God both believe - it's by rite
The candle flicked. The droplets trembled - but held. Sofia exhaled - like confession no one asked for:
- Here - just don't scream. Then they'll think you believe
The candle swayed - as if doubting that.
Kleo pulled her legs in, hugged her knees - as if afraid of hearing herself too loud. Then, as if remembering the cost:
- Did you hear? The bridal crown. That's what they're calling you
Sofia touched her shoulder - the fine welt from yesterday's pin still stung.
- Us, - she said. - A crown needs a backdrop
Kleo snorted, splashing.
- And backdrops don't get lines. You really think they believe we want anything?
- If we had a will, it'd be written in the treaty, - Sofia breathed.
Kleo shifted. Her heel slid, brushed something sharp at the bottom. Water lifted into steam. She jerked. Inhaled - and bit her lip. No sound. No sound first.
- Something sharp... - she whispered. - Hope it's not a tooth
She looked up - breath caught. Two seconds. Silence. Not words - a thought like a burn.
- Sophi... What if the crown already burned someone?
- What?
- What if it's not new? Was worn. Burned. Now it's just hunting for new skin. Skin changes, you know
The air didn't steam - it stilled. Like after a scream that never came. Sofia didn't laugh. But it felt like someone coughed in the silence - and that helped.
- I don't feel fear, - Kleo whispered. - Just... like they're waiting for us to become convenient
The water shifted - didn't cool.
Sofia exhaled. Not a laugh - a smirk. Like when someone says your thought aloud.
- Fear takes too long. Easier to decide girls are obedient
She ran her thumb over the scar - the skin flinched.
- I'm afraid... that I'm no longer afraid, - she whispered. And startled herself with how it sounded.
- We're children, - stubbornly.
They both knew it was true. And both - that no one else thought so. Their eyes met, then dropped - to their shoulders, chests, water.
Sofia's chest had paled against the basin's edge - like it was racing to grow into the crown.
- Children get dolls, - she said softly. - We got a crown and "don't break it."
As if someone else had said it before. As if somewhere - beyond the wall, in the heat, in the dark - those same words had already been spoken.
Only louder. In a man's voice. Still unheard.
Kleo clenched her hand: a red welt swelled across her finger - the mint stung.
- And if it all splits? Seams, crack - just like snap?
Sofia didn't answer at once. Only after a breath:
- If it cracks - they'll write off the crown. Not us
She straightened. A strand clung to her temple. She touched it - and it stayed in her fingers. A few hairs. They didn't sink. Just floated. Like memory.
Beyond the wall - the voices died. The bath sagged into silence. Kleo kicked the water. Splashes hit the candle - the flame flinched, but held.
She said nothing. But in that silence - no fear. Only waiting. And then, finally - a voice, like a ripple from a stone:
- When we get back to the Imperial City, - she whispered, - I'll drop a pebble in the sea. See if the circle reaches Ignatios
- Sign the stone, - Sofia said gently. - Or they'll claim the circle's theirs
Both smiled. Brief. Like checking teeth - all in place. Sofia's shoulders trembled.
The candle swayed - once, twice - then froze. A drop of wax hung at the rim of the copper bowl. Didn't fall. Just waited.
- Sofia?.. - Kleo shifted, but didn't rise. - Did you hear that?
Sofia didn't answer. She looked into the water. As if the sound was there - under the mirror, under the steam.
Outside - a click. Like someone touched the handle. But didn't turn.
- Probably Manouil, - Kleo whispered. - Forgot we're-
Another sound. Not a click. Dull. Like a table hitting the floor. Or a shield.
Sofia tensed - didn't move. Through the partition - a voice. Sharp, high, cracking on "Sof-":
- Δεσποινά! Sofia! Kleo! Get dressed! Now! Noise in the court... the northerners... they-
The voice cut off. Like struck. Not a scream - a blow. From below. The main hall.
Kleo jerked. Water slammed the side. The candle hissed soot. Sofia rose. In silence. The water slid down - not as moisture, but as something peeled away. Her shoulders already taut. Not from fear. From unknowing.
- What's that? - Kleo trembled, more from air than terror. - The servants again?
- Not servants, - Sofia said flatly. - And not ours
Somewhere - a clang. Fast, ragged. Like a sword caught a bench. A voice - rougher. Slavic. Unclear. But one word rang out:
- ...brat...
Then - a sharp Greek shout. Short. Snapped like a shield set in place. Kleo almost leapt from the bath. Slipped. Caught the edge.
- Manouil! - she shouted, losing hold. - What is it?!
Silence outside. Only breath. Or steam from the door.
Sofia was pulling on a dry tunic. Hands trembled - but precise. Fingers like someone who doesn't want to do this - but does it anyway.
- Where's Uncle Leo? - Kleo whispered. - Where's the Varangians?
- If there's noise - they're already there, - Sofia exhaled.
From the corridor - footsteps. Bare soles. Fast. And a voice - Greek, rasped:
- φρουροί! φρουροί! Varangians! Now!
Kleo threw on a cloak over wet skin. It clung like rag. Salt at her lip.
- I don't understand. Is it... the Ross?
- A crowd's roaring, - Sofia cut in. - But it's just one voice speaking
Footsteps above. No - a tread. Slow. Heavy. Like someone dragging a chain. The door quivered. Manouil's voice - choked like a noose:
- Δεσποινά... Leo's already in the hall. Varangians too. But... hurry. They've entered. Without a word
Kleo looked at Sofia. Silent. They both knew: "without a word" - that was worst of all.
From the deep - a shout. Male. Slavic:
- ...now you listen!
- Who is that?.. - Kleo breathed.
And then - silence. Like a blow.
The torch by the door swayed. Not from wind - as if the air itself shifted.
- We were behind the wall, - Kleo whispered. - Now... we're in front of it
Sofia grabbed her wrist:
- If it gets quiet - count the steps
Somewhere - a sharp creak. Door. Or shield. A gust tore the steam like a veil. A voice - closer now:
- ...drowned!
Then - a crash. Not falling. Impact. Like someone driven into wood.
They froze. Neither breathed.
The water in the pool - cold now. The steam - gone. Left only a stench: like metal that remembers blood.
The torch shuddered - and went out. Not at once. As if someone had shut its eyes.