Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Lifting the bowl to his mouth, Justin spooned down the broth. I gaped in disbelief. “You are not eating, Aidan,” he observed over the top of the bowl. “Do you not like the soup?”

  “It is not for lack of an appetite that I refrain,” I retorted sharply. “I am aghast at the callous way in which you defame the Holy Emperor. I am appalled at the facile way in which you repeat vilest slander. Even if the smallest crumb of what you say is true, it should move us to pray pardon and forgiveness for our fallen sovereign, rather than to repeat malicious gossip.”

  Justin lowered the bowl. “I have upset you. My words were ill-chosen. Forgive me, brother, it is the way we speak here. On my life, I meant no offence. I am sorry.”

  His contrition softened my anger, and I relented. “Perhaps I have over-stated my objection. I am a stranger here, after all. If I speak when I should listen it is for you to forgive me.”

  “No, you are right to remind me of my misplaced charity,” replied Justin, setting aside the bowl. Retrieving the cups, he handed one to me. “Now, for the sake of this fine meal, let us put all such unpleasantness behind us and drink a health.” Handing my cup to me, he said, “Let us drink to our new friendship.” He raised his cup, and I raised mine. “To the friendship of Christian men!” he said.

  “To Christian friendship,” I said, tipping the cup to my lips.

  We ate in silence for a time, sipping our wine, and dipping bread in the golden broth. I began to feel genuinely revived. Justin was just refilling our cups yet again when the owner’s wife came to the table with a wooden platter bearing a roast chicken—for each of us! The platter covered the whole of the table, forcing Justin to put the cups and jar on the floor. She lay the platter before us and stood, admiring her handiwork before urging us to eat and enjoy.

  “Now,” said Justin lightly, “let us pay our respects to these neglected birds. It would be a sin to let this food go cold.” Pulling his knife from his belt, Justin began cutting into the chicken before him, indicating that I should do the same. When I hesitated, he said, “Have you no knife?” Before I could reply, he said, “Of course not. Here, take mine.” He offered his to me. “Forgive me, Aidan, I keep forgetting you are a slave.”

  The birds were stuffed with almonds and sweetmeat spiced with cumin and honey, and surrounded with small, leaf-wrapped parcels containing minted lambsmeat, lentils, and barley. Every mouthful, every morsel, was a revelation of wonder. Each bite was a delicacy which I, shameful to say, gobbled greedily, immersing myself in the exotic flavours. Remember, I had never tasted lemons before, and I discerned their splendid tang and aroma in most of the dishes, even the soup. I had never eaten vine leaves, nor aniseed, nor olives, nor half of the spices used in that meal.

  It is my belief that I have never tasted food so sumptuous and fine, and to eat in the company of another Christian was a blessing to me. I recalled the meals at the abbey table, and rebuked myself for all the times I had felt less than charitable towards any of my brothers, especially Diarmot.

  The memory put me in mind of Éire, and I felt a pang of regret for my brother monks in Kells. I missed my friends and the steady, slow-revolving wheel of the daily round. I missed hearing the psalms and prayers, and the gospel reading at the eventide meal. I missed Abbot Fraoch, and Ruadh, and Cellach; I missed the scriptorium, and the feel of a pen in my hand. And, God bless him, I missed Dugal.

  Ah, mo croi, I thought, what has become of you?

  “I have not eaten so well, nor in such good company since I left Kells,” I told Justin when we had taken the edge from our hunger.

  “I have been wondering about this,” he said, “How did a priest of Ierne come to be a slave to wild barbarians?”

  Thus, while picking out choice morsels from the platter before us, I told him of my sojourn among the Sea Wolves of Skania. I told him about the abbey, and my work there, and about being chosen for the pilgrimage, and the book we had made for the emperor, the cover of which he had seen this very day. “That was crafted by the brothers of Hy,” I said. “The barbarians destroyed the book.”

  “Do you belong to a sect?”

  “I am of the Célé Dé. The words mean Servants of God,” I told him, and explained that ours was a small community of monks who lived simply, prayed continually, worked to support ourselves and maintain the abbey, and served the people of the region in various ways.

  Justin attended carefully to all I said, asking questions now and then, but mostly contenting himself to listen. The wine loosened my tongue, and I talked—far more than I would have thought possible—through all that remained of the meal and on and on. When it came time to leave, Justin paid the taberna man, who bade us good night and farewell, sending us on our way with small sweet cakes to eat as we made our way home.

  “But you still have not said how you came to be Harald’s slave,” Justin said as we started down the Mese once again. “This is a story I wish to hear.”

  So, as we walked the near-empty street I told him about the work of the three monasteries, making the book and its silver cover, and the unhappy pilgrimage to Constantinople. I ended saying, “I have been fortunate. At least I have arrived. I have no idea what has happened to the others. I fear the worst.”

  “As to that,” replied Justin, “I have friends among the scholarii on the gates. I will speak to them. There is little that passes in or out of the city that the gate guards do not know. One of my cohorts may have heard something about your brothers.” Turning, he lifted a hand to the Magnaura Gate standing before us. “We have come to the end of our way. Come, let us find a boat for you.”

  Justin spoke briefly to the guard on the gate, and the man let us through the night door. There were still a few small craft waiting at the bottom of the steps, and Justin bargained with the boatman and paid him. “He will take you to the ship. Good night, Aidan,” he said, helping me into the boat.

  “Thank you, Justin,” I replied. “Thank you for all you have done for me this day. I will pray God rewards your kindness a thousand times over.”

  “Please, say no more,” he answered. “I have my reward: the emperor favours me with his gold, I have bread and wine with a brother…it is a good day for me.” Raising his hand in farewell, he said, “Remember, I will seek word of your friends. I should learn something in a day or two. Come see me when you can.”

  “How will I find you again?” I called as the boat pushed away from the quay.

  “I am always at the gate,” he said. “Farewell, my friend. God keep you.”

  “And you. Farewell, Justin.”

  34

  The next morning, King Harald prepared to receive the protospatharius aboard the longship. I marvelled at the eagerness with which this red-bearded plunderer donned the garb of civilization. I watched him stride about the deck, ordering the ship for inspection by the Overseer of the Fleet, and I thought: yesterday he was but a raiding rogue, and today he is a loyal defender of the empire.

  At midday the anticipated official arrived in a small boat with four men in blue cloaks; they all wore brown belts and low-crowned, wide-brimmed black hats, and a black cloth pouch hung at his side on a leather strap over his shoulder. As an official of the imperial court, he carried a rod of ebony which had a bronze knob on either end.

  The overseer and his men came aboard bearing greetings from the basileus and a parchment document recognizing the jarl and his men as mercenaries in service to the emperor. “I am Jovian, Protospatharius of the Imperial Fleet,” he told us, and presented the sealed parchment to Harald, who received it with genuine gratitude, and sat bathed in bliss as I read it out to him. The two then sat down to a meal of black bread and fish and öl; they ate and talked most amiably and then applied themselves to the business at hand: negotiation of the amounts and methods of remuneration for Harald’s service.

  The emperor, it transpired, had placed the value of Harald’s service at a thousand nomismi each month. There ensued some confusion over this, however, and it was e
xplained that a month was to be understood as the duration of time between one full moon and the next.

  “That is a hundred silver denarii every month,” I told him. “I think that is very good, Jarl Harald.”

  Hnefi and Orm, sitting close by, heard the number and could not believe their good fortune. “Jarl Harald,” they said, “it is more than we got raiding all last summer!”

  But the marauding Dane was not accustomed to accepting the first offer. “It is enough for me and the use of my ship perhaps,” he allowed cannily. “But I have four ships and a hundred and sixty men. What am I to give them?” While I translated his words, the king fixed the courtier with an uncompromising stare.

  “I did not know you had so many men,” replied Jovian. “Perhaps some allowance might be made for them.” After a brief conference with his underlings, he said, “Shall we say two thousand nomismi? One thousand for you and your ships, and another thousand for your men. What say you to that?”

  “That is less than ten denarii for each man,” Harald complained.

  “But it is more than most of them have ever held in their hands at once,” pointed out Hnefi.

  “Nay,” declared Harald with a slow, obstinate shake of his head. “Ten for each man.” I conveyed the king’s answer.

  “Eight, perhaps,” suggested the overseer cautiously. “And I will allow your men a share of the theme bread.”

  Harald listened to the offer, considered it, and extended his hand in the barbarian manner. The protospatharius regarded the king’s hand with a bemused expression.

  “It means he has agreed,” I informed the official. “If you agree, clasp his hand thus—” I made a shaking motion with my hands to show him how it was done.

  Jovian grasped the Sea King by the hand and sealed the bargain. That settled, they then turned to a discussion of the rights, privileges, and duties of the Danes as new-made subjects of the realm. Lastly, they decided how, when, and where provisions for the voyage were to be collected, and the means by which the Sea Wolves were to join the other ships of the imperial fleet making their way to Trebizond. Needless to say, I spent the day translating between them; it was tedious, but I learned much to my advantage about the emperor’s fleet, and the nature of the voyage under contemplation.

  I understood that it was to be more than a simple trading party, although trade was indeed part of it, for Trebizond, owing to its location at the furthest extent of the eastern frontier, had long supplied Byzantium with its silks, spices, jewels, and other essential luxuries which, I quickly learned, the Arabs controlled. Each year, a great fleet of merchant ships made its way to Trebizond for the trade festival which was held in the spring. Delegations from all over the world attended the festival.

  Recently, however, the Byzantine delegation had been running afoul of Arab pirates who preyed on ships passing to and from the market, which created the necessity of sending an escort of warships to protect the merchants—a costly exercise, and one which the imperial navy would rather avoid, all the more since the ships were increasingly needed elsewhere. For this reason, the emperor was risking the winter seas in order to send an envoy to arrange for a council with an entity called the Caliph of Samarra. If the council proved successful and the raiding could be brought under control, much expense and bloodshed might be avoided at next year’s festival.

  It was late in the day when the protospatharius finished his business and departed. I begged leave to return to the city, thinking I might worship again in one of Constantinople’s churches, or even receive word from Justin as to the fate of my brother monks, but Jarl Harald would not allow it. He demanded I tell him what had passed between the emperor and myself the day before.

  I had hoped he would not ask, but in the event I had already decided that I would tell him the truth—at least, as much of the truth as I could without betraying the confidence of the emperor.

  “You returned to the ship late in the night,” the king pointed out. “I am wondering what use the emperor made of my slave.”

  “Jarl Harald,” I answered, “it is true that I was long absent from your side. The emperor wished to speak with me about the voyage to Trebizond.”

  “I see,” the king replied, in a way that suggested he did not see at all why the emperor should bother himself about me.

  “I believe he was grateful to you for bringing the harbour master to justice,” I suggested, side-stepping the issue slightly.

  “Ah, yes,” replied Harald, as if remembering the incident was a strain on his mind, “the harbour master. Nothing else?”

  “The emperor believes that he cannot trust many of his court officials,” I offered. “That is why he makes such liberal use of mercenaries—men who prosper with his success, but have nothing to gain at his demise. He is well disposed to reward those who earn his pleasure.”

  “This Basil is shrewd, I think. He uses well the tools of his craft,” Harald mused. “Did he ask about me?”

  “About you, Jarl Harald? No, he did not ask me anything about you, or your affairs. But I can tell you that he appeared well satisfied with the bargain between you and him. In any event, he said no more about it—only that he found such alliances useful because he could place little trust in others.”

  “Heya,” observed Harald absently. Obviously, I was not saying what he expected to hear. He was silent for a moment, and then said, “You will stay on the ship until we sail. This I have decided.”

  He dismissed me then, and I went to the prow of the ship and hunkered down in the sharp V-shaped nook formed by the high-swept keel and sides. There, below the fierce painted dragonhead, I turned my face to the planks, closed my eyes, and tried to impose some small order upon the chaos of my thoughts. Sure, this had been a most confusing run of days for me, and I was feeling the strain of trying to swim against the tide of swift-moving events.

  To begin: I had arrived at the city of my death. Strangely, this no longer frightened me. I suppose I had lived long enough with the knowledge for any fear and dread to have abated. And now that I was here, I felt nothing—save an ambiguous curiosity. My lucid dreams never foretold falsely, however; experience had long ago taught me that what I saw never failed to come about. Still, I had arrived in Constantinople, I had walked abroad in the city, and yet I lived. I did not know what to make of that.

  Nor did I know what to make of Justin’s suggestion that word of my brother monks might be forthcoming. For if they had reached Constantinople, the emperor certainly would have known. Even without the gift of the book, they would have sought audience with him. Reason suggested the pilgrimage had not succeeded, but hope argued otherwise.

  And then there was the emperor’s secret. What was I to make of that?

  “We have now a chance for peace with the Muhammedans of the Abbasid,” the emperor had told me once we were alone together. Although peace is always a laudable aim, and worthy to be pursued at all times, who or what these Muhammedans might be, I did not know. But this was why the emperor wished me to attend the embassy to Trebizond: “We require an impartial witness, canny priest,” the emperor said. “We require someone who will watch and remember all that passes there—someone who will not be suspected, someone unknown.”

  The basileus had then gone on to imply that if I agreed to report the proceedings of the meeting between his emissaries and those of this caliph, I would be freed from my captivity to Harald. Sure, I was sore tempted. What man would choose to remain even a moment in slavery if granted the opportunity to end it at a word?

  Oh, but I was also cautious. Try as I might, I could in no way discern the emperor’s motive in this. Perhaps he only meant to help me—to reward me with my freedom, let us say, for bringing the thieving quaestor to justice. Although, if that were in his mind, he could have done it then and there.

  I pondered the emperor’s words, turning them over in my mind. And I paid special heed to all that passed between Harald and the fleet overseer, hoping for a hint, however small, of what or who th
e emperor feared that he should take such illicit precautions. I learned much, but nothing to betoken any apprehension; nor anything that would answer the most vexing question: why had the emperor chosen me?

  Perhaps, as he had intimated, the emperor could not spare any of his trusted men for this errand, and since, as Harald’s slave, I was bound to go with the ships anyway, he merely decided that I might perform a useful service. Still, I asked myself: was it really so difficult to find loyal men?

  Likely, it was an act of impulse and nothing more. This I told myself, but could not help thinking that something more sinister lay behind it. No doubt, I was over-influenced by Justin’s vile gossip—I confess it did disturb me greatly. Sure, it had been most careless of him to speak so. Had I been a better priest, I should have imposed a penance on him so that he would refrain from repeating gossip, were he to be so tempted in the future.

  These thoughts circled in my restless mind, never alighting, never settling. In the end, however, it came to this: the Holy Emperor himself had commanded my service. As a priest of the church, I was forsworn to obey.

  Suspicion, Justin said, is the knife in your sleeve and the shield at your back. I forced the thought from me. But the guardsman’s words kept coming back to me: Where great wealth and power reside, there suspicion runs rampant.

  Such were my thoughts, swarming in my brain like wasps. In the end, I gave up trying to order them, and simply poured out my heart to God. I prayed for a goodly time, but received no solace, so stopped after a while and sat quietly, listening to the talk of the men around me. After a time, I rose and busied myself with other things.

  The next day the fleet overseer sent a man with a map showing our destination and the route by which we would go. Both king and pilot studied the map and, with me as interpreter, questioned the man closely and at length. The map was much more detailed and accurate than any Thorkel had ever seen, and revealed much of the southern seas, heretofore unknown to the Danes. When they had learned all they could, Harald dismissed the man and no sooner had his feet left the planks than the king ordered me to make a copy of the map for him. Despite using the most primitive tools—a seabird’s feather for a pen!—I persevered, and even found the labour enjoyable. I could not resist the urge to embellish the new map with a few triscs and a band of knotwork down one side. The quill, though crude, served well enough, and I found myself enjoying the practice of my former craft so much that I drew, over the empty Southern Sea, a wild goose, symbol of the Holy Spirit—a blessing to all who should behold the map in years to come. My work occupied me the rest of the day, and took my mind off wanting to go ashore.