Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The following morning, the ships were moved to the Harbour of Theodosius, which served the emperor’s fleet, being nearer the imperial storehouses and granaries. All through the dreary, rain-dashed morning, I watched as the wagons trundled onto the quay and sacks and baskets of provisions were bundled into the waiting ships. I watched, looking for any opportunity to leave the ship; despite Harald’s orders I still hoped for a brief word with Justin. After a while the rain stopped and a dull, hazy sun appeared. Sea gulls wheeled in the air, diving for garbage in the harbour. As midday approached, I began to fear that Harald would keep his decision, and I would not have another chance to go into the city.

  Happily, as the last of the sacks were being stowed, Gunnar came to me. “Heya, Aeddan,” he said by way of greeting. “Jarl Harald says Hnefi and I must go and collect our share of bread.” He passed me a small square of parchment on which was written a number; the parchment bore an imperial seal. “The king says you are to go with us in the event we are questioned by those in authority over the loaves.”

  This was the chance for which I had been hoping. Tucking the parchment into my belt, I said, “When the jarl commands, we must obey. Come, let us hurry.”

  “Heya,” agreed Gunnar, regarding me dubiously.

  Summoning two from the score of small boats working the harbour, we departed with a party of ten to fetch bread for all four ships. One of the small privileges of serving in the imperial forces was this allowance of bread which could be obtained from any of several imperial bakeries in the city. Even though all four of Harald’s ships were full-laden with provisions, the king was intent on receiving everything due him. Bread had been granted in his bargain with the Overseer of the Fleet and if the emperor decreed free bread for his servants, then Harald wanted each and every loaf.

  Despite the fact that we were now in the emperor’s employ, we were still barbarians, and so continued to use the Magnaura Gate. This meant returning to Hormisdas Harbour, but the boatmen did not mind for it meant a greater fee for them. We arrived and I wasted no time making for the gate. Leaving Gunnar and Hnefi with the gate prefect to purchase entry disci for the others, I ran over to where the guardsmen stood at their post. Justin was not among them, nor was he anywhere to be seen.

  “Where is Scholarae Justin?” I asked, speaking to the nearest soldier.

  Glaring, the man appraised me with contempt. “Move off,” he growled.

  “Please,” I said, “it is important. I was meant to see him here. I must know where he has gone.”

  “It is none of your concern,” the guard said, and was on the point of moving me along by force, when one of the others interceded.

  “Tell him what he wants to know, Lucca,” the other said. “It will do no harm.”

  “You tell him,” replied the first. He blew his nose at me and turned away.

  “If you know where he is,” I said, appealing to the second soldier, “I would be grateful of your help.”

  “Scholarae Justin has been reassigned,” said the soldier. Regarding me more closely, he asked, “Are you the priest called Aidan?”

  “I am.”

  The soldier nodded. “He said to tell you he could be found at the Great Palace.”

  “But where?” My heart sank at the prospect of trying to locate him in that warren of walls, halls, residences, and offices—assuming I could even gain entrance. “Which part of the palace?”

  The guard shrugged. “He did not say. Probably he is at one of the gates.”

  I thanked the soldier and left, wondering how I would ever be able to return to the Great Palace, and even if that could be accomplished, how to go about finding Justin.

  35

  Gunnar and Tolar were waiting for me when I returned to the prefect’s booth. “Well,” Gunnar said, looking down the crowded street, “we must now find a bread-making place.”

  Glancing around, I noticed the people passing to and fro through the gate; many were bearing burdens, and some of these were led by others who walked ahead, clearing the way. On a sudden inspiration, I said, “Far easier to say than do. We all know what happened last time we went a-viking in this city.”

  “Jarl Harald was not so pleased with us as I thought he would be,” Gunnar conceded. Tolar nodded grimly.

  “No, he was not,” I agreed. “The best way to avoid incurring the king’s wrath would be to find someone to guide us.”

  “You have good ideas, Aeddan,” Gunnar said. “But I do not think Hnefi will allow us to do this.”

  Thinking quickly, I said, “How much silver do you have?”

  Gunnar regarded me warily. “No more than ten pieces,” he replied.

  “Good,” I said. “That should be enough. Perhaps we will not need them.” Regarding the others waiting a few paces away, I said, “Now let us ask Hnefi.”

  A short consultation ensued in which Gunnar and Hnefi argued over the notion of hiring a guide. “This Miklagård is a large and confusing settlement, as you know,” Gunnar pointed out. “If the jarl were here, he would certainly use a guide, I think.”

  “Jarl Harald would never use a guide,” Hnefi insisted. “And I will not use one either. We are Sea Wolves; we will find the way ourselves.”

  The Danes looking on nodded their agreement; opinion, I could see, strongly favoured Hnefi’s position.

  “You are wrong, Hnefi. In this place it is far better to have someone to show us the way,” I insisted.

  “We did not fare so well last time on our own,” added Gunnar. “The jarl was very angry with us. This is worth remembering, I think.”

  “You use a guide,” sneered Hnefi, as if this were insult enough. “I would never consider such an undignified thing.”

  “Very well. We will use a guide,” I declared, “and we will deliver the bread to the ships before you.”

  “You speak above yourself,” he growled. “I do not listen to the gibber of slaves.”

  Seizing the moment, I made my challenge. “Then let us make a wager and see who is right.”

  “It was your fault that the jarl became angry,” Hnefi replied carelessly. “I am not listening to you.”

  “You only say that because you do not wish to part with your silver,” I observed, half-fearing he would strike me. “You know I am right, but it pains you to admit it in front of your friends.” I indicated the Danes who stood looking on with mounting interest.

  As expected, Hnefi took the bait. “I do not make wagers with slaves.” He drew himself up haughtily. “Besides, you do not have any silver.”

  “That is true,” I conceded. “However, Gunnar’s purse is full.”

  “Not so full that it cannot hold more,” replied Gunnar grandly. “Come, Hnefi, let us make a wager if you are not afraid. Three pieces of sil—”

  “Ten pieces of silver,” I put in quickly. “Ten denarii to the first one to reach the ship with half the allowance of bread.”

  Gunnar hesitated, peering doubtfully at me.

  “Ha! You are not so certain now, Gunnar Big-Boast?” the haughty Hnefi gloated. “Ten silver pieces is too much for you, heya?”

  “I was merely thinking how best to spend my winnings,” replied Gunnar smoothly. “It is difficult to know what to do with so much silver all at once. A man should plan these things. I am thinking that I may have to buy a bigger purse.”

  Tolar chuckled.

  “Go your way,” Hnefi sneered. “We will see who returns to the ship first.” Hnefi turned to the onlooking barbarians. “You men are free to choose. Who will go with Gunnar, and who will go with me?”

  This invitation occasioned a brief discussion of the merits of both sides. A few were intrigued and might have sided with Gunnar, but the safer bet was deemed to lay with Hnefi. The barbarians, it seems, trusted their battlechief more than they trusted a slave and an unknown guide.

  “Perhaps you should give me your silver now,” mocked Hnefi, “it appears you are alone with your slave-friend.”

  “Tolar stands with m
e,” Gunnar replied.

  “But the rest go with me.”

  “How will you carry so much bread—just the three of you?” called one of the barbarians.

  “That is no worry,” Hnefi laughed. “They will never find any!” He gestured to the shore party to follow him, and they all moved off in good spirits, discussing how to help Hnefi spend his winnings.

  “He is right,” observed Gunnar gloomily. “Even if we find the baking place first, we will never be able to carry so much bread by ourselves. I have made a very foolish wager.”

  “Be of good cheer, Gunnar,” I said lightly. “Worry not, neither be afraid. God stands ready to aid those who call upon him in time of need.”

  “Then do so now, Aeddan,” Gunnar urged. “We are but three against ten.”

  Standing in the street I offered up a prayer that God would lead us speedily to the nearest bakery and allow us to prevail. The prayer pleased Gunnar enormously. He told me that a god who helped men win wagers was a god worth knowing.

  “Now then,” I said, “it only remains for us to find a guide.”

  I ran back to the quay, where a search of the harbour quickly produced the desired result. “There! There he is,” I cried. “Hurry, help me call him.”

  Gunnar, Tolar, and I stood on the quayside waving our arms and shouting like madmen, and in a short while, the little boatman stood before us. “Greetings, Didimus,” I said, “we have need of a guide. Can you find someone for us?”

  “My friend,” he replied happily, “you say to Didimus ‘find a guide’, and I say to you: look no further. Before you stands the finest guide in all Byzantium. The city holds no secrets for Didimus. You may place your entire trust in me, my barbarian friends. I will soon take you anywhere you want to go.”

  He scurried down the steps to his boat, secured it to an iron ring in the quay wall and returned at once, eager to lead us on. “Now then, where do you wish to go? Perhaps you wish to see Hagia Sophia, eh? The Church of Holy Wisdom, yes? I will take you there. The Hippodrome? I can take you there. Follow me, my friends, I will soon show you everything of interest in this city.”

  If I had not stopped him, he would have been away at once. “A moment please, Didimus,” I said. “We have urgent business to conduct, and for this we require your aid.”

  “I am your servant. Consider your affairs successfully completed.” He smiled, looking from me to Gunnar and back again. “Where do you wish me to take you?”

  “To the nearest imperial bakery.”

  “A bakery!” The little boatman made a sour face. “The whole city is before you! I will take you to Hagia Sophia! You will enjoy this greatly.”

  “By all means, let us go to the Church of Saint Sophia,” I replied, “but first it is of utmost importance to visit the bakery to fetch the bread allowance for the ships.”

  Didimus shrugged. “If that is what you wish, it is soon accomplished. Follow me.”

  He strode out smartly, calling out for people to clear the way before us. Gunnar appeared worried. “Never fear,” I told him as we started off. “We will prevail. You see? God has already answered our prayer.”

  Following our chattering guide, who seemed determined that we should appreciate as many of the sights as possible along the way, we threaded our way along narrow, close-crowded streets. As it happened, the closest imperial bakery was very near the granaries, which were no great distance from the harbour. We arrived after a short walk. “Here, my friends, is the bakery,” said Didimus, pointing to the white-painted building before us.

  Save for the column of smoke drifting from the clay pipe in the roof, it might have been a stable. He stepped to the blue door and banged on it with the flat of his hand, and a voice called out from within. “He says to wait,” the boatman informed us.

  We stood in the street, watching the people hurry by around us. The dress and appearance of the wealthier Byzantines amused and amazed me anew: their lavish and extraordinary attention to each item of clothing and every curl of hair was extraordinary. I saw three men walk by, deep in ardent conversation, the foremost of them pounding his fist into his palm. Each of the men wore long cloaks over bright-coloured, richly embroidered tunics, the shoulders of which were stuffed with cloth to make them appear larger—absurdly so, it seemed to me. Their hair was long and heavily oiled, and arranged in well-ordered coils—beards, too. As they passed, they saw Gunnar and Tolar, and put their noses in the air, turned their faces away, and hurried on as if they smelled a repulsive odour. I felt slightly offended, but Gunnar laughed at their pomposity.

  After a time, the blue door opened. “Here!” called a fat man in a close-fitting brown garment; his hair and clothing were powdered almost white with flour. He took one look at us and shouted, “Be gone! Away with you!” Before we could move or speak, he pulled in his head again, slamming the door behind him.

  “A most unfriendly man,” observed Didimus. He made to knock on the door again, but Gunnar stepped forward, indicating that he should step aside. Motioning for Tolar to stand at the door, he knocked sharply.

  We waited and Gunnar knocked again, using the handle of his knife this time, and almost rattling the door off its hinges. A moment later the man, angry now, thrust his head out. “You! Stop that! I told you to be gone!” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

  Quick as a flick, Gunnar seized the baker by his fat wrist, yanked him through the doorway and out into the street. The baker sputtered in outrage and spun around, but Tolar had swiftly stepped behind him into the doorway and was now blocking his retreat.

  “My friend,” I said. “We have business with you.”

  “Liar!” snarled the man. “I bake for the emperor alone. Neither pagani nor barbari taste my bread. Now, get you gone before I call the scholae!”

  “These men also serve the emperor,” I told him flatly. “He has sent them to you to collect our bread allowance.”

  “Again, I call you liar,” the baker sneered; his face had turned very red and he seemed about to burst. “I have never seen you before. Do you think it is so easy to steal bread from me? I am not like those others who give the politikoï to anyone who asks and then charge the state exorbitant fees. My bread is honest bread and I am an honest man!”

  “Then you have nothing to fear from us,” I said, trying to soothe him. “The men you see before you serve in the barbari bodyguard. They have come to fetch the politikoï, as you say, for the ships escorting the trade delegation to Trebizond.”

  The fat baker stared at me. “I am Constantius,” he said, calming somewhat. “If you are from the emperor, where is the sakka?” He thrust out his hand, palm upward.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “Thieves!” the baker cried. “I thought so! I knew it! Be gone, thieves.”

  “Please,” I said, “what is this sakka?”

  “Ha! You do not know politikoï; you do not know sakka! If you were indeed Farghanese,” he sneered, “you would know what it is. I would not have to tell you.”

  Gunnar followed this exchange with a perplexed frown on his face, watching every move carefully, his hand ready on his knife.

  “We are emperor’s men,” I insisted, “but we have never done this before. The ways of Byzantium are new to us.”

  “The sakka is given you by the logothete to tell me how much bread to allow,” said the baker. “You do not have one, so you get no bread. Now, get out of my way. I have wasted enough time with you.”

  Understanding came to me at once; I reached into my belt and produced the small square of parchment Gunnar had given me. “This is the sakka you require, is it not?”

  Constantius snatched the parchment from me, glanced at it, and shoved it back at me. “It is impossible. I do not have so much bread. Come back tomorrow.”

  “We need it today,” I said. “Is there some other bakery to which we can go?”

  “There are other bakers,” Constantius replied stiffly. “But it will do you no good. No one has so much
bread ready to carry off at once.”

  “Can you bake it?”

  “Of course I can bake it!” he cried. “But I cannot do it all at once. If you want so many loaves you must wait.”

  “We do not mind waiting,” I said.

  “Wait then,” he snarled. “But you cannot wait here. I will not have barbari lurking outside my bakery. It is not seemly.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “Tell us when to return and we will come back when you are ready.”

  “The four of you?” he wondered. “You cannot carry so much.”

  My heart sank. “Why? How much bread is it?”

  Glancing at the parchment once more, he said, “Three hundred and forty loaves.”

  “We will bring more barbari to help us,” I replied. “We will fetch them now.”

  “You say you have ships,” said Constantius. “Where are they?”

  “In Theodosius Harbour,” the boatman replied.

  “It is not far,” the baker observed. “I will bring them to you when I have finished.”

  “There is no need,” I told him. “We would be most happy to carry—”

  “No, I insist. Leave it to me,” he said. “This way I know you do not sell them on the way back to your ships.”

  “Very well, I only thought to save you trouble. We would be most grateful for your service. There are Danish ships—longships, four of them.”

  “They are easy to find.” He ducked his head, then turned abruptly. Tolar made to block the door.