The gold-lust was on them now; they leapt to the oars and began rowing toward the shore. I crouched beside the mast, leaning against the solid oak for strength, praying the Kyrie over and over under my breath. “Lord, have mercy! Christ, have mercy! Lord, have mercy! Christ, have mercy!…”
All around me, men, gleaming hard in their war array, bent themselves over the oars, driving the ships to the rhythm of our swift-beating hearts. With every dip and pull of the oars, the hills of Byzantium drew nearer.
Harald Bull-Roar stood on his platform, feet wide, swinging his war axe over his head and calling cadence to the rowers. Deep voice booming like a drum, he bellowed, banking his warriors’ courage high, inflaming their blood-lust with crude exhortations:
“Cold strake cuts wave!” he cried. “Axe-Wielder swiftly glides! Curved hull pushes wave! Sword-Striker hastens to the weapon storm!
“Doomed skulls roll! Severed limbs twitch! Hungry death delights in the battle banquet!
“Come, wolf! Come, raven! The meat-feast awaits! Drink deep of the red cup in the Worm King’s hall!”
Raving like a madman, the king roared, whipping himself and his men into a battle frenzy.
“Gold-Giver, Ale-Pourer, Rich Provider, I am Jarl Harald Bull-Roar! Attend me Corpse-Makers, Hewers of Men, for I will deliver wealth into your hands. I will cause rivers of gold to flow over the Champion’s feet, and showers of silver to fall from the skies!
“Steel-Clashers! Sword-Breakers! Widow-Makers! Hasten now to glory. Follow your Wealth-Thrower to the Hero’s Hearth where cool gold quenches battle heat. Fly! Fly! Fly!”
Faster and faster we flew, the knife-edge dragon prow slicing through the calm water. Did ever a man hasten so to his death?
Constantinople, unsuspecting in the milky dawn, drew ever closer—as if it were the city flying towards us rather than the other way. I seemed to see death sweeping nearer with every oar-stroke, and yet I could not take my eyes from that place. The closer we came, the larger it grew: a colossus, a seven-humped wonder on its vast splayed thumb of a peninsula thrust into the sea. Soon I could see the dark seams of streets like tangled cords winding among the masses of square white dwellings. A filthy pall hung over the heights—smoke from hearthfires beyond counting, drifting, coiling, gathering in a thick brown pall of billows.
We drove swiftly on, making directly for the nearest landfall. Even from the sea, however, we could see the city’s high protecting wall rising straight from the water. Harald was not dismayed; he directed the ships onward for a closer look. But what he saw dashed cold water on his overheated scheme. For, rising up like a sheer red cliff-face from the water’s edge, stretching out of sight to either hand, encircling the entire city stood a thick curtain of brick and stone ten men high. On the water below, small tenders ferried tradestuff to and fro along the waterfront.
One look at the size and extent of Byzantium’s wall, and the Sea Wolves faltered. I could feel the shock of discovery course through the ship like the tremor of an unexpected wave. Harald bawled for the longships to halt, and suddenly rowers were dragging their oars in a desperate attempt to slow our forward flight. The last vessel did not receive Harald’s command until too late, causing it to collide with the one just ahead. A dozen oars on both boats were snapped and broken, and rowers cursed and writhed in pain, clutching injured limbs. The resulting confusion brought howls of outrage.
Ignoring the fuss, Harald, standing high on his platform, scanned the wall. Some of the small tenders, seeing our sudden approach, hastened to draw near, jostling among themselves to be the first to reach us—thinking, I suppose, that we had trade goods to unload. Each would be the first to provide this service.
As the tenders drew closer, the men aboard hailed us in Greek. It had been long since I had heard this language spoken aloud, and it sounded strange in my ears. Still, I was able to pick out a few words and phrases from the thick gabble of voices.
Suddenly, angrily, Harald called out to me. “What are they saying?” he demanded.
“They are offering to unload our ships,” I replied, moving to the rail. “They say they will do this for fifty nomismi.”
“Unload our ships!” the king cried. “What is this nomismi?”
“I do not know—money, I think.”
“Tell them who we are!” the king commanded. “Tell them we have come to sack the city. Tell them we are after wealth and plunder.”
Leaning over the rail, I called to the nearest boat in which two men with white woollen caps stood beseeching us loudly. I told the men that these ships belonged to Lord Harald, who was a fierce warrior, and that we had come from Daneland in search of wealth. The boatmen laughed at this, and called to some of their friends in other craft, who also laughed. I heard the word barbari relayed from boat to boat. They then told me how matters stood in the emperor’s harbour.
“What do they say?” asked Harald gruffly, his patience wearing thin.
“They say everyone comes to Byzantium seeking wealth,” I answered. “They say there are no more berths in the harbour, and you dare go no further unless you are prepared to meet the guards of the harbour master.”
“To hel with their harbour master,” growled Harald. Whirling away, he ordered the rowers to proceed up the channel along the northern shore.
We continued on our way, more slowly this time, and accompanied by a score of small craft, each with boatmen shouting and hailing us in shrill voices. Numerous vessels, large and small, thronged the way and it was all Thorkel could do to steer us through the obstruction without colliding with one or another of them. Hence, we proceeded with much shouting and cursing and waving of arms, using the oars as much for shoving other craft out of the way as for rowing. The commotion accompanying our tedious progress was deafening, the upset complete.
The ships had not travelled very far, however, when we came upon an enormous iron chain. Fixed to gargantuan rings set in the wall, the chain—each link as big as an ox!—stretched across the entire channel from one bank to the other, closing the waterway to all larger craft. Small boats could pass easily under this chain, but the longships of the Sea Wolves were halted within sight of many fine houses and several palaces.
Perplexed, frustrated, Harald Bull-Roar, King of the Danes, gaped at the chain in disbelief. Not knowing anything else to do, he ordered some of the warriors to destroy it. Leaning from the rails, the barbarians began chopping at the nearest links with their axes. The attack made no impression on the ponderous barrier, and the men soon gave up altogether. Even prodding it with oars, they could not so much as make the great chain swing.
King Harald commanded his pilot to turn the ships and follow the shoreline south, thinking to find some weakness in the city’s defences the other way. The rowers renewed their labour, although with somewhat less zeal than before, for the inner waters were far more crowded with ships and boats. Pushing through them all was a torturous tactic, but the Sea Wolves persevered, and eventually rounded the peninsula to find a busy port with not one but three or more harbours, and the largest of these was, like the rest of the city, protected by high walls.
Harald ordered Thorkel to make for the first of the harbours, and we soon came within sight of the quay, but could go no further for the number of ships and small craft jamming the harbour entrance. The king was still puzzling what to do next when a large, square-hulled boat approached. This boat contained ten or more men dressed in fine red cloaks, and carrying spears and small round shields; they wore ornate helmets of burnished bronze on their heads, and short red breeches which ended just above the tops of their tall leather shoes.
The foremost man of the group was a short man who made himself appear taller by way of a high horsetail crest on his helmet; he stood at the prow of their boat holding a rod with a bronze ball on the end. This fellow began hailing us and gesticulating with the rod; those with him called out in loud angry voices.
Some of the Sea Wolves laughed at the presumption of these men; thinkin
g they had come to fight us, the Danes began taunting them, shouting, “Is this the mighty warhost of Miklagård?” and “Who are these maidens we see before us? Have they come with kisses to greet us?”
Squinting with suspicion, Jarl Harald glared at the men in the boat. “Find out what they are saying,” he demanded, shoving me roughly towards the rail.
I hailed the leader of the men in Greek, and he made a reasonable reply. I thanked him for speaking simply and slowly, for my tongue was not accustomed to such speech, and told him I would convey his words to the king.
“I am the quaestor of Hormisdas Harbour,” the man said importantly, and told me simply and directly what to tell the king.
“Well?” rumbled Harald impatiently. Sweat was running down his face and neck, for the sun had climbed past mid-morning and now shone as a hot, dirty disk in a grey-white sky.
“The man says you must pay the harbour tax,” I said, and explained that the men in the boat were part of the harbour guard charged with collecting money and keeping order.
“But did you tell them who I am?” growled Harald.
“I told them. They say it makes no difference, you must pay the harbour tax like everyone else.”
“To hel with their harbour tax!” roared Harald, giving vent to his frustration at last. “We will lay siege to the city and starve them into submission!”
This sentiment brought grunts and growls of approval from barbarians looking on. They, like their lord, were frustrated and anxious. The size of the city dismayed them, and they sought release for their consternation in familiar, if foolish, action.
“A siege is a fine thing, of course,” observed Thorkel mildly. “But it is such a large city, Jarl Harald, and we have only a hundred and sixty men with us. Even if we had ten times as many, I fear we would be hard-pressed to surround it.”
Harald, glaring hard, made to dismiss his pilot, but one of the king’s house karlar spoke up. “Perhaps it would go better with us,” he suggested gently, “if we were to pay this tax and seek entry into the treasure houses some other way.”
“I am a king!” bellowed Harald. “I receive tribute from jarls and free men. I pay tribute to no one.”
Nodding sympathetically, Thorkel stepped near his lord. “Nay, jarl,” he suggested, “do not say it is tribute. Think of it as casting a little grain to fatten the goose for the feast.”
Harald looked at the enormous walls, and cast an eye over the wide sweep of the busy bay. There then came the sound of something heavy knocking against the hull of the ship. I peered over the rail to see the harbour guard striking the side of our ship with his ball-tipped rod.
“We cannot stay here all day,” he said. “Pay the tax or I will summon the guard ship.”
I replied that we were discussing how best to make this payment, and asked for a few moments in which to make our decision. To the king I said, “They are demanding an answer, Jarl Harald. What will you do?”
He stood paralysed by indecision, gazing up at the city walls which seemed to loom over us like a high range of mountains barring our destination. After a few moments, the guard resumed his assault on the hull of the longship.
He shouted words to the effect that we were rousing the wrath of the emperor, and stood in danger of increasing the tax by our refusal to pay. This, I told to the king.
“Agh!” cried the king in frustration. “A man cannot think with all this din. How much?” he shouted. “How much to send them away?”
Leaning over the rail once more, I asked how much was required. “Four hundred and fifty nomismi,” answered the guard. “One hundred for each of the small ships, and one hundred and fifty for the large.”
Harald agreed reluctantly, and gave me a silver coin which he pulled from his belt. “Ask him its worth,” the king ordered, and summoned one of his karlar to bring a purse from his trove box.
I stepped to the rail and held up the coin. “We are ready to pay the tax now,” I said. “Please, tell me how much this silver coin is worth.”
The quaestor rolled his eyes elaborately and replied, “I will come aboard your ship.” So saying, he and two of his men, assisted by others in the boat, climbed to the rail and were soon standing before the barbarian king.
“The coin,” demanded the tax collector, thrusting out his hand, “give it to me.”
Placing the coin in his outstretched hand, I said, “The man you see before you is Harald, King of the Danes of Skania. He has come to pay his respects to the emperor.
The harbour guard made a sound through his nose as if this information meant nothing to him. “He may pay what he likes to the emperor,” replied the man, examining the silver in his hand, “but first he must pay the quaestor.” Holding up the coin, he said, “This silver denarius is worth ten nomismi.”
I counted out the twenty coins Harald had given me, and then turned to the king. “We have paid two hundred,” I told him, “we must pay two hundred and fifty more.”
Harald, frowning mightily, emptied the remaining coins into his hand, counted them, and ordered another purse to be brought; from this he extracted seven more coins and gave them to me also. The Sea Wolves looked on, amazed and aghast that their king should be giving silver to this upstart of a fellow.
When I had counted twenty-five additional denarii into the tax man’s hand, he said, “Two more.”
“Two more?” I wondered. “Have I miscounted them?”
“No, you have counted correctly.” Reaching into my hand he took up a coin. “This,” he said, “is for keeping me waiting.” Then, taking another coin: “And this is for causing a disturbance in the harbour.”
“I most heartily apologize,” I answered. “We were unaware of the customs of this place.”
“Now you know,” replied the quaestor, tucking the coins into his purse. Then, reaching into a pouch at his belt, he withdrew a thin copper disk. “Nail this to the prow,” he instructed. “It shows that you have paid the tax.”
With a flick of his hand, he turned and, aided by his two men, began lowering himself over the rail. Glancing at the disk, on which was embossed the image of a ship under sail, I asked, “Please, I would know when we must pay again.”
“You are free to come and go in the harbour until year’s end,” the tax man replied without looking back. “Should you return to Constantinople after that, you must pay again.”
Upon offering this information to the king, Harald scowled fiercely and declared that by year’s end he intended to be back in his own hall enjoying the wealth he had taken in the plunder of Miklagård. This plundering, he vowed, would commence without further delay.
Seizing me by the arm, the king put his sweaty face near mine. “And you, Shaven One,” he growled, his voice thick with threat, “will lead us to the nearest treasure house.”
27
In order to plunder a treasure house, it would be necessary to go into the city and find one. Various ways of accomplishing this strategy were discussed and in the end it was decided that, to avoid arousing the suspicions of the populace, only three or four warriors should go ashore and search out the best places to attack. Further, it was decided that since I alone spoke the language of the place, albeit poorly, I should lead the landing party.
Strangely, the thought of setting foot in Byzantium did not alarm me overmuch. The shock at finding myself arrived at the place of my death had quickly faded, and a sense of resignation to the inevitable settled in its place. I felt as if I were being pulled along by events too complex to understand, and too powerful to resist. I was a leaf tossed in the gale, a feather cast onto the storm-maddened sea. There was nothing I could do but ride out the tempest.
I prayed to the Heavenly Father to do with me what he would. I also prayed that I might somehow be spared aiding King Harald in his odious scheme of theft and slaughter. Having struggled through all things to remain a good monk worthy of the Célé Dé, I did not wish to begin a life of crime now—so close to the Judgement Seat, as it were. Fa
r better, I decided firmly, to die opposing Harald than to approach the Throne of Heaven reeking of sin, with the blood of innocents on my hands.
It came to me that this was how I would die—with the king’s sword at my throat, as punishment for refusing to accompany him ashore. The thought produced not fear, but despair, for it seemed a cruelly meaningless end to life. God be praised, my despair was short-lived. Jarl Harald considered scouting duty beneath him, preferring instead to remain on the ship awaiting our return. “Three of my karlar will serve me in this,” he said, and turned his attention to choosing who should go.
He summoned the man who had suggested paying the harbour tax—his name was Hnefi, and the king trusted him for the sagacity of his advice; Harald also called forth a warrior called Orm the Red, who, in addition to being adept with sword and spear, was light of foot and stealthy. The king was on the point of selecting the third member of the party when I suggested that it might serve our purpose to have at least one warrior I knew and trusted, who could speak to the others should the need arise.
Harald, his patience growing brittle once more, asked if I knew such a man. I told him I did, and named Gunnar. “Very well,” the jarl agreed impulsively, “let Gunnar Warhammer go with you.”
Thus, we four found ourselves clambering over the side of the longship and into one of the many small boats still jostling one another for our service. Dropping into the boat, I told the boatman that we desired to be put ashore at the nearest city gate.
“A wise choice, my friend,” the boatman said agreeably. “Rest yourself and worry for nothing. You will soon be there. My name is Didimus Pisidia, and I am at your service. You have chosen well, for this is the best boat in all Byzantium. I will pray to God your wisdom is rewarded a hundredfold.”
“I thank you, friend Didimus,” I replied, and confided that as we knew nothing of Constantinople, we would be grateful for any guidance he might be able to offer.
Byzantium Page 25