The heavy-set peasant known as Paul de la Jacob blinked in disbelief in the evening gloom of the ancient chapel of Our Lady of Blachernes. The exalted voice erupting in his head filled him with bewildering instructions, flooding his trembling flesh with a sickening mix of urgency and alarm. Constantinople, capitol of the hapless Byzantine Empire, was on her knees. Knights of the Fourth Crusade, driven by religious fervor, greed and a guarantee of personal salvation from Pope Innocent the Third, swarmed her every crevice, plundering, destroying centuries of wealth.
The vibration of horses’ hooves and deep, furious voices echoed outside, followed by a rapid succession of tremendous thuds. Shattered hinges rasped against wood and charcoal smoke darted in the consecrated sanctuary.
Fear licked his back in streaks of surging sweat. De la Jacob caught his breath. Not against the overwhelming stench of burning flesh and wood, but at the miracle gleaming softly in the holy shrine.
It glowed. No matter how many times he blinked, the startlingly white image remained. The tongue invading his consciousness shrieked another order. Terrified, he lunged toward the shrine…
