I’d heard that they’d brought a whore into the church, and placed her on the patriarchal throne. That there were dead mules lying on the floor, and the Latins were singing foul songs, ripping the gold from the walls of the church, celebrating their great ‘victory’.

Constantinople was burning.

The Franks were like children, destroying everything but the gold, setting priests beards on fire, drinking even as they were killing. I was with Nicetas, helping him escape. On the way, we saw four knights, two of whom were dragging a woman into a building, to rape her.

Nicetas started yelling at the other knights, begging them to remember their vows to God, to remember that they were Christians. It was a risky thing, but even they finally felt shame, and let her go. I was a single act of mercy in an orgy of violence.

I saw the statue of Aeneas, mourning the fall of Troy. The Crusaders destroyed many of the statues of the City, but that one remains, mourning both his home, and the home of his children, New Rome.