Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “That was the warrior from the gate,” Gunnar said as I joined them. “The one you were looking for?”

  “Yes, that was the one.”

  “And he told you what you wanted to know?”

  “Yes,” I said tersely. I did not care to discuss it further—certainly not with Sea Wolves who were the cause of the ruined pilgrimage, and all the other troubles in my life. Instead, I turned and strode along the street. “Come,” I said, “we must hurry if we want to be at the quay when the bread arrives.”

  “Heya!” agreed Gunnar. “The sooner we collect the winnings, the happier I will be.”

  “Didimus,” I called, “lead us back to the ships. Quickly, now! We do not wish to miss Constantius.”

  “Most fortunate of men are you,” cried the little boatman cheerfully, “for you are in the company of one who anticipates your every whim. I have already thought of this, and I have devised a special route to take you. No boat this time, yet, never fear, we will reach the harbour before the sun sets.”

  True to his word, Didimus brought us to the harbour just as the sun sank below the western hills. “You see!” he said. “There is your ship, here are you, and the sun is only setting. And now I must go home to my supper. I bid you fare well, my friends. I will be leaving you now. If I have been of service to you, I am happy. I need nothing more.” Smiling in anticipation of his reward, he added, “Naturally, if people wish to show their appreciation…”

  “You have done us good service, Didimus,” I told him. “For that we are grateful.”

  Turning to Gunnar, I explained that we must pay the boatman for his help, reminding him that without Didimus, we would not have been able to win the wager.

  “Say no more,” replied Gunnar expansively, “I am feeling generous.” Opening his leather bag, he produced a handful of nomismi and began counting them out.

  Didimus’s face fell when he saw the coins. Nudging Gunnar, I said, “Truly, he has been a very great help.”

  From among the coins Gunnar selected a silver denarius, and held it out to Didimus. The boatman’s smile instantly returned. “May God Himself bless you richly, my friends!” he gasped, snatching the coin and tucking it quickly out of sight. Seizing my hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed it. Then he kissed Gunnar’s hand as well, and departed, saying, “Next time you need a guide, call on Didimus, and you will have the best guide in all Byzantium, never fear!”

  “Farewell,” I called. Didimus quickly disappeared among the workers and boatmen making their way to the city, and we hurried to the place where the longship was still moored to the quayside.

  We had just reached the ship and were about to go aboard when we heard Hnefi call out, “Ho! It is no use hiding. We have seen you.”

  “Heya,” replied Gunnar affably. “And I see you have found your way back to the ship. That is a triumph for you, Hnefi. You must be very pleased.”

  “If I am pleased,” said Hnefi, strolling up as if he owned the harbour, “it is because I see you standing there empty-handed. You should have stayed with us.” Some of the other Sea Wolves arrived, staggering slightly, and looking dazzled by the day’s experience.

  “I see that you have found a drinking hall,” Gunnar observed. “No doubt the öl has helped ease the sting of your defeat.”

  “Wine!” cried Hnefi. “We have been drinking wine—and that in celebration of our victory! I will take my silver now.”

  Some of the Danes aboard ship gathered at the rail to observe this exchange. They called to their shipmates below and were told of the wager between Gunnar and Hnefi over the bread.

  “I wonder at you, Hnefi,” Gunnar replied, shaking his head sadly. “It must be that you have forgotten the most important part of the wager. I am looking, but I do not see the bread.”

  “Are you blind, man?” replied Hnefi. “Open your eyes.”

  So saying, he turned and called a signal to the remaining five Sea Wolves of his party just then straggling up. I saw that they were bearing large cloth bags on their backs. At their leader’s signal, they came to where we were standing, and slung their bags to the quay. “Behold!” cried Hnefi, opening the nearest bag. Thrusting his hand inside, he produced a small brown loaf. “I give you bread.”

  Gunnar stepped to the sack and peered inside; it was indeed full of small brown loaves. “It is bread,” confirmed Gunnar. “But I am wondering how you obtained it.”

  The Sea Wolves on the quay and those aboard ship began clamouring for the wager to be settled. As I suspected, numerous additional wagers had been struck, and now the winners wanted their take.

  “I do not understand,” Gunnar said, shaking his head. “How did they do it?”

  We were not to wonder long, however, for at that moment, there came a shout from the quay. I turned to see Constantius the baker, pushing a cart loaded high with fresh bread in big, round fragrant loaves. Behind him a young man pushed a second cart filled equally high. “Here!” he shouted. “Here you are! I have found you.”

  He forced the cart through the midst of the barbarians, hollering at them to make way. “Just as I promised,” he declared in a loud voice, “I have brought the politikoï. ‘Do not worry,’ I said, ‘I am a man of my word.’ And now you see, eh? I was telling the truth. I am an honest man. Here is your bread.”

  I thanked him, and said, “These Danes do not understand your speech. If you will allow me, I will tell them what you are saying.”

  “By all means, you must do that. Let understanding increase.”

  To Hnefi and the others, I said, “As you see, Constantius here has brought the bread allowance—and not half only, but the whole of it.”

  “Heya,” he agreed confidently, “it is a shame for you that he arrived too late.”

  “How so?” challenged Gunnar. “You see the bread before you.”

  “We brought bread also, and we arrived with it before you,” Hnefi replied. “Therefore I have won the wager.”

  “That is by no means certain,” said Gunnar. “I do not know what it is that you have brought in those bags of yours, but it is not the bread we were sent to fetch.”

  “You know it is bread!” charged Hnefi. “You have seen it with your own eyes.”

  King Harald arrived at the rail and demanded to know why so many men were standing idle when there were provisions waiting to be brought aboard ship. Hnefi quickly explained about the wager, adding, “As it happens, I have won. But this worthless Dane refuses to admit his defeat and pay me my winnings.”

  “Is this so?” asked the king.

  “I do refuse, Jarl Harald,” answered a defiant Gunnar, “for it is not my custom to pay when I win a wager. I pay only when I lose. Hnefi insists on having it the other way, I think.”

  This response delighted the onlooking Sea Wolves, many of whom laughed, and began cheering for him.

  “What is all this commotion?” wondered a bemused Constantius, finding himself surrounded by barbarians in full cry.

  While I explained the dispute, the king made his way to the quay to settle the argument himself. “Clearly, you cannot both have won this wager,” opined Harald judiciously. “One of you has won, and the other has lost. That is 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 h
ope 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?

  None of this made sense to me. No matter how I thought about it, God always came out seeming churlish and small, and wholly unworthy of my devotion. I had been willing to give—indeed, had given to the utmost of my ability—heart and mind and soul to him. I had dedicated the whole of my life to God, and he had not so much as acknowledged the gift. Far from it! He had ignored it completely.

  This thought made me feel more alone than ever I had been in my life up to now. I was a lost man—the more since I had formerly consoled myself thinking that I was about some holy purpose, and that God cared for me. Truth, they say, is a cold and bitter draught; few drink it undiluted. Sure, I drained the cup this time.

  I had once imagined myself a vessel made for destruction. I knew now that the destruction I feared was complete
. I was undone. Even the bleak hope of a martyr’s death was denied me. I had been willing to die, and to suffer the Red Martyrdom would have been a noble and godly thing. But no more. All holiness, all consolation of faith, all grace was refused me. In desperation I ran my hands through my hair, which had grown long now; my tonsure was gone. I looked down at my clothes—little more than rags. My transformation was finished: I looked like Scop!

  In the bitterness of this hateful realization, I heard again the old Truth-Sayer’s words—hateful words, mocking words, but true: “God has abandoned me, my friend, and now, Aidan the Innocent, he has abandoned you!”

  This, finally, was the cause of my despair: God had abandoned me among strangers and barbarians. When I ceased to be of use to him, he had cast me aside. Despite the glorious promises of the holy text—how he would never leave nor forsake his people, how those who worshipped him would be saved, how he cared for his children and answered their prayers, how he raised up those who honoured him and cast down the evil-doers…and all the rest—he had forsaken me.

  The grand promises of Holy Scripture were empty words, mere sounds in the wind. Worse, they were lies. Evildoers prospered; the prayers of the righteous went unanswered; the God-fearing man was humiliated before the world; no one was saved even the smallest torment: good people were made to suffer injustice, disease, violence, and death. No heavenly power ever intervened, nor so much as mitigated the distress; the people of God cried to heaven for deliverance, but heaven might as well have been a tomb.

  Oh, I saw it all clearly now. I saw, stretching out before me as wide and empty as the sea, the same stark desolation Scop had seen. Bitterness and confusion looped serpent coils around me; joy and hope turned to ashes in my heart. Had I lavished my devotion on a lord unworthy of veneration? If that was true, I did not see how I could live. Nor indeed, why I should want to continue drawing breath in a world ruled by such a God.