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Anno Domini 827,August-1
POV of Lysander
"Alright, pay attention," I said in a firm voice as I looked over the group gathered in front of me. They were orphans from different cities along the Anatolian coast, newly arrived at the settlement. "This is the number system our strategos wants us to implement," I continued, pointing at the books. "But at the same time, you must also learn this other one: the Ionic system. It is the system used by the imperial administration, and it is absolutely necessary that you master it. You will have to handle both when it is your turn to serve strategos Basil."
"And why?" asked one of the newcomers, the very one I had personally taken charge of teaching the basics of reading and writing. "Wouldn't it be better to use just one instead of two?"
"Because Basil is our strategos and that is his order," I replied without hesitation. "Perhaps only some of you will end up using the Ionic system and others the Arabic one, but everyone must learn both. There will be no exceptions. Now, pay attention."
In a short time my life had changed more than I ever would have imagined. I went from living in Adrianople and surviving the Bulgarian invasion to becoming a mercenary known by the nickname left to me by an arrow that pierced my thigh. When I finally found a job I truly enjoyed, everything seemed to stabilize. I could fulfill my duties quickly and without extra burdens, beyond the afternoon training sessions.
I didn't think anything else would change. I usually stayed behind, since I was the only one who could keep accounts, and Basil needed someone to look after his affairs while he went north to slaughter every Bulgarian he came across in his campaigns. Between dealing with the Varangians and keeping the books in order, I thought that would be the limit of my responsibilities. Two nomismata were more than enough to provide my wife and children with a comfortable life, free of deprivation.
But fate seemed to smile on Basil.
The order arrived without warning: a mission to Crete. I never learned exactly what had happened, but I saw how Basil—normally calm within the settlement—suddenly became nervous and rushed. He had been tasked with retaking the island, and without delay he began gathering all of us. Within days we were on our way to a distant land, traveling for entire days to face pirates.
I had no choice but to join. Basil needed everyone. Officially, we stopped being mercenaries and became part of an imperial army. We went from fighting for personal gain to fighting for the State, though in truth there wasn't much difference. Life was the same, just worse paid. Basil had always been far more generous when distributing loot than the imperial system, where everything had to be divided among thousands and thousands of men.
The campaign itself was little more than enduring the cold. After the initial phase—when we captured and enslaved every Sarakenoi we found—there was not much left to do but watch the siege. Day after day passed between training the recruits, making sure they knew enough not to die foolishly in their first fight, and watching the walls to prevent desperate sorties by the defenders.
Throughout all that time, Basil worked with his carpenters on a machine which, according to him, would break the siege. All I saw was how, again and again, the structure collapsed on its own, or how the timbers supporting it split apart without warning.
The worst moment came the day they decided to launch a projectile with that thing. I was stepping out of my tent when, suddenly, a massive block of stone fell out of nowhere and nearly crushed me along with the men who slept beside me. We escaped by a hair's breadth. Basil, on the other hand, couldn't stop laughing when he saw me pale and beside myself. That day he laughed like I had never seen him laugh before.
After that, for a while, we only received scattered news. The imperial navy had captured pirates, and many of them were chained to replace the rowers on the dromones. From what I heard, being a galley slave was one of the worst ways to die. Exhaustion consumed you little by little, and the seawater—always present in the lowest levels—ended up stripping the skin from your feet and legs. Spending hours with your feet submerged in that salty, filthy mixture caused the flesh to split into sores. So, for my part, I thought those pirates were only getting what they deserved.
Between the constant cold and the endless waiting, Basil's machine finally began to work. At first it was hard to get used to the sound. Rocks struck the walls of Heraklion again and again, day and night, without rest. At times I had to take shifts helping the men who loaded and operated the machine, pushing beams, tightening ropes, clearing away splintered wood. The thunderous noise became part of the routine, like the wind or the creaking of the tents.
Until the walls finally collapsed.
Then we returned to real action. For four full days we fired bolts without pause at the defenders, pressing them relentlessly and giving them no respite. There were no breaks, no concessions. In the end, that constant pressure was what broke them and allowed the city to fall.
Inside, we found so much gold that for a moment we thought we would finally be disgustingly rich. Chest after chest filled with gold coins appeared everywhere. The illusion didn't last long. Soon they explained the system for dividing the loot, and that was when we understood the joke. A portion had to be sent to those who had stayed behind in Constantinople, eating well and sleeping under a roof, while we had spent months risking our necks. And even so, we had to pay them.
What I received was little—ridiculously little. In Bulgaria, Basil had paid five nomismata for the campaign, and I hadn't even taken part directly in the fighting. Here, after everything we had endured, I was lucky to walk away with three nomismata, after quite literally putting my ass in the fire.
After that, we returned home, and fortunately, between my wages and what I had earned during the campaign, I could afford a few luxuries. I bought fabrics and some silk with my share of the loot to take back with me. When I gave my wife a silk dress—one that had belonged to the pirates and that I managed to buy at a good price—she treated me like a king for several days.
I thought everything would return to normal, but there was something that kept drawing my attention. Basil's blacksmiths and carpenters did not return with us; they stayed behind in Crete. That struck me as odd, especially since I suddenly found myself with almost no responsibilities.
During that time, I limited myself to making sure everyone kept to the established schedules, respected the terms of their contracts, and attended training. Nothing more. Until, finally, Basil returned to the settlement. This time he did not come back as kapetanios. He was now the strategos of Crete.
Apparently, certain agreements had been concluded with the Basileus Rhōmaiōn. Basil had financed a large part of the campaign and, in return, obtained the island of Crete to govern in his name. With his arrival came the news no one wanted to hear. Basil intended for all of us to move to Crete. From the island, it would be far easier to govern everything, now that he exercised his authority directly in the emperor's name.
No one was happy about the idea of leaving everything behind once again. My wife, in particular, begged me to stay. Here, in Ainos, we were safe. There were no pirates, and Bulgaria was far away. There seemed to be no real danger that justified leaving.
Of course, I left out one piece of information. There was a clause in my contract: one hundred nomismata if I left Basil's service before the term was over. And Basil respected contracts with an almost obsessive rigidity. I did not know whether he would force me to pay that sum, but it was more than likely, and it would have ruined me completely. So there was no other option but to follow him and leave everything behind.
For the journey to Crete, my wife's silk dress was of little use. The voyage by ship put her in a foul mood almost the entire time, and I simply endured the complaints while the sea did what it always does.
Upon arrival, Basil fortunately granted me one of the houses that remained inside the walls and had been abandoned. I knew full well that, in all likelihood, the family who had owned that house had suffered a severe punishment, since the city had been brutally sacked
That was how I found myself there, fulfilling several roles at once: administrator, training officer, and teacher to the people who kept arriving. Because something began to change rapidly. Along with watching Basil's reserves of silver and gold diminish day by day, people started to arrive in ever greater numbers, especially orphans. Basil brought them in following my recruitment method, and the churches always had people available so long as they received a donation generous enough.
People came from Anatolia and Greece in large numbers, and little by little merchants began to appear. For the most part, they only bought food, since they used the place as a resupply point to refill water and provisions before continuing their journeys. There was not much else to offer besides fish.
Basil had ordered the construction of a vast salt-processing area on one of the northern coasts, a project that, according to estimates, would provide work for around two thousand people. At the same time, he strongly encouraged the construction of larger fishing vessels. Since the main shipyards were still under construction, he instructed the builders to produce bigger ships dedicated exclusively to fishing, which were then leased to the population for their expeditions.
Among the most recent groups to arrive was one from Anatolia that knew how to manufacture papyrus. That, it seemed, fit into one of Basil's more discreet projects, about which almost no one knew anything. Whenever papyrus was mentioned, he would steer the conversation away. Not long before, he had ordered the expansion of some cotton crops that already existed on the island, intending to use them to produce clothing, but he had also instructed those same workers to try to produce something similar to what they called paper, using cotton and an Asian technique that Basil had found described in an sarakenoi book, itself translated from an eastern language.
Fortunately, there was no alarming news about the war in Sicily. Apparently, the Sarakenoi were on the move again, but no orders had come from the capital, so we were not expected to do anything for the moment. Basil had already told us that, without a fleet of our own, there was little we could contribute, and that many repaired ships had recently arrived from Constantinople.
So the war in Sicily was left in the hands of the strategos of that island and the imperial forces that would be sent to deal with the problem.
As I left my lessons and headed home, I noticed that the market was beginning to come alive. It was becoming increasingly common to see people stopping to do business. I knew that would not last long, since Basil planned to turn the city into a closed sector and move the true urban core toward the new port.
Looking out over the sea, I saw hundreds of ships moving in the distance. They were vessels with a very particular silhouette: drakkars.
"Varangians...I thought. Well, that's Basil's problem. I just want a hot meal and some sleep."
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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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