‘Thank you, Strategus,’ said Haraldr in Greek; he had specially prepared this address. ‘I wish … I hope I may serve you well … as well as I am devoted … to serve your brother, Orphanotrophus Joannes, and . . . our father. And may I … present this.’ Haraldr handed the rolled and sealed letter to Constantine.
Constantine thanked Haraldr and returned to his seat behind his writing table before unsealing the document.
Haraldr watched carefully as Constantine read. Kristr! For a moment Haraldr wondered if someone hiding beneath the table had just knifed Constantine in the groin; he was suddenly virtually chalk-faced. Haraldr’s own skin crawled. Had his patron, Joannes, been entirely sincere? This could not be simply a friendly letter of introduction. And wasn’t it considerably longer than it would need to be for that purpose? On the other hand, perhaps Joannes sensibly appended other news to the letter, and perhaps not all of it was good. But the reaction was most curious, and Constantine did not seem to be recovering well. This was doing nothing to allay Haraldr’s doubts about Joannes’s credibility.
Constantine put the letter down with trembling hands; he had not needed to finish it to be virtually numb with shock, and he certainly could not read on in front of this brute. He grinned forcibly, sweat beading his brow. ‘Well, Haraldr Nordbrikt, I am afraid official duties beckon me to return to them. But I understand that I will see you this evening. We are both seated at the Imperial Table.’
When Haraldr had left, Constantine picked up the letter again and studied it for almost an hour, forcing himself to consider carefully all of the details. The plan was astonishing in concept and would be exceedingly taxing to execute; it was certainly more than just another of Joannes’s elaborate schemes. And yet Joannes promised far more reward than he had ever offered before the complicity he now desired. It was incredible, but yes, it could be done. And, of course, now there was no question. It would have to be done.
‘Get your face away, swine-breath!’ shouted Grettir, though he knew these beetle-faces could not understand Norse. At every street they swarmed around him, touching his tunic and the white skin of his arms with their filth-blackened fingers, then abandoning him to the rabble that assumed the chase at the next block. This was a mistake, Grettir told himself, in every way. Haraldr Nordbrikt was no longer his enemy. After months of a woman’s scullery work, Grettir now rode with the skalds again; few other masters would have been as generous, particularly not Grettir’s former patron, Hakon. Grettir cursed the impulse that had led him, those long months ago, to contact the Hetamark, or whatever they called that Icelandic devil. Well, the ogre had him by the belly purse now, and he would have to ransom his own soul to shake him loose. If these nut-faced demons did not take him first.
The beggars crawled from their rag nests, set against the scum-coated walls. Empty eyes, legless torsos, lipless mouths, jabbing stumps. The sores, the stench, the pall of fat, lazy flies. Grettir swatted the attacking human miasma around him and looked for the landmark, as he had been instructed. There. Odin be praised. The blue tiles, the tower rising. How he had found the place through this rat’s warren in this vast, strange city, he did not know. Perhaps fortune was still with him.
It was the place indeed; as he turned the corner Grettir saw the golden-tipped spires rising above the blue dome. The street in front was blocked with every damned soul Kristr had cast into Hel. They wailed and beseeched like screeching birds and chattering rodents, rags hanging off their scabrous, desiccated limbs. Men with cloud- white eyes, a woman with ragged black hair pulled out in angry red patches, children with pox-eaten faces. They saw him, and they came after him.
Instinct took over, and Grettir struggled for his knife against the probing of skeletal, slimy fingers. He waved the blade, and the man in front of him pressed his hands to his bleeding chest. The rest hesitated, a wolf pack deciding if hunger or fear would command their guts. Grettir wheeled, crouched, let them all see the blade. They stood dull-eyed and sightless, moaning and jabbering.
Grettir took one step. No one moved. He thrust ahead with the knife. A man with a huge, swollen, oozing leg stepped back. Another step. The pack responded. Slowly, step by thrusting step, Grettir passed beneath the blue- tiled dome. Suddenly they were gone, vanished like malignant
The absence of traffic was as disconcerting as the mob. The crumbling mud walls almost met overhead, and a dank smell pervaded the chilly air. A rat scurried across the narrow dirt path. He listened to the faint cries of the mob; the once hideous wails were seemingly sponged from the air by the ancient earthen walls. He squinted into the darkness.
A man. Bent over a sort of crude stone table. He worked at something; edging closer, Grettir saw a boot, a few scraps of hide. He gasped; the man was huge! But the enormous figure did not turn from his table. He was filing something, slowly, wearily, as if for the rest of his life he would file away in this strange dungeon.
Grettir fought the gorge in his throat and nostrils as the man looked up. No nose, only gaping, wheezing slits. Yet the eyes were light blue, and the filth-encrusted hair had once been golden. Odin, what caprice of yours condemned this Norseman to this Hel? The giant’s tunic hung in greasy tatters.
The man spoke. ‘You have business here?’ The language was Norse, the accent Icelandic.
‘Wh-what?’ mumbled Grettir.
The eyes burned in the darkness, ice beneath a haunted moon. ‘You have business here?’ The voice was strangely passive, yet Grettir’s tuned ear detected the strong current of menace beneath the calm surface. Quickly reveal your errand, he told himself. ‘I am told to give you this.’ Grettir dug the ring from the lining of his belt and cautiously placed it on the stone table. The next thing he knew, he was on his back, the dankness suffocating, the pale luminescence of the eyes above him, the sharp point at his throat. ‘What does Mar Hunrodarson want?’ The voice was the wolf’s.
Grettir whimpered but fought to find words; his tongue had always been his livelihood but now it was his life. ‘He said you would not need to ask that.’
The knife vanished and Grettir was jerked to his feet. ‘You live, then,’ growled the beast, ‘as Mar once let me live.’ The noseless giant said nothing else, only stared at Grettir for a long, horrifying minute, as if he could pull from Grettir’s terrified gaze the memories of a homeland so far away. Finally he spoke again, with calm finality. ‘The name of the man?’
‘He is called Haraldr Nordbrikt.’ Grettir gulped the dry rock in his throat. ‘His real name is Haraldr Sigurdarson, Prince of Norway.’
‘I cannot bear to look,’ said Gregory. He shut his eyes I and would have buried his head in his hands if he had not thought he would be immediately flogged – or worse – for such a violation of protocol. ‘You don’t know how many of them fall. I’ve seen it before in the Hippodrome.’
‘I can’t take my eyes from her,’ said Haraldr as he raptly watched the acrobat. The rope had been strung taut between the far ends of the two half domes that thrust up the gilded central dome of the Strategus’s palace. The acrobat stood on one pointed toe, just beneath the balustraded rim of the central dome. Her arms stretched wide like a bird’s, and her breasts, covered only by tiny golden leaves placed over the nipples, were pulled firm against her sculpted rib cage. Her bare buttocks were tensed; a third leaf between her legs was all that concealed what little modesty she had left. She pirouetted and waved, then leapt almost weightlessly to the safety of the stone-railed balcony. The Strategus’s guests, several hundred of them at more than a dozen large tables covered with white brocade cloths and silver settings, roared in acclamation.
‘He wonders if you would like to speak to the acrobat.’ Gregory translated for Constantine. ‘Her name is Citron. A very private conversation, he assures you.’
Haraldr looked at Constantine, who reclined across from him, next to the head of the T-shaped table. ‘Yes,’ he answered in Greek. Then turned to Gregory, who stood in attendance directly behind him. ‘Tell him I do not intend the shroud of night to conceal from me the beauties of Antioch.’
Constantine smiled obsequiously. Haraldr noticed that the Strategus of Antioch was in an active sweat; a bead dripped from his eyelash and darkened the carnelian silk upholstery of the dining couch on which he reclined. Haraldr settled comfortably on his left elbow; Constantine had called this dining ‘in the Roman fashion’, and Gregory had reported that this was considered the height of elegance. One of Constantine’s eunuchs scurried over to arrange the silken pillows to support Haraldr’s back. He studied the gleaming silver knives and forks set before him; after practising for months with the absurd instruments, he could use them as well as axe and sword. And
