Traveller Manifesto
31. Constantinople - 11th Century

Constantinople – 11th Century.

The great walls loomed like a cliff of darkness. Nothing demonstrated the difference between modern 21st century society and that of a thousand years in the past more than the lack of light. There were glimpses of lamplight from palace balconies and the decks of fishing boats anchored in waters sheltered from prevailing winds and strong currents. A few fires glimmered in braziers on the walls, though these were spaced more for the comfort of the guards than to offer any real illumination. McAlister thought they would be more of an inconvenience to the Varangian Guard as they could compromise their night vision.

His four-lensed night-vision goggles quickly identified the inflatable boat by which they had arrived. Powered by a soundless electric motor, their arrival should not have attracted any attention. Most would be asleep as it was about 2am, when the human body was less likely to be alert. If they timed this right, even the guards would be sleepy or asleep.

Dressed in black, with night goggles, climbing shoes, and their seax, each of the team also carried a silenced pistol, though it was hoped they would not be needed. McFee had sent a rough map and detailed description of their rooms in the Palace of Bucoleon and assured the team they were alone for the evening. Servants were not due to visit until daybreak, so they should be free to leave their rooms and travel the dark corridors through the older Palace of Hormisdas to then ascend stairs and access the wall. There they would rendezvous with the rescue team who would take them to the boat and then flee. A brief overland hike would lead them all to the Area of Convergence, then to home.

Easy.

Then again, anything was easy through stringent planning, training and the ability to shift and adapt as opportunities or obstacles presented themselves. But, as they had experienced all too often, anything could go wrong.

Chuck and Talon remained in the boat and hovered offshore to provide command support. They had set up an American MK12 sniper rifle with night scope and suppressor, perfect for observation or if they needed to dispatch any unwelcome surprises. Even though the sea was calm, the weapon required someone of supreme skill to accurately fire from the floating platform. Talon, a member of the Turkish elite Maroon Berets, was reputed to be one of the best.

Two teams of three assembled at the base of the great wall between the Tower of Belisarius and the Lighthouse Tower where it was suspected Varangian Guard would take shelter. McAlister, Erol and Poxon were to scale the wall and collect McFee and Professor Taylor, while Hami, Parker and Baki were to guard the landing area. McFee had confirmed that he had not yet seen any guards walk the narrow shoreline outside of the walls, while Varangian Guard patrols along the wall were infrequent.

Yes, the famous Varangian Guard had become lazy.

They placed the Tactical Air Initiated Launcher, better known as ‘TAIL’, on the rocky shore and aimed past the top of the wall. At the simple push of a button the compressed air fired a hi-tech grappling hook over the parapet. Though only about the length of a forearm, the unit gave a loud puff of sound which was hoped would not attract undue attention. Baki dragged the excess rope and then tugged on the knotted line, confirming the grappling hook was secure. Only one shot. Luck was with them.

Erol led the climb, which had each panting as they heaved themselves over the parapet to pause on the walkway that ran along the top of the great wall. Poxon leaned across the inner wall to remove the grappling hook and then secure it in a recess of the outer wall. To leave it in place would attract attention as the rope would be strung across the main walkway.

There were no sentries to be seen.

Following McFee’s map and instructions, they headed to the left where there would be stairs that led to the Palace area. McAlister gave his report. “Alpha. In position on the wall. Heading to Prize. Over.”

“Roger. Confirmed,” replied Chuck. “All clear here.”

The team, led by Poxon, silently reached the stairs where an oil lamp burned and cast a weak, yellow glow.

They knew McFee and Professor Taylor would meet them soon.

McFee had donned his own communication gear and confirmed they had left their rooms. Professor Taylor carried a bulky pack into which he had stuffed a few valued artefacts.

The night was cool as the former hostages slipped like shadows along a sheltered walkway, through a dim courtyard, and then headed to the anticipated rendezvous point.

They paused in surprise as they glimpsed a guard.

“Guard!” confirmed Erol.

“How many?” asked Chuck. “No can see from here.”

“One,” confirmed Erol. “Walking away. About thirty metres off.”

“Roger,” confirmed Chuck. “Confirm that guards are on duty.”

“Roger boss,” confirmed Hami. “Nothing here.”

“Kill any Guard if you must,” confirmed Chuck.

“Roger,” verified Hami.

“Proceeding to rendezvous now,” continued Poxon. He referred to a small tracker which indicated their teammates were only metres ahead, so when he turned the corner the sight of the two men in the shadows did not surprise. Through the goggles, the men could be clearly seen as Professor Taylor peered myopically into the dark. Erol gave a quiet hiss and Professor Taylor gave a start of surprise. McFee raised his hand in greeting.

Erol and McAlister stood guard as Poxon crept forward. “You lads up for an escape then?” he whispered. McFee smiled into the darkness and Professor Taylor again gave another dramatic start, for he hadn’t even heard the Englishman approach.

“Lead on then,” was all McFee said. Poxon took one of Professor Taylor’s arms while McFee held the other. As they walked into the darkness, McAlister and Erol crept from the shadows as if they had emerged from the very flagstones themselves.

With McAlister at point, they smoothly and silently walked along their predetermined path. Pausing a moment near to where they had seen the guard, they saw nothing, so continued on. “Command, we have the Prize. Heading to extract. Over!” murmured Poxon.

“Roger. All quiet. Over.” confirmed Chuck.

It was only when they reached the pathway along the top of the wall when their radio’s burst into life. “Caution team, we have movement on the wall. We have movement on the wall. Located in between Alpha and the extraction point,” announced Chuck. He sounded alert and tense.

Poxon gestured for all to take cover. In the deep shadows, they had no fear that they would be seen. McAlister then crept forward as Poxon peeked around the corner at the top of the stair that led to the main wall. There were two guards. They must have accessed the wall from one of the Palace access points close by. One stood at the top of the parapet to urinate into the darkness. He made a satisfied grunt and gave a shake while his fellow guard leaned against the wall, utterly bored. They wore the full chainmail armour and helmets of the Varangian Guard and carried spears.

It was unlikely that they would return the way they had walked. Logically, they were to continue along the wall to the stairs where they now crouched. The Varangian guards stood between the rescue team and their extraction point.

McAlister turned to Poxon as they crouched and looked above them where an oil light burned. Their peering silhouettes would be clearly seen. What to do? If the guards walked towards them they would be discovered and if they walked the other direction they risked locating the grappling hook.

The peeing guard made a comment and the other gave a chuckle, but something in what was said had McAlister’s head come up in alarm. He turned to Poxon. “Could you please have Erol come forward? I think we know this guard here.”

Poxon turned and looked at his squad mate with wide-eyes. They had soldiered together for about two years now and knew the way each thought. Poxon had a moment of concern, but at McAlister’s assuring nod he returned the nod and gestured Erol forward. “If they don’t move off, we’ll have to kill them!” he whispered quietly.

Erol appeared at his side and McAlister only nodded as he gestured him to the guards. The Turk moved silently forward and watched a moment before he slid back. He looked uncharacteristically edgy.

***

“Is it?” whispered the Londoner.

Erol was but a shadow, but even in the dark McAlister could sense his rage. The Turk nodded and whispered, “Asger!” with a hiss of venom. The Turk was normally good-natured and deceptively gentle, but he had changed since the Varangian Guard had so callously killed two of his fellow countrymen. Ahmet and Hazan were two highly trained and superb soldiers, likable friends who had been murdered through deceit. McAlister and Erol had killed every one of the Varangian Guard who had been there that day. But having the murderers’ heads on spikes gave no comfort. That would never bring Ahmet and Hazan back.

It was Asger, the bully Varangian Guard who had sought to intimidate at their arrival to the great City.

Asger, who had tried to murder them in the alleys by the filthy wharves of ancient Constantinople.

Asger, who had no doubt conspired with his comrades and Eirik, the Varangian sergeant, to murder them for beating down a couple of the elite Varangian Guard.

The murders of Ahmet and Hazan were not easily forgotten and never would be forgiven. Their deaths, especially Ahmet’s murder at the hands of that cowardly dog Lar, the psychotic rapist, was something both Travellers struggled with. It was one thing to die in battle, that was sometimes a soldier’s lot, but to die like he did …

It was about respect.

These Varangians deserved none.

Yes, mild-mannered Erol had impaled the heads on spears. They had each been overcome with a madness, a berserker rage the Vikings, of whom the Varangians were kin, could well relate to.

So to have Asger; filthy, bastard Asger before them was a gift from whatever Gods gave heed to the desires of their contentious children.

McAlister looked to Erol. There was a nod and they both stood.

***

Poxon grunted in alarm. He and Osborne had discussed the benefits of including Erol and McAlister on this rescue mission. They badly wanted to engage in a mission all considered relatively normal. But the two certainly had no love for the vicious guards the Emperor was soon to call his own.

Even in the dim light he saw the men were immediately spotted by the Varangians and he swore. “Command, we have a problem,” he murmured quietly. “We’ve been seen.”

With the weak light behind them, they would be shadows and unmissable. For all of their personal faults, the Varangians were fearless and both guards held their spears ready. There was a curse that might have been for an old God. The shadows would look strange with their goggles, with four lenses that gave a wider field of vision. McFee knew the Varangians each wore an amulet that looked like a stylised crucifix but was actually Thor’s hammer. One of them clutched at it and then bravely stepped forward.

“Who is it?” asked Asger’s companion angrily.

“A friend,” answered McAlister. They were close, so their conversation was heard clearly.

Asger peered into the gloom to determine who would be a friend at that time of the night. McAlister then removed his helmet and goggles so his face was easily seen in the lamplight.

It took some moments for recognition, but when it did Asger cursed and frowned. “I thought you were dead,” he exclaimed quietly. “Or I hoped you were dead. You certainly should be dead.”

Erol looked back to Poxon, who had his silenced pistol in his hand. They couldn’t afford to be delayed by a couple of guards and it was agreed to dispatch anyone who might get in their way. But Erol shook his head in a silent plea for Poxon to stand down.

McAlister snorted. “Sorry to disappoint. Your friends, of course, are all dead. We made sure their heads graced a few spears and Eirik, the treacherous dog he was, well, I think some of the village women peeled off his face. He certainly made a lot of noise, that’s for sure.”

“And you live?” asked Asger again, only slowly comprehending.

“Yes. Surprise!” smiled Erol.

“Just two of you?” asked Asger. “I hope at least two of you died, else it would have been for nothing.”

“The odds weren’t good. Two of our men died for, what, fourteen of yours?” prodded McAlister.

Asger glanced past his antagonists and saw the shadows of Poxon and McFee as they peered around the wall from where they crouched. His eyes narrowed and then swung his spear to attack, as did his partner. Erol was prepared, for he briskly aimed his pistol and there were two sharp coughs as he shot the other guard twice. The Varangian simply collapsed with two neat bullet holes through the forehead of his helmet, just above the nose-guard. His iron-clad head made a surprisingly loud thump on the worn stone floor.

There was a grunt of surprise from Asger as he turned to his companion who lay upon the flagstones. Even in the dark it was obvious he was lifeless. He then glanced to the shape of the pistol, then looked at the Travellers with a frown of confusion and perhaps a tinge of fear.

“You and me, we have unfinished business,” explained McAlister. He struggled to keep his tone conversational, but sounded almost incoherent with fury. He simply pulled out his seax, the blade a glimmer in the dim light. “Put down your spear and you have a fighting chance. If not …” and he shrugged.

Poxon looked at McFee, who stood by him and watched the unfolding events incredulously. What the bloody hell was he doing? “Command, we have a problem,” Poxon repeated. “Erol has shot one of the guards, but the other is the one we met at the gate. This guard might be the one who the lads laid out when they were attacked at the wharf. He’s the one who is probably to blame for Ahmet and Hazan.”

“And now he’s met Mac and Erol. Jesus! Okay. Roger. Describe what’s happening!” asked Chuck curtly.

Poxon paused and looked again to McFee as he answered. “Looks like Mac’s sorting it.”

The Varangian nodded and thought only a moment before he cast aside his spear with a clatter. He removed his helmet, threw it to the floor, then smiled in a nasty grimace as he drew his own dagger. “And if I gut you?” he asked.

“You go free,” confirmed Erol.

The Varangian snorted in disbelief. He would cross that bridge when he got to it.

“Keep it quiet!” called McFee quietly. His priority was to save Professor Taylor.

Erol turned to his three companions. “This has to be done!” he grunted, his eyes wide. There would be no argument.

Poxon looked back to McFee. The Scotsman simply shrugged. Each of the Travellers would have happily gutted those responsible for the murders of two of their team, two friends with whom they had shared so much.

Professor Taylor went to speak, but Poxon curtly gestured him to silence. Now was not the time.

McAlister cautiously watched Asger as he slowly sunk into a crouch. Here it comes, thought Poxon.

Asger took two quick steps and lunged. He was so fast that McAlister only blocked through pure reflex. He spun and slashed but Asger seemed to anticipate the move as he ducked and lunged again. McAlister again barely blocked, this time a martial arts block with his forearm. He struck and their blades parried with a high ring of metal on metal. They then groped and struggled, their hands locked together. In the gloom it was difficult to determine who was friend and who was foe, but they had to trust that McAlister knew what he was doing.

The Varangian struck with his knee in a blow that crashed into the side of McAlister’s upper leg, giving him a ‘dead leg’. Suddenly, his blind fury gave way to urgency. Asger was stronger and faster than any of them imagined, for he fought for his life. McAlister slowed and his foe spun and the blade sped through the night, only to be blocked again. Mac wasn’t making any real attack and was constantly on the defence.

The Varangian struck again and as McAlister blocked, the attack was a feint. More out of luck than skill, McAlister’s knife hit the Varangian’s upper arm and the blade sliced his left bicep. The blades again locked momentarily before they slipped on the damp flagstones. In their crouch, Asger head-butted the Londoner’s cheek and then plunged his knife downward to have it sink deeply into the top of McAlister’s upper left thigh. There was a sharp cry of surprise and pain. Even from where they crouched Poxon could see that the blade pierced deeply. This would cripple him.

Mac was finished.

Poxon went to raise his weapon for a shot, but even with his night-vision goggles it was difficult. As the men struggled in the shadows, it was far too risky.

Realising his blade had finally struck home, Asger paused to push the blade of his knife aside, a move that would open a wound, crack a bone and even sever vital blood vessels and tendons. But his pause was enough. In a last minute frantic attack, McAlister gave a roar and raised his arm high in a massive swing to drive the long blade of his seax down with all of his might. The oblique thrust struck the big Varangian directly into his ear and was so powerful the long-bladed dagger sunk to its hilt. Asger’s shriek was piercing, but was muffled as McAlister had the presence of mind to muffle his scream by pulling the Varangian’s open mouth onto his injured leg.

The combatants collapsed and McAlister sunk to his knees with an anguished groan to have him fall on top of his foe. Erol immediately rushed to his aid.

“Bloody hell,” gasped McAlister as he stared at the hilt of Asger’s knife protruding from his thigh. “It’s in my bone. Fuck!” he gasped. “I think I’m gonna pass out!”

McFee and Erol helped their mate as Poxon gave his report. He kneeled to check Asger’s vitals. “Mac injured, but both Varangians down.” He turned to Erol. “Yep, he’s dead,” he muttered. “How’s Mac?”

“The knife is right in,” explained the Turk. “We can’t carry him with a dagger in his leg. I’m pulling it out.”

McAlister nodded and then panted in his agony as he took a mouthful of uniform at his arm and bit down. McFee held his shoulders as Erol crouched and then braced himself. The Englishman gave a couple of muffled screams. By the time Erol held out Asger’s bloody knife, McAlister had almost fainted. He lay panting in his agony.

“What do we do with them now?” asked Poxon as he gestured to the Varangians. They had no field dressings, having been kitted lightly for a rapid extraction, so Erol used his palms to place pressure on McAlister’s leg to stop any excessive bleeding.

Poxon reported their situation to Chuck. “Command, we have Mac injured and two Varangians down.”

“Bloody hell!” squawked Chuck. “How critical?”

Poxon looked to McAlister who, having heard the conversation through his own headset, only nodded. “Mac has sustained a serious upper leg injury. Through his quads and into the femur. Limited mobility. But he’ll make it.”

“Ok team, let’s move!” exclaimed Chuck calmly. “You could be discovered by more guards if you hang about for too long.”

McAlister gasped through gritted teeth as Erol and McFee helped him to his feet. The exertion left him soaked with sweat and exhausted. His face was a mask of agony. “I’ll be okay, let’s go!” he grunted.

“We need to dispose of the two Varangian bodies,” continued Poxon.

“So, drop them over the wall,” ordered Chuck.

“Will do,” confirmed Poxon.

“Confirmed,” said Hami. “Drop them by our entry point. Command can collect and take them out onto the Bosporus and dump them. Their armour and weapons should have them sink.”

“Agreed,” confirmed Chuck. “Hami. Have a couple of your lads climb to the top of the wall to help. Those bastards will be bloody heavy.”

***

McAlister’s world had reduced to the agony in his leg. It pulsed in waves and he did the best he could to relax, to breathe through the pain. Through gritted teeth he concentrated on placing one leg in front of the other, but despite that he was supported by McFee and Professor Taylor. His leg refused to work. He took a deep breath. “Sorry lads. That wasn’t in the plan,” he gasped.

Erol paused as he dragged Asger’s body with Poxon. Fortunately the noise made by the scrape of the chain-link armour was minimal. “You did well, my friend,” he muttered quietly. “He was better than we expected and the fight was brilliant. Now,” he nodded to the body as they dragged it to their extraction point on the wall. “He finally got what he deserved.”

McAlister only grunted and gritted his teeth as they staggered to meet Parker and Baki, who had climbed the wall.

After warning Hami, they heaved the Varangians over the bulwark. Each body toppled into the night to clatter and thud onto the rocks below. Parker then followed over the wall and gripped the knotted rope as he assisted Professor Taylor. Erol supported McAlister, who essentially climbed down the knotted rope using the power of his arms and shoulders alone. His wounded leg hung uselessly. He felt an urgency, fearing he might fall into shock.

By the time they gathered at the foot of the wall, grappling hook and rope in hand, Chuck and Talon had silently returned from dumping the Varangian bodies in the main channel where the water flowed strongly.

“There you go lads. They sunk like rocks,” advised Chuck.

The electric engine made barely a whine.

They later watched as thermite grenades lit up the night to demolish the Combat Rubber Raiding Craft as it idled out to deep water. It was too heavy to carry back with them, especially with McAlister wounded. The brief flash of fiery immolation might be seen from the City, but would not raise too much attention. The depth and currents would hide any remains of the rubber and aluminium. Time would see it swept out to the ocean and covered with sediment, perhaps to puzzle archaeologists in a distant age.

McAlister no longer cared. The team had used the boat’s first aid kit to apply a field dressing and have morphine injected. Supported as he was between Poxon and Erol, they force-marched to the Area of Convergence.

Throughout the rescue mission, the normally garrulous Professor Taylor had barely uttered a word.