Mercenary Corps (1)
"But..."
A mountain of gold, silver, and treasures loomed before me. Silks dyed in Tyrian purple more precious than gold, porcelain etched with ornate patterns, jewelry studded with gems the size of eyeballs—all glittering in the light.
"This seems like way more than what we planned to send to the bereaved families."
The centurions had followed my lead, donating portions of their own shares to the families. Even after that, we'd captured so much booty that everyone still had plenty to spare.
"It's impossible to send all this to the families..."
Not that I had any personal greed holding me back—objectively, transporting this much wealth by ship or wagon was out of the question.
"Muslim pirates or bandits would come swarming like moths to a flame."
Even the Muslim pirates feared Viking raiders. But this haul was tempting enough to overcome that fear. Sure, we could divide it up and send it in batches, but that would take too long—and the families might starve in the meantime.
"We'll send as much as we can for now..."
Still, there would be leftovers. I pondered what to do with them.
"Investing it could generate steady profits and create a reliable income stream."
One of the best ways to grow wealth was through investment. And conveniently, Constantinople, the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, was where merchants from East and West converged. A melting pot of cultures, it naturally attracted innovators waiting for backers to turn their ideas into reality.
"The problem is, this isn't my money."
Sure, I could use my authority to seize it outright—no one would challenge me. It wasn't the most honorable path, but if I claimed I'd sent it all to the families and embezzled it anyway, the rank-and-file mercenaries had no way to verify it. Even if they found out, they couldn't touch me. No mere soldier could topple the commander of the emperor's guard, truth or not.
Yet I had no intention of embezzling it. Beyond my conscience, pocketing this fortune would shatter the trust I'd built with the troops. Money could be earned back, but lost trust? Irrecoverable. It was what my father always said before heading to work. As his apprentice, I'd witnessed the miracles trust could work firsthand, so I'd chosen to follow his path.
Back to square one: it wasn't mine, so I couldn't spend it freely. No investments, then. But that didn't mean there were no options.
"If we form a mercenary corps and make it communal property, then invest and share the profits, I could convince everyone."
The emperor's guard, the Tagmata Ton Varangion, was already a mercenary outfit of sorts. But it was backed by imperial funds, making it more like a regular army. So why not create a true mercenary band and establish a proper mercenary guild?
"Invest under the corps' name, reap profits, and divide them up."
It felt like a modern labor union. In this medieval world, it was closer to a guild. Like a merchants' guild, I'd protect the interests of the members—our mercenaries.
"A mercenary guild... feels kinda fantasy-like..."
In real history, proper mercenary guilds were unlikely. Fantasy tales had them joining guilds to pick up quests, but real mercenaries' lives were different. Connections were key. When nobles or merchants needed guards or war broke out, a mercenary captain with ties landed the job. Some led standing bands, but most were freelancers, hired via networks. Jobs ended, shares were paid, and they scattered. No fantasy guild with quest boards or greeters.
"Doesn't matter right now."
To use communal funds, we needed a collective name. That was it. So, a mercenary corps it would be.
The soldiers, basking in post-Ohrid bliss, couldn't return yet—the war wasn't fully over—but they counted days until home, dreaming of bright futures. Selling just one of those porcelain pieces could buy a house and fields for their families back home. Smiles bloomed on every face.
"Haha, finally, I can buy a house in Constantinople too."
"A house? I could snag a string of prime warhorses that'd rear up on command."
"I'll use mine to chase the dreams I've always had."
Amid this happy idyll, a new notice went up on the camp bulletin board.
"Anyone here who can read this?"
Most mercenaries were illiterate. Notices meant nothing without a reader.
Then a kid who looked bookish puffed out his chest. "Greetings, sirs! I'm Alberto. For just one silver denarius, I'll read it right now!"
The denarius—ancient Roman silver coin, debased over time until it crashed. After Constantine I unified the empire, it was replaced by the solidus gold coin. Obsolete in the East, it lingered in old Roman lands: Gaul, England, Hispania, Italy. Bulgaria still used it.
"A whole denarius to read a notice?"
"Cheeky little brat."
"Special circumstances, right? And you're all flush—think of it as charity to a kid like me. Hehe."
With their fat purses, a single silver was pocket change.
"Fine. But read it clear."
They handed over coins. Alberto doffed his helmet, pocketed them, counted with a grin, and beamed.
"Of course! Here's what it says..."
Mercenary Corps Recruitment
The remaining spoils meant for the bereaved will be invested under our collective name.
Join the corps, and profits from those investments will be shared by ownership stake.
This is voluntary. Non-joiners take their full share.
—Rogerius Guiscard Hauteville
"Investment? What's that mean?"
"Never heard of it."
Alberto explained. "Investment means giving up current gains for bigger ones later."
"Give up now for more later?"
"Exactly. Success means more than your share now; failure risks the principal."
True to his noble birth, Alberto grasped economics and broke it down simply: upsides, risks.
"Investing in the future... but mercenaries die young. What's the point?"
"I live for today. Better take the sure thing."
These men risked death daily; the future felt distant. Lukewarm response.
Alberto prodded. "Fair enough. But what if you survive but lose an arm or leg?"
Silence fell. Lose a limb, and mercenary work ended. Eyes or ears weakened you, but you could still fight. No limbs for weapons or armor? You were done—unemployed scum.
They knew comrades' grim fates. Fear of tomorrow stirred.
Alberto stepped forward. "Invest now, and even without work, you won't starve. You might earn more than as a merc."
"Kid's lying to grown men."
"If it paid that well, who'd fight?"
"Merchants do it. You think they got rich just selling goods?"
Investment dated to Rome: sodales funded public works in colonies, got paid, split profits. Evolved into medieval merchants' guilds—pooling for trade risks, maximizing gains, minimizing losses. Needed numbers.
Alberto pressed. "Sell your booty, get rich quick—but spend it all, and back to the sword. Low odds of surviving another big score like this."
Rogerius's unit had delivered this haul, but no guarantees.
"Your choice, sirs. Plenty want in anyway."
He pointed: a line already formed at the tent.
Panic hit. Herd mentality kicked in; they queued for the future, forsaking the now.
"Master'll be pleased."
Alberto watched with satisfaction, flicking a silver coin, sly smile on his face.