Traveller Probo
93. 11th Century Constantinople

“Things have become rather complicated,” suggested Professor Taylor. They sat in a roadside tavern that was far enough from their accommodation for the air to be breathable. The academic struggled with the beor, though he tried. “We seem to be about to experience more than we anticipated.”

McAlister screwed up his face, and simply said, “So it seems!”

Professor Taylor frowned, not fully comprehending his response.

“Professor Taylor, we’ve been in Byzantium for just over two days,” commented McFee. “After our first real day, at a feast, we were compelled to engage with sexual partners. McAlister’s team is now obliged to meet with Varangian guard, to commit to a patrol that might skirmish with the ancestors of our Turkish brothers here. What do you suggest we do?”

Professor Taylor looked uncomfortable. McAlister and the lads had still not been able to unearth the academic’s response to the dancers the night before. “Well, I’m not sure,” he replied.

“Why? What’s happened?” asked McFee.

“Well, for one, I was obliged to give another piece of ribbon to one of the guests at the feast last night,” muttered Professor Taylor uncomfortably.

“Who?” asked Poxon. “Was it to your piece of fluff?”

McAlister screwed up his face in an effort not to laugh and it seemed he wasn’t alone. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Findɴovel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“No!” replied Professor Taylor tartly. “It wasn’t to any piece of fluff, Sergeant Poxon. I was obliged to keep the peace with the local textile guild and their leader, Florian is his name by the way. He feared we were trying to trade without guild support. I had to give him a piece of what I suggested we traded in order to gain an ally.” McAlister had never seen Professor Taylor look so annoyed. The older man muttered, “Fluff!” to himself and shook his head angrily.

Poxon hid a smile. The lads had speculated as to the gender of the dancer with whom Taylor spent the evening. Whatever had happened, it had Taylor defensive, his emotions raw and perhaps tinged with a little guilt. Erol had laid a bet that it was a boy, while Poxon thought both sexes were at play. One of the Turks had put a sweep together and held a bag of silver for the winners.

Professor Taylor drew himself tall, as if in defence. “May I remind you, gentlemen, the events of last night were unexpected. None was more surprised than I. We know how Emperor Justinian’s laws of moral conduct and Leo the third’s Ecloga were to mirror the beliefs of the Church. The laws seek to preserve the chastity of women and decry the sin of homosexuality but it seems any behaviour with slaves isn’t included.” Professor Taylor’s hand shook, “My God! I’m horrified!”

Parker watched carefully, hoping to get an indicator as to the ongoing wager before he came to the academic’s rescue. “Oh, don’t worry about it Professor. What goes on in Byzantium, stays in Byzantium.” At the familiar refrain, most of the Travellers laughed and toasted each other with their flagons.

Professor Taylor appeared to feel better, so McAlister asked, “So Professor, you spoke of the ribbon. What was the response?”

“The head of the guild, as I said he was Florian …” began Taylor.

“That’d be right,” suggested Poxon. “He ran off with two of the boys if I recall.”

“Sergeant Poxon!” retorted Professor Taylor. “Really! Must you?”

“Come on!” added McFee who made a playful swipe at Poxon who ducked his head with too broad a smile and an unrepentant “Sorry!”

“The guild head is a very powerful man and seems intent to be our friend and ally,” continued Professor Taylor with his nose in the air, pointedly ignoring Poxon. “As head of the textile guild he, and Leon, are dazzled by the bright reds we offer. They want to get their hands on some of our ribbon, with the intent of future trade and, no doubt, to wrest the secret of the colour from us. After all, we must remember that the Byzantines did eventually uncover the secret of manufacturing silk from the Chinese. Anyway, until then, they’re our best friends and naturally they want to get rich off what we offer. Florian’s hungry for our trade, suggesting the very best prices as he can create new garments for the wealthiest of his clients.”

“So what do we do?” asked McFee. “It shouldn’t be a problem as we can give him some ribbon, whet his appetite, and then head back home when the time’s right.”

“Wow! You’ve made rich and powerful friends for us Professor. Isn’t that the best outcome?” suggested McAlister helpfully.

Professor Taylor was silent for a second and he inclined his head graciously. “That’s what I thought,” he replied.

“You have more news?” asked McFee, with a frown.

“Yes, well you would have noticed that a couple of the guests there were from the military,” continued the academic, whose mood improved markedly. “They’re officers of middle-rank, probably equivalent to Captain or Major. They’re young, rich, and from influential families. They also know a lot about Emperor Basil’s campaign. He’s on his way home from Bulgaria and, here’s the most important news, will be at the gates of the city in the next day or so. The main van of the army will arrive a day or so after but the Emperor will enter through the traditional Golden Gate and will look to provide a triumphant spectacle like the Roman Emperors of old.”

McFee smiled and gave Professor Taylor a double ‘thumbs up’. “Bloody brilliant! Great timing! I’ll contact the drone team and have them monitor the event. They might even consider more than one UAV.”

“Which brings us to our dilemma,” added McAlister. “As you all know, Erol, the lads and I have been invited to join the Varangian Guard at the battlements today. We’re to meet their commander, a bloke by the name of Sten. The real issue is because we put a couple of their lads out of commission, their NCO, Eirik, expects us to join them on a patrol against a few errant Turkics. How do we get out of this?”

Erol and the other Turks gave details of their encounter with Asger and Dag, who the rest of the team well remembered from their entry at the Golden Gate. After a good deal of discussion, McFee advised, “Look, I’d rather you blokes not go. It’s an unacceptable risk. If we can delay your participation in the patrol, we can view the return of the Emperor and his forces and then head out of here. I don’t want to piss off the Varangian Guard but I don’t want you lads placed at risk.’

McAlister nodded in agreement. “I agree but it’s a damned-if-we-do-and-damned-if-we-don’t situation. The plus on this is that we have the opportunity to see the Varangian Guard on patrol.”

“But what if there’s action?” asked McFee. “I know it’s my final call but I’m not sure what to say. I feel like we’re snookered in this.”

“McAlister shrugged. “Either we go with them, or the whole Traveller mission might be compromised. Me and the lads have been discussing this and we don’t think there’s any way we can avoid it without things getting messy. If you’d seen these lads, you’d know what I mean.” Erol and the other Turks each nodded and gave a grunt of agreement. “I suppose we could leave the city from another gate and hide but that’s not my choice. Since we’re the ones they know, I’m happy for us to feel this out. If they get nasty, or if there’s real action, I’m sure we can manage it. We’ll also be in constant contact, of course.”

McFee shook his head in frustration, “Okay Mac but I don’t like it. Be careful though. Jesus! What a cluster-fuck.” He grimaced. “We both know how this sort of thing can go sour.”

McAlister nodded and then stood. “Okay, I’d best see to this. Time to go.” He smiled at McFee and the remainder of the team as the rest of his squad prepared to leave with him. “We’ll see how these Varangians do their stuff. Should be interesting!”

After asking for directions from the tavern keeper, McAlister and his team threaded their way through the pedestrians and food markets of ancient Constantinople. 

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