Byzantium

Guard. But his face settled into intense concentration as he unrolled the document and began to read. What was this? The Grand Domestic was proposing that he and Mar put aside their animosities and join forces to counter the precipitous ascent of Mar’s fellow Tauro- Scythian, Haraldr Nordbrikt. What? Mar had been nothing less than delighted by Haraldr Sigurdarson’s success; now the fugitive princeling could not only contribute his title to Mar’s ambitions but also his fortune. And why deprive the lad of any incentive to fatten his already considerable purse? Whatever the slave earns, the master keeps. Mar shook his head. Dalassena, he told himself, is a bigger fool than I had thought.

No. No man rises to the rank of Magister without a modicum of cunning, even if he has only acquired his guile by aping the patrons whom he serves. No, Dalassena was not a complete buffoon; was he privileged to information Mar was not? Or was the intent here simply to burden Mar with suspicion? No, Dalassena was not that clever. The Grand Domestic’s concern probably could be taken on the face of it. But then who would be sponsoring Mar’s pet princeling behind his back? Not Nicephorus Argyrus; he was merely a grotesquely inflated merchant masquerading as a Dhynatoi.

Well, such speculation was at this moment pointless. Mar did not want to be like one of these so-called Hellenists at court who read the ancient Greek philosophers and postulated endlessly on ultimate causes; a Hellenist would stay rooted in the path of a runaway horse, debating over the great forces that set the event in motion, rather than just simply getting out of the way. Or better still, taking a horse staff and goading the beast back into its stable. Indeed. If the fugitive princeling was perhaps soaring too high, this would be the time to remind him of the chains that held him to earth.

Mar remained fixed in thought for some time, then took up his quill pen and dipped into the gold ink pot given to him by Romanus on the occasion of the late and emphatically unlamented Emperor’s last Easter among them. He wrote at length, checking the details carefully. Then he removed his ring, lit the red candle he had taken from his writing cabinet, and applied his personal seal to the paper. He clapped his hands with pleasure; in the Imperial Palace a bowshot was not well aimed unless it brought down two birds at once. And this single arrow might just skewer three fat, unwary fowl.

‘These are instructions for our friend on the Street of St Polyeuktos.’ Mars handed the sealed document to the waiting decurion. ‘Double his usual fee. Make certain that he understands everything. And tell him that his brother, who unfortunately has come to lodge in Numera Prison, is well cared for. We have petitioned for his release, and he may be free before he has to spend the winter there.’

The decurion bowed, turned briskly, and headed towards the palace gate. Mar Hunrodarson looked through the large, vaguely green-tinted, arched windows that illuminated his third-storey office; he had set his writing table so that he faced north. There was a uniform greyness to the view; even the great silver dome of the Church of Hagia Sophia was dulled by leaden skies that here and there dipped to earth in wispy, ashen shafts of rain. The waters of the Bosporus, sprinkled with white, resembled gouged pewter. How gentle those waves lulled next to the memories of the vast, furious northern ocean that had tested Mar as a boy and had brought him to manhood. Mar opened the doors to his colonnaded balcony and walked outside. A north wind carrying the first intimations of winter funnelled through the marble portico. Mar savoured the refreshing gust; the air seemed cleansed of the appalling fetor of the long, sweltering southern summer. What these Romans have built is magnificent, Mar told himself as he surveyed the Great City. But think how much more magnificent all this will be when it has been scoured by the tempest that rages out of the north.

‘He assures this price is below the cost to him, Haraldr Nordbrikt. He only begs you accept because of the prestige your patronage will bring to him.’ Marmot-Man paused and reflected that this hand-wringing rug merchant, with his oiled brow and desperate eyes, had neglected to add a tip to the minimum fee that Nicephorus Argyrus, via his representative, Marmot-Man, was collecting for arranging audiences with the fabulously wealthy barbaros pirate-slayer. Besides, the perplexingly tight-fisted barbaros had already refused a number of tempting propositions from agents representing Nicephorus Argyrus’s own business concerns, and some of the proposals even offered legitimate profits! There wasn’t time to waste with this greasy carpet peddlar. Marmot-Man waved aside the scrofulous boy and crooked-backed old man who had carried in the merchant’s wares. ‘No, Haraldr Nordbrikt, slayer of Saracens, this merchandise is inferior, indeed to such a degree that this purveyor might well be reported to the Prefect.’

‘No more merchants!’ growled Haraldr in the passable Greek Marmot-Man had taught him during their long voyage.

‘Yes, I’ve asked him to go, Haraldr Nordbrikt.’

‘Not him only! All! All merchants!’ This time Haraldr drew his finger across his neck.

Marmot-Man nervously stroked his new robe of Syrian silk as he surveyed the mob of dealers in precious gems, icons, glass vases, carved ivories, Egyptian carpets, chased silver and gold serving vessels, furniture, polo mounts, and even concrete-and-steel strongboxes. The merchants waited impatiently in the courtyard of the Norse compound, bobbing up and down to practise their shrillest solicitations or jostling as they fought for position; there had already been several bloody noses and one attempted stabbing. And these were supposedly proprietors of the most respectable shops on the Mese, men who wore embroidered Hellas silk to work! Marmot-Man shook his head and calculated that there were thirty-five, forty tips still to be collected. And four – no, five – that would have to be refunded. And here was Haraldr Nordbrikt making like Christ the King expurgating the moneylenders from the temple! Still, had not Haraldr Nordbrikt given Marmot-Man a full Varangian’s share of his booty, which was ten times what Nicephorus Argyrus had paid him? Marmot-Man quickly decided where his true allegiance lay. He raised his hands and flew at the merchants like a peasant woman shooing a herd of lumbering oxen out of her herb garden. ‘Out! Out! Be gone quickly! Quickly! The Slayer of Saracens casts you out! He casts you out! You have angered him with tawdry wares and meretricious claims! Be gone quickly, before you bring his magical sword from his scabbard! Out! Save yourselves!’

Haraldr put his hands over his ears to block the unearthly wails of protest and withdrew into the barracks.

‘Marmot-Man described these for me.’ Halldor was sitting on his cot leafing through a sheaf of parchments. ‘A shipyard in Langobard-land, or as the Romans say, Italia. An estate, in a place called Melitene, which is somewhere off in Serkland. This estate encompasses ten entire villages. There are at least three score opportunities right here in Constantinople. A candle factory. A palace not one street from Nicephorus Argyrus’s. A home for black-frocks, or “monastery”, that includes a newly constructed “mortuary”, which is a building where corpses can be prepared for burial.’ Halldor looked up. ‘I think we could make some money on this.’

Haraldr simply groaned and sat on his cot. How many agents for such properties had already assailed them in the two days since they had docked and returned to their St Mama’s Quarter barracks? One hundred, perhaps, another hundred right now howling outside the compound gate like a starving wolf pack with an elk in sight. And then there were the merely curious, conducting some sort of strange vigil outside. Thorir from Uppsala had gone through the gate to fetch a ball he had kicked over the wall, and so many of the men, women and children of a half dozen nationalities had crowded forward to touch his cloak that he had nearly died of fright; apparently they had thought that the towering, moonfaced Swede was the famous Haraldr, Slayer of Saracens.

‘We are invited to purchase other properties as well,’ said Ulfr, who had just descended the stairs that led to the second-storey gallery. ‘The Romans call them “ladies of the roof”, though I hardly know why, since they are always on the streets. At least they are all on our street. Right now there are three painted whores outside for every man inside. You would not believe it. The traffic is entirely blocked.’ Ulfr did not need to add that the noise from the street made the din of battle seem like the music of a mountain rivulet.

‘Well, let the whores in,’ said Halldor matter-of-factly.

‘Halldor may be right, Haraldr.’ Ulfr looked out into the courtyard where the Varangians were squabbling over the trinkets they had purchased, playing dice, wrestling, and throwing knives and axes. ‘Besides, breaking up all the fights over the belly plunder would give us something to do.’

Haraldr looked down at the cracked marble paving stones. If Odin and Kristr had not favoured him with his successful stunt in the oceans of Blaland, he already would have lost the confidence of his pledge-men. He shook his head at his two friends. ‘I don’t understand. Nothing. No word from the Imperial authorities, other than that eunuch tax gatherer who came to count our gold. Nicephorus Argyrus sends only this plague of merchants, most of them probably representing his own businesses, as if it is now our duty to serve ourselves up to these gold devourers like trussed pigs. Not even any word from rivals of Nicephorus Argyrus hoping to hire our services away