The Merchant's Gateway to Empire
The capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, Constantinople. Rebuilt after the civil war, the city had surpassed its former glory to become the world's largest metropolis. The primary reason was the influx of people from all walks of life following the reconstruction. In the past, nobles had monopolized most of the capital's land, stalling the city's growth entirely. But the civil war had destroyed everything. To rebuild required massive labor, drawing in workers by the thousands. As the population swelled, so did consumption, attracting merchants in turn and accelerating the city's expansion beyond its previous pace. The new districts sprouting up around the Golden Horn were proof enough. Famous as a trade harbor, the Golden Horn naturally spawned fresh residential zones nearby, bloating the city's footprint even further. Thanks to this, the population—shrunken to 300,000 amid the war—had climbed past 600,000 and was eyeing 700,000.
"It's changed so much you can't even compare it to the old days..."
A wandering merchant clicked his tongue in awe. He'd come to Constantinople on the advice of a one-eyed woman, seeking the merchant guild. Confronted with the city now, it bore little resemblance to his previous visit—everything had transformed beyond recognition.
"Feels bigger than that Kaifeng those nomadic traders talked about."
The nomads who traversed Central Asia. He'd heard tales of Kitai from trading with them, including one about Kaifeng: a megacity of a million souls where lights blazed through the night, blurring day and dusk in splendor. A canal even ran right through its heart, ferrying ships amid the bustle. Yet here was Constantinople, dwarfing even that legend. Towering buildings and throngs of people solidified his impression.
Lost in the spectacle, the merchant snapped back when someone jostled his shoulder.
"Not the time for gawking. Gotta hit the guild today to get business done."
Adolf muttered as he headed toward the guild.
"Gods above..."
A line snaked out from the entrance. The merchant's jaw dropped. To confirm it wasn't a mirage, he grabbed a nearby man.
"Mind if I ask something?"
The man eyed him curiously. The merchant pointed at the queue.
"Everyone in that line here for the guild?"
"Nah, some are for the mercenaries' guild too."
The merchant sighed in relief, but the man pointed left with a knowing grin.
"Mercs and merchants both handle admin that way. Could be even longer than what you see."
"...So that's not the entrance?"
The man nodded.
"Holy hell."
"Don't sweat it too much. Line'll shrink fast."
"Really?"
"Yeah, see that guy? He's Alberto, head of admin. Him showing up means things are wrapping soon—half a day at most."
"Him? The young one running the whole administration?"
"Yup. Heard he served the Basileus since his slave days."
The bureaucrat looked far too youthful, leaving the merchant skeptical. Just then, the man called Alberto stepped forward and bellowed.
"Those for the mercenaries' guild, write your name and purpose on blue paper. Merchants, use red!"
Other officials echoed the order. Soon enough, a sheet crammed with names reached the merchant—neatly arrayed in boxes: names left, date and purpose right. Revolutionary paperwork. He figured selling sheets like this could rake in a fortune.
"How much longer?"
"Sorry!"
Prodded by the official, he scribbled his details and passed it back. Officials collected the sheets, sorted them, and funneled people into streams.
"Loans left, transit center, new registrations right!"
"Straighten that line!"
True to the man's word, by midday it was Adolf's turn.
"Adolf Gensfleisch, from Mainz. Leather merchant and timber processor. That you?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
"Here to register with the merchant guild for a transit pass?"
"Correct. Heard guild members get free passes, renewable."
The official nodded and slid over a form.
"To join, register a business here."
"What's that?"
"Proves you're operating under the Eastern Roman merchant guild enough times to waive transit taxes. Means setting up shop."
In other words, open a store. Adolf balked.
"I'm traveling to start a shop back home, scraping by as is—can't afford one now."
"No actual shop needed. Just swear to trade here."
Adolf scanned the paper. Tax exemption for transit, but pay taxes in the Empire. Stay a month, trade two bolts of silk or equivalent? Tax-free. Generous terms. His homeland, the so-called Holy Roman Empire, was a patchwork of principalities demanding local taxes per deal, plus transit fees elsewhere—double-dipping. The East Romans waived internal taxes, even for pass-throughs to foreign lands. Downside: guild members had to reside in Constantinople a month yearly. For a long-haul wanderer like Adolf, no issue—he needed bases to stockpile anyway. A sweetheart deal any way you sliced it.
He eyed the official skeptically.
"Sign this, and transit's free for life?"
The man nodded impatiently.
"Yup. Sign, submit, you're done. Next!"
Shooed along, Adolf surrendered the form to another official and received a wooden plaque stamped with the emperors' signatures.
It certified guild membership and transit rights, under lawful rulers Empress Zoi and Emperor Rogerius.
A simple wooden token. Yet the back bore his name, eye color, hair—freshly inscribed, somehow.
"In that short time...?"
Studying it, the leather-and-timber man noted the lettering's uniformity.
"All perfectly matched. Stamped from a plate?"
Hundreds processed daily—hand-signing emperors' names each time? Absurd. Likely pressed into something inked. As a woodworker, his hunch felt solid.
"Wonder how they mass-produce these... If I cracked that..."
Adolf's eyes gleamed. The scent of profit had long erased thoughts of home.
"Body's stiff as a board."
Every muscle knotted from hunching over paperwork all day. Stretching helped, but something still nagged. Gazing out the window at the bustling downtown, I muttered to myself.
"Maybe a walk."
Cooped up in the office, I was climbing the walls. Patrolling the markets under the guise of checking on the populace sounded perfect.
"Incognito, of course."
Emperor sighting would spook the commons. This was just a casual stroll—no need to disrupt lives.
"Clothes alone won't cut it, Your Majesty."
My attendant offered cautious counsel. Post-civil war public appearances had made me too recognizable for mere rags.
"Full disguise, then."
I'd prepped a fake beard for such occasions. Awkward at first, but makeup smoothed it, and plain clothes sealed the deal. With the attendant's deft touch, the mirror showed a stranger. Anyone who knew me would spot it, but it'd fool the masses.
"Disguised like that, where to, sire?"
His worried query got a casual shrug.
"Just check out the markets."