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Anno Domini 825, December 17-30
"Are you pirates?" one of the Byzantines asked, still standing defensively.
"No… why?… you know what, I just answered myself—it's a reasonable theory," I said, slightly surprised by the question. "I'm a mercenary under contract to the strategos of the Theme of Macedonia, Leon Skleros."
"Oh… thank blessed Jesus," said the man who seemed to be the ship's officer. He was limping badly, clutching his bleeding leg. "I thought we weren't going to make it."
"What happened? Why was there only one dromon patrolling this area?" I asked.
"Our komes sent us to patrol the zone after reports of pirate activity," the officer replied. "We thought it would be just one ship, not four. We found a pirate ship attacking the merchant and moved to engage—but then three more appeared out of nowhere, and we were surrounded."
"Lucky that I happened to pass by, then," I said. "Bind your leg before you bleed out." I pointed at his wound. "So… what happens now?"
"Bring me a bandage," the officer said as he sat down. "The loot, I suppose… right?" He was finally calming down, no longer gasping for breath.
"Exactly," I replied.
"All of it belongs to the state," he said. "I'll report this to my komes, and he'll report it upward. Your share will be calculated and delivered afterward. I know you'd like to take everything—even on my behalf," he added while someone handed him a bandage. He cut open his trousers with a knife and began wrapping his leg tightly. "You could take it all… but rules are rules, mercenary. And I thank you for the help."
"I understand," I said. "I suppose you'll need my information so my share can reach me, right?" I asked, tilting my head as I watched the Saracens kneeling while Byzantine sailors shackled them.
"Yes… please. Your name, so it can be reported to the strategos of Macedonia and your reward delivered," the officer said, calmer now that the bleeding was under control.
"Basil. My base of operations is in Ainos. If you don't need me any longer, I'll be on my way," I said, turning to leave.
"Wait, Basil," the officer called out. "We need your help with the prisoners and the rowers. I lost too many men to handle it alone."
"Of course," I replied. "We'll help speed things up."
I turned to my men and ordered them to break the chains and determine where the slaves came from. If they weren't Christians, they would remain slaves—but now rowing for the Empire.
"Everything alright with your men, Hákon?" I asked. "I see two of mine with arrows stuck in their mail because they refused to wear brigantines, and now they're trying to hide so I won't notice."
"Sigurd took a hard hit to the face, but he's thick-headed—he'll be fine. Styrbjorn got his thigh cut by a sword, but it's not the first time. Úlfr has an arrow in his shoulder, but it's shallow—just another scar to show off," Hákon said as he wiped blood from his sword using the tunic of a dead Saracen.
"Good. Then the battle went well, all things considered," I said. "I have two wounded, you have three. The armor did its job—that's what matters."
"Yes… I noticed it's very good armor," Hákon said, looking at mine. "Though yours is different from what your men wear."
"More expensive, and better," I replied. "But for mass use, what my men wear is optimal—easier to make and repair. In the time it takes me to make this," I said, tapping my steel breastplate, "I can make five of theirs."
"Interesting… you fight well. You know what you're doing. Your men don't—aside from using that device," he said, nodding toward the crossbows.
"A few months ago they were hauling crates, some were slaves," I replied with a faint smile. "I do what I can. Not everyone grows up as a warrior, hunter, or raider like your people."
"True… Romans are soft," Hákon said.
"And the sword?" I asked, pointing to it.
"Worthy of a jarl," he answered immediately. "Perfect edge, well balanced. But I prefer axes—mail makes things difficult, especially with your armor. I saw swords bouncing off that stuff."
"Keep it," I said. "I may ask you to teach my men some close combat. They only know the absolute basics."
An hour passed while my men helped free and move the slaves. The Byzantine sailors then began their return to Constantinople, escorting the five ships back to the city. I would have to wait and see what became of my reward.
We resumed our journey, this time peacefully. I used the time to begin learning the Scandinavian tongue—or at least Hákon's version of it. Something told me it was Swedish, though this was long before anything like Sweden existed.
Each day we practiced. He taught me words and how to use them, then we tried to hold simple conversations, testing how much I'd learned in just two days.
On the fourth day, we finally spotted Ainos, even as I was still struggling with the language.
At the harbor we unloaded everything we'd brought back. I managed to sell some of the pepper I'd bought in Constantinople to passing merchants, making a small profit, and sold part of the cloth to supply the town. Not long after, we returned to my settlement, which hadn't changed much during our absence—except for a few new houses standing finished and others still rising from the ground.
Upon our arrival, the first thing I saw was the Varangians bathing in the river, while others carved wooden combs from branches scattered nearby, grooming their hair and beards that had long been neglected, and shaving parts of their bodies using the edge of my swords.
While the Varangians cleaned themselves up, I went to check on my smithy, which seemed to be running at full capacity, judging by the smoke rising steadily into the air.
There was a large cluster of tents outside the forge that I immediately recognized as not belonging to my men—they were better made, more expensive.
When I stepped inside the smithy, greeted by the heat and the overwhelming noise, I found Lysander overseeing production.
"How are things going, Lysander?" I asked, clapping a hand on his shoulder and guiding him into another room where plates and rings were being riveted and the noise was less oppressive.
"What happened while I was gone?" I asked, watching dozens of workers assembling pieces of armor.
"There are merchants outside who want to buy weapons to resell," Lysander replied. "They were very persistent about us selling steel swords to take to Adrianople or Constantinople. The new year is coming, budgets are about to be assigned, and everyone expects a Bulgarian incursion—so weapon prices are going to rise."
"Ah, good… customers," I said with a smile. "Daily income would be ideal, especially since I didn't return with more gold from the trip."
"But… then you didn't sell anything, my kapetanios?" Lysander asked, clearly surprised.
"I sold everything," I replied. "Buying ships and purchasing slaves wasn't cheap, and I think I only managed to come back with what I left with. Next month we'll have to go back to pick up the warships I bought and start moving by sea."
"I see… here's the accounting for the swords, crossbows, mail shirts, and brigantines produced while you were away," he said, handing me sheets of papyrus covered in Arabic numerals.
"Good… looks like you've mastered this accounting system," I said, reviewing the figures.
"It took some effort, but I think I've got it now. Honestly, it's simpler than the Ionic system," Lysander replied with a smile.
"And you've stopped limping, or at least you can move your leg properly now—because we're going back to training like before."
"I can manage. It doesn't bother me much anymore," Lysander answered.
"Good. Because I've got some instructors who are going to get everyone into shape."
"…Wonderful," Lysander muttered, glancing down at his leg.
After leaving the forge, confirming that work was running smoothly, and negotiating prices with the merchants—since Lysander refused to haggle, claiming he didn't know how much to sell the swords for—I ended up securing orders for a hundred swords for the following month. That alone was good news, especially since I sold them at eight gold coins each. It was a solid profit: anything above two gold coins was pure gain.
It didn't take long for me to gather my mercenary company in full—the five hundred men assigned to guard the settlement, who had mostly been helping with construction since our arrival. Now that the workload had eased, they could return to proper training.
Every month I spent one hundred and seventy gold coins out of my own pocket to pay them. The strategos only paid me one silver coin per man, up to a hundred men, so I would likely need to request a revision of my contract.
We quickly reestablished the military camp that had once defined our training—raising tents, digging trenches, and setting up latrines in their proper places.
Soon after, Hákon's Varangians arrived, looking like entirely different men. They were clean-shaven, hair neatly combed, beards well kept, and free of the filth that had previously covered them. Only their battle scars and massive frames remained—and those alone made my men nervous. Out of the five hundred under my command, only five matched the Varangians in size; the rest were far smaller.
Training resumed immediately.
Crossbow drills. Maintaining proficiency with swords and spears. Hand-to-hand combat, using the Varangians as opponents, with wooden training weapons—though it usually ended with several of my men badly bruised.
Marches through the surrounding area with full equipment. Riding practice to form proper scouting units. Endless mock battles between units, splitting them into groups and forcing them to fight in formation so they would learn coordination.
It quickly became clear how severe the lack of command structure was—one man trying to lead five hundred. So I began selecting those with a bit of charisma and, more importantly, those whose voices carried weight among their peers during training battles. I elevated them into something resembling sergeants, each placed in command of twenty men. There wasn't much to choose from, so larger command units had to be created out of necessity.
And so the days began to blur together as the fighting repeated daily: marches, push-ups and sit-ups, harsh and methodical drills—while I continued practicing the Varangian tongue, preparing for the next time I would travel to Constantinople.
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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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