First chapter and introduction to the series here

Quick notes: I researched the fuck out of this series. Also, this chapter could be called: what would it be like if I got teleported back to Byzantium?

CHAPTER 2: Hey, Alexios

The ocean was glimmering on the game board, the sun glinting on millions of waves below. Torres spotted little ships—were they galleys?—with just one white sail each, but lots of oars rising and falling all together like wings beating foam from the surf. Lurking in the depths were sea monsters which could have swallowed these ships whole.

Closer to shore, fishermen in rowboats were throwing rope nets into the waves. Farmers—and almost everyone was a farmer—either worked their fields or hauled their harvest on horse-drawn carriages. In the dark forests and the arid wastelands bandits and monsters hid in the shadows of trees and caves.

The capital—Konstantinopolis—was built on a peninsula, and looked like a jumble of red rooftops and golden domes guarded on all sides by massive walls. Three-masted galleys glided into enormous harbors alongside white marble porticoes. The city’s centerpiece, however, was the enormous hippodrome—like an oval-shaped Colosseum—surrounded by gigantic churches. Half the city at the peninsula’s tip was a garden filled with flowers. Wide paved roads packed with people led to gigantic squares decorated with golden statues blazing in the sun. Remarkably, the markets murmured, the carriages rumbled, the horse hooves clopped, and construction workers pounded their hammers. A rhythmical wooden rattling came from churches and monasteries, as did the unearthly singing of eunuch choirs. Even stranger, the reek of cinnamon and incense made Torres cough and turn away.

When he turned back, he was drenched in sweat, and standing in a bright field of ripe grain. The sun was burning him. His muscles and bones ached, and a heavy wooden scythe was in his thick calloused hands. He wore a belted linen tunic which itched his skin. On top of all this, he was thirsty, and his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes, he looked around. Grain fields extended for miles in every direction, interrupted here and there by dirt paths, but otherwise ending only in mountains and forests. Many people worked these fields together—scything the grain with their swooping, ringing, gleaming blades. An older man was shouting at him nearby.

What the…? Torres thought.

The man lowered his scythe and approached Torres while continuing to shout in a vaguely European language. He was white-haired, short, and sturdy. Although the man was technically white, he was deeply tanned, presumably from working these fields all his life. His tunic was the same coarse material as Torres’s, but it was dyed blue, and worn out.

“What are you doing?” the man yelled. “Come on! What’s the matter with you?”

Torres was shocked that he understood, and that the foreign words sounded so natural. He pointed to himself and raised his eyebrows.

“Are you talking to me?” Torres said—also shocked that his tongue, lips, jaw, and throat formed these words in the other man’s language.

“Who else would I be talking to?” the man yelled. “Do you see anyone else who’s stopped working? Now come on! Get to it!”

Torres looked down at the heavy scythe in his hands. The wooden pole that was connected to the rusted blade was so splintered that the sight alone could have given him tetanus. Glancing at the old man—who watched him with a frustrated expression—Torres shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” Torres said. “I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“What do you mean?” the man said. “Is this some kind of joke? Look!” With his own scythe, he gestured behind Torres.

Torres glanced back. A long line of golden grain had been mowed behind him—and presumably by him. Someone in the distance was tying it into bales.

“Now come on,” the man said. “This is too much. Get back to work. It isn’t funny. Do you need a drink of water or something?”

“Look,” Torres said. “I know this may sound strange—but can you show me how to do this? How to scythe grain?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Alright, I’ll play along, but you’d better cut this out soon, or else I’m going to cut you.”

Standing behind Torres, the man tossed his own scythe into the field, then lifted Torres’s arms and swung them back and forth.

“Really complicated, I know,” the man said. He reeked of sweat. “Just keep doing that until you drop dead from exhaustion! Give us this day our daily bread, boy!”

Torres stepped forward and scythed the grain. The muscles in his chest, back, and arms burned and his spine strained after just one swing. At the same time, the scythe made a ringing-whooshing sound as the grain fell. Torres shook his head at how satisfying it was. Scything came much more easily than he would have thought, considering the fact that he had never done this before. It was like muscle memory.

“See?” The man clapped his back so hard Torres winced. “You’re a natural! That’s what comes from doing this practically your whole life. Good boy. Keep it up.”

Before Torres could speak, the man returned to his part of the grain field.

For a few minutes Torres continued scything grain. Just as he was about to ask the man where he could get some water—and perhaps where he was—a mysterious voice spoke in his consciousness.

Your Farming Skill has increased to Level 4/10, the voice said. You are now an Apprentice Farmer. Continue farming if you want to level up to Intermediate.

Torres laughed. He kept scything, though, and noticed that doing so was even easier than before, and that he could cut even more grain.

I’m grinding inside a game, he thought. Does that make that other guy an NPC?

By farming alone your XP will increase slowly, the voice said. Farm with other farmers if you want to improve more rapidly.

Hang on, Torres thought. Are you like a robot or do you have a personality?

I have a personality.

Uh, okay then. What is it that you want?

I want you to entertain me.

That’s weird. Why is that, exactly?

It’s boring being a god.

Is that what you are, then? A god?

More or less.

So what if I refuse to entertain you?

The choice is yours.

Torres looked around while he continued to scythe. Though the sun was blinding with heat, the sky was bluer than he’d ever seen it—so blue he could drown in its depths. Somehow it even seemed more real than Pemetic High—a memory that was growing more vague. At the same time, he was slowly gaining (or regaining?) memories of living in this place. Scything grain became more natural with each passing moment.

So this is a game, he thought. Still, have to wonder how many lives I have, or what happens when I die.

You have only one life, said the voice in his mind. It was also somehow not a voice but almost more like a feeling.

Just one life. That’s way too hard.

Check the underside of your right arm.

Glancing at the man who had just yelled at him, Torres looked where the voice had indicated. A Greek-looking letter B was carved into his skin.

The capital beta symbol distinguishes main characters from NPCs, the voice said. NPCs do not have them.

Yeah, I can see that, Torres thought. Guess this game has a pretty minimalistic interface. Can you give me my stats in a character sheet or something?

**Certainly. Just a moment.

Character class: Fighter

Intermediate Farmer (4/10)

Educated Novice (3/10)

Apprentice Athlete (4/10)

Apprentice Brawler (4/10)**

You have other skills and sub-skills, but these are the most important at the moment. Each skill will grow or atrophy depending on how often you successfully use it, but lower-level skills are easier to cultivate than higher-level ones. For example, if you kill a mosquito with your bare hands, you will gain only a small amount of XP for your mêlée combat ability (a sub-skill of your Apprentice Brawler skill). On the other hand, if you manage to kill a giant monster with your bare hands, you will gain a great deal more XP for your mêlée combat ability—particularly if that sub-skill is already low to begin with. Success also depends upon dice-rolls; higher skill levels increase the likelihood that your dice-rolls will succeed. All of your actions (and inactions) will likewise influence your personality—

Okay, okay, I think I got it. I’ve played plenty of RPGs before. What happens if I die here?

You will die in the “real” world, the voice said. The old world. The world from which you came.

Torres’s heart plunged. He started shaking as the reality of the situation sank in.

Come on, he thought. None of this is real. Let me out of here.

You must defeat the emperor, the voice said. And destroy the empire.

What? No. I want to go home.

Silence from the voice.

You said I had a choice.

Indeed. Your choice is to play along—or die.

“Shit.” Torres clutched his head. He felt dizzy, and almost fainted, but managed to stay standing.

My family, my friends, my entire life, he thought. All gone.

For now. But not to worry. You’ll find a new life here.

Until I defeat the emperor and destroy the empire. Then I can escape.

Right.

“Defeat the emperor,” he said to himself. “Okay then. Where would this emperor happen to be?”

Turn a little to the right.

Torres followed the voice’s instructions. There’s no screen interface with this game, he thought.

No. And skill points are allocated automatically based on the actions you take. It’s all very unobtrusive. There’s no menus to navigate.

I want to be able to customize more.

Too bad. It’s more realistic this way.

Torres tried to reason with the voice in his head. Listen. Gamers don’t like realism. We’re trying to escape the real world, not live in it. If we liked the real world, we wouldn’t be gamers. We like things to be a certain way—

Turn a little more. There. The emperor lies in that direction.

Torres had stopped turning. He sighed. Alright. How far is he?

305.4 kilometers.

Damn. What am I doing all the way out here?

**Your name is Alexios. Your character class is fighter. You belong to a family of Roman farmers living in the town of Leandros. Recently, many towns and cities in this region have joined the uprising which is spreading across the land in response to Emperor Nikephoros II’s usurpation of the imperial throne. ** Boucher had mentioned the emperor—although that conversation felt like it had taken place a lifetime ago.

Why does everyone hate this Nikephoros guy so much?

**The previous emperor, Anastasios III, introduced a number of popular reforms at the expense of the ruling class. He was executed by Nikephoros, a rival general. ** The old man glanced at Torres—maybe he’d noticed the lack of ringing sounds coming from his direction—so Torres got back to scything. He worked for a few more minutes—not nearly long enough to gain much XP—until he was dying of thirst. He was about to ask the old man where the well was, but then Torres remembered its location, except the memories did not belong to him. They belonged to this Alexios character.

Make sure not to take too long getting your drink, the voice said.

Damn, this reminds me of school.

If you waste too much time, your reputation with the people around you will decline. Loners don’t last long in a world as dangerous as this one.

Alright, alright, Torres thought. Look, I’m a gamer. I get it.

He jogged to the well—which was a hole walled with stone extending down into the earth—and pulled up a heavy wooden bucket which had been left hanging on a rope in the depths. Torres—or Alexios, whoever he was—drank the sweet water until his stomach ached. Then he returned to work.

As he scythed, he looked at the old man, and remembered that he was his uncle—Alexios’s uncle—and named Eugenios.

My uncle, Torres thought. Where’s my dad?

He died of plague before you were born.

You mean like the Bubonic Plague? Torres thought.

Romanía was struck by the plague many times throughout history, the voice said.

Romanía? He remembered someone saying something about this back in that classroom.

Historians from your time call this place Byzantium, but its actual inhabitants call it Romanía.

Oh. The more you know.

I’m here to help you anytime.

Unless I want to leave.

Right.

Do you have a name, by the way?

I don’t need one.

As the sun declined to the west, Eugenios brought a wooden cart pulled by a horse named Bukephalos which he had retrieved from the nearby town of Leandros. Together Eugenios and Torres piled the cart with bales of hay. Torres had leveled up to Intermediate Farmer in the mean time. This meant that he could work harder and faster while feeling less fatigued, but he also felt a kind of joy in his accomplishment. Eugenios remarked on his improved ability and asked once again why Torres had been acting so strangely earlier.

“I was just a little out of it I guess,” Torres said. “Speaking of which, could you tell me what year it is?”

“Hey, Alexios, come on, I told you to stop messing with me!” Eugenios said.

“Alexios,” Torres said. “Right. That’s my name.”

“This isn’t funny. You have me concerned. If you’re going to keep acting like you’ve been hit on the head, maybe we should go see Father Sergios.”

“I swear I’m not messing with you,” Torres said. “Can you please tell me the year?”

“Why? Why would anyone want to know that?”

“I’m just curious,” Torres said. “I forgot.”

“A lot of strange questions coming from you today. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head or get sunstroke or something?”

“Who knows? Maybe I did.” He wondered if Pemetic High had been the dream, and this place was reality.

No, he thought. I’m in a game. Like, the most realistic MMO ever. I’m a fighter. A warrior. Does that mean my intellect stats are low? Maybe that’s why I feel so confused. But that’s what happens, I guess, when you get teleported into someone else’s body. This is so strange. And if I’m in Alexios’s body…what happened to whoever was in here before? Where’s Alexios? Did his soul just disappear?

It’s inside you, the voice said. **As time passes, Alexios will become you, and you will become Alexios. ** I don’t like the sound of that.

**It’s no different from becoming yourself in the world you came from. A new environment means a new personality. ** Eugenios was eyeing him skeptically. “If I tell you the year, will you stop acting like this?”

“I’ll do my best,” Torres said.

“It’s still only the first year of Nikephoros’s reign. Everyone knows that. And before, Anastasios was emperor nine years. He was crowned when you were eight or so, after Basil the—”

“But do you know, like, the specific year,” Torres said. “Like, how long has it been since Jesus died?”

“A long time since we lost Our Lord.” Eugenios crossed himself and glanced at the sky. “Many centuries. But if you want to know how long exactly, you’ll have to ask Father Sergios, and he might not even know. You’d have to head to the City—which is where you want to go anyway.”

Just as Torres was about to ask—seemingly for the twentieth time—what Eugenios was talking about, he remembered. Alexios had wanted to go to the city—the City—Konstantinopolis. The capital. There he could study to become a scholar and a philosopher. This was also the reason he had yet to get married. Alexios actually hated farming, which might have been part of the reason why Eugenios didn’t think it so strange that he was bad at it.

“Oh, right,” Torres said. “I forgot.”

“Don’t ask me how that’s possible,” Eugenios said.

They brought the cart back to Leandros, which lay at the end of a long dirt path. The village houses here were walled with brick and roofed with orange tiles, and resembled a modern Mediterranean getaway. A major difference, of course, was all the animals—horses, mules, oxen, sheep, goats, cows, dogs, cats, chickens—running around, resting, or being led here and there by farmers, each of whom was as strong and sturdy as Eugenios, and similarly dressed in worn yet colorful tunics. The stench of animal feces was also powerful. Some people were shoveling dung into wooden carts for fertilizer. Children were all over the place, while people with white hair were rare.

Eugenios led Torres home. After working all day, he had noticed that his body here was taller and more muscular than at Pemetic High. He had yet to see any glass or mirrors, but when his reflection looked back at him from a bucket of water drawn from the town well, he was struck by his beauty. The pale, chubby, pasty, pimply, beady-eyed face from his old life was no more. Instead, the face in the wavering reflection—Alexios’s face—possessed enormous brown eyes, a long straight nose, sensuous lips, a powerful jaw, olive skin, and curly black hair. He was like an ancient mosaic, one which depicted someone strikingly handsome. Even his braces were gone, while his teeth looked to be in decent shape. This last fact in itself almost made him leap for joy.

“Hey, Alexios,” he whispered to himself.

Torres had also been eternally dateless. But who knew? This Alexios might even get a girlfriend. Looks weren’t everything, but they definitely mattered.

“Watch out for that reflection of yours, Narkissos!” Eugenios elbowed him. “Let’s get dinner.”

The sun was setting by the time they came home. Like the few dozen other houses in Leandros, it was built into a low hill. Aside from a small wooden barn where the cart and horse and other farm animals were kept, it consisted of a single dark musty room, itself lit by light from the doorway, a pair of windows which lacked glass, and the fire snapping in the hearth. Smoke escaped through a hole in the ceiling. Otherwise the interior was bare. There were no chairs. Three of the walls had stone couches raised up from the dirt floor, on which were placed animal skins. Torres was unable to understand what these couches were for, but through Alexios’s eyes he could see that they were for sitting and sleeping. At the room’s center was a large wooden chest serving as a table. A woman working at the hearth had roasted chunks of chicken on wooden skewers; these she placed on a single large clay plate on the table. There were also copious helpings of fresh pita bread, feta cheese, and even salad with olives and vinegar dressing. One big clay cup was filled with red wine.

Torres was ravenous, but before eating, everyone washed their faces and hands with soap using a clay ewer and basin, drying with linen towels. When Eudokia—Torres’s aunt—sat down, Eugenios made the sign of the cross over the food and murmured a prayer. He and Eudokia bowed their heads, and Torres joined them. When Eugenios finished praying, everyone tore into the food. Torres realized with his first bite that it was the most incredible meal he had ever experienced. He was hesitant, at first, to share the cup, but the wine inside was so delicious—refilled several times from a large flask—that he couldn’t resist. His two hosts ate with their hands. No cutlery was visible. They chewed open-mouthed, and burped without excusing themselves. Torres was shocked at first, but he was family. In more polite company his aunt and uncle would probably refrain from acting this way. At the same time, they wiped their mouths with their linen napkins before touching the communal cup and chastised Torres for failing to do so. As he got used to this style of dining, the voice in Torres’s mind announced that he had increased his charisma skill. At the moment, however, he was still an Apprentice (Level 4/10), which meant that he could be annoying even if he wasn’t totally repellent. The voice also told him that eating was replenishing his stamina, which had fallen to dangerously low levels after a long day of work.

When they had eaten every last morsel of food on the plate and drained the cup and flask, they ventured outside into the evening. Eudokia—who dressed and looked almost like a beardless version of Eugenios—washed the plate and cup at the well along with several village women, all of whom conversed. Nearby, a man was playing a folk song about some people called “akritai” on a lute, and people had gathered to listen and dance. Torres excused himself, however, and staggered home, since he was exhausted. Inside the house he collapsed on a couch, pulled an animal skin over himself, and passed out in the darkness lit by the fireplace embers, the orange light in the sky, and the blue buildings sinking into dusk.

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