Byzantium

Gleb came scrambling spryly up the mast, his limp no handicap in the rigging. He frowned as he appraised the dancing gold on the water.

The fleet was approaching rapidly. Haraldr counted perhaps a hundred large ships, surrounded by several hundred smaller supporting vessels. Though still too distant for an accurate gauge of length, the biggest ships were clearly of enormous size, with double banks of oars, twin masts, and what looked like huge gold beasts – perhaps panthers or bears – looming at both bow and stern.

‘Dhromons of the Imperial Fleet.’ Gleb spoke as if he were describing a huge wave rolling towards them, a natural phenomenon that a man could only curse helplessly in his last instant of life. ‘Fire- ships.’

‘In what formation?’

Gleb cleared his throat with an angry growl. ‘Battle formation.’

If we are to die, Haraldr told himself, we will not make it easy for them. He shouted down to Halldor: ‘We must give no provocation! Reef sails but don’t furl them. Oars and weapons ready but out of sight. Keep men in place to furl sails quickly at my command. We’ll wait for them, but if they come closer than two thousand ells, we’ll furl sails and row for the shore. Those big ships may have trouble manoeuvring up against the headlands!’

‘So will these Rus washtubs!’ answered Halldor. Then he shouted the orders down the line. Within minutes the entire Rus trade flotilla had stopped and sat bobbing like a great flock of waterfowl resting on the water. The Imperial ships continued to advance, their formation perfect, oars slitting the water in precise rhythm. Haraldr could see metal scintillating on the decks, and distinct figures clambering about. The range was down to three thousand ells. A fearsome, oxlike bellowing echoed across the water.

Two thousand five hundred ells. Haraldr looked at Gleb. Gleb just shook his head and worked his jaws. Perun be praised that he had exacted enough gold from Yaroslav to ensure that his grandchildren would never have to look down the angry snout of an Imperial dhromon. If his death could buy that, then death take him.

Two thousand two hundred. The dhromons bellowed again, louder, as if the leering golden spouts had been transformed into the creatures they resembled. Two thousand one hundred. At two thousand ells Haraldr hesitated and decided to wait a moment longer. He was no exact judge of distance. A few hundred more ells would still give them time to break for shore.

Eighteen hundred. Haraldr could see that the men on the decks of the giant Byzantine ships wore armour. Kristr, my fate is in your hands. Odin’s gift is of no use here.

Seventeen hundred. The command could no longer be delayed. ‘Hal--no, wait!’ Signal flags wriggled up the barren first mast of the lead dhromon. The double rows of oars lifted glistening from the water, bristled in the air like the spines of strange sea monsters, and vanished almost simultaneously into the hulls of the dhromons. The Byzantine ships slowed and then stopped. They were about fifteen hundred ells away.

Gleb looked at Haraldr. ‘Don’t assume anything when you deal with the Greeks. They love a ruse.’

The motion at the periphery of Haraldr’s vision sent his pulse hammering. What fool had broken rank? Then he saw the crimson sail puffed out like a fat silk cushion: the trade ambassador’s ship furiously rejoining its own. The ambassador stood in the prow like a victorious admiral. A few paces behind him a little bald figure turned, looked up to the mast of Haraldr’s ship, and waved. Gregory. He looked lonely and wistful, as if he were bidding his Norse friends a permanent farewell.

A single small warship slipped out from between the monstrous dhromons and came very rapidly towards the ambassador’s vessel. The two ships drew even, halted, and bobbed in unison. Haraldr could see the flash of armour as several men leapt from the warship onto the deck of the ambassador’s stubby vessel. An animated discussion seemed to commence. On and on it went; arms raised on one side and then the other in a distant, mimed debate. The wind flapped the reefed sail of Haraldr’s ship and he imagined that it was the sound of the Griks quarrelling among themselves. Good, he told himself, clearly there is a lack of resolution here. But remember what Gleb said about Grik ruses.

The armoured figures leapt back to the warship. Oars dipped into the water and the ambassador’s ship went on towards the line of dhromons while the small warship moved forward. The question thundered into Haraldr’s head: will the dhromons follow? If the seagoing monsters now moved even an ell, he could not hesitate to give the last order of his short-lived command.

But the dhromons remained motionless except for the slightest swaying; it was as if the colossal warships were great buildings anchored in the earth rather than vessels floating on water. The small Byzantine warship came on with startling speed. It seemed no larger than the Rus ships, with just a single row of oars. The pitch-slathered hull was solid black, but the railing, prow and swooping stern were brilliant arabesques of gold and red enamel. The planked deck, painted a gleaming white, supported enormous crossbows on wheeled carriages. Most of the men on deck wore steel jerkins or bright blue steel byrnnies and conical helmets.

The Byzantine ship closed, oars almost brushing the hull of Haraldr’s ship. An armoured figure, apparently an officer, and a single civilian came to the railing amidships. The officer’s head was uncovered, and his short, curly hair was raked by the breeze; his beard was neatly trimmed. He wore a mail jerkin and a short scarlet tunic. The man beside him was swathed from head to toe in a solid black robe. Only a stubble covered his head and squinched, distorted face.

The wind slackened. Haraldr could hear snatches of the two men conversing. He scampered down the mast. Gleb followed.

‘Haraldr Norb--Nord-briv!’ shouted the man in black. His Norse accent was not nearly as good as Gregory’s. ‘You are now under the authority of Michael, Lord of the Entire World, the Emperor, Autocrator, and Basileus of the Romans. His Imperial Majesty has sent as his representative the Droungarios of his Imperial Fleet, Nicephorus Taronites, who has sent as his representative the homes Bardas Lascaris.’ The officer narrowed his dark eyes menacingly and barely nodded. ‘I, John Stethatus,’ continued the man in black, ‘temporary secretary in the Office of the Barbaroi under the Logothete of the Dromus, speak for the komes!’

‘I am Haraldr Nordbrikt! This fleet is under my authority. And I speak for myself, and those under my command!’

The two Byzantines spoke rapidly in Greek. The question was settled quickly. The man in black shouted in Norse again.

‘Then the command you will give your fleet is this: wait for our signal.’ He pointed to the single mast of the warship. ‘One red flag and one white! Then follow us, under sail, in single file. We will escort you to the Queen of Cities!’

The warship moved quickly to a post fifty ells ahead of the Rus vessel. A single yellow flag went up its mast. An answering yellow flag went up one of the masts of the nearest dhromon, and the beasts bellowed again. The spiny oars of the dhromons emerged and slapped the blue- slate surface of the Bosporus. The great ships began to fan off their formation and head south along either bank of the strait. It was as if the Byzantine warships were forming a huge funnel to draw the Rus flotilla down the Bosporus. Or to surround and annihilate it.

Haraldr turned to Gleb, but the old Slav just chewed and ground his boot against the rough planking. ‘I’ve never seen an “escort” in such force. But remember that the Greeks rarely do the obvious.’

Haraldr had already made his decision. ‘We’re sailing Rus washtubs, not Norse dragons,’ he said, forcing a jaunty smile at Halldor. ‘If we run, if we fight, a dozen ships might survive to reach the Dnieper, and how many of those would survive the Pechenegs? No, that way death is certain. We don’t know how the Griks think, but we know that this trade must be of value to them or it would not have continued for so many years. This way we have one gaming piece on the table.’

Ulfr swallowed thickly and nodded. Gleb chewed and spat. Halldor shouted the order back. The red flag went up on the mast of the small warship just ahead. The white flag followed. Oars dipped and the Byzantine warship began to move forward. Gleb ordered the sail set, the gust caught, and the ship lurched forward. The rest of the Rus fleet followed.

Soon the giant dhromons flanked the Rus River ships on both sides, at distances