Traveller Probo

The massed Vikings cursed and spat, their sweaty, bearded faces savage and blood-splattered. One thin, haggard man, had only one eye. Their weapons glittered sharply in the afternoon sun and as scarred and shattered shields were held in defence they looked impenetrable, terrifying, and filthy.

Osborne had just stepped back from bloody combat against them. He felt the heat of the sun on his neck, the strain of the shield on his left arm and the weight of his sword on his right and he shrugged his aching shoulders to relax the strain. They had been fighting for what felt like hours and he experienced the beginnings of a deep weariness. There was the itch of the chafe of his armour and helm, a trickle of sweat as it ran between his shoulder blades. This was a tough fight, one worthy of their team’s efforts and endless training. Beside him, Poxon cursed, having received a glancing blow from a shield that had bashed his helmet and would blacken his eye. McAlister spat a laugh and cursed the Vikings, who glared at the men arrayed before them. His laugh did not taunt them but they noted who to kill next.

As if on signal, one swordsmen launched himself at Poxon with a grunt. The sword glanced from Poxon’s parry and, as Osborne leapt to his aid, the attack was diverted and shields clashed violently, knocking Osborne back a couple of steps. He stumbled over the body of a Saxon farmer who had lain trodden underfoot for the past hour. The stumble was enough for the Vikings to take advantage of an opening and a spear lashed out, to be blocked. Shields clashed again, body-weight and sheer strength shoved briskly and Osborne’s slight stumble and the additional clash opened up his defences. There was a lightning flash of a long-handled Viking axe. Historians later assessed the Viking axes to be more effective in battle than a sword but what did they know? When teamed with a spearman and a shielded sword-bearer, the Travellers found the combination of spear, shield and sword, and axe well-nigh impossible to beat. McAlister managed to disarm the spearman but the momentary lapse in defence was enough. The axe fell on Osborne’s undefended bicep to sever tunic, muscle, blood vessels, nerves, and bone in a deadly blow just millimetres below the protective sleeve of his specially crafted Kevlar armour. There was a spurt of bright blood and his shield, with his arm still in it, fell to the muddy ground.

Osborne felt numbed, momentarily confused, wondering why, for just a moment, he could not bring the shield back into position.

Then the awful pain hit him.

He stared in surprise at McAlister, whose wide-eyed look said it all as blood sprayed heavily onto his squad-mate’s already filthy tunic.

The Vikings did not laugh nor attack but stood ready and just smiled.

***

Osborne would always wake from the dream with a start. No cries of despair, no dramatic lathers of sweat, just a sense of tragic loss that felt as if it would break his heart. During the lonely night hours, he felt the grinding sorrow of a career and his life ruined.

Sometimes he wished the axe had finished its job in the mud and blood of Giolgrave.

But at least, he had to remind himself, he still had his arm.

Having admitted the recurring dream to only a couple of his therapists, it had been immediately diagnosed as post-traumatic stress. It was all perfectly normal apparently, especially when his horrific experiences were taken into account. There had been some quiet admission he was not the only one suffering. Most other participants in Saxon Traveller had been diagnosed with various symptoms of PTSD.

Osborne fought to overcome what he considered to be his own personal weakness. He had since taken up what he would have once called ‘new-age poofter therapies’ such as yoga, meditation, and other treatments to clear his mind, mend his body and sooth his heart. Osborne was dissatisfied that he now was now treated as ‘special’. That he could not do what he thought everyone else could. The dreams always seemed to intensify his feelings of inadequacy, feelings that threatened to turn him into an emotional basket-case.

He decided to rise, for to attempt sleep was now futile. The hotel room was comfortable but purely functional; a king-sized bed in a room with an adjoining bathroom. It was nothing special, despite the kitsch Turkish decor that was a token for tourists. He washed his face and looked at his reflection, his blond hair and bushy moustache framing a homely pleasant face with deeply-pocked skin thanks to a nasty bout of adolescent acne. Osborne had to control this emotional war, get busy, and live again. His red-rimmed eyes gazed at him accusingly. Despite it being only 4.30am, he decided the best course of action was to take to the streets for a run. The weather had been pleasantly cool and Osborne had enjoyed the gentle rain that freshened the past couple of mornings he had been in Istanbul.

Never having officially been to Turkey before, Osborne knew that if it was known that he had been a military adviser to the Kurds, the friendly Turks might not have been so welcoming. Putting on his running shoes, Osborne reflected at how, for the first time in his life, he felt utterly lost, cast adrift on the journey of life. He had tried to regain some equilibrium by returning to his roots in the Australian country town of Rockhampton, only to be jarred by the town’s dramatic changes.

Things were too different. It was not the place he used to visit when he had grown up on the farm.

He was grateful for the solitude the flight to Turkey offered, isolated as he was from the rest of his fellow business-class passengers by headphones and eye-covers. Once in Turkey he was met by Parker and fellow ex-Traveller Sergeant Ian McAlister, the British SAS Londoner who made no secret that he was delighted to see his old brother in arms with both arms attached. Despite his badly broken nose, McAlister looked as if he had put on a little weight and softened, his awesome physique somewhat wilted. But as they chatted and joked, Osborne again experienced that familiar feeling, the surge of adrenaline that meant a mission, a purpose. Despite his years in some of the world’s most dangerous fields of conflict, nothing had given him a rush of adrenaline quite like when they were Transported to Saxon England only a few years ago. Ultra-fit, superbly well-trained and strong, they strode into battle like gods. Their years of training had taken over. He thanked God, whichever God that might be, that when the chips were down they had performed admirably. The villagers had been freed from the Viking threat and all of the Travellers had lived but there had been a cost.

There was always a cost.

He had been in Turkey only a couple of hours when they met briefly with Professor Taylor, who appeared to be even more a tweedy academic than ever. He was excited about the mission and they chatted together over the mind-numbingly strong, mud-like Turkish coffee that Osborne adored. Taylor had been circumspect about Osborne’s role but being part of the new team was enough for the Australian. He had no delusions that he could be sent to the Byzantine Empire of the early 11th Century, his arm had seen to that. But he couldn’t help but wonder how would the lads fare, dragging Taylor about?

Parker told Osborne he had been training Professor Taylor physically, just to increase his fitness. When asked how he had progressed, Parker just shook his head.

Osborne smiled grimly to himself. The thought of taking on a bunch of hostile Vikings while minding Professor Taylor would be a hell of a challenge. He hoped, for the sake of the team, that it would not happen. It would cost lives. Looking at the positives, Osborne knew he had a lot to offer and would not be in Turkey if he wasn’t needed. After all, he was fluent in Kurdish, Turkish, Latin and Saxon and was certain he could quickly learn the Greek spoken in the Byzantine Empire. Except for Parker, he was a most experienced Special Forces trainer with a formidable reputation. That in itself should help smooth their decision-making progress.

The act of getting out of his hotel room and into the weather seemed to calm his busy mind. Even now, in the modern fashion stores of Istanbul, he glimpsed images of the Saxon Traveller lads in their kit and whiskers. Their fame would be difficult to escape. For this mission, he would have to use any leverage he could to make sure he was a participant.

Traffic was light and he ran from the gaudy shopping district where his hotel was located and soon found himself in a quiet industrial area. The foreshore was bathed in light as cranes moved shipping containers. Later, Osborne was to meet Professor Taylor with more of the Traveller team, including Turkish military who had given permission for the project to proceed. According to Parker, there were conditions. Lacking the money for the Traveller project, the Turks still required that their own Special Forces were involved in ‘Byzantium Traveller’, while their academics would receive all raw data. The Turkish military stressed that they be included in all levels of the project’s research and planning.

While Osborne’s arm was still painful as he ran, the sensation reminded him that it was attached and functional. Thankfully, his arrival in Istanbul had not been noticed by the local media. Though eagerly awaited, the Byzantium Traveller project was yet to be officially launched. There was still a lot of critical backlash from events in New Zealand but that was being successfully hosed-down by spin-doctors from nations eager to engage in their own Traveller-based historical research. Negative publicity helped no-one but there had been an unspoken understanding that, though on-site dangers to those involved in historical research should never be underestimated, a safer and more productive mission format could be developed.

In Australia, Osborne had been briefed on-line by Professor Taylor on the known details of the New Zealand Traveller disaster. He knew the New Zealand team, having worked loosely with Pokere and Elkington and having met the others involved. It was all a damned tragedy and the men were soldiers of the highest calibre. He hoped the inevitable court-martial would show them to be the heroes they were.

As he skirted the busy waterfront, Osborne ran past remnants of the old Byzantine city wall. The ruins of ancient Constantinople astonished him. There were so many relics in Istanbul that many ruins had been merged into modern structures. Churches had long ago been transformed into mosques. The new was built upon the old and always would be.

In his exertion and sweat, his bitter thoughts evaporated into the shadows and his left arm began to feel more like his old limb again. Osborne ran past the Sultanahmet tourist precinct where the historic Hippodrome, old Constantinople’s horse racing arena, had once stood. He thought enviously how, providing all went as planned, the Travellers would see and experience this ancient city in its glory. The stunning Blue Mosque shone nearby, ethereal and abandoned in the pre-dawn. At the crossroads of Europe and Asia, Constantinople, as Istanbul had been known, brimmed with history at every turn. As he stretched, he was forced to accept that his arm would always be stiff and lack the strength and smooth coordination he used to enjoy. He could hold a railing but was shaky with a wine glass and definitely not steady with a knife or shield. Despite his efforts, his days as a two handed warrior were finished. What he now had to offer was his knowledge and experience. The younger, fitter lads should have their place in the sun.

Others would never know how much that admission cost him but he understood it was an integral part of his healing process.

The city the Travellers would visit would be staunchly Christian and warlike, the heart of an enormous and powerful empire that spanned many cultures and peoples. In the 11th Century, The Byzantine Empire was at its pinnacle, for no power in today’s Europe and the Middle-East would ever be so well organised, administered and wealthy. Traders from Italy, Egypt, China, Russia and Germany visited Constantinople to trade for enamels, silks and purples produced in the capital’s factories. Professor Taylor had already advised that the Byzantium Travellers would act as traders, which should excuse language difficulties the team might experience, while permitting them to stay in the city for a few days, see and photograph what they could and then get out, fast.

As he contemplated the nearby Hagia Sophia, formerly the mightiest basilica of Christendom and now a museum, he imagined how the building must have looked in its original glory. The thought of the sights the Travellers would experience caught his breath. Even to be here in Turkey filled Osborne’s heart with hope and excitement, so he returned to his hotel in a much better mood. Ezan, the Muslim call to prayer, rang out from varied sources, signifying it was six o’clock. Istanbul’s spectacular mosques loomed from the city skyline while rocket-like minarets marked almost every corner.

As he entered the gold and mirrored reception, the pretty night-manager looked up in surprise from what, Osborne was certain, was either on-line shopping or Facebook. “Good morning miss,” he said in accented Turkish, “God be with you.”

“Good morning sir, God be with you,” was her automatic response as her amber eyes watched him in obvious surprise.

They chatted for a while as he asked her about the immediate area and, before long, he had her laughing at a couple of his corny jokes.

By the time he made his way to his room, Osborne had made a friend. She was named Fulya, an architecture student. The hotel belonged to her family and her brother should have been on the desk but was unwell from a little excessive drink. As he slept in the adjoining office, she looked after Reception for him. Osborne also learned that one of the other rooms near to his was inhabited by two Turks booked by the same government office that had booked his. The rest of the hotel was filled with businessmen and tourists from various parts of Europe. Fulya liked French fashion and chocolate. Her other brother was an engineer in the Turkish Navy.

As Osborne walked to his room, he wondered about the other guests booked by the same government office.

He smiled to himself. It was always amazing what one could learn from a friendly receptionist. It would pay to keep his eyes open.