A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

Eric and Mikhail reached an agreement.

Afterward, Eric chatted with him a bit about Plato. Of course, Plato was no longer the main point; it was just to bring the conversation back around to its original purpose.

Eric had originally planned to have Mikhail help him sell his spoils of war, but when he tried to leave through the Plataea Gate to head for the Pisan ships docked at Pulau Sipilian Port, he was stopped by the guards.

The guard demanded that Eric present a pass issued by the Emperor. Although it had only been three hours since Brinyos led them through the Plataea Gate, and this was the very same guard from before, the man still refused to let Eric pass.

This was clearly on the Emperor’s orders—something he had undoubtedly arranged from the very beginning.

Eric avoided a confrontation with the guard, realizing the Emperor’s orders surely didn’t end there. As he continued to explore Constantinople, he soon discovered his movements were restricted to the area near the Blacherna Palace. Without exception, the guards at the gates to other districts of the city refused to let him pass.

Eric surmised that the Teutons were likely under a similar strict confinement in another part of Constantinople, as he had yet to encounter a single one.

When Mikhail had told Eric about the Teutons causing trouble in Constantinople recently, he hadn’t known Eric’s identity, so there was no reason for Mikhail to have deceived him.

...

Night fell on Constantinople. Beneath the orange, palm, and plane trees, music and laughter filled the air. The soft light and shadows from lanterns danced playfully as crowds milled about.

Bronze lamps hanging in the trees and on balconies cast their light through colored glass. The scene was a beautiful, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of color.

Beautiful women emerged from their homes and onto the streets, as if for some sort of festival in Constantinople. Their fingertips were dyed with henna, and their eyes were brightened with kohl.

Many wore combs in the back of their hair, with light scarves tied to them, but every woman’s attire was unique, beautiful, and captivating.

All the women here were dressed in silk, as were many of the men.

In the past, Coptic silk from Egypt, Persian silk, or silk produced in Constantinople itself had been more popular. Nowadays, however, Spanish silk surpassed all others.

Almeria was renowned for its women’s headscarves and its brocades for curtains. Lighter silks, velvets, and damasks, in contrast to heavier satins, were crafted in Catalonia and Valencia.

Many of the court robes and clerical vestments in Constantinople were now ordered from Spain.

Eric returned to the tavern where Belem and the others were. The establishment was run by a converted Andalusian Moor, a man who shrewdly used his foreign roots to his advantage, drawing in customers with an exotic flair. There was hardly a trace of Greek influence to be found; from the decor and the waitstaff to the food, everything was thoroughly Andalusian in style.

Accompanied by Moorish musicians, a beautiful Moorish waitress was singing. She won the patrons’ applause with a low, lingering melody—a love song about a Desert Knight—before launching into a wild, fierce song of war and vengeance.

The tables were laden with all manner of food.

There was a type of pastry sausage called *carra bige*, made with chopped almonds and walnuts mixed with sugar and drizzled with melted butter. The mixture was rolled into a thin pastry and baked for about fifteen minutes. It was served with a spoonful of *natifs*, a light concoction of whipped sugar, egg whites, and orange-blossom water.

There was also rice dressed with lemon juice, Egyptian meat pilaf, Egyptian fritters, green and black olives, batter-fried brains, similarly batter-fried thistle hearts, and a dish called *kebaeba*, made from a mixture of beef, pine nuts, and crushed wheat.

There was a Syrian dessert named *louzine saparzel*, made from quince, almond flour, and cardamom seeds, cut and served in small squares. There was also a rose preserve, made with rose petals, sugar, and lemon.

There were skewers of roasted beef, lamb, and chicken, served steaming hot with a variety of sauces. There was wine from Aquitaine and Italy, as well as sweetened *qahwa*.

The guests ate, enjoyed the entertainment, and chatted amongst themselves.

A Venetian regaled a few other patrons with legends of voyages to faraway lands—vague, hazy tales of grim cliffs and roaring seas, of temples, gold, and peculiar cities.

Several Greeks loudly recited verses from Virgil, praising the past glories of the Empire.

Arabs boasted to the Venetians about the hitherto-unexplored countries they had recently visited and the exotic wares they had brought back.

Some Moors lamented the grim state of Córdoba, cursing the power-hungry and venomous Emir and recounting how the civil war forty years prior had destroyed their great city, the great capital of wisdom.

Of course, a larger crowd was gathered around a Moorish prostitute demonstrating how many silver coins she could stick to her sweat-slicked chest. One of the men shouted, ”She’s cheating—she used honey! I’ve had a taste.”

Belem, Stephen, and the others each had a Moorish prostitute on their arm. They were drinking a special Arab date wine infused with cinnamon leaves and eating a dish called *ful medames*. It consisted of fava beans, boiled eggs, and lemon, and they scooped it up with bread as they talked.

Eric also noticed that, without exception, the whole group had changed into new clothes, with Stephen’s attire being the most magnificent.

Stephen very seriously began to describe his new outfit to Eric. He was wearing trousers called Silvar—loose-fitting black pants made from wool as fine as a cicada’s wing, with the luster of silk. His short jacket, a Damir, was of the same material and decorated with gold thread. Beneath it was a Qi Ben, a shirt of the finest silk. He also wore a red silk sash and a black wool Cloak of the same material, but this was inlaid with gold thread and red patterns.

The most absurd of all was Belem. He had gotten himself a complete Arab-style outfit, complete with a dark red turban on his head. A white Cross had been crudely stitched onto it. Belem also had a jeweled dagger tucked into his sash, which he immediately pulled out to show off to Eric.

An exquisite-looking line of Arabic script was engraved on the dagger’s blade.

”The original price was one hundred gold coins, but I managed to haggle him all the way down to fifty! An absolute steal! It’s supposed to be high-quality work from Damascus, and it was the last one they had when I found it!

It’s a shame, I was going to get one for you, too. Look, it’s even got an inscription! It’s supposed to be a blessing of some kind. Look how beautifully it’s engraved,” Belem boasted smugly to Eric. (One hundred Byzantine Gold Coins are equivalent to one pound of gold.)

Eric was left speechless. The Arabic inscription on the dagger read: ”There is no god but Allah.”