Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  I made no reply.

  “Aidan,” he said gently, “are you still one of us?”

  I could not bear the hurt and sadness in their eyes any more, so I looked away when I answered. “No,” I said softly. “I ceased being a priest long ago.”

  After a moment, Brynach said, “No one is ever far from the reach of God’s swift sure hand. I will pray for you, brother.”

  “If you like,” I replied. Brynach accepted this and did not press me further. A wave of laughter from the banqueting room washed across the courtyard just then. “You should go and enjoy the feast,” I told them. “Rejoice with those who rejoice.”

  “Will you be joining us, Dána?” asked Dugal.

  “Perhaps,” I allowed. “In a little while.”

  They departed, leaving me to myself once more. It was only after they had gone, that I became aware of Kazimain, standing across the courtyard in the shadow of a column. She was watching me, waiting. I rose at once, but before I could go to her, she strode towards me purposefully, her jaw set, her lips firm. I had seen the look before.

  “You were speaking to your kinsmen,” she said, lifting her veil. “I did not wish to intrude.” Glancing down, she folded her hands before her as she ordered the words she had prepared.

  “You are never an intrusion, my love,” I said lightly.

  “Aidan, please, it is hard for me to say this.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice had taken on a determined tone. “I shall not marry you,” she said simply.

  “What?”

  “We will not be married, Aidan.”

  “Why?” I said, astonished by the abruptness of her announcement. She lowered her eyes to her folded hands. “Why are you saying this, Kazimain? Nothing has changed between us.”

  She shook her head slowly. “No, my love, you have changed.”

  Unable to answer, I merely stared at her, a cold familiar numbness spreading outward from my heart.

  She raised her head and looked at me, her dark eyes grave and serious. “I am sorry, Aidan.”

  “Kazimain, tell me, how have I changed?”

  “Need you ask?”

  “I do ask,” I insisted, though in my heart I knew she was right. Without knowing precisely why, I felt like a thief caught in the act of robbery, or a liar discovered in his falsehood.

  “I have observed you these last many days. It is clear to me that you are no longer a man of faith.”

  “I am no longer a Christian, it is true,” I told her, “so the difference in our beliefs need not pose any difficulty to our marriage. I love you, Kazimain.”

  “But it is not love we are talking about,” she said gently, “it is belief. I see that you are no longer a Christian, not because you renounced your faith in the Christ, but because you have abandoned God. Having forsaken God, you no longer believe in anything. Aidan, it is forbidden for a woman of Islam to marry an infidel. To do so is death.”

  There was nothing but pity in her eyes as she said this; nevertheless, I felt the last small square of solid ground crumbling away beneath my feet. “But in Samarra—”

  “In Samarra it was different,” she said sharply; “you were different. I knew you were disappointed, but when I saw you in the mosq I thought you were a man who yet put his trust in God. I know now that you believe in nothing higher than yourself.” Lowering her head, she added, half to herself, “I hoped for what cannot be.”

  “Kazimain, please,” I said, clinging desperately to the last remaining certainty I possessed. Though it cut me deep, there was no disputing what she said. I had enough honesty left in my heart to recognize the truth when I heard it.

  “We are betrothed no more.”

  I cannot say the strength of her resolve surprised me. She was, after all, the same Sarazen princess who had defied her uncle and risked all to follow us into the desert alone. She had shown herself steadfast in every way, and she demanded no less from the man who would share her life. Sure, a blind man could have seen I was not her equal. Once, perhaps, but no longer.

  “If only we could have stayed in Samarra,” I said, accepting the finality of her declaration at last. “I would have married you, Kazimain. We would have been happy there.”

  This touched her, I think, for her manner softened towards me, and she stretched a hand to my face. “I would have followed you to the end of the earth,” she whispered. Then, as if this admission would recoil upon her, she pulled away, straightened, and added, “Even so, it is finished between us.”

  Gathering her robes about her, she lowered the veil once more. “I will pray God grants you peace, Aidan.”

  I watched her move away, slender and regal, her head high. She turned as she reached the colonnade and, looking back, called, “Farewell, my love.” Stepping into the shadows, she disappeared, leaving only the faint, lingering scent of oranges and sandalwood in the air.

  Farewell, Kazimain. I have loved you, and love you still. No other woman will ever own my heart; it is forever yours.

  I stayed alone in the courtyard for a long time, listening to the sounds of the celebration, and marking the slow progression of the stars overhead. In the end, I did not join the revelry, but remained in the courtyard all night, wretched and alone.

  Never had I felt so rejected and forsaken. I wept that night for the loss of my faith, no less than for the loss of my love. The last frail cord that bound me to the world and to myself had been severed, and I was now a soul wholly adrift.

  75

  When the Logothete of the Treasury arrived at midday the next day, he found a somewhat groggy King Harald surrounded by a ragged band of bleary barbarians, the splintered remains of six wine casks, and an assortment of scattered bones and broken dishes. Upon presentation of the imperial official, the jarl revived wonderfully well and, after graciously offering the logothete a haunch of congealed pork—which the courtier declined with equal grace—the two sat down to reckon accounts.

  Naturally, I was required to sit with them so as to translate for Harald. As on similar occasions, I was very soon moved to a kind of awe at the wily Dane’s ability to exploit the latent opportunities of any situation. Armed with a modest array of weapons, he nevertheless used them with impressive skill: now wheedling, now cajoling, then pouting, coaxing, or demanding; he could shout, shaking the rooftrees with anger, yet never lose his temper; he could cozen with a convincing display of good-natured ignorance one moment, and the next perform the most intricate calculations with bewildering speed and accuracy.

  By the time the logothete departed, he seemed a dazed and broken man. And why not? Harald had triumphed utterly, conceding a few minor battles along the way, while sweeping the field and winning the war. The imperial coffers were lightened by more than sixty thousand silver denarii, making Harald and the few surviving Sea Wolves wealthy men one and all.

  When, later in the day, the payment arrived—half in silver denarii, and the other half in gold solidi, contained in five stout iron-bound sea boxes, as agreed—I helped Jarl Harald make his mark on the vellum scroll the courtier produced to record the Danes’ receipt of the payment.

  When the official and his men had gone, Harald offered me a share of the wealth. “Take it, Aeddan,” he urged. “If not for you, none of us would be alive to enjoy our good fortune. Yours is a debt of gratitude we cannot easily repay, but it would cheer me greatly to see you accept it.”

  “Nay, Jarl Harald,” I told him. “The losses represented by that treasure were yours alone. Give it to the widows and orphans of the men who will not be coming home.”

  “I will provide for them, never fear,” the king said. “But there is more than enough. Please, take something.”

  Again, I declined, but Harald prevailed on me to take a generous measure of gold solidi to assist myself and the other monks on our return journey. The suggestion made sense, and I accepted the coins, whereupon the Sea King departed saying he would find another way to repay me. He then declared another feast—this one to celebr
ate their new wealth. The festivities occupied them the rest of the day and far into the night. When the revelry reached a fine, expansive mood, the Danes fell to boasting recklessly of all they would do with the riches they carried home with them. Gunnar and Hnefi took it upon themselves to surpass one another.

  “When I get home,” declared Hnefi loudly, “I will have a ship trimmed in gold!”

  “One ship only?” wondered Gunnar. “I myself will have a whole fleet of ships, each larger than the last, with mast and oars of gold.”

  “Well and good,” continued Hnefi grandly, “but I will also have a drinking hall larger than Odin’s—with a hundred vats of öl to slake the thirst of all my karlar, of which I shall have a thousand.”

  “Well, that may do for you,” conceded Gunnar loftily, “but such a mean hut would never do for me, for I will have ten-thousand karlar, each with his own öl vat.”

  Hnefi laughed scornfully. “You would need a hall far larger than Valhalla to hold them all!”

  “Well then,” Gunnar smiled at the ease with which he had trapped Hnefi, “I shall have such a hall—larger than Valhalla, so that each of my noblemen will have a place at table to feast with me. And a hundred skalds to sing my praise by day and night.”

  And so it went, each striving to better the other in outrageous displays of greed made glorious by dint of evermore-extravagant boasts. Those looking on called encouragement to the two contenders, laughing loudly, and praising each new height of imagined excess.

  I sat listening, bone-aching exhaustion stealing over me as I looked from one beaming Sea Wolf face to the next. They were so like children, so simple and uncomplicated in their pleasures and desires, unaware of anything save the present moment, to which they gave their unstinting attention. I gazed at them and wished I could return to that quality of innocence. Then, weary with the weight of all that had happened in the last two days, I crept away to my bed.

  Despite their late-night revelry, the Danes rose early the next morning and hastened to the wharf at Psamathia where the ships were moored. As Constantinople resumed its normal busy pace, the other gates were opened once more and Harald brought the three longships around to the small harbour which served the great houses along the Golden Horn—the better, he said, to keep an eye on the provisioning for the voyage home.

  “When will you leave?” I asked him. We were standing on the quay at the place called the Venetian Quarter, watching some of the Danes load sacks of grain into the longships.

  He squinted at the sky and looked out at the sea, then called something to Thorkel, who was ordering the storage of the supplies as they arrived. Receiving a grunted reply, Harald turned back to me, and answered, “Tomorrow. It is a long time we have been away from Skania—a very long time, and the men are eager to return to their wives and kinfolk. The weather is good. We will leave tomorrow.”

  “I understand,” I said, unsettled by the suddenness of the departure. “Sure, I will come down and see you away.”

  “Yes,” Harald said, clapping a big hand to my shoulder, “you do that, Aeddan.”

  He moved off then, but I watched him as he walked along the wharf, looking at the ships; occasionally he hailed someone on board, or paused to put his hands on the keel, or thump the side with his fist. I left the wharf after a while, as Harald and Thorkel were waving their arms at a small man aboard a sleek little merchant vessel with yellow sails.

  Later, when some of the Sea Wolves returned from their various errands in the city, Gunnar and Tolar came to me, bearing a large bag between them. “Jarl Harald says we must be leaving tomorrow,” Gunnar said simply. “We will miss you, Aeddan.”

  “I will miss you, too,” I replied. “But you have Karin and Ulf to think about. And Tolar has his kinfolk. They will all be glad to see the both of you again.”

  “Heya,” Gunnar allowed, “and I will be glad to see them. I tell you the truth, Aeddan, when I get home I will never go a-viking again. Tolar and I have discussed this, and we both agree we are getting too old for these adventures.” Tolar nodded emphatically.

  “A wise decision,” I told them.

  “We brought you a gift to remember our friendship,” Gunnar said. Reaching into the bag, he brought out a small pottery bowl, and placed it in my hands. The bowl was shallow, but finely made; the inside had been decorated in blue and white with the image of a man wearing a crown and holding a spear in one hand and a cross in the other. Below the man, who seemed to be standing atop Saint Sophia’s dome, was the word Leo.

  “It is a splendid bowl, Gunnar. But I cannot take it. Karin would be delighted with a bowl like this. You must give it to her instead.”

  “Nay, nay,” he said. “That one is for you, Aeddan. We have six more just like it.”

  We parted then, and I promised to come down to the ship to see them away. “Sit at table with us tonight,” Gunnar invited. “We will drink together one last time.”

  “Tonight then,” I agreed.

  But I did not sit with them that night. Everywhere around me, the life I had known was ending; all were going their own way now, and I could not prevent that, nor would I have wished to—far from it! I was relieved that the tribulation was over. Still, I could not find it in me to sit with them and raise cups in honour of a friendship that was, like everything else around me, dying.

  The next morning, Jarl Harald bade Lord Sadiq and Faysal farewell. “If you should come north to Skania,” Harald said, speaking through me, “you will be welcome in my hall. We will sit together and feast like kings.”

  “And should you ever venture south again,” the amir replied, “you have but to speak my name to anyone, and you will be brought at once to my palace where you will be welcomed as a noble friend.”

  They embraced one another then, and Harald took his leave. I walked with the Danes down the steep narrow streets to the wharf; Dugal came as well, but kept to himself and said nothing along the way. Since our talk in the courtyard, he and the others had not had much to say to me. I did not know if they were shunning me, or if they were merely uncertain about how things stood and did not wish to make matters worse between us.

  In their eagerness to go home, the Danes made for the ships and scrambled aboard the moment we reached the harbour. Some paused long enough to call a parting word—even Hnefi bade me a breezy farewell.

  A fair few, toiling under the weight of newly-acquired treasures, required the aid of their comrades to get aboard, but all three ships were ready to up sails in a surprisingly short time.

  Thorkel was first to take his leave. He called from his place at the tiller, saying, “Perhaps we meet again one day, Aeddan, heya?”

  “Farewell, Thorkel! See that you keep a steady course now.”

  “Never fear! I have my map!” he replied with a wave, then turned his attention to the sail.

  Gunnar and Tolar came to where Dugal and I stood watching. “You are a good fellow,” Gunnar told me. Tolar echoed the sentiment: “Heya,” he said.

  “I owe you a great debt, Aeddan,” Gunnar continued, regarding me with sad eyes. “I shall be very sorry if I do not find a way to make good my reckoning.” To which Tolar added, “Indeed.”

  “You owe me nothing,” I replied lightly. “Go home to your wife and son. And if you think of me at all, remember also your promise not to go a-viking anymore. It would please me to think of you enjoying your wealth—instead of skinning poor pilgrims for plunder.”

  Gunnar became contrite. “We are done with that, by Odin.” Tolar nodded and spat.

  “Then I am glad.”

  Gunnar gathered me in an enormous, bone-cracking embrace. “Farewell, Aeddan…” he whispered, and then turned away quickly.

  Tolar, against all nature, also embraced me, then stepped away with a smile. “You are not so bad, I think,” he said meaningfully.

  “You are not so bad, either,” I told him, and watched him redden with embarrassment. “Go in peace, Tolar—and see you keep an eye on Gunnar.”


  “That will not be hard, for I am buying a holding next to his that we might be wealthy farmers together,” he said, speaking more words than I had ever heard him utter in a single breath.

  King Harald was the last to take his leave. He came to where I stood, and presented the small man I had seen him speaking with the previous day. “This man is master of the Venetian ship,” he told me, pointing to the yellow-sailed vessel. “He has agreed to take you and your brother priests home to Irlandia. I have paid him to do this, and he has promised to make an easy sailing for you, and to feed you well.”

  Harald indicated the man, and made a presenting motion with his hands. The fellow glanced at the big Dane uncertainly, and then turned to me and said, “I give you good greeting, my friends. I am Pietro. You are, I believe, to accompany me on my return voyage. That, at least, is my understanding.” He spoke fine Latin with a refined, yet easy intonation.

  “So it would appear,” I confirmed. “Forgive me if I seem doubtful, but I knew nothing about this until now.”

  “Worry for nothing,” Pietro said. “My ship I place at your service.” Glancing once more at Harald, who stood beaming at the both of us, he said, “I leave you to your farewells, but come to me when you are finished and we will make our plans.”

  So saying, the elegant little fellow bowed himself away. Harald smiled with satisfaction. “I brought you here, so it is only right that I should see you home again,” he explained. “I searched for the best ship, and his is almost as good as my own. He has sailed from here many times, and I think he is a good pilot. But I told him that if ever word should come to me that you were ill treated, I shall come and slit him throat to belly like a fish.”

  “Do you suppose he understood you?” I wondered.

  Harald’s smile broadened. “Who can say?” He clapped me on the back then, and said, “I leave you now, Aeddan Truth-Sayer. You were a good slave, I shall be sorry to see you no more.”

  “You were a splendid master, Jarl Harald,” I told him. We embraced like brothers, and he turned and hurried to the ship.