My companions and I travelled at a leisurely pace through the kaiser’s lands for seventeen days, and all the while I practiced my rudimentary French with them and tried my hand at English with the lieutenant when I could. Other times, I was lectured on European table manners, and the frivolities of which fork went where and how one would grip such implements. I retained little, since I let these trivialities slip in one ear and out the other.

Over time, Andrei’s wariness around me eased somewhat, and I found Eirene letting her guard down more and even learning to laugh. Each night we would take turns telling stories around the campfire, and on each of those nights I learned more about my companions that they had been reluctant to share before.

Andrei was apparently quite the gossip, and had been somewhat of a spy during his tenure at the czarina’s court. He told us about how the czarina would send her suitors to the bedchambers of her good friend the Countess Protasova for “testing” before being admitted to the czarina’s own bed, all this with full knowledge of her lover Prince Potemkin, who oftentimes supplied the men from his own staff while he was away since they had a “whiff of his presence” that the czarina seemed to enjoy. Even though the lieutenant and I were both skeptical, his stories of court life were vibrant and entertaining.

Lieutenant Eirene Mouruzi had gotten used to being addressed by her real name, and was finally able to show a side of her that wasn’t so stern and military. She reveled in the mythology of her people, the Greeks, and knew all the stories by heart. Her dark, beautiful eyes would sparkle at the mention of Pallas Athena, and she would speak with great reverence when talking about Zeus the Thunderer. She was even playful and theatrical at times, changing her voice when she spoke as the characters in her stories.

The one story that stayed with me, though, was the story of Odysseus. She related the story to us after dinner one night, where we had elected to camp by a field.

“Great and noble Odysseus only wished to go back home to his wife Penelope after the war with Troy. Alas, he was lured by the sweet song of the nymph Calypso the deceiver and was bound to her island to be her immortal husband forever.”

That struck a chord with me, for it was not out of any sense of duty that I was doing this for the czarina, but it seemed to be more of a lust for vengeance. The wailing of my brothers that haunted my sleep were a far cry from the sweet song of Calypso, but in the same way, they would not let me rest. They properly deserved retribution.

Eirene continued, “Her sweetness and beauty held him in a spell as she kept him in a dark cave for seven years, until through the intercession of Athena with the gleaming eyes and Zeus Cloud-Gatherer that he was freed, but by their word, he would receive no help from the gods, and had to build a raft to journey back to his home island of Ithaca.”

In this too, I saw myself. The czarina, like Athena, had simply told me to fetch a ship and learn how to sail, and then tasked me to bring news of the westerner’s methods to her and return as a seasoned captain. She had no other hand in this than to simply bid me to go.

“If I may ask, Your Nobility, what happened to Odysseus at the tale’s end?”

She smiled at me and said, “During a great and terrible massacre in his own home, he killed all the suitors of his wife, who had remained faithful to him till the end, and then promised to replenish what was taken from him by raiding the neighboring islands.”

It was uncanny. If I were less of a Christian, I would have believed that I was Odysseus incarnate. I could not tell if the story was a warning or a prophecy, so I simply took it for what it was and hid my worries behind a wide smile and an applause.

Soon, the fields and simple farm houses gave way to stone walls, cobbled streets, and the tall, majestic buildings of a proper city. By now we had passed through many towns both great and small, that my sense of wonder was beginning to wane, but happily, I found Hamburg to have a pleasant uniqueness to it that the other towns lacked.

Beyond the spires of the churches and the towers of the city’s rathaus, sails in the harbor likewise reached up for the sky. There must have been hundreds of vessels flying all manner of colorful flags and banners that were yet unknown to me. As I saw them, I knew that one leg of my journey had ended, and that a new one was about to begin.

I stood by the dockside with my rucksack slung over my shoulder, pondering my next move. I was quite sad to have Eirene leave, for we had become closer after our time travelling together. There was no doubt that my genuine longing for her would be reflected in my correspondence.

“Are you ready to depart?”

As I turned around towards the sound of her voice, Eirene threw a small canvas haversack at me.

“Your writing implements, Rodion Ivanovich. You cannot expect to write to me without a pen or paper.”

I smiled at her and slung the haversack over my other shoulder.

“And whom should I write to? Lieutenant Irina Morozova or…”

“My darling Eirene would suffice,” she winked. “To keep appearances at least.”

I detected a slight change of color in her cheeks. I gave her a slight bow and took her hand into mine.

“Until we meet again, Your Nobility.”

I gave her hand the most tender of kisses and walked away. But I did not take three steps before she beckoned for me again.

“Rodion Ivanovich, wait.”

“Yes, Eirene?”

She hesitated for a moment, as if she was trying to memorize my face.

“I am not good at goodbyes. Stay safe, and remember the mission.”

“The mission,” I shook my head, still smiling. “Of course. I will miss you so, Your Nobility.”

“And I you, Rodya.”

With that, I watched as she walked away into the crowd of foreigners that filled the streets of Hamburg. It was then that I thought to myself that I would never see her dark, beautiful eyes again.

Andrei, whom both of us had flatly ignored, cleared his throat at me. The entire time Eirene and I had been speaking, he had slowly been pacing back and forth behind us. It was clear that he was not the least bit excited about this journey.

“Monsieur, when the czarina asked me to come with you, she meant for me to serve as your guide and to educate you on the manners and customs befitting a Russian gentleman. If you will permit me to say monsieur, I believe I have done all I can. Your clothing is impeccable, your… um… table manners are… acceptable, and…”

“What of my French, Andrei Vasilyevich? Can you vouch for that?”

“C'est simple comme bonjour, monsieur! Surely you will pick some of it up along the way.”

I gave him a grin and yelled out a simple “hey!” at a stranger walking by the docks. A porter approached me with his buck teeth hanging out of his gaping mouth and his nose wrinkled up in confusion.

“Eksyusi menya, misye, ou est la taverna?”

Andrei cringed at my horrible attempts at French, and the unfortunate porter could do nothing but scratch his head and say,

“Ich verstehe nicht. Was?”

Andrei stepped beside me and intervened, clenching his hat in his hands.

“Veuillez pardonner à mon compagnon, il cherche la taverne.”

“Taverne?” the porter repeated the word and gave a very slow nod. He then pointed us down the street, simply saying “die Spitzmaus.”

“What the devil does he mean, die Spitzmaus?” I said, placing my hands on my hips.

“I believe that is the name of the tavern, monsieur.”

“You see, Andrei Vasilyevich, my training remains incomplete. You must see it through till the bitter end I’m afraid. What would Her Highness say, hm?”

Andrei grumbled, “of course monsieur,” and tailed along behind me towards the sounds of merriment that drifted from the Spitzmaus.

The building had a rural elegance to it, for as a building, it seemed to be like a jolly pauper flanked by stiff merchants: poor but content, in contrast to the tall and humorless stately company buildings and tenements that surrounded it. It was painted egg-white with blue embellishments on its window frames and cornices. The signpost above the door depicted a smiling shrew raising a mug of ale which formed the “A” in the word “Spitzmaus.” The cheerful sounds of fiddle music and raucous laughter reminded me of the taverns back home.

When Andrei and myself stepped through the door, dozens of heads turned our way. The patrons dropped their laughter and met us with wary glares, while some moved their hands to their hips, where they kept their weapons sheathed.

“What are they all staring at us for?” Andrei whispered.

I chuckled, “Look at these folk and look at us and our fine garments. The gentry are clearly not welcome here. Don’t worry, I have an idea. How do I say ‘a round of drinks on me’ in French?”

“Er… La prochaine tournée est pour moi?”

“Byan. La prochanye turnyi por menya!” I shouted.

The room erupted in laughter and resumed drinking. I was expecting cheers.

“What did I say?”

“You didn’t ‘say’ anything monsieur, mostly utter nonsense. They must think you are quite mad.”

At least we were no longer the center of attention. The patrons in all likelihood feared that I might have been some agent of the kaiser who had come to arrest one of them. They must have been put at ease once they saw that we were foreigners.

I took a table in the far corner of the establishment facing the entrance, so I could see all who came and went. Moments after we were seated, a jolly blonde tavern wench with a very prominent cleavage came up to our table and set down a plate of bread and cheese.

“Willkommen in unserer Taverne! Möchten Sie etwas zum Trinken? Einen Ale oder ein Glas Wein vielleicht?”

“Damn,” muttered Andrei. “My German is about as good as your French, monsieur.”

“Did you not speak to that porter in French? Surely this tavern wench will understand you.”

The girl looked at us with a raised eyebrow.

“Woher kommen Sie her? Böhmen?”

“Beer!” I said in Russian, just to see if she could understand.

“Two beer! Shoorli! I unstan! My hasband kam fram Slezsko!”

Her speech was not Russian, but some other foreign tongue which sounded vaguely understandable, but still very odd. I winced as she walked away.

“What language was that?” asked Andrei, who was equally bewildered.

“I think it was Czech. At least we can survive somewhat among the Silesians and Bohemians.”

After a few moments, she returned with two frothy, brown beers. They were delectable, better than anything I had ever tasted back at home.

“Pardon me for speaking out of place, monsieur, but what does drinking have to do with your obligations to Her Majesty?”

“Oh, everything, Andrei. This is likely to be the first place many sailors flock to after they dock. They will not be the sullen-faced regulars who live at this tavern, no. They will be the ones who barge through that door reeking of saltwater that intend to drink ‘til they die. And where there are sailors, there will be ships, and perchance recruiters for some maritime endeavor or another.”

As if on cue, the tavern door burst open, and in walked a man who seemed to me like a mountain of muscle. He sported a great beard with a fine white coat with blue facings and hat with a matching blue feather.

“Je voudrais deux bières s’il vous plaît!” he bellowed.

The tavern wench waved at him and replied,

“Ah oui! Bien sûr, Monsieur Glass! Nous saluons le retour!”

“My God, she does speak French,” Andrei muttered.

“What did they say?”

“Nothing important, monsieur. Just that he wants a beer and that she is happy to see him return. Also, his name is ‘Glass.’ That’s an English name if I’ve ever heard one.”

I was about to reply, but someone else caught my gaze. From behind Mister Glass emerged a woman with a white dress and an ordinary shawl draped over her shoulders. I would have paid her no mind if it were for her dress alone, but what drew my attention was her hair and skin. Her black hair was done in ropelike strands that reached up to her shoulders, ornamented with shiny gold ringlets. Her skin was a very dark brown, and I had never seen a human being with that complexion before. I could not help but stare. I was not alone. It seemed that every head in the room had turned towards her the moment she went through the door. However, some of the other patrons of the tavern cast their eyes upon her not with curiosity, but with malice.

She seemed to be used to it, as she merely produced a fan and cooled herself with it, ignoring us all. She walked with all the grace of a noblewoman, but her large black eyes reminded me of Eirene’s, proud but wary, as they surveyed the room. She seemed to whisper a few words to Mister Glass every time she saw someone with a visible weapon, as she did when she noticed me with my shashka.

“She’s watching her man’s back,” I said. “Interesting. This is truly not an ordinary couple.”

I continued to observe them as they sat down at a table in the corner near us, with both of them facing the entrance just as we did. They were no longer speaking French to each other, and neither was it German. When the tavern wench set their drinks in front of them, Glass gave her a polite “merci” then switched back to whatever language he was speaking to his lady.

“Andrei, what are they saying?”

“I’m not sure, monsieur, but I believe they’re speaking English.”

Apparently, someone was able to understand them. Another fellow much larger than Mister Glass had overheard something in their conversation that had offended him and made his way to their table all the way from the other side of the tavern. He introduced himself to the couple by flinging their drinks off the table and shouting in Glass’s face. The drunks nearby scrambled to get away, making room for what seemed to be an impending fight. I, however, stayed in place. When Andrei tried to rise from his seat, I grabbed him by the collar and sat him back down.

“Don’t be a coward, Andrei Vasilyevich. Do you have any idea what they’re saying?”

“I truly don’t know, monsieur, and I fear for our lives if we linger here any longer.”

Glass and his lady, meanwhile, were taking the verbal abuse quite well. He sat there, one leg crossed over the other with a smile on his face while she continued to fan herself as she rested her chin on her knuckles like it was a lazy day.

“Try to make it out man,” I said as I strained to listen. “All I’m hearing is lya-lya fa-fa.”

“I believe this other man is yelling something about… slaves?”

My eyes narrowed. A giant, hairy beast of a drunkard was thrusting his finger at Glass’s lady, who still appeared to be taking his insults with a calm composure.

“What else is he saying?”

Andrei clenched his teeth as he tried to discern the drunken ramblings of the large man.

“I am… not sure, monsieur, but I believe he said something about him ‘never sharing the same tavern with a negress,’ whatever a negress might be.”

At that, Glass flipped over the heavy table, which knocked the other man onto the floor. Grabbing his chair, he proceeded to beat the man into a bloody mess. I chuckled with amusement as I watched, while Andrei scrambled out of his seat and scurried out the back door.

Suddenly, someone from another corner of the tavern shouted some English curse and ran to attack Glass’s lady. His powerful punch made a loud crack as it struck her cheek, and she fell to the floor. This I could not abide. Just before he could strike her again, I leapt from my seat and launched my boot into his chest, sending him to the floor.

He shouted something at me in English and tried to get up, but my foot to his face kept him on the ground.

The drunken battle cry of another patron alerted me to an attack coming from behind. I swung around and hunched down to avoid his clumsy punch, then grabbed him by the legs and brought him to the floor. As soon as his head hit the wood, I thrust my fingers into his eye sockets as deep as I could. His screams of agony filled me with childlike joy, and were enough to distract me from the presence of another brute behind me.

With my fingers still buried in the man’s eyes, I turned to see another man looming above me with a truncheon. Before he could strike me, Glass gave him a swift punch to the jaw and brought him down.

None of our attackers got back up, least of all the man who lay beneath me, still screaming and trying to take my hands out of his eyes.

“Terribly sorry, my good man,” I said to him in Russian as I popped my fingers from his eye sockets, which came out with a soft squishy sound. I got to my feet, leaving him writhing on the floor and whimpering something in his language, surely about being blinded.

Once Mister Glass looked around and was sure that no one else would come to fight us, he helped his lady friend to her feet and approached me with his hand extended. I shook it and he gave me a short nod, saying unmistakable words of gratitude in English. I raised an eyebrow and pursed my lips, and this was enough to make him realize that I could not reply to he was saying.

“Parlez-vous français, monsieur?” he said with a smile.

Damn the ubiquity of this language. I responded with a weak “oui?” and he proceeded to thank me for my assistance, or at least that is what I believed he was saying. His lady then gave a small bow and thanked me as well, but in English. I nodded politely, not sure what to say, since I could not say anything at all without sounding like a dunce.

“Is it over?”

A shivering Andrei peeked out from behind the back door and slowly came back into the building.

“Thank God,” I muttered under my breath, more concerned with Andrei’s ability to translate rather than his personal safety. “Where the devil have you been? Help me here, I can’t understand a word this man is saying.”

Glass chuckled at our little interaction gave Andrei a small bow. He returned the courtesy and introduced himself as my “body man” and interpreter after which he began translating straight away.

“My name is Johnny Glass,” Andrei translated. “I wish we could have met under more favorable circumstances. This is my wife Rebecca. I’m afraid she does not speak a word of French at all.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, madame,” I said, taking her hand to kiss it. “I am Rodion Ivanovich Kazansky, your humble servant.”

She gave me a cheeky smirk and a wink.

“Wa gine on, yuh Lordship. Me Name Rebecca, but me Friends call me Becky.”

I paused for a moment.

“Andrei, what did she say?”

“Not a clue, monsieur. My apologies.”

Mister Glass let out a soft laugh and addressed me in French once more. Andrei began translating immediately.

“Please, Monsieur Kazansky, join us at your table. A drink is the least that I can offer you for your valiant intervention in defense of my wife’s honor.”

The cause of a free drink would have been enough for me to join him, and now that I had Andrei back by my side to translate, we could have some semblance of a conversation. Glass called out for another couple of beers and bid us to sit with him as the bodies of the unconscious were dragged out of the establishment.

“Hamburg is full of foreigners, monsieur,” said Glass through Andrei as he took a swig of his beer, “but you truly seem out of place. Your language is alien, your dress does not suit your manners, and your sword does not seem to have a crossguard. Who are you, exactly?”

“I, sir, am on a secret assignment from the czarina.”

Andrei choked on his beer as he sipped it.

“You cannot expect me to translate that, monsieur! The whole idea of a secret mission is to keep it secret!”

Glass and his wife exchanged amused glances as Andrei attempted to reprimand me in Russian.

“Well, if you shall not tell him, then I shall have to show him.”

I reached down my cravat and pulled out the ring emblazoned with the golden imperial eagle. Glass’s eyes opened wide with amazement.

“You’re a bloody Rooſhian, ain’tcha?”

His English was simple enough for me to understand, although I had no idea what “blood” had to do with anything. I simply nodded my head and then said to Andrei,

“Now tell him why we’re here.”