northern Egypt. The houses
there were forsaken, the buildings here were simply unoccupied, as
if their owners were just out on business, due to return
anytime.
John followed the cries of the seagulls and
the swelling sounds of the city until he reached the opening in the
shield. There were five of them. One each at the northern, eastern
and western end of the city, and one in both harbors respectively.
Not more than an archway in the sheer shield, broad enough to
accommodate a large vehicle, but easy to miss, if one didn’t know
what to look for. The gates were not guarded, people were free to
come and go as they pleased as was the case in every other shielded
city.
The magnitude of Byzantium hit John like a
storm front as soon as his steps took him inside. The noise he had
grown accustomed to as he was nearing the city, although it did
grow exponentially when he entered the town; but the stench made
him gag now; it took him a few minutes to get so used to it that he
was able to resume walking. He dimly noticed a little boy laughing
at him, and a girl with huge eyes tugging on his robe, asking if he
needed help. He waved them both away.
It was not seven o’clock in the morning, and
Byzantium was already buzzing with life like a busy beehive.
Merchants were up and about, shooing their donkeys on to carry
their goods to the market. Groups of people were walking together,
shopping baskets in hand, chatting and laughing. Children were
chasing chickens across the street. The little boy who had laughed
at John was already back at his mother’s side. The girl with the
huge eyes sat on a doorstep and chewed on a fig. She watched John
with curiosity. It was impossible that her eyes could widen even
more, but they did when John squatted down in front of her to ask
for the way to the bazaar.
He had to walk through almost the entire city
and cross the canal to get to the ancient centre of the town. The
bazaar was a huge marketplace that stretched over several streets,
some of them canopied. If possible, it was even bigger than John
remembered it. Several dozen merchants from all corners of the
city, sometimes the world, were offering every imaginable item
possible. The main alleys were located between blocks of flats.
Because the merchants’ carts were lined up on either side of the
streets, there was little space in between. The customers were
plenty, though; they stood cramped but patiently, waiting for their
turn or at least for the crowd to move so they could get on.
Salespeople yelled at people to try this and that, customers
haggled over the heads of the person before them in line, tourists
got robbed, locals got threatened, and the one who yelled loudest
was always in the right.
John had actually missed spectacles like this
one during his self-imposed exile in Africa. From the basket of a
passer-by he stealthily swiped a bunch of grapes for breakfast. Not
joining the mob, he sat down on the ground, a few metres away on
the side of another street, and just watched. They were even doing
business from the windows of the houses: Someone would holler their
order, and promptly a basket got lowered down in which the customer
could place his payment. Then the basket got hauled up again, and
when it came down a second time, it contained whatever article had
been requested. Sometimes it wasn’t the article the customer
wanted, or less than they thought they had paid for, and then a
verbal fight would ensue, in which other customers and merchants
would join in. A commotion would rise, abuse was bellowed, fists
were shaken, offspring was cursed; and in the end the missing
objects, or the originally ordered items, would find their way to
the buyer, after all. No foul done, no honor discredited—it was
just the way grocery shopping was done in Byzantium.
After a while John began scanning the faces
for someone familiar, a way in. Someone he could approach to do his
own business. But it had been years since he’d last been
Roger Stone, Robert Morrow