the way of things.' Seeing that he had achieved general agreement on this fundamental point, he pressed on. 'Now then, it appears that Hnefi has returned first with the bread.'
'Hnefi has indeed returned first,' allowed Gunnar. 'But he has not brought the bread he was sent to fetch.'
'And yet I see before me sacks of bread,' Harald pointed out equably.
'No, Jarl Harald, this is not so. While there may be loaves in those sacks, it is not the bread given by the emperor. I only have returned with the proper loaves, as this baker will certainly attest. Therefore, I have won and it is for Hnefi to pay me.'
'Proper loaves?' howled Hnefi, colour rising to his already florid face. 'Bread is bread. I returned first: I win.'
'Anyone may stuff stale loaves into a bag and hope to claim the prize,' maintained Gunnar with cool disdain. 'It means nothing.'
Harald hesitated. He looked thoughtfully at the cart full of loaves, and at the sacks lying on the quay. The matter, apparently so straight-forward only a moment before, had taken an unexpected twist, and he was no longer certain what should be done.
Mistaking the king's hesitation for unwillingness to accept the bread, Constantius, standing next to me, whispered a suggestion. Listening to him, an idea came to me how the dilemma might be solved.
'If I may speak, Jarl Harald,' I said, putting myself forward. 'I believe there may be a simple way to discover who has won the wager.'
'Speak then,' he said without enthusiasm.
'Taste the bread,' I advised. 'As we will all be eating this bread for many days, it seems right to me to have only the best brought aboard. There is only one way to prove which is best-taste it and see.'
Gunnar acclaimed the suggestion. 'That is excellent counsel.' Retrieving a loaf from the pyramid on the cart, he offered it to the king. 'If you please, Jarl Harald; we will abide by your decision.'
While Harald pulled off a portion of the bread, I explained the trial to Constantius. 'That is not what I meant,' the baker said. 'But it makes no difference to me. I bake an honest loaf, as anyone can see.'
Pulling a loaf from Hnefi's bag, the king broke it and, with some little difficulty, pulled off a piece. He chewed it for a moment and swallowed-again with difficulty, for the bread was tough, owing to its staleness.
'Well?' demanded Hnefi impatiently. 'Which is it to be?'
'As I am king,' said Harald, holding up the brown loaf from Hnefi's bag, 'this bread is good enough for men at sea. Indeed, I have tasted far worse many times.'
'Heya!' agreed Hnefi, swelling up his chest. 'It is what I am telling you-'
'But,' continued Harald, cutting him short, 'this bread is far superior in every way.' He broke another piece of the white bread, put it in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. 'Yes, this is food for kings and noblemen. So, I ask myself, which would I rather be eating?'
Turning to Hnefi, he said, 'The loaves you have brought are fit only for fish.' With that, he tossed the remains of the brown loaf into the water. To Gunnar, he said, 'Bring your loaves onto the ship. This is the bread we shall have on the voyage.'
The new-made loaves were quickly taken from the carts, passed to those at the rail, and stowed away. Others gathered around to watch Gunnar and Hnefi settle their wager. 'Cheer up,' said Gunnar, 'you did well. I am surprised you found any bread at all. Fate was against you.'
'Fate!' muttered Hnefi, producing his leather bag. He began counting silver denarii into Gunnar's outstretched palm. 'Next time, I will keep the Shaven One with me,' he said grudgingly, 'and then we will see how well you fare.' This was the first time Hnefi had shown me any respect or consideration, and it pleased me greatly.
'It is not Aeddan who helped me,' replied Gunnar, dropping the coins one-by-one into his bag. 'It was this god of his. I lit a candle to this Lord Jesu and prayed him to help me win. Now, you see for yourself what has happened.'
'You were lucky, that is all,' said Hnefi. He and those with him stumped off to console themselves as best they could.
'Even if I do not get another piece of silver,' Gunnar remarked, 'this has been a most rewarding voyage. My Karin and Ulf can live for three or four years on what I have now.'
'With so much silver in your bag,' observed Tolar, 'we will be calling you Gunnar Silversack from now on.'
Once the carts were unloaded, Constantius was eager to be away as it was growing dark. I bade him farewell and thanked him for his help. Gunnar, feeling all the more generous since he had won the wager, gave the baker ten nomismi.
'Tell your friend to keep his money,' Constantius said. 'I am well paid by the emperor for my labours.'
When I told this to Gunnar, he shook his head and pressed the money into the man's hand. 'For the cart, and for the boy,' Gunnar said, and I conveyed his words to the baker. 'A drink or two, after your labours. Or, light a candle to your Jesu and remember me.'
'My friend,' replied Constantius gallantly, 'tell him I will surely do both.' He bade us farewell and retreated quickly, he and the boy, pulling the empty carts behind them.
Overcome by his good fortune, Gunnar pressed a silver denarius into my hand also. 'If not for you, Aeddan,' he said, 'I never would have won the wager.'
'If not for me,' I corrected him, tucking the total of my earthly wealth into the hem of my cloak, 'you would never have made the wager.'
'Heya,' he laughed. 'That is true also.'
I climbed aboard the ship and watched the sun set in a dull glow of red and gold as violet shadows slowly stole the seven hills from sight. Only then did it occur to me that I had stood in the greatest church in all the world, and I had not breathed a single prayer, or offered up even the most fleeting thought of worship. That never would have happened at the abbey. What was wrong with me? The thought kept me awake most of the night.
At dawn the next morning, as the oars were unshipped and the longships rowed silently from the harbour, I stood at the rail and, living still, looked my last upon the city of my demise.
37
So we came to Trebizond. I will say nothing of the voyage, save that it was wholly uneventful and unremarkable. Even the weather remained indifferent: dull days, neither fair nor foul, warm nor cold, completely wet nor entirely dry. We sailed in party with seven other ships-five large merchant vessels and two smaller craft belonging to the imperial fleet. Rumour had it that one of the imperial ships contained the envoy, and the other a vast amount of treasure. Harald's four longships provided an effective escort; I cannot think many pirates would be bold enough to challenge a pack of Sea Wolves.
Soon after leaving Constantinople, a deep melancholy settled in my heart and filled me with gloom. With nothing of consequence to do aboard ship, I spent many days brooding over all that had happened to me since leaving the abbey.
At first, I considered that my dolorous feelings derived from some failure on my part-though, try as I might, I could not determine what this failing might be. Then it came to me that it was God who had failed, not me. I had done all in my power to remain a faithful servant; I had borne all my misfortunes with as much courage and grace as I possessed, and had even tried to advance the knowledge of his lordship in the world. Others might have dared and achieved more in this regard, I do freely confess it, but I had done what I could-even to the extent of laying aside any care for my life for his greater glory.
This, I believe, was what cast the shadow over my soul. I had been willing to die, had faced the day of death without fear or regret-but I did not die. Strange to say, this brought neither relief nor joy but seemed instead a cruel deception for if my life was not required, why did God allow me to dream so? And if he had decided to spare my life, why had he forced me to endure the slow torment of imminent death without granting me the comfort I would have gained from knowing my life was no longer at hazard?
