The Byzantine Wager

The Byzantine Wager - Prologue

The Byzantine Wager

Prologue

"Christos." said Pons, "It makes you wonder, no?"

"Dudn't what make you wonder?" Cyn replied. Cyn was sharpening Pons' new sword and he wasn't happy about the heat. "Bollocks, it is hot out here."

"This... right here." Pons shaded his eyes from the fierce sun and surveyed his surroundings. "A dynasty... ending right in front of our eyes."

Cyn looked out at the "this" to which Pons was referring. The Hippodrome of Constantinople, which at noon on this scorching hot September day, was only starting to fill. There was not going to be any chariot racing in the stadium today and the populace knew it. It had been a restless couple of nights in the greatest city in Christendom. Rumor had been rife. Talk of swift riders bearing messages of warning, the elite Varangian guard being summoned to the palace in force, entire noble families disappearing overnight, murder and treason in the dark. Some said an invading army was less than a day's march from the city. Some said that they had personally witnessed the Emperor himself, the Basileus, Augustus over all, shaved and humiliated on the back of a mangy camel, being pelted by dung, stones, and garbage, as he was paraded around the market. Some said there was already a new emperor. For two days this had gone on. Those who had the means were already on their way out of the capital until things had settled down.

Today there was a trickle of people slowly gathering at the Hippodrome. It hadn't been announced, criers had not gone out to summon a crowd, but still somehow word got around as it always did:

"Something is happening at the Hippodrome."

"Daniel saw soldiers leading a prisoner."

"Perhaps there is going to be an execution."

Gradually a small crowd of the curious and bored, donning wide brimmed hats to shade themselves, had begun to file into the vast space of the chariot circuit. Some were in the stands, but many came right onto the track and made their dusty way around the stadium to where the imperial box, the kathisma, came into view.

This was where Pons and Cyn were waiting with their captive. Cyn, the younger of the two, was a broad shouldered man in his late twenties. He sat on the stone railing of the box with his legs dangling over the seating below, looking out over the racetrack, as he carefully ran a whetstone along the edge of a sword. "'Dynasty ending?' Some new rich family will be sleeping in the palace tonight, is that what you mean?" The sword, which was already keen, had a slight curve along the blade. "Kinda looks like one of these Saracen's swords." Cyn said idly, "Only not so curvy. Not really a long sword, not really a scimitar."

"Mind you, pay particular attention to the point." Pons ordered. Pons was a small man in his, perhaps, late fifties - it was hard to tell his age. The grizzled veteran's face carried the look of many hard campaign seasons.

"Aye, don't you worry," Cyn replied. "I'll get this shank good and sharp for ya." It needed to be sharp. There was money riding on it.

Pons was busy tying two stout lengths of rope around the ankles of the prisoner at his feet. The ropes were in turn attached to pulleys on the tops of two nearby columns. In a few moments they were going to hoist the man upside down and spread eagled into the air.

"Water," the prisoner croaked, "Please, for the love of Jesus, some water."

Cyn and Pons ignored him. They were getting good at ignoring him. He had been whining for three days - although, in all fairness, they had been three miserable days for him. Now it was nearing the end, and Cyn thought it was just as well. The poor fellow was not looking well at all.