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.
‘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.
‘You have just raised our fee by ten solidi a man and twenty per cent,’ growled Haraldr. The terrified Marmot-Man meekly repeated the figures.
Nicephorus Argyrus’s eyes revealed more surprise than terror; he had clearly seen death before. After a moment the coal-coloured irises brightened, and he grinned slyly before beginning his response.
‘He asks you to put away your weapon. He says a man with your special skills is certainly worth the extra pay, though it will probably cost him his profit and then some. He’s doing this as a service to the Empire.’
Of course, thought Haraldr. He’s probably already extorted the entire cost of the expedition – as well as a good profit -from the other merchants who ship in those waters.
‘He says that now that our business is concluded, he wants you to eat well. You’ll need your strength out there.’ Nicephorus Argyrus reached up and put his arm around Haraldr and began walking him out of the room. Marmot-Man followed with a running translation. ‘Yes, the risks are great but I have every expectation of a successful venture. After all, you Varangians grow up fighting on the sea. Why, I might even gain some profit in the end. Why not? Of course you’ll be a rich man. And when you return we’ll talk about making you wealthier still, and by that I don’t mean chasing more Saracens around Italia. There are still some superlative properties for the taking out there, particularly Thrace and Thessalonica, where the Bulgars will never touch them;, they’re undervalued simply because the Dhynatoi have this prejudice about setting foot west of the land wall. Of course, if you really want to ruin the value of even an eastern estate, send the son of a Magister out there to manage it. Yes, my friend, I’m the one to talk to if land is your business. It’s not enough to know what to buy, it’s the “when” that makes the difference between profit and penury. I always buy after a raid, and sell when everyone says the frontier has never been quieter. . . .’
Nicephorus Argyrus’s guests dined on silver plates embossed with scenes of legendary heroes and sipped wine from carved agate goblets rimmed with silver and pearls. It was an excruciating experience for Haraldr; he did not know which foods should be eaten with the hands – such as the tiny berries and fish roe and other curious morsels that were served before the meal – or which should be picked to bits with the curious little silver ladles and prongs each guest had been provided. And even when Haraldr cued himself by watching the other guests, the effort in managing the delicate implements was maddening.
When not struggling with the dining protocol, Haraldr was surreptitiously studying Maria. Her nose alone was a fascinating work of art; it was narrow, with an erotic, slight flare of the nostrils, and somewhat long, very subtly curving inward along the bridge and then rising to a sharp, chiselled tip. She was a goddess to whom Elisevett and Serah were only handmaidens, and yet she sat between her Scholae companions as if she were their whore, touching their hands and nuzzling their shoulders.
Eventually Maria caught Haraldr staring at her. Impelled by a force that seemed to gather him up like a huge surf, he did not turn from her blazing cobalt-blue eyes. She made no expression or gesture whatever, and yet her unwavering gaze drew him within the ice-tinted fires. Haraldr felt the same sort of convulsive shudder that he had when he’d touched Serah, yet this sensation penetrated to his soul. The voice in his head spoke so clearly that he wondered if the others had heard. Thoroughly spooked, he closed his eyes for an instant and a fantastic vision composed of images so fleeting that he could not discern them flashed before him. He felt something strike his neck quite perceptibly, and he could not breathe. His eyes shot open and his hand jerked up to his neck and he was surprised to find nothing there. Maria was still looking at him. Her lips softened into the barest hint of satisfaction, as if she acknowledged the vision to which her powers had drawn him. The voice spoke again, this time as softly as a woman’s silken touch.
The shouts broke the frighteningly irresistible connection.
Disappointed and relieved, Haraldr turned towards the commotion at the entrance to the dining hall. A giant figure in a black frock and high black hat – a ‘monk’, Haraldr reminded himself – lurched forward as if he would topple, yet slapped his gangly, curiously shaped arms at the distraught, silk-clad eunuchs who were trying to prop him up. The black-frock took several unsteady steps towards the table, and then, his shoulders wavering in an almost constant rotation, leered over the guests.
Like the other monks Haraldr had seen, this man had cropped his beard and hair, apparently just recently; his skin was as smooth as a woman’s. But his features were huge, distorted, almost monstrous: a nose like a great, swollen eagle’s beak; an upper lip as thin as an engraved line; a thick, almost purple lower lip; and a grotesquely heavy, bestial jaw. His tangled dark eyebrows seemed to merge with his small dark irises, and his eyes rolled about with a manic, piercing fury. After a moment Haraldr realized that this baleful monster-monk was not freshly shaven. He was a eunuch.
The monk’s strident voice rumbled over the table, the slurring of the words only adding to the inherent menace in his discourse. A swarthy, sumptuously dressed man seated across the table from Haraldr inclined his head towards the painted cheek of his lady and mumbled some commentary on the monk’s discourse. Haraldr strained for some recognizable words or names and was startled to hear ‘Joannes’. The same Joannes whose name he had heard invoked so often?
The monk heard his name as well, and his already angry features shadowed with rage. His explosive response was entirely verbal, but the resounding sentences seemed to assault the swarthy man physically; the man’s head snapped back and his dusky complexion ashened. He rose, his entire body trembling, bowed to Nicephorous Argyrus, and hurriedly led his obviously terrified wife from the room.
The monk went back to his wavering vigil. Someone tipped over a goblet of wine and a few guests tittered nervously. Maria tilted up her exquisite nose and dabbed her lips with a linen napkin. She spoke very slowly to the monk, using the name Joannes quite clearly, and there was no mistaking the timbre of annoyed sarcasm in her musical tones.
Joannes replied precisely and gravely, almost as if he had suddenly been released by the herons of the ale- benches. His tongue was a thick reptilian pad that slid over his lower teeth as he talked.
Maria followed his words with a quick glaring retort. When it seemed that the goddess and the monk would remain locked in this exchange of hard looks and words, Nicephorus Argyrus rose, said something to the guests, and clapped his hands. In a flash of brilliant hues and dazzling flesh, several acrobats in colourful jackets and brief
