In the terminal of a large train station, in some city east of Bulgaria's capital, steam trains arrived every moment in the bustling station. Some of them, completely loaded, unloaded hundreds of passengers onto the platforms before quickly departing for the next stop.
During the day, such commotion in a large station like this might seem normal, but that was not the case—the sun had long since set, and a great full moon had taken its place in the skies.
Yet, without any sign of stopping, they continued to arrive, with people disembarking from the trains carrying large suitcases. They were mostly women, dressed in beige and white dresses without ruffles or elaborate details, accompanied by children in simple clothing.
The few men who could be seen disembarking were elderly, wearing suits with bowler hats or top hats; they too carried large suitcases and, in some cases, were accompanied by their partners or younger women with children.
The children, as soon as they stepped down from the trains, gazed at everything around them with sparkling eyes, filled with childlike animation and the eagerness to explore a new place. The adults, however—with dark circles under their eyes, pale skin, rumpled clothes, and a slight tremor in their hands—showed a perceptible relief that washed over their faces upon disembarking, for they had finally arrived safely in Bulgaria.
Such relief was in no way unusual, given the Ottoman offensive against what remained of the Byzantine Empire in Asia; they had left everything they owned behind, except for what they could carry.
Homes, shops, farms, livestock, and even some relatives—some who had stayed to fight, or who simply lacked the means to flee. Yet, even after abandoning so much and facing a desperate scenario that still awaited them, they considered themselves fortunate.
The once-mighty Byzantine Empire, now cornered into a small portion of its vast territory, was under pressure from the greatest offensive since the war's beginning.
It still fought with all its might, bolstered by aid from several European nations, but although this support kept the troops' morale high—especially since the papal bull—none of them wanted to risk staying in Byzantine territory and face the chance of not escaping if the front lines collapsed.
— Hiss —
Drawing everyone's attention, a locomotive arrived at the station, coming from the opposite direction of the others.
Unlike the rest, it was not only larger and more robust but also bore the flag of the Byzantine Empire on its sides: a golden cross with four beta letters ("B") of matching colors in each corner of a square field.
It was a military transport, with a uniformed man at the controls of the locomotive, yet it was still covered in golden and silver adornments along its entire length.
Moments after stopping, the door of one of the cars opened, revealing a station agent. Elderly in appearance, with a large white mustache meticulously groomed, he wore a fine blue uniform with golden buttons and a cap on his head.
Though he had dark circles under his eyes from the grueling work routine he was enduring, his uniform was impeccable: shoes and buttons polished to a shine, his clothes clean and perfectly pressed.
With quick and precise movements that belied his true age, yet carried a graceful air, he descended from the train.
Stopping near the door, he shouted in a thick, booming voice that echoed throughout the station, even amid the bustle.
"Last train to Constantinople! Departs in 30 minutes!"
As he spoke, another man—this one younger, dressed similarly—descended from the train and set up a table with two chairs outside. In a swift and orderly manner, within minutes they were ready and began collecting information from the people boarding.
Not just there, but this repeated in each car of the train, with other agents gathering details from those wishing to embark.
"I need your name, age, nationality, whether you speak Latin fluently, and what your occupation was."
The queues that formed were composed exclusively of men, aged between eighteen and thirty-five.
A little distance from that, seated on one of the station benches, a man stood up.
As soon as he rose, curious glances from those around turned toward him, due to his appearance and attire that resembled that of an officer.
But not from this nation.
Stretching, the young-looking man—around twenty-six years old—wore a dark blue German military overcoat with coarse black gloves. He had thick, vibrant red hair and stood about one meter and eighty tall.
After finishing stretching his arms, he picked up his backpack and headed toward the queue.
Approaching one of them, he took advantage of the few people in it to join. While waiting for the others to answer the questions posed by the two agents, he began looking around the station.
Several men in military uniforms were bidding farewell to their families and loved ones before boarding; among those farewells, one caught his attention.
It seemed to involve a couple, and since they were close by, he could overhear their words.
With tears welling in her eyes, a woman embraced her husband tightly.
"Goodbye, dear; I'll be waiting for your return."
Noticing the hands embracing him trembled, the man tried to calm her with a broad smile and a confident tone.
"Don't worry, darling; I'll be back soon after defeating those Ottomans!"
However, the woman, despite her husband's attempts, hugged him even tighter, in a vain attempt to keep him from leaving.
"...Darling, I have to go; I can't let them fall—that's for us..."
Finally, after some moments, she reluctantly let him go.
"...I'll be praying for you every moment."
After saying that, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
They were a young couple, no more than twenty-five years old each.
"Next."
Snapping to at the call, he realized the queue in front of him had vanished—it was his turn. With that, he quickly walked to the table, stopping beside it.
The agent, unconcerned with his delay, took a blank sheet of paper and began repeating the same questions.
"I need your name, age, nationality, whether you speak Latin fluently, and your occupation."
"My name is Klaus Schmidt von Kamiński; I'm twenty-five years old; my nationality is Prussian/German; yes, I speak it fluently; and my occupation is mercenary."
With an inkwell, the agent glided the tip across the paper with precision, noting everything he said, but upon hearing the last piece of information, his hand trembled, breaking the flow.
Moreover, sounds like tongue clicks came from the other people in the queue.
The older agent, lifting the pen tip from the paper, turned to Klaus, as if verifying he'd heard correctly.
"Mercenary?"
With a surprised look, he examined Klaus from head to toe, evident disbelief in his eyes.
"Yes, mercenary."
Upon confirmation, the younger agent, with a look of contempt, began staring at him. But unlike him, the elder maintained a cordial and respectful tone.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Schmidt, but this isn't your car; this one is intended only for expeditionary soldiers and volunteers."
"...I understand; so where do the mercenaries go?"
"They've been placed in the cargo cars," he said, pointing in a direction, "at the end of the train."
Looking in that direction, Klaus turned back to the old man.
"I see; thank you for the information, and I apologize for the inconvenience."
After a slight nod of the head, he turned to leave, but the agent interrupted him.
"Mr. Schmidt, take this document with your information; it'll save you from queuing again."
Finishing the form, the old agent handed it to him.
"Thank you."
With that, turning his back, he headed toward the end of the train.
The old agent, watching him walk away, once he was at a distance where he couldn't hear, commented to his assistant.
"How rare..."
"What?" Puzzled by the remark, the younger one turned to him.
"...A mercenary speaking Latin and so well-dressed—it's not something you see every day."
Unable to grasp his superior's surprise, he questioned him.
"What stops him from lying and having stolen the clothes from some corpse? It's not like mercenaries are considered reliable..."
As he spoke, complete disdain for Klaus was evident.
Noticing this, the old man sighed.
A good agent has to be polite to everyone... even to them...
Though it might seem personal, it wasn't; mercenaries weren't well-regarded by the general populace, as they were usually drunks or criminals in peacetime. They could cause serious trouble in remote towns due to their military knowledge.
There was even a famous gang of criminals whose members were all ex-mercenaries who had fought in the German unification.
"No, I've known many mercenaries, but none like him...
Even knowing these facts, the older agent didn't believe they applied to that man; though without solid proof, he trusted his judgment in sensing something different about him.
From just a few words, it was clear: he spoke Latin fluently, was well-mannered... exuding an aristocratic air...
"...Well, let's continue. Next!"
...
Approaching the end of the train, Klaus spotted an old cargo car ahead, made of wood and iron, with some rotten wooden parts forming holes and sections of the metal already heavily rusted. Nearby, like the others, an agent was taking information from the mercenaries right beside the entry, which was a sliding door.
Approaching, passing by a long queue, he headed toward the agent. But this one, unlike the previous, gave a completely opposite impression: unkempt beard, messy hair, worn and dirty clothes with missing buttons, and the few he had rusted.
While the agent yawned, noticing Klaus's approach, he sized him up from head to toe.
"Go to the end of the queue," he said, clicking his tongue.
Unbothered by the agent's attitude, Klaus showed him the form he carried and handed it over. The man, surprised, took a few seconds to react before finally taking the paper.
After examining it for a moment and confirming everything was in order, he let him pass, along with a warning.
"We take no responsibility if any of your items get stolen."
Passing by him, Klaus went to the car door, where he was hit by a strong odor—a mix of drink, spoiled food, urine, and sweat, compounded by the stuffy interior, as there were no windows in the car.
There were already mercenaries inside, most drinking in groups and playing cards. With no benches, they used barrels and crates as seats and tables, their overcoats from various nations—from Russian to Portuguese—serving as padding to soften the hard surfaces.
Because of that, they wore only a thin fabric, beige in color with stains and some bullet holes.
Klaus, ignoring the strong stench emanating from the place, entered the car and headed to an empty corner, where, after finding a clean spot, he sat down.
Knowing he still had some time before departure, he opened his backpack.
As it was a large backpack, there was a great quantity of items inside: food, water, various types of packages, and some metal pieces. Ignoring the first ones, taking the pieces, he began fitting them together.
While assembling in silence, he listened to the conversation of some mercenaries playing cards.
"Ha! I win again!" he said, laughing as he scooped up the coins from the makeshift table.
"You bastard! How is this possible!? You're going to bankrupt me!"
"Hahaha, don't worry; you'll have a chance to win it all back once you're hired! But of course, pray we're not on the same train on the way back!"
A third mercenary tossed his cards onto the table and stepped away.
"I'm out..."
"What? Why? We just started!"
"You've cleaned me out; I don't know if I'll even have enough to buy something to eat when we get to Constantinople..."
"Come on, let's do this: you can bet the money you'll earn there after the war; we'll call it a loan!"
"You're a shameless rat! Isn't what you already won enough? That would be plenty to get back home without even fighting!"
"Haha, my houses charge a lot—by the hour or by service; that won't last a week in the capital's brothels!"
Disbelieving, the second mercenary shook his head.
"You're crazy..."
"I don't want to hear that from a gambling addict. So, what's it going to be?"
The other two, after exchanging quick glances, agreed.
"That's it! I need you to finance my next stop, hahahaha!"
"I bet you came from far away for the reward they're offering..."
"Yeah... I reckon you'd go to hell itself if they paid you well..."
Dealing the cards, the mercenaries resumed their game.
Having finished assembling a weapon from the pieces he'd taken from the backpack, Klaus leaned his head against the car wall.
They'll pay well... but is this reward worth all that?
Thinking about the current war, he recalled what he'd read in newspapers and heard in bars and alleys: a few years earlier, the Ottomans had attacked the Byzantine Empire, but the reason or culprit was unknown, as both sides accused each other mutually of starting the conflict.
The tide of war was entirely in favor of the Ottomans, who crushed anyone who stood in their way with unstoppable force, having advanced to less than 100 km from the Byzantine capital. With great effort and the help of various European nations, the advance had been halted, but now the war had reached an impasse where both sides were strengthening and preparing for what many believed would be the conflict's most brutal phase.
***
Outside the car, the time for the train to depart had arrived, and the railway agents from each section of the train were finishing their final checks and stowing the tables inside the cars.
With everything ready, the train sounded its whistle, releasing a cloud of steam, signaling its departure.
With that, it slowly began to move, while the families outside bid a final farewell to the volunteers who had boarded, approaching the windows, tossing flowers and women waving handkerchiefs to their loved ones.
"Good luck!"
"I'll be waiting for you!"
"Don't die, you rascal!"
Amid shouts of goodbye, it finally left the station.
Some time after the train's departure, with the crowd already dispersed, a young woman arrived running through one of the station gates, stopping right beside the tracks where, just minutes before, the locomotive had been.
"Damn! We missed the train!" she said, clutching her head.
Wearing a cloak that covered most of her body, leaving only her face visible, she drew strange looks from the people around her.
Shortly after, catching up to her, three other people arrived. The first, a handsome man wearing a large gray coat and dark brown hair, around twenty-seven years old, stopped near her and dropped two large suitcases on the ground with a loud thud.
"If the young lady thinks about it, she'll remember why we were delayed." Irritated, he approached the young woman and struck her on the head with the side of his hand.
"Ow!"
Placing her hand on her head where she'd been hit, she grumbled:
"It wasn't my fault..."
"Oh, really? Then whose was it?" he asked, his eyes burning with anger.
Preparing his hand again, he waited for her response, but was interrupted by the second man.
"There's nothing more to be done, Axel; what happened can't be changed..."
Though he was the oldest in the group, with white hair and a wrinkled face, he had a broad and muscular build, wearing a black vest over a white shirt. Stopping beside him, he set down the two suitcases he was carrying.
"We'll have to go there on foot..."
"Mmmph brumahhfmsh jdbdi"
The third and last to arrive, the shortest in the group, appeared to be the youngest, around fourteen to sixteen years old. Like the woman, he also wore a cloak to cover himself and held some kind of sweet bread in his hands.
"How about swallowing your food before speaking?"
Ignoring Axel and the youngest, the woman asked, looking at the eldest with a serious and hopeful expression.
"Do you think we'll get there in time if we go on foot, Atius?"
Pausing for a few moments, he replied:
"Well... by train it must take about a day, so I believe we can get there in two days on foot, or even sooner, as long as we don't run into people on the way."
"Great! So we can still get there in time to stop them! Let's get moving!"
This time, having swallowed his food, the youngest spoke.
"'Try to stop them,' I think that would be more accurate..."
But, struck lightly on the head with a fist, Atius called his attention:
"Don't be so negative."
Pouting at that, he turned away.
Ignoring him, the woman turned abruptly toward the exit and said:
"Let's go!"
At that moment, due to the sudden movement, the hood of the tunic she wore began to slip, revealing for a few moments hair of silver color. However, the old man quickly prevented it from falling off completely.
"Miss, I'd ask that you be more careful with your hood so we avoid drawing too much attention."
Speaking in a light tone, Atius had a threatening smile.
"Urgh. Yes, sorry!"
Reacting to his expression, she shrank back a little, like a dog after being scolded.
Seeing the situation, Axel sighed as he commented:
"Frankly, I believe when we return we should teach the young lady some proper manners."
After that, beginning to move, the four left the station toward Constantinople.