Monopoly (2)
“Fewer people showed up than expected?”
“Why aren't the rest coming?”
Fewer merchants had gathered than originally planned. They could only tilt their heads in confusion at the oddity.
“No helping it. We've already hired the mercenaries, so we press on.”
“Right. Stick to the plan.”
On the outskirts of Constantinople. Patrols roamed the city interior, so they'd deliberately chosen this remote spot to wait for the ordered olive oil.
“They should be here any minute...”
Behind them stood the mercenaries hired by the merchants, weapons in hand.
“Are we really not fighting the Varangians?”
The mercenary's question. From their perspective, no one wanted to tangle with the Varangians—grim reapers in human form.
Sensing their unease, the merchant waved it off dismissively. “No need to worry. Just surround them and threaten—that's all.”
Typical Viking delivery crews numbered two or three. With the merchants and mercenaries here totaling over twenty heads, even the bravest Varangian would quail.
“If threats don't work, we'll have to fight anyway...”
At the mercenary's murmur, the merchant shot him a warning glance. The mercenaries sighed deeply and gripped their weapons tighter.
In peacetime, mercenaries scraped by without steady work. Falling out of favor meant no more gigs, so they had no choice but to obey.
Then came the sound of footsteps.
At the cue, the merchants signaled, and the mercenaries raised their arms.
“They're coming. Weapons up.”
The mercenaries obeyed.
Thud, thud. Odd footfalls, heavier than expected. Even accounting for the weight of olive oil jars, something was off. And the approaching group felt larger than anticipated.
The mercenaries grew restless.
“That sound... chains?”
“And there are a lot of them headed this way...”
Merchants and mercenaries alike sensed danger. Some mercenaries edged toward flight, but the enemy arrived first.
Chainmail and helmets. Vikings armed with menacing axes and shields emerged.
The threatening aura made merchants and mercenaries alike swallow dryly.
Over thirty strong. No sign of olive oil anywhere. Instinctively, the merchants knew their plan had failed.
At this rate, their heads would roll across the ground soon enough. Desperate to live, they invoked the Mavrozomis family, patrons of the merchant guild.
“Y-you bastards! D-do you know who we are?”
“R-right! If anything happens to us, the Mavrozomis family won't stand for it!”
The merchants' threats made the Vikings step back. Heartened, the merchants thought it was working.
But the glee was short-lived.
“Mavrozomis family. So you're with the merchant guild.”
A massive man in a face-obscuring Viking helmet stepped forward from the ranks. His scarred torso filled the merchants with terror; they backed away unthinkingly.
But retreat meant death. Gritting their teeth, the merchants held their ground.
“R-right! W-we came here to stop you Varangians from price-gouging!”
A terrified shout. The giant burst into sudden laughter.
“Puhaha! That's the funniest thing I've heard. You're no merchants—you're clowns.”
“Y-you...”
Flushing red, but none dared advance. Like sheep before wolves.
The giant pointed at them knowingly. “Kill them all.”
His word stunned merchants and mercenaries alike.
“Aren't you afraid of the Mavrozomis fa-family?!”
The merchant's cry fell on deaf ears. Vikings charged, weapons raised.
“Gaaah!”
“H-heek! S-spare me!”
Mercenaries resisted fiercely, but against battle-hardened Vikings, it was futile. A few veterans held their own.
“Form up! If we don't, we'll break—gack!”
They parried for a counter, but the Vikings didn't wait, swarming to cut them down swiftly.
A one-sided slaughter. Most mercenaries fled.
“I-I don't wanna die.”
“Th-this isn't right!”
As mercenaries bolted, the merchants followed suit.
“L-let's run too!”
“Survive first, worry later!”
Vikings blocked their path, weapons high—no mercy for merchants as for mercenaries.
“N-no!”
“G-guhk...”
Heads flew. Screams echoed till dawn, unheard by any.
* * *
“All taken care of, sir.”
Halvar removed his Viking helmet, reporting the night's work.
“All merchants eliminated. Fine work.”
“Yes, but... why let the mercenaries go? If they talk...”
Halvar's question made sense—they might report it.
“I've prepared bribed merchants to frame it as treason. No issue.”
The merchants' deaths were self-defense; we'd struck first only after their attack. Modern eyes might quibble, but medieval Roman law viewed murder gravely yet leniently on self-defense.
Overkill rulings were avoidable. Plus, they'd hired mercenaries to rob our olive oil—banditry, punishable by death, flogging, or enslavement under Roman law.
“Sparing the mercenaries minimizes our losses, but also spreads the word deliberately.”
“Deliberately, sir?”
“Sending this to the guild would warn them nicely. But we can't...”
I picked up one of the severed heads Halvar had brought.
“So we'll let the mercenaries show what happens if you side with the guild.”
It was warning enough, but some merchants might persist—subtly, hiring thugs to scare off buyers. Hard to catch, so better deter mercenaries from guild contracts altogether.
“Brilliant, Lord Rogerius.”
“Any mercenary with brains won't touch the guild now.”
As we spoke, Alberto approached.
“My lord, a guest.”
“Mavrozomis family, no doubt.”
“Yes.”
“Faster than expected. Escort to the receiving room. I'll handle it.”
Alberto bowed and moved to greet them.
“Then I'll take my leave.”
Halvar moved to go upon hearing of nobility.
“Come with me.”
“With you? I'll shed the armor first.”
“No. As is.”
“Understood.”
Halvar looked puzzled but followed to the receiving room.
The man rose at my arrival. Trimmed beard, hair oiled expensively—a noble scion through and through—greeted me.
“Lord Rogerius... no, Uranus. I am Theodore of the Mavrozomis family.”
A curt bow, dismissive of my outsider roots. I let it slide; other priorities.
“Sit.”
“Very well.”
Theodore eyed bloody-armored Halvar sidelong, as intended.
“Apologies. I was hunting with my deputy and came straight here unannounced.”
“Ha... haha. Hunting? Nearby game is scarce in...”
Awkward laugh. Constantinople was a metropolis—no hunting grounds. My claim drew natural skepticism.
“Haha. I have a secret spot. Care to join next time?”
“N-no need. Th-that aside, I'm here because... trouble hit the merchant guild suddenly.”
Flustered, he pivoted.
“Merchant guild? What happened?”
He glared, as if accusing me of evasion. Suspicion, no proof—he couldn't voice it, just seethed silently.
“Some merchants vanished.”
“Why come to House Uranus?”
“Don't play coy. Some went missing after buying your olive oil!”
Face purpling, I dropped the teasing for the main point.
“Ah, yes. You mean the bandits who hired mercenaries at dawn to steal our oil?”
Theodore gaped—news to him, apparently.
“Local merchants said they planned to torch His Majesty's palace with it.”
“O-olive oil arson on the palace?! What n-nonsense!”
“Why so rattled? Did the Mavrozomis family orchestrate it?”
Banditry was grave; baseless treason atop it forced denial.
“N-no! Why would we? This is slander!”
“Then why mention the guild and seek me out?”
“That's...”
Theodore paled, leaving empty-handed for his family.