Traveller Probo

Seagulls gave their mournful cries as slaves grunted as they lifted their heavy loads. A couple of fishermen joked and their guide laughed out loud as he won a cast of the dice, to the groans from his fellow players. But, to McAlister, the world had changed ever so slightly.

Maybe he was just getting too old for the job, or just getting soft. Once nothing bothered him. Nothing penetrated his professional armour of cool calculation and violent response. He had seen suffering in Somalia, Afghanistan, Iraq, and the Ivory Coast but for some reason, Manu’s tale struck a chord. He wasn’t certain as to where the old man was from but that wasn’t important. It was Manu’s mute acceptance of the trials of life that had McAlister momentarily touched with a rare compassion.

Quite by accident, they had now established a tenuous link between ancient Byzantium and the empires of southern Asia. Though McAlister had become interested in seeking (and finding) new knowledge, he knew the researchers would be particularly pleased with their interview with the old monk. Though Professor Taylor would probably suggest some line of inquiry they hadn’t thought of.

McAlister and Erol watched the skinny monk totter off and, for not the first time, he wondered what it would be like to actually save someone from their arduous life. How would someone who lived such a hard life respond to modern comforts? What if they had rescued the young girls and brought them home? He shook his head. It was a fancy. To take the old monk back with them, give him medical attention and a good feed might make McAlister and the rest of the lads feel better but then what? Even Tatae hadn’t been able to adjust to the 21st Century. What could you do with a bandy-legged old monk whose civilisation, language and entire culture had disappeared? Hand him over to the Dalai Lama?

Once they collected their guide, he was eager to have them move on, so they walked into the filthy alleys to make their way to Leon’s tanning enclave. Erol spoke quietly as he looked about. “This is an interesting way to get back. We all best keep alert.” There were grunts of assent. A skinny woman, barely a bag of bones, tottered past and begged for alms but before the Travellers could respond, their guide angrily shooed her away. They had wandered into a poorer part of the city where only the most destitute took refuge. Ragged timber shacks teetered where the odd mangy cat skulked and scabby, naked children ran and played. McAlister was unhappy with their surroundings and turned to advise their guide to move them to more populous thoroughfares when a big hand reached out and grasped the front of his tunic.

There was no time to think. In a move he had practiced more than a thousand times, McAlister flattened the offending hand against his chest to break the grip and then twisted the wrist against its natural articulation. As the owner of the hand grunted in surprise and automatically bent to relieve pressure, McAlister sharply kicked the attacker in the jaw. He simply dropped to the ground, unconscious.

He heard a scuffle and spun to a new threat as Erol dealt with another assailant. This attacker had a knife, which was soon sent flying as the Turk struck the knife hand and then landed a resounding blow to the assailant’s heavy, bristled jaw. It was only when the knife-wielder fell did McAlister recognise the ferret-faced Varangian guard from their entry to Constantinople the day before. Was it only yesterday? His own assailant had been the burly guard who had spat at his feet. And now they were down. It was over in less than a second thanks to a basic self-defence drill the Travellers had practiced so often it had become second nature.

They ignored the unconscious men as they turned to confront others who stood in the alley. Four big Varangians, descendants of Vikings, stood open mouthed at the sight of their companions’ bodies in the filthy street. The men were tough and had a reputation for ruthlessness in combat, a skill the Byzantine emperor himself harnessed by marrying his own sister to their king. They would be known to history as the elite Varangian Guard.

Their wiry guide squeaked in panic and ran. Silver coins be damned.

The largest of the Guards stared at his unconscious companions in wide-eyed surprise and then he looked to the Travellers, who were ready to fight. Before anyone could react, he burst into a gale of loud laughter.

The big man laughed heartily, as if has fit to burst and wiped streaming eyes with big, calloused hands. “Oh, this is too much,” he stuttered, “Asger and Dag here, Wodin’s own, were to treat these fools a lesson and rob them blind and now, look at them, face down in alley shit.” He laughed again, his eyes and nose streaming.

Another big man joined in the laughter but one of the others complained, “In Wodin’s name, Eirik, what are you doing? These felled Asger and Dag, and you laugh?”

Eirik paused in his belly-chuckles and wiped his nose to rub a string of snot into his bushy, moustache. “Aye, the fools were insulted by a man who was brave. You and Asger forget what that’s like sometimes Holger. Look at them, ready to fight us all! Oh, this is such a good one! What a tale! Wait till Sten hears about this! Felled like a woman when we, the great Varangian Guard, were to strike from the shadows like cowardly shits!”

Another of the guards spoke up in horror, “But you can’t tell of this. These lads have been hurt enough and will be docked pay for fighting, surely?”

Eirik rounded on his fellow and looked incredulous. “What the fuck are you talking about Gunne? These fools are lucky to be alive. Look at them! Felled like children. Idiots!” he scoffed and spat on the bulkier Asger who moaned softly as he feebly moved his arm. The side of his face was caked in shit and mud. His fellow, the slimmer Dag, was still unconscious. McAlister glanced to Erol who shrugged. Any who attacked with a knife was to be treated with the utmost violence, even killed. Dag, lying in the shit with his friend, was lucky to be alive.

The big man looked at McAlister and stuck out his hand in welcome to clasp arms. “Well done stranger! That was some nice work! If you can work a sword or spear like that, we would welcome you into the guard. That Asger can be a bit of a cunt at times but he’s our mate, so we had to help him but that was the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.” He smiled again and wiped his blonde beard. “I’m Eirik, corporal of the Golden Gate and this is Gunne and Holger. That stupid shit,” he said, pointing to the bigger of the unconscious men, “is Asger, and the ferret-faced piece of dog-shit is Dag.” He looked at the unconscious man still on his face on the road. “Oh Gods, will Asger be a pain in the arse when he wakes. He’ll have all sorts of excuses. But you laid him out, good and proper.” He chuckled again, “and Dag, well, he got what he deserved. Oh, it was so beautiful!” He turned to his companions, “C’mon lads, let’s get these hairy arses to a tavern before one of you decides to fuck them.” He looked to McAlister. “And you must join us for a few drinks. Anyone who can fight like that must have a tale or two to share over a flagon.”

Without any real choice, McAlister accepted.