Traveller Probo
69. 11th Century Constantinople

There was a moment of dizziness as the watching spectators and VIP’s vanished. The crowd of onlookers were gone, immediately replaced by the silent forest. Sunlight filtered through spring regrowth. If Professor Taylor didn’t know better, it was as if he had stayed still, while the airport installation, guards, technology and tarmac had fled.

The sounds of men around him reminded that he wasn’t alone.

He turned to see the two guards and Chuck who waved them forward. As trained, the Travellers checked each other’s packs to make sure all was well. Parker was allocated as Professor Taylor’s partner and he inspected the academic’s pack. No sooner had they finished when four more team members were at his side. He didn’t even think to watch for their appearance.

McFee called the men together to evaluate how they felt. Much to his embarrassment, one of the Turks, the hardy Talon, felt the nausea some experienced when Transported for the first time. Chuck gazed about him in wonder. “I’ve been so caught up in the mission, I never really thought about being here,” the grizzled trainer murmured with uncharacteristic solemnity. He then exclaimed, “You lucky bastards! All of you.” There were some nods and smiles as he turned to shake each of their hands. His eyes were bright with almost childlike excitement, something they had never before seen in their craggy, foulmouthed trainer.

At McFee’s command, they moved out in their usual squad format; two in the lead, followed by the main group of four arrayed around Professor Taylor, and two soldiers positioned ten metres behind. They were north-west of Constantinople and close to the coast, so, with the aid of a compass, they plotted a direct route to meet the ancient Via Egnatia, the main road to the city that still remained in the 21st Century. Their formation, the forest, and even their gear was so familiar it was almost mundane. Professor Taylor had to remind himself that this was not another training session but the real thing. They were actually in a forest near ancient Constantinople. The thrill made his heart sing and his face flush with excitement. “Amazing. This is simply amazing!” he exclaimed quietly.

Beside him, Parker nodded happily. “That it is Professor. That it is.”

After walking for about half an hour they emerged into an olive plantation. “Look,” exclaimed Erol as he gently fondled one of the olive shoots, “the olives are in bud and the weather is mild, somewhat warmer than when we left. Yet at the same time, Hunter in Saxon England is experiencing a late, cold winter.” They carefully scanned their surrounds but saw no farmers. Metres ahead, McAlister and one of the Turks waited at point. Their camera-buttons would record every word and image, all broadcast to their guarded Base Station at the Area of Convergence.

A brief, low whistle at point had each turn sharply. In the distance, they spied a young boy who had stopped in surprise to watch the strangers. McAlister waved a friendly greeting, to which the boy responded somewhat nervously. The lad looked to be about ten. Professor Taylor and the others watched as McAlister handed his spear to his companion and walked a few paces to the lad, who looked about to run. McAlister dropped to a crouch and gestured the boy forward. As he did so, he removed his pack and selected a coarse, woollen bag of dried fruits and nuts. He popped a few morsels into his mouth and chewed as he gestured the boy closer.

The lad looked across to the rest of the group, so McFee gave a friendly wave and smiled. The boy was blond and carried a stick with which he had been playing. Professor Taylor held his breath. With a frown the lad slowly walked to McAlister’s outstretched bag of food where he warily extracted a handful of dates and almonds. McAlister took the bag back and grabbed a few more pieces to be popped into his mouth. As he chewed, he nodded for the lad to try. With narrowed, suspicious eyes, the boy popped a dried date into his mouth and chewed and then smiled and nodded back. They watched as McAlister began to chat but the boy frowned as if trying to decipher his words. The Londoner then stood and patted the lad on his shoulder as he waved the other soldiers forward. On impulse, McAlister collected his spear and handed it to the boy who stood as if stunned, suddenly awed to hold the weapon. His stared at the timber shaft, then the razor-sharp blade in a mixture of astonishment and delight while the rest of the team gathered.

“This is Donus,” McAlister explained in carefully accented Greek. “He says his father works this land for the owners.”

McFee crouched to speak, then ordered, “Keep watch.” They didn’t want to be surprised by hostiles as they conversed with their first human contact. He spoke a few minutes with the young boy and Professor Taylor was surprised at how easily they were understood. Donus seemed overawed that he would be of interest. After a few words, McFee gestured for Professor Taylor and the academic could barely withhold his excitement. Here, finally, he would converse with someone from Byzantium.

“Greetings Donus! We travel to eist enpolin, to the city,” he explained calmly. The boy looked up and Professor Taylor smiled. He was painfully aware of his beard and how it tickled, of aching legs from a training run that very morning, and of the razor-sharp seax that hung at his back. For perhaps the first time in his life, had a momentary hesitation as to what to say.

“Is it far?” asked Professor Taylor.

The boy just nodded.

Professor Taylor repeated himself, “We seek a road to the polis, the city,” he asked bluntly and the boy again nodded. “Yes Uncle. The road, the Via Egnatia, is not far, just this way,” he gestured with his free hand.

“Good boy!” thanked Professor Taylor with a nod.

McAlister chatted with the lad a few more minutes as the others listened and kept watch. Donus lived in the area, played in the orchard, and normally had a lot of other boys to play with. What was most telling was how Donus’ father was not employed but was owned by the landowner.

“Owned?” muttered McFee as he leaned in close to Professor Taylor. “So he’s the son of a slave?”

“So it seems,” confirmed the academic. “We knew the Byzantines had slaves. Odd that the first person we’re to meet is actually a slave.”

Professor Taylor recognised some pronunciation issues but to their relief the lad could understand them.

They soon parted with a wave leaving Donus, the slave boy, in the orchard of his owner.

The road was only a kilometre further and, as they watched from the shelter of the olive trees, they saw occasional foot traffic. Professor Taylor was pleased to observe that their language was understandable. In the mission preparations, language had been of the greatest concern. McFee nodded as he scanned the road carefully. “Yeah, it’s a good start. Thankfully a child asks few questions. We can play the ‘ignorant foreign trader’ card, though we don’t want to offend anyone.”

“I suppose we shall see how we proceed soon enough,” the academic responded quietly.

Within minutes they spied significant movement through the trees. McAlister gestured the rest of the team forward to where they identified a donkey-drawn cart accompanied by a couple of young men armed with cudgels. They were immediately noticed and the young men stopped the cart and stood ready. Professor Taylor imagined how they must appear, for their group of heavily-armed men looked like they could rob at will.

Having taken on the role as first contact spokesman, McAlister strode forward with Erol and raised his hand. “Eirene,” he called out the Greek word for peace. “Brothers, be at peace. We mean no harm but have travelled far and wish you well.”

The men by the wagon watched suspiciously. “The Peace of Jesus Christ upon you!” called the cart driver. He was an older man, who wore a cloak patterned with blue and red.

“And to you,” replied Erol with a smile. “We are from afar and our destination is the great city. Do we have to journey much further?” he asked.

The man on the wagon relaxed slightly as he smiled. “You are close, friends, and should be there before the end of day.” He cast a wary eye at the rest of the group and shrugged in resignation. “If we can be at peace, I would consider it an honour if you journey with us. I am Leon of Hadrianopolis.”

McAlister replied, “We travel from the north to search out trade and gain learning, so we only lack peace when threatened, good Leon. You have nothing to fear from us.”

“And what do you trade, men from the north?” asked Leon.

McFee, strode forward and addressed the trader, “Our lands are rich in silver and precious stones, though we only seek to visit the City, for her fame has spread even to our home.”

Leon’s eyes narrowed, as if in calculation. Professor Taylor imagined that new trade opportunities were always welcome if one was experienced in the ways of the great city. If one was smart, a fortune could be made. The trader waved the group forward and the Travellers were soon arrayed to the rear of the cart, though the escorts remained ill at ease. Erol laughed. “Fear not, friends. If our motives were ill, your lives would already be forfeit. We have no motive to cause harm.”

Their journey proceeded slowly as the plodding donkeys pulled a cart piled high with raw hides. Leon seemed in no hurry. To see the first, civilised evidence of the great empire had Professor Taylor momentarily stunned. As he walked with Parker, he could barely contain himself.

“This road was built by a Roman senator named Gnaeus Egnatius,” he explained passionately in the local Greek. “He served as praetor with the powers of proconsul in the newly conquered province of Macedonia in the late 140s. It’s one of Rome’s great roads, at over one-thousand kilometres that links major cities, through southern Thrace, to Constantinople. It has already stood for almost nine-hundred years.”

Parker grunted. Like the rest of the team, he hadn’t relaxed with the meeting of the traders and wasn’t in a chatty mood. However, on hearing Professor Taylor speak, Leon recognised a scholar and elder statesman. He turned with a frown and gestured the academic forward, “My hospitality is lacking! Can I offer you some relief? I would welcome conversation.”

With a nod from McFee, Professor Taylor was assisted onto the simple wagon. The sheepskins attracted a cloud of flies that buzzed around them. As the cart trundled on, Professor Taylor and Leon began to converse and soon the two happily chatted. On their approach to the great city, they met other travellers who stared at the armed men with alarm. Most who travelled the road had some kind of protection and travelled in groups for safety’s sake, though few possessed such deadly weapons. Swords and shields spoke of wealth and influence, so covetous eyes were cast at the canny Leon who had attached himself to the group.

They stopped to refresh themselves by a small cluster of open buildings that acted as a travellers’ rest. A few chewed on figs and nuts purchased from a vendor who also sold wine from an old shanty. While Leon was welcomed as a familiar face, his new friends were treated with wary courtesy.

McAlister and Erol wandered to the vendor to purchase wine and food. Lacking local coinage, they paid with a lump of silver. The stallholder’s eyes bulged as he called loudly for assistance. As if by magic, a couple of dowdy women, most likely the man’s wife and daughter, hurried to his aid and within minutes they had a charcoal brazier cooking flat-breads served with a mix of onion, olives, aubergine and greens. Wine was poured into terra-cotta mugs and, before long, the small group became an assembly where everyone was being fed. It became apparent that McAlister had unintentionally paid for food and wine for all. Professor Taylor smiled at the hard man’s confusion. “Don’t worry Mac, I think a little generosity will go a long way.”

He shared a rough bench with Leon as the others struck up a conversation with anyone they could. Each conversation and image would be captured for analysis by Professor Askar and his team of scholars who, like Professor Taylor, was in no mind to miss any learning opportunity. Many of those at rest spoke with different accents and even varied slightly in their dialects. This gathering of common traders was an information goldmine. Already they had established the existence of various foods, means of dress, and linguistic corrections for their scholarly analysis of the Byzantine Empire. All ate, joked and drank the cheap, watery wine until, without warning, the sudden deafening clatter of shod hooves had heads turn in alarm.

A squad of cavalry pranced into the courtyard and Professor Taylor’s throat constricted in fear as he watched his fellow Travellers’ hands fly to sword or spear in readiness. The six horsemen were Byzantine light cavalry, each armed with a lance and bow. Each wore a tan, long-sleeved quilted tunic with breeches and rode with a round shield at their back. They also wore a pointed helm wrapped with cloth, almost like a turban, that would best protect them from the hot sun. They paused in surprise at the sight of the armed Travellers. Recognising how all were engaged in convivial eating and drinking, their leader, a young man with a yellow sash on his helm, cautiously rode forward.

McFee stood and, keeping his hands in easy view, strode to meet the rider. “Eirene,” he waved. “May the peace of Christ be with you!”

“And to you,” the young man nodded with a frown. “What is your purpose as you journey, friend?” he asked pleasantly, though his companions kept a wary eye. The cavalrymen held their lances tightly, the haft of each placed into a leather pouch by their stirrup. Yellow tassels flew merrily from the spearheads, which looked cruelly sharp. Professor Taylor had no illusions that the cavalrymen would know how to use them.

McFee smiled widely. “We are to guide one of our leaders who desires to witness the great City and determine a future for trade. We hear the wonders are indeed a sight to behold.”

The horseman nodded as he silently looked to Professor Taylor and their local travelling companions, all of whom seemed more inclined to eat than fight. Beside him, Leon gave a nod that was returned. Though delighted at the arrival of the horsemen, Professor Taylor had a cold jolt of realisation that appearances could be deceptive. Each of his companions was primed to fight to the death. The proximity of danger was sobering. He tried to soak up every detail of the riders’ accoutrements, which were surprisingly plain but for their yellow sashes and a red cross insignia at their breast.

Without warning, the young horseman wheeled about and, with his companions, rode towards Constantinople.

McAlister frowned and muttered, “I hope that went well.”

Leon wiped the grease and juices from his face with a cloth and gave an impressively loud belch. “Oh no, my friends. Don’t be afraid. There are always patrols on the roads to the great City. It means that the guards at the gate will await us.”

“Makes sense,” added Erol. “A continual, rapid response scouting system using light cavalry would be the smartest thing to do.”

There were grunts of agreement and the Travellers stood to go but Leon had relaxed to doze. McFee looked around in frustration, eager to be on his way but following the generous meal, most of their fellow travellers had settled for a midday siesta.

***

Constantinople’s defensive walls were decorated with fluttering tan and scarlet banners, as were the impressive towers clustered near the entry to the great City. Before the gate was a cluster of dwellings visible from their slight rise. Even from about a kilometre away they could see people milled around the open Golden Gate.

“Is it true that this is the gate through which the Emperor will return?” asked McFee.

“Yes! Yes! That is true! It is expected that the Emperor Basil will return through this gate after his destruction of the Bulgars,” nodded Leon eagerly.

“When is this?” asked Professor Taylor excitedly.

Leon’s face fell as he eloquently shrugged. “Well, no one is sure. Our armies have been busy and great and terrible things have been done. But that is the nature of war, yes?” and he looked to his home with a smile of obvious relief. They drew slowly closer and the road threaded its way through clusters of buildings. Memorials and tombstones made arbitrary cemeteries, punctuated with crucifix-adorned family mausoleums carved from sandstone or marble. Far off, the impressive spans of the giant aqueduct were seen as it carried fresh water to satisfy the needs of the city. Professor Taylor continually muttered, “Superb! Truly amazing!” as they strode ever closer.

Around them, their fellow travellers had gathered into a throng that numbered over thirty. “Why are we so popular all of a sudden?” chuckled McAlister.

Leon turned and nodded with a friendly smile. “My friend, they see safety in numbers. The residents at the outer walls are not known for their generosity of spirit. It is not uncommon for lone travellers to be robbed or even murdered for their possessions when in sight of their destination.”

The locals seemed to view the procession with a calculating air, and scruffy children approached to beg for alms. One of the cudgel, wielding guards swung a casual hand at one child and muttered a curse.

“Did you hear that?” asked Poxon. “He sounded like he told the kid to ‘sod off’”

Parker chuckled and muttered, “Just like home. Did you ever watch Blackadder?”

“Of course,” replied Poxon as he watched the children mill about and then magically part before them, plainly disappointed that they would have no luck in scamming this group.

Parker continued, “There was the episode with Baldrick and they were trying to find out his first name.”

“Not sure I saw it,” grinned Poxon. “Go on.”

“Well, Blackadder said, ‘Surely you have a first name?’

And Baldrick says, ‘I think it’s Sod Off!’

‘How can it be Sod Off?’ asks Blackadder.

And Baldrick says, ’When I was a kid, I’d go out to play with the other kids and I’d say, ‘Hello, my name’s Baldrick.’

And the kids would say, ‘Yeah we know. Sod off, Baldrick.’”

Poxon laughed, though his eyes were everywhere. “Good times! I never tire of Blackadder. Sometimes it feels like we’re living it.”

“I know. Cor! Look at that!” exclaimed Parker.

Poxon was silent as they gazed at the Golden Gate that loomed and the sight was simply magnificent. The entry that punctured the defensive walls and flanked by two smaller gates, all decorated with gold leaf and highly polished bronze plate that shone in the afternoon sunlight. Images of crucifixes and protective angels were painted onto the stucco covered walls. It was as if this city floated above the hardships of the natural world. They crossed over an ornate stone bridge across a wide moat filled with muddy water and many in their party raised their hands to cry out in joy and relief at their weary journey’s end. Armoured soldiers manned the walls and the marble paved area that led to the gates. There, a small crowd gathered.

At their approach, there was a cry from the battlements and four heavily-armed guards at the gate turned to watch. Dressed in tunic, light boots, and breeches similar to the Travellers, they also wore a shirt of chain mail that reached to their mid-thigh and a conical helmet with nose guard. Their armour was overlaid with a tan tunic with the sign of a red cross, a similar motif also on their shields and the banners hanging from the battlements. McAlister imagined the soldiers discomfort if the day was any warmer.

One guard turned to call to a man with an impressive, dark-blue cape. With carefully coiffed hair and imperious, self-important attitude of a bureaucrat, he strode purposefully to meet McAlister and Erol who led their party. Leon got down to join them and the man in blue addressed him. Accompanied by two guards, he pointedly ignored the Travellers, his tone abrupt and unwelcoming. “Greetings Leon of Hadrianopolis. Why are you so popular all of a sudden? It wouldn’t be because of your stench, I’m sure,” he sniffed as he gave a disparaging glance to the load of raw skins on the cart.

“Greetings Cosmos. Always a pleasure,” nodded Leon.

“So, who’s this?” asked Cosmos impatiently as he indicated the Travellers with an impatient point of his chin.

“Friends. Lord Taylor and his party hope to initiate trade,” offered Leon.

Cosmos frowned and gave Professor Taylor a calculating look. “Lord Taylor is it? Well, welcome to the greatest of cities and royal residence of the Great Emperor. So you plan to visit to learn of our ways and to build trade relations. Is this correct?”

McAlister frowned. There was something about their greeting that rankled. Professor Taylor seemed taken aback by the man’s tone. As he replied, the professor seemed particularly mindful of his grammar and pronunciation. “Yes, we plan to stay only for a short time to lead the way for future visits. The fame of your city reaches the ends of God’s earth and we wish to behold its wonders and tell of the great things we see.”

“What do you plan to trade?” the man demanded brusquely. He had protruding teeth that gave him the appearance of an angry guinea pig.

But the academic simply smiled. “Silver, and perhaps some precious stones and copper. Our people are skilled and we have yet to identify what your fair city desires.”

Leon spoke up, “It’s all good Cosmas. I’ll look after them. They aren’t Bulgars you know. I can vouch for them. They can stay with my family in the tanner’s quarter.”

Cosmas cast the trader an impatient glare. “My good Leon of Hadrianopolis, while it’s always a good day when you travel through, I would think it best that you leave me to my task before you drag your guests to your hovel.” One of the guards, a big, beefy lad with a cruel face, barked out a laugh as Leon held up his hands in a placatory manner, though he frowned at the tone. McAlister looked to the other members of the Traveller team. All were alert for trouble.

Cosmas frowned in frustration and turned back to the only person he deemed worthy of conversation. “Very well, Lord Taylor, though we would recommend that you stay in the Varangian quarter with your countrymen. You might find your stay more pleasurable,” he concluded dismissively.

There was another bark of laughter, this time from another guard, a fair-haired, wiry man with narrow, shifty eyes. “Not Varangian. These are from other lands,” he growled. He pursed his lips and spat onto the road between McAlister’s feet. The vile gobbet of phlegm had a lump of brown in it. There was gasp of anger from Leon and McAlister felt his blood boil but Erol simply chuckled as he clasped a friendly hand on his companion’s shoulder. They both looked to the guard with a smile. The guards had the intimidating grins of bullies eager for a fight. There was a palpable tension.

Professor Taylor intervened, his face almost frantic. “Good Cosmas, we are most grateful for your kind welcome. We trust we have your leave?” he asked.

“Not yet!” barked Cosmas as he looked to his soldiers in frustration. “Might we know where your party are from? Our fair people can, at times, be surrounded by enemies, though we welcome peaceful trade embassies.” Leon made as if to speak in objection to such bad manners but Cosmas silenced him with a curt gesture.

Professor Taylor inclined his head politely, “Dear Cosmas, our embassy is from a fair land of Aengland. While we have travelled far, our motives are peaceful and, we hope, will be mutually beneficial for us all.”

Cosmas grunted, as if having heard such a comment often. “Well, Lord Taylor, I’ve never heard of Aengland. We remind you that, as followers of Christ the Redeemer, His laws are kept in our fair city. We seek peace, so you must know that our laws prohibit armed men to wander the streets of Constantinople. Our Varangian Guard man the walls to keep you safe, so your men must surrender your arms before you enter.”

Parker hissed a quiet warning and the academic hesitated, for the two guards looked a little too interested in what was to be surrendered to their care. The Travellers had often discussed the likelihood that they would be required to relinquish their arms and armour before they entered the City, so they were prepared. However, they were unwilling to have their valuable weapons stolen.

“We honour your laws and the peace of Christ on this great city and its fair people,” agreed Professor Taylor smoothly. “While we understand your concerns, our people consider it a slight on a warrior’s honour to have their highly valued weapons stolen or placed in an unsafe location. We request that you ensure our weapons remain in your most capable care. Surely we can compromise and prevent any situation that might be considered unsuitable?”

McAlister had to admit that the old boy was doing well. They didn’t want any violence, especially before they had even entered the City. Cosmas frowned, making him look even more like a rodent. “The Law is the Law, Lord Taylor. Our guards will look after your weapons, which will be returned as you depart.”

Professor Taylor smiled and nodded happily. “That is agreed, fair Cosmas. We note you are a man of influence and honour. We request that our weapons are placed into your personal care, thus preventing any potential for petty misunderstanding and conflict. As a diplomatic officer of the great Emperor, you will, of course, understand. As a token of our good faith, we ask for you to accept this gift from our humble land.” The canny professor offered a small package to the officer of Customs, whose face had taken on a more avaricious look. The small bundle was of shiny, red ribbon into which Taylor had wrapped a lump of silver about the size of his thumb. Cosmas uncoiled the material and barely gave the silver a second glance as he smoothly secreted the precious metal into his tunic but the ribbon had him start with surprise. “What in the name of our Lord is this?” he asked as the red shone in the sun like newly-spilled blood.

Leon also gasped in admiration, while Professor Taylor gave a knowing smile. The Travellers knew the effect modern colour had on a people restricted to the muted dyes accessible only from nature. Hunter in Saxon Aengland had found the gift of a piece of common ribbon more effective than gold, and lighter to carry. “Our people are skilled in the manufacture of red, just as your people are famous for Purple,” the academic added helpfully.

The guards looked on curiously while Cosmas swiftly wrapped the ribbon around his fingers, secreted it and imperiously gestured the Travellers forward.

With their sizable retinue, the team made their way through one of the side gates and into the City. There were stone and mud-brick homes and shops aplenty, with people everywhere. McAlister was more concerned with the guards, who looked anything but mollified. The gates they passed through were made of heavy, bronze faced timbers with black iron and decorated with deadly spikes. Above them hung a massive, iron portcullis that could be dropped if additional defence was required. An inscription above the arch was a dedication to Emperor Theodosius, as he who ‘built the gate from gold’.

McAlister pondered at the military impenetrability of these mighty defences but his musings were interrupted. The guard with the cruel face stood in his way and stared intently, as if to intimidate, so McAlister smiled and blew him a kiss. This brought the predictable snarl. His companion laughed and slapped his friend on the shoulder and their look marked the Traveller for future attention but he knew all about bullies and gave a snort of laughter to show his disdain. Denied their chance to pillage the new visitors of anything useful, the guards turned to look for easier prey.

Their spears, swords, helms, and shields were left in a strongroom in the ornately columned Customs building. Only their precious seax remained. Those would never be relinquished and Cosmas soon sent them on their way with a dismissive flick of his hand. The Customs official seemed distracted, as if he should be elsewhere. After an administrative slave gave them a receipt, they turned to the great City.

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