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Anno Domini 825, December 17
"Damn… what the hell is wrong with the air? The stench is unbearable," I said, covering my nose as the mixture of smells from the harbor hit me.
"Yes, the city smells awful," said one of the captains as he disembarked, apparently unbothered—unlike the rest of us and the sailors, who were just like me, covering our noses.
"Rotten fish… rotting vegetables, shit in the streets… this is Constantinople," I said, still holding my nose.
"This is the Harbor of Theodosius. It's where all the fishermen dock. The harbors that smell better are those of Kontoskalion, but those are for important people—military officers or members of the emperor's service—because they're closer to the state buildings," the captain explained as he stepped off the ship.
"Well, I don't know why I didn't expect it… Stephanos did tell me what things were like here… I just didn't think it would be this—" I began, stepping down from the ship as several of my men followed, unloading crates.
"Stop in the name of the Basileus!" shouted some guards as they began to approach.
I immediately went on alert, mainly because of how incredibly well armed they were. They carried equipment you'd expect to see on a cataphract—only on foot—which meant they were clearly members of a tagma under direct imperial command.
"How may I help you, loyal servants of our Basileus?" I asked with a smile, meeting their gaze.
"Under what authority do you bear arms and armor?" one of the guards asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, while his companion was more cautious and drew his blade immediately.
"I have authorization under an imperial mandate. I would never be foolish enough to disembark armed in the capital of the Empire without permission," I replied calmly.
"Show it," said the second guard, pointing his sword at me.
"Of course… I'll go back onto the ship and bring the document," I said, gesturing with my thumb toward the vessel and slowly stepping back.
I saw more guards arriving and quickly went to retrieve the papers.
"And here I thought I was paranoid for carrying it with me," I muttered as I pulled out all the important documents I had stored away—my mercenary authorization and the ownership papers for the ships.
When I stepped out of my cabin, nearly two dozen guards from some tagma were already waiting. I had arrived with almost a hundred armed men equipped with steel weapons, brigandines, swords, and crossbows for protection during the voyage, and that had clearly raised alarms.
"Here it is," I said, descending the gangplank and presenting the parchment the strategos had given me.
The two original guards exchanged looks. One of them left toward a nearby building and returned shortly after with an officer.
"All right, you pack of idiots! Why are you all standing around staring? Back to your posts!" the officer shouted as he approached. "These must be the ones," he added, looking at me.
"Yes, here is my permit," I said, handing him the parchment.
"Let's see… by authority of the autokrator… I, Leon Skleros… authorize… service to the army of the Theme of Macedonia," the officer read, somewhat haltingly.
"All right, that explains why you're armed. But what are you doing here? Constantinople isn't part of the Theme of Macedonia, mercenary," he said, eyeing me suspiciously.
"Ah… the strategos recently ordered me to support the maritime defenses of the city of Ainos. I purchased these three ships you see here to assist with that task. I also asked about acquiring a dromōn, but I was told that could only be done here," I replied calmly, as the guards relaxed and returned to their positions.
"I see… still, carry that document with you everywhere. You'll draw attention otherwise. There was a riot at the Hippodrome not long ago, so the guards are on edge around anyone carrying weapons," the officer said, now more at ease.
"Thank you. One question, if I may," I said, stopping him before he left.
"Go ahead," the officer replied.
"In addition to checking the price of a dromōn at the Constantinople shipyards, we also intend to sell some military equipment," I said, signaling one of my men to bring over a crate.
"If you want to sell leftovers from campaigns, you might try your luck with the smiths—see if they can reforge them," the officer said as I unlocked the crate.
"I understand the theory. Before I was a mercenary, I was a blacksmith," I said, taking out one of the many steel swords I carried.
"A mercenary blacksmith… unusual," the officer said, studying the blade.
"There's not much difference between striking a piece of iron and smashing a Bulgarian's skull. Between the noise of the forge and the scream of pain, it's all the same," I replied, handing him the sword.
The officer snorted and examined it more closely.
"Steel, from the look of it… and you have many," he said, tilting his head toward the crate. "Go to the Strategion. That's where you'll find the city's merchants who deal in this sort of thing. I doubt anyone will buy a steel sword off the street."
"Thank you for the information," I said, opening another compartment. "Please accept this as a gift from me—my own idea for a new type of lamellar armor," I added, handing him a brigandine.
"Oh… interesting. I hope it fits. The iron plates are on the inside, I assume… yes, I can feel them," the officer said, inspecting it.
"Steel. The plates are inside, riveted and joined together. Much more durable than lamellar tied with cords or threads," I explained.
"Steel… in armor? That.... must be expensive..... Thank you. Have a good day," the officer said, heading back toward the building.
"That's it… wear it and let everyone see it," I murmured, watching as he tried to stash it away as quickly as possible. The armor alone was probably worth several times his salary.
Honestly, if I lost gold on this first sale, that was fine. No one knew this armor design yet, so suspicion was natural. Giving them away so people would wear them and start recognizing them as acceptable equipment was worth it. And once I opened a shop here to repair armor—because sooner or later someone would damage it doing something foolish—I'd have another steady source of income.
Without wasting any more time, I headed toward the place the officer had indicated—a market for the city's wealthy. Silks and dyed fabrics were on display, along with spices, wines, and oils, and the flow of money was obvious in every movement of the crowd.
The place was packed with merchants and locals to the point where it was hard to see how I was supposed to sell my goods. I had planned to buy a shop, but that idea was quickly crushed when I found a few properties for sale nearby—the price was absurd, around 1,500 gold coins for a small building.
Every rentable shop was already taken, so leasing was not an option either, and buying one would have destroyed my budget.
I was having serious trouble finding buyers. Some guards stopped to look at the swords and even received one of my armors as a gift, but they didn't buy anything. The lack of trust was obvious—if they were going to spend that many gold coins, they preferred to go to smiths who were already well known in the city.
Even after speaking with imperial officers and gifting ten armors to the Emperor and his guard, it was clear that it would still take a long time before anyone truly took me into consideration.
In a couple of hours I had sold fewer than ten swords. In Adrianople that would have been a great day, but here, with more than four hundred swords, I had sold almost nothing—barely seventy gold coins, and on top of that I had lost value by giving away armor. The trip was starting to look like a commercial failure.
I needed to gather more funds before daring to return to the capital again. My market was the very rich, and they required connections. I would probably have to go back to Adrianople and sell everything there.
Unwilling to return empty-handed, I began visiting nearby markets, looking for opportunities and calculating what might be profitable to buy. I picked up some spices to improve our food—pepper, in particular, which was quite expensive.
I found many foreign quarters along the Golden Horn, where people from other lands sold their goods: a Scythian sector selling fermented mare's milk, furs, and saddles; a Bulgarian sector trading animal hides and beeswax; a quarter of Greeks from Italy; and a Syrian sector from cities that still had Byzantine influence.
Here, the truly cosmopolitan nature of the city was impossible to miss. As I moved through one of the foreign markets, weaving between stalls, something caught my attention.
"Roman… Roman… unicorn horn… medicine," said a very tall merchant, speaking terrible Greek, while showing me a horn.
I stared at him. "How stupid do you think I am? That is clearly a narwhal tusk," I said, raising an eyebrow.
The merchant smiled and rubbed his nose. "Amber… jewel…" he said, showing me a piece of amber.
"Varangoi?" I asked.
The merchant nodded.
"Ah… a Viking merchant," I said, resting my hands on my belt.
"Furs," he said, showing me fox and wolf pelts.
I looked at him closely. It was obvious he had already cheated several wealthy people in the city with those 'horns', because he was dressed very well.
"Give me a moment, Varangoi," I said, approaching one of the officials nearby. He was stationed at a kind of control booth where people asked questions or paid taxes. "Is there any problem if I trade with the Varangian?" I asked him.
"What are you selling?" the official asked.
"Swords and armor, if he's interested," I replied.
"Do you have production authorization?" the official asked.
"Yes," I answered. "I'm a blacksmith with permission from the strategos of Macedonia," I added curtly.
"Well, the Varangians are neutral, and the Ecloga only mentions enemies, so… it's fine as long as you pay the tax," the official said.
"Thank you," I replied, turning back to the Varangian. While I was speaking, he had already swindled some wealthy man, because a large chest of coins had been handed over in exchange for the horn. He was counting them with a wide grin.
"Varangoi," I said, getting his attention. One of my men stepped down from the cart and brought over a crate. I showed him the swords and handed one to him.
His hands—hard as leather—closed around the hilt like a vise, and he began examining it closely.
There was a good chance the Viking knew how to use a sword as an extension of his body, which made him a potentially excellent buyer.
Without warning, the Varangian began swinging the sword and struck it several times against one of the bricks of his stall. Sparks flew as everyone watched his reaction.
After hitting it hard, he used the blade to cut through one of his fox pelts. Even though the edge had been struck and dulled, it still sliced the fur cleanly. He inspected the blade, saw that it hadn't suffered much damage, and grimaced in approval, showing me coins and pointing at my swords.
I reached into his chest, pulled out a stack of ten gold coins, and held it up next to the sword.
The Varangian looked at it and nodded, removing one coin from the stack.
I stared at him and pointed to the entire crate. He nodded again.
It was hard to know if we were thinking the same thing—we didn't share a language. His Greek was poor, and I didn't speak his Norse tongue.
More Varangians gathered around. They brought over chests from the merchant, and the payments began—nine gold coins per sword. Each time we handed one over, they gave us the coins. In the end, they took every last sword, earning me over 3,500 gold coins.
Then I brought out the remaining armor. With a dagger, I cut open the fabric and showed him what was inside—the riveted plates. I tapped the steel of the sword and then the steel plates so he would understand it was the same material.
The Varangian hesitated and checked how much money remained in his chests. It was clear he had been scamming people for a long time—he had several chests full of coins.
He nodded and placed coins in front of me. I stacked fifteen piles of ten coins each to indicate the price of a brigandine.
I watched him think it over for a long time. He removed three of the piles. I added five more coins back. Finally, he nodded, buying the last ten brigandines I had left.
I felt a weight lift from my chest when I realized I had sold everything—without saying a single word. Only gestures and mutual understanding.
I paid about a hundred gold coins in taxes on the earnings and began heading back to the harbor.
The Varangian would almost certainly resell everything at a much higher price to his kin—but I now had nearly five thousand gold coins. And now, I would see if I could buy a Byzantine dromōn.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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