Argyrus started towards Haraldr.
Good,
Haraldr thought,
let me do what I came to do, before my wits are seduced by this luxury.
But a eunuch whispered in Argyrus’s ear and he stalked off to the entrance vestibule at the far end of the room. The doors opened and a flock of shimmering eunuchs bustled into the hall, followed by a group of very young, very pretty women; almost all of them had their hair coiled on both sides of their heads, and the tightly wrapped tresses were traced with sprials of sparkling pearls and gems. The resplendent young women tried to appear grave and dignified as they entered, but they began to talk animatedly and even to giggle as they were greeted by the other guests and absorbed into the crowd. Then everyone turned expectantly towards the doors.
She is not real, was Haraldr’s first thought of the woman who now entered the hall. She is the product of the Grik artist who can surpass nature. Her hair was raven-black, and the pearls set into the twin coils glittered like the lights of the city. Even viewed from across the room, her cobalt-blue eyes were luminous. She wore a tunic of the sheerest alabaster silk veiled with gold floral patterns, yet both her front and back were more modestly concealed by a long, rectangular, scarf-like garment of gem-studded crimson brocade.
‘Maria,’ said Marmot-Man worshipfully, as if the name itself were a confession of love. For some reason Haraldr repeated the name softly to himself. He remembered that Maria had been the name of Kristr’s mother, the Queen of Paradise.
‘She is Her Imperial Majesty’s cousin,’ volunteered Marmot-Man. ‘The Mistress of the Robes.’ Marmot-Man wandered towards the vision, drawing Haraldr with him. Two young, arrogant-looking men attired like officers of the Scholae followed Maria into the hall; the longing in the soft brown eyes of the thinner of the two was obvious, and it made Haraldr wonder what his own face now betrayed. Another man entered after the two officers. Haraldr felt as if a sword had whirred through his legs at the knees, leaving the severed halves stacked like segments of a column; if he so much as leaned forward a thumb’s width, he would collapse.
The Norseman who walked into the hall was a giant, as tall as and even broader than Haraldr, and yet he bore his enormous strength casually and gracefully. He had a sensitive, slightly feminine mouth and a high, intelligent forehead; the silk-fine hair that swept straight back to his jewelled collar seemed dusted with gold. Haraldr had expected Mar Hunrodarson merely to be a more detestable thug than Hakon; this man had the noble stature of a king. How could he be Mar? And yet if he was not Mar, who was he?
‘Who is that man?’ asked Haraldr urgently, his blood icing at the frozen look on Marmot-Man’s dark little face.
‘The Hetairarch,’ he answered with a tremulous voice.
‘His name!’ demanded Haraldr, irritated by his own rising panic.
‘The Hetairarch . . .’ repeated Marmot-Man weakly. He waved his arm like a drowning man, apparently trying to draw the attention of his master.
Nicephorus Argyrus had already moved to greet the Norseman with an effusion that he had shown towards none of the other guests; he chattered nervously and flicked his hands about. The Hetairarch glanced over at Haraldr, but the look was idle, uninterested. Maria turned to the Hetairarch and in a familiar, faintly erotic fashion touched the Norseman’s sleeve with her beautiful white hand; Haraldr could see the statue-firm contour of her arm through the gauzy sleeve of her tunic. The two officers who had accompanied Maria made no attempt to mask their glaring disapproval of this contact. Haraldr understood their ire; for a moment he, too, was a jealous boy, raging as he watched his secret love make love to another.
Nicephorus Argyrus flicked his hand towards Marmot-Man and without a word the Marmot-Man scurried away from Haraldr and joined his master and the Hetairarch. The three men and Maria studied him more than casually; their discussion was fairly animated. Unarmed, tongueless without his interpreter, Haraldr felt naked and chained. Had Nicephorus Argyrus been the ruse all along? Would Mar - if this was Mar - kill him here, a mere entertainment for the Empress City’s decadent elite?
The three men and the woman walked towards Haraldr, bringing along the other guests. The beauty of Maria numbed his fear; if this was his Valkyrja, then Odin favoured him even in death. Maria moved like a dancer, her hips swaying gently, exposing a heart-stopping curve as her flank swished against the sheer tunic. Her laughter was like music, her delicate white fingers languorously stroking the air as she talked.
She was close enough that he could smell her, an indescribable fragrance, like a rain-drenched, exotic flower but with the merest hint of musk. Her bow-shaped lips relaxed whimsically, almost teasingly. Her eyebrows were thick, almost gold-tipped near her nose, then thinned and darkened as they rose and fell in gull’s-wing curves.
Maria spoke to Marmot-Man, then looked up at Haraldr. Her eyes seemed to have lights behind them.
‘She wonders,’ translated Marmot-Man, ‘if you know that we Romans have a legend that a fair-haired race will destroy us.’
Haraldr was taken aback; her delivery had been trifling, yet the question was taunting, ominous and melancholy all at once. Let Odin reply, he told himself. An ancient voice whispered back. ‘Yet among us,’ Haraldr said with an evenness that surprised him, ‘it is the dark-plumed raven who heralds doom.’
Marmot-Man translated. The gull-wing eyebrows rose slightly, and Maria looked at Haraldr with mixed surprise and amusement.
Maria spoke again and Marmot-Man turned to Haraldr. ‘She wonders if you know this Tauro-Scythian prince everyone is looking for.’
Again the sword went through Haraldr’s knees. Could they have tortured Gleb? How many knew? His forehead seared. Even Odin could not offer him a response.
The Hetairarch saved Haraldr with half a dozen sentences in mellifluous, perfectly accented Greek. He ended his discourse with a wry smile but did not seem amused; it was as if he were scolding the rest of the guests. Haraldr was certain that his heart could be heard thudding in the chastened silence that followed the Hetairarch’s discourse. The Byzantines began to whisper self-consciously among themselves. The Hetairarch turned to Haraldr.
‘I told them to stop badgering you with that fable,’ he said in Norse; the accent was Icelandic. ‘I told them that a single Norseman could come sailing down the Bosporus in a hollowed-out log, and half the people in the Great City would proclaim him this mythical Norse prince leading the force that will finally sack Constantinople. It is incredible. They are surrounded on every side by very real enemies, but they have decided that we fair-hairs, who have loyally served them for three score years, are going to pull their walls down, all because of one incident lost in the mists of time, and a few prophecies. When you get to know these people as I do, you will realize that for all their knowledge, they are sometimes like credulous children. I suspect you might be worried about false accusations being directed against you or one of your men. But don’t be concerned. No one has come up with even a single hair of this supposed Norse prince, and the authorities have closed the matter. It was all rumours to begin with, and now it is nothing but dinner-party gossip.’
Haraldr’s lingering guilt was overwhelmed by relief. This man was hardly his enemy. Perhaps he was even a rival to Mar Hunrodarson. ‘Thank you,’ he said stiffly offering the Hetairarch a polite nod. ‘I can see there is much I need to learn.’
‘We’ll speak again, comrade,’ said the Hetairarch genially; he raised his eyebrows conspiratorially. Haraldr could scarcely wait to tell Ulfr and Halldor that he had discovered an ally, a Norseman with considerable knowledge of the Griks and their curious ways. Already he had been given priceless intelligence.
Maria apparently had become bored by the exchange in the guttural
barbaroi
tongue, and her lips grazed the ear of the stouter of the two officers of the Scholae who attended her. The fashion in which she smiled as she whispered was almost like a hand on Haraldr’s genitals; it was as if his previous conversation, with all its terror and relief, had been blown from his mind by a gale of lust. He was certain that Maria and this blue-eyed officer were lovers, and with a curious sensation, both sickening and thrilling, he imagined her naked and writhing with passion.
Nicephorus Argyrus stepped forward and placed his hand on Haraldr’s arm. He spoke to everyone and they laughed politely as he swept Haraldr out of the circle of guests. ‘My master told them,’ translated Marmot-Man, ‘that they can examine the fair-haired agent of our destruction during supper, but for now we must discuss the demise of the enemies of Nicephorus Argyrus.’
Marmot-Man and Haraldr sat behind a large ivory table; Nicephorus Argyrus stood in front of a wall covered with truly extraordinary mosaic. It was a map of the world that Haraldr had previously only vaguely assembled in his mind. Though the names were in Greek, he thought he could make some sense of the places. The gilt eagle certainly marked the Empress City; there was the thin blue slit of the Bosporus, the oval of the Rus Sea, Rus, Estland, Sweden, Norway, Anglia, even Iceland. But where were Greenland and, far to the west, Markland and Vinland? Clearly these Griks are not all-knowing, he surmised. Still, it was daunting to see the vast expanses of Blaland and Serkland that they had mapped; the extent of Serkland, which extended so far to the east that it seemed to wrap up half of the world orb, was particularly astonishing. Nicephorus Argyrus’s gold signet ring rapped against the mosaic at a point just below the boot shape of what appeared to be Langobardland. He barked a single word; Marmot-Man quickly translated.
‘Pirates!’
Nicephorus Argyrus ejaculated a few more words, almost as if he were angry at Haraldr.
‘Saracens, yes, uh, Afrikka, that is, Blaland . . . uh, Maumet’s men, heretics,’ Marmot-Man said, fumbling.
Haraldr nodded. Saracen pirates who sailed the waters off Blaland. He had heard tales of them since he was a boy. They were said to be vicious, tricky, and their ships were as quick as narwhals. But surely the Griks, with their fire-spitting
dhromons,
feared no pirates.
Nicephorus Argyrus went into a long discourse that sounded like a recitation of dates, names, numbers. None of it made much sense.
‘He’s recounting the cargoes that have been lost to the Saracens in just the last year. He says that he alone had to sell three good estates in the Bucellarion
theme,
as well as his monastery near Chrysopolis, simply to cover his losses.’
‘Monastery?’ asked Haraldr.
Marmot-Man looked at him incredulously. ‘A community of monks.’ He rolled his eyes at Haraldr’s continued lack of comprehension. ‘Black-frocks,’ he said as if to a slow child. ‘Men who devote their lives to Christ.’
Is there no end to the strangeness of these Griks? wondered Haraldr. So these black-frocks are Kristr’s wizards. And wealthy men can buy and sell them like trains of Pecheneg slaves!
Nicephorus Argyrus rapped the mosaic map impatiently.
‘He offers you ten fast ships with tackle and provisions, one solidus per man guaranteed, and thirty per cent of any booty above twenty solidi of gold per man.’
‘How much is a solidus?’ asked Haraldr coolly. He was determined to deal hard, as he had seen his brother Olaf do so many times.
Nicephorus Argyrus unlocked a small cabinet set in to the wall next to the map. He removed a bulging chamois sack, thudded it onto the table, removed a small embossed gold coin, held up one finger, and said, ‘Solidus.’
Haraldr pondered. Twenty solidi was considerable gold, though only a fraction of the entrance fee for the Imperial Guard. But catch the pirates when they were laden with plunder - that would be essential to vanquishing them, anyway - and yes, they could well exceed such sums.
‘Your ships,’ asked Haraldr. ‘Describe their construction, number of benches, armaments and condition.’
Nicephorus Argyrus rattled off specifications. The ships were light galleys of the type that had initially greeted the Rus fleet in the Bosporus: thirty benches, about the size of a Norse dragon. They had heavy arrow launchers, but of course Haraldr must understand that only Imperial vessels were permitted to carry ‘liquid fire’.
‘Ten solidi per man guaranteed,’ shot back Haraldr. ‘Fifty per cent of all booty, period.’
Nicephorus Argyrus frowned at Marmot-Man and barked something in Greek that was not translated, but the general thrust was clear: ‘I thought you told me this boy was a bumpkin who would trade a dozen gold arm rings for an iron kettle.’ Then he turned his comments to Haraldr.
‘He doesn’t think you understand your position here,’ translated Marmot-Man with a slithering menace in his voice. ‘You have entered the city under his escort, with the assurance to the authorities that you were in his employ. And you have enemies here, perhaps even in this house, against whom only Nicephorus Argyrus can protect you. His terms are fair. Still, his generosity is legend. He will offer you three solidi per man, and forty per cent above fifteen solidi. He’s taking enough of a risk as it is. What if these pirates add you to their plunder? He’s lost ten good ships.’
Haraldr’s stomach churned at the bald reference to his enemies. And in this house? Was the Hetairarch in fact Mar? No, Norsemen did not smile at their mortal foes. Then it occurred to him that it was in the nature of the Griks to hide the problem at hand behind an imaginary concern.
Yes,
he told himself,
you’ve struck this Nicephorus Argyrus a good blow. Follow it up.
‘And my men are risking their lives,’ said Haraldr with a hard edge on his voice. ‘What good are your ten ships sitting in the harbour? Does Nicephorus Argyrus think that five hundred more Varangians will come down the Dnieper tomorrow? If he doesn’t like my terms, let him find some camel drivers to sail his ships. We Norsemen know what our skills are worth.’
Nicephorus Argyrus clapped his hands sharply. The doors to the little room slid open immediately, and in popped two stocky, dark-faced men in steel jerkins. They aimed the steel points of their spears at Haraldr. He leapt forward and grabbed a shaft with each hand and jerked the spears back so violently that the guards crashed against the wall. He kneed one guard in the gut and left him doubled up on the floor, then dropped the other with a mighty hand slap to his ear. He picked up one of the spears and turned on Nicephorus Argyrus.