Traveller Probo
25. England

The breath from the joggers steamed in the morning chill as they ran through the mist. Well-used to the cold, the soldiers seemed unperturbed and Hurley was compelled to grudgingly concede that he might not be as fit as he used to be. The kilometres just didn’t slip by as easily as he remembered. He puffed heavily and was compelled to try even harder.

As they entered the driveway to the base, the expected race was on. Some of the more muscular members of the team were soon left behind until it became a contest of endurance between a tall, lean first-sergeant from Odessa and a sergeant from the war-torn city of Donetsk. Long legs flashed and they panted, red-faced, until they crossed the final finish-line. Hurley bent to gasp and catch his breath and then stretched to expand his lungs before he staggered through the breathless runners. He found the first-sergeant lying on the freezing, wet lawn as it steamed about him. Standing by his side the dark-haired victor nodded to Hurley with a grim smile, her face red but jubilant.

“So, Sergeant Vasylenko, it seems you aren’t always the fastest now. How does that make you feel?” smiled Hurley and the fresh-faced young man opened an eye to glare at his rival.

“Not sure, Master Sergeant, I’m sure she cheated but I just can’t figure out how.” He glared at her a moment before she responded.

“You’re just getting soft Maksym. Too much sleeping-in I think,” and she smiled a pretty, pointy-nosed smile, for they all rose at 5am and did every day.

“Good job Kateryna, good job,” nodded Hurley. “Well, we all know what that means. Let’s get a quick thirty push-ups out of the rest of you and then off to the showers. You go first Kateryna, a reward for a great run.” She smiled and turned jauntily for their accommodation while the others groaned as they rolled over onto stomachs for their penalty. As they started, Hurley mentioned as if in afterthought, “Oh, and Maksym, another twenty for being a bad sport.”

There were some chuckles and Maksym muttered in Old Slavonic as he pushed out his fifty push-ups, “I’m … not … a … fucking … bad … sport.”

Leaving Maksym to his pushups, Hurley walked past the blacksmith shops set up in their new home. The artisans had become a source of fascination to not only the Travellers but also to the rest of the troops. Old world skills, especially blacksmithing, were fashionable thanks to the Traveller projects. Skilled blacksmiths were inundated with work, both for their goods and to train others. The Traveller Projects for Byzantium, and Hurley’s team, who were destined to be sent back to Kiev, in Ukraine, had scoured the world for the best swordsmiths. After intense negotiation, Hurley had accessed one of the smiths they had used in Saxon Traveller and installed a team considered to be the world leaders in design and manufacture of European swords. The aim was to create authentic and original blade designs using modern, stronger materials.

The clang of hammer on metal rang clearly while the forges, one wood-fired and one of gas, glowed in the misty morning twilight.

Hurley mentally ran through the programme for the day, for the troops would begin with language and history from the Ukrainian academic, Professor Dimitri Balanchuk. The Old Slavonic was popular as the troops were fiercely proud of their heritage. There was something about getting back to ancestral roots that most participants of the Traveller projects seemed to appreciate, as if it was an almost visceral longing to understand who their ancestors were and how they lived.

Eager for a shower, he saw Professor Balanchuk in a somewhat brisk discussion with a person he was surprised to see. The bear-like Russian, Professor Konstantin Yumashev, loomed over the reed-thin Ukrainian academic who looked to be in uncharacteristic fury. The normally gentle Ukrainian was obsessed with any historical fact regarding his beloved country’s past. His support of Kiev Traveller was almost fanatical. After all, it had taken him endless hours of convincing governments and the members of Historical Research International, of which Professor Yumashev was a board member, that sending Travellers to the Varangian city of Kiev was a project worth consideration. Now his shrill voice rang clearly across the parade-ground while the Russian growled like thunder. Normally jocular and up for a laugh, Professor Yumashev frowned heavily and was plainly furious. Despite his bulk, the big man seemed unable to physically intimidate the smaller man and so angry was their exchange that Hurley feared they would come to blows which, he doubted, would result in any real damage to either.

As he wandered across, Professor Yumashev saw Hurley’s approach and struggled to regain a modicum of composure. As one of his hands smoothed his mass of grey hair, he nodded in his usual friendly manner, though Hurley could tell he was hard-pressed in doing so. “Ah, good Sergeant Hurley, the first Traveller. We have disturbed you in your training of our brave Traveller candidates. Please excuse us as we have our disagreements. As historians we were once such quiet, retiring fellows and now, now we roar and the world listens, yes?” Professor Yumashev grinned with some of his usual bonhomie. Hurley had always found the Russian the consummate politician and a fearless advocate for Russia’s, interests in the Traveller projects. The big man was never been seen to let anything dampen his famously unflappable good humour. Until now.

“Gentlemen, good morning!” Hurley nodded with a wary smile. “Can I possibly help with anything? Sometimes a perspective from those on the ground can be of benefit?” He hoped his presence might alleviate an obviously stressed situation but Professor Balanchuk barely even acknowledged his presence, which was out of character. Though the two historians’ association was usually professionally cordial, the continually fraught relations between their nations often placed their personal relationship under strain. Hurley was certain that something beyond mere national politics was happening here and that Kiev Traveller was involved.

Professor Yumashev waved his beefy hand and forced a laugh, “No Sergeant Traveller, all is well. There’s nothing quite like disagreements between friends but all is well I assure you,” and with a toss of his leonine head he strode away. Professor Balanchuk glared after him angrily. He briefly caught the smaller man’s red-rimmed eye, before the academic stalked silently to the waiting classroom.

Hurley frowned, flummoxed at what could have caused such contention. He must talk to Helen immediately for, if anyone would know, his wife and commander of the British Military’s Traveller training contingent certainly would.

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