Traveller Probo

There was a clash of cymbals and the deep, chest-throbbing rumble of drums as the soldiers and their Emperor marched through the streets of their city, the greatest city in the world. Professor Taylor saw pride on every face, the long-awaited victory a confirmation of God’s favour for his people.

The crowd surged, sweaty bodies straining as each craned their neck for a better view. Soldiers marched with spears held over their shoulders, each spear topped with a bright pennant with a red cross on a beige background. The men marched in a step similar to modern military parades and looked battle hardened, despite their smiles. The rhythmic thump of marching feet soon passed to be replaced with the clatter of the cavalry horses, their riders clad in armour that had been polished to dazzle in the morning sunlight.

At the heart of the military pomp rode Emperor Basil in robes of deep purple and gold with scarlet boots and on a beautiful white horse. He held his hand aloft in salute as the people roared their approval. This was a man who could win wars. To most, he was the only Emperor in living memory and the great city, and indeed the entire empire, had grown under his rule. For Emperor Basil the Porhyrogenitis, he who was born in purple, was a soldier. Even to Professor Taylor, his stern visage and haughty expression showed him to be a born ruler driven to be victorious. History recorded how Emperor Basil II faced even greater enemies inside of his own kingdom as the fractious noble families vied for power. The real battles always took place in the shadows. The Emperor never smiled as he passed through the adoring crowds who were held back by soldiers with spears.

The crowd went wild.

The cheering throng made Taylor nervous. Not only was he mindful of pickpockets but after the shocking news from McAlister, the Travellers were particularly watchful. McFee had initially blamed himself. “Jesus, I shouldn’t have let them go!” he exclaimed bitterly. There had been no report until the late afternoon. All thought the enemy patrol would flee before the city guards arrived. There was no expectation of any real conflict.

But, it seemed, Traveller projects never seemed to go to plan.

The rest of the team were devastated. Two of their friends dead! Professor Taylor felt like crying. Not only had two more brave men, men he liked and respected, died but he feared what their news would do to the international opinion on whether the Transporter was safe. The incredible knowledge and images he had sent to the research team in Turkey had been more than even he had hoped, yet was this project worth the deaths of two of his friends?

Poxon stood by Taylor at all times. He no longer joked, his hand casually on his seax as he watched the crowd intently. They had purchased local clothes and even had their hair and beards trimmed to a look like locals. While they doubted any of the crowd would take any interest in the ageing professor, they kept a keen eye should any Varangian Guard come their way.

McFee had received Macalister’s full report over their radio the previous afternoon. Now the emphasis was on McAlister and Erol’s safe return. “Mac believes the Varangian Guard planned the whole thing,” explained McFee. “Command didn’t know who to follow with the drone, so they kept with us. I know they’ll have the footage from the button cams but …” and McFee shrugged. “Mac believes the footage won’t be pretty.”

When it was asked how their friends died, McFee simply shook his head. “Don’t worry about the details as yet Professor. We have to keep sharp and complete our mission.”

They had dined with their host, though it was simple fare compared to the feast of the night before. Leon failed to detect their solemn mood, for he was excited at the prospect of the Emperor’s return. As the food was cleared away, he offered the services of the dancers from the night before but Professor Taylor suggested an early night of rest. Leon laughed at their response but, with a gentle bow, their ever congenial host accepted their wishes.

As soon as he heard of the deaths of Ahmet and Hazan, Osborne Transported to the Area of Convergence and spoke to them all. “Okay, this changes things. I’m going to call this mission and get you out.”

“But Captain, the Emperor has only just arrived,” interjected Professor Taylor. “There’s still so much to see. This is an opportunity we can’t forgo.”

“I dunno Professor,” growled Osborne. “Those Varangians can’t be trusted. Mac and Erol were fortunate to have survived. I’ve only seen a little but, let me tell you, it isn’t stuff you and the other academics will be watching on TV too damned soon.”

“Please, we need to spend just a few more days,” pleaded Professor Taylor. He hated the tone in his voice but to have worked so hard and have their time cut short. “I mourn the loss of these brave men. They were my friends.” His voice thickened as he thought he might cry but he swallowed and his voice shook as he continued. McFee watched him carefully. “Even if we return to Constantinople, which I doubt we ever will, we won’t have such an opportunity again.”

“What d’you think McFee. Think we can pull this off without further incident?” asked Osborne.

“Look Ozzie, the deaths are a disaster but they were engaged in a combat situation which I should have never allowed,” replied McFee. “I should have seen this coming. I blame myself for making a poor decision and allowing them to go on the patrol.”

Osborne only grunted in reply. There was silence for a moment before he spoke up, “It was a tough call, mate. You were torn between maintaining good relations with the Varangians, the opportunity to capture some data on the guard, and the convincing arguments put to you by Mac and the boys. Above all, you have to avoid any conflict, so I don’t think the decision was rash. It was a ’damned if you do and damned if you don’t thing. Who could’ve imagined that the treacherous shits were going to turn like that?”

McFee only added, “Those poor bastards. Hazan and Ahmet were great blokes and soldiers of the highest calibre. I only hope they went cleanly.”

Osborne was silent for a moment. “Mac and Erol sorted it. You’ll have to view the incident when you return. I’ll just leave it at that. To the Turks, I think Mac and Erol will be heroes. Believe me lads, the Varangians won’t be coming back. They got what was coming to them.” There was another pause. “I’ll make the call. Two days! Get your arses out of Dodge by then, because I think the Varangians will begin to smell a rat and start to wonder what happened to their troops.”

“How are you and Erol, Mac?” asked Osborne.

McAlister came on line. “We’re all right at the moment. We won’t approach the city walls because we’ll be identified. We’re supposed to be with their squad, so our appearance without Eirik and the others will look suspicious.”

Erol joined in, “We’re in a grubby little guest inn. The army is on the road, so we had to ride past the main supply column. There’s still a lot of troops around who weren’t in the Emperor’s arrival. It’s confusing and as busy as hell, so we’ve been ignored. Our accommodation is shit.”

McAlister gave a snort, “We’ll make it though. So, two days?”

“Yeah, let’s lock that in for the moment,” confirmed Osborne, “We might have you return sooner. What of your gear? Did you lose your weapons and armour?”

“No,” replied McAlister, “We collected our gear. We ended up wearing some of their armour for the raid. We kept the armour we used and, for the historians, pilfered one of the cleaner outfits from one each of the Scythian and Varangian dead, including weapons and armour. All are wrapped in horse blankets.”

Erol added, “We thought Professor Taylor would be pleased.”

“I am, thanks,” Professor Taylor exclaimed. “I’m just so sorry.”

McAlister only grunted.

Osborne responded, “Good work.”

“We set the ponies free,” added McAlister. “Keeping Varangian ponies tethered outside of the guest house would attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“Definitely,” confirmed Osborne. “Mac and Erol, just lay low for now. McFee, let’s confirm a move out early on the day after next. We have to make sure this goes flawlessly. There are two drones out today but only today. Tomorrow, the drone will be locked onto your position, so if you need anything, just yell.”

***

The parade continued and Professor Taylor looked to Poxon and Talon who scanned the crowd. A palpable change alerted them that something new was happening on the road. The mood had shifted to an angry buzz.

A line of exhausted, ragged men struggled along the road previously trodden by the conquering army. Their weary shuffle was highlighted by the rattle and clink of chains that linked them via collars around their necks and another that linked their right ankles, forcing them to walk in step. They wore remnants of uniform, all too similar to that of the Byzantine army, and their unkempt beards and haunted faces showed they had not been cared for.

One of the crowd screamed, “Bulgars! Go to the hell you deserve!” and threw a large pebble that struck one of the struggling men in the forehead. The blow drove him to his knees. This caused the mass to falter and stop. As his fellows strained to raise the fallen man, one of the Byzantine guards turned angrily, “Oi! Cock-sucker! No stones! We don’t want them hurt yet!”

More missiles flew. Rotten vegetables bounced off the prisoners’ unprotected heads. They ducked and dodged as best they could. More than one scooped to pick up some of the thrown rotten food and shove it into their mouths. There looked to be around a thousand, wretched men in what seemed to be in an almost endless procession.

It was the smell that drove Professor Taylor from the crowd. The prisoners reeked of sweat and filth. He doubted they had been given time to relieve themselves, so there was a stench of old excrement. Many had no shoes and their feet were raw, though some had managed to retain the boots or sandals in which they would have fought. It was too much to bear. The academic had never seen such misery, so he fled into the alleys and found solace at a wine-seller. There he sat tearfully with Poxon and Talon as the others extricated themselves from the festivities. As most of the crowd clustered near the main thoroughfare, the alley remained relatively quiet.

“Oh those poor men,” exclaimed Professor Taylor after a sip of a vintage that tasted akin to vinegar. The liquid made him shudder but it had the desired effect. “They were Bulgars. Those poor, poor men. Did you see them? They would have marched all the way from Bulgaria.”

“As a demonstration perhaps,” offered Poxon, “to show the citizens that these Bulgarians are no longer to be feared.”

Professor Taylor sighed and nodded sadly as he wiped his nose.

“They looked all done in,” added Parker. “Those lads had been walking for quite some time. Most had shoes but some of the poor bastards had feet that were red raw.”

The academic sighed and struggled to get his emotions under control. Since the deaths of the two Travellers at the village he found himself to be particularly fragile. “Well, let’s think a moment,” he suggested after another sip and a shuddered breath that was close to a sob. “You’ll remember this but I’ll summarise it for you. The Emperor was engaged in a war with the Bulgars for about twenty years. That is for most of his life. Finally, in the middle of a major battle at Kleidion, a valley in the Belasitsa Mountains, the Bulgars were attacked from the rear by a force under the Byzantine general Nikephoros Xiphias. The ensuing battle was a major defeat for the Bulgarians. It’s rumoured that about 15,000 Bulgars were killed. Now it may be propaganda but a lot more is reputed to have happened.”

“The blinding of the Bulgar prisoners,” murmured Talon.

“Exactly,” nodded Professor Taylor. “Byzantine soldiers were reputed to have captured 15,000 prisoners and blinded 99 of every hundred men, leaving a one-eyed man to lead each hundred back to their ruler, all by order of Basil. The Bulgar King, Samuel, survived the battle but died two months later from a stroke or heart attack, reportedly brought on by the sight of his blinded soldiers. Hence Basil’s nickname of Boulgaroktonos, the Bulgar-slayer.”

“Jesus,” muttered Poxon. “It’s one thing to read about it in mouldy old books, and quite another to see the poor bastards.”

“Maybe it won’t happen,” suggested McFee. “The numbers might be exaggerated, as might the punishment. Besides, there’s nothing we can do about it. We just observe and report as ordered.” He looked to Professor Taylor with a frown of concern.

The academic simply nodded, at a loss as to what to say.