Viking Passion (33 page)

“We lost the rest of our party along the
way,” Erik lied glibly. “I was concerned about going on alone. I
will consider your offer.”

“Do you always travel with two women?” The
blond man laughed.

“They are my slaves. I’m not old yet,” Erik
declared, a twinkle in his eye.

The other man laughed again. “If you can
afford to feed them,” he said, “it’s your affair.”

The man, who said his name was Harald, showed
them a good spot to pitch their tent and even brought them some
fresh meat from his own supplies.

“The fleet from Kiev always stops here to
rest and to give thanks after surviving the rapids,” Harald told
Erik. “You see that huge oak tree over there? The men make
offerings to Thor around it, bread or meat, or whatever they have
to give.”

When Erik did not seem too interested in
this, Harald added, “Of course, I don’t do that. I’m a Christian
myself. I have to be to trade with the Greeks. They’re very
particular about not dealing directly with heathens. You could have
yourself signed, you know. For a little silver, a priest will make
the sign of the cross over you, and then they say you are a
provisional Christian so you can trade with them. It doesn’t hurt a
bit, and afterward you can do whatever you want about worshipping
and they won’t care. They just like to keep up appearances. They’re
sly folk, those Greeks. They have a thousand rules and it looks as
though everyone is obeying them, but for the right bribe you can
get away with almost anything.”

“I know,” Erik said. “I’ve been to Miklagard
before.”

“Then you understand what I’m talking
about.”

While listening to this conversation Lenora
had been unpacking their still-wet belongings and, with Maura’s
help, spreading them out to dry. There wasn’t much left. She was
glad Halfdan’s cauldron and tripod had been saved when their boat
capsized. She ran her hands around the pot, remembering Halfdan’s
carefree laughter and boyish jokes. With a sigh, she began filling
the pot with meat and vegetables for their meal.

When Harald finally left them for his own
tent Lenora joined Erik as he sat near the cooking fire cleaning
his extra sword, which had suffered somewhat from immersion in the
river.

“Didn’t you tell me once you were a
provisional Christian?” she asked.

“That’s right. You heard Harald. The Greeks
won’t trade with heathens.”

“I recall you saying Norsemen aren’t allowed
into the city.”

“Only in small groups and unarmed. They camp
outside the walls at a place called St. Mamas.”

“When we reach Miklagard where will we
live?”

“We could stay at St. Mamas, but it’s the
first place Snorri will look for us. I’m hoping we can stay with my
friend, Basil Panopoulos.”

“And Eirena, your precious nurse.”

Erik grinned and said nothing.

“Are you certain we will be welcomed by this
Basil?” Maura had joined them, and now she looked anxiously at
Erik.

“Of course we will. There’s not a thing to
worry about.” Erik’s confidence silenced them both.

They left St. Gregory’s Island a day later,
traveling with Harald’s boats. This last portion of their journey
downriver was uneventful. As day followed beautiful day, Erik joked
cheerfully about his luck. Lenora began to hope Snorri might have
given up his pursuit. Perhaps Erik had wounded him more seriously
than they realized.

At last they reached the delta of the Dneiper
River and the island called Berezanji, beyond which Lenora could
see the open surface of the Euxine Sea. Erik sold their boat at the
trading post on Berejanzi, and whatever belongings they could
spare. It was with a tear that Lenora watched a tall, fur-clad
trader walk off with Halfdan’s cauldron.

Harald owned a large knarr, which he kept at
Berezanji. He would sail it to Miklagard once it was loaded with
the goods he had brought from Kiev. He had agreed to take Erik and
the women with him for a high price.

“I know it’s not enough,” Erik said, putting
an assortment of silver coins into Harald’s hands. “I’ll work on
the ship to make up the difference, and the women will cook.”

“Why don’t you sell one of them? The skinny
one wouldn’t bring you much, but you could get a good price for
Lenora.”

“I won’t sell either.”

“I’m just trying to be practical. Women are
more trouble than they are worth, and you can always find another
one. What else have you got? I know you would never sell your
sword, but what about your ring? It’s gold, isn’t it? I’ll take it
in partial payment.”

“Never.” Erik looked at the ring on the
little finger of his left hand. “It was my mother’s. I won’t sell
it.”

“Well, then, I guess you will have to work.
You could also introduce me to this merchant friend of yours, this
Basil Panopoulos, who will surely know how to get around the
restrictions the Greeks have put on our trade with them. For a
favor like that, I might reduce the price of your passage.”

* * *

One bright morning they finally sailed into
the dark, choppy waters of the Euxine Sea, and on an equally sunny
day they entered the Bosporus, where they dropped anchor and waited
for the Byzantine customs men to come aboard and inspect Harald’s
cargo.

The leader of this group, the first Greek
Lenora had ever seen, was a short, wiry man in a long-sleeved tunic
and a long cloak, fastened at one shoulder with a buckle. His
costume was simple, but the silks from which it was made were heavy
and luxurious, and his manner was that of an important man
accustomed to submission from those under his command. Under his
supervision all of Harald’s merchandise was inspected, and metal
rods run through some of the bales, to detect contraband. Then the
usual duty of one-tenth the value of the cargo was paid in gold. In
spite of Harald’s open manner and obvious honesty about the goods
he had brought to Constantinople, the inspector seemed annoyed, an
attitude modified only a little by the surreptitious crossing of
his palm with an extra pouch of gold for his own use.

“You are late in the season,” the inspector
said, speaking slowly and clearly so this rude barbarian might
understand him better. “Your fellow traders have already arrived,
and many of them have finished their business and gone home.”

“I was delayed. The Khazars attacked us,”
Harald explained.

The inspector was not interested. “You do
know you are permitted to stay at the Holy City for three months
only? And you know where the Rus encampment is? Good. The Prefect
will be informed of your arrival. One of his representatives will
decide on the exact prices of your goods and inform you where and
when you may sell them. Until then, stay out of trouble, and do not
attempt to enter the city without permission.”

“I am not a trader,” Erik spoke up. ”I have
come from Denmark to see my old friend, Basil Panopoulos, and I
would like to enter the city as soon as possible.”

“I know Basil; he trades with you Rus.” The
inspector’s dark eyes rested on Erik. “The Bureau of Barbarians
will want to know about you. You may have information they can use.
Meanwhile, stay with your friend Harald.”

“When I go into the city,” Erik said, “these
two women go with me.”

“That is a matter for others to decide.” The
little man turned his back on Erik.

It was dawn before Harald received official
permission to proceed, a slender youth in a short tunic bringing
him a note on parchment that he was to display when required.

The anchor was lifted and the knarr moved
slowly through the Bosporus toward St. Mamas, where traders from
Kiev and Holmgard were allowed to stay. This settlement lay on the
European shore of the Bosporus, across the Golden Horn and some
distance away from the rich temptations of Constantinople. It was a
ramshackle suburb of tents and a few badly built houses, fringed
with heavy-laden boats pulled up on the shore or anchored nearby
while their owners awaited permission to sell the cargoes.

“The Greeks don’t trust us,” Harald joked.
“They keep us even farther away from their beloved city than they
keep the Venetians, who have their own little village between St.
Mamas and the Golden Horn, and who would like to buy Constantinople
for themselves if they could. I’m told the Greeks think we
northerners smell bad, but at least we smell like men and not like
a flower garden.” Harald waved his hands in front of his face as if
to brush away the last traces of the heavy perfumes worn by the
Greeks who had boarded his ship.

Lenora stood in the prow of the knarr,
straining for a sight of the great city, although she knew on this
day they were forced to stop short of it.

“I’m almost sorry our voyage is over,” she
said. “If only Halfdan were still here to see the wonders of
Miklagard with us.”

“Yes, I wish that too.” Erik’s arm tightened
across her shoulders. “You must have Norse blood, Lenora. You have
the Viking passion for adventure, and the desire to see new sights,
just as I have.”

Before she could answer, there was a cry from
Maura. “Look,” she called excitedly, pointing across the water.
“Erik, is that it?”

A great domed building topped with a golden
cross rose out of the early morning mist like something in a dream.
It shimmered a soft, creamy gold as the sun broke through the
clouds and a brilliant ray shone directly on it.

“Hagia Sophia,” Erik said softly. “The Church
of the Holy Wisdom.”

As they watched, the mist began to dissolve
and other buildings drifted into view through the clear, liquid
light: a smaller domed building in front of the great church of St.
Sophia, then a long cluster of red-roofed buildings, and the high,
many-turreted wall that on two sides of the city plunged straight
down into the water.

The straits were swarming with gaily painted
boats, ferrying goods and passengers from one side to the other. A
flock of birds suddenly swooped by them, flying close to the water,
the beating of their wings the only sound they made.

“There is Miklagard,” Erik said, as though he
was giving them a gift.

“It’s so big,” Maura whispered,
awe-struck.

“It’s beautiful,” Lenora breathed. “Erik,
will they allow us inside? We have come so far, they can’t keep us
out.”

“I think they will let us in eventually. We
just have to be patient. The Greeks are peculiar people. Those who
want to deal with them have to do things their way.”

“They must feel very safe behind those
walls,” Maura said softly.

And now, as if he had been teasing them with
just a glimpse of the city they had traveled so far to reach,
Harald turned his knarr toward land and dropped anchor on the
northern side of the Golden Horn.

They camped ashore that night with Harald and
his men. Harald had set sturdy guards around his ship.

“The Greeks don’t trust us, but if we are
wise, we don’t trust them, either,” he observed.

From the beach they could see the end of the
triangular peninsula on which stood Constantinople. Protected on
two sides by water – the Bosporus and the famous waterway known as
the Golden Horn, where treasure-laden ships from all over the world
were safely moored behind a protective chain – and further guarded
on all three sides by high, strong walls, the city sat, rich and
secure. As the sun set, Lenora watched the lovely shapes of its
buildings darken and become silhouettes against the evening
sky.

“I hope they let us enter soon,” she said
with a sigh.

Erik laughed, put his arms around her, and
held her close.

It was near the middle of the following day
when a messenger, a dark-eyed, curly-haired young man named
Georgios, came to escort them to the home of Basil Panopoulos.

“Good luck,” Harald said. “Don’t forget
me.”

“I won’t,” Erik promised. “I will speak to
Basil about you. In the meantime, I leave you my sword. I can’t
take it into the city, so you keep it for me.”

As she stepped into the messenger’s boat,
Lenora could hardly contain her excitement. The bright yellow sail
of the small craft opened with a smart cracking sound as the stiff
breeze caught it, and then they were skimming across the water to a
wall-enclosed landing area that made a tiny harbor just beneath the
high wall of the great city. Lenora looked with stunned wonder at
the huge, high-decked galleys of the Imperial Navy laying at rest
just inside the Golden Horn.

They were met at the landing by an official,
who recorded their names and demanded their weapons. He seemed
surprised when Erik said he had no sword, but finally let them
pass.

Georgios led them on foot to Basil’s house.
They passed through a bazaar where tradesmen had set up booths and
benches to display their goods. Sellers called out their wares and
argued with customers, their combined voices rising to a roar of
excitement that found an echo in Lenora’s pounding heart.

Nearest to the Golden Horn were the fish
markets. Then came rice, flour, lentils, salt, and other
foodstuffs, in sacks or wooden barrels. Next, sumptuously beautiful
cloths of silk and linen and wool, some embroidered with gold and
jewels, were displayed, followed by booths showing sculptured
ivory, jewelry, perfumes and spices, sheep and horses and pigs for
sale, candles and honey and cheeses and cloissonné work and furs.
All were organized in their respective sectors of the marketplace
according to some plan that Lenora vaguely recognized but was too
overwhelmed by the myriad sights and sounds and smells to sort out
and make into any kind of sense. It all ran together in her mind
like some brilliant tapestry. She had never seen anything like
this, not in Hedeby or Aldeigjuborg or even Kiev.

And the people; there were so many different
kinds of people, mostly male. There were hook-nosed men with
pointed beards and long black hair, men in turbans and flowing
robes, Venetian merchants in brocaded silks and furs and jewels,
Northmen with mustaches and the firm stride of those accustomed to
ships’ decks and open spaces, and Greeks in tunics and long,
swirling capes. Each spoke his own language, voices mingling
together until the babble rose higher and higher and words became
incomprehensible in the general tumult.