Cocytus peeks at the side. “Oh, hey,” he started. “The Taurus Mountains. Never thought we could see it here.” The Komēs became interested in what he was referencing, and so he took a long look as he raised himself a bit. 

“Huh.” was the only thought Nikephoros could muster. Putting his face forward once more to see where they are now, he said “And there’s Myra.”

The place was still far away. In fact, the moment they were even near there, it was already sunset. Both of them came out the boat, wobbling as it moved. “Have a safe trip,” Cyril told the old man.

“I will, sir.” They didn’t watch the man row away. They passed through the port city called Andriake, climbing through the rocky terrain of Myra. It was still sundown. Many were still awake, just calming down after their work was done for the day.

Nikephoros Tornikes needed to plan, if ever there were something untoward that would happen. He still had to make sure if the pirates, especially those near them which was mainly in the Levant, were going to be a hindrance. There was still the threat of the Turks on land… He needed to ask the locals. 

Those who were out and about that saw them were mumbling to each other. Did their eyes deceive them, is their main thought. It wasn’t immediate, but many greeted the famed Doux. 

His presence has made the people see this somewhat popular yet undoubtedly powerful figurehead. Locals however, they’ve seen what he can do. Especially in this grand mess of war that was ongoing. This gained time for Nikephoros.

Noticing that he was leaving, the doux asked “Where’re you going?!”

“I’m going to a tavern,” the Komēs replied.

“Without me?!”

“You’re occupied,” Nikephoros said before adding “Besides, there’s little time before they’re closed at eight.” He marched on, not looking behind. He heard the other call out to him, yet he was shut down as the doux was overwhelmed with many peasants trying to coax him to either buy at their store, especially after seeing his chlamys, which made them think “this man is rich”. He should’ve done the same as Tornikes…

Nikephoros scouted the area, looking back to see the waves. If we went lower, he would’ve seen the eyes that lingered for a moment. He felt it, yet heed it no mind. Although it was sundown, he heard “GET YOUR KOLLIKION! STILL FRESH!” From the bread roll that was shaped as a ring that he saw from that same vendor, to those foods from the sea that were in a stick.

“DRIED DATES! GET THEM ON A BUNDLE! ONLY 16 BILLON! VERY CHEAP, I SAY, VERY CHEAP!” he heard another. Interested, the Komēs himself took a glance and he was… He couldn’t even think properly without going to the negatives. It was, in his own opinion, worse than what he normally got if he had to put it kindly.

His eyes glinted as he heard someone yell “SILK!” The rest of the things he heard, unintelligible. It wasn’t only from the loud noises of the yells and the crowd he was surrounded by. No, it was from the language. 

‘Something from the east,’ he thought. ’Maybe from those heathen merchants who praised the false prophet.’ He saw the quality and he sneered at it. Even the silk he got from Persia didn't have the look of linen clothes.

He went past the edges of the marketplace, a group of children, no, orphans perhaps, sneaking. Nikephoros had to hold the urge to laugh as he saw the poor vendor of the famed Kollikion got stolen from his stall.

More or less, the vendor attempted to run to them however he went back to his stall, cursing under his breath. These types of moments, alongside drunkards puking on the roads in broad daylight and being dragged, were the ones he would always keep to himself. It was a problem, yes, but it was hilarious to him.

As he walked by, he heard voices. Similar to the vendor with ‘silk’, they spoke in different languages. Wait… no. ‘Speaking in another accent,’ Nikephoros deduced, closing in a gap. Even with such a thing, he could not understand a phrase.

It would be horrible as well to stalk them without much of any plan. But he was interested. He was familiar with this type of accent, but he couldn’t pinpoint it before they left. The only information he got was that the one with the short beard and appalling clothes, at least to his eyes, had a new job. He heard them 

Nikephoros was about to leave them on their own, yet it seems that their paths were the same. When he was close, he was softly yanked away by Cyril. “You leave me behind like that again and I would call you a traitor,” the doux said, jolting Nikephoros out of his thoughts. Raising up his haid, Cyril saw the large sign with a vase and vineyard surrounding it.

“Let’s go. I’ll pay for the drinks,” Cyril offered, patting him on the back before going inside himself. Nikephoros walked towards the tavern, exhaling softly as he entered. 

Like before, there was not much fanfare, only bits of eyes watching him. Most of them were directed elsewhere, yet one pair he saw was wide open, staring at Cyril specifically before going back. Where it came from, he can’t tell, but it was there. His shoulders stiffened.

There were only a handful of people here, chatting amongst themselves loud and proud. Either from the gossip of their own life or because they were playing a game of backgammon. Nikephoros went to the barkeep, sitting down on the stool near it. “How much is phouska here?” he asked.

“Four billon,” they told him.

“Here.” He gave him the amount, getting a large wooden mug with metal inside it, and being poured his drink. It was watered down wine vinegar, which was the only thing he could take on Lent. At least the metal from his cup would make the taste bearable.

As he took a sip, he listened to what the rest were talking about. It was simply the same useless statements that came and went within a week or so. He leaned to the left for a moment, hearing another person coming in this place.

“What’s keeping you tense?” Cyril asked.

Nikephoros shook his head. “Not now.” He lays his head on his palm, taking a sip once in a while. He saw Cyril roll his eyes before buying his own drink similar to his. Nikephoros exhaled and listened close to the background.

“... and I knocked the Cilician Pirates dead!” he heard. It wasn’t much of an interesting topic, but he continues on with it.

“As if!” another laughed. “You didn’t even get to a ship because you said you were scared of the sea!” Now Nikephoros stood up straight. The inflections of their voice, it felt wrong. They spoke in familiar tongue yet it appeared to be something much different than he thought.

“I didn’t say I did! Didn’t say I did go there!” the man he first heard retorted. It was the same accent as the other one had.

“Then how did you fight the pirates then?” a new voice asked. Compared to the first two, this one was normal. Normal in a sense that he was a local. Then came another voice that now questioned him where he was again.

They said, in a gruff and deep voice that was soft yet booming, “They probably sailed on land. You never know.”

That information felt off… Nikephoros took a glimpse at them, seeing either olive or darker skinned men, with either skinny or burly physiques. Two of them even had a river of black hair, straight as ever. They all looked Roman, but it just bewilders him that they were speaking in that manner.

No matter, it wasn’t important. He silently moved on, taking gulps of this sour drink, tasting a bit of its slightly sweet nature. “Didn’t think there would be sweet herbs mixed into it,” Nikephoros said. “Is this why the locals flock to you?”

The tavern owner laughed and shook his head. "No, no," he said. "It's because of this one local that brings in his lyra all the time. Says that he's from Crete but he stayed here because of his work. He tells such odd stories, one might think that they're all lies with how much he details." 

“Really?” Cyril said, smacking his lips after he took his sip. “And you say he’s from Crete?”

“Yes, kyrie.”

“Does he bring you supplies, or does he only tell his stories?” the doux asked.

“Occasionally, he does give out phouska,” the tavern owner started. “Gives it to me monthly, always with some herbs. He always says he had too much.”

“How frequently does he visit this taverna then?” Tornikes asked, dragging away his mug to the side.

“Let’s see…” The tavernkeep stopped their storing. “Always comes in the winter. Never in the spring, only at the end of the harvest.” He stared intensely at both of them “Now, that’s when he’s brought supplies.”

“Spring harvest, hm?” Cyril murmured.

“Eh, possibly,” the tavernkeeper shrugged. “He profusely told me specifically he wasn’t a farmer. It’s from his cousin’s estate, he told us. Since his cousin’s always gone, he’s now living in it.” He whispered to himself “Though I heard that Niketas was a fisherman. If it’s true, then he really did rise up the ranks.”

“He was blessed with connections,” Nikephoros stated, gulping down his drink.

“And so were you,” Cyril replied.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to—”

Pushing his face away to the side so that he would shut him up, which made Nikephoros annoyed. “Yeah, yeah, now finish my drink. I don’t feel like drinking it anymore.”

Nikephoros paused. Immediately after, he took it and held the doux’ face, holding the mug close to his lips. “I don’t want your spit, hence you must finish it. I don’t want your potential sickness to be passed on to me.”

Cyril said something, but it was all gibberish. “What?” Nikephoros asked. With little force, he pushed down the hand that held the cup and responded with “I don’t want it anymore. What are you, deaf?”

The tavernkeeper made a wedge to separate them. “Don’t start that now. People may think you’re drunk and incompetent, especially you,” he pointed at Cyril.

Mildly annoyed, Nikephoros told Cyril “Bah, you and your expensive palette. This is why we’re in this situation.”

“It’s not that bad,” the doux groaned.

“They have a better tongue than yours.” Cyril’s eyes dragged to the table with the men that the Komēs had focused on. Nikephoros shook his head. “So picky.” 

Nikephoros saw something on the hip of one of them. He was silent about it, but he felt that that blade would be used, not sure if it would be for self defence however. It wasn’t too irrational to be cautious. He rose up. “Perhaps I will be with them for a moment, they seem to be better company,” he uttered, walking towards the table.

Cyril was baffled to say anything. It took him a second before he laughed. Shaking his head, he turned to the tavern owner. “Ah right, I had a burning question.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know who’s the cousin of that Niketas you spoke of?”

“Of course I know him. He always spoke of him, he’s told about the guy, uh… Chrysostomos. He says he's quite a famous physician, but by Theos I don’t think even you’ve heard of him.” The tavernkeeper eyed him and the mug interchangeably if he was going to finish it. Cyril took a sip before giving it back.

“I’ve only seen his works, or at least what I think his works are.” The doux scratched his beard as he said “Anything of note happening?”

“Well,” they started. “Other than the preparations of lazarákia tomorrow for Saint Lazarus’ day and the raids that our northern neighbours experience, not much.” 

Cyril sighed. “It seems that I forgot Lazarus Saturday.” He imagined those lazarákia, giving it to his wife even if it would be late. The bread of a man shrouded, the bread with those little wraps either acting as arms or the cloth that covered Lazarus, and the cute button eyes made from cloves. ‘I wonder what she will say about them,’ Cyril thought.