Traveller Manifesto
25. Constantinople - 11th Century

Constantinople – 11th Century.

Professor Taylor gazed up at the enormous dome of the great basilica of Hagia Sophia, meaning ‘Holy Wisdom’ and his heart felt like it would break at the beauty of it. Above him, the unseen UAV monitored his progress. After 25 wonderful days as guests of the great Emperor, they were ready to leave.

Never a Church-goer, the academic found the special service, celebrating one saint or another, to be particularly monotonous, but he knew he would never again experience anything of its like. They had not been prepared to see the original UAV, their eyes in the sky downed by a territorial eagle, to be placed lovingly on a beautifully carved plinth in a place of honour. Identical in shape to the cross favoured by the Byzantine Empire, the fall of the device was seen as auspicious, a sign of approval from God himself. As the high and lowly of the great City filed past, tears of wonder were shed at the sign of God’s favour for his people. It took Professor Taylor all of his effort not to laugh out loud at the spectacle.

During the worship, the glittering pomp and pageantry had been impressive, but the most outstanding and enjoyable part of the service was the unique Byzantine religious chant, a mixture of heavy drone, the ison, sustained by the melodic choral note. In the wondrous basilica, where beams of light reflected off ornate paintings of angels and friezes of Biblical scenes, the coloured marble shone like a field of flowers. The overall impression was of heaven on earth, both eternal and sublime. Choral harmonies shimmered and rang in an experience that was as beautiful as it was emotional.

For the residents of ancient Constantinople, the Hagia Sofia was a place of ethereal wonder, where the joys of the afterlife could be contemplated, for the structure was a mirror of heaven in a wondrous city designed to be an expression of moral virtue. Compared to other European cities of the age, Constantinople shone like a beacon and stood between heaven and earth. Eudaemon, the Chief Librarian of Royal Library, had explained. “Yes, Lord Taylor, the City is different from the rest of the peoples in God’s grand creation. We are the chosen. Blessed! The Emperor sits on a throne as Christ’s representative on earth and is sanctified by God. For wasn’t Jesus of Nazareth, Christ our Saviour, brought into the world during the reign of Caesar Augustus, the very first Roman Emperor? Clearly the Emperors are to rule over men as Jesus Christ ruled over the Church?”

“So, Emperors are Godly men?” clarified Professor Taylor. He knew the history of the Byzantine Empire was littered by rulers, including women, who were anything but godly.

“Yes! Our Emperor is a Godly man,” agreed Eudaemon. “But for a man to become an Emperor, as Christ is the leader of his kingdom on Earth, there are ceremonies that must be observed.”

“Always?’ asked the academic.

“Yes! Always and for every occasion. To demonstrate Imperial power, the power of God’s people under the rule of the Emperor, is to be righteously exercised in harmony and order,” continued the librarian. “The Empire, and the Great City, can thus reflect the motion of the Universe as it was made by the Creator.”

While at service, the Emperor wore the garb fitting for his exalted office. Clad in his imperial robes of purple; a maroon so dark it was almost black, the garments shimmered in the glittering light of the sacred domain. Head held high, he was one divinely chosen, an intercession between the common folk and God himself. Around his neck he wore the loros, the long, narrow winding scarf of office embroidered with gold and gems. With the distinctive purple/red leather boots, the Emperor looked every inch as one divinely sanctified.

Following the services the resplendent elite gathered and fluttered like birds. Gold thread and jewels shone. Yet there was a perpetual undercurrent of intrigue, of whispers and friendly greetings that were far from genuine. Even there, foreign embassies awaited. Members of the Venetian delegation hovered, intent on receiving the Empire’s favour and protection. There was an irony in it, for the time would come when the Venetians would hasten the end of the Christian Empire on behalf of the Church of Rome. They would prefer Christian territories to be overrun by the heathen Muslim hordes than have contentious Constantinople remain a Christian power in the East.

But the ruler of the greatest Empire in Christendom seemed to be more interested in chatting with McFee.

Because of the pressures of office, the Emperor was delayed and McFee managed to extricate himself. He had become friends with one of the senior officers tied to General Nikephorus Xiphias who was credited to have been the real victor over the Bulgars. They stood a while in friendly discussion. The officer had an almost insatiable appetite for military strategy and process and seemed intrigued by McFee’s observations on the nature of war. Like many modern military officers, McFee was familiar with the classic Chinese military treatise, ‘The Art of War’ attributed to ancient military strategist Sun Tzu. Naturally, such discussions of strategy were, to many of the Roman Byzantine military, innovative and thought provoking. Professor Taylor waited and watched the worshippers in their ornate attire. Colours flashed in the sunlight and he now understood the impact that their brightly coloured modern ribbon would have on the fashions of this people.

The ribbon, of course, would never be traded.

McFee nodded in parting and made his way to the academic. “Let’s go!” exclaimed the Scotsman in modern English. “Sometimes it’s grand to chat about simple issues, like military strategy, but I don’t like being anywhere near that two-faced mob o’ shits.”

“Problems again?” asked Professor Taylor. He looked back at the gathered pack of noble families who always seemed to jostle for power and attention. McFee was the target of scathing looks from some. As a newcomer and the Emperor’s obvious favourite, he was becoming noticed. The Emperor, never a lover of the ballet of Court life, had been overly distracted by his new pet. It was beginning to upset the status quo.

“Oh, no more than usual,” responded the soldier. “General Philip was just discussing my suggestion that they devise a few squads of elite soldiers to engage in clandestine operations. He wasn’t sure about the ethics of such a strategy.”

“Don’t they engage such troops for that type of action anyway?” Taylor asked. Despite his time training with the soldiers, he still felt ignorant of the details of most military strategy.

“Oh, aye they have such troops, but they tend not to be so well trained and more of an auxiliary troop that leave the glory of true warfare to officers from the wealthier families who can afford the right armour and weapons. I suggested that teams of well-trained assassins would save their military losses, both in men and in battles.”

“What was his response?” asked Professor Taylor.

“He’s being challenged by the idea, but is coming around. It seems the officers are more interested in glory and the wealth that comes with it,” continued McFee. He paused to glance at a couple of beautiful, wealthy women who were dressed in clothes that were simply elegant. They saw McFee’s interest and chastely turned away as they giggled and covered their faces with a gauzy veil. McFee looked wistful as he sighed and shook his head. They strolled along the Mese to the Royal Palace, opting for the more public approach. Members of the public, common people clad in their simple clothes, watched curiously. A few appeared openly envious.

“When do we leave?” asked the academic suddenly. He felt distressed that his time here was to end, that they must leave this wonderful City and head back to their home in the 21st Century. And not too soon. Technically, homosexuality was not socially acceptable. The old laws of Emperor Justinian, the Corpus Juris Civilis, considered homosexuality as seriously as blasphemy but, from what Professor Taylor had seen, only blasphemy was rigorously monitored and despised. McFee looked harried and was plainly in a hurry to leave, afraid that the Emperor’s advances might become too difficult to fend off without causing offence. The soldier walked a very thin line and it was becoming ever more difficult for them to avoid a disaster. He looked to the older man and gave a grim smile as he replied. “Soon. I’m awaiting our confirmation.”

As they approached the Chalke Gate, the main ceremonial entrance to the Great Palace, Professor Taylor gazed in wonder at the column of magnificent bronze statues that led to the actual entrance, a gaudily decorated edifice where the highly polished bronze shone in the sunlight. Even though it was the Sabbath, slaves stooped to carefully buff every surface.

“Oh I’ll miss this,” the academic murmured.

McFee grunted and looked about him. He was once again all business, keeping an eye for the older man’s safety. The academic had a sudden surge of fondness for the soldier. McFee, with his copper-red hair shining in the sunlight, was an attractive man. No wonder he had caught the Emperor’s eye. What a conundrum.

“Can I ask you something, McFee?” he asked hesitantly.

“Sure, as long as it’s not about the Emperor grabbin’ my ass,” the Scot replied. This whole situation badly stung him.

“I’ve never asked, so excuse me if I finally ask of you.” There was a narrowing of the eyes as the soldier glanced at him, prepared for any jibe or of taking the piss he well expected from the others. Professor Taylor gave a smile and gently shook his head, “No. Nothing like that. I have always wanted to ask you what it was like, in the Battle of Giolgrave. I’ve spoken at length with each of you but never really spoke about your combat with the Viking. Man to man! Dear God!”

McFee sighed at the turn of the conversation and said, “Well, you surprised me there.”

“I know you don’t like to talk about it,” he added gently.

“No.” The Scottish SAS officer, clad in the splendid regalia of the Royal Emperor’s special guard, looked at the great gate before them and suddenly looked nervous and out of place. Again, Professor Taylor was struck with the audacity of the Traveller Projects, at how their mere presence in these utterly unknown locations must tempt fate. To stroll boldly back into the dim past to simply research the peoples of the time never seemed to be as easy as they originally hoped. Many men had died, and he thought again of Ahmet and Hazan, his good-natured, Turkish brothers-in-arms who had been murdered by the Varangian Guard for little more than brutal entertainment.

McAlister and Erol had taken care of them. Though his academic curiosity yearned to know more, he understood the consequences were bloody.

Even now, the Americans were engaged in a Traveller Mission of their own. The Professor had barely thought of their heroic incursion into the past of the Mississippi delta, to old Cahokia. Dear God. He hoped they would be safe.

Meanwhile, the glory of the Byzantine Empire pulsed around them. The people were real, the walls solid, yet they seemed like shadows of the past. Should they really be here?

McFee sighed. “Have you ever killed a man?” the Scot suddenly asked as he looked to the academic sharply, as if probing Professor Taylor’s soul.

“Umm, no. No, of course not!” the older man replied, taken aback.

“Well I have,” McFee continued. “I have on quite a few occasions. That’s my job sometimes, but it’s not part of the job I like that much. Most of us, well we just push it down and away. Some of the lads in the regiment, well they begin to like it, you know? I’ve been a lot of places, fighting for Queen and Country. Especially in the Middle East, you know, Afghanistan, Syria and the like. If someone pisses them off, they just put a couple of rounds into their chest and one in the head. It might shut up some fucker who might be crying or acting a little bolshy, or maybe struggling. After all, it was their country. It didn’t take me too long to realise we were the fucking terrorists. All those poor local bastards wanted was to protect their wife and kids.”

Taken aback by the turn of the conversation, Professor Taylor didn’t know what to say. All too quickly, the good looking redhead’s face had turned downcast, as if taking on the weight of the world. “The lads in the Traveller Project, Saxon Traveller, well we all thought it was some kind of stupid jaunt. We all get dragged into them, on occasion. None of us really thought it would happen. We trained hard, because it was a competition between us. We always do that. It was that way, you know, with the hiking, with the swords and wrestling and such. Even with that Korean bird, what was her name? Mae? That’s it. Haven’t thought of her. I had a girlfriend, but that didn’t stop me trying.” He smiled at the memory.

“When we were taken back, into Saxon England, the whole fucking thing got real, even though it was unreal. It was like a dream at first. Then we were ready for battle. I’m surprised any of us survived. When it came time to fight that Viking git, what was his name?” McFee shook his head and shrugged. “I honestly can’t remember. I can barely remember the fight at all. It only took moments. It’s like that sometimes. You just do what you’re trained to do, run through what you’ve been training at for months, sometimes even years.”

He looked to the pavers. He wore high boots, the style Emperor Basil liked. “The Viking was dead before I knew it. The thing I think we all don’t realise, is how easy it is to kill a man … or women. Or even a kid. Most of the time, in the modern military, especially in the SAS, we don’t normally kill hand to hand. Oh, I know. We train with the bayonet or crossbow, even a fucking garrotte at times, but fighting hand to hand is something we don’t normally get to do. Not like we did at Giolgrave.”

He looked to the Professor with a small, bitter smile. “I’m not a fucking murderer. I know a lot of the lads are. Some push it down, like I do. Push down that surge of pain, that part of your soul that dies when you take a life, especially an apparently innocent one. McAlister, he’s a fucking killer, that’s for sure. So’s Hurley. Hunter? Ummm, not sure, and maybe not so much Parker and Poxon. They do it and do it well. Like I do. But some of us hide it. We do it, but hide what it does to us.”

Professor Taylor blinked at the rare admission of humanity and emotion. His Special Forces protectors had always seemed hard and professional when the need arose, but surprisingly human and, like Poxon, even taking on the role of jesters when the mood took them. He knew the jokes were part of their way, but never imagined how hard it must be on them individually.

“Thank you Cameron. I most appreciate your candour. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

McFee suddenly brightened and slapped the Professor a friendly blow to his shoulder. “Remember how part of the selection process for these missions was that we were all single men? That was what made the Mae thing so interesting. And also Hurley taking up with Murdoch. Wasn’t that a fucking lark? Oh my God, when we heard that,” he exclaimed with a belly laugh. “I had my lady love, my bonnie wee Claire. She’s up in Inverness. We now have a house and were married before the Byzantine mission really took off. With the fame to which I was subjected after the combat with the poor Viking, we decided to get to living before something happened to me.” He looked to Professor Taylor with a sparkle in his eye, his dour mood forgotten. “At least the poor sod was good for something. His death got me my home and my lovely wife. She’s the one who carries me through this. She’s the one I’m hoping to get back to soon.”

“How does she feel about this mission, about you being here,” Professor Taylor asked impetuously. But his answer was not to be received. McFee simply gestured into the busy thoroughfare. “Looks like we have guests.”

Professor Taylor identified the features of the guards for the Roman delegation. On sighting the Travellers, they tossed their heads in recognition and, thumbs tucked firmly into leather belts, strolled toward them with a swagger. The academic looked back at their own minder, a bored Varangian guard who had been tasked to escort them back to the Palace.

“What?” he asked. His hand rested easily on his sword. He was a blonde lad who looked like a bored thug.

“Just to advise that we will speak with these men,” replied the Professor.

The Varangian merely shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he replied and stood and watched the soldiers who approached. They looked to the Varangian and their fingers flexed as if yearning for the feel of a sword hilt. The lead soldier was the one with astonishing body odour, a malady that had not diminished in the weeks since they had last spoken in the reception area prior to their audience with the Emperor. How much had changed in only a few weeks.

“Someone wants to speak with you,” grumbled the soldier in heavily accented Latin.

“Who?” asked McFee. He looked not to trust the Roman, who glared up at him in irritation, as if his requests were never questioned.

“A friend,” the soldier reiterated sharply. He looked to Professor Taylor as he jerked his head. “Follow,” was all he said and, with his companion, strolled to a cluster of markets that lay past the Baths of Zeuxippos in the opposite corner of the great, ceremonial plaza from the Hagia Sofia and the Hippodrome. Crowds of worshippers milled. Many purchased flatbreads by which they broke their fast after the service. In moments the Travellers spied the robes of a monk of the Roman delegation, recognising the face of the ever diplomatic Brother Bartolomaeus.

“Greetings Brothers!” exclaimed the monk happily. “I invite you to join me for refreshments.” He gestured to the tiny table from where he had just arisen. “Please!”

The innkeeper, seeing the opulent robes worn by Professor Taylor and recognising McFee’s dress of a senior military officer bobbed his head in greeting and barked out an order to lads who looked to be his sons. Soon wine was poured into goblets as the smell of frying lamb livers engulfed them.

“Hungry?” asked McFee, to the Varangian. The blonde head nodded and there was a downturned grimace. “Always,” was his gruff reply.

Food was promptly produced, with large flatbreads wrapped around a piquant filling of lamb’s fry, eggplant, olives and onions doused with a delicious sauce that was popular to the stall holders. The tasty meal was handed to each of their guards. Without even nodding a thanks, the Varangian tucked in, as if famished.

It was with some satisfaction that Professor Taylor had, some days earlier, managed to document the recipe of the sauce, which was certain to be popular in the 21st Century.

Brother Bartolomaeus seemed less than interested in food. “I have been instructed by the Holy Bishop Leto to meet. Forgive me, you have been difficult to access. But I had faith and my prayers have been answered,” he explained with a relieved smile.

“It is our pleasure to see you, good Brother,” replied Professor Taylor.

The Catholic monk bobbed his head in obvious relief. The academic suspected that Brother Bartolomaeus had been so engaged in his efforts to meet since their first encounter. “My time is short, for the Emperor will know of our meeting and I must make haste. I bring you the greetings of Holy Bishop Leto, one who is truly called of God,” murmured the monk nervously. He looked about him, as if fearing that he might be challenged, even detained.

“To what do we owe the honour?” asked Professor Taylor.

Brother Bartolomaeus frowned, as if not understanding the phrase, then after mentally interpreting the rough Latin nodded and continued. “Our Holy Bishop invites a delegation of your people, the people of good Aengland, to Papa Benedict in the holy city of Rome. He is most desirous to have the full glory of the Gospel spread to your brothers and sisters.”

Professor Taylor frowned, but nodded in acceptance. By meeting, he knew they risked being involved into the clandestine power struggle between the two acrimonious arms of Christianity. That would indeed become a hazardous state of affairs.

Yes, it was time to leave.

“That is a most wondrous invitation, Brother,” he replied enthusiastically. “This we will consider and organise as soon as we see fit to leave the hospitality of the Emperor. We will have a delegation of our Brothers visit your fair city.”

The monk nodded and looked shifty as he gazed out at the courtyard. Across from them, the basilica of Hagia Sofia stood in glory, the golden cross on its magnificent domed roof shining in the sun. The Chalke Gate shone as if on fire, the burnished bronze a beautiful sight. Professor Taylor was certain that 11th century Rome would lack any such ostentation. How could one compare to the glories of the Great City of Constantinople? But this contact might be what they needed to initiate a Traveller mission to Rome. With the right contacts, future Travellers could gain access to the upper echelons of Italian Roman society through the belief that they were merchants from Aengland. There would be, of course, a hunger for their ribbon, but if it could open doors and allow Travellers access to an ocean of priceless knowledge.

“Please tell Bishop Leto we will be most delighted to visit Holy Rome,” agreed Professor Taylor. “Ours is a mission to seek knowledge and to visit your holy home would be glorious indeed. This might be over a few years, but by then, you will have returned.”

On hearing these words Brother Bartolomaeus gave a cry of joy and clapped his hands. “Yes! Yes! God be praised. Yours will be a delegation that will be met with the joy of the Lord. We look forward to offering every hospitality.”

“We must leave, Lord Taylor,” murmured McFee quietly. He turned to the monk and tilted his head in apology. “Forgive us please, Brother Bartolomaeus, but we must ensure that we adhere to the guidelines as dictated by our kind hosts. Prying eyes might see our discussion with one from old Rome as counter to the Emperor’s interests.” He smiled, “He’s one not to be offended.”

The monk looked to McFee with a fleeting look of disgust before his eyes hooded and he nodded in agreement.

Professor Taylor realised rumours about McFee had even spread to the delegation from Rome.

Yes, he thought sadly, it was time to go.