Haraldr left Gleb far behind as he sprinted along the bridge of lashed-together Rus ships, hurdling railing after railing. Damn fool Lyashko. After they had entered the harbour that afternoon Haraldr had been called upon by an official announced as the ‘Legatharios to the Prefect of the City’, a pale, emaciated man dressed in the most intricately embroidered silk robe Haraldr had ever seen; though the Legatharios had merely gazed into some metaphysical distance throughout the interview, his interpreter (the first Norse-speaking Byzantine they had met who was not a eunuch) had issued a long set of directives Haraldr and his men were expected to observe under the Byzantine-Rus treaty. The Byzantine officials had expressly instructed them to lash their ships together and remain anchored in the middle of the harbour until a complete inventory of their cargoes and crews could be taken; any vessel leaving the rank was to be considered, in the interpreter’s words, ‘a brigand, and will be dealt with as such by elements of the Imperial Fleet’. Haraldr had spent the rest of the day making certain that every shipowner and pilot understood the Byzantine orders. A single ship out of formation and the lurking
dhromons
might be provoked into attacking the entire Rus fleet.
Haraldr must have leapt over a hundred railings before he saw the crews that had crowded the ships next to Lyashko’s. He moved through the jabbering, excited throng, and the exclamations of ‘It’s him, It’s him’ and ‘Hakon-Slayer’ and ‘Mighty-Arm’ began to circulate. He reached the gap in the line of lashed-together ships and looked across the murky water. Nothing.
‘He left like that, Jarl!’ said a gnarled old pilot with an eye patch, slapping his hands briskly. ‘Nobody could stop them! Elovit, there’ - he pointed to a boy with linen wrapped around his arm - ‘took a good cut. They’da killed us!’
Kristr damn Lyashko. Haraldr continued to search the black water between the line of Rus ships and the harbour, but he could discern nothing; the lights from the harbour didn’t illuminate the entire stretch of water, and even Lyashko wasn’t enough of a fool to go in with a lantern shining from his mast.
‘Close this gap! shouted Haraldr. ‘Get a torch or a lantern up on every cross spar and keep them burning. We’ve got to convince the Griks there’s only one renegade!’
Halldor and Ulfr arrived, both out of breath. Halldor made sure that Haraldr’s order started down the line. ‘Find a healer for this boy,’ Haraldr told Ulfr. He looked out over the water again and thought he saw the silhouette of a Rus river ship against the fringe of light spilling from the docks. But the fleeing shape slipped back into the night.
Lights began to appear from the mastheads of the Rus ships. As if in response, rows of lanterns appeared before and behind the Rus ships at a distance of several hundred ells. Haraldr watched the flaring lamps with utter horror. The lights were paired, one from each mast of the mighty
dhromons.
The beasts were stirring in the night.
The
dhromons
bellowed as they had during the day, but their lights remained motionless, a still, precise constellation against the dark water. Haraldr searched the brilliant formation for movement. The beasts bellowed again. Again Haraldr saw the darting grey silhouette of Lyashko’s ship.
Two lights began to move, passing the motionless row of similar pairs. They were tracking in the direction of the evanescent silhouette. The twin lights moved swiftly, heading east almost a thousand ells away.
In an instant the night became day. With a whooshing, roaring sound, a liquid comet, a searing, exploding rainbow of fire, arced over the water. The huge flame-spitting snout of the
dhromon
glared like molten gold. At the other end of the terrible arc, Lyashko’s ship exploded in a volcanic pillar of flame.
The storm of fire almost immediately wilted the rigging of the Rus ship and the human forms that for an appalling instant could be seen staggering within the inferno. Daylight burst again, and the water itself began to burn around the red-veiled shape of the boat. Before the brilliance of the second fiery rainbow had faded, a third spout of flame arced from the
dhromon
in a monstrous exhalation.
Lyashko’s ship, laden with wax, simply exploded. A ball of fire thundered back into the sky and rolled towards the vault of heaven. Only splintered timbers were left to be consumed by the flaming waters.
The rows of twin lights, their work done, winked out, leaving the blazing slick to light the pall like a solitary, eerie eruption from the darkest depths of the sea.
Haraldr spent the rest of the awful night staring out at the incandescent city from the prow of his ship.
The dragon I have slain,
he told himself,
was merely a toy of the mind, a creature of my thoughts. Tonight I have seen real dragons, the creatures wrought by men, and they are infinitely more terrifying. And how, if I must, will I ever slay them?
The backs of the porters glistened, doused with the heat of the high afternoon sun. Haraldr stood uneasily on the dock, trying to regain his sense of the earth beneath him. He imagined he would never become used to the din of this city. It was a human cataract that roared, shrieked and buzzed unceasingly.
‘Five more barrels and we’re done!’ sang out Gleb in his happiest growl. ‘Then we’ll drink Greek wine and all have aching skulls in the morning!’
Haraldr was about to turn to Halldor and ask him to check on the progress of the off-loading of the other Varangian ships. They all needed to gather and discuss--
‘Haraldr Nor-briv.’
Haraldr stared in astonishment. The dark little man tugging at his sleeve looked like a marmot, dark and hairy-faced and no larger than a five-year-old Norse boy. He wore a dirty, pale yellow cap, tied round his head with a ribbon, and a faded, yellow silk robe with several tears and holes in it. He might have just crawled out from a burrow, but he spoke Norse!
‘Quickly, quickly, Haraldr Norbriv. You have five hundred Varangians conscripted with you. Nicephorus Argyrus knows; indeed he does.’ The marmot-man pointed to the crest of the city where the great palaces ran on endlessly. ‘Nicephorus Argyrus. Yes, indeed he does know.’ The marmot-man chuckled conspiratorially. ‘Well, he wants all five hundred. Yes, yes, you heard me correctly - all five hundred.’ Marmot-Man tugged frantically at Haraldr’s sleeve and tried to pull him closer. His breath smelled like fish. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. ‘Nicephorus Argyrus offers you five bezants to enrol each man, and wages to consist--’ Marmot-Man broke off and his dark pupils dilated with fright. He manoeuvred himself behind Haraldr.
Haraldr turned at the sound of hooves, clamouring on the paved street that ran by the wharf. Mounted on dazzling white horses, a contingent of perhaps two dozen men in short red tunics, bronze breastplates, and kilts made of leather strips swept aside the dockside traffic; they were armed with short, thrusting swords and long-shafted spears from which flew scarlet-and-gold banners.
The horsemen stopped in formation a few paces from Haraldr. A single rider moved forward, reined his immaculately groomed horse, and looked down at Haraldr. The rider had clipped-short dark hair and beard and taut, leather-tough, tanned skin. His hard, unflinching eyes were coloured like the Rus Sea at dawn.
The horseman peered around Haraldr and saw the cringing little Marmot-Man. He exploded in a fury of apparent obscenities, lowered his spear, and teasingly prodded Marmot-Man and sent him scurrying off. Then he turned to a handsome, barrel-chested blond man in the first rank behind him and spoke rapidly. Haraldr heard the words
Nicephorus Argyrus, Varangian
and
Basileus
mentioned. The dark-haired horseman didn’t seem faintly amused, but the blond-haired man smiled, showing perfect white teeth, and shook his head.
‘Aral-tes . . . Ork-vit. So-ree. No . . . talkTauro-Scyth.’
The dark-haired man held up his hand. ‘Wait.’
Haraldr understood the crude stab at his name and the message. But Tauro-Scyth? Was that the Greek name for Norse? As Haraldr considered this two more figures emerged from the dockside traffic and walked towards him; the two men daintily pulled up the hems of their street-length blue silk tunics and gingerly picked their way over the paving stones as if they were walking on cow dung. Haraldr immediately recognized the arrogantly contemplative Legatharios who had so studiously ignored him the previous day, and the short, blond-haired interpreter who had instructed him in the treaty provisions.
As he had the day before, the interpreter carried a stack of documents written on a curious, very thin, and supple membrane unlike any parchment Haraldr had ever seen; the neatly inked characters seemed to dart across the page like busy insects. The interpreter spoke for a moment with the dark-haired horseman. Haraldr sensed a controlled but still quite evident antagonism between the two; he also noticed with great interest that the Legatharios was ignoring the Byzantine horsemen as magisterially as he had the Rus
barbaroi.
The dark-haired horseman reached into a leather pouch attached to his saddle and produced a folded, curiously purple-tinted document tied with a cord secured by two coin-shaped seals, one of red wax and the other seemingly pressed in lead, or perhaps even pewter. He handed it to the interpreter.
The interpreter placed the sealed document beneath a single sheet on top of his stack. Then he turned to Haraldr and read from the sheet. ‘First, Haraldr Nordbrikt, I wish to convey the concern of the Imperial administration over the impudent and unprovoked violation of harbour-protocol on the previous evening. Any further contradictions of Imperial authority can result in the abridgement of privileges extended under the terms of our mutual agreement.’ He paused and removed the message from the top of the sheaf. ‘We are almost finished checking off your cargoes. When the process is completed, the Prefect will require your entire contingent to re-embark for your final berthing place near St Mama’s Quarter. As principal authority over the Rus fleet, Haraldr Nordbrikt bears overall responsibility for the orderly execution of this procedure.’
‘St Mama’s Quarter?’ asked Haraldr.
‘The traditional lodging place for you Rus. Outside the walls.’ The interpreter pointed to the western terminus of the harbour.
‘Then we are not to be permitted into the City?’
The interpreter sniffed with contempt. ‘Once approved by the Prefect, the Rus will be admitted to the city. With escort, and in groups not to exceed fifty men.’ The interpreter cut off the discussion with a curt nod. He handed the sealed document to the Legatharios, who pressed it to his forehead and then kissed it. Then the Legatharios broke the seals, made no attempt even to unfold the sheet much less read it, and handed it back. Kristr, these Griks are curious, thought Haraldr. Does anyone here do anything for himself?
The interpreter unfolded the document and read it carefully. When he had finished, he spoke to the Legatharios, who snapped back at him irritably. Then the interpreter spoke to the dark-haired horseman, who responded in a steely tone. The only words that Haraldr recognized in the exchange were
Varangian
and
Basileus.
But there was also another name which was repeated - Joannes - always preceded by some sort of lengthy, tongue-tangling title. And the name Joannes seemed to settle the matter.
The interpreter glanced at the document and then looked at Haraldr and gestured with his hand as he spoke, as if paraphrasing. ‘This Topoteretes of the Imperial Scholae requests that in your capacity as commandant of five hundred Varangians you assemble your men when you reach St Mama’s Quarter. You are to be lodged separately from the rest of the Rus. When you arrive, present this order to the Imperial official in charge of final disembarkation. Then you will be escorted to your quarters.’
The interpreter handed the document to Haraldr. The writing was in Greek, and in a reddish ink. The broken seals seemed to be impressed with the likeness of a bearded man with long hair; he held a staff with a large ornamental knob. The back of Haraldr’s neck tingled. Was this the Emperor?
By the time Haraldr looked up again, the Legatharios and his interpreter were gone, and the horsemen had wheeled their mounts and cantered off in stately procession.
‘This is certainly no prison,’ Haraldr told Ulfr and Halldor. As he paced, his footfall resounded off the green marble floor and echoed through the vast hall. ‘Could it be one of their barracks?’ He bent over and examined one of the cots that ran in long rows, separated by an aisle, the hundred-ell length of the room. The simple wood frame of the cot, though dented and nicked in places, had been smoothed and finished. The linen-covered mattresses were yellowed and covered with the rings of old stains, but they seemed to have been washed. And they were stuffed with cotton, not straw.
Halldor sat down on one of the mattresses. ‘There’s no inn in Iceland this good. Perhaps they aim to soften us up with comfort. Then . . .’ Halldor drew his hand across his neck and grinned.
Haraldr couldn’t share Halldor’s amusement. He strode to the row of elegantly arched windows that lined the inner wall of the hall. Through the clear panes of glass - some were cracked and a few were missing - he could see the Varangians milling and arguing in groups on the broad lawn that covered the large interior court of the building. Beyond this court was a parallel wing of the huge villa, also filled with beds. At the left end of the court was a complex of empty stables and locked rooms, and at the right end were more rooms and a gate flanked by two large marble pillars. The wooden gate was open, and a wagon loaded with numerous sacks of grain and barrels of ale or wine had just rolled through. Haraldr had no doubt that the gate would again be locked behind them once the stores had been unloaded.
But other than his suspicion that they were under a polite form of arrest, Haraldr had no signal of what the Griks intended to do with him or his pledge-men, and he was wondering of the Griks themselves knew. And what about Marmot-Man? He was no official, but he knew’ about the Varangians and was trying to hire them, apparently for someone named Nicephorus Argyrus. One thing was certain, however. Haraldr couldn’t let the Griks’ confusion or subterfuge infect his relationship with his new followers; he had already heard one of the malcontents grumble to the effect that Hakon would already have had them feasting in the Imperial Palace. It wasn’t a moment too soon to organize the men into companies and begin to fashion them into a disciplined fighting unit. There, at least, he was on secure ground; as a boy he had seen Olaf turn ragged raiding parties into well-schooled armies a dozen times. And the thought occurred to him that if he was to one day be a king, then he would have to begin his own training. Now.