From Dark Ages: Cappadocian by Andrew Bates.

©2002 White Wolf, Inc. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Constantinople

14 April, 1204

Markus Musa Giovanni roused his considerable bulk from slumber even as the sunset stained the western sky. He was not normally such an early riser, but this was far from a normal time. His rest during the past two days had been disrupted by the terror and pillage that swept the city above.

Standing at the center of a storm of change, he lacked a clear view of which way the winds blew. Too many possibilities existed to allow easy insight into his best course of action. Markus had spent the previous night weighing options. While he had at least narrowed his choices, none of the alternatives that remained was without risk.

Markus could return home, to Venice and to his family. Safe from the ravages Constantinople suffered this night, he could relate all that he had learned during his years in the Queen of Cities. Alas, there was precious little worth telling. He had yet to succeed at what he had once thought was a laughably simple task. And to stand before the familial patriarch, the great Augustus Giovanni, with nothing more than excuses in hand…?

Markus dismissed the thought. He could claim that the challenges he faced were greater than anyone had expected, but that was nothing more than pathetic whining. It would be tantamount to admitting he was not worthy of the dark gift given him. At the very least, he would be an embarrassment, his name a joke among the family, spurned even by the shades who whispered in the deep chambers where the Giovanni performed their necromantic studies.

Instead, Markus could remain in Constantinople. He could see what opportunities for discovery presented themselves in the wake of the massacre still raging throughout the great city’s streets. The secrets he had been charged to find might more easily be gleaned under cover of violence. Yet to stay would expose Markus to mortal–and immortal–danger. His blood was more potent than that of many who bore the mark of Caine, but Markus was still young as vampires considered such things. Despite his power, he was not invulnerable. He might find that which he had sought for years, only to suffer ultimate destruction on the verge of triumph.

A third option–to flee, spending his nights far from familial responsibility and physical danger–was never more than a fleeting fancy. Markus was many things, but a coward was not one of them.

Sandwiched between the twin specters of admitting failure and chancing final death, Markus was not eager to commit to either course.

Yet lurking here accomplishes nothing. A grimace of resignation stretched across his broad features. He was a Giovanni, and a Cappadocian. In the search for the ultimate secrets of life and death, failure was unacceptable. The time for planning is done. Now is the moment to act.

* * *

"Look, Falsinar! A handful of Greeks approach. Ready the stone."

"You are certain they are Greeks?"

"Eyes like a hawk, my friend. You can tell by their armor; see?"

"You misremember your features, Beltramose. You have a nose like a hawk’s beak, but your eyes are no sharper than a wooden spoon."

"I forgive you such a hurtful jibe, Falsinar. Your words are formed from the envy you hold for my unmatched beauty and intellect."

"Aye, unmatched indeed. I have yet to meet a man either as hideous or as ignorant as yourself."

"Poor Falsinar. Count yourself lucky that I am such a kindhearted soul as to accept you as my friend."

"Indeed, Beltramose. God is surely punishing me for some great sin."

"Ah, look now. We have missed our chance. They have decided not to try our door."

"Do not despair. See there, just turning yonder corner?"

"What? Ah, but they look to be Venetian. Would God forgive us for striking at our own countrymen?"

"I do not see why He would bother with us now of all times. Besides, look how they come unerringly for the lone stout door that remains standing on this street. Only the suicidal would dare try to gain entry to our humble tower."

"Truly, I can find no fault with your logic, my friend. On the count of three, then?"

"I am at your command, good Beltramose."

* * *

Markus Giovanni heard pounding from the heavy, banded door two floors above his hidden lair. Even as he reached the landing, shouts of surprise erupted outside, followed by a thunderous crash. The ground shook at some impact, but lock and hinges remained firm.

Since the door remained secure, Markus spared a glance at the opposite wall of the squat tower that comprised the remainder of his home. Those who wished to gain entry from the street could not know that a significant portion of the tower’s other side had tumbled in. That hole overlooked a series of ruined buildings to which the tower was once attached, part of a Venetian merchant’s warehouse complex. The buildings still gave off a thick billow of smoke from the conflagration that had claimed them the previous day. Markus suppressed a shudder. Deep in his lair beneath the city, he had been safe from the deadly flames. Still, the bones of the blackened structures were grim reminder of how easily all things might fall no matter the care taken in their construction.

The cries outside of pain and panic roused Markus from contemplation. He slipped the rest of the way up the stone steps and entered the tower’s top room. Peering out the jagged hole on the street-side wall, two men sniggered at one another as they levered another stone block into position.

"The city is in flames," Markus observed, "and all you fools can think to do is drop stones on looters?"

The man on the right jerked upon hearing Markus’s basso rumble. The other fellow lacked the strength to hold the stone in place and barked in surprise as it fell three stories. Ignoring the renewed screams of outrage from below, the man on the left looked over at Markus.

"Ah, Signore awakens at last. You have a decision, then?"

"I have."

* * *

Falsinar and Beltramose huffed up the last few steps to the tower roof. Markus had sated himself with the victims of their rock-dropping stunt. It was left to the pair to remove the bodies and lessen the chances that other looters would take an interest in their abode. Markus stood at the tower’s far side, backlit by the fires encroaching on the Great Bazaar. The men moved opposite their master and took a post over the tower’s front entrance, leaving their lord to his privacy.

"That is something I have never grown used to," Beltramose confided. He nodded to Markus, who murmured at the air.

Falsinar looked over. "Aye, well. What is it his kind say? ‘Different realms of being’?"

"It makes the things no less disquieting to be around."

"Hmm. And yet," Falsinar said, tapping a contemplative finger against his lips, "our gracious lord and master appears to have no problems trafficking with their ilk."

Beltramose frowned. "What a revelation! Truly, my friend, your insight is without limit."

"I must say that your compliment seems less than genuine."

"You know that I hold you in regard equal to that which you show me, good Falsinar."

"Indeed?" Falsinar quirked a bushy eyebrow at the taller man. "Perhaps we should each consider ourselves insulted, then."

Beltramose uttered a surprised gasp, his intended reply forgotten. He leaped to one side and shuddered, eyes darting in a mix of panic and outrage.

Falsinar cut off his chuckle in the face of Beltramose’s murderous glare. "Apologies, my friend, but you looked like a distressed stork, flapping about like that. One of his pets having fun at your expense again?"

"Went right through me. Like being doused with ice water." Beltramose shuddered. "Why do they never bother you?"

"Perhaps because I am resigned to the inevitable, while you retain a sliver of hope."

"It is true that, compared to yourself, I am an incurable optimist. Yet I would never be mistaken for hopeful."

Falsinar shrugged. "Still you think that your fate will be other than that shared by our unseen friends. That our fine liege will not some day add you to his collection. You have yet to grasp that it is the price men such as ourselves must pay."

* * *

Preparations complete, Markus made a dismissive gesture. The seven shades bound to his service flitted away at speed, compelled to fulfill his commands without delay. He approached Falsinar and Beltramose with purpose, moving quietly for all his bulk. "Infantino claims that the Obertus monastery was sacked last night, not long after the crusaders breached the walls. He spied some activity within tonight, however. It is likely that some of the monks have returned to see what they may recover, now that the crusaders have moved on to the city proper."

Markus looked to the west. The Monastery of St. John Studius lay nine miles distant, within the city’s outer walls built on the orders of the Emperor Theodosius II. The monastery would not have been visible from the tower, even without the thick billows of acrid smoke and clouds of ash falling like black snow around them. Although he didn’t see the glance that Falsinar and Beltramose exchanged, Markus knew his men well. "You need not worry yourselves, gentlemen. Remain here and guard the tower. Infantino and the others will offer me sufficient protection."

"You are certain?" Falsinar’s voice was strong, but Markus saw the bright flicker of relief in the man’s aura. Reading such auras was just one more gift of the blood in Markus’s unliving veins, and one more reason not to return to Venice empty-handed.

"Get some rest. I expect that there will be more than enough tasks to keep you both busy upon my return." Markus smiled. "If you get bored, perhaps more looters will oblige you with some sport."

* * *

Markus had to stoop to fit within the low underground passage. Thanks to a silent warning from Infantino, he was not surprised when two figures emerged from dark cracks in the tunnel walls. The oil lamp in his thick fist revealed two men in the simple robes of monks. One stood two yards before him, the other a similar distance behind. Monks they were, but their piety was a mockery of true faith. A sharpening of focus and Markus confirmed by the brilliance of their auras that they were mortal–ghouls, servants of the Obertus Tzimisce.

"Isxe. Ektopizai pan sudie!" one said.

Among Markus’s many scholarly talents was an affinity for language. He translated the Greek words without effort: Halt. Take yourself away from here with all speed. He replied in kind, speaking like a native Byzantine. "My apologies, brother. I do not mean to trespass. I come merely to offer assistance in these times of danger."

"Danger indeed," the other sneered. "It appears you are the one in need of aid."

Markus held his tongue, considering his reply. The Obertus Tzimisce sect were scholars of a sort, not unlike Markus’s own Cappadocian clan. In contrast to the Cappadocians’ study of death, the Tzimisce pursued a misguided hope of finding transcendence within flesh and bone. Their so-called research being often degenerate and cruel, Markus normally had little interest in dealing with their kind. Pentaxa pamoneros–depraved in the extreme, as the Greeks would say. Despite this, the Obertus sect and their high abbot Gesu had gathered a most impressive collection of scholarly works–the secret Library of the Forgotten. Markus had learned of it only recently, piecing together fragments of conversation over scores of nights spent ingratiating himself to the local undead. Though eager to peruse the library’s contents, he had yet to gain access to its well-protected stacks. He had hoped the chaos following the crusaders’ rampage might give him the chance.

While the presence of this welcoming committee made it likely that things of interest lingered in the remains, the ghouls’ antagonism suggested he would find no more success than in previous visits. Markus forced down the sudden, violent surge of frustration. Gratifying as it would be to smash his way past these mortals, giving vent to the Beast would accomplish nothing constructive. "Please, brothers, quarrels enough exist elsewhere in the city. Inform Brother Gesu of my presence–"

The monks cried out in sudden anger. Plumes of silver churned within their auras, signifying intense grief. "You are not worthy to speak that name!" the rearward ghoul spat.

Some tragedy has befallen the powerful Gesu! Curiosity gripped Markus. "I am known to him; trust that my interests–"

"Your interests are plain enough." A figure stepped into the outermost edge of the lamp’s light–a lady of power and influence, clad in fine damask and with a stately demeanor that made the meager tunnel look even more dingy. Though aged, beauty had not fled her. Yet a deathly pallor revealed her as one of the undead–indeed, as one who shared the same lineage as Markus. Lady Alexia Theusa, mistress of death, elder of Clan Cappadocian.

Upon their first meeting, shortly after he had come to Constantinople, she made it clear that she did not trust the motives of his family, the Giovanni. That Alexia was the primary reason Markus had come to the city in the first place made that revelation all the more galling. Instead of being a hoped-for fount of wisdom and dark arts, she had become the main impediment to his success.

"Lady Alexia," Markus said, cursing his poor timing. Of course she is here–she must be helping to gather whatever treasures survived the sack.

Though Alexia had no great love for the Tzimisce’s cruel practices, she held a vast thirst for knowledge that transcended matters of personal taste. In fact, as one of the vampires resident in Constantinople since its very founding, Alexia’s patronage had helped establish the Library of the Forgotten.

Which made it even less likely Markus would lay eyes on a single tome. Still, he was not one to admit failure while he retained thought and purpose. Shadows flickered along the walls as the lamp moved with his bow. "I appreciate that you harbor suspicions toward my family. As I have said in the past, the Giovanni bear you no ill will. Indeed, we share–"

"We share nothing, sir." Her voice remained gentle, but held an edge that cut through his words like an executioner’s blade. "As with every other offer you have made, my response is the same. Your assistance is neither requested nor desired."

Imperious crone! His lips curled in his neatly clipped beard, barely restraining a snarl. He might have persuaded Gesu or one of the other vampires protecting the Library of the Forgotten. But she will not even allow me the chance!

Through a growing haze of anger, Markus sensed something… an undercurrent of danger lacking in previous encounters with Alexia. She was not known to be confrontational, but she was as capable of violence as any vampire. And these nights of chaos offered the perfect chance to remove the thorn from her side that was Markus Giovanni.

His sense of the violence simmering in the elder vampire shocked Markus back to lucidity. With a voice steady only through great effort, he said, "You have made yourself very clear, Lady Alexia. I regret that we could not come to terms."

Markus backtracked after another bow, forcing the rearmost monk back into the hiding hole to give sufficient room for his massive form. Markus saw the triumphant glint in Alexia’s eyes as she slipped into the shadows cast by his retreating light. Just as he could sense her surface emotions, Markus knew Alexia had read his own frustration… and his fear.