Byzantium

noticed her when he had entered. The outline of her broad, angular shoulders became visible as she rose from her chair. ‘You knew that I was not pure before you ever held me. I have given you four sons and three daughters. It was my father, the same who forbade me to marry the man who touched me first, who sent as my dower the Swedish mercenaries who defeated your brother, Syvataspolk. It was my lover’ – she spat out the word – ‘Olaf, who sent his friend Eymund to take Novgorod for you.’ Ingigerd stepped towards the light and clapped her hands to the breasts, now low and shrivelled, that men had once called the great snowy joy-cliffs of Sweden. ‘Your dynasty is built on this corrupt flesh, Great Prince.’

Yaroslav returned to his chair and sat with a cringing posture. He deeply regretted that the sight of Norway’s royal excrement had caused him to vent his old jealousy in this unfortunate display. He considered again the counsel his wife had offered him earlier in the day, when his daughter Elisevett had come to him with another of her endless vexations. Haraldr, as Ingigerd had pointed out, was Norway’s rightful heir; and reliable Norse military assistance, such as might be provided by a grateful son-in-law, was essential to the survival of Yaroslav’s dynasty. And then Elisevett was no prize: she was a mere third daughter, an intractable child whose precipitate temperament might break an alliance as easily as her precocious loins might build one. But the problem with this marriage was – as were all problems of statecraft – pecuniary.

Currently Haraldr offered nothing but liabilities. The reclamation of his throne would require a considerable fortune, and at the moment Haraldr was worth more dead than alive: the purse now offered for the head of Haraldr Sigurdarson was a staggering one thousand gold bezants, and it seemed that virtually every Norseman in Rus was intent on winning that bounty, save the most ardent Norwegian patriots; Yaroslav, himself, had been tempted more than once to solve several of his problems by surrendering the fugitive Prince of Norway. Of course, his wife would have bitten his balls off, so it was just as well he had resisted. Haraldr, however, was not the kind of man who seemed likely to win men’s loyalty, so it would be pointless to risk a single silver grivna on the chance he might reclaim his throne. But if Haraldr could finance his own reconquest of Norway, he would be worth the risk of a third daughter. Of course, Haraldr would need the money quickly, while Elisevett was still young; without an heir to bind Norway to Rus, the exercise was pointless. And there was only one place in the world where a layabout like Haraldr could acquire a fortune virtually overnight. And if Haraldr never returned from that journey, what would have been lost? Even Elisevett had dozens of other suitors.

‘Haraldr. My father married no less than the daughter of the Greek Emperor. Do you know what he gave the Emperor in exchange for his bride? Kherson. The entire city of Kherson.’

Haraldr stared maniacally at Yaroslav. It was all he could do to keep from shouting, ‘I’ll give you a nation! Denmark or Angle-Land or Bulgaria!’

‘Haraldr. It would be enough for me to know that Norway was a grandson’s birthright. But presently you are sovereign of nothing beyond your own boots. And I cannot worry about defending you against your legions of enemies when my own cities are besieged by Pechenegs and I need the cooperation of all Norsemen in ridding Rus of the eternally menacing pagan horde.’ Yaroslav’s throat rattled, and he sighed as if he could hardly go on. ‘You are aware, of course, how valuable your corpse is. I feel that if you stay here, it is only a matter of time before you are found out. Yesterday I received a correspondence from a Jarl of Denmark who has served me ably in my Druzhina in Novgorod – I won’t reveal his name to you, as I will not reveal yours to him – a correspondence inquiring if I harbour the Prince of Norway at my court. A week ago my own podiezdnoi asked me if I had heard rumours that the lost Prince of Norway, the one who ran from Stiklestad, is a fugitive in Kiev.’ Yaroslav paused and looked at Haraldr searchingly. ‘Are you beginning to understand?’

Haraldr was too stunned to think. An alarming metallic buzzing echoed in his ears.

Yaroslav sucked in a weary, rattling breath. ‘Haraldr, my concerns are those of statecraft.’ He glanced surreptitiously at his Queen. ‘Had your brother paid more attention to that discipline and less to . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Well, yes, had your brother been more careful, he would not have confronted King Knut when he did in the way he did, and perhaps I would not at this time be concerned with your enemies--’ He stopped, distracted. ‘I forget myself . . . Yes. Well, then, as you might know, the Pechenegs have blocked the Dnieper for eight years now. So now my primary concern is to open the river to commerce once again, employ our profits to summon additional military assistance, and exterminate the Pechenegs as we have the Avars and Chuds and, most recently, the Poles. Your countryman Jarl Rognvald has gratefully accepted my commission to lead the trade flotilla to Constantinople. Perhaps you could in some small fashion contribute to the success of this enterprise.’

The words were like an axe thudding into Haraldr’s neck. The journey down the Dnieper was a game of chance that few would win; even Jarl Rognvald admitted that he, himself, would be unlikely to see the walls of Constantinople. The Jarl would risk the deadly voyage on the slimmest wager that Norway might profit, but he did not think Norway would gain if her Prince slept in the Dnieper. Haraldr had in turn hardly pushed to go, and not simply for her. Since Stiklestad he had known sorrow and loneliness until they were like faces before him. And even as his breast ached at the thought of leaving Elisevett, he knew that he could somehow endure this terrible extra measure of longing. But on the river he would have to look at a face he knew he could never confront again. He would have to look again at fear. And fear would humble him before the whole world, because fear had been with him that day at Stiklestad – even now the blood-dark nightmare flew before his eyes – and fear knew him for what he was. A coward.

Yaroslav’s small ragged teeth appeared briefly. ‘Cheer, boy. Many rewards wait at the river’s end. Surely even an idler like yourself has dreamed of service in the Emperor’s Varangian Guard. Indeed, we have received an eminent representative of the Emperor’s guard this very afternoon, a man of Greek subtlety and refinement. Hakon, called Fire-Eyes. You would do well to emulate his industry.’

Haraldr turned from the nightmare past to the nightmares that waited ahead on the river. Hakon Fire-Eyes. Second in rank to Mar Hunrodarson, the wide-famed commander of the Great King’s Varangian Guard, and next to Mar himself the most feared and brutal warrior in the world. For weeks now it had been rumoured that Hakon would join the expedition to Miklagardr, and that he would bring with him five hundred hand-picked candidates for the Varangian Guard. Now fear would have five hundred faces. And a demon to lead them.

‘So there,’ said Yaroslav, rising and holding his stubby fingers out to Haraldr. ‘Lesser men than you have ventured to Constantinople and returned with a king’s endowment. So might you. So. Goodbye to Haraldr Nordbrikt. Let us hope that if we see you again, you will be someone else.’

Ingigerd followed Haraldr into the ante-chamber. She caught his arms and turned him, the long, wilted stems of her fingers about his wrists. ‘You know it is the only way now. Jarl Rognvald will care for you, and Elisevett and I will pray for you.’ She surprised Haraldr with a wiry, intense embrace; she had never even touched him before, always staying back, as if his flesh might rouse some banished spectre. ‘I will miss you more than Elisevett shall. She is young. I am . . . finished.’ Her irises were like melting blue ice. She took his face in her hands and gazed into his eyes, as if this were the last time she would ever consume that life-giving draught. Her throat corded with a sob. ‘Your eyes . . .’ said Ingigerd, Queen of Rus, as softly as a deathbed prayer. ‘In your eyes he lives.’

The slap on the back of his head was playful, but Haraldr wrestled for his sword with hands clumsied by wine.

‘Leave that in your scabbard. River-farers and woman-praisers need their fingers.’ Jarl Rognvald grinned. He had also been busy at the mead trenches. But the Jarl lost only his melancholy in the ale.

‘Jarl . . .’ Haraldr held up his sloshing wine bag in mute apology.

‘I know. I talked with Yaroslav. But you’re sailing with me! Tomorrow we’ll be on the Dnieper! You leave nothing here, my boy, nothing. But think what you might return to!’

Haraldr tried to focus. ‘Jarl, do you think that Yaroslav will really consider my suit--’

‘Haraldr, my boy! In the morning we put out for Miklagardr. Miklagardr! To seek the widest fame and goldest glory a man can seek. The Grik Emperor can bestow a princess’s dower as easily as a Norse king might give his man an arm ring. Your dreams await you there!’

Yes, my dreams, thought Haraldr, for a chilling instant sobered.

Jarl Rognvald observed the shadow on his ward’s face and grinned foolishly while the demons of his own mind soughed and shrieked. Tomorrow morning he would lead almost five hundred ships and twenty thousand men down the Dnieper. If Odin were extraordinarily lavish with his favours, a third of those ships and men might return to Kiev. Jarl Rognvald had accepted Yaroslav’s onerous charge through the same rigid sense of duty that had driven him throughout his life; he was the best man, Norse or Slav, to command the flotilla, and as far as he