The Revived Marketplace of Lazica
Thanks to rapid economic recovery efforts, East Rome had swiftly mended the wounds of civil war. Its vast territories meant full restoration was far from complete, but roughly eighty to ninety percent of the damage had been repaired. With stability returning, the empire's people naturally resumed their everyday lives. Refugees trickled back to their ancestral homes or carved out new existences in unfamiliar lands. Amid this gradual renewal, one region stood out for its dramatic transformation: Lazica.
"Just last year, this was barren wasteland."
A sprawling market unfolded before the wandering merchant. Tents dotted the broad grasslands, where Turkic traders penned horses and sheep for sale.
"Over here! This sheep's the cheapest."
"I'll tan that leather for you."
"Bargain prices! Take some home."
"Unbelievable."
The merchant muttered to himself. He vividly recalled the ruins—crumbled buildings and lonely stone pillars jutting from the earth. Small wonder he spoke such words. Believing the civil war still raged, he had hired mercenaries for protection. Yet his fears proved groundless; East Rome enjoyed not mere normalcy, but profound peace.
As the merchant pondered this, one of his hired swords approached. Having reached Lazica, the mercenary declared his duty fulfilled.
"My task is done."
"My thanks. You made the journey a breeze."
"Think nothing of it. If anything, I owe you an apology—there wasn't a whisper of trouble on the road."
The mercenary looked almost sheepish. Dismissing his concerns with a reassuring smile, the merchant pressed a bulging coin pouch into his hand.
"Nonsense. Your prowess kept even the bandits at bay."
"If you insist, I'll say no more."
Pocketing the payment, the mercenary eyed the merchant curiously.
"Heard you're in the leather trade, right?"
"That's correct. I used to buy hides from the Black Sea coast nomads and resell them, but things turned dire over there."
Of late, clashes among the Black Sea steppe nomads had grown frequent. Their overlord turned a blind eye, even to bloodshed within his domain—a far cry from the old days, when he stamped out the slightest grudge. Emboldened, the nomads ran rampant. Disruptions in the steppe spelled disaster for merchants like this one, who profited by buying cheap hides from nomads and flipping them elsewhere.
The wandering merchant couldn't abide mounting losses. He scoured for alternatives and learned of Turkic tribes who had fled the steppe to settle in East Rome. Their largest enclave lay in Lazica. Crossing the Caucasus Mountains, he sought to forge a fresh trade network.
"Head that way, then."
The mercenary pointed toward a cluster of women.
"Turkic sellswords told me the men hawk meat, the women leather. You'll have better luck there."
Unlike the Black Sea nomads, pious Jews who guarded their women and children as sacred property—never to be exposed lest thieves covet them—these Turkic folk blurred such lines. Women wielded bows and spears on hunts, sharing labors without rigid divide. Not every Turkic group followed suit, but the ones who had settled in East Rome, known as the Turkopoloi, embraced the custom.
The merchant, whose dealings centered on the Black Sea steppe, had been clueless. The mercenary's tip spared him fruitless wandering.
"Valuable advice. My gratitude."
The sellsword nodded farewell and departed.
Guided by the counsel, the merchant reached the women's stall. They regarded his approach with open curiosity.
"Word is, you sell leather."
The mention sparked interest. A one-eyed woman, clearly their leader, stepped forward.
"What hides do you seek?"
"Cow, sheep, rabbit, wolf—I'll take them all, no discrimination."
She beckoned to another, who unveiled a trove of prime pelts. Top-grade quality through and through, far surpassing the steppe wares.
The merchant's eyes widened.
"Impeccable work. Fur sheared clean, no scraps left behind. These are the finest."
"A merchant who knows true worth. Treasures like these command a steep price."
From his pouch, he produced a handful of gold coins.
"Imperial gold. Will this do?"
Gold's universal appeal crossed borders. Confident, he offered it forth.
Yet the one-eyed woman—and her companions—met it with tepid stares.
"No gold? Nothing else?"
"You won't take gold coins?"
Flustered, the merchant balked. Such refusals were rare indeed.
"It's not that. We favor silk or East Roman coin over gold."
"East Roman coin...?"
She drew forth a copper piece and held it up.
"Isn't this bronze?"
"Aye. Trade it straight for silk. Gold? First to copper, then silk again. Fees eat the value."
Tedious exchanges, diminished returns. The merchant grasped it intellectually, nodding despite himself.
"I've only gold—and a few trinkets from Kitai."
Kitai: one name for distant China, then under Khitan rule. Central Asian traders adopted the term, and so did this merchant for the East. The Turkic women perked up; Kitai goods fetched fortunes.
"Show us."
"Jade ornaments, and..."
Wanderers traveled light: gems, precious metals, jade baubles. The women, ever fond of finery, lit up at the sight.
"Jade ring."
"Look—this one's black, with glints embedded."
Thrilled chatter. Sensing opportunity, the merchant addressed the leader.
"Trade these for your hides?"
She weighed it briefly, then nodded.
"Agreed. One ring per prime hide."
"These came from afar. I'd like more leather."
"No more hides. Something else instead."
"Something else? Like what?"
"Fur, horns. Bones, if you fancy."
Nomads wasted nothing from their herds: bones for weapons or trinkets, sinews boiled into glue. The merchant knew their worth from steppe dealings.
"Then one prime cowhide, a cow horn, and some wool."
She extended her hand. Deal sealed. He clasped it with a grin.
For a single jade ring, he claimed fine cowhide, an exotic horn, and wool aplenty. A steal at face value—but in western Europe, profits soared. One hide fetched two golds easy; the horn ten silvers, wool twenty more. Fourfold return, pure windfall.
Surface gains, of course. Travel costs, mercenaries, tolls whittled it down.
"Fine deal. Haven't caught your name."
"Adolf."
"No steppe blood in that name or face. Where from?"
"Mainz born. Wandering calls me from home."
Chatting idly, he packed his haul. Then:
"Heading west now. What's the border toll?"
Most realms demanded coin to cross. Prudence dictated advance knowledge.
"The border? Bound where?"
"Hungary, then Holy Roman Empire."
"Tensions high 'twixt Empire and Hungary. Steer clear."
"That so? Croat woodlands it is."
"Wiser path. And no tolls there."
No tolls? The merchant gaped, disbelief etched plain.
"East Rome and her vassals levy none—provided a condition."
"Naturally." Profitable, though. Worth hearing out.
"Which is?"
"Join the merchant guild."
A merchant guild. Rip-offs elsewhere; helpful here? The wandering merchant blinked, incredulous.