Aaron rowed the boat across the stinky ithsmus. He’d caught wind of a feast planned that 1437 evening at the palace in Athens, and if he was going to meet Sultan Karpathy at the port, he’d better hurry. But the Turks didn’t make it easy, fighting their little civil war like a Muslim version of the Spanish armada.
He had a pretty good idea he’d landed in the right year, three hundred years before his most recent stop at the councils of the de Medicis. Most times he conjured up the right place, but he backfired occasionally. He’d wanted to dine with the Pilgrims in Plymouth for turkey dinner – but instead, he’d landed in an Appalachian country field with a bunch of gobbling turkeys, two weeks before Thanksgiving, dodging bullets from Pennsylvania hunters.
Byzantium didn’t please Aaron Aardvark, smelled too much like urine. But he had to be blunt – that afternoon, he got more nookie in three hours in the prison bath than he’d gotten in that Appalachian field (a confused hunter had gotten a new, eye-opening experience out of it) or would’ve gotten with the Pilgrims.
The Turkish men and the women just crawled all over him. “Hey you,” he said to the concubine on the other end of the boat, the Amazon beauty he’d sniffed when heading back from the port, “what’s your name?” But she didn’t speak English or Hebrew (Aaron’s only other language), so she just grunted and spread her legs open for him. He plugged the horny concubine right there in the boat and then headed straight for Greece after docking. He traveled fastest alone, and he needed to hurry to make it to the sultan’s feast.
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