Traveller Probo

Even by Byzantine standards, the hovel where Eirik led them was disgustingly decrepit. McAlister’s wondered how they could prevent a social faux-pas and still avoid terminal illness. But Eirik, as if sensing their hesitation, waved a dismissive hand, “Ohh, this place is all right! The beor here is the best! Seems the shittiest hovels sell the best beor.”

McAlister noted fat rats scamper for cover as the men moved to sit on seats that were little more than sawn off stumps. He nodded in reply.

The proprietor, a balding man with a rim of curly, greasy hair and rotten teeth, smiled as they entered and in so doing looked ghastly. He drew the beor from barrels into bull-horn tankards and then slammed them down to slop the brew onto the rough, plank tables.

The two battered Varangians sat slumped by the partially decayed timbers that made up the wall. There, filthy straw had been shoved aside by passing feet. New straw for the hard-packed dirt floor was but a memory. Asger groaned and rubbed his face wearily, his jaw swollen. They had dragged the men with little ceremony, for the Varangians lacked pity when it came to being bettered in combat, especially when it was due to their comrades’ stupidity. Dag still lolled, unconscious. Erol quietly suggested that the man’s wrist might be broken but they had to concentrate on the task at hand, which was to drink the Varangian beor.

McAlister sipped his cautiously. He had, of course, tasted Saxon beor in his training for Saxon Traveller and again when training for his latest mission. The Turks seemed to enjoy it more than he, which was perhaps not that surprising. The Turks had once introduced the unwitting McAlister to the Turkish delicacy of turnip juice. The fermented brew had almost made him vomit, which caused some hilarity among his fellows.

If they could drink turnip juice, they could easily drink Varangian beor.

Eirik drained his first drink when the others had barely started. He burped and called for another as he chuckled. “Oh, that was funny. You lads certainly showed those fools up,” he exclaimed, wiping away the tears of good humour. “You should have heard them going on like they were Thor himself. ‘We’ll get these fools and rob them blind!’ they said. Like they had any idea!” he laughed and took another massive swig. He paused and thought a moment. “Yet, these lads aren’t as girly as you made them look. They talk shit at times and yes, they do engage in a little bash here and break an arm there to get what they want. But then, who doesn’t?” He looked from one Traveller to the other and McAlister watched him take note of their dress and their watchful attentiveness. The Travellers had only drunk enough to be polite, watchful that the Varangians might lull them into a false sense of security. Yet, as the drinks were rapidly consumed, it seemed violence was not uppermost in their minds.

Eirik did most of the talking. McAlister gathered that he was what might be called an officer of middle rank, like a squad leader, or sergeant in most modern forces. The Varangians on the city walls managed themselves at the lower ranks, so lacked the strict military structure typical to the regular ranks of the Byzantine military. Eirik and the others weren’t of the original invading Viking force that had established the close alliance with the Byzantine Emperor. That was in the days of their grandfathers. While Gunne, one of Eirik’s companions, and their commander, Sten, were descended from original Varangians, the name given by the southerners to the Vikings, most of the other men originated from Rus trader families. “When I first travelled here, our caravan had over twenty merchants. I was just a boy and I was shit scared, believe me,” smiled Eirik and the others laughed along. One of the men slumped by the wall groaned. Eirik looked over and cursed them and shook his head in disgust. As he drank, he became angrier at his fallen men, not because they had chosen to strike from the shadows but, McAlister suspected, because they had failed. To fail meant to that he and the rest of the Varangians were cast in a negative light that Eirik felt made him look foolish.

The beor loosened his tongue. “We were attacked a number of times and one of our number was killed. Warring tribes among the Rus as well as the Slavs and the Turks, like the murderous Pechenegs, you know, thought they would try their luck. We travelled by donkey and raft, monoxyla they call them, little more than hollowed out tree trunks with rough planks either side so we could load our gear. The people of the forest and plains had plenty of chances to attack. Sometimes they did, sometimes they were cowards. My Da taught me how to be ready to fight and die. He taught me a lot. There were men there who lived to fight and I learned a lot from them too. They were crazy, bloodthirsty bastards. It was fucking great!”

“What did you trade?” asked Erol and Eirik grunted as if surprised that anyone was listening. “Oh, the usual stuff, you know, furs, slaves, we had about fifty slaves and we shipped them all safely. Ten were young virgins with white or red hair. So beautiful. My father threatened that if anyone was caught with them, he would dock their share of the silver as well as their balls.” Eirik chuckled to himself. “Ay, my father knew his business. All ten arrived unspoiled and fetched us a pretty price.” He paused to take another swig and realised he had not seen McAlister drink. “Don’t you like our beor?” he asked accusingly.

McAlister quickly shook his head, “No my friend but not everyone can drink like the Varangian guard.”

Eirik laughed loudly and yelled out, “Well, drink up my friends! Drink up! More drinks for all!”

Once they all held new drinks, Erol asked, “When did you decide to stay?”

“Hmmm?” asked the big Viking. “Oh, well that wasn’t my decision was it? After my Da sold his trade goods, he decided to stay with my uncle’s family in the Rus sector near the church of St. Mamas, you know, on the Rus street just outside the walls and by the sea.” Eirik gestured the general direction with his free hand. “My Da was a trader of high rank from Kiev, wasn’t he? So the Emperor paid him an allowance each month and, because we could stay for half of the year, we decided to winter in the great city. Well, boys will be boys and I got into a fight. I was a big lad and was always getting into fights but this time it was with the son of a local Roman. He didn’t like the look of me and I didn’t like the look of him, so it was on! In the end we had broken a few shopping stalls and I broke a few of his bones. Da had a choice; be banished, or for me to join the guard. My Da was so furious he was thinking about killing me anyway, so the choice was easy.”

“Do you see your Da much?” asked McAlister.

Eirik looked suddenly red-eyed and angry. He took another giant swig and slammed the flagon to the table and glared at McAlister, then simply shrugged and called for more. “No, my friend, my Da was drowned on his journey home. It took us forty days to get to the great city, with the rapids and bandits and such. The journey back takes longer. Seems his boat capsized and he was lost.”

McAlister was uncertain what to say, so said nothing. He imagined that Varangians often fought when drunk and was in no mood to fight his newfound friend.

Eirik spoke a moment with his companions. The language was similar to Saxon and McAlister thought he caught a few words but was unsure. There were nods of agreement as he turned back to his guests. “There! All done! On the morrow, before when the sun is halfway to the middle of the day, you lads,” and he pointed a shaky finger, “will come to us at the Golden Gate; the Rus Gate! There, you meet Sten, our leader! He’s not a bad one, is Sten. He’ll cut your balls off as easy as look at you but he’s all right. You’ll see the battlements and see what real men do.”

“C’mon!” Eirik bellowed. “Drink up!”