Traveller Probo
77. 11th Century Constantinople

Their simple beds and accommodation were adequate for their needs After all; their stay would only be for a week at the most. Aside from a few farts, Parker’s snoring, and the fact that their toilet was in a surprisingly clean public facility a short walk away, the night had gone well.

Gallienus brought a basket loaded with breads, olives, tart oranges, yoghurt, and some weak wine for their breakfast. The previous afternoon had been little more than reconnaissance of their local area. While they had seen the grandeur of the local churches, there was not the time to explore to the centre of the great city, so they looked forward to discovering the grandest monuments. Though their sleep had been restful, they took turns at guard duty, just in case.

After breakfast, they split into two teams. McAlister, Erol and two of the other Turkish travellers were to head south to the docks, the beating heart of international trade in the Byzantine world.

As soon as the guides arrived, they climbed to the red tile roof of Leon’s warehouses. There they could look over the massive defensive walls to the ships that sailed into port. On nearby sandbars, mounds of murex shells were boiled to extract the most precious purple dye, the royal purple for which the Empire was famous. Despite the City’s almost perpetual state of war, Muslim traders sailed their diamond-sailed feluccas from the coasts of Egypt, while dhows skipped between the waves to fish or carry traders from far-off lands.

But the sight that caught their attention was two great dromonds; giant galleys with vast sails and banners that billowed with the winds. Two mighty tiers of wooden oars pulled in unison as great, booming drums beat out the rhythm. Despite their distance, the bulk of these timber warships was impressive. The hearty singing of the crew could be heard as they sailed for home.

“Most ships use free men,” offered their shrivelled guide in response to their questions. “Rowers take great pride in their posts.” His voice was gravelly from cheap wine and, to add to his appeal, he was toothless. McAlister looked down at the man in amusement. God knew how old he was. “The rowers also fight and share in loot,” the guided added reluctantly. As the dromonds sailed into harbour, the Travellers could plainly see the fortified castle-like structures in the bow and stern that were to protect their marines as they sailed into battle. Erol pointed out the gun-like spout on the bow deck of one dromond, the nozzle to eject the Greek Fire with which the Byzantine navy ruled supreme.

They climbed from the roof and made their way to the great port of Theodesius, where the dromonds, and many of the trading vessels, would be moored. As they approached, the cosmopolitan crowds became ever busier. In between colonnades painted in dull reds and yellows, fishmongers touted their wares as housewives and servants haggled for the freshest fish at the best price. The women were dressed modestly, with hats or scarves tying back their hair. Discarded fish were sniffed at by mangy dogs or skinny cats which dashed between legs to hide under old netting. Along one street, smiths worked iron, brass and silver with a cacophony of hammering and the smell of burned metal.

People from all the known world wandered the streets. Blond Varangians, dressed much like themselves, sauntered past with suspicious looks while hard-faced, sunburned Chinese traders fresh from the legendary Silk Road gazed about in wonder. Arabs in ornate robes gathered to inspect a group of young women who stood miserably under an awning. The girls were bound with sashes and herded by a couple of swarthy, bearded men.

On seeing his clients stop and stare, their old guide urgently took them aside. “My friends, these young lasses are part of the bounty from the wars with the Bulgars, may they be damned to the pits of hell,” he growled and spat, which seemed a habit. “Probably the great battle of Kleidion or thereabouts, because I think these choice little pieces of meat will be part of the booty from the great General Xiphias himself.”

Erol frowned and asked, “So, these girls are slaves?”

“Oh yes!” nodded their guide emphatically, “Yes, nothing but the best for our good general, no doubt. Though he has always been a cagey one. If anyone knows quality, it’ll be him. I bet my right nut that these are virgins, the lot of ’em!”

“And who are the men hurrying them along? Are they soldiers?” asked McAlister. It took all of his self-control not to stalk to the men and grab them by their throats. They treated the girls with the dismissive interest one might give a horse or dog, as if they weren’t even human. Some of the girls looked little more than children, their eyes red from weeping. On seeing McAlister’s look, his guide became alarmed and placed a placatory hand on his arm.

“Oh, no, no, no my friend. This is as things are done. The Radhanites, the Jews, they have the contract to get the best price for these girls but it will be because these girls are not real Christians. No real Christians can be sold to the Moors, this is law,” he said earnestly, “and not to Jews,” he added as an afterthought.

“The Moors” asked one of the other Turks, who appeared to be having a more difficult time than McAlister. The sight of the young girls tore at their hearts.

“Yes, yes, they will buy these girls and another thousand like them,” whined their guide in increasing panic as he nodded to a small group of Arabs dressed in expensive robes. They and the young girls turned and strolled to an impressive, marble building that faced the main road to the harbour.

“What happens after they are bought?” asked McAlister.

One of the minders for the Arabs, a tall young man with a handsome face and cold brown eyes, noticed their attention and looked at the Travellers to jerk his head in warning.

Their guide looked about to flee. “I don’t know!” he replied, his tone frantic. “They sell them, just like any slave. Then they can fuck them or beat them or do what they want!” One of the richly dressed men looked across and spoke to the young man who had warned them off. Another of the minders also stared across in warning.

“They don’t like being watched,” murmured Erol.

McAlister slowly nodded and then turned to his fellows. “Not worth getting into a fight over, is it lads? Best act like the locals I suppose,” he suggested as he nodded to the young men and then turned to walk away. McAlister was certain they were capable fighters who would have weapons, at least knives. It wasn’t worth it. What would they do with a gaggle of girls, even if they fought all and sundry and happened to rescue them.

Their fate was sealed.

They continued on their way but the tone of the visit had changed. McAlister felt angry and alert, his hand never far from the seax that hung at his back. Realising his mood was shared by the others, he needed to calm the situation. “Steady lads. Remember, we have to make like we’re locals and observe only. Gather what images we can and learn what we can. This is a bloody amazing place, after all.” Their guide nodded vigorously, even though they spoke in English. McAlister was certain the old man had nearly wet himself. He would have run if not for the promise of more coins at the end of their tour.

“Now my friends, let’s not worry about anything silly now shall we?” emphasised their guide with the lisp of the toothless. “It’s the law and such and besides, we don’t want to start anything do we? If you want some young things to amuse yourselves with, I can take you to the house of Artemis, closer to home, isn’t it. There, I’ve been told you can dip your wick into the finest there is,” he nodded earnestly. McAlister looked at the man in amusement and then raised an eyebrow to Erol who nodded and smiled.

They passed a tavern out of which came the sound of singing and reek of raw liquor and food. McAlister spied a couple of young boys standing at the doorway. One tilted his head to one side and looked coquettish as he smiled. Behind him a haggard, middle-aged woman called out, “Come on, my love! C’mon in and enjoy a drink and we’ll help you to forget the cares of the world!”

McAlister, no stranger to the fleshpots of some of the world’s conflict areas, smiled as he replied, “Oh my love, we have a job to do but yours is a face and body to come back for!” The prostitute, or koine, laughed, both at his good manners and obvious jest. She kissed the tips of her fingers before blowing the kiss to him.

Near the tavern stood a butcher’s shop, where fresh carcasses hung from hooks of black iron. Men hefted the freshly slaughtered meat as they hurried along the alleys to make their deliveries. The meat was destined for the homes of the wealthy, monasteries, or for other butcher shops that would cut them up for the average consumer. They watched as a goat had its throat cut and, within moments, was carefully skinned and gutted. Nearby, two bleating kids were tied, oblivious of their fate. The area smelled of blood that ran down stone gutters to join raw sewage from the city as it poured into the waters of the harbour.

One of the dromonds they had seen earlier was tied at the docks as the sailors eagerly scrambled to enjoy their leave. Each wore a tan tunic with the red cross at their heart and wandered along the docks with their sack of belongings in hand. Some sang bawdy songs and headed for the nearby taverns. A few brawny lads sauntered past, their look to intimidate but the Travellers ignored them. McAlister knew that many would end up in the gutters and, no doubt, the dock’s numerous koine would replace themselves well paid.

They approached one of the dromonds and stood to admire the great ship. A couple of crew finished tidying by coiling ropes or scrubbing decks. The double rows of oars had been withdrawn and stowed and though not huge by modern navy standards, the ship was impressive. Two spear-wielding guards at the gang plank called out, “Oi! What’re you doing? Fuck Off!” They gestured angrily, so the visitors wisely headed closer to the ramshackle buildings that lined the docks.

Gaunt, wiry slaves unloaded smaller ships. Some of the men looked to be Slavic, possibly from the years of war with the Bulgars from the north, while some were obviously from Africa. They carried sacks of grain and shaped ingots of metal from the hulls with weary resignation. “Poor bastards,” observed McAlister.

“Not a life worth living,” Erol observed as they watched one slave, a big man with blue-black skin, struggle with a sack of grain, his job made all the more difficult by an abscessed wound on his leg.

McAlister shook his head in frustration. “Am I the only one having difficulty with this? I know we were briefed on the slave thing but it’s so against everything I believe in. They’re just property, not even treated as human! It would pay to look after them, as an investment but if what our guide here tells us is true, it looks like the value of slaves is dropping with the influx of more wretched captives from the wars in the north.” Seeing the attention again directed to things that should be ignored, their guide hurried them along and gave a nervous wave to two slave overseers. They barely looked up, less interested in the unloading of ships than their game of dice.

A couple of overweight men in robes hurried on an errand, their soft, feminine outlines identifying them as eunuchs. Their guide raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Oh yes my friend, they’re carzimasia all right. Had their nuts removed when they were young, though, to be honest, I really haven’t checked one to make sure.”

The docks buzzed with endless colour and fascination. Erol furtively gestured to a small man who lurked in the shadows. Clad only in a loincloth, he was likely to be a slave. What attracted their attention was that he appeared to be of Indian descent. When their guide was questioned, he merely shrugged in disinterest, so Erol and the two other Travellers moved so they could talk with him. Too late, the creature recognised that he was of interest and made as if to escape into one of the rubbish-filled alleys. He scarpered to a particularly run-down tavern when he was grabbed by one of the Turks who clung on to one of the skinny man’s wrists. There was a yelp of panic and as the other Turkish Traveller closed in, a voice screamed out from the tavern. “Oi, waddya doing? Leave my Manu alone, you fuckers! He ain’t done nuthin’ wrong!”

McAlister walked toward the woman, a toothless bag of bones with sores around her mouth. She moved to flee but was hindered by badly twisted legs from childhood rickets. The sailors drinking inside the tavern, little more than a shack that sold wine and weak beer, ignored the skinny woman’s tirade. She cringed, terrified but McAlister raised his hand in peace. “Peace, Aunty, we wish no harm but we do want to talk to your friend about his old home. Has he been here long?” he asked but the woman wasn’t convinced. “Leave him alone. Poor old bastard’s near dead, can’t you see? You beating up on him won’t give you much fun,” she pleaded, her voice aquiver.

McAlister smiled and squatted before her. “Now aunty, we told you we won’t harm him. Here!” and he withdrew a few coins, “Here’s something for your troubles. We promise we’ll return your Manu in good health.”

The woman glared at McAlister warily and, seeing that Manu was talking to the men, slowly reached for the coins. McAlister dropped them into her twisted hand and nodded a friendly farewell before he joined the others.

Manu spoke with a dry, husky voice and an accent that was undeniably from the subcontinent. By why was he here? McAlister was amused by the reaction of their guide who stared as if Manu was a turd that had magically grown legs and was about to jump into his mouth. Erol asked Manu to guide them to a place where they could eat without being disturbed. The little man looked up hopefully and smiled, his two remaining visible teeth yellowed and twisted. “Come! Follow!” he gestured eagerly and shuffled as he led them along the filthy alley to a vendor who knew him. On seeing visitors, he promptly loaded up flatbreads with meat, chickpeas and fried onions in a piquant sauce. Manu eagerly gestured for his guests to start eating their generous portions. Their guide was temporarily mollified by his free meal.

Throwing caution to the wind, they ate, aware the meat was probably related to the little goat they had seen earlier. A scrap dropped onto the dusty timbers where a scruffy cat dashed out to snatch the morsel. A couple of hard-faced, bearded Europeans stared in curiosity at the unlikely group before they continued about their business. They had the look of mercenaries and may have recently returned from wars of conquest.

Erol spoke quietly to their guest who seemed unable to finish his food. Indeed, he carefully avoided the meat but flicked a portion at a time to the prowling felines. He licked his fingers and, encouraged by the promise of silver, began his tale.