Traveller Probo
91. 11th Century Constantinople

McAlister awoke with a thumping headache and was immediately aware of the young woman snuggled against him, her naked body barely covered by the thin, woollen blanket. She nestled into his chest and he realised in horror that his arm was around her. He looked at her golden hair. She was one of the dancers from the night before.

This was his second morning in ancient Constantinople.

Two days? Had all of this happened in two days?

He felt a pang of panic as the girl stirred. Zoe! Oh my God! He had never been unfaithful to his Zoe.

Fully awake, he struggled not to awaken her.

Beautiful, azure eyes gazed up at him and he froze. She followed up with a shy smile and McAlister was all too aware how her movements exposed her exquisite bottom. “Well, hello there,” he smiled, uncertain as to what was expected of him. In an adjoining private area he was aware that a couple was, if the feminine groans were any indicator, giving a morning shag their very best.

On hearing the sounds, the girl raised an eyebrow. She looked to be only in her late teens. “Hello,” she muttered sleepily.

“So, what’s your name?” asked McAlister. He felt that he had to fill the awkward silence.

“Alva,” she smiled and, as she did so, she looked up at him with eyes full of invitation as she reached under the blanket that covered him from the waist down.

“Oh dear,” muttered McAlister. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

***

“What the hell happened?” asked McFee, his head in his hands. McAlister knew the Scotsman was used to his drink but the wine was more potent than expected.

“Well,” responded McAlister, “I know we drank too much. Not sure what happened to you after that but I do know what happened to me this morning.”

There were a few ribald chuckles and Parker agreed. “Yeah, me too.”

McFee turned to his friend. “Bloody hell, Parker, everyone knew you were up to it. We aren’t deaf you know!”

“Seems like we might be taking home more than pictures and samples,” smiled Erol.

“Waddya mean?” asked Poxon.

“Well Poxon my lad,” smiled Parker. “Because you went to bed with half of your fan club, you might now be a heaving petri dish of previously extinct sexually communicable diseases.”

“Oh, sod off,” Poxon responded, his ears red with a flush of pleased embarrassment. He had been particularly popular with both lads and girls from the dance troupe.

“That wine was good, and the food surprisingly palatable. Even the garum shit was all right,” added Erol.

“It was very similar to some of the dishes my mother makes.” replied Hazan, one of the Turkish Travellers.

“I just can see your mother’s reaction to the delicious little dish you ended up with,” laughed Erol.

There was laughter as the mood lightened.

“But what about Taylor? Did anyone see what happened to the professor at all?” asked McFee. Their night at the feast had been recorded by a multitude of hidden cameras and would have broadcast footage none would want to review.

Poxon spoke up, “I thought he was taken to more private quarters by our host.”

“Yeah,” added McAlister, “surrounded by half a dozen boys and girls.”

“You think old Taylor might like the boys?” asked Parker incredulously.

“I think Taylor might be into anything that gets his wizened old prick to work,” responded Poxon reflectively.

“My problem is, I didn’t mean to do this,” added McAlister. “I mean, my Zoe is a top bird. I didn’t mean to cheat on her. Never have!”

“Oh God, Mac,” smiled Parker, “don’t be too hard on yourself. It was an expectation. If you didn’t, it would have put the mission at risk. I mean, Poxon here took two for the team, just to make sure our hosts would be happy.”

Poxon said nothing. At the men’s jealous ribbing he eventually smiled and gave a double thumbs up.

McAlister nodded, ignoring the fuss. “I get the feeling there was more to it than that. Did you see the bloke who looked like he was the head of the dance troupe, the manager I mean?”

“Or pimp,” added Parker.

“Exactly. These were professionals, koines is what they’re called. High class ones too, if what we saw at the wharves is any indication. Brrr,” he shuddered. “They were shocking.”

“Unless you like your blowjobs without teeth,” added Poxon.

McAlister winced at the thought, then continued. “From what my young lass, Alva, said, it was vital they made us happy. She implied she would be inspected to see that I’d enjoyed her. That would most probably apply to all of the other dancers as well. Alva told me there were women who check to see that the dancers had done their job right and that they’d be beaten, even sold, if they hadn’t.”

“Those kids were young. They don’t deserve that attention,” mused Erol. “Your girl was very pretty Mac. Nice name, means ‘Elf-like’. If she came to me, I’d give her a good inspection.”

“Yeah she was a peach and, yes, I did my best to make sure she had done a great job,” confessed McAlister reluctantly.

“I’m sure,” laughed Parker.

“But what goes on in Byzantium…,” began Poxon.

“… stays in Byzantium,” concluded the others.

“But the point we seem to forget, is that these kids, as koines, didn’t have a choice,” continued McAlister. “They’re bloody young and they’re slaves. Young Alva was about eighteen and was captured a couple of years ago from her home somewhere to the north, so she’s probably Rus or Viking herself. The Rus aren’t too fussy about who they sell into slavery. We saw a lot of it yesterday and then spent most of our afternoon being told all about it by some of the Varangian lads from the front gate.”

“But what about McFee’s lass. Wasn’t she the one who was the flexible one?” added Poxon. “You know, the one who could just about lick her own arse.”

Parker laughed as he continued the tale, “He always seems to get those flexy ones. There was this girl when we were in Thailand …”

“Yeah, look, maybe later,” interjected McFee dismissively. “I want to hear what the hell kept Mac and the lads away.”

McAlister and his squad described the events of the day and how they were compelled to join the Varangian Guards to have a drink at a tavern described as, “… an absolute flea pit, with its own piles of shit and rats. If we refused, the Varangians would probably have taken offense and we don’t want those lads off-side, believe me.”

“It seems that us beating their men was a cause for hilarity,” continued Erol, “especially for their leader. They seem to believe in their own superiority as warriors and that their team mates let them down.”

“Yet, they’re now our friends?” asked McFee suspiciously.

“They seem to be,” confirmed McAlister reluctantly. “The reason that Eirik thought the whole affair so funny was because the two had been bragging about how they were going to kill us and leave our bodies in one of the City’s most disreputable areas, never to be found again. Then we gave them a proper touch-up.”

“So, where does that leave us now?” asked McFee.

McAlister looked uncomfortable and glanced at Erol. “Well, it seems that the lads we demolished now aren’t up to their tasks. Today, they’re to patrol around a few villages to the north-east where there have been some incursions from Seljuks.”

“Hang on. They sound familiar,” suggested Poxon as he rubbed his aching head.

“They should,” nodded Erol. “They’re our ancestors, Turks from the steppes. You know, expert riders who started nibbling at the edges of the Empire.”

“Exactly,” agreed McAlister.

“What’s that got to do with us?” asked McFee cautiously.

McAlister sighed. “It seems that their lads are now two short,” he explained. “Their greatest joy is in a fight, in battle especially, so they did what any new best friend would do. They’ve invited us to take the place of the two we put out of commission. If we insult them, we’ll have the entire Varangian Guard at our throats. So, we’re to join them on patrol.”

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