by Speer, Flora
Maura declared herself nearly recovered from the previous day’s injuries.
“My head aches, that’s all,” she told Lenora. “I don’t remember much of what happened except that I was afraid.”
“We went over a waterfall. Erik thinks you hit your head on a rock. He saved both our lives.”
“You are so brave. I wish I weren’t such a coward. I used to have courage, but ever since Snorri killed my family I’m frightened all the time.”
Later in the day they came to a large island, where several heavily laden boats had been pulled out of the water near a cluster of tents. As they beached their own boat, a bare-chested, blond man strode forward to greet them.
“Welcome to St. Gregory’s Island,” he said to Erik. “I hope you are an honest merchant.”
“I am traveling to Miklagard and mean no harm to anyone.”
“Perhaps you would like to join us? We are sailing soon. We were with the main fleet from Kiev, but some of our men were badly injured when the Khazars attacked us, and we decided to rest here to recover. The last section of the river is safer than the part that has gone before, but there are still dangers. It is always wiser to travel in a large group. I am surprised to see you with only one boat.”
“We lost the rest of our party along the way,” Erik lied glibly. “I was concerned about going on alone. I will consider your offer.”
“Do you always travel with two women?” The blond man laughed.
“They are my slaves. I’m not old yet,” Erik declared, a twinkle in his eye.
The other man laughed again. “If you can afford to feed them,” he said, “it’s your affair.”
The man, who said his name was Harald, showed them a good spot to pitch their tent and even brought them some fresh meat from his own supplies.
“The fleet from Kiev always stops here to rest and to give thanks after surviving the rapids,” Harald told Erik. “You see that huge oak tree over there? The men make offerings to Thor around it, bread or meat, or whatever they have to give.”
When Erik did not seem too interested in this, Harald added, “Of course, I don’t do that. I’m a Christian myself. I have to be to trade with the Greeks. They’re very particular about not dealing directly with heathens. You could have yourself signed, you know. For a little silver, a priest will make the sign of the cross over you, and then they say you are a provisional Christian so you can trade with them. It doesn’t hurt a bit, and afterward you can do whatever you want about worshipping and they won’t care. They just like to keep up appearances. They’re sly folk, those Greeks. They have a thousand rules and it looks as though everyone is obeying them, but for the right bribe you can get away with almost anything.”
“I know,” Erik said. “I’ve been to Miklagard before.”
“Then you understand what I’m talking about.”
While listening to this conversation Lenora had been unpacking their still-wet belongings and, with Maura’s help, spreading them out to dry. There wasn’t much left. She was glad Halfdan’s cauldron and tripod had been saved when their boat capsized. She ran her hands around the pot, remembering Halfdan’s carefree laughter and boyish jokes. With a sigh, she began filling the pot with meat and vegetables for their meal.
When Harald finally left them for his own tent Lenora joined Erik as he sat near the cooking fire cleaning his extra sword, which had suffered somewhat from immersion in the river.
“Didn’t you tell me once you were a provisional Christian?” she asked.
“That’s right. You heard Harald. The Greeks won’t trade with heathens.”
“I recall you saying Norsemen aren’t allowed into the city.”
“Only in small groups and unarmed. They camp outside the walls at a place called St. Mamas.”
“When we reach Miklagard where will we live?”
“We could stay at St. Mamas, but it’s the first place Snorri will look for us. I’m hoping we can stay with my friend, Basil Panopoulos.”
“And Eirena, your precious nurse.”
Erik grinned and said nothing.
“Are you certain we will be welcomed by this Basil?” Maura had joined them, and now she looked anxiously at Erik.
“Of course we will. There’s not a thing to worry about.” Erik’s confidence silenced them both.
They left St. Gregory’s Island a day later, traveling with Harald’s boats. This last portion of their journey downriver was uneventful. As day followed beautiful day, Erik joked cheerfully about his luck. Lenora began to hope Snorri might have given up his pursuit. Perhaps Erik had wounded him more seriously than they realized.
At last they reached the delta of the Dneiper River and the island called Berezanji, beyond which Lenora could see the open surface of the Euxine Sea. Erik sold their boat at the trading post on Berejanzi, and whatever belongings they could spare. It was with a tear that Lenora watched a tall, fur-clad trader walk off with Halfdan’s cauldron.
Harald owned a large knarr, which he kept at Berezanji. He would sail it to Miklagard once it was loaded with the goods he had brought from Kiev. He had agreed to take Erik and the women with him for a high price.
“I know it’s not enough,” Erik said, putting an assortment of silver coins into Harald’s hands. “I’ll work on the ship to make up the difference, and the women will cook.”
“Why don’t you sell one of them? The skinny one wouldn’t bring you much, but you could get a good price for Lenora.”
“I won’t sell either.”
“I’m just trying to be practical. Women are more trouble than they are worth, and you can always find another one. What else have you got? I know you would never sell your sword, but what about your ring? It’s gold, isn’t it? I’ll take it in partial payment.”
“Never.” Erik looked at the ring on the little finger of his left hand. “It was my mother’s. I won’t sell it.”
“Well, then, I guess you will have to work. You could also introduce me to this merchant friend of yours, this Basil Panopoulos, who will surely know how to get around the restrictions the Greeks have put on our trade with them. For a favor like that, I might reduce the price of your passage.”
* * *
One bright morning they finally sailed into the dark, choppy waters of the Euxine Sea, and on an equally sunny day they entered the Bosporus, where they dropped anchor and waited for the Byzantine customs men to come aboard and inspect Harald’s cargo.
The leader of this group, the first Greek Lenora had ever seen, was a short, wiry man in a long-sleeved tunic and a long cloak, fastened at one shoulder with a buckle. His costume was simple, but the silks from which it was made were heavy and luxurious, and his manner was that of an important man accustomed to submission from those under his command. Under his supervision all of Harald’s merchandise was inspected, and metal rods run through some of the bales, to detect contraband. Then the usual duty of one-tenth the value of the cargo was paid in gold. In spite of Harald’s open manner and obvious honesty about the goods he had brought to Constantinople, the inspector seemed annoyed, an attitude modified only a little by the surreptitious crossing of his palm with an extra pouch of gold for his own use.
“You are late in the season,” the inspector said, speaking slowly and clearly so this rude barbarian might understand him better. “Your fellow traders have already arrived, and many of them have finished their business and gone home.”
“I was delayed. The Khazars attacked us,” Harald explained.
The inspector was not interested. “You do know you are permitted to stay at the Holy City for three months only? And you know where the Rus encampment is? Good. The Prefect will be informed of your arrival. One of his representatives will decide on the exact prices of your goods and inform you where and when you may sell them. Until then, stay out of trouble, and do not attempt to enter the city without permission.”
“I am not a trader,” Erik spoke up. ”I have come from Denmark to see my old friend, Basil Pa
nopoulos, and I would like to enter the city as soon as possible.”
“I know Basil; he trades with you Rus.” The inspector’s dark eyes rested on Erik. “The Bureau of Barbarians will want to know about you. You may have information they can use. Meanwhile, stay with your friend Harald.”
“When I go into the city,” Erik said, “these two women go with me.”
“That is a matter for others to decide.” The little man turned his back on Erik.
It was dawn before Harald received official permission to proceed, a slender youth in a short tunic bringing him a note on parchment that he was to display when required.
The anchor was lifted and the knarr moved slowly through the Bosporus toward St. Mamas, where traders from Kiev and Holmgard were allowed to stay. This settlement lay on the European shore of the Bosporus, across the Golden Horn and some distance away from the rich temptations of Constantinople. It was a ramshackle suburb of tents and a few badly built houses, fringed with heavy-laden boats pulled up on the shore or anchored nearby while their owners awaited permission to sell the cargoes.
“The Greeks don’t trust us,” Harald joked. “They keep us even farther away from their beloved city than they keep the Venetians, who have their own little village between St. Mamas and the Golden Horn, and who would like to buy Constantinople for themselves if they could. I’m told the Greeks think we northerners smell bad, but at least we smell like men and not like a flower garden.” Harald waved his hands in front of his face as if to brush away the last traces of the heavy perfumes worn by the Greeks who had boarded his ship.
Lenora stood in the prow of the knarr, straining for a sight of the great city, although she knew on this day they were forced to stop short of it.
“I’m almost sorry our voyage is over,” she said. “If only Halfdan were still here to see the wonders of Miklagard with us.”
“Yes, I wish that too.” Erik’s arm tightened across her shoulders. “You must have Norse blood, Lenora. You have the Viking passion for adventure, and the desire to see new sights, just as I have.”
Before she could answer, there was a cry from Maura. “Look,” she called excitedly, pointing across the water. “Erik, is that it?”
A great domed building topped with a golden cross rose out of the early morning mist like something in a dream. It shimmered a soft, creamy gold as the sun broke through the clouds and a brilliant ray shone directly on it.
“Hagia Sophia,” Erik said softly. “The Church of the Holy Wisdom.”
As they watched, the mist began to dissolve and other buildings drifted into view through the clear, liquid light: a smaller domed building in front of the great church of St. Sophia, then a long cluster of red-roofed buildings, and the high, many-turreted wall that on two sides of the city plunged straight down into the water.
The straits were swarming with gaily painted boats, ferrying goods and passengers from one side to the other. A flock of birds suddenly swooped by them, flying close to the water, the beating of their wings the only sound they made.
“There is Miklagard,” Erik said, as though he was giving them a gift.
“It’s so big,” Maura whispered, awe-struck.
“It’s beautiful,” Lenora breathed. “Erik, will they allow us inside? We have come so far, they can’t keep us out.”
“I think they will let us in eventually. We just have to be patient. The Greeks are peculiar people. Those who want to deal with them have to do things their way.”
“They must feel very safe behind those walls,” Maura said softly.
And now, as if he had been teasing them with just a glimpse of the city they had traveled so far to reach, Harald turned his knarr toward land and dropped anchor on the northern side of the Golden Horn.
They camped ashore that night with Harald and his men. Harald had set sturdy guards around his ship.
“The Greeks don’t trust us, but if we are wise, we don’t trust them, either,” he observed.
From the beach they could see the end of the triangular peninsula on which stood Constantinople. Protected on two sides by water – the Bosporus and the famous waterway known as the Golden Horn, where treasure-laden ships from all over the world were safely moored behind a protective chain – and further guarded on all three sides by high, strong walls, the city sat, rich and secure. As the sun set, Lenora watched the lovely shapes of its buildings darken and become silhouettes against the evening sky.
“I hope they let us enter soon,” she said with a sigh.
Erik laughed, put his arms around her, and held her close.
It was near the middle of the following day when a messenger, a dark-eyed, curly-haired young man named Georgios, came to escort them to the home of Basil Panopoulos.
“Good luck,” Harald said. “Don’t forget me.”
“I won’t,” Erik promised. “I will speak to Basil about you. In the meantime, I leave you my sword. I can’t take it into the city, so you keep it for me.”
As she stepped into the messenger’s boat, Lenora could hardly contain her excitement. The bright yellow sail of the small craft opened with a smart cracking sound as the stiff breeze caught it, and then they were skimming across the water to a wall-enclosed landing area that made a tiny harbor just beneath the high wall of the great city. Lenora looked with stunned wonder at the huge, high-decked galleys of the Imperial Navy laying at rest just inside the Golden Horn.
They were met at the landing by an official, who recorded their names and demanded their weapons. He seemed surprised when Erik said he had no sword, but finally let them pass.
Georgios led them on foot to Basil’s house. They passed through a bazaar where tradesmen had set up booths and benches to display their goods. Sellers called out their wares and argued with customers, their combined voices rising to a roar of excitement that found an echo in Lenora’s pounding heart.
Nearest to the Golden Horn were the fish markets. Then came rice, flour, lentils, salt, and other foodstuffs, in sacks or wooden barrels. Next, sumptuously beautiful cloths of silk and linen and wool, some embroidered with gold and jewels, were displayed, followed by booths showing sculptured ivory, jewelry, perfumes and spices, sheep and horses and pigs for sale, candles and honey and cheeses and cloissonné work and furs. All were organized in their respective sectors of the marketplace according to some plan that Lenora vaguely recognized but was too overwhelmed by the myriad sights and sounds and smells to sort out and make into any kind of sense. It all ran together in her mind like some brilliant tapestry. She had never seen anything like this, not in Hedeby or Aldeigjuborg or even Kiev.
And the people; there were so many different kinds of people, mostly male. There were hook-nosed men with pointed beards and long black hair, men in turbans and flowing robes, Venetian merchants in brocaded silks and furs and jewels, Northmen with mustaches and the firm stride of those accustomed to ships’ decks and open spaces, and Greeks in tunics and long, swirling capes. Each spoke his own language, voices mingling together until the babble rose higher and higher and words became incomprehensible in the general tumult.
There was music, made by a group of exotic-looking men and women with brightly-printed scarves on their heads and golden earrings made of coins. The women danced and deftly scooped up the money thrown by the onlookers, tucking it into their bosoms without missing a step, while the men prodded a trained bear to do tricks.
Maura clung to Erik’s arm, wide-eyed and pale, nearly overcome by the pressure of the throng through which they slowly made their way.
On Erik’s other side, Lenora moved in a near-dream, looking eagerly from side to side, afraid she might miss something, breathing in and absorbing all the smells, even the unpleasant ones, wanting to stop to look at and touch the merchandise and listen to the strange voices in this great city in which she had imagined herself since first Erik told her of it.
Georgios was openly pleased by this provincial woman’s delight in his native city, but he would not allow her to
stop. He hurried the three foreigners on through the busy market to a narrow side street only a little quieter than the main thoroughfare, then to another, narrower street where it was quieter still, though by Lenora’s standards noisy and crowded with men rushing past them on the way to conduct unknown business.
They came to a neighborhood of houses two or three stories tail, faced with brick and stone in geometric designs, with arched windows overlooking the street. The tall buildings blocked out much of the light and heat from the sun, making the street seem dark and damp.
Georgios stopped before the ornate portico of one house and rapped on the iron door. It opened slowly. An elderly man looked out at them.
They had washed themselves and tried to brush and tidy their clothes, but they were a distinctly bedraggled trio, especially in contrast to Georgios, with his oiled, carefully combed curls and scarlet cloak.
Lenora’s silk gown, once blue-green, was by now faded closer to gray, dirty, torn, and water-spotted. Maura had long ago lost the belt from her undyed woolen dress, and it hung from her thin shoulders in ill-fitting folds. She was barefoot. Erik’s untrimmed hair, heavy black beard, and the scar over his left eye all made him look like a pirate. When he stepped boldly forward the old man closed the door a little, glancing anxiously at Georgios as if for help.
“Tell your master Erik the Far-traveler is here. He will remember me.”
“My master is not at home.”
The servant tried to close the door, but Erik caught it and pushed it wide open. He strode inside, beckoning his companions to follow.
Georgios spoke in quick Greek, and the old man seemed to lose some of his anxiety.
“I will leave you here,” Georgios said. “Perhaps we will meet again. Spyros will deal with you now.” With a polite bow, their guide disappeared out the door.
“Is your mistress still the lady Eirena?” Erik demanded of the elderly Spyros.
“She will not see you,” sputtered the servant. “She would not expose herself to the indignity of an interview with barbarians. We have armed guards here. I will call them if you do not leave at once.”