The Drifter's New Path
"Should I leave here soon too?"
The wandering mercenary, Alfredo Bisconti. He had joined Rogerius's army during the civil war and racked up merits on countless battlefields. In return for those deeds, he had been granted a massive payout.
"You heading back, Alfredo?"
Darell, the Ireland-Viking half-breed, approached him. Beside him came Mark from northern Germany and Janssen from the Netherlands.
"Why not stay here with us?"
"Yeah, we work so well together."
Having shared the trials of the battlefield, the three were tighter than blood brothers. That's why they were trying to hold back Alfredo, who was thinking of leaving East Rome.
"Aren't you all going back to your homelands?"
Alfredo's question prompted Darell to nod first.
"Thanks to the big merits I earned this time, I got into the Varangian Guard."
Darell had caught Halvar's eye in battle. Because of that, he could leave behind his life as a mercenary captain and start fresh in the imperial bodyguard.
"Congratulations."
"Haha, no big deal. It's all thanks to you guys."
"If it's thanks to us, shouldn't you buy the beer?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Alright, beer it is. I'll treat you all you want. Let's go."
With that, the three headed to the tavern with Darell. No sooner had the four sat down than four mugs of beer arrived on the table.
"Cheers! To Captain Darell—no, Sir Darell's promotion!"
Mark's shout was met with glasses clinking in unison. The four downed their beers. Suddenly, Janssen smirked and let out a massive belch. Mark fired back with one of his own, as if waiting for it. Darell, not to be outdone, belched even louder. That left only Alfredo. As all eyes turned to him, he too unleashed a thunderous belch.
"Hahaha! That's the spirit! A real man! One of the boys!"
"Now that's our comrade!"
It was a belch the once-polite Alfredo would never have made in the past. But living with these guys had changed his ways quite a bit. People who could laugh and rejoice so purely over something as simple as a belch. Watching them, Alfredo found himself smiling sheepishly without realizing it.
"Anyway, let's pick up where we left off. Sir Darell aside, what about you, Mark and Janssen? Not heading home?"
No sooner had Alfredo spoken than the two nodded firmly.
"Not going back."
"This is home now."
The two had applied for the settlement support policy for mercenaries in Lazica, but unfortunately, too many applicants meant they had to keep merc-ing. That's how they ended up joining Emperor Rogerius's army and reaching Constantinople. Better late than never—they wanted to settle here now.
"I saw someone win a house in the lottery. Makes me think we can too."
"Yeah, yeah."
"What are you planning to do if you stay?"
"Open a restaurant?"
"A restaurant out of nowhere?"
To Alfredo, who had swung a sword his whole life, the idea of these guys suddenly running a restaurant felt downright alien.
"Or a butcher shop."
"We can sell what they made back home."
"What'd you make?"
"Sausages."
Janssen's curt reply let Alfredo know they were dead serious. But waiting for a housing lottery win was endless uncertainty, so he couldn't help worrying a little.
"What if you don't win a house?"
Mark pulled something out like he'd been waiting. It was a wad of small tickets.
"What's this?"
"Lottery tickets."
"Oh, I've heard of them. You buy tickets, pool the money, and give it all to the top winner, right?"
"Yep."
"The more you buy, the better your odds, so we went all in."
"But the odds are insanely low..."
The lottery offered massive prizes to winners, so all of East Rome—from Constantinople on down—was buzzing with ticket fever. The pooled money grew exponentially, as did the jackpots, while the odds plummeted.
"Still cheap enough. Worth the investment."
"If it flops, we'll take the soldier loan."
"I heard about that when I went to collect my service pay last time."
As a mercenary who had served in the emperor's army, Alfredo had his service certificate too. He'd shown it to the clerk, who said the budget wasn't set yet and it would take time. Instead, he got pitched financial products: sign up now, and instead of getting the listed amount right away, you'd receive principal plus interest in two years. The rates were surprisingly high. Not being strapped for cash, Alfredo was intrigued. Then the clerk made another pitch: a near-zero-interest soldier-only loan, with repayment date indefinitely extendable. The catch? Reside in East Rome and answer the emperor's call whenever it came. Of course, the emperor promised pay each time. For mercenaries, it meant steady gigs, so not a bad deal for settling down.
"The interest is ridiculous—basically zero, and you can extend repayment forever."
"That's why we're settling here."
Janssen took a swig of beer and laid out his thinking to Alfredo.
"Wandering forever doesn't exactly rake in the cash anyway."
Mark nodded in agreement, and Darell did too as he watched them.
"So stick around. Better to live among friends we know, right?"
Darell's words plunged Alfredo into thought. Heading back to his hometown of Milan offered no guarantees of success. Unlike that uncertainty, East Rome guaranteed much—and rewarded military service with perks to boot. It only strengthened his inclination.
"But even if I stay, I don't know what to do."
"Keep merc-ing like always."
"Heard they're sending tons to Bulgaria."
The Bulgarian rebels led by Nestoric. To crush the revolt, Emperor Rogerius planned to fully integrate Bulgaria into Roman territory, erasing its culture and turning it into the heartland. Rumors swirled of mass mercenary deployments under the guise of hunting rebels.
"Or cook like us."
"If that's not your thing, switch to career soldier like Darell."
"Need to think it over more."
Mark and Janssen lit up at his answer.
"That means you're not leaving?"
Under their gazes, Alfredo pondered briefly before nodding.
"Probably not."
Back at his lodgings after meeting his comrades, Alfredo lay on the bed provided by the mercenary guild, staring at the ceiling in thought.
"Maybe try being a merchant."
Milan, the city of commerce. Artisans flocked there, producing goods that drew merchants in droves. Alfredo had watched them trade since childhood, so he had a quiet interest in business.
"They offer soldier loans too. Could use that as seed money for something."
Money seemed solvable. The question was what to sell.
"Daily necessities are safest—everyone buys them..."
Steady income. But merchants wouldn't ignore such a sweet spot. Everyone wanted in, so competition was fierce.
"No way an inexperienced newbie like me beats seasoned traders."
Deep in thought, but no answers came, so he got up.
"Won't figure it out brooding in here. Better hit the market and see what's selling."
Not far from the guild lodgings was a modest market. Constantinople normally restricted trade to commercial districts, but Nestoric's Bulgarian forces had razed them in their pillaging. With no markets left, sourcing food in the city was tough. So Empress Zoe had set up a temporary trading zone until reconstruction.
Merchants hawked their wares there. Alfredo scanned the stalls to gauge hot sellers.
"Clothes, olives, grapes, meat..."
Surprisingly diverse, but most trade was foodstuffs. One thing caught his eye: fish.
"Gotta sell food. Fish especially."
Constantinople's nearness to the Bosphorus made fish the people's main protein.
"But fish spoils fast."
Faster than meat. Merchants struggled to store it, often dumping unsold stock by day's end. It pained Alfredo to see good fish wasted. Then a brilliant idea struck.
"Grind the fish into paste, shape into balls like dumplings, and sell those. Cuts waste and makes money."
And so, from Alfredo's hands emerged a new food. What moderns call fish cakes met the world a little earlier, thanks to him.